Title: Three Courses and a Dessert
 - Comprising Three Sets of Tales, West Country, Irish, and Legal; and a Melange
Author: Clarke, William
Language: English
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 - Comprising Three Sets of Tales, West Country, Irish, and Legal; and a Melange" ***


THREE COURSES AND A DESSERT:

Comprising _Three Sets Of Tales_, West Country, Irish, And Legal, And A
Melange

By Anonymous

With Fifty Illustrations By GEORGE CRUIKSHANK

1867.


     “Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.”

                               _As you like it._



INDUCTION.

The purveyor of the ensuing apology for a “feast of reason,” takes leave
to greet his guests with a hearty, but respectful, welcome. It would
be in bad taste for him to dilate at his threshold upon what he has
provided for their entertainment: his brief bill of fare will presently
be laid before them.

He ventures to indulge a hope, that his repast will prove obnoxious
to none, and, in some degree, gratifying to many; that those who may
discover nothing to their taste in one course, will meet with something
piquant in another; that no one

     “Will drag, at each remove, a lengthening chain;”

and, that even if the _dishes_ be disliked, the _plates_, at least,
will please: but he feels bound to state, that whatever faults the
decorations may be chargeable with, on the score of invention, he,
alone, is to blame, and not Mr. George Cruikshank; to whom he is deeply
indebted for having embellished his rude sketches in their transfer to
wood, and translated them into a proper pictorial state, to make their
appearance in public. They have necessarily acquired a value, which
they did not intrinsically possess, in passing through the hands of
that distinguished artist; of whom it may truly, and on this occasion
especially, be said, _Quod tetigit, ornavit_.

Having thus, perhaps rashly, presented himself at the bar of public
opinion, conscious as he feels of his own demerits, he can only throw
himself on the liberality of his judges, and plead for a lenient
sentence.



BILL OF FARE.


FIRST COURSE:-WEST COUNTRY CHRONICLES.

Introduction...........11

Sir Mathew Ale....................13

The Counterpart Cousins........17

Caddy Cuddle....................37

The Braintrees ;.......63

The Sham Fight.........103

The Bachelor’s Darling.........120

Habakkuk Bullwrinkle........159


SECOND COURSE:-NEIGHBOURS OF AN OLD IRISH BOT.

Introduction...........177

Jimmy Fitzgerald.........178

The Native and the Odd Fish.......185

Timberleg Toe-trap.........198

Bat Boroo ..........206

The Witch’s Switch.........214

The Weed Witness.........225

The Flying Dutchman........233

The Nest Egg..........239

Under the Thumb.........245

Our Tommy...........252

The Dentist;.....257

The Mushroom.......... 262

The Dülosk Girl.........278


THIRD COURSE:--MY COUSIN’S CLIENTS.

Introduction...........301

Adam Burdock.......... 303

The Mathematician.........305

The Little Black Porter........347


THE DESSERT.


Introduction...........387

The Deaf Postilion.........389

Conjugating a Verb.........393

Posthumous Praise.........396

The Dos-a-dos Tête-a-tête...... 398

A Toad in a Hole 400

The Pair of Pumps......... 410

Wanted a Partner..........414

Handsome Hands.........421

Misled by a Name .............425

The Last Man .........430



FIRST COURSE: WEST COUNTRY CHRONICLES.


[Illustration: 018]



INTRODUCTION.

The true old English squire is now nearly extinct: a few admirable
specimens of the class flourished a few years ago in the western
counties; from the discourse and memoranda of one of the most excellent
of these, the substance of the following narratives was gleaned. For
my introduction to, and subsequent acquaintance with, the worthy old
gentleman. I was indebted to the delinquency of a dog. Carlo was most
exemplary in his punctuation; he would quarter and back in the finest
style imaginable; no dog could be more staunch, steady, and obedient to
hand and voice, while there was no living mutton at hand: but no sooner
did he cross a sheep-track, break into view of a fleece, or even hear
the tinkling bell (a dinner bell to him) of a distant flock, than
he would bolt away, as rectilinearly as the crow flies, towards his
favourite prey, in spite of the most peremptory commands, or the smack
of a whip, with the flavour of which his back was intimately acquainted.
I had been allowed a very fair trial of the dog; but, unfortunately,
no opportunity occurred, previously to his becoming my property, of
shooting over him near a sheep-walk. His behaviour was so excellent in
Kent, that I never was more astonished in my life, than when I beheld
him severely shaking a sheep by the haunch, the first time we went out
together in Somerset. Unable to obtain a substitute, and hoping that his
vice would not prove incurable, I was compelled, most indignantly and
unwillingly, to put up with his offences for three days. On the morning
of the fourth, he suddenly broke forward from heel, and went off at full
speed before me: aware, by experience, of what was about to take place,
I lifted the piece to my shoulder, and should, most assuredly, have
tickled his stern, had he not dashed over the brow of a little hillock,
so rapidly, that it was impossible to cover him with my Manton. On
reaching the brow of the acclivity, I saw him, in the valley below, with
his teeth entangled in the wool of a wether; and a sturdy old person, in
the garb of a sportsman, belabouring him over the back with an enormous
cudgel. The individual, who inflicted this wholesome castigation on the
delinquent, offered to cure him for me of his propensity. I gratefully
accepted the offer; and thus became acquainted with that fine specimen
of the old-fashioned gentlemen of England, Sir Mathew Ale, of Little
Redland Hall, Baronet,-(whose grounds I was crossing, on my way to
a manor over which I had the privilege of shooting,)-by means of a
rascally dog, that had a fancy for killing his own mutton.

[Illustration: 019]



SIR MATHEW ALE.

It was a question, even with my friend the Baronet himself, whether,
as some of the genealogists asserted, his respectable ancestors
were related to the illustrious judge, who, with the exception of an
aspirate, was his namesake: but if, as the old gentleman said, he had
none of the eminent lawyer’s blood flowing in his veins, a fact of much
greater importance was indisputable;--he possessed, without the shadow
of a doubt, that great man’s mug,--the capacious vessel from which he
was wont to quaff huge and inspiring draughts of the king of all manly
beverages, “nut-brown ale.” The pitcher,--to which appellation its size
entitled it,--“filled with the foaming blood of Barleycorn” from ten
to fifteen years of age, invariably graced my friend’s old oaken table,
during our frequent festive meetings. There was a strong likeness, in
the outline of Sir Mathew’s mug, when full of the frothing liquor in
which he delighted, to his “good round belly,” his ruddy face, and his
flowing wig. It was highly valued by the old gentleman, while he lived;
and is looked upon with a kind of reverential love, by those to whom
he endeared himself by his good qualities, as the only likeness of him
extant, now that he is dead.

Sir Mathew was an enthusiastic admirer of the customs of merry old
England, and especially attached to those of “the West-Countrie.” Bom in
Devon, and living, as he said, with one foot in Gloucester and the
other in Somerset, he had acquired a greater knowledge of the qualities,
habits, and feelings of the people who dwelt in two or three of the
“down-a-long” shires, than most men of his day. He was well versed in
their superstitions, their quaint customs, and their oddities;--an adept
in their traditionary lore, and acquainted with most of the heroes
who had figured in their little modern romances of real life. A large
portion of his time had been absorbed in making collections for a
System of Rustic Mythology, a Calendar of West Country Customs, and in
perfecting his favourite work,--the Apotheosis of John Barleycorn. The
ensuing pages are devoted merely to a few circumstances which fell under
his own observation; with the characters in the narratives, he was,
personally, more or less acquainted: the auto-biography of the obese
attorney, Habakkuk Bullwrinkle, is faithfully transcribed from the
original manuscript, in Sir Mathew’s possession.

Sir Mathew frequently declared, that nearly all the superstitions of the
people, relating to charms and tokens, were, as he knew by experience,
founded in truth. He had, at one time, been a staunch believer in the
power of the “dead man’s candle” to prevent those, who are sleeping in
the house where it is lighted, from waking until it is burned out, or
extinguished: but latterly Sir Mathew thought proper to intimate that
his belief in the efficacy of the charm had been, in some degree,
staggered. A malicious wag, in the neighbourhood, propagated a tale,
which, if true, accounts naturally enough for the change in Sir Mathew’s
opinion upon this point. Whenever an eminent burglar happened to be
imprisoned in either of the neighbouring gaols, it was the Baronet’s
custom, for a number of years past, as the story went, to consult the
criminal, as a high authority, on the virtue of the mystic light in
house-breaking. The result of his inquiries induced him to repose so
much faith in the charm, that, in order to set the question beyond a
doubt, he determined on making a midnight entry into the house of a dear
friend; who, he knew, neither kept fire-arms, nor would, for a moment,
suspect him, even if discovered and taken in the fact, of being actuated
by burglarious motives. With the assistance of a lecturer on
anatomy, who lived in a neighbouring town, and a clever
journeyman-tallow-chandler, Sir Mathew made “a dead man’s Candle,”
 _secundum artem_; armed with which, he penetrated into his friend’s
pantry, regaled himself very heartily on some cold beef, and a bottle
of stout ale, and finding that his proceedings had not caused the least
alarm, he daringly made a great deal of unnecessary noise. His friend
and the servants were at length roused: in his hurry to get off
undetected, Sir Mathew’s candle was extinguished; and during the
darkness, his dear friend, and Jacob, his dear friend’s butler,
thrashed him so unmercifully, that, although his fears endowed him with
sufficient agility to effect a retreat, he could scarcely crawl home;
and was confined to his bed, by a very mysterious indisposition, for
more than a week.

Sir Mathew stoutly denied the truth of this impeachment: he admitted
that he was a practical man,--an experimentalist in such matters; but he
indignantly pleaded “not guilty” to being so enthusiastic a simpleton
as his jocose calumniator had represented him. The wag, in reply, said
“that it was very natural, right or wrong, for Sir Mathew to deny the
correctness of the story. Although the old gentleman is certainly quite
simple enough to do the deed,” added he, “I must needs own, I never
suspected him of being such a blockhead as to confess it.”

After this, Sir Mathew treated the tale as an ingenious and venial
invention, and always enjoyed it highly whenever it was subsequently
related in his hearing. He would have laughed heartily at it, perhaps,
if he could; but he had long been compelled to drill his features,
periodically, into a state of almost inflexible gravity. “People who
know but little of me,” he would say, “call me ‘the man without a
smile;’ I pass, with many, for a very surly fellow; unfortunately, I am
often misrepresented, and my real character is mistaken, through, what
others would deem, a trifling affliction: the bane of my life is, that,
very frequently, for a month together, I can’t laugh, and don’t dare
even to indulge in my habitual smirk, because I have an apparently
incurable and terrifically susceptible little crack in my lip.”

Sir Mathew was a most zealous supporter of the ancient customs of the
country. He patronised the sports of a neighbouring village fair, at a
considerable expense, until its frequenters almost abused him for not
giving two pigs with greasy tails to be caught, instead of one. He
entertained the cobblers of the surrounding villages, annually, with
a barrel of strong ale, in order to keep up the good old custom of
Crispin’s sons draining a horn of malt liquor, in which a lighted candle
was placed,--without singeing their faces, if they could,--on the feast
of their patron saint: nor did he discontinue this practice, even after
some of them had despoiled him of a favourite pair of boots; until a
party of the gentle craft, on one occasion, emboldened by beer, stormed
his inmost cellar, tapped a barrel which he did not intend to have
broached for half a score of years, and, as he asserted, thickened
the beer in three others, by their tremendous uproar! Sir Matthew’s
housekeeper, whose two sons were cordwainers, ventured to hint that
the beer in those barrels had never been fine; and that, even after
the fatal feast day, although certainly a little thick, it was far from
ropy. Sir Mathew vowed, on the contrary, that it was ropy enough to hang
the whole scoundrelly squad; and that he only wished they would give him
an opportunity of making the experiment.

Sir Mathew was a decided enemy to duelling; and most vehemently abused
the practice of two people popping at each other with pistols. “If
gentlemen must fight,” he would exclaim, “in the name of all that’s old
English and manly, why not make use of the national quarter-staff,--as
I did, when Peppercorn Vowler called me out, and gave me my choice of
weapons?”

According to tradition, Sir Mathew was almost a stranger to his opponent
when the bout between them took place; and much to his astonishment,
Peppercorn Vowler gave him an elaborate cudgelling. It was whispered,
that the Baronet felt so indignant at the result of the quarter-staff
conflict, that he sent his adversary an invitation, which was politely
declined, to renew the fight with pistols. Peppercorn Vowler, it
appears, felt even a greater aversion to fire-arms than Sir Mathew, and
had given the latter his choice of weapons, because he was sure, from
the inquiries he had made, that Sir Mathew would most certainly choose
the quarter-staff; in the exercise of which Peppercorn Vowler was quite
a proficient.

The Baronet adopted the old rustic mode of curing my dog of his
propensity to mutton: he turned him into a barn, with a couple of very
powerful and evil-disposed rams. “I’ll warrant,” said he, as he closed
the door, “that the animal will never look a sheep in the face again.”
 He was certainly right in his prediction; for half an hour afterwards,
the dog died under the extraordinary discipline of the battering rams to
which Sir Mathew had zealously subjected him.

[Illustration: 023]



THE COUNTERPART COUSINS.

Almost every house, in a little village situate in the lower part of
Somersetshire, near the borders of Devon, was tenanted, two or three
generations back, either by a Blake or a Hickory. Individuals, of one or
the other of these names, occupied all the best farms, and all the
minor lucrative posts, in the parish. The shoemaker, the carpenter, the
thatcher, and the landlord of the public house, were Blakes; and the
parish clerk, the glazier, the tailor, and the keeper of “the shop,”
 where almost every thing was sold, Hickories. Numerous matrimonial
alliances were formed among the young people of the two families. As
the Blakes were manly, and the Hickories handsome, it happened, rather
luckily, that the children of the former were, for the most part, boys,
and those of the latter, girls. If a male child were bom among the
Hickories, he grew up puny in frame and womanly in features; and there
was not an individual, among the few females of the Blake family,
who did not bear the strongly marked features and robust frame,
characteristic of the race from which she sprang. The young men of the
house of Hickory were too much like their sisters, to be good-looking
fellows; and the damsels of the other name resembled their brothers too
closely, to be beautiful women; they were, apparently, stout enough in
form, and sufficiently bold in heart, had not the days of chivalry been
past, to have been esquires to “mettlesome knights of hie renown;”
 while the striplings of the other family were more adapted, from their
lady-like limbs and gentle looks, to be bower-pages to those
high-born dames, for whose honour and amusement, their chivalric lords
occasionally broke each other’s pates in the tourney.

Notwithstanding these disparities, some strong attraction seemed to
exist between the blood of the two families; not only did the
“manly Blakes” take unto themselves wives from among the “handsome
Hickories,”---this was natural enough,--but the young yeomen of the
tribe of Hickory, intermarried with the spinsterhood of the Blakes.
Perhaps it was Hobson’s choice with the youths,--these or none;--there
being scarcely another name in the village except those of the “two
great houses”--Hickory and Blake; and in those days, but few of its
young folks travelled far beyond the landmarks of their native place.

The Blakes and Hickories, at length, grew so numerous, that the village
did not offer sufficient resources for their support, and several of
them emigrated;--some to the neighbouring towns, but the greater part
to the metropolis, where they were soon lost in its mighty tide
of population, which is constantly recruited by “supplies from the
country,” as the river, whose banks it ennobles, is supported by the
tributary streams which eternally flow into its huge bed. A great
number of the descendants of those females of the Blake family, who had
intermarried with Hickories, still remained; but it was in vain to
seek for the fine Herculean forms, which tradition had assigned to the
Blakes, or the surpassing beauty, which, according to old tales, was
once possessed by the female Hickories. It is true, that the features of
each family were to be seen, scattered among various individuals; but no
perfect specimen, in the prime of life, of either race, could be found.
Two or three gaunt fellows, the oldest men in the parish, who were issue
of the first unions between the two houses, still stalked about, with
melancholy countenances, thinking but little of the present, and
more often of the past than the future; but as their fathers had been
Hickories, and their mothers Blakes, it was said that they did not
possess those excellencies of form or feature, which their cousins, who
were Blakes by the father’s side, and Hickories by the mother’s, were
reported to have been endowed.

A single individual of the Blake family, in whose veins none of the
Hickory blood flowed, remained alive; that individual was a woman,
fettered by age and infirmities, to a chair on the kitchen hearth of one
of her descendants. Dame Deborah was venerated as a relic of old times,
rather than beloved. The beings about her had come into the world when
she was aged; and those, to whom she had given life, had passed away
before her; leaving their mother to the care of a third generation. To
her, those little acts of kindness, which are so endearing in the first
stage of human decay through “length of days,” were rarely performed,
because she was too withered in mind and feeling to appreciate them.
She lived among relations, but had no friends. All her wants were
scrupulously provided for; but the attentions, which her grand-children
and great-grand-children paid her, were acts of duty rather than
affection. The days of her glory, even as an old woman were over: she
had ceased to become a domestic adviser; the last child she had nursed,
for one of her daughters, was now “a stout and stalwart” young fellow,
nearly six feet high; and those, to whom she had told tales of other
times, when her memory and breath were both equal to the task, were
getting old themselves, and beginning to relate the same chronicles,
round the kitchen fire, on winter nights; generally without
acknowledging, and often forgetting, to whom they were indebted for that
legendary lore, the possession of which so exalted them in the opinions
of the young.

From the dark cloud, which usually obscured Dame Deborah’s mental
faculties, a gleam of youthful memory occasionally shot up, which much
amazed many of her descendants. One evening, a warm discussion took
place in the kitchen where she sat, as to the precise ages of Ralph
Hickory and his cousin Harry. After a world of talk, without an atom
of conclusion, Dame Deborah placed her hand upon the arm of one of
the disputants, and said, in a tremulous but distinct tone: “Susanna
Hickory, who was big Anthony Blake’s seventh child, and only daughter,
and married one of the young Hickories of Hickory Hatch, was brought to
bed of a boy on the second day of our Whitsun revel, the same hour that
her cousin Polly had twins,--both boys,--but only one of them lived
to be christened. I stood godmother to the two babes. Susey’s boy
was called Ralph, after my first husband, and Polly’s after my second
goodman, Harry. That was the year when lightning struck the steeple, and
Matty Drew, the witch, was drowned. She told the children’s fortunes,
and said of them,--

     ‘Merry meeting--sorry parting;
     Second greeting--bitter smarting;
     Third struggle--’”

Dame Deborah could not finish Matty Drew’s prediction; and this was the
seventh time, within as many years, that she had attempted to do so,
but in vain; a fit of coughing or abstraction invariably seizing her on
these occasions, before she could articulate the remainder of the line.
The debaters stared with wonder on each other at the old dame’s unusual
fluency; for she had not spoken, except in monosyllables, during many
preceding months; and they looked upon it as an omen of Deborah’s death,
or some great calamity to one of her living descendants. On examining
the church books, they found her account to be correct, so far as
regarded the baptism of the two boys, and the interment of one of
Polly’s twins; and some of her neighbours recollected that the church
was struck, as Deborah had related, in the same year that Matty Drew was
drowned, by a farmer and his two sons, who supposed she had bewitched
them, and their cattle; and ducked her, under the idea that, if she were
a witch, she could not be drowned; little thinking of the consequences
to themselves, if she did not survive the ordeal. Two of them afterwards
fled the country; the third was taken and tried. He stated, in his
defence, that he had reason to believe Matty was a witch, for her
predictions were always verified by events; and that once, when his
mother could not succeed in her churning, he and his father twisted a
hazel switch, as tight as their strength would permit, about the chum,
and behold, at last, in came Matty, shrieking and writhing, as if in
agony, and beseeching them to unloose the gad; which, she admitted, was
sympathetically torturing her own waist. He called no witnesses to this
fact; and, notwithstanding the ingenious argument which his counsel had
written out for him, wherein it was stated that “an unlettered clown”
 might well be forgiven for entertaining the same opinions as some of the
kings of England, and one of her most eminent judges, in old days, the
young man was convicted and executed, for acting under an impression
that those powers existed, for the possession of which, a century
before, helpless old women were found guilty by twelve of their fellow
countrymen, and doomed, by a strong-minded judge, to be burned;--more
than one of the old creatures having crawled, it is said, when led
from the cold dungeon, to warm their chilled limbs by the fire that was
kindling to consume them.

Ralph Hickory and Harry Hickory, the objects of Matty Drew’s doggrel
prophecy, are the heroes of our tale--the Counterpart Cousins;--rather
alike in disposition, but bearing no resemblance to each other in
outward appearance. Ralph inherited all the strength and height of
the Blakes, without their fine form, or the handsome features of the
Hickories. His shoulders were broad, but round, and his neck did not
seem to rise exactly in their centre: his arms were long, muscular, and
well shaped; but his legs were crooked, and too brief in proportion
to his body. His maternal ancestor’s features were rather of the Roman
order, and the wags of the village said, that Ralph had a Blake’s nose
run to seed:--it was thin, sharp, and disagreeable. Every body confessed
that he had the Hickories’ merry black eyes;--but his mouth gaped, and
looked like a caricature of their pouting and slightly ported lips.
The Hickories’ teeth were brilliant and pearly; the Blakes’ quite the
contrary:--the lips of the former delicately exhibited their dental
treasures; while those of the latter were so close and clenched, that
it was difficult to obtain a glance at the awkward squad which they
concealed. Ralph unfortunately inherited the bad teeth of the Blakes,
and the open lips of the Hickories; as well as the fair hair of the
former, and the dark eyes and long black lashes of the latter: so that
Ralph was rather a singular looking being;--but precisely, or nearly
such a person as the reader must have occasionally met with;--exhibiting
an union of some of the beauties, and many of the deformities, of two or
three of the tribes of man.

Harry was very different in person, but not a jot more beautiful than
Ralph. His body was broader and more robust than that of a Blake, when
the family was in a flourishing state; but it was remarkably short, and
shapeless as a log. His head seemed to be squeezed into his shoulders
by some giant hand, and his light but well-proportioned Hickory legs
exhibited a striking contrast to the clumsy bulk of his huge trunk. The
butcher said, that Harry would resemble his big block, with a calf’s
head on its surface, only that it stood on three legs, and Harry
possessed but two. His arms were thick, bony and stunted; and his hands
of such an immense size, that he was often called “Molepaw” by his
competitors in the wrestling ring. Harry had the large blue eyes of the
Blake family, and a thick, short, snub nose; which, the good gossips
said, could be traced to nobody. There was a striking resemblance in his
other features to the by-gone Hickories: his mouth and chin were really
handsome; but an unmeaning smile usually played about his lips; and
he had a vacant sort of look, that betokened good humour allied to
silliness. But when Harry’s blood was warmed by an angry word or two
and an extra cup of drink, though he did not “look daggers,” he frowned
furiously, and looked, as well as talked, broomsticks, cudgels, kicks on
the shin-bone, and various other “chimeras dire.” In such a mood, Harry
was dangerous to deal with, and avoided by all those who were peaceably
disposed.

In this particular, Ralph was his counterpart There was not a more kind
or sociable being in three counties than Ralph Hickory, when he was
sober; but liquor made him quarrelsome and rash; it whetted his appetite
to give and receive kicks and bruises; and if he could not rouse any
one, by insults and taunting, to wrestle, fight, or play a bout at
back-sword, or cudgels with him,--he lashed himself up into a fury,
attacked, and either scattered those who were about him like chaff, or
got felled by a sturdy thwack of fist or cudgel, and fastened down until
reason returned hand-in-hand with shame and remorse. To both of the
cousins liquor was pure Lethe; they never remembered any thing that
occurred, from the time of their passing the rubicon of intoxication,
until the moment of their waking the next day.

Ralph and Harry considered themselves as relations to each other, on the
credit of certain of the gossiping oral genealogists of the village,
who proved, in a very roundabout way, to their auditors, but entirely to
their own conviction, that Ralph and Harry were, what are called, in the
West Country,--second and third cousins. Each of them was the offspring
of a match between a male Hickory and a female Blake; and both were bad
specimens of the two fine families, whose more gifted descendants, in
regard to personal appearance, the issue of those unions which had been
formed between “the manly Blakes” and “the handsome Hickories,” were
the individuals who had quitted the village, impelled by a spirit of
adventure, when they felt themselves too crowded in their native place,
on account of the increase of its population.

Hickory was now the paramount name in the parish; there was not a single
Blake in its little community, except old Dame Deborah, whose boast it
had been, when she could babble apace, that she was the last of either
of the pure stocks left. She had often stated, in the autumn of
her life,--that season when the mind yields its richest fruits of
memory,--that the good old Blakes began to lose the ascendant, from
the time of the battle of Culloden. It will appear strange, that the
downfall of the Pretender’s forces in the north, should be associated,
in Deborah’s mind, with that of her family, whose abiding place was in
the west. We will explain this nearly in the old dame’s own words: “On
the 16th of April, in the forty-six, my brother Gilbert,”--thus her
story ran,--“who was then an officer in the Duke of Cumberland’s
dragoons, which rank he had attained, partly by money, partly by merit,
did such service under the great Hawley, against the lads in tartans,
that he was promised promotion by the famous Duke, who gave him his
pistols, in the field, as an earnest of more favours to come. A few
days after, while the dragoons were scouring the country, in quest of
prisoners of consequence, it was whispered, by some who envied him, that
Gilbert had been won by the honeyed words and rich jewels of a noble
northern lady, to let her husband, whom he had taken, escape. This
report reached Gilbert’s ears; and the next day, while he was mounting
his horse, an orderly came with commands for him to attend the Duke
with all speed. Gilbert directly drew out his men; gave some orders of
importance, which were afterwards executed, and proved very beneficial
to the service, and directed his junior officer to lead the soldiers off
to perform it: he then stepped aside, and, with one of the pistols the
Duke had given him on the sixteenth, blew out his brains! On the very
evening the news arrived of my brother’s death by his own hands, a sad
disaster happened to the Blakes:--my father was, that afternoon, beating
an apprentice, rather too severely, perhaps, in a field where some of
his labourers were hacking-in wheat; when one who was among them,--a
little fellow who was not much more than five feet high, but remarkable
for his good features and fine form,--left his work, and advancing to my
tall and powerful father, reproached him, in so insolent a manner, for
beating the boy, who was a favourite with the labourer, that the bad
blood of the Blakes became immediately roused, and he inflicted a blow
or two on the man’s shoulders with his stick: the fellow stepped back a
few paces, and then running against my father at full speed, drove his
head into the pit of the old man’s stomach with such violence, that it
laid him dead upon the spot I don’t know why, or wherefore, but true it
is, that the labourer was acquitted of blame on his trial; and he was
the first of the Hickories known in these parts. The same evening, my
aunt Elinor, the widow of Frank Cooper, who had sailed round the world
with Anson, died away in her chair, without any previous illness. Had my
father been killed an hour later, he would have heard of the suicide of
his son; and had not my aunt Elinor died before sunset, she would have
known, that both her brother and her nephew had gone before her to the
grave: but both of them were saved from the bitterness of such news on
their dying day. From that time, the Blakes dwindled, and the Hickories
rose. They have matched and mated much since; but it is said, perhaps
truly, that the Hickories are doomed to root out the Blakes, and then
destroy themselves;--they met in the valley of death, and blood will be
mixed in their stirrup-cup. My grandson Ralph has now more of the Blakes
in him than any other man; and thick Harry, although he has a double
dash of us in his veins, is more of a Hickory than any other I know.
They are both Hickories in name, but not truly so in nature. Ralph looks
upon himself, and is looked up to, as the head of the poor remnant of
my father’s race; and Harry is in the same situation, as a descendant
of the labourer, who took his master’s life, on that master’s own land.
They have both a great many of the bad qualities, and but few of the
virtues, of the two families;--and I, for one, say--God keep them from
drinking deep out of the same cup!--for liquor is likely to be their
bane.”

This sort of language was too frequently repeated, and the witch Matty
Drew’s prophecy too often alluded to, by old Deborah, in those days when
her tongue still talked triumphantly, although her limbs were incapable
of motion, not to produce a deep and lasting impression upon her
hearers. One half of the village was in a constant state of alarm, after
Ralph had returned, a man, from the “up-along” counties, to which he
had departed, a boy, in order to learn some improved mode of cultivating
land, lest the two cousins should meet and quarrel in their cups. If
they were seen in the village, passing a few moments in friendly chat,
a scout immediately acquainted the parties most interested with the
circumstance; and, in a short time, one of them was drawn off, by a
fictitious story, of lambs tumbling into ditches, cows getting their
legs entangled in hurdles, or children fallen into fits.

Ralph and Harry both loved the pastimes of their native place; they
could wrestle, and play at back-sword, in very laudable style; but
Ralph was the better wrestler, and Harry surpassed in the use of the
single-stick. Devon being noted for its wrestlers, and Somerset for
its single-stick players, the cousins were attracted in different
directions, to enjoy that pastime in which each excelled; so that, up
to the fortieth year of their lives,--and they were, as it will be
remembered, precisely of the same age,--they had never, much to the
satisfaction of their friends, met in the ring as rivals. Especial care
had always been taken that they did not join the same convivial parties;
they often attempted to make merry together, for Ralph and Harry really
felt an affection for each other’s society, but the women invariably
out-manoeuvred them, and the two cousins were greater strangers to each
other, than either of them was to any man else in the village, of his
own age and station.

Their forty-first birth-day arrived: Ralph attended a review of the
yeomanry-cavalry, in which he was a corporal, and Harry went to market
for the purpose of selling some steers. On returning home, they were
obliged to cross each other’s track. They dwelt at opposite ends of the
long, straggling village; which were approached by two different lanes:
of these, the letter X will serve as a tolerably good substitute for a
ground plan;--the market town being situate at the top of the left, and
the common, on which the review was held, on that of the right, limb
of the letter; at the lower end of which the village meandered along
through meadows and corn-fields; Harry’s abode being at the right, and
Ralph’s at the left end of it. The two lanes were crossed, at the point
of intersection, by a third, which, on account of its being two or
three yards wider, and a little more frequented than either of them,
was dignified with the title of “the high road;” and in this “undeniable
situation,” as George Robins would say, stood a snug public house,
called Sawney’s Cross; the front of which commanded a view, across the
high road, for some distance up the lanes which led to the market town
and common.

Harry was proceeding down one lane, at a speedy, shuffling pace, betwixt
a gallop and trot, on a powerful blind galloway; while Ralph approached
the line of intersection, from the common, by the other, on a gaunt,
half-bred horse, nearly sixteen hands high, a strong galloper, and quite
ungovernable when put upon his mettle. The galloway and the tall horse
were both “homeward bound;” and “sniffing the manger from afar,” each
of them was going along, impatient of check, and at, what jockies would
call, “a tip-top pace.”

Ned Creese, the landlord of Sawney’s Cross, stood at his door, and
beheld the ominous approach of the two travellers: he was mathematician
enough to discover, that equi-distant as they were, from the point where
their lines of direction intersected each other in the middle of the
main road, and approaching toward such point with equal speed, something
unpleasant must needs occur to one of the parties, at the transit. He
beckoned, and called out to each of them as loudly as he could: but
Harry was short sighted, and could not see his motions; and Ralph was
rather hard of hearing, and could not make out what he meant; so that
neither of them pulled up; and, as they were concealed from each other
by the high hedges of the lanes, neither Harry nor Ralph was aware of
the danger that menaced them, until they emerged from the bottom of
the lanes. Ralph foresaw the event first, and, with might and main,
attempted to pull his horse out of the way: he partly succeeded, but by
checking his steed, and making him swerve from the direct line in which
he was going, he gave Harry a decided advantage in the ensuing shock.
The cousins had just time to ejaculate “Hoy, Ralph!” and “Hilloa,
Harry!” when the blind galloway bore his off-shoulder against the tall
troop-horse’s hind quarters, and just such a catastrophe took place as
Creese had anticipated:--Harry was thrown over his galloway’s head; and
Ralph, with his horse, and the galloway at his heels, were carried to
the brink of a horse-pond by the road side. Ralph fell in the mud,
and the horses went over him into the water; where they lay struggling
together for a few moments; they then got up without assistance, and
each limped homeward, leaving their owners to come after them as well as
they could.

“Hoy, Ralph!” and “Hilloa, Harry!” were the first words the cousins
uttered.

“Art hurt, lad?” asked Ralph.--“No,” was the reply;--“Art thee?”

“Sound as oak; only a bloody nose, and a bump on the forehead.”

“That’s right, then; I don’t feel much the matter myself; but dowl take
thy blind galloway, for all that!”

“He’s worth his weight in gold;--didn’t’ee see how he capsized you and
your troop horse?”

“You charged me in flank when I was filing off;--if I had met’ee full
butt, Harry, I should ha’ sent thee and thy galloway clean into
the muck, and gone on without abating pace, or feeling a jerk in my
balance.”

“What, and not ha’ turned round to say ‘Hilloa, Harry?’”

“Odd! yes, to be sure,--I’d say ‘Hilloa, Harry!’--and what will’ee
drink, besides.”

“Well,--and what _shall_ we?”

“I don’t mind;--but let’s ha’ something, and make merry together for
once.”

“Wi’ all my heart!--Here we be, safe from busy meddlers; and dash me if
I don’t feel inclined to make a day of it.”

“Give me your hand;--this capsize was a bit of luck, weren’t it?”

“Aye, to be sure,--brought two good fellows together. What shall we
have?--It’s cold.--What d’ye say to Hopping John, made Tom Nottle’s
fashion?--Landlord, mix pint of brandy wi’ half a gallon of your best
cider, sugared to your own taste; and,--d’ye mind?--pop in about a dozen
good roasted apples, hissing hot, to take the chill off.”

In a short time, the two cousins were seated by the fire, in a little
room behind the bar of the Sawney’s Cross, with a smoking bowl of liquor
on the table before them, and Ned Creese assisting them to empty it. By
degrees, the cousins became elevated, and their chat was enlivened
by budding jokes and choice flowers of rustic song. Harry’s forehead
frequently reminded him, in the midst of his glee, of the adventure in
the road; and he recurred to it, for the fifth time, since the sitting,
as Ned brought in a second brewage of hot Hopping John:--“I’d lay a
wager I know where my blind galloway is, just about now,” quoth he;
“it’s odd to me if he isn’t stopping at the Dragon’s Head, where he
always pulls up, and tempts me to call for a cup of cider and a mouthful
of hay.”

“Gentlemen,” said Creese, “I’ll give you a toast--a Devonshire one--and
it’s this:--A back fall, or a side fall, or any fall but a fall out.”

“For my part,” continued Ned, after his toast was duly honoured,--“I
expected no less than a fight, if you were able to stand, after what I
saw would happen;--but I hardly hoped to see both get on your legs, with
nothing but one bloody nose between the pair of you.”

“I must say, landlord, I fell very comfortably, indeed, considering,”
 said Harry.

“And I came down very much to my own satisfaction,” quoth Ralph, “only
that I soiled my uniform.”

“It struck me,” observed Ned Creese, “that you must have gone over head
and ears into the pond, which is deeper than it should be in the middle;
but I consoled myself;--for, thinks I,--if so be that he should, the
_frogs_ on his dragoon jacket will save him, if swimming can do it If
you’d both broke your necks I couldn’t but giggle to see you. It’s my
belief ‘twould have made a horse laugh; as my sign says, it was truly
‘good entertainment for man and beast.’--Don’t be hipped because I’m
jocular: joking’s a malady with many a man, and here stands one of’em;
we can no more help it than an ague fit. But come, folks; here’s ‘The
West Country Orchards!’--and then let’s rouse the crickets with the
old apple-tree hymn.--I’ll begin.” So saying, Creese commenced, and,
assisted by Ralph and Harry, chaunted forth the following rhymes, in a
manner that would have amazed Mozart, although it gladdened the hearts
of the rustic guests in the Sawney’s Cross kitchen.

     1.

     The white rose was, aye, a dainty flower,
     And the hawthorn a bonny tree;
     A grove of oaks is a rich dame’s dower;
     But the barley-straw for me!

     2.

     From his acorn-cup let the Elfin sip,
     And the oak-fruit be munched by swine;
     The thrush may have both the haw and hip;
     Give me but the jolly vine!

     3.

     Ale you may brew, from the barley-straw;
     Neither ale, nor grape-juice for me;
     I care not for acorn, hip, nor haw;--
     Give me but the apple-tree!


After they had all three repeated the last verse together, and applauded
their performance by sundry exclamations of approval, and thwacks on the
table, Ralph observed, “Oddsheart! cousin, we’re getting as we should
be; a fig for a fell after this.”

“Da capo, say I to it,” exclaimed Creese; “da capo, I say to it,
heartily: da capo, as it is written in the score-book we sing the psalms
by, in the gallery, at church.”

“Wasn’t frightened a trifle, landlord, when thee saw’st us coming?”

“Is the approach of a good bone likely to alarm a hungry dog?--I knew
well enough you’d fall; and if you fell, the fall must bring me grist,
in meal or malt:--a ‘quest jury, if death had been done; board and
lodging, in case of broken limbs; and a brace of guests for an hour,
if you were only bruised. I shall be much obliged, when you knock
one another down again, if you’ll do it before my door. Success to
cross-roads, blind galloways, helter-skelter dragooning, and blink-eyed
farmers!--Ha! ha!--You’ll excuse me gentlemen; we’re all friends; I hope
no offence.--What are your commands?”

“There’s one thing I’d wish thee to do, landlord,” said Ralph; “if any
body should enquire for us,--don’t say we be here.”

“No, truly,” added Harry; “an’ thou dost, thou’lt lose a couple of good
customers, and get thy head broke to boot, perhaps.”

“Never fear--never fear!” replied Ned; “a secret’s safe with me, as
though ‘twaa whispered in the ear of an ass. Thank heaven, I haven’t had
a woman in the house these seven yean; so all’s snug.--

     “A forester slept beneath the beech.
         Heigh! norum snorum!
     His full flask lay within his arm’s reach;
         Heigh! horum jorum!

     A maiden came by with a blooming face,
         Heigh! rosy posey!
     She ask’d him the way to Berrywell Chase,--
         With its wine so old,
         And its pasties cold;--

Forester, what has froze ye?

“A long song is out of place over good liquor; so I’ll not sing the
other eighteen verses of that one; its moral is, that a woman can’t keep
a secret, even when the possession of what she desires depends on it;
but that her babbling often proves her salvation. A friar comes in
sight, while the forester is wooing, and he packs the maid off, for
appearance’ sake;--telling her, if she’ll meet him there the next day,
provided she don’t reveal his promise to mortal, that he’ll give her ‘a
gown of the richest green,’ besprinkled with dewy pearls, or pearly dew,
I forget which: but the maiden was so delighted, that when she got to
the Chase, she told the warden’s niece, and the warden’s niece told the
maiden’s aunt, and the maiden’s aunt locked her up for a week: so she
saved her reputation, but lost her present, by babbling.--Gentlemen, you
don’t drink!”

We must here leave the cousins to the care of Creese--they could not
have fallen into better hands for the mood in which they met--and remind
our readers, that the horses, after extricating themselves from the
pond, proceeded homeward as well as the injuries they had received would
permit. Their arrival at the village, spread consternation among its
inhabitants: parties went forth, in different directions, to seek Ralph
and Harry;--the women predicting that they had met and killed each
other, and the men endeavouring to stifle their own apprehensions on
the subject. Creese, on being asked if he knew any thing of the matter,
replied, that “he had seen the horses, without riders, gallop by his
door, down the lanes;” and as no one had witnessed the meeting of the
cousins but himself and they were kept close in the back parlour, no
information could be obtained from any one else. Lights were burnt,
in almost every house in the village, nearly all night; and toward
day-break the last party returned without any tidings of the lost sheep.
Old Dame Deborah, confiding in the predictions of Matty Drew, said, as
well as she could, “Bad is this--there’s worse to come;--it will prove
to be but a

     “Merry meeting--sorry parting.”

We must now return to the cousins. On the morning after their concussion
in front of Sawney’s Cross, Ralph, with whom we shall begin, awoke at
day break, and on taking a hasty survey of his apartment, found, to his
surprise, that he was not at home. He recollected very well that he had
usually worn, for many years past, corduroy small-clothes; and, when he
joined the volunteer yeomanry, white doe-skin pantaloons. “Whose black
nether garments can those be, then,” thought he, “which I see dangling
from yonder peg?”--He leaped out of bed, threw open the lattice, and the
first object that attracted his notice was the horse-pond; on the miry
edge of which, he remembered having been thrown the day before. This
accounted for the colour of his doe-skins. “But, how the dickens,”
 thought he, “got I this tremendous black eye? Where’s my front tooth?
And who the deuce has been bruising my ear?--I recollect, well enough,
seeing Creese, the landlord, bring in a third brewing of Hopping John,
and my singing, ‘Creeping Jenny,’ or part of it, afterwards but what’s
come of Harry?”

While these and similar reflections were passing in Ralph’s mind,
he proceeded to dress himself, which he found a task of considerable
difficulty, for he was stiff and sore in every limb. Impatient to
resolve the mystery in which he found himself involved, Ralph, before he
was completely attired in his soiled uniform, hobbled down stairs, and
found Harry, staring at the landlord, as though Creese had just been
telling him some very marvellous story.

“Why, Ralph,--cousin Ralph,” said Harry, as Ralph entered the kitchen,
“what be this the landlord says?--He vows and protests ‘twere you that
ha’ been tearing my clothes to tatters and rags, and beating my face to
a jelly!--I han’t a sound inch in my skin!”

“Before I do answer any questions, it be my wish to know of you,
landlord,” said Ralph, in an angry tone, and taking Creese by the
collar; “and what’s more, I insist you do tell me, who took the
advantage of me last night--who it were that knocked my tooth out, when
I were overcome?”

“I’ve lost a tooth myself,--be dashed if I han’t!” exclaimed Harry,
whose attention was so distracted by his other injuries, that he had not
discovered the important fact before this moment; “I’ll swear I had it
in my mouth last night,” pursued he, grasping Creese, with his huge paw,
by the collar; “and I’ll be told, why and wherefore you’ve let me be
used like a dog, when I were drunk:--answer!”

“Ay, answer, or I’ll shake thy life out!” cried Ralph, looking as if he
really meant to “suit the action to the word.”

“Gentlemen,--guests,” said Creese, apparently not in the least alarmed,
but putting himself in a strong attitude, and calmly collaring the
cousins; “be mild, and you shall hear all; or one at a time, and I’m for
the first fair fall, who shall pay last night’s smart, with the best, or
both of you,--one down t’other come on: but if you’ll put your hands
in your pockets and be peaceable, I’ll employ mine to produce your
teeth;--that is, if I can.”

The cousins now relinquished their holds, and Ned drew out a drawer of
the dresser, and requested they would look into it. “Here,” said he,
“you will find the fragments of your feast of fisty-cuffs; perhaps,
among the bits of lace, linen, broad-cloth, frogs and buttons, which I
carefully swept up last night, after I had put you both to bed, you
may find your teeth; if not, I know nothing about them:--send for a
constable, and search me, if you like.”

At this offer, the cousins turned to each other and were going to smile;
but immediately they were face to face, they stared in so rueful a
manner, that Creese was amazingly amused. It was the first time, since
Ralph had come down stairs, that the cousins had closely inspected
each other’s countenances, which might, with propriety enough, as the
landlord said, be called “maps of mischance.”

“But it’s all your own doings,” quoth he; “the credit and honour belong
to nobody but yourselves;--I must say you’re both downright dapsters at
disfiguration.”

“But how were it, d’ye say, landlord?” asked Ralph.

“Ay, truly, how happened it all, according to your story?”--said Harry.

“Why, gentlemen,” replied Creese, “after I found you were going to drink
more than I could well bear,--when it was high tide almost in my head,
and my frail wits began to rock to and fro, pitching me about, when I
moved, like a barge in a hurricane,--I very wisely anchored in the bar,
and attended, as well as I could, to my business: a nap or two between
whiles, as I tended my customers, and one cool pipe, brought me round,
and it was calm sailing with me again.--All this time you were getting
louder and louder; at last, the short gentleman, my worthy friend, Mr.
Harry, persuaded you, Mr. Ralph, to try a friendly back-fall with him.
There wasn’t much harm in that;--though, I promise you, I tried to
prevent it, but couldn’t. So I cleared away the crockery, and stood by,
as ‘twas my duty, to see fair. Harry was, clearly, in my mind, the best
wrestler; but, somehow, Ralph got the in-lock, and laid him upon the
planchin, flat as a pancake.”

“Did I, by jingo?” eagerly exclaimed Ralph.

“No,--it’s all his lies;--it couldn’t be!” quoth Harry; looking very
incredulous and displeased.

“I have said it, and I’ll stand to it;”--continued Ned; “and when you
got up, as you did, with my help, you went over to Ralph, patted him on
the back, and, said you,--‘Well done, cousin,--I didn’t think it was in
thee!’ You added, with an oath, it was the best and fairest fall you had
seen for years past;--that it nearly drove the breath out of your body;
and then you patted him on the back again. After this, you both sat
down, talked, sung, and,--by-and-bye,--began to broach something about
back-sword.”

“Likely enough, an’t it, Harry?” said Ralph.

“I don’t believe a word o’ the story,” replied Harry;--“but I’ll hear it
out.”

“I did not ask you to believe it,” said Creese; “but there’s special
evidence on your head, as well as on your cousin’s, that you played at
it, long and lustily.”

“And which won?” enquired Ralph.

“Both of you lost blood, as well as temper, at last,” replied Creese;
“but, I remember, Harry gave you the first broken head.”

“Never!” replied Ralph, “it never lay in his shoes: he may be as good a
wrestler, or better; but scores of men, that my cousin Harry have often
and often given his head to, never could touch me.”

“Well! be that as it may,” said the landlord, “he certainly had you last
night, Ralph, or I’m out of my senses. Why, I remember it as well as if
it was but a minute ago:--you broke open the glass buffet, in which the
two sticks my uncle and father won the grand match with--Wilts against
Somerset--was stuck up, among the china, with silver mountings, and
decorated with green ribbons, cut out like laurel-leaves;--and you said
they were the best sticks you ever broke a head with: and when Harry cut
your ear, and I cried out ‘A bout, a bout!’ and put the poker between
you, you shook Harry’s hand, and said you admired him, for he had done
what no man ever had attempted--namely--hit you under your best guard.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” shouted Harry. “Odds buttons! Ralph, but there seems to
be some truth in this though, for your ear is cut up, sure enough then,
clean as a whistle; it must ha; been done as Creese says.”

Ralph put his hand up to his ear, and, like Lord Burleigh, in The
Critic, shook his head and said nothing.

“All this,” continued the landlord, “was friendly and civil: you then
ordered a double quantity of brandy in the brewage--if you don’t believe
me, look in the bill,--and, in about half an hour, I found you fighting
in downright earnest, and in all manner of ways;--kicking, cudgelling,
wrestling, pulling, punching, tearing one another to pieces very
ungentlemanly, and so forth, and clearly bent on destruction. You had
cracked the looking-glass, broke the table, ‘shod the liquor, and tore
the porringer,’ as the man said; or, in other words, shed the cider
and brandy, and broke the bowl; all which you’ll find I’ve made correct
memorandums of in the bill. Then I called in the blacksmiths, from next
door, our ostler, and three waggoners who were drinking outside;--we
all pitched into you, and, at last, got you asunder: but not before the
mischief you see and feel was done; and to shew what minds you were in,
when we pulled you, by main force, apart, each of you carried away his
hold, like a couple of bull-dogs:--Harry brought off a piece of Ralph’s
sleeve and his shoulder-belt, and Ralph the forepart of Harry’s coat,
full two-thirds of his waistcoat, and a pattern of his linen. We then
contrived to get you to bed--as you’ll see in the bill; and--and--”

“Aye,--and here we be,” added Ralph; “nice objects for a wife and
family to look at!”

“Thou’rt quite a scarecrow, cousin Ralph,” said Harry. “Do get him a
glass, and let him look at himself, landlord,” said Ralph. “I’m sorry
for thee, Harry;--it’s my belief ‘t’ant exactly as the landlord says;
but we can’t belie the story he has told us, so where’s the use of
disputing? The question is,--what shall we do?”

“Be dashed if I bean’t ashamed to go home,” replied Harry; “I sha’n’t be
able to look my wife in the face.”

“Ah! that’s touching a sore place, Harry.’Tisn’t my bruises, nor thine,
that I care much about--after all; but frightening the women, poor dear
souls!--thy Jane and my Grace, Harry--by staying out all night, eh?”

“Don’t talk about it,--but let’s get some drink.”

“Small ale, or leek broth, let it be, then, and we’ll start while we be
sober and solid. We’ll get a couple of carts--you shall go to my wife,
and smooth her over, and I’ll go to thine; and then, at night, let’em
come and fetch each of us home.”

“Well! so be it, Ralph; but sha’n’t we have a stirrup-cup?”

“No, not this time.--Your hand, Harry--I like thee, cousin; but it
strikes me there’s some truth in old women and witches. I wouldn’t pass
another evening with thee, for half the land from here to Axminster.”

A week after the rencounter at Sawney’s Cross, each of the cousins was
lying at his own home,--a-bed, bandaged, and still suffering from the
bruises which they had conferred on each other. They soon, however,
recovered: the watchful care of their friends was doubled; neither of
them evinced much inclination for the other’s company, and a whole year
passed away, without any thing remarkable occurring between them.

The birth-day of the cousins was, however, again unlucky.--Harry,
perhaps on account of his success in the bout he had with Ralph,
at Sawney’s Cross, or, it might be, from mere whim, practised
back-sword-playing, and became a frequent attendant at the various
single-stick matches in the neighbourhood. Some capital pastime having
been expected, at a revel, about ten miles up the country, Harry and
Ralph, on their forty-second birth-day, totally unaware of each
other’s intentions, set off to see and join in the sport. The malice or
curiosity of some of the parties present, or, perhaps, mere accident,
brought the cousins on the stage as opponents. Ralph was going to
descend; but Harry whispered in his ear, “If we don’t have a bout or
two, Ralph, they’ll jeer us, and say we be old women.” Ralph still
evinced an inclination to retire; when his cousin said aloud, “Now,
Ralph, here’s a chance for getting the head you lost to me at Sawney’s
Cross.”

“Aye, true,--true,” replied Ralph, taking a stick, and preparing for
the play. They shook hands; both, as usual, said,--“God save our
eyes!”--they threw themselves into attitude; and one minute had scarcely
elapsed, before Harry received a blow from Ralph’s stick, which totally
deprived him of sight, in one eye, for the remainder of his existence.

An inflammation of so violent a nature ensued, that Harry’s life was,
for some time, considered in danger. One day, when his wife came to
Ralph’s house, weeping, and exclaiming that little hope was left of her
husbands recovery, Dame Deborah, in a low, broken tone, said to her,
“The day’s not come; it is but--

     “Second greeting--bitter smarting.”

“Bide a while--there’s no fear yet”

Deborah was right: Harry recovered his health and strength, and none
ever heard him regret the loss of his eye; about which, he said,
poor Ralph “took on” unnecessarily, for it was purely an accident The
forty-third and forty-fourth birth-days had passed; and the minds of
the relations of Ralph and Harry grew more composed; although they still
continued on the alert, to prevent them getting together over “a cup
of drink.” It happened that Harry had a heavy crop of oats, in a large
field, which were dead-ripe; and bad weather being expected, it was
an object of importance with him to get the crop “cut and carried”
 as quickly as possible. According to the custom of the village, every
farmer, who was not in a similar predicament, came, with such servants
as he could spare, to assist his neighbour in distress. Ralph was one
of the first in the field, and set so fine an example to his companions,
that the oats were all down, long before sun-set The work was severe,
the weather sultry, and the hospitable Harry did not grudge his cider
during the day. Deep draughts had been quaffed, and Harry could not
suffer his guests to depart, without a cup round of his best As they
were about to quit the field, a grey-headed man unfortunately remarked,
that they were standing on the spot where, on that day and hour, a great
many years before, little Dick Hickory had killed old Reuben Blake. This
produced a string of observations from various individuals of the party:
the merits and demerits of the action were freely canvassed; the debate
grew hot, and more cider was brought from the house. Ralph and Harry,
naturally enough, joined in, and, at length, led the discussion. Ralph
blamed Dick Hickory, and Harry applied several harsh epithets, in the
warmth of the moment, to Reuben Blake. The cheeks of the spectators grew
pale, as the cousins abruptly broke from the original argument, to abuse
each other: a well-meant interference increased, rather than allayed,
their rage; they cast the alarmed mediators aside, flew toward each
other, and grappled:--as Ralph was rushing in, Harry crouched,
lifted his cousin off the ground, and threw him completely over his
head,--never to rise again!

When his sorrowful companions brought home the body of poor Ralph, they
found old Deborah repeating, in a low, shrill, and, as they afterwards
said, unearthly tone, the rhymes of Matty Drew: but the last words
of the third line died away on her lips; and when some of the family
ceased, for a moment, to gaze on the livid face of Ralph, and turned
toward the kitchen-hearth, they saw that Dame Deborah was dead in her
chair.

[Illustration: 043]



CADDY CUDDLE.

On the second anniversary of their wedding-day, the Honourable Charles
Caddy, and Lady Letitia, his high-born and beautiful wife, entertained a
large party of guests at Caddy Castle. Until a few months previously to
this event, the old building had been left nearly desolate, for a period
of eleven or twelve years: a few domestics were its only inhabitants,
except old Squire Caddy Caddy, its unfortunate owner, who had lost his
wits, and was confined in one of its comfortable turrets, under the care
of a couple of stout and wary keepers.

The castle had recently been put in order for the reception of the
Honourable Charles Caddy, a distant relation of, but next heir to, the
lunatic, who was entrusted with the care of Caddy Caddy’s property.
He came down to Caddy Castle, with a determination of making himself
popular in the neighbourhood; and began by giving invitations to all
the gentlemen and ladies of respectability, within a circuit of several
miles. A number of his own personal friends, and those of Lady Letitia,
had followed them, shortly after their departure from town, to spend the
Christmas holidays at Caddy Castle; so that the ancient edifice was by
far more gay than it had ever been, even during the time when the once
jovial Caddy Caddy was lord paramount in the halls of his ancestors.

Among the guests assembled in honour of the day, was Mr. Caddy Cuddle, a
quiet elderly bachelor, of small fortune, related, on his mother’s side,
to the Caddy family, who had been one of Caddy Caddy’s most intimate
associates, in former times. By order of the medical gentlemen who
attended on Caddy Caddy, Mr. Cuddle, as well as all his old friends,
had been denied access to the lunatic, from very proper motives, at
the outset of his confinement Caddy Cuddle’s cottage was eleven miles
distant; the Castle had lost its chief attraction; and this was the
first time he had been near it, for several years.

In his younger days, Caddy Cuddle was of a very active and enterprising
spirit; he shared the perils of his father’s three last voyages, and
would, in all probability, have made as good a seaman as old Herbert
Cuddle himself, had it not been for the solicitude of his mother; who,
losing her other two children rather suddenly, persuaded young Caddy
that a life of ease, with sufficient to satisfy the desires of a
moderate person, was preferable by far to the dangers attendant upon a
chace after Fortune, on the perilous ocean. Caddy then amused himself
by studying the learned languages; and, at length, as some of his simple
neighbours said, had got them so completely at his fingers’ ends, that
it was a pity his parents had not made him a parson.

He was simple, kind, and innocent of evil intentions, as it was possible
for a man to be; but it was his misfortune, owing to his ignorance of
that most useful of all sciences, a knowledge of the world, to touch the
feelings of his host rather smartly, on several occasions, during the
discourse that took place, over the bottle, among the guests at the
Castle. Cuddle was naturally taciturn; but two or three extra glasses of
wine produced their usual effect upon such a temperament, and rendered
him too loquacious to be pleasant. The happiest hours of his life, were
those which he had passed, above a dozen years before, at Caddy Castle;
and he repeatedly alluded to his unhappy friend, poor Caddy Caddy,--the
feats they had performed, the jokes they had cracked, the simple frolics
they had enacted, and the songs they had sung together, over their ale
and tobacco, in the good old days.

The Honourable Charles Caddy felt particularly annoyed at the fact of
his lunatic relation’s confinement in the Castle,--which, perhaps rather
in bad taste, he had made the scene of festivity,--being thus abruptly
revealed to his fashionable visitors; but he was too well-bred to
display the least symptom of his feelings. Watching, however, for an
opportunity, when he might break in upon Cuddle’s narratives, without
palpably interrupting him, the Honourable Charles Caddy, adroitly, as
he thought, started a subject, which, he imagined, would be at once
interesting to his neighbours, and turn two or three of his metropolitan
friends from listeners to talkers.

“I have been looking over the common, this morning,” said he, “and it
occurs to me, that, in a neighbourhood so opulent as ours, races might
be established without much difficulty. The common would afford as
pretty a two-mile course as any gentleman could desire. If such a thing
were set on foot, I should be happy to lend it all the support in my
power. I would take leave to offer a cup, to commence with; and I think
I could answer for a plate from the county members. Indeed, it surprises
me, rather, that the idea has not before occurred to some gentleman in
the vicinity.”

“Cousin Caddy, it has!” exclaimed Cuddle; “our respected friend and
relation, up stairs, gave away a dozen smock-frocks and a bundle of
waggon-whips, for seven successive years; and would, doubtless, have
done so to this day, had not his misfortune deprived him of the power.
The prizes were contested for, regularly, on the second day of the
fair,--which then took place on the common,--immediately after the pig
with the greasy tail was caught; and the boys had eaten the hot rolls,
sopped in treacle; and the women had wrestled for the new gown; and--”

“Women wrestle!” exclaimed one of the Honourable Charles Caddy’s
friends.

“Mr. Cuddle is quite correct, sir,” replied young Tom Horner, who had
lately come into possession of a snug estate in the neighbourhood; “I
have seen them wrestle, in various other parts of the county, as well as
on our common.”

“Never heard of such savages since the day I drew breath! Egad!--never,
I protest!” said the gentleman who had interrupted Caddy Cuddle.

“Why, it’s bad enough, I must admit,” said Homer; “but I think I heard
you boast that you were a man of Kent, just now, sir; and, as I am told,
the women of that county play cricket-matches very frequently. Now, in
my opinion, there is not a very great difference between a female match
at cricket, on a common, and a feminine bout at wrestling, in a ring. In
saying this, I beg to observe that I mean no offence.”

“I take none; I protest I see no occasion,--no pretence for my taking
umbrage.--I am not prepared to question the fact,”--added the speaker,
turning toward his host; “not prepared to question the fact, you
observe, after what has dropped from the gentleman; although, with
permission, on behalf of the women of Kent, I take leave to declare,
that I never heard of their indulging in such an amusement, before the
gentleman mentioned it.”

“Well, sir,” said Caddy Cuddle, who had been very impatient, all this
time, to blazon the generosity and spirit of his friend, Caddy Caddy; “I
was going on to state, that, after the gold-laced hat was grinned for,
through a horse-collar; the pig was caught, and so forth,--the expense
of all which pastimes Caddy Caddy bore;--the waggon-horse-race was run,
for the whips and frocks.”

“A waggon-horse-race!” said the gentleman of Kent; “I beg pardon; did
I hear you correctly?--Am I to understand you, as having positively
said--a waggon-horse-race?”

“Certainly, sir,” said Tom Homer; “and capital sport it is:
I have been twice to Newmarket, and once to Doncaster; I know a little
about racing; I think it a noble, glorious, exhilarating sport; but,
next to the first run I saw for the St Leger, I never was half so
delighted with any thing, in the shape of racing, as when Billy Norman,
who now keeps the west gate of Caddy Park here, exactly sixteen years
ago, come August, won the whips on the common.”

“Indeed!” simpered the gentleman of Kent, gazing at Tom Horner, as
though he were a recently imported nondescript “Billy, on that occasion,
rode most beautifully;” continued Horner; “he carried the day in fine
style, coming in, at least seven lengths, behind all his competitors.”

“If I may be allowed,” observed the gentleman of Kent, “you would say,
_before_.”

“Not at all, sir; not at all;” exclaimed Caddy Cuddle; “draught horses
are not esteemed as valuable in proportion to their speed: in the
waggon-horse-race no man is allowed to jockey his own animal; the riders
are armed with tremendous long whips; their object is to drive all their
companions before them; he that gets in last, wins: and so, sir, they
slash away at each other’s horses;--then, sir, there’s such shouting and
bellowing; such kicking, rearing, whinnying, galloping, and scrambling,
that it would do a man’s heart good to look at it. Poor Caddy Caddy used
to turn to me, and say, as well as his laughter would let him,--‘What
are your Olympic games,--your feats, and fine doings at the tombs of
your old Greek heroes, that you prate about, compared with these, cousin
Cuddle?’”

The Honourable Charles Caddy smiled, and bit the inner part of his lip
with vexation: he now tried to give the conversation another turn, and
introduced the chase; thinking that it was a very safe subject, as Caddy
Caddy had never kept a pack of hounds. “I feel very much inclined,” said
he, “anxious as I am to forward the amusement of my neighbours, to run
up a kennel, beyond the rookery, at the north end of the park,--where
there is very good air, and a fine stream of water,--and invite my
friend, Sir Harry Parton, to hunt this country, for a couple of months
during the season. One of my fellows says, that there are not only
numbers of foxes in the neighbourhood, but what is still better, a
few,--a very few,--of those stags, about which we have heard so much.
I think I have influence enough with Sir Harry to persuade him; at
all events, I’ll invite him; and if he should have other existing
engagements, I pledge myself,--that is, if such a step would be
agreeable,--to hunt the country myself.”

“Our respected and unfortunate friend, cousin Caddy,” said Cuddle, “had
a little pack of dogs--”

“A pack of _dogs_, indeed, they were, Mr. Cuddle,” interrupted young
Horner; “five or six couple of curs, that lurked about the Castle,
gentlemen, which we used sometimes to coax down to the river, and spear
or worry an otter; and, now and then, wheedle away to the woods, at
midnight, for a badger-hunt, after drinking more ale than we well knew
how to carry. I was a boy then, but I could drink ale by the quart.”

“Ay, ay!” exclaimed Caddy Cuddle, “those were famous times! ’Tis true,
I never went out with you, but 1 recollect very well how I enjoyed poor
Caddy Caddy’s animated descriptions of the badger-hunt, when he came
back.”

“Oh! then you hunted _badgers_, did you?” said the gentleman of Kent
to Tom Horner, in a sneering tone, that produced a titter all round the
table. “Yes, sir,--we hunted badgers,” replied Tom; “and capital sport it
is, too, in default of better.”

“I dare say it is,” said the gentleman of Kent.

“Allow me to tell you then, sir, that there is really good sport in
badger-hunting; it is a fine, irregular sort of pastime, unfettered by
the systematic rules of the more aristocratic sports. The stag-hunt
and the fox-chase, are so shackled with old ordinances and covert-side
statutes, that they remind me of one of the classical dramas of the
French: a badger-hunt is of the romantic school;--free as air, wild as
mountain breezes;--joyous, exhilarating, uncurbed, and natural as one of
our Shakspeare’s plays. Barring an otter-hunt, (and what’s better still,
according to Caddy Cuddle’s account, who has been in the North Seas,
the spearing of a whale,) there are few sports that suit my capacity of
enjoyment, so well as badger-bagging.--Just picture to yourself, that
you have sent in a keen terrier, no bigger than a stout fitchet, or
thereabouts, to ascertain that the badger is not within; that you have
cleverly bagged the hole, and stuck the end of the mouth-line in the
fist of a patient, but wary and dexterous clod-hopper; (an old, lame,
broken-down, one-eyed gamekeeper, is the best creature on earth for such
an office;)--and then, what do you do?--Why, zounds! every body takes
his own course, with or without dogs, as it may happen; hunting,
yelping, hallooing, and beating every brake for half a mile, or more,
round, to get scent of the badger. Imagine the moon, ‘sweet huntress of
yon azure plain,’ is up, and beaming with all her brilliancy; the trees
beautifully basking in her splendour; her glance streaming through an
aperture in an old oak, caused by the fall of a branch, by lightning, or
bluff Boreas, and fringing the mallow-leaf with silver; the nightingale,
in the brake, fascinating your ear; the glow-worm delighting your
eye:--you stand, for a moment, motionless;--the bat whirrs above
your head and the owl, unaccustomed to the sight of man, in such deep
solitudes, flaps, fearless, so near as to fan your glowing forehead with
his wings:--when suddenly you hear a shout,--a yell,--two or three such
exclamations as--‘There a’ ees!’--‘Thic’s he!’--‘At’un, Juno!’--‘Yonder
a goath!’--‘Hurrah!’--‘Vollow un up!’--‘Yaw awicks!’ and ‘Oh! my
leg!’--You know by this, that ‘the game’s a foot;’--you fly to the right
or left, as the case may be, skimming over furzy brake, like a bird, and
wading through tangled briar, as a pike would, through the deeps of
a brook, after a trout that is lame of a fin. You reach the scene of
action; the badger is before, half a score of tykes around, and the
yokels behind you.--‘Hark forward! have at him!’ you enthusiastically
cry; your spirits are up;--you are buoyant--agile as a roe-buck;--your
legs devour space--you--”

“My dear fellow, allow me to conclude,” interrupted Caddy Cuddle, “for
your prose Pegasus never can carry you through the hunt at this rate.
To be brief, then,--according to what I have heard from my
never-to-be-sufficiently-lamented friend, Caddy Caddy,--the badger, when
found, immediately makes for his earth: if he reach it without being
picked up and taken, he bolts in at the entrance; the bag receives
him; its mouth is drawn close by the string; and thus the animal is
taken.--But, odds! while I talk of those delights, which were the theme
of our discourse in the much-regretted days of Caddy Caddy, I forget
that time is on the wing.--I suppose no one is going my way.”

“I am,” replied Tom Homer, “in about three hours’ time.”

“Ay, ay! you’re younger, friend Homer, than I have been these fifteen
years,” said Cuddle; “time was, before Caddy Caddy lost his wits, when
he and I have sat over midnight together, as merry as crickets; but
since his misfortune, I have become a very altered man. ‘_Primâ nocte
domum claude_--that has been my motto for years past Mrs. Watermark, my
good housekeeper, is, I feel convinced, already alarmed; and it would
not become me, positively to terrify her: besides, I am not on very
intimate terms with my horse, which I borrowed from my friend, Anthony
Mutch, of Mallow Hill, for this occasion: the roads, too, have been so
cut and carved about, by the Commissioners,--doubtless, for very wise
purposes,--since poor Caddy Caddy’s time, that I had much ado to find
my way in the broad day-light; and these spectacles, I must needs say,
although I reverence the donor, are not to be depended on, so implicitly
as I could wish. Let me see--ay--‘tis now twelve years ago, from my last
birth-day, since they were presented to me; and, believe me, I ‘ve never
had the courage to wear them before. I hate changing,--especially of
spectacles; I should not have put them on now--confound them!--had it
not been for Mrs. Watermark, who protested my others were not fit to be
seen in decent society.”

“Under the circumstances you have mentioned,” said the Honourable
Charles Caddy, “I must press you to accept of a bed. Pray, make the
Castle your own; you will confer an obligation on me by remaining.”

“Cousin Caddy,” replied Cuddle, rising from his seat, and approaching
his host, whose hand he took between both his own; “I rejoice to find so
worthy a successor of poor Caddy Caddy, master of Caddy Castle. It
would be most pleasing to me, if it were possible, to remain; and, I do
protest, that I positively would, were it not for the feelings of Mrs.
Watermark,--a most worthy and valuable woman,--who is now, perhaps,
sitting on thorns on my account But I feel so grateful to you,--so happy
in your society, that I will actually quaff another bumper, previously
to taking my stirrup-cup; yea, and truly, were honest Jack Cole--old
king Cole, as we used to cadi him, in Caddy Caddy’s days,--were Jack
here, with his fine bass voice, I would actually proffer a stave or
so,--say, for instance, the Dialogue between Time and the Drinkers,--if
Tom Horner would chime in, as he used to do when a boy, here, in this
very room, with honest Jack, poor Caddy Caddy, and my-self, in times
past--Honest Jack! most excellent Jack! rare king Cole! would he were
here!”

“I should be sorry, cousin,” said the Honourable Charles Caddy, “to have
omitted, in my invitation-list, the name of so respectable and staunch a
friend of our family, as Mr. Cole, of Colebrook. If I do not mistake,
he sits immediately below my friend Wilmot, at the next table; I regret
that I have not had an opportunity of making myself more known to him.”

“Jack! honest Jack!” exclaimed Cuddle; “old king Cole, here, and I
not know it?--Little Jack, that’s silent as the grave, except when he
thunders in a glee!--Where, cousin? Oddsbird! eh?--Jack, where are you?”

“Here am I, Caddy,” replied a diminutive old gentleman, with a
remarkably drowsy-looking eye; “I thought you were not going to accost
me.”

The deep and sonorous tone in which these words were spoken, startled
those who sat near old Cole: they gazed at him, and seemed to doubt if
the sounds they had heard really emanated from the lungs of so spare and
puny a personage. Cuddle crossed his arms on his breast, and exclaimed,
“And is it, indeed, my friend Jack Cole?”

“Don’t you know me, when I speak even?” growled old Cole, “or d’ye think
somebody has borrowed my voice?”

“‘Tis Jack, himself!” cried Cuddle; “honest Jack! and I did not
see him!--These glasses I cannot help stigmatizing as an egregious
nuisance.”

“Well, Mr. Cole, what say you, will you join us?” inquired Homer.

“No, sir,” replied Cole; “sing by yourself; one ass at a time is bad
enough; but three braying together, are insupportable.”

“The same man,--the same man as ever;” exclaimed Cuddle, apparently very
much pleased;--“begin, Homer;--you know his way;--he can’t resist, when
his bar comes. He had always these crotchets;--begin, my boy; I will
pledge myself that he falls in with the stream of the tune.”

Horner and Cuddle now commenced the glee; and, as the latter had
predicted, Cole, after closing his eyes, throwing himself back in his
chair, and making sundry wry faces, trowled forth the first reply, and
afterwards, all the other responses of old Father Time, in the following
verses.--

     “Whither away! old Father Time?
     Ah! whither dost thou run?”--
     “Low,--low,
     I’ve a mob to mow;
     My work is never done.”

     “Tarry awhile with us, old Time,
     And lay thy scythe aside!”--
     “Nay!--nay!
     ‘Tis a busy day;
     My work it lieth wide.”

     “Tell us, we pray thee, why, old Time,
     Thou look’st so pale and glum?”--
     Fie!--fie!
     “I evermore sigh,
     ‘Eternity, oh! come!’”

     “Art thou, then, tired, old Father Time?
     Thy labour dost thou rue?”--
     “Long,--long,
     Has it been my song,--
     ‘Could I but die like you!’”

     “Tell us, then, when, old Father Time,
     We may expect thy death!”--
     “That morn Eternity’s born,
     Receives my parting breath.”

     “And what’s eternity, Father Time?
     We pray thee, tell us now!”--
     “When men
     Are dead, it is then Eternity they know.”

     “Come, fill up thy glass, old Father Time,
     And clog its sands with wine!”--
     “No, no;
     They would faster flow,
     And distil tears of brine!”

Caddy Cuddle, at the conclusion of these verses, took possession of a
vacant chair, by the side of old Cole, and soon forgot that there was
such a being as Mrs. Watermark in existence. He quaffed bumper after
bumper with honest Jack;--an hour passed very pleasantly away in talking
of old times;--and Cuddle wondered to find himself slightly intoxicated.
He immediately rose, took his leave rather uncourteously, and went out,
muttering something about “eleven miles,” and “Mother Watermark.” In
a few minutes, he was mounted, and trotting toward the park gate which
opened on the high road. “A fine night, Billy Norman;--a fine night,
Billy;” said Cuddle, as he rode through, to the old gatekeeper; “pray,
Billy, what say you? Don’t you think they have cut the roads up cruelly,
of late years?--Here’s half a crown, Billy.--What with planting, and
enclosing, and road-making, I scarcely know the face of the country;
it’s as puzzling as a labyrinth.--Good night, Billy!”

Cuddle, who was a tolerably bold rider, for a man of his years, now
struck his horse rather forcibly, with his heels, and urged him at once
into a brisk hand-gallop.

“He hath a spur in his head,” said Billy Norman to himself, as Cuddle
disappeared down the road; “I hope nought but good may happen him; for
he’s one of the right sort, if he had it.” The roads were dry and hard,
the air serene, and Billy stood listening, for a few minutes, to the
sounds of the horse’s feet; he soon felt convinced, by the cadences,
that Caddy Cuddle was increasing, rather than diminishing, his speed.
The beat of the hoofs became, at length, barely audible; it gradually
died away; and Norman was going in to light his pipe, when he thought he
heard the sounds again. He put his hand behind his ear, held his breath,
and, in a few moments, felt satisfied that Caddy Cuddle had taken the
wrong turning, and was working back, by a circular route, toward
Caddy Castle again. As he approached nearer, Norman began to entertain
apprehensions that Cuddle’s horse had run away with him, in consequence
of the violent pace, at which, it was clear, from the sound of its feet,
that the animal was going. Norman stepped off the pathway into the road,
and prepared to hail Cuddle, as he passed, and ascertain, if possible,
what really was the matter. The horse and his rider came on nearly
at full speed, and Norman shouted, with all his might,--“Holloa! hoy!
stop!”

“I carry arms! I carry arms!” cried Cuddle, urging his horse forward
with all his might.

“Zauns!” exclaimed Norman, “he takes I for a highwayman!--He must ha’
mistook the road, that’s certain; the horse can’t ha’ run away wi’ un,
or a’uldn’t kick un so.--Sailor, you be out o’ your latitude.”

The circle, which Caddy Cuddle had made, was about two miles in
circumference: he went precisely in the same direction again, without,
in the least, suspecting his error; and having, as he thought, mastered
four miles of his road homeward, and given his horse a tolerable
breathing, he began to pull up by degrees, as he, for the second time,
approached the little rustic lodge of Caddy Park, from which he had
issued at his departure. Norman again hailed him, for he felt tolerably
satisfied that Caddy carried no other arms than those with which Nature
had endowed him. Caddy now knew the voice, and pulled up:--“Who’s
there?” said he; “A friend, I think; for I remember your tone.--Who are
you, honest man?”

“Heaven help us, Mr. Cuddle!” exclaimed Norman, “Are’ee mad, sir, or
how?”

“Why, nipperkins! Norman, is it you?”

“Ay, truly.”

“And how got you here?--I thought nothing had passed me on the road.
Where are you going, honest Norman?”

“Going!--I be going no-where,” replied the gate-keeper; “I be here,
where you left me. Why, doant’ee know, that you ha’ been working
round and round, just like a horse in a mill?--And after all this
helter-skelter work, here you be, just where you were!”

“D--n the spectacles, then!” said Cuddle; “and confound all
innovators!--Why couldn’t they let the country alone?--I’ve taken the
wrong turning, I suppose?”

“Yeas,--I reckon’t must be summat o’ that kind:--there be four to the
right, out o’ the strait road, across the common; the three first do
bring’ee round this way, t’other takes’ee home:--but, odds! Muster
Cuddle! do’ee get off!--Here be a girth broke,--and t’other as old as
my hat, and half worn through, as’tis.--Oh! you must go back; you must,
truly, go back to the stables, and put the tackle in order.”

Cuddle seemed rather loath to return, but old Norman was inflexible: he
led the horse inside the gate, which he safely locked, and put the key
in his pocket, and then hobbled along, by the side of Caddy, toward the
stables. As he passed the outer door of the house, he whispered to the
porter, his fears for Cuddle’s safety, if he were suffered to depart
again, and begged that the porter would contrive to let his master be
made acquainted with the circumstance of Caddy’s ride.

The information was immediately conveyed to the dining-room, and
half-a-dozen gentlemen, with the Honourable Charles Caddy at their
head, immediately proceeded to the stables, where they found Cuddle,
perspiring very copiously, and endeavouring to obtain information for
his guidance, in his contemplated journey, from those, who were, from
the same cause, as incapable of giving, as Cuddle was of following,
correct directions. The Honourable Charles Caddy, in spite of his good
breeding, could not help laughing, when he heard Cuddle’s account of the
affair; but he very judiciously insisted on Cuddle’s remaining at the
Castle until morning. Caddy vowed that he would acquiesce only on one
condition; which was, that a servant should be immediately dispatched to
his cottage, to allay the fears of Mrs. Watermark; and that such servant
should be specially enjoined, not to blab a word of his mishap, to the
good old gentlewoman. “If he should,” said Cuddle, “Mrs. Watermark will
be terrified, and we shall have her here before morning, even if she
walk all the way.”

It was in vain that the Honourable Charles Caddy and his visitors
entreated Caddy Cuddle to return to the table; he preferred retiring to
rest at once. “You must put up with one of the ancient bed-rooms, cousin
Cuddle,” said the Honourable Charles Caddy; “but you fear no ghosts, I
apprehend?”

“Nipperkins! not I!” replied Cuddle. “If I am to sleep out of my own
bed, I care not if you place me in the most alarming room in the Castle.
To confess the truth,--but this under the rose, cousin,--I feel a touch
of the influence of Bacchus, and ‘_dulce periculum est,_’ you know, when
that’s the case.”

The bed-chamber to which Cuddle was consigned, still retained its
tapestry hangings; and the good man quivered, either with cold, or at
the solemn appearance of the room, when he entered it. A very prominent
figure in the arras actually appeared to move, as Cuddle sat down in
a capacious old chair, at the right-hand side of the bed, to undress
himself. After gazing earnestly at it, for a moment, with his stockings
half drawn off, he corrected himself for indulging in so ridiculous
a fancy:--“None of these Pygmalion freaks,” said he; “none of your
Promethean tricks, Mr. Imagination of mine: and yet, perhaps, I am
accusing you wrongfully, and these mischievous glasses have endowed
yonder figure with seeming vitality; I hope I may not break them, in
a-pet, before I get home.”

Caddy Cuddle was one of those unfortunate beings who accustom themselves
to read in bed; and who, from long habit, can no more compose themselves
to sleep, without perusing a few pages, in their night-gear, than some
others can without a good supper, or a comfortable potation. Caddy
discovered two or three old, worm-eaten books, in a small table drawer,
and selected that one which was printed in the largest type, for
his perusal, when recumbent. It was a volume of tracts, on geomancy,
astrology, and necromancy. Cuddle read it with avidity, and by the time
the small piece of candle, with which he had been furnished, was burnt
out, he had filled his brain with images of imps and familiars. Finding
himself, suddenly, in utter darkness, he laid down the book; and then,
turning himself on his back, very soon fell asleep No man, perhaps, ever
kept a log-book of his dreams; ant yet, such an article would certainly
be more amusing than many an honest gentleman’s diary; for there are
persons in the work whose waking adventures are as dull and monotonous
as the ticking of a clock, while their biography in bed,--their nightly
dreams,7--if correctly narrated, would, in some cases, be exceedingly
droll; and, in others, insupportably pathetic. The happiest people by
day-light, often suffer agonies by night; a man who would not harm a
worm, with his eyes open, sometimes commits murder, and actually endures
all the misery of being taken, tried, convicted, and half executed, in
imagination, while he lies snug, snoring, and motionless, beneath a pair
of Witney blankets. It is rash to say that any individual is, or, at
least, ought to be, happy, until we ascertain how he dreams. A very
excellent country ‘squire, in the west of England, was once told, by a
person of discrimination, that he appeared to be the most comfortable
man in existence:--“Your desires are within your means;”--thus the
squire was addressed;--“your wife is most charming in temper, manners,
and person; your affection is mutual; your children are every thing that
a parent could wish; your life has been so irreproachable, that you must
be as easy in mind as it is possible for a man to be: no one bears you
malice; on the contrary, every body blesses you: your house and your
park are delightful; you are most felicitous, even in your servants and
cattle; you are naturally--”

“True, true, to the letter,” impatiently interrupted the ‘squire; “but
what’s all the world to a man who, without why or wherefore, dreams that
he’s with old Nick every night of his life?” Caddy Cuddle was not much
addicted to dreaming; but, on the night he slept in the ancient room,
at Caddy Castle, he felt satisfied, as he afterward said, that in the
course of a few hours, his imagination was visited with fantasies
enough to fill a volume; although he could not recollect, with any
distinctness, even one of them, half an hour after he awoke. The moon
was shining full upon the window, and making the chamber almost as light
as day, with her radiance, when Caddy opened his eyes, after his first
sleep, to satisfy himself, by the view of some familiar object, that
he was not among the strange creatures of whom he had been dreaming.
Perched upon his nose,--threatening it with whip, as Caddy saw, and
galling it with spur, as Caddy felt,--he beheld an imp, whose figure
was, at once, more grotesque and horrible, than any of those which had
flitted before his mind’s eye, during his slumbers! The creature seemed
to be staring at him with terrific impudence, and jockeying his feature,
as though it were actually capable of running a race. Caddy’s eye-balls
were almost thrust out of their sockets with dismay; his nether-jaw
dropped, and he groaned deeply, under the influence of the visible
nose-night-mare with which he was afflicted. For more than a minute,
Caddy was incapable of moving either of his limbs; but he summoned up
resolution enough, at last, to close his eyes, and make a clutch at the
fiend, that rode his nose in the manner above described. With a
mingled feeling of surprise, mortification, and joy, he found the
nose-night-mare to be his spectacles!--He had gone to sleep without
removing them from his nose; and, by tumbling and tossing to and fro, in
his dreams, he had displaced, and twisted them, sufficiently, to assume
a position and form, that might have alarmed a man of stouter nerves
than Caddy Cuddle, on awaking in the middle of a moonlight night, after
dreaming of more monsters than the German authors have ever located on
Walpurgis Night in the Hartz.

Caddy tried to compose himself to sleep again; but grew restless,
feverish, and very uncomfortable: he beat up his pillow, shook his bed,
smoothed his sheets, walked several times up and down the room, and then
lay down again;--determined, at least, to doze. But Morpheus had taken
leave of him; and Caddy, at last, resolved on dressing himself, going
down to the kitchen, and, as he had tobacco about him, to smoke a pipe,
if he could find one, clean or dirty. He attributed his want of rest to
not having indulged in his usual sedative luxury, before going to bed;
and very resolutely taxed himself with the commission of an egregious
folly, for having drank more than he ought. Anthony Mutch’s horse, and
the Commissioners of the roads, he very copiously abused, while
dressing himself: the spectacles were, however, the grand objects of his
indignation; but, bad as they were, he conceived that it was necessary
to coax them into shape again, and mount them on his nose, previously
to attempting, what he deemed, the perilous descent, from his chamber,
which was on the third floor, to the kitchen below. Caddy, however,
was too well acquainted with the topography of the house, to incur much
danger: moreover, the moon beamed with such brilliancy, through the
glass dome that lighted the great circular staircase of Caddy Castle,
that a man, much more short-sighted than our hero, might have gone
safely from the top to the bottom, without the assistance of glasses.

In a hole in the kitchen chimney, Caddy found two or three short pipes;
he congratulated himself on the discovery, and immediately filled one
of them from his pouch. The Castle was now as quiet as the grave; and no
soul, but Caddy himself, seemed to be stirring. He felt rather surprised
to see the stone floor of the kitchen, for above a yard from the
chimney, covered with embers of expiring logs, while the hearth itself
was “dark as Erebus.” Caddy Cuddle, however, did not trouble himself
much about this circumstance: he had often seen the kitchen in a similar
condition, after a frolic, in Caddy Caddy’s time; and very gravely
lighting his pipe, he deposited himself on a warm iron tripod,--which
had been standing on the hearth, probably, the whole evening,--in
preference to a cold oak chair. The kitchen was comfortable,
notwithstanding it was dark, (for the embers, as we have already stated,
were expiring, and Caddy was without a candle,) and he smoked the
pipe so much to his satisfaction, that he determined to enjoy another.
Kicking the bits of burning wood together, as he sat, in order to light
his tobacco, he, unintentionally, produced a little blaze, which proved
rather disastrous to him:--as he stooped to light the pipe, he heard
a noise, that attracted his attention; Caddy looked about, and, on the
spacious hearth, beheld something, that bore a rude similitude to a
human figure!

Caddy was rather alarmed; and he uttered an exclamation, which seemed to
rouse the object of his fears. It raised itself on its hands, and after
staring Caddy full in the face, as he afterwards stated, began to uncoil
itself, and, at length, rose, and stood, tolerably terrified, to judge
from appearances, gazing at the odd-looking figure which Caddy cut, with
his night-cap, spectacles, and pipe, on the large iron tripod. Cuddle
now perceived that his companion, although of masculine frame, was
arrayed in female habiliments, which were black as the exterior of an
old stew-pan. It was Martha Jones, the scullion, a Welsh girl, who,
whenever she could, indulged herself with a night’s rest, in her
clothes, on the warm hearth of Caddy Castle kitchen, instead of
a comfortable bed in one of its turrets. On these occasions, she
previously swept the embers from the hearth to the stone floor; as Caddy
Cuddle had found them, on entering to smoke his pipe. She was indulged
in these and a few other odd vagaries, on account of her excellence as
an under-strapper to the cook, who frequently said, that she could,
and would, do more work in one day, than a brace of the ordinary run
of scullions did in a week. Martha possessed a pair of immense muscular
arms, which resembled, in hue, the outer leaf of a frost-bitten red
cabbage: her cheeks were of the same colour, when clean; and shone,
after a recent ablution, as though they had been smeared with bees-wax
and turpentine, and polished by means of a furniture-brush. Caddy
Cuddle, in his subsequent description of Martha, said, that her hair
was jetty as a black cart-horse’s tail;--her lips pouted like a pair of
black puddings; and her eye,--for truth to say, she had but one,--was
as fiery and frightful as that of a Cyclops. Martha’s features were,
however, though large, remarkably well-formed; and more than one
ploughman, in the neighbourhood, already sighed to make her a bride.

After Martha had gazed, for more than a minute, at Caddy Cuddle, who
ceased to puff, and almost to breathe, from the moment the scullion had
first begun to move, she burst out into a loud fit of laughter, in which
she indulged for some time;--occasionally stirring and raking the embers
on the floor together, to create a better blaze, in order that she might
enjoy a full view of Caddy Cuddle, who was now quite as ludicrous in
her estimation, as she had been terrible in his. Cuddle, at last, waxed
wroth; threw his pipe on the floor; thrust one of his hands beneath the
breast of his waistcoat; placed the other behind him, under the tail of
his coat, which he considerably elevated by the action; and, in this, as
he deemed, most imposing attitude, asked Martha how she dared to insult
one of her master’s guests in that manner.--“Stand aside,” continued he,
“and let me withdraw to my chamber, woman!”

“Ooman!” cried the scullion, ceasing to laugh in an instant, and putting
on rather an alarming frown:--“Ooman!--her name is Martha Jones, and no
more a--Yes, her is a ooman, though, tat’s true;--but Martha Jones is
her name, and her will not be called ooman py nopoty, look you; that is
what her will not--Ooman, inteet! Cot pless her! To live six long years
in the kitchen of ‘Squire Morgan, and one pesides, at ‘Squire Caddy’s,
with a coot character, and her own aunt a laty, to be called ‘ooman,’ py
a little man in a white night-cap! look you, I sall tie first!”

Caddy Cuddle’s experience with the woman-kind, at our excellent friend,
Jonathan Oldbuck ycleps the fair part of the creation, was very limited:
he had read of heroines, in the Latin and Greek authors; spoken to a
few demi-savages, when a boy, during his nautical adventures in foreign
parts; occasionally chucked a dairymaid under the chin, when _Bacchi
plenus_, in the reign of Caddy Caddy, at Caddy Castle; and had a few
quarrels with his housekeeper, Mrs. Watermark. He was of opinion, from
what he had witnessed, that a little flattery was of sovereign virtue
with the sex; and, in order to escape from Martha’s clutches, of which
he felt in considerable awe, Caddy Cuddle essayed to soothe and allay
the fever into which he had thrown the scullion by calling her a woman,
with a few compliments. But, like all inexperienced persons, Caddy
Cuddle could not hit the golden mean; he overstepped the mark so much,
as to make honest Martha imagine that he really admired her. Caddy was
not aware to what an extent his flattery was leading him: he plumed
himself on his tact and discretion, when Martha’s face began to relax
into a smile; launched boldly into hyperbole, as soon as she curtsied
at his compliments; and, in order to effect a dashing retreat, by a
bold _coup-de-main_, attacked the enemy with a brigade of classical
metaphors. The scullion could hold out no longer; she strode over the
intervening embers; clutched Cuddle in her colossal grasp; and, in an
instant, she was seated on the tripod which he had previously occupied,
with the very alarmed little gentleman perched upon her knee.

The nose-night-mare was a trifle, in Cuddle’s estimation, compared with
what he now endured: he struggled, and roared with all his might-called
Martha Jones, “Circe, Canidia, Scylla, Medea, Harpy, Polyphemus, and
Witch of Edmonton,” without the least effect: she seemed to consider
all these appellatives as endearing epithets, and kissed Caddy, so
vehemently, that he thought his heart would break.

And it was not merely the warmth of the scullion’s gratitude or
affection--whichever it might be--that so discomposed Caddy Cuddle;
Martha, in striding across the blazing embers, had ignited her greasy,
and, consequently, very combustible apparel; and although she, in her
raptures, seemed to be quite unconscious of the circumstance, Caddy
Cuddle felt that the incipient flame had begun to singe his stockings.
At length, Mistress Martha herself, became, somehow or other, cognizant
of the fact; and she instantly threw Caddy Cuddle off her knee, shrieked
like an infuriated maniac, snatched up the kitchen poker, and flourished
it about Caddy’s head, threatening him, by her actions, with immediate
annihilation; as though he, good innocent man, had been the cause of the
combustion.

Luckily for Caddy and the scullion, their _tete-a-tete_ had been so
boisterous, as to have alarmed the Castle; and the French cook, with two
or three other men-servants, burst into the kitchen at a very critical
instant both for Caddy and Miss Jones. A bucket of water, dexterously
applied by the coachman, quenched the blazing petticoats, and somewhat
allayed the fiery heart of the scullion; who retreated behind a pile of
pots and kettles. While Caddy apostrophized the cook, Martha was loud
in vituperation; the men-servants were noisy as Bedlamites; and the
_cuisinier_ himself, a recently imported Frenchman, imprecated, very
loudly, in his own language,--consigning Caddy, the scullion, coachman,
and his fellow-domestics, with all other the English people, past,
present, and to come, in one lot, to the care of King Pluto and his
sable adherents. Alarmed at the uproar, the guests at Caddy Castle came
in by twos and threes, and, in a few minutes, the kitchen was thronged.

The Honourable Charles Caddy had scarcely closed his eyes, when the
exclamations, from Caddy Cuddle and the scullion, reached his ears;
the lovely Lady Letitia having amused herself by giving him a curtain
lecture, of some two hours’ duration, after they had retired, on his
gross and most apparent gallantry to the plainest woman among the
visitors at the Castle. He leaped out of bed, on hearing the noise,
rather to escape from the dulcet abuse of his beautiful better-half,
than from any strong feelings of interest or curiosity; and, as soon
as he could make himself fit to be seen, hurried toward the place of
declamation. There he found Caddy Cuddle, encircled by twenty or thirty
people, (who, although they were his guests, and had dined with him, he
positively did not know in their night-caps,) exclaiming, prodigiously,
against the scullion, and endeavouring, by dint of vociferation, to
prove that he was not at all to blame.

The Honourable Charles Caddy soon cleared the kitchen, when he found
that nothing of consequence had occurred: the guests and servants
retired; and Caddy Cuddle, after making several apologies and
protestations of innocence, whatsoever the scullion might say of him,
to his cousin, took up a candle, which somebody had left on the dresser,
and marched off to the staircase. The Honourable Charles Caddy, who had
detained the cook, now inquired who and what the creature of darkness
was behind the saucepans; and while the cook was explaining, and
Martha Jones was giving most excellent account of herself, Caddy Cuddle
proceeded toward his bed-chamber. As he passed Lady Letitia’s door,
he knocked, and whispered, through the key-hole, a long string of
apologies, in which he was interrupted by the lady’s husband; who, after
politely marshalling him to his room, made him a most ceremonious and
courtly bow, and wished him a very excellent good night.

Caddy paced two or three times up and down the room, lamenting his
misfortunes, and inwardly vowing never to quit his cottage for a castle
again. He was so anxious not to disturb the household, that he
neither stamped on the floor, nor groaned audibly; but rather “stepped
a-tip-toe,” from the window to the fire-place, and thence to the window
again, scarcely breathing as he moved. Finding but little relief from
this state of constraint, he threw himself on the old chair that stood
on the right-hand side of the bed, and began to recover a little of
his usual good humour. He reviewed the circumstances which had happened
during the night; and they now presented themselves in so droll a light
to Caddy’s mind, that he could not help smiling at his mishaps, and
proceeded to unbutton his waistcoat All at once, the remembrance of the
moving tapestry flashed across him, and his eye was instantly fixed
on the figure that had alarmed him, previous to his retiring to rest
“Surely,” thought he, “it could not have been imagination, for it
moveth, even now, most palpably!--or my visionary organs are singularly
impaired;--or these new spectacles lead me into very unpleasant
errors. Would that I had never accepted them!” He removed the suspected
offenders from his nose, wiped them carefully with the tail of his coat,
and was going to put them on again, when a tall, stout-built person,
slipped out from behind the arras, and advanced, with hasty steps,
toward him, exclaiming, “Soho! friend Caddy Cuddle, you’re come at
last!”

“What, in the name of all that’s good, art thou?” exclaimed Caddy,
feeling surprised that he was not more frightened;--“who art thou?”

“Don’t you know me, Caddy?” said the intruder, laying his hand on
Cuddle’s arm; who was very much pleased to feel that his visitor
possessed the property of tangibility, and was, therefore, no
ghost.--“Don’t you know me, Caddy?” repeated the figure, in rather a
reproachful tone.

“I dare say I should, sir, if you would permit me to put on my
spectacles,--bad as they are,” replied Caddy; “and if you’d step back
a yard or two, so as to get, as it were, at the proper focus of my
sight:--suppose you take a chair.”

The tall man retreated some paces, and Caddy put on his
spectacles:--“Now, sir,” said he, “we shall see:--Where are you?--Oh! I
perceive--Why, bless my soul, sir--is it--can it be? Are these glasses
really playing me tricks? or have I, in truth, leaped out of the
frying-pan into the fire?--You surely can’t be my very unfortunate and
most respected friend, Caddy Caddy, of Caddy Castle!”

“The same,” replied the tall old man, with a sigh:--“Caddy Caddy, sir,
of Caddy Castle.”

“And how the nipperkins did you break loose?” cried Cuddle, rising from
the chair, and advancing two or three steps.

“Where now, where now, sir?” said Caddy Caddy, taking a gentle hold of
Cuddle’s arm:--“Where now, friend Cuddle?”

“Where?--why, to the door, doubtless!--Am I doomed to do nothing but
alarm the castle?”

“Alarm the castle!” exclaimed Caddy Caddy; “are you out of your senses?
why, they’d lock me up, man, if you did.”

“To be sure they would, and that’s precisely what I want them to do.--My
dear sir, I beg pardon; I wouldn’t give offence I’m sure,--neither to
you nor the people of the Castle; but I can’t help it.--You must allow
me to give the alarm.--I cannot submit to be shut up with a madman.”

“So, then, you join in the slander, do you?” said Caddy Caddy; “Cuddle,
you hurt me to the soul!”

“Well, well,--my dear friend,--my respected friend,--I am sorry I said
so;--it was but in joke.”

“Cuddle,” replied Caddy, “I was ruined by a joke:--somebody called me a
madman, in jest; the rest of the world joined in the cry, though it was
a fool who gave tongue; and, at last, they ran me down; proved, to their
own satisfaction, that I was out of my wits, for being in a passion
with, and turning upon, those who were hunting me. Nothing is more easy
than to prove a man mad:--begin, by throwing a slur upon his mental
sanity; watch him narrowly; view all he does with a jaundiced eye; rake
up a score of facts, which occurred a year apart,--facts that are really
frolics, freaks, whims, vagaries, or what you will, of the like nature;
place them all together, and the business is done; you make as fine a
picture of lunacy as a man would wish to look at. I assure you, Caddy
Cuddle, I am no more a lunatic than you are,--take my word for it; so
sit down and tune the fiddle.”

“Fiddle! what?--where?--which fiddle?”

“Oh! they allow me my fiddle; I should go crazy in earnest without that
I left it behind the arras;--come--”

“Come! come where?”

“Come and fetch it,” said Caddy, dragging Cuddle toward the place from
which he had issued.

“Nipperkins, cousin!” cried Cuddle, “go and get it yourself.”

“No, no,” replied the other, with a knowing look; “If I were to do so,
you’d slip out, while my back was turned, and raise the Castle. I’ve had
trouble enough to elude their vigilance, during the bustle, to lose my
liberty so easily again. By-and-bye, we’ll go down stairs together, and
break open the cellar;--it’s all my own, you know, if right was cock of
the walk. I’m for gamocks and junketting, I forewarn you, and we’ll have
a jolly night of it.” By this time, Caddy had approached the arras, with
Cuddle fast in his clutch; he stooped down, and drawing forth an old
fiddle and stick, put them into the hands of Cuddle; who, as may readily
be imagined, was by no means enamoured of his situation.

“Now,” said Caddy, “in the first place, my friend, play Rowley Waters.
I have been trying to recollect the two last bars of it for these three
years, but I cannot. Do you remember how beautifully my drunken old
butler, Barnaby, used to troul it?”

“Ay, those were merry days, cousin,” said Cuddle; “poor Barnaby! his
passion for ale laid him low, at last.”

“And many a time, before.”

“What! was it in time of your sanity? I beg pardon--Do you remember,
then, our finding him, flat on his back, by the side of an untapped vat
of the stoutest beer that ever Caddy Castle could boast?--Methinks I
can see him now, with the gimlet in his hand, with which he had made an
aperture in the cask, and sucked the blood of barley-corn, to such an
abominable extent--the old beast did--that--”

“Don’t asperse him, Cuddle,” said Caddy; “he put a peg in the hole
before he died. He was the best of butlers; if he always drank a
skinful, he never wasted a noggin. But now for Rowley Waters;--play up,
and I’ll jig.”

“No, no,” said Cuddle, laying down the instrument; “I’ll do no such
thing;--I won’t, by Jupiter!--that’s resolute.”

“Well, then, I’ll play, and you shall dance.”

“Don’t make me swear,” said Cuddle; “don’t, Caddy Caddy!--What! raise
a riot again?--You don’t know, perhaps, that I have, already, sinned
egregiously;--although, I protest, without the least evil intention.
Besides, it would produce that very effect which you wish to--Eh! what
was I saying?--Well, I don’t mind if I _do_ give you _one_ tune.”

“Thank you, kindly, cousin Cuddle,” said Caddy, taking up the fiddle;
“but you have raised an objection, which I admit to be of great weight.
Oh! cousin Cuddle! Did you want to betray me?--I thank you for the
hint:--we should, indeed, alarm my enemies. You overreached yourself,
and saved me, cousin.”

“Well, I scorn a lie,” replied Cuddle; “such a thought as you suspect
did occur to me; for I protest I am not very comfortable in your
company, much as I respect you. Go back to your bed; do, pr’ythee now,
be ruled--oblige me, cousin;--for your own sake, go.”

“Oh! what a thing self-interest is!” exclaimed Caddy; “‘for your own
sake, go,’ quoth he, when it is solely for his! Cousin Cuddle, I shall
not;--that’s a plain answer for you.”

Caddy now placed a chair immediately opposite to that one on which he
had found Cuddle sitting, on his entrance; he forced the alarmed
little gentleman into his seat; and, in a few moments, resumed the
conversation.

“Cuddle,” said he, looking very seriously, “as the world goes, I take
you to be an honest man, and my friend. Now, I’ll confide something to
your ear that will perfectly astonish you. The people about me, don’t
know a syllable of the matter; I kept it snug from them; if I had not,
they would have restricted me to one room, instead of allowing me the
liberty and use of three.--Draw your chair close.--About three years’
since, I broke loose.”

“So I heard,” said Cuddle, trembling as he remembered what had been
related of Caddy’s violence on that occasion. The great staircase of
the better part of Caddy Castle, was circular, and surmounted by a
magnificent dome, which lighted it completely down to the hall; Caddy
had thrown himself over the banisters, and must, inevitably, have been
dashed to pieces, had it not been for a scaffolding, which some workmen
had erected within the circle of the staircase, for the purpose of
repairing some part of the masonry, a few days before. Caddy fell among
the people on the temporary platform, and was taken up, apparently,
lifeless; but, in the course of a couple of months, his bodily health
was restored,--his mental malady remaining nearly in its former state.

“You know,” continued Caddy, “of my leap; I gave them the slip, then,
cousin, in good earnest I fell a terrific depth, and did the business at
once. I recollect the moment of my near approach to the scaffolding, of
the erection of which, I was ignorant; but, as it happened, it did not
frustrate my intentions.”

“I feel very ailing--very indisposed, indeed,” said Cuddle; “pray,
cousin Caddy, permit me to--”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Caddy; “you are as well as ever you were in your
life; I am sure of it; so hear me out:--of course, you heard their
account of restoring me to health;--but they know nothing of the matter,
cousin Cuddle:--when I seemed to them to revive, I felt that I was
_disembodied!_”

“Disembodied!” cried Cuddle, staring wildly at Caddy.

“Ay, disembodied, cousin,” said Caddy; “and my sole with, except for
liberty, now is, to obtain a disembodied companion, who--”

Cuddle could hear no more. To describe his thoughts or feelings at this
moment, would be a task beyond the power of our feeble pen. We shall
attempt, only, to relate his actions.--He threw himself back in the
capacious chair which he had hitherto occupied, but by no means filled;
brought his knees on a level with, and as near as he possibly could to,
his face; and then, suddenly throwing out his legs, with all the energy
he possessed, struck Caddy in the breast with his feet so violently, as,
in an instant, to turn him and his chair topsy-turvy on the floor. He
exhibited a specimen of that agility for which he had been famed in
his younger days, as well in this, as in his subsequent proceedings.
Skipping over Caddy and the chair, he flew to the door, and made for
the staircase at full speed. It is useless to conceal that Cuddle was
dreadfully frightened; he heard Caddy striding after him at a fearful
rate; and felt satisfied, by the evidence of his ears, that his dreaded
pursuer would very speedily overtake him. People in similar situations
adopt plans for escaping, which men, sitting calmly over their coffee,
would never dream of. Cuddle knew that he should have no chance in a
grapple with Caddy: it was ridiculous to hope for help if he cried
out; for, before any one could come to his assistance, Caddy would have
sufficient time to disembody his spirit; and his pursuer was evidently
an over-match for him in speed. Cuddle was desperate: he suddenly
determined on attempting to evade his enemy by a bold and dangerous
manouvre. He leaped upon the banisters, which were massive and broad
enough for a man to stand upon with ease; caught hold of the rope, by
which the dinner bell, above the cupola, was rung by the porter, in the
hall below; and threw himself upon it,--in a style which would have done
honour to a thorough-bred seaman,--at the moment the tops of Caddy’s
fingers touched his heels. We cannot wait to describe the consternation
into which the ringing of the dinner bell, at that time of the night,
threw all the inmates of Caddy Castle;--our hero claims our undivided
attention; for his position was most perilous--at least, in Cuddle’s own
opinion.

Having descended, with moderate haste, for a few yards, he felt, by
certain jerks of the rope, that Caddy had followed his example, and was
pursuing him down the rope,--with such hair-brained velocity too, as he
very speedily ascertained, that he was in greater danger than ever.
The rope was swung to and fro, by his own exertions and those of his
enemy,--bumping him against the banisters with considerable force; but
the blows he thus received were beneath his notice; he thought only of
escaping. Finding that Caddy gained upon him, he contrived, as the rope
swung toward the side of the staircase, to catch hold of one of the
stout iron rails of the banister;--secure in his clutch, he quitted the
rope with considerable dexterity, and had the satisfaction, while he
dangled, of seeing Caddy slide by him. He now began to roar lustily; but
his efforts were needless, for almost every living creature in the house
was already on the alert; the watch dogs were barking without, and the
lap-dogs within; the ladies were shrieking; the gentlemen calling
the servants, and the latter wondering, and running here and there,
exceedingly active, but not knowing what to do or what was the matter.
By degrees, the male portion of the inhabitants of the Castle became
concentrated in the hall: lights were procured; and while the ladies and
their attendants peeped over the rails of the great staircase, in their
night-caps, to watch the proceedings of the party below, Martha, armed
with the kitchen poker, volunteered to search every hole and corner
in the Castle: but her master forbade her on pain of his displeasure;
“For,” said he, “I feel satisfied that it is a disgraceful hoax of some
scoundrel in the house, who shall certainly be ducked if ever I discover
him.--Is any one absent?”

“All the men servants are here, sir,” said the coachman; “and all the
gentlemen, too, I think.”

“No, they are not,” exclaimed Martha, with a ludicrous grin; “where is
my sweetheart, can you tell?--I do not see him.”

“Oh! he’s fast asleep, good man!” said the Honourable Charles Caddy.

“I wish he were;--I do most sincerely wish he were!” quoth Cuddle, who
had released himself, by his own exertions, from his pendent position,
and was now hastening down the lowest flight of stairs. “You may stare,
my good host,” continued he, “but to sleep in Caddy Castle is perfectly
impossible!”

“So I find, to my cost,” replied the Honourable Charles Caddy; “and if I
can find out the rascal who--”

“Do not waste time in threats,” said ‘Cuddle; “but fly--disperse, in
quest of my respected, unhappy friend, poor Caddy Caddy, who has been
with me this half hour, and would have disembodied me, if I hadn’t given
him a kick in the stomach, and put my trust in the bell-rope.”

At the request of his host, Cuddle gave a hurried detail of what had
taken place between himself and Caddy Caddy; while those domestics, who
had the immediate care of the lunatic, hastened up to his rooms. They
returned just as Cuddle had concluded, and stated that Caddy Caddy
was undressed, and fast asleep in his bed;--that they found the doors
locked, and every thing about the apartments in the precise state in
which they had left them. One of the party said, that he slept in the
next room to Caddy Caddy, and was quite certain that he should have
been, as usual, roused, had the lunatic but merely moved: and as to
the old Squire having been at large, the fellow swore that it was
impossible.

It was useless for Cuddle to vow and solemnly declare that Caddy Caddy
had been with him, in the face of this evidence: the gentlemen shook
their heads; the men grumbled; the ladies on the stair-case tittered;
and their maids pronounced Mr. Cuddle’s conduct to be altogether
shocking.

“It is a very distressing case,” said the Honourable Charles Caddy; “and
I protest I never was in so awkward a situation before. I feel bound to
apologize,” continued he, “to every lady and gentleman in the Castle,
for the uproar, which my relation, Mr. Caddy Cuddle, has, doubtless,
unintentionally, produced. I am bound to add, in justice to myself,
that, upon my honour as a gentleman, I had not the most remote idea that
either of my guests was a somnambulist.”

“Is it possible that you can allude to me?” exclaimed Caddy Cuddle. “Is
my veracity impeached? Am I to be a martyr to our poor mad relation’s
freaks?--Or, possibly, you will tell me that I ought to doubt the
evidence of my own senses?”

“I never presume,” was the reply, “to dictate to a gentleman on so
delicate a point. Perhaps you will allow one of my servants to wait on
you during the remainder of the night.”

“I’ll do no such thing,” said Caddy Cuddle: “let the horse be saddled
directly. I’ll go home at once, and endeavour to make my peace with Mrs.
Watermark, from whom I expect and merit a very severe lecture, for so
cruelly cutting up her feelings as to stay out a whole night nearly.
Cousin Caddy, good b’ye; ladies and gentlemen, your servant.”

Caddy Cuddle immediately departed, vowing, _per Jovem_, as he went,
never, after that morning, to bestride Anthony Mutch’s horse,--to dine
at Caddy Castle, or any where else out of his own house,--or to put on a
strange pair of spectacles again.

[Illustration: 069]



THE BRAINTREES.

It was the boast of old Samuel Gough, who, during a period of
thirty-two years, had been landlord of The Chough and Stump,--a little,
old-fashioned house, with carved oaken angels supporting the roof of its
porch,--that, notwithstanding the largest road-side farm-house in
the village had been licensed and beautified; though tiles had been
substituted for its old thatch; a blue sign, with yellow letters, fixed
over its entrance; and a finger-post erected at the top of the lane,
about the middle of which his own tenement stood, directing travellers
to The New Inn,--The Chough and Stump still “bore the bell.”

“Richard Cockle,” he would often say, “being twenty years butler to
old ‘Squire Borfield, ha’ made friends among the gentlefolks. The petty
sessions is held in his best parlour, now and then; he hath a’ got a
pair of post-horses, and tidy tits they be, I must say; his house is
made post-office; and excise-office, to the tail o’ that--for this and
the five nearest parishes; he pays for a wine license, and hath two or
three gentlevolks, may be, once a month, for an hour or two; but not
much oftener, as there be few do travel our cross-country road; and he
do call one room in his house a tap:--but for all that, and his powdered
head to boot, gi’ me The Chough and Stump still.” Gough’s boast was not
altogether without warranty: his comfortable, old-fashioned kitchen,
with its bacon-rack, broad hearth, dingy walls, and rude mantel-slab,
enriched with strange hieroglyphical scratches, in which his neighbours
traced, or affected to trace, the names of their grandfathers, was
endeared to the inhabitants of the village;--there were old feelings,
and pleasant associations connected with it Sam Gough was a jolly host,
who regaled himself, among his guests, from morning till night; habitual
drinking, for along time, having rendered him, as Abel Harris, the
schoolmaster of the village, said, “invulnerable to intoxication he not
only could, but often did, sing a good old song, and tell a good old
story;--never repeating either the one or the other on the same day; for
he was orderly in his entertainment, and had his Monday’s songs and his
Tuesday’s songs, as well as his morning stories and his evening jokes:
he never sponged upon a customer but paid his share of the reckoning
to his wife, who officiated as mistress, while he appeared to be only a
constant guest. His ale was generally clear as amber, sweet as milk, and
strong as brandy.” In the tap of The New Inn, which was the name of the
rival house, the company generally consisted of the postilion and
ostler of the establishment, a few out-door servants from some of
the neighbouring gentlemen’s houses, and three or four of the gayest,
youthful, village bucks: but the elderly and middle-aged men,--“the
substantial,” as Abel Harris called them, usually congregated, to smoke
their evening pipes, round the oak in front of The Chough and Stump,
when the weather would permit, or in the kitchen settle, before a
blazing fire of logs and turf, when the rustics sat up three or four
hours after sunset Schoolmaster Abel, although he was one of the pair
of parish constables, patronized The Chough and Stump, and grumbled
mightily at being obliged to pay five shillings for a dinner, once a
year, at the New Inn, with the churchwardens, and other official persons
of the parish; which dinner had been instituted solely for the benefit
of Richard Cockle, and much against the inclination of several of
those, who were almost compelled, on account of their connexion with his
wealthy supporters, to attend it. It was at The Chough and Stump that
all the village news was to be heard; and if one of its customers were
not found at his post, on the settle, at the usual hour, old Gough
concluded, that he was either bad, busy, or gone to the rival tap, to
glean gossip about the great families, from the servants, in order to
retail it, the next night, to the grateful crew at The Chough and Stump.

One winter’s evening, although it was neither a Saturday, a holiday,
nor a fast day, the settle was not only completely occupied, but several
occasional visitors to the old kitchen were closely packed along
a narrow bench that ran across the back wall. Many of the poorer
inhabitants of the place were lurking about the porch, and several
women, with their check aprons thrown over their red and almost
frost-bitten elbows, stood peeping in at the window, and eagerly
listening to an old dame, who had placed her ear to a little corner
from which the glass had been broken, and occasionally repeated what she
heard passing within.

“I do pity the mother o’ the lad, troth do I,” said a woman about
twenty-five years of age; “her hath a got but one zon--no more have
I--and truth to speak, I do pity her.”

“And well thou may’st, Tabby Mudford,” said the old dame; “for constable
Abel hath just a’ told thy husband, that the boy’s taken off in a cart,
wi’ ‘Squire Stapleton’s coachman a one side o’ un, and constable Tucker
o’ t’other, hand-cuffed, and leg-fast, to the county gaol.”

“Poor Meg Braintree! poor soul!” cried several of the women, on hearing
this, and one or two of them actually began to sob aloud.

“Poor Meg Braintree, forsooth!” exclaimed a little sharpnosed female,
with a high-cauled cap, and leathern stomacher;--“I don’t zay no zuch
ztuff--not I,” added she, in a shrill, disagreeable voice; “it hath a’
come home to her now; and I said it would, two-and-twenty years agone
come Candlemas, when she scoffed and vlouted poor Phil Govier, and took
up wi’ Zaul Braintree, a’ter she’d a’ most a’ promised, as I have heard
tell, to marry Phil. In my mind, he loved her better, worse luck vor un,
poor vellow, than ever this Zaul Braintree did, and took on zo for two
or dree year a’ter, that there was some that thought he’d never ha’ got
over ‘t.”

“Vor shame, Aunt Dally,” said Tabby Mudford; “Meg Braintree never done
you wrong.”

“I don’t know that,” replied Dolly.

“It be true, I ha’ heard mother zay, you cocked your cap at Zaul,
yourself; as you did to many more, though you never could trap any body
to have’ee, aunt; but I never could believe it.”

“The vellow did, once upon a time, look up to me,” said Dolly, lifting
her chin, and curling her thin and slightly-bearded lip; “but I
scorned’un. I wouldn’t ha’ had un if his skin were stuffed wi’ gold.”

“And yet you do blame Meg vor scorning Phil Govier! Vor my part,--I were
a child, to be zure,--but by what I do recollect of’em, I’d rather ha’
had Zaul, wi’out a zhoe to’s, voot, than Philip Govier, if every hair on
the head o’ un were strung wi’ pearls.”

“Don’t talk to me, Tab,” cried her now incensed aunt, flouncing off; “it
don’t become thee. I do zay it ha’ come home to her;--her zon be zent to
the county gaol, vor murdering the man whose heart she a’most broke more
than twenty year agone:--get over that if you can. It ha’ came home to
her, and I’ll bide by it;--wi’ her blue clocked ztockings, and putting
up her chit of a daughter to smirk wi’ the young ‘squire!--I ha’n’t a’
got patience wi’ zuch pride.”

The supervisor, who was going his rounds, and intended to sleep that
night at The Chough and Stump, now rode up, on his sturdy little grey
cob; and before he could alight, some of the loiterers about the porch
had, in part, acquainted him with the cause of their being assembled
round the inn-door. The old man, however, as he said, could make
“neither head nor tail” of what he heard; and hastened, as well as his
infirmities would allow, into the kitchen. The landlord rose on his
appearance, and conducted the spare and paralytic old man, to the
post of honour, in the settle, between his own seat and that of the
exciseman,--a cunning-looking, thick-set, fat, or, to use an expressive
West Country adjective, podgy, little man, between forty and fifty; with
a round, sallow, bloated face, begemmed here and there with groups of
pimply excrescences, resembling the warts that are occasionally seen
on the cheek that is turned to the sun of a wounded pumpkin. One of the
exciseman’s eyes glared at his beholder, dull and void of expression,
while the other was almost concealed beneath its lids;--a circumstance
occasioned by an inveterate habit of winking, all his life, at every
tenth word, with the latter; which operation he was totally unable to
perform with the former.

“Here hath been a sad to-do, sir,” said Gough, addressing the
supervisor, as soon as the latter was comfortably seated; “a sad to-do,
indeed.”

“Ah! so I hear, Gough,--so I hear;--but what is it?--No affray with the
excise, I hope.”

“No--fear of--that, sir,” replied the exciseman, winking, and
puffing the smoke from his lips thrice as he spoke; “we’ve no enemies
here.--I’ll tell you all--about it--sir, when--I have wetted--my lips.”
 He now raised the jug to his mouth, but before he had finished his
draught, little Tailor Mudford, who sat by his side, taking advantage
of the moment, placed his right elbow on his knee, and still keeping his
pipe between his teeth, leaned forward, and bore away the glory of the
announcement from the exciseman, by stating, that Philip Govier, ’Squire
Stapleton’s gamekeeper, had been killed; and young Robert Braintree
committed for trial, as the perpetrator of the crime.

“Robert Braintree! Robert Braintree!” calmly repeated the old man;
“Preserve us from evil! Haven’t I seen him?”

“To be sure you have, sir,” replied Gough; “a tall, straight-limbed
chap, between eighteen and twenty, and as fine a young fellow as ever
stood in shoe-leather. I shouldn’t ha’ thought it of him.”

“I should,” said the exciseman; “a down-looking--”

“Ah! I be zorry vor the lad,” said Mudford, again interrupting the
exciseman, in the brief interval occupied by a puff and a wink; “nobody
could zay harm o’ un, except that his vather made un go out a poaching
wi’ un, and so vorth: but a zung in the choir o’ Zindays; and’ though
he never were asked so to do, often joined in, wi’ the rest o’ th’
neighbours, to reap a little varmer’s bit o’ wheat, or mow a tradesman’s
whoats he ha’ done zo by me, many’s the time, wi’out any thing but
thanks, and a bit o’ dinner and a drop o’ drink, which he never wanted
at home. He’d ha’ been the last I should ha’ zuzpected.”

“But the evidence,” said constable and schoolmaster Abel, “the
circumstantial evidence, doth leave no doubt, either in the mind of me,
or the magistrate, of his guilt.”

“You be d--d, Yeabel!” cried a bluff old fellow in a corner; “Who be
you, I should like to know?--Marry come up, then! times be come to a
vine pass, I trow, when a pig-vaced bit of a constable, two yards
long, and as thin as a hurdle, do zet hi’zelf up cheek-by-jowl wi’
the ‘squire!--Who cares vor thy opinion, dost think?”

“Farmer Salter,” responded Abel, with affected humility; “I am educating
your son and heir:--you are a freeholder, and ha’ got a vote for the
county--”

“I know that well enough, stupid! and zo had my vather avore me, and
so shall my zon a’ter me.--Poor buoay! you ha’ often licked un,
Yeabel:--may be you be right--may be you bean’t; but this I do know,
tho’ I ha’n’t a told un zo, that I do vind, upon casting things over,
whenzoever I do gie you a bit ov a clumzy wipe here, at The Chough
and Stump, over night Jack’s zure and zartin to get breeched in your
school-room the next day: now that be odd, yean’t it, Gough?”

“Farmer Salter,” pursued Abel, as Gough nodded in acquiescence,
and Salter chuckled at what he had said; “I repeat, you are a
freeholder:--you’ve a slip of land between the two ‘squires’ estates,
upon which you and your forefathers ha’ grazed a cow, raised a crop
of wheat, hay and potatoes, to last’ee for the year; and built a small
edifice for yourselves, and a sty for your pigs: you do wear a looped
hat at all times, and, on Sundays, a blue coat, wi’ a red collar and
cuffs, and crown pieces of the reign of King Jacobus, for buttons; a
flowered and flapped waistcoat; leather breeches, wi’ seven-shilling
pieces and silver buckles at the knees; and half a pack o’ cards figured
wi’ colours in each o’ your stockings: you do strut up to church, just
as a ‘squire would, and your father did,--whose finery you ha’ saved for
such service,--half a century ago:--but you know nothing either of law
or good breeding for all that, fanner Salter.”

The freeholder was about to bristle up indignantly when Abel concluded,
but Zachary Tickel, the hereditary herbalist, or, as he
denominated himself, apothecary of the village, whose nick-name was
“Bitter-Aloes,”--and there were few of his neighbours who were not as
well known by some equally appropriate baptismal of the laity,--took him
by the collar, and endeavoured to tranquillize, while he forcibly held
him on his seat:--meantime, the supervisor inquired what had induced the
constable to suspect Robert Braintree of the murder.

“Why, zir,” said Mudford, cutting in, as a coachman would express it,
before Abel and the exciseman, (each of whom intended to reply,) while
the asthmatic constable was cleansing his throat by two or three hems,
and the exciseman was puffing out a magazine of smoke, which, at that
moment, he had drawn into his mouth, to be retailed and divided into a
dozen or twenty whiffs;--“the vact, zir, is this,” said Mudford; “the
body were vound, dead and stiff, this morning, in the copse, t’other
zide o’ the hill;--there was a nail or more of znow on the ground, and
vootsteps ov a dog and a man were traced vrom the body to Braintree’s
cottage:--the dog’s vootsteps were, likely enough, the vootsteps ov
Ponto, a dog belonging to the Braintrees; a zort ov a crossbred pointer,
az ztrong as a bull, and wi’ more zense in his tail-end, as the zaying
is, than many men ha’ got in their whole bodies, head and all.”

“The shoe-marks, permit me to observe,” said Abel, “were decidedly made
by the shoes of Bob Braintree:--I’ve sworn to’t, because I compared’em;
and I apprehended him wi’ those identical shoes on his feet.”

“Now, d’ye hear, volks?--d’ye hear?” exclaimed farmer Salter; “how
Yeabel do belabour us wi’ vine dixonary words? ‘Apprehended,’ and
‘identical,’ quotha!--Why, I should be azhamed to talk zo-vashion.
‘Those identical zhoes!’ zays he;--‘those!’--Bless us, how vine we
be!--‘Those,’ vorsooth!--Why doan’t the vool zay ‘they there zhoes,’
like a man?”

Abel cast a glance of contempt on the freeholder, but did not condescend
to reply. A brief silence ensued, which was broken by the herbalist;
who observed, after throwing himself back in the settle, “Bad bird, bad
egg--that’s all I’ve to zay. I bean’t so compassionate, and all that, as
zome volk. How hath Zaul Braintree ha’ got his living vor eighteen year
past, but by zmuggilin and poaching, and, may be, worse, vor what I
know? Why wen he discharged by ‘Zquire Ztapleton, but vor doing what he
shon not do? Didn’t poor Phil Govier, that’s lying dead, when he wen
under Zaul, detect and prove to the ‘zquire, that instead o’ Zaul’ s
doing his duty, as game-keeper, he were killing hares upon the zly, and
zending’em to market? And when Phil got Zaul’s place, have they ever met
without looking at one another like a couple o’ dogs that was longing
vor a vight, and yet stood off, as though they were aveard to pitch
into one another? What d’ye think Braintree hath instilled into Bob, but
hatred and malice against Govier?”

“You may talk and talk, old Bitter-Aloes,” said Salter; “but vor my
part, though the’zquire believed Govier’s story, and turned away Zaul,
in a way enough to nettle a parson, I didn’t think it quite as it should
be. I ha’ zeen things o’ Phil, what I won’t tell ov, now he’s gone, as I
didn’t while he were alive; but if I had to choose, vor all Phil’s quiet
tongue and humble looks,--which were all zlyness, in my mind,--gi’e me
Zaul, I zay.”

“Well,” quoth Gough, “I say nothing--why should I? But Bob was a good
boy; and though he’d noose a hare, or decoy a vlock o’ wild ducks, or
stalk a covey, I don’t think he’d any harm in him. He’d do what Zaul bid
him, to be zure, but I don’t think Zaul would ever tell him to commit
murder; and if I must speak my mind--I don’t agree wi’ Abel Harris.”

“Abel--I must say,”--muttered the exciseman, “the constable, I
mean;--he--he’s no conjuror.”

“I can’t make out,” growled Salter, “how he came to be made constable,
zeeing az he’s the most uncapable man in the parish. I ha’ zeed un run,
as if’twere vor his life, when he thought nobody were nigh, vrom my
gander!--Poor Jack! thoult zuffer, may be, vor this to-morrow;--but I
can’t help speaking the truth. Yeabel, doan’t thee baste un, or dang me
if I doan’t drash thee!”

“There is one thing,” remarked a spare, but hale-looking man, who sat
next the herbalist, “one thing, or, may be, a thing or two, I’ll make
bold to observe, which is, namely, this:--though Zaul Braintree were
never over and above vriendly to I--that be nothing--the man’s a
man--and I do zay, the’zquire were a bit too hard upon Zaul, to turn
un off wi out more nor an hour’s notice, and not gi’e un a good
character:--and what vor, I wonder?--Because this here Phil Govier, a
demure, down-looking twoad, zaid a’ poached a bit! A’ter this, what were
Zaul to do? Wi’out a character, he couldn’t get a zarvice, and a poor
man bean’t to starve: zo a’ poached, and that in downright earnest;--and
it ztrikes I, no blame to un neither.”

“Oh! fie! fie!” exclaimed the supervisor; “you should not preach so,
friend; the practice of poaching is highly illegal.”

“Highly illegal,--indeed,--John,--that is,--James Cobb,” said the
exciseman, in his usual manner; “we must not hear--this sort of
a--thing; must we,--constable?”

“Why, it bean’t treason, master exciseman, be it?” asked a tall old
fellow, who stood at the end of the settle.

“Do you hear--that?” said the exciseman, turning to his superior; “do
you hear that?--and he an earth-stopper,--and gets his bread by--the
game laws.”

The supervisor looked aside toward the bottom of the narrow table, and
while the ensuing conversation went on, took a deliberate view of
the earth-stopper’s person, apparel, and accoutrements. He was a
squalid-looking figure, with half a week’s growth of grey beard on his
chin and cheeks; the edge of a red woollen night-cap, which he wore
under a weather-beaten dog’s-hair hat, was strained across his pale,
wrinkled brow; his legs were thin, puny, and bent outward in such a
manner, that they seemed to have been moulded on the carcase of a horse.

“Well,” quoth the earth-stopper, in reply to the exciseman’s
observation, shouldering his pick-axe and shovel, and lighting the
candle in his lanthorn, as he spoke; “I zuppose a man may move his
tongue, if a’ be a yearth-stopper,--or else what be the use o’t to
un?--I were one o’ the virst to lay hands on young Braintree, and always
ha’ ztood vorward on zuch like ‘casions; but what o’ that? I’d help to
take up thee, or thy betters by the zide o’ thee there, if thee wert
zuzpected and accused; but vor all that, I’d speak up my own mind, and
zay, I thought thee wert innocent, iv zo be as I did think thee zo--mind
me:--and now you ha’ put me up, I’ll go vurther, and ask ‘ee, what
business had Phil Govier a’ got in the copse that time o’ night?”

“Ay, that’s true,” observed the landlord; “for it be well known the
‘squire’s strict orders was, that the keepers shouldn’t go out o’
nights. ‘Let the poachers have a little o’ their own way,’ I have a
heard un say;--‘I’d rather lose a few head o’ game, than ha’ blood shed
upon the manor; and meetings by night, betwixt poachers and keepers,
often do end worse than either one or t’other a’ looked for.’”

“It’s true az I be here zitting,” said Mudford; “that the gamekeeper,--I
mean Phil Govier, of course,--had a’ got a hare in one pocket, and a
cock pheasant in t’other;--I zeed’em myself.”

“Come, come;--no ill o’ the dead, pr’ythee, now,” quoth the herbalist.

“No ill o’ the dead!” cried the man who sat next to him; “I do zay yea,
iv it be truth; and moorauver, in my mind, it be better to zay vorty
_lies_, even, of them that be gone, than to tell one that may do harm to
them that be living. Them wer’n’t the virst Phil pocketed, by night or
by day, vor his own profit, as I do think.’T’ant clear to I, that a’
didn’t play voul wi’ Zaul, long ago;--I wouldn’t lie down upon my back
and zwear that a’ didn’t kill the game what he ‘cuzed Zaul o’ poaching,
and zo got Braintree out of his place, and popped into’t hi’zelf.”

“This is going too far, landlord,” said the supervisor.

“Do ‘ee think so, sir?” asked Gough, with a knowing look, accompanied by
a shake of the head, which finished in an acquiescent nod to the man who
sat next the herbalist.

Mudford asked the constable if Saul had seen his son after the committal
of the latter. Abel replied, that an interview had been permitted by
the magistrate, just previously to Robert’s removal; “which interview,”
 added he, “took place in the presence of myself and colleague.”

“And what did ‘em zay?” eagerly inquired three or four of the persons
present.

The constable replied, that it would be highly improper for him to
divulge all that took place, even if he were capable of so doing; but
there was much that he did not hear, and more that he had forgotten. One
part of the brief dialogue he perfectly well remembered:--after having
whispered for a short time, the youth said aloud, “But I be innocent,
vather; you be zure I be.”--“Well, well!” replied Braintree, in a low,
but nevertheless, audible tone; “zuppose things should go against thee,
wou’lt thee die like a man, Bob?”--“I doan’t know, vather,--I be but a
boy! I’ll try, iv it do come to that; I hope it won’t, though; vor I be
aveard I can’t bear it--I can’t, truly, vather.”

“Zo, thee dost call thyself a buoy, dost?” said Saul; “a vellow here
within a head as high as I be, and gone eighteen these zix weeks!”

“You always tells me I be but a boy.”

“Well, and zo I do--thee’rt _my_ boy; but a boy to nobody else. But I
zay, Bob, woul’t thee mind now, and speak up to the lord judge just what
I told thee?”

“Yeas, doan’t be aveard.”

“Ah! but woul’t tell’t cool and zober-vashion, Bob?”

“Never you vear,” replied Robert;--“bless’ee, I shall tell’t out to un,
just as iv I were telling out zixpenn’orth o’ ha’pence.”

“And Bob--” But here Braintree’s voice subsided into a whisper again,
and Abel heard no more of that part of the conversation.

The parties in The Chough and Stump kitchen now ceased the regular sort
of discussion which had hitherto been supported, and talked in couples.
The earth-stopper and Abel Harris, by their looks and gestures, seemed
to be maintaining a warm debate; the herbalist crossed over and took
a place next the supervisor, which tailor Mudford relinquished in his
favour, and sat down by the side of farmer Salter. So many persons
speaking together, had not, for some time, been heard in The Chough and
Stump; but though his customers made a great noise, as Gough observed
to the exciseman, they drank but little. This was, indeed, the case; for
the interest created by the subject of their discourse, made them almost
forget their cups. Each of the speakers grew louder in his tone, in
order to make himself heard and understood, amid the “hubbub,” by his
listening neighbour; and thus the general noise was increased to such a
degree, that the exciseman had already taken up his empty mug to strike
the table, and call “order,” when, in an instant, every tongue was
motionless, and every eye turned toward the door. A man, on the autumnal
side of the prime of life, exceeding the middle stature, with rather
handsome features, had just entered. He was dressed in a round, grey,
frock coat, a deer-skin waistcoat, corduroy smallclothes, and jean
gaiters. His frame was athletic, but by no means clumsy; he looked
calmly about him, or, perhaps, rather affected to do so; for, as the
herbalist afterwards remarked, his lips appeared as if they had
just been blanched with boiling water. A very large, stout-built,
liver-coloured dog, stood before him, wagging his tail, and looking up
in his master’s face, as the latter remained, for a moment, motionless,
and with his eyes seeking for a vacant place on the settle. Every seat
had its tenant, and no one moved for the newly-arrived guest, or spoke
either to him or to any other person present.

“Why, volks! you do all zeem dazed ov a zudden!” said the man,
ironically; and then immediately assuming an angry expression of
countenance, he turned to the landlady, who had just entered the
kitchen, and, in a sharp, surly tone, called for “a pint o’ drink.”

“I ha’ been trying to squeeze room for thee, Zaul,” said the landlord,
addressing his new guest; “but I can’t.”

“Don’t trouble thyself, Gough,” said farmer Salter, from the opposite
side of the settle; “I be vor home, and Braintree can take my corner in
a minute.”

“Thankye, master Zalter,” replied Saul; “but Abel Harris ha’ just
stepped out, and, may be, won’t come back; zo I’ll zit down in his
place; and iv a’ do return, 1 can but gie’t up to un again; and by that
time, you can vinish your pipe wi’ comfort” So saying, Braintree
took possession of a nook in the settle, which Abel had quitted, in
consequence of the landlady having beckoned him out, while Gough was
speaking to Saul. Two or three of the guests attempted to strike out new
subjects for conversation, but their efforts were ineffectual; and when
Dame Gough came in, with Saul’s ale, she found her customers, who had
lately been so clamorous, silent as statues. Braintree lifted the cup
to his lips, but immediately placed it on the table again, without
swallowing a spoonful.

“Why, what’s the matter, Zaul?” said Gough; “have a mad dog bit’ee, that
you do gasp and heave at the liquor so?”

“There were a bit o’ hop got in my mouth,” replied Saul; “and your yeale
bean’t zo good to-night, I think, as’twere;--han’t it got a strawberry
smack?”

“No, no, Zaul; your mouth be out o’ taste wi’ trouble,--that be
it;--there’s no fault in the ale. You do want comfort in a closer
compass; and if you’ll ha’a drop o’ Hollands, my wife will give’ee some
and welcome. Though I don’t sell spirits, I can’t help Dame Gough’s
keeping a bottle in her bureau;--it stops her tooth-ache.”

“You be cruel good, master Gough,” replied Saul; “and I do thank’ee
vor’t; but I don’t like to drink in a public-house, wi’out paying my
penny for a landlord’s penn’orth.”

“Oh! that be folly,” said Gough; “but come; gi’e me your pint o’
drink, and I’ll treat you wi’ a glass o’ Hollands.--Dame, bring in a
thimble-full.”

Dame Gough bustled out, and soon returned with a small old-fashioned
tea-cup, full of the liquor. Saul took the cup, and so far forgot his
manners, as to swallow the spirits it contained, without a word, or even
a nod, to Gough, or any of his guests. A dead silence succeeded.

“Sharpish weather vor the young wheats,” at length observed Salter.

“Main and sharp!” was the reply of the herbalist; and another pause took
place.

“I ha’n’t a’ zeed Jacob Wall lately;” was the next observation made:
it came from the lips of tailor Mudford, but no one honoured it with a
reply.

Braintree now began to feel that he was in an unpleasant situation; and
guessing on what subject the minds of those about him were brooding, he
observed, with a sigh, “A bad job this, o’ mine, neighbours!”

“Bad, indeed, Braintree!” replied Gough; “but I hope your son may get
over it!”

“Hope, did’ee zay, landlord? why, d’ye think there be any vear on’t,
then?”

“Excuse me, friend,” observed the supervisor; “I am a stranger to
you; but, in my opinion, that is,--speaking candidly,--I’m sorry to
say--remember I’ve no ill-will toward your son--nor, understand me, do
I wish to bear on a bruised reed; but its folly to buoy a man up with
false hopes;--the case is, if what I’ve heard be true, most decisive
against the young man.”

“And what have’ee heard, old gentleman?--what have’ee heard, zir?”

“That, Saul,”--said the exciseman, “that, it is--needless to
repeat;--but the shoe-marks,--Saul--”

“Well, and what o’ them?” interrupted Braintree; “mightn’t my zon ha’
gone that way avore Govier were killed? or mightn’t he ha’ vound un
dead, and come whoam straight, intending to tell the news az zoon az he
axed I how a’ should act?”

“True, Zaul, true,” replied Salter, who had not yet departed; “it do
zeem ztrange that no vootsteps were vound in the snow ‘proaching towards
the zpot.”

“I can easily account for that, I think,” said the supervisor, with a
smile of self-complacency: “the snow--”

“But hark to this,” cried Saul, again interrupting the old man; “hark
to this:--how be we to know, that they what zaid they vound the body
wer’n’t the criminals, eh?”

“Lord bless us and zave us, Zaul!” exclaimed the little tailor, starting
up; “Bless us, Zaul! why, ‘twere I, good now, what raised the hue and
cry. I were coming vrom varmer Butt’s, vive mile off, where I a’ been
dree days at work, making a coat; I’d a’ started avore ‘twere day, zo
as to get to work about Jack Blake’s new suit, what he’s a going to
be married in o’ Zinday;--and zharp doings it will be to vinish it
as’tis:--zo I took the path through the copse, because it zaves a mile,
you do know; and anan, my little dog, rin into the hazels and back again
in a minute, barking as iv he’d a’ zeen a ghost I were a bit vrightened,
you may judge, vor I’d a’ got my zilver watch, and half-a-crown, (my
dree days’ wages,) wi’ ten shillings bezides, what the varmer had paid
me vor a pig he bought o’ me last Zinday vort-night, when he comed over
to church. Well, and anan, my little dog, rin into the copse again, and
come back growling worse nor avore. Thirdly and lastly, I patted the
back o’ un, and away he rin again, and when he overtook me,--d’ye
mind?--by the light’o the moon, I zeed there were blood upon the nose
o’ un!--Wi’ that, I and the dog rin vit to break our necks,'till we
got whoam. Zo then I raised the hue and cry, and Phil’s body were
vound:--but I had no more hand in the death o’ un than you, Zaul. I can
handle a reap-hook, or a needle, wi’ one here and there, but I never
vired a gun off in my life--wish I may die if I did!”

“Well, well, Mudford,” said Braintree, advancing toward the tailor; “I
didn’t know ‘twere thee; gi’e us thy hand;--there--we be vriends, bean’t
us?”

“I do hope zo, Zaul Braintree,” replied the still terrified tailor; “but
you shouldn’t--”

“There, do’ee hold your tongue and zit down,” interrupted Saul: “I were
wrong; but,--d’ye mind?--Bob be my zon; and if counzel can zave un, he
sha’n’t lack; vor I’ll zell my zhirt to zee un righted.”

Braintree had scarcely reached his seat again, when constable Abel,
pale, almost breathless looking very important, and bearing his staff of
office in his hand, strode into the kitchen, and immediately laid hands
on Saul. “Braintree, thou’rt my prisoner,” said he; “aid and assist, if
need be--every body--but especially you,--earth-stopper,--in the King’s
name.”

Saul was paralysed; he stared vacantly at Abel, and before he could
recover his self-possession, the dexterous constable had handcuffed, and
almost completed the task of tying his right wrist to the left arm of
the earth-stopper.

“Thy prisoner, Yeabel!” at length uttered Braintree; “thou bee’st
joking, zure!--Dowl ha’ me if I can make out--”

“You’ll make it out well enough by-and-by, Saul,” interrupted Abel, as
he pursued his task of knitting the earth-stopper fast to Saul; “I ha’
been sent for by the ‘squire, and I’ve got his warrant. Master Cockle,
of The New Inn, churchwarden of the present year, ha’ been making
inquiries; and things ha come out, Saul, that do look black against
thee.”

“What be’em, Yeabel?--What be’em, pr’ythee?”

“Why, _imprimis_,” replied the constable, pompously, “it is well known,
Ponto never followed anybody but thee--nothing could make him do so; and
he and Bob never were friends. Surgeon Castle saith, that the shot went
horizontally into Phil Govier’s forehead; and as he was not above five
feet six, the gun that killed him must have been fired from the shoulder
of a man as tall as you be:--if Bob had done it, seeing that he’s
shorter than Phil were, the shot would ha’ gone almost upward; but,
no, they didn’t:--lastly, and most formidably, Saul, as the magistrate
saith, the marks in the snow were printed there, by shoes made
right-and-left fashion; and the right-foot shoe being marked o’ the
left-foot side, and the left o’ t’other,--it don’t seem likely they
could ha’ been worn by the feet they were made for.--So now you do know
what you’ve a’ got to answer, come along quietly.” In a few minutes
The Chough and Stump kitchen was utterly deserted; even Gough himself
followed his customers, who, without exception, accompanied the
constable and his prisoner, to Stapleton Hall, the magistrate’s
residence. After a brief examination, Saul was ushered into an
apartment, three stories above the ground floor, called “The
Wainscot-room;”--which, on account of its peculiar situation and
construction, although it had once been used for better purposes, was
then appropriated to the reception of those who happened to be under
the ban of the law, previously to their discharge, on finding “good and
sufficient mampernors” for their appearance at the ensuing assizes or
sessions, or their removal to the county gaol, according to the nature
of the offence. For the honour of the village it is proper to remark,
that “The Wainscot-room” was but seldom occupied. It was there Saul had,
only an hour before, taken leave of Robert, who was now far on his
road to an accused felon’s cell. Braintree had just been told by the
magistrate that, early on the ensuing morning, he must follow his son;
but he suffered a strong rope to be fastened round his waist, by a
slip-knot, and tied to an iron bar in the chimney, not only without
murmuring or resisting, but actually joking with those who performed the
operation. Although Mr. Stapleton considered that it was impossible
for the prisoner to escape from his temporary prison, yet for better
security, on account of the crime with which Saul was charged, he
ordered the constable to keep watch, either in, or at the door of the
room, during the night.

Before the earth-stopper quitted “The Wainscot-room” to go on his
solitary task, Saul had made him promise to acquaint Martin Stapleton,
the ‘squire’s only son, that he, Braintree, earnestly desired to see the
young gentleman, before he went to bed. The old man so well performed
his promise, and urged Braintree’s request to young Stapleton with such
warmth, that in less than an hour Martin entered the room.

“Abel,” said he to the constable, as he came in, “you may go down
stairs; I’ll remain with Braintree while you get something for supper.”

Abel, “nothing loath,” tripped down to the hall, and Martin, who was
a fine young man, just verging on manhood, walked up, with a sorrowful
countenance and a heart full of grief, toward the man, under whose
humble roof he had passed some of his happiest hours. Martin’s mother
died in giving him birth, and Saul’s wife had been his nurse. Although
disgraced by ‘Squire Stapleton, Saul Braintree had ever been a favourite
companion of young Martin, not only on account of his intimate
acquaintance with those sports in which Martin delighted, but because
Saul had always testified a fondness for him from his boyhood upward;
and, besides these attractions, the poacher’s cottage contained a
magnet, in the person of his pretty daughter, Peggy, which often drew
Martin beneath its roof, when his father thought he was otherwise
occupied.

“Well, Master Martin,” said Saul, as the young ‘squire approached; “here
you be at last! I were vool enow to think, I shouldn’t ha’ been here
vive minutes avore you’d ha’ come, if it were only to zay ‘How are’ee,
Zaul?’--But there, why should I grumble? Hit a deer in the shoulder,
and then put the dogs on his scent, and what will the herd do?--Why, vly
vrom un, to be zure, and no vools, neither;--but come, vine preaching
doant cure corns:--virst and voremost--will’ee get me a drop o’ brandy,
Master Martin?--I be zo low az the grave, az you may guess; get me a
thimble-vull, and then we’ll talk a bit.”

“I have brought my shooting-flask, Saul,” replied Martin; “there is not
much left in it.”

“Ah! this be kind!--this be good of ‘ee, Master Martin. What, you thought
how it would be with me? You knowed me long enow, to be zure that I
should want summat to cheer me up, did ‘ee? Never mind the cork, Master
Martin,” continued Saul, as Martin, with a trembling hand, fruitlessly
endeavoured to extract the cork; “put it betwixt my teeth, and pull;
I’ll warrant I do hould vast enow; or knock off the neck o’ un against
my handcuffs. What, it bean’t your leather vlask, be it? Odd! cut un
open wi’ a knife.--I be a choaking for it, Master Martin;--I be, truly.”

By this time, Martin had pulled out part of the cork, and thrust the
remainder of it through the neck. He handed the flask to Saul, who
gulped down one half of its contents in a few seconds.

“There is not enough to divide,” observed Martin, “you may as well
finish it.”

“No, thank’ee, Master Martin,” replied Braintree, returning the flask;
“you’ll want a drop for yourself, presently.”

“I, Saul!”

“Ay! you, Martin!--Look thee, lad,--there be times when the best ov us
would be glad ov it Brandy be a God-send; but we don’t use it--that is,
zuch as I be, doan’t--as we should. There be times, I tell’ee, when it
be needed.”

“That’s true enough,” said Martin, endeavouring to force a smile; “I
have often been glad of it, after a three hours’ tramp through the
stubble and turnips, on a cold day, under a heavy double-barrelled gun,
with a belt brimful of shot, and no birds in my pocket.”

“That were for thy body, lad; but thoult want it, anan, for thy soul.
I be gwain to vright--to terrify thee!--Thou’st a tightish heart, and
thou’st need ov it now. Mind me, Martin, I bean’t romancing. It ha’ been
smooth roads and no turnpikes wi’ thee all thy life; there’s a bit o’
rough coming, thee doesn’t dream of.”

“Good God! Braintree! your manner alarms me!--What do you mean?”

“Martin!--I zuppoze thee thinks, I ought to be obliged to thee, vor
coming to me;--vor bringing a man accused as I be, brandy,--but I
bean’t. If thee hadst not a’ come, I’d ha’ brought thee, though a waggon
and zix horses were pulling thee t’other way. There’s my hand; I ha’
put it to thee through a hole in the window at whoam, a’ter thou’st a’
wished me good night, and the door were vast;--I do put it out to thee
now through a velon’s wristband--wou’st take it?”

“Excuse me, Braintree!--I would do all I could;--I have even gone beyond
the line that a sense of propriety dictates: but you must not take such
advantage of the familiarity which commenced when I was a child, and has
since, through peculiar circumstances, continued;--you must not, I say,
presume upon that, to ask me, to shake hands with a man--”

“Accused ov murder! that’s what thee means, yean’t it?” asked Saul; and
his brows were knit, and his lips slightly quivered, as he spoke. Martin
stood silent.

“Then I’ll tell thee what, lad,” pursued Saul, vehemently; “that stomach
o’ thine shall come down:--I’ll _make_ thee!”

“Braintree,” said the young man seriously, but in considerable
agitation; “what do you mean by this?--Are you mad?”

“Noa, noa;--not yet, not yet;--but handy to it--Not mad!” exclaimed
Saul, striking the iron, which bound his wrists, against his head; “but
don’t trouble about I, lad; look to thy own wits, young chap.”

“Really, Saul, I cannot put up with a continuance of this:--you are not
drunk; I know it by your manner. I have never seen you thus before. I
pity you; and pray to God, that you may obtain a deliverance, by the
verdict of a jury.”

“I’ll never be tried!” exclaimed Saul in a loud whisper.--“I’ll never be
tried! Zaul Braintree ha’n’t kept his wits brooding all these years,
to be caught like a quail, and ha’ his neck twisted! No, no; they ha’
brought me to the wrong gaol for that; it’s like putting a rat in a
fishing-net.”

“I don’t think, Saul, there is any probability of your escaping,” said
young Stapleton; “and I advise you not to make the attempt.”

“Don’t talk to I.--Ha’n’t I, when you was a buoy, no bigger round than
my thigh,--ha’n’t I heard you read, when you zat a-top o’ my knee,
about the mouse gnawing the lion out o’ the znare:--han’t I?--Ah! you do
recollect, do’ee?”

“I do, I do, too well, Saul,” replied Martin, as a tear trickled down
his cheek; “and I am sorry--I am grieved--I feel more than you can
imagine to see you here. But what has the fable to do with you?”

“Every thing--I shall get out--strength can’t do it for me, but--”

“Saul Braintree, I now see what you are driving at,” said Martin; “but
do not flatter yourself with so vain a hope. You are accused of a crime,
of which, I hope--nay, I think--you will prove yourself guiltless:
but though I am but young, I feel that I ought not, dare not, cannot
interfere between you and the laws of your country. My father--”

“Now, doan’t’ee preach; doan’t’ee make a zimpleton o’ your-zelf, I
tell’ee:--but, can any body hear us?--be the constable nigh?” eagerly
inquired Saul, dropping his voice to a low tone.

“No,” said Martin, “you may be sure of that; or I would not have
remained, thus long, exposed to the madness or insolence of your
remarks;--I know not which to call it.”

“Why, thou jackanapes!” said Saul, sneeringly, though his eye, at
the same time, glared with an expression of the utmost fury on
young Stapleton; “thou young jackanapes! dost thee tell I about
insolence?--Thee shalt down on thy knees for this.”

“Braintree, good night,” said Martin, moving toward the door: “I did not
expect this conduct.”

“What, thee’rt gwain to leave me, then? Zurely, thee bean’t in earnest?”
 Martin had, by this time, reached the door, and was evidently
determined on quitting the room. The prisoner, perceiving his intention,
immediately assumed a tone of supplication. “Now, doan’t thee go, Master
Stapleton,” said he; “doan’t thee!--do come back--do hear me, if it be
but vor a minute. I were wrong, I were, indeed. Doan’t thee leave
me yet--doan’t thee--doan’t thee--doan’t thee! Come back, Master
Martin;--on my knees I do but of thee:--do come back--for Peggy’s zake.”

Martin withdrew his hand from the door and returned. “Saul,” said he, as
he approached, “I never felt till now, the truth of what you have often
told me, namely,--that if I encouraged an affection for your daughter, I
should rue it. I _do_ now, most bitterly. Poor--poor Peggy!”

“Ah! poor girl!--Come nearer, Master Martin--poor Peggy!”

“Now, Saul, I’ll hear you for one minute only; and this must--this shall
be our last interview--unless--”

“Vor one minute, didst say?” exclaimed Saul triumphantly, as he clutched
the wrist of Martin in his powerful grasp; “thou shalt hear me vor
an hour;--thou sha’ not quit me, till thou and I do leave this place,
hand-in-hand, together. Ah! thou mayst struggle; but thou knowest the
old zaying, ‘A Braintree’s grip is as zafe as a zmith’s vice--if thee
wast a horse I’d hold thee.”

“Scoundrel! villain!” exclaimed Martin, endeavouring, with all his
might, to release himself; “let go your hold, or I’ll--”

“Ah! do--hit me now, do--now I ha’ got the handcuffs on; any child might
gi’e Zaul Braintree a zlap o’ the face now. Hit me--why doan’t ‘ee,--wi’
your t’other hand? There’s no danger o’ my drashing’ee vor’t Hit
me--doan’t’ee unclench your vist--here’s my head--hit me, Master
Martin.”

“For heaven’s sake, Saul!” exclaimed young Stapleton, “if you ever
esteemed me, let me go!--If you do not, I must alarm the house.”

“Oh! if you did, Martin!” replied Saul, “you’d ruin us both. I wouldn’t
have’ee do so, vor the hope I’ve a’ got of living a week over the next
zpring assize. If you did ‘larm the house, Martin, you’d drop from a
young ‘zquire into a poacher’s zon, and hang your own vather to boot.”

“Hang my father!”

“Ah! doan’t’ee look round the room that vashion:--you be zure there be
no one listening?”

“Positive!”

“Then turn your eyes here, lad:--Meg Braintree was more than your
nurse.--She’s your own mother!--Now I’ll let go thy wrist; for I’ve got
a grip at thy heart. There, thee bee’st vree! Why doesn’t go?--I doan’t
hold thee: go, if thee canst.”

“Saul, you surely are not in your senses!”

“May be I bean’t, for trouble turns a man’s brain;--but you be,
bean’t’ee? You can’t ha’ vorgot how often I ha’ pushed Bob off my knee
to put you upon it. Why did I do so?--‘cause thee wert my zon, and he
were’Zquire Ztapleton’s.--Haven’t I hugged thee up to my breast, until
thee’st a’ squalled wi’ the squeeze, when nobody was by?--I’d a grudge
against the’zquire;--why, thee know’st well enough;--zo I made Meg,
who nursed’ee both, change buoy for buoy. I thought to ha’ made a vine
vellow o’ my zon at the’zquire’s expence, little thinking I should ever
want un to zave my life. I thought, when you was a man, to ha’ comed
up to’ee and zaid, ‘Zquire, I be your vather,--zo and zo were the
case,--make me comvortable, or I’ll be a tell-tale.’ That were
my project; to zay nothing of having a bit of revenge upon
the’zquire!--Lord, Lord! how I ha’ chuckled to myzelf thinking on’t Can
any man zay I ever used Bob like my own zon? Answer me that. D--n un!
I always hated un, vor his vather’s zake: though the lad’s a good lad,
and, if he were mine, I should love un;--and I do, zometimes, I dunno’
why:--but I ha; drashed un,--and while I were drashing un, I’ve a’most
thought, I were drashing the vather o’ un. But I ha’ done un a good turn
when he didn’t know it. I ha’ kissed un when he were asleep,--a’most
upon the zly, like, even to myzelf. And when he broke his leg, I tended
upon un, as you do know; and he’s a’ loved me zo, ever zince, that I ha’
scores and scores o’ times been zorry for it; for I do hate un because
he’s the zon of his vather:--but what be the matter wi’ ‘ee? What’s
amiss? Why d’ye stare and glower zo?”

“Saul Braintree,” said Martin, “whether your words are true or not--and
what you mention, I have observed--you have made me the most
wretched being on earth; for whatever comes to pass, I must still
suspect--Margaret, my heart tells me, may be--Oh! that horrid _may_,
which is worse than certainty--may be--nay, I cannot pronounce it! Oh!
Saul! if I could but believe you--if I could but make up my mind, even
to the worst, it would be a comfort.”

“Martin Braintree,--for that be your name,” said Saul, “didn’t I warn’ee
about Peggy? Didn’t I--when I saw you were getting vond of her--didn’t I
try to offend’ee, zo az to keep’ee from coming to our cottage? Didn’t I
insult’ee?--but you wouldn’t take it.”

“You did, Saul, grossly insult me; but my love,--perhaps, my accursed
love,--made me overlook it What a gulph of horror is opened before me!
Peggy my sister! and you--you my father!--It cannot--it is not so, Saul.
Unsay what you have said, and I will save you.”

“I won’t unsay it; it’s out now, and I can’t help it. If thou still
doubt’st, Martin, go down and ask my wife--ask Meg; if thou still
doubt’st, lad,--ask thy own heart--young as thee bee’st--if a vather
could let a zon be hung for a crime of which thic zon bean’t guilty!”

“And is Robert innocent, then?”

“Ay, lad, as thou art”

“But you--surely, you--”

“Take a drop of brandy, and I’ll tell thee all, buoy: thee’rt my own
vlesh and blood, and I’ll talk to thee as I would to my own heart. Now,
do ‘ee take the flask; halve it, and gi’e me the rest;--or take it all,
if thee dost veel qualmish.--I be zad enough, but don’t stint thyself,
Martin.”

The youth swallowed a mouthful of the liquor, and returned it to Saul,
who, after draining the contents, resumed the conversation. “Martin,”
 said he, “Robert, poor lad, is az innocent az a lamb; and I know it.”

“And will you--can you, then, permit him to--”

“Hold thy tongue, buoy, and let me speak. Rob is innocent, but he’s
James Ztapleton’s zon; and if I were to take his head out of the halter,
and put my own into it, it wouldn’t be many miles off self-murder. Rob
is innocent; for he never harmed a worm, except I made un do’t; and he
can go up to his God without a blush:--I can’t--may be, he couldn’t, if
he came to my years; for there’s no one do know what may happen to the
best ov us. I be zure I little thought, a score of years ago, when I
were tip-top man here, and had az good a character az any body in the
country, and there wer’n’t a bad wish against mortal in my heart, that
I should ever be tied up here, where I be, accused of any crime
whatzoever--much less murder: but you zee I be; and there’s no knowing,
as I zaid avore, what any ov us may come to. Bob’s zure of peace
hereafter; and it be well vor un. I’d be hung willingly, to-morrow, if I
were in the like case; but I bean’t. Oh! Martin, my buoy! I ha’ much to
answer vor. I be brave, people zays, and zo I be; but there bean’t a
man within a days’ ride, zo aveard of death as I be; and I’ll tell’ee
why:--it’s because I ha’ been zuch a viend--zuch a wretch, ov late
years.--I wouldn’t die vor all the world. I do want time vor repentance!
and I must ha’ it at any price!--Therefore, Bob must die vor me;--and,
may be, I does un a good turn; at least, I do think zo,--by zending un
to his grave avore he hath had temptation to be zinful.”

“Your doctrine is most atrocious!” exclaimed Martin. “Oh! why--why was I
reserved for this? From what you say, Saul, I fear--”

“That I killed Phil Govier?”

“I hope not!”

“Hoping’s no good:--he hit I over the head with the butt-end of his
gun;--zee, here’s the mark;--and when I came to myzelf, he was gwain to
do’t again; zo I ztepped back three paces, lifted my piece, and blew out
his brains--bang!--Ay, Martin, it were your vather did it; and ‘Zquire
Ztapleton’s zon must zuffer vor it I thought I had managed capitally;
but things ha’ come out I didn’t dream of. Iv I be tried, I may be vound
guilty, and that won’t do. Bob’s zure to zuffer, poor lad!--But I must
not be tried.”

“But how do you make it appear that Robert is guiltless, when the proofs
are so strong against him?”

“Ah! that be my deepness! I hope I zhall be pardoned vor’t. Ill tell’ee
just how ‘twere. Bob were getting to bed, and he knowed I were gwain
through the village, up the hill, toward the copse t’other zide o’ the
Nine Acres:--I’d a’ promised a brace o’ pheasants to Long Tom, the mail
coachman, the day bevore,--he’d got an order vor’em,--and in the copse
I were zure o’ vinding’em, but nowhere else: zo Bob zays to I, ‘Vather,’
zays he, ‘I wish you’d take my t’other pair o’ zhoes and leave’em at
Dick Blake’s, as you do go along, and get he to heel-tap’em for me.’ Zo,
I zaid I would; and zure enough, I took’em; but Dick were a-bed when I
come by, and I went on, with the zhoes in my pocket, to the copse. When
I got there, I looked about, and Ponto,--you know Ponto--he’ll point
up--ay, if’twere a-top of a elm, as well as under his nose in a
stubble,--Ponto stood; and just above my head, on the lowest branch of
a beech, there were perched a cock pheasant wi’ two hens,--one o’ each
zide o’ un--all dree within reach. I hit the cock and one o’ the hens
down wi’ the barrel o’ my gun, and just as I were pouching’em, up come
the keeper. Phil and I, as every one knows, hadn’t been good vriends vor
twenty long years. Zummat occurred betwixt us, and Phil was zoon on
the ground under me. I wasn’t as cool as I should be over a rasher of
bacon--you may guess; but up he got again, and laid the butt-end of his
piece over my head. I were stunned for a second, but when I came to,
he’d a’ got his gun by the muzzle, wi’ the butt up over his head, and
aiming at me again. If he’d a hit me, I shouldn’t ha’ been talking
to you here now; zo I ztepped back, and to zave my own life, did as I
told’ee. When I zeed un draw up his legs, and then quiver all over just
avore a’ died, all the blood in my body were turned into cold water. I
thought I should ha’ shivered to death; and there I stood, staring at
Phil, where a’ laid, as if I were ‘mazed!--Just avore this, it begun to
znow, and while I were looking at Phil, it thickened zo, that I were
a’most zole-deep in it; zo then I begun to cast about how I should act,
to zave myzelf vrom zuspicion. While I were thinking, the znow stopped
vailing; and, thinks I, they’ll vind out who ‘twere by the vootmarks;
and if there were no vootmarks to zuspect any one else, they’d
guess ‘twere I, vor vifty reasons: zo I took Bob’s zhoes out o’ my
pocket, put mine in their place, squeezed my veet into the lad’s zhoes
as well as I could, walked straight whoam, and went to bed without a
zoul hearing me. I were wicked enough to put Bob’s zhoes close under
his bed avore I went to my own; but I hope even that will be vorgiven
me:--zo Bob were taken up, and most likely will be vound guilty, upon
the evidence o’ the zhoes. But vor vear of accidents, Martin, you must
contrive to let me out; vor I won’t be tried, d’ye mind? therefore,
you must manage zo as I may ‘scape, lad; and once out, I’ll war’nt they
doan’t catch I again.”

Martin Stapleton stood, with his eyes earnestly fixed on Saul, for
nearly a minute after the latter had finished his story of the death of
Philip Govier; his faculties were benumbed by what he had heard; and he
probably would have remained much longer motionless and speechless, had
not Saul seized him with both hands, and given him two or three violent
shakes. “Come, come,” said he, “doan’t go to sleep like a horse,
standing up!--This bean’t a time for dozing!--Odd! if I’d a’ got poor
Bob here, I should ha’ been vree half an hour ago. He’d ha’ zet vire to
the house, and come and ha’ pulled me out o’ the vlames, by this time,
if he couldn’t gi’e me my liberty any other way.”

“And yet, _you_, Saul,” said Martin reproachfully, “you scruple not to
sacrifice him to save yourself.”

“What be that to thee?--He’d do as I tell’ee, because I be his
vather--that is, he thinks zo. I ha’ done what I did do, because he
yean’t my zon;--but _thee_ bee’st, Martin--_thee_ bee’st--and thee
knows it;--thy heart tells thee I ha’n’t been lying to thee:--thee’rt my
zon,--and I do expect that thou’lt do thy duty; thou canst do’t, and no
harm come to thee. Bob would risk all vor me, though I ha’n’t been the
best o’ vathers to un.”

“What would you have me do?” asked Martin, rather petulantly. “How shall
I act?--What do you wish of me?”

“Just to let I get t’other zide o’ these walls,” replied Saul; “I doan’t
care how;--I leave that to you;--choose your own way; it doan’t much
matter to I,--doan’t’ee zee?--zo as I gets out Why, you’d a’ married
Peggy, if zo be as I’d ha’ let’ee--wouldn’t ‘ee, now?--in spite ov old
Ztapleton, and the whole vlock of your ztiff-backed aunts--wouldn’t’ee,
now? answer me that!”

“I should--I should:--but mention it no more; you make my blood curdle.”

“Well, then,” pursued Saul, heedless of the passionate request of
Martin; “you zee, I’d no vear ov your seducing the girl; and you
can’t think I should ha’ put up a gate against my daughter’s being a
young’zquire’s wife--if that young’zquire weren’t what he were.”

“Talk to me no more on this subject:--I will--I do believe all you
have said; only, I beseech you, don’t--don’t dwell on this,” exclaimed
Martin, wiping large drops of “the dew of mental anguish” from his brow.

“Well, well, Martin! cheer up, lad,” said Saul, fondling the youth;
“cheer up, and I won’t:--but, I zay, how shall we act?”

“Oh! I know not--In assisting you to escape I become an accessary to
Robert’s death;--and if I refuse--”

“You do hang your vather,” interrupted Braintree; “an awkward place vor
a body to stand in, Martin;--but blood’s thicker than water;--I be
your vather, and he yean’t even one o’ your kin. I won’t dreaten’ee wi’
blabbing and telling who you be, on my trial.”

“I care not, Saul, if you did.”

“I know,--I know;--but I doan’t dreaten ‘ee wi’t, doan’t’ee mind?--Keep
znug, and be a’zquire.”

“Indeed, I shall not. I will tell the whole story to-morrow; and if I
can save poor Robert--”

“If’t’an’t at my expense, do zave un, and I’ll thank ‘ee; but I think
it yean’t possible. As to your up and telling old Ztapleton who you be,
that will be zilly ov’ee;--but it be your business;--I’ve put’ee into a
good nest, and if you do throw yourzelf out on’t, ’t’ean’t my fault; my
intention were good. Howsomever, Martin, gi’e me dree hours’ law; and
doan’t give tongue, and zo get a hue and cry a’ter me, avore I can get
clear.”

At this moment a loud tapping was heard at the door; Martin started, and
exclaimed,--“If that should be my father!”

“Vather, indeed!” said Saul; “you do vorget yourself; you must ha’ lost
your wits, to be vrighted zo-vashion; you ha’n’t a’ fastened the door,
have’ee? and your vather, as you do call un, would hardly be polite
enough to knock. There yean’t much ceremony used wi’ a prisoner. Why
doan’t ‘ee zay, ‘come in?’” Before Martin could utter the words, the
door was opened, and a fair, curly-headed youth, who was Martin’s
immediate attendant and frequent companion, peeped in, and said, in a
loud whisper,--“Master Martin! the ‘squire is inquiring for you: where
will you please to be?--in the fen, setting night-lines for eels, or up
at Gorbury, seeing the earths well stopped? The fox-hounds throw off
at Budford Copse, to-morrow, you know;--or shall I say you’re here, or
where?”

“You need not tell any lies about the matter, Sam, thank you,” said
Martin; “I shall be in the parlour almost directly.”

“Very well, sir,” replied Sam. “I wish you’d been down in the hall just
now, though. Constable Abel has been making a speech about drink being
the beginning of every thing bad; and, if he says true, Abel must be
ripe for mischief, for he got three parts gone before he had done;
and he’s coming up stairs with the brass top of his long staff
downward.--Eh! Why, this can’t be he, surely, coming at this rate?”

A series of sounds had struck Sam’s ear which resembled those of three
or four persons running up stairs in a hurry, and then galloping along
the passage toward the place where he stood. A moment had scarcely
elapsed, from the time he had done speaking, when the door was burst
wide open, and Ponto, the prisoner’s dog, dashed into the room. He
had been howling round the house for a considerable time; and probably
watched for an opportunity of stealing in to join his master. He flew
toward Saul; gambolled round him; leaped up to his face, and exhibited,
by his looks, his low barks, and his actions, the joy he felt at being
again in the presence of his master.

As soon as Sam, by the order of Martin, had retired from the door, Saul
pointed to the dog, and, without uttering a word, gazed reproachfully at
young Stapleton.

“I understand you,” said Martin; “but you don’t know what I may do yet;
therefore, pray, spare me those looks.”

“Wou’lt do’t, then--wou’lt do’t?” eagerly asked Saul: “Ah! I knew thee
wouldst. Ponto yean’t my zon, and yet--but, odd! there bean’t a minute
to lose. Abel will be here directly. Ponto, my dog, thou’lt zave us a
mort o’ trouble. Tell’ee what, Martin,--only cut the rope, and go to
bed. Never mind the cuffs;--cut the rope vor me, and I be zafe out wi’
your pocket-knife,--make haste,” continued Saul, in a hurried tone, as
Martin searched his pockets with a tremulous hand;--“here, lad, let I
veel vor un--here a’ is--now cut--cut through: gi’e me dree hours’ law,
as I told’ee, and then do as you like.--Why, lad! thee’lt be a month;
I’d ha’ cut down an oak by this time.”

“What have I done?” exclaimed Martin, as he, at length, separated the
rope.

“Done! why, done your duty,” was Saul’s reply; “kneel down there,
Martin, and take a vather’s blessing vor’t;--a vather’s blessing,
lad, let un be ever zo bad a man, won’t do thee hurt.” Martin, almost
unconsciously, knelt, and the murderer, placing his hand on the young
man’s head, solemnly and most affectionately blessed him.

When Abel entered, Martin had nearly reached the door; he pushed the
constable aside, and rushed out of the room, in a manner that perfectly
amazed the old man. “Well!” said he, as he endeavoured to strut, but in
fact, staggered in rather a ludicrous manner, toward the prisoner;--“if
that’s behaviour to a parochial functionary--if any jury will say it
is--I’ll resign my staff of office. What do you think, Saul?”

“Bad manners, Yeabel;--bad manners, in my mind,” replied Braintree; “but
he be vexed like;--and I’ll tell’ee why:--I ha’ been trying to coax un
over to help me out o’ the house.”

“You ha’n’t, surely, Saul!”

“I tell’ee I have, then--why not? Wouldn’t you? answer me that!--but the
young dog revuzed; zo then I abuzed un, and a’ left me in a pet. But, I
zay, Yeabel, you be drunk, or handy to’t, bean’t’ee?--You shouldn’t do
that! It’s wrong ov’ee, Yeabel: every man, in my mind, should do his
duty; and you bean’t doing yours to get voggy wi’ stout October, when
you’ve a-got a prisoner in hand.”

“None of your sneering, Saul; I am _compos_ and capable,” said Abel.

“You bean’t, Yeabel! upon my life, you bean’t!” replied Saul; “you
shouldn’t do so--no, truly. Why, now, suppose I were to ‘scape.”

“Escape!” exclaimed Abel, cocking his hat; “elude my vigilance!--come,
that’s capital!”

“Why, you’ll vall asleep avore half the night be over.”

“What! sleep upon my post!--never, Saul,--never.”

“You’ll prance up and down there all night, I’ll war’nt, then, and 20
keep me from getting a bit of rest:--you be aveard to lie down, ay, or
zit.”

“I am afraid of nothing and nobody,” replied Abel, indignantly; “and you
know it, neighbour Braintree: but no sneering of yours, will tempt me;
I’m up to thee, Saul; so be quiet;--or say your prayers. I’m never so
fit to serve my King and country, or the parochial authorities, as when
my wits are sharpened by an extra cup or two.”

“Or dree, I z’pose?” added Saul.--“Poor zoul! thee wants a little spirit
put into thee.”

“I want spirit! when did I lack it?” exclaimed Abel.--“Not a man in the
parish ever attempts to raise a hand against me.”

“No, truly, Yeabel; I’ll zay this vor thee, thou’rt such a weak,
harmless, old body, that a man would as zoon think of wopping his
grandmother as wopping thee.”

Abel’s wrath was now roused, and he began to speechify and swagger. Saul
said no more, but stretched himself upon the mattress which the ‘squire
had humanely ordered to be placed on the floor, within reach of his
tether, holding the rope under him, so that, without turning him over,
it was impossible to discover that it had been severed. Just previously
to the constable’s entrance, Panto, in obedience to the command of Saul,
had retreated beneath a large oak table, the flap of which altogether
concealed him from observation; and there lay the well-trained animal,
with his head resting on his fore-paws, and his eyes fixed on Saul,
perfectly motionless, and watching for further commands.

About an hour after midnight, when all seemed quiet below-stairs, Saul
turned on his mattress, and beheld Abel still tottering to and fro, like
an invalid grenadier upon guard. He waited for an opportunity, when the
constable’s back was toward him, to start up, seize Abel by the throat,
and lay him flat upon the floor. “Yeabel,” said he, in a low tone, “I
hope I ha’n’t hurt thee much. I be zorry to harm thee at all, old buoy;
but needs must. I be gwain off, Yeabel;--I doan’t mean to put the county
to the expense o’ prosecuting me,--zo I be gwain.--Doan’t be aveard,--I
won’t choke thee:--there,” added he, relaxing his powerful gripe;
“I’ll let thee breathe; but if thee speaks--remember, Yeabel,--I be a
desperate man,--and I must zilence thee:--one knock o’ the head’ud do’t;
zo keep thy peace, and do as I tells thee quietly;--I won’t have a word,
mind me. Take thic thingumbob out o’ thy waistcoat pocket, and unvasten
these bracelets thou’st put about my wrists. Iv thy conscience to thy
King and country won’t let thee do’t wi’out being put in bodily vear,
I’ll trouble thee wi’ another grip o’ the droat But, I doant wish any
thing o’ the zort myzelf, unless needs must--Ponto, dog!”

Ponto started up and was by his master’s side in a moment.

“That infernal dog here too!” ejaculated Abel.

“Ay, zure!--but zilence! It yean’t wize vor I to let thee open thy lips:
zo go to work like a dummy. Make haste, and dost hear, Yeabel? put down
the handcuffs quietly. Now doan’t tempt me to hurt thee, by making
a vool o’ thyzelf. Be ruled, that’s a good vellow. I can get
off,--doan’t’ee zee?--spite o’ the cuffs; but it will be more
convenient and agreeable to leave’em behind.” By this time, Abel had set
Braintree’s arms completely at liberty.

“Now, Yeabel,” continued Saul, still kneeling over the constable,--“now,
old blade, I’ll leave thee wi’ Ponto; but doan’t thee move or call out,
if thee values thy old droat. He’ll worry thee like a wolf’ud a wether,
if thee moves or makes as much noise as a mouse: but be quiet--be still,
and he’ll ztand over thee and not harm thee vor hours. Thee knowest
the dog; and thee know’st me well enough to be zertain I wouldn’t leave
thee, vit to make alarm, if I wer’n’t zure o’ the dog. I doan’t want
to hurt thee, zo I leaves thee wi’ un: but, mind--he’ll hold thy droat
a little tighter than I did, if thee wags a hair.--Ponto!” added Saul,
turning to the fine animal, who seemed to be listening to what he had
said; “mind un, Ponto!--Steady, good dog!--Soho! and steady! but mind
un!”

[Illustration: 098]

To use a sporting phrase, Ponto immediately “stood;” he threw himself
into an attitude that even Saul, as he departed, pronounced to be
beautiful. His eye was keenly fixed upon Abel; the roots of his ears
were elevated and brought forward; one of his fore-legs was held up,
and curved so that the claws nearly touched his body; his tail no longer
curled, but stood out straight on a level with his back; every muscle in
his frame seemed, as it were, to be upon the alert; he appeared on
the point of making a spring forward; but no statue ever stood more
motionless on its pedestal, than Ponto did over the prostrate and
terrified constable.

Braintree lost no time after he left the room which had been his
temporary prison: he descended cautiously to the ground-floor, and
versed as he had been in his boyhood, and for several years after time
had written man upon his brow, in the topography of the old Hall, he
easily found an outlet, and escaped without creating any alarm.

In a paddock adjoining the pleasure-grounds of the Hall, he caught a
horse, which had been turned out on account of a sand-crack; twisted a
hazel, from the hedge, into a halter and mouthpiece; leaped the fence;
and, in less than half an hour, by dint of hard galloping across
the country,--clearing every thing as though he was riding a
steeple-chase,--Saul reached his own cottage. Meg and her daughter
were still up, the wife weeping, and the child praying for Saul’s safe
deliverance. He beat at the door, and Meg clasped the girl to her breast
and exclaimed, “Oh! what now?--what now? They’re surely coming for thee,
Peggy. They’ll leave me to murder myself--childless!”

“Open the door, Meg--my own Meg!” said Saul, without; “‘tis I, Meg;--thy
poor Zaul.”

Braintree was soon by his own hearth, with his wife and daughter weeping
and hanging round his neck.

“Well, and how is it, Saul?” inquired Meg, as soon as she could find
utterance.

“Art discharged, father?” said Peggy.

“No, child,” replied Saul; “I be ‘scaped! I shouldn’t ha’ zeen thee,
wench, nor thy mother neither, but whoam laid in my road. I be zafe yet
till day-light, if Ponto’s as true as I’ve a’ zeen un avore now. But I
shouldn’t zay _if_ vor I be zure ov un.”

In reply to the inquiries of his wife, Said briefly related the result
of his conversation with Martin, the manner of his escape from old Abel,
and his intention to fly the country for ever, if he could. “Not,” added
he, “that I think they could bring aught whoam to me, upon trial; though
I didn’t think zo, when I were tied up by a rope to a chimney-bar, in
the Hall; but now it ztrikes I, there wouldn’t be much danger ov my
getting acquitted--and vor why?--It’s clear the man were killed by
_one_--not _two_. Now, if Bob’s vound guilty, I must be turned
out innocent; and guilty a’ will be vound, or else I’ve blundered
blessedly.”

“Heavens above us, Saul! what d’ye mean?” cried Meg. Braintree now
frankly told his wife the circumstances relative to Robert’s shoes; and
concluded, with a forced smile, sighing deeply as he spoke,--“And zo,
the young un be nicked for no-man’s-land, wi’out a bit of a doubt;--that
be certain, I reckon.”

“Oh! Saul!” cried Meg, “Saul Braintree, what hast thee done?--thou hast
murdered thy son!”

“Murdered my viddlestick! He’s the’zquire’s--Jemmy Ztapleton’s
buoy;--Martin be mine.”

“Martin Stapleton, father!” almost shrieked Peggy.

“Ay, wench; and he cut the cord vor me, like a Briton.”

“Said! Saul!” replied Meg, “doan’t thee smile; my poor heart be
bursting. I never thought I should see this night!”

“Woe’s me, mother; I was almost killed wi’ trouble before, and now such
news as this!” sobbed Peggy, pressing her hands to her eyes.

“What be the matter, missus?--All’s right;--doan’t be dashed.”

“If thou didst kill Govier, Saul,” said Meg, “thou bee’st a vather, vor
all that; and I do pity thee:--thou hast laid a trap vor thy own son.
When thou went’st away a smuggling that time, just after the ‘squire
had discharged thee, and when we knowed he was looking out for another
nurse--”

“Well, what then?” interrupted Saul.

“Why, Saul, thou didst tempt me to change the children. I promised thee
I would:--I tried, and I couldn’t!--Thee thought’st to deceive ‘Squire
Stapleton, but I deceived thee, Saul. I couldn’t send away my own
boy--my virst-born--my darling. If thee wert a mother, thee wouldst
vorgive me. Oh! that I had done as thee told me! Saul, Saul, thee hast
murdered thy child! Bob’s thy own vlesh and blood,--and Martin Stapleton
be no kin to thee.”

“Oh! mother!” said Peggy, dropping on her knees; “I am almost ashamed
to say how I thank you for those words; they have a’most saved my
life;--but then, my brother--my poor, poor brother!”

“Bob my own vlesh and blood!” said Saul, turning pale as a dying man
while he spoke; “Bob my zon, a’ter all!--Tell’ee he an’t! I won’t
believe thee:--dost hear?”

“As I hope to be vorgiven vor all I’ve done here below, he is;” replied
his wife.

“Meg, Meg!” said Saul, dropping on a bench, and throwing himself back
against the wall; “you ha’ turned me zick as a dog.” Margaret and her
daughter now threw themselves about Braintree’s neck again, and began to
weep and wail in the most violent and passionate manner: Saul remained
motionless only for a few moments. “Gi’e me air,” said he, suddenly
pushing them aside and leaping up; “I be choking! I’d gi’e the
world now, if I had it, that instead o’ zhooting Phil, Phil had zhot
I!--Deceived! bevooled! in thic vashion!--Meg, doan’t thee bide near me,
or I shall lay hands on thee presently; I do know I shall.”

“I don’t vear thee, Saul,” said Meg; “thee never didst lay a vinger in
wrath on me yet. If thee’rt a’ minded to kill me, do’t!--I wont vly vrom
the blow.--My Bobby in gaol, accused of murder, and my husband guilty of
doing it!”

“You lie, you vool!” vociferated Saul; “‘twere no murder! We vought,
hand to hand, vor life or vor death, and I got the best o’t. If I hadn’t
a’ killed he, he’d ha’ killed I; zo how can’ee make it murder?”

“The lord judge will make it out so, I fear,” said Peggy; “won’t he,
think you, mother?”

“No doubt on’t; and Saul knows it,” replied Meg. “Oh! Bob, my child--my
dear--dear boy!”

“Good night, Meg!” interrupted Saul. “I be off;--you do know I can’t
abide to hear a woman howl.”

“But where art gwain, Saul?”

“No matter;--thou’lt hear time enough o’ me:--good night!”

“Nay, but what’ll thee do?--Peggy, down on thy knees wi’ me, girl, and
beg him to tell us, what we be to do!--Oh! Saul--bide a bit; I woan’t
let thee see a tear--look, they be all scorched up.--I won’t vex thee,
any way, if thou’lt but bide and Comfort us.”

“Doan’t cling to me zo,” said Saul, struggling to rid himself of the
embraces of his wife and daughter, who clung about his knees;--“it be
no use; let go, or I’ll hurt’ee!--There now,” continued he, as he freed
himself, “once vor all, good night. It won’t do vor I to bide here
another minute.”

Braintree now rushed out of the cottage, leaving his wife and daughter
on their knees: each of them clasped the other to her breast, and
listened, without a sob, until the receding footsteps of Saul were no
longer audible. They then attempted alternately to solace each other;
but the comforter of the moment was so violent in her own sorrow as to
increase that of her whose grief she tried to allay; and thus the hours
passed on with them till dawn. They felt the misery of seeing the
sun rise and chase away the morning mists as usual; the autumnal
song-bird,--the robin,--much loved of men, chirrupped merrily on their
cottage-roof as he did a week before, when they were comparatively
happy; and the sleek old cat, brushed his glossy sides against their
garments, as if nothing was the matter. There are few persons in
existence, whose lot it has been to pass a night of such extreme mental
agony, as that was with Margaret Braintree and her daughter; and yet,
strange to say, at six o’clock in the morning, Meg was raking together
the embers of the turf fire, and piling fresh fuel on the hearth;--the
kettle was, soon after, singing merrily above the blaze; and, before the
church bells had chimed seven, Meg and her pretty daughter, miserable as
they were, with swollen eyes and aching hearts, sat down to that womanly
comfort,--a cup,--or as it is still called in the west--a _dish_ of tea.

We must now return to the Hall, which, before day-break, became a scene
of uproar and alarm. Every body seemed to be in a bustle, but no pursuit
was made, or plan of action determined on. The  ‘squire had sent for a
neighbouring justice of the peace, who was so far stricken in years,
that it was necessary for one of his own men, assisted by Stapleton’s
messenger, to lift him on horse-back, and hold him on the saddle, the
whole distance between his own house and the Hall. The old man, although
of a remarkably irritable disposition, was scarcely wide awake when he
arrived. The ‘squire, however, without waiting to inquire whether or no
his auditor was in a proper state to receive his communications, began
to give a minute history of the capture, brief imprisonment, and escape
of Braintree. He had gone as far as Saul’s seizing the constable, when
old Justice Borfield, for the first time, interrupted him, by inquiring,
with warmth, what they all meant by using him as they had done? “Here
have I been,” added he--“Ay, now, I recollect--Yes--the scoundrels broke
into my bed-room;--so I suppose, at least;--dragged me out of bed;
and when I awoke,--for, odd! sir, and as I’m a gentleman, all this was
hurry-skurry, and passed on like a dream,--but when I awoke, I found
myself in my best wig, on the back of a high-trotting horse; and lo, and
behold! I saw--for my miscreant of a man had fastened on my spectacles,
though, as you see, he forgot my left shoe--I saw one of them on each
side, holding me down to the saddle, by my waistband. I struggled and
exclaimed; but the villains heeded me not!--Now, sir, what the devil
does all this mean? What am I accused of? I insist upon being answered.”

“My dear neighbour, my very worthy friend Borfield,” said Stapleton, “I
need your assistance--your presence--your advice in this matter.”

“You’re very complimentary, indeed!--What! now you’ve made a blunder,
you drag me into your counsels to bear half the blame!--Neighbour
Stapleton, I’m a very ill-used man, and I won’t put up with it. Talk
of the liberty of the subject, and the power of a justice of the
peace!--Why, I’ve been treated like a tetotum! At this rate, a
magistrate’s an old woman; or worse--worse by this band! Brute force
beats the King’s commission! I’m dragged out of my bed at midnight,
by lawless ruffians--lifted into a saddle, when I haven’t set foot
in stirrup these twenty years--and brought here, on the back of a
rough-trotting galloway, close prisoner, to sign some documents, I
suppose, which wouldn’t be legal without the formality of a second
magistrate’s name. I’ll tell you what, James Stapleton, I don’t like
it--If I’m an old man, I’m not a machine. Your satellites have brought
the horse to the brook, but you can’t make him drink. I’ll sign nothing;
I’ll die first:--for I’m hurt and insulted.”

The old man now grew exhausted, and Stapleton once more attempted to
pacify him. By dint of excuses, and a few flattering compliments on the
freshness and vigour of his intellectual powers, and the value of
the advice of a man who had so much experience, Stapleton, at length,
prevailed upon him to hear the end of his statement relative to Saul’s
escape.

“Well, well! then order coffee and dry toast,” said Borfield; “for if
you need advice, I lack refreshment. Order coffee, and let the toast he
cut thin, and baked by a steady hand--by-the-by, let my own miscreant do
it,--and then we’ll see what can be done.”

It appeared that Braintree’s escape had been discovered sooner than he
expected. The old earth-stopper, on his return from Gorbury, where he
had been following his vocation, saw somebody cross a field, at full
speed, on a horse which he well knew to be Martin Stapleton’s pie-bald
hunter. He fancied, too, that the rider bore some resemblance to
Braintree. But whether the man were Braintree or another, it was clear
that all was not right. The earth-stopper, therefore, thought proper
to put spurs to his poney, and, instead of turning down the next lane
toward his own cottage, to push for the main road, and trot up to
Stapleton Hall. As he passed the paddock he looked round it; but saw no
horse. When he reached the gate-way leading to the house, he raised
such a clatter, by ringing the bell and beating against the door, that
several of the servants, and Stapleton himself were soon roused from
their beds. Before the earth-stopper was admitted, Stapleton inquired
from the window, what had occurred. “I beg your honour’s pardon,”
 replied the old man; “I reckon I ha’ zeed Zaul Braintree,--or iv ‘tean’t
he, ‘tis a man like un,--riding athirt tailor Mudford’s ‘tatee-patch,
in Misletoe-lane, zaving your worship’s presence, upon a zpringy
zwitch-tailed pie-bald, a bloodlike weed ov a thing, zo var as I
could zee; but I’ll zwear he were a zwitch-tailed pie-bald; and the
young’zquire’s yean’t in the paddock.”

Stapleton threw on his dressing-coat, and hurried up stairs to the room
where Saul had been confined. The lamp was still burning; and, by its
light, he discovered, at a glance, that the prisoner had effected his
escape. Abel’s staff lay upon the mattress, and, at a little distance
from it, Stapleton beheld the constable on the floor, apparently
lifeless. “The villain has murdered him!” thought he; but his fears were
instantly dispelled, and his indignation roused, by a sonorous snore,
which evidently proceeded from the nostrils of Abel.

Stapleton took up the staff of office, and turned the constable over
with it two or three times, before he could wake him. In reply to the
questions put to him by the ‘squire, Abel gave a tolerably clear account
of what had taken place: the last thing he recollected was seeing
the eyes of Ponto glaring at him, as he lay on the floor. Search
was immediately made for the dog, but without success: he had either
effectually concealed himself in some part of the house, or made his
escape. Abel begged for a warrant from his worship to apprehend and hang
the animal. “He aided and abetted the prisoner,” said he, “in getting
his liberty; and I am ready to swear, and what is more, with your
worship’s leave, I do insist upon swearing, that I lay in bodily fear o’
the beast. But Ponto,” continued he, “was not the sole and only one that
lent the delinquent a helping hand; he hath a friend in court: the rope
was cut for him, that’s dear; for he never could have done it himself.
Your worship, this looks awkward against somebody.”

The morning dawned through the eastern window of the library, as
Stapleton finished his statement, and old Borfield his second cup of
coffee. The latter now suggested that all the persons in the house
should be rigidly examined, and the depositions of Abel and the
earth-stopper formally prepared. The whole of the household, as well as
the two last-mentioned worthies, were then called in; and after a few
questions had been put to the domestics in a body, it came out, that
somebody had heard Sam say, before he went to bed, that the poacher’s
dog had burst into the Wainscot-room when he (Sam) went up to call the
young ‘squire down to supper. Sam, upon being questioned, prevaricated
and became confused. Perceiving this, Stapleton inquired for Martin. “He
ha’n’t left his room yet, sir,” said Sam; “I’ll step and call him.”

“No, no!” exclaimed Borfield; “by no means: stay you there, and let the
constable go for him.”

“I forgot to say,” said Abel, “that Master Martin did certainly
condescend to be beadle over the prisoner while I took needful
refreshment.”

“Then you ought to be whipped for suffering him to do so,” quoth
Borfield. “Mr. Stapleton, this begins to be serious,” continued
he;--Stapleton turned pale as he proceeded, and now wished he had not
sent for his brother magistrate;--“the youth’s your son; but it is
our duty, in such an investigation as this, to pay no respect to
persons.--And so, when you returned,” he added, turning to the constable
again, “the bird was flown, was he?”

“I will be judged by any man here, if I said so!” replied Abel. “Saul
and I had some chat after my return; he was there, and, seemingly, safe
enough; but the cord must have been cut by somebody while I was away.”

“And who did you find in the room besides Saul?” was the next question
put by old Borfield.

“Sam ran against me, as I went up over the stairs, and the young ‘squire
did the like, more disagreeably, just after I had crossed the
threshold.”

Borfield shook his head, and said to Sam,--“Young man, consider yourself
in custody; and, constable, fetch down Master Martin Stapleton;--it is
strange, amidst all this uproar, he has not made his appearance!”

“Has no one seen him?” inquired Stapleton, in a tone of unusual
solemnity: he looked anxiously round the circle, but no reply was made.
“Open that window,” continued he, pointing to one near him, in the
recess of which stood the earth-stopper, who obeyed him, as fast as his
stiff joints would permit A perfect silence reigned through the room for
nearly a minute, after Abel had quitted it, in obedience to Borfield’s
commands, when the old earth-stopper said that he heard a tired horse
galloping up the high-road, about a mile distant, and he thought it was
the young ‘squire’s pie-bald. Upon being asked what induced him to think
so, he replied, “Why, your honour, Master Martin’s horse were lame
vrom a zand-crack in the near vore-voot, and the horse I do hear, don’t
ztrike the ground even; I be zure he’s lame;--and az I do think--”

The earth-stopper would have proceeded, but Abel and Martin now entered
the room. The young man’s dress was in disorder; his hair was matted;
his eyes were swollen; and his whole appearance indicated that he
had not passed the night asleep in his bed. “I understand,” said he,
addressing himself to Stapleton and Borfield,--“I understand that--”

“You have but one question to answer, Martin,” interrupted Stapleton.

“And answer it or not as you think fit,” said Borfield; “recollect,
young gentleman, that you are not compelled to implicate yourself:--be
careful!”

“The caution, sir,” said Stapleton, “is kind and well-meant, but, I am
sure, needless. Martin--did you, or did you not, aid Saul Braintree in
his escape?”

Martin was silent.

“Don’t press him,” said Borfield, forgetting to whom he was speaking;
“we have quite sufficient, without his own acknowledgment, to warrant us
in concluding that he did.--The constable’s evidence--”

“Borfield! Borfield!” cried Stapleton, casting on the old man a look of
reproach that silenced him; “let him answer for himself. What say you,
Martin? Acquit yourself, I insist--I entreat!--Did you cut the rope for
Braintree?”

“All that I have to say, sir,” replied Martin, firmly,--but his voice
faltered, and he burst into tears, and hid his face in his hands as he
concluded,--“All that I have to say, sir, is, that the man proved to me
he was my own father!”

“Martin, you’re mad!” exclaimed Stapleton, starting from his seat.

“Braintree your father!” said Borfield, removing his spectacles, but
speaking in a calm and unconcerned tone; “How’s this?--Then where’s Mr.
Stapleton’s son?”

“In the county gaol, abiding his trial for murder!” replied the young
man.

“Martin, your wits are wandering!” almost shrieked old Stapleton; “What
do you mean?”

“It is but too true, sir, I fear.--Meg Braintree changed us when
children at her breast.”

“No, zhe didn’t, Master Martin,” said some one at the lower end of the
room; “No, zhe didn’t; worse luck!”

To the amazement of all present, Saul Braintree, who had just entered,
now walked up toward the justices, and stood within three paces of the
table, behind which their chairs were placed. Old Stapleton was still
on his legs; and, with a vacant and almost idiotic stare, turned from
Martin, on whom he had been gazing, to the weather-beaten face of Saul.

“‘Tis you ha’ done all this mischief, ’zquire,” pursued Braintree; “Oh!
you used I--but, it doan’t matter--Meg, too, to play zuch a trick,
and not tell me o’t!--Master Martin, zhe didn’t do as I tould her; but
never, avore this night, did I know I’d been made zuch a vool ov!--Your
horse vailed lame as a cat wi’ me, coming back; but you’ll vorgi’e me, I
do know, vor bringing’ee zuch news. I bean’t your vather;--there--there,
it do zeem, he stands: ’zquire, this be, truly, your zon; mine be in
irons; but I’ll vree un! I’ll vree un!” repeated he, raising his voice
suddenly to a high pitch; “he sha’n’t bide there long! I be bad enough,
vor zure and zartin; but I can’t let un die vor I!--Oh! I be beat out
and out!--Tell ee I can’t ztand it; zo, justice, take my convession.”

Borfield touched the elbow of Stapleton, who was now totally inattentive
to the scene before him, and affectionately embracing Martin. “Take the
pen, sir,” said Borfield; “and, prisoner, reflect a moment on what you
are about to do: you are in a state of great excitation; we are willing
to hear you; but, I repeat,--be cautious!”

“Cautious!--cautious, d’ye zay?--No, I won’t! Caution’s been the ruin
o’ me. Caution doan’t zeem to I to be any use in theze parts. I ha’ zeed
men wi’ no more forecast than chilver hogs, do well all their lives,
and keep out o’ harm’s way, vlourish-ing like trees:--now I ha’ been as
cautious as a cat, and you do zee what I be come to.”

“I cannot write, indeed, Mr. Borfield;--I cannot write a word:--you must
excuse me,” said Stapleton, throwing down the pen.

“Well, well, then, as we’ve no clerk, and I have written nothing but
my name these seven years,” said Borfield, offering the pen to young
Stapleton, “suppose, Master Martin, you take down the prisoner’s
confession.”

“Pardon me, sir,” said Martin; “_that_ I never will do.”

“Then we must adjourn the examination for an hour,” said Borfield; “let
the prisoner be searched, and conveyed to a place of security. I will
specially swear in the earth-stopper and my man to assist you, Abel; my
man shall remain in the room with you, and the earth-stopper may watch
outside the door: be attentive, earth-stopper.”

“And above all things,” added Abel, “take care that his dog don’t get
in.”

“Doan’t’ee be aveard o’ he, Yeabel,” said Saul, “I ha’ killed un, poor
blade!--It were the last zhot I shall zhoot. He ha’ done much mischief
vor I, poor dumb beast, and he might ha’ done more vor a worser
man;--vor I reckon I bean’t zo bad az zome be, and that’s a comvort.--I
knocked up varmer Zalter, and borrowed his double-barrelled gun, to
gi’e the dog his dose. Ponto knowed what a gun were, well enough; but he
zeemed to vancy I were in vun like, when I pointed the muzzle o’t to
un; vor ay wagged his tail and looked as pleasant up in my vace, that
be dashed iv I weren’t vorced to zhut my eyes avore I could pull the
trigger. But, oh! Master Martin, iv you had but heard his one zhort deep
howl, you’d ha’ gone ‘mazed--that is--iv you were I. Truly, I do think,
I zhould ha’ zhot myzelf iv ‘tweren’t vor two things:--Virst, I couldn’t
ha’ vreed poor dear Bob, bless un! iv I had; and next, I’d a’ given my
word and hand to varmer Zalter, I wouldn’t harm myzelf avore he’d lend
me his gun.”

Martin now asked his father’s permission to offer Saul a little
refreshment; the ‘squire immediately acceded to his request, and the
kind-hearted young gentleman whispered Sam, in Saul’s hearing, to get a
little brandy from the housekeeper. Braintree, however, much to Martin’s
surprise, requested that no liquor might be brought for his use. “Master
Martin,” said he, “it yean’t wi’ me, as’twere last night I be past the
help o’ brandy, now:--I be done vor. Ponto’s gone, and I zhall zoon
vollow un; he did’nt deserve it,--nor I neither, may be;--but I zhall
ba’t though, vor all that But Bob zhall be vreed--no offence, justices;
but, d’ye hear?--Bob zhall be vree! My buoy zhan’t never zuffer vor I.
No, no, that wouldn’t be like Zaul Braintree;--eh Master Martin?--would
it, neighbours?--My wife zhan’t say to I again, as zhe did, poor zoul,
last night, ‘Zaul, thee hast murdered my zon--‘tean’t pleasant--Your
servant, Justice Borfield: you ha’ been my ruin, ‘zquire Ztapleton; but
I doan’t bear malice; I do vorgive’ee wi’ all my heart--Will’ee be zo
good as to make vriends, zir, and think o’ Meg, if aught zhould happen
to me?--will’ee, zir--will’ee--will’ee!”

Saul stretched forth his hand across the table, and Stapleton,
apparently without knowing what he did, or, possibly, actuated by a
return of those kind feelings which he had entertained for Saul, twenty
years before, so far forgot his own character and situation and those
of the prisoner, that he put forth his hand towards that of Braintree;
a short but hearty mutual squeeze ensued, and Braintree immediately
left the room, closely followed by Abel Harris, the earth-stopper, and
Justice Borfield’s man. He had scarcely proceeded a dozen steps from the
door, when, as if something of importance had suddenly occurred to him,
he turned about, and earnestly inquired for the young ‘squire. Martin was
soon by his side. “Master Martin,” said Saul, “there be one thing I’ve
a’ got to zay to’ee--”

“Your wife, I suppose, Braintree--”

“No, no, not zhe; I zpoke to ‘zquire about zhe:--besides, Bob will be
vree, and won’t zee poor Meg lack pine zhe will--but he can’t help
that.”

“Can I do any thing for you?” inquired Martin.

“Not vor I--not vor I,” replied Saul. “I ha’ got but a vew words to
zay to thee, lad, and I’ll zpeak ‘em vreely. Peggy yean’t your zister,
now:--when I be gone, iv you can’t do her no good, doan’t do her no
harm, vor my zake, lad; doan’t, pr’ythee now!”

“I never will, you may depend, Saul.”

“Then God bless thee, and good bye!--Now, Yeabel!”

Saul now followed Abel into the Wainscot-room again, and resumed his
handcuffs. Old Borfield, who had been roused to unusual energy, and even
displayed a portion of that acuteness, for which he had been famed in
the county twenty or thirty years before, sank into a doze. Long before
he opened his eyes again, Stapleton had received Saul Braintree’s
confession; which, coupled with other circumstances, while it convicted
Saul, clearly exculpated his son from any participation in the offence.
The father and son were tried together; the former was found guilty, and
the latter acquitted. Saul, however, evaded the execution of the law: a
strong fear of death came over him, after his conviction; he made a
bold attempt to escape, the particulars of which it would be needless
to enumerate; suffice it to say, that he was not only unsuccessful,
but perished in a most resolute struggle with some of the gaoler’s
attendants, who intercepted his progress. Another paragraph will finish
our tale.

Old Stapleton, who had long been in a declining state, died within a few
days after Martin came of age: the young ‘squire shortly after sold off
his estates, and, as it was confidently said by some, but disbelieved by
others, dwelt happy and contented, as it falls to the lot of most men
to be, in a distant part of England, with his old nurse under his roof;
Robert Braintree, the tenant of a capital farm, within a morning’s ride
of his mansion: and pretty Peggy his wife.

[Illustration: 111]



THE SHAM FIGHT.

“Well, Jones,--who’s gone?--any body?” This was the first question which
the excellent hostess of The New Passage Inn put to the waiter, as she
descended one morning, rather later than usual, to her breakfast.
Jones replied, “Every body’s gone, ma’am: two parties, and one single
gentleman, went across in the boat, without breakfasting--”

“Without breakfasting, Jones! I hope they’ve taken no offence.”

“Oh! no! I’m pretty sure of that, ma’am:--they went away very
comfortable, on rum and milk.”

“Rum and milk!”

“Yes, ma’am; glasses round, with biscuits.”

“Oh! well! come!--And how did the ladies in number nine go?”

“In the yellow chaise; and the people in the back drawingroom, went
with Tom Davis, in the green coach; and what with one and another, there
isn’t a turn-boy but Sam, in the yard:--he’s got no chaise, you know,
ma’am; and his hand-horse won’t be fit to work, the blacksmith says,
till Tuesday.”

“Oh! well! come!” replied the hostess. “Then we’ve no company left.”

“Oh! yes,” said Jones; “one gentleman came over in the boat, this
morning, too late for a chaise; and there’s a traveller got down from
Bristol, on horseback, too late for the boat.”

“And where have you put them, Jones?”

“They haven’t come in-doors yet, ma’am.”

“What are they doing then, Jones?”

“One of them is throwing stones into the water, and the other is looking
at him, seemingly, ma’am.”

“Pretty amusement!” said the landlady, shaking her head as she peeped
through the bar-window, and saw the two gentlemen, at a little distance
from the house, amusing themselves as Jones had stated. The active
party was a man advanced in years, stout and squat in person, wearing
a profusion of powder, and having the appearance of a respectable
tradesman. He did not seem to be aware that he was observed, and
continued to exert himself very strenuously in throwing pebbles into the
water; until the other traveller, who stood within thirty paces of him,
burst out into a shout of laughter, which the tradesman no sooner heard,
than he, naturally enough, turned about to see from whose lungs it
issued, feeling by no means gratified at being made acquainted, in such
a manner, with the proximity of a stranger. He slyly dropped two or
three pebbles which he had in his hand; hummed the chorus of a song,
very much out of tune; and assumed a pompous and important stride, which
rendered him exceedingly ridiculous in the eyes of the stranger, who in
vain attempted to control himself, and laughed louder than before. The
tradesman now resolutely tucked up his sleeves and resumed his exercise.
He had thrown two or three dozen pebbles among the little waves, when
the stranger, to his surprise, approached, and, in a very handsome
manner, begged pardon for the circumstance which had peremptorily
obliged him to intrude with an apology. The elderly man protested that
he did not understand the gentleman who thus addressed him:--“Sir,”
 said he, “I know not why you should apologize, for you have given me no
offence. I do not remember to have heard or seen any thing on your part,
at which I could possibly take umbrage. However, if my hand were not
dirty, I should be happy to offer it you, as I would to any military man
in the kingdom: though you seem to have but lately reached the years of
manhood, your weather-beaten face convinces me, sir, that you have seen
service. If there’s no objection on your part, I should be happy to join
you at the breakfast-table. I’ve smelt powder myself; but I’ll warrant,
now, you would hardly have been keen enough to detect any symptoms of
the soldier about me, if I hadn’t let the cat out of the bag.”

“Indeed I should not, sir, I must confess,” replied the young officer.

“But,” continued the other, “allowances ought to be made; dress is every
thing, as our lieutenant-colonel used to say. Now, if it were not for
that stripe on your trousers, your military cloak, and foraging cap--”

“It’s very likely you would not have guessed I was in the service,” said
the officer.

“Exactly so,” replied his companion. “But what say you, sir?--shall we
breakfast together?--I’m a respectable man, and well known in most
towns in the West of England. I travel in my own line, and do business
extensively on commission, in old or damaged hops, especially in Wales,
where I’m going the next trip the passage-boat makes.”

“I can have no doubt of your respectability, sir,” said the officer;
“and accept your invitation very cheerfully.”

“Well, come along then, my boy!” exclaimed the traveller, descending,
for a moment, from his dignity of deportment; “and we’ll have a dish of
chat. Have you been abroad?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the young officer; “I had the honour of serving,
with my regiment, at Waterloo.”

“Bless my soul! I’m very glad, sir--very glad, indeed:--there are two
or three points, about which I have long wished to have my mind settled,
relative to that business;--but I never yet had the luck of meeting with
an eye-witness of the battle. Why, sir,--it’s the oddest thing in the
world, you’ll say;--but at the moment you addressed me, I was thinking
of Hougoumont, and the other places whose names you recollect, no doubt,
better than I do.--And what do you think put it into my head? Why, I’ll
tell you:--as I was walking along, the waves, with their bold flow,
surmounted by spray, with the sunbeams dancing about them, reminded
me of a regiment of cuirassiers advancing to the attack: so, to get a
better appetite, in the enthusiasm of the moment I metamorphosed myself
into a battery, and began playing away upon them with pebbles.--Child’s
work, you’ll say, and derogatory to the character of a man of dignity.”

“I do not exactly agree with you, sir,” said the officer; “great men
have often indulged in the most childish amusements; we are told of one
who caught flies, another who made himself a hobby-horse for his
little family, and a third who enjoyed the frolics of a kitten:--on the
authority of these, and many similar precedents which I recollect, there
seems to be no good reason why a gentleman, who travels in South Wales,
on commission in the damaged hop line, should not, in a moment of
relaxation, Don-Quixotise on the basks of the Severn, by turning the
waves of its rising tide into French cuirassiers, and pelting them with
pebbles.”

“Sir, I like your manner amazingly!” exclaimed the traveller; “and if
you will take any little extra, such as a pork chop or so, with your
chocolate--”

The officer interrupted his companion, by stating that he never took
pork chops with chocolate; and immediately began talking about the
battle of Waterloo, of which, during the walk to the inn, and while
breakfast was preparing and demolishing, he gave the traveller a very
animated and interesting description.

His companion, in return, volunteered a narrative of the most important
military event he had ever borne a share in. “I allude,” said he, “to
the great sham fight, that took place eleven years ago, near a certain
ancient and respectable borough, in a neighbouring county, at which I
had the honour of being present, with a corps you have, probably, heard
of, rather by the honourable and appropriate nick-name of ‘The Borough
Buffs,’ than by the one which appeared on its buttons and orderly-books.
There was not, perhaps, a more loyal association in the kingdom: we had
not a single French frog on our uniform; which, although I say it,
was one of the most elegant specimens of regimentals that has yet
been produced. Our lieutenant-colonel was as brave and talented a
volunteer-officer as ever wore a sword; and so much satisfaction did he
give to his fellow-townsmen, or fellow-soldiers,--it matters not which,
for they were both,--that a gold cup was presented to him at a public
dinner, the very day before the sham fight took place, in testimony
of the gratitude felt by the whole corps to their worthy and respected
lieutenant-colonel,--whose name was Nickelcockle. The party consisted
of all our own officers, and six or eight guests, who were attached to a
division of a marching regiment, with blue facings, that happened to be
quartered in the borough. Perhaps you never sat down to a more elegant
dinner:--eatables excellent,--every thing that was expensive and out of
season; wine of the first price; and the speeches any thing you
please but parliamentary. That of our major, Alderman Arkfoot, when he
presented the cup, was one of the neatest things I had then heard: but
it was rather eclipsed by Lieutenant-Colonel Nickelcockle’s reply;
who, to his other gifts, added that of eloquence, in an extraordinary
degree.--He was, indeed, an eminent man: ambitious, daring, and
talented,--he had, as he frequently boasted, risen from the shop-board
to be one of the greatest army-clothiers in the kingdom; and retired,
in the prime of life, with a splendid fortune, and one daughter, Miss
Arabella Nickelcockle, who is now the wife of a baronet.--But to return
to his speech:--‘Gentlemen, and brother officers of The Borough Buff
Volunteers,’ said he, ‘this is the proudest moment I ever
experienced since I have been a soldier.’ At this early period of our
lieutenant-colonel’s speech, several of the officers belonging to the
marching regiment, testified their approbation by crying ‘Hear!
hear! bravo! hear!’--‘Gentlemen, and brother officers,’ continued
the lieutenant-colonel, ‘my gratitude is immeasurable, and therefore,
inexpressible.’--‘Cut the shop, colonel!’ whispered the adjutant, who
sat on his right hand, and who, it must be confessed, too often prompted
the lieutenant-colonel, both at our convivial meetings and on parade,
to be quite agreeable: indeed, the fact was frequently noticed by the
corps, and whenever the circumstance was broached, the parties who
mentioned it, invariably sneered; which clearly shewed their opinion
of the matter. The lieutenant-colonel was too good-natured by half, and
took the intrusive hints of the adjutant much too easily; at least, in
my opinion.--‘Gentlemen, and brother officers of The Borough Buffs,’
resumed the lieutenant-colonel; ‘anxious as I am, at all times, to avail
myself of the advice of our worthy and experienced adjutant, I cannot
make it fit my own feelings to do so at present: he says, ‘Cut the shop,
colonel!’--Now, although I have retired, I cannot forget that I owe my
present situation to trade and commerce. I rose, by my own merit, to the
highest civil posts in the borough; and, brother officers, I also did
ditto from the ranks of this corps to be its lieutenant-colonel!’ Here
the shouts of approbation were nearly deafening: the regular officers
at the lower end, seemed, by their ‘bravos!’ to pay a compliment to the
gentle-men-tradesmen, who were about them; and, no doubt, enjoyed the
vexation of the crest-fallen adjutant, if one might judge by their
laughter. Several glasses were broken; and one of the corporation took
off his wig, and flourished it so enthusiastically round his head, that
a shower of powder descended on the persons who sat on each side of
him, as well as those immediately opposite. As soon as order could be
restored, the lieutenant-colonel proceeded with his speech. ‘Gentlemen,’
said he, ‘without any disrespect to our guests, I beg to say, that an
armed citizen is the best of soldiers. And why?--Because he has his
shop, his goods, his book-debts, _et cetera_, as well as his King and
country to fight for.’--‘Bravo!’ and ‘hear him!’--‘I know that some
of the wits, as they call themselves,--the opposition party of the
borough,--and those who are _out_ of place, I have always remarked, shew
their wit much oftener than those who are _in_;--I say, gentlemen, that
some of the _outs_ have been sneering at the cup and its trimmings: they
say that the handle of it looks more like a goose than a swan; which is,
doubtless, a hit at my profession:--but to the utter confusion of the
discontented wise-acres, for once in their lives they are right! I
confess, much to the credit of the artificer, that it does look more
like a goose than a swan. And why! Because, gentlemen--because it was
intended for a goose!--It is, to my knowledge, cut out from an old Roman
pattern, which, I presume, was originally made about the time when the
bird I mentioned came into notice among the first circles, for having
saved Rome, as you all have read in ancient history or elsewhere.’ Major
Arkfoot, who had manifested considerable,--and, if I may say so,--very
unbecoming impatience, during the latter sentence or two, here
interrupted the lieutenant-colonel, in a most un-officer-like manner,
and flatly stated that he was labouring under a mistake:--he, Major
Arkfoot, had been honoured with the orders of the committee, to make
the cup, and he offered to pawn his entire credit, that the figure
was intended for a swan; although, he confessed, there was a slight
deficiency in the resemblance: ‘but that,’ said he, ‘with the greatest
respect I say it, lies at the committee’s door: they spoiled the ship
for a ha’porth of tar; if they had only given me the other five guineas,
which I demanded, the bird’s neck would have been at least an inch and a
half longer, and so made all the difference.’ ‘Well, gentlemen, goose
or swan,’--pursued the lieutenant-colonel; but before he could utter
another word, several members of the committee rose at once, to address
the major, who vowed that though its neck was rather abbreviated, it
certainly was, to all intents and purposes, a swan; the officers of the
marching regiment, at the lower end of the table, vociferated, ‘A goose!
a goose!’ and Alderman Major Arkfoot, finding he had the worst of it,
rose again, and roared loud enough to be heard, ‘Well, gentlemen, as
my dissentient voice does not seem to yield infinite delight to the
company, without offence to the lieutenant-colonel, a goose let it be
dubbed!’ And it was so most unanimously. While the lieutenant-colonel
endeavoured, as he said, to pick up the thread of his discourse, which
had been interrupted in the manner I have mentioned, I cast my eyes
toward the lower end of the table, and, truly, I never remember to have
seen any gentlemen more cheerful at table, than the officers with the
blue trimmings. The lieutenant-colonel next touched upon the important
subject of the great sham fight, on the ensuing day. After describing
the general appearance, the advantages and disadvantages of the
field,--viewing it with a military eye,--he descanted at great length,
on the importance of the post to which The Borough Buffs were appointed.
It was a hill that rose almost perpendicularly from the bank of a swift
brook, and was nearly inaccessible at all points except in the rear.
‘Brother-officers,’ cried the lieutenant-colonel, ‘the gallant
general who commands us, on this occasion, pronounces the post to be
impregnable;--and I feel most grateful to him for the high honour of
having entrusted its defence to the gallant corps of Borough Buffs
under my command. We form, gentlemen, the right arm--the adjutant says,
‘wing’--but I say, the right arm’--‘Wing!’ interrupted the
pertinacious and very unpleasant adjutant. ‘Well, the wing,’--thus the
lieutenant-colonel went on; ‘the gizzard-wing, of what are supposed
to be the English forces:--our instructions are, to maintain our post
against a regiment of breechless Highlanders; and I doubt not but that
success will crown our efforts. Let not our renown be tarnished by the
non-attendance of any of the officers or privates of the corps;--let not
any man’s wife or family, by vain fears, induce him to hang back on
this occasion. It is the first time we have ever had an opportunity of
distinguishing ourselves; and I pledge my word that there is no more
danger than in an ordinary parade. The general, when he inspected us,
did me the honour to say, that there was not a corps in the service
whose accoutrements were cleaner, or whose coats fitted better.
Brother-officers, let us prove that we fit our coats, as well as they
fit us;--let us shew those who sneer at us for being tradesmen, that,
if we do--as they say--if we do drive bargains upon parade, we can also
drive the enemy in the field!’ The applause which had been gradually
increasing at every interval between the lieutenant-colonel’s sentences,
here reached its climax; the officers at the lower end of the table very
freely joined in it, out of respect to the corps; indeed, the conduct
of these gentlemen was exceedingly flattering on this occasion. But to
continue:--‘Gentlemen,’ exclaimed the lieutenant-colonel, ‘I know that
your feelings match exactly with my own; but, remember, we have a keen
enemy to encounter; we must, therefore, be as cool, as collected, and
as sharp as needles. We shall be supported by two companies of infantry,
who will take up a position, at a little distance on our left, and so
connect us with the main line. The companies I allude to are of that
glorious and gallant regiment to which our worthy guests with the blue
facings belong: they, as well as a troop of yeomanry, which I expect
will muster six or eight-and-thirty strong, will be tacked to The Borough
Buffs and receive my orders.’--‘Compose, with our corps, the division
under my command,’ muttered the adjutant But the lieutenant-colonel
either did not hear, or would not heed him, and went on with his speech.

“‘Gentlemen,’ said he, ‘I have only to repeat my thanks for the honour
you have conferred on me;--to beseech the greatest punctuality,
neatness, and despatch, to-morrow; and to drink success to the loyal and
efficient corps of Borough Buff Volunteers!’ The tumultuous cheers with
which this toast was received, I will not attempt to describe. The
lieutenant-colonel sat down very well satisfied with himself, as well he
might, and everything went on amicably for above an hour; when the peace
of the party was rather disturbed by a violent quarrel, between Alderman
Major Arkfoot and Alderman Lieutenant Squill, one of the committee-men,
relative to the goose or the swan,--whichever it might be, on the
presentation-cup. Words, at last, rose to such a height, that Alderman
Arkfoot--very indecently referring to connubial affairs, totally without
foundation,--for I do not think any man, besides her husband, was better
acquainted with the private life and domestic virtues of Mrs. Squill
than myself,--most injudiciously, in his heat, called Alderman Squill ‘a
cuckoldy cur!’ Alderman Squill asked, very warmly, ‘what he meant by his
_double entendre?_’ And the corps might have been seriously disgraced,
by an effusion from that feature whence no military man wishes to shed
his blood, when the lieutenant-colonel, with that infinite presence
of mind for which he has always been admirable in business, the
council-chamber, or the field, rose up, and placing a hand on each
belligerent party’s mouth, who were sitting, or rather, standing, within
his reach, and opposite each other,--called upon one of the officers
with the blue facings, for a sentiment or a song. A tall captain, whose
face, if I may presume to say so, was too ferocious to be genteel, but
who had, I must needs testify, been very prominent in applauding
the lieutenant-colonel’s speech, immediately complied, and, with his
victorious voice, soon vanquished the inimical and unsociable uproar at
our end of the table, which ought to have set a pattern to the junior
officers in the centre. But a good-natured gentleman’s song or saying,
often produces an effect very different to what the singer or the sayer
intends; and this was the case with the ditty of the captain of the
ferocious aspect and colossal voice. His burthen, or chorus, which he
meant as a compliment to us, was turned into a sneer, by some who sat
near the colonel, and who always felt sore even at a compliment on the
corps from any of the regulars. The words of the chorus were, simply, as
I shall here specify;--to wit,--as the law says:--

     ‘The Borough Volunteers, my boys,
     Are men both stout and bold;
     And when they meet the enemy,
     They scorn to be controll’d!’”

“For my own part, I felt obliged to the gentleman, and considered the
expressions as highly gratifying to every member of the corps; but there
were some about me who thought differently. They said, that the word
‘stout,’ in the second line, was palpably meant satirically, on account
of the portliness of the greater part of the officers of The Borough
Buffs; and that the two last lines were intended to be offensive,
because the singer well knew that our corps, never yet having had
the good fortune to be opposed to an enemy, could not possibly have
exhibited its valour. There were two riders tacked to this reading
of the lines; one of which was, that the words, ‘They scorn to be
controlled!’ amounted to an impeachment on our discipline: the second,
I recollect, went further, and broadly stated, that those words implied
cowardice; and that, were the corps ever to be brought face to face with
an enemy, we, The Borough Buffs, should, in our fears, so scorn control,
as to shew our adversaries a regiment of heels! Alderman Arkfoot
observed, that as we were all in regimentals, we ought to feel and act
as gentlemen, and call the individual to an account for his obnoxious
chorus; which, he doubted not, might be explained away; but for
the honour of the corps, he thought it ought to be noticed. The
lieutenant-colonel, and several others, were of the same opinion; and it
was unanimously agreed, that the officer, with the ferocious aspect
and exceedingly stupendous voice, should be hauled over the coals.--The
discussion was held in a low tone of voice amongst ourselves, at the
head of the table; we had arrived at that point, when men break into
knots, and discourse in dozens, so that our debate was unheard and
unnoticed by those who were below us. It was agreed that satisfaction
should be demanded; and there the matter seemed to rest, or rather, to
be dying away, for nobody volunteered to do the needful. At last, when
another subject had been started, the adjutant mooted it up again, by
saying, that we reminded him of the fable of the mice, who decided on
putting a bell round Grimalkin’s neck, but no valorous individual would
undertake the exploit.--‘Gentlemen,’ continued he, ‘that the officer
at the bottom of the table did intend an insult to the corps, I have no
doubt;--far be it from me to say we do not merit his sneers;--but that
matters not; it behoves us to keep up a character, though we know we do
not deserve it The gentleman must be spoken with. I should do myself
the honour of presenting him with my card, but that it would be a high
breach of military decorum for me to take precedence, in the business,
of the lieutenant-colonel and Major Arkfoot; on either of whom I shall
be proud and happy to attend on this most peremptory occasion.’ The
lieutenant-colonel and Alderman Arkfoot now thought they saw the
expressions in rather a different light: they very properly animadverted
upon the evil of bickering or quarrelling about trifles;--protested that
a joke was a joke;--observed that the gentleman was their guest, and
to-morrow was appointed for the sham fight; and, finally, began to joke
and jog off, by degrees, to other affairs;--giving such a favourable
colour to the matter, as they dropped it, as to excite my admiration and
respect. But the bull-dog adjutant still persevered in pinning them to
the point; and, in the end, positively drove our reluctant friends into
a tacit compliance with his request, to be constituted the second of
one of them in the affair. He would not speak to the officer with the
ferocious aspect and blue facings on the subject at table, but said he
should defer it until the party broke up. He then began to be horribly
gay and loquacious. Melancholy reigned among the rest of us, at the
upper end of the table, during the residue of our stay, and we wished
our worthy lieutenant-colonel and Alderman Arkfoot ‘goodnight!’ with
aching hearts;--blessing ourselves, individually and silently, as we
went home, that we were not field-officers of The Borough Buffs. The
adjutant, sure enough, spoke to the officer who had sung the song,
that night; but the gentleman would give no satisfaction, and was so
fastidious, as to refuse fighting either the lieutenant-colonel, the
major, or, as he said, any other mechanical or counter fellow in the
corps: but as for the adjutant, (who had served, I must tell you, in
a marching regiment, and sold out,) he’d fight him with the greatest
pleasure in life, because he was a gentleman. The next morning they met;
our adjutant was attended by a one-armed lieutenant of the navy, because
the friend of the officer of the ferocious aspect refused, like his
principal, to meet any of us on the subject. Thus the adjutant dug a
pit for himself; and none of us were more sorry than became us for it,
except that it deprived us of his advice in the sham fight; for the
wound which he received in the duel with the officer, although by no
means dangerous, was sufficient to prevent him from leaving his bed for
a week.

“The next morning, half the borough was in arms, and the remainder in
an uproar. We mustered, at an early hour, in a large field, adjoining
Captain Tucker’s tan-pits; and only nine men and one officer did not
answer to their names. The officer was Surgeon Tamlen;--he was obliged
to remain in attendance on Lieutenant Squill’s good lady, who was really
of such an affectionate and anxious turn, that her forebodings lest the
lieutenant should get hurt had so worked upon her nerves, that he left
her with positive symptoms of fever. Nothing, however, could deter him
from doing his duty; he felt satisfied that all her wants and wishes
would be attended to by Surgeon Tamlen, in his absence, and joined us
in very tolerable spirits, considering all things. I forgot to mention
that, besides the defaulters, a third of the grenadiers were absent
on some secret service, the nature of which we could not divine,
notwithstanding the lieutenant-colonel winked very significantly when we
noticed their non-appearance. Several ladies, in barouches and landaus,
with buff favours in their bosoms and bonnets,--the wives and daughters
of the officers and other leading men in the borough,--saluted us as
they dashed along the road which bounded the field, on their way to
the hill. Such a circumstance as a sham fight had not occurred in our
neighbourhood within the memory of man; and every lady was, naturally
enough, anxious to witness the interesting scene, in which her husband
or father was to bear some conspicuous part. Precisely as the clock
of the Borough Hall struck eight, we marched off, with drums beating,
colours flying, and everything agreeable and auspicious. I must give
the lieutenant-colonel the credit to say that, in our preliminary
manoeuvres, as well as during the march, the officers and men were much
more comfortable than if the adjutant had been with us; the latter being
a man who was eternally finding fault, where no other individual in the
regiment could perceive any thing to be amiss. After a distressing march
of two hours and a half, along a dusty road, we reached the rear of the
hill. There we halted for about twenty minutes, and then proceeded to
mount the acclivity, all the difficulties of which we overcame, and
on our arrival at its summit, were gratified by a prospect which fully
recompensed us for our toils. The secret service on which the
grenadiers had been sent was now very pleasantly palpable. Our excellent
lieutenant-colonel, whose prudence and attention on all occasions, no
words of mine can sufficiently applaud, had despatched, at day-break,
two artillery-waggons, which he had requested for the purpose from the
general, under convoy of our grenadiers, to the post we were to occupy.
The first waggon contained thirty rounds--not of ball-cartridges--but
beef, a strong detachment of turkies, a squadron of hams, a troop of
tongues, and several battalions of boiled fowls and legs of mutton. The
second waggon was garrisoned by hampers of wine, ale, and liquors;
and plates, knives and forks, bread, cheese, mustard, and all the
_etceteras_ of the table, were billetted in the various crannies and
corners. There was only one drawback on the delight which the appearance
of so many good things produced:--the men, not having been made
acquainted with the lieutenant-colonel’s kind intention of ordering
a cold collation out of our surplus funds, for refreshment after our
intended repulse of the Highlanders, had each brought his dinner in his
knapsack; or, where no private and individual provision had been made,
messes were arranged, and every man carried his separate quota for
the general good. For instance:--one had charged his knapsack with a
beef-steak pie, another with a ham, a third with a fillet of veal, a
fourth with a keg of ale, and so on. Notwithstanding this, we could not
help admiring our lieutenant-colonel’s foresight, in providing for our
wants and comforts. It was certainly to be wished though, that he had
not restricted himself to a wink or a nod on the occasion; and this was
the chief mistake in judgment which he committed, much to his praise be
it spoken, in the course of that arduous and eventful day. The ladies,
who had left their landaus and barouches at the foot of the hill, were
busy, on our arrival, laying out the refreshments in the most elegant
and tasteful manner imaginable:--each dish was garnished by laurel
leaves; and in the centre of the cloths, which were laid upon a part of
the ground that was levelled and mown for the purpose, we beheld, as
we marched along the flank of the collation, a device in confectionary,
which excited the warmest approbation of the whole corps--officers as
well as men: it consisted of a variety of expressive and appropriate
martial ornaments, around which buff ribbons were entwined, supporting
a splendid cage of barley-sugar, with a bird cut out of currant-jelly
inside it, and a cap of liberty surmounting the whole!--We gave three
cheers at the sight, and instantly prepared for action. But the colonel,
with evident indignation and his accustomed dignity, reprimanded the
corps in general, and two of the privates,--butchers and brothers,
by-the-by, who were sharpening knives on their bayonets,--in particular,
for this improper and very unsoldier-like ebullition. He pointed to
the Highlanders, who were already forming for attack at the foot of
the hill; and bade us remember that, in his last general orders, he
had specially enjoined every officer and man in the corps to eat a good
breakfast before he left home; so that no one had any excuse for being
hungry these two hours. The grenadiers were ordered to fix bayonets
in front of the collation, and the main body of the corps immediately
obeyed the word of command to march. In a few moments we were at the
brow of the hill; and there, in the presence of the Highlanders, and,
indeed, two-thirds of the whole field, the lieutenant-colonel put us
through as much of the platoon exercise as he thought fit. Only three
muskets were dropped during the drill; and, at its conclusion, the
lieutenant-colonel, Major Arkfoot, and the other officers who were
picked out for the staff, rode through the ranks, diffusing courage and
confidence, with small glasses of brandy, to every man in the corps.

“At length we heard the enemy’s right wing opening a tremendous fire far
away on our left; the lieutenant-colonel immediately dismounted, for his
horse did not exhibit sufficient symptoms of discipline to warrant our
commander’s retaining his seat; and, at that moment, the Highlanders
struck up a popular tune on their bagpipes, to which, on turning our
eyes towards the munitions, we observed our fair ladies reeling it away,
very elegantly, with the gallant grenadiers. On came the enemy, gaily,
as if they were going to a wedding; but, wait a bit, thought we, they
will look rather foolish when they come to the bank of the brook,--of
which they really did not seem to be aware. We were all ready to
break out into one universal shout of laughter at their surprise, and
immediately to gall them with a tremendous volley of blank cartridge;
when, to our astonishment, on reaching the bank, they marched into the
water, and slap through it, without breaking step, or the time of the
tune they played an their bagpipes!--Our lieutenant-colonel, as may very
naturally be supposed, was totally unprepared for this; even though they
did not wear breeches, he could not have foreseen that they would have
marched above their knees in water, at a sham fight:--but he did not
lose his presence of mind; he immediately ordered the drums to beat,
the fifes to play, the colours to be waved, the whole corps to fire, and
every individual, officers and all, to increase the noise of the volley,
by a stout and hearty hurrah!--We had scarcely obeyed his orders, when
the ladies set up a shriek which shattered every man’s nerves in the
ranks. We looked over our left shoulders at the sound, and, to our
infinite dismay and amazement, beheld a body of Highlanders at our
backs, advancing in double quick time, with bayonets fixed, to charge
us in rear! The lieutenant-colonel, perceiving the critical posture of
affairs, and ever alive to the welfare of the corps, ran round to
meet the enemy; and cried, with all his might, ‘Halt! remnant of the
Highlanders! Halt! remnant of the Highlanders! Halt, I repeat!’--But the
savage rogues, who had marched round the hill unperceived by us, while
their comrades advanced in front, heeded the lieutenant-colonel as
little as if he had been an oyster-wench, and still came on at a dogtrot
pace; while the other fellows of the regiment, who had, by this time,
nearly reached the brow of the hill, did the like, with loud shouts and
fixed bayonets, as though it were a real, instead of a sham fight. At
last,--the lieutenant-colonel in the rear, and Major Arkfoot in
front, being actually within a few paces of their points--the
lieutenant-colonel, out of a most fatherly regard for those under his
command, thinking the matter began to be above a joke, and not knowing
to what extent the terrific enthusiasm of the Highlanders might carry
them, gave at once the word, and a most excellent example to all who
chose to follow it, for retreating. Thus, we were compelled, through
violence and a fraudulent _ruse-de-guerre_, which we were totally
unprepared to expect in a sham fight, to leave our ladies, legs of
mutton, turkeys, wine, hams, and other provisions, at the mercy of a
rude and breechless enemy! One or two of our fellows, who could not
get away, described to us, afterwards, the unseemly glee with which the
hungry, half-starved Highlanders, sat down to our rounds of beef, boiled
fowls, tongue, and other dainties and drinkables; and how soon these
things disappeared before them. But what really irked and annoyed us
more than the mishap and loss of our collation, was, that the ladies,
for months after, vaunted the gallantry and politeness of the Highland
officers, who,--confound them!--it seems, protested against the
amusements of the fair ones being interrupted by their appearance; and,
after devouring the lieutenant-colonel’s cold collation, insisted, with
the most marked urbanity, on our wives and daughters continuing their
reels to the sound of the bagpipes, substituting themselves for the
flying grenadiers. We heard of nothing in the town, for ten months
after, but the gallant Highlanders and their handsome legs, and a dozen
other matters to which husbands and fathers have solid objections to
listen. Lieutenant and Alderman Squill had the ill-nature to say, that
he felt exceedingly happy that his wife had been taken so very unwell
that morning, as to be placed under the care of Surgeon Tamlen; and
those villains, the epigram writers, in the poet’s corner of our country
paper, had the impudence to lampoon us, for leaving, as they said, our
Dalilas in the hands of the Philistines. But we bore our taunts with
manly fortitude; though, I must say, the fact is not yet forgotten in
the borough; and the young ladies grieve, who were not old enough to be
on the hill, with their mamas or sisters, when the gallant Highlanders,
as they call them, routed The Borough Buffs.

“We retreated in such disorder as circumstances rendered inevitable
for above a mile, when our wind failing us, we rallied. The line was no
sooner formed than somebody proposed that we should lunch; the motion
was carried unanimously, and down the men sat to devour the contents of
their knapsacks: the lieutenant-colonel, Major Arkfoot, and the rest
of the staff, advanced to the carriages where the ladies had left their
provisions, under the laudable pretence of reconnoitring;--for field
officers must eat, although they should seem to be above it, as well as
privates. We occasionally heaved a sigh for the poor things we had left
behind us, and determined to effect a rescue at all hazards; but none
of us indulged in such unmilitary sorrow as to blunt the edge of our
appetites, and we proceeded to lunch very satisfactorily. But another
misfortune, which no human foresight could prevent, occurred to the
corps while we were eating. We had very naturally concluded that the
Highlanders would have remained content with obtaining possession of the
post; or, at any rate, been retained by the attractions of the collation
and the ladies; we, therefore, felt quite easy. But, strange to say, the
fellows not only devoured our provisions, danced, drank, and sang, while
we were retreating, but actually came upon us again before we could
fully sacrifice to the cravings of nature. The lieutenant-colonel and
the whole of the staff were taken prisoners, and driven off, under an
escort of Highlanders, in solemn mockery, in the landaus and barouches,
to our ancient borough; and we, who were now without an efficient
leader, felt obliged to scamper--we scarcely knew where. We acted as a
hive of ants, when their haunt is suddenly invaded by a ruthless brood
of juvenile turkeys; each of us snatched up a gun, a knuckle of ham,
a knapsack, or a loaf, no matter to whom it belonged, so that each
individual was freighted for the general good, and away to go!--We
had not proceeded far before we were overtaken, and our progress was
arrested by the troops under the orders of the captain of the ferocious
aspect, blue facings, and terrific voice. No sooner had he ascertained
the situation of our affairs, than he assumed the command, and ordered
us to halt, in a tone and manner that nobody felt inclined to
disobey. The Highlanders, finding that they were not a match for us in
retreating, had, previously, relinquished the pursuit, in favour of a
regiment of cavalry, who came down upon us at full speed. The captain
of the ferocious aspect seeing this, immediately drew us off into a
field,--for we were now in an inclosed country,--and after commanding
his own men, the yeomanry, and the centre company of our corps, to
fly in the greatest apparent disorder, ordered us to draw up, with
a quick-set hedge and a deep and very dirty ditch between us and the
enemy. When the cavalry had reached within a few hundred yards of the
hedge which protected us, the captain with the huge voice said, in a
whisper which was heard from one end of the line to the other:--‘The
Borough Buff Volunteers will all lie down in the ditch!’ This order
spread consternation through the corps; but down we were obliged to
go--in the filthy, abominable puddle and mire, lying in close order
from one end of the ditch to the other, and fouling our regimentals in
a manner that made us, collectively and individually, grieve in the most
superlative degree. Anon, the cavalry came up,--little dreaming that we
were lying in the mire and puddle,--leaped the hedge and ditch, in line,
and scampered off after the fugitives. They had scarcely galloped a
hundred paces, when the captain with the ferocious aspect ordered us to
rise, form on the bank, and pour a volley, which we had kept in reserve,
into their rear. The centre company, the regulars, and yeomanry, no
sooner heard the report than, in pursuance of orders they had received,
they formed and faced about for attack.--We then charged the enemy, in
front and in rear at the same moment; and there being no outlet to the
field on the right or left, the cavalry were completely placed at a
nonplus; and had the business been a _bona fide_ engagement, their
position, as you must needs admit, would not have been altogether
exquisite.--This manouvre of the captain with the blue facings and
ferocious aspect retrieved the honour of the Borough Buffs; and we
returned home with drums beating, colours flying, and great eclat,
notwithstanding we had lost our field-officers, our ladies, our
provisions, and possession of the impregnable hill.”

[Illustration: 128]



THE BACHELOR’S DARLING.

On a fine summer’s morning, a few years ago, two travellers were
observed by the turnpike-woman, approaching along the high road, towards
Bilberry Gate; both were on foot, and one of them led a very pretty
poney, laden with two or three half-filled sacks, and an assortment
of new and second-hand saucepans, ladles, and similar wares. As they
advanced, the turnpike-woman amused herself, by picking up such crumbs
of their discourse, as the distance between her and the interlocutors
would permit; and by putting what she thus gleaned together, Dame
Hetty discovered that they were strangers to each other;--the tinker’s
companion having scraped acquaintance with that worthy only a few
minutes before, on the ground of their both being, apparently,
journeying in the same direction. The tinker, she thought, was about
thirty, or two-and-thirty years of age, at the utmost; he was a rough,
thick-set fellow, of a middling size, with a loud voice and swaggering
deportment His companion, Dame Hetty set down in her own mind as an
Irishman, by his brogue;--he was, most likely, she thought, a beggar or
a ballad-singer, or both, by his accoutrements; he had a wooden leg,
a patch over his right eye, and the left sleeve of his ragged military
jacket seemed to be empty. Hetty conjectured from these appearances that
he might be an old soldier; but thought it was more probable that he
had lost his limbs and eye by casualties not produced by war; and
had assumed regimentals, as a striking costume for a maimed beggar or
ballad-singer, although, perhaps, he had never smelt powder since he
fired off penny cannons in his urchinhood.

These ideas came into Dame Hetty’s head, without any solicitation on her
part: she cared as little about the travellers as they did about her;
but she looked at them and thought about them merely for want of a
better subject, while she waited at the gate-side in expectation of the
tinker’s toll. When the two men and the poney arrived within a few yards
of the turnpike, they turned suddenly to the right, and entered a
lane which led towards a village a few miles off. The poney’s tail had
scarcely disappeared, when the dame entered the gate cottage, muttering
that this was the fourth time she had been disappointed, early as it
was in the day, by folks going down the lane instead of coming along
the high road. “But, odd!” said she; “I mustn’t expect every horse that
comes in sight will pass the gate, when it’s revel-day in the village.
If there were a bar, now, put across the lane, as hath long been talked
of, I should ha’ caught the tinker’s penny: but though he hath leave, my
husband never will do’t, that’s certain;--a stupid toad! if ‘tweren’t for
I, he wouldn’t have a hole to put his head in; and much thanks I get!
Lord! if I were but a man!”

While Dame Hetty was soliloquizing to the foregoing effect, the tinker
and his companion proceeded at a quiet pace down the lane: the narrow
road had a verdant margin on each side, of considerable breadth; it
was broken into knolls in some parts, and here and there a hawthorn
flourished, or a bramble sheltered a family of tall weeds: the thorns
and briars bore evidence that sheep were occasionally permitted to
pasture in the lane; a horse, with a huge log chained to one of his hind
legs, to prevent him from roaming far, was quietly grazing on one side
of the road; and nearly opposite him, a pig, wearing a collar, as an
estoppel to his invading the fields, by creeping through their hedges,
lay dozing on the other, near an old dung-heap that was nearly covered
with “summer’s green and flowery livery.”

The travellers had proceeded but a few paces down the lane, when they
observed a thin stream of smoke rising from behind a large bush,
which grew within a little distance of the right-hand hedge, and
they immediately turned their steps across the turf towards it. On
approaching nearer, they discovered a tall, lean man, in a plaid cloak,
actively engaged in raking together the embers of a fire, and placing
bits of dry wood upon a little blaze that shot up from its centre. “Is
this a gipsy’s old place, I wonder?” said the Irishman; “and is
the pedlar, for so I take him to be, making it up to cook his
breakfast?--God save ye kindly!” continued he, as he came within hearing
of the man in the plaid coat.

“Whither awa’, friend?” quoth the pedlar.

“Is it to the revel ye’re budging, Sawney?”

“What would ye give to ken, Paddy?--And if I were ganging that gate,
why for no, eh?--Ye seem to be cattle for that market yoursel’; wi’ your
bits o’ ballads, and them scraps or fragments o’ mortality ye’ve saved
fra’ the wars. Ye’re some broken-down beggar, I doubt Sauf us a’! isn’t
it rare to see sic trash perk up to a travelling tradesman, and address
an honest and respactable person wi’ a plain ‘Sawney?’--a mon, though I
say it, whose bill for sax, ay, or aught pounds, in Bristol or Frome--”

“Aisy! aisy, man!” interrupted the other; “aisy, or we’ll quarrel, I’m
sure;--and when I quarrel, I fight; and it isn’t before breakfast I like
fighting:--everything’s good in its season; so we won’t fight now.
As for your bill, though, I’ll make bold to say this,--so I will, any
how--as for your bill, I wouldn’t give the worst ballad I have, for
the best bill you or the likes o’ ye ever made:--but don’t let’s be
quarrelling, for all that.--Do you mark, though? if you cast any more
dirt upon my person or my goods, I’ll indorse that bill of yours, that
sticks up betuxt your two eyes, in the place of a nose, with the fist
that’s left me. I’ll engage, if I put my hand to it, it won’t add much
to its value, if you wished to raise money on it: but aisy, both of us;
quarrelling does no good.”

“Come, come,--I like thee for that, comrade,” said the third traveller;
“now that’s nature;--so shake hands, both of’ee, lads.”

“Oh! wid all my heart!” said the Irishman; “Darby Doherty isn’t the boy
to bear malice: but when a big fellow, with all his legs and things
o’ that kind left, tells me about my fragments, it puts me up--do you
see?--puts me up, sir:--though I’m not one for quarrelling, yet I’d like
to have a pelt at him; but it’s before breakfast--Why should he notice
my legs? It’s true then, sure enough, I’ve only one arm, one leg, one
wife and a child;---just a thing of a sort:--but suppose it’s my fancy
to be so; why should he throw it out at me?--wid his dirty pack--his
case of trumpery there!--May be I like number one; why shouldn’t I?--Now
if I was given to quarrelling, here’s an excuse, isn’t there? But I’m
not.--How does he know, tinker--for a tinker I take you to be”--

Here the tinker bowed, and again requested Mister Doherty to shake hands
with the North Briton. By his endeavours, in a few moments, peace was
restored; the Irishman seemed to have forgotten what had passed, but the
Scotchman sat rather sullenly by the side of the fire, which blazed away
very pleasantly. The important subject of breakfast was soon broached,
and Doherty made a proposal to club the contents of their wallets. The
tinker had a loaf of black, dry, barley-bread, and a triangular morsel
of cheese, which, Doherty said, was fit food for cannibals, who wore
hatchets in their mouths instead of teeth. The pedlar drew forth a
tin can, containing a small quantity of meal. The Irishman had nothing
eatable, but, as he assured his companions, an appetite that would make
up for the deficiency. “I never carry any food outside my skin,” said
he; “when I’ve a trifle of money to spare, I invariably invest it in
whiskey. I’ve just nine-pen’orth in my bottle here now; or may be more,
for it wasn’t empty when I made the last purchase; and I’d share it
most generously wid ye, if ye’d anything aqual in value to offer me in
return:--but you, tinker, have nothing but black bread, and a little
yellow bit of granite, you call cheese--”

“Nothing,--that’s it,” replied the tinker; “except a feed for the poney.
He! he! mayhap you’ll eat a oat?”

“Oh! go to Otaheite,--where Captain Cook couldn’t dress his dinner. Do
you take me for Cæsar, or any similar savage?--And you, Mr. Pedlar,
have nought in your wallet but dry meal, to make cold stirabout, or a
roley-poley bolus, worked up wid water, in the hollow of your hand.”

“Didna I tell ye so?” said the pedlar; “and a wee bit it is, as ye may
see.”

“And you’ve nothing in the wide world else?”

“Nought that ye can eat.”

“Then ould Ireland for ever! I’m a made man!--If you’ve nothing eatable
but meal, these red herrings are mine: I just picked them up from the
grass where your pack stood, a while ago, when you were dipping into it
for the meal-can. They can’t be yours, you’ll own!”

“I tell ye they are, though,” cried the pedlar, advancing towards
Doherty; “and what’s mair--”

“Aisy, aisy, again, or else we’ll quarrel,” said Doherty, pushing him
gently aside; “I’ll abide by what the tinker says.”

“He’s an intarasted party,” replied the pedlar; “and I’ll no constitute
him arbitrator.”

“Well, well, then,--I’ll tell you what we’ll do;--don’t let’s
quarrel;--to settle everything amicably, I’ll trate you to a herring
a-piece.--You won’t? Did you ever see the likes of him?--I’m sure we’ll
quarrel: I’m sure we’ll have a fight at last; though I wouldn’t for
five farthings,--and that’s money you’ll own;--but Jove himself couldn’t
stand this.”

“The ballad-singer speaks fair, in my mind, pedlar,” quoth the tinker.

“Hech! now, nane o’ your havers! I’m no sic a puir daft body as to be
gulled o’ my guids, by birds o’ your feather; rad harrings dinna swim
into a mon’s wallet, wi’ whistling; you must bait your fingers wi’
siller to catch them in these pairts,--and groats dinna grow upon bushes
noo-a-days.”

“Well, that’s true enough,” said the tinker; “give him his fishes, and
we’ll buy one a-piece of him.”

“Let’s know what he’ll take, though, before we part wi’ them,” said the
Irishman; “may be we’d quarrel about the price after.”

“Right,--very right,” replied the tinker.

“Sirs,” quoth the pedlar, “business is bad; the girls dinna pairt with
their hair noo, as they used, for a bauble or so,--a mon must hae
guid guids for them. I’d be free, and invite ye to share wi’ me,--but
prudence wouldna tolerate it in ane like me, that has eleven bairns.”

“Now that’s what I call nature!” exclaimed the tinker with considerable
emphasis.

“An arithmetical excuse for being stingy,” quoth Doherty; “Eleven
children! and I’ve one at home,--which is a bag at his mother’s
back,--that would eat as much as any seven of them. I’d another, once,
but the blackguard gipsies coaxed her away from the side of us, when
we was singing, ‘Rogues around you,’ at Weyhill. They did it by
ginger-bread, or something like it, I think;--bad luck to them!”

“Ay! ay! just as the pigeon people do decoy other folks’ young birds
by hemp-seed and salt-cats. Oh! it’s natura.--Why, now, there’s a chap,
whose sweepings I ha’ bought lately.”

“Whose what?” inquired Doherty.

“The sweepings of his loft,” replied the tinker; “he’s a pigeon-keeper,
and I’m a collector.”

“Oh! a sort of scavenger to the birds?”

“Ay, truly; there’s many dove-cotes hereabouts, and collecting be my
main business; they do use the sweepings in tanning. I pays a shilling a
bushel for’em if they be clean, and so turns an honest penny.--Tinkering
isn’t half what it was, since iron crocks have come in so much. To be
sure, the maidens do save the broken spoons for me to melt and mould
again when I comes round; and there’s a cullender or so, now and then,
to solder;--but what’s that?--I’m a tradesman, as well as the pedlar,
and what’s more, a mechanic; but if my trade won’t support me, why
should I support my trade, eh?--Well, what did I do; but take to
waddling, as we call it, for wood-ashes to sell to the soap-makers,
and pigeon-cleanings for the tanners; and so I contrives, one way and
another, to make a pretty good bit of bread.”

“Is this a specimen?” said the Irishman, taking up the tinker’s
loaf.--“If it is, faith! then, the world’s but a middling oven for you.”

“Stop!--here!” cried the tinker, as Doherty was about to roll the loaf
along the grass: “Don’t do that;--my poney is the biggest thief as ever
I knowed,--that is, for a horse. He’d snap it up in no time.”

“Would he?--Then I honour him for his talent; though the less we say
about his taste the better. Who taught him them tricks?”

“Why, I did--that is, partly--but somebody stole him from me.”

“Musha! then the man who did that, wouldn’t scruple to rob a thief of
his picklock. Well!”--

“Well, he got into the riders’ hands;--them chaps that goes about to
fairs, and revels, you know.”

“Yes, I know;--and they finished his education; and when you got him
again he was quite accomplished, without any trouble or expense to
yourself. Tinker, you’re a lucky man! I don’t think you and I would ever
quarrel upon a point o’ conscience.”

“No, no;--that wouldn’t be natural.”

“Friends,” observed the Scotchman, “we’re wasting time; and time, to
a prudent mon, is siller:--ye’re wasting it in idle discourse. The
harrings--”

“Oh! dirty butter upon your herrings and every one of them! Would you
pick a quarrel with me again?” vociferated Darby. “Tinker, bring me
one of your second-hand kettles, or crocks, and let’s make soup or
something, and go to breakfast. If you’ll club your herrings, your meal,
and your bread,--why then I’ll be my whiskey.”

The pedlar acquiesced with the best grace a man, who is compelled to
give his consent to a proposition, possibly could: a debate ensued, as
to the best mode of cooking the food; it was, at length, decided that
the meal should be boiled in a gallon of water, and that the herrings
should be broiled, and then put into the pot to give the mess a flavour.
“If that won’t make it salt enough,” said Darby, “a bit of burnt stick
will do the business royally. The finest salt in the world is the ash of
an ash stick. Now, boys,” continued he, “see, here’s the whiskey bottle.
I’ll just hitch it up, by the string that holds it about my neck, to the
branch above us here;--so that, when we sit down, we can swing it one to
the other, drink, and let go again, without any fear of its being upset
Oh, then! discretion’s a jewel any day in the year.”

Doherty now began the culinary task, in which he exhibited a
considerable degree of dexterity, considering his bodily deficiencies.
While his only hand was employed in preparing the herrings for the
gridiron, with which the tinker had furnished him, his wooden leg was
whirled rapidly round the crock, to mix up the poor ingredients that
served as the basis of his broth. An onion, which the tinker found in
his coat-pocket, was shred and thrown in, with a few wild herbs, which
the pedlar, with his pack safely strapped to his back, condescended to
gather from the adjoining hedge-row. A steam, at length, began to rise
from the crock, which the parties interested in the contents, found most
grateful to their olfactories: the broiled herrings were immersed in
the broth; Doherty drove them, vigorously, two or three times round the
crock; and matters approached fast to a crisis. The cook exerted himself
to his utmost; and, in the enthusiasm of the moment, perhaps rather
over-zealously, took his wooden leg out of the broth and thrust
it beneath the crock to stir up the embers, when some one, who had
approached unperceived by either of the party, gently touched Darby’s
elbow. He turned half round, and beheld a little girl smiling by his
side.

“Will you please to tell me, if I am in the right road to the revel,
sir?” said the little girl, in a very winning and innocent tone.

“Is it the road to the revel, darling?” said Darby; “Why, then”--Here
Darby stopped short, and his eye wandered over the features and person
of the young inquirer. She was apparently about ten years of age; her
skin was remarkably fair; and her eyes, as Darby afterwards said, were
as blue and beautiful as little violets. She was dressed in a black
stuff frock, a tippet of the same material, and a seal-skin cap, with a
gold band and tassel, which seemed to have been very recently tarnished
by the weather. She wore gloves, but had neither shoe nor stocking; and
the sight of her delicate, white, little feet, as she held them up, one
after the other, toward the fire to warm them, convinced Darby that she
had but very lately been compelled to walk barefooted.

“Oh! sir, you’re burning your wooden leg!” said the little girl, while
Darby was gazing at her, and wondering who and what she could be; and
so absorbed was the worthy ballad-singer in the interesting speculation,
that he had, in fact, forgotten to withdraw his leg from beneath the
crock, where he had just placed it, as will be recollected, when the
little girl touched his elbow. At the moment she advised him of the
fact, Darby received a hint or two that corroborated her assertion;--the
flame had twined up the stem, and rather warmed his stump, and the fire
blazed with such vigour, recruited as it was by the supply, that the
broth boiled over. His two companions, who were close at hand, both
observed this latter circumstance an instant after the child had spoken;
the pedlar cried aloud to Darby to save the broth, and the tinker
shouted with glee to see the Irishman sacrificing his trusty support for
the common good. Doherty did not lose his presence of mind: he withdrew
his leg from the fire, and popped it into the pot;--thus extinguishing
the stump, withdrawing the additional stimulus to the fire, and breaking
down the rebellious head of the herring-broth, by that single and simple
act.

The child could not refrain from giggling, miserable as she evidently
was, at the scene; and Darby looked alternately at her and his leg, when
he withdrew it from the pot again, in so droll a manner, that the
little girl burst into a fit of laughter, which the Irishman, very
good-naturedly, subdued, or rather, smothered with kisses.

“Well, my pretty little maid!” said he; “and where have you come from,
agrah! eh?”

“Oh! a long--long way; it’s farther than I thought it was when I began.”

“And what do you want at the revel?”

“I mustn’t tell you.”

“Eh, then! why not, eh?”

“If I was to tell you why I mustn’t, you’d know what I wanted at the
revel.”

“And where’s your stockings and shoes? Have you put them in your pocket,
as the girls do in Ireland?”

“No, indeed;--I wore them out yesterday.”

“And how far have you walked barefoot?”

“Oh! ever so far!”

“And how far’s that?”

“I can’t tell.--Is this the road to the revel?”

“It is;--but what hurry? Won’t you wait and take pot-luck with us?”

“I’m hungry, thank you, sir, but I don’t think I could eat any
pot-luck,--it smells so odd; I never tasted pot-luck in my life; but I
thank you, sir, for all that, you know.”

“Now, do you hear that? Do you hear the innocence of her? God send we’d
better for you!--though you won’t tell us where you come from.”

“I shouldn’t wonder but she hath been stole away,” said the tinker;
“stole away, and carried afar, and now hath got liberty, and is seeking
home again. That’s nature, you know:--a pigeon would do it; a carrier, a
horseman, a dragoon, or a middling good tumbler even; and why shouldn’t
a child?”

“Wha may ye be in mourning for, my wee lassie?” inquired the pedlar. He
was proceeding to ask something about her father and mother, when Darby
put his hand on the pedlar’s mouth, and whispered “Wisht! wisht! why
not now, eh?--Aisy, or well quarrel. Don’t you know, you old snail, you!
that a child in black should never be axed who it’s worn for? May be her
mother’s dead,” continued he, raising his voice, and fondling the child
as he spoke; “and your goose of a question raised her dead ghost up to
the little one’s memory. Look there--see that now--if the tears ar’n’t
running out of her eyes: may be she hasn’t a father;--and you--ye
spalpeen, to hurt her feelings that way I Oh! fie upon you, sir!”

“Eh, mon! dinna prate; it’s your ain sel’ that did the business.--Come
hither, lassie! lassie, come hither!--Could you eat--that is, ha’ ye
appetite for--a bit of a harring, daintily broiled? An’ ye could stomach
it, I hae just ane in my pack, and I’ll broil it mysel’, and ye shall
eat it wi’ a bit o’ biscuit, I think there may be in the pack too.”

The child smiled in the pedlar’s face, and, with a nod, signified that
she would accept his offer. The pedlar then produced a fine herring from
a corner of his pack, and after a diligent search, discovered a piece
of biscuit, which he gave the little girl, who curtsied as she took
it These transactions by no means gratified Mr. Doherty: he was in a
passion with the pedlar; first, for possessing a fourth herring; and
secondly, for alluring their little guest with it from his arms: he also
considered the North-Briton’s emphatic offer to broil it himself, as a
sneer upon his own culinary achievements. Darby was actually at a
loss for words to express his feelings, and he had recourse to action:
thrusting his hand deep into his bosom, and twisting his hip to meet
it, he seemed to be diving into some pouch, that was rarely visited, and
difficult of access. In rather more than a minute, his hand re-appeared,
with a little odd-shaped bundle of rags in its clutch. With the aid of
his teeth, he contrived to take off several pieces of ribbon and linen,
and, at length, a small metal snuff-box, in the shape of a high-heeled
and sharp-toed shoe, emerged from the mass He opened it and took out
a sixpence. “There,” said he, (for he had now recovered his speech,)
throwing the coin toward the pedlar, “take the price of your herring
and biscuit, and give me the change.--She shan’t be behoulden to
you!--Little one!” continued he, addressing the child, “don’t listen to
him; don’t bite at his bait, nor don’t go wid him, darling.--Will I tell
you what he is?--He’s one o’ them people that cuts the long hair off
the girls’ heads, and gives them gew-gaws for it He’ll take you under a
hedge, or, may be, when you’re asleep, pull out a big pair of shears and
clip off all them pretty locks, Which he’d make shillings of again, from
the hair-merchants; for I see you’ve longer hair than most maids of your
age; and, faith! it’s beautiful, and he knows it He’s looking at it as a
cat would at a mouse.--He’s a bad man, my dear.”

“Is he?” said the little girl, apparently half alarmed, but still
feeling rather inclined to doubt Darby Doherty’s account of the
pedlar;--“Is he a bad man?--Then why do you stay with him?”

“I won’t--no, not while you’d whistle, after I’ve ate his
herrings;--that is, if you’ll come wid me.--Will you?”

“Perhaps,” replied the little girl, “he’ll say you are a bad man; and
then what can I do?”

At this the tinker laughed and muttered something about nature. The
pedlar still held the child, and putting his hand under her chin, turned
her face upwards, and then looking down upon her, spoke thus;--“My wee
woman, I hae eleven bairns, some younger than yoursel’, and I wouldna
harm sic a puir, wee, defenceless child as thee, for the worth of an
ingot of pure gold; it would weigh down my heart on a death-bed, and
carry my soul into the sorrowfu’ pit I’m a tradesman, and traffic in
hair, as he has just told you, and have a family,--eleven bairns,
a wife, myself, a daft brither, my first wife’s aged and bed-ridden
mither, and a sister’s son, as wee and as fatherless as ye seem
yoursel’;--saxteen mouths to find food for to-day and to-morrow, and
every morn that I rise. I travel far and near to get it.”

“Just like a good cock-pigeon,” interrupted the tinker; “I’ve known an
old bird feed the young squeakers in one nest, and his mate to boot,
while she was setting over her eggs in another:--tightish work!--but
there--it’s natural.”

“And I dinna scruple,” continued the pedlar, without noticing the
interruption of his companion; “I dinna scruple to do my best, and
barter, as well as I can, in order to get bread and cheese;--but not
with the like o’ thee, cherub. I canna’ take thee by adoption, for I hae
eleven o’ my ain.--I’ll hold out no temptation o’ that sort; but I’ll
carry thee, on the head o’ my pack, safe and clear to the revel, if
there’s ony there ye hae a wish to see.”

“For that matter,” cried the tinker, “she can ride a-top of my poney,
with the pots and that.”

“Oh! don’t be bothering!” shouted Doherty; “she shall ride upon my
wooden leg, or anywhere about me, for have her I will; to the revel
she goes wid me, right or wrong, in spite of man or baist, tinkers,
tay-kettles, pedlars, packs, pilfering ponies, and the whole fratarnity
of ye.--I’ve said it, and so it shall be.--How do I know,--answer me
this,--how do I know that she isn’t the child I lost long ago, eh?--That
was a girl, and isn’t this a girl? Now don’t be trying to bother my
brains with a reply.--Darby Doherty is my name, and I’m to be found
any day, here or there, one place or another, if you go the right
road.--Pedlar, stop thief! the tinker has stole a herring out of the
pot.”

“Ay, truly, it’s time to fall to,” quoth the tinker.

“Wait a moment!” exclaimed the Irishman; “one moment, and we’ll all
begin amicably. Hear what I’ve to say:--I’ve spoken what I thought about
my honourable friend the pedlar’s scheme on the little one; and why
mayn’t I indulge in an idea that the worthy tinker, in offering to let
his poney carry her, doesn’t speculate--bad luck to his black paws,
how he’s streaked the broth!--doesn’t speculate upon the value of the
child’s ear-rings and little necklace?--So, for these reasons, I’ll let
neither of you have her:--now I’m aisy.”

“Why, do you mean to throw out hints--” said the tinker, laying his
herring on the grass, and advancing with a formidable frown and clenched
fists toward Darby; “dost thee mean--”

“Now don’t babble; the question’s settled,” said Darby; “don’t prate, or
we’ll quarrel.”

“And I’ll be jiggered if we don’t,--whether thee likes or not. I’ll
stand up for my own character;--it’s nature:--so ax pardon, or strip.”

“Strip! How the devil do you think I’d ever get my rags on again, eh?
Ha! ha!”

“Come, come; a joke won’t carry it off; it’s too heavy. Talk to I about
her rings!--I--I--I--Oh! d--n thee! I’ll thrash thee!”

The ballad-singer held up his stumps, and hopping back two paces, cried,
“What, would you assault one with not a plural offensive or defensive
about him?”

“Oh! dang that!--thee’rt right, though;--it’s natural Here, pedlar,
help me to tie up my leg and arm, and put thy neckerchief athirt my
eye:--fair play’s the word.”

The little girl now screamed loudly, and beseeched the pedlar to
interfere. “Oh! pray, dear Mr. Pedlar, don’t let them fight! Oh! he’s
going to kill the poor man with the little wooden leg!”

“Do ye hear--do ye hear?” exclaimed the pedlar, “how the bit
creature--the cause o’ your quarrel--”

“Oh! pray let me run away,” sobbed the child; “and then perhaps they’ll
be friends;--do let me go!”

“Stay, darling,” quoth Doherty; “rather than frighten the child, I’ll
consent to apologize:--the heat of the argument made me singe the
whiskers of my friend the tinker’s honour;--but if the child wasn’t
where she is, and we were after breakfast, just now, right or wrong,
tinker, we’d quarrel.”

“But not fight, it strikes me,” muttered the pedlar.

Calm was again restored, and the trio sat down to their breakfast. The
tinker’s loaf was divided; each man devoured his herring, and the
soup was dipped out of the crock, and drank from a little second-hand
saucepan, which alternately served each of the party. Darby’s bottle,
which was suspended from the branch above, before the meal was half
concluded, had neatly proved an apple of discord between the tinker and
the pedlar. Darby began, by taking a tolerably good sup of the contents;
he then swung the bottle to the pedlar, who held it so long to his lips,
that the honest tinker became alarmed lest he should not obtain his
share. The pedlar did not withdraw the bottle from his mouth; and when
he raised it to an angle of nearly forty-five degrees with the horizon,
the tinker could no longer sit easy on the turf. He started up, rushed
across the crock, which he upset in his transit, seized the pedlar by
the throat with one hand, and clutched the bottle with the other.

“Hold hard!” said he; “not a drop more goeth down thy gullet! Quit
thy hold o’ the bottle, or I’ll choke thee I--I will, faith!--it’s
natural:--thou hast had my bread, let me share in the whiskey.”

The residue of the broth made the fire hiss and send forth fumes, the
odour of which was truly disgusting. The little girl screamed again,
and Darby Doherty was in high hopes that the brawny pedlar would have
resented the tinker’s attack on his person: but he was disappointed.

“You’ll excuse me,” said the tinker, bowing as he succeeded in obtaining
possession of the bottle. “You’ll excuse me, but, truly--”

“Dinna mention it, friend,” quoth the pedlar. “I was wrong--I forgot
mysel’;--it was vara well of ye to look to your ain:--I forgot mysel’,
and should have taken it down to the ultimate drop; it glides away like
a joyful dream. It’s Farintosh, I doubt: and vara excellent gude as I’ve
tasted for mony a day.”

The child was much amazed to see storm and calm succeed each other so
rapidly; she felt alarmed at those whom chance had made her associates
and would-be protectors; but appetite mastered fear, and she soon dried
her eyes, and ate the remainder of a piece of the herring which the
pedlar had broiled for her while his companions were debating, and the
biscuit he had discovered in his pack.

After breakfast, the question as to who should take the child to the
revel, was again started. Each of the men spoke resolutely; and a third
quarrel was already budding, when the little girl stood up between the
brawlers, and proposed that, as all three of them were so kind as to
wish to take her, and neither of them would let her go with either of
the others, she should walk on alone; or, that all of them should go
with her together.

An immediate assent was given to this proposal; the motion, as Darby
said, was carried by acclamation; and preparations were immediately
made for starting. While the pedlar was buckling on his pack, the
poney neighed; and the tinker exclaimed, “Who comes hither, I wonder,
a-horseback?”

“Faith, no one that I see or hear, a-horseback or a-foot,” replied the
Irishman.

“Ay, but there do, though, sure as death,” said the tinker; “my poney
yean’t no false prophet I’ll lay pints round, a horse is coming: I won’t
swear for a man,--mind me;--but a horse I be sure of:--and, look--dang
me if ‘tean’t Parson Hackle!”

“And who’s he, then?” inquired the Irishman, as a tall, thin,
middle-aged man, in a black coat, with long leathern leggings,
reaching from his toes to his hips, and mounted on a fat, ambling, old
coach-horse, turned from the high-road, into the lane. “I’ll just make
my obedience and compliments to him as he goes by.”

“Thee’st better not,” said the tinker.

“Why not, then?--May be he’d drop me a keenogue and be civil.”

“Not he, friend; he’s a magistrate, and though a good man in the main,
mortally hates beggars.”

“Beggars!” exclaimed the Irishman; “sir, I’m a wandering minstrel--one
of the tribe of Orpheus of ould; who, as the song says, the stones
followed; and who, moreover, could move stocks themselves with his
music:--maning, I suppose, that he often got pelted by bad boys,
and whistled himself out of the stocks, with no thanks to the
beadle.--Musha! that I mightn’t, then!”

“Well! I can only tell thee, lad,” said the tinker, “Parson Hackle looks
as black at a ballad-singer, as his brother, the ‘squire, do at a man who
happens to be misfortunate wi’ a maiden.”

“Bad luck to the pair o’ them then!”

“So say I,” quoth the tinker; “I ha’ been in their clutches afore now,
and I’ll warrant the person you spoke of couldn’t ha’ bought his liberty
wi’ an old song, if he got into their wooden gaiters.”

“Oh! sir, sir! pray--dear sir!” said the little girl, who had several
times in vain attempted to make herself heard, during the preceding
dialogue between Darby and the tinker, “did you say the gentleman’s name
was Hackle?”

“Yea, I did, troth!” replied the tinker; “Parson Hackle.”

“Parson Hackle!” repeated the little girl; “where is he going?”

“Down to the revel, I reckon,” said the tinker, “like we be; only he
goeth a-horseback, and we poor folks a-foot; and he goeth to help to
keep the peace, and we, mayhap, to help to break it. I can’t answer for
myself, much more for my friends, after one o’clock.”

The tinker was right in his supposition that the reverend gentleman
was on his way to the scene of the revel, and necessity compels us to
accompany him; leaving the little girl and her three friends, to follow
us at their leisure. The Reverend Reginald Hackle rode on at a quicker
pace than his steed was accustomed to: Reginald partook, in some degree,
of the hereditary impatience of the Hackles; the humour broke out but
rarely, for Reginald’s life was as seldom ruffled, as the gentle stream
which glode along by the garden-hedge of his quiet abode: but he was now
on his way to pass a few hours with his brother Archibald, whom he
had not seen for a number of years; and the old horse, unused to such
exertions as those to which his reverend rider, on this occasion, urged
him, smoked like a dumpling recently lifted from a crock, by the time he
reached the village.

Hackle Hall, the ancient and odd-looking edifice, toward which Reginald
turned his horse’s head, on emerging from the lane, was the residence of
his elder brother, Sir Waldron; a man noted, as the tinker had stated in
other words, for being harsh and unforgiving to those rural rakes, from
whom scarcely any village in the kingdom is free. Neither Sir Waldron
nor Reginald was married; their younger brother, Archibald, had a wife
and a large family. Reginald, in addition to his duties as the pastor
of a neighbouring parish, educated six or eight youths of the first
families in the county, and Archibald had agreed to place his only boy,
Waldron, under Reginald’s care, for three or four years, in compliance
with the reverend gentleman’s affectionate and frequent invitations. He
had stolen away from London, leaving business, as he said, to take
care of itself for a few days, and brought young Waldron down with him.
Reginald was absent on his arrival, at a considerable distance, relative
to certain affairs, the arrangement of which he would have postponed,
had he been made acquainted with Archibald’s intended visit; but the
latter had determined, very suddenly, on the journey. On taking a mental
glance at his affairs one morning, while he was discussing a glass
of sherry and a sandwich, at Garraway’s, he discovered that there was
nothing remarkably pressing, in the way of business, for some days
forward: the funds were closed; two or three holidays at the public
offices occurred in the ensuing week; he had not been out of town,
except to fetch his family from a watering-place, for years past; he
yearned to see his brothers,--and sent a ticket-porter to book places by
the Exeter mail of the same evening. Young Waldron had scarcely time to
take leave of his mother and sisters; and as to packing up his clothes,
Mrs. Hackle declared such an exploit to be impossible. “Then what the
devil is there in these, my love?” said Archibald, pointing to two
trunks, a portmanteau, a carpet-bag, a bundle, and a hat-box, which lay
before him. Mrs. Hackle replied, that they merely contained a change of
linen, _or so_, and a few immediate necessaries for himself and his son.
“Then, I suppose,” said he, “Waldron may expect the main body of his
baggage by the broad-wheeled waggon.”

Partings and meetings between relatives are seldom of any interest
except to those immediately concerned in them: we shall not, therefore,
indulge in a description of what took place at the departure of
Archibald and his son from Mrs. and the six Misses Hackle, nor of what
Reginald said to Archibald, or Archibald said to Reginald, during the
first ten minutes of their interview at Hackle Hall. We rather prefer
relating the conversation of the three brothers after they had made a
tolerable lunch on a cold pigeon-pie and two quarts of very respectable
ale.

“Well, brother Archibald,” said the reverend gentleman as soon as the
tray was removed, “and, pray, what aspect does your native place wear to
your eye, since your long absence from it?--But you were so young when
you quitted it, for a dismal, smoky, London-merchant’s ‘counting-house,
that I suppose all recollection of it must have escaped your memory.”

“That’s the positive truth,” replied Archibald; “if I had remembered the
place and its people; if the least remnant of a sample had cleaved to
me, not even the pleasure of seeing you and Waldron, would have induced
me to have quitted the metropolis to pay it a visit.”

“You amaze me!” exclaimed Reginald; “the hospitality--”

“Oh! I’ve had enough of hospitality, believe me; and so had Gulliver,
in the arms of the Brobdignag monkey, who ran away with him, and poked
pounds of nauseous chewed food out of its own jaws into his; people are
sometimes offensively, cruelly hospitable. Here, now, for instance, was
I taken yesterday, by my brother, for a treat--mark me--to dine with one
Jehoshaphat Higgs--”

“Almost the sole remaining specimen,” interrupted Sir Waldron, “of
the fine, old-English, West-country yeomen;--a race, alas! now nearly
extinct I honour the man: he farms his own land; sends his sons to the
plough; his daughters to the spinning-wheel, and his wife to the
chum. He keeps up all the good old customs of the country; raises the
mistletoe on his beam at Christmas, and dances round the May-pole, with
his buxom dame, at seventy, as gay at heart, though not as light of
limb, as he did at twenty: I repeat, that I honour such men.”

“Honour them as much as you please, Waldron,” replied Archibald; “honour
them, and welcome; but, I beseech you, do not entrap me to honour
another of them,--if, indeed, there be such another blade as old
Jehoshaphat, hereabouts,--with any more visits. First, brother Reginald,
conceive the misery, if you can, of dining in a room, falsely designated
a parlour, with a sanded floor! My teeth were set on edge every time I
moved a foot.”

“Ay, but, brother, provided the table be well covered,” observed
Reginald, “one might, methinks, even put up with a clean, dry, sanded
floor.”

“Ay, ay, keep him to that, Reginald,” said Sir Waldron; “the table was,
indeed, well covered. I have not dined so well these three weeks. We had
a full course of downright thoroughbred old-English dishes;--Devonshire
dainties of the first water; such as that transcendant lyrist, Robert
Herrick, himself, when he dwelt in this country, doubtless, occasionally
feasted on; compared with which, your modern kickshaws, your town
messes, and hashes, and fricassees, and starved turtle, brother
Archibald, are as chaff, compared with its own grain. You shall judge,
Reginald: among other things, there was a remarkably fine-flavoured
muggot-pie;--a dish, of which, I find, by an old manuscript, in our
library, that the talented and virtuous Raleigh, was remarkably fond,
and moreover partook, three days previously to his execution.”

“In my opinion,” said Archibald, “a man who would be fool enough to
prefer muggot-pie to--”

“It’s fine eating, Archibald,” quoth Sir Waldron; “would that you had
tasted it!--and Sir Walter was a great man;--fine eating, on the honour
of a gentleman.”

“What! calves’ tripe baked in a pie, fine eating!” said Archibald; “if
this be the result of your dwelling in Devonshire--”

“I never was out of it but thrice in my life,” said Sir Waldron;
“and each time I had cause to repent of my folly.--But, to waive the
muggot--had we not, also, parsley-pie?--”

“Made, as its name implies, of the herb that’s used for garnish!”

“Squab-pie--”

“A horrible mixture of mutton-chops, apples, onions, and fat
bacon!--Most abominable!--the stench was enough to have defeated an army
of civilized beings. In fact, the dinner given by Peregrine Pickle’s
friend, the physician, in imitation of the ancients--”

“The ancients fed well,” observed Reginald; “Heliogabalus--”

“Was a nincompoop to Queen Elizabeth’s cook,” added Sir Waldron, rather
warmly; “whose mistress was served with fine natural meat and drink--”

“Such as muggot, squab, and parsley-pies, I suppose,” quoth Archibald.

“The appetites of the Romans,” continued Sir Waldron, “were, in latter
times, depraved; and so is my brother Archibald’s. Smollett very justly
ridicules the feasts of the ancients, in that passage of Peregrine
Pickle, where--”

“Really, brother Waldron,” interrupted Reginald, while a slight blush
tinged his cheek, “I must entreat of you to pass on to some other
subject; you know we never agree on this: if I have a failing--_if_,
said I?--I meant, that, among my numerous failings, that of being
slightly irritable, when the glorious masters of the world are
attacked, by one who cannot appreciate them, is, I am sorry to say, very
conspicuous.”

“Exceedingly so, Reginald,” replied Sir Waldron; “and if I have a virtue
in the world--I beg pardon--among my numerous virtues, that of standing
forth, manfully, for the customs of old England, and defending its
literature against any man who presumes to set up the cold, classical,
marbly stuff of the Greeks or Romans, in preference, is, certainly, I am
proud to say, most paramount.”

“_Pindarum quisquis studet emulari_, brother Waldron,” exclaimed
Reginald; but he was cut short, in his intended quotation, by Archibald,
who said, “And if I plume myself on any merit of mine,--except, from
my boyhood, always having balanced to a fraction,--it is on that of
preferring a good carpet to a sanded floor; a Hoby’s boot to a hob-shoe;
a tooth by Ruspini, to fill up a gap made by time, to no tooth at all;
a calf by Sheldrake, to make my left match with my right, to an odd
pair of legs; a good dinner of fish, flesh, and fowl, at Guff’s, or the
Albion, or in my own dining-room, to muggot, parsley, or squab pies, in
Devonshire; a glass of claret to poor pinch-throat cider; punch to such
filthy messes as buttered ale (hot ale with sugar, butter and rum!) or
_meaty-drinky_ (ale made thick with flour!); and the company of two
or three intelligent men over a bottle or a bowl, to all the famous
authors, from Homer downwards, Greek, Roman, and English; not one of
whose works I ever found half so useful as the Tables of Interest,
Patterson’s Roads, or the London Directory.”

This speech by no means raised Archibald in the estimation of either of
his brothers. Sir Waldron thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and
began whistling “Lillibullero.” Reginald sighed, and said to the man of
business, in rather a doleful tone, “But, surely, brother, you have not
forgotten your Horace; we were class-fellows together; you cannot be
blind to the beauties of those illustrious names--”

“Chaucer, Sidney, Spencer,”--said Sir Waldron.

“Euripides, Sophocles,”--quoth Reginald.

“Ford, Decker, Marlow,” thus the baronet proceeded; “Fletcher,
Jonson,--”

“Ha, ha!” exclaimed Archibald; “a list of very good people in their day,
no doubt;--indeed, they were clever, for I know it;--but there’s not
one of the names you have mentioned would make a bill five farthings the
better in Lombard Street.”

“But don’t you ever read, brother Archibald?” asked the reverend
gentleman, very earnestly.

“Ay,” said Sir Waldron; “don’t you sometimes take down a book to amuse
yourself?”

“Oh! yes; very often,” was the reply.

“Greek or Roman?”--

“Shakespeare, Donne, Randolph,--or what book, brother Archy?”

“My ledger, or bill-book, brother Waldron,” replied Archibald. His
two brothers, on hearing this, immediately rose from their chairs, and
walked to different ends of the room. “You may talk of interest, and
pathos, and so forth,” continued Archibald, “as much as you please, but,
egad! I find more pathos in that folio of my ledger, where Crumpton,
Brothers, and Cross are debited items, to the tune of seven thousand
pounds (speaking roundly), and their assignees credited with a dividend
of seven-pence-halfpenny in the pound, than ever I did in all the works
you have mentioned. The account of Crumpton, Brothers, and Cross is
real; invoices and delivery-receipts may be produced to establish all
the items: but the tales of your poets are generally altogether, and
always in part fictitious, like the begging letters which the Mendicity
people expose. Now, I can’t see, for the soul of me, why men in their
senses can ever be such asses as to invent and write tales of sorrow;
as if there wasn’t enough of _bonà fide_ grief in the world already:--or
how-, to go further, people can read, and suffer themselves to be
affected by such woeful stories, when they have troubles enough of
their own to cry over; and, moreover, when they know that what they
are perusing with aching hearts, is a farrago of lies:--and, egad! the
greater the lie, it seems, the greater the merit;--lying, in this way,
is called imagination. Why, sir, if any given author of eminence, were
to tell half as many falsehoods in person as he does in print, upon
my honour and credit, if he wasn’t reckoned a fool, he’d certainly
get kicked out of every house in the metropolis,--at least all those I
visit.”

“Brother, brother!” exclaimed Sir Waldron, “I cannot listen to this
folly.”

“Nor I; indeed, I cannot,” said Reginald. “But, perhaps, my brother
Archy preferreth the authors of modern days, and they delight him to the
exclusion of the fine old spirits of past ages.”

“Not so--not so, indeed,” replied Archibald; “they are all the same
to Archibald Hackle. I would rather have a good dinner than the finest
feast of reason that ever enthusiast described. I prefer a roasting
pig to Bacon; a Colchester oyster to Milton; a cut of the pope’s-eye to
Pope’s Homer; an apple-tart to-Crabbe; Birch’s real turtle to Ovid’s
Art of Love; and a roasted potato to Murphy. While others embark in
man-of-war, frigate, merchantman, heavy Dutch lugger, hoy, yacht,
bum-boat, gondola, canoe, funny, or other craft, for the wide ocean
of literature--let me enjoy myself in port. 1 would, any day, barter a
volume of Sheri_dan_ for a bottle of Dan sherry;--a second quarto for
the first pottle of strawberries, or a book by--”

“Brother Archibald, pr’ythee do not run on at this rate,” interrupted
Sir Waldron; “you, surely, are not so lost to all intellectual delights
as you pretend; you cannot be always employed at your business or your
bottle;--to say the least, you must have some time to kill.”

“Kill! kill time!--Oh, dear! no,” replied Archibald; “you know nothing
about the matter. Time travels too fast by half to please me;--I should
like to clip the old scoundrel’s pinions. The complaints which 1 have
heard, occasionally, of time passing away so slowly, _ennui_, and what
not, are to me miraculous. Time seems to travel at such a deuce of a
rate, that there’s no keeping pace with him. The days are too short by
half so are the nights; so are the weeks, the months, and the years. I
can scarcely get to bed before it’s time to get up; and I haven’t been
up but a little time, apparently, before it’s time to go to bed. I can
but barely peep at the Gazette, or any matter of similar interest in the
papers, and swallow an anchovy-sandwich, and a couple of cups of coffee,
when it’s time to be at the’counting-house. By the time I have read
the letters and given a few directions, it’s time to be in a hundred
places;--before 1 can reach the last of, them, it’s time to be
on ‘Change;--I don’t speak to half the people there, to whom I have
something to say, before it’s time to reply to correspondents; and my
letters are scarcely written before it’s post and dinner time. Farewell
business!--but then there’s no time for enjoyment: dinner, wine, coffee,
supper, and punch, follow in such rapid succession,--actually treading
on each other’s heels,--that there’s no time to be comfortable at either
of them. It’s the same in bed;--a man must sleep fast, or time will
get the start of him, and business be behind-hand an hour or two, and
everything in disorder next morning.--If I accept a bill for a couple
of months, it’s due before I can well whistle: my warehouse rents
are enormous; and, upon my conscience, Lady-day and her three sisters
introduce themselves to my notice, at intervals so barely perceptible,
that the skirt of one of the old harridans’ garments has scarcely
disappeared, before in flounces another. It’s just as bad with the
fire-insurances, and a thousand other things,--little matters as well as
great: a man can scarcely pick his teeth before he’s hungry again. The
seasons are drawn by race-horses; my family has barely settled at home
after a trip to Buxton, Brussels, or elsewhere, before summer comes
round, and Mrs. H. pines for fresh air and an excursion checque again. I
can scarcely recover the drain made on my current capital, by portioning
one daughter, before another shoots up from a child to a woman; and Jack
This or Tom T’other’s father wants to know if I mean to give her the
same as her sister. It’s wonderful how a man gets through so much in
the short space of life; he must be prepared for everything, when, egad!
there’s no time for anything.”

“Can this really be the fact?” inquired Reginald, incredulously.

“I give you my word and honour it is.”

“But,” said Sir Waldron, “you have actually complained to me, this
morning, how the past week has ‘dragged its slow length along’ with
you.”

“To be sure it has,” replied Archibald; “because I’m here--where I’ve
nothing to do--and nothing to eat.”

“Nothing to eat, Archibald Hackle!” exclaimed Sir Waldron, drawing
himself up with an expression of offended dignity; “Hackle Hall, sir, is
almost an open house, even to the wayfarer;--you are one of its sons. I
trust I have supported the honour of our ancestors while it has been
in my keeping;--if you think otherwise, brother Archibald, and can shew
that I have not deported myself as becometh the head of the family,
although you are my younger brother, I lie open to your most severe
censure.”

“My dear fellow,” said Archibald, in a familiar manner, that Sir Waldron
deemed altogether unsuitable to the circumstances of the moment,
“my dear fellow, I don’t care a pepper-pod about the honour of our
ancestors.”

“Not for the honour of our ancestors, brother Archibald!” exclaimed
Reginald, raising his eye-brows, and laying considerable emphasis on
every word, so as to make himself clearly understood.

“Ay, sir!” said Sir Waldron sternly; “not for the honour of our house,
eh?”

“Not a pepper-pod!” replied Archibald, coolly. “I have other things to
trouble me:--I care more about the house of Van Bummel and Crootz of
Amsterdam honouring its bills; except, indeed, that this house is
your property, Waldron;--but I suppose, of course, it’s insured;--you
couldn’t be such a fool as not to insure it;--and therefore, perhaps,
the sooner it’s burned down the better, if it wasn’t for the loss to
the company; for, to speak the truth, it’s one of the ugliest edifices
I ever had the honour of beholding. I dare say it was well enough a few
centuries back; but it has been so patched, and with so little attention
to orders that it looks as bad as a beggar’s coat. It’s a compound of
the tastes of every half century for these four hundred years past, and
harmonizes remarkably well, brothers, with the range of our ancestors’
portraits in the gallery:--there they are, bow-legs and bandy-legs, fat
old fellows in flowing wigs, who remind one of porters at a masquerade,
and brawny ruffians in armour, whose looks would half hang them, without
other evidence, in any court in the kingdom:--Round-heads, cavaliers,
churchmen, and knights of the shire;--mitres and helmets, cocked hats
and cones, with women to match, for each generation;--tag-rag and
bob-tail, pell-mell, higgledy-piggledy,--in all styles, costumes, forms
and fashions!”

“Those portraits, sir,” exclaimed Sir Waldron, “are
invaluable--invaluable, sir!”

“They wouldn’t fetch a pound a-piece, one with another, by auction,”
 replied Archibald: “the collection is just like the house itself; to
which each generation seems to have added its quota, more in accordance
with the fashion of the day, than the character of the building. What
remains of the original masonry reminds me of an old iron chest; and the
affair altogether, with its turrets and chimneys sticking up, of various
sizes and forms, resembles nothing in the world (except its gallery
of portraits) but an old cruet-stand, furnished with odd bottles. The
squat, round, flat-headed west turret, with the flag-staff without a
flag, overhanging one side of it, resembles a tenpenny mustard-pot; the
little trumpery dome that stands up at the east, a pepper-castor; the
tall chimney, almost in the centre, the neck of a slender vinegar-cruet;
the--”

“‘Sdeath! brother Reginald,” interrupted Sir Waldron; “are we to bear
this?”

“No--really, I think Archibald is going to lengths which are not
decidedly to his credit,” said Reginald.

“I would take leave to tell him,” continued Sir Waldron, “if he were not
under my roof, and in the honourable house of his ancestors, that the
expressions he has used are derogatory to his elder brother’s dignity. I
have always endeavoured to support the name of Hackle, in the county,
in its proper rank: I am proud to say, there is not a blot in my
escutcheon; I think I may almost vie with my brother Reginald, in
moral deportment; I watch myself with the most scrupulous exactitude;
I consider the name as a special trust confided to me for life, and
I strive to maintain it pure and unsullied for the next possessor: I
mortify myself out of respect to the house of which I am--I trust, not
unworthily,--the head. Hospitality in Hackle Hall, is not a mere word--”

“No, indeed,” said Archibald; “here is plenty to eat and drink, but
nothing eatable or drinkable. In matters appertaining to the table, you
are a century and a half behind us in town. I can no more live upon your
dishes than I could wear my grandfather’s breeches, or old Sir Geoffry’s
greaves for gaiters. You keep up a custom of dining at two o’clock,--and
I don’t care a farthing for dinner till five, at the very earliest
moment The post of honour in the parlour, at breakfast-time, is
occupied by a huge, blear-eyed, irascible, old stag-hound, instead of
an agreeable woman; and there he lies, dreaming of following the stag,
where she ought to be sitting, all smiles and sweetness, asking a man if
he’d take half a cup more. But night is worse than all; it’s so awfully
silent, that I can’t sleep!--In fact, brother Waldron, although you
have done all in your power to make me comfortable,--to speak the plain
truth,--when the novelty of the thing wore off when there was nothing
more left to laugh at,--in other words, within twenty-four hours after
my arrival, I began to sigh for a lunch at the’counting-house, sent
in hot from the Cock in Threadneedle Street, and a draught of London
porter, again. I feel as though I was in a strange country; I can’t
understand two-thirds of what the people say. With the assistance of my
man,--whom I brought down, not out of ostentation, but because I can’t
shave myself and entertain a mortal fear of a country barber,--‘I have
to-day discovered, that meat, in the dialect of these parts, means
bread, butter, and almost everything eatable but meat; and meat they
call flesh!--He had a quarrel with a farmer’s son, last night, who
threatened to ‘scat him down upon the planchin;’ and shortly afterwards
tripped up his heels: so that, thank heaven! if any one, while I remain
here, threatens to scat me down upon the planchm, I shall know,
that nothing but my legs can save me from being transferred from a
perpendicular to a horizontal position. He tells me, too, that you
make broth of hot water poured upon chopped leeks and bits of
mutton-suet,--and that, in this country, broth is plural;--that they
ask you to have _a few_, instead of some; and tempt you to take some,
by vowing, that they--that is, the broth--_are_ cruel good.--Item,
that when they blowed dust in your eyes, the bumpkins exclaim, ‘How the
pellam blaeth!’ and that, upon one fellow being asked what he meant by
‘pellam,’ he replied, ‘Muck adrouth.’ ‘And what’s muck adrouth?’ said
the stranger. ‘Why, pellam, to be zure,’ replied the bumpkin; and this
was all that could be elicited from him, in explanation. If I happen to
mention anything metropolitan, which, in their sublime stupidity,
they either do not comprehend or believe, they say, with roguish and
provoking gravity, ‘Ahem! quo’ Dick Bates!’ and then, if I manifest a
little display of venial irritability at their ignorance, they tell me,
that I’m ‘all of a ruck, like Zekiel Hodder’s boot!’--Now, who the deuce
Dick Bates or Zekiel Hodder may be, I can’t learn. I was offered my
choice of three apples, yesterday, and the man who held them, instead of
asking me which I would have, this, that, or the other, said something
like what I am about to attempt:--‘Well, ’zquire, which ‘ull’ee
ha’,--thic, thac, or thuc? Some of the old people, positively, banish
‘she’ and ‘I’ from their discourse, using ‘her’ for the former, like
the Welsh, and the kingly plural, for the latter; always, nevertheless,
substituting the accusative for the nominative case; as, for
instance:--your housekeeper, Sir Waldron, speaking of the housemaid,
said to me, to-day, ‘Us ha’ told her, scaures and scaures o’ times, to
take up hot water to’ee, at eight o’clock; but her never heeds, not
her, then, vor-sooth! her thinks zo much o’ gallivanting wi’ the
men-volks!--her’s no good, bless’ee! not a ha’p’orth!’ That old
housekeeper of yours,--by-the-by,--Waldron, is a grievous nuisance to
me; she comes and talks to me daily by the hour. I can’t endure the
woman.”

“My servant annoy you, brother Archibald!--I’m sorry you did not mention
this before.”

“It seems strange to me,” said Reginald, “that Archibald did not give
her an admonition, when she first grew troublesome, and so get rid of
her.”

“Get rid of her!” exclaimed Archibald. “Sir, you may as well talk of
tying a tin-kettle to the tail of a comet!--the thing’s impossible. Last
night, she spent full half an hour imploring me to suffer her to close
the shutters and pin up the curtains of the east window of my bed-room,
to prevent the rays from my candle shooting across the park-path
outside; which rays, as she protests, impede our grandfather’s ghost
very much, in his nightly rambles: it seems, that he frequently walks
down that path; but as a Devonshire ghost cannot cross a ray of light
from a candle, the good old gentleman is compelled to go round, or kick
his heels in the cold until 1 get into bed. One of your tenants, brother
Waldron, told me, with a very grave face, that he has often met our
grandfather, in the middle of the night, with old Geoffry his huntsman,
and a whole pack of hounds, hunting a stag at full speed; that he has
actually opened the gates for the old man and his ghostly pack to
pass through, and that, although ‘squire, huntsman, dogs, and stag, are
without heads, he recognizes, and honours them! Why, the man must be
either a natural idiot, or travelling fast toward lunacy; and yet
he’s accounted a positive Sir Oracle, in these parts. It is said, our
ancestor is seen in all forms, by various persons, at different parts of
the village: one scoundrel has had the impudence to tell me, that he met
him one night in Blackpool-lane, in the form of a woolpack! and that he
gave him a cut with his whip, as he rolled at full speed along the road!
Now, admitting that ghosts walk or run, how he could know Sir Jonathan,
in the shape of a woolpack, is to me, a miracle:--but, so it was--he
knew him; he’ll swear to it; and may I be posted at Lloyd’s, if the
villagers don’t believe him. But I’d forgive them almost everything if
they’d let the church-bells alone, and wouldn’t roar choruses: every
evening, between six and eight, some of the brawny vagabonds go to
practise triple-bob-majora, or grandsire-trebles, in the belfry;--thus
agonizing my ears with the most atrocious music that ever was inflicted
on suffering man: to mend the matter, I’ve a natural antipathy to all
bells except the waiter’s and the postman’s. It occurs very unluckily
for me, that I should arrive among you in a week of merry-making, ending
with a revel; and go where I will, my ears are assailed by excruciating
songs, all of which, without exception, have some terrific hhorus tacked
to the tail of each verse, which the rogues bellow in such a way, that
I’m often obliged to take to my heels in mere self-defence. The song
which just now seems to be most fashionable in, the village, I have
heard so often, that, much against my inclination, I know every word of
it; I feel it humming in my brain when I awake in the morning, and
my watch ticks it when I go to bed at night, I will be judged by any
reasonable man, if the eternal affliction of such words and sounds as
those which I am about to utter, vociferated by Stentorian lungs, is
not enough to drive a decent being, with a nice ear and moderate taste,
mad:--you shall hear.”

“Pray, don’t trouble yourself brother,” said Reginald. “Nay, but with
your leave, I insist upon giving you a specimen: match it for sense, in
all Europe, if you can:--

     ‘My vather a’ died, but a’ didn’t know how,
     A’ left I zix hossees to vollor tha plough;
     Wi’ my wim, worn, woddle, oh!
     Jack, strim, stroddle, oh!
     Bubble, boys! bubble, boys!
     Down by tha brook!’”

“Enough, enough, brother,” said Reginald: “I lament that you should be
so dissatisfied with your visit.”

“Not at all, sir; I’m not at all dissatisfied. I’m perfectly satisfied
with it: it has cured me of a mania I’ve had all my life of enjoying
rural felicity, and Devonshire, my birth-place, in my old age: I’ve seen
quite enough of it to make me put up with London or Clapham Common, and
rest contented--Besides, I’ve seen you and Waldron;--God bless you both,
my boys!--I shall be glad if you will run up to town now and then:--I
leave my boy to your care, Reginald;--and to-morrow I start.”

The two brothers now approached Archibald, and most affectionately
entreated him to prolong his stay with them; and Reginald had just
extorted a promise from him to go to the vicarage for two or three days,
when a servant entered the room, and stated, that Constables Quality and
Batter had brought in some prisoners to be examined before his worship.
Sir Waldron desired that they might be taken into his study; and said,
that he would descend in a few minutes; but before the servant had
quitted the room, Archibald begged that they might be brought up, so
as to offer him an opportunity of witnessing, what he called, “a bit
of bumpkin police,” which he had not hitherto taken an opportunity of
enjoying. Sir Waldron acquiesced, and ordered the servant to send up the
constables, with their prisoners.

“You will neither be amused, interested, nor edified, I suspect,” said
Sir Waldron, to Archibald, “by the scene that is about to take place; it
is, doubtless, some trifling, ridiculous affair: the constables are
two of the most arrant blockheads that ever a magistrate was afflicted
with:--as to Onesiphorus Quality, one might as well attempt to elicit
evidence out of a mallet, as from him: I assure you, my patience and my
temper are often put to the test, by his stupid taciturnity.”

As the baronet concluded, the huge form, and meek, beardless face of
Constable Quality himself, appeared at the door-way, ushering in four
prisoners, who were closely followed by a man of a middling size, with
sharp features, a large mouth, piercing cat’s eyes, and limbs which were
puny, compared with those of the gigantic, chill-looking Quality. The
person we have described as bringing up the rear, was Constable Batter:
the prisoners were our old friends, the pedlar, the tinker, Darby
Doherty, and the little girl. The pedlar placed his pack very carefully
on the ground, the little girl stood up behind it, and the three men
ranged themselves in a line, with Quality, on one side, and Batter, on
the other, in front of the table at which the brothers were now seated.

“What is the charge made against these people, Quality?” inquired Sir
Waldron.

“Well,--then,” replied Quality, “for that matter,--your worship,--you
must ask Batter.”

“I ha’ nought to say,--nought in the world,” exclaimed Batter; “but
they’re oddish bodies--I must say that for Quality. He apprehended and I
assisted;--not a thing more.”

“Your worship,” said Quality, with a most piteous countenance;--“your
worship know better:--I never apprehends nobody.”

“That’s true enough. Constable Quality, I must needs confess,” observed
Sir Waldron.

“I thank your worship, kindly, for your good word,” quoth Quality.

“Oh! do not be such an idiot as to take what I have said as a
compliment. The feet is, Quality, you want either heart or wit enough
to capture a fly; Batter, luckily for the Hundred, sins a little on the
opposite side to you, Onesiphorus: all is fish that comes near his net;
for one real offender, he brings at least fifty innocent people before
me. To say the truth, I do not believe another brace of such ignorant
blockheads have flourished in one parish, since the days of Dogberry and
Verges. Batter, I am sure _you_ have taken these people:--what have
they done? To begin with this good man, who has the appearance of a
pedlar;--what do either of you know of him?”

“Why,” said Quality, with a shake of the head and an odd sort of frown
which he intended to be very significant; “why, your worship, I can’t
say that I know any good of him.”

“You utterly incomparable ninny, do you know any evil of him?”

“For that matter,” quoth Quality, to the baronet, “I refer to Batter.”

Batter drew up his chin and replied to this appeal, “I say nothing, your
worship; but--a--that is to say--”

“Go to the devil!” cried the enraged magistrate; “this is what I have to
go through, daily, brother Reginald.”

“Ay, but, brother Waldron--”

“I know, I know!” exclaimed Sir Waldron, interrupting Reginald; “I know
what you are going to say; but my patience has been long exhausted with
these boobies.--What did you bring the men before me for?” shouted the
magistrate in a thundering tone.

“Well, then, your worship,” said Quality, no whit moved, “ask Batter.”

Batter, with great gravity, declined the honour, and protested against
taking precedence of his senior, Onesiphorus Quality; who, he vowed,
had bestirred himself as principal in the affair, and laudably exerted
himself to the utmost extent of his mental and bodily powers, to bring
the delinquents before his worship.

While the worthy constable was making a speech to the foregoing effect,
Sir Waldron sat tilting his chair on its hind legs, shaking his head up
and down with great velocity, beating the devil’s tatoo with the fingers
of his right-hand on the back of his left, and gazing at his pale and
placid brother Reginald with an expression of countenance, which the
latter understood as meaning “Now you hear! could Job himself bear this,
brother?” That was, in truth, what Sir Waldron intended to convey to
Reginald by his looks; and when Batter concluded, he rose from his
chair, and with a stride, which might be pronounced emphatic, moved
towards the window, turning his back upon the constables and prisoners,
apparently determined to leave the settlement of the affair to Reginald
himself. The citizen brother had highly enjoyed the whole scene, and
while Waldron was walking away, observed to Reginald, that Batter and
Quality differed essentially from the police of the metropolis, who, if
they had a fault,--and this he professed, with a roguish sneer, to say
under correction,--it was the immense crop of evidence which they were
generally prepared to yield.

Let it not be imagined, that during the preceding dialogue, Mr.
Jeremiah--or as he chose to designate himself by the diminutive,--Darby
Doherty remained voluntarily silent. He frequently attempted to address
the magistrate; but Quality, who was not only silent himself, but the
cause of silence in others, as soon as Darby opened his mouth, covered
the aperture with his broad hard palm, and safely barricadoed the
portals of speech. Darby, with his wooden leg, trod on Quality’s corns;
and Quality, notwithstanding the anguish he suffered, replied only by a
terrific nudge with his staff in Doherty’s ribs, which was imperceptible
to all present but the receiver. Quality was very generous with his
nudges to prisoners who were at all refractory, and attempted to break
silence in his worship’s presence: much to the indignation of Sir
Waldron, who often wondered where he could have picked up the word,
Quality denominated these nudges, “apothegms.”

The Reverend Reginald Hackle now took up the examination, and, with some
difficulty, discovered that the prisoners had quarrelled at the fair,
sought out the constables, and insisted upon going before a magistrate.
“Upon this,” quoth Batter, “we took them into custody. The child,” added
he, “seemed as glad to come as anybody;--so, what to make of it, I, for
one, don’t know.---Perhaps I’ve suspicions they’ve picked up the girl,
and are quarrelling between themselves about her clothes, and ornamental
valuables;--that, however, I shall keep to myself.--I have searched
the prisoners separately. The pedlar’s pack contains ribbons of various
patterns and lengths; human hair of ditto ditto; silk and imitation
handkerchiefs, bits of lace, and cetera, and so forth; a large pair of
shears, a pocket-bible much worn, and, three red herrings.”

“More red herrings!” exclaimed Darby, emancipating himself by a sudden
movement from the gripe of Quality, and advancing to a position whence
he could look the pedlar fall in the face; “three more red herrings!
Well, after that I’ve done, any how!”.

“Next,” continued Batter, who had now grown rather communicative,

“I searched the Irishman.”

“And how dared you do so?” exclaimed Sir Waldron, striding from the
window with as great energy as he had strode toward it; “how dared you
do so, dolt?--Irishman, what are you?”

“I’m an Irishman, your honour!” replied Darby, and Sir Waldron strode to
the window with greater emphasis of cadence than he had strode from it,
muttering imprecations as he went.

“Have you been in the service?” inquired Reginald; “it has pleased
Providence to pour great bodily afflictions on you;--such losses as
those of a leg, an arm---”

“E’ then, your honour,” interrupted Darby, “afflictions they are,
indeed:--my leg lost a good friend in losing me; I cut his corns for him
every week, and kept him warm in a good worsted stocking, and shoes at
never less than seven and sixpence the pair, since he came of age: but
that’s not the question, your worship’s reverence and glory; but this is
it,--I ask pardon for contradicting,--but don’t fear,--I won’t quarrel
wid your worships excellence:--Here’s three of us: that’s me, the
tinker; and the man o’ the herrings there--the pedlar; we all wants the
child, and no blame to us, for she’s a beauty;--and having no kith or
kin, that we can find out, nor a soul alive to own her--”

“She escheats,” interrupted Batter, “as a waif, or an estray, in such
cases, to the lord of the manor, Sir Waldron.”

“The lord of Bally-no-place, and my nose, too!” said Darby, snapping his
fingers at Batter; “do you call her cattle? ye he-cow, ye!--Well, then,
your honour’s worship,” continued Darby, turning, with a smile on his
face, towards Reginald, “as we couldn’t agree about her, for she came
to us together, and we’ve no great opinion of one another--that is, I
haven’t of the pedlar or the tinker, may be; and it’s not unlikely
they think bad of me,--why shouldn’t they?--why then, rather than
quarrel,--which I’m not one for, though well able, barring my limbs and
eye,--we tould the middle and both ends of it to dirty Butter here.”

“Batter, prisoner, if you please,” quoth the constable of that name.

“Well, to Batter, be it then; but of all the beasts or constables to
boot under the moon, he’s the most stupid. Well, then, when we couldn’t
make him understand our story, we insisted on his comprehending us.”

“And here they are, Sir Waldron,” quoth Quality.

“This is another of your cock-and-bull stories,” said the Baronet,
returning to his chair. “What have we to do with this? Who is the third
party?”

“The tinker, your worship,” observed Quality; “I suspect Batter knows
him.”

“Truly so,” said Batter; “he’s the father of Nancy Warton’s two
children; you’ll find his name on record; it’s written on the bonds;--a
confirmed bad one in respect of---”

“Tinker,” said Sir Waldron, assuming a most formidable aspect, “I now
recollect your _face_. Moreover, 1 have heard that you have not yet
quitted your evil ways: you had an affair of a similar sort to that
which Batter speaks of, last month, at the sessions.--Fie upon you,
man! Venial as this sort of sin may appear to you, to me it seems most
grave,--nearly unpardonable. Why not take a wife?”

“That’s just what I’ve said to him,” observed Doherty; “matrimony is the
best of money,--it’s pure felicity.”

“Are you married, fellow?” inquired Sir Waldron, who felt by no means
pleased at the Irishman’s interruption.

“Is it married, your worship?” replied Darby; “faith! then, I am, every
inch of me.”

“And where’s your wife?”

“Why, then, I left her this morning eleven miles hence.”

“What, you’ve deserted her, eh?”

“Oh! quite the contrary;--I ran away from her,--we agreed to come
different roads; for, to tell you the truth, Mistress Doherty has a
tongue: but that says nothing; may be your honour’s own wife has one
too.”

“I have no wife, sirrah!”

“Well! God help you, then! that’s all I say.--Though we quarrelled last
night, I’d be mighty glad to see Mistress Doherty to-day,--so I would:
I wonder she hasn’t come. I’ll tell you how it was, and you’ll judge who
did wrong.--We got a fi’penny bed at a road-side house; and when such a
case occurs, which isn’t often, Mistress Doherty is all for getting as
much as she can for her money; so, if I’d let her, she’d go to bed at
eight o’clock, and lie till twelve or one the next day, or make me and
the child do so: but no, I don’t like going to bed at night over soon
then, so I don’t,--but I’ll lie a-bed as long as one here and there, the
next morning; for then’s the time, if one has such a thing, when a bed’s
pleasant. Well then, Mistress Doherty, having some places to patch in
her coat, bid me go to bed before her, so that I might get up early,
and tramp to the revel with her,--just as Dobbin and Joan would, but I
wouldn’t never mind why. Says she--says Mistress Doherty, ‘Go to bed,
Darby, or the child will be perished with cold; go to bed and warm him,
Darby, while I put a patch on my coat but I wouldn’t; so then she got in
her tantarums; I was obstinate, and we quarrelled.”

“Ay, ay! I understand,” said the tinker, who had not spoken before, “she
wanted to beat you to nest, as the hen-pigeon doth the cock, when he
loiters; it’s natural,--yea, nature all over.”

“Whenever I quarrel, I fight,” pursued Darby; “and whenever I fight with
Mrs. Doherty, she licks me; I’d scorn to be beat by any man breathing;
I’ll crow like a bit of game as I am, though I’ve lost half my spurs,
but I don’t scruple to own, that I knock under to my wife:--so we paid
what we couldn’t well afford for a bed,---quarrelled and fought all
night in it, when we might have slept happy and contented under a tree;
and the next morning,--that’s this morning,--I tould her, when she was
dreaming, to come after me to the revel by her own self; and so she
will, I’ll engage my last arm; for, if we fight, Mistress Doherty doats
on me.”

“And who is this child?” inquired Archibald.

“Your worship,” replied the pedlar; “I hae held my peace till now,
and it is time for me to speak. This wee thing cam’ to us where we
breakfasted; we ken nought about her; she wanted to come to this revel,
and we hae brought her together.--She would hae parted with us, but
neither of us would suffer her to do so, without letting us know whither
she went; a small broil followed, and here we are before ye;--we’ve done
nought but what humanity would justify;--tak’ the bairn and
question her. She’s in your hands, and I’ve done with her--saving a
blessing--Gude protact her!”

“Oh! don’t think to gallyboozle the justice with your mealy mouth,” said
Darby; “I’ve no great opinion of my friend here, your honour; no, nor
of Tom Tinker, this fellow with the black face, as I had the honour
of telling ye before. Now, if I may be allowed to say one word in my
defence,--though nobody accuses me, nor can, that’s more,--but if I
may speak, I’ll just say this by way of advice to your worship:--make
yourself a Solomon the second; cut off the child’s hair, take every
ha’p’orth she has, and then see who’ll have her: it isn’t the tinker,
I’ll engage; no, nor the pedlar, with his blackguard red herrings.”

“I dinna want the bairn,” said the pedlar; “I hae eleven o’ my ain; but
I’d do to anither mon’s child, what I’d expact anither, mon would do to
mine,--that is to say--sauf her fra tinklers and ne’er-do-weels.”

“Come, come, pedlar, ‘ware that,” growled the tinker; “good words or
broken heads, says the old saying.”

“Hold your tongue, you reprobate!” exclaimed Sir Waldron.

“Silence!” roared Batter in the tinker’s ear, while Quality dealt him an
apothegm.

“What you want with the child I cannot comprehend,” continued Sir
Waldron; “why not take one of those poor things, of whom you’re the
putative father? that would do you a little credit--Why wish for this
little stranger?”

“Why, your worship”--The tinker was cut short in his reply to the
magistrate’s question, by Batter shouting silence, and Quality giving
him a nudge.

“Blockhead!” exclaimed Sir Waldron to Batter; “am I not to have an
answer to my question? let the man speak, and do you behave with common
sense, or, by heaven, I’ll commit you.--Speak, tinker, how do you
account for your wishing to take this child in preference to your own? I
must tell you, that it looks strange and suspicious.”

“Why,” replied the tinker, “I ha’n’t no wish in particular about it:--to
be sure, I took a fancy to her; she hath such a main pretty little nob,
and a pearly sort of an eye, just like my best almond tumbler pigeon at
home--and the poney likes her; so its natural, you see, your worship:
but then, I don’t covet her; only keep her out of these chaps’ clutches,
that’s all I say; except, mind me, this:--I wouldn’t offend your worship
for the world; I’d pretty near die first,--but, look’ee, Sir Waldron,
if your constable pokes I in the ribs again, as he hath twice, I’ll just
make so free as to break his neck, here right, if I do die for’t;--it’s
nature you know.”

“This language is improper;--we must not hear it,” observed Reginald.

“How dare you strike the man?” exclaimed Sir Waldron.

“I merely gave him a hint--”

“Hold your tongue--quit the room--or stop--stay--I’ll consider whether I
ought not to order Batter to take you into custody.”

The little girl now stepped from behind the pedlar’s pack, and advancing
close to Sir Waldron, with a smile playing over her features, said
to the magistrate, “If you please, sir, may I speak, now every body’s
done?”

“Certainly, child,” replied the baronet; “what have you to say?--what is
your name?”

“Agnes, sir.”

“Agnes what, child?--what is your other name?” The little girl made no
reply, but looked alternately at Sir Waldron and the prisoners, and the
tears gushed from her eyes.

“What is the meaning of this?” said the baronet.

“Perhaps, brother,--you know best,” observed Reginald;--“but perhaps
there is some mystery in this matter, something that lies deeper than
you imagine. The child may be intimidated from speaking the truth in the
presence of these three good people.”

“Do you think so?--Well, then, I’ll take her apart into my study,”
 replied Sir Waldron: “come,” added he, addressing the child, “come with
me, Agnes; do not be frightened.”

“Bless you, I am not frightened,” said the child; “I’m very glad.”

“Ay, ay,” quoth Reginald, “it is as I suspected, very clearly; Batter
and Quality, look well to these honest fellows.”

The prisoners loudly exclaimed against Reginald’s suspicions; but
Batter, by dint of bawling, and Quality, by the virtue of his apothegms,
soon restored order, and Agnes followed Sir Waldron into the adjoining
room. “Now, my dear,” said the baronet, taking a chair, and drawing Agnes
between his knees, “what have you to say? Why not tell your name before
the people in the parlour? Is either of those men related to you?”

“Oh, no! no, indeed! I never saw them before to-day.”

“And whose child are you?”

“Yours!” replied Agnes, looking archly up at Sir Waldron, and placing
her little hand on his as she spoke.

“Pooh! pooh! child, don’t be foolish,” replied Sir Waldron, who felt
half inclined to be angry, but, at the same time, could not prevent his
features from relaxing into a smile; “tell me the truth.”

“I have told the truth; indeed and indeed I have.”

“How do you mean, child?”

“Why, if you’re my papa, you know, I must be your little
daughter:--musn’t I now?”

“Truly so, child,” replied Sir Waldron; “but as I am not your papa--”

“Oh! but you are, though,” interrupted Agnes; “my mamma told me so.”

Sir Waldron’s cheek grew pale; he stared at the child, and remained for
a few moments silent; then, assuming a stern manner, he said to Agnes
rather sharply,--“I suspect you to be a designing, bold, bad child; or
the tool of wretches; or, at best, remarkably impudent. Do you know who I
am?”

“Sir Waldron Hackle;--at least, so I hope,” was the child’s reply;--“the
men said they were going to bring us before Sir Waldron Hackle,--and
that’s you, isn’t it?--If not, I’ve kept my promise to my poor mamma
finely;--but it isn’t my fault.”

“What mamma? what promise? How you talk, child!--what promise?”

“Not to tell any one who I was, nor to mention my name, until I saw my
father.”

“And what is your name?” eagerly inquired Sir Waldron.

“Oh! you know what it is well enough--don’t you?”

“How the devil should I?” exclaimed the irritated baronet, who for
a moment forgot that he was speaking to a child. “How should I?” he
repeated, in somewhat a calmer tone.

“Why, you haven’t any more little girls, have you?”

“Ridiculous! Tell me your name, instantly!”

“You won’t be angry with me, I hope, for asking you first, if you _are_
Sir Waldron Hackle? My mamma so strictly charged me--”

“Well, well! I am--I am,” replied the baronet; “I am Sir Waldron
Hackle--”

“Ay; but are you the gentleman that broke his arm at Westbury, and--”

“Yes, yes!--Westbury, said you?--What’s this flashes across me? it
surely cannot be--”

“Indeed, and it is, though!”

“Hannah Russelts child?”

“Yes! my mamma’s dead; and I’ve walked all the way by myself, and now
you won’t own me,” sobbed little Agnes; and her head dropped upon Sir
Waldron’s hand, which he immediately felt was wetted with her tears.

“Own you!” said Sir Waldron, scarcely knowing what he said. “How can I
own you?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” replied the little girl, raising her head, and
endeavouring to restrain the sobs which almost rendered her unable to
articulate; “you must do as you please about that; my mamma sent her
dying love--to you,--and she told me to be sure to say that she had
done--her duty, and you need not be ashamed of me!”

Sir Waldron made no reply; but he snatched Agnes up, pressed her to his
bosom, and kissed her repeatedly: he then put her at arm’s length from
him, gazed earnestly on her face, and again most affectionately embraced
her.

“Kiss me again, papa,” were the first words that little Agnes uttered,
after Sir Waldron had placed her on her feet; but the baronet was so
absorbed in thought, at that moment, that he did not notice what she
said. He sat silent and motionless, with the child mutely gazing upon
him, for above a minute. He then started up, wrung his hands together,
stamped violently on the floor, and walked to the wall of the room,
against which he leant his forehead. Starting thence in a moment, he
returned to his seat, exclaiming, “Man! man! thou dost truly merit this
agony!”

Agnes now approached him, and familiarly, or rather, endearingly,
embracing his arm, said, “Are you very ill, papa?--My mamma tied this
bit of love-ribbon on the finger where married ladies wear their rings,
that I shouldn’t forget to tell you she forgave you with her last
breath, and died happy!”

“May she be in heaven!” exclaimed Sir Waldron.

“Amen!” responded little Agnes.

“What to do--what to do, I know not,” said the baronet, rising from his
chair again.

“Won’t you own me, papa?--pray do; or I don’t know what I shall do,
after walking so far and all. I wore out my shoes and stockings--”

“Bless thy poor little feet--what a sight is this!”

“Won’t you own me, papa?” repeated Agnes.

“I do--I do, child,” replied Sir Waldron, kissing her; “but I must send
you away,--how, I cannot tell.--You must not be known to be mine:--my
honour, my reputation;--the character I have maintained--s’death! it
drives me mad!”

“Mayn’t I live with you, then?” said Agnes.

“It is absolutely impossible.”

“Oh, dear! Then I suppose I must find out a place where grapes grow in
a wood, and build a little house, as Robinson Crusoe and his man Friday
did, for I’ve nobody to help me but you,--and you won’t, you say.”

“I said no such thing: you shall never want; but here you cannot
remain.”

“My mamma said I _was_ to;--but then, she told me too, that when she
was dead and gone, I was to obey you; and you say I must go,--so I don’t
know what to do:--I’m very hungry.”

“Hungry! pull the bell--but stop--hold--my position is most perplexing.
To send the child here! It was cruel--but I merit it. I have brought
sorrow on myself, by my own villany.--It is miraculous how you could
have reached me.”

“I walked all the way!” said the child, with a sigh. “My little bones
ache so, you can’t think.--My mamma, when she knew she was going to
die in a day or two, gave me some money, and told me to go to The White
Hart, with a little paper of directions she folded it up in, for the
coachman; and she said, that he would give me something to eat on the
road, and carry me within three miles of your house: but I wasn’t to
tell him where I was going; and she told me to carry the paper and money
to him the day after she was buried. But,--do you know?--the people
where we lodged found the paper, and took the money out; and said, I
shouldn’t go unless I told them who I was going to, and why, and all
about it But I wouldn’t, because my mamma charged me to tell nobody
but Sir Waldron;--that’s you,--my papa. So then, I said to myself I’d
walk,--for the place where the coachman was to leave me didn’t seem very
far in my sampler:--but sometimes I thought I should never get here. And
I brought my sampler with me to find out the way; but it was all wrong,
bless you! there’s no red line between Somersetshire and Devonshire,
like that I worked in the sampler; so I kept on asking my way.”

“My dear little cherub!” exclaimed Sir Waldron; “what thou must have
endured!--And where did you sleep?”

“Oh! the people was hay-making, and I lay down upon the nice little
hay-cocks;--its no night, hardly, now.--I liked it at first; but I’m
stung all over with flies, or something--”

“And did you beg for food?”

“Oh! no! I brought all my pretty money, and spent it in gingerbread and
apples;--not all,--for I’ve two Queen Anne shillings, and another bit of
money, I don’t know what it is, left.” Agnes, in answer to several other
questions put to her by Sir Waldron, told him, that she often followed
the waggons, and, in a very early part of the journey, saw the names of
several places painted on the boot of a coach, before that one where the
coachman was directed, by her mother’s paper, to set her down; that
she learnt them by heart, and inquired for each, successively: she also
related the manner of her meeting with the pedlar and his companions,
and stated, that a woman had told her, just before she saw them, that
there was a revel at the village, to which, she was inquiring the Way.

Sir Waldron was still undecided as to what he should do with Agnes, and
sat pondering, with the little girl seated on his knee, and warming her
feet with one of his hands, when the child suddenly started from him,
and exclaimed, “Oh, dear! I quite forgot the letter!”

“Letter! from your mother?”

“Yes; the people of the house didn’t find out that, when they took the
money that was in the paper of directions away from me. I brought it all
the way safe enough in my bosom, until this morning.”

“And where is it now?”

“That naughty constable took it from me. He opened it and read it.”

“D--t--n!” exclaimed Sir Waldron; “then all is known, and I shall be
every booby’s jest.”

He had scarcely uttered these words, when the door of the room was
opened, and The Reverend Reginald Hackle entered, with an open note in
his hand. He was followed by the citizen: Reginald looked more grave
than usual; but Archibald seemed with difficulty to restrain himself
from laughing “Waldron,” said he, “we have just wormed a letter out of
Constable Quality.”

The baronet snatched it from Reginald’s hand; looked first at the
superscription, which bore his name and address, and then hastily
perused the contents.

“The blockhead’s excuse,” continued Archibald, “for not producing this,
which I consider, under correction, a document of importance as regards
the examination, is, that you cut Batter short in his statement of the
particulars of his searching the prisoners.”

“And is this rightly addressed to you, brother? Are you indeed the man?”
 asked Reginald, in a tone of reproach.

“Well, she’s a pretty child; a very pretty child, indeed, Waldron,” said
Archibald, taking the little girl in his arms. “Come, kiss your uncle,
my dear: I suppose I may call her yours, Waldron.”

“You may:--it’s useless to dissimulate;--so preach, brother Reginald;
sneer, brother Archy; jest, joke, and do your worst, world;--she is
mine,--my dear, darling child!”

Shortly afterwards, Archibald returned to the prisoners, and, addressing
Darby Doherty, informed him that he and his two companions might go
about their business.

“And the child--” quoth Darby.

“She will remain with Sir Waldron,” replied Archibald.

“Thank your honour, kindly, for this, as well as for the cold meat,
which, of course, your honour is going to order us to get in the hall,”
 said Doherty. “His worship has acted upon what, I’ve always been tould,
is the true principle of justice; so I can’t complain:--he’s taken the
oyster himself, and,” added Darby, bowing alternately to the pedlar and
the tinker as he spoke, “sent me packing with the shells.”

Sir Waldron soon became so doatingly fond of little Agnes, that, among
all his friends, she obtained the appellation of The Bachelor’s Darling.
As she approached towards womanhood, the beauty of her person, and the
sweetness of her disposition, made a strong impression on the heart
of Archibald’s son; and five years had scarcely elapsed after the
completion of his studies under his reverend uncle, when she became his
wife.

The three brothers lie, side by side, in the church-yard of their native
village; and the citizen’s son, and Hannah Russell’s child, are now Sir
Waldron and Lady Hackle.

[Illustration: 168]



THE LOVES OF HABAKKUK BULLWRINKLE, GENTLEMAN.

About six-and-twenty years ago, a middle-aged North-country attorney,
somewhat above five feet eight inches in height, but immeasurably
corpulent, with an old-fashioned calf, mottled eyes, and a handsome
nose, settled in a large and uncivilized village in the West of England.
The manners of the inhabitants were rude and outrageous; their names,
customs, frolics, and language, were such as Habakkuk Bull wrinkle had
never before been accustomed unto. They cracked many a heart-piercing
joke on his portly person; laughed at his ineffectual attempts to
compete with the veriest youngsters in the village, at wrestling, or
cudgel-playing; rejoiced heartily when he suffered a cracked pate, or
an unexpected back-fall; and never employed him in the way of his
profession. He could have borne all his misfortunes with decency but
the last;--_that_ irked him beyond measure; and he did not scruple to
upbraid those who deigned to drink out of his cup, with their folly
and villanous prejudice, in measuring a man’s wit by his skill
at gymnastics, and exclusively patronizing a couple of rascally
pettifoggers in the vicinity, whose only merit consisted in their
hard pates, and dexterity in breaking the skulls of their clients. The
villagers waited with patience until Habakkuk’s lecture and strong drink
were finished, promised to reform, heartily wished him success in his
trade, fell to loggerheads on their way home, and the next morning went
for redress to the aforesaid pettifoggers, who fleeced them to their
hearts’ content for several lingering months, and then mutually advised
their employers to settle the matter over a goodly feast.

Habakkuk Bullwrinkle inwardly moaned at the luck of his fellow-priests
of the syren, but lost none of his flesh. His affairs, at length, grew
desperate. He had been skipping over the land, after the fickle jade
Fortune, for many a weary year; but the coy creature continually evaded
his eager clutch. What was to be done?--His finances were drooping, his
spirits jaded, his temper soured, and his appetite for the good things
of this world, as keen and clamorous as ever. He had tried every plan
his imagination could devise to win over the rustics, but without effect
He was just about to decamp clandestinely, and in despair, when, all
at once, he recollected that he was a bachelor! His hopes rose at the
thought “How strange it is!” said he, unconsciously snapping his
fingers with delight, “that the idea of marrying one of these charming
rosy-skinned lasses, who are continually flitting about me, should
never have entered my caput before! The whole village is one immense
family,--a batch of uncles, aunts, nephews, nieces, cousins, and
relations of every intermediate degree, from one to a hundred. If I
can but weave myself into this web of consanguinity, my future ease and
fortune are certain. They will stand by one of their own kin, let him
he ever so distantly related, to the very last. By the laws! it’s an
excellent project!--I’ve a warm heart, a winning way, and great choice;
so I’ll even cast my eye about for a convenient helpmate; eat, drink,
and be merry again.”

Reader, these were my thoughts, at the latter end of the year 1803; for
I am the identical Habakkuk Bull wrinkle above-mentioned. Pursuant to my
resolution, I began to wheedle myself into the good graces of the girls.
I often met with a very tolerable reception, considering all things, and
had many times nearly compassed the object of my hopes, when the
demon disappointment, in the semblance of a clod-hopper, ’yclept Andrew
Skelpie,--walked in to dash the cup of happiness from my lips. I never
attempted to kiss a lass behind a hay-mow, or an old tree, but what this
fellow would thrust his ugly phiz between me and the sweet pair of
lips I was longing to salute! If ever I made an appointment to meet a
farmer’s daughter, and prattle away an hour or two with her, unseen
by all, Skelpie and she were generally linked lovingly, arm in arm
together, on my arrival.

The first time I ever beheld this destroyer of my peace, was at a
village revel. I shall never forget the manner in which he rose from the
grass on which he had been drowsily lolloping, and looked out through
his half-closed eyelids, at the efforts of the backsword players on the
sward. He was called upon to enter the ring with a fellow about his own
height, but more fleshy and comely-looking by half,--being precisely
what middle-aged good-wives term “a portly figure of a man,” and very
much to my liking. Skelpie got up from the cool turf, one joint at a
time, and made his way into the circle, by one of the most extravagant
and ludicrous paces I ever beheld: it was between the ungainly toddle of
an ox, and the loose-jointed motion of a drunken, staggering stripling.
The portly fellow was a stranger from a neighbouring county, who valued
himself on his prowess at single-stick; he had already peeled the bark
off a brace of noses, and the greyheaded rustics, who encompassed the
scene of action and glory, trembled for the honour of their native
village. An immense shout of applause greeted Skelpie’s appearance; for,
in him, it was well known, the champion of Wedmore himself would find
a redoubtable opponent. He surveyed his adversary with a confident and
most provoking glance, accompanied with an upturning of the higher
lip, and a smack of his horny fingers, that sounded like the crack of
a waggoner’s whip. He coolly selected a stick, screwed it into his
hand-guard, padded his elbows, gave one stentorian ‘hem!’ and then--I
never beheld such a mutation in my life!--his eyes flew open, his lips
clenched, every muscle in his body was instantly awakened, every limb
was in active and most turbulent motion: he hit at his opponent’s head,
with a velocity that, to me, seemed supernatural; I heard a continual
and most merry peal of blows rattling about the sconce of the portly
stranger, but I could scarcely detect a single motion of the stick. The
skin was tough--particularly tough? and, for some time, defied Skelpie’s
sturdy thwacks. At the close of the vigorous bout he looked amazed,
muttered a curse on his ineffective weapon, and was just about to begin
again, when, observing something suspicious about the closed mouth of
his adversary, he put forth his hand, and parted the swollen lips of
the stranger, from whose mouth a stream of blood immediately gushed. The
comely man afterwards acknowledged, that he had received a cut under
his lip at the beginning of the play, but had sedulously sucked in the
blood, and swallowed it, hoping to crack Skelpie’s pate before it would
be discovered. At this fine old English sport, he who draws from his
adversary’s head sufficient blood to stain muslin, is proclaimed
the victor. Skelpie afterwards threw half-a-dozen sturdy fellows at
wrestling, and bore off the prizes at the village games, as he had
frequently done on previous occasions. He was by no means handsome in
face, fairly spoken, well-made, or merry;--the simple wenches idolized
the dog for his prowess. He was capricious and false, but they seemed to
like him the better. Each, in her turn, hoped to fix the rover, excite
the envy of her predecessors in his affections, and bear off the palm,
where they had ingloriously failed. He took no trouble to gain their
love, and they unanimously doated on him. I often longed to see him get
a good thrashing, and many times felt strongly impelled to fall on him
myself; but a whole flood of fears and forebodings, invariably drowned
the few sparks of courage and vigour in my breast, and I laudably
forebore.

My love-suits were innumerable; but although they usually began and went
on auspiciously, Skelpie never failed to beat me off the field in the
end. The dog seemed to be unconscious of the mischief he made, and that
irritated my spirit in a tenfold degree. He seemed to bear no malice
against me, and many times rendered me an essential piece of service.
I shall never forget the night when he clutched me by the cheek, and
pulled me out of a flood-swollen brook, when I was at my last gasp, and
then abused and threatened to bethwack me for being such a fool, and
giving him the trouble of wading chin-deep to save me. My intellect, on
this occasion, was befogged with the fumes of stout October, and I knew
not where I went.

It would be tedious to narrate the whole of my adventures during the
year which I spent in seeking out a wife; I shall content myself with
particularizing what befel me in the pursuit of the four last objects
of my love. And, first, let me introduce Ruth,--Ruth Grobstock, the
daughter of a rough miller, who resided on a hill about a mile to the
left of the village. I secretly wooed her about a month, undisturbed by
any mortal; I thought I was sure of her, and began to concert measures
for obtaining a dignified introduction to her daddy, the miller.

One evening, after having ruminated for many hours on Ruth’s
attractions, I determined to roam up to the mill, which I had never
before visited,--having hitherto carried on my love-suit with Ruth away
from her home, at meetings which were too frequent to be altogether
accidental. While I loitered about the mill, pondering on the best mode
of drawing out Ruth,--for she had no reason to expect me,--the moon
suddenly gleamed full upon me, through an opening in the oak tree which
stretched its huge boughs over the white cottage in which the miller
dwelt; and methought there was something similar to the malicious smile
of an arch woman, when intent upon a prank, gleaming on her sparkling
face; her unnecessary glances, as she seemed to peep through the tree,
for the express purpose of betraying me to observation, threw me into
a panic. I had heard of old Grobstock’s moods and manners, and I feared
him. I felt sure of a kind and endearing reception from Ruth, although 1
came altogether uninvited and unawares; but I fancied for a moment that
I heard her father’s flails whistling about my ears, and felt the teeth
of his tykes rioting in my fat My pulse throbbed audibly; and I was
on the point of again making my way into the wood that clothed the
hill-side, when a multitude of clouds, which had been gradually hemming
in the light of the moon, suddenly stretched over her face, and relieved
my terrors by screening me from her afflicting glances. I rejoiced, and
waxed courageous and young in heart again. The curtains of the best
room in the little cottage were negligently drawn, and I had the
satisfaction, after sundry leaps, of getting a glimpse of Ruth’s little
and exquisite foot, as it danced up and down before the blaze of a
chirruping fire, which sparkled on the broad hearth. A gentle tap at
the window set her on her legs in a moment, and before I could reach the
door, she was there with an outstretched hand, and a pair of warm, ripe,
ruddy lips, pouting forth to greet me. This was delicious!--The friendly
clouds were still sheltering me from the moon’s eye; Ruth stepped forth,
and we stood close at the foot of the old oak, in the most impervious
and delightful darkness imaginable. I was mute with delight, but my
happy-hearted, loving little damsel’s speech, after a few moments of
silence, gradually began to thaw, and at length, overwhelmed me with a
torrent of words:--“Oh! I am so glad you are come,” quoth she; “if you
had not, we should not have had a moment’s talk together for the week.
Daddy’s gone out; but to-morrow evening, and the next, he means to stop
at home, and get drunk; and, although his over-night’s promises in other
affairs melt like mists in the morning sun, and are quite forgotten by
mid-day, yet, when he says he shall get drunk, he always backs it wi’ an
oath, and then makes it a matter of conscience religiously to keep his
word; so that, you see, my dear Skelpie--”

I was struck all of a heap!--The purport of her subsequent discourse
palpably proved, that she had mistaken me, in the dark, for the eternal
and never-failing Skelpie. Her lips once more approached mine; I was
foaming with rage and disappointment; my hand had shrunk from her grasp,
as from the touch of an adder, the instant the detested name of Skelpie
escaped from her lips; I had already taken in a mighty draught of
breath, intending to shower a whole volley of curses on her and Skelpie,
together,--when I suddenly experienced a shock, that deprived me of all
sort of sensation in an instant. How long I lay in a death-like state I
cannot conceive; but I remember well enough, that when I awoke from my
lethargy, trance, fit, or whatever it was, I found myself most painfully
compressed in an aperture of the oak tree, through which the children
were wont to enter into its hollow trunk. The moon was out in all her
glory again, and her light fell upon the white brow of Ruth, and the
grey jacket of the lean, and, by me, abhorred Skelpie. Yes, there he
was, twining endearingly round the sylph-like form of the false maid,
who seemed to feel a pleasure in his embraces, which, to me, appeared
altogether unaccountable. It was plain, from their talk, that they did
not conceive I was within hearing. I would fain have persuaded myself
that I was dreaming, but my endeavours were ineffectual; the rugged
edges of the aperture insinuated themselves into my sides, and pained me
dreadfully. Did Skelpie strike me? thought I; and does he imagine that
I rolled down the declivity, from the force of the blow, and am now
weltering in the ditch at its foot?--Truly, it was a most tremendous
assault; and his conclusion of the effect, judging from the force of
the cause, would be far from unreasonable. My case was forlorn in the
extreme: my head, and one of my arms, were in the trunk of the tree;
I was fixed in a most uneasy, slanting position; and my feet were so
placed on the outside, that the moon threatened every minute to reveal
them. I would have given the world to be even floundering in the mire
of the ditch, or anywhere else, out of the reach of Skelpie’s fist I was
almost suffocated, and did not dare to breathe louder than a listening
roe: a sigh or groan would in some degree have eased my pangs; but the
sight of Skelpie, prevented me from indulging in the consolation of the
most wretched.

At length, a loud halloo announced the approach of old Grobstock.
Skelpie instantly intimated his intention of decamping, but the vile
maid desired him to clamber up the oak, and hide amongst its branches,
until her daddy went to bed. Here was a terrific request!--“I won’t go
into the hollow,” quoth he; “‘cause the zuzpicious ould jakes do always
pry into there, avore a’ do goa to bed.” I took the cuff of my coat
between my teeth, and resolutely prepared for the worst;--but Skelpie
ascended the other side of the tree. He had scarcely broken off the
prolonged salute of the kissing Ruth, when old Roger Grobstock, drunk,
and growling, staggered up to the door. “Eh! what, lassie--wench! out
and abroad at this time of night!” cried he, as Ruth tripped up towards
him. “Ahey! what, vlaunting and trapesing about the whoam-stead wi’ some
vellow, I’ll warrant! Odd! I’ll verret un out; only bide a bit, I’ll be
about un. I be downcast vor want of a frolic to-night; so, ecod!
lass, I’ll duck the lad avore I goes to bed, just vor a bit of a joke
like,--all in good vellowship,--but, icod! I’ll duck un, if he’s a
friend; and if he is a stranger,--dost hear, wench?--I’ll drash un wi’
the flail, just like a whate-sheaf.”

Every word of his speech was equal to a blow: I struggled to get free
with all my might; I had succeeded so far as to raise myself upright,
when the miller, who had entered the house at the conclusion of his
threat, re-appeared at the door with a flaming brand from the hearth in
one hand, and a tremendous dung-fork in the other. He staggered directly
close up to the tree; but the sight of my out-jutting stomach, and
alarmed visage, made him retreat a few paces. He thrust out the burning
stick so near my face, that it scorched my cheek; and after surveying my
disconsolate and rueful deportment for a minute or more, he grounded
his weapon, and accosted me in these words: “Why, thee bee’st a purty
vellur, beesen’t?--And where did’st come vrom--and who bee’st? Art thee
a thief, or--but, noa, it can’t be,--thee bee’st never come to court our
Ruth, bee’st?--speak, twoad, or I’ll vork tha!”

There was Ruth, looking over her father’s shoulder, evidently alarmed at
my appearance; Skelpie’s heels were dangling over my head; the pronged
fork was close to my waistcoat; I stared in the face of the old man,
unable to utter a word, but sweating like a baited bull, and plainly
expressing my fears by my woebegone and pallid countenance. I expected
some dire punishment for my silence; but old Grobstock, after surveying
me for a minute, to my great surprise, burst into a loud laugh, seized
my trembling hand, and, with one vigorous effort, pulled me out of my
imprisonment. After dragging me, helpless as I was, into the house, and
placing me in a chair by the fire-side, he thrust a mug of cider and
brandy into my hand, chuckling out, “Why, zooks! chap, how vrighted thee
looks!--drink!” Here was a change!

By degrees I summoned up courage: the miller made me drink stoutly of
his good liquor; and, more than once, seized the dung-fork, and placing
himself in a threatening attitude, thrust the points of it close to my
breast, in order to make me look frightened again, and amuse him. I was
twenty times on the point of revealing the whole affair, but a single
look of Ruth’s eloquent eye froze the words on my lips.

After an hour’s laughter, interrupted only by gaspings for breath, and
frequent applications to the jug, my old host gave me a broad hint to
depart; and after civilly opening the door, and wishing me a hearty good
night, gave me a most grievous kick, that sent me galloping down the
hill, and betook himself to laughing as heartily as before. I never
courted young Ruth of the mill again.

My next love was the pale, down-looking, modest Ally Budd, the niece
of that boisterous old harridan, Hester Caddlefurrow; whose name was a
hushing-word to the crying urchins for many miles around; they feared
her more than Raw-head-and-bloody-bones, the wide-mouthed Bogle, or even
the great Bullyboo himself. The lads of the village generally preferred
the more hale and ruddy wenches in the vicinity; Ally was not roystering
enough for them; she had no capacity to feel and enjoy their rude
merriment, or rough frolics; and few suitors doffed the cap of courtship
at old Hetty Caddlefurrow’s threshold. But Ally was, indeed, a beauty.
Her youthful companions and neighbours saw nothing extraordinary in her
calm, dove-like eye; but to me, it looked like the surface of a smooth
lake, in the still moonlight, with a delicious heaven of love smiling in
its blue depths. I met her several times, at a distance from her home,
and made her acquainted with my growing passion; but she always chilled
my ardour by a ceremonious reference to her austere and masculine aunt.
I laid these evasive receptions of my proffered affection to the credit
of her modesty, and loved her the better for them. I used to hover about
on the tops of the hills which overlooked her abode, watching for the
moment when my young dove would glide forth from the thatched cot, that
nestled among the trees beneath me, with a feverish anxiety that I never
felt on any other occasion in my life. She neither seemed to shun or
court my company; but came forth, smiling, and fearless of evil, like
the white star of the evening, in the soft summer’s gloaming. The
presence of other women, with whom I have been in love, has usually
thrown me into a turbulent fever; but Ally Budd’s pale, beautiful face,
soft eyes, and gentle voice, had a calm and soothing influence on my
spirit Her words fell like oil, even on the stormy tide of her aunt’s
rough passions; whose ire she could quell at will, and oftentimes
saved the offending clowns in the old woman’s employ from an elaborate
cuffing. In this exercise, Hester was said to excel any man in the
parish: she had a violent predilection for thwacking, or, to use her
own expression, lecturing, her domestics for every trivial offence; and
nothing but the high wages which she gave, induced the rustic labourers
to remain in her service. I was one evening sauntering round the
summit of the hill which immediately looked down upon Hester’s house,
occasionally stealing a glance from the pathway into the wood towards
the rich glories of the declining sun, when a rude hand clutched me by
the collar behind, and, in a moment, pulled me backwards into an immense
wheelbarrow. The gigantic villain who had performed this daring
feat, directly placed himself between the handles of the vehicle,
and vigorously trundled it down the hill. I was seated, or rather,
self-wedged in the barrow, with my legs painfully dangling over the rim,
on each side of the wheel: the velocity, with which we descended the
steep and rugged declivity, deprived me of all power; the fellow panted
and laughed, pushing on with increased vigour, until we came in sight of
the wide-gaping door of old Hester’s kitchen. His fellow-labourers, who
were seated at the porch, immediately rose at the sight of our novel
equipage.--Confound the rascal! he was a most experienced ploughman, and
deemed this a fair opportunity of shewing his great rectilinear skill,
and obtaining the applause of his fellows, by driving me at full speed
through the door-way of the house. It stood exactly at the foot of the
steepest part of the hill; and, from the tremendous rate at which we
travelled, the downfall of the whole edifice seemed inevitable! My
senses, which had partially taken leave of me in the course of
the descent, returned just as we arrived within a few yards of our
destination; I uttered one shriek, desperately closed my eyes, and gave
myself up for a buried man.

The next moment I found my body, safe and unhurt, on the hearth of
Dame Caddlefurrow’s kitchen. There was the dame, seated in her bee-hive
chair, staring with surprise, impatience, and anger, at my worship in
the barrow. As soon as the clown recovered his lost breath, he proceeded
to an explanation of the cause of his introducing such an unsightly and
unknown personage as me to her goodly presence. “I ha; zeed the chap,”
 quoth he, elevating the handles of his wheelbarrow to the top of his
shoulders, so as to afford the dame a full view of my person; “I ha’
zeed the chap scaures and scaures o’ times, skulking about the hill,
always and vor ever just about night-vall, when 1 do goa a-voddering the
beasts; zo, thinks I, thic jockey bean’t loitering about here zo often
wi’ any good plan in his noddle: moorauver, I ha’ zeed un, coming athirt
the vields ov a night, just avore harvest, treading down whole zheaves
o’ wheat at a voot-vall:--that nettled I more nor all; zo I looked out
vor un to-night, zlipped un into the dung-barry, walked un down the
hill-zide, and drove un through the ould porch ztraight as a vurrow:--zo
here a’ is, and let un gi’e a’count ov hi’zelf.”

“Ay, let un give an account of himself,” said the sturdy dame; “Who
bee’st, ’oesbert?”--To say that I was at the point of dissolution, were
needless. I began to mutter a few incoherent sentences, when one of
the fellows at the door cried out, “He’s Habby Bullwrinkle, the
devil’s-bird, down in the village.”

“A lawyer!” shouted Mistress Caddlefurrow, in a tone that doomed me, in
perspective, to all the horrors of the horse-pond;--“Why, thou bloated
raven! thou--”

“Zober--zober, mother,” whispered a voice behind me; and a hand, at
the same time, quietly put the enraged widow back towards her bee-hive;
“bide a bit; only bide a bit; hearken to reason.” I extricated myself
from the barrow, and looked up to see who my protecting angel could
possibly be; it was no other than Skelpie. “This gentleman’s my vreind,”
 continued he, looking drolly towards me; “he and I be main vond o’ one
another; I zeldom goes to chat wi’ a lass, but what he is near at hand;
zo--d’ye mind?--he often come wi’ I to the top of the hill, and bided
there, while I just stepped down to court little Ally vor an hour or
zo; that’s all:--I left un there to-night. I axed the mopus to come in,
but he’s modest, main modest, vor a chap of his years.” So saying, he
resumed his seat, and tendered me the cider-mug and a spare pipe in
such a friendly and unsuspicious manner, that told me all was right in
a moment. The clowns retired, and the old dame looked on me as kindly
as her features would permit, under the impression that I was the chosen
friend of her niece’s intended husband; for such, I soon discovered,
Skelpie was by her considered!--As soon as the storm in my veins had
somewhat abated, I looked around for the mild goddess of my idolatry,
the lady-like, modest, soft, silver-eyed Ally Budd.

She was drooping in a dark corner, with a check apron thrown over her
folded arms, and snoring audibly!

I could not bear to think of the heartless creature for a year after;
of course I never hovered over the abode of Dame Caddlefurrow again.
Skelpie soon deserted the cold lass for another love; and, after being
obliged to dance in her stocking-vamps, according to the custom of the
country, at the marriages of her two younger sisters, Ally was wedded
to an unlucky miser,--the most miserable character under the sun. But
to resume:--after lighting my pipe, I sat for some minutes absorbed
in reflections on my late adventure. I did not like Skelpie a whit the
better for having shielded me from the wrath of the boisterous widow; a
blow from his hand would have been much more acceptable than a favour: I
imagined that he was rioting on the idea of having vexed me, by his act
of apparent good-nature and kindness; and I construed his silence very
much in favour of this vagary of my heated imagination. Presently I
heard a noise behind old mother Caddlefurrow’s chair, which resembled
the faint and irregular chuckling of a woman’s half-stifled laugh; and,
anon, a tuft of hair, dark as the raven’s wing, topped by a pheasant’s
plume, gleamed over the head of the chair; a white brow, and a pair of
laughing black eyes, brim full of tears, followed; and in a few minutes,
Kate Skelpie, the wicked, mischievous sister of my deliverer, tumbled
out of the recess, which the dame’s chair had effectually shaded. She
was a round, dumpy lass, full of tricks as a frolicsome colt, with an
impertinent cocked nose, and a pair of lips, that were continually in
waggish and most alluring motion. I had seen her before at a farmer’s
merry-making, when she picked me out for a partner, and, notwithstanding
my obesity, obliged me to dance down six-and-thirty couple of giggling
girls, and roaring men;--keeping up, all the time, as grave a face as
ever sat on the shoulders of an undertaker. I pitched and leaped about
like a gambolling rhinoceros, to the infinite diversion of the company,
and my own solitary grief and dismay. Kate and I were the only persons
in the room who looked at all solid. I felt an inkling of affection for
the lass, even then,--why, I know not; and the continual crossings I
received from Skelpie, determined me to make love under his own roof,
where I should, most probably, be sure of peace and quietness in my
trysting; as Skelpie usually past the love time of the nights, about
at the abodes of the different village toasts. Here was a glorious
opportunity of improving my acquaintance with the twinkling-eyed Kate!
She was not such a poetical-looking creature as the snoring Ally Budd,
nor so tall and comely as the false daughter of Grobstock; nevertheless,
Kate Skelpie was a jocund, pretty, and captivating young lass. I courted
her, and prospered.

She had no meddling parents to interfere with us; and Skelpie was, of
course, absent from home five nights in the week. Many were the pranks
which the dear jade played me; but I did not care;--they kept my flame
alive, and her occasional kind looks and unsolicited salutes convinced
me that I held a place in her heart. In the meantime, however, I carried
on the war in another quarter. I had two nights in the week to spare,
and these I spent at a farm-house about a mile from the village, with a
slender young maiden, named Amaranth Saffem.

One Saturday evening, Skelpie overtook me as I was journeying towards
Amaranth’s dwelling. He accosted me civilly; and having some serious
notions about his sister, I did not scruple to enter into conversation
with him. He had not crossed me for above a month; and Kate had informed
me, the night before, “that she should have a good bit of gold, if the
old chap at the Lands’ End would but take it into his head just to die a
bit:” these were good reasons for my civility, and we discoursed on the
most fashionable village topics with great urbanity and mildness. At
length, however, we arrived at Amaranth’s door; and then, for the first
time, the truth flashed upon each of our minds. We were both evidently
bent on a love-visit to the fair Saffern. Skelpie looked rather hurt,
methought, and could not help _heaving_ a short sigh. However, we both
went in, and found Amaranth alone. It was market-day; and her crippled
grandfather, with whom she dwelt, as we both well knew, was gone to, and
in all probability would remain at, the next market-town until a late
hour, according to his usual custom; otherwise, we should almost as soon
have ventured into a tiger’s den, to despoil the animal of a whelp, as
pay a love-visit to the old man’s granddaughter. The miller was a lamb,
compared with dame Caddlefurrow; and that lady a dove in deportment, to
old Jagger Saffern. But more of him anon.

Amaranth, it was plain, favoured me rather than Skelpie. Without vanity
be it spoken, I was, at that time, barring my obesity, which rendered me
somewhat unsightly in the eyes of the lean, rather a personable man, and
not quite forty. I was by no means particularly solicitous to gain the
young Saffem’s affections, yet she clung to me in preference to Skelpie,
who did all in his power to please her. He was evidently in love, and
for the first time in his life, felt the pangs of jealousy in his
heart. I was his successful rival!--I, even I, Habakkuk Bullwrinkle, the
devil’s bird, whom he had so long despised, had succeeded in warping the
affections of his Amaranth!--He bit his lip, loured and smiled by fits,
and, in vain endeavoured to conceal the state of his heart. Amaranth
seemed to rejoice in his torments; she had always been tolerably liberal
in her tokens of affection, but, on this occasion, she almost exceeded
the bounds of probability. I did not much like it at last; for I began
to think she was making a fool of me. We went on in this way for above
an hour, when the old cripple’s poney suddenly clattered into the
court-yard. Skelpie started on his legs in evident alarm. There was no
way of escape, but through a back door into a little yard, which was
surrounded by a villanous high wall, so smooth, and well-built too, as
to defy even Skelpie’s clambering capabilities.

We had not been a moment outside the door, before the cripple entered
the house. Skelpie was endeavouring with all his might to get over the
wall: he clung like a cat to the bare bricks; but, before he had well
reached half-way up, his foot slipped, and down he came. I was standing
disconsolately underneath him; he fell so suddenly, that I had not time
to get out of the way, and Skelpie’s ponderous and hard skull struck me
full in the pit of my stomach, and sent me staggering against the back
door, which naturally gave way with the shock, and I was precipitated,
on the broad of my back, in the very middle of the floor. Luckily,
I came in contact with the table on which the candle stood, and
extinguished the light in my fall. The embers were dying on the hearth,
and Skelpie had hauled me by the legs, back into the yard, before the
cripple (who waited to reach his loaded blunderbuss before he looked
round) could catch more than a vague glimpse of my form and features.
The door swung inward, and Skelpie easily held it fast enough to prevent
the cripple from pulling it open;--at the same time carefully screening
his body behind the wall of the house, from the cripple’s bullets, which
we expected to hear rattling through the door every moment. He growled
like an incensed bear, and muttered curses by wholesale on poor
Amaranth, whom we heard whining most piteously. At length, he seemed to
take a sudden resolution, chuckled audibly, and proceeded to barricade
the door with all the furniture in the room. Here was an end to all
our hopes of enfranchisement and safety. But, oh! dear me! what were
my feelings, when I heard the cripple hobbling up stairs, and trying
to open a little window which commanded the yard! We were in a sad
situation; our only choice of avoiding the lynx eyes of Jagger was by
getting into two water-butts, which stood in the yard. The windows of
the house looked into every corner, so that we could not possibly hope
to conceal ourselves behind them. In we went together, but my ill luck
still attended me; Skelpie crouched comfortably in the belly of a dry
butt, but the one, into which I floundered, was half full of water. The
chilling liquid rose to within a foot and a half of the brim, the moment
I got in, so that it was impossible for me to crouch, being actually
standing on tip-toe, neck high in water! It was a bleak night, but my
fever saved my life.

The cripple’s blunderbuss, of unprecedented calibre, was thrust out of
the window, before I could well moderate my quick breathing. He looked
into every corner of the yard, but, happily, did not perceive my
miserable sconce, which was floating in the water-butt, immediately
beneath him. He descended in a few minutes, and removed the furniture
from the door, searched all round the yard, and, at length, discovering
the marks of Skelpie’s shoes in the wall, concluded that we had escaped,
and went grumbling to bed. It was a long time before I would suffer
Skelpie to help me out of my hiding-place: he effected the job with
infinite difficulty, and led me, dripping like a watering-pot, through
the house.

About a week after this adventure, I discovered that Kate and Amaranth,
who were once bosom friends, had quarrelled about me, and were now as
spiteful to each other as possible. They met, one evening, at old Hetty
Caddlefurrow’s, and, on comparing notes, found that I was playing
a double game. Ally Budd was present, but she said nothing. After
lavishing the usual abusive epithets on me, they began to look coldly
upon each other: from cool looks, they proceeded to vituperative
insinuations; and, before they parted, naturally came to an open
rupture. Occasionally, I suffered a little from their pouting and
touting; but, in the main, I was happy enough between them. Each tried
all her arts to win me from her rival they sometimes met, grew great
friends, vowed they would both turn their backs upon me for ever,
kissed, cried, quarrelled again, and grew more rancorous to each other
and loving to me, than before. Skelpie became an altered man. Amaranth
flouted him, abused his sister to his face, and caressed me in his
presence;--although, I believe, the hussy, if she knew her own heart,
loved the fellow all the time. Skelpie dressed smartly, discontinued
his visits to all other girls, neglected his games, and even his daily
occupations, to court Amaranth. He won the heart of the old cripple
Saffern; but the lass still turned a deaf ear to his vows:--she
was trying to vex Kate Skelpie. I was completely happy; I felt--but
wherefore should I dwell on this love contest?--Skelpie is looking over
my shoulder, and does not seem to relish the protracted detail. Suffice
it to say then, that the banns of marriage were at length published,
between Habakkuk Bull wrinkle, gentleman, and Kate Skelpie,
spinster;--that we were united in due season;--and that Skelpie, a short
time afterwards, obtained the hand of Amaranth. The angry passions of
the girls soon subsided, and they loved each other better than ever.
Skelpie became my bosom friend; I prospered in business; and the two
families have lived together for above twenty years, in concord and
happiness. The roses have faded in Amaranth’s cheek, and the fire of
Kate’s eye is somewhat quenched; but the relation of my own mishaps,
Skelpie’s adventures, and our strange courtships, never fails to draw
back the youthful smiles of hilarity in both their matronly faces.
Heaven bless them!

[Illustration: 183]


*****


[Illustration: 184]



SECOND COURSE: THE NEIGHBOURS OF AN OLD IRISH BOY.



INTRODUCTION.

A one-armed naval Lieutenant, on half-pay, who was distantly related
to my mother’s family, had the good fortune to be presented, in his
declining years, with a little cottage and a small portion of land
situate in a village on the coast of Ireland, by one of his wealthy
nephews, to whom it was unexpectedly devised by a maiden grand-aunt, who
had never seen him above once in his life. I accompanied the Lieutenant,
from Waterford, for no other reason than because I had nothing, either
better or worse, to do, when he went to take possession of his nephew’s
gift; and to pay a visit, after a separation of some years, to his
old shipmate--the friend of his youth, and the companion of his
manhood--Jimmy Fitzgerald,--better known by the appellation of the Old
Irish Boy, who dwelt in a mud cabin on the skirts of the village: the
history of whose neighbours is given in the ensuing pages, as nearly as
possible in the same terms as he narrated it to my worthy relative,
the one-armed Lieutenant, and myself, in the course of the two or three
first evenings which we passed in his company.



JIMMY FITZGERALD.

Jimmy Fitzgerald and the old Lieutenant had both entered the navy in
equally humble situations, at an early age: the friends of the latter,
eventually, procured his advancement; but Fitzgerald, whose relations
were poor, never had the luck to be rated on any ship’s books in a
higher station than that of an able seaman. The difference of rank
had not the effect of diminishing the respect and affection which the
Lieutenant and Fitzgerald bore towards each other: in their manhood they
were upon as familiar terms, so far as naval etiquette would permit, as
when in their boyhood they had been equals. The Lieutenant had saved
his friend’s life, at the risk of his own, in the Mediterranean; and,
to judge from appearances, he was, if possible, more partial to Jimmy
Fitzgerald than the Old Irish Boy was to him. The preserver frequently
is found to display more affection towards the preserved, than the
preserved either exhibits or feels towards his preserver.

No two men could be much more unlike each other than the Lieutenant and
Jimmy Fitzgerald. The former had received a tolerable education before
he went to sea; he had taken every opportunity to improve himself while
in the service; from the period of his retiring, he had read much on
general subjects; and he was, at the time of his taking possession of
his nephew’s cottage, a very well informed man. Jimmy Fitzgerald, on the
contrary, scarcely knew how to read when he left his native village;
he had picked up but a slight smattering of such knowledge as is to be
obtained from books, in his progress through life; but he possessed a
finer mind and greater powers of observation than his friend; and the
Old Irish Boy was, perhaps, superior to the better educated Lieutenant,
in mental riches, discrimination, and eloquence, when they again met,
after an interval of many years’ separation, under the roof of
the former. Jimmy Fitzgerald’s style rose with his subject; and he
occasionally found himself at such an elevation, that it was a mystery
how he had been able to attain it. The Lieutenant was always level in
his discourse: he neither descended so low, nor rose so high as his
friend; nor did he, like Fitzgerald, ever presume to discuss any
but commonplace subjects. Jimmy occasionally indulged in such daring
flights, that he toppled down headlong from an altitude which he was
unable to support; a disgrace to which the more sober and matter-of-fact
Lieutenant never subjected himself. The one sedulously avoided the
utterance of anything new; the other, if it had been in his power, would
rarely have said anything that was old. The Lieutenant was circumspect,
and the Old Boy ambitious: the former was stiff, constrained, and rather
stately in his language; the latter free, careless, and Hibernically
vernacular. Jimmy Fitzgerald was poor, almost dependant on the exertions
of a niece and her two sons for support, and so afflicted in his nether
extremities, that he could not move from his chair without assistance;
but he was always merry, and rarely complained. The Lieutenant possessed
a competency, he enjoyed a most robust state of health, his legs, and
the arm which the enemies of his country had left him, were still in
full vigour; but he frequently repined at his poverty, occasional slight
attacks of head-ache, and at being compelled to do the work of two hands
with one.

Notwithstanding the difference in their temperaments, the two friends
had rarely disagreed; and Orestes and Pylades, or Damon and Pythias,
could not have exhibited more affection towards each other, after a
long separation, than Jimmy Fitzgerald and the Lieutenant did, when the
latter entered the Old Irish Boy’s cabin. My relation had, to use his
own expression, been roaming about, here and there and everywhere, for
a number of years; and so little positive inclination did he feel for
passing the remainder of his life in one place, that he would, probably,
have declined his nephew’s well-meant offer, had not Jimmy Fitzgerald’s
cabin been within ten minutes’ walk of the cottage, and the sea been
visible from two of its four front windows. The village was principally
occupied by fishermen; but there were two or three respectable families
resident in the neighbourhood: to these the old Lieutenant had letters
of introduction; so that he felt satisfied, on entering upon his
tolerably neat, but humble abode, that he should not be at a loss for
society, even if it were possible for him ever to grow tired of that of
his friend Fitzgerald.

After a great number of mutual inquiries had been answered, and many
expressions of reciprocal friendship had been uttered, Jimmy Fitzgerald
drew forth a little tub of pothien from beneath the bed, with his
crutch,--which was of no other use to him but to perform this and
similar offices,--and protested by several saints, whose names have
escaped my memory, that we should have a jovial night of it. “Many’s the
pitcher of good drink,” he exclaimed, “the Lieutenant and I have
helped one another to empty: though, I’ll say this for him, he’d always
thirty-one points and a half more love for sobriety than ever Jimmy
Fitzgerald could boast; and at that same time, when he’d make mouths at
a third can, and draw back from a fourth, as he would from a dog that
was going to snap at him, I drank, and drank,--more shame to me
for it,--as though I’d declared war against spirits, and wished to
exterminate them,--rum, in particular,--from the face of the earth. I
think I’m a better man than I was long ago: no thanks to me, for that,
though, perhaps; for I’m out of the way of temptation; and if I’d the
pay of an admiral, I couldn’t enjoy myself as I did long ago. It’s
wrong of us to brag of our virtue, when we’ve no appetite left in us
for sin:--that’s a saying I stole from the priest, because it plazed me.
You’ll like Father Killala mightily, Lieutenant, when you come to know
him; as you soon will, won’t you? And noticing him reminds me of telling
you, that while you’re here, I’ll engage you’ll never get reproached for
being a Protestant.”

“Toleration, Jimmy--”

“Is it toleration?” exclaimed Fitzgerald, interrupting the Lieutenant;
“why then, in toleration, Father Killalas flock are all lambkins. I’ll
add to that,--because, I know you’ll like to hear it--we’re as quiet as
mice in these parts: we’ve no fighting, nor fairs, nor wren-feasts;
and as few ghosts or goblins, Banshees, Lepreghauns, or white women
on horseback, as you’d wish: for we don’t give such cattle much
encouragement. Don’t that plaze you, Lieutenant?”

“It does,--it does; and I have no doubt but that I shall pass my days
peacefully and pleasantly in your village, my good old friend. Jimmy
Fitzgerald and I,” continued the Lieutenant, addressing me with
unusual animation, “have fought and bled side by side; we were confined
together, for four years, in a French prison, from which we escaped in
company; we had but one tobacco-box between us, for fifteen months;
and we accidentally fell in love with the same woman. Jimmy acted most
magnanimously on that occasion: as soon as he discovered that I was his
rival, he instantly resigned his pretensions in my favour.”

“And you were quite as polite to me, Lieutenant,” said Jimmy, “and I
don’t forget it to you to this day. You insisted, you know, as strongly
as I did: so that as each was resolute in not cutting out his friend,
the darling delight of our hearts got neither of us; and she’s now
living,--an ould maid, as I’m tould,--near upon a mile and a half this
side of Thurles.”

“Is it possible?” exclaimed the Lieutenant.

“It’s as true as you’re born, if Corney Carolan is to be believed on his
oath. I wouldn’t take his word; but when a man swears to what he says,
it’s not dacent to discredit him, is it?”

“Certainly not,” replied the Lieutenant. “And so Peggy is living within
a mile and a half of Thurles, is she?--unmarried, too, you say?”

“She is; and I don’t think I’d be doing my duty if I didn’t tell you.
I’ll just take this present opportunity of saying, too, that as you
think of settling, and as you’re still well-looking, and I’m broke
down out-and-out, so that she wouldn’t look upon me,--I’d sacrifice
nothing,--that is, I wouldn’t intirely brake my heart if you wint and
married her.”

“James Fitzgerald,” said the Lieutenant, “you are still the noble fellow
you were thirty years ago. You have forestalled me on this occasion: I
assure you that I was just working myself up to say to you what you
have said to me. You are still a bachelor, Jimmy, and, as far as I am
concerned, Miss Margaret M’Carthy is quite at your service.”

“Thank you kindly, and good luck to you for this and all that’s past,”
 said Jimmy; “but, to spake my mind,--I never cared much about Peg.”

“Nor I, upon my honour!” exclaimed the Lieutenant.

“I was glad of an excuse to be rid of her,” quoth Fitzgerald.

“Precisely my own case, I protest,” said the Lieutenant.

“And I never cared one half so little for her, as I do just now.”

“We coincide on this point to a tittle.”

“Then what becomes of our mutual devotion, Lieutenant? It was all
moonshine, you see.”

“Not exactly,” replied the Lieutenant; “man can look back on past
occurrences, and see circumstances in their true light--”

“Better than he can when they’re under his nose?” interrupted
Fitzgerald. “Is it that you mane?”

“It is: passion and prejudice, as philosophy teaches us--”

“Hould your tongue, Lieutenant,” said Fitzgerald; “for I think I can
find a shorter way for us out of the bog, than your jack-o-lantern
philosophy will light us to. The truth is, we were young and foolish
that time; we thought we loved the young woman, and we didn’t: so
there’s an end of Peg. My blessings be on her for all that, though!
She never did me harm; and one of us, may be, was wrong in not marrying
her.”

“She told me to my face,--truth is a jewel, Jimmy Fitzgerald,” said the
Lieutenant, “she told me, calmly and resolutely, when I informed her
that you were as deeply in love with her as myself, that we had mistaken
innocent flirting for affection; and that, were a formal proposal made
to her, she should indignantly reject it; ‘for,’ said she, ‘I would not
have either of you, if one was a Rear Admiral, and the other a Major of
Marines.’ That was her precise expression.”

“Oh! Time, Time!” exclaimed Jimmy; “what a fine auld fellow you are, to
be sure! How you open our eyes, and bring things to light! If it wasn’t
for you, Truth might often go hide her head.”

“I think,” said the Lieutenant, rather gaily, “that if I wanted a wife,
I might probably find one who would suit me better than Peggy, among
your neighbours, friend Fitzgerald. And, by-the-by, as I am coming
to live among them, I should be glad if you would afford me a little
insight to their various characters, circumstances, and histories. I am
well aware of your capability to do so:--when I found you on board the
Janus, after we had parted company for more than seven years, you did me
incalculable benefit, by giving me a descriptive portrait of every soul
in the ship; from the cook’s boy up to the captain. Will you oblige me?”

“I will, in that or anything else that’s in the power o’ me,” replied
the Old Boy. “If I devoted one half o’ my life to you, since I was
twenty, I’d still be your debtor for the other half: for didn’t you
save the whole of it at the risk of your own?--You did, then; and I’ll
never--”

“Psha, psha, Fitzgerald! you know what strong objections I have to your
dwelling on that topic.”

“Go along with you, and don’t be prating so, sir,” said Jimmy; “I won’t
put up with your taking the liberty of doing a fine thing for me, and
then bidding me not spake of it. My bits of gratitude, now and then,
goes for the interest; but I’ll never be able to pay off the debt.
Still, though the one is out of my power to do, I’d not be aisy in my
own mind if I neglected the other that _isn’t_: so that, after all, may
be, when we think we’re doing great things, by acting as we should to
others, we’re just egged on to it, by the fear of not being on good
terms with ourselves. You’ve often tould me, Lieutenant, I should be
your Corporal Trim,--the man you and I read about, long ago, in Jack
Flanagan’s bit of a book, aboard the Bellerophon: and I would be so,
but my legs took to their heels and deserted me, you know; and so I
couldn’t, could I? Did you ever get hould of a book, since I saw you,
with the middle and both ends of that story in it?--If you did, as we’d
only the middle and a bit o’ the beginning in Jack Flanagan’s greasy
library, I’d be glad if you’d tell it me.”

“I will, with pleasure, Fitzgerald, when--”

“When I’ve described my neighbours to you, is it? Well, then, I’ll do
that, I think, before we part, if the whiskey houlds out, and it don’t
get much the better of us. But it sha’n’t, shall it?--for we’ll put
ourselves upon short allowance, and drink as we ought, to the renewal of
our acquaintance, when I’m done. I’ll tell you, before I begin, that you
couldn’t pick out any nine in the whole barony, knows half so much about
the people that’s in it, as myself; though I’m fast moored here, like a
Trinity-house buoy on a sand-bank: but though I see little, I hear much;
and as I can’t go to any body, why, every body comes to me.”

“I am grieved to the heart, Jimmy Fitzgerald,” said the Lieutenant, “to
behold you so fettered by your infirmities; confined, if I may use the
expression, like a pig in a coop--”

“Liberty, Lieutenant,” interrupted the Old Irish Boy, “is only
comparative at the best; and none of us gets our fill of it. Going about
from one place to another isn’t freedom, as I think you’ll own: so why
need I cry out? If it was, nobody, as I said, while ago, has as much as
he wishes of it. I’d be delighted to be able to go get mass once a
week, and to crawl a quarter of a mile now and then; but my infirmities
prevent me: so I don’t have my wish. But I’m only like the rest o’ the
world; and, therefore, I ought to be contented; though, I’ll own,
I’m not so, exactly. One man sighs to have a jaunt into the country,
sometimes,--but his wife won’t let him leave the town he lives in;
another thinks he’d be happy if he could p’rambulate about in foreign
parts,--but his pocket keeps him at home; even that mighty conqueror,
Alexander the Great, if there’s truth in the song that’s made about him,
found the globe itself too little for his desires; and you know, well
enough, that little Snookenhausen used to be telling us at Malta, of an
ould philosopher, in ancient times, who fell out with his own bread
and butter, like a big baby as he was, because he couldn’t have another
world for a play-ground, so as he might play trap-ball with this.
There’s none of us but strains the cable by which we’re moored, as tight
as we well can; and many’s the man tries, all his life, to cut it, and
sheer off into the main; but he can’t. If you tie up a horse in a field,
he’ll not care half so much about the rich grass that’s under his nose,
as he will for a few dry blades, which his rope won’t let him reach;
and he’ll be trying for them, when he might be filling his belly with
better. If I am, as you say, shut up here like a pig in a coop,--and
it’s true enough,--I’ve the comfort of knowing, that be, who thinks
himself free, and brags about his liberty, has a ring in his nose, and,
may be, two or three other incumbrances, which prevent him, although
he’s adrift, from enjoying his freedom, or doing as he likes, much more
than I can.--But now for my neighbours--”

[Illustration: 193]



THE NATIVE AND THE ODD FISH.

Mick Maguire is a native of these parts, and he’s out and out the oddest
fish among my neighbours, as I think, and as you’ll think too, may be,
by-and-by, when I tell you more about him.--Didn’t it ever occur to you,
that a man may be ruined by a bit of good luck as well as by bad?--I’m
sure it must.--I had an uncle at Tralee, who was left seventy pounds by
his wife’s gossip; and he welcomed the gift so warmly, and caroused so
heartily to the honour of the giver, that he never ceased drinking and
losing his time,--though he was a dacent man, and did business as he
ought before,--until the seventy pounds, and a little to the tail of it,
had slipped through his fingers. But that wasn’t the end of it: for he
got such bad habits as he never could shake off again; so he lived a few
years a sot, and died a beggar: all which wouldn’t have happened but for
the seventy pounds his wife’s gossip gave him.--I knew a young woman,
whose name I won’t mention, for the sake of her family, who lost herself
entirely through a love of fine clothes, which she had never cared
more about, than just a little, as all women do,--and no blame to
them,--before her brother, who sailed for three years in the same ship
with me, brought her home a little bag of silks and things above her
station, which, when she’d worn them, made her despise her plain,
honest, ould duds: but them that was about her couldn’t give her better;
so she grew sick of home, and did that she was sore at heart for when
she came to a death-bed.--Ah! then’s the time, if we never did before,
when we know right from wrong;--then’s the time, when the brain balances
things and gives true weight to all our misdeeds;--then’s the time, when
a man, who could never before recollect what he did that day se’nnight,
remembers all the evil he has done in his days, and all the good he
might have done, but wouldn’t. A dying man’s memory, if he has been
a bad one, is one of the most perfect and terrible things in the
world;--go see one yourself, and you’ll own it. We may be’cute enough
to hide what we do from the world all our lives, but we can’t do so from
ourselves when death puts out his big bony paw to give us a grim welcome
to his dark dominions. We may be’cute enough to shut our own eyes to
what we’ve done, when we’re strong and able, and the world’s going
merrily round with us; and we may be fools enough to think that our sins
are blotted out when we have forgotten them;--for I’ve found that men
are just like the ostriches I’ve seen myself, in Africa, which, when
they’re hunted, poke their pates into a dark place, leaving their
bodies entirely exposed, and fancy no one can see them if they can’t
see themselves:--but when we know that the last sands in our glass are
running, and the dead sea is glimmering before us, we can’t poke our
heads into a corner,--don’t you see?--or tie a stone to the neck of each
of our iniquities, and drown it;--or look another way, and think of
to-morrow’s dinner, when they’re coming to meet us;--or silence their
small but very terrible voices, by whistling the burthen of an old song:
for,--do you mark?--they won’t be served so: they will be seen; they
will speak; and, faith! it’s bear them we must, whether we will or no.
We may have fancied them dead and gone, years ago; but their ghosts
start up and surround our death-beds, and clamour so, that we can’t but
listen to them: and what’s most awful, they make a man his own judge;
and no earthly judge is so impartial as a man is of himself, when his
people are just wishing him good-b’ye for ever. For when we get on the
brink of life and death, and know that it’s ten to one we’ll be dead by
the morning, and it’s just midnight already;--when we think that in a
few hours our ears will be deaf, and our eyes blind, and we can’t wag
a finger, and our cold white corpse will be stretched out on a
board,--motionless, helpless, good for nothing, and lumber more than
anything else;--when we know, that, much as we thought of ourselves, the
sun will rise, and the birds sing, and the flowers look beautiful, and
the ox be yoked to the plough, and the chimneys smoke, and the pot be
boiled, and the world go on without us, as well as if we’d never been in
it;--then’s the time, I say, we get our vanity cut up by the roots, and
feel what atoms we’ve been in it:--and then’s the time too, that the
soul,--just before pluming her wings, and having half shaken off the
dross of humanity,--becomes strong as the body gets weak, and won’t be
bamboozled, but calls up all our sins past, and places them stedfastly
before our eyes; and if we’ve done wrong--that is, much of it,--a big
black bird stretches out her great wings and flutters, brooding like
a weight of cold lead, on our hearts; and conscience, though we’ve
contrived to keep her down all our lives, then starts up, taking
advantage of our helplessness, and reigns in fall power.--But what’s all
this to Mick Maguire? you’ll say.--Faith! then, not much: I began
with an idea of getting to him in a few words, but was led astray, by
noticing the death of the young woman I mentioned as being ruined by the
gift of a brother, who meant it for her good. And you’ll think it odd,
may be, that the likes o’ me casts over things so sariously: but I do,
and there’s nothing plazes me more than so doing, when I’m left alone
here by myself, for hours and hours together, while all that’s near
and dear to me is out upon the waves, the mighty roar of which, as they
break upon the rocks about me, I hear night and day; and the sound o’
them, and solitude, begets sarious thoughts; and so they should, in one
that’s gone sixty. There’s never a day but I think o’ death, so that I’m
sure I’ll be able to meet him firmly when he knocks at the gates of life
for me, and bids me come. If I could go about, I’d not have such oceans
of odd, out o’ the way thoughts, consarning various things; but here I
am, fettered by my infirmities to an ould chair, and I’ve nothing to do
half my time, but think. Don’t imagine, though, that I’m laid up in
a harbour of peace, or that the other half of my time is calm and
pleasant: it’s no such thing; the woes and the wickedness of the
world--good luck to it though, for all that--reaches me here in this
corner, though it’s harm me they can’t much. I’m like an ould buoy,
fast moored to an anchor on a bad coast, over which the waves dashes and
splashes all day long, but they can neither move it nor damage it. But
what’s all this to Mick Maguire? you’ll say, again. Faith! then, little
or nothing: but now I’ve done, and we’ll get on.

Mick, like my uncle at Tralee, has been ruined by a gift. He was once a
hard-working man, and did well; until young Pierce Veogh, just after he
came into possession of the house that’s called “The Beg,” on the hill
yonder,--which he did at his father’s death,--gave Mick an ould gun
once, for something I forget; and that gun has been the ruin of him.
He works one day in the week to buy powder and shot; and half starves
himself, and goes in rags the other six, prowling about the rocks, and
firing at sea-gulls and so forth, but seldom shooting one.

Mick’s an oddity, as I tould you before; and why _so?_ you’ll say. Why,
then, not for his face, for he’s good-looking; nor for his figure, for
he’s straight and well built; nor for his jokes, for he never makes
one; nor for any one thing in the world but his always telling the plain
naked truth; good or bad, no matter if it harms him, he don’t mind, but
always spakes the thing that is, and won’t tell even a white lie for
himself, much more for any one else:--and if that’s not an oddity, I
don’t know what is. There’s so much lying going on in the world, that if
a man just lives in a corner, and sees only three people in the year, he
must lie now and then; or, somehow, things won’t be as they should be;
he won’t do like them that’s about him, and can’t get on: why, I don’t
know; but so it is. Mick was never known to tell a story in his whole
life; but he has sworn to so many out o’ the way things, that he’s often
been suspected to be a big liar: for I need scarce say to you, that
nothing can look more like a lie sometimes than the plain truth. But
whatever Mick says, always at last and in the long run turns out to be
fact: so that we don’t know what to think of the story he has of the
fairy he saw on the rocks long ago. It seems as much like a lie as
anything ever I heard; but if it is one, it’s the first Mick tould; and
if so, troth then, it’s a thumper. And why shouldn’t it?--A good man,
when he does wrong, commits a big sin; while you and I only does dozens
of little ones: and them that sticks by the truth in general, if they
happens to tell a lie, faith! then, it’s a wonderful big one;--and, may
be, so is Mick’s story;--but you’ll judge for yourself, when you hear
it. But don’t forget the honesty of Mick’s tongue; and bear in mind too,
that we shouldn’t disbelieve anything simply because it’s out of the way
to us, and we never saw the likes of it ourselves; for there’s so many
strange things in the world, that one don’t know what to disbelieve; and
of all the wonderful things I ever heard of, there’s none seems to me so
very wonderful as this, namely:--I exist, and I know it. Now for Mick’s
story:--

“One day,” says he, “as I was out shooting on the black rocks, I
clambered up to a place where I never was before; and I don’t think man
had set foot upon it till then: it was higher than you’d think, looking
up from the sea, which washed the foot of it; for the great crag itself,
which none of us can climb,--I mane that one where the eagle’s nist
is,--seemed to be below it. Well, thinks I, when I got to the top, I’ll
have a good pelt at the birds from this, I’m sure: but no, I couldn’t;
for though they were flying round and round it, divil a one would come
within gun-shot, but kipt going about, and going about, until the head
o’ me wint round wid looking at them, and I began to feel sick, for I’d
come out before breakfast, not intinding to stay long; but somehow, I
wint further and further, and, at last, the sun was going down, and me
there, where I tould you I was, a-top of the big crag. ‘Michael,’ says I
to meeself, ‘it’s time for you to be going too, for the birds won’t
come near you; and you’re hungry, boy,--so you are, Mick; you can’t deny
that.’ And it’s true thin I couldn’t; for I never was hungrier in my
life, than I was that time, and sorrow the thing in my pocket softer
than a flint. Well, thin I began to go down; but before I’d got twinty
steps, what do you think I saw there, upon the bare rock, where nobody
seemed to have been before me, near upon half a day’s journey higher
than the sea,--what, I say, do you think I saw, lying before me there
You wouldn’t guess in a year. Why thin it was an oysther!--I started,
as though a ghost had come across me:--and why wouldn’t I?--for I’d no
right to expect to see such a thing as an oysther there, you know, had
I?--Thinks I, after awhile, ‘Here’s a fine mouthful for you, Mick, if
it’s only fresh; but, may be, it’s been here these thousand years.--Eh,
thin, Mick! but you’re lucky, so you are, if it should be ateable.’

“Sitting down on the rock, I put out my hand to get a hould of it, whin
what does it do, but lifts up its shell of its ownself!--and there was
something inside it, just like an oysther, you’d think; but whin you
looked closer, what was it thin, but a small dwarf of a man, wid a
beard, and a little broad belly, and two short, fat, little darlings of
legs, and his both hands in his breeches pockets; quite at home, and as
aisy as you or I’d be in our arm chair, if we had one.

“‘I’m glad to see you, Mick,’ says he; ‘it’s long I’ve been expecting
you.’

“Now, there’s many that would have run away, and broke their necks down
the rock, at hearing the crature call them by their names, and say this;
but I’m one that never feared Banshee Lepreghaun, or any one of the
little people, good, bad, or indifferent;--why should I?--So I pulled
off my hat, and making a leg to him,--‘Sir,’ says I, ‘if I’d known as
much, I’d have come before.’

“‘Thank you kindly, Mick Maguire,’ says he. ‘No thanks to me thin, at
all at all,’ thinks I, ‘if you knew what I know:’ for I was determined
to devour him, if he was ateable. ‘And it’s by my own name you call me,
sir,’ says I, ‘is it?’

“‘To be sure it is,’ says he; you wouldn’t have me call you out of your
name,--would you?’--And thin he fell laughing, as though his little face
would have tumbled to pieces: and, faith! of all the faces I ever set
eyes on, I never saw the likes of his for a roguish look.--‘You wouldn’t
have me call you out of your name, would you, Mick?’ says he again.

“‘Why, thin, no I wouldn’t, and that’s truth,’ says I; ‘but what’s your
own name? I’d like to know, so I would,’ says L “‘I dare say you would,’
says he.

“‘And after that,’ says I, ‘I’d be glad if you’d tell me a small trifle
about yourself, and how you live in your little house there, whin you
shut down the roof of it; and thin--’

“‘Bad manners to you Mick,’ says he; ‘don’t be prying into a person’s
domestic arrangements.’--Them were his words. ‘Mind your own business,’
says he; ‘and ax me no questions about mee-self; for, may be, I won’t
answer them.’

“‘But, sir,’ says I, thinking to get all I could out of him, before I
ate him; ‘sir,’ says I, ‘it isn’t every day one sees, betuxt a pair of
oysther-shells--’

“‘Oh! Mick!’ says he, ‘there’s more out o’ the way things than meeself,
in the sea.’

“‘I shouldn’t wonder, sir,’ says I.

“‘There is, Mick,’ says he; ‘take my word for it.’

“‘I’m sure of it, sir,’ says I; ‘and yet people says there’s no mermaids
even: now meeself saw one once, and she’d a fish’s tail, and big fins
below; and above she was as like a man, as one brogue is like another.
Now, sir, I’d like to know your opinion.’

“‘Mick,’ says he; ‘was it in the bay yourself saw the mermaid?’

“‘Faith! and it was,’ says I.

“‘Just four years ago,’ says he, ‘Mick?’

“‘Just,’ says I; ‘come St. Breedien’s day; for it was the very week
Jimmy Gorman was drowned, so it was: his wife married Tim Carroll, tin
months after his wake,--for we waked Jimmy, though he wasn’t at home,
and drank long life to our absent friend, in the pitcher o’ pothien he
left in the cupboard,--so we did:--and she has now three children, by
Tim; and Maurien, the little one, is two months ould, barring a week, or
thereaway; and three nines is twinty-siven, and tin is tin more,--that’s
thirty-siven, and three months betuxt and betune each o’ the children,
makes nine more, that’s forty-six: thin there’s Maurien, she’s
two months ould, as I said; so that, taking them together, there’s
forty-eight months, one up or one down, and that many months is four
years:--so that, by the rules of multiplication and population, Jimmy’s
dead four years--don’t you see?’

“‘Arrah! don’t be preaching,’ says he; ‘sure, meeself knew Jimmy well.’

“‘Ah! and is it yourself?’ says I; ‘and was he on visiting terms wid
ye?’

“‘I knew him better than ever you did in your life, Mick,’ says he.

“‘Not a bit of it,’ says I; ‘did you ever spend your money wid him, like
meeself, at the sheebeen-house?--or at the pattarn there above, with the
penny-whiff woman? Did you ever once trate him to a glass o’ whiskey,
sir?’ says I;--‘not yourself, in starch.’

“‘Mick,’ says he, ‘Jimmy and I lay in one bed for seven months.’

“‘In one bed!’

“‘Yes.’

“‘In a bed of oysthers, may be!’

“‘It was,’ says he.

“‘Oh! thin, well and good, sir,’ says I; ‘but what has Jimmy to do with
the mermaid?’

“‘Mick,’ says he, ‘the mermaid yourself saw below in the bay was him.’

“‘Is it Jim?--And now I recollect--what’s as true as that my daddy
Jack’s a corpse,--the mermaid, sure enough, had a carrotty pole, and two
whiskers, and a big jacket, to say nothing of the bradien, though they
wouldn’t believe me,--so they wouldn’t; but betuxt ourselves, sir, by
this pipe in my fist, she was dacently clothed as meeself, barring the
breeches. Oh! thin, divil a saw saw I of breeches about her; and her
legs,--sure, and wasn’t her legs a fish? and didn’t meeself say so?’

“‘Very well, Mick,’ says he; ‘I’ll explain it to you:--a big blackguard
of a shark, that was on a travelling tour, happened to be going that way
when Jim’s boat was upset, and gobbled him up just as he got into the
water: but, lo and behould! whin he’d got Jim’s legs down his throat,
and came to his bradien and big belly, divil a swallow could the shark
swallow him:--and there Jim stuck so fast, that if the shark had taken
fifty emetics before-hand, he couldn’t have cast him up.--With that,
Jim, finding his situation unpleasant, began to kick; and the shark,
with that, tickled Jim’s ribs with his teeth; but he couldn’t bite
clane through his big coat,--and the more Jim kicked, the more the shark
tickled him; and up they wint, and down they wint; and my belief is,
that Jim would have bate him, but the fish got suffocated, and sunk,
just as Jim was gitting a pull at the whiskey-bottle, which he carried
in his side pouch; and down they wint together, so sudden, that Jim,
taken up as he was with the taste of the crature, didn’t know he was
drowned till they were both at the bottom.’

“‘Was Jimmy and the shark, the mermaid meeself saw thin?’ says I.

“‘They was, Mick.’

“‘Thin bad luck to the pair o’ them,’ says I, ‘for two impostors!--And
how did your honour know this?’

“‘Wasn’t I in the shark’s belly all the time?’ says he.--‘Didn’t he
gobble me up with a salmon, that tried to take refuge in the place where
meeself and a few friends laid tin days before?--A lobsther lived in
Jim’s pocket for a month; and he and all his family used to go out three
days a week to pull Jim’s nose, for fishing up two of their cousins
once,--so they did.--I’d thank ye for a pinch of snuff.’

“‘And welcome, sir,’ says I, houlding over the snisheen; ‘meeself likes
to hear news of my friends, sir,’ says I; ‘would your honour plaze to
take a shaugh o’ the doothien too?’ And politeness, you know, made me
offer him the pipe.

“‘Mick,’ says he; ‘is it meeself, or the likes o’ me, that smokes?--I
never took a goll o’ the peepa in all my life:--and over and above that,
Mick, I’d feel mightily obliged to you, if you’d blow your smoke higher,
or be just ginteel and agreeable enough to sit the other side o’ me: if
you don’t, you’re a dirty blackguard, and bad luck to you, sir,’ says
he; ‘for I’ve no chimney to my house.’ With that, I just knocked out the
backy from the pipe, and tould him, I didn’t mind meeself, and I’d put
away smoking at once.

“‘Mick,’ says he, ‘you’d nothing but ashes in your doothien; so the
divil’s thanks to you!’

“‘Sir,’ says I, not noticing what he said,’ that’s a mighty nate little
house you have of your own; I’d like to know who built it.’ “‘Faith!
thin I did meeself, Mick,’ says he; ‘but I’d like your big finger the
better, if it was outside my door.’

“‘Sir,’ says I, ‘if I’d such a nate little cabin, I’d marry Molly Malony
at once. Doesn’t your honour ever think of getting a wife?--or, may be,
you’re a widower?’

“‘Mick,’ says he, ‘oysthers don’t marry.’

“‘Ye live mighty like a hermit, in your cell there,’ says I.

“‘Mighty like,’ says he.

“‘I suppose, you have your beads too, and you count them,’ says I.

“‘I suppose I don’t,’ says he; ‘for I’ve but one.’

“‘Troth, and that’s a thumper thin,’ says I, peeping into his little
parlour: and there, sure enough, was a pearl big enough to be the making
of me, and all the seed and breed of me, past, present, and to come,
hanging by a bit of sea-weed round his neck.

“‘Do you know what, Mick?’ says he; I’m sick o’ the world, Mick; and I’m
half inclined to give you lave to ate me.’

“‘Sir,’ says I, taking off my hat, ‘I’m much obliged to you for nothing
at all. It’s meeself manes to ate your honour, with or without lave,--so
I do.’

“‘Is it yourself, Mick?’

“‘Faith! and it is thin,--though I say it; for I’m hungry:--and, after
that, I mane to take the big pearl, I see there about your neck.’

“‘Mick, you’re a reprobate!--Sure, you would’nt be so un-genteel, as to
ate a gentleman against his own inclination, would you?’

“‘Meeself would thin, and think it no sin, in case the gentleman was a
plump little oysther, like your honour.’

“‘Then, Mick, I wish you good evening!’

“‘Oh, joy!’ says I, seeing how he was going to shut himself in; ‘it’s of
no use, sir, to do so:--I’ve a knife in my pocket, and it’s not burglary
in this country to break into the house of an oysther.’

“‘Mick,’ says he; ‘an oysther’s house is his castle.’

“‘Castle I’ says I; ‘is it a castle?--two shells, with a little face in
the middle o’ them, a castle?--Thin what’s my cabin below but a palace?’

“‘A pig’s palace, it is, Mick,’ says he.

“‘Musha! bad luck thin,’ says 1, ‘to every bit of you--’

“‘Ah! Mick,’ says he, interrupting me, ‘if I was half your size, I’d
bate you blue, so I would.--You’re a dirty cur, and so was your father
before you.’

“‘Say that again,’ says I; ‘say my father was a cur, sir, again, and I’d
be obliged to you:--just say it now, and see how soon I’ll break every
bone in your skin.’

“‘Bone!’ says he; ‘sorrow the bit of bone is in me at all!’ says
he.--‘Do you know anything of anatomy, Mick?’

“‘An atomy!--that’s a thing smaller than a mite, isn’t it?’

“‘Arrah! no, man: don’t you know what nerves and muscles manes?’

“‘Nerves meeself knows little about; but is it muscles? Och! thin,
didn’t I get a bag-full below on the beach, this day se’nnight? Tell me,
sir, if you plaze,--is a muscle any relation to your honour?’

“‘Ah! Mick,’ says he; ‘would you insult me?--sure we trace our pedigree
up to the days of King Fergus; and the muscles wasn’t known for whole
ages after: they’re fishes of yesterday,--mushrooms o’ the
ocean:--d--n the one o’thim knows whether or no he ever had a
great-grandmother!--Mick, this is a bad upstart world we live in.’

“‘It is,’ says I; ‘people thinks o’ nobody but just their ownselves; and
doesn’t mind what inconvaniency they puts their fellow-cratures to, so
as they ar’n’t harried thimselves.’

“‘True,’ says he, ‘Mick:--did you ever rade o’ the Romans?’

“‘I’m a Roman meeself, sir.’

“‘Phugh!’ says he; ‘it’s of rulligion ye’re spaking!--I mane the ould
Romans,--Romulus and Rebus,--Brutus and Brian Bora,--that sacrificed
themselves for the good of their country:--thim’s the examples we ought
to follow, Mick! We should help our fellow-cratures too, in necessity,
if it lies in our power; and not stand, shilly-shally, thinking and
turning it over whether it will be to our advantage or not.’

“‘Sir,’ says I, ‘your honour spakes my own sintimints; and sure never
could a finer time come for practising what you preach, than now.--Luck
up, your honour,--luck up, and see meeself, a poor fellow-crature,
in distress fora mouthful;--I’m a part o’ my country, and you’re an
Irishman born, I’ll be sworn.’ “‘Mick,’ says he; ‘that’s a different
sort of a thing, intirely.’

“‘Not at all,’ says I; ‘it’s a case in point.’

“‘Well, Mick,’ says he; ‘thin I will,--I will sacrifice meeself.’

“‘And no thanks to you, sir,’ says I; ‘you know you’d be sacrificed by
me, whether you sacrificed yourself or no. Ah, ah!’ “‘Ha, ha!’ says he;
‘that’s true; and it’s the way o’ the world, Mick.’

“‘And may be, sir,’ says I, ‘thim Romans yourself spoke about--’

“‘Blarney and humbug, Mick!--blarney and humbug!--They did just what
Shawn O’ Shaugnessy did, while ago,--jump overboard to show his bravery,
when he knew the ship was sinking.--But don’t be in a hurry, Mick,’ says
he, seeing me licking my lips, and getting nearer him;--‘although, Mick,
I have no wish to live; for an oysther’s life is a sad one, Mick.’

“‘Ah! sir,’ says I, ‘and so is Mick Maguire’s.’

“‘I’ve every wish in the world to travel into all foreign parts.’ “‘And
so have I, sir.’

“‘But a snail’s better off than I am.--Can’t he take a trip, with his
house on his back, and look about him whin he likes?’ “‘That’s just my
own case,’ says I; ‘there’s John Carroll, the pedlar, takes his pack on
his shoulther, and travels from Clonmell to Carrick,--from Carrick to
Stradbally, and all over the rest of the world, two or three times a
week.’

“‘Oh! musha! Mick,’ says he, ‘don’t grumble; you’re not half so bad off
as I am:--it’s tied by the back, I am, to the floor of my house, and I
can’t stir a foot.’

“‘It isn’t much money yourself spinds in brogues and stockings,
thin,’ says I.--‘Ah! thim brogues ates a man out of house and home,
intirely!--Does your honour know one Darby Walsh, a brogue-maker?’

“‘No, I don’t.’

“‘Then, mark this, sir,’ says I; ‘if ever you shake the fist of him,
you’ll have a rogue in your gripe.’

“‘I knew one Jack Walsh,’ says he, ‘at Calcutta?’

“‘And was your honour ever at Calcutta?’ says I.

“‘I was once, Mick,’ says he: ‘I wint out in a porpus, who very politely
gave me an inside place for nothing: but, arrah! Mick, I was obliged to
work my way home.’

“‘Did you know one Tiddy Maguire, in the East Indies?’ says I.

“‘No; but I heard talk of him.’

“‘He was a brother of mine, sir; and though I’ve axed every body that
ever come from thim parts, if they knew one Tiddy Maguire, in the
East Indies, divil a ha’p’orth o’ news could ever I get about him
before!--Will I tell your honour a story about Tiddy?--Sure, I
will thin:--Tiddy was a boy that used to be given to walking in his
sleep;--he’d go miles about, and bring home people’s little pigs and
poultry; and be all the while innocent of theft--quite intirely,--so
he said, any how. Well! to make a long story short, one night Tiddy
was awoke by a great knock on the head, abroad there in Morty Flynn’s
backyard, with a sucker from the ould sow’s side, in his hand;--how it
came there, Tiddy never could give any satisfactory account.
Whin he got home,--‘Arrah! Tid,’ says I, ‘what happened you, man?--and
who’s been braking the face of you?’ And sure enough, the blood was
streaming through his hair like a brook among underwood. ‘Morty Flynn,’
says he, ‘struck me while ago.’ ‘Arrah! man, and had you nothing in your
hand to defind yourself wid?’ says I ‘Troth! and I had thin,’ says he;
‘but what’s a sucking-pig in a man’s fist to a dung-shovel?’

“‘But, sir,’ says I to the oysther, ‘it’s high time we should be better
acquainted:--by your lave, sir,’ says I, taking out my skean dubh, and a
fine knife it was;--‘by your lave, sir--’

“‘Luck up, luck up, Mick!’ says he.

“Meeself lucked up, as he bid me, and the curse of Cromwell on the crow
that was flying over my head just thin;--the bird was bastely enough to
dirt the face o’ me;--down it fell, just thin as I lucked up, exactly
betuxt my two eyes. I was in a terrible rage, you may guess; but hark
to what a fool I was:--instid of getting my gun, and shooting the
blackguard, what did meeself do, in the heat of the moment, but pick
up the oysther, and away wid it at him, thinking to knock a hole in his
black coat!

“‘Caw!’ says he, sailing off; ‘caw-aw!’ grinning at me.

“‘Caw-aw!’ says the oysther, says he to me too, from a ledge o’ the rock
below me, where he fell; ‘caw-aw, Mick!--more sinse and bad luck to ye,
Mick!’

“‘Ah! sir,’ says I, putting a good face on the matter, and thinking
whether or no I could get at him;--‘ah! sir,’ says I, ‘did you think I’d
be bad enough to devour you?’

“‘Faith! you would, Mick,’ says he.

“‘Wasn’t I polite?’

“‘Mighty; and may you break your neck going home, Mick! Your brother
Tiddy was transported in the East Indies; your father wouldn’t fight for
his faction; your aunt had a child, that was sent to the foundling, at
Dublin; your cousin Jim is a tithe-proctor:--you’re a bad set, egg
and bird:--your sister’s husband is a swaddler; and your own father’s
mother-in-law’s first cousin hung a priest, Mick: moreover--’

“‘Hould your tongue, you villain!’ says I, levelling my gun at him.
‘Hould your tongue, or Til blow you to atoms!’

“‘Who cares for you?’ says he. ‘Didn’t you steal the shot your gun is
loaded wid?--Answer me that.’

“‘I will,’ says I, pulling the trigger, and knocking his house from the
ledge, plump into the sea.

“‘I’ve done for you now, ould gentleman, I think,’ says I.

“‘No, you haven’t, Mick,’ says he, peeping out of his shell, as he was
falling; ‘you’ve done just what I wanted. A grate big bird carried me up
where you found me; he couldn’t open me though, and left me there where
I was; and instid of having done for me, you’ve sint me home,
Mick,’ says he, ‘to my own bed, you blackguard; for which I’m mighty
obliged,--and bad luck to you, Mick!’ says he, as he sunk in the
sea:--and from that day to this, meeself never set eyes on the little
man in the oysther-shells,--though it’s often I drame about him, and of
what he said to me above on the crag there.”

[Illustration: 206]



TIMBERLEG TOE-TRAP.

As I mentioned Pierce Veogh, ’while ago, when I was telling you of Mick
Maguire--‘twas he gave Mick the gun--himself it was then--and as I may
mention him again two or three times, or may be oftener, before I’ve
done telling you of my Neighbours, I’ll just let you know a little who
and what Pierce was. At three-and-twenty, he came into a fine fortune;
his father died then; he’d neither chick nor child but Pierce, and a
fine boy he was, but too wild from his cradle to come to much good,
‘twas thought. The father was a miserly curmudgeon in many things, and
wouldn’t live among us much; but kept Pierce here, with a private tutor
and a few people, as long as Pierce would let him: but when the boy grew
big, he’d no mind to be staying at home all his days,--and no blame to
him,--so he wint off; and the father came back then, and lived at The
Beg,--so we call his place,--till he died.

Many’s the tale they tell of ould James Veogh;--how he’d give a feast
fit for a prince, once now and then, just to make the great folks in
Dublin have an idea of his wealth, and what not, and then whip the
cat for a year after, to make up for it. No man was prouder; and
it’s thought he was wrong in cooping up Pierce at home all his young
days;--but that’s no matter for my meddling. And it’s said, his heart
grudged the expense of maintaining Pierce abroad in the world, like the
rest of the young sirs; and his pride wouldn’t let his only son and heir
be looked down upon: so to save both money and pride at once, Pierce was
a caged bird until he grew up;--then he flew off, and a wild flight he
had too.

It’s said by his servants, that the father--and this is one of the
million stories we have about him--once entertained the great lords and
ladies at his house, in Dublin, with a fine masquerade, which cost him a
mint of money,--no doubt it did;--and there was himself, in the disguise
of the goddess they call Ceres, whose name you have heard before--though
I hadn’t when they first tould me the joke;--and while his guests were
drinking down wine worth its weight in gold,--and it was all galore
and glory with them,--Jimmy was seen skulking about, gathering up the
scraps, out o’ the way o’ the strange servants, in a thing he carried,
they call something that manes in English, a horn of plenty. That wasn’t
a bad joke of him, it’s said, by them that knows. But there’s no doubt,
though he’d stoop to pick up a farthing, while Pierce would sooner be
skimming guineas over a pond, ould Jim Veogh did more real good than
Pierce did at first; for he payed all he owed,--though not a penny more,
while Pierce often wouldn’t--no, not when he could; and he didn’t harry
the poor tenants for rent,--which couldn’t be said of Pierce,--but gave
them time, though he made them pay up at last. And the ould man never
did harm to any one in the way of pranks,--not when he was a boy even;
and there’s more than me recollects his sending Luke Sweeny a cow, when
the one he had died.---To be sure, the cow he sent wasn’t worth much;
but he gave Luke a long day to pay for her, and took lawful interest
only on the price,--which was three pounds ten shillings,--until it was
paid. And paid it was, to the day: for Luke was as honest a man as ever
broke bread, and wouldn’t harm a mouse, unless he caught the crature
nibbling his loaf,--and then, what harm?--My blessing on Luke!--it’s
many’s the piggin of milk we got from him, in the bad times, when he’d
a right to hould his head higher than he can now,--worse luck!--I could
tell you a story of Luke, too; but as you’re longing, I dare say, to
know about Timberleg, I won’t baulk you, by giving you dry bread when
you’re longing for sweetmeats. Luke’s isn’t a bad story though, for all
that; and I’ll tell it you, by-and-by, when I’ve none better left.

Pierce, as I said, wint off, nobody knows where but himself; and being
a wild bird, came into bad hands, and got plucked; so that, when the
father died--and there’s some people don’t scruple to say, Pierce, by
his conduct, lent him a spur on the road to the grave--when he died, I
repate, all the ready money was ate up by paying off post-obits, which
Pierce had been giving at the maddest rate ever was known. The day
before he heard that his ould dad was just dying, Pierce was in much
distress, and so foolish to boot, that he gave some blackguard a bond
for five hundred pounds, payable a month after his father’s death, for
nothing in the world but a good dinner and oceans of wine, for himself
and a friend, every day for a week. That’s what they call giving a
post-obit; and a bad thing it is, as Pierce found.--He just reached home
in time to get the father’s forgiveness; and when it came to the last,
a fine sorrowful parting they made, it’s said, as one could wish to
see;--for both o’ them seemed sorry for the course they’d taken in life,
and came to a resolution, if they’d their time to go over again, they’d
not act as they had acted: but that could do no good. The father died
the same evening; and, by that day month, Pierce was pestered to pay up
his post-obits.

There wasn’t so much money in hand left by Mr. James Veogh, as Pierce
expected; and many of the poor tenants suffered; for he pinched them
close, and did what he could to get clear o’ the world. But all wouldn’t
do; and at last the bailiffs were after him night and day. It’s said,
that then it was Pierce Veogh learned to sleep with his eyes open;--a
thing he does to this day, though there’s no call for it.

The man that Pierce most feared in the world was one Nick Forester,--a
bailiff, who lived in the nearest town to The Beg, on any side. Nick
was a fine tall fellow,--six feet, if not more; and few could match him.
He’d a nickname, like most of us, and was called “Timberleg;” why, I
need not tell you:--but supposing you don’t guess--it was, because his
left leg was a wooden one. The other, as most wooden-legged men’s are,
was as stout a bit of material as you’ll see anywhere, and Nick was
proud of it,--as well he might. Though he’d scarce a word to throw to a
dog, he was as ‘cute as a fox, as well as being strong as a lion; and
it was few escaped him. Spaking of animals, Nick had a dog, that always
wint with him, and Nick called him Benjie. Benjie was black as coal; but
you wouldn’t notice him, for he was neither ugly enough to make any one
fall into fits at the sight of him, nor good-looking enough for you
to admire him:--he wasn’t big or little, good-tempered or cross but
middling every way. Benjie, though, was of great use to his master: and
we accounted a man to be clever if he could outwit Nick and his dog.
But outwitted they certainly were, now and then, though: and before I go
further, I’ll tell you how Nick was served by a surgeon by the name of
Anderson, that set up in the next street to Nick’s;--and it’s many’s the
time Nick nabbed him, though you wouldn’t think it, to see how great
a man Surgeon Anderson is at this time. You must know that Nick had a
wife, and a fine family, too; and one night a son of his--I think it was
Jack, that’s now married to Thady Purcell’s widow--got taken ill with
something sudden and dangerous: so Nick buckled on his leg and threw
something over him, and wint and knocked at Surgeon Anderson’s door.
This was in the middle of the night: so when the surgeon put his head
out of window and heard who it was, he wouldn’t come down, thinking it
was a make-believe of Nick’s to nab him again. Nick couldn’t blame
him; for it’s true Nick had often played tricks to get a sight o’ the
surgeon, when he wanted to take him; for he was almost a match for Nick
himself, and not aisily had. So Nick stumped off to another surgeon,
but he was out to a man five miles away; and to a third, but he was sick
himself; and no one in the wide world could Nick get in the ‘town, to
come and see his son, that was a’most dying at home. Back he wint to
Surgeon Anderson’s again,--so he did;--and after he’d bate the door with
his leg a little, the surgeon popped out his head, and says he, “Who’s
that below there?”

“It’s me,” says Nick, mighty civil; “it’s me, sir, again.”

“Oho!--And what story have you now, Nick?”

“The same I had ‘while ago, sir my son’s sick--”

“Divil’s cure to him, Nick!--for he’s not bad at all, and it’s only a
trick of yours to delude me.”

“Upon my honour and conscience, sir, it isn’t,” says Nick; “I couldn’t
get a doctor any where, for I’ve tried, or I wouldn’t trouble you. It’s
my belief, Jack will die if you don’t come at once.”

“Go away,” says Surgeon Anderson; “go away, Nick; get out of that
entirely!--Wasn’t I sent for last winter, to a gentleman at the Roebuck,
who had broken his leg?--and wasn’t it yourself there, and the dirty bit
of stick you stand upon tied up with a piece of rope?--and didn’t you
capture me that time, you blackguard?”

“I did, I did: I’m sorry for that; but pray--”

“And didn’t you get a boy to bring me out o’ my bed once, to a woman he
said was at death’s door?--and didn’t I go, Nick?”

“You did, you did.”

“Ah! you facetious rogue! I know you’re laughing at me now if I could
see you:--and who should I meet, at the corner of the street, but your
own sweet self, waiting for me?--And didn’t you show me a woman lying
asleep and drunk at the door of little Paddy Death, that keeps the
whiskey shop, in Patrick street?--and, says you, with a grin, ‘There’s
the woman at Death’s door I’--didn’t you, Nick?”

“I know I did; but as I’m a living soul, sir--”

“Go away, Nick go home and read the story of the boy and the wolf; and
if harm happens your son, as it did him, it’s your own doings, Nick! so
good night! for I’m not to be had,--don’t you see?”

With that he shut the window, and wouldn’t come; but, as luck would have
it, when Timberleg got home, Jack was better, and didn’t want physic
till morning. It’s often Nick threatened Surgeon Anderson, but he never
had the luck to get him again; for when the surgeon heard that Nick’s
story was true, and was told of his threats, some say he strove hand and
foot to keep out of Nick’s clutches for fear, and so got on in the
world dating his rise from the night Jack Forester wanted physic, and he
wouldn’t get up to give it him.

But we mustn’t forget Pierce Veogh,--though ‘tisn’t he is my hero
exactly, but Timberleg still I can’t go on without him, no more than the
man in the book could play on the organ but for the boy that blowed the
bellows. Well, Pierce, as I tould you, had the bailiffs about for him
and as Timberleg seemed to have taken up his abode by The Beg,--which
was Pierce’s place, you’ll recollect,--why, Pierce thought he couldn’t
do better than sneak off, if he could, to the town Nick came from, and
stay there for a day or two: for Pierce was trying his utmost to raise
money, and hoped to receive letters, post after post, to tell him things
were settled; and a day’s delay was worth everything to him;--to say
nothing of the horror he felt, in common with most of us, to being shut
up between four walls.--Not that a prison, when you’re used to it, is
the worst place in the world perhaps; for I know a man that hated the
name of it, and after he got into one at last, he liked it so well, that
when he could, he wouldn’t come out of it, but turned turnkey, and kept
his post behind the gate, with the key in his hand, doing nothing but
opening and shutting the door, and never stirring out of the place,
which had grown a world to him, till death came one day, and removed
him to closer confinement within six boards, nailed together,--and that
manes a coffin.--Now, a coffin’s a thing, allow me to remark, that we
all hate the sight of; and yet there’s not one in ten thousand of us but
hopes to come to it at last;--for who’d like to be buried any way but
in a box?--And that’s a feeling that’s laughable to one who looks
two inches below the surface of things; for what is it, but a fear of
letting the cold clay come to us for a few years?--And come it will, you
know, at last, whether a man’s buried in a large ‘sheet of paper, a big
hollow stone, or a lead coffin. And what matters time to the dead?--Or
where’s the difference, let me ask, between two minutes and twenty
thousand years, to them that’s under the turf?--Do what we will, the
blackguard worms ates us all up at last; and they that takes pains to
preserve their bodies, don’t do well, as I think: for, while all that
remains of me, after being buried in a dacent and ordinary way, some
time hence, becomes a part of the big earth, and can’t be distinguished
from what it’s mixed up with,--the visible and touchable nose of a
pickled emperor, a thousand years after he’s dead, gets pulled by some
puppy that opens his grave, and don’t happen to approve of what he did
when alive: or, what’s worse, the bones of the arm that awed multitudes,
gets cut into drunken men’s dominos; or the boys and girls of a tenth
generation plays with them for sugar-plums, in the shape of two a-penny
tetotums, and so forth. Therefore, let me, when I die, have no armour
about me; let the worms come, and good luck to them, say I;--the sooner
they walk away with every inch of me, the better.

But we’ll never get through at this rate; and such grave discourse as
I’ve led myself into, turns the edge of one’s appetite for fun,--doesn’t
it?--But, _na bocklish_,--forget what I’ve said, and listen to what
Pierce Veogh did. Like the goose that took refuge near the fox’s den,
when the fox himself was watching for her near her nest, Pierce got away
one night, and wint off to the town: there he remained in great safety
for some days, as Timberleg didn’t know he’d escaped, and so wouldn’t
raise the legal siege of The Beg House,--why should he?

No letters came; and, at last, Pierce determined to get away altogether,
and cut the country for a time, if he could: so one morning, at
day-break, he left the little lodgings he had hired for the sake of
being private, and was walking off, the nearest way out of town, when
just as he came within five feet of a corner, what should he see but
Nick Forester’s dog,--the dog I described to you, that was always a few
feet before, or oftener a yard or so behind, Nick himself.--“Oho!” says
Pierce, turning back and taking to his heels; for well enough he knew
the dog it’s himself that did then;--for often he saw him, bating round
The Beg, and Nick not far behind him. “Oho!” says he; and “Bowwow!” says
the dog; and “My grief!” says Timberleg, who just then came round the
corner, and saw the young legs of Pierce carrying him off five miles
an hour faster than Nick could run. Nick wasn’t fool enough to go after
Pierce;--no, no,--not he, then! He turned on his heel, and walked back
the way he came,--giving the game up for lost, out-and-out; and he
struck his dog Benjie two or three times, with his leg, for not keeping
to his heel.

Now what did Pierce do, think you?--Why, he ran as if he’d everything
fearful behind him, and fancied he heard the stump of Nick’s wooden
leg keeping time with the gallop of his own pulse. Running seemed to
be safety to him, no matter which way he ran; for “if Timberleg and
Benjie’s behind me, it matters not what’s before me, so that the way’s
clear,” thinks he;--or rather, he didn’t think at all, but wint on, and
you’ll hear how it ended.

By-and-by, Pierce came to a corner again, with one leg before and the
other behind him, as if he’d little Powsett’s seven-leagued boots on;
or, to spake within compass, the foot that was forward the whole length
of his leg more advanced than his body. Now here’s the point of my
story:--Nick Forester was much nearer Pierce than Pierce expected; to
spake out at once, he was close to the corner, only the other side of
it; and, as one may say, in a right direction to cross his course. Well,
just as Pierce had put his foot that was forward to the ground, about
four inches beyond the corner, Nick Forester, quite unconscious of his
good luck, was, at that instant, going to put his timber-toe on the
flags in a transverse direction. Down it came, pat upon Pierce’s foot;
the whole weight of Nick’s body followed directly after; and the next
moment, Pierce found himself within an inch and a half of Nick’s nose,
staring his enemy full in the face, who looked quite as wonder-struck,
but not half so grievous, as himself; for the end of Nick’s leg covered
a couple of Pierce’s worst corns.

This wasn’t the first time in the world a man ran into the lion’s mouth.
Nick put out his paw upon Pierce, and from that day, people called him
“Timberleg Toe-Trap.”

Pierce lay in Nick’s custody for above a month; he then got out by
scraping together all he could, and flew off to England for safety: but
it was just out of the frying-pan into the fire with him; for,--though
a man’s good deeds have wings of lead, or just none at all, and travel
like the tortoise,--such things as make against him, go at the rate
of twelve knots an hour, to every point of the compass at once; or, at
least, to all the points he wouldn’t have them go, if he could help
it; and, by this rule, the news of Pierce’s being taken for debt by
Timberleg, got to England, before he reached it himself; and he wasn’t
well landed and recovered from his sea-sickness, when one of his
creditors had a bailiff to give him a grip by the shoulder. As soon as a
man gets clawed, long bills generally come pouring in upon him from
all quarters:--it was just this way with Pierce; and his prospects in
perspective were almost as unpleasant as his enemies could wish.
We’ll leave him now though, if you please; and I’ll tell you what more
happened him by-and-by, and how it all ended; if you don’t fall asleep,
and by your snoring, give me a hint that it isn’t quite so entertaining
you find me, as may be I think you ought. But, we’ll see.

[Illustration: 214]



BAT BOROO.

IF you’re passing at early morning, above there, beyond The Claugh, you
may see Bat, with his back leaning against Mick Maguire’s door,--‘tis
there where he lodges,--smoking his pipe, and looking out under his
eye-brows at you, as fierce as a grenadier at a Frenchman. There’s
nothing warlike about Bat but braggadocio, and a cut across his
chin,--barring that he’s wasted and worn, you’d think; for his broad
shoulders seem to have been better covered with flesh one day than they
now are. When he condescends to spake to any of us, Bat talks of the
wars, as though he’d been in them; and says he has wounds besides that
one on his chin, but they’re under his clothes; and then he gives a bit
of a cough, and says he’s asthmatic, and might catch harm if he stripped
himself to shew them. So that nobody has seen Bat’s wounds but himself;
but no doubt he has many of them: though, to be sure, that on his chin
looks as though it was done by the blunt razor of a barber, rather than
a grenadier’s baggonet, or a dragoon’s sabre. However, all’s one for
that.

Bat’s too high and mighty to be much liked by the people about; and a
boy says he peeped in at a hole in the cabin one day, and saw something
on Bat’s back, that looked as if the military cat had been scratching
it. But doesn’t the boy play the rogue now and then?--Faith! he does;
and, may be, Bat is belied by him. How the blade lives, nobody knows;
nor why he came here to this place, which is at the very back of God’s
speed, we can’t say. May be, he’s a pensioner:--why not?--And, may be
too, as some think, he’s a native of these parts, and one of the sons
of that same ould Dick Boroo, who lived in a cabin on the very same spot
where Mick Maguire’s now stands. Dick wint to the dogs, long ago, and he
and the whole seed and breed of him run the country; and nobody has seen
a ha’p’orth of them since; except this is one o’ them, come here after
the wars, to bluster away, where he used to be beaten; and die one day
where he first drew breath.

Bat won’t own he’s a Boroo; but we all call him that name in the face
of him; and when he goes off,--what will they write on the stone by his
grave, if he gets one, think you?--Why, then, “Here lies Bat Boroo, who
died of doing nothing.”

And, faith! it’s nothing he does, but walk about like a half-sir as he
is,--smoking his pipe the whole blessed morning, for the sake, he says,
of getting himself an appetite for dinner. But he needn’t take the
trouble; for it’s just as needless, in my mind, as whistling to the
sea, when the tide’s coming in; and come it will, like Bat’s appetite,
whether you whistle or no, devouring almost everything in its way.
Without a word of a lie, Bat’s the biggest eater in all the barony,
and the biggest brag,--that is, he was,--to the tail o’ that. But, poor
fellow! he don’t know his infirmity; and thinks his appetite a sign of
weakness, instead of sound health: it’s the only living thing he takes
on about. “There’s nothing, Jimmy Fitzgerald,” says he, to me, one day;
“there’s nothing, in the universal world, I can keep on my stomach,--bad
luck to the bit!--for if I ate half a rack of mutton, with peeathees
and milk, or a pound of pig’s face, or eight or ten red herrings, for my
breakfast,--it’s hungry I am, in an hour or two again, as though nothing
had happened to me that day in the way of provision.”--What think you of
that for digestion?

There’s three things Bat thinks about, and that’s all first, his
belly;--secondly, making believe he’s not to be frightened, by man or
beast, nor even the good people that lives in the moats, and frolics
away all night on the heath, and goes to bed in the butter-cups and
daisies--it’s a wonder to some they’ve played no tricks with him yet and
lastly, that he has much better blood in his body than the people about
him.

Now I’ll tell you what happened Bat. ‘While ago,--three or four
years back,--we’d a cunning woman came here,--and it’s but little she
got,--how would she, when there was little to give?--it was going to a
goat’s house to look for wool: and plenty of bad luck she prophesied,
for nobody had enough to pay for better. Some of it came true enough;
and if she spoke truth, there’s more mischief behind. She said to me,
I’d have my roof down; but it’s safe yet, for I trusted in Providence,
and put a new beam across it the week after she wint. At last, when
she’d tould a power of ill-tidings to many, and no one would go near her
for fear, and she’d stood by the abbey-wall for a long hour, waiting for
customers, with the people,--men, women, and children,--making a circle
about her, who should come up but Misther Bat Boroo, just after taking
a good dinner with Paddy Doolan?--“What’s the murther here?” says he.
So they up and tould him, that nobody dared to have their fates from the
cunning-woman.

This was a windfall for Bat,--a glorious occasion for making much of
himself. Up he marched to the woman, as though he was going to attack
an entrenchment, and crossing her ould yellow hand with the copper,--the
best his pocket could afford,--he desired she’d say what would happen
him. “Speak bouldly,” says he, “for Bat Muggleburgh isn’t the man that’s
to be frightened by a bulrush.”

“Man,” says she, looking up to him, “you’ve been a soldier.”

“What then?” says he.

“Here’s a line in your hand,”--says she, “a line which tells me, that
before another year has gone over your head, you’ll be more frightened
by a bulrush than ever you was by a baggonet;--and that’s saying much.”

Bat bullied her, but bit his lip for vexation; and, by-and-by, you’ll
hear how he got on, and what came of the cunning-woman’s foreboding. But
wait a little, for I’m before my story, and must go back.--You heard me
say, Bat called himself by the name of Bat Muggleburgh, awhile ago; and
so he did: for, as I tould you, he denied the name of Boroo, because
he said he’d no call to it; and that Muggleburgh was what he’d a right
to,--and he’d own to it, and nothing else. Now, all this may be true
enough; Bat’s name may be Muggleburgh, and he Dick Boroo’s son for all
that:--for did any one ever know, or take the trouble to inquire, what
was ould Dick’s rale name--if he had one--besides Dick?--Boroo was
a nick-name he got for some saying or prank, that was past by and
forgotten entirely in my time, though the name still stuck to him. He
wasn’t an Irishman; but where he came from,--except he was a bit of a
Dutch smuggler or something in his young days,--myself neither knows nor
cares.

It’s often he brags,--Bat does,--of the brave coat of arms that belongs
to him, if he had his rights; and what great men the Muggleburghs was
in times gone by. But that’s no matter at all:--there’s a regular
descendant of the honourable kings of Meath sells butter at Cashel,
and is as big a rogue as one here and there. I myself came from a fine
family by my mother’s side; but what’s all the famous blood of her
ancestors now?--One of the grandfathers of the worm you trod on o’
Monday, had some of the best of it; and for my own part, I don’t value
that of great Bryan himself a rush and a half: but my mother didn’t
think so, poor thing,--rest her soul!

Well, by this time, you must be pretty well acquainted with Bat,--and,
may be, tired of him; but wait till you hear what happened him.--Many
months, but not a year, after Bat had his fortune tould in the manner
I mentioned, we’d a poor scholar--a stripling of sixteen or so--with us
here, for two, or it might be, three days, at the most. Good luck follow
him! He was a lad we all loved, high and low,--and it’s not very high
the best of us is, sure enough,--for the boy behaved beautifully, though
he’d a spice of the wag in him--And why not?--wasn’t he young?--and
isn’t young days the best of days with us? And if we ar’n’t merry then,
when will we, I’d like to know?

Bat didn’t like the poor scholar, and used to abuse him, because he
convinced us all he knew more of the geography of foreign parts than
Bat, who had been among them, as he said. And the night before the lad
left us, Bat threatened to baste him, for smiling while he was preaching
about the Muggleburgh arms, and bewailing the state of his digestive
organs: and he would too, if it was not for this crutch of mine, and
Mick Maguire’s gun, and the piper of Drogheda’s wooden leg, and one or
two other impediments;--not to mention a feeling of goodness that came
over him then in the poor scholar’s favour;--for if Bat’s a bully and a
cormorant, he hasn’t a bad heart, when all comes to all:--but the poor
scholar didn’t forget it to him.

The next morning, those who were up, and passed by Bat’s door before he
was awake, saw as fine a coat of arms figured out with chalk upon it,
as the best of the Muggleburghs, in the height of their glory,--if ever
they had any,--could well wish to look upon. And could any one thing
suit Bat better?--Faith! then, nothing in the wide world. In the middle,
was a dish instead of a shield, with a fat goose--Bat’s favourite
food--quartered upon it; and each side of the dish, what do you think
there was, but a knife and fork for supporters; and, to crown all,
perched upon the top was a _swallow_, for a crest! Then, at the foot,
there was a table-cloth finely festooned, and words written upon it, by
way of motto, which ran thus:--“Boroo _edax rerum?_” I remember them very
well: first, there was Boroo; then came the name of my lady’s steward,
Misther Dax, with a little _e_ before it;--then, after a blank, followed
a _re_; and it ended, like a slave-driver’s dinner, with _rum:--Boroo
edax rerum_;--signifying, as the worthy coadjutor informed us, that Bat,
like ould father Time, who takes a tower for his lunch, and a city for
his supper, was a devourer of all things. The hand that can draw could
make its master understood, where the tongue that spakes seven languages
couldn’t do a ha’p’orth; or so thinks Jimmy Fitzgerald,--that’s me.
Now, though we couldn’t make out the motto, all of us down to the boys
themselves knew what the figures of the goose, and the swallow, and so
forth, stood for; and great was the shouting but Bat had a glass in his
head, and didn’t wake.

By-and-by, down he came with the pipe in his mouth; and, suspecting
nothing at all, shut the door after him, and leaned his back against it
as usual. When his backy was smoked, he threw away his pipe with an air,
and strutted off through the place; and, behold! there was the chalk
from the door on him, and he, not knowing it, bearing his arms on his
own coat. Will I tell you how many boys and girls he had at his tail in
ten minutes?--

I couldn’t, without reckoning every living soul of them, within
half-a-mile of this, or I would. For a long time, Bat didn’t know what
it was all about, and looked before and both sides of him to find out
where the fun was, but he couldn’t. “Look behind you!” says somebody.
Bat looked, and there was the boys and girls laughing, and that was all:
so he wint on again.

This couldn’t last long though. After awhile Bat found out what made the
boys follow him, as the little birds do the cuckoo; and then his rage
wasn’t little:--describe it I won’t, for I can’t; but I’ll tell you what
he did:--he suspected the scholar had played him that trick,--which was
the truth,--and he found out which road he took; and you’ll be sorry to
hear he soon came within sight of his satchel.

Whether the boy heard Bat blowing and blustering I don’t know, but he
luckily glanced behind him, and seeing Bat and his big stick, did what
any one in his place would, if he could,--put a hedge between him and
his enemy. Bat followed him, vowing vengeance in the shape of a great
basting, from one field to another; until, in the end,--he didn’t know
how,--he found he’d lost the boy, and discovered the prudence of taking
to his heels himself; for there he was, in the midst of a meadow, and a
fine, fierce-looking bull making up to him at a fast trot. Seeing this,
Bat began to make calculations, and perfectly satisfied himself that
before he could reach the hedge he came over, the bull would come up
with him, and, in all probability, attack his rear. Bat couldn’t very
well like this: there wasn’t much time for pros and cons with him; so he
threw his stick at the beast, and away he wint, at a great rate towards
a gate he saw in the nearest corner of the field. Though the bull wasn’t
far behind him, he contrived to reach and climb up the gate-post without
being harmed but, musha!--what did he see, think you, when he got
there?--

If ever man was in a dilemma, it was Bat. The gate led into the yard
before young Pierce Veogh’s kennel, and just below Bat, was a brace of
as promising dogs for a bull-bait as you’d like to see, trying all they
could to get a snap at Bat’s leg, that was hanging their side of
the gate-post. The dogs looked, and really were, more furious than
usual,--which was needless for it happened to be just at the time when
Pierce was away in the safe custody of Timberleg the bailiff, and they
weren’t fed in his absence quite so regularly as they’d wish. Bat
knew this; and, thinks he, they’d make but little bones of a man of my
weight, if they had me;--so that it wouldn’t have been wise in him to
have ventured into the yard. The gate wint close up to the garden-wall.
But there was three impediments to Bat’s going that way first, the gate
was well spiked; next, if he didn’t mind that, one of the dogs could
reach him aisily from the top of their kennel as he passed; thirdly and
lastly, if he defied the spikes, and escaped with a bite or two, and got
to the garden-wall, there was a board, with “steel-traps” and so
forth, staring in the face of him. And what other way had he of getting
off?--Divil a one but two. One was, by dropping into the meadow again
and that he might do well enough, but for the bull, who was bellowing
below to get a rush at him;--the other, I think, was jumping off the
post into the stream, upon the edge of which it was planted. The water
wasn’t wide, but it was deep, and Bat couldn’t swim: and there he was,
depend upon it, in as nice a dilemma as man had need be.--If you don’t
credit what I say, draw a map of his position as he sat on the post with
the beasts on both sides, the spikes behind, and the water before him,
and then tell me what you think.

Bat bellowed, and so did the bull, and the noises wint for one, and the
dogs barked, but nobody came. By-and-by Bat saw a figure walking along
the opposite bank, and who should it be but the ould cunning-woman! “Is
that yourself, Bat?” says she.

“I think it is;--worse luck!” says he.

“That post of yours isn’t the pleasantest post in the world I think,”
 says she.

“I think not,” says he.

“Didn’t I tell you, Bat--”

“Bad luck to every bit of you!” says he, interrupting her; “bad luck to
you and your _bull-rushes_ too, and all them that plays upon words! I
know well enough of what you’re going to remind me.”

“Bat,” says she, “it isn’t a year since I--”

“Ah! now go away,” says he; “go away, now you’ve had your ends, and make
up for the mischief, by calling some one to tie up the dogs,--or drive
away the bull,--or bring a boat,--why can’t you?”

The ould woman sat down, and smoked her pipe, and she and Bat had a
little more confab this way across the stream; but, at last and in long
run, he persuaded her to come to us here, and tell us how matters stood
with Bat, and to beg us to help him off: not,--do you mind?--as I think,
out of any humanity to the man, but to shew us how truly she’d foretould
what was to happen him. I don’t like her, so I’ll say no good of
her,--but this, namely,--she gave a poor boy who was upon the shaughran,
without father or mother, house or home to his head, a penny and
a blessing, when it’s my belief, she’d little more to give. I say
that,--for I’d like to give even a certain elderly gentleman, whose name
I won’t mention, his due,--much more a poor ould cunning-woman, that’s
weak flesh and blood, after all’s said and done (though not a bit too
good), like one’s ownself.

Down came the woman, but she found few at home besides Mick Maguire, for
a’most every mother’s son that could move, had gone away to get Bat off
his predicament before. Mick wouldn’t go at all; for, he said, sure he
was the bull bore a grudge against him, because he threw stones at his
head, and bullied him once.

“Ah! but,” says somebody, “may be, he wouldn’t notice you, Mick.”

“May be, he would though,” says Mick; “so it’s go I won’t.”

“But sure we’ll all be wid you, Mick.”

“That matters not,” says he; “for the bull might be ripping up ould
grievances, and select meeself, out of all of ye, to butt and abuse.”

“But couldn’t you bring your gun, man?”

“I could then, but I won’t,” says Mick; “for I’m inclined to suspect it
wasn’t to shoot his bull, that Misther Pierce Veogh gave it me.”

You’ll wonder how they came to know where Bat was,--won’t you!--‘Twas
the poor scholar then, that ducked down in a ditch, from the bull on one
side, and Bat on the other; and after that, saw how Bat got on with
the bull, and came to tell us. So some of them wint to Pierce Veogh’s
people, and got the dogs called off, and down came Bat amongst them,
swearing that if he’d his big stick,--which, he said, he’d dropped he
didn’t know how,--he’d baste the bull any day.

[Illustration: 222]



THE WITCH’S SWITCH.

There’s nobody dies, but somebody’s glad of it; few people, as I think,
but have one person standing between them and what they look upon as
comfort or happiness, or something or other they desire, but don’t want,
for all that, may be. Duck Davie was with me yesterday, foaming away
like the sea against a rock it can’t master and what for, think you?
Why, then, only because his wife looks so well and won’t die to plaze
him. It’s my belief he’d be glad to be rid of her, though she half
keeps him, and is loved far and near. She does all the little good she
can, in the way of nursing the sick, and so forth; and she saved
Duck Davie’s own life three times, by her knowledge of herbs, and the
million-and-one ailments of our poor mortal bodies.

But Duck don’t like her;--I’d be spaking what wasn’t the truth if I said
that he did: and why should I tell a lie on Duck Davie?--I won’t on him,
or any man if I know it. When he married her she was not young,--that
is, full thirty,--but trim and good-looking, which is more than could
be said of himself any day of his life; for he has a big nob on his face
for a nose, and a mouth so wide that it would be fearful to look at,
if he laughed: but Davie is either too discreet or too ill-tempered,
morning, noon, and night, to be jovial. He drinks, but don’t ever get
merry over his cups: and yet his little grey eyes twinkles, and he
puckers the wrinkles in great folds about them, and you hear an odd
noise in his throat sometimes, when he’s tould of a trick, that’s
malicious and droll, being played off by the boys on any of the ould
women he knows. His knee-bands is always loose, and his big coat hitched
over his shoulders; he wears red sleeves to his waistcoat, with ragged
edges that reach to his finger-knuckles; and shoes--not brogues--but
shoes, down at heel. He never takes his ould grey hat off his bald head
but to pull on his night-cap. He’s round-shouldered and short, but stout
and strong for his age, which is on the grave side of sixty; and the
fronts of his knees is turned in, and they jostle one another; and his
feet are broad and flat, with the heels far out and in front, instead of
being behind; and this--poor man!--makes him waddle oddly: he’s none the
worse for that though. After this pedigree of his appearance, most
likely you’d know Duck if you met him.

I forgot a thing or two in him that’s remarkable:--he turns his head
to and fro eternally, as if he were looking for some one, whether he’s
alone or in company; and even when his eyes twinkles, as I tould you,
or if they’re sparkling with passion, there’s something in them all the
while that reminds you of a dog’s look when he knows he has done wrong
and expects to be whipped.

Davie was tolerably fond of his wife for many long years after he’d
married her; but though she does little or nothing to vex him, that I
know of, Duck don’t like her, now she’s got ould any one with half an
eye could see that, if Davie didn’t own it himself, which he does. It’s
the way o’ the world, you’ll say: a man that’s passed the prime of life
forgets his own wrinkles, though those of his wife, that’s about the
same age as himself, are day after day staring him in the face;--he sees
her years, but if he can walk about, and eat, and get his health two
months out of the twelve, he won’t let himself fancy he feels his own.
That’s not altogether the case with Davie; it may be so in part, but not
entirely; at least, so thinks them that knows his story.

From the time he first knew the use of a button, it’s said Duck Davie
had a deep-rooted grudge against ould women; they have always been at
war with him, and he with them. Duck lost his daddy before he saw the
light; and his mother died when he was weaned, or awhile after. She had
an ould aunt, who took the boy under her wing, and did what she could
for him, in her way: but, by all accounts, her temper was such that a
cat couldn’t live with her; and if little Duck Davie’s heart was kind as
that of a lamb by nature, there’s no doubt she ruined it; if it was bad
before, she couldn’t do otherwise than make it worse. A more terrible
Turk in petticoats, and on a small scale, never walked; but after awhile
she got little good of Duck. She seemed to live for no other purpose
than to vex and thwart and make the poor little fellow miserable. There
was no soul but the boy, to take off the scum and bitterness of her
temper; and, by-and-by, Duck began to think of nothing but how to pay
off the long score he felt he owed her. He should have put up with any
thing, you may say, and been grateful for her protecting him, and ate
his crust, though it was sopped in vinegar, with thanks and meekness:
may be, he ought; I won’t argue it one way or another, but simply tell
you, he didn’t.

The few acquaintance Duck’s grand-aunt had, was folks of her own age as
well as sex, and having a spice of her own temper: to them she tould all
Duck’s delinquencies, and they joined her in abusing him; and, what
was worse, often helped her to belabour him. Little Davie hadn’t a
disposition to be reclaimed from his bad ways by a broomstick; may be,
kindness might have done better, but it never was tried on him: so on
he wint, from bad to worse, and, by the time he was twelve years ould,
hated every woman he met who’d a grey head and wrinkled face. He looked
upon them as his natural enemies, and did all he could to vex and
perplex them.

By-and-by, Duck was put out to a tailor; and he’d done with his
grand-aunt, and all other ould women, for ever, as he hoped. But,
no;--when he got to his master’s house, which he never entered till he
was bound, little Duck discovered that his mistress was as crooked with
age, and almost as crooked in temper as his grand-aunt. When her first
husband died, she just did what many a widow, with a good house and
trade left her, has done before and since,--married her foreman. He was
a stout, brawny blade, having nothing but his needle to depend upon, but
good-looking, and not above thirty.

In the second year of Duck’s apprenticeship, a mighty remarkable event
happened him; and I’ll tell you what it was presently, if you’ll wait.
He behaved himself, and liked the place, and his fellow-’prentices, and
his master too, for many months. Ould Alice, his mistress, was no sourer
with him than with the others, all this time: but at last she began to
single him out-just as he’d feared she would--as a natural prey to one
of her age and sex. She used him, by degrees, worse and worse, until
Duck convinced himself he was bound in justice to them feelings he had
of his own, to turn upon her, when he could slyly, and annoy her as
often as an opportunity for doing so, without danger, occurred. At
length, ould Alice smarted under his malicious tricks to such a degree
that she grew a fury almost; and the worse she behaved to him, the worse
he behaved to her:--for Duck was always obstinate. He’d bad luck though,
to meet with such a match for his grand-aunt as ould Alice; hadn’t
he?--Now for the event I promised to tell you about.

One day, Duck was sent on an errand by his mistress, but instead of
getting back quick, as she wished him, though he knew she was just
standing on thorns till he got home to tell her what was said to her
message, what does he do but turn away out of the road into a field, to
pick thistles to put in her bed, the next time he might think fit to be
offended.--In one corner of the field was a big hollow tree,--an oak, I
believe, but it don’t matter,--and under it lay an ould woman: her brown
skinny arms were half covered with a ragged cloak, and her face was
partly hid by a few straggling grey locks of hair, which had escaped
from under her bonnet. Instinct made Duck approach, and when he got near
the tree, a puff of wind blew up the grey hair, and Duck saw that her
eyes were closed. Her snoring satisfied him that she wasn’t dead, while
it convinced him that she was fast asleep; and his fingers itched to
give her a touch of his tormenting talents.

A stick, stuck upright in the ground, close by the ould woman’s side,
attracted Duck Davie’s notice, when he got behind the tree: “What’s
this?” thinks he, examining it, and feeling a little afraid or so, at
the looks of it;--and you wouldn’t wonder, if you saw it yourself; for
they say it was an odd, outlandish staff, made of wood that never grew
in a Christian land, thick, twisted, tall as a middling man, and with as
ugly a face carved on it as ever you saw in a dream after taking a
tough supper--no nightmare’s could be worse. Bat Boroo’s big stick, the
mention of which made me think of the story I’m now telling you, was
just a bit of a baby’s twig, compared with the ugly cudgel Duck Davie
saw that day sticking up in the field.

Duck, as I said, was a little dashed at first, but he soon got heart,
and, says he to himself, “It is but her stick she’s stuck up there, like
a centinel, to scare away the boys from teazing her while she sleeps;
but I’ll just teach her that I’m not to be come over so aisily.”

Upon this, with a long barley-straw, from behind the tree where he was,
Dick began to tickle and teaze the ould woman’s nose, that was almost
as rough and as prickly as the ear of the straw.--Did you ever get your
nose tickled that way while you were asleep?--If you didn’t, take my
word for it, and upon my honour and conscience, it’s far from pleasant;
and so the ould woman found it. She scratched her nose with her long
blue nails, muttered a curse upon the flies, and snored again.--Duck was
in his glory; he tickled as before, and the ould woman opened her eyes,
but he shrunk behind the tree, and didn’t breathe: so she dropped off
once more. The third time he touched her she awoke at once, and from
what she said, and her preparing to get up, Duck knew she was sure of
being teazed by something bigger than a fly: so, for fear of anything
unpleasant, he moved off, and ran away across the field, chuckling in
his own mind at the fine fun he’d had.

When he got within a step or two of the gate, Duck heard a sound with
which he was very well acquainted--I mane that of a stick descending
with force upon his back; and within much less than a quarter of a
second, he felt such a blow across his shoulders as he didn’t get for
many’s the long day. He looked behind, thinking to see the ould woman,
who he now thought was a witch, close at his heels; but no--it was only
her stick!--There it stood, staring him full in the face, though its
owner was yet but a little distance from the tree, and hobbling towards
him, in such a weak way, that Duck felt sure she couldn’t have had
strength to throw it. Don’t think that, while he observed this, Duck
wasn’t wriggling his shoulders to and fro, and bellowing lustily with
the pain of the thwack. It wasn’t a little that would make him cry; but
roar he did, this while, as loud as ever he roared in his life.

Not knowing what to make of this that had happened him, while the stick
stood where it did, he was afraid to turn his back to it again; and
there he was, still wriggling and roaring, when the ould woman came up.
The state she found Duck in seemed to give her great satisfaction: she
took the point of the stick out of the ground, and clasping it round the
middle to support herself, gnashed her toothless gums up in Duck’s face,
and, for his malicious tricks to her that day,--waking her when she
was weary, as he did,--promised him a taste of her switch whenever
he worried an ould woman again. With this she tottered off, and Duck
sneaked home, blubbering as he went, expecting to be saluted with a
blow of either the ladle or the sleeve-board, for delaying: but he was
disappointed, for he got both;--one from ould Alice, and the other from
her husband.

All that happened Duck Davie I can’t tell you;--it must only be a bit
here and there, and with that I hope you’ll content yourself; or may
be you don’t like him, and the less you hear of him the better plazed
you’ll be.--Maybe, though, you’re like me:

I don’t like the man much, but his story don’t displaze me; so I’ll go
to the next thing I recollect hearing of him.--I mustn’t pass on though
without mentioning how surprised Duck was not to find any mark of the
blow he got in the field: he expected his back was well wealed, and
so he might;--but it wasn’t. “Here’s the bump on my head,” says he
to himself, “from the ladle, and here’s the mark of the edge of the
sleeve-board; but where’s that of the switch, as the ould woman called
it?--Now I’m sure she’s a witch, or else why wouldn’t her blow mark me,
as well as them that I got from my master and mistress?”

After this, Duck was as quiet as ould Alice would let him be for a
month or more; but then he began again, and you’ll hear how it was:--his
mistress was well to do in the world, and had her house filled with
what’s useful; and to tell the truth of her, though stingy in
some things, a good housewife--so she was. Duck had a power of
fellow-’prentices, for his master did half the work of the town he lived
in; and the boys was destructive, as boys will be,--won’t they?--Alice
was proud of her plates; but they broke them away about this time, at
such a rate, by accident and what not, that she was determined to put a
stop to it: so what does she do but give orders that no one should use a
sound plate, but ate off the broken ones! And when she found one of the
boys doing wrong this way, he got a crack on the head with the ladle for
his disobadience. One day, Duck wouldn’t give himself the pains to look
for a broken plate; it was a mischievous moment with him, and ould Alice
had just before threatened him for something; so he took down a whole
plate from the dresser, and qualified it for his use, by breaking a
piece off its edge. The moment he did it, Duck felt a very disagreeable
sensation in his shoulders. You’ll guess the witch kept her word, and
that it was the switch touched him. Faith! then, you’re right; there
stood the weapon, with its evil-looking head, at Duck’s back, though no
sign of the old crature herself could he see. And what does the
switch do, after Duck had stared at it a little, but make him a polite
reverence, face about, jump head foremost out of the window that was
open, and hop off down the garden walk, like a man would who had but one
leg and that a wooden one.

After Duck had done bellowing, and the pain of the blow was gone off,
he felt his back, but it was as smooth as the innumerable drubbings he’d
got from one and another had left it. He then asked everybody if they’d
seen a stick, with a big black head, hop into the window or go down
the garden: but he only got laughed at; and when he tould a pair of his
fellow-’prentices in confidence what had happened him, and why it was,
they jeered him, and tried to persuade him he was telling lies, or going
mad but he wouldn’t believe them, for he had seen the switch with his
own eyes, and felt the blow with his own back. The two ‘prentices,
however, reported the trick to the rest; and from that day, in imitation
of Duck Davie, when they couldn’t or wouldn’t find a broken plate, they
knocked a piece out of a sound one. Duck saw them do this often and
often, but the switch didn’t strike them; and he began to feel sorry
that ever he’d tickled the rough nose of an ould witch with a straw.

Time wint on, and ould Alice at last found out the trick of the broken
crockery, and who it was put the ‘prentices up to it; so poor Duck was in
a worse pickle than ever, but didn’t dare to indulge himself in mischief
against his mistress, for fear of the switch. At last, however, he could
bear her behaviour no longer, and resolved to terrify her out of three
or four years of her natural life, happen what would after it. What
brought him to this was a practice of her’s, in the cold mornings of
winter, which was now come on, of punishing him for the misdeeds of his
companions. You’ll hear how she managed it. An hour before day-break,
without much disturbing her husband, who didn’t get up for long after,
she’d take a pole that stood by her bed-side, and strike the beam that
wint across the ceiling with it, to wake up the boys that slept in a big
room above. Sometimes they wouldn’t wake; and then she’d go up to them
herself, and feeling about in the dark, get hould of the nose that lay
nearest the door; that nose she knew well enough was Duck Davie’s; and
when she had it in her horny fingers, she’d pull it till Duck roared
with the pain loud enough to wake himself and all his fellow-’prentices.
This way she got two or three of her ends at once:--she vented her
spite on Duck, punished one of the delinquents, and awoke the rest. Duck
didn’t like it; and after he’d been served so twice, vowed revenge, in
his own mind, if she did it again. Well, the very next morning, while
Duck was dreaming of tickling the witch’s nose, up came his ould
mistress, and performed as before upon his. Let Duck be as bad as he
would, this wasn’t well of her, at any rate; and if he did play her a
trick after that, I won’t say she didn’t more than half deserve it.
One of the ‘prentices said that he’d been awake, with a whitlow on his
thumb, for an hour before, and he’d swear the mistress hadn’t knocked
at all that morning: so it was a piece of spite on her part, that day at
least, to punish Duck; and if he wasn’t determined before, he certainly
became so on hearing this, and wint to work at once on a plan he had
laid down for the occasion.

Alice, you’ll recollect, had been a widow: her first husband’s picture,
larger, if anything, than life,--as little men’s pictures usually
are,--was hung up in the parlour while he was alive; but after Alice got
married again, and a year or two had gone by, somehow it found its way
into a lumber room, at the top of the house. Duck discovered it in his
rambles; and with it, in the same room, three or four suits which the
ould tailor had left off in his life-time, a cocked hat he wore on high
days and holidays, and a smooth cane he carried on Sundays. These were
all fine matarials, and Duck didn’t fail to make use of them. He claned
and patched up a suit of the clothes, brushed the hat, scoured the
cane, made an effigy of straw, and dressed it up mighty nate and all
that,--for Duck, though obstinate and dull at his trade, was ‘cute and
ingenious in all sorts of mischief-making. When he’d got so far, he cut
the face out of the picture, washed it with something till it looked as
good as new, fixed it into the neck of the figure, with the hat on its
brow, and a white cravat under its chin. He then fastened the cane, by
manes of an ould glove, to the cuff of the right sleeve; and while the
master was out one night, brought it down stairs, propped it up against
the parlour door, and then giving a knock, got away in the dark. When
the ould woman opened the door, the figure bent forward, with the hat
on its head and the cane in its hand, just as though it would enter, and
looking for all the world like life itself!

Ould Alice shrieked, but Duck had taken care no one should come to her,
for he’d locked and barred the entrance from that part of the house
were the ‘prentices and servants were, to the passage which led to the
parlour. But Alice wasn’t the only one who made a great noise in the
house that night. The moment she first cried out, at seeing what she
thought was the ghost of the late tailor, her husband, and all the while
she lay screaming in the parlour, Duck Davie was keeping time with
her in the passage, by shouting under the blows of the switch, which
belaboured him this time, so unmercifully, that he took up the figure,
and got away with it out of the house.

Duck Davie never darkened the tailor’s door again: he travelled all
night on foot, resolving to find some place, if he could, where there
was no ould women to torment or tempt him, or where the witch’s switch
couldn’t reach his shoulders. He got harbour and work elsewhere, and
wint on for a few years tolerably well, considering all things; but he
found to his cost that there was ould women everywhere, and it wasn’t
aisy to get away from the switch he dreaded. Elderly persons of the fair
sex were occasionally vexatious to him; and his disposition now and then
broke out so as to summon the switch to his shoulders.

At last, Duck Davie became a man,--as boys will, you know, in years,
at least, if not in discretion; and he made up his mind to try if he
couldn’t rid himself of the switch that haunted him. We’ll see how he
succeeded.

It happened one morning, after he had been brooding over his misfortunes
all night, that he drank a little more than was wholesome on a fasting
stomach, and did something, almost without knowing it, that produced a
slight bruise on his shoulders from the switch. He turned round upon
it at once, and resolved to see if he couldn’t master it. He began to
belabour it, before it had time to make its bow and hop off, as though
it was flesh and blood like himself; but only broke his own knuckles
against its hard head. He then tried to capture it, but the switch bent
and writhed in his grasp like an eel, got clear out of his hands, and
then, hopping back a little, gave Duck Davie a blow in the stomach with
its head, as he was advancing to make another attack, that laid him flat
on the ground. It then made its bow to him where he lay, and hopped off.

Instead of disheartening, this interview irritated obstinate Davie; and
the next day, he brought the switch to him again, by purposely tripping
up an ould woman’s heels who hadn’t done him a ha’p’orth of evil. There
was a holy well, which ran into a broad stream near the place where this
happened, and before the switch had given him a second blow, which he
knew he deserved, Duck had gripped it tight to his breast and carried
it to the bank. He cast it into the stream, hoping of course to see it
sink; but it swam back like a fish,--landed,--finished the drubbing it
owed Duck, and hopped away without giving him a chance of getting hould
of it again!

It was full five years before Duck Davie had another affray with the
switch, which in all that time never failed fearlessly to visit him
as often as he offended. It was on All Souls’ eve when he had his
next fight with it. He did that which brought it for the purpose, and
resolutely grappled it with both hands, just under the chin, as soon as
it appeared. Some say that it bate Duck while he held it; and others,
that it turned and twisted about his body, almost breaking his bones,
like them snakes we hear of in foreign parts would: but for all this,
Duck got it into the big fire that was before him, and kept it there,
with poker and tongs, bating its head down as often as it jumped out of
the blaze to grin at him, until it was quite consumed. And we’re tould,
that it didn’t crackle like wood does while burning, but the noise it
made was like that of two unearthly voices,--one laughing bitterly, and
the other shrieking and groaning as of a crature in agony.

Now whether Duck Davie got rid of the switch this way or not I can’t
well tell you, for he won’t let us know. There’s different stories about
it. Some say, the witch came to him that time, and begged hard for her
stick; but he swore, by the holy iron with which he was banging it, he
wouldn’t listen to her; and that he never saw switch or witch after. But
there’s others say they know this, namely--that Duck Davie saw the ould
woman long after, sleeping under the tree, with the stick standing whole
and entire, where it was when he first set eyes on it.

Duck Davie came to settle in these parts about ten years ago. His wife
is one of this place: but she left it in her young days, and Duck met
with and married her when she was housekeeper to an apothecary, and he
a journeyman tailor in Limerick, where he lived long with her, and came
here, one morning, when he was grey, in the wake of Timberleg Toe-Trap
the bailiff, for whom he’d been doing many’s the dirty job, in making
seizures and dogging debtors, and so forth. This was after he’d been
refused work by all the master tailors everywhere he could go, because
his eyes was got too weak for fine stitches: so he was obliged to do
something for himself, and nothing better being offered him, he turned
follower to Nick; and when an execution was issued by Pierce Veogh’s
creditors, which happened about three months after his quitting this
country, Timberleg, who made the seizure, left Duck Davie and another of
his men, as his proxies, in possession of The Beg. But before he’d been
in it a week, Duck had a quarrel with his master, Timberleg, and another
was put in his place. So then his wife’s brother, Paddy Doolan, who is
one of my neighbours, persuaded him to quit the bailiff entirely, and to
set up for himself here among us, as we didn’t want finer work than
he was able to do without straining his ould eyes. Duck took his
brother-in-law’s advice, and has been with us from that day to this.

He has just as great a dislike to ould women as ever he had; that’s why
he don’t trate his wife as he should do, as many think; and some say,
when he gets in a passion,--as he will often, and rave and tear like a
madman,--that the stick with the nightmare’s head has been bating him
for abusing his wife. Duck Davie has a good quality or two, but take him
head and heels, I, for one, don’t much like him. You’ll say, may be,
why do I employ him, then?--And I’ll answer you,--because there isn’t
another tailor within ten miles of us: and moreover, if I was Paddy
Doolan, and had the use of my limbs, when he abused his wife without
a cause, as he did yesterday, and often before, I’d give him as fine a
basting as he got from the witch’s switch that day when he looked over
his shoulder, and saw it standing behind him in the field.

[Illustration: 233]



THE WEED WITNESS.

As the world goes, there’s few places but have had somebody to blacken
their good name, by robbery or murder, or crime of one sort or another;
and there’s few that hav’n’t now, nor hadn’t before now, but will one
day or other, there’s no doubt of it for as sure as the poppy grows in
the corn-field, so will bad passions spring up in the hearts of some
of us; and them that’s the best in their young days, often turn out the
worst when they’re ould: so that, as somebody says, it’s foolish to be
spaking much in praise of a man’s goodness of heart, and so forth, until
the green grass grows over him, and he can’t belie us by braking out
into badness. It’s a fine shew of potato-plants, that has but a single
curly-leaved one among them; and we’ve rason to pride ourselves, that
never within our own memory, or that of the ouldest people the ouldest
of us now alive knew when we were little ones,--was there more than one
man convicted (I don’t say taken up on suspicion--I’d be wrong if I
did) of killing, or burning, or shooting, or joining with White-Boys or
Break-o’-day-Boys, or the likes o’ that, for three miles every way from
the door o’ my house. To be sure, there’s but few people in that space;
but they’re enough in number to have had black sheep among ‘em. If
you’re uncharitable, you’ll say, “So they have; but the rogues have had
the luck not to be found out.” May be, you’re right; there’s many, to
tell the truth, I wouldn’t swear for. Much to our glory, however, the
one that _was_ found out, didn’t draw the first breath o’ life here; but
came from far away up the country, after he’d done that which brought
him to a bad end.

Johnny O’Rourke, as it’s said, had a dacent woman for his mother; but,
for his own part, Johnny was a downright bad one,--egg and bird. He got
into such company when he grew up, as couldn’t well improve his morals;
and, by-and-by, he’d brought his ould mother--she was a widow--at once
to death’s door, and the brink of beggary, by his bad goings-on.

One night, after he’d been away for more than a week, Johnny came
home, with the mud of three baronies lying in clots and layers on his
stockings, white as a corpse, and looking every way as though he’d
travelled far and fast, on no pleasant errand.

“It’s well you’re come,” says somebody to him from behind, as he put his
hand on the door.

“Why so?” says Johnny; and though he knew by the voice it was one of the
neighbours that spoke to him, his heart knocked against his ribs, and
then seemed to be climbing up to his throat; for something whispered
him, all wasn’t well: indeed, he hadn’t much reason to expect it.--“Why
so,” says he, “Biddy?--Isn’t the ould woman as she should be?”

“Did you lave her as she should be, or didn’t you?”

“Poorly, Biddy, and you know it; for you was wid her whin I wint away.
But tell me, now, upon your soul, is she worse?”

“My grief! it’s herself that is, then!--You’ve broke her heart, out and
out, God help you!”

“Don’t say that, Biddy! or I’ll go get a knife and kill meeself. Tell
her, I’m here, and that I can’t come in ‘till she forgives me for all’s
said and done:--and bring me something to comfort me, for I hav’n’t
heart to look in the face of her.”

“Is it comfort for yourself, you’re talking of?--and your mother
wailing and howling night and day, as she has been, for the sight of her
llanuv!--What has she done to have such a one as yourself, Johnny, no
one can tell. Down on your knees, and crawl that way up to her, there
where she lies on her death-bed; and don’t be thinking of sending me
as a go-between; or, may be, your mother may die before you get her
blessing.”

“Oh! Biddy, Biddy! you’re destroying me--root and branch! Sure, she
can’t be so bad as that!”

“Come in and see,” says Biddy, taking his cold hand in her’s, and
leading him at once right into the house, and up to the bedside of his
mother, and shewing her to him, propped up as she was, and raving with
the little speech that was left her, for her darling, and her llanuv,
and her white-headed boy, and the life of her heart, and all the dear
names she could call that bad son, who had brought sorrow and misery
upon her. And they say it was awful to hear the shriek of joy that came
from her, and how she leaped out of the women’s arms that was houlding
her, when somebody put aside the long grey hair, which in her grief
she’d pulled over her face, and shewed her Johnny himself standing
by the bed-side, the image of woe and remorse. There wasn’t a hair’s
breadth of his face that she didn’t kiss; and though a little before,
when he stood like a statue, looking at her as he did, Johnny was too
much choking with grief to be able to utter a word, yet, when he’d
mingled the scalding drops that burst from his eyes, with the cold tears
on his mother’s cheek, he found himself restored; and drawing back from
her embrace, he had courage enough to look up at her: but he couldn’t
bear the sight for a moment, and hid his face on her breast again,
exclaiming,--“Oh! mother, mother! and is it this way I find you? Why
didn’t I die before I saw this night?”

“Cheer up, my darling!” said the ould woman, “for I’ll now braathe mee
last in peace, that you’re here to close mee eyes.--Oh! that hand,
Johnny!--put that hand close to mee heart!--it’s often I felt it there
before now,--long, long ago, Johnny, whin it was young and innocent,
and I’d no comfort on earth--widow as I was--but the sight of mee baby
laughing up in mee eyes;--though the look of you then even brought the
tears into them, you were so like him that was taken from me before you
were born.”

“I’ve been a bad son to you, mother,” said Johnny; “it’s now I feel it.”

“Take your mother’s blessing and forgiveness, my child; and mee last
prayer will be, that you’ll get as free pardon here and hereafter for
all things, as your poor ould dying mother now gives you.”

“Oh! you’re not dying, mother;--you can’t be dying!” cried Johnny, in
the greatest agony; “such a thought as that of your dying never crossed
mee brain,--and I can’t bear it;--Sure, mother, I’m home, and I’ll watch
you, and be wid you night and day:--there’s hope for us yet. Isn’t there
hope, mother? Don’t you feel life come into you at the sight of me, and
mee tears and repentance for what I’ve done?”

“No, Johnny,” said the ould woman; “I’m sure I’ll not see the morning.
The sight of you does me good; but I’d live longer iv you hadn’t
come:--now I’ve nothing to wait for, as I know mee last look will be
fixed on the child I bore, and who’s the only one that’s kith, kin, or
kind to me, on the face of the earth. But, oh! mee child!--don’t do as
you have done!”

“Why spake of it, mother?--be quiet about the past, for it troubles
me--so it does.”

“I’ve had bad dreams of you, Johnny. Neighbours, iv you’d let me be
alone awhile wid me child, I’d thank you.”

The women retired slowly from the room, and closed the door behind them.
“What have you been dreaming, mother?” eagerly inquired Johnny, as soon
as they had departed.

“There was a river of blood, Johnny, wid yourself struggling for life
in it; and me in a boat, widout rudder or oar, not able to save you: and
then--”

“Don’t go on, mother! it’s worse than throwing water on me!--I’m shaking
from head to foot.”

“You didn’t mind dreams once, Johnny;--and you used to laugh at me when
I’d be telling you warnings I had that way, about you.”

“I wasn’t so bad then, may be, mother, as I’m now: bud you’ll live long
yet, and help me to pray meeself out of all of it; and I’ll mind what
you say, and go to work for you honestly, instead of feeding you wid
what I got in sorrow and sin. If I escape this once, I’ll make a vow
never to sleep out of mee own little bed there again. Oh! that I never
had!--bud it’s too late to make that wish.”

“Don’t despair, darling! for he that’s above us is good: and iv you’re
penitent, and do as your father’s son should, my dear, in spite of that
other bad dream I had, the grass will grow on your grave, as it does on
his.”

“Oh! mercy! and did’nt the grass grow over me, mother? And did you see
mee grave in your dreams?”

“A thousand times, Johnny, since you were gone:--the little hillock
itself was barren and bare, and all round it, as far as the eye could
reach, there was nothing bud wild turnips growing.”

“Mother! you’re mad to tell me so! You couldn’t have dreamed that--you
couldn’t have seen the prushaugh vooe--”

“I see it now, my dear boy, as I did in mee dreams, waving its yellow
flowers backwards and forwards, summer and winter, as iv they were to
last for ever and ever.”

“Oh! mother, mother! spake no more o’them! Iv I thought it wouldn’t be
the death of you, I’d aize mee mind.”

“Pray God, you’ve murdered nobody!”

“I have, mother!--I have!--Iv you didn’t spake o’ the prushaugh vooe, I
wouldn’t have tould you; bud there’d be no salvation for me, iv you died
and did’nt forgive me for it:--for though you forgave me for every thing
besides, you couldn’t forgive me for what you didn’t know about. I’d die
iv I didn’t confess to somebody;--and who’s there in the wide world I
could open mee soul to bud yourself, mother?”

“Oh! my grief, Johnny! and is it come to this?--Bud are you sure you’re
not pursued?--(spake low, for they’re at the door, and it won’t shut
close)--are you sure, my dear?”

“I don’t know, mother; I think I’m not: bud I’m afraid, as well I may,
from what he said to me, and that same thing you dreamed about, I’ll be
found out and hung, worse luck! who knows?--though I never meant to harm
him, as you’ll hear, mother, at the last day,--the day o’ judgment, whin
there’s no keeping a secret.”

“Who was your victim, Johnny? And where was it you were tempted to risk
your soul?”

“It was the Hearthmoneyman I killed!--I’d been watching for him,
different ways, day and night, to rob him of his collection; but he’d
always somebody wid him, or there was people coming; or whin there
wasn’t, I hadn’t the heart, until this blessed morning.”

“In the broad day?”

“It was;--miles away where you never have been. Bud he was too much for
me, mother; and if it wasn’t for the bit of ould baggonet I carried in
mee sherkeen, without ever intinding to use it, he’d have taken me off
to the police: for he got away mee stick from me, and I couldn’t manage
him; no, nor keep him off, nor get away from him even, till I took out
the baggonet.”

“Did no one see you?--Was there nobody near?--Are you sure, now?”

“I am:--bud, oh! mother! what do you think he said to me? There was
wild turnips growing by the road side, and as he fell among them, says
he,--‘You think no one sees you; bud while there’s a single root of
this prushaugh vooe growing in Ireland, I’ll not want a witness that you
murdered me!’ Then he dragged up a handful of it, and threw it in the
face o’ me, as he fell back for ever.”

“My dream! my dream!” cried the ould woman; “Curse his collection! Curse
the money that tempted mee child into this sin!”

“I took none of his money!--not a keenogue! How could I touch it after
what I tould you?--But what’ll I do, mother?”

“Fly, my dear! Go hide yourself far, far away! Go, and my blessing be on
you!--Go, for you’ll be suspected and pursued!--Go at once, for I’ll
not be able to spake much more!--Go, while I’ve mee sight to see you
depart!--Go, while I’ve sinse left to hear the last o’ your footsteps,
out away through the garden! Mee eyes is getting dim, and the breath’s
going from me.”

“Oh! mother! how can I tear meeself from you?”

“Obey me on mee death-bed, if you never did before. I’d linger long in
agonies iv you didn’t; and, may be, die shrieking, just as they came to
take you up!--Go off, my darling boy, and I’ll expire in peace, wid the
hope of your escaping. Soul and body I’ll try to hould together until
morning; and then, iv I don’t hear of your being taken,--as bad news
travels fast,--I’ll think you’re safe, and die happy.”

Well, at last Johnny promised his mother he’d try all he could to get
away to some place where he couldn’t be known; and after taking her
blessing, and an eternal lave of her,--a sorrowful one it was, they
say,--he wint out at the back door of the cabin, and made off as fast as
he well could. After skulking about in different parts for many months,
at last he came to this place, got a wife, and did as well as here
and there one;--nobody suspecting him of being worse than his
neighbours,--for eighteen or twenty long years. His wife, who was a
cousin of mine, loved him all that while; and said, though he was
dull and gloomy at times, and didn’t get his sleep for bad dreams he
had,--which she thought made him cross,--take him altogether, he was as
good a husband as woman could wish.

Well, as I said ‘while ago, Johnny O’Rourke lived among us here, for
eighteen or twenty years,--under the name of Michael Walsh though, I
must tell you,--then you’ll hear what happened him. He wint out to
fetch a bit of a walk one day, after being bad a week or two, so that he
couldn’t well work; but he hadn’t been over the threshould a quarter of
an hour, when he came running back the most lamentable-looking object
that ever darkened a door. Every hair on his head seemed to have a life
of its own; his eye-balls were fixed as those of one just killed with
fright; his mouth was half open; his jaw seemingly motionless; his lips
white as a sheet; and around them both was a blue circle, as though he’d
been painted to imitate death. Down he dropped upon the floor as soon as
he got in; and all his wife and the neighbours could do, didn’t restore
him to his right senses for hours. At last, he began to call for the
priest;--I remember it as well as if it happened but yesterday;--and
here it was where they found Father Killala, who was telling me the
middle and both ends of the _cant_ at The Beg: for all Pierce Veogh’s
furniture and things were sould under the hammer that day, and the
Monday before, for a mere nothing, or next kin to it. And when Father
Killala got to the sick man, he said, that though we’d so long called
him Mick Walsh, his raal name was Johnny O’Rourke; and that he’d seen a
sight that day, which drove him to do what he’d long been thinking of;
namely,--confessing that he was the murderer of Big Dick Blaney, the
Hearthmoneyman, who was found, with an ould baggonet in his breast,
among the prushaugh vooe by the road side, away up the country,
twenty years before. “And,” says he, “I can’t live wid the load on mee
heart;--whether I lie abroad or at home I’m always tossing about in
a bed of prushaugh vooe, wid the baggonet glimmering like a flash of
lightning over mee head: so you’ll deliver me up at once, that I may
suffer by man for raising mee hand against man, and God help me to go
through it!”

And, no doubt, the sight he saw was enough to make him do as he did. A
week after he tould his wife his whole history; and how, when he wint
out that day when he came home and called for the priest, after walking
a little way along the road, thinking of no harm in the world, but with
his heart weighed down as usual for the deed he’d done long ago, he was
suddenly startled, by hearing somebody singing what he thought was a
keentaghaun; and what should he see, on turning his eyes to the bit of
wild broken ground by the road-side, but the face of his ould mother!
And what was she doing, think you, but tearing up the wild turnip-plants,
which were growing on the spot where she stood, as though her life
depended on their destruction!--He thought she’d been in her grave years
and years before; but there she was, miserably ould, and withered away
to skin and bone: but though altered by time, he saw, at the first look,
it was his mother. She wint on with her work, not noticing her son, and
singing in a low, wild, heart-breaking tone--

     “Still the prushaugh vooe grows!
     For the winds are his foes,
     And scatter the seed,
     Of the fearful weed,
     O’er mountain and moor;
     While weary and sore,
     I travel, up-rooting
     Each bright green shooting:--
     But the winds are his foes,
     And the prushaugh still grows!
     Oh! mee llanuv! mee lanuv!”

And says she, “Mee task will never be ended; for mee tears water the
seeds, while I pull up the ould plants that bore them. Oh! Johnny! where
are you, my son?--Come to your mother and help her, my darling!”

So then he staggered up to her, but she didn’t know him!--the mother
didn’t know the son she doated on,--but cursed him, and called him
“Dick Blaney,” and “Hearthmoneyman!”--All this it was that drove
Johnny O’Rourke to run home, like one out of his senses, and make his
confession.

It’s said, that he tried, at the bar, with tears and lamentation, which
wasn’t expected of him, to save his life; or, at any rate, to get a
long day given him:--promising how good he’d be, if he was let live,
and pleading the years he’d passed in repentance. But you’d guess, if I
did’nt tell you, that such blarney, from one who’d done as he had, would
have no weight. So he suffered; and that, too, penitently, as I’m tould
by them that saw him at the last. His wife spent all she could scrape
together,--as he bid her with his last words a’most,--in search of his
mother; but the ould woman never was found, as far as I know, from
that day to this; and, may be, the poor soul is still wandering about,
tearing up the prushaugh vooe, and singing her melancholy song.

[Illustration: 241]



ME AND MY GHOST-SHIP.

About a month after the _cant_ at The Beg of all the goods that was
in it,--the particulars of which Father Killala was telling me, as you
heard while ago, when he was sent for by Johnny O’Rourke,--the large
creditors that had claims on the land, and the house itself, made up
their minds to follow the example set them by the small fry, who had
paid themselves out o’ the sale o’ the furniture, and things o’ that
kind,--the goods and chattels I mane;--and news came that the whole
domain would soon be publicly put up, and sould to the best bidder. Such
tidings as this couldn’t but grieve me,--I’ll say that much for myself;
for I didn’t know into what hands the fine ould place might fall. And
what would it matter to me, a poor ould cripple as I am, living here in
a cabin,--you’ll ask,--who had it, since I’d no call to it?--Why, then,
I’ll tell you; and if you laugh at me for loving The Beg, so be it, and
you’re welcome. It’s in the small room, to the left, as you go up the
back staircase, just above what’s called the Oratory, and over-right the
chamber where there’s a portrait of William the Third, the long-nosed
Orangeman, one side o’ the chimney, and a picture of poor Jimmy Stuart,
the king, on the other--it’s there where I drew my first breath; and
it’s there, too, on the same day and hour, my mother drew her last. My
father lived with the Veoghs, and so did his father before him; and,
it’s said, we once was owners of The Beg ourselves, and should be so
still, if right ruled the roast. There’s a pedigree of our forefathers
drawn out upon parchment, in the form of a tree, stuck up against one
o’ the walls, by which it seems we were fine fellows long ago:--but
that doesn’t matter a ha’p’orth to me now; for I’d rather find a guinea
without an owner, than have it proved that my grandfather was king of
ten countries, and I could lay claim to the title as his heir, if it
was nothing but the bare name I got by it. Not but what if I was a fine
fellow myself, I must own, I’d rather have fine fellows than vagabonds
for my forefathers; but as I’m but a fisherman, or next kin to it, I’d
as soon have fishermen as King Ferguses for my ancestors;--and rather,
too, may be: for while, in the one case, the honour of those I sprung
from might make me strive to be great and honourable myself; that
same honour, in the other, might make me draw comparisons, and be
discontented with my own lot, and so neglect doing what I might, and go
to the dogs,--don’t you see?

The night I heard of The Beg’s being sould, I was sitting alone here in
my cabin, brooding over the bad news, when whose voice should I hear,
outside my door, but that of Corney Carolan, the wooden-legged piper
and rhymester of Drogheda?--You’ll know more of Corney, if you’ll just
listen to the story I’ll tell you, by-and-by, about Luke Sweeney;
that is--Fogarty, I should say; for the piper’s cousin--that’s Luke
himself--don’t like to be called by his own name, which, to spake the
truth, is Sweeney, and nothing else: however, I’ll tell you a trifle
about the piper now, and especially what happened him the night I sat
mumchance here, making myself sick, at what, if I was wiser, may be, I’d
know shouldn’t concern me. Corney was bound ‘prentice to a brogue-maker,
in his native place--which is Drogheda; but, as he tells us, he was too
much the lad o’ wax to stick to his last, and left a good home, to seek
his fortune on the wide ocean. But there’s many of us have done as bad:
so we shouldn’t cry out upon Corney, you know;--should we, now?--The sea
is the sole and only thing in the world that an English, Irish, Scotch,
or Welch boy, ever feels truly and deeply in love with. The lad
that’s one day or other to have his name mentioned with Nelson and
Collingwood,--or to be the hero of the forecastle, if he comes of poor
parents,--may be fond of a toy, or a sugar-plum, or his little cousin
Kitty, or thousands of things besides, before he tumbles into his teens;
but--mark what I say, if you plaze--the sea alone is the darling he
doats on; and no man alive ever fell into a more consuming passion for a
beautiful young woman, than many a boy has for the fine ould ocean.
It’s the hereditary love such numbers of us have, when young, for
the beautiful billows, that makes us masters of the main. In other
countries, as I’ve heard, neither whips nor words will persuade lads to
take to the sea; in these, stone walls themselves will but barely keep
them from it: and bad luck to him, I say, that ever, by word or deed,
does a ha’p’orth to blight our national fondness for the waters, which
keeps our country afloat.--Hurrah!

The rhymester of Drogheda has made a song of what happened him at
sea;--and a mighty queer song it is, as you’ll hear, for I think I can
give you a sample. After Corney has noticed all he saw and suffered, for
four or five years, aboard a man-o’-war, he says,--or rather sings,--

     “We met the French one day,
     Near what the Nile they call,
     And axed them would they play
     A friendly game of ball?--
     Isn’t it grape they shoot?
     Away my leg they blew;
     And the two-pound note to boot,
     I’d hid inside my shoe.”

After that, Corney retired upon a wooden leg and a pension; and, turning
his sword into an awl, he transmogrified the corner of an ould stable
into a new cobbler’s stall. “And you’d think I’d do well,” says he, in
his song; “for,” he continues,

     “Of customers soon I got--
     Ould friends they were--a score;
     But wouldn’t I go to pot
     Without as many more?
     Musha! bad luck for me!--
     Attend to this, I beg,--
     They all had been to sea,
     And each o’ them lost a leg!”

Going on at that rate wouldn’t suit Corney at all: he found the wolf was
getting every day nearer his door; so, at last, he thought he’d try what
sort of a trade begging was. It wasn’t long before he’d the model of a
ship, built and rigged by himself, fastened to his skull-cap; and for
many’s the year he carried it about to and fro, here and there and
everywhere, until he and his pipes--and, by all accounts, he’s one
o’ the finest hands at them you ever heard--were as well known as the
bridge of Waterford. For the first time in my life,--the night he looked
in upon me, when I was bothering myself about The Beg’s being sould,--I
saw Corney without his ship.

“Arrah! Corney,” says I, “who’ve you struck your flag to?”

“To the captain of the Dutch merchantman,” says he.

“Well, but how happened it, Corney?” says I.

“Why, then,” says he, “I’ll tell you:--About an hour ago upon my arrival
at my cousin Fogarty’s, after being away since Sunday se’nnight, I heard
the whole story about the Dutch vessel being blown ashore, and took a
half-a-pint, or so, of the fine hollands my cousin had got from her
captain. After that, I was tould how he’d given every soul in the place
from one to three quarts of it, for the kindness that had been shewn
him, in getting his ship off without damage. And, says Luke Fogarty,--
roaring like a bull in my ear,--‘He’s just bid us good b’ye; for his
vessel’s under weigh again, and himself going on board as soon as he
gets to the beach.’ Very well, thinks I; wooden-legged as I am, I’ll see
if I can’t overtake the Dutchman, and coax him out of a keg, or a bottle
at least: for, to tell the truth, hollands is delicious; and I never
tasted a sup of any thing drinkable so fine as the hollands the Dutch
captain left at Luke Fogarty’s. Away I wint; and, in less time than
you’d dance down a lame woman at a jig-house, as the night was bright as
day itself, I hove up within sight of the Dutchman.

“Making all the sail I could, I soon ran down his hull; but the moment I
hailed him, and he took a view of me, he walked away like a race-horse.
I followed, as fast as I well could, and a jolly chace we had of it.
I’ll tell you beforehand that I came up with him at last: and, from one
of his boat’s crew, who spoke English, I found out what he thought of
me, while I was crowding all I could upon his track. He’d often laughed
at the stories that was tould him of the phantom ship off the Cape; but
no sooner had he set eyes on the little model I wore on my head, than he
thought he saw the thing itself: and he looked upon it as a special
punishment upon him for being an unbeliever, to have the ship not only
sent after him there from her own seas, but for her to follow him
ashore, and make the air her ocean! The slender cordage rattled with the
sea-breeze,--blowing as it was, and the little sails flapped about the
spars, as he tacked to get away from me, and I tacked to overtake him;
and, no doubt he thought they made more noise than a seventy-four in a
gale o’ wind. And the fears that were upon him, likely enough, magnified
my little boat into a large craft. But what do you think he thought,
when I struck up a time upon my pipes?--music to which he,--poor
ignorant soul! until then was a stranger! He cast a hasty glance over
his left shoulder at the sound; and, the moon then gleaming full upon
me, he caught a glimpse of my face; which, as he said, he took at once
to be that of the big ugly fiend o’ the storm. I hailed him, but he
wouldn’t answer me; I swore in Irish, and he began to pray in Dutch:
and, at last, when he found he couldn’t get away from me, he fell down
upon his knees, and began to attack a bottle he had in his pocket, as
though no one loved hollands but himself. In a few seconds he was under
my fore-foot; and, of course, I clutched the bottle out of his hand: but
if you’d seen the look he gave at me and my ghost-ship, while I was
drinking, you’d never forget it while you lived. I’ve no call to find
fault with him, though; for, as soon as he found out I was flesh and
blood, he used me well, and gave me the two trifles of hollands I have,
slung at each side of me here, and more than a trifle of money, to boot,
for my ship; which, to tell no lies, I was going to hang up for ever
tomorrow; for she was getting too much for me, or I was getting too ould
for her, I don’t know which. Besides, I’m now able to do well enough
without her,--thanks to my pipes,--and the trifles of songs I’ve made
myself and stole from better men. It wasn’t without a groan or two
though, that I saw the Dutchman, when he’d bought her, tie a stone to my
poor ship’s waist, and drown her as spitefully as though she’d been a
cur that had bit him.”

[Illustration: 246]



THE NEST EGG.

Well, who should buy The Beg, do you think, but a fine lady from Dublin,
who had never seen it, and, it’s said, sould off all she had, to make
up the money for it?--And who should the lady be, but that same young
Pierce Veogh was once in love with, but who wouldn’t have him, because
of his wild doings, and wint and married another?--And this other was
dead, and the lady was a widow, and bought The Beg, as we thought when
we knew the story, because of Pierce; who was then, nobody knew where.

Down she came, in a few weeks, to take possession; and it’s soon she
was loved by every soul within three miles of the place. Them that was
Pierce Veogh’s favourites, she did good to for his sake; and them that
he never noticed, she helped for her own: so that there was few but
blessed her. She gave Mick Maguire a new gun, when he’d burst the one he
had from Pierce, by overloading it, and broke his own arm to boot; and
she did something for me, too, as you’ll hear, by-and-by, though Pierce
and myself never was over and above friendly, because I didn’t like his
goings-on; and what’s more,--for I’ll confess my frailty,--in all his
spending he never spent a penny upon me.

If I was one of a nation that had to choose a queen by her looks, I’d
just pick out the lady who bought The Beg; for I never saw any thing in
the wide world so fine and so gracious, and so every thing that’s good,
and above the general run of women,--and I never saw one in the world
that I couldn’t kiss,--as herself. She hadn’t been at The Beg much
more than a week, when one morning she sailed into my place here; her
movements was more like those of a fine vessel on a smooth tide, than
those of one like us that treads upon the earth; and her eyes was of
the colour of the sky on a clear night, and a fine star seemed to be
twinkling in the middle of each of them; and, says she,--“God bless
all here!” just as a dillosk-girl might, in going into the cabin of a
neighbour. I’ll never forget her, or the sight of her beautiful small
fingers, when she pulled off her glove,--set off, as they were, by a
black ring about one of them; and though I’m a poor man, and an ould
man, I was in love with her, and she knew it:--_that_ I’d uphould
against the finest man that ever stood upon two legs, if I could even
stand upon one myself,--but I can’t.

She came to do good; and after much talking, says she to Aggie, my
niece,--“You’re a widow, I hear: is it long you’ve been so?”

“Three years and a half, my lady,” says Aggie, who’s well spoken enough
to hould a confab with any one; though you wouldn’t think it, if you
heard her aboard the boat.

“And have you any children?” says the lady, in a tone o’ kindness, that
would make the most bashful as bould as could well be becoming.

“I’ve two, my lady, as fine boys as ever the sun shone upon; though I
say it, you wouldn’t match them in a day’s walk. The marrow isn’t well
in their bones yet; but there’s nothing, at sea or ashore, they’re
afraid of, barring one thing,--and that’s facing so fine a lady as
yourself; they couldn’t do that, so they slunk out the back way when
they caught sight o’ your ladyship coming: I hope that won’t be an
offence, though.”

“By no means,” said the lady; “and how was it you lost your
husband?--But I ought not to remind you of your misfortune.”

“Blessings on your sweet face, my lady,” says Aggie; “it does me good
to hear poor Larry spoken of, or asked kindly about: it’s few that does
it.”

“Ah!” says I; “the thoughts o’ the living drives away--that is, partly
drives away--the memory o’ the dead. Poor Larry ran into the sea, and
drowned himself one night, in a fit o’ madness, brought on by a wound
in his head long before, and more whiskey than usual, which he’d been
drinking that day. He was the finest swimmer on this coast, and nearly
took two or three to the bottom that wasn’t bad ones, who wint in to
save him. He sunk himself by main force.”

And after that, when the lady asked which way it was he got wounded, I
tould her how he’d been a sailor in his young days. “And when he was a
boy,” says I, “there never, by all accounts, was one better loved, by
little or big, than himself. He sailed many’s the voyage with one Oriel,
who was captain and half owner of the brig Betsy,--one of the best
sea-boats ever was seen: she’d make two voyages and back, while
them that waited for convoy couldn’t fetch one. And it’s many’s the
times--I’ll not be bothering you with sea terms, which your ladyship
won’t comprehend--it’s often then she bate off such enemies as she was
able for, and left those in the lurch she couldn’t expect to drub. But,
at last and in long run, she met with her match, and more than it every
way, in a pirate, manned with a crew of all nations, but sailing under
Algerine colours, if I don’t mistake. They’d as pretty a little battle
for, may be, half a glass or more, yardarm and yard-arm,--that’s
cheek-by-jowl, you know, my lady,--as one could wish to behould: but,
by-and-by, Oriel found he was getting the worst of it; and says he to
Larry,--that’s my niece’s husband that was,--‘Larry,’ says he, ‘you’ve
always obeyed my orders like a good boy.’ ‘I’ll do so still, sir,’ says
Larry, ‘while there’s life left in me.’ ‘Well, then, Larry,’ says Oriel,
‘they’re making ready for boarding us, I think; and as we can’t get
away, I’ll tell you what you’ll do:--go down to the powder-room, and
when we’ve fought as long as we’re able, and killed what we can above
here on deck,--that is, when you think they’re all aboard of us a’most,
and we can’t do much more harm to them,--do you just blow up the brig,
like a good boy, and I’ll be obliged to you.’

“I will, sir,’ says Larry; ‘but my mistress--’ ‘Oh! you blockhead!’
cried Oriel; ‘don’t you see, it’s for her sake entirely, that I’m making
this sacrifice? Do you think I could die happy with the thought of her
falling, in the pride of her youth and beauty, into the hands of these
villains? ‘Oh! master!’ says poor Larry, poking a tear out of his eye
with the top of his clumsy finger, ‘why did you bring her with you?’
‘Hould your tongue,’ says Oriel, ‘and don’t mind what don’t concern you:
I took her twice before, and less harm happened me than ever; for she
seemed to be like a charm against peril to my poor brig. Now go away
down, Larry, and don’t blubber that way, or, may be, you’ll wet the
priming in your pistol; and should you miss fire, and not blow us up as
I bid you, if the enemy don’t throw you overboard, my ghost shall haunt
you all the days of your life: but be a good boy, and do your duty like
a man, and we’ll all go to heaven, I hope, in company.’ Well, down wint
Larry, after giving one last pelt with his pistol at the pirates, and
loading it again for the confidential service he was trusted with; and
away strode big Oriel, determined to kill as many as he could, before
dying himself. Soon after, the deck of the Betsy was trod on by the best
part of the enemy’s crew, and Oriel’s people was obliged to retreat,
before the superior force that was opposed to them, bit by bit, until
they got huddled together about the forecastle; and from that they
clambered, and jumped, and tumbled higgledy-piggledy, they hardly
knew how,--and Oriel, almost in spite of himself, with them,--over the
lee-bow, clane into the enemy’s ship that lay close alongside. Before
above two or three could follow them, the Betsy gave a lurch, and the
vessels parted. Them that was left aboard the pirate couldn’t make much
head against Oriel’s men; but he didn’t help them a ha’p’orth;--and
when somebody came up to him, where he stood thumping his head with the
handle of his cutlass, and congratulated him upon the good turn things
were taking, and said they might now use the pirates’ own heavy metal
against its owners,--he cried out with an oath, that his wife was still
aboard the Betsy, and he’d bid Larry to fire into the powder room! At
that moment, he caught a glimpse of Larry’s carrotty head, poking out
of a port-hole, or somewhere, and looking like one amazed, at seeing his
shipmates seemingly making themselves masters of the pirate, while he
knew, from what he heard going on above, that the enemy was masters of
the Betsy. What to do, he didn’t know; and felt woful and confounded as
ever boy did in the world before. At last, he saw Oriel, who shouted to
him as loud as he could; but the noise was too great for Larry to hear
a syllable of what he said; and then, Oriel, half frantic, made such
violent motions with the pistol he’d snatched out of the man’s band
who’d spoken to him, pointing it at Larry, and threatening to shoot him,
and I can’t tell what, that the poor boy, knowing his mistress was still
aboard, thought the captain was in a rage with him for not blowing up
the brig before, and made signs, which couldn’t well be misunderstood,
that he’d go do it directly. At this, Oriel shrieked with passion;
and, before Larry could get away, fired the pistol he had at the boy’s
head;--there being no other way to prevent him from doing what Oriel
then thought wouldn’t be wise. The ball only grazed Larry’s skull, but
it took the senses out of him; and there he lay like one dead. It was
the wound he got that way which made him lose his right wits, when he
drank much, as he did the day he drowned himself, much to my grief! For,
oh! Larry, my boy, it’s well I loved you!--and so did your wife, and all
that knew you!--Your ladyship looks as if you’d like to be tould what
happened the captain’s wife, and how it ended.--Why, then, the pirates,
though in the worst ship, got the better of Larry’s shipmates: Oriel was
mortally wounded, in a desperate attempt to retake the Betsy; but he had
the satisfaction of falling on his own deck, and knowing that his
wife had died from a chance shot, a few moments before. The pirates
themselves were attacked by a frigate, before they could repair the
damage done to their vessel, and Larry was found in the prize, at
death’s door: but I needn’t tell you he got over it, or how would he
marry Aggie, and be the father of Paudrigg and Jimmy?--Fine fellows
they’ll make one day or other, I’ll engage for them! Though they’re but
boys even now, they lent Aggie a good hand at working the boat, from the
time poor Larry, their father, was lost to us.”

“And do _you_ go fishing?--_you_ only and your young sons?” said the
lady, with tears in her eyes, to my niece.

“I do, my lady,” says Aggie; “sign’s on me!--what would become of us all
else?”

“Faith! then, my lady,” says I, “she buckled on Larry’s bradien the week
after he died, and has missed as few tides as any one, from that day to
this,--she and the boys, that is.”

“Poor woman!” says my lady, putting something that was right welcome
into Aggie’s hand; “this trifle may assist you, if you’ll accept of it.”

“Long life to ye, my lady!” says Aggie, making the best curtsy she
could; “I was thinking to ask your ladyship’s favour in the way of
taking a fish at a fair price from us, time about with Rob Hacket; but,
upon second thought, Rob has a fry of gorlochs by his new wife, and he’s
getting weakly, and past going out in a tough rise; while I’m strong
and able; Paudrigg and Jimmy are both growing lusty too,--grace and good
luck be with’em!--so, my lady, I’ll say nothing about the fish, but make
bould to take the money, and lay it by for a rainy day.”

“I fear you think of but little more than the present,” says my lady;
“you should be provident, and save a little in the good season;
then you’d be able to look forward to the time of sickness with more
comfort.”

“Ah! my lady, we have no time to be sick,” says Aggie; “ailing or hearty
the net must be spread, and nine out of ten of the fishermen die the
night after weathering a stiff breeze:--it’s rare for any of us to lose
above one tide between life and death!--And as to being provident,
my lady, half the year we have enough to do, with all our tugging and
striving, to make both ends meet;--it’s hand-to-mouth work with us.”

“But then, at other times, Agnes,--in your harvest, as I may say,--you
might save something.”

“It’s aisy talking, my lady,” says Aggie; “and many’s the vow we make
in the hard season, to scrape a penny or so together the next good time:
but when it comes,--my grief I--doesn’t half of it slip away before one
can look about?--And then it’s too late to begin: so it’s put off--the
hoarding and squeezing time is--till another year. Besides, when
it’s all plenty galore with us, who thinks of starvation?--It’s hard,
too,--so it is,--to brake up the day’s joy by robbing it of a few
keenogues for the morrow. We’d rather be merry--many of us would--one
while, and sad another, than divide equally, and so go on, in the same
dull way, from year’s end to year’s end, neither hungry nor full, joyful
nor sad,--but just dacent, and half one thing half another. Moreover,
when we have the money, away it goes at once;--we make merry, and put
to sea again. The citizen may well think of to-morrow, and save,--for he
goes to his bed, and, without a chance, tomorrow will be to him another
to-day: but the fisherman goes into the waves, and God knows, when his
kin wish him ‘Goodnight!’ whether he’ll ever hear their ‘Good-morrow!’
It’s so trying to begin, too:--the hen won’t lay in an empty nest, nor
is it aisy to put a penny by where there was no penny before. And if
we do, where’s the good of our throwing aside a groat to-day, a mag
to-morrow, and a shilling the next?--At the week’s end it’s just so
little, we despise it; and just so much, that it tempts us to have
a spree:--drunkenness follows; and so, after pinching from Monday
to Friday, we spind the money, and lose the Saturday’s trip into the
bargain--so we do. One piece o’ good gould in our by-corner would make
us add more to it: one shilling to forty, makes forty-one,--a great
sum;--but one shilling to forty-pence, makes four-and-four-pence;--just
enough for doing harm. ‘Tis but a shilling either way, you may say;
but there’s a difference in the two that one feels and knows, but can’t
spake about or explain.--I wouldn’t wonder but myself saves upon your
ladyship’s gracious gift: any how, we’ll never have to put the platter
outside the door at a death, nor want a dacent wedding when the boys
marry, while we keep it whole itself.”

And it’s whole we’ve kept it then, and added more to it, and bought
many’s the thing to comfort us, which we never should have had, may be,
if it wasn’t for the nest-egg we got that way from my lady--blessings
be on her!--So here’s a fine proof, that proverbs ar’n’t always to be
depended upon. They say three things, which may be true sometimes, but
not always:--the first is, that “Fortune is blind”--now we’d good luck
come to us; and it’s true we deserved it,--that is, Aggie did, if I
didn’t;--and what’s more, we wanted it. “Aisy got, aisy gone;”--that’s
another proverb we’ve given the lie to; for what we’ve laid out we spent
discreetly, and on no occasion without many’s the pro and con whether
we’d do so or no.--Lastly, it’s said, “An eel won’t slip through our
fingers faster than the guinea that’s given us;”--but I’d knock that on
the head any day, by shewing what we got from my lady the first day she
set foot in my cabin,--and that’s long ago. So that I, and, may be, a
good many more, can say, “Fortune isn’t always blind;--aisy got, may be
held fast;--and all eels are not slippery.”

[Illustration: 253]



UNDER THE THUMB.

Duck Davie’s wife’s brother, Paddy Doolan, lives among his pigs,
poultry, and potatos, over-right Mick’s place,--the man that saw the
little Fairy in the oysther-shells. Paddy gets his bread by rearing
turkies and geese, and similar commodities, and buying bits o’ pigs
about here and there, where he can, and selling them at the market in
the next town,--may be, once a month or so;--and many’s the penny Pat
has turned one way or another, any how. Well,--Pat has a wife,--and not
a bad one, he ought to think, if he looks about him and sees what other
men’s are, and draws comparisons. She’s not very big; but she has a
black eye, and bustles about; and though she wears a whiskey-bottle, she
keeps Pat from doing himself harm from much drinking: and if she does
have a drop between whiles, more than does her good exactly, why, she
keeps up appearances, by always making wry faces whenever she takes a
sup of comfort afore her neighbours. She has a limp in her gait, but
cooks a cobbler’s nob dilicately; and her temper’s not bad, though not
much better than just middling like the peathees, as we say: still,
there’s few in the barony with less holes, and holes sooner mended too,
in her sherkeen, than Mistress Doolan; and, as wives go, as I said,
there’s worse than Pat’s. She’s forty-nine years of age, come Candlemas;
but does not keep the house so clane as she might:--but then, to be
sure, there’s the pigs--

Now for Pat:--he’s bow-legged,--which comes, as his wife, who admires
him, says, from his riding so much to and fro across the panniers on his
garron to market and back: but some think he was so from a boy,--still
that doesn’t matter;--his legs are quite good enough for every-day work,
and nature wouldn’t be wise to give holiday limbs to a higgler--would
she now? Pat’s forefathers must have been from beyond-sea parts, I
think; or how would he have such a pale face, and large dull black eyes,
without one feature, barring the cocked nose, of us raal ould Irish? If
he was a fisherman, may be, he’d get a colour; but, as it is, though he
never knows a day’s sickness, he’s as pale as a white night-cap; and his
big eye looks like a piece of sea-coal in milk, or a town chimney-sweep
in a snow-storm.

Pat seems so innocent, that many suspect him to be a rogue,--a little
sly, or that way inclined;--but Pat says no, and so does Mistress
Doolan, and that’s something. People tell how much some men and their
wives are alike,--faith! so much, as often to be taken for brother and
sister; and its true of Dick Reardon who buys Pat’s poultry wholesale
and sells them out retail, that he and his good woman are as like one
another, as a couple of ducks. But that’s not the case with Pat and his
deary, for they don’t match, and you’d wonder what made them mate.

Seventeen or eighteen years ago,--I can’t say precisely to a year, but
I’ll swear to the day,--it was a Tuesday; by token, that it happened
the day after Luna mon moch,--the good woman’s Monday,--Pat’s wife was
looking out for him coming home from market; and as he rode down the
hill, she saw one of the panniers on the poney weighed down as if it had
a load, and the other up in the air. Pat, I must tell you, was the first
who brought panniers into this part of the country; the likes o’ them
was never seen here before, and few with any but himself since. “What
ails you, Pat?” said the wife, as soon as Pat came within reach of her
voice; it’s a little voice when you’re near, but it goes a good way for
all that:--“what ails you?” says she; “couldn’t you sell your turkies?”

“May be, I couldn’t; what then?” says he.

“Then why not load the garron partly o’ both sides?”

“May be, I couldn’t,” says Pat again.

“And why couldn’t you?”

“Mistress Doolan, would you like to be struck in a heap?”

“Is it by you, Pat?--what news, then?--any how why not spake it out?”

“Don’t bother me now; isn’t it to The Beg I’m going?”

“Wid a load you picked up on the road, Pat, is it?”

“Aha!” says he, “can’t I keep a thing from you?”

“What is it, Pat?” said she; and he’d now just met the wife; for,
finding the conversation grow interesting, she had left the door,
and walked away up the hill to meet him, quickening her pace at each
question. “What is it, Pat?” says she, trying to peep into the pannier;
but Pat wouldn’t let her.

“Sally,” says he,--for that’s her name;--“would you think it, that
there’s mighty bad people about?”

“Why not?” says she; “there’s bad people all over the world.”

“But not bad enough to put their babies on big stones by the road-side,
and lave them there by thimselves, wid a bit of a switch stuck up, and a
shred of a souldier’s red jacket on the top of it, the way people might
notice thim;--there’s not such people as that all over the world I
hope,--is there, Sally?”

“Murther, man! is it a child you’ve picked up, then?”

“Look at that!” says Fat, taking a baby out of the place, and houlding
it up to the full view of his wife; “look at that, and tell me if it
isn’t enough like a child for a man to swear by, Mistress Doolan!”

“Won’t you let me see it closer, Pat?” said Mistress D. And as she took
the child out of Pat’s clumsy paw, where he sat on the poney, the little
crature smiled up in her face, and half stole the very heart of her,
before she had once hugged it to her side. It was the most beautiful
baby, they say, that was seen for many’s the day; and Paddy Doolan’s
wife took it into the cabin, sat down by the fire, warmed it on her lap,
and fed it with new milk, while Pat remained on his panniers, waiting
for her to come out again.

“Is it all day you’re going to be staying there, Paddy?” says she at
last; “ar’n’t you coming in?”

“Ar’n’t I waiting for the gorloch, to take up to The Beg? I won’t be
sint back wid it, I’ll engage.”

“Ah! Pat, why trouble yourself?--Couldn’t we keep it ourselves?--Good
luck would follow us,--and we’ve no child of our own, Pat.”

Well, where’s the use of making a long story of it?--the wife persuaded
Pat, with much ado, and a dale of begging and beseeching, to let her
keep the little crature herself; but he insisted upon first taking it
off to the lady who bought The Beg.

“I’ll take the little thing up to her at once,” says Pat; “and may be,
well get something for our charity.” And sure enough so they did, for
my lady kissed the little crature betuxt the two eyes, and gave Pat a
trifle in hand, and promised to allow him so much a week, for keeping
the child, until she grew--did I tell you she was a girl?--until she
grew up intirely. And a fine young woman she’s grown, and all the boys
about are dying for her as, to say nothing of her good-looking face, Pat
has promised her a fortune of fifteen pounds; and I don’t know but it
might be a match with her and my niece’s son Paudrigg, wasn’t it for one
thing;--she won’t have him.

Now, after this, though Paddy Doolan did well by the little one, and had
the allowance, and over and above it often, from my lady, things didn’t
go right with him. He wint on swimmingly for two or three years or so;
but from that time, Pat’s appearance grew poorer, and the wife’s bit of
finery wasn’t brought home so often, when Pat wint to market. And where
he used to crack a joke with a friend, living by the road-side, as he
came along, he’d sigh, and say uncivil things of this world, and make
wry faces. You’ll think Pat was right, for a good deed ought not to go
unrewarded; and you’ll like to know how it was. I’ll tell you that in a
few words,--more or less;--it’s foolish to promise.

At the place where Pat carried his property to market, there was a
half-rogue of a fellow,--Larry Morris by name,--something in Pat’s
way of business; but he also bought and sould badgers, and foxes, and
poisoned rats for people; and wouldn’t mind, may be, tying up a dog
that followed him home, and lying by till a reward was given out for
the brute. What I mane to say is this,--Larry hadn’t the very best of
characters. One day, after coming from somewhere, where he’d been, it
so fell out, that Larry passed by Pat Doolan’s cabin, and who should be
playing in front of it, but the child Pat picked up that time two years,
or thereabouts.

“Whose child have you there?” says he to Mrs. Doolan, who was plucking a
duck or a goose at the door.

“Why do you ask, sir?” says she.

“May be, I know the mother of it,” says he.

When they got inside the cabin,--for Mistress Doolan was a woman, and
hearing what she did, of course, invited him in, to know the middle and
both ends of the matter,--she began questioning him: but he was too deep
for her, and got the whole pedigree and history of Pat’s finding the
baby, and the lady’s giving him money to keep it dacent, and what else
I don’t know. Says Larry, when she’d done, “I know the child as if I’d
never lost sight of it. The features are oulder than when I last saw it,
but not changed: and here’s the four little round spots on its temple,
like shot-marks, or the picks of a domino. Her mother lodged in a back
room of mine, and ran away one day, no small trifle in arrear with me,
and I never set eyes on her or the child since, before to-day. So much
for the mother;--and”--continued he, in the same breath, turning to Pat
Doolan, who just then walked into the cabin,--“may I be moon-struck,”
 says he, pointing to Pat, “but here comes the father!”

What to do, any way, Pat didn’t know. You’ll agree with me, perhaps,
he’d a right to look astonished. There was Mistress Doolan, who had
lifted her eye-brows up under her hair with the surprise, standing as
mute and as motionless as Pat himself, whose tongue stuck to the roof
of his mouth nearly; while the child was innocently giggling below, and
trying to undo Pat’s gaiters. After a while, Mistress Doolan found her
speech. “Is this you, Pat?” says she, quite quietly, for she was too
thunderstruck to be in a passion.

“Faith! and why not, Mistress Doolan?” says he, “worse luck!”--for it
was true, and he couldn’t deny it. And Larry Morris went on to tell the
wife, that the child’s mother said she was married, and made an excuse
for her husband coming to see her now and then only; and who should the
husband be, but Pat? Moreover, since she had walked off, the way I
tould you, Larry had never seen Pat; and, sure enough, Mistress Doolan
remembered that Pat convinced her, about that time, it would be well for
him to carry his poultry to another market; and he did so.

Doolan put as good a face as he could upon all this. Larry said he was
sorry to be a maker of mischief; but the rogue took advantage of it,
for he drew Pat aside, and, from what passed privately between them, Pat
carried his poultry afterwards to the town where Larry lived.

From that day, poor Paddy Doolan pined;--wouldn’t any one in such a
way?--Larry stood between Pat and the market, making Pat sell all his
poultry to him at an under-price, and then going to the great buyers
that sould them again to the consumers; so making a profit beyond
Christian credence out of Pat. And what would you have Doolan do? Wasn’t
he afraid of Larry’s telling upon him? And if he haggled to get any way
near a fair price, didn’t Larry tell him--“Paddy, boy, ar’n’t you under
my thumb?” He did: and Doolan was as much afraid of the disgrace of
being exposed, as the loss of my lady’s allowance. So he struggled and
struggled, and every day got worse in the world; and bitterly did he
suffer and repent for what he had done. His wife didn’t quarrel with the
child this while, but loved and nourished it as if it was her own; so
did Pat--and he had a right, you’ll say:--but I wouldn’t swear to that;
for who knows but Pat himself might have been cheated, as well as he
cheated Sally his wife?

Now I’m coming near the end of my story--no bad news that, you’ll
say:--Pat was tortured for a long time by Larry, “like a toad under
the harrow,” as the story goes, till he could scarcely scrape enough
together to get on with from week’s end to week’s end. At last and in
the long run, what does Larry do,--like others like him, who, trying to
make the most of their villany, ruin all outright,--what does he do, but
insist upon Pat’s paying him half the allowance he got from my lady,
to hould his peace?--Doolan knocked him down with a goose he had in his
hand at the time; jumped on his garron; and if you want to know the
rate he came home at, ask the people by the road-side. Grogy, his
little garron, wondered whether Ireland was sinking, or what was the
matter,--and no blame to him.

When Doolan got home, he tould the wife how he had ruined himself by
knocking down Larry. “You’ve done well,” says she, “and it was high time
you did.”--Didn’t you ever remark, that when a man gets at his wits’
end, and don’t know which way to turn, how well a woman will carry him
through? I’m sure you have; and seen the courage of the poor creatures
too, when men are cowed, and can’t look the danger that threatens them
full in the face. “You shall be under the thumb no longer, Pat,” says
she:--“you’ve done that by me I don’t like, but it’s forgiven, if not
forgot; and let the worst come to the worst, we’ll be as well as we
are:--so, come with me at once.”

“Where’ll I go?” says Doolan, staring at her, and drawing back, for he
half suspected what she intinded. But Sally was resolute; she took the
child in her hand, and half persuaded, half dragged Pat away, up to my
lady at The Beg. Doolan went down on his knees, while his wife tould her
ladyship the whole story; and when it was done, Pat got such a lecture
as he never had before; no--not even from his wife after Larry’s first
visit.

“Look at the fruits,” said my lady; “look at the consequences, Patrick
Doolan, of your misdoings:--didn’t you know that sin is always followed
by sorrow?--that deceit can never long plaster up iniquity? You have
richly merited your sufferings, Pat. I shall, of course, stop the
allowance, and take away the child from you. When I find you are so far
deserving, you shall have my protection, and the little girl again; till
then, I withdraw both.”

Terribly downcast was Pat, to be sure, as you may guess but he was no
longer under the thumb. Besides, he’d a hope left, of getting into grace
again by good conduct so to work he went like a Trojan. Larry came down
as hard as he could after Pat, determined to ruin him or make him knock
under again: but when he got to the village, Pat was back from The Beg,
and had tould all his neighbours what he’d been doing; so that they
hadn’t much the laugh of him; and as Pat wasn’t disliked, the boys and
girls made such a mudlark of Larry, nobody could tell the colour of his
coat.

Pat began to prosper, and, by-and-by, got on well enough: in a year or
two after, the little girl walked into his cabin one day, with a goulden
guinea in her hand, and has lived under Pat’s roof ever since. Among us,
she is, as I tould you, much admired for her beauty,--to say nothing of
her being an heiress.

People generally trate a fable as the boys do a dog sometimes,--tie a
moral tay-kittle to its tail; and so would I, if my story was a fable:
but it’s neither a story nor a fable, but the downright truth, and if I
made a moral to it, you’d suspect ‘twas a fable; as the boys suspect the
dog, if they meet him with a kittle in his train, to be a suspicious and
a stray dog,--don’t you see?--and so despise and pelt him. However, for
all that, there can’t be much harm in just mentioning that a man will do
well to take warning by Paddy Doolan, and do nothing in the wide world
that may bring him under the thumb.

[Illustration: 260]



OUR TOMMY.

We’d often be frightened out of our lives a’most, did we know, while
we were about them, what mighty events, to ourselves or somebody else,
would spring from some of our every-day doings. But it’s right we
shouldn’t. If it wasn’t so, Paddy Doolan might be breaking his heart,
for the sow that’s going to be choaked next Monday, by a bone he’ll
throw into her trough to-night. There’s none of our actions, big or
little, in my mind, goes off, without leaving a family: something I
did three days,--or, may be, three years ago, was the grandmother of
something I’m doing, or that may befall me, to-day. Peg Dwyer’s husband
threw his can at the head of a cow, that wouldn’t give out her milk as
she ought, and one of her horns made a hole in its side. That happened
him on a Wednesday;--very well;--he wetted his floor, through carrying
water in the can with the hole in it, on Thursday; it froze in the
night; and early on Friday he got such a bruise, through slipping up
on the floor, which he’d wetted by carrying water in the can that he’d
thrown on the horn of the cow, because she wouldn’t give milk, that it
laid him up for a month, and killed him outright in the long run. A boy
quarrels with his home and quits it, because he fancies he don’t get
as much buttermilk to his peeathees, or peeathees to his buttermilk, as
some of his brothers; he walks off with himself to the next town; and, a
year after, to the next to that, may be: by-and-by he gets taken by
the tar, as birds are by birdlime; and, after being aboard ship awhile,
casts anchor in foreign parts. Before he can whistle, he’s pushed
another move further: and something or other continues to poke him
from place to place, and from post to pillar, till he reaches the
wild Indians at last, and marries Hullamullaloo, the king’s youngest
daughter, or gets roasted and devoured--just as it may happen--by that
lady and her iligant maids of honour. And, supposing he’d a good memory,
and could look back, while he stood tied to the stake, or about to be
tied to Hullamullaloo at the altar, as the case might be, he’d find
each of the moves he made through life was owing, one way or another,
to something as simple as his quarrelling, when a boy with his peeathees
and buttermilk, at his mother’s mud cabin here at home in ould Ireland.

Poor Tommy Maloe got his liking for martial music, through thumping a
drum, which he’d stolen from young Veogh, when they were both little
boys, and didn’t know right from wrong; or if they did, wouldn’t make a
shew of what they knew, by doing as they ought. Though Pierce’s parents
were rich, and Tommy’s were poor, Tommy was Pierce’s playmate:
they spent most of their time together, and were always at war, and
frequently fighting. Tommy was the sole and only boy far or near, that
would dare stand up before Master Pierce, when he clenched his little
fist; and there was few that Tommy would demean himself to thump or play
tricks with but Pierce.

Tommy, as I said, stole a drum from little Pierce, or may be carried it
off as booty after a fray; and it was from the delight he got by bating
it with the drumstick of an ould goose, that years after, he bartered
a new hat for a bad fife from which time, for six months and more,
morning, noon, and night, the fife was at Tommy’s lips, and he trying to
coax marches out of it, but couldn’t. At last he threw it away in a pet;
and took to trapesing after Mick Maguire when he’d be going out to fire
at, and sometimes shoot, the water-birds. Tommy, who was now grown a man
a’most, never felt happier than when Mick would allow him to carry
the gun; and one day, while Mick’s back was turned, something or other
tempted him to fire it off. By chance, I suppose, he shot a little
bird--a tern, or a petrel it was--and from that time, Tommy talked of
nothing but shouldering a musket, and getting a pelt at a Frenchman. He
walked thirty miles over mountains and bogs, without a shoe to his foot,
(for his father had hid them that he mightn’t go,) to see a review of
two companies of the North Cork, and three dozen of beggarly volunteers.

Our Tommy--for that’s the name he is best known by--from his father’s
always calling him so--though it was only to himself, a poor doating
ould widower, he belonged;--our Tommy, I say, at last determined to
enlist. He wouldn’t be satisfied, he said, until, as every one ought,
he’d killed at least two or three of the enemies of his king and
country. His father begged of him not to go for a souldier and leave him
alone, when he could get good bread at home: but, though Tommy in other
things was as dutiful as most sons, he wouldn’t mind his father in this.
At one time, however, it was thought he would forget the Frenchmen, and
behave himself; for he fell in love with one of the prettiest
little girls in these parts, and offered to give up all thoughts of
campaigning, and killing his share of the foreigners, if she’d have him.
But the little girl gave him a downright denial; and a week after that
he got picked up by a recruiting-party at a fair.

Tommy was all on fire to go abroad; and it wasn’t long before he got
his wish granted of being sent on foreign service. You’ll think of the
little drum, and the goose’s leg, and the bad fife, and Mick Maguire’s
gun, and the review of the North Cork with the volunteers, and feel sad,
for a moment, may be, when I tell you, that the very first Frenchman he
saw, run his baggonet right through poor Tommy, in a skirmish, before he
could even pull his trigger, and killed him on the spot.

When I say that Tommy was killed on the spot, I mane that he never
stirred from the place where he fell; though he lived long enough to see
the enemy driven back; and then,--as we heard from a disabled dragoon,
who passed through this place on his way home a year after,--poor Tommy
Maloe, though he’d been disappointed so sorely,--like a good boy as he
was in the main,--departed this life with a smiling eye and a prayer on
his lips. And I trust I may do no worse;--though, I must confess, I’d
rather die on a bad bed, than on the finest field of battle,--for I’m
not heroic; and in my own mud cabin, than a grand hospital,--for I’m not
ambitious. And yet I don’t know, upon giving the thing a thought dying
is dying all the world over, and it don’t matter much where we do it.
I was going to say too, that I’d prefer a natural death in ould age,
to the honour of being cut off by a dragoon’s sabre in my prime: but
there’s a riddle about death no one can solve; and it isn’t often we see
even the ould people go off and melt away like a mist. We may prate
and preach as much as we plaze about hard deaths and aisy deaths;--the
horror and agony of going off one way, compared with another:--but there
isn’t a living soul on the face of the earth knows any thing about dying
at last. Drowning is spoken of as being the least disagreeable by some;
others prefer a bullet; one says one thing, and another says another;
even hanging isn’t without advocates but _I_ say, there’s no knowing
which is best, and which is worst; and we never _shall_ know, that’s
certain, until some of us is dead, and gets brought to life again;--and
that you know never can be: for it’s nothing but blarney an honest
man tells you about the feelings of death, who has been relieved from
suffocation by a lancet; or, to go further, it’s foolish to listen to
what one that has been some time under water, and gets picked up, and
restored, as they call it,--to hear such a one tell what little or what
much he suffered, with an idea of your gathering enough from his story
to know what death by drowning is. If you do that, it’s mighty mistaken
you are; and I’ll tell you why:--them people that gets restored that way
or any other, no matter how, know but little about the thing, not much
more than-myself or you and why don’t they?--because _they never have
died._ You never met with a man in your life, that had died, out and
out. You couldn’t; for them that dies completely never breathes mortal
breath again. My father--rest his soul!--thought as I do; and he’d say,
when the fire of existence is once extinguished, it’s gone for ever and
ever. When death has entirely done his work, the body is clay; then the
spirit departs, and nothing human can ever bring it back. A man may lie
motionless, breathless, and, what’s more, senseless, at the bottom of a
well, for an hour, or, may be, more,--who can tell?--and yet not die. In
that case, by clever means and much work, the dying embers of life may
be brought to a flame again; but once fairly dead, we’re dead for
ever. And so, I say, that the man who gets taken out of the water and
recovers, can’t say that he was dead. It’s true, he has gone to the
door; but has he passed over the threshold?--answer me that! If he had,
he wouldn’t have come back to us again, I’ll engage! Don’t you see,
that we can’t take a pair of compasses or a piece of tape, and measure
exactly where life ends and death begins? And how do we know, when we
take leave of a friend, because he don’t move, and there’s none o’ the
dew of life on the glass we put to his lips,--that he’s dead?--Tossing
the arms, or gnashing the teeth, shews pain, but there may be greater
agony without it; for if we’re violent, it shews we’re strong; and it’s
suffer we may, much worse perhaps, when we’re so weak that we can’t wag
a finger. Well, then,--and this is what I’ve been coming to all through
my rigmarole, but I couldn’t before,--how do we know that,--after the
breath goes, and the limbs lose their power, and all is still,--the
dying man, without breathing or moving, or his heart beating, don’t feel
the true grapple of death--the parting of soul and body?--Therefore, I
say, as nobody ever came back, as I think, in body,--I don’t spake of
ghosts,--from the clutch of our enemy, we don’t know anything much about
him; and it’s well we don’t:--God be praised! all things in this world
is ordered for the best!

It’s little or nothing that’s left me to add to my story:--poor Tommy
Maloe’s father, when he heard of the death of his son, got quite
childish at once, and unable to help himself any way: so that he’d have
had little to look to, but his poor neighbours, if my lady hadn’t put
him down on her little list of pensioners, and paid Peg Dwyer to mind
the poor soul, and make him as comfortable, considering all things,
as he well could be. You may still see ould Darby--that’s his
name--strolling about, from house to house, as he did on the morning
after the disabled dragoon brought us news of his son’s death, and
telling every one who’ll listen to him, how his beautiful boy was struck
through and through by a baggonet, like a souldier’s loaf,--or a tommy,
as it’s called in the army,--when he wint to fight the French, in
foreign parts.

[Illustration: 265]



THE DENTIST.

Malachi Hoe is known, for twenty miles round his house, as a cow-doctor,
and a rat-catcher, and a man of tip-top talent in two or three dozen
useful arts and sciences,--as he himself calls tooth-drawing, and
dog-cropping, and all the things he’s famous for. He has the finest
terriers and traps in the whole country; and if there isn’t a fox to
be found by the subscription pack, that Squire Lawless, and the rest of
them has, nine miles off, at the brook of Ballyfaddin, they’ve only to
send a dog-boy to Malachi, before sun-set, and he’ll have one in a bag,
ready to turn out before them, by the morning. He’s very sparing of
talk, and when he spakes, it’s in short bits; and he’ll look all the
while as if he’d a right to be paid for his words: and it’s well paid
he is for them too, sure enough, by them that can do it. There isn’t a
hair’s-breadth of a horse, from the crown down to the coronet, or below
that again, to the head of the nail in his shoe, but Malachi knows: he’s
as much at home in the inside of a cow as that of his own cabin, and can
tell where any thing is, as well in one as the other,---just as if he’d
put it there himself. But Malachi prides himself most on his skill in
tooth-drawing; and if you ask him what he is, he’ll tell you--a dentist.

It’s full thirty years ago, since Malachi came to settle among us. You
hadn’t then to send for him if he was wanted, for he seemed to scent
sickness like a raven; and if your cow was taken ill, the next news
you heard was, that Malachi’s horn was blowing on the hill; and, in ten
minutes more, he stood at your door, with a drench if you wished it.

Malachi now keeps closer to his nest: still he’s to be had, if you’ll
pay him his bill. He’s looked upon as an oracle in most things, by every
body except Ileen, his wife, who thinks one of her opinions worth two
of his, any day; and though Malachi Roe is a wise man, I won’t say but
Ileen is right. If you knew him, you’d as soon think of saying black was
white, as contradicting the dentist: but Ileen don’t care a bawbee for
him, and often tells him right up to his face that he’s wrong. Malachi
wishes she’d bide at home; but she’d rather be busy on the beach, having
an eye to the girls and women she employs to gather the dillosk: and,
though feared, her goodness of heart secures her the love of every one
of her neighbours--high and low. By all accounts, she must be the exact
temper of her grandmother and namesake Ileen, the Meal-woman; who,
though left a widow, at eighteen, with a child looking up to her for
support, never got married again; but kept herself dacent, and brought
up her little one, without a ha’p’orth of help from man, woman,
or child. She put on the manners and resolution of a man, with her
weeds;--the mills which her husband had occupied she kept going; and
managed so well, that she got more and more grist by degrees, till at
last, the name of Ileen the Meal-woman, was known all over the country.

Her child--it was a boy--grew up, got married, and did well, until about
the time of his turning the awkward corner of fifty; then it was that
his wife, who was three or four years younger than himself,--as wives
should be, you know,--fell sick, and died away suddenly. No man could
well grieve much more for the loss of his wife, than ould Ileen the
Meal-woman’s son did for his: he wouldn’t allow her to be carried away
up the country, and buried among her own kin, but insisted that she
should be laid in his father’s grave; so that, one day or other, his own
remains might be placed by her side.

If you reckon the age of his son, and remember how soon after his
marriage he died, you’ll find that Ileen the Meal-woman’s husband, at
the time his daughter-in-law departed this life, must have been buried
hard upon half a century. When the grave was opened, his coffin crumbled
beneath the pickaxe some of his dry bones were carelessly shovelled up
by the digger, and there they lay among the earth, which so long had
covered him. Ileen knew nothing of this: she had heard of the death of
her son’s wife, and made all the haste she could away from a distant
part, where she was buying wheat, or selling meal, I don’t know which,
so as to be at the funeral. When she got near home, two or three people
tould her that her husband’s grave had been opened, to receive the body
of her daughter-in-law; but she wouldn’t believe them: for all that
though, she quickened her horse’s pace, and made direct for the spot.
The memory of her husband was still fresh within her, long as she’d
lost him,--for her heart had never known a second affection. She didn’t
remember and so see him, in her waking dreams, a poor, broken-down,
grey-headed old man, tottering gradually under a load of infirmities,
to death’s door, with his temper soured by time and pain, and his
affections froze up by age: but whenever his form came across her
mind,--and it’s often she looked back to the two short years of
happiness, she’d passed with him,--he started up to her thoughts in all
the pride of his manhood,--handsome, high-spirited, and affectionate, as
he was a week before she parted from him for ever.

The people were just going to lower the coffin of the Meal-woman’s
daughter-in-law into the earth, when Ileen reached the outer circle of
them that came to the funeral. Without spaking a word she made a lane
for herself through the crowd, and at that awful moment, she suddenly
appeared, speechless with fury, at the head of the grave. Her son
shrunk from her terrible glance; and every one within view of her, stood
without motion, gaping in fear and wonder at the tall, gaunt figure
of Ileen, and the features of her, distorted as they were by the
grief---the rage--the horror--the agony she felt,--and wondered what was
going to be the matter. After some little time, during which not a word
was spoke, and nobody scarcely dared breathe, Ileen began to tremble
from head to foot; big tears gushed out of her eyes; and says she:--“Is
that you I see there, Patrick?--Are you my son?--And is this your
father’s grave?”

“Mother,” says Patrick, “what, in the name of the holy Saints, ails
you?--Don’t you see it’s me?--And ar’nt you sure it’s my poor father’s
last home?--Where else would I bury my wife?”

“Your wife!--And was it to bury your wife, that you broke open my
husband’s grave?”

“Of course it is, mother what harm?--Go on, friends.”

“Stand back!” cried Ileen, in a loud and determined tone, placing
herself betuxt the coffin and the brink of the grave;--“I’d like to see
the man who dare pollute the dust of my husband, with that of a strange
woman! I am the wife of him whose grave is here--of him, and of none but
him: I lay in his bosom when he was alive--and do you think, any of you,
I’ll stand by, while there’s a drop of blood left in my veins, to see
another be put in my place, now that he’s dead? Have I lived for fifty
long years with the hope of one day being united in death to the joy of
my life, to have another laid by his side at last?--Who broke this holy
earth?--What accursed wretch was it?--Where is he?--Shew him to me--that
I may grip him by the throat?”

“Mother, mother!” said Patrick, “for the sake of him you spake of, be
not so violent! If I’ve done wrong--”

“_If_ you’ve done wrong?--Thank God, Patrick, it wasn’t your own hand
did this!”

“Well! I’m sorry now that any hand did it: but it’s too late to waste
time in words: and I _must_ have the remains of my wife respected.”

“Wretched--unnatural child!--what respect have you shown to those of
my husband--my husband, and your father, Patrick?--Oh! this earth which
covered him,” continued Ileen, stooping to pick up a handful of the mould
she stood upon,--and at that moment, for the first time, she saw the
bones!--She shrieked out at the sight, and no tongue could describe the
look of agony which she cast at her son.

Patrick, however, who’d more love for the wife he’d lived thirty years
with, than the father he couldn’t remember, much as he was grieved at
the sorrow and anger of his mother, resolved that the corpse shouldn’t
be treated with a shew of insult: so says he to those about him, “Come,
let us make an end of this; I will set you an example.”

The words were scarcely out of his mouth, when Ileen snatched up one of
her husband’s bones, and gave her son so violent a blow with it on his
head, that he staggered and fell nearly senseless into the grave.

His friends got Patrick out again as quick as they could: but before he
recovered, Ileen had carefully gathered up the bones, folded them in a
kerchief, which she tore off her bosom, dropped them into the grave, and
proceeded to throw in the earth again with her hands. No one attempted
to hinder her--but it was only when she had made the ground level, and
cast herself, moaning, upon it, that the people persuaded her son to let
them carry his wife’s coffin away, and bury it elsewhere.

Just such a one as Ileen the Meal-woman, in temper and heart, is her
grand-daughter Ileen, the second wife of Malachi Roe: he’d a son by his
first; but has had no children by Ileen. If Malachi’s boy was a fool all
his young days,--and he’s not so now he’s grown up--it wasn’t Ileen’s
fault; for she behaved like a mother to him, and tried all she could to
make him know a duck from a drawbridge, but in vain. At last, when he
was about eighteen, Malachi got him a place in my lady’s stables, under
the grooms and coachmen she’d just had down with fine horses and new
liveries from Dublin--_why_, nobody could guess, except that she was
going to give up being a widow.

The first day Malachi’s boy got into the stables, the grooms and
postillions persuaded him they were much finer dentists than his father;
and, to convince him, they tied a piece of whipcord round one of his
teeth, and fastened the other end of it to a stall-post: then one
of them came and threatened the end of his nose with the prong of a
pitchfork, so that the stripling drew back his head with a jerk, and
out came the tooth. This, and two or three other of the usual jokes that
boys gets played in a stable, put young Malachi on his mettle; so that,
after awhile, his father, and even ould Ileen herself, began to glory
in him;--thanks to the dentist whose only instrument was the prong of a
pitchfork.

[Illustration: 270]



THE MUSHROOM.

About six o’clock, or, may be, a quarter less, on a wet summer’s
evening, all of a sudden the sun peeped out from behind a cloud,--as
Corney Carolan said,--looking half ashamed to shew his face, after his
bad behaviour all day,--and just cast a glance across the bog, to see
who was that so merry and musical in Luke Fogarty’s car, bating the
garron that dragged it along, with his wooden leg in lieu of a whip. Who
was it, then, but the piper of Drogheda, Coraey Carolan himself, coming
from a wedding, away somewhere in the hills, where he’d been drinking
whiskey galore, and playing his pipes, night and morning, for the
biggest half of a week! Luke Fogarty had sent his son Rory with the
car that morning, to bring home the piper, dead or alive; for it was
whispered by many, that great things would be doing in a day or two at
our place here; who by, or why for, nobody well knew; but there was to
be drinking and dancing:--and what would drinking or dancing be without
himself?--I mane Corney the piper.

The sun drew in his horns again,--if you’d believe Carolan,--as soon as
he saw it was his ould friend the piper; but he shone quite long enough
for Corney to discover that the big mile-stone, put up at the edge of
the bog, by mad Henniker, years ago, to judge by the shadow it cast
across the road, wasn’t anything like its ordinary shape. Corney
couldn’t make out at all what it meant, or why it was; but, as the
car got nearer the mile-stone, the piper perceived that it carried an
umbrella.

“Well, to be sure, it’s rainy enough, so it is,” says Corney; “but
mile-stones, I thought, was made to stand wind and weather. Is that
any one’s umbrella there on Henniker’s mile-stone?--Be-kase if it’s
nobody’s, why, then, I’ll get it.”

The umbrella began to move, and presently Corney discovered that a
gentleman and his dog was beneath it. There they sat, shivering, dirty,
and making themselves as little as possible, on the top of the stone;
and barely able, the one to keep his tail, and the other the skirts of
his coat, and the lower part of his legs, out of the water; which, after
it rained unusually hard,--as it did that day,--got together in a pool
round the stone, and sometimes rose over it entirely.

“Come out o’ that,” said Corney to the gentleman; “come away at once,
sir; and don’t be sitting that way on Henniker’s folly all night! May be
you’re Henniker himself, though,--and then, no wonder.”

The gentleman replied, as well as his shivering would let him, that
Corney was mistaken.

“Then why stay there, sir?” says Corney, “when we’ve room on the car for
you, and the garron impatient to be going!”

“Look at the water,” said the gentleman; “how am I to wade through it?”

“Is it wade?--Faith! then, you’ll have to swim soon! But take your
choice, sir:--I won’t persuade you one way or another.”

“Where _am_ I?” says the gentleman.

“Where _are_ you!--Why, then, look at the side of the stone, and
you’ll see, cut in legible letters,’_nine miles from anywhere_ and no
mile-stone in the world ever spoke truer. Was it to gratify impertinent
curiosity, do you think, that Henniker put up the stone?--Not himself,
then!--Mad as he was, he knew that it would be quite enough to make any
man move on to be tould he was nine miles from anywhere!--What more did
you want? Would you have him keep a horse ready saddled, waiting ‘till
you’d come?”

“My mare has thrown me and ran away,” said the gentleman; “and I merely
got on the stone, so that I might shelter myself and my dog, from head
to foot, until some one came by, or the rain ceased.”

“Ceased!” exclaimed Corney, bursting into a laugh; “if you waited for
that, sir, you’d stay till the crows removed you as a nuisance to the
frogs in the slush there behind. Does it ever cease?--Divil a bit, then,
for three miles round, morning, noon, or night,--summer or winter,--but
keeps pelting and pattering away, at all times and in all seasons, as it
has for hundreds of years, and will for ever and ever except once in
a twelvemonth, sometimes, and that’s the fifteenth day of the month of
July, when St. Swithin is too busy raining down upon the other parts of
the world, to mind this which is his watery worship’s home. It’s fine
weather here, if, with three coats on your back, you don’t get wet to
the skin in forty minutes. I wouldn’t insult the Saint, by carrying an
umbrella, for Damer’s estate! Bad luck and ill chance is the best I’d
expect, and so may you; for it’s raining now just worse than ever I knew
it but once. Had you no idea, then, where you were, sir?”

“I had,” says the gentleman; “but I wasn’t sure. I never came by this
road to The Beg before; and I asked the boy that’s with you where I
was, when I met him hereabouts, full two hours ago; but he grinned in my
face.”

“Is it yourself that bate him, bekase he couldn’t understand English?”

“I certainly did lay my whip over his shoulders,” says the gentleman;
“and the young villain then began to pelt me and my mare with stones, so
that the animal feared to approach near enough to permit of my beating
him again; and at last she got unmanageable, ran away, and threw me
off,--that is, I mean--threw me off, and ran away.”

“Rory was right, then, and so I said while ago, when he tould me part of
the story; for you’d no business to bate him,--had you, now?--But
what makes you wait, sir? If you don’t come at once, why, then, good
night!--For it’s not agreeable to be houlding a conversation such
weather as this, with one on a mile-stone under a big umbrella.--Is it
coming you are?”

The gentleman talked of borrowing a boat, or backing the car into the
pool: but Corney said he couldn’t get the one, and wouldn’t do the
other; and, moreover, that the umbrella must be sacrificed to St.
Swithin, for he wasn’t reprobate enough to ride in its company. After
many more words, the gentleman got down from the mile-stone, with his
dog under his arm, and walked through the water like a cat through a
puddle. At first he insisted on being allowed his umbrella; but
Corney was resolute; and away it wint, at last, scudding over the
bog,--frightening up thousands of birds, which flew screaming after
it,--until it suddenly sunk in what’s called “The Saint’s Piggin.” The
gentleman wasn’t well seated on the car, before Corney thrust a
bottle of whiskey into his hand, and threatened him with a quantity of
discipline from his wooden leg, if he didn’t take a good pull at it.

“It’s merry we’ll be, as whiskey and good stories can make us,” said
the piper: “I don’t care a bawbee for St. Swithin, while I’ve a cork,
or even a thumb left, to keep him out of my bottle. But I’ll not be
disrespectful to the Saint, though, any way why should I?--He does me no
more harm than my betters; and if I offended him, mightn’t he follow me,
far and near, and rain on me wherever I went? May be, you never heard
how he served the little nation that lived here long ago how should you,
that didn’t know where you were, and you sitting on Henniker’s folly?
Why, then, I’ll tell you:--Once upon a time--long ago it was, in the
days of our forefathers--this place was peopled by Mathawns, and one
King Ounshough reigned over them, and he and his subjects were all
believers in blarney. Well, who should come to the king one day, but
a man that said, if he got the weight of what he could ate during nine
days, in gold, and had his own people to wait on him, he’d make all the
spiders grow so big, that the ladies might wear their webs by the way of
veils; and after that, may be, for more gold, he’d carry his invention
to such a pitch, that the insects should weave fishing-nets, strong
enough to catch whales themselves,--to say nothing of salmon and smaller
fish.--Well, while he was at work, along comes another, who sould them a
secret for planting trees in such a way, that they’d grow of themselves
into ships: and, says he, ‘for a trifle, I’ll teach you how to sow hemp
and flax, in little pots, on their branches, so that they may shoot
up into ready-made sails and rigging; and all by philosophy, without a
morsel of magic.’--Wasn’t this more than men could wish? The boobies bit
at the bait,--high and low; and thinks they to themselves, ‘what
fine fellows we’ll be, to catch whales and conquer the world by
philosophy!’--While the trees were growing, and the spiders were
spinning, there comes another man, and says he, ‘Don’t you know me, any
of you?’--And some suspected they did; and others was almost sure he was
related to them by their mother’s side; but nobody owned him. So then,
says he, ‘I’ll tell you who I am: that moon yonder, that lights you,
is my property; you’ve had the use of it for years, but I’ve been too
generous. I’m grown poor, and can’t be liberal any longer:--you sha’n’t
have the light of my moon gratis; so pay five hundred a year, or I’ll
put it out: and then what’ll you do?’--Well, what they’d do, sure
enough, they didn’t know; but before they’d done debating upon it, up
comes a smart little man--a foreigner--who advised them to pay what was
asked for the present, and if they’d subscribe for him, he’d get up
an opposition moon, that should shine better, and be full all the year
round, for half the expense of the ould one. Wasn’t that too good an
offer to be rejected?--It was; and the Mathawns bit at that too. But
this wasn’t all:--before the new moon was made, or the trees grown
into ships, or the spiders’ webs big enough for veils, the people was
persuaded by a traveller to let him build them an umbrella, that should
be large enough to keep the rain off every inch of the country; and it
was to be so contrived that they could let it down by machinery, if the
land wanted water, and put it up when they’d just as much wet as they
liked. Now this was so great an insult to St. Swithin, that he began
raining at once, and before they could put up their umbrella, dispersed
the whole people;--making the country a bog, as you see it; and never
ceasing to pelt away with his little pellets of water, from that day to
this. But though they were scattered, the boobies wasn’t destroyed. You
may find some of their descendants in every corner of the world, who are
as staunch believers in blarney, as ever their forefathers were in the
days of ould Ounshough the king.--Isn’t that a fine story for you, now,
such a murdering wet evening as this?”

“Bathershin, man!” says the gentleman, with a sneer of contempt; “call
it a lie, and give me the bottle, for I’m cold after it.”

“Don’t you believe it, then?”

“How could I,” says the gentleman, “when it’s lies, and you know it?”

“Then sorrow the sup out of my bottle you get, sir, and sorrow the step
goes the garron, until you believe it. Arrah! Rory,--pturr-r!”

“Pturr-r!” roared Rory, at the top of his voice, and stock-still stood
the horse, as in duty bound.

“Is it quite mad you are, you dirty blackguard?” says the gentleman.

“Blackguard your betters!” says Corney: “Musha! then, if the likes o’
you was rolled in the bog, what harm?--You couldn’t be worse than you
were; for it’s dirt itself you are!--I’ll say that for you, since you
put me up.”

“Ar’n’t you an impertinent ould scoundrel?”

“No doubt I am; but the garron don’t stir one of his four pegs till you
believe what I tould you, while ago, for all that. I won’t ride with a
man if there’s such a difference of opinion betuxt us.”

“Don’t you see the rain how it pours?”

“Do you think I’m blind?--or that I can’t feel the water running in
channels down the wet back o’ me?--But I’d weather the rain like a duck,
in a good cause; and it’s promoting concord I am, betwxt myself and one
that’s ungrateful and don’t mind me, at this moment.”

The piper was obstinate; and after awhile, the gentleman was obliged to
say he did’nt think the story a lie. It was then, only, that he got a
sup of the whiskey; and Corney gave the garron a hint with his wooden
leg, to be going.

“Now,” says Corney, “as we’ve made friends,--and I don’t think I ever
had an enemy but one, a whole day,--I’ll entertain you with some of my
music: but, before I begin, I’ll just remind you, that I said while ago,
there was boobies everywhere,--didn’t I?--I did, that’s true enough,
and Rory’s one o’them. May be you’ve been tould of one o’ the Fogarty
family, who ties a lanthorn to the horse’s head, so that the crature
may find out his grass in the dark?--This is the boy that does it:--as
though the Will-o’-Wisps, and Jack-Lanterns of the bog, wouldn’t do what
was wanted o’ them in that way, for a horse?--Do you believe that now,
or don’t you?”

“Is it a fool you take me for?” says the gentleman.

“Yea or nay, just as you plaize. Arrah! Rory,--pturr-r!”

“Pturr-r!” says Rory again; and the garron stopped so suddenly, that the
piper himself was like to have been pitched over his head.

“Go on, and good luck to you!” cried the gentleman; “go on, and there’s
nothing you’ll say but what I’ll believe; for it’s killed with the cold
I am entirely!”

“Oh, fie! and the whiskey here at your elbow!”

The piper lifted his leg, and away wint the garron again. After much
more talk, and two or three stoppages, Carolan at last says to the
gentleman, “Now I’d like to know, sir,--may be you won’t tell me,
though;--but why shouldn’t you?--”

“Ask me no impertinent questions, and behave yourself in every respect,
or you’ll wish you hadn’t a tongue in your head this journey, when you
come to know me,--as perhaps you may.”

“Perhaps I won’t, though;--for I’ve no great opinion of you. Perhaps,
I won’t know you to plaize you. But you’ll own I’m right in not riding
another step with one that won’t tell me which way he’d be going.”

“Don’t stop the horse again, and you shall know at least where I’m bound
to:--indeed, I tould you long ago, it was to The Beg.”

“Is it The Beg?--and so you did, now I remember. May be you’re a new
butler?--No?--A bailiff, then?--Yet why should you? There’s nobody there
now that’s in debt. And if you ar’n’t either the one or the other, what
can you be?--But it’s bad manners in me to be bothering my brains with
guessing who you are, when I don’t care about knowing. You won’t go to
The Beg though, anyhow, to-night it’s a long three miles from where we
stop a bad road and up-hill entirely, too.”

“Can I get a bed, think you?”

“Why, then, Luke Fogarty’s is the state cabin o’ the whole place, and
he’d give up his own bed any day to a stranger, though he hasn’t the
best of characters; and Ramilies, his pig--”

“His what?”

“Ramilies, his pig;--they say she’s a witch: she farrows nineteen, four
or five times a year; and she has tushes like ram’s horns, only they’re
straight. She goes miles away by the sea-side and walks into the water,
like a Christian, to nuzzle up crabs among the rocks. It’s often I’ve
seen her scrunching them: they nips her--trust them for that--with their
claws; but I’m inclined to believe, the pinches she gets on her tongue
serves by way of a fillip or sauce to the feast, by the same ride that
donkeys like thistles that’s prickly, and we ourselves mustard with
pork. If I’d a house to pull down to-morrow, I wouldn’t wish a better
workman than Ramilies, if she hadn’t her dinner, and there was fish
inside, and the doors barred. They say, she drinks whiskey when she
can get it:--but what need have you to be afraid? Won’t I be there with
you?--Sure I will.--Ramilies has no ear for music, and one blow of my
bagpipes drives her. As to Luke,--why, if Luke shouldn’t behave himself,
it won’t be the first time I’ve poked my wooden leg in the face of him,
and broke his ugly deaf head, with the big hollow bull’s-hom he has for
an ear-pipe, into the bargain. Corney Carolan is well able for him, or
any one else, if he’s only awake.”

“I’m afraid your friend’s cabin won’t afford much accommodation for a
gentleman.”

“Why, then,” says Corney, “I’ll just give you a bit of a bird’s-eye view
of it, and you’ll judge for yourself. As you go in, there’s a remarkably
fine dunghill, on each side of the door, built up as straight as two
walls,--only a little loose at the top,--so that they forms a sort of
artificial porch, or portico, to the house; and, at the other side o’
the window, there’s another wall o’ dung, that reaches chuck up to the
gable. When you go in, if you look to the right, there’s a place where
Luke sits and makes brogues, when he’s in the humour for it; and you’ll
see a pair of channel-pumps, hanging by wooden pegs in the wall, which
he made when he worked in Waterford; and among the tools,--I mane, the
awl, and strap, and stone,--no doubt but there’s the broken crockery he
had his dinner in, this day six months, when he’d a fit o’ work on him,
and wouldn’t, for a moment, quit the brogues he was then making, and
which ar’n’t finished yet, nor never will: for the next time he sits
down to work, he’ll begin another pair, and lave off again, when
he’s just done three quarters of each of them. Though he’s the finest
workman, they say, within seven baronies, Luke and his family are the
best customers to Jack Sheelan the shoemaker, in the whole place: for
Luke has other ways o’ getting money than with his hammer and awl,--it’s
himself that has, then! He’s come of a fine family too,--though I say
it, that’s his cousin,--for he’s a Sweeney by birth, and has a right
to be called so: he _was_, long ago, and would be now, if he hadn’t
quarrelled with his father’s family, and sworn, out of spite, never
to wear their name again as long as he breathed: so he took to his
mother’s--she was a Fogarty;--and you couldn’t offend him more any way
in the world than you would if you upset his whiskey, singed his nose
while he was asleep, or called him Luke Sweeney.”

“He’s a room above stairs, I hope,” says the gentleman.

“He _had_; and the floor of it went three parts across the kitchen;
and when you got up, you could look over a board and see your peathees
boiling below for breakfast:--and you might, to this day, if the rain
hadn’t soaked through the ould thatch and rotted the timber, so that
it fell down with nineteen of us, one night at a dance, years and years
ago.”

“Then I’ll be compelled to sleep with nothing above me but the bare
thatch!”

“That, and the cobwebs:--and you’ll see how the big spiders will run
down their little ropes, and dangle over the table, when I’m playing
Garry-hone-a-gloria!--But there’s no harm in the cratures; nor much in
ould Ramilies herself, if she hasn’t been drinking. I’ve known her get
so drunk, on beer-grounds they gave her at The Beg, that it took seven
men and a boy to bring her home, with Luke Fogarty’s sister going
before, pinching one o’ the little pigs, so as to make him squeal out,
by the way of wheedling her on quietly.”

“Right glad am I that I’ve my dog to watch me:--but, of course, they’ll
keep her out if I ask it,” says the gentleman.

“They will, if she’ll let them; but her word isn’t worth a bad song, if
you could get her to give it;--and you couldn’t, could you?--But, _na
boeklish!_ hav’n’t you your dog!--I’ll promise to persuade Fogarty to
give you up his own little black oak bedstead, that stands beside the
chimney: and then who knows but you’ll get the canvass bed stuffed
with louchaun--that’s the chaff that comes from the oats when they’re
winnowed--and three rugs to cover you! But what’s better than all,
though we shouldn’t be there till midnight,--and, faith! then, we
won’t at this rate,--there’ll be an iligant supper, and all the
gorlochs--except Susey, the eldest--put to bed. What’ll we have, you’d
like to know, eh?--Well, then, I’d tell you, if I could, but I can’t.
May be, if Luke’s had luck lately, we’ll get a bonnov,--that’s a little
pig, you know and if not, there’ll be a cobbler’s nob, and a dish of
caulcannon at any rate, we’re sure of hot ghindogues and praupeen, or
stirabout, or shloucaun,--that’s the sea-weed,--the dillosk, you know,
that the girls gather, boiled down to a nicety, and which, as they say,
is what Saint Ambrose lived upon, and the same thing you rade of
in books, by the name of ambrosia. Rory tells me they’d a breast of
mutton,--he don’t precisely remember what day, but it was lately,--and
we’ll get that made up into beggar’s-dish, with onions, and a bit of
tripe, may be, if it’s not eat, and Ramilies hasn’t stolen it. That
pig’s a witch, as I tould you before; but sure you needn’t mind her
with your dog, need you?--If it comes to the worst, we’re certain of
peathees, trundled out hot from the crock in the middle of the big
table, with a clane hoop on it to keep them from rolling off: and what’s
finer than peathees when they’re smoking, and grinning at you through
their red jackets? With them and milk (I’ll engage for him, Luke will be
able to give you your choice, sour milk or new) and two or three piggins
o’ pothien,--we’ll be gay as drovers, and sleep sound wherever we fall.
But I’m houlding out all these fine things to you, only to shew you what
good luck you’ll miss, if you don’t tell me who you are, and what is it
you’d be doing at The Beg; for it wouldn’t be well of me to bring
home any one, without knowing head nor hair of him, to my cousin
Fogarty’s,--would it, now?”

“It isn’t at all necessary that I should satisfy your curiosity,” says
the gentleman.

“May be, not; but I think so:--so we’d better settle the point before we
go further. Arrah! Rory,--Pturr-r!”

“Pturr-r!” says Rory; “pturr-r, pturr-r!” says he; but the garron was
now too near home to pturr for the brightest man that ever stood in
shoe; and instead of stopping, he put his best leg forward, and carried
the car clane up to Luke Fogarty’s door, some minutes sooner than he
would have done, may be, if nobody had said “Pturr-r!” to him at all.

“_Kead mille faltha!_” cried Luke, as soon as he saw the piper; “long
looked for, come at last!--But who’s this with you, Corney?”

“Faith! I don’t know, then,” says Carolan, who wasn’t at all plaized
with the garron, that he didn’t stop when Rory bid him; “I don’t know
a ha’p’orth about him,” says he, with his mouth close to the big end
o’ the crooked bull’s-horn, that Fogarty held to his ear; “I found him,
after losing his horse, sitting up upon Henniker’s mile-stone; and it
raining harder than usual:--so I took him on the car; but he wouldn’t
tell me who he was. He’s high and mighty enough to be a king; and,
may be, if the top of the dirt was taken off his dothes, we’d find him
dressed like a gentleman.”

“Arrah! Corney! now I look at him again, and that he’s wiped his face, I
think I know him.--You’re welcome, sir,” says Luke to the stranger, who
couldn’t but hear what the piper had said, yet took no notice of it;
“you’re welcome, sir, to a poor man’s place, and the best I’ve got,
this bad night:--but don’t I know you somewhere?--Then, if I did, what
harm?”--continued Luke, seeing how the man drew himself up, and, putting
on his airs, didn’t condescend to answer what was said to him; “If I did
know you, what harm?--and, faith! then, I do, Corney!” says he, turning
to the piper; “sure you heard of one Andie Hogan, that got a mint o’
money a’most, by selling little bonnets he made o’ the paper they puts
on the walls of fine houses, to the women and girls at pattams and
fairs, far and near;--didn’t you, Corney?”

“I did,” says Corney, with his mouth at the bull’s-horn, “and how he
advertised the fine fortune he’d give his lame daughter; and how, while
he was making a great match for her, one Purcell, a bit of a tailor,
away there at Dungarvan, ran off with her. Sure I’ve a story as long as
from here till to-morrow, and two or three songs about them. Didn’t ould
Hogan make it up with Purcell, and lave him all he had? And didn’t the
tailor turn upstart when he’d got the money,--and wouldn’t look on his
own relations, but cocked his nose at them, and every body that used to
know him, as though they were dirt?”

“Well then, Corney,” says Luke; “and if you never saw him before, you
can get a look at him now, for this is himself.”

“Oh! pullaloo! murther and horse-beans!” shouted Corney; “and is it with
Purcell I’ve been riding?--No offence, sir,--and I beg pardon for being
bould in the bog there;--but are you now, without a word of a lie,--are
you the Mushroom?”

“I hope I’m not brought here to be insulted,” says the gentleman.

“Well I but are you Mr. Purcell--or are you not? Is it you that’s
own cousin to that Thady Purcell, whose widow is married to Jack
Forrester--ould Timberleg Toe-trap’s club-footed son? Are you the
Dungarvan tailor that snapped up Andie Hogan’s lame daughter, or is Luke
a liar?--Answer me that now, and there’ll be an end of our talk.”

“I shall not remain here another minute,” says Purcell; for it was
indeed himself--and Luke Fogarty had seen him at The Beg, dunning young
Veogh, for money Pierce owed him, long before:--“I shall try if I can’t
get civility, at least, under another roof;” says he.

“Sure, I’m not uncivil,” says Corney; “or, if I was, I didn’t intind
it.”

“Then have done, fellow!”

“Is it ‘fellow?--Well! calling me names don’t break my bones, or I’d
give you a poke with my toe, so I would; and there’s not much harm in
‘fellow--I’ve been called more than that, without taking the trouble to
put myself in a passion,--and why should I with you? Any how, I’ll make
up my mind to this:--you’re one o’ the wonders, ar’n’t you?--I’m sure
of it:--for you wouldn’t so quietly hear yourself accused of being Andie
Hogan’s son-in-law, if it wasn’t a true bill. Well, to be sure, I’ve
had grate luck, one way and another:--I saw Lord Nelson, and the Giant’s
Causeway, and the Saltees, and Kilkenny coal, and the horse with two
heads, and Mick Maguire’s relation, that swore against the priest, and
now I see the Mushroom!--what more could I wish?”

By this time Luke had got out his best pair of yarn stockings, and the
channel pumps, he made when he was a journeyman in Waterford, and the
newest clothes he had, and insisted upon Purcell’s laying aside his own
for them: but the Mushroom, instead of minding him, whistled his dog,
and seemed to be going. Corney, however, put his leg across the door,
and Luke himself got a hold of Purcell by the coat, and swore he’d not
let him budge a foot:--“Sure,” says he, “you wouldn’t think of insulting
me so in my own house! I couldn’t let a dog go from under my roof such
a night as this. If you lived but a stone’s throw away, I’d be wrong
if I’d let you stir: though they say you were the first that arrested
Pierce Veogh, it matters but little to me. May be I like him; may be I
don’t: but if I’d give you a crack on the head for so doing--I won’t say
I would though, why should I?--but in case I would if I met you abroad
in company, yet in my own house, coming into it as you do, I could not
but make you welcome, you know. There’s my own bed in the corner for you;
and after supper I’ll give you as much whiskey as you can carry into it
from the place where you’ll sit.”

Luke Fogarty now gently pushed the Mushroom back to a log o’ wood that
stood for a chair by the hearth, and began to unbutton his coat. But
Purcell wouldn’t demean himself so much as to have the likes o’ Luke for
a valet, and put on the stockings and pumps, which was all he’d accept,
without any assistance.

I won’t tell you what was served up for supper, by Luke’s sister, who
was his housekeeper,--the wife being dead,--in the state cabin that
night, for I didn’t hear; and if I did, I forgot: neither, for the
same good rason, will I say what songs the piper sung, or what tunes he
played on his pipes, or how many piggins of whiskey was drained: but I
know this--that Luke Fogarty reeled in his way to the place where he
was going to sleep; and that he left Corney, with the pipes by his side,
snoring away on the bare floor, with nothing upon him but what he could
stand upright in, except a bit of a rug, that Rory, by way of a joke,
had thrown on his wooden leg, to keep the end of it warm. As soon as
Luke was gone, the Mushroom got into the bed that Corney had described
to him, and bad as the accommodation was for one of his way of living,
he soon fell fast asleep. Though he said nothing about what business
brought him to The Beg that night, it was known, afterwards, that he was
called there by letter, to receive whatever Pierce Veogh might then be
in debt to him. And I must tell you, he wasn’t among the creditors that
had security on the land, or the house, or what was in it; but only on
Pierce himself, who’d often been worried by him, and never could get
clane out of his debt; for if he paid him to-day, Purcell would have
something else due against him in a month. And to tell the truth, Pierce
had so borrowed of Purcell--at short dates, and long dates, on bills and
on bonds, and annuities, and I don’t know what else,--that if you’d give
Pierce the world he never could tell how the reckoning stood. It’s been
said by many too, that Purcell bought up many of Pierce’s debts that
was lying out against him, for a mere song; and contrived to keep him in
constant fear, and afraid to shew his face near the place of his
birth, if he wished it. And why so, you’ll think? Why then, some people
suspect, that Purcell had a mind to make up to the lady that bought The
Beg, when it was sould by Pierce’s creditors; and wished to keep him
away from her; as he well knew, they’d once been in love, and now that
she was a widow, he couldn’t but fear that they might think of ould
times, and renew the connexion. And it’s true for him, Purcell might
well think himself a match, as far as wealth went, for that lady, or any
other: his wife died two years after he run off with her, and he’d so
twisted and turned the money her dad gave him, and, though a rank rogue,
had such luck, that he was ten times richer than Andie Hogan could ever
expect to have seen his lame daughter’s husband: but neither father nor
daughter lived to see him in them days, when he held his head highest.

Did you ever in your life awake and find a slip-knot tied round your
great toe, and somebody pulling away for the bare life at the other end
o’ the cord, and you not able to see who your enemy was?--If you didn’t
you’ve missed what’s a million times worse than the night-mare,--or a
pair of cramps knitting the muscles into knots under each of your knees.
If you didn’t ever get that trick played on you, it won’t be possible
for you to imagine, or conceive, or picture to yourself, how matters
stood with the Mushroom, when dawn broke on him, there where he lay,
on the little louchaun bed, in Luke Fogarty’s state cabin. It can’t but
occur to you though, that he’d no right to consider himself quite in
paradise, when I tell you that he was awoke and dragged almost out over
the foot of the bed, by an invisible something which operated upon his
toe. He had felt two or three twitches before, but he wouldn’t believe
that any thing much was the matter, and thought he’d go to sleep again,
and forget it.

[Illustration: 285]


But the pull I spoke of wasn’t to be bamboozled away so aisily: he
couldn’t but notice it--for he’d never felt any one thing in the world
half so unpleasant before. And this wasn’t all at the same time that he
found himself maltreated in the toe, his ears were serenaded with a din
so horrible, that he couldn’t but think there was goblins about him! The
first thing he did, was to throw the clothes from his face,--the pull
having buried the head of him beneath them,--and then, naturally enough
as you’ll say, he looked down to the foot of the bed. It was just light
enough for him to see what was the matter. He’d tied his dog Pompey, as
he thought, to his wrist, by a bit of cord, so that the least motion
of the animal might alarm him: but, lo and behold! the cord was now
strangling his toe in a running-knot, and the poodle half hanging
himself, by pulling away with all his might at the other end of it!
There was the dog in a right line with the foot of the bed,--the eyes of
him nearly starting out of his head,--yelping as well as the cord would
let him, and looking, as though it was his own opinion he hadn’t three
minutes to live!

The first thing Mr. Purcell thought of doing, was to coax the animal to
come nearer, and by that means aise him; for his leg was pulled out so
straight, that though he tried hard to get a clutch at the string,
he couldn’t. “Pompey! Pompey!” says he, “come here, you
rogue!--Murder!--Whew! Whew! Poor fellow, then!--Bad luck to the
dog!--What! Pompey, then!--Murder!”

All this time Pompey wasn’t idle: he’d got his master lower in the bed,
and the Mushroom found all at once, something bristly scrubbing his
foot. It was then for the first time, he perceived what was making part
of the strange noise he heard,--and what it was too, that Pompey was
strangling himself to get away from. Corney Carolan lay on the
floor betuxt asleep and awake,--neither quite drunk, nor altogether
sober,--blowing his bagpipes as though he’d burst them, but without
producing such an effect as he’d predicted they would; for athwart
midships, between the foot of the bed and Pompey, stood Ramilies the
pig, bristling up the long hairs on her back, curling her tail nearly
into a knot, gnashing her tusks, frothing away at the mouth, like a beer
barrel that’s in work at the bung-hole, and telling Pompey, as plainly
as she well could, that she felt very indignant at his presence, but
nevertheless quite willing and able to devour him. She had poked through
a fresh-mended gap in the wall, to get at a basket of crabs, which Luke
bought the night before; and there was the nineteen little ones, that
she’d farrowed that day month, squeaking in chorus to her own grunt;
and what with Pompey’s yelping, and the piper’s playing, and Purcell’s
exclamations, and the shouting and shrieking of Luke Fogarty’s sister
and seven children, who soon came running, just as they were, from their
beds, and the noise of the cocks and hens, and the pinches the little
pigs got from the claws of the big crabs that Ramilies had upset out of
the basket, and which was now crawling about the floor, they ran over
the bed, and under the bed, and raced about the place, just as if they
were out o’ their wits.

All this noise couldn’t go for nothing: the whole place was in
arms;--Mick Maguire fired off his gun through a hole in the thatch, and
Bat Boroo, flourishing his big stick, took Mick under his command; for
he thought the French was landed, at the least,--and no blame to him.

When the neighbours broke in Luke Fogarty’s door, they found things
going on nearly as I described just now. Corney was still blowing the
pipes, and the Mushroom roaring, and young Rory Fogarty dancing about in
great glee, with the black crock the peathees was boiled in on his head;
and the little pigs racing about, and the cocks and hens cackling, and
Ramilies preaching to Pompey. Luke Fogarty himself crawled from a corner
where he’d been snoring, and putting the bull’s-horn to his ear, before
he could get his eyes open, says he, “Don’t I hear a noise?” But a
moment after, when he peeped through his sore lids, and saw what was
going on, he grinned with glee; and putting the horn to his mouth, blew
something so much like a charge on it, that Bat Boroo, who that moment
came up to the door, faced about, and retreated in good order, but quick
time, laving all the glory and danger to Mick, who didn’t run for two
rasons:--first, because he didn’t notice Bat making away with himself;
and next, because he knew nothing about the nature of a charge. So in he
marched among the rest of the neighbours, with his gun, as usual, full
cocked in his hand.

“Shoot! shoot!” says the Mushroom, as soon as he caught a glimpse of
Mick and “Shoot! shoot!” says the neighbours; “why not shoot at once,
Mick!”

“Aisy! aisy! all of ye,” cried Mick; “aisy, and don’t bother me! ‘Shoot!
shoot!’ says you; but who’ll I shoot?--Is it ould Ramilies or the dog?”

“The dog! the dog!’ says the neighbours.

“No!--the pig! the pig!” says Purcell.

“See that, now!” cried Mick: “Wasn’t I unlucky all my life? If I’d a
double-barrelled gun, I’d oblige both parties at once, and then there’d
be no quarrelling: but I hav’n’t.”

Just then, ould Malachi Roe made his appearance in his red night-cap,
and having the handle of an ould hunting whip, with a brass hook and
hammer at the end of it, by way of a weapon, in his hand: he wasn’t
a moment inside the door when, without saying a word, he pushed Rory
Fogarty, who was laughing most furiously, plump against Ramilies, and
taking a knife out of his pocket, cut the cord by which Pompey was tied
to the toe of his master.

Malachi had news too of Mr. Purcell’s mare; and while the people still
stood loitering about Luke Fogarty’s door, and Corney was telling the
Mushroom, that all his bad luck was owing to his carrying an umbrella on
the bog of Saint Swithin, the mare was brought up by somebody--I forget
who it was--that had caught her. You’d think, perhaps, that Purcell’s
pride might be brought down a little by what had befallen him: but
no,--he strutted out of the cabin without condescending to say _be,
haw_, or a civil word to any one; and rode off to The Beg--mushroom
as he was--with his nose in the air, as though the ground wasn’t good
enough for him to look on.

[Illustration: 288]



THE DILLOSK GIRL.

I’m a bad hand at describing a beauty, but I’ll try my best to give you
an idea how Norah Cavanagh looked when she was twenty. The nose is a
part of a woman’s face that few people spake of in reckoning over her
charms; but, in my mind, it’s worthy of notice, as well as the eyes.
Norah’s nose was neither long nor short; too thick, nor otherwise;
turned up nor down;--but just delicate, fine, and growing straight from
her brow, in a way that it was beautiful to behould, but next akin to
impossible to describe. There wasn’t much colour in her cheek, but the
lips made up for it: you may talk of cherries for a twelvemonth,--but
there never was cherries so temptingly red as the lips of young Norah;
and when she opened them, you saw two rows of teeth,--not so white as
the inside of an oysther, but of a colour you loved better; for they
was just exactly as a healthy and handsome young woman’s should be;--and
they sparkled and seemed to laugh, every one of them, when their owner
did. Her eyes wasn’t blue nor black; no, nor grey; nor hazel; but a
mixture of all, and not a bit the less beautiful. When you gazed into
them, they was like a picture; for there seemed to be a little view of
some place in each of them. But this wasn’t noticed at a distance; and
it’s few knew of it, but those who had dandled Norah when a child; for
she kept the boys off when she grew up, and, if anything, was thought to
value herself a little too much, considering she’d nothing. Norah’s
hair wasn’t so white as to make her look silly:--it had a dash of light
auburn upon the ends of the curls; and when the sun shone upon them,
they had a gloss that dazzled the eyes of all the boys about. Was I
but younger that time, I think I’d have been in love with little Norah
myself;--and won her, perhaps, away from them all:--who knows?--

Norah was as nate in her dress as she well could be,--with the little
she got for the dillosk she gathered: and on a Sunday--faith! then, who
but she!--She’d her stockings and shoes, and a clane cap, as well as
the best to be seen at Mass. Miss Honor, and James Dingle’s other two
sisters,--next to the great lady at The Beg,--are the finest folks in
these parts; for their aunt’s a great farmer, by the two-mile-stone
from this: and they would often be saying,--them curls, that came out
in clusters under her cap, didn’t become a Dillosk-girl; and tould her
she’d have more friends, if she’d comb them back, smooth and sleek away
behind her ears: but Norah said, she couldn’t; for curl they would,
whether she wished them or no. This wasn’t believed by the young ladies;
they couldn’t credit that a Dillosk-girl’s hair would curl up in that
way, without as much time being spent about it, as there was upon their
own long, black, horse-tail locks; and they said,--Norah Cavanagh had
better be at her devotions (though they themselves wasn’t Catholics)
than to be wasting time twisting up her tresses to allure the young men
at Mass. And after that, when Norah wint, for a day or two now and then,
to help their aunt’s maids at a busy time, and they got convinced, by
living under the same roof with her, and watching her closely, that
Nature was Norah’s frizeur, they tould her, she ought to cut off her
locks if she’d wish to look dacent and get respected. But though Norah
wasn’t obstinate in anything else, she was in this; and wouldn’t do as
they bid her. You’ll say she ought, perhaps: but, faith! there’s many
things we ought to do, though we don’t do them; and there’s many a
beggar-man’s daughter wouldn’t barter her hair for a silk bonnet if you
doubt what I say, try two or three, and you’ll see.

Norah was little, but nate and well-made hasn’t it ever struck you,
that Nature often finishes off the little folks better than the big
ones?--Whether it has or no matters but little; for if there never was
another that was at once little and nate, Norah herself was; and even
those that disliked her never denied it;--and she had her enemies, and
not a few, I promise you. The girls hated her, for stealing away the
boys’ hearts from them all; and the boys, after a bit, wouldn’t give her
a good word, because she’d refused them.

Now you’ll think, after this, Norah got married to some great
lord;--but she hadn’t the luck. The fairest bird in the air gets caught
for its plumage; while the owl, and birds like him, go through the world
with little danger; and just so, beauty, that always adorns, too often
destroys, them that has it:--but that you’ve heard before, no doubt,
in them same or other words, and a great deal more, to the back of
it, which I could spake, if I liked, but I won’t. It will answer every
purpose, I hope, if I say plainly, that it got whispered Norah had
met with a misfortune. I won’t tell you how the girls giggled at this;
that’s needless;--nor who it was that pretended to pity her, and
tried to worm out of her who’d been the destruction of her,--but they
couldn’t:--that would be making a story that’s too long already, longer
than it is, wouldn’t it?--so I won’t. You’ll be satisfied, and, may
be, a little vexed, to know that, after a time, when Norah wint out to
gather the dillosk, there was a baby at her back.

It was a little thing,--very little,--not much bigger than a fairy; but
quite strong and healthy, and as handsome as a mother need wish. It was
a little picture of Norah, but not like any one else that ever was seen
in these parts: so nobody could tell, by a feature or look, who had a
call to it; and no power or persuasion could make No rah say whose it
was. Mistress Doolan, that time, it was thought, used to follow Paddy,
her husband, slily, when he wint out sometimes after dusk for anything,
to see would he be going the way to little Norah’s cabin; for it’s said
of her, she had some little suspicion,--or fear, may be,--that Pat might
have been backsliding, and playing the same sort of trick that, at
last and in the long run, brought him under the thumb. But she was
disappointed intirely: for Pat never had the misfortune to turn the way
she feared he would,--no, not even by chance.

Norah got paler and much thinner, and her lips lost their colour, and
her eyes sunk; but she was just as tidy as before, and held up her
head bouldly, in spite of the sneers of her neighbours; so that the
few half-friends she had left was obliged to confess she was a bit too
barefaced. But, musha! then, was it a soul in the barony--that is, boy
or man--that dared leer at her, or try to be upon terms with her that
wasn’t respectful?--Her nature was changed; and when she repulsed them
that made up to her, it wasn’t with scorn as before, but downright rage:
indeed, at last, though she was mild with such as behaved themselves, a
man might as well think of kissing a tigress as Norah.

Big Jack Dax,--he that’s my lady’s steward at The Beg,--had a nephew,
one Misther Millet, a small bit of a man, mighty puny and spruce, with a
white face, and pimples on his chin, but no beard; you’d think a breath
would blow him away; and about the time I’m spaking of, he came over
from Liverpool,--where he was something of a clerk,--on a visit here to
his uncle, for a couple of months,--to get his health, as you’d think
if you looked at him;--but, as _he_ said, to enjoy “the rude romantic
beauties of the coast:”--them were his words. He wrote verses, and
picked up bits of shells and sea-weed, and amused himself in ways
sensible people wouldn’t dream of. Some of us thought he was so-so in
his senses; but his uncle said it was no such thing,--he was only a
genius. Above all things in this world, what should small Misther Millet
do, but attack little Norah, after meeting her two or three times, while
he was poking about with a long stick, for shells, on the beach where
she got her dillosk! He had heard of her misfortune, but didn’t know of
her deportment to them that attempted to bill and coo with her: so, one
day, he struck up to her, quite confident of himself, and began to be
familiar. But he got such a rebuff from the little Dillosk-woman, that
he gave up shell-gathering, and took to digging for things in the hills,
which, he said, was carried away there at the time of the great deluge;
and just that day se’nnight after his talking to Norah, Misther Millet
didn’t come home to dinner,--no, nor supper; and all night they saw no
sight of him,--though they sat up in hopes of his coming; wid, at last,
big Jack Dax gave up his nephew as lost,--no one knew where. It happened
rather unluckily for Misther Millet to mislay himself just then, for
there was great goings-on at The Beg:--you’ll hear, by-and-by, what they
were about.

It was Norah herself that poor Tommy Maloe offered to marry; and from
that, and his doing her a good turn, and saying a kind word for her when
he could, some of us thought it was he seduced her. But though he was a
fine fellow, and well to do, she wouldn’t listen to him. With that, we
changed opinions again, and couldn’t determine among ourselves, or in
our own minds even, how to settle the question. And what bothered us
more than all was, that though Norah said downright “nay” to his offers,
it’s often she begged him to take Bat Boroo’s advice, and not go for a
souldier: however, he wouldn’t heed her. And when news came of his being
killed abroad, Norah wint and wept with his poor father, and did all she
could to comfort the childless ould crature in his sorrow.

Now we’ll go on:--As I tould you, no one could guess who Norah had been
ruined by,--and we’d given it up, thinking time would tell us. She never
missed passing my door at the turn of the tide, to go gathering the
dillosk; and was always the last home,--working, as she did, till the
flow again, and going back, step by step, before the rising waters,
until they drove her dear off the shore. If industry’s a virtue, Norah
had it in perfection: and she didn’t want, nor ever took bawbee that
wasn’t earned, from any man,--and that too, honestly.

Away to the west, about a mile below my cabin, there’s a ridge of rocks,
which runs far out into the sea: that was Norah’s favourite spot; for
the dillosk was plenty there, and few frequented it. At low water, the
very end of it stood high and dry; and I may say the same too, when the
waters was half up, during the neap tides; for it rose above the rest
of the ridge, and when the floods came, it was barely covered about two
foot, or two foot and a half. We call it O’Connor’s land-mark:--why, I
don’t know; but so it was called before I was born, or my father before
me,--at least, so he said; and if I, that’s his son, wouldn’t credit
him, who would?

One morning,--it was the day after big Jack Dax lost his small nephew,
as I tould you,--Norah wint away to the ridge, as usual, and laid down
her child on the rock, with its face looking up to the heavens, and
laughing at the clouds, as they sailed along in all sorts of forms. This
she did daily while gathering the dillosk, for the baby loved to have
the clouds for its playthings. It wasn’t a fine lady’s child, you
know, or it couldn’t sleep there upon O’Connor’s land-mark, among the
sea-weeds and so forth, without taking harm; but the place was natural
to it: and Norah left Faddy Doolan’s daughter to watch it, and look to
it, and bring it to her if it ‘woke and wanted anything; and then she
began working. After a time, she had well nigh picked up as much as she
could carry,--though she wasn’t lucky that day, for the weed lay wide,
and she was long gathering it, and some sad thoughts she had that
morning didn’t help to hurry her. At last, she turned back to get the
baby and go home; and that moment she heard a shriek from Paddy Doolan’s
daughter, who had wandered away from the baby, picking the little fish
out of the pools in the rock. It didn’t seem more than a minute to Norah
since she looked round, and saw the girl by her child; and she had heard
her singing, up to the time when the shriek came; but more than a minute
it must have been,--but it’s true, little more would be enough; for
between Paddy Doolan’s daughter, and, of course, between Norah herself,
who was more ashore, and O’Connor’s land-mark, where the baby was
sleeping, the sea had rose, and flowed over a dent, or steep descent,
in the ridge, from the lowest part of which the rock rose up again quite
abruptly, till it ended in the peak at the end. You know how fast the
tide comes up sometimes just after the ebb, especially when the wind’s
with it; and you’ll not be surprised to hear that, though poor Norah,
distracted as she was, nearly flew over the ridge, yet as she was a full
stone’s throw off, or more, a couple of big waves had got in; and if it
was fordable when Paddy Doolan’s daughter shrieked, it wasn’t so by the
time Norah got to the water’s edge.

Now it’s fit I should tell you, that the shriek Paddy Doolan’s daughter
gave, when she saw the water betuxt herself and the baby, wasn’t a
sound, if you heard it, you’d whistle at; it wasn’t the scream of a
young miss at seeing a cockroach:--it gave tidings of death, and spread
dismay all over the ridge, and even beyond it, among the Dillosk-women
that was there. Few of them but had children playing about, or picking
up little bits of burthens of the weed,--them that was big enough,--near
the ridge, and every one ran to the place whence the sound came. Three
or four was much nearer than Norah, and cutting across to the place
almost as quickly as herself,--none of them knowing but harm had
happened their own,--they got to the brink of the water before her. When
they saw whose baby it was on the ridge, they set up a wail, which,
if possible, increased poor Norah’s speed down the ridge. They felt
as mothers,--all of them did,--and knowing well enough, by their own
hearts, what the mother of the baby would do, they made ready to stop
Norah as she came:--for swim, they knew she couldn’t,--it was too late
for wading, and if she bate through the incoming waves, the water was
so deep in the middle, that drown she must. So they all threw their arms
about her, and held her for a second; but the baby ‘woke then, and its
cry came to her ear. That gave her such sudden strength, that she broke
away from them, and burst into the water. Just then, as luck would have
it, an unbroken wave was rolling in; Norah met it in its full strength,
and was dashed to the shore again; but it would have carried her back
with it, hadn’t ould Ileen, whom just got up to the place, rushed in,
with Peg Dwyer and another woman, knee-deep, and clutched a hould of
her, and kept her fast, in spite of her struggling, and telling them
they were murderers, and calling down curses upon them in her agony.
The child wailed again; and Norah, it’s thought, would have escaped
from them a second time; but Ileen as soon as she heard the baby begin,
clenched her big fist, and, with one blow on the forehead, knocked poor
Norah senseless into the arms of Peg Dwyer.

There was a moment of silence, and every one cast an eye of reproach
upon Heen, but no one durst utter a word. “Don’t be looking so at me,”
 says she, to them; “wouldn’t you suffer a little, any of ye, to save
all?--Many’s the fine fellow lost his life for want of less than Norah
has got! Better a blow on the head, no matter how big the bump that
comes after it,--better that, I say, than be drowned. You’ve seen a boy
in a fit, and six couldn’t hould him;--and could a fit, think you, give
a boy more strength, than the cry of a child where that one is, would
give to a mother that loves it?”

All this while,--and it wasn’t long,--Ileen was busy tying poor Norah
hand and foot.

“Oh! for young Paudrigg, now, or any one that could swim!” cried one of
the women; “there’s not a boy or a man,--no, nor a bit of a boat even,
within sight. What will we do, Ileen?”

“All of you join with me in a loud wail, children and all,” replied
Heen; “may be, Jimmy Fitzgerald’s boys, or some of the neighbours near
him, isn’t gone out, and may hear us.”

“Is it a tide any of the fishermen would lose such weather as this,
think you, Heen?” asked Peg Dwyer.

“Who knows,” says Heen, “what good God may send us? One of them may be
kept back to save that poor baby.”

So then they set up such a wail, all of them, that it came to me here,
where I was dozing; and if anything could have given me the use of
my limbs, it would have been that. I tried to stir, but it was of no
use:--so, without losing time, in making more efforts, I pulled open
the door with my crutch, and hallooed, and cried “Murder!” five or six
times, at the top of my voice. Ileen reckoned upon my doing that; for,
as soon as the wail was over, says she, “If that does no good, nothing
will;--if one of us ran off for help, before she got near any men and
they got back again, the sea would be over the child; and the only
chance we’d then have, would be in the wave that floated it bringing
it ashore: but that’s a poor hope; for every moment the tide drives us
back, and leaves it farther away from us. But a scream travels faster
than a bird. If no one else heard us, Jimmy Fitzgerald must; for he’s
always at home:--he’s an ould sailor, and won’t fail to repeat the
signal of distress; it’s sure to bring somebody to him, and he’ll send
every one that comes, away here to us:--so that we save the time of
running as far as his cabin, by the wail; and there’s hope yet the child
won’t be lost.”

Within a minute or two after I’d done calling out, as I said, there came
running in Mick Maguire, and Bat Boroo, and all the lazy-bones of the
place: and after them followed Paddy Doolan, ould Malachi Roe, and a
power more of landsmen, with women and children at their heels; but not
a fisherman, good or bad, ould or young, was ashore. I tould them of the
wail I’d heard from the Dillosk-women, and the point it bore from; and
off they wint, one following another, as fast as they came in; and it
wasn’t long before all the place was in arms, and not a soul but me left
in it, far or near.

All this didn’t take more than the time I’m telling it. Meanwhile Norah
recovered: she was now so weak, that Ileen unbound her, but the women
still kept a hould of her; and there they were--wailing about her, and
she sitting on a stone, with her hands clasped, gazing at the waters,
that were just rising towards the top of the land-mark, where the child,
that had now cried itself asleep again, lay without knowing its danger.
Now and then she turned her eyes along the shore to the men that were
running down to the ridge as fast as they well could: though they were
landsmen, there was more than one among them that could swim; and Norah,
as well as the women about her, had rason to hope bad wouldn’t be the
end of it.

A man tires, but the rising tide don’t, and the waters still kept
their pace; but the men slackened, and just as the foremost of them
got up,--and that was Mick Maguire, out of breath, and who’d no heart,
though his legs was the best,--just as he got up to the women, a great
wave came in, and they all saw it a way off, for it was taller, and
might be seen above those before it:--it came on slowly, but strongly;
and instead of breaking and being divided in two by the land-mark, it
swept in a full body above it, and Norah’s baby was afloat!

Just then, all set up a shriek; and it was answered by one they little
expected: what was it but the scream of the great eagle himself, that
came down from the clouds a’most, and gripped up the baby in his
mighty claws!--so saving it from one death, for another that was more
frightful, and that too, a thousand-fold! He didn’t rise at once, but
skimmed along the face of the sea for some time, so that the baby dipped
in the tops of the waves, and scattered a foam round itself and the
bird now and then; and it was thought he’d drop it more than once: but
no,--he soon began to get higher and higher, and rose, at last, on
his strong wings, above the cliffs themselves; and then, making a half
circle, wheeled round, and wint over the heads of the women, right away
to his nest in the mountain. And all that while, the women looked up
silently, and them that was running along the beach stood still,
and nobody, breathed; so that the flap of the eagle’s wing was heard
plainly, far as he was above them.

It would have been well for poor Norah had she swooned off again; but
she didn’t. When the eagle was gone out of sight, the people turned to
look at her; and there she was, standing on tip-toe, with arms stretched
out, and her eyes fixed in the air, as though she still saw the bird
and her baby, long after they had disappeared to every one else. No one
spoke to her,--for what could they say in the way of comfort?--but as
soon as they got over the shock of the sight a little,--and it was just
as though they had all been stunned,--they began to ask one another if
anything could be done.

“There’s but one hope in the world,” says Ileen, “and that’s to scale
the crag.”

“And who’ll do it?” asked many, but nobody answered. Every one,
who’d the heart, had tried before he was twenty, or betuxt that and
twenty-five; but no one had ever succeeded. Many of them that was on
the beach, had got terrible falls, and two of them broken limbs, in the
attempt, and given it up as fruitless. Luke Fogarty was too ould, and
Rory too young; Paddy Doolan hadn’t the courage to try at twenty; and
how could it be asked of him then that he was forty?--Mick Maguire
wouldn’t venture himself; but he’d go get his gun, and lend it to any
one freely that would. One man pointed to his grey locks; another to his
lame leg; and a third to his brats of little ones, and seemed to think,
that it wouldn’t be well of him to risk his life for another man’s
child, when he’d six or eight of his own dependent upon him. Bat Boroo
flourished about his big stick, and said he’d scale the rock with all
the pleasure in life, if it would do any good: “But where would be the
use?” says he; “for by this time the poor child is torn to pieces; and
if I reached the nest and conquered the eagles that’s in it, I’d have
nothing but the child’s torn limbs to bring back.”

“I think,” says Malachi Roe,--the ould one, I mane; he didn’t spake
before, and hadn’t been known for a long time to open his lips until a
question was asked him;--“I think,” says he, “there’s no fear of that.
Daddy Gahagan, the shepherd, has been telling me, that one of his
grandsons came to him ‘while ago, with news of the eagle’s mate having
just carried off a lamb from the flock he tended. She’ll get to the nest
first with her prey; and there’s a chance--what do I say?--it wouldn’t
be foolish to lay odds,--no harm comes to the child these two hours.”

Every one stared, and wondered if it was indeed Malachi himself that
spoke such a speech; they took it, however, for Gospel, and set up a
shout: but Bat had turned on his heel, and didn’t listen to it. Then
all of them began to move off to the foot of the crag, but still nobody
offered to venture.

While they wint sorrowfully, but speedily, along,--as though getting
near the place would do any good,--they met Misther James Dingle
trotting towards them. Two or three--and Mick Maguire was among’em--had
got a-head of the rest; and before they could speak, James Dingle pulled
up his horse, and said to them,--“God save ye, boys! I’ve just seen the
big eagle carrying off that in his claw, which I’m sure is a child, by
the clothes. Whose it is, I haven’t heard; he may have brought it miles;
but I’ll give any of you two sparkling yellow boys, that will climb the
crag and get it down from him, dead or alive.”

Upon this, Mick Maguire tould him the whole story, whose child it was,
and how the eagle got it; and before he’d done, the whole cavalcade of
them were round him, crying, “Oh! Misther James! what’ll we do?” For,
next to the Priest, and the lady at The Beg, every one looked up to
young Dingle for advice in the day of distress. And such wailing and
bothering there was about him, that he couldn’t be heard for a minute
and more: at last, Father Killala, who had joined the people, got
silence for him. The colour had left his cheek, and his lips looked hard
and dry; but he spoke out coolly and distinctly, and said, “Though we’re
tould that the crag has been climbed, and the eagle’s nest reached, yet
no one was ever known, or reported in tradition, to have got down from
it again. Now, Malachi Roe, do you take my horse and ride off to the
beach with the best speed you can, and bring a roll of cord back with
you, and ropes, if you can get them: but bring the cord away at once, if
there’s any delay with the ropes; for they may be got after. I’d go for
it, but I wouldn’t make myself a bit more fatigued than I now am, for
that’s need-less; and while you’re gone, I’ll be getting ready. Should
I reach the nest, I can lower the child to you, if I never come back
myself.”

“And is it you that’s going, sir?” says Mick Maguire.

“It is, Mick,” he answered; “no one else will, and so I suppose I must.”

And then all of them, that a minute before was dying to meet with any
one that would go, began moaning in an under tone, and seemed sorry,
and half inclined to persuade James Dingle not to make the attempt. One
fellow muttered--and it wasn’t well of him--“A man’s life is worth more
than a child’s.”

“I don’t know that,” said James Dingle; “and what if it was?--We were
all children once, and not able to help ourselves; but there was then
men about, who had strength given them to protect us. Now we’re men, we
ought to do by the children, the same that others, whose heads lie
low, did for us,--or would have done for us, if need was,--when we were
babies.”

“Mr. Dingle,” said Father Killala, coming up to him, “we can but ill
afford to lose you:--I’d rather another wint who had a heart and body
equal to your own; but as no one else offers, go, and God bless you!”

Dingle shook the ould man’s hand, and wint on towards the mountain, with
all the people following him, and praying blessings on his head.

Malachi Roe this while was far on his way to the fishermen’s cabins:
he wasn’t a man to lose time, or spare horse-flesh when need was; so he
came galloping down like a racer, and got back again, with all that was
wanted with him, long before he was expected by any but James Dingle,
who knew what Malachi was, and what his own horse could do; and, besides
that, was impatient to begin. While he was gone, Luke Fogarty, and two
or three more that had tried to get at the nest, gave Dingle what advice
they could, how to avoid the mishaps they’d met with. Bat Boroo lent him
his stick, and offered him a few short instructions in the way of attack
and defence with it. But James Dingle silenced him, by saying,--“Bat
Boroo, I thank you, but a shillala isn’t a broad sword. I’ve been fool
enough to carry a twig to a fair with me, when I was younger and wilder
than I’ve been these seven years past: it was said I knew how to use it
then; and though I’ve had no practice since, I don’t think I’ve forgot
which way to flourish it best.”

And sure enough there was few that ever could stand up long to James
Dingle before he got steady, even while only a stripling. In this place,
if I’d a mind to do it, I might keep playing with your feelings, and
tell you how young Dingle parted from the people, and what they thought
and said, while he was climbing; and how one minute they had rason to
hope, and the next to fear for him:--but I won’t do this, for you may
imagine it all without any word of mine. I’ll come to the point at
once:--it was long before James made much way; for the lowest part of
the peak was the worst; and when he got higher, he had often to crawl
along the ledges a great way to find resting-places above for his feet:
but he got on better than he did at the beginning; and after being often
lost sight of, behind the pieces of rock that shot up like towers, he
appeared again in places where he wasn’t expected; and in less than an
hour, the people below saw him in the branches of the tree, behind which
it was known the eagle’s aërie was built. Even then he hadn’t done his
work:--but you’ll hear how he got on.

The eagle’s nest rested partly on the tree I spoke of, which grew out of
a crevice of the rock, and partly on the floor of a natural cave: it
was made of big sticks, and among them was many a white bone of bird
and beast, that had served the eagles for prey, years and years before.
James Dingle put aside the branches, quietly as he could, and in no
small trepidation, to see what was doing, before he got in:--and he did
right, I think; for look before you leap, is a saying that has sense in
it, especially when you’re going to get into an eagle’s nest. So far,
all went well; but no sooner had he put his head through the leaves,
than he saw a sight that struck him motionless!--Most men have been
amazed some time or other; but there never was a man so amazed as James
Dingle was. At one corner of the little hollow in the rock,--making
himself look less than he was,--who do you think sat then but small
Misther Millet?--Misther Millet himself, whiter than the wall,--who had
been lost since the day before, as I tould you,--shivering like a mouse
within reach of the claws of a cat, with both the eagles opposite, on
the brink of the nest, staring at the crature, and seeming to wonder
what he was at, and how he got there!--There was two young eagles in the
nest full-fledged, and looking mighty frightened at their new friend,
Misther Millet. The lamb wasn’t touched, though killed; and by its
side lay the child, with one of the young eagles’ wings over the little
darling’s face. It seemed as though the birds had all been afraid to
begin their meal, with Millet where he was, and hadn’t yet made up their
minds how to get rid of him. I may as well tell you now, as by-and-by,
how he came there, for I dare say you’d like to know.--

Well, then, the little man, by his own story, had wandered away the
day before, an hour after breakfast, to fetch a romantic walk among the
hills, and gather pebbles, and catch butterflies, and draw trees, and
make poetry, and do them things he was fond of: but by the time his
stomach tould him it was getting on fast for dinner-time, he made a
discovery that wasn’t singular, considering what he’d been at, and which
way he wint. You’ll guess he lost his way,--and so he did; and every
step he took made matters worse. Night came upon him, in a place where
he could see nothing but a few rocks and wild shrubs about, and the sky
speckled with stars above him. He chose out the clanest and softest bed
he could, took off his coat and turned it inside out; then putting it
on again, he lay down, and to his own great surprise soon found himself
falling asleep. He had no bad dreams from indigestion that night, you
may be sure; but he didn’t wake very well in the morning, for all that.
At day-break, he began walking again; and, in about an hour’s time, upon
looking through a few bushes, he got sight of a hole in the rock, which
had light at the other end of it. He crawled in upon all-fours, and soon
found himself cheek-by-jowl with a pair of young eagles!

Now we knew, from tradition, that there certainly was a long, but not
a difficult way to the eagle’s nest, through the hills; but though many
had tried that was born and bred near them, none could ever find it
out; and then comes Misther Millet, piping hot from a Liverpool
‘counting-house, and discovers it without trying, and much against his
own will, to boot!--His wonder wasn’t well over, before home came the
great hen-eagle, with a lamb; and from that time, he didn’t dare stir;
for she never ceased eyeing him, as though she was only waiting until he
made a move, to dart at his face. By-and-by, home came her mate too; and
the sight of him didn’t make Misther Millet feel a morsel more aisy, I
take lave to suppose; especially when he saw that the bird had a child
in its clutch:--and there sat the little man, half dead with hunger, and
cold, and fear, when James Dingle looked in upon him.

It was then only, that the birds appeared to know of the approach of
another intruder: they stretched forth their wide wings, and each of
them, at the same moment, seized the lamb with one foot, and stood
fluttering on the other, at the edge of the nest. Dingle reached out his
left hand and dragged the child to him; and with his right, before you’d
breathe, struck the bird that was nearest him--it was the cock--a blow
on the head, with Bat Boroo’s oaken cudgel, that knocked him over the
edge of the nest; and down he fell, in a way that made those below think
he was killed; but after falling many yards, he fluttered his wings, and
soon recovered enough to fly to a resting-place. The hen, at the moment
her mate got the blow, screamed so that the rocks rung with it, and
got upon the wing. She wheeled round in the air, and rose, to all
appearance, for the purpose of making a terrible stoop upon her enemy.
There wasn’t any time to be lost:--James Dingle pushed both the young
eagles out of the nest; they were able to keep themselves up; and the
ould hen, instead of making a descent upon James, altered her course,
flew towards her young, and kept close to them, until they had reached,
and were safe perched upon, the point of one of the peaks, that grew up
by the side of the crag.

While this was doing, Dingle got into the nest, bid Millet crawl back
through the hole with the child, and in a short time followed. He had
made up his mind to explore his way through the hills; for, thinks
he, Misther Millet never could have got here, if the road’s difficult;
unless, indeed, the eagles carried him up; but that’s not likely:--so
I’ll try; and it’s odd, from this height, if I can’t discover the way
down, whatever may be said of its being impossible. The hen-eagle, too,
kept hovering about, and would, no doubt, soon be joined by her mate;
and--do you mark?--if he pulled up the rope by the cord he had, and let
down the baby, the great chance was, whether one of the ould birds--to
say nothing of the fear he had of its getting hurt against the
rocks,--wouldn’t pounce upon and destroy it, as it swung mid-way in the
air. So he determined to try his luck, and began descending. Misther
Millet amused him by his story as they wint: but the gentleman couldn’t
remember one inch of the way he came; and if Norah Cavanagh’s child
hadn’t been carried off the way I tould you, Jack Dax would have lost
a nephew, and the world Misther Millet: for I can’t but think he’d have
died somewhere about the hills, or been killed by the eagles; and so,
one way or other, met with the same fate as the boy did that was seen in
the nest long ago, and never got back.

When the people below saw that James Dingle waved his stick
triumphantly,--as he did before he left the nest,--and had disappeared
for some time, though the eagles hadn’t harmed him, they reminded one
another of the way to the crag over the hills, and thought he was
trying to find it. And when they asked Malachi Roe, he made a speech
again,--that is, a speech for the likes of such a one as him:--says he,
“I’ve no doubt but he is; he’d be a fool if he didn’t; for look at the
eagles above, between this and the nest.”

“True,” says Mick Maguire; “that didn’t occur to us, whin he wint up.
Any how, he might have killed them both,--and then there’d be no danger
in letting down the baby,--he might have done that, if he’d taken my
gun. And I’m thinking that Bat Boroo’s stick--”

“What’s your opinion, Malachi?” said Father Killala, interrupting
Mick;--and it’s the only fault he has: for he’d never hear one of my
stories half through, without asking two or three hundred questions; and
then, may be, he’d go off in the middle of it. But he’s a fine man, and
that’s his only fault, or, I’d rather say, it’s a way he has that’s
not pleasant to some people, though Mick didn’t mind it. “What’s your
opinion, Malachi?” says Father Killala; “do you think James Dingle will
find his way back?”

“With the blessing of Providence, I’ve no doubt of it,” replied
Malachi;--“no one ever came back from it yet, it’s true; but there never
was such a man as James Dingle got into the nest before.”

“He knows the country as well as any one here, I suppose,” observed the
Priest.

“Better, Father Killala,” said Malachi.

With this, most of the people came back, bringing poor Norah with them;
and she was comforted in a great degree. Still she’d terrible fears, and
a multitude of bad fancies; but every one strove to console her: those
who wouldn’t spake to her before, wept for her now; and Norah Cavanagh
was grateful to them for it. A few watched the crag; but most of the
people, as I said, came away: and they might be seen hanging together in
knots about the place, doing nothing the rest of the morning but watch
in hopes of seeing James Dingle appear. Some wint up among the hills to
scout for him; though that wasn’t much use, for nobody knew which way
he’d come back.

Hours and hours passed on, but still no news of James Dingle! And his
aunt, who heard of what had been done, was almost frantic at the foot of
the hill, beyond The Beg. It was long she waited, and often she looked
up the crags, but still there was no sign of her nephew:--it was past
mid-day, and all the people got round her, and every body began to
despair but Malachi.

At last two men was seen coming down from above; and who should they be,
as you’ll guess, but James Dingle and small Misther Millet! Young Dingle
had Norah Cavanagh’s child in his arms, and Millet was helping himself
on as well as he could by Bat Boroo’s big stick.

I won’t describe what big Jack Dax,--who was there,--said on seeing his
nephew again; I’ll rather take up your time by telling you what a better
man, and that’s Father Killala, did:--though Misther Dax is a good soul,
and much liked; but, of course, not to be mentioned with the Priest.
And the truth is, big Jack Dax didn’t waste much time in words but, with
little or no ceremony, hoisted his poor worn-out little nephew on his
own broad shoulders, and so hoiked him off home to The Beg. It was
himself--I mane the Priest,--that took the child out of James Dingle’s
arms, and when he’d seen it was alive and well, he motioned all the
people about him to be silent: then, turning to young Dingle, he said,
in a tone that those who heard it won’t soon forget, “James Dingle,
you’re the father of this child!”

Every soul stood amazed, and nobody spoke but Dingle himself. “What
makes you say so, sir?” said he.

“What?” exclaimed Father Killala: “what but that we’ve all witnessed
to-day?--Your humanity made you offer money to any one that would scale
the crag, when you merely knew that a child had been carried off by
the eagle; but as soon as you heard the child was Norah Cavanagh’s, you
prepared to go yourself. None but the father of this babe would have
ventured as much for it as you have to-day;--you are that father, James
Dingle. In the face of Heaven above us,--before your countrymen,--in
the sight of that lost young woman,--and with this unhappy being on
your bosom,”--and he placed the child in young Dingle’s arms as he
spoke,--“with this in your bosom, you cannot--dare not deny it!”

“I don’t deny it, Father Killala,” replied James Dingle.

It’s said the Priest himself looked a little surprised at this; but
he wint on:--“Then, Mr. Dingle, as you’re a man, I trust it’s your
intention to follow up this great day’s work, by doing right to her that
you’ve wronged.”

“He never wronged me, Father Killala,--blessings on him!” said Norah
Cavanagh.

Well! how all this would end, no soul could guess. The good Priest
looked more astonished than before, and not a little angry at Norah.
“And are you so lost to shame,” said he to her--“has vice made you so
abandoned--”

“She never was lost to shame, and don’t know vice;” interrupted James
Dingle, rather warmly: “I’ll uphould her to be as pure and virtuous as
any here.”

James Dingle’s aunt, who had stood mute with amazement all this time,
now broke silence. “What’s all this I hear?” exclaimed she:--“Why, he’ll
say next she’s an honest man’s wife, and himself her husband.”

“That’s just how it is, aunt,” replied James.

Without repeating more of that part of their discourse, word for word,
I may as well tell you, that Dingle owned to his enraged aunt,
he’d married Norah secretly, under a promise of getting the aunt’s
forgiveness within a month or so; but as Norah was a Catholic, and the
Dingles were Protestants, and the ould woman herself was as proud as
them that was her betters, and so adverse to a Catholic for her
nephew’s wife, that she’d as soon have done any thing as agree to such a
thing;--as, I say, all this was the case,--and James should have thought
of it before, shouldn’t he?--though his heart was a stout one, he hadn’t
the courage to mention his marriage to her. When his wife--for so I’ll
call her now--found he broke his promise, and wouldn’t save her from
the shame that was fast coming upon her, she resolutely refused to have
any--even the slightest--communication with him, and scorned to accept
the smallest mite of assistance from his hand: but worked hard and
supported herself, and by-and-by her baby too;--bowing, down before her
bad luck, and taking it as a penance for doing wrong, as she had, by
such a marriage; but under all, trusting to Providence for better days.

James Dingle freely confessed how bad he’d acted; and Norah repeated
over and over, it wasn’t his wish she should work as she had;--but she
would. The only excuse he could make was, the situation of his sisters;
who, as every one knew, like himself, were quite dependent on his aunt
for support. “And though,” says he, “I’m strong and able, and could well
keep them by the sweat of my brow, they’d break their hearts in a month,
after being brought up the way they have; and I was sure my aunt would
turn them out, the day I owned to marrying Norah. But that’s but a poor
plea for me:--I should have looked to my wife first;--I feel it here!”
 says he, striking his breast, “I’m a good-for-nothing scoundrel, and
them that doesn’t despise me is a’most as bad as myself. I made up my
mind how I’d act, coming down the crags, with the child smiling up like
an angel of goodness in my face, and so telling me, in that mute way,
to repent and do right, without more delay. I determined on this,
before Father Killala spoke to me;--believe it or no, which way you
please.--Norah, I’ll go home with you, and in your own little cabin ask
your forgiveness; next, I’ll beg that of my sisters, who, I suppose,
will be sent to me at once;--I begged it from above long ago. Aunt,
after the poor return I’ve made to you for all you did for me and mine
before now, it’s useless to ask grace of you for myself, I suppose; but
my knees wouldn’t be stiff, if I thought I could, by entreating, obtain
a continuance of your bounty to them who hav’n’t offended you;--of
course, I mane my sisters. Whether or no, aunt, I’ll always be grateful;
and do as you will, I’ll not repine.”

But James Dingle’s aunt didn’t mind what her nephew said, and wouldn’t
even listen to Father Killala, but raved and stormed with such violence,
that every one thought her passion must soon blow over; but the more
she blustered, the better she seemed to be for it. Bat Boroo got his big
stick and retired to the rear, seemingly a little frightened or so; Duck
Davie rubbed the palms of his hands together, and felt delighted to see
the ould lady in such a pucker,--no doubt he did; Mick Maguire stood
leaning upon the muzzle of his gun, staring with wonder at her chin
going up and down at such a rate; and Luke Fogarty poked his bull’s
horn as near as he well could to her mouth, to pick up as much of her
discourse as his deafness would let him.

At last, as all things must have an end, young Dingle’s aunt stopped
talking; but without being a bit more contented than when she began.
Just then, little Norah knelt down before her, and with tears in her
eyes asked, would she forgive her nephew, if she (Norah) left the place
for everwith her baby, and wint away to such parts, that none who knew
her should ever see sight of her more.

But James Dingle and Ileen stepped up to the little Dillosk-woman as
soon as the words were out of her mouth; and one at one side, and one at
the other, they raised her up.

“I can’t agree to that,” says James Dingle.

“No; nor I,--nor any woman here,” says Ileen.

“I don’t reproach you, Norah,” continued James, “for offering to leave
me;--but I won’t allow it. It’s now, perhaps for the first time, I feel
how very dear you are to me. I’ll give up all for you,--all, Norah; and
it’s much I shall be in your debt even then.”

“The whole that I’ve to say about the matter, Mrs. Dingle, is this,”
 quoth Ileen; “you’ve no right to look down upon Norah though she’s poor
and a Catholic, bekase you’re rich and a Protestant: for you were poor
yourself, before your husband, that’s dead, turned tithe-proctor; and
your own uncle is now Coadjutor to the Parish-Priest of Ballydalough.
There’s not one belonging to you can say his grandfather ever had two
chimneys to his house, or more than would buy a day’s dinner in his
pocket:--that I needn’t tell you though, for you know it well enough,
Mrs. Dingle. The buttermilk blood will shew itself; but you sha’n’t
trample upon Norah Cavanagh, while I, that’s her own mother’s second
cousin, can get within a mile of her. She comes of a good family, Mrs.
Dingle, and if you won’t be a mother to her, I will!--I couldn’t look
upon her while every one had a right to think she’d disgraced herself;
but now she’s proved to be what she ought, I restore her to my heart.”

“Ah! why not be good humoured thin at once?” says Mick Maguire to the
aunt; “make no more wry faces at the pill; but, though it’s bitter,
swallow it at once: why not thin, eh?--and don’t be a fool!--If you make
any more noise about it, I’ll fire away all the powder I have to drown
your voice.”

“I’ll not have my aunt insulted, Mick,” says James Dingle: “neither
by you, nor any one:--and I’d be better pleased with Heen had she said
less.”

“I’m not one for asking lave what I shall say, before I spake, or
begging pardon for what I’ve spoke, James Dingle;” replied Ileen.

“That’s true,” observed her husband, ould Malachi Roe, in a remarkably
positive tone.

Mrs. Dingle seemed to have a mind to begin again, when who should walk
up to the place where the people were standing, but my lady from The
Beg, leaning upon the arm of Pierce Veogh!--Mick Maguire let off his gun
for joy at the sight; the piper played a merry jig; Father Killala and
James Dingle shook hands with Pierce, and welcomed him heartily; and
almost every body felt delighted: for Pierce, with all his faults, was
much loved for many things;--chiefly, though, because he was born among
us, and had been unfortunate.

“Thank God!” says he, as soon as he was let speak; “Thank God! I’m here
among my people once more; and able to stand a free man on my own ground
again. For clearing me of all my miseries,--for recalling me to the
right path,--for restoring me to the house of my forefathers,--I am
indebted to my wife.” The beautiful lady who still kept her arm in
his, blushed, and held down her head, as he spoke these words. “My last
creditor,” continued Pierce, “that rascally mushroom, Mick Purcell, was
forced to give me a full acquittance this morning; an hour after that we
were married: but it’s only since Mr. Dax returned to The Beg with his
nephew, that I heard what had happened; and it grieves me to find any
one about me wretched at such a time as this. Mrs. Dingle, I don’t like
to boast of my few good deeds; but, I believe, on one occasion, I had it
in my power to grant you an important favour;--did I refuse?”

Mrs. Dingle burst into tears, but made no reply.

“I understand you object to your nephew’s choice, little Norah here,
because she’s a Catholic. My wife,” continued Pierce, “was a Protestant;
I, as you know, am not: but, with her, the difference of our creeds was
no bar to our union.”

Well--as I often say--to make a long story short, at last and in the
long run, what with Father Killala’s preaching, and Pierce Veogh’s
entreating, and his beautiful lady’s winning smiles, and the tears of
proud little Norah, James Dingle’s aunt agreed to make it up with her
nephew. Instead of going home with Norah that night to her own little
mud cabin, he took her away to his aunt’s house; and she has ever since
lived upon good terms with the ould woman, and her nieces to boot.

Pierce Veogh had intended to have made no noise about his wedding that
day; but to have kept open house at The Beg, from the next morning,
for a whole week. However, as he’d shewn himself to the people, and
reconciled his richest tenant to the marriage of her nephew with one
of the poorest on the whole domain,--though there never was a better,
except my lady, and few so good, upon it as little Norah,--he couldn’t
but ask every body to come home with him and make merry a little.

And it’s merry enough they made themselves, as I can bear witness, for
I was among them. They couldn’t well get on without me; so Mick Maguire,
and Bat Boroo, with Corney Carolan, and a whole fratarnity of them, came
down to fetch me up to The Beg in pomp. But, bad luck to them!--they
would have broke my neck if I hadn’t a little thought for myself; for
they’d a cup of the crature inside them before they started, and what
should they propose but to knock out the head of a large empty cask
that had been washed ashore close to my cabin that day week, and, as
I couldn’t walk, to roll me in it, over and over, right up to The Beg!
This, of course, I couldn’t allow; but, as there was no other vahicle to
be had, I consented,--if they’d born square holes through the two ends
of the cask, and get a pole to fit them,--to bestride it. So they did as
I hinted, and away I wint, with the piper playing before me, and two or
three o’ them, under Bat Boroo’s command, carrying me, straight off to
The Beg; where I emptied so many piggins o’ pothien to the health of my
neighbours, that I know no more how or when I got home, than the man in
the moon.

[Illustration: 309]

*****

[Illustration: 310]



THIRD COURSE: MY COUSIN’S CLIENTS.

[Illustration: 312]



INTRODUCTION.

As executor to my cousin, an attorney who had resided for upwards of
thirty years in old Fumival’s Inn, it became my duty to look over
a quantity of his papers, in order to elucidate some important
transactions, to which he had alluded in his will. The mass of documents
was too weighty to admit of a removal; and, for some time after his
decease, a variety of circumstances prevented me from devoting a morning
to their examination at his chambers. At length, the feast of St.
Swithin arrived:--the morning was ushered in, as is usually the case,
with low and gloomy clouds; and at noon, a heavy shower, of several
hours’ duration, began to fall. The rain compelled me to abandon the
business which I had intended to have done that day, and nothing of
interest pressed for my attention at home. I lost an hour in going,
alternately, to every window of the house; and, at the expiration of
that time, as no symptoms of a change were perceptible,--Furnival’s
Inn being not far distant,--I resolved on passing the remainder of the
morning at my late lamented cousin’s chambers. So little inclination,
however, had I for my task, that I should scarcely have had courage
enough to sally forth in the rain, had I not felt a strong presentiment
of an approaching visit from two respectable, but very prosing old
ladies,--the poppies of every party in which they appeared,--who
invariably took advantage of very wet days, to visit such of their
acquaintance as were frequently from home; because, as they said,
with some truth, scarcely any one was then out but themselves. Under
a laudable fear of the heavy influence which these respectable old
gentlewomen would have on my spirits, during such a remarkably dull day,
and knowing, from past experience, that when they came, they usually
stayed to dine, I glode forth, “like sparkle out of brode,” without
saying a word to any body; took a hearty lunch at a coffee-house;
hurried towards Furnival’s Inn; and, at five o’clock, was jocosely
reported, to the two old ladies whose visit I had anticipated, as being,
notwithstanding the wetness of the day, “absent without leave.”

[Illustration: 313]



ADAM BURDOCK.

Although a very plodding man of business, during the summer and autumn
of his life, my cousin Adam had been rather wayward in his youth. After
the completion of his articles of clerkship, in the office of an eminent
firm in the Temple, he oscillated, for several months, between Mount
Parnassus and the Temple of Justice. During that period, he made out a
_catalogue raisonné_ of above three hundred authors,--most of them men
of considerable eminence,--who had deserted law for literature; and my
cousin Adam would, perhaps, have followed their example, had not a young
lady whom he loved,--and of whose taste and judgment he entertained a
very high opinion,--treated a copy of verses, composed by him in her
praise, and which he considered his poetical _chef-d’ouvre_, not merely
with coolness, but positive contempt. Her sneers at his rhapsody were
so galling, that he set his face for ever against love and
literature,--lived an attorney, and died a bachelor.

A good hand at making out bills of costs is an invaluable acquisition to
a legal practitioner; a superior statement of charges being, in fact, a
concise but clear history, subdivided into items, of the suit to which
it refers. Adam Burdock’s attendance books were masterly performances in
this respect: almost every action, or legal affair, was, as I discovered
during my examination of his papers, an interesting little romance;
and there appeared to be much of that quality which is, by many modern
writers, termed poetry, in the law. My cousin’s bills frequently
contained moral, as well as pecuniary charges against his clients:
for the sake of being explicit, he was evidently compelled, on many
occasions, to envelop an accusation in a formal debit. All attornies, as
I have since been told, labour, more or less, under this disadvantage:
a man acts wisely, therefore, in keeping his legal adviser’s bill “aloof
from public eye;” it is often a record of follies and offences, for
which, perhaps, after they are passed, he blushes and repents. A
precise, old-fashioned solicitor’s ledger would form a capital volume
for the study of human nature: the characters of his clients, their
whims, their frailties and their sins, are accurately unfolded in its
pages; the sources and consequences of events may therein, without
difficulty, be traced; the gradations of a spendthrift, from opulence to
penury, are finely marked by the progressive _venues_ from Bond Street
to the Bench, in which the attendances against him are laid; and a
wholesome moral may, very often, be found in the concluding items of a
lawyer’s bill.

My cousin Adam’s draft sketches of costs, the elaborate marginal
memoranda which he had made on them, apparently, for his own
amusement,--being, perhaps, under the influence of the _cacoethes_
which, in his younger days, he had “scotch’d, not kill’d,”--and the
documents to which such sketches and memoranda referred, afforded data
for the following tales. Should they prove deficient in interest to the
reader, I must either have erred in selecting, or failed in narrating
them; for many of my cousin’s papers, and especially his briefs, were to
me such amusing details of matters of fact, that, for the first time in
my life, I heartily enjoyed a wet Saint Swithin’s day.

[Illustration: 315]



THE MATHEMATICIAN.

“A glorious morning, Hassell,” said a spruce middle-aged man, as he
walked up one side of the old square of Furnival’s Inn, with a small
valise under his arm, to a short, pale, elderly gentleman, who was
listlessly strolling, in a morning gown, slippers, and velvet cap, on
the opposite pathway, and in a contrary direction;--“a glorious morning
as ever was seen,--bright--clear--but by no means sultry:--an excellent
morning, I protest, and just to my taste.”

“Why, sir,” replied the pale old gentleman, “I must say it’s fine
country weather; and, I dare swear, delightful to you, who are just on
the brink of quitting the miserable metropolis until the morrow of All
Souls.”

“No, no,” interrupted the first speaker, in a brisk tone; “I shall only
be away a month; Trout and Thomas is appointed at bar early in the term,
and I must be home after the first three days of pheasant shooting to
marshal my evidence. I’ve a _subpoena duces tecum_ to produce the papers
in Wagstaff’s commission at the Cornwall assizes;--_that_ carries me
clear to Bodmin: and I’m going on a visit to an old client, who lives
but eleven miles further; so that the costs out of pocket of my autumnal
rustication, this year, will be but a flea-bite.”

“Ah! thou’rt a fortunate fellow,” said Hassell, with a sigh; “here have
I been tied by the leg, ever since Trinity term, with annoyances growing
out of Joshua Kesterton’s will; and fine weather makes me rabid, because
I can’t go into the country to enjoy it. Adam Burdock and I will now be
the only two principals left in the Inn, except bed-ridden Bailey and
poor mad Royston.”

“Burdock does not ruralize, I believe.”

“Not he: and if he had a mind so to do, he couldn’t just now; for he’s
shackled with the same case as myself.”

“But can’t you meet each other half-way, and close it at once?”

“Impossible:--it’s such an Augean stable, that a regiment of attornies,
with a legal Hercules at their head, could not do the needful in a
night. We can’t get at the facts,--at least we could not until within
these few days; and the results of our investigations are so
unexpected and staggering, that Adam and I,--and, indeed, all parties
concerned,--are well nigh paralysed. Such a case has not come under my
cognizance for years: if you were not in such a hurry I’d surprise you.”

“I’m not pressed,--not at all. I share a chaise with another witness who
picks me up in his way from the city; so I have only to keep my eye on
the gates:--pray step across.”

“No, hang it! the sun shines there; see how it exposes the clefts and
time-worn face of the building, so that the entire side of the Inn looks
as though it were in the last stage of decrepitude: it even makes _you_
look ten years older than you say you are, friend Waters. An elderly man
should always walk in the shade.”

“What whims and fancies!” said Waters, stepping lightly across the
square. “You’re the strangest fellow!--but come, your case, in a few
words.”

“Thus it is with us, then excuse me, but even in the shade you look
really past the figure you put yourself at:--let me Bee, fifty-four,
isn’t it?”

“Forty-seven! my good fellow! What the deuce--”

“Rely upon it you’re labouring under a mistake: it’s full thirty years
since I first met you in Jay’s writ of right.--Speaking of you, I
should say, in defiance of verbal statement founded on memory,--which is
treacherous, I find, with regard to age, when we are getting grey,--but
judging from the date written by the hand of time on the face of the
deed, in wrinkles as crabbed as court-hand--”

“I’m sixty. Well, well, be it so; and now for your case.”

“No, Waters, you are not sixty; because if you were, by my reckoning,
I should be sixty-seven, which I am not: but to resume. This is our
case:--Joshua Kesterton came to London with no character, and nothing
but a penny loaf in his pocket Good luck threw him in the way of the
well-known Paul Winpennie: Paul had compassion on him, and raised him,
by degrees, from an errand boy in his office, to first clerk; and, at
last, took him in as joint partner in all his concerns. After some time,
Paul retired to enjoy a splendid ease for the rest of his life. At the
end of five years, he discovered a secret, namely, that an immense
quantity of leisure was the worst stock a mercantile man could possibly
have on hand. He was suddenly seen in the city again: whether he was not
so keen as when he left it, or men had grown keener during his
retirement, I know not; but Paul Winpennie, under whose touch every
thing used to turn into gold, made ducks and drakes of his money; and,
by half-a-dozen unlucky, or, as the world says, mad-cap speculations,
was reduced from affluence to comparative beggary.”

“Well, all this occurs every day, Hassell,” said Waters.

“Ay, ay; but these are only preliminary facts.”

“Unfortunately--”

“Hold your tongue, and hear me out. Well, the inquest jury--I omitted
to say he was found dead one morning in his room;--the inquest jury
returned a verdict of’ ‘died by the visitation--’”

“But I thought it was generally believed that he died of a broken heart,
produced by grief.”

“We have nothing to do with broken hearts and grief, as a man of your
standing on the rolls ought to feel; we can only be governed by the
record. But if the coroner’s return had been _felo de se_, there would
have been little for the crown to take but his wife; and she, I think,
from all I know of her, would have been deemed an incumbrance, by most
people; although she soon got another husband.”

“What! pauper as she was?”

“I said no such thing: if you interrupt me, I shall punish you by being
prolix. Joshua Kesterton departed this life very shortly after his
friend and benefactor, Winpennie, and, in a spirit of gratitude to the
founder of his fortune, bequeathed a legacy of ten thousand pounds to
Paul’s widow.”

“Bravo!”

“No, sir, it was not ‘bravo!’--he acted like an ass; for his own
daughter, whom he left residuary legatee, was beggared by the
bequest. Partly through his own ignorance of the actual state of his
affairs,--partly through unexpected but apparently valid claims, made
on his estate after his death, and the failure of a firm, who were
his principal creditors,--when we obtained a tolerable insight to his
affairs, we discovered that, after satisfying the creditors, and paying
the legacy to Mrs. Winpennie, which, you perceive, was a positive
bequest, whereby she had a clear claim of priority over his residuary
legatee, the poor girl, instead of having, as her father doubtlessly
expected, a fine fortune, will scarcely get enough to pay for her
mourning.”

“A had case,” said Waters; “but won’t Mrs. Winpennie do something for
the girl?”

“That’s a riddle which I can’t solve,” said Hassell; “for, before she
had an opportunity to do so, or, in fact, before she knew that her
legacy would make a skeleton of the estate, she got snapped up by a
young fellow, who says he’s a Dane, but whom I suspect to be a Kerryman.
From all I can learn, he doesn’t feel disposed to forego a farthing;
and, as the woman married him without a settlement, he can do as he
pleases, you know, with the money, when he gets it. I sincerely wish
it may be soon, so that I can get out of town. The investigation of the
claims of the principal creditors for whom I am concerned, is now within
an ace of being concluded. As soon as the executors get our releases,
of course, this gentleman, as he calls himself, who married the widow
Winpennie, will insist on the full legacy; and however well inclined our
friend Burdock, and his clients the executors, may be towards the poor
girl, who, I must tell you, was married into a mighty high, but very
poor family, before her father’s death, I can’t see how they can help
her. By George! here she comes,--I dare say, on a visit to Burdock,--and
without her husband! That’s odd. Poor thing! I’d rather not seem to see
her. Let us cross over, and I’ll stroll with you to the gateway.--Don’t
stare at her, and I’ll be obliged to you.”

The two attornies walked to the other side of the square, and the lady
passed hastily down the Inn towards Burdock’s chambers. As she ascended
the staircase she heard him speaking, in rather a tender tone, at the
door of his office, apparently, to some person who was taking leave of
him; and, on reaching the first landing-place, she met a female, attired
in a very gaudy manner, and altogether of rather singular appearance,
whose handkerchief was held to her eyes as though she were weeping, or
desirous of concealing her face. When his fair client reached the office
door, which still remained open, Burdock was pacing to and fro within,
evidently much vexed and agitated.

“Are you alone, Mr. Burdock?” timidly inquired the lady, after she had
stood at the door for a short time without being able to attract the
notice of the attorney.

“My dear madam, I ask a thousand pardons,” replied Burdock, advancing
towards her; “I have been so annoyed that--Did you meet a lady in
sulphur and sky-blue?”

“I did, sir: she appeared to be in tears.”

“All! poor woman! she is much to be pitied; and yet, I protest, her
appearance is so questionable, that I sincerely regret that the unhappy
state of her affairs led her to pay me a visit. Had she not brought a
letter, which I hold in my hand, from a most respectable friend in the
country, I should certainly have scrupled to receive her. She’s very
unfortunate, though, I declare.”

“But what are her griefs to mine, sir?”

“My dear Mrs. Wyburn, as I have often told you, bad as your case is,
there are thousands who would deem your situation a state of bliss
compared with what they suffer. Here, for instance, is this poor woman,
forty years of age at least, weak enough to come to me with paint on
her cheeks, and dressed in blue and brimstone, but with acute feelings,
notwithstanding her folly, who marries a man for love, and, in a few
days after the ceremony, is deserted and robbed by him of what should
have supported her in old age.”

“Wretched woman! like me, then, she is a beggar, I suppose!” said Mrs.
Wyburn.

“I fear the poor creature is almost penniless, indeed:--her business
with me was to receive a small sum, which my friend, from whom she
brought the letter I hold, had confided to me three years ago, to invest
for her. I placed it in the hands of your late lamented father; and she
holds his note for the amount: but we can’t pay her. If she had not told
me she had a husband in whom the title now vested, having had no notice
from him of the marriage, she must, of course, have had her money:--but
now it’s impossible. And the woman implored me so not to let her starve,
that, in order to pacify and get rid of her, I have been compelled to
request her to call again; for which I am now most heartily sorry. I
feel ashamed to have her seen go out of my office. But, odso! my dear
madam! how is it that I see you alone?--Where is your husband?”

“In prison!”

“At whose suit?”

“In truth, I cannot tell: it is enough for me to know that he is a
prisoner, and that I do not possess the means of setting him at liberty.
Kind Mr. Burdock, will you still listen to me?--Will you give me your
counsel?”

“I am grieved--heartily grieved,” said Burdock; “but I really feel at a
loss how to advise--how to benefit you.”

“Oh! you can--you can, indeed; or, if you cannot, there is none on earth
who will. You know not half of my distresses. I am a thousand-fold more
wretched than you imagine. Pity me, sir;--pity me, and I will pray for
you.”

“I do pity you, most sincerely,” said Burdock, considerably affected;
“but let me implore you to be calm.”

“I will be calm as marble, sir. I have told you my husband is in prison,
without shedding a tear;--and now, without a sigh, I will tell you,
that my sorrows are of such a nature that I cannot--dare not--must not
breathe a hint to him of what I suffer.”

“You positively alarm me, my dear madam. I cannot imagine you to have
been guilty of any imprudence: and if not, what is there that a wife
devotedly attached, as I know you are, to her husband, cannot confide to
his bosom?”

“Oh! much, much, Mr. Burdock. I have no friend,--none in the world, to
whom I can tell my afflictions, but you; and I have no claim on you to
hear them: you have endured too many vexations, in your struggles for my
welfare, already.”

“I regret that no better success has attended my poor endeavours, Mrs.
Wyburn; but, believe me, that as far as prudence will allow, my best
exertions are still at your service.”

“Then you will hear and advise me?”

“I will, as I hope for mercy, to the best of such judgment as I am
endowed with.”

“Oh! thank you, thank you!--on my knees I will thank you.”

“Nay, nay! I must not be repaid thus: I shall charge the consultation in
my bill, and I hope you will one day pay it,” said the attorney, with a
smile. “Come, again let me entreat you to be calm.”

“I am sure I shall be so:--I have overcome the bitterness of bringing
my mind to tell you my little tale, and I feel capable of doing so
properly. Your kindness gives me additional courage and self-command.
I shall endeavour to restrict myself to simple facts, and I will go
through the task, unless my heart break in the attempt. Are we free from
interruption?”

“Entirely so; my clerks are both out, and I will answer no one until you
have done.”

“Then I will begin at once. I solemnly enjoin you, sir, not to reveal
what I am about to tell you to any mortal; for, alas! it concerns my
husband’s honour,--nay, even his life. Much as he loves me, I think he
would deprive me of existence, rather than let me make you acquainted
with his weakness,--I will say his crime: but as it may save us both
from being even more wretched than we are, I will trust it to your ear.
When George Wyburn married me, he knew I had considerable expectations,
and, therefore, did not demand a settlement. My poor father allowed us
a handsome income, while he lived; George was high-spirited and gay, but
not extravagant; and we had enough,--nay, something to spare, after our
yearly expenses were paid, until within a few months before my father’s
death, when a sad and sudden change came over us. At Harrowgate, my
husband,--Heaven knows how,--formed an acquaintance with a man, who,
after a short time, was our constant visitor and George’s bosom friend.
In three months, under the influence of his associate, my husband became
a gambler and a duellist! He was still kind to me, and I concealed his
faults from my father. Vain were all my attempts to reclaim him: I had
lost my power of persuading him, but yet I feel sure he loved me. I now
bitterly lament my folly in keeping his proceedings a secret from my
father; for he went on in his evil ways. At last the climax arrived:
he lost more than he could pay; and, unable to bear up against the
dishonour which his default would have brought upon him, he abruptly
quitted Harrowgate with a determination to destroy himself. He wrote to
his new friend, stating that, ere the letter reached its destination,
he should be numbered with the dead. He declared that he felt unable to
address his poor wife; but he warmly recommended her to the care of him
to whom he wrote, and begged that her unfortunate husband’s fate might
be revealed to her as gradually as possible. The wretch came to me as he
was desired: he told me a little, and I learnt the rest from the letter
which George had sent him. Accompanied by this man, I made all possible
haste to the place whence George had written. I found him alive and
unhurt. His pistols were lying on the table before him, when I rushed
into the room, and he was writing to me: he could not leave the world
without bidding me an eternal adieu! He had lingered over the paper,
which was damped by his tears; but, from the language of the sentence
which he was penning when we entered, his resolution to destroy himself
seemed to have been unshaken; and I am convinced that, had we not
arrived sooner than he expected, and had not his heart urged him to
assure me that he loved and blessed me in his last moments, I should
that day have been a widow. He embraced and wept over me, but blushed
before his friend, and seemed dreadfully enraged at our arrival. When I,
at length, succeeded in soothing him a little, he asked my companion
to advise him how he ought to act. The reply I can never forget. It was
this:--‘Why, truly, Mr. Wy-burn, after having stated that you were going
to commit suicide, there is but one course to save your reputation,
namely,--to keep your word: but as I suppose no one but myself, except
your wife, is acquainted with the circumstance, no doubt you will see
the wisdom of suffering certain notions, which, perhaps, are rather too
rigorously attended to, in some quarters, giving place to the dictates
of religion, et cetera;--that is, if you feel satisfied that I can be
depended on to keep your secret.’ ‘Will you swear to do so?’ asked
my husband. ‘Nay,’ replied the other, ‘if you doubt me, you have your
remedy. Were I capable of wronging my friend, I surely should not be
prevented from so doing by the comparatively cobweb fetters of a private
oath.’ Subsequently, I prevailed upon him, by reproaches and entreaties,
to promise me solemnly that he would relinquish all thoughts of carrying
his fatal resolution into effect: but he made the most solemn vow, that
if either I or his friend betrayed the weakness, or, to use his own
words, the cowardice he had shewn, in not completing what he
had meditated, he should certainly blow out his brains the first
opportunity; for he never could exist under the idea that he was the
laughing-stock of the world. Summoning up his fortitude, he returned
with us to Harrowgate: and, in a few days, a portion of what he had lost
at the gaming-table was paid; for the remainder, he gave bonds payable
on the death of my father; and I firmly believe he has never touched the
dice-box since.”

“Then I am glad to say all seems to have ended more happily than could
have been expected,” observed Burdock.

“Not so, sir,--not so, indeed,” replied Mrs. Wyburn; “that fatal friend
still hovers near him;--my husband still hugs the snake that destroys
while he embraces him. Those gambling debts, I am certain, were
contracted by my husband with the villain’s confederates.”

“Then the bonds have been, at length, put in force against him?”

“They have; and I now owe my husband’s loss of liberty, as I once almost
did the loss of his life, to the machinations of Blennerhagen?”

“Blennerhagen!” exclaimed the attorney, considerably surprised;
“you surely do not mean _our_ Mr. Blennerhagen,--he who married Paul
Winpennie’s widow!”

“He is the man,” replied Mrs. Wyburn: “he obtained an introduction to
Mrs. Winpennie by means of my husband. Foolish as she is, and lucky as
she has been, in one respect,--alas! to my sorrow,--I sincerely pity
her; for miserable will be her fate. She is linked to a calm, determined
villain, who entertains no spark of affection for her: the possession of
my poor father’s legacy, and not her person, was his object in marrying
her.”

“And how do you know this, my dear madam?”

“Oh, sir! Blennerhagen has thrust his confidence upon me, and I have
been compelled to listen to him. Unhappily, he has, or pretends to have,
a passion for me; and I have endured the confession from his own lips.
He has boldly told me, that, had George committed suicide, he should
have offered me his hand, as soon as decency would have permitted him
to do so. You find, sir, that I am as good as my word: I tell you this
without a blush or a tear, while _you_ shudder!”

“Shudder! ay, and I well may. Thou dost not blush or weep, indeed, my
poor young sufferer; but thy cheek is deathly pale, and thy eyes seem
burning in their sockets. I beseech you, let us postpone this.”

“Nay, nay, pray hear me to an end: I have brought my courage to bear it
all; if I relapse, I cannot work upon myself to go through the ordeal
again.”

“But why not unmask this villain--this hypocrite--this wolf?”

“Your honest indignation makes you forget that my husband’s life is in
his power. That fatal letter, which George wrote to him when he quitted
Harrowgate with a determination to commit suicide, is still in the
possession of Blennerhagen; I saw him take it from his pocket-book but
two days ago, although he protests to George that it is destroyed:
and the publication of it would, I fear, hurry my husband to
self-destruction at once. I know George’s temper so well, that I tremble
at the idea of incurring so great a risk; and yet what else to do I know
not; for the demon, after persecuting me in vain, for months, now holds
that hand-writing before my eyes, and dares me to be virtuous!”

“The monster! I will move mountains, but he shall be defeated,--ay, and
punished.”

“Thank you, thank you!--my heart thanks you: I knew your will would be
good: but, alas! I doubt your power. You know not with whom you have to
deal. Blennerhagen prides himself on being impregnable: he talks to me
of working like a mathematician: he says that all his plans are laid
down with such geometrical precision that they cannot fail. He has
thrown such a magic web about me, that I have felt myself to be almost
his slaye; and yet, thank heaven, I am innocent, and loathe him. Save
me, Mr. Burdock!--but not at the expense of my husband’s life: save me,
I implore you!--I have no other friend.”

“I will save--I will extricate you, if it be in the power of man. I have
worked like a negro for my money, and may soon be past working, and want
it. I have debarred myself of every indulgence; but I can--I will
afford to gratify my feelings, for once in my life, even at the risk of
diminishing some of my hard-earned little hoard. Mrs. Wyburn, I’ll
back myself, if need be, with a thousand pounds, and,--confound the
fellow,--have at him! Excuse me for swearing; but I’m warmed, and feel a
pleasure in indulging--”

“Be temperate, sir, in your proceedings, lest you forget that next to my
own innocence, my husband’s life--”

“Do not fear, madam. Is Mr. Wyburn in prison, or at a lock-up house?”

“At the lock-up house, sir, in Serle’s Buildings.”

“Then I’ll bail him. Hassell may laugh at me, when he hears that I have
stepped out of my cautious path, if he likes; but I’ll begin by bailing
Wyburn: for his liberty, at this time, is of the utmost value. Within
a few days, the great straggle will come on, which must settle the main
question between Hassell’s clients and the executors: on the fortunate
result of that depends your only hope; and a poor hope it is, I must
confess: still, Wyburn should be at large to fight it out, and strive to
the last After to-day, I ought to be in hourly consultation with him.

“Blennerhagen knows all this; and, not expecting God would raise up
such a friend to George, has caused him to be arrested. As he boasts
of generally making his actions produce double results, he flatters
himself, also, that I, being thus overwhelmed with this new misfortune,
and deprived of the protecting presence of my husband,--”

“Curse him!--he shall be foiled! I won’t put up with it, while I have
breath!”

“I must tell you,--for, as you now have heard so much, you should know
all,--that one of the threats or temptations he holds out to me, is
this:--‘Wyburn,’ he says, ‘will soon, in all probability, be entirely
dependent on my bounty; for having, through my marriage with Mrs.
Winpennie, an entire control over the ten thousand pounds legacy, which
will, apparently, eat up the whole of your father’s property, after
payment of the debts, I can starve Wyburn, if I like.’ This is a
specimen of the language which he dares to use to me. Had I my jewels
left, I could have raised a sufficient sum, perhaps, to procure George
his liberty, without troubling you; but Blennerhagen obtained them from
me long ago, without Mr. Wyburn’s knowledge, by protesting that he had
spent all he possessed to keep the bondholders quiet, and wanted money
to enable him to make a figure before Mrs. Winpennie. I have been very
weak and very foolish, you will say; but what could I do? Blennerhagen
dares me to reveal a syllable of what passes at our interviews, to my
husband: he tells me that he should instantly detect my treachery by
George’s conduct. I am forced to see--to hear him:--he is the worst of
tyrants. If I strive to extricate myself from his wiles, I plunge deeper
in his toils. To remain passive is to offer up myself a willing victim
to a being, whom, of all others, I abhor. Could I have taken counsel of
my husband, all might have been well: but I have not dared to breathe
a word to him of my sorrows; and Blennerhagen well knows how to obtain
advantages over a wife, deprived, as I have been, of her natural
supporter.”

“It shall be at an end, I tell you: Wyburn shall be bailed, and I’ll try
if _I_ can’t play off a few tricks. We’ll countermine this scoundrel.
I’ll insure your husband’s life for my security, and then, if he have
so high a sense of honour as you think, he won’t fix me as his bail by
shooting himself; for I shall make him understand that the office won’t
pay, if the insured perishes by his own hands; so that we’re safe until
November: and, in the interim, I’ll sacrifice a little to those feelings
which laudable prudence has taught me, hitherto, to smother. It’s hard
if a man cannot make a fool of himself once in his life; and, should I
lose my time and money both, humanity will be a plea for me, with my own
conscience, and that of every honest man in the world. Besides, I’m only
fifty, and shall not die a beggar if it comes to the worst, perhaps. I
will fulfil my promise, madam, be assured! Time is precious:--have you
anything more to ask of me?”

“A glass of water,” faintly replied Mrs. Wyburn; “a glass of water and a
little air; for my strength is gone.”

Burdock, with great alacrity, opened the little window of his room, and
brought Mrs. Wyburn some water, in a broken cup, time enough to save
her from fainting. Some one knocked at the outer door, and she almost
immediately afterwards rose to depart. Burdock conducted her to the foot
of the staircase, begging her to keep up her spirits, and protesting
that he thought he should prove himself as good a mathematician as
Blen-nerhagen: “for,” added he, “I have dabbled in the science, and
Euclid still affords me amusement in my hours of relaxation from legal
business.”

The person who had knocked at the office door just before Mrs. Wyburn’s
departure, was the bearer of a note from Blennerhagen’s wife, in which
she earnestly requested the favour of a consultation with Burdock, at
her own house, on an affair of the utmost importance. The lady stated
that she was confined to her room by indisposition, otherwise she would
have paid him a visit in Fumival’s Inn; and she protested that, if
he did not so far indulge her as immediately to obey her summons, she
would, at the risk of her life, wait upon him at his office.

“Paul Winpennie’s choice was always a fool,” muttered Burdock, as he
threw the letter on his table, after having perused its contents; “she
was always fantastical, and apt to magnify atoms into elephants; but
I don’t think she would write me such an epistle as this, if something
extraordinary had not occurred: ergo, I’ll go to her at once. Perhaps I
may glean something which may assist me in extricating Wyburn: I hope
I shall; for though I have promised his wife so much, at this moment I
can’t see my way clear a single inch beyond my nose,--except so far as
regards bailing him, which I’ll do as soon as I return. It is possible,
that the woman has discovered something; for the most silly of her sex
possess an astonishing acuteness on particular occasions. I may meet
Blennerhagen with his wife, too:--at all events I’ll go, and ponder on
the way as to what proceedings I ought to take against this mathematical
monster:--for act against him, I will; on that I’m fixed--that is--if I
can find out a way to do so, with any prospect of success.”

As Burdock concluded this little soliloquy, one of his clerks returned;
and the old gentleman, without a moment’s delay, set off towards
Blennerhagen’s house. On reaching the corner of the street in which it
stood, he was accosted by a female, who begged him, in a very mysterious
manner, to follow her.

“My good woman,” said Burdock, “you are in error, I apprehend.”

“Not if I am speaking to Mr. Burdock, and if you are going to Mrs.
Blennerhagen,” replied the woman.

“I certainly am that man,” said Burdock; “and you are quite right in
supposing that I am on my way to visit that lady:--what then?”

“Follow me and I will conduct you to her. I am her woman, and act by her
orders.”

“Mighty odd!” exclaimed the attorney; “but lead on;--I’ll follow you.
I suppose she has her reasons for this; and it matters but little to me
which way I go, so that--mark me, woman--so that I am not led a dance:
for though I walk slowly, on account of an infirmity in my knees, time,
I assure you, is precious to me. Go forward.”

The woman immediately walked on towards a little back street, down which
she proceeded a short distance, and then turned under an old arched
gateway into a solitary yard. The buildings on one side of this place
appeared, by a weather-beaten notice board, to have been long without
tenants. Through a low wall, on the opposite side of the yard, there
were entrance-doors to the back gardens of a range of respectable
houses.

“I perceive,” said Burdock, as the woman opened one of the garden doors,
“that you are smuggling me in the back way.--Give my compliments to your
mistress, and tell her, that I prefer entering in the ordinary manner.
If you will step through the house, I dare say I shall be at the front
door nearly as soon as you have opened it.”

Burdock then turned on his heel, and strode away from his guide at
rather a brisk pace. On reaching the front door, he found the woman
there waiting for him. Casting on the old gentleman a look of reproach,
and significantly putting her finger to her lips, she conducted him up
stairs, and silently ushered him into Mrs. Blennerhagen’s dressing-room.
The lady, who was reclining on a sofa, attired in an elegant morning
dress, rose as he entered; and, between jest and earnest, reproached
him for not having given a more prompt attention to her note. Burdock
protested that he had not been guilty of the least delay in obeying her
commands.

“Well, well!” said the lady, “perhaps I am wrong; but to a woman of my
nerves, suffering at once under indisposition, and the most agonizing
suspense, every moment seems to be an age.”

“What’s the matter, madam?” inquired Burdock. “Where is Mr.
Blennerhagen?”

“Thank Heaven! he is out:--my anxiety has been intense lest you should
not arrive before he returned. My dear Mr. Burdock, I’m in the greatest
distress.”

“Then, upon my honour and conscience, madam, I don’t see how I can be of
any assistance to you; for my hands are so full of female distress just
now--”

“Oh, sir!--but not such pressing--such important distress as mine.
Recollect that I’m a wife;--a wife, Mr. Burdock, and not altogether
indifferent to my husband.”

“Well, madam! there are many wives who can say quite as much, I assure
you.--But now for your facts: I am bound to hear, even if I cannot
assist you.”

“Ah! you’re a kind--a dear old gentleman:--I always said so, and now I
find that I am right. You have a heart formed to sympathize with those
who are in sorrow.”

“The world thinks rather differently of me,” replied Burdock: “my
feelings, I know by experience, will bear as much as most men’s.
Business, madam,--business has hardened them:--but, allow me to ask,
what has occurred? You seem to have been ruffled.”

“Do I?” said Mrs. Blennerhagen, turning to a looking-glass which stood
on the table by her side, and glancing at the reflection of her still
lovely face, with a look of anxiety. “Well, now I see myself, I declare
I’m quite frightened. I positively look like a hag! don’t I?--I ought
not to suffer such trifles to affect me so severely.”

“Trifles, my dear madam!” emphatically exclaimed the attorney: “I
beg your pardon; but I was led to understand, from the tenor of your
language--”

“Attribute it to the excess of my womanly fears,--increased, perhaps, by
indisposition,--and excuse me. We are weak creatures, as you must know;
even the very best of us are agitated into agony, by phantoms of our own
creation. My suspicions--”

“Am I summoned to advise you on suspicion, then?”

“Nothing more, I assure you: and, really, I ought to be ashamed to
entertain, for one instant, so poor an opinion of Mr. B.’s taste; and,
permit me to say it, of my own person. Now I reflect, it was exceedingly
wrong of me, perhaps, to be jealous of the woman.”

“I wish, with all my heart, madam, you had reflected an hour ago.”

“Would that I had! I should have been saved much--much uneasiness:--but
I now laugh at my fears,” said the lady, affecting to titter.

“I am sorry I cannot join you, madam.”

“Ah, Mr. Burdock! I know the interest you take in my happiness; and,
therefore, I sent for you to advise,--to comfort me. I look up to you as
to my father.”

“You do me an honour, Mrs. Blennerhagen, to which I never had an idea of
aspiring.”

“The honour is entirely on my side, Mr. Burdock,” replied the lady,
taking one of Burdock’s hands in both her own; “I feel proud to be
permitted to make free with so worthy and respectable a character. My
confidence in you is unbounded, Mr. Burdock: you see, I receive you in
my dressing-room--”

“For mine own part,” interrupted the attorney, “I should have preferred
the parlour; and so, most probably, would Mr. Blennerhagen.”

“Don’t talk so foolishly, Mr. Burdock:--attorneys, like physicians, are
privileged persons, you know.”

“True, true, madam,” said Burdock, rather hastily quitting his seat;
“and now, as the cause of our conference is at an end, I will take my
leave.”

“My dear sir, you surely are not going to quit me in this state:--you
have not heard my complaint.”

“I thought your mind was easy on the subject.”

“Oh! by no means! I am far from soothed,--far from tranquillized: your
discrimination may shed a new light upon my mind. I must insist on
throwing myself upon your consideration.”

“For consistency’s sake, don’t blow hot and cold in the same moment,
Mrs. Blennerhagen. Be in a rage, or be pacified: and if I must hear your
tale of woe, the sooner you tell it the better.”

“You’ll promise not to call me a silly, foolish woman, then, if you
think my apprehensions were groundless.”

“Of course, madam, I should scarcely call a lady a fool to her face,
even if I thought she deserved it.”

“How deeply I am indebted to you!--you cannot conceive how much the
cast of your countenance, when you look pleasant, reminds me of my late
excellent husband,--poor Mr. Winpennie!--Alas! I never was jealous of
him, with or without a cause. He was the best--the kindest--”

“Excuse me, madam; but, however I may reverence the memory of Mr.
Winpennie, my time is of too much value, and too seriously engrossed
just now, by my duties towards the livings to listen to an eulogy on the
dead.”

“Well! no doubt you are perfectly right: the value of your time, I know,
must be great. In a few words, then, about two hours ago, my servant
acquainted me that there was a strange-looking creature inquiring at the
door for Mr. Blennerhagen: she was painted up to the eyes, and dressed
in a vulgar amber-coloured pelisse, with staring sapphire ribbons--”

Burdock here interrupted the lady, by exclaiming, “Hang me if it isn’t
the woman in brimstone and blue!” and bursting into a hearty laugh.

“Why, Mr. Burdock, you astonish me!” exclaimed Mrs. Blennerhagen; “I
beseech you to cease;--my head will split;--you shatter my nerves to
atoms. I insist upon your explaining yourself;--I shall scream if
you don’t cease laughing, and tell me the meaning of this mysterious
conduct.”

“Oh, madam!” replied Burdock, endeavouring to resume his gravity, “do
not be alarmed at that unhappy creature:--I sent her here.”

“Is it possible, Mr. Burdock, that a man of your respectability can have
such acquaintance?”

“The woman is not what she appears, Mrs. Blennerhagen. I saw her, for
the first time in my life, to-day. Her business with me was briefly as
follows:--About three years ago, a certain sum was remitted to me by a
country attorney, for whom I act as agent, to invest for this woman;
and I deposited it in the hands of Joshua Kesterton. Circumstances now
compel her to call in her money; but a legal difficulty occurs in
paying her off; and I referred her to Mr. Blennerhagen, who, in all
probability, will be the party most interested in the matter; thinking
that, as the sum was small, he might, perhaps, from motives of charity,
relieve the woman’s wretchedness, by waiving the legal objection at his
own risk. Ha, ha! And so I have to thank the woman in sulphur and blue
for my walk, eh?”

“Mr. Burdock, I vow, sir, that you overwhelm me with confusion: but if
you were a woman, I am sure you would admit, that when a female of this
lady’s appearance makes such particular inquiries after a newly-married
man, and refuses to tell her business to his wife--”

“Ha, ha, ha!” exclaimed the attorney again; “that, too, I plead guilty
of producing. I told her, that you had nothing to do with the matter:
for that the legal estate was vested, by your marriage, in Blennerhagen.
I am willing to acknowledge, that the circumstances were suspicious:
and, as long as I live, be assured that I will never send a female, in
a yellow and azure dress, to a married man again. Hoping you will forget
the uneasiness which I have innocently brought upon you, I now, madam,
beg permission to withdraw.”

Burdock had risen from his chair, and was on the point of taking up his
hat and cane, when Mrs. Bleunerhagen’s servant entered the room, and
said, in a hurried tone, that her master was at the street door.

“Then, I’ll wait to see him,” said Burdock, placing his hat and cane on
the table again, and resuming his seat.

“Heavens, sir! are you mad?” exclaimed Mrs. Blennerhagen. “Unfortunate
woman, that I am!--I did not expect him this half-hour. What is to be
done, Wilmot?”

“Don’t be alarmed, madam,” replied the woman; “there’s quite time enough
for the gentleman to get into the cupboard.”

“Is there no other resource left, Wilmot?”

“None that I can see, madam!” replied the woman; “he’ll meet master on
the stairs if he goes down: and though there’s time enough, there’s no
time to be lost. Sir,” added she, taking up the attorney’s hat and cane,
“you’d better slip in at once.”

“Slip in!” exclaimed Burdock; “why should I slip in?--What do you mean?”

“Don’t speak so loud, sir:--master will hear you,” said Wilmot.

“What do I care?” cried Burdock, in a stern tone; “are you out of your
senses? Why should I hide like a galivanting beau in a farce?”

“Oh! the wretch! he’ll be the ruin of my reputation!” exclaimed the
lady.

“Reputation!--What have I to do with your reputation, Mrs Blennerhagen?”

“This is my mistress’s dressing-room, you see, sir.”

“Well, you brought me here, woman: and if it is, as your mistress
says,--attorneys, like physicians, are privileged persons.”

“Oh! he won’t discriminate, Wilmot. Don’t you know, you cruel man, that
we can’t blind others with what we blind ourselves? I am as pure as
an angel; but appearance is every thing; and Mr. Blennerhagen is more
jealous than a Turk.”

“That I am sure he is, madam; for he doats on you.”

“And you, Mr. Burdock, will not be complaisant enough to save our
connubial bliss from being wrecked for ever.--If you don’t comply, I
must scream out, and say you intruded yourself.”

“Will you hear me speak?” cried the enraged attorney.

“Hark, how he bawls! And he knows well enough the wife of Cæsar must
not even be suspected,” said Mrs. Blennerhagen; “let the wretch ruin
me;--do, Wilmot.”

“Indeed I won’t, madam, if I can help it. Come, sir, if you are a
gentleman, prove yourself to be so.”

“Bedlamites! will you hear me?--is not my character--”

“Oh! he is a bachelor attorney, and lives in chambers, Wilmot: and you
know the character of that class of men is quite obnoxious in cases of
reputation: but let him have his way; I must be his martyr, I see.”

“Come, come, sir,--right or wrong, be civil to a lady.”

“What, do you think I’ll make a Jack-pudding of myself?”

“Stop his mouth, Wilmot: don’t let him speak; for I hear the creak of
Mr. Blennerhagen’s boot.”

The lady and her woman now seized on the astonished attorney, and thrust
him into a closet. The door was instantly closed on him, and the key
turned in the lock. Mrs. Blennerhagen returned to the sofa; and Wilmot
was applying a smelling-bottle to her nose, bathing her brows, &c.,
as though she was just reviving from a fainting fit, when the majestic
Blennerhagen entered the room.

With a keen and hurried glance he seemed to survey every object around
him, while he closed the door: he then approached the sofa, and uttered
a few endearing epithets while he relieved Wilmot from the task of
supporting her mistress. ‘Anxious to get rid of him, Mrs. Blennerhagen
rapidly recovered; and her husband having, apparently by accident,
mentioned that he had left a friend in the parlour, she urged him, by
all means, to return ta his guest, as she found herself comparatively
well, and desirous of obtaining a little repose. Blennerhagen kissed her
cheek; and after recommending her to the care of Wilmot, passed round
the sofa to a writing-desk, which was placed on a table behind it, where
he remained a few moments, and then hastily withdrew.

Mrs. Blennerhagen immediately resumed her activity. “Now, my dear
Wilmot,” said she, “our only hope is to get the attorney down the back
stairs, and away through the garden.”

“That is how I have settled it, madam, in my own mind,” said the woman:
“master won’t be up again at least these ten minutes.”

“If you have any pity, emancipate me from this state of torture,”
 groaned poor Burdock: “I would face a roaring lion rather than remain
here any longer; my reflections are most poignant.”

“Gracious Heaven!” exclaimed Mrs. Blennerhagen, “I’ve lost the key.”

“Then, of course, you will permit me to burst open the door,” said the
attorney.

“Not on any account: be patient, I beseech you. Wilmot, where could I
have put it?”

“I don’t know, madam; you locked the door yourself: search in your
bosom.”

“I have; but it is not there:--nor on the sofa,--nor any where. You must
have had it.”

“Indeed, madam, I never saw it since you took it off the shelf to lock
the door.”

“Women!” exclaimed Burdock, whose patience was completely worn out;
“rash, mischievous, accursed women! take notice that I am become
desperate; and if you do not find the key and release me instantly, I
shall certainly break out, and depart, at all hazards.”

“For all our sakes have patience, sir,” said the lady, in a soothing
tone; “be quiet but for a few moments: I hear Mr. Blennerhagen’s boot
again.”

Before his wife could reach the sofa, Blennerhagen strode in,
accompanied by a stranger.

“Outraged, injured, as I am,” said he, fixing his dark eye indignantly
on his wife, “I make no apology for thus introducing a stranger to your
apartment. This gentleman is my friend, and comes here with me, at
my own request, to be a witness of my shame; so that I may be able
to obtain legal reparation, at least, from the unknown assassin of my
happiness. Peterson,” added he, turning to the stranger, “take the key
and open that closet-door.”

“Lord! Mr. Blennerhagen,” said the lady, with a forced laugh; “don’t
carry on the joke, by making such serious faces: I told you, Wilmot, he
would be too deep for us:--see, now, if he hasn’t got the key. Where did
you find it, love?”

“I took it, madam, from your hand,” replied Blennerhagen, “when your
mind was occupied in affecting a painful and languishing recovery from
syncope. This may be a jest to you, but it is none to me; nor shall
it be to him who has wronged me. I have set my mark upon the
villain:--perceiving a portion of male attire, which I could not
recognise as my own, hanging from the crevice of the closet-door, while
I appeared to be busy at the desk behind you, I cut it off: I have it
here,” added Blennerhagen, producing a triangular piece of brown cloth
from his pocket; “let the man who owns it claim it if he dare.”

“Adam Burdock dares to claim his own in any place,” exclaimed the
attorney, bursting the door open with one furious effort: “that’s a
piece of the tail of my coat.”

“Mr. Burdock!” exclaimed Blennerhagen.

“Ay, sir, Mr. Burdock,--heartily ashamed of himself, for being made a
ninny by your wife, or a dupe by both of you and my precious friend,
Mrs. Wilmot. You all look astonished; but, be assured, there is no one
here half so much astonished as myself. I believe you to be capable of
anything, Blennerhagen; but, on a moment’s consideration, I think your
wife is too much of a simpleton to act as your confederate, in a plot on
my pocket; and notwithstanding your skill in mathematics, I am willing
to attribute all this to mere accident.”

“He calls me a simpleton, Wilmot;--he casts a slur on my intellects, Mr.
Blennerhagen,” exclaimed the lady.

“In that he is more uncharitable than myself, madam,” said Blennerhagen:
“it may be an accident, it is true; but I question whether the
gentleman, with all his professional skill, will be able to persuade a
special jury to think so.”

“I am sure my mistress is as innocent as the child unborn,” observed
Mrs. Wilmot.

“Hold your tongue, woman, and leave the room,” said Blennerhagen,
angrily.

“Indeed, I shall not leave the room,” said Wilmot: “I’ll stand by my
mistress to the last, and won’t leave her for you or anybody else.
You’re a couple of vile wretches; and there isn’t a pin to choose
between you.”

“Oh! Wilmot, thou art thy poor heart-broken mistress’s only
friend, after all,” sobbed Mrs. Blennerhagen; “she is the victim of
circumstances and her own refined feelings.”

“Peterson,” said Blennerhagen, “I am under the unpleasant necessity of
requesting you to remember all that you have just witnessed. You will
agree with me, I think, that I ought to make this man quit my house
before I leave it myself.”

“Unquestionably,” replied Peterson.

“I shall do no such thing,” said Burdock; “conscious of my innocence, I
defy you;--I laugh at you: and, before I quit this roof, I will make you
wish you had sooner crossed the path of a hungry wolf than mine. I dare
you to give me half an hour’s interview.”

“Ought I to do so, Peterson?” calmly inquired Blennerhagen. “Not without
a witness, I think,” was the reply.

“With a score of witnesses, if you will,” said Burdock:--“events have
precipitated my proceedings:--with a score of witnesses, if you will.
But mark me, man, you shall lament, if we are in solitude, that there
will be still one awful witness of your villany. I will unmask your
soul; I will shew you to yourself, and make you grind your teeth with
agony, unless you are, indeed, a demon in human form.”

“Heavens! Mr. Burdock,” exclaimed Mrs. Blennerhagen, “what can you have
to say against my husband?”

“It matters not, madam; he shall hear me in this place, or elsewhere
hereafter.”

“I scorn your threats, sir,” said Blennerhagen; “and publicly or
privately, I will meet any accusation you may have to make against me.”

“Privately be it, then, if you dare.”

“Dare, sir! Leave the room every body:--nay, I insist;--Peterson and
all. Now, sir,” said Blennerhagen, closing the door after his wife,
Wilmot, and Peterson, who, in obedience to his command, had left the
room; “now, sir, we are alone, what have you to say?”

“Blennerhagen,” said the attorney, fixing his keen eye on that of the
Mathematician, “George Wyburn has been arrested.”

“It is an event that has been long looked for. I am rather hurt that, in
communicating with his friends on the subject, he should have given
you a priority over myself. I lament to say that he has fallen into bad
hands.”

“He has,” replied Burdock; “but I will endeavour to release him”

“I thank you on behalf of my friend,” said Blennerhagen, with a
malicious smile; “but I would suggest, with great humility, that you
will find sufficient employment, at present, to extricate yourself.”

“Sir,” said Burdock, “I wanted but the key-note to your character: every
word you utter is in unison with your actions.”

“We are alone,” said Blennerhagen, “and I can allow you to be
vituperative. Detection renders you desperate: that philosophy which
enables me to gaze calmly on the wreck of my own peace, teaches me,
also, to bear with those who are so unfortunate as to be guilty. I would
not personally bruise a broken reed: I cannot descend to chastise the
man, who has injured me deeply, for an insult in words. The highwayman
who has robbed us, may defame our characters with impunity; the lesser
merges into the greater offence: we do not fly into a passion, and apply
the cudgel to his back; we pity, and let the law hang him. If your
hands were quite at liberty, pray what course would you adopt to benefit
George Wyburn?”

“I am so far at liberty, I thank Providence,” replied Burdock, “as to be
able to bail him; and I mean to do so within an hour.”

“You do?”

“Ay, sir, to the confusion of his enemies, as sure as I’m a sinner. You
seem amazed.”

“I am indeed,--to say the least,--surprised, and naturally delighted to
find fortune should so unexpectedly raise him up a friend.”

“I am rather surprised myself; but I’ll do it, I’m determined, hap what
will.”

“It is truly grievous,--a matter of deep regret,--that I cannot fold you
in my arms,” said Blennerhagen. “How strange it is that the same bosom
should foster the most noble and the basest of thoughts. In the human
heart, the lily and the hemlock seem to flourish together. If it were
possible that your offence against my honour could admit of palliation
or forgiveness--but I beg pardon; I must be permitted to write a hasty
line, on a subject of some importance, which, until this moment, I had
forgotten. It is the miserable lot of man, that, in the midst of his
most acute trials, he is often compelled to attend to those minor
duties, the neglect of which would materially prejudice some of those
about him. I shall still give you my attention.”

“Every syllable--every action of this man, now amazes me,” said Burdock
to himself, walking towards the window: “he almost subdues me from my
purpose.”

“I shall be entirely at your service in an instant,” said Blennerhagen,
advancing to the door with a note, which he had hastily written, in his
hand: “I beg pardon,--oblige me by ringing the bell.”

Burdock mechanically complied with his request; and Blennerhagen
stepped outside the door to give his servant some directions, as Burdock
conceived, relative to the note. During his brief absence, the attorney,
acting either from experience or impulse, cast a glance on the little
pad, consisting of several sheets of blotting-paper, which lay on the
escrutoire. Blennerhagen had dried his note on the upper sheet: it was
rapidly penned in a full, bold hand: and the impression of nearly every
letter was quite visible on the blotting-paper. To tear off the sheet,
to hold it up against the looking-glass, so as to rectify the reverse
position of the words, and to cast his eye over those which were the
most conspicuous, was the work of a moment. It ran thus:--“Gillard--I
must change my plan--let Wyburn be instantly released--contrive that
he shall suspect he owes his liberty to my becoming security for the
debts--Blennerhagen.”

Burdock had conveyed this precious document to the side-pocket of his
coat before Blennerhagen returned: he resolved not to act rashly upon
it, but to consider calmly what would be the most efficacious mode of
using it. He felt highly gratified that he now possessed the means of
supporting Mrs. Wyburn’s statement as to Blennerhagen’s treachery. It
afforded him considerable satisfaction, also, that he might, in all
probability, not only, in some measure, benefit Wyburn, but, by politic
conduct, force Blennerhagen to desist from giving him any trouble on
account of the awkward situation into which he had been placed by Mrs.
Blennerhagen’s folly.

All these ideas darted through his brain with the rapidity of lightning.
He felt pleased; and, doubtless, exhibited some symptoms of his internal
satisfaction in his countenance; for Blennerhagen resumed the
conversation by saying, “You smile, sir: the prospect of doing a good
action lights up your countenance, and makes you forget your personal
troubles. Until this day, you have, to me, been an object of respect.
What could induce you to act as you have done,--to injure and then brave
me? You threatened to unmask me--to make me crouch and tremble before
you: I am still erect, and my hand is firm.”

“Let that pass, sir,” said Burdock; “the novelty--the ridiculous
novelty, of my situation, must be my excuse. You can, perhaps, imagine
the feelings of an innocent man, labouring under a sudden and severe
accusation.”

“I can, indeed,” replied Blennerhagen. “Do you say you are innocent?”

“I scorn to answer such a question.”

“Truly, your manner staggers me;--your character has its weight, too: I
should be exceedingly glad to see you exculpated. May I ask what brought
you to my wife’s dressing-room?”

“To that I will reply:--I received a summons from Mrs. Blennerhagen,
and was conducted to this apartment by her servant: the idiot wanted to
smuggle me in the back way, but I wouldn’t put up with it.”

“One inquiry more, and I have done. On what occasion, and for what
purpose, were you so summoned?”

“Eh! why--gadso! it’s very absurd, to be sure; but there I stand at bay.
I must consider before I answer your question: I’ll speak to Hassell
about it, and hear what he says on an A B case, without mentioning
names. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a breach of professional confidence
either; but we shall see.”

“Mr. Burdock, I am almost inclined to think, although appearances are
powerful, that I have not been wronged. Mrs. Blennerhagen, although I
respect and have married her, is not a woman for whom a man, with
any philosophy, would carry an affair of this kind to extremities,
particularly where the internal evidence is weak. I am willing to give
you the full benefit of my doubts: but, sir, at the least you have been
indiscreet. Your conduct may cost me much: my reputation is at the mercy
of other tongues; which, however, I must admit, may be silenced. Should
I consent to smother this matter, will you, in return, comply with such
request as I may make, without questioning my motives or betraying my
confidence?”

“What if I decline to do so?”

“Then I will accept nothing less than a thousand pounds.”

“As hush-money, I suppose, you mean.”

“Call it what you please. I shall put you to the test, most probably,
within a week. You know the alternative:--if you decline that too, I
shall go on with the action, which, in justice to myself, I am compelled
to commence immediately. That I may not be defeated, I must also leave
my house, or turn my wife out of doors, to wait the result. But do
not be alarmed, I will abide by what I have said,--your services or a
thousand pounds. After this, I need scarcely say to you, that I do not
think I have been actually injured: but the case is clear against
you; other eyes have witnessed appearances, which go to impeach Mrs.
Blennerhagen’s virtue; and I act as any other man would, in demanding
atonement, in some shape or other. I shall now send up my friend to see
you out.”

“_Hem quocunque modo rem!_” ejaculated the attorney, as Blennerhagen
closed the door after him. “This fellow is a fearful one to strive with;
and I am, unfortunately, in some degree, fettered by the fact he alludes
to. But cheer up, Adam!--your cause is good; be courageous, and you
shall surely conquer.” Without waiting for the arrival of Peterson,
Burdock snatched up his hat and cane, hastily descended the stairs, and,
without looking to the right or left, quitted the house. He got into a
coach at the first stand he came to, and directed the coachman to set
him down, as quickly as possible, in Serle’s Buildings, Carey Street.
On arriving at the lock-up house, he found that George Wyburn had already
been liberated. He was, in some degree, prepared for this intelligence,
by Blennerhagen’s letter to Gillard, of which he had so luckily
obtained a copy. His regret at being thus anticipated by the agent of
Blennerhagen, did not make him forget that it was a full hour beyond
his usual dinnertime: he hastened to Symond’s Inn coffee-house; where,
notwithstanding the unpleasant scenes of the morning, he ate a very
hearty dinner, drank an extra half pint of wine, and perused the daily
papers, before he returned to his chambers.

On entering his office, one of the clerks informed him that there was
a lady in his private room, waiting, in the utmost anxiety, for his
return. Burdock immediately walked in, and, to his great indignation and
amazement, beheld Mrs. Blennerhagen. He recoiled from the sight of her
unwelcome countenance, and would, perhaps, have fairly run away from
her, if the lady had not pounced upon him before he could retrograde
a single pace. She dragged him into the centre of the room; where,
clasping one of his arms in her hands, she fell on her knees, and
implored him to pity and relieve the most ill-starred gentlewoman
that ever breathed. “Nothing shall induce me to rise from this spot,”
 continued Mrs. Blennerhagen, “until you promise, at least, to hear me.”

“I submit to my fate,” replied Burdock. “Pray release my hand; these
buildings are old, and I stand exposed to a murderous rush of air. I
am naturally susceptible of cold, and have been taught by experience to
avoid this spot. Release me instantly, or I must call the clerks to my
assistance.”

“Promise, then, to hear me.”

“Anything, madam!--Odso!--have I not already told you I would submit to
my fate? And a hard fate it is,” continued Burdock, taking up a strong
position behind his writing-table as soon as his arm was at liberty;
“I consider myself particularly unfortunate in ever having heard of the
name of Burdock, or Winpennie either.”

“Don’t asperse my late husband,” said the lady; “call _me_ what you
like, but don’t asperse Paul. I am a wretched woman, Mr. Burdock.”

“You’re a very silly, self-sufficient woman, Mrs. Blenner-hagen,”
 replied the attorney. “Are you not ashamed to look me in the face, after
having, by your absurd conduct, and the assistance of your satellite,
your female familiar, brought me into a situation so distressing to a
man of my respectability?”

“Don’t speak against my poor Wilmot;--don’t call her names: call _me_
names, if you must be abusive, and I’ll bear it all patiently. As to
your sneer upon my being familiar with her, I can safely say that,
faithful as she is, I have never forgotten that Wilmot is a servant. A
woman who has seen so much of this vile, odious world, as I have, is not
to be told that too much familiarity breeds contempt.”

“You misunderstand me, madam;--but to explain would be useless. Allow
me to ask you, coolly and temperately,--after what has taken place, what
the devil brings you here? You must be out of your senses--I’m sure you
must--or you’d never act thus.”

“You will not say so when you know my motives: but, anxious as I feel to
explain them, I can’t help observing, how cruel it is for you to upbraid
me with what took place to-day. I can lay my hand upon my heart, and
declare that I acted for the best: any prudent woman would have done
exactly as I did; for who could expect that ever a man of your years and
experience would let the tail of his coat be caught in the closet-door?”

“Pray don’t go on at this rate:--go home, my good woman,--go home at
once.”

“Good woman, indeed, Mr. Burdock! You forget, sir, that you are talking
to the relict of the late Paul Winpennie. I hope you do not mean to add
insult to the injury you have done me.”

“Zounds! Mrs. Blennerhagen, it is I who have been injured,--injured by
_you_, madam.”

“Oh! I beg your pardon; if you had only recollected that your coat--”

“Talk no more about it;--it shall be as you please, if you will drop the
subject, and come to the point at once. Why do I see you here?”

“I hope I may be permitted to sit.”

“Oh! certainly,--I beg pardon,” said Burdock, handing Mrs. Blennerhagen
a chair, and immediately returning to his position behind the
writing-table.

“I am, at this moment, exceedingly indisposed, you will recollect,” said
the lady; “and I ought to be in bed, with a physician by my side, rather
than in Furnival’s Inn, talking to an attorney.”

“You are perfectly right, madam; and I beg to suggest that you should
avoid the fatigue of conversation as much as possible.”

“I thank you for your friendly hint, Mr. Burdock, and I will endeavour
to profit by it. Now I’m going to surprise you. Wilmot--no matter
how--contrived to overhear a great part of your conversation with Mr.
Blennerhagen. It seems that a thousand pounds was the sum mentioned;
but Wilmot thinks, and so do I, that, by good management, with a solemn
declaration and her oath, half the money would settle the matter. Now,
my dear Mr. Burdock, as you are a little obstinate and self-willed,--you
know you are, for you’ve too much sense to be blind to your own little
failings,--I thought I would come down at once, and, if you wavered,
throw my eloquence and interest into the scale. I need not point out
to you how much trouble it will save us both, if you can prevent this
little affair from being made public. What say you?”

“Why, truly, madam, your matchless absurdity almost deprives me of
utterance. You heap Pelion upon Ossa with such celerity, that, before I
can recover from the surprise which one ridiculous action has produced,
you stun me with a still more prodigious achievement.”

“And can you really hesitate?”

“Hesitate, woman! Not at all:--I’m resolute!--Blennerhagen shall never
see the colour of my coin.”

“Why, Mr. Burdock! are you a man? Can you, for a moment, seriously think
of suffering an injured lady’s reputation to be placed in jeopardy for
the sake of so paltry a sum?”

“Pray hold your tongue, or, vexed as I am, I shall positively laugh
in your face. Do you think I am mad, or that I find my money in the
streets? But that I can scarcely conceive Blennerhagen is fool enough to
think I am such a gudgeon as to bite at his bait, I should certainly be
led to suspect what I hinted this morning to be true.”

“That I am his confederate? and that we had laid our heads together to
entrap you?--I would rather die than you should imagine that I was
so vile a wretch! Oh! Mr. Burdock, I could not exist under such an
imputation. To prove that I, do not merit your odious suspicions, and as
you are so ungenerous as not to come forward with your own money on this
occasion, I’ll tell you what I’ll do:--I’ll pledge the pearl necklace,
tiara, ear-rings, &c., which poor Mr. Winpennie gave me on my
wedding-day, and never would let me part with even when he was
distressed,--I’ll pledge those, and the ruby suite I was last married
in, with my two gold watches, and as many little trinkets as will make
up the money, which I’ll give you before I sleep, if you will promise to
keep the secret, and make the matter up with Blennerhagen; so that there
may be no piece of work about it.--Now what do you think of that?”

“Mrs. Blennerhagen,” said Burdock, advancing from the situation which
he had hitherto occupied, and kindly taking the lady’s hand, “you are a
very weak, imprudent woman;--excuse me for saying so;--it is the fact:
and if you are not more careful, you will, in all probability, get
into a position, from which you will find it impossible to extricate
yourself. The present case is bad enough, in all conscience; but I have
some reason to hope, that it is to be got over without the sacrifice of
your pearl necklace, or the ruby suite in which you were last married;
at all events, let them remain in your own jewel-box for the present. We
will not have recourse to either, unless, and until, all other earthly
means fail. Let me, however, advise you as a friend, should you escape
scot-free on this occasion, to be more careful in your conduct for the
future. Now don’t say another word, but go home and make yourself easy.”

“Oh! Mr. Burdock,” exclaimed the lady, “this is, indeed, most fatherly
of you. Your words are balm to my agitated spirits; a sweet calm begins
to pervade my bosom;--good Heavens! what’s that?”

“What, madam?” eagerly inquired Burdock, casting a hurried glance around
him.

“As I’m a living creature, I heard the creak of Blenner-hagen’s
boot!--He’s coming! I’m sure he’s coming!”

As the lady spoke, some one knocked at the outer door; and, immediately
after, one of the clerks came in to announce, that the moment Mr.
Burdock was disengaged, Mr. Blennerhagen would be glad to speak with
him.

The attorney and his fair visitor gazed upon each other in a very
expressive manner, at this information: the lady whispered, “I shall
faint; I’m sure I shall!” Burdock, after a brief pause, told the clerk
that he should be at liberty in one minute, and the young man retired.

“How exquisitely annoying!” exclaimed the attorney, as soon as the door
was closed; “this is the consequence of your indiscretion, madam.”

“Don’t abuse me, sir;--don’t tread upon a worm!” replied the lady. “We
should not lose time in talking, but set our wits to work at once. Oh!
if Wilmot were here, now!--That stupid clerk! couldn’t he as well have
said you were out, or particularly occupied, and told Mr. Blennerhagen
to call again?--Where shall I conceal myself? Have you no little room?”

“Not one, I am happy to say.”

“Nor even a cupboard?--of course you have a cupboard:--I can squeeze in
anywhere, bless you!”

“There is not a hiding-place for a rat; the window is two stories
from the ground, and excessively narrow into the bargain: so that
circumstances luckily compel you to adopt the plain, straight-forward
course, which is always the best. I strongly suspect your husband has
followed you here: to conceal yourself would be useless,--nay, fatal.
You must face him.”

“Oh! Mr. Burdock, you drive me frantic!”

“Nay, nay, madam;--pray be calm: don’t tear your hair in that frightful
manner!”

“Talk not of hair:--besides, they’re only ringlets which I wear in
charity to Wilmot; it takes her an hour to dress my own:--I scarce
know what I’m doing or saying.--Stay! if I open the upper and lower
right-hand doors of that press or bookcase, or whatever it is, won’t
they reach to the other wall?”

“Possibly they may.”

“Then I can hide myself in the corner.”

“Notwithstanding my caution, you are acting as unwisely as ever. I
protest against all this, and give you notice that I will be no party to
the concealment.”

“Do hold your tongue, and be guided by me:--you men have really no
brains. There,” said the lady, placing herself behind the two doors,
which, as the side of the piece of furniture to which they belonged
stood within a short distance of the corner of the room, effectually
concealed her from observation, “now, if you’ll only get rid of him
quickly, I’ll warrant you I shall be safe.” Burdock immediately rang a
little table bell, and his clerk ushered in the Mathematician.

“You are doubtless surprised to see me so soon, sir,” said Blennerhagen.

“Not at all; I shall never be surprised again.”

“A wise man should wonder at nothing, perhaps. Unexpected circumstances,
which I will explain, have led me to visit you this afternoon. In the
first place, I understand, from my servant, that a female has been sent
to my house by your directions: her appearance and story, it seems, were
equally extraordinary. May I be excused for having a natural curiosity
to know who she was, and what she wanted? She was sent up, I hear,
to Mrs. Blennerhagen: I have no wish that she should trouble my wife
again.”

“Are you anxious to keep her business with you a secret from Mrs.
Blennerhagen?”

“Possibly I may be; but I don’t know until I discover what it is:--we
have all been young. Why do you ask?”

“Simply because your wife is in this room.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Mrs. Blennerhagen is now within hearing: she stands behind the doors of
that old book-case.”

“Excuse me, sir;--you have dined, no doubt;--but I am serious.”

“And so am I,” replied Burdock. “If you disbelieve what I say, go and
see.”

“Oh! you vile creatures!” exclaimed Mrs. Blennerhagen, rushing from
the place of her concealment:--“you pair of wretches! A plot! a plot!
There’s a vile plot laid between you to delude--to vilify--to destroy
me. I see through it all. And you,--you old, abandoned man,” added
the lady, addressing Burdock, “to lend yourself to such a scheme!--I’m
ashamed of you!--You’ve played your parts well; but I will be a match
for you. Oh! Heavens! is this the way to treat a wife? Mr. Blennerhagen,
you may well look confounded.”

“Confounded!” exclaimed Blennerhagen; “I’m thunderstruck!”

“Ay! no doubt you are. What I am to be got rid of, I suppose, by this
vamped-up affair between you and your satellite,--as he dares to call
poor Wilmot,--to make room for your creature in sapphire and yellow. If
I die in the attempt, I will see the bottom of it all, and expose you
both!” Mrs. Blennerhagen now bustled out of the office.

“This woman is foolish,” said Blennerhagen.

“I think so, decidedly,” quoth the attorney.

“What brought her here, pray?”

“Why, as I was a little obstinate and self-willed, she came to throw her
interest and eloquence into the scale, (I use her own words,) and induce
me to prevent our little affair from being made public. Her woman, who
overheard the conversation which I had with you this morning, seems
to think that, although you ask a thousand pounds, with a little
management, a solemn declaration of innocence, and her own oath, half
the money would settle the matter. Ha, ha!”

Blennerhagen bit his lip. After a short pause, he inquired if the
attorney had yet made up his mind to state, on what occasion, and for
what purpose, he had visited Mrs. Blennerhagen in her dressing-room.

“I have not spoken to Hassell on the subject,” replied Burdock; “but I
feel no repugnance, under present circumstances, to say that she sent
for me because she was jealous of the woman in brimstone and blue. I
have her note, if you wish to look at it. When she heard you coming,
I was pushed, _nolens volens_, into the cupboard, by your wife and her
maid. That, briefly, is the whole of the matter. By-the-by, I should
add, that I acquainted Mrs. Blennerhagen with the lady’s business, and I
am now willing to do you the same service.”

“You are very obliging:--to ascertain that, is partly my object in
calling on you.”

Burdock now went through the particulars of the poor woman’s case with
great minuteness. Blennerhagen listened very attentively, and, at the
conclusion of the recital, observed, “This is all new to me.”

“Of course it is,” replied the attorney; “because, legally speaking,
you have nothing to do with it. It concerns the executors, in the first
instance; and not you, who, by your marriage, merely represent the
legatee: their straight-forward course is to send the woman about
her business, because she is a _feme covert_, and cannot give a
release,--the title being in her blackguard husband. The executors
are bound to act strictly; but if you, who are the party beneficially
interested, out of motives of feeling think fit to run the risk of
consenting to her paltry claim being paid off, out of your enormous
legacy, why, of course, they would willingly do it. To give her a
chance, I took leave to refer her to you, in order that you might hear
the story from her own lips.”

“I shall be happy to be guided by you,” said Blennerhagen; “but I see
nothing, for my own part, in this case that should induce us to go
out of the usual course. Were we to put our hands into our pockets to
relieve every deserving object that occurs to our notice, we should
soon become paupers ourselves. Those who are rich have often as powerful
calls on their charity for hundreds--nay, thousands--as pence; but they
are compelled to exert their philosophy, and conquer their inclinations
to relieve; in fact, for their own sakes, to marshal reason against mere
feeling. You ground your appeal on the score of charity; but I could
name much greater objects of charity than this woman. She must abide
by the consequences of her own folly. She has been stripped of her
property, and deserted by her husband, you say: well,--that’s hard, I
confess; but you know such cases are continually occurring. It would
require the exchequer of a Croesus to remunerate,--for that is the
proper word,--to remunerate all the women who have been plundered
by those whom they have chosen to make legal proprietors,--observe
me,--legal proprietors of their property. Besides, we have only this
person’s own word in support of her strange statement: how do we know
but what she was quite as improvident as her husband? And who is to say
that, instead of his deserting his wife, the lady herself might not have
driven him from his home? It is in the power of some of the sex to do
such things.”

“That may be true enough,” said Burdock; “but I am warranted in saying
the contrary is the fact, in the present case, by the letter of a most
respectable correspondent, which the woman brought with her. That
the husband was a most consummate villain, I have ample evidence.
My informant states,--but I will read that portion of his epistle,”
 continued Burdock, taking a letter from his desk: “speaking of the
husband, he says, during his short stay in our neighbourhood, previously
to the marriage, he contrived, by obtaining goods on credit from several
tradesmen, to support a respectable appearance; and my unfortunate
client, believing him to be a man of some property,--although nobody
knew who he was, or where he came from,--encouraged his addresses,’
And then, a little below, it is stated, that ‘on account of a sudden
indisposition with which she was attacked, the wedding was postponed.
The delay thus produced had nearly proved fatal to the hopes of our
adventurer: bills, which he had given to some of his creditors, became
due, and were dishonoured. Proceedings being hinted at, he called the
tradespeople together, and very coolly requested them to give him time.
The creditors said they did not feel inclined to do so, because’--favour
me with your attention, Mr. Blennerhagen--‘because they had strong
suspicions that the bills were forgeries; and that, if such were the
case,--and they had but little doubt of the fact,--it was in their power
to hang him. This intimation, which would have staggered any man but
him to whom it was addressed, did not produce any visible effect on his
feelings. He very calmly told them, in reply, that even if the bills
were forgeries,--which, of course, he could not admit,--he should feel
under no apprehension; for, said he, I know that you are all too needy
to sacrifice your own interests for the sake of public justice: you
cannot afford to lose your money; and lose it, you certainly would, as
you all very well know, if you prosecuted me to conviction. Were I a
wretch, without present means or future expectations, I should expect
no mercy; but as you are aware that I am on the eve of marriage with a
woman of some property, you will act upon that excellent maxim--charity
begins at home, and keep the alleged forgeries in your pockets, in hopes
that I shall take them up as soon as I am married. You owe a duty to the
public, but you owe a greater to yourselves and to your families; and
you’d much rather take ten shillings in the pound, than see me, even
if I were guilty, dangling at your expense in any devil’s larder in the
country.’”

“Well, sir, the creditors waited.”

“They did; but the deuce a bit did he pay them: he got what money he
could together, as soon as he was married, and left them, as well as his
wife, in the lurch. They have now sent me up the bills, as there’s no
hope of his paying them, and begged me to get hold of him if I can: they
say he has been seen in London without his whiskers; and that, in a few
days, they hope to afford me some clue to his present haunts. They refer
me to his wife for a description of his person, which I mean to get of
her at our next interview, if I can persuade the woman to be calm enough
to give it me.”

“What is her name?”

“Tonks.”

“Then I am right in my suspicions.”

“To what do you allude?”

“Mr. Burdock,” said Blennerhagen, “I will not scruple to confess that
I know the man. Tainted as his character now is, he has been worthy
of esteem. Once in his life, sir, he did me so essential a
service,--greatly to his own detriment,--that I have ever since groaned
under the obligation, and never, until this moment, did I entertain a
hope of being able to relieve myself from its weight.”

“This is very odd,” said the attorney; “but I am resolved not to be
amazed. And, pray, on what do your hopes to help him rest?”

“On my interest with you.”

“That is not worth a button; and, if it were, I don’t see how you could
benefit the man. Professional pursuits have not altogether destroyed
my feelings; but I don’t think that I should repent having been
instrumental in bringing such a villain as this to justice.”

“Do not let us be too hasty in consigning a man to infamy,” replied
Blennerhagen. “Circumstances are often powerful palliatives of guilt;
and circumstances, you know, are not always--are they ever?--under our
own control. Offences, which, abstractedly considered, appear heinous,
would lose much of their odium, were we in possession of the whole chain
of consequences, from the first inducement to commit crime, to its final
consummation; and it would be but common charity to hope that such may
have been the case in the present instance. I stand excused, at least, I
trust, for endeavouring to evince my gratitude to this man.”

“How can you possibly do so?”

“By procuring the destruction of those bills.”

“What did you say?”

“Destroy those acceptances in my presence, and do me a trifling favour
which I shall presently mention,--understanding, of course, that you
will solemnly assure me I have not been injured,--and the events of this
morning shall be buried in oblivion.”

“Why, I really thought you had more sense than to make so absurd a
proposal,” said the attorney: “how am I to account to my clients for the
loss of their papers?”

“Oh! every one knows that man is fallible, and may mislay things:
clerks, too,--who have access to an attorney’s private room,--are poor,
and open to temptation: laundresses frequently sweep valuable documents
off the floor and burn them: even iron chests are not impregnable; and
robberies take place in spite of every precaution.”

“I certainly never met with your equal, Blennerhagen: and I’ll tell you
a piece of my mind presently;--something has just struck me.”

“I’ll hear you with pleasure; but let us dispose of this little matter
at once:--hand me over the bills, pay the woman what she wants, and send
her back into the country to-morrow morning. Tonks has many excuses for
his conduct, with which, however, it is needless to trouble you. He has
acted improperly,--I will even say, criminally,--but I cannot let this
opportunity escape of balancing our obligations. I shall feel much more
easy after it. I must, therefore, press you to oblige me.”

“You stated, just now, that you had some other little favour to ask.”

“Had we not better settle this affair first? My plan is always to clear
away as I proceed.”

“I, on the contrary, when any arrangement is contemplated between
parties, like to bring every point into hotch-pot, as a preliminary
step.”

“Say no more, Mr. Burdock;--I will yield with pleasure. It is rather
a disagreeable subject on which I am compelled to touch; but I will go
into it at once. Wyburn’s wife has been with you to-day;--she stated
something to my disadvantage.”

“What induces you to suppose so?”

“To be candid,--your threats this morning aroused my suspicions. I have
since seen Mrs. Wyburn, and extracted the facts from her.”

“What facts?”

“_Imprimis_,--that she has visited you to-day.”

“Granted.”

“_Item_,--that she has thrown out hints which, if founded in
truth, would not, perhaps, tend materially to the enhancement of my
reputation.”

“I shall say nothing on that subject.”

“Can you deny it?--If I am wrong, why not deny it?--Will you deny it?”

“No, I won’t.”

“Then it is as I imagined.--Now, sir, as you are kindly disposed towards
my friend, I wish to warn you, seriously, against that young woman. She
labours under gross delusions: an idea has entered her head, that I am
her husband’s enemy, and an admirer of her person. Nothing can be more
preposterous. She has reproached me, bitterly, for every step that
I have taken to benefit George Wyburn, under the impression that my
proceedings would be prejudicial to him. I acquit her of malice; but
she certainly is very deficient in common sense. Perhaps, however, I
am uncharitable in saying this; for women, in her sphere of life, are
totally incapable of forming a just opinion on the actions of man
in mere matters of business. They are like those spectators of a
chess-match, who, having obtained only a slight glimmering of the
mysteries of the game, consider those moves of a piece which are,
in fact, master-strokes of skill, as tending to bring the king into
check-mate.”

“You are a chess-player, I presume, Mr. Blennerhagen,” said Burdock.

“I am, sir; chess is my favourite game. But to proceed with my
statement:--George Wyburn himself is by no means a man of business.
Proud, and ridiculously affecting independence, although he scarcely
possesses a shilling, he would disdain the slightest favour I could
offer him: he will not willingly be under an obligation to any man. That
assistance, which in extremity he might accept from a stranger, he would
scorn if proffered by a friend: I am, therefore, under the necessity of
acting in the most circuitous manner, to benefit him. If I do good, in
my office as his friend, I must do so by stealth. Mrs. Wyburn has not
mind enough to perceive this: a combination of manouvres is to her
mysterious, and consequently fearful; for she cannot imagine how
anything can be fair that is not manifest to her limited capacity. Now,
sir, I have already made considerable progress in relieving my friend
from his difficulties, and I do not wish to be thwarted, either by this
woman’s weakness, her whims, or her delusions. I can convince you, at
once, of the honesty of my intentions; and I call on you, as at least a
well-wisher to George Wyburn, not to countenance his wife’s follies, but
to put on the wisdom of the adder, and be deaf to her tales;--in fact,
not to bring yourself into trouble, by becoming the confidant of another
man’s wife, and her abettor, without his knowledge, in counteracting
such measures as his best friend may think fit to adopt for his
ultimate, if not immediate, benefit. I am urged to make this
communication; I do it unwillingly, but I think you will feel that I am
right.”

“And this is your request, Mr. Blennerhagen?”

“It is.”

“Have you any thing else to ask?”

“Absolutely nothing:--I require nothing but your promise on this point.”

“And the bills--”

“Oh!--of course, the bills:--your promise and the bills.”

“You have omitted to prove to me the honesty of your intentions towards
Mr. Wyburn.”

“I will do so in a few words.--Although piqued at George for not
immediately acquainting me with the circumstance of his being arrested,
the moment I quitted you this morning, I flew to his creditors, and
procured his instant release, by becoming security for payment of the
bonds on which he had been arrested. You, doubtless, have ascertained
that he is discharged: if not, you may do so at once, by sending one of
your clerks to the lock-up house. This, you must allow, is a tolerably
good proof of my intentions towards him. You will understand, that I do
not wish him to know how far I have gone, as it would be needless, at
pre-tent, to hurt his pride. We should reverence a friend’s feelings,
although, to our minds, they may appear failings. You are now convinced,
I hope.”

“I am!” exclaimed Burdock, with unusual energy; “I am convinced that you
are an atrocious scoundrel!--Don’t frown, or pretend to be in a passion,
or I’ll shew you no mercy. You’re check-mated, Blennerhagen.”

“Mr. Burdock! what’s the matter?--What has possessed you?”

“A spirit to put out and amove such a monster as you are from honest
society. To dumb-founder you, if it be possible, without more ado, know
that I am fully acquainted with the contents of the note you wrote in my
presence this morning:--‘Gillard--I must change my plans--let Wyburn be
instantly released--contrive that he shall suspect he owes his liberty
to my having become security for his debts--Blennerhagen.’ I have the
words, your hear, by heart; and what’s better, for my purpose, I
have them in your own hand-writing, in my iron chest. I tore off the
impression which you made with the note on your blotting-paper. Now,
sir, what say you?”

“Nothing,” replied the Mathematician, with his ordinary composure of
manner; “nothing, but that I shall be under the necessity of entering
into a longer explanation than I could wish at this moment, in order to
clear up the circumstance.”

“I will hear no more of your plausible explanations:--I have heard
enough already. It is time for me to speak.”

“With all my heart.”

“Where is the letter which George Wyburn wrote to you,--that letter
in which he stated he was about to destroy himself?--Be brief in your
reply--where is it?”

“Burned.”

“‘Tis false! I must be explicit: you shewed it to Mrs. Wyburn very
lately;--say within these two days.”

“I beg to suggest, that before you gave me the lie, (I postpone the
insult for a moment,) you should have reflected that even in two days
there is time enough to burn ten thousand letters, and that I have not
been deprived of volition during that period.”

“Admitted. But I know more than you imagine; and I will not be trifled
with. You deem it to be so valuable a document, that you commonly
have it about your person. Allow me merely to run my eye through your
pocket-book.”

“You carry this with too high a hand, Mr. Burdock,” said Blennerhagen;
“you ask too much, sir; and in a manner, that one who possessed less
calmness than myself, would not tolerate. I am not to be intimidated.
It would be as well, perhaps, if we postponed this discussion, until you
are in a cooler mood.”

“Not yet, sir; not yet, if you please. I have something more serious to
say.”

“You are not going to unmask a battery on me, I hope,” said
Blennerhagen, with apparent gaiety.

“It may be that I am. Hear me:--I hope I shall be forgiven if I am
wrong: should I, however, be in error, a few hours will set me right.
I strongly suspect--I will not call you Blennerhagen, for I have little
doubt but that--”

“Hold!” exclaimed Blennerhagen, placing his hand on Burdock’s
lips;--“hold! I beseech, I entreat you. Before you utter another word,
I demand, I implore the favour of being allowed to commune for a few
moments with myself.”

Burdock intimated his acquiescence by a nod to this request.
Blennerhagen rose from his seat, and paced rapidly up and down the room.
A multitude of thoughts seemed to be hurrying through his mind; and
large drops of perspiration trickled unheeded from his brow. After a few
moments had elapsed, he began to recover his composure, and resumed his
chair.

“Mr. Burdock,” said he, “I am grateful for this indulgence. It is,
I believe, an established principle, with professional men, that the
confidential communications of a client should be held most sacred.”

“So far as regards myself, and many whom I know, that is certainly the
case,” replied Burdock.

“Allow me to ask--for whom do you consider yourself concerned under the
late Joshua Kesterton’s will?”

“First, for the executors; next, for your wife and yourself; and,
lastly, for Mrs. Wyburn and her husband.”

“I have the honour to be your client up to this moment, I believe.”

“Of course.”

“Then, sir, I beg to acquaint, you, in that character, that I am Tonks.”

“You don’t surprise me at all,” said Burdock; “I thought as much, and
was just going to tell you so.”

“I hope I shall do myself no injury by confessing that I perceived you
were; and availed myself of the opportunity of stating the fact, in
order to obtain the benefit of your silence, and allow me to add,--your
advice.”

“Nay, nay,” replied Burdock, “I really must decline advising you.”

“Well, be it so,” said Blennerhagen; “I have sense enough to see that my
only safety is in immediate flight. I have been careless in some minute
points of my calculations, and my air-built castle topples about my
ears; but I must not be overwhelmed by its ruins.”

“Understand that I cannot assist you,” said Burdock; “understand that
most positively. Here’s a clear felony;--at least, I’m afraid it would
turn out so. And you see, (it has just occurred to me,) although you’re
my client under Kesterton’s will, yet, as the bills have actually been
transmitted to me--”

“I have heard you say, Mr. Burdock,” interrupted Blennerhagen, “that
while you were concerned for a man, you would never act against him.”

“I admit it; but, you see, in a case of felony--”

“Allow me to go on:--without my confidential communication, you would,
at this moment, have nothing but conjecture to warrant you in calling me
Tonks.”

“I don’t deny it.”

“I am under your roof, too.”

“Granted.”

“Lastly,--villain as you deem me, I am unfortunate as well as guilty. My
actions have been culpable, I confess. Money, money, has been my object:
I have been compelled to catch little fish, to bait my hooks for great
ones. The woman who calls herself Tonks (which is not my real name) has
been, unfortunately for herself, one of my victims. I wanted money, and
I scrupled not at any scheme that appeared safe, to get it:--the end
sanctified the means. I have a father, Mr. Burdock,--a greyheaded man,
who has pined in prison during three miserable years: I am the wretched
cause of his sufferings. He was convicted, in large penalties, for
offences against the revenue committed by me,--by me alone, Mr. Burdock.
I attempted to bring the onus of the offence on myself, and to relieve
him from the accusation; but justice, in this case, was blind, indeed.
My father is in his cell, sir; but, although balked in my designs at
present, yet still, while I have existence, in other scenes, in other
lands, rather,--for I’m no longer safe here,--I will wrestle with
fortune, at all hazards, until I procure a sufficient sum to effect his
release.”

“Suppose, for a change, as you have hitherto been unsuccessful, you were
to adopt some honest course,--I mean, if you escape.”

“Perhaps I may:--guilt, however, is but comparative, and--”

“Well, enough of this. What have you to say to your attempt on the
virtue of Mrs. Wyburn?”

“I was under the influence of a passion which I could not control.”

“You’ll be hung as sure as you’re born, if you suffer yourself to be
governed by such sophistry as you preach.”

“I hope not,” replied the Mathematician, “for it would break that old
man’s heart, who has no joy to support him in his captivity but his
joy as a father in me. If I had freed him, he must not have known how I
obtained the means to do so.”

“Another reason for your being honest,” observed Burdock; “make a
beginning, and you’ll find the path pleasant afterwards:--only make a
beginning.”

“I will, immediately,” replied Blennerhagen, taking several papers from
his pocket-book, and laying them open on the attorney’s table: “there is
George Wyburn’s letter,” added he; “and there are the bonds on which
he has been arrested.--Hush! Was not that a knock at the door of your
chambers?”

Voices were now heard in the outer office; and, in a short time,
Burdock’s clerk came into the room to announce the arrival of Mrs.
Blennerhagen and Mrs. Tonks.

“My second wife, doubtless, obtained her predecessor’s address this
morning,” said Blennerhagen, “and has been to fetch her. Come in and
shut the door, young man,” continued he, addressing the clerk:--“I think
I heard you close your shutters just now: how many candles have you on
your desk?”

“Only one, sir,” replied the clerk, “at this moment.”

“Oblige me by snuffing it out, apparently by accident, when you return
to your seat, and utter some exclamation when you have done it:--do not
delay.”

The clerk paused for a moment; but, as Burdock made no remark, the young
man interpreted his silence as a tacit acquiescence to Blennerhagen’s
request, and withdrew. In a few seconds he gave the signal: Blennerhagen
immediately strode out, rushed across the outer office, and effected his
escape.

As soon as the clerk had procured a light, Burdock informed the ladies,
in a few words, of Blennerhagen’s villanies; and then left them, weeping
in each other’s arms, to go in quest of Wyburn and his wife.

Within a week, the claims on Joshua Kesterton’s estate were finally
determined; and the amount proved to be so much less than either
Hassell or Burdock had anticipated, as to leave a considerable sum after
deducting the legacy. Mrs. Blennerhagen,--or, to speak more correctly,
the widow Winpennie,--not only paid poor Mrs. Tonks her full claim,
but very generously augmented Wyburn’s residue, by allowing a handsome
deduction in his favour out of her ten thousand pounds. Neither of his
wives ever heard of the Mathematician again; and, to quote a facetious
entry in the old attorney’s private memorandum-book,--George Wyburn was
convinced of the folly of his conduct,

     He thought no more of reading Plato,
     And acting like that goose, old Cato.

[Illustration: 357]



THE LITTLE BLACK PORTER.

Some years ago, the turnpike road, from the city of Bristol to the
little hamlet of Jacobsford, was cleft in twain, if we may use the
expression, for the length of rather more than a furlong, at a little
distance from the outskirts of the village, by the lofty garden walls
of an old parsonage house, which terminated nearly in a point, at the
northern end, in the centre of the highway. The road was thus divided
into two branches: these, after skirting the walls on the east and west,
united again at the south end, leaving the parsonage grounds isolated
from other property. The boundary walls were of an unusual height and
thickness; they were surmounted by strong oaken palisading, the top
of which presented an impassable barrier of long and projecting iron
spikes. The brick-work, although evidently old, was in excellent
condition: not a single leaf of ivy could be found upon its surface,
nor was there a fissure or projection perceptible which would afford
a footing or hold to the most expert bird’s-nesting boy, or youthful
robber of orchards, in the neighbourhood. The entrance gate was low,
narrow, immensely thick, and barred and banded with iron on the inner
side. The tops of several yew and elm trees might be seen above the
palisading, but none grew within several feet of the wall: among
their summits, rose several brick chimneys, of octagonal shape; and,
occasionally, when the branches were blown to and fro by an autumnal
wind, a ruddy reflection of the rising or setting sun was just
perceptible, gleaming from the highest windows of the house, through
the sear and scanty foliage in which it was embosomed. According to
tradition, Prince Rupert passed a night or two there, in the time of
the civil war; shortly after his departure, it withstood a siege of some
days, by a detachment unprovided with artillery; and surrendered only on
account of its garrison being destitute of food. Within the memory of
a few of the oldest villagers, it was said to have been occupied by a
society of nuns: of the truth of this statement, however, it appears
that the respectable sisterhood of Shepton Mallet entertain very grave,
and, apparently, well-founded doubts.

For many years previously to and at the period when the events about to
be recorded took place, a very excellent clergyman, of high scholastic
attainments, resided in the parsonage house. Doctor Plympton was
connected, by marriage, with several opulent families in Jamaica; and
he usually had two or three West-Indian pupils, whose education was
entirely confided to him by their friends. Occasionally, also, he
directed the studies of one or two young gentlemen, whose relatives
lived in the neighbourhood; but the number of his scholars seldom
exceeded four, and he devoted nearly the whole of his time to their
advancement in classical learning.

Doctor Plympton had long been a widower: his only child, Isabel, had
scarcely attained her sixteenth year, when she became an object of most
ardent attachment to a young gentleman of very violent passions, and
the most daring nature, who had spent nine years of his life under the
Doctor’s roof, and had scarcely quitted it a year, when, coming of age,
he entered into possession of a good estate, within half an hour’s ride
of the parsonage.

Charles Perry,--for that was the name of Isabel’s lover,--had profited
but little by the Doctor’s instructions: wild and ungovernable from his
boyhood, Charles, even from the time he entered his teens, was an object
of positive terror to his father, who was a man of a remarkably mild
and retiring disposition. As the youth advanced towards manhood, he grew
still more boisterous; and the elder Mr. Perry, incapable of enduring
the society of his son, yet unwilling to trust him far from home,
contrived, by threatening to disinherit him in case of disobedience, to
keep him under Doctor Plympton’s care until he was nearly twenty years
of age. At that time his father died, and Charles insisted upon burning
his books and quitting his tutor’s residence. On the strength of
his expectations, and the known honesty of his heart, he immediately
procured a supply of cash, and indulged his natural inclination for
horses and dogs, to such an extent, that some of his fox-hunting
neighbours lamented that a lad of his spirit had not ten or twenty
thousand, instead of fifteen hundred a year.

Young Perry had never been a favorite with Doctor Plympton; but his
conduct, after the decease of his father, was so directly opposed to
the worthy Doctor’s ideas of propriety, that he was heard to say, on
one occasion, when Isabel was relating some bold equestrian achievement
which had been recently performed by her lover, that he hoped to be
forgiven, and shortly to eradicate the evil weed from his heart, but if
at that moment, or ever in the course of his long life, he entertained
an antipathy towards any human being, Charles Perry was the man. It
would be impossible to describe the worthy Doctor’s indignation and
alarm, on hearing, a few days afterwards, that Charles had declared,
in the presence of his own grooms--in whose society he spent a great
portion of his time--that he meant to have Isabel Plympton, by hook or
by crook, before Candlemas-day, let who would say nay.

That his child, his little girl,--as he still called the handsome and
womanly-looking Isabel--should be an object of love, Doctor Plympton
could scarcely believe. The idea of her marrying, even at a mature age,
and quitting his arms for those of a husband, had never entered his
brain; but the thought of such person as Charles Perry despoiling him
of his darling, quite destroyed his usual equanimity of temper. He wept
over Isabel, and very innocently poured the whole tide of his troubles
on the subject into her ear; but he felt rather surprised to perceive
no symptoms of alarm on his daughter’s countenance, while he indignantly
repeated young Perry’s threats to carry her off. In the course of a
week, the Doctor heard, to his utter amazement, from a good-natured
friend, that Isabel had long been aware of Charles Ferry’s attachment,
and was just as willing to be run away with, as Charles could possibly
be to run away with her. Several expressions which fell from Isabel,
during a conversation which he subsequently had with her on the subject,
induced Doctor Plympton to believe, that his good-natured friend’s
information was perfectly correct; and he, forthwith, concerted measures
to frustrate young Perry’s designs.

Isabel’s walks were confined within the high and almost impassable
boundary-walls of the parsonage grounds; her father constantly carried
the huge key of the entrance door in his pocket, and willingly submitted
to the drudgery of personally answering every one who rang the bell. He
altogether declined receiving his usual visitors, and became, at once,
so attentive a gaoler over his lovely young prisoner, that nothing could
induce him even to cross the road. He bribed Patty Wallis with a new
Bible, Hervey’s Meditations among the Tombs, and Young’s Night Thoughts,
to be a spy upon the actions of her young mistress; and paid a lame
thatcher two shillings a week to inspect the outside of the wall every
night, while he did the like within, In order to detect any attempt that
might be made at a breach.

But Doctor Plympton derived much more efficient assistance in his
difficult task, from a quarter to which he had never dreamed of looking
for aid, than either his outward ally, the thatcher, or his domestic
spy, the waiting-maid, could possibly afford him. Doctor Plympton had
two West-Indian pupils in his house; both of whom were deeply smitten
with the charms of Isabel, and equally resolved on exercising the most
persevering vigilance to prevent the blooming young coquette,--who
contrived to make each of them suspect that he held a place in
her affections,--from escaping to, or being carried off by, their
enterprising rival, Charles Perry. These young gentlemen, one of whom
was now nineteen years of age, and the other about six months younger,
had been Isabel’s play-fellows in her childhood; and Doctor Plympton,
who seemed to be totally unconscious of their gradual approach towards
man’s estate, had as little apprehension of their falling in love with
Isabel, at this period, as when they played blindman’s buff and hunt the
slipper together, eight or nine years before.

Godfrey Fairfax, the elder of the two pupils,--a vain, forward,
impetuous young man,--flattered himself that Isabel was pleased with his
attentions: he felt satisfied, nevertheless, that the young coquette
was of an unusually capricious disposition. He was by no means sure that
Perry had not a decided preference over him in her heart; and if his
rival did not already enjoy so enviable a superiority, he feared that
the consequence of her present state of restraint would be a paroxysm
of attachment to the individual of whom she was even forbidden to think.
Isabel doated on a frolic; she thought nothing could be so delightful as
a romantic elopement; and far from being unhappy at the vigilance with
which she was guarded, she lived in a state of positive bliss. Her
situation was that of a heroine; and all her father’s precautions, to
prevent her from passing the garden-walls, were, to her, sources of
unspeakable satisfaction. Godfrey was perfectly acquainted with her
feelings, and strongly tainted with the same leaven himself. He knew how
much he would dare, were he in Charles Perry’s place; and he had good
reasons for believing, that any successful exploit to obtain possession
of her person, would be rewarded with the willing gift of young Isabel’s
hand. Charles Perry’s reckless character rendered him exceedingly
formidable as a rival, in the affections of such a girl as Isabel
Plympton: but what created more doubts and fears in Godfrey’s breast
than any other circumstance, was the fact of a large Newfoundland dog,
the property of Charles Perry, obtaining frequent ingress--nobody could
conceive by what means--to Doctor Plympton’s pleasure-grounds. Godfrey
suspected that a correspondence was carried on between Perry and Isabel
by means of the dog; and he shot at him several times, but without
success.

Of his quiet, demure, and unassuming school-fellow, George Wharton,
Godfrey did not entertain the least degree of fear: he attributed
Isabel’s familiarity with him to their having been brought up together;
for that Wharton could really love so giddy a girl as Isabel, he
would not permit himself to believe. But the truth is, that George
passionately doated on Isabel; and she, much to her satisfaction, had
made herself acquainted with the state of his feelings towards her. She
had even encouraged him, by a blushing avowal that she esteemed him more
than any other human being, except her father; and, in all probability,
at that moment, she uttered the genuine language of her heart: but, it
is very certain, in less than five minutes afterwards, Godfrey Fairfax
was on his knees before her, and kissing her exquisite hand, with an
enthusiasm of manner, which she did not appear at all disposed to check.
Perhaps she scarcely knew whom she loved best; and trusted to accident
for determining on which of the three young men her choice should fall.

While matters remained in this state at the parsonage, the day of
Godfrey’s departure from the house of his venerable tutor was fast
approaching:--the vessel, by which he was to return to his native
island, Demerara, had already completed her cargo, and nearly concluded
the final preparations for her voyage.--Godfrey saw that no time was
to be lost, if he wished to make Isabel Plympton his own: he was almost
constantly with her, and pleaded his cause with such fervour, that, by
degrees, Isabel began to forget Charles Perry, to avoid George Wharton,
and to feel unhappy if Godfrey Fairfax were absent but for a few moments
from her side. Godfrey knew that it would be useless to implore Doctor
Plympton for his consent to their union: it would have struck the old
gentleman with horror, had a pupil of his,--a youth of Godfrey’s
immense expectations,--offered to marry Isabel. He would have spumed
the proposal as a direct attack upon his honour; and have lost his
life rather than suffered such a marriage to take place. It would have
amounted, in his opinion, to a breach of his duty towards his employers,
to have suffered one of his pupils to fall in love with Isabel. But,
even if there were any hopes that Doctor Plympton would give his consent
to the match, provided Godfrey obtained that of his father, the young
man could not delay his felicity; nor would he run the hazard of
Isabel’s changing her mind, or being won by Perry, or even young
Wharton, while he was sailing to Demerara and back again. Isabel, too,
he was sure, would never agree to a mere common-place match with him,
when another lover was striving; night and day, to run away with her;
and Godfrey, under all the circumstances, deemed it most prudent to
carry her off, if possible, without asking any body’s permission but her
own.

He had made no arrangements for a legal union with Isabel; his sole
object was to get her out of her father’s custody, and under his own
protection. He felt assured that his love was too sincere to permit him
to act dishonourably towards her; and a vague idea floated across
his mind of carrying her on board the vessel by which he was to leave
England, and marrying her at the capstan, according to the forms and
usages observed at sea. The principal difficulty consisted in removing
her beyond the walls of her father’s pleasure-grounds. Doctor Plympton’s
vigilance was still unabated; George Wharton, although he had scarcely
spoken to Isabel for several days past, rarely lost sight of her for
a longer period than half an hour; Patty Wallis slept in her room,
the windows of which were immensely high; and the key of the door
was regularly deposited under the Doctor’s pillow. With a heavy heart
Godfrey began to pack up his clothes and books, for the day of his
departure was at hand,--when the idea of conveying Isabel out of the
house in his large trunk, suddenly flashed upon him. He flew to the
young lady and communicated to her what he called the happy
discovery; and she, without a moment’s hesitation, gaily agreed to his
proposition,--appearing quite delighted with the idea of escaping in so
mysterious and legitimately romantic a manner.

Godfrey passed the remainder of the day in concealing his clothes and
books, boring air-holes in the chest, and lining it with the softest
materials he could procure. On the morning appointed for his departure,
Isabel stole unperceived up to the store-room, where Godfrey was
anxiously waiting to receive her, and stepped blithely into the trunk.
Within an hour after, it was half a mile on the road towards Bristol,
in the fly-wagon, which Godfrey had previously ordered to call at the
parsonage for his heavy baggage, a short time before his own intended
departure. At length the chaise, in which he was to leave the village
for ever, drew up to the garden gate. Godfrey took a hurried leave of
his old master and fellow student, leaped into the vehicle, and told the
post-boy not to spare his spurs if he expected to be well paid.

In less than an hour, the young gentleman alighted at the wagon-office.
Assuming as cool and unconcerned an air as he possibly could, he
observed, in a careless tone, to a clerk in the office,--“I am looking
for a trunk of mine, but I do not see it: I suppose we must have passed
your wagon on the road.”

“All our wagons are in, sir,” replied the clerk: “we don’t expect
another arrival till to-morrow morning.”

“Oh! very good: then my chest must be here. I hope you have taken
particular precautions in unloading it: I wrote ‘with care--this side
upwards,’ on it, in very large letters.”

“Who was it addressed to, sir?”

“Why, to me, certainly;--Godfrey Fairfax, Esquire, Demrara--”

“To be left at the office till called for?”

“Exactly;--where is it? I’ve not much time to lose.”

“Why, sir, it has been gone away from here--”

“Gone away!”

“Yes, sir; about,--let me see,” continued the clerk, lazily turning
to look at the office clock; “why, about, as near as may be, nine or
ten,--ay, say ten,--about ten minutes ago, sir.”

“Ten minutes ago, sir! What do you mean?--Are you mad? I’ll play the
devil with you! Where’s my chest?”

“I told you before, it was gone, sir.”

“Gone, sir! How could it go, sir? Didn’t I direct it to be left here
till called for?”

“Very well, sir; and so it was left here till called for: it stood in
the office for five minutes or more, and then--”

“And then--what then?”

“Why, then, a little black porter called for it, and took it away with
him on a truck.”

“Who was he?--Where has he taken it?--I’ll be the ruin of you. The
contents of that trunk are invaluable.”

“I suppose you didn’t insure it: we don’t answer for any thing above
the value of five pounds unless it’s insured;--vide the notice on our
tickets.”

“Don’t talk to me of your tickets, but answer me, scoundrel!”

“Scoundrel!”

“Where has the villain conveyed it?”

“Can’t say.”

“Who was he?”

“Don’t know.”

“Distraction! How could you be such a fool as to let him have it?”

“Why not?--How was I to know?--You’d think it odd if you was to send a
porter for your chest--”

“Certainly; but--”

“Very well, then: how could I tell but what the little black fellow was
sent by you?--He asked for it quite correctly, according to the address;
and that’s what we go by, of course, in these cases. And even now, how
can I tell but what he was sent by the right owner, and that you’re come
under false pretences.”

“What, rascal!”

“You’ll excuse me:--but you don’t authenticate yourself, you know; and
I’ve a right to think as I please. If we were to hold a tight hand on
every gentleman’s luggage, until he proved his birth, parentage, and
education, why, fifty clerks couldn’t get through the work. I’ll put a
case:--suppose, now, you _are_ the gentleman you represent yourself to
be,--and, mind me, I don’t say you are not,--how should you like, when
you came here for your chest, for me to ask you for your certificate of
baptism?”

“You drive me mad! Can you give me no clue?”

“None in the world;--you ought to have written to us.”

“Write to you?--why should I write?”

“Why, to warn us against giving up the goods to anybody except under an
order, with the same signature as that in your letter: then even if a
forgery were committed, by a comparison of hands--don’t you see?--”

“My good fellow!” interrupted the disconsolate and bewildered Godfrey,
“you know not what you’ve done. This is a horrid act: it will be the
death of me; and perhaps you may live to repent ever having seen this
unlucky day. There was a lady in the chest.”

The clerk turned his large dull eyes upon Godfrey, and after a long and
deliberate stare of wonder, exclaimed, “Dead or alive?”

“Alive; alive, I hope that is,--alive, I mean, of course.--Do you take
me for a body-snatcher? If you have a spark of pity in your bosom, you
will put me in the way of tracing the villain who has inflicted these
agonies upon me. What can I do?”

“Why, if there’s a lady in the case--”

“There is, I declare;--I solemnly protest there is.”

“Young or old?” “Young--young, to be sure.”

“Why, then,--I think you ought to lose no time.”

“Pshaw! I know that well enough.”

“If I were you, I should be off directly.”

“Off!--S’death, man! you enrage me. What do you mean by be off?’”

“Why, off after him, to be sure.”

“Which way did he go?”

“Ah! there I’m at fault.”

Godfrey could bear no more:--he rushed out of the office, hallooed
“Porter!” five or six times, and, in a few seconds, half-a-dozen knights
of the knot were advancing, from different corners of the inn yard,
towards him. “My good fellows,” said he, “did any of you see a little
black fellow taking a large trunk or chest from the office, on a truck,
this morning?”

Two of them had seen the little black man, but they did not recollect in
what direction he went after quitting the yard.

“How dreadfully provoking!” exclaimed Godfrey: “My only course is
to ransack every street--every corner, in quest of him. I’ll give ten
guineas to any one who will discover the wretch. Away with you at
once;--bring all the black porters you know or meet with, to the office;
and, perhaps, the clerk may identify the rascal among them. I’ve been
robbed!--do you hear?--robbed--”

“And there’s a lady in the case,” said the clerk, from the threshold of
the office-door, where he stood, carefully nibbing a pen; “a mistake has
occurred, it seems; and though it’s no fault of ours, we should be glad
to see the matter set to rights: therefore, my lads, look sharp, and the
gentleman, I’ve no doubt, will come down handsomely. I think I’ve seen
the little black rascal before, and I’m pretty certain I should know him
again: if I shouldn’t, Ikey Pope would, I reckon; for he helped him to
put the chest on the truck.”

“And where is Ikey, as you call him?” eagerly inquired Godfrey.

“He’s asleep again, I suppose, among the luggage.--Ikey!--You see, he’s
got to sit up for the wagons at night, and never has his regular rest.
He’s like a dog--Ikey!--like a dog that turns round three times, and so
makes his bed anywhere.--Ikey!” A short, muscular, dirty-looking fellow
now raised his head from among the packages which lay in the yard, and
without opening his eyes, signified that he was awake, by growling forth
“Well, what now?”

“Ikey,” said the clerk, “didn’t you help a porter to load a truck with a
large chest, some little time ago?”

“Yes.”

“Should you know him again?”

“No!” replied Ikey, and his head disappeared behind a large package as
he spoke.

“Well, there’s no time to lose, comrades,” said one of the porters:
“will the gentleman pay us for our time if we don’t succeed?”

“Oh! of course,” replied the clerk; “away with you!”

The porters immediately departed in different directions; and Godfrey,
after pacing the yard for a few minutes, in great anguish of mind,
sallied forth himself in quest of the little black porter. After running
through some of the adjacent streets, and despatching another half-dozen
porters, whom he found standing round the door of an inn, to seek for
the fellow who had so mysteriously borne away “his casket with its
precious pearl,” he hastened back to the wagon-office, hoping that some
of his emissaries might have brought in the little black porter during
his absence. None of them, however, had yet returned. Godfrey, half
frantic, ran off again: and after half an hour’s absence, he retraced
his steps towards the wagon-office.

“Well, sir,” said the clerk, in his usual slow and solemn tone, as
Godfrey entered, “I have had three or four of them back; and they’ve
brought and sent in half-a-score of black porters, occasional waiters,
valets out of place, journeymen chairmen, _et cetera_, and so forth;
but, unfortunately--”

“The little delinquent was not among them, I suppose.”

“No, nor any one like him: but I’ll tell you what I did--”

“Speak quicker:--consider my impatience. Did you employ them all to hunt
out the villain?”

“Why, it was a bold step, perhaps; but--”

“Did you, or did you not?”

“I did.”

“A thousand thanks!--I’ll be off again.”

“But, I say, sir;--you’ll excuse me;--now, if I were you, I’ll just tell
you what I’d do.”

“Well, my dear friend, what?--quick--what?”

“Why, I’d roust out Ikey Pope. He’s the man to beat up your game.”

“What! the fellow who answers without unclosing his eyelids?”

“Why, to say the truth, he don’t much like daylight. Nobody sees the
colour of his eye, I reckon, above once a week; but, for all that,
there’s few can match him. He’s more like a dog than a Christian. He’ll
find what every body else has lost; but upon what principle he works, I
can’t say: I think he does it all by instinct.”

“Let us send him out at once, then.”

“Not so fast, sir:--Ikey’s next kin to a brute, and must be treated
accordingly. We must manage him.”

“Well, you know him, and--”

“Yes, and he knows me: I have condescended to play so many tricks with
him, that he won’t trust me: but he’ll believe you.”

“And how shall I enlist him in my service? I stand on thorns:--for
Heaven’s sake be speedy.”

“Why, if you only tell him he has a good leg for a boot, and promise him
an old pair of Hessians, he’s your humble servant to command; for, ugly
as he is, he’s so proud of his leg, that--”

“Call him;--call him, at once.”

The clerk now roused Ikey, and, with considerable difficulty, induced
him to leave his hard and comfortless dormitory.

“The gentleman has a job for you,” said the clerk, as Ikey staggered
towards young Fairfax.

“I don’t want no jobs,” muttered Ikey. “Saturday night comes often
enough for me. Seven-and-twenty wagons a-week, out and in, in the way of
work, and half-a-guinea a-week, in the way of wages, is as much as I can
manage.”

“Ikey is very temperate, sir,” said the clerk; “very temperate, I
must allow;--he eats little and drinks less: he keeps up his flesh by
sleeping, and sucking his thumbs.”

“Ah! you will have your joke,” said Ikey, turning towards the heap of
luggage again.

“And won’t you earn a shilling or two, Ikey?” said the clerk.

“No; I’m an independent man: I have as much work as I can do, and as
much wages as I want. I wish you wouldn’t wake me, when there’s no
wagon:--how should you like it?”

“Well, but, friend Pope,” said Godfrey, “as you will not take money,
perhaps you’ll be generous enough to do a gentleman a favour. I shall be
happy to make you some acceptable little present--keepsake, I mean--in
return. I’ve an old pair of Hessians,--and, as I think our legs are
about of a size--”

“Of a size!” said Ikey, facing about towards young Fairfax, and, for the
first time, unclosing his heavy lids; “of a size!” repeated he, a second
time, casting a critical glance on Godfrey’s leg; “I can hardly think
that.”

Ikey dropped on one knee, and, without uttering a word, proceeded to
measure Godfrey’s calves with his huge, hard hands. He then rose, and
rather dogmatically observed, “The gentleman has got a goodish sort of
a leg; but,” continued he, “his calves don’t travel in flush enough with
one another exactly: he couldn’t hold a sixpence between his ancles, the
middle of his legs, and his knees, as a person I’m acquainted with can,
when he likes to turn his toes out:--but I think your boots might fit
me, sir.”

“I’m sure they will,” cried the impatient Godfrey; “and you shall have
them.”

“Your hand, then;--it’s a bargain,” quoth Ikey, thrusting out his fist,
and striking a heavy blow in the centre of Godfrey’s palm. “Now, what’s
the job?”

Godfrey rapidly stated his case, and, with all the eloquence he
possessed, endeavoured to stimulate the drowsy fellow, on whom his chief
hopes now depended, to a state of activity. Ikey listened to him, with
closed eyes, and did not seem to comprehend a tythe of what he heard.
When Godfrey had concluded, he merely observed, “I’ll have a shy!” and
staggered out of the yard, more like a drunkard reeling home from a
debauch, than a man despatched to find out an unknown individual in the
heart of a busy and populous city.

“The William and Mary, by which I was to sail, lies at King-road,” said
Godfrey to the clerk, as Ikey Pope departed; “the wind, I perceive,
is fair, and sail she will, this evening, without a doubt. Unfortunate
fellow that I am!--every moment is an age to me.”

“Perhaps you’d like to sit down in the office,” said the clerk; “I can
offer you a seat and yesterday’s paper.”

“Thank you, thank you!” replied Godfrey; “but I fear pursuit, too:--I
cannot rest here.”

The young man again walked into the streets: he inquired of almost every
person he met, for the little black porter; but no one could give him
any information. At last, a crowd began to gather around him, and he
was, with very little ceremony, unanimously voted a lunatic. Two or
three fellows had even approached to lay hands on him, when his eye
suddenly encountered that of Ikey Pope: breaking through the crowd at
once, he hurried back, with Ikey, to the wagon-office.

“I’ve won the boots,” said Ikey, as they entered the yard.

“Which way?--how?--Have you seen him?--Where is he?” eagerly inquired
Godfrey.

“I can’t make out where he is,” replied Ikey; “but I happened to drop
into the house where he smokes his pipe, and there I heard the whole
yam. He brought the chest there.”

“Where?--where?”

“Why, to the Dog and Dolphin.”

“Til fly--”

“Oh! it’s of no use: the landlord says it was carried away again, by a
pair of Pill-sharks; who, from what I can get out of him and his people,
had orders to take it down the river, and put it aboard the William and
Mary, what’s now lying in Ringroad, bound for Demerary.”

“Oh! then, I dare say it’s all a mistake, and no roguery’s intended,”
 said the clerk, who had heard Ikey’s statement: “the person found he was
wrong, and, to make amends, has duly forwarded the trunk, pursuant to
the direction on its cover.”

“A chaise and four to Lamplighter’s Hall, instantly!” shouted Godfrey.

“First and second turn, pull out your tits,” cried the ostler: “put to,
while I fill up a ticket.”

“Are you going, sir?” said Ikey, to young Fairfax.

“On the wings of love,” replied Godfrey.

“But the boots!”

“Ah! true. There,--there’s a five pound note,--buy the best pair of
Hessians you can get.”

“What about the change?”

“Keep it or, oddso! yes,--distribute it among the porters; and be sure,
Ikey, if ever I return to England, I’ll make your fortune: I’d do it
now, but I really haven’t time.”

In a few minutes, Godfrey was seated in a chaise, behind four excellent
horses, and dashing along, at full speed, toward’s Lamplighter’s Hall.
On his arrival at that place, he found, to his utter dismay, that the
William and Mary had already set sail. After some little delay--during
which he ascertained that his trunk had positively been carried on
board--Godfrey procured a pilot-boat; the master of which undertook to
do all that lay in the power of man to overtake the vessel. After two
hours of intense anxiety, the pilot informed Godfrey, that, if the wind
did not get up before sunset, he felt pretty sure of success. Far beyond
the Holms, and just as the breeze was growing brisk, Godfrey, to his
unspeakable joy, reached the deck of the William and Mary. The
pilot immediately dropped astern; and, as soon as Godfrey could find
utterance, he inquired for his trunk. It had already been so securely
stowed away in the hold, that, as Godfrey was informed, it could not be
hoisted on deck in less than half an hour. The impatient youth entreated
that not a moment might be lost; and, in a short time, five or six of
the crew, with apparent alacrity, but real reluctance, set about what
they considered the useless task of getting the trunk out of the snug
berth in which they had placed it.

It is now necessary for us to take up another thread of our story; for
which purpose, we must return to that point of time when the wagon,
which contained Godfrey’s precious chest, slowly disappeared behind
the brow of a hill, at the foot of which stood the worthy Doctor’s
residence. Patty Wallis, Isabel’s maid and bosom friend, had, for some
time past, been bought over to the interest of Charles Perry, to whom
she communicated every transaction of importance that occurred in the
house. On that eventful morning, she had acquainted Perry with Godfrey’s
plan,--the particulars of which her young mistress had confided to her,
under a solemn pledge of secresy,--and Perry, from behind the hedge of
an orchard, nearly opposite the Doctor’s house, beheld young Fairfax
consign his trunk to the care of the wagoners. Godfrey entered the
house, as the heavy vehicle turned the summit of the hill; and Charles
Perry immediately retreated from his place of concealment, to join his
trusty groom, Doncaster Dick, who was waiting for him, with a pair of
saddle horses, in a neighbouring lane.

“You’ve marked the game, I’ll lay guineas to pounds!” exclaimed Dick,
as Charles approached. “I’m sure I’m right;--I can see it by your eyes.
Guineas to pounds, did I say?--I’d go six to four, up to any figure, on
it.”

“I wish you’d a thousand or two on the event, Dick,” replied Charles
Perry, exultingly; “you’d have a safe book at any odds.”

“Well! I always thought how it would be: if there was fifty entered for
the young lady, you’d be my first favourite; because for why?--as I’ve
said scores of times,--if you couldn’t beat’em out and out, you’d jockey
them to the wrong side of the post.”

“I hope you’ve not been fool enough to let any one know of Godfrey’s
scheme, or of my being acquainted with it:--‘brush’ is the word, if you
have.”

“I’d lay a new hat, sir, if the truth was known, you don’t suspect me.
You’re pretty sure I’m not noodle enough to open upon the scent in a
poaching party: I was born in Bristol and brought up at Doncaster to
very little purpose, if ever I should be sent to heel for that fault.
But won’t you mount, sir?”

“I’m thinking, Dick,” said Perry, who stood with one foot on the ground
and the other in the stirrup;--“I’m thinking you had better push on by
yourself, in order to avoid suspicion. Yes, that’s the plan:--take the
high road, and I’ll have a steeple-chase run of it across the country.
Make the best of your way to old Harry Tuffin’s; put up the horse, watch
for the wagon, and, as soon as it arrives, send a porter, who doesn’t
know you, to fetch the trunk:--you know how it’s directed.”

“But where am I to--”

“Have it brought to Tuffin’s:--bespeak a private room, at the back part
of the house; and order a chaise and four to be ready, at a moment’s
notice.”

“But suppose, sir, Miss should be rusty?”

“I’m sure she loves me, Dick, let them say what they will: she wouldn’t
have attempted to ran away with this young Creole fellow, if she thought
there was any chance of having me. Besides, what can she do?--her
reputation, Dick,--consider that but I’m talking Greek to _you_. Be
off--get the trunk to Tuffin’s.”

“And a thousand to three she’s yours;--that’s what you mean, sir,” said
Dick, touching his hat to Perry, as he turned his horse’s head towards
the high road. In a few moments he was out of sight, and Charles set
off, at a brisk pace, down the lane.

On his arrival at Tuffin’s, Perry found his trusty servant engaged in
deep conversation, a few paces from the door, with a short, muscular,
black man, whose attire was scrupulously neat, although patched in
several places; his shoes were very well polished; his neckerchief was
coarse, but white as snow; he wore a large silver ring on the little
finger of his left hand; his hair was tied behind with great neatness;
he had a porter’s knot hanging on his arm: and, as Perry approached, he
drew a small tin box from his waistcoat pocket, and took snuff with the
air of a finished coxcomb.

“Is this the porter you’ve engaged, Dick?” inquired Perry.

“I couldn’t meet with another,” replied Dick, “besides, sir, he’s not
objectionable, I think;--he talks like a parson.”

“But he’s too old for the weight, Dick, I’m afraid. What’s your age,
friend?”

“A rude question, as some would say,” replied the porter, with a smile
and a bow; “but Cæsar Devallé is not a coy young beauty.”

“So I perceive, Caesar,--if that’s your name.”

“You do me great honour,” said the porter, “and I’m bound to venerate
you, Mister--what shall I say? No offence;--but mutual confidence is the
link of society. I am so far of that opinion, that I can boast of seven
lovely children; and Mrs. Devallé, although full two-and-thirty when
I took her in hand, already dances divinely: indeed, I can now safely
confide to her the instruction of our infant progeny in the first
rudiments of Terpsichore,--graceful maid!--while I teach my eldest boys
the violin and shaving. We must get our bread as well as worship the
muses, you know; for teeth were not given for nothing.”

“No, certainly,” observed Dick; “we know an animal’s age by’em:--what’s
yours?”

“In round numbers--fifty.”

“I fear, my learned friend,” said Perry, “you are scarcely strong enough
for my purpose.”

“I am not equal to Hercules,” replied the porter; “but I possess what
that great man never did,--namely, a truck. I have often thought what
wonders Hercules would have done, if somebody had made him a present of
two or three trifles which we moderns almost despise. Life, you know, is
short, and therefore machinery is esteemed: consequently, ‘to bear and
forbear’ is my motto; for nobody can see the bottom of the briny waves.”

“You are rather out at elbows in your logic, Cæsar,” said Perry;
“and your motto seems to me to be a _non sequitur_:--but you read, I
perceive.”

“Yes, when my numerous occupations permit me,--for spectacles are cheap:
but I find numerous faults with the doctrine of chances; and those who
pretend to see through a millstone, in my opinion--”

“Keep your eye up the street,” Dick, interrupted Charles, turning from
the Little Black Porter to his servant; “the wagon must be near at
hand, by this time. Allow me to ask you, friend,” continued he, again
addressing Cæsar Devallé, “are you a regular porter?”

“Why, truly,” replied Devallé, “the winds and the weather preach such
doctrine to us, that I occasionally shave and give lessons on the
violin. All nature is continually shifting;--why, then, should man be
constant, except to his wife? Night succeeds the day, and darkness,
light; and I certainly prefer practising a cotillon with a pupil,
even if she’s barefooted, to shouldering the knot. My terms are very
moderate: but some people think ability lies only skin deep; to which
class you, sir, certainly do not belong;--that is, if I know anything of
a well-cut coat.”

The Little Black Porter now retired, bowing and grinning, to a little
distance, leaving Charles with his servant.

“I’ll lay a pony, sir,” said Dick, “the wagon isn’t here this
half-hour.”

“Ridiculous!” exclaimed Perry. Dick, however, was right; forty minutes
elapsed before the bells on the horses’ heads were heard. In another
half-hour, Godfrey’s trunk, by the exertions of Perry, Dick, and the
Little Black Porter, was removed from the truck on which Cæsar had
brought it from the wagon-office, and triumphantly deposited on the
floor of a back room in old Tuffin’s house.

Trembling with joy, Charles Perry immediately proceeded to sever the
cords. Leaving him occupied with that “delightful task,” we shall
take leave to carry the reader back again to the residence of Doctor
Plympton.

It has already been stated that young Isabel stepped gaily into the
chest. She continued to laugh, and actually enjoyed the novelty of her
situation, for a few seconds after Godfrey Fairfax had closed the lid.
But her courage began to sink, from the moment she heard the holt of
the lock shot, with a noise, that seemed to her at once portentous and
prodigious: she even uttered a faint scream; but her pride mastered her
weakness in an instant, and her exclamation of alarm terminated in her
usual apparently joyous, but, perhaps, heartless laugh. Godfrey, much
to his delight, heard her tittering, during the short period he
was occupied in securely cording up the trunk. “Now, my dear little
heroine,” whispered he, through the key-hole, as he fastened the last
knot, “keep up your spirits; let the delightful thought of our early
meeting, and years of subsequent bliss, support you through this
trifling ordeal. Remember, I--mark me, Isabel!--I, who love you better
than any other living creature does--I, who deem you the greatest
treasure on earth,--I say you are quite safe. Do not forget that my
happiness or misery are at the mercy of your courage and patience. I
hear some one coming.--Adieu!--_Au revoir_, my love!”

Godfrey now left the room, and contrived to decoy Doctor Plympton, whom
he met in the passage, down stairs to the study, where he amused the old
gentleman, by some plausible detail of his future intentions with regard
to mathematics and the dead languages, until the arrival of the wagon by
which the trunk was to be conveyed to town.

Meantime, an event of considerable importance took place in the
store-room. Isabel had made no reply to Godfrey’s adieu; for the
idea that she was so soon to be left alone, entirely deprived her of
utterance; and, as the sound of his footsteps died away on her ear, she
began to grow not only weary but terrified. Though incapable of judging
of the real dangers of her situation, and blind to the impropriety of
her conduct, her spirits were wofully depressed by imaginary terrors,
which, however, were not, for a short period, sufficiently powerful to
render her insensible to the personal inconvenience which she suffered.
She thought of Juliet in the tomb, and felt sure, that were she to fall
asleep, she should go mad in the first few moments after waking, under
the idea that she was in her coffin, and had been buried alive. Her
courage and pride completely deserted her: she moaned piteously, and her
senses began to be affected. Luckily for her, perhaps, George Wharton,
having nothing else to do, sauntered into the store-room, to see if
Godfrey had finished packing up. He was not a little surprised to hear
the voice of one in deep affliction proceed from the chest. After a
moment’s hesitation, during which he almost doubted the evidence of his
ears, he knocked on the lid, and inquired if any one were within. It is
almost needless to say, that the reply was in the affirmative.

“What trick is this?” exclaimed George. “Who is it?”

“Oh! dear Mr. Wharton! pray let me out,” cried Isabel.

“Good Heavens! Isabel!--I’ll fly for assistance.”

“No; not for worlds! I could not wait for it. Cut the cords and break
open the chest this moment, or I shall die.”

With the aid of a pocket-knife and the poker, George soon emancipated
Isabel from her place of confinement. Pale and sobbing, she sank into
his arms, and vowed eternal gratitude to her kind deliverer, whom, she
said, notwithstanding appearances, she loved better than any other being
in existence.

“If so,” said George, very naturally, “why do I find you in Godfrey’s
chest?”

“Don’t I confess that appearances are against me?” exclaimed Isabel,
pettishly; “what more would you have?”

“I am not unreasonable, Isabel: but I shall certainly talk to Mr.
Fairfax, on this subject, before he leaves the house;--on that, I am
resolved.”

“No doubt you are; or to do anything else that you think will vex me.”

“Nay, Isabel, you are too severe.”

“Indeed,” said Isabel, “I am quite the contrary: it is nothing but the
excess of my foolish good-nature that has led me into this disagreeable
situation. My frolic has cost me dear enough. That horrid Godfrey!”

“His conduct is atrocious; and I shall immediately mention it to the
Doctor.”

“My father would rate him soundly for it, I know; and he richly deserves
a very long lecture: but ‘forget and forgive,’ George, has always been
your motto, and I think I shall make it mine. Godfrey has been our
companion for years; and it would be useless to make mischief, for a
trifle, at the moment of his leaving us; ’twere better, by far, to part
friends. Besides, after all, poor fellow, one can scarcely blame him,”
 added Isabel, with a smile, as her eye caught the reflection of her
beautiful features in an old looking-glass; “even you, George, who are
such an icy-hearted creature, say you would go through fire and water to
possess me; and no wonder that such a high-spirited fellow as Godfrey--”

“I feel rather inclined, Miss Plympton,” interrupted George, “to shew
that my spirit is quite as high as his.”

“Then be noble, George, and don’t notice what has happened. It’s
entirely your own fault: you know his ardour,--his magical mode of
persuading one almost out of one’s sober senses, and yet you never can
contrive to be in the way.”

“My feelings, Isabel, are too delicate to--”

“Well, then, you must put up with the consequences. I am sure that
some people, even if one don’t like them much, influence one to be
more complaisant to them, than to others whom one really loves; because
others will not condescend to be attentive. But, come,--pray don’t look
so grave: I am sure I was nearly frightened out of my wits just now, and
I don’t look half so sorrowful as you; although, I protest, I haven’t
recovered yet. What are you thinking of?”

“I am thinking, Isabel,” replied George, “that, after all, I had better
speak to Godfrey; for, if I do not, when he discovers what has happened,
he will certainly accuse me of the singular crime of stealing his
sweetheart out of his box.”

“Well, that’s true enough: but we must contrive to avoid an
éclaircissement. As the trunk is not perceptibly damaged, suppose you
fasten it up again with the cords; and, by way of a joke, to make it
of a proper weight, put in young Squire Perry’s dog as my substitute.
Godfrey vowed to kill him, you know, before he left us; and he did
so, not above an hour ago, while the horrid creature was in the act of
worrying my poor little Beaufidel. Godfrey said he should leave him, as
a legacy, in the back-yard, for you to bury and bear the blame.”

“I must confess,” said Wharton, “it would be a pleasant retaliation: I
certainly should enjoy it!”

“Then fly at once down the back stairs for the creature: nobody will see
you:--go.”

“Will you remain here?”

“Fie, George! Do you think I could endure the sight of the shocking
animal?”

“Well, well;--but will you see Godfrey again?”

“Certainly not: I shall keep out of the way. It is arranged that he
shall say I have the head-ache, and am gone to my room; so he’ll insist
upon waiving my appearance at his departure. Do as I tell you, my dear
George, and we shall get rid of him delightfully.”

Isabel now tripped lightly away to her little boudoir, where she was
secure from intrusion; and Wharton proceeded to carry her ideas into
execution with such unusual alacrity, that he had achieved his object
long before the arrival of the wagon. He assisted in bringing the trunk
down stairs; but his gravity was so much disturbed, by the very strict
injunctions which Godfrey gave the wagoners to be more than usually
careful with his property, that, for fear of betraying himself, he was
compelled to make a precipitate retreat into the house. As soon as he
was out of the hearing of his young rival, he indulged in an immoderate
fit of laughter, which was echoed by Isabel, who, peeping through the
window of her apartment, heartily enjoyed the anxiety which Godfrey, by
his looks, appeared to feel for the safety of his chest and its precious
contents. She kept out of sight until young Fairfax had departed;
when Fatty Wallis was struck speechless, for nearly a minute, at being
summoned by Isabel in person, to dress her for dinner.

The indignation and amazement of Charles Perry, on seeing his own dead
dog in the trunk, where he had expected to find the fair form of the
blooming and lively Isabel Plympton, may easily be imagined. His first
emotions of wonder at the sight were quickly succeeded by the deepest
regret for the death of his favourite dog: but his sorrow for the animal
was suddenly extinguished by a most painful feeling of mortification,
at having been so egregiously duped: at last, rage,--violent and
ungovernable rage, seemed to master all other passions in his bosom. He
raved like a Bedlamite, beat his forehead, tore his hair, stamped up and
down the room, vowed to sacrifice, not only young Fairfax, Patty
Wallis, Doctor Plympton, but even Doncaster Dick himself; and when his
excitement had reached its highest pitch, he lifted the dead dog out
of the chest, and hurled it, with all his might, at the head of Cæsar
Devallé. The force of the blow threw the Little Black Porter on the
floor, where he lay with the dog sprawling upon him; and his grimaces,
and exclamations for rescue from the animal, appeared so exceedingly
ludicrous to Charles Perry, that the young gentleman burst out into a
violent and uncontrollable fit of laughter, in which he was most readily
joined by Doncaster Dick.

Long before the merriment of either master or man had subsided, Cæsar
contrived to extricate himself from the dog; and after adjusting his
disordered cravat, began to express his deep indignation at the insult
he had suffered. He intimated, in a tone tremulous with agitation, but
in rather choice terms, that he should be quite delighted to know by
what law or custom any person was authorized to hurl the corpse of a
huge mastiff at the head of a citizen of the world; and why the alarming
position of an inoffensive father of seven children, struggling to
escape from an animal, which might, for aught he knew, be alive and
rabid, should exhilarate any gentleman, whose parents or guardians were
not cannibals; or any groom, except a Centaur. “If we are to be treated
in this way,” pursued he, “where is the use of tying our hair?--We may
as well go about like logs in a stream, if gentlemen know nothing
of hydrophobia, or the philosophy of the human heart. Even the brute
creation teaches us many of our social duties: the cat washes her face,
and even the duck smooths her feathers, in order that she may be
known on the pond for what she is: but if a man is to embellish his
exterior,--if we are to display the character of our minds by outward
appearances, and yet be thrown at, for sport, like cocks on a Shrove
Tuesday,--why, to speak plainly, the Ganges may as well be turned into a
tea-pot, and the Arabian deserts be covered with Witney blankets.”

“The short and the long of it is,” said Dick, “he means, sir, that
we ought to know, lookye, as how a man who ties his cravat in a small
rosette, and shews a bit of frill, don’t give or take horse-play. That’s
my translation of his rigmarole, and I’ll lay a crown it’s a true one.”

“I suspect it is,” said Perry, “and I’m sorry, porter, that--”

“Not a word more,” interrupted Caesar, again suffering his features to
relax from their state of grave restraint into his habitual smile;--“not
a word more, I insist: to evince a disposition to make an ample apology,
is quite satisfactory from one gentleman to a--to a--”

“To another, you would say,” said Charles.

“You honour me vastly by this condescension, sir; and if ever I compose
another cotillon, or Mrs. Devallé presents me with an eighth pledge of
our affection, your name shall certainly be made use of. Gratitude is
implanted even in stocks and stones; and the acorn that is only half
munched by swine, grows into an oak, and, centuries after, becomes
a ship, in which our celebrated breed of pigs is carried to the four
quarters of the world. Even my namesake Cæsar, the Roman, and Hannibal,
the Carthaginian--”

“Exactly,--exactly so,” said Perry, turning on his heel and biting his
lip, as the recollection of the trick which had been played upon him
again flashed across his mind.

“I beg pardon,” said Cesar, following him; “I don’t think you foresaw,
precisely--”

“Well, what were you going to say?” inquired Charles, in a tone of
impatience.

“I was about to propose, that we should drown all future animosity in a
bumper;--that is, if you would honour so humble a member of society as
Cosar Devallé, by ordering the liquor. Shall I execute your commands?”

“Dick, get some brandy:--I could drink a glass myself.”

“I’ll step for a pint or so,” quoth Cæsar; “I am fond of motion: it
exemplifies the living principle, and--”

“No more of your observations, but begone,” interrupted Charles. Devallé
made a low bow, and immediately left the room. “The fellow’s a fool,”
 continued Charles, as the Little Black Porter closed the door. “What say
you, Dick, to all this?”

“Why, sir,” replied Dick, “I don’t like to be over positive; but, to
me, it looks rather like a pretty kettle of fish. Moreover, I’ll lay a
year’s perquisites to half a pound, that Mr. Cæsar, the porter, is more
rogue than ninny.”

“What do you mean? Why do you wink in that manner?”

“Ah! I never winks without there’s a notion or two in my head. A
sensible horse don’t throw his ears forward, unless there’s something in
the wind he thinks may be worth looking at. I can’t make out which way
we’ve been jockied in this form. Where lies the fault, sir?--that’s what
I want to know. Who put the dog in the box? I wish any one would answer
that simple question.”

“So do I, Dick, with all my heart.”

“Well, then, it’s clear there’s a screw loose somewhere. I’ll lay my leg
it don’t lie with little Patty.--Then where can it?”

“Ay, that’s the point, Dick.”

“Why, then, if I’m any judge, this little porter isn’t twopence
halfpenny better than he should be. He was a long while going for the
trunk, you’ll recollect: and when I told him that it was directed to
Godfrey Fairfax, Esquire, ‘Ay, ay!’ says he, taking the words out of
my mouth, ‘Godfrey Fairfax, Esquire, of Demerary.’ It did’nt strike me,
then; but it seems rather oddish to me, now; and, in my mind, all the
roguery was done ‘twixt here and the wagon-office: I’ll bet a guinea it
was.”

“Egad, Dick! you’re generally right; and there seems some probability.
But how shall we act?”

“Why, sir, I recommend that we should make him drunk, and pump him.”

“But, suppose his head should prove too hard for ours, Dick.”

“Never fear that, sir; I’ll ring the changes, so that he shall do double
duty.”

“You forget, Dick, that all this time he may be making his escape. Run
down stairs and look after him.”

Dick walked to the door, but returned without opening it. “I hear his
hoof on the stairs, sir,” said he: “sharp’s the word.”

The Little Black Porter now entered the room, followed by a waiter with
a decanter of brandy and three glasses. Bumpers were immediately filled,
and the Little Black Porter and Dick drank young Perry’s health: Charles
then emptied his glass; more liquor was poured out, the Little Black
Porter began to talk, and, in a very short time, the contents of the
decanter were considerably diminished. Devallé drank, alternately, and
it must be confessed, “nothing loath,” to Dick and his master; and
the groom, with much ingenuity, contrived to make him swallow at least
thrice the quantity that either he or young Perry took. Caesar’s eyes
gradually grew bright; a slight stutter was perceptible in his speech;
he unnecessarily used words of considerable length; and spoke familiarly
of persons far above his own station in life.

“You seem to be acquainted with nearly all the residents of this
neighbourhood,” said Charles, drawing the Little Black Porter to a
window; “can you inform me who lives in yonder old brick house, the
window-shutters of which always appear closed?”

“The owner, sir,” replied Cæsar, “is an opulent merchant, old and
whimsical,--but age will have its errors; if not, why do we prop a
tottering castle, and patch shoes? Nothing is incomprehensible if we
adopt the doctrine of analogy; which, as more than one great writer
observes, is an irrefragable proof that man is endowed with reasoning
powers. The gentleman, whose house you now see, sir, sleeps by day, and
dines at midnight. Far be it from me to say that he is wrong: there are
quite enough of us, to dance attendance on the sun; why should not Luna
have her votaries? There’s no act of parliament to make man fall asleep
at eleven precisely; Spitzbergen does not lie under the tropics, you
know; and, perhaps, if I had my choice,--for flesh is grass,--I should
prefer that latitude where it is three months day and three months
night.”

“And why so, Caesar?”

“Why, I need not tell you there’s some difference between a rhinoceros
and a sugar-cane; and, accordingly, I, for one, seldom or ever want to
go to sleep, except when under the influence of a more cheerful cup
than I usually take; in fact, when I’m in a state of inebriation, which
rarely occurs,--for many mole-hills go to a mountain. But, on the other
hand, when I _do_ sleep,--so lovely is nature!--that I never should
wake, for three months at least, I suspect,--though, of course, I never
tried the experiment,--if Mrs. Devallé did not deluge me with soap-suds.
I am told that soap contains alkali; and alkali, to some constitutions,
is wholesome;--for fire, you know, will roast an ox;--and the custom of
bears retiring into winter quarters, meets with my warmest approbation.”

Before Perry and Caesar returned to the table, Doncaster Dick had
secretly procured a fresh supply of brandy; with which Charles plied the
Little Black Porter so vigorously, that Caesar was soon pronounced by
Dick to be sufficiently intoxicated for their purpose. Young Perry
and the groom then began to draw Caesar’s attention to the dog; and
endeavoured, by dint of wheedling, threats, and promises, to elicit from
him what had taken place, with regard to the trunk while it was in
his possession: but, as the porter had nothing to confess, all their
attempts, of course, proved ineffectual; and Caesar, at last, dropped
his head on his shoulder, and sank into a profound sleep.

“We have overdone it, Dick,” said Perry; “we gave him too much, you
see.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Dick, “you opened too hotly upon him;--that’s clear.
If you had left him to me, I’d have drawn him as gently as a glove.”

Dick and his master, notwithstanding their precaution, had drunk
sufficient to intoxicate them: they were ripe for mischief, and heedless
of consequences. When Charles Perry, therefore, asked Dick what was to
be done with the trunk, it is scarcely a matter of surprise, that Dick
proposed packing the porter in it, and forwarding it according to the
address on its cover; or that Charles, irritated as he felt, and still
suspicious that Cæsar had been a party to the trick which had been
played off upon him, gaily assented to the proposal. Cæsar was lifted
into the box, and the cords securely fastened, in a very few minutes.
Dick then sallied forth to ascertain where the ship lay. He soon
returned with a couple of Pill boatmen, who informed Charles that the
William and Mary was lying at Kingroad, and waiting only for the tide to
put to sea: they were just about to return to Pill, and they undertook,
for a small sum, to carry the chest down the river in their boat, and
place it safely on board the vessel before she sailed.

It will, doubtless, be recollected that we left Godfrey Fairfax in a
state of delightful agitation, on the deck of the William and Mary,
while several of the crew were preparing to hoist his trunk out of the
hold. As soon as it was brought on deck, Godfrey, with tears of joy
glistening in his eyes, fell on his knees in front of it, and eagerly
unfastened the cords. He trembled to find the bolt of the lock already
shot back, and with the most anxious solicitude, threw up the cover:
instead of the lovely face of Isabel, his eyes fell on that of the
Little Black Porter! Uttering a shriek of horror, he leaped upon his
feet, and stood aghast and speechless for several moments, gazing on
Devallé.

[Illustration: 384]

The crew crowded round the chest, and Cæsar, who had been roused by
Godfrey’s exclamation, raised himself, and stared on the various objects
by which he was surrounded,--expressing the utter astonishment he felt
at his novel situation by such strange contortions of countenance and
incoherent expressions, that the sailors, who at the first glimpse they
had of Cæsar, in the box, were almost as much amazed as the Little
Black Porter himself, began to laugh most heartily. Godfrey, at length,
recovered sufficient possession of his faculties to grasp Devallé by the
throat, and violently exclaim,--“Villain, explain! What have you done?”

“That is precisely what I wish to know,” replied Cæsar, as soon as he
could disengage himself from young Fairfax. “What have I done?--Why do I
find myself here?--And where in the world am I?”

“In de Bristol Channel,” chuckled the black cook, who stood tuning
a fiddle by the side of the chest. “Him shipped in good order and
condition, aboard de good ship William and Mary.”

“Consigned, I see,” added a sailor, “to Godfrey Fairfax, Esquire, of
Demerara,--whither we’re bound, direct,--‘with care this side upwards.’”

“Godfrey Fairfax, of Demerara!--consigned to Demerara!”
 exclaimed Caesar, leaping out of the trunk: “Don’t play with my
feelings,--don’t,--don’t! If you are men, don’t trifle with me. Your
words are poisoned arrows to my poor heart.”

“Massa Blackee no runaway slave, eh?” inquired the cook. “Unfortunate
wretch that I am!” replied Cæsar; “flesh is frail, and liberty’s wand is
a sugar-cane. I feel driven by present circumstances to confess, that
I certainly did escape in the hold of the Saucy Jane, from Demerara,
thirty years ago. Fellow-creatures, do not refund me to my old
master:--I was the property of Mr. Fairfax.”

“Of my father!” exclaimed Godfrey.

“Miserable me! His son here, too!” said Caesar. “I have been
kidnapped,--cheated! I’m a free man, though;--a citizen of the world;
a housekeeper, and the father of seven lovely children: do not deprive
them of their paternal support. Remember, I stand upon my rights: there
are laws even for rabbits; English oak is the offspring of the land of
liberty, and consequently I command somebody to put me ashore.”

“How can we put you ashore, my good man?” asked a fellow in the garb of
an hostler; “we’re cantering along at the rate of twelve miles an hour
before the wind; and I’ve lost sight of land this long time.”

“I don’t care for that:--a kangaroo isn’t a cockroach, and I demand my
privileges. Put back the ship, I say; I’m here by mistake.”

“Put back the ship!” repeated the man in the stableman’s dress; “don’t
make yourself so disagreeable in company. Do you think every body is
to be turned to the right-about for you? I’ve got fifteen mules aboard
under my care, and every hour is an object.”

“My good sir,” said Devallé, with a smile which he deemed irresistible,
“think of my wife and family.”

“Oh, nonsense! think of my mules.”

“If there were but a being endowed with the sublime light of reason,
among you,” exclaimed Caesar, “I would shew by analogy,--yea, I would
convince even any muleteer but this gentleman--”

“Now don’t fatigue yourself, nor put yourself out of the way,”
 interrupted the man whom Caesar designated as the muleteer; “we all
know, that once free, always free; at least, so I’ve been told by them
that ought to be dead as a nail upon such things: therefore it’s only a
pleasant trip for you to Demerary and back. Your old master can’t take
you again.”

“But he will,” said Cosar.

“But he can’t,” retorted the muleteer.

“But he will, I tell you: what is the use of your saying a bull can’t
legally gore me through the stomach, when I know that he will, whether
he can or no? I must lift up my voice,--curse that fiddle! it’s all out
of tune,” continued Devallé, snatching the instrument from the cook,
who was scraping an old march upon it: “I shall lift up my voice, and
protest loudly against this outrage. The downfal of Rome may be dated
from the Sabine occurrence; therefore, I warn every body to restore me
at once to my adopted land. Retract, I say,” pursued the Little Black
Porter, almost unconsciously tuning the fiddle, and then handing it back
to the cook as he spoke; “retract, and land me, or you’ll find, to your
cost, that Demosthenes didn’t put pebbles into his mouth for nothing.”

Cæsar, however, was not endowed with sufficient eloquence to get
restored to “home, love, and liberty.” He appealed in vain to the
officers of the ship: they said it was impossible for them to lie to,
and land him; for night was coming on--the wind blew a capful--time
was of the utmost importance--they touched nowhere on the voyage--and,
unwilling as they were to be encumbered with him,--Jack in the box, (as
Cæsar was already familiarly termed,) must positively go with them to
Demerara.

Leaving the Little Black Porter and Godfrey Fairfax (who scarcely spoke
a dozen words during the first week of the voyage) on board the William
and Mary, we shall now return to some of the other characters in our
tale.

Firmly believing that he had been the dupe of Patty, Isabel, and one or
both of his rivals, Squire Perry concealed the circumstances which had
occurred at the Dog and Dolphin; and, in a few months, to the great joy
of Doctor Plympton, he left the neighbourhood entirely. George Wharton’s
affection for Isabel, in the mean time, had become so apparent, that
several good-natured friends alluded to it, at the Doctor’s table, in
such plain terms, that the old gentleman was, at length, compelled to
notice it. He said nothing, however, either to Isabel or George; but
wrote to the young gentleman’s father, in Jamaica, stating, that,
singular to say, the young people had clearly fallen in love with each
other, in the opinion of many who were very well qualified to judge in
such matters, although, for his own part, he protested that he could
scarcely believe it. “I entreat you,” he continued, “not to attach any
blame to me, on this occasion: I have done my duty to your son, who is
as fine a scholar as ever I turned out of hand; although, I must
confess, that, latterly, his diligence has visibly decreased. I beseech
you, therefore, as he is sufficiently advanced in the classics to enter
upon the grand stage of life, instead of suffering him to remain with me
another year, which I believe was your intention, to send for him at
once, and so blight this unhappy passion for my child in its very bud.”

To the Doctor’s astonishment, Mr. Wharton wrote, in reply, that nothing
could give him greater pleasure than an alliance with so respectable a
family as that of his old friend Plympton; that he highly approved of
his son’s choice; that he was by no means opposed to early marriages;
that he had, by the same packet, communicated his ideas as to a
settlement, to an able professional gentleman, who would, doubtless,
speedily wait upon the Doctor for his approval to a draft deed; and that
the sooner the match was made the better.

Adam Burdock, the old attorney of Furnival’s Inn, was the professional
gentleman alluded to in Mr. Wharton’s epistle; and, in a few days after
its arrival, Doctor Plympton, who found himself unable to communicate
what had transpired to George and Isabel in person, made an excuse
to come to London, and thence, by letter, afforded them the welcome
intelligence.

The deeds were prepared with extraordinary despatch; and, after an
absence of eleven days only, Doctor Plympton, accompanied by the
attorney, returned home. On entering the parlour, he was rather
surprised to find his own capacious elbow-chair occupied by a stranger
of very singular appearance. After gazing for a moment at his unknown
visitor, who was fast asleep, he turned to his companion, and muttered
a few incoherent phrases, by which the attorney discovered that his host
was extremely anxious to disclaim all previous acquaintance with the
gentleman in the chair. The stranger still slept. He was attired in a
short nankeen coat and waistcoat,--the latter lying open from the second
button upward, evidently to display a frilled and very full-bosomed
shirt; black small clothes, much the worse for wear; white silk
stockings, hanging in bags about the calves, and exhibiting an elaborate
specimen, from the knee-band to the instep, of the art of darning:
his hands rested on a fine bamboo, and his head was embellished with a
well-powdered wig:--it was the Little Black Porter.

Doctor Plympton coughed thrice with considerable emphasis, moved a chair
with unnecessary violence, and very energetically poked the fire; but
his guest still snored. He inquired of the attorney, by a look, what he
should do. Burdock shrugged up his shoulders, smiled, and took a seat.
Patty Wallis, who had been busy hitherto in receiving the luggage
from the driver, now entered the room; George and Isabel immediately
followed; and the joyous laugh of the latter at once produced the
desired effect on the Little Black Porter. He was awake and on his legs
in an instant; and, while he stood bowing and grinning at Isabel and the
Doctor, Patty informed George, who had just returned with Isabel from
a walk, that the stranger knocked at the door about ten minutes before,
inquired for Miss Plympton, and, on being informed that she was out, but
would probably return within half an hour, requested permission to wait,
as he had something of importance to communicate.

Although the presence of his unknown guest was particularly annoying to
him, Doctor Plympton addressed the Little Black Porter with his usual
suavity, and begged he would resume his seat. A very awkward silence
of several moments ensued; during which Cæsar took snuff with great
self-complacency, brushed away the particles which had fallen on his
frill, threw himself back in the chair, and seemed to be proud of the
curiosity which he excited.

“My friend Doctor Plympton,” at length observed the attorney, fixing
his eye on Cæsar so firmly--to use his own expression--that he could not
flinch from it, “my friend here, sir, would, doubtless, be happy to know
what fortunate circumstance he is indebted to for the honour of your
company?”

“I dare say he would,” replied Cæsar; “but my business is with the young
lady.”

“With Isabel Plympton!” exclaimed George.

“Ay, sir!” replied the porter; “Cupid, the little blind god of hearts,
you know--eh! Doctor? Ha, ha!--Well! who has not been young?--Cupid and
his bow, and then his son Hymen! My toast, when I’m in spirits, always
is--May Cupid’s arrows be cut into matches to light Hymen’s torch, but
his bow never be destroyed in the conflagration.”

“Come, come, sir!--this is foolery,” said Wharton, who seemed to be much
agitated;--“your business, at once.”

“Foolery!” exclaimed Cæsar; “I will not suffer the dignity of man to be
outraged in my person, remember; so take warning. Foolery, indeed!--but
never mind; time is precious; wisdom has been rather improperly painted
as an old woman with a flowing beard, and some of us have not long to
live: so, as we are all friends, I will speak out my business without
delay, provided I am honoured with Miss Isabel’s permission.”

“I would rather hear it in private,” said the young lady. “Then I am
dumb,” quoth Cæsar: “Venus has sealed my lips with adamant.”

“You are joking, Bell;--surely you are joking!” exclaimed young Wharton.

“Decidedly you are, child,--I say, decidedly,” cried the Doctor.

“Indeed I am not, father,” replied Isabel, with a gravity of manner
which, with her, was almost unprecedented. “If he have aught to say to
me, and to me alone, I will hear it alone, or not at all.”

“You see, gentlemen,” said Cæsar, “I should be very happy--but Venus has
stopped my breath. I have been always a slave to the sex. Mahomet went
to the mountain; and it is insolence in a rushlight to rival the moon.
Do not entreat me, for I’m inflexible.”

“No one entreats you, man,” said George: “if Isabel Plympton, and such
as you, have any private business with each other, I, for one, will not
trouble you with my presence.”

Young Wharton had no sooner uttered these words, than he walked out of
the room.

“Good Heavens!” exclaimed the Doctor, “I never saw George so roused.
Sir,” added he, addressing the attorney, “he’s the quietest creature in
existence,--gentle as a lamb,--meek as a dove; his enemies, if it were
possible for one of his kind disposition to have any, would say he
was even too passive. I’m quite alarmed;--pray come with me,--pray do:
assist me, sir, to soothe him. I’m quite unused to such events, and
scarcely know how to act.--Excuse me, sir, a moment.”

The last words of the Doctor were addressed, as he drew the attorney out
of the room, to the Little Black Porter. “Don’t mention it, sir,” said
Cæsar; “if we can’t make free, why should crickets be respected? And
now, young lady, as we are quite alone--”

“You come from Godfrey Fairfax,” interrupted Isabel.

“Bless my soul!” exclaimed Cæsar;--“a witch!--the world’s at an end! But
I ascribe it to Cupid. How do you know--”

“I guessed--I was sure of it:--I dreamt of him last night. Give me his
letter.”

“His letter?”

“Yes;--have you not one from him?”

“I will not deny that I have; but I was only to deliver it on
condition--”

“Don’t talk of conditions give it to me, at once.”

“There it is, then: your commands are my law. I have been a martyr to
my submission to the fair, but I don’t repent; and, as philosophy and
analogy both concur--”

“Not another word,” interrupted Isabel, “but leave the house:--go. What!
Cupid’s messenger, and demur?”

“Never:--I will fly. Wish for me, and Cæsar Devallé shall appear. I kiss
your fair fingers.”

The Little Black Porter perpetrated a bow in his best style, and closed
the front door behind him, as Doctor Plympton returned to the parlour.

“He’s very obstinate--George is,” said the Doctor; “I can’t account for
it;--he won’t come in. But where’s the gentleman of colour?”

“Gone, father.”

“Gone!”

“Yes; his business with me was brief, you see.”

“That may be; but I assure you, Bell, I do not feel exactly satisfied
with you. I should like to know--”

“Ask me no questions to-night, papa: I am not well, and I wish to
retire. If you will permit me to go to my room at once. I will dutifully
answer any thing you please in the morning.”

“Well, go, my love;--go, and God bless you! but it’s very mysterious for
all that.”

Isabel retired, and, in a short time, the attorney, followed by George
Wharton, entered the parlour. They found the Doctor walking to and
fro, with his arms folded across his breast, and evidently absorbed in
thought. Their appearance roused him from his reverie: he advanced, very
earnestly shook hands with both of them, and asked pardon for his
want of urbanity; as an excuse for which, he protested, with ludicrous
solemnity, that he scarcely knew whether he was walking on his head or
his heels. “My pupil, too,” he continued, looking at young Wharton,
but addressing the attorney, “I regret to perceive, still clothes his
countenance in the frowns of displeasure.”

“Isabel is occupied in privately conferring somewhere with our new
friend, I presume,” said George.

“No, child--not at all,” replied the Doctor, with affected calmness;
“she is gone to her room: one of her old attacks of head-ache has
occurred, and we may not expect to sec her again for the remainder of
the evening. The gentleman of colour had departed before my return to
the parlour.”

“It would have been as well, I think, if you had not quitted it,” said
young Wharton, angrily: “I remember the time when you made Miss Plympton
a close prisoner, and would suffer none but the inmates of your
own house to speak to her, in order that she should not hold any
communication with a young gentleman of respectable family who was well
known in the neighbourhood: now, you leave her with a stranger of the
most suspicious appearance, who boldly tells you that he has private
business with her, which she refuses to hear even in your presence! But
of course, Miss Plympton acquainted you with the purport of his visit.”

“No, George, I declare she did not,” said the Doctor, with great
humility.

“What, sir! did she refuse when you insisted?”

“I did not insist,” replied Doctor Plympton; “I did not insist, for
she told me beforehand that she would answer no questions till the
morning,--or something to that effect.”

“You astonish me!”

“I confess that I was staggered myself:--but what could I do? She has
grown out of her girlhood like a dream; and for the first time in her
life, to my apprehension, my child stood as a woman before me. Her look,
her tone, her posture, and, above all, the expression of her eye-brow,
reminded me so strongly, on a sudden, of her majestic mother, that all
my energies were suspended: the dead seemed to be raised from the grave,
and I was awed before her. But a truce to this; it will not occur again.
I was taken by surprise; and, by-the-by, George, on reflection, I feel
compelled to observe, that it is impossible that I should submit to the
dictatorial air which you thought fit to assume a few moments since.
Remember, sir, who you are, and what I am; or rather, perhaps, what I
was; for truly, I feel that I am not the man I recollect myself to have
been:--that, however, is no excuse for you.”

“On the contrary, sir,” said George, affectionately taking the old man’s
hand, “it adds to my offence.”

“You do not mean to convey, that you are conscious of any visible
symptoms of my being unequal to my former self--do you?”

“By no means, sir; but--”

“Well, well! once more, enough of this. Let us think of our respectable
guest, to whom I owe a thousand apologies, and order supper. Let us
postpone all that’s unpleasant until the morning; when, I have no doubt,
this affair will prove to be a little farce, at which we shall all
heartily laugh. The gentleman of colour is, doubtless, an itinerant
vender of some of those numberless absurdities for the toilet or
the work-box, which run away with a great portion of every girl’s
pocket-money. The idea did not strike me before, but I am almost
persuaded that I am correct in my supposition; and doubtless, Isabel,
piqued at your warmth,--which really almost electrified me,--determined
to punish you, by affecting to be serious and making a mystery of the
affair. Retaliate, George, by sleeping soundly to-night, and looking
blithe and debonair, as the young Apollo newly sprung from his celestial
couch, to-morrow morning.”

In spite of the Doctor’s occasional attempts to infuse some portion of
gaiety into the conversation that ensued, a deep gloom reigned in his
little parlour during the remainder of the evening. Very shortly after
the removal of the cloth from the supper-table, the old attorney, much
to the satisfaction of the Doctor and George, retired to his bed-room,
and they immediately followed his example.

Isabel appeared at the breakfast-table the next morning; but her usual
gaiety had vanished: she looked pale and thoughtful, and when addressed,
she replied only in monosyllables. George Wharton was sullen, and the
Doctor could not avoid betraying his uneasiness: he several times made
such observations as he thought would infallibly force Isabel into an
elucidation of the mysteries of the preceding evening; but she was proof
against them all, and maintained an obstinate silence on the subject.
Under the pretence of shewing the beauties of his pleasure-ground,
Doctor Plympton drew the attorney, who was breakfasting with the most
perfect professional _non-chalance_, from his chocolate and egg, to one
of the windows; and there briefly, but pathetically, laid open the state
of his mind. “I declare,” said he, “I am nearly deprived of my reasoning
faculties with amazement, at the conduct of Bell and the son of your
respected client. So complete a metamorphosis has never occurred since
the cessation of miracles. Each of them is an altered being, sir; they
are the antipodes of what they were; and I assure you, it alarms,--it
unnerves me. George, who used to be as bland as Zephyr, and obedient
as a gentle child, either sits morose, or blusters, as you saw him last
night, like a bully. And Bell, who indulged almost to an excess in
the innocent gaieties of girlhood, is turned into marble: no one would
believe, to look at her now, that she had ever smiled. She has lost her
laugh, which used to pour gladness into my old heart, and is quite as
dignified and almost as silent as some old Greek statue. How do you
account for this?”

“Sir,” replied Burdock, whose chocolate was cooling; “make yourself
quite easy: such changes are no novelties to me; they must be attributed
to the business of the day:--the execution of a deed of settlement, in
contemplation of a speedy marriage, is an awful event to those who have
never gone through the ceremony before. I have witnessed hysterics at
a pure love-match, even when it was seasoned with money in profusion on
both sides.”

The attorney now strode back to his seat, and began his capital story
relative to the great cause of Dukes and Driver. The Doctor reluctantly
returned to the table, and seemed to listen to his guest; but his mind
was occupied on a different subject; and when the cloth was removed,
and the attorney’s tale concluded, he was scarcely conscious that he had
breakfasted, and knew no more of the merits of the case, than Beaufidel,
who sat on a footstool, looking ruefully at his mistress, and evidently
disappointed at not having been favoured with his usual portion of
smiles and toast.

Immediately after breakfast, Burdock produced, from the recesses of
his bag, the marriage settlement, and in a clear and distinct manner,
proceeded to read over its contents,--occasionally pausing to translate
its technical provisoes into common sense, and enjoining the young
people boldly to mention any objections that might strike them to the
language of the deed, so as to afford him an opportunity of explaining
them away as they occurred. In the course of a couple of hours, he had
gone through the drudgery of perusing half-a-dozen skins of parchment;
and the gardener and Patty were called in to witness the execution of
the deed by the young couple, and Doctor Plympton and Adam Burdock as
trustees to the settlement.

It was a moment of interest:--George and the Doctor advanced to lead
Isabel to the table; she started from her chair as they approached,
hurried towards the deed, and snatched the pen which the attorney
gallantly offered for her use. He guided her hand to the seal, against
which she was to set her name; but the pen rested motionless on the
parchment. After a moment’s pause, the attorney looked up: Isabel’s
face, which had previously been exceedingly pale, was now of a deep
crimson; her lips quivered; her eyes were fixed, apparently, upon some
object that had appeared at the door of the room; and relinquishing her
hold of the pen, she faintly articulated, “Forgive me, George,--Father,
forgive me,--but I cannot do it!”

Following the direction of her eyes, Burdock turned round while Isabel
was speaking, and, to his surprise, beheld the Little Black Porter, who
stood bowing and grinning at the door.

George Wharton said a few words to encourage Isabel, and supported
her with his arm; and her father, with clasped hands, repeated, in a
sorrowful tone, “Cannot do it!”

“No,--no,” said Isabel; “never, father,--never;--while he lives and
loves me.”

“He, child! Whom mean you?” exclaimed the old man.

“Godfrey Fairfax,” replied Isabel, tremulously.

Her head dropped on her shoulder as she spoke; but though she was
evidently fainting, George withdrew his hand from her waist, with an
exclamation of deep disgust; and she would have sunk on the floor,
had not the Little Black Porter, who had been gradually advancing, now
sprung suddenly forward, and, pushing young Wharton aside, received her
in his arms. The attention of George and the Doctor had been so rivetted
on Isabel, that they were not aware of Devallé’s presence until this
moment. George no sooner beheld him, than he rushed out of the room; the
astonished Doctor staggered to a chair; and the two servants, instead
of assisting their mistress, stood motionless spectators of the scene.
Burdock alone seemed to retain perfect possession of his senses: he
requested the gardener to fetch the usual restoratives, and gently
reproached Patty for her neglect.

While Patty, who now became very alert and clamorous, relieved the
Little Black Porter from the burthen which he willingly supported,
the attorney suggested to Doctor Plympton, the propriety of obtaining
possession of a letter, the end of which was peeping out of Isabel’s
bosom, before she recovered; but the Doctor sat, heedless of his remark,
gazing at his pale and inanimate child. Burdock, therefore, without loss
of time, moved cautiously towards Isabel, and without being detected
even by the waiting-maid, drew the letter forth. At that instant Isabel
opened her eyes, and gradually recovered her senses. She intimated that
she was perfectly aware of what Burdock had done; and, after requesting
that the letter might be handed to her father, with the assistance of
Patty she retired from the room.

The Little Black Porter was following Isabel and Patty as closely as
possible, and had already placed one foot outside the door, when Doctor
Plympton peremptorily ordered him to come back. Devallé returned, bowing
very obsequiously; and when he had arrived within a pace or two of the
Doctor’s chair, with a strange mixture of humility and impudence, he
inquired what were the honoured gentleman’s commands.

The Doctor had entirely laid aside his usual suavity of deportment,
and, in a loud voice, accompanied with violent gesticulation, he thus
addressed the ever-smiling object of his wrath:--“Thou fell destroyer of
my peace!--what art thou? Art thou Incubus, Succubus, or my evil spirit?
Who sent thee? In what does thy influence over my child consist? Why
am I tortured by thy visitation?--Speak--explain to me--unfold thy
secret--or I shall forget my character, and do I know not what.”

“Pray be moderate, my dear friend,” said Burdock, interposing his person
between the Doctor and Devallé.

“Ay, ay,--that is wisely said,--pray be moderate, my dear friend,”
 repeated Devallé; “we are all like the chaff which we blow away with the
breath of our own nostrils. Be calm--be calm: let us be rational, and
shew our greatest attribute. A man that is a slave to passion, is worse
than a negro in a plantation:--he’s a wild beast. I don’t wish to be
rude, for life is short; and more than one great man has been cut off
by a cucumber: but I must observe, that a passionate gentleman is very
likely to make holes in his manners.--What says our legal friend? Caesar
Devallé will feel honoured in being permitted utterly to abandon himself
to the good gentleman’s opinion. Arbitration against argument always
has my humble voice: and if a man wishes to get well through the world,
civility is the best horse he can ride.”

“If your observations are addressed to me,” said the attorney, “they are
unwelcome. Restrict your discourse to plain answers to such questions as
I shall put to you. Now attend did you deliver this letter last night to
Miss Plympton?”

“Why does the gentleman ask?”

“I suspect you did.”

“Avow or deny it, sirrah! at once,” exclaimed the Doctor.

“Oh, pardon me, there,” replied Devallé; “we are all men: the cat
expects to be used after its kind; and if a man is to be treated like a
dog, he may as well bark, and wear a tail at once. I can bear a blow as
well as most people, from a blackguard; but, with gentlemen, I expect
a certain behaviour. Resentment is found in the breast of a camel; and
there is no doubt but that man is endowed with feelings:--if not, why do
we marry?”

“Well, my good friend,” said the attorney, changing his manner entirely
from that which he had adopted in his first category, “perhaps you may
be right: we will not dispute the points you have raised; but you must
allow that Doctor Plympton has some excuse for being warm. Appearances
are strong; but I doubt not you will, as an honest man, unequivocally
answer us, and clear them up.”

“Oh, sir,” replied Devallé, “I am yours devotedly: ask me no questions;
for I do not like to have what I know tugged out of my conscience by
an attorney, like jaw-teeth with nippers, or corks from a bottle by a
twisting screw; for I have a large family, and am more than fifty years
old. I will tell you frankly, that I did give Miss that letter: I was
sent on a special mission with it to her from Demerara. I went out in
the same ship with Mr. Godfrey Fairfax: on landing, we found that his
father had just died, and left him heir to all; then, as flesh is grass,
he sent me back at once with orders--if Miss was not married--to give
her his _billet-doux_. That’s the truth: I confess it freely, for it’s
useless to deny it; and our heads will lie low enough a hundred years
hence. Perhaps you will not take it uncivil in me to say, that you would
have found all that I have said, and more, in fewer words, if, instead
of calling me sirrah, and so forth, you had perused Mr. Godfrey’s
letter. Excuse me, but the philosopher could not read the stars
until somebody told him to buy a telescope. I am for civility, mutual
improvement, and freedom all over the world. And now, gentlemen, I hope
you will permit me to retire. I must find my wife and family: I have
not made a single inquiry for them yet; though they occupy all my waking
thoughts, and are the dramatis personae of my little dreams. I humbly
withdraw, but shall soon be in the neighbourhood again,--for locomotion
is salubrious; and, if this present match with Miss be not strangled, I
hope to have the honour of seeing you in church, in order, humble as I
am, to forbid the banns. You would not smile, perhaps, if it occurred to
your recollection, as it does to mine, that lions have been emancipated
by mice, and more than one hero has been choked by a horsebean. It is
for these reasons, I apprehend, judging from analogy,--a doctrine
I reverence,--that cattle pasturing on a common or warren, abhor
rabbit-burrows, and we, ourselves, detest and exterminate scorpions
and wasps.--Gentlemen, your most humble and very devoted servant, Cæsar
Devallé.”

With his usual multitude of obeisances, the Little Black Porter now left
Doctor Plympton and the attorney to peruse the love-letter of Godfrey
Fairfax to Isabel. It abounded with professions of the most passionate
attachment; the deepest regret was expressed at the writer’s present
inability to return to England; but he vowed to fly to Isabel, on the
wings of love, early in the ensuing summer, if she still considered his
hand worthy of her acceptance. He stated, that he was unable to solve
the mystery of her escape from the trunk: he feared that something
unpleasant had happened, but clearly exonerated his fond, confiding
Isabel from having borne any share in the base plot which had evidently
been played off against him.

These allusions to the affair of the trunk, were beyond Doctor
Plympton’s comprehension; Burdock, however, obtained a tolerably dear
insight to the circumstances from Isabel, Patty, George Wharton, and
Cæsar Devallé, at an interview which he subsequently had with the Little
Black Porter in Fumival’s Inn. When he communicated the result of his
investigations on the subject to the Doctor, that worthy personage
protested that he should pass the residue of his life in mere amazement.

George Wharton quitted Doctor Plympton’s house, without seeing Isabel
again, on the eventful morning when the pen was placed in her hand to
execute the marriage settlement; and, with the full approbation of his
father’s attorney, he sailed, by the first ship, to his native land.
Isabel prevailed upon the Doctor to write to Godfrey Fairfax, inviting
him to fulfil his promise of paying them a visit. She also wrote to
Godfrey herself, by the same packet: but the fickle young man had
changed his mind before the letters reached him; and six years after the
departure of George Wharton from England, Adam Burdock was employed to
draw a marriage settlement between the still blooming coquette, Isabel
Plympton, and her early admirer, Charles Perry, who for the preceding
fifteen months had been a widower. The Little Black Porter did not think
proper to return to Demerara again; and he was seen in a very decent
wig, by the side of the gallery clock, when Mr. Wilberforce last spoke
against slavery, in the House of Commons.

[Illustration: 399]



THE DESSERT.

[Illustration: 400]



INTRODUCTION.

At a table of three courses, the guests have a right to expect some
sort of a dessert; it is the necessary consequence of a certain order
of dinners; and, if the host be unable to bedeck the board with choice
rarities, he must, at any rate, be provided with a nut, an olive, and,
for late sitters, a devilled gizzard. No man is permitted to offend
form, or to infringe upon the privileges of diners-out, in this
particular. If he cannot furnish what he fain would, he must offer what
he can;--it being, properly enough no doubt, conventionally voted sheer
cruelty, to give a man nothing to eat after he has had his fill of
the best of everything. If no pineapple be present, an apology is
peremptorily expected, and something must be selected to take the
important character which it usually sustains in the festal afterpiece,
“for that night only.” Mrs. Dousterbattle, my late much lamented friend,
considered the tragedy train of Mrs. Siddons, as the _bonne bouche_ of
her Queen Katherine; and there are many estimable people, who regard
the range of dishes at a dinner-table, as merely composing a dull vista,
through which they can look forward to the fine prospect of fruit and
ices at its termination. However good the by-gone courses may have
been,--whatever may be the disposition of the host, whether “civil as an
orange,” or sourer than a lemon, they sturdily maintain,--and, it must
be confessed, with some propriety,--that every man should be
treated according to his _dessert_. It occasionally happens, that,
notwithstanding his zeal, the founder of the feast caters so unluckily,
that some of his friends travel from Dan to Beersheba, among his dishes,
and find all barren. A guest so situated, is justified in supposing
that there will be, at least, one oasis in the _desert_, to afford him
refreshment.

Impressed with the force of his own arguments, the purveyor of the
preceding courses has attempted an epilogue to his entertainment; in
which, he trusts that he has not presumed too much on the usual leniency
of after-dinner criticism; and that none of his guests are of the
delightful class of censors, who flourish a flail to demolish a
cobweb,--who indulge in proving, by very elaborate and profound
arguments, that there is but little substance in “trifles light as air;”
 or who occasionally go so far, in fits of ultra fastidiousness, as to
cross an author’s _t,_ and dot an _i_ for him.

[Illustration: 401]



THE DEAF POSTILION.

In the month of January, 1804, Joey Duddle, a well-known postilion on
the North Road, caught a cold, through sleeping without his night-cap;
deafness was, eventually, the consequence; and, as it will presently
appear, a young fortune-hunter lost twenty thousand pounds, and a
handsome wife, through Joey Duddle’s indiscretion, in omitting, on one
fatal occasion, to wear his sixpenny woollen night-cap.

Joey did not discontinue driving, after his misfortune; his eyes and
his spurs were, generally speaking, of more utility in his monotonous
avocation, than his ears. His stage was, invariably, nine miles up the
road, or “a short fifteen” down towards Gretna; and he had repeated his
two rides so often, that he could have gone over the ground blindfold.
People in chaises are rarely given to talking with their postilions:
Joey knew, by experience, what were the two or three important questions
in posting, and the usual times and places when and where they were
asked; and he was always prepared with the proper answers. At those
parts of the road, where objects of interest to strangers occurred,
Joey faced about on his saddle, and if he perceived the eyes of his
passengers fixed upon him, their lips in motion, and their fingers
pointing towards a gentleman’s seat, a fertile valley, a beautiful
stream, or a fine wood, he naturally enough presumed that they were in
the act of inquiring what the seat, the valley, the stream, or the
wood was called; and he replied according to the fact. The noise of
the wheels was a very good excuse for such trifling blunders as Joey
occasionally made; and whenever he found himself progressing towards a
dilemma, he very dexterously contrived, by means of a sly poke with
his spur, to make his hand-horse evidently require the whole of his
attention. At the journey’s end, when the gentleman he had driven
produced a purse, Joey, without looking at his lips, knew that he was
asking a question, to which it was his duty to reply “Thirteen and
sixpence,” or “Two-and-twenty shillings,” according as the job had been,
“the short up,” or “the long down.” If any more questions were asked,
Joey suddenly recollected something that demanded his immediate
attention; begged pardon, promised to be back in a moment, and
disappeared, never to return. The natural expression of his features
indicated a remarkably taciturn disposition; almost every one with whom
he came in contact, was deterred, by his physiognomy, from asking him
any but necessary questions; and as he was experienced enough to
answer, or cunning enough to evade these, when he thought fit, but few
travellers ever discovered that Joey Duddle was deaf. So blind is man
in some cases, even to his bodily defects, that Joey, judging from his
general success in giving correct replies to the queries propounded to
him, almost doubted his own infirmity; and never would admit that he was
above one point beyond “a little hard of hearing.”

On the first of June, in the year 1806, about nine o’clock in the
morning, a chaise and four was perceived approaching towards the inn
kept by Joey’s master, at a first-rate Gretna-green gallop. As it dashed
up to the door, the post-boys vociferated the usual call for two pair of
horses in a hurry: but, unfortunately, the innkeeper had only Joey and
his tits at home; and as the four horses which brought the chaise from
the last posting-house, had already done a double job that day, the lads
would not ride them on, through so heavy a stage as “the long down.”

“How excessively provoking!” exclaimed one of the passengers; “I am
certain that our pursuers are not far behind us. The idea of having the
cup of bliss dashed from my very lips,--of such beauty and affluence
being snatched from me, for want of a second pair of paltry posters,
drives me frantic!”

“A Gretna-Green affair, I presume, sir,” observed the inquisitive
landlord.

The gentleman made no scruple of admitting that he had run away with the
fair young creature who accompanied him, and that she was entitled to a
fortune of twenty thousand pounds:--“one half of which,” continued the
gentleman, “I would freely give,--if I had it,--to be, at this instant,
behind four horses, scampering away, due north, at full speed.”

“I can assure you, sir,” said the landlord, “that a fresh pair of such
animals as I offer you, will carry you over the ground as quick as if
you had ten dozen of the regular road-hacks. No man keeps better cattle
than I do, and this pair beats all the others in my stables by two
miles an hour. But in ten minutes, perhaps, and certainly within half an
hour--”

“Half an hour! half a minute’s delay might ruin me,” replied the
gentleman; “I hope I shall find the character you have given your cattle
a correct one;--dash on, postilion.”

Before this short conversation between the gentleman and the innkeeper
was concluded, Joey Duddle had put-to his horses,--which were, of
course, kept harnessed,--and taken his seat, prepared to start at a
moment’s notice. He kept his eye upon the innkeeper, who gave the usual
signal of a rapid wave of the hand, as soon as the gentleman ceased
speaking; and Joey Duddle’s cattle, in obedience to the whip and spur,
hobbled off at that awkward and evidently painful pace, which is,
perforce, adopted by the most praiseworthy post-horses for the first ten
minutes or so of their journey. But the pair, over which Joey presided,
were, as the innkeeper had asserted, very speedy; and the gentleman soon
felt satisfied, that it would take an extraordinary quadruple team
to overtake them. His hopes rose at the sight of each succeeding
mile-stone; he ceased to put his head out of the window every five
minutes, and gaze anxiously up the road; he already anticipated a
triumph,--when a crack, a crush, a shriek from the lady, a jolt, an
instant change of position, and a positive pause occurred, in the order
in which they are stated, with such suddenness and relative rapidity,
that the gentleman was, for a moment or two, utterly deprived of his
presence of mind by alarm and astonishment. The bolt which connects the
fore-wheels, splinter-bar, springs, fore-bed, axle-tree, et cetera,
with the perch, that passes under the body of the chaise, to the hind
wheel-springs and carriage, had snapped asunder: the whole of the fore
parts were instantly dragged onward by the horses; the braces by which
the body was attached to the fore-springs, gave way; the chaise fell
forward, and, of course, remained stationary with its contents, in the
middle of the road; while the Deaf Postilion rode on, with his eyes
intently fixed on vacuity before him, as though nothing whatever had
happened.

Alarmed, and indignant in the highest degree, at the postilion’s
conduct, the gentleman shouted with all his might such exclamations
as any man would naturally use on such an occasion; but Joey, although
still but at a little distance, took no notice of what had occurred
behind his back, and very complacently trotted his horses on at the rate
of eleven or twelve miles an hour. He thought the cattle went better
than ever; his mind was occupied with the prospect of a speedy
termination to his journey; he felt elated at the idea of outstripping
the pursuers,--for Joey had discrimination enough to perceive, at a
glance, that his passengers were runaway lovers,--and he went on very
much to his own satisfaction. As he approached the inn, which terminated
“the long down,” Joey, as usual, put his horses upon their mettle, and
they, having nothing but a fore-carriage and a young lady’s trunk behind
them, rattled up to the door at a rate unexampled in the annals of
posting, with all the little boys and girls of the neighbourhood
hallooing in their rear.

It was not until he drew up to the inn-door, and alighted from his
saddle, that Joey discovered his disaster; and nothing could equal the
utter astonishment which his features then displayed. He gazed at the
place where the body of his chaise, his passengers, and hind-wheels
ought to have been, for above a minute: and then suddenly started down
the road on foot, under an idea that he must very recently have dropped
them. On reaching a little elevation, which commanded above two miles of
the ground over which he had come, he found, to his utter dismay, that
no traces of the main body of his chaise were perceptible; nor could
he discover his passengers, who had, as it appeared in the sequel, been
overtaken by the young lady’s friends. Poor Joey immediately ran into a
neighbouring hay-loft, where he hid himself, in despair, for three days;
and when discovered, he was, with great difficulty, persuaded by his
master, who highly esteemed him, to resume his whip and return to his
saddle.

[Illustration: 407]



CONJUGATING A VERB.

Dick Orrod and his brother Giles were fine specimens of the bumpkin boys
of the West of England: their father, who was a flourishing farmer, sent
them to pick up a little learning at an expensive academy, in a large
town about twenty miles from the village where he lived. The master had
but recently purchased the school from his predecessor; and, stranger
as he was to the dialect of that part of the country, he could scarcely
understand above one half of what Dick and Giles Orrod and a few more
of his pupils meant when they spoke. “I _knowed_, I _rinned_, and I
_hut”._ were barbarisms, to which his ear had never been accustomed; and
it was only by degrees he discovered that they were translations, into
the rural tongue, of “I knew, I ran, and I hit.” But there were few so
rude of speech as Dick and Giles Orrod.

Fraternal affection was a virtue that did not flourish in the bosoms
of either of these young gentlemen. Dick’s greatest enemy on earth was
Giles; and if honest Giles hated any human being except the master, it
was Dick. They were excellent spies on each other’s conduct; Giles never
missed an opportunity of procuring Dick a castigation; and Dick was
equally active in making the master acquainted with every punishable
peccadillo that his brother committed.

One day an accusation was preferred against Master Richard, by one of
the monitors, of having cut down a small tree in the shrubbery; but
there was not sufficient evidence to bring the offence home to the
supposed culprit.

“Does no young gentleman happen to know any thing more of this matter?”
 inquired the master.

Giles immediately walked from his seat, and, taking a place by the
side of his brother, looked as though he had something relevant to
communicate.

“Well, sir;” said the master, “what do you know about the tree?”

“If you plaze, sir,” growled Giles, “if you plaze, sir, I sawed un.”

“Oh! you ‘sawed un,’ did you?”

“Iss, I did:--Dick seed I saw un.”

“Is this true, master Richard?”

“Iss,” said Dick; and Giles, much to his astonishment, was immediately
flogged.

At the termination of the ceremony, it occurred to the master to ask
Giles, how he had obtained the saw. “About your saw, young gentleman;”
 said he, “where do you get a saw when you want one?”

Giles had some faint notions of grammar floating in his brain, and
thinking that the master meant the verb, and not the substantive,
blubbered out--“From _see_.”

“_Sea!_--so you go on board the vessels in the dock, do you, out of
school hours, and expend your pocket money, in purchasing implements to
cut down my shrubbery?”

“Noa, sir,” said Giles; “I doant goa aboard no ships, nor cut down noa
shrubberies.”

“What, sirrah! did you not confess it?”

“Noa, sir; I said I sawed brother Dick cut down the tree, and he seed I
sawed un, and a couldn’t deny it.”

“I didn’t deny it,” said Dick.

“Then possibly you are the real delinquent, after all, Master Richard,”
 exclaimed the master.

Dick confessed that he was, but he hoped the master would not beat him,
after having flogged his brother for the same offence: in his way, he
humbly submitted that one punishment, no matter who received it,--but
especially as it had been bestowed on one of the same family as the
delinquent,--was, to all intents and purposes, enough for one crime.

The master, however, did not coincide with Dick on this grave point, and
the young gentleman was duly horsed.

“As for Master Giles,” said the master, as he laid down the birch, “he
well merited a flogging for his astonishing--his wilful stupidity. If
boys positively will not profit by my instructions, I am bound, in duty
to their parents, to try the effect of castigation. No man grieves more
sincerely than I do, at the necessity which exists for using the birch
and cane as instruments of liberal education; and yet, unfortunately,
no man, I verily believe, is compelled to use them more frequently than
myself. I was occupied for full half an hour, in drumming this identical
verb into Giles Orrod, only yesterday morning: and you, sir,” added he,
turning to Dick, “you, I suppose, are quite as great a blockhead as your
brother. Now attend to me, both of you:--what’s the past of _see?_”

Neither of the young gentlemen replied.

“I thought as much!” quoth the master. “The perfect of _see_ is the
present of _saw_,--See, Saw.”

“See, Saw,” shouted the boys; but that unfortunate verb was the
stumbling-block to their advancement. They never could comprehend how
the perfect of _see_ could be the present of _saw_; and days, weeks,
months,--nay, years after,--they were still at their endless, and, to
them, incomprehensible game of _see-saw_.

[Illustration: 410]



POSTHUMOUS PRAISE.

If posterity were to judge of us on the evidence of our gravestones, it
would certainly pronounce this to be an age of affectionate husbands,
tender wives, dutiful children, loving parents, and most sincere and
disinterested friends: it would conclude, from the testimony of
our epitaphs, that we were all either deeply lamented, universally
respected, or the most benevolent and amiable of men. We should have the
credit of possessing every talent that can adorn humanity, except that
of writing good English;--of being excellent painters, architects,
statesmen, and philosophers; but, strange to say, most pitiful
poetasters. _De mortuis nil nisi bonum_, is a maxim which no man
ventures to offend, either in prose or verse, when composing an epitaph.
Many persons who never could obtain a syllable of praise while alive,
get very good characters given them after their decease. I always
entertained an opinion that Hinks, the attorney, was a low, pettifogging
scoundrel, and frequently beat his wife; until one day I discovered,
in the course of a stroll round the church-yard, where his remains
were deposited, that he was a “tender husband” and “an ornament to his
profession.” The most impatient patient whose pulse was ever felt by a
physician, is described on his tomb-stone as one “who bore afflictions
sore,” with laudable resignation. The monument-makers, it appears, have
always a stock of lettered slabs in their ware-rooms, which, like the
skeleton promissory notes sold at the stationers’, may be completed
at the shortest notice, by filling up the blanks with names and dates.
Death’s heads have lately been at a discount; but poetical praise on
marble is still rather above par; and lines that have been used on
more than five hundred occasions, are considered “better than new,”
 on account of their popularity. Hexameters fetch high prices, but
Alexandrines are enormous. Those who are desirous of being at once
laudatory and economical, are compelled to put the defunct on short
commons: in these cases, an hour or so may be advantageously employed
in searching for synonyms, and culling the shortest epithets that can be
found words of above two syllables being generally at a premium. This is
the case, also, it seems, in the newspaper obituaries. Some short time
ago, a gentleman called at the office of a popular morning paper, with
an advertisement, announcing the death of an old lady, for insertion on
the following day. He found the person to whom it was necessary to apply
on this occasion, rather more gruff, short, snappish, and disagreeable,
if possible, than usual. This “brief-spoken and surly-burly” personage,
after glancing for a moment at the slip of paper on which the
announcement was written, growled “Seven and sixpence.”

“Seven and sixpence!” exclaimed the gentleman:--“how is that? On the
last occasion, when I had the melancholy duty to perform of announcing
the death of a person in your paper, I paid only seven shillings.”

“Seven and sixpence:--if you don’t like it, don’t leave it,” said old
Surly-burly. “Well, but allow me to ask, what is the occasion of the
difference of price?”

“Why,” said Surly-burly, frowning severely, “if I _must_ gratify your
curiosity, you’ve put in ‘universally lamented;’ and we always charge
sixpence extra for ‘universally lamented.’”

“Very well,” said the gentleman, “there’s the money; and allow me to
say, that I am quite certain no one will ever go to the additional
expense for you.”

[Illustration: 412]



THE DOS-A-DOS TETE-A-TETE.


     My wife loathes pickled pork, and I hate ham;
     I doat on pancakes--she likes fritters:
     And thus, alas! just like my morning dram,
     The evening of my life is _dash’d with bitters!_

     Old as we are, the ninnyhammer wants
     To teach me French,--and I won’t learn it:
     My nightly path, where e’er I roam, she haunts,
     And grudges me my glass, though well I earn it.

     The other day, while sitting back to back,
     She roused me from my short, sweet slumbers,
     By taxing me at such a rate, good lack!
     And summing up her griefs in these sad numbers:--

     “Though you lay your head thus against mine,
     You hate me, you brute, and you know it
     But why not in secret repine,
     Instead of delighting to shew it?--

     You question my knowledge of French,
     And won’t believe ‘_rummage_’ is cheese;--
     Why can’t you look cool on ‘the wench?’
     To me you’re all _shiver-de-freeze!_

     “When around you quite fondly I’ve clung,
     You have oftentimes said in a rage,--
     ‘Such folly may do for the young,
     But I take it to be _bad-in-age!_’

     A reticule-bag if I buy,
     (A trifle becoming each belle,)
     ‘At Jericho, madam,’ you cry,--
     ‘I wish you and your _bag-at-elle!_

     “When I had in some cordials, so rich!--
     With letters all labell’d quite handy;
     Says you, ‘I’ll inquire, you old witch,
     If O D V doesn’t mean brandy!’

     Whenever I sink to repose,
     You rouse me, you wretch! with a sneeze;
     And, lastly, if I _doze-a-doee_,
     To _w_ex me, you just _wheeze-a-wheeze?_

[Illustration: 414]



A TOAD IN A HOLE.

The Friars of Fairoak were assembled in a chamber adjoining the great
hall of their house: the Abbot was seated in his chair of eminence, and
all eyes were turned on Father Nicodemus.

Not a word was uttered, until he who seemed to be the object of so
much interest, at length ventured to speak. “It be-hoveth not one of
my years, perchance,” said he, “to disturb the silence of my elders and
superiors; but, truly, I know not what meaneth this meeting; and surely
my desire to be edified is lawful. Hath it been decided that we should
follow the example of our next-door neighbours, the Arroasian Friars,
and, henceforth, be tongue-tied? If not, do we come here to eat, or
pray, or hold council?--Ye seem somewhat too grave for those bidden to a
feast, and there lurk too many smiles about the faces of many of ye,
for this your silence to be a prelude to prayers. I cannot think, we are
about to consult on aught; because, with reverence be it spoken, those
who pass for the wisest among us, look more silly than is their wont.
But if we be here to eat--let us eat; if to pray, let us pray; and if to
hold council, what is to be the knotty subject of our debate?”

“Thyself,” replied the Abbot.

“On what score?” inquired Nicodemus.

“On divers scores,” quoth the Abbot; “thy misdeeds have grown rank: we
must even root them out of thee, or root thee out of our fraternity, on
which thou art bringing contumely. I tell thee, Brother Nicodemus, thy
offences are numberless as the weeds which grow by the way-side. Here be
many who have much to say of thee:--speak, Brother Ulick!”

“Brother Nicodemus,” said Father Ulick, “hath, truly, ever been a gross
feeder.”

“And a lover of deep and most frequent potations,” quoth Father Edmund.

“And a roamer beyond due bounds,” added Father Hugo.

“Yea, and given to the utterance of many fictions,” muttered his
brother.

“Very voluble also, and not altogether of so staid aspect, as becometh
one of his order and mellow years,” drawled Father James.

“To speak plainly--a glutton,” said the first speaker.

“Ay, and a drunkard,” said the second.

“Moreover, a night-walker,” said the third.

“Also a liar,” said the fourth.

“Finally, a babbler and a buffoon,” said the fifth.

“Ye rate me roundly, brethren,” cried Nicodemus; “and, truly, were ye
my judges, I should speedily be convicted of these offences whereof I
am accused: but not a man among you is fitted to sit in judgment on the
special misfeasance with which he chargeth me. And I will reason with
you, and tell you why. Now, first, to deal with Brother Ulick--who
upbraideth me with gross feeding:--until he can prove that his stomach
and mine are of the same quality, clamour, and power digestive, I will
not, without protest, permit him to accuse me of devouring swinishly.
He is of so poor and weak a frame, that he cannot eat aught but soppets,
without suffering the pangs of indigestion, and the nocturnal visits of
incubi, and more sprites than tempted Saint Anthony. It is no virtue in
him to be abstemious; he is enforced to avoid eating the tithe of what
would be needful to a man of moderate stomach; and behold, how lean
he looks! Next, Brother Edmund hath twitted me with being a deep
drinker:--now, it is well known, that Brother Edmund must not take a
second cup after his repast; being so puny of brain, that if he do, his
head is racked with myriads of pains and aches on the morrow, and it
lieth like a log on his shoulder,--if perchance he be enabled to rise
from his pallet. Shall he, then, pronounce dogmatically on the quantity
of potation lawful to a man in good health? I say, nay. Brother Hugo,
who chargeth me with roaming, is lame; and his brother, who saith that
I am an utterer of fictions, hath a brain which is truly incompetent to
conceive an idea, or to comprehend a fact. Brother James, who arraigneth
me of volubility, passeth for a sage pillar of the church; because,
having nought to say, he looks grave and holds his peace. I will be
tried, if you will, by Brother James, for gross feeding; he having a
good digestion and an appetite equal to mine own:--or by Brother Hugo,
for drinking abundantly; inasmuch as he is wont to solace himself
under his infirmity, with a full flask:--or by Brother Ulick, for the
utterance of fictions; because he hath written a history of some of The
Fathers, and admireth the blossoms of the brain:--or by Brother Edmund,
for not being sufficiently sedate; as he is, truly, a comfortable
talker himself and although forced to eschew wine, of a most cheerful
countenance. By Hugo’s brother I will be tried on no charge;--seeing
that he is, was, and ever will be--in charity I speak it--an egregious
fool. Have ye aught else to set up against me, brethren?”

“Much more, Brother Nicodemus,” said the Abbot, “much more, to our
sorrow. The cry of our vassals hath come up against thee; and it is now
grown so loud and frequent, that we are unwillingly enforced to
assume our authority, as their lord and thy Superior, to redress their
grievances and correct thy errors.”

“Correct _me!_” exclaimed Father Nicodemus; “Why, what say the rogues?
Dare they throw blur, blain, or blemish on my good name? Would that I
might hear one of them!”

“Thou shalt be gratified:--call in John of the Hough.”

In a few moments John of the Hough appeared, with his head bound up, and
looking alarmed as a recently-punished hound when brought again into the
presence of him by whom he has been chastised.

“Fear not,” said the Abbot; “fear not, John o’ the Hough, but speak
boldly; and our benison or malison be on thee, as thou speakest true or
false.”

“Father Nicodemus,” said John o’ the Hough, in a voice rendered almost
inaudible by fear, “broke my head with a cudgel he weareth under his
cloak.”

“When did he do this?” inquired the Abbot.

“On the feast of St. James and Jude; oft before, and since, too, without
provocation; and, lastly, on Monday se’nnight.”

“Why, thou strangely perverse varlet, dost thou say it was I who beat
thee?” demanded the accused friar.

“Ay, truly, most respected Father Nicodemus.”

“Dost thou dare to repeat it? I am amazed at thy boldness;--or, rather,
thy stupidity; or, perhaps, at thy loss of memory. Know, thou naughty
hind, it was thyself who cudgelled thee! Didst thou not know that if
thou wert to vex a dog he would snap at thee?--or hew and hack a tree,
and not fly, it would fall on thee?--or grieve and wound the feelings of
thy ghostly friend Father Nicodemus, he would cudgel thee?--Did I rouse
myself into a rage? Did I call myself a thief?--Answer me, my son; did?”

“No, truly, Father Nicodemus.”

“Did I threaten, if I were not a son of Holy Mother Church, to kick
myself out of thy house? Answer me, my son; did I?”

“No, truly, Father Nicodemus.”

“Am I less than a dog, or a tree? Answer me, my son; am I?”

“No, truly, Father Nicodemus; but, truly, also--”

“None of thy buts, my son; respond to me with plain ay or no. Didst thou
not do all these things antecedent to my breaking thy sconce?”

“Ay, truly, Father Nicodemus.”

“Then how canst thou say _I_ beat thee? Should I have carried my staff
to thy house, did I not know thee to be a churl, and an enemy to the
good brotherhood of this house? Was I to go into the lion’s den without
my defence? Should I have demeaned myself to phlebotomize thee with my
cudgel, (and doubtless the operation was salubrious,) hadst thou not
aspersed me? Was it for me to stand by, tamely, with three feet of
blackthorn at my belt, and hear a brother of this religious order
betwitted, as I was by thee, with petty larceny? Was it not thine own
breath, then, that brought the cudgel upon thy caput? Answer me, my
son.”

“Lead forth John of the Hough, and call in the miller of Homford,”
 said the Abbot, before John of the Hough could reply. “Now, miller,”
 continued he, as soon as the miller entered, “what hast thou to allege
against this our good brother, Nicodemus?”

“I allege,” replied the miller, “that he is naught.”

“Oh! thou especial rogue!” exclaimed Father Nicodemus; “dost _thou_ come
here to bear witness against me? I will impeach thy testimony by one
assertion, which thou canst not gainsay; for the evidence of it is
written on thy brow, thou brawny villain! Thou bearest malice against
me, because I, some six years ago, inflicted a cracked crown on thee,
for robbing this holy house of its lawful meal. I deemed the punishment
adequate to the offence, and spoke not of it to the Abbot, in
consideration of thy promising to mend thy ways. Hadst thou not well
merited that mark of my attention to the interests of my brethren, the
whole lordship would have heard of it. And didst thou ever say I made
the wound? Never:--thy tale was that some of thy mill-gear had done it.
But I will be judged by any here, if the scar be not of my blackthorn’s
making. I will summon three score, at least, who shall prove it to be my
mark. Let it be viewed with that on the head of thy foster-brother, John
of the Hongh:--I will abide by the comparison. Thou hast hoarded malice
in thy heart from that day; and now thou comest here to vomit it forth,
as thou deemest, to my undoing. But, be sure, caitiff, that I shall
testify upon thy sconce hereafter: for I know thou art rogue enough to
rob if thou canst, and fool enough to rob with so little discretion as
to be easily detected; and even if my present staff be worn out, there
be others in the woods:--ergo--”

“Peace, Brother Nicodemus!” exclaimed the Abbot; “approach not a single
pace nearer to the miller; neither do thou threaten nor browbeat him, I
enjoin thee.”

“Were it not for the reverence I owe to those who are round me, and
my unwillingness to commit even so trifling a sin,” said Nicodemus, “I
would take this slanderous and ungrateful knave betwixt my finger and
thumb, and drop him among the hungry eels of his own mill-stream. I
chafe apace:--lay hands on me, brethren!--for I wax wroth, and am sure,
in these moods,--so weak is man--to do mischief ere my humour subside.”

“Speak on, miller,” said the Abbot; “and thou, Brother Nicodemus, give
way to thine inward enemy, at thy peril.”

“I will tell him,--an’ you will hold him back and seize his staff,” said
the miller,--“how he and the roystering boatman of Frampton Ferry--”

“My time is coming,” exclaimed Nicodemus, interrupting the miller: “bid
him withdraw, or he will have a sore head at his supper.”

“They caroused and carolled,” said the miller, “with two travellers,
like skeldring Jacks o’ the flagon, until--”

“Lay hands on Nicodemus, all!” cried the Abbot, as the enraged friar
strode towards the miller;--“lay hands on the madman at once!”

“It is too late,” said Nicodemus, drawing forth a cudgel from beneath
his cloak; “do not hinder me now, for my blackthorn reverences not the
heads of the holy fraternity of Fairoak. Hold off, I say!” exclaimed he,
as several of his brethren roughly attempted to seize him; “hold off,
and mar me not in this mood; or to-day will, hereafter, be called
the Feast of Blows. Nay, then, if you will not, I strike:--may you be
marked, but not maimed!” The friar began to level a few of the most
resolute of those about him as he spoke. “I will deal lightly as my
cudgel will let me,” pursued he. “I strike indiscriminately, and without
malice, I protest. May blessings follow these blows! Brother Ulick, I
grieve that you have thrust yourself within my reach. Look to the Abbot,
some of ye, for,--miserable me!--I have laid him low. Man is weak,
and this must be atoned for by fasting. Where is the author of this
mischief? Miller, where art thou?”

Father Nicodemus continued to lay about him very lustily for several
minutes; but, before he could deal with the miller as he wished, Friar
Hugo’s brother, who was on the floor, caught him by the legs, and
suddenly threw him prostrate. He was immediately overwhelmed by numbers,
bound hand and foot, and carried to his own cell; where he was closely
confined, and most vigilantly watched, until the superiors of his order
could be assembled. He was tried in the chamber which had been the scene
of his exploits: the charge of having rudely raised his hand against the
Abbot, and belaboured the holy brotherhood, was fully proved; and, ere
twenty-four hours had elapsed, Father Nicodemus found himself enclosed,
with a pitcher of water and a loaf, in a niche of a stone wall, in the
lowest vault of Fairoak Abbey.

He soon began to feel round him, in order to ascertain if there were
any chance of escaping from the tomb to which he had been consigned: the
walls were old, but tolerably sound; he considered, however, that it
was his duty to break out if he could; and he immediately determined on
making an attempt. Putting his back to the wall, which had been built
up to enclose him for ever from the world, and his feet against the
opposite side of the niche, he strained every nerve to push one of them
down. The old wall at length began to move: he reversed his position,
and with his feet firmly planted against the new work, he made such a
tremendous effort, that the ancient stones and mortar gave way behind
him: the next moment he found himself lying on his back, with a quantity
of rubbish about him, on the cold pavement of a vault, into which
sufficient light glimmered, through a grating, to enable him to
ascertain that he was no longer in any part of Fairoak Abbey.

The tongue-tied neighbours to whom Nicodemus had alluded, when he
broke silence at that meeting of his brethren which terminated so
unfortunately, were monks of the same order as those of Fairoak Abbey;
among whom, about a century and a half before the time of Nicodemus,
such dissensions took place, that the heads of the order were compelled
to interfere; and under their sanction and advice, two-and-twenty monks,
who were desirous of following the fine example of the Arroasians of
Saint Augustin,--who neither wore linen nor ate flesh, and observed a
perpetual silence,--seceded from the community, and elected an Abbot
of their own. The left-wing of Fairoak Abbey was assigned to them for
a residence, and the rents of a certain portion of its lands were set
apart for their support. Their first care was to separate themselves, by
stout walls, from all communication with their late brethren; and up to
the days of Nicodemus, no friendly communion had taken place between the
Arroasian and its mother Abbey.

Nicodemus had no doubt but that he was in one of the vaults of the
silent monks: in order that he might not be recognised as a brother of
Fairoak, he took off his black cloak and hood, and even his cassock
and rochet, and concealed them beneath a few stones, in a corner of the
recess from which he had just liberated himself. With some difficulty,
he reached the inhabited part of the building: after terrifying several
of the Arroasians, by abruptly breaking upon their meditations, he at
length found an old white cloak and hood, arrayed in which he took a
seat at the table of the refectory, and, to the amazement of the monks,
tacitly helped himself to a portion of their frugal repast. The Superior
of the community, by signs, requested him to state who and what he was;
but Nicodemus, pointing to the old Arroasian habit which he now wore,
wisely held his peace. The good friars knew not how to act:--Nicodemus
was suffered to enter into quiet possession of a vacant cell; he joined
in their silent devotions, and acted in every respect as though he had
been an Arroasian all his life.

By degrees the good monks became reconciled to his presence, and looked
upon him as a brother. He behaved most discreetly for several months:
but at length having grown weary of bread, water, and silence, he, one
evening, stole over the garden-wall, resolving to have an eel-pie and
some malmsey, spiced with a little jovial chat, in the company of his
trusty friend, the boatman of Frampton Ferry. His first care, on finding
himself at large, was to go to the coppice of Fairoak, and cut a yard
of good blackthorn, which he slung by a hazel gad to his girdle, but
beneath his cassock. Resuming his path towards the Ferry, he strode on
at a brisk rate for a few minutes; when, to his great dismay, he heard
the sound of the bell which summoned the Arroasians to meet in the
chapel of their Abbey.

“A murrain on thy noisy tongue!” exclaimed Nicodemus, “on what emergency
is thy tail tugged, to make thee yell at this unwonted hour? There is a
grievous penalty attached to the offence of quitting the walls, either
by day or by night; and as I am now deemed a true Arroasian, by Botolph,
I stand here in jeopardy; for they will assuredly discover my absence.
I will return at once, slink into my cell, and be found there afflicted
with a lethargy, when they come to search for me; or, if occasion serve,
join my brethren boldly in the chapel.”

The bell had scarcely ceased to toll, when Nicodemus reached the
garden-wall again: he clambered over it, alighted safely on a heap of
manure, and was immediately seized by half a score of the stoutest among
the Arroasians. Unluckily for Nicodemus, the Superior himself had seen
a figure, in the costume of the Abbey, scaling the garden-wall, and had
immediately ordered the bell to be rung, and a watch to be set, in
order to take the offender in the fact, on his return. The mode of
administering justice among the Arroasians, was much more summary than
in the Abbey of Fairoak. Nicodemus was brought into the Superior’s cell,
and divested of his cloak; his cassock was then turned down from his
belt, and a bull’s-hide thong severely applied to his back, before he
could recover himself from the surprise into which his sudden capture
had thrown him. His wrath rose, not gradually as it did of old,--but in
a moment, under the pain and indignity of the thong, it mounted to its
highest pitch. Breaking from those who were holding him, he plucked
the blackthorn he had cut, from beneath his cassock, and without either
benediction or excuse, silently but severely belaboured all present, the
Superior himself not excepted. When his rage and strength were somewhat
exhausted, the prostrate brethren rallied a little, and with the aid
of the remainder of the community, who came to their assistance, they
contrived to despoil Nicodemus of his staff, and to secure him from
doing further mischief.

The next morning, Nicodemus was stripped of his Arroasian habit; and,
attired in nothing but the linen in which he had first appeared among
the brethren, he was conducted, with very little ceremony, to the vaults
beneath the Abbey. Every member of the community advanced to give him a
parting embrace, and the Superior pointed with his finger to a recess in
the wall: Nicodemus was immediately ushered into it, the wall was built
up behind him, and once more he found himself entombed alive.

“But that I am not so strong as I was of yore, after the lenten fare of
my late brethren,” said Nicodemus, “I should not be content to die thus,
in a coffin of stones and mortar. What luck hast thou here, Nicodemus?”
 continued the friar, as, poking about the floor of his narrow cell, he
felt something like a garment, with his foot. “By rood and by rochet,
mine own attire!--the cloak and cassock, or I am much mistaken, which I
left behind me when I was last here;--for surely these are my old
quarters! I did not think to be twice tenant of this hole; but man is
weak, and I was born to be the bane of blackthorn. The lazy rogues found
this niche ready-made to their hands, and, truth to say, they have
walled me up like workmen. Ah, me! there is no soft place for me to
bulge my back through now. Hope have I none: but I will betake me to my
anthems; and perchance, in due season, I may light upon some means of
making egress.”

Nicodemus had, by this time, contrived to put on his cassock and cloak,
which somewhat comforted his shivering body, and he forthwith began to
chant his favourite anthem in such a lusty tone, that it was faintly
heard by the Fairoak Abbey cellarman, and one of the friars who was
in the vaults with him, selecting the ripest wines. On the alarm being
given, a score of the brethren betook themselves to the vaults;
and, with torches in their hands, searched every corner for the
anthem-singer, but without success. At length the cellarman ventured to
observe, that, in his opinion, the sounds came from the wall; and the
colour left the cheeks of all as the recollection of Nicodemus flashed
upon them. They gathered round the place where they had enclosed him,
and soon felt satisfied that the awful anthem was there more distinctly
heard, than in any other part of the vault. The whole fraternity soon
assembled, and endeavoured to come to some resolution as to how they
ought to act. With fear and trembling, Father Hugo’s brother moved that
they should at once open the wall: this proposal was at first rejected
with contempt, on account of the known stupidity of the person with whom
it originated; but as no one ventured to suggest anything, either better
or worse, it was at last unanimously agreed to. With much solemnity,
they proceeded to make a large opening in the wall. In a few minutes,
Father Nicodemus appeared before them, arrayed in his cloak and cassock,
and not much leaner or less rosy than when they bade him, as they
thought, an eternal adieu, nearly a year before. The friars shouted,
“A miracle! a miracle!” and Nicodemus did not deem it by any means
necessary to contradict them. “Ho, ho! brethren,” exclaimed he, “you are
coming to do me justice at last, are you? By faith and troth, but you
are tardy! Your consciences, methinks, might have urged you to enact
this piece of good-fellowship some week or two ago. To dwell ten months
and more in so dark and solitary a den, like a toad in a hole, is no
child’s-play. Let the man who doubts, assume my place, and judge for
himself. I ask no one to believe me on my bare word. You have wronged
me, brethren, much; but I forgive you freely.”

“A miracle! a miracle!” again shouted the amazed monks: they most
respectfully declined the proffered familiarities of Nicodemus, and
still gazed on him with profound awe, even after the most incredulous
among them were convinced, by the celerity with which a venison pasty,
flanked by a platter of brawn, and a capacious jack of Cyprus wine
vanished before him, in the refectory, that he was truly their Brother
Nicodemus, and still in the flesh. Ere long, the jolly friar became
Abbot of Fairoak: he was dubbed a saint after his decease; but as no
miracles were ever wrought at his shrine, his name has since been struck
out of the calendar.



THE PAIR OF PUMPS.

     “Where is the pumps?” cried Mrs. Jones,
     “Where is the pumps, I say?
     They can’t be lost; and, by the bones!
     I’ll have them found to-day.

     “There is but three beneath the roof,
     That’s master, you, and I;--
     How they has walked I’ll have good proof,
     Or know the reason why.

     “Your master wore them this day week;
     You knows he did, you jade!
     That you’re a thief, albeit so meek,
     In truth I’m half afraid.

     “Don’t answer me, you saucy minx!
     You’re lazy as you’re long;
     At thousands of your faults I winks,
     Although I knows ‘tis wrong.

     “You looks the baker in the face,
     When he comes with the bread;
     You trims your cap with shilling lace,
     And flirts with Butcher Ned.

     “You acts as though you thought yourself
     The fairest of the fair;
     And seems to think that master’s pelf
     You’re qualified to share.

     “Now don’t deny it--hussy, don’t!
     For I has watched you long;
     But I can tell you, Miss, you won’t
     Win master with a song.

     “In vain at him you sets your cap;
     He’s not the sort of man;
     With all your ogles bait your trap,
     And catch him if you can!

     “Beneath his roof, for fifteen years,
     Housekeeper I have been;
     I cares not if my speech he hears--
     No wrong in me he’s seen.

     “I slaves like any Trojan Turk;
     I makes his bed and mine;
     While you, you hussy! does no work,
     And yet you dares repine!

     “Why don’t you take a pattern by
     Your master, slut, and me?
     We never thinks a thought awry,--
     There is but few like we!

     “The pumps was worn but this day week;
     You knows they were, you jade!
     That you’re a thief, albeit so meek,
     In truth I’m half afraid.

     “You stands accused of stealing them--
     A very naughty sin;
     And if you’re hoity-toity, Me’em,
     I’ll call the neighbours in!”

     And hoity-toity Kitty was,
     She didn’t care a pin!
     Says Mistress Jones, “I vow, that’s poz!
     I’ll have the neighbours in!”

     And in she call’d them one by one,
     By two, and three, and four;
     Such lots came in to see the fan,
     The house could hold no more.

     “Oh! what’s the matter?” quoth they all,
     “And what is here amiss?”
      Says Mrs. Jones, “Pray don’t you bawl;
     My friends, the case is this:--

     “I keeps my master’s house; and he,
     Good soul! is half afraid,
     That spite of all precaution, we
     Is robb’d by Kate, our maid.

     “Of all the lazy, idle drones
     That ever yet I knew,
     Not one could match,” says Mrs. Jones,
     “The girl you have in view.

     “In all the house three beds we makes,
     For master, she, and me;
     Both master’s and my own I takes,
     She does but one of three.

     “And though she grumbles,--yes, indeed,--
     That she is worked too much;
     Yet she can oft her novels read,
     Ay, and the likes of such.

     “She won’t by me a pattern take,
     Although full well she knows,
     In books ‘tis said, ‘the wayward rake
     Contemns the gather’d rose.’

     “I’ve lost a pair of stockings, and
     About a week ago,
     I’d master’s pumps in this here hand,
     A-looking at’em so.

     “I hung’em up upon the pegs,
     I recollects it well;
     How they has walked without their legs,
     Miss Kate, perhaps, can tell.”

     “False Mrs. Jones!” young Kate replies,
     As forward now she jumps;
     “She would not ask, were she but wise,
     If I had stol’n the pumps.

     “There is but three beds in the house,
     And Mrs. Jones makes two;
     We haven’t room to stow a mouse;--
     So far her story ‘s true.

     “She brags about her virtue, but
     She’s got a silly head;
     A week ago, the pumps
     I put _In Mrs, Jones’s bed!_”

[Illustration: 428]



WANTED A PARTNER.

“Ah! now, Michael, be quiet,--why can’t you?--It brakes the heart o’ me,
cousin,--so it does thin, and I’ll own it,--to see you laugh that way,
and the pair of us ruined, as we are!”

“Is it ruined, Thady?--and yourself there with a bull and a hog in your
pocket?”

“What’s half-a-crown and a shilling? A bull and a hog is but
three-and-sixpence.--I’ll be starved intirely whin that’s gone; for
there’s no work for us, far or near. I tell you we’re ruined.”

“Then let’s go partners; and who knows but we’ll make a fine fortune?
What’s invention but the daughter of necessity?--So now’s the time to
shew our abilities, if we have any.”

“Divil of any abilities have I, Michael; and you know it.”

“Ah! Thady, Thady--”

“I’ll give you my oath I hav’n’t!--so don’t be suspecting me. If I’d
abilities, do you think I’d be such a blackguard as to consale them? Not
I, thin!”

“Well but, Thady, boy, hav’n’t you three-and-sixpence?--hav’n’t you
now?”

“I have,--I won’t deny it.”

“And hav’n’t I abilities?”

“I won’t deny that either, unless you’ve lost them since we last saw
one another,--that’s two years ago, I think:--I won’t deny but you’ve
abilities, Michael; if I did I’d be giving you the lie; for it’s often
you tould me you had grand ones, if you’d only a field large enough to
display them. But where’ll we get a field, big or little, for a bull?
I would’nt risk more than that of my money upon your abilities,--though
it’s much I respect them.”

“Thady, you’re a fool, with your big field and your bull!--Besides, I’ve
a reaping hook, and a long rope.”

“I see you have: but tell me, Michael, as we’re spaking of reap-hooks
and abilities, how did you lose your last place? Wasn’t your master a
good one?”

“Say ‘employer,’ Thady, the next time you mintion him. Well, thin,
he wasn’t so bad, but for two things:--being an Englishman, he hadn’t
exactly got into our mode of transacting things, don’t you see,
Thady?--he stuck to the letter o’ the law too closely for me.”

“You didn’t rob him Michael,--did you?”

“Of a little time only, Thady: he’d too many eyes to be robbed of
anything else,--if I was dishonest,--but I’m not, you know.”

“So I say, Michael, to _every_ one who spakes of you.”

“Thank you, Thady, for that:--and, faith! the time I took wasn’t worth
noticing. He put me into a little patch of peas, and bid me reap them as
fast as I could. So I began to work as though I’d the strength of ten;
and he stood by me and tould me I was a fine fellow. I got on well
enough till he wint, and a while after even,--so I did. But I’d
over-rated my own powers, and was soon obliged to lay down, just by
the way of recruiting myself a little, under the hedge. By-and-by, who
should be passing that way again but my employer; and, says he,
putting his toe in my ribs, ‘What did you lie there for,’ says he, ‘you
blackguard?’ ‘To repose a little, sir,’ says L ‘Bad luck to you!’ says
he, ‘didn’t I hire you to reap _peas?_’ ‘Well, sir,’ says I, mimicking
his way of spaking, ‘and isn’t sleep a weary man’s harvest? and,’ says
I, quite pleasant, ‘if it isn’t in sleep I’d reap _ease_, how else would
I?’ ‘Don’t be quibbling that way,’ says he; I’ll be obeyed to the very
letter.’ ‘Well, sir,’ says I, ‘O’s and P’s ar’n’t far apart; they’re
next door to one another in the alphabet.’ But it wouldn’t do for him;
he’d have the letter itself; and if he paid me to reap peas, he wouldn’t
have me repose: so we parted. But don’t let’s be losing time: there’s a
rope and a reaping-hook, and they’re mine, ar’n’t they?”

“I’d be wrong if I denied that, whin I see them in your hand, and
possession is nine points of the law. But what of your rope and your
reap-hook, Michael?”

“Why, thin, let them be our stock, and your three-and-six-pence our
capital, and us partners and sole and only proprietors. What say you to
that? You’ll own it looks like business, I hope.”

“Yes, Michael; but where’ll the customers come from?”

“Don’t bother about them; they’ll come fast enough when we want them,
as you’ll see. It’s no use to be reckoning our chickens before they’re
hatched, is it?”

“Not a bit:--what you say can’t very soon find one that’ll contradict
it. It is no use to be reckoning our chickens before they’re hatched.”

“So far, thin, we go on by mutual consint. Now, Thady, would you like to
make a great stroke or a little one?”

“The sooner we make money the better, I think.”

“But little fishes are sweet, you fool!”

“So they are, Michael: I’m vexed that I didn’t think of that; and it’s
but little we’ll risk by way o’ bait to catch them.”

“But what’s the use, Thady,--answer me now, you who set yourself up for
a sinsible man--”

“Not I, thin! I’d fall out with you if you said so.”

“Well, thin, where’s the use, I’ll ask you--fool as you are,--of our
catching sprats and wullawaughs, when there’s sea-cows and whales in the
ocean?--A sprat isn’t a sea-cow, is it?”

“No, faith!”

“Nor a wullawaugh a whale?”

“How should it?”

“Then why not try for a sea-cow?”

“Bekase I wouldn’t like to risk my silver bull, Michael.”

“Why, thin, you’re a lunatic,--so you are. Suppose you lost your
bull--tell me now, where’d your hog be?”

“Gone to try to bring back my bull, may be. I don’t think we’ll try for
a sea-cow, or a whale, Michael.”

“Thin you’ll be contint with catching wullawaughs and shrimps, is it?”

“Not exactly: I’d like to try for a whale, but not so as to risk what
money I have.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what we’ll do:--let us set up a show.”

“That plazes me. But what’ll we shew, Michael? Is it your reap-hook,
that’s worn out doing divil a ha’p’orth but going to the grinstone?--or
your rope, bekase you found it?”

“No, Thady; that wouldn’t do: but I think if you’d tar and feather
yourself, I might make something of you, by swearing you were a
monster,--a big bird I caught on a furze-bush with bird-lime.”

“I’ll not consint to that; for if you’d be showman, you’d take all the
money.”

“And what thin?”

“Suppose you took yourself off one day?”

“And what thin?”

“Suppose you took the money with you, thin what’d I do? Sore, you know,
I couldn’t run after you in my tar and feathers; for, if I did, wouldn’t
the people see me without paying?”

“That would be a loss, I’ll admit, if it happened: but I’d have you to
know, Thady--”

“Now don’t look big, for I’ll apologize: but I may spake my mind, I
hope.”

“You certainly may.”

“Well, thin, I won’t tar and feather myself; bekase, how’d we get tar
and feathers to do it, without risking my bull, or my hog at the least?”

“Oh! thin, if you’ve doubts in your mind, I’ll abandon the project: but
I’ll insist upon it that you don’t take advantage of my idea, and tar
and feather yourself for your own benefit.”

“I give you my word, I won’t:--but listen, Michael, and I’ll tell you
what we’ll do, and there’s no risk in it.”

“I’d like to hear:--though I expect you’ll be proposing to shoot the
stars with a big bow and arrow, and sell them for diamonds.”

“That wouldn’t be bad, if we’d a bow and arrow that could do it; but I’m
afraid we’d find it hard to get one. That’s not my plan, Michael; but
this is it:--there’s a big hole, a stone’s-throw from this; dark and
deep it is, for I’ve looked down it; and far below, at the very bottom,
runs a stream, that goes under the waters, and under the land, away off
to the Red Sea: and it’s often a big ould crocodile comes to it, for
a day or so, in the summer, by the way of getting a change of air and
retirement.”

“Well, Thady, and suppose he does?”

“Why, thin, this is my plan:--let us fish for the crocodile, and make a
show of him if we catch him.”

“Arrah! Thady! I didn’t think it was in you. But what’ll we do for a
hook and line?”

“Haven’t you your reap-hook and rope?”

“That’s true, Thady, so I have; but by way of a bait--you know
crocodiles ates man’s flesh, Thady.”

“I know it: and it’s the beauty o’ my plan, that we’ve bait, hook, and
line,--all the materials, without a penny expense.”

“Oh! I see:--faith I you’re a genius, Thady:--you’d have me bait the
hook with yourself.”

“Not a bit of it, Michael; I couldn’t separate you from your hook;--I
wouldn’t like to part with my money, and why should I ask you to part
with your hook?”

“But don’t you see, Thady, I run all the risk?--may be I’ll lose my
property;--the crocodile may carry it off. If we’re to be partners, you
must risk a little as well as me. I’ll be my hook and my rope, with all
the pleasure in life, if you’ll be yourself--if you’ll let me tie you to
them by the way of a bait.”

“Nonsinse, Michael! what good would I be? Sure he feeds upon blacks--the
crocodile does; and, fair as I am, he wouldn’t know I was good to ate.
Now, as you’ve a fine dark complexion--”

“No, I havn’t.”

“Faith! you have;--and it’s what you’re admired for, by me among many:
I’d like to have it myself. Why, thin, as you’re within a few shades of
the raal thing, may be, in the dark, he’d take you for the raal thing.”

“Oh! thin, crocodiles ar’n’t bamboozled so aisily; we’d better make
sure,--and I’ll tell how we’ll do it:--I’ll get some soot, and black you
from head to foot.”

“I’d be afraid, Michael.”

“What harm could happen you, man? When he made his bite, wouldn’t my
reap-hook stick in his jaws and stop him from shutting them, until I’d
pull him up?”

“Suppose he’d nibble and not bite?--suppose, too, he’d untie the cord
and make a meal of me, and then pick his teeth with your reap-hook?”

“I’ll tie the knot so that he can’t: or, I’ll tell you what we’ll
do;--we’ll toss up which of us shall be bait.”

“With all my heart:--but what’ll we toss with?”

“Isn’t it with your money? You’ll lend me your bull.”

“No, I won’t lend you my bull, Michael.”

“Well! toss your bull yourself, and let me have your hog.”

“I won’t do that, either; for I couldn’t risk my money.”

“What! do you suspect me?”

“Far from it; but, as there’s grass here, we might lose it, you know.”

“But I’ll be responsible; and you can’t doubt my honour.”

“Not a bit; but--what’s as bad,--I doubt your means. If I lost my bull,
and you couldn’t give me another if you would, that’s the same thing to
me as if you wouldn’t give me another if you could,--don’t you see?”

“Well, I’ve another plan: and I think it must plaze you:--did you ever
throw a summerset?”

“I tried once, but didn’t succeed.”

“That’s just my own case; so we’re even, and it don’t matter which does
it. Now hark to this, Thady; you’ll throw your summerset as well as you
can, and while you’re throwing it. I’ll cry ‘head’ or ‘tail,’ just which
I like: if I say ‘tail,’ and you I’ll on your head, it’s you that wins.”

“No, Michael; you must toss yourself; for I’ve no tail to my coat, and
you have.”

“Arrah, man! won’t I lend you mine? Sure, we’ll exchange.”

“Well, but suppose I lost?”

“Thin you’d strip yourself, and I’d black you.”

“But why strip myself, Michael?”

“Don’t the crocodiles always catch people that’s swimming? And suppose
they didn’t, don’t the blacks go naked? They do, Thady: so that if you
were in your clothes, the crature couldn’t know you were a man, and we
wouldn’t catch him. If there was a fish that ate apples, you wouldn’t
bait your hook with a dumpling, would you?”

“I wouldn’t: still, I couldn’t leave my clothes.”

“Why not, thin, eh?”

“Bekase there’s my bull and my hog in the pocket; and I’d not like to
risk them, with nobody on the bank, but yourself, to take care o’ them.”

“I don’t know how it is, Thady, but nothing plazes you;--you’re too
particular by half.”

“I’m fool enough to be too fond of my money, I’m afraid.”

“I’m afraid you are:--but will I tell you what you’ll do with it,--once
for all now?”

“What, Michael?”

“Why, thin, you’ll just lend me two-and-sixpence, and I’ll go and do
something in the way of speculation with it; so that, whin we meet
again, I’ll be able to give you back your bull, with something handsome
to the tail of it.”

“That’s not bad, Michael: but I’d be afraid we wouldn’t have the luck of
meeting whin we’d wish. Who knows but one of us might be looking for the
other, all over the wide world, like a needle in a bundle of hay?”

“Thady, is it trash your trying to talk? People meets where hills and
mountains don’t, you know.”

“That’s true: but I’ve found out that though one meets with them one
don’t want to see nine times a week, one goes a whole year, and more,
without getting a sight o’ them one wishes to come across. Who knows
but, if I lent you my bull, the sight o’ you would be good for sore
eyes?--For that rason, I’ll not lay you under the obligation, I think,
Michael.”

“Oh! bad luck to you, and every bit of you! Get out o’ that, for I don’t
like you;--giving people trouble, by making believe you’re a fool, whin
all the while you ar’n’t!”

“I’m beginning to think you’d bad intuitions, Michael.”

“Do you think I’d chate my cousin?”

“You would thin,--I’ll say that for your abilities,--if you could get
anything by it. Ar’n’t you trying to bully me out o’ my bull?”

“Get out o’ that, I tell you!--go away intirely:--I dissolve the
partnership. Go at once, for I’m in a passion.”

“Who cares for you, Michael? Go away yourself. I’ll engage you’ll find
many’s the one who wants a partner that’s active, and won’t mind about
capital; but I don’t think he’ll be a man of property. Why should you
crow over me, I’d like to know?--is it bekase you’ve a cock in your
eye?”

[Illustration: 435]



HANDSOME HANDS.

An elderly bachelor of my acquaintance is one of the warmest admirers in
the world of a beautiful female hand. “A fine hand,” he will say, “is
a vastly fine thing, sir. As I always turned my attention very
particularly to that part of the person, and have been king’s page, and
this, that, and t’other about a court, during many of my best years, the
very finest of hands have fallen under my notice. Believe me, I am
not at all captious, but merely critical, or in a trifling degree
historical, when I say, that your fine hands of the present day, are
very different from the fine hands of the old school. My father was
convinced that bands had degenerated since Charles the Second’s time;
but he could not help confessing that, in my time,--I mean, when he was
seventy, and I was thirty--hands were still handsome. And, mark me, he
spoke of hands generally:--but, adad! _now_, if you meet with a fine
hand once in a year or so, you’re in luck, and ought to sacrifice a kid
to Fortune. The fact is, that fine hands are very much talked about,
but they are not properly cultivated; true beauty of form is no longer
understood or appreciated; and the classical style of hand is, I fear,
almost out of fashion. I am acquainted with two or three exquisite pair
in town, and one,--its fellow, unfortunately, is deformed--one matchless
hand at Putney. But nobody else admires them; I have them all to myself;
and what is most provoking, these treasures,--these living and lovely
reliques of a former age of grace and beauty,--these symbols of glorious
pedigree,--these aristocratic heir-looms, are thrown away upon persons,
who, if it were not for a spice of self-love, and that they’re their
own, would deem them but middling specimens. They positively try to coax
them out of a beautiful into a barbarous style, so as to make them look
like those of their neighbours, which the senseless young fellows of the
modern school have the bad taste to admire. There never, perhaps, was
a woman with such delightful hands as the charming Aurelia Pettigrew,
afterwards Mrs. Watts, of Grange Hill, subsequently Mrs. Jervis, of
Eton; whom I attempted at once to console and immortalize, by a copy of
verses, written on the occasion of her having met with an accident, from
an awkward waiting-woman’s scissors, which produced a slight, but, in
the opinion of many, a pleasing and piquant obliquity of the visual
organ. These are the stanzas:--

     “‘When Chloe wandered o’er the mead,
     To pluck the grateful flower;
     Strephon and every shepherd swain,
     Confess’d her beauty’s power.

     Enamour’d Colin, gazing knelt,
     And soon resign’d his breath;
     While each fond youth ambitious sighed,
     To die so sweet a death.

     Two suns the earth could ne’er endure,
     Nor man _her_ double glance;
     So nature bade the right blaze on,
     And turn’d the left askance.’

“I did not sing the charms of her hands, for they were above all
praise:--small, plump, and graceful, with tapering fingers, and dimples
where the knuckles lay, which, to the eye of fancy, seemed to smile like
those in Love’s own cheek. Miss Pettigrew was not of a very excellent
figure; nor had she, with the exception of her eyes, particularly
beautiful features; but her hands were matchless! They won her one
husband, and many hearts,--my own among them,--at nineteen; and another
husband with more than one suitor,--I was among’em, again--when she
was a widow, at forty. There are some Goths and Vandals, who would have
their nails half as long as the fingers:--filbert-nails, I think is the
term for such pretended beauties; which, in my opinion, bear a striking
resemblance to the convex side of the bowl of a horn spoon. But, though
I consider a deep margin to a nail vulgar in the extreme, and would
never, on any account, suffer its disk to peep over the Aurora-tinted
horizon of the finger’s summit, yet, understand me, I am no advocate for
cutting them down to the quick. Of the two extremes,--a woman who pares
her nails to the skin’s edge, and a Chinese lady, who suffers hers to
shoot forth into talons, I know not which is the more provoking. The
Chinese female has at least the custom of the country in her favour;
her, therefore, I have no right to blame, because it occurs that I am
not a Chinese: but if I meet with one of my countrywomen, with claws
at the ends of her fingers, I always long to call in a gardener or a
sheep-shearer, with the necessary implement to prune or clip them down
to a state of decorum. I do not possess sufficient talent to invent an
appropriate and adequate punishment for a lady who is so enamoured
with ugliness as to bite her nails. For her friends’ sake, she ought to
cannibalize in private, and conceal the revolting relics of her feast by
wearing gloves, even in the presence of her most intimate friends. Those
little machines which look like old gloves cropped to the knuckles, are
gross outrages upon taste: they are called, I believe, mittens; and many
excellent young ladies wear them, particularly in the country, during
cold weather. The sight of a hand in one of these things invariably
produces an emotion of pity in my bosom for the four long, cold, naked
fingers, which protrude from the sockets of the stalls. In the matter of
gloves, women are frequently so rash and inconsiderate, as ‘to make the
judicious grieve.’ I have told every lady, with whom I have the honour
to be intimate, and who has happened to have large, ignoble hands, that
she ought not to wear tight gloves; I have declared, on the honour of a
gentleman, that they increase rather than dimmish the apparent size of
the hand: but my preaching has never proved of much effect. A lady with
an excellent, or even a good hand, should never have a wrinkle in
her glove; but it is an absurd notion of many, that mere tightness is
perfection: on the contrary, a glove that is well adapted to the hand
never appears tight, but fits smooth and unwrinkled as the fair skin
which it conceals. The kid should lie close against the palm of the
hand; the fingers should have no awkward bags at their extremities, and
no bridges between their bases; indeed, the glove should fit as though
it were an admirable mould, endowed with such elasticity as to assume
every variety of form into which graceful action can possibly throw the
hand. It, doubtless, has been to many persons, as well as to myself, a
matter of astonishment, that the thousand and one elegant and delicate
pieces of workmanship, in various materials, which seem to be fashioned
by the exquisite fingers of a Belinda, are found, on inquiry, to be the
productions of huge awkward paws, apparently fit only to wield flails
and pull about blocks of granite. A celebrated frizeur, whose name I
won’t mention, has a very laudable antipathy to what he terms ‘hugeous
hands--he is a little lax in his language, but a very good frizeur for
all that. Some years ago, he wanted a few assistants in his hair-cutting
rooms; and inserted an advertisement in the paper to that effect. Among
other applicants there was a good-looking youth, whose appearance, and
answers to the preliminary questions put on such occasions, were highly
satisfactory. ‘Will your last master give you a character for civility?’
inquired the hair-dresser. The boy answered in the affirmative. ‘Well,
and where are your gloves, young gentleman?’ ‘I don’t wear any, sir!’
‘Not wear gloves! I protest, I never heard of such a thing in all my
born days. Take your hands out of your breeches pockets then, boy, and
let me inspect them.’ The boy, with some difficulty, produced a pair of
rather large and very high-coloured hands, and artlessly exhibited
them to the frizeur. ‘Oh! go away, boy--go away,’ exclaimed the latter,
recoiling three paces from the spectacle; ‘you won’t suit me at all: the
advertisement particularly said, Wanted a few _good hands_, you know.
It’s not possible for me to take a young man into my establishment,
with great, large, red bits of beef, hanging out at the ends of his coat
sleeves.--Go along!’”

[Illustration: 439]



MISLED BY A NAME.

It was my fortune to pass a portion of my youth at a celebrated
watering-place, to which it was the fashion, at that time, with the
faculty, in all parts of the kingdom, to consign their patients, usually
in compliance with the desires of the latter, when medicine could be of
no more avail; and there was such a constant influx of pale people of
fortune, who were buried within so brief a period after the announcement
of their arrival, that I sincerely pitied persons of opulence,
because they seemed to be Death’s favourite prey. Burials occurred so
frequently, that at least a tithe of the inhabitants were undertakers.

It was really laughable to witness the intrigue that took place in the
event of a death. The funeral was generally bespoke, even before
the patient had been given over by the resident physicians: the sick
gentleman’s grocer, his tailor, his shoemaker, the master of the inn
where he had put up on his arrival, the person in whose house he was
expiring, the barber who shaved him when he was no longer able to shave
himself, his butler, who had become tainted with the mania of the
place, and the man over the way, whose wife was a laundress, were all
undertakers in disguise, and sighing for his dissolution. This is a true
sketch of the state of things some years ago, at ----, and, doubtless,
at many other equally celebrated resorts of the afflicted. The various
candidates for “a black job,”--that was the technical term,--frequently
formed a coalition of interests. One of the party was nominated to
bury the deceased, and divide the profits among all. Bribery to the
domestics, in these cases, was carried on to a shocking extent; for the
resident tradesmen of the place, rendered callous by custom, purchased
the votes of every individual who was likely to have any voice in the
election of an undertaker. Humorous mistakes frequently occurred in
the ardour of the pursuit, and in the rivalry existing between the real
gentlemen of the hearse, and those who were constantly on the alert to
obtain a share of their profits. A case occurs to my recollection,
which may, perhaps, be deemed not altogether devoid of interest.

An undertaker, who had received intelligence from one of the numerous
jackals of the place, that the doctors had received their last fee from
the friends of a patient, who lodged at Mr. B.’s house in a certain
crescent, immediately repaired to the scene of action. He knocked at
the door, but the footman (having received a bribe, and very particular
instructions from a rival undertaker, who had purchased the same
intelligence a few moments earlier from a the same identical jackal,
and who was then in the pantry, trying to buy over the butler,) told him
that he had mistaken the number; that his master was perfectly well; and
that, in all probability, the gentleman who was dying, lived at Mr. B.’s
other lodging-house, No. 7, in the same crescent.

“Do you know his name?” inquired the undertaker.

“The Reverend Mr. Morgan,” replied the footman.

“Do you know his servant?”

“Yes; he’s a thick-set man, with a slight cast in his eye.”

“In or out of livery?”

“Out.”

“May I use your name?”

“With all my heart, on your tipping the usual.”

“There’s a crown; it’s all speculation,--neck or nothing; so I can’t
afford more. What’s your name?”

“I am Sir Joseph Morgan’s under-butler.”

“Thank you;--good day:--but stop, allow me to trouble you with a
dozen of my cards; a judicious use of them may pay you: I come down
handsomely, and you may make it worth your while, as well as mine,
should anything occur in your family. Will you do what you can?”

“With pleasure.”

“Much obliged: and,--d’ye hear?--here’s another: if you know of any
house where the ravens roost,--you understand me--stick it in the frame
of the house-keeper’s looking-glass. Good morning!”

The Reverend Mr. Morgan, to whose lodgings the under-butler had referred
the undertaker, was a middle-aged gentleman, lately married, and in
daily expectation of having an heir to his name and the little freehold
which his uncle had devised to him in the county of Brecon. He was just
the sort of man that the under-butler had in his eye, when describing
his servant. As the undertaker approached the door of No. 7, the
reverend gentleman, in his usual neat, but homely dress, made his
appearance. The undertaker, suspecting that he was the servant, accosted
him the moment he had closed the door behind him, and the following
dialogue ensued:--

“Your most obedient, sir.”

“Yours, sir;--I ask pardon, but as I am in a hurry--”

“One moment--”

“Really, sir, if you knew the situation of affairs--”

“I do, sir;--I do, indeed.”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“Well, it’s rather odd. But I cannot stand here gossipping. Mrs.
Morgan--”

“Ah! poor dear creature! but these things will happen, you
know:--transitory life--sublunary world--rad mortality--vale of
tears!--Going for the doctor?”

“No, not just yet; but--”

“Ah! still the event is pretty certain, I believe.”

“Why, yes; I flatter myself it is.”

“Good. Pardon me for being intrusive, my dear friend; but it lies in
your power to do me a favour, I think: will you?”

“Oh! yes,--anything;--provided it costs me nothing.”

“Not a penny:--you’ll be in pocket by it. But, before I explain, allow
me to ask,--have you any interest with, or influence over Mrs. Morgan?
Be candid.”

“Why, sir, I think I ought to have.”

“Oh! I see:--a managed matter;--a candidate for dead men’s shoes,
eh?--Ah! you sly dog!”

“Sly dog!”

“You’ll soon be master, I guess.”

“I hope so; I have been long trying for it.”

“Ha, ha! I know it. Oh! I can see things. But now to business:--the fact
is, I’m a professional man.”

“Oh! are you?”

“Yes,--you understand:--and as soon as any thing occurs, call me in; and
I’ll make matters agreeable to you.”

“But Mrs. Morgan,--she must be consulted: I’m just going to see a
gentleman on this very business.”

“To be sure Mrs. M. must be consulted! Far be it from me to think of
intruding myself without her permission. But you can use your influence.
A word in your ear: I’m empowered to mention the name of Sir Joseph
Morgan’s under-butler. Manage it well, and I’ll tip you a five pound
note.”

“Sir Joseph Morgan’s under-butler! Me? Tip me?”

“Oh, honour! honour among thieves, you know. Ha, ha! Harkye;--the moment
he goes off--”

“Goes off! Who?”

“The parson.--I say, the moment he goes off--”

“Ah!”

“Smuggle me up to his wife.”

“To Mrs. M.? Smuggle you?”

“Oh! these things must be done with decorum, you know.”

“Well, but--”

“Leave me to manage the rest. I flatter myself that my talent and
experience will ensure us the desired success. Act well your part, and
depend upon it I shall be the happy man.”

“The happy man!”

“Ay; see him home, as we say.”

“See who home?”

“Why, M., to be sure.”

“M.?”

“Yes. Really, though, now I look at you, you don’t seem to follow my
ideas exactly.”

“Not with that precision which I could wish.”

“Psha! In plain English, then,--the parson being about to kick the
bucket--”

“Kick the--”

“Ay,--hop the twig,--or pop off the hooks:--pick and choose, I’ve a
variety.”

“And pray, sir, what may his kicking the bucket be to you?”

“Thirty pounds, at least, if his widow’s a trump, and things turn out
kindly.”

“I’m quite in a fog!--Pray, sir, who and what are you?”

“Didn’t I say I was a professional man--an undertaker?”

“Oh! you’re an undertaker, are you?”

“At your service.”

“Thank you. And so you think of seeing M. home, do you?”

“Yes; box him up, as we say;--Ha, ha!”

“And I’m to have five pounds--”

“Exclusive of the usual jollification on the occasion, with the mutes
and mourners; and an additional guinea, if you think proper to officiate
with a black stick and hat-band. Pull your hat over your eyes, hold
a white pocket-handkerchief to your face, and nobody will know
you:--that’s the way to manage. Ha, ha!”

“Very good; very good, indeed. Ha, ha!”

“Ha, ha! But come--what say you to a cheerful glass on this melancholy
occasion? Sorrow is dry, you know;--I’ll be a bottle.”

“You’re very good. And so you’re an undertaker, after all, are you?”

“To be sure I am:--come along.”

“And I’m to smuggle you up to Mrs. M., eh?--Ha, ha!--I must say I admire
your mode of doing business much.”

“Tact, my dear fellow,--tact and decorum; I display no other talents.”

“Your gay manner, too--”

“Yes; ‘we’re the lads for life and joy,’ as the song says. I’m naturally
cheerful; but when I feel pretty sure of my man--as I now do--oddsheart!
I’m as merry as a grig. Take my arm.” The undertaker marched off
in triumph with his supposed prey leaning on his arm, towards a
neighbouring tavern; but whether the reverend gentleman blighted his
hopes by an early explanation, or forgot Mrs. M. for a few moments
longer, and partook of the proffered bottle, “the chronicler cannot
state.”

[Illustration: 444]


     In my little parlour, where,
     Seated in an easy chair,
     At the dull decline of day,
     Oft I doze an hour away;--
     Yester-eve I had a dream,
     Of such seeming misery,
     That, at last, my own loud scream,
     Roused me to reality:
     And, though strange my say may seem,
     Sleep I’d rather never more,
     Than hear again what then I bore.

     Time, methought, was journeying fast:
     Years, like moments, fleetly passed;
     Still on they flowed,--behind,--before,
     Across what seemed a dismal sea,
     To break like billows on the shore
     Of measureless Eternity.
     From all his leaden clogs releas’d,
     Anon, the speed of Time increas’d;
     Till even light could scarcely vie,
     With the speed of a passing century.

     The hills were grey,--the world was old;
     Its hour was come, its sands were told;
     The knell of a million years had rung;
     And I, alone, continued young,
     And, now, the work of woe began,
     Despair through every bosom ran;
     Death stalked abroad in open day,
     And, visibly, attack’d his prey:
     No more by slow disease he work’d,
     Or in the cup of nectar lurk’d;
     No host was now in battle slain,
     No man set up,--a butt for Pain
     To shoot her lingering arrows through;
     No more the earth devour’d a town;
     But Death walk’d openly in view,
     And, with his scythe, mow’d myriads down.
     I clos’d my eyes,--I saw no more,
     Until a voice close to my ear,--
     A voice I ne’er had heard before,
     So dismal that I quail’d with fear,
     And utter’d that wild horrid scream,
     Which rous’d me from my wretched dream!
     Bade me awake, methought, and see
     Him, whose doom it was to be,
     The last of human kind!
     An awful form before me stood,
     Whose aspect boded aught but good:
     His looks were grim, his locks were grey;
     He seem’d like one near life’s last goal;
     And thrice, methought, I heard him say,
     That he came to cast my soul!

     My sight grew dim, I gasped for breath;--
     (For who can brave a sudden death?)--
     A moment’s fearful pause ensued,
     Then he,--the object of my dread,--
     Address’d me thus in accents rude;
     I listened, less alive than dead.
     “I’ve said it once, I’ve said it twice,
     I’ve raised my voice, and said it thrice:
     My time is short,--I’ve much to do;--
     I’ve lately lost my brother;--
     I cannot wait all night on you,
     For I must cast another.
     To make your boot fit well, a tree
     You’ve ordered, as I’m told;
     And, once again, I say, in me,
     The _last_-man you behold.”

[Illustration: 447]





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