Chapter 14

_Lady Teaz._ Oh, yes! I remember it very well, and a curious life I led. My daily occupation--to inspect the dairy, superintend the poultry, make extracts from the family receipt-book, and comb my aunt Deborah's lap-dog.

_Sir Pet._ Yes, yes, ma'am, 'twas so indeed.

_Lady Teaz._ And then you know my evening amusements! To draw patterns for ruffles, which I had not materials to make up; to play Pope Joan with the curate; to read a sermon to my aunt; or to be stuck down to an old spinet to strum my father to sleep after a fox-chase.

_Sir Pet._ I am glad you have so good a memory. Yes, madam, these were the recreations I took you from; but now you must have your coach--_vis-a-vis_--and three powdered footmen before your chair; and, in the summer, a pair of white cats to draw you to Kensington Gardens. No recollection, I suppose, when you were content to ride double, behind the butler, on a docked coach-horse.

_Lady Teaz._ No--I vow I never did that: I deny the butler and the coach-horse.

_Sir Pet._ This, madam, was your situation; and what have I done for you? I have made you a woman of fashion, of fortune, of rank--in short, I have made you my wife.

_Lady Teaz._ Well, then, and there is but one thing more you can make me to add to the obligation, that is----

_Sir Pet._ My widow, I suppose?

_Lady Teaz._ Hem! hem!

_Sir Pet._ I thank you, madam--but don't flatter yourself; for, though your ill conduct may disturb my peace of mind, it shall never break my heart, I promise you: however, I am equally obliged to you for the hint.

_Lady Teaz._ Then why will you endeavor to make yourself so disagreeable to me, and thwart me in every little elegant expense?

_Sir Pet._ Madam, I say, had you any of these little elegant expenses when you married me?

_Lady Teaz._ Sir Peter! would you have me be out of the fashion?

_Sir Pet._ The fashion, indeed! what had you to do with the fashion before you married me?

_Lady Teaz._ For my part, I should think you would like to have your wife thought a woman of taste.

_Sir Pet._ Ay--there again--taste! Zounds! madam, you had no taste when you married me!

_Lady Teaz._ That's very true, indeed, Sir Peter! and after having married you, I should never pretend to taste again, I allow. But now, Sir Peter, since we have finished our daily jangle, I presume I may go to my engagement at Lady Sneerwell's.

_Sir Pet._ Ay, there's another precious circumstance--a charming set of acquaintances you have made there!

_Lady Teaz._ Nay, Sir Peter, they are all people of rank and fortune, and remarkably tenacious of reputation.

_Sir Pet._ Yes, they are tenacious of reputation with a vengeance; for they don't choose anybody should have a character but themselves! Such a crew! Ah! many a wretch has rid on a hurdle who has done less mischief than these utterers of forged tales; coiners of scandal, and clippers of reputation.

_Lady Teaz._ What, would you restrain the freedom of speech?

_Sir Pet._ Ah! they have made you just as bad as any one of the society.

_Lady Teaz._ Why, I believe I do bear a part with a tolerable grace.

_Sir Pet._ Grace, indeed!

_Lady Teaz._ But I vow I bear no malice against the people I abuse; when I say an ill-natured thing, 'tis out of pure good humor; and I take it for granted they deal exactly in the same manner with me. But, Sir Peter, you know you promised to come to Lady Sneerwell's too.

_Sir Pet._ Well, well, I'll call in, just to look after my own character.

_Lady Teaz._ Then, indeed, you must make haste after me, or you'll be too late. So good-bye to ye. [_Exit._

_Sir Pet._ So--I have gained much by my intended expostulation! Yet with what a charming air she contradicts everything I say; and how pleasantly she shows her contempt for my authority! Well, though I can't make her love me; there is great satisfaction in quarrelling with her; and I think she never appears to such advantage as when she is doing everything in her power to plague me. [_Exit_.

SCENE.--_A room in_ LADY SNEERWELL'S _House._

LADY SNEERWELL, MRS. CANDOUR, CRABTREE, SIR BENJAMIN BACKBITE, _and_ JOSEPH SURFACE, _discovered_.

_Enter_ LADY TEAZLE _and_ MARIA.

_Lady Sneer._ Lady Teazle, I hope we shall see Sir Peter?

_Lady Teaz._ I believe he'll wait on your ladyship presently.

_Lady Sneer._ Maria, my love, you look grave. Come, you shall sit down to piquet with Mr. Surface.

_Mar._ I take very little pleasure in cards--however, I'll do as your ladyship pleases.

_Mrs. Can._ Now I'll die; but you are so scandalous, I'll forswear your society.

_Lady Teaz._ What's the matter, Mrs. Candour?

_Mrs. Can._ They'll not allow our friend Miss Vermillion to be handsome.

_Lady Sneer._ Oh, surely she is a pretty woman.

_Crab._ I am very glad you think so, ma'am.

_Mrs. Can._ She has a charming fresh color.

_Lady Teaz._ Yes, when it is fresh put on.

_Mrs. Can._ Oh, fie! Her color is natural: I have seen it come and go!

_Lady Teaz._ I dare say you have, ma'am: it goes off at night, and comes again in the morning.

_Sir Ben._ True, ma'am, it not only comes and goes; but, what's more, her maid can fetch and carry it!

_Mrs. Can._ Ha! ha! ha! how I hate to hear you talk so! But surely now, her sister is, or was, very handsome.

_Crab._ Who? Mrs. Evergreen? Oh! she's six-and-fifty if she's an hour!

_Mrs. Can._ Now positively you wrong her; fifty-two or fifty-three is the utmost--and I don't think she looks more.

_Sir Ben._ Ah! there's no judging by her looks, unless one could see her face.

_Lady Sneer._ Well, well, if Mrs. Evergreen does take some pains to repair the ravages of time, you must allow she effects it with great ingenuity; and surely that's better than the careless manner in which the widow Ochre caulks her wrinkles.

_Sir Ben._ Nay, now, Lady Sneerwell, you are severe upon the widow. Come, come, 'tis not that she paints so ill--but, when she has finished her face, she joins it on so badly to her neck, that she looks like a mended statue, in which the connoisseur may see at once that the head is modern, though the trunk's antique.

_Crab._ Ha! ha! ha! Well said, nephew!

_Mrs. Can._ Ha! ha! ha! Well, you make me laugh; but I vow I hate you for it. What do you think of Miss Simper?

_Sir Ben._ Why, she has very pretty teeth.

_Lady Teaz._ Yes, and on that account, when she is neither speaking nor laughing (which very seldom happens), she never absolutely shuts her mouth, but leaves it always on a-jar, as it were--thus.

[_Shows her teeth._

_Mrs. Can._ How can you be so ill-natured?

_Lady Teaz._ Nay, I allow even that's better than the pains Mrs. Prim takes to conceal her losses in front. She draws her mouth till it positively resembles the aperture of a poor's-box, and all her words appear to slide out edgewise as it were--thus: _How do you do, madam? Yes, madam._ [_Mimics._

_Lady Sneer._ Very well, Lady Teazle; I see you can be a little severe.

_Lady Teaz._ In defence of a friend it is but justice. But here comes Sir Peter to spoil our pleasantry.

_Enter_ SIR PETER TEAZLE.

_Sir Pet._ Ladies, your most obedient.--[_Aside,_] Mercy on me, here is the whole set! a character dead at every word, I suppose.

_Mrs. Can._ I am rejoiced you are come, Sir Peter. They have been so censorious--and Lady Teazle as bad as any one.

_Sir Pet._ That must be very distressing to you, indeed, Mrs. Candour.

_Mrs. Can._ Oh, they will allow good qualities to nobody: not even good nature to our friend Mrs. Pursy.

_Lady Teaz._ What, the fat dowager who was at Mrs. Quadrille's last night?

_Mrs. Can._ Nay, her bulk is her misfortune; and, when she takes so much pains to get rid of it, you ought not to reflect on her.

_Lady Sneer._ That's very true, indeed.

_Lady Teaz._ Yes, I know she almost lives on acids and small whey; laces herself by pulleys; and often, in the hottest noon in summer, you may see her on a little squat pony, with her hair plaited up behind like a drummer's, and puffing round the ring on a full trot.

_Mrs. Can._ I thank you, Lady Teazle, for defending her.

_Sir Pet._ Yes, a good defence, truly.

_Mrs. Can._ Truly, Lady Teazle is as censorious as Miss Sallow.

_Crab._ Yes, and she is a curious being to pretend to be censorious--an awkward thing, without any one good point under the sun.

_Mrs. Can._ Positively you shall not be so very severe. Miss Sallow is a near relation of mine by marriage, and, as for her person, great allowance is to be made; for, let me tell you, a woman labors under many disadvantages who tries to pass for a girl of six-and-thirty.

_Lady Sneer._ Though, surely, she is handsome still--and for the weakness in her eyes, considering how much she reads by candlelight, it is not to be wondered at.

_Mrs. Can._ True, and then as to her manner; upon my word I think it is particularly graceful, considering she never had the least education; for you know her mother was a Welsh milliner, and her father a sugar-baker at Bristol.

_Sir Ben._ Ah! you are both of you too good-natured!

_Sir Pet._ Yes, distressingly good-natured! This their own relation! Mercy on me! [_Aside._

_Mrs. Can._ For my part, I own I cannot bear to hear a friend ill-spoken of.

_Sir Pet._ No, to be sure!

_Sir Ben._ Oh! you are of a moral turn. Mrs. Candour and I can sit for an hour and hear Lady Stucco talk sentiment.

_Lady Teas._ Nay, I vow Lady Stucco is very well with the dessert after dinner; for she's just like the French fruit one cracks for mottoes--made up of paint and proverb.

_Mrs. Can._ Well, I will never join in ridiculing a friend; and so I constantly tell my cousin Ogle, and you all know what pretensions she has to be critical on beauty.

_Crab._ Oh, to be sure! she has herself the oddest countenance that ever was seen; 'tis a collection of features from all the different countries of the globe.

_Sir Ben._ So she has, indeed--an Irish front----

_Crab._ Caledonian locks----

_Sir Ben._ Dutch nose----

_Crab._ Austrian lips----

_Sir Ben._ Complexion of a Spaniard----

_Crab._ And teeth _a la Chinoise_.

_Sir Ben._ In short, her face resembles a _table d'hote_ at Spa--where no two guests are of a nation----

_Crab._ Or a congress at the close of a general war--wherein all the members, even to her eyes, appear to have a different interest, and her nose and chin are the only parties likely to join issue.

_Mrs. Can._ Ha! ha! ha!

_Sir Pet._ Mercy on my life!--a person they dine with twice a week! [_Aside._

_Mrs. Can._ Nay, but I vow you shall not carry the laugh off so--for give me leave to say that Mrs. Ogle----

_Sir Pet._ Madam, madam, I beg your pardon--there's no stopping these good gentlemen's tongues. But when I tell you, Mrs. Candour, that the lady they are abusing is a particular friend of mine, I hope you'll not take her part.

_Lady Sneer._ Ha! ha! ha! well said, Sir Peter! but you are a cruel creature--too phlegmatic yourself for a jest, and too peevish to allow wit in others.

_Sir Pet._ Ah, madam, true wit is more nearly allied to good nature than your ladyship is aware of.

_Lady Teas._ True, Sir Peter; I believe they are so near akin that they can never be united.

_Sir Ben._ Or rather, suppose them man and wife, because one seldom sees them together.

_Lady Teaz._ But Sir Peter is such an enemy to scandal, I believe he would have it put down by parliament.

_Sir Pet._ Positively, madam, if they were to consider the sporting with reputation of as much importance as poaching on manors, and pass an act for the preservation of fame, as well as game, I believe many would thank them for the bill.

_Lady Sneer._ Why! Sir Peter; would you deprive us of our privileges?

_Sir Pet._ Ay, madam; and then no person should be permitted to kill characters and run down reputations but qualified old maids and disappointed widows.

_Lady Sneer._ Go, you monster!

_Mrs. Can._ But, surely, you would not be quite so severe on those who only report what they hear?

_Sir Pet._ Yes, madam, I would have law merchant for them too; and in all cases of slander currency, whenever the drawer of the lie was not to be found, the injured parties should have a right to come on any of the indorsers.

_Crab._ Well, for my part, I believe there never was a scandalous tale without some foundation.

_Lady Sneer._ Come, ladies, shall we sit down to cards in the next room?

_Enter_ Servant, _who whispers_ Sir Peter.

_Sir Pet._ I'll be with them directly.--[_Exit_ SERVANT.] I'll get away unperceived. [_Aside._

_Lady Sneer._ Sir Peter, you are not going to leave us?

_Sir Pet._ Your ladyship must excuse me; I'm called away by particular business. But I leave my character behind me. [_Exit._

_Sir Ben._ Well--certainly, Lady Teazle, that lord of yours is a strange being: I could tell you some stories of him would make you laugh heartily if he were not your husband.

_Lady Teaz._ Oh, pray, don't mind that; come, do let's hear them. [_Exeunt all but_ JOSEPH SURFACE _and_ MARIA.

_Jos. Surf._ Maria, I see you have no satisfaction in this society.

_Mar._ How is it possible I should? If to raise malicious smiles at the infirmities or misfortunes of those who have never injured us be the province of wit or humor, Heaven grant me a double portion of dulness!

_Jos. Surf._ Yet they appear more ill-natured than they are; they have no malice at heart.

_Mar._ Then is their conduct still more contemptible; for, in my opinion, nothing could excuse the intemperance of their tongues but a natural and uncontrollable bitterness of mind.

FOOTNOTES:

[G] For the sake of brevity a part of the first scene has been excised. It subsequently appears that Lady Teazle abandons the society of the scandal-mongers, and she and her fond but somewhat irascible husband become happily reconciled.

* * * * *

_Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us To see oursel's as others see us! It wad frae monie a blunder free us And foolish notion: What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, And e'en devotion!_

ROBERT BURNS.

XXVIII. THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.[H]

ROBERT BURNS.--1759-1796.

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.

GRAY.

My lov'd, my honor'd, much respected friend! No mercenary bard his homage pays; With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end,-- My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise: To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; What Aiken in a cottage would have been; Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween.

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;[1] The short'ning winter-day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose: The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes-- This night his weekly moil is at an end,-- Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn[2] in ease and rest to spend, And, weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.

At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; The expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher[3] through, To meet their dad, wi' flichterin[4] noise an' glee. His wee bit ingle,[5] blinkin bonnily, His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, An' makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil.

Belyve,[6] the elder bairns come drapping in, At service out, amang the farmers roun'; Some ca'[7] the pleugh, some herd, some tentie[8] rin A canny[9] errand to a neebor town: Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw[10] new gown, Or deposite[11] her sair-won[12] penny-fee,[13] To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

Wi' joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet And each for other's welfare kindly spiers:[14] The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnoticed fleet; Each tells the uncos[15] that he sees or hears; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; Anticipation forward points the view. The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears, Gars[16] auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.

Their master's an' their mistress's command The younkers a' are warned to obey; An' mind their labors wi' an eydent[17] hand, An' ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk[18] or play: "An' oh! be sure to fear the Lord alway, An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night! Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, Implore His counsel and assisting might: They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!"

But, hark! a rap comes gently to the door; Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, an' flush her cheek; Wi' heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name, While Jenny hafflins[19] is afraid to speak; Weel pleas'd the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake.

Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben;[20] A strappan youth; he taks the mother's eye; Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en; The father cracks[21] of horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, But, blate[22] an' laithfu',[23] scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave; Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave.[24]

O happy love! where love like this is found! O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare! I've paced much this weary, mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare-- "If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale."

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart-- A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth! That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? Curse on his perjur'd arts! dissembling smooth! Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exil'd? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild!

But now the supper crowns their simple board, The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia's food The soupe[25] their only hawkie[26] does afford, That 'yont the hallan[27] snugly chows her cood; The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd[28] kebbuck,[29] fell,[30] An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid: The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell How 'twas a towmond[31] auld, sin' lint was i' the bell.[32]

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, The big ha'-Bible,[33] ance his father's pride: His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, His lyart[34] haffets[35] wearing thin an' bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales[36] a portion with judicious care; And "Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn air.

They chant their artless notes in simple guise; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim: Perhaps "Dundee's" wild warbling measures rise, Or plaintive "Martyrs," worthy of the name; Or noble "Elgin" beets[37] the heavenward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays: Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame; The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.

The priest-like father reads the sacred page-- How Abram was the friend of God on high; Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme-- How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; How He, who bore in Heaven the second name, Had not on earth whereon to lay His head; How His first followers and servants sped; The precepts sage they wrote to many a land; How he, who lone in Patmos banished, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand; And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command.

Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband prays: Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing," That thus they all shall meet in future days: There ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear; Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear; While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, In all the pomp of method, and of art, When men display to congregations wide Devotion's every grace, except the heart! The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But, haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul; And in His book of life the inmates poor enroll.

Then homeward all take off their several way: The youngling cottagers retire to rest; The parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request That He, who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, For them, and for their little ones provide; But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings; "An honest man's the noblest work of God;" And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind; What is a lordling's pomp?--a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd!

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! And, oh! may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle.

O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted heart; Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) O never, never, Scotia's realm desert; But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard.

FOOTNOTES:

[H] Inscribed to R. Aiken, Esq.

[1] Moan.

[2] Morrow.

[3] Stagger.

[4] Fluttering.

[5] Fire-place.

[6] Presently.

[7] Drive, _i.e._, with shouting or calling.

[8] Attentive.

[9] Requiring judgment.

[10] Brave, fine, handsome.