Part 12

On the morrow, which happened to be the Dame’s birthday, the Farmer was the first to wake, and _knowing what he knew_, and having besides but just roused himself out of a dream strictly confirmatory of the late vigil, he did not scruple to salute his wife, and wish her many happy returns of the day. The wife, _who knew as much as he_, very readily wished him the same, having in truth but just rubbed out of her eyes the pattern of a widow’s bonnet that had been submitted to her in her sleep. She took care, however, to give the fowl’s liver at dinner to the doomed man, considering that when he was dead and gone, she could have them, if she pleased, seven days in the week; and the Farmer, on his part, took care to help her to many tid-bits. Their feeling towards each other was that of an impatient host with regard to an unwelcome guest, showing scarcely a bare civility while in expectation of his stay, but overloading him with hospitality when made certain of his departure.

In this manner they went on for some six months, and though without any addition of love between them, and as much selfishness as ever, yet living in a subservience to the comforts and inclinations of each other, sometimes not to be found even amongst couples of sincerer affections. There were as many causes for quarrel as ever, but every day it became less worth while to quarrel; so letting by-gones be by-gones, they were indifferent to the present, and thought only of the future, considering each other (to adopt a common phrase) “as _good_ as dead.”

Ten months wore away, and the Farmer’s birthday arrived in its turn. The Dame, who had passed an uncomfortable night, having dreamt, in truth, that she did not much like herself in mourning, saluted him as soon as the day dawned, and with a sigh wished him many years to come. The Farmer repaid her in kind, the sigh included; his own visions having been of the painful sort for he had dreamt of having a headache from wearing a black hatband, and the malady still clung to him when awake. The whole morning was spent in silent meditation and melancholy on both sides, and when dinner came, although the most favourite dishes were upon the table, they could not eat. The Farmer, resting his elbows upon the board, with his face between his hands, gazed wistfully on his wife,--scooping her eyes, as it were, out of their sockets, stripping the flesh off her cheeks, and in fancy converting her whole head into a mere Caput Mortuum. The Dame, leaning back in her high arm-chair, regarded the Yeoman quite as ruefully,--by the same process of imagination picking his sturdy bones, and bleaching his ruddy visage to the complexion of a plaster cast. Their minds travelling in the same direction, and at an equal rate, arrived together at the same reflection; but the Farmer was the first to give it utterance:

“Thee’d be missed, Dame, if thee were to die!”

The Dame started. Although she had nothing but Death at that moment before her eyes, she was far from dreaming of her own exit, and at this rebound of her thoughts against herself, she felt as if an extra cold coffin-plate had been suddenly nailed on her chest; recovering, however, from the first shock, her thoughts flowed into their old channel, and she retorted in the same spirit.--“I wish, Master, thee may live so long as I!”

The Farmer, in his own mind, wished to live rather longer; for, at the utmost, he considered that his wife’s bill of mortality had but two months to run. The calculation made him sorrowful; during the last few months she had consulted his appetite, bent to his humour, and dove-tailed her own inclinations into his, in a manner that could never be supplied; and he thought of her, if not in the language, at least in the spirit of the Lady in Lalla Rookh--

“I never taught a bright Gazelle To watch me with its dark black eye, But when it came to know me well, And love me, it was sure to die!”

His wife, from being at first useful to him, had become agreeable, and at last dear; and as he contemplated her approaching fate, he could not help thinking out audibly, “that he should be a lonesome man when she was gone.” The Dame, this time, heard the survivorship foreboded without starting; but she marveled much at what she thought the infatuation of a doomed man. So perfect was her faith in the infallibility of St. Mark, that she had even seen the symptoms of mortal disease, as palpable as plague spots, on the devoted Yeoman. Giving his body up, therefore, for lost, a strong sense of duty persuaded her, that it was imperative on her, as a Christian, to warn the unsuspecting Farmer of his dissolution. Accordingly, with a solemnity adapted to the subject, a tenderness of recent growth, and a Memento Mori face, she broached the matter in the following question--“Master, how bee’st?”

“As hearty, Dame, as a buck,”--the Dame shook her head,--“and I wish thee the like,”--at which he shook his head himself.

A dead silence ensued: the Farmer was as unprepared as ever. There is a great fancy for breaking the truth by dropping it gently,--an experiment which has never answered any more than with Ironstone China. The Dame felt this, and thinking it better to throw the news at her husband at once, she told him in as many words, that he was a dead man.

It was now the Yeoman’s turn to be staggered. By a parallel course of reasoning, he had just wrought himself up to a similar disclosure, and the Dame’s death-warrant was just ready upon his tongue, when he met with his own despatch, signed, sealed and delivered. Conscience instantly pointed out the oracle from which she had derived the omen, and he turned as pale as “the pale of society”--the colourless complexion of late hours.

St. Martin had numbered his years; and the remainder days seemed discounted by St. Thomas. Like a criminal cast to die, he doubted if the die was cast, and appealed to his wife:--

“Thee hast watched, Dame, at the church porch, then?”

“Ay, Master.”

“And thee didst see me spirituously?”

“In the brown wrap, with the boot hose. Thee were coming to the church, by Fairthorn Gap; in the while I were coming by the Holly Hedge”--For a minute the Farmer paused--but the next, he burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter; peal after peal--and each higher than the last,--according to the hysterical gamut of the hyæna. The poor woman had but one explanation for this phenomenon--she thought it a delirium--a lightening before death, and was beginning to wring her hands, and lament, when she was checked by the merry Yeoman:--

“Dame, thee bee’st a fool. It was I myself thee seed at the church porch. I seed thee too,--with a notice to quit upon thy face--but, thanks to God, thee bee’st a-living, and that is more than I cared to say of thee this day ten-month!”

The Dame made no answer. Her heart was too full to speak, but throwing her arms round her husband, she showed that she shared in his sentiment. And from that hour, by practising a careful abstinence from offence, or a temperate sufferance of its appearance, they became the most united couple in the county,--but it must be said, that their comfort was not complete till they had seen each other, in safety, over the perilous anniversary of St. Mark’s Eve.

I’M NOT A SINGLE MAN.

“Double, single, and the rub.”--HOYLE.

“This, this is Solitude.”--BYRON.

I.

Well, I confess, I did not guess A simple marriage vow Would make me find all womenkind Such unkind women now! They need not, sure, as _distant_ be As Java or Japan,-- Yet every Miss reminds me this-- I’m not a single man!

II.

Once they made choice of my bass voice To share in each duett; So well I danced, I somehow chanced To stand in every set: They now declare I cannot sing, And dance on Bruin’s plan; Me draw!--me paint!--me anything!-- I’m not a single man!

III.

Once I was asked advice, and tasked What works to buy or not, And “would I read that passage out I so admired in Scott?” They then could bear to hear one read; But if I now began, How they would snub “My pretty page!” I’m not a single man!

IV.

One used to stitch a collar then, Another hemmed a frill; I had more purses netted then Than I could hope to fill. I once could get a button on, But now I never can-- My buttons then were Bachelor’s,-- I’m not a single man!

V.

Oh how they hated politics Thrust on me by papa: But now my chat--they all leave that To entertain mamma. Mamma, who praises her own self, Instead of Jane or Ann, And lays “her girls” upon the shelf-- I’m not a single man!

VI.

Ah me, how strange it is the change, In parlour and in hall! They treat me so, if I but go To make a morning call. If they had hair in papers once, Bolt up the stairs they ran; They now sit still in dishabille-- I’m not a single man!

VII.

Miss Mary Bond was once so fond Of Romans and of Greeks, She daily sought my cabinet, To study my antiques. Well, now she doesn’t care a dump For ancient pot or pan, Her taste at once is modernised-- I’m not a single man!

VIII.

My spouse is fond of homely life, And all that sort of thing; I go to balls without my wife, And never wear a ring: And yet each Miss to whom I come, As strange as Genghis Khan, Knows by some sign, I can’t divine,-- I’m not a single man!

IX.

Go where I will, I but intrude; I’m left in crowded rooms, Like Zimmerman on Solitude, Or Hervey at his Tombs. From head to heel, they make me feel Of quite another clan; Compelled to own, though left alone, I’m not a single man!

X.

Miss Towne the toast, though she can boast A nose of Roman line, Will turn up even that in scorn Of compliments of mine: She should have seen that I have been Her sex’s partisan, And really married all I could-- I’m not a single man!

XI.

’Tis hard to see how others fare, Whilst I rejected stand,-- Will no one take my arm because They cannot have my hand? Miss Parry, that for some would go A trip to Hindostan, With me don’t care to mount a stair-- I’m not a single man!

XII.

Some change, of course, should be in force, But, surely, not so much-- There may be hands I may not squeeze, But must I never touch?-- Must I forbear to hand a chair And not pick up a fan? But I have been myself picked up-- I’m not a single man!

XIII.

Others may hint a lady’s tint Is purest red and white-- May say her eyes are like the skies, So very blue and bright,-- _I_ must not say that she _has eyes_; Or, if I so began, I have my fears about my ears,-- I’m not a single man!

XIV.

I must confess I did not guess A simple marriage vow, Would make me find all womenkind Such unkind women now;-- I might be hashed to death, or smashed By Mr. Pickford’s van, Without, I fear, a single tear. I’m not a single man!

A GREENWICH PENSIONER

Is a sort of stranded marine animal, that the receding tide of life has left high and dry on the shore. He pines for his element like a Sea Bear, and misses his briny washings and wettings. What the ocean could not do, the land does, for it makes him sick: he cannot digest properly unless his body is rolled and tumbled about like a barrel-churn. Terra firma is good enough he thinks to touch at for wood and water, but nothing more. There is no wind, he swears, ashore--every day of his life is a dead calm,--a thing above all others he detests--he would like it better for an occasional earthquake. Walk he cannot, the ground being so still and steady that he is puzzled to keep his legs; and ride he will not, for he disdains a craft whose rudder is forward and not astern.

Inland scenery is his especial aversion. He despises a tree “before the mast,” and would give all the singing birds of Creation for a Boatswain’s whistle. He hates prospects, but enjoys retrospects. An old boat, a stray anchor, or decayed mooring ring, will set him dreaming for hours. He splices sea and land ideas together. He reads of “shooting off a tie at Battersea,” and it reminds him of a ball carrying away his own pigtail. “Canvassing for a situation,” recalls running with all sails set for a station at Aboukir. He has the advantage of our Economists as to the “Standard of Value,” knowing it to be the British ensign. The announcement of “an arrival of foreign vessels, with our ports open,” claps him into a Paradise of prize money, with Poll of the _Pint_. He wonders sometimes at “petitions to be discharged from the Fleet,” but sympathises with those in the Marshalsea Court, as subject to a Sea Court Martial. Finally, try him even in the learned languages, by asking him for the meaning of “Georgius Rex,” and he will answer, without hesitation, “The wrecks of the Royal George.”

THE BURNING OF THE LOVE LETTER.

“Sometimes they were put to the proof, by what was called the Fiery Ordeal.”--HIST. ENG.

No morning ever seemed so long!-- I tried to read with all my might: In my left hand “My Landlord’s Tales,” And threepence ready in my right.

’Twas twelve at last--my heart beat high!-- The Postman rattled at the door!-- And just upon her road to church, I dropt the “Bride of Lammermoor!”

I seized the note--I flew up stairs-- Flung-to the door, and locked me in-- With panting haste I tore the seal-- And kissed the B in Benjamin!

’Twas full of love--to rhyme with dove-- And all that tender sort of thing-- Of sweet and meet--and heart and dart-- But not a word about a ring!

In doubt I cast it in the flame, And stood to watch the latest spark-- And saw the love all end in smoke-- Without a Parson and a Clerk!

SKETCHES ON THE ROAD.

THE DILEMMA

“Read! it’s very easy to say read.”--THE BURGOMASTER.

“I have trusted to a reed.”--OLD PROVERB.

“Hoy!--Cotch!--Co-ach!--Coachy!--Coachee--hullo!--holloo!--woh!--wo-hoay!--wough-hoaeiouy!”--for the last cry was a waterman’s, and went all through the vowels.

The Portsmouth Rocket pulled up, and a middle-aged, domestic-looking woman, just handsome enough for a plain cook at an ordinary, was deposited on the dicky; two trunks, three bandboxes, a bundle, and a hand-basket, were stowed in the hind boot. “This is where I’m to go to,” she said to the guard, putting into his hand a slip of paper. The guard took the paper, looked hard at it, right side upwards, then upside down, and then he looked at the back; he in the mean time seemed to examine the consistency of the fabric between his finger and thumb; he approached it to his nose as if to smell out its meaning; I even thought that he was going to try the sense of it by tasting, when by a sudden jerk, he gave the label with its direction to the winds, and snatching up his key-bugle began to play “Oh where, and oh where,” with all his breath.

I defy the metaphysicians to explain by what vehicle I travelled to the conclusion that the guard could not read, but I felt as morally sure of it as if I had examined him in his a--b--ab. It was a prejudice not very liberal; but yet it clung to me, and fancy persisted in sticking a dunce’s cap on his head. Shakspeare says that “he who runs may read,” and I had seen him run a good shilling’s worth after an umbrella that dropped from the coach; it was a presumptuous opinion therefore to form, but I formed it notwithstanding--that he was a perfect stranger to all those booking-offices where the clerks are schoolmasters. Morally speaking, I had no earthly right to clap an ideal Saracen’s Head on his shoulders; but, for the life of me, I could not persuade myself that he had more to do with literature than the Blue Boar.

Women are naturally communicative: after a little while the female in the dicky brought up, as a military man would say, her reserve, and entered into recitative with the guard during the pauses of the key-bugle. She informed him in the course of conversation, or rather dicky gossip, that she was an invaluable servant, and, as such, had been bequeathed by a deceased master to the care of one of his relatives at Putney, to exert her vigilance as a housekeeper, and to overlook everything for fifty pounds a year. “Such places,” she remarked, “is not to be found every day in the year.”

The last sentence was prophetic!

“If it’s Putney,” said the guard, “it’s the very place we’re going through. Hold hard, Tom, the young woman wants to get down.” Tom immediately pulled up; the young woman did get down, and her two trunks, three bandboxes, her bundle, and her hand-basket, were ranged round her. “I’ve had a very pleasant ride,” she said, giving the fare with a smirk and a courtesy to the coachman, “and am very much obliged,”--dropping a second courtesy to the guard,--“for other civilities. The boxes and things is quite correct, and won’t give further trouble, Mr. Guard, except to be as good as pint out the house I’m going to.” The guard thus appealed to, for a moment stood all aghast; but at last his wits came to his aid, and he gave the following lesson in geography.

“You’re all right--ourn a’n’t a short stage, and can’t go round setting people down at their own doors; but you’re safe enough at Putney--don’t be alarmed, my dear--you can’t go out of it. It’s all Putney, from the bridge we’ve just come over, to that windmill you almost can’t see t’other side of the common.”

“But, Mr. Guard, I’ve never been in Putney before, and it seems a scrambling sort of a place. If the coach can’t go round with me to the house, can’t you stretch a pint and set me down in sight of it?”

“It’s impossible--that’s the sum total; this coach is timed to a minute, and can’t do more for outsides if they was all kings of England.”

“I see how it is,” said the female, bridling up, while the coachman, out of patience, prepared to do quite the reverse; “some people are very civil, while some people are setting beside ’em in dickies; but give me the paper again, and I’ll find my own ways.”

“It’s chucked away,” said the guard as the coach got into motion; “but just ask the first man you meet--anybody will tell you.”

“But I don’t know who or where to ask for,” screamed the lost woman after the flying Rocket; “I can’t read; but it was all down in the paper as is chucked away.”

A loud flourish of the bugle to the tune of “My Lodging is on the Cold Ground” was the only reply: and as long as the road remained straight, I could see “the Bewildered Maid” standing in the midst of her baggage, as forlorn as Eve, when, according to Milton,

“The world was all before her, where to choose Her _place_--”

THE APPARITION.

In the dead of the night, when from beds that are turfy, The spirits rise up on old cronies to call, Came a shade from the shades on a visit to Murphy, Who had not foreseen such a visit at all.

“Don’t shiver and shake,” said the mild Apparition, “I’m come to your bed with no evil design; I’m the Spirit of Moore, Francis Moore the Physician, Once great like yourself in the Almanack line.”

Like you I was once a great prophet on weather, And deemed to possess a more prescient knack Than dogs, frogs, pigs, cattle, or cats, all together, The donkeys that bray, and the dillies that quack.

With joy, then, as ashes retain former passion, I saw my old mantle lugg’d out from the shelf, Turn’d, trimmed, and brushed up, and again brought in fashion, I seem’d to be almost reviving myself!

But, oh! from my joys there was soon a sad cantle-- As too many cooks make a mull of the broth-- To find that two Prophets were under my mantle, And pulling two ways at the risk of the cloth.

Unless you would meet with an awkwardish tumble, Oh! join like the Siamese twins in your jumps; Just fancy if Faith on her Prophets should stumble, The one in his clogs, and the other in pumps!

But think how the people would worship and wonder, To find you “hail fellows, well met,” in your hail, In one tune with your rain, and your wind and your thunder, “’Fore God,” they would cry, “they are both in a tale!” Consider the hint.

THE DISCOVERY.

“It’s a nasty evening,” said Mr. Dornton, the stockbroker, as he settled himself in the last inside place of the last Fulham coach, driven by our old friend Mat--an especial friend in need, be it remembered, to the fair sex.

“I wouldn’t be outside,” said Mr. Jones, another stockbroker, “for a trifle.”

“Nor I, as a speculation in options,” said Mr. Parsons, another frequenter of the Alley.

“I wonder what Mat is waiting for,” said Mr. Tidwell, “for we are full inside and out.”

Mr. Tidwell’s doubt was soon solved,--the coach-door opened and Mat somewhat ostentatiously enquired, what indeed he very well knew--“I believe every place is took up inside?”

“We’re all here,” answered Mr. Jones, on behalf of the usual complement of old stagers.

“I told you so, Ma’am,” said Mat, to a female who stood beside him, but still leaving the door open to an invitation from within. However, nobody spoke--on the contrary, I felt Mr. Hindmarsh, my next neighbour, dilating himself like the frog in the fable.

“I don’t know what I shall do,” exclaimed the woman; “I’ve nowhere to go to, and it’s raining cats and dogs!”

“You’d better not hang about, anyhow,” said Mat, “for you may ketch your death,--and I’m the last coach,--aint I, Mr. Jones?”

“To be sure you are,” said Mr. Jones, rather impatiently; “shut the door.”

“I told the lady the gentlemen couldn’t make room for her,” answered Mat, in a tone of apology,--“I’m very sorry, my dear” (turning towards the female), “you should have _my_ seat, if you could hold the ribbons--but such a pretty one as you ought to have a coach of her own.”

He began slowly closing the door.

“Stop, Mat, stop!” cried Mr. Dornton, and the door quickly unclosed again; “I can’t give up my place for I’m expected home to dinner; but if the lady wouldn’t object to sit on my knees----”

“Not the least in the world,” answered Mat, eagerly; “you won’t object, will you, Ma’am, for once in a way, with a married gentleman, and a wet night, and the last coach on the road?”

“If I thought I shouldn’t uncommode,” said the lady, precipitately furling her wet umbrella, which she handed in to one gentleman, whilst she favoured another with her muddy pattens. She then followed herself, Mat shutting the door behind her, in such a manner as to help her in. “I’m sure I’m obliged for the favour,” she said, looking round; “but which gentleman was so kind?”

“It was I who had the pleasure of proposing, Madam,” said Mr. Dornton; and before he pronounced the last word she was in his lap, with an assurance that she would sit as lightsome as she could. Both parties seemed very well pleased with the arrangement; but to judge according to the rules of Lavater, the rest of the company were but ill at ease. For my own part, I candidly confess I was equally out of humour with myself and the person who had set me such an example of gallantry. I, who had read the lays of the Troubadours--the awards of the old “Courts of Love,”--the lives of the “preux Chevaliers”--the history of Sir Charles Grandison--to be outdone in courtesy to the sex by a married stockbroker! How I grudged him the honour she conferred upon him--how I envied his feelings!