The Indian weed, unknown to ancient times,
Nature's choice gift, whose acrimonious fume
Extracts superfluous juices, and refines
The blood distemper'd from its noxious salts;
Friend to the spirit, which with vapours bland
It gently mitigates--companion fit
Of a _good pot of porter_.
PHILLIPS.
There's a pot of good double beer, neighbour,
Drink--
SHAKESPEARE.
The next day the remains of old Thompson were carried on shore in the
long-boat, and buried in the churchyard of the small fishing town that
was within a mile of the port where the sloop had anchored. Newton
shipped another man, and when the gale was over, continued his voyage;
which was accomplished without further adventure.
Finding no cargo ready for him, and anxious to deliver up the vessel to
the owner, who resided at Overton, he returned in ballast, and
communicated the intelligence of Thompson's death; which in so small a
town was long the theme of conversation, and the food of gossips.
Newton consulted with his father relative to the disposal of the trunk;
but Nicholas could assist him but little with his advice. After many
_pros_ and _cons_, like all other difficult matters, it was
postponed.--"Really, Newton, I can't say. The property certainly is not
yours, but still we are not likely to find out the lawful owner. Bring
the trunk on shore, we'll nail it up, and perhaps we may hear something
about it by and bye. We'll make some inquiries--by and bye--when your
mother--"
"I think," interrupted Newton, "it would not be advisable to acquaint my
mother with the circumstance; but how to satisfy her curiosity on that
point, I must leave to you."
"To me, boy! no; I think that you had better manage that, for you know
you are only _occasionally_ at home."
"Well, father, be it so," replied Newton, laughing: "but here comes Mr
Dragwell and Mr Hilton, to consult with us what ought to be done
relative to the effects of poor old Thompson. He has neither kith nor
kin, to the ninety-ninth degree, that we can find out."
Mr Dragwell was the curate of the parish; a little fat man with
bow-legs, who always sat upon the edge of the chair, leaning against the
back, and twiddling his thumbs before him. He was facetious and
good-tempered, but was very dilatory in every thing. His greatest
peculiarity was, that although he had a hearty laugh for every joke, he
did not take the jokes of others at the time that they were made. His
ideas seemed to have the slow and silent flow ascribed to the stream of
lava (without its fire): and the consequence was, that although he
eventually laughed at a good thing, it was never at the same time with
other people; but in about a quarter or half a minute afterwards
(according to the difficulty of the analysis), when the cause had been
dismissed for other topics, he would burst out in a hearty Ha, ha, ha!
Mr Hilton was the owner of the sloop: he was a tall, corpulent man, who
for many years had charge of a similar vessel, until by "doing a little
contraband," he had pocketed a sufficient sum to enable him to purchase
one for himself. But the profits being more than sufficient for his
wants, he had for some time remained on shore, old Thompson having
charge of the vessel. He was a good-tempered, jolly fellow, very fond
of his pipe and his pot, and much more fond of his sloop, by the
employment of which he was supplied with all his comforts. He passed
most of the day sitting at the door of his house, which looked upon the
anchorage, exchanging a few words with every one that passed by, but
invariably upon one and the same topic--his sloop. If she was at
anchor--"There she is," he would say, pointing to her with the stem of
his pipe. If she was away, she had sailed on such a day;--he expected
her back at such a time. It was a fair wind--it was a foul wind for his
sloop. All his ideas were engrossed by this one darling object, and it
was no easy task to divert him from it.
I ought to have mentioned that Mr Dragwell, the curate, was invariably
accompanied by Mr Spinney, the clerk of the parish, a little spare man,
with a few white hairs straggling on each side of a bald pate. He
always took his tune whether in or out of church from his superior,
ejecting a small treble "He, he, he!" in response to the loud Ha, ha,
ha! of the curate.
"Peace be unto this house!" observed the curate as he crossed the
threshold, for Mrs Forster's character was notorious; then laughing at
his own wit with a Ha, ha, ha!
"He, he, he!"
"Good morning, Mr Forster, how is your good lady?"
"She's safe moored at last," interrupted Mr Hilton.
"Who?" demanded the curate, with surprise.
"Why, the sloop, to be sure."
"Oh! I thought you meant the lady--Ha, ha, ha!"
"He, he, he!"
"Won't you sit down, gentlemen?" said Nicholas, showing the way from the
shop into the parlour, where they found Mrs Forster, who had just come
in from the back premises.
"Hope you're well, Mr Curate," sharply observed the lady, who could not
be persuaded, even from respect for the cloth, to be commonly
civil--"take a chair; it's all covered with dust! but that Betsy is such
an idle slut!"
"Newton handles her, as well as any man going," observed Hilton.
"Newton!" screamed the lady, turning to her son, with an angry inquiring
look--"Newton handles Betsy!" continued she, turning round to Hilton.
"Betsy! no; the sloop I meant, ma'am."
Newton burst out into a laugh, in which he was joined by Hilton and his
father.
"Sad business--sad indeed!" said Hilton, after the merriment had
subsided, "such an awful death!"
"Ha, ha, ha!" roared the curate, who had but just then taken the joke
about Betsy.
"He, he, he!"
"Nothing to laugh at, that I can see," observed Mrs Forster,
snappishly.
"Capital joke, ma'am, I assure you!" rejoined the curate; "but, Mr
Forster, we had better proceed to business. Spinney, where are the
papers?" The clerk produced an inventory of the effects of the late Mr
Thompson, and laid them on the table.--"Melancholy thing, this, ma'am,"
continued the curate, "very melancholy indeed! But we must all die."
"Yes, thank Heaven!" muttered Nicholas, in an absent manner.
"Thank Heaven, Mr Forster!" cried the lady,--"why, do you wish to die?"
"I was not exactly thinking about myself, my dear," replied
Nicholas--"I--"
"Depend upon it she'll last a long while yet," interrupted Mr Hilton.
"Do you think so?" replied Nicholas, mournfully.
"Oh! sure of it; I stripped her the other day, and examined her all
over; she's as sound as ever."
Nicholas started, and stared Hilton in the face; while Newton, who
perceived their separate train of thought, tittered with delight.
"What are you talking of?" at last observed Nicholas.
"Of the sloop, to be sure," replied Hilton.
"I rather imagine you were come to consult about Mr Thompson's
effects," observed Mrs Forster, angrily--"rather a solemn subject,
instead of--"
"Ha, ha, ha!" ejaculated the curate, who had just _taken_ the equivoque
which had occasioned Newton's mirth.
"He, he, he!"
This last merriment of Mr Dragwell appeared to the lady to be such a
pointed insult to her, that she bounded out of the room, exclaiming,
"that an alehouse would have been a more suitable _rendezvous_."
The curate twiddled his thumbs, as the eyes of all the party followed
the exit of Mrs Forster; and there were a few moments of silence.
"Don't you find her a pleasant little craft, Forster?" said Hilton,
addressing Newton.
Nicholas Forster, who was in a brown study about his wife, shook his
head without lifting up his eyes, while Newton nodded assent.
"Plenty of accommodation in her," continued Hilton.--Another negative
shake from Nicholas, and assentent nod from Newton.
"If I thought you could manage her, Forster," continued Hilton,--"tell
me, what do you think yourself?"
"Oh, quite impossible!" replied Nicholas.
"Quite impossible, Mr Forster! well, now, I've a better opinion of
Newton--I think he _can_."
"Why, yes," replied Nicholas, "certainly better than I can; but still
she's--"
"She's a beauty, Mr Forster."
"Mrs Forster a beauty," cried Nicholas, looking at Hilton with
astonishment.
Newton and Hilton burst into a laugh. "No, no," said the latter, "I was
talking about the sloop; but we had better proceed to business. Suppose
we have pipes, Mr Forster. Mr Dragwell, what do you say?"
"Ha, ha, ha!" roared the curate, who had just taken the last joke.
"He, he, he!"
"Why, yes," continued the curate, "I think it is a most excellent
proposition; this melancholy affair requires a great deal of
consideration. I never compose so well as I do with a pipe in my mouth:
Mrs Dragwell says that she knows all my best sermons by the smell of
them; d'ye take--Ha, ha, ha!"
"He, he, he!"
The pipes, with the addition of a couple of pots of porter, were soon
procured from the neighbouring alehouse; and while the parties are
filling them, and pushing the paper of tobacco from one to the other, I
shall digress, notwithstanding the contrary opinion of the other sex, in
praise of this most potent and delightful weed.
I love thee, whether thou appearest in the shape of a cigar, or diest
away in sweet perfume enshrined in the Mereshaum bowl; I love thee with
more than woman's love! Thou art a companion to me in solitude. I can
talk and reason with thee, avoiding loud and obstreperous argument.
Thou art a friend to me when in trouble, for thou advisest in silence,
and consolest with thy calm influence over the perturbed spirit.
I know not how thy power has been bestowed upon thee; yet, if to
harmonise the feelings, to allow the thoughts to spring without control,
rising like the white vapour from the cottage hearth, on a morning that
is sunny and serene;--if to impart that sober sadness over the spirit,
which inclines us to forgive our enemy, that calm philosophy which
reconciles us to the ingratitude and knavery of the world, that heavenly
contemplation whispering to us, as we look around, that "All is good;"--
if these be merits, they are thine, most potent weed.
What a quiet world would this be if every one would smoke! I suspect
that the reason why the fairer sex decry thee is, that thou art the
cause of silence. The ancients knew thee not, or the lips of
Harpocrates would have been closed with a cigar, and his fore-finger
removed from the mouth unto the temple.
Half an hour was passed without any observation from our party, as the
room gradually filled with the volumes of smoke which wreathed and
curled in graceful lines, as they ascended in obedience to the
unchangeable laws of nature.
Hilton's pipe was first exhausted; he shook the ashes on the table. "A
very melancholy business, indeed!" observed he, as he refilled. The
rest nodded a grand assent; the pipe was relighted; and all was silent
as before.
Another pipe is empty.--"Looking at this inventory," said the curate, "I
should imagine the articles to be of no great value. One fur cap, one
round hat, one pair of plush breeches, one ---; they are not worth a
couple of pounds altogether," continued he, stuffing the tobacco into
his pipe, which he relighted, and no more was said. Nicholas was the
third in, or rather out. "It appears to me," observed he;--but what
appeared is lost, as some new idea flitted across his imagination, and
he commenced his second pipe, without further remark.
Some ten minutes after this, Mr Spinney handed the pot of porter to the
curate, and subsequently to the rest of the party. They all took
largely, then puffed away as before.
How long this cabinet council might have continued it is impossible to
say; but Silence, who was in "the chair," was soon afterwards driven
from his post of honour by the most implacable of his enemies, "a
woman's tongue."
"Well, Mr Forster! well, gentlemen! do you mean to poison me? Have you
made smell and dirt enough? How long is this to last, I should like to
know?" cried Mrs Forster, entering the room. "I tell you what, Mr
Forster, you had better hang up a sign at once, and keep an alehouse.
Let the sign be a Fool's Head, like your own. I wonder you are not
ashamed of yourself, Mr Curate; you that ought to set an example to
your parishioners!"
But Mr Dragwell did not admire such remonstrance; so taking his pipe
out of his mouth, he retorted--"If your husband does put up a sign, I
recommend him to stick you up as the `Good Woman;' that would be without
your head--Ha, ha, ha!"
"He, he, he!"
"He, he, he! you pitiful 'natomy," cried Mrs Forster, in a rage,
turning to the clerk, as she dared not revenge herself upon the curate.
Take that for your He, he, he! and she swung round the empty pewter-pot
which she snatched from the table, upon the bald pericranium of Mr
Spinney, who tumbled off his chair, and rolled upon the sanded floor.
The remainder of the party were on their legs in an instant. Newton
jerked the weapon out of his mother's hands, and threw it in a corner of
the room. Nicholas was aghast: he surmised that his turn would come
next; and so it proved.--"An't you ashamed of yourself, Mr Forster, to
see me treated in this way--bringing a parcel of drunken men into the
house to insult me? Will you order them out, or not, sir?--Are we to
have quiet or not?"
"Yes, my love," replied Nicholas, confused, "yes, my dear, by and bye,
as soon as you're--"
Mrs Forster darted towards her husband with the ferocity of a mad cat.
Hilton perceiving the danger of his host, put out his leg so as to trip
her up in her career, and she fell flat upon her face on the floor. The
violence of the fall was so great, that she was stunned. Newton raised
her up; and, with the assistance of his father (who approached with as
much reluctance as a horse spurred towards a dead tiger), carried her up
stairs, and laid her on her bed.
Poor Mr Spinney was now raised from the floor. He still remained
stupified with the blow, although gradually recovering. Betsy came in
to render assistance. "O dear, Mr Curate, do you think that he'll
die?"
"No, no; bring some water, Betsy, and throw it in his face."
"Better take him home as he is," replied Betsy, "and say that he is
killed; when Missis hears it, she'll be frightened out of her life. It
will keep her quiet for some time at least."
"An excellent idea, Betty; we will punish her for her conduct," replied
Hilton. The curate was delighted at the plan. Mr Spinney was placed
in an arm-chair, covered over with a table-cloth, and carried away to
the parsonage by two men, who were provided by Betsy before Nicholas or
Newton had quitted the room where Mrs Forster lay in a deplorable
condition: her sharp nose broken, and twisted on one side; her eyebrow
cut open to the bone, and a violent contusion on her forehead. In less
than half an hour it was spread through the whole town that Spinney had
been murdered by Mrs Forster, and that his brains were bespattered all
over the shop windows!