One cold day in March, when winter had come to say "good-bye" with a
roar, after wheeling the sofa with my mother upon it towards the parlour
fire, I went out to refresh my spirit in the kitchen with Mrs. Huxtable,
and to "yat myself" (for the sofa took all the parlour fire) by the
fragrant hearth of wood and furze. The farmer's wife was "larning" me
some strange words of her native dialect, which I was now desirous to
"discoorse," and which she declared to be "the only vitty talk. Arl the
lave of thiccy stoof, zame as the Carnishers and the Zummersets and the
Lunnoners tulls up, arl thiccy's no more nor a passel of gibbersh, Miss
Clerer, and not vitty atarl; noo, nor English nother. Instead of zaying
'ai' laike a Kirsten, zome on em zays 'oi,' and zome on em 'I.'" In the
middle of her lecture, and just as I had learned that to "quilty" is the
proper English for to "swallow," and that the passage down which we
quilty is, correctly speaking, not the throat, but the "ezelpipe," a
strange-looking individual darkened the "draxtool" (corruptly called the
threshold) and crossed the "planch," or floor, to the fireplace where we
sat.
Turning round, I beheld a man about fifty years old, of moderate
stature, gauntly bodied, and loosely built, and utterly reckless of his
attire. His face was long and thin, the profile keenly aquiline; and
the angles made yet sharper, by a continual twitching and tension of the
muscles. The skin of his cheeks was drawn, from his solemn brows to his
lipless and down-curved mouth, tight and hollow, like the bladder on a
jam-pot. His eyes, of a very pale blue, seemed always to stand on
tip-toe, and never to know what he was going to say. A long, straight,
melancholy chin, grisly with patches of hair, was meant by nature to
keep his mouth shut, and came back sullenly when it failed. Over his
shoulders was flung a patched potato-sack, fastened in front with a
wooden skewer, and his nether clothes were as ragged as poetry. In his
air and manner, self-satisfaction strove hard with solemn reserve. Upon
the whole he reminded me of an owl who has lost his heart to a bantam
hen. I cannot express him justly; but those who have seen may recognise
Beany Dawe, the sawyer, acknowledged the bard of the north of Devon.
Mr. Ebenezer Dawe, without any hesitation or salute, took a three-legged
stool, and set it between our chairs, then looked from Mrs. Huxtable to
me, and introduced himself.
"Wull, here be us three,
And I hopps us shall agree."
"Agray indeed," cried Mrs. Huxtable, "doon 'e zee the quarlity be here,
ye aul vule?" Then turning to me. "Doon'e be skeared, Miss Clerer, it
be oney that there aul mazed ramscallion, Beany Dawe. Her makth what
girt scholards, laike you, karls potry, or zum such stoof. Her casn'
oppen the drort of him nohow, but what her must spake potry. Pote[#]
indeed! No tino, I'd pote un out of ouze if I was the waife of un. 'Zee
zaw, Beany Dawe!' that be arl the name he hath airned vor his rhaiming
and rubbish, and too good for 'un too! Rhaime, rhaime, drash, drash,
like two girt gawks in a barn! Oh fai, oh fai; and a maight have aimed
two zhillings a dai and his zider!"
[#] "Pote." Danmonic for to "kick."
The subject of these elegant strictures regarded her all the time, with
that pleased pity which none but a great Poet so placed can feel. Then
swinging slowly on his tripod, and addressing the back of the chimney,
he responded:
"Poor vule! Her dunno what a saight 'tis haigher
To be a Pout, nor a hunderzawyer!"
Perhaps his lofty couplet charmed her savage ear; at any rate she made a
peaceful overture.
"Coom now, Mr. Dawe, wull e have a few broth?"
He assented with an alacrity much below his dignity;
"Taties, and zider, maat, and broth a few,
"Wull, zin you ax ai, ai'll not answer noo."
"E shan't have no cider," replied his hostess, "without e'll spake, for
wance, laike a Kirsten, maind that, without no moor of thiccy jingle
jangle, the very zame for arl the world as e be used to droon in the
zawpit, 'Zee, zaw, Margery Daw,' with the arms of e a gwayn up and doon,
up and doon, and your oyes and maouth most chokked with pilm[#] and the
vace of e a hurning laike a taypot, and never a drop of out to aise the
crickles of your barck. That's the steet you potes be in, and zawyers."
[#] Pilm, Londinice, "dust."
As she delivered this comment, she swung to and fro on her chair, in
weak imitation of the impressive roll, with which he enforced his rhyme.
This plagiarism annoyed him much more than her words: but he vindicated
his cause, like a true son of song.
"And if zo hap, I be a pout grand,
Thee needn't jah, 'cos thee doon't understand.
A pout, laike a 'ooman, or a bell,
Must have his clack out, and can't help hiszell."
A mighty "ha ha" from the door, like a jocund earthquake, proved that
this last hit had found an echo in some ample bosom.
"Thee shall have as much vittels as ever thee can let down," said the
farmer, as he entered, "danged if thee bain't a wunnerful foine chap,
zure enough. Ai'd as lieve a'most to be a pote, plase God, as I wud to
be a ooman: zimth to ai, there bain't much differ atwixt 'em. But they
vainds out a saight of things us taks no heed on. I reckon now, Beany,
thee cas'n drink beer?"
This was a home thrust, for Mr. Dawe was a notorious drinker. He
replied with a heavy sigh and profoundly solemn look:
"Ah noo! a noo! Unless when I be vorced,
By rason, Dactor zaith, my stommirk ba'in exhaust."
"And what was it the doctor said to you, Mr. Dawe?" I asked, perceiving
that he courted inquiry. He fixed his eyes upon me, with a searching
look; eager, as it seemed, yet fearing to believe that he had found at
last a generous sympathy.
"'Twas more nor dree months zince ai titched a drap,
When ai was compelled to consult the Dactor chap;
He zaith, zaith he, ''tain't no good now this here,
Oh, Ebenezer Dawe, you must tak beer.'"
These words he repeated with impressive earnestness, shaking his head
and sighing, as if in deprecation of so sad a remedy. Yet the subject
possessed perhaps a melancholy charm, and his voice relented to a
pensive unctuousness, as he concluded.
"'Tak beer!' I zays, 'Lor, I dunnow the way!'
'Then you must larn,' zays he, 'this blessed day:
You'm got,' he zays, 'a daungerous zinking here,
Your constitooshun do requaire beer.'"
"Thee wasn' long avore thee tried it, I'll warr'n," said the farmer,
"tache the calf the wai to the coo!"
Scorning this vile insinuation, Mr. Dawe continued thus:
"Wull, after that, mayhap a month or zo,
I was gooin home, the zame as maight be noo:
I had zawed a hellum up for Varmer Yeo,
And a velt my stommick gooin turble low,
Her cried and skooned, like a chield left in the dark,
And a maze laike in my head, and a maundering in my barck.
Zo whun ai coom to the voot of Breakneck hill,
I zeed the public kept by Pewter Will:
The virelight showed the glasses in the bar,
And 'um danced and twinkled like the avening star."
Here he paused, overcome by his own description.
"Wull," said the farmer, brightening with fellow-feeling, for he liked
his glass, "Wull, thee toorned in and had a drap, laike a man, and not
be shamed of it nother. And how did her tast? A must have been nation
good, after so long a drouth!"
"Coom'd down my drort, like the Quane and Princess Royal,
The very sa-am as a drap of oi-al!"
"The very sa-am, the very sa-am," he repeated with an extrametrical
smack of his lips, which he wiped with the back of his hand, and cast a
meaning glance towards the cellar. The farmer rose, and took from the
dresser a heavy quart cup made of pewter. With this he went to the
cellar, whence issued presently a trickling and frothing sound, which
thrilled to the sensitive heart of Mr. Dawe. The tankard of ale, with a
crown of white foam, was presented to the thirsty bard by his host, who
did not, however, relinquish his grasp upon the vessel; but imposed
(like Pluto to Orpheus) a stern condition. "Now, Beany Dawe, thee shan't
have none, unless thee can zay zummut without no poetry in it."
At this barbarous restriction, poor Ebenezer rolled his eyes in a most
tragic manner; he thrust his tongue into his cheek, and swung himself,
not to and fro as usual, but sideways, and clutched one hand on the
tatters of his sack, while he clung with the other to the handle of the
cup. Then with a great effort, and very slowly, he spoke--
"If my poor vasses only maks you frown,
I'll try, ees fai I wull, to keep 'em--
A rhyme came over him, the twitching of his face showed the violence of
the struggle; he attempted to say "in," but nature triumphed, and he
uttered the fatal "down." In a moment the farmer compressed his mighty
fingers, and crushed the thick metal like silver paper. The forfeit
liquor flew over the poet's knees, and hissed at his feet in the ashes.
Foreseeing a storm of verse from him, and of prose from Mrs. Huxtable at
the fate of the pride of her dresser, I made a hasty retreat.
Thenceforth I took a kind interest in our conceited but harmless bard.
His neighbours seemed not to know, how long it was since he had first
yielded to his unfortunate ailment; which probably owed its birth to the
sound of the saw. During our first interview, his rhythm and rhyme had
been unusually fluent and finished, from pride perhaps at having found a
new audience, or from some casual inspiration. Candour compels me to
admit that his subsequent works were little, if at all, better than
those of his more famous contemporaries; and I am not so proud, as he
expects me to be, of his connexion with my sad history.