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.