tying a tin-kettle to the tail of a comet!--the thing's impossible. Last
night, she spent full half an hour imploring me to suffer her to close
the shutters and pin up the curtains of the east window of my bed-room,
to prevent the rays from my candle shooting across the park-path
outside; which rays, as she protests, impede our grandfather's ghost
very much, in his nightly rambles: it seems, that he frequently walks
down that path; but as a Devonshire ghost cannot cross a ray of light
from a candle, the good old gentleman is compelled to go round, or kick
his heels in the cold until 1 get into bed. One of your tenants, brother
Waldron, told me, with a very grave face, that he has often met our
grandfather, in the middle of the night, with old Geoffry his huntsman,
and a whole pack of hounds, hunting a stag at full speed; that he has
actually opened the gates for the old man and his ghostly pack to
pass through, and that, although 'squire, huntsman, dogs, and stag, are
without heads, he recognizes, and honours them! Why, the man must be
either a natural idiot, or travelling fast toward lunacy; and yet
he's accounted a positive Sir Oracle, in these parts. It is said, our
ancestor is seen in all forms, by various persons, at different parts of
the village: one scoundrel has had the impudence to tell me, that he met
him one night in Blackpool-lane, in the form of a woolpack! and that he
gave him a cut with his whip, as he rolled at full speed along the road!
Now, admitting that ghosts walk or run, how he could know Sir Jonathan,
in the shape of a woolpack, is to me, a miracle:--but, so it was--he
knew him; he'll swear to it; and may I be posted at Lloyd's, if the
villagers don't believe him. But I'd forgive them almost everything if
they'd let the church-bells alone, and wouldn't roar choruses: every
evening, between six and eight, some of the brawny vagabonds go to
practise triple-bob-majora, or grandsire-trebles, in the belfry;--thus
agonizing my ears with the most atrocious music that ever was inflicted
on suffering man: to mend the matter, I've a natural antipathy to all
bells except the waiter's and the postman's. It occurs very unluckily
for me, that I should arrive among you in a week of merry-making, ending
with a revel; and go where I will, my ears are assailed by excruciating
songs, all of which, without exception, have some terrific hhorus tacked
to the tail of each verse, which the rogues bellow in such a way, that
I'm often obliged to take to my heels in mere self-defence. The song
which just now seems to be most fashionable in, the village, I have
heard so often, that, much against my inclination, I know every word of
it; I feel it humming in my brain when I awake in the morning, and
my watch ticks it when I go to bed at night, I will be judged by any
reasonable man, if the eternal affliction of such words and sounds as
those which I am about to utter, vociferated by Stentorian lungs, is
not enough to drive a decent being, with a nice ear and moderate taste,
mad:--you shall hear.”
“Pray, don't trouble yourself brother,” said Reginald. “Nay, but with
your leave, I insist upon giving you a specimen: match it for sense, in
all Europe, if you can:--
'My vather a' died, but a' didn't know how,
A' left I zix hossees to vollor tha plough;
Wi' my wim, worn, woddle, oh!
Jack, strim, stroddle, oh!
Bubble, boys! bubble, boys!
Down by tha brook!'”
“Enough, enough, brother,” said Reginald: “I lament that you should be
so dissatisfied with your visit.”
“Not at all, sir; I'm not at all dissatisfied. I'm perfectly satisfied
with it: it has cured me of a mania I've had all my life of enjoying
rural felicity, and Devonshire, my birth-place, in my old age: I've seen
quite enough of it to make me put up with London or Clapham Common, and
rest contented--Besides, I've seen you and Waldron;--God bless you both,
my boys!--I shall be glad if you will run up to town now and then:--I
leave my boy to your care, Reginald;--and to-morrow I start.”
The two brothers now approached Archibald, and most affectionately
entreated him to prolong his stay with them; and Reginald had just
extorted a promise from him to go to the vicarage for two or three days,
when a servant entered the room, and stated, that Constables Quality and
Batter had brought in some prisoners to be examined before his worship.
Sir Waldron desired that they might be taken into his study; and said,
that he would descend in a few minutes; but before the servant had
quitted the room, Archibald begged that they might be brought up, so
as to offer him an opportunity of witnessing, what he called, “a bit
of bumpkin police,” which he had not hitherto taken an opportunity of
enjoying. Sir Waldron acquiesced, and ordered the servant to send up the
constables, with their prisoners.
“You will neither be amused, interested, nor edified, I suspect,” said
Sir Waldron, to Archibald, “by the scene that is about to take place; it
is, doubtless, some trifling, ridiculous affair: the constables are
two of the most arrant blockheads that ever a magistrate was afflicted
with:--as to Onesiphorus Quality, one might as well attempt to elicit
evidence out of a mallet, as from him: I assure you, my patience and my
temper are often put to the test, by his stupid taciturnity.”
As the baronet concluded, the huge form, and meek, beardless face of
Constable Quality himself, appeared at the door-way, ushering in four
prisoners, who were closely followed by a man of a middling size, with
sharp features, a large mouth, piercing cat's eyes, and limbs which were
puny, compared with those of the gigantic, chill-looking Quality. The
person we have described as bringing up the rear, was Constable Batter:
the prisoners were our old friends, the pedlar, the tinker, Darby
Doherty, and the little girl. The pedlar placed his pack very carefully
on the ground, the little girl stood up behind it, and the three men
ranged themselves in a line, with Quality, on one side, and Batter, on
the other, in front of the table at which the brothers were now seated.
“What is the charge made against these people, Quality?” inquired Sir
Waldron.
“Well,--then,” replied Quality, “for that matter,--your worship,--you
must ask Batter.”
“I ha' nought to say,--nought in the world,” exclaimed Batter; “but
they're oddish bodies--I must say that for Quality. He apprehended and I
assisted;--not a thing more.”
“Your worship,” said Quality, with a most piteous countenance;--“your
worship know better:--I never apprehends nobody.”
“That's true enough. Constable Quality, I must needs confess,” observed
Sir Waldron.
“I thank your worship, kindly, for your good word,” quoth Quality.
“Oh! do not be such an idiot as to take what I have said as a
compliment. The feet is, Quality, you want either heart or wit enough
to capture a fly; Batter, luckily for the Hundred, sins a little on the
opposite side to you, Onesiphorus: all is fish that comes near his net;
for one real offender, he brings at least fifty innocent people before
me. To say the truth, I do not believe another brace of such ignorant
blockheads have flourished in one parish, since the days of Dogberry and
Verges. Batter, I am sure _you_ have taken these people:--what have
they done? To begin with this good man, who has the appearance of a
pedlar;--what do either of you know of him?”
“Why,” said Quality, with a shake of the head and an odd sort of frown
which he intended to be very significant; “why, your worship, I can't
say that I know any good of him.”
“You utterly incomparable ninny, do you know any evil of him?”
“For that matter,” quoth Quality, to the baronet, “I refer to Batter.”
Batter drew up his chin and replied to this appeal, “I say nothing, your
worship; but--a--that is to say--”
“Go to the devil!” cried the enraged magistrate; “this is what I have to
go through, daily, brother Reginald.”
“Ay, but, brother Waldron--”
“I know, I know!” exclaimed Sir Waldron, interrupting Reginald; “I know
what you are going to say; but my patience has been long exhausted with
these boobies.--What did you bring the men before me for?” shouted the
magistrate in a thundering tone.
“Well, then, your worship,” said Quality, no whit moved, “ask Batter.”
Batter, with great gravity, declined the honour, and protested against
taking precedence of his senior, Onesiphorus Quality; who, he vowed,
had bestirred himself as principal in the affair, and laudably exerted
himself to the utmost extent of his mental and bodily powers, to bring
the delinquents before his worship.
While the worthy constable was making a speech to the foregoing effect,
Sir Waldron sat tilting his chair on its hind legs, shaking his head up
and down with great velocity, beating the devil's tatoo with the fingers
of his right-hand on the back of his left, and gazing at his pale and
placid brother Reginald with an expression of countenance, which the
latter understood as meaning “Now you hear! could Job himself bear this,
brother?” That was, in truth, what Sir Waldron intended to convey to
Reginald by his looks; and when Batter concluded, he rose from his
chair, and with a stride, which might be pronounced emphatic, moved
towards the window, turning his back upon the constables and prisoners,
apparently determined to leave the settlement of the affair to Reginald
himself. The citizen brother had highly enjoyed the whole scene, and
while Waldron was walking away, observed to Reginald, that Batter and
Quality differed essentially from the police of the metropolis, who, if
they had a fault,--and this he professed, with a roguish sneer, to say
under correction,--it was the immense crop of evidence which they were
generally prepared to yield.
Let it not be imagined, that during the preceding dialogue, Mr.
Jeremiah--or as he chose to designate himself by the diminutive,--Darby
Doherty remained voluntarily silent. He frequently attempted to address
the magistrate; but Quality, who was not only silent himself, but the
cause of silence in others, as soon as Darby opened his mouth, covered
the aperture with his broad hard palm, and safely barricadoed the
portals of speech. Darby, with his wooden leg, trod on Quality's corns;
and Quality, notwithstanding the anguish he suffered, replied only by a
terrific nudge with his staff in Doherty's ribs, which was imperceptible
to all present but the receiver. Quality was very generous with his
nudges to prisoners who were at all refractory, and attempted to break
silence in his worship's presence: much to the indignation of Sir
Waldron, who often wondered where he could have picked up the word,
Quality denominated these nudges, “apothegms.”
The Reverend Reginald Hackle now took up the examination, and, with some
difficulty, discovered that the prisoners had quarrelled at the fair,
sought out the constables, and insisted upon going before a magistrate.
“Upon this,” quoth Batter, “we took them into custody. The child,” added
he, “seemed as glad to come as anybody;--so, what to make of it, I, for
one, don't know.---Perhaps I've suspicions they've picked up the girl,
and are quarrelling between themselves about her clothes, and ornamental
valuables;--that, however, I shall keep to myself.--I have searched
the prisoners separately. The pedlar's pack contains ribbons of various
patterns and lengths; human hair of ditto ditto; silk and imitation
handkerchiefs, bits of lace, and cetera, and so forth; a large pair of
shears, a pocket-bible much worn, and, three red herrings.”
“More red herrings!” exclaimed Darby, emancipating himself by a sudden
movement from the gripe of Quality, and advancing to a position whence
he could look the pedlar fall in the face; “three more red herrings!
Well, after that I've done, any how!”.
“Next,” continued Batter, who had now grown rather communicative,
“I searched the Irishman.”
“And how dared you do so?” exclaimed Sir Waldron, striding from the
window with as great energy as he had strode toward it; “how dared you
do so, dolt?--Irishman, what are you?”
“I'm an Irishman, your honour!” replied Darby, and Sir Waldron strode to
the window with greater emphasis of cadence than he had strode from it,
muttering imprecations as he went.
“Have you been in the service?” inquired Reginald; “it has pleased
Providence to pour great bodily afflictions on you;--such losses as
those of a leg, an arm---”
“E' then, your honour,” interrupted Darby, “afflictions they are,
indeed:--my leg lost a good friend in losing me; I cut his corns for him
every week, and kept him warm in a good worsted stocking, and shoes at
never less than seven and sixpence the pair, since he came of age: but
that's not the question, your worship's reverence and glory; but this is
it,--I ask pardon for contradicting,--but don't fear,--I won't quarrel
wid your worships excellence:--Here's three of us: that's me, the
tinker; and the man o' the herrings there--the pedlar; we all wants the
child, and no blame to us, for she's a beauty;--and having no kith or
kin, that we can find out, nor a soul alive to own her--”
“She escheats,” interrupted Batter, “as a waif, or an estray, in such
cases, to the lord of the manor, Sir Waldron.”
“The lord of Bally-no-place, and my nose, too!” said Darby, snapping his
fingers at Batter; “do you call her cattle? ye he-cow, ye!--Well, then,
your honour's worship,” continued Darby, turning, with a smile on his
face, towards Reginald, “as we couldn't agree about her, for she came
to us together, and we've no great opinion of one another--that is, I
haven't of the pedlar or the tinker, may be; and it's not unlikely
they think bad of me,--why shouldn't they?--why then, rather than
quarrel,--which I'm not one for, though well able, barring my limbs and
eye,--we tould the middle and both ends of it to dirty Butter here.”
“Batter, prisoner, if you please,” quoth the constable of that name.
“Well, to Batter, be it then; but of all the beasts or constables to
boot under the moon, he's the most stupid. Well, then, when we couldn't
make him understand our story, we insisted on his comprehending us.”
“And here they are, Sir Waldron,” quoth Quality.
“This is another of your cock-and-bull stories,” said the Baronet,
returning to his chair. “What have we to do with this? Who is the third
party?”
“The tinker, your worship,” observed Quality; “I suspect Batter knows
him.”
“Truly so,” said Batter; “he's the father of Nancy Warton's two
children; you'll find his name on record; it's written on the bonds;--a
confirmed bad one in respect of---”
“Tinker,” said Sir Waldron, assuming a most formidable aspect, “I now
recollect your _face_. Moreover, 1 have heard that you have not yet
quitted your evil ways: you had an affair of a similar sort to that
which Batter speaks of, last month, at the sessions.--Fie upon you,
man! Venial as this sort of sin may appear to you, to me it seems most
grave,--nearly unpardonable. Why not take a wife?”
“That's just what I've said to him,” observed Doherty; “matrimony is the
best of money,--it's pure felicity.”
“Are you married, fellow?” inquired Sir Waldron, who felt by no means
pleased at the Irishman's interruption.
“Is it married, your worship?” replied Darby; “faith! then, I am, every
inch of me.”
“And where's your wife?”
“Why, then, I left her this morning eleven miles hence.”
“What, you've deserted her, eh?”
“Oh! quite the contrary;--I ran away from her,--we agreed to come
different roads; for, to tell you the truth, Mistress Doherty has a
tongue: but that says nothing; may be your honour's own wife has one
too.”
“I have no wife, sirrah!”
“Well! God help you, then! that's all I say.--Though we quarrelled last
night, I'd be mighty glad to see Mistress Doherty to-day,--so I would:
I wonder she hasn't come. I'll tell you how it was, and you'll judge who
did wrong.--We got a fi'penny bed at a road-side house; and when such a
case occurs, which isn't often, Mistress Doherty is all for getting as
much as she can for her money; so, if I'd let her, she'd go to bed at
eight o'clock, and lie till twelve or one the next day, or make me and
the child do so: but no, I don't like going to bed at night over soon
then, so I don't,--but I'll lie a-bed as long as one here and there, the
next morning; for then's the time, if one has such a thing, when a bed's
pleasant. Well then, Mistress Doherty, having some places to patch in
her coat, bid me go to bed before her, so that I might get up early,
and tramp to the revel with her,--just as Dobbin and Joan would, but I
wouldn't never mind why. Says she--says Mistress Doherty, 'Go to bed,
Darby, or the child will be perished with cold; go to bed and warm him,
Darby, while I put a patch on my coat but I wouldn't; so then she got in
her tantarums; I was obstinate, and we quarrelled.”
“Ay, ay! I understand,” said the tinker, who had not spoken before, “she
wanted to beat you to nest, as the hen-pigeon doth the cock, when he
loiters; it's natural,--yea, nature all over.”
“Whenever I quarrel, I fight,” pursued Darby; “and whenever I fight with
Mrs. Doherty, she licks me; I'd scorn to be beat by any man breathing;
I'll crow like a bit of game as I am, though I've lost half my spurs,
but I don't scruple to own, that I knock under to my wife:--so we paid
what we couldn't well afford for a bed,---quarrelled and fought all
night in it, when we might have slept happy and contented under a tree;
and the next morning,--that's this morning,--I tould her, when she was
dreaming, to come after me to the revel by her own self; and so she
will, I'll engage my last arm; for, if we fight, Mistress Doherty doats
on me.”
“And who is this child?” inquired Archibald.
“Your worship,” replied the pedlar; “I hae held my peace till now,
and it is time for me to speak. This wee thing cam' to us where we
breakfasted; we ken nought about her; she wanted to come to this revel,
and we hae brought her together.--She would hae parted with us, but
neither of us would suffer her to do so, without letting us know whither
she went; a small broil followed, and here we are before ye;--we've done
nought but what humanity would justify;--tak' the bairn and
question her. She's in your hands, and I've done with her--saving a
blessing--Gude protact her!”
“Oh! don't think to gallyboozle the justice with your mealy mouth,” said
Darby; “I've no great opinion of my friend here, your honour; no, nor
of Tom Tinker, this fellow with the black face, as I had the honour
of telling ye before. Now, if I may be allowed to say one word in my
defence,--though nobody accuses me, nor can, that's more,--but if I
may speak, I'll just say this by way of advice to your worship:--make
yourself a Solomon the second; cut off the child's hair, take every
ha'p'orth she has, and then see who'll have her: it isn't the tinker,
I'll engage; no, nor the pedlar, with his blackguard red herrings.”
“I dinna want the bairn,” said the pedlar; “I hae eleven o' my ain; but
I'd do to anither mon's child, what I'd expact anither, mon would do to
mine,--that is to say--sauf her fra tinklers and ne'er-do-weels.”
“Come, come, pedlar, 'ware that,” growled the tinker; “good words or
broken heads, says the old saying.”
“Hold your tongue, you reprobate!” exclaimed Sir Waldron.
“Silence!” roared Batter in the tinker's ear, while Quality dealt him an
apothegm.
“What you want with the child I cannot comprehend,” continued Sir
Waldron; “why not take one of those poor things, of whom you're the
putative father? that would do you a little credit--Why wish for this
little stranger?”
“Why, your worship”--The tinker was cut short in his reply to the
magistrate's question, by Batter shouting silence, and Quality giving
him a nudge.
“Blockhead!” exclaimed Sir Waldron to Batter; “am I not to have an
answer to my question? let the man speak, and do you behave with common
sense, or, by heaven, I'll commit you.--Speak, tinker, how do you
account for your wishing to take this child in preference to your own? I
must tell you, that it looks strange and suspicious.”
“Why,” replied the tinker, “I ha'n't no wish in particular about it:--to
be sure, I took a fancy to her; she hath such a main pretty little nob,
and a pearly sort of an eye, just like my best almond tumbler pigeon at
home--and the poney likes her; so its natural, you see, your worship:
but then, I don't covet her; only keep her out of these chaps' clutches,
that's all I say; except, mind me, this:--I wouldn't offend your worship
for the world; I'd pretty near die first,--but, look'ee, Sir Waldron,
if your constable pokes I in the ribs again, as he hath twice, I'll just
make so free as to break his neck, here right, if I do die for't;--it's
nature you know.”
“This language is improper;--we must not hear it,” observed Reginald.
“How dare you strike the man?” exclaimed Sir Waldron.
“I merely gave him a hint--”
“Hold your tongue--quit the room--or stop--stay--I'll consider whether I
ought not to order Batter to take you into custody.”
The little girl now stepped from behind the pedlar's pack, and advancing
close to Sir Waldron, with a smile playing over her features, said
to the magistrate, “If you please, sir, may I speak, now every body's
done?”
“Certainly, child,” replied the baronet; “what have you to say?--what is
your name?”
“Agnes, sir.”
“Agnes what, child?--what is your other name?” The little girl made no
reply, but looked alternately at Sir Waldron and the prisoners, and the
tears gushed from her eyes.
“What is the meaning of this?” said the baronet.
“Perhaps, brother,--you know best,” observed Reginald;--“but perhaps
there is some mystery in this matter, something that lies deeper than
you imagine. The child may be intimidated from speaking the truth in the
presence of these three good people.”
“Do you think so?--Well, then, I'll take her apart into my study,”
replied Sir Waldron: “come,” added he, addressing the child, “come with
me, Agnes; do not be frightened.”
“Bless you, I am not frightened,” said the child; “I'm very glad.”
“Ay, ay,” quoth Reginald, “it is as I suspected, very clearly; Batter
and Quality, look well to these honest fellows.”
The prisoners loudly exclaimed against Reginald's suspicions; but
Batter, by dint of bawling, and Quality, by the virtue of his apothegms,
soon restored order, and Agnes followed Sir Waldron into the adjoining
room. “Now, my dear,” said the baronet, taking a chair, and drawing Agnes
between his knees, “what have you to say? Why not tell your name before
the people in the parlour? Is either of those men related to you?”
“Oh, no! no, indeed! I never saw them before to-day.”
“And whose child are you?”
“Yours!” replied Agnes, looking archly up at Sir Waldron, and placing
her little hand on his as she spoke.
“Pooh! pooh! child, don't be foolish,” replied Sir Waldron, who felt
half inclined to be angry, but, at the same time, could not prevent his
features from relaxing into a smile; “tell me the truth.”
“I have told the truth; indeed and indeed I have.”
“How do you mean, child?”
“Why, if you're my papa, you know, I must be your little
daughter:--musn't I now?”
“Truly so, child,” replied Sir Waldron; “but as I am not your papa--”
“Oh! but you are, though,” interrupted Agnes; “my mamma told me so.”
Sir Waldron's cheek grew pale; he stared at the child, and remained for
a few moments silent; then, assuming a stern manner, he said to Agnes
rather sharply,--“I suspect you to be a designing, bold, bad child; or
the tool of wretches; or, at best, remarkably impudent. Do you know who I
am?”
“Sir Waldron Hackle;--at least, so I hope,” was the child's reply;--“the
men said they were going to bring us before Sir Waldron Hackle,--and
that's you, isn't it?--If not, I've kept my promise to my poor mamma
finely;--but it isn't my fault.”
“What mamma? what promise? How you talk, child!--what promise?”
“Not to tell any one who I was, nor to mention my name, until I saw my
father.”
“And what is your name?” eagerly inquired Sir Waldron.
“Oh! you know what it is well enough--don't you?”
“How the devil should I?” exclaimed the irritated baronet, who for
a moment forgot that he was speaking to a child. “How should I?” he
repeated, in somewhat a calmer tone.
“Why, you haven't any more little girls, have you?”
“Ridiculous! Tell me your name, instantly!”
“You won't be angry with me, I hope, for asking you first, if you _are_
Sir Waldron Hackle? My mamma so strictly charged me--”
“Well, well! I am--I am,” replied the baronet; “I am Sir Waldron
Hackle--”
“Ay; but are you the gentleman that broke his arm at Westbury, and--”
“Yes, yes!--Westbury, said you?--What's this flashes across me? it
surely cannot be--”
“Indeed, and it is, though!”
“Hannah Russelts child?”
“Yes! my mamma's dead; and I've walked all the way by myself, and now
you won't own me,” sobbed little Agnes; and her head dropped upon Sir
Waldron's hand, which he immediately felt was wetted with her tears.
“Own you!” said Sir Waldron, scarcely knowing what he said. “How can I
own you?”
“I'm sure I don't know,” replied the little girl, raising her head, and
endeavouring to restrain the sobs which almost rendered her unable to
articulate; “you must do as you please about that; my mamma sent her
dying love--to you,--and she told me to be sure to say that she had
done--her duty, and you need not be ashamed of me!”
Sir Waldron made no reply; but he snatched Agnes up, pressed her to his
bosom, and kissed her repeatedly: he then put her at arm's length from
him, gazed earnestly on her face, and again most affectionately embraced
her.