a visit: the party threatened is also given to use equally sweet
terms of discourse. “Really, you have been a great stranger lately.
We thought we never were to see you again. What is there to hinder
you of an evening to come over and chat a little, or take a hand with
the Doctor and Eliza at whist? We are always so happy to see you.
I assure you we are resolved to take it very ill; and if you don’t
repay our last visit, we will never see you again.” With an equally
amiable sincerity, the shocking person with whom you have been long
quite tired, having ceased to gain any amusement or any eclat from
the acquaintance, replies, “I must confess I _have_ been very remiss.
Indeed, I was so ashamed of not having called upon you for such a
length of time, that I could not venture to do it. But, now that the
ice is broken, I really _will_ come some night soon. You may _depend_
upon it.” And so the two part off their several ways, the one surprised
at having been betrayed into so many expressions of kindness towards an
individual about whom he or she is quite indifferent, and the other,
either benevolently resolving, in the simplicity of his heart, to
pay the promised visit, or as much surprised at having been brought
into circumstances where he was reduced to make such a promise—which,
however, as he is sure to forget it in a few minutes, is a matter of
very little moment. If these, however, be the puzzlements which beset
a town acquaintanceship, ten times more difficult is it to adjust the
mutual rights and balance of advantages appertaining to one in which
the one party is of the town, and the other of the country. In most
such cases, either the one party or the other has great and real
cause of complaint. For example, a citizen of tolerable style, who has
been confined to some laborious employment all the year round, amidst
gas-light within doors, and a foggy and smoky atmosphere without,
with what delight does he throw himself into the country some fine
sunshiny day in September, for the purpose of paying a long-promised
visit of three days to a country friend! He is received with boundless
hospitality. The best bed-room, situated in that part of the house
where you generally find a city drawing-room, is aired and provided
in the most agreeable manner for his accommodation. The goodman rides
about with him all day, and dines and drinks with him all night, except
during those intervals when the lady or her daughters solace him with
tunes on the piano, learned many years ago at a boarding-school in
town. The whole house, in fact, from the worthy agriculturist-in-chief
to the chicken that has latest chipped in the barn-yard, are at his
service, and he drinks in health, and rapture, and a taste for natural
objects, every hour. The three days are imperceptibly elongated to as
many weeks, till at last he has become just like one of the family,
calls the lady goodwife, and the daughters by their abbreviated
Christian names, and is a very brother and more to his excellent
entertainer. At length, replenished with as much health as will serve
him through a whole twelvemonth of city life, rosy in cheek and in
gill, sturdy as a pine on the hills, and thickened immensely about
the centre of his person, he finds it necessary to take his leave.
The whole of the worthy ruralists gather about him, and, as if not
satisfied with what they have already done for him while he was in
their presence, load him with other acts of kindness, the effect of
which is only to be experienced on the way, or after he has reached
his own home. If he could carry a ewe cheese on each side, like the
bottles of John Gilpin, they would have no objection to give them.
In fact, there is no bounds to the kindness, the sincere heartfelt
kindness, of these people, except his capacity or willingness to
receive. Of course, he feels all this most warmly for the time; and
while the impression is strong upon him, he counter-invites right and
left. The goodman is never to be a day in town without coming to take
pot-luck. The ladies are to come in next winter, on purpose, and have
a month of the amusements of the town, residing in his house. Any
of their friends whatsoever, even unto the fourth generation, or no
generation at all, he will be delighted to see, whenever they are in
the city. He throws himself, his bosom, his house—all, all, open to
them. But what is the real result of all this? He goes back to town,
and resumes the serious labours of his profession. The roses fade from
his cheeks, and gratitude from his heart. Some day, when he is up to
the ears in a mysterious green box, like a pig in his trough, or a
pullet in a well; or perhaps some day as he is rushing swiftly along
the streets, intent upon some piece of important business, his city
eyes awake upon a vision of the country, in the shape of that very
friend who so lately was rendering him so many acts of kindness. The
case is felt at once to be a scrape;—however, he must make the best
of it. With almost breathless apprehension, he asks Mr Goodman what
stay he is going to make in town. What joy!—he goes within an hour to
Falkirk tryst! But, ah! this is but a short relief. He comes back the
day after to-morrow, and can then spend a day. Well, a day it must
be: it is all settled in a moment, and, three minutes after having
entered the house, Mr Goodman finds himself shaken by the hand out at
the door, which is closed behind him ere he can well believe that he
has as yet seen his city friend. He walks a little way in a confused
state of mind, hardly able to say distinctly that he is himself, or
that his late guest is the identical good fellow he seemed to be three
months ago. The whole appears a dream, and he thinks it must be hours
since he entered the house, though it is only minutes. Falkirk tryst
over, he comes back, and, at the appointed hour, attends his city
acquaintance, who, meanwhile, having consulted with his spouse, has
taken the opportunity, since there was to be a dinner at any rate,
to invite all the stiff people he knows, in order to pay off his old
debts. The honest agriculturist gets a place among the rest, perhaps
a good one, but in such a scene he finds no entertainment, and hardly
gets a word of conversation with his friend during the whole evening.
At the proper hour he rises to take his leave among the rest. The host
inquires when he leaves town—this is always a leading question for a
country friend—hears, to his unspeakable comfort, that it is to be by
the morning coach—and so good-night. Of course, after this, there is
little inducement for Mr Goodman to send his daughters to spend a month
in the house of his city friend. The girls, however, do come in somehow
or other, and are living with some other person on a visit, when one
day, walking along the most crowded and fashionable street, they meet
their father’s friend arm in arm with his wife. Seeing that they have
first perceived _him_, he runs forward in the kindest manner, and,
after introducing them to his partner, inquires after every particular
individual left at home. Some miscellaneous talk ensues, and then, just
at the skirts of the conversation, when they are hovering on the point
of separation, he throws in, “You will be sure to see us some evening
before you leave town.” And then—and then there is no more about it.
A varied case often occurs as follows:—A young lady of perfect
accomplishments, though of the middle ranks of life, happens to be
particularly convenient to a neighbouring family of gentry in the
country, where she is constantly invited by them, and becomes the bosom
friend of all the young ladies, but only because her accomplishments
are useful to them as a means of spending their time. But this
acquaintance, though of use in the country, and there felt as involving
no risk of dignity, becomes inconvenient when the parties happen to
meet in town. The high-born demoiselle, who elsewhere would have rushed
into the arms of her humble but ingenious friend, now tamely shakes
her hand, and, with cold complaisance, addresses her thus: “Mamma is
keeping no company this winter, but I dare say she would be glad to see
you some evening to tea: and—good-morning.” Such is the world!
WHERE IS MY TRUNK?
It is well known in Scotland that the road from Edinburgh to Dundee,
though only forty-three miles in extent, is rendered tedious and
troublesome by the interposition of two arms of the sea, namely, the
Friths of Forth and Tay, one of which is seven, and the other three
miles across. Several rapid and well-conducted stage-coaches travel
upon this road; but, from their frequent loading and unloading at
the ferries, there is not only considerable delay to the travellers,
but also rather more than the usual risk of damage and loss to
their luggage. On one occasion it happened that the common chances
against the safety of a traveller’s integuments were multiplied in a
mysterious, but most amusing manner—as the following little narrative
will show.
The gentleman in question was an inside passenger—a very tall man,
which was so much the worse for him in that situation—and it appeared
that his whole baggage consisted of a single black trunk—one of medium
size, and no way remarkable in appearance. On our leaving Edinburgh,
this trunk had been disposed in the boot of the coach, amidst a great
variety of other trunks, bundles, and carpet bags, belonging to the
rest of the passengers.
Having arrived at Newhaven, the luggage was brought forth from the
coach, and disposed upon a barrow, in order that it might be taken down
to the steam-boat which was to convey us across. Just as the barrow
was moving off, the tall gentleman said,
“Guard, have you got my trunk?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” answered the guard; “you may be sure it’s there.”
“Not so sure of that,” quoth the gentleman; “whereabouts is it?”
The guard poked into the barrow, and looked in vain among the
numberless articles for the trunk. At length, after he had noozled
about for two or three minutes through all the holes and corners of
the mass of integuments, he drew out his head, like a terrier tired of
earthing a badger, and seemed a little nonplussed.
“Why, here it is in the boot!” exclaimed the passenger, “snug at the
bottom, where it might have remained, I suppose, for you, till safely
returned to the coach-yard in Edinburgh.”
The guard made an awkward apology, put the trunk upon the barrow, and
away we all went to the steam-boat.
Nothing farther occurred till we were all standing beside the coach at
Pettycur, ready to proceed on our journey through Fife.
Every thing seemed to have been stowed into the coach, and most of the
passengers had taken their proper places, when the tall gentleman cried
out,
“Guard, where is my trunk?”
“In the boot, sir,” answered the guard; “you may depend upon that.”
“I have not seen it put in,” said the passenger, “and I don’t believe
it is there.”
“Oh, sir,” said the guard, quite distressed, “there can surely be no
doubt about the trunk now.”
“There! I declare—there!” cried the owner of the missing property; “my
trunk is still lying down yonder upon the sands. Don’t you see it?
The sea, I declare, is just about reaching it. What a careless set of
porters! I protest I never was so treated on any journey before.”
The trunk was instantly rescued from its somewhat perilous situation,
and, all having been at length put to rights, we went on our way to
Cupar.
Here the coach stops a few minutes at the inn, and there is generally
a partial discharge of passengers. As some individuals, on the present
occasion, had to leave the coach, there was a slight discomposure
of the luggage, and various trunks and bundles were presently seen
departing on the backs of porters, after the gentlemen to whom they
belonged. After all seemed to have been again put to rights, the tall
gentleman made his wonted inquiry respecting his trunk.
“The trunk, sir,” said the guard, rather pettishly, “is in the boot.”
“Not a bit of it,” said its owner, who in the meantime had been peering
about. “There it lies in the lobby of the inn!”
The guard now began to think that this trunk was in some way bewitched,
and possessed a power, unenjoyed by other earthly trunks, of removing
itself or staying behind, according to its own good pleasure.
“The Lord have a care o’ us!” cried the astonished custodier of
baggage, who, to do him justice, seemed an exceedingly sober and
attentive person. “The Lord have a care o’ us, sir! That trunk’s no
canny.”[8]
“It’s _canny_ enough, you fool,” said the gentleman sharply; “but only
you don’t pay proper attention to it.”
The fact was, that the trunk had been taken out of the coach and placed
in the lobby, in order to allow of certain other articles being got at
which lay beneath. It was now once more stowed away, and we set forward
upon the remaining part of our journey, hoping that there would be
no more disturbance about this pestilent member of the community of
trunks. All was right till we came to the lonely inn of St Michael’s,
where a side-road turns off to St Andrew’s, and where it happened that
a passenger had to leave us to walk to that seat of learning, a servant
having been in waiting to carry his luggage.
The tall gentleman, hearing a bustle about the boot, projected his
immensely long slender body through the coach window, in order, like
the lady in the fairy tale, to see what he could see.
“Hollo, fellow!” cried he to the servant following the gentleman down
the St Andrew’s road; “is not that my trunk? Come back, if you please,
and let me inspect it.”
“The trunk, sir,” interposed the guard, in a sententious manner, “is
that gemman’s trunk, and not yours: yours is in the boot.”
“We’ll make sure of that, Mr Guard, if you please. Come back, my good
fellow, and let me see the trunk you have got with you.”
The trunk was accordingly brought back, and, to the confusion of the
guard, who had thought himself fairly infallible for this time, it was
the tall man’s property, as clear as brass nails could make it.
The trunk was now the universal subject of talk, both inside and
outside, and every body said he would be surprised if it got to
its journey’s end in safety. All agreed that it manifested a most
extraordinary disposition to be lost, stolen, or strayed, but yet every
one thought that there was a kind of special providence about it, which
kept it on the right road after all; and, therefore, it became a fair
subject of debate, whether the chances _against_, or the chances _for_,
were likely to prevail.
Before we arrived at Newport, where we had to go on board the ferry
steam-boat for Dundee, the conversation had gone into other channels,
and, each being engaged about his own concerns, no one thought any more
about the trunk, till just as the barrow was descending along the
pier, the eternal long man cried out,
“Guard, have you got my trunk?”
“Oh, yes,” cried the guard very promptly; “I’ve taken care of it now.
There it is on the top of all.”
“It’s no such thing,” cried a gentleman who had come into the coach at
Cupar; “that’s _my_ trunk.”
Every body then looked about for the enchanted trunk; the guard ran
back, and once more searched the boot, which he knew to have been
searched to the bottom before; and the tall gentleman gazed over land,
water, and sky, in quest of his necessary property.
“Well, guard,” cried he at length, “what a pretty fellow you are!
There, don’t you see?—there’s my trunk thrust into the shed like a
piece of lumber!”
And so it really was. At the head of the pier at Newport there is
a shed, with seats within, where people wait for the ferry-boats;
and there, _perdu_ beneath a form, lay the enchanted trunk, having
been so disposed, in the bustle of unloading, by means which nobody
could pretend to understand. The guard, with a half-frightened look,
approached the awful object, and soon placed it with the other things
on board the ferry-boat.
On our landing at Dundee pier, the proprietor of the trunk saw so well
after it himself, that it was evident no accident was for this time
to be expected. However, it appeared that this was only a lull to our
attention. The tall gentleman was to go on to Aberdeen by a coach then
just about to start from Merchant’s Inn; while I, for my part, was to
proceed by another coach, which was about to proceed from the same
place to Perth. A great bustle took place in the narrow street at the
inn door, and some of my late fellow-travellers were getting into the
one coach, and some into the other. The Aberdeen coach was soonest
prepared to start, and, just as the guard cried “all’s right,” the long
figure devolved from the window, and said, in an anxious tone of voice,
“Guard, have you got my trunk?”
“Your trunk, sir!” cried the man; “what like is your trunk?—we have
nothing here but bags and baskets.”
“Heaven preserve me!” exclaimed the unfortunate gentleman, and burst
out of the coach.
It immediately appeared that the trunk had been deposited by mistake
in the Perth, instead of the Aberdeen coach; and unless the owner had
spoken, it would have been, in less than an hour, half way up the Carse
of Gowrie. A transfer was immediately made, to the no small amusement
of myself and one or two other persons in both coaches who had
witnessed its previous misadventures on the road through Fife. Seeing
a friend on the Aberdeen vehicle, I took an opportunity of privately
requesting that he would, on arriving at his destination, send me an
account by post of all the further mistakes and dangers which were sure
to befall the trunk in the course of the journey. To this he agreed,
and, about a week after, I received the following letter:—
“DEAR ——,
“All went well with myself, my fellow travellers, and THE TRUNK,
till we had got a few miles on this side of Stonehaven, when, just
as we were passing one of the boggiest parts of the whole of that
boggy road, an unfortunate lurch threw us over upon one side, and the
exterior passengers, along with several heavy articles of luggage,
were all projected several yards off into the morass. As the place
was rather soft, nobody was much hurt; but, after every thing had
been again put to rights, the tall man put some two-thirds of himself
through the coach window, in his usual manner, and asked the guard if
he was sure the trunk was safe in the boot.
“‘Oh Lord, sir!’ cried the guard, as if a desperate idea had at that
moment rushed into his mind; ‘the trunk was on the top. Has nobody
seen it lying about any where?’
“‘If it be a trunk ye’re looking after,’ cried a rustic, very coolly,
‘I saw it sink into that well-ee[9] a quarter of an hour syne.’
“‘Good God!’ exclaimed the distracted owner, ‘my trunk is gone for
ever. Oh, my poor dear trunk!—where is the place—show me where it
disappeared!’
“The place being pointed out, he rushed madly up to it, and seemed
as if he would have plunged into the watery profound to search for
his lost property, or die in the attempt. Being informed that the
bogs in this part of the country were perfectly bottomless, he soon
saw how vain every endeavour of that kind would be; and so he was
with difficulty induced to resume his place in the coach, loudly
threatening, however, to make the proprietors of the vehicle pay
sweetly for his loss.
“What was in the trunk, I have not been able to learn. Perhaps the
title-deeds of an estate were among the contents; perhaps it was only
filled with bricks and rags, in order to impose upon the innkeepers.
In all likelihood, the mysterious object is still descending and
descending, like the angel’s hatchet in Rabbinical story, down the
groundless abyss: in which case its contents will not probably be
revealed till a great many things of more importance and equal mystery
are made plain.”
END OF THE VOLUME.
Printed by W. and R. CHAMBERS,
19, Waterloo Place, Edinburgh.
FOOTNOTES:
[8] Not innocent—a phrase applied by the common people in Scotland to
any thing which they suppose invested with supernatural powers of a
noxious kind.
[9] The orifice of a deep pool in a morass is so called in Scotland.
Transcriber’s Notes
pg 44 Changed: their course acccording to the general
to: their course according to the general
pg 78 Changed: dressed a dood deal above Filch
to: dressed a good deal above Filch
pg 79 Changed: solicit his former friends for sudsidies
to: solicit his former friends for subsidies
pg 138 Changed: It was farther remarked
to: It was further remarked
pg 207 Changed: covered up in a similar maner
to: covered up in a similar manner
pg 272 Changed: without being painsfully and gradually won
to: without being painfully and gradually won