Mr. Woolford, a sporting gentleman, as remarkable for politeness in the
field as for the goodness of his fox-hounds, was one evening thus
addressed by his huntsman: “An’ please your honour, sir,” twirling his
cap and quid at the same time, “I should be glad to be excused going
to-morrow to Woolford-wood, as I should like to go to see my poor wife
buried.” “I am sorry for thee, Tom,” said his master, “we can do one day
without thee: she was an excellent wife.” On the following morning,
however, Tom was the first in the field. “Heyday!” quoth Mr. W., “did
not I give you leave to see the remains of your poor wife interred?”
“Yes, your honour, but I thought as how we should have good sport, as it
is a fine morning; so I desired our Dick, the dog-feeder, to see her
_earth’d_.”
Vol. II.--34.
[Illustration: ~My Desk.~]
_For the Table Book._
Every one will agree with me, that this is the favourite article of
furniture. Every one is fond of it as of an old friend--a faithful and
trustworthy one--to whom has been confided both joys and sorrows. It is
most likely the gift of some cherished, perhaps departed being,
reminding us by its good qualities of the beloved giver. We have no
scruple in committing our dearest secrets to its faithful bosom--they
are never divulged. The tenderest billet-doux, the kindest
acknowledgments, the sweetest confessions of a mistress--the cruellest
expressions and bitterest reproaches of a friend lost to us for ever
through the false and malignant representations of an enemy--or perhaps
the youthful effusions of our own brain, which we occasionally draw
forth from the recesses of the most secretly contrived _pigeon-hole_,
and read over _à la dérobée_, with a half blush (at our self-love) and a
smile partly painful from revived recollections of days gone, never to
return--all these we may unhesitatingly deposit in this personification
of _deskretion_.
The very posture assumed at a desk bespeaks confidence and security. The
head inclined over it, and the bosom leaning in gentle trustingness
against this kind and patient friend.
By this description I would present to the “mind’s eye” of the reader a
plain unostentatious piece of furniture, of too simple an exterior to be
admitted any where than in the study--square in shape, mahogany, bound
with brass at the corners, a plate of the same metal on the top, of just
a sufficient size to contain one’s own initials and those of the giver.
I detest those finicking machines one finds wrapped up in an oilskin
case in a drawing-room; made of rosewood, inlaid with silver, or
mother-of-pearl, and lined with blue velvet. It seems like an insult to
the _friendly_ character of a desk, to dress him smartly, seat him in a
fine apartment, and refuse to avail yourself of the amicable services he
tenders you.--The contents of these coxcombical _acquaintances_ are
seldom better than its fair owner’s private journal, (which no one
thinks worthy of perusal--herself of course excepted,) her album, and
scrap-book, the honourable Mr. Somebody’s poetical effusions, and the
sentimental correspondence of some equally silly young lady, her dearest
friend.
Then there is the clerk’s desk in a counting-house--there are no
pleasant associations connected with that mercantile scaffolding, with
its miniature balustrades at the top, partly intersected with accounts,
bills, and papers of all sorts, (referring to business,) and surrounded
by files clinging by their one hook. Above all this is seen the
semicircular scalp of a brown wig, which, as it is raised to reply to
your question, gradually discovers two eyes scowling at you from beneath
a pair of glaring spectacles, a little querulous turned-up nose, and a
mouth whose lines have become rigid with ill-humour, partly occasioned
by a too sedentary life.
Again, there is the pulpit desk, with its arrogant crimson
cushion--telling a tale of clerical presumption.
Lastly, there is the old bachelor’s desk. (Nay, do not curl up the
corners of your pretty mouths at me, sweet ladies--it may be worth while
to take a peep at it--at least, I cannot prevail upon _myself_ to omit
it in this notice of desks.) It is of the plain and quiet description
formerly mentioned, and very neatly and orderly arranged, both inside
and out. The latter is kept bright and shining by the indefatigable
hands of Sally the housemaid; who, while she breathes upon the plate to
give it a polish, at the same time breathes a wish (to herself) that her
breath possessed the magic power of unfastening locks, and so enabling
her to see “what the old gentleman keeps in this here box to make him so
fond on it.” The interior he takes infinite care to keep in complete and
exact order himself. Each particular compartment has its appropriate
contents consigned to it. The fold-down nearest to him, as he sits at
it, contains a small miniature within a red morocco case, of a placid
and gentle-faced girl, whose original sleeps for ever in the bosom of
the cold earth--a little box, containing a ring set with brilliants, and
enclosing a lock of _her_ hair--all _her_ letters carefully tied up with
green ribbon--a miniature edition of Shakspeare, and Milton, with his
name written in them in _her_ hand-writing. In the opposite fold, near
the receptacle for the pens, wafers, ink, &c. are his own little
writings, (for we are to suppose him fond of his pen, and as having
occasionally indulged that fondness,) of all of which he preserves neat
copies, some private memoranda, and an old pocket-book, given to him by
his old friend and school-fellow, admiral ----, when he left England
that year as a midshipman.
In the drawer are different letters from his friends; and, perhaps, at
the very back of it, a little hoard of gold pieces, bright and new from
the mint.
As I now lean upon my old friend and companion--my desk--I render it my
grateful acknowledgments for the many pleasant hours I have spent over
it; and also for its having been the means of my passing an agreeable
quarter of an hour with my gentle reader, of whom I now take a courteous
leave.
_July, 1827._