_(For the Mirror.)_
Mr. Hardingham, or as some of his very intimate friends used to call
him, Jack Hardingham, lived in a dull looking house in ---- Square, his
profession (the law) was dull, his fire and fireside were dull; and as
he sat by the former one dull evening, in the dullest of all his dull
humours, and of such the lonely bachelor had many, he sighed, kicked his
shins, and looked into his books; but as that was like gazing upon a
very ugly face, he shut them again, and rang the bell. It was answered
by a portly dame, whose age might be about some four or five and forty,
whose complexion was fair, whose chubby cheeks were brilliantly rosy,
and whose black eyes were so vividly lustrous, that one might have
fancied the delicate cap-border near them, in danger from their fire.
Over her full-formed bust, she wore a clear, and stiffly-starched muslin
habit-shirt of purest white, a beautiful lace-edged ruff around her
throat, over her ample shoulders was thrown a fawn-coloured shawl, and
she wore also, a silver gray gown of the material called Norwich crape,
with an apron rivalling in whiteness cap, habit-shirt, and ruff. We are
particular in describing the costume of this fair creature, because when
_dress_ is invariably the same, it has unity with _person_; it is
identified with its wearer, and our affections even are caught and
retained by it, in a manner of which few are aware. On the exterior of
the lady whom we have endeavoured to portray, "housekeeper" was as
indelibly stamped as the effigy of our king on the coin of the realm;
and in a most soft and insinuating tone, she said, "Would you be pleased
to want any thing, sir?"
"Yes, Mrs. Honeydew--go and ask if they can't let me have De Vere."
"Yes, sir."
"Or the Chronicles of the Canongate."
"Yes, sir."
"Or Anne of Geierstein."
"Yes, sir."
"Or the Loves of the Poets."
"Yes, sir."
"Or, d'ye hear, hang it, tell Mr. Mason there are seven or eight other
new works, the names of which I have forgotten, and he must recollect."
"Certainly, sir."
"Stop, stop--don't be in such a hurry--tell him, he has never ordered
for me the Quarterly, as I desired--that I want to see the United
Service Journal, and Blackwood for the month; and that if he chooses to
charge four pence a night for his new novels, I'll not read one of
them."
"Of course, sir; I'll tell him, for 'tis a shame, a real shame, for any
body to _repose_ on, as one may say, a gentleman like yourself. Never
fear, but I'll tell him."
The lady retired, the door closed, and Mr. Hardingham sighed, "A worthy
creature is Martha Honeydew." "Come in," cried the gentleman in a most
amiable tone, as he presently recognised his housekeeper's tap at the
parlour door, and with a curtsey she entered.
"O law, law! Mr. Hardingham, sir--Mr. Mason says--but I don't like to
give you all his message, indeed I don't--Mr. Mason says--but I hope
you'll never send me on such an _arrant_ again--he says, sir--O but I'm
sorry for it, that I am--he says then, that the _Quarter_ you _ax'd_
for, ar'n't come yet, and there's time enough for you to read it in when
it _do_; that the Blackwood and the Officers' Magazine are _hout_; that
you may go without your new novels afore he'll let you have 'em
_chaiper_ than other folks, (and there's a shocking shame, sir!) and as
for the works you mentioned, there's fifty new ones at least to choose
from; but he can't remember what you don't be pleased to recollect
yourself. Dear heart! to think of a gentleman like you, sir, being
_trated_ thus; why, my blood _biled_ within me; and I wouldn't demean
myself to bring back any thing for you from that place; but I took the
liberty, sir, to get you 'Damon and Dorinda,' a sweet pretty thing, from
another."
"Ah!" sighed the bachelor, "I see there's nobody in this world cares for
poor Jack Hardingham, but Martha Honeydew;" and he felt sorry that his
housekeeper had departed ere his lips had emitted this grateful praise.
Yes, Mr. Hardingham felt vexed he scarcely knew why; and uncommonly
discontented he knew not wherefore; but had he troubled himself to
analyze such feelings, he would have discerned their origin to be
solitude and idleness. Mrs. Honeydew brought tea; she had buttered a
couple of muffins superlatively well; and making her master's fire burn
exceedingly bright, placed them on the cat before it, and a kettle,
which immediately commenced a delicate bravura, upon the glowing coals;
then, modestly waiting at the distance of a few paces from her master
until the water quite boiled, she fixed her brilliant eyes upon his
countenance with an expression _intended_ to be _piteous_.
"Mrs. Honeydew--Martha," said Hardingham in a low querulous tone, "I
fancy I'm going to have a fit of the gout, or a bilious fever."
"_Fancy_, indeed, sir; why, I never saw you looking haler."
"Ay, Ay, so much the worse; a fit of apoplexy then maybe."
"Lauk, lauk! sir; a fit of the blue devils more likely. How can you talk
so? A fit of _perplexity_! Dear, dear! how some men do go on to be
sure;" pouring the steaming water upon the tea.
"You are a kind comforter, Martha; nobody ever raises my spirits like
you. Get me my little leathern trunk."
"Why, then, that I won't;" getting it down from a closet-shelf as she
spoke. "I wish it was burnt with all my heart, that I do; making you so
_lammancholy_ as it always _do_."
And well might this trunk make Mr. Hardingham melancholy, for it was the
receptacle of letters and little gifts of a lady who had jilted him in
early life; and upon whom he had often vowed vengeance. She was yet
unmarried; but--no--her once devoted admirer was resolved to follow the
lady's advice, and place his "affections upon a worthier object than
Caroline Dalton;" and, thought he to himself, she shall at last see that
I have _found one_; nor shall wild Tom, my graceless nephew, who lives
upon my fortune, ever more touch one penny of it. The postman rapped,
and in a few minutes his housekeeper appeared with many apologies for
bringing to him her own newspaper, but perhaps in it he might be able to
find the names of some of the new novels that he wished to have.
"Martha Honeydew," cried Hardingham with a smile, the first he had
sported that week, "I am, as you know, a man of but few words, and
straight-forward in my dealings; say that you can fancy me, and I'll
marry you tomorrow."
Mrs. Honeydew's reply will be surmised; Caroline Dalton saw who was
preferred before her, and the bachelor's revenge ruined wild Tom; for
Hardingham settled all his property upon his wife, and a pretty life the
amiable creature led him.