Winklehaven stood at its worst, the population of the town consisted of
infirm old people suffering from remorse, gout, and other afflictions
proceeding from the excesses of youth, and such spinsters as were
rejected by the young rakes of the preceding era. The moral aspect of
the place changed in those years; it was no longer unholy, but, indeed,
the most virtuous of human settlements.
The fishermen were too old and weak to beat their wives, and their
failing memories could supply them with no oaths suitable to express
their feelings. The wicked parson and the smugglers were no more; there
wasn't a young man in the place, and the ladies who called themselves
young were irreproachable.
It might strike the unthinking as an extraordinary peculiarity that a
place so very, very good should require a curate in addition to a deaf
rector. Nevertheless such was the case--a curate was wanted, and wanted
very much by the congregation of St. Tickleimpit's--the unblemished
spinsters, who called themselves young. They would have a curate, and
Mr. Lillywhite Lambe, B.A., they had.
Now as the snow falls like a veil of purity over the face of the earth,
only to melt and besmirch it before the lasting season of blossoming
sweetness, so Mr. Lillywhite Lambe, B.A., came to Winklehaven and passed
away before it attained to its present buttercup-and-daisy condition of
virtue; and the manner of his going this pen shall tell.
Mr. Lillywhite Lambe, B.A., was a curate of the deepest dye. He had not
so much principle as a bankrupt, and he came to Winklehaven with the
settled purpose of marrying the richest and least objectionable of his
congregation. The difficulties in his way were few. In personal
appearance and demeanour he was so simple and sweet that even the rector
was mistaken and thought him a fool, and what more could a girl of
five-and-forty desire?
It was not a question which he _could_ marry from amongst the eighteen
or twenty tempting creatures around him, but rather which he should
reject. They surrounded him like a glory wherever he went, waiting for
him at his coming out and never leaving him until his going in. Seldom
less than half-a-dozen spinsters accompanied him; they liked him too
much and each other too little to trust him with one alone. And they
wrote letters to him marked "private," containing the burning thoughts
they dared not express in the presence of their sisters. Each was
tantamount to an offer of marriage; but he was yet undecided in his
selection, and replied to all with touching yet ambiguous texts. At this
time he suffered somewhat from bile, for his most active exercise was
wool-winding, and the ladies buttered his toast on both sides and the
edges.
But anon there came a man with a black beard and a devil-may-care aspect
to Winklehaven, and took for six months the cottage on the deserted West
Cliff, which had belonged to Black Bill in the bad old times.
The stranger snubbed the inquisitive tradesman of whom he bought his
groceries; he ordered his bacon by the side, his beer by the barrel, and
his whisky by the largest of stone bottles. He laughed aloud when he
passed in the High Street Mr. Lambe with the three Misses Cockle on one
side of him, and the three Misses Crabbe on the other. The ladies had
not any doubt that he was a bold bad man, and declared one and all that
nothing would tempt them to venture upon that dreadful West Cliff.
But, sinners being so few, they could not but feel interested in this
man with the black beard and dark eyes, and when he came not to church
on Sunday they implored the rector to visit him.
The rector said he would not go (and privately swore it, in episcopal
terms, for he hated walking and sinners equally), but he offered the
services of his curate; and the congregation, though it fain would have
spared its pet curate so dangerous a mission, could not refuse to
accept.
Mr. Lillywhite Lambe, B.A., found it difficult to conceal his delight at
the prospect before him, for an excess of ladies and butter was killing
him. He had not enjoyed half an hour's freedom in the open air since his
arrival at Winklehaven; it seemed to him years since he smoked a morning
pipe. His bowels yearned towards beer from the barrel and whiskey from
stone jars.
That last evening he was ever to spend in his lodgings at Winklehaven he
occupied in preparations for the morrow. He looked up the pipe he had
brought with him but never smoked, and tobacco--dry and dusty, yet
fragrant as hay new mown, and pipe-lights, and a French novel; these he
stuffed into the pockets of his alpaca coat, ingeniously overlaying them
with his pamphlet confuting the doctrines of the Primitive Bedlamites.
In the morning he rose gaily; and when he had parted with his anxious
flock at the foot of the west hill, he ascended the steep path, like a
cherub climbing a cloud, without sense of exertion, and as one who is
resolved to make a day of it.
A walk of two miles was before him, but he did not hurry himself after
he had lost sight of the spinsters and the church weathercock. He
stopped, took off his collar and band, bared his shirt front to the
breeze, and took a deep inspiration. Then he threw himself on the thymy
grass and tasted liberty. He smoked three pipes; he read two chapters
and a half of the novel, skipping the moral parts; he dropped the book,
turned over on his chest, and with his clerical hat tilted sideways over
his eyes, he watched the distant ships for half an hour; after that he
lay on his back, drew a handkerchief over his eyes and went to sleep. He
slumbered for two blessed hours, and then waking athirst, thought kindly
of the sinner who kept his beer in barrels and whisky in cool stoneware.
So he pulled himself into Evangelical shape again and stepped out
briskly for the smuggler's cottage, smacking his lips. But, alas, the
cottage door was barred, and there was no trace of the black-bearded
sinner, save a flitch of bacon and the beer barrel which stood in the
most inaccessible of pantries.
He must wait. Once more he sat upon the short grass, and to beguile the
time, drew out the budget of letters sent by his admiring congregation.
He read them through, one after another, with the view of forming a
comparative estimate of the writer's value, but the difficulty of
selecting one seemed greater than ever.
The temporal and spiritual worth of each was represented by
_x_. With the chance of facilitating his choice he had recourse
to his pencil, with which he was tolerably skilful, and on the
back of each letter he drew a portrait of its sender. These
spinsters were beyond flattery, so he caricatured them to find
which must certainly be rejected as the worst looking.
In this amusing occupation the time would have passed unheeded but for
Mr. Lambe's increasing dryness. There was no water to be had, no, nor
wine, and the interior of the young curate's mouth felt like brown paper
to his tongue. It suddenly came to his mind that a dip in the cool sea
would refresh his body, now suffering from external in addition to
internal dryness. For the hour was two, the month July, and the sun
unclouded, and he determined at once to bathe, wondering why he had not
availed himself of this blessing of freedom. Except in a footbath he had
not bathed during the term of his curacy at Winklehaven. How could he,
where there was neither seclusion nor bathing machine?
The tide was at ebb, and a long stretch of sand lay between the cliff
and the sea; but near the water's edge stood a rock, and thither Mr.
Lambe betook himself. On the cliff side was a little shelf dried by the
sun, and on this he laid his clothes neatly; then with a smile
irradiating his countenance, he slapped his thin legs and ran down into
the bursting waves. Quickly he lost all thought of thirst--of
everything, save the enjoyment of the moment. He swam in every
conceivable position, bent in girlish fashion to meet the coming waves,
and floundered about like a porpoise.
It was whilst turning over head and heels that he caught sight of that
which, in a moment, sobered him--a petticoat upon the cliff--another,
another! yet others, each with a wearer! They were not a thousand yards
from the cottage on the cliff--those ladies whose outlines he
recognised, even at their remote distance from him. Full well he knew
they had come to look for him. What was he to do? How could he face
them, how avoid? He had thought to dry himself like a raisin in the sun;
that now was impossible. Equally impracticable was it to clothe himself
wet; before he had a sock on he would be observed, for there was no
ledge upon the sea-ward side of the rock, and the flowing waves already
touched its base.
The only place of concealment was behind the rock, and there he must
stay until the ladies retired.
He lay in the water, and through a chink in the rock watched his
pursuers; their voices, in high-pitched consultation, reached his ear.
They examined the cottage on the cliff, and then descended to the rocks
at its base. It was only natural that the ladies should think their
beloved curate murdered. They had not seen him for six hours; and his
destruction at the hands of the black-bearded man was the worst
explanation of his protracted absence that entered their imagination.
This fear had led them to follow in his footsteps; and now, as they
poked their sun-shades in the fissures of the rocks, it was with the
expectation of finding his corpse.
Mr. Lambe was fervently thankful that the rising tide kept them from his
place of concealment, and watched their movements fixedly, until the
cramp seized his leg; and then, in the limited space of his seclusion,
he exercised his ingenuity to keep the vital heat within him.
Occasionally he glanced at the shore. When the ladies were fatigued,
they systematically divided their number--one going to search, whilst
the other rested. Hour after hour passed, and every minute brought fresh
cramps and racking pains to the limbs of the sodden curate. He had to
put his lips between his teeth, lest their violent chattering should
proclaim his whereabouts; and he cried like a child when he found his
body assuming the blue tints of an unboiled lobster.
But still those doting spinsters poked amongst the sea-weed with
unceasing zeal.
The sun was wearing the horizon, when he heard a scream, and beheld the
second Miss Cockle pointing in the direction of his rock.
Mr. Lambe was perplexed: it was impossible that his eye, peeping through
the small chink, had been discovered; but a moment later his perplexity
gave place to horror, as he perceived his hat bobbing gaily on the waves
between him and the shore. It was followed by his stockings, and behind
them in procession his waistcoat, coat--everything! all washed away from
the nice little ledge by the rising tide. He had never given his clothes
a thought from the moment he neatly packed them. But had that
consideration entered his mind, it could only have added to his anxiety:
for it would have been impossible to get them from the place where they
lay on the coast-side of the rock without displaying himself. Heedless
of their boots, the ladies hooked at the oncoming vestments with their
sunshades; and, now, one has his collar, another his dear hat, and a
third his blessed braces, whilst their cries of woe echo along the
coast.
When his coat was fished out, what could be expected, but that the
ladies all should dash at his pockets with a view to gratifying their
curiosity, and rescuing the letters which betrayed their most private
feelings.
With groans, Mr. Lambe beheld his pipe and tobacco brought forth, amidst
cries of astonishment, then the French novel; and, finally, the bundle
of letters. He could not bear to see the result, when each, seizing the
letter in her own handwriting, should find her caricature thereon; and
dropping his head, he beat it with his fist--partly in frenzy, partly to
promote the circulation of his stagnating blood.
* * * * *
The black-bearded man returned to the cottage as the ladies, carrying
the only remains they could find of their curate, were leaving his
vicinity. He was not displeased that he was later than usual in
returning; for although he loved the beautiful, he did not like the
ladies of Winklehaven.
He lived by painting pictures, this pariah of the West Cliff;
nevertheless, he had some good qualities, and when half an hour later a
nude study, shivering and wet, presented itself in his doorway craving
to be taken in out of the night wind, he asked no question until he had
wrapped him in warm blankets, and filled him with strong liquors.
Mr. Lillywhite Lambe never returned to his curacy, never married a rich
spinster. His disappearance was not inquired into deeply. Some people
preferred to think of him as dead and sainted. He was supposed to be
drowned, and his ghost was said to be visible at times upon the West
Cliff--generally with a pipe in his mouth. And as his costume was that
of the black man, who was habitually at his side, it was further
supposed that he had, in that first visit to the cottage on the cliff,
sold himself to the D----.
(_By permission of the Author._)
A MATHEMATIC MADNESS.
F. P. DEMPSTER.
For months I had been "grinding" Mathematics day and night
When Miss McGirton cast on my affections such a blight;
My mind unhinged now only creaks, and when I tell my woes
I'm forced to lisp in _numbers_ what I'd rather say in prose.
Sweet maiden _perpendicular_! She gave a _slanting_ sigh
As o'er my kneeling form she cast a calculating eye.
"Ah! well" said I, "you _cipher_ me, for if you'll not be mine
From out this pocket next my heart I'll _straight produce a line_;
So ere you are, dear _Polly_, _gone_, pray heed your lover's vow,
Or he dangles _at right angles_ to some _horizontal_ bough."
The maid flew in no _frustrum_--like your giddy gushing girls--
But standing calm and frigid, shook her strictly _spiral_ curls,
And said, "You see we're equal as to station: very well!
_Our paths in life could never meet, because they're parallel._"
Her voice was so serrated that I fled this maid antique;
Then, approaching her _obliquely_, _at a tangent_ took her cheek!
The kiss was too _elliptical_! She vanished into space!
And a circulating obelisk now marks the fatal place.
Weeks fled. My doctor shook his head and said, "You must embark
For an utter change." I did: and went aboard a leaky _Arc_
Bound for the hot _Quadratics_, where I landed for a week,
And joined the aborigines in every savage freak.
I felled primeval forests with the _axes of a cube_,
At the feathery _Parabolas_ I aimed the loaded tube;
(For while aboard the Arc, you see, I found on _deck a gun_,
And, cunning as a Crusoe, put it by for future fun.)
While safe within some _brackets_ I have watched those bulky brutes,
The snorting _Parallelograms_ that feed upon _square roots_;
Their noise would rouse the forest till each denizen therein
Woke up and did its "level best" to swell the horrid din.
Oh! the shrieking of the _Cylinder_! the _Pyramid's base_ moan,
The clucking of the _Sector_ and the cooing of the _Cone_!
Then a lull perhaps, while distant ululations would reveal
The natives chanting grace before their missionary meal.
In truth it was an evil place, for a _Vinculum_ might rise
At any moment in your path and wobble its wild eyes;
And oft, when looking for a _log_ I'd shake in ev'ry joint
For fear some deadly _Decimal_ might sting me with its _point_.
At last I plucked up courage, though, and even gained renown
In getting gallant trophies for my home in Camden Town:
I killed the cruel _Quatrefoil_ to take her snarling cub,
Or doubled up a cannibal to get his graven club;
I trapped the roaring _Rhombuses_, those beasts of fearful strength,
And the _Parallelopipedon_, a snake of awful length;
Oft I bestrode the _Algebra_ and charged in wild career
The proud opaque _Hypotenuse_ and jabbed him with my spear.
'Tis past! I'm now in London: yet my reason's all awry.
I'm yearning for a vanished maid who gave a slanting sigh.
Nor may we meet in Dreamland: e'en there I'm robbed of rest,
For a wizened old _Trapezium_ sits sulking on my chest;
Or two _triangles_ she jangles with a semilunar leer,
Till I wake--with hair erect--in one _diagonal_ of fear!
And mark to the clang of _symbols_, phantom figures march all day
In _co-efficient_ cohorts--_Major Axis_ leads the way.
In short, from early morn until I shuffle off to bed,
But one equation's clear to me,--_o_=_ayz_.
(_By permission of the Author._)
WAITING AT TOTTLEPOT.
J. ASHBY-STERRY.
An hour to wait! Well that's a nuisance, but I suppose there is no help
for it.
I cannot possibly go on without my portmanteau. And they may send the
wrong one after all. I believe my friend the dismal porter--the faded
misanthrope in corduroys, only telegraphed for a brown portmanteau.
There are probably twenty brown portmanteaux at this present moment
waiting at Jigby Junction, and if I know anything of railway officials,
they will be sure to send the wrong one. So here I must wait.
I suppose I must have made a mistake in the train. No trap, dog-cart, or
conveyance of any kind to meet me from Clewmere. Wonder whether they had
my telegram. The Faded Misanthrope says he is quite certain nothing has
been over from Clewmere since the day before yesterday. And then he says
Sir Charles and some of the young ladies came in the waggonette. They
waited to see two trains in, he told me, and then drove away saying
there must be some mistake. Hope I did not say Tuesday instead of
Thursday, or what is far more likely, write Thursday to look like
Tuesday. I ask my friend the porter if there is any other way of getting
to Clewmere. "No," he says, "it is a longish walk, a matter of twelve or
thirteen miles, and a pretty rough road too."
"Now," he says "if it had only been Saturday instead of Thursday, there
is Smaggleton's 'bus, as 'ud put you down within five minutes' walk of
the lodge. Smaggleton don't run every day, he don't; he only runs o'
Saturdays, bein' market day at Stamborough, and a pooty full load he
gets there and back, which pays Smaggleton very well. And Smaggleton
wants it," he continues, "what with the branch line to Stamborough,
Smaggleton's business ain't what it was; he can't afford to turn up his
nose at a few farmers and their missusses now-a-days. Smaggleton must
take things as they come--the good and the bad, the rough and the
smooth--as well as the rest of us. Lor, bless you, Sir, I recollect when
Smaggleton used to drive about in his dog-cart, in a light top coat, a
white hat and a rose in his button-hole, he always was quite the----"
As I do not feel particularly interested in the rise, progress or
downfall of Smaggleton, I am obliged to interrupt my garrulous friend,
and ask if they did not let out flys at the Crackleton Arms, hard by. He
informs me, they certainly do "in a usual way." But he adds, they have
only two flys. One is having something done to the wheels, and the other
went away early this morning to take some friends of Squire Bullamore's
to a pic-nic. He furthermore tells me that Cudgerry, the carrier, would
perhaps be able to give me a lift, but he would not be here till seven
o'clock this evening. As they dine at Clewmere at eight, of course
Cudgerry is quite out of the question. My friend shakes his head, he
retires into a dark, greasy room, which seems to be devoted to lamps,
and I continue my walk up and down the platform.
Cannot imagine why they ever built a station at Tottlepot. Nobody ever
wants to stop at Tottlepot, there is no trade at Tottlepot--indeed,
nobody ought to be allowed to stop at Tottlepot; and Tottlepot as a
Station ought to be forthwith disestablished and erased from the railway
map of Great Britain. If I had left the train at Jigby Junction, I
should not have lost my portmanteau, I could have hired a fly, and
should by this time have been quietly lunching at Clewmere Court instead
of pacing up and down the Tottlepot platform like a wild beast in his
den.
I have often waited at stations before. Every kind of station, little
and big, all over the Continent and England, and have generally found
that waiting productive of considerable amusement. But Tottlepot is
quite a different thing. I think it was Albert Smith who once spoke of
the depth of dulness being achieved by "spending a wet Sunday, all by
yourself, in a hack cab in the middle of Salisbury Plain." Had he been
compelled to wait on a fine Thursday at Tottlepot he would have
discovered a depth yet lower. The only thing in my favour is, it is
fine. If it were wet I cannot imagine what I should do. There is a small
room I see labelled "Waiting-Room." It is about the size of a
bathing-machine and half filled with parcels and bandboxes. If you had
to wait there you would be compelled to sit with your legs right across
the down platform; the only use of that waiting-room would be to keep
your hat dry.
There is not a refreshment room, there is not even a book-stall. I cannot
even cheer myself with an ancient bath bun, a glass of cloudy beer, or
two penny-worth of acidulated drops. (If there happened to be a
refreshment room at Tottlepot that is exactly the kind of refreshment
they would give you). Neither can I pass away the time by purchasing a
penny paper, and taking a free read of all the novels and publications
awaiting purchasers. There are no advertisements, no lovely oil
paintings of sea-side resorts, which are all the more charming from
being not the least like the place they are supposed to represent; there
are no bills of entertainments; no auctioneers' and house-agents'
notices; no posters concerning hotels, nor glass-cases containing
photographic specimens. It is just the place for Mark Tapley to come to
as station-master. And he, with all his power of being jolly under the
most disadvantageous circumstances, would probably be found under the
wheels of a passing express within a fortnight.
And talking about the station-master reminds me I have not yet seen
him. Possibly my friend, the Faded Misanthrope in corduroys, is
station-master. If so, he has to clean the lamps, send telegrams, take
and issue tickets, look after the baggage, attend to the signals,
cultivate his garden, pay visits to the Crackleton Arms, and superintend
the traffic of the station generally. I do not wonder at his appearing
to be somewhat depressed. The only thing of a lively nature I see about
the place is a fine black cat, with enormous green eyes, which might be
utilised as "caution" signals when the porter, in consequence of his
multifarious duties, was unable to reach the signal-box. This cat was
evidently very much pleased to see me indeed. It followed me up and down
the platform like a dog, and it purred like a saw-pit in full work.
A very tiny pale governess, with two big bouncing rosy girls, in the
highest of spirits, the shortest of petticoats and the longest of hair,
cross the line. I fancy those young ladies are daughters of the Vicar,
and I may meet their excellent mamma at dinner to-night. The governess
passes demurely through the side wicket. One of her charges tries to do
a sort of Blondin feat by walking along the glistening iron rail and
falls down; the eldest boldly clambers over the five-barred gate and
shows a shapely pair of legs, clad in sable hose and snow-white frilled
pantalettes. "What did I tell you, Lil?" says the governess in the
mildest voice to the first. "Very well, Gil, wait till we get home!" she
remarks in yet sweeter tones to the second. The two children rejoin her
at once and take her hand, and disappear down the lane. I am left to
wonder how she acquires this influence over them, for they are as tall
as she is and infinitely stronger--they could eat her, were they so
minded. I wonder too what will happen to Gil when they get home? Will
mamma be told? No, I fancy this mild little governess is quite equal to
controlling, unaided, these big bouncing girls.