How lovely thou lookest now! now thou appearest
Chaster than is the morning's modesty
That rises with a blush, over whose bosom
The western wind creeps softly; now I remember
How, when she sat at table, her obedient eye
Would dwell on mine, as if it were not well,
Unless it look'd where I look'd: oh how proud
She was, when she could cross herself to please me!
But where now is this fair soul? Like a silver cloud
She hath wept herself, I fear, into the dead sea.
And will be found no more.
It is but doing right by the reader, if interested in the fate of
Abstemia by the preceding extracts, to say, that she was restored to
the arms and affections of her husband, rendered fonder than ever, by
that disposition in every good heart, to atone for past injustice, by
an overflowing measure of returning kindness:
Thou wealth, worth more than kingdoms; I am now
Confirmed past all suspicion; thou art far
Sweeter in thy sincere truth than a sacrifice
Deck'd up for death with garlands. The Indian winds
That blow from off the coast and cheer the sailor
With the sweet savour of their spices, want
The delight flows in thee.
I have been more affected and interested by this little dramatic
picture, than by many a popular love tale; though, as I said before, I
do not think it likely either Abstemia or patient Grizzle stand much
chance of being taken for a model. Still I like to see poetry now and
then extending its views beyond the wedding-day, and teaching a lady
how to make herself attractive even after marriage. There is no great
need of enforcing on an unmarried lady the necessity of being
agreeable; nor is there any great art requisite in a youthful beauty
to enable her to please. Nature has multiplied attractions around her.
Youth is in itself attractive. The freshness of budding beauty needs
no foreign aid to set it off; it pleases merely because it is fresh,
and budding, and beautiful. But it is for the married state that a
woman needs the most instruction, and in which she should be most on
her guard to maintain her powers of pleasing. No woman can expect to
be to her husband all that he fancied her when he was a lover. Men are
always doomed to be duped, not so much by the arts of the sex, as by
their own imaginations. They are always wooing goddesses, and marrying
mere mortals. A woman should, therefore, ascertain what was the charm
that rendered her so fascinating when a girl, and endeavour to keep it
up when she has become a wife. One great thing undoubtedly was, the
chariness of herself and her conduct, which an unmarried female always
observes. She should maintain the same niceness and reserve in her
person and habits, and endeavour still to preserve a freshness and
virgin delicacy in the eye of her husband. She should remember that
the province of woman is to be wooed, not to woo; to be caressed, not
to caress. Man is an ungrateful being in love; bounty loses instead of
winning him. The secret of a woman's power does not consist so much in
giving, as in withholding.
A woman may give up too much even to her husband. It is to a thousand
little delicacies of conduct that she must trust to keep alive
passion, and to protect herself from that dangerous familiarity, that
thorough acquaintance with every weakness and imperfection incident to
matrimony. By these means she may still maintain her power, though she
has surrendered her person, and may continue the romance of love even
beyond the honeymoon.
"She that hath a wise husband," says Jeremy Taylor, "must entice him
to an eternal dearnesse by the veil of modesty, and the grave robes of
chastity, the ornament of meekness, and the jewels of faith and
charity. She must have no painting but blushings; her brightness must
be purity, and she must shine round about with sweetness and
friendship; and she shall be pleasant while she lives, and desired
when she dies."
I have wandered into a rambling series of remarks on a trite subject,
and a dangerous one for a bachelor to meddle with. That I may not,
however, appear to confine my observations entirely to the wife, I
will conclude with another quotation from Jeremy Taylor, in which the
duties of both parties are mentioned; while I would recommend his
sermon on the marriage-ring to all those who, wiser than myself, are
about entering the happy state of wedlock.
"There is scarce any matter of duty but it concerns them both alike,
and is only distinguished by names, and hath its variety by
circumstances and little accidents: and what in one is called love, in
the other is called reverence; and what in the wife is obedience, the
same in the man is duty. He provides, and she dispenses; he gives
commandments, and she rules by them; he rules her by authority, and
she rules him by love; she ought by all means to please him, and he
must by no means displease her."
STORY TELLING.
A favorite evening pastime at the Hall, and one which the worthy
Squire is fond of promoting, is story telling, "a good, old-fashioned
fire-side amusement," as he terms it. Indeed, I believe he promotes
it, chiefly, because it was one of the choice recreations in those
days of yore, when ladies and gentlemen were not much in the habit of
reading. Be this as it may, he will often, at supper-table, when
conversation flags, call on some one or other of the company for a
story, as it was formerly the custom to call for a song; and it is
edifying to see the exemplary patience, and even satisfaction, with
which the good old gentleman will sit and listen to some hackneyed
tale that he has heard for at least a hundred times.
In this way, one evening, the current of anecdotes and stories ran
upon mysterious personages that have figured at different times, and
filled the world with doubt and conjecture; such as the Wandering Jew,
the Man with the Iron Mask, who tormented the curiosity of all Europe;
the Invisible Girl, and last, though not least, the Pig-faced Lady.
At length, one of the company was called upon that had the most
unpromising physiognomy for a story teller, that ever I had seen. He
was a thin, pale, weazen-faced man, extremely nervous, that had sat at
one corner of the table, shrunk up, as it were, into himself, and
almost swallowed up in the cape of his coat, as a turtle in its shell.
The very demand seemed to throw him into a nervous agitation; yet he
did not refuse. He emerged his head out of his shell, made a few odd
grimaces and gesticulations, before he could get his muscles into
order, or his voice under command, and then offered to give some
account of a mysterious personage that he had recently encountered in
the course of his travels, and one whom he thought fully entitled to
being classed with the Man with the Iron Mask.
I was so much struck with his extraordinary narrative, that I have
written it out to the best of my recollection, for the amusement of
the reader. I think it has in it all the elements of that mysterious
and romantic narrative, so greedily sought after at the present day.
THE STOUT GENTLEMAN.
A STAGE-COACH ROMANCE.
"I'll cross it, though it blast me!"
--_Hamlet_.
It was a rainy Sunday, in the gloomy month of November. I had been
detained, in the course of a journey, by a slight indisposition, from
which I was recovering; but I was still feverish, and was obliged to
keep within doors all day, in an inn of the small town of Derby. A wet
Sunday in a country inn!--whoever has had the luck to experience one
can alone judge of my situation.
The rain pattered against the casements; the bells tolled for church
with a melancholy sound. I went to the windows, in quest of something
to amuse the eye; but it seemed as if I had been placed completely out
of the reach of all amusement. The windows of my bed-room looked out
among tiled roofs and stacks of chimneys, while those of my
sitting-room commanded a full view of the stable-yard. I know of
nothing more calculated to make a man sick of this world, than a
stable-yard on a rainy day. The place was littered with wet straw,
that had been kicked about by travellers and stable-boys. In one
corner was a stagnant pool of water, surrounding an island of muck;
there were several half-drowned fowls crowded together under a cart,
among which was a miserable, crest-fallen cock, drenched out of all
life and spirit; his drooping tail matted, as it were, into a single
feather, along which the water trickled from his back; near the cart
was a half-dozing cow chewing the cud, and standing patiently to be
rained on, with wreaths of vapor rising from her reeking hide; a
wall-eyed horse, tired of the loneliness of the stable, was poking his
spectral head out of the window, with the rain dripping on it from the
eaves; an unhappy cur, chained to a dog-house hard by, uttered
something every now and then, between a bark and a yelp; a drab of a
kitchen-wench tramped backwards and forwards through the yard in
pattens, looking as sulky as the weather itself; every thing, in
short, was comfortless and forlorn, excepting a crew of hard-drinking
ducks, assembled like boon companions round a puddle, and making a
riotous noise over their liquor.
I was lonely and listless, and wanted amusement. My room soon became
insupportable. I abandoned it, and sought what is technically called
the travellers'-room. This is a public room set apart at most inns for
the accommodation of a class of wayfarers called travellers, or
riders; a kind of commercial knights-errant, who are incessantly
scouring the kingdom in gigs, on horseback, or by coach. They are the
only successors that I know of, at the present day, to the
knights-errant of yore. They lead the same kind of roving adventurous
life, only changing the lance for a driving-whip, the buckler for a
pattern-card, and the coat of mail for an upper Benjamin. Instead of
vindicating the charms of peerless beauty, they rove about spreading
the fame and standing of some substantial tradesman or manufacturer,
and are ready at any time to bargain in his name; it being the fashion
now-a-days to trade, instead of fight, with one another. As the room
of the hotel, in the good old fighting times, would be hung round at
night with the armour of wayworn warriors, such as coats of mail,
falchions, and yawning helmets; so the travellers room is garnished
with the harnessing of their successors, with box-coats, whips of all
kinds, spurs, gaiters, and oil-cloth covered hats.
I was in hopes of finding some of these worthies to talk with, but was
disappointed. There were, indeed, two or three in the room; but I
could make nothing of them. One was just finishing his breakfast,
quarrelling with his bread and butter, and huffing the waiter; another
buttoned on a pair of gaiters, with many execrations at Boots for not
having cleaned his shoes well; a third sat drumming on the table with
his fingers, and looking at the rain as it streamed down the
window-glass; they all appeared infected by the weather, and
disappeared, one after the other, without exchanging a word.
I sauntered to the window, and stood gazing at the people picking
their way to church, with petticoats hoisted mid-leg high, and
dripping umbrellas. The bell ceased to toll, and the streets became
silent. I then amused myself with watching the daughters of a
tradesman opposite; who, being confined to the house for fear of
wetting their Sunday finery, played off their charms at the front
windows, to fascinate the chance tenants of the inn. They at length
were summoned away by a vigilant vinegar-faced mother, and I had
nothing further from without to amuse me.
What was I to do to pass away the long-lived day? I was sadly nervous
and lonely; and every thing about an inn seems calculated to make a
dull day ten times duller. Old newspapers, smelling of beer and
tobacco-smoke, and which I had already read half-a-dozen
times--good-for-nothing books, that were worse than rainy weather. I
bored myself to death with an old volume of the Lady's Magazine. I
read all the commonplaced names of ambitious travellers scrawled on
the panes of glass; the eternal families of the Smiths, and the
Browns, and the Jacksons, and the Johnsons, and all the other sons;
and I deciphered several scraps of fatiguing inn-window poetry which I
have met with in all parts of the world.
The day continued lowering and gloomy; the slovenly, ragged, spongy
clouds drifted heavily along; there was no variety even in the rain:
it was one dull, continued, monotonous patter--patter--patter,
excepting that now and then I was enlivened by the idea of a brisk
shower, from the rattling of the drops upon a passing umbrella.
It was quite _refreshing_ (if I may be allowed a hackneyed phrase of
the day) when, in the course of the morning, a horn blew, and a
stage-coach whirled through the street, with outside passengers stuck
all over it, cowering under cotton umbrellas, and seethed together,
and reeking with the steams of wet box-coats and upper Benjamins.
The sound brought out from their lurking-places a crew of vagabond
boys, and vagabond dogs, and the carroty-headed hostler, and that
nondescript animal ycleped Boots, and all the other vagabond race that
infest the purlieus of an inn; but the bustle was transient; the coach
again whirled on its way; and boy and dog, and hostler and Boots, all
slunk back again to their holes; the street again became silent, and
the rain continued to rain on. In fact, there was no hope of its
clearing up; the barometer pointed to rainy weather; mine hostess'
tortoise-shell cat sat by the fire washing her face, and rubbing her
paws over her ears; and, on referring to the almanac, I found a
direful prediction stretching from the top of the page to the bottom
through the whole month, "expect--much--rain--about--this--time."
I was dreadfully hipped. The hours seemed as if they would never creep
by. The very ticking of the clock became irksome. At length the
stillness of the house was interrupted by the ringing of a bell.
Shortly after, I heard the voice of a waiter at the bar: "The stout
gentleman in No. 13 wants his breakfast. Tea and bread and butter with
ham and eggs; the eggs not to be too much done."
In such a situation as mine, every incident is of importance.
Here was a subject of speculation presented to my mind, and ample
exercise for my imagination. I am prone to paint pictures to myself,
and on this occasion I had some materials to work upon. Had the guest
up-stairs been mentioned as Mr. Smith, or Mr. Brown, or Mr. Jackson,
or Mr. Johnson, or merely as "the gentleman in No. 13," it would have
been a perfect blank to me. I should have thought nothing of it; but
"The stout gentleman!"--the very name had something in it of the
picturesque. It at once gave the size; it embodied the personage to my
mind's eye, and my fancy did the rest.
He was stout, or, as some term it, lusty; in all probability,
therefore, he was advanced in life, some people expanding as they grow
old. By his breakfasting rather late, and in his own room, he must be
a man accustomed to live at his ease, and above the necessity of early
rising; no doubt a round, rosy, lusty old gentleman.
There was another violent ringing. The stout gentleman was impatient
for his breakfast. He was evidently a man of importance; "well-to-do
in the world;" accustomed to be promptly waited upon; of a keen
appetite, and a little cross when hungry; "perhaps," thought I, "he
maybe be some London Alderman; or who knows but he may be a Member of
Parliament?"
The breakfast was sent up and there was a short interval of silence;
he was, doubtless, making the tea. Presently there was a violent
ringing, and before it could be answered, another ringing still more
violent. "Bless me! what a choleric old gentleman!" The waiter came
down in a huff. The butter was rancid, the eggs were overdone, the ham
was too salt:--the stout gentleman was evidently nice in his eating;
one of those who eat and growl, and keep the waiter on the trot, and
live in a state militant with the household.
The hostess got into a fume. I should observe that she was a brisk,
coquettish woman; a little of a shrew, and something of a slammerkin,
but very pretty withal; with a nincompoop for a husband, as shrews are
apt to have. She rated the servants roundly for their negligence in
sending up so bad a breakfast, but said not a word against the stout
gentleman; by which I clearly perceived that he must be a man of
consequence, entitled to make a noise and to give trouble at a country
inn. Other eggs, and ham, and bread and butter, were sent up. They
appeared to be more graciously received; at least there was no further
complaint.
I had not made many turns about the travellers'-room, when there was
another ringing. Shortly afterwards there was a stir and an inquest
about the house. The stout gentleman wanted the Times or the Chronicle
newspaper. I set him down, therefore, for a whig; or rather, from his
being so absolute and lordly where he had a chance, I suspected him of
being a radical. Hunt, I had heard, was a large man; "who knows,"
thought I, "but it is Hunt himself!"
My curiosity began to be awakened. I inquired of the waiter who was
this stout gentleman that was making all this stir; but I could get no
information; nobody seemed to know his name. The landlords of bustling
inns seldom trouble their heads about the names or occupations of
their transient guests. The colour of a coat, the shape or size of the
person, is enough to suggest a travelling name. It is either the tall
gentleman, or the short gentleman, or the gentleman in black, or the
gentleman in snuff-colour; or, as in the present instance, the stout
gentleman. A designation of the kind once hit on answers every
purpose, and saves all further inquiry.
Rain--rain--rain! pitiless, ceaseless rain! No such thing as putting a
foot out of doors, and no occupation nor amusement within. By and by I
heard some one walking overhead. It was in the stout gentleman's room.
He evidently was a large man, by the heaviness of his tread; and an
old man, from his wearing such creaking soles. "He is doubtless,"
thought I, "some rich old square-toes, of regular habits, and is now
taking exercise after breakfast."
I now read all the advertisements of coaches and hotels that were
stuck about the mantel-piece. The Lady's Magazine had become an
abomination to me; it was as tedious as the day itself. I wandered
out, not knowing what to do, and ascended again to my room. I had not
been there long, when there was a squall from a neighbouring bed-room.
A door opened and slammed violently; a chamber-maid, that I had
remarked for having a ruddy, good-humoured face, went down-stairs in a
violent flurry. The stout gentleman had been rude to her.
This sent a whole host of my deductions to the deuce in a moment. This
unknown personage could not be an old gentleman; for old gentlemen are
not apt to be so obstreperous to chamber-maids. He could not be a
young gentleman; for young gentlemen are not apt to inspire such
indignation. He must be a middle-aged man, and confounded ugly into
the bargain, or the girl would not have taken the matter in such
terrible dudgeon. I confess I was sorely puzzled.
In a few minutes I heard the voice of my landlady. I caught a glance
of her as she came tramping up-stairs; her face glowing, her cap
flaring, her tongue wagging the whole way. "She'd have no such doings
in her house, she'd warrant! If gentlemen did spend money freely, it
was no rule. She'd have no servant maids of hers treated in that way,
when they were about their work, that's what she wouldn't!"
As I hate squabbles, particularly with women, and above all with
pretty women, I slunk back into my room, and partly closed the door;
but my curiosity was too much excited not to listen. The landlady
marched intrepidly to the enemy's citadel, and entered it with a
storm: the door closed after her. I heard her voice in high windy
clamour for a moment or two. Then it gradually subsided, like a gust
of wind in a garret; then there was a laugh; then I heard nothing
more.
After a little while, my landlady came out with an odd smile on her
face, adjusting her cap, which was a little on one side. As she wont
down-stairs, I heard the landlord ask her what was the matter; she
said, "Nothing at all, only the girl's a fool." I was more than ever
perplexed what to make of this unaccountable personage, who could put
a good-natured chamber-maid in a passion, and send away a termagant
landlady in smiles. He could not be so old, nor cross, nor ugly
either.
I had to go to work at his picture again, and to paint him entirely
different. I now set him down for one of those stout gentlemen that
are frequently met with, swaggering about the doors of country inns.
Moist, merry fellows, in Belcher handkerchiefs, whose bulk is a little
assisted by malt liquors. Men who have seen the world, and been sworn
at Highgate; who are used to tavern life; up to all the tricks of
tapsters, and knowing in the ways of sinful publicans. Free-livers on
a small scale; who are prodigal within the compass of a guinea; who
call all the waiters by name, touzle the maids, gossip with the
landlady at the bar, and prose over a pint of port, or a glass of
negus, after dinner.
The morning wore away in forming of these and similar surmises. As
fast as I wove one system of belief, some movement of the unknown
would completely overturn it, and throw all my thoughts again into
confusion. Such are the solitary operations of a feverish mind. I was,
as I have said, extremely nervous; and the continual meditation on the
concerns of this invisible personage began to have its effect:--I was
getting a fit of the fidgets.
Dinner-time came. I hoped, the stout gentleman might dine in the
travellers'-room, and that I might at length get a view of his person;
but no--he had dinner served in his own room. What could be the
meaning of this solitude and mystery? He could not be a radical; there
was something too aristocratical in thus keeping himself apart from
the rest of the world, and condemning himself to his own dull company
throughout a rainy day. And then, too, he lived too well for a
discontented politician. He seemed to expatiate on a variety of
dishes, and to sit over his wine like a jolly friend of good living.
Indeed, my doubts on this head were soon at an end; for he could not
have finished his first bottle before I could faintly hear him humming
a tune; and on listening, I found it to be "God save the King." 'Twas
plain, then, he was no radical, but a faithful subject; one that grew
loyal over his bottle, and was ready to stand by king and
constitution, when he could stand by nothing else. But who could he
be? My conjectures began to run wild. Was he not some personage of
distinction, traveling incog.? "God knows!" said I, at my wit's end;
"it may be one of the royal family for aught I know, for they are all
stout gentlemen!"
The weather continued rainy. The mysterious unknown kept his room,
and, as far as I could judge, his chair, for I did not hear him move.
In the meantime, as the day advanced, the travellers'-room began to be
frequented. Some, who had just arrived, came in buttoned up in
box-coats; others came home, who had been dispersed about the town.
Some took their dinners, and some their tea. Had I been in a different
mood, I should have found entertainment in studying this peculiar
class of men. There were two especially, who were regular wags of the
road, and up to all the standing jokes of travellers. They had a
thousand sly things to say to the waiting-maid, whom they called
Louisa, and Ethelinda, and a dozen other fine names, changing the name
every time, and chuckling amazingly at their own waggery. My mind,
however, had become completely engrossed by the stout gentleman. He
had kept my fancy in chase during a long day, and it was not now to be
diverted from the scent.