Hardly had the last sound of the drum passed out of hearing, when the
elastic thunder of a fresh one claimed attention. The truth being, that
the Junction Club of Ipley and Hillford, whose colours were yellow and
blue, was a seceder from the old-established Hillford Club, on which
it had this day shamefully stolen a march by parading everywhere in
the place of it, and disputing not only its pasture-grounds but its
identity.
There is no instrument the sound of which proclaims such a vast internal
satisfaction as the drum. I know not whether it be that the sense we
have of the corpulency of this instrument predisposes us to imagine it
supremely content: as when an alderman is heard snoring the world is
assured that it listens to the voice of its own exceeding gratulation.
A light heart in a fat body ravishes not only the world but the
philosopher. If monotonous, the one note of the drum is very correct.
Like the speaking of great Nature, what it means is implied by the
measure. When the drum beats to the measure of a common human pulsation
it has a conquering power: inspiring us neither to dance nor to trail
the members, but to march as life does, regularly, and in hearty good
order, and with a not exhaustive jollity. It is a sacred instrument.
Now the drum which is heard to play in this cheerful fashion, while at
the same time we know that discomfiture is cruelly harrying it: that its
inmost feelings are wounded, and that worse is in store for it, affects
the contemplative mind with an inexpressibly grotesque commiseration. Do
but listen to this one, which is the joint corporate voice of the men
of Hillford. Outgeneraled, plundered, turned to ridicule, it thumps
with unabated briskness. Here indeed might Sentimentalism shed a fertile
tear!
Anticipating that it will eventually be hung up among our national
symbols, I proceed. The drum of Hillford entered the Brookfield grounds
as Ipley had done, and with a similar body of decorated Clubmen;
sounding along until it faced the astonished proprietor, who held up
his hand and requested to know the purpose of the visit. One sentence of
explanation sufficed.
“What!” cried Mr. Pole, “do you think you can milk a cow twice in ten
minutes?”
Several of the Hillford men acknowledged that it would be rather sharp
work.
Their case was stated: whereupon Mr. Pole told them that he had just
been 'milked,' and regretted it, but requested them to see that he could
not possibly be equal to any second proceeding of the sort. On their
turning to consult together, he advised them to bear it with fortitude.
“All right, sir!” they said: and a voice from the ranks informed
him that their word was 'Jolly.' Then a signal was given, and these
indomitable fellows cheered the lord of Brookfield as lustily as if they
had accomplished the feat of milking him twice in an hour. Their lively
hurrahs set him blinking in extreme discomposure of spirit, and he was
fumbling at his pocket, when the drum a little precipitately thumped:
the ranks fell into order, and the departure was led by the tune of
the 'King of the Cannibal islands:' a tune that is certain to create a
chorus on the march. On this occasion, the line:--
“Oh! didn't you know you were done, sir?”
became general at the winding up of the tune. Boys with their elders
frisked as they chimed it, casting an emphasis of infinite relish on
the declaration 'done'; as if they delighted in applying it to Mr. Pole,
though at their own expense.
Soon a verse grew up:--
“We march'd and call'd on Mister Pole,
Who hadn't a penny, upon his soul,
For Ipley came and took the whole,
And didn't you know you were done, sir!”
I need not point out to the sagacious that Hillford and not Mr. Pole
had been 'done;' but this was the genius of the men who transferred
the opprobrium to him. Nevertheless, though their manner of welcoming
misfortune was such, I, knowing that there was not a deadlier animal
than a 'done' Briton, have shudders for Ipley.
We relinquished the stream of an epic in turning away from these mighty
drums.
Mr. Pole stood questioning all who surrounded him: “What could I do? I
couldn't subscribe to both. They don't expect that of a lord, and I'm a
commoner. If these fellows quarrel and split, are we to suffer for it?
They can't agree, and want us to pay double fines. This is how they
serve us.”
Mr. Barrett, rather at a loss to account for his excitement, said, that
it must be admitted they had borne the trick played upon them, with
remarkable good humour.
“Yes, but,” Mr. Pole fumed, “I don't. They put me in the wrong, between
them. They make me uncomfortable. I've a good mind to withdraw my
subscription to those rascals who came first, and have nothing to do
with any of them. Then, you see, down I go for a niggardly fellow.
That's the reputation I get. Nothing of this in London! you make your
money, pay your rates, and nobody bothers a man.”
“You should have done as our darling here did, papa,” said Adela. “You
should have hinted something that might be construed a promise or not,
as we please to read it.”
“If I promise I perform,” returned Mr. Pole.
“Our Hillford people have cause for complaint,” Mr. Barrett observed.
And to Emilia: “You will hardly favour one party more than another, will
you?”
“I am for that poor man Jim,” said Emilia, “He carried my harp evening
after evening, and would not even take sixpence for the trouble.”
“Are you really going to sing there?”
“Didn't you hear? I promised.”
“To-night?”
“Yes; certainly.”
“Do you know what it is you have promised?”
“To sing.”
Adela glided to her sisters near at hand, and these ladies presently
hemmed Emilia in. They had a method of treating matters they did not
countenance, as if nature had never conceived them, and such were the
monstrous issue of diseased imaginations. It was hard for Emilia to hear
that what she designed to do was “utterly out of the question and not
to be for one moment thought of.” She reiterated, with the same
interpreting stress, that she had given her promise.
“Do you know, I praised you for putting them off so cleverly,” said
Adela in tones of gentle reproach that bewildered Emilia.
“Must we remind you, then, that you are bound by a previous promise?”
Cornelia made a counter-demonstration with the word. “Have you not
promised to dine with us at Lady Gosstre's to-night?”
“Oh, of course I shall keep that,” replied Emilia. “I intend to. I will
sing there, and then I will go and sing to those poor people, who never
hear anything but dreadful music--not music at all, but something that
seems to tear your flesh!”
“Never mind our flesh,” said Adela pettishly: melodiously remonstrating
the next instant: “I really thought you could not be in earnest.”
“But,” said Arabella, “can you find pleasure in wasting your voice and
really great capabilities on such people?”
Emilia caught her up--“This poor man? But he loves music: he really
knows the good from the bad. He never looks proud but when I sing to
him.”
The situation was one that Cornelia particularly enjoyed. Here was a low
form of intellect to be instructed as to the precise meaning of a
word, the nature of a pledge. “There can be no harm that I see, in your
singing to this man,” she commenced. “You can bid him come to one of the
out-houses here, if you desire, and sing to him. In the evening, after
his labour, will be the fit time. But, as your friends, we cannot permit
you to demean yourself by going from our house to a public booth, where
vulgar men are smoking and drinking beer. I wonder you have the courage
to contemplate such an act! You have pledged your word. But if you had
pledged your word, child, to swing upon that tree, suspended by your
arms, for an hour, could you keep it? I think not; and to recognize
an impossibility economizes time and is one of the virtues of a clear
understanding. It is incompatible that you should dine with Lady
Gosstre, and then run away to a drinking booth. Society will never
tolerate one who is familiar with boors. If you are to succeed in life,
as we, your friends, can conscientiously say that we most earnestly hope
and trust you will do, you must be on good terms with Society. You must!
You pledge your word to a piece of folly. Emancipate yourself from it as
quickly as possible. Do you see? This is foolish: it, therefore, cannot
be. Decide, as a sensible creature.”
At the close of this harangue, Cornelia, who had stooped slightly to
deliver it, regained her stately posture, beautified in Mr. Barrett's
sight by the flush which an unwonted exercise in speech had thrown upon
her cheeks.
Emilia stood blinking like one sensible of having been chidden in a
strange tongue.
“Does it offend you--my going?” she faltered.
“Offend!--our concern is entirely for you,” observed Cornelia.
The explanation drew out a happy sparkle from Emilia's eyes. She seized
her hand, kissed it, and cried: “I do thank you. I know I promised, but
indeed I am quite pleased to go!”
Mr. Barrett swung hurriedly round and walked some paces away with his
head downward. The ladies remained in a tolerant attitude for a minute
or so, silent. They then wheeled with one accord, and Emilia was left to
herself.