At half-past nine of the clock on the evening of this memorable day, a
body of five-and-twenty stout young fellows, prize-winners, wrestlers,
boxers, and topers, of the Hillford Club, set forth on a march to Ipley
Common.
Now, a foreigner, hearing of their destination and the provocation
they had endured, would have supposed that they were bent upon deeds of
vengeance; and it requires knowledge of our countrymen to take it as a
fact that the idea and aim of the expedition were simply to furnish the
offending Ipley boys a little music. Such were the idea and the aim.
Hillford had nothing to do with consequences: no more than our England
is responsible when she sails out among the empires and hemispheres,
saying, 'buy' and 'sell,' and they clamour to be eaten up entire.
Foreigners pertinaciously misunderstand us. They have the barbarous
habit of judging by results. Let us know ourselves better. It is
melancholy to contemplate the intrigues, and vile designs, and
vengeances of other nations; and still more so, after we have written so
many pages of intelligible history, to see them attributed to us. Will
it never be perceived that we do not sow the thing that happens? The
source of the flooding stream which drinks up those rich acres of low
flat land is not more innocent than we. If, as does seem possible, we
are in a sort of alliance with Destiny, we have signed no compact, and
accomplish our work as solidly and merrily as a wood-hatchet in the
hands of the woodman. This arrangement to give Ipley a little music, was
projected as a return for the favours of the morning: nor have I in my
time heard anything comparable to it in charity of sentiment, when I
consider the detestable outrage Hillford suffered under.
The parading of the drum, the trombone, a horn, two whistles, and a
fife, in front of Hillford booth, caught the fancy of the Clubmen, who
roared out parting adjurations that the music was not to be spared; and
that Tom Breeks was a musical fellow, with a fine empty pate, if any one
of the instruments should fail perchance. They were to give Ipley plenty
of music: for Ipley wanted to be taught harmony. Harmony was Ipley's
weak point. “Gie 'em,” said one jolly ruddy Hillford man, “gie 'em whack
fol, lol!” And he smacked himself, and set toward an invisible partner.
Nor, as recent renowned historians have proved, are observations of
this nature beneath the dignity of chronicle. They vindicate, as they
localize, the sincerity of Hillford.
Really, to be an islander full of ale, is to be the kindest creature on
or off two legs. For that very reason, it may be, his wrath at bad blood
is so easily aroused. In our hot moods we would desire things like unto
ourselves, and object violently to whatsoever is unlike. And also we
desire that the benefits we shed be appreciated. If Ipley understands
neither our music nor our intent, haply we must hold a performance on
the impenetrable sconce of Ipley.
At the hour named, the expedition, with many a promise that the music
should be sweet, departed hilariously: Will Burdock, the left-handed
cricketer and hard-hitter, being leader; with Peter Bartholomew, potboy,
John Girling, miller's man, and Ned Thewk, gardener's assistant,
for lieutenants. On the march, silence was proclaimed, and partially
enforced, after two fights against authority. Near the sign of King
William's Head, General Burdock called a halt, and betrayed irresolution
with reference to the route to be adopted; but as none of his troop
could at all share such a condition of mind in the neighbourhood of an
inn, he was permitted to debate peacefully with his lieutenants, while
the rest burst through the doors and hailed the landlord: a proceeding
he was quickly induced to imitate. Thus, when the tail shows strongest
decision of purpose, the head must follow.
An accurate oinometer, or method of determining what shall be the
condition of the spirit of man according to the degrees of wine or beer
in him, were surely of priceless service to us. For now must we, to
be certain of our sanity and dignity, abstain, which is to clip,
impoverish, imprison the soul: or else, taking wings of wine, we go
aloft over capes, and islands, and seas, but are even as balloons that
cannot make for any line, and are at the mercy of the winds--without
a choice, save to come down by virtue of a collapse. Could we say to
ourselves, in the great style, This is the point where desire to embrace
humanity is merged in vindictiveness toward individuals: where radiant
sweet temper culminates in tremendous wrath: where the treasures of
anticipation, waxing riotous, arouse the memory of wrongs: in plain
words, could we know positively, and from the hand of science, when we
have had enough, we should stop. There is not a doubt that we should
stop. It is so true we should stop, that, I am ready to say, ladies have
no right to call us horrid names, and complain of us, till they have
helped us to some such trustworthy scientific instrument as this which
I have called for. In its absence, I am persuaded that the true natural
oinometer is the hat. Were the hat always worn during potation; were
ladies when they retire to place it on our heads, or, better still,
chaplets of flowers; then, like the wise ancients, we should be able to
tell to a nicety how far we had advanced in our dithyramb to the theme
of fuddle and muddle. Unhappily the hat does not forewarn: it is simply
indicative. I believe, nevertheless, that science might set to work upon
it forthwith, and found a system. When you mark men drinking who wear
their hats, and those hats are seen gradually beginning to hang on the
backs of their heads, as from pegs, in the fashion of a fez, the bald
projection of forehead looks jolly and frank: distrust that sign: the
may-fly of the soul is then about to be gobbled up by the chub of the
passions. A hat worn fez-fashion is a dangerous hat. A hat on the brows
shows a man who can take more, but thinks he will go home instead, and
does so, peaceably. That is his determination. He may look like
Macduff, but he is a lamb. The vinous reverses the non-vinous passionate
expression of the hat. If I am discredited, I appeal to history,
which tells us that the hats of the Hillford five-and-twenty were all
exceedingly hind-ward-set when the march was resumed. It followed that
Peter Bartholomew, potboy, made irritable objections to that old joke
which finished his name as though it were a cat calling, and the offence
being repeated, he dealt an impartial swing of his stick at divers
heads, and told them to take that, which they assured him they had done
by sending him flying into a hedge. Peter, being reprimanded by his
commanding officer, acknowledged a hot desire to try his mettle, and the
latter responsible person had to be restrained from granting the wish he
cherished by John Girling, whom he threw for his trouble and as Burdock
was the soundest hitter, numbers cried out against Girling, revolting
him with a sense of overwhelming injustice that could be appeased only
by his prostrating two stout lads and squaring against a third, who came
up from a cross-road. This one knocked him down with the gentleness of
a fist that knows how Beer should be treated, and then sang out, in the
voice of Wilfrid Pole: “Which is the nearest way to Ipley, you fellows?”
“Come along with us, sir, and we'll show you,” said Burdock.
“Are you going there?”
“Well, that's pretty clear.”
“Hillford men, are you?”
“We've left the women behind.”
“I'm in a hurry, so, good night.”
“And so are we in a hurry, sir. But, you're a gentleman, and we want to
give them chaps at Ipley a little surprise, d'ye see, in the way of a
dollop o' music: and if you won't go givin' 'em warning, you may trot;
and that road'll take you.”
“All right,” said Wilfrid, now fairly divided between his jealousy of
Gambier and anxiety for Emilia.
Could her artist nature, of which he had heard perplexing talk, excuse
her and make her heart absolutely guiltless (what he called 'innocent'),
in trusting herself to any man's honour? I regret to say that the dainty
adorers of the sex are even thus grossly suspicious of all women when
their sentiment is ever so triflingly offended.
Lights on Ipley Common were seen from a rise of the hilly road. The moon
was climbing through drifts of torn black cloud. Hastening his pace, for
a double reason now, Wilfrid had the booth within hearing, listened a
moment; and then stood fast. His unconscious gasp of the words: “Thank
God; there she is!” might have betrayed him to another.
She was sitting near one end of the booth, singing as Wilfrid had never
yet heard her sing: her dark eyes flashing. Behind her stood Captain
Gambier, keeping guard with all the composure of a gentleman-usher at a
royal presentation. Along the tables, men and women were ranged
facing her; open-mouthed, some of them but for the most part wearing
a predetermined expression of applausive judgement, as who should say,
“Queer, but good.” They gave Emilia their faces, which was all she
wanted! and silence, save for an intermingling soft snore, here and
there, the elfin trumpet of silence. To tell truth, certain heads had
bowed low to the majesty of beer, and were down on the table between
sprawling doubled arms. No essay on the power of beer could exhibit it
more convincingly than, the happy indifference with which they received
admonishing blows from quart-pots, salutes from hot pipe-bowls, pricks
from pipe-ends, on nose, and cheek, and pate; as if to vindicate for
their beloved beverage a right to rank with that old classic drink
wherewith the fairest of women vanquished human ills. The majority,
however, had been snatched out of this bliss by the intrusion of their
wives, who sat beside them like Consciences in petticoats; and it must
be said that Emilia was in favour with the married men, for one reason,
because she gave these broad-ribboned ladies a good excuse for
allowing their lords to stop where they were so comfortable, a
continually-extending five minutes longer.
Yet, though the words were foreign and the style of the song and the
singer were strange, many of the older fellows' eyes twinkled, and their
mouths pursed with a kind of half-protesting pleasure. All were reverent
to the compliment paid them by Emilia's presence. The general expression
was much like that seen when the popular ear is given to the national
anthem. Wilfrid hung at the opening of the booth, a cynical spectator.
For what on earth made her throw such energy, and glory of music, into
a song before fellows like these? He laughed dolorously, “she hasn't a
particle of any sense of ridicule,” he said to himself. Forthwith
her voice took hold of him, and led him as heroes of old were led
unwillingly into enchanted woods. If she had been singing things holy, a
hymn, a hallelujah, in this company, it struck him that somehow it would
have seemed appropriate; not objectionable; at any rate, not ridiculous.
Dr. Watts would have put a girdle about her; but a song of romance sung
in this atmosphere of pipes and beer and boozy heads, chagrined
Wilfrid in proportion as the softer half of him began to succumb to the
deliciousness of her voice.
Emilia may have had some warning sense that admiration is only one
ingredient of homage, that to make it fast and true affection must
be won. Now, poor people, yokels, clods, cannot love what is
incomprehensible to them. An idol must have their attributes: a
king must show his face now and then: a song must appeal to their
intelligence, to subdue them quite. This, as we know, is not the case in
the higher circles. Emilia may have divined it: possibly from the
very great respect with which her finale was greeted. Vigorous as the
“Brayvos” were, they sounded abashed: they lacked abandonment. In fact,
it was gratitude that applauded, and not enthusiasm. “Hillford don't
hear stuff like that, do 'em?” which was the main verbal encomium
passed, may be taken testificatorily as to this point.
“Dame! dame!” cried Emilia, finding her way quickly to one of the more
decently-bonneted women; “am I not glad to see you here! Did I please
you? And you, dear Farmer Wilson? I caught sight of you just as I was
finishing. I remember the song you like, and I want to sing it. I know
the tune, but the words! the words! what are the words? Humming won't
do.”
“Ah, now!” quoth Farmer Wilson, pointing out the end of his pipe,
“that's what they'll swallow down; that's the song to make 'em kick.
Sing that, miss. Furrin songs 's all right enough; but 'Ale it is my
tipple, and England is my nation!' Let's have something plain and flat
on the surface, miss.”
Dame Wilson jogged her husband's arm, to make him remember that talking
was his dangerous pastime, and sent abroad a petition for a song-book;
and after a space a very doggy-eared book, resembling a poodle of that
genus, was handed to her. Then uprose a shout for this song and that;
but Emilia fixed upon the one she had in view, and walked back to her
harp, with her head bent, perusing it attentively all the way. There,
she gave the book to Captain Gambier, and begged him to hold it open
before her, with a passing light of eyes likely to be rather disturbing
to a jealous spectator. The Captain seized the book without wincing,
and displayed a remarkable equanimity of countenance as he held it out,
according to direction. No sooner had Emilia struck a prelude of the
well-known air, than the interior of the booth was transfigured; legs
began to move, elbows jerked upward, fingers fillipped: the whole body
of them were ready to duck and bow, dance, and do her bidding she had
fairly caught their hearts. For, besides the pleasure they had in their
own familiar tune, it was wonderful to them that Emilia should know what
they knew. This was the marvel, this the inspiration. She smiled to see
how true she had struck, and seemed to swim on the pleasure she excited.
Once, as her voice dropped, she looked up at Captain Gambier, so very
archly, with the curving line of her bare throat, that Wilfrid was
dragged down from his cynical observatory, and made to feel as a common
man among them all.
At the “thrum-thrum” on the harp-strings, which wound up the song,
frenzied shouts were raised for a repetition. Emilia was perfectly
willing to gratify them; Captain Gambier appeared to be remonstrating
with her, but she put up her joined hands, mock-petitioningly, and he
with great affability held out the book anew. Wilfrid was thinking of
moving to her to take her forcibly away when she recommenced.
At the same instant--but who, knowing that a house of glass is about to
be shattered, can refrain from admiring its glitter in the beams?--Ipley
crooned a ready accompaniment: the sleepers had been awakened: the women
and the men were alive, half-dancing, half-chorusing here a baby was
tossed, and there an old fellow's elbow worked mutely, expressive of
the rollicking gaiety within him: the whole length of the booth was in
a pleasing simmer, ready to overboil with shouts humane and cheerful,
while Emilia pitched her note and led; archly, and quite one with them
all, and yet in a way that critical Wilfrid could not object to, so
plainly did she sing to give happiness.
I cannot delay; but I request you, that are here privileged to soar
aloft with the Muse, to fix your minds upon one point in this flight.
Let not the heat and dust of the ensuing fray divert your attention from
the magnanimity of Beer. It will be vindicated in the end but be worthy
of your seat beside the Muse, who alone of us all can take one view of
the inevitable two that perplex mortal judgements.
For, if Ipley had jumped jovially up, and met the Hillford alarum with
laughter,--how then? Why, then I maintain that the magnanimity of Beer
would have blazed effulgent on the spot: there would have been louder
laughter and fraternal greetings. As it was, the fire on the altar
of Wisdom was again kindled by Folly, and the steps to the altar were
broken heads, after the antique fashion.
In dismay, Ipley started. The members of the Club stared. Emilia
faltered in horror.
A moment her voice swam stemming the execrable concert, but it was
overwhelmed. Wilfrid pressed forward to her. They could hear nothing but
the din. The booth raged like an insurgent menagerie. Outside it sounded
of brazen beasts, and beasts that whistled, beasts that boomed. A
whirlwind huddled them, and at last a cry, “We've got a visit from
Hillford,” told a tale. At once the stoutest hearts pressed to
the opening. “My harp!” Emilia made her voice reach Wilfrid's ear.
Unprovided with weapons, Ipley parleyed. Hillford howled in reply. The
trombone brayed an interminable note, that would have driven to madness
quiescent cats by steaming kettles, and quick, like the springing pulse
of battle, the drum thumped and thumped. Blood could not hear it and
keep from boiling. The booth shook violently. Wilfrid and Gambier threw
over half-a-dozen chairs, forms, and tables, to make a barrier for the
protection of the women.
“Come,” Wilfrid said to Emilia, “leave the harp, I will get you another.
Come.”
“No, no,” she cried in her nervous fright.
“For God's sake, come!” he reiterated, she, stamping her foot, as to
emphasize “No! no! no!”
“But I will buy you another harp;” he made audible to her through the
hubbub.
“This one!” she gasped with her hand on it. “What will he think if he
finds that I forsook it?”
Wilfrid knew her to allude to the unknown person who had given it to
her.
“There--there,” said he. “I sent it, and I can get you another. So,
come. Be good, and come.”
“It was you!”
Emilia looked at him. She seemed to have no senses for the uproar about
her.
But now the outer barricade was broken through, and the rout pressed
on the second line. Tom Breeks, the orator, and Jim, transformed from
a lurching yokel to a lithe dog of battle, kept the retreat of Ipley,
challenging any two of Hillford to settle the dispute. Captain Gambier
attempted an authoritative parley, in the midst of which a Hillford man
made a long arm and struck Emilia's harp, till the strings jarred loose
and horrid. The noise would have been enough to irritate Wilfrid beyond
endurance. When he saw the fellow continuing to strike the harp-frame
while Emilia clutched it, in a feeble defence, against her bosom, he
caught a thick stick from a neighbouring hand and knocked that Hillford
man so clean to earth that Hillford murmured at the blow. Wilfrid then
joined the front array.
“Half-a-dozen hits like that a-piece, sir,” nodded Tom Breeks.
“There goes another!” Jim shouted.
“Not quite, my lad,” interposed Ned Thewk, though Peter Bartholomew was
reeling in confirmation.
His blow at Jim missed, but came sharply in the swing on Wilfrid's
cheek-bone.
Maddened at the immediate vision of that feature swollen, purple, even
as a plum with an assiduous fly on it, certifying to ripeness:--Says the
philosopher, “We are never up to the mark of any position, if we are
in a position beneath our own mark;” and it is true that no hero
in conflict should think of his face, but Wilfrid was all the while
protesting wrathfully against the folly of his having set foot in such a
place:--Maddened, I say, Wilfrid, a keen swordman, cleared a space.
John Girling fell to him: Ned Thewk fell to him, and the sconce of Will
Burdock rang.
“A rascally absurd business!” said Gambier, letting his stick do the
part of a damnatory verb on one of the enemy, while he added, “The
drunken vagabonds!”
All the Hillford party were now in the booth. Ipley, meantime, was
not sleeping. Farmer Wilson and a set of the Ipley men whom age had
sagaciously instructed to prefer stratagem to force, had slipped
outside, and were labouring as busily as their comrades within: stooping
to the tent-pegs, sending emissaries to the tent-poles.
“Drunk!” roared Will Burdock. “Did you happen to say 'drunk?'” And
looking all the while at Gambier, he, with infernal cunning, swung at
Wilfrid's fated cheekbone. The latter rushed furiously into the press of
them, and there was a charge from Ipley, and a lock, from which Wilfrid
extricated himself to hurry off Emilia. He perceived that bad blood was
boiling up.
“Forward!” cried Will Burdock, and Hillford in turn made a tide.
As they came on in numbers too great for Ipley to stand against, an
obscuration fell over all. The fight paused. Then a sensation as of some
fellows smoothing their polls and their cheeks, and leaning on their
shoulders with obtrusive affection, inspirited them to lash about
indiscriminately. Whoops and yells arose; then peals of laughter. Homage
to the cleverness of Ipley was paid in hurrahs, the moment Hillford
understood the stratagem by which its men of valour were lamed and
imprisoned. The truth was, that the booth was down on them, and they
were struggling entangled in an enormous bag of canvas.
Wilfrid drew Emilia from under the drooping folds of the tent. He was
allowed, on inspection of features, to pass. The men of Hillford were
captured one by one like wild geese, as with difficulty they emerged,
roaring, rolling with laughter, all.
Yea; to such an extent did they laugh that they can scarce be said to
have done less than make the joke of the foe their own. And this proves
the great and amazing magnanimity of Beer.