“Why, Mr. Thornton, I declare you are throwing my flowers away as fast as you gather them.”
“So I am,” he said. “The fact is I hardly know what I am doing.” The colour was blazing into his face, and his heart beating wildly. “Florence,” he cried, flinging himself upon his knees beside her, “forgive me if I speak rashly or wildly—I don’t know how to speak. I don’t know what to tell you—but I love you dearly, dearly, with my whole heart. I cannot tell—I hope—I think you may like me. Do not say no, I implore you. If you do not like me to speak so wildly, tell me so; but don’t say you will not love me. Tell me you will love me—if you can.”
Florence was young, and was taken by surprise, or perhaps she might have stopped the young gentleman at once; but after all it is not unpleasant to a pretty girl to see a good-looking young lad at her feet and to listen to his passionate words of homage. At length, when he seemed to come to a pause, she replied: “Oh, Mr. Thornton, please, please do not talk so. This is so sudden. Our parents know nothing of this!”
“Do you love me—tell me?”
“We are too young. You really must not—”
“It does not matter about being young.”
“Oh, do not speak any more.”
“Florence, do you love me? I shall go mad if you will not answer.” He seized her hand as he leant forward, and gazed eagerly into her face, while he trembled violently with his own emotion. “Do you love me—say?”
“I think, I think—I do,” she said very softly, looking him full in the face, while he seized her round the waist, and her head leant for one moment on his shoulder, and he kissed her forehead.
She started up, saying, “Oh, do let me go, please. I ought not to have said so.”
He rose first, and lifted her up by the hand.
* * * * *
“I will tell you what it is, Hawkstone,” said Glenville. “I think it is a d---d shame, and I shall tell him so. He may be a bigger fellow than I, but I could punch his head for him, if he were in the wrong and I in the right.”
“I dare say you could, sir, and thank you, sir, for what you say. I thought you were a brave, kind gentleman when I first saw you, though you do like to have a bit of a joke at me at times.”
“Bit of a joke! That’s another matter. But I will never joke again, if this goes wrong. But are you quite sure that Nelly is in love with you really, and you with her.”
“Why, sir, we have told each other so this hundred times; and I feel as sure she spoke the truth as God knows I did; and sometimes I think I am a fool to doubt her now. But you see, sir, she is flattered by the notice of a grand gentleman. It may be nothing, but, when I talk to her now, she seems weary like. It is not like what it was in the old days before you came, sir. We were to be married, sir, so soon as the gentle folk have left the town, that is about six weeks from to-day; but now I hardly know what to think. I think one thing one day, and another the next. Sometimes I think I am jealous about nothing. Sometimes I think he is a gentleman, and will act as such; and sometimes I think, suppose he should harm her; and then I feel that if he dared to do it I would throttle him.” Glenville could see the sailor’s fists clenching as he spoke, and he replied, “Hush, Hawkstone, hush! This will all come right. I feel for you very much, but you must not be violent. I believe it is all folly, and Barton will forget all about it in a day or two.”
“May be, may be, sir; but will she forget so soon? When a woman gets a thing of this sort into her head it sticks there, sir. There is nothing to drive it out. He will go off among his fine friends in London, or wherever it is; but she will be alone here in the little dull town, and it is mighty dull in the winter, sir.”
“You see, Hawkstone, Barton is a friend of mine; and, though I have only known him a couple of years, I am sure he is a generous, good sort of fellow, and honest and truthful, though a bit thoughtless and careless. I am sure he will see his own folly and bad conduct when it is shown to him. This is a sham love of his. She is a very pretty girl, it is true. You won’t mind my saying that?”
“Say away, sir. I look more to what people mean than what they say.”
“Well, no doubt, he has been struck by her beauty; but their positions are different, and he has only seen her for a week or two. Besides, he knows that you and she are fond of one another. I believe he is only idle and thoughtless. If I thought for a moment that he was contemplating a blackguardly act, he should be no friend of mine, and I would not only tell him so, but I would give him a good kicking, or look on with pleasure while you did it. But you must be quiet, Hawkstone, at present, for you know nothing, and a quarrel would only do you harm all round.”
“It’s not so easy to be quiet. The neighbours are beginning to talk, sir, though they don’t let me hear what they say. I can see by their looks. What business has he to sit beside her on the quay? He is making a fool of her and of me. I cannot bear it. Sometimes I feel as if I should go mad. I don’t know what those poor creatures in the Bible felt when they were possessed by the devil, but I believe he comes right into me when I think of this business.” Then he bent over the boat and covered his face with his arms, and his great broad back heaved up and down, like a boat on the sea. Glenville left him alone, and puffed away vigorously at a cigar he was smoking in order to quiet his own feelings, which had been more excited than he liked.
After a few minutes, Hawkstone raised his head as if from a sleep, and suddenly exclaimed, “Hey, sir! The wind and the sea have not been idle while we have been talking. We must be sharp now. Shout to your friends, sir. I cannot shout just yet, I think.”
Glenville shouted as loud as he was able.
“That won’t do, I’m afeard,” said Hawkstone, and he gave a loud halloo, which rang from cliff to cliff, and brought out a cloud of gulls, sailing round and round for a while in great commotion, but soon disappearing into the cliffs again.
We were most of us already descending when we heard Hawkstone’s voice; the boat was soon ready; but where were Thornton and his lady love? After waiting a while, Hawkstone shouting more than once, it was proposed that someone should go in search for them. Hawkstone was getting very impatient, and warned us we should have a hard struggle to get home again.
“It will be a bad job if we cannot get round the point,” cried he, “for then we shall have to land in the bay, and although there will be no danger if we get off soon, yet the ladies will get a wetting, and maybe the boat will be damaged. We shall just get a little water going out, for the surf is running in strong.”
“It is very wonderful,” said Mrs. Bagshaw, “how suddenly the wind rises on this coast, and the waves answer to the lash like wild colts. The change from calm to storm is most remarkable.”
“Very,” thought I to myself, when I called to mind the sudden changes of temper which I had noticed in her.
“What can that duffer Thornton be about all this long time?” asked Barton.
Mrs. Bagshaw and I exchanged glances. “I am not sure,” said she to me, “that I have not been doing a very imprudent thing in letting them land.”
It was full ten minutes after the arrival of the rest of the party before Thornton and Florence made their appearance, looking very confused and awkward. Glenville preceded them, shouting and laughing. “Here they are, caught at last, and apparently quite pleased at keeping us all waiting, and quite unable to give any account of what they have been doing. One little fern has fallen before their united efforts in the space of half an hour or more. Hawkstone says he’ll be shot if he lends you his boat to go a row in another time. Don’t you, Hawkstone?”
“No, sir, I didn’t say that. If a gentleman and a lady like to loiter on the hill it’s nothing to a poor boatman how long they stay, leastways wind and weather permitting, as the packet says.”
Hawkstone pushed us off through the surf, and it was no easy matter, and, I daresay, required some judgment and presence of mind to seize the right moment between the breaking of the great waves. With all his skill we managed to ship a little water, amid the laughing shrieks of the ladies and the boisterous shouts of “two” and “three,” who got some of the water down their backs. We were soon under weigh, however, and tugging manfully on, occasionally missing a stroke when the boat lurched on a great wave, and making but slow progress. Fortunately we had not far to go before we arrived opposite to the parade, where a small crowd of people was watching our movements with great interest, and the pocket handkerchiefs again fluttered from the land. The signals, however, met with no response from us. Tug as we would, we seemed to make very little way, notwithstanding Hawkstone’s “Well rowed, gentlemen, she’s moving fast. We shall do it yet.”
The waves were now running high, white crested, and with a long, wide sweep in them. We were forced to steer close to the rocks at the point in order to keep as much as possible out of the tide, which was running so strongly a few yards from the land that we never could have made any way against it there. As it was I could see that for many seconds we did not open a single point of rock, and it was all we could do to keep the boat from dropping astern. Just as I was beginning to despair of ever getting back in safety, and was aware that my wind was going, and that both arms and legs were on the point of giving way, a loud shout from Hawkstone alarmed us all. He jumped up, shouting, “Row hard on the bow side, ease off on the stroke,” and in a moment (how he got from the bows I shall never know!) we saw him seated behind the stern-board with the tiller in his hand. The boat shot round, shipping a heavy sea, and we were at one moment within a yard of the rock underneath the parade. “Row hard, all!” was soon the cry, and away we shot before wind and tide in the opposite direction to that in which we had been going. Again we heard Hawkstone’s voice, “Steady, keep steady. There’s nothing to fear. We can run her into the bay!” Nothing to fear! But there had been. One moment of delay, and we should have been dashed on the rocks. I do not know why it was, but the waves now seemed gigantic. Perhaps excitement or fear made them seem larger, or perhaps the change in the direction of the course of the boat had that effect. Certainly they now seemed to rear their white crests high above us, and to menace us with their huge forms. The roar of the breakers upon the beach added to the excitement of the scene. The ladies sat pale and silent. I believe all would have gone well, but at the most exigent moment, when we were riding on the surf which was to land us, “bow” and “three” missed their strokes and fell into the bottom of the boat; and, amid great confusion, the boat swerved round; and, a great wave striking her upon her broadside, she upset, and rolled the whole party over and over into about three feet of water. All scrambled as well as they could to the shore; but in a moment we saw with dismay that one of the ladies was floating away on the retreating wave, and Thornton was plunging after the helpless form. Meanwhile the party on the parade had rushed frantically round to the bay, shouting and screaming as they came.
“Where’s the life-buoy?” shouted Captain O’Brien vaguely.
“Fetch the life-boat!” cried Captain Kelly, in a voice of command, although there was no one to fetch it, and, for aught he knew, the nearest was in London. The two Misses Bankes screamed at intervals like minute guns. Mr. and Mrs. Delamere and their younger daughter looked on in speechless agony. The young artist, like a sensible fellow, seized up a coil of rope and dragged it towards the sea. The colonel embraced Mrs. Bagshaw before the multitude.
“She will be drowned!” cried one.
“She is saved!” cried another.
“He has caught her, thank God! Well done!” shrieked a third.
Thornton had reached Florence, and was endeavouring to stagger back with her in his arms; but the waves were too strong for him, and they both fell, and were lost to sight in an enormous breaker, while everyone held their breath. As the wave dispersed three forms could be seen struggling forwards; and, amid the wildest cheers and excitement Hawkstone rolled Thornton and his lady love upon the sand, and then threw himself on his back quite out of breath.
Florence neither heard nor saw anything for some time. Captain Kelly suggested water as being the best restorative under the circumstances. Porkington wished he had not forgotten his brandy flask. The doctor’s son thought of bleeding, and played with a little pocket-knife in a suggestive fashion. On a sudden Glenville, who always had his wits about him, discovered the Drag seated on a rock in a state of helpless terror, and smelling at a bottle of aromatic vinegar as though her life was in danger. “Lend that to me—quick, Miss Candlish!” he cried, and seized the bottle. The Drag struggled to keep possession of it, but in vain, and then fainted away. The young lady soon recovered sufficiently under the influence of the smelling bottle to walk home with the assistance of Thornton and Mrs. Delamere. The rest of the party began to separate amid much talking and laughter; for as soon as the danger was passed the whole thing seemed to be a joke; and we had so much to talk of, that we hardly noticed how we got away. But on looking back I observed that the young artist brought up the rear with Miss Bagshaw, and was evidently being most attentive. Hawkstone received everybody’s thanks and praise in a simple, good-humoured way, and proceeded to fasten up the boat out of reach of the tide.
CHAPTER V.—THE BALL.
Mrs. Porkington, attired in the white silk which we all knew so well, reclined upon the sofa. Porkington, who was, or should be, her lord and master, was perched upon the music stool. The Drag, in a pink muslin of a draggled description, sat in a deep easy chair, displaying a great deal of skinny ancle and large feet.
“It has always surprised me, my dear,” said Mrs. Porkington, “how fond you are of dancing.”
“Why, what can you mean?” said he. “Why, I never danced in my life.”
“Oh, of course not,” replied she. “I am aware you cannot dance, nor did I insinuate that you could, my dear, nor did I say so that I am aware. But you enjoy these balls so much, you know you do.”
“Well, yes,” he said, languidly, “I like to see the young folks enjoy themselves.”
“Now, for my part,” said his wife, “I am sure I am getting quite tired, and wish the balls were at an end.”
“My dear, I am sure I thought you liked them, or I would never have taken the tickets.”
“Now, my dear, my dear, I must beg, I must entreat, that you will not endeavour to lay the expense of those tickets upon my shoulders. I am sure I have never been asked to be taken to one of the balls this season.”
When a man tells a lie, it is with some hope, however slight, that he may not be found out; but a woman will lie to the very person whom she knows to be as fully acquainted with the facts as she is herself. Which is the more deadly sin I leave to the Jesuits.
“I am sure,” said the Coach, making a desperate effort, “you appeared to enjoy them, for you danced a great many dances.”
“Aunt!” exclaimed the lady, “is it true that I always dance every dance?”
“No indeed!” chimed in Miss Candlish, “far from it. No doubt you would get partners for all if you wished.”
“And is it true,” she continued, “that I wish to go to these ridiculous soirees?”
“Certainly not, indeed,” said the Drag, “nor do I wish to go, I am sure!”
“In that case I can dispose of your ticket,” said he. Unlucky man! In these cases there is no via media. A man should either resist to the death or submit with as good a grace as he can. Half measures are fatal.
“No, my dear, you cannot dispose of that ticket,” said his wife, “and I take it as very unkind in you to speak to Aunt in that manner. It is not because she is poor, and dependent upon us, that she is to be sneered at and ill-treated.” At this speech the Drag burst into tears, and declared that she always knew that Mr. Porkington hated her; that she might be poor and old and ugly, etc., etc., but she little expected to be called so by him; that she would not go to the ball now, if he implored her on his knees, and so on, and so on.
Now, who could have thought it? All this fuss was occasioned by Mr. P. having meanly backed out of giving Mrs. P. a new dress in which to electrify the fashionable world at Babbicombe. Ah me! Let us hope that in some far distant planet there may be some better world where all unfortunate creatures,—dogs which have had tin kettles tied to their tails,—cockchafers which have been spun upon pins,—poor men who have been over-crawed by wives, aunts, mothers-in-law, and other terrors,—donkeys which have been undeservedly belaboured by costermongers,—and authors who have been meritoriously abused by critics,—rest together in peace in a sort of happy family.
At this point Barton, Glenville, Thornton, and I all entered the room.
“Oh, I am so glad to see the ladies are ready,” said Thornton. “This will be our last ball, and we ought to make a happy evening of it. Are you not sorry we are coming to the end of our gaieties, Miss Candlish?”
“Sorry!” exclaimed the Drag, ferociously. “Sorry! I never was more pleased—pleased—pleased!” Every time she repeated the word “pleased” she launched it at the head of the unfortunate tutor, as if she hoped her words would turn into brickbats ere they reached him.
“I am glad to see you are going, however,” said Glenville.
“There you are mistaken,” said the Aunt, “for Mr. Porkington has been so very kind as to say he had rather I did not go.”
“Really, really,” cried Porkington, “I can assure you it is quite the reverse. I am so misunderstood that really I am sure I can’t tell—”
“Oh, pray do not disappoint us in our last evening together, Miss Candlish,” said Glenville, coming to the rescue of the unfortunate tutor, and speaking in his most fascinating manner, “I have hoped for the pleasure of a quadrille and lancers and” (with an effort) “a waltz with you this evening if you will allow me.”
The Drag became calm, and after a little while diplomatic relations were fairly established, and away we all went to the Assembly Rooms, Glenville whispering to me and Barton, “I have made up my mind to get rid of that pink muslin to-night or perish in the attempt.” I had no opportunity at the moment of asking him what he meant, but I was sure he meant mischief. However, I never gave the matter a second thought, as the business of dancing soon commenced. Captains O’Brien and Kelly were already waltzing with the two Misses Bankes, and whispering delightful nothings into their curls as we entered. The artist was floundering in a persevering manner with pretty Miss Bagshaw, and the doctor was standing in the doorway ruminating hopefully on the probable effects of low dresses and cold draughts. Thornton was soon engrossed in the charms of his lady love, and Barton, Glenville, and I were doing our duty by all the young ladies. The room was well filled, and, though not well lighted nor well appointed, was large and cheerful enough. The German Band performed prodigies; the row was simply deafening. There were a few seats by the walls for those who did not dance, and there was a room for lemonade, cakes, and bad ices for those who liked them, as well as a small room in which the old fogies could play a rubber of whist.
Mrs. Delamere had pinned Mr. Bankes in a corner, and was enlarging to him upon one of her favourite topics.
“The Church of England,” said she, “is undoubtedly in great danger, but why should we regret it? It has become a thing of the past, and so have chivalry and monasteries. The mind of the nineteenth century is marching on to its goal. The intellect of England is asserting itself. I have ever loved the intellect of England, haven’t you?”
“Oh, quite so—ah, yes, certainly, of course!” said Mr. Bankes.
“You agree with me,” said Mrs. Delamere; “I was sure you would. This is most delightful. I have seldom talked with any true thinker who does not agree with me.”
“I am sure,” said Mr. Bankes gallantly, “no one would venture to cope with such an accomplished disputant.”
“Perhaps not,” she said complacently, “but I should not desire to disagree with anyone upon religious subjects. The great desideratum—you see I understand the Latin tongue, Mr. Bankes—the great desideratum is harmony—the harmony of the soul! How are we to arrive at harmony? that is the pressing question.”
* * * * *
“Bagshaw, you are a low cheat, sir: you are nothing better than a common swindler, sir. I will not play with you any more. Do you call yourself a whist player and make signs to your partner. I should be ashamed to stay in the same room with you.”
Several of the dancers hastened into the card-room. Mrs. Bagshaw was standing up flushed and excited, and talking loudly and wildly. She had overset her chair, and flung down her cards upon the table. Seeing Porkington enter, she cried out, “Look to your wife, sir, look to your wife. She received signals across the table. It has nothing to do with the cards. Look at that man who is called my husband—that monster—that bundle of lies and deceit, who has been the ruin of hundreds.”
“By heavens, this is too bad!” exclaimed Colonel Bagshaw. “I declare nothing has happened that I know of, except that my wife has forgotten to count honours.”
“It is a lie, sir, and you know it. You are trying to ruin a woman before my very eyes. Oh, you man, you brute! Oh, help, help me, help!” and in act to fall she steadied herself by clenching tightly the back of her chair. Her daughter was luckily close to her, “Oh, mamma, mamma,” whispered she, “how can you say such things? Come away, come away; you are ill. Do come.” She led her out into the hall, and hurriedly adjusting the shawls, went home with her mother.
Porkington showed himself a man. He took Colonel Bagshaw by the hand. “I am very sorry,” said he, “that Mrs. Bagshaw should have made some mistake. Some sudden vexation, and I am afraid some indisposition, must be the cause of her excitement. Allow me to take her place and finish the game. I am afraid you will find me a poor performer, Colonel.”
“Oh, not at all. Let us begin. I will deal again, and the scoring stands as it did.”
Mrs. Porkington during this scene had turned pale and red alternately. Her husband’s dignity and presence of mind astonished her. She was so excited as to be almost unable to play her cards, and her lips and eyes betrayed very great emotion. The tutor’s cheek showed some trace of colour, and his manner was even graver than usual, but that was all; and his wife felt the presence of a superior force to her own, and was checked into silence. I had always felt sure that there was a reserve of force in the timid nature of our Coach which seemed to peep forth at times and then retire again. It was curious to mark on these rare occasions how the more boisterous self-assertion of Mrs. Porkington seemed for a time to cower before the gentler but finer will. Natures are not changed in a day, but the effect of the singular scene which had been enacted at that time was never effaced, and a gradual and mutual approach was made between husband and wife towards a more cordial and complete sympathy.
The music had not ceased playing during the disturbance, and the dancers, with great presence of mind, quickly returned to their places, and the usual frivolities of the evening continued to the accustomed hour of midnight, when the party began to break up. I could not find Glenville or Barton. Where could they be? Once or twice in the pauses of the dance I had noticed them talking earnestly together, and occasionally with suppressed laughter. “Now, what joke are these fellows up to, I wonder?” However, it was not my business to inquire, though I had a kind of fear that the combination of gunpowder with lucifer matches in a high temperature could hardly be more dangerous than the meeting of Glenville and Barton in a mischievous mood. Before the last dance had commenced they had left the hall, and, as soon as they got outside, they found Miss Candlish’s sedan chair in the custody of the two men who usually carried her to and fro when she attended the balls. Two other sedan chairs, several bath chairs and donkey chairs, and a couple of flys were in attendance. Aided by the magical influence of a small “tip,” Glenville easily persuaded the men in charge that the dance would not be over for a few minutes, and that they had time to go and get a glass of beer, which, he said, Miss Candlish wished them to have in return for the care and trouble they had several times taken in carrying her home. As soon as they had gone, he and Barton came back into the ball-room; and, as the last dance was coming to an end, and the band was beginning to scramble through “God save the Queen,” in a most disloyal manner, he came up to Miss Candlish, and said, “May I have the pleasure of seeing you to your chair, and thanking you for that very delightful dance?”
“My dear Mr. Glenville,” said the Drag, “your politeness is quite overpowering. Ah, if all young men were like you, what a very different world it would be.”
“You must not flatter me,” said Glenville, “for I am very soft hearted, especially where the fair sex is concerned.”
“Ah, how I wish I had a son like you!” sighed the Drag.
“And how I wish you were my m—m—mother!” replied that villain Glenville, as he adjusted her cloak, and led her out to her chair. It was pitchy dark outside (only a couple of candle lanterns to see by), and the usual confusion upon the breaking up of a large party was taking place. Miss Candlish stepped into her chair, and the door was closed. Glenville and Barton took up the chair, and, going as smoothly as they could (which was not as smoothly as the usual carriers), they turned aside from the main stream of the visitors, and made at once for the harbour. Here they had intended to deposit the chair, and leave the rest to fate; but, as luck would have it, in setting down the chair in the darkness, one side of it projected over a sort of landing-place. It toppled over and fell sideways with a splash into the muddy water. Scream upon scream followed rapidly. “Murder! thieves! help!” Shriek after shriek, and at last a female form, wildly flinging her arms into the air, could be seen emerging from the half buried chair. Glenville and Barton had run away before the chair fell, but, hearing the fall, looked back, and were at first spellbound with terror at what had happened. When, however, they saw the Drag emerge, they fairly fled for their lives by a circuitous way little frequented by night, and reached home just before the rest of us arrived. There was some alarm when Miss Candlish did not arrive for about twenty minutes or half an hour. Glenville and Barton told Thornton and myself what had happened, and wanted to know what they should do. Of course, we advised that they should say and do nothing, but wait upon the will of the Fates. They were in a great fright, and when Miss Candlish arrived in charge of two policemen their terror became wild. And yet they both said afterwards that they could hardly help laughing out loud. The pink muslin was draggled and besmeared with harbour mud, and torn half out of the gathers. Its owner was in a state of rage, terror, and hysterics. The commotion was fearful. It was very strange she did not seem to have the faintest suspicion of any of our party. She was sure the men were drunk because they carried her so unsteadily. She was positive they meant to rob her or something worse. She saw them as they were running away. They were the very same men who always carried her. She never could bear those men. They looked more like demons than men. She would leave the place next day. She had been disgraced. Everybody hated her, nobody had any pity. She would go to bed. Don’t speak to her—go away—go away, do! Brandy and water, certainly not! and so on. Till at last Mrs. Porkington prevailed on her to go to bed. We had all vanished as quickly as we could and smoked a pipe, discussing in low tones the lowering appearance of the skies above us, and the consequences which might ensue upon those inquiries which we foresaw must inevitably take place.
I never quite knew how it was managed, but two policemen came the next morning and actually examined our boots and trousers, and then had a long interview with Mr. Porkington; and finally we, who were waiting in terror in the dining-room, saw the pair of them go out of the front door, touching their hats to Porkington. I thought at the time that he must have bribed them; but afterwards, on thinking it over, I came to the conclusion that there was no evidence of the complicity of our party. Of course, the sedan men did not know what had happened. Porkington stoutly refused to let the policemen come into our study, and told them he should regard them as trespassers if they ventured to go into any other room. The Drag, although she declared she knew the two men, had no desire to bring the matter before the public. Porkington never said a word to any of us upon the subject, though he looked cross and nervous. As soon as the aunt had taken her departure (which she did the next day) he quite recovered his good humour, and, I believe, even chuckled inwardly at the episode. The Babbicombe Independent had an amusing paragraph upon the incident, and opined that some drunken sailors from one of the neighbouring ports were the perpetrators of the coarse practical joke; but we found that the general opinion among the visitors was not so wide of the truth. However, as no one cared for the lady it took less than nine days to get rid of the wonder.
CHAPTER VI.—THE SHORE.
“Barton,” said Glenville, “I want to speak to you, old chap. You won’t mind me speaking to you, will you?”
Barton’s brow clouded at once. He knew what was coming. “I don’t know what you mean,” said he.
“Well, I want to talk to you about that girl.”
“What right have you to interfere? That’s my business, not yours.”
“If you are going to be angry, I’ll shut up. But I tell you plainly, it’s a beastly shame; and if you dare to do any harm to her I’ll kick you out of the place.”
“Out of what place?”
“Why, out of this or any other place I find you in. You’ve no right to go meeting her as you do.”
“And you’ve no right to speak of her like that. She is as pure as any child in the world, and you ought to know I would do her no harm. You are trying to insult both me and her.”
“Well, I’m very glad to hear you say so. But, see what folly it all is. You know you don’t intend to marry her. Do you?”
“Why, as to that I don’t know. I’m not obliged to tell you what I mean to do.”
“No; but you ought to think about what you mean to do. You know she is engaged to be married to Hawkstone.”
“Yes; but I don’t think she cares for him a bit—only to tease him.”
“Do just think what you are doing as a man and a gentleman—I won’t say as a Christian, for you tell me you mean nothing bad. But is it manly, is it fair to play these sort of tricks? I must tell you we must give up being chums any longer if this goes on.”
“I tell you what, Glenville, I think you are giving yourself mighty fine airs, and all about nothing; but just because you have an uncle who is a lord you think you may preach as much as you like.”
“Oh, come now, that’s all nonsense!” said Glenville. “If you are determined to shut me up, I’ve done. Liberavi animam meam. I am sorry if I have offended you. I say it’s quite time we went to join the other fellows. They want us to go with some of the ladies over the cliffs.”
“Thanks, I can’t come. I’ve a lot more work to do, and—and I’ve hurt my heel a bit and don’t care to go a stiff climb to-day.”
Glenville looked at him, and saw a red glow rising in his neck as he turned away his face and sat down to a book on the table, pretending to read, as Glenville left the room.
The sky was dark, and ominous of storm. It had a torn and ragged appearance, as if it had already had a fight with worse weather and was trying to escape. The sea-gulls showed like white breakers upon the dark sky. The waves roared and grumbled, lashing themselves into a fury as they burst in white, wrathful foam against the black rocks, and then drew back, torn and mangled, to mingle with the crowd of waves rushing on to their doom. The visitors, dressed for squally weather, in waterproofs or rough suits, walked up and down the parade, enjoying the exhilarating breeze, or stood watching with eager excitement the entry of a fishing smack into the harbour. Far away out at sea in the mist of distant spray and rain two or three brigantines or schooners could be dimly descried labouring with the storm;—mysterious and awful sight as it always seems to me. Will she get safe to port? What is her cargo? What her human freight? What are they doing or thinking? What language do they speak? Are there women or children aboard? Who knows? Ah, gentle reader, what do you and I know of each other, and what do we know of even our nearest friends; to what port are they struggling through the mists which envelop them, and who will meet them on the shore?
An hour had not elapsed since Glenville had left Barton before the latter had reached the first promontory of rocks which shut in the little bay of Babbicombe, and on turning the corner found, as he had expected and appointed, the young woman who had been the subject of their angry conversation. She rose from a rock on which she had been sitting, and came to meet him with a frank smile, saying, “Good afternoon, Mr. Henry.” Somehow the slightly coarse intonation struck him as it had never done before, and the freedom of manner which a few hours ago would have delighted him now sent a chilling sensation to his heart. “Good afternoon,” he replied, and, drawing his arm round her waist, he kissed her several times, and held her so firmly that at last she said, “Oh, sir, you’ll hurt me. Let me go!” Then holding him away from her, and looking him full in the face, she said, “Oh, Mr. Henry, whatever can be the matter!” “Come and sit down, darling,” he said, “I want to say something to you.” He led her to a seat upon the rocks, and they both sat down. “Darling,” he said, “I am afraid I must go away at once and leave you for ever.” “Oh, no, no, no! not that!” she cried, starting up. In a moment her manner changed from fear to anger. “I know what it is!” she exclaimed, “Hawkstone has been rude to you. There now, I will never forgive him. I will never be friends with him again—never!”
“No, darling, it is nothing about Hawkstone at all. I haven’t seen him. But come here, you must be quiet and listen to what I have to say.”
She sat down again beside him. Her lips quivered. Her blue eyes were staring into the cliff in front of her, but she saw nothing, felt nothing, except that a dreadful moment had come which she had for some time dimly expected, but never distinctly foreseen.
“I hardly know how to tell you,” he began. “You know I love you very dearly, and if I could—if it was possible, I would ask you to marry me. But I cannot. It is impossible. It would bring misery upon all, upon my father and mother, and upon you. How can I make you understand? My people are rich, all their friends are rich, and all very proud.”
The tears were streaming down her face, and she sat motionless.
“But I don’t want to know your friends,” she said, in a choking voice.
“I know, I know,” he said, “and I could be quite happy with you if they were all dead and out of the way, and if the world was different from what it is. But I have thought it all out, and I am sure I ought to go away at once, and never come back again.”
There was a long pause, but at last she rose and said, “Mr. Barton, I have felt that something of this sort might happen, but I have never thought it out, as you say you have. I am confused now it has come, just as if I had never feared it beforehand. I was very, very happy, and I would not think of what might come of it. I might have known that a grand gentleman like you would never live with the like of me; but then I thought I loved you very, very dearly; you seemed so bright, and grand, and tender, that I loved you in spite of all I was afraid of, and I thought if you loved me you might perhaps be—” Here she broke down altogether, and burst into sobs, and seemed as though she would fall. He rose and threw his arms round her, led her back to the rock, called her all the sweet names he could think of, kissed her again and again, and tried to soothe her; while she, poor thing, could do nothing but sob, with her head upon his shoulder.
A loud shout aroused them. They both rose suddenly, and turned their faces towards the place whence the sound proceeded. Hawkstone was just emerging from the surf, which was lashing furiously against the corner of the cliff, round which they had come dry-shod a short time before, They at once guessed their fate, and glanced in dismay at one another and then at the sea, and again at Hawkstone, who rapidly approached them, drenched through and through, and in a fierce state of wrath and terror, added to the excitement of his struggle with the waves.
“What are you doing here?” he cried, and in the same breath, “Don’t answer—don’t dare to answer, but listen. You are caught by the tide. I have sent a boy back to Babbicombe for help. No help can come by sea in such a storm. They will bring a basket and ropes by the cliff. It will be a race between them and the tide. If all goes well, they will be here in time. If not, we shall all be drowned.”
“Is there no way up the cliff?” said Barton.
“None. The cliff overhangs. There is a place where I have just come through, but I doubt if I could reach it again; and I am sure neither of you could stand the surf. You must wait.” He then turned from them, and sat himself down on a fallen piece of the cliff, and buried his face in his hands. Nellie sank down on the rock where she and Barton had been sitting, and he stood by her, helplessly gazing alternately with a pale face and bewildered mind at his two companions. Two or three minutes passed without any motion or sound from the living occupants of the bay; but the roaring of the sea grew louder and louder, and the terror of it sank into the hearts of all three. At last Hawkstone raised his head, and immediately Barton approached him.
“Forgive me, Hawkstone,” he said, “I have done you a great wrong, and I am sorry for it.”
“What’s the good in saying that? You can’t mend the wrong you have done,” and his head sank down again between his hands.
There was a pause. Barton felt that what had been said was true and not true. One of the most painful consequences of wrong-doing is that the wrong has a sort of fungus growth about it, and insists upon appearing more wrong than it ever was meant to be.
“Hawkstone,” he said at last, “I swear to you, on my honour as a gentleman, I have never dreamed of doing her an injury. I have been very, very foolish; I have come between you and her with my cursed folly. I deserve anything you may say or do to me. I care nothing about the waves; let them come. Take her with you up the cliff, and leave me to drown. It’s all I’m fit for. She will forget me soon enough, I feel sure, for I am not worth remembering.”
Hawkstone still kept himself bent down, his hands covering his face, and his body swaying to and fro with his strong emotions.
“You talk, you talk,” he muttered. “You seem to have ruined her, and me, and yourself too.”
“Not ruined her!” cried Barton, “I have told you, I swear to you. I swear—”
“Yes!” cried Hawkstone, springing up in a passion and towering above Barton, with his hands tightly clenched and his chest heaving, “Yes! you are too great a coward for that. In one moment I could crush you as I crush the mussels in the harbour with my heel.”
Nelly threw herself upon him, “Jack, spare him, spare him. He meant no harm. Not now, not now! The sea, Jack, the sea! Save us, save us!”
The man’s strength seemed to leave him, and she seemed to overpower him, as he sank back into his former position, muttering “O God, O God!” At last he said, “Let be, let be—there, there, I’ve prayed I might not kill you both, and the devil is gone, thank the Lord for it. There, lass, don’t fret; I can’t abide crying. The sea! the sea! Yes, the sea. I had almost forgotten it. Cheer up a bit—fearful—how it blows—but there’s time yet—a few minutes. Keep up, keep up. There’s a God above us anyway.”
At this moment a shout was heard above them. “There they are at last,” cried Hawkstone, and he sent a loud halloo up the cliff, which was immediately responded to by those at the top, though the sound seemed faint and far off. After the lapse of about five minutes, a basket attached to two ropes descended slowly and bumped upon the rocks.
“Now, lass, you get up first. Come, come, give over crying. It’s no time for crying now. Be a brave lass or you’ll fall out. Sit down and keep tight hold. Shut your eyes, never mind a bump or two, and keep tight hold. Now then!” He lifted her into the basket. She tried to take his hand, but he drew it sharply away.
“Oh, forgive me, forgive me, Jack,” she said, “I have been very wicked, but I will try to be good.”
“That’s right, lass, that’s right. God keep you safe. Hold on,” and he gave a shout up the cliff, and the basket began slowly to ascend. The two men gazed at it in silence till it reached the summit, when, with a rapid swirl, it disappeared.
“Thank God, she is safe,” said Hawkstone.
“Look, look!” cried Barton, catching hold of Hawkstone in alarm. “Look how fast the waves are coming. They will be on us directly.”
“Yes,” said Hawkstone, “there will be barely time to get the two of us up unless they make great haste. I don’t know why they don’t lower at once. Something must have gone wrong with the rope, but they will do their best, that’s certain.”
They waited in anxiety amounting to horror, as wave after wave, larger and louder, roared at them, and rushed round the rocks on which they were standing. Presently down came the basket, plunging into the retreating wave.
“Now, then, sir, in with you,” said Hawkstone.
“No, you go first. I will not go. It is my fault you are here.”
“Nonsense, sir, there’s no time for talk.”
“I will not go without you. Let us both get in together.”
“The rope will hardly bear two. Besides, I doubt if there is strength enough above to pull us up. Get in, get in.”
Barton still hesitated. “I am afraid to leave you alone. Promise me if I go that you will not—. I can’t say what I mean, but if anything happened to you I should be the cause of it.”
“For shame, sir, shame. I guess what you mean, but I have not forgotten who made me, though I have been sorely tried. In with you at once.” He suddenly lifted Barton up in his arms, and almost threw him into the basket, raising a loud shout, upon which the basket again ascended the cliff more rapidly than on the first occasion. Hawkstone fell upon his knees at the base of the cliff, while the waves roared at him like wild beasts held back from their victim. He was alone with them and with the God in whom his simple faith taught him to trust as being mightier than all the waves. Down came the basket with great rapidity, and Hawkstone had a hard fight before he could drag it out from the waves and get into it. Drenched from head to foot, and cold and trembling with excitement and grief, he again shouted, and the basket once more ascended. He remembered no more. A sudden faintness overcame him, and the first thing he remembered was feeling himself borne along on a kind of extemporary litter, and hearing kind voices saying that he was “coming to,” and would soon be all right again.
Luckily there was no scandal. It was thought quite natural that Hawkstone should be with Nelly, and Barton was supposed to have been there by accident. Of course, we knew what the real state of the case was, and were glad that Barton had got a good fright; but we kept our own counsel.
CHAPTER VII.—CONCLUSION.
Very soon after the events recorded in the last chapter, the Reading Party broke up, and it only remains now for the writer of this veracious narrative to disclose any information he may have subsequently obtained as to the fate of his characters. Porkington still holds an honoured position in the University, and still continues to take young men in the summer vacation to such places as Mrs. Porkington considers sufficiently invigorating to her constitution. They grow better friends every year, but the grey mare will always be the better horse. One cause of difference has disappeared. The Drag died very shortly after leaving Babbicombe; not at all, I believe, in consequence of her ducking in the harbour; but, being of a peevish and “worritting” disposition, she had worn herself out in her attempts to make other people’s lives a burden to them. I do not know what has become of Harry Barton; but I know that he has never revisited Babbicombe, nor even written to the fair Nelly. I suppose he is helping to manage his father’s cotton mill, and will in due course marry the daughter of a wealthy manufacturer. Glenville has become quite a rising barrister, popular in both branches of his profession, and has announced his fixed intention to remain happy and unmarried till his death. Looking into the future, however, with the eye of a prophet, the present writer thinks he can see Glenville walking arm in arm with a tall, graceful lady, attended by two little girls to whom he is laughingly talking—but the dream fades from me, and I wonder will it ever come true. Thornton, of course, married Miss Delamere (how could it be otherwise), but, alas! there are no children, and this unhappy want is hardly compensated by the indefatigable attentions of Mamma Delamere, who is never weary of condoling with that poor, desolate couple, imploring them to resign themselves to the fate which has been assigned to them, and to strengthen their minds by the principles of true philosophy and the writings of great thinkers; by which she hopes they may acquire that harmony of the soul in private life which is so much to be desiderated in both politics and religion. Nobody knows what she means.
Nelly was not forgiven for one whole year. When she and Hawkstone met, they used only the customary expressions of mere acquaintances; but lovers are known to make use of signals which are unperceived by the outside world; and, after a year’s skirmishing, a peace was finally concluded, and a happier couple than John Hawkstone and Nelly cannot be found in the whole country, and I am afraid to say how many of their children are already tumbling about the boats in the harbour.
The colonel died, and Mrs. Bagshaw lamented his death most truly, and has nothing but gentleness left in her nature. Her daughter has married the young artist, whose pictures of brown-sailed boats and fresh seas breaking in white foam against the dark rocks have become quite the rage at the Academy. The minor characters have disappeared beneath the waves, and nothing remains to be said except the last word, “farewell.”
A FARRAGO OF VERSES.
MY BOATING SONG.
I.
Oh this earth is a mineful of treasure,
A goblet, that’s full to the brim,
And each man may take for his pleasure
The thing that’s most pleasant to him;
Then let all, who are birds of my feather,
Throw heart and soul into my song;
Mark the time, pick it up all together,
And merrily row it along.
Hurrah, boys, or losing or winning,
Feel your stretchers and make the blades
bend;
Hard on to it, catch the beginning,
And pull it clean through to the end.
II.
I’ll admit ’tis delicious to plunge in
Clear pools, with their shadows at rest;
’Tis nimble to parry, or lunge in
Your foil at the enemy’s chest;
’Tis rapture
to take a man’s wicket,
Or lash round to leg for a four;
But somehow the glories of cricket
Depend on the state of the score.
But in boating, or losing or winning,
Though victory may not attend;
Oh, ’tis jolly to catch the beginning,
And pull it clean through to the end.
III.
’Tis brave over hill and dale sweeping,
To be in at the death of the fox;
Or to whip, where the salmon are leaping,
The river that roars o’er the rocks;
’Tis prime to bring down the cock pheasant;
And yachting is certainly great;
But, beyond all expression, ’tis pleasant
To row in a rattling good eight.
Then, hurrah, boys, or losing or winning,
What matter what labour we spend?
Hard on to it, catch the beginning,
And pull it clean through to the end.
IV.
Shove her off! Half a stroke! Now, get ready!
Five seconds! Four, three, two, one, gun!
Well started! Well rowed! Keep her steady!
You’ll want all your wind e’er you’ve
done.
Now you’re straight! Let the pace become swifter!
Roll the wash to the left and the right!
Pick it up all together,
and lift her,
As though she would bound out of sight!
Hurrah, Hall! Hall, now you’re winning,
Feel your stretchers and make the blades
bend;
Hard on to it, catch the beginning,
And pull it clean through to the end.
V.
Bump! Bump! O ye gods, how I pity
The ears those sweet sounds never heard;
More tuneful than loveliest ditty
E’er poured from the throat of a bird.
There’s a prize for each honest endeavour,
But none for the man who’s a shirk;
And the pluck that we’ve showed on the river,
Shall tell in the rest of our work.
At the last, whether losing or winning,
This thought with all memories blend,—
We forgot not to catch the beginning,
And we pulled it clean through to the
end.
LETTER FROM THE TOWN MOUSE TO THE COUNTRY MOUSE.
I.
Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field!
I ask no more
Than one plain field, shut in by hedgerows four,
Contentment sweet to yield.
For I am not fastidious,
And, with a proud demeanour, I
Will not affect invidious
Distinctions about scenery.
I sigh not for the fir trees where they rise
Against Italian skies,
Swiss lakes, or Scottish heather,
Set off with glorious weather;
Such sights as these
The most exacting please;
But I, lone wanderer in London streets,
Where every face one meets
Is full of care,
And seems to wear
A troubled air,
Of being late for some affair
Of life or death:—thus I, ev’n I,
Long for a field of grass, flat, square, and green
Thick hedges set between,
Without or house or bield,
A sense of quietude to yield;
And heave my longing sigh,
Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field!
II.
For here the loud streets roar themselves to rest
With hoarseness every night;
And greet returning light
With noise and roar, renewed with greater zest.
Where’er I go,
Full well I know
The eternal grinding wheels will never cease.
There is no place of peace!
Rumbling, roaring, and rushing,
Hurrying, crowding, and crushing,
Noise and confusion, and worry, and fret,
From early morning to late sunset—
Ah me! but when shall I respite get—
What cave can hide me, or what covert shield?
So still I sigh,
And raise my cry,
Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field!
III.
Oh for a field, where all concealed,
From this life’s fret and noise,
I sip delights from rural sights,
And simple rustic joys.
Where, stretching forth my limbs at rest,
I lie and think what likes me best;
Or stroll about where’er I list,
Nor fear to be run over
By sheep, contented to exist
Only on grass and clover.
In town, as through
the throng I steer,
Confiding in the Muses,
My finest thoughts are drowned in fear
Of cabs and omnibuses.
I dream I’m on Parnassus hill,
With laurels whispering o’er me,
When suddenly I feel a chill—
What was it passed before me?
A lady bowed her gracious head
From yonder natty brougham—
The windows were as dull as lead,
I didn’t know her through them.
She’ll say I saw her, cut her dead,—
I’ve lost my opportunity;
I take my hat off when she’s fled,
And bow to the community!
Or sometimes comes a hansom cab,
Just as I near the crossing;
The “cabby” gives his reins a grab,
The steed is wildly tossing.
Me, haply fleeing from his horse,
He greets with language somewhat coarse,
To which there’s no replying;
A brewer’s dray comes down that way,
And simply sends me flying!
I try the quiet streets, but there
I find an all-pervading air
Of death in life, which my despair
In no degree diminishes.
Then homewards wend my weary way,
And read dry law books as I may,
No solace will they yield.
And so the sad day
finishes
With one long sigh and yearning cry,
Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field!
IV.
The fields are bright, and all bedight
With buttercups and daisies;
Oh, how I long to quit the throng
Of human forms and faces:
The vain delights, the empty shows,
The toil and care bewild’rin’,
To feel once more the sweet repose
Calm Nature gives her children.
At times the thrush shall sing, and hush
The twitt’ring yellow-hammer;
The blackbird fluster from the bush
With panic-stricken clamour;
The finch in thistles hide from sight,
And snap the seeds and toss ’em;
The blue-tit hop, with pert delight,
About the crab-tree blossom;
The homely robin shall draw near,
And sing a song most tender;
The black-cap whistle soft and clear,
Swayed on a twig top slender;
The weasel from the hedge-row creep,
So crafty and so cruel,
The rabbit from the tussock leap,
And splash the frosty jewel.
I care not what the season be—
Spring, summer, autumn, winter—
In morning sweet, or noon-day heat,
Or
when the moonbeams glint, or
When rosy beams and fiery gleams,
And floods of golden yellow,
Proclaim the sweetest hour of all—
The evening mild and mellow.
There, though the spring shall backward keep,
And loud the March winds bluster,
The white anemone shall peep
Through loveliest leaves in cluster.
There primrose pale or violet blue
Shall gleam between the grasses;
And stitchwort white fling starry light,
And blue bells blaze in masses.
As summer grows and spring-time goes,
O’er all the hedge shall ramble
The woodbine and the wilding rose,
And blossoms of the bramble.
When autumn comes, the leafy ways
To red and yellow turning,
With hips and haws the hedge shall blaze,
And scarlet briony burning.
When winter reigns and sheets of snow,
The flowers and grass lie under;
The sparkling hoar frost yet shall show,
A world of fairy wonder.
To me more dear such scenes appear,
Than this eternal racket,
No longer will I fret and fag!
Hey! call a cab, bring down my bag,
And help me quick to pack it.
For here one must go where every one goes,
And meet shoals of people whom one never knows,
Till
it makes a poor fellow dyspeptic;
And the world wags along with its sorrows and shows,
And will do just the same when I’m dead I suppose;
And I’m rapidly growing a sceptic.
For its oh, alas, well-a-day, and a-lack!
I’ve a pain in my head and an ache in my back;
A terrible cold that makes me shiver,
And a general sense of a dried-up liver;
And I feel I can hardly bear it.
And it’s oh for a field with four hedgerows,
And the bliss which comes from an hour’s repose,
And a true, true friend to share it.
PROTHALAMION.
The following “Prothalamion” was recently discovered among some other rubbish in Pope’s Villa at Twickenham. It was written on the backs of old envelopes, and has evidently not received the master’s last touches. Some of the lines afford an admirable instance of the way in which great authors frequently repeat themselves.
Nothing so true as what you once let fall,—
“To growl at something is the lot of all;
Contentment is a gem on earth unknown,
And Perfect Happiness the wizard’s stone.
Give me,” you cried, “to see my duty clear,
And room to work, unhindered in my sphere;
To live my life,
and work my work alone,
Unloved while living, and unwept when gone.
Let none my triumphs or my failures share,
Nor leave a sorrowing wife and joyful heir.”
Go, like St. Simon, on your lonely tower,
Wish to make all men good, but want the power.
Freedom you’ll have, but still will lack the thrall,—
The bond of sympathy, which binds us all.
Children and wives are hostages to fame,
But aids and helps in every useful aim.
You answer, “Look around, where’er you will,
Experience teaches the same lesson still.
Mark how the world, full nine times out of ten,
To abject drudgery dooms its married men:
A slave at first, before the knot is tied,
But soon a mere appendage to the bride;
A cover, next, to shield her arts from blame;
At home ill-tempered, but abroad quite tame;
In fact, her servant; though, in name, her lord;
Alive, neglected; but, defunct, adored.”
This picture, friend, is surely overdone,
You paint the tribe by drawing only one;
Or from one peevish grunt, in haste, conclude
The man’s whole life with misery imbued.
Say, what can Horace want to crown his life,
Blest with eight little urchins, and a wife?
His lively grin proclaims the man is blest,
Here perfect happiness must be confessed!
Hark, hear that melancholy
shriek, alack!—
That vile lumbago keeps him on the rack.
This evil vexed not Courthope’s happy ways,
Who wants no extra coat on coldest days.
His face, his walk, his dress—whate’er you scan,
He stands revealed the prosperous gentleman.
Still must he groan each Sabbath, while he hears
The hoarse Gregorians vex his tortured ears.
Sure Bosanquet true happiness must know,
While wit and wisdom mingle as they flow,
Him Bromley Sunday scholars will obey;
For him e’en Leech will work a good half day;
He strives to hide the fear he still must feel,
Lest sharp Jack Frost should catch his Marshal Niel.
Peace to all such; but were there one, whose fires
True genius kindles and fair fame inspires;
Blest with demurrers, statements, counts, and pleas,
And born to arbitrations, briefs, and fees;
Should such a man, couched on his easy throne,
(Unlike the Turk) desire to live alone;
View every virgin with distrustful eyes,
And dread those arts, which suitors mostly prize,
Alike averse to blame, or to commend,
Not quite their foe, but something less than friend;
Dreading e’en widows, when by these besieged;
And so obliging, that he ne’er obliged;
Who, in all marriage contracts, looks for flaws,
And sits, and meditates on Salic laws;
While Pall Mall bachelors proclaim his praise,
And spinsters wonder at his works and ways;
Who would not smile
if such a man there be?
Who would not weep if Atticus were he?
Oh, blest beyond the common lot are they,
On whom Contentment sheds her cheerful ray;
Who find in Duty’s path unmixed delight,
And perfect Pleasure in pursuit of Right;
Thankful for every Joy they feel, or share,
Unsought for blessings, like the light and air,
And grateful even for the ills they bear;
Wedded or single, taking nought amiss,
And learning that Content is more than Bliss.
Oh, friend, may each domestic joy be thine,
Be no unpleasing melancholy mine.
As rolling years disclose the will of Fate,
I see you wedded to some equal mate;
Thronged by a crowd of growing girls and boys,
A heap of troubles, but a host of joys.
On sights like these, should length of days attend,
Still may good luck pursue you to the end;
Still heaven vouchsafe the gifts it has in store;
Still make you, what you would be, more and more;
Preserve you happy, cheerful, and serene,
Blest with your young retainers, and your Queen.
YOUNG ENGLAND.
The times still “grow to something strange”;
We rap and turn the tables;
We fire our guns at awful range;
We lay Atlantic cables;
We bore the hills, we bridge the seas—
To me ’tis better far
To sit before my fire at ease,
And smoke a mild cigar.
We start gigantic bubble schemes,—
Whoever can invent ’em!—
How splendid the prospectus seems,
With int’rest cent. per centum
His shares the holder, startled, sees
At eighty below par:
I dawdle to my club at ease,
And light a mild cigar.
We pickle peas, we lock up sound,
We bottle electricity;
We run our railways underground,
Our trams above in this city
We fly balloons in calm or breeze,
And tumble from the car;
I wander down Pall Mall at ease,
And smoke a mild cigar.
Some strive to
get a post or place,
Or entrée to society;
Or after wealth or pleasure race,
Or any notoriety;
Or snatch at titles or degrees,
At ribbon, cross, or star:
I elevate my limbs at ease,
And smoke a mild cigar.
Some people strive for manhood right
With riots or orations;
For anti-vaccination fight,
Or temperance demonstrations:
I gently smile at things like these,
And, ’mid the clash and jar,
I sit in my arm-chair at ease,
And smoke a mild cigar.
They say young ladies all demand
A smart barouche and pair,
Two flunkies at the door to stand,
A mansion in May Fair:
I can’t afford such things as these,
I hold it safer far
To sip my claret at my ease,
And smoke a mild cigar.
It may be proper one should take
One’s place in the creation;
It may be very right to make
A choice of some vocation;
With such remarks
one quite agrees,
So sensible they are:
I much prefer to take my ease,
And smoke a mild cigar.
They say our morals are so so,
Religion still more hollow;
And where the upper classes go,
The lower always follow;
That honour lost with grace and ease
Your fortunes will not mar:
That’s not so well; but, if you please,
We’ll light a fresh cigar.
Rank heresy is fresh and green,
E’en womenkind have caught it;
They say the Bible doesn’t mean
What people always thought it;
That miracles are what you please,
Or nature’s order mar:
I read the last review at ease,
And smoke a mild cigar.
Some folks who make a fearful fuss,
In eighteen ninety-seven,
Say, heaven will either come to us,
Or we shall go to heaven;
They settle it just as they please;
But, though it mayn’t be far,
At any rate there’s time with ease
To light a fresh cigar.
It may be there
is something true;
It may be one might find it;
It may be, if one looked life through,
That something lies behind it;
It may be, p’raps, for aught one sees,
The things that may be, are:
I’m growing serious—if you please
We’ll light a fresh cigar.