XXXIX
TWO STORIES
I
Naturally the form of humour that appealed most to Irving was that based on human character. This feeling he shared with Tennyson—indeed with all in whom a deep knowledge of the “essential difference” of character is a necessity of their art. Perhaps the two following stories, of which he was exceedingly fond, will illustrate the bent of his mind. The first, having heard from some one else, he told me; the second I told him. I have heard him tell them both several times in his own peculiar way.
II
An English excursionist was up near Balmoral in the later days of Queen Victoria. The day being hot, he went into a cottage to get a glass of water. He sat mopping his forehead, whilst the guidwife was polishing the glass and getting fresh water from the well. He commenced to talk cheerfully:
“So the Queen is a neighbour of yours!”
“Ooh, aye!”
“And she is quite neighbourly, isn’t she? And comes to visit you here in your own cottages?”
“Ooh, aye! She’s weel eneuch!”
“And she asks you to tea sometimes at Balmoral?”
“Ooh, aye! She’s nae that bad!” The tourist was rather struck with the want of enthusiasm shown and ventured to comment on it inquiringly:
“Look here, ma’am; you don’t seem very satisfied with Her Majesty! May I ask you why?”
“Weel, I’ll tell ye if ye wish. The fac’ is we don’t leik the gangin’s on at the Caastle.”
“Oh, indeed, ma’am! How is that? What is it that displeases you?”
“We don’t leik the way they keep—or don’t keep—the Sawbath. Goin’ oot in bo-ats an’ rowin’ on the Sawbath day!” The tourist tried to appease her and suggested:
“Oh, well! after all, ma’am, you know there is a precedent for that. You remember Our Lord, too, went out on the Sabbath——” She interrupted him:
“Ooh, aye! I ken it weel eneuch. Ye canna’ tell me aught aboot Hem that I dinna ken a’ready. An’ I can tell ye this: we don’t think any moor o’ Hem for it either!”
III
There was a funeral in Dublin of a young married woman. The undertaker, after the wont of his craft, was arranging the whole affair according to the completest local rules of mortuary etiquette. He bustled up to the widower saying:
“You, sir, will of course go in the carriage with the mother of the deceased.”
“What! Me go in the carriage with my mother-in-law! Not likely!”
“Oh, sir, but I assure you it is necessary. The rule is an inviolable one, established by precedents beyond all cavil!” expostulated the horrified undertaker. But the widower was obdurate.
“I won’t go. That’s flat!”
“Oh, but, my good sir, remember the gravity of the occasion—the publicity—the—the—possibility—scandal.” His voice faded into a gasp. The widower stuck to his resolution and so the undertaker laid the matter before some of his intimate friends who were waiting instructions. They surrounded the chief mourner and began to remonstrate with him:
“You really must, old chap; it is necessary.”
“I’ll not! Go with me mother-in-law!—Rot!”
“But look here, old chap——”
“I’ll not I tell ye—I’ll go in any other carriage that ye wish; but not in that.”
“Oh, of course, if ye won’t, ye won’t. But remember it beforehand that afterwards when it’ll be thrown up against ye, that it’ll be construed into an affront on the poor girl that’s gone. Ye loved her, Jack, we all know, an’ ye wouldn’t like that!”
This argument prevailed. He signed to the undertaker and began to pull on his black gloves. As he began to move towards the carriage he turned to his friends and said in a low voice:
“I’m doin’ it because ye say I ought to, and for the poor girl that’s gone. But ye’ll spoil me day!”