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Three Courses and a Dessert

by William Clarke · English · Gutenberg #44560 · 950,552 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Three Courses and a Dessert

Author: William Clarke

Illustrator: George Cruikshank


        
Release date: January 1, 2014 [eBook #44560]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/44560

Credits: Produced by David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THREE COURSES AND A DESSERT ***

THREE COURSES AND A DESSERT:

Comprising _Three Sets Of Tales_, West Country, Irish, And Legal, And A
Melange

By Anonymous

With Fifty Illustrations By GEORGE CRUIKSHANK

1867.


     “Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.”

                               _As you like it._




INDUCTION.

The purveyor of the ensuing apology for a “feast of reason,” takes leave
to greet his guests with a hearty, but respectful, welcome. It would
be in bad taste for him to dilate at his threshold upon what he has
provided for their entertainment: his brief bill of fare will presently
be laid before them.

He ventures to indulge a hope, that his repast will prove obnoxious
to none, and, in some degree, gratifying to many; that those who may
discover nothing to their taste in one course, will meet with something
piquant in another; that no one

     “Will drag, at each remove, a lengthening chain;”

and, that even if the _dishes_ be disliked, the _plates_, at least,
will please: but he feels bound to state, that whatever faults the
decorations may be chargeable with, on the score of invention, he,
alone, is to blame, and not Mr. George Cruikshank; to whom he is deeply
indebted for having embellished his rude sketches in their transfer to
wood, and translated them into a proper pictorial state, to make their
appearance in public. They have necessarily acquired a value, which
they did not intrinsically possess, in passing through the hands of
that distinguished artist; of whom it may truly, and on this occasion
especially, be said, _Quod tetigit, ornavit_.

Having thus, perhaps rashly, presented himself at the bar of public
opinion, conscious as he feels of his own demerits, he can only throw
himself on the liberality of his judges, and plead for a lenient
sentence.




BILL OF FARE.


FIRST COURSE:-WEST COUNTRY CHRONICLES.

Introduction...........11

Sir Mathew Ale....................13

The Counterpart Cousins........17

Caddy Cuddle....................37

The Braintrees ;.......63

The Sham Fight.........103

The Bachelor's Darling.........120

Habakkuk Bullwrinkle........159


SECOND COURSE:-NEIGHBOURS OF AN OLD IRISH BOT.

Introduction...........177

Jimmy Fitzgerald.........178

The Native and the Odd Fish.......185

Timberleg Toe-trap.........198

Bat Boroo ..........206

The Witch's Switch.........214

The Weed Witness.........225

The Flying Dutchman........233

The Nest Egg..........239

Under the Thumb.........245

Our Tommy...........252

The Dentist;.....257

The Mushroom.......... 262

The Dülosk Girl.........278


THIRD COURSE:--MY COUSIN'S CLIENTS.

Introduction...........301

Adam Burdock.......... 303

The Mathematician.........305

The Little Black Porter........347


THE DESSERT.


Introduction...........387

The Deaf Postilion.........389

Conjugating a Verb.........393

Posthumous Praise.........396

The Dos-a-dos Tête-a-tête...... 398

A Toad in a Hole 400

The Pair of Pumps......... 410

Wanted a Partner..........414

Handsome Hands.........421

Misled by a Name .............425

The Last Man .........430




FIRST COURSE: WEST COUNTRY CHRONICLES.


[Illustration: 018]




INTRODUCTION.

The true old English squire is now nearly extinct: a few admirable
specimens of the class flourished a few years ago in the western
counties; from the discourse and memoranda of one of the most excellent
of these, the substance of the following narratives was gleaned. For
my introduction to, and subsequent acquaintance with, the worthy old
gentleman. I was indebted to the delinquency of a dog. Carlo was most
exemplary in his punctuation; he would quarter and back in the finest
style imaginable; no dog could be more staunch, steady, and obedient to
hand and voice, while there was no living mutton at hand: but no sooner
did he cross a sheep-track, break into view of a fleece, or even hear
the tinkling bell (a dinner bell to him) of a distant flock, than
he would bolt away, as rectilinearly as the crow flies, towards his
favourite prey, in spite of the most peremptory commands, or the smack
of a whip, with the flavour of which his back was intimately acquainted.
I had been allowed a very fair trial of the dog; but, unfortunately,
no opportunity occurred, previously to his becoming my property, of
shooting over him near a sheep-walk. His behaviour was so excellent in
Kent, that I never was more astonished in my life, than when I beheld
him severely shaking a sheep by the haunch, the first time we went out
together in Somerset. Unable to obtain a substitute, and hoping that his
vice would not prove incurable, I was compelled, most indignantly and
unwillingly, to put up with his offences for three days. On the morning
of the fourth, he suddenly broke forward from heel, and went off at full
speed before me: aware, by experience, of what was about to take place,
I lifted the piece to my shoulder, and should, most assuredly, have
tickled his stern, had he not dashed over the brow of a little hillock,
so rapidly, that it was impossible to cover him with my Manton. On
reaching the brow of the acclivity, I saw him, in the valley below, with
his teeth entangled in the wool of a wether; and a sturdy old person, in
the garb of a sportsman, belabouring him over the back with an enormous
cudgel. The individual, who inflicted this wholesome castigation on the
delinquent, offered to cure him for me of his propensity. I gratefully
accepted the offer; and thus became acquainted with that fine specimen
of the old-fashioned gentlemen of England, Sir Mathew Ale, of Little
Redland Hall, Baronet,-(whose grounds I was crossing, on my way to
a manor over which I had the privilege of shooting,)-by means of a
rascally dog, that had a fancy for killing his own mutton.

[Illustration: 019]




SIR MATHEW ALE.

It was a question, even with my friend the Baronet himself, whether,
as some of the genealogists asserted, his respectable ancestors
were related to the illustrious judge, who, with the exception of an
aspirate, was his namesake: but if, as the old gentleman said, he had
none of the eminent lawyer's blood flowing in his veins, a fact of much
greater importance was indisputable;--he possessed, without the shadow
of a doubt, that great man's mug,--the capacious vessel from which he
was wont to quaff huge and inspiring draughts of the king of all manly
beverages, “nut-brown ale.” The pitcher,--to which appellation its size
entitled it,--“filled with the foaming blood of Barleycorn” from ten
to fifteen years of age, invariably graced my friend's old oaken table,
during our frequent festive meetings. There was a strong likeness, in
the outline of Sir Mathew's mug, when full of the frothing liquor in
which he delighted, to his “good round belly,” his ruddy face, and his
flowing wig. It was highly valued by the old gentleman, while he lived;
and is looked upon with a kind of reverential love, by those to whom
he endeared himself by his good qualities, as the only likeness of him
extant, now that he is dead.

Sir Mathew was an enthusiastic admirer of the customs of merry old
England, and especially attached to those of “the West-Countrie.” Bom in
Devon, and living, as he said, with one foot in Gloucester and the
other in Somerset, he had acquired a greater knowledge of the qualities,
habits, and feelings of the people who dwelt in two or three of the
“down-a-long” shires, than most men of his day. He was well versed in
their superstitions, their quaint customs, and their oddities;--an adept
in their traditionary lore, and acquainted with most of the heroes
who had figured in their little modern romances of real life. A large
portion of his time had been absorbed in making collections for a
System of Rustic Mythology, a Calendar of West Country Customs, and in
perfecting his favourite work,--the Apotheosis of John Barleycorn. The
ensuing pages are devoted merely to a few circumstances which fell under
his own observation; with the characters in the narratives, he was,
personally, more or less acquainted: the auto-biography of the obese
attorney, Habakkuk Bullwrinkle, is faithfully transcribed from the
original manuscript, in Sir Mathew's possession.

Sir Mathew frequently declared, that nearly all the superstitions of the
people, relating to charms and tokens, were, as he knew by experience,
founded in truth. He had, at one time, been a staunch believer in the
power of the “dead man's candle” to prevent those, who are sleeping in
the house where it is lighted, from waking until it is burned out, or
extinguished: but latterly Sir Mathew thought proper to intimate that
his belief in the efficacy of the charm had been, in some degree,
staggered. A malicious wag, in the neighbourhood, propagated a tale,
which, if true, accounts naturally enough for the change in Sir Mathew's
opinion upon this point. Whenever an eminent burglar happened to be
imprisoned in either of the neighbouring gaols, it was the Baronet's
custom, for a number of years past, as the story went, to consult the
criminal, as a high authority, on the virtue of the mystic light in
house-breaking. The result of his inquiries induced him to repose so
much faith in the charm, that, in order to set the question beyond a
doubt, he determined on making a midnight entry into the house of a dear
friend; who, he knew, neither kept fire-arms, nor would, for a moment,
suspect him, even if discovered and taken in the fact, of being actuated
by burglarious motives. With the assistance of a lecturer on
anatomy, who lived in a neighbouring town, and a clever
journeyman-tallow-chandler, Sir Mathew made “a dead man's Candle,”
 _secundum artem_; armed with which, he penetrated into his friend's
pantry, regaled himself very heartily on some cold beef, and a bottle
of stout ale, and finding that his proceedings had not caused the least
alarm, he daringly made a great deal of unnecessary noise. His friend
and the servants were at length roused: in his hurry to get off
undetected, Sir Mathew's candle was extinguished; and during the
darkness, his dear friend, and Jacob, his dear friend's butler,
thrashed him so unmercifully, that, although his fears endowed him with
sufficient agility to effect a retreat, he could scarcely crawl home;
and was confined to his bed, by a very mysterious indisposition, for
more than a week.

Sir Mathew stoutly denied the truth of this impeachment: he admitted
that he was a practical man,--an experimentalist in such matters; but he
indignantly pleaded “not guilty” to being so enthusiastic a simpleton
as his jocose calumniator had represented him. The wag, in reply, said
“that it was very natural, right or wrong, for Sir Mathew to deny the
correctness of the story. Although the old gentleman is certainly quite
simple enough to do the deed,” added he, “I must needs own, I never
suspected him of being such a blockhead as to confess it.”

After this, Sir Mathew treated the tale as an ingenious and venial
invention, and always enjoyed it highly whenever it was subsequently
related in his hearing. He would have laughed heartily at it, perhaps,
if he could; but he had long been compelled to drill his features,
periodically, into a state of almost inflexible gravity. “People who
know but little of me,” he would say, “call me 'the man without a
smile;' I pass, with many, for a very surly fellow; unfortunately, I am
often misrepresented, and my real character is mistaken, through, what
others would deem, a trifling affliction: the bane of my life is, that,
very frequently, for a month together, I can't laugh, and don't dare
even to indulge in my habitual smirk, because I have an apparently
incurable and terrifically susceptible little crack in my lip.”

Sir Mathew was a most zealous supporter of the ancient customs of the
country. He patronised the sports of a neighbouring village fair, at a
considerable expense, until its frequenters almost abused him for not
giving two pigs with greasy tails to be caught, instead of one. He
entertained the cobblers of the surrounding villages, annually, with
a barrel of strong ale, in order to keep up the good old custom of
Crispin's sons draining a horn of malt liquor, in which a lighted candle
was placed,--without singeing their faces, if they could,--on the feast
of their patron saint: nor did he discontinue this practice, even after
some of them had despoiled him of a favourite pair of boots; until a
party of the gentle craft, on one occasion, emboldened by beer, stormed
his inmost cellar, tapped a barrel which he did not intend to have
broached for half a score of years, and, as he asserted, thickened
the beer in three others, by their tremendous uproar! Sir Matthew's
housekeeper, whose two sons were cordwainers, ventured to hint that
the beer in those barrels had never been fine; and that, even after
the fatal feast day, although certainly a little thick, it was far from
ropy. Sir Mathew vowed, on the contrary, that it was ropy enough to hang
the whole scoundrelly squad; and that he only wished they would give him
an opportunity of making the experiment.

Sir Mathew was a decided enemy to duelling; and most vehemently abused
the practice of two people popping at each other with pistols. “If
gentlemen must fight,” he would exclaim, “in the name of all that's old
English and manly, why not make use of the national quarter-staff,--as
I did, when Peppercorn Vowler called me out, and gave me my choice of
weapons?”

According to tradition, Sir Mathew was almost a stranger to his opponent
when the bout between them took place; and much to his astonishment,
Peppercorn Vowler gave him an elaborate cudgelling. It was whispered,
that the Baronet felt so indignant at the result of the quarter-staff
conflict, that he sent his adversary an invitation, which was politely
declined, to renew the fight with pistols. Peppercorn Vowler, it
appears, felt even a greater aversion to fire-arms than Sir Mathew, and
had given the latter his choice of weapons, because he was sure, from
the inquiries he had made, that Sir Mathew would most certainly choose
the quarter-staff; in the exercise of which Peppercorn Vowler was quite
a proficient.

The Baronet adopted the old rustic mode of curing my dog of his
propensity to mutton: he turned him into a barn, with a couple of very
powerful and evil-disposed rams. “I'll warrant,” said he, as he closed
the door, “that the animal will never look a sheep in the face again.”
 He was certainly right in his prediction; for half an hour afterwards,
the dog died under the extraordinary discipline of the battering rams to
which Sir Mathew had zealously subjected him.

[Illustration: 023]




THE COUNTERPART COUSINS.

Almost every house, in a little village situate in the lower part of
Somersetshire, near the borders of Devon, was tenanted, two or three
generations back, either by a Blake or a Hickory. Individuals, of one or
the other of these names, occupied all the best farms, and all the
minor lucrative posts, in the parish. The shoemaker, the carpenter, the
thatcher, and the landlord of the public house, were Blakes; and the
parish clerk, the glazier, the tailor, and the keeper of “the shop,”
 where almost every thing was sold, Hickories. Numerous matrimonial
alliances were formed among the young people of the two families. As
the Blakes were manly, and the Hickories handsome, it happened, rather
luckily, that the children of the former were, for the most part, boys,
and those of the latter, girls. If a male child were bom among the
Hickories, he grew up puny in frame and womanly in features; and there
was not an individual, among the few females of the Blake family,
who did not bear the strongly marked features and robust frame,
characteristic of the race from which she sprang. The young men of the
house of Hickory were too much like their sisters, to be good-looking
fellows; and the damsels of the other name resembled their brothers too
closely, to be beautiful women; they were, apparently, stout enough in
form, and sufficiently bold in heart, had not the days of chivalry been
past, to have been esquires to “mettlesome knights of hie renown;”
 while the striplings of the other family were more adapted, from their
lady-like limbs and gentle looks, to be bower-pages to those
high-born dames, for whose honour and amusement, their chivalric lords
occasionally broke each other's pates in the tourney.

Notwithstanding these disparities, some strong attraction seemed to
exist between the blood of the two families; not only did the
“manly Blakes” take unto themselves wives from among the “handsome
Hickories,”---this was natural enough,--but the young yeomen of the
tribe of Hickory, intermarried with the spinsterhood of the Blakes.
Perhaps it was Hobson's choice with the youths,--these or none;--there
being scarcely another name in the village except those of the “two
great houses”--Hickory and Blake; and in those days, but few of its
young folks travelled far beyond the landmarks of their native place.

The Blakes and Hickories, at length, grew so numerous, that the village
did not offer sufficient resources for their support, and several of
them emigrated;--some to the neighbouring towns, but the greater part
to the metropolis, where they were soon lost in its mighty tide
of population, which is constantly recruited by “supplies from the
country,” as the river, whose banks it ennobles, is supported by the
tributary streams which eternally flow into its huge bed. A great
number of the descendants of those females of the Blake family, who had
intermarried with Hickories, still remained; but it was in vain to
seek for the fine Herculean forms, which tradition had assigned to the
Blakes, or the surpassing beauty, which, according to old tales, was
once possessed by the female Hickories. It is true, that the features of
each family were to be seen, scattered among various individuals; but no
perfect specimen, in the prime of life, of either race, could be found.
Two or three gaunt fellows, the oldest men in the parish, who were issue
of the first unions between the two houses, still stalked about, with
melancholy countenances, thinking but little of the present, and
more often of the past than the future; but as their fathers had been
Hickories, and their mothers Blakes, it was said that they did not
possess those excellencies of form or feature, which their cousins, who
were Blakes by the father's side, and Hickories by the mother's, were
reported to have been endowed.

A single individual of the Blake family, in whose veins none of the
Hickory blood flowed, remained alive; that individual was a woman,
fettered by age and infirmities, to a chair on the kitchen hearth of one
of her descendants. Dame Deborah was venerated as a relic of old times,
rather than beloved. The beings about her had come into the world when
she was aged; and those, to whom she had given life, had passed away
before her; leaving their mother to the care of a third generation. To
her, those little acts of kindness, which are so endearing in the first
stage of human decay through “length of days,” were rarely performed,
because she was too withered in mind and feeling to appreciate them.
She lived among relations, but had no friends. All her wants were
scrupulously provided for; but the attentions, which her grand-children
and great-grand-children paid her, were acts of duty rather than
affection. The days of her glory, even as an old woman were over: she
had ceased to become a domestic adviser; the last child she had nursed,
for one of her daughters, was now “a stout and stalwart” young fellow,
nearly six feet high; and those, to whom she had told tales of other
times, when her memory and breath were both equal to the task, were
getting old themselves, and beginning to relate the same chronicles,
round the kitchen fire, on winter nights; generally without
acknowledging, and often forgetting, to whom they were indebted for that
legendary lore, the possession of which so exalted them in the opinions
of the young.

From the dark cloud, which usually obscured Dame Deborah's mental
faculties, a gleam of youthful memory occasionally shot up, which much
amazed many of her descendants. One evening, a warm discussion took
place in the kitchen where she sat, as to the precise ages of Ralph
Hickory and his cousin Harry. After a world of talk, without an atom
of conclusion, Dame Deborah placed her hand upon the arm of one of
the disputants, and said, in a tremulous but distinct tone: “Susanna
Hickory, who was big Anthony Blake's seventh child, and only daughter,
and married one of the young Hickories of Hickory Hatch, was brought to
bed of a boy on the second day of our Whitsun revel, the same hour that
her cousin Polly had twins,--both boys,--but only one of them lived
to be christened. I stood godmother to the two babes. Susey's boy
was called Ralph, after my first husband, and Polly's after my second
goodman, Harry. That was the year when lightning struck the steeple, and
Matty Drew, the witch, was drowned. She told the children's fortunes,
and said of them,--

     'Merry meeting--sorry parting;
     Second greeting--bitter smarting;
     Third struggle--'”

Dame Deborah could not finish Matty Drew's prediction; and this was the
seventh time, within as many years, that she had attempted to do so,
but in vain; a fit of coughing or abstraction invariably seizing her on
these occasions, before she could articulate the remainder of the line.
The debaters stared with wonder on each other at the old dame's unusual
fluency; for she had not spoken, except in monosyllables, during many
preceding months; and they looked upon it as an omen of Deborah's death,
or some great calamity to one of her living descendants. On examining
the church books, they found her account to be correct, so far as
regarded the baptism of the two boys, and the interment of one of
Polly's twins; and some of her neighbours recollected that the church
was struck, as Deborah had related, in the same year that Matty Drew was
drowned, by a farmer and his two sons, who supposed she had bewitched
them, and their cattle; and ducked her, under the idea that, if she were
a witch, she could not be drowned; little thinking of the consequences
to themselves, if she did not survive the ordeal. Two of them afterwards
fled the country; the third was taken and tried. He stated, in his
defence, that he had reason to believe Matty was a witch, for her
predictions were always verified by events; and that once, when his
mother could not succeed in her churning, he and his father twisted a
hazel switch, as tight as their strength would permit, about the chum,
and behold, at last, in came Matty, shrieking and writhing, as if in
agony, and beseeching them to unloose the gad; which, she admitted, was
sympathetically torturing her own waist. He called no witnesses to this
fact; and, notwithstanding the ingenious argument which his counsel had
written out for him, wherein it was stated that “an unlettered clown”
 might well be forgiven for entertaining the same opinions as some of the
kings of England, and one of her most eminent judges, in old days, the
young man was convicted and executed, for acting under an impression
that those powers existed, for the possession of which, a century
before, helpless old women were found guilty by twelve of their fellow
countrymen, and doomed, by a strong-minded judge, to be burned;--more
than one of the old creatures having crawled, it is said, when led
from the cold dungeon, to warm their chilled limbs by the fire that was
kindling to consume them.

Ralph Hickory and Harry Hickory, the objects of Matty Drew's doggrel
prophecy, are the heroes of our tale--the Counterpart Cousins;--rather
alike in disposition, but bearing no resemblance to each other in
outward appearance. Ralph inherited all the strength and height of
the Blakes, without their fine form, or the handsome features of the
Hickories. His shoulders were broad, but round, and his neck did not
seem to rise exactly in their centre: his arms were long, muscular, and
well shaped; but his legs were crooked, and too brief in proportion
to his body. His maternal ancestor's features were rather of the Roman
order, and the wags of the village said, that Ralph had a Blake's nose
run to seed:--it was thin, sharp, and disagreeable. Every body confessed
that he had the Hickories' merry black eyes;--but his mouth gaped, and
looked like a caricature of their pouting and slightly ported lips.
The Hickories' teeth were brilliant and pearly; the Blakes' quite the
contrary:--the lips of the former delicately exhibited their dental
treasures; while those of the latter were so close and clenched, that
it was difficult to obtain a glance at the awkward squad which they
concealed. Ralph unfortunately inherited the bad teeth of the Blakes,
and the open lips of the Hickories; as well as the fair hair of the
former, and the dark eyes and long black lashes of the latter: so that
Ralph was rather a singular looking being;--but precisely, or nearly
such a person as the reader must have occasionally met with;--exhibiting
an union of some of the beauties, and many of the deformities, of two or
three of the tribes of man.

Harry was very different in person, but not a jot more beautiful than
Ralph. His body was broader and more robust than that of a Blake, when
the family was in a flourishing state; but it was remarkably short, and
shapeless as a log. His head seemed to be squeezed into his shoulders
by some giant hand, and his light but well-proportioned Hickory legs
exhibited a striking contrast to the clumsy bulk of his huge trunk. The
butcher said, that Harry would resemble his big block, with a calf's
head on its surface, only that it stood on three legs, and Harry
possessed but two. His arms were thick, bony and stunted; and his hands
of such an immense size, that he was often called “Molepaw” by his
competitors in the wrestling ring. Harry had the large blue eyes of the
Blake family, and a thick, short, snub nose; which, the good gossips
said, could be traced to nobody. There was a striking resemblance in his
other features to the by-gone Hickories: his mouth and chin were really
handsome; but an unmeaning smile usually played about his lips; and
he had a vacant sort of look, that betokened good humour allied to
silliness. But when Harry's blood was warmed by an angry word or two
and an extra cup of drink, though he did not “look daggers,” he frowned
furiously, and looked, as well as talked, broomsticks, cudgels, kicks on
the shin-bone, and various other “chimeras dire.” In such a mood, Harry
was dangerous to deal with, and avoided by all those who were peaceably
disposed.

In this particular, Ralph was his counterpart There was not a more kind
or sociable being in three counties than Ralph Hickory, when he was
sober; but liquor made him quarrelsome and rash; it whetted his appetite
to give and receive kicks and bruises; and if he could not rouse any
one, by insults and taunting, to wrestle, fight, or play a bout at
back-sword, or cudgels with him,--he lashed himself up into a fury,
attacked, and either scattered those who were about him like chaff, or
got felled by a sturdy thwack of fist or cudgel, and fastened down until
reason returned hand-in-hand with shame and remorse. To both of the
cousins liquor was pure Lethe; they never remembered any thing that
occurred, from the time of their passing the rubicon of intoxication,
until the moment of their waking the next day.

Ralph and Harry considered themselves as relations to each other, on the
credit of certain of the gossiping oral genealogists of the village,
who proved, in a very roundabout way, to their auditors, but entirely to
their own conviction, that Ralph and Harry were, what are called, in the
West Country,--second and third cousins. Each of them was the offspring
of a match between a male Hickory and a female Blake; and both were bad
specimens of the two fine families, whose more gifted descendants, in
regard to personal appearance, the issue of those unions which had been
formed between “the manly Blakes” and “the handsome Hickories,” were
the individuals who had quitted the village, impelled by a spirit of
adventure, when they felt themselves too crowded in their native place,
on account of the increase of its population.

Hickory was now the paramount name in the parish; there was not a single
Blake in its little community, except old Dame Deborah, whose boast it
had been, when she could babble apace, that she was the last of either
of the pure stocks left. She had often stated, in the autumn of
her life,--that season when the mind yields its richest fruits of
memory,--that the good old Blakes began to lose the ascendant, from
the time of the battle of Culloden. It will appear strange, that the
downfall of the Pretender's forces in the north, should be associated,
in Deborah's mind, with that of her family, whose abiding place was in
the west. We will explain this nearly in the old dame's own words: “On
the 16th of April, in the forty-six, my brother Gilbert,”--thus her
story ran,--“who was then an officer in the Duke of Cumberland's
dragoons, which rank he had attained, partly by money, partly by merit,
did such service under the great Hawley, against the lads in tartans,
that he was promised promotion by the famous Duke, who gave him his
pistols, in the field, as an earnest of more favours to come. A few
days after, while the dragoons were scouring the country, in quest of
prisoners of consequence, it was whispered, by some who envied him, that
Gilbert had been won by the honeyed words and rich jewels of a noble
northern lady, to let her husband, whom he had taken, escape. This
report reached Gilbert's ears; and the next day, while he was mounting
his horse, an orderly came with commands for him to attend the Duke
with all speed. Gilbert directly drew out his men; gave some orders of
importance, which were afterwards executed, and proved very beneficial
to the service, and directed his junior officer to lead the soldiers off
to perform it: he then stepped aside, and, with one of the pistols the
Duke had given him on the sixteenth, blew out his brains! On the very
evening the news arrived of my brother's death by his own hands, a sad
disaster happened to the Blakes:--my father was, that afternoon, beating
an apprentice, rather too severely, perhaps, in a field where some of
his labourers were hacking-in wheat; when one who was among them,--a
little fellow who was not much more than five feet high, but remarkable
for his good features and fine form,--left his work, and advancing to my
tall and powerful father, reproached him, in so insolent a manner, for
beating the boy, who was a favourite with the labourer, that the bad
blood of the Blakes became immediately roused, and he inflicted a blow
or two on the man's shoulders with his stick: the fellow stepped back a
few paces, and then running against my father at full speed, drove his
head into the pit of the old man's stomach with such violence, that it
laid him dead upon the spot I don't know why, or wherefore, but true it
is, that the labourer was acquitted of blame on his trial; and he was
the first of the Hickories known in these parts. The same evening, my
aunt Elinor, the widow of Frank Cooper, who had sailed round the world
with Anson, died away in her chair, without any previous illness. Had my
father been killed an hour later, he would have heard of the suicide of
his son; and had not my aunt Elinor died before sunset, she would have
known, that both her brother and her nephew had gone before her to the
grave: but both of them were saved from the bitterness of such news on
their dying day. From that time, the Blakes dwindled, and the Hickories
rose. They have matched and mated much since; but it is said, perhaps
truly, that the Hickories are doomed to root out the Blakes, and then
destroy themselves;--they met in the valley of death, and blood will be
mixed in their stirrup-cup. My grandson Ralph has now more of the Blakes
in him than any other man; and thick Harry, although he has a double
dash of us in his veins, is more of a Hickory than any other I know.
They are both Hickories in name, but not truly so in nature. Ralph looks
upon himself, and is looked up to, as the head of the poor remnant of
my father's race; and Harry is in the same situation, as a descendant
of the labourer, who took his master's life, on that master's own land.
They have both a great many of the bad qualities, and but few of the
virtues, of the two families;--and I, for one, say--God keep them from
drinking deep out of the same cup!--for liquor is likely to be their
bane.”

This sort of language was too frequently repeated, and the witch Matty
Drew's prophecy too often alluded to, by old Deborah, in those days when
her tongue still talked triumphantly, although her limbs were incapable
of motion, not to produce a deep and lasting impression upon her
hearers. One half of the village was in a constant state of alarm, after
Ralph had returned, a man, from the “up-along” counties, to which he
had departed, a boy, in order to learn some improved mode of cultivating
land, lest the two cousins should meet and quarrel in their cups. If
they were seen in the village, passing a few moments in friendly chat,
a scout immediately acquainted the parties most interested with the
circumstance; and, in a short time, one of them was drawn off, by a
fictitious story, of lambs tumbling into ditches, cows getting their
legs entangled in hurdles, or children fallen into fits.

Ralph and Harry both loved the pastimes of their native place; they
could wrestle, and play at back-sword, in very laudable style; but
Ralph was the better wrestler, and Harry surpassed in the use of the
single-stick. Devon being noted for its wrestlers, and Somerset for
its single-stick players, the cousins were attracted in different
directions, to enjoy that pastime in which each excelled; so that, up
to the fortieth year of their lives,--and they were, as it will be
remembered, precisely of the same age,--they had never, much to the
satisfaction of their friends, met in the ring as rivals. Especial care
had always been taken that they did not join the same convivial parties;
they often attempted to make merry together, for Ralph and Harry really
felt an affection for each other's society, but the women invariably
out-manoeuvred them, and the two cousins were greater strangers to each
other, than either of them was to any man else in the village, of his
own age and station.

Their forty-first birth-day arrived: Ralph attended a review of the
yeomanry-cavalry, in which he was a corporal, and Harry went to market
for the purpose of selling some steers. On returning home, they were
obliged to cross each other's track. They dwelt at opposite ends of the
long, straggling village; which were approached by two different lanes:
of these, the letter X will serve as a tolerably good substitute for a
ground plan;--the market town being situate at the top of the left, and
the common, on which the review was held, on that of the right, limb
of the letter; at the lower end of which the village meandered along
through meadows and corn-fields; Harry's abode being at the right, and
Ralph's at the left end of it. The two lanes were crossed, at the point
of intersection, by a third, which, on account of its being two or
three yards wider, and a little more frequented than either of them,
was dignified with the title of “the high road;” and in this “undeniable
situation,” as George Robins would say, stood a snug public house,
called Sawney's Cross; the front of which commanded a view, across the
high road, for some distance up the lanes which led to the market town
and common.

Harry was proceeding down one lane, at a speedy, shuffling pace, betwixt
a gallop and trot, on a powerful blind galloway; while Ralph approached
the line of intersection, from the common, by the other, on a gaunt,
half-bred horse, nearly sixteen hands high, a strong galloper, and quite
ungovernable when put upon his mettle. The galloway and the tall horse
were both “homeward bound;” and “sniffing the manger from afar,” each
of them was going along, impatient of check, and at, what jockies would
call, “a tip-top pace.”

Ned Creese, the landlord of Sawney's Cross, stood at his door, and
beheld the ominous approach of the two travellers: he was mathematician
enough to discover, that equi-distant as they were, from the point where
their lines of direction intersected each other in the middle of the
main road, and approaching toward such point with equal speed, something
unpleasant must needs occur to one of the parties, at the transit. He
beckoned, and called out to each of them as loudly as he could: but
Harry was short sighted, and could not see his motions; and Ralph was
rather hard of hearing, and could not make out what he meant; so that
neither of them pulled up; and, as they were concealed from each other
by the high hedges of the lanes, neither Harry nor Ralph was aware of
the danger that menaced them, until they emerged from the bottom of
the lanes. Ralph foresaw the event first, and, with might and main,
attempted to pull his horse out of the way: he partly succeeded, but by
checking his steed, and making him swerve from the direct line in which
he was going, he gave Harry a decided advantage in the ensuing shock.
The cousins had just time to ejaculate “Hoy, Ralph!” and “Hilloa,
Harry!” when the blind galloway bore his off-shoulder against the tall
troop-horse's hind quarters, and just such a catastrophe took place as
Creese had anticipated:--Harry was thrown over his galloway's head; and
Ralph, with his horse, and the galloway at his heels, were carried to
the brink of a horse-pond by the road side. Ralph fell in the mud,
and the horses went over him into the water; where they lay struggling
together for a few moments; they then got up without assistance, and
each limped homeward, leaving their owners to come after them as well as
they could.

“Hoy, Ralph!” and “Hilloa, Harry!” were the first words the cousins
uttered.

“Art hurt, lad?” asked Ralph.--“No,” was the reply;--“Art thee?”

“Sound as oak; only a bloody nose, and a bump on the forehead.”

“That's right, then; I don't feel much the matter myself; but dowl take
thy blind galloway, for all that!”

“He's worth his weight in gold;--didn't'ee see how he capsized you and
your troop horse?”

“You charged me in flank when I was filing off;--if I had met'ee full
butt, Harry, I should ha' sent thee and thy galloway clean into
the muck, and gone on without abating pace, or feeling a jerk in my
balance.”

“What, and not ha' turned round to say 'Hilloa, Harry?'”

“Odd! yes, to be sure,--I'd say 'Hilloa, Harry!'--and what will'ee
drink, besides.”

“Well,--and what _shall_ we?”

“I don't mind;--but let's ha' something, and make merry together for
once.”

“Wi' all my heart!--Here we be, safe from busy meddlers; and dash me if
I don't feel inclined to make a day of it.”

“Give me your hand;--this capsize was a bit of luck, weren't it?”

“Aye, to be sure,--brought two good fellows together. What shall we
have?--It's cold.--What d'ye say to Hopping John, made Tom Nottle's
fashion?--Landlord, mix pint of brandy wi' half a gallon of your best
cider, sugared to your own taste; and,--d'ye mind?--pop in about a dozen
good roasted apples, hissing hot, to take the chill off.”

In a short time, the two cousins were seated by the fire, in a little
room behind the bar of the Sawney's Cross, with a smoking bowl of liquor
on the table before them, and Ned Creese assisting them to empty it. By
degrees, the cousins became elevated, and their chat was enlivened
by budding jokes and choice flowers of rustic song. Harry's forehead
frequently reminded him, in the midst of his glee, of the adventure in
the road; and he recurred to it, for the fifth time, since the sitting,
as Ned brought in a second brewage of hot Hopping John:--“I'd lay a
wager I know where my blind galloway is, just about now,” quoth he;
“it's odd to me if he isn't stopping at the Dragon's Head, where he
always pulls up, and tempts me to call for a cup of cider and a mouthful
of hay.”

“Gentlemen,” said Creese, “I'll give you a toast--a Devonshire one--and
it's this:--A back fall, or a side fall, or any fall but a fall out.”

“For my part,” continued Ned, after his toast was duly honoured,--“I
expected no less than a fight, if you were able to stand, after what I
saw would happen;--but I hardly hoped to see both get on your legs, with
nothing but one bloody nose between the pair of you.”

“I must say, landlord, I fell very comfortably, indeed, considering,”
 said Harry.

“And I came down very much to my own satisfaction,” quoth Ralph, “only
that I soiled my uniform.”

“It struck me,” observed Ned Creese, “that you must have gone over head
and ears into the pond, which is deeper than it should be in the middle;
but I consoled myself;--for, thinks I,--if so be that he should, the
_frogs_ on his dragoon jacket will save him, if swimming can do it If
you'd both broke your necks I couldn't but giggle to see you. It's my
belief 'twould have made a horse laugh; as my sign says, it was truly
'good entertainment for man and beast.'--Don't be hipped because I'm
jocular: joking's a malady with many a man, and here stands one of'em;
we can no more help it than an ague fit. But come, folks; here's 'The
West Country Orchards!'--and then let's rouse the crickets with the
old apple-tree hymn.--I'll begin.” So saying, Creese commenced, and,
assisted by Ralph and Harry, chaunted forth the following rhymes, in a
manner that would have amazed Mozart, although it gladdened the hearts
of the rustic guests in the Sawney's Cross kitchen.

     1.

     The white rose was, aye, a dainty flower,
     And the hawthorn a bonny tree;
     A grove of oaks is a rich dame's dower;
     But the barley-straw for me!

     2.

     From his acorn-cup let the Elfin sip,
     And the oak-fruit be munched by swine;
     The thrush may have both the haw and hip;
     Give me but the jolly vine!

     3.

     Ale you may brew, from the barley-straw;
     Neither ale, nor grape-juice for me;
     I care not for acorn, hip, nor haw;--
     Give me but the apple-tree!


After they had all three repeated the last verse together, and applauded
their performance by sundry exclamations of approval, and thwacks on the
table, Ralph observed, “Oddsheart! cousin, we're getting as we should
be; a fig for a fell after this.”

“Da capo, say I to it,” exclaimed Creese; “da capo, I say to it,
heartily: da capo, as it is written in the score-book we sing the psalms
by, in the gallery, at church.”

“Wasn't frightened a trifle, landlord, when thee saw'st us coming?”

“Is the approach of a good bone likely to alarm a hungry dog?--I knew
well enough you'd fall; and if you fell, the fall must bring me grist,
in meal or malt:--a 'quest jury, if death had been done; board and
lodging, in case of broken limbs; and a brace of guests for an hour,
if you were only bruised. I shall be much obliged, when you knock
one another down again, if you'll do it before my door. Success to
cross-roads, blind galloways, helter-skelter dragooning, and blink-eyed
farmers!--Ha! ha!--You'll excuse me gentlemen; we're all friends; I hope
no offence.--What are your commands?”

“There's one thing I'd wish thee to do, landlord,” said Ralph; “if any
body should enquire for us,--don't say we be here.”

“No, truly,” added Harry; “an' thou dost, thou'lt lose a couple of good
customers, and get thy head broke to boot, perhaps.”

“Never fear--never fear!” replied Ned; “a secret's safe with me, as
though 'twaa whispered in the ear of an ass. Thank heaven, I haven't had
a woman in the house these seven yean; so all's snug.--

     “A forester slept beneath the beech.
         Heigh! norum snorum!
     His full flask lay within his arm's reach;
         Heigh! horum jorum!

     A maiden came by with a blooming face,
         Heigh! rosy posey!
     She ask'd him the way to Berrywell Chase,--
         With its wine so old,
         And its pasties cold;--

Forester, what has froze ye?

“A long song is out of place over good liquor; so I'll not sing the
other eighteen verses of that one; its moral is, that a woman can't keep
a secret, even when the possession of what she desires depends on it;
but that her babbling often proves her salvation. A friar comes in
sight, while the forester is wooing, and he packs the maid off, for
appearance' sake;--telling her, if she'll meet him there the next day,
provided she don't reveal his promise to mortal, that he'll give her 'a
gown of the richest green,' besprinkled with dewy pearls, or pearly dew,
I forget which: but the maiden was so delighted, that when she got to
the Chase, she told the warden's niece, and the warden's niece told the
maiden's aunt, and the maiden's aunt locked her up for a week: so she
saved her reputation, but lost her present, by babbling.--Gentlemen, you
don't drink!”

We must here leave the cousins to the care of Creese--they could not
have fallen into better hands for the mood in which they met--and remind
our readers, that the horses, after extricating themselves from the
pond, proceeded homeward as well as the injuries they had received would
permit. Their arrival at the village, spread consternation among its
inhabitants: parties went forth, in different directions, to seek Ralph
and Harry;--the women predicting that they had met and killed each
other, and the men endeavouring to stifle their own apprehensions on
the subject. Creese, on being asked if he knew any thing of the matter,
replied, that “he had seen the horses, without riders, gallop by his
door, down the lanes;” and as no one had witnessed the meeting of the
cousins but himself and they were kept close in the back parlour, no
information could be obtained from any one else. Lights were burnt,
in almost every house in the village, nearly all night; and toward
day-break the last party returned without any tidings of the lost sheep.
Old Dame Deborah, confiding in the predictions of Matty Drew, said, as
well as she could, “Bad is this--there's worse to come;--it will prove
to be but a

     “Merry meeting--sorry parting.”

We must now return to the cousins. On the morning after their concussion
in front of Sawney's Cross, Ralph, with whom we shall begin, awoke at
day break, and on taking a hasty survey of his apartment, found, to his
surprise, that he was not at home. He recollected very well that he had
usually worn, for many years past, corduroy small-clothes; and, when he
joined the volunteer yeomanry, white doe-skin pantaloons. “Whose black
nether garments can those be, then,” thought he, “which I see dangling
from yonder peg?”--He leaped out of bed, threw open the lattice, and the
first object that attracted his notice was the horse-pond; on the miry
edge of which, he remembered having been thrown the day before. This
accounted for the colour of his doe-skins. “But, how the dickens,”
 thought he, “got I this tremendous black eye? Where's my front tooth?
And who the deuce has been bruising my ear?--I recollect, well enough,
seeing Creese, the landlord, bring in a third brewing of Hopping John,
and my singing, 'Creeping Jenny,' or part of it, afterwards but what's
come of Harry?”

While these and similar reflections were passing in Ralph's mind,
he proceeded to dress himself, which he found a task of considerable
difficulty, for he was stiff and sore in every limb. Impatient to
resolve the mystery in which he found himself involved, Ralph, before he
was completely attired in his soiled uniform, hobbled down stairs, and
found Harry, staring at the landlord, as though Creese had just been
telling him some very marvellous story.

“Why, Ralph,--cousin Ralph,” said Harry, as Ralph entered the kitchen,
“what be this the landlord says?--He vows and protests 'twere you that
ha' been tearing my clothes to tatters and rags, and beating my face to
a jelly!--I han't a sound inch in my skin!”

“Before I do answer any questions, it be my wish to know of you,
landlord,” said Ralph, in an angry tone, and taking Creese by the
collar; “and what's more, I insist you do tell me, who took the
advantage of me last night--who it were that knocked my tooth out, when
I were overcome?”

“I've lost a tooth myself,--be dashed if I han't!” exclaimed Harry,
whose attention was so distracted by his other injuries, that he had not
discovered the important fact before this moment; “I'll swear I had it
in my mouth last night,” pursued he, grasping Creese, with his huge paw,
by the collar; “and I'll be told, why and wherefore you've let me be
used like a dog, when I were drunk:--answer!”

“Ay, answer, or I'll shake thy life out!” cried Ralph, looking as if he
really meant to “suit the action to the word.”

“Gentlemen,--guests,” said Creese, apparently not in the least alarmed,
but putting himself in a strong attitude, and calmly collaring the
cousins; “be mild, and you shall hear all; or one at a time, and I'm for
the first fair fall, who shall pay last night's smart, with the best, or
both of you,--one down t'other come on: but if you'll put your hands
in your pockets and be peaceable, I'll employ mine to produce your
teeth;--that is, if I can.”

The cousins now relinquished their holds, and Ned drew out a drawer of
the dresser, and requested they would look into it. “Here,” said he,
“you will find the fragments of your feast of fisty-cuffs; perhaps,
among the bits of lace, linen, broad-cloth, frogs and buttons, which I
carefully swept up last night, after I had put you both to bed, you
may find your teeth; if not, I know nothing about them:--send for a
constable, and search me, if you like.”

At this offer, the cousins turned to each other and were going to smile;
but immediately they were face to face, they stared in so rueful a
manner, that Creese was amazingly amused. It was the first time, since
Ralph had come down stairs, that the cousins had closely inspected
each other's countenances, which might, with propriety enough, as the
landlord said, be called “maps of mischance.”

“But it's all your own doings,” quoth he; “the credit and honour belong
to nobody but yourselves;--I must say you're both downright dapsters at
disfiguration.”

“But how were it, d'ye say, landlord?” asked Ralph.

“Ay, truly, how happened it all, according to your story?”--said Harry.

“Why, gentlemen,” replied Creese, “after I found you were going to drink
more than I could well bear,--when it was high tide almost in my head,
and my frail wits began to rock to and fro, pitching me about, when I
moved, like a barge in a hurricane,--I very wisely anchored in the bar,
and attended, as well as I could, to my business: a nap or two between
whiles, as I tended my customers, and one cool pipe, brought me round,
and it was calm sailing with me again.--All this time you were getting
louder and louder; at last, the short gentleman, my worthy friend, Mr.
Harry, persuaded you, Mr. Ralph, to try a friendly back-fall with him.
There wasn't much harm in that;--though, I promise you, I tried to
prevent it, but couldn't. So I cleared away the crockery, and stood by,
as 'twas my duty, to see fair. Harry was, clearly, in my mind, the best
wrestler; but, somehow, Ralph got the in-lock, and laid him upon the
planchin, flat as a pancake.”

“Did I, by jingo?” eagerly exclaimed Ralph.

“No,--it's all his lies;--it couldn't be!” quoth Harry; looking very
incredulous and displeased.

“I have said it, and I'll stand to it;”--continued Ned; “and when you
got up, as you did, with my help, you went over to Ralph, patted him on
the back, and, said you,--'Well done, cousin,--I didn't think it was in
thee!' You added, with an oath, it was the best and fairest fall you had
seen for years past;--that it nearly drove the breath out of your body;
and then you patted him on the back again. After this, you both sat
down, talked, sung, and,--by-and-bye,--began to broach something about
back-sword.”

“Likely enough, an't it, Harry?” said Ralph.

“I don't believe a word o' the story,” replied Harry;--“but I'll hear it
out.”

“I did not ask you to believe it,” said Creese; “but there's special
evidence on your head, as well as on your cousin's, that you played at
it, long and lustily.”

“And which won?” enquired Ralph.

“Both of you lost blood, as well as temper, at last,” replied Creese;
“but, I remember, Harry gave you the first broken head.”

“Never!” replied Ralph, “it never lay in his shoes: he may be as good a
wrestler, or better; but scores of men, that my cousin Harry have often
and often given his head to, never could touch me.”

“Well! be that as it may,” said the landlord, “he certainly had you last
night, Ralph, or I'm out of my senses. Why, I remember it as well as if
it was but a minute ago:--you broke open the glass buffet, in which the
two sticks my uncle and father won the grand match with--Wilts against
Somerset--was stuck up, among the china, with silver mountings, and
decorated with green ribbons, cut out like laurel-leaves;--and you said
they were the best sticks you ever broke a head with: and when Harry cut
your ear, and I cried out 'A bout, a bout!' and put the poker between
you, you shook Harry's hand, and said you admired him, for he had done
what no man ever had attempted--namely--hit you under your best guard.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” shouted Harry. “Odds buttons! Ralph, but there seems to
be some truth in this though, for your ear is cut up, sure enough then,
clean as a whistle; it must ha; been done as Creese says.”

Ralph put his hand up to his ear, and, like Lord Burleigh, in The
Critic, shook his head and said nothing.

“All this,” continued the landlord, “was friendly and civil: you then
ordered a double quantity of brandy in the brewage--if you don't believe
me, look in the bill,--and, in about half an hour, I found you fighting
in downright earnest, and in all manner of ways;--kicking, cudgelling,
wrestling, pulling, punching, tearing one another to pieces very
ungentlemanly, and so forth, and clearly bent on destruction. You had
cracked the looking-glass, broke the table, 'shod the liquor, and tore
the porringer,' as the man said; or, in other words, shed the cider
and brandy, and broke the bowl; all which you'll find I've made correct
memorandums of in the bill. Then I called in the blacksmiths, from next
door, our ostler, and three waggoners who were drinking outside;--we
all pitched into you, and, at last, got you asunder: but not before the
mischief you see and feel was done; and to shew what minds you were in,
when we pulled you, by main force, apart, each of you carried away his
hold, like a couple of bull-dogs:--Harry brought off a piece of Ralph's
sleeve and his shoulder-belt, and Ralph the forepart of Harry's coat,
full two-thirds of his waistcoat, and a pattern of his linen. We then
contrived to get you to bed--as you'll see in the bill; and--and--”

“Aye,--and here we be,” added Ralph; “nice objects for a wife and
family to look at!”

“Thou'rt quite a scarecrow, cousin Ralph,” said Harry. “Do get him a
glass, and let him look at himself, landlord,” said Ralph. “I'm sorry
for thee, Harry;--it's my belief 't'ant exactly as the landlord says;
but we can't belie the story he has told us, so where's the use of
disputing? The question is,--what shall we do?”

“Be dashed if I bean't ashamed to go home,” replied Harry; “I sha'n't be
able to look my wife in the face.”

“Ah! that's touching a sore place, Harry.'Tisn't my bruises, nor thine,
that I care much about--after all; but frightening the women, poor dear
souls!--thy Jane and my Grace, Harry--by staying out all night, eh?”

“Don't talk about it,--but let's get some drink.”

“Small ale, or leek broth, let it be, then, and we'll start while we be
sober and solid. We'll get a couple of carts--you shall go to my wife,
and smooth her over, and I'll go to thine; and then, at night, let'em
come and fetch each of us home.”

“Well! so be it, Ralph; but sha'n't we have a stirrup-cup?”

“No, not this time.--Your hand, Harry--I like thee, cousin; but it
strikes me there's some truth in old women and witches. I wouldn't pass
another evening with thee, for half the land from here to Axminster.”

A week after the rencounter at Sawney's Cross, each of the cousins was
lying at his own home,--a-bed, bandaged, and still suffering from the
bruises which they had conferred on each other. They soon, however,
recovered: the watchful care of their friends was doubled; neither of
them evinced much inclination for the other's company, and a whole year
passed away, without any thing remarkable occurring between them.

The birth-day of the cousins was, however, again unlucky.--Harry,
perhaps on account of his success in the bout he had with Ralph,
at Sawney's Cross, or, it might be, from mere whim, practised
back-sword-playing, and became a frequent attendant at the various
single-stick matches in the neighbourhood. Some capital pastime having
been expected, at a revel, about ten miles up the country, Harry and
Ralph, on their forty-second birth-day, totally unaware of each
other's intentions, set off to see and join in the sport. The malice or
curiosity of some of the parties present, or, perhaps, mere accident,
brought the cousins on the stage as opponents. Ralph was going to
descend; but Harry whispered in his ear, “If we don't have a bout or
two, Ralph, they'll jeer us, and say we be old women.” Ralph still
evinced an inclination to retire; when his cousin said aloud, “Now,
Ralph, here's a chance for getting the head you lost to me at Sawney's
Cross.”

“Aye, true,--true,” replied Ralph, taking a stick, and preparing for
the play. They shook hands; both, as usual, said,--“God save our
eyes!”--they threw themselves into attitude; and one minute had scarcely
elapsed, before Harry received a blow from Ralph's stick, which totally
deprived him of sight, in one eye, for the remainder of his existence.

An inflammation of so violent a nature ensued, that Harry's life was,
for some time, considered in danger. One day, when his wife came to
Ralph's house, weeping, and exclaiming that little hope was left of her
husbands recovery, Dame Deborah, in a low, broken tone, said to her,
“The day's not come; it is but--

     “Second greeting--bitter smarting.”

“Bide a while--there's no fear yet”

Deborah was right: Harry recovered his health and strength, and none
ever heard him regret the loss of his eye; about which, he said,
poor Ralph “took on” unnecessarily, for it was purely an accident The
forty-third and forty-fourth birth-days had passed; and the minds of
the relations of Ralph and Harry grew more composed; although they still
continued on the alert, to prevent them getting together over “a cup
of drink.” It happened that Harry had a heavy crop of oats, in a large
field, which were dead-ripe; and bad weather being expected, it was
an object of importance with him to get the crop “cut and carried”
 as quickly as possible. According to the custom of the village, every
farmer, who was not in a similar predicament, came, with such servants
as he could spare, to assist his neighbour in distress. Ralph was one
of the first in the field, and set so fine an example to his companions,
that the oats were all down, long before sun-set The work was severe,
the weather sultry, and the hospitable Harry did not grudge his cider
during the day. Deep draughts had been quaffed, and Harry could not
suffer his guests to depart, without a cup round of his best As they
were about to quit the field, a grey-headed man unfortunately remarked,
that they were standing on the spot where, on that day and hour, a great
many years before, little Dick Hickory had killed old Reuben Blake. This
produced a string of observations from various individuals of the party:
the merits and demerits of the action were freely canvassed; the debate
grew hot, and more cider was brought from the house. Ralph and Harry,
naturally enough, joined in, and, at length, led the discussion. Ralph
blamed Dick Hickory, and Harry applied several harsh epithets, in the
warmth of the moment, to Reuben Blake. The cheeks of the spectators grew
pale, as the cousins abruptly broke from the original argument, to abuse
each other: a well-meant interference increased, rather than allayed,
their rage; they cast the alarmed mediators aside, flew toward each
other, and grappled:--as Ralph was rushing in, Harry crouched,
lifted his cousin off the ground, and threw him completely over his
head,--never to rise again!

When his sorrowful companions brought home the body of poor Ralph, they
found old Deborah repeating, in a low, shrill, and, as they afterwards
said, unearthly tone, the rhymes of Matty Drew: but the last words
of the third line died away on her lips; and when some of the family
ceased, for a moment, to gaze on the livid face of Ralph, and turned
toward the kitchen-hearth, they saw that Dame Deborah was dead in her
chair.

[Illustration: 043]




CADDY CUDDLE.

On the second anniversary of their wedding-day, the Honourable Charles
Caddy, and Lady Letitia, his high-born and beautiful wife, entertained a
large party of guests at Caddy Castle. Until a few months previously to
this event, the old building had been left nearly desolate, for a period
of eleven or twelve years: a few domestics were its only inhabitants,
except old Squire Caddy Caddy, its unfortunate owner, who had lost his
wits, and was confined in one of its comfortable turrets, under the care
of a couple of stout and wary keepers.

The castle had recently been put in order for the reception of the
Honourable Charles Caddy, a distant relation of, but next heir to, the
lunatic, who was entrusted with the care of Caddy Caddy's property.
He came down to Caddy Castle, with a determination of making himself
popular in the neighbourhood; and began by giving invitations to all
the gentlemen and ladies of respectability, within a circuit of several
miles. A number of his own personal friends, and those of Lady Letitia,
had followed them, shortly after their departure from town, to spend the
Christmas holidays at Caddy Castle; so that the ancient edifice was by
far more gay than it had ever been, even during the time when the once
jovial Caddy Caddy was lord paramount in the halls of his ancestors.

Among the guests assembled in honour of the day, was Mr. Caddy Cuddle, a
quiet elderly bachelor, of small fortune, related, on his mother's side,
to the Caddy family, who had been one of Caddy Caddy's most intimate
associates, in former times. By order of the medical gentlemen who
attended on Caddy Caddy, Mr. Cuddle, as well as all his old friends,
had been denied access to the lunatic, from very proper motives, at
the outset of his confinement Caddy Cuddle's cottage was eleven miles
distant; the Castle had lost its chief attraction; and this was the
first time he had been near it, for several years.

In his younger days, Caddy Cuddle was of a very active and enterprising
spirit; he shared the perils of his father's three last voyages, and
would, in all probability, have made as good a seaman as old Herbert
Cuddle himself, had it not been for the solicitude of his mother; who,
losing her other two children rather suddenly, persuaded young Caddy
that a life of ease, with sufficient to satisfy the desires of a
moderate person, was preferable by far to the dangers attendant upon a
chace after Fortune, on the perilous ocean. Caddy then amused himself
by studying the learned languages; and, at length, as some of his simple
neighbours said, had got them so completely at his fingers' ends, that
it was a pity his parents had not made him a parson.

He was simple, kind, and innocent of evil intentions, as it was possible
for a man to be; but it was his misfortune, owing to his ignorance of
that most useful of all sciences, a knowledge of the world, to touch the
feelings of his host rather smartly, on several occasions, during the
discourse that took place, over the bottle, among the guests at the
Castle. Cuddle was naturally taciturn; but two or three extra glasses of
wine produced their usual effect upon such a temperament, and rendered
him too loquacious to be pleasant. The happiest hours of his life, were
those which he had passed, above a dozen years before, at Caddy Castle;
and he repeatedly alluded to his unhappy friend, poor Caddy Caddy,--the
feats they had performed, the jokes they had cracked, the simple frolics
they had enacted, and the songs they had sung together, over their ale
and tobacco, in the good old days.

The Honourable Charles Caddy felt particularly annoyed at the fact of
his lunatic relation's confinement in the Castle,--which, perhaps rather
in bad taste, he had made the scene of festivity,--being thus abruptly
revealed to his fashionable visitors; but he was too well-bred to
display the least symptom of his feelings. Watching, however, for an
opportunity, when he might break in upon Cuddle's narratives, without
palpably interrupting him, the Honourable Charles Caddy, adroitly, as
he thought, started a subject, which, he imagined, would be at once
interesting to his neighbours, and turn two or three of his metropolitan
friends from listeners to talkers.

“I have been looking over the common, this morning,” said he, “and it
occurs to me, that, in a neighbourhood so opulent as ours, races might
be established without much difficulty. The common would afford as
pretty a two-mile course as any gentleman could desire. If such a thing
were set on foot, I should be happy to lend it all the support in my
power. I would take leave to offer a cup, to commence with; and I think
I could answer for a plate from the county members. Indeed, it surprises
me, rather, that the idea has not before occurred to some gentleman in
the vicinity.”

“Cousin Caddy, it has!” exclaimed Cuddle; “our respected friend and
relation, up stairs, gave away a dozen smock-frocks and a bundle of
waggon-whips, for seven successive years; and would, doubtless, have
done so to this day, had not his misfortune deprived him of the power.
The prizes were contested for, regularly, on the second day of the
fair,--which then took place on the common,--immediately after the pig
with the greasy tail was caught; and the boys had eaten the hot rolls,
sopped in treacle; and the women had wrestled for the new gown; and--”

“Women wrestle!” exclaimed one of the Honourable Charles Caddy's
friends.

“Mr. Cuddle is quite correct, sir,” replied young Tom Horner, who had
lately come into possession of a snug estate in the neighbourhood; “I
have seen them wrestle, in various other parts of the county, as well as
on our common.”

“Never heard of such savages since the day I drew breath! Egad!--never,
I protest!” said the gentleman who had interrupted Caddy Cuddle.

“Why, it's bad enough, I must admit,” said Homer; “but I think I heard
you boast that you were a man of Kent, just now, sir; and, as I am told,
the women of that county play cricket-matches very frequently. Now, in
my opinion, there is not a very great difference between a female match
at cricket, on a common, and a feminine bout at wrestling, in a ring. In
saying this, I beg to observe that I mean no offence.”

“I take none; I protest I see no occasion,--no pretence for my taking
umbrage.--I am not prepared to question the fact,”--added the speaker,
turning toward his host; “not prepared to question the fact, you
observe, after what has dropped from the gentleman; although, with
permission, on behalf of the women of Kent, I take leave to declare,
that I never heard of their indulging in such an amusement, before the
gentleman mentioned it.”

“Well, sir,” said Caddy Cuddle, who had been very impatient, all this
time, to blazon the generosity and spirit of his friend, Caddy Caddy; “I
was going on to state, that, after the gold-laced hat was grinned for,
through a horse-collar; the pig was caught, and so forth,--the expense
of all which pastimes Caddy Caddy bore;--the waggon-horse-race was run,
for the whips and frocks.”

“A waggon-horse-race!” said the gentleman of Kent; “I beg pardon; did
I hear you correctly?--Am I to understand you, as having positively
said--a waggon-horse-race?”

“Certainly, sir,” said Tom Homer; “and capital sport it is:
I have been twice to Newmarket, and once to Doncaster; I know a little
about racing; I think it a noble, glorious, exhilarating sport; but,
next to the first run I saw for the St Leger, I never was half so
delighted with any thing, in the shape of racing, as when Billy Norman,
who now keeps the west gate of Caddy Park here, exactly sixteen years
ago, come August, won the whips on the common.”

“Indeed!” simpered the gentleman of Kent, gazing at Tom Horner, as
though he were a recently imported nondescript “Billy, on that occasion,
rode most beautifully;” continued Horner; “he carried the day in fine
style, coming in, at least seven lengths, behind all his competitors.”

“If I may be allowed,” observed the gentleman of Kent, “you would say,
_before_.”

“Not at all, sir; not at all;” exclaimed Caddy Cuddle; “draught horses
are not esteemed as valuable in proportion to their speed: in the
waggon-horse-race no man is allowed to jockey his own animal; the riders
are armed with tremendous long whips; their object is to drive all their
companions before them; he that gets in last, wins: and so, sir, they
slash away at each other's horses;--then, sir, there's such shouting and
bellowing; such kicking, rearing, whinnying, galloping, and scrambling,
that it would do a man's heart good to look at it. Poor Caddy Caddy used
to turn to me, and say, as well as his laughter would let him,--'What
are your Olympic games,--your feats, and fine doings at the tombs of
your old Greek heroes, that you prate about, compared with these, cousin
Cuddle?'”

The Honourable Charles Caddy smiled, and bit the inner part of his lip
with vexation: he now tried to give the conversation another turn, and
introduced the chase; thinking that it was a very safe subject, as Caddy
Caddy had never kept a pack of hounds. “I feel very much inclined,” said
he, “anxious as I am to forward the amusement of my neighbours, to run
up a kennel, beyond the rookery, at the north end of the park,--where
there is very good air, and a fine stream of water,--and invite my
friend, Sir Harry Parton, to hunt this country, for a couple of months
during the season. One of my fellows says, that there are not only
numbers of foxes in the neighbourhood, but what is still better, a
few,--a very few,--of those stags, about which we have heard so much.
I think I have influence enough with Sir Harry to persuade him; at
all events, I'll invite him; and if he should have other existing
engagements, I pledge myself,--that is, if such a step would be
agreeable,--to hunt the country myself.”

“Our respected and unfortunate friend, cousin Caddy,” said Cuddle, “had
a little pack of dogs--”

“A pack of _dogs_, indeed, they were, Mr. Cuddle,” interrupted young
Horner; “five or six couple of curs, that lurked about the Castle,
gentlemen, which we used sometimes to coax down to the river, and spear
or worry an otter; and, now and then, wheedle away to the woods, at
midnight, for a badger-hunt, after drinking more ale than we well knew
how to carry. I was a boy then, but I could drink ale by the quart.”

“Ay, ay!” exclaimed Caddy Cuddle, “those were famous times! 'Tis true,
I never went out with you, but 1 recollect very well how I enjoyed poor
Caddy Caddy's animated descriptions of the badger-hunt, when he came
back.”

“Oh! then you hunted _badgers_, did you?” said the gentleman of Kent
to Tom Horner, in a sneering tone, that produced a titter all round the
table. “Yes, sir,--we hunted badgers,” replied Tom; “and capital sport it
is, too, in default of better.”

“I dare say it is,” said the gentleman of Kent.

“Allow me to tell you then, sir, that there is really good sport in
badger-hunting; it is a fine, irregular sort of pastime, unfettered by
the systematic rules of the more aristocratic sports. The stag-hunt
and the fox-chase, are so shackled with old ordinances and covert-side
statutes, that they remind me of one of the classical dramas of the
French: a badger-hunt is of the romantic school;--free as air, wild as
mountain breezes;--joyous, exhilarating, uncurbed, and natural as one of
our Shakspeare's plays. Barring an otter-hunt, (and what's better still,
according to Caddy Cuddle's account, who has been in the North Seas,
the spearing of a whale,) there are few sports that suit my capacity of
enjoyment, so well as badger-bagging.--Just picture to yourself, that
you have sent in a keen terrier, no bigger than a stout fitchet, or
thereabouts, to ascertain that the badger is not within; that you have
cleverly bagged the hole, and stuck the end of the mouth-line in the
fist of a patient, but wary and dexterous clod-hopper; (an old, lame,
broken-down, one-eyed gamekeeper, is the best creature on earth for such
an office;)--and then, what do you do?--Why, zounds! every body takes
his own course, with or without dogs, as it may happen; hunting,
yelping, hallooing, and beating every brake for half a mile, or more,
round, to get scent of the badger. Imagine the moon, 'sweet huntress of
yon azure plain,' is up, and beaming with all her brilliancy; the trees
beautifully basking in her splendour; her glance streaming through an
aperture in an old oak, caused by the fall of a branch, by lightning, or
bluff Boreas, and fringing the mallow-leaf with silver; the nightingale,
in the brake, fascinating your ear; the glow-worm delighting your
eye:--you stand, for a moment, motionless;--the bat whirrs above
your head and the owl, unaccustomed to the sight of man, in such deep
solitudes, flaps, fearless, so near as to fan your glowing forehead with
his wings:--when suddenly you hear a shout,--a yell,--two or three such
exclamations as--'There a' ees!'--'Thic's he!'--'At'un, Juno!'--'Yonder
a goath!'--'Hurrah!'--'Vollow un up!'--'Yaw awicks!' and 'Oh! my
leg!'--You know by this, that 'the game's a foot;'--you fly to the right
or left, as the case may be, skimming over furzy brake, like a bird, and
wading through tangled briar, as a pike would, through the deeps of
a brook, after a trout that is lame of a fin. You reach the scene of
action; the badger is before, half a score of tykes around, and the
yokels behind you.--'Hark forward! have at him!' you enthusiastically
cry; your spirits are up;--you are buoyant--agile as a roe-buck;--your
legs devour space--you--”

“My dear fellow, allow me to conclude,” interrupted Caddy Cuddle, “for
your prose Pegasus never can carry you through the hunt at this rate.
To be brief, then,--according to what I have heard from my
never-to-be-sufficiently-lamented friend, Caddy Caddy,--the badger, when
found, immediately makes for his earth: if he reach it without being
picked up and taken, he bolts in at the entrance; the bag receives
him; its mouth is drawn close by the string; and thus the animal is
taken.--But, odds! while I talk of those delights, which were the theme
of our discourse in the much-regretted days of Caddy Caddy, I forget
that time is on the wing.--I suppose no one is going my way.”

“I am,” replied Tom Homer, “in about three hours' time.”

“Ay, ay! you're younger, friend Homer, than I have been these fifteen
years,” said Cuddle; “time was, before Caddy Caddy lost his wits, when
he and I have sat over midnight together, as merry as crickets; but
since his misfortune, I have become a very altered man. '_Primâ nocte
domum claude_--that has been my motto for years past Mrs. Watermark, my
good housekeeper, is, I feel convinced, already alarmed; and it would
not become me, positively to terrify her: besides, I am not on very
intimate terms with my horse, which I borrowed from my friend, Anthony
Mutch, of Mallow Hill, for this occasion: the roads, too, have been so
cut and carved about, by the Commissioners,--doubtless, for very wise
purposes,--since poor Caddy Caddy's time, that I had much ado to find
my way in the broad day-light; and these spectacles, I must needs say,
although I reverence the donor, are not to be depended on, so implicitly
as I could wish. Let me see--ay--'tis now twelve years ago, from my last
birth-day, since they were presented to me; and, believe me, I 've never
had the courage to wear them before. I hate changing,--especially of
spectacles; I should not have put them on now--confound them!--had it
not been for Mrs. Watermark, who protested my others were not fit to be
seen in decent society.”

“Under the circumstances you have mentioned,” said the Honourable
Charles Caddy, “I must press you to accept of a bed. Pray, make the
Castle your own; you will confer an obligation on me by remaining.”

“Cousin Caddy,” replied Cuddle, rising from his seat, and approaching
his host, whose hand he took between both his own; “I rejoice to find so
worthy a successor of poor Caddy Caddy, master of Caddy Castle. It
would be most pleasing to me, if it were possible, to remain; and, I do
protest, that I positively would, were it not for the feelings of Mrs.
Watermark,--a most worthy and valuable woman,--who is now, perhaps,
sitting on thorns on my account But I feel so grateful to you,--so happy
in your society, that I will actually quaff another bumper, previously
to taking my stirrup-cup; yea, and truly, were honest Jack Cole--old
king Cole, as we used to cadi him, in Caddy Caddy's days,--were Jack
here, with his fine bass voice, I would actually proffer a stave or
so,--say, for instance, the Dialogue between Time and the Drinkers,--if
Tom Horner would chime in, as he used to do when a boy, here, in this
very room, with honest Jack, poor Caddy Caddy, and my-self, in times
past--Honest Jack! most excellent Jack! rare king Cole! would he were
here!”

“I should be sorry, cousin,” said the Honourable Charles Caddy, “to have
omitted, in my invitation-list, the name of so respectable and staunch a
friend of our family, as Mr. Cole, of Colebrook. If I do not mistake,
he sits immediately below my friend Wilmot, at the next table; I regret
that I have not had an opportunity of making myself more known to him.”

“Jack! honest Jack!” exclaimed Cuddle; “old king Cole, here, and I
not know it?--Little Jack, that's silent as the grave, except when he
thunders in a glee!--Where, cousin? Oddsbird! eh?--Jack, where are you?”

“Here am I, Caddy,” replied a diminutive old gentleman, with a
remarkably drowsy-looking eye; “I thought you were not going to accost
me.”

The deep and sonorous tone in which these words were spoken, startled
those who sat near old Cole: they gazed at him, and seemed to doubt if
the sounds they had heard really emanated from the lungs of so spare and
puny a personage. Cuddle crossed his arms on his breast, and exclaimed,
“And is it, indeed, my friend Jack Cole?”

“Don't you know me, when I speak even?” growled old Cole, “or d'ye think
somebody has borrowed my voice?”

“'Tis Jack, himself!” cried Cuddle; “honest Jack! and I did not
see him!--These glasses I cannot help stigmatizing as an egregious
nuisance.”

“Well, Mr. Cole, what say you, will you join us?” inquired Homer.

“No, sir,” replied Cole; “sing by yourself; one ass at a time is bad
enough; but three braying together, are insupportable.”

“The same man,--the same man as ever;” exclaimed Cuddle, apparently very
much pleased;--“begin, Homer;--you know his way;--he can't resist, when
his bar comes. He had always these crotchets;--begin, my boy; I will
pledge myself that he falls in with the stream of the tune.”

Horner and Cuddle now commenced the glee; and, as the latter had
predicted, Cole, after closing his eyes, throwing himself back in his
chair, and making sundry wry faces, trowled forth the first reply, and
afterwards, all the other responses of old Father Time, in the following
verses.--

     “Whither away! old Father Time?
     Ah! whither dost thou run?”--
     “Low,--low,
     I've a mob to mow;
     My work is never done.”

     “Tarry awhile with us, old Time,
     And lay thy scythe aside!”--
     “Nay!--nay!
     'Tis a busy day;
     My work it lieth wide.”

     “Tell us, we pray thee, why, old Time,
     Thou look'st so pale and glum?”--
     Fie!--fie!
     “I evermore sigh,
     'Eternity, oh! come!'”

     “Art thou, then, tired, old Father Time?
     Thy labour dost thou rue?”--
     “Long,--long,
     Has it been my song,--
     'Could I but die like you!'”

     “Tell us, then, when, old Father Time,
     We may expect thy death!”--
     “That morn Eternity's born,
     Receives my parting breath.”

     “And what's eternity, Father Time?
     We pray thee, tell us now!”--
     “When men
     Are dead, it is then Eternity they know.”

     “Come, fill up thy glass, old Father Time,
     And clog its sands with wine!”--
     “No, no;
     They would faster flow,
     And distil tears of brine!”

Caddy Cuddle, at the conclusion of these verses, took possession of a
vacant chair, by the side of old Cole, and soon forgot that there was
such a being as Mrs. Watermark in existence. He quaffed bumper after
bumper with honest Jack;--an hour passed very pleasantly away in talking
of old times;--and Cuddle wondered to find himself slightly intoxicated.
He immediately rose, took his leave rather uncourteously, and went out,
muttering something about “eleven miles,” and “Mother Watermark.” In
a few minutes, he was mounted, and trotting toward the park gate which
opened on the high road. “A fine night, Billy Norman;--a fine night,
Billy;” said Cuddle, as he rode through, to the old gatekeeper; “pray,
Billy, what say you? Don't you think they have cut the roads up cruelly,
of late years?--Here's half a crown, Billy.--What with planting, and
enclosing, and road-making, I scarcely know the face of the country;
it's as puzzling as a labyrinth.--Good night, Billy!”

Cuddle, who was a tolerably bold rider, for a man of his years, now
struck his horse rather forcibly, with his heels, and urged him at once
into a brisk hand-gallop.

“He hath a spur in his head,” said Billy Norman to himself, as Cuddle
disappeared down the road; “I hope nought but good may happen him; for
he's one of the right sort, if he had it.” The roads were dry and hard,
the air serene, and Billy stood listening, for a few minutes, to the
sounds of the horse's feet; he soon felt convinced, by the cadences,
that Caddy Cuddle was increasing, rather than diminishing, his speed.
The beat of the hoofs became, at length, barely audible; it gradually
died away; and Norman was going in to light his pipe, when he thought he
heard the sounds again. He put his hand behind his ear, held his breath,
and, in a few moments, felt satisfied that Caddy Cuddle had taken the
wrong turning, and was working back, by a circular route, toward
Caddy Castle again. As he approached nearer, Norman began to entertain
apprehensions that Cuddle's horse had run away with him, in consequence
of the violent pace, at which, it was clear, from the sound of its feet,
that the animal was going. Norman stepped off the pathway into the road,
and prepared to hail Cuddle, as he passed, and ascertain, if possible,
what really was the matter. The horse and his rider came on nearly
at full speed, and Norman shouted, with all his might,--“Holloa! hoy!
stop!”

“I carry arms! I carry arms!” cried Cuddle, urging his horse forward
with all his might.

“Zauns!” exclaimed Norman, “he takes I for a highwayman!--He must ha'
mistook the road, that's certain; the horse can't ha' run away wi' un,
or a'uldn't kick un so.--Sailor, you be out o' your latitude.”

The circle, which Caddy Cuddle had made, was about two miles in
circumference: he went precisely in the same direction again, without,
in the least, suspecting his error; and having, as he thought, mastered
four miles of his road homeward, and given his horse a tolerable
breathing, he began to pull up by degrees, as he, for the second time,
approached the little rustic lodge of Caddy Park, from which he had
issued at his departure. Norman again hailed him, for he felt tolerably
satisfied that Caddy carried no other arms than those with which Nature
had endowed him. Caddy now knew the voice, and pulled up:--“Who's
there?” said he; “A friend, I think; for I remember your tone.--Who are
you, honest man?”

“Heaven help us, Mr. Cuddle!” exclaimed Norman, “Are'ee mad, sir, or
how?”

“Why, nipperkins! Norman, is it you?”

“Ay, truly.”

“And how got you here?--I thought nothing had passed me on the road.
Where are you going, honest Norman?”

“Going!--I be going no-where,” replied the gate-keeper; “I be here,
where you left me. Why, doant'ee know, that you ha' been working
round and round, just like a horse in a mill?--And after all this
helter-skelter work, here you be, just where you were!”

“D--n the spectacles, then!” said Cuddle; “and confound all
innovators!--Why couldn't they let the country alone?--I've taken the
wrong turning, I suppose?”

“Yeas,--I reckon't must be summat o' that kind:--there be four to the
right, out o' the strait road, across the common; the three first do
bring'ee round this way, t'other takes'ee home:--but, odds! Muster
Cuddle! do'ee get off!--Here be a girth broke,--and t'other as old as
my hat, and half worn through, as'tis.--Oh! you must go back; you must,
truly, go back to the stables, and put the tackle in order.”

Cuddle seemed rather loath to return, but old Norman was inflexible: he
led the horse inside the gate, which he safely locked, and put the key
in his pocket, and then hobbled along, by the side of Caddy, toward the
stables. As he passed the outer door of the house, he whispered to the
porter, his fears for Cuddle's safety, if he were suffered to depart
again, and begged that the porter would contrive to let his master be
made acquainted with the circumstance of Caddy's ride.

The information was immediately conveyed to the dining-room, and
half-a-dozen gentlemen, with the Honourable Charles Caddy at their
head, immediately proceeded to the stables, where they found Cuddle,
perspiring very copiously, and endeavouring to obtain information for
his guidance, in his contemplated journey, from those, who were, from
the same cause, as incapable of giving, as Cuddle was of following,
correct directions. The Honourable Charles Caddy, in spite of his good
breeding, could not help laughing, when he heard Cuddle's account of the
affair; but he very judiciously insisted on Cuddle's remaining at the
Castle until morning. Caddy vowed that he would acquiesce only on one
condition; which was, that a servant should be immediately dispatched to
his cottage, to allay the fears of Mrs. Watermark; and that such servant
should be specially enjoined, not to blab a word of his mishap, to the
good old gentlewoman. “If he should,” said Cuddle, “Mrs. Watermark will
be terrified, and we shall have her here before morning, even if she
walk all the way.”

It was in vain that the Honourable Charles Caddy and his visitors
entreated Caddy Cuddle to return to the table; he preferred retiring to
rest at once. “You must put up with one of the ancient bed-rooms, cousin
Cuddle,” said the Honourable Charles Caddy; “but you fear no ghosts, I
apprehend?”

“Nipperkins! not I!” replied Cuddle. “If I am to sleep out of my own
bed, I care not if you place me in the most alarming room in the Castle.
To confess the truth,--but this under the rose, cousin,--I feel a touch
of the influence of Bacchus, and '_dulce periculum est,_' you know, when
that's the case.”

The bed-chamber to which Cuddle was consigned, still retained its
tapestry hangings; and the good man quivered, either with cold, or at
the solemn appearance of the room, when he entered it. A very prominent
figure in the arras actually appeared to move, as Cuddle sat down in
a capacious old chair, at the right-hand side of the bed, to undress
himself. After gazing earnestly at it, for a moment, with his stockings
half drawn off, he corrected himself for indulging in so ridiculous
a fancy:--“None of these Pygmalion freaks,” said he; “none of your
Promethean tricks, Mr. Imagination of mine: and yet, perhaps, I am
accusing you wrongfully, and these mischievous glasses have endowed
yonder figure with seeming vitality; I hope I may not break them, in
a-pet, before I get home.”

Caddy Cuddle was one of those unfortunate beings who accustom themselves
to read in bed; and who, from long habit, can no more compose themselves
to sleep, without perusing a few pages, in their night-gear, than some
others can without a good supper, or a comfortable potation. Caddy
discovered two or three old, worm-eaten books, in a small table drawer,
and selected that one which was printed in the largest type, for
his perusal, when recumbent. It was a volume of tracts, on geomancy,
astrology, and necromancy. Cuddle read it with avidity, and by the time
the small piece of candle, with which he had been furnished, was burnt
out, he had filled his brain with images of imps and familiars. Finding
himself, suddenly, in utter darkness, he laid down the book; and then,
turning himself on his back, very soon fell asleep No man, perhaps, ever
kept a log-book of his dreams; ant yet, such an article would certainly
be more amusing than many an honest gentleman's diary; for there are
persons in the work whose waking adventures are as dull and monotonous
as the ticking of a clock, while their biography in bed,--their nightly
dreams,7--if correctly narrated, would, in some cases, be exceedingly
droll; and, in others, insupportably pathetic. The happiest people by
day-light, often suffer agonies by night; a man who would not harm a
worm, with his eyes open, sometimes commits murder, and actually endures
all the misery of being taken, tried, convicted, and half executed, in
imagination, while he lies snug, snoring, and motionless, beneath a pair
of Witney blankets. It is rash to say that any individual is, or, at
least, ought to be, happy, until we ascertain how he dreams. A very
excellent country 'squire, in the west of England, was once told, by a
person of discrimination, that he appeared to be the most comfortable
man in existence:--“Your desires are within your means;”--thus the
squire was addressed;--“your wife is most charming in temper, manners,
and person; your affection is mutual; your children are every thing that
a parent could wish; your life has been so irreproachable, that you must
be as easy in mind as it is possible for a man to be: no one bears you
malice; on the contrary, every body blesses you: your house and your
park are delightful; you are most felicitous, even in your servants and
cattle; you are naturally--”

“True, true, to the letter,” impatiently interrupted the 'squire; “but
what's all the world to a man who, without why or wherefore, dreams that
he's with old Nick every night of his life?” Caddy Cuddle was not much
addicted to dreaming; but, on the night he slept in the ancient room,
at Caddy Castle, he felt satisfied, as he afterward said, that in the
course of a few hours, his imagination was visited with fantasies
enough to fill a volume; although he could not recollect, with any
distinctness, even one of them, half an hour after he awoke. The moon
was shining full upon the window, and making the chamber almost as light
as day, with her radiance, when Caddy opened his eyes, after his first
sleep, to satisfy himself, by the view of some familiar object, that
he was not among the strange creatures of whom he had been dreaming.
Perched upon his nose,--threatening it with whip, as Caddy saw, and
galling it with spur, as Caddy felt,--he beheld an imp, whose figure
was, at once, more grotesque and horrible, than any of those which had
flitted before his mind's eye, during his slumbers! The creature seemed
to be staring at him with terrific impudence, and jockeying his feature,
as though it were actually capable of running a race. Caddy's eye-balls
were almost thrust out of their sockets with dismay; his nether-jaw
dropped, and he groaned deeply, under the influence of the visible
nose-night-mare with which he was afflicted. For more than a minute,
Caddy was incapable of moving either of his limbs; but he summoned up
resolution enough, at last, to close his eyes, and make a clutch at the
fiend, that rode his nose in the manner above described. With a
mingled feeling of surprise, mortification, and joy, he found the
nose-night-mare to be his spectacles!--He had gone to sleep without
removing them from his nose; and, by tumbling and tossing to and fro, in
his dreams, he had displaced, and twisted them, sufficiently, to assume
a position and form, that might have alarmed a man of stouter nerves
than Caddy Cuddle, on awaking in the middle of a moonlight night, after
dreaming of more monsters than the German authors have ever located on
Walpurgis Night in the Hartz.

Caddy tried to compose himself to sleep again; but grew restless,
feverish, and very uncomfortable: he beat up his pillow, shook his bed,
smoothed his sheets, walked several times up and down the room, and then
lay down again;--determined, at least, to doze. But Morpheus had taken
leave of him; and Caddy, at last, resolved on dressing himself, going
down to the kitchen, and, as he had tobacco about him, to smoke a pipe,
if he could find one, clean or dirty. He attributed his want of rest to
not having indulged in his usual sedative luxury, before going to bed;
and very resolutely taxed himself with the commission of an egregious
folly, for having drank more than he ought. Anthony Mutch's horse, and
the Commissioners of the roads, he very copiously abused, while
dressing himself: the spectacles were, however, the grand objects of his
indignation; but, bad as they were, he conceived that it was necessary
to coax them into shape again, and mount them on his nose, previously
to attempting, what he deemed, the perilous descent, from his chamber,
which was on the third floor, to the kitchen below. Caddy, however,
was too well acquainted with the topography of the house, to incur much
danger: moreover, the moon beamed with such brilliancy, through the
glass dome that lighted the great circular staircase of Caddy Castle,
that a man, much more short-sighted than our hero, might have gone
safely from the top to the bottom, without the assistance of glasses.

In a hole in the kitchen chimney, Caddy found two or three short pipes;
he congratulated himself on the discovery, and immediately filled one
of them from his pouch. The Castle was now as quiet as the grave; and no
soul, but Caddy himself, seemed to be stirring. He felt rather surprised
to see the stone floor of the kitchen, for above a yard from the
chimney, covered with embers of expiring logs, while the hearth itself
was “dark as Erebus.” Caddy Cuddle, however, did not trouble himself
much about this circumstance: he had often seen the kitchen in a similar
condition, after a frolic, in Caddy Caddy's time; and very gravely
lighting his pipe, he deposited himself on a warm iron tripod,--which
had been standing on the hearth, probably, the whole evening,--in
preference to a cold oak chair. The kitchen was comfortable,
notwithstanding it was dark, (for the embers, as we have already stated,
were expiring, and Caddy was without a candle,) and he smoked the
pipe so much to his satisfaction, that he determined to enjoy another.
Kicking the bits of burning wood together, as he sat, in order to light
his tobacco, he, unintentionally, produced a little blaze, which proved
rather disastrous to him:--as he stooped to light the pipe, he heard
a noise, that attracted his attention; Caddy looked about, and, on the
spacious hearth, beheld something, that bore a rude similitude to a
human figure!

Caddy was rather alarmed; and he uttered an exclamation, which seemed to
rouse the object of his fears. It raised itself on its hands, and after
staring Caddy full in the face, as he afterwards stated, began to uncoil
itself, and, at length, rose, and stood, tolerably terrified, to judge
from appearances, gazing at the odd-looking figure which Caddy cut, with
his night-cap, spectacles, and pipe, on the large iron tripod. Cuddle
now perceived that his companion, although of masculine frame, was
arrayed in female habiliments, which were black as the exterior of an
old stew-pan. It was Martha Jones, the scullion, a Welsh girl, who,
whenever she could, indulged herself with a night's rest, in her
clothes, on the warm hearth of Caddy Castle kitchen, instead of
a comfortable bed in one of its turrets. On these occasions, she
previously swept the embers from the hearth to the stone floor; as Caddy
Cuddle had found them, on entering to smoke his pipe. She was indulged
in these and a few other odd vagaries, on account of her excellence as
an under-strapper to the cook, who frequently said, that she could,
and would, do more work in one day, than a brace of the ordinary run
of scullions did in a week. Martha possessed a pair of immense muscular
arms, which resembled, in hue, the outer leaf of a frost-bitten red
cabbage: her cheeks were of the same colour, when clean; and shone,
after a recent ablution, as though they had been smeared with bees-wax
and turpentine, and polished by means of a furniture-brush. Caddy
Cuddle, in his subsequent description of Martha, said, that her hair
was jetty as a black cart-horse's tail;--her lips pouted like a pair of
black puddings; and her eye,--for truth to say, she had but one,--was
as fiery and frightful as that of a Cyclops. Martha's features were,
however, though large, remarkably well-formed; and more than one
ploughman, in the neighbourhood, already sighed to make her a bride.

After Martha had gazed, for more than a minute, at Caddy Cuddle, who
ceased to puff, and almost to breathe, from the moment the scullion had
first begun to move, she burst out into a loud fit of laughter, in which
she indulged for some time;--occasionally stirring and raking the embers
on the floor together, to create a better blaze, in order that she might
enjoy a full view of Caddy Cuddle, who was now quite as ludicrous in
her estimation, as she had been terrible in his. Cuddle, at last, waxed
wroth; threw his pipe on the floor; thrust one of his hands beneath the
breast of his waistcoat; placed the other behind him, under the tail of
his coat, which he considerably elevated by the action; and, in this, as
he deemed, most imposing attitude, asked Martha how she dared to insult
one of her master's guests in that manner.--“Stand aside,” continued he,
“and let me withdraw to my chamber, woman!”

“Ooman!” cried the scullion, ceasing to laugh in an instant, and putting
on rather an alarming frown:--“Ooman!--her name is Martha Jones, and no
more a--Yes, her is a ooman, though, tat's true;--but Martha Jones is
her name, and her will not be called ooman py nopoty, look you; that is
what her will not--Ooman, inteet! Cot pless her! To live six long years
in the kitchen of 'Squire Morgan, and one pesides, at 'Squire Caddy's,
with a coot character, and her own aunt a laty, to be called 'ooman,' py
a little man in a white night-cap! look you, I sall tie first!”

Caddy Cuddle's experience with the woman-kind, at our excellent friend,
Jonathan Oldbuck ycleps the fair part of the creation, was very limited:
he had read of heroines, in the Latin and Greek authors; spoken to a
few demi-savages, when a boy, during his nautical adventures in foreign
parts; occasionally chucked a dairymaid under the chin, when _Bacchi
plenus_, in the reign of Caddy Caddy, at Caddy Castle; and had a few
quarrels with his housekeeper, Mrs. Watermark. He was of opinion, from
what he had witnessed, that a little flattery was of sovereign virtue
with the sex; and, in order to escape from Martha's clutches, of which
he felt in considerable awe, Caddy Cuddle essayed to soothe and allay
the fever into which he had thrown the scullion by calling her a woman,
with a few compliments. But, like all inexperienced persons, Caddy
Cuddle could not hit the golden mean; he overstepped the mark so much,
as to make honest Martha imagine that he really admired her. Caddy was
not aware to what an extent his flattery was leading him: he plumed
himself on his tact and discretion, when Martha's face began to relax
into a smile; launched boldly into hyperbole, as soon as she curtsied
at his compliments; and, in order to effect a dashing retreat, by a
bold _coup-de-main_, attacked the enemy with a brigade of classical
metaphors. The scullion could hold out no longer; she strode over the
intervening embers; clutched Cuddle in her colossal grasp; and, in an
instant, she was seated on the tripod which he had previously occupied,
with the very alarmed little gentleman perched upon her knee.

The nose-night-mare was a trifle, in Cuddle's estimation, compared with
what he now endured: he struggled, and roared with all his might-called
Martha Jones, “Circe, Canidia, Scylla, Medea, Harpy, Polyphemus, and
Witch of Edmonton,” without the least effect: she seemed to consider
all these appellatives as endearing epithets, and kissed Caddy, so
vehemently, that he thought his heart would break.

And it was not merely the warmth of the scullion's gratitude or
affection--whichever it might be--that so discomposed Caddy Cuddle;
Martha, in striding across the blazing embers, had ignited her greasy,
and, consequently, very combustible apparel; and although she, in her
raptures, seemed to be quite unconscious of the circumstance, Caddy
Cuddle felt that the incipient flame had begun to singe his stockings.
At length, Mistress Martha herself, became, somehow or other, cognizant
of the fact; and she instantly threw Caddy Cuddle off her knee, shrieked
like an infuriated maniac, snatched up the kitchen poker, and flourished
it about Caddy's head, threatening him, by her actions, with immediate
annihilation; as though he, good innocent man, had been the cause of the
combustion.

Luckily for Caddy and the scullion, their _tete-a-tete_ had been so
boisterous, as to have alarmed the Castle; and the French cook, with two
or three other men-servants, burst into the kitchen at a very critical
instant both for Caddy and Miss Jones. A bucket of water, dexterously
applied by the coachman, quenched the blazing petticoats, and somewhat
allayed the fiery heart of the scullion; who retreated behind a pile of
pots and kettles. While Caddy apostrophized the cook, Martha was loud
in vituperation; the men-servants were noisy as Bedlamites; and the
_cuisinier_ himself, a recently imported Frenchman, imprecated, very
loudly, in his own language,--consigning Caddy, the scullion, coachman,
and his fellow-domestics, with all other the English people, past,
present, and to come, in one lot, to the care of King Pluto and his
sable adherents. Alarmed at the uproar, the guests at Caddy Castle came
in by twos and threes, and, in a few minutes, the kitchen was thronged.

The Honourable Charles Caddy had scarcely closed his eyes, when the
exclamations, from Caddy Cuddle and the scullion, reached his ears;
the lovely Lady Letitia having amused herself by giving him a curtain
lecture, of some two hours' duration, after they had retired, on his
gross and most apparent gallantry to the plainest woman among the
visitors at the Castle. He leaped out of bed, on hearing the noise,
rather to escape from the dulcet abuse of his beautiful better-half,
than from any strong feelings of interest or curiosity; and, as soon
as he could make himself fit to be seen, hurried toward the place of
declamation. There he found Caddy Cuddle, encircled by twenty or thirty
people, (who, although they were his guests, and had dined with him, he
positively did not know in their night-caps,) exclaiming, prodigiously,
against the scullion, and endeavouring, by dint of vociferation, to
prove that he was not at all to blame.

The Honourable Charles Caddy soon cleared the kitchen, when he found
that nothing of consequence had occurred: the guests and servants
retired; and Caddy Cuddle, after making several apologies and
protestations of innocence, whatsoever the scullion might say of him,
to his cousin, took up a candle, which somebody had left on the dresser,
and marched off to the staircase. The Honourable Charles Caddy, who had
detained the cook, now inquired who and what the creature of darkness
was behind the saucepans; and while the cook was explaining, and
Martha Jones was giving most excellent account of herself, Caddy Cuddle
proceeded toward his bed-chamber. As he passed Lady Letitia's door,
he knocked, and whispered, through the key-hole, a long string of
apologies, in which he was interrupted by the lady's husband; who, after
politely marshalling him to his room, made him a most ceremonious and
courtly bow, and wished him a very excellent good night.

Caddy paced two or three times up and down the room, lamenting his
misfortunes, and inwardly vowing never to quit his cottage for a castle
again. He was so anxious not to disturb the household, that he
neither stamped on the floor, nor groaned audibly; but rather “stepped
a-tip-toe,” from the window to the fire-place, and thence to the window
again, scarcely breathing as he moved. Finding but little relief from
this state of constraint, he threw himself on the old chair that stood
on the right-hand side of the bed, and began to recover a little of
his usual good humour. He reviewed the circumstances which had happened
during the night; and they now presented themselves in so droll a light
to Caddy's mind, that he could not help smiling at his mishaps, and
proceeded to unbutton his waistcoat All at once, the remembrance of the
moving tapestry flashed across him, and his eye was instantly fixed
on the figure that had alarmed him, previous to his retiring to rest
“Surely,” thought he, “it could not have been imagination, for it
moveth, even now, most palpably!--or my visionary organs are singularly
impaired;--or these new spectacles lead me into very unpleasant
errors. Would that I had never accepted them!” He removed the suspected
offenders from his nose, wiped them carefully with the tail of his coat,
and was going to put them on again, when a tall, stout-built person,
slipped out from behind the arras, and advanced, with hasty steps,
toward him, exclaiming, “Soho! friend Caddy Cuddle, you're come at
last!”

“What, in the name of all that's good, art thou?” exclaimed Caddy,
feeling surprised that he was not more frightened;--“who art thou?”

“Don't you know me, Caddy?” said the intruder, laying his hand on
Cuddle's arm; who was very much pleased to feel that his visitor
possessed the property of tangibility, and was, therefore, no
ghost.--“Don't you know me, Caddy?” repeated the figure, in rather a
reproachful tone.

“I dare say I should, sir, if you would permit me to put on my
spectacles,--bad as they are,” replied Caddy; “and if you'd step back
a yard or two, so as to get, as it were, at the proper focus of my
sight:--suppose you take a chair.”

The tall man retreated some paces, and Caddy put on his
spectacles:--“Now, sir,” said he, “we shall see:--Where are you?--Oh! I
perceive--Why, bless my soul, sir--is it--can it be? Are these glasses
really playing me tricks? or have I, in truth, leaped out of the
frying-pan into the fire?--You surely can't be my very unfortunate and
most respected friend, Caddy Caddy, of Caddy Castle!”

“The same,” replied the tall old man, with a sigh:--“Caddy Caddy, sir,
of Caddy Castle.”

“And how the nipperkins did you break loose?” cried Cuddle, rising from
the chair, and advancing two or three steps.

“Where now, where now, sir?” said Caddy Caddy, taking a gentle hold of
Cuddle's arm:--“Where now, friend Cuddle?”

“Where?--why, to the door, doubtless!--Am I doomed to do nothing but
alarm the castle?”

“Alarm the castle!” exclaimed Caddy Caddy; “are you out of your senses?
why, they'd lock me up, man, if you did.”

“To be sure they would, and that's precisely what I want them to do.--My
dear sir, I beg pardon; I wouldn't give offence I'm sure,--neither to
you nor the people of the Castle; but I can't help it.--You must allow
me to give the alarm.--I cannot submit to be shut up with a madman.”

“So, then, you join in the slander, do you?” said Caddy Caddy; “Cuddle,
you hurt me to the soul!”

“Well, well,--my dear friend,--my respected friend,--I am sorry I said
so;--it was but in joke.”

“Cuddle,” replied Caddy, “I was ruined by a joke:--somebody called me a
madman, in jest; the rest of the world joined in the cry, though it was
a fool who gave tongue; and, at last, they ran me down; proved, to their
own satisfaction, that I was out of my wits, for being in a passion
with, and turning upon, those who were hunting me. Nothing is more easy
than to prove a man mad:--begin, by throwing a slur upon his mental
sanity; watch him narrowly; view all he does with a jaundiced eye; rake
up a score of facts, which occurred a year apart,--facts that are really
frolics, freaks, whims, vagaries, or what you will, of the like nature;
place them all together, and the business is done; you make as fine a
picture of lunacy as a man would wish to look at. I assure you, Caddy
Cuddle, I am no more a lunatic than you are,--take my word for it; so
sit down and tune the fiddle.”

“Fiddle! what?--where?--which fiddle?”

“Oh! they allow me my fiddle; I should go crazy in earnest without that
I left it behind the arras;--come--”

“Come! come where?”

“Come and fetch it,” said Caddy, dragging Cuddle toward the place from
which he had issued.

“Nipperkins, cousin!” cried Cuddle, “go and get it yourself.”

“No, no,” replied the other, with a knowing look; “If I were to do so,
you'd slip out, while my back was turned, and raise the Castle. I've had
trouble enough to elude their vigilance, during the bustle, to lose my
liberty so easily again. By-and-bye, we'll go down stairs together, and
break open the cellar;--it's all my own, you know, if right was cock of
the walk. I'm for gamocks and junketting, I forewarn you, and we'll have
a jolly night of it.” By this time, Caddy had approached the arras, with
Cuddle fast in his clutch; he stooped down, and drawing forth an old
fiddle and stick, put them into the hands of Cuddle; who, as may readily
be imagined, was by no means enamoured of his situation.

“Now,” said Caddy, “in the first place, my friend, play Rowley Waters.
I have been trying to recollect the two last bars of it for these three
years, but I cannot. Do you remember how beautifully my drunken old
butler, Barnaby, used to troul it?”

“Ay, those were merry days, cousin,” said Cuddle; “poor Barnaby! his
passion for ale laid him low, at last.”

“And many a time, before.”

“What! was it in time of your sanity? I beg pardon--Do you remember,
then, our finding him, flat on his back, by the side of an untapped vat
of the stoutest beer that ever Caddy Castle could boast?--Methinks I
can see him now, with the gimlet in his hand, with which he had made an
aperture in the cask, and sucked the blood of barley-corn, to such an
abominable extent--the old beast did--that--”

“Don't asperse him, Cuddle,” said Caddy; “he put a peg in the hole
before he died. He was the best of butlers; if he always drank a
skinful, he never wasted a noggin. But now for Rowley Waters;--play up,
and I'll jig.”

“No, no,” said Cuddle, laying down the instrument; “I'll do no such
thing;--I won't, by Jupiter!--that's resolute.”

“Well, then, I'll play, and you shall dance.”

“Don't make me swear,” said Cuddle; “don't, Caddy Caddy!--What! raise
a riot again?--You don't know, perhaps, that I have, already, sinned
egregiously;--although, I protest, without the least evil intention.
Besides, it would produce that very effect which you wish to--Eh! what
was I saying?--Well, I don't mind if I _do_ give you _one_ tune.”

“Thank you, kindly, cousin Cuddle,” said Caddy, taking up the fiddle;
“but you have raised an objection, which I admit to be of great weight.
Oh! cousin Cuddle! Did you want to betray me?--I thank you for the
hint:--we should, indeed, alarm my enemies. You overreached yourself,
and saved me, cousin.”

“Well, I scorn a lie,” replied Cuddle; “such a thought as you suspect
did occur to me; for I protest I am not very comfortable in your
company, much as I respect you. Go back to your bed; do, pr'ythee now,
be ruled--oblige me, cousin;--for your own sake, go.”

“Oh! what a thing self-interest is!” exclaimed Caddy; “'for your own
sake, go,' quoth he, when it is solely for his! Cousin Cuddle, I shall
not;--that's a plain answer for you.”

Caddy now placed a chair immediately opposite to that one on which he
had found Cuddle sitting, on his entrance; he forced the alarmed
little gentleman into his seat; and, in a few moments, resumed the
conversation.

“Cuddle,” said he, looking very seriously, “as the world goes, I take
you to be an honest man, and my friend. Now, I'll confide something to
your ear that will perfectly astonish you. The people about me, don't
know a syllable of the matter; I kept it snug from them; if I had not,
they would have restricted me to one room, instead of allowing me the
liberty and use of three.--Draw your chair close.--About three years'
since, I broke loose.”

“So I heard,” said Cuddle, trembling as he remembered what had been
related of Caddy's violence on that occasion. The great staircase of
the better part of Caddy Castle, was circular, and surmounted by a
magnificent dome, which lighted it completely down to the hall; Caddy
had thrown himself over the banisters, and must, inevitably, have been
dashed to pieces, had it not been for a scaffolding, which some workmen
had erected within the circle of the staircase, for the purpose of
repairing some part of the masonry, a few days before. Caddy fell among
the people on the temporary platform, and was taken up, apparently,
lifeless; but, in the course of a couple of months, his bodily health
was restored,--his mental malady remaining nearly in its former state.

“You know,” continued Caddy, “of my leap; I gave them the slip, then,
cousin, in good earnest I fell a terrific depth, and did the business at
once. I recollect the moment of my near approach to the scaffolding, of
the erection of which, I was ignorant; but, as it happened, it did not
frustrate my intentions.”

“I feel very ailing--very indisposed, indeed,” said Cuddle; “pray,
cousin Caddy, permit me to--”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Caddy; “you are as well as ever you were in your
life; I am sure of it; so hear me out:--of course, you heard their
account of restoring me to health;--but they know nothing of the matter,
cousin Cuddle:--when I seemed to them to revive, I felt that I was
_disembodied!_”

“Disembodied!” cried Cuddle, staring wildly at Caddy.

“Ay, disembodied, cousin,” said Caddy; “and my sole with, except for
liberty, now is, to obtain a disembodied companion, who--”

Cuddle could hear no more. To describe his thoughts or feelings at this
moment, would be a task beyond the power of our feeble pen. We shall
attempt, only, to relate his actions.--He threw himself back in the
capacious chair which he had hitherto occupied, but by no means filled;
brought his knees on a level with, and as near as he possibly could to,
his face; and then, suddenly throwing out his legs, with all the energy
he possessed, struck Caddy in the breast with his feet so violently, as,
in an instant, to turn him and his chair topsy-turvy on the floor. He
exhibited a specimen of that agility for which he had been famed in
his younger days, as well in this, as in his subsequent proceedings.
Skipping over Caddy and the chair, he flew to the door, and made for
the staircase at full speed. It is useless to conceal that Cuddle was
dreadfully frightened; he heard Caddy striding after him at a fearful
rate; and felt satisfied, by the evidence of his ears, that his dreaded
pursuer would very speedily overtake him. People in similar situations
adopt plans for escaping, which men, sitting calmly over their coffee,
would never dream of. Cuddle knew that he should have no chance in a
grapple with Caddy: it was ridiculous to hope for help if he cried
out; for, before any one could come to his assistance, Caddy would have
sufficient time to disembody his spirit; and his pursuer was evidently
an over-match for him in speed. Cuddle was desperate: he suddenly
determined on attempting to evade his enemy by a bold and dangerous
manouvre. He leaped upon the banisters, which were massive and broad
enough for a man to stand upon with ease; caught hold of the rope, by
which the dinner bell, above the cupola, was rung by the porter, in the
hall below; and threw himself upon it,--in a style which would have done
honour to a thorough-bred seaman,--at the moment the tops of Caddy's
fingers touched his heels. We cannot wait to describe the consternation
into which the ringing of the dinner bell, at that time of the night,
threw all the inmates of Caddy Castle;--our hero claims our undivided
attention; for his position was most perilous--at least, in Cuddle's own
opinion.

Having descended, with moderate haste, for a few yards, he felt, by
certain jerks of the rope, that Caddy had followed his example, and was
pursuing him down the rope,--with such hair-brained velocity too, as he
very speedily ascertained, that he was in greater danger than ever.
The rope was swung to and fro, by his own exertions and those of his
enemy,--bumping him against the banisters with considerable force; but
the blows he thus received were beneath his notice; he thought only of
escaping. Finding that Caddy gained upon him, he contrived, as the rope
swung toward the side of the staircase, to catch hold of one of the
stout iron rails of the banister;--secure in his clutch, he quitted the
rope with considerable dexterity, and had the satisfaction, while he
dangled, of seeing Caddy slide by him. He now began to roar lustily; but
his efforts were needless, for almost every living creature in the house
was already on the alert; the watch dogs were barking without, and the
lap-dogs within; the ladies were shrieking; the gentlemen calling
the servants, and the latter wondering, and running here and there,
exceedingly active, but not knowing what to do or what was the matter.
By degrees, the male portion of the inhabitants of the Castle became
concentrated in the hall: lights were procured; and while the ladies and
their attendants peeped over the rails of the great staircase, in their
night-caps, to watch the proceedings of the party below, Martha, armed
with the kitchen poker, volunteered to search every hole and corner
in the Castle: but her master forbade her on pain of his displeasure;
“For,” said he, “I feel satisfied that it is a disgraceful hoax of some
scoundrel in the house, who shall certainly be ducked if ever I discover
him.--Is any one absent?”

“All the men servants are here, sir,” said the coachman; “and all the
gentlemen, too, I think.”

“No, they are not,” exclaimed Martha, with a ludicrous grin; “where is
my sweetheart, can you tell?--I do not see him.”

“Oh! he's fast asleep, good man!” said the Honourable Charles Caddy.

“I wish he were;--I do most sincerely wish he were!” quoth Cuddle, who
had released himself, by his own exertions, from his pendent position,
and was now hastening down the lowest flight of stairs. “You may stare,
my good host,” continued he, “but to sleep in Caddy Castle is perfectly
impossible!”

“So I find, to my cost,” replied the Honourable Charles Caddy; “and if I
can find out the rascal who--”

“Do not waste time in threats,” said 'Cuddle; “but fly--disperse, in
quest of my respected, unhappy friend, poor Caddy Caddy, who has been
with me this half hour, and would have disembodied me, if I hadn't given
him a kick in the stomach, and put my trust in the bell-rope.”

At the request of his host, Cuddle gave a hurried detail of what had
taken place between himself and Caddy Caddy; while those domestics, who
had the immediate care of the lunatic, hastened up to his rooms. They
returned just as Cuddle had concluded, and stated that Caddy Caddy
was undressed, and fast asleep in his bed;--that they found the doors
locked, and every thing about the apartments in the precise state in
which they had left them. One of the party said, that he slept in the
next room to Caddy Caddy, and was quite certain that he should have
been, as usual, roused, had the lunatic but merely moved: and as to
the old Squire having been at large, the fellow swore that it was
impossible.

It was useless for Cuddle to vow and solemnly declare that Caddy Caddy
had been with him, in the face of this evidence: the gentlemen shook
their heads; the men grumbled; the ladies on the stair-case tittered;
and their maids pronounced Mr. Cuddle's conduct to be altogether
shocking.

“It is a very distressing case,” said the Honourable Charles Caddy; “and
I protest I never was in so awkward a situation before. I feel bound to
apologize,” continued he, “to every lady and gentleman in the Castle,
for the uproar, which my relation, Mr. Caddy Cuddle, has, doubtless,
unintentionally, produced. I am bound to add, in justice to myself,
that, upon my honour as a gentleman, I had not the most remote idea that
either of my guests was a somnambulist.”

“Is it possible that you can allude to me?” exclaimed Caddy Cuddle. “Is
my veracity impeached? Am I to be a martyr to our poor mad relation's
freaks?--Or, possibly, you will tell me that I ought to doubt the
evidence of my own senses?”

“I never presume,” was the reply, “to dictate to a gentleman on so
delicate a point. Perhaps you will allow one of my servants to wait on
you during the remainder of the night.”

“I'll do no such thing,” said Caddy Cuddle: “let the horse be saddled
directly. I'll go home at once, and endeavour to make my peace with Mrs.
Watermark, from whom I expect and merit a very severe lecture, for so
cruelly cutting up her feelings as to stay out a whole night nearly.
Cousin Caddy, good b'ye; ladies and gentlemen, your servant.”

Caddy Cuddle immediately departed, vowing, _per Jovem_, as he went,
never, after that morning, to bestride Anthony Mutch's horse,--to dine
at Caddy Castle, or any where else out of his own house,--or to put on a
strange pair of spectacles again.

[Illustration: 069]




THE BRAINTREES.

It was the boast of old Samuel Gough, who, during a period of
thirty-two years, had been landlord of The Chough and Stump,--a little,
old-fashioned house, with carved oaken angels supporting the roof of its
porch,--that, notwithstanding the largest road-side farm-house in
the village had been licensed and beautified; though tiles had been
substituted for its old thatch; a blue sign, with yellow letters, fixed
over its entrance; and a finger-post erected at the top of the lane,
about the middle of which his own tenement stood, directing travellers
to The New Inn,--The Chough and Stump still “bore the bell.”

“Richard Cockle,” he would often say, “being twenty years butler to
old 'Squire Borfield, ha' made friends among the gentlefolks. The petty
sessions is held in his best parlour, now and then; he hath a' got a
pair of post-horses, and tidy tits they be, I must say; his house is
made post-office; and excise-office, to the tail o' that--for this and
the five nearest parishes; he pays for a wine license, and hath two or
three gentlevolks, may be, once a month, for an hour or two; but not
much oftener, as there be few do travel our cross-country road; and he
do call one room in his house a tap:--but for all that, and his powdered
head to boot, gi' me The Chough and Stump still.” Gough's boast was not
altogether without warranty: his comfortable, old-fashioned kitchen,
with its bacon-rack, broad hearth, dingy walls, and rude mantel-slab,
enriched with strange hieroglyphical scratches, in which his neighbours
traced, or affected to trace, the names of their grandfathers, was
endeared to the inhabitants of the village;--there were old feelings,
and pleasant associations connected with it Sam Gough was a jolly host,
who regaled himself, among his guests, from morning till night; habitual
drinking, for along time, having rendered him, as Abel Harris, the
schoolmaster of the village, said, “invulnerable to intoxication he not
only could, but often did, sing a good old song, and tell a good old
story;--never repeating either the one or the other on the same day; for
he was orderly in his entertainment, and had his Monday's songs and his
Tuesday's songs, as well as his morning stories and his evening jokes:
he never sponged upon a customer but paid his share of the reckoning
to his wife, who officiated as mistress, while he appeared to be only a
constant guest. His ale was generally clear as amber, sweet as milk, and
strong as brandy.” In the tap of The New Inn, which was the name of the
rival house, the company generally consisted of the postilion and
ostler of the establishment, a few out-door servants from some of
the neighbouring gentlemen's houses, and three or four of the gayest,
youthful, village bucks: but the elderly and middle-aged men,--“the
substantial,” as Abel Harris called them, usually congregated, to smoke
their evening pipes, round the oak in front of The Chough and Stump,
when the weather would permit, or in the kitchen settle, before a
blazing fire of logs and turf, when the rustics sat up three or four
hours after sunset Schoolmaster Abel, although he was one of the pair
of parish constables, patronized The Chough and Stump, and grumbled
mightily at being obliged to pay five shillings for a dinner, once a
year, at the New Inn, with the churchwardens, and other official persons
of the parish; which dinner had been instituted solely for the benefit
of Richard Cockle, and much against the inclination of several of
those, who were almost compelled, on account of their connexion with his
wealthy supporters, to attend it. It was at The Chough and Stump that
all the village news was to be heard; and if one of its customers were
not found at his post, on the settle, at the usual hour, old Gough
concluded, that he was either bad, busy, or gone to the rival tap, to
glean gossip about the great families, from the servants, in order to
retail it, the next night, to the grateful crew at The Chough and Stump.

One winter's evening, although it was neither a Saturday, a holiday,
nor a fast day, the settle was not only completely occupied, but several
occasional visitors to the old kitchen were closely packed along
a narrow bench that ran across the back wall. Many of the poorer
inhabitants of the place were lurking about the porch, and several
women, with their check aprons thrown over their red and almost
frost-bitten elbows, stood peeping in at the window, and eagerly
listening to an old dame, who had placed her ear to a little corner
from which the glass had been broken, and occasionally repeated what she
heard passing within.

“I do pity the mother o' the lad, troth do I,” said a woman about
twenty-five years of age; “her hath a got but one zon--no more have
I--and truth to speak, I do pity her.”

“And well thou may'st, Tabby Mudford,” said the old dame; “for constable
Abel hath just a' told thy husband, that the boy's taken off in a cart,
wi' 'Squire Stapleton's coachman a one side o' un, and constable Tucker
o' t'other, hand-cuffed, and leg-fast, to the county gaol.”

“Poor Meg Braintree! poor soul!” cried several of the women, on hearing
this, and one or two of them actually began to sob aloud.

“Poor Meg Braintree, forsooth!” exclaimed a little sharpnosed female,
with a high-cauled cap, and leathern stomacher;--“I don't zay no zuch
ztuff--not I,” added she, in a shrill, disagreeable voice; “it hath a'
come home to her now; and I said it would, two-and-twenty years agone
come Candlemas, when she scoffed and vlouted poor Phil Govier, and took
up wi' Zaul Braintree, a'ter she'd a' most a' promised, as I have heard
tell, to marry Phil. In my mind, he loved her better, worse luck vor un,
poor vellow, than ever this Zaul Braintree did, and took on zo for two
or dree year a'ter, that there was some that thought he'd never ha' got
over 't.”

“Vor shame, Aunt Dally,” said Tabby Mudford; “Meg Braintree never done
you wrong.”

“I don't know that,” replied Dolly.

“It be true, I ha' heard mother zay, you cocked your cap at Zaul,
yourself; as you did to many more, though you never could trap any body
to have'ee, aunt; but I never could believe it.”

“The vellow did, once upon a time, look up to me,” said Dolly, lifting
her chin, and curling her thin and slightly-bearded lip; “but I
scorned'un. I wouldn't ha' had un if his skin were stuffed wi' gold.”

“And yet you do blame Meg vor scorning Phil Govier! Vor my part,--I were
a child, to be zure,--but by what I do recollect of'em, I'd rather ha'
had Zaul, wi'out a zhoe to's, voot, than Philip Govier, if every hair on
the head o' un were strung wi' pearls.”

“Don't talk to me, Tab,” cried her now incensed aunt, flouncing off; “it
don't become thee. I do zay it ha' come home to her;--her zon be zent to
the county gaol, vor murdering the man whose heart she a'most broke more
than twenty year agone:--get over that if you can. It ha' came home to
her, and I'll bide by it;--wi' her blue clocked ztockings, and putting
up her chit of a daughter to smirk wi' the young 'squire!--I ha'n't a'
got patience wi' zuch pride.”

The supervisor, who was going his rounds, and intended to sleep that
night at The Chough and Stump, now rode up, on his sturdy little grey
cob; and before he could alight, some of the loiterers about the porch
had, in part, acquainted him with the cause of their being assembled
round the inn-door. The old man, however, as he said, could make
“neither head nor tail” of what he heard; and hastened, as well as his
infirmities would allow, into the kitchen. The landlord rose on his
appearance, and conducted the spare and paralytic old man, to the
post of honour, in the settle, between his own seat and that of the
exciseman,--a cunning-looking, thick-set, fat, or, to use an expressive
West Country adjective, podgy, little man, between forty and fifty; with
a round, sallow, bloated face, begemmed here and there with groups of
pimply excrescences, resembling the warts that are occasionally seen
on the cheek that is turned to the sun of a wounded pumpkin. One of the
exciseman's eyes glared at his beholder, dull and void of expression,
while the other was almost concealed beneath its lids;--a circumstance
occasioned by an inveterate habit of winking, all his life, at every
tenth word, with the latter; which operation he was totally unable to
perform with the former.

“Here hath been a sad to-do, sir,” said Gough, addressing the
supervisor, as soon as the latter was comfortably seated; “a sad to-do,
indeed.”

“Ah! so I hear, Gough,--so I hear;--but what is it?--No affray with the
excise, I hope.”

“No--fear of--that, sir,” replied the exciseman, winking, and
puffing the smoke from his lips thrice as he spoke; “we've no enemies
here.--I'll tell you all--about it--sir, when--I have wetted--my lips.”
 He now raised the jug to his mouth, but before he had finished his
draught, little Tailor Mudford, who sat by his side, taking advantage
of the moment, placed his right elbow on his knee, and still keeping his
pipe between his teeth, leaned forward, and bore away the glory of the
announcement from the exciseman, by stating, that Philip Govier, 'Squire
Stapleton's gamekeeper, had been killed; and young Robert Braintree
committed for trial, as the perpetrator of the crime.

“Robert Braintree! Robert Braintree!” calmly repeated the old man;
“Preserve us from evil! Haven't I seen him?”

“To be sure you have, sir,” replied Gough; “a tall, straight-limbed
chap, between eighteen and twenty, and as fine a young fellow as ever
stood in shoe-leather. I shouldn't ha' thought it of him.”

“I should,” said the exciseman; “a down-looking--”

“Ah! I be zorry vor the lad,” said Mudford, again interrupting the
exciseman, in the brief interval occupied by a puff and a wink; “nobody
could zay harm o' un, except that his vather made un go out a poaching
wi' un, and so vorth: but a zung in the choir o' Zindays; and' though
he never were asked so to do, often joined in, wi' the rest o' th'
neighbours, to reap a little varmer's bit o' wheat, or mow a tradesman's
whoats he ha' done zo by me, many's the time, wi'out any thing but
thanks, and a bit o' dinner and a drop o' drink, which he never wanted
at home. He'd ha' been the last I should ha' zuzpected.”

“But the evidence,” said constable and schoolmaster Abel, “the
circumstantial evidence, doth leave no doubt, either in the mind of me,
or the magistrate, of his guilt.”

“You be d--d, Yeabel!” cried a bluff old fellow in a corner; “Who be
you, I should like to know?--Marry come up, then! times be come to a
vine pass, I trow, when a pig-vaced bit of a constable, two yards
long, and as thin as a hurdle, do zet hi'zelf up cheek-by-jowl wi'
the 'squire!--Who cares vor thy opinion, dost think?”

“Farmer Salter,” responded Abel, with affected humility; “I am educating
your son and heir:--you are a freeholder, and ha' got a vote for the
county--”

“I know that well enough, stupid! and zo had my vather avore me, and
so shall my zon a'ter me.--Poor buoay! you ha' often licked un,
Yeabel:--may be you be right--may be you bean't; but this I do know,
tho' I ha'n't a told un zo, that I do vind, upon casting things over,
whenzoever I do gie you a bit ov a clumzy wipe here, at The Chough
and Stump, over night Jack's zure and zartin to get breeched in your
school-room the next day: now that be odd, yean't it, Gough?”

“Farmer Salter,” pursued Abel, as Gough nodded in acquiescence,
and Salter chuckled at what he had said; “I repeat, you are a
freeholder:--you've a slip of land between the two 'squires' estates,
upon which you and your forefathers ha' grazed a cow, raised a crop
of wheat, hay and potatoes, to last'ee for the year; and built a small
edifice for yourselves, and a sty for your pigs: you do wear a looped
hat at all times, and, on Sundays, a blue coat, wi' a red collar and
cuffs, and crown pieces of the reign of King Jacobus, for buttons; a
flowered and flapped waistcoat; leather breeches, wi' seven-shilling
pieces and silver buckles at the knees; and half a pack o' cards figured
wi' colours in each o' your stockings: you do strut up to church, just
as a 'squire would, and your father did,--whose finery you ha' saved for
such service,--half a century ago:--but you know nothing either of law
or good breeding for all that, fanner Salter.”

The freeholder was about to bristle up indignantly when Abel concluded,
but Zachary Tickel, the hereditary herbalist, or, as he
denominated himself, apothecary of the village, whose nick-name was
“Bitter-Aloes,”--and there were few of his neighbours who were not as
well known by some equally appropriate baptismal of the laity,--took him
by the collar, and endeavoured to tranquillize, while he forcibly held
him on his seat:--meantime, the supervisor inquired what had induced the
constable to suspect Robert Braintree of the murder.

“Why, zir,” said Mudford, cutting in, as a coachman would express it,
before Abel and the exciseman, (each of whom intended to reply,) while
the asthmatic constable was cleansing his throat by two or three hems,
and the exciseman was puffing out a magazine of smoke, which, at that
moment, he had drawn into his mouth, to be retailed and divided into a
dozen or twenty whiffs;--“the vact, zir, is this,” said Mudford; “the
body were vound, dead and stiff, this morning, in the copse, t'other
zide o' the hill;--there was a nail or more of znow on the ground, and
vootsteps ov a dog and a man were traced vrom the body to Braintree's
cottage:--the dog's vootsteps were, likely enough, the vootsteps ov
Ponto, a dog belonging to the Braintrees; a zort ov a crossbred pointer,
az ztrong as a bull, and wi' more zense in his tail-end, as the zaying
is, than many men ha' got in their whole bodies, head and all.”

“The shoe-marks, permit me to observe,” said Abel, “were decidedly made
by the shoes of Bob Braintree:--I've sworn to't, because I compared'em;
and I apprehended him wi' those identical shoes on his feet.”

“Now, d'ye hear, volks?--d'ye hear?” exclaimed farmer Salter; “how
Yeabel do belabour us wi' vine dixonary words? 'Apprehended,' and
'identical,' quotha!--Why, I should be azhamed to talk zo-vashion.
'Those identical zhoes!' zays he;--'those!'--Bless us, how vine we
be!--'Those,' vorsooth!--Why doan't the vool zay 'they there zhoes,'
like a man?”

Abel cast a glance of contempt on the freeholder, but did not condescend
to reply. A brief silence ensued, which was broken by the herbalist;
who observed, after throwing himself back in the settle, “Bad bird, bad
egg--that's all I've to zay. I bean't so compassionate, and all that, as
zome volk. How hath Zaul Braintree ha' got his living vor eighteen year
past, but by zmuggilin and poaching, and, may be, worse, vor what I
know? Why wen he discharged by 'Zquire Ztapleton, but vor doing what he
shon not do? Didn't poor Phil Govier, that's lying dead, when he wen
under Zaul, detect and prove to the 'zquire, that instead o' Zaul' s
doing his duty, as game-keeper, he were killing hares upon the zly, and
zending'em to market? And when Phil got Zaul's place, have they ever met
without looking at one another like a couple o' dogs that was longing
vor a vight, and yet stood off, as though they were aveard to pitch
into one another? What d'ye think Braintree hath instilled into Bob, but
hatred and malice against Govier?”

“You may talk and talk, old Bitter-Aloes,” said Salter; “but vor my
part, though the'zquire believed Govier's story, and turned away Zaul,
in a way enough to nettle a parson, I didn't think it quite as it should
be. I ha' zeen things o' Phil, what I won't tell ov, now he's gone, as I
didn't while he were alive; but if I had to choose, vor all Phil's quiet
tongue and humble looks,--which were all zlyness, in my mind,--gi'e me
Zaul, I zay.”

“Well,” quoth Gough, “I say nothing--why should I? But Bob was a good
boy; and though he'd noose a hare, or decoy a vlock o' wild ducks, or
stalk a covey, I don't think he'd any harm in him. He'd do what Zaul bid
him, to be zure, but I don't think Zaul would ever tell him to commit
murder; and if I must speak my mind--I don't agree wi' Abel Harris.”

“Abel--I must say,”--muttered the exciseman, “the constable, I
mean;--he--he's no conjuror.”

“I can't make out,” growled Salter, “how he came to be made constable,
zeeing az he's the most uncapable man in the parish. I ha' zeed un run,
as if'twere vor his life, when he thought nobody were nigh, vrom my
gander!--Poor Jack! thoult zuffer, may be, vor this to-morrow;--but I
can't help speaking the truth. Yeabel, doan't thee baste un, or dang me
if I doan't drash thee!”

“There is one thing,” remarked a spare, but hale-looking man, who sat
next the herbalist, “one thing, or, may be, a thing or two, I'll make
bold to observe, which is, namely, this:--though Zaul Braintree were
never over and above vriendly to I--that be nothing--the man's a
man--and I do zay, the'zquire were a bit too hard upon Zaul, to turn
un off wi out more nor an hour's notice, and not gi'e un a good
character:--and what vor, I wonder?--Because this here Phil Govier, a
demure, down-looking twoad, zaid a' poached a bit! A'ter this, what were
Zaul to do? Wi'out a character, he couldn't get a zarvice, and a poor
man bean't to starve: zo a' poached, and that in downright earnest;--and
it ztrikes I, no blame to un neither.”

“Oh! fie! fie!” exclaimed the supervisor; “you should not preach so,
friend; the practice of poaching is highly illegal.”

“Highly illegal,--indeed,--John,--that is,--James Cobb,” said the
exciseman, in his usual manner; “we must not hear--this sort of
a--thing; must we,--constable?”

“Why, it bean't treason, master exciseman, be it?” asked a tall old
fellow, who stood at the end of the settle.

“Do you hear--that?” said the exciseman, turning to his superior; “do
you hear that?--and he an earth-stopper,--and gets his bread by--the
game laws.”

The supervisor looked aside toward the bottom of the narrow table, and
while the ensuing conversation went on, took a deliberate view of
the earth-stopper's person, apparel, and accoutrements. He was a
squalid-looking figure, with half a week's growth of grey beard on his
chin and cheeks; the edge of a red woollen night-cap, which he wore
under a weather-beaten dog's-hair hat, was strained across his pale,
wrinkled brow; his legs were thin, puny, and bent outward in such a
manner, that they seemed to have been moulded on the carcase of a horse.

“Well,” quoth the earth-stopper, in reply to the exciseman's
observation, shouldering his pick-axe and shovel, and lighting the
candle in his lanthorn, as he spoke; “I zuppose a man may move his
tongue, if a' be a yearth-stopper,--or else what be the use o't to
un?--I were one o' the virst to lay hands on young Braintree, and always
ha' ztood vorward on zuch like 'casions; but what o' that? I'd help to
take up thee, or thy betters by the zide o' thee there, if thee wert
zuzpected and accused; but vor all that, I'd speak up my own mind, and
zay, I thought thee wert innocent, iv zo be as I did think thee zo--mind
me:--and now you ha' put me up, I'll go vurther, and ask 'ee, what
business had Phil Govier a' got in the copse that time o' night?”

“Ay, that's true,” observed the landlord; “for it be well known the
'squire's strict orders was, that the keepers shouldn't go out o'
nights. 'Let the poachers have a little o' their own way,' I have a
heard un say;--'I'd rather lose a few head o' game, than ha' blood shed
upon the manor; and meetings by night, betwixt poachers and keepers,
often do end worse than either one or t'other a' looked for.'”

“It's true az I be here zitting,” said Mudford; “that the gamekeeper,--I
mean Phil Govier, of course,--had a' got a hare in one pocket, and a
cock pheasant in t'other;--I zeed'em myself.”

“Come, come;--no ill o' the dead, pr'ythee, now,” quoth the herbalist.

“No ill o' the dead!” cried the man who sat next to him; “I do zay yea,
iv it be truth; and moorauver, in my mind, it be better to zay vorty
_lies_, even, of them that be gone, than to tell one that may do harm to
them that be living. Them wer'n't the virst Phil pocketed, by night or
by day, vor his own profit, as I do think.'T'ant clear to I, that a'
didn't play voul wi' Zaul, long ago;--I wouldn't lie down upon my back
and zwear that a' didn't kill the game what he 'cuzed Zaul o' poaching,
and zo got Braintree out of his place, and popped into't hi'zelf.”

“This is going too far, landlord,” said the supervisor.

“Do 'ee think so, sir?” asked Gough, with a knowing look, accompanied by
a shake of the head, which finished in an acquiescent nod to the man who
sat next the herbalist.

Mudford asked the constable if Saul had seen his son after the committal
of the latter. Abel replied, that an interview had been permitted by
the magistrate, just previously to Robert's removal; “which interview,”
 added he, “took place in the presence of myself and colleague.”

“And what did 'em zay?” eagerly inquired three or four of the persons
present.

The constable replied, that it would be highly improper for him to
divulge all that took place, even if he were capable of so doing; but
there was much that he did not hear, and more that he had forgotten. One
part of the brief dialogue he perfectly well remembered:--after having
whispered for a short time, the youth said aloud, “But I be innocent,
vather; you be zure I be.”--“Well, well!” replied Braintree, in a low,
but nevertheless, audible tone; “zuppose things should go against thee,
wou'lt thee die like a man, Bob?”--“I doan't know, vather,--I be but a
boy! I'll try, iv it do come to that; I hope it won't, though; vor I be
aveard I can't bear it--I can't, truly, vather.”

“Zo, thee dost call thyself a buoy, dost?” said Saul; “a vellow here
within a head as high as I be, and gone eighteen these zix weeks!”

“You always tells me I be but a boy.”

“Well, and zo I do--thee'rt _my_ boy; but a boy to nobody else. But I
zay, Bob, woul't thee mind now, and speak up to the lord judge just what
I told thee?”

“Yeas, doan't be aveard.”

“Ah! but woul't tell't cool and zober-vashion, Bob?”

“Never you vear,” replied Robert;--“bless'ee, I shall tell't out to un,
just as iv I were telling out zixpenn'orth o' ha'pence.”

“And Bob--” But here Braintree's voice subsided into a whisper again,
and Abel heard no more of that part of the conversation.

The parties in The Chough and Stump kitchen now ceased the regular sort
of discussion which had hitherto been supported, and talked in couples.
The earth-stopper and Abel Harris, by their looks and gestures, seemed
to be maintaining a warm debate; the herbalist crossed over and took
a place next the supervisor, which tailor Mudford relinquished in his
favour, and sat down by the side of farmer Salter. So many persons
speaking together, had not, for some time, been heard in The Chough and
Stump; but though his customers made a great noise, as Gough observed
to the exciseman, they drank but little. This was, indeed, the case; for
the interest created by the subject of their discourse, made them almost
forget their cups. Each of the speakers grew louder in his tone, in
order to make himself heard and understood, amid the “hubbub,” by his
listening neighbour; and thus the general noise was increased to such a
degree, that the exciseman had already taken up his empty mug to strike
the table, and call “order,” when, in an instant, every tongue was
motionless, and every eye turned toward the door. A man, on the autumnal
side of the prime of life, exceeding the middle stature, with rather
handsome features, had just entered. He was dressed in a round, grey,
frock coat, a deer-skin waistcoat, corduroy smallclothes, and jean
gaiters. His frame was athletic, but by no means clumsy; he looked
calmly about him, or, perhaps, rather affected to do so; for, as the
herbalist afterwards remarked, his lips appeared as if they had
just been blanched with boiling water. A very large, stout-built,
liver-coloured dog, stood before him, wagging his tail, and looking up
in his master's face, as the latter remained, for a moment, motionless,
and with his eyes seeking for a vacant place on the settle. Every seat
had its tenant, and no one moved for the newly-arrived guest, or spoke
either to him or to any other person present.

“Why, volks! you do all zeem dazed ov a zudden!” said the man,
ironically; and then immediately assuming an angry expression of
countenance, he turned to the landlady, who had just entered the
kitchen, and, in a sharp, surly tone, called for “a pint o' drink.”

“I ha' been trying to squeeze room for thee, Zaul,” said the landlord,
addressing his new guest; “but I can't.”

“Don't trouble thyself, Gough,” said farmer Salter, from the opposite
side of the settle; “I be vor home, and Braintree can take my corner in
a minute.”

“Thankye, master Zalter,” replied Saul; “but Abel Harris ha' just
stepped out, and, may be, won't come back; zo I'll zit down in his
place; and iv a' do return, 1 can but gie't up to un again; and by that
time, you can vinish your pipe wi' comfort” So saying, Braintree
took possession of a nook in the settle, which Abel had quitted, in
consequence of the landlady having beckoned him out, while Gough was
speaking to Saul. Two or three of the guests attempted to strike out new
subjects for conversation, but their efforts were ineffectual; and when
Dame Gough came in, with Saul's ale, she found her customers, who had
lately been so clamorous, silent as statues. Braintree lifted the cup
to his lips, but immediately placed it on the table again, without
swallowing a spoonful.

“Why, what's the matter, Zaul?” said Gough; “have a mad dog bit'ee, that
you do gasp and heave at the liquor so?”

“There were a bit o' hop got in my mouth,” replied Saul; “and your yeale
bean't zo good to-night, I think, as'twere;--han't it got a strawberry
smack?”

“No, no, Zaul; your mouth be out o' taste wi' trouble,--that be
it;--there's no fault in the ale. You do want comfort in a closer
compass; and if you'll ha'a drop o' Hollands, my wife will give'ee some
and welcome. Though I don't sell spirits, I can't help Dame Gough's
keeping a bottle in her bureau;--it stops her tooth-ache.”

“You be cruel good, master Gough,” replied Saul; “and I do thank'ee
vor't; but I don't like to drink in a public-house, wi'out paying my
penny for a landlord's penn'orth.”

“Oh! that be folly,” said Gough; “but come; gi'e me your pint o'
drink, and I'll treat you wi' a glass o' Hollands.--Dame, bring in a
thimble-full.”

Dame Gough bustled out, and soon returned with a small old-fashioned
tea-cup, full of the liquor. Saul took the cup, and so far forgot his
manners, as to swallow the spirits it contained, without a word, or even
a nod, to Gough, or any of his guests. A dead silence succeeded.

“Sharpish weather vor the young wheats,” at length observed Salter.

“Main and sharp!” was the reply of the herbalist; and another pause took
place.

“I ha'n't a' zeed Jacob Wall lately;” was the next observation made:
it came from the lips of tailor Mudford, but no one honoured it with a
reply.

Braintree now began to feel that he was in an unpleasant situation; and
guessing on what subject the minds of those about him were brooding, he
observed, with a sigh, “A bad job this, o' mine, neighbours!”

“Bad, indeed, Braintree!” replied Gough; “but I hope your son may get
over it!”

“Hope, did'ee zay, landlord? why, d'ye think there be any vear on't,
then?”

“Excuse me, friend,” observed the supervisor; “I am a stranger to
you; but, in my opinion, that is,--speaking candidly,--I'm sorry to
say--remember I've no ill-will toward your son--nor, understand me, do
I wish to bear on a bruised reed; but its folly to buoy a man up with
false hopes;--the case is, if what I've heard be true, most decisive
against the young man.”

“And what have'ee heard, old gentleman?--what have'ee heard, zir?”

“That, Saul,”--said the exciseman, “that, it is--needless to
repeat;--but the shoe-marks,--Saul--”

“Well, and what o' them?” interrupted Braintree; “mightn't my zon ha'
gone that way avore Govier were killed? or mightn't he ha' vound un
dead, and come whoam straight, intending to tell the news az zoon az he
axed I how a' should act?”

“True, Zaul, true,” replied Salter, who had not yet departed; “it do
zeem ztrange that no vootsteps were vound in the snow 'proaching towards
the zpot.”

“I can easily account for that, I think,” said the supervisor, with a
smile of self-complacency: “the snow--”

“But hark to this,” cried Saul, again interrupting the old man; “hark
to this:--how be we to know, that they what zaid they vound the body
wer'n't the criminals, eh?”

“Lord bless us and zave us, Zaul!” exclaimed the little tailor, starting
up; “Bless us, Zaul! why, 'twere I, good now, what raised the hue and
cry. I were coming vrom varmer Butt's, vive mile off, where I a' been
dree days at work, making a coat; I'd a' started avore 'twere day, zo
as to get to work about Jack Blake's new suit, what he's a going to
be married in o' Zinday;--and zharp doings it will be to vinish it
as'tis:--zo I took the path through the copse, because it zaves a mile,
you do know; and anan, my little dog, rin into the hazels and back again
in a minute, barking as iv he'd a' zeen a ghost I were a bit vrightened,
you may judge, vor I'd a' got my zilver watch, and half-a-crown, (my
dree days' wages,) wi' ten shillings bezides, what the varmer had paid
me vor a pig he bought o' me last Zinday vort-night, when he comed over
to church. Well, and anan, my little dog, rin into the copse again, and
come back growling worse nor avore. Thirdly and lastly, I patted the
back o' un, and away he rin again, and when he overtook me,--d'ye
mind?--by the light'o the moon, I zeed there were blood upon the nose
o' un!--Wi' that, I and the dog rin vit to break our necks,'till we
got whoam. Zo then I raised the hue and cry, and Phil's body were
vound:--but I had no more hand in the death o' un than you, Zaul. I can
handle a reap-hook, or a needle, wi' one here and there, but I never
vired a gun off in my life--wish I may die if I did!”

“Well, well, Mudford,” said Braintree, advancing toward the tailor; “I
didn't know 'twere thee; gi'e us thy hand;--there--we be vriends, bean't
us?”

“I do hope zo, Zaul Braintree,” replied the still terrified tailor; “but
you shouldn't--”

“There, do'ee hold your tongue and zit down,” interrupted Saul: “I were
wrong; but,--d'ye mind?--Bob be my zon; and if counzel can zave un, he
sha'n't lack; vor I'll zell my zhirt to zee un righted.”

Braintree had scarcely reached his seat again, when constable Abel,
pale, almost breathless looking very important, and bearing his staff of
office in his hand, strode into the kitchen, and immediately laid hands
on Saul. “Braintree, thou'rt my prisoner,” said he; “aid and assist, if
need be--every body--but especially you,--earth-stopper,--in the King's
name.”

Saul was paralysed; he stared vacantly at Abel, and before he could
recover his self-possession, the dexterous constable had handcuffed, and
almost completed the task of tying his right wrist to the left arm of
the earth-stopper.

“Thy prisoner, Yeabel!” at length uttered Braintree; “thou bee'st
joking, zure!--Dowl ha' me if I can make out--”

“You'll make it out well enough by-and-by, Saul,” interrupted Abel, as
he pursued his task of knitting the earth-stopper fast to Saul; “I ha'
been sent for by the 'squire, and I've got his warrant. Master Cockle,
of The New Inn, churchwarden of the present year, ha' been making
inquiries; and things ha come out, Saul, that do look black against
thee.”

“What be'em, Yeabel?--What be'em, pr'ythee?”

“Why, _imprimis_,” replied the constable, pompously, “it is well known,
Ponto never followed anybody but thee--nothing could make him do so; and
he and Bob never were friends. Surgeon Castle saith, that the shot went
horizontally into Phil Govier's forehead; and as he was not above five
feet six, the gun that killed him must have been fired from the shoulder
of a man as tall as you be:--if Bob had done it, seeing that he's
shorter than Phil were, the shot would ha' gone almost upward; but,
no, they didn't:--lastly, and most formidably, Saul, as the magistrate
saith, the marks in the snow were printed there, by shoes made
right-and-left fashion; and the right-foot shoe being marked o' the
left-foot side, and the left o' t'other,--it don't seem likely they
could ha' been worn by the feet they were made for.--So now you do know
what you've a' got to answer, come along quietly.” In a few minutes
The Chough and Stump kitchen was utterly deserted; even Gough himself
followed his customers, who, without exception, accompanied the
constable and his prisoner, to Stapleton Hall, the magistrate's
residence. After a brief examination, Saul was ushered into an
apartment, three stories above the ground floor, called “The
Wainscot-room;”--which, on account of its peculiar situation and
construction, although it had once been used for better purposes, was
then appropriated to the reception of those who happened to be under
the ban of the law, previously to their discharge, on finding “good and
sufficient mampernors” for their appearance at the ensuing assizes or
sessions, or their removal to the county gaol, according to the nature
of the offence. For the honour of the village it is proper to remark,
that “The Wainscot-room” was but seldom occupied. It was there Saul had,
only an hour before, taken leave of Robert, who was now far on his
road to an accused felon's cell. Braintree had just been told by the
magistrate that, early on the ensuing morning, he must follow his son;
but he suffered a strong rope to be fastened round his waist, by a
slip-knot, and tied to an iron bar in the chimney, not only without
murmuring or resisting, but actually joking with those who performed the
operation. Although Mr. Stapleton considered that it was impossible
for the prisoner to escape from his temporary prison, yet for better
security, on account of the crime with which Saul was charged, he
ordered the constable to keep watch, either in, or at the door of the
room, during the night.

Before the earth-stopper quitted “The Wainscot-room” to go on his
solitary task, Saul had made him promise to acquaint Martin Stapleton,
the 'squire's only son, that he, Braintree, earnestly desired to see the
young gentleman, before he went to bed. The old man so well performed
his promise, and urged Braintree's request to young Stapleton with such
warmth, that in less than an hour Martin entered the room.

“Abel,” said he to the constable, as he came in, “you may go down
stairs; I'll remain with Braintree while you get something for supper.”

Abel, “nothing loath,” tripped down to the hall, and Martin, who was
a fine young man, just verging on manhood, walked up, with a sorrowful
countenance and a heart full of grief, toward the man, under whose
humble roof he had passed some of his happiest hours. Martin's mother
died in giving him birth, and Saul's wife had been his nurse. Although
disgraced by 'Squire Stapleton, Saul Braintree had ever been a favourite
companion of young Martin, not only on account of his intimate
acquaintance with those sports in which Martin delighted, but because
Saul had always testified a fondness for him from his boyhood upward;
and, besides these attractions, the poacher's cottage contained a
magnet, in the person of his pretty daughter, Peggy, which often drew
Martin beneath its roof, when his father thought he was otherwise
occupied.

“Well, Master Martin,” said Saul, as the young 'squire approached; “here
you be at last! I were vool enow to think, I shouldn't ha' been here
vive minutes avore you'd ha' come, if it were only to zay 'How are'ee,
Zaul?'--But there, why should I grumble? Hit a deer in the shoulder,
and then put the dogs on his scent, and what will the herd do?--Why, vly
vrom un, to be zure, and no vools, neither;--but come, vine preaching
doant cure corns:--virst and voremost--will'ee get me a drop o' brandy,
Master Martin?--I be zo low az the grave, az you may guess; get me a
thimble-vull, and then we'll talk a bit.”

“I have brought my shooting-flask, Saul,” replied Martin; “there is not
much left in it.”

“Ah! this be kind!--this be good of 'ee, Master Martin. What, you thought
how it would be with me? You knowed me long enow, to be zure that I
should want summat to cheer me up, did 'ee? Never mind the cork, Master
Martin,” continued Saul, as Martin, with a trembling hand, fruitlessly
endeavoured to extract the cork; “put it betwixt my teeth, and pull;
I'll warrant I do hould vast enow; or knock off the neck o' un against
my handcuffs. What, it bean't your leather vlask, be it? Odd! cut un
open wi' a knife.--I be a choaking for it, Master Martin;--I be, truly.”

By this time, Martin had pulled out part of the cork, and thrust the
remainder of it through the neck. He handed the flask to Saul, who
gulped down one half of its contents in a few seconds.

“There is not enough to divide,” observed Martin, “you may as well
finish it.”

“No, thank'ee, Master Martin,” replied Braintree, returning the flask;
“you'll want a drop for yourself, presently.”

“I, Saul!”

“Ay! you, Martin!--Look thee, lad,--there be times when the best ov us
would be glad ov it Brandy be a God-send; but we don't use it--that is,
zuch as I be, doan't--as we should. There be times, I tell'ee, when it
be needed.”

“That's true enough,” said Martin, endeavouring to force a smile; “I
have often been glad of it, after a three hours' tramp through the
stubble and turnips, on a cold day, under a heavy double-barrelled gun,
with a belt brimful of shot, and no birds in my pocket.”

“That were for thy body, lad; but thoult want it, anan, for thy soul.
I be gwain to vright--to terrify thee!--Thou'st a tightish heart, and
thou'st need ov it now. Mind me, Martin, I bean't romancing. It ha' been
smooth roads and no turnpikes wi' thee all thy life; there's a bit o'
rough coming, thee doesn't dream of.”

“Good God! Braintree! your manner alarms me!--What do you mean?”

“Martin!--I zuppoze thee thinks, I ought to be obliged to thee, vor
coming to me;--vor bringing a man accused as I be, brandy,--but I
bean't. If thee hadst not a' come, I'd ha' brought thee, though a waggon
and zix horses were pulling thee t'other way. There's my hand; I ha'
put it to thee through a hole in the window at whoam, a'ter thou'st a'
wished me good night, and the door were vast;--I do put it out to thee
now through a velon's wristband--wou'st take it?”

“Excuse me, Braintree!--I would do all I could;--I have even gone beyond
the line that a sense of propriety dictates: but you must not take such
advantage of the familiarity which commenced when I was a child, and has
since, through peculiar circumstances, continued;--you must not, I say,
presume upon that, to ask me, to shake hands with a man--”

“Accused ov murder! that's what thee means, yean't it?” asked Saul; and
his brows were knit, and his lips slightly quivered, as he spoke. Martin
stood silent.

“Then I'll tell thee what, lad,” pursued Saul, vehemently; “that stomach
o' thine shall come down:--I'll _make_ thee!”

“Braintree,” said the young man seriously, but in considerable
agitation; “what do you mean by this?--Are you mad?”

“Noa, noa;--not yet, not yet;--but handy to it--Not mad!” exclaimed
Saul, striking the iron, which bound his wrists, against his head; “but
don't trouble about I, lad; look to thy own wits, young chap.”

“Really, Saul, I cannot put up with a continuance of this:--you are not
drunk; I know it by your manner. I have never seen you thus before. I
pity you; and pray to God, that you may obtain a deliverance, by the
verdict of a jury.”

“I'll never be tried!” exclaimed Saul in a loud whisper.--“I'll never be
tried! Zaul Braintree ha'n't kept his wits brooding all these years,
to be caught like a quail, and ha' his neck twisted! No, no; they ha'
brought me to the wrong gaol for that; it's like putting a rat in a
fishing-net.”

“I don't think, Saul, there is any probability of your escaping,” said
young Stapleton; “and I advise you not to make the attempt.”

“Don't talk to I.--Ha'n't I, when you was a buoy, no bigger round than
my thigh,--ha'n't I heard you read, when you zat a-top o' my knee,
about the mouse gnawing the lion out o' the znare:--han't I?--Ah! you do
recollect, do'ee?”

“I do, I do, too well, Saul,” replied Martin, as a tear trickled down
his cheek; “and I am sorry--I am grieved--I feel more than you can
imagine to see you here. But what has the fable to do with you?”

“Every thing--I shall get out--strength can't do it for me, but--”

“Saul Braintree, I now see what you are driving at,” said Martin; “but
do not flatter yourself with so vain a hope. You are accused of a crime,
of which, I hope--nay, I think--you will prove yourself guiltless:
but though I am but young, I feel that I ought not, dare not, cannot
interfere between you and the laws of your country. My father--”

“Now, doan't'ee preach; doan't'ee make a zimpleton o' your-zelf, I
tell'ee:--but, can any body hear us?--be the constable nigh?” eagerly
inquired Saul, dropping his voice to a low tone.

“No,” said Martin, “you may be sure of that; or I would not have
remained, thus long, exposed to the madness or insolence of your
remarks;--I know not which to call it.”

“Why, thou jackanapes!” said Saul, sneeringly, though his eye, at
the same time, glared with an expression of the utmost fury on
young Stapleton; “thou young jackanapes! dost thee tell I about
insolence?--Thee shalt down on thy knees for this.”

“Braintree, good night,” said Martin, moving toward the door: “I did not
expect this conduct.”

“What, thee'rt gwain to leave me, then? Zurely, thee bean't in earnest?”
 Martin had, by this time, reached the door, and was evidently
determined on quitting the room. The prisoner, perceiving his intention,
immediately assumed a tone of supplication. “Now, doan't thee go, Master
Stapleton,” said he; “doan't thee!--do come back--do hear me, if it be
but vor a minute. I were wrong, I were, indeed. Doan't thee leave
me yet--doan't thee--doan't thee--doan't thee! Come back, Master
Martin;--on my knees I do but of thee:--do come back--for Peggy's zake.”

Martin withdrew his hand from the door and returned. “Saul,” said he, as
he approached, “I never felt till now, the truth of what you have often
told me, namely,--that if I encouraged an affection for your daughter, I
should rue it. I _do_ now, most bitterly. Poor--poor Peggy!”

“Ah! poor girl!--Come nearer, Master Martin--poor Peggy!”

“Now, Saul, I'll hear you for one minute only; and this must--this shall
be our last interview--unless--”

“Vor one minute, didst say?” exclaimed Saul triumphantly, as he clutched
the wrist of Martin in his powerful grasp; “thou shalt hear me vor
an hour;--thou sha' not quit me, till thou and I do leave this place,
hand-in-hand, together. Ah! thou mayst struggle; but thou knowest the
old zaying, 'A Braintree's grip is as zafe as a zmith's vice--if thee
wast a horse I'd hold thee.”

“Scoundrel! villain!” exclaimed Martin, endeavouring, with all his
might, to release himself; “let go your hold, or I'll--”

“Ah! do--hit me now, do--now I ha' got the handcuffs on; any child might
gi'e Zaul Braintree a zlap o' the face now. Hit me--why doan't 'ee,--wi'
your t'other hand? There's no danger o' my drashing'ee vor't Hit
me--doan't'ee unclench your vist--here's my head--hit me, Master
Martin.”

“For heaven's sake, Saul!” exclaimed young Stapleton, “if you ever
esteemed me, let me go!--If you do not, I must alarm the house.”

“Oh! if you did, Martin!” replied Saul, “you'd ruin us both. I wouldn't
have'ee do so, vor the hope I've a' got of living a week over the next
zpring assize. If you did 'larm the house, Martin, you'd drop from a
young 'zquire into a poacher's zon, and hang your own vather to boot.”

“Hang my father!”

“Ah! doan't'ee look round the room that vashion:--you be zure there be
no one listening?”

“Positive!”

“Then turn your eyes here, lad:--Meg Braintree was more than your
nurse.--She's your own mother!--Now I'll let go thy wrist; for I've got
a grip at thy heart. There, thee bee'st vree! Why doesn't go?--I doan't
hold thee: go, if thee canst.”

“Saul, you surely are not in your senses!”

“May be I bean't, for trouble turns a man's brain;--but you be,
bean't'ee? You can't ha' vorgot how often I ha' pushed Bob off my knee
to put you upon it. Why did I do so?--'cause thee wert my zon, and he
were'Zquire Ztapleton's.--Haven't I hugged thee up to my breast, until
thee'st a' squalled wi' the squeeze, when nobody was by?--I'd a grudge
against the'zquire;--why, thee know'st well enough;--zo I made Meg,
who nursed'ee both, change buoy for buoy. I thought to ha' made a vine
vellow o' my zon at the'zquire's expence, little thinking I should ever
want un to zave my life. I thought, when you was a man, to ha' comed
up to'ee and zaid, 'Zquire, I be your vather,--zo and zo were the
case,--make me comvortable, or I'll be a tell-tale.' That were
my project; to zay nothing of having a bit of revenge upon
the'zquire!--Lord, Lord! how I ha' chuckled to myzelf thinking on't Can
any man zay I ever used Bob like my own zon? Answer me that. D--n un!
I always hated un, vor his vather's zake: though the lad's a good lad,
and, if he were mine, I should love un;--and I do, zometimes, I dunno'
why:--but I ha; drashed un,--and while I were drashing un, I've a'most
thought, I were drashing the vather o' un. But I ha' done un a good turn
when he didn't know it. I ha' kissed un when he were asleep,--a'most
upon the zly, like, even to myzelf. And when he broke his leg, I tended
upon un, as you do know; and he's a' loved me zo, ever zince, that I ha'
scores and scores o' times been zorry for it; for I do hate un because
he's the zon of his vather:--but what be the matter wi' 'ee? What's
amiss? Why d'ye stare and glower zo?”

“Saul Braintree,” said Martin, “whether your words are true or not--and
what you mention, I have observed--you have made me the most
wretched being on earth; for whatever comes to pass, I must still
suspect--Margaret, my heart tells me, may be--Oh! that horrid _may_,
which is worse than certainty--may be--nay, I cannot pronounce it! Oh!
Saul! if I could but believe you--if I could but make up my mind, even
to the worst, it would be a comfort.”

“Martin Braintree,--for that be your name,” said Saul, “didn't I warn'ee
about Peggy? Didn't I--when I saw you were getting vond of her--didn't I
try to offend'ee, zo az to keep'ee from coming to our cottage? Didn't I
insult'ee?--but you wouldn't take it.”

“You did, Saul, grossly insult me; but my love,--perhaps, my accursed
love,--made me overlook it What a gulph of horror is opened before me!
Peggy my sister! and you--you my father!--It cannot--it is not so, Saul.
Unsay what you have said, and I will save you.”

“I won't unsay it; it's out now, and I can't help it. If thou still
doubt'st, Martin, go down and ask my wife--ask Meg; if thou still
doubt'st, lad,--ask thy own heart--young as thee bee'st--if a vather
could let a zon be hung for a crime of which thic zon bean't guilty!”

“And is Robert innocent, then?”

“Ay, lad, as thou art”

“But you--surely, you--”

“Take a drop of brandy, and I'll tell thee all, buoy: thee'rt my own
vlesh and blood, and I'll talk to thee as I would to my own heart. Now,
do 'ee take the flask; halve it, and gi'e me the rest;--or take it all,
if thee dost veel qualmish.--I be zad enough, but don't stint thyself,
Martin.”

The youth swallowed a mouthful of the liquor, and returned it to Saul,
who, after draining the contents, resumed the conversation. “Martin,”
 said he, “Robert, poor lad, is az innocent az a lamb; and I know it.”

“And will you--can you, then, permit him to--”

“Hold thy tongue, buoy, and let me speak. Rob is innocent, but he's
James Ztapleton's zon; and if I were to take his head out of the halter,
and put my own into it, it wouldn't be many miles off self-murder. Rob
is innocent; for he never harmed a worm, except I made un do't; and he
can go up to his God without a blush:--I can't--may be, he couldn't, if
he came to my years; for there's no one do know what may happen to the
best ov us. I be zure I little thought, a score of years ago, when I
were tip-top man here, and had az good a character az any body in the
country, and there wer'n't a bad wish against mortal in my heart, that
I should ever be tied up here, where I be, accused of any crime
whatzoever--much less murder: but you zee I be; and there's no knowing,
as I zaid avore, what any ov us may come to. Bob's zure of peace
hereafter; and it be well vor un. I'd be hung willingly, to-morrow, if I
were in the like case; but I bean't. Oh! Martin, my buoy! I ha' much to
answer vor. I be brave, people zays, and zo I be; but there bean't a
man within a days' ride, zo aveard of death as I be; and I'll tell'ee
why:--it's because I ha' been zuch a viend--zuch a wretch, ov late
years.--I wouldn't die vor all the world. I do want time vor repentance!
and I must ha' it at any price!--Therefore, Bob must die vor me;--and,
may be, I does un a good turn; at least, I do think zo,--by zending un
to his grave avore he hath had temptation to be zinful.”

“Your doctrine is most atrocious!” exclaimed Martin. “Oh! why--why was I
reserved for this? From what you say, Saul, I fear--”

“That I killed Phil Govier?”

“I hope not!”

“Hoping's no good:--he hit I over the head with the butt-end of his
gun;--zee, here's the mark;--and when I came to myzelf, he was gwain to
do't again; zo I ztepped back three paces, lifted my piece, and blew out
his brains--bang!--Ay, Martin, it were your vather did it; and 'Zquire
Ztapleton's zon must zuffer vor it I thought I had managed capitally;
but things ha' come out I didn't dream of. Iv I be tried, I may be vound
guilty, and that won't do. Bob's zure to zuffer, poor lad!--But I must
not be tried.”

“But how do you make it appear that Robert is guiltless, when the proofs
are so strong against him?”

“Ah! that be my deepness! I hope I zhall be pardoned vor't. Ill tell'ee
just how 'twere. Bob were getting to bed, and he knowed I were gwain
through the village, up the hill, toward the copse t'other zide o' the
Nine Acres:--I'd a' promised a brace o' pheasants to Long Tom, the mail
coachman, the day bevore,--he'd got an order vor'em,--and in the copse
I were zure o' vinding'em, but nowhere else: zo Bob zays to I, 'Vather,'
zays he, 'I wish you'd take my t'other pair o' zhoes and leave'em at
Dick Blake's, as you do go along, and get he to heel-tap'em for me.' Zo,
I zaid I would; and zure enough, I took'em; but Dick were a-bed when I
come by, and I went on, with the zhoes in my pocket, to the copse. When
I got there, I looked about, and Ponto,--you know Ponto--he'll point
up--ay, if'twere a-top of a elm, as well as under his nose in a
stubble,--Ponto stood; and just above my head, on the lowest branch of
a beech, there were perched a cock pheasant wi' two hens,--one o' each
zide o' un--all dree within reach. I hit the cock and one o' the hens
down wi' the barrel o' my gun, and just as I were pouching'em, up come
the keeper. Phil and I, as every one knows, hadn't been good vriends vor
twenty long years. Zummat occurred betwixt us, and Phil was zoon on
the ground under me. I wasn't as cool as I should be over a rasher of
bacon--you may guess; but up he got again, and laid the butt-end of his
piece over my head. I were stunned for a second, but when I came to,
he'd a' got his gun by the muzzle, wi' the butt up over his head, and
aiming at me again. If he'd a hit me, I shouldn't ha' been talking
to you here now; zo I ztepped back, and to zave my own life, did as I
told'ee. When I zeed un draw up his legs, and then quiver all over just
avore a' died, all the blood in my body were turned into cold water. I
thought I should ha' shivered to death; and there I stood, staring at
Phil, where a' laid, as if I were 'mazed!--Just avore this, it begun to
znow, and while I were looking at Phil, it thickened zo, that I were
a'most zole-deep in it; zo then I begun to cast about how I should act,
to zave myzelf vrom zuspicion. While I were thinking, the znow stopped
vailing; and, thinks I, they'll vind out who 'twere by the vootmarks;
and if there were no vootmarks to zuspect any one else, they'd
guess 'twere I, vor vifty reasons: zo I took Bob's zhoes out o' my
pocket, put mine in their place, squeezed my veet into the lad's zhoes
as well as I could, walked straight whoam, and went to bed without a
zoul hearing me. I were wicked enough to put Bob's zhoes close under
his bed avore I went to my own; but I hope even that will be vorgiven
me:--zo Bob were taken up, and most likely will be vound guilty, upon
the evidence o' the zhoes. But vor vear of accidents, Martin, you must
contrive to let me out; vor I won't be tried, d'ye mind? therefore,
you must manage zo as I may 'scape, lad; and once out, I'll war'nt they
doan't catch I again.”

Martin Stapleton stood, with his eyes earnestly fixed on Saul, for
nearly a minute after the latter had finished his story of the death of
Philip Govier; his faculties were benumbed by what he had heard; and he
probably would have remained much longer motionless and speechless, had
not Saul seized him with both hands, and given him two or three violent
shakes. “Come, come,” said he, “doan't go to sleep like a horse,
standing up!--This bean't a time for dozing!--Odd! if I'd a' got poor
Bob here, I should ha' been vree half an hour ago. He'd ha' zet vire to
the house, and come and ha' pulled me out o' the vlames, by this time,
if he couldn't gi'e me my liberty any other way.”

“And yet, _you_, Saul,” said Martin reproachfully, “you scruple not to
sacrifice him to save yourself.”

“What be that to thee?--He'd do as I tell'ee, because I be his
vather--that is, he thinks zo. I ha' done what I did do, because he
yean't my zon;--but _thee_ bee'st, Martin--_thee_ bee'st--and thee
knows it;--thy heart tells thee I ha'n't been lying to thee:--thee'rt my
zon,--and I do expect that thou'lt do thy duty; thou canst do't, and no
harm come to thee. Bob would risk all vor me, though I ha'n't been the
best o' vathers to un.”

“What would you have me do?” asked Martin, rather petulantly. “How shall
I act?--What do you wish of me?”

“Just to let I get t'other zide o' these walls,” replied Saul; “I doan't
care how;--I leave that to you;--choose your own way; it doan't much
matter to I,--doan't'ee zee?--zo as I gets out Why, you'd a' married
Peggy, if zo be as I'd ha' let'ee--wouldn't 'ee, now?--in spite ov old
Ztapleton, and the whole vlock of your ztiff-backed aunts--wouldn't'ee,
now? answer me that!”

“I should--I should:--but mention it no more; you make my blood curdle.”

“Well, then,” pursued Saul, heedless of the passionate request of
Martin; “you zee, I'd no vear ov your seducing the girl; and you
can't think I should ha' put up a gate against my daughter's being a
young'zquire's wife--if that young'zquire weren't what he were.”

“Talk to me no more on this subject:--I will--I do believe all you
have said; only, I beseech you, don't--don't dwell on this,” exclaimed
Martin, wiping large drops of “the dew of mental anguish” from his brow.

“Well, well, Martin! cheer up, lad,” said Saul, fondling the youth;
“cheer up, and I won't:--but, I zay, how shall we act?”

“Oh! I know not--In assisting you to escape I become an accessary to
Robert's death;--and if I refuse--”

“You do hang your vather,” interrupted Braintree; “an awkward place vor
a body to stand in, Martin;--but blood's thicker than water;--I be
your vather, and he yean't even one o' your kin. I won't dreaten'ee wi'
blabbing and telling who you be, on my trial.”

“I care not, Saul, if you did.”

“I know,--I know;--but I doan't dreaten 'ee wi't, doan't'ee mind?--Keep
znug, and be a'zquire.”

“Indeed, I shall not. I will tell the whole story to-morrow; and if I
can save poor Robert--”

“If't'an't at my expense, do zave un, and I'll thank 'ee; but I think
it yean't possible. As to your up and telling old Ztapleton who you be,
that will be zilly ov'ee;--but it be your business;--I've put'ee into a
good nest, and if you do throw yourzelf out on't, 't'ean't my fault; my
intention were good. Howsomever, Martin, gi'e me dree hours' law; and
doan't give tongue, and zo get a hue and cry a'ter me, avore I can get
clear.”

At this moment a loud tapping was heard at the door; Martin started, and
exclaimed,--“If that should be my father!”

“Vather, indeed!” said Saul; “you do vorget yourself; you must ha' lost
your wits, to be vrighted zo-vashion; you ha'n't a' fastened the door,
have'ee? and your vather, as you do call un, would hardly be polite
enough to knock. There yean't much ceremony used wi' a prisoner. Why
doan't 'ee zay, 'come in?'” Before Martin could utter the words, the
door was opened, and a fair, curly-headed youth, who was Martin's
immediate attendant and frequent companion, peeped in, and said, in a
loud whisper,--“Master Martin! the 'squire is inquiring for you: where
will you please to be?--in the fen, setting night-lines for eels, or up
at Gorbury, seeing the earths well stopped? The fox-hounds throw off
at Budford Copse, to-morrow, you know;--or shall I say you're here, or
where?”

“You need not tell any lies about the matter, Sam, thank you,” said
Martin; “I shall be in the parlour almost directly.”

“Very well, sir,” replied Sam. “I wish you'd been down in the hall just
now, though. Constable Abel has been making a speech about drink being
the beginning of every thing bad; and, if he says true, Abel must be
ripe for mischief, for he got three parts gone before he had done;
and he's coming up stairs with the brass top of his long staff
downward.--Eh! Why, this can't be he, surely, coming at this rate?”

A series of sounds had struck Sam's ear which resembled those of three
or four persons running up stairs in a hurry, and then galloping along
the passage toward the place where he stood. A moment had scarcely
elapsed, from the time he had done speaking, when the door was burst
wide open, and Ponto, the prisoner's dog, dashed into the room. He
had been howling round the house for a considerable time; and probably
watched for an opportunity of stealing in to join his master. He flew
toward Saul; gambolled round him; leaped up to his face, and exhibited,
by his looks, his low barks, and his actions, the joy he felt at being
again in the presence of his master.

As soon as Sam, by the order of Martin, had retired from the door, Saul
pointed to the dog, and, without uttering a word, gazed reproachfully at
young Stapleton.

“I understand you,” said Martin; “but you don't know what I may do yet;
therefore, pray, spare me those looks.”

“Wou'lt do't, then--wou'lt do't?” eagerly asked Saul: “Ah! I knew thee
wouldst. Ponto yean't my zon, and yet--but, odd! there bean't a minute
to lose. Abel will be here directly. Ponto, my dog, thou'lt zave us a
mort o' trouble. Tell'ee what, Martin,--only cut the rope, and go to
bed. Never mind the cuffs;--cut the rope vor me, and I be zafe out wi'
your pocket-knife,--make haste,” continued Saul, in a hurried tone, as
Martin searched his pockets with a tremulous hand;--“here, lad, let I
veel vor un--here a' is--now cut--cut through: gi'e me dree hours' law,
as I told'ee, and then do as you like.--Why, lad! thee'lt be a month;
I'd ha' cut down an oak by this time.”

“What have I done?” exclaimed Martin, as he, at length, separated the
rope.

“Done! why, done your duty,” was Saul's reply; “kneel down there,
Martin, and take a vather's blessing vor't;--a vather's blessing,
lad, let un be ever zo bad a man, won't do thee hurt.” Martin, almost
unconsciously, knelt, and the murderer, placing his hand on the young
man's head, solemnly and most affectionately blessed him.

When Abel entered, Martin had nearly reached the door; he pushed the
constable aside, and rushed out of the room, in a manner that perfectly
amazed the old man. “Well!” said he, as he endeavoured to strut, but in
fact, staggered in rather a ludicrous manner, toward the prisoner;--“if
that's behaviour to a parochial functionary--if any jury will say it
is--I'll resign my staff of office. What do you think, Saul?”

“Bad manners, Yeabel;--bad manners, in my mind,” replied Braintree; “but
he be vexed like;--and I'll tell'ee why:--I ha' been trying to coax un
over to help me out o' the house.”

“You ha'n't, surely, Saul!”

“I tell'ee I have, then--why not? Wouldn't you? answer me that!--but the
young dog revuzed; zo then I abuzed un, and a' left me in a pet. But, I
zay, Yeabel, you be drunk, or handy to't, bean't'ee?--You shouldn't do
that! It's wrong ov'ee, Yeabel: every man, in my mind, should do his
duty; and you bean't doing yours to get voggy wi' stout October, when
you've a-got a prisoner in hand.”

“None of your sneering, Saul; I am _compos_ and capable,” said Abel.

“You bean't, Yeabel! upon my life, you bean't!” replied Saul; “you
shouldn't do so--no, truly. Why, now, suppose I were to 'scape.”

“Escape!” exclaimed Abel, cocking his hat; “elude my vigilance!--come,
that's capital!”

“Why, you'll vall asleep avore half the night be over.”

“What! sleep upon my post!--never, Saul,--never.”

“You'll prance up and down there all night, I'll war'nt, then, and 20
keep me from getting a bit of rest:--you be aveard to lie down, ay, or
zit.”

“I am afraid of nothing and nobody,” replied Abel, indignantly; “and you
know it, neighbour Braintree: but no sneering of yours, will tempt me;
I'm up to thee, Saul; so be quiet;--or say your prayers. I'm never so
fit to serve my King and country, or the parochial authorities, as when
my wits are sharpened by an extra cup or two.”

“Or dree, I z'pose?” added Saul.--“Poor zoul! thee wants a little spirit
put into thee.”

“I want spirit! when did I lack it?” exclaimed Abel.--“Not a man in the
parish ever attempts to raise a hand against me.”

“No, truly, Yeabel; I'll zay this vor thee, thou'rt such a weak,
harmless, old body, that a man would as zoon think of wopping his
grandmother as wopping thee.”

Abel's wrath was now roused, and he began to speechify and swagger. Saul
said no more, but stretched himself upon the mattress which the 'squire
had humanely ordered to be placed on the floor, within reach of his
tether, holding the rope under him, so that, without turning him over,
it was impossible to discover that it had been severed. Just previously
to the constable's entrance, Panto, in obedience to the command of Saul,
had retreated beneath a large oak table, the flap of which altogether
concealed him from observation; and there lay the well-trained animal,
with his head resting on his fore-paws, and his eyes fixed on Saul,
perfectly motionless, and watching for further commands.

About an hour after midnight, when all seemed quiet below-stairs, Saul
turned on his mattress, and beheld Abel still tottering to and fro, like
an invalid grenadier upon guard. He waited for an opportunity, when the
constable's back was toward him, to start up, seize Abel by the throat,
and lay him flat upon the floor. “Yeabel,” said he, in a low tone, “I
hope I ha'n't hurt thee much. I be zorry to harm thee at all, old buoy;
but needs must. I be gwain off, Yeabel;--I doan't mean to put the county
to the expense o' prosecuting me,--zo I be gwain.--Doan't be aveard,--I
won't choke thee:--there,” added he, relaxing his powerful gripe;
“I'll let thee breathe; but if thee speaks--remember, Yeabel,--I be a
desperate man,--and I must zilence thee:--one knock o' the head'ud do't;
zo keep thy peace, and do as I tells thee quietly;--I won't have a word,
mind me. Take thic thingumbob out o' thy waistcoat pocket, and unvasten
these bracelets thou'st put about my wrists. Iv thy conscience to thy
King and country won't let thee do't wi'out being put in bodily vear,
I'll trouble thee wi' another grip o' the droat But, I doant wish any
thing o' the zort myzelf, unless needs must--Ponto, dog!”

Ponto started up and was by his master's side in a moment.

“That infernal dog here too!” ejaculated Abel.

“Ay, zure!--but zilence! It yean't wize vor I to let thee open thy lips:
zo go to work like a dummy. Make haste, and dost hear, Yeabel? put down
the handcuffs quietly. Now doan't tempt me to hurt thee, by making
a vool o' thyzelf. Be ruled, that's a good vellow. I can get
off,--doan't'ee zee?--spite o' the cuffs; but it will be more
convenient and agreeable to leave'em behind.” By this time, Abel had set
Braintree's arms completely at liberty.

“Now, Yeabel,” continued Saul, still kneeling over the constable,--“now,
old blade, I'll leave thee wi' Ponto; but doan't thee move or call out,
if thee values thy old droat. He'll worry thee like a wolf'ud a wether,
if thee moves or makes as much noise as a mouse: but be quiet--be still,
and he'll ztand over thee and not harm thee vor hours. Thee knowest
the dog; and thee know'st me well enough to be zertain I wouldn't leave
thee, vit to make alarm, if I wer'n't zure o' the dog. I doan't want
to hurt thee, zo I leaves thee wi' un: but, mind--he'll hold thy droat
a little tighter than I did, if thee wags a hair.--Ponto!” added Saul,
turning to the fine animal, who seemed to be listening to what he had
said; “mind un, Ponto!--Steady, good dog!--Soho! and steady! but mind
un!”

[Illustration: 098]

To use a sporting phrase, Ponto immediately “stood;” he threw himself
into an attitude that even Saul, as he departed, pronounced to be
beautiful. His eye was keenly fixed upon Abel; the roots of his ears
were elevated and brought forward; one of his fore-legs was held up,
and curved so that the claws nearly touched his body; his tail no longer
curled, but stood out straight on a level with his back; every muscle in
his frame seemed, as it were, to be upon the alert; he appeared on
the point of making a spring forward; but no statue ever stood more
motionless on its pedestal, than Ponto did over the prostrate and
terrified constable.

Braintree lost no time after he left the room which had been his
temporary prison: he descended cautiously to the ground-floor, and
versed as he had been in his boyhood, and for several years after time
had written man upon his brow, in the topography of the old Hall, he
easily found an outlet, and escaped without creating any alarm.

In a paddock adjoining the pleasure-grounds of the Hall, he caught a
horse, which had been turned out on account of a sand-crack; twisted a
hazel, from the hedge, into a halter and mouthpiece; leaped the fence;
and, in less than half an hour, by dint of hard galloping across
the country,--clearing every thing as though he was riding a
steeple-chase,--Saul reached his own cottage. Meg and her daughter
were still up, the wife weeping, and the child praying for Saul's safe
deliverance. He beat at the door, and Meg clasped the girl to her breast
and exclaimed, “Oh! what now?--what now? They're surely coming for thee,
Peggy. They'll leave me to murder myself--childless!”

“Open the door, Meg--my own Meg!” said Saul, without; “'tis I, Meg;--thy
poor Zaul.”

Braintree was soon by his own hearth, with his wife and daughter weeping
and hanging round his neck.

“Well, and how is it, Saul?” inquired Meg, as soon as she could find
utterance.

“Art discharged, father?” said Peggy.

“No, child,” replied Saul; “I be 'scaped! I shouldn't ha' zeen thee,
wench, nor thy mother neither, but whoam laid in my road. I be zafe yet
till day-light, if Ponto's as true as I've a' zeen un avore now. But I
shouldn't zay _if_ vor I be zure ov un.”

In reply to the inquiries of his wife, Said briefly related the result
of his conversation with Martin, the manner of his escape from old Abel,
and his intention to fly the country for ever, if he could. “Not,” added
he, “that I think they could bring aught whoam to me, upon trial; though
I didn't think zo, when I were tied up by a rope to a chimney-bar, in
the Hall; but now it ztrikes I, there wouldn't be much danger ov my
getting acquitted--and vor why?--It's clear the man were killed by
_one_--not _two_. Now, if Bob's vound guilty, I must be turned
out innocent; and guilty a' will be vound, or else I've blundered
blessedly.”

“Heavens above us, Saul! what d'ye mean?” cried Meg. Braintree now
frankly told his wife the circumstances relative to Robert's shoes; and
concluded, with a forced smile, sighing deeply as he spoke,--“And zo,
the young un be nicked for no-man's-land, wi'out a bit of a doubt;--that
be certain, I reckon.”

“Oh! Saul!” cried Meg, “Saul Braintree, what hast thee done?--thou hast
murdered thy son!”

“Murdered my viddlestick! He's the'zquire's--Jemmy Ztapleton's
buoy;--Martin be mine.”

“Martin Stapleton, father!” almost shrieked Peggy.

“Ay, wench; and he cut the cord vor me, like a Briton.”

“Said! Saul!” replied Meg, “doan't thee smile; my poor heart be
bursting. I never thought I should see this night!”

“Woe's me, mother; I was almost killed wi' trouble before, and now such
news as this!” sobbed Peggy, pressing her hands to her eyes.

“What be the matter, missus?--All's right;--doan't be dashed.”

“If thou didst kill Govier, Saul,” said Meg, “thou bee'st a vather, vor
all that; and I do pity thee:--thou hast laid a trap vor thy own son.
When thou went'st away a smuggling that time, just after the 'squire
had discharged thee, and when we knowed he was looking out for another
nurse--”

“Well, what then?” interrupted Saul.

“Why, Saul, thou didst tempt me to change the children. I promised thee
I would:--I tried, and I couldn't!--Thee thought'st to deceive 'Squire
Stapleton, but I deceived thee, Saul. I couldn't send away my own
boy--my virst-born--my darling. If thee wert a mother, thee wouldst
vorgive me. Oh! that I had done as thee told me! Saul, Saul, thee hast
murdered thy child! Bob's thy own vlesh and blood,--and Martin Stapleton
be no kin to thee.”

“Oh! mother!” said Peggy, dropping on her knees; “I am almost ashamed
to say how I thank you for those words; they have a'most saved my
life;--but then, my brother--my poor, poor brother!”

“Bob my own vlesh and blood!” said Saul, turning pale as a dying man
while he spoke; “Bob my zon, a'ter all!--Tell'ee he an't! I won't
believe thee:--dost hear?”

“As I hope to be vorgiven vor all I've done here below, he is;” replied
his wife.

“Meg, Meg!” said Saul, dropping on a bench, and throwing himself back
against the wall; “you ha' turned me zick as a dog.” Margaret and her
daughter now threw themselves about Braintree's neck again, and began to
weep and wail in the most violent and passionate manner: Saul remained
motionless only for a few moments. “Gi'e me air,” said he, suddenly
pushing them aside and leaping up; “I be choking! I'd gi'e the
world now, if I had it, that instead o' zhooting Phil, Phil had zhot
I!--Deceived! bevooled! in thic vashion!--Meg, doan't thee bide near me,
or I shall lay hands on thee presently; I do know I shall.”

“I don't vear thee, Saul,” said Meg; “thee never didst lay a vinger in
wrath on me yet. If thee'rt a' minded to kill me, do't!--I wont vly vrom
the blow.--My Bobby in gaol, accused of murder, and my husband guilty of
doing it!”

“You lie, you vool!” vociferated Saul; “'twere no murder! We vought,
hand to hand, vor life or vor death, and I got the best o't. If I hadn't
a' killed he, he'd ha' killed I; zo how can'ee make it murder?”

“The lord judge will make it out so, I fear,” said Peggy; “won't he,
think you, mother?”

“No doubt on't; and Saul knows it,” replied Meg. “Oh! Bob, my child--my
dear--dear boy!”

“Good night, Meg!” interrupted Saul. “I be off;--you do know I can't
abide to hear a woman howl.”

“But where art gwain, Saul?”

“No matter;--thou'lt hear time enough o' me:--good night!”

“Nay, but what'll thee do?--Peggy, down on thy knees wi' me, girl, and
beg him to tell us, what we be to do!--Oh! Saul--bide a bit; I woan't
let thee see a tear--look, they be all scorched up.--I won't vex thee,
any way, if thou'lt but bide and Comfort us.”

“Doan't cling to me zo,” said Saul, struggling to rid himself of the
embraces of his wife and daughter, who clung about his knees;--“it be
no use; let go, or I'll hurt'ee!--There now,” continued he, as he freed
himself, “once vor all, good night. It won't do vor I to bide here
another minute.”

Braintree now rushed out of the cottage, leaving his wife and daughter
on their knees: each of them clasped the other to her breast, and
listened, without a sob, until the receding footsteps of Saul were no
longer audible. They then attempted alternately to solace each other;
but the comforter of the moment was so violent in her own sorrow as to
increase that of her whose grief she tried to allay; and thus the hours
passed on with them till dawn. They felt the misery of seeing the
sun rise and chase away the morning mists as usual; the autumnal
song-bird,--the robin,--much loved of men, chirrupped merrily on their
cottage-roof as he did a week before, when they were comparatively
happy; and the sleek old cat, brushed his glossy sides against their
garments, as if nothing was the matter. There are few persons in
existence, whose lot it has been to pass a night of such extreme mental
agony, as that was with Margaret Braintree and her daughter; and yet,
strange to say, at six o'clock in the morning, Meg was raking together
the embers of the turf fire, and piling fresh fuel on the hearth;--the
kettle was, soon after, singing merrily above the blaze; and, before the
church bells had chimed seven, Meg and her pretty daughter, miserable as
they were, with swollen eyes and aching hearts, sat down to that womanly
comfort,--a cup,--or as it is still called in the west--a _dish_ of tea.

We must now return to the Hall, which, before day-break, became a scene
of uproar and alarm. Every body seemed to be in a bustle, but no pursuit
was made, or plan of action determined on. The  'squire had sent for a
neighbouring justice of the peace, who was so far stricken in years,
that it was necessary for one of his own men, assisted by Stapleton's
messenger, to lift him on horse-back, and hold him on the saddle, the
whole distance between his own house and the Hall. The old man, although
of a remarkably irritable disposition, was scarcely wide awake when he
arrived. The 'squire, however, without waiting to inquire whether or no
his auditor was in a proper state to receive his communications, began
to give a minute history of the capture, brief imprisonment, and escape
of Braintree. He had gone as far as Saul's seizing the constable, when
old Justice Borfield, for the first time, interrupted him, by inquiring,
with warmth, what they all meant by using him as they had done? “Here
have I been,” added he--“Ay, now, I recollect--Yes--the scoundrels broke
into my bed-room;--so I suppose, at least;--dragged me out of bed;
and when I awoke,--for, odd! sir, and as I'm a gentleman, all this was
hurry-skurry, and passed on like a dream,--but when I awoke, I found
myself in my best wig, on the back of a high-trotting horse; and lo, and
behold! I saw--for my miscreant of a man had fastened on my spectacles,
though, as you see, he forgot my left shoe--I saw one of them on each
side, holding me down to the saddle, by my waistband. I struggled and
exclaimed; but the villains heeded me not!--Now, sir, what the devil
does all this mean? What am I accused of? I insist upon being answered.”

“My dear neighbour, my very worthy friend Borfield,” said Stapleton, “I
need your assistance--your presence--your advice in this matter.”

“You're very complimentary, indeed!--What! now you've made a blunder,
you drag me into your counsels to bear half the blame!--Neighbour
Stapleton, I'm a very ill-used man, and I won't put up with it. Talk
of the liberty of the subject, and the power of a justice of the
peace!--Why, I've been treated like a tetotum! At this rate, a
magistrate's an old woman; or worse--worse by this band! Brute force
beats the King's commission! I'm dragged out of my bed at midnight,
by lawless ruffians--lifted into a saddle, when I haven't set foot
in stirrup these twenty years--and brought here, on the back of a
rough-trotting galloway, close prisoner, to sign some documents, I
suppose,

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