Harry Coverdale's Courtship, and All That Came of It

by Frank E. Smedley

CHAPTER XVI.—TREATS OF THINGS IN GENERAL.

It must be confessed that Harry Coverdale was of a somewhat impetuous disposition. No sooner had he obtained Mr. Hazlehurst’s consent to the match, than he commenced a system of alternate petting and persecution, whereby he contrived to render the lives of Alice and her mother scarcely endurable, until he had induced them to fix an early day for his “execution,” as Tom irreverently paraphrased the solemnisation of the marriage ceremony. This object happily accomplished, a journey to London was proposed, whereat Mr. Hazlehurst looked very black; but when Alice seated herself on his knee, and, stroking his bald head, called him a dear, good, kind, papa (on speculation, probably, for at that moment he did not in the slightest degree look the character), his heart softened, and he consented to the plan. Then somebody told Arthur of a wonderful doctor, who had found out a new system of curing everything, and especially complaints analogous to that under which Mrs. Hazlehurst laboured; accordingly, he determined his mother should form one of the London party, and consult this fashionable fee-taker; and when Arthur had determined on a thing, it generally came to pass. Therefore, after considerable pro-ing-and con-ing, and macadamizing of difficulties, the matter was finally arranged by Mrs. Hazlehurst, her son, and her two daughters, taking up their abode at Cherry’s Hotel, in Jermyn Street, while Coverdale established himself in his old quarters at the Tavistock, in Covent-garden.

Then they began to be overwhelmed with business. First, the infallible doctor was to be consulted; so poor Mrs. Hazlehurst was dragged out of bed some three hours sooner than usual, breakfasted in a nervous tremor, which rendered the ceremony a most unreal mockery, was transported from her carriage to a stately dining-room, where some twenty fellow-victims were already incarcerated, whence (having waited two hours, because, in her ignorance of London rascalities, she had omitted to fee the noble creature in plush and powder who had admitted her) she was at length (his nobleness not being able longer to exclude her) ushered into the presence of the potentate of pills himself. This erudite individual was a short, stiff man, with a short, stiff appearance,—the result of the most severe application of starch and hair-brushes,—and a short, stiff manner, assumed, as are the stare and swagger of Van Amburg and other tiger-tamers, for the purpose of browbeating and mentally subduing refractory or sceptical patients. Seeing at a glance, however, that poor Mrs. Hazlehurst was already subdued, he obligingly let off a little superfluous starch, slightly disarranged his hair, smiled, to show a fine set of false teeth, put in at trade-price by a friendly dentist, and having thus brought himself somewhat nearer the limpness of average humanity, added (as he would have probably expressed it) a couple of drachms syrupi saccarinis to his manner, ere he proceeded to catechise his patient as to her symptoms, and the remedies that had been applied to remove them. To each fact thus elicited, he replied by frowning portentously, screwing round his mouth, and muttering, “I knew it,” in a gloomy and mysterious manner, as though he had acquired the knowledge by some awful and supernatural course of study; and, indeed, as Mrs. Hazlehurst’s confessions involved her having had a dangerous fall from her horse at a period when he, the doctor, must have been about five years old, and that she had been laid up with a bilious fever exactly two calendar months and four days before he was born, he can scarcely be supposed to have come by his information honestly and lawfully. In fact, to a logical mind, the question resolved itself into the following hypothesis—that he must either be a true prophet, or a lying doctor.

Having elicited all the facts he cared to learn (which, if he knew them before, he might as well have saved himself the trouble of doing), he drew himself up to his extreme altitude,—which was nothing very tremendous after all,—got his starch up to high-pressure pitch, judiciously tempering its stiffness with soothing syrup, and delivered himself of the following opinion:—“Madam, you have told me nothing that, the moment I beheld you, I was not prepared to hear. I do not in the slightest degree impugn the judgment and skill of Mr. Smithers” (the Hazlehurst general practitioner), “but the instant I glanced at his first prescription I saw he had taken a wrong view of our case. Superacetate of Euroclydon and bi-carbonate of Hydrocephalus would never remove the pain and palpitation on our right side—”

“The left is the side on which I usually feel the pain,” began Mrs. Hazlehurst, mildly.

“Eh! left—yes, of course; I said left, didn’t I? I believe I observed to you before, madam, that the moment I set eyes on you I became aware of—in fact, I felt (if I may so express myself) that pain and palpitation on our left side; and I said to myself, if that very talented practitioner, Mr. Smithers, has administered Superacetate of Euroclydon, and bi-carbonate of Hydrocephalus to that pain of ours—with the highest respect for Smithers (he was walking St. Bartholomew’s when I was dresser to the late celebrated and lamented Flayflesh), I must say he has mistaken our case. Now, I shall just—I make no secret of my practice—I shall just throw in three grains of extr. Borealis Aurorae, with equal proportions of Astri caninis, Geminorum siamesiæ, and sesqui-carbonate (mind that) sesqui-carbonate of Pantapolion, and our pain will lapse (as Byron so beautifully expresses it) into ‘a happy memory of the past.’ You will take the mixture six times in the twenty-four hours, and the pills immediately before dinner. With regard to diet, everything you have been accustomed to eat is wrong; your appetite is weak, and you like delicacies, as they are called, better than substantial joints, I dare say?”

Mrs. Hazlehurst acknowledged that his penetration had not failed him; and he resumed sharply—

“Madam, we musn’t touch them! they are poison in such a case as ours. No; we must restrict ourselves to plain beef and mutton, very much underdone; stale bread, no vegetables, no fruit, no nice things, very bitter beer, with plenty of the camomile in it (that’s the brewer’s secret, strychnine’s all a delusion), and stick to the sesqui-carbonate of Pantapolion, and we shall be a different woman in a short time. Let me see you again on Friday. Good morning.” And so, pocketing his guinea with less respect than many men pay to a fourpenny-piece, the fashionable quack allowed his victim to escape.

Then there was shopping. There are a good many shops in Regent Street, and those that are not there are in Bond Street, at least a fair sprinkling of them; but Harry solemnly declared (after his marriage) that during the fortnight the party were in London, they went into them all, and every man knows what that involves. Give a woman her head, so far as to allow her to put it into a shop, and he must indeed be a clever fellow who can coax or coerce her out of it under half-an-hour. But Harry was in love, and love is blind (though it has an awkward trick of recovering its eyesight after marriage and making up for lost time, by spying out all kinds of things to which it had far better had remained blind); besides, Alice was not more exigeante than a lover generally desires his mistress should be: too much independence of character in a young girl being by no means an attractive quality.

Then there was a good deal of sight-seeing to be got through. Emily had never been in London before, and Alice only once for a week. So they “did” Westminster Abbey, which they really enjoyed; and St. Paul’s, which they pretended to admire, and didn’t; and the Tower, where Emily called the figures in the horse-armoury a set of quizzical old things; and the Polytechnic, where they saw a man go down in a diving-bell, to pick up nothing at the bottom of a large wash-hand-basin, and come up again half suffocated, which they considered curious and highly satisfactory, as no doubt it was to everybody but that unfortunate martyr to popular science himself, who (taking the most cheerful view of his amphibious occupation) can scarcely be regarded in the light of a jolly young waterman. Then they went to the National Gallery to see the pictures, which, as it was not an unusually bright and clear day, of course they were unable to do; but they had the pleasure of seeing the building itself, and the fountains in Trafalgar Square, which they all agreed they had never beheld anything like before; and Harry added, that in his travels he had not met with anything to equal the whole affair in its peculiar style, and that he thought foreigners must be very strongly impressed by it, and that it must at once give them a clear idea of English taste; which remarks it was a pity the architect was not there to hear, as they might possibly have been of use to him. Emily had never beheld a play, so they went to the I-see-um Theatre, where they witnessed the performance of a very long melodrama, adapted from the French (that is, all that was national and peculiar—without which the plot became a mere silly tissue of improbable events and impossible situations—omitted, and the place supplied by worn-out and conventional clap-traps). This pièce de résistance, which was to last the play-going public for some four or six months, according to the degree in which it suited their appetites, was so well put on the stage, and so well acted, that the false sentiment and worse morality which pervaded it were for the time forgotten, and it was not till Arthur called his attention to the fact, that Harry recollected this un-English jumble of crimes and follies, was played night after night to crowded houses, while the masterpieces of Shakspere, the greatest dramatist who ever lived, were banished to an obscure theatre in the outskirts of London, or were forced to be translated into a foreign language, and acted by a foreign company, ere the “ears polite” of London fashionables could be persuaded to listen to them. The two young men argued the question in all its bearings, and arrived at this conclusion, viz. either that if Shakspere were better acted it would be better attended, or that if Shakspere were better attended, better actors would soon be found to perform the characters; though which of these statements might be regarded as the cause, and which as the effect, they could by no means agree. And by that time, the play being concluded, Emily declared that it was quite perfect, really charming; and that, as to Shakspere, he was an obsolete old slow-coach, and very wicked too—or else, why did they want a family edition of him? Whereas, if there had ever been any harm in this play, which she did not believe could have been the case, dear Mr. Kingsby Florence had translated it so beautifully that it might have been acted anywhere—in a church almost. Then she turned and appealed to her sister, to support her in her girlish and unorthodox enthusiasm.

Alice replied gravely, and with a pseudo-matronly air which was highly amusing, that although she must confess she had been interested and entertained by the play she had just witnessed, yet that she had listened to Arthur’s argument with Mr. Coverdale, and quite agreed in the view taken by the latter gentleman; for which sympathy of opinion Harry possessed himself of the lovely sympathiser’s hand, and pressed it gratefully; while he inwardly thanked heaven for having bestowed upon his future wife such a correct taste and sound understanding.—And so, between doctoring, and shopping, and sight-seeing, and hurrying dressmakers, and tailors, and coach-builders, and a host of minor tradesmen, all the wedding paraphernalia were purchased, a vast amount of business transacted, settlements prepared, and money spent; and a fortnight passed away so quickly, that it appeared like two or three days to the actors in the genteel comedy thus performed.

Then they all returned to the country, Harry going to the Park to make arrangements for the incoming of house-decorators and furnishers innumerable, who were to put to the rout all the old admiral’s bachelor abominations, and prepare the mansion for the reception of its fair mistress. That amiable young lady was beginning to find, by experience, that to be “going to be married” is very hard work indeed, the wear and tear of the feelings being a marked and alarming feature in the case. Thus, whenever Harry was away for a day, she found herself anxious, low-spirited, and a prey to innumerable misgivings lest evil should befall him. On one evening in particular, when he returned full twenty minutes later than he should have done, she felt so convinced that “dreadful trotting-mare” had by some means compassed his destruction, that she received him with a gentle shower of tears, which of course he kissed away, as he whispered that very soon she would be his dear little wife, and then nothing should part them even for an hour; and Alice smiled through her tears as she thought how, with every taste and feeling in common, they should trip gaily along the pathway of life, hand in hand, like a conjugal couple of Siamese twins. Dreams! pretty Alice, dreams! which many a young girl’s loving heart has framed ere this, only to awaken to a far different reality, and weep over the departure of such bright illusions.

But there was not much time for dreaming or romance at the Grange, for the “fatal day” came nearer and nearer with alarming velocity, until at last it actually arrived; and everybody was in such a state of excitement, that an uninitiated spectator might have imagined the whole household, instead of merely one member of it, was going to be married. As every one expected a most fatiguing day, of course no one slept a wink during the previous night; and as the match was in every way most desirable, and Alice enjoyed as fair a prospect of happiness as those who loved her best could wish her, of course all the women, the moment it was light, indulged in the feminine luxury of “a hearty cry;” after which libation to sensibility, they set to work in real earnest to dress themselves and each other as becomingly as they possibly could. On the bride’s dressing-table was found a set of pearl ornaments, supposed by the learned in such matters to have cost at least £500, together with a slip of paper, representing Mr. Crane’s best wishes for her happiness; which piece of generosity Alice thought very amiable and pretty of him, as indeed it was. Kate (wearing a splendid bracelet, giver unknown) and Emily were to be bridesmaids, and four of the prettiest bosom friends the bride possessed made up the team. These six susceptible young creatures turned out in light blue, and very nice they looked, only (as Master Tom, reprieved for a week from Eton in order to be present at the ceremony, observed), they did not step well together—a deficiency for which he accounted by remarking that his cousin Kate carried her head so high, without a bearing rein, and had such grand action, that it naturally made the other girls look rather screwy; and indeed Master Tom’s descriptive powers so far exceed our own, that we shall violate confidence by availing ourselves of a letter he dispatched the next morning to one of his friends at Eton, in which he gave his own impressions of the eventful day. It ran as follows:—

“Dear Tipsby,—If this blessed hot weather does not make dripping of a fellow prematurely, you will have an opportunity of weeping on the affectionate bussing of ‘Yours, truly,’ by the 5 p.m. train on Monday next. The cause of my shirking a week is not, as you impertinently insinuate, my having ‘over-goose-berried myself,’ but the no less alarming fact that my eldest sister has been and gone and committed matrimony, and I have waited to see her turned off. The ‘shocking event’ arrived at a climax (that’s grammar, ain’t it?) yesterday. I rose with the lark (i.e. Arthur, my big brother, came and dragged me out of bed at seven o’clock), and dressed myself. Yes, I should think I did—rather! Kerseymere sit-upons, made precious loose in the leg, and with a large pink check on a lavender ground—stunnin! satin vest, colours to sympathize; silk necktie, pink ground, lavender pattern, once round—ends at least a quarter of a yard long, and such a bow!—there’s high art for you, my boy!—and last, not least, real Oxford bang-tail coatee (none of your blackguard boys’ jackets), bright blue, with only two buttons and button-holes about it, and all sorts of jolly pockets in original places; but, don’t fret, you shall see it. Well, to return to our mutton, as the French say: very few showed at early breakfast, sensibilities superseding appetites in a general way, though I can’t say I perceived much difference as regarded number one: yet, when I come to think of it, I recollect I only eat three eggs; but then the ham was a real brick. Nothing particular occurred till we were to go to church; but when the traps came round, you may fancy there was something to look at. My brother-in-law, Coverdale—oh, Tips, he really is a fine fellow, as handsome as fun—can ride anything you like to put him across—a dead shot—A1 with his fists (’gad, I should be sorry to get even a left-hander from him), and as good-tempered and jolly as a cock; but you shall see him some day: well, he came up with his own horses, a pair of blood bays, he gave £350 for ’em, and they’re dirt cheap at the money; he is a first-rate judge of a horse; but I’ll tell you all about the traps when we meet. Then down came the girls; Ally (that’s my eldest sister), was smothered with veils, and flounces, and pearls, and that sort of nonsense; and looked precious pale and interesting, and like to blub; so we bundled her into the family-coach, and Coverdale jumped into his own trap, and away we all scuttled to church. We’ve got a good, sharp parson, that can go the pace slap up when he likes; and, knowing that the Champagne was waiting for him, he put the harness on ’em in no time; and the women did the water-cart business in style—where all their tears come from I can’t think—but they laid the dust beautifully. Then there was signing names in the vestry, and a lot of chaff about kissing the bride, which so upset that muff, Lambkin, the parson’s apprentice (curate, I suppose, is what they call the chap), that he fairly turned tail and bolted. Next, we all bundled home again; Ally in Coverdale’s trap this time (and precious handsome he looked, as he handed her in, I can tell you); and then came the ‘crowning mercy’ (as Lambkin said in his sermon last Sunday), the wedding breakfast. The governor had done the thing well for once in his life, I will say that for the old boy. There were all the delicacies of all the four seasons (one only wished one had four stomachs, like a camel, to pay them proper attention; though I didn’t do badly, in spite of my mono-stomachic conformation). Then the Champagne;—my dear Tips, I am not using a mere figure of rhetoric when I say the supply was unlimited;—how much I drank I literally cannot tell, but, in mentioning the affair to inquiring friends, you had better restrict your statement to half-a-dozen bottles—as a general rule, a gentleman should not take more on such occasions—it is not every man who possesses my strength of head and self-control. I sat next to one of the bridesmaids—

“‘A little, laughing fairy thing,

Just like an angel on the wing;’

A rosebud ’neath the moon’s pale ring;

A playful zephyr, whispering

Some secret to the early Spring.

As Tennyson has it—stunning poet, Tennyson! At first my modesty prevented my getting on with her quite as fast as I could have wished; in fact, till after my fourth glass of Champagne, I had not gone beyond asking if she liked roast chicken, and saying ‘Bless you,’ when she sneezed; which I have since thought might not be quite etiquette, for she certainly looked surprised. However, ‘in vino jollitas,’ as Cicero says; after imbibing the ‘rosy,’ I went ahead like beans, and I flatter myself—ahem!—made a very considerable impression; but then recollect the expense with which I was got up! the woman who could look on that bang-tail coatee with indifference must be a heartless tigress. At all events, Juliana Georgina (sweet, poetical name! aint it, Tips?) didn’t; and if my mother invites her here during the Christmas holydays—which, betwixt you and me and the post, is not impossible—I should not be surprised if the affair were to assume quite a serious complexion. It is some time since I have experienced what the mounseers call a ‘grande passion.’ When the party generally had pitched into the grub, till the powers of nature wore forced to cry ‘Hold, enough!’ (though, for my part, I don’t think one’s bread-basket does by any means hold enough on such occasions) everybody drank everybody’s health, and everybody returned thanks. My brother-in-law, Coverdale, made a stunning speech, the best that was made, by long odds; though Master Arthur didn’t disgrace his profession in the jawing line either. The governor did the pathetic and paternal; but it was precious slow, and all his jokes old ones. Mr. Crane (he’s a rich old buffer that was nibbling after Ally, but it wasn’t likely she’d have anything to say to him when she’d a chance of taking such a trump-card as my brother-in-law, Coverdale, into her hand) followed in the benevolent and philanthropic line; but he made a regular mull of it, worse than the daddy; and when they’d done making fools of themselves, the sitting broke up, and my brother-in-law and Alice started for the Continent. And the last thing before they were off, Coverdale, while he was waiting in the hall for his wife (women are always too late for everything), tipped me a flimsy to the tune of ten pounds, and told me not to forget I was to come to the Park in the hunting season, and he’d take care to find me a good mount; but if ever there was a real brick, my brother-in-law Coverdale is the identical article, and no mistake. And that this is a full, true, and particular account of this wonderful wedding, sayeth and attesteth,

“Yours, in the bonds of jollity,

“Tom Hazlehurst.”

“P.S.—Advice to cricketers! Mind your batting, old fellow; for I’ve been put up to some first-rate bowling dodges by my brother-in-law, Coverdale (he’s one of the top-sawyers at Lord’s), that will send your stumps flying about your ears, if you don’t mind your eye. “Verbum sat. slow-coachici!”

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