THE BUMP OF ORDER.
He lived, he said, at one time opposite to a house where resided a newly married couple. The house had the appearance of particular neatness, the flag stones before the door being white as snow, as were those supporting the railing of the area. The ledges of the windows were in keeping with the rest, and the windows themselves were perfectly unstained. The curtains below were of green damask, and above of elegant chintz, with pink linings. A variety of plants bloomed in the balcony, and the pots were ranged in precise order.
It greatly excited his curiosity, that every week, for upwards of a twelvemonth, he saw one or two new servants. It appeared that one week was the longest period the lady ever permitted any menial to remain in the house.
This circumstance created some surprise, as, during the time, he had never observed a single gentleman or lady knock at their door.
He had an opera glass, through which he took every opportunity of examining their heads across the street. At length, his bump of curiosity over-mastering every other consideration, determined him to seek an occasion of becoming acquainted with the lady of the house. For this purpose, he dressed himself with peculiar nicety, and stepping over, intimated by a rat-tat-tat that he was at the door. A female servant answered the summons, and ushered him into the parlour, where the lady was seated gazing with a vacant stare upon some pots of geraniums, which occupied a niche in the apartment. When a lady receives a visit from a gentleman she has never been introduced to, it is natural for her to look in his face, and an opinion is too frequently formed by the Lavater-loving sex, of the character, at first sight, of the being before them. But Mrs. — took a very different view of my philosophical friend; for her eyes fell from the geraniums to the toes of her visitor, as if she had the art of discovering the character of a man by the state of his boots.
“I hope you will excuse the appearance of a stranger at”—
The lady interrupted him with, “None of the cleanest, indeed, Mr. Thingumbob. Good God, Susan, why did’nt you tell him to wipe his feet on the mat!”
“I beg you will excuse,”—continued my friend, apologizing.
“Well, I suppose I must excuse. My gracious! what are you doing, sir? you’ve put your nasty wet hat upon my beautiful rose-wood table! Why, Susan, I say, bring a cloth—who could ever believe that any man would bring his hat into a parlour! you stupid girl, is that the way to rub a table? use a little elbow grease, you intolerable slow coach—there, get away and let me do it myself!” and with that the lady snatched the cloth from the hands of her domestic, and began rubbing and puffing in a style which sufficiently proved she was capable of giving, if not receiving a polish.
After ten minutes’ exercise, the lady returned the rubber to the servant, and with a face ruddy as the full moon at its rising, seated herself upon the chair, and cast a look of satisfaction round the room at the peculiar neatness of its appearance.
“I perceive, madam,” said my friend, “you take particular delight in seeing your apartments kept clean and neat, and the arrangement of this room does honour to your taste;” he had touched the string that vibrated to her heart.
“I confess, sir, I feel a pride in seeing every thing in its place, and cleanliness is an indispensable qualification in the servant I engage. Will you believe me, sir, when I tell you that this girl you just saw, is the forty-ninth I have had in the last twelvemonth, and I have no more idea of keeping her than I have of taking back any of her predecessors.”
“Ah madam, servants are sad plagues!”
“Plagues, sir, they are devils. Why, it was but yesterday, when I thought my house, from the attic to the kitchen, was so clean, that not a speck of dirt could be visible to a fly, I was obliged to upset a whole boiler full of the most delicious pea-soup into the middle of the kitchen!”
The phrenologist lifted up his legs, by instinct, as if he felt the sprinkling of it upon them, and exclaimed, “How unfortunate!”
“Unfortunate, sir, it was insupportable,” cried the lady; “but I made her clean it up again!”
My learned friend was then put to a nonplus; he could not for the life of him, make out why Mrs. — should have taken the trouble to upset a boiler of pea-soup into the middle of the clean kitchen; and this he politely requested her to explain.
“Why, I’ll tell you, sir, it is my pleasure to see every thing in its place, and a grease spot to me is as bad as a plague spot to many. Now, sir, although the kitchen looked better, I’ll be bound to say, than any other kitchen in town, yet I was anxious to see if my servant had obeyed my orders in taking a spot of grease out of the boards, which by accident fell upon them the day before; so lifting up the oil-cloth—judge of my horror and dismay to find it untouched! I inquired the reason. The servants had the impudence to tell me, they had not time, at which, I made no more ado, but threw the boiler of soup upon it, which took them a good two hours to clean up again. I will have every thing done, and in order.”
“Indeed, madam,” said my friend, “I perceive the admirable effects of your system—this room is in admirable order.”
“This room, sir! have the goodness to walk into my bed-room up stairs!”
My phrenological friend, although he had passed the meridian of life, could not help thinking this invitation rather extraordinary, more particularly so, when the lady desired him to take off his shoes.
“For,” said she, “I never allow even my husband to come up stairs in his shoes.”
Now it so happened that my friend had a particular reason for wishing to avoid this ceremony, having walked a hole in one of his stockings the day before, and the laundress was in possession of his other pair. Nothing, however, could alter her determination of exhibiting her cleanliness. She protested he should see her bed-room, and insisted on his taking off his shoes!
With a shrug à la française, he submitted, but had not ascended half way up the stair-case before the lady who followed, perceived the injury his hose had sustained, and with a cry of horror exclaimed, “Susan! bring up a needle and thread!” the words were scarcely uttered, when the girl appeared, and without hesitation (without asking him to draw off his hose) seizing him by the foot, compelled him to submit to her needle’s operation; blushing and confounded at the awkward position his unjustifiable curiosity had drawn him into; having completed her orders, the girl descended to the kitchen, while he ascended to a square landing place on the first floor. On the outside of the window was a veranda filled with the choicest plants and flowers; the casement being open a delightful breeze entered the house, bringing with it the odours of the little garden; and he was about making a complimentary observation upon the admirable arrangement of her bough-pots, when, helter-skelter, in, through the casement, bolted a large tabby cat, and with a spring, clearing my friend’s shoulders, alighted upon the elegantly laced cap of the precise Mrs. —. They had not time to recover from their first alarm, when down tumbled all the roses, lignum vitæs, rhododandrums, geraniums and myrtles, being dislodged by a huge tom-cat rushing in, in pursuit of the aforesaid timid feline intruder. Crash, crash! went the bough-pots—squall, squall, went the lady. Damnation! exclaimed the gentleman. The lady’s foot slipped, and she slid and bumped to the bottom of the stairs; the phrenologist, endeavouring to save her, blundered completely over the lady. The two cats scampered round and athwart the elegantly arranged parlour, dislodging every ornament from the chimney-piece; and at length, my friend, having recovered his shoes, hastily snatched up his hat and cane, and made a precipitate escape from the house of a lady, who was unfortunate in having the bump of order too strongly developed.
We arrived at the castle in Conway greatly fatigued, and equally delighted with our day’s ramble.
CHAPTER XII.
Route to Aber—Penmaen Mawr—The pet Goat—Aber—Legend of Llewllyn and the Captive Knight—Road from Aber to Bangor—Penrhyn Castle—Bangor—Inns—The Cathedral—The Castle—Free Schools—The Menai Bridge—Song, Farewell to North Wales, air, Ar Hyd y Nos—Conclusion.
“When the heathen trumpets clang
Round beleaguer’d Chester rang,
Veiled nun and friar grey
March’d from Bangor’s fair Abbaye:
High their holy Anthem sounds,
Cestria’s vale the hymn rebounds,
Floating down the silver Dee,
O Miserere Domine!”SIR WALTER SCOTT.
On the following morning, we started for Aber. The coast scenery is extremely grand; and passing, the promontory of Penmaen Bach, a semicircular range of mountains, stretching to the overpeering height of Penmaen Mawr, from a delightful shelter to one of the most beautiful coast retreats in North Wales.
The present road winds round the waist of Penmaen Mawr, and nothing can exceed the terrors that, above and underneath it, meet the eye of the traveller. A few goats are generally seen wandering among the shingly surface; and their motions, though so light, send the loose fragments down, like the fall of a glacier. As I stood gazing on the awful depth beneath, four large pieces of rock rolled into the centre of the road, not ten yards from the place where I was standing, the smallest of which, had it touched me, would have caused instant death, or disabled me in such a manner as to have prevented my venturing upon a second tour. I turned my eyes above, and thought upon the legend of Dolbadarn; and my blood chilled to think, if, by any chance, a steed and rider should be precipitated over its brow—what a spectacle they would exhibit at its base! But, at the time of the legend, there was scarce footing for a goat to pass along, and nothing to interrupt the parties from finally plunging into the sea.
“When last I visited this spot,” said my companion, “I observed a man sitting by the road side, with his hands clasped, his elbows resting upon his knees, and his face bespeaking feelings of deep sorrow. I have a strong aversion to intruding on the secrets of others; but this lorn man, seated in such a solitary situation, and forming so interesting a foreground in the picture, made me desirous of entering into conversation with him, in order to discover the source of his grief.
“‘You seem to be in grief, my friend; can I do anything to relieve it?’
“‘God bless you, sir, you cannot.’
“‘May be otherwise, if you will tell me the cause.’
“‘I’ll tell you, sir; but it is out of your power to repair my loss.’
“He then feelingly related the following simple tale.”