WHICH PRINCIPALLY CONSISTS OF A QUIET HALF HOUR’S TALK ABOUT THE VIRTUES AND AIRS OF THAT GREAT, BIG, FAT, OVERFED, STUCK-UP PIG OF A JOHN DUFFY OF MINE, WHO WAS THE FIRST FOOTMAN I HAD IN MY SERVICE, AND WHO COULDN’T HAVE BEEN IN THE HOUSE MORE THAN A WEEK, I’M SURE, BEFORE (LUD-A-MERCY ME!) IF I DIDN’T DRAT THE DAY WHEN I FIRST SET EYES ON HIM; FOR I DECLARE THE PUPPY HAD SUCH AN IMPUDENT LOOK WITH HIM, THAT I NEVER SAW HIS FACE BUT I DIDN’T LONG FOR THE TIME WHEN I SHOULD SEE HIS BACK. HE was A PRETTY FOOTMAN, TO BE SURE.
“And a very saucy one,
Heigh ho! Heigh ho!
He walk’d so stiff, and look’d so smart,
As if he own’d each maiden’s heart;
I could have bang’d him, for my part,
Heigh ho! Heigh ho!”
Popular Song—though, in justice to the writer, I ought to add, that I have taken the liberty of adapting the last line of the highly talented poem to my highly excited feelings; for as John Duffy never had any “KEEN DART” of “HIS OWN,” of course I couldn’t go “WISHING” with the poet, that the monkey “FELT” any such fiddlesticks; though I must confess, that when I’ve seen that man crawling up stairs, as lazily as if he were a black beetle, I have over and over again “WISHED” to myself I only had my great big shawl-pin handy, so that I could have made him FEEL THAT.
“Gramachree ma Crooskeen, slantha gal mavourneen,
Gramachree ma Crooskeen, Lawn, Lawn, Lawn;
Gramachree ma Crooskeen, slantha gal mavourneen,
Arrah cumaleen ma u leen bawn, bawn, bawn,
Arrah cumaleen ma u leen bawn.”
Who on earth can ever have written this gibberish I don’t know, and what the goodness gracious it can ever mean, is more than I can say. But this I do know and can say—to my humble ears it sounds as much like abuse as anything I ever heard in all my life; and that’s just what I want to apply to that good-for-nothing John Duffy. Augh, “Lawn! Lawn! Lawn!”
Of course, when I had once risen to the dignity of having a male domestic in my establishment, I wasn’t going to make such a great silly of myself, as to come down again to the wretchedness of having nothing but a pack of females about one. Accordingly, I gave “my lord and master” (as Mr. Edward flatters himself he is) to understand as much in double-quick time. A fine thing, indeed, I said, it would be, to have all one’s good-natured friends, and all one’s precious charitable neighbours, (who every one knows are always sure to love one as themselves—oh yes!) pointing at one, and sneering away behind one’s back whenever one went out, with their “Oh, dear me! only to think that the poor Sk—n—st—ns couldn’t afford to keep on that grand page they started, for more than one quarter of a year;” and with their nasty, double-faced “pity from the bottom of their hearts, because they were afraid we had been all along living beyond our means.”
But Mr. Edward was too great a philosopher by half to care a snap of the fingers for the opinion of the empty world or the feelings of his poor dear wife, of course—especially when it would cost him a trumpery five-and-twenty pounds, and a rubbishing suit or two of livery, per annum. Consequently, when I told him one evening, after I had treated him to a nice sweet little dinner of a leg of mutton, stuffed with sage and onions—pork-fashion—and a love of a bread-pudding to follow—(I always make it a rule to use up all the bits of bread in the house, at least once a week—unless indeed we have any illness in the family, and they are wanted for poultices—for, as I believe I said before somewhere, I can’t bear to see waste,)—Well, when I told Mr. Edward, I repeat, after we had both I’m sure eaten more than was good for us—(only I do think sage and onions so delicious when one is not going to see company, and one can only get one’s husband just to take a mouthful or so of it; and then, ’pon my word, I verily believe, I could devour my own dear mother, if she was only stuffed with plenty of it, and nicely browned)—Well, when I told Mr. Edward—I repeat for the second time—just after we had finished every bit of that love of a bread-pudding (though the worst of it was, I, unfortunately, would go putting too much bread in it, like a great big generous stupid as I am, and, bother take it! the spongy stuff does swell so in the cooking, and then is sure to set to work and soak up all your custard in such a way, that ’pon my word and honour, when the love came to table, if it wasn’t like so much sop, and, positively, I’d have bet any one anything there wasn’t enough custard left in the whole dish to fill a sixpenny “Circassian Cream” pot—and that’s small enough, goodness knows! so that really and truly it looked so uninviting when I came to help it, that it was hardly fit to give to one’s parrot, or even to let the servants have, by way of a treat.)—But to return: well, when I told Mr. Edward—I repeat for the third time—(for plague take that dinner, I cannot get it out of my head)—that I had been considering for a long time whether it would be prudent in us to think about having another of those impudent young monkeys of pages in our house, when, for the matter of a few rubbishing pounds extra a year, we could get a nice, steady, handsome, respectable-looking man-servant, whose livery, I was sure, wouldn’t come, in the long run, to one penny more, if so much as that disgraceful young scape-grace of a Wittals’s did—for there’d be no silver sugar-loaf buttons continually to find, and they, with those bothering boys in livery, cost a small fortune alone, I knew.
Besides, I said—just to put Edward in a good temper—a man of his naturally strong judgment must be well aware that a great big strapping boy, who hadn’t done growing, and kept running up so fast that he required to have at least two tucks let out of his trowsers every quarter, must eat more than a decent, well-behaved, abstemious young man who had got to his proper size, and who consequently wouldn’t be always getting a head taller per annum out of your mutton and beef. And moreover, I added, going to the sofa and kissing him, as I saw him smile, with what at the time I foolishly supposed to be good humour,—“It will, you know, my dear, look so highly genteel, and give one such a standing in the world, to have one’s door opened by a fine good-looking fellow, with powdered hair and a pair of handsome legs, and near upon six feet in his shoes.” But, oh dear bless me, no! Mr. Edward wouldn’t listen to such stuff, as he called it; and must needs go bursting into a contemptuous laugh, telling me to go along with me, for I was an old fool, and ought to have more sense in my head at my time of life, (my time of life, indeed! Well, that is good! Isn’t it, gentle reader?)
Of course it was the old story over and over again. He wasn’t going to bring himself to the workhouse, he wasn’t, for any of my fine fal-lal notions. As for his having a great, fat, lazy footman, sauntering about his house, and eating the very bed from under him, he wouldn’t think of it for a moment; for the long and short of it was, he couldn’t afford it, especially with the few suits that he had then down on his ‘Chancery Cause Book;’ and the world seemed to have come to such a pass now-a-days, that relations and partners would settle all their disputes amicably. So I merely told him, that, of course, I couldn’t say whether his trumpery Chancery Cause-Book would allow him to afford me a rubbishing footman or not; but this I could and I would say, that unless something was done, he’d have to afford, somehow or other, to pay for my funeral expenses before long—though, perhaps, I added, with my usual biting sarcasm, that would be far more agreeable to him. Then, bursting into tears, I went on saying, “If some change does not take place, I can only tell you, sir, I shall fall a martyr to your meanness and this great big house; for I feel myself sinking every day under the weight of it; and Doctor J—pp himself has, over and over again, said, when he has called and found me here nearly fainting with fatigue, ‘Why, my dear madam, will we over-exert ourselves in this way. Really, we are too attentive and good a housewife. We are not fit for it—positively, we are not. Now, we ought to be in bed in our present state—indeed, we ought—instead of being up here, ruining our naturally fine constitution in this way. Mr. Sk—n—st—n, I’m sure, cannot be aware of what we are doing, or he would never allow us, if he had one spark of feeling, to be killing ourselves by inches in this way. Really, my dear, good, lady, it comes to this—either we must get extra help, and eat little and good, and often, or depend upon it we shall be in our graves before many months are over our heads. Would you like us to speak to our good worthy husband on the subject, for I am sure he would gladly make any sacrifice, rather than let us endanger our precious life thus?” And what reply did I make to my medical attendant? I asked Edward, with an indignant look—why, I merely said, “No, Dr. J—pp, my own dear Edward will tell you that he cannot afford it; and if so, perhaps my funeral expenses will fall less heavily upon him than having an extra servant in the house.”
After I had said this, I sank in a chair, and burying my face in a sweet pretty cambric handkerchief, with a very rich imitation Valenciennes border, I waited, sobbing as if my heart would break, to see whether he would let me have my footman or not; and expecting, of course, that every minute he would be coming up and kissing me, and telling me that he would gladly do anything I liked to make his own sweet angel of a Carry happy and comfortable.
But, drat the cold-hearted, ill-natured hyena, he only burst out giggling in a most insulting way, and said, in his nasty, unmeaning slang, “it wouldn’t do, and that he wasn’t quite such a fool as I seemed to take him for.” So I jumped up in a jiffey, and said with great point, and looking penknives at him, “I see what it is, sir; the sage and onions have disagreed with you, and of course you’re disgusted with the whole world, and your poor dear wife must suffer for it,”—and then, banging the door to with all my might, I walked quietly up to our bedroom, determined to read my lord duke a strong lesson, and just let him see that I wasn’t a worm.