CHAPTER XIV.
The sentinel sleeps when off his post; the Moorfields barker enjoys some interval of repose; moonshine suffers a partial eclipse on Bank holidays among the omnium gatherem of Bulls and Bears; the doctor gives the undertaker a holiday; Argus sends his hundred eyes to the Land of Nod, and Briareus puts his century of hands in his pockets.—But the match-maker, ante and post meridian, is always at her post!
“The News teems with candidates for the noose:—A spinster conjugally inclined; a bachelor devoted to Hymen; forlorn widowers; widows disconsolate; and why not 'A daughter to marry?' Addresses paid per post, post paid! For an introduction to the belle, ring the bell! None but principals (with a principal!) need apply.”
“Egad,” continued Mr. Bosky, as we journeyed through the fields a few mornings after our caravan adventure, to pay Uncle Timothy a visit at his new rus in urbe near Hampstead Heath, “it will soon be dangerous to dine out, or to figure in; for a dinner may become an action for damages; and a dance, matrimony without benefit of clergy! But yesterday I pic-nic'd with the Muffs; buzzed with Brutus; endured Ma, was just civil to Miss; when early this morning comes a missive adopting me for a son-in-law!”
We congratulated Mr. Bosky on the prospect of his speedily becoming a Benedick.
“Bien oblige! What! ingraft myself on that family Upas tree of ignorance, selfishness, and conceit! Couple with triflers, who, having no mental resources or amusement within themselves, sigh 'O! another dull day!' and are happy only when some gad-about party drag them from a monotonous home, where nothing is talked of or read, but petty scandal, fashions for the month, trashy novels, mantua-makers' and milliners' bills! I can laugh at affectation, but I loathe duplicity; I can pity a fool, but I scorn a flirt. This is a hackneyed ruse of Ma's. The last coasting season of the Muffs has been comparatively unprolific. From Margate to Brighton Miss Matilda counts but five proposals positive, and half a dozen presumptive; in the latter are included some broad stares at Broadstairs from the Holborn Hill Demosthenes! and even these have been furiously scrambled for by the delicate sisters for their marriageable Misses! 'Everybody! says Lord Herbert of Cherbury, 'loves the virtuous, whereas the vicious do scarcely love one another.”
An oddity crossed our path. “There waddles,” said the Lauréat, “Mr. Onessimus Omnium, who thrice on every Sabbath takes the round of the Conventicles with his pockets stuffed full of bibles and psalm books, every one of which (chapter and verse pointed out!) he passes into the hands of forgetful old ladies and gentlemen whom he opines 'Consols, and not philosophy, console!' Pasted on the inside cover is his card, setting forth the address and calling of Onessimus! You may swear that somebody is dead in the neighbourhood, (the pious Lynx is hunting up the executors!) by seeing him out of 'the Alley' at this early time of the day.”
Farther a-field, rambling amidst the rural scenes he has so charmingly described, we shook hands with Uncle Timothy's dear friend, the Author of a work “On the Beauties, Harmonies, and Sublimities of Nature.” * Happy old man! Who shall say that fortune deals harshly, if, in taking much away, she leaves us virtue?
* To Charles Bucke,
On hearing that he is engaged upon another Work, to be entitled Man.
“Man!” comprehensive Volume!—busy Man—
A world of warring passions, hopes and fears;
Good, evil—all within one little span!
Pride, meanness; wisdom, folly; smiles and tears;
Th' oppressor, the oppress'd; the coward, brave;
Fate's foot-ball from the cradle to the grave!
These records of thy studious days and eves,
Thy musings and experience, are to me
A moral, that this sure impression leaves;
Man never yet was happy—ne'e?' can be!
The feverish bliss, my friend, that dreamers feign,
Binds him a prisoner faster to his chain.
The miser to his treasure, and the proud
To pride and its dominion;—to his gorge
The glutton;—and the low promiscuous crowd
To sordid sensualities, that forge
The unseen fetters, which so firmly bind,
Are all ignobly bound in body;—mind.
He only is a free man, who, like thee,
Does stand aloof, and mark the wild uproar
That shakes the depths of life's tempestuous sea;
And steers his fragile bark along the shore.
The swelling canvass and the prosperous gale
Herald the shipwreck's melancholy tale!
Nature, all beauteous Nature!—thou hast sung
In prose poetic, through each various scene;
And when thy harp upon the willows hung,
She kept thy form erect, thy brow serene;
And breathed upon thy soul; and peace was there:
The soft, still music of a mother's prayer.
She gave thee truth, humility, content;
A spirit to return for evil good;
A grateful heart for bliss denied, or sent;
And sweet companionship in solitude!
Candour, that wrong offence nor takes, nor gives;
A brother's boundless love for all that lives!
Pursue thy solemn theme.—And when on a Man
The curtain thou hast dropp'd, return once more
To Nature. She has Beauties yet to scan,
New Harmonies, Sublimities, in store!
She will repay thy love; and weave, and spread,
A garland—and a pillow—for thy head.
Uncle Timothy.
Winding through a verdant copse, we suddenly came in sight of an elegant mansion. From a flower-woven arbour, sacred to retirement, proceeded the notes of a guitar.