How Joseph Washford's left ear did itch!—He looked to the ground-floor back—Mr. Jarvis had left the window.
Mr. Jenkinson's ground-plot boasted, at daybreak next morning, a splendid Semper Augustus, "which was not so before," and Joseph Washford was led home, much about the same time, in a most extraordinary state of "civilation," from "The Three Jolly Pot-boys."
From that hour he was the Fiend's!!
"Facilis descensus Averni!" says Virgil.—"It is only the first step that is attended with any difficulty," says—somebody else,—when speaking of the decollated martyr, St. Dennis's walk with his head under his arm. "The First Step!"—Joseph Washford had taken that step!—he had taken two—three—four steps;—and now, from a hesitating, creeping, cat-like mode of progression, he had got into a firmer tread—an amble—a positive trot!—He took the family linen "to the wash:"—one of Madame Witherspoon's best Holland chemises was never seen after.
"Lost?—impossible! How could it be lost?—where could it be gone to?—who could have got it? It was her best—her very best!—she should know it among a hundred—among a thousand!—it was marked with a great W in the corner!—Lost?—impossible?—She would see!"—Alas! she never did see—the chemise—abiit, erupit, evasit!—it was
"Like the lost Pleiad, seen on earth no more!"
—but Joseph Washford's Sunday shirt was seen, finer and fairer than ever, the pride and dulce decus of the Meeting.
The Meeting?—ay, the Meeting. Joe Washford never missed the Appledore Independent Meeting House, whether the service were in the morning or afternoon,—whether the Rev. Mr. Slyandry exhorted or made way for the Rev. Mr. Tearbrain. Let who would officiate, there was Joe. As I have said before, he never missed;—but other people missed—one missed an umbrella,—one a pair of clogs. Farmer Johnson missed his tobacco-box,—Farmer Jackson his greatcoat;—Miss Jackson missed her hymn-book,—a diamond edition, bound in maroon-coloured velvet, with gilt corners and clasps. Everything, in short, was missed—but Joe Washford; there he sat, grave, sedate, and motionless—all save that restless, troublesome, fidgety little Pigtail attached to his wig, which nothing could keep quiet, or prevent from tickling and interfering with Miss Thompson's curls, as she sat, back to back with Joe, in the adjoining pew. After the third Sunday, Nancy Thompson eloped with the tall recruiting sergeant of the Connaught Rangers.
The summer passed away,—autumn came and went,—and Christmas, jolly Christmas, that period of which we are accustomed to utter the mournful truism, it "comes but once a-year," was at hand. It was a fine bracing morning; the sun was just beginning to throw a brighter tint upon the Quaker-coloured ravine of Orlestone-hill, when a medical gentleman, returning to the quiet little village of Ham Street, that lies at its foot, from a farm-house at Kingsnorth, rode briskly down the declivity.