By this time we were arrived as high as the stairs would permit us to ascend, till we came to what he was facetiously pleased to call the first floor down the chimney; and knocking at the door, a voice from within demanded, “Who’s there?” My conductor answered that it was him. But this not satisfying the querist, the voice again repeated the demand; to which he answered louder than before; and now the door was opened by an old woman with cautious reluctance. When we were got in, he welcomed me to his house with great ceremony, and turning to the old woman, asked where was her lady. “Good troth,” replied she in a peculiar dialect, “she’s washing your twa shirts at the next door, because they have taken an oath against lending out the tub any longer.” “My two shirts!” cried he in a tone that faltered with confusion, “what does the idiot mean?” “I ken what I mean weel enough,” replied the other; “she’s washing your twa shirts at the next door, because——” “Fire and fury, no more of thy stupid explanations!” cried he; “go and inform her we have got company. Were that Scotch hag,” continued he, turning to me, “to be for ever in my family, she would never learn politeness, nor forget that absurd poisonous accent of hers, or testify the smallest specimen of breeding or high life; and yet it is very surprising, too, as I had her from a parliament man, a friend of mine from the Highlands, one of the politest men in the world; but that’s a secret.”
We waited some time for Mrs. Tibbs’ arrival, during which interval I had a full opportunity of surveying the chamber and all its furniture, which consisted of four chairs with old wrought bottoms, that he assured me were his wife’s embroidery; a square table that had been once japanned; a cradle in one corner, a lumbering cabinet in the other; a broken shepherdess, and a mandarine without a head, were stuck over the chimney; and round the walls several paltry unframed pictures, which, he observed, were all his own drawing. “What do you think, sir, of that head in the corner, done in the manner of Grisoni? there’s the true keeping in it; it is my own face, and though there happens to be no likeness, a Countess offered me a hundred for its fellow; I refused her, for, hang it, that would be mechanical, you know.”
The wife at last made her appearance, at once a slattern and a coquette; much emaciated, but still carrying the remains of beauty. She made twenty apologies for being seen in such odious deshabille, but hoped to be excused, as she had stayed out all night with the Countess, who was excessively fond of the horns. “And, indeed, my dear,” added she, turning to her husband, “his lordship drank your health in a bumper.” “Poor Jack!” cries he, “a dear, good-natured fellow; I know he loves me. But I hope, my dear, you have given orders for dinner; you need make no great preparations neither, there are but three of us; something elegant, and little, will do,—a turbot, an ortolan, a—— ” “Or what do you think, my dear,” interrupts the wife, “of a nice pretty bit of ox-cheek, piping hot, and dressed with a little of my own sauce?” “The very thing!” replies he; “it will eat best with some smart bottled beer; but be sure to let us have the sauce his Grace was so fond of. I hate your immense loads of meat; that is country all over; extremely disgusting to those who are in the least acquainted with high life.” By this time my curiosity began to abate and my appetite to increase: the company of fools may at first make us smile, but at last never fails of rendering us melancholy; I therefore pretended to recollect a prior engagement, and after having shown my respect to the house, according to the fashion of the English, by giving the old servant a piece of money at the door, I took my leave; Mrs. Tibbs assuring me that dinner, if I stayed, would be ready at least in less than two hours.
Oliver Goldsmith.
“A CHIRPING CUP IS MY MATIN SONG.”
THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GREY.
I am a friar of orders grey:
As down the valley I take my way,
I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip,