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<!DOCTYPE html
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<title>Digital Mitford: The Mary Russell Mitford Archive</title>
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<h1><a href="https://digitalmitford.org">Digital Mitford</a>: Letters</h1>
<h2>Comparison View</h2>
<h3><a href="OVAPartingGlanceAtOurVillage.xml">TEI Source</a></h3>
<h3>Legend:</h3>
<ul>
<li><span class="app">Critical apparatus location</span></li>
<li><span class="MRM-OV">Our Village: Sketches of Rural Character and Scenery</span><span class="MRM-LM">The Lady's Magazine; or, Mirror of the Belles-Lettres,
Fine Arts, Music, Drama, Fashions, &c.</span></li>
</ul>
<hr />
</div>
<div id="container">
<div id="letter">
<span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">MORE OF OUR VILLAGE.</span><span class="MRM-OV">A PARTING GLANCE AT OUR
VILLAGE.</span></span>
<p><span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">When I get acquainted with people, whether in a printed book,
or in that huge and multifarious volume the world, I like to hear how they go
on. Perhaps the courteous readers of the Lady's Magazine may have the same
laudable desire of knowledge—curiosity some wicked wights are apt to call it,
and let them—really there is no objection to the phrase; we will speak it out
manfully ourselves. Many may have the same friendly curiousity, and would have
no objection to hear tiding of our village;—that village which had the honor
to be introduced to their notice near the close of the last year, and of whose
denizens, one or two of them at least, little glimpses of intelligence have
since occasionally peeped out. Lizzy and Mayflower, though very pretty things
in their way, are not the only villagers worth talking about—at least I think
so; but we shall see</span><span class="MRM-OV"><span class="cut">[empty]</span></span></span></p>
<p><span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM"><span class="cut">[empty]</span></span><span class="MRM-OV">It is now eighteen months since our village first sat for
its picture, and I cannot say farewell to my courteous readers, without giving
them some little intelligence of our goings on, a sort of parting glance at us
and our condition.</span></span> In outward appearance <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">our village</span><span class="MRM-OV">it</span></span> hath, I suppose, undergone less alteration <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">since my last notice,</span><span class="MRM-OV"><span class="cut">[empty]</span></span></span> than any
place of its inches in the kingdom. There it stands, the same long straggling street
of pretty <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">cottages</span><span class="MRM-OV">cottages,</span></span> divided by pretty gardens, wholly unchanged in size or
appearance, unincreased and undiminished by a single brick. To be sure, yesterday
evening a slight misfortune happened to our goodly tenement, occasioned by the
unlucky diligence mentioned in my <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">last,</span><span class="MRM-OV">first notice,</span></span> which, under the conduct of a sleepy
<span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">coachman</span><span class="MRM-OV">coachman,</span></span> and a restive horse, contrived to knock down and demolish the wall of our
court, and fairly to drive through the front garden, thereby destroying sundry
curious stocks, carnations, and geraniums. It is a mercy that the unruly steed was content with battering the wall; for the messuage itself would come
about our ears at the touch of a finger, and really there is one little end-parlour,
an after-thought of the original builder, which stands so temptingly in the way, that
I wonder the sagacious quadruped missed it. There was quite din enough without that
addition. The three insides (ladies) squalling from the interior of that commodious
vehicle; the outsides (gentlemen) swearing on the roof; the coachman, still half
asleep, but unconsciously blowing his horn; we in the house screaming and scolding;
the passers-by shouting and hallooing; and May, who little brooked such an invasion
of her territories, barking in her tremendous lion-note, and putting down the other
noises like a clap of thunder. But passengers, coachman, horses, and spectators, all
righted at last; and there is no harm done but to my flowers and to the wall. May,
however, stands bewailing the ruins, for that low wall was her favourite haunt; she
used to parade backwards and forwards on the top of it, as if to show herself, just
after the manner of a peacock on the top of a house; and would sit or lie for hours
on the corner next the gate, basking in the sunshine like a marble statue. Really
she
has quite the air of one who laments the destruction of personal property; but the
wall is to be rebuilt to-morrow, with old weather-stained bricks—no <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">patchwork</span><span class="MRM-OV">patch-work</span></span>!
and exactly in the same form; May herself will not find the
difference; so that in the way of alteration this little misfortune will pass for
nothing. Neither have we any improvements worth calling such. Except that the
wheeler’s green door hath been retouched, out of the same pot (as I judge from the
tint) with which he furbished up our new-old pony-chaise; that the shop-window of
our
neighbour, the universal dealer, hath been beautified, and his name and <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">callings</span><span class="MRM-OV">calling</span></span>
splendidly set forth in yellow letters on a black ground; and that our landlord of
the Rose hath hoisted a new sign of unparalleled splendour; one side consisting of
a
full-faced damask <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">rose,</span><span class="MRM-LM">rose</span></span> of the size and hue of a piony, the other of a <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">maiden-blush</span><span class="MRM-OV">maiden blush</span></span>
in profile, which looks exactly like a carnation, so that both flowers are
considerably indebted to the modesty of the “out-of-door artist,” who has warily
written The Rose under each;—except these trifling ornaments, which nothing but the
jealous eye of a lover could detect, the dear place is altogether unchanged.</p>
<p>The only real improvement with which we have been visited for our sins—(I hate all
<span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">innovation</span><span class="MRM-OV">innovation,</span></span> whether for better or worse, as if I was a furious Tory, or a woman of
three-score and ten)—the only misfortune of that sort which has befallen us, is under
foot. The road has been adjusted on the plan of Mr. Mac-Adam; and a tremendous
operation it is. I do not know what good may ensue; <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">but,</span><span class="MRM-OV">but</span></span> for the last six
months, some part or other of the highway has been impassable for any feet, except
such as are shod by the blacksmith; and even the four-footed people who wear iron
<span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">shoes</span><span class="MRM-OV">shoes,</span></span> make wry faces, poor things! at those stones, enemies to man and beast.
However, the business is nearly done now; we are covered with sharp flints every inch
of us, except a “bad step” up the hill, which, indeed, looks like a bit cut out of
the deserts of Arabia, fitter for camels and caravans than for Christian horses and
coaches; <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">a point which was acknowledged even by our surveyor</span><span class="MRM-OV">a point which in spite of my dislike of alteration I was forced to
acknowledge to our surveyor</span></span>, a portly gentleman, who, in a smart gig drawn by a
prancing steed, was kicking up a prodigious dust at that very moment. He and I ought
to be great enemies; for, besides the Mac-Adamite enormity of the stony road, he hath
actually been guilty of tree-murder, having been an accessory before the fact in the
death of three limes along the rope-walk—dear sweet innocent limes, that did no harm
on earth except shading the path! I never should have for- given that offence, had
not their removal, by opening a beautiful view from the village up the hill,
reconciled even my tree-loving eye to their abstraction. And, to say the truth,
though we have had twenty little <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">squabbles,</span><span class="MRM-OV">squabbles</span></span> there is no bearing malice with our
surveyor; he is so civil and good-humoured, has such a bustling and happy
self-importance, such an honest earnestness in his vocation (which is
gratuitous by the bye), and such an intense conviction that the state of the
turnpike-road between B. and <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">K.</span><span class="MRM-OV">K.,</span></span> is the principal affair of this life, that I would
not undeceive him for more worlds than one ever has to give. How often have I seen
him on a cold winter morning, with a face all frost and business, great-coated up
to
the eyes, driving from post to post, from one gang of <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">laborers</span><span class="MRM-OV">labourers</span></span> to another, praising,
scolding, ordering, cheated, laughed at, and liked by them all! Well, when once the
hill is finished, we shall have done with him for ever, as he used to tell me by way
of consolation, when I shook my head at him, as he went jolting along over his dear
new <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">roads</span><span class="MRM-OV">roads,</span></span> at the imminent risk of his springs and his bones; we shall see no more of
him; for the Mac-Adam ways are warranted not to wear out. So be it; I never wish to
see a <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">road-mender</span><span class="MRM-OV">roadmender</span></span> again.</p>
<p>But if the form of outward things be all unchanged around us, if the dwellings of
man
remain the same to the sight and the touch, the little world within hath undergone
its usual mutations;—the hive is the <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">same;</span><span class="MRM-OV">same,</span></span> but of the bees some are dead and some are
flown away, and some that we left babes and sucklings, insects in the shell, are
already putting forth their young wings. Children in our village really sprout up
like mushrooms; the air is so promotive of growth, that the rogues
<span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">spring up</span><span class="MRM-OV">spring</span></span> into men and women, as if touched by Harlequin’s wand, and are quite offended
if one happens to say or do any thing which has a reference to their previous
condition. My father grievously affronted Sally L.<span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM"><span class="cut">[empty]</span></span><span class="MRM-OV">, only yesterday,</span></span> by bestowing upon
her a great lump of <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">gingerbread</span><span class="MRM-OV">gingerbread,</span></span> with which he had stuffed his pockets at a fair. She
immediately, as she said, gave it to “the children.” Now Sally cannot be above twelve
to my certain knowledge, though taller than I am. Lizzy herself is growing womanly.
I
actually caught that little <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">gentlewoman</span><span class="MRM-OV">lady</span></span> stuck on a chest of drawers, contemplating herself
in the glass, and striving with all her might to gather the rich curls that hang
about her neck, and turn them under a comb. Well! If Sally and Lizzy live to be old
maids, they may probably make the <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">amende honorable</span><span class="MRM-OV">amende honorable</span></span> to time, and wish to be thought
young again. In the meanwhile, shall we walk up the street?</p>
<p>The first cottage is that of Mr. H. the patriot, the illuminator, the independent
and
sturdy yet friendly member of our little state, who, stout and comely, with a
handsome chaise-cart, a strong mare, and a neat garden, might have passed for a
portrait of that enviable class of <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">Englishmen</span><span class="MRM-OV">Englishmen,</span></span> who, after a youth of frugal industry,
sit down in some retired place to “live upon their means.” He and his wife seemed
the
happiest couple on earth; except a little too much leisure, I never
suspected that they had one trouble or one care. But <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">care</span><span class="MRM-OV">Care</span></span>, the witch, will come
<span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">every where</span><span class="MRM-OV">everywhere</span></span>, even to that happiest <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">station</span><span class="MRM-OV">station,</span></span> and this prettiest place. She came in one
of her most terrific forms—blindness—or (which is perhaps still more tremendous) the
faint glimmering light and gradual darkness which precede the total eclipse. For a
long time we had missed the pleasant bustling officiousness, the little services,
the
voluntary tasks, which our good neighbour loved so well. <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">Fruit-trees</span><span class="MRM-OV">Fruit trees</span></span> were blighted,
and escaped his grand specific, fumigation; wasps multiplied, and their nests
remained untraced; the cheerful modest knock with which, just at the very hour when
he knew it could be spared, he presented himself to ask for the newspaper, was heard
no more; he no longer hung over his gate to way-lay passengers, and entice them into
chat; at last he even left off driving his little chaise, and was only seen moping
up
and down the <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">garden walk</span><span class="MRM-OV">garden-walk</span></span>, or stealing gropingly from the <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">woodpile</span><span class="MRM-OV">wood-pile</span></span> to the house. He
evidently shunned conversation or questions, forbade his wife to tell what ailed him,
and even when he put a green shade over his darkened eyes, fled from human sympathy
with a stern pride that seemed almost ashamed of the humbling infirmity. That strange
(but to a vigorous and healthy man perhaps natural) feeling soon softened. The
disease increased hourly, and he became dependent on his excellent wife
for every comfort and relief. She had many willing assistants in her labour of love;
all his neighbours strove to return, according to their several means, the kindness
which all had received from him in some shape or other. The country <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">boys</span><span class="MRM-OV">boys,</span></span> to whose
service he had devoted so much time, in shaping bats, constructing bows and arrows,
and other quips and trickeries of the same nature, vied with each other in performing
little offices about the yard and stable; and John Evans, the half-witted gardener,
to whom he had been a constant friend, repaid his goodness by the most unwearied
attention. Gratitude even seemed to sharpen poor John’s perception and faculties.
There is an <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">old blind man</span><span class="MRM-OV">old man</span></span> in our parish work-house, who occasionally walks through the
street, led by a little boy holding the end of a long stick. The idea of this man,
who had lived in utter blindness for thirty years, was always singularly distressing
to Mr. H. I shall never forget the address with which our simple gardener used to
try
to divert his attention from this miserable fellow-sufferer. He would get between
them to prevent the possibility of recognition by the dim and uncertain vision; would
talk loudly to drown the peculiar noise, the sort of duet of feet, caused by the
quick short steps of the child, and the slow irregular tread of the old man; and,
if
any one ventured to allude to blind Robert, he would turn the
conversation with an adroitness and acuteness which might put to shame the proudest
intellect. So passed many months. At last Mr. H. was persuaded to consult a
celebrated oculist, and the result was most comforting. The disease was ascertained
to be a cataract; and now with the increase of darkness came an increase of hope.
The
film spread, thickened, ripened, speedily and healthily; and to-day the requisite
operation has been performed with equal skill and success. You may still see some
of
the country boys lingering round the gate with looks of strong and wondering
interest; poor John is going to and fro, he knows not for what, unable to rest a
moment; <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">Mrs. H. too</span><span class="MRM-OV">Mrs. H., too,</span></span> is walking in the garden, shedding tears of thankfulness; and
he who came to support their <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">spirits</span><span class="MRM-OV">spirit</span></span>, the stout strong-hearted farmer A., seems
trembling and overcome. The most tranquil person in the house is probably the
patient: he bore the operation with resolute firmness, and <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">he has seen again</span><span class="MRM-OV">he has seen again</span></span>. Think
of the bliss bound up in those four words! He is in darkness now, and must remain
so
for some weeks; but he has <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">seen</span><span class="MRM-OV">seen,</span></span> and he will see; and that humble cottage is again a
happy dwelling.</p>
<p>Next we come to the shoemaker’s abode. All is unchanged there, except that its master
becomes more industrious and more pale-faced, and that his fair daughter
is a notable exemplification of the developement which I have already noticed amongst
our young things. But she is in the real transition state, just emerging from the
chrysalis, and the eighteen months, between fourteen and a half and sixteen, would
<span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">metamorphose</span><span class="MRM-OV">meta- morphose</span></span> a child into a woman all the world over. She is still pretty, but not
so elegant as when she wore frocks and pinafores, and, unconsciously classical,
parted her long brown locks in the middle of her forehead, and twisted them up in
a
knot behind, giving to her finely-shaped head and throat the air of a Grecian statue.
Then she was stirring all day in her small housewifery, or her busy idleness, delving
and digging in her flower-border, tossing and dandling every infant that came within
her reach, feeding pigs and poultry, playing with May, and prattling with an
open-hearted frankness to the country lads, who assemble at evening in the shop to
enjoy a little gentle gossiping; for be it known to my London readers, that the
shoemaker’s in a <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">remote</span><span class="MRM-OV">country</span></span> village is now what (according to <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">tradition</span><span class="MRM-OV">tradition,</span></span> and the old
novels) the barber’s used to be, the resort of all the male newsmongers, especially
the young. Then she talked to these visitors gaily and openly, sang and laughed and
ran in and out, and took no more thought of a young man than of a gosling. Then she
was only fourteen. Now she wears gowns and aprons,—puts her hair in paper,—has left off singing, talks,—has left off running, walks,—nurses the infants with
a grave solemn grace,—has entirely cut her former playmate Mayflower, who tosses her
pretty head as much as to say—who cares?—and has nearly renounced all acquaintance
with the visitors of the shop, who are by no means disposed to take matters so
quietly. There she stands on the threshold, shy and demure, just vouchsafing a formal
nod or a faint smile as they pass, and, if she in her turn be compelled to pass the
open door of their news-room (for the working apartment is separate from the house),
edging along as slyly and mincingly as if there were no such beings as young men in
the world. Exquisite coquette! I think (she is my opposite neighbour, and I have a
right to watch her doings,—the right of retaliation), there is one youth particularly
distinguished by her non-notice, one whom she never will see or speak to, who stands
a very fair chance to carry her off. He is called Jem Tanner, and is a fine lad, with
an open ruddy countenance, a clear blue eye, and curling hair of that tint which the
poets are pleased to denominate golden. Though not one of our eleven, he was a
promising cricketer. We have missed him lately on the green at the <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">Sunday evening</span><span class="MRM-OV">Sunday-evening</span></span>
game, and I find on <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">inquiry</span><span class="MRM-OV">enquiry</span></span> that he now frequents a chapel about a mile off, where he
is the best male singer, as our nymph of the shoe-shop is incomparably
the first female. I am not fond of betting; but I would venture the lowest stake of
gentility, a silver three-pence, that, before the winter ends, a wedding will be the
result of these weekly meetings at the chapel. In the long dark evenings, when the
father has enough to do in piloting the mother with conjugal gallantry through the
dirty lanes, think of the opportunity that Jem will have to escort the daughter. A
little difficulty he may have to encounter: the lass will be coy for a while; the
mother will talk of their youth, the father of their finances; but the marriage, I
doubt not, will ensue.</p>
<p>Next in order, on the other side of the street, is the blacksmith’s house. Change
has
been busy here in a different and more awful form. Our sometime constable, the
tipsiest of parish officers, of blacksmiths and of men, is dead. Returning from a
revel with a companion as full of beer as himself, one or the other, or both,
contrived to overset the cart in a <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">ditch</span><span class="MRM-OV">ditch;</span></span> (the living scapegrace is pleased to lay
the blame of the mishap on the horse, but that is contrary to all probability, this
respectable quadruped being a <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">water-drinker);</span><span class="MRM-OV">water-drinker ;)</span></span> and inward bruises, acting on inflamed
blood and an impaired constitution, carried him off in a very short time, leaving
an
ailing wife and eight children, the eldest of whom is only fourteen years of age.
This sounds like a very tragical <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">story;</span><span class="MRM-OV">story:</span></span> yet, <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM"><span class="cut">[empty]</span></span><span class="MRM-OV">perhaps,</span></span> because the loss
of a drunken husband is not quite so great a calamity as the loss of a sober one,
the
effect of this event is not altogether so melancholy as might be expected. The widow,
when she was a wife, had a complaining broken-spirited air, a peevish manner, a
whining voice, a dismal countenance, and a person so neglected and slovenly, that
it
was difficult to believe that she had once been remarkably handsome. She is now quite
another woman. The very first Sunday she put on her weeds, we all observed how tidy
and comfortable she looked, how much her countenance, in spite of a decent show of
tears, was improved, and how completely through all her sighings her tone had lost
its peevishness. I have never seen her out of spirits or out of humour since. She
talks and laughs and bustles about, managing her journeymen and scolding her children
as notably as any dame in the parish. The very house looks more <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">cheerful:</span><span class="MRM-OV">cheerful;</span></span> she has cut
down the old willow-trees that stood in the court, and let in the light; and now the
sun glances brightly from the casement windows, and plays amidst the vine-leaves and
the clusters of grapes which cover the walls; the door is newly painted, and shines
like the face of its <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">mistress:</span><span class="MRM-OV">mistress;</span></span> even the forge has lost half its dinginess. Every
thing smiles. She indeed talks by fits of “poor George,” especially when any allusion
to her old enemy mine host of the Rose brings the deceased to her memory; then she bewails (as is proper) her dear husband and her desolate condition;
calls herself a lone widow; sighs over her eight children; complains of the troubles
of business, and tries to persuade herself and others that she is as wretched as a
good wife ought to be. But this will not do. She is a happier woman than she has been
any time these fifteen years, and she knows <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">it.—My</span><span class="MRM-OV">it. My</span></span> dear village-husbands, if you have
a mind that your wives should be really sorry when you die, whether by a fall from
a
cart or otherwise, keep from the alehouse!</p>
<p>Next comes the tall thin red house, that ought to boast genteeler inmates than its
short fat mistress, its children, its pigs, and its quantity of noise, happiness,
and
vulgarity. The din is greater than ever. The husband, a merry jolly tar, with a voice
that sounds as if issuing from a speaking trumpet, is returned from a voyage to
India; and another little one, a chubby roaring boy, has added his lusty cries to
the
family concert.</p>
<p>This door, blockaded by huge bales of goods, and half darkened by that moving
mountain, the tilted waggon of the S. mill which stands before it, belongs to the
village shop. Increase has been here too in every shape. Within fourteen months two
little pretty quiet girls have come into the world. Before Fanny could well manage
to
totter across the road to her good friend the nymph of the shoe-shop,
Margaret made her appearance; and poor Fanny, discarded at once from the maid’s arms
and her mother’s knee, degraded from the rank and privileges of “the baby,” (for at
that age precedence is strangely <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">reversed</span><span class="MRM-OV">reversed,</span></span>) would have had a premature foretaste of
the instability of human felicity, had she not taken refuge with that best of nurses,
a fond father. Every thing thrives about the shop, from the <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">pretty</span><span class="MRM-OV">rosy</span></span> children to the neat
maid and the smart apprentice. No room now for lodgers, and no need! The young
mantua-making schoolmistresses, the old inmates, are gone; one of them not very far.
She grew tired of scolding little boys and girls about their A, B, C, and of being
scolded in her turn by their sisters and mothers about pelisses and gowns; so she
gave up both trades almost a year ago, and has been ever since our pretty <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">Harriet, the successor to Lucy's office, Lucy's favor, and more than Lucy's lovers.</span><span class="MRM-OV">Harriet.</span></span> I
do not think she has ever repented of the exchange, though it might not perhaps have
been made so soon, had not her elder sister, who had been long engaged to an
attendant at one of the colleges of Oxford, thought herself on the point of marriage
just as our housemaid left us. Poor Betsy! She had shared the fate of many a prouder
maiden, wearing out her youth in expectation of the promotion that was to authorise
her union with the man of her heart. Many a year had she waited in smiling constancy,
fond of William in no common measure, and proud of him, as well she
might be; for, when the vacation so far lessened his duties as to render a short
absence practicable, and he stole up here for a few days to enjoy her company, it
was
difficult to distinguish him in air and manner, as he sauntered about in elegant
indolence with his fishing-rod and his flute, from the young Oxonians his masters.
At
last promotion came; and Betsy, apprised of it by an affectionate and congratulatory
letter from his sister, prepared her wedding-clothes, and looked hourly for the
bridegroom. No bridegroom came. A second letter announced, with regret and
indignation, that William had made another choice, and was to be married early in
the
ensuing month. Poor Betsy! We were alarmed for her health, almost for her life. She
wept incessantly, took no food, wandered recklessly about from morning till night,
lost her natural rest, her flesh, her colour; and in less than a week she was so
altered, that no one would have known her. Consolation and remonstrance were alike
rejected, till at last Harriet happened to strike the right chord by telling her that
“she wondered at her want of spirit.” This was touching her on the point of honour;
she had always been remarkably high-spirited, and could as little brook the
imputation as a soldier or a gentleman. This lucky suggestion gave an immediate turn
to her feelings; anger and scorn succeeded to grief; she wiped her eyes, “hemmed away
a sigh,” and began to scold most manfully. She did still better. She
recalled an old admirer, who in spite of repeated rejections had remained constant
in
his attachment, and made such good speed, that she was actually married the day
before her faithless <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">lover; and she is</span><span class="MRM-OV">lover, and is</span></span> now the happy wife of a very respectable
tradesman.</p>
<p>Ah! the in-and-out cottage! the dear, dear home! No weddings there! No changes!
except that the white kitten, who sits purring at the window under the great myrtle,
has succeeded to his lamented grandfather, our beautiful Persian cat, I cannot find
one alteration to talk about. The wall of the court indeed—but that will be mended
to-morrow.</p>
<p>Here is the new sign, the well-frequented Rose inn! Plenty of changes there! Our
landlord is always improving, if it be only a pig-sty or a watering-trough—plenty
of
changes and one splendid wedding. Miss Phoebe is married, not to her old lover the
recruiting sergeant (for he had one wife already, probably <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">more),</span><span class="MRM-OV">more,)</span></span> but to a
patten-maker, as errant a dandy as ever wore mustachios. How Phoebe could “abase her
eyes” from the stately sergeant to this youth, half a foot shorter than herself,
whose “waist would go into any alder-man’s thumb-ring,” might, if the final choice
of
a coquette had ever been matter of wonder, have occasioned some speculation. But our
patten-maker is a man of spirit; and the wedding was of extraordinary <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">splendor</span><span class="MRM-OV">splendour</span></span>. Three gigs, each containing four persons, graced the procession,
beside numerous carts and innumerable pedestrians. The bride was equipped in muslin
and satin, and really looked very pretty with her black sparkling eyes, her clear
brown complexion, her blushes and her smiles; the bride-maidens were only less smart
than the bride; and the bridegroom was “point device in his accoutrements,” and as
munificent as a nabob. Cake flew about the village; plum-puddings were abundant; and
strong beer, aye, even mine host’s best double X, was profusely distributed. There
was all manner of eating and drinking, with singing, fiddling, and dancing between;
and in the evening, to crown all, there was Mr. Moon the conjuror. Think of that
stroke of good fortune !—Mr. Moon, the very pearl of all conjurors, who had the
honour of puzzling and delighting their late <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">majesties</span><span class="MRM-OV">Majesties</span></span> with his “wonderful and
pleasing exhibition of Thaumaturgics, Tachygraphy, mathematical operations, and
magical <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">deceptions,</span><span class="MRM-OV">deceptions,”</span></span> happened to arrive about an hour before dinner, and commenced
his ingenious deceptions very unintentionally at our house. Calling to apply for
permission to perform in the village, being equipped in a gay scarlet coat, and
having something smart and sportsman-like in his appearance, he was announced by
Harriet as one of the gentlemen of the C. Hunt, and taken (<span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">mistaken</span><span class="MRM-OV">mistaken</span></span> I should have
said) by the whole family for a certain captain newly arrived in the
neighbourhood. That misunderstanding, which must, I think, have retaliated on Mr.
Moon a little of the puzzlement that he inflicts on others, vanished of course at
the
production of his bill of fare; and the requested permission was instantly given.
Never could he have arrived in a happier hour! Never were spectators more gratified
or more scared. All the tricks prospered. The cock crew after his head was cut off;
and half-crowns and sovereigns flew about as if winged; the very wedding-ring could
not escape Mr. Moon’s incantations. We heard of nothing else for a week. From the
bridegroom, <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">un esprit fort</span><span class="MRM-OV">un esprit fort</span></span>, who defied all manner of conjuration and <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">diablerie</span><span class="MRM-OV">diablerie</span></span>, down
to my Lizzy, whose boundless faith swallows the Arabian Tales, all believed and
trembled. So thoroughly were men, women, and children, impressed with the idea of
the
worthy conjuror’s dealings with the devil, that when he had occasion to go to B.,
not
a soul would give him a cast, from pure awe; and if it had not been for our
pony-chaise, poor Mr. Moon must have walked. I hope he is really a prophet; for he
foretold all happiness to the new-married pair.</p>
<p>So this pretty white house with the lime-trees before it, which has been under repair
for these three years, is on the point of being finished. The vicar has taken it,
as
the vicarage-house is not yet fit for his reception. He has sent before him a neat
modest maid-servant, whose respectable appearance gives a character to
her master and mistress,—a hamper full of flower-roots, sundry boxes of books, a
piano-forte, and some simple and useful furniture. Well, we shall certainly have
neighbours, and I have a presentiment that we shall find friends.</p>
<p>Lizzy, you may now come along with me round the corner and up the lane, just to the
end of the wheeler’s shop, and then we shall go home; it is high time. What is this
<span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">affiche</span><span class="MRM-OV">affiche</span></span> in the parlour window ? “Apartments to let—inquire within.” These are
certainly the curate’s lodgings—is he going away? Oh I suppose the new vicar will
do
his own duty—yet, however well he may do it, rich and poor will regret the departure
of Mr. B. Well, I hope that he may soon get a good living. “Lodgings to let”—who ever
thought of seeing such a placard hereabout? The lodgings, indeed, are very convenient
for a single gentleman, “a man and his wife, or two <span class="app"><span class="MRM-LM">sisters,</span><span class="MRM-OV">sisters,”</span></span> as the newspapers
say—comfortable apartments, neat and tasty withal, with the addition of very civil
treatment from the host and hostess. Lodgings to let in our village!</p>
<p>THE END.<br />LONDON:<br />PRINTED BY R. GILBERT, ST. JOHN’S SQUARE.</p>
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