Part 19

By and by, being called to supper, instead of sulking as aforetime, they came down together, each being secretly in the best humor, though mutually suspected of the worst. Amongst other things on the table, there was a calf’s sweetbread, being one of those very dainties that had often set them together by the ears. The dame looked and longed, but she refrained from its appropriation, thinking within herself that she could give up sweetbreads for one year; and the farmer made a similar reflection. After pushing the dish to and fro several times, by a common impulse they divided the treat; and then, having supped, they retired amicably to rest, whereas until then they had seldom gone to bed without falling out. The truth was, each looked upon the other as being already in the churchyard.

On the morrow, which happened to be the dame’s birthday, the farmer was the first to wake; and knowing what he knew, and having, besides, but just roused himself out of a dream strictly confirmatory of the late vigil, he did not scruple to salute his wife, and wish her many happy returns of the day. The wife, who knew as much as he, very readily wished him the same; having, in truth, but just rubbed out of her eyes the pattern of a widow’s bonnet that had been submitted to her in her sleep. She took care, however, at dinner to give the fowl’s liver to the doomed man; considering that when he was dead and gone she could have them, if she pleased, seven days in the week; and the farmer, on his part, took care to help her to many tidbits. Their feeling toward each other was that of an impatient host with regard to an unwelcome guest, showing scarcely a bare civility while in expectation of his stay, but overloading him with hospitality when made certain of his departure.

In this manner they went on for some six months, without any addition of love between them, and as much selfishness as ever, yet living in a subservience to the comforts and inclinations of each other, sometimes not to be found even amongst couples of sincerer affections. There were as many causes for quarrel as ever, but every day it became less worth while to quarrel; so letting bygones be bygones, they were indifferent to the present, and thought only of the future, considering each other (to adopt a common phrase) “as good as dead.”

Ten months wore away, and the farmer’s birthday arrived in its turn. The dame, who had passed an uncomfortable night, having dreamed, in truth, that she did not much like herself in mourning, saluted him as soon as the day dawned, and, with a sigh, wished him many years to come. The farmer repaid her in kind, the sigh included; his own visions having been of the painful sort; for he dreamed of having a headache from wearing a black hat-band, and the malady still clung to him when awake. The whole morning was spent in silent meditation and melancholy, on both sides; and when dinner came, although the most favorite dishes were upon the table, they could not eat. The farmer, resting his elbows upon the board, with his face between his hands, gazed wistfully on his wife. The dame, leaning back in her high arm-chair, regarded the yeoman quite as ruefully. Their minds, travelling in the same direction, and at an equal rate, arrived together at the same reflection; but the farmer was the first to give it utterance:

“Thee’d be missed, dame, if thee were to die!”

The dame started. Although she had nothing but death at that moment before her eyes, she was far from dreaming of her own exit. Recovering, however, from the shock, her thoughts flowed into their old channel, and she rejoined in the same spirit:

“I wish, master, thee may live so long as I!”

The farmer, in his own mind, wished to live rather longer; for, at the utmost, he considered that his wife’s bill of mortality had but two months to run; the calculation made him sorrowful; during the last few months she had consulted his appetite, bent to his humor, and conformed her own inclinations to his, in a manner that could never be supplied.

His wife, from being at first useful to him, had become agreeable, and at last dear; and as he contemplated her approaching fate, he could not help thinking out audibly, “that he should be a lonesome man when she was gone.” The dame, this time, heard the survivorship foreboded without starting; but she marvelled much at what she thought the infatuation of a doomed man. So perfect was her faith in the infallibility of St. Mark, that she had even seen the symptoms of mortal disease, as palpable as plague-spots, on the devoted yeoman. Giving his body up, therefore, for lost, a strong sense of duty persuaded her that it was imperative on her, as a Christian, to warn the unsuspecting farmer of his dissolution. Accordingly, with a solemnity adapted to the subject, a tenderness of recent growth, and a memento mori face, she broached the matter in the following question:

“Master, how bee’st thee?”

“As hearty as a buck, dame; and I wish thee the like.”

A dead silence ensued; the farmer was as unprepared as ever. There is a great fancy for breaking the truth by dropping it gently; an experiment which has never answered, any more than with iron-stone china. The dame felt this; and, thinking it better to throw the news at her husband at once, she told him, in as many words, that he was a dead man.

It was now the yeoman’s turn to be staggered. By a parallel course of reasoning, he had just wrought himself up to a similar disclosure, and the dame’s death-warrant was just ready upon his tongue, when he met with his own despatch, signed, sealed, and delivered. Conscience instantly pointed out the oracle from which she had derived the omen.

“Thee hast watched, dame, at the church porch, then?”

“Ay, master.”

“And thee didst see me spirituously?”

“In the brown wrap, with the boot hose. Thee were coming to the church, by Fairthorn Gap; in the while I were coming by the Holly Hedge.”

For a minute the farmer paused; but the next he burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter; peal after peal, each higher than the last. The poor woman had but one explanation for this phenomenon. She thought it a delirium; a lightening before death; and was beginning to wring her hands, and lament, when she was checked by the merry yeoman:

“Dame, thee bee’st a fool. It was I myself thee seed at the church porch. I seed thee, too; with a notice to quit upon thy face; but, thanks to God, thee bee’st a living; and that is more than I cared to say of thee this day ten-month!”

The dame made no answer. Her heart was too full to speak; but, throwing her arms round her husband, she showed that she shared in his sentiment. And from that hour, by practising a careful abstinence from offence, or a temperate sufferance of its appearance, they became the most united couple in the county. But it must be said, that their comfort was not complete till they had seen each other, in safety, over the perilous anniversary of St. Mark’s Eve.

* * * * *

The moral this story conveys is one which might prove a useful monitor to us all, if we could keep it in daily remembrance. Few, indeed, are so coarse in their manifestations of ill-temper as this Kentish couple are described; but we all indulge, more or less, in unreasonable fretfulness, and petty acts of selfishness, in the relations of husband and wife, parents and children, brothers and sisters,--in fact, in all the relations of life. It would help us greatly to be kind, forbearing, and self-sacrificing toward neighbors, friends, and relatives, if it were always present to our minds that death may speedily close our intercourse with them in this world.--L. M. C.

WHAT THE OLD WOMAN SAID.

One summer eve, I chanced to pass, where, by the cottage gate, An aged woman in the town sat crooning to her mate. The frost of age was on her brow, its dimness in her eye, And her bent figure to and fro rocked all unconsciously. The frost of age was on her brow, yet garrulous her tongue, As she compared the “doings now,” with those when she was young. “When I was young, young gals were meek, and looked round kind of shy; And when they were compelled to speak, they did so modestly. They stayed at home, and did the work; made Indian bread and wheaten; And only went to singing-school, and sometimes to night meetin’. And children were obedient then; they had no saucy airs; And minded what their mothers said, and learned their hymns and prayers. But now-a-days they know enough, before they know their letters; And young ones that can hardly walk will contradict their betters. Young women now go kiting round, and looking out for beaux; And scarcely one in ten is found, who makes or mends her clothes! But then, I tell my daughter, Folks don’t do as they’d ought’-ter.

When I was young, if a man had failed, he shut up house and hall, And never ventured out till night, if he ventured out at all; And his wife sold all her china plates; and his sons came home from college; And his gals left school, and learned to wash and bake, and such like knowledge; They gave up cake and pumpkin-pies, and had the plainest eatin’; And never asked folks home to tea, and scarcely went to meetin’. The man that was a Bankrupt called, was kind’er shunned by men, And hardly dared to show his head amongst his town folks then. But now-a-days, when a merchant fails, they say he makes a penny; The wife don’t have a gown the less, and his daughters just as many; His sons they smoke their choice cigars, and drink their costly wine; And she goes to the opera, and he has folks to dine! He walks the streets, he drives his gig; men show him all civilities; And what in my day we called debts, are now his lie-abilities! They call the man unfortunate who ruins half the city,-- In my day ’twas his creditors to whom we gave our pity. But then, I tell my daughter, Folks don’t do as they’d ough’-ter.”

FROM THE OLIVE BRANCH.

THE SPRING JOURNEY.

O, green was the corn as I rode on my way, And bright were the dews on the blossoms of May, And dark was the sycamore’s shade to behold, And the oak’s tender leaf was of emerald and gold.