CHAPTER XV.
One cold day in March, when winter had come to say "good-bye" with aroar, after wheeling the sofa with my mother upon it towards the parlourfire, I went out to refresh my spirit in the kitchen with Mrs. Huxtable,and to "yat myself" (for the sofa took all the parlour fire) by thefragrant hearth of wood and furze. The farmer's wife was "larning" mesome strange words of her native dialect, which I was now desirous to"discoorse," and which she declared to be "the only vitty talk. Arl thelave of thiccy stoof, zame as the Carnishers and the Zummersets and theLunnoners tulls up, arl thiccy's no more nor a passel of gibbersh, MissClerer, and not vitty atarl; noo, nor English nother. Instead of zaying'ai' laike a Kirsten, zome on em zays 'oi,' and zome on em 'I.'" In themiddle of her lecture, and just as I had learned that to "quilty" is theproper English for to "swallow," and that the passage down which wequilty is, correctly speaking, not the throat, but the "ezelpipe," astrange-looking individual darkened the "draxtool" (corruptly called thethreshold) and crossed the "planch," or floor, to the fireplace where wesat.
Turning round, I beheld a man about fifty years old, of moderatestature, gauntly bodied, and loosely built, and utterly reckless of hisattire. His face was long and thin, the profile keenly aquiline; andthe angles made yet sharper, by a continual twitching and tension of themuscles. The skin of his cheeks was drawn, from his solemn brows to hislipless and down-curved mouth, tight and hollow, like the bladder on ajam-pot. His eyes, of a very pale blue, seemed always to stand ontip-toe, and never to know what he was going to say. A long, straight,melancholy chin, grisly with patches of hair, was meant by nature tokeep his mouth shut, and came back sullenly when it failed. Over hisshoulders was flung a patched potato-sack, fastened in front with awooden skewer, and his nether clothes were as ragged as poetry. In hisair and manner, self-satisfaction strove hard with solemn reserve. Uponthe whole he reminded me of an owl who has lost his heart to a bantamhen. I cannot express him justly; but those who have seen may recogniseBeany Dawe, the sawyer, acknowledged the bard of the north of Devon.
Mr. Ebenezer Dawe, without any hesitation or salute, took a three-leggedstool, and set it between our chairs, then looked from Mrs. Huxtable tome, and introduced himself.
"Wull, here be us three, And I hopps us shall agree."
"Agray indeed," cried Mrs. Huxtable, "doon 'e zee the quarlity be here,ye aul vule?" Then turning to me. "Doon'e be skeared, Miss Clerer, itbe oney that there aul mazed ramscallion, Beany Dawe. Her makth whatgirt scholards, laike you, karls potry, or zum such stoof. Her casn'oppen the drort of him nohow, but what her must spake potry. Pote[#]indeed! No tino, I'd pote un out of ouze if I was the waife of un. 'Zeezaw, Beany Dawe!' that be arl the name he hath airned vor his rhaimingand rubbish, and too good for 'un too! Rhaime, rhaime, drash, drash,like two girt gawks in a barn! Oh fai, oh fai; and a maight have aimedtwo zhillings a dai and his zider!"
[#] "Pote." Danmonic for to "kick."
The subject of these elegant strictures regarded her all the time, withthat pleased pity which none but a great Poet so placed can feel. Thenswinging slowly on his tripod, and addressing the back of the chimney,he responded:
"Poor vule! Her dunno what a saight 'tis haigher To be a Pout, nor a hunderzawyer!"
Perhaps his lofty couplet charmed her savage ear; at any rate she made apeaceful overture.
"Coom now, Mr. Dawe, wull e have a few broth?"
He assented with an alacrity much below his dignity;
"Taties, and zider, maat, and broth a few, "Wull, zin you ax ai, ai'll not answer noo."
"E shan't have no cider," replied his hostess, "without e'll spake, forwance, laike a Kirsten, maind that, without no moor of thiccy jinglejangle, the very zame for arl the world as e be used to droon in thezawpit, 'Zee, zaw, Margery Daw,' with the arms of e a gwayn up and doon,up and doon, and your oyes and maouth most chokked with pilm[#] and thevace of e a hurning laike a taypot, and never a drop of out to aise thecrickles of your barck. That's the steet you potes be in, and zawyers."
[#] Pilm, Londinice, "dust."
As she delivered this comment, she swung to and fro on her chair, inweak imitation of the impressive roll, with which he enforced his rhyme.This plagiarism annoyed him much more than her words: but he vindicatedhis cause, like a true son of song.
"And if zo hap, I be a pout grand, Thee needn't jah, 'cos thee doon't understand. A pout, laike a 'ooman, or a bell, Must have his clack out, and can't help hiszell."
A mighty "ha ha" from the door, like a jocund earthquake, proved thatthis last hit had found an echo in some ample bosom.
"Thee shall have as much vittels as ever thee can let down," said thefarmer, as he entered, "danged if thee bain't a wunnerful foine chap,zure enough. Ai'd as lieve a'most to be a pote, plase God, as I wud tobe a ooman: zimth to ai, there bain't much differ atwixt 'em. But theyvainds out a saight of things us taks no heed on. I reckon now, Beany,thee cas'n drink beer?"
This was a home thrust, for Mr. Dawe was a notorious drinker. Hereplied with a heavy sigh and profoundly solemn look:
"Ah noo! a noo! Unless when I be vorced, By rason, Dactor zaith, my stommirk ba'in exhaust."
"And what was it the doctor said to you, Mr. Dawe?" I asked, perceivingthat he courted inquiry. He fixed his eyes upon me, with a searchinglook; eager, as it seemed, yet fearing to believe that he had found atlast a generous sympathy.
"'Twas more nor dree months zince ai titched a drap, When ai was compelled to consult the Dactor chap; He zaith, zaith he, ''tain't no good now this here, Oh, Ebenezer Dawe, you must tak beer.'"
These words he repeated with impressive earnestness, shaking his headand sighing, as if in deprecation of so sad a remedy. Yet the subjectpossessed perhaps a melancholy charm, and his voice relented to apensive unctuousness, as he concluded.
"'Tak beer!' I zays, 'Lor, I dunnow the way!' 'Then you must larn,' zays he, 'this blessed day: You'm got,' he zays, 'a daungerous zinking here, Your constitooshun do requaire beer.'"
"Thee wasn' long avore thee tried it, I'll warr'n," said the farmer,"tache the calf the wai to the coo!"
Scorning this vile insinuation, Mr. Dawe continued thus:
"Wull, after that, mayhap a month or zo, I was gooin home, the zame as maight be noo: I had zawed a hellum up for Varmer Yeo, And a velt my stommick gooin turble low, Her cried and skooned, like a chield left in the dark, And a maze laike in my head, and a maundering in my barck. Zo whun ai coom to the voot of Breakneck hill, I zeed the public kept by Pewter Will: The virelight showed the glasses in the bar, And 'um danced and twinkled like the avening star."
Here he paused, overcome by his own description.
"Wull," said the farmer, brightening with fellow-feeling, for he likedhis glass, "Wull, thee toorned in and had a drap, laike a man, and notbe shamed of it nother. And how did her tast? A must have been nationgood, after so long a drouth!"
"Coom'd down my drort, like the Quane and Princess Royal, The very sa-am as a drap of oi-al!"
"The very sa-am, the very sa-am," he repeated with an extrametricalsmack of his lips, which he wiped with the back of his hand, and cast ameaning glance towards the cellar. The farmer rose, and took from thedresser a heavy quart cup made of pewter. With this he went to thecellar, whence issued presently a trickling and frothing sound, whichthrilled to the sensitive heart of Mr. Dawe. The tankard of ale, with acrown of white foam, was presented to the thirsty bard by his host, whodid not, however, relinquish his grasp upon the vessel; but imposed(like Pluto to Orpheus) a stern condition. "Now, Beany Dawe, thee shan'thave none, unless thee can zay zummut without no poetry in it."
At this barbarous restriction, poor Ebenezer rolled his eyes in a mosttragic manner; he thrust his tongue into his cheek, and swung himself,not to and fro as usual, but sideways, and clutched one hand on thetatters of his sack, while he clung with the other t
o the handle of thecup. Then with a great effort, and very slowly, he spoke--
"If my poor vasses only maks you frown, I'll try, ees fai I wull, to keep 'em--
A rhyme came over him, the twitching of his face showed the violence ofthe struggle; he attempted to say "in," but nature triumphed, and heuttered the fatal "down." In a moment the farmer compressed his mightyfingers, and crushed the thick metal like silver paper. The forfeitliquor flew over the poet's knees, and hissed at his feet in the ashes.Foreseeing a storm of verse from him, and of prose from Mrs. Huxtable atthe fate of the pride of her dresser, I made a hasty retreat.
Thenceforth I took a kind interest in our conceited but harmless bard.His neighbours seemed not to know, how long it was since he had firstyielded to his unfortunate ailment; which probably owed its birth to thesound of the saw. During our first interview, his rhythm and rhyme hadbeen unusually fluent and finished, from pride perhaps at having found anew audience, or from some casual inspiration. Candour compels me toadmit that his subsequent works were little, if at all, better thanthose of his more famous contemporaries; and I am not so proud, as heexpects me to be, of his connexion with my sad history.
Clara Vaughan, Volume 1 (of 3) Page 15
