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'Or what would become of the lawyers?' asked I don't feel very lonely as a widow, and-it isn't the doctor pleasantly.

'Or the doctors?' grinned the lawyer. They were much in the position of the two soothsayers, supposed to be unable to maintain their gravity in the presence of each other.

CHAPTER VI.

Mr Strangways rallied, and was soon pretty nearly himself again; a suspicion, however, prevailing among his friends that there was something still weighing upon his mind, and that his recent indisposition had not been merely physical. But he was now decidedly better, and seemed to be gaining strength daily. He resumed his ordinary ways of life. He had been recommended to try change of air, and to pass a few weeks at the seaside. This he declined to do. He had not for many years gone far from the neighbourhood of Mole's Buildings, and he expressed great objection to being, as he said, removed to strange places at his time of life. But he made some concession to medical counsel: he now took a morning constitutional walk in the Tower Moat or the garden of the adjoining square. In the evening, he resumed his place at the Salutation, exercising, perhaps, more moderation than formerly in regard to his consumption of its liquors. Once or twice, too, he dined at his partner's house in Doughty Street. These entertainments had passed off satisfactorily. It was evident that Mrs Simkinson enjoyed a secure place in my uncle's favour. He invariably addressed her as my dear,' and kissed her whenever he met or parted from her. To all inquiries concerning his state of health, Mr Strangways was now apt to reply somewhat petulantly that he was as well as he had ever felt in his life, if not better, and that he thought, upon the whole, his illness had rather done him good than otherwise.

Nevertheless, his housekeeper candidly delivered her opinion that my uncle was very much shaken -that he was no more the man he had been-that a very decided change had come over him. So spoke Mrs Brocklebank, who certainly had good opportunities of forming conclusions upon the subject. He's changed, sir,' she would say. 'I can't describe it otherwise. Mr Strangways, sir, if you'll kindly mark my words, isn't what he used to be. It isn't what I'd speak of to any that wasn't of the family, as I may say, sir. But he's odd, sir, that's what he is. He's got into a way of looking at me, sir-that isn't so much looking at me, as eyeing me all over, and it isn't at all as it used to be. He's sharp with me at times, but not often. I know his ways pretty well now, sir, and ought to, seeing the number of years I've lived in this house. He likes to be served quick and ready-like, without need to be always giving orders and reminding; and so he is, sir, and always has been. I don't think he's a complaint to make of me on that score. I know my duties, and I do them regularly, like clockwork, if I may so speak. He don't like worry, and he isn't worried. He has his own way, and he's made as comfortable as may be, and what more can a gentleman ask for? But he seems suspicious of me-I don't know what else to call it, and at times looks at me quite timid and scared-like. And then he'll question me as to Brocklebank, and when he died, and whether

joking-he's as serious as Job himself the whilewhether I ever think of getting married again, and soon. It would be like impudence, or what they call chaff, in a younger gentleman; but, of course, I couldn't think that of Mr Strangways, whom I've known and worked for these years and years.'

Mrs Brocklebank blushed as she spoke, and wore an embarrassed air. She pressed her hand upon her left side, as though to stay the too turbulent beating of a heart, which yet, one would think, must have enjoyed sufficient space for the most active movements in the ample form that encased it. Mr Royster, it may be remembered, had proclaimed Mrs Brocklebank to be a fine woman, had, indeed, warmly dared any man to contradict his statement. She was something more than middle-aged, and the slim symmetry of youth was hers no more. But she bore with ease and address the burden time had cast upon her; and there was nothing uncomely in the increased solidity of configuration with which the fleeting years had endowed her. The plump firmness of her face offered a good resistance to the efforts of age to score and hollow it; and though threads of gray robbed the neat bunch of short crisp ringlets she wore upon either temple of something of their original brown lustre, her eyes were as dark and bright, and her lips as rosy as they had been even in the sunniest daya of her girlhood. Cased in her newest black silk dress, crowned with her Sunday cap, a structure rather of the Flamboyant style of architecture-3 lace collar round her neck, which was short, but of great circumference and a gold-rimmed Scotch pebble brooch affixed to her chest, and rising and falling with it, like a small ship rocking upon a wide expanse of ocean, Mrs Brocklebank was an impressive, even an attractive figure. Her manners were homely, but they were cordial and pleasant. She had, as she avowed, seen some troubles, but these had in no way imbittered her disposition or prejudiced her views of life. Altogether, she was a thoroughly genial, good-natured, and comfortable sort of creature. And I have always understood that her conduct and character as a housekeeper were quite beyond impeachment.

How it happened that a rumour to the effect that my uncle proposed to marry his housekeeper, obtained expression, and form, and circulation, I cannot state. Rumours can rarely be traced to their origin. They are as the natural children of unseemly gossip and scandal, and cannot be expected to boast a distinct pedigree, or to possess decent parentage. But some such report did prevail, greatly to the disturbance of Mr Strangways friends and relatives. They expressed extreme anxiety on the subject. They referred to my uncle in terms which intermingled fear and surprise, scorn and pity, in nice proportions. They now invariably spoke of poor Mrs Brocklebank-to whom they had at one time addressed themselves in a most conciliatory and complimentary way—as 'that woman." Language failed to convey the full measure of the abomination with which they now regarded her.

Simkinson, to do him justice, made very light of the matter. When spoken to as to the possibilities of my uncle's marriage, he simply asked: Why shouldn't he marry? Applied to for informatic he averred that he had none to give. Besought to stir himself, and do what he might to hinder such

a distressing proceeding, he resolutely declined to interfere. I pleased myself; why shouldn't he?' 'But his housekeeper!' people urged. A most worthy woman,' he observed. 'I've known her these many years. If Strangways likes to marry her let him. She's a good soul, and I've the greatest respect for her. I don't see why she shouldn't make him an excellent wife. And if he does marry her, all I can say is, that I hope Mrs Simkinson and myself may often have the pleasure of Mr and Mrs Strangways' company at dinner in Doughty Street. Let me add, that my dear wife is quite of my way of thinking in the matter. It was clear that there was no doing anything with Simkinson. He was true and staunch as ever; governed by the fundamental principle of his life, that the head of the firm could do no wrong, and must invariably be supported in all he did.

For my part, I was young, and youth, if often inconsiderate, is scarcely ever mercenary. It enjoys the present too much to trouble itself greatly about the future. I did not pause to think how much my prospects of benefit from my uncle's wealth might be obstructed by his taking unto himself a wife; how greatly the liberality of his marriage settlement might hinder the generosity of his will from flowing in my direction. In short, I looked upon the whole thing as neither more nor less than a lark.' I employ the slang term, which then seemed to me most appropriately to describe the situation. My language and my opinions have acquired sobriety since that date.

Meanwhile, it was doubtful whether my uncle was fully informed of the reports spread abroad in relation to him and his intentions. Interrogation of him was not, of course, to be thought of for a moment. Nor do I think that any questions were addressed directly to Mrs Brocklebank upon the subject. People were indeed afraid to whisper, so to say, lest they should bring down upon them an avalanche. They could but wait and watch, hope and fear. To move was possibly to evoke the fury of Mr Strangways; or to rouse the inimical influence of Mrs Brocklebank. It was as though they were locked up in a dark china closet; activity might involve the destruction of precious property; there was no help for it but to keep still until some one brought a light and opened the door.

Certainly, about this time Mr Strangways' conduct, as I am about to shew, was curious, if not inexplicable.

There had been for many years in the employment of the firm of Strangways and Simkinson a man intrusted with various important duties in the cellars, who was known uniformly and simply as Bat. Whether this was his Christian or surname, or simply a nickname, I am unable to state. He appeared to own no other appellation. Bat enjoyed a good reputation for steadiness and fidelity, and was even said to know more about his employers' stock in trade, its value, quality, and disposition, than they did themselves. But his appearance was not prepossessing. An accident had deprived him of the sight of one eye, which remained partially closed, as though he had been paralysed in the act of winking, and his eyelid had thenceforward been fixed in one position. This misfortune gave something of a tipsy look to his face, enhanced by a certain flush that perpetually imbued his rudely shaped features, and by his invariable huskiness of speech, attributable, no

doubt, to his long occupancy of the firm's cellars, and his habitually breathing an atmosphere heavily laden with vinous fumes. At the same time, it was well understood that Bat was not chargeable with intemperance; and that, although in the daylight he wore a dazed and confused air, like an owl in sunshine, in underground regions his faculties were sufficiently clear and alert. It was perhaps unavoidable that cobwebs, and mildew, and mould should cling to him; that the stains of spilt wine should variegate his attire; and that generally what may be called a cavernous odour should always attend him. He dressed in a corduroy suit, with a_rubbed and ragged leathern apron and breastplate; a rectangular brown paper-cap usually crowning him. He was ordinarily to be found in the cellars bearing in his hand a long piece of timber, affixed to which was a swaling blackened stump of tallow-candle, which fitfully illumed the vaults.

As a servant of many years' standing, Bat was supposed to enjoy the peculiar favour and confidence of Mr Strangways, who rarely passed a day without some brief converse with his old established cellar-man. The fact that Bat's speech and bearing were of an unpolished kind, in no way affected my uncle's view of him, except that it, perhaps, rather promoted a favourable consideration of him; for my uncle, inclined to oddity himself, was well disposed towards a fair measure of it in others.

One day, Mr Strangways and Bat were standing in a sequestered corner of the vaults, just where a very choice hoard of old Madeira had been deposited. Both had been silent for some minutes, gazing admiringly at the rows upon rows of bottles, revealed in a sort of flickering way by the unsteady wavings of Bat's candle.

'What do you think of Mrs Brocklebank, Bat?' demanded my uncle suddenly.

'Mrs Brocklebank?' echoed Bat. At the moment, he thought of her confusedly, less as a woman than as some sort of wine; for they had a way in the cellar of referring to various vintages by the names of their original shippers and importers: thus, they talked of Potter's Madeira,' of 'Old Rumbold's,' of 'Topstone Brothers';' and so on.

6

Is she a fine woman?' Mr Strangways pursued. 'She may be,' said Bat musingly. Yes-now you mention it, she would perhaps be considered a fine woman. But she's been younger.'

'Else she wouldn't be what she is.' Which, no doubt, was true. 'She's none the worse for age.' 'Perhaps not. She's kep' her colour.' Bat was perhaps still thinking of wines.

And she's gained body.' Mr Strangways' eyes twinkled curiously as he said this.

I suppose she has,' said Bat quite gravely. That's in her favour.'

'Sound and choice, I call her,' continued my uncle. No crust-to any objectionable extent.'

'I've no doubt you're right, guv'nor.' Here Bat removed his paper-cap, and rubbed his bald head with a dingy, stringy-looking handkerchief; his facial expression betrayed that, to his thinking, the conversation had its bewildering side.

'A man might do worse than make her his wife,' suggested Mr Strangways.

Perhaps. He might chuck himself off London Bridge.' My uncle blinked. his while ?'

But if it was made worth

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Pish! Don't be a fool, Bat. Take another look at her.'

'Well, I will. That can't hurt me, anyhow.' 'I should think not. As fine a woman as was ever seen. A good round sum, Bat; and an annuity-a very nice annuity-paid quarterly. Bat, do you hear? Quarterly. Think of it, Bat.'

As you've set your mind on it, guv'nor, I will.' "That's right. I'll speak to you again about it, Bat.' And they parted.

A day or two later, they again chanced to be in the same remote corner of the cellars.

'I've been thinking over that what you talked about t' other day, guv'nor,' began Bat.

'And you 've looked at her?"

'Yes I've looked at her. I've nothing to say against her looks. Plainly, Bat regarded these as matters of quite inferior detail. There's plenty of her; I don't deny that.'

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'You scoundrel!' cried my uncle in a passion; 'you've always said you were single.'

I have; I don't deny it. You were always so partikler hard-mouthed about married men; and you give it tongue too-it's made me shiver to hear you, at times. And Mr Simkinson, he was pretty near as bad. Whether he's changed his opinion now he's married hisself, is more than I can tell you. There's some as marries and likes it; and there's some as marries and only pretends to like it, because they wouldn't have folks jeering at 'em. Perhaps there's more of the last than the first. But I ain't called upon to speak to that. As

I said, I'm married myself, for good or bad. Because of your way of going on, I kep' it from youbottled up, as I may say; but now the cork's out. You've screwed the truth from me. If you don't like the taste of it, I don't know as I can help

it.'

'You're a scoundrel, Bat!' my uncle repeated. 'Now, look here, guv'nor!' cried Bat appealingly. Don't let's have no quarrelling, nor no ill blood between us, after all these long years of peace and good-will; it wouldn't be right. I want to act fair, and do what I can to make things pleasant. Only say the word, and let's have the matter square before us. Are you so much set upon having me marry this here Mrs Brocklebank? Will you stand by me if I do it? I won't say that the bit of money and that there annuity you spoke of don't tempt me, because, perhaps, when all's told, it do. I'm poor-I don't care who knows it-and money's a object to me. Still, it isn't only that. If so be that you desire it, and will promise to abide by me and help me through the consequences, there, as I'm an honest man, I'll risk it; I'll marry the woman. And if the law likes to call it bigamy, or what not-why, let it, that's the law's affair, and I don't care-no, not a pinch of snuff for it.'

At this iniquitous proposal, Mr Strangways, with an oath, pushed his cellarman away from him, and, furious with passion, quitted the wine-vaults.

Bat's bewilderment was extreme. His offershameful as it was-had been made in perfect good faith; it was, in the main, begotten of his desire to oblige his master, although some regard for selfinterest no doubt possessed him. Still, he seemed to appreciate the fact, that the course of conduct he suggested had its perils as well as its profits. Altogether, I think he was chiefly influenced by a kind of feudal fidelity he cherished towards his employer. For some time he seemed incapable of speech, or even of thought.

'That's the worst of gentlefolks,' he murmured at length; there's no understanding them, and there's no pleasing of them.'

He shook himself like a wet dog, by way of rousing his faculties to a keener and more collected sense of his situation. Presently, his face brightened; it was almost as though an idea had occurred to him.

A WEST COUNTRY HUMORIST. POEMS written in a local dialect are for the most part far from attractive; their quaintness is often their only merit, and when we have deciphered the meaning that is wrapped up in such uncouth terms, our satisfaction ends there. The nut is cracked, and the kernel is found; but, like skinning shrimps, the result does not repay us for our trouble. The poems of Mr Barnes form almost the only exception to this rule that we can at present call to mind.

A little volume that has been brought under our notice, entitled Rhymes in the West of England Dialect, however, pleads with some reason to be excluded from this sweeping censure. Its author is one Agrikler,' as he classically calls himself, and his motto is classical also:

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O fortunatos nimium, sua si bona norint Agriculas,

of which he offers this free Zomerzetshire Translation: '

Thee 'rt a lucky fellow, Agrikler, ef thee dedst but knawt.

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Singular.
1. Wool I?
2. Woot?
3. Wool-a?

Singular. 1. Let I be.

Future Tense.

Plural.

1. Wool us?
2. Woollay?
3. Woolum?

IMPERATIVE MOOD.

2. Theed'st better be.

Plural.

1. Let we be.

2. You'd better be.

3. Miake he, she, or un be. 3. Miake thay be.

3.

Whether this be the language, as Agrikler assures
us it was, in which King Alfred thought and
spoke,' seems to us not so certain as that Fielding's
Parson Trulliber used it, and by so doing, did
his part towards bringing it into disgrace. Our
author, like Mr Barnes, has set himself the task of
redeeming it, though, it must be confessed, after a
very different fashion. With regard to style and
phraseology, he allows that he does not follow
Lindley Murray; but then Lindley Murray did 1.
not create the language, and what business had he 2.
to lay down arbitrary rules for writing and speak-
ing it in direct opposition to the practice of nine
hundred and ninety-nine out of every thousand to
whom it belonged?' To this amusing argument,
if we did not know it came from Zomerzetshire,
we should certainly ascribe a Transatlantic origin;
and it is curious how throughout the book, which
has considerable humour, the same vein of mingled
common-sense and absurdity runs which we see
in Sam Slick, and more especially in the Yankee
humorists. Without going to the length of writ-
ing a grammar in opposition to that of Lindley
Murray, Agrikler gives us some examples in his
preface of what he could do in that way, if he had

a mind.

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1. Spooasin I be?
2. Spooasin thee beest?
Spooasin a wer?

3.

or

Plural.

1. Spooasin we be? 2. Spooasin you'm? 3. Spooasin thaim?'

in

In parts of Gloucestershire and Wiltshire, it seems, all pronouns in the third person are masculine, unless applied to one of three things, a hare, a gun, a tom-cat, which are variably spoken of as she. It is probably for this reason that it is considered disrespectful to designate a lady by the same appellation-instead of saying: "She did it," say: "Her done it." The pronoun "it" is seldom if ever used except in the objective, and then often changed to "un."

Some very expressive words used in that important tract of country, the west of England, have been overlooked by Johnson (who was a Cockney) such as 'nesh or nash, susceptible of cold; jonick, and others (who were little better) altogether: one of the right sort; jestabout, very much so' [this is less local than the author imagines it to be]; and naishun, rather more than very much so' [but not on any account to be considered an abbreviation]. With this introduction, and an apology for his ignorance of the Latin tongue (which we grant at once), our author plunges at once into Proverbeel Feelossify,' wherein he shews the excellent Tupper to have been surpassed by his pupil.

Noa man es wise athout a wife-that's true and not no viction,

Vor the verry peth o' wisdom es got at by conter

diction,

And that's one raisin wy I beant zo wise as Zolo

mon!

Becas thay zay he'd lots o' wives and I got only

one;

But spwite o' Zolomon's example meake one wife suffize,

Vor teant by no means elthy to be moor than

common wise.

No man es wise as thenks he is-jest tiake that as a rule

And a self-appwinted taicher es vust-cuzzen to a vool. . .

When a man do brag o' honesty (noa zign can well

be wuss),

Button up yer britches pocket, and be keerful o' yer puss.

*

Two thengs come awver I like a leech that's touched wi saalt,

A judge as shaws no marcy, and a man without a faalt:

And as vor faaltless wimmen, perhaps you mid a

zeen um,

But them o' that zort mooastly dies afor ther mothers wean um.

If you wants to borry money, and hant got nor a vriend,

Dooant never goo to them chaps as do advertise to lend;

And ef you've money got to lend, jest tiake a vriendly hent,

And never lend to he as offers twenty-vive per cent. Vor even ef it zhould be paid, it only proaves the rule,

One o' the two must be a roague, and tother one a vool. . . .

Wi' regard to wars and vitins, mid be rong or right,

But one theng's perty clear, it tiakes two to make a vight;

And as vor miakin one o' thay, I'd never hev a roun',

'Less I were shour and sartain I cud knock tha tother down.

And ef the tother wer the siame opinion as I, He'd be a blessed vool to stick up there and let ma try.

Zo ef my plan wer carried out by booath the grate and smaal,

I zomehow thenk there'd never be noa vitin not at all.

Devence but not deviance es noo onmanein whimDoant never vight-but allus kip yerself in vightin trim.

But these noble sentiments are after all but abstractions. It is when he has dropped his philosophy, and becomes practical, that Agrikler is most worth listening to. In the west of England, it seems, coortship' is a very popular occupation, and the following poem on that subject, if it does not meet every case, exhausts those which it does deal with pretty completely:

When you'm grawin yer goosberry beard, or vortin begins ta improave with ye,

Dooant be a jackass outright, and thenk all tha maaids be in loave with ye.

Stick up ta one at a time, and lest ya shud get in disgriace, man,

Dooant hev too many at once, but jest one or two in a pliace, man.

Ef yo mians marrige at once, and wish ta be blessed wi' a true Mary,

No need o' spoortin kid gloaves, or stenkin yerself wi' parfumery.

Dooant run in debt wi' yer taailor, nor be zuch a

vool as zuppooase, man,

Ef tha maaidens zee nothin in you, thay 'll zee very much in yer clooase, man.

...

When yo goos ta a chapel or church, especially wher thers low benches,

Dooant stick up gaakin about, and cockin yer eye at the wenches.

The ould fashund high backid pews, wer rear uns to hev zome fine spoort in,

But thaw volks goo to church to get married, thay shoodent goo ther to get coortin. Wen yo goos poppin the question, be keerful and mind wher yer pliace es,

Zome got the brass in ther pockuts-zome cars et

aal in ther faces.

I shud luk vor a maaid wi' zome brass, ef tha maaiden herzelf I wer pleeased at;

The wife es tha prinsipal theng, but the moaney mun yent to be sneezed at.

Ta zay yo dooant want what yo do, et es but a lie and a mockery,

Vor young volks can't live upon loave, thay want ta buy tiables and crockery. . . .

Spooasin et comes ta this here-yo mid thenk yerzelf perty and clever,

But tha maaid as yo wants ta hev you, won't hev ye at noo price whatever;

Mebby she got zome one else, and dooant keer ta fleng up a trump at ye;

Mebby yo beeant no girt ketch-not vor a maaiden to jump at ye;

Mebby she'd hev ye in time, but then you'n be loath ta depend on't;

Mebby she won't cas she won't, and as zomebody zed thers an end on't.

Never goo miakin a fuss-never goo bein a flat, man, Never goo cuttin yer droat, ef yo'd got aal tha lives of a cat, man.

Never faal out wi' yer vittles, lest in yer waskit yo shrenk, man;

Dooant try tha stupid ould plan, of drownin yer loave in tha drenk, man.

Never goo out o' yer mind, vor one individual beauty,

Thaw she be ontrue or onkind, you'll vind plenty moor as ull suit ye.

Waait tell tha right un turns up, and then you ull

vind thers noe doubt ont,

Thers quite as good fish in tha say as ever wer knaw'd ta come out ont.

Spooasin yev gammond tha maaid-ither thic one

or another,

Got on tha blind zide o' zhe, but not of her feyther and mother:

Ef yo wants she ta come out (she mid be afecard vor to jog, man),

Dooant ye goo whistlin about, as ef yo wer caalin a dog, man.

Stiddily walk by tha house, as ef yo wer aairin yer cloas, man;

Ef

yo da wissel at all-wissel a tune as she knows,

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