Chapter V: Part 5

There Guahiba and her infants were placed in a hut under the guard of two Indians; some food was given to her, which she at first refused, but afterwards, as if on reflection, accepted. A young Indian girl was then sent to her--a captive convert of her own tribe, who had not yet quite forgotten her native language. She tried to make Guahiba comprehend that in this village she and her children must remain during the rest of their lives, in order that they might go to heaven after they were dead. Guahiba listened, but understood nothing of what was addressed to her; nor could she be made to conceive for what purpose she was torn from her husband and her home, nor why she was to dwell for the remainder of her life among a strange people, and against her will. During that night she remained tranquil, watching over her infants as they slumbered by her side; but the moment the dawn appeared she took them in her arms and ran off to the woods. She was immediately brought back; but no sooner were the eyes of her keepers turned from her than she snatched up her children, and again fled;--again--and again! At every new attempt she was punished with more and more severity; she was kept from food, and at length repeatedly and cruelly beaten. In vain!--apparently she did not even understand why she was thus treated; and one instinctive idea alone, the desire of escape, seemed to possess her mind and govern all her movements. If her oppressors only turned from her, or looked another way, for an instant, she invariably caught up her children and ran off towards the forest. Father Gomez was at length wearied by what he termed her "blind obstinacy;" and, as the only means of securing all three, he took measures to separate the mother from her children, and resolved to convey Guahiba to a distant mission, whence she should never find her way back either to them or to her home.

In pursuance of this plan, poor Guahiba, with her hands tied behind her, was placed in the bow of a canoe. Father Gomez seated himself at the helm, and they rowed away.

The few travellers who have visited these regions agree in describing a phenomenon, the cause of which is still a mystery to geologists, and which imparts to the lonely depths of these unappropriated and unviolated shades an effect intensely and indescribably mournful. The granite rocks which border the river, and extend far into the contiguous woods, assume strange, fantastic shapes; and are covered with a black incrustation, or deposit, which contrasted with the snow-white foam of the waves breaking on them below, and the pale lichens which spring from their crevices and creep along their surface above, give these shores an aspect perfectly funereal. Between these melancholy rocks--so high and so steep that a landing-place seldom occurred for leagues together--the canoe of Father Gomez slowly glided, though urged against the stream by eight robust Indians.

The unhappy Guahiba sat at first perfectly unmoved, and apparently amazed and stunned by her situation; she did not comprehend what they were going to do with her; but after a while she looked up towards the sun, then down upon the stream; and perceiving, by the direction of the one and the course of the other, that every stroke of the oar carried her farther and farther from her beloved and helpless children, her husband, and her native home, her countenance was seen to change and assume a fearful expression. As the possibility of escape, in her present situation, had never once occurred to her captors, she had been very slightly and carelessly bound. She watched her opportunity, burst the withes on her arms, with a sudden effort flung herself overboard, and dived under the waves; but in another moment she rose again at a considerable distance, and swam to the shore. The current, being rapid and strong, carried her down to the base of a dark granite rock which projected into the stream; she climbed it with fearless agility, stood for an instant on its summit, looking down upon her tyrants, then plunged into the forest, and was lost to sight.

Father Gomez, beholding his victim thus unexpectedly escape him, sat mute and thunderstruck for some moments, unable to give utterance to the extremity of his rage and astonishment. When, at length, he found voice, he commanded his Indians to pull with all their might to the shore; then to pursue the poor fugitive, and bring her back to him, dead or alive.

Guahiba, meantime, while strength remained to break her way through the tangled wilderness, continued her flight; but soon exhausted and breathless, with the violence of her exertions, she was obliged to relax in her efforts, and at length sunk down at the foot of a huge laurel tree, where she concealed herself, as well as she might, among the long, interwoven grass. There, crouching and trembling in her lair, she heard the voices of her persecutors hallooing to each other through the thicket. She would probably have escaped but for a large mastiff which the Indians had with them, and which scented her out in her hiding-place. The moment she heard the dreaded animal snuffing in the air, and tearing his way through the grass, she knew she was lost. The Indians came up. She attempted no vain resistance; but, with a sullen passiveness, suffered herself to be seized and dragged to the shore.

When the merciless priest beheld her, he determined to inflict on her such discipline as he thought would banish her children from her memory, and cure her for ever of her passion for escaping. He ordered her to be stretched upon that granite rock where she had landed from the canoe, on the summit of which she had stood, as if exulting in her flight,--THE ROCK OF THE MOTHER, as it has ever since been denominated--and there flogged till she could scarcely move or speak. She was then bound more securely, placed in the canoe, and carried to Javita, the seat of a mission far up the river.

It was near sunset when they arrived at this village, and the inhabitants were preparing to go to rest. Guahiba was deposited for the night in a large barn-like building, which served as a place of worship, a public magazine, and, occasionally, as a barrack. Father Gomez ordered two or three Indians of Javita to keep guard over her alternately, relieving each other through the night; and then went to repose himself after the fatigues of his voyage. As the wretched captive neither resisted nor complained, Father Gomez flattered himself that she was now reduced to submission. Little could he fathom the bosom of this fond mother! He mistook for stupor, or resignation, the calmness of a fixed resolve. In absence, in bonds, and in torture, her heart throbbed with but one feeling; one thought alone possessed her whole soul:--her children--her children--and still her children!

Among the Indians appointed to watch her was a youth, about eighteen or nineteen years of age, who, perceiving that her arms were miserably bruised by the stripes she had received, and that she suffered the most acute agony from the savage tightness with which the cords were drawn, let fall an exclamation of pity in the language of her tribe. Quick she seized the moment of feeling, and addressed him as one of her people.

"Guahibo," she said, in a whispered tone, "thou speakest my language, and doubtless thou art my brother! Wilt thou see me perish without pity, O son of my people? Ah, cut these bonds which enter into my flesh! I faint with pain! I die!"

The young man heard, and, as if terrified, removed a few paces from her and kept silence. Afterwards, when his companions were out of sight, and he was left alone to watch, he approached, and said, "Guahiba!--our fathers were the same, and I may not see thee die; but if I cut these bonds, white man will flog me:--wilt thou be content if I loosen them, and give thee ease?" And as he spoke, he stooped and loosened the thongs on her wrists and arms; she smiled upon him languidly, and appeared satisfied.

Night was now coming on. Guahiba dropped her head on her bosom, and closed her eyes, as if exhausted by weariness. The young Indian, believing that she slept, after some hesitation laid himself down on his mat. His companions were already slumbering in the porch of the building, and all was still.

Then Guahiba raised her head. It was night--dark night--without moon or star. There was no sound, except the breathing of the sleepers around her, and the humming of the mosquitoes. She listened for some time with her whole soul; but all was silence. She then gnawed the loosened thongs asunder with her teeth. Her hands once free, she released her feet; and when the morning came she had disappeared. Search was made for her in every direction, but in vain; and Father Gomez, baffled and wrathful, returned to his village.

The distance between Javita and San Fernando, where Guahiba had left her infants, is twenty-five leagues in a straight line. A fearful wilderness of gigantic forest trees, and intermingling underwood, separated these two missions;--a savage and awful solitude, which, probably, since the beginning of the world, had never been trodden by human foot. All communication was carried on by the river; and there lived not a man, whether Indian or European, bold enough to have attempted the route along the shore. It was the commencement of the rainy season. The sky, obscured by clouds, seldom revealed the sun by day; and neither moon nor gleam of twinkling star by night. The rivers had overflowed, and the lowlands were inundated. There was no visible object to direct the traveller; no shelter, no defence, no aid, no guide. Was it Providence--was it the strong instinct of maternal love, which led this courageous woman through the depths of the pathless woods--where rivulets, swollen to torrents by the rains, intercepted her at every step; where the thorny lianas, twining from tree to tree, opposed an almost impenetrable barrier; where the mosquitoes hung in clouds upon her path; where the jaguar and the alligator lurked to devour her; where the rattle-snake and the water-serpent lay coiled up in the damp grass, ready to spring at her; where she had no food to support her exhausted frame, but a few berries, and the large black ants which build their nests on the trees? How directed--how sustained--cannot be told: the poor woman herself could not tell. All that can be known with any certainty is, that the fourth rising sun beheld her at San Fernando; a wild, and wasted, and fearful object; her feet swelled and bleeding--her hands torn--her body covered with wounds, and emaciated with famine and fatigue;--but once more near her children!

For several hours she hovered round the hut in which she had left them, gazing on it from a distance with longing eyes and a sick heart, without daring to advance: at length she perceived that all the inhabitants had quitted their cottages to attend vespers; then she stole from the thicket, and approached, with faint and timid steps, the spot which contained her hearths treasures. She entered, and found her infants left alone, and playing together on a mat: they screamed at her appearance, so changed was she by suffering; but when she called them by name, they knew her tender voice, and stretched out their little arms towards her. In that moment, the mother forgot all she had endured--all her anguish, all her fears, every thing on earth but the objects which blessed her eyes. She sat down between her children--she took them on her knees--she clasped them in an agony of fondness to her bosom--she covered them with kisses--she shed torrents of tears on their little heads, as she hugged them to her. Suddenly she remembered where she was, and why she was there: new terrors seized her; she rose up hastily, and, with her babies in her arms, she staggered out of the cabin--fainting, stumbling, and almost blind with loss of blood and inanition. She tried to reach the woods, but too feeble to sustain her burthen, which yet she would not relinquish, her limbs trembled, and sank beneath her. At this moment an Indian, who was watching the public oven, perceived her. He gave the alarm by ringing a bell, and the people rushed forth, gathering round Guahiba with fright and astonishment. They gazed upon her as if upon an apparition, till her sobs, and imploring looks, and trembling and wounded limbs, convinced them that she yet lived, though apparently nigh to death. They looked upon her in silence, and then at each other; their savage bosoms were touched with commiseration for her sad plight, and with admiration, and even awe, at this unexampled heroism of maternal love.

While they hesitated, and none seemed willing to seize her, or to take her children from her, Father Gomez, who had just landed on his return from Javita, approached in haste, and commanded them to be separated. Guahiba clasped her children closer to her breast, and the Indians shrunk back.

"What!" thundered the monk: "will ye suffer this woman to steal two precious souls from heaven?--two members from our community? See ye not, that while she is suffered to approach them, there is no salvation for either mother or children?--part them, and instantly!"

The Indians, accustomed to his ascendancy, and terrified at his voice, tore the children of Guahiba once more from her feeble arms: she uttered nor word nor cry, but sunk in a swoon upon the earth.

While in this state, Father Gomez, with a cruel mercy, ordered her wounds to be carefully dressed: her arms and legs were swathed with cotton bandages; she was then placed in a canoe, and conveyed to a mission, far, far off, on the river Esmeralda, beyond the Upper Orinoco. She continued in a state of exhaustion and torpor during the voyage; but after being taken out of the boat and carried inland, restoratives brought her back to life, and to a sense of her situation. When she perceived, as reason and consciousness returned, that she was in a strange place, unknowing how she was brought there--among a tribe who spoke a language different from any she had ever heard before, and from whom, therefore, according to Indian prejudices, she could hope nor aid nor pity;--when she recollected that she was far from her beloved children;--when she saw no means of discovering the bearing or the distance of their abode--no clue to guide her back to it:--_then_, and only then, did the mother's heart yield to utter despair; and thenceforward refusing to speak or to move, and obstinately rejecting all nourishment, thus she died.

The boatman, on the river Atabapo, suspends his oar with a sigh as he passes the ROCK OF THE MOTHER. He points it out to the traveller, and weeps as he relates the tale of her sufferings and her fate. Ages hence, when these solitary regions have become the seats of civilization, of power, and intelligence; when the pathless wilds, which poor Guahiba traversed in her anguish, are replaced by populous cities, and smiling gardens, and pastures, and waving harvests,--still that dark rock shall stand, frowning o'er the stream; tradition and history shall preserve its name and fame; and when even the pyramids, those vast, vain monuments to human pride, have passed away, it shall endure, to carry down to the end of the world the memory of the Indian Mother.

MUCH COIN, MUCH CARE.

A DRAMATIC PROVERB.

WRITTEN FOR HYACINTHE, EMILY, CAROLINE, AND EDWARD.

CHARACTERS.

DICK, the Cobbler, a very honest man, and very merry withal,
much given to singing.

MARGERY, his wife, simple and affectionate, and one of the best
women in the world.

LADY AMARANTHE, a fine lady, full of airs and affectation, but
not without good feeling.

MADEMOISELLE JUSTINE, her French maid, very like other French maids.

The SCENE lies partly in the Garret of the Cobbler, and partly in LADY AMARANTHE's Drawing-room.

MUCH COIN, MUCH CARE.

SCENE I.

_A Garret meanly furnished; several pairs of old shoes, a coat,
hat, bonnet, and shawl hanging against the Wall. DICK is seated
on a low stool in front. He works, and sings._

As she lay on that day
In the Bay of Biscay O!

Now that's what _I_ call a good song; but my wife, she can't abear them blusteration songs, she says; she likes something tender and genteel, full of fine words. (_Sings in a mincing voice._)

Vake, dearest, vake, and again united
Ve'll vander by the sea-he-he-e.

Hang me, if I can understand a word of it! but when my wife sings it out with her pretty little mouth, it does one's heart good to hear her; and I could listen to her for ever: but, for my own part, what I like is a song that comes thundering out with a meaning in it! (_Sings, and flourishes his hammer with enthusiasm, beating time upon the shoe._)

March! march! Eskdale and Tiviotdale,
All the blue bonnets are over the border!

MARGERY--(_from within._)

Dick! Dick! what a noise you do keep!

DICK.

A noise, eh? Why, Meg, you didn't use to think it a noise: you used to like to hear me sing!

MARGERY--(_entering._)

And so I did, and so I do. I loves music with all my heart; but the whole parish will hear you if you go for to bawl out so monstrous loud.

DICK.

And let them! who cares?

[_He sings, she laughs._

MARGERY.

Nay, sing away if you like it!

DICK--(_stopping suddenly._)

I won't sing another bit if you don't like it, Meg.

MARGERY.

Oh, I do like! Lord bless us! not like it! it sounds so merry! Why, Dick, love, every body said yesterday that you sung as well as Mr. Thingumee at Sadler's Wells, and says they, "Who is that young man as sings like any nightingale?" and I says (_drawing herself up_), "That's my husband!"

DICK.

Ay! flummery!--But, Meg, I say, how did you like the wedding yesterday?

MARGERY.

Oh, hugeously! such heaps of smart people, as fine as fivepence, I warrant; and such gay gowns and caps! and plenty to eat and drink!--But what I liked best was the walking in the gardens at Bagnigge Wells, and the tea, and the crumpets!

DICK.

And the punch!

MARGERY.

Yes--ha! ha! I could see you thought _that_ good! and then the dancing!

DICK.

Ay, ay; and there wasn't one amongst them that footed it away like my Margery. And folks says to me, "Pray, who is that pretty modest young woman as hops over the ground as light as a feather?" says they; and says I, "Why, that there pretty young woman is my wife, to be sure!"

MARGERY.

Ah, you're at your jokes, Dick!

DICK.

I'll be hanged then!

MARGERY--(_leaning on his shoulder._)

Well, to be sure, we were happy yesterday. It's good to make holiday just now and then, but some how I was very glad to come home to our own little room again. O Dick!--did you mind that Mrs. Pinchtoe, that gave herself such grand airs?--she in the fine lavender silk gown--that turned up her nose at me so, and all because she's a master shoemaker's wife! and you are only--only--a cobbler!--(_sighs_) I wish _you_ were a master shoemaker, Dick.

DICK.

That you might be a master shoemaker's wife, hay! and turn up your nose like Mrs. Pinchtoe?

MARGERY--(_laughing._)

No, no; I have more manners.

DICK.

Would you love me better, Meg, if I were a master shoemaker?

MARGERY.

No, I couldn't love you better if you were a king; and that you know, Dick; and, after all, we're happy now, and who knows what might be if he were to change?

DICK.

Ay, indeed! who knows? you might grow into a fine lady like she over the way, who comes home o'nights just as we're getting up in the morning, with the flams flaring, and blazing like any thing; and that puts me in mind----

MARGERY.

Of what, Dick? tell me!

DICK.

Why, cousin Tom's wedding put it all out of my head last night; but yesterday there comes over to me one of those fine bedizened fellows we see lounging about the door there, with a cocked hat, and things like stay laces dangling at his shoulder.

MARGERY.

What could he want, I wonder!

DICK.

O! he comes over to me as I was just standing at the door below, a thinking of nothing at all, and singing Paddy O'Raffety to myself, and says he to me, "You cobbler fellor," says he, "don't you go for to keep such a bawling every morning, awakening people out of their first sleep," says he, "for if you do, my lord will have you put into the stocks," says he.

MARGERY.

The stocks! O goodness gracious me! and what for, pray?

DICK--(_with a grin._)

Why, for singing, honey! So says I, "Hark 'ee, Mr. Scrape-trencher, there go words to that bargain: what right have you to go for to speak in that there way to me?" says I; and says he, "We'll have you 'dited for a nuisance, fellor," says he.

MARGERY--(_clasping her hands._)

A nuisance! my Dick a nuisance! O Lord a' mercy!

DICK.

Never fear, girl; I'm a free-born Englishman, and I knows the laws well enough: and says I, "No more a fellor than yourself; I'm an honest man, following an honest calling, and I don't care _that_ for you nor your lord neither; and I'll sing _when_ I please, and I'll sing _what_ I please, and I'll sing as loud as I please; I will, by jingo!" and so he lifts me up his cane, and I says quite cool, "This house is my castle; and if you don't take yourself out of that in a jiffey, why, I'll give your laced jacket such a dusting as it never had before in its life--I will."

MARGERY.

O, Dick! you've a spirit of your own, I warrant. Well, and then?

DICK.

Oh, I promise you he was off in the twinkling of a bed-post, and I've heard no more of him; but I was determined to wake you this morning with a thundering song; just to show 'em I didn't care for 'em--ha! ha! ha!

MARGERY.

Oh, ho! that was the reason, then, that you bawled so in my ear, and frightened me out of my sleep--was it? Oh, well, I forgive you; but bless me! I stand chattering here, and it's twelve o'clock, as I live! I must go to market--(_putting on her shawl and bonnet._) What would you like to have for dinner, Dick, love? a nice rasher of bacon, by way of a relish?

DICK--(_smacking his lips._)

Just the very thing, honey.

MARGERY.

Well, give me the shilling, then.

DICK--(_scratching his head._)

What shilling?

MARGERY.

Why, the shilling you had yesterday.

DICK--(_feeling in his pockets._)

A shilling!

MARGERY.

Yes, a shilling. (_Gaily._) To have meat, one must have money; and folks must eat as well as sing, Dick, love. Come, out with it!

DICK.

But suppose I haven't got it?

MARGERY.

How! what! you don't mean for to say that the last shilling that you put in your pocket, just to make a show, is gone?

DICK--(_with a sigh._)

But I do, though--it's gone.

MARGERY.

What shall we do?

DICK.

I don't know. (_A pause. They look at each other._) Stay, that's lucky. Here's a pair of dancing pumps as belongs to old Mrs. Crusty, the baker's wife at the corner--

MARGERY--(_gaily._)

We can't eat _them_ for dinner, I guess.

DICK.

No, no; but I'm just at the last stitch.

MARGERY.

Yes--

DICK--(_speaking and working in a hurry._)

And so you'll take them home--

MARGERY.

Yes--

DICK.

And tell her I must have seven-pence halfpenny for them. (_Gives them._)

MARGERY--(_examining the shoes._)

But, Dick, isn't that some'at extortionate, as a body may say? seven-pence halfpenny!

DICK.

Why, here's heel-pieces, and a patch upon each toe; one must live, Meg!

MARGERY.

Yes, Dick, love; but so must other folks. Now I think seven-pence would be enough in all conscience--what do you say?

DICK.

Well, settle it as you like; only get a bit of dinner for us, for I'm as hungry as a hunter, I know.

MARGERY.

I'm going. Good bye, Dick!

DICK.

Take care of theeself--and don't spend the change in caps and ribbons, Meg.

MARGERY.

Caps and ribbons out of seven-pence! Lord help the man! ha, ha, ha! (_She goes out._)

DICK--(_calling after her._)

And come back soon, d'ye hear? There she goes--hop, skip, and jump, down the stairs. Somehow, I can't abear to have her out of my sight a minute. Well, if ever there was a man could say he had a good wife, why, that's me myself--tho'f I say it--the cheerfullest, sweetest temperedst, cleanliest, lovingest woman in the whole parish, that never gives one an ill word from year's end to year's end, and deserves at least that a man should work hard for her--it's all I can do--and we must think for to-morrow as well as to-day. (_He works with great energy, and sings at the same time with equal enthusiasm._)

Cannot ye do as I do?
Cannot ye do as I do ?
Spend your money, and work for more;
_That's_ the way that I do!
Tol de rol lol.

_Re-enter MARGERY in haste._

MARG.--(_out of breath._)

Oh, Dick, husband! Dick, I say!

DICK.

Hay! what's the matter now?

MARGERY.

Here be one of those fine powdered laced fellows from over the way comed after you again.

DICK--(_rising._)

An impudent jackanapes! I'll give him as good as he brings.

MARGERY.

Oh, no, no! he's monstrous civil now; for he chucked me under the chin, and says he, "My pretty girl!"

DICK.

Ho! monstrous civil indeed, with a vengeance!

MARGERY.

And says he, "Do you belong to this here house?" "Yes, sir," says I, making a curtsy, for I couldn't do no less when he spoke so civil; and says he, "Is there an honest cobbler as lives here?" "Yes, sir," says I, "my husband that is." "Then, my dear," says he, "just tell him to step over the way, for my Lady Amaranthe wishes to speak to him immediately."

DICK.

A lady? O Lord!

MARGERY.

Yes, so you must go directly. Here, take off your apron, and let me comb your hair a bit.

DICK.

What the mischief can a lady want with me? I've nothing to do with ladies, as I knows of.

MARGERY.

Why, she won't eat you up, I reckon.

DICK.

And yet I--I--I be afeard, Meg!

MARGERY.

Afeard of a lady! that's a good one!

DICK.

Ay, just--if it were a man, I shouldn't care a fig.

MARGERY.

But we've never done no harm to nobody in our whole lives, so what is there to be afraid of?

DICK.

Nay, that's true.

MARGERY.

Now let me help you on with your best coat. Pooh! what is the man about?--Why, you're putting the back to the front, and the front to the back, like Paddy from Cork, with his coat buttoned behind!

DICK.

My head do turn round, just for all the world like a peg-top.--A lady! what _can_ a lady have to say to me, I wonder?

MARGERY.

May be, she's a customer.

DICK.

No, no, great gentlefolks like she never wears patched toes nor

heel-pieces, I reckon.

MARGERY.

Here's your hat. Now let me see how you can make a bow. (_He bows awkwardly._) Hold up your head--turn out your toes. That will do capital! (_She walks round him with admiration._) How nice you look! there's ne'er a gentleman of them all can come up to my Dick.

DICK--(_hesitating._)

But--a--a--Meg, you'll come with me, won't you, and just see me safe in at the door, eh?

MARGERY.

Yes, to be sure; walk on before, and let me look at you. Hold up your head--there, that's it!

DICK--(_marching._)

Come along. Hang it, who's afraid?

[_They go out._

_Scene changes to a Drawing-room in the House of LADY AMARANTHE._

_Enter _Lady Amaranthe_, leaning upon her maid, MADEMOISELLE JUSTINE._

LADY AMARANTHE.

Avancez un fauteuil, ma chere! arrangez les coussins. (_JUSTINE settles the chair, and places a footstool. LADY AMARANTHE, sinking into the arm-chair with a languid air._) Justine, I shall die, I shall certainly die! I never can survive this!

JUSTINE.

Mon Dieu! madame, ne parlez pas comme ca! c'est m'enfoncer un poignard dans le coeur!

LADY AMARANTHE--(_despairingly._)

No rest--no possibility of sleeping--

JUSTINE.

Et le medecin de madame, qui a ordonne la plus grande tranquillite--qui a meme voulu que je me taisais--moi, par exemple!

LADY AMARANTHE.

After fatiguing myself to death with playing the agreeable to disagreeable people, and talking common-place to common-place acquaintance, I return home, to lay my aching head upon my pillow, and just as my eyes are closing, I start--I wake,--a voice that would rouse the dead out of their graves echoes in my ears! In vain I bury my head in the pillow--in vain draw the curtains close--multiply defences against my window--change from room to room--it haunts me! Ah! I think I hear it still! (_covering her ears_) it will certainly drive me distracted!

[_During this speech, JUSTINE has made sundry exclamations and gestures expressive of horror, sympathy, and commiseration._]

JUSTINE.

Vraiment, c'est affreux.

LADY AMARANTHE.

In any more civilized country it never could have been endured--I should have had him removed at once; but here the vulgar people talk of laws!

JUSTINE.

Ah, oui, madame, mais il faut avouer que c'est ici un pays bien barbare, ou tout le monde parle loi et metaphysique, et ou l'on ne fait point de difference entre les riches et les pauvres.

LADY AMARANTHE.

But what provokes me more than all the rest is this unheard-of insolence! (_rises and walks about the room_,)--a cobbler too--a cobbler who presumes to sing, and to sing when all the rest of the world is asleep! This is the march of intellect with a vengeance!

JUSTINE.

C'est vrai, il ne chante que des marches et de gros chansons a boire--s'il chantait bien doucement quelque joli roman par exemple--(_She sings_)--_dormez, dormez, mes chers amours_!

LADY AMARANTHE.

Justine, did you send the butler over to request civilly that he would not disturb me in the morning?

JUSTINE.

Oui, miladi, dat is, I have send John; de butler he was went out.

LADY AMARANTHE.

And his answer was, that he would sing in spite of me, and louder than ever?

JUSTINE.

Oui, miladi, le monstre! il dit comme ca, dat he will sing more louder den ever.

LADY AMARANTHE--(_sinking again into her chair._)

Ah! the horrid man!

JUSTINE.

Ah! dere is no politesse, no more den dere is police in dis country.

LADY AMARANTHE.

If Lord Amaranthe were not two hundred miles off--but, as it is, I must find some remedy--let me think--bribery, I suppose. Have they sent for him? I dread to see the wretch. What noise is that? allez voir, ma chere!

JUSTINE--(_goes and returns._)

Madame, c'est justement notre homme, voulez-vous qu'il entre?

LADY AMARANTHE.

Oui, faites entrer.

[_She leans back in her chair._

JUSTINE--(_at the door._)

Entrez, entrez toujours, dat is, come in, good mister.

_Enter DICK. He bows; and, squeezing his hat in his hands, looks round him with considerable embarrassment._

JUSTINE--(_to Lady Amaranthe._)

Bah! comme il sent le cuir, n'est-ce pas, madame?

LADY AMARANTHE.

Faugh! mes sels--ma vinaigrette, Justine--non, l'eau de Cologne, qui est la sur la table. (_JUSTINE brings her some eau de Cologne; she pours some upon her handkerchief, and applies it to her temples and to her nose, as if overcome; then, raising her eye-glass, she examines DICK from head to foot._) Good man--a--pray, what is your name?

DICK--(_with a profound bow._)

Dick, please your ladyship.

LADY AMARANTHE.

Hum--a--a--pray, Mr. Dick--

DICK.

Folks just call me plain Dick, my lady. I'm a poor honest cobbler, and no mister.

LADY AMARANTHE--(_pettishly._)

Well, sir, it is of no consequence. You live in the small house over the way, I think?

DICK.

Yes, ma'am, my lady, I does; I rents the attics.

LADY AMARANTHE.

You appear a good civil sort of man enough. (_He bows._) I sent my servant over to request that you would not disturb me in the night--or the morning, as you call it. I have very weak health--am quite an invalid--your loud singing in the morning just opposite to my windows----

DICK--(_eagerly._)

Ma'am, I--I'm very sorry; I ax your ladyship's pardon; I'll never sing no more above my breath, if you please.

JUSTINE.

Comment! c'est honnete, par exemple.

LADY AMARANTHE--(_surprised._)

Then you did not tell my servant that you would sing louder than ever, in spite of me?

DICK.

Me, my Lady? I never said no such thing.

LADY AMARANTHE.

This is strange; or is there some mistake? Perhaps you are not the same Mr. Dick?

DICK.

Why, yes, my lady, for that matter, I be the same Dick. (_Approaching a few steps, and speaking confidentially._) I'll just tell your ladyship the whole truth, and not a bit of a lie. There comes an impudent fellow to me, and he tells me, just out of his own head, I'll be bound, that if I sung o' mornings, he would have me put in the stocks.

LADY AMARANTHE.

Good heavens!

JUSTINE--(_in the same tone._)

Grands dieux!

DICK--(_with a grin._)

Now the stocks is for a rogue, as the saying is. As for my singing, that's neither here nor there; but no jackanapes shall threaten _me_. I _will_ sing if I please, (_sturdily_,) and I won't sing if I don't please; and (_lowering his tone_) I don't please, if it disturbs your ladyship. (_Retreating_) I wish your ladyship a good day, and better health.

LADY AMARANTHE.

Stay; you are not then the rude uncivil person I was told of?

DICK.

I hopes I knows better than to do an uncivil thing by a lady.

[_Bows and retreats towards the door._

LADY AMARANTHE.

Stay, sir--a--a--one word.

DICK.

Oh, as many as you please, ma'am; I'm in no hurry.

LADY AMARANTHE--(_graciously._)

Are you married?

DICK--(_rubbing his hands with glee._)

Yes, ma'am, I be; and to as tight a bit of a wife as any in the parish.

JUSTINE.

Ah! il parait que ce monsieur Dick aime sa femme! Est-il amusant!

LADY AMARANTHE.

You love her then?

DICK.

Oh, then I do! I love her with all my heart! who could help it?

LADY AMARANTHE.

Indeed! and how do you live?

DICK.

Why, bless you, ma'am, sometimes well, sometimes ill, according as I have luck and work. When we can get a bit of dinner, we eat it, and when we can't, why, we go without: or, may be, a kind neighbour helps us.

LADY AMARANTHE.

Poor creatures!

DICK.

Oh, not so poor neither, my lady; many folks is worser off. I'm always merry, night and day; and my Meg is the good temperedst, best wife in the world. We've never had nothing from the parish, and never will, please God, while I have health and hands.

LADY AMARANTHE.

And you are happy?

DICK.

As happy as the day is long.

LADY AMARANTHE--(_aside._)

This is a lesson to me. Eh bien, Justine! voila donc notre sauvage!

JUSTINE.

Il est gentil ce monsieur Dick, et a present que je le regarde--vraiment il a une assez jolie tournure.

LADY AMARANTHE--(_with increasing interest._)

Have you any children?

DICK--(_with a sigh._)

No, ma'am; and that's the only thing as frets us.

LADY AMARANTHE.

Good heavens! you do not mean to say you wish for them, and have scarce enough for yourselves? how would you feed them?

DICK.

Oh, I should leave Meg to feed them; I should have nothing to do but to work for them. Providence would take care of us while they were little; and, when they were big, they would help us.

LADY AMARANTHE--(_aside._)

I could not have conceived this. (_She whispers JUSTINE, who goes out._) (_To DICK._) Can I do any thing to serve you?

DICK.

Only, if your ladyship could recommend me any custom; I mend shoes as cheap as e'er a cobbler in London, though I say it.

LADY AMARANTHE.

I shall certainly desire that all my people employ you whenever there is occasion.

_Re-enter JUSTINE, holding a purse in her hand._

DICK--(_bowing._)

Much obliged, my lady; I hopes to give satisfaction, but (_looking with admiration at LADY AMARANTHE's foot as it rests on the footstool_) such a pretty, little, delicate, beautiful foot as yon, I never fitted in all my born days. It can't cost your ladyship much in shoe leather, I guess?

LADY AMARANTHE--(_smiling complacently._)

Rather more than you would imagine, I fancy, my good friend.

JUSTINE.

Comment donc--ce Monsieur Dick, fait aussi des complimens a Madame? Il ne manque pas de gout,--(_aside_) et il sait ce qu'il fait, apparemment.

LADY AMARANTHE--(_glancing at her foot._)

C'est a dire--il a du bon sens, et ne parle pas mal. (_She takes the purse._) As you so civilly obliged me, you must allow me to make you some return.

DICK--(_putting his hand behind him._)

Me, ma'am! I'm sure I don't want to be paid for being civil.

LADY AMARANTHE.

But as I have deprived you of a pleasure, my good friend, some amends surely--

DICK.

Oh, ma'am, pray don't mention it; my wife's a little tired and sleepy sometimes of a morning, and if I didn't sing her out of bed, I do think she would, by chance, snooze away till six o'clock, like any duchess; but a pinch or a shake or a kiss will do as well, may be: and (_earnestly_) she's, for all that, the best woman in the world.

LADY AMARANTHE--(_smiling._)

I can believe it, though she _does_ sleep till six o'clock like a duchess. Well, my good friend, there are five guineas in this purse; the purse is my own work; and I request you will present it to your wife from me, with many thanks for your civility.

DICK--(_confused._)

Much obliged, much obliged, but I can't, I can't indeed, my lady. Five guineas! O Lord! I should never know what to do with such a power of money.

LADY AMARANTHE.

Your wife will not say the same, depend upon it; she will find some use for it.

DICK.

My Meg, poor woman! she never had so much money in all her life.

LADY AMARANTHE.

I must insist upon it; you will offend me.

JUSTINE--(_taking the purse out of her lady's hand, and forcing it upon DICK._)

Dieux! est-il bete!--you no understand?--It is de gold and de silver money (_laughing._) Comme il a l'air ebahi!

DICK--(_putting up the money._)

Many thanks, and I pray God bless your ladyship!

LADY AMARANTHE--(_gaily._)

Good morning, Mr. Dick. Remember me to your wife.

DICK.

I will, my lady. I wish your ladyship, and you, miss, a good morning. (_To himself._) Five guineas!--what will Meg say?--Now I'll be a master shoemaker. (_Going out in an ecstasy, he knocks his head against the wall._)

LADY AMARANTHE.

Take care, friend. Montrez-lui la porte, Justine!

JUSTINE.

Mais venez donc, Monsieur Dick--par ici--et n'allez pas donner le nez contre la porte!

[_DICK follows JUSTINE out of the door,
after making several bows._

LADY AMARANTHE.

Poor man!--well, he's silenced--he does not look as if he would sing, morning or night, for the next twelve months.

_Re-enter JUSTINE._

JUSTINE.

Voici Madame Mincetaille, qui vient pour essayer la robe-de-bal de madame.

LADY AMARANTHE.

Ah! allons donc.

[_They go out._

_The SCENE changes to the Cobbler's Garret._

_Enter MARGERY, in haste; a basket in her hand. She looks about her._

MARGERY.

Not come back yet! what can keep him, I wonder! (_Takes off her bonnet and shawl._) Well, I must get the dinner ready. (_Pauses, and looks anxious._) But, somehow, I feel not easy in my mind. What could they want with him?--Hark! (_Goes to the door_) No--what a time he is! But suppose they should 'dite him for a nuisance--O me! or send him to the watchhouse--O my poor dear Dick! I must go and see after him! I must go this very instant moment! (_Snatches up her bonnet._) Oh, I hear him now; but how slowly he comes up!

[_Runs to the door, and leads him in._

_Enter DICK._

MARGERY.

Oh, my dear, dear Dick, I am so glad you are come at last! But how pale you look! all I don't know how! What's the matter? why don't you speak to me, Dick, love?

DICK--(_fanning himself with his hat._)

Let me breathe, wife.

MARGERY.

But what's the matter? where have you been? who did you see? what did they say to you? Come, tell me quick.

DICK.

Why, Meg, how your tongue does gallop! as if a man could answer twenty questions in a breath.

MARGERY.

Did you see the lady herself? Tell me that.

DICK--(_looking round the room auspiciously._)

Shut the door first.

MARGERY.

There.

[_Shuts it._

DICK.

Shut the other.

MARGERY.

The other?--There.

[_Shuts it._

DICK.

Lock it fast, I say.

MARGERY.

There's no lock; and that you know.

DICK--(_frightened._)

No lock;--then we shall all be robbed!

MARGERY.

Robbed of what? Sure, there's nothing here for any one to rob! You never took such a thing into your head before.

[_DICK goes to the door, and tries to fasten it._

MARGERY--(_aside._)

For sartain, he's bewitched--or have they given him something to drink?--or, perhaps, he's ill. (_Very affectionately, and laying her hand on his shoulder._) Are you not well, Dick, love? Will you go to bed, sweetheart?

DICK--(_gruffly._)

No. Go to bed in the broad day!--the woman's cracked.

MARGERY--(_whimpering._)

Oh, Dick, what in the world has come to you?

DICK.

Nothing--nothing but good, you fool. There--there--don't cry, I tell you.

MARGERY--(_wiping her eyes._)

And did you see the lady?

DICK.

Ay, I seed her; and a most beautiful lady she is, and she sends her sarvice to you?

MARGERY.

Indeed! lauk-a-daisy! I'm sure I'm much obliged--but what did she say to you?

DICK.

Oh, she said this, and that, and t'other--a great deal.

MARGERY.

But what, Dick?

DICK.

Why, she said--she said as how I sung so fine, she couldn't sleep o' mornings.

MARGERY.

Sleep o' mornings! that's a good joke! Let people sleep o' nights, I say.

DICK--(_solemnly._)

But she can't, poor soul, she's very ill; she has pains here, and pains there, and everywhere.

MARGERY.

Indeed! poor lady! then you mustn't disturb her no more, Dick, that's a sure thing.

DICK.

Ay, so I said; and so she gave me this.

[_Takes out the purse, and holds it up._

MARGERY--(_clapping her hands._)

O goodness! what a fine purse!--Is there any thing in it?

DICK--(_chinks the money._)

Do ye hear that? Guess now.

MARGERY--(_timidly._)

Five shillings, perhaps, eh?

DICK.

Five shillings!--five guineas, girl.

MARGERY--(_with a scream._)

Five guineas! five guineas! (_skips about_) tal, lal, la! five guineas! (_Runs and embraces her husband._) Oh, Dick! we'll be so rich and so happy. I want a power of things. I'll have a new gown--lavender, shall it be?--Yes, it shall be lavender; and a dimity petticoat; and a lace cap, like Mrs. Pinchtoe's, with pink ribbons--how she will stare! and I'll have two silver spoons, and a nutmeg-grater, and----

DICK.

Ho, ho, ho! what a jabber! din, din, din! You'll have this, and you'll have that! First, I'll have a good stock of neat's leather.

MARGERY.

Well, well, give me the purse; I'll take care of it.

[_Snatches at it._

DICK.

No, thankee, _I'll_ take care of it.

MARGERY--(_coaxing._)

You know I always keep the money, Dick!

DICK.

Ay, Meg, but I'll keep this, do ye mind?

MARGERY.

What! keep it all to yourself?--No, you won't; an't I your wife, and haven't I a right? I ax you that.

DICK.

Pooh! don't be bothering me.

MARGERY.

Come, give it me at once, there's a dear Dick!

DICK.

What, to waste it all in woman's nonsense and frippery? Don't be a fool! we're rich, and we'll keep it safe.

MARGERY.

Why, where's the use of money but to spend? Come, come, I _will_ have it.

DICK.

Hey-day! you will?--You shan't; who's the master here, I say?

MARGERY--(_passionately._)

Why, if you come to that, who's the mistress here, I say?

DICK.

Now, Meg, don't you go for to provoke me.

MARGERY.

Pooh! I defy you.

DICK--(_doubling his fist._)

Don't you put me in a passion, Meg!

MARGERY.

Get along; I don't care that for you! (_snaps her fingers._) You used to be my own dear Dick, and now you're a cross, miserly curmudgeon--

DICK--(_quite furious._)

You will have it then! Why, then, take it, with a mischief; take that, and that, and that!

[_He beats her; she screams._

MARGERY.

Oh! oh! oh!--pray don't--pray--(_Breaks from him, and throws herself into a chair._) O Dick! to go for to strike me! O that I should ever see the day!--you cruel, unkind----Oh! oh!

[_Covers her face with her apron, sobs, and cries; and
he stands looking at her sheepishly. A long pause._

DICK--(_in great agitation._)

Eh, why! women be made of eggshells, I do think. Why, Meg, I didn't hurt you, did I? why don't you speak? Now, don't you be sulky, come; it wasn't much. A man is but flesh and blood, after all; come, I say--I'll never get into a passion with you again to my dying day--I won't--come, don't cry; (_tries to remove the apron_,) come, kiss, and be friends. Won't you forgive your own dear Dick, won't you? (_ready to cry_) She won't!--Here, here's the money, and the purse and all--take it, do what you like with it. (_She shakes her head._) What, you won't then? why, then, there--(_throws it on the ground._) Deuce fetch me if ever I touch it again! and I wish my fingers had been burnt before ever I took it,--so I do! (_with feeling._) We were so happy this morning, when we hadn't a penny to bless ourselves with, nor even a bit to eat; and now, since all this money has come to us of a suddent, why, it's all as one as if old Nick himself were in the purse. I'll tell you what, Meg, eh! shall I? Shall I take it back to the lady, and give our duty to her, and tell her we don't want her guineas, shall I, Meg? shall I, dear heart?

[_During the last few words MARGERY lets the apron
fall from her face, looks up at him, and smiles._

DICK.

Oh, that's right, and we'll be happy again, and never quarrel more.

MARGERY.

No, never! (_They embrace._) Take it away, for I can't bear the sight of it.

DICK.

Take it _you_ then, for you know, Meg, I said I would never touch it again; and what I says, I says--and what I says, I sticks to.

[_Pushes it towards her with his foot._

MARGERY.

And so do I: and I vowed to myself that I wouldn't touch it, and I won't.

[_Kicks it back to him._

DICK.

How shall we manage then? Oh, I have it. Fetch me the tongs here. (_Takes up the purse in the tongs, and holds it at arm's length._) Now I'm going. So, Meg, if you repent, now's the time. Speak--or for ever hold your tongue.

MARGERY.

Me repent? No, my dear Dick! I feel, somehow, quite light, as if a great weight were gone away from here. (_Laying her hands on her bosom._) Money may be a good thing when it comes little by little, and we gain it honestly by our own hard work; but when it comes this way, in a lump--one doesn't know how or why--it's quite too surprising, as one may say;--it gets into one's head, like--the punch, Dick!

DICK.

Aye, and worser--turns it all the wrong way; but I've done with both:--I'll have no more to say to drinking, and fine ladies, and purses o' money;--we'll go and live in the stall round the corner, and I'll take to my work and my singing again--eh, Meg?

MARGERY.

Bless you, my dear, dear Dick! (_kisses him._)

DICK.

Ay, that's as it should be:--so now come along. We never should have believed this, if we hadn't tried; but it's just what my old mother used to say--MUCH COIN, MUCH CARE.[28]

* * * * *

THE END.

LONDON:
IBOTSON AND PALMER, PRINTERS, SAVOY STREET, STRAND.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: Some of the sentences which follow (marked by inverted commas,) are taken from a portrait of Mrs. Siddons, dated 1812, and attributed to Sir Walter Scott.]

[Footnote 2: I am permitted to give the following little extract as farther illustrating that tenderness of nature which I have only touched upon. "I owe ---- ---- a letter, but I don't know how it is, now that I am arrived at that time of life when I supposed I should be able to sit down and indulge my natural indolence, I find the business of it thickens and increases around me; and I am now as much occupied about the affairs of others as I have been about my own. I am just now expecting my son George's two babies from India. The ship which took them from their parents, I thank heaven, is safely arrived: _Oh! that they could know it!_ For the present I shall have them near me. There is a school between my little hut and the church, where they will have delicious air, and I shall be able to see the poor dears every day."]

[Footnote 3: I believe it _has_ been said; but, like Madlle. de Montpensier my imagination and my memory are sometimes confounded.]

[Footnote 4: Ben Jonson.]

[Footnote 5: George the Fourth, after conversing with her, said with emphasis, "She is the only _real_ queen!"]

[Footnote 6: In a letter to Mrs. Thrale.]

[Footnote 7: In the Grosvenor gallery. There is a duplicate of this picture in the Dulwich gallery.]

[Footnote 8: She afterwards played Lady Randolph for Mr. Charles Kemble's benefit, and performed Lady Macbeth at the request of the Princess Charlotte in 1816. This was her final appearance. She was then sixty-one, and her powers unabated. I recollect a characteristic passage in one of her letters relating to this circumstance: she says, "The princess honoured me with several gracious (not _graceful_) nods; but the newspapers gave me credit for much more _sensibility_ than I either felt or displayed on the occasion. I was by no means so much _overwhelmed_ by her Royal Highness's kindness, as they were pleased to represent me."]

[Footnote 9:

"For time hath laid his hand so gently on her
As he too had been awed."

DE MONTFORT.]

[Footnote 10: The last play she read aloud was Henry V. only ten days before she died.]

[Footnote 11: Now Mrs. George Combe.]

[Footnote 12: These sketches, once intended for publication, are now in the possession of Lord Francis Egerton. The introduction and notes were written in March, 1830--the conclusion in March, 1834.]

[Footnote 13: The alteration and interpolations are by Garrick, of whom it was said and believed, that "he never read through a whole play of Shakspeare's except with some nefarious design of cutting and mangling it."]

[Footnote 14: She played in London the following parts successively:-- Juliet, Belvidera, the Grecian Daughter, Mrs. Beverley, Portia, Isabella, Lady Townly, Calista, Bianca, Beatrice, Constance, Camiola, Lady Teazle, Donna Sol, (in Lord Francis Egerton's translation of Hemani, when played before the queen at Bridgewater House,) Queen Katherine, Catherine of Cleves, Louisa of Savoy, in Francis I., Lady Macbeth, Julia in the Hunchback.]

[Footnote 15: The only parts which, to my knowledge, she chose for herself, were Portia, Camiola, and Julia in the Hunchback. She was accused of having declined playing Inez de Castro in Miss Mitford's tragedy, and I heard her repel that accusation very indignantly. She added--"Setting aside my respect for Miss Mitford, I never, on principle, have refused a part. It is my business to do whatever is deemed advantageous to the whole concern, to do as much good as I can; not to think of myself. If they bid me act Scrubb, I would act it!"]

[Footnote 16: At Dresden and at Frankfort I saw the Merchant of Venice played as it stands in Shakspeare, with all the stately scenes between Portia and her suitors--the whole of the character of Jessica--the lovely moon-light dialogue between Jessica and Lorenzo, and the beautiful speeches given to Portia, all which, by sufferance of an English audience, are omitted on our stage. When I confessed to some of the great German critics, that the Merchant of Venice, Romeo and Juliet, King Lear, &c. were performed in England not only with important omissions of the text, but with absolute alterations, affecting equally the truth of character, and the construction of the story, they looked at me, at first, as if half incredulous, and their perception of the barbarism, as well as the absurdity, was so forcibly expressed on their countenances, and their contempt so justifiable, that I confess I felt ashamed for my countrymen.]

[Footnote 17: The resemblance was in the brow and eye. When she was sitting to Sir Thomas Lawrence, he said, "These are the eyes of Mrs. Siddons." She said, "You mean _like_ those of Mrs. Siddons." "No," he replied, "they are the _same_ eyes, the construction is the same, and to draw them is the same thing."