Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 55, No. 342, April, 1844

THE CHILD'S WARNING

There's blood upon the lady's cheek, There's brightness in her eye: Who says the sentence is gone forth That that fair thing must die? Must die before the flowering lime, Out yonder, sheds its leaf— Can this thing be, O human flower! Thy blossoming so brief? Nay, nay, 'tis but a passing cloud, Thou didst but droop awhile; There's life, long years, and love and joy, Whole ages, in that smile— In the gay call that to thy knee Brings quick that loving child, Who looks up in those laughing eyes With his large eyes so mild. Yet, thou art doom'd—art dying; all The coming hour foresee, But, in love's cowardice, withhold The warning word from thee. God keep thee and be merciful! His strength is with the weak; Through babes and sucklings, the Most High Hath oft vouchsafed to speak— And speaketh now—"Oh, mother dear!" Murmurs the little child; And there is trouble in its eyes, Those large blue eyes so mild— "Oh, mother dear! they say that soon, When here I seek for thee, I shall not find thee—nor out there, Under the old oak-tree; "Nor up stairs in the nursery, Nor any where, they say. Where wilt thou go to, mother dear? Oh, do not go away!" Then was long silence—a deep hush— And then the child's low sob. Her quivering eyelids close—one hand Keeps down the heart's quick throb. And the lips move, though sound is none, That inward voice is prayer. And hark! "Thy will, O Lord, be done!" And tears are trickling there, Down that pale cheek, on that young head— And round her neck he clings; And child and mother murmur out Unutterable things. He half unconscious—she deep-struck With sudden, solemn truth, That number'd are her days on earth, Her shroud prepared in youth— That all in life her heart holds dear, God calls her to resign. She hears—feels—trembles—but looks up, And sighs, "Thy will be mine!" C.

THE TWO PATRONS

CHAPTER I

The front door of a large house in Harley Street stood hospitably open, and leaning against the plaster pillars (which were of a very miscellaneous architecture) were two individuals, who appeared as if they had been set there expressly to invite the passengers to walk in. Beyond the red door that intersected the passage, was seen the coloured-glass entrance to a conservatory on the first landing of the drawing-room stairs; and a multitude of statues lined each side of the lobby, like soldiers at a procession, but which the inventive skill of the proprietor had converted to nearly as much use as ornament; for a plaster Apollo, in addition to watching the "arrow's deathful flight," had been appointed custodier of a Taglioni and a Mackintosh, which he wore with easy negligence over his head—a distracted Niobe, in the same manner, had undertaken the charge of a grey silk hat and a green umbrella. The Gladiator wore a lady's bonnet; the Farnese Hercules looked like an old-fashioned watchman, and sported a dreadnought coat. A glaring red paper gave a rich appearance to the hall; the stair carpet also added its contribution to the rubicundity of the scene, which was brought to a ne plus ultra by the nether habiliments of the two gentlemen who, as already stated, did the honours of the door.

A more pleasing sight than two footmen refreshing themselves on the top of the front stairs with a view of the opposite houses, and gratifying the anxious public at the same time with a view of themselves, it is difficult to imagine. They always look so diffident and respectful, that involuntarily our interest in them becomes almost too lively for words. We think with disdain on miserable soldiers and hungry mechanics, and half-starved paupers and whole-starved labourers; and turn, with feelings of a very different kind, to the contemplation of virtue rewarded, and modesty well fed, in the persons of the two meditative gentlemen whose appearance at the front door in Harley Street has given rise to these reflections. The elder of them, who kept the post of honour on the right hand side, just opposite the bell-handle, and whose superiority over the other was marked by much larger legs, a more prominent blue waistcoat, and a slight covering of powder over his auburn locks, looked for some time at his companion, while an expression of ill-disguised contempt turned up to still more dignified altitude the point of his nose. At last, as if by an effort, he broke forth in speech.

"Snipe," he said—and seeing that Mr Snipe's ears were open, he continued—"I can't tell how it is, but I saw, when first I came, you had never been in a reg'lar fambly—never."

"We was always more reg'larer at Miss Hendy's nor here—bed every night at ten o'clock, and up in the morning at five."

"You'll never get up to cribbage—you're so confounded slow," replied the senior; "you'll have to stick to dominoes, which is only fit for babbies. Did ye think I meant Miss Hendy's, or low people of that kind, when I spoke of a reg'lar fambly?—I meant that you had never seen life. Did you ever change plates for a marquis, Snipe?"

"Never heared of one. Is he in a great way of business?"

"A marquis is a reg'lar nob, you know; and gives reg'lar good wages when you gets 'em paid. A man can't be a gentleman as lives with vulgar people—old Pitskiver is a genuine snob."

"He's a rich gentleman," returned Mr Snipe.

"But he's low—uncommon low"—said the other—"reg'lar boiled mutton and turnips."

"And a wery good dish too," observed Mr Snipe, whose intellect, being strictly limited to dominoes, was not quite equal to the metaphorical.

"By mutton and turnips, I means—he may be rich; but he ain't genteel, Snipe. Look at our Sophiar's shoulders."

Mr Snipe looked up towards his senior with a puzzled expression, as if he waited for information—"What has Miss Sophiar's shoulders to do with boiled mutton and turnips?"

"Nothing won't do but to be at it from the very beginning," said the superior, with a toss of his powdered head; "fight after it as much as ever they like, wear the best of gownds, and go to the fustest of boarding-schools—though they plays ever so well on the piando, and talks Italian like a reg'lar Frenchman—nothing won't do—there's the boiled mutton and turnips—shocking wulgarity! Look again, I say, at our Sophiar's shoulders, and see how her head's set on. Spinks's Charlotte is a very different affair—and there she is at the winder over the way. That's quite the roast fowl and blamange," he continued, looking at a very beautiful girl who appeared at the window of one of the opposite houses—"a pretty blowen as ever I see, and uncommon fond of Spinks."

"I see nothing like a fowl about the young lady," replied the prosaic Mr Snipe; "and Spinks is a horrid liar."

"But can't you judge for yourself, Snipe? That girl opposite found two footmen and a butler all waiting to receive her, with a French governess and a lady's maid, the moment she got out of the cradle; and I say again she's nothing but roast fowl and blamange, or perhaps a breast slice of pheasant, for she's uncommon genteel. How different from our boiled veals, and parsley and butters! I shall give warning if we don't change soon."

"She's a beautiful young lady," said Mr Snipe; "but I thinks not half so plump and jolly as our Miss Emily or Sophia."

"Plump! do you think you've got a sporting license, and are on the look-out for a partridge? No; I tell you all the Pitskivers is low, and old Pits is the worst of the lot."

"I used always to hear him called a great man at Miss Hendy's," replied Snipe; "no end of money, and a reg'lar tip-topper. I really expected to see the queen very often drop in to supper."

"And meet all the tag-rag we have here! What would the queen care for all them portrait-painters, and poets, and engineers, and writing vagabonds, as old Pits is eternally feeding? The queen knows a mighty sight better, and wouldn't ax any body to her table as had done nothing but write books or paint picters. No; old Pits is the boy for patronizing them there fellers; but mark ye, Snipe, he takes the wrong chaps. If a man is to demean himself by axing a riff-raff of authors to his house, let it be the big 'uns; I should not care to give a bit of dinner to Dickens or Bulwer myself."

With this condescending confession of his interest in literature, the gentleman in the shining garments looked down the street, as if he expected some public approval of his praiseworthy sentiments.

Being disappointed in this natural expectation, he resolved to revenge himself by severe observations on the passers-by; but the severity was partly lost on the slow-minded Mr Snipe—being clothed in the peculiar phraseology of his senior, in which it appeared that some particular dish was placed as the representative of the individual attacked. Not that Mr Daggles—for such was the philosophical footman's name—saw any resemblance between his master, Mr Pitskiver, and a dish of boiled mutton and turnips, or between the beautiful young lady opposite and the breast of a pheasant; but that, to his finely constituted mind, those dishes shadowed forth the relative degrees in aristocracy which Mr Pitskiver and the young lady occupied. He had probably established some one super-eminent article of food as a high "ideal" to which to refer all other kinds of edibles—perhaps an ortolan pie; and the further removed from this imaginary point of perfection any dish appeared, the more vulgar and commonplace it became; and taking it for granted, that as far as human gradations are concerned, the loftiest aristocracy corresponded with the ortolan pie, it is evident that Mr Daggles's mode of assigning rank and precedence was founded on strictly philosophical principles; as much so, perhaps, as the labours of Debrett.

"Now, look at this old covey—twig his shorts and long gaiters: he's some old Suffolk squire, has grown too fat for harriers, and goes out with the greyhounds twice a-week—a truly respectable member of society"—continued Mr Daggles with a sneer, when the subject of his lecture had passed on—"reg'lar boiled beef and greens."

"He ain't so fat as our Mr Pitskiver," replied Snipe; "I thinks I never see no gentleman with so broad a back; except p'raps a prize ox."

"You should get a set of harrows to clean his Chesterfield with, instead of a brush—it's more like a field than a coat," said Daggles. "But look here—here comes a ticket!"

The ticket alluded to was a well-made young man, with a very healthy complexion, long glossy black curls hanging down his cheek, a remarkably long-backed surtout, and a small silk hat resting on the very top of his umbrageous head. As he drew near, he slackened his pace—passed the house slowly, looking up to the drawing-room window, evidently in hopes of seeing some object more attractive than the vast hydrangia which rose majestically out of a large flowerpot, and darkened all the lower panes. Before he had proceeded ten yards, and just when Mr Daggles had fixed in his own mind on the particular effort of culinary skill suggested by his appearance, the ticket turned quickly round and darted up the steps. Snipe stepped forward in some alarm.

"Your master's not at home," said the Ticket; "but the ladies"—

"Is all out in the featon, sir."

"Will you be good enough—I see I may trust you—to give this note to Miss Sophia? I shall take an opportunity of showing my gratitude very soon. Will you give it?"

"Yes, sir, in course."

"Secretly? And, be assured, I shall not forget you." So saying, the Ticket walked hurriedly away, and Snipe stood with the note still in his hand, and looked dubiously at his companion.

Mr Daggle's eyes were fixed on the retreating figure of the Ticket; and, after a careful observation of every part of his dress, from the silk hat to the Wellingtons, he shook his head in a desponding manner, and merely said—"Tripe!"

"What's to be done with this here letter?" enquired Snipe.

"Open and read it of course. By dad! I don't think you are up to dominoes; you must go back to skittles. He's evidently enclosed the sovereign in the note; for he never could have been fool enough to think that two gentlemen like us are to give tick for such a sum to a stranger."

"What sum?" enquired Snipe.

"Why, the sovereign he was to pay for delivering the letter. If you don't like to read it yourself, give it to the old snob—Pitskiver will give you a tip."

"But the gentleman said he would show his gratitude"—

"He should have showed his tin fust. There ain't no use of denying it, Snipe; this is a wery low establishment, and I shall cut it as soon as I can. What right has a dowdy like our Sophia to be getting billydoos from fellers as ought to be ashamed of theirselves for getting off their three-legged stools at this time of the day? Give the note to old Pits—and here, I think, he is."

Mr Pitskiver—or old Pits, as he was irreverently called by his domestic—came rapidly up the street. He was a little man, between fifty and sixty years of age, with an exceedingly stout body and very thin legs. He was very red in the face, and very short in the neck. A bright blue coat, lively-coloured waistcoat, and light-green silk handkerchief fastened with two sparkling pins, united to each other by a gold chain, check trowsers, and polished French leather boots, composed his attire. He wore an eyeglass though he was not short-sighted, and a beautifully inlaid riding-whip though he never rode. His white muslin pocket-handkerchief hung very prominently out of the breast pocket of his coat, and his hat was set a little on one side of his head, and rested with a coquettish air on the top of the left whisker. What with his prodigious width, and the flourishing of his whip, and the imposing dignity of his appearance altogether, he seemed to fill the street. Several humble pedestrians stepped off the pavement on to the dirty causeway to give him room. Daggles drew up, Snipe slunk back to hold the door, and Mr Pitskiver retired from the eyes of men, and entered his own hall, followed by his retainers.

"If you please, sir," said Snipe, "I have a letter for Miss Sophiar."

"Then don't you think you had better give it her?" replied Mr Pitskiver.

"A gentleman, sir, gave it to me."

"I'll give it you, too," said the master of the mansion, shaking the whip over the astonished Snipe. "What are you bothering me with the ladies' notes for? Any thing for me, Daggles?"

"A few parcels, sir—books, and a couple of pictures."

"No statue? My friend Bristles has deceived me. It was to have been finished to-day. If he gives the first view to the Whalleys, I'll never speak to him again. Nothing else? Then have the phaeton at the door at half past five. I dine at Miss Hendy's, at Hammersmith."

While Mr Pitskiver stepped up stairs, Snipe was going over in his own mind the different grammatical meanings of the words, "I'll give it you." And concluding at last that, in the mouth of his master, it meant nothing but a horsewhipping, he resolved, with the magnanimity of many other virtuous characters who find treachery unproductive, to be true to Miss Sophia, and give her the mysterious note with the greatest possible secrecy.

"Now, donkey," said Daggles, aiding his benevolent advice with a kick that made it nearly superfluous, "get down them kitchen stairs and learn pitch-and-toss, for you haven't brains enough for any thing else—and recollect, you owes me a sovereign; half from master for telling, and half from the long-backed Ticket for keeping mum. You can keep the other to yourself; for the job was well worth a sovereign a-piece."

A knock at the door interrupted the colloquy, and Snipe once more emerged from the lower regions, and admitted the two fair daughters of his master.

They were stout, bustling, rosy-cheeked girls, two or three and twenty years of age, superbly dressed in flashy silks, and bedizened with ribands like a triumphal arch.

"Miss," said Snipe, "I've got a summut for you." And he looked as knowing as it was possible for a student of pitch-and-toss to do.

"For me? What is it? Make haste, Thomas."

"A gentleman has been here, and left you this," replied the Mercury, holding out the note. "He said something about giving me a guinea; but I wasn't to let any body see."

"It is his hand—I know it!" cried Miss Sophia, and hurried up stairs to her own room.

"You donkey!" growled Mr Daggles, who had overheard Snipe's proceedings; "you've done me out of another ten shillings. Blowed if I don't put you under the pump! She would have given you a guinea for the letter by way of postage. But it all comes of living with red herrings and gooses' eggs." And so saying Mr Daggles resumed his usual seat in the dining-room, and went on with the perusal of the Morning Post.

CHAPTER II

Mr Pitskiver's origin, like that of early Greece, is lost in the depths of antiquity. Through an infinite variety of posts and offices, he had risen to his present position, and was perhaps the most multifariously occupied gentleman in her majesty's dominions. He was chairman of three companies, steward of six societies, general agent, and had lately reached the crowning eminence of his hopes by being appointed trustee of unaudited accounts. In the midst of all these labours, he had gone on increasing in breadth and honour till his name was a symbol of every thing respectable and well to do in the world. With each new office his ambition rose, and a list of his residences would be a perfect index to the state of his fortunes. We can trace him from Stepney to Whitechapel; from Whitechapel to Finsbury square; from Finsbury square to Hammersmith; and finally, the last office (which, by the by, was without a salary) had raised him, three months before our account of him begins, to the centre of Harley Street. With his fortune and ambition, we must do him the justice to say, his liberality equally increased. He was a patron, and, would have travelled fifty miles to entertain a poet at his table; he had music-masters (without any other pupils) who were Mozarts and Handels for his daughters—Turners and Landseers (whose names were yet unknown) to teach them drawing—for, by a remarkable property possessed by him, in common with a great majority of mankind, every thing gained a new value when it came into contact with himself. He bought sets of china because they were artistic; changed his silver plate for a more picturesque pattern; employed Stultz for his clothes, and, above all, Bell and Rannie for his wines. His cook was superb; and, thanks to the above-named Bell and Rannie, there were fewer headachs in the morning after a Mæcenatian dinner at Pitskiver's, than could have been expected by Father Matthew himself. With these two exceptions—wine and clothes—his patronage was more indiscriminate than judicious. In fact, he patronized for the sake of patronizing; and as he was always in search of a new miracle, it is no wonder that he was sometimes disappointed—that his Landseers sometimes turned out to have no eyes, and his musicians more fitted to play the Handel to a pump than an organ. But Pitskiver never lost heart. If he failed in one he was sure to succeed in another; he saw his name occasionally in the newspaper, by giving an invitation to one of the literary gentlemen who enliven the public with accounts of fearful accidents and desperate offences; had his picture at the Exhibition in the character of the "Portrait of a gentleman," and his bust in the same place as the semblance of the honorary Secretary to the Poor Man's Pension and Perpetual Annuity Institution. He was a widower, and looked dreadful things at all the widows of his acquaintance. And it was thought that, if he succeeded in marrying off his girls, he should himself become once more a candidate for the holy estate; and by this wise manœuvre—for, in fact, he made no secret of his intention—he enlisted in his daughters' behalf all the elderly ladies who thought they had any claims on the attentions of that charming creature Mr Pitskiver. There were certainly no young ladies I have ever heard of, so well supplied with assistants in the great art of catching husbands as the two plump damsels whom we have already seen enter the house in Harley Street, and one of whom we have perceived placed in possession of the mysterious letter by the skittle-minded Mr Snipe.

Miss Sophia Pitskiver, according to all ordinary ideas of romance and true love, had no right whatever to indulge in such luxuries, being more adapted to make pies than enter into the beauty of sonnets to the moon. She was short, stout—shall we be pardoned for saying the hateful word?—she was dumpy, but a perfect picture of rosy health and hilarious good-nature. And yet, if she had been half a foot taller, and half a yard thinner, and infinitely paler, she could not have been one jot more sentimental. She cultivated sentiment, because it was so pleasant, and her father approved of it because it was genteel. Her enthusiasm was tremendous. Her ideas were all crackers, and exploded at the slightest touch. She had a taste for every thing—poetry, history, fine arts in general, philosophy, glory, puseyism, and, perhaps more than all, for a certain tall young man, with an interesting complexion, whom we have introduced to the courteous reader by the name of the long-backed Ticket. It was this gentleman's note she was now about to read. Sundry palpitations about the robust regions of the heart might, to common eyes, have appeared to arise from her speed in running up stairs. But she knew better. She took but one look of the cheval glass, and broke the seal.

"Stanzas!" she said; and, taking one other glance at the mirror, she exclaimed to the agitated young lady represented there, "only think!" and devoured the following lines:—

"There is a tear that will not fall To cool the burning heart and brain; Oh, I would give my life, my all, To feel once more that blessed rain! "There is a grief—I feel, in sooth, It rends my soul, it quells my tongue; It dims the sunshine of my youth, But, oh, it will not dim it long! "There is a place where life is o'er, And sorrow's blasts innocuous rave; A place where sadness comes no more. Know'st thou the place? It is the grave. "Yes, if within that gentle breast Mild pity ever held her sway, Thou'lt weep for one who finds no rest— The reason he can never say.

"P.S.—Miss Hendy is an angel upon earth. My friend Mr Bristles, of the Universal Surveyor, one of the most distinguished literary men of the age, has got me an invitation to go to her house to-night, to read the first act of my tragedy. Shall I have the happiness of seeing thee? Would to my stars my fate were so fortunate! I enclose you the above lines, which Bristles says are better than any of Lord Byron's, and will publish next week in the Universal. Mayest thou like them, sweetest, for they are dedicated to thee, Thine ever—ALMANSOR." What she might have done beyond reading the lines and letter six times over, and crying "beautiful, beautiful!" as fast as she could, it is impossible to say, for at that moment she was called by her venerable sire. She crumpled the note up after the manner of all other heroines, and hid it in her bosom; and hurried to the drawing-room, where she found her father in full dress, pulling on a pair of new kid gloves.