Kitabı oku: «The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 262, July 7, 1827», sayfa 6

THE NOVELIST

No. CIV.
THE COTTER'S DAUGHTER

It was a cold stormy night in December, and the green logs as they blazed and crackled on the Cotter's hearth, were rendered more delightful, more truly comfortable, by the contrast with the icy showers of snow and sleet which swept against the frail casement, making all without cheerless and miserable.

The Cotter was a handsome, intelligent old man, and afforded me much information upon glebes, and flocks, and rural economy; while his spouse, a venerable matron, was humming to herself some long since forgotten ballad; and industriously twisting and twirling about her long knitting needles, that promised soon to produce a pair of formidable winter hose. Their son, a stout, healthy young peasant of three-and-twenty, was sitting in the spacious chimney corner, sharing his frugal supper of bread and cheese with a large, shaggy sheep dog, who sat on his haunches wistfully watching every mouthful, and snap, snap, snapping, and dextrously catching every morsel that was cast to him.

We were all suddenly startled, however, by his loud bark; when, jumping up, he rushed, or rather flew towards the door.

"Whew! whew!" whistled the youth—"Whoy—what the dickens ails thee, Rover?" said he, rising and following him to the door to learn the cause of his alarm. "What! be they gone again, ey?" for the dog was silent. "What do thee sniffle at, boy? On'y look at 'un feyther; how the beast whines and waggles his stump o' tail!—It's some 'un he knows for sartain. I'd lay a wager it wur Bill Miles com'd about the harrow, feyther."

"Did thee hear any knock, lad?" said the father.

"Noa!" replied the youth; "but mayhap Bill peep'd thro' the hoal in the shutter, and is a bit dash'd like at seeing a gentleman here. Bill! is't thee, Master Miles?" continued he, bawling. "Lord! the wind whistles so a' can't hear me. Shall I unlatch the door, feyther?"

"Ay, lad, do, an thou wilt," replied the old man; "Rover's wiser nor we be—a dog 'll scent a friend, when a man would'nt know un."

Rover still continued his low importunate whine, and began to scratch against the door. The lad threw it open—the dog brushed past him in an instant, and his quick, short, continuous yelping, expressed his immoderate joy and recognition.

"Hollo! where be'st thee, Bill?" said the young peasant, stepping over the threshold. "Come, none of thee tricks upon travellers, Master Bill; I zee thee beside the rick yon!" and quitting the door for half a minute, he again hastily entered the cot. The rich colour of robust health had fled from his cheeks—his lips quivered—and he looked like one bereft of his senses, or under the influence of some frightful apparition.

The dame rose up—her work fell from trembling hands—

"What's the matter?" said she.

"What's frighted thee, lad?" asked the old man, rising.

"Oh! feyther!—oh! mother!"—exclaimed he, drawing them hastily on one side and whispering something in a low, and almost inaudible voice.

The old woman raised her hands in supplication and tottered to her chair while the Cotter, bursting out into a paroxysm of violent rage, clutched his son's arm, and exclaimed in a loud voice:

"Make fast the door, boy, an thou'lt not have my curse on thee!—I tell 'ee, she shan't come hither!—No—never—never;—there's poison in her breath—a' will spurn her from me!—A pest on her!—What; wilt not do my bidding?"

"O! feyther, feyther!" cried the young peasant, whose heart seemed overcharged with grief, "It be a cold, raw night—ye wou'dna kick a cur from the door to perish in the storm! Doant 'ee be hot and hasty, feyther, thou art not uncharitable—On me knees!"—

"Psha!" exclaimed the enraged father, only exasperated by his remonstrances. "Whoy talk 'ee to me, son—I am deaf—deaf!—Mine own hand shall bar the door agen her!"—adding with bitterness—"let her die!"—and stepping past his prostrate son, was about to execute his purpose—when, a young girl, whose once gay and flimsy raiment was drenched and stained, and torn by the violence of the storm, appeared at the door. The old man recoiled with a shudder—she was as pale as death—and her trembling limbs seemed scarcely able to support her—a profusion of light brown hair hung dishevelled and in disorder about her neck and shoulders, and added to her forlorn appearance. She stretched forth her arms and pronounced the name of "Father!" but further utterance was prevented by the convulsive sobs that heaved her bosom.

"Mary—woman!" cried the old man, trembling—"Call me not feyther—thou art none of mine—thou hast no feyther now—nor I a daughter—thou art a serpent that hath stung the bosom that cherished thee! Go to the fawning villain—the black-hearted sycophant that dragged thee from our arms—from our happy home to misery and pollution—go, and bless him for breaking thy poor old feyther's heart!"

Overcome by these heart-rending reproaches, the distressed girl fainted; but the strong arm of the young Cotter supported her—for her tender-hearted youth, moved by his fallen sister's sorrows, had ventured again to intercede.

"Hah! touch not her defiled and loathsome body," cried the old man—"thrust her from the door, and let her find a grave where she may. Boy! wilt thou dare disobey me?" and he raised his clenched hand, while anger flashed from his eye.

"Strike! feyther—strike me!" said the poor lad, bursting into tears—"fell me to the 'arth! Kill me, an thou wilt—I care not—I will never turn my heart agen poor Mary!—Bean't she my sister? Did thee not teach me to love her?—Poor lass!—she do want it all now, feyther—for she be downcast and broken-hearted!—Nay, thee art kind and good, feyther—know thee art—I zee thine eyes be full o' tears—and thee—thee woant cast her away from thee, I know thee woant. Mother, speak to 'un; speak to sister Mary too—it be our own Mary! Doant 'ee kill her wi' unkindness!"

The old man, moved by his affectionate entreaties, no longer offered any opposition to his son's wishes, but hiding his face in his hands, he fled from the affecting scene to an adjoining room.

Her venerable mother having recovered from the shock of her lost daughter's sudden appearance, now rose to the assistance of the unfortunate, and by the aid of restoratives brought poor Mary to the full sense of her wretchedness. She was speedily conveyed to the same humble pallet, to which, in the days of her innocence and peace, she had always retired so light-hearted and joyously, but where she now found a lasting sleep—an eternal repose!—Yes, poor Mary died!—and having won the forgiveness and blessing of her offended parents, death was welcome to her.—Absurdities: in Prose and Verse.

ORIGINS AND INVENTIONS

No. XXVII.
VAUXHALL GARDENS

(For the Mirror.)

 
"Here waving groves a checkered scene display,
And part admit, and part exclude the day."
 

POPE.

Of the origin of these enchanting gardens, Mr. Aubrey, in his "Antiquities of Surrey," gives us the following account;—"At Vauxhall, Sir Samuel Morland built a fine room, anno 1667, the inside all of looking-glass, and fountains very pleasant to behold, which is much visited by strangers: it stands in the middle of the garden, covered with Cornish slate, on the point of which he placed a punchinello, very well carved, which held a dial, but the winds have demolished it." And Sir John Hawkins, in his "History of Music," has the following account of it:—"The house seems to have been rebuilt since the time that Sir Samuel Morland dwelt in it. About the year 1730, Mr. Jonathan Tyers became the occupier of it, and, there being a large garden belonging to it, planted with a great number of stately trees, and laid out in shady walks, it obtained the name of Spring Gardens; and the house being converted into a tavern, or place of entertainment, was much frequented by the votaries of pleasure. Mr. Tyers opened it with an advertisement of a Ridotto al Fresco, a term which the people of this country had till that time been strangers to. These entertainments were repeated in the course of the summer, and numbers resorted to partake of them. This encouraged the proprietor to make his garden a place of musical entertainment, for every evening during the summer season. To this end he was at great expense in decorating the gardens with paintings; he engaged a band of excellent musicians; he issued silver tickets at one guinea each for admission, and receiving great encouragement, he set up an organ in the orchestra, and, in a conspicuous part of the garden, erected a fine statue of Mr. Handel." These gardens are said to be the first of the kind in England; but they are not so old as the Mulberry Gardens, (on the spot now called Spring Gardens, near St. James's Park,) where king Charles II. went to regale himself the night after his restoration, and formed an immediate connexion with Mrs. Palmer, afterwards Duchess of Cleveland. The trees, however, are more than a century old, and, according to tradition, were planted for a public garden. This property was formerly held by Jane Fauxe, or Vaux, widow, in 1615; and it is highly probable (says Nichols) that she was the relict of the infamous Guy. In the "Spectator," No. 383, Mr. Addison introduces a voyage from the Temple Stairs to Vauxhall, in which he is accompanied by his friend, Sir Roger de Coverley. In the "Connoisseur," No. 68, we find a very humourous description of the behaviour of an old penurious citizen, who had treated his family here with a handsome supper. The magnificence of these gardens calls to recollection the magic representations in the "Arabian Nights' Entertainments," where

 
"The blazing glories, with a cheerful ray,
Supply the sun, and counterfeit the day."
 

Grosely, in his "Tour to London,"⁴ says, (relating to Ranelagh and Vauxhall,) "These entertainments, which begin in the month of May, are continued every night. They bring together persons of all ranks and conditions; and amongst these, a considerable number of females, whose charms want only that cheerful air, which is the flower and quintessence of beauty. These places serve equally as a rendezvous either for business or intrigue. They form, as it were, private coteries; there you see fathers and mothers, with their children, enjoying domestic happiness in the midst of public diversions. The English assert, that such entertainments as these can never subsist in France, on account of the levity of the people. Certain it is, that those of Vauxhall and Ranelagh, which are guarded only by outward decency, are conducted without tumult and disorder, which often disturb the public diversions of France. I do not know whether the English are gainers thereby; the joy which they seem in search of at those places does not beam through their countenances; they look as grave at Vauxhall and Ranelagh as at the Bank, at church, or a private club. All persons there seem to say, what a young English nobleman said to his governor, Am I as joyous as I should be?"

P. T. W.