 | CHAPTER XXXVIII. Forest life |  |
38. CHAPTER XXXVIII.
The gate with pearles and rubyes richly dight,
Through which her words so wise do make their way,
To beare the message of her gentle spright.
Spenser.
I hope the reader has not forgotten Mr. Sibthorpe.
If he has, it must be because we have not
succeeded in introducing him so meaningly as we
meant to do. Our acquaintance with him and his
family was one of those short-lived pleasures
which so often gleam upon life's path only to
disappear and leave it darker than before.
I shall give some account of their American experience,
because their short story may be considered
as a sketch of a class which is constantly
becoming more numerous among us. I think them
worth describing, because they were entirely free
from that silly arrogance of which some of their
countrymen who find it convenient to reside in
the United States are justly accused.
Mr. Sibthorpe's person and manner, dress and
ideas were all so thoroughly English, that the
dullest of my countrymen could not bid him good
evening as he passed him on the road in the twilight
without saying to himself, “There goes a John
by the affability and kindness of his demeanor,
that if he had remained a little longer within reach
of our good-will, it would have gone hard but we
had made him a justice of the peace at the very
least, if not something still more dignified, in
spite of himself.
One peculiarity marked our friend which I think
was never noted of so stout a gentleman before.
He was the most scheming and visionary of men.
His round, shining head was ever full of projects,
great or small, for himself or others. He should
(by rule) have been tall and slender, with all the
indications of the temperament scientifically designated
as “nervous-sanguine;” and a head whose
developments should form little hills and dales
upon the cranium. But his kind easiness of disposition,
or something else, had rounded out head
and body until there were no inequalities left to
theorize upon. As a still further contradiction,
though almost a Bacchus in contour, he was stoical
in his indifference to personal accommodation and
indulgence. So that we can heartily say, “May
his shadow never be less!” since the substance
gives him no sort of inconvenience.
When I first visited Mrs. Sibthorpe, I found her
in a small and very inconvenient house, to which
several workmen were engaged in building an additional
part, on a much more tasteful plan, although
and discomfort, as far as household arrangements
were concerned. Every corner was strewed with
boards, bricks, lime, and all the endless list of
etceteras which carpenters and masons take care to
scatter on all sides to give an air of importance to
their business. The floors were uncarpeted and
the windows were hung with paper curtains. The
room was almost unfurnished, for it had not been
judged best to open the boxes of household goods,
which were stored at some distance, until the dirt
and confusion which accompanies building any
where, and in this country above all, should be out
of the way.
The lady, a handsome woman of perhaps thirty
or more, was seated on a rough bench, such as is
sometimes used in farmers' kitchens, giving a lesson
in geography to a pretty little girl, Mr. Sibthorpe's
daughter by a former marriage. A small-sized
globe stood on the bench between them. Mrs.
Sibthorpe's eyes, shaded by a wilderness of ebon
curls, were black, and quick and piercing, and her
speech was correspondingly rapid and decided.
She spoke with a strong English accent, (which
does not mean cockneyism, whatever some of us
may think,) and her conversation evinced at once
the woman of the world and the romantic enthusiast—a
rare combination certainly, but in this case
a very delightful one. Her manners were those of
fresh and artless enough for a Swiss mountain girl,
or a native of our own bright West.
She received us with frank cordiality, and with
scarcely a reference to the scene of confusion in
which we found her, though the bench on which
she was sitting formed a tolerably fair specimen of
the whole temporary arrangement. A small writing-table,
with implements of bronze and silver,
stood in a corner, and a handsome arm-chair was
wheeled round for me, contrasting oddly enough
with the bare floor and the paper-shaded windows.
But the lady did not need the appliances which are
all in all to the mere fashionable.
She was one in whose company one forgets
chairs and tables. She was not so unwise, however,
as to disdain the aid of dress, and, though
surrounded by coarse objects, she herself was
critically nice and lady-like in her appointments;
and she seemed, with her bright smiles and her
animated manner, to irradiate that rude cottage
parlor.
Her table too—I dwell on these things partly
because Mrs. Sibthorpe belonged to a much calumniated
class of women, who, because they wear
blue stockings occasionally, are supposed not to
know how to wear any other, and partly because
I do love to talk about Mrs. Sibthorpe,—the table
was laid with English precision; and although the
fare was plain enough, it was perfectly well served.
I certainly envied the Sibthorpes the three
or four English servants who moved like clockwork
through their several duties, in spite of the
discouraging aspect of things around them. Something
that looked very much like a carpenter's
bench served as a side table, but it was covered
with delicate damask, and the sober-looking attendant
used it as gravely as if it had been mahogany
or marble.
The lady herself had evidently never yet known
any of the solicitudes of an American housekeeper
in the country. Her whole heart was in the
conversation, and the conversation was as far as
possible from all reference to those commonplace
affairs which fill the souls of so many of us. This
was perhaps the more noticeable and enviable to
me, because I am—habitually if not naturally—
one whom cares devour, and who finds in the
minute attention required by the impossibility of
being well served in the woods, a dead weight
forever counterbalancing the pleasure to be derived
from the most interesting or brilliant conversation.
This is a weakness, I know,—but it finds some
apology in the weakness of others. Who cannot
recollect, among his friends or visitors, some one
who is made utterly uncomfortable by the least
deficiency in the ménage? Such people abound
in the United States as well as elsewhere,—people
in whom “a taste for physical well-being,”—
taken the place of all other tastes. To entertain
such people, in this country, with only home-bred
domestics, is a very trying pleasure indeed. Small
philosophy becomes very necessary on both sides.
When Mr. and Mrs. Sibthorpe returned our visit,
they had experienced some difficulties in consequence
of the marriage of one of the maids with
an excellent man-servant who had been Mr. Sibthorpe's
factotum, and who now bought land with
his wages, and assumed the position of country
neighbor instead of that of faithful domestic.
However, as the newly-married couple were living
quite near them, they still had the benefit of their
occasional services, and were in the mean time
making diligent inquiry after others, who might at
least be trained to fill their places. Mrs. Sibthorpe
was in fine spirits, boasting that she had learned to
make bread, and was even taking lessons in making
butter; and declaring that she really believed the
best thing that could happen to her would be the
desertion of all her servants in time, in order that
the domestic employments which she felt to be so
rational and so healthful, might become compulsory,
at least long enough to oblige her to obtain
an insight into their mysteries.
It was delightful to see her taking her inoculation
thus kindly, and we found her gaiety and good-humor
more charming than ever.
The next time we visited Newton Grange we
turned up, making an attempt at a pie. The only
maid who still remained with her was prostrate
with ague, and Mr. Sibthorpe himself had experienced
a shake or two, and sat in the corner of the
great kitchen fireplace, looking doleful, to be sure.
The account of things was now somewhat shaded.
The bright tints which had been cast upon the
manufacture of bread and butter were dimmed a
little. Mrs. Sibthorpe had laid aside her rings, and
left the papillotes in her ringlets. A dress scarcely
suited to woodland kitchening was defended by an
apron borrowed from the maid. This said maid,
a devoted and excellent creature, had her little bed
in a corner of the kitchen, with the double view
of making the care of her chill days less laborious,
and of aiding her mistress in the household duties,
by suggestions, and hints, and cautions, which were
delivered with most amusing apologies, and ceaseless
regrets that such business should fall into such
hands. “O ma'am,—if you please—the kettle
is boiling over! dear me! if I could but lift it
off myself! This hager is the hoddest thing!
yesterday I was quite stout—oh, please, ma'am,
—don't scald yourself!—O ma'am! I beg your
pardon—but the nasty pig is come in at the
door, and has got at master's gruel!”
Mrs. Sibthorpe's spirits were almost as good as
ever, and she found amusement in all the vexatious
crosses of her present lot. Her husband was far
and sacrifices made by his wife, while he,
only half sick, but quite useless, sat looking on, “a
sad and silent cipher.”
And all this time no assistance to be procured in
any department. Ague is very impartial in its
visits, and often puts an entire neighborhood down
at once, so that it not unfrequently occurs that
there are not enough able persons in a whole district
to attend properly to the sick.
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