Reuben and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Kitchen of the Inn. Mrs. Riccard sitting at a table with tea-things on it.
Mrs. Riccard.
Come, Margaret, come to supper; get them out:
It's time they were gone home.—Well, folks that keep
A public-house work harder for their living
Than he that breaks stones on the public road.
He stops when wearied, has the cheerful run
Of all the passers-by, yet none to serve.
His day ends with the dusk; his humble cot
Is his while in it; and when Night and Sleep
Go through the villages from door to door,
Gathering to blessed rest, he can obey.
And when the morning's level beam walks in
Upon his lowly floor, he wakes, as if
It were an angel stirring in the house—
Wakes gently and refresh'd: then plods to work,
Over the beaded grass, with songs of birds,
Pelting like raining music in his ears.—
Not such our life who must the public serve.
Though weary unto death we may not stop;
Fresh comers must be served. Our one day ends
Just where the next begins—at twelve at night!
There is no room in all this roomy house
But may be anybody's for three ha'pence—
And a glass of ale to the bargain. Any lout
May order like a lord; we humbly wait,

Screwing our faces to a gracious smile.
The cock that crows up all pure-living things,
Warns us, like guilty spectres, to our lairs,
To restless unregenerate repose;
And when we wake we scarce can name the day,
Our calendar having run all into one.—
But then, it pays, and money mends it all.
With us the worst is over: speedy wealth
Will give us long retirement. Best of days
Are those that fight up through a blustering morn;
And having clear'd the rifted clouds by noon,
Break out in azure, and go blithely down
The long slope of a sunny afternoon.—
Come, Margaret—come, my lass, I yawn for sleep;
Mine eyes nip and grow rheumy. Get them out—
It's little they'll drink now.—There is some wit
In knowing when to fill, when not to fill;
And there's a knack in getting people out.
When drink won't pay for light, it's time to stop.—
Now, come—are those two gone?

Enter Margaret.
Margaret.

Gone! bless yo, no. They seem set in for a two hours' sit, at least; and even that won't finish their subject. If I fill them another glass in half an hour, they'll not be half a minute advanced in their argument. It keeps no pace with the clock, and seems, indeed, more fitted for eternity than time. They

never meet, these two, but they are at it, as keen as knives and forks at a cheap dinner; but I see in them no corresponding diminution either of appetite or eatables. Their arguments are like splashing in water; they make a great frothy noise; but when that ceases, we find no impression made: the water might never have been touched, barring that it is muddier than they found it. Each seems not so much to listen to what the other says as to what himself says; not so much to consider what the other has said, as what he himself shall say next.

Mrs. Riccard.

You see they are both already full, each of his own conviction. Though both strive to convince, yet neither will hold any more; and that is why both speak, but neihter listens. I have always seen that gentlemen whose minds are made up and comfortably settled, the moment one begins a-talking to them, they likewise begin. It is like filling bottles that are already full.—But, Margaret, let me tell you this: you allow that Reuben too much his own way. You lay yourself too open to him. Men will push themselves far enough into a woman's affections without facilities given on her part. One in your position should be fenced about with thorns.

Margaret.

Now, mother, have you not often said that a pretty girl in a public-house—if she be judicious enough—is the making of it? Have you not often hinted to me

not to be too abrupt with gentlemen, but to linger rather over the serving of them, and give each of them, in turn, the smiling side of my face, so that he in particular might think he was the favoured one? And have you not often said that a sensible girl might allow great familiarities without any danger—such as a chuck under the chin, an arm thrown about her waist, or even, at times, an attempted kiss?

Mrs. Riccard.

Yes, through the fence; but the thorns should interfere, and make the intruder draw back.

Margaret.

Why, so they do. O, I can be throny enough, and sweet enough too—thorns and honeysuckle twined together. I'll warrant you, none shall take the one without feeling the other.

Mrs. Riccard.

I fear you with none so much as Reuben; and that is the reason of my counsel. For, looking through the lattice here into the bar to-night, I could see him fondling you, and pressing you to his lips, and devouring all your sweet breath, as if you had been a plucked rose that had lost its barbs; and I could see no attempt on your part to cast him off. Now, this is wrong—quite wrong—and very dangerous. Had he been a man of standing among folks;—if he had money, property, or a good business; if he had been a marriageable sort of man, it would have been another thing,

I could have said nothing; for, Margaret, you are getting into years, and must not lose your market. But him! Who is he? Nobody! What is he? Nothing! He is not known among respectable folks. Poor, drunken, half-witted creatures reckon a deal of him; but that is a bad sign. He spends all he gets, and has nothing to fall back upon. Like most other of your hangers-on, I daresay he thinks if he could get you he would have nothing to do but hang up his hat —which is all his moveable property—and sit himself down, with all his personal effects.

Margaret.

A little more sugar in this—I mean a little more tea —yet, wait a little till I taste again. Well, I don't know what it wants.

Mrs. Riccard.
Why, child, your lips have lost all taste.

Margaret.

Ay, so it seems—at least your lecturing would make it appear so.

Mrs. Riccard.

My lecturing! Oh! Well, my lass, you know it's for your own good. If a husband were a thing for gratifying your lips merely, I should not object even to Reuben; but a husband cannot be held as a sweetmeat and no more, he cannot be shut up in a cupboard, a secret to all but yourself. No, the world

persists in knowing that you have a husband; and, go where you may, his reputation goes with you, whether he be there or not. A woman rises or sinks to her husband's level—loses her own character and name, and takes on his. She is no longer whom she was, but So-and-so's wife. And as nothing but substance now-a-days can raise people up, we that are up should beware of being dragged down. Above all things, Margaret, shun a poor man. Look at your cousins, they are all respectably married. What would they say—what would the world say—if you were to marry the like of Reuben?

Margaret.

Why, mother, what makes you talk of marriage in earnest? I thought it was only your usual mirth that was venting itself. You know my reasons well enough for playing with these men-mice. I can crush any of them on the instant when it suits me. Trust me, I know better than you seem to be aware of how far to let them transgress into my favours. As for going the length of marriage! bless your heart! and with Reuben too! a man we should have to keep. Why, to suggest such a thing is equal to suspecting that I am not your daughter.

Mrs. Riccard.

I am not so much afraid that you go the length of marriage, as that you overstep it and go farther.

Margaret.

Ah, I see what you mean, but there again you belie

your own maternity. Am I not of your own bringing up, mother? I do just as you would do were you as I am, and kept pace with the times. If I seem in your eyes to outrage discretion a little, just reflect how manners are changed since you were young.

Mrs. Riccard.

Aye, manners are changed, like dress; but when young folks come together, and love gets in between them, the ancient souls and bodies of all our young days are found breaking through both manners and dress. The blood of our first parents runs down all the centuries, and this is seen in nothing so much as in the love between man and woman. I would not have you trust too much to the custom of the times. It is but the froth upon life's stream. Old nature runs strong beneath it, and is ever tumbling up and shouldering aside the giddy bubbles. Your changed manners are not a footing that I could like to venture on. If they are the glittering froth upon the stream, they are also the treacherous ice. People skip gaily enough over it for a time, but a sudden stroke of nature, like a sunbeam, melts it, and they fall through.—

(Knocking within.)

Give them no more drink, but get them out. [Exit Margaret.

I have no fear of her, for she is one
That ever keeps upon the windward side
Of any one she copes with, let them sail
As close as skill can steer them. I have seen
Full many a bouncing gallant thrown aback,

Quite baffled and wind-shaken in the attempt
To take the breezes out of her full sails,
And reach a tack beyond her. Yet 'tis well
That I at times should bring her to the chart
To see how fares her voyage; for to-night
I fear she ventured too far off her course,
And fell among the pirates. If she still—
That time she seem'd so rudely overhaul'd—
Made but a feint and overhaul'd the pirate,
She outreaches even me. So I'll to bed
And dream of old scenes. I have talked myself
Back to the time when from my father's door
I've gazed whole hours, with my roaming thoughts
Quite lost upon the sea. From our bleak coast
It stretched far out until it met the sky,
And both seem'd rounded with a belt of sleep.
Sometimes white sails would dip into my sight,
And pass away like beings in a dream;
And sometimes, when a rattling breeze was on,
And sea and sky, sunshine and flakes of cloud,
Were blown about together, troops of ships
Would pass our way. Ah! 'twas a gallant sight
To see some leap and bound before the gale,
And lay their black sides in the hissing wave,
Whilst others battled up against the wind,
And veer'd and tack'd, and came so near the shore
That we could see the features of the crew,
And hear them speak,—whiles in strange foreign tongues.
And there were fishermen upon our coast—
Squat, red-faced men, that smelt of bait and lines,

And one old man, with hoar, sea-batter'd face,
Came often to our house. Ah me, the tales
He told us of the sea! And as he spoke,
He roll'd about a huge quid in his cheek,
And peer'd around with moist and wandering eyes,
As if the dim horizon still he search'd
For some expected sail. And in the midst
Of the most breathless passages he stopp'd
And blash'd the black juice out upon the hearth,
Then with his hard palm wiped the wicks o' his mouth,
And to his tale. He brimm'd so of the sea,
His merest look or motion blabb'd it out;
And, like a shell press'd to the listening ear,
Though dead he would have sounded of the sea.

A weird-like bleakness hung about our coast,
And crept a far way inland on the moors—
A very wilderness of doleful sounds.
And everything was stunted in its growth:
The most unearthly trees, all bent one way,
Knotty and blasted. When the sea-wind brought
The haur and rain, and drove them up the holmes,
Our trees seem'd terror-struck: like skinny hags
They stood, with rags and loose bewilder'd hair
Streaming before them, and long wither'd arms,
All pointing to one terror, whilst the wind
Beat as 'twould force them on it. And at night
Both sea and land were cross'd by wandering lights—
In sooth, it was a very old-world place.
It comes upon me with a fear-ful love.

Enter Margaret.

Now make all straight for the night, and get to bed.

[Exit Mrs. Riccard.

Margaret.

And when I get I shall not sleep.—His lips
Ran over me like fire; and as he went,
I thought he would have parted with his soul
In that long, wild, last kiss. I sleep! Oh, all
The pulses of my life are twice awake!
My heart beats in my brain—yet in my breast—
And here, and here—I am all one beating heart!—
None loves me more than he, and but for pride
I should confess I love none more than him.
Well, no one hears me, and I will confess;
Our faults are turn'd to virtues by confession.
Then to my own ear my own tongue confides
The secret of my love. I that have held
Love as a weakness, and with mettled nerve
Withstood the blast of many forging hearts
Unmelted, even unblister'd, while they burn'd
Themselves to ashes—when the true heat comes,
Have found myself most malleable—so soft
That he might mould me into any shape.
And would I could be shaped to fit his breast!
Ah, Reuben! Reuben! Reuben! that dear name
Comes like a wave upon my thirsty soul;
And I could keep repeating Reuben, Reuben,
Until he came himself, like a high spring-tide,
And fill'd the bay of my out-reaching arms.

So now I have confess'd: what then? what next?

I'll wake to-morrow like a drunken man,
And find I have been a fool; and turning to
This dish of love—life's cream, so sweet to-night—
I'll find it sour and curdled. Day's clear thought
Is to the yesternight a glass, from which
It often shrinks at sight of its own face,
Abash'd as painted beauty when it sees
Itself next morning after a late-up ball.
Heart rules evening and night—head, morn and day;
And heart-love will not bear the head's reflection.
Yet, if the world would keep away its head,
I could hood-wink my own, and be love-blest
With my poor heart's election. But the choice
Of husbands, raiment, modes of life, and friends,
Belongs all to the world, is no more ours
Than choice of parentage, or place of birth.
We only think it is. My mother looks
On this, my heart's affair, as would the world,
And as my after judgment must approve,
When this sweet fever passes from my brain;
For, like a hot day, love is wrapt in haze;
Its beauties are near-sighted. I may trust
My mother's eye, which in my picture sees
A miserable background. Were he one
That boded higher rising, there were time,
Good time, for us hereafter. But he sets
No count on high estate, and even sneers
At my allusion to it. If I lean
The least on my position, he lets fall,
As if by accident, some lumbering word
That knocks away my prop, and makes me feel

No better than a milk-maid. He affects
Not low but lowly company—poor folks;
And, while he seems like one that ought to float
Among the better sort, I find he sinks—
Like wood that one picks up along the shore—
But yet he sinks not lower than my heart;
Too low, yet high enough—and there's the plague.—
Would that I had no cousins, that there might
Be no comparisons 'tween them and me.
For though well match'd, I've often jeer'd them both
About their plodding husbands, and extoll'd
The better marketry they might have made.
This curbs my heart's free action. They must feel
How proudly I have ridden the high horse;
And if I marry Reuben, what a fall!—
I'll straightway cease to love him—if I can;
And then, what matter though he still love me?
I have some thirty in my toils besides,
All adding to our custom—and, indeed,
It's not my part to drive them from the house.—
Yet, after all, to abuse the thing we love,
Or even once loved, is a heavy shame
That hangs about the bottom of one's heart.
And he must ever be that thing to me.—
I'll break this love-bond slowly, so that he
May never know the breaking. My heart's change
Shall cross him like the seasons of the year.
The summer of my love will pass, and be
Succeeded by another season's joy;
Each filling up the voided heart. Thus I
Will wear him on to winter ere he know,

Then shut myself, like Nature, up in ice,
When he of choice will leave the frozen thing.—
He comes to-morrow evening to our dance.
I'll trip a reel of ‘Cumberland’ with him—
It is his favourite—and after that
My love-leaves shall begin to droop.—Good night—
Another sweet good-night go after thee,
My Reuben—this night more I call thee mine.
To-night I'll let my dreams loose, and like bees
To fields of clover, they will swarm to thee;
And having revell'd, Bacchanalian like,
On thy rich blooms of love, they will come back
Loaded with love to me; and all night through,
My brain will hum with dreams—hum like a hive.