University of Virginia Library

“The Thane of Fife,” said some one, “hath a wife;”
And so had Ephraim—a precise old dame,
Looking like ancient waxwork; her small face,
Of lemon-coloured hue—framed closely round
With most elaborate quilling—puckered up
To such prim fixedness, the button mouth
Scarcely relaxed into a button-hole
When with a smile distended; and the eyes,
Two small black beads, but twinkled, never moved.
And mincing was her speech, and picked withal,
Dainty and delicate, as was her frame,
Like an old fairy's. She had spent her youth,
And prime, and middle age—two-thirds of life—
In service of a maiden gentlewoman
Of the old buckram sort, wellnigh extinct,
Prudent, and formal, and fantastical,
Much given to nervous tremors and hysterics,
Flutterings and qualms, and godly books, and tales
Of true love crossed, and dreams, and pious courtship.
Of that soft sisterhood was Mistress Martha,
On one-legged bullfinches and wheezing lapdogs
Who lavish sympathies long run to waste,
“Since that unhappy day”—'twas her own phrase,
Mysterious, unexplained—oft hinted at
In memory's melting mood to faithful Prissey,
With sighs deep fetched, and watery upturned eyes
Glancing unutterable things, where hung,
Enshrined in shagreen case, a miniature,
Set round with garnets, in a true-love knot
Wreathed at the top, the portraiture within
Of a slim, pink-and-white young gentleman
In bag and solitaire, and point cravat,
With a peach-blossomed coat—“Ah, Prissey! Prissey!
Good girl! remember”—so the lady still
Addressed her handmaiden, when forty years
And five, full told, her girlhood had matured—
“Men are deceivers all—put no faith in them;
But live and die a chaste and peaceful maid.”
With decent grief Priscilla to the grave
Followed her monitress, and that day month
To Ephraim (who had waited for his wife
With patriarchal patience), nothing loath,
Plighted her virgin troth.

Came with the bride
Into her husband's long-prepared home,
In carved oak chest, and trunks with gilded nails,
Curiously flourished, store of household stuff,
And goodly raiment—of the latter, much
Unfitting wear for decent humble folk
Knowing their station, as full well did they,
Keeping thereto with sense of self-respect,
Insuring that of others. But Priscilla,
A favoured handmaiden, and privileged,
Accustomed long to copy, half unconscious,
Her lady's speech, and habits, and attire—
(I well remember now her puffed-out kerchief,
Closed with a garnet pin, her black fringed mits,
And narrow velvet collar)—thought no wrong
On Sundays, and on suitable occasions,
To come forth, awful to the cottage children,
In rustling pomp of some grave coloured lustring,
Sprigged muslin apron, short black satin cloak,
A thought embrowned with age, but handsome still,
Edged round with rabbit skin, and on her head,
By long black pins secured to cap and cushion,
A bonnet—Mistress Martha's second best—
A velvet skimming-dish, flounced round with lace
Darned to a double pattern. Then her shoes!
Black velveteen, high-heeled, with silver buckles:
So in her glory did Priscilla shine
On holidays and high days. Then her wits,
In housewifery expedients rich, were taxed
To cut, convert, turn, twist, transmogrify
Incongruous elements to useful ends.
Triumph of female skill!—as by enchantment,
Even at the waving of the magic shears,
Sacks, petticoats, and negligees became
Waistcoats and breeches. Shade of Mistress Martha!
Saw ye the desecration? So on Sundays,
Donning brocaded vest, and nether garment
Quilted like wise King Jamie's, warm and rich,
His good drab broadcloth coat, with basket buttons,
Heired from his grandsire, making all complete
Of Ephraim's outward man, forth sallied he,
Doing discredit none to her whose eye
Glanced sidelong approbation, as they took
Leisurely, arm in arm, the churchward way.
No scholarship had Ephraim. A plain man,
Plain spoken, chary of his words, was he,
But full of reverence for Priscilla's claims
To knowledge, learning, and superior breeding.
Deep read was she in varied lore profound,—
Divinity, Romance, and Pharmacy,
And—so the neighbours whispered—in deep things
Passing the Parson's wisdom. Store of books,
The richest portion of the bridal dower,
Were ranged in goodly order on two shelves,
The third and topmost with choice porcelain piled,
Surmounting an old walnut-tree bureau;
The Holy Bible, cased in green shaloon,
And Book of Common Prayer, a fine black type,
Were laid conspicuous on the central spot,
As first in honour; flanked on either side
By ‘Taylor's Golden Grove,’ ‘The Pilgrim's Progress,’
And ‘Fox's Book of Martyrs.’ How I loved
To ransack those old tawny, well-thumbed leaves,
Supping my fill of horrors! Sermons too,
Discourses hydra-headed, had their place,
And ‘Hervey's Meditations 'mongst the Tombs,’
With courtly Grandison and ‘Pamela,’
All full of cuts—supreme delight to me!
And the true history—sweetly scented name!—
Of Jemmy and fair Jenny Jessamy.