University of Virginia Library

29. XXIX.
THE GREENWICH FAMILY.

In a small, old-fashioned apartment, with a tall chest of drawers,
with brass handles, on one side, a suspended book-case on the other,
and an ancient clock, with weights and pendulum swinging almost
to the floor, in the corner, the Greenwich family might have been
found assembled, early one winter's evening. Near the centre of
the room was a table, at which sat the squire, with spectacles on
his nose, a worn and venerable volume open before him, and his
snuff-box at his left hand. Behind him, in an obscure position,
sat the meek Mrs. Greenwich, knitting. At the end of the table
was Etty, the genius, engaged upon a poetical composition, her
large, high forehead shining like marble, as she leaned over her
paper in the light. Last, not least, was Robert, in the corner
opposite the clock, with his head on his breast, his arms folded,
and his legs stretched out towards the stove.

“How many varses have you composed, my child?” whispered
Mrs. Greenwich, behind her husband's back.

“Five,” replied Etty, with a perplexed look. “I 'm trying to
find a rhyme to crystal; then I shall have six.”

“Pistol,” suggested Mrs. Greenwich.

“Mrs. Greenwich!” said the squire, in a grave tone, “are
you aware that I am reading?”

“O!” exclaimed the lady, obsequiously.

Silence again. The old gentleman reading; Etty puzzling her
unhappy brain over her composition; Robert chewing the cud of
meditation in the corner. Presently Mrs. Greenwich moved her
chair carefully back, with a smile of maternal encouragement
brightening in her face.

“Can you make pistol do?”

“Mrs. Greenwich!” said the squire's precise accents, “how
many times must I request not to be disturbed when that I am
reading?” He pushed his book across the table, shoved back his
chair, raised his spectacles above his eyebrows, and rapped the lid
of his snuff-box. Mrs. Greenwich trembled; Etty sighed; Robert
crossed his legs and scowled. A family lecture was expected.
Whilst the old gentleman was clearing his throat, and pursing up
his mouth into a patriarchal grimace, his wife hazarded an explanation.

“Etty could n't find a rhyme to crystal, and I thought it would
do no harm to help her a little. Poor child! she does n't receive
any too much encouragement —”

Mr. Greenwich raised his hand. That hand meant silence; and
silence ensued.

“Daughter?”

“What!”

“Daughter?”

Etty, more lady-like: “What, sir?”

“Why did you not respond, when that I addressed you
before?”

“I did, sir.”

“What did you say, daughter?”

Etty, hesitating: “I said — what.”

“Was that a response, daughter?”

“No, sir.”

“That is all. Remember. Now, what is the rhyme?”

“A rhyme to crystal.”

“I thought pistol was good,” Mrs. Greenwich ventured to
interpose.

“There 's a rhyme for you, Etty, ready cocked and primed,”
said Robert, with gloomy humor, from the corner.

“Mrs. Greenwich! Robert! I am speaking. Respect the
paternal head! Daughter?”

“What, father?”

“Name the subject of your composition.”

“`The Fair Nun's Complaint,'” said Etty, readily.

“It is absurd,” returned the paternal head, with a look at Mrs.
Greenwich, which expressed his opinion of her capacity, “to suggest
a rhyme, without regard to the subject of the composition.
What has the `Fair Nun's Complaint' to do with pistols?”

Mrs. Greenwich, simpering: “I thought Etty could work it in,
she 's so ingenious!”

Mr. Greenwich, with a significant nod: “That will do, Mrs.
Greenwich! Now to the poem.” — The genius read a stanza. —
“Very creditable, my daughter. Subject, Fair Nun's Complaint;
quatrains; octosyllabic measure, with redundant syllable at the
end of first and third lines; rhyme required to crystal. Now for
our rules. What is the body of the word?”

That was found to be ystal; and the application of rules consisted
in finding among consonant sounds another head to match
the decapitated word. Father and daughter went through with
the alphabet together, but without success. Heads were plenty
enough, but, as Robert moodily suggested from his corner, the
difficulty was to find one that had sense in it. An endless variety
of such combinations as bystal, cystal, dystal, down to zystal, were
manufactured, not one of which existed in any known dictionary.
There was a solitary exception. It was the word pystal, or
pistol.

“Pistol,” said Mr. Greenwich, “appears, then, to be our only
perfect rhyme.”

“What did I tell you, Etty?” spoke up the mother, with a
gleam of triumph.

“Mrs. Greenwich,” observed the paternal head, with stern precision,
“your assistance is NOT required.”

“O!” — and Mrs. Greenwich settled down again, with an annihilated
expression.

“What do we do in the case, daughter?” said the squire.

Etty replied that where no perfect rhymes would answer, imperfect
ones might be used.

“Then,” said Robert, “what do you say to whistle? If your
nun, with the tears of crystal, only knew how to whistle, you would
be provided for; you could bring it in finely. Or gristle, or sizzle,
— you have plenty of such rhymes. How would drizzle do?”

“Son Robert, you amaze me!” uttered the paternal head, with
a look of solemn displeasure. Then turning to Etty: “Daughter,
I have the required rhyme. It is a felicitous word, inasmuch as
that it is in perfect keeping with your subject. It is vestal. A
nun may be called a vestal. I trust to your happy talent to make
fitting use of it in the structure of the lines.”

But Robert's ridicule was too much for the sensitive child; and
the discovery of a fine rhyme was no consolation for his sarcasm.
She was crying.

“Hem!” coughed the paternal head, moving in his chair. He
drew up his book, and shoved it from him again; wiped his spectacles,
and saddled them once more on his eyebrows; then took
another pinch of snuff. “You may put aside your varses for the
present, daughter. Mrs. Greenwich, will you oblige me by dispensing
with your knitting-work, and bestowing attention upon
my remarks? Son Robert, a more respectful attitude will be
quite as becoming in listening to what your father has to say.
When that all appear prepared to hear, I will proceed.”

Robert changed his position by crossing his legs in a contrary
direction, and clasping his hands over his head, instead of behind
his chair. A deep silence followed, broken only by the purring
of the cat, as she rubbed her neck affectionately against the old
lady's dress, and by the slow ticking of the old clock in the
corner.

Mr. Greenwich, impressively: “We are waiting for Robert.”

“O, waiting for me? What can I do for you, sir?”

“If you do not perceive, we will wait until that you do.”

Whether Robert knew from experience that his father would
keep his word, and wait all night, if necessary, in the same fearful
silence, or whether he reflected that it was injudicious to
provoke the paternal displeasure too openly, he yielded the point,
and assumed a more decorous attitude.

“Son Robert,” then said the old gentleman, placing the book
on his knees, and laying his spectacles upon it, “your conduct has
failed of pleasing me of late, and I have treasured a few words
for your edification. A fit occasion to deliver them hath arrived.”
Then followed a tedious discourse, of half an hour's duration, on

the subject of family discipline, reverence to the paternal head,
and kindred topics, with a particular application to Robert's case.
“But this is not all. The report is, son Robert, that you indulge
in dram-drinking; and you have carried your disregard for my
wishes so far as to smoke cigars even in my own house.” Thereupon
the paternal head took a violent pinch of snuff. “You may
reply that you are of an age to regulate your own conduct in this
respect. I will forestall the remark, by saying that no child of
mine is of an age to transgress my commands beneath my own
roof. Your other irregularities have not escaped public censure,
and I have more than once taken occasion to remind you of your
derelictions. Your instability of character has become notorious.
When that you returned from Mobile, where you had an excellent,
lucrative situation, you gave as an excuse, that you had taken a
summer vacation, to avoid the extreme heat of the climate. But,
the summer over, you must be posting off to the north, in search
of new employment. Now, there is another change; and you have
some mysterious business on your hands, which you will communicate
to nobody. You go and come, as the whim takes you;
appearing to make my house a sort of den to hide in, and acting
more like a culprit than a son of respectable 'Squire Greenwich.
Your disposition, moreover, exhibits the effect of idle habits, inasmuch
as that you are morose and sullen, and that your principal
pleasure appears to consist in ridiculing your sister's noble aims.
I need not again remind you that all this is to be reformed. You
will now please withdraw, and ponder what has been said. Daughter,
I have a few remarks for you.”

Without a word, Robert rose, and went to his chamber. Half
an hour later, his door was pushed open, and Etty looked timidly
in. He sat before his desk, leaning his face upon his clenched
hands, with an unfinished letter lying before him in the lamp-light.
The child's eyes were red with weeping, but she had dried
her tears, which her brother so much hated, and she was trying
very hard to look cheerful, as she approached the desk.

“What do you want?” What she wanted was but a simple
and easy thing to grant. The poor child could not sleep that
night without telling him how sorry she was to have displeased

him, and to ask his forgiveness. But his tone and manner frightened
her. “Come here,” said he, as she stood shrinking before
him. “Did you want to see what I was writing? Read it!”

He extended the manuscript, and, as she bent forward, confused
and trembling, to obey, struck her with it upon the cheek.

“Is it interesting?” said he, with a malicious laugh.

“O, Robert! I did not mean —”

“That will do, my dear. Thank you for your interest in my
affairs. In return, I 'll give you another rhyme for your crystal.
It is mizzle. In familiar colloquy, it signifies vamose; cut stick;
make yourself scarce; evaporate; in short, go away. Do you
understand?”

With a bursting heart, holding her hand to her face, Etty hastened
to relieve him of her hated presence, and, retreating to her
room, threw herself upon her pillow in convulsions of girlish
grief.