University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
A BACHELOR'S BREAKFAST.

It is not often that our fair readers are admitted to the mysterious
domain which entertains a bachelor as its sovereign. They
fancy, the dear conceited little creatures, that such a province is a
very desolate one. They delude themselves with the vain notion
that, without the presence of some one or more of their mischievously
precious sex, a house, or garden, is scarcely habitable; and
that man, in such an abode, is perpetually sighing for some such

change as the tender sex only can impart. They look upon, as
quite orthodox, the language of Mr. Thomas Campbell, who sings—
But this is all vanity and delusion. We no where have any testimony
that the condition of Adam was thus disconsolate, before
Eve was stolen from his side, in order that she should steal to his
side. This is all a mistake. Adam did very well as a gardener,
and quite as well as a housekeeper, long before Eve was assigned
him as a helpmate, and was very comfortable in his sovereignty
alone. We know what evil consequences happened to his housekeeping
after she came into it, and what sort of counsellors she
entertained. Let it not, therefore, be supposed that we bachelors
can not contrive to get on, with our affairs exclusively under our
own management. I grant that there is a difference; but the
question occurs, `Is this difference for the worse in our case?'
Hardly! There is, confessedly, no such constant putting to rights,
as we always find going on in the households of married men.
But that is because there is no such need of putting to rights.
There is previously no such putting to wrongs, in such a household.
There, every thing goes on like clockwork. There is less
parade, I grant you; but there's no such fuss! Less neatness;
but no jarrings with the servants. To the uninitiated eye, things
appear in exemplary confusion; but the solitary head of the
household can extract order from this confusion at any moment.
It is a maze, but not without a plan. You will chafe, because
there is a want of neatness; but then our bachelor has quiet. Ah!
but you say, how lonesome it looks! But the answer is ready.
The bachelor is not, nevertheless, the inhabitant of a solitude.
His domain is peopled with pleasant thoughts and sweet visitors,
and, if he be a student, with sublime ones. He converses with
great minds, unembarrassed by the voices of little ones. He
communes with master spirits in antique books. These counsel
and teach him, without ever disputing what he says and thinks.
They fill, and instruct his soul, without vexing his self-esteem.
They bring music to his chamber, without troubling his ears with
noise. But, you say, he has none of the pleasures which spring
from his communion with children. You say that the association
with the young keeps the heart young; and you say rightly. But
the bachelor answers and says—if he has no children of his own,
he sees enough of his neighbours. They climb his fences, pilfer
his peaches, pelt his dog, and, as Easter approaches, break into his
fowl-yards and carry off his fresh eggs. Why should he seek for
children of his own, when his neighbours' houses are so prolific?
He could give you a long discourse, in respect to the advantages
of single blessedness,—that is, in the case of the man. In that of
the woman, the affair is more difficult and doubtful. He is not
prepared to deny that she ought to get married whenever she can
find the proper victim. To sum up, in brief, he goes and comes
when he pleases, without dreading a feminine authority. He
takes his breakfast at his own hours, and dines when in the humour,
and takes his ease at his inn. His sleep is undisturbed by
unpleasant fancies. He is never required to rise at night, no matter
how cold the weather, to see that the children are covered, or
to warm the baby's posset. Never starts with horror, and a chilling
shiver, at every scream, lest Young Hopeful, the boy, or
Young Beauty, the girl, has tumbled down stairs, bruizing nose,
or breaking leg or arm; and, if he stays out late o'nights, never
sneaks home, with unmanly terrors, dreading to hear no good of
himself when he gets there. At night, purring, in grateful reverie,
by his fireside, he makes pictures in his ignited coals, which
exhilarate his fancy. His cat sleeps on the hearth rug, confident
of her master, and never dreading the broomstick of the always
officious chambermaid; and the ancient woman who makes up his
bed, and prepares his breakfast, appears before him like one of
those seeming old hags of the fairy tale who turn out to be
princesses and good spirits in homely disguise.”

“See now,” said I to Ned Bulmer, as Tabitha the cook brought
in the breakfast things. “See now, the instance. Tabitha is not
comely. Far from it. Tabitha never was comely, even in the
days of her youth. Her nose is decidedly African, prononcé after
the very worst models. Her mouth, a spacious aperture at first,
has so constantly worked upon its hinges for fifty-six years, that
the lips have lost their elasticity and the valves remain apart, open
in all weathers. Her entire face is of this fashion. She looks like
one of the ugly men-women, black and bearded, such as they
collect on the heath, amidst thunder and lightning, for the encounter
with Macbeth. Yet, at a word, Tabitha will uncover the
dishes, and enable us, like the old lady in the fairy legend, to fill
our mouths with good things. Such is the bachelor's fairy. Take
my word for it, Ned, there's no life like that of a bachelor. Continue
one, if you are wise. Paula Bonneau is, no doubt, a delightful
little picture of mortality and mischief. But so was Pandora.
She has beauty, and sweetness, and many virtues, but she
will fill the house with cares, every one of which has a fearful
faculty of reduplication. Be a bachelor as long as you can, and
when the inevitable fate wills it otherwise, provide yourself with
all facilities for dying decently. Coffee, Tabitha.”

Such was the rambling exordium which I delivered to my
friend, rather with the view of discouraging his anticipations than
because I really entertained any such opinions. He answered me
in a huff.

“Pshaw! what nonsense is all this! Don't I know that if you
could get Beatrice Mazyck to-morrow, you'd change your blessed
bachelorhood into the much abused wedlock.”

“Fate may do much worse things for me, Ned, I grant you.”

“It is some grace in you to admit even so little. But don't
you speak again, even in sport, so disrespectfully of the marriage

condition. Don't I know the cheerlessness of yours. Talk of
your books and ancient philosophers! don't I know that you are
frequently in the mood to throw them into the fire; and, even
while you sit over it, the reveries which you find so delicious, are
those which picture to you another form, of the other gender, sitting
opposite you, with eyes smiling in your own, and sweet
lips responding at intervals to all the fondest protestations which
you can utter. Tabitha, indeed! I verily believe the old creature,
though faithful and devoted to you, grows sometimes hateful
in your eyes, as reminding you of her sex in the most disagreeable
manner;—a manner quite in discord to such fancies as your own
thoughts have conjured up. Isn't it so, Tabitha? Isn't Ned
sometimes monstrous cross, and sulky to you, only because you
haven't some young mistress, Tabitha?”

“I 'spec so, Mass Ned: he sometime mos' sick 'cause he so
lonesome yer. I tell um so. I say, wha' for, Mass Dick, you no get
you'se'f young wife for make your house comfortable, and keep
you company yer, in dis cold winter's a'coming. I 'spec its only
'cause he can't git de pusson he want.”

“True, every word of it, Tab! But never you mind. You'll
be surprised some day with another sort of person overlooking
your housekeeping. What do you think, Tabitha, of Miss Beatrice
Mazyck.”

“Hush, Ned!”

“She's a mighty fine young pusson, and a purty one too. I
don't tink I hab any 'jection to Miss Beatrice.”

“Very well! You're an accommodating old lady. She'll be
the one, be sure of it. So keep the house in order. You'll be
taken by surprise. Then we shall see very different arrangements
in the housekeeping here, Tabby. Do you suppose that she'd let
Dick lie abed till nine o'clock in the morning, and sit up, smoking
and drinking, till midnight?”

“Nebber, in dis world, Mass Ned.”

“And, if the power is with her, never in the next, Tabitha.
Then, do you think she'd suffer a pack of fellows to be singing
through the house at all hours—and such singing, and such
songs.”

“Nebber guine le' um come, Mass Ned. Him no guine 'courage
dis racket yer at all hours. I tell you for true, Mass Ned, dis
house, sometime, aint 'spectable for people to lib in. You no
know what de young gentlemens do here at night, keeping me up
for make coffee for um, sometime mos' tell to-morrow morning.”

“It's perfectly shocking, Tabitha. She'll never suffer it.”

“Nebber, Mass Ned.”

“Then, Tabby, do you think she'd let these tables and chairs
be so dusty, that a gentleman can't sit in them without covering
his garments with dust as from a meal bag.”

“Sure, Mass Ned, I brush off de tables and chairs ebbry morning.”
And, saying this, the old woman began wiping off chairs
and tables with her apron.

“But she'll see it done after a different fashion, Tabitha. She'll
have you up at cock crow, old lady, putting the house to rights.”

“Hem! I 'spec she will hab for git young sarbant den, for you
see Mass Ned, dese old bones have de rheumatiz in dem.”

“Not a bit of it, old lady. A young wife has no pity on old
bones. She'll make you stir your stumps, if you never did before.
She will never part with you, Tabitha. She knows your value.
She knows how Dick values you. She will have no other servant
than you. You'll have to do everything, Tabby, even to nursing
the children. And, between you and her, the old house will grow
young again. It will make you happy, I'm, sure, to see it full of
young people, and plenty of company, looking quite smart always;
always full of bustle and pleasure; every body busy; none idle;
not a moment of time, so that, when you lie down at midnight,
to rouse up at daylight, you'll sleep as sound as if you were in
heaven.”

“I don't tink, Mass Ned, I kin stan' sich life as dat. De fac'
is, Mass Dick is berry comfortable jist now, as he stan'. He aint
got no trouble. He know me, and I knows him. I don't see
wha' for he want to get wife. I nebber yer him say he's oncomortable.”

“Ha! ha! ha! The tune rather changes, Tabitha. But this
house, as it is, is quite too dull for both you and your master.
When Beatrice Mazyck comes home, you'll have music. She will
waken up the day with song, like a bird. She will put the day to
sleep with song. You'll have fine times, Tabby—music, and
dancing, and life and play.”

“Wha's people guine do for sleep, Mass Ned, all dis time.
People must hab sleep.”

The old woman spoke this sharply. Ned laughed gaily, beckoned
for another cup of coffee, and the ancient housekeeper was
for the moment dismissed.

“You have effectually cured her of any desire for a mistress,”
said I.

“See how opinion changes,” quoth Ned,—“yet Tabitha is no
bad sample of the world at large, white and black. Our opinions
shape themselves wonderfully to suit our selfishness.—Dick, pass
me those waffles.”

I suppose there is hardly any need to describe a bachelor's
breakfast. Ours was not a bad one. Coffee and waffles, sardines
and boiled eggs,—to say nothing of a bottle of Sauterne, to which
I confined myself, eschewing coffee in autumn—these were the
chief commodities. The table, I must do Tabitha the justice to
declare, was well spread, with a perfectly white cloth, and the
edibles served up, well cooked and with a clean and neat arrangement.
Edward Bulmer soon satisfied his wolfish appetite, and,
when the things were removed, it was after nine o'clock. His
buggy was already at the door. We adjusted ourselves, and having
an hour to consume, went over all the affairs of the parish, of

which he had recently informed himself. Now, as every body
knows, St. John's is one of the most polished, hospitable, and intelligent
of all the parishes in the low country of South-Carolina;
and the subject, to one like myself who knew it well, and who had
not been thither for a long time, was a very attractive one. On
Ned's account, also, I was desirous of being well informed in all
particulars, that none of the proper clues might be wanting to my
hands, while conversing with Paula's granddame. The hour
passed rapidly, conning these and other matters, and ten o'clock
found us punctually at the entrance of the Mansion House. Our
cards were sent in, and, in a few moments, we were in the parlour
of that establishment, and in the presence of the fair Paula, and
her stately, but excellent granddame, Mrs. —, or, considering
the race, I should probably say, Madame Agnes-Theresa Girardin.