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

The fact is too well known for repetition,
That man is never pleased with his condition,
And yet it is a truth that, even though old,
Consoles poor fallen mortals when re-told.
However home into the heart it strike,
E'en be content—all mankind are alike:
However out of place your lives may be,
What matter if, when changed, no change you see?
So each takes to his own again, right glad
To think his neighbours' troubles are as bad;
Or that his lot unto another's mind
May seem as good as he need wish to find.

Now if the text thus given need extension,
Take for the sermon Brown, his wife and mansion.

Their present house seem'd all that man and wife
Could want to make a comfortable life—
That is, so far as earthly mansion can
Comfort the heart of any wife or man;
But yet they growl'd, in accents shrill and gruff;
They both were tired of it—and that's enough:
And so to Robins, the great auctioneer,
Brown gave instructions, definite and clear,

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To advertise it to be let or sold,
Its tenements, messuages, field and fold.
But lest a curious public should effect
Too easily admission to inspect,
Locality and name of the domain
Should be withheld—inquirers to obtain
These at the office of the auctioneer,
Also the terms of sale, or rent per year.

To find a new house Mr. and Mrs. Brown
Had been all round the outskirts of the town.
In order to economise the day,
They went exploring in a separate way,
And home at eve, each eager to express
The day's exploits, both radiant with success;
And as they chatted o'er their tea and toast,
'Twas hard to say which had succeeded most:—

“Believe me, Brown, it is the finest thing
We've seen—almost a palace for a king—
So closely wooded, and so snug withal,
The rooms so large, yes, and the rent so small;
A mansion built when building was more rare,
With labour cheap, and plenty ground to spare;
Grandly palatial in its gates and walls,
Broad flights of steps and spacious entrance halls,
Elizabethan windows, gables, towers,
An ample garden, stock'd with fruits and flowers,
And, bless your heart, a rookery of rooks,
Wherein the library or study looks,
Throstles and blackbirds in perpetual song—
A sort of paradise the whole day long.”

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Here Brown broke in, “Restrain yourself, my dear,
Nor be so jubilant, until you hear
The sort of house that I have seen to-day,
And then you'll change your note, I'm bound to say.
Not one of those mediæval haunted halls,
Where every footstep echoes and appals,
But one of modern build, with all the best
Improvements of the age—among the rest,
High ceilings, ventilation, faultless drains,
Great windows, each of two strong plate-glass panes;
(And light, by modern science has been shown
A requisite of health—a thing not known
In former times;) then water, cold and hot,
Through all the house, with bath-rooms, and what not?
All heretofore unused, too, I presume,—
And by the way, there's gas in every room.
But what about the garden, do you say?
The ground's too precious to be thrown away,
And so there's none—'twill be a care the less;
Each luxury is but one more distress.—
Where is the house? That's where the attraction lies;
The situation is the thing we'll prize.
It overlooks the Alexandra Drive—
The newest line of fashion, and alive
With all the pomp and beauty of the town.”

“Humph—beauty!” cried the lady, with a frown:
“I will not have the house, no, dearest Brown,
Just think of my house as with yours compared;
Indeed, comparisons may well be spared—
They are as different as night and day—”

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“The very words,” cried Brown, “I was to say—
As different, in fact, as day and night;
But of the two mine's the more fair and bright,
And consequently stands for day, you know.”

“Comparisons are odious, Brown, and so,
To save dispute, you may as well resign
All thoughts about your house. Just look to mine—
The sweet seclusion, the abundant room,
The grand antiquity, the wooded gloom,
The rookery, the garden and the birds,
With all the etceteras such a place affords!
My dearest Brown, I wonder that you don't
Jump after such a house!—”

Cried Brown, “I won't;
Your dim secluded dens, have ever been
The nurseries of ennui and the spleen;
Your gardens are rheumatic, trees are damp,
And to a person of a studious stamp
Your birds were an intrusion; as for rooks,
Their din would drive the devil from his books!
I must have life and quietude combined—
Something to cheer as well as soothe the mind;
And this is in the mansion of my choice—
Light, airy, free from all gross rural noise—
Seclusion broken only by the rush
Of cheerful carriages and glints of plush.”

“Hum—plush!” sneered Mrs. Brown, and toss'd her head:
“We seem to differ in our tastes,” she said;
“And so I think we'd better go to bed.”

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They went, and it may fairly be presumed
They took their houses with them, and resumed
The subject, each in solitary guise—
A mood wherein we all are wondrous wise.

Next morning, over breakfast, they at first
Were silent, though 'twas clear both were athirst
To speak their minds—it might be said they burn'd—
And therefore to the subject they return'd.

Said Mrs. Brown, “My dear, you could not guess
What I've been thinking—for I will confess
I am myself surprised to find it so—
The house you've been so pleased with, do you know,
On second thoughts, I rather like it too”—

“But I've had second thoughts as well as you,”
Cried Brown; “and if the truth must be confess'd,
I like your Elizabethan house the best.
There's that about these fine old halls which blends
Divinely with our thoughts, and even lends
The mind a touch of the dramatic age,
When England's best possession was the stage.
I even think the cawing of the rooks
Would help to deeper meaning in my books.
And then the high-wall'd garden, with its walks
Of ancient-smelling boxwood and sweet stalks
Of hoary lavender,—there's much in this”—

“No, no, as for the house, it's not amiss;
But this is merely sentimental stuff,

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Of which, between us two, we've had enough.
Last evening I was wrong, and you were right;
I've turn'd the matter over in the light
Of common sense, which says, with ready tongue,
This morning I am right, and you are wrong.
Thus being equal, dearest Brown, agree
To leave the taking of the house to me.”

“Peace, peace,” replied her lord; “pray who made you
The judge of right and wrong, of false and true,
And taught you such glib verdicts to dispense
'Tween sentimental stuff and common sense?
And now you would consign me to the shelf,
And have the taking of the house yourself!
With all my heart, if you will leave alone
What you miscal my house, and take your own.”

“No, never, Brown, dear Brown, will I consent
To have my fixed determination bent.
I've thought the houses over, one by one,
And this is the conclusion—yours or none!”

Now what could Brown, or any other man,
Do after this? He took the quiet plan;
And since the grey mare was the better horse,
Fell to the morning papers, mute, of course.

But long he had not rustled them and read,
When, turning to his spouse, he blandly said,
“My love, there's plenty houses to be had—

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Houses of all sorts, good as well as bad.
Now here's a house embracing, I opine,
The best attractions of both yours and mine.
‘Strong-built, substantial mansion,’ and so forth.
‘A southerly exposure; on the north
Well sheltered by a thickly-wooded range
Of hills. About an hour's walk from the Exchange.
Extensive suites of rooms’—and all the rest.
‘The situation is pronounced the best
Within ten miles of town. Romantic view.
Fine vista, with the river peeping through.
An opportunity not to be lost.’
A likely place,” continued he, and toss'd
The paper to his wife, and bade her read:
“It is,” said she, “a likely place indeed;
Yes, lawn in front, and garden in the rear.
Apply to Robins, our own auctioneer!
We should not lose a moment; go at once:
I look upon it as a lucky chance—
A providential, accidental miss—
We did not fix before we look'd at this.”

“Well then,” said Brown, “in order to agree
About this house, I hold it safe that we
Go after it together.”

So they went,
And found the busy Robins all intent
Framing advertisements. First they desired
To know if any one had yet inquired
After their own house, but seem'd not to look

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For any ready answer; for Brown took
The paper from his pocket, and said, “Here's
A house that, from the advertisement, appears
The very thing for us. Is it yet sold?
What is the price? and is it new or old?
Where situate? Is its present owner dead?
Or wherefore—”
Robins laugh'd and wagg'd his head:
“Excuse me—dead! no, no,—he and his wife,
I'm glad to see, are in exuberant life.
But, sure, a plain description might have shown
This house that took your fancy was your own!”

Brown stared at Robins, Robins at them both,
And they look'd puzzl'd, half perplex'd, and loath
To own they could have made the strange mistake;
But, seeming from their muddle to awake,
Rejoiced so fair a mansion was unsold—
Nor would they sell it for its weight in gold.