The Project Gutenberg EBook of Christie Johnstone, by Charles Reade This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Christie Johnstone Author: Charles Reade Release Date: December 8, 2009 [EBook #3671] Last Updated: March 5, 2018 Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE *** Produced by James Rusk, and David Widger
* Buceleuch.“On this particular occasion, the Duke** makes one of us, my pretty maid.”
**Wellington“I see! Are na yeawfu' prood o' being a lorrd?” “What an idea!” “His lordship did not go to bed a spinning-jenny, and rise up a lord, like some of them,” put in Saunders. “Saunders,” said the peer, doubtfully, “eloquence rather bores people.” “Then I mustn't speak again, my lord,” said Saunders, respectfully. “Noo,” said the fair inquisitor, “ye shall tell me how ye came to be lorrds, your faemily?” “Saunders!” “Na! ye manna flee to Sandy for a thing, ye are no a bairn, are ye?” Here was a dilemma, the Saunders prop knocked rudely away, and obliged to think for ourselves. But Saunders would come to his distressed master's assistance. He furtively conveyed to him a plump book—this was Saunders's manual of faith; the author was Mr. Burke, not Edmund. Lord Ipsden ran hastily over the page, closed the book, and said, “Here is the story. “Five hundred years ago—” “Listen, Jean,” said Christie; “we're gaun to get a boeny story. 'Five hundre' years ago,'” added she, with interest and awe. “Was a great battle,” resumed the narrator, in cheerful tones, as one larking with history, “between a king of England and his rebels. He was in the thick of the fight—” “That's the king, Jean, he was in the thick o't.” “My ancestor killed a fellow who was sneaking behind him, but the next moment a man-at-arms prepared a thrust at his majesty, who had his hands full with three assailants.” “Eh! that's no fair,” said Christie, “as sure as deeth.” “My ancestor dashed forward, and, as the king's sword passed through one of them, he clove another to the waist with a blow.” “Weel done! weel done!” Lord Ipsden looked at the speaker, her eyes were glittering, and her cheek flushing. “Good Heavens!” thought he; “she believes it!” So he began to take more pains with his legend. “But for the spearsman,” continued he, “he had nothing but his body; he gave it, it was his duty, and received the death leveled at his sovereign.” “Hech! puir mon.” And the glowing eyes began to glisten. “The battle flowed another way, and God gave victory to the right; but the king came back to look for him, for it was no common service.” “Deed no!” Here Lord Ipsden began to turn his eye inward, and call up the scene. He lowered his voice. “They found him lying on his back, looking death in the face. “The nobles, by the king's side, uncovered as soon as he was found, for they were brave men, too. There was a moment's silence; eyes met eyes, and said, this is a stout soldier's last battle. “The king could not bid him live.” “Na! lad, King Deeth has ower strong a grrip.” “But he did what kings can do, he gave him two blows with his royal sword.” “Oh, the robber, and him a deeing mon.” “Two words from his royal mouth, and he and we were Barons of Ipsden and Hawthorn Glen from that day to this.” “But the puir dying creature?” “What poor dying creature?” “Your forbear, lad.” “I don't know why you call him poor, madam; all the men of that day are dust; they are the gold dust who died with honor. “He looked round, uneasily, for his son—for he had but one—and when that son knelt, unwounded, by him, he said, 'Goodnight, Baron Ipsden;' and so he died, fire in his eye, a smile on his lip, and honor on his name forever. I meant to tell you a lie, and I've told you the truth.” “Laddie,” said Christie, half admiringly, half reproachfully, “ye gar the tear come in my een. Hech! look at yon lassie! how could you think t'eat plums through siccan a bonny story?” “Hets,” answered Jean, who had, in fact, cleared the plate, “I aye listen best when my ain mooth's stappit.” “But see, now,” pondered Christie, “twa words fra a king—thir titles are just breeth.” “Of course,” was the answer. “All titles are. What is popularity? ask Aristides and Lamartine—the breath of a mob—smells of its source—and is gone before the sun can set on it. Now the royal breath does smell of the Rose and Crown, and stays by us from age to age.” The story had warmed our marble acquaintance. Saunders opened his eyes, and thought, “We shall wake up the House of Lords some evening—we shall.” His lordship then added, less warmly, looking at the girls: “I think I should like to be a fisherman.” So saying, my lord yawned slightly. To this aspiration the young fishwives deigned no attention, doubting, perhaps, its sincerity; and Christie, with a shade of severity, inquired of him how he came to be a vile count. “A baron's no' a vile count, I'm sure,” said she; “sae tell me how ye came to be a vile count.” “Ah!” said he, “that is by no means a pretty story like the other; you will not like it, I am sure. “Ay, will I—ay, will I; I'm aye seeking knoewledge.” “Well, it is soon told. One of us sat twenty years on one seat, in the same house, so one day he got up a—viscount.” “Ower muckle pay for ower little wark.” “Now don't say that; I wouldn't do it to be Emperor of Russia.” “Aweel, I hae gotten a heap out o' ye; sae noow I'll gang, since ye are no for herrin'; come away, Jean.” At this their host remonstrated, and inquired why bores are at one's service night and day, and bright people are always in a hurry; he was informed in reply, “Labor is the lot o' man. Div ye no ken that muckle? And abune a' o' women.” *
* A local idea, I suspect.—C. R.“Why, what can two such pretty creatures have to do except to be admired?” This question coming within the dark beauty's scope, she hastened to reply. “To sell our herrin'—we hae three hundre' left in the creel.” “What is the price?” At this question the poetry died out of Christie Johnstone's face, she gave her companion a rapid look, indiscernible by male eye, and answered: “Three a penny, sirr; they are no plenty the day,” added she, in smooth tones that carried conviction. (Little liar; they were selling six a penny everywhere.) “Saunders, buy them all, and be ever so long about it; count them, or some nonsense.” “He's daft! he's daft! Oh, ye ken, Jean, an Ennglishman and a lorrd, twa daft things thegither, he could na' miss the road. Coont them, lassie.” “Come away, Sandy, till I count them till ye,” said Jean. Saunders and Jean disappeared. Business being out of sight, curiosity revived. “An' what brings ye here from London, if ye please?” recommenced the fair inquisitor. “You have a good countenance; there is something in your face. I could find it in my heart to tell you, but I should bore you.” “De'el a fear! Bore me, bore me! wheat's thaat, I wonder?” “What is your name, madam? Mine is Ipsden.” “They ca' me Christie Johnstone.” “Well, Christie Johnstone, I am under the doctor's hands.” “Puir lad. What's the trouble?” (solemnly and tenderly.) “Ennui!” (rather piteously.) “Yawn-we? I never heerd tell o't.” “Oh, you lucky girl,” burst out he; “but the doctor has undertaken to cure me; in one thing you could assist me, if I am not presuming too far on our short acquaintance. I am to relieve one poor distressed person every day, but I mustn't do two. Is not that a bore?” “Gie's your hand, gie's your hand. I'm vexed for ca'ing you daft. Hech! what a saft hand ye hae. Jean, I'm saying, come here, feel this.” Jean, who had run in, took the viscount's hand from Christie. “It never wroucht any,” explained Jean. “And he has bonny hair,” said Christie, just touching his locks on the other side. “He's a bonny lad,” said Jean, inspecting him scientifically, and pointblank. “Ay, is he,” said the other. “Aweel, there's Jess Rutherford, a widdy, wi' four bairns, ye meicht do waur than ware your siller on her.” “Five pounds to begin?” inquired his lordship. “Five pund! Are ye made o' siller? Ten schell'n!” Saunders was rung for, and produced a one-pound note. “The herrin' is five and saxpence; it's four and saxpence I'm awin ye,” said the young fishwife, “and Jess will be a glad woman the neicht.” The settlement was effected, and away went the two friends, saying: “Good-boye, vile count.” Their host fell into thought. “When have I talked so much?” asked he of himself. “Dr. Aberford, you are a wonderful man; I like your lower classes amazingly.” “Me'fiez vous, Monsieur Ipsden!” should some mentor have said. As the Devil puts into a beginner's hands ace, queen, five trumps, to give him a taste for whist, so these lower classes have perhaps put forward one of their best cards to lead you into a false estimate of the strength of their hand. Instead, however, of this, who should return, to disturb the equilibrium of truth, but this Christina Johnstone? She came thoughtfully in, and said: “I've been taking a thoucht, and this is no what yon gude physeecian meaned; ye are no to fling your chaerity like a bane till a doeg; ye'll gang yoursel to Jess Rutherford; Flucker Johnstone, that's my brother, will convoy ye.” “But how is your brother to know me?” “How? Because I'll gie him a sair sair hiding, if he lets ye gang by.” Then she returned the one-pound note, a fresh settlement was effected, and she left him. At the door she said: “And I am muckle obleeged to ye for your story and your goodness.” While uttering these words, she half kissed her hand to him, with a lofty and disengaged gesture, such as one might expect from a queen, if queens did not wear stays; and was gone. When his lordship, a few minutes after, sauntered out for a stroll, the first object he beheld was an exact human square, a handsome boy, with a body swelled out apparently to the size of a man's, with blue flannel, and blue cloth above it, leaning against a wall, with his hands in his pockets—a statuette of insouciance. This marine puff-ball was Flucker Johnstone, aged fourteen. Stain his sister's face with diluted walnut-juice, as they make the stage gypsy and Red Indian (two animals imagined by actors to be one), and you have Flucker's face. A slight moral distinction remains, not to be so easily got over. She was the best girl in the place, and he a baddish boy. He was, however, as sharp in his way as she was intelligent in hers. This youthful mariner allowed his lordship to pass him, and take twenty steps, but watched him all the time, and compared him with a description furnished him by his sister. He then followed, and brought him to, as he called it. “I daur say it's you I'm to convoy to yon auld faggitt!” said this baddish boy. On they went, Flucker rolling and pitching and yawing to keep up with the lordly galley, for a fisherman's natural waddle is two miles an hour. At the very entrance of Newhaven, the new pilot suddenly sung out, “Starboard!” Starboard it was, and they ascended a filthy “close,” or alley they mounted a staircase which was out of doors, and, without knocking, Flucker introduced himself into Jess Rutherford's house. “Here a gentleman to speak till ye, wife.”
* At present this is a spondee in England—a trochee in Scotland The pronunciation of this important word ought to be fixed, representing, as it does, so large a portion of the community in both countries.Christie. “Aweel, lassies, comes a letter to Bassanio; he reads it, and turns as pale as deeth.” A Fishwife. “Gude help us.” Christie. “Poorsha behooved to ken his grief, wha had a better reicht? 'Here's a letter, leddy,' says he, 'the paper's the boedy of my freend, like, and every word in it a gaping wound.'” A Fisherman. “Maircy on us.” Christie. “Lad, it was fra puir Antonio, ye mind o' him, Lasses. Hech! the ill luck o' yon man, no a ship come hame; ane foundered at sea, coming fra Tri-po-lis; the pirates scuttled another, an' ane ran ashore on the Goodwins, near Bright-helm-stane, that's in England itsel', I daur say. Sae he could na pay the three thoosand ducats, an' Shylock had grippit him, an' sought the pund o' flesh aff the breest o' him, puir body.” Sandy Liston. “He would na be the waur o' a wee bit hiding, yon thundering urang-utang; let the man alane, ye cursed old cannibal.” Christie. “Poorsha keepit her man but ae hoor till they were united, an' then sent him wi' a puckle o' her ain siller to Veeneece, and Antonio—think o' that, lassies—pairted on their wedding-day.” Lizzy Johnstone, a Fishwife, aged 12. “Hech! hech! it's lamentable.” Jean Carnie. “I'm saying, mairriage is quick wark, in some pairts—here there's an awfu' trouble to get a man.” A young Fishwife. “Ay, is there.” Omnes. “Haw! haw! haw!” (The fish-wife hides.) Christie. “Fill your taupsels, lads and lasses, and awa to Veneece.” Sandy Liston (sturdily). “I'll no gang to sea this day.” Christie. “Noo, we are in the hall o' judgment. Here are set the judges, awfu' to behold; there, on his throne, presides the Juke.” Flucker. “She's awa to her Ennglish.” Lizzy Johnstone. “Did we come to Veeneece to speak Scoetch, ye useless fule?” Christie. “Here, pale and hopeless, but resigned, stands the broken mairchant, Antonio; there, wi scales and knives, and revenge in his murderin' eye, stands the crewel Jew Shylock.” “Aweel,” muttered Sandy, considerately, “I'll no mak a disturbance on a wedding day.” Christie. “They wait for Bell—I dinna mind his mind—a laerned lawyer, ony way; he's sick, but sends ane mair laerned still, and, when this ane comes, he looks not older nor wiser than mysel.” Flucker. “No possible!” Christie. “Ye needna be sae sarcy, Flucker, for when he comes to his wark he soon lets 'em ken—runs his een like lightening ower the boend. 'This bond's forfeit. Is Antonio not able to dischairge the money?' 'Ay!' cries Bassanio, 'here's the sum thrice told.' Says the young judge in a bit whisper to Shylock, 'Shylock, there's thrice thy money offered thee. Be mairceful,' says he, out loud. 'Wha'll mak me?' says the Jew body. 'Mak ye!' says he; 'maircy is no a thing ye strain through a sieve, mon; it droppeth like the gentle dew fra' heaven upon the place beneath; it blesses him that gives and him that taks; it becomes the king better than his throne, and airthly power is maist like God's power when maircy seasons justice.'” Robert Haw, Fisherman. “Dinna speak like that to me, onybody, or I shall gie ye my boat, and fling my nets intil it, as ye sail awa wi' her.” Jean Carnie. “Sae he let the puir deevil go. Oh! ye ken wha could stand up against siccan a shower o' Ennglish as thaat.” Christie. “He just said, 'My deeds upon my heed. I claim the law,' says he; 'there is no power in the tongue o' man to alter me. I stay here on my boend.'” Sandy Liston. “I hae sat quiet!—quiet I hae sat against my will, no to disturb Jamie Drysel's weddin'; but ye carry the game ower far, Shylock, my lad. I'll just give yon bluidy-minded urang-utang a hidin', and bring Tony off, the gude, puir-spirited creature. And him, an' me, an' Bassanee, an' Porshee, we'll all hae a gill thegither.” He rose, and was instantly seized by two of the company, from whom he burst furiously, after a struggle, and the next moment was heard to fall clean from the top to the bottom of the stairs. Flucker and Jean ran out; the rest appealed against the interruption. Christie. “Hech! he's killed. Sandy Liston's brake his neck.” “What aboot it, lassy?” said a young fisherman; “it's Antonio I'm feared for; save him, lassy, if poessible; but I doot ye'll no get him clear o' yon deevelich heathen. “Auld Sandy's cheap sairved,” added he, with all the indifference a human tone could convey. “Oh, Cursty,” said Lizzie Johnstone, with a peevish accent, “dinna break the bonny yarn for naething.” Flucker (returning). “He's a' reicht.” Christie. “Is he no dead?” Flucker. “Him deed? he's sober—that's a' the change I see.” Christie. “Can he speak? I'm asking ye.” Flucker. “Yes, he can speak.” Christie. “What does he say, puir body?” Flucker. “He sat up, an' sought a gill fra' the wife—puir body!” Christie. “Hech! hech! he was my pupil in the airt o' sobriety!—aweel, the young judge rises to deliver the sentence of the coort. Silence!” thundered Christie. A lad and a lass that were slightly flirting were discountenanced. Christie. “'A pund o' that same mairchant's flesh is thine! the coort awards it, and the law does give it.'” A young Fishwife. “There, I thoucht sae; he's gaun to cut him, he's gaun to cut him; I'll no can bide.” (Exibat.) Christie. “There's a fulish goloshen. 'Have by a doctor to stop the blood.'—'I see nae doctor in the boend,' says the Jew body.” Flucker. “Bait your hook wi' a boend, and ye shall catch yon carle's saul, Satin, my lad.” Christie (with dismal pathos). “Oh, Flucker, dinna speak evil o' deegneties—that's maybe fishing for yoursel' the noo!—-'An' ye shall cut the flesh frae off his breest.'—'A sentence,' says Shylock, 'come, prepare.'” Christie made a dash en Shylock, and the company trembled. Christie. “'Bide a wee,' says the judge, 'this boend gies ye na a drap o' bluid; the words expressly are, a pund o' flesh!'” (A Dramatic Pause.) Jean Carnie (drawing her breath). “That's into your mutton, Shylock” Christie (with dismal pathos). “Oh, Jean! yon's an awfu' voolgar exprassion to come fra' a woman's mooth.” “Could ye no hae said, 'intil his bacon'?” said Lizzie Johnstone, confirming the remonstrance. Christie. “'Then tak your boend, an' your pund o' flesh, but in cutting o' 't, if thou dost shed one drop of Christian bluid, thou diest!'” Jean Carnie. “Hech!” Christie. “'Thy goods are by the laws Veneece con-fis-cate, confiscate!'” Then, like an artful narrator, she began to wind up the story more rapidly. “Sae Shylock got to be no sae saucy. 'Pay the boend thrice,' says he, 'and let the puir deevil go.'—'Here it's,' says Bassanio.—Na! the young judge wadna let him.—'He has refused it in open coort; no a bawbee for Shylock but just the forfeiture; an' he daur na tak it.'—'I'm awa',' says he. 'The deivil tak ye a'.'—Na! he wasna to win clear sae; ance they'd gotten the Jew on the hep, they worried him, like good Christians, that's a fact. The judge fand a law that fitted him, for conspiring against the life of a citizen; an' he behooved to give up hoose an' lands, and be a Christian; yon was a soor drap—he tarned no weel, puir auld villain, an' scairtit; an' the lawyers sent ane o' their weary parchments till his hoose, and the puir auld heathen signed awa' his siller, an' Abraham, an' Isaac, an' Jacob, on the heed o' 't. I pity him, an auld, auld man; and his dochter had rin off wi' a Christian lad—they ca' her Jessica, and didn't she steal his very diamond ring that his ain lass gied him when he was young, an' maybe no sae hard-hairted?” Jean Carnie. “Oh, the jaud! suppose he was a Jew, it was na her business to clean him oot.” A young Fishwife. “Aweel, it was only a Jew body, that's my comfort.” Christie. “Ye speak as a Jew was na a man; has not a Jew eyes, if ye please?” Lizzy Johnstone. “Ay, has he!—and the awfuest lang neb atween 'em.” Christie. “Has not a Jew affections, paassions, organs?” Jean. “Na! Christie; thir lads comes fr' Italy!” Christie. “If you prick him, does he not bleed? if you tickle him, does na he lauch?” A young Fishwife (pertly). “I never kittlet a Jew, for my pairt—sae I'll no can tell ye.” Christie. “If you poison him, does he not die? and if you wrang him” (with fury) “shall he not revenge?” Lizzie Johnstone. “Oh! but ye're a fearsome lass.” Christie. “Wha'll give me a sang for my bonny yarn?” Lord Ipsden, who had been an unobserved auditor of the latter part of the tale, here inquired whether she had brought her book. “What'n buik?” “Your music-book!” “Here's my music-book,” said Jean, roughly tapping her head. “And here's mines,” said Christie, birdly, touching her bosom. “Richard,” said she, thoughtfully, “I wish ye may no hae been getting in voolgar company. Div ye think we hae minds like rinning water?” Flucker (avec malice). “And tongues like the mill-clack abune it? Because if ye think sae, captain—ye're no far wrang!” Christie. “Na! we hae na muckle gowd maybe; but our minds are gowden vessels.” Jean. “Aha! lad.” Christie. “They are not saxpenny sieves, to let music an' meter through, and leave us none the wiser or better. Dinna gang in low voolgar company, or you a lost laddy.” Ipsden. “Vulgar, again! everybody has a different sense for that word, I think. What is vulgar?” Christie. “Voolgar folk sit on an chair, ane, twa, whiles three hours, eatin' an' abune drinkin', as still as hoegs, or gruntin' puir every-day clashes, goessip, rubbich; when ye are aside them, ye might as weel be aside a cuddy; they canna gie ye a sang, they canna gie ye a story, they canna think ye a thoucht, to save their useless lives; that's voolgar folk.” She sings. “A caaller herrin'!” Jean. “A caaller herrin'!” Omnes. “Come buy my bonny caaller herrin', Six a penny caaller from the sea,” etc. The music chimed in, and the moment the song was done, without pause, or anything to separate or chill the succession of the arts, the fiddles diverged with a gallant plunge into “The Dusty Miller.” The dancers found their feet by an instinct as rapid, and a rattling reel shook the floor like thunder. Jean Carnie assumed the privilege of a bride, and seized his lordship; Christie, who had a mind to dance with him too, took Flucker captive, and these four were one reel! There were seven others. The principle of reel dancing is articulation; the foot strikes the ground for every accented note (and, by the by, it is their weakness of accent which makes all English reel and hornpipe players such failures). And in the best steps of all, which it has in common with the hornpipe, such as the quick “heel and toe,” “the sailor's fling,” and the “double shuffle,” the foot strikes the ground for every single note of the instrument. All good dancing is beautiful. But this articulate dancing, compared with the loose, lawless diffluence of motion that goes by that name, gives me (I must confess it) as much more pleasure as articulate singing is superior to tunes played on the voice by a young lady: Or the clean playing of my mother to the piano-forte splashing of my daughter; though the latter does attack the instrument as a washerwoman her soapsuds, and the former works like a lady. Or skating to sliding: Or English verse to dactyls in English: Or painting to daubing: Or preserved strawberries to strawberry jam. What says Goldsmith of the two styles? “They swam, sprawled, frisked, and languished; but Olivia's foot was as pat to the music as its echo.”—Vicar of Wakefield. Newhaven dancing aims also at fun; laughter mingles with agility; grotesque yet graceful gestures are flung in, and little inspiring cries flung out. His lordship soon entered into the spirit of it. Deep in the mystery of the hornpipe, he danced one or two steps Jean and Christie had never seen, but their eyes were instantly on his feet, and they caught in a minute and executed these same steps. To see Christie Johnstone do the double-shuffle with her arms so saucily akimbo, and her quick elastic foot at an angle of forty-five, was a treat. The dance became inspiriting, inspiring, intoxicating; and, when the fiddles at last left off, the feet went on another seven bars by the enthusiastic impulse. And so, alternately spinning yarns, singing songs, dancing, and making fun, and mingling something of heart and brain in all, these benighted creatures made themselves happy instead of peevish, and with a day of stout, vigorous, healthy pleasure, refreshed, indemnified, and warmed themselves for many a day of toil. Such were the two picnics of Inch Coombe, and these rival cliques, agreeing in nothing else, would have agreed in this: each, if allowed (but we won't allow either) to judge the other, would have pronounced the same verdict: “Ils ne savent pas vivre ces gens-l'a.”
*Bulk.“You are a vara intelligent young person,” said Mr. Miller, gravely. “Ye had measured them wi' your walking-stick, sir; there's just ae scale ye didna wipe off, though ye are a carefu' mon, Mr. Miller; sae I laid the bait for ye an' fine ye took it.” Miller took out his snuff-box, and tapping it said: “Will ye go into partnership with me, my dear?” “Ay, sir!” was the reply. “When I'm aulder an' ye're younger.” At this moment the four merchants, believing it useless to disguise their co-operation, returned to see what could be done. “We shall give you a guinea a barrel.” “Why, ye offered her twenty-two shillings before.” “That we never did, Mr. Miller.” “Haw! haw!” went Flucker. Christie looked down and blushed. Eyes met eyes, and without a word spoken all was comprehended and silently approved. There was no nonsense uttered about morality in connection with dealing. Mr. Miller took an enormous pinch of snuff, and drew for the benefit of all present the following inference: MR. MILLER'S APOTHEGM. “Friends and neighbors! when a man's heed is gray with age and thoucht (pause) he's just fit to go to schule to a young lass o' twenty.” There was a certain middle-aged fishwife, called Beeny Liston, a tenant of Christie Johnstone's; she had not paid her rent for some time, and she had not been pressed for it; whether this, or the whisky she was in the habit of taking, rankled in her mind, certain it is she had always an ill word for her landlady. She now met her, envied her success, and called out in a coarse tone: “Oh, ye're a gallant quean; ye'll be waur than ever the noo.” “What's wrang, if ye please?” said the Johnstone, sharply. Reader, did you ever see two fallow bucks commence a duel? They strut round, eight yards apart, tails up, look carefully another way to make the other think it all means nothing, and, being both equally sly, their horns come together as if by concert. Even so commenced this duel of tongues between these two heroines. Beeny Liston, looking at everybody but Christie, addressed the natives who were congregating thus: “Did ever ye hear o' a decent lass taking the herrin' oot o' the men's mooths?—is yon a woman's pairt, I'm asking ye?” On this, Christie, looking carefully at all the others except Beeny, inquired with an air of simple curiosity: “Can onybody tell me wha Liston Carnie's drunken wife is speakin' till? no to ony decent lass, though. Na! ye ken she wad na hae th' impudence!” “Oh, ye ken fine I'm speakin' till yoursel'.” Here the horns clashed together. “To me, woman?” (with admirably acted surprise.) “Oo, ay! it will be for the twa years' rent you're awin me. Giest!” Beeny Liston. “Ye're just the impudentest girrl i' the toon, an' ye hae proved it the day” (her arms akimbo). Christie (arms akimbo). “Me, impudent? how daur ye speak against my charackter, that's kenned for decency o' baith sides the Firrth.” Beeny (contemptuously). “Oh, ye're sly enough to beguile the men, but we ken ye.” Christie. “I'm no sly, and” (drawing near and hissing the words) “I'm no like the woman Jean an' I saw in Rose Street, dead drunk on the causeway, while her mon was working for her at sea. If ye're no ben your hoose in ae minute, I'll say that will gar Liston Carnie fling ye ower the pier-head, ye fool-moothed drunken leear—Scairt!”*
*A local word; a corruption from the French Sortez.If my reader has seen and heard Mademoiselle Rachel utter her famous Sortez, in “Virginie,” he knows exactly with what a gesture and tone the Johnstone uttered this word. Beeny (in a voice of whining surprise). “Hech! what a spite Flucker Johnstone's dochter has taen against us.” Christie. “Scairt!” Beeny (in a coaxing voice, and moving a step). “Aweel! what's a' your paession, my boenny woman?” Christie. “Scairt!” Beeny retired before the thunder and lightning of indignant virtue. Then all the fishboys struck up a dismal chant of victory. “Yoo-hoo—Custy's won the day—Beeny's scairtit,” going up on the last syllable. Christie moved slowly away toward her own house, but before she could reach the door she began to whimper—little fool. Thereat chorus of young Athenians chanted: “Yu-hoo! come back, Beeny, ye'll maybe win yet. Custy's away greetin” (going up on the last syllable). “I'm no greetin, ye rude bairns,” said Christie, bursting into tears, and retiring as soon as she had effected that proof of her philosophy. It was about four hours later; Christie had snatched some repose. The wind, as Flucker prognosticated, had grown into a very heavy gale, and the Firth was brown and boiling. Suddenly a clamor was heard on the shore, and soon after a fishwife made her appearance, with rather a singular burden. Her husband, ladies; rien que cela. She had him by the scruff of the neck; he was dos-'a-dos, with his booted legs kicking in the air, and his fists making warlike but idle demonstrations and his mouth uttering ineffectual bad language. This worthy had been called a coward by Sandy Liston, and being about to fight with him, and get thrashed, his wife had whipped him up and carried him away; she now flung him down, at some risk of his equilibrium. “Ye are not fit to feicht wi' Sandy Liston,” said she; “if ye are for feichtin, here's for ye.” As a comment to this proposal, she tucked up the sleeves of her short gown. He tried to run by her; she caught him by the bosom, and gave him a violent push, that sent him several paces backward; he looked half fierce, half astounded; ere he could quite recover himself, his little servant forced a pipe into his hand, and he smoked contented and peaceable. Before tobacco the evil passions fall, they tell me. The cause of this quarrel soon explained itself; up came Sandy Liston, cursing and swearing. “What! ye hae gotten till your wife's; that's the place for ye; to say there's a brig in distress, and ye'll let her go on the rocks under your noses. But what are ye afraid o'? there's na danger?” “Nae danger!” said one of the reproached, “are ye fou?” “Ye are fou wi' fear yoursel'; of a' the beasts that crawl the airth, a cooward is the ugliest, I think.” “The wifes will no let us,” said one, sulkily. “It's the woman in your hairts that keeps ye,” roared Sandy hoarsely; “curse ye, ye are sure to dee ane day, and ye are sure to be——!” (a past participle) “soon or late, what signifies when? Oh! curse the hour ever I was born amang sic a cooardly crew.” (Gun at sea.) “There!” “She speaks till ye, hersel'; she cries for maircy; to think that, of a' that hear ye cry, Alexander Liston is the only mon mon enough to answer.” (Gun.) “You are mistaken, Mr. Alexander Liston,” said a clear, smart voice, whose owner had mingled unobserved with the throng; “there are always men to answer such occasions; now, my lads, your boats have plenty of beam, and, well handled, should live in any sea; who volunteers with Alexander Liston and me?” The speaker was Lord Ipsden. The fishwives of Newhaven, more accustomed to measure men than poor little Lady Barbara Sinclair, saw in this man what in point of fact he was—a cool, daring devil, than whom none more likely to lead men into mortal danger, or pull them through it, for that matter. They recognized their natural enemy, and collected together against him, like hens at the sight of a hawk. “And would you really entice our men till their death?” “My life's worth as much as theirs, I suppose. “Nae! your life! it's na worth a button; when you dee, your next kin will dance, and wha'll greet? but our men hae wife and bairns to look till.” (Gun at sea.) “Ah! I didn't look at it in that light,” said Lord Ipsden. He then demanded paper and ink; Christie Johnstone, who had come out of her house, supplied it from her treasures, and this cool hand actually began to convey a hundred and fifty thousand pounds away, upon a sheet of paper blowing in the wind; when he had named his residuary legatee, and disposed of certain large bequests, he came to the point— “Christie Johnstone, what can these people live on? two hundred a year? living is cheap here—confound the wind!” “Twahundred? Fifty! Vile count.” “Don't call me vile count. I am Ipsden, and my name's Richard. Now, then, be smart with your names.” Three men stepped forward, gave their names, had their widows provided for, and went for their sou'westers, etc. “Stay,” said Lord Ipsden, writing. “To Christina Johnstone, out of respect for her character, one thousand pounds.” “Richard! dinna gang,” cried Christie, “oh, dinna gang, dinna gang, dinna gang; it's no your business.” “Will you lend me your papa's Flushing jacket and sou'wester, my dear? If I was sure to be drowned, I'd go!” Christie ran in for them. In the mean time, discomposed by the wind, and by feelings whose existence neither he, nor I, nor any one suspected, Saunders, after a sore struggle between the frail man and the perfect domestic, blurted out: “My lord, I beg your lordship's pardon, but it blows tempestuous.” “That is why the brig wants us,” was the reply. “My lord, I beg your lordship's pardon,” whimpered Saunders. “But, oh! my lord, don't go; it's all very well for fishermen to be drowned; it is their business, but not yours, my lord.” “Saunders, help me on with this coat.” Christie had brought it. “Yes, my lord,” said Saunders, briskly, his second nature reviving. His lordship, while putting on the coat and hat, undertook to cool Mr. Saunders's aristocratic prejudices. “Should Alexander Liston and I be drowned,” said he, coolly, “when our bones come ashore, you will not know which are the fisherman's and which the viscount's.” So saying, he joined the enterprise. “I shall pray for ye, lad,” said Christie Johnstone, and she retired for that purpose. Saunders, with a heavy heart, to the nearest tavern, to prepare an account of what he called “Heroism in High Life,” large letters, and the usual signs of great astonishment!!!!! for the Polytechnic Magazine. The commander of the distressed vessel had been penny-wise. He had declined a pilot off the Isle of May, trusting to fall in with one close to the port of Leith; but a heavy gale and fog had come on; he knew himself in the vicinity of dangerous rocks; and, to make matters worse, his ship, old and sore battered by a long and stormy voyage, was leaky; and unless a pilot came alongside, his fate would be, either to founder, or run upon the rocks, where he must expect to go to pieces in a quarter of an hour. The Newhaven boat lay in comparatively smooth water, on the lee side of the pier. Our adventurers got into her, stepped the mast, set a small sail, and ran out! Sandy Liston held the sheet, passed once round the belaying-pin, and whenever a larger wave than usual came at them, he slacked the sheet, and the boat, losing her way, rose gently, like a cork, upon seas that had seemed about to swallow her. But seen from the shore it was enough to make the most experienced wince; so completely was this wooden shell lost to sight, as she descended from a wave, that each time her reappearance seemed a return from the dead. The weather was misty—the boat was soon lost sight of; the story remains ashore.
*Bulk.“Ay, does it,” replied Flucker, assuming the compliment. “My lord!” said the artist, “you treat Art like a prince; and she shall treat you like a queen. When the sun comes out again, I will work for you and fame. You shall have two things painted, every stroke loyally in the sunlight. In spite of gloomy winter and gloomier London, I will try if I can't hang nature and summer on your walls forever. As for me, you know I must go to Gerard Dow and Cuyp, and Pierre de Hoogh, when my little sand is run; but my handwriting shall warm your children's children's hearts, sir, when this hand is dust.” His eye turned inward, he walked to and fro, and his companions died out of his sight—he was in the kingdom of art. His lordship and Jean entered the “Peacock,” followed by Flucker, who merely lingered at the door to moralize as follows: “Hech! hech! isna thaat lamentable? Christie's mon's as daft as a drunk weaver.” But one stayed quietly behind, and assumed that moment the office of her life. “Ay!” he burst out again, “the resources of our art are still unfathomed! Pictures are yet to be painted that shall refresh men's inner souls, and help their hearts against the artificial world; and charm the fiend away, like David's harp!! The world, after centuries of lies, will give nature and truth a trial. What a paradise art will be, when truths, instead of lies, shall be told on paper, on marble, on canvas, and on the boards!!!” “Dinner's on the boarrd,” murmured Christie, alluding to Lord Ipsden's breakfast; “and I hae the charge o' ye,” pulling his sleeve hard enough to destroy the equilibrium of a flea. “Then don't let us waste our time here. Oh, Christie!” “What est, my laddy?” “I'm so preciously hungry!!!!” “C-way* then!”
* Come away.Off they ran, hand in hand, sparks of beauty, love and happiness flying all about them.
*A diminutive German coin.The case was peculiar. Gatty was a artist pur sang—and Christie, who would not have been the wife for a petit maitre, was the wife of wives for him. He wanted a beautiful wife to embellish his canvas, disfigured hitherto by an injudicious selection of models; a virtuous wife to be his crown; a prudent wife to save him from ruin; a cheerful wife to sustain his spirits, drooping at times by virtue of his artist's temperament; an intellectual wife to preserve his children from being born dolts and bred dunces, and to keep his own mind from sharpening to one point, and so contracting and becoming monomaniacal. And he found all these qualities, together with the sun and moon of human existence—true love and true religion—in Christie Johnstone. In similar cases, foolish men have set to work to make, in six months, their diamond of nature, the exact cut and gloss of other men's pastes, and, nervously watching the process, have suffered torture; luckily Charles Gatty was not wise enough for this; he saw nature had distinguished her he loved beyond her fellows; here, as elsewhere, he had faith in nature—he believed that Christie would charm everybody of eye, and ear, and mind, and heart, that approached her; he admired her as she was, and left her to polish herself, if she chose. He did well; she came to London with a fine mind, a broad brogue, a delicate ear; she observed how her husband's friends spoke, and in a very few months she had toned down her Scotch to a rich Ionic coloring, which her womanly instinct will never let her exchange for the thin, vinegar accents that are too prevalent in English and French society; and in other respects she caught, by easy gradation, the tone of the new society to which her marriage introduced her, without, however, losing her charming self. The wise dowager lodges hard by, having resisted an invitation to be in the same house; she comes to that house to assist the young wife with her experience, and to be welcome—not to interfere every minute, and tease her; she loves her daughter-in-law almost as much as she does her son, and she is happy because he bids fair to be an immortal painter, and, above all, a gentleman; and she, a wifely wife, a motherly mother, and, above all, a lady. This, then, is a happy couple. Their life is full of purpose and industry, yet lightened by gayety; they go to operas, theaters and balls, for they are young. They have plenty of society, real society, not the ill-assorted collection of a predetermined number of bodies, that blindly assumes that name, but the rich communication of various and fertile minds; they very, very seldom consent to squat four mortal hours on one chair (like old hares stiffening in their hot forms), and nibbling, sipping and twaddling in four mortal hours what could have been eaten, drunken and said in thirty-five minutes. They are both artists at heart, and it shocks their natures to see folks mix so very largely the inutile with the insipidum, and waste, at one huge but barren incubation, the soul, and the stomach, and the irrevocable hours, things with which so much is to be done. But they have many desirable acquaintances, and not a few friends; the latter are mostly lovers of truth in their several departments, and in all things. Among them are painters, sculptors, engineers, writers, conversers, thinkers; these acknowledging, even in England, other gods besides the intestines, meet often chez Gatty, chiefly for mental intercourse; a cup of tea with such is found, by experience, to be better than a stalled elk where chit-chat reigns over the prostrate hours. This, then, is a happy couple; the very pigeons and the crows need not blush for the nest at Kensington Gravel-pits. There the divine institution Marriage takes its natural colors, and it is at once pleasant and good to catch such glimpses of Heaven's design, and sad to think how often this great boon, accorded by God to man and woman, must have been abused and perverted, ere it could have sunk to be the standing butt of farce-writers, and the theme of weekly punsters. In this pair we see the wonders a male and female can do for each other in the sweet bond of holy wedlock. In that blessed relation alone two interests are really one, and two hearts lie safe at anchor side by side. Christie and Charles are friends—for they are man and wife. Christie and Charles are lovers still—for they are man and wife. Christie and Charles are one forever—for they are man and wife. This wife brightens the house, from kitchen to garret, for her husband; this husband works like a king for his wife's comfort, and for his own fame—and that fame is his wife's glory. When one of these expresses or hints a wish, the other's first impulse is to find the means, not the objections. They share all troubles, and, by sharing, halve them. They share all pleasures, and, by sharing, double them. They climb the hill together now, and many a canty day they shall have with one another; and when, by the inevitable law, they begin to descend toward the dark valley, they will still go hand in hand, smiling so tenderly, and supporting each other with a care more lovely than when the arm was strong and the foot firm. On these two temperate lives old age will descend lightly, gradually, gently, and late—and late upon these evergreen hearts, because they are not tuned to some selfish, isolated key; these hearts beat and ring with the young hearts of their dear children, and years hence papa and mamma will begin life hopefully, wishfully, warmly again with each loved novice in turn. And when old age does come, it will be no calamity to these, as it is to you, poor battered beau, laughed at by the fair ninnies who erst laughed with you; to you, poor follower of salmon, fox, and pheasant, whose joints are stiffening, whose nerve is gone—whose Golgotha remains; to you, poor faded beauty, who have staked all upon man's appetite, and not accumulated goodness or sense for your second course; to you, poor drawing-room wit, whose sarcasm has turned to venom and is turning to drivel. What terrors has old age for this happy pair? it cannot make them ugly, for, though the purple light of youth recedes, a new kind of tranquil beauty, the aloe-blossom of many years of innocence, comes to, and sits like a dove upon, the aged faces, where goodness, sympathy and intelligence have harbored together so long; and where evil passions have flitted (for we are all human), but found no resting-place. Old age is no calamity to them. It cannot terrify them; for ere they had been married a week the woman taught the man, lover of truth, to search for the highest and greatest truths in a book written for men's souls by the Author of the world, the sea, the stars, the sun, the soul; and this book, Dei gratia, will, as the good bishop sings, “Teach them to live that they may dread The grave as little as their bed.” It cannot make them sad, for, ere it comes loved souls will have gone from earth and from their tender bosom, but not from their memories; and will seem to beckon them now across the cold valley to the golden land. It cannot make them sad, for on earth the happiest must drink a sorrowful cup more than once in a long life, and so their brightest hopes will have come to dwell habitually on things beyond the grave; and the great painter, jam Senex, will chiefly meditate upon a richer landscape and brighter figures than human hand has ever painted; a scene whose glories he can see from hence but by glimpses and through a glass darkly; the great meadows on the other side of Jordan, which are bright with the spirits of the just that walk there, and are warmed with an eternal sun, and ring with the triumph of the humble and the true, and the praises of God forever.
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