CHAPTER VI.

THERE is a certain point to which complacency and forbearance may go, but there is also a certain point at which they must infallibly stop; and when I awoke in the morning, and thought over the events of the preceding evening, and moreover found my poor Harriet extremely unwell, I fell to considering what course I could adopt to rescue her and myself from the unbearable thraldom in which we found ourselves, without offending Cuthbert, or, on the other hand, of evincing a proper sense of gratitude for the kindnesses he had lavished upon us.

I was perfectly satisfied of his entire unconsciousness that he was doing any thing either to distress or inconvenience us; he felt convinced that we must like what he liked, or perhaps it would be nearer the truth to say, that he did not trouble himself to think much upon the subject. By this I do not mean that he was indifferent to our comfort or happiness, but that seeing the readiness with which all his wishes were complied with, and hearing neither remonstrance nor complaint, he was not aware that he was, in point of fact, making us positively miserable.

As the morning wore on, however, I began to think that my mind was likely to be occupied with even more important matters. Harriet's indisposition increased, and I was informed about seven o'clock by the proper authorities that it would be advisable to call in medical aid. I immediately went to Harriet to inquire whether her disinclination to Sniggs continued as strong as ever, and in reply was referred to her mother, for whom she had sent.

I knew exactly what the result of this reference would be. The prejudice entertained by Mrs. Wells against the unfortunate son of Galen, however natural, was unconquerably strong; and as the tone of Harriet's voice convinced me that in submitting the subject to her fond parent she

would say nothing likely to remove or mitigate it, I determined at once to send off a servant to Dr. Downey, a lady's doctor of considerable reputation and extensive practice, who lived within a very short distance of Winchester. Time it seemed would not allow of my sending to London for a Sir Charles or a Sir John, as I had, with a view to soothing poor Sniggs's feelings, originally intended. I was, therefore, compelled to run the risk of offending him, hoping, 'however, in some degree to qualify what I knew would be considered a grievance, by getting leave to join him in the commission with the Doctor, who, in addition to his eminent professional qualities, was the very pink of politeness, and a universal favourite.

Finding that the proposed arrangement was agreeable to Harriet, I forthwith wrote to the Doctor and sent off my letter, and had the satisfaction of finding upon Mrs. Wells's arrival that what I had done met with her entire approbation. From the moment, however, that the Doctor was sent for and my respected mother-in-law proceeded to her daughter's room, I felt-certainly as I had never felt before—my anxiety had commenced-my worry had begun. I dreaded lest the Doctor should come too late-that some unforeseen accident might befall my beloved Harriet-I felt, in short, as if I had suddenly become a useless and superfluous member of my own family; I walked about the hall, went into one room, and then into another-stopped-listened-then sat down; until at length I resolved upon going into the grounds, and made a sort of business of looking at the celery and sea-kale in the kitchen garden. The kale covers might have been bee-hives, the celery trenches an asparagus-bed for all I cared, and into the house I came again, when to my horror I heard a sound certainly most unexpected by me at such a moment: that of the tuning of a fiddle in the drawing-room next to my wife's bed-chamber. I hurried up-stairs astounded at such a circumstance, and there beheld Mr. Kittington, the dancing-master, just in the act of beginning the then popular country-dance of the "Ope ra Hat," that being fixed upon for the first practice of the before-breakfast lesson to the young ladies.

When I entered the room the two pets, dressed with remarkably short petticoats and dirty white kid shoes, sprang forward to welcome me, and expected, I conclude, to see me look remarkably well pleased.

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My dear girls," said I, "you cannot take your lesson here, nor, as I think, any where else this morning; Mrs. Gurney is extremely ill, and the noise will distract her."

"Ill," said Jane, "what's the matter with her, uncle?" "Jane," said Kitty, "how can you be so foolish-she is not very ill, uncle?"

"Indeed she is," said I.

"And so is Tom," said Jane, "he is all out in a rash, and can't see out of his eyes. Pappy is not up yet, but I'll tell him as soon as I can."

"Indeed!" said I, wondering at the sort of mind in which my Harriet and Mrs. Falwasser's Tom could be by any means associated.

During this little colloquy, Mr. Kittington, in stockinet pantaloons and pumps-time half-past eight in the morning -stood fiddle in hand, naturally looking particularly awkward.

"I tell you what we can do," said Kate, "we can go and take our lesson in the laundry, because I know it will vex pappy if we lose it altogether."

"It is," said I, "indeed an essential point in your education."

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"Besides," added Kate, "Mr. Kittington has had to come so early on purpose to give it us."

"Do what you please, my love," said I, "only I assure you Harriet is not well enough to bear the noise here."

I did this civilly and quietly, although I felt sick and wretched, because I did not like to allow the dancing-master to see that the domination of the Falwassers was so irksome to us as it really was, and because I did not wish the professor of the Terpsichorean art-or science-as the case may be, to think that I underrated either the importance of the study, or his own personal assiduity in giving his attendance; and so I conclude they did retire to the laundry, for I heard no more fiddling, nor did I see the young ladies, as it turned out, till a late period of the day.

I sent for Foxcroft, inquired how her mistress was, not daring to venture near the room myself. She told me that she was going on very well. This satisfied me: I did not quite understand what it meant; but the words "very well," conveyed to my mind the intelligence generally which I wished to receive. I went to the breakfast-room; there every thing was in order-comfortable and proper-just the same as if Harriet had been in perfect health. So it is if the master of a house dies-the whole establishment goes on seemingly of itself, for a week or two, without being in the slightest degree affected by his disappearance. This arises from the fact, that after all the discussion and dissertations upon feeling and gratitude, and affection, and all the

rest of it, in the relative position of servant and master, there is nothing in either death or destruction sufficiently strong to break in upon the routine of duty, so long as it is paid for. The man who cleans the plate, cleans it as energetically, while the man whose plate it was three days before, lies upon tressels screwed up in his coffin, as he did that day week, when the defunct used his portion of it. Kittington, the dancing-master, in his stockinets and pumps, would just as enthusiastically have taught my half or three-quarter nieces (whichever they are) to jump and wriggle and twist, to the tune of the "Opera Hat," if Harriet had been lying dead in the next room, instead of being only seriously indisposed and so it is in all callings and professions. Hamlet, we all know, asks Horatio, speaking of the grave-digger

"Hath this fellow no feeling in his trade?"

And as Shakspeare shows in every line he has written the most perfect knowledge of human nature that man without inspiration was it without?-ever possessed, it may be thought absurd to say one syllable more upon the subject, except that although still young I have lived long enough to observe, that so far from a man not having a feeling in his business, it is completely the reverse; his feeling in his bu siness is so strong, that it supersedes any feeling towards any trade except his own. Send for your carpenter, bid him put you up some fifty yards of treillage whereupon you wish your jessamines and honeysuckles to twine, or over which you propose your clustering ivy to creep; his point is the treillage, and in order that he may make what he thinks a workman-like job of the treillage, half your jessamines and honeysuckles and two-thirds of your ivy are destroyed. To him follows the painter, who cares as little for the carpenter as he does for the remnant of your shrubs and climbers; he, only desirous of setting himself off as an artist in his way, not only paints the treillage, but covers with his invisible green-visible to the naked eye-the stems, branches, and leaves of every one of the pet plants, which unconsciously conniving at your scheme of screening, are good enough to intertwine themselves in your treillage. The bricklayer heedlessly annihilates the efforts of the painter, in making his work strong and good which is to support the superstructure; and the plumber, who comes to consolidate certain corners and crannies, completes the job by sending his Etnalike rivers of boiling lead over the roots of the unhappy spe

cimens for which all the pains have been taken and all the pence expended.

I remember hearing Mathews, who, as the reader knows, was my first enticer to dramatic writing, tell a story of a man who had made, with exquisite neatness and beauty, so far as the word is applicable to such a subject, a Hessian boot, the height of which did not exceed three or four inches, but the soul and body of which presented as beautiful a specimen of workmanship as ever was seen. Mathews was delighted with the ingenuity and skill displayed in the construction of this little bijou, and offered to buy it. The artist declined selling it. Mathews then proposed that he should let him have a repetition of it. The difference between a repetition and a copy has been established by Lawrence and other illustrious painters. "No, sir," said the man, "I would do any thing for you that I could do for any body, but I made that little boot in a moment of enthusiasm, and I feel confident that I never could make another like it." This is a proof that a man may be really enthusiastic, and have the powerful "feeling of his business," which I contend generally exists, and which ought always to exist to ensure success; and I say so, not only upon Dr. Johnson's principle, that, whatever is worth doing, is worth doing well, but because I am certain that, unless a man believe the particular pursuit in which he is engaged, let it be what it may, to be vitally important to society at large, he never will be any thing in the craft or trade which he may have adopted.

I have spoken of one actor-whose whole heart and mind are occupied in his profession, Mathews-and not only are his heart and mind engaged in it, as the "means whereby he doth sustain his house;" but they are more honourably and more enthusiastically involved in an anxiety to uphold the character of the profession which he so brightly adorns. Terry-a man of great reading-of powerful intellect-and of high available talent-has but recently come amongst us; but if I prophesy aright, Terry will never attain his just rank as an actor. The reason is plain; he treats his art as a trade, and feels always disposed to laugh at himself, even when he is on the edge of a great performance. If he take a fancy to a part, he will act it, con amore, but only as a joke; and although still new to the London boards, it is clear to me that his perception of the ridiculous, makes him sneer at the success which his not half-developed powers procure him: so, as I have already said, it is with all men; and as a proof how far the "enthusiasm of the moment" will carry me, I will write down here, that which, as I never read what I