He was amazingly loyal, and talked of standing by the
throne to the last guinea, "as every gentleman of fortune should do."
The village exciseman, who was half asleep, could just ejaculate, "very
true," to every thing he said.
The conversation turned upon cattle; he boasted of his breed, his mode
of managing it, and of the general management of his estate. This
unluckily drew on a history of the place and of the family. He spoke of
my late uncle with the greatest irreverence, which I could easily
forgive. He mentioned my name, and my blood began to boil. He described
my frequent visits to my uncle when I was a lad, and I found the
varlet, even at that time, imp as he was, had known that he was to
inherit the estate.
He described the scene of my uncle's death, and the opening of the
will, with a degree of coarse humor that I had not expected from him,
and, vexed as I was, I could not help joining in the laugh, for I have
always relished a joke, even though made at my own expense. He went on
to speak of my various pursuits; my strolling freak, and that somewhat
nettled me. At length he talked of my parents. He ridiculed my father:
I stomached even that, though with great difficulty. He mentioned my
mother with a sneer - and in an instant he lay sprawling at my feet.
Here a scene of tumult succeeded. The table was nearly overturned.
Bottles, glasses, and tankards, rolled crashing and clattering about
the floor. The company seized hold of both of us to keep us from doing
farther mischief. I struggled to get loose, for I was boiling with
fury. My cousin defied me to strip and fight him on the lawn. I agreed;
for I felt the strength of a giant in me, and I longed to pummel him
soundly.
Away then we were borne. A ring was formed. I had a second assigned me
in true boxing style. My cousin, as he advanced to fight, said
something about his generosity in showing me such fair play, when I had
made such an unprovoked attack upon him at his own table.
"Stop there!" cried I, in a rage - "unprovoked! - know that I am John
Buckthorne, and you have insulted the memory of my mother."
The lout was suddenly struck by what I said. He drew back and reflected
for a moment.
"Nay, damn it," said he, "that's too much - that's clear another thing.
I've a mother myself, and no one shall speak ill of her, bad as she
is."
He paused again. Nature seemed to have a rough struggle in his rude
bosom.
"Damn it, cousin," cried he, "I'm sorry for what I said. Thou'st served
me right in knocking me down, and I like thee the better for it. Here's
my hand. Come and live with me, and damme but the best room in the
house, and the best horse in the stable, shall be at thy service."
I declare to you I was strongly moved at this instance of nature
breaking her way through such a lump of flesh. I forgave the fellow in
a moment all his crimes of having been born in wedlock and inheriting
my estate. I shook the hand he offered me, to convince him that I bore
him no ill will; and then making my way through the gaping crowd of
toad-eaters, bade adieu to my uncle's domains forever. This is the last
I have seen or heard of my cousin, or of the domestic concerns of
Doubting Castle.
THE STROLLING MANAGER.
As I was walking one morning with Buckthorne, near one of the Principal
theaters, he directed my attention to a group of those equivocal beings
that may often be seen hovering about the stage-doors of theaters. They
were marvellously ill-favored in their attire, their coats buttoned up
to their chins; yet they wore their hats smartly on one side, and had a
certain knowing, dirty-gentlemanlike air, which is common to the
subalterns of the drama. Buckthorne knew them well by early experience.
These, said he, are the ghosts of departed kings and heroes; fellows
who sway sceptres and truncheons; command kingdoms and armies; and
after giving way realms and treasures over night, have scarce a
shilling to pay for a breakfast in the morning. Yet they have the true
vagabond abhorrence of all useful and industrious employment; and they
have their pleasures too: one of which is to lounge in this way in the
sunshine, at the stage-door, during rehearsals, and make hackneyed
theatrical jokes on all passers-by.
Nothing is more traditional and legitimate than the stage. Old scenery,
old clothes, old sentiments, old ranting, and old jokes, are handed
down from generation to generation; and will probably continue to be
so, until time shall be no more. Every hanger-on of a theater becomes a
wag by inheritance, and flourishes about at tap-rooms and six-penny
clubs, with the property jokes of the green-room.
While amusing ourselves with reconnoitring this group, we noticed one
in particular who appeared to be the oracle. He was a weather-beaten
veteran, a little bronzed by time and beer, who had no doubt, grown
gray in the parts of robbers, cardinals, Roman senators, and walking
noblemen.
"There's something in the set of that hat, and the turn of that
physiognomy, that is extremely familiar to me," said Buckthorne. He
looked a little closer. "I cannot be mistaken," added he, "that must be
my old brother of the truncheon, Flimsey, the tragic hero of the
strolling company."
It was he in fact. The poor fellow showed evident signs that times went
hard with him; he was so finely and shabbily dressed.
