THE MAN ABOUT TOWN. GETTING OUT OF TOWN. WHAT an inexpressible sense of the pleasurable there is in hearing those simple sentences, "Getting out of Town" and "Going into the Country," pronounced by one who utters them with an anticipatory relishan antepast of the enjoyment he has to come! How -if I may say so-one's mouth waters to hear him (so blest!) smacking his lips at the promised pleasure! How one's eyes watches his eyes, brightning up with hope that his "going into the country" will do him good; and how they try to squeeze in-not outsomething, not a tear, and not unlike one! And after a momentary struggle with one's feelings, how one looks with an agreeable admiration and a good envy on the man-the happy man-who is "going into the -country!" while we are doomed (for what offences?) to a long, lingering immurement within the walls of that largest of her Majesty's prisons-London !— "What have we done," we cannot help asking ourselves, "that we should not be allowed to go into the country? If it is anything serious, punish us severely-send us out of the country; don't keep us pestered in this pinfold here! Has Briggs-the blessed man who is going into the country-has he been so good a boy, that he is to be allowed all these healthy holidays, while we are to be kept tied tight by the legs to the legs of our desk, and fastened down to VOL. I.-B 6 our book, as if there was no such thing as a holyday in the world, and it were impossible for us to have nothing to do for a fortnight but to do nothing, and take our own time over it? Are we incapable of the country, or the country of us? If we cannot have a pew in the Temple of Nature, are there no free seats,' one of which would easily accommodate our old bones, after making an unboiled-pea* sort of pilgrimage to her shrine? Is there no room for us at Nature's table? Are we of the number of uninvited droppers-in who have no business there, and meet with no welcome-for whom there are no knife and fork and silver spoon laid-not even a wooden ladle? And must we gather up the crumbs that fall from the rich men's table, and be content; and if there are no fragrant fragments, dainty bits of delicate cates-no unconsidered orts-must we be content still to look on, and stand patiently eyeing the pampered prodigals till they are?-till the Dives, having fed their dogs till they lie down, fling us a morsel and cry • Eat'?" But, however, Briggs is going into the country"happy man be his dole !"-and he anticipates much health and pleasure from going there: may he be so fortunate as to find the wished-for pleasure true! He is going-we must stay. Well, let us do so with a good grace, and, if possible, see him go as though we did not wish him gone, and yet did. It is no bad enjoyment to see our friends enjoy themselves. Briggs hopes he shall-indeed, says he shall -enjoy his trip, and he is a man of his word. Let us hope that he will enjoy it heartily and thankfully; so shall the gods, and "the sisters three, and such like destinies," pleased with our patience, delighted with our unenvious natures, take our cases next into consideration, and graciously give us leave of absence, * See Peter Pindar's "Pilgrims and the Peas," and the momentary means to go like-wise and likehappy into the country. Going into the country is not what it was in the days of our good old grandfathers. The almost improper facilities for getting now into the rural heart of our truly rural England make it too easy a difficulty-an enjoyment with too few drawbacks; and accordingly we think all the less of that dear pleasure, as it grows cheap. Modern travellers take it into their heads to-day to start for the Lakes, or the Highlands to morrow; and off they go, with as little note of preparation as if they were only going from Whitechapel to the west end of London. Our grandfathers, good, deliberate, methodical old souls! it was as much as ten or eleven of the twelve months could do, let them stick as close as they would to their broad skirts, to get them out of town ten or eleven months after the date of their first threatening that they would go. " Going into the country," was then a great event in a man's life. One of the good old boys, sitting, perhaps, cozily at the corner of his afternoon fire in autumn, after much abstracted rumination, and two hundred twirls of one thumb over the other thumb, hemmed rather loudly to clear his voice, and then suddenly startled the worthy old partner of his heart and hearth by saying, " My dear, if I live till next October, and all goes well with us, and I can afford the time and the money, I have just thought that I think I will go down into Devonshire, and see Dick"-his brother, son, son-inlaw, or nephew, as the case might be. The good old lady was of course "taken aback" by such an unexpected announcement, but, after she had recovered her astonishment, perhaps she encouraged the pious resolution; and from that hour and day it was resolved unanimously, that he-good old Dobson, cheesemonger, or what not, Devonshire-born, but London-bred, man and boy, during fifty long, uninterrupted years should go down into Devonshire that October twelvemonths. From that remarkable day preparations were begun to be made for the contemplated trip: new flannel for extra under-waistcoats, and traveling hose, coming up comfortably over the knees, for extra warmth; and that Dick might not be taken by surprise, he was immediately informed of what was likely to happen that time next year.— The old man was now haunted day and night by the vision of his "Yarrow Revisited." and the old woman by careful thoughts of considerate providences for the contemplated journey. So matters progressed, till, at last, the memorable month in the old man's life arrived, and great was the agitation within-doors and without-doors, for everybody within a mile roundabout knew very well that Mr. Dobson was "going down into Devonshire," and every Devonshire acquaintance felt an interest in so remarkable an event, and had a letter, or parcel, or "their love," or something, to send to somebody in Devonshire. The day when he was to start was duly announced-postponed—a substitute found for it, which would not serve-another day appointed, and sworn in; and the evening of that remarkable day having, at long and at last, duly arrived, everybody who knew and respected Dobson dropped in, and took so solemn a farewell of him, that, poor old fellow, he retired to bed that night about as hopeless and unhappy as the man who had to get up at five next morning to be hanged at eight. Mr. Dobson slept as well as a man could sleep whose dreams were made up of footpads, highwaymen, robbery, road murder, and a stage-coach running as if it was mad at the rate of four miles an hour, now upon three wheels, now upon two, and now upon no wheels at all! The fated hour at last arrived-the coach was to pass his door, and take him up; and two hours before it was to come by, there stood poor Dobson, shivering at the door, and being consoled, and shaken to pieces by leave-taking friends pulling his shoulders out of their sockets in shaking his hands. And now, when it came to the pinch, he wished to heaven that he had never thought of "going down into Devonshire !" It was a rash and presumptuous undertaking—almost as bad as flying in the face of Fate! And then he wished to stay, but was ashamed, it looked so unmanly. It was like tearing himself up from his domestic hearth, where he had taken root, and round every article of which happy little altar, built and kept burning to the domestic Lares, some unseen tendril of his heart had entwined. The fire-irons "entered his soul." The hearth-rug reproached him for forsaking its warm woolliness to tread upon Devonshire green. sward, all damp and dewy, and not half so soft. The kettle," singing its sweet under-song," and wobbling its native hob-notes wild, descanted on the dear pleasures of "Sweet Home." The trivet seemed as though it impertiently demanded of him whether he was as right as that same? The brass footman looked hurt that he should think of dispensing for awhile with his old toast-warming services, to accept those of some rude, mercenary, Devonshire footman, with more brass and less polish. The house-cat purred not as usual, as if conscious that something unusual was going on. The dog whined, and did not wag his tail. At last the hour came, the coach came, and drew up before the house: then the hubbubboo and ullulloo were at the highest, and the scene intensely interesting. The old slow coachman of the old slow coach, having taken five minutes to dismount from his box, and get upon the "firm earth," as slowly raised the short ladder by which Mr. Dobson was to mount up by slow steps either to the roof, among the groggy sailors, or into the basket, with the old woman in a red cloak and her grand-darter. Up he went, however, cheerfully resigned to his fate, which seemed hard, but was to be met like a man and a Christian! Raleigh or More, mounting the scaffold, could not B* |