Matthew Mellowdew. A story, etc

Front matter

HARRY HARDVVICK RELATES HIS STORY (/. 33). MATTHEW MELLOWDEW. A Story with more Heroes than One. BY J. JACKSON WRAY, Author of " Nestle ton Magna;" "Chronicles of Capstan Cabin;" "Peter Pengelly, or, True as tlte Clock;" "A Alan Every Inch of Him;" "Pant Meggitt's Delusions &c. &c Cassell, Petter, Galpin & Co.: LONDON, PARIS &» NEW YORK. [all rights reserved.] CHAP. I II. Ill, IV. V, VI, VII. PAGE I 9 iS =5 33 4o 4S CONTENTS. In which the Reader is conducted to a " City quaint and olden," and has the Advantage of a Description not given in the Guide Books . Introduces "a Man worth knowing," and shows how Business and Benevolence can drive a Brisk Trade in Company ..... Makes the Reader acquainted with Matthew Mellowdew's Household, and affords a Glimpse into a bright Interior .... Throws a little Light upon Harry Hardwick's Antecedents ; and in which Jacob Garbutt makes his first Appearance upon this, or any Stage In which Harry Hardwick relates some Unpleasant Experiences, and Susan Mellowdew expresses her Opinion ......

Reveal's Blind Susan's Secret and Matthew Mellowdew's Method of sharpening his Wits ; and gives the Reader a Peep into Jacob Garbutt's Private Affairs ...... Tells how the Darkness fell on Susan Mellowdew ; and in which Matthew Mellowdew favours his Daughter with a little Proverbial Philosophy MATTHEW MELLOWDEW. CHAP. VIII. PAGE In which Doctor Churchill tells the " Old, old story," and Harry Hardwick receives an Important Message from an Unseen Friend 55 IX. Tells how Matthew Mellowdew made a Singular Investment ; and how Blind Susan celebrated the Christmas Festival with an Original Advent Hymn 62 X. In which Harry Hardwick, out on the High Seas, made an odd Acquaintance, hight Hector K. Franklin of New York and Boston . . • 71 XL Tells of Harry Hardwick's further Experiences with a Diamond in the Rough, and leaves him for a while in the Care of Hector K. Franklin . 79 XII, Introduces Jessie Howard to the Reader ; and in which Matthew Mellowdew Appears to Advantage as a Model Letter-writer S6 XIII.

In which Jessie Howard meets with an Adventure on Pencarra Beacon, and is rescued by an Unknown Knight ...... 93 XIV. In which Matthew Mellowdew hears Good News ; and Dorothy Dunn delivers her Opinion on Sundry Matters of Importance • . . . 101 XV. Makes the Reader acquainted with an Erratic Genius ; and in which the Burly Butcher records his Views on the Subject of Love and Matrimony . no In which Frederick Felvus comes to an Important Decision, and Jessie Howard receives a Communication which is far more startling than agreeable . XVI. 118 XVII. In which Susan Mellowdew makes a Moming Call ; and Dorothy Dunn takes a Photograph of Jacob Garbutt ...... «5 XVIII. Tells the Readv how Dorothy Dunn kept careful Watch and Ward ; and how Susan Mellowdew succeeded in her Mission .... CONTENTS. V CHAP. XIX.

Chapter I

, IN WHICH THE READER IS CONDUCTED TO A CITY "QUAINT OLDEN," AND HAS THE ADVANTAGE OF A DESCRIPTION GIVEN IN THE GUIDE-BOOKS. AND NOT " Quaint old town of toil and traffic, Quaint old town of art and song, Memories haunt thy pointed gables, Like the rooks that round them throng." Longfellow. " How reverend is the face of this tall pile, Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads, To bear aloft its arched and ponderous roof, By weight and time made steadfast and immovable, Looking tranquillity." Congrezie. "yG? EE Naples, and die," says a most unreasonable Italian vS) proverb. Just as though after that there is nothing else worth living for ! It is a most unconscionable boast, and I who have never seen that city am half inclined to believe that I should not greatly admire it if I did. " Good wine needs no bush," Gooseberry essence will not taste like champagne, though all the boughs in Burnham Wood were hoisted to puff its quality.

If I do not die until I have seen Naples, I have a notion that I shall outlive Old Parr, or Old Jenkins, or Old Mother Hubbard, or any other of those ancient celebrities of whom tradition makes men tion, and all owing to that extravagant bit of Neapolitan bounce. Now I am going to hazard a statement of my own. It is not a proverb yet, because sayings, even the best of them, do not become proverbs without pickling, and that is a pro cess which requires time. See Silchester, and live in it ! If you have seen the dear old city, of course you agree with me ; if you have not seen it, why then your opinion cannot have much weight, because you know nothing about it. I don't mean by that last remark, however, to imply that know ledge is always necessary to a weighty opinion ; else, how did Bunsby manage to become such an oracle to Captain Cuttle ?

And how on earth do so many shallow pates manage so to lay down the law, that all gainsaying is laid down too, and cannot get up again for the very life of it ? No, no ! Depend upon it that the " Daniel " who " comes to judgment," may be a Daniel Dancer of imposing purse, or a Daniel Lambert of imposing size, in whose presence knowledge and common sense, without "influence" or "position," get a very limited hearing and still less heed. A quainter, fairer, finer old city than Silchester is not to be found within the borders of her Majesty's dominions, nor within those of any other majesty, not excepting even the "londes of faerie" or of Prester John. Viewed from the top of Castle Brow, a tall wooded cliff with jutting rocks of rude castellated shape, about a mile from the town, Silchester lies belted with green hills, a "city compacted together," like an oddly carven brooch in a setting of green serpentine.

It is an odd mixture of queer old gables, quaint old A CITY " QUAINT AND OLDEN." 3 chimneys, and quiet old houses, with hipped roofs, peaked roofs, flat roofs, looking like hummocks on a sea of ice, only of a good deal warmer colour. Warmth of colour, indeed, is one of Silchester's strong peculiarities. The red sandstone and red bricks of which the buildings are constructed, and the red tiles with which they are roofed, impart quite a summery glow which even old Winter himself in his severest moods cannot utterly dissipate. Here and there you see a spire, and here and there a steeple ; and here and there a pretentious lay edifice, such as the Guildhall, the Court house, the Silchester County Bank ; and here and there a Nonconformist chapel. As to these last, public opinion in Silchester, as elsewhere, is divided on the question whether they are lay edifices or not.

All of them alike wear a mellow aspect, an " auld warld " glamour of Yule tide and May-day, which is almost aromatic, a charm which, to my mind, and I have travelled a little, belongs to Silchester, and to Silchester alone. If you should chance to be on Castle Brow when the bells in St. Martin's tower send out their silvery music, the winning witchery of the place is all the greater, for sweeter sounds never floated over vale or village, field or forest, plain or populace, than those which are wafted from the belfry of St. Martin's Cathedral. It may be only a notion of my own, but somehow or other modern bells do not seem to discourse such ripe melody as those rare and seasoned ancients whose tones have been mollified and mellowed by that rare old tuner Time. Be that as it may, sure I am that the Silchester bells have no equals, either old or new.

If Edgar Allan Poe had been an Englishman, I should have said that he wrote his marvellous bell poem on some summer Sunday eve, seated on the sunny slope of Castle Brow with the cheery chimes of Silchester sounding in his ear. " Golden bells ! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! Through the balmy air of night, How they ring out their delight ! * # # # * Oh, from out their sounding cells What a gush of euphony voluminously swells ! " Descending the hill, you approach the city by a long, straight highway, fringed on either side by chestnut trees — big trees which meet overhead and form an avenue redolent in spring-time with the fragrance of the chestnut bloom, and with the merry music of the multi tudinous bees who carry home from thence to distant hives their sweet and golden store.

Close upon the city, pleasant, cosy suburban villas meet the eye — -no, not villas; there are no villas in and around Silchester. That style of thing is all of yesterday, smells of stucco and shows cracks. "Grange," "Garth," "Cottage," "Hough," " House," these are the names given to the smiling homesteads which, like an outer circle of piquets, keep watch and ward over the antique gem that gleams within. Of course every one of these has a garden attached to it — a. garden, mind you, not one of those modern affairs which are foisted on a deluded public by botanical experts who are nothing if not scientific. You cannot find in these old-fashioned enclosures any of those floral mysteries and herbaceous enigmas which, with tantalising labels attached, are perpetually propounding their silent conundrums as to what they are, where they came from, and what conceivable business they have there.

Silchester is not going to be victimised by scientific gardening, nor allow its unsophis ticated love for the beautiful to be interfered with by any new-fangled botanical mania whatever. The citizens prefer wall-flowers to the Cactus speciosa, pansies to pelargoniums, i*' A cIty " quaiNt And oldLn." 5 and love-lies-bleeding to any strange, odd-looking exotic from beyond the seas. I do not mind confessing that I am somewhat in sympathy with this peculiar taste. I have the daring to believe that the blue-bell is more lovely than the Campanula rotundifolia, though botanists tell me that they are one and the same. I feel certain that London pride and sweet william excel in beauty any of the phanerogamous plants, whatever they may be. In the Silchester gardens you will see a wealth of lilac bushes, of laburnum trees, and un dipped rose bushes as big as they.

Stocks and daffodils, and daisies, sun-flowers, and dahlias, and all the rest of the dear old flowers in the cultivation of which our grand mothers took delight, are seen in richest profusion. The air is laden with the scent of sweetbriars, southernwood, and honey-suckle. Indeed, there is such a wilderness of flower and herb and shrub and tree, made up of scent and beauty, as to form quite a happy tangle of delights. Passing along, the city wall confronts you. Most of it is still standing, with its Norman towers and cross-shaped loopholes, through which many an arrow sped in the old days when Englishmen had not learned the supreme un wisdom of falling out among themselves. You enter the city at this point through Roygate, so called, tradition says, because through it King John did once make public entrance in great state.

Of course, as a Silchesterian, and right loyal withal, I am glad that the old city has been visited by royalty, but I wish the royal visitor had been a more respectable character than the cruel and selfish poltroon who shamed the honoured name of John. But, you see, kings as a whole are not numerous as compared with the common herd, and it is not often that history brings you in contact with a thoroughly satisfactory specimen of the kind. Still prosecuting your tour of observation, you pass on by low arched porches, diamond-paned windows surmounted by neat Elizabethan gables, walls of wooden frame-work, chiefly of dark-hued oak filled in with brick. Then come the narrow streets; houses whose upper floors project so far that shaking hands across the street is by no means an impossibility. The whole aspect of things reminds you of shaking hands..

Homely, cheery, pleasant, these are the adjectives which best describe the city on the Sill, a bright looking salmon river, which laughs in rippling merriment, or glides in peaceful quiet through the town, skirts Castle Brow, and winds its way westward and southward to mingle with the sea. The very winds of heaven, aye, even in winter, seldom moan or sigh, but whistle like a ploughboy ; nor does it require so very much imagination to trace " Begone, Dull Care," in every stave of the Æolian melody. In the heart of the city is the cathedral dedicated to St. Martin. It is a small edifice as cathedrals go, and looks like one who has the making of a giant in him, but who has been stunted in his growth, and so it comes to pass that it is as broad as it is long, and the length and the breadth and the height of it are equal.

Silchester will gravely inform you that although the smallest, it is undoubtedly the finest piece of ecclesiastical architecture in England, and that in this respect Canterbury, Lincoln, York, and even Sir Christopher Wren's great masterpiece must hide their diminished heads. I suppose there is not a cathedral in England that has not either the finest west front, or the fairest arch, or the stateliest nave, or the most artistic screen, or some otheir speciality, that makes it the envy of less favoured civilisation. I, as a true Silchesterian, am prepared to aver that St. Martin's is unrivalled in one respect. It is not the biggest, nor the oldest, nor the grandest, but it is the most charming ecclesiastical pile in England. In this respect it is in perfect keeping with the pleasant and cheerful little city of which it is the ornament and pride.

The very A CITY " QUAINT AND OLDEN." 7 gargoyles and finials carved in wood or stone, instead of exhibiting those hideous and malformed monstrosities so common to church exteriors, and which always seem to me to be the product of masonic nightmares, are laughing, smiling, winking, or in some other way betokening bright good-humour. The whole building in every line and moulding, fluting and column, arch and architrave, porch and pinnacle, looks in truth as if it had been the dream of some rubicund old abbot, who had fallen asleep under the combined influence of venison and vine-juice, amid soft and lively music, while some mischievous young acolyte tickled his feet with a feather. So the dream came laughing out ; St. Martin must have congealed it into stone, and there it stands with a smile all over it to this day.

Around the cathedral is the Close. There is the bishop's palace and the deanery, and the rookery among the tall elm-trees which overshadow all. There also are the jackdaws, fitting denizens of the quaint regions I am trying to describe, the genii of the place. Their peculiar strut, their comical caw, their whimsical habit of perching, with head aslant and knowing eye, on the ' most prominent portions of the building, are in such keeping with the rest, that as I see them flapping their wings on moulding and mullion I am led to think that they are as much a part of the concern as the portly dean himself. There he is, look you, just coming under the arch yonder, with a genial smile on his face, with broad-brimmed hat and corded trimmings, knee-breeches and black gaiters, which latter are clasped round a pair of calves which would make the fortune of John Thomas in Belgravian livery.

Dr. Churchill, as the worthy dean is called, is a great favourite in Silchester, and will, I hope, be as great a favourite with my readers by-and-by. It would be hard to say whether he or his superior, the bishop, bears the palm for Silchesterian warmth and cheerine^s. One thing may be safely said of MA TTHE W MELLO WDE W. both— that were all ecclesiastical dignitaries as liberal in their principles and practice, as faithful to the creed on which their church is founded, as active and consistent in their high and holy calling, the severance of Church and State in this land of ours would be about as distant as the Greek Kalends, and would be about as easy as to dis endow Mont Blanc of its snow, and disestablish it from its foundations. Through a narrow outlet from the Close you pass into High Street, amid shops and shoppers.

Here on the narrow pavement is the favourite promenade of the Sil chester citizens. It is not equal to Regent Street in London, or to Prince's Street in Edinburgh, or to Sackville Street in Dublin, but none of these can vie with it in the lively, pleasant tout ensemble which marks this centre of the bright and bustling little city. Just at the brow of a gentle declivity, where Fore Street tacks itself on to High Street, there is — but as I am now about to introduce my readers to my hero, or, at least, one of my heroes, I had better start fair, and lift the curtain on a new chapter. As a singer whose notes get flat by the time a stanza is com pleted, can start at pitch again in the next verse, so this arrangement will enable me to do more justice to my dear old friend Matthew Mellowdew than I could possibly do were I to tag his introduction to the end of a chapter, which is already so long, perhaps, as to leave the reader out of patience, as well as out of breath.

Chapter II. Introduces

"a MAN WORTH KNOWING," AND SHOWS HOW BUSINESS AND BENEVOLENCE MAY DRIVE A BRISK TRADE IN COMPANY. " A king can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that ; But an honest man's aboon his might, Guid faith, he maunna fa' that ! For a' that, and a1 that, Their dignities and a' that, The pith o' sense and pride o' worth, Are higher rank than a' that." Burns. iKys ATTHEW MELLOWDEW, PURVEYOR TO ctOL THE QUEEN." Such was the legend in big gilt letters which surmounted the principal butcher's shop in the High Street, Silchester. It must not be imagined, however, that its owner was largely interested in the con sumption of carnal edibilities by her Majesty or her depen dants either at Windsor Castle, Buckingham Palace, Osborne, or Balmoral. If that is what " purveyor to the Queen " usually means, one may well marvel alike at the number of her Majesty's retainers and the vigour of their appetites, for I warrant me her Majesty's purveyors are found all over England, while Scotland could doubtless furnish a strong contingent to swell the list.

Ireland languishes outside the sunshine of royal favour as far as residence is concerned, and there purveyors to the Queen are probably conspicuous by the smallness of their number. " Once upon a time," as the story-tellers say, not that I am telling a story, mind you, that has not a good deal of truth in it, Matthew Mellowdew had the good fortune to buy an extraordinary prize ox at an agricultural show. By some occult influence, most probably of a back-stairs cha racter, though, as everybody knows, those avenues to the royal domains are both fewer and narrower than in the reign of less worthy monarchs, one joint of the prize ox was pur chased for the royal table. Thereupon, Matthew, who had a keen eye to business, mounted a ponderous copy of the royal symbol above his doorway. There the lion and the unicorn, in all the glories of bright paint and brighter gilding, were engaged in their never-ending warfare, fighting for a crown !

Beneath that escutcheon were the words I have recorded, "Matthew Mellowdew, Purveyor to the Queen." Since the occurrence of that noteworthy episode, Matthew had had no more dealings, except in loyal heart homage and due payment of taxes, with Queen Victoria than with Queen Anne. But although the stalwart and somewhat expansive butcher did not serve the Queen with savoury dinner fare, he certainly did so serve a large number of her Majesty's lieges. Further, it may be safely averred that nowhere could you buy a more succulent chine or chop, a juicier steak or sirloin, a plumper baron or brisket, a daintier collop or cutlet, than at the shop of " Matthew Mellowdew, Purveyor to the Queen,' Besides, Matthew was something of a wit and a humourist • a master, indeed, in sententious and proverbial philosophy, whose principles he had learned from the best of all books • so that in his wit there was wisdom, in his humour there was use, and in both the genuine ring of a real religious manliness, and that, sad to say, is not always found, even among religious folks.

Chatty and good-tempered, Matthew usually gave such a good supply of quaint remarks and pithy plea santries to his customers that in these alone they got good value for their money, and so the joints must have been cheap indeed. The man you see was as popular as his meat, and as that was the very choicest that his knowing eye and capable purse could purchase, it will be seen that Matthew Mellowdew was held by Silchester in very high esteem. My hero — for I assure you that this middle-aged, semi bald, ruddy-faced, and somewhat podgy butcherman is one of the very foremost characters in this story ; and I say again, as I point to him standing there by his butcher's block, round, rubicund, and rosy, invested with blue apron and sleeves, knife in one hand and a loin of mutton in the other, that he is a hero, weighed morally in comparison with whom, Saladin, Alexander, and the " great " Napoleon will assuredly kick the beam — my hero, then, I say, was in keeping with the city of Silchester, whose cheery aspect was all the cheerier for his presence in it.

By the way, let me here mention, as an indisputable fact, that the very lion in the royal arms above the door wore a broad grin on his face, and either by accident, or design, or the spirit of the place, had an in dubitable wink in his dexter eye, while the ears and horn of the unicorn were cocked in that perky and comical fashion which characterises a young terrier dog. I do not mean to imply by that the terrier has a horn, but that he would cock it thus if he possessed that cornutory adorn ment. " Cornutory adornment ! " I am not quite sure that the former word is in the dictionary. But what of that ? Somebody must have used the words that are there for the first time, aye, and before there were any dictionaries with their arbitrary laws ; besides, new words keep creeping into our lexicography continually, and that is as good as some of them, 1 vow. 'Tis a brave word and sounds well, and every body knows that sound often takes precedence of sense in this cymbal-thrumming age.

It was Christmas Eve, and a thorough-going specimen of the old-fashioned article it was. None of your warm, muggy nights, in which you are half inclined to strip to your shirt sleeves, feeling as if a fan would be preferable to a fire ; none of your dull, dirty, plashy weather, when the rain comes down with a pertinacity which suggests that Old Christmas is drowned, and that St. Switltin has been deputed by his colleagues in the saintly calendar to weep " oceans of tears " above his grave ; none of your green Christmases — which, according to the old proverb, make a full churchyard — when the primroses are puzzled to know whether it is time to show their bloom, and the snowdrops hang out their graceful bells even before the waits have ushered in the Christmas morn. No, no! The Christmas Eve of which I speak was the genuine article.

The snow had flung a thick white counter pane on path and pavement, road and roof. The keen and frosty wind had blown the feather}' flakes as they fell into the corners of window sills, on the ledges of the doorways and cornices, had even fastened them on the walls in comical little patches, as though Old Christmas himself was adorning the High Street for his own famous festival. The lion and the unicorn above Matthew Mellowdew's shop door were fairly changed in shape by the superin cumbent snow. Indeed, it appeared as though the chronic enmity was over at last, and that a treaty of peace had been attended with such a melting influence that the two quondam quarrellers had coalesced, and that the outcome was a polar bear or a bison, and an uncommonly shaggy speci men too. At present, at any rate, they had suspended hostilities until a subsequent thaw should enable them to see what they were about.

Still the snow came down at a tremendous rate. Such citizens of Silchester as were out of doors were wrapped in the thickest of mufflers and the warmest of clothing, for without such protection it was almost impossible to face the wind and weather. The windows of the various tradesmen displayed their Christmas specialities, all gar nished with holly and garish with gas. But folk did not stop long, I can tell you, to see either the skilful arrange ment of candied peel and figs on a ground of currants and raisins in the grocers' windows, or the marvellous shapes in spice and sugar, fearfully and wonderfully made, behind the confectioner's plate glass. On they plodded through the snow, glad to get their business done, to seek the shelter of their cheery homesteads, and to warm their feet at their " ain firesides."

Matthew Mellowdew stood within his shop, surrounded by a rich profusion of Christmas beef and mutton, and such an array of suspended porkers, that one would have thought half Silchester was being purveyed for by the " purveyor to the Queen." Stalwart and burly, pleasantly rubicund, chattily merry, Matthew went about his business in a way that defied the cold to touch him, or to lessen the genial warmth that radiated from him on all the multitude of customers who crossed his threshold. His jokes and joints, his meat and his maxims, were impartially distributed, and the wit of the seller and the laugh of the buyer mingled continually with the stroke of the cleaver, the clatter of the scales, and the chink of cash. "Well, Mrs. Seymour, what shall it be? Beef, mutton, pork; pork, mutton, beef.

There's six sorts to choose from ; which shall it be ? " " Nay, Mr. Mellowdew, that's only three," said the little widow from within her old-fashioned and rusty black bonnet, with a little laugh, for she had but little money in her palm, and would fain find the worthy butcher in his most favourable mood. "Well, but I said three twice over, didn't I? and twice three are six, according to my reckoning." The little widow did not see her way through this extraordinary piece of casuistry, and so she said, simply enough — ■ " Yes, if you take it in that way." " Ha ! ha ! ha ! " quoth the merry Matthew. " That's it. It all depends which way you take things as to what they mean. ' Touch a nettle, 'tis a wasp ; Soft as velvet if you grasp. ' It all depends, you see, how you take it. Some people take offence, just as a bad hunter takes a fence, by pulling too sharp up, and so they both come a cropper.

The best way is to take it lightly, and then it slips away like a wet eel." Pouncing upon a fine juicy piece of pork, Matthew continued — " There ! there's a beauty ! Those bairns of yours will sniff enough of that while it's cooking to satisfy 'em for one meal ; then you can serve it up cold, you know, for next day's dinner ! " " Oh, but that's too big," said the poor woman, de precatingly. " Very well ; that's a complaint that a knife will cure, as a man said when his corn twinged." Flinging it into the scales, "Five pounds and a half," said he. "Let's see, five pounds at tenpence is fifty pence, and half a pound is fivepence, that's fifty-five pence, and fifty-five pence is two an' threepence ha'penny. That's the money, Mrs. Seymour. Will you take it home with you, or shall I send it round ?

" " Oh, Mr. Mellowdew ! " said Mrs. Seymour, surprised at this peculiar arithmetic, " it comes to a'most twice as much, I'm sure ! " " Look here, ma'am," said the butcher, with a twinkle, "it depends entirely how you take it. That's the way 7" take it, as the man said when he held his hat for a pound of treacle. I'm very busy; good-night. Now, Mr. Bentley," said he to the next customer, who had witnessed the last unbusinesslike transaction, and who possibly entertained half a hope that he might also be similarly favoured, " I've a prime joint of beef here ; under-cut, and over cut, inside and out, it is as rich as marrow, and as tender as a chicken." " How much for that ? " said Mr. Bentley, whose purse was long, but marvellously narrow at the mouth. The difficulty that man had to wriggle his two fingers into it was only less remarkable than the difficulty he had to wriggle them out again in his attempt to extract therefrom the smallest coin ever produced at her Majesty's mint.