We are not poor; although we have
No roofs of cedar, nor our brave
Baiae, nor keep
Account of such a flock of sheep,
Nor bullocks fed
To lard the shambles; barbles bred
To kiss our hands; nor do we wish
For Pollio’s lampreys in our dish.
If we can meet and so confer
Both by a shining salt-cellar,
And have our roof,
Although not arched, yet weather-proof,
And ceiling free
From that cheap candle-bawdery,
We’ll eat our bean with that full mirth
As we were lords of all the earth.
HERRICK, from HORACE.
On entering the room, Clarence recognized Lucy, whom eight years had converted into a sleek and portly matron of about thirty-two, without stealing from her countenance its original expression of mingled modesty and good-nature. She hastened to meet her husband, with an eager and joyous air of welcome seldom seen on matrimonial faces after so many years of wedlock.
A fine, stout boy, of about eleven years old, left a crossbow, which on his father’s entrance he had appeared earnestly employed in mending, to share with his mother the salutations of the Returned. An old man sat in an armchair by the fire, gazing on the three with an affectionate and gladdening eye, and playfully detaining a child of about four years old, who was struggling to escape to dear “papa”!
The room was of oak wainscot, and the furniture plain, solid, and strong, and cast in the fashion still frequently found in those country houses which have remained unaltered by innovation since the days of George II.
Three rough-coated dogs, of a breed that would have puzzled a connoisseur, gave themselves the rousing shake, and, deserting the luxurious hearth, came in various welcome to their master.
One rubbed himself against Cole’s sturdy legs, murmuring soft rejoicings: he was the grandsire of the canine race, and his wick of life burned low in the socket. Another sprang up almost to the face of his master, and yelled his very heart out with joy; that was the son, exulting in the vigour of matured doghood; and the third scrambled and tumbled over the others, uttering his paeans in a shrill treble, and chiding most snappishly at his two progenitors for interfering with his pretensions to notice; that was the infant dog, the little reveller in puppy childishness! Clarence stood by the door, with his fine countenance smiling benevolently at the happiness he beheld, and congratulating himself that for one moment the group had forgot that he was a stranger.
As soon as our gypsy friend had kissed his wife, shaken hands with his eldest hope, shaken his head at his youngest, smiled his salutation at the father-in-law, and patted into silence the canine claimants of his favour, he turned to Clarence, and saying, half bashfully, half good-humouredly, “See what a troublesome thing it is to return home, even after three days’ absence. Lucy, dearest, welcome a new friend!” he placed a chair by the fireside for his guest, and motioned him to be seated.
The chief expression of Clarence’s open and bold countenance was centred in the eyes and forehead; and, as he now doffed his hat, which had hitherto concealed that expression, Lucy and her husband recognized him simultaneously.
“I am sure, sir,” cried the former, “that I am glad to see you once more!”
“Ah! my young guest under the gypsy awning!” exclaimed the latter, shaking him heartily by the hand: “where were my eyes that they did not recognize you before?
“Eight years,” answered Clarence, “have worked more change with me and my friend here” (pointing to the boy, whom he had left last so mere a child) “than they have with you and his blooming mother. The wonder is, not that you did not remember me before, but that you remember me now!”
“You are altered, sir, certainly,” said the frank chief. “Your face is thinner, and far graver, and the smooth cheeks of the boy (for, craving your pardon, you were little more then) are somewhat darkened by the bronzed complexion with which time honours the man.”
And the good Cole sighed, as he contrasted Linden’s ardent countenance and elastic figure, when he had last beheld him, with the serious and thoughtful face of the person now before him: yet did he inly own that years, if they had in some things deteriorated from, had in others improved the effect of Clarence’s appearance; they had brought decision to his mien and command to his brow, and had enlarged, to an ampler measure of dignity and power, the proportions of his form. Something, too, there was in his look, like that of a man who has stemmed fate and won success; and the omen of future triumph, which our fortune-telling chief had drawn from his features when first beheld, seemed already in no small degree to have been fulfilled.
Having seen her guest stationed in the seat of honour opposite her father, Lucy withdrew for a few moments, and, when she reappeared, was followed by a neat-handed sort of Phillis for a country-maiden, bearing such kind of “savoury messes” as the house might be supposed to afford.
“At all events, mine host,” said Clarence, “you did not desert the flesh-pots of Egypt when you forsook its tents.”
“Nay,” quoth the worthy Cole, seating himself at the table, “either under the roof or the awning we may say, in the words of the old epilogue,—[To the play of “All Fools,” by Chapman.]
‘We can but bring you meat and set you stools, And to our best cheer say, You all are welcome.’”
“We are plain people still; but if you can stay till dinner, you shall have a bottle of such wine as our fathers’ honest souls would have rejoiced in.”
“I am truly sorry that I cannot tarry with you, after so fair a promise,” replied Clarence; “but before night I must be many miles hence.”
Lucy came forward timidly. “Do you remember this ring, sir?” said she (presenting one); “you dropped it in my boy’s frock when we saw you last.”
“I did so,” answered Clarence. “I trust that he will not now disdain a stranger’s offering. May it be as ominous of good luck to him as my night in your caravan has proved to me!”
“I am heartily glad to hear that you have prospered,” said Cole; “now, let us fall to.”
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