LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXI, Issue 1711, 14 August 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

BOROUGH-ENGLISH'. A Tale of South African Life. By Copia Fanei, S.C.L. Author of “ Twelve True Tales of the Law.” Chapter I. DvEOTHY brokesby. In the ancient borough of Broughtondale, in the North Riding of Yorkshire, everyone knew the Broughtondale Brewery and old Jerry Smith, its owner. The buildings were not in modern style, nor very tall, and the chimney was a dwarf compared with those of Leeds and Bradford ; but five acres of land was taken up with the brewery, malt-houses, granaries, stable, and waggon-houses, leaving a quiet corner for the modest old brick-built residence of the proprietor, which, along with the counting-house, was separated from the rest by a clean-paved court-yard, and ended on the other side in an orchard enclosed in a high wall. It was scarce an acre in extent, but was rich in fruit, and many of the trees which shaded its well-bronzed herbage could have borne witness to the southward march of the last Pretender.

It was an old-fashioned place, with an old fashioned owner; and no wonder that all went well with it, for the beer was good. At the Coach and Horses, the Yorkshire Grey, and the Blue Lion, no other beer was sold, and even at the City Apprentice, which the burgesses frequented, and at the Crown and Cushion, the head-quarters of the North Riding Radical League, Jerry Smith would hold its own against the importations by rail from Burton and York. The farmers, when they came to market, would bring home a cask of Jerry Smith, and if you dined at a parsonage within a radius of six leagues, it was ten to one that the cheese which ended the meal was washed down with a little glass of Jerry Smith’s stingo, a little glass, indeed ; for not even the parson would drink deep of what rivalled the auditale of his collegiate days. But Jerry Smith was not a happy man. He had quarrelled with his wife, and his three sons had sided with their mother. Scantily provided from the brewer’s puree, the two eldest had set up for themselves, and supported the old woman, now blind and bedridden, while the last remnant of the father’s bounty was employed to put out the youngest to learn the trade of a lawyer. I shall not attempt to enlist the sympathies of my readers in favor of either of the parties to this domestic struggle. Old men and old women, like their juniors, will quarrel ; there is often something to bo said on both sides, and the boys generally take the mother’s part. Daughters there were none. It had always been a grievance to Jerry that he had none, and the older ho grew the more he lamented that no fairy female form and no girlish laugh and chatter enlivened that snug old house where he now spent his solitary days. His meals were often cheered by the company of a customer or an old friend, but the long winter evenings set the old man thinking that if he had had the luck of other men a sweet lass’s face would be smiling at him from the opposite corner of the fireplace, or rounded arms and agile fingers would be evoking strains of music from the old six-ootaved harpisohord in the corner. And, when the summer came round, if he had been as other men, sweet eyes would have been there to hail the flowery promises of Pomona, and, in the autumn, rosy-tipped fingers would have gathered her gifts. If Jerry had had a daughter I believe he would have worshipped her.

His daughterless sorrow was of a sort which, to his male friends, Jerry felt he could hardly communicate; and female friends he had none. His only sister, married to a merchant of Hull, called Brokeaby, was now dead, and Jerry tried to draw on his moderate stock of philosophy by thanking fortune that still his beer was good, and, with increasing population, was in greater demand than ever.

One day there came a letter —not on business It was from Hull. Nicholas Brokesby, his brother-in-law, wrote to say that things were ill with him. The investments in which, on his retirement from business, he had laid out his savings had proved rotten. The dividends on his canal shares had been long on the decline ; the lighterage company was in liquidation, with a chance of only a slender dividend ; a hank in which ho was a shareholder had broken, and he was going to one of the colonies in order to enjoy moderate comfort with what was left to him, not to speak of the chance of repairing his fallen fortune. Though too busy himself to do anything but arrange his affairs and prepare for his leaving, his daughter Dorothy, who was the image of his late wife, would shortly arrive at Broughtondale to say farewell to her uncle.

‘ Poor old Nick,’ soliloquised Jerry, as he laid down the letter. ‘ thou wast ever a bit luckless, but a hundred or two of mine shall help thee at a pinch. But Dawthy’s coming, is she ? I’d a’most forgot the barn. She can be do bam now, though, but a woman

grown, and the image of her mother. Ah, then, she’ll be a beauty 1 He's a lucky man is old Nick, after all, a deal happier than Jerry Smith. Holloa, Mother Larrapin 1 ‘ Yes, sir,’ said the .housekeeper, * Here’s my niece, Dawthy Brokesby, from Hull, a cornin’. Her father’s going forth to foreign parts, and she’s conun’ to take leave * Lor, master 1’ * And clean out the best bedroom, and hang the red cm tains, and put on tho best quilted coverlet, and air the bed and mattress, and light a fire, and put down the carpet in the parlor, and take the covers off the chairs, and make the place tidy a bit, and get wenches to help thee if thy back won’t bend to it. Dost understand ?’

‘ Lor, master 1 but then ’ 1 And get thee a new dress, Mistress Lar rapin; here’s sixty shillings for thee ; and send Surcingle to me, d’ye hear.’ The old woman heard very well. Her countenance brightened, and she looked ten years younger as she went to call the groom. ‘ Surcingle/ said’his master, ‘ thou’lt have fold chaise cleaned up and the cushions aired and tho covers put on, and exercise the chesnut colt and go to Marlingale’s and gefa new side-saddle, Tho cob’ll do for me, and the grey mare’ll go in tho chaise ; dost hear ?’

‘ Yes, master.’ ‘ Aud hark ye, Surcingle, thon’lf pass by old Crotchet that plays f organ i’ church, and bid him come to me straight. ’Tis my niece is a cornin’ to see us.’

* Yes, master,’ said the old groom, and he went forth on his errands with a sober consciousness of the importance of bis office.

‘ Mr Crotchet, sir,’ said Larrapin, as she Introduced an elderly gentleman whose wavy grey hair was gradually deserting his extending temples. His black satin scarf, fastened with an oblong brooch containing hair, concealed any irregularity in his shirt, and a black frock coat much the worse for wear clung with tender tenacity over a pair of shiny black pantaloons which shielded his shrunken ]*mbs.

Crotchet took off his hat and' put on his spectacles. * How dost thou, old man ?’ said Jerry ; ‘ and, before we go to business, let’s take a glass together for the sake of old times at school? What shall it be?’

* Well, thank you, Mr Smith, it’s rather early.’ ‘ Drink i’ th’ morning, man, afore ’thou geest to work. What be the good o’ drinking afterwards ? If thou won’t drink thou ’rt the first musicianer that wouldn’t.’

‘ Thank you, sir, that’s p’enty for me.’ ‘ Now then. Crotchet, lad, I want thee to patch oop fold harpsichord, so as to play music; dost understand? an’ a’ll pay thee well for thy trouble. Crotchet, if thou canst make a job of it.’ A faint smile played over Crotchet’s features as he adjusted his spectacles and took his seat at the end of the instrument, It had long served as a sideboard, and was covered with little mats, and supported a teaurn and cruet stands and shells and little bottles. The old man opened the lid and looked with affectionate interest at the name of the maker.

‘The hands that made this,’ said he, ‘have long been laid in the dust.’ * May be, Crotchet; ’twas my mother’s,’ answered Jerry. The organist put down both his hands on the yellow and discoloured keyboard and brought forth a hideous discord, which set shells, bottles, urn, and cruet-stand vibrating in sympathy. Crotchet returned to the table, and sat down, and then began to explain to Jerry that nothing could be done with the instrument, and it would be better to buy or hire a new one ; and no sooner was this agreed to and Crotchet gone than Jerry went off to the telegraph office and sent to ‘ Old Nick’ the following message— ‘ Let the girl come at once and stay till she goes.’ Two days after, in obedience to a telegram, Jerry was at the railway station with the newly-furnishedohaise, and Surcingle in trim costume. Jerry was known to everybody at the station, and, indeed, was a well-known customer of the goods department. And so it was not long before everybody knew that the old brewer had come to receive his niece ; and so, quite as much from gallantry as to please their aged and wealthy fellowtownsman, all hands, from the stationmaster downward, were on the look-out to receive the lady. Several passengers alighted, but there was no mistaking Dorothy Brokesby. I do not insult the reader by a minute description of female beauty ; I only state the impression conveyed to my own mind, and I leave the reader to analyse the details and invest the person with what dress he pleases. A reader without imagination had better lay aside the pages of history and of fiction'

I have seen many handsome women who were not good, but Dorothy’s was the beauty of goodness, gentleness, and intelligence, and her face betrayed a refinement and a taste which seemed, as it were, accentuated by her ta’l and graceful person. * Dawthy, my own lass, I knew thee by thy likeness to thy mother! ’ Such was Jerry Smith’s greeting to his niece. Everybody conspired to carry her things to the chaise, and she thanked everybody ; sni the porters, who flatter themselves they are connoisseurs in female attractions, of which they see a good deal, passed a unanimous verdict that she was a beauty. And Jerry must have thought so too, for he told Surcingle to drive home, and sat with his niece’s hand in his, looking affectionately into her face, and scarcely uttering a word until they reached the brewery. There she was welcomed by the now agile Larrapin in her new dress, who in time conducted her guest to the best chamber, where everything was magnificent, from the silk coverlid down to the nosegays on the table and the mantelpiece, and the little bags of lavender in the drawers.

The fondness of her uncle and the attention which she excited were rather strange to Dorothy. She was used to please and to be pleased, but there was something about her reception which a little overcame her. She was a long time before she left her room, and old Jerry awaited her with some impatience in the renovated parlor. He thought so beautiful a creature must be decking herself in beautiful attire, and be about to descend upon him like the Queen of Sheba.

Larrapin had been sent to tell her that dinner was ready, and to ask if she wanted anything. At last she came, dressed much as before, but divested of some external coverings. * I was afeared thou wast tired or something ailed thee, Dawthy,’ said Jerry. »No, uncle,’ said Dorothy, going up to him and putting her two hands on his shoulder ; • but I knelt down to thank God that, now I am going away from England, everybody seemed so fond of me.' Three days passed. Every morning Dorothy rode out on the chesnut, while old Jerry trotted by her side on the cob, to the admiration of the Bronghtondalians; and every evening some friends from town or* country were invited to sea Jerry’s niece, and to hear her sing and play on tho piano which had replaced the old harpsicord. And all the men and women of Broughtondale said Dorothy was an angel. On the fourth day, when her uncle proposed tho usual ride, Dorothy said—- ‘ I think, my dear uncle, now that I have been so long here, it would be only respectful if I went to see my aunt and cousins.’ Jerry seemed stung by tho words, and was silent for a moment; but as the form in which the desire was expressed carried its own reason with it, and it was, moreover, a solution to a difficulty which had been brooding in Jerry’s mind, he assented. Surcingle drove her over in tho chaise, and the visit was paid, Jerry felt uncomfortable while she was away, and more so when she came back. •So thou hast seen the lads and fold woman, Dawthy ?’ said her uncle, with some hesitation.

‘Yes. I have seen them.’ ‘ And did they make thee welcome, lass ?’ ‘ Of course, uncle.' ‘And did they tell thee—was aught said concerning ’ But the old man could not finish his sensence

‘I know what you mean,’ said Dorothy. ‘ Nothing was said in any way disrespectful to you ; nor was it likely that anyone would venture to do so in the presence of your niece and guest.’ The old man kissedj.his niece7and was silent.

That afternoon there came a telegram saytog that the Zulu Chief was to sail from L<mdon in three days’ time,

The old man’s heart was heavy; but the brewery was gay with guests that evening. The next morning Dorothy had to go-

The people were all pleased with’ her, and told her she would never bring hack her gilden hair, her blue eyes, and her clesr skin unimpaired from foreign parts. She played music to them whenever they asked her ; but the only song she sang to them was this i OUTWARD AND HOMEWARD. While the waves are still green round the out-ward-bound craft, Hope stands by the bowsprit and watches them break. But Memory sits pensive and tearful abaft, And looks down o'er the line of smooth foam in the wake. And, again, when the keel crosses water more blue, Hope counts each dark billow that’s cleft into foam. But, still, at the stem. Memory vows her

adieux, O’er the luminous pathway that points to her home. But when the gay barque again Britainward wends, From deck to topgallantmast robed in her pride, Then Hope to pale Memory her countenance lends, As they mark the cleft waves sweeping round by the side.

Every ripple they traverse they count as a gain, And they pledge the bold ship in the bumper that cheers, As the bright star of home gilds the northerly ' main. And the cross of the south in the wave disappears. So the halo of Hope lends a glorifed ray To Memory’s brow that was shaded before And the twain g-ow in splendour, expecting the day, When they’ll leap, hand in hand, on the motherly shore. When the song was over, Jerry went np to his niece, ‘A shall keep ta new pianna,’ said he, ‘ when thou art gone-, to remember thee and thy music by; but a’ll leave t’ould harpisebord bide in ’splaoe, ’cause ’twas mother’s,’ (To he continued.)