THE ADVENTURES OF A NIGHT.

Wairarapa Standard, Volume I, Issue 12, 23 March 1867, Page 4

THE ADVENTURES OF A NIGHT.

In the snug parlour of the Magpie a goodly company assembled. There was Tickle, the watchmaker; Brown, the grocer; Jones, the blacksmith, and a host of similar worthies; last and least—but not in his own eyes —there •was Snip, the tailor, a man valorous and brave bold and courageous, fearing no man—at least, this was what he said of himself.

But if Snip feared not man, there was one woman who held him in utter subjection, and •that woman was his wife.

The truth must be told —the valiant tailor was notoriously hen-pecked. The clock struck eleven. Snip started, and gave an alarmed look around him.

There had been an inquest at the Magpie that day, and the company assembled in the parlour had constituted the jury; the conversation had run on such interesting topics—murders, suicides, and the like—that Snip had forgotten the flight of time, and only awoke to a sense of his miserable situation when the clock struck eleven.

He arose in a great tremor, and remarking that it was getting late, staggered out of the room without perceiving the winks and grins which circulated among his late companions. When he reached the open air everything ■seemed to be performing a revolving dance around Mr. Snip. The haystack belonging to the landlord had found a partner —for Snip was sure he saw two where only one had been • —and executed a whirling gallop. The stable the neighbouring cottages, the inn, all were seized with the dancing mania; even the road appeared to have joined itself into a circle, and to be whirling madly round and round the bewildered tailor.

He gazed awhile at these astonishing phenomena, and then sat down to wait until order was restored.

“For,” he argued, within himself “until the road returns to its proper position, how am I to find my way home ?” The seat he had dropped upon was a horsetrough, which was half filled with water, and some say it seemed to he as much under the influence of the dancing goddess—if such there be—as everything else; for Snip felt himself twisted rapidly round two or three times, and then thrown down by his boisterous partner; and Tickle, the watchmaker, coming out of the inn and proceeding homewards, found Snip placidly lying upon his back in the horse-trough half covered with water, and gazing calmly upon the sky. This good Samaritan assisted him to rise, and led him home, where he left him to his own devices to obtain admission.

Snip knocked at the door with a trembling hand; he was sober enough now to dread the appearance of his household deity, and to feel that his dripping coat would not go far towards propitiating her. No answer. Again and again he applied his knuckles to the door before he bethought himself of trying whether it was locked or no. He tried. It yielded to his touch, and Snip entered his own house. He looked carefully around; no one was visible, and he chuckled at the idea that his wife was absent and would never know how late he had come iu if he went to bed at once.

He had got half way up-stairs when a cunning idea entered his head. He would lock his wife out, and would make her humble her•self to him before he would allow her to enter That would be funny! He turned back, locked the door, giving a drunken laugh as he did so, and then mounted the stairs, still chuckling in the greatest glee. He undressed quickly, and was about to jump into bed, when, dreadful to relate, the avenger in the form of Mrs Snip, suddenly appeared from behind the curtain at the other side.

She glared upon the unfortunate little man, •and, like the ancient mariner, held him with her eye while she stalked round the bed, and confronted him. Then Snip saw that she brandished in her hand a goose —not the domestic bird of that name, but the instrument which the little tailor was wont to wield manfully while exercising his lawful calling. As she stood before him, he could not but infer, from the fact that she grasped the goose with an old stocking and held it carefully from her dress, that the goose was heated. At that thought he turned his back and fled. But he had shut the door on entering the room, and as he was stayed for a moment by it, he “ felt” that his inference was correct —the goose “was” hot.

Snip dashed wildly down stairs and made straight for the door. Alas! in his exultation but a few minutes before he had flocked and bolted it.

The avenger came close upon his heels, still bearing the dreadful instrument of torture. With a yell, Snip dashed past her, and flinging up the window, squeezed himself through; but not before receiving another fully convincing proof that the goose was heated. Clapping his hands on the singed parts of his person, he rushed down the village street, his shirt, the only article of clothing he had on, with the exception of a nightcap with a large lassel at the top, streaming behind, and paused not in his wild career until he reached the Magpie, which he had so lately left. But the house was closed, and even if it had not been, Snip could not have shown himself in his then state of undress. He seated himself on a bench at the door of the inn, but started up again as quickly as a jack-in-a-box. The application of the goose had made the sitting posture decidedly uncomfortable.

In a wretched state of mind, he wended his way to a little green duck-pond, and gazed mournfully at the water - , shook his head sadly, and returned to his bench, but contented himself with looking at it this time. A cold breeze sprang up, and the tailor was airily clad; he felt he must have some shelter, so he made his way to the stables. They were locked, and he was just about returning to the little pond, when he saw a little covered wagon under a shed behind the stables. He hastened towards this welcome shelter, and climbed into it; and when he found therein a bundle of hay his happiness was extreme. He lay down cautiously, intending to keep awake and watch for the opening of the inn, when he would borrow some clothes from the landlord, and then made his way to America, where he would never see his dreadful wife or her goose again. Musing thus, he felt fast asleep. At five in the morning the carrier, to whom

the wagon belonged, harnessed his horse thereto, and proceeded on his way, unconscious of the passenger sleeping under the tilt, and most probably would have remained so to the end of the journey, if he had not overtaken a buxom young country lass trudging cheerfully on in the same direction.

Of course, with, as he thought, an empty wagon, his sense of gallantry would not suffer him to allow the young lady to continue walking, so long as their roads lay together. So he pulled up, and civilly offered to give her a lift.

The offer was accepted, and the damse essayed to mount the vehicle. But no sooner had she reached the iron step behind the wagon than she espied poor Snip in the enjoyment of his bundle of hay. The girl remained poised on one foot upon the step, and uttered a succession of shrieks.

The very first awoke Snip, and that unfortunate raised himself on his elbow in the greatest perplexity. He took off his nightcap and scratched his head, staring all the while at his discoverer; then, as the mists of sleep gradually dispersed, he awoke to the full horror of his situation, and pulling his nightcap tight over his brow, he made a desperate spring, bolted past the affrighted female, and flew rather than ran m the direction which led to his forsaken home.

As he neared the Ullage, his strength became exhausted ; and although he feared each moment to meet some one, he was obliged to moderate his pace. It was now about eight o’clock, and poor Snip knew that he could not hope to reach any shelter unseen. So he slackened his pace, but to his horror, saw coming towards him two women. His first impulse was to fly, but on looking round he saw that would be impossible, the road having no outlet. So he crouched down under the hedge, pulled his short garment as far over his protruding limbs as it would reach, drew his nightcap over his head and face, and waited the event. When they drew near, one remarked to the other that there was something under the edge; they both came to see what it was, and Snip, fearful of discovery, started off again at full speed. Being blinded and deafened by the cap drawn over his face, he was unaware of the approach of the squire’s carriage, containing that gentleman, his wife, and sister, until it was close upon him. The squire looked out of the window and laughed immoderately. The ladies indignantly drew down the blind; but Snip, in half blind endeavours to get out of the way, ran to the other side, where he presented a curious spectacle. The wind caught his shirt in a most unpleasant manner. He endeavoured to hold it with one hand and to release his head with the other, but did not succeed- in effecting either object. Half frantic, he rushed forward at his topmost speed, tearing at his hateful nightcap as he went, until at last he succeeded in making a hole to accommodate one eye, and to enable him to see a troop of boys and girls on their way to school. This was a crowning misfortune, for the cruelty of schoolboys is well known.

As Snip neared them, they for a moment were alarmed, thinking him either a ghost or a madman. But when they recognised him, what a shout, what a yell of delight, burst from each pair of lips. Snip felt that he could take pleasure in strangling them everyone. But he could not escape.

The boys formed themselves into lines on each side of the way, and forced the tailor to tun the gauntlet, pelting him pitilessly with stones and dirt.

Making a last effort, he at length reached

the village, and looked in vain for a refuge, until he came to the cooper’s yard, where two men were engaged in making or mending a large tub. Snip leaped past the astonished workmen into the tub, in such a complicated, knotted mass, that the men could not extricate him without taking the vessel to pieces. This he besought him not to do, until they had taken him home; for home seemed very desirable now, although his dreadful wife was there. So the workmen entering into the fun, rolled him off home, followed by a yelling, shouting, whooping crowd of boys, and ragamuffins, and uncased him in his own kitchen. When he was released, he looked upon his wife more in sorrow than in anger, for he felt that his dignity had irretrievably suffered; stalked up-stairs, stiff and weary, and was seen by no one for a month. At the end of that time he resumed his needle, but never by any chance went outside the door by daylight, and entertained a decided antipathy to the Magpie, and all that reminded him of it. He never was known to enter any person’s house but his own, and remained very meek and humble all his life.