by Laman Blanchard,
Originally published in Ainsworth's Magazine: A Miscellany of Romance (Chapman and Hall) vol.3 #13 (Feb 1843).
Whenever you meet with a poor wretch whose fate it is to be cuffed continually; buffeted by his betters, abused by his fellows, and halloed after in the streets by those free-born Britons, the little boys; tossed up and down like a crazy hull on a rough sea; driven to and fro like a canine lunatic, and assailed from morning to night with thoughts that scold, and words that hit,—whenever you meet with this poor fellow, depend upon it, he is one who, from his very cradle, was fond of a quiet life.
Is he a fag in a factory when the world of machinery is all at work—is he a porter stationed in the rotunda of the Bank, a waiter at a London chop-house, an usher in a genteel seminary, a drudge to a letter of lodgings, a prime-minister, a curate in a populous metropolitan parish, a clown in the comic pantomime, an engineer on a railway, a cab-driver, or a queen's counsel in full practice,—be sure that his maxim ever has been and ever will be—anything for a quiet life!
The lovers of quiet lives are rarely to be found at the lakes, or among the hills; in the solitudes of the land, the rustic paradises of nature—amid simple dreamy scenes, far from the noisy haunts of the populace, with all their rabid passions and riotous pursuits;—no, but they are to be met with constantly in Cheapside. They spend their days in a great Babel, hungering after quiet, and fancying eternally that they are just securing it.
The doctrine laid down in their ever-ready exclamation, "anything for a quiet life," implies the wisdom of making continual sacrifices to attain a desired end, but not the wisdom of previously ascertaining whether it be possible by sacrifices ever to attain it at all.
It is clear that what seems the shortest road to an object is often no road to it at all. There is an example in the story which the witty moralist relates of the false expedient adopted by a mournful son to procure sorrowful faces at his father's funeral. He gave the mutes crown pieces, to purchase their sad looks; but they seemed now livelier than before, and he accordingly advanced their pay to half-guineas, whereat, instead of sighs and mourning airs, they smiled outright; when, to buy their deepest gloom, he paid them down guineas, at sight of which every vestige of sorrow vanished, and indeed he found that the more money he gave them to look gloomy the more merriment was in their faces.
In like manner, we may cite the popular practice of calling out in public assemblies, "Silence!" and "Hear, hear!" with sufficient loudness and constancy to ensure the vast and regular increase of the tumult; and it may happen that a continual struggle to secure a quiet life, is the very reason why it is invariably missed. A constant endeavour of any kind is scarcely compatible with the idea of quiet; and a life spent in sacrificing, in giving up every bit of ground, in yielding every point, and in beating an incessant retreat, for the sake of quiet, can hardly perhaps be called a quiet life.
Squalls was the person who of all others used to act most doggedly upon the principle of sacrifices for the sake of tranquillity. When he first entered the world, he set out on a journey in search of Quiet, and a precious noise he always made about it. His life was a pilgrimage to the shrine of Peace, but he was for ever getting into a "jolly row" on the road; and getting out of it, by a sacrifice that was sure to come too late—a surrender that purchased no quarter—a desire for pacification that only provoked the enemy to further hostilities.
He never in all his days avoided a quarrel for the sake of quiet—he only avoided, for the sake of quiet, the sole means of bringing the quarrel to a peaceful end. He would begin a contest, but would never fight it out; content, when it was at the highest, when victory was all but his, and the desired calm could be commanded, to give in philosophically, to put on the air of a martyr, and to re-nerve his adversary by an exasperating panegyric on quiet. When the prize contended for was within reach, he would infallibly run away, but not in time to save himself. After an hour's yelping and barking, the dog would lie down, expecting to be allowed to repose because he left off.
How pleasant it was to obey his social summons, to take one's seat at his round table, and prepare, with three or four kindred spirits, to enjoy what he used to call a quiet evening! What a rare notion Squalls had of a quiet evening! After the toil and hubbub of a day of business, delicious indeed it was to settle down, all peace-lovers together, for a quiet evening!
The only misfortune was, that Squalls would wrangle; and it is not surprising, therefore, that the instant we had finished the prelude, the little discussion upon the weather, and had agreed that it was a delightfully calm night, a stiff breeze sprang up, and the storm opened upon us. In other words, the moment the contemplated quiet chat commenced, the "argument" began. Start what subject you might, Squalls had just one quiet observation to make, totally objecting. Remind him that the point might hardly be worth a dispute, and he would beg leave quietly to remark that a more vitally important point never could be pointed out. He would advance from an opinion to an allegation, meekly suggesting now, and confidently asserting by and by—combating every principle laid down, resisting every argument raised, and protesting against everything that had been said, until, when he had succeeded, by fierce disputation, in setting us all by the ears, disturbing the peace and endangering the safety of the table, he would discover that the question of vital importance was really not worth talking about.
"I give in," he would cry; "I yield the point—dare say you're all right—anything for a quiet life; a little quiet is worth all the argument in the world!"
And even this point, he would at the same moment be ready to defend most turbulently—just as a man might bet you two to one that laying wagers is an insane practice.
Squalls wrangled by the hour, by the day, week, month, and year; but was all the while in love with nothing but a quiet life. If in the nightly contention for the prize of tranquillity, there were sometimes added to the horrid din of many human voices bellowing for peace and order, the clatter of tongs and poker; or, if a shower of glasses aided their contents in taking a too-powerful effect upon his brain, he rather enjoyed than otherwise his broken head and fever-draughts, with the blinds drawn down, and the kind servant creeping so softly about in thick shoes, and the door creaking so very gently that it only just sufficed to wake him every time it closed or opened.
"There is something deliciously lulling," he would say, as he rolled his eyes about, "in this profound calm; I hope my head wont be better to-morrow—anything for a quiet life."
He resided in one of the streets in the Strand, leading to the river, "out of the noise," as he said. But he had a country-house, a most serene and rural retreat, in a district dedicated to silence and solitude, where there was never noise enough in a day to break the flying slumbers of a lynx—a spot where you might hear nothing but
"The motion of the elements, a song
Of silence that disposed the listening soul
To meditative quietness, and lulled
Not passions only, but the animal powers
With all their violent feelings.
So entire
Was the Dominion of Tranquillity."
"Come hither," wrote the sympathetic Squalls from his remote retirement; "hither, where peace and I reside, and finish your Ode to Contemplation." Once, and once only, was the invitation accepted. What a dominion of tranquillity it was!
For the quiet morning, after the early crowing, cawing, and chirping were partly over, there were the ringing of bells, the shouting of children, the clatter of forks and tankards at a neverending breakfast, the barking of dogs, the rolling of wheels, the lowing of cattle, the laughter of rosy girls in-high spirits, the report of firearms, and the loud bawling of divers of the smockfrock-tribe uttering no language at all, though severally convinced that they were all speaking plain English.
Then for the quiet evening; there were the most riotous rubbers of whist, tumultuous piano-playing, harp-playing, and flute-playing; forfeits, and how-d'ye-like-it; loud haw-hawing at frequent intervals, with songs comic and sentimental, and an occasional ear-splitting "yoicks" from a lively sportsman, when his heavier partner in the field-adventures of the day began to snore a little too vigorously.
Strolling into the garden to walk off the deafening effects of the day's delights, "How charming is the quiet country!" would Squalls exclaim.
"Very," was the natural answer, "impressively reminding one of the soothing serenity of Covent-garden Market, and the silent pleasures of Smithfield-bars."
Quiet to Squalls was what the rasher of ham was to the thunderstricken Jew—a delicacy which he could not enjoy, because there was such a terrible noise about it. At length, by and by, when by a course of accidents, our friend dropped down in the world, and it became necessary to seek some occupation, he made a rather sagacious choice. Far from the neighbourhood of noise he could not prevail upon himself to go; but he nevertheless sought freedom from trouble and tumult. He therefore accepted the office of money-taker at one of the leading theatres. "Here," he said, tranquilly, "I shall have a quiet time of it."
The desire of peace took a much firmer but scarcely-more consistent hold upon another member of the same circle. Poor Pax! you and your wife, Bella, were an ill-matched pair. How came you to marry her?—it was like going to Donnybrook-fair in search of some New Harmony!
The truth was, she would have him. She claimed him for her partner in waltz, galope, and quadrille seven times in one evening, and screamed him six bravuras between the dances. She talked him into fits, and assailed his nerves by means of the thundering double-knocks of postmen. The affair began to make a little noise—which he couldn't bear. Anything for a quiet life. It was easier to marry than to escape. He therefore quietly offered her his heart and hand, well knowing that as a wife she would neither want to dance with, nor to sing to him, to pour agreeable nothings in his ear incessantly, nor employ tyrant-postmen to batter at his peace.
Pax had but a single idea, and a single mode of putting it in action; the idea of quiet, and the giving up everything—but one—in the wide world, to attain it. The one thing excepted was the one thing he should have given up first; but this he never thought of. It was his wife, Bella.
He was as meek as a mouse, but with a soul so small that a mouse would have been ashamed to be caught in a good-sized trap with it. He would not have dared to nibble cheese, while there was a cat left in Christendom. He would have preferred dying, half a grain a day—anything for a quiet life.
When he had put on his hat to go to his whist-club for the evening, he was desired to take it off again. Well, quiet was everything to him; so he sat down opposite his wife, to hear the maid-servant rung for every five minutes to be fresh scolded.
When clad in a new sable suit, just ready to attend the remains of his relative to their last quiet home, he was desired to array himself again in his brown and drab, stay where he was, put some coals on, and keep his feet off the fender. Mrs. Pax "could never see, for her part, why a man should want to follow people to their graves, while he has a quiet home of his own." Well, compliance was easier than resistance; so down he sate, to be lectured in shrill tones, for the remainder of that day.
But there is always one bright spoke in Fortune's Wheel, and it comes round now and then; in Pax's case the bright spoke consisted in this:—his wife was sometimes sulky, and wouldn't speak to him for days. "How providence tempers the wind to the shorn lamb!" he would cry. "What a blessing it is that even the best of wives has her sulky fit occasionally—one has such a quiet time of it then!"
The life of Pax was, during many hours of the day, a cool and easy one, in a public office; his official duties were chiefly mechanical, and his mind was generally far away from his desk, deep buried in a monastic seclusion—dim, quiet, and monotonous. He envied the old monks; their repose was true rapture. To do nothing, and be undisturbed, uninterrupted all the while, was an existence more glorious than that of the gods; unless we except the supreme felicity pictured in the line of Keats—
"There sate old Saturn quiet as a stone."
Quiet, in the mind of Pax, had long been associated with "a stone;" but Bella was not destined to be laid under it yet. So home he daily went, to a tranquil abode, situated between a boarding-school for young gentlemen, and the residence of a "thorough bass" at the Opera. This house Mrs. Pax always refused to quit, because it afforded her the full enjoyment of these two nuisances—of which she approved when he complained, and complained (thus doubling the noisy evil) when he was silent. The thorough bass would have carried him off to the Opera on some occasions, but Bella opposed the proceeding, and—anything for a quiet life—Pax always stayed at home to be soundly "rated."Plays of any kind pleased him but little. The comedies were too noisy;and the actors themselves laughed, instead of following the excellent example of the audience; while the tragedies were moving, and he liked everything quiet. Once, when the people applauded, the quiet little soul, not liking the noise, set up a "hish," which being mistaken for a hiss, provoked a desperate assault upon him by a theatrical enthusiast behind. By command of his wife, he had the enthusiast bound over to keep the peace. "Ah!" sighed Pax, "I wish his worship could bind me over, to keep it. Wouldn't I!"
Of course he never attended a public meeting, except a Quaker's. Of every species of lusus naturæ, the Agitator was the most anomalous to him. How people could delight in excitement, turmoil, and contention, to the total sacrifice of a quiet life, was as mysterious as to hear of fish enjoying the butter they are fried in. Nothing puzzled him more than such political convulsions as the Polish insurrection. Why could not Poles, he wondered, "take things easy," and remain in peace and tranquillity. He conjectured that people lived very quietly in Siberia.
To the Chinese war he was gently opposed, deeming it lamentable that a breach of the peace should have arisen out of the question of opium—a thing which, if taken in sufficient quantities, was calculated to make people extremely quiet. He gave himself no concern about the matter, but he used to wish, as he passed through the streets, that the mandarins in the grocers' shops would keep their heads still.
His favourite story-book was "Robinson Crusoe;" although he thought it a pity that Friday should ever have escaped, to interrupt the course of the solitary's remarkably quiet life. His pet poem was the "Prisoner of Chillon," who passed his time—particularly when he had the dungeon all to himself—very quietly.
It was Bella's pleasure, one day, that he should throw up his snug situation, and open a magnificent hotel at the terminus of a railway. Anything for a quiet life; and he ruined himself accordingly, with more expedition indeed than was strictly consonant with comfort.
After spending a few weeks in the hot season at Margate, to get a little repose, he began to undergo the exertion of thinking that something must be done to recruit his finances—that some slow, steady, tranquil avocation had become eminently desirable. But what should it be! When a boy, he used to think how he should like to be a London watchman—the watchmen led such quiet lives. But these, to the very last of the roses, were faded and gone; and as cad to an omnibus—for one who along the "sequestered vale of life" would keep the "noiseless tenour of his way," there was small chance perhaps of uninterrupted felicity.
Happily, in this dilemma, a patron in the post-office proffered a carriership, and Bella determined that it was the very thing. Burthened with a full-sized packet of penny missives, the devotee of quiet and ease went forth on his several daily rounds; but he had a tranquil little spirit, and a snail's pace—he had never hurried himself in his life, and hated loud knocks at the door—so he rapped with extreme gentleness, waited five minutes at every house, and then crept serenely on his way to deliver the next letter.
A large quantity accumulating daily on his hands, for want of time to complete his rounds, Bella insisted that he should not think of delivering them at all—they should be burnt. He almost ventured to protest audibly against this step, and he did look reluctant, but—anything for a quiet life—they were burnt upon the spot.
When he sneaked back into the noisy streets again, after his twelvemonth's imprisonment, the last month solitary, "Well," said he, in his small, calm way, "I must say I've had a very quiet time of it there. I'm so glad poor Bella got off!"
Shortly after, with unexampled serenity, he took leave of these turbulent shores, to settle tranquilly, and secure a quiet life, in a far-distant colony—forgetting however to leave his direction with his amiable wife. It would have been of no service to her; for the ship foundered, and Pax quietly went down with her—in the Pacific Ocean.