No.XIV
No Followers Allowed.
by Pyngle Layne.
Originally published in Leigh Hunt's Journal (Edward Moxon) vol.4 #14 (08 Mar 1851).
There are few men who on public occasions join so fervently in the inspiriting sentiment "Britons never shall be slaves," as I do, but I am free to confess that I think the doctrine of my text is somewhat opposed to that sentiment, nay, I go farther, and I say that whilst that doctrine has a place in the minds of the housewives of England, liberty and fraternity cannot be maintained. I suppose women are Britons,—quite as much so now as they were during the time of Boadicea, queen of the Iceni; and where, I should like to know, would that lady have been, historically, if in her career no followers had been allowed. I appeal to an enlightened public of both sexes—hard and soft alike—and after hearing my case of real distress, I ask them to decide upon its merits.
Why I fell in love with Polly Thompson, it boots not to inquire. I don't know myself, and I question if even a committee of the whole house could discover. I am of opinion that these matters are not based upon nice calculation, and that statistics as a science have little to do with them. I first caught sight of Polly at what is called in the midland counties "gawby market," a sort of gathering of servants at Christmas time for social and commercial purposes, where you may see stout active young men in their holiday smocks, and rosy-cheeked girls by the score, as plentiful as cowslips in the bright spring. Polly, who had not yet been out at service, was accompanied by her mother, and the two were leisurely surveying the wonders of the shops of --, in which so many luring baits were displayed, when they stopped opposite to the one in which I was apprenticed, and over the door of which you might see written in large characters,
RIBBINS,
LINEN AND WOOLLEN DRAPER.
I was on the point of observing to a lady, upon whom I had been waiting, that we had some sweet things in de laines, when suddenly my eyes rested upon those of Polly Thompson, and I felt that I was a doomed draper.
Let us change the scene. It was a beautiful night in early summer, when I found myself threading some sinuous lanes, o'erarched with stately trees, which led to the residence of Farmer Pikestaff. No, gentle reader, Farmer P. was not my uncle, nor was I going to see Miss Arabella, his daughter, but rather to have an interview with sweet Polly Thompson, who was lovely and divine, and maidservant to Mrs. Pikestaff, all of the Holly Farm.
Oh, such a summer evening was that—a slight thunder-shower had cleared the air and christened the herbage and flowers; the earth, refreshed, sent up incense from her bosom, from roses and woodbines and acres of bean blossoms, the blackbirds rejoiced in their own rapid melodies, and from branches and dense thickets the cool rain-drops fell lullingly in that sweet day's decline.
With such an object on such an evening, who would not have been happy? It was therefore in a very jubilant frame of mind that I neared the outposts of the Holly Farm, and at last stood within a small paddock close to the house—a paddock which was reserved almost exclusively for the use of Mr. Pikestaff's cob, Peter—an elderly horse, of uncertain temper, jealous of vested interests and landed property, and averse to children of tender years. A high hawthorn hedge and an inner array of spreading nut bushes divided the paddock from the ample garden, and it was at one corner of this covert that I was to meet Polly Thompson. How I had made her acquaintance, how told her my love, how met with love in return, are matters too solemn for this narrative. It is enough for the reader to know that I expected to meet Polly amongst the filbert trees—but she was not there, so I resigned myself to a short delay, I knew it would not be a long one, and sat down under the stout hawthorns to bide my time. It was evident from the conduct of Peter, that that eccentric cob was aware of an aggression upon his diocese, for though he was too wise to encounter my thick vine stick by any overt act, yet he manifested his consciousness of my presence by a depression of his ears which boded no good, and by retiring to a secluded corner of the paddock, and kicking up his heels violently, as much as to say "our defences are sufficient for the exigencies of the public service."
At last I heard a light footstep on the gravel walk, and my dear little Thishe rushed violently through the laurels, and stood all breathless with haste on the other side of the green wall which severed her from Pyramus. The hedge was so dense that I was compelled to shut one eye before I could catch a glimpse of Polly; so that, instead of looking at her face to face, I was obliged to take what the Astronomer Royal would call an observation of that dear little planet, than which no brighter was ever watched from Greenwich. When first her face came within range of my telescope, I was so enraptured with the sight, that I started forward with eagerness, scratching my nose violently amongst the briars. Polly bade me come round to the back of the dairy, and to be careful of Trimmer—a, pleasant combination of the bull and mastiff, who regarded Christians and cats with equal abhorrence. Polly further begged me to lose no time, for that Missis was at supper (cold lamb and salad), and that as soon as that ceremony was over, she would begin to reconnoitre the premises, previously to succumbing for the night. For that energetic woman always acted as if she were in an enemy's country, and, though in her own house, appeared as wary per cautious as if Holly Farm were a besieged citadel. She would have been invaluable at Ciudad Rodrigo. I don't like to say that Mrs, Pikestaff was a scraggy woman, because that is a harsh epithet, nor yet that she was bony, because that is more or less the characteristic of most of us, but she was decidedly angular, with square shoulders, that made you think of epaulets, and an eye which was the terror of the waggoner's lads. Without being actually ill-looking in the face, it could not be said that the lines of beauty were there, but rather, from the extreme caution displayed, that they were the lines of Torres Vedras. It was this lady who had expressed herself decidedly upon the subject of followers, and it was with a full consciousness of the force of that opinion, that Polly now bid me make great haste to the dairy, before Missis had done supper. Prompt to do the bidding of the girl I loved best in the world, no stag in Blair Athol, or Capel Court, could possibly have overcome the engineering difficulties between Peter's Paddock and the dairy, so easily as I. I had my reward; for, ere many seconds had elapsed, Polly was in my arms. Do you want to know what we talked about? What does wayward youth ever talk of on such occasions? Married—and happy! Poor little throbbing maiden! who would spoil that artless dream of thine? Our courtship that evening was like that of many others, an April one—showers and sunshine—showers for very joy, wherein loves ripen fast.
Polly had been saying "I really must go" some half score of times, without ever attempting to do so; and I think we had been saying "good-bye," for at least twenty minutes, when the lattice window of the cheese-room, immediately over the dairy, was suddenly thrown open, and Field-Marshal Mrs. Pikestaff thrust out her Roman features, taking in the position of affairs at a glance, and optically skewering us both. I fancy I see her now, regarding us through the branches of that fatal walnut-tree. Any other woman under similar circumstances (for Mrs. Pikestaff had not expected such a vision) would have exclaimed either Gracious goodness or Goodness gracious, or adopted any other form of speech appointed to be said on such occasions; but Mrs. P. was too experienced an officer for that; she could not be surprised; ambush was unknown to her.
"Go round to the kitchen" was the command she gave, and I felt instantly that obedience was inevitable. Had Polly been connected with the upper classes of society, she would have fainted; as it was, she turned pale, and fluttered, and I, equally pale and sick at heart, crept slowly by her side to the unrelenting presence. I cannot detail the sequel, or account for the strange feeling of guilt which, in spite of my perfect innocence of all wrong-doing, came over me during the address of that awful woman. She went through the case for the prosecution from first to last; attributed motives to me which I shuddered to contemplate; expressed openly her belief that I had come to rob the premises; and that the little trembling creature beside me was, henceforth, utterly lost to all sense of shame, all love for her hard-working, industrious parents, and would be nothing else but a blot and a slur upon her family, both now and evermore. She wound up, finally, by stamping me out of the court-yard, and expressing her intention of packing off "that hussy" the next morning.
Fortunately for both of us, the inconsiderate conduct of Mrs. Pikestaff impaired but slightly our future happiness. Mr. Ribbins lectured me on the impropriety of falling in love with a servant girl, and Mrs. Thompson looked very serious when Polly came home half dead with fright; but I served my good master faithfully during my term, and little he recked for Mrs. Pikestaff; and Polly won golden opinions from a new mistress, not savage against followers. Beneath other walnut trees we still exchanged our vows, and other summer evenings bore witness to our bliss.
And they two are now one; and a retrospect on the melodrama of Holly Farm, showing the folly of the Sisyphus attempt to roll back the impulses of nature, brings. us once more to our opening sentiment, that "no followers allowed" is an un-English doctrine, to be advocated only by squaws like Mrs. Pickestaff, and to be trodden under foot by the reasonable and well-disposed of all nations. I am particularly requested by Polly to point the moral of this instructive story with the following crusher, "Young people will be young people."