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قراءة كتاب Pearl-Fishing; Choice Stories from Dickens' Household Words; First Series
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
Pearl-Fishing; Choice Stories from Dickens' Household Words; First Series
P E A R L - F I S H I N G.
FROM
FIRST SERIES.
AUBURN:
ALDEN, BEARDSLEY & CO.
ROCHESTER:
WANZER, BEARDSLEY & CO.
1854.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by ALDEN, BEARDSLEY & CO., In the Clerk’s Office of the Northern District of New York. |
Stereotyped by
THOMAS B. SMITH,
216 William St., N.Y.
The Publishers’ Notice.
THE following Stories are selected from that admirable publication, “Dickens’ Household Words.”
That work has had a smaller circulation in this country than its merits entitle it to, in consequence of its being issued in such form as to make it troublesome to preserve the numbers, and have them bound. Many of its papers, too, are of local and somewhat temporary interest, which scarcely touches the popular mind of American readers. It is believed, therefore, that judicious selections from its pages, embracing some of its best stories, in which the hand of the master is readily discerned, will be welcomed with delight in many a home in which the name of Dickens has become as “familiar as household words.”
I.
Loaded Dice.
SEVERAL years ago, I made a tour through some of the Southern Counties of England with a friend. We travelled in an open carriage, stopping for a few hours a day, or a week, as it might be, wherever there was anything to be seen; and we generally got through one stage before breakfast, because it gave our horses rest, and ourselves the chance of enjoying the brown bread, new milk, and fresh eggs of those country road-side inns, which are fast becoming subjects for archæological investigation.
One evening my friend said, “To-morrow we will breakfast at T——. I want to inquire about a family named Lovell, who used to live there. I met the husband and wife, and two lovely children, one summer at Exmouth. We became very intimate, and I thought them particularly interesting people, but I have never seen them since.”
The next morning’s sun shone as brightly as heart could desire, and after a delightful drive, we reached the outskirts of the town about nine o’clock.
“Oh, what a pretty inn!” said I, as we approached a small white house, with a sign swinging in front of it, and a flower-garden on one side.
“Stop, John,” cried my friend, “we shall get a much cleaner breakfast here than in the town, I dare say; and if there is anything to be seen there, we can walk to it;” so we alighted, and were shown into a neat little parlor, with white curtains, where an unexceptionable rural breakfast was soon placed before us.
“Pray do you happen to know anything of a family called Lovell?” inquired my friend, whose name, by the way, was Markham. “Mr. Lovell was a clergyman.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” answered the girl who attended us, apparently the landlord’s daughter, “Mr. Lovell is the vicar of our parish.”
“Indeed! and does he live near here?”
“Yes, Ma’am, he lives at the vicarage. It’s just down that lane opposite, about a quarter of a mile from here; or you can go across the fields, if you please, to where you see that tower; it’s close by there.”
“And which is the pleasantest road?” inquired Mrs. Markham.
“Well, Ma’am, I think by the fields is the pleasantest, if you don’t mind a stile or two; and, besides, you get the best view of the Abbey by going that way.”
“Is that tower we see part of the Abbey?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” answered the girl, “and the vicarage is just the other side of it.”
Armed with these instructions, as soon as we had finished our breakfast we started across the fields, and after a pleasant walk of twenty minutes we found ourselves in an old churchyard, amongst a cluster of the most picturesque ruins we had ever seen. With the exception of the gray tower, we had espied from the inn, and which had doubtless been the belfry, the remains were not considerable. There was the outer wall of the chancel, and the broken step that had led to the high altar, and there were sections of aisles, and part of a cloister, all gracefully festooned with mosses and ivy; whilst mingled with the grass-grown graves of the prosaic dead, there were the massive tombs of the Dame Margerys and the Sir Hildebrands of more romantic periods. All was ruin and decay, but such poetic ruin! such picturesque decay! And just beyond the tall gray tower, there was the loveliest, smiling, little garden, and the prettiest cottage, that imagination could picture. The day was so bright, the grass so green, the flowers so gay, the air so balmy with their sweet perfumes, the birds sang so cheerily in the apple and cherry trees, that all nature seemed rejoicing.
“Well,” said my friend, as she seated herself on the fragment of a pillar, and looked around her, “now that I see this place, I understand what sort of people the Lovells were.”
“What sort of people were they?” said I.
“Why, as I said before, interesting people. In the first place, they were both extremely handsome.”
“But the locality had nothing to do with their good looks, I presume,” said I.
“I am not sure of that,” she answered; “when there is the least foundation of taste or intellect to set out with, the beauty of external nature, and the picturesque accidents that harmonize with it, do, I am persuaded, by their gentle and elevating influence on the mind, make the handsome handsomer, and the ugly less ugly. But it was not alone the good looks of the Lovells that struck me, but their air of refinement and high breeding, and I should say high birth—though I know nothing about their extraction—combined with their undisguised poverty and as evident contentment. Now, I can understand such people finding here an appropriate home, and being satisfied with their small share of this world’s goods; because here the dreams of romance writers about Love in a Cottage might be somewhat realized; poverty might be graceful and poetical here; and then, you know, they have no rent to pay.”
“Very true,” said I; “but suppose they had sixteen daughters, like a half-pay officer I once met on board a steam-packet?”
“That would spoil it certainly,” said Mrs. Markham; “but let us hope they have not. When I knew them they had only two children, a boy and a girl called Charles and Emily; two of the prettiest creatures I ever beheld!”
As my friend thought it yet rather early for a visit, we had remained chattering in this way for more than an hour, sometimes seated on a tomb-stone, or a fallen column; sometimes peering amongst the carved fragments that were scattered about the ground, and sometimes looking over the hedge into the little garden, the wicket of which was immediately behind the tower. The weather being warm, most of the windows of the vicarage were open and the blinds were all down; we had not yet seen a soul stirring, and were wondering whether we might venture to present ourselves at the door, when a strain of