Richard Blackmore - Cradock Nowell - A Tale of the New Forest. Volume 1 of 3

Three months afterwards, just when all was arranged, and Mrs. Venn was at last persuaded that Hampshire is not all pigs and rheumatism, forests, and swamps, and charcoal, when John, with his voice rather shaky, and a patch of red where his whiskers should have been, had proclaimed his own banns three times – for he was a very odd fellow in some things, and scorned the “royal road” to wedlock – just at that time, I say, poor Lady Nowellʼs confinement upset all calculation, and her melancholy death flung a pall on wedding–favours. Not only through respect, but from real sympathy with the faithful friend, John Rosedew and Amy held counsel together, and deferred the long–pending bridal. “ Ὅσῳ μακρότερον, τόσῳ μακάρτερον ”, said John, who always thought in Greek, except when Latin hindered him; but few young ladies will admit – and now–a–days they all understand it – that the apophthegm is applied well.

However, it did come off at last; John Rosedew, when his banns had been rolling in his mind, in the form of Greek senarii, for six months after the first time of out–asking, set to and read them all over again in public; to revive their efficacy, and to surrebut all let and hindrance. He was accustomed now to so many stops, that he felt surprised when nobody rose to interpellate. And so the banns of John Rosedew, bachelor, and Amy Venn, spinster, &c., were read six times in Nowelhurst Church, and six times from the desk at Kidlington. And, sooth to say, it was not without significance.

On the nuptial morning, Sir Cradock, whom they scarcely expected, gathered up his broken courage, sank his own hap in anotherʼs, and was present and tried to enjoy himself. How shy John Rosedew was, how sly to conceal his blushes, how spry when the bride glanced towards him, and nobody else looked that way – all this very few could help observing; but they liked him too well to talk of it. Enough that the friend of his youth, thoroughly understanding John, was blessed with so keen a perception of those simple little devices, that at last he did enjoy himself, which he deserved to do for trying.

When the twins were nearly three years old, Mrs. Rosedew presented John with the very thing he wished for most, an elegant little girl. And here the word “elegant” is used with forethought, and by prolepsis; though Mrs. OʼGaghan, lent for a time to the Rectory, employed that epithet at the first glance, even while announcing the gender.

“Muckstraw, then, and sheʼs illigant intirely; an’ itʼs hopin’ I be as thereʼll only be two on her, one for each of me darlin’ boys. And now cudnʼt you manage it, doctor dear”?

But alas! the supply was limited, and no duplicate ever issued. Lucina saw John Rosedewʼs pride, and was afraid of changing his character. To all his Oxford friends he announced the fact of his paternity in letters commencing – “Now what do you think, my dear fellow, what do you think of this – the most astounding thing has happened”, &c. &c. He thought of it himself so much, that his intellect grew dreamy, and he forgot all about next Sundayʼs sermon, until he was in the pulpit. And four weeks after that he made another great mistake, which horrified him desperately, though it gratified the parish.

It had been arranged between his Amy and himself, that if she felt quite strong enough, she should appear in church on the Sunday afternoon, to offer the due thanksgiving. In the grey old church at Nowelhurst, a certain pew had been set apart, by custom immemorial, for the use of goodwives who felt grateful for their safe deliverance. Here Mrs. Rosedew was to present herself at the proper period, with the aid of Biddyʼs vigorous arm down the hill from the Rectory. As yet she was too delicate to bear the entire service. The August afternoon was sultry, and the church doors stood wide open, while the bees among the churchyard thyme drowsed a sleepy sermon. As luck would have it, a recruiting sergeant, toling for the sons of Ytene, finding the road so dusty, and the alehouse barred against him, came sauntering into the church during the second lesson, for a little mild change of air. Espying around him some likely rustics, he stationed himself in the vacant “churching pew”, because the door was open, and the position prominent. “All right”, thought the rector, who was very short–sighted, “how good of my darling Amy to come! But I wonder she wears her scarlet cloak to come to church with, and in such weather! But perhaps Dr. Buller ordered it, for fear of her catching cold”. So at the proper moment he drew his surplice round him, looked full at the sergeant standing there by the pillar, and commenced majestically, though with a trembling voice —

“Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His goodness to give you safe deliverance, and hath preserved you in the great danger of childbirth, you shall therefore give hearty thanks unto God and say – ”

The sergeant looked on very primly, with his padded arms tightly folded, and his head thrown back, calling war and victory into his gaze, for the credit of the British army. Then he wondered angrily what the – those chawbacons could see in him to be grinning at.

“I am well pleased”, &c., continued John Rosedew, sonorously; for he had a magnificent voice, and still regarding the sergeant with a look of tender interest. Even Sir Cradock Nowell could scarcely keep his countenance; but the parson went through the whole of it handsomely and to the purpose, thinking only, throughout it, of Godʼs great mercies to him. So beloved he was already, and so much respected, that none of the congregation had the heart to tell him of his mistake, as he talked with them in the churchyard; though he thought even then that he must have his bands, as he often had, at the back of his neck.

But on his way home he overtook an old hobbler, who enjoyed a joke more than a scruple.

“How are you, Simon Tapscott? How do you do to–day? Glad to see you at church, Simon”, said the parson, holding his hand out, as he always did to his parishioners, unless they had disgraced themselves.

“Purty vair, measter; purty vair I be, vor a woald galley baggar as ave bin in the Low Countries, and dwoant know sin from righteousness”. This last was a gross perversion of a passage in the sermon which had ruffled ancient Simon. “Canʼt goo much, howiver, by rason of the rhymatics. Now cud ’e do it to I, measter? cud ’e do it to I, and Iʼll thraw down bath my critches? Good vor one sojer, good vor anoother”.

“Do what for you, Simon? Fill your old canteen, or send you a pound of baccy”? asked the parson, mildly chaffing.

“Noo, noo; none o’ that. There baint noo innard parts grace of the Lord in that. Choorch I handsomely, zame as ’e dwoed that strapping soger now jist”.

“What, Simon! Why, Simon, do you know what you are saying – ” But I cannot bear to tell of John Rosedew humiliated; he was humble enough by nature. So fearful was the parson of renewing that recollection within the sacred walls, that no thanks were offered there for the birth of sweet Amy Rosedew, save by, or on behalf of, that recruiting sergeant.

When Cradock and Clayton were ten years old, they witnessed a scene which puzzled them, and dwelt long in their boyish memories. Job Hogstaff was going to Ringwood, and they followed him down the passage towards the entrance–hall, emphatically repeating the commissions with which they had charged him. Old Job loved them as if they were his grandsons, and would do his utmost to please them, but they could not trust his memory, or even his capacity.

“Now, Job”, cried little Cradock, pulling at his coat–lappet, “itʼs no good pretending that you know all, when you wonʼt even stop to listen. Iʼm sure youʼll go and make some great mistake, as you did last Tuesday. Mind you tell Mr. Stride itʼs for Master Cradock Nowell, and they must be sure to give you a good one, or I shall send it back. Now just tell me what I have told you. I ought to have written it down, but I wasnʼt sure how to spell ‘groove’”.