The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 14, No. 394, October 17, 1829

Mr. Hardingham, or as some of his very intimate friends used to call him, Jack Hardingham, lived in a dull looking house in – Square, his profession (the law) was dull, his fire and fireside were dull; and as he sat by the former one dull evening, in the dullest of all his dull humours, and of such the lonely bachelor had many, he sighed, kicked his shins, and looked into his books; but as that was like gazing upon a very ugly face, he shut them again, and rang the bell. It was answered by a portly dame, whose age might be about some four or five and forty, whose complexion was fair, whose chubby cheeks were brilliantly rosy, and whose black eyes were so vividly lustrous, that one might have fancied the delicate cap-border near them, in danger from their fire. Over her full-formed bust, she wore a clear, and stiffly-starched muslin habit-shirt of purest white, a beautiful lace-edged ruff around her throat, over her ample shoulders was thrown a fawn-coloured shawl, and she wore also, a silver gray gown of the material called Norwich crape, with an apron rivalling in whiteness cap, habit-shirt, and ruff. We are particular in describing the costume of this fair creature, because when dress is invariably the same, it has unity with person; it is identified with its wearer, and our affections even are caught and retained by it, in a manner of which few are aware. On the exterior of the lady whom we have endeavoured to portray, "housekeeper" was as indelibly stamped as the effigy of our king on the coin of the realm; and in a most soft and insinuating tone, she said, "Would you be pleased to want any thing, sir?"

"Yes, Mrs. Honeydew—go and ask if they can't let me have De Vere."

"Yes, sir."

"Or the Chronicles of the Canongate."

"Yes, sir."

"Or Anne of Geierstein."

"Yes, sir."

"Or the Loves of the Poets."

"Yes, sir."

"Or, d'ye hear, hang it, tell Mr. Mason there are seven or eight other new works, the names of which I have forgotten, and he must recollect."

"Certainly, sir."

"Stop, stop—don't be in such a hurry—tell him, he has never ordered for me the Quarterly, as I desired—that I want to see the United Service Journal, and Blackwood for the month; and that if he chooses to charge four pence a night for his new novels, I'll not read one of them."

"Of course, sir; I'll tell him, for 'tis a shame, a real shame, for any body to repose on, as one may say, a gentleman like yourself. Never fear, but I'll tell him."

The lady retired, the door closed, and Mr. Hardingham sighed, "A worthy creature is Martha Honeydew." "Come in," cried the gentleman in a most amiable tone, as he presently recognised his housekeeper's tap at the parlour door, and with a curtsey she entered.

"O law, law! Mr. Hardingham, sir—Mr. Mason says—but I don't like to give you all his message, indeed I don't—Mr. Mason says—but I hope you'll never send me on such an arrant again—he says, sir—O but I'm sorry for it, that I am—he says then, that the Quarter you ax'd for, ar'n't come yet, and there's time enough for you to read it in when it do; that the Blackwood and the Officers' Magazine are hout; that you may go without your new novels afore he'll let you have 'em chaiper than other folks, (and there's a shocking shame, sir!) and as for the works you mentioned, there's fifty new ones at least to choose from; but he can't remember what you don't be pleased to recollect yourself. Dear heart! to think of a gentleman like you, sir, being trated thus; why, my blood biled within me; and I wouldn't demean myself to bring back any thing for you from that place; but I took the liberty, sir, to get you 'Damon and Dorinda,' a sweet pretty thing, from another."

"Ah!" sighed the bachelor, "I see there's nobody in this world cares for poor Jack Hardingham, but Martha Honeydew;" and he felt sorry that his housekeeper had departed ere his lips had emitted this grateful praise. Yes, Mr. Hardingham felt vexed he scarcely knew why; and uncommonly discontented he knew not wherefore; but had he troubled himself to analyze such feelings, he would have discerned their origin to be solitude and idleness. Mrs. Honeydew brought tea; she had buttered a couple of muffins superlatively well; and making her master's fire burn exceedingly bright, placed them on the cat before it, and a kettle, which immediately commenced a delicate bravura, upon the glowing coals; then, modestly waiting at the distance of a few paces from her master until the water quite boiled, she fixed her brilliant eyes upon his countenance with an expression intended to be piteous.

"Mrs. Honeydew—Martha," said Hardingham in a low querulous tone, "I fancy I'm going to have a fit of the gout, or a bilious fever."

"Fancy, indeed, sir; why, I never saw you looking haler."

"Ay, Ay, so much the worse; a fit of apoplexy then maybe."

"Lauk, lauk! sir; a fit of the blue devils more likely. How can you talk so? A fit of perplexity! Dear, dear! how some men do go on to be sure;" pouring the steaming water upon the tea.

"You are a kind comforter, Martha; nobody ever raises my spirits like you. Get me my little leathern trunk."

"Why, then, that I won't;" getting it down from a closet-shelf as she spoke. "I wish it was burnt with all my heart, that I do; making you so lammancholy as it always do."

And well might this trunk make Mr. Hardingham melancholy, for it was the receptacle of letters and little gifts of a lady who had jilted him in early life; and upon whom he had often vowed vengeance. She was yet unmarried; but—no—her once devoted admirer was resolved to follow the lady's advice, and place his "affections upon a worthier object than Caroline Dalton;" and, thought he to himself, she shall at last see that I have found one