Walking to the Mail

First published in 1842. Not altered in any respect after 1853.

'John'. I'm glad I walk'd. How fresh the meadows look Above the river, and, but a month ago, The whole hill-side was redder than a fox. Is yon plantation where this byway joins The turnpike? [1]

'James'. Yes.

'John'. And when does this come by?

'James'. The mail? At one o'clock.

'John'. What is it now?

James'. A quarter to.

'John'. Whose house is that I see? [2] No, not the County Member's with the vane: Up higher with the yewtree by it, and half A score of gables.

'James'. That? Sir Edward Head's: But he's abroad: the place is to be sold.

'John'. Oh, his. He was not broken?

'James'. No, sir, he, Vex'd with a morbid devil in his blood That veil'd the world with jaundice, hid his face From all men, and commercing with himself, He lost the sense that handles daily life-- That keeps us all in order more or less-- And sick of home went overseas for change.

'John'. And whither?

'James'. Nay, who knows? he's here and there. But let him go; his devil goes with him, As well as with his tenant, Jockey Dawes.

'John'. What's that?

'James-. You saw the man--on Monday, was it?--[3] There by the hump-back'd willow; half stands up And bristles; half has fall'n and made a bridge; And there he caught the younker tickling trout-- Caught in 'flagrante'--what's the Latin word?-- 'Delicto'; but his house, for so they say, Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that shook The curtains, whined in lobbies, tapt at doors, And rummaged like a rat: no servant stay'd: The farmer vext packs up his beds and chairs, And all his household stuff; and with his boy Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the tilt, Sets out, [4] and meets a friend who hails him, "What! You're flitting!" "Yes, we're flitting," says the ghost (For they had pack'd the thing among the beds). "Oh, well," says he, "you flitting with us too-- Jack, turn the horses' heads and home again". [5]

'John'. He left 'his' wife behind; for so I heard.

'James'. He left her, yes. I met my lady once: A woman like a butt, and harsh as crabs.

'John'. Oh, yet, but I remember, ten years back-- 'Tis now at least ten years--and then she was-- You could not light upon a sweeter thing: A body slight and round and like a pear In growing, modest eyes, a hand a foot Lessening in perfect cadence, and a skin As clean and white as privet when it flowers.

'James'. Ay, ay, the blossom fades and they that loved At first like dove and dove were cat and dog. She was the daughter of a cottager, Out of her sphere. What betwixt shame and pride, New things and old, himself and her, she sour'd To what she is: a nature never kind! Like men, like manners: like breeds like, they say. Kind nature is the best: those manners next That fit us like a nature