Punch (35.1858)

September 4, 1858, PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. »3

THE HAWTHORN CORRESPONDENCE.

LETTER I.

Y dear Mr. Punch,

" When I left word at
my Chambers that I had
gone into the Country on

by embracing an oppor-
tunity of exchanging the
reeking pavements of Lon-
don for the shades of
Hawthorn. I don't exactly
know what the thermome-

Mr. Hawthorn, is one of
the old school, and reads
the Morning Herald, which

the stag-headed old oaks,
that stand knee-deep in
fern, within a stone's throw
of Hawthorn Manor.
" Hawthorn is not exactly what you would call an accessible place in
these days of railway locomotion. A journey thither involves an early
start from London; about 150 miles of broad gauge, and half as much
of narrow, to a place where the trains only stop by signal. Thence a
coach, which goes wonderfully ' across country,' takes one for twelve
miles to the top of a lane, at which point the traveller (if expected)
finds a dog-cart, and, if not expected, a four mile walk of remarkably
ill-repaired ' accommodation' road, as it is facetiously called.

" I was expected. The dog-cart received me and my traps, and my
dignity rose at the polite touch of the hat and the cheery ' Good
Evening' frequently offered by homeward-bound labourers, at sight
of the well-known Hawthorn livery—a style of address in pleasant
contrast with the ' Now, then ! where are you a shoving to ?' of over-
crowded London life.

" The Manor is an old rambling place, overgrown by ivy and
creepers; the floors are mostly of polished oak, and the walls of the
Entrance Hall are adorned with 'guns and pikes and bows.' More-
over, there are long corridors of bed-rooms, hung with rows upon rows
of old family portraits, the histories attached to which, lead one to
the conclusion that the various members of the line of the Hawthorn
have combined a fair proportion of the vices and virtues of the res-
pective periods over which it stretches. Dame Alice Hawthorn,
' for whos sowle alle pepel' are desired ' to praie,' according to the
inscription on her monument in the Parish Church chancel, founded an
Abbey— temp. Henrici Quinti—md her grandson, who lived in the time
of Henry the Eighth, robbed it. Kate Hawthorn held the old
House, in a three weeks' siege, against a regiment of Cromwell's
troopers, and Mary, her niece, migrated to New England with the
Puritans, just in the same way as we now often see two sisters—one of
whom worships at St. Barnabas, while the other sits under the Bev.
Spurgeon. Then there seems to have been one very fast Hawthorn,
—fast even for Charles the Second's Court—who appears in a tre-
mendous periwig and a rich suit of that Monarch's highly ornamental
reign ; and there is a respectable old party in a soap bubble wig, who
sailed under Sir Clotjdesley Shovel—and a pleasant looking man
(my host's father) at the age of twenty-one, in what now constitutes a
Civilian's Court dress, conducting a lady with her hair dressed on a
pillow, and a towering hat on her head, up a very straight avenue, pre-
ceded by a little dog. And, as a matter of course, our host figures in
the uniform of the Hawthorn troop as they appeared when reviewed
by George the Third.

" Add to these remnants of antiquity, an Old Butler, Old Ale, and
Old Port, and I think you will say, Mr. Punch, that I am not a bad
judge when I stick to the ship down here, though it is so difficult
to get aboard. By the bye, I see I have omitted to mention a pretty
oval-faced, brown-haired, bell-voiced girl, of about nineteen or twenty,
with a clear, ringing laugh; her name is Laura Hawthorn, and she
is five years older than when I saw her last. Oh, Mr. Punch, what a
difference there is between fourteen and nineteen ! She is at the head
of affairs here, and will succeed to all her grandfather's property.

" Supper was so good, and I was so hungry, and the conversation
was so cheery and pleasaut, and Laura's songs were so English and
honest, and refreshing after a long course of Verdi, that T went to

bed with a conviction that my slumbers would be light and pleasant.
My equanimity, however, was much disturbed by the discovery of a
small parcel, containing a flannel cricketing cap, bound with dark
blue, a blue neckcloth, and a little note which ran thus:—

" * Dear Charles, I hope you will like the enclosed.

Yours ever, Laura.'

" What could it mean ? We had been very intimate in old days P
My name is Charles. The room was prepared for me. Can you
urgent business, I think I wonder, Mr. Punch, that when fatigue had fairly won the battle over
was guilty only of a pia sleeplessness, I dreamt that old Mr Hawthorn had passed away like
fraus in yielding to the \ Sib Roger de Coverley, and that I was giving directions to the
weakness of human nature architect for a comfortable smoking-room for the long winter evenings,

with Laura's full concurrence. I was awakened in the night by a
banging of doors and a bumping of boxes. At first I thought it must be
the Hawthorn Ghost, and then I dropped off again, and slept with that
deep and sound sleep, which is the happy privilege of the Muff family,
till next morning. I was awakened by Laura's maid knocking at the
door, and requesting me to give her out a small parcel, which was on
ter now stands at in Lon- j the drawers. In fear and trembling, I handed out the little parcel,
don, as my excellent host,n; small note and all, and I own that I kissed the latter article.

"I dressed, and went down to breakfast, and found a tall stranger
sitting at Laura's right hand, and looking offensively at his ease. Had
I been disturbed last night ? Captain Bluffins had arrived so very
we receive here on the se- j late. This was Bluffins. Laura introduced him to me with that
cond day after publication; [ equivocal addition, ' my Cousin !' I can't deny it, the man was a fine
but,after all,the thermome- man,—abroad-shouldered, quick-eyed, tawny-moustached man—though
ter does not much affect us; j confound him, he had that identical blue neckcloth round his neck,
among the cool shadows^ of | and his name—I need scarcely add—is Charley. ' Muff, my boy/

whispered common sense, c smother your emotions, and take the
change out of that cold pie.' I obeyed the inward monitor in both
respects.

" It was Sunday morning. We went to Church like good folks, and
I must own my conviction that red cloaks and white smock frocks
look more like church-going than Lady Willow's and Lady Wheezer's
crinoline and basketwork contrivances, which annoy me so excessively in
my London sitting, and my thoughts were pleasant and collected. Just
after the Confession, the whole congregation were disturbed by the en-
trance of a fine-looking man in a velveteen jacket and white trowsers;
heads and bonnets went together all over the little Church. Let me hope
Laura Hawthorn is so good, that she can afford to let her thoughts
wander sometimes ; she certainly leant over to Captain Bluffins in
a very excited state, and whispered loud enough for me to hear, ' The
Blacksmith is going to bowl to-morrow, for he has on his white
trousers.' As I subsequently discovered, the Blacksmith bowls by
prescription as his father did before him, and I at once foresaw an
impending cricket match.

" After luncheon, Miss Laura gave us (Bluffins and myself)
permission to smoke a quiet weed under the trees by the river ; and
not only were we graciously indulged in this particular, but she con-
spired with the old Butler to send some cool drink out to us in an old
tankard, and better still, came herself.

" ' Now about the Match,' said Bluffins ; ' Laura ought to have
told you before, but we have a match to-morrow against the Garrison—
Oh! You've no cricketing togs ; of course, I will lend you some. You
are out of practice ! So am I. Let me see—we want a long stop.
You were an old Winchester man. Of course you play r'

" I am free to confess, Mr. Punch, nothing but Laura's presence
saved me from breaking out into unsabbatical and unparliamentary
language. In vain 1 protested and pleaded; the brutal Bluffins was
inexorable, and Laura Hawthorn finished me quite by saying, ' Oh,
Mr. Muff, you must be our long stop.'

" If I am killed at my post, Mr. Punch, you are my residuary legatee,
and sole executor. If I survive, you shall have the particulars of this
match.

" Yours, faithfully, but in mortal.funk,

" Charles Muff."

An Example to be Followed.

It seems that the Atlantic Telegraph cannot do more than five words
a minute. Ladies would be wise to imitate this great economy in
verbal expenditure. They would not be able, perhaps, to talk so
much—which would be a sad punishment to their pretty rosy lips ; but
then they would find that the gentlemen would listen more. Moreover,
they would find that, not only would a greater value be attached to
what they said, but their words, as in the case of the Atlantic Telegraph,
would go a great deal further. Therefore, our advice to the fair sex
is:—" Ladies, as you love and admire us, please, not more than rive
words a minute ! "

con by one of the commissioners in lunacy.

Why is a pic-nir like a perfidious reptile?—Because it's a Snak(e)
in the Grass !!!