CHAPTER IV.
"Han' me that peype, weyfe! I'll smuik an' think.
Nay, dunnet cry, we ne'er did wrang;
The truth I'll state, whate'er teks pleace,
To Carel sizes when I gang;
We plenty hev, we'll dui what's reeght, weyfe,
An' whop (hope) beath lang may happy be.
Now supper's ruddy, weep nae mair, weyfe.
Ay fain I'd see a smeyle frae thee."—Bad News.
Mr. Sandboys prided himself on being a "bit of a philosopher."
His great weakness consisted in his imaginary strength of mind. In
his college days at St. Bees he had been charmed with the classic
chronicles of Grecian stoicism and Roman fortitude, and, ever since,
had been endeavouring to talk himself, out of all feeling and affection,
into the hero. To his great self-satisfaction, he now believed he
could bear any stroke of Fate, however severe or unexpected, without
so much as a wink of his "mind's eye," and he flattered himself that
he had arrived at that much-to-be-desired state of insensibility which,
would enable him, like a Buttermere Brutus, to hand his own son
Jobby over to the Carlisle hangman with no more compunction—as
he delighted to tell that young gentleman, much to his horror—than
he would take one of his "lean sheep" to Lanthwaite Green Fair.
And yet, truth to say, the heart of the heroic Mr. Sandboys was as soft as new bread, though he would have had the world believe it was as hard and dry as sea biscuit. If Cursty had any mettle at all in his constitution it was that particular kind of "fusible alloy" which melts at the least warmth, and loses all consistency immediately it gets into hot water.
No metaphysician has ever yet explained why poor perverse human nature always fancies it has a special talent for doing something the very opposite to that in which it happens to excel. Doubtlessly, if the truth could be known, we should find Sir John Herschel secretly regarding himself as a small astronomer, but taking great pride in his imitation of frying sausages; and Faraday thinking little of his discoveries in diamagnetism, but flattering himself that he could palm a pea better than any thimble-rigger in the kingdom. Professor Owen, for what we know, may despise himself as a comparative anatomist, but think far from meanly of his abilities as a player on the bones, and Archbishop Whately in his own eyes shine less in logic than in the mixture of a lobster salad, or the brewing of whiskey punch.
Even so was it with Mr. Cursty Sandboys! Naturally kind-hearted, and weak almost to an extreme, he conceited himself that he was firm and immoveable, amid the storms of life, as a human light-house, or as light-hearted and lively in the midst of all his "ups-and-downs" as the celebrated old Buoy at the Nore. Nothing he coveted more than
