It was late in the evening when I received a note from Susannah, informing me of that unfortunate accident. My father had just finished a long story about filial duty, country girls, good wives, &c, and had wound up by saying, that he and Mr Masterton both considered that Miss Temple would be a very eligible match, and that as I had requested him to select, he had selected her accordingly. I had just proved how truly dutiful I was, by promising to do all I could to love her, and to fulfil his wishes, when the note was put in my hands. I read it, stated its contents to my father, and, with his permission, immediately jumped into a hackney-coach, and drove to Welbeck Street.

  On my arrival I found poor Mrs Cophagus in a state of syncope, and Susannah attending her. I sent for the surgeon who had been called in, and then went up to Mr Cophagus. He was much better than I expected — calm, and quite sensible. His wounds had been dressed by the surgeon, but he did not appear to be aware of the extent of the injury he had received. When the surgeon came I questioned him. He informed me that although much hurt, he did not consider that there was any danger to be apprehended; there were no bones broken; the only fear that he had was, that there might be some internal injury; but at present that could not be ascertained. I thanked him, and consoled Mrs Cophagus with this information. I then returned to her husband, who shook his head, and muttered, as I put my ear down to hear him, “Thought so — come to London — full of mad bulls — tossed — die — and so on.”

  “O no!” replied I, “the surgeon says that there is no danger. You will be up in a week — but now you must keep very quiet. I will send Mrs Cophagus to you.”

  I went out, and finding her composed, I desired her to go to her husband, who wished to see her, and I was left alone with Susannah. I told her all that had passed, and after two delightful hours had escaped, I returned home to the hotel. My father had waited up for some time, and finding that I did not return, had retired. When I met him the next morning I mentioned what the surgeon had said, but stated that, in my opinion, there was great cause for alarm in a man of Mr Cophagus’s advanced age. My father agreed with me, but could not help pointing out what a good opportunity this would afford for my paying my attentions to Miss Temple, as it was natural that I should be interested about so old a friend as Mr Cophagus. My filial duty inclined me to reply, that I should certainly avail myself of such a favourable opportunity.

  My adventures are now drawing to a close. I must pass over three months, during which my father had taken and furnished a house in Grosvenor Square; and I, whenever I could spare time, had, under the auspices of Lord Windermear, again been introduced into the world as Mr De Benyon. I found that the new name was considered highly respectable, my father’s hall tables were loaded with cards, and I even received two dinner invitations from Lady Maelstrom, who told me how her dear nieces had wondered what had become of me, and that they were afraid that Louisa would have fallen into a decline. And during these three months Cecilia and Susannah had been introduced, and had become as inseparable as most young ladies are, who have a lover a-piece, and no cause for jealousy. Mr Cophagus had so far recovered as to be able to go down into the country, vowing, much to the chagrin of his wife, that he never would put his foot in London again. He asked me whether I knew any place where there were no mad bulls, and I took some trouble to find out, but I could not; for even if he went to the North Pole, although there were no bulls, yet there were bull bisons and musk bulls, which were even more savage. Upon which he declared that this was not a world to live in, and to prove that he was sincere in his opinion, poor fellow, about three months after his retirement into the country, he died from a general decay, arising from the shock produced on his system. But before these three months had passed, it had been finally arranged that Harcourt and I were to be united on the same day; and having renewed my acquaintance with the good bishop, whom I had taxed with being my father, he united us both to our respective partners. My father made over to me the sum which he had mentioned. Mr Masterton gave Susannah ten thousand pounds, and her own fortune amounted to as much more, with the reversion of Mr Cophagus’s property at the decease of his widow. Timothy came up to the wedding, and I formally put him in the possession of my shop and stock in trade, and he has now a flourishing business. Although he has not yet found his mother, he has found a very pretty wife, which he says does quite as well, if not better.

  Let it not be supposed that I forgot the good services of Kathleen — who was soon after married to Corny. A small farm on Fleta’s estate was appropriated to them, at so low a rent, that in a few years they were able to purchase the property, and Corny, from a leveller, as soon as he was comfortable, became one of the government’s firmest supporters.

  I am now living in the same house with my father, who is very happy, and behaves pretty well. He is seldom in a passion more than twice a-week, which we consider as miraculous. Now that I am writing this, he has his two grandchildren on his knees. Mrs Cophagus has married a captain in the Life Guards, and as far as fashion and dress are concerned, may be said to be “going the whole hog.” And now, as I have no doubt that my readers will be curious to know whether my lovely wife adheres to her primitive style of dress, I shall only repeat a conversation of yesterday night, as she came down arrayed for a splendid ball given by Mrs Harcourt de Clare.

  “Tell me now, De Benyon,” said she, “is not this a pretty dress?”

  “Yes, my dear,” replied I, looking at her charming face and figure with all the admiration usual in the honeymoon, “it is indeed; but do you not think, my dear Susan,” said I, putting the tip of my white glove upon her snowy shoulder, “that it is cut down a little too low?”

  “Too low, De Benyon! why it’s not half so low as Mrs Harcourt de Clare or Lady C —— wear their dresses.”

  “Well, my dear, I did not assert that it was. I only asked.”

  “Well, then, if you only asked for information, De Benyon, I will tell you that it is not too low, and I think you will acknowledge that on this point my opinion ought to be decisive; for if I have no other merit, I have at least the merit of being the best-dressed woman in London.”

  “Verily thou persuadest me, Susannah,” replied I.

  “Now, De Benyon, hold your tongue.”

  Like a well-disciplined husband, I bowed, and said no more. And now, having no more to say, I shall also make my bow to my readers, and bid them farewell.

  THE END

  MR. MIDSHIPMAN EASY

  This novel was written in 1834 and published two years later in 1836. It was Marryat’s first great commercial success and a true Victorian bestseller. As well as telling an exciting story of the title character’s naval career in the Napoleonic wars, the novel also uses the relationship between Easy and the escaped slave Metsy to gently mock the Romantic notion of universal social equality and the Rights of Man.

  Title page of the first edition

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One.

  Chapter Two.

  Chapter Three.

  Chapter Four.

  Chapter Five.

  Chapter Six.

  Chapter Seven.

  Chapter Eight.

  Chapter Nine.

  Chapter Ten.

  Chapter Eleven.

  Chapter Twelve.

  Chapter Thirteen.

  Chapter Fourteen.

  Chapter Fifteen.

  Chapter Sixteen.

  Chapter Seventeen.

  Chapter Eighteen.

  Chapter Nineteen.

  Chapter Twenty.

  Chapter Twenty One.

  Chapter Twenty Two.

  Chapter Twenty Three.

  Chapter Twenty Four.

  Chapter Twenty Five.

  Chapter Twenty Six.

  Chapter Twenty Seven.

  Chapter Twenty Eight.

  Chapter Twenty Nine.

  Chapter Thirty.

  Chapter Thirty One.

  Chapter Thirty Two.

  Chapter Thirty Three.

  Chapter Thirty Four.

  Chapter Thirty Five.

  Chapter Thirty Six.

  Chapter Thirty Seven.

  Chapter Thirty Eight.

  Chapter Thirty Nine.

  Chapter Forty.

  Chapter Forty One.

  Illustration from a later edition

  Chapter One.

  Which the reader will find very easy to read.

  Mr Nicodemus Easy was a gentleman who lived down in Hampshire; he was a married man, and in very easy circumstances. Most couples find it very easy to have a family, but not always quite so easy to maintain them. Mr Easy was not at all uneasy on the latter score, as he had no children; but he was anxious to have them, as most people covet what they cannot obtain. After ten years, Mr Easy gave it up as a bad job. Philosophy is said to console a man under disappointment, although Shakespeare asserts that it is no remedy for toothache; so Mr Easy turned philosopher, the very best profession a man can take up, when he is fit for nothing else; he must be a very incapable person indeed who cannot talk nonsense. For some time, Mr Easy could not decide upon what description his nonsense should consist of; at last he fixed upon the rights of man, equality, and all that; how every person was born to inherit his share of the earth, a right at present only admitted to a certain length that is, about six feet, for we all inherit our graves, and are allowed to take possession without dispute. But no one would listen to Mr Easy’s philosophy. The women would not acknowledge the rights of men, whom they declared always to be in the wrong; and, as the gentlemen who visited Mr Easy were all men of property, they could not perceive the advantages of sharing with those who had none. However, they allowed him to discuss the question, while they discussed his port wine. The wine was good, if the arguments were not, and we must take things as we find them in this world.

  While Mr Easy talked philosophy, Mrs Easy played patience, and they were a happy couple, riding side by side on their hobbies, and never interfering with each other. Mr Easy knew his wife could not understand him, and therefore did not expect her to listen very attentively; and Mrs Easy did not care how much her husband talked, provided she was not put out in her game. Mutual forbearance will always ensure domestic felicity.

  There was another cause for their agreeing so well. Upon any disputed question Mr Easy invariably gave it up to Mrs Easy, telling her that she should have her own way — and this pleased his wife; but, as Mr Easy always took care, when it came to the point, to have his way, he was pleased as well. It is true that Mrs Easy had long found out that she did not have her own way long; but she was of an easy disposition, and as, in nine cases out of ten, it was of very little consequence how things were done, she was quite satisfied with his submission during the heat of the argument. Mr Easy had admitted that she was right, and if like all men he would do wrong, why what could a poor woman do? With a lady of such a quiet disposition, it is easy to imagine that the domestic felicity of Mr Easy was not easily disturbed. But, as people have observed before, there is a mutability in human affairs. It was at the finale of the eleventh year of their marriage that Mrs Easy at first complained that she could not enjoy her breakfast. Mrs Easy had her own suspicions, everybody else considered it past doubt, all except Mr Easy; he little “thought, good easy man, that his greatness was ripening;” he had decided that to have an heir was no easy task, and it never came into his calculations that there could be a change in his wife’s figure. You might have added to it, subtracted from it, divided it, or multiplied it, but as it was a zero, the result would be always the same. Mrs Easy also was not quite sure — she believed it might be the case, there was no saying; it might be a mistake, like that of Mrs Trunnion’s in the novel, and, therefore, she said nothing to her husband about the matter. At last Mr Easy opened his eyes, and when, upon interrogating his wife, he found out the astounding truth, he opened his eyes still wider, and then he snapped his fingers, and danced, like a bear upon hot plates, with delight, thereby proving that different causes may produce similar effects in two instances at one and the same time. The bear dances from pain, Mr Easy from pleasure; and again, when we are indifferent, or do not care for anything, we snap our fingers at it, and when we are overjoyed and obtain what we most care for, we also snap our fingers. Two months after Mr Easy snapped his fingers, Mrs Easy felt no inclination to snap hers, either from indifference or pleasure. The fact was, that Mrs Easy’s time was come, to undergo what Shakespeare pronounces “the pleasing punishment that women bear;” but Mrs Easy, like the rest of her sex, declared, “that all men were liars,” and most particularly poets.

  But while Mrs Easy was suffering, Mr Easy was in ecstasies. He laughed at pain, as all philosophers do when it is suffered by other people, and not by themselves.

  In due course of time, Mrs Easy presented her husband with a fine boy, whom we present to the public as our hero.

  Chapter Two.

  In which Mrs Easy, as usual, has her own way.

  It was the fourth day after Mrs Easy’s confinement that Mr Easy, who was sitting by her bedside in an easy-chair, commenced as follows: “I have been thinking, my dear Mrs Easy, about the name I shall give this child.”

  “Name, Mr Easy! why, what name should you give it but your own?”

  “Not so, my dear,” replied Mr Easy; “they call all names proper names, but I think that mine is not. It is the very worst name in the calendar.”

  “Why, what’s the matter with it, Mr Easy?”

  “The matter affects me as well as the boy. Nicodemus is a long name to write at full length, and Nick is vulgar. Besides, as there will be two Nicks, they will naturally call my boy young Nick, and of course I shall be styled old Nick, which will be diabolical.”

  “Well, Mr Easy, at all events then let me choose the name.”

  “That you shall, my dear, and it was with this view that I have mentioned the subject so early.”

  “I think, Mr Easy, I will call the boy after my poor father — his name shall be Robert.”

  “Very well, my dear, if you wish it, it shall be Robert. You shall have your own way. But I think, my dear, upon a little consideration, you will acknowledge that there is a decided objection.”

  “An objection, Mr Easy?”

  “Yes, my dear; Robert may be very well, but you must reflect upon the consequences; he is certain to be called Bob.”

  “Well, my dear, and suppose they do call him Bob?”

  “I cannot bear even the supposition, my dear. You forget the county in which we are residing, the downs covered with sheep.”

  “Why, Mr Easy, what can sheep have to do with a Christian name?”

  “There it is; women never look to consequences. My dear, they have a great deal to do with the name of Bob. I will appeal to any farmer in the county, if ninety-nine shepherds’ dogs out of one hundred are not called Bob. Now observe, your child is out of doors somewhere in the fields or plantations; you want and you call him. Instead of your child, what do you find? Why, a dozen curs at least, who come running up to you, all answering to the name of Bob, and wagging their stumps of tails. You see, Mrs Easy, it is a dilemma not to be got over. You level your only son to the brute creation by giving him a Christian name which, from its peculiar brevity, has been monopolised by all the dogs in the county. Any other name you please, my dear, but in this one instance you must allow me to lay my positive veto.”

  “Well, then, let me see — but I’ll think of it, Mr Easy; my head aches very much just now.”

  “I will think for you, my dear. What do you say to John?”

  “Oh, no, Mr Easy, such a common name?”

  “A proof of its popularity, my dear. It is scriptural — we have the apostle and the baptist — we have a dozen popes who were all Johns. It is royal — we have plenty of kings who were Johns — and, moreover, it is short, and sounds honest and manly.”

  “Yes, very true, my dear; but they will call him Jack.”

  “Well, we have had several celebrated characters who were Jacks. There was — let me see — Jack the Giant Killer, and Jack of the Bean Stalk — and Jack — Jack—”

  “Jack Spratt,” replied Mrs Easy.

  “And Jack Cade, Mrs Easy, the great rebel — and three-fingered Jack, Mrs Easy, the celebrated negro — and, above all, Jack Falstaff, ma’am, Jack Falstaff — honest Jack Falstaff — witty Jack Falstaff—”

  “I thought, Mr Easy, that I was to be permitted to choose the name.”

  “Well, so you shall, my dear; I give it up to you. Do just as you please; but depend upon it that John is the right name. Is it not now, my dear?”

  “It’s the way you always treat me, Mr Easy; you say that you give it up, and that I shall have my own way, but I never do have it. I am sure that the child will be christened John.”

  “Nay, my dear, it shall be just what you please. Now I recollect it, there were several Greek emperors who were Johns; but decide for yourself, my dear.”

  “No, no,” replied Mrs Easy, who was ill, and unable to contend any longer, “I give it up, Mr Easy. I know how it will be, as it always is: you give me my own way as people give pieces of gold to children, it’s their own money, but they must not spend it. Pray call him John.”

  “There, my dear, did not I tell you, you would be of my opinion upon reflection? I knew you would. I have given you your own way, and you tell me to call him John; so now we’re both of the same mind, and that point is settled.”

  “I should like to go to sleep, Mr Easy; I feel far from well.”