Chapter II (2)

Upon the present occasion it seemed that he had some unusually clever design in view. He was perpetually giving some instructions to the domestics, in a tone of voice mysteriously low, and again relapsing into deep and silent meditation. In short, in the anxiety which he evinced for the approaching nuptials, he showed all the assiduity and precaution of a modern match maker. Reginald did not come at the appointed time; the old man began to grow impatient; he asked for his son. “Lothaire,” replied one of the attendants, “bore forth thy message in the morning, being desirous of looking on the Norman guest. He hath not yet returned.” “It is the better,” said Leofwyn to himself. “His hastiness might defeat what my prudence hath devised. Nevertheless, I cannot but marvel at his stay. Is the bride apparelled?” “She is: the maidens have been busied about her head-gear since noonday. Marry they have no light task; for the hair they decorate hath been but little used to the operation.” “Peace!” said Leofwyn.

Hours passed away in rapid succession, evening came gradually on; and still there were no traces or tidings of Reginald d’Arennes. The Saxon’s choler began to rise in earnest. “Surely,” he muttered inwardly, “surely, that hot-brained fellow Lothaire hath not overturned the structure my counsel hath been so long a-building; mischief light upon him if he hath dared to make or to meddle! The forward boy is ever at bullying and drawing of swords. Boys’ play, boys’ play; but it were a brave thing to put this slight upon the Norman. Marry, hang him if he hath despoiled my daughter of her husband.”

Suddenly his soliloquy was interrupted by the blast of horn announcing the arrival of strangers. Leofwyn leaped from his seat in an ecstasy; but immediately resumed it, with a studied look of gravity, that restrained the inclination of merriment which was predominant among his dependents. Every one, therefore, was silent, as the folding-doors were slowly unclosed, and the major-domo introduced to the presence of his lord--Sir Reginald d’Arennes.

He was greeted by his future father-in-law with cold and distant courtesy, which he returned in a manner of still greater reserve. “Sir Knight,” said Leofwyn, “it is my will that thy nuptials be solemnized ere thou sittest down to the banquet. My son Lothaire is choleric (his guest gave an involuntary motion of assent); and if he should return before the wedding, I know not whether thy head might not lie in the castle-moat sooner than on the bridal pillow.” The bridegroom shuddered.

“Is the Lady Elfrida attired?” continued Leofwyn, in a tone of mock gravity, which was exceedingly ludicrous. The attendants caught the infection, and many unrepressed jests circulated among them, as they departed to bear their lord’s summons to his daughter.

Presently Elfrida made her appearance. The bridegroom started as she entered the hall: perhaps the exterior qualifications of the Saxon beauty might not altogether correspond with the exaggerated reports which his ears had greedily drunk. Her figure might be called elegant, but was certainly too short to deserve the appellation of dignified; her face might be deemed pretty, but the pertness which was its prevalent characteristic disqualified it for the epithet of beautiful. Instead of the soft yellow hair which her adorer had expected, he beheld a profusion of dark brown ringlets; and in lieu of the languishing blue eye, which he deemed would have dissolved him into rapture, he met the glance of a sparkling black one, in which there lurked a very strong inclination to laugh in his face. To his disappointment, however, if he felt any, Reginald gave no vent; he seemed to have a great reluctance to unclose, in the presence of Saxons, either his visor or his lips. Both parties betrayed a wish to have the ceremony performed as speedily as possible; and the nuptials of Sir Reginald d’Arennes with Elfrida, the daughter of Leofwyn of Kennet Hold, were accordingly celebrated in the chapel which was attached to the residence of the Saxon. The Lady Elfrida was splendidly attired; but, in other respects, the nuptial rites were graced with little pomp save the attendance of a large body of Leofwyn’s retainers, who, bearing in their hands each a flaming torch, cast an air of rude magnificence over the scene.

A sumptuous banquet awaited them upon their return to the hall. The merriment of the vassals was loud and unremitting. The bridegroom, however, did not seem to enjoy the situation in which he found himself placed. He fidgeted upon his seat, and turned his eyes alternately to the ceiling and to the wall, as if he suspected that more than half the joviality of the party was at his expense. His embarrassment was increased by the malicious endeavours of his bride, who rallied him upon his gravity and look of despondency, in a style to which he had evidently no spirits to reply.

It must be confessed that the young man’s suspicions were not altogether without foundation. The occupants of the lower part of the board, who, of course, were the most obstreperous in their mirth, were, from time to time, indulging themselves in very acute criticisms upon the figure and features of their master’s son-in-law. These did not altogether answer their expectations. Much as they contemned the Normans, they had pictured to themselves, in the person of Reginald d’Arennes, a countenance noble even to sternness, and a bearing at once courteous and martial. They knew he was a Norman, but they also knew he was a handsome and a friendly Norman; in consequence of which they had made up their minds to hate him, and, at the same time, to find nothing in him worthy of hate. They were much surprised, therefore, when they found the young Knight so perfectly different from the image report had drawn. His face seemed perfectly void of all expression of majesty or valour. At present its predominant expression was embarrassment, mingled with a strong tincture of fear; but there was a slight curve upon the lips, and a sly twinkle under the eye, which betrayed a strong disposition to cunning and risibility. His figure appeared slender and diminutive, and a gorgeous steel harness hung dangling about it, as if the bark of the forest oak had been stripped off to give an appearance of strength to the willow. This was all very strange: the attendants looked, and laughed, and wondered; and Leofwyn showed no disposition to check their humour. Indeed he seemed to participate cordially in their malicious propensities.

“Sir Knight,” said he, “methinks there is in thy demeanour a greater degree of bashfulness than thy noble presence and thy lofty lineage do warrant.”

“It is a feeling,” replied the guest, “which I have inherited from my mother Bridget--I mean, from my mother the Lady Marie,” he added, turning very pale.

“Ha, ha!” exclaimed his entertainer; “now, by my verity, I dreamed not thy father had been so gay in his young days. What! play the Lady Marie false! Come, come, it was ill done, ill done; she was a lady of most excellent carriage; it was ill done. But be not cast down. The sin was not thine. Pledge me, noble Reginald. Thou standest in need of refreshment; for, in truth, thy look is weariness itself, and thou art as silent as the oaken board on which thou leanest. Come, come, the pigment is worth the tasting.”

Reginald blushed, and seemed doubting whether it were not well to make a precipitate retreat. The Lady Elfrida turned away her head, and let down her veil, with a gesture of affected horror at the indelicate sallies of her father. Nothing daunted, the old man continued his pertinacious system of annoyance, while the domestics applauded, by ill-repressed acclamations, the surprising jocularity of their lord.

“Thou art sparing of thy food, Sir Knight; but doubtless thou art used to other diet than this: the board of a Saxon thane hath but little to tempt the palate of the son of a Norman noble.”

“Thou wrongest thine own hospitality, noble thane,” replied the other, collecting his spirits, and making an effort to be polite. “Womanly indeed should I be, if I were not used to harder fare than this! My father, the forester--that is, I mean, my father, the baron.” And again Reginald looked confused, and paused, and was silent.

“Cheer thee, noble Reginald,” said his host; “thou art wearied with thy journey, and thy wits wander.” “Perchance,” said the fair Elfrida, “Sir Reginald hath lost them on the way!” The menials echoed applause, and Reginald looked yet more foolish than before. “Thou dost belie thy character strangely,” continued the old man; “fame hath told us that in the whole shire there is not a jollier boon companion nor a truer lover of the cup.” “It is true that Sir Reginald d’Arennes hath had that reputation,” replied the Norman, “and his best friends have judged that he would do well to put it away.” “By the holy Confessor,” cried Leofwyn, “not upon his wedding-day! Out upon the idea! What, ho! Osric, fill up for Sir Reginald. Pledge me, gallant Knight. The health of thy bride--of Elfrida!”

“I will do thee reason,” said Reginald, raising the cup to his lips; but, at the mention of the name of Elfrida, some of the vassals burst into such a clamorous fit of laughter that he set it down in astonishment.

Leofwyn remarked his surprise, and endeavoured to dispel it. “Thou seest, good son, that there is a kind of pageant toward, at which these boors are marvellously pleased; but be not the less inclined to join in our banquet. We wait but for the arrival of my son Lothaire, and all disguise shall be stripped off.” “Disguise!” cried the guest, dropping the cup, and starting from his seat, “a murrain on the tell-tale! How didst thou learn----” “Nay, my son,” said the Saxon, as if endeavouring to retract an unguarded expression, “we are all somewhat disguised--in liquor.”

Reginald resumed his seat, and, in a short time, began to drink most valorously, as if striving to drown in the rich pigment some unpleasant suspicions. By degrees, his head, which was evidently weaker than the one fame had attributed to Reginald d’Arennes, began to be overpowered by the frequent potations which were forced upon him by his host; and while Leofwyn and his retainers, and even the modest Elfrida, were immensely amused by his awkward situation, the hapless bridegroom showed the effects of Saxon hospitality in rhapsodical and unintelligable exclamations.

“Of a truth, good thane, thy drink is marvellous good! marvellous good is thy drink! Better have not I tasted since we rifled old Ambrose, the hermit of Torney Low! Very rich was the old rogue: he had store of gold and of silver, and an admirable cellar withal. Right merry we were and jovial; and, for the hoary man, we made him sit by the board, and chaunt a merry stave. That did I; for truly my fellow thief had some quirks of conscience. Health to the old man! May his bags and his cellar be replenished before next Whitsuntide! What care I for abbot and friar, mitre and cowl! I roam through glade and greenwood, over hill, and rock, and stream, free as the hawk, free as the passing wind. Marry, I had forgot how I have linked myself to a wife! Kiss me, fair Elfrida! I love thee very much, Elfrida; but thou knowest, when war calleth us away, we soldiers leave ye like a whistle. How dost thou, old father-in-law, how dost thou? Of a verity, thy face is as black as a November cloud, and that spear by thy side is wondrous sharp: it is well I have a Milan corselet. Mark ye my Milan corselet, father and bride? The zecchins that were paid for it! It hath not borne blow yet. Certainly I like not blows; but the lace of my helmet is snapped in twain. Thy son, most noble Leofwyn, could explain unto thee the manner of it. Surely it was a mighty blow, and a perilous, given with a strong arm and a right goodwill. Launcelot shook like an aspen leaf. Howbeit, noble Saxon, thy drink is marvellous good; it maketh a man valorous, and doth as it were put to flight the whimsies, and the visions, and the phantasies of the brain. Fill up, valiant Leofwyn! Plague on them that flinch! Mine harness is much soiled for a wedding garment, but I shall wear a new doublet to-morrow. A blight upon the brambles in the coppice! How now, good father-in-law, why dost thou not speak? Thy face is as round as the bowl, and as silent as the roasted crab that is floating within it. Fill up! Off with care! Shall I not be merry, when steel, and nobility, and a wife are put upon my shoulders?”

“My lord groweth complimentary,” said Elfrida, hardly able to speak for laughter. “I do feel afraid that the air of Kennet Hold, and the drink it affords, have somewhat unsettled his brains!”

“Beautiful Elfrida,” said the bridegroom, “true it is that the brains of Sir Reginald had a terrible knock this day, and thy brother knows whence it came; but we will forget these quarrelsome topics, and give up the evening to merriment. My brains are as firm as thine own. Marry, the wine is marvellous good!” He was sinking gradually into intoxication.

“I marvel wherefore Lothaire delayeth his coming,” said Leofwyn.

“Truly,” replied Elfrida, “it were well to conclude the farce without him. I am weary of this mummery.”

“Mar-vel-lous good!” repeated the Norman, and closed his eyes.

“Girl,” said Leofwyn, “thou speakest foolishly; until my son’s return we will keep up the disguise.”

“Disguise!” cried Reginald, recovering some little sense of what was going forward. “Who talked of disguise? Was it thou, most rustic Leofwyn, or thou, most black-browed Elfrida? Who talked of disguise? I care not. If I am not----”

A loud and piercing shriek interrupted the speaker. You might have thought all the maidens of the shire had conspired to deafen the ears of the Saxon proprietor. A door was suddenly flung open, and a warder, with terror and consternation pictured on every limb and feature, rushed up to the daïs, and bending his head as if to receive the chastisement which his negligence would call down, exclaimed, “The Lady Elfrida hath been taken away from the castle!”

It were difficult to describe minutely the astonishment which pervaded the hall. Vassals and menials of every degree snatched their arms and fled from the apartment.

Nothing was heard but inquiries, and weeping, and imprecations. Nothing was known but that the lady had been within the last few minutes carried off by a strange knight mounted on a swift bay horse, and attended by one follower. It was supposed that he must have entered and departed by swimming the moat, which, as it was now midnight, was an attempt by no means impracticable. He had been seen by a peasant who was returning from an adjacent forest; his lovely prize was thrown across a led palfrey, and appeared to be in a swoon.

All was confusion. The retainers of Leofwyn ran to and fro in all directions but the right one. Armour resounded with a dismal clang, as it was hastily thrown over the shoulders of the domestics; torches were flinging their red glare in every direction; the voices of the pursuers were repeated by frequent echoes, as they shouted and called to one another through the darkness. In the meantime the chief personages in the hall were in a situation partaking strongly of the ludicrous. The black-eyed damsel, who had figured throughout the banquet as the daughter of Leofwyn, had cried out, as the warder had delivered his news, “My dear mistress, my poor mistress!” and fainted upon her throne. The bridegroom had been in some measure roused from his intoxication, but was still unable to collect his ideas, so as to form any idea of the origin or meaning of the tumult. Leofwyn appeared to be in a state of mental stupefaction. In spite of the foibles of the old man’s character, he was doatingly fond of his daughter; and the news of her loss, coming in the midst of revelry, seemed to have withered him like a thunder-bolt. He sat still, looking on the confusion with a vacant gaze, and inquiring from time to time, “Is my daughter well? How fares it with the Lady Elfrida? Does she not come to her old father?” These three personages, therefore, remained quietly upon their seats, while every one around them was in commotion; like the bronzed images in modern halls, that hold their candelabras so calmly, while the guests are all in the bustle of departure.

Things remained in this disagreeable position for some minutes, when the blowing of a horn, and a loud talking and shouting without, announced that something had taken place. Presently, accompanied by a crowd of peasants half accoutred for the pursuit, Lothaire entered the hall. Leofwyn raised his head, and being in some measure recalled to his recollection by the sight of his son, repeated his inquiry, “Is my daughter well?”

“She is well!” said Lothaire, “and I am well! No thanks to my new friend, the doughty Sir Richard de Mallory, from whom, to say truth, mine headpiece hath received a most mischievous contusion. Thanks to thee, good steel,” he continued, taking off his helmet, and surveying the deep indenture which appeared on its summit; “had not thy temper been true, thy master’s head had lain on the couch from which no man lifteth himself up.” He was interrupted by a thousand interrogatories, a great proportion of which proceeded from Leofwyn, who had by this time recovered from the effects of his sudden shock, and began to feel great curiosity to know the particulars of the story.

“I know but little of the matter,” said Lothaire; “ye see I have been overthrown in no light fashion”--(they perceived for the first time that his apparel bore marks of a recent fall)--“and in truth had it not been for the intervention of my good friend in the ragged doublet, I had hardly lived to tell ye the tale.”

“Of whom dost thou speak?” said Leofwyn.

“That is more than I can tell,” replied the young Saxon. “Not many paces hence did I encounter the valorous Sir Richard, who is now, peace be with him, no longer a man of this world. I had a heavy stroke, as ye may witness; nevertheless, it was my horse’s fault, or I had not been so foiled. I believe another minute would have caught the last breath of Lothaire, but for the help of the aforesaid knight of the ragged doublet. By the sword of Harold! he overthrew that proud Norman as if he were wrestling with a child. I saw not his features, but by his apparel he seemed to be the esquire of thine hopeful son-in-law, Reginald d’Arennes. But ye will see him presently.”

Lothaire was supported from the hall, and put under the care of the leech; for his wound, although he made so light of it in his story, wore a dangerous appearance.

As he retired, another loud acclamation announced the arrival of Elfrida’s deliverer. A tall, well-made figure advanced towards the daïs, clad, as Lothaire had intimated, in a short ragged doublet, with a small cap which was quite insufficient to confine the long dark tresses that floated luxuriantly down his neck. His arm supported the real Elfrida, whose personal charms amply deserved the encomium which had been lavished upon them in the forest. Animation seemed hardly restored to that beautiful form. Her eyes were half closed and her cheek very pale.

“Providence be thanked,” cried Leofwyn, “that my child is restored to me!”

Now it has been already hinted that Elfrida was possessed of a disposition somewhat untractable; in fact, loth as I am to speak aught ill of the fair sex, I must confess that the Lady Elfrida partook, in no trifling degree, both of the fantastic whims of her father Leofwyn and the violent obstinacy of her brother Lothaire. The reader, therefore, will not be surprised when he hears that the Saxon beauty, bowing respectfully to her father, thus addressed him:

“Not to thee, my father, not to thee is thy daughter restored; in good and in evil, in life and in death, she shall abide with her preserver--with him who hath delivered her from the grasp of the spoiler.”

“Thou art mad, my child!” said the old man in astonishment; “the knight that sued for thee thou didst contemn and reject, and wilt thou now wed with his serving-man?”

Elfrida appeared to recollect the circumstances which had preceded her capture, the suitor who had solicited her hand, and the deceit which she had conspired to put upon him: she looked up to the daïs, and beheld Bertha, her waiting-woman, seated by the side of the Norman guest; she glanced round and met the eye of her preserver turned upon her with an expression of the deepest adoration. She looked no further, but immediately, addressing her father, said:

“Why should it not be so, my father? To-day thou hast married thine handmaid to the Knight; to-morrow thou shalt marry thy daughter to the Knave.”

Her unknown deliverer at these words began to stare about him; he gazed upon his dress, upon his attendants, upon Elfrida; and then, with all the embarrassment of a performer who comes forward to play in a pageant without the smallest acquaintance with his part, observed: “This morning was I a knight, mounted on a goodly steed, and clad in goodly apparel; but whether I am now Norman or Saxon, knight or knave, by my grandfather’s sword--I doubt.”

Leofwyn stared; his large eyes were dilated into a truly comic expression of astonishment. “Who art thou?” he cried at last to the bridegroom; “art thou Reginald d’Arennes, or must we hang thee for a rogue?”

“Peace, good father-in-law,” said the sham Reginald, shaking off his drunkenness, and leering around him with an arch look of self-satisfaction; “I am not Reginald d’Arennes, but yet as good a man! I am Robin, the son of Egwulph; truly a cunning knave, and a wily.”

“I do begin to perceive,” said the waiting-woman, Bertha, looking on the sham Reginald with a disappointed air, “that our plot hath altogether failed.”

“Mine hath fared no better!” said the knave, returning a glance of equal disappointment upon the mock Elfrida. “In this I have been but a silly knave, and a witless!”

Dost thou comprehend, gentle reader, the circumstances which led to these mistakes? or is it necessary for me to inform thee that the knave Robin proceeded to Kennet Hold in Reginald’s apparel, with the purpose of revenging, by his wedding with the heiress, the death of his master, which he fancied had been occasioned by the heir; that at Kennet Hold the said knave met with the counterplot which had been prepared by the jocose Saxon, and became the husband of the maid instead of the mistress; that Reginald, recovering from his swoon after the departure of his attendant, advanced towards Kennet Hold, and encountered, in his way, his new acquaintance, Richard de Mallory, from whom he had the good fortune to rescue the life of Lothaire and the honour of Elfrida?

There is yet one point unexplained. The reader must be aware that a considerable interval took place between the memorable blow given by Lothaire and his rencontre with De Mallory. Upon this point the MS. makes mention of Winifred, a certain arch-damsel, who---- but Decorum puts her forefinger on her mouth--I have done.

Rather than desert a long established custom, I proceed to state that the personages of my tale lived and loved to a green old age. Robin died before it was thoroughly decided whether he was more properly termed “the Wily” or “the Witless.” Reginald, it appears, never got rid of his old trick of hesitation, for it is upon record that, when he told the story of his adventures to Cœur de Lion, at the siege of Acre, and was asked by the humorous monarch whether the knight or the knave were the more fortunate bridegroom, he scratched his chin for a few minutes, played with his sword for a few more, and replied slowly, “I have doubts as touching this matter.”

MAD--QUITE MAD!

“Great wits are sure to madness near allied.”--DRYDEN.

It has frequently been observed that Genius and Madness are nearly allied; that very great talents are seldom found unaccompanied by a touch of insanity, and that there are few bedlamites who will not, upon a close examination, display symptoms of a powerful, though ruined, intellect. According to this hypothesis, the flowers of Parnassus must be blended with the drugs of Anticyra; and the man who feels himself to be in possession of very brilliant wits may conclude that he is within an ace of running out of them. Whether this be true or false, we are not at present disposed to contradict the assertion. What we wish to notice is the pains which many young men take to qualify themselves for Bedlam, by hiding a good, sober, gentleman-like understanding beneath an assumption of thoughtlessness and whim. It is the received opinion among many that a man’s talents and abilities are to be rated by the quantity of nonsense he utters per diem, and the number of follies he runs into per annum. Against this idea we must enter our protest; if we concede that every real genius is more or less a madman, we must not be supposed to allow that every sham madman is more or less a genius.

In the days of our ancestors, the hot-blooded youth who threw away his fortune at twenty-one, his character at twenty-two, and his life at twenty-three, was termed “a good fellow,” “an honest fellow,” “nobody’s enemy but his own.” In our time the name is altered; and the fashionable who squanders his father’s estate, or murders his best friend--who breaks his wife’s heart at the gaming-table, and his own neck at a steeple-chase--escapes the sentence which morality would pass upon him, by the plea of lunacy. “He was a rascal,” says Common Sense. “True,” says the World, “but he was mad, you know--quite mad.”

We were lately in company with a knot of young men who were discussing the character and fortunes of one of their own body, who was, it seems, distinguished for his proficiency in the art of madness. “Harry,” said a young sprig of nobility, “have you heard that Charles is in the King’s Bench?” “I heard it this morning,” drawled the Exquisite; “how distressing! I have not been so hurt since poor Angelica (his bay mare) broke down. Poor Charles has been too flighty.” “His wings will be clipped for the furture!” observed young Caustic. “He has been very imprudent,” said young Candour.

I inquired of whom they were speaking. “Don’t you know Charles Gally?” said the Exquisite, endeavouring to turn in his collar. “Not know Charles Gally?” he repeated, with an expression of pity. “He is the best fellow breathing; only lives to laugh and make others laugh; drinks his two bottles with any man, and rides the finest mare I ever saw--next to my Angelica. Not know Charles Gally? Why everybody knows him! He is so amusing! Ha! ha! And tells such admirable stories! Ha! ha! Often have they kept me awake”--a yawn--“when nothing else could.” “Poor fellow!” said his lordship; “I understand he’s done for ten thousand!” “I never believe more than half what the world says,” observed Candour. “He that has not a farthing,” said Caustic, “cares little whether he owes ten thousand or five.” “Thank Heaven!” said Candour, “that will never be the case with Charles: he has a fine estate in Leicestershire.” “Mortgaged for half its value,” said his lordship. “A large personal property!” “All gone in annuity bills,” said the Exquisite. “A rich uncle upwards of fourscore!” “He’ll cut him off with a shilling,” said Caustic.

“Let us hope he may reform,” sighed the Hypocrite; “and sell the pack,” added the Nobleman; “and marry,” continued the Dandy. “Pshaw!” cried the Satirist, “he will never get rid of his habits, his hounds, or his horns.” “But he has an excellent heart,” said Candour. “Excellent,” repeated his lordship, unthinkingly. “Excellent,” lisped the Fop, effeminately. “Excellent,” exclaimed the Wit, ironically. We took this opportunity to ask by what means so excellent a heart and so bright a genius had contrived to plunge him into these disasters. “He was my friend,” replied his lordship, “and a man of large property; but he was mad--quite mad. I remember his leaping a lame pony over a stone wall, simply because Sir Marmaduke bet him a dozen that he broke his neck in the attempt; and sending a bullet through a poor pedlar’s pack because Bob Darrell said the piece wouldn’t carry so far.” “Upon another occasion,” began the Exquisite in his turn, “he jumped into a horse-pond after dinner in order to prove it was not six feet deep; and overturned a bottle of eau-de-cologne in Lady Emilia’s face, to convince me that she was not painted. Poor fellow! The first experiment cost him a dress, and the second an heiress.” “I have heard,” resumed the Nobleman, “that he lost his election for---- by lampooning the mayor; and was dismissed from his place in the Treasury for challenging Lord C----.” “The last accounts I heard of him,” said Caustic, “told me that Lady Tarrel had forbid him her house for driving a sucking-pig into her drawing-room; and that young Hawthorn had run him through for boasting of favours from his sister!” “These gentlemen are really too severe,” remarked young Candour to us. “Not a jot,” we said to ourselves.

“This will be a terrible blow for his sister,” said a young man who had been listening in silence. “A fine girl--a very fine girl,” said the Exquisite. “And a fine fortune,” said the Nobleman; “the mines of Peru are nothing to her.” “Nothing at all,” observed the Sneerer; “she has no property there. But I would not have you caught, Harry; her income was good, but is dipped, horribly dipped. Guineas melt very fast when the cards are put by them.” “I was not aware Maria was a gambler,” said the young man, much alarmed. “Her brother is, Sir,” replied his informant. The querist looked sorry, but yet relieved. We could see that he was not quite disinterested in his inquiries. “However,” resumed the young Cynic, “his profusion has at least obtained him many noble and wealthy friends.” He glanced at his hearers, and went on: “No one that knew him will hear of his distresses without being forward to relieve them. He will find interest for his money in the hearts of his friends.” Nobility took snuff; Foppery played with his watch-chain; Hypocrisy looked grave. There was long silence. We ventured to regret the misuse of natural talents, which, if properly directed, might have rendered their possessor useful to the interests of society and celebrated in the records of his country. Every one stared, as if we were talking Hebrew. “Very true,” said his lordship, “he enjoys great talents. No man is a nicer judge of horseflesh. He beats me at billiards, and Harry at picquet; he’s a dead shot at a button, and can drive his curricle-wheels over a brace of sovereigns. “Radicalism,” says Caustic, looking round for a laugh. “He is a great amateur of pictures,” observed the Exquisite, “and is allowed to be quite a connoisseur in beauty; but there,” simpering, “every one must claim the privilege of judging for themselves.” “Upon my word,” said Candour, “you allow poor Charles too little. I have no doubt he has great courage--though, to be sure, there was a whisper that young Hawthorn found him rather shy; and I am convinced he is very generous, though I must confess that I have it from good authority that his younger brother was refused the loan of a hundred when Charles had pigeoned that fool of a nabob but the evening before. I would stake my existence that he is a man of unshaken honour--though, when he eased Lieutenant Hardy of his pay, there certainly was an awkward story about the transaction, which was never properly cleared up. I hope that when matters are properly investigated he will be liberated from all his embarrassments; though I am sorry to be compelled to believe that he has been spending double the amount of his income annually. But I trust that all will be adjusted. I have no doubt upon the subject.” “Nor I,” said Caustic. “We shall miss him prodigiously at the Club,” said the Dandy, with a slight shake of the head. “What a bore!” replied the Nobleman, with a long yawn. We could hardly venture to express compassion for a character so despicable. Our auditors, however, entertained very different opinions of right and wrong! “Poor fellow! he was much to be pitied: had done some very foolish things--to say the truth was a sad scoundrel--but then he was always so mad.” And having come unanimously to this decision, the conclave dispersed.

Charles gave an additional proof of his madness within a week after this discussion by swallowing laudanum. The verdict of the coroner’s inquest confirmed the judgment of his four friends. For our own parts we must pause before we give in to so dangerous a doctrine. Here is a man who has outraged the laws of honour, the ties of relationship, and the duties of religion; he appears before us in the triple character of a libertine, a swindler, and a suicide. Yet his follies, his vices, his crimes, are all palliated or even applauded by this specious _façon de parler_--“He was mad--quite mad!”

THE BOGLE OF ANNESLIE; OR, THE THREE-CORNERED HAT.

A TALE.

“An’ ye winna believe i’ the bogle?” said a pretty young lassie to her sweetheart, as they sat in the door of her father’s cottage one fine autumn evening. “Do you hear that, mither? Andrew ’ll no believe i’ the bogle.”

“Gude be wi’ us, Effie!” exclaimed Andrew, a slender and delicate youth of about two-and-twenty, “a bonny time I wad hae o’t, gin I were to heed every auld wife’s clatter.”

The words “auld wife” had a manifest effect on Effie, and she bit her lips in silence. Her mother immediately opened a battery upon the young man’s prejudices, narrating how that on Anneslie Heath, at ten o’clock at night, a certain apparition was wont to appear, in the form of a maiden above the usual size, with a wide three-cornered hat. Sundry other particulars were mentioned, but Andrew was still incredulous. “He’ll rue that, dearly will he rue’t!” said Effie, as he departed.

Many days, however, passed away, and Effie was evidently much disappointed to find that the scepticism of her lover gathered strength. Nay, he had the audacity to insult, by gibes and jests, the true believers, and to call upon them for the reasons of their faith. Effie was in a terrible passion.

At last, however, her prophecy was fulfilled. Andrew was passing over the moor, while the clock struck ten; for it was his usual practice to walk at that hour, in order to mock the fears of his future bride. He was just winding round the thicket which opened to him a view of the cottage where Effie dwelt, when he heard a light step behind him, and, in an instant, his feet were tripped up, and he was laid prostrate on the turf. Upon looking up he beheld a tall muscular man standing over him, who, in no courteous manner, desired to see the contents of his pocket. “De’il be on ye!” exclaimed the young forester, “I hae but ae coin i’ the warld.” “That coin maun I hae,” said his assailant. “Faith! I’se show ye play for’t then,” said Andrew, and sprang upon his feet.

Andrew was esteemed the best cudgel-player for twenty miles round, so that in brief space he cooled the ardour of his antagonist, and dealt such visitations upon his skull as might have made a much firmer head ache for a fortnight. The man stepped back, and, pausing in his assault, raised his hand to his forehead, and buried it among his dark locks. It returned covered with blood. “Thou hast cracked my crown,” he said, “but yet ye sha’ na gang scatheless;” and, flinging down his cudgel, he flew on his young foe, and, grasping his body before he was aware of the attack, whirled him to the earth with an appalling impetus. “The Lord hae mercy on me!” said Andrew, “I’m a dead man.”

He was not far from it, for his rude foe was preparing to put the finishing stroke to his victory. Suddenly something stirred in the bushes, and the conqueror, turning away from his victim, cried out, “The bogle! the bogle!” and fled precipitately. Andrew ventured to look up. He saw the figure which had been described to him approaching; it came nearer and nearer; its face was very pale, and its step was not heard on the grass. At last it stood by his side, and looked down upon him. Andrew buried his face in his cloak: presently the apparition spoke--indistinctly indeed, for its teeth seemed to chatter with cold:

“This is a cauld an’ an eerie night to be sae late on Anneslie Muir!” and immediately it glided away. Andrew lay a few minutes in a trance; and then, arising from his cold bed, ran hastily towards the cottage of his mistress. His hair stood on end, and the vapours of the night sunk chill upon his brow as he lifted up the latch and flung himself upon an oaken seat.

“Preserve us!” cried the old woman. “Why, ye are mair than aneugh to frighten a body out o’ her wits! To come in wi’ sic a flaunt and a fling, bare-sconced, and the red bluid spatter’d a’ o’er your new leather jerkin! Shame on you, Andrew! in what mishanter hast thou broken that fule’s head o’ thine?”

“Peace, mither!” said the young man, taking breath, “I hae seen the bogle!”

The old lady had a long line of reproaches, drawn up in order of march, between her lips; but the mention of the bogle was the signal for disbanding them. A thousand questions poured in, in rapid succession. “How old was she? How was she dressed? Who was she like? What did she say?”

“She was a tall thin woman, about seven feet high!”

“Oh Andrew!” cried Effie.

“As ugly as sin!”

“Other people tell a different story,” said Effie.

“True, on my Bible oath! And then her beard----”

“A beard, Andrew!” shrieked Effie: “a woman with a beard! For shame, Andrew!”

“Nay, I’ll swear it upon my soul’s salvation! She had seen saxty winters and mair, afore e’er she died to trouble us!”

“I’ll wager my best new goun,” said the maiden, “that saxteen would be nearer the mark.”

“But wha was she like, Andrew?” said the old woman. “Was she like auld Janet that was drowned in the burn forenaint? or that auld witch that your maister hanged for stealing his pet lamb? or was she like----”

“Are you sure she was na like _me_, Andrew?” said Effie, looking archly in his face.

“You--pshaw! Faith, guid mither, she was like to naebody that I ken, unless it be auld Elspeth, the cobbler’s wife, that was blamed for a’ the mischief or misfortunes o’ the kintra roun’, and was drowned at last for having ‘sense aboon the lave.’”

“And how was she dressed, Andrew?”

“In that horrible three-cornered hat, which may I be blinded if ever I seek to look upon again!--an’ in a lang blue apron----”

“Green, Andrew!” cried Effie, twirling her own green apron round her thumb.

“How you like to tease ane!” said the lover. Poor Andrew did not at all enter into his mistress’s pleasantry, for he laboured under a great depression of spirits, and never lifted his eyes from the ground.

“But ye hae na tauld us what she said, lad!” said the old woman, assuming an air of deeper mystery as each question was put and answered in its turn.

“Lord! what signifies it whether she said this or that! Haud your tongue, and get me some comfort; for, to speak truth, I’m vera cauld.”

“Weel mayest thou be sae,” said Effie, “for indeed,” she continued, in a feigned voice, “_it was a cauld an’ an eerie night to be sae late on Anneslie Muir_.”

Andrew started, and a doubt seemed to pass over his mind. He looked up at the damsel, and perceived, for the first time, that her large blue eyes were laughing at him from under the shade of a huge three-cornered hat. The next moment he hung over her in an ecstasy of gratitude, and smothered with his kisses the ridicule which she forced upon him as the penalty of his preservation.

“Seven feet high, Andrew?”

“My dear Effie!”

“As ugly as sin?”

“My darling lassie!”

“And a beard?”

“Na! na! now you carry the jest o’er far!”

“And saxty winters?”

“Saxteen springs, Effie! Dear, delightfu’, smiling springs!”

“And Elspeth, the cobbler’s wife! Oh, Andrew, Andrew! I never can forgie you for the cobbler’s wife! And what say you now, Andrew--is there nae bogle on the muir?”

“My dear Effie, for your sake I’ll believe in a’ the bogles in Christendie!”

“That is,” said Effie, at the conclusion of a long and vehement fit of risibility, “that is, in a’ that wear ‘three-cornered hats.’”

ON THE PROPOSED ESTABLISHMENT OF A PUBLIC LIBRARY AT ETON.

We are very glad to be able to announce that, after the Easter holidays, a public library for the use of the school will be established by subscription, at Mr. Williams’s. We are very glad of it, not for our own sake, for before it shall rise to any degree of importance we shall be inhabitants of this spot no longer; our very names will be forgotten among its more recent inmates. But we hail with joy this institution, for the sake of the school we love and reverence, to which we hope it will prove, at some future period, a valuable addition.

The plan admits of one hundred subscribers--viz., the one hundred senior members of the school. If any of these decline to become members, the option will descend to the next in gradation. The subscription for the first year will be 10_s._ 6_d._ after the Easter, Election, and Christmas holidays; in future 10_s._ 6_d._ will be paid after the two latter vacations only. The library will consist of the classics, history, &c.; and subscribers will be allowed, under certain regulations, to take books from the room. Of course a thing of this kind has not been set on foot without the concurrence of the higher powers; and the head-master has assisted the promoters of it by his approbation, as well as by liberality of another description. We trust that Eton will not long continue to experience the want of an advantage which many other public schools enjoy.

We had intended to send the foregoing loose remarks to press, in order to request as many of our schoolfellows in the upper division as are willing to become subscribers to leave their names with Mr. Williams, at whose house the library will be established. But as we were preparing to send off the manuscript, an old gentleman, for whom we have a great respect, called in, and looked over our shoulder. He then took a chair, and observed to us: “This will never do!” He took off his spectacles, wiped them, put them on again, and repeated: “This will never do!

“I, sir, was an Etonian in the year 17--, and, being a bit of a speculator in those days, had a mind to do what you are now dreaming of doing. I addressed myself forthwith to various friends, all of them distinguished for rank, or talent, or influence, among their companions. I began with Sir Roger Gandy, expatiated on the sad want of books which many experienced, and asked whether he did not think a public library would be a very fine thing? ‘A circulating one,’ he said; ‘oh yes, very!’--and he yawned. There was taste!

“The next to whom I made application was Tom Luny, the fat son of a fat merchant on Ludgate Hill. Poor Tom! He died last week, by-the-by, of a surfeit. Well, sir, I harangued him for some time upon the advantages of my scheme, to which he gave his cordial assent. Finally I observed that, of course, it would not be very expensive. ‘Expensive!’ he said; ‘oh yes, very!’--and he walked off. There was liberality!

“Next I besieged Will Wingham. I made my approaches as before, with great caution, and at last summoned the garrison to surrender. ‘Books!’ he exclaimed, ‘I haven’t one but a Greek Grammar, with all syntax out.’ ‘And do you think,’ I resumed, ‘that an Etonian can do well without them?’ ‘Do well!’ he said; ‘oh yes, very!’--and he laughed. There was a wish for improvement!

“Now, my good Peregrine,” continued the old gentleman, putting his feet up upon the hobs of my fire, and looking very argumentative, “what do you say to all this?”

The old gentleman is

Laudator temporis acti
Se puero.

He left the room piqued, when we hurt his prejudices by replying, “Nothing, sir, but that the Etonians of 1821 are not, we will hope, the Etonians of 17--.”

THE MISTAKE; OR, SIXES AND SEVENS.

“Be particular to observe that the name on the door is----.”
_Morning Chronicle_, April 1821.

It is a point which has often been advanced and contested by the learned, that the world grows worse as it grows older; arguments have been advanced, and treatises written, in support of Horace’s opinion--

Ætas parentum pejor avis tulit
Nos nequiores, mox daturos
Progeniem vitiosiorem.

The supporters of this idea rest their sentence upon various grounds: they mention the frequency of crim. con. cases, the increase of the poor-rate, the licentiousness of the press, the celebrity of _rouge et noir_.

There is, however, one circumstance corroborative of their judgment, to which we think the public opinion has not yet been sufficiently called. We mean the indisputable fact that persons of all descriptions are growing ashamed of their own names. We remember that when we were dragged in our childhood to walk with our nurse, we were accustomed to beguile our sense of weariness and disgust by studying the names, which, in their neat brass plates, decorated the doors by which we passed. Now the case is altered. We have observed elsewhere that the tradesmen have removed their signs; it is equally true that the gentlemen have removed their names. The simple numerical distinction, which is now alone emblazoned upon the doors of our dwellings, but ill replaces that more gratifying custom, which, in a literal sense, held up great names for our emulation, and made the streets of the metropolis a muster-roll of examples for our conduct.

But a very serious inconvenience is also occasioned by this departure from ancient observances. How is the visitor from the country to discover the patron of his fortunes, the friend of his bosom, or the mistress of his heart, if, in lieu of the above-mentioned edifying brass plates, his eye glances upon the unsatisfactory information contained in 1, 2, or 3? In some cases even this assistance is denied to him, and he wanders upon his dark and comfortless voyage, like an ancient mariner deprived of the assistance of the stars.

Our poor friend, Mr. Nichol Loaming, has treated us with a long and eloquent dissertation upon this symptom of degeneracy; and certainly, if the advice _experto crede_ be of any weight, Mr. Nichol’s testimony ought to induce all persons to hang out upon the exterior of their residences some more convincing enunciation of their name and calling than it is at present the fashion to produce.

Nichol came up to town with letters of introduction to several friends of his family, whom it was his first duty and wish to discover. But his first adventure so dispirited him, that, after having spent two mornings at an hotel, he set out upon his homeward voyage, and left the metropolis an unexplored region.

He purposed to make his first visit to Sir William Knowell, and, having with some difficulty discovered the street to which he had been directed, he proceeded to investigate the doors, in order to find out the object of his search. The doors presented nothing but a blank! He made inquiries, was directed to a house, heard that Sir William was at home, was shown into an empty room, and waited for some time with patience.

The furniture of the house rather surprised him. It was handsomer than he had expected to find it; and on the table were the _Morning Chronicle_ and the _Edinburgh Review_, although Sir William was a violent Tory. At length the door opened, and a gentleman made his appearance. Nichol asked, in a studied speech, whether he had the honour to address Sir William Knowell? The gentleman replied that he believed there had been a little mistake, but that he was an intimate friend of Sir W. Knowell’s, and expected him in the course of a few minutes. Nichol resumed his seat, although he did not quite perceive what mistake had taken place. He was unfortunately urged by his evil genius to attempt conversation.

He observed that Sir W. Knowell had a delightful house, and inquired whether the neighbourhood was pleasant. “His next neighbour,” said the stranger, with a most incomprehensible smile, “is Sir William Morley.” Nichol shook his head; was surprised to hear Sir William kept such company--had heard strange stories of Sir W. Morley--hoped there was no foundation--indeed had received no good report of the family! “The mother rather weak in the head--to say the truth under confinement; the sister a professed coquette--went off to Gretna last week with a Scotch officer; Sir William himself a gambler by habit, a drunkard by inclination--at present in the King’s Bench, without the possibility of an adjustment----”

Here he was stopped by the entrance of an elderly lady leaning on the arm of an interesting girl of sixteen or seventeen. Upon looking up, Nichol perceived the gentleman he had been addressing rather embarrassed; and “hoped that he had not said anything which could give offence.” “Not in the least,” replied the stranger; “I am more amused by an account of the foibles of Sir W. Morley than any one else can be; and of this I will immediately convince you. Sir William Knowell resides at No. Six--you have stepped by mistake into No. Seven. Before you leave it, allow me to introduce you to Lady Morley--who is rather weak in the head, and, to say the truth, under confinement; to Miss Ellen Morley, a professed coquette, who went off to Gretna last week with a half-pay officer; finally”--(with a very low bow)--“to Sir William Morley himself, a gambler by habit, and a drunkard by inclination--who is at present in the King’s Bench, without the possibility of an adjustment!”

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

“Hâc in re scilicet unâ
Multum dissimiles.” HOR.

In a visit which we paid some time ago to our worthy contributor, Morris Gowan, we became acquainted with two characters; upon whom, as they afford a perfect counterpart to Messrs. “Rhyme and Reason,” recorded in a former paper, we have bestowed the names of Sense and Sensibility.

The Misses Lowrie, of whom we are about to give our readers an account, are both young, both handsome, both amiable: Nature made the outline of their characters the same, but Education has varied the colouring. Their mother died almost before they were able to profit by her example or instruction. Emily, the eldest of the sisters, was brought up under the immediate care of her father. He was a man of strong and temperate judgment, obliging to his neighbours, and affectionate to his children; but certainly rather calculated to educate a son than a daughter. Emily profited abundantly by his assistance, as far as moral duties or literary accomplishments were concerned; but for all the lesser _agrémens_ of society, she had nothing to depend upon but the suggestions of a kind heart and a quiet temper. Matilda, on the contrary, spent her childhood in England, at the house of a relation, who, having imbibed her notions of propriety at a fashionable boarding-school, and made a love-match very early in life, was but ill-prepared to regulate a warm disposition and check a natural tendency to romance. The consequence has been such as might have been expected. Matilda pities the distressed, and Emily relieves them; Matilda has more of the love of the neighbourhood, although Emily is more entitled to its gratitude; Matilda is very agreeable, while Emily is very useful; and two or three old ladies, who talk scandal over their tea, and murder grammar and reputations together, consider Matilda a practised heroine, and laugh at Emily as an inveterate Blue.