_The arrival of Major Snapwell, and the bustle it occasioned.--The
Vicar’s interview with the stranger.--A curious discussion.--A
word or two addressed to Fox-hunters.--Verbal corruptions.--Some
geometrical definitions.--An enigma._
As the ladies of Overton were regaling themselves with a sociable dish
of tea and chat, the conversation was abruptly interrupted by the
appearance of a chariot-and-four, that passed along the road with
luxurious speed, and which, as Miss Kitty Ryland declared, announced,
by the dignified suavity of its roll, that the personage it conveyed
must be of superior rank.
“Those,” exclaimed she, “who cannot at once distinguish such
‘spirit-stirring’ sounds from the discordant rattle of a plebeian
chaise, deserve to wear the ears of Midas.”
This extraordinary subtlety of Miss Ryland’s ears is said to have been
conferred upon them by those universal promoters of bodily vigour,
_air_ and _exercise_, of which they had received the combined advantage
by the ingenious habit of listening to whispers through a certain
pneumatic apparatus, familiarly termed a _key-hole_. In farther proof
of the fidelity and alertness of her auditory establishment, we may
just state, that, on passing Doseall’s shop, she never failed to
distinguish, by the sound of the mortar, whether the medicines under
preparation were designed for the stomachs of the rich or the poor. The
vicar even admitted the correctness of her discrimination, for he had
himself observed that the pestle beat _dactyls_ in one case, and
_spondees_ in the other.
While the carriage was passing the window, the maiden companions were
breathless with wonder, each catching a glance from the countenance of
her neighbour, which heightened, as it were, by reflection, the
surprise depicted on her own.
“Overton,” exclaimed Miss Noodleton, “is doubtless by this time
honoured by the arrival of some distinguished stranger; but who he is,
or what may be the object of his visit, I am at a loss to divine.”
“Pooh!” cried Miss Puttle; “what a fuss is here about a green carriage
and four hack horses! I doubt not but that it has conveyed some visitor
to the vicar: had the Seymours expected any company, I must have heard
of it yesterday.”
“To the vicar!” exclaimed Miss Phillis Tapps; “and pray, Miss Puttle,
allow me to ask whether you ever heard of the peacock nestling with the
crow?”
“Or of the eagle taking up its abode in an ivy-bush?” vociferated Miss
Ryland.
Conjectures were vain, and the party determined to resolve itself into
a committee of inquiry. In the first place, it was judged expedient to
see and question Ralph Spindle, whom Dr. Doseall employed on the
arrival of a stranger, as certain insects are said to use their
‘_feelers_’ to discover the approach of any prey that may serve them as
food.
The stranger was soon discovered to be a Major Snapwell, a rich and
eccentric old bachelor, who had served in various campaigns in
different parts of the globe, and received a competent number of
wounds, in the defence of his king and country. His income was reported
to be large, and it was said, that he had not any near relative to
enjoy the reversion, since his nephew had perished about two years
before by shipwreck. The circumstances that led to this disastrous
event were believed to have so affected the veteran, as to have
occasioned a very serious illness, and a consequent state of
despondency, for which his physicians advised a constant change of
scene; so that he had been rambling about the Continent during the last
year and a half, accompanied only by his faithful servant, Jacob
Watson, who was as much attached to the Major, as was ever a
Newfoundland dog to his master.
Such was the information derived from Annette, the vicar’s housekeeper:
what proportion of fiction was mingled with its truth, the reader will
probably soon be able to discover.
“Well, Jacob,” said the Major, as his trusty but asthmatic valet was
leisurely buttoning on the long gaiters of his master the morning after
his arrival, “what do you hear about this village of Overton? Are there
any sociable neighbours? I like the country; it is beautiful, Jacob,
and the air appears mild: it promises to be the very place to kindle
the sparks of my expiring constitution; and should you, at the same
time, get your broken-winded bellows mended, my vital flame might,
perhaps, burn a little brighter. But tell me, what do you hear of it,
Jacob?”
“Why, and please you, Major, I just now met an old crony of mine, Mrs.
Annette Brown, at the Devil and the Bag of Nails----”
“And pray, Jacob,” exclaimed the Major, “who taught you to speak thus
irreverently of the village blacksmith?”
“The village blacksmith! Lord love you, it is the sign of the village
alehouse!”
“Then it is a very odd one; but go on with your story.”
“As I was saying, Major, I met an old acquaintance who is housekeeper
to Mr. Twaddleton, a bachelor gentleman, and the vicar of the parish.
She tells me her master is downright adored in the place: though he
must needs be a queer mortal, for she says he is so fond of _antics_
that he won’t suffer a mop or broom in his house, lest, I suppose, it
should spoil the hopping of the fleas, and put an end to the fly’s
rope-dance upon a cobweb.”
“Jacob, Jacob, you are a wag, and had better go and offer your
services to this merry parson; although, I fear, your asthmatic pipes
would prove but a sorry accompaniment to his capering. But
pshaw!--fiddlestick!--stuff and nonsense!--who ever heard of a vicar
being fond of antics!--you are imposed upon, Jacob.”
“I am sure that how Annette told me as much. Ay, and she said he had
all sorts of _curiosities_ in his parlour--such as grinning faces, dogs
with three heads, rusty swords, and I do not know what besides.”
“I see it!--see it all plainly!” exclaimed the Major; “and your story
has so delighted me that I could almost dance myself.” This respectable
clergyman, thought he, is, doubtless, an antiquary, a virtuoso--what a
delightful companion will he prove! And a bachelor like myself!--what
_tête-à-têtes_ do I anticipate!
“Jacob,” exclaimed the Major, “you should have said that the vicar was
fond of, or, to speak more correctly, devoted to _antiques_, not to
_antics_. But, tell me whether there are any other agreeable persons in
this village?”
“There’s the squire and his family,” answered the valet.
“The name, the name, Jacob?”
“Squire Seymour, and please you, Major.”
“Seymour, Seymour!” repeated the Major; “I seem to know that name--let
me remember.”
The Major’s cogitations, however, were abruptly cut short by the
entrance of the servant-maid, who informed him that Mr. Vicar
Twaddleton had called.
“I beg that Mr. Twaddleton may be admitted.--Jacob, place a chair.”
“Mr. Twaddleton,” said the Major, as he advanced towards the door to
meet his visitor, “I feel obliged and honoured by your kind attention.
As a perfect stranger, I could scarcely have expected this civility;
but your village, surrounded as it is by all the softer charms of
Nature, is calculated to impress the hearts of its inhabitants with a
kindred amenity. The inhabitants are, doubtless, much attached to their
country.”
“Proverbially so: never was Ulysses more attached to his Ithaca! Allow
me, also, to say that we all rejoice at the arrival of visitors; and,
as vicar of the parish of Overton, I should consider myself criminally
deficient in my duty were I to suffer a respectable stranger to depart
from us without his having received the mark of my respect, and the
tender of my humble but cordial hospitality. I am an old-fashioned
person, Major Snapwell, and am well aware that these antiquated notions
do not altogether accord with the cold and studied forms of the present
day.”
“Mr. Twaddleton,” exclaimed the delighted Major, “I thank thee, most
heartily thank thee, in the name of all those whose hearts have not yet
been benumbed by worldly indifference. Sit thee down--I abhor
ceremony--and let me beg of you not to take offence at a question to
which I am most anxious you should give me an answer. Are you, my dear
Sir, as I have just reasons for supposing, an ANTIQUARY?”
“I am undoubtedly attached to pursuits which might have favoured such a
report.”
“I thought so; I guessed as much. Then give me your hand; we must be
friends and associates. If there be a pursuit on earth to which I am
devotedly attached, it is to that of antiquities; and, let me add,”
continued the Major with increasing animation, for, like bottled beer,
he was the brisker for warmth, “that if there be a literary character
to whom the professor of arms ought to feel superior gratitude, it is
to the antiquary. How many victories, what valiant deeds, must have
perished in the memory of mankind but for the kind offices of the
virtuoso! under whose vivifying touch the laurels of the victor have
bloomed with renovated vigour! and when the scythe of Time has left
them to wither, and to be scattered on the wings of the wind, he
collects their remains, and piously deposits them in a splendid
mausoleum, in order to preserve them to the latest posterity!”
It were difficult to say, whether astonishment at the Major’s warmth,
delight at the congenial sentiments he had expressed, or admiration at
the language in which they had been conveyed, was the feeling
predominant in the vicar’s mind, nor do we deem it necessary to
inquire; suffice it to say, that, from the conversation of a few
minutes, these two gentlemen felt incited to a mutual regard by
sympathy and congeniality of soul; so true is it that, while we may be
strangers with the companions of years, we may become friends with the
strangers of yesterday!
“Major Snapwell,” said the vicar, “I may truly mark this day in the
diary of my life in red letters; your society will add to my happiness,
by extending the sphere of my literary intercourse. When may I expect
the pleasure of your company at the vicarage? I am really impatient to
show you my coins and a few dainty morsels of _virtù_.”
“I shall be at your service to-morrow,” answered the Major; “but I must
now say something about my plans, for it is possible that you may
assist me in carrying them into execution.”
“Command me,” said the vicar.
“For my present purpose, it is only necessary to state, that I have a
nephew whom I have adopted as my son; I superintended his education; he
arrived at manhood, and became an accomplished scholar and a polished
gentleman. Naturally anxious to visit the ancient mistress of the
world, he readily obtained my approbation of his plan. He embarked at
Marseilles; but, meeting with one of those treacherous gales so
characteristic of the Mediterranean, he was shipwrecked in the bay of
Genoa. For three years did I mourn him as dead, and it was only by a
train of circumstances of the most extraordinary description that I at
length discovered him to be living. I will not now trouble you with the
details of this most singular history; suffice it to say he is now
well, and about to be married to a young lady for whom he has long
entertained the purest attachment. I am in search of a country
residence for them, and hearing that a Sir Thomas Sotherby, a resident,
I understand, in your neighbourhood, is most desirous of disposing of
Osterley Park, and offers many advantages to any one who will take it
off his hands, and as I have both the inclination and the means to
become its possessor, I have travelled hither for the purpose of
inspecting it. So now you have my history.”
“It is perfectly true,” said the vicar, “that Sir Thomas is willing to
make a considerable sacrifice in order to obtain an immediate
purchaser. The health of her Ladyship is in so precarious a state that
her physicians have ordered her to proceed, without delay, to Madeira.
Sir Thomas, Major, is a fox-hunter, and I will venture to say that no
one will miss him but the doctor and the foxes--the one will lose a
profitable friend, the other a relentless enemy--‘_Gaudet equis et
canibus_,’ as the poet has it.”
“Indeed! but I am no fox-hunter, and I therefore fear that, in the
opinion of the country, Osterley Park will not exchange its proprietor
to advantage. Pray, vicar, may I ask whether you are addicted to
field-sports?”
“Addicted to field-sports!” repeated the reverend antiquary: “I am
surprised, mortified, absolutely shocked! I--I addicted to
field-sports!”
“Nay, Mr. Twaddleton,” observed the Major, “I am really sorry that I
should have unintentionally excited your indignation. I am not aware
that there is anything in the innocent pastime to which I have alluded
inconsistent with your station and acquirements. As an antiquary, I
need hardly remind you that the fathers of the Church were amongst the
keenest sportsmen. Do you not remember the amusing portrait which
Chaucer has given us of a sporting monastic in the 14th century, and
which, by the by, was the model from which Sir Walter Scott drew the
character of his Abbot in ‘Ivanhoe?’ Then again, need I call to your
recollection the fame of Walter, Archdeacon of Canterbury, who was
promoted to the see of Rochester in 1147, and who is said not only to
have spent the whole of his time in hunting, but to have been as keen a
sportsman at eighty as he was at twenty years of age? Then again, there
was Reginald Brian, translated to the see of Worcester in 1352; and
William de Clowne, whom his biographer celebrated as the most amiable
ecclesiastic that ever filled the abbot’s throne of St. Mary in
Leicestershire, the most knowing sportsman after a hare in the kingdom;
insomuch, indeed, that Richard II. and his son allowed him annual
pensions for his instructions in the art?”
“Major Snapwell, antiquity can no more privilege error, than novelty
can prejudice truth,” exclaimed the vicar: “but, to be serious,”
continued he, “I never could discover the principle upon which the
pleasure of this said diversion of Diana can depend; and yet I do
assure you, sir, that I have not failed to submit the question to a
logical examination. Thus, for instance:--the fox emits from his body
certain odorous particles;--that is my _major_, and I say _concedo_:
very well; I proceed. The structure of the olfactory organs of the
canine species enables them to perceive this said odour: that is my
_minor_, and I say again _concedo_. But I should much like to be
informed how any logician can defend the consequence which is deduced
from these premises. To speak more syllogistically, why am I pleased to
put my neck in jeopardy, _because_ my dogs happen to perceive a smell?”
The Major laughed heartily at the very ludicrous point of view in which
the worthy vicar had thought proper to represent the subject. Their
discourse now took a different turn. The Major inquired what might be
the origin of the singular sign of the village inn--_The Devil and the
Bag of Nails?_ “Satan,” continued the Major, “is unquestionably the
patron of the public-house; but why he should be represented as holding
in his hand a bag of nails, I cannot divine, unless, indeed, in
reference to the old adage, that ‘_Every glass of spirit is a nail in
your coffin._’”
“Ha! ha! ha! whimsical enough,” cried the vicar; “but, unfortunately,
your explanation is not the true one. The sign,” observed Mr.
Twaddleton, “is not quite so uncommon as you seem to suppose; it was
originally ‘_Pan and his Bacchanals_,’ but, by a very natural
transition, the figure of the sylvan deity, which is certainly
terrific[14] enough to sanction the mistake, has passed into that of
the evil tempter; while the word _Bacchanals_, by one of those verbal
corruptions so common in all languages, has been converted into the
_bag of nails_.”
“Very true,” said the Major; “whenever the vulgar are incapable of
understanding the meaning of a word, they are sure to substitute for it
some one which has the nearest resemblance to it in sound, and which is
more familiar to them. I had but just now an excellent instance of this
kind: my blundering servant Jacob insisted upon it that you were fond
of _antics_; and before I left London, on sending him out to purchase a
_Court Calendar_, what do you suppose he brought home?--a _Quart
Colander_!”
The vicar was much amused by the absurdity of the mistake.
“I lately heard,” continued the Major, “of a Welsh squire, who, upon
being questioned whether _Socinianism_ or _Arianism_ prevailed in his
district, replied, that he could not answer that question, but that he
knew there had been a great deal of _Rheumatism_.”
But the good company of the Major and his newly acquired friend must
not detain us any longer from our duty. Mr. Seymour and his young
family have reassembled in the library, and it is necessary that we
should immediately join them. Some of our readers may, perhaps, decline
accompanying us upon this occasion; for the subject to be discussed,
however necessary it may be, is certainly not so entertaining as many
of those which have engaged our attention. If this be the case, they
may make a short cut, and join us again at the beginning of the
following chapter. The children had arranged themselves around the
table, when their father observed, that it would be necessary for their
future progress, to devote an hour or two to the consideration of
several mathematical figures and terms.
“As to mathematical figures,” said Tom, “if you allude to squares,
circles, and figures of that description, and to parallel lines,
angles, and so on, I can assure you that I am already well acquainted
with them; for the work you have given us on PAPYRO-PLASTICS[15] has
fully instructed me in those particulars.”
“If that be the case,” replied Mr. Seymour, “you will not have any
difficulty in answering my questions; but we must, nevertheless, go
regularly through the subject, for the sake of your sisters, who may
not be equally proficient in this elementary part of geometry: tell me,
therefore, in the first place, what is meant by a _parallelogram_.”
“A four-sided figure,” answered Tom.
“That is true; but are there not some other conditions annexed to it?”
“Yes; its opposite sides are parallel.”
“And what do you understand by the term _parallel_?”
“Lines are said to be parallel,” said Tom, “when they are always at the
same distance from each other, and which, therefore, can never meet,
though ever so far continued.”
“You are quite right. What is a _square_?”
“A four-sided figure, in which the sides are all equal, and its angles
all right angles.”
“Good again: but let me see whether you have a correct notion of the
nature of an angle.”
“An angle is the opening formed by two lines meeting in a point.”
Mr. Seymour here acknowledged himself perfectly satisfied with his
son’s answers, and said, that he should accordingly direct his
attention more particularly to Louisa and Fanny; and, taking his
pencil, he sketched the annexed figure.
[Illustration: Fig. 1. Circle with two lines running through it.]
“You perceive, Louisa,” said her father, “that the line A C makes two
angles with the line B D, viz. the angle A C D and the angle A C B; and
you perceive that these two angles are equal to each other.”
“How can they be equal?” cried Fanny, “for the lines are of very
different lengths.”
“An angle, my dear girl, is not measured by the _length_ of the lines,
but by their _opening_.”
“But surely,” said Louisa, “that amounts to the same thing: for the
longer the lines are, the greater must be the opening between them.”
“Take the pair of compasses,” replied her father, “and describe a
circle around these angles, making the angular point C its centre.”
“To what extent am I to open them?”
“That is quite immaterial; you may draw your circle of any magnitude
you please, provided it cuts both the lines of the angles we are about
to measure. All circles, of whatever dimensions, are supposed to be
divided into 360 parts, called _degrees_; the size, but not the number,
of such degrees will therefore increase with the magnitude of the
circle. And since the opening of an angle is necessarily a portion of a
circle, it must embrace a certain number of degrees; and two angles
are, accordingly, said to be equal, when they contain an equal number
of them.”
“Now I understand it,” said Louisa: “as the dimensions of an angle
depend upon the number of degrees contained between its lines, it
evidently must be the _opening_, and not the _length_ of the lines,
that determines the measure of the angle.”
“Say, rather, the _value_ of the angle, for that is the usual
expression: but I perceive you understand me; tell me, therefore, how
many degrees are contained in each of the two angles formed by one line
falling perpendicularly on another, as in the above figure.”
“I perceive that the two angles together are just equal to half the
circle; and, since you say that the whole circle is divided into 360
degrees, each angle must measure 90 of them, or the two together make
up 180.”
“You are quite right, and I beg you to remember, that an angle of 90
degrees, is called a _right_ angle, and that, when one line is
perpendicular to another, it will always form, as you have just seen, a
right angle on either side.”
“I now understand,” said Louisa, “what is meant BY lines being at
_right angles to each other_: But, papa,” continued she, “what are
_obtuse_ and _acute_ angles, of which I have so often heard you speak?”
[Illustration: Fig. 2. An acute (A) and an obtuse (B) angle.]
Mr. Seymour replied, that he could better explain their nature by a
drawing, than by any verbal description. “Here,” said he, “is an acute
angle, A; and here an obtuse one, B: the former, you perceive, is one
that contains less than 90 degrees; the latter, one which contains
more, and is consequently greater than a right angle.”
Louisa fully comprehended the explanation, and observed, that she
should remember, whenever an angle measured less than a _right_ angle,
that it was _acute_, and when more, _obtuse_. “But you have not yet
explained to me,” she continued, “the meaning of a _triangle_.”
“That is a term denoting a figure of three sides, and angles. I dare
say Tom can describe the several kinds of triangles.”
Tom accordingly took the pencil, and drew a set of figures, of which
the annexed are faithful copies.
[Illustration: Fig. 3. Three triangles, labeled A, B, and C.]
“A,” said he, “is an _Equi-lateral_ triangle; its three sides being all
equal. B is a _Right-angled_ triangle, having one right angle. C
represents an _Obtuse-angled_ triangle, it having one obtuse angle. An
_Acute-angled_ triangle is one in which all the three angles are acute,
as represented in figure A.”
“As you have succeeded so well in your explanation of a triangle, let
us see whether you can describe the nature of a circle.”
“It is a round line, every part of which is equally distant from the
centre.”
“And which round line,” said Mr. Seymour, “is frequently called the
_circumference_. What is the diameter?”
“A straight line drawn through the centre, and terminating in the
circumference on both sides.”
“And an arc?” said Mr. Seymour.
“Any portion of the circumference.”
“Now let me ask you, what name is given to a line which joins any two
opposite angles of a four-sided figure?”
“The _diagonal_, papa.”
“You are quite right,” said Mr. Seymour; and, turning towards the
girls, he desired them to remember that term, as they would frequently
hear it mentioned during their investigation into the nature of
“Compound Forces.” “I really think,” continued their father, “that Tom
is as capable of instructing you in these elementary principles as
myself; I shall, therefore, desire you, my dear boy, to conclude this
lecture during my absence; remember, that by teaching others we always
instruct ourselves: but before I quit you, I will give you a riddle to
solve, for I well know that you all delight in an enigma.”
“Indeed do we,” said Louisa.
“Pray let us hear it, papa,” cried Fanny.
Mr. Seymour then recited the following lines, which he had hastily
composed; the point having, no doubt, been suggested on the instant, by
the remark he had just offered.
“Here’s a riddle for those who delight in their gold,
Which they p’rhaps may explain, when my story is told;
No treasure’s so precious, and yet those who gain me,
Though they give me away, will always retain me!
Indeed, if they wish to increase their rich store,
By giving away, they will only add more!!
To Fancy’s quick eye, in what forms have I risen,
And Poets declare that my birth was in heaven;
To some as a flame, as a stream, or a fountain,
To others I seem as a tower or mountain.
Should these hints not betray me, I only can say,
You do not possess me--I hope that you may.”
“Why,” cried Tom, “what can that be, of which the more we give away,
the more we have left?”
“Ay,” added Louisa, “and that we actually _increase_ the store, by
_giving away_ a part of it!”
“It is some word, I think,” observed Fanny; “do you not remember that
mamma asked us what that was, from which we might take away _some_, and
yet that the _whole_ would remain?”
“To be sure,” cried Tom, “I remember it well; it was the word
_wholesome_.”
Mr. Seymour here assured them, that the enigma they had just heard, did
not depend upon any verbal quibble; and that as the object of its
introduction was to instruct, rather than to puzzle them, he would
explain it, and leave them to extract its moral, and profit by its
application.
“It is KNOWLEDGE,” said he.
“‘_No treasure’s so precious_,’” repeated Louisa; “certainly
none;--‘_and yet those who gain me, though they give me away, will
always retain me_;’--to be sure,” added she. “How could I have been so
simple as not to have guessed it? We can certainly impart all the
knowledge we possess, and yet not lose any of it ourselves.”
“By instructing others,” said Mr. Seymour, “we are certain, at the same
time, of instructing ourselves, and thus to increase our store of
knowledge. Let this truth be impressed upon your memory, and, after our
conversations, examine each other as to the knowledge you have gained
by them: you will thus not only fix the facts more strongly in your
recollection, but you will acquire a facility of conversing in
philosophical language.”
-----
Footnote 14:
To the terror-inspiring power of Pan we owe the word “_Panic_.”
Footnote 15:
“PAPYRO-PLASTICS,” or the Art of Modelling in Paper; from the German,
by Boileau, _London_, 1825. The Author strongly recommends this
interesting little work, as opening a new source of instructive
amusement. His own children have derived from it many hours of
rational recreation.
------------------------------------------------------------------------