The Evening
Mr Panscope, highly irritated by the cool contempt with which Mr Escot
had treated him, sate sipping his coffee and meditating revenge. He
was not long in discovering the passion of his antagonist for the
beautiful Cephalis, for whom he had himself a species of predilection;
and it was also obvious to him, that there was some lurking anger in
the mind of her father, unfavourable to the hopes of his rival. The
stimulus of revenge, superadded to that of preconceived inclination,
determined him, after due deliberation, to _cut out_ Mr Escot in the
young lady's favour. The practicability of this design he did not
trouble himself to investigate; for the havoc he had made in the
hearts of some silly girls, who were extremely vulnerable to flattery,
and who, not understanding a word he said, considered him a
_prodigious clever man_, had impressed him with an unhesitating idea
of his own irresistibility. He had not only the requisites already
specified for fascinating female vanity, he could likewise fiddle with
tolerable dexterity, though by no means so _quick_ as Mr Chromatic
(for our readers are of course aware that rapidity of execution, not
delicacy of expression, constitutes the scientific perfection of
modern music), and could warble a fashionable love-ditty with
considerable affectation of feeling: besides this, he was always
extremely well dressed, and was heir-apparent to an estate of ten
thousand a-year. The influence which the latter consideration might
have on the minds of the majority of his female acquaintance, whose
morals had been formed by the novels of such writers as Miss Philomela
Poppyseed, did not once enter into his calculation of his own personal
attractions. Relying, therefore, on past success, he determined _to
appeal to his fortune_, and already, in imagination, considered
himself sole lord and master of the affections of the beautiful
Cephalis.
Mr Escot and Mr Foster were the only two of the party who had entered
the library (to which the ladies had retired, and which was interior
to the music-room) in a state of perfect sobriety. Mr Escot had placed
himself next to the beautiful Cephalis: Mr Cranium had laid aside much
of the terror of his frown; the short craniological conversation,
which had passed between him and Mr Escot, had softened his heart in
his favour; and the copious libations of Burgundy in which he had
indulged had smoothed his brow into unusual serenity.
Mr Foster placed himself near the lovely Caprioletta, whose artless
and innocent conversation had already made an impression on his
susceptible spirit.
The Reverend Doctor Gaster seated himself in the corner of a sofa near
Miss Philomela Poppyseed. Miss Philomela detailed to him the plan of a
very moral and aristocratical novel she was preparing for the press,
and continued holding forth, with her eyes half shut, till a
long-drawn nasal tone from the reverend divine compelled her suddenly
to open them in all the indignation of surprise. The cessation of the
hum of her voice awakened the reverend gentleman, who, lifting up
first one eyelid, then the other, articulated, or rather murmured,
"Admirably planned, indeed!"
"I have not quite finished, sir," said Miss Philomela, bridling. "Will
you have the goodness to inform me where I left off?"
The doctor hummed a while, and at length answered: "I think you had
just laid it down as a position, that a thousand a-year is an
indispensable ingredient in the passion of love, and that no man, who
is not so far gifted by _nature_, can reasonably presume to feel that
passion himself, or be correctly the object of it with a well-educated
female."
"That, sir," said Miss Philomela, highly incensed, "is the fundamental
principle which I lay down in the first chapter, and which the whole
four volumes, of which I detailed to you the outline, are intended to
set in a strong practical light."
"Bless me!" said the doctor, "what a nap I must have had!"
Miss Philomela flung away to the side of her dear friends Gall and
Treacle, under whose fostering patronage she had been puffed into an
extensive reputation, much to the advantage of the young ladies of the
age, whom she taught to consider themselves as a sort of commodity, to
be put up at public auction, and knocked down to the highest bidder.
Mr Nightshade and Mr Mac Laurel joined the trio; and it was secretly
resolved, that Miss Philomela should furnish them with a portion of
her manuscripts, and that Messieurs Gall & Co. should devote the
following morning to cutting and drying a critique on a work
calculated to prove so extensively beneficial, that Mr Gall protested
he really _envied_ the writer.
While this amiable and enlightened quintetto were busily employed in
flattering one another, Mr Cranium retired to complete the
preparations he had begun in the morning for a lecture, with which he
intended, on some future evening, to favour the company: Sir Patrick
O'Prism walked out into the grounds to study the effect of moonlight
on the snow-clad mountains: Mr Foster and Mr Escot continued to make
love, and Mr Panscope to digest his plan of attack on the heart of
Miss Cephalis: Mr Jenkison sate by the fire, reading _Much Ado about
Nothing_: the Reverend Doctor Gaster was still enjoying the benefit of
Miss Philomela's opiate, and serenading the company from his solitary
corner: Mr Chromatic was reading music, and occasionally humming a
note: and Mr Milestone had produced his portfolio for the edification
and amusement of Miss Tenorina, Miss Graziosa, and Squire Headlong, to
whom he was pointing out the various beauties of his plan for Lord
Littlebrain's park.
_Mr Milestone._
This, you perceive, is the natural state of one part of the grounds.
Here is a wood, never yet touched by the finger of taste; thick,
intricate, and gloomy. Here is a little stream, dashing from stone to
stone, and overshadowed with these untrimmed boughs.
_Miss Tenorina._
The sweet romantic spot! How beautifully the birds must sing there on
a summer evening!
_Miss Graziosa._
Dear sister! how can you endure the horrid thicket?
_Mr Milestone._
You are right, Miss Graziosa: your taste is correct--perfectly
_en regle_. Now, here is the same place corrected--trimmed--polished
--decorated--adorned. Here sweeps a plantation, in that beautiful regular
curve: there winds a gravel walk: here are parts of the old wood, left in
these majestic circular clumps, disposed at equal distances with
wonderful symmetry: there are some single shrubs scattered in elegant
profusion: here a Portugal laurel, there a juniper; here a laurustinus,
there a spruce fir; here a larch, there a lilac; here a rhododendron,
there an arbutus. The stream, you see, is become a canal: the banks are
perfectly smooth and green, sloping to the water's edge: and there is
Lord Littlebrain, rowing in an elegant boat.
_Squire Headlong._
Magical, faith!
_Mr Milestone._
Here is another part of the grounds in its natural state. Here is a
large rock, with the mountain-ash rooted in its fissures, overgrown,
as you see, with ivy and moss; and from this part of it bursts a
little fountain, that runs bubbling down its rugged sides.
_Miss Tenorina._
O how beautiful! How I should love the melody of that miniature
cascade!
_Mr Milestone._
Beautiful, Miss Tenorina! Hideous. Base, common, and popular. Such a
thing as you may see anywhere, in wild and mountainous districts. Now,
observe the metamorphosis. Here is the same rock, cut into the shape
of a giant. In one hand he holds a horn, through which that little
fountain is thrown to a prodigious elevation. In the other is a
ponderous stone, so exactly balanced as to be apparently ready to fall
on the head of any person who may happen to be beneath[6.1]: and there
is Lord Littlebrain walking under it.
_Squire Headlong._
Miraculous, by Mahomet!
_Mr Milestone._
This is the summit of a hill, covered, as you perceive, with wood, and
with those mossy stones scattered at random under the trees.
_Miss Tenorina._
What a delightful spot to read in, on a summer's day! The air must be
so pure, and the wind must sound so divinely in the tops of those old
pines!
_Mr Milestone._
Bad taste, Miss Tenorina. Bad taste, I assure you. Here is the spot
improved. The trees are cut down: the stones are cleared away: this is
an octagonal pavilion, exactly on the centre of the summit: and there
you see Lord Littlebrain, on the top of the pavilion, enjoying the
prospect with a telescope.
_Squire Headlong._
Glorious, egad!
_Mr Milestone._
Here is a rugged mountainous road, leading through impervious shades:
the ass and the four goats characterise a wild uncultured scene. Here,
as you perceive, it is totally changed into a beautiful gravel-road,
gracefully curving through a belt of limes: and there is Lord
Littlebrain driving four-in-hand.
_Squire Headlong._
Egregious, by Jupiter!
_Mr Milestone._
Here is Littlebrain Castle, a Gothic, moss-grown structure, half
bosomed in trees. Near the casement of that turret is an owl peeping
from the ivy.
_Squire Headlong._
And devilish wise he looks.
_Mr Milestone._
Here is the new house, without a tree near it, standing in the midst
of an undulating lawn: a white, polished, angular building, reflected
to a nicety in this waveless lake: and there you see Lord Littlebrain
looking out of the window.
_Squire Headlong._
And devilish wise he looks too. You shall cut me a giant before you
go.
_Mr Milestone._
Good. I'll order down my little corps of pioneers.
During this conversation, a hot dispute had arisen between Messieurs
Gall and Nightshade; the latter pertinaciously insisting on having his
new poem reviewed by Treacle, who he knew would extol it most loftily,
and not by Gall, whose sarcastic commendation he held in superlative
horror. The remonstrances of Squire Headlong silenced the disputants,
but did not mollify the inflexible Gall, nor appease the irritated
Nightshade, who secretly resolved that, on his return to London, he
would beat his drum in Grub Street, form a mastigophoric corps of his
own, and hoist the standard of determined opposition against this
critical Napoleon.
Sir Patrick O'Prism now entered, and, after some rapturous
exclamations on the effect of the mountain-moonlight, entreated that
one of the young ladies would favour him with a song. Miss Tenorina
and Miss Graziosa now enchanted the company with some very scientific
compositions, which, as usual, excited admiration and astonishment in
every one, without a single particle of genuine pleasure. The
beautiful Cephalis being then summoned to take her station at the
harp, sang with feeling and simplicity the following air:--
LOVE AND OPPORTUNITY
Oh! who art thou, so swiftly flying?
My name is Love, the child replied:
Swifter I pass than south-winds sighing,
Or streams, through summer vales that glide.
And who art thou, his flight pursuing?
'Tis cold Neglect whom now you see:
The little god you there are viewing,
Will die, if once he's touched by me.
Oh! who art thou so fast proceeding,
Ne'er glancing back thine eyes of flame?
Marked but by few, through earth I'm speeding,
And Opportunity's my name.
What form is that, which scowls beside thee?
Repentance is the form you see:
Learn then, the fate may yet betide thee:
She seizes them who seize not me.[6.2]
The little butler now appeared with a summons to supper, shortly after
which the party dispersed for the night.