MR. SPARKS’S STORY.
“I sat at breakfast one beautiful morning at the Goat Inn at Barmouth,
looking out of a window upon the lovely vale of Barmouth, with its tall
trees and brown trout-stream struggling through the woods, then turning
to take a view of the calm sea, that, speckled over with white-sailed
fishing-boats, stretched away in the distance. The eggs were fresh; the
trout newly caught; the cream delicious. Before me lay the ‘Plwdwddlwn
Advertiser,’ which, among the fashionable arrivals at the seaside, set
forth Mr. Sparks, nephew of Sir Toby Sparks, of Manchester,--a paragraph,
by the way, I always inserted. The English are naturally an aristocratic
people, and set a due value upon a title.”
“A very just observation,” remarked Power, seriously, while Sparks
continued.
“However, as far as any result from the announcement, I might as well have
spared myself the trouble, for not a single person called. Not one solitary
invitation to dinner, not a picnic, not a breakfast, no, nor even a
tea-party, was heard of. Barmouth, at the time I speak of, was just in that
transition state at which the caterpillar may be imagined, when, having
abandoned his reptile habits, he still has not succeeded in becoming a
butterfly. In fact, it had ceased to be a fishing village, but had not
arrived at the dignity of a watering-place. Now, I know nothing as bad as
this. You have not, on one hand, the quiet retirement of a little peaceful
hamlet, with its humble dwellings and cheap pleasures, nor have you the gay
and animated tableau of fashion in miniature, on the other; but you have
noise, din, bustle, confusion, beautiful scenery and lovely points of view
marred and ruined by vulgar associations. Every bold rock and jutting
promontory has its citizen occupants; every sandy cove or tide-washed bay
has its myriads of squalling babes and red baize-clad bathing women,--those
veritable descendants of the nymphs of old. Pink parasols, donkey-carts,
baskets of bread-and-butter, reticules, guides to Barmouth, specimens of
ore, fragments of gypsum meet you at every step, and destroy every illusion
of the picturesque.”
“‘I shall leave this,’ thought I. ‘My dreams, my long-cherished dreams of
romantic walks upon the sea-shore, of evening strolls by moonlight, through
dell and dingle, are reduced to a short promenade through an alley of
bathing-boxes, amidst a screaming population of nursery-maids and sick
children, with a thorough-bass of “Fresh shrimps!” discordant enough to
frighten the very fish from the shores. There is no peace, no quiet, no
romance, no poetry, no love.’ Alas, that most of all was wanting! For,
after all, what is it which lights up the heart, save the flame of a mutual
attachment? What gilds the fair stream of life, save the bright ray of warm
affection? What--”
“In a word,” said Power, “it is the sugar in the punch-bowl of our
existence. _Perge_, Sparks; push on.”
“I was not long in making up my mind. I called for my bill; I packed my
clothes; I ordered post-horses; I was ready to start; one item in the bill
alone detained me. The frequent occurrence of the enigmatical word ‘crw,’
following my servant’s name, demanded an explanation, which I was in the
act of receiving, when a chaise-and-four drove rapidly up to the house. In
a moment the blinds were drawn up, and such a head appeared at the window!
Let me pause for one moment to drink in the remembrance of that lovely
being,--eyes where heaven’s own blue seemed concentrated were shaded by
long, deep lashes of the darkest brown; a brow fair, noble, and expansive,
at each side of which masses of dark-brown hair waved half in ringlets,
half in loose falling bands, shadowing her pale and downy cheek, where one
faint rosebud tinge seemed lingering; lips slightly parted, as though to
speak, gave to the features all the play of animation which completed this
intellectual character, and made up--”
“What I should say was a devilish pretty girl,” interrupted Power.
“Back the widow against her at long odds, any day,” murmured the adjutant.
“She was an angel! an angel!” cried Sparks with enthusiasm.
“So was the widow, if you go to that,” said the adjutant, hastily.
“And so is Matilda Dalrymple,” said Power, with a sly look at me. “We are
all honorable men; eh, Charley?”
“Go ahead with the story,” said the skipper; “I’m beginning to feel an
interest in it.”
“‘Isabella,’ said a man’s voice, as a large, well-dressed personage
assisted her to alight,--‘Isabella, love, you must take a little rest here
before we proceed farther.’
“‘I think she had better, sir,’ said a matronly-looking woman, with a plaid
cloak and a black bonnet.
“They disappeared within the house, and I was left alone. The bright dream
was past: she was there no longer; but in my heart her image lived, and I
almost felt she was before me. I thought I heard her voice, I saw her move;
my limbs trembled; my hands tingled; I rang the bell, ordered my trunks
back again to No. 5, and as I sank upon the sofa, murmured to myself, ‘This
is indeed love at first sight.’”
“How devilish sudden it was,” said the skipper.
“Exactly like camp fever,” responded the doctor. “One moment ye are vara
well; the next ye are seized wi’ a kind of shivering; then comes a kind of
mandering, dandering, travelling a’overness.”
“D---- the camp fever,” interrupted Power.
“Well, as I observed, I fell in love; and here let me take the opportunity
of observing that all that we are in the habit of hearing about single or
only attachments is mere nonsense. No man is so capable of feeling deeply
as he who is in the daily practice of it. Love, like everything else in
this world, demands a species of cultivation. The mere tyro in an affair of
the heart thinks he has exhausted all its pleasures and pains; but only
he who has made it his daily study for years, familiarizing his mind with
every phase of the passion, can properly or adequately appreciate it. Thus,
the more you love, the better you love; the more frequently has your heart
yielded--”
“It’s vara like the mucous membrane,” said the doctor.
“I’ll break your neck with the decanter if you interrupt him again!”
exclaimed Power.
“For days I scarcely ever left the house,” resumed Sparks, “watching to
catch one glance of the lovely Isabella. My farthest excursion was to the
little garden of the inn, where I used to set every imaginable species of
snare, in the event of her venturing to walk there. One day I would leave a
volume of poetry; another, a copy of Paul and Virginia with a marked page;
sometimes my guitar, with a broad, blue ribbon, would hang pensively from a
tree,--but, alas! all in vain; she never appeared. At length I took courage
to ask the waiter about her. For some minutes he could not comprehend what
I meant; but, at last, discovering my object, he cried out, ‘Oh, No. 8,
sir; it is No. 8 you mean?’
“‘It may be,’ said I. ‘What of her, then?’
“‘Oh, sir, she’s gone these three days.’
“‘Gone!’ said I, with a groan.
“‘Yes, sir; she left this early on Tuesday with the same old gentleman and
the old woman in a chaise-and-four. They ordered horses at Dolgelly to meet
them; but I don’t know which road they took afterwards.’
“I fell back on my chair unable to speak. Here was I enacting Romeo for
three mortal days to a mere company of Welsh waiters and chamber-maids,
sighing, serenading, reciting, attitudinizing, rose-plucking,
soliloquizing, half-suiciding, and all for the edification of a set of
savages, with about as much civilization as their own goats.
“‘The bill,’ cried I, in a voice of thunder; ‘my bill this instant.’
“I had been imposed upon shamefully, grossly imposed upon, and would not
remain another hour in the house. Such were my feelings at least, and so
thinking, I sent for my servant, abused him for not having my clothes ready
packed. He replied; I reiterated, and as my temper mounted, vented every
imaginable epithet upon his head, and concluded by paying him his wages and
sending him about his business. In one hour more I was upon the road.
“‘What road, sir,’ said the postilion, as he mounted into the saddle.
“‘To the devil, if you please,’ said I, throwing myself back in the
carriage.
“‘Very well, sir,’ replied the boy, putting spurs to his horse.
“That evening I arrived in Bedgellert.
“The little humble inn of Bedgellert, with its thatched roof and earthen
floor, was a most welcome sight to me, after eleven hours’ travelling on a
broiling July day. Behind the very house itself rose the mighty Snowdon,
towering high above the other mountains, whose lofty peaks were lost amidst
the clouds; before me was the narrow valley--”
“Wake me up when he’s under way again,” said the skipper, yawning
fearfully.
“Go on, Sparks,” said Power, encouragingly; “I was never more interested in
my life; eh, O’Malley?”
“Quite thrilling,” responded I, and Sparks resumed.
“Three weeks did I loiter about that sweet spot, my mind filled with images
of the past and dreams of the future, my fishing-rod my only companion.
Not, indeed, that I ever caught anything; for, somehow, my tackle was
always getting foul of some willow-tree or water-lily, and at last, I gave
up even the pretence of whipping the streams. Well, one day--I remember it
as well as though it were but yesterday, it was the 4th of August--I had
set off upon an excursion to Llanberris. I had crossed Snowdon early, and
reached the little lake on the opposite side by breakfast time. There I sat
down near the ruined tower of Dolbadern, and opening my knapsack, made a
hearty meal. I have ever been a day-dreamer; and there are few things I
like better than to lie, upon some hot and sunny day, in the tall grass
beneath the shade of some deep boughs, with running water murmuring near,
hearing the summer bee buzzing monotonously, and in the distance, the
clear, sharp tinkle of the sheep-bell. In such a place, at such a time,
one’s fancy strays playfully, like some happy child, and none but pleasant
thoughts present themselves. Fatigued by my long walk, and overcome by
heat, I fell asleep. How long I lay there I cannot tell, but the deep
shadows were half way down the tall mountain when I awoke. A sound had
startled me; I thought I heard a voice speaking close to me. I looked up,
and for some seconds I could not believe that I was not dreaming. Beside
me, within a few paces, stood Isabella, the beautiful vision that I had
seen at Barmouth, but far, a thousand times, more beautiful. She was
dressed in something like a peasant’s dress, and wore the round hat which,
in Wales at least, seems to suit the character of the female face so well;
her long and waving ringlets fell carelessly upon her shoulders, and her
cheek flushed from walking. Before I had a moment’s notice to recover my
roving thought, she spoke; her voice was full and round, but soft and
thrilling, as she said,--
“‘I beg pardon, sir, for having disturbed you unconsciously; but, having
done so, may I request you will assist me to fill this pitcher with water?’
“She pointed at the same time to a small stream which trickled down a
fissure in the rock, and formed a little well of clear water beneath. I
bowed deeply, and murmuring something, I know not what, took the pitcher
from her hand, and scaling the rocky cliff, mounted to the clear source
above, where having filled the vessel, I descended. When I reached the
ground beneath, I discovered that she was joined by another person whom,
in an instant, I recognized to be the old gentleman I had seen with her at
Barmouth, and who in the most courteous manner apologized for the trouble I
had been caused, and informed me that a party of his friends were enjoying
a little picnic quite near, and invited me to make one of them.
“I need not say that I accepted the invitation, nor that with delight I
seized the opportunity of forming an acquaintance with Isabella, who, I
must confess, upon her part showed no disinclination to the prospect of my
joining the party.
“After a few minutes’ walking, we came to a small rocky point which
projected for some distance into the lake, and offered a view for several
miles of the vale of Llanberris. Upon this lovely spot we found the party
assembled; they consisted of about fourteen or fifteen persons, all busily
engaged in the arrangement of a very excellent cold dinner, each individual
having some peculiar province allotted to him or her, to be performed by
their own hands. Thus, one elderly gentlemen was whipping cream under a
chestnut-tree, while a very fashionably-dressed young man was washing
radishes in the lake; an old lady with spectacles was frying salmon over a
wood-fire, opposite to a short, pursy man with a bald head and drab shorts,
deep in the mystery of a chicken salad, from which he never lifted his eyes
when I came up. It was thus I found how the fair Isabella’s lot had been
cast, as a drawer of water; she, with the others, contributing her share of
exertion for the common good. The old gentleman who accompanied her seemed
the only unoccupied person, and appeared to be regarded as the ruler of the
feast; at least, they all called him general, and implicitly followed every
suggestion he threw out. He was a man of a certain grave and quiet manner,
blended with a degree of mild good-nature and courtesy, that struck me much
at first, and gained greatly on me, even in the few minutes I conversed
with him as we came along. Just before he presented me to his friends, he
gently touched my arm, and drawing me aside, whispered in my ear:--
“‘Don’t be surprised at anything you may hear to-day here; for I must
inform you this is a kind of club, as I may call it, where every one
assumes a certain character, and is bound to sustain it under a penalty. We
have these little meetings every now and then; and as strangers are never
present, I feel some explanation necessary, that you may be able to enjoy
the thing,--you understand?’
“‘Oh, perfectly,’ said I, overjoyed at the novelty of the scene, and
anticipating much pleasure from my chance meeting with such very original
characters.
“‘Mr. Sparks, Mrs. Winterbottom. Allow me to present Mr. Sparks.’
“‘Any news from Batavia, young gentleman?’ said the sallow old lady
addressed. ‘How is coffee!’
“The general passed on, introducing me rapidly as he went.
“‘Mr. Doolittle, Mr. Sparks.’
“‘Ah, how do you do, old boy?’ said Mr. Doolittle; ‘sit down beside me. We
have forty thousand acres of pickled cabbage spoiling for want of a little
vinegar.’
“‘Fie, fie, Mr. Doolittle,’ said the general, and passed on to another.
“‘Mr. Sparks, Captain Crosstree.’
“‘Ah, Sparks, Sparks! son of old Blazes! ha, ha, ha!’ and the captain fell
back into an immoderate fit of laughter.
“_‘Le Rio est serci_,’ said the thin meagre figure in nankeens, bowing, cap
in hand, before the general; and accordingly, we all assumed our places
upon the grass.
“‘Say it again! Say it again, and I’ll plunge this dagger in your heart!’
said a hollow voice, tremulous with agitation and rage, close beside me. I
turned my head, and saw an old gentleman with a wart on his nose, sitting
opposite a meat-pie, which he was contemplating with a look of fiery
indignation. Before I could witness the sequel of the scene, I felt a soft
hand pressed upon mine. I turned. It was Isabella herself, who, looking at
me with an expression I shall never forget, said:--
“‘Don’t mind poor Faddy; he never hurts any one.’
“Meanwhile the business of dinner went on rapidly. The servants, of whom
enormous numbers were now present, ran hither and thither; and duck, ham,
pigeon-pie, cold veal, apple tarts, cheese, pickled salmon, melon, and rice
pudding, flourished on every side. As for me, whatever I might have gleaned
from the conversation around under other circumstances, I was too much
occupied with Isabella to think of any one else. My suit--for such it
was--progressed rapidly. There was evidently something favorable in the
circumstances we last met under; for her manner had all the warmth and
cordiality of old friendship. It is true that, more than once, I caught the
general’s eye fixed upon us with anything but an expression of pleasure,
and I thought that Isabella blushed and seemed confused also. ‘What care
I?’ however, was my reflection; ‘my views are honorable; and the nephew and
heir of Sir Toby Sparks--’ Just in the very act of making this reflection,
the old man in the shorts hit me in the eye with a roasted apple, calling
out at the moment:--
“‘When did you join, thou child of the pale-faces?’
“‘Mr. Murdocks!’ cried the general, in a voice of thunder; and the little
man hung down his head, and spoke not.
“‘A word with you, young gentleman,’ said a fat old lady, pinching my arm
above the elbow.
“‘Never mind her,’ said Isabella, smiling; ‘poor dear old Dorking, she
thinks she’s an hour-glass. How droll, isn’t it?’
“‘Young man, have you any feelings of humanity?’ inquired the old lady,
with tears in her eyes as she spoke; ‘will you, dare you assist a
fellow-creature under my sad circumstances?’
“‘What can I do for you, Madam?’ said I, really feeling for her distress.
“‘Just like a good dear soul, just turn me up, for I’m nearly run out.’
“Isabella burst out a laughing at the strange request,--an excess which, I
confess, I was unable myself to repress; upon which the old lady, putting
on a frown of the most ominous blackness, said:--
“‘You may laugh, Madam; but first before you ridicule the misfortunes of
others, ask yourself are you, too, free from infirmity? When did you see
the ace of spades, Madam? Answer me that.’
“Isabella became suddenly pale as death; her very lips blanched, and her
voice, almost inaudible, muttered:--
“‘Am I, then, deceived? Is not this he?’ So saying, she placed her hand
upon my shoulder.
“‘That the ace of spades?’ exclaimed the old lady, with a sneer,--‘that the
ace of spades!’
“‘Are you, or are you not, sir?’ said Isabella, fixing her deep and languid
eyes upon me. ‘Answer me, as you are honest; are you the ace of spades?’
“‘He is the King of Tuscarora. Look at his war paint!’ cried an elderly
gentleman, putting a streak of mustard across my nose and cheek.
“‘Then am I deceived,’ said Isabella. And flying at me, she plucked a
handful of hair out of my whiskers.
“‘Cuckoo, cuckoo!’ shouted one; ‘Bow-wow-wow!’ roared another; ‘Phiz!’ went
a third; and in an instant, such a scene of commotion and riot ensued.
Plates, dishes, knives, forks, and decanters flew right and left; every
one pitched into his neighbor with the most fearful cries, and hell itself
seemed broke loose. The hour-glass and the Moulah of Oude had got me down
and were pummelling me to death, when a short, thickset man came on all
fours slap down upon them shouting out, ‘Way, make way for the royal Bengal
tiger!’ at which they both fled like lightning, leaving me to the encounter
single-handed. Fortunately, however, this was not of very long duration,
for some well-disposed Christians pulled him from off me; not, however,
before he had seized me in his grasp, and bitten off a portion of my left
ear, leaving me, as you see, thus mutilated for the rest of my days.”
“What an extraordinary club,” broke in the doctor.
“Club, sir, club! it was a lunatic asylum. The general was no other than
the famous Dr. Andrew Moorville, that had the great madhouse at Bangor, and
who was in the habit of giving his patients every now and then a kind of
country party; it being one remarkable feature of their malady that when
one takes to his peculiar flight, whatever it be, the others immediately
take the hint and go off at score. Hence my agreeable adventure: the Bengal
tiger being a Liverpool merchant, and the most vivacious madman in England;
while the hour-glass and the Moulah were both on an experimental tour to
see whether they should not be pronounced totally incurable for life.”
“And Isabella?” inquired Power.
“Ah, poor Isabella had been driven mad by a card-playing aunt at Bath, and
was in fact the most hopeless case there. The last words I heard her speak
confirmed my mournful impression of her case,--
“‘Yes,’ said she, as they removed her to her carriage, ‘I must, indeed,
have but a weak intellect, when I could have taken the nephew of a
Manchester cotton-spinner, with a face like a printed calico, for a trump
card, and the best in the pack!’”
Poor Sparks uttered these last words with a faltering accent, and finishing
his glass at one draught withdrew without wishing us good-night.