HOW SIR ASINUS FISHED FOR SWALLOWS, AND WHAT HE CAUGHT.
Gloucester Street was alive with a motley crowd of every description,
from the elegant dame who drove by in her fine four-horse chariot
with its outriders, to the most obscure denizen of the surrounding old
field, come on this particular day to Williamsburg, in view of the
great ball to be held at the _Raleigh_ tavern.
Mowbray and Hoffland gazed philosophically upon the moving crowd, but
threaded their way onward, without much comment. Hoffland was anxious
to reach his lodging, it seemed; the culminating sun had already made
his face rosy with its warm radiance, and he held a white handkerchief
before his eyes to protect them.
"It is growing very warm," he said; "really, Ernest, I think your
present will come into active use before the summer."
"My gloves?"
"No, mine."
"Ah, well, Charles," continued Ernest, "we ought to rejoice in the
warmth, inasmuch as it is better for the poor than cold--the winter.
Let us not complain."
"I do not; but I see precious few poor about now: they all seem to be
rejoicing, without needing any assistance therein from us. Look at
that fine chariot."
"At Madam Finette's door?"
"Yes."
"I think I recognise the driver--Tom, from Mrs. Wimple's," said
Mowbray calmly.
"Mrs. Wimple--who is she?"
"A lady, at whose house I suffered one of my cruellest
disappointments," said Mowbray with a shadowed brow; "let us not
speak of that!"
"Of what?"
"You do not understand?"
"I? Of course not."
"It was there that I was told, by the woman I loved, how despicable I
was," said Mowbray with a cruel tremor of his pale lip.
"Oh--yes--pardon me," Hoffland said; and turning aside his head, he
murmured, "Men--men! how blind you are! yes, high-gravel blind!" and
looking again at Mowbray, Hoffland perceived that his face had become
calm again.
"I promised Lucy to bring home some little articles from this place,"
he said calmly; "go in with me a moment, Charles."
Hoffland drew back.
"No," he said; "I believe--I have--I think I'd rather not."
"I will detain you but a moment."
Hoffland's glance plunged itself into the interior of Madam Finette's
emporium; and the consequence was that the young gentleman retreated
three steps.
"I don't think I have time," he said laughing; "but I'll wait for you
here: the sun is warm, but I can easily protect my face by holding my
handkerchief to it."
And taking up his position in the vestibule, so to speak, of the shop,
Hoffland placed himself as much out of view as possible, and waited.
Spite of the fact that the sun's rays did not penetrate to the spot
which he occupied, the white handkerchief was still used as a shade.
Mowbray entered and approached Madam Finette.
But that lady was busy; her counter was covered with magnificent
silks, ribbons, velvets and laces, which she was unrolling, folding
up, drawing out, and chattering about, as fast as her small hands and
agile tongue would permit. Before her stood a lady, who, accompanied
by her cavalier, was engaged in the momentous task of making up her
mind what colors of velvet and satin ribbon she should select.
The lady was young and smiling--cheerful and graceful. When she
laughed, the musical chime of the timepiece overhead was drowned, and
died away; when she smiled, the sunlight seemed to have darted one of
its brightest beams into the shop. The gentleman was elegant and
melancholy: he looked like Endymion on Latmos trying to recall his
dream, or like Narcissus fading into shadow. His costume resembled a
variegated Dutch tulip; his hair was powdered to excess; he sighed and
whispered sadly, and looked at the lady.
The lady was called Belle-bouche, Belinda, or Rebecca.
The gentleman was familiarly known as Jacques.
"I think that would suit you," sighed Jacques.
"This ribbon?" asked Belle-bouche, with a gay smile.
"Yes; it is yours by right. It is the prettiest of all."
"I am glad you like it--I do."
"It would suit the mythologic Maia."
"Then it will not me."
"Yes, yes," sighed Jacques, in a whisper; "you are May incarnate--with
its tender grace, and lovely freshness, and Arcadian beauty."
Belle-bouche smiled, and yet did not laugh at the oft repeated
Arcadian simile.
"Methinks," said Jacques, with a species of melancholy grace, "these
ribbons would suit your costume at the Arcadian festival, which you
have honored me with the management of----"
"At Shadynook? Oh, yes! would they now?"
"I think so, madam. Imagine the crooks wreathed with these ribbons and
with flowers--the shepherds would go mad with delight."
"Then I will get a large roll of this."
"No, no--that is my affair; but you must wear something else."
"I? What, pray?"
"Pink: it is the color of youth, and joy, and love--worn by the Graces
and the Naiads, Oreads and Dryads;--the color of the sea-shell, and
the autumn leaves and flowers--something like it at least," Jacques
added, finding himself mounting into the realms of imagination.
Belle-bouche blushed slightly, and turned away. Her eyes fell upon
Mowbray, who bowed.
"Oh, sir, I am very glad to see you," said the cheerful young girl,
holding out her hand; "you must come to our party at Shadynook."
"Madam, I am afraid--" commenced Mowbray, with a bow.
But Belle-bouche interrupted him:
"No! I really will take no refusal! It will be on Thursday, and Aunt
Wimple wishes you to come. I am manageress, and I have masculine
assistance to compel all invited to be with us."
With which words she glanced at Jacques, who saluted Mowbray with a
sad smile.
"And you must bring your sister Lucy, Mr. Mowbray. I am sorry we know
each other so slightly; but I am sure we shall be intimate if she
comes. Do not refuse to bring her now."
Belle-bouche enforced her requests with such a wealth of smiles, that
Mowbray was compelled to yield.
He promised to come, and then suddenly remembered that Philippa would
be there, and almost groaned.
Belle-bouche finished her purchases, and went out.
As she passed Hoffland she dropped her handkerchief. That young
gentleman, however, declined to pick it up and restore it, though the
absent Jacques did not perceive it. Jacques assisted the young girl
into her carriage, pressed her hand with melancholy affection, and
went away sighing.
Mowbray, having procured what Lucy wished, came forth again and was
joined by Hoffland. That gentleman held a magnificent lace
handkerchief in his hand.
"See," he said, "what that languishing little beauty dropped in
passing to her carriage. What a love of a handkerchief!"
"What an odd vocabulary you have collected," said Mowbray, smiling.
"Well, you should have restored it to her, Charles."
"Restored it!"
"Yes."
"Ernest, you astonish me!" cried Hoffland, laughing; "address a young
lady whom I have not the pleasure of knowing?"
"It would be to do her a simple service, and nothing could be more
proper."
"You are a pretty guide for youth, are you not? No, sir! I never
intrude!"
"Suppose this young lady were asleep in a house which was
burning--would you not intrude to inform her of that fact?"
"Never, sir! Enter a lady's bower? Is it possible you counsel such a
proceeding?"
Mowbray smiled sadly. "You have excellent spirits, Charles," he said;
"I almost envy you."
"No, indeed, I have not," said Hoffland, with one of his strange
transitions from gaiety to thoughtfulness; "I wear more than one mask,
Ernest."
"Are you ever sad?"
"Yes, indeed," said Hoffland, with a little sigh.
"Well, well, I fancy 'tis not frequently. If you feel so to-day, the
ball to-night will restore your spirits; and there you may restore
your handkerchief with perfect propriety."
"How?"
"Get an introduction."
Hoffland's lip crimped; but nodding his head--
"Yes," said he, "I think I shall be introduced, for I wish very much
to be present at that Arcadian festival."
"You heard, then?"
Hoffland colored.
"N--o," he said; "but I believe a number of invitations are out--for
Denis, and others;--a good fellow, Denis."
"Excellent; and I suppose, therefore, you will be at the Raleigh this
evening?"
"Yes, about twelve--I have my studies to attend to," said Hoffland,
laughing; "you have no idea how much the character of _Rosalind_ has
interested me lately. I think it never seized so strongly upon my
attention. If ever we have any private acting, I shall certainly
appear in that character!"
Mowbray smiled again.
"Your person would suit the forest page very well," he said; "for you
are slender, and slight in figure. But how would you compass the
scenes where Rosalind appears in her proper character--in female
dress?"
"Oh!" laughed Hoffland, with some quickness, "I think I could easily
act that part."
"I doubt it."
"You don't know my powers, Ernest."
"Well, perhaps not; but let us dismiss the ball, and Rosalind, and
all. How motley a crowd! I almost agree with Jacques, that 'motley's
the only wear.'"
"Jacques! that reminds me of the melancholy fellow we saw just now,
sighing and languishing with that little Belle-bouche----"
"Why, you know her familiar name--how, Charles?"
Hoffland laughed.
"Oh" he said, "did I not leave my MS. love songs to Jacques; and can
you imagine that I was ignorant of--but we are throwing away words.
Everybody's in love, I believe--Jacques is not singular. Look at this
little pair of lovers--school-girl and school-boy, devoted to each
other, and consuming with the tender passion. Poor unfortunate
creatures!"
With which words Hoffland laughed, and pointed to a boy and girl who
were passing along some steps in advance of them.
The girl was that young lady who received, as the reader may possibly
recollect, so much excellent and paternal advice from Jacques. She was
not burdened with her satchel on this occasion, but carried, in the
same careless and playful fashion, a small reticule; while her
cavalier took charge of her purchases, stored in two or three bundles,
and kindly relinquished to the gentleman by the lady, as is still the
custom in our own day.
The boy was a fine manly young fellow of sixteen, with a bright kind
face, rosy and freckled. There seemed to be quite an excellent
understanding between himself and his companion, and they went on
conversing gaily.
But in this world we know not when the fates will interrupt our
pleasures;--a profound remark which was verified on this occasion.
Just as the girl was passing the residence of Sir Asinus, her feet
dancing for joy, her curls illuminated, her reticule describing the
largest possible arc of a circle--just then, little Martha, or Puss,
as she was called, found herself suddenly arrested, and the over-skirt
of her silk dress raised with a sudden jerk. The reticule ceased to
pendulate, the conversation stopped abruptly, the boy and girl stood
profoundly astonished.
"Oh, me!" cried the child, clasping her hands; "what's that?"
"Witchcraft!" suggested her companion, laughing.
"No, my dear young friends," here interposed a voice from the
clouds--figuratively speaking--really from an upper window; "it is not
witchcraft, but a simple result of natural laws."
The child raised her head quickly at these words, and saw leaning out
of a dormer window of Mrs. Bobbery's mansion, that identical
red-haired gentleman whom she had seen upon a former occasion; in a
word, Sir Asinus: Sir Asinus dressed magnificently in his old faded
dressing-gown; his sandy hair standing erect upon his head; his
features sharper than ever; and his eyes more eloquent with
philosophical and cynical humor. As he leaned far out of the window,
he resembled a large owl in a dressing-gown, with arms instead of
legs, fingers instead of claws.
"I repeat, sir and miss," he said blandly--"or probably it would be
more proper to say, miss and sir--I repeat that this is not
witchcraft, and your dress is simply caught by a hook, which hook
contained a grain of wheat, which wheat has been devoured. Wait! I
will descend."
And disappearing from the window, Sir Asinus soon made his appearance
at the door, and approached the boy and girl. The girl was laughing.
"Oh, sir! I think I understand now--you were fishing for swallows, and
the hook----"
"Caught in your dress! Precisely, my beautiful little lady, whom I
have the pleasure of seeing for the fiftieth time, since I see you
passing every morning, noon and evening--precisely. Immured in my
apartment for political reasons, I am reduced to this species of
amusement; and this hook attached to this thread contained a grain of
wheat. It floated far up, and some cormorant devoured it; then the
wind ceasing, it had the misfortune to strike into your dress."
With which words Sir Asinus made an elegant bow, wrapping his old
dressing-gown about him with one hand, while he extricated the hook
with the other.
"There! you are free!" he said; "I am very sorry, my dear little
lady----"
"Oh, indeed, sir! it is very funny! I'm almost glad it caught me,
Bathurst laughed so much."
"I have the pleasure of making Mr. Bathurst's acquaintance," said Sir
Asinus politely; and in spite of little Martha's correction, that Mr.
Bathurst was not his name, he added, "Your cavalier at the ball
to-night, I presume?"
"Oh, sir, you are laughing," said the girl, with her bright face; "but
we are going to the ball."
"And will you dance with me?"
"If _you_ will, sir."
"Extraordinary innocence!" muttered the knight, "not common among
young ladies;" then he added, "I assure you, Miss--you have not told
me----"
"My name is Martha, sir."
"Well, Miss Martha, I shall dance with you most delightedly. Asinus is
my name--I am descended from a great Assyrian family; and this is my
lodging. Looking up any morning, my dear Miss Martha, you will receive
the most elegant bow I have--such as is due to a Fairy Queen, and the
empress of my soul.--Good morning, Mowbray."
And saluting the students who passed, laughing, Sir Asinus ascended
again, muttering and wrapping his old dressing-gown more tightly
around him.
"Yes," he said, "there's no doubt about the fact in my own mind;--I am
just as much in love with that pretty young girl who has left me
laughing and joyous, as that ridiculous Jacques is with his beauty at
Shadynook. I thought at one time I was in love with Belle-bouche
myself, but I was mistaken. I certainly was convinced of it, however,
or why did I name my sail-boat the 'Rebecca'--that being the actual
name of Miss Belle-bouche? Yet I was not in love with that young
lady--and _am_ in love with this little creature of fifteen and a
half, who has passed me every morning and evening, going to school.
Going to school! there it is! I, the great political thinker, the
originator of ideas, the student, the philosopher, the cynic--I am in
love with a school-girl! Well, I am not aware that the fact of
acquiring a knowledge of geography and numbers, music, and other
things, has the effect of making young ladies disagreeable. Therefore
I uphold the doctrine that love for young ladies who attend school is
not wholly ridiculous--else how could those who go on studying until
they are as old as the surrounding hills, be ever loved with reason? I
am therefore determined to fall deeper still in love, and write more
verses, and abolish that old dull scoundrel Coke, and become a
sighing, languishing, poetic Lovelace. I'll go and dance, and feel my
pulse every hour, and look at the weather-glass of my affections, and
at night, or rather in the morning, report to myself the result. What
a lucky lover I am! I will write a sonnet to that thread, and an ode
to the hook;--I will expand the affair into an epic!"
With which gigantic idea Sir Asinus kicked aside a volume of Coke
which obstructed his way, seized a pen, and frowning dreadfully, began
to compose.