THE ROMAN CAMP.
He loved her more then seven yere,
Yet was he of her love never the nere;
He was not ryche of golde and fe,
A gentyll man forsoth was he.
_The Squyr of Lowe Degre_.
THE Reverend Doctor Folliott having promised to return to dinner, walked
back to his vicarage, meditating whether he should pass the morning in
writing his next sermon, or in angling for trout, and had nearly decided
in favour of the latter proposition, repeating to himself, with great
unction, the lines of Chaucer:
And as for me, though that I can but lite,
On bokis for to read I me delite,
And to ’hem yeve I faithe and full credence,
And in mine herte have ’hem in reverence,
So hertily, that there is gamé none,
That fro my bokis makith me to gone,
But it be seldome, on the holie daie;
Save certainly whan that the month of Maie
Is cousin, and I here the foulis sing,
And that the flouris ginnin for to spring,
Farwell my boke and my devocion:
when his attention was attracted by a young gentleman who was sitting on
a camp stool with a portfolio on his knee, taking a sketch of the Roman
Camp, which, as has been already said, was within the enclosed domain of
Mr. Crotchet. The young stranger, who had climbed over the fence,
espying the portly divine, rose up, and hoped that he was not
trespassing. “By no means, sir,” said the divine, “all the arts and
sciences are welcome here; music, painting, and poetry; hydrostatics and
political economy; meteorology, transcendentalism, and fish for
breakfast.”
_The Stranger_.—A pleasant association, sir, and a liberal and
discriminating hospitality. This is an old British camp, I believe, sir?
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Roman, sir; Roman; undeniably Roman. The vallum
is past controversy. It was not a camp, sir, a _castrum_, but a
_castellum_, a little camp, or watch-station, to which was attached, on
the peak of the adjacent hill, a beacon for transmitting alarms. You
will find such here and there, all along the range of chalk hills, which
traverses the country from north-east to south-west, and along the base
of which runs the ancient Iknield road, whereof you may descry a portion
in that long straight white line.
_The Stranger_.—I beg your pardon, sir; do I understand this place to be
your property?
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—It is not mine, sir: the more is the pity; yet
is it so far well, that the owner is my good friend, and a highly
respectable gentleman.
_The Stranger_.—Good and respectable, sir, I take it, means rich?
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—That is their meaning, sir.
_The Stranger_.—I understand the owner to be a Mr. Crotchet. He has a
handsome daughter, I am told.
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—He has, sir. Her eyes are like the fish-pools
of Heshbon, by the gate of Bethrabbim; and she is to have a handsome
fortune, to which divers disinterested gentlemen are paying their
addresses. Perhaps you design to be one of them?
_The Stranger_.—No, sir; I beg pardon if my questions seem impertinent; I
have no such design. There is a son too, I believe, sir, a great and
successful blower of bubbles?
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—A hero, sir, in his line. Never did angler in
September hook more gudgeons.
_The Stranger_.—To say the truth, two very amiable young people, with
whom I have some little acquaintance, Lord Bossnowl, and his sister, Lady
Clarinda, are reported to be on the point of concluding a double marriage
with Miss Crotchet and her brother; by way of putting a new varnish on
old nobility. Lord Foolincourt, their father, is terribly poor for a
lord who owns a borough.
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Well, sir, the Crotchets have plenty of money,
and the old gentleman’s weak point is a hankering after high blood. I
saw your acquaintance, Lord Bossnowl, this morning, but I did not see his
sister. She may be there, nevertheless, and doing fashionable justice to
this fine May morning, by lying in bed till noon.
_The Stranger_.—Young Mr. Crotchet, sir, has been, like his father, the
architect of his own fortune, has he not? An illustrious example of the
reward of honesty and industry?
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—As to honesty, sir, he made his fortune in the
city of London, and if that commodity be of any value there, you will
find it in the price current. I believe it is below par, like the shares
of young Crotchet’s fifty companies. But his progress has not been
exactly like his father’s. It has been more rapid, and he started with
more advantages. He began with a fine capital from his father. The old
gentleman divided his fortune into three not exactly equal portions; one
for himself, one for his daughter, and one for his son, which he handed
over to him, saying, “Take it once for all, and make the most of it; if
you lose it where I won it, not another stiver do you get from me during
my life.” But, sir, young Crotchet doubled, and trebled, and quadrupled
it, and is, as you say, a striking example of the reward of industry; not
that I think his labour has been so great as his luck.
_The Stranger_.—But, sir, is all this solid? is there no danger of
reaction? no day of reckoning to cut down in an hour prosperity that has
grown up like a mushroom?
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Nay, sir, I know not. I do not pry into these
matters. I am, for my own part, very well satisfied with the young
gentleman. Let those who are not so look to themselves. It is quite
enough for me that he came down last night from London, and that he had
the good sense to bring with him a basket of lobsters. Sir, I wish you a
good morning.
The stranger having returned the reverend gentleman’s good morning,
resumed his sketch, and was intently employed on it when Mr. Crotchet
made his appearance with Mr. Mac Quedy and Mr. Skionar, whom he was
escorting round his grounds, according to his custom with new visitors;
the principal pleasure of possessing an extensive domain being that of
showing it to other people. Mr. Mac Quedy, according also to the
laudable custom of his countrymen, had been appraising everything that
fell under his observation; but, on arriving at the Roman camp, of which
the value was purely imaginary, he contented himself with exclaiming:
“Eh! this is just a curiosity, and very pleasant to sit in on a summer
day.”
_Mr. Skionar_.—And call up the days of old, when the Roman eagle spread
its wings in the place of that beechen foliage. It gives a fine idea of
duration, to think that that fine old tree must have sprung from the
earth ages after this camp was formed.
_Mr. Mac Quedy_.—How old, think you, may the tree be?
_Mr. Crotchet_.—I have records which show it to be three hundred years
old.
_Mr. Mac Quedy_.—That is a great age for a beech in good condition. But
you see the camp is some fifteen hundred years, or so, older; and three
times six being eighteen, I think you get a clearer idea of duration out
of the simple arithmetic, than out of your eagle and foliage.
_Mr. Skionar_.—That is a very unpoetical, if not unphilosophical, mode of
viewing antiquities. Your philosophy is too literal for our imperfect
vision. We cannot look directly into the nature of things; we can only
catch glimpses of the mighty shadow in the camera obscura of
transcendental intelligence. These six and eighteen are only words to
which we give conventional meanings. We can reason, but we cannot feel,
by help of them. The tree and the eagle, contemplated in the ideality of
space and time, become subjective realities, that rise up as landmarks in
the mystery of the past.
_Mr. Mac Quedy_.—Well, sir, if you understand that, I wish you joy. But
I must be excused for holding that my proposition, three times six are
eighteen, is more intelligible than yours. A worthy friend of mine, who
is a sort of amateur in philosophy, criticism, politics, and a wee bit of
many things more, says: “Men never begin to study antiquities till they
are saturated with civilisation.”
_Mr. Skionar_.—What is civilisation?
_Mr. Mac Quedy_.—It is just respect for property. A state in which no
man takes wrongfully what belongs to another, is a perfectly civilised
state.
_Mr. Skionar_.—Your friend’s antiquaries must have lived in El Dorado, to
have had an opportunity of being saturated with such a state.
_Mr. Mac Quedy_.—It is a question of degree. There is more respect for
property here than in Angola.
_Mr. Skionar_.—That depends on the light in which things are viewed.
Mr. Crotchet was rubbing his hands, in hopes of a fine discussion, when
they came round to the side of the camp where the picturesque gentleman
was sketching. The stranger was rising up, when Mr. Crotchet begged him
not to disturb himself, and presently walked away with his two guests.
Shortly after, Miss Crotchet and Lady Clarinda, who had breakfasted by
themselves, made their appearance at the same spot, hanging each on an
arm of Lord Bossnowl, who very much preferred their company to that of
the philosophers, though he would have preferred the company of the
latter, or any company to his own. He thought it very singular that so
agreeable a person as he held himself to be to others, should be so
exceedingly tiresome to himself: he did not attempt to investigate the
cause of this phenomenon, but was contented with acting on his knowledge
of the fact, and giving himself as little of his own private society as
possible.
The stranger rose as they approached, and was immediately recognised by
the Bossnowls as an old acquaintance, and saluted with the exclamation of
“Captain Fitzchrome!” The interchange of salutations between Lady
Clarinda and the Captain was accompanied with an amiable confusion on
both sides, in which the observant eyes of Miss Crotchet seemed to read
the recollection of an affair of the heart.
Lord Bossnowl was either unconscious of any such affair, or indifferent
to its existence. He introduced the Captain very cordially to Miss
Crotchet; and the young lady invited him, as the friend of their guests,
to partake of her father’s hospitality, an offer which was readily
accepted.
The Captain took his portfolio under his right arm, his camp stool in his
right hand, offered his left arm to Lady Clarinda, and followed at a
reasonable distance behind Miss Crotchet and Lord Bossnowl, contriving,
in the most natural manner possible, to drop more and more into the rear.
_Lady Clarinda_.—I am glad to see you can make yourself so happy with
drawing old trees and mounds of grass.
_Captain Fitzchrome_.—Happy, Lady Clarinda! oh, no! How can I be happy
when I see the idol of my heart about to be sacrificed on the shrine of
Mammon?
_Lady Clarinda_.—Do you know, though Mammon has a sort of ill name, I
really think he is a very popular character; there must be at the bottom
something amiable about him. He is certainly one of those pleasant
creatures whom everybody abuses, but without whom no evening party is
endurable. I dare say, love in a cottage is very pleasant; but then it
positively must be a cottage ornée: but would not the same love be a
great deal safer in a castle, even if Mammon furnished the fortification?
_Captain Fitzchrome_.—Oh, Lady Clarinda! there is a heartlessness in that
language that chills me to the soul.
_Lady Clarinda_.—Heartlessness! No: my heart is on my lips. I speak
just what I think. You used to like it, and say it was as delightful as
it was rare.
_Captain Fitzchrome_.—True, but you did not then talk as you do now, of
love in a castle.
_Lady Clarinda_.—Well, but only consider: a dun is a horridly vulgar
creature; it is a creature I cannot endure the thought of: and a cottage
lets him in so easily. Now a castle keeps him at bay. You are a
half-pay officer, and are at leisure to command the garrison: but where
is the castle? and who is to furnish the commissariat?
_Captain Fitzchrome_.—Is it come to this, that you make a jest of my
poverty? Yet is my poverty only comparative. Many decent families are
maintained on smaller means.
_Lady Clarinda_.—Decent families: ay, decent is the distinction from
respectable. Respectable means rich, and decent means poor. I should
die if I heard my family called decent. And then your decent family
always lives in a snug little place: I hate a little place; I like large
rooms and large looking-glasses, and large parties, and a fine large
butler, with a tinge of smooth red in his face; an outward and visible
sign that the family he serves is respectable; if not noble, highly
respectable.
_Captain Fitzchrome_.—I cannot believe that you say all this in earnest.
No man is less disposed than I am to deny the importance of the
substantial comforts of life. I once flattered myself that in our
estimate of these things we were nearly of a mind.
_Lady Clarinda_.—Do you know, I think an opera-box a very substantial
comfort, and a carriage. You will tell me that many decent people walk
arm-in-arm through the snow, and sit in clogs and bonnets in the pit at
the English theatre. No doubt it is very pleasant to those who are used
to it; but it is not to my taste.
_Captain Fitzchrome_.—You always delighted in trying to provoke me; but I
cannot believe that you have not a heart.
_Lady Clarinda_.—You do not like to believe that I have a heart, you
mean. You wish to think I have lost it, and you know to whom; and when I
tell you that it is still safe in my own keeping, and that I do not mean
to give it away, the unreasonable creature grows angry.
_Captain Fitzchrome_.—Angry! far from it; I am perfectly cool.
_Lady Clarinda_.—Why, you are pursing your brows, biting your lips, and
lifting up your foot as if you would stamp it into the earth. I must say
anger becomes you; you would make a charming Hotspur. Your
every-day-dining-out face is rather insipid: but I assure you my heart is
in danger when you are in the heroics. It is so rare, too, in these days
of smooth manners, to see anything like natural expression in a man’s
face. There is one set form for every man’s face in female society: a
sort of serious comedy walking gentleman’s face: but the moment the
creature falls in love he begins to give himself airs, and plays off all
the varieties of his physiognomy from the Master Slender to the
Petruchio; and then he is actually very amusing.
_Captain Fitzchrome_.—Well, Lady Clarinda, I will not be angry, amusing
as it may be to you: I listen more in sorrow than in anger. I half
believe you in earnest: and mourn as over a fallen angel.
_Lady Clarinda_.—What, because I have made up my mind not to give away my
heart when I can sell it? I will introduce you to my new acquaintance,
Mr. Mac Quedy: he will talk to you by the hour about exchangeable value,
and show you that no rational being will part with anything, except to
the highest bidder.
_Captain Fitzchrome_.—Now, I am sure you are not in earnest. You cannot
adopt such sentiments in their naked deformity.
_Lady Clarinda_.—Naked deformity! Why, Mr. Mac Quedy will prove to you
that they are the cream of the most refined philosophy. You live a very
pleasant life as a bachelor, roving about the country with your portfolio
under your arm. I am not fit to be a poor man’s wife. I cannot take any
kind of trouble, or do any one thing that is of any use. Many decent
families roast a bit of mutton on a string; but if I displease my father
I shall not have as much as will buy the string, to say nothing of the
meat; and the bare idea of such cookery gives me the horrors.
* * * * *
By this time they were near the Castle, and met Miss Crotchet and her
companion, who had turned back to meet them. Captain Fitzchrome was
shortly after heartily welcomed by Mr. Crotchet, and the party separated
to dress for dinner, the Captain being by no means in an enviable state
of mind, and full of misgivings as to the extent of belief that he was
bound to accord to the words of the lady of his heart.