THE INVITATION.
A cup of wine, that’s brisk and fine,
And drink unto the lemon mine.
_Master Silence_.
THIS veridicous history began in May, and the occurrences already
narrated have carried it on to the middle of autumn. Stepping over the
interval to Christmas, we find ourselves in our first locality, among the
chalk hills of the Thames; and we discover our old friend, Mr. Crotchet,
in the act of accepting an invitation, for himself, and any friends who
might be with him, to pass their Christmas Day at Chainmail Hall, after
the fashion of the twelfth century. Mr. Crochet had assembled about him,
for his own Christmas festivities, nearly the same party which was
introduced to the reader in the spring. Three of that party were
wanting. Dr. Morbific, by inoculating himself once too often with
non-contagious matter, had explained himself out of the world. Mr.
Henbane had also departed, on the wings of an infallible antidote. Mr.
Eavesdrop, having printed in a magazine some of the after-dinner
conversations of the castle, had had sentence of exclusion passed upon
him, on the motion of the Reverend Doctor Folliott, as a flagitious
violator of the confidences of private life.
Miss Crotchet had become Lady Bossnowl, but Lady Clarinda had not yet
changed her name to Crotchet. She had, on one pretence and another,
procrastinated the happy event, and the gentleman had not been very
pressing; she had, however, accompanied her brother and sister-in-law, to
pass Christmas at Crotchet Castle. With these, Mr. Mac Quedy, Mr.
Philpot, Mr. Trillo, Mr. Skionar, Mr. Toogood, and Mr. Firedamp were
sitting at breakfast, when the Reverend Doctor Folliott entered and took
his seat at the table.
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Well, Mr. Mac Quedy, it is now some weeks since
we have met: how goes on the march of mind?
_Mr. Mac Quedy_.—Nay, sir; I think you may see that with your own eyes.
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Sir, I have seen it, much to my discomfiture.
It has marched into my rickyard, and set my stacks on fire, with chemical
materials, most scientifically compounded. It has marched up to the door
of my vicarage, a hundred and fifty strong; ordered me to surrender half
my tithes; consumed all the provisions I had provided for my audit feast,
and drunk up my old October. It has marched in through my back-parlour
shutters, and out again with my silver spoons, in the dead of the night.
The policeman who has been down to examine says my house has been broken
open on the most scientific principles. All this comes of education.
_Mr. Mac Quedy_.—I rather think it comes of poverty.
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—No, sir. Robbery, perhaps, comes of poverty,
but scientific principles of robbery come of education. I suppose the
learned friend has written a sixpenny treatise on mechanics, and the
rascals who robbed me have been reading it.
_Mr. Crotchet_.—Your house would have been very safe, Doctor, if they had
had no better science than the learned friend’s to work with.
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Well, sir, that may be. Excellent potted char.
The Lord deliver me from the learned friend.
_Mr. Crotchet_.—Well, Doctor, for your comfort, here is a declaration of
the learned friend’s that he will never take office.
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Then, sir, he will be in office next week.
Peace be with him. Sugar and cream.
_Mr. Crotchet_.—But, Doctor, are you for Chainmail Hall on Christmas Day?
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—That am I, for there will be an excellent
dinner, though, peradventure, grotesquely served.
_Mr. Crotchet_.—I have not seen my neighbour since he left us on the
canal.
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—He has married a wife, and brought her home.
_Lady Clarinda_.—Indeed! If she suits him, she must be an oddity: it
will be amusing to see them together.
_Lord Bossnowl_.—Very amusing. He! He! Mr. Firedamp. Is there any
water about Chainmail Hall?
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—An old moat.
_Mr. Firedamp_.—I shall die of malaria.
_Mr. Trillo_.—Shall we have any music?
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—An old harper.
_Mr. Trillo_.—Those fellows are always horridly out of tune. What will
he play?
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Old songs and marches.
_Mr. Skionar_.—Among so many old things, I hope we shall find Old
Philosophy.
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—An old woman.
_Mr. Philpot_.—Perhaps an old map of the river in the twelfth century.
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—No doubt.
_Mr. Mac Quedy_.—How many more old things?
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Old hospitality; old wine; old ale; all the
images of old England; an old butler.
_Mr. Toogood_.—Shall we all be welcome?
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Heartily; you will be slapped on the shoulder,
and called Old Boy.
_Lord Bossnowl_.—I think we should all go in our old clothes. He! He!
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—You will sit on old chairs, round an old table,
by the light of old lamps, suspended from pointed arches, which, Mr.
Chainmail says, first came into use in the twelfth century, with old
armour on the pillars and old banners in the roof.
_Lady Clarinda_.—And what curious piece of antiquity is the lady of the
mansion?
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—No antiquity there; none.
_Lady Clarinda_.—Who was she?
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—That I know not.
_Lady Clarinda_.—Have you seen her?
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—I have.
_Lady Clarinda_.—Is she pretty?
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—More,—beautiful. A subject for the pen of
Nonnus or the pencil of Zeuxis. Features of all loveliness, radiant with
all virtue and intelligence. A face for Antigone. A form at once plump
and symmetrical, that, if it be decorous to divine it by externals, would
have been a model for the Venus of Cnidos. Never was anything so goodly
to look on, the present company excepted; and poor dear Mrs. Folliott.
She reads moral philosophy, Mr. Mac Quedy, which indeed she might as well
let alone; she reads Italian poetry, Mr. Skionar; she sings Italian
music, Mr. Trillo; but, with all this, she has the greatest of female
virtues, for she superintends the household and looks after her husband’s
dinner. I believe she was a mountaineer: Ηαρθένος ὀυρεσίφοιτος, ἐρήμαδι
σύντροφος ὕλῃ {175} as Nonnus sweetly sings.