added the Nobleman; “and marry,” continued the Dandy. “Pshaw!” cried the
Satirist, “he will never get rid of his habits, his hounds, or his
horns.” “But he has an excellent heart,” said Candour. “Excellent,”
repeated his lordship, unthinkingly. “Excellent,” lisped the Fop,
effeminately. “Excellent,” exclaimed the Wit, ironically. We took this
opportunity to ask by what means so excellent a heart and so bright a
genius had contrived to plunge him into these disasters. “He was my
friend,” replied his lordship, “and a man of large property; but he was
mad--quite mad. I remember his leaping a lame pony over a stone wall,
simply because Sir Marmaduke bet him a dozen that he broke his neck in
the attempt; and sending a bullet through a poor pedlar’s pack because
Bob Darrell said the piece wouldn’t carry so far.” “Upon another
occasion,” began the Exquisite in his turn, “he jumped into a horse-pond
after dinner in order to prove it was not six feet deep; and overturned
a bottle of eau-de-cologne in Lady Emilia’s face, to convince me that
she was not painted. Poor fellow! The first experiment cost him a
dress, and the second an heiress.” “I have heard,” resumed the Nobleman,
“that he lost his election for---- by lampooning the mayor; and was
dismissed from his place in the Treasury for challenging Lord C----.”
“The last accounts I heard of him,” said Caustic, “told me that Lady
Tarrel had forbid him her house for driving a sucking-pig into her
drawing-room; and that young Hawthorn had run him through for boasting
of favours from his sister!” “These gentlemen are really too severe,”
remarked young Candour to us. “Not a jot,” we said to ourselves.
“This will be a terrible blow for his sister,” said a young man who had
been listening in silence. “A fine girl--a very fine girl,” said the
Exquisite. “And a fine fortune,” said the Nobleman; “the mines of Peru
are nothing to her.” “Nothing at all,” observed the Sneerer; “she has no
property there. But I would not have you caught, Harry; her income was
good, but is dipped, horribly dipped. Guineas melt very fast when the
cards are put by them.” “I was not aware Maria was a gambler,” said the
young man, much alarmed. “Her brother is, Sir,” replied his informant.
The querist looked sorry, but yet relieved. We could see that he was not
quite disinterested in his inquiries. “However,” resumed the young
Cynic, “his profusion has at least obtained him many noble and wealthy
friends.” He glanced at his hearers, and went on: “No one that knew him
will hear of his distresses without being forward to relieve them. He
will find interest for his money in the hearts of his friends.” Nobility
took snuff; Foppery played with his watch-chain; Hypocrisy looked grave.
There was long silence. We ventured to regret the misuse of natural
talents, which, if properly directed, might have rendered their
possessor useful to the interests of society and celebrated in the
records of his country. Every one stared, as if we were talking Hebrew.
“Very true,” said his lordship, “he enjoys great talents. No man is a
nicer judge of horseflesh. He beats me at billiards, and Harry at
picquet; he’s a dead shot at a button, and can drive his curricle-wheels
over a brace of sovereigns. “Radicalism,” says Caustic, looking round
for a laugh. “He is a great amateur of pictures,” observed the
Exquisite, “and is allowed to be quite a connoisseur in beauty; but
there,” simpering, “every one must claim the privilege of judging for
themselves.” “Upon my word,” said Candour, “you allow poor Charles too
little. I have no doubt he has great courage--though, to be sure, there
was a whisper that young Hawthorn found him rather shy; and I am
convinced he is very generous, though I must confess that I have it from
good authority that his younger brother was refused the loan of a
hundred when Charles had pigeoned that fool of a nabob but the evening
before. I would stake my existence that he is a man of unshaken
honour--though, when he eased Lieutenant Hardy of his pay, there
certainly was an awkward story about the transaction, which was never
properly cleared up. I hope that when matters are properly investigated
he will be liberated from all his embarrassments; though I am sorry to
be compelled to believe that he has been spending double the amount of
his income annually. But I trust that all will be adjusted. I have no
doubt upon the subject.” “Nor I,” said Caustic. “We shall miss him
prodigiously at the Club,” said the Dandy, with a slight shake of the
head. “What a bore!” replied the Nobleman, with a long yawn. We could
hardly venture to express compassion for a character so despicable. Our
auditors, however, entertained very different opinions of right and
wrong! “Poor fellow! he was much to be pitied: had done some very
foolish things--to say the truth was a sad scoundrel--but then he was
always so mad.” And having come unanimously to this decision, the
conclave dispersed.
Charles gave an additional proof of his madness within a week after this
discussion by swallowing laudanum. The verdict of the coroner’s inquest
confirmed the judgment of his four friends. For our own parts we must
pause before we give in to so dangerous a doctrine. Here is a man who
has outraged the laws of honour, the ties of relationship, and the
duties of religion; he appears before us in the triple character of a
libertine, a swindler, and a suicide. Yet his follies, his vices, his
crimes, are all palliated or even applauded by this specious _façon de
parler_--“He was mad--quite mad!”
THE BOGLE OF ANNESLIE; OR, THE THREE-CORNERED HAT.
A TALE.
“An’ ye winna believe i’ the bogle?” said a pretty young lassie to her
sweetheart, as they sat in the door of her father’s cottage one fine
autumn evening. “Do you hear that, mither? Andrew ’ll no believe i’ the
bogle.”
“Gude be wi’ us, Effie!” exclaimed Andrew, a slender and delicate youth
of about two-and-twenty, “a bonny time I wad hae o’t, gin I were to heed
every auld wife’s clatter.”
The words “auld wife” had a manifest effect on Effie, and she bit her
lips in silence. Her mother immediately opened a battery upon the young
man’s prejudices, narrating how that on Anneslie Heath, at ten o’clock
at night, a certain apparition was wont to appear, in the form of a
maiden above the usual size, with a wide three-cornered hat. Sundry
other particulars were mentioned, but Andrew was still incredulous.
“He’ll rue that, dearly will he rue’t!” said Effie, as he departed.
Many days, however, passed away, and Effie was evidently much
disappointed to find that the scepticism of her lover gathered strength.
Nay, he had the audacity to insult, by gibes and jests, the true
believers, and to call upon them for the reasons of their faith. Effie
was in a terrible passion.
At last, however, her prophecy was fulfilled. Andrew was passing over
the moor, while the clock struck ten; for it was his usual practice to
walk at that hour, in order to mock the fears of his future bride. He
was just winding round the thicket which opened to him a view of the
cottage where Effie dwelt, when he heard a light step behind him, and,
in an instant, his feet were tripped up, and he was laid prostrate on
the turf. Upon looking up he beheld a tall muscular man standing over
him, who, in no courteous manner, desired to see the contents of his
pocket. “De’il be on ye!” exclaimed the young forester, “I hae but ae
coin i’ the warld.” “That coin maun I hae,” said his assailant. “Faith!
I’se show ye play for’t then,” said Andrew, and sprang upon his feet.
Andrew was esteemed the best cudgel-player for twenty miles round, so
that in brief space he cooled the ardour of his antagonist, and dealt
such visitations upon his skull as might have made a much firmer head
ache for a fortnight. The man stepped back, and, pausing in his assault,
raised his hand to his forehead, and buried it among his dark locks. It
returned covered with blood. “Thou hast cracked my crown,” he said, “but
yet ye sha’ na gang scatheless;” and, flinging down his cudgel, he flew
on his young foe, and, grasping his body before he was aware of the
attack, whirled him to the earth with an appalling impetus. “The Lord
hae mercy on me!” said Andrew, “I’m a dead man.”
He was not far from it, for his rude foe was preparing to put the
finishing stroke to his victory. Suddenly something stirred in the
bushes, and the conqueror, turning away from his victim, cried out, “The
bogle! the bogle!” and fled precipitately. Andrew ventured to look up.
He saw the figure which had been described to him approaching; it came
nearer and nearer; its face was very pale, and its step was not heard on
the grass. At last it stood by his side, and looked down upon him.
Andrew buried his face in his cloak: presently the apparition
spoke--indistinctly indeed, for its teeth seemed to chatter with cold:
“This is a cauld an’ an eerie night to be sae late on Anneslie Muir!”
and immediately it glided away. Andrew lay a few minutes in a trance;
and then, arising from his cold bed, ran hastily towards the cottage of
his mistress. His hair stood on end, and the vapours of the night sunk
chill upon his brow as he lifted up the latch and flung himself upon an
oaken seat.
“Preserve us!” cried the old woman. “Why, ye are mair than aneugh to
frighten a body out o’ her wits! To come in wi’ sic a flaunt and a
fling, bare-sconced, and the red bluid spatter’d a’ o’er your new
leather jerkin! Shame on you, Andrew! in what mishanter hast thou
broken that fule’s head o’ thine?”
“Peace, mither!” said the young man, taking breath, “I hae seen the
bogle!”
The old lady had a long line of reproaches, drawn up in order of march,
between her lips; but the mention of the bogle was the signal for
disbanding them. A thousand questions poured in, in rapid succession.
“How old was she? How was she dressed? Who was she like? What did she
say?”
“She was a tall thin woman, about seven feet high!”
“Oh Andrew!” cried Effie.
“As ugly as sin!”
“Other people tell a different story,” said Effie.
“True, on my Bible oath! And then her beard----”
“A beard, Andrew!” shrieked Effie: “a woman with a beard! For shame,
Andrew!”
“Nay, I’ll swear it upon my soul’s salvation! She had seen saxty winters
and mair, afore e’er she died to trouble us!”
“I’ll wager my best new goun,” said the maiden, “that saxteen would be
nearer the mark.”
“But wha was she like, Andrew?” said the old woman. “Was she like auld
Janet that was drowned in the burn forenaint? or that auld witch that
your maister hanged for stealing his pet lamb? or was she like----”
“Are you sure she was na like _me_, Andrew?” said Effie, looking archly
in his face.
“You--pshaw! Faith, guid mither, she was like to naebody that I ken,
unless it be auld Elspeth, the cobbler’s wife, that was blamed for a’
the mischief or misfortunes o’ the kintra roun’, and was drowned at last
for having ‘sense aboon the lave.’”
“And how was she dressed, Andrew?”
“In that horrible three-cornered hat, which may I be blinded if ever I
seek to look upon again!--an’ in a lang blue apron----”
“Green, Andrew!” cried Effie, twirling her own green apron round her
thumb.
“How you like to tease ane!” said the lover. Poor Andrew did not at all
enter into his mistress’s pleasantry, for he laboured under a great
depression of spirits, and never lifted his eyes from the ground.
“But ye hae na tauld us what she said, lad!” said the old woman,
assuming an air of deeper mystery as each question was put and answered
in its turn.
“Lord! what signifies it whether she said this or that! Haud your
tongue, and get me some comfort; for, to speak truth, I’m vera cauld.”
“Weel mayest thou be sae,” said Effie, “for indeed,” she continued, in a
feigned voice, “_it was a cauld an’ an eerie night to be sae late on
Anneslie Muir_.”
Andrew started, and a doubt seemed to pass over his mind. He looked up
at the damsel, and perceived, for the first time, that her large blue
eyes were laughing at him from under the shade of a huge three-cornered
hat. The next moment he hung over her in an ecstasy of gratitude, and
smothered with his kisses the ridicule which she forced upon him as the
penalty of his preservation.
“Seven feet high, Andrew?”
“My dear Effie!”
“As ugly as sin?”
“My darling lassie!”
“And a beard?”
“Na! na! now you carry the jest o’er far!”
“And saxty winters?”
“Saxteen springs, Effie! Dear, delightfu’, smiling springs!”
“And Elspeth, the cobbler’s wife! Oh, Andrew, Andrew! I never can forgie
you for the cobbler’s wife! And what say you now, Andrew--is there nae
bogle on the muir?”
“My dear Effie, for your sake I’ll believe in a’ the bogles in
Christendie!”
“That is,” said Effie, at the conclusion of a long and vehement fit of
risibility, “that is, in a’ that wear ‘three-cornered hats.’”
ON THE PROPOSED ESTABLISHMENT OF A PUBLIC LIBRARY AT ETON.
We are very glad to be able to announce that, after the Easter holidays,
a public library for the use of the school will be established by
subscription, at Mr. Williams’s. We are very glad of it, not for our own
sake, for before it shall rise to any degree of importance we shall be
inhabitants of this spot no longer; our very names will be forgotten
among its more recent inmates. But we hail with joy this institution,
for the sake of the school we love and reverence, to which we hope it
will prove, at some future period, a valuable addition.
The plan admits of one hundred subscribers--viz., the one hundred senior
members of the school. If any of these decline to become members, the
option will descend to the next in gradation. The subscription for the
first year will be 10_s._ 6_d._ after the Easter, Election, and
Christmas holidays; in future 10_s._ 6_d._ will be paid after the two
latter vacations only. The library will consist of the classics,
history, &c.; and subscribers will be allowed, under certain
regulations, to take books from the room. Of course a thing of this kind
has not been set on foot without the concurrence of the higher powers;
and the head-master has assisted the promoters of it by his approbation,
as well as by liberality of another description. We trust that Eton will
not long continue to experience the want of an advantage which many
other public schools enjoy.
We had intended to send the foregoing loose remarks to press, in order
to request as many of our schoolfellows in the upper division as are
willing to become subscribers to leave their names with Mr. Williams, at
whose house the library will be established. But as we were preparing to
send off the manuscript, an old gentleman, for whom we have a great
respect, called in, and looked over our shoulder. He then took a chair,
and observed to us: “This will never do!” He took off his spectacles,
wiped them, put them on again, and repeated: “This will never do!
“I, sir, was an Etonian in the year 17--, and, being a bit of a
speculator in those days, had a mind to do what you are now dreaming of
doing. I addressed myself forthwith to various friends, all of them
distinguished for rank, or talent, or influence, among their companions.
I began with Sir Roger Gandy, expatiated on the sad want of books which
many experienced, and asked whether he did not think a public library
would be a very fine thing? ‘A circulating one,’ he said; ‘oh yes,
very!’--and he yawned. There was taste!
“The next to whom I made application was Tom Luny, the fat son of a fat
merchant on Ludgate Hill. Poor Tom! He died last week, by-the-by, of a
surfeit. Well, sir, I harangued him for some time upon the advantages of
my scheme, to which he gave his cordial assent. Finally I observed that,
of course, it would not be very expensive. ‘Expensive!’ he said; ‘oh
yes, very!’--and he walked off. There was liberality!
“Next I besieged Will Wingham. I made my approaches as before, with
great caution, and at last summoned the garrison to surrender. ‘Books!’
he exclaimed, ‘I haven’t one but a Greek Grammar, with all syntax out.’
‘And do you think,’ I resumed, ‘that an Etonian can do well without
them?’ ‘Do well!’ he said; ‘oh yes, very!’--and he laughed. There was a
wish for improvement!
“Now, my good Peregrine,” continued the old gentleman, putting his feet
up upon the hobs of my fire, and looking very argumentative, “what do
you say to all this?”
The old gentleman is
Laudator temporis acti
Se puero.
He left the room piqued, when we hurt his prejudices by replying,
“Nothing, sir, but that the Etonians of 1821 are not, we will hope, the
Etonians of 17--.”
THE MISTAKE; OR, SIXES AND SEVENS.
“Be particular to observe that the name on the door is----.”
_Morning Chronicle_, April 1821.
It is a point which has often been advanced and contested by the
learned, that the world grows worse as it grows older; arguments have
been advanced, and treatises written, in support of Horace’s opinion--
Ætas parentum pejor avis tulit
Nos nequiores, mox daturos
Progeniem vitiosiorem.
The supporters of this idea rest their sentence upon various grounds:
they mention the frequency of crim. con. cases, the increase of the
poor-rate, the licentiousness of the press, the celebrity of _rouge et
noir_.
There is, however, one circumstance corroborative of their judgment, to
which we think the public opinion has not yet been sufficiently called.
We mean the indisputable fact that persons of all descriptions are
growing ashamed of their own names. We remember that when we were
dragged in our childhood to walk with our nurse, we were accustomed to
beguile our sense of weariness and disgust by studying the names, which,
in their neat brass plates, decorated the doors by which we passed. Now
the case is altered. We have observed elsewhere that the tradesmen have
removed their signs; it is equally true that the gentlemen have removed
their names. The simple numerical distinction, which is now alone
emblazoned upon the doors of our dwellings, but ill replaces that more
gratifying custom, which, in a literal sense, held up great names for
our emulation, and made the streets of the metropolis a muster-roll of
examples for our conduct.
But a very serious inconvenience is also occasioned by this departure
from ancient observances. How is the visitor from the country to
discover the patron of his fortunes, the friend of his bosom, or the
mistress of his heart, if, in lieu of the above-mentioned edifying
brass plates, his eye glances upon the unsatisfactory information
contained in 1, 2, or 3? In some cases even this assistance is denied to
him, and he wanders upon his dark and comfortless voyage, like an
ancient mariner deprived of the assistance of the stars.
Our poor friend, Mr. Nichol Loaming, has treated us with a long and
eloquent dissertation upon this symptom of degeneracy; and certainly, if
the advice _experto crede_ be of any weight, Mr. Nichol’s testimony
ought to induce all persons to hang out upon the exterior of their
residences some more convincing enunciation of their name and calling
than it is at present the fashion to produce.
Nichol came up to town with letters of introduction to several friends
of his family, whom it was his first duty and wish to discover. But his
first adventure so dispirited him, that, after having spent two mornings
at an hotel, he set out upon his homeward voyage, and left the
metropolis an unexplored region.
He purposed to make his first visit to Sir William Knowell, and, having
with some difficulty discovered the street to which he had been
directed, he proceeded to investigate the doors, in order to find out
the object of his search. The doors presented nothing but a blank! He
made inquiries, was directed to a house, heard that Sir William was at
home, was shown into an empty room, and waited for some time with
patience.
The furniture of the house rather surprised him. It was handsomer than
he had expected to find it; and on the table were the _Morning
Chronicle_ and the _Edinburgh Review_, although Sir William was a
violent Tory. At length the door opened, and a gentleman made his
appearance. Nichol asked, in a studied speech, whether he had the honour
to address Sir William Knowell? The gentleman replied that he believed
there had been a little mistake, but that he was an intimate friend of
Sir W. Knowell’s, and expected him in the course of a few minutes.
Nichol resumed his seat, although he did not quite perceive what mistake
had taken place. He was unfortunately urged by his evil genius to
attempt conversation.
He observed that Sir W. Knowell had a delightful house, and inquired
whether the neighbourhood was pleasant. “His next neighbour,” said the
stranger, with a most incomprehensible smile, “is Sir William Morley.”
Nichol shook his head; was surprised to hear Sir William kept such
company--had heard strange stories of Sir W. Morley--hoped there was no
foundation--indeed had received no good report of the family! “The
mother rather weak in the head--to say the truth under confinement; the
sister a professed coquette--went off to Gretna last week with a Scotch
officer; Sir William himself a gambler by habit, a drunkard by
inclination--at present in the King’s Bench, without the possibility of
an adjustment----”
Here he was stopped by the entrance of an elderly lady leaning on the
arm of an interesting girl of sixteen or seventeen. Upon looking up,
Nichol perceived the gentleman he had been addressing rather
embarrassed; and “hoped that he had not said anything which could give
offence.” “Not in the least,” replied the stranger; “I am more amused by
an account of the foibles of Sir W. Morley than any one else can be; and
of this I will immediately convince you. Sir William Knowell resides at
No. Six--you have stepped by mistake into No. Seven. Before you leave
it, allow me to introduce you to Lady Morley--who is rather weak in the
head, and, to say the truth, under confinement; to Miss Ellen Morley, a
professed coquette, who went off to Gretna last week with a half-pay
officer; finally”--(with a very low bow)--“to Sir William Morley
himself, a gambler by habit, and a drunkard by inclination--who is at
present in the King’s Bench, without the possibility of an adjustment!”
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
“Hâc in re scilicet unâ
Multum dissimiles.” HOR.
In a visit which we paid some time ago to our worthy contributor, Morris
Gowan, we became acquainted with two characters; upon whom, as they
afford a perfect counterpart to Messrs. “Rhyme and Reason,” recorded in
a former paper, we have bestowed the names of Sense and Sensibility.
The Misses Lowrie, of whom we are about to give our readers an account,
are both young, both handsome, both amiable: Nature made the outline of
their characters the same, but Education has varied the colouring. Their
mother died almost before they were able to profit by her example or
instruction. Emily, the eldest of the sisters, was brought up under the
immediate care of her father. He was a man of strong and temperate
judgment, obliging to his neighbours, and affectionate to his children;
but certainly rather calculated to educate a son than a daughter. Emily
profited abundantly by his assistance, as far as moral duties or
literary accomplishments were concerned; but for all the lesser
_agrémens_ of society, she had nothing to depend upon but the
suggestions of a kind heart and a quiet temper. Matilda, on the
contrary, spent her childhood in England, at the house of a relation,
who, having imbibed her notions of propriety at a fashionable
boarding-school, and made a love-match very early in life, was but
ill-prepared to regulate a warm disposition and check a natural tendency
to romance. The consequence has been such as might have been expected.
Matilda pities the distressed, and Emily relieves them; Matilda has more
of the love of the neighbourhood, although Emily is more entitled to its
gratitude; Matilda is very agreeable, while Emily is very useful; and
two or three old ladies, who talk scandal over their tea, and murder
grammar and reputations together, consider Matilda a practised heroine,
and laugh at Emily as an inveterate Blue.
The incident which first introduced us to them afforded us a tolerable
specimen of their different qualities. While on a long pedestrian
excursion with Morris, we met the two ladies returning from their walk;
and, as our companion had already the privileges of an intimate
acquaintance, we became their companions. An accurate observer of human
manners knows well how decisively character is marked by trifles, and
how wide is the distinction which is frequently made by circumstances
apparently the most insignificant.
In spite, therefore, of the similarity of age and person which existed
between the two sisters, the first glance at their dress and manner,
the first tones of their voice, were sufficient to distinguish the one
from the other. It was whimsical enough to observe how every object
which attracted our attention exhibited their respective peculiarities
in a new and entertaining light. Sense entered into a learned discussion
on the nature of a plant, while Sensibility talked enchantingly of the
fading of its flower. From Matilda we had a rapturous eulogium upon the
surrounding scenery; from Emily we derived much information relative to
the state of its cultivation. When we listened to the one, we seemed to
be reading a novel, but a clever and an interesting novel; when we
turned to the other, we found only real life, but real life in its most
pleasant and engaging form.