Title: The Youth of Jefferson - A Chronicle of College Scrapes at Williamsburg, in Virginia, A.D. 1764
Author: Anonymous
Language: English
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[Transcriber's note: Obvious printer's errors have been corrected, all
other inconsistencies are as in the original. The author's spelling
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The Table of Content in this file has been created for this project,
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                         THE

                 YOUTH OF JEFFERSON


           A CHRONICLE OF COLLEGE SCRAPES


       At Williamsburg, In Virginia, A.D. 1764



             "Dulce est desipere in loco."



           [Illustration: Publisher's arms.]



                      REDFIELD
          110 AND 112 NASSAU STREET, NEW-YORK
                        1854



  Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by

                   J. S. REDFIELD,

  In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States
          for the Southern District of New-York.


                TUBBS, NESMITH & TEALL,
              Stereotypers, 29 Beekman st.



TABLE OF CONTENT.


  To the reader.

  Chapter I.
    How three persons in this history came by their names.

  Chapter II.
    Jacques shows the advantage of being led captive by a crook.

  Chapter III.
    An heiress who wishes to become a man.

  Chapter IV.
    A poor young man, and a rich young girl.

  Chapter V.
    In which Sir Asinus makes as ignominious retreat.

  Chapter VI.
    How Sir Asinus staked his garters against a pistole, and lost.

  Chapter VII.
    Jacques bestows his paternal advice upon a schoolgirl.

  Chapter VIII.
    How Sir Asinus invented a new order of philosophers, the apicians.

  Chapter IX.
    The luck of Jacques.

  Chapter X.
    Mowbray opens his heart to his new friend.

  Chapter XI.
    How Hoffland found that he had left his key behind.

  Chapter XII.
    How Hoffland caught a tartar in the person of miss lucy's lover.

  Chapter XIII.
    Hoffland makes his will.

  Chapter XIV.
    Hostile correspondence.

  Chapter XV.
    Sentiments of a disappointed lover on the subject of women.

  Chapter XVI.
    Advance of the enemy upon Sir Asinus.

  Chapter XVII.
    Corydon goes a-courting.

  Chapter XVIII.
    Going to Roseland.

  Chapter XIX.
    Hoffland exerts himself to amuse the company.

  Chapter XX.
    At Roseland, in the evening.

  Chapter XXI.
    Disgraceful conduct of Sir Asinus.

  Chapter XXII.
    How Hoffland preferred a glove to a dozen pistoles.

  Chapter XXIII.
    How Sir Asinus fished for swallows, and what he caught.

  Chapter XXIV.
    Hoffland is whisked away in a chariot.

  Chapter XXV.
    Sir Asinus goes to the ball.

  Chapter XXVI.
    Ernest and Philippa.

  Chapter XXVII.
    The last chance of Jacques.

  Chapter XXVIII.
    Sir Asinus intends for Europe.

  Chapter XXIX.
    The May festival.

  Chapter XXX.
    Illustrations.



TO THE READER.


This little tale is scarcely worth a preface, and it is only necessary
to say, that it was written as a relaxation after exhausting toil. If
its grotesque incidents beguile an otherwise weary hour with innocent
laughter, the writer's ambition will have been fully gratified.



THE YOUTH OF JEFFERSON.



CHAPTER I.

HOW THREE PERSONS IN THIS HISTORY CAME BY THEIR NAMES.


On a fine May morning in the year 1764,--that is to say, between the
peace at Fontainebleau and the stamp act agitation, which great events
have fortunately no connection with the present narrative,--a young
man mounted on an elegant horse, and covered from head to foot with
lace, velvet, and embroidery, stopped before a small house in the town
or city of Williamsburg, the capital of Virginia.

Negligently delivering his bridle into the hands of a diminutive
negro, the young man entered the open door, ascended a flight of
stairs which led to two or three small rooms above, and turning the
knob, attempted to enter the room opening upon the street.

The door opened a few inches, and then was suddenly closed by a heavy
body thrown against it.

"Back!" cried a careless and jovial voice, "back! base proctor--this
is my castle."

"Open! open!" cried the visitor.

"Never!" replied the voice.

The visitor kicked the door, to the great damage of his Spanish shoes.

"Beware!" cried the hidden voice; "I am armed to the teeth, and rather
than be captured I will die in defence of my rights--namely, liberty,
property, and the pursuit of happiness under difficulties."

"Tom! you are mad."

"What! that voice? not the proctor's!"

"No, no," cried the visitor, kicking again; "Jacquelin's."

"Ah, ah!"

And with these ejaculations the inmate of the chamber was heard
drawing back a table, then the butt of a gun sounded upon the floor,
and the door opened.

The young man who had asserted his inalienable natural rights with so
much fervor was scarcely twenty--at least he had not reached his
majority. He was richly clad, with the exception of an old faded
dressing gown, which fell gracefully like a Roman toga around his
legs; and his face was full of intelligence and careless, somewhat
cynical humor. The features were hard and pointed, the mouth large,
the hair sandy with a tinge of red.

"Ah, my dear forlorn lover!" he cried, grasping his visitor's hand, "I
thought you were that rascally proctor, and was really preparing for a
hand-to-hand conflict, to the death."

"Indeed!"

"Yes, sir! could I expect anything else, from the way you turned my
knob? You puzzled me."

"So I see," said his visitor; "you had your gun, and were evidently
afraid."

"Afraid? Never!"

"Afraid of your shadow!"

"At least I never would have betrayed fear had I seen you!" retorted
the occupant of the chamber. "You are so much in love that a fly need
not be afraid of you. Poor Jacquelin! poor melancholy Jacques! a
feather would knock you down."

The melancholy Jacques sat down sighing.

"The fact is, my dear fellow," he said, "I am the victim of
misfortune: but who complains? I don't, especially to you, you great
lubber, shut up here in your den, and with no hope or fear on earth,
beyond pardon of your sins of commission at the college, and dread of
the proctor's grasp! You are living a dead life, while I--ah! don't
speak of it. What were you reading?"

"That deplorable Latin song. Salve your ill-humor with it!"

And he handed his visitor, by this time stretched carelessly upon a
lounge, the open volume. He read:

     "Orientis partibus
     Adventavit asinus,
     Pulcher et fortissimus,
     Sarcinis aptissimus.

     "Hez, sire asne, car chantez
     Belle bouche rechignez,
     Vous aurez du foin assez,
     Et de l'avoine a plantez."

"Good," said the visitor satirically; "that suits you--except it
should be '_occidentis_ partibus:' our Sir Asinus comes from the west.
And by my faith, I think I will in future dub you _Sir Asinus_, in
revenge for calling me--me, the most cheerful of light-hearted
mortals--the 'melancholy Jacques.'"

"Come, come!" said the gentleman threatened with this sobriquet,
"that's too bad, Jacques."

"_Jacques!_ You persist in calling me _Jacques_, just as you persist
in calling Belinda, _Campana in die_--_Bell in day_. What a deplorable
witticism! I could find a better in a moment. Stay," he added, "I have
discovered it already."

"What is it, pray, most sapient Jacques?"

"Listen, most long-eared Sir Asinus."

And the young man read once again;

     "Hez, sire asne, car chantez,
     BELLE BOUCHE rechignez;
     Vous aurez du foin assez,
     Et de l'avoine a plantez."

"Well," said his friend, "now that you have mangled that French with
your wretched pronunciation, please explain how my lovely
Belinda--come, don't sigh and scowl because I say 'my,' for you know
it's all settled--tell me where in these lines you find her name."

"In the second," sighed Jacques.

"Oh yes!--bah!"

"There you are sneering. You make a miserable Latin pun, by which you
translate Belinda into _Campana in die_--Bell in day--and when I
improve your idea, making it really good, you sneer."

"Really, now!--well, I don't say!"

"Belle-bouche! Could any thing be finer? 'Pretty-mouth!' And then the
play upon _Bel_, in Belinda, by the word _Belle_. Positively, I will
in future call her nothing else. Belle-bouche--pretty-mouth! Ah!"

And the unfortunate lover stretched languidly upon the lounge, studied
the ceiling, and sighed piteously.

His friend burst into a roar of laughter. Jacques--for let us adopt
the sobriquets all round--turned negligently and said:

"Pray what are you braying at, Sir Asinus?"

"At your sighs."

"Did I sigh?"

"Yes, portentously!"

"I think you are mistaken."

"No!"

"I never sigh."

And the melancholy Jacques uttered a sigh which was enough to shatter
all his bulk.

The consequence was that Sir Asinus burst into a second roar of
laughter louder than before, and said:

"Come, my dear Jacques, unbosom! You have been to see----"

"Belle-bouche--Belle-bouche: but I am not in love with her."

"Oh no--of course not," said his friend, laughing ironically.

Jacques sighed.

"She don't like me," he said forlornly.

"She's very fond of me though," said his friend. "Only yesterday--but
I am mad to be talking about it."

With which words Sir Asinus turned away his head to hide his
mischievous and triumphant smile.

Poor Jacques looked more forlorn than ever; which circumstance seemed
to afford his friend extreme delight.

"Why not pay your addresses to Philippa, Jacques my boy?" he said
satirically; "there's no chance for you with Belle-bouche, as you call
her."

"Philippa? No, no!" sighed Jacques; "she's too brilliant."

"For you?"

"Even for me--me, the prince of wits, and coryphæus of coxcombs: yes,
yes!"

And the melancholy Jacques sighed again, and looked around him with
the air of a man whose last hope on earth has left him.

His friend chokes down a laugh; and stretching himself in the bright
spring sunshine pouring through the window, says with a smile:

"Come, make a clean breast of it, old fellow. You were there to-day?"

"Yes, yes."

"Have a pleasant time?"

"Can't say I did."

"Were there any visitors?"

"A dozen--you understand the description of visitors."

"No; what sort?"

"Fops in embryo, and aspirants after wit-laurels."

"It is well you went--they must have been thrown in the shade. For
you, my dear Jacques, are undeniably the most perfect fop, and the
greatest wit--in your own opinion--of this pleasant village of
Devilsburg."

"No, no," replied his companion with well-affected modesty; "I a fop!
I a pretender to wit? No, no, my dear Sir Asinus, you do me injustice:
I am the simplest of mortals, and a very child of innocence. But I was
speaking of Shadynook and the fairies of that domain. Never have I
seen Belinda, or rather Belle-bouche, so lovely, and I here
disdainfully repel your ridiculous calumny that she's in love with
you, you great lump of presumption and overweening self-conceit!
Philippa too was a pastoral queen--in silk and jewels--and around them
they had gathered together a troop of shepherds from the adjoining
grammar-school, called William and Mary College, of which I am an
aspiring bachelor, and you were an ornament before your religious
opinions caught from Fauquier drove you away like a truant school-boy.
The shepherds were as usual very ridiculous, and I had no opportunity
to whisper so much as a single word into my dear Belle-bouche's ear.
Ah! how lovely she looked! By heaven, I'll go to-morrow and request
her to designate some form of death for me to die--all for her sake!"

With which words the forlorn Jacques gazed languidly through the
window.

At the same moment a bell was heard ringing in the direction of the
College; and yawning first luxuriously, the young man rose.

"Lecture, by Jove!" he said.

"And you, unfortunate victim, must attend," said his companion.

"Yes. You remain here?"

"To the end."

"Still resisting?"

"To the death!"

"Very well," said Jacques, putting on his cocked hat, which was
ornamented with a magnificent feather. "I half envy you; but duty
calls--I must go."

"If you see Ned Carter, or Tom Randolph of Tuckahoe, tell them to come
round."

"To comfort you? Poor unfortunate prisoner!"

"No, most sapient Jacques: fortunately I do not need comfort as you
do."

"I want comfort?"

"Yes; there you are sighing: that 'heigho!' was dreadful."

"Scoffer!"

"No; I am your rival."

"Very well; I warn you that I intend to push the siege; take care of
your interests."

"I'm not afraid."

"I am going to see Belle-bouche again to-morrow.

"Faith, I'll be there, then."

"Good; war is opened then--the glove thrown?"

"War to the death! Good-by, publican!"

"Farewell, sinner!"

And with these words the melancholy Jacques departed.



CHAPTER II.

JACQUES SHOWS THE ADVANTAGE OF BEING LED CAPTIVE BY A CROOK.


It was a delicious day, such a day as the month of flowers alone can
bring into the world, and all nature seemed to be rejoicing. The peach
and cherry blossoms shone like snow upon the budding trees, the oriole
shot from elm to elm, a ball of fire against a background of blue and
emerald, and from every side came the murmuring flow of streamlets,
dancing in the sun and filling the whole landscape with their joyous
music.

May reigned supreme--a tender blue-eyed maiden, treading upon a carpet
of young grass with flowers in their natural colors; and nowhere were
her smiles softer or more bright than there at Shadynook, which looks
still on the noble river flowing to the sea, and on the distant town
of Williamsburg, from which light clouds of smoke curl upward and are
lost in the far-reaching azure.

Shadynook was one of those old hip-roofed houses which the traveller
of to-day meets with so frequently, scattered throughout Virginia,
crowning every knoll and giving character to every landscape. Before
the house stretched a green lawn bounded by a low fence; and in the
rear a garden full of flowers and blossoming fruit trees made the
surrounding air faint with the odorous breath of Spring.

Over the old house, whose dormer windows were wreathed with the mosses
of age, stretched the wide arms of two noble elms; and the whole
homestead had about it an air of home comfort, and a quiet, happy
repose, which made many a wayfarer from far countries sigh, as he
gazed on it, embowered in its verdurous grove.

In the garden is an arbor, over which flowering vines of every
description hover and bloom, full of the wine of spring. Around the
arbor extend flower plats carefully tended and fragrant with violets,
crocuses, and early primroses. Foliage of the light tender tint of May
clothes the background, and looking from the arbor you clearly discern
the distant barn rising above the trees.

In this arbor sits or rather reclines a young girl--for she has
stretched herself upon the trellised seat, with a languid and careless
ease, which betrays total abandon--an abandon engendered probably by
the warm languid air of May, and those million flowers burdening the
air with perfume.

This is Miss Belle-bouche, whom we have heard the melancholy Jacques
discourse of with such forlorn eloquence to his friend Tom, or Sir
Asinus, as the reader pleases.

Belle-bouche, Pretty-mouth, Belinda, or Rebecca--for this last was the
name given her by her sponsors--is a young girl of about seventeen,
and of a beauty so fresh and rare that the enthusiasm of Jacques was
scarcely strange. The girl has about her the freshness and innocence
of childhood, the grace and elegance of the inhabitants of that realm
of fairies which we read of in the olden poets--all the warmth, and
reality, and beauty of those lovelier fairies of our earth. Around her
delicate brow and rosy cheeks fall myriads of golden "drop curls,"
which veil the deep-blue eyes, half closed and fixed upon the open
volume in her hand. Belle-bouche is very richly clad, in a velvet
gown, a satin underskirt from which the gown is looped back, wide
cuffs and profuse lace at wrists and neck; and on her diminutive feet,
which peep from the skirt, are red morocco shoes tied with bows of
ribbon, and adorned with heels not more than three inches in height.
Her hair is powdered and woven with pearls--she wears a pearl
necklace; she looks like a child dressed by its mother for a ball, and
spoiled long ago by "petting."

Belle-bouche reads the "Althea" of Lovelace, and smiles approvingly at
the gallant poet's assertion, that the birds of the air know no such
liberty as he does, fettered by her eyes and hair. It is the fashion
for Lovelaces to make such declarations, and with a coquettish little
movement she puts back the drop curls, and raises her blue eyes to the
sky from which they have stolen their hue.

She remains for some moments is this reverie, and is not aware of the
approach of a gallant Lovelace, who, hat in hand, the feather of the
said hat trailing on the ground, draws near.

Who is this gallant but our friend of one day's standing, the
handsome, the smiling, the forlorn, the melancholy--and, being
melancholy, the interesting--Jacques.

He approaches smiling, modest, humble--a consummate strategist; his
ambrosial curls and powdered queue tied with its orange ribbon,
shining in the sun. He wears a suit of cut velvet with gold buttons; a
flowered satin waistcoat reaching to his knees; scarlet silk
stockings, and high-heeled worsted shoes. His cuffs would enter a
barrel with difficulty, and his chin reposes upon a frill of
irreproachable Mechlin lace.

Jacques finds the eyes suddenly turned upon him, and bows low. Then he
approaches, falls upon one knee, and presses his lips gallantly to the
hand of the little beauty, who smiling carelessly rises in a measure
from her recumbent position.

"Do I find the fair Belinda reading?" says the gallant; "what blessed
book is made happy by the light of her eyes?"

Which remarkable words, we must beg the reader to remember, were after
the fashion of the time and scarcely more than commonplace. The fairer
portion of humanity had even then perfected that sovereignty over the
males which in our own day is so very observable. So, instead of
replying in a tone indicating surprise, the little beauty answers
quite simply:

"My favorite--Lovelace."

Jacques heaves a sigh; for the music of the voice has touched his
heart--nay, overwhelmed it with a new flood of love.

He dangles his bonnet and plume, and carefully arranges a drop curl.
He, the prince of wits, the ornament of ball rooms, the star of the
minuet and reel, is suddenly quite dumb, and seems to seek for a
subject to discourse upon in surrounding objects.

A happy idea strikes him; a thought occurs to him; he grasps at it
with the desperation of a drowning man. He says:

"'Tis a charming day, fairest Belle-bouche--Belinda, I mean. Ah,
pardon my awkwardness!"

And the unhappy Corydon betrays by his confusion how much this slip of
the tongue has embarrassed him--at least, that he wishes her to think
so.

The little beauty smiles faintly, and bending a fatal languishing
glance upon her admirer, says:

"You called me--what was it?"

"Ah, pardon me."

"Oh certainly!--but please say what you called me."

"How can I?"

"By telling me," says the beauty philosophically.

"Must I?" says Jacques, reflecting that after all his offence was not
so dreadful.

"If you please."

"I said Belle-bouche."

"Ah! that is----?"

"Pretty-mouth," says Lovelace, with the air of a man who is caught
feloniously appropriating sheep; but unable to refrain from bending
wistful looks upon the topic of his discourse.

Belle-bouche laughs with a delicious good humor, and Jacques takes
heart again.

"Is that all?" she says; "but what a pretty name!"

"Do you like it, really?" asks the forlorn lover.

"Indeed I do."

"And may I call you Belle-bouche?"

"If you please."

Jacques feels his heart oppressed with its weight of love. He sighs.
This manoeuvre is greeted with a little laugh.

"Oh, that was a dreadful heigho!" she says; "you must be in love."

"I am," he says, "desperately."

A slight color comes to her bright cheek, for it is impossible to
misunderstand his eloquent glance.

"Are you?" she says; "but that is wrong. Fie on't! Was ever Corydon
really in love with his Chloe--or are his affections always confined
to the fluttering ribbons, and the crook, wreathed with flowers, which
make her a pleasant object only, like a picture?"

Jacques sighs.

"I am not a Corydon," he says, "much less have I a Chloe--at least,
who treats me as Chloes should treat their faithful shepherds. My
Chloe runs away when I approach, and her crook turns into a shadow
which I grasp in vain at. The shepherdess has escaped!"

"It is well she don't beat you," says the lovely girl, smiling.

"Beat me!"

"With her crook."

"Ah! I ask nothing better than to excite some emotion in her tender
heart more lively than indifference. Perhaps were she to hate me a
little, and consequently beat me, as you have said, she might end by
drawing me towards her with her flowery crook."

The young girl laughs.

"Would you follow?"

"Ah, yes--for who knows----?"

He pauses, smiling wistfully.

"Ah, finish--finish! I know 'tis something pretty by the manner in
which you smile," she says, laughing.

"Who knows, I would say, but in following her, fairest
Belle-bouche--may I call you Belle-bouche?"

"Oh yes, if you please--if you think it suits me."

And she pours the full light of her eyes and smiles upon him, until he
looks down, blinded.

"Pity, pity," he murmurs, "pity, dearest Miss Belle-bouche----"

She pretends not to hear, but, turning away with a blush at that word
"dearest," says, with an attempt at a laugh:

"You have not told me why you would wish your Chloe to draw you after
her with her crook."

"Because we should pass through the groves----"

"Well."

"And I should wrap her in my cloak, to protect her from the boughs and
thorns."

"Would you?"

"Ah, yes! And then we should cross the beautiful meadows and the
flowery knolls----"

"Very well, sir."

"And I should gather flowers for her, and kneeling to present them,
would approach near enough to kiss her hand----"

"Oh goodness!"

"And finally, fairest Belle-bouche, we should cross the bright streams
on the pretty sylvan bridges----"

"Yes, sir."

"And most probably she would grow giddy; and I should take her in my
arms, and holding her on my faithful bosom----"

Jacques opens his arms as though he would really clasp the fair
shepherdess, who, half risen, with her golden curls mingled with the
flowers, her cheeks the color of her red fluttering ribbons, seeks to
escape the declaration which her lover is about to make.

"Oh, no! no!" she says.

He draws back despairingly, and at the same moment hears a merry voice
come singing down the blossom-fretted walk, upon which millions of the
snowy leaves have fallen.

"One more chance gone!" the melancholy Jacques murmurs; and turning,
he bows to the new comer--the fair Philippa.



CHAPTER III.

AN HEIRESS WHO WISHES TO BECOME A MAN.


Philippa is a lady of nineteen or twenty, with the air of a duchess
and the walk of an antelope. Her brilliant eyes, as black as night,
and as clear as a sunny stream, are full of life, vivacity and
mischief; she seems to be laughing at life, and love, and gallantry,
and all the complimentary nothings of society, from the height of her
superior intellect, and with undazzled eyes. She is clad even more
richly than Belle-bouche, for Philippa is an heiress--the mistress of
untold farms--or plantations as they then said;--miles of James River
"low grounds" and uncounted Africans. Like the Duke of Burgundy's, her
sovereignty is acknowledged in three languages--the English, the
African or Moorish, and the Indian: for the Indian settlement on the
south side calls her mistress, and sends to her for blankets in the
winter. In the summer it is not necessary to ask for the produce of
her estate, such as they desire--they appropriate it.

Philippa is a cousin of Belle-bouche; and Belle-bouche is the niece of
Aunt Wimple, who is mistress of the Shadynook domain. Philippa has
guardians, but it cannot be said they direct her movements. They have
given up that task in despair, some years since, and only hope that
from the numerous cormorants always hovering around her, she may
select one not wholly insatiable--with some craw of mercy.

"There, you are talking about flowers, I lay a wager," she says,
returning the bow of Jacques, and laughing.

"I was speaking neither of yourself nor the fair Belinda," replies
Jacques, with melancholy gallantry.

"There! please have done with compliments--I detest them."

"You detest every thing insincere, I know, charming Philippa--pardon
me, but your beautiful name betrays me constantly. Is it not--like
your voice--stolen from poetry or music?"

"Ah, sir, you are insufferable."

"Pardon, pardon--but in this beautiful and fair season, so full of
flowers----"

"You think it necessary to employ flowers of speech: that is what you
were going to say, but for heaven's sake have done."

Jacques bows.

"I have just discarded the twentieth, Bel," she adds, laughing; "he
got on his knees."

And Philippa laughs heartily.

Jacques is used to his companion's manner of talking, and says:

"Who was it, pray, madam--Mowbray?"

A flush passes over Philippa's face, and she looks away, murmuring
"No!"

"I won't go over the list of your admirers," continues Jacques, sadly,
"they are too numerous; for who can wonder at such a fairy face as
yours attracting crowds of lovers?"

"My fairy face? Yes, and my unhappy wealth, sir. I wish I was poor! I
can never know when I am loved truly. Oh, to know that!"

And a shadow passes over the face, obliterating the satire, and
veiling the brilliant eyes. Then with an effort Philippa drives away
her preoccupation, and says:

"I wish Heaven had made me a man!"

"A man?" says Jacques.

"Yes, sir."

"Pray why? Is there any young lady you would like to marry? Ah," he
murmurs, "you need not go far if that is the case."

And he glances tenderly at Belle-bouche, who smiles and blushes.

"I wish to be a man, that my movements may not be restricted. There is
my guardian, who murmurs at my travelling about from county to county
with only Jugurtha to drive me--as if Jugurtha couldn't protect me if
there were any highwaymen or robbers."

Jacques laughs.

"But there are disadvantages connected with manhood," he says. "You
are ignorant of them, and so think them slight."

"The prominent ones, if you please."

"You would have to make love--the active instead of passive, as at
present."

"I would enjoy it."

"How would you commence, pray?"

"Oh, easily--see now. I would say,'My dear Bel! I am at your service!
If _you_ love _me_, _I'll_ love _you_!' And then with a low bow I
would kiss her hand, and her lips too, if she would permit me."

Jacques sighs.

"Do you think that would succeed, however?" he says.

"I don't know, and I don't care--I'd try."

Jacques sighs again, and looks wistfully at Belle-bouche, who smiles.

"I'm afraid such a cavalier address--at the pistol's mouth as it
were--at forty paces--like those highwaymen you spoke of but
now--would only insure failure."

"You are mistaken."

"I doubt the propriety of such a 'making love.'"

"If I were a man, you would see my success. I'd have any woman for the
asking."

"Well, fancy yourself a man."

"And who will be my lady-love?"

"Fancy my sex changed also--make love to me, my charming Madam
Philippa."

"Forsooth! But I could win your heart easily."

"How, pray," says Jacques, sighing, "granting first that 'tis in my
possession?"

"By two simple things."

"To wit?"

"I would talk to you of flowers and shepherdesses, and crooks and
garlands----"

"Oh!"

"And I would adopt, if I had not naturally, that frank, languid,
graceful, fatal air which--which--shall I finish?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Which Bel has! What a beautiful blush!"

And Philippa claps her hands.

Jacques tries very hard not to color, thus forfeiting all his
pretensions to the character of a self-possessed man of the world and
elegant coxcomb; but this is equally forlorn with his attempt not to
observe the mischievous glance and satirical lip of the fair Philippa.

He seeks in vain for a word--a jest--a reply.

Fortune favors him. A maid from the house approaches Philippa, and
says:

"Mr. Mowbray, ma'am."

A blush, deeper than that upon the face of Jacques, mantles Philippa's
cheeks as she replies:

"Say I am coming."

"Before you go," says Jacques with odious triumph, "permit me to say,
Madam Philippa, that I begin to see some of the advantages you might
enjoy were you a man."

"What are they, pray--more than I have mentioned?" she says coolly.

"You might have more liberty."

"I said as much."

"You might go and see your friends."

"You repeat my words, sir."

"Yes--you might even go and see us at college; listen to my
philosophical discussions after lecture; and take part in Mowbray's
merry jests--an excellent friend of yours, I think."

Philippa looks at him for a moment, hesitating whether she shall stay
and take her revenge. She decides to go in, however; and Jacques and
Belle-bouche follow. We are bound to say that the proposition did not
come from Jacques.



CHAPTER IV.

A POOR YOUNG MAN, AND A RICH YOUNG GIRL.


In the drawing-room sat a gentleman turning over the leaves of a book.

The apartment was decorated after the usual fashion of the olden time.
On the floor was a rich carpet from Antwerp, in the corner a japanned
cabinet; everywhere crooked-legged tables and carved chairs obstructed
the floor, and on the threshold a lap-dog snapped at the flies in his
dreams. Besides, there were portraits of powdered dames, and hideous
china ornaments on the tall narrow mantlepiece; and an embroidered
screen in the recess next the fireplace described with silent
eloquence the life of Arcady.

Mowbray was a young man of twenty-five or six, with a high pale
forehead, dark eyes full of thoughtful intelligence; and his dress was
rather that of a student than a man of the world. It was plain and
simple, and all the colors were subdued. He was a man for a woman to
listen to, rather than laugh with. His manner was calm, perfectly
self-possessed, and his mind seemed to be dwelling upon one dominant
idea.

"Good morning, sir," said Philippa, inclining her head indifferently;
"we have a very pleasant day."

Mowbray rose and bowed calmly.

"Yes, madam," he said; "my ride was quite agreeable."

"Any news, sir?"

"None, except a confirmation of those designs of the ministry which
are now causing so much discussion."

"What designs?"

A faint smile passed over Mowbray's calm face.

"Are you quite sure that politics will amuse you?" he said.

"Amuse? no, sir. But you seem to have fallen into the fashionable
error, that ladies only require amusement."

He shook his head.

"You do me injustice," he said; "no man has so high an opinion of your
sex, madam, as I have."

"I doubt it--you deceive yourself."

"Excuse me, but I do not."

"You are one of the lords of creation," said Philippa satirically.

"A very poor lord," he replied calmly.

"Are you poor?" asked Philippa as coolly.

"Yes, madam."

"But you design being rich some day?"

"Yes, madam, if my brain serves me."

"You aspire perhaps to his Majesty's council?"

"No, madam," he replied, with perfect coolness; "were I in public
life, I should most probably be in the opposition."

"A better opening."

"No; but better for one who holds my opinions--better for the
conscience."

"And for the purse?"

"I know not. If you mean that public life holds out pecuniary rewards,
I think you are mistaken."

"Then you will not become rich by politics?"

"I think, madam, that there is little chance of that."

"Still you would wish to be wealthy?"

"Yes, madam."

"You are fond of luxury?"

"Yes, madam."

"Horses, wines, carriages?"

"Excuse me--no."

"What then?"

"The luxury of seeing my orphan sister surrounded with every comfort."

A flush passed over Philippa's face, and she turned away; but she was
not satisfied.

"There is a very plain and easy way to arrive at wealth, sir," she
said; "law is so slow."

"Please indicate it."

"Marry an heiress."

There was a silence after these words; and Philippa could scarcely
sustain the clear fixed look which he bent upon her face.

"Is that your advice, madam?" he said coldly. "I thank you for it."

His tone piqued her.

"Then follow it," she said.

"Excuse me again."

"Is it not friendly?"

"Possibly, but not to my taste."

"Why, sir?"

"First, because the course you suggest is not very honorable;
secondly, and in another aspect, it is very disgraceful; again, it is
too expensive, if I may be permitted to utter what seems to be, but is
not, a very rude and cynical speech."

"Not honorable--disgraceful--too expensive! Indeed! Why, sir, you at
once exclude heiresses from matrimony."

"Not so, madam."

"Not honorable!"

"I think it is not honorable to acquire wealth, for the best purpose
in the world, by giving the hand and not the heart."

"The hand and the heart!--who speaks of heart in these days? But you
say it is even disgraceful to marry an heiress."

"Not at all; but if a man does not love a woman, is it not disgraceful
in the full sense of that word, madam, to unite himself to her, or
rather to her money bags, only that he may procure the means of living
in luxury, and gratifying his expensive tastes and vices?"

"If he does not _love_ her, you say. _Love!_ that is a very pretty
word, and rhymes, I believe, to _dove_! Well, sir, you have endeavored
to establish your point by the aid of two delightful phrases, 'the
hand and not the _heart_'--'the man who does not _love_ a
woman'--beautiful words, only I don't believe in them. Now be good
enough to explain your third point:--how is it too 'expensive' to
marry a wealthy woman? I know you gentlemen at the college are
inveterate logicians, and find little difficulty in proving that twice
two's five, and that black is irreproachable white--that fire is
cold--ice, hot--smoke, heavy--and lead light as thistle-down. Still I
imagine you will find it difficult to show that 'tis _expensive_ to
marry, let us say, fifty thousand pounds a year!"

Mowbray looked at her face a moment, and sighed; a great hope seemed
to be leaving him; when he spoke, it was with manifest repugnance.

"Let us dismiss this singular subject, madam," he said calmly; "I
spoke too thoughtlessly. See that lovely humming-bird around the
honeysuckle, searching in vain for honey."

"As I do for your reasons, sir," said Philippa curtly.

"My reasons?"

"You refuse to explain----"

"Well, well--I see you will compel me to speak. Well, madam, my
meaning is very simple. When I say that it is too 'expensive' to unite
oneself to a woman solely because that woman has for her portion a
great fortune, a large income, every luxury and elegance to endow her
husband with--I mean simply that if this woman be uncongenial, if her
husband care nothing for her, only her fortune, then that he will
necessarily be unhappy, and that unhappiness is cheaply bought with
millions. Money only goes a certain way--tell me when it bought a
heart! Mine, madam, it will never buy at least--if you will permit me
to utter a sentence in such bad taste. And now let us abandon this
discussion, which leads us into such serious moods."

She turned away, and looked through the window.

Two birds were playfully contending in the air, and filling the groves
with their joyous carolling.

"How free they are!" she murmured.

"The birds? Yes, madam, they live in delightful liberty, as we of
America will, I trust, some day."

"I wonder if they're married," said Philippa laughing, and refusing to
enter upon the wrongs of England toward the colonies; "they are
fighting, I believe, and thus I presume they are united in
marriage--by some parson Crow!"

Mowbray only smiled slightly, and looked at his watch.

"What! not going!" cried Philippa.

"Pardon," he said; "I just rode out for an hour. We have a lecture in
half an hour."

"And you prefer the excellent Dr. Small or some other reverend
gentleman to myself--the collegiate to the sylvan, the male to the
female lecturer?"

He smiled wearily.

"Our duties are becoming more exacting," he said; "the examination is
approaching."

"I should suppose so--you have not been to see me for a whole week."

A flush passed over Mowbray's brow; then it became as pale as before.

"Our acquaintance has not been an extended one," he said; "I could not
intrude upon your society."

"Intrude!"

And abandoning completely her laughing cynical manner, Philippa gave
him a look which made him tremble. Why was that excitement? Because he
thought he had fathomed her; because he had convinced himself that she
was a coquette, amusing herself at his expense; because he saw all his
dreams, his illusions, his hopes pass away with the fleeting minutes.
He replied simply:

"Yes, madam--even now I fear I am trespassing upon your time; you
probably await my departure to betake yourself to your morning's
amusement. I was foolish enough to imagine that I had not completely
lost my powers of conversation, buried as I have been in books. I
was mistaken--I no longer jest--I am a poor companion. Then," he
added, "we are so uncongenial--at least this morning. I will come some
day when I am gay, and you sad--then we shall probably approximate in
_mood_, and until then farewell."

She would have detained him; "Don't go!" was on her lips; but at the
moment when Mowbray bowed low, a shout of laughter was heard in the
passage, and three persons entered--Jacques, Belle-bouche, and Sir
Asinus.



CHAPTER V.

IN WHICH SIR ASINUS MAKES AS IGNOMINIOUS RETREAT.


Sir Asinus was apparently in high spirits, and smoothed the nap of his
cocked hat with his sleeve--the said sleeve being of Mecklenburg
silk--in a way which indicated the summit of felicity.

He seemed to inhale the May morning joyously after his late
imprisonment; and he betook himself immediately to paying assiduous
court to Miss Belle-bouche, who, the sooth to say, did not seem
ill-disposed to get rid of Jacques.

Poor Jacques, therefore, made an unsuccessful attempt to engage
Philippa in conversation. This failing--for Philippa was watching
Mowbray disappearing toward Williamsburg--the melancholy Jacques made
friends with the lap-dog, who at first was propitious, but ended by
snapping at his fingers.

"A delightful day, my dear madam," he said to Philippa, once more
endeavoring to open an account current of conversation.

Philippa, with bent brows, made no reply.

"The birds are having a charming time, it seems."

Poor Jacques! Philippa is buried in thought, and with her eyes fixed
on the receding horseman, does not hear him.

"You seem preoccupied, madam," he said.

"Yes, a charming day, sir," she said, rising; "did you say it was
pleasant? I agree with you. If I dared!" she added to herself, "if I
only dared! But what do I not dare!"

And she abruptly left the room, to the profound astonishment of
Jacques, who sat gazing after her with wide-extended eyes.

"I told you he was in love with her, my dear Miss Belle-bouche, since
you say that will in future be your name--it is either with you or
Madam Philippa."

These words were uttered in a confidential whisper to Belle-bouche by
Sir Asinus, who was leaning forward gracefully in a tall carven-backed
chair toward his companion, who reposed luxuriously upon an ottoman
covered with damask, and ornamented _quoad_ the legs with satyr heads.

Belle-bouche suffered her glance to follow that of her companion.
Jacques was indeed, as we have said, gazing after the lady who had
just departed, and for this purpose had opened his eyes to their
greatest possible width. He resembled a china mandarin in the costume
of Louis Quatorze.

"Am I mistaken?" said Sir Asinus.

Belle-bouche sighed.

"A plain case: he is even now saying to himself, my dear Miss
Belle-bouche,

     'Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus
     Jam cari capitis----'

which means, 'How can I make up my mind to see you go up stairs?'"

Belle-bouche cast a tender glance at Jacques. Sir Asinus continued:

"Yes, yes, I see you pity him. But you should pity me."

"Why?"

"Your watch-paper--you remember; the one which you cut for me?"

"Yes."

"Well, last night I placed my watch on my window--before retiring, you
know; and in the night," continued Sir Asinus, "it commenced
raining----"

"That was last night?"

"Yes, Madam Belle-bouche. Well, the roof leaked, and presto! when I
rose I found my watch swimming in water--your watch-paper all soaked
and torn--that is to say, my fingers tore it; and a dozen minuets I
had bought for you shared the same fate, not to mention my
jemmy-worked garters! My ill luck was complete--_me miserum_!"

"Was it at college?"

"Oh no," said Sir Asinus; "you know I am temporarily absent from the
_Alma Mater_."

"Indeed!"

"Yes. I have taken up my residence in town--in Gloucester street,
where I am always happy to see my friends. Just imagine a man
persecuted by the professors of the great University of William and
Mary for the reason I was."

"What was it?"

"Because I uttered some heresies. I said the Established Church was a
farce, and that women, contrary to the philosophy of antiquity, really
had souls. The great Doctor could pardon my fling at the church; but
being an old woman himself, could not pardon my even seeming to revive
the discussion of the heresy in relation to your sex. What was the
consequence? I had to flee--the enemy went about to destroy me; behold
me now the denizen of a second floor in old Mother Bobbery's house,
Gloucester street, city of Williamsburg."

"Rusticating you call it, I think," says Belle-bouche, smiling
languidly, and raising her brow to catch the faint May breeze which
moves her curls.

"Yes; rusticating is the very word--derived from _rus_, a Latin word
signifying _main street_, and _tike_, a Greek word meaning to _live in
bachelor freedom_. It applies to me exactly, you see. I live in
bachelor freedom on Gloucester street, and I only want a wife to make
my happiness complete."

Belle-bouche smiles.

"You are then dissatisfied?" she says.

"Yes," sighs Sir Asinus; "yes, in spite of my pipes and books and
pictures, and all appliances and means to boot for happiness, I am
lonely. Now suppose I had a charming little wife--a paragon of a wife,
with blue eyes and golden curls, and a sweet languishing air, to chat
with in the long days and gloomy evenings!"

Belle-bouche recognises her portrait, and smiles.

Sir Asinus continues:

"Not only would I be happier, but more at my ease. To tell you the
humiliating truth, my dear Miss Belle-bouche, I am in hourly fear of
being arrested."

"Would a wife prevent that?"

"Certainly. What base proctor would dare lay hands upon a married man?
But this all disappears like a vision--it is a dream: _fuit Ilium,
ingens gloria Teucrorumque_; which means, 'Mrs. Tom is still in a
state of single blessedness,' that being the literal translation of
the Hebrew."

And Sir Asinus smiles; and seeing Jacques approach, looks at him
triumphantly.

Jacques has just been bitten by the lap dog; and this, added to his
melancholy and jealousy, causes him to feel desolate.

"Pardon my interrupting your pleasant conversation," he says.

"Oh, no interruption!" says Sir Asinus triumphantly.

"But I thought I'd mention----

"Speak out, speak out!" says Sir Asinus, shaking with laughter, and
assuming a generous and noble air.

"I observed through the window a visitor, fairest Belinda."

"Ah! I was so closely engaged," says Sir Asinus, "like a knight of the
middle ages, I thought only of my 'ladye faire.' Nothing can move me
from her side!"

"Indeed?" says Jacques.

"Nothing!"

"Well, well, at least I have not counselled such desertion on your
part. The visitor at the gate there is Doctor Small from college. I
only thought I'd mention it!"

Like an electric shock dart the words of Jacques through the frame of
the chivalric Sir Asinus. He starts to his feet--gazes around him
despairingly, seeking a place of refuge.

The step of worthy Doctor Small is heard upon the portico; Sir Asinus
quakes.

"Are you unwell, my dear friend?" asks Jacques with melancholy
interest.

"I am--really--come, Jacques!" stammers Sir Asinus.

"Are you indisposed?"

"To meet the Doctor? I rather think I am. Mercy! mercy! dear _Campana
in die_," cries the knight; "hide me! hide me!--up stairs, down
stairs--any where!"

The footstep sounded in the passage.

Belle-bouche laughed with that musical contagious merriment which
characterized her.

"But what shall we say?" she asks; "I can't tell the Doctor you are
not here."

"Then I must go. Can I escape? Oh heavens! there is his shadow on the
floor! Jacques, my boy, protect my memory--I must retire!"

And Sir Asinus rushed through the open door leading into the adjoining
room, just as Doctor Small entered with his benevolent smile and
courteous inclination.

He had been informed in town, he said, that his young friend Thomas,
withdrawn now some days from college, was at Shadynook; and taking
advantage of his acquaintance with Mrs. Wimple, and he was happy to
add with Miss Rebecca, he had come to find and have some friendly
conversation with Thomas. Had he been at Shadynook, or was he
misinformed?

The reply was easy. Sir Asinus had disappeared through a door leading
into the garden some moments before, and Belle-bouche could reply most
truthfully--as she did--that the truant _had_ visited her that
morning, but was gone.

The worthy Doctor smiled, and said no more.

He exchanged a few words on the pleasant weather--smiled benevolently
on the young girl--and with a sly glance asked Jacques if he designed
attending lecture that morning.

The melancholy Jacques hesitated: a look from Belle-bouche would have
caused him to reply that he regretted exceedingly his inability to
honor his Alma Mater on that particular occasion; but unfortunately
the young girl said nothing. Was she afraid of a second private
interview, wherein the subject should be crooks and shepherdesses,
and the hopes of Corydons? At all events, Belle-bouche played with her
lace cuff, and her countenance wore nothing more than its habitual
faint smile.

Jacques heaved a sigh, and said he believed he ought to go.

The Doctor rose, and pressing Belle-bouche's hand, kindly took his
leave--followed by Jacques, who cast a last longing, lingering look
behind.

As for Sir Asinus, we regret to speak of him. Where were now all his
chivalric thoughts--his noble resolutions--his courage and devotion to
his lady fair? Alas! humanity is weak: we are compelled to say that
the heroic knight, the ardent lover, the iron-hearted rebel, suddenly
changed his device, and took for his crest a lion no longer, only a
hare.

From the back room he emerged into the garden, quaking at every sound;
once in the garden, he stole ignominiously along the hedge; then he
sallied forth into the road; then he mounted his horse, and fled like
the wind.



CHAPTER VI.

HOW SIR ASINUS STAKED HIS GARTERS AGAINST A PISTOLE, AND LOST.


Sir Asinus fled like the wild huntsman, although there was this slight
difference between the feelings of the two characters:--the German
myth was himself the pursuer, whereas Sir Asinus imagined himself
pursued.

He looked around anxiously from time to time, under the impression
that his worthy friend and pedagogue was on his heels; and whenever a
traveller made his appearance, he was complimented with a scrutiny
from the flying knight which seemed to indicate apprehension--the
apprehension of being made a prisoner.

Just as Sir Asinus reached the outskirts of the town, he observed a
chariot drawn by six milk-white horses approaching from a county road
which debouched, like the highway, into Gloucester street; and when
this chariot arrived opposite, a head was thrust through the window,
and a good-humored voice uttered the words:

"Give you good day, my dear Tom!"

Sir Asinus bowed, with a laugh which seemed to indicate familiarity
with the occupant of the carriage, and said:

"Good morning, your Excellency--a delightful day."

"Yes," returned the voice, "especially for a race! What were you
scampering from? Come into the chariot and tell me all about it. I am
dying of weariness."

The movement was soon accomplished. His Excellency's footman mounted
the horse, and Sir Asinus entered the chariot and found himself
opposite an elderly gentleman, very richly clad, and with a smiling
and rubicund face which seemed to indicate a love of the best living.
This gentleman was Francis Fauquier, Governor of his Majesty's loyal
colony of Virginia; and he seemed to be no stranger to the young man.

"Now, what was it all about?" asked the Governor, laughing.

And when our friend related the mode of his escape from the worthy
Doctor, his Excellency shook the whole carriage in the excess of his
mirth.

They came thus to the "Raleigh Tavern," before the door of which the
Governor stopped a moment to say a word to the landlord, who, cap in
hand, listened. The Governor's conversation related to a great ball
which was to be held in the "Apollo room" at the Raleigh very soon;
and the chariot was delayed fully half an hour.

At last it drove on, and at the same moment his Excellency inclined
his head courteously to a gentleman mounted on horseback who was
passing.

"Ah, worthy Doctor Small!" he said, "a delightful day for a ride!"

Sir Asinus shrunk back into the extremest corner, and cast an
imploring look upon the Governor, who shook with laughter.

"Yes, yes, your Excellency," said the Doctor; "I have been inhaling
this delightful May morning with quite a youthful gusto."

"Riding for exercise, Doctor? An excellent idea."

"No, sir; I went a little way into the country to see a pupil."

"You saw him?"

"No, your Excellency."

"Why, that was very hard--a great reprobate, I fear."

"No; a wild young man who has lately deserted his Alma Mater."

"A heinous offence! I advise you to proceed against him for holding
out _in contumaciam_."

"Ah!" said the Doctor, "we must follow the old receipt for cooking a
hare in the present instance. We must first catch the offender."

And the good Doctor smiled.

"Well, Doctor, much success to you. Will you not permit me to convey
you to the college?"

The hair upon Sir Asinus's head stood up; then at the Doctor's reply
he breathed freely again. That reply was:

"No, I thank you; your Excellency is very good, but it is only a
step."

And the Doctor rode on with a bow.

Behind him rode Jacques, who had recognised his friend's horse, caught
a glimpse of him through the window, and now regarded him with languid
interest.

The chariot drew up at the gate of the palace. A liveried servant
offered his arm to the Governor; and passing along the walk beneath
the Scotch lindens which lined it, they entered the mansion.

The Governor led the way to his study, passing through two large
apartments ornamented with globe lamps and portraits of the King and
Queen.

Once in his favorite leather chair, his Excellency ordered wine to be
brought, emptied two or three glasses, and then receiving a pipe from
a servant, lit it by means of a coal respectfully held in readiness,
and commenced smoking.

Sir Asinus declined the pipe proffered to him, but applied himself to
the old sherry with great gusto--much to his Excellency's
satisfaction.

"You were near being discovered," said Fauquier, smiling; "then you
would have been made an example."

"_Ex gracia exempli_," said Sir Asinus, emptying his glass, and
translating into the original respectfully.

"Ah, you wild college boys! Now I wager ten to one that you were not
only playing truant at Shadynook, but making love."

"That is perfectly correct, your Excellency."

"See, I was right. You are a wild scamp, Tom. Who's your Dulcinea?"

"I decline answering that question, your Excellency. But my
rival--that is different."

"Well, your rival?"

"The dandified Adonis with the Doctor."

"Your friend, is he not?"

"Bosom friend; but what is the use of having friends, if we can't take
liberties with them?"

"As, courting their sweethearts!" said his Excellency, who seemed to
enjoy this sentiment very much.

"Yes, sir. I always put my friends under contribution. They are not
fit for any thing else. My rule is always to play off my wit on
friends; it coruscates more brilliantly when we know a man's foibles."

"Good--very profound!" said the Governor, laughing; "and I suppose the
present difficulty arises from the fact, that some of these
coruscations, as you call them, played around the person or character
of the worthy Doctor Small?"

"No, no, your Excellency. I left my country for my country's good--I
mean the college. My ideas were in advance of the age."

"How?"

"I suggested, in the Literary Society, the propriety of throwing off
the rule of Great Britain; I drew up a constitutional argument against
the Established Church in favor of religions toleration; and I
asserted in open lecture that all men were and of right should be
equally free."

The Governor shook with laughter.

"Did you?" he said.

"Yes," said Sir Asinus, assuming a grand tone.

"Well, I see now why you left your college for its good; this is
treason, heresy, and barbarism," said the Governor, merrily. "Where
has your Traitorship taken up your residence?"

"In Gloucester street," said Sir Asinus; "a salubrious and pleasant
lodging."

"Gloucester street! Why, your constitutional civil and religious
emancipation is not complete!"

"No, my dear sir--no."

"Come and live here with me in the palace; I'll protect you in your
rights with my guards and cannon."

"No, your Excellency," said Sir Asinus, laughing. "You are the
representative of that great system which I oppose. I am afraid of the
Greeks and their gifts."

"Zounds! let me vindicate myself. I an opponent of your ideas!" cried
the Governor, laughing.

"You are the representative of royalty."

"No, I am a good Virginian."

"You are an admirer of the Established Church."

The Governor whistled.

"That's it!" he said.

"You are the front of the aristocracy."

"My dear friend," said his Excellency, "ever since a blackguard in
Paris defeated me in a fair spadille combat--breast to breast, card to
card, by pure genius--I have been a republican. That fellow was a
_canaille_, but he won fifteen thousand pounds from me: he was my
superior. But let us try a game of cards, my dear boy. How are your
pockets?"

"Low," said Sir Asinus, ruefully.

"Never mind," said his Excellency, whose whole countenance had lighted
up at the thought of play; "I admire your garters--a pistole against
them."

"Done!" said Sir Asinus with great readiness; and they sat down to
play.

In two hours Sir Asinus was sitting at spadille in the exceedingly
undress costume of shirt, pantaloons, and silk stockings.

His coat was thrown on a chair; his worsted shoes were in one corner
of the room; and his cocked hat lay upon his waistcoat at the
Governor's feet.

The Governor took extreme delight in these practical jokes. He had won
these articles of Sir Asinus's clothing one after another; and now he
was about to commence with the remainder.

"Look! spadille, the ace!" he cried; "I have your neckcloth."

And his Excellency burst into a roar of laughter.

Sir Asinus slowly and sadly drew off his neckcloth, and deposited it
on the pile.

"Good!" cried his Excellency; "now for your short clothes!"

"No, no!" Sir Asinus remonstrated; "now, your Excellency!--mercy, your
Excellency! How would I look going through the town of Williamsburg
breechless?"

"You might go after night," suggested his Excellency, generously.

"No, no!"

"Well, well, I'll be liberal--my servant shall bring you a suit of
clothes from your apartment; of course these are mine."

A sudden thought struck Sir Asinus.

"I'll play your Excellency this ring against ten pistoles," he said;
"I lost sight of it."

"Done!" said his Excellency.

Sir Asinus won the game; and Fauquier, with the exemplary honesty of
the confirmed gambler, took ten pistoles from his purse and handed
them across the table.

"Nine pieces for my coat and the rest," said Sir Asinus persuasively;
"it is really impolite to be playing with your Excellency in such
deshabille as this."

"Willingly," said Fauquier, shaking with merriment.

And he pocketed the nine pistoles while Sir Asinus was making his
toilet at a Venetian mirror.

They then commenced playing again--Sir Asinus staking his pistole. He
won, and continued to win until night; when candles were brought, and
they commenced again.

By ten o'clock Sir Asinus had won fifteen thousand pistoles from the
Governor.

By midnight Fauquier, playing with the nerve of a great gambler, had
won them all back--laughing, careless, but not more careless than when
he lost.

At fifteen minutes past twelve he had won a bond for two hundred
pistoles from Sir Asinus; at sixteen minutes past twelve his
Excellency rose, and taking the cards up with both hands, threw them
out of the window.

Then rolling up the bond which Sir Asinus had executed a moment
before, he gracefully lit with it a pipe which he had just filled;
and, first telling a servant "to carry lights to the chamber next to
his own," said to Sir Asinus:

"My dear boy, I have done wrong to-night; but this is my master
passion. Cards have ruined me three distinct times; and if you play
you will inevitably follow my example and destroy your prospects. Take
my advice, and never touch them. If you have no genius for chance,
twelve months will suffice to ruin you. If you turn out a great
player, one half the genius you expend upon it will conquer a kingdom
or found an empire. If you prefer oxygen to air--gamble! If you think
_aquafortis_ healthier than water--_gamble_! If you consider fever and
fire the proper components of your blood--_gamble_! Take my advice,
and never touch a card again--your bond is ashes. Come, Tom, to bed!"

And his Excellency, laughing as good-humoredly as ever, led the way up
the broad staircase, preceded by a servant carrying a flambeau.

Sir Asinus found a magnificent apartment prepared for him--a velvet
fauteuil, silk-curtained bed, wax candles in silver candelabra; and
seeing that his guest was comfortably fixed, Governor Fauquier bade
him good night.

As for Sir Asinus, he retired without delay, and dreamed that he
ruined his Excellency at cards; won successively all his real and
personal estate; and lastly, having staked a thousand pistoles against
his commission as Governor, won that also. Then, in his dream, he rose
in his dignity, lit his pipe with the parchment, and made his
Excellency a low and generous bow.

As he did so, the day dawned.



CHAPTER VII.

JACQUES BESTOWS HIS PATERNAL ADVICE UPON A SCHOOLGIRL.


Just a week after the practical lesson given by his Excellency
Governer Fauquier to Sir Asinus, and on a bright fine morning, the
melancholy Jacques issued from the walls of his Alma Mater, and took
his way along Gloucester street toward the residence of his friend and
rival.

Jacques was dressed with unusual splendor. His coat was heavy with
embroidery--his waistcoat a blooming flower-plat, upon whose emerald
background roses, marigolds, and lilies flaunted in their satin
bravery--and his scarlet silk stockings were held up by gold-colored
garters. His narrow-edged cocked hat drooped with its feather over his
handsome features, and in his delicately gloved hand he held a slight
cane, which, from time to time he rested on the point of his
high-heeled shoes, bending the lithe twig with irreproachable
elegance.

Not far from the residence of the rebel he encountered and saluted
with melancholy courtesy a very lovely young girl of about fifteen,
who was tripping along to school, a satchel full of books upon her
arm, and, covering her bright locks, a sun-bonnet such as school-girls
wore at that time, and indeed in our own day.

"Good morning, my dear Miss Merryheart," said Jacques, removing his
glove and holding out his jewelled hand.

The girl laughed artlessly, and gave him her hand, saying:

"Good morning, sir; but you have mistaken my name."

"Mistaken your name?"

"Yes, sir; it is Martha."

"And not Merryheart; but you are not responsible. Merryheart is your
real name--not Martha, who was 'cumbered,' you know."

"But I _am_ 'cumbered,'" replied the girl with a laugh.

"How, my dear madam?" asked the courteous Jacques.

"By my satchel."

"Ah! let me carry it for you."

"No, no."

"Why not?"

"I won't trouble you."

"No trouble in the world--I shall leave you in a street or two. Come!"

And he took the satchel, and passing his cane through the handles,
gracefully deposited it behind his shoulders, as a beggar does his
bundle.

The girl laughed heartily; and this seemed to afford the melancholy
lover much satisfaction.

"Do they teach laughing at the Reverend Mrs. White's?" he asked.

"Laughing, sir?"

"Yes; I thought you had been taking lessons."

"Oh, sir!"

"Come! no fine-lady airs. I never compliment--we are too intimate."

And Jacques shifted his packet to the other shoulder.

"Just go to the ball and laugh in that way," he said, "and you'll slay
all the hearts in a circle of ten feet."

The girl repeated the fatal ceremony with more energy than ever. The
street echoed with it.

"I'm going to the ball, sir," she said; "Bathurst--you know
Bathurst--he says he will go with me."

"Little innocent!"

"Sir?"

"I was reflecting, my dear little friend," said the melancholy
Jacques, "upon the superiority of your sex before they reach the age
of womanhood."

"How, sir?"

"Why, thus. Suppose I had addressed that question to a fine lady--'Are
you going to the ball, madam?'--what would her reply have been?"

"I don't know," laughed the girl, pushing back a stray lock from her
forehead.

"I'll tell you," continued Jacques. "With a negligent and careless air
she would have said, 'Really, sir--I do not know--I have scarcely made
up my mind--if I decide to go--I shall not go, however, I think--if I
go, it will be with Mr. Blank--I have half promised him;' and so
forth. How wearisome! You, on the contrary, my little friend, clap
your hands and cry, 'Oh! I am going! Bathurst says he'll go with me!'
Bathurst is a good boy; isn't he your sweetheart?"

The girl blushed and laughed.

"No, indeed, sir!" she said.

"That is well; choose some elderly admirer, my dear child--like
myself."

The laughter was louder than ever.

"It wouldn't do for you to have two," she said with a merry glance.

Jacques recoiled.

"Every body knows it!" he murmured ruefully.

"They do so," replied the merry girl, who caught these half-uttered
words; "but she's a very sweet lady."

Jacques sighed.

"Are you not tired, sir?" asked the girl.

"No, no! my dear child; but I believe I must return your little
bulrush receptacle, for yonder is my journey's end. Look, Sir Asinus
beholds us--see! there at the window!"

In fact, Sir Asinus was at his open window, inhaling the bright May
morning joyously.

"Sir Asinus? Who is he?" asked the girl, with a puzzled look.

"The great rebel, who tried to assassinate Doctor Small and the
Governer. Have you not heard of it?"

"Oh no, indeed, sir! Did he?"

"Well, principles are men, they say; and that makes what I said quite
true. Look at him: don't he resemble a murderer?"

"I don't know, sir; I hardly know what one looks like."

"Look at his red hair."

"It _is_ red."

"And his sharp features."

"Yes, sir."

"He has a real assassin's look, my dear little friend; but he is a
great thinker. That is the sort of beau I recommend you to get instead
of Bathurst."

The girl laughed.

"But Bathurst is a great deal handsomer," she said; "then he promised
to take me to the ball----"

"While Sir Asinus has not promised."

"Oh, _he_ wouldn't think of _me_. I am very much obliged to you for
carrying my satchel, sir," added the young girl, swinging it again on
her arm.

"Not at all. See how Sir Asinus is staring at you--a very ill-bred
fellow!"

The young girl raised her head, for they were now under the window at
which sat Sir Asinus; and she found the eyes of that gentleman fixed
upon her in truth with great pleasure and admiration.

She laughed and blushed, looking down again.

"Good-by, my dear young lady," said the melancholy Jacques with a
paternal air; "continue on your way, and present my most respectful
regards to Mrs. White and every body. Learn your lessons, jump the
rope, and never conjugate the verb _amo_, _amas_; get a poodle dog,
and hideous china, and prepare yourself for the noble state of elderly
maidenhood: so shall you pass serenely through this vale of tears, and
be for ever great, glorious, and happy."

With which friendly counsel the melancholy Jacques sighed
again--possibly from the thought that had he followed the last piece
of advice, his mind had not been troubled--and so bade his young
friend farewell, and mounted the staircase leading to the chamber of
his friend.

As for the young girl, she followed him for a moment with her eyes,
and then laughing merrily continued her way, swinging her satchel and
humming an old ditty. We shall meet with her again.



CHAPTER VIII.

HOW SIR ASINUS INVENTED A NEW ORDER OF PHILOSOPHERS, THE APICIANS.


Sir Asinus was clad as usual in a rich suit of silk, over which fell
in graceful folds his old faded dressing gown. His red hair was
unpowdered--his garters were unbuckled, and one of them had fallen to
the floor--his feet were lazily thrust into ample slippers run down
deplorably at the heel.

He had been meditating strictly the unwilling muse; for on the table
lay a number of sheets of paper covered with unfortunate verses, which
obstinately refused to rhyme. He seemed to have finally abandoned this
occupation in despair--flying for refuge to his window, from which he
had seen his friend coming down Gloucester street.

When Jacques entered, he retained his seat with an appearance of great
carelessness, and extending two fingers negligently, drawled out:

"Good day, my boy. You perceive I have banished those ignoble fears of
proctors. I no longer shiver when I hear a footstep on the staircase."

Jacques smiled languidly.

"Only when you hear it on the portico--at Shadynook or elsewhere," he
said.

"No more of that, Hal, an thou lovest me," said Sir Asinus cheerfully.
"The greatest men are subject to these sudden panics, and I am no
exception. Ah! what news?"

Jacques sat down sighing.

"None," he said, "except that we have a new student at
college--Hoffland is his name, I believe--a friend of Mowbray's
apparently. Let's see your bad verses."

"No, no!" cried Sir Asinus, rolling them up. "_Minerva was invited_,
as our friend Page used to say, but did not attend."

"That reminds me of the ball."

"At the 'Raleigh?'"

"Yes," sighed Jacques.

"This week, eh?"

"Yes; and every body is discussing it. It will be held in the
_Apollo_----"

"A capital room."

"For a ball--yes."

"For any thing--a meeting of conspirators, or patriots, which might
amount to the same thing," said Sir Asinus.

"Well, will your knightship attend the ball?"

"Of course."

"Pray, with whom!"

"Belle-bouche."

Jacques smiled with melancholy triumph.

"I think you are mistaken," he said, sadly.

"How?"

"She has engaged to go with me."

"Base stratagem--unfaithful friend! I challenge you on the spot."

"Good! I accept."

"Take your foil!" cried Sir Asinus, starting up.

"Pardon me, most worthy knight--hand it to me. I can easily prick you
without rising."

Sir Asinus relented.

"Well, let us defer the combat," he said; "but when were you at
Shadynook--which, by the by, should be called Sunnybower?"

"Yesterday!"

"And maligned me?"

"Very well--war to the death in future. What news there?"

"Philippa is gone."

"Ah?"

"Yes; she suddenly announced her intention some days ago, and with a
nod to me, drove off in her chariot."

"A fine girl."

"Why don't you court her, if you admire her so much?"

"My friend," said Sir Asinus, "you seem not to understand that I am
'tangled by the hair and fettered by the eye' of Belle-bouche the
fairy."

Jacques sighed.

"Then I flatter myself she likes me," said Sir Asinus, caressing his
red whiskers in embryo. "I am in fact pledged exclusively to her. I
can't espouse both."

"Vanity!" said Jacques languidly; "but you could build a feudal
castle--a very palace--in the mountains with Philippa's money."

"There you are, with your temptations--try to seduce me, a republican,
into courtly extravagance--me, a martyr to religious toleration,
republican ideas, and the rights of woman!"

"Very well, Sir Asinus, I won't tempt you further; but I think it
would be cheap for you to marry on any terms--if only to extricate
yourself from your present difficulties. Once married, you would of
course leave college."

"Yes; but I wish to remain."

"What! in this attic?"

"Even so."

"A hermit?"

"Who said I was a hermit? I am surrounded with friends! Ned Carter
comes and smokes with me until my room is one impervious fog, all the
while protesting undying friendship, and asking me to write love
verses for him. Tom Randolph is a faithful friend and companion. Stay,
look at that beautiful suit of Mecklenburg silk which Belle-bouche
admired so much--I saw she did. Tom gave me that--in return for my new
suit of embroidered cloth. Who says human nature is not
disinterested?"

"Cynic!"

"Yes, I would be, were I not a Stoic."

"You are neither--you are an Epicurean."

"Granted: I am even an Apician."

"What's that? Who was Apicius?"

"There, now, you are shockingly ignorant; you really don't know what
_apis_ means in Sanscrit--bah!"

"In Sanscrit? True; but in Latin it is--"

"Bee: I'll help you out."

"Very well, you are an _Apician_, you say: expound."

"Why! do I not admire Belle-bouche?"

"I believe so."

"Pretty mouth--that is the translation?"

"Yes."

"A mouth like Suckling's lady-love's--stay, was it Suckling? Yes: Sir
John. 'Some bee had stung it newly,' you know. Well, Belle-bouche has
honey lips--a beautiful idea--and bees love honey, and I love
Belle-bouche: there's the syllogism, as you tiresome logicians say. Q.
E. D., I am an _Apician_!"

Jacques stands astounded at this gigantic philological joke, to the
great satisfaction of his friend, who caresses his sandy whiskers
with still greater self-appreciation.

"Now call me Sir Asinus any longer, if you dare!" he says; and he
begins chanting from the open book:

     "Saltu vincit hinnulos,
     Damas et capreolos,
     Super dromedarios,
     Velox Madianeos!
     Dum trahit vehicula
     Multa cum sarcinula,
     Illius mandibula
     Dura terit pabula!"

"Translate now!" cries Sir Asinus, "and bear testimony to my worth."

Jacques takes the book and reads over the Latin; then he extemporizes:

     "In running he excels
     Doctor Smalls and antelopes;
     Swift beyond the camels.
     Or Midianitish proctors.
     While he drags his dulness
     In verse along his pages,
     His asinarian jaw-bones
     Make havoc with the rhymes!"

Having modestly made this translation, Jacques closes the book and
rises.

Sir Asinus tears his hair, and declares that his friend's ignorance of
Latin is shocking.

"The ordinary plea when the rendering of disputed passages is not to
our taste," says Jacques. "But I must go. By the by, the worthy Doctor
came near seeing you in the Governor's chariot."

"It was more than he dared to recognise me," said Sir Asinus grandly.

"Dared, eh?"

"Certainly; if he had bowed to me, I should have cut his acquaintance.
I would have refused to return his salute. I carefully avoided even
looking at him, to spare his feelings."

"I appreciate your delicacy," said his friend; "you commenced your
system even at Shadynook. Did you win any thing from Fauquier?"

"How did you know we played?"

"Why, returning past midnight, I saw lights."

"Very well--that proved nothing. We did play, however, friend Jacques,
and I lost; which gave his Excellency an opportunity to perform a very
graceful act. But enough. Before you go, tell me whom you were
conversing with just now."

"A maiden," said Jacques.

"No! a perfect fairy."

"See the effect of seclusion! You are getting into such a state of
disgust with your books, that you'll end by espousing Mother Bobbery,
you unfortunate victim of political ideas."

"_I_ disgusted--_I_ tired of my books--_I_ tired, when I have this
glorious song to sing!"

And at the top of his voice Sir Asinus chanted:

     "Aurum de Arabia,
     Thus et myrrhum de Saba,
     Tulit in ecclesia
     Virtus asinaria!"

"Excellent dog Latin," said Jacques; "and literally translated it
signifies:

     'Gold from the Governor,
     Tobacco from the South Side,
     Asinarian strategy
     Has brought into his chambers.'

That is to say, asinarian strategy has made the attempt."

But Sir Asinus, disregarding these strictures, began to sing the
chorus:

     "Hez, Sire Asne, car chantez,
     Belle bouche rechignez;
     Vous aurez du foin assez,
     Et de l'avoine a plantez."

"Good," said Jacques; "that signifies:

     Strike up, Sir Asinus,
     With your braying mouth;
     Never fear for hay,
     The crop of oats is ample.'

But on reflection the translation is bad--'belle bouche is not
'braying mouth;' which reminds me that I must take my departure."

"Where are you going, unhappy profaner of ecclesiastical psalmody?"

"To see Belle-bouche," sighed Jacques.

Sir Asinus tore his hair.

"Then I'll go too," he cried.

"I've the last horse at the Raleigh," observed Jacques with
melancholy pleasure. "Good morning, my dear friend. Take care of
yourself."

And leaving Sir Asinus with a polite bow, Jacques went down the
staircase. As for Sir Asinus, in the excess of his rage he sat down
and composed a whole canto of an epic--which luckily has not descended
to our day. The rats preserved humanity.



CHAPTER IX.

THE LUCK OF JACQUES.


Belle-bouche was busily at work upon a piece of embroidery when
Jacques entered; and this embroidery was designed for a fire-screen.
It represented a parroquet intensely crimson, on a background
uniformly emerald; and the eyes of the melancholy lover dwelt
wistfully upon the snowy hands selecting the different colors from a
tortoise-shell work-box filled with spools of silk.

Belle-bouche greeted the entrance of her admirer with a frank smile,
and held out her hand, which poor Jacques pressed to his lips with
melancholy pleasure.

"I find Miss Belle-bouche always engaged in some graceful occupation,"
he said mournfully; "she is either reading the poets, or writing
poetry herself in all the colors of the rainbow."

The beauty treated this well-timed compliment with a smile.

"Oh, no," she said; "I am only working a screen."

"It is very pretty."

"Do you think so?"

"Yes."

And then Jacques paused; his conversation as usual dried up like a
fountain at midsummer. He made a desperate effort.

"I thought I heard you singing as I entered," he said.

"Yes, I believe I was," smiled Belle-bouche.

"What music was so happy?" Jacques sighed.

Belle-bouche laughed.

"A child's song," she said.

"Pray what!"

"'Lady bird, lady bird, fly away home.'"

"A most exquisite air," sighed Jacques; "please commence again."

"But I have finished."

"Then something else, my dearest Miss Belle-bouche; see how
unfortunate I am--pray pardon me."

"Willingly," said Belle-bouche, smiling with a roseate blush.

"I always fancy myself in Arcady when I am near you," he said
tenderly.

"Why? because you find me very idle?"

"Oh, no; but Arcady, you know, was the abode of sylvan queens--dryads
and oreads and naiads," said the classic Jacques; "and you are like
them."

"Like a dryad?"

"They were very beautiful."

Belle-bouche blushed again; and to conceal her blushes bent over the
screen. Jacques sighed.

"Chloes are dead, however," he murmured, "and the reed of Pan is
still. The fanes of Arcady are desolate."

And having uttered this beautiful sentiment, the melancholy Jacques
was silent.

"Do you like 'My Arcady?'" asked Belle-bouche; "I think it very
pretty."

"It is the gem of music. Ah! to hear you sing it," sighed poor
Corydon.

Belle-bouche quite simply rose, and going to the spinet, sat down
and played the prelude.

Jacques listened with closed eyes and heaving bosom.

"Please hand me the music," said Belle-bouche; "there in the scarlet
binding."

Jacques started and obeyed. As she received it, the young girl's hand
touched his own, and he uttered a sigh which might have melted rocks.
The reason was, that Jacques was in love: we state the fact, though
it has probably appeared before.

Belle-bouche's voice was like liquid moonlight and melodious flowers.
Its melting involutions and expiring cadences unwound themselves and
floated from her lips like satin ribbon gradually drawn out.

As for Jacques, he was in a dream; one might have supposed that his
nerves were steeped in the liquid melody--or at times, when he
started, that the music came over him like a shower bath of perfume.

His sighs would have conciliated tigers; and when she turned and
smiled on him, he almost staggered.

"Now," said Belle-bouche smiling softly, "suppose I sing something a
little merrier. You know the minuet always gives place to the reel."

Jacques uttered an expiring assent, and Belle-bouche commenced singing
with her laughing voice the then popular ditty, "Pretty Betty Martin,
tip-toe fine."

If her voice sighed before, it laughed out loudly now. The joyous and
exhilarating music sparkled, glittered, fell in rosy showers--rattled
like liquid diamonds and dry rain. It flashed, and glanced, and
ran--and stumbling over itself, fell upwards, showering back again in
shattered cadences and fiery foam.

When she ended, Jacques remained silent, and was only waked, so to
speak, by hearing his name pronounced.

"Yes," he said at random.

Belle-Bouche laughed.

"You agree with me, then, that my voice is wretchedly out of tune?"
she said mischievously.

Poor Jacques only sighed and blushed.

"Betty Martin was a foolish girl," said Belle-bouche, laughing to hide
her embarrassment.

"How?" murmured Jacques.

Belle-bouche found that she was involved in a delicate explanation;
but thinking boldness the best, she replied:

"Because she could not find just the husband she wanted. You know the
song says so--'some were too coarse and some too fine.'"

"Yes," murmured Jacques; "and 'tis often the case with us poor
fellows. We seldom find the Chloe we want--she flies us ever spite of
our attempts to clasp her to our hearts."

"That is not because Chloe is fickle, but because Corydon is so
difficult to please," Belle-bouche replied, with a sly little smile.

"Ah! I am not!" he sighed.

"Indeed, you are mistaken; I'm sure you are a very fastidious
shepherd."

"No, no. True, I may never find my Chloe; but when I do, then I shall
no longer be my own master."

Belle-bouche hesitated, blushed, and said quickly:

"Perhaps you long to meet with an angel."

"Oh, no--only a woman," said Jacques; "and if you will listen, I will
describe my ideal in a moment."

"Yes," said Belle-bouche, looking away; for his eyes were fixed upon
her with such meaning that she could not return his gaze.

"First," said Corydon, sighing, "she should be young--that is to say,
she should unite the grace and innocence of childhood with the
splendor and fascination of the fully-developed woman. This is most
often found at seventeen--therefore she should be just seventeen."

Belle-bouche was scarcely more than seventeen, as we know. The
cunning Jacques went on.

"She should be a blonde, with light golden hair, eyes as azure as the
heavens, and, as one great poet said of another, 'with a charming
archness' in them."

"Yes," murmured Belle-bouche, whom this description suited perfectly.

"Her voice should not be loud and bold, her manner careless," Jacques
went on; "but a delicious gentleness, and even at times a languor,
should be diffused through it--diffused through voice and manner, as a
perfume is diffused through an apartment, invisible, imperceptible
almost, filling us with quiet pleasure."

"Quite a poetical description," said Belle-bouche, trying to laugh.

"She should be soft and tender--full of wondrous thoughts, and ever
standing like a gracious angel," sighed the rapturous Jacques, "to
bless, console, and comfort me."

"Still prettier," said Belle-bouche, blushing.

"Now let me sum up," said Jacques. "Golden hair, blue eyes, a rosy
face full of childlike innocence, at times steeped in dewy languor,
and those melting smiles which sway us poor men so powerfully; and
lastly, with a heart and soul attuned to all exalted feelings and
emotions. There is what I look for--ah, to find her! Better still to
dream she could love me."

"Well, can you not find your Chloe?" Belle-bouche murmured, almost
inaudibly.

"Never, I fear," said Jacques; "or else," he continued with a sigh,
"when we do find her, we always find that some other discoverer claims
possession."

Belle-bouche blushed.

"Suppose it is without the consent of the aborigines," she said,
attempting to laugh.

Jacques looked at her; then shook his head.

"'Tis the strong hand, not the true heart, which conquers."

"Oh no, it is not!" said Belle-bouche.

"What then?"

"The good, kind heart, faithful and sincere."

Jacques fixed his eyes upon her blushing face, which leaned upon one
of her fair hands--the other hand meanwhile being an object of deep
interest to her eyes, cast down toward it.

"And should such a heart be wounded?" he said.

"Oh, no!" murmured Belle-bouche, blushing.

"Then do not wound mine!" cried Jacques; "dearest Belle-bouche! light
of my heart--that was your portrait! Listen to your faithful----"

Poor, poor Jacques! Fate played with him. For at the very moment when
he was about to fall upon his knees--just when his fate was to be
decided--just when he saw an Arcadian picture spread before him, in
its brilliant hues, all love and sunshine--that excellent old lady
Aunt Wimple entered, calmly smiling, and with rustling silk and
rattling key basket, dispelled all his fond romantic dreams.

Belle-bouche rose hastily and returned to her embroidery; Aunt Wimple
sat down comfortably, and commenced a flood of talk about the weather;
and Jacques fell back on an ottoman overcome with despair.

In half an hour he was slowly on his way back to town--his arms
hanging down, his head bent to his breast, his dreamy eyes fixed
intently upon vacancy.

Jacques saw nothing around him; Belle-bouche alone was in his
vision--Belle-bouche, who by another chance was snatched from him.

The odor of the peach blossoms seemed a weary sort of odor, and the
lark sang harshly.

As he passed through a meadow, he heard himself saluted by name--by
whom he knew not. He bowed without looking at the speaker; he only
murmured, "One more chance gone." As he passed the residence of Sir
Asinus, he heard that gentleman laughing at him; he only sighed,
"Belle-bouche!"



CHAPTER X.

MOWBRAY OPENS HIS HEART TO HIS NEW FRIEND.


Instead of following the melancholy Jacques to his chamber, let us
return to the meadow in which he had been saluted by the invisible
voice. A brook ran sparkling like a silver thread across the emerald
expanse, and along this brook were sauntering two students, one of
whom had spoken to the abstracted lover.

He who had addressed Jacques was Mowbray; the other was Hoffland, the
young student who had just arrived at Williamsburg.

Hoffland is much younger than his companion--indeed, seems scarcely to
have passed beyond boyhood; his stature is low, his figure is slender,
his hair flaxen and curling, his face ornamented only with a
peach-down mustache. He is clad in a suit of black richly embroidered;
wraps a slight cloak around him spite of the warmth of the pleasant
May afternoon; and his cocked hat, apparently too large for him,
droops over his face, falling low down upon his brow.

They walk on for a moment in silence.

Then Hoffland says, in a musical voice like that of a boy before his
tone undergoes the disagreeable change of manhood:

"You have not said how strange you thought this sudden friendship I
express, Mr. Mowbray, but I am afraid you think me very strange."

"No, indeed," replies Mowbray; "I know not why, but you have already
taken a strong hold upon me. Singular! we are almost strangers, but I
feel as though I had known you all my life!"

"That can scarcely be, for I am but seventeen or eighteen," says
Hoffland smiling.

"A frank, true age. I regret that I have passed it."

"Why?"

"Ah, can you ask, Mr. Hoffland?"

"Please do not call me Mr. Hoffland. We are friends: say Charles; and
then I will call you Ernest. I cannot unless you set me the example."

"Ernest? How did you discover my name?"

"Oh!" said Hoffland, somewhat embarrassed, "does not every body know
Ernest Mowbray?"

"Very well--as you are determined to give me compliments instead of
reasons, I will not persist. Charles be it then, but you must call me
Ernest."

"Yes, Ernest."

The low musical words went to his heart, and broke down every barrier.
They were bosom friends from that moment, and walked on in perfect
confidence.

"Why did you regret your youth, Ernest?" said Hoffland. "I
thought young men looked forward impatiently to their full
manhood--twenty-five or thirty; though I do not," he added with a
smile.

"They do; but it is only another proof of the blindness of youth."

"Is youth blind?"

"Blind, because it cannot see that all the delights of ambition, the
victories of mind, the triumphs and successes of the brain, are mere
dust and ashes compared with what it costs to obtain them--the
innocence of the heart, the illusions of its youthful hope."

"Ah! are illusions to be desired?"

"At least they are a sweet suffering, a bitter delight."

"Even when one wakes from them to find every thing untrue--despair
alone left?"

"You paint the reverse truly; but still I hold that the happiness of
life is in what I have styled illusions. Listen, Charles," he
continued, gazing kindly at the boy, who turned away his head. "Life
is divided into three portions--three stages, which we must all travel
before we can lie down in that silent bed prepared for us at our
journey's end. In the first, Youth, every thing is rosy, brilliant,
hopeful; life is a dream of happiness which deadens the senses with
its delirious rapture--deadens them so perfectly that the thorns Youth
treads on are such no longer, they are flowers! stones are as soft as
the emerald grass, and if a mountain or a river rise before it, all
Youth thinks is, What a beautiful summit, or, How fair a river! and
straightway it darts joyously up the ascent, or throws itself laughing
into the bright sparkling waters. The mountain and the river are not
obstacles--they are delights. Then comes the second portion of life,
Manhood, when the obstacles are truly what they seem--hard to ascend,
trying to swim over. Then comes Age, when the sobered heart hesitates
long before commencing the ascent or essaying the crossing--when
_duty_ only prompts. Say that duty is greater than hope, and you are
right; but say that duty carries men as easily over obstacles as joy,
which loves those obstacles, and you are mistaken. Well, all this
prosing is meant to show that the real happiness of life is in
illusions. Doubtless you are convinced of it, however: already one
learns much by the time he has reached eighteen."

Hoffland mused.

Mowbray drove away his thoughts, and said, smiling sadly:

"Have you ever loved, Charles?"

"Never," murmured the boy.

"That is the master illusion," sighed Mowbray.

"And is it a happy one?"

"A painful happiness."

These short words were uttered with so much sadness, that the boy
stole a look of deep interest at his companion's face.

"Do not be angry with me, Ernest," he said, "but may I ask you if you
have ever loved?"

His head drooped, and he murmured, "Yes."

"Deeply?"

"Yes."

"Were you disappointed?"

"Yes."

And there was a long pause. They walked on in silence.

"It is a beautiful afternoon," said Mowbray at length.

"Lovely," murmured the boy.

"This stream is so fresh and pure--no bitterness in it."

"Is there in love?"

Mowbray was silent for a moment. Then he raised his head, and said to
his companion:

"Charles, listen! What I am going to tell you, may serve to place you
upon your guard against what may cause you great suffering. I know not
why, but I take a strange interest in you--coming alone into the great
world a mere youth as you are, leaving in the mountains from which you
say you come all those friends whose counsel might guide you. Listen
to me, then, as to an elder brother--a brother who has grown old early
in thought and feeling, who at twenty-five has already lived half the
life of man--at least in the brain and heart. Listen. I was always
impulsive and sanguine, always proud and self-reliant. My father was
wealthy. I was told from my boyhood that I was a genius--that I had
only to extend my hand, and the slaves of the lamp, as the Orientals
say, would drop into it all the jewels of the universe. Success in
politics, poetry, law, or letters--the choice lay with me, but the
event was certain whichever I should select. Well, my father died--his
property was absorbed by his debts--I was left with an orphan sister
to struggle with the world.

"I arranged our affairs--we had a small competence after all debts
were paid. We live yonder in a small cottage, and in half an hour I
shall be there. I seldom take these strolls. Half my time is
study--the rest, work upon our small plot of ground. This was
necessary to prepare you for what I have to say.

"I had never been in love until I was twenty-four and a half--that is
to say, half a year ago. But one day I saw upon a race-course a young
girl who strongly attracted my attention, and I went home thinking of
her. I did not know her name, but I recognised in her bright, frank,
bold face--it was almost bold--that clear, strong nature which has
ever had an inexpressible charm for me. I had studied that strange
volume called Woman, and had easily found out this fact: that the
wildest and most careless young girls are often far more delicate,
feminine, and innocent than those whose eyes are always demurely cast
down, and whose lips are drawn habitually into a prudish and prim
reserve. Do you understand my awkward words?"

"Yes," said the boy quietly.

"Well," pursued Mowbray, "in forty-eight hours the dream of my life
was to find and woo that woman. I instinctively felt that she would
make me supremely happy--that the void which every man feels in his
heart, no matter what his love for relatives may be, could be filled
by this young girl alone--that she would perfect my life. Very
well--now listen, Charles."

"Yes," said the boy, in a low tone.

"I became acquainted with her--for when did a lover ever fail to
discover the place which contained his mistress?--and I found that
this young girl whom I had fallen so deeply in love with was a great
heiress."

"Unhappy chance!" exclaimed the boy; "I understand easily that this
threw an ignoble obstacle in the way. Her friends----"

"No--there you are mistaken, Charles," said Mowbray "the obstacle was
from herself."

"Did she not love you?"

Mowbray smiled sadly.

"You say that in a tone of great surprise," he replied; "there is
scarcely ground for such astonishment."

"I should think any woman might love you," murmured the boy.

Mowbray smiled again as sadly as before, and said:

"Well, I see you are determined to make me your devoted friend, by
reaching my heart through my vanity. But let me continue. I said that
the obstacles in my way were not objections on the part of Philippa's
friends--that was her name, Philippa: do not ask me more."

"No," said the boy.

"The barrier was her own nature. I had mistaken it; in the height of
my pride I had dreamed that my vision had pierced to the bottom of her
nature, to the inmost recesses of her heart: I was mistaken. I had
gazed upon the woman, throwing the heiress out of the question; you
see I was hopelessly enslaved by the woman before dreaming of the
heiress," he added, with a melancholy smile.

Hoffland made no reply.

"Now I come to the end, and I shall not detain you much longer from
the moral. I visited her repeatedly. I found more to admire than I
expected even--more to be repelled by, however, than my mind had
prepared me for. I found this young girl with many noble
qualities--but these qualities seemed to me obscured by her eternal
consciousness of riches: her suspicion, in itself an unwomanly trait,
was intense."

"Oh, sir!" cried the boy, "but surely there is some excuse! Of
course," he added, with an effort to control his feelings, "I do not
know Miss Philippa, but assuredly a young girl who is cursed with
great wealth must discriminate between those who love her for herself
and those who come to woo her because she is wealthy. Oh, believe me,
it is, it must be very painful to be wealthy, to have to suspect and
doubt--to run the hazard of wounding some noble nature, who may be by
chance among the sordid crowd who come to kneel to her because she is
an heiress--who would turn their backs upon her were she portionless.
Indeed, we should excuse much."

"Yes," said Mowbray, "and you defend the cause of heiresses well. But
let me come back to my narrative. The suspicion of this young girl was
immense--as her fortune was. That fortune chilled me whenever I
thought of it. I did not want it. I could have married her--I had
quite enough for both. Heaven decreed that she should be wealthy,
however--that the glitter of gold should blind her heart--that she
should suspect my motives. Do not understand me to say that she placed
any value upon that wealth herself. No; I believe she despised, almost
regretted it: but still, who can tell? At least I love her too much
still to hazard what may be unjust--ah! the cinder is not cold."

And Mowbray's head drooped. They walked on in silence.

"Well, well," he continued at length, "I saw her often. I could not
strangle my feelings. I loved her--in spite of her wealth--not on
account of it. But gradually my sentiment moderated: like a whip of
scorpions, this suspicion she felt struck me, wounding my heart and
inflaming my pride. I tried to stay away; I dragged through life for a
week without seeing her; then, impelled by a violent impulse, I went
to her again, armed with an impassible pride, and determined to
converse upon the most indifferent subjects--to test her nature fully,
and--to make the test complete--bend all the energies of my mind to
the task of weighing her words, her looks, her tones, that I might
make a final decision. Well, she almost distinctly intimated, fifteen
minutes after our interview commenced, that I was a fortune-hunter
whom she regarded with a mixture of amusement and contempt."

"Oh, sir! could it have been that you----"

The boy stopped.

"How unhappy she must be--to have to suspect such noble natures as
your own," he added in a low voice.

Mowbray turned away his head; then by a powerful effort went on.

"You shall judge, Charles," he said in a voice which he mastered only
by a struggle; "you shall say whether I am correct in my opinion of
her thoughts. She asked me plainly if I was poor; to which question I
replied with a single word--'Very.' Next, did I hope to become rich! I
did hope so. Her advice then was, she said, that I should marry some
heiress, since that was a surer and more rapid means than law or
politics. She said it very satirically, and with a glance which killed
my love----"

"Oh, sir!" the boy murmured.

"Yes; and though I was calm, my face not paler, I believe, than usual,
I was led to say what I bitterly regret--not because it was untrue,
for it was not, rather was it profoundly true--but because it might
have been misunderstood. It was disgraceful to marry for mere wealth,
I said; and I added, 'too expensive'--since unhappiness at any price
was dear. I added that money would never purchase my own
heart--school-boy fashion, you perceive; and then I left her--never to
return."

A long silence followed these words. Mowbray then added calmly:

"You deduce from this narrative, Charles, one lesson. Never give your
affections to a woman suddenly; never make a young girl whom you do
not know the queen of your heart--the fountain of your illusions and
your dreams. The waking will be unpleasant; pray Heaven you may never
wake as I have with a mind which is becoming sour--a heart which is
learning to distrust whatever is most fair in human nature. Let us
dismiss the subject now. I am glad I felt this impulse to open my
heart to you, a stranger, though a friend. We often whisper into a
strange ear what our closest friends would ask in vain. See, there is
his Excellency's chariot with its six white horses, and look what a
graceful bow he makes us!"

Mowbray walked on without betraying the least evidence of emotion. He
seemed perfectly calm.



CHAPTER XI.

HOW HOFFLAND FOUND THAT HE HAD LEFT HIS KEY BEHIND.


They entered the town in silence, and both of the young men seemed
busy with their thoughts. Mowbray's face wore its habitual expression
of collected calmness; as to Hoffland, he was smiling.

Mowbray at last raised his head, and chasing away his thoughts by a
strong effort, said to his companion:

"You have no dormitory yet, I believe--I mean, that you are not
domiciled at the college. Can I assist you?"

"Oh, thank you; but I am lodged in town."

"Ah?"

"Yes; Doctor Small procured permission for me."

"Where is your room, Charles?--I shall come and see you."

"Just down there, somewhere," said Hoffland dubiously.

"On Gloucester street?"

"No; just around there," replied the student, pointing in the
direction of the college.

"Well," said Mowbray, "we shall pass it on our way, and I will go up
and see if you are comfortably fixed. I may be able to give you some
advice--I am an old member of the commissary department.

"Oh, thank you," said Hoffland quickly; "but I believe every thing is
very well arranged."

"Can you judge?" smiled Mowbray.

"Yes, indeed," Hoffland said, turning away his head and laughing;
"better than you can, perhaps."

"I doubt it."

"You grown lords of the creation fancy you know so much!" said
Hoffland.

Mowbray caught the merry contagion, and smiling, said:

"Nevertheless, I insist upon going to see if my new brother Charles is
comfortably established."

Hoffland bit his lip.

"This is the place, is it not?" asked Mowbray.

Hoffland hesitated for a moment, and then replied with an embarrassed
tone:

"Yes--but--let us go on."

"No," Mowbray said, "I am very obstinate; and as Lucy will not expect
me now until tea-time, I am determined to devote half an hour to
spying out your land. Come, lead the way!"

Hoffland wrung his hands with a nettled look, which made him resemble
a child deprived of its plaything.

"But--" he said.

"Come--you pique my curiosity; go on, Charles."

A sudden smile illumined the boy's face.

"Well," he said, "if you insist, so be it."

And he led the way up a staircase which commenced just within the open
door of the house. The lodging of Sir Asinus was in one of those
buildings let out to students; this seemed more private--Hoffland
alone dwelt here.

The student searched his pockets one after the other.

"Oh me!" he cried, "could I have left my key at the college?"

"Careless!" said Mowbray, with a smile.

"I think I am very unfortunate."

"Well, then, my domiciliary visit is rendered impossible. Come,
Charles, another time!"

And Mowbray descended, followed by the triumphant Hoffland, who,
whatever his motive might be, seemed to rejoice in the accident, or
the success of his ruse, whichever the reader pleases.

"Come! I am just going to see Warner Lewis a moment," said Mowbray,
"and then I shall return to the 'Raleigh Tavern,' get my horse, and go
to Roseland----"

"Roseland! Is that your sister's home?"

"Yes, we live there--no one but Lucy and myself; that is to say,
except one single servant reserved from the estate."

"Roseville?" murmured Hoffland; "I think I have passed it."

"Very probably; it is just yonder, beyond the woods--a cottage
embosomed in trees, and with myriads of roses around it, which Lucy
takes great pleasure in cultivating."

"I think I should like to know your sister," said Hoffland.

"Why, nothing is easier: come with me this evening."

"This evening?"

"Why not?"

"How could I?" laughed Hoffland; "your house is so small, that without
some warning I should probably incommode you."

"Oh, not at all--we have a very good room for you. You know in
Virginia we always keep the 'guest's chamber,' however poor we are."

"Hum!" said Hoffland.

"Come!" said Mowbray.

Hoffland began to laugh.

"How could I go?" he asked.

"Why, ride."

"Ride?"

"Certainly."

"In what manner, pray?"

"On horseback," said Mowbray; "I can easily procure you a horse."

Hoffland turned his head aside to conceal his laughter.

"No, I thank you," he said.

"You refuse?"

"Point-blank."

Mowbray looked at him.

"You are a strange person, Charles," he said; "you seem half man, half
child--I might almost say half girl."

"Oh, Ernest, to hurt my feelings so!" said the boy, turning away his
face.

Mowbray found himself reflecting that he had uttered a very unkind
speech.

"I only meant that there was a singular mixture of character and
playfulness in you, Charles," he said; "you are as changeable as the
wind--and quite as pleasant to my weary brow," he added, with a smile;
"you smooth its wrinkles."

"I'm very glad I do," said Hoffland; "but do not again utter such
unfeeling words--_I_ like a girl!"

"No, I will not--pray pardon me," replied Mowbray.

Hoffland's lip was puckered up, until it resembled a rose-leaf rumpled
by the finger of a school-girl.

"Then there is another objection to my going out this evening,
Ernest," he said: "you see I return to the subject."

"What objection?"

"You ought to tell your sister what a fascinating young man I am, and
put her upon her guard----"

"Charles!" cried Mowbray, with a strong disposition to laugh; "you
must pardon my saying that your vanity is the most amusing I have ever
encountered."

"Is it!" asked Hoffland, smiling; "but come, don't you think me
fascinating?"

"Upon my word," said Mowbray, "were I to utter the exact truth, I
should say yes; for I have never yet found myself so completely
conciliated by a stranger. Just consider that we have not known each
other a week yet----"

"But four days!" laughed Hoffland; "be accurate!"

"Well, that makes it all the stronger: we have known each other but
four days, and here we are jesting with every word--'Charles' here,
'Ernest' there--as though we had been acquainted twenty years."

"Such an acquaintance might be possible for you--it is not for me,"
Hoffland said, laughing; "but I find you very generous. You have not
added the strongest evidence of my wayward familiarity--that I advised
you to put your sister on her guard against my fascinations. Let her
take care! Else shall she be a love-sick girl--the most amusing
spectacle, I think, in all the world!"

With which words Hoffland laughed so merrily and with such a musical,
ringing, contagious joy, that Mowbray's feeling of pique at this
unceremonious allusion to his sister passed away completely, and he
could not utter a word.

They passed on thus to the college, conversing about a thousand
things; and Mowbray saw with the greatest surprise that his companion
possessed a mind of remarkable clearness and justness. His comments
upon every subject were characterized by a laughing satire which
played around men and things like summer lightning, and by the time
they had reached Lord Botetourt's statue, Mowbray was completely
silent. He listened.



CHAPTER XII.

HOW HOFFLAND CAUGHT A TARTAR IN THE PERSON OF MISS LUCY'S LOVER.


The day was not to end as quietly as Mowbray dreamed, and we shall now
proceed to relate the incidents which followed this conversation.

Upon the smooth-shaven lawn, at various distances from each other,
were stretched parties of students, who either bent their brows over
volumes of Greek or Latin--or interchanged merry conversation, which
passed around like an elastic ball--or leaning their heads upon
overturned chairs, suffered to curl upward from their lazy lips white
wreaths of smoke which turned to floods of gold in the red sunset,
while the calm pipe-holders dreamed of that last minuet and the blue
eyes shrining it in memory, then of the reel through which she darted
with such joyous sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks--and so went on and
dreamed and sighed, then sighed and dreamed again. We are compelled to
add that the devotees of conversation and the dreamers outnumbered the
delvers into Greek and Latin, to a really deplorable degree.

It is so difficult to study out upon the grass which May has filled
with flowers--so very easy to lie there and idly talk or dream!

Through these groups Mowbray and his friend took their way, noticed
only with a careless glance by the studious portion when their shadows
fell upon the open volumes--not at all by the talkers--and scarcely
more by the dreamers, who lazily moved their heads as smokers only
can--with a silent protest, that is to say, at having their reveries
disturbed, and being compelled to take such enormous trouble and
exertion.

As Mowbray was about to ascend the steps beyond the statue, a young
man came down and greeted him familiarly.

Mowbray turned round and said:

"Mr. Denis, are you acquainted with Mr. Hoffland?"

And then the new-comer and the young student courteously saluted each
other, smiled politely, and shook hands.

"Stay till I come back, Charles," said Mowbray; "you and Denis can
chat under the tree yonder--and he will tell you whether Roseland can
accommodate a guest. He has staid with me more than once."

With which words Mowbray passed on.

Hoffland looked at his companion; and a single glance told him all he
wished to know. Jack Denis--for he was scarcely known by any other
name--was an open-hearted, honest, straight-forward young fellow of
twenty, with light-brown hair, frank eyes, and a cordial bearing which
at once put every body at their ease. Still there was a latent flash
in the eye which denoted an excitable temper--not seldom united, as
the reader must have observed, with such a character.

The young men strolled across to the tree which Mowbray had indicated,
and sat down on a wicker seat which was placed at its foot.

"Mr. Mowbray said you could tell me about Roseland," Hoffland said,
raising his dark eyes as was his habit beneath his low-drooping hat;
"I am sure it is a pretty place from his description--is it not?"

"Oh, beautiful!" said Denis warmly; "you should go and see it."

"I think I will."

"It is not far, and indeed is scarcely half an hour's ride from
town--there to the west."

"Yes; and Miss Lucy is very pretty, is she not?"

Denis colored slightly, and replied:

"I think so."

Hoffland with his quick eye discerned the slight color, and said
somewhat maliciously:

"You know her very well, do you not?"

"Why, tolerably," said Denis.

"I must make her acquaintance," continued Hoffland, "for I am sure
from Mowbray's description of her she is a gem. He invited me to come
this evening."

"You refused?"

"Yes."

"You should not have done so, sir: Mowbray is not prodigal of such
invitations."

Hoffland laughed.

"But I had a reason," he said mischievously.

"What, pray--if I may ask?"

"Oh, certainly, you may ask," Hoffland replied, smiling; "though it
may appear very vain to you--my reason."

"Hum!" said Denis, not knowing what to think of his new acquaintance,
whose quizzing manner, to use the technical word, did not please him.

"I told Mowbray very frankly, however, why I could not come this
evening," pursued Hoffland, with the air of one child teasing another;
"and I think he appreciated my reason. I was afraid on Miss Lucy's
account."

"Afraid!"

"Yes."

"On Lucy's account!"

"On _Miss_ Lucy's account," said Hoffland, emphasizing the "Miss."

"Oh, well, sir," said Denis, with a slight air of coldness; "I don't
deny that I was wrong in so speaking of a lady, but I don't see that
_you_ had the right to correct me."

"Why, Mr. Denis," said Hoffland smiling, "you take my little speeches
too seriously."

"No, sir; and if I showed some hastiness of temper, excuse me--I
believe it is my failing."

"Oh, really now! no apologies," said Hoffland laughing; "I am not
aware that you were out of temper--though that is not an unusual thing
with men. And now, having settled the question of the proper manner to
address or speak of Miss Lucy, I will go on and tell you--as you
seemed interested--why I did not feel myself at liberty to accept Mr.
Mowbray's invitation--or Ernest's: I call him Ernest, and he calls me
Charles."

"You seem to be well acquainted with him," said Denis.

"Oh, we are sworn friends!--of four days' standing."

Denis looked at his companion with great curiosity.

"Mowbray--the most reserved of men in friendship!" he muttered.

"Ah," replied Hoffland, whose quick ear caught these words; "but I am
not a common person, Mr. Denis. Remember that."

"Indeed?" said Denis, again betraying some coolness at his companion's
satirical manner: his manner alone was satirical--the words, as we may
perceive, were scarcely so.

"Yes," continued Hoffland, "and I am an exception to all general
rules--just as Crichton was."

"Crichton?"

"Yes; the admirable Crichton."

And having uttered this conceited sentence with a delightful little
toss of the head, Hoffland laughed.

Denis merely inclined his head coldly. He was becoming more and more
averse to this companion every moment.

"But we were speaking of Roseland, and my reasons for not accepting
Mowbray's invitation," pursued Hoffland, smiling; "the reason may
surprise you."

"Possibly, if you will tell me what it is," said Denis.

"Why, it is the simplest thing in the world. I come from the
mountains, you know."

"No, I did not know it before, sir," replied Denis.

"Well, such at least is the fact. Now, in the mountains, you know, the
girls are prettier, and the men handsomer."

"I know nothing of the sort," replied Denis coldly.

"Very well," Hoffland replied; "as I have just said, such is
nevertheless the fact."

"Indeed, sir?"

"Certainly. Now I am a fair specimen of the mountain men."

Denis looked at his companion with an expression of contempt which he
could not repress. Hoffland did not appear to observe it, but went on
in the same quizzing tone--for we can find no other word--which he had
preserved from the commencement of the interview.

"Feeling that Miss Lucy had probably not seen any one like myself," he
said, "I was naturally anxious that her brother should prepare her."

"Mr. Hoffland!"

"Sir?"

"Nothing, sir!"

And Denis choked down his rising anger. Hoffland did not observe it,
but continued as coolly as ever:

"You know how much curiosity the fair sex have," he said, "and my plan
was for Mowbray to describe me beforehand to his sister--as I know he
will."

"Pardon me, sir," said Denis coldly; "but I do not perceive your
drift. Doubtless it arises from my stupidity, but such is the fact, to
use your favorite expression."

"Why, it is much plainer than any pikestaff," Hoffland replied,
laughing; "listen, and I will explain. Mowbray will return home this
evening, and after tea he will say to his sister, 'I have a new friend
at college, Lucy--the handsomest, brightest, most amiable and
fascinating youth I ever saw.' You see he will call me a 'youth;'
possibly this may excite Miss Lucy's curiosity, and she will ask more
about me; and then Mowbray will of course expatiate on my various and
exalted merits, as every warm-hearted man does when he speaks of his
friends. Then Miss Lucy will imagine for herself a _beau ideal_ of
grace, elegance, beauty, intelligence and wit, far more than human.
She will fall in love with it--and then, when she is hopelessly
entangled in this passion for the creation of her fancy, I will make
my appearance. Do you not understand now, sir?"

Denis frowned and muttered a reply which it had been well for Hoffland
to have heard.

"I think it very plain," continued the young man; "with all those
graces of mind and person which a kind Providence has bestowed upon
me, I still feel that I could expect nothing but defeat, contending
with the ideal of a young girl's heart. Oh, sir, you can't imagine
how fanciful they are--believe me, women very seldom fall in love
with real men: it is the image of their dreams which they sigh over
and long to meet. This is all that they really love."

"Ah?" said Denis, in a freezing tone.

"Yes," Hoffland said; "and applying this reasoning to the present
subject, you cannot fail to understand my motives for refusing
Mowbray's kind invitation. Once in love with my shadow, Lucy will not
fall in love with me. To tell you the truth, I could not afford to
have her----"

"Mr. Hoffland!"

"Why, Mr. Denis--did any thing hurt you? Perhaps----"

"It was nothing, sir!" said Denis, with a flushed face.

"Well, to conclude," said Hoffland; "I could not accept Lucy's love
were she to offer it to me, and for this reason I have staid away. I
am myself fettered by another object; I could not marry her were she
to fall sick for love of me, and beg me on her knees to accept her
hand and heart--I really could not!"

Denis rose as if on springs.

"Mr. Hoffland!" he said, "you have basely insulted a young girl whom I
love--the sister of my friend--the best and purest girl in the world.
By Heaven, sir! you shall answer this! But for your delicate
appearance, sir, I would personally chastise you on the spot! But you
do not escape me, sir! Hold yourself in readiness to receive a
challenge from me to-morrow morning, sir!"

"Mr. Denis!" murmured Hoffland, suddenly turning pale and trembling
from head to foot.

"Refuse it, and I will publish you as a coward!" cried Denis, in a
towering rage; "a poltroon who has insulted a lady and refused to hold
himself responsible!"

With which words Denis tossed away; and passing through the crowd of
students, who, hearing angry voices, had risen to their feet, he
entered the college.

Hoffland stood trembling and totally unable to reply to the questions
addressed to him by the crowd. Suddenly he felt a hand upon his
shoulder; and raising his eyes he saw Mowbray.

He uttered a long sigh of relief; and drawing his hat over his eyes,
apparently to conceal his paleness and agitation, took his friend's
arm and dragged him away.

"What in the world is all this about?" asked Mowbray.

"Oh!" said Hoffland, trying to smile, but failing lamentably, "Mr.
Denis is going to kill me!"

And Mowbray felt that the hand upon his arm was trembling.



CHAPTER XIII.

HOFFLAND MAKES HIS WILL.


When they had reached the open street, and the crowd of curious
students were no longer visible, Hoffland, growing gradually calmer,
and with faint smiles, related to his companion what had just
occurred; that is to say, in general terms--rather in substance, it
must be confessed, than in detail. Mr. Denis and himself, he said, had
at first commenced conversing in a very friendly manner, the
conversation had then grown animated, and Mr. Denis had become
somewhat excited; then, at the conclusion of one of his (Hoffland's)
observations, he had declared himself deeply offended, and farther,
announced his intention of dispatching a mortal defiance to him on the
ensuing morning.

Mowbray in vain endeavored to arrive at the particulars of the affair.
Hoffland obstinately evaded detailing the cause of the quarrel.

"Well, Charles," said Mowbray, "you are certainly unlucky--to quarrel
so quickly at college; but----"

"Was it my fault?" replied the boy, in a reproachful tone.

"I don't know; your relation is so general, you descend so little to
particulars, that I have not been able to form an opinion of the
amount of blame which attaches to each."

"Blame!" said Hoffland. "Oh, Ernest! you are not a true friend."

"Why, Charles?"

"You do not espouse my part."

Mowbray uttered a sigh of dissatisfaction.

"Do you know," he said, "that my place is rather yonder, as the friend
and adviser of Denis?"

"Well, sir," said Hoffland, in a hurt tone, "as you please."

Mowbray said calmly:

"No, I will not embrace your advice; I will not leave you, a mere
youth, alone, to go and range myself on the side of Denis, though we
have been intimate friends for years. He has numbers of acquaintances
and friends; you could count yours upon the fingers of one hand."

"On the little finger of one hand, say," Hoffland replied, regaining
his good humor.

"Well," Mowbray said calmly, "then there is all the more reason for my
espousing your cause--since you hint that I am the little finger."

"No, I will promote you," Hoffland answered, smiling; "you shall have
this finger, one rank above the little finger, you see."

And he held up his left hand, touching the third finger.

Then the boy turned away and laughed as merrily and carelessly as
before the disagreeable events of the evening.

Mowbray looked at him with a faint smile.

"Youth, youth!" he murmured; "youth, so full of joy and lightness--so
careless and gay-hearted! Here is a man--or a child--who in
twenty-four hours may be lying cold in death yonder, and he smiles and
even laughs. Hoffland," he added, "let us cease our discussions in
relation to the origin of this unhappy affair, and endeavor to decide
upon the course to be pursued. With myself the matter stands thus: I
have known Denis for years; he is one of my best friends; no one loves
me more, I think----"

"Except one," said Hoffland, laughing.

"My dear Charles," said Mowbray seriously, "let us speak gravely.
This affair is serious, since it involves two lives--especially
serious to me, since it involves the life of a friend of many years'
standing, and no less the life of one I have promised to assist,
advise, and guide--yourself."

"Oh," said Hoffland, with a hurt expression, "you call Mr. Denis your
friend, while I--I am only 'one you have promised to advise.' Ernest,
that is cruel; you have not learned yet how sensitive I am!"

And Hoffland turned away.

"Really, I am dealing with a child," murmured Mowbray; "let me summon
all my patience."

And he said aloud:

"My dear Hoffland, I am not one of those men who make violent
protestations and feel sudden and excessive friendships. Friendship,
with me, is a tree of slow growth; and I even now wonder at the
position you have been able to take in my regard, upon such a slight
acquaintance. There is a frank word--all words between friends should
be frank. There, I call you my friend--you are such: does that please
you?"

"Oh, very much," said Hoffland, smiling and banishing his sad
expression instantly; "I know you are the noblest and most sincere of
men."

And the boy held out to his companion a small hand, which returned the
pressure of Mowbray's slightly, and was then quietly withdrawn.

"Well, now," said Mowbray, "let us come back to this affair. Denis
will send you a challenge?"

"He says so."

"Well; then he will keep his promise."

"Or course he will act as a man of honor throughout," said Hoffland,
laughing; "I am sure of that, because he is your friend."

"Pray drop these polite speeches, and let us talk plainly."

"Very well, Ernest; but Denis is a good fellow, eh?" asked Hoffland,
smiling.

"Yes."

"Brave?"

"Wholly fearless."

"A good swordsman!"

"Very."

"And with the pistol?" asked Hoffland, laughing.

"The best shot in college," returned Mowbray, pleased in spite of
himself at finding his companion so calm and smiling.

Hoffland placed his thumb absently upon his chin--leaned upon it, and
after a moment's reflection said in a business tone:

"I think I'll choose swords."

"You fence?"

"I? Why, my dear Ernest, have you never seen me with a foil in my
hand?"

"Never."

"Indeed? Well, I fence like the admirable Crichton himself. It was
some allusion to that celebrated gentleman, in connection with myself,
by the by, which excited Mr. Denis's anger."

"How, pray?"

"Well, well, it would embarrass me to explain. Let us dismiss Mr.
Crichton. My mind is made up--I choose short-swords, for I was always
afraid of pistols."

Mowbray looked with curiosity at his companion.

"Afraid?" he said.

"Yes, indeed," replied Hoffland; "you will not believe me, but I never
could fire a pistol or a gun without shutting my eyes, and dropping it
when it went off!"

With which words Hoffland burst into laughter.

Mowbray saw that it would be necessary to check the mercurial humor of
his companion. He therefore suppressed the smile which rose
unconsciously to his lips when Hoffland laughed so merrily, and said
gravely:

"Charles, are you prepared for a mortal duel?"

"Perfectly," said Hoffland, with great simplicity.

"Have you made your will?"

"My will! Fie, Mr. Lawyer! Why, I am a minor."

"Minors make wills," said Mowbray; "and I advise you, if you are
determined to encounter Mr. Denis, to make your will, and put in
writing whatever you wish done."

"But what have I to leave to any one?" said Hoffland, affecting
annoyance. "Ah, yes!" he added, "I am richer than I supposed. Well,
now, this terrible affair may take place before I can make my
arrangements; so I will, with your permission, make a nuncupative
will--I believe _nuncupative_ is the word, but I am not sure."

Mowbray sighed; he found himself powerless before this incorrigible
light-heartedness, and had not the resolution to check it. He began to
reflect wistfully upon the future: he already saw that boyish face
pale and bloody, but still smiling--that slender figure stretched upon
the earth--a mere boy, dead before his prime.

Hoffland went on, no longer laughing, but uttering sighs, and
affecting sudden and profound emotion.

"This is a serious thing, Ernest," he said; "when a man thinks of his
will, he stops laughing. I beg therefore that you will not laugh, nor
interrupt me, while I dispose of the trifling property of which I am
possessed."

Mowbray sighed.

Hoffland echoed this sigh, and went on:

"First: As I have no family, and may confine my bequests wholly to my
present dear companions, acquaintances, and friends--first, I leave my
various suits of apparel, which may be found at my lodgings, to my
dear companions aforesaid; begging that they may be distributed after
the following fashion. To the student who is observed to shed the most
tears when he receives the intelligence of my unhappy decease, I give
my suit of silver velvet, with chased gold buttons, and silk
embroidery. The cocked hat and feather, rosetted shoes with diamond
buckles, and the flowered satin waistcoat, go with this. Also six
laced pocket-handkerchiefs, which I request my dear tender-hearted
friend to use on all occasions when he thinks of me, to dry his eyes
with.

"_Item:_ My fine unit of Mecklenburg silk, with silver buttons, I give
to the friend who expresses in words the most poignant regret. I hold
that tears are more genuine than words, for which reason the best
weeper has been preferred, and so has received the velvet suit.
Nevertheless, the loudest lamenter is not unworthy; and so I repeat
that he shall have the silk suit. If there be none who weep or lament
me, I direct that these two suits shall be given to the janitor of the
college, the old negro Fairfax, whose duty ever thereafter shall be to
praise and lament me.

"Second: I give my twelve other suits of various descriptions, more or
less rich, to the members of the 'Anti-Stamp-Act League,' of which I
am a member. This with my love; and I request that, whenever they
speak of me, they may say, 'Hoffland, our lamented, deceased brother,
was a man of expanded political ideas, and a true friend of liberty.'

"Third: I give all my swords, pistols, guns, carbines, short swords,
broad swords, poniards, and spurs, to my friend Mr. Denis, who has had
the misfortune to kill me. It is my request that he will not lament
me, or feel any pangs of conscience. So far from dying with the
thought that he has been unjust to me, I declare that his conduct has
been worthy of the Chevalier Bayard; and I desire that the above
implements of war may be used to exterminate even the whole world,
should they give him like cause of quarrel.

"Fourth: I give my books to those I am most intimately acquainted
with:--my Elzevir Horace to T. Randolph--he will find translations of
the best odes upon the fly leaves, much better than any he could make;
my Greek books, the Iliad, Græca Minora, Herodotus, etc., which are
almost entirely free from dog-ears and thumb-marks, as I have never
opened them, I give to L. Burwell, requesting that he will thenceforth
apply himself to Greek in earnest. My Hebrew books I give to Fairfax,
the janitor, as he is the only one in the college who will not pretend
to understand them; thus, much deception will be warded off and
prevented.

"Fifth: I give and bequeath to the gentleman who passed us this
afternoon on horseback, and who is plainly deep in love with some
one--I believe he is known as Mr. Jacques--I bequeath to him my large
volume of love-songs in manuscript, begging him to read them for his
interest and instruction, and never, under any circumstances, to copy
them upon embossed paper and send them to his lady-love, pretending
that they are original, as I have known many forlorn lovers to do
before this.

"Sixth: I bequeath to Miss Lucy Mowbray, the sister of my beloved
friend, my manuscript 'Essay upon the Art of Squeezing a Lady's Hand;'
begging that she will read it attentively, and never suffer her hand
to be squeezed in any other manner than that which I have therein
pointed out.

"Seventh: I bequeath my 'Essay upon the Hebrew Letter Aleph' to the
College of William and Mary, requesting that it shall be disposed of
to some scientific body in Europe, for not less than twenty thousand
pounds--that sum to be dedicated to the founding of a new
professorship--to be called the _Hoffland Professorship_ for the
instruction of young men going to woo their sweethearts. And the
professor shall in all cases be a woman.

"Eighth: Having disposed of my personal, I now come to add a
disposition also of my invisible and more valuable property remaining.
I bequeath my memory to the three young ladies to whom I am at present
engaged--begging them to deal charitably with what I leave to them;
and if harsh thoughts ever rise in their hearts, to remember how
beautiful they are, and how utterly impossible it was for their poor
friend to resist yielding to that triple surpassing loveliness. If
this message is distinctly communicated to them, they will not be
angry, but ever after revere and love my memory, as that of the truest
and most rational of men.

"Ninth: I leave to my executor a lock of my hair, which he shall carry
ever after in his bosom--take thence and kiss at least once every
day--at the same time murmuring, 'Poor Charles! he loved me very
much!'

"Tenth, and last: I bequeath my heart to Mr. Ernest Mowbray. I mean
the spiritual portion--my love. And if I should make him my executor,
I hereby declare that clause ninth shall apply to him, and be carried
out in full; declaring that he may utter the words therein written
with a good conscience; and declaring further, that my poverty alone
induces me to make him so trifling a bequest as this, in the tenth
clause expressed. Moreover, he had full possession of it formerly
during my life-time; and, finally, I make him my executor.

"That is all," said Hoffland, laughing and turning away his head; "a
capital will, I think!"

Mowbray shook his head.

"I have listened to your jesting in silence, Charles," he said,
"because I thought it best to let your merry mood expend itself----"

"I was never graver in my life!"

"Then you were never grave at all. Now let us seriously consult about
this unhappy affair. Ah, duelling, duelling! how wicked, childish,
illogical, despotic, bloody, and at the same time ludicrous it is!
Come, you have lost your key, you say--we cannot go to your lodgings:
let us find a room in the 'Raleigh,' and arrange this most unhappy
affair. Come."

And, followed by Hoffland, Mowbray took his way sadly toward the
"Raleigh."



CHAPTER XIV.

HOSTILE CORRESPONDENCE.


We regard it as a very fortunate circumstance that the manuscript
record of what followed, or did not follow, the events just related,
has been faithfully preserved. A simple transcription of the papers
will do away with the necessity of relating the particulars in detail;
and so we hasten to present the reader with the correspondence,
prefacing it with the observation that the affair kept the town or
city of Williamsburg in a state of great suspense for two whole days.


I.

     "Mr. HOFFLAND:

     "You insulted a lady in my presence yesterday evening, and I
     demand from you a retraction of all that you uttered. I am
     not skilled in writing, but you will understand me. The
     friend who bears this will bring your answer.

                         I am your obed't serv't,

                                   "J. DENIS."


II.

     "Mr. DENIS:

     "For you know you begin 'Mr. Hoffland!' as if you said,
     'Stand and deliver!'--I have read your note, and I am sure I
     shan't be able to write half as well. I am so young that,
     unfortunately, I have never had an _affair_, which is a
     great pity, for I would then know how to write beautiful
     long sentences that no one could possibly fail to
     understand.

     "You demand a retraction, your note says. I don't like
     'demand'--it's such an ugly word, you know; and if you
     change the letters slightly, it makes a very bad, shocking
     word, such as is used by profane young men. Then
     'retraction' is so hard. For you know I said I was handsome:
     must I take back that? Then I said that I could not marry
     the lady we quarrelled about: must I say I can? I can't tell
     a story, and I assure you on my honor--yes, Mr. Denis! on my
     sacred word of honor as a gentleman!--that I cannot marry
     Lucy!

     "You see I can't take it back, and if you were to eat me up
     I couldn't say I didn't say it.

     "To think how angry you were!

                         "In haste,

                                   "Charles HOFFLAND."


III.

     "Mr. HOFFLAND:

     "Your note is not satisfactory at all. I did not quarrel
     with your opinion of yourself, and you know it. I was not
     foolish enough to be angry at your declaring that you were
     engaged to some lady already. You spoke of a lady who is my
     friend, and what you said was insulting.

     "I say again that I am not satisfied.

                         "Your obed't serv't,

                                   "J. DENIS."


IV.

     "Mr. DENIS:

     "Stop!--I didn't say I was engaged to any lady: no
     misunderstanding.

                         "Yours always,

                                   "Charles HOFFLAND."


V.

     "Mr. HOFFLAND:

     "I do not understand your note. You evade my request for an
     explanation. I think, therefore, that the shortest way will
     be to end the matter at once.

     "The friend who brings you this will make all the
     arrangements.

                         "I have the honor to be,

                                   "J. DENIS."


VI.

     "Oh, Mr. Denis, to shoot me in cold blood! Well, never mind!
     Of course it's a challenge. But who in the world will be
     _my_ 'friend'? Please advise me. You know Ernest ought not
     to--decidedly. He likes you, and you seemed to like Miss
     Lucy, who must be a very sweet girl as she is Ernest's
     sister. Therefore, as I have no other friend but Ernest, I
     should think we might arrange the whole affair without
     troubling him. I have been talking with some people, and
     they say I have 'the choice of weapons'--because you
     challenged me, you know. I would rather fight with a sword,
     I think, than be shot, but I think we had better have
     pistols. I therefore suggest pistols, and I have been
     reading all about fighting, and can lay down the rules.

     "1. The pistols shall be held by the principals with the
     muzzles down, not more than six inches from the right
     toe--pointing that way, I mean.

     "2. The word shall be 'Fire! One, Two, Three!' and if either
     fire before 'one' or after 'three,' he shall be immediately
     killed. For you know it would be murder, and ours is a
     gentlemanly affair of honor.

     "3. The survivor, if he is a bachelor, shall marry the wife
     of the one who falls. You are a bachelor, I believe, and so
     am I: thus this will not be very hard, and for my part I'm
     very glad; I shouldn't like to marry a disconsolate widow. I
     think we could fight on the college green, and Dr. Small
     might have a chair placed for him under the big tree to look
     on from--near his door, you know.

                         "I have the honor to be,

                              "Yours truly,

                                   "Charles HOFFLAND.


VII.

     "Mr. HOFFLAND:

     "Your note is very strange. You ask me to advise you whom to
     take as your second; and then you lay down rules which I
     never heard of before. I suppose a gentleman can right his
     grievances without having to fight first and marry
     afterwards. What you write is so much like joking, that I
     don't know what to make of it. You seem to be very young and
     inexperienced, sir, and you say you have no friend but
     Mowbray.

     "I'm obliged to you for your delicacy about Mowbray, but I
     cannot take it upon myself to advise any one else.--I hardly
     know how to write to you, for the whole thing seems a joke
     to you. If you were jesting in what you said, say so, sir,
     and we can shake hands. I don't want to take your blood for
     a joke, and especially as you are a stranger here.

                         "Your obed't serv't,

                                   "J. DENIS."


VIII.

     "Joking, my dear fellow? Of course I was joking! Did you
     think I really was in earnest when I said that I was so
     handsome, and was engaged already, et cetera, and so forth,
     as one of my friends used to say? I was jesting! For on my
     sacred word of honor, I am not engaged to any one--and yet I
     could not marry Lucy. I am wedded already--to my own ideas!
     I am not my own master--and yet I have no mistress!

     "But I ought not to be tiring you in this way. Why didn't
     you ask me if I was joking at first? Of course I was! I was
     laughing all the time and teasing you. It's enough to make
     me die a-laughing to think we were going to murder each
     other for joking. I was plaguing you! for I saw at once from
     what you said that you were hopelessly in----well, well! I
     won't tell your secrets.

                         "Yours truly,

                                   "Charles HOFFLAND."


IX.

     "Mr. HOFFLAND:

     "I am very glad you were joking, and I am glad you have said
     so with manly courtesy--though I am at a loss to understand
     why you wished to 'tease' me. But I don't take offence, and
     am sure the whole matter was a jest. I hope you will not
     jest with me any more upon such a subject--I am very hasty;
     and my experience has told me that most men that fall in
     duels, are killed for this very jesting.

     "As to what you say about my admiring Miss Mowbray, it is
     true in some degree, and I am not offended. As far as my
     part goes, we are as good friends as ever.

                         "Yours truly,

                                   "J. DENIS."


X.

     "Dear JACK:

     "Your apology is perfectly satisfactory.--But I forgot! I
     made the apology myself! Well, it's all the same, and I am
     glad we haven't killed each other--for then, you know, we
     would have been dead now.

     "Come round this evening to my lodging--one corner from
     Gloucester street, by the college, you know--and we'll empty
     a jolly bottle, get up a game of ombre with Mowbray, and
     make a night of it. Oh! I forgot!--my key has disappeared: I
     don't see it any where, and so, to my great regret, your
     visit must be deferred. What a pity!

     "We shall meet this evening, when we shall embrace each
     other--figuratively--and pledge everlasting friendship.

                         "Devotedly till death,

                                   "Charles HOFFLAND."


Thus was the great affair which agitated all Williamsburg for more
than forty-eight hours arranged to the perfect satisfaction of all
parties: though we must except that large and influential body the
quidnuncs, who, as every body knows, are never satisfied with any
thing which comes to an end without a catastrophe. The correspondence,
as we have seen, had been confined to the principals, and the only
public announcement was to the effect that "both gentlemen were
satisfied"--which we regard as a very gratifying circumstance.



CHAPTER XV.

SENTIMENTS OF A DISAPPOINTED LOVER ON THE SUBJECT OF WOMEN.


Hoffland had just met and made friends with Jack Denis--"embraced him
figuratively," to use his expression; and he and Mowbray were walking
down Gloucester street, inhaling the pleasant air of the fine morning
joyously.

Hoffland was smiling as usual. Mowbray's countenance wore its habitual
expression of collected calmness--his clear eye as usual betrayed no
emotion of any description.

"I feel better than if I was dead," said Hoffland, laughing, "and I
know _you_ are glad, Ernest, that I am still alive."

"Sincerely," said Mowbray, smiling.

"Wasn't it a good idea of mine to carry on all the correspondence?"

"Yes; the result proves it in this instance. I thought that I could
arrange the unhappy affair, but I believe you were right in taking it
out of my hands--or rather, in never delivering it to me. Well, I am
delighted that it is over. I could ill spare you or Denis; and God
forbid that you should ever fall victims to this barbarous child's
play, duelling."

"Ah! my dear fellow," replied Hoffland, "we men must have some
tribunal above the courts of law; and then you know the women dote
upon a duellist.

"Yes, Hoffland, as they dote upon an interesting monstrosity--the
worse portion. Women admire courage, because it is the quality they
lack--I mean animal courage, the mere faculty of looking into a
pistol-muzzle calmly; and their admiration is so great that they are
carried away by it. They admire in the same way a gay wild fellow;
they do not dislike even a 'poor fellow--ah! very dissipated!' and
this arises from the fact that they admire decided 'character' of any
description, more than the want of character--even when the possesser
of _character_ is led into vice by it."

"A great injustice!--a deep injustice!" said Hoffland "I wonder how
you can say so!"

"I can say so because I believe it to be true--nay, I know it."

"Conceited!--you know women indeed!"

"Not even remotely; but listen. I was about to add that women admire
reckless courage and excessive animal spirits. But let that courage
lead a man to shed another's blood for a jest, or let that animal
spirit draw a man into degrading and bestial advice--presto! they
leave him!"

"And they are right!"

"Certainly."

"Well, sir?"

"But they are not the less wrong at first: the importance they attach
to courage leads many boys and young men into murderous affrays--just
as their satirical comments upon 'milky dispositions' lead thousands
into vice."

"Oh, Ernest!"

"Do you deny it?"

"Wholly."

"Well, that only proves to me once more that you know nothing of
women."

"Do you think so?" said Hoffland, smiling.

"Yes: what I have said is the tritest truth. That women admire these
qualities excessively, and that men, especially young men, shape their
conduct by this feminine feeling, is as true as that sunlight."

"I deny it."

"Very well; that proves further, Charles, that you have not observed
and studied much."

"Have you?"

"Extensively."

"And you are a great master in the wiles of women by this time, I
suppose," said Hoffland satirically.

"No, you misunderstand me," replied Mowbray, without observing the
boy's smile. "I never shall pretend to understand women; but I can use
my eyes, and I can read the open page before me."

"The open page? What do you mean?"

"I mean that the history of the modern world, the social history, has
a great key-note--is a maze unless you keep constantly in view the
existence of this element--women."

"I should say it was: we could not well get on without them."

"The middle age originated the present deification of woman,"
continued Mowbray philosophically, "and the old knights left us the
legacy. We have long ago discarded for its opposite the scriptural
doctrine that the man is not of the woman, but the woman of the man;
and we justify ourselves by the strange plea, 'they are so weak.'"

"Well, are they not?"

"Woman weak? Poor Charles! Parliaments, inquisitions, secret tribunals
and executioners' axes are straws compared to them. They smile, and
man kneels; they weep, and his moral judgment is effaced like a
shadow: he is soft clay in their hands. One caress from a girl makes a
fool of a giant. Have you read the history of Samson?"

"Vile misogynist!" said Hoffland, "you are really too bad!"

Mowbray smiled sadly.

"Do not understand me to say that we should return to barbarous times,
and make the women labor and carry burdens, while we the men lounge in
the sun and dream," he said; "not at all. All honor to the middle age!
The knight raised up woman, and she made him a reproachless chevalier
in return; but it did not end there. He must needs do more--he loved,
and love is so strong! Divine love is strongest--he must deify her."

"You are a great student, forsooth!"

"Deny it if you can: but you cannot, Charles. The central idea of the
middle age--the age of chivalry--is woman. That word interprets all;
it is the open sesame which throws wide the portals. Without it, that
whole era is a mere jumble of bewildering anomalies--events without
causes--actions without motives. Well, see how truly we are the
descendants of those knights. To this day our social god is woman."

"Scoffer!"

"No; what I say is more in sorrow than anger. It will impede our
national and spiritual growth, for I declare to you that one hundred
years hence, women in my opinion will not be satisfied with this
poetic and chivalric homage: they will demand a voice in the
government. They will grow bolder, and learn to regard these chivalric
concessions to their purity and weakness as their natural rights.
Woman's rights!--that will be their watchword."

"And I suppose you would say they have no rights."

"Oh, many. Among others, the right to shape the characters and
opinions of their infant children," said Mowbray with a grave smile.

"And no more, sir?"

"Far more; but this discussion is unprofitable. What I mean is simply
this, Charles: that the middle age has left us a national idea which
is dangerous--the idea that woman should, from her very weakness, rule
and direct; especially among us gentlemen who hold by the traditions
of the past--who reject Sir Galahad, and cling to Orlando and
Amadis--who grow mad and fall down worshipping and kissing the feet of
woman--happy even to be spurned by her."

"Really, sir!--but your conversation is very instructive Who, pray,
was Sir Galahad?--for I have read Ariosto, and know about Orlando."

"Sir Galahad is that myth of the middle age, Charles, who went about
searching for the holy Graal--the cup which our Saviour drank from in
his last supper; which Joseph of Arimathea collected his precious
blood in. You will understand that I merely repeat the monkish
tradition."

"Well, what sort of a knight was this Sir Galahad; and why do you hold
him up as superior to Orlando and Amadis?"

"Because he saw the true course, and loved woman as an earthly
consoler, did not adore her as a god. Read how he fought and suffered
many things for women; see how profoundly he loved them, and smiled
whenever they crossed his path; how his whole strength and every thing
was woman's. Was she oppressed? Did brute strength band itself against
her? His chivalric arm was thrown around her. Was she threatened with
shame, or hatred and wrong? His heart, his sword, all were hers, and
he would as willingly pour out his blood for her as wander on a sunny
morning over flowery fields."

"Well," said Hoffland, "he was a true knight. Have you not finished?"

"By no means. With love for and readiness to protect the weak and
oppressed woman--with satisfaction in her smiles, and rejoicing in the
thanks she gave him--the good knight's feelings ended. He would not
give her his heart and adore her--he knelt only to his God. He refused
to place his arm at her disposal in all things, and so become the tool
of her caprice; he would not sell himself for a caress, and hold his
hands out to be fettered, when she smiled and offered him an embrace.
A child before God, and led by a grand thought, he would not become a
child before woman, and be directed by her idle fancies. He was the
'knight of God,' not of woman; and he grasped the prize."

Hoffland listened to these earnest words more thoughtfully.

"Well," he said, "so Sir Galahad is your model--not the mad worshipper
of woman, Orlando!"

"A thousand times."

"Ah! we have neither now."

"We have no Galahads, for woman has grown stronger even than in the
old days. She would not tolerate a lover who espoused her cause from
duty: she wants adoring worship."

"No! no!--only love!" said Hoffland.

"A mistake," said Mowbray; "she does not wish a mere knightly respect
and love--that of the real knight; she demands an Amadis, to grow mad
for her--to be crazed by her beauty, and kneel down and sell himself
for a kiss. She wishes power, and scouts the mere chivalric smile and
homage. She claims and exacts the fullest obedience, and her claim is
pronounced just. She says to-day--returning to what we commenced
with--she says, 'Go and murder that man: he has uttered a jest;' or,
'On penalty of my pity and contempt, make yourself the slave of my
caprice, and kill your friend, who has said laughing that I am not an
angel.' The unhappy part of all this is," said Mowbray, "that the men,
especially young men, obey. And then, when the blood is poured out,
the tragedy consummated; when the body which was a breathing man is
taken from the bloody grass where it lies like a wounded bird, its
heart-blood welling out--when it is home cold and pale before her, and
the mother, sister, daughter wail and moan--then the beautiful goddess
who has gotten up this little drama for her amusement, finds her false
philosophy broken in her breast, her deity overthrown, her supreme
resolution crushed in presence of this terrible spectacle; and she
wrings her hands, and sobs and cries out at the evil she has done; but
cries much louder, that the hearts of men are horrible and bloody;
that their instincts are barbarous and terrible; that she alone is
tender and soft-hearted and forgiving; that she would never have
plunged the sword into the bosom, or sent the ball tearing its way
through the heart; that man alone is horrible and cruel and depraved;
that she is noble and pure-hearted, true and innocent; that woman is
above this miserable humanity--great like Diana of the Ephesians, pure
and strong and immaculate--without reproach! That is a tolerably
accurate history of most duels," added Mowbray coldly; "you will not
deny it."

Hoffland made no reply.

"You will not deny it because it is true," said Mowbray; "it is what
every man knows and feels and sees. You think it strange, then, that
they act as they do, in this perfect subservience to woman, knowing
what I have said is true. It is not more strange than any other
ludicrous inconsequence which men are guilty of. Look at me! I know
that what I have said is as true as the existence of this earth; and
now, what would I do? I will tell you. Were I in love with a woman, I
would make myself a child, and adore her, and sell my soul for her
caresses; and make my brain the tool of my infatuation by yielding to
her false, fatal sophistry, because that sophistry would be uttered by
red lips, and would become truth in the dazzling light of her
seductive smiles. Do you expect me, because I know it is all a lie, to
resist sighs and murmurs, and those languid glances, which women
employ to gain their ends? If you wish me to resist them, give me a
lump of ice instead of a heart--a freezing stream instead of a warm
current in my veins--make me a thinking machine, all brain; but take
care how you leave one particle of the man! That particle will fire
all; for the age tells me that woman is all pure, all-knowing, all
true--how can I go astray? I am not a machine--the atmosphere of that
old woman-worshipping world has nourished me, because I breathe it
now; and if the woman I loved madly wished a little murder enacted for
the benefit of her enemies, why, I cannot, dare not say, I would not
go and murder for her, thinking I was serving nothing but the cause of
purity and justice."

Hoffland listened to these coldly uttered words with some agitation,
but made no reply. They walked on for some moments in silence, and
Mowbray then said:

"The discussion is getting too grave, Charles; and I am afraid I have
spoken very harshly of women--led away in the discussion of this
subject. But remember that most of these unhappy affairs indirectly
arise from this fatal philosophy; and I have reason to suppose that
the present one, which has so nearly taken from me one or both of my
dearest friends, originated indirectly in such a source. Do not
understand me as undervaluing the fine old chivalrous devotion to
women: the hard task is for me to believe that any devotion to a good
and pure woman is exaggerated. They are above us, Charles, in all the
finer and nobler traits, and we are responsible for this weakness in
them. What wonder if they believed us when we told them that they were
more than human, something angelic? Their duty was to listen to us,
and act by our judgment; and when we have told them now for ages that
our place is at their feet, the hem of their garments for our lips,
their smiles brighter than the sunshine of heaven, should we feel
surprise at their acquiescing in our _dicta_, and assuming the
enormous social influence which we yield to them, beg them upon our
knees to take? For my part, I rejoice that man has not a power as
unlimited; and if one sex must rule, spite of every thing, I am almost
ready to give up to the women. They go right oftener; and if this
tyranny must really exist, I know not that Providence has not
mercifully placed the sceptre in her hands. See where all my great
philosophy ends--I can't help loving while I speak against them. The
sneer upon my lips turns to a smile--my indignation to good-humor.
Oh, Charles! Charles! right or wrong, they rule us; and if we must
have sexual tyranny, it is best in the hands of mothers. But rather
let us have no tyranny at all: let the man take his place as lord
without, the woman her sovereignty over the inner world. Let her grace
perfect his strength; her bosom hold his rude head and dusty brow; let
her heart crown his intellect--each fill the void in each. Vain
thought, I am afraid; and this, I fear, is scarcely more than
dreaming. Let us leave the subject."

And Mowbray sighed; nodding, as he passed on, to a young gentleman on
horseback. This was Jacques.



CHAPTER XVI.

ADVANCE OF THE ENEMY UPON SIR ASINUS.


Instead of listening further to the conversation of Mowbray and
Hoffland, let us follow Jacques, who, mounted as we have seen on a
beautiful horse, is gaily passing down the street.

Jacques is clad as usual like a lily of the field, with something of
the tulip; he hums a melancholy love song of his own composition, not
having yet come into possession of Hoffland's legacy; he smiles and
sighs, and after some hesitation, draws rein before the domicile of
our friend Sir Asinus, and dismounting, ascends to the apartment of
that great political martyr.

Sir Asinus was sitting in an easy chair tuning a violin; his pointed
features wearing their usual expression of cynical humor, and his
dress wofully negligent.

He had been making a light repast upon crackers and wine, and on the
floor lay a tobacco pipe with an exceedingly dirty reed stem, which
Jacques, with his usual bad fortune, trod upon and reduced to a bundle
of splinters.

"There!" cried Sir Asinus, "there, you have broken my pipe, you
awkward cub!"

"Ah," sighed Jacques, gazing upon the splinters with melancholy
curiosity; "what you say is very just."

And sitting down, he gazed round him, smiling sadly.

"Nothing better could be expected from you, however, you careless
fop!"

And giving one of the violin pegs a wrench, Sir Asinus snapped a
string.

"There!" he cried, "you bring bad fortune! whenever you come, I have
the devil's own luck."

Jacques laughed quietly, and stretching out his elegant foot, yawned
luxuriously.

"You are naturally unlucky, my dear knight," he said. "Hand me a glass
of wine--or don't trouble yourself: the exercise of rising will do me
good."

And leaning over, he poured out a glass of wine and sipped it.

"I was coming along, and thought I would come in," he said. "How is
your Excellency to-day?"

"Dying of weariness!"

"What! even your great Latin song----"

"Is growing dull, sir. How can a man live on solitude and Latin? No
girls, no frolics, no fun, no nothing, if I may use that inelegant
expression," said Sir Asinus.

"Go back, then."

"Never!"

"Why not?"

"Do you ask? I am a martyr, sir, to my great and expanded political
ideas; my religious opinions; my theory of human rights."

"Ah, indeed? Well, they ought to appreciate the compliment you pay
them, and console you in your exile."

"They do, sir," said Sir Asinus.

"Delighted to hear it," sighed Jacques, setting down his glass. "Has
Doctor Small called on you yet?"

"No. I fervently desire that he will call. We could sing my Latin song
together--he would take the bass; and in three hours I should make of
him a convert to my political ideas."

"Indeed? Shall I mention that you wish to see him?"

"No, I believe not," said Sir Asinus; "I am busy at present."

"At what--yawning?"

"No, you fop! I am framing a national anthem for the violin."

"Tune--the 'Exile's Return,' eh?"

"Base scoffer! But what news?"

"A great piece."

"What?"

"I am too indolent to tell it."

"Come, Jacques--I'm dying for news."

"I really couldn't. You have no idea how weakly I am growing; and as
it deals in battle and blood, I cannot touch upon it."

"Ah! that is the character of a man's friends. In the sunshine all
devotion; in adversity----"

"And exile----"

"All hatred."

"Very well," said Jacques, "I can afford to labor under your
injustice. You are systematically unjust. But I just dropped in as I
passed--and, my dear Sir Asinus, there is a visitor coming. I shall
intrude----"

"No; stay! stay!"

"Very well."

Sir Asinus laid down his violin; and stretching himself, said
carelessly:

"I shouldn't be surprised if you had brought some dun in your train.
Decidedly you possess the _gettatura_--that faculty called the Evil
Eye."

The step ascended.

"Who is it--whose heavy step can that be?" said Sir Asinus, rising;
"it is not Randolph: it might be yours coming from Belle-bouche's----"

Sir Asinus caught sight of a large cocked hat rising from beneath,
followed by a substantial person.

"O Heaven!" he cried, "it's Doctor Small! The door--the door!"

"Too late!" said Jacques, laughing; "the Doctor will find the stairs
suddenly darkened if you close the door; and then he will know you are
not absent, only playing him a trick!"

"True! true!" cried Sir Asinus in despair; "where shall I go? I am
lost!"

"The refuge of comedy-characters is left," said Jacques--"the closet!"

"You will betray me!"

"No, no," sighed Jacques reproachfully; "bad as you are, Sir
Asinus----"

But the worthy knight had disappeared in the closet, and Jacques was
silent.

The cocked hat, as we have said, was succeeded by a pair of shoulders;
the shoulders now appeared joined to a good portly body; and lastly,
the well-clad legs of worthy Doctor Small appeared; and passing along
the passage, he entered the room.

"Good morning, my young friend," he said politely; "a very beautiful
day."

And he sat down.

"Exceedingly beautiful, Doctor," said Jacques sadly; "and I was just
thinking how pleasant my ride would be. Did you pass our friend going
out?"

"No; I was anxious to see him."

"He was in the room a few minutes since," said Jacques; "what a pity
that you missed him."

"I regret it; for this is, I think, the third time I have attempted to
find him. He is a wild young man--a very wild young man," said the
Doctor, shaking his head.

"Yes, yes," sighed Jacques, imitating the Doctor's gesture; "I am
sometimes anxious about him."

And Jacques sighed and touched his forehead.

"Here, you know, Doctor."

"Ah?" asked the Doctor, wiping his face with a silk handkerchief, and
leaning on his stick.

"Yes, sir; he has betrayed unmistakable evidences of lunacy of late."

The closet door creaked.

"It's astonishing how many rats there are in this place," said
Jacques; "that closet seems to be their head-quarters."

"Indeed?" said the Doctor; "but you surprise me by saying that Thomas
has a tendency to insanity. I thought his one of the justest and most
brilliant minds in college. Idle, yes, very idle, and procrastinating;
but still he is no common young man."

The closet murmured: there was no ground for charging the rats with
this; so Jacques observed that "the winds here were astonishing--they
were stirring when all else was still."

"I did not remark it," said the Doctor, "but this----"

"Affair of Tom's lunacy, sir?"

The Doctor nodded with a benevolent smile, and restored his
handkerchief to the pocket of his long, heavy, flapped coat.

"Why, sir," said Jacques, "there is a very beautiful young lady in the
immediate vicinity of town, who has smiled on Tom perhaps as many as
three times; and would you believe it, sir, the infatuated youth
thinks she is in love with him."

"Ah! ah!" smiled the Doctor; "a mere youthful folly."

"She cares not one pinch of snuff for him," said Jacques, "and he
believes that she is dying for him."

The Doctor smiled again.

"Oh," he said, shaking his head, "I fear your charge of lunacy will
not stand upon such ground as that. 'Tis a trifle."

"I do not charge him with it," said Jacques generously; "Heaven
forbid! I always endeavor to conceal it, and never allude to it in his
presence. But I thought it my duty. You know, sir, there are a number
of things which may be told to one's friends which should not be
alluded to in their presence."

"Yes, yes--of this description: it would be cruel; but you are
certainly mistaken."

"I hope so, sir; but I consider it my duty further to inform you that
I fear Tom is following evil courses."

"Evil courses?"

"Yes, sir!"

The door creaked terribly.

"You pain me," said the Doctor; "to what do you allude?"

"Ah, sir, it is terrible!"

"How? But observe, I do not ask you to speak, sir. If it be your
pleasure, very well, and I trust what I shall do will be for Thomas's
good. But I do not invite your information."

"It is my duty to tell, sir; and I must speak."

With which words Jacques paused a moment, enjoying the dreadful
suspense of the concealed gentleman, who seemed about to verify the
proverb that listeners never hear any good of themselves. The closet
groaned.

"I refer to political courses," said Jacques, "and I have heard Tom
speak repeatedly lately of going to Europe."

"To Europe?"

"Yes, sir; in his yacht, armed and prepared."

"Prepared for what?"

"That I don't know, sir; but you may judge yourself. It seems to me
that the arms on board his yacht, the 'Rebecca,' might very well be
used to murder his most gracious Majesty George III., or the great
Grenville Townsend, or other friends of constitutional liberty."

The Doctor absolutely laughed.

"Why, you are too suspicious," he said, "and I cannot believe Thomas
is so bad. He has adopted many of the new ideas, and may go great
lengths; but assassination--that is too absurd. Excuse my plain
speaking," said the worthy Doctor, rising; "and pardon my leaving you,
my young friend. I have some calls to make, and especially to go and
see the young gentlemen who came near fighting a duel yesterday. What
a terribly wild set of youths! Ah! they give me much trouble, and
cause me a great deal of anxiety! Well, sir, good day. I am sorry I
did not see Thomas; please say that I called to speak with him--he is
wrong to hold out against the authorities thus. Good day--good day!"

And the worthy Doctor, who had uttered these sentences while he was
putting on his hat and grasping his stick, issued from the door and
descended.

Jacques put on his hat and followed him--possibly from a desire to
escape the thanks and blessings of Sir Asinus.

In vain did the noble knight charge him, _sotto voce_, from the
closet with perfidy and fear; Jacques was not to be turned back. He
issued forth and mounted his horse.

Sir Asinus appeared at the window like an avenging demon.

"Oh! you villain!" he cried, first assuring himself that Dr. Small had
disappeared; "I will revenge myself!"

"Ah?" said Jacques, settling himself in the saddle and smiling
languidly.

"Yes; you're afraid to remain."

"No, no," remonstrated Jacques.

"You are, sir! I challenge you to return; you have basely maligned my
character. And that duel! You have not condescended to open your mouth
upon that great event of the day, knowing as you did, all the time,
that circumstances render it necessary that I should remain in
retirement!"

"Didn't I mention the duel?" sighed Jacques, gathering up his reins
and looking with languid interest at the martingale.

"No."

"Ah, really--did I not?"

"No. Come now, Jacques! tell me how it was," said Sir Asinus in a
coaxing tone, "and I'll forgive all; for I'm dying of curiosity."

"I would with pleasure," said Jacques, "but unfortunately I haven't
time."

"Time? You have lots!"

"No, no--she expects me, you know."

"Who--not----!"

"Yes, Belle-bouche. Take care of yourself, my dear knight," said
Jacques with friendly interest; "good-by."

And touching his horse with the spurs, he went on, pursued by the
maledictions of Sir Asinus. He had cause. Jacques had charged him with
lunacy; said he designed assassinating the King; kept from him the
very names of the combatants; and was going to see his sweetheart!



CHAPTER XVII.

CORYDON GOES A-COURTING.


Have you never, friendly reader, on some bright May morning, when the
air is soft and warm, the sky deep azure, and the whole universe
filled to the brim with that gay spirit of youth which spring infuses
into this the month of flowers, as wine is squeezed from the ripe
bunch of grapes into the goblet of Bohemian glass, all red and blue
and emerald--at such times have you never suffered the imagination to
go forth, unfettered by reality, to find in the bright scenes which it
creates, a world more sunny, figures more attractive than the actual
universe, the real forms around you? Have you never tried to fill your
heart with dreams, to close your vision to the present, and to bathe
your weary forehead in those golden waters flowing from the dreamland
of the past? The Spanish verses say the old times were the best; and
we may assert truly that they are for us at least the best--for
reverie.

This reverie may be languid, luxurious, and lapped in down--enveloped
in a perfume weighing down the very senses, and obliterating by its
drowsy influence every sentiment but languid pleasure; or it may be
fiery and heroic, eloquent of war and shocks, sounding of beauteous
battle, and red banners bathed in slaughter. But there is something
different from both of these moods--the one languid and the other
fiery.

There is the neutral ground of fancy properly so called: a land which
we enter with closed eyes and smiling lips, a country full of fruits
and flowers--fruits of that delicious flavor of the Hesperides, sweet
flowers odorous as the breezy blossoms which adorn the mountains.
Advance into that brilliant country, and you draw in life at every
pore--a thousand merry figures come to meet you: maidens clad in the
gay costumes of the elder time, all fluttering with ribbons, rosy
cheeks and lips!--maidens who smile, and with their taper fingers
point at those who follow them; gay shepherds, gallant in silk
stockings and embroidered doublets, carrying their crooks wreathed
round with flowers; while over all, the sun laughs gladly, and the
breezes bear away the merry voices, sprinkling on the air the joyous
music born of lightness and gay-heartedness.

All the old manners, dead and gone with dear grandmother's youth, are
fresh again; and myriads of children trip along on red-heeled shoes,
and agitate the large rosettes, and glittering ribbons, and bright
wreaths of flowers which deck them out like tender heralds of the
spring. And with them mingle all those maidens holding picture-decorated
fans with which they flirt--this is the derivation of our modern
word--and the gay gallants with their never-ending compliments and
smiles. And so the pageant sweeps along with music, joy, and laughter,
to the undiscovered land, hidden in mist, and entered by the gateway
of oblivion.

You see all this in reverie, gentle reader--build your pretty old
chateau to dream in, that is; and it swarms with figures--graceful and
grotesque as those old high-backed carven chairs--slender and delicate
as the chiselled wave which breaks in foam against the cornice. And
then you wake, and find the flowers pressed in the old volume called
the Past, all dry--your castle only a castle of your dreams. Poor
castle made of cards, which a child's finger fillips down, or, like
the frost palace on the window pane, faints and fails at a breath!

Your reverie is over: nothing bright can last, not even dreams; and so
your figures are all gone, your fairy realm obliterated--nothing lives
but the recollection of a shadow!

The reader is requested to identify our melancholy lover Jacques with
the foregoing sentences; and forgive him in consideration of his
unfortunate condition. Lovers, as every body knows, live dream-lives;
and what we have written is not an inaccurate hint of what passed
through the heart of Jacques as he went on beneath peach and cherry
blossoms to his love.

Poor Jacques was falling more deeply in love with every passing day.
That fate which seemed to deny him incessantly an opportunity to hear
Belle-bouche's reply to his suit, had only inflamed his love. He
uttered mournful sighs, and looked with melancholy pleasure at the
thrushes who skipped nimbly through the boughs, and did their musical
wooing under the great azure canopy. His arms hung down, his eyes were
very dreamy, his lips were wreathed into a faint wistful smile. Poor
Jacques!

As he drew near Shadynook, the sunshine seemed growing every moment
brighter, and the flowers exhaled sweeter odors. The orchis,
eglantine, sad crocus burned in blue and shone along the braes, to use
the fine old Scottish word; and over him the blossoms shook and
showered, and made the whole air heavy with perfume. As he approached
the gate, set in the low flowery fence, Jacques sighed and smiled.
Daphnis was near his Daphne--Strephon would soon meet Chloe.

He tied his horse to a sublunary rack--not a thing of fairy land and
moonshine as he thought--and slowly took his way, across the
flower-enamelled lawn, towards the old smiling mansion. Eager,
longing, dreaming, Jacques held out his arms and listened for her
voice.

He heard instead an invisible voice, which he soon, however, made out
as belonging to an Ethiopian lady of the bedchamber; and this voice
said:

"Miss Becca's done gone out, sir!"

And Jacques felt suddenly as if the sunshine all around had faded, and
thick darkness followed. All the light and joy of smiling Shadynook
was gone--_she_ was not there!

"Where was she?"

"She and Mistiss went out for a walk, sir--down to the quarters
through the grove."

Jacques brightened up like a fine dawn. The accident might turn to his
advantage: he might see Mrs. Wimple safely home, then he and
Belle-bouche would prolong their walk; and then she would be compelled
to listen to him; and then--and then--Jacques had arranged the whole
in his mind by the time he had reached the grove.

He was going along reflecting upon the hidden significance of crooks,
and flowers, and shepherdesses--for Jacques was a poet, and more
still, a poet in love--when a stifled laugh attracted his attention,
and raising his head, he directed his dreamy glances in the direction
of the sound.

He saw Belle-bouche!--Belle-bouche sitting under a flowering cherry
tree, upon the brink of a little stream which, crossed by a wide
single log, purled on through sun and shadow.

Belle-bouche was clad, as usual, with elegant simplicity, and her fair
hair resembled gold in the vagrant gleams of sunlight which stole
through the boughs, drooping their odorous blossoms over her, and
scattering the delicate rosy-snow leaves on the book she held.

That book was a volume of Scotch songs, and against the rough back the
little hand of Belle-bouche resembled a snow-flake.

Jacques caught his breath, and bowed and fell, so to speak, beside
her.

"You came near walking into the brook," said Belle-bouche, with her
languishing smile; "what, pray, were you thinking of?"

"Of you," sighed Jacques.

The little beauty blushed.

"Oh, then your time was thrown away," she said; "you should not busy
yourself with so idle a personage."

"Ah!" sighed Jacques, "how can I help it?"

"What a lovely day!" said Belle-bouche, in order to divert the
conversation. "Aunt and myself thought we'd come down to the quarters
and see the sick. I carried mammy Lucy some nice things, and aunt went
on to see about some spinning, and I came here to look over this book
of songs, which I have just got from London."

"Songs?" said Jacques, with deep interest, and bending down until his
lips nearly touched the little hand; "songs, eh?"

"Scottish songs," laughed Belle-bouche; "and when you came I was
reading this one, which seems to be the chronicle of a very
unfortunate gentleman."

With which words Belle-Bouche, laughing gaily, read:

     "Now Jockey was a bonny lad
     As e'er was born in Scotland fair;
     But now, poor man, he's e'en gone woad,
     Since Jenny has gart him despair.

     "Young Jockey was a piper's son,
     And fell in love when he was young;
     But a' the spring that he could play
     Was o'er the hills and far away!"

And ending, Belle-bouche handed the book, with a merry little glance,
to Jacques, who sighed profoundly.

"Yes, yes!" he murmured, "I believe you are right--true, it _is_ about
a very unfortunate shepherd--all lovers are unfortunate. These seem to
be pretty songs--very pretty."

And he disconsolately turned over the leaves; then stopped and began
reading.

"Here is one more cheerful," he said; "suppose I read it, my dear Miss
Belle-bouche."

And he read:

     "'Twas when the sun had left the west,
       And starnies twinkled clearie, O,
     I hied to her I lo'e the best,
       My blithesome, winsome dearie, O.

     "Her cherry lip, her e'e sae blue,
       Her dimplin' cheek sae bonnie, O,
     An' 'boon them a' her heart sae true,
       Hae won me mair than ony, O."

"Pretty, isn't it?" sighed Jacques; "but here is another verse:

     "Yestreen we met beside the birk,
       A-down ayont the burnie, O,
     An' wan'er't till the auld gray kirk
       A stap put to our journie, O.

     "Ah, lassie, there it stans! quo' I----"

With which words Jacques shut the book, and threw upon Belle-bouche a
glance which made that young lady color to the roots of her hair.

"I think we had better go," murmured Belle-bouche, rising; "I have to
fix for the ball----"

"Not before----!"

"No, not before Tuesday, I believe," said Belle-bouche; "I am glad
they changed it from Monday."

Jacques drew back, sighing; but returning to the attack, said in an
expiring voice:

"What will my Flora wear--lace and flowers?"

"Who is she?" said Belle-bouche, putting on her light chip hat and
tying the ribbon beneath her dimpled chin.

Poor Jacques was for a moment so completely absorbed by this lovely
picture, that he did not reply.

"Who is Flora!--can you ask?" he stammered.

"Oh, yes!" said Belle-bouche, blushing; "you mean Philippa, do you
not? But I can't tell you what she will wear. She has returned home.
Let us go back through the orchard."

And Belle-bouche, with that exquisite grace which characterized her,
crossed the log and stood upon the opposite bank of the brook, looking
coquettishly over her shoulder at the melancholy Jacques, who was so
absorbed in gazing after her that he had scarcely presence of mind
enough to follow.

"What a lovely day; a real lover's day!" he said, with a sigh, when he
had joined her, and they were walking on.

"Delightful," said Belle-bouche, smelling a violet.

"And the blossoms, you know," observed Jacques disconsolately.

"Delicious!"

"To say nothing of the birds," continued Jacques, sighing. "I believe
the birds know the twentieth of May is coming."

"Why--what takes place upon the twentieth?" said Belle-bouche, with a
faint smile.

"That is the day for lovers, and I observed a number of birds making
love as I came along," sighed Jacques. "I only wish they'd teach me
how."

Belle-bouche turned away, blushing.

"On the twentieth of May," continued Jacques, enveloping the
fascinating countenance of Belle-bouche with his melancholy glance,
"the old lovers in Arcadia--the Strephons, Chloes, Corydons, Daphnes,
and Narcissuses--always made love and married on that day."

"Then," said Belle-bouche, faintly smiling, "they did every thing very
quickly."

"In a great hurry, eh?" said Jacques, sighing.

"Yes, sir."

"Do not call me sir, my dearest Miss Belle-bouche--it sounds so formal
and unpoetical."

"What then shall I call you?" laughed Belle-bouche, with a slight
tremor in her voice.

"Strephon, or Corydon, or Daphnis," said Jacques; "for you are
Phillis, you know."

Belle-bouche turned the color of a peony, and said faintly:

"I thought my name was Chloe the other day."

"Yes," said the ready Jacques, "but that was when my own name was
Corydon."

"Corydon?"

"Yes, yes," sighed Jacques, "the victim of the lovely Chloe's beauty
in the old days of Arcady."

Belle-bouche made no reply.

"Ah!" sighed Jacques, "if you would only make that old tradition
true--if----"

"Oh!" said Belle-bouche, looking another way, "just listen to that
mocking-bird!"

"If love far greater than the love of Corydon--devotion----"

"I could dance a reel to it," said Belle-bouche, blushing; "and we
shall have some reels, I hope, at the ball. Oh! I expect a great deal
of pleasure."

"And I," said Jacques, sadly, "for I escort you."

"Then you have not forgotten your promise!"

"Forgotten!"

"And you really will take charge of me?" said Belle-bouche, with a
delightful expression of doubt.

"Take charge of you?" cried Jacques, overwhelmed and drowned in love;
"take charge of you! Oh Belle-bouche! dearest Belle-bouche!--you are
killing me! Oh! let me take charge of your life--see Corydon here at
your feet, the fondest, most devoted----"

"Becca! will you never hear me?" cried the voice of Aunt Wimple; "here
I am toiling after you till I am out of breath--for Heaven's sake,
stop!"

And smiling, red in the face, panting Aunt Wimple drew near and bowed
pleasantly to Jacques, who only groaned, and murmured:

"One more chance gone--ah!"

As for Belle-bouche, she was blushing like a rose. She uttered not one
word until they reached the house. Then she said, turning round with a
smile and a blush:

"Indeed, you must excuse me!"

Poor Jacques sighed. He saw her leave him, taking away the light and
joy of his existence. He slowly went away; and all the way back to
town he felt as if he was not a real man on horseback, rather a dream
mounted upon a cloud, and both asleep. Poor Jacques!



CHAPTER XVIII.

GOING TO ROSELAND.


As the unfortunate lover entered Williamsburg, his hands hanging down,
his eyes dreamy and fixed with hostile intentness on vacancy, his
shoulders drooping and swaying from side to side like those of a
drunken man,--he saw pass before him, rattling and joyous, a brilliant
equipage, which, like a sleigh covered with bells, seemed to leave in
its wake a long jocund peal of merriment and laughter.

In this vehicle, which mortals were then accustomed to call, and
indeed call still, a curricle, sat two young men who were conversing;
and as the melancholy Jacques passed on his way, the younger
student--for such he was--said, laughing, to his companion:

"Look, Ernest, there is a man in love!"

Mowbray raised his head, and seeing Jacques, smiled sadly and
thoughtfully; then his breast moved, and a profound sigh issued from
his lips: he made no reply.

"Why!" cried Hoffland, "you have just been guilty, Ernest, of a
ceremony which none but a woman should perform. What a sigh!"

Mowbray turned away his head.

"I was only thinking," he said calmly.

"Thinking of what?"

"Nothing."

"I see that you think one thing," said Hoffland, with a mischievous
twinkle in his eye; "to wit, that I am very prying."

"No; but my thoughts would not interest you, Charles," said Mowbray.

And a sigh still more profound agitated his lips and breast.

"Suppose you try me," his companion said; "speaking generally, your
thoughts do interest me."

"Well, I was thinking of a woman," said Mowbray.

"A woman! Oh! then your time, in your own opinion at least, was thrown
away."

"Worse," said Mowbray gloomily; "worse by far."

"How?"

"It is useless, Charles, to touch upon the subject; let it rest."

"No; I wish you to tell me, if I am not intrusive, what woman you were
at the moment honoring with a sigh."

Mowbray raised his head calmly, and yielding like all lovers to the
temptation to pour into the bosom of his friend those troubled
thoughts which oppressed his heart, said to his companion:

"The woman we were speaking of the other day."

"You have not told me her name," said Hoffland.

"It is useless."

"Why?"

"Because she is lost to me."

"Lost?"

"For ever."

And after this gloomy reply, Mowbray looked away.

Hoffland placed a hand upon his arm, and said:

"Upon what grounds do you base your opinion that she is lost to you?"

"It is not an opinion; I know it too well."

"If you were mistaken?"

"Mistaken!" said Mowbray; "mistaken! You think I am mistaken? Then you
know nothing of what took place at our last interview; or you did not
listen rather--for if my memory does not deceive me, I told you all."

"I did listen."

"And you now doubt that she is lost to me?"

"Seriously."

"Charles, you are either the most inexperienced or the most
desperately hopeful character that has ever been created."

"I am neither," said Hoffland smiling. "I am rational, and I know what
I say."

Mowbray suppressed an impatient gesture, and said:

"Did I not tell you that she made me the butt for her wit and
sarcasm----"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes; and more! She scoffed at me, as a mere fortune-hunter, and gave
me the most ironical advice----"

"You are convinced it was ironical?"

"Convinced? Have I eyes--have I ears? Truly, if I had failed to be
convinced, I should have verified the scriptural saying of those who
have eyes and see not--who have ears and do not hear."

"Are the eyes always true?" said Hoffland, smiling.

"No: you have not succeeded, nevertheless, in showing me that I saw
wrong."

"Are the ears invariably just?"

"For Heaven's sake, cease worrying me with general propositions!" said
Mowbray.

Then, seeing that his companion was hurt by his irritated tone, he
added:

"Forgive me, Charles! I lose my equanimity upon this subject; let us
dismiss it."

"Very well," said Hoffland, smiling mischievously; "but remember what
I now say, Ernest, and remember well. The eyes are deceptive--the ears
worse than deceptive. You truly have eyes and see not, ears and hear
not! I think it highly probable that your lady-love, who is an
excellent-hearted girl, I am convinced, intended merely to apply a
last test; and if you have bounded like an impulsive horse under the
spur, and tossed from her, the blame does not rest with her. And
remember this too, Ernest," Hoffland went on sadly; for one of the
strange peculiarities of this young man was his habit of abrupt
transition from merriment to sadness, from smiles to sighs; "remember,
Ernest, that your determination to see her no more has probably
inflicted on this young girl's heart a cruel pang: you cannot know
that she is not now shedding bitter tears at the result of her trial
of your feelings! Oh! remember that it is not the poor and afflicted
only who weep--it is the rich and joyous also; and the hottest tears
are often shed by the eyes which seem made to dispense smiles alone!"

Mowbray listened to the earnest voice in silence. A long pause
followed, neither looking at the other; then Mowbray said:

"You deceive yourself, Charles, if you imagine that this beautiful and
wealthy young girl spends a second thought upon myself. I was to her
only a passing shadow--another name to add to her long list of
captives. Well! I gave her the sincere love of an honest heart, such a
love as no woman has the right to spurn. She did spurn it. Well! I am
not a child to sob and moan, and go and beg her on my knees to love
me--no! I love her more than ever, Charles; all my boasting was mere
boasting and untrue--I love her still--but that heart, and it shall
not issue forth but with my life. I love her! but I will never place
myself in the dust before a woman who has scorned me. Silence and
self-control I have, and these will sustain me."

"Oh, Ernest! Ernest!"

"You seem strangely moved by my words," said Mowbray; "but you should
not fancy my love so fatal. It is a delirium at times, but Heaven be
thanked, it cannot drive me mad. Now let us stop speaking of these
things. When I think of that young girl, all my calmness leaves me.
Oh, she was so frank and true a soul, I thought!--so sincere and
bold!--so lovely, and with such a strength of heart! I was deceived.
Well, well--it seems to be the fate of men, to find the ideal of their
hearts unworthy. Let us speak of it no further."

And suppressing his emotion by a violent effort, Mowbray added in a
voice perfectly calm and collected:

"There is our cottage, Charles--Roseland; and I see Lucy waiting for
us under the roses on the porch--she always looks for me, I believe."



CHAPTER XIX.

HOFFLAND EXERTS HIMSELF TO AMUSE THE COMPANY.


Lucy was a young girl of nineteen or twenty, with the brightest face,
the most sparkling eyes, and the merriest voice which ever adorned
woman entering her prime. Her laughter was contagious, and the
listener must perforce laugh in unison. Her face drove away gloom, as
the sun does; her smile was pure merriment, routing all cares; and
Mowbray's sad countenance became again serene, his lips smiled.

Lucy bowed demurely to the boy, who held out his hand laughing.

"Oh! Ernest and myself are sworn friends," he said; "and the fact is,
Miss Lucy, I had serious doubts whether I should not kiss you--I love
you so much--for Ernest's sake!"

And Hoffland pursed up his lips, prepared for all things.

Lucy was so completely overcome by laughter at this extraordinary
speech, that for a moment she remained perfectly silent, shaking with
merriment.

Hoffland conceived the design to take advantage of this astonishment,
and modestly "held up his mouth," as children say. The consequence was
that Miss Lucy extricated her hand from his grasp, and drew back with
some hauteur; whereupon Hoffland assumed an expression of such
mortification and childlike dissatisfaction, that Mowbray, who had
witnessed this strange scene, could not suppress a smile.

"I might as well tell you frankly at once, Lucy," he said, "that
Charles is the oddest person, and I think the most perfect boy, at
times, I have ever known."

"I a boy!" cried Hoffland; "I am no such thing!--am I, Lucy--_Miss_
Lucy, I mean, of course? I am not so young as all that, and I see
nothing so strange in wanting a kiss. But I won't misbehave any more;
come now, see!"

And drawing himself up with a delightful expression of dignified
courtesy, Hoffland said, solemnly offering his arm to Lucy:

"Shall I have the honor, Miss Mowbray, of escorting you into the
garden for the purpose of gathering some roses to deck your queenly
brow?"

Lucy would have refused; but overcome with laughter, and unable to
resist the ludicrous solemnity of Hoffland's voice and manner, she
placed her finger on his arm, and they walked into the garden.

Roseland was a delightful little cottage, full of flowers, and
redolent of spring. It fronted south, and seemed to be the favorite of
the sun, which shone through its vine-embowered windows and lit up its
drooping eaves, as it nowhere else did.

A little passage led quite through the house, and by this passage
Hoffland and his fair companion entered the garden.

Mowbray sat down and examined some papers which he took from his
pocket; then trained a flowering vine from the window-sill to a nail
in the wall without, for he was very fond of flowers; then, bethinking
himself that Hoffland was his guest, turned to go into the garden.

As he did so, he caught sight of a horseman approaching the cottage;
and soon this horseman drew near enough to be recognised. It was Mr.
John Denis, whose admiration for Miss Lucy Mowbray our readers have
possibly divined from former pages of this true history.

Mr. Denis dismounted and entered the grounds of the cottage, sending
before him a friendly smile. Denis was one of those honest, worthy
fellows, who are as single-minded as children, and in whose eyes all
men and things are just what they seem: hypocrisy he could never
understand, and it was almost as difficult for the worthy young man to
comprehend irony. We have seen an exemplification of this in his
affair with Hoffland; and if our narrative permitted it, we might, by
following him through his after life, find many more instances of the
same singleness of heart and understanding.

Denis was very tastefully dressed, and his face was, as we have said,
full of smiles. He held out his hand to Mowbray with honest warmth,
and they entered the cottage.

The reader may imagine that Denis inquired as to the whereabouts of
Miss Lucy--his wandering glances not having fallen upon that young
lady. Not at all. For did ever lover introduce the subject of his
lady-love? When we are young, and in love, do we go to visit Dulcinea
or her brother Tom? Is not that agreeable young gentleman the sole
attraction which draws us; do we not ride a dozen miles for his sake,
and has Dulcinea any thing to do with the rapturous delight we
experience in dreaming of the month we shall spend with Tom in August?
Of course not; and Denis did not allude in the remotest manner to
Lucy. On the contrary, he became the actor which love makes of the
truest men, and said, with careless ease:

"A lovely evening for a ride."

"Yes," said Mowbray, driving away his sad thoughts; "why didn't you
come with us, Jack?"

"With you?"

"Myself and Hoffland."

"Hoffland!"

"Yes; what surprises you?"

"Is Hoffland here?"

Mowbray nodded.

Denis looked round; and then his puzzled glance returned to the face
of his friend.

"I do not see him," he said.

"He went into the garden just now," explained Mowbray.

Denis would have given thousands to be able to say, "Where is Lucy?"
It was utterly impossible, however. Instead of doing so, he asked:

"You came in a buggy?"

"Yes," said Mowbray.

"Is Hoffland agreeable--I mean a pleasant fellow?"

"I think so: rather given to jesting--and I suppose this was the
origin of your unhappy difficulty. Most quarrels spring from jests."

"True. I believe he was jesting; in fact I know it," said poor Jack
Denis, wiping his brow and trying to plunge his glance into the depths
of the garden, where Lucy and Hoffland were no doubt walking. "Still,
Ernest, I could not have acted differently; and you would be the first
person to agree with me, were I to tell you the subject of his jests."

And Denis frowned.

"What was it?" said Mowbray. "Hoffland refused point-blank to tell me,
and I am perfectly ignorant of the whole affair."

Denis hesitated. Was it fair and honest to prejudice Mowbray against
the boy? but on the contrary, was not the whole affair now explained
as a simple jest, and would there be harm in telling what the young
student had said to provoke him? The young man hesitated, and said:

"I don't know--it was a mere jest; there is no use in opening the
subject again----"

"Ah, Jack!" said Mowbray, "I see that I am to live and die in
ignorance, for I repeat that Hoffland would not tell me. With all the
carelessness of a child, he seems to possess the reserve of a
politician or a woman."

"A strange character, is he not?" said Denis.

"Yes; and yet he has won upon me powerfully."

"Your acquaintance is very short," said poor Denis, his heart sinking
at the thought of having so handsome and graceful a rival as the boy.

"Very," returned Mowbray; "but he positively took me by storm."

"And you like him?"

"To be sincere--exceedingly."

"Why?" muttered Denis.

"Really, I can scarcely say," replied his friend; "but he is a mere
boy; seems to be wholly without friends; and he has virtually yielded
to me the guidance of all his affairs. This may seem an absurd reason
for liking Hoffland; but that is just my weak side, Jack. When any one
comes to me and says, 'I am weak and inexperienced, you are in a
position to aid and assist me; be my friend;' how can I refuse?"

"And Hoffland----"

"Has done so? Yes."

"Humph!"

"Besides this, he is a mere boy; and to speak frankly, is so
affectionate and winning in his demeanor toward me, that I really have
not the courage to repel his advances. Strange young man! at times I
know not what to think of him. He is alternately a child, a woman, and
a matured man in character; but most often a child."

"Indeed?" said Denis, whose heart sunk at every additional word
uttered by Mowbray; "how then did he display such willingness to
fight--and I will add, such careless bravado?"

"Because fighting was a mere word to him," said Mowbray; "I believe
that he no more realized the fact that you would direct the muzzle of
a pistol toward his breast, than that you would stab or poison him."

Denis wiped his brow.

"I didn't want to fight," he said; "but I was obliged to do
something."

"Was the provocation gross?"

"Pardon my question. I did not mean to return to the subject, inasmuch
as some reason for withholding the particulars of the interview seems
to exist in your mind."

Denis hesitated and muttered something to himself; then, raising his
head suddenly, he added with some bitterness:

"Perhaps you may have your curiosity satisfied from another source,
Ernest. I see Mr. Hoffland approaching the house with Miss Lucy--from
the garden, there. No doubt he will tell you."

In fact, Miss Lucy and Hoffland were sauntering in from the garden in
high glee. Lucy from time to time burst into loud and merry laughter,
clapping her hands, and expressing great delight at something which
Hoffland was communicating; and Hoffland was bending down familiarly
and whispering in her ear.

No sooner, however, had the promenaders caught sight of Mowbray and
Denis looking at them, than their manner suddenly changed. Hoffland
drew back, and raising his head with great dignity, solemnly offered
his arm to the young girl; and Lucy, choking down her merriment and
puckering up her lips to hide her laughter, placed her little finger
on the sleeve of her cavalier. And so they approached the inmates of
the cottage, with quiet and graceful dignity, like noble lord and
lady; and entering, bowed ceremoniously, and sat down with badly
smothered laughter.

"Really," said Mowbray smiling, "you will permit me to say, Charles,
that you have a rare genius for making acquaintance suddenly: Lucy and
yourself seem to be excellent friends already."

And he looked kindly at the boy, who smiled.

"Friends?" said Hoffland; "we are cousins!"

"Cousins? Indeed!"

"Certainly, my dear fellow," said Hoffland, with a delightful ease and
_bonhomie_. "I have discovered that my great-grandmother married the
cousin of an uncle of cousin Lucy's great-grandfather's wife's aunt;
and moreover, that this aunt was the niece of my great-uncle's first
wife's husband. That makes it perfectly plain--don't it, Mr. Denis?
Take care how you differ with me: cousin Lucy understands it
perfectly, and she has a very clear head."

"Thank you, sir," said Lucy, laughing; "a great compliment."

"Not at all," said Hoffland; "some women have a great deal of
sense--or at least a good deal."

"Indeed, sir!"

"Yes; but it is not their failing generally. I have taken up that
impression of you, cousin Lucy, from our general conversation; not
from your ability to comprehend so simple a genealogical table as that
of our relationship."

"Upon my word, _I_ don't understand it," said Mowbray, smiling.

"Is it possible, Ernest? Listen again, then. My
great-grandfather--recollect him, now--married the uncle of a
cousin--observe, the uncle of a cousin----"

"What! your great-grandfather married the _uncle_ of somebody's
cousin? Is it possible?"

"Now you are laughing at me," said Hoffland, pouting; "what if I did
get it a little wrong? I meant that my great-grandmother married the
uncle of a cousin of cousin Lucy's wife's great-grandfather's
aunt--who----"

"Lucy's wife is then involved, is she, Charles?" asked Mowbray; "but
go on."

"No, I won't!" said Hoffland; "you are just trying to confuse and
embarrass me. I will not tell you any more: but cousin Lucy
understands; don't you, Miss Lucy?"

"Quite enough to understand that we occupy a closer relationship than
we seem to," said Lucy, threatening to burst into laughter.

Hoffland gave her a warning glance; and then assuming a polite and
graceful smile, asked:

"Pray, what were you and Mr. Denis talking of, my dear Ernest? Come,
tell a fellow!"

Lucy turned away and covered her face, which was crimson with
laughter.

"We were speaking of the quarrel which we were unfortunate enough to
have, sir," said poor Denis coldly; "and I referred Mr. Mowbray to you
for an account of it."

"To me?" said Hoffland smiling; "why not tell him yourself?"

"I did not fancy it, sir."

"Why, in the world?"

"Come! come!" said Mowbray smiling, and wishing to nip the new
altercation in the bud; "don't let us talk any more about it. It is
all ended now, and I don't care to know----"

"Why, there's nothing to conceal," said Hoffland, laughing.

Denis colored.

"I'll tell you in an instant," laughed the boy.

Lucy turned toward him; and Denis looked out of the window.

"We were talking of women first," continued Hoffland; "a subject,
cousin Lucy, which we men discuss much oftener than you ladies
imagine----"

"Indeed!" said Lucy, nearly choking with laughter.

"Yes," continued the boy; "and after agreeing that Miss Theorem the
mathematician was charming; Miss Quartz the geologist lovely; that
Miss Affectation was very _piquante_, and Mrs. Youngwidow exceedingly
fine-looking in her mourning; after having amicably interchanged our
ideas on these topics, we came to discuss the celebrated lunar
theory."

"What is that?" asked Lucy.

"Simply the question, what the moon is made of."

"Indeed?"

"Certainly. Mr. Denis took the common and erroneous view familiar to
scientific men; I, on the contrary, supported the green-cheese view of
the question; and this was the real cause of our quarrel. I am sure
Mr. Denis and myself are the most excellent friends now," said
Hoffland, turning with a smile towards Denis; "and we will never
quarrel any more."

A pause of some moments followed this ridiculous explanation; and this
pause was first broken by Miss Lucy, who burst into the most
unladylike laughter, and indeed shook from head to foot in the excess
of her mirth. Mowbray looked with an amazed and puzzled air at
Hoffland, and Denis did not know what to say or how to look.

Lucy, after laughing uninterruptedly for nearly five minutes, suddenly
remembered the indecorum of this strange exhibition; so, drying her
eyes, and assuming a demure and business-like air, she took a small
basket of keys, and apologizing for her departure, went to attend to
supper. Before leaving the room, however, she gladdened honest Jack
Denis's heart with a sweet smile, and this smile was so perfect a balm
to the wounded feelings of the worthy fellow, that his discontent and
ill-humor disappeared completely, and he was almost ready to give his
hand to his rival, Hoffland. The same arrow had mortally wounded
Jacques and Denis.



CHAPTER XX.

AT ROSELAND, IN THE EVENING.


Seated on the vine-embowered porch of the cottage, with the pleasant
airs of evening blowing from the flowers their rich fragrant perfume,
the inmates of Roseland and their guests passed the time in very
pleasant converse.

From time to time Hoffland and Miss Lucy exchanged confidential
smiles, and on these occasions Mr. Jack Denis, whose love-sharpened
eyes lost nothing, felt very unhappy. Indeed, throughout the whole
evening this gentleman displayed none of that alacrity of spirit which
usually characterized him; his whole manner, conversation, and
demeanor betraying unmistakable indications of jealous dissatisfaction.

Lucy had always been very kind and gentle to him before; and though
her manner had not changed toward him, still her evident preference
for the society and conversation of the student Hoffland caused him a
bitter pang. Denis sincerely loved the bright-faced young girl, and no
one who has not loved can comprehend the sinking of the heart which
preference for another occasions. The last refinement of earthly
torture is assuredly jealousy--and Denis was beginning to suffer this
torture. More than once Lucy seemed to feel that she was causing her
lover pain; and then she would turn away from Hoffland and gladden
poor Denis with one of her brilliant smiles, and with some indifferent
word, nothing in itself, but full of meaning from its tone. Then
Hoffland would laugh quietly to himself, and touching the young girl's
arm, call her attention, to some beauty in the waning sunset, some
quiet grace of the landscape; and Denis would sink again into gloom,
and look at Hoffland's handsome face and sigh.

Mowbray was reading in the little sitting-room, and from time to time
interchanged words with the party through the window. Perhaps
_studying_ would be the proper word; for it was a profound work upon
politics which Ernest Mowbray, with his vigorous and acute intellect,
was running through--grasping its strong points, and throwing aside
its fallacies. He needed occupation of mind; in study alone could he
escape from the crowding thoughts which steeped his brow in its
habitual shadow of melancholy. He had lost a great hope, as he had
told Hoffland; and a man does not see the woman whom he loves
devotedly pass from him for ever without a pang. He may be able to
conceal his suffering, but thenceforth he cannot be gay; human nature
can only control the heart to a certain point; we may be calm, but the
sunshine is all gone.

Thus the hours passed, with merry laughter from Hoffland and Lucy, and
very forced smiles on the part of Denis. Mowbray observed his silence,
and closing the volume he was reading, came out and joined the
talkers.

"What now?" he said, with his calm courtesy. "Ah, you are speaking of
the ball, Lucy?"

"Yes, Ernest; and you know you promised to take me."

"Did you?" asked Hoffland; "I am afraid this is only a ruse on cousin
Lucy's part to get rid of me."

"Are you not ashamed, sir, to charge me with untruth?" said Lucy,
nearly bursting into laughter.

"Untruth!" cried Hoffland; "did any body ever! Why, 'tis the commonest
thing in the world with your charming sex, Miss Lucy, to indulge in
these little ruses. There must be a real and a conventional code of
morals; and I hope you don't pretend to say, that if a lady sends word
that she is gone out when a visitor calls, she is guilty of
deception?"

"I think she is," said Lucy.

"Extraordinary doctrine!" cried Hoffland; "and so Ernest has really
engaged to go with you?"

"Yes, sir; it was my excuse to Mr. Denis, who very kindly offered to
be my escort."

And Lucy gave Jack Denis a little smile which elevated that gentleman
into upper air.

"Well," said Hoffland, "I suppose then I am to go and find somebody
else--a forlorn young man going to find a lady to take care of him.
Come, Miss Lucy, cannot you recommend some one?"

"Let me see," said Lucy, laughing gleefully; "what acquaintances have
you?"

"Very few; and I would not escort any of those simpering little
damsels usually seen at assemblies."

"What description of damsel do you prefer?" asked Lucy, smiling.

"A fine, spirited, amusing young lady like yourself," said Hoffland;
"the merrier and more ridiculous the better."

"Ridiculous, indeed! Well, sir," said Lucy mischievously, "I think I
have found the very one to suit you."

"Who is it, pray?"

"Miss Philippa----"

"Stop!" cried Hoffland. "I never could bear that name. I am determined
never to court, marry, or even escort a _Philippa_. Dreadful name! And
I hope you won't mention this Miss Philippa Somebody again!"

With which words Hoffland laughed.

"Very well," said Lucy; "suppose you come and amuse me at the
ball--going thither alone?"

"Oh! myself and Mr. Denis will certainly pay our respects to you, Miss
Lucy. But do not expect me until about twelve."

Lucy smiled, and said:

"Do you think the ball will be handsome, Ernest?"

"I think so."

"Well, now, I am going to enslave all hearts. I shall wear my pink
satin."

"Ah!" laughed Mowbray; "that is very interesting to myself and these
gentlemen."

"Well, sir," said Lucy, pretending to be angry, "just as you please;
but you are a very unfeeling brother. Isn't he, Mr. Hoffland?"

"A most unreasonable person, and a disgrace to our sex," said
Hoffland. "To tell a young lady that the manner in which she proposes
appearing at a ball is uninteresting, sounds like Ernest."

Mowbray smiled; the pleasant banter of the boy pleased him, and
diverted his thoughts.

"But Ernest is not such a perfect ogre, Mr. Hoffland," said Lucy; "are
you, Ernest? He is very kind, and is going to spend all day to-morrow
with me."

Mowbray shook his head.

"Now, brother!" said Lucy; "you know you can."

Mowbray hesitated.

"Won't you?"

"Well, yes, Lucy," said Mowbray, smiling; "I can refuse you nothing."

"Good!" cried Hoffland, with the sonorous voice of a man-at-arms;
"when ladies once determine to have their own way, it is nearly
impossible to stop them; is it not, Mr. Denis?"

"I will answer for Mr. Denis, and repel your assault, sir," said Lucy,
smiling; "I think that there is nothing very wrong in what I ask, and
why then should I not have my way?"

"Excellent!" cried Hoffland, with a well-satisfied expression, and a
glance of intelligence directed toward Lucy. "I believe that we men
may study all our lives and break our heads with logic before we can
approach the acuteness of one of these ladies. Study is nothing
compared with natural instinct and genius!"

Denis rose with a sigh.

"You remind me, Mr. Hoffland," he said, "that I have a long chapter in
Blackstone to study; and it is already late."

"And I also have my studies," said Hoffland; "I think I will return
with you, Mr. Denis."

"You came to stay, Charles! You shall both stay," said Mowbray, "and I
will give you Blackstone's----"

"No, really, Ernest," said Hoffland, with a business air which made
Lucy laugh.

"And indeed I must return," said Denis, sighing.

"Ah, gentlemen, gentlemen!" said Mowbray, "you pay a fashionable call.
Why, Charles, you absolutely promised to stay."

"Yes, but I have changed my mind," said the boy, looking toward Lucy;
"and if Mr. Denis will ride with me in your curricle, or whatever it
is, you might ride his horse in, in the morning.

"Very well," said Mowbray.

"Willingly," said Denis.

"Then it is all arranged; and I return. Don't press me, Ernest, my
good fellow. When duty calls, every man must be at his post. I can't
stay."

And Hoffland laughed.

In fifteen minutes the vehicle was brought round, and the two young
men rose.

Denis bowed with some constraint to Lucy; but she would not see this
expression, and holding out her hand bade him good-bye with a smile
which lighted his path all the way back to town.

Hoffland shook hands with Lucy too; and a laughing glance of free
masonry passed between them.

Then, entering the vehicle, the two young men set forth toward
Williamsburg, over which a beautiful moon was rising like a crimson
cart-wheel. Ernest Mowbray stood for a moment on the porch of the
cottage following the receding vehicle with his eyes. At last it
disappeared--the sound of the wheels was no longer heard, and Mowbray
entered the cottage.

"Strange!" he murmured, "that memory still haunts me. What folly!"

And pressing his lips to Lucy's forehead, he retired to his study.



CHAPTER XXI.

DISGRACEFUL CONDUCT OF SIR ASINUS.


Mowbray was an early riser; and the morning had not long looked upon
the fresh fields, when he was on his way to Williamsburg. With a
hopeful spirit, which banished peremptorily all those gloomy thoughts
which were accustomed to harass him, he pressed on to commence his day
of toil at the college.

As he entered Williamsburg, he came very near being overturned by a
gentleman who was leaving that metropolitan city, at full gallop.

"Hey!" cried this gentleman, reining up; "why, good day, Mowbray!"

And Sir Asinus made a bow of grotesque respect.

"Whither away, my dear fellow--to that den of iniquity, the grammar
school, eh?"

"Yes," said Mowbray, smiling; "and you?"

"I go to other fields and pastures new--to those Hesperian gardens
famed of old, and so forth. Come with me!"

"No, thank you. I suppose you are going to see a lady?"

"Precisely; and now do you still refuse?"

"Yes."

"You are an ungallant book-worm, a misogynist--and that is the next
thing to a conspirator. Leave your books, and come and taste of sylvan
joys."

"Where are you going?"

"To see Dulcinea."

"Who is she?"

"Her other name is Amaryllis."

"Well, sing to her," said Mowbray; "for my part, I am going to visit
Plato, Justinian, Blackstone, whose lectures are better than Virgil's
heroics, and Coke, who is more learned, if not more agreeable, than
any Hesperians. Farewell."

And Mowbray saluted Sir Asinus with a smile, and rode on. The knight
returned his salute, and continued his way in the opposite direction.

Now, as our history concerns itself rather with Amaryllis than Plato
or Coke, we shall permit Mowbray to go on, and retracing our steps,
follow Sir Asinus to his destination.

Sir Asinus on this morning is magnificent, and finds the air very
pleasant after his long imprisonment. He inhales it joyously, and in
thought, nay, often in words, invokes confusion on the heads of
proctors. He is in full enjoyment of those three great rights for
which he has sacrificed so much--namely, life, liberty, and the
pursuit of happiness.

He is joyous, for he has stolen a march upon the watchful guardians of
the college; he revels in the sentiment of freedom; and believes
himself in pursuit of that will o' the wisp called happiness.

He sings, as he goes onward on his hard-trotting courser, the words of
that song which we have heard him sing before:

     "Hez! sire asne! car chantez
     Belle bouche rechignez;"

and is not mortified when a donkey in the neighboring meadow brays
responsively.

He bends his steps toward Shadynook, where he arrives as the matutinal
meal is smoking on the board; and this Sir Asinus partakes of with
noble simplicity. One would have imagined himself in presence of
Socrates dining upon herbs, instead of Sir Asinus comforting his inner
man with ham and muffins.

After breakfast, Aunt Wimple, that excellent old lady whose life was
completely filled by a round of domestic duties, banished her visitor
to the sitting-room. To make his exile more tolerable, however, she
gave him Belle-bouche for a companion.

Belle-bouche had never looked more beautiful, and the tender
simplicity of her languishing eyes almost made the poetical Sir Asinus
imagine himself in love. He found himself endeavoring to recollect
whether he had not been induced to pay this visit by the expectation
of beholding her; but with that rigid truth which ever characterized
the operations of his great intellect, was compelled to come to the
conclusion that the motive causes of his visit were the hope of a good
breakfast, and a morning lounge in country quarters, unalarmed by the
apprehension of invading deans and proctors.

In a word, our friend Sir Asinus had coveted a cool morning at
pleasant Shadynook, in company with Belle-bouche or a novel; and this
had spurred him to such extraordinary haste, not to mention the early
rising.

"Ah!" said Belle-bouche, as she sat down upon a sofa in the cool
pleasant apartment, whose open windows permitted the odors of a
thousand flowers to weigh the air down with their fragrance, "what a
lovely morning! It is almost wrong to remain in the house."

"Let us go forth then, my dear Madam Belle-bouche," said Sir Asinus.

"I see you retain that funny name for me," said the young girl with a
smile.

"Yes: it is beautiful, as all about Shadynook is--the garden most of
all--yourself excepted of course, madam."

"It was very adroitly done, that turn of the sentence," Belle-bouche
replied, smiling again pleasantly. "Let us go into the garden, as you
admire it so much."

And she rose.

Sir Asinus hastened to offer his arm, and they entered the beautiful
garden, alive with flowers.

Sir Asinus uttered a number of beautiful sentiments on the subject of
flowers and foliage, which we regret our inability to report. After
spending an hour or more among the trees, they returned to the house.

Just as they entered, a gentleman was visible at the gate--evidently a
visitor. This gentleman had dismounted, and as he stood behind his
horse arranging the martingale, he was for the moment unrecognisable.

"Will you permit me to remain in the garden, my dear Miss
Belle-bouche, until your visitor has departed?" said Sir Asinus. "I
find myself suddenly smitten with a love of nature--and I would
trouble you not to mention the fact of my presence. It will be
useless."

"Certainly I will not, sir," said Belle-bouche.

And Sir Asinus, seeing the gentleman move, precipitately entered the
garden, where he ignominiously concealed himself--having snatched up a
volume of poems to console him in his retirement.

The visitor was Jacques.

He entered with his soft melancholy smile, and approaching
Belle-bouche, pressed her hand to his lips.

"I am glad to see you so bright," he said; "but you always look
blooming."

And he sat down and gazed around sadly.

Perhaps Jacques had never before so closely resembled a tulip. His
coat was red, his waistcoat scarlet, his lace yellow, his stockings
white; his shoes, lastly, were adorned with huge rosettes, and his wig
was a perfect snow-storm of powder.

Belle-bouche casts down her eyes, and a roseate bloom diffuses itself
over her tender cheek. Jacques arrays his forces, and gracefully
smooths his Mechlin lace cravat. Outwardly he is calm.

Belle-bouche raises her eyes, and gently flirts her fan, covered with
shepherds and shepherdesses in silks and satins, who tend imaginary
sheep by sky-blue waters, against deeply emerald trees.

Jacques sighs, remembering his discourse on crooks, and Belle-bouche
smiles. He gathers courage then, and says:

"I think I have never seen a more beautiful morning."

"Yes," says Belle-bouche in her soft tender voice, "I have been out to
take my customary walk before breakfast."

"An excellent habit. The fields are the true abodes of the Graces and
Muses; all is so fresh."

Belle-bouche smiles at this graceful and classic compliment; but
strange to say, does not feel disposed to criticise it. Jacques has
never seemed to her so intellectual a man, so true a gentleman as at
this moment. The reason is that Belle-bouche has caught a portion of
her visitor's disease--a paraphrase which we are compelled to make use
of, from the well-known fact that damsels are never what is vulgarly
called "in love," until the momentous question has been asked; after
which, as we all know, this sentiment floods their tender hearts with
a sudden rush, as of unloosed waters.

Jacques sees the impression he has made, and in his secret heart is
flushed with anticipated conquest. He smooths his frill, and gently
arranges a drop curl.

"Love, I think, should inhabit the green fields," he says with
melancholy grace; "for love, dearest Miss Belle-bouche, is the essence
of freshness and delight."

"The--fields?" says Belle-bouche, thoughtfully gazing upon her fan.

"Yes; and the shepherd's life is certainly the happiest. Ah! to love
and be loved under the skies--in Arcady! But Arcady is everywhere when
the true heart is near. To love and be loved!" says Jacques with a sad
sigh; "to know there is one near you whose whole heart is yours--whose
bosom would willingly support the weary head; to have a heart to bring
all your sorrows to; to feel that the sky was brighter, and all the
stars more friendly and serene, if she were by you; to love and love,
and never change, and live a life of happy dreams, however active it
might be, when the dear image swept across the horizon! To give the
heart and mind out in a sigh, and seal the vow of faith and truth upon
loving lips! In a word--one word speaks it all--to love! Yes, yes! to
love! To feel the horizon expand around you till it seems to embrace
every thing; to love innocently, purely, under the holy heavens; to
love till the dying hour, and then, clasped in a pure embrace, to go
away together to another world!--Only to love!"

And Jacques raises his eyes to the blushing face of Belle-bouche.

"Is it not fair to think of?" he says sadly.

She tries to smile, and can only murmur, "Yes."

"I fear it is but a dream," says Jacques.

She does not reply: she wishes a moment to collect her thoughts and
regain her calmness.

"A dream," he continues, "which many poor fellows dream, and live in,
and make a reality of--alas! never to be realized."

"Perhaps the world has changed since the old Arcadian days," murmurs
Belle-bouche, gazing down with rosy cheeks, and a bad attempt at ease.
"You know the earth has become different."

"Yes, yes," sighs Jacques; "I very much fear all this is folly."

"Who knows but----"

She pauses.

Jacques raises his eyes, and their glances meet. She stops abruptly,
and looks away. It is not affectation in her. That deep blush is
wholly irrepressible.

Jacques seizes her hand, and says:

"Give me the assurance that such things can be! Tell me that this
dream could be realized!"

She turns away.

"Tell me!" he continues, bending toward her, "tell me, if _I_ were to
love any one thus--say it were yourself--tell me, beautiful
Belle-bouche! could I hope----"

"Oh, sir! I cannot now----"

"Belle-bouche! dearest Belle-bouche!--my picture was a reality--I love
as I have painted--and upon my knees----"

            "----car chantez,
     Belle bouche rechignez,"

sang the voice of Sir Asinus, entering from the garden; and our
unfortunate friend Jacques had just time to drop Belle-bouche's hand,
when Sir Asinus entered.

"You're a pretty fellow!" said that worthy, "to frighten me, and make
me believe you were the--Well; let us keep up appearances before the
ladies. How goes it, my dear Jacques?"

Jacques does not answer; he feels an unchristian desire to exterminate
his friend Sir Asinus from the face of the earth--to blot that
gentleman forcibly from the sum of things.

Actuated by these friendly feelings, he gives the knight a look which
nearly takes his breath away.

"Why, what is the matter?" says Sir Asinus.

Jacques sees the false position which he occupies, and groans.

"Why, dear Jacques, you distress me," says Sir Asinus with great
warmth; "did I tread upon your toes?"

Jacques might very justly reply in the affirmative, but he only turns
away muttering disconsolately, "One more chance!"

"I thought you were the proctor," says Sir Asinus pleasantly.

"Did you? I am going back soon, and will send him," replies Jacques
with sad courtesy.

"No! don't trouble yourself!" cries Sir Asinus; "it is not necessary."

"It is no trouble," says Jacques; "but as you are probably about to
return to town yourself, I will not send him."

"To town? Indeed, I am about to do no such thing. It is not every day
that one gets a taste of the country."

"You stay?"

"Yes."

Jacques groans, and imprecates--sleep to descend upon his friend.

He sits down wofully. Sir Asinus scenting the joke, and determined to
revenge himself, does the same joyfully. Jacques sighs, Sir Asinus
laughs. Jacques directs an Olympian frown at his opponent, but Sir
Asinus answers it with smiles.

Belle-bouche all this time has been endeavoring to produce the
impression that she is looking over a book of engravings--being
interested in Heidelberg, and fascinated with the Alhambra. From time
to time her timid glance steals toward Jacques, who is sighing, or
toward Sir Asinus, who is laughing.

Sir Asinus glories in his revenge. Jacques refused to tell him the
news, and maligned his character to the Doctor, and forced him to
listen in silence to that abuse. He takes his promised revenge--for he
understands very well what he interrupted.

Jacques stays all the morning, hoping that Sir Asinus will depart; but
that gentleman betrays no intention of vacating the premises. Finally,
in a paroxysm of internal rage, and a perfect outward calmness, the
graceful Jacques retires--with a last look for Belle-bouche.

One thought consoles him. He will escort her to the ball, and on his
return in his two-seated curriculum defy the interruption of all the
Asinuses that ever lived.

Poor Jacques! as he goes sadly back, the cloud rising upon the dream
is more asleep than ever.



CHAPTER XXII.

HOW HOFFLAND PREFERRED A GLOVE TO A DOZEN PISTOLES.


One of the most beautiful walks in the neighborhood of Williamsburg
was known to the fair dames and gallant cavaliers of that epoch as the
"Indian Camp."

To this spot, on the morning of the day fixed for the ball at the
_Raleigh_, did Mowbray and the young student Hoffland direct their
steps, conversing pleasantly, and glad of the occasion to enjoy the
fresh beauties of nature, which presented so agreeable a contrast to
the domains of study at the good College of William and Mary. Let it
not, however, be imagined that the boy Hoffland was in the habit, as
Panurge said, of "breaking his head with study." Not at all. The
remissness of that young gentleman in his attendance upon the lectures
of the professors, had become by this time almost a proverb. Indeed,
his attendance was the exception--his absence the rule. Buried in his
quarters, in the neighborhood of Gloucester street, he seemed to exist
in a pleasant disregard of all the rules and regulations of the
college; and when the professors attempted to reason with him--which,
was seldom, inasmuch as they scarcely ever saw him--he would
acknowledge his sins very readily, and as readily promise amendment;
and then, after the well-known fashion of sinners, return to his evil
courses, and become more remiss than ever.

Mowbray would often remonstrate with him on this neglect of his
studies; but Hoffland always turned aside his advice with some amusing
speech, or humorous banter. When the elder student said, "Now,
Charles, as your friend I counsel you not to throw away your time and
dissipate your mind;" to this Hoffland would reply, "Yes, you are
right, Ernest; the morning, as you say, is lovely." Or when Mowbray
would say, "Charles, you are incorrigible;" "Yes," Hoffland would
reply, with his winning smile, "I knew how much you liked me."

On the fine morning to which we have now arrived, the conversation of
the friends took exactly this direction. Hoffland for two or three
days had obstinately kept away from the college, and "non est
inventus" was the substance of the proctor's return when he was sent
to drum up the absent student.

"Indeed, Charles," said Mowbray, with his calm sadness, "you should
not thus allow your time to be absorbed in indolent lounging. A man
has his career in the world to run, and college is the threshold. If
you enter the world ignorant and awkward--and the greatest genius is
awkward if ignorant--you will find the mere fops of the day pass you
in the course. They may be superficial, shallow, but they have
cultivated their natural gifts, while you have not done so. They enter
gracefully, and succeed; you will enter awkwardly, and fail."

"A fine Mentor you are!" replied Hoffland; "and I ought to be duly
grateful for your excellent advice."

"It is that of a friend."

"I know it."

"A very true friend."

"Yes," Hoffland said, "I am convinced that your friendship for me is
very true. Strange you should like me so!"

"I think not: you are by yourself here, and I am naturally attracted
always by inexperience. I find great freshness of thought and feeling
in you, Charles----"

"Do you?"

"And more still," said Mowbray, smiling sadly; "I think you love me."

"Indeed?" said Hoffland, turning away his face.

"Yes; you gravitated toward me; but I equally to yourself. And now I
think you begin to have a sincere affection for me."

"_Begin_, indeed!"

Mowbray smiled.

"I am glad you liked me from the first then," he said. "I am sure I
cannot explain my sudden liking for yourself."

"But I can," said Hoffland, laughing; "we were congenial, my dear
fellow--chips of the same block--companions of similar tastes. You
liked what was graceful and elegant, which, of course you found in me.
I have always experienced a passionate longing for truth and nobility;
and this, Ernest, I find in you!"

Hoffland's tone had lost all its banter as he uttered these words; and
if Mowbray had seen the look which the boy timidly cast upon his pale
countenance, he would have started.

But Hoffland regained his lightness almost immediately; his
earnestness passed away, and he was the same light-hearted boy.

"Look!" he cried, "that oriole is going to die for joy as he swings
among the cherry blossoms! How green the grass is--what a lovely
landscape!"

And Hoffland gazed rapturously at the green fields, and
blossom-covered trees, and the distant river flowing on in gladness to
the sea, with the kindling eye of a true poet.

"And here is the 'Indian Camp!'" he cried; "grassy, antique, and
romantic!"

"Let us sit down," said Mowbray.

And seating himself upon a moss-covered stone, he leaned his head upon
his hand and pondered.

"Now, I'll lay a wager you are thinking about me!" cried Hoffland;
"perhaps you still revolve in your mind my various delinquencies."

"No," said Mowbray.

"I know I am very bad--very remiss. I ought to have been at college
this morning, but I was not able to come."

"Why, Charles?" said Mowbray, raising his head.

"I was busy."

"Indeed!"

"Yes, reading."

"Ah! not studying?"

"No; unless Shakspeare is study."

"It is a very hard study, but not the sort which I would have you
apply yourself to. What were you reading?"

"'As You Like It,'" said Hoffland; "and I was really charmed with the
fair Rosalind."

"Yes," said Mowbray indifferently; "a wonderful character, such as
Shakspeare only could draw."

"And as good as she was wild--as maidenly as she was pure."

Mowbray shook his head.

"That foray she made into the woods _en cavalier_ was a very doubtful
thing," he said.

"Why, pray?" Hoffland asked, pouting. "I should like to know what
there was wrong in it."

Mowbray smiled, but made no reply.

"Answer me," said Hoffland.

"That is easy. Do you think it wholly proper, perfectly maidenly, for
a woman to assume the garb of our sex?"

"Certainly; why not, sir?"

Mowbray smiled again.

"I fear any argument would only fortify you in your convictions, as
our rebel student says," he replied. "True, Rosalind was the victim of
circumstances, but her example is one of an exceedingly doubtful
nature, or rather it is not at all doubtful."

"Pray, how?"

"Really, Charles, you make me give a reason for every thing. Well
then, I think that it is indelicate in women to leave their proper
sphere and descend to the level of men, and this any woman must do in
assuming the masculine garb. If I am not mistaken, the common law
bears me out, and inflicts a penalty upon such deviations from
established usage. None but an inexperienced youth like yourself would
uphold Rosalind."

Hoffland colored, and said with bitter abruptness:

"I believe you despise me, sir!"

"Despise you! Why?" said the astonished Mowbray.

"Because--because--you call me an inexperienced youth;
and--and--Ernest, it is not friendly in you!--no, it is not!--it is
unjust--to treat me so!"

And Hoffland turned away like a child who is about to "have a cry."

Mowbray looked at the averted face for a moment, and saw two large
tears clinging to the long dusky lashes. He experienced a strange
sensation in the presence of this boy which he could not explain; it
was half pity for his nervous weakness of temperament, half regret at
having uttered he knew not what, to move him.

"Well, well, Charles," he said, "yours is a strange character, and I
never know how to shape my discourse in your presence. You fly off at
every thing, and I believe you are really shedding tears----"

"No, no," said Hoffland, hastily brushing away the pearly drops;
"don't look at me."

"I was wrong."

Hoffland sobbed.

"Forgive me, Charles--I will endeavor in future to avoid these
occasions of dispute; forgive my harshness."

"You are forgiven," murmured Hoffland; and his sad face became again
cheerful.

"I am not a very pleasant companion, I know," said Mowbray, smiling;
"my own thoughts oppress me; but if I cannot be merry with you, I may
at least forbear to wound your feelings."

"My feelings are not wounded, Ernest," Hoffland said, with a bright
glance which shone like the sun after an April shower; "I
only--only--thought you were not right in abusing Rosalind; and--and
calling me 'an inexperienced youth!' I am not an inexperienced youth,"
he laughed; "but let us dismiss the subject. What oppresses you,
Ernest? I can't bear to see you sad."

"My thoughts," said Mowbray.

"That is too general."

"It is useless to particularize."

And Mowbray's head drooped. As the pleasant May breeze raised the
locks of his dark hair, his face looked very pale and sad.

"The subject of our discourse in the fields some days since?" asked
Hoffland in a low tone.

"Yes," said Mowbray calmly.

A long silence followed this reply. Then Hoffland said:

"Why should that still annoy you? Men should be strong."

"Yes, yes."

"And yet you are weak."

"In my heart, very weak."

"You love her still?"

"Yes, yes; deeply, passionately, far more than ever!" said Mowbray,
unable to repress this outburst.

Hoffland seemed to be frightened by the vehemence of his companion,
for he turned away his head, and colored to the temples.

"Can you not conquer your feelings?" he said at length.

"No."

"Make the attempt."

"I have made it."

"Why not go and see her again then? You will lose nothing."

"Go and see her? What! after being repelled with so much insult and
coldness!--after being charged with base and mercenary motives!--after
having my heart struck by a cruel and unfeeling accusation--my pride
humbled by a misconception as humiliating as it was unjust! Never,
Charles! My heart may break--I may feel through life the bitterness of
the fate which separates us for ever--I may groan and rebel and
struggle with my heart--but never again will I address one syllable to
that proud girl, who has trampled on me, as she would upon a worm, and
told me how degraded a being I was in her eyes--no, never!"

And pale, his forehead bathed with perspiration, his frame agitated,
his eyes full of fire and regret, Mowbray turned away his head and
rose.

Hoffland was silent, and yet the deep color in his cheeks betrayed the
impression which his companion's passionate words had made upon him.

In a few moments Mowbray had regained his calmness.

"Pardon me, Charles, for annoying you with these things," he said,
with a last tremor in his voice; "but your question prompted me to
speak. Let us not return to this subject; it afflicts me to speak of
it, and there is no good reason why I should revive my sufferings. Let
us go back, and endeavor in the pleasant sunshine to find some balm
for all our grief. I do not despair of conquering my passion, for all
things are possible to human energy--this far at least. Come, let us
return."

Calmly buttoning his coat, Mowbray took Charles's arm, and they bent
their way back to town.

As for Hoffland, he seemed overcome by the vehemence of his companion,
and for some time was completely silent. He seemed to be thinking.

As they approached the town, however, his spirits seemed to regain
their customary cheerfulness, and he smiled.

"Well, well, Ernest," he said, "perhaps your grief may be cured in
some other way than by strangulation. Let us not speak further of it,
but admire the beautiful day. Is it not sweet?"

"Very," said Mowbray calmly.

"It is getting warm."

"Yes, Charles; summer is not far distant."

"Summer! I always liked the summer; but we have not then those
beautiful blossoms--look how they cluster on the boughs, and what a
sweet perfume!"

"Very sweet."

"Then another drawback of summer is its dust. I hate dust; and it is
already beginning to invade my hands."

"Wear gloves then, Charles," said Mowbray, smiling at the boyish
_naïveté_ of his companion's tone.

"I'd like to know how I can, without the money to buy them," said
Hoffland; "you are very unreasonable, Mr. Mowbray!"

Mowbray smiled.

"Have you none?" he said.

"Not a penny--at the moment. My supplies have not reached my new
address."

And Hoffland laughed.

"Let me lend you some. How much will you have? We are friends, you
know, Charles, and you can have no feelings of delicacy in borrowing
from me. See," said Mowbray, taking out his purse, "I have a plenty of
pistoles. Take a dozen."

"And how many will you have left?"

"Let me see--there are thirteen. I shall still have enough. There are
twelve, Charles."

And he counted them out, leaving the single coin in his purse.

Hoffland, however, drew back, and obstinately closed his hands.

"You ought to be ashamed to tempt an inexperienced youth to go in
debt," he said; "that is your fine guardianship, Mr. Mowbray."

"Come, Charles; this is folly. You do not become my debtor; I do not
want the money. Take it, and repay it when your own comes."

"No, I will not. But still I want a pair of gloves. Do me a greater
favor still, Ernest. Give me those pretty fringed gloves you wear, and
which are plainly too small for your huge hands. I know Miss Lucy gave
them to you, for she said as much the other day--I asked her!--and now
I want them. Don't refuse me, Ernest; my hand is much smaller and
handsomer than yours, and they will just fit me."

Mowbray took off the gloves, asking himself, with a sad smile, what
charm this boy exercised over him.

"There they are then, Charles," he said; "I can refuse you nothing."

"Suppose I asked for the hand as well as the gloves?"

"The hand? Perfectly at your service," said Mowbray, holding out his
hand; "I can only give it to you in a friendly spirit, however, and
there it is."

"No," said Hoffland, drawing back; "I will not accept it upon those
terms--but I have the gloves. Thank you, Ernest. Perhaps some day I
may ask you to accept a present from me; or at least I promise not to
refuse you if you ask what I have this moment refused."

And laughing heartily, Hoffland cried:

"Just look at those flowers! and there is the great city of
Williamsburg! We pass from Indian Camps to learned halls--from
barbarism to civilization. Come! let us get into Gloucester
street--that promenade of elegance and fashion! Come on, Ernest!"

And they entered the town.



CHAPTER XXIII.

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.



CHAPTER XXIV.

HOFFLAND IS WHISKED AWAY IN A CHARIOT.


"What an oddity!" said Hoffland, as leaving the domain of Sir Asinus
behind them, the two students passed on, still laughing at the
grotesque appearance of the knight; "this gentleman seems to live in
an atmosphere of jests and humor."

"I think it is somewhat forced."

"Somewhat forced?"

"At times."

"How?"

"I mean that he is as often sad as merry; and more frequently earnest
and serious than careless."

"Is it possible, Ernest?"

"I think I am right."

"Sir Asinus--as I have heard him called--a serious man?"

"Yes, and a very profound one."

"You surprise me!"

"Well, I think that some day he will surprise the world: he is a most
profound thinker, and has that dangerous trait for opponents, a
clearness of perception which cuts through the rind of a subject, and
eviscerates the real core of it with extraordinary ease. You know----"

"Now you are going to talk politics," said Hoffland, laughing.

"No," said Ernest.

"I do not like politics," Hoffland continued; "they weary me, and I
would much rather talk of balls.--What a funny figure Sir Asinus will
cut with that little creature--in reel or minuet!"

And Hoffland complimented his own conception with a laugh.

"I scarcely fancy he will go in his old dressing-gown," said Mowbray
with his sad smile; "that would be a poor compliment to his
Excellency, and the many beautiful dames who will meet him."

"Is it to be a large ball?"

"I believe so."

"And very gay?"

"No doubt."

"You escort Miss Lucy?"

"Yes."

"And do you anticipate much pleasure?"

"Can you ask me, Charles?"

"Why--I thought you might throw off--this feeling you have----"

"I cannot," Mowbray said, shaking his head; "time only can accomplish
that--not music, and gay forms, and laughter! Ah, Charles!" he added
with a deep and weary sigh, "you plainly know nothing of my feeling. I
cannot prevent myself from speaking of it--it makes me the merest boy;
and now I say that it is far too strong to be dispelled in any degree
by merriment. Mirth and joy and festive scenes obliterate some
annoyances--those vague disquietudes which oppress some persons; they
are scarcely a balm for sorrow, real sorrow."

Hoffland held down his head and sighed.

"I shall see her there to-night, I doubt not," Mowbray went on,
striving to preserve his calmness; "our glances will meet; her
satirical smile will rise to her lips, and she will turn away as
indifferently as if she had not cruelly and wantonly wounded a heart
which loves her truly--deeply. This I shall suffer--this I anticipate:
can you ask me then if I look forward to the ball with pleasure?"

Hoffland raised his head; his face was full of smiles.

"But suppose she does not look thus at you?" he said.

"I do not understand----"

"Suppose Philippa--was not that her name?--suppose she smiles when you
bow to her: for you will bow, won't you, Ernest?"

"Assuredly; but to reply to your question. I should know perfectly
well that her smile was the untrue manoeuvre of a coquette. Ah!
Charles! Charles! may you never know what it is to see a false smile
in woman--cold and chilling--the glitter of sunlight upon snow. It is
worse than frowns!"

"Ernest, you are a strange person," said Hoffland; "you seem
determined to misjudge this young girl, who is not as bad as you think
her, my life upon it! So, frown or smile, you are determined to hate
her?"

"I do not hate her! Would to Heaven I could get as far from love for
her, as the neutral ground of indifference."

"Unhappy man!" said Hoffland; "you pray to be delivered from love!"

"Devoutly."

"It is our greatest happiness."

"And deepest misery."

"Misanthrope!"

"No, Charles, I neither hate men nor women; I do not permit this
disappointment to sour my heart. But I cannot become an advocate of
the feeling which has caused me such cruel suffering. Let us say no
more. We shall meet at the ball, and then you will be able to judge
whether I am mistaken in the estimate I place upon this young girl's
character. She is beautiful, haughty, suspicious, and unfeeling: it
tears my heart to say it, but it is true. You will never after this
evening doubt my unhappiness, or charge me with error."

"Probably not," said Hoffland, turning away his head; "I will make
your error plain to you--but promise to speak of it no more."

"What do you mean by 'make my error plain to me'?"

"You will see."

"Charles!" said Mowbray suddenly, "you cannot have designed to
approach this lady upon the subject which I have spoken to you of, as
friend to friend? That is not possible!"

"I shall not say one single word to your lady-love."

"Explain then."

"Never--I am a Sphinx, an oracle: until the time comes I am dumb."

"You only strive to raise my spirits," said Mowbray with his sad
smile; "that is very kind in you, but I fear it is even more than you
could do."

"By which I suppose you mean that I could 'raise your spirits' if any
body could."

"I may say yes--for you have a rare cheerfulness. It is almost
contagious."

Hoffland looked sidewise at his companion for a moment with a curious
smile, and said:

"Ernest."

"Well, Charles."

"How would you like to have--but it is too foolish."

"Go on: finish your sentence."

"No, you will laugh."

"Perhaps I shall: I hope so," Mowbray said, sadly smiling.

There was so much sadness in his tones, spite of the smile, that
Hoffland's eyes filled with tears.

"What I was about to say was very ridiculous," the boy said, with a
slight tremor in his voice; "but you know almost every thing I say is
ridiculous."

"No, indeed, Charles; you are a singular mixture of excellent sense
and fanciful humor."

"Well, then, attribute my question to humor."

"Willingly."

"I was about to ask you--as you were kind enough to say that I could
make you laugh if any one could--I was about to ask, how would you
like to have a wife like me?"

And Hoffland burst out laughing. Ernest sighed.

"I think I should like it very well--to reply simply to your
question."

"Indeed!"

"Yes."

"What do you admire so much in me?"

"I love more than I admire, Charles."

"Do you?" And the boy's head drooped.

"Yes," said Mowbray; "you possess a childlike ingenuousness and
simplicity which is exceedingly refreshing to me after intense study.
I would call your conversation at times prattle, but for the fear of
offending you."

"Oh, you will not."

"Prattle is very engaging, you know," said Mowbray, "and I often feel
as if my weary head would be at rest upon your friendly shoulder."

"Why don't you rest it there then?"

Mowbray smiled.

"You may answer that question better than myself," he said: "for some
strange reason, you always avoid me when I approach you."

"Avoid you!"

"Yes, Charles."

"Why, my dear follow," said Hoffland, with a free-and-easy air, "come
as near as you choose; here, let us lock arms! Does that look like
avoiding you?"

Mowbray smiled.

"It is very different here in the street," he said; "but let us
dismiss this idle subject. It is an odd way of throwing away time to
debate whether you would make a good wife."

"I don't think it is," said Hoffland, and he laughed. "If I would make
a good wife, I would make a good husband; and as I have natural doubts
upon the latter point, I wish to have them solved. But I weary
you--let us part. _Good-bye_," added Hoffland, with a strange
expression of face and tone of voice; "here is my lodging, and you go
on to the college."

"No, I think I will go up and sit down a moment."

Hoffland stood still.

"It is strange, but true, that I have never paid you visit," continued
Mowbray, "and now I will go and see your quarters."

"Really, my dear Ernest--the fact is--I assure you on my honor--there
is nothing to attract----"

Mowbray smiled.

"Never mind," he said, "I will go up, if from nothing else, from
simple curiosity."

The singular young man looked exceedingly vexed at this, and did not
move.

Mowbray was about to pass with a smile up the steps leading to the
door, when an acquaintance came by and stopped a moment to speak to
him. Mowbray seemed interested in what he said, and half turned from
Hoffland.

No sooner had he done so than the boy placed one cautious foot upon
the stone step, looked quickly around, saw that he was unobserved; and
entering the house with a bound, ran lightly up the steps, opened the
door of his apartment, entered it, closed the door, and disappeared.
The sound of the bolt in moving proved that he had locked himself in.

In two minutes Mowbray turned round to speak to his companion: he was
no where to be seen. The friend with whom he had been conversing had
observed nothing, and suggested that Mr. Hoffland must have gone on.

No; he had, however, gone to his room probably. And ascending the
stairs, Mowbray knocked at the door. No voice replied.

"Strange boy!" he murmured; "he cannot be here, however--and yet that
singular objection he seemed to have to my visiting him--singular!"

And Mowbray, finding himself no nearer a conclusion than at first,
descended, and slowly passed on toward the college.

No sooner had he disappeared within its walls than a slight noise at
Hoffland's window proved that he had been watching Mowbray. All then
became silent. In an hour, however, the door was cautiously opened,
and the boy issued forth. He carefully closed the door, re-locked it,
put the key in his pocket, descended, and commenced walking rapidly
toward the southern portion of the town, depositing as he went by a
letter in the post.

He passed through the suburbs, continued his way over the open road
leading toward Jamestown, and in half an hour arrived at a little
roadside ordinary--one of those houses of private entertainment which
are wholly different from the great public taverns.

Fifty paces beyond this ordinary a chariot with four horses was
waiting in a glade of the forest, and on catching sight of it Hoffland
hastened his steps, and almost ran.

He reached the chariot breathless from his long walk and the rapidity
with which he had passed over the distance between the ordinary and
the vehicle; threw open the door before the coachman knew he was near;
entered, said in a low voice, "Home!" and sank back exhausted.

As though only waiting for this single word, the chariot began to
move, and the horses, drawing the heavy vehicle, disappeared at a
gallop.



CHAPTER XXV.

SIR ASINUS GOES TO THE BALL.


Upon the most moderate calculation, Sir Asinus must have tied his lace
cravat a dozen times before he finally coaxed his smoothly shaven chin
to rest in quiet grace upon its white folds. Having accomplished this
important matter, and donned his coat of Mecklenburg silk, the knight
took a last survey of himself in the mirror, carefully reconnoitred
the street below for lurking proctors, and then brushing the nap of
his cocked hat and humming his favorite Latin song, stepped daintily
into the street and bent his way toward the Raleigh.

Sir Asinus thought he had never seen a finer ball; for, to say nothing
of the chariots and coachmen and pawing horses and liveries at the
door--of the splendid gentlemen dismounting from their cobs and
entering gay and free the spacious ball-room--there was the great and
overwhelming array of fatal beauty raining splendor on the noisy air,
and turning every thing into delight.

The great room--the _Apollo_ famed in history for ever--blazed from
end to end with lights; the noble minstrels of the festival sat high
above and stunned the ears with fiddles, hautboys, flutes and fifes
and bugles; the crowd swayed back and forth, and buzzed and hummed and
rustled with a well-bred laughter;--and from all this fairy spectacle
of brilliant lights and fair and graceful forms arose a perfume which
made the ascetic Sir Asinus once more happy, causing his lips to
smile, his eyes to dance, his very pointed nose to grow more sharp as
it inhaled the fragrance showering down in shivering clouds.

Make way for his Excellency!--here he comes, the gallant gay Fauquier,
with a polite word for every lady, and a smile for the old planters
who have won and lost with him their thousands of pounds. And the
smiling Excellency has a word for the students too, and among the rest
for Sir Asinus, his prime favorite.

"Ah, Tom!" he says, "give you good evening."

"Good evening, your Excellency," said Sir Asinus, bowing.

"From your exile?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ah, well, _carpe diem_! be happy while you may--that has been my
principle in life. A fine assembly; and if I am not mistaken, I hear
the shuffle of cards yonder in the side room."

"Yes, sir."

"Ah, you Virginians! I find your thirst for play even greater than my
own."

"I think your Excellency introduced the said thirst."

"What! introduced it? I? Not at all. You Virginians are true
descendants of the cavaliers--those long-haired gentlemen who drank,
and diced, and swore, and got into the saddle, and fought without
knowing very accurately what they were fighting about. See, I have
drawn you to the life!"

Sir Asinus smiled.

"We shall some day have to fight, sir," he said, "and we shall then
falsify our ancestral character."

"How?"

"We shall know what we fight about!"

"Bah! my dear Tom! there you are beginning to talk politics, and soon
you will be rattling the stamp act and navigation laws in my ears,
like two pebbles shaken together in the hand. Enough! Be happy while
you may, I say again, and forget your theories. Ah! there is my
friend, Mrs. Wimple, and her charming niece. Good evening, madam."

And his Excellency made a courtly bow to Aunt Wimple, who was
resplendent in a head-dress which towered aloft like a helmet.

And passing on, the Governor smiled upon Miss Belle-bouche, and
saluted Jacques.

On former occasions we have attempted to describe the costume of this
latter gentleman; on the present occasion we shall not. It is enough
to say that the large tulip bed at Shadynook seemed to have left that
domain and entered the ball-room of the Raleigh, with the lady who
attended to them.

This was Belle-bouche, as we have said; and the tender languishing
face of the little beauty was full of joy at the bright scene.

As for poor Jacques, he was oceans deep in love, and scarcely looked
at any other lady in the room. This caused much amusement among his
friends who were looking at him; but what does a lover care for
laughter?

"Ah!" he says, "a truly Arcadian scene! Methinks the Muses and the
Graces have become civilized, and assembled here to dance the minuet.
You will have a delightful evening."

"Oh, I'm sure I shall!" says Belle-bouche, smiling.

"And I shall, because I am with you."

With which words, Jacques smiles and sighs; and his watchful friends
follow his eyes, and laugh more loudly than ever.

They say to him afterwards: "Well, old fellow, the way you were sweet
upon your lady-love on that occasion, was a sin! You almost ate her up
with your eyes, and at one time you looked as if you were going to
dissolve into a sigh, or melt into a smile. At any rate, you are
gone--go on!"

Belle-bouche receives the tender compliments of Jacques with a
flitting blush, and says, in order to divert him from the subject of
herself:

"There is Mr. Mowbray, entering with his sister Lucy. She is very
sweet----"

"But not----"

"And must be at our May-day," adds Belle-bouche, quickly. "Good
evening, Mr. Mowbray and Miss Lucy; I wanted to see you." With which
words Belle-bouche gives her hand to Lucy. "You must come to our
May-day at Shadynook;--promise now. Mr. Mowbray delivered my message?"

"Yes; and I will certainly come--if Ernest will take me," says Lucy,
smiling.

The pale face of Mowbray is lit up for a moment by a sad smile, and he
replies:

"I will come, madam--if I have courage," he murmurs, turning away.

"You must; we shall have a merry day, I think. What a fine assembly!"

"Very gay."

"Oh, there's Jenny----"

"A friend?"

"Oh, yes!"

And while this conversation proceeds, Jacques is talking with Lucy. He
interrupts himself in the middle of a sentence, to bow paternally to a
young lady who has just entered.

"Good evening, my dear Miss Merryheart," he says.

"Oh, sir! that is not my name," says little Martha, laughing.

"What is?"

"Martha."

"And are you not desirous of changing it?"

The girl laughs.

"Say, for Mrs. Jacques?"

"Oh!" cries Martha, with a merry glance and a pleasant affectation of
reserve, "that is too public."

"The fact is," replies Jacques, smiling, "you are looking so lovely,
that I could not help it."

"Oh, sir!" says the girl blushing, but delighted. Which expression
makes her companion--a youthful gentleman called Bathurst--frown with
jealousy.

Lucy is admiring the child, when she finds herself saluted by Sir
Asinus, who has made her acquaintance some time since.

"A delightful evening, Miss Mowbray," says that worthy; "and I find
you admiring a very dear friend of mine."

"Who is that, sir?" says Lucy, smiling.

"Little Miss Martha."

"She is your friend?"

"Are you not?" says Sir Asinus, bowing with great devotion to Martha;
"you caught me this morning, you know."

"Oh no, sir! you caught me!"

"Indeed!" cried Sir Asinus; "I thought 'twas the lady's part!"

And he relishes his joke so much and laughs so loud, that the girl
discovers her mistake and blushes, which increases her fresh beauty a
thousand-fold.

Sir Asinus heaves a sigh, and contemplates a declaration immediately.
He asks her hand for a quadrille instead.

"Oh, yes, sir!"

Whereupon Bathurst revolves gloomy thoughts of revenge in the depths
of his soul.

Sir Asinus, seeing his rival's moodiness, smiles; but this smile
disappears like a sunbeam. He sees Doctor Small approaching, and turns
to flee.

In doing so, he runs up against and treads on the toes of Mr. Jack
Denis, who laughs, and bowing to Lucy, presses toward her and takes
his place at her side.

Sir Asinus makes his way through the crowd, paying his respects to
every body.

He arrives, at length, at the door of the side room where the devotees
of cards are busy at tictac. He is soon seated at one of the tables by
the side of Governor Fauquier, and is playing away with the utmost
delight.

In this way the ball commenced; and so it went on with loud music, and
a hum of voices rising almost to a shout at times, until the supper
hour. And then, the profuse supper having been discussed with that
honorable devotion which ever characterizes Virginians, the dancing
recommenced, more madly than ever.

But let not the reader imagine that the dances of the old time were
like our own. Not at all. They had no waltzes, polkas, or the like,
but dignified quadrilles, and stately minuets; and it was only when
the company had become perfectly acquainted with each other, at the
end of the assembly, that the reel was inaugurated, with its wild
excessive mirth--its rapid, darting, circling, and exuberant delight.

Poor Sir Asinus! he had not been well treated by his lady-love--we
mean the little Martha. That young lady liked the noble knight, but
Brutus-like, loved Bathurst more. The worthy Sir Asinus found his
graces of mind and person no match for the laughing freckled face of
her youthful admirer, and with all the passing hours he grew more sad.

He ended by offering his heart and hand, we verily believe, in the
middle of a quadrille; but on this point we are not quite certain.
Sure are we that on this night the great politician found himself
defeated by a boy--this we may assert from after events.

In the excess of his mortification he betook himself to cards, and was
soon sent away penniless. He rose from the card-table feeling, like
Catiline, ripe for conspiracy and treason. He re-entered the ball-room
and strolled about disconsolate--a stalking ghost.

Just as he made his appearance a lady entered from the opposite door,
and Sir Asinus felt the arm of a gentleman, against whom he was
pressed by the crowd, tremble. He turned and looked at him. It was
Mowbray; and he was looking at the lady who had just entered.

This lady was Philippa.



CHAPTER XXVI.

ERNEST AND PHILIPPA.


The young girl had never looked more beautiful. She was clad in a
simple white satin, her dazzling arms were bare, but she wore not a
single bracelet; her hair was carried back from her temples, and
powdered until it resembled a midnight strewed with star-dust--but not
a single jewel glittered above her imperial brow, or on her neck. She
looked like an uncrowned queen, and took her place as one not needing
ornaments.

Poor Mowbray, as we have seen, trembled slightly as she entered. With
all his strength he could not restrain this exhibition of emotion.

When he had visited her so often at Shadynook she had invariably worn
a number of jewels, and seemed to have taken an idle delight in
decorating her person with all the splendor which unlimited wealth
places at the command of those who possess it. Now she came like a
simple village maiden--like a May-day queen; queen not in virtue of
her jewels or her wealth, but for her beauty and simplicity and
kindness.

If he had loved her before, poor Mowbray now more than loved her.

All his resolutions melted before her approach, as the iceberg thaws
and dissolves beneath the rays of a tropic sky. He had floated into
the old latitudes of love and warmth again, and his cold heart once
more began to beat--his hardness to pass away; leaving the old, true,
faithful love.

She came on carelessly through the crowd, dispensing smiles and gay
laughter. Surrounded by a host of admirers, she talked with all of
them at once--scattered here a jest, there a smile; asked here a
question, replied gaily there to one addressed to her; and as she
moved, the crowd of gallant gentlemen moved with her, as the stars
hover around and follow in the wake of the bright harvest moon.

Philippa was "easily foist." She had that rare joyousness which is
contagious, making all who come within its influence merry like
itself; and with her wildest laughter and her most careless jests, a
maiden simpleness and grace was mingled which made the "judicious" who
had "grieved" before as much her admirers as the ruffled and powdered
fine gentlemen who bowed and smiled and whispered to her as she moved.

Poor Mowbray! He saw what he had lost, and groaned.

This was the woman whom he loved--would have given worlds to have love
him again. This was the bold true nature he had felt such admiration
for--and now he saw how maidenly she was, and only saw it fully when
she was lost to him.

Could she have ever uttered those cruel words which still echoed in
his heart?--and was this kind and happy face, this open, frank, and
lovely girl, the woman who had struck his heart so rudely?

Could he not love her still, and go to her and say, "I wronged you,
pardon me, I love you more than ever"?

No; all that was over, and he might love her madly, with insane
energy, and break his heart with the thought of her beauty and
simplicity and truth; but never would he again approach a woman who
despised him--looked upon him as an adventurer and fortune-hunter.

Still Philippa came on slowly, bowing, smiling, and jesting--she ever
approached nearer.

Mowbray felt a shudder run through his body, and turned to leave the
spot.

As he did so, he heard a voice which made his ears tingle, his heart
sink, his cheek flush, utter in the most quiet manner, and without any
exhibition of coldness or satire or affectation, the words:

"Good evening, Mr. Mowbray. Will you not speak to me?"

Mowbray became calm suddenly, by one of those efforts of resolution
which characterized him.

"Good evening, madam," he said, approaching the young girl
unconsciously; "I trust you are well."

And wondering at himself, he stood beside her.

"I believe I am very well," she said, smiling; "will you give me your
arm?"

Mowbray presented his arm, bowing calmly; and with a smile which
embraced the whole mortified group of gentlemen, the young girl turned
away with him.

"I have not had the pleasure of seeing you--have I?--lately," she
said; "where have you been, if I may ask a very impertinent question?"

"At Williamsburg, madam."

"And never at Shadynook?"

"I was informed that you had gone home."

"Yes, so I did. But then if you had much--friendship for me, I think
you might have followed me."

Mowbray was so much moved by the fascinating glance which accompanied
these words, that he could only murmur:

"Follow you, madam?"

"Yes; I believe when gentlemen have friends--particular friends among
the ladies, and those friends leave them, they go to seek them."

"I am unfortunately a poor law student, madam--I have little time for
visits."

Philippa smiled.

"I am afraid that is an evasion, sir," she said.

"How, madam?"

"The true reason I fear is, that the rule I have spoken of does not
apply to you and myself."

"The rule----?"

"That we follow our particular friends--or rather that the gentlemen
do. I fear you do not regard me in that light."

Mowbray could only say:

"Why should I not, madam?"

Philippa paused for a moment; and then said, smiling:

"Shall I tell you?"

"Yes."

"I fancy then that something which I said in our last interview
offended you."

This was a home thrust, and Mowbray could not reply.

"Answer," she said; "did you not come away from that interview
thinking me very rude, very unladylike, very affected and unlovely?
did you not cordially determine never to think of me again--and have
you not kept that resolution?"

"No, madam," said Mowbray, replying by evasion to the last clause of
the sentence.

Philippa pouted.

"Mr. Mowbray," she said, "you are very cold. I believe I have left at
least a dozen gallant wits to give you my whole attention, and you
reply to me in monosyllables."

Mowbray felt his heart wounded by these words, which were uttered
with as much feeling as annoyance, and replied:

"I should not have accepted your proposal, madam; it was selfish. I am
not in very excellent spirits this evening, and fear that I shall not
be able to entertain you. Pardon my dulness."

"No, I will not. You can be just as agreeable as you choose, and you
will not."

Mowbray found himself smiling at these words, and said:

"Perhaps, then, if you will ask me some more questions, madam, I may
reply in something more than monosyllables."

"Well then, sir, are you going to the May-day party at Shadynook?"

"I do not know--yes, I suppose, however. I have promised."

"Then Miss Lucy will wish to have you."

"Yes--well, I shall go."

"I am very glad!" said Philippa.

Mowbray could not explain the happiness he felt: all his coldness and
doubt seemed to be passing away in presence of this young girl, who
gave him such winning smiles, and so obstinately refused to observe
his constraint. He had spoken truly to Hoffland; he was in love, and
he had no longer any command over himself. He banished the thought
that she was playing with his feelings, as soon as it occurred, and
gave himself up to the intoxicating happiness which he experienced in
her presence.

"You will also come to the party, will you not?" he said, smiling.

"Oh, yes!" said Philippa; "they could not very well get on without
me. In the first place, Bel and myself are to get every thing ready; I
mean at Shadynook. As to the invitations, and all the externals, they
are intrusted to that handsome gentleman yonder, who is devouring Bel
with his eyes! Can't you see him?" added Philippa, with a merry laugh;
"poor fellow he is deeply in love----"

"And that you think very ridiculous?"

"Indeed, no. I can imagine no greater compliment, and no larger
happiness, than to be sincerely loved by a true and honest gentleman."

Mowbray looked at her sadly, but with a smile.

"There are very many honest gentlemen," he said.

"Yes, but they do not love everybody," said Philippa; "and that for a
very good reason."

"What?"

The young girl laughed.

"Because they love themselves so much," she said. "Gallant Adonises!
they think themselves handsome, nay, more lovely than all the maidens
in the world!"

Mowbray caught the infectious mirth of the young girl, and smiled.
Poor Mowbray! where were all his mighty resolutions--his fair
promises--his determination to remain an iceberg in presence of this
haughty young girl? He was falling more deeply in love with her every
moment.

"You are very severe upon the fine gentlemen," he said; "I think your
picture is the exception."

"No, no! the rule! the rule!" she went on laughing. "Just look at them
yonder. See how they smile and simper, and press their hands to their
hearts, and daintily arrange their drop curls! I would as soon be
loved by a lay-figure!"

And Philippa burst into a fit of merry laughter.

"Look!" she said; "see that ridiculous young gentleman near the door,
with the velvet breast-knot--think of a velvet breast-knot! See how he
daintily helps himself to snuff from a box with a picture of Madame
Pompadour, or some celebrated lady, upon the lid; and see his jewelled
hand, his simpering face, his languid air, his affected drawl as he
murmurs, 'Ah--yes--madam--very--warm--but a charming--spectacle.' On
my word! I would always provide myself with a bottle of _sal volatile_
when such gentlemen came to see me!"

Mowbray found himself growing positively happy. Not only were his
spirits raised by the young girl's merry and good-humored
conversation, but every word which she uttered made his heart thrill
more and more. All her discourse, all her satire upon the butterflies
of the ball-room, had originated in the discussion of what character
was proper for a lover. She scouted the idea of the love of one of
these idlers attracting for a moment the regard of an intelligent
woman: then was it not a just conclusion, that she looked for
character, and dignity, and activity? She pointed to his own opposite,
in grotesque colors, and laughed at her picture: then did she not find
something to like in himself? Could she ever love him?

And Mowbray's cheek flushed--his strong frame was agitated.

"The amusing part of all this is," said Philippa, laughing, "that
these gentlemen think their charms irresistible. Now, there is my
cousin Charles--you know him, I believe."

"Charles----?"

"Charles Hoffland."

"Charles, your cousin!" cried Mowbray; "it is impossible!"

"Why, what is impossible in the fact? Possible? Of course it is
possible!"

And Philippa laughed again more merrily than before.

"Your cousin!" repeated Mowbray; "why, Charles is one of my best
friends."

"That is very proper, sir; then, you have two friends in the family."

And Philippa gave her cavalier an enchanting smile.

"Charles is a very excellent young man," she laughed; "and I am sure
loves me deeply, but then any one can see he loves himself
extravagantly."

"Is it possible! But excuse me," said Mowbray, seeing that his
astonishment annoyed his companion; "he was to be here to-night."

"Has he arrived?" said Philippa, looking round with her daring smile.

"I do not see him."

"Tell me when he comes," she said, shaking with laughter; "he's a sad
fellow, and I must lecture him."

Mowbray looked at her.

"Strange that I did not see that you were related," he said.

"Very strange."

"He resembles you strongly."

"Yes."

"But has light hair."

"Has he?"

"And is smaller, I verily believe."

"No, I believe our height is just the same. Has he attended to his
studies?"

Mowbray smiled and shook his head.

"Not in a way to injure his health, I fear."

"Lazy fellow! I will never marry him."

"He is then a suitor of yours, madam? I was not aware of the fact--and
request you to pardon my criticism."

"There you are assuming your grand air again," said Philippa,
laughing; "please leave it at home when you come to see me. Ah! you
smile again--that pleases me. What did you ask? 'Was Charles my
suitor--did he love me?' Yes, I am convinced that he loves me
devotedly, as deeply as a man can love any thing--as much, that is to
say, as he loves himself!"

And the young girl burst into another fit of laughter, and positively
shook with merriment.

"Did you become well acquainted with him?" she asked, after a pause;
"Charles is not stiff--too free and easy, I fear, and I am sure
you--liked him."

"Indeed, I did," said Mowbray; "he was a great consolation to me, and
I always thought there was something strangely familiar in his face.
Singular that I never observed how closely he resembled you."

"That was because you did not think of me very frequently."

Mowbray colored.

"I thought of you too often, I fear," he said in a low tone.

"And never came to see me--that is a probable tale," she said,
coloring also, and glancing with a mixture of mirth and timidity at
him.

Their eyes met;--those eloquent pleaders said much in that second.

"I have suffered much," he said; "my heart is not very strong--I was
deceived--I could not----"

And Mowbray would have said something still more significant of his
feelings, but for his companion's presence of mind. She observed, with
womanly tact, that a number of eyes were fixed upon them, and adroitly
diverted the conversation from the dangerous direction it was taking.

"I do not see Charles," she said, laughing and blushing; "did you not
say he promised to be here?"

"Yes," murmured Mowbray.

"He's a great idler, but I love him very much," she said, laughing.
"Tell me, Mr. Mowbray, as a friend--you know him well--could I find a
better husband?"

Mowbray colored.

"He has a noble heart," he said; "do I understand that----"

"I love him! Yes, I cannot deny it truly; and why should I not make
him happy?--for he loves me sincerely."

Mowbray felt his heart sink. Then that new-born hope was doomed to
disappointment--that fancy was all folly! His miseries would be only
deeper for the brief taste of happiness. He could not reply; he only
muttered some inarticulate words, which Philippa did not seem to hear.

"I will decide finally on the day of the party at Shadynook," she
said, smiling; "and now let us leave the subject. But do not forget to
tell me when Charles enters," she added, laughing.

Poor Mowbray! he felt his heart oppressed with a new and more bitter
emotion. The company thought him happy in exclusive possession of the
lovely girl's society--his side was pierced with a cruel, rankling
thorn.



CHAPTER XXVII.

THE LAST CHANCE OF JACQUES.


While Mowbray and Philippa were holding their singular colloquy in one
portion of the laughing and animated crowd, our friend Sir Asinus,
with that perseverance which characterized his great intellect, was
endeavoring to make an impression on the heart of the maiden of his
love. But it was all in vain.

In vain did Sir Asinus dance minuets without number, execute bows
beyond example--the little maiden obstinately persisted in bestowing
her smiles on her companion, Bathurst.

That young gentleman finally bore her off triumphantly on his arm.

Sir Asinus stood still for a moment, then sent these remarkable words
after the little damsel:

"You have crushed a faithful heart--you have spurned a deep affection,
beautiful and fascinating maiden. Inured to female charms, and weary
of philosophy, I found in thee the ideal of my spirit--truth and
simplicity: the fates forbid, and henceforth I am nought! Never again
look up, O maiden, to my window, when the morning sun shines on it, as
you pass to school--expect to see me in those fair domains no more!
Henceforth I am a wanderer, and am homeless. In my bark, named in past
days the Rebecca, I will seek some foreign clime, and nevermore return
to these shores. I'll buy me a fiddle in Italy, and hobnob with
gondoliers, singing the songs of Tasso on Venetian waters. Never again
expect to see my face at the window as you go on merrily--I leave my
native shore to-morrow, and am gone!"

With which words--words which terrified the little damsel
profoundly--Sir Asinus folded his arms, and in this position, with a
sad scowl upon his face, passed forth into the night.

As he reached the door of the Raleigh, he perceived Mrs. Wimple and
one or two elderly ladies getting into a chariot; and behind them
Jacques leading Belle-bouche triumphantly toward his small two-seated
vehicle.

Jacques was radiant, and this the reader may possibly understand, if
he will recollect the scheme of this gentleman--to address
Belle-bouche where no fate could interrupt him.

As Sir Asinus passed on, frowning, Jacques cast upon that gentleman a
look which expressed triumphant happiness.

"You won't interrupt me on my way back, will you?" he said, smiling;
"eh, my dear Sir Asinus?"

Sir Asinus ground his teeth.

Belle-bouche was safely stowed into the vehicle--Jacques gathered up
the reins, was about to get in--when, disastrous fate! the voice of
Mrs. Wimple was heard, declaring that the night had grown too cool for
her beloved niece to ride in the open air.

Sir Asinus lingered and listened with sombre pleasure.

In vain did Jacques remonstrate, and Belle-bouche declare the night
delightful: Aunt Wimple, strong in her fears of night air, was
inexorable.

So Belle-bouche with a little pout got down, and Jacques cursing his
evil stars, assisted her into the chariot.

Would he not come in, and spend the night at Shadynook?--they could
make room for him by squeezing, said Aunt Wimple.

No, no, he could not inconvenience them--he would not be able to stay
at Shadynook--he hoped they would have a pleasant journey; and as the
chariot rolled off, the melancholy Jacques gazed after it with an
expression of profound misery.

He felt a hand upon his shoulder; he turned and saw Sir Asinus. But
Sir Asinus was not deriding him--he was groaning.

"Let us commit suicide," said the knight, in gloomy tones.

Jacques started.

"Suicide!"

"The night is favorable, and my hopes are dead, like yours," said Sir
Asinus, gloomily.

"That is enough to kill at one time," said the melancholy Jacques;
"mine are not--animation is only suspended. On the whole, my dear
friend, I am opposed to your proposition. Good night!"

And Jacques, with a melancholy smile, departed.

Sir Asinus, with a gesture of despair, rushed forth into the night.
Whether that gentleman had been reading romances or not, we cannot
say; but as he disappeared, he bore a strong resemblance to a
desperate lover bent on mischief.

Within, the reel had now begun--that noble divertisement, before which
all other dances disappear, vanquished, overwhelmed, driven from the
field, and weeping their departed glories. For the reel is a high
mystery--it is superior to all--it cannot be danced beyond the borders
of Virginia--as the Seville orange of commerce loses its flavor, and
is nothing. The reel ends all the festivities of the old Virginian
gatherings, and crowns with its supreme merriment the pyramid of
mirth. When it is danced properly,--to proper music, by the proper
persons, and with proper ardor,--all the elements break loose. Mirth
and music and bright eyes respectively shower, thunder and lighten. In
the old days, it snowed too--for the powder fell in alabaster dust and
foamy clouds, and crammed the air with fragrance.

As for the reel which they danced at the Raleigh tavern, in the Apollo
room, upon the occasion we allude to, who shall speak of it with
adequate justice? Jacques lost it--tulip-like, the king of
grace--Belle-bouche was with him; and a thousand eyes were on the
maze,--the maze which flashed, and buzzed, and rustled, ever
merrier--and glittered with its diamonds and far brighter eyes--and
ever grew more tangled and more simple, one and many, complicate and
single, while the music roared above in flashing cadences and grand
ambrosial grace.

And merrier feet were never seen. The little maidens seemed to pour
their hearts out in the enchanting divertisement, and the whole
apartment, with its dazzling lights and flowers, was full of laughter,
mirth, and holiday from end to end. When the final roar of the violins
dropped into silence, and so crumbled into nothing, all was ended.
Cavaliers offered their arms--ladies put on their hoods--chariots
drove up and received their burdens; and in another hour, the joyous
festival was but a recollection. After the reel--nothingness.

The Apollo room was still again--waiting for other men than youthful
gallants, other words than flattering compliments.

And Mowbray went home with a wounded heart, which all the smiles of
Philippa could not heal--for Hoffland was his rival. Denis went home
with a happy heart, for Lucy had smiled on him. Sir Asinus was
miserable--boy Bathurst was happy. The ball at the Raleigh was a true
microcosm, where John smiled and James sighed, and all played on, and
went away miserable or the reverse.

And so it ended.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

SIR ASINUS INTENDS FOR EUROPE.


The morning of the May-day festival dawned bright and joyous;--nature
seemed to be smiling, and the "rosy-bosomed hours" began their flight
toward the west, with that brilliant splendor which they always deck
themselves in, in the merry month of May.

Jacques rose early, and was at his mirror betimes. He had selected a
suit of extraordinary richness, made with express reference to the
rainbow; and when he drew on his coat, and took a last survey of
himself in the mirror, he smiled--no longer sighed--and thought of
Belle-bouche with the triumphant feeling of a general who has driven
the enemy at last into a corner.

He issued forth and mounted his gay charger, which, with original and
brilliant taste, he had decked with ribbons for the joyous festival;
and as he got into the saddle and gathered up the reins, a little
crowd of diminutive negro boys, with sadly dilapidated garments,
cringed before him, and threw up their caps and split the air with
"hoora's" in his honor.

Jacques pranced forth from the _Raleigh_ stable yard in state, and
took his way along Gloucester street, the admiration of every
beholder. He was going to glory and conquest--probably: he was on his
way to happiness--perhaps. He felt a sentiment of benevolent regard
for all the human family, and even, in passing, cast his thoughts on
Sir Asinus.

That gentleman's window was open, and something strange seemed to be
going on within.

And as Jacques drew nearer, he observed a placard dangling from the
window. This placard bore in huge letters the mournful words:

  "THE WITHIN INTENDS FOR EUROPE ON THE MORROW."

Jacques felt his conscience smite him--he could not let his friend
depart without bidding him adieu. He dismounted, tied his horse, and
laughing to himself, ascended to the chamber of the knight.

A sad sight awaited him.

Seated upon a travelling trunk, with a visage which had become
elongated to a really distressing degree, Sir Asinus was sighing, and
casting a last lingering look behind.

His apartment was in great disorder--presenting indeed that negligent
appearance which rooms are accustomed to present, when their occupants
are about to depart. The books were all stowed away in boxes--the
pictures taken down--the bed unmade--the sofa littered with papers,
and the violin, and flute--the general air of the desolate room, that
of a man who has parted with his last hope and wishes to exist no
longer.

But the appearance of Sir Asinus was worse than that of his apartment.

"Good morning, my dear Jacques," said the knight, sighing; "you visit
me at a sad moment."

Jacques smiled.

"I am just on the wing."

"As I see."

"From my placard, eh?"

"Yes."

"Well, have you any commands?"

"For Europe?"

"Precisely."

"Well--no," said Jacques, with indecorous levity; "except that you
will present my respects to Pitt and Barré."

"Scoffer!"

"Hey! who scoffed?"

"You!"

"I did not."

"You laugh, unworthy friend that you are," said Sir Asinus; "you
deride me."

"Not at all."

"You rejoice at my departure."

"No."

"At any rate, you are not sorry," said Sir Asinus, sighing; "and I
return the compliment. I myself am not sorry to part with the unworthy
men who have misunderstood me, and persecuted me. A martyr to
political ideas--to love for my country--I go to foreign lands to seek
a home."

And having uttered this melancholy sentence, the woful knight twirled
his thumbs, and sighed piteously.

As for Jacques, he smiled.

"When do you leave?" he said.

Sir Asinus pointed to the placard.

"On the morrow?"

"Yes."

"Well, there is time yet to attend the May-festival at Shadynook. Come
along."

"No, no," said Sir Asinus, sighing; "no, I thank you. I have had all
my noble aspirations chilled--my grand ideas destroyed; my heart is no
longer fit for merriment. I depart."

And rising, Sir Asinus seated himself upon the table disconsolately.

Jacques looked at him and smiled.

"Do you know, my dear Asinus," he said, "that you present at this
moment the grandest and most heroic picture? When a great man suffers,
the world should weep."

"Instead of which, you laugh."

"I? I am not laughing."

"You are smiling."

"That is because, for the first time in my life, I am nearly happy."

"Happy? Would that I were! Happy? It is a word which I seldom have use
for," said Sir Asinus, dangling his legs and sighing piteously.

"Why not endeavor to use it?"

"I cannot."

"Come and laugh with us at Shadynook."

"I no longer laugh."

"You weep?"

"No: my grief is too deep for tears--it is dried up--I mean the
tears."

"Poor fellow!"

"There you are pitying my afflictions--spare me!"

"I do pity you. To see the noble and joyous Sir Asinus grow
melancholy--to see those legs, which erst glided through the minuet
and reel, now dangling wearily--to see that handsome visage so drawn
down; is there no occasion for pity?"

And Jacques sighed.

"Well, well," said Sir Asinus, "I am glad you came, spite of your
unworthy banter, you unfeeling fellow. I wish to send some messages to
my friends."

"What are they?"

"First, to Belle-bouche--love and remembrance."

"That is beautiful; and I never knew these words yet fail to touch the
heart."

"To all the boys, the fond regards of him who goes from them--a martyr
to the attempt to uphold their rights."

"That is affecting too."

"To the little dame who passed with you some days ago--Miss Martha
Wayles by name--but no; nothing to her."

And Sir Asinus groaned.

"Nothing?" said Jacques.

"No; the memory of my love for her shall never grieve her; let us say
no more, Jacques, my friend. I have finished."

"And what do you leave to me?" said Jacques.

"My affection."

"I would prefer that violin."

"No, no, my friend; it will comfort me on my voyage. Now farewell!"

"Shall I see you no more?"

"No more."

"Why?"

"Do I not depart to-day?"

"True, true," said Jacques; "and if you really must go, farewell.
Write to me."

"Let us embrace."

"Willingly."

And Sir Asinus caught his friend in his arms and sniffled.

Jacques, with his head over his friend's shoulder, chuckled.

"Now farewell," said Sir Asinus; "perhaps some day I may
return--farewell."

And covering his eyes, he turned away.

Jacques took out his pocket-handkerchief--pressed his friend's hand
for the last time, and departed.

He mounted his horse, gathered up the reins, and set forward again
toward Shadynook, leaving the disconsolate Sir Asinus to finish his
preparations for departure in his beautiful sail-boat the _Rebecca_.

Poor Sir Asinus! He had not the courage to call it the _Martha_:
disappointed in love and politics, he no longer clung to either, and
thought the best name after all would be the MARTYR.



CHAPTER XXIX.

THE MAY FESTIVAL.


If not as splendid as the great ball at the Raleigh, the festival at
Shadynook was declared by all to be far more pleasant.

At an early hour in the forenoon bevies of lovely girls and graceful
cavaliers began to arrive, and the various parties scattered
themselves over the lawn, the garden, through the grove and the
forest, with true sylvan freedom and unrestraint.

Shadynook, thanks to the active exertions of Belle-bouche and
Philippa, was one bower of roses and other flowers. All the windows
were festooned with them--the tables were great pyramids of wreaths;
and out upon the lawn the blossoms from the trees showered down upon
the animated throng, and made the children laugh--for many little
girls were there--and snowing on the cavaliers, made them like heralds
of the spring; and lying on the earth, a rosy velvet carpet, almost
made the old poetic fiction true, and gave the damsels of the laughing
crowd an opportunity to walk "ankle-deep in flowers."

The harpsichord was constantly in use; and those old Scottish songs,
which echo now like some lost memory to our grandfathers and
grandmothers--we are writing of those personages--glided on the air
from coral lips, and made the spring more bright; and many gallant
hearts were there enslaved, and sighed whenever they heard sung again
those joyous or sad ditties of the Scottish muse.

Books lay about with lovely poems in them--written by the fine old
Sucklings and Tom Stanleys--breathing high chivalric homage to the
fair; and volumes of engravings, full of castles or bright pictures of
Arcadian scenes--brought thither by the melancholy Jacques as
true-love offerings--or sunset views where evening died away a purple
margin on the blue Italian skies.

And here and there, on mantelpieces and side-tables, were grotesque
ornaments in china; and odd figures cut in glass of far Bohemia; and
painted screens and embroidery. And through the crowd ran yelping more
than one small lap-dog, trodden on by children, who cried out with
merriment thereat.

Belle-bouche had rightly judged that many children should be invited;
for if bouquets are bright and pleasant, so are merry childish faces;
and so dozens of young maidens, scarcely in their teens, and full of
wild delight, ran here and there, playing with each other, and seeking
Belle-bouche--kind, loving Belle-bouche--every now and then, to say
that something was _so_ pretty, and she was so good! Whereat
Belle-bouche would smile, and play with their curls, and they would
run and play again.

There was this observable fact about the young lady who has appeared
so frequently in our little narrative, illustrating its dull pages
with her languishing and joyful smiles, showering upon it the tender
grace of her fair countenance and innocent eyes--there was this to be
observed, we say, that Belle-bouche loved and was beloved by children.
She always had them round her when she went where they were, smiling
and looking up to her with innocent faces--from the little infantile
prattlers just from the nursery, to those who, passing into their
bright teens, began to study how they might best fulfil their duty in
society--enslave the gallants. All loved Belle-bouche, and on this
occasion she had scarcely a moment's rest.

Her own companions loved her too, devotedly, and if any one had asked
the crowd assembled, what was the brightest picture, the fairest
ornament of the whole festival, they would have with one voice
declared--the little hostess. Philippa, with her queenly brow and
ready laughter, did not receive one-half the devoted attention which
was lavished on her companion; and indeed Belle-bouche was the toast
of the whole assembly.

The finest cavaliers gathered around her and paid her their
addresses--all smiled on her, and paid homage to her. Her joy was
full.

But see the finest gentleman of all approach--the no longer
melancholy, the joyful and superb knight of the ribbon-decorated
horse!

Jacques approached with the air of a captive prince--submissive, yet
proud. He smiled.

"Beautiful queen of May," he said, trailing his plumed hat upon the
floor, "behold your slave. Never did shepherd in the vales of Arcady
pay truer homage to his Daphne's charms than I do to those of our
hostess!"

This was considered a pretty speech, and Belle-bouche was about to
reply with a smile, when little Martha Wayles, who was present in a
pink-gauze dress and lace, cried:

"Oh, my goodness! just look there!"

"What is it?" asked the company.

"There, through the window," said little Martha, blushing at the
attention she excited.

"What?"

"That horse with ribbons!"

The company gazed through the window, and began to laugh. There
indeed was the horse of Jacques, splendid in all the colors of the
rainbow, pawing and tossing his head as the groom led him away.

"A little romance of mine," said Jacques, smiling; "I trust 'tis not
considered in bad taste--I had a crook----"

"A crook?"

"Yes, wreathed with flowers, as was the custom, I believe, in Arcadia;
but I feared it would attract attention in the town, and I left it,"
said Jacques, with lamblike innocence.

This sally was greeted with tumultuous applause.

"A crook!" cried the damsels.

"An excellent idea!"

"So sylvan!"

"And so appropriate!"

"We may have as many as we fancy, I believe," said Jacques, smiling;
"I have prepared a number as an introduction to the festival: they are
in the garden, ladies, already wreathed with flowers!"

The company rose in a mass to go and get them, and soon they were in
the garden; then scattered over the lawn; then every where, laughing,
making merry, and behaving like a crowd of children released from
school. The damsels acted shepherdesses to perfection, and closely
resembled the pictures we are accustomed to see upon the fans which
ladies use even to the present day. Their little airs of sylvan
simplicity were very pretty; and the gallant gentlemen were not
backward in their part. They bowed and simpered until they resembled
so many supple-jacks, pulled by the finger of a child.

"Look," said Jacques to Belle-bouche, and sighing slightly as he gazed
upon the fresh beauty of her face; "see those lovers yonder----"

"Lovers?" said Belle-bouche, smiling.

"I am not mistaken, I think," said Jacques; "yes, yes, my queen, they
are lovers. Do you not think that something like that which I spoke of
formerly will come to pass?"

Belle-bouche, with a delicious little rose-color brightening her
cheek, replied, patting her satin-sandalled foot upon the flowery
sward:

"Which you spoke of--pray, what did you speak of?"

"Of my wish to be a shepherd----"

"Ah--a shepherd," said Belle-bouche, removing a cherry blossom from
her hair, and smiling.

"Yes, my lovely queen," said Jacques, with great readiness; "I wished
to be a shepherd and have a crook----"

"Oh, sir!"

"And that my Arcadian love should also have one and draw me--so that
passing through the fields----"

"Oh, yes----"

"I might kiss her hand----"

"Yes, yes----"

"And passing through the forests wrap her in my cloak----"

Belle-bouche laughed.

"And crossing the streams on narrow moss-clad logs, support her with
my arm--as the dearest and most blessed treasure upon earth!" cried
Jacques, seizing the hand of Belle-bouche, which hung down, and
enraptured that she did not withdraw it.

Belle-bouche understood perfectly that Jacques referred to their
meeting on that day when she had been reading in the forest, and had
fled from him across the stream. Her roseate blush betrayed her.

"If only that bright dream of love could be a reality for me!" he
whispered; "if one I love so----"

"Oh, Miss Bel! the girls sent for you--the pyramid is ready!" cried
the merry voice of little Martha.

And running toward Belle-bouche, the girl told her that they really
must have her in the garden "before the procession commenced."

Poor Jacques drew back groaning.

"There's another chance gone!" he sighed; "what luck I have! I'm
always interrupted, and the fates are leagued against me."

Belle-bouche left him with a blush and a smile, and disappeared.

Ten minutes afterwards the company had reassembled on the lawn, and
seemed to be anxiously expecting something.

This something suddenly made its appearance, and advanced into the
open space with merriment and laughter.

It was a party of young girls who, clad in all the colors of the
rainbow, bore in their midst a pyramid of silver dishes wreathed with
flowers, and overflowing with strawberries and early fruits. It was a
revival of the old May-day ceremonies in London, when the milkmaids
wreathed their buckets with flowers, and passed from door to door,
singing and asking presents. Jacques had arranged it all--the
philosophic and antiquarian Jacques; and with equal taste he had
selected the beautiful verses of Marlow or Shakspeare, for the chorus
of maidens.

The maidens approached the company, therefore, merrily singing, in
their childlike voices, the song:

     "Come live with me and be my love,
     And we will all the pleasures prove
     That valleys, groves, or hills, or fields,
     Or woods and steepy mountains yields;

     "Where we will sit upon the rocks
     And see the shepherds feed our flocks,
     By shallow rivers, to whose falls
     Melodious birds sing madrigals.

     "And I will make thee beds of roses,
     And then a thousand fragrant posies;
     A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,
     Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

     "A gown made of the finest wool,
     Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
     Slippers lined choicely for the cold,
     With buckles of the purest gold;

     "A belt of straw and ivy buds,
     With coral clasps and amber studs:
     And if these pleasures may thee move,
     Come live with me and be my love."

As the song ended, little Martha came forth from the throng, and
holding in her hand a small crook, went round with a very laughing
face asking charity from the applauding company.

"Only a penny, sir!" she said, motioning back a pistole which Mr. Jack
Denis held out gaily.

And then--the collection ended--the young girls of the masquerade
hurried back to rid themselves of their pyramid.

Mr. Jack Denis and Miss Lucy Mowbray, who had just arrived with her
brother, bent their steps toward the grove, through which ran a
purling stream; and thither they were followed after a little by Miss
Martha Wayles and her admirer, Bathurst. We cannot follow them and
listen to their conversation--that would be indecorous. But we may be
permitted to say that two young ladies--one very young--on that
morning plighted their troth to two young gentlemen--one very young.
And if they blushed somewhat upon returning, it was an honest blush,
which the present chronicler for one will not laugh at.

In the garden all by this time was joyous and wild merriment. The
young ladies were running here and there; servants were preparing in a
flowery retreat a long table full of fruits and every delicacy; and
merriest of all, Miss Philippa was scattering on every side her joyous
and contagious laughter.

Suddenly this laughter of the young lady ceased, and she colored
slightly.

She saw Mowbray looking at her with a glance of so much love, that she
could not support his gaze.

In a moment he was at her side. "Will you not walk with me?" she said,
without waiting for him to address her; and in a moment her arm was in
his own, and they were strolling away. They went toward a noble old
oak, in the branches of which was fixed a platform, and this platform
was approached by a movable sort of ladder. The leaves around the
platform were so dense that it was impossible to see any one who might
be sitting within.

As Mowbray and Philippa approached, the ladder was seen suddenly to
move, a little exclamation was heard, and the next moment the movable
steps rose erect, balanced themselves for an instant, and fell to the
ground, cutting off all connection between the platform and the
ground.

At the same moment a triumphant voice muttered:

"Now let me see them interrupt me!"

Mowbray and Philippa did not hear it; they passed on, silent and
embarrassed.

Philippa, it was evident, had something to say, and scarcely knew how
to begin; she hesitated, laughed, blushed, and patted the ground
petulantly with her little foot. At last she said, with a smile and a
blush:

"I asked you to offer me your arm for an especial purpose. Can you
guess what that purpose was?"

Mowbray smiled, and replied:

"I am afraid not."

"I wished to tell you a tale."

"A tale?"

"A history, if you please; and as you are a thinker, and an impartial
one, to ask your opinion."

"I am sure you do me a great deal of honor," said Mowbray, smiling
with happiness; "I listen."

Philippa cast down her eyes, patted the ground more violently than
before with her silken-sandalled foot, and biting her lip, was silent.

Mowbray looked at her, and saw the blush upon her cheek. She raised
her head--their eyes met; and the blush deepened.

"Do not look at me," she said, turning away her head and bursting into
a constrained laugh; "I never could bear to have any one look at me."

"It is a very severe request, but I will obey you," he said, smiling;
"now for your history."

"It will surprise you, I suppose," she said, with her daring laugh
again; "but listen. Do not interrupt me. Well, sir, once upon a
time--you see I begin in true tale fashion--once upon a time, there
was a young girl who had the misfortune to be very rich. She had been
left an orphan at an early age, and never knew the love and tenderness
of parents. Well, sir, as was very natural, this young woman, with all
her wealth, experienced one want--but that was a great one--the
necessity of having some one to love her. I will be brief, sir--let me
go on uninterruptedly. One day this young woman saw pass before her a
man whose eyes and words proved that he had some affection for
her--enough that it was afterwards shown that she was not mistaken. At
the time, however, she doubted his affection. Her unhappy wealth had
made her suspicious, and she experienced a sort of horror of giving
her heart to some one who loved her wealth and not herself. Let me go
on, sir! I must not be interrupted! Well, she doubted this gentleman;
and one day said to him what she afterwards bitterly regretted. She
determined to charge him with mercenary intentions, and watch his
looks and listen to his words, and test him. He listened, replied
coldly, and departed, leaving her nearly heart-broken, for his nature
was not one which any woman could despise."

Mowbray looked at her strangely. She went on.

"She watched for him day after day--he did not come. She was angry,
and yet troubled; she doubted, and yet tried to justify herself. But
even when he left her, she had conceived a mad scheme--it was to go
and become his companion, and so test him. This she did, assuming
the dress of a man: was it not very indelicate, sir, and could she
have been a lady? I see you start--but do not interrupt me. Let me
go on. The young woman assumed, as I said, an impenetrable
disguise--ingratiated herself with him, and found out all his
secrets. The precious secret which she had thus braved conventionality
to discover, was her own. He loved her--yes! he loved her!" said the
young girl, with a tremor of the voice and a beating heart; "she
could not be mistaken! In moments of unreserve, of confidence, he
told her all, as one friend tells another, and she knew that she was
loved. Then she threw off her disguise--finding him noble and
sincere--and came to him and told him all. She saw that he was
incredulous--could not realize such indelicacies in the woman he
loved; and to make her humiliation complete, she proved to him, by
producing a trifle he had given her, in her disguise--like this,
sir."

And Philippa with a trembling hand drew forth the fringed gloves which
she had procured from Mowbray at the Indian Camp. They fell from her
outstretched hand--it shook.

Mowbray was pale, and his eyes were full of wonder.

"Before leaving him, this audacious young girl was more than once
convinced that the wild and unworthy freak she had undertaken to play,
would lower her in his estimation; but she did not draw back. Her
training had been bad; she enjoyed her liberty. Not until she had
resumed the dress of her sex, did she awake to the consciousness of
the great social transgression she had been guilty of. She then went
to him and told him all, and stopped him when he tried to speak--do
not speak, sir!--and bade him read the words she had written him, as
she left him----"

Mowbray, with an unconscious movement, took from his pocket the letter
left by Hoffland in the post-office, on the morning of the ball.

Philippa took it from his hand and opened it.

"Pardon, Ernest!"

These words were all it contained; and the young girl pointing to
them, dropped the letter and burst into a flood of passionate tears.
Her impulsive nature had fairly spent itself, and but for the circling
arm of Mowbray she would have fallen.

In a moment her head was on his bosom--she was weeping passionately;
and Mowbray forgot all, and only saw the woman whom he loved.

Need we say that he did not utter one word of comment on her
narrative? Poor Mowbray! he was no statue, and the hand which she had
promised him laughingly on that morning, now lay in his own; the proud
and haughty girl was conquered by a power far stronger than her pride;
and over them the merry blossoms showered, the orioles sang, and
Nature laughed to see her perfect triumph.

When Philippa returned to the company she was very silent, and blushed
deeply, holding to her face the handkerchief which Hoffland had picked
up. But no one noticed her; all was in confusion.

Where was Belle-bouche? That was the question, and a hundred voices
asked it. She had disappeared; and Jacques too was nowhere to be seen.
The banquet was ready; where was the hostess?

It was in the middle of all this uproar that a voice was heard from
the great oak, and looking up, the laughing throng perceived the
radiant face of Jacques framed among the leaves, and looking on them.

"My friends," said Jacques, "the matter is very simple--be good enough
to raise those steps."

And the cavalier pointed to the prostrate ladder.

With a burst of laughter, the steps were raised and placed against the
oak. And then Jacques was observed to place his foot upon them,
leading by the hand--Belle-bouche.

Belle-bouche was blushing much more deeply than Philippa; and Jacques
was the picture of happiness. Is it too much to suppose that he had
this time stolen a march on the inimical fates, and forced
Belle-bouche to answer him? Is it extravagant to fancy that her reply
was _not_, No?

And so they descended, and the company, laughing at the mishap,
hastened toward the flower and fruit decorated table, and the banquet
inaugurated itself joyously.

And in the midst of all, who should make his appearance but--the
gallant Sir Asinus! Sir Asinus, no longer intending for Europe, but
satisfied with Virginia; no _longer_ woful, but in passable good
spirits; no longer melancholy, but surveying those around him with
affectionate regard.

And see him, in the midst of laughter and applause, mount on the end
of a barrel which had held innumerable cakes, holding a paper in his
hand, and calling for attention.

Listen!

"Whereas," reads Sir Asinus, "the undersigned has heretofore at
different times expressed opinions of his Majesty, and of the
Established Church, and of the noble aristocracy of England and
Virginia, derogatory to the character of the said Majesty, and so
forth;--also, whereas, he has unjustly slandered the noble and sublime
College of William and Mary, so called from their gracious majesties,
deceased;--and whereas, the said opinions have caused great personal
inconvenience to the undersigned, and whereas he is tired of martyrdom
and exile: Therefore, be it hereby promulgated, that the undersigned
doth here and now publicly declare himself ashamed of the said
opinions, and doth abjure them: And doth declare his Majesty George
III. the greatest of kings since Dionysius of Syracuse and Nero; and
his great measure, the Stamp Act, the noblest legislation since the
edict of Nantz. And further, the undersigned doth uphold the great
Established Church, and revere its ministers, so justly celebrated for
their piety and card-playing, their proficiency in theology, and their
familiarity with that great religious epic of the Reformation,
'Reynard the Fox'--the study of which they pursue even on horseback.
And lastly, the said undersigned doth honor the great college of
Virginia, and revere the aristocracy, and respect entails, and spurn
the common classes as becomes a gentleman and honest citizen; and in
all other things doth conform himself to established rules, being
convinced that whatever is, is right: and to the same hath set his
hand, this twentieth day of May, in the year 1764."

Having finished which, Sir Asinus casts a melancholy glance upon
little Martha, and adds:

"Now, my friends, let us proceed to enjoy the material comforts. Let
us begin to eat, my friends."

And sitting down upon the barrel, the knight seizes a goblet and
raises it aloft, and drinks to all the crowd.

And all the crowd do likewise, laughing merrily; and over them the
blossoms shower with every odorous breeze; and with the breeze mingles
a voice which whispers in a maiden's ear:

"Arcadia at last!"



CHAPTER XXX.

ILLUSTRATIONS.


Perhaps a few veritable extracts from the published correspondence of
him whom, following a habit of his own, we have called Sir Asinus, may
show the origin of some allusions in our chronicle. These short
selections are arranged of course to suit the purpose of the
narrative. Beginning with the "rats," we very appropriately end with a
marriage--as in the case of that gentleman who was "led such a life"
by the rats, that "he had to go to London to get himself a wife."


... "This very day, to others the day of greatest mirth and jollity,
sees me overwhelmed with more and greater misfortunes than have
befallen a descendant of Adam for these thousand years past, I am
sure. I am now in a house surrounded with enemies who take counsel
together against my soul, and when I lay me down to rest, they say
among themselves, Come, let us destroy him. I am sure if there is such
a thing as a devil in this world, he must have been here last night,
and have had some hand in contriving what happened to me. Do you think
the cursed rats (at his instigation, I suppose) did not eat up my
pocket-book, which was in my pocket, within a foot of my head? And not
contented with plenty for the present, they carried away my
jemmy-worked silk garters, and half a dozen new minuets I had just
got, to serve, I suppose, as provision for the winter. But of this I
should not have accused the devil, (because you know rats will be
rats, and hunger, without the addition of his instigations, might have
urged them to do this,) if something worse, and from a different
quarter, had not happened. You know it rained last night, or if you do
not know it, I am sure I do. When I went to bed I laid my watch in the
usual place, and going to take her up after I arose this morning, I
found her in the same place, 'tis true, but, _quantum mutatus ab
illo_! afloat in water, let in at a leak in the roof of the house,
and as silent and still as the rats that had eat my pocket-book. Now
you know if chance had had any thing to do in this matter, there were
a thousand other spots where it might have chanced to leak as well as
this one, which was perpendicularly over my watch. But I'll tell you,
it's my opinion that the devil came and bored the hole over it on
purpose. Well, as I was saying, my poor watch had lost her speech. I
should not have cared much for this, but something worse attended it;
the subtle particles of the water with which the case was filled, had
by their penetration so overcome the cohesion of the particles of
paper, of which my dear picture and watch-paper were composed, that in
attempting to take them out to dry them, my cursed fingers gave them
such a rent as I fear I never shall get over! _Multis fortunæ
vulneribus percussus, huic uni me imparem sensi, et penitus succubui._
I would have cried bitterly, but I thought it beneath the dignity of a
man, and a man too who had read [Greek: tôn ontôn, ta men eph' hêmin
ta douk eph' hêmin]. I do wish the devil had old Coke, for I am sure I
never was so tired of an old dull scoundrel in my life. The old
fellows say we must read to gain knowledge, and gain knowledge to make
us happy and be admired. _Mere jargon!_ Is there any such thing as
happiness in this world? No. And as for admiration, I am sure the man
who powders most, perfumes most, embroiders most, and talks most
nonsense, is most admired."


... "This letter will be conveyed to you by the assistance of our
friend Warner Lewis. Poor fellow! never did I see one more sincerely
captivated in my life. He walked to the Indian Camp with her
yesterday, by which means he had an opportunity of giving her two or
three love-squeezes by the hand; and like a true Arcadian swain, has
been so enraptured ever since that he is company for no one."


... "Last night, as merry as agreeable company and dancing with
Belinda in the Apollo could make me, I never could have thought the
succeeding sun would have seen me so wretched as I now am! Affairs at
W. and M. are in the greatest confusion. Walker, McClury, and Wat
Jones are expelled _pro tempore_, or as Horrox softens it, rusticated
for a month. Lewis Burwell, Warner Lewis, and one Thompson have fled
to escape flagellation."


... "I wish I had followed your example and wrote in Latin, and that I
had called my dear, _Campana in die_, instead of [Greek:
adnileb]."--("The lady here alluded to is manifestly the Miss Rebecca
Burwell mentioned in his first letter; but what suggested the quaint
designation of her is not so obvious. In the first of them, Belinda,
translated into dog Latin, which was there as elsewhere one of the
_facetiæ_ of young collegians, became _Campana in die_, that is, _bell
in day_. In the second, the name is reversed, and becomes _Adnileb_,
which for farther security is written in Greek characters, and the
lady spoken of in the masculine gender."--_Note of Editor._)


... "When you see Patsy Dandridge, tell her, 'God bless her.' I do not
like the ups and downs of a country life: to-day you are frolicking
with a fine girl, and to-morrow you are moping by yourself. Thank God!
I shall shortly be where my happiness will be less interrupted. I
shall salute all the girls below in your name, particularly S----y
P----r. Dear Will, I have thought of the cleverest plan of life that
can be imagined. You exchange your land for Edgehill, or I mine for
Fairfields; you marry S----y P----r, I marry R----a B----l, join and
get a pole chair and a pair of keen horses, practise the law in the
same courts, and drive about to all the dances in the country
together. How do you like it? Well, I am sorry you are at such a
distance I cannot hear your answer; however, you must let me know it
by the first opportunity, and all the other news in the world which
you imagine will affect me."


... "With regard to the scheme which I proposed to you some time
since, I am sorry to tell you it is totally frustrated by Miss R. B.'s
marriage with Jacquelin Ambler, which the people here tell me they
daily expect. Well, the Lord bless her! I say: but S----y P----r is
still left for you. I have given her a description of the gentleman
who, as I told her, intended to make her an offer of his hand, and
asked whether or not he might expect it would be accepted. She would
not determine till she saw him or his picture. Now, Will, as you are a
piece of a limner, I desire that you will seat yourself immediately
before your looking-glass and draw such a picture of yourself as you
think proper; and if it should be defective, blame yourself. (Mind
that I mentioned no name to her.) You say you are determined to be
married as soon as possible, and advise me to do the same. No, thank
ye; I will consider of it first. Many and great are the comforts of a
single state, and neither of the reasons you urge can have any
influence with an inhabitant, and a young inhabitant too, of
Williamsburg. Who told you that I reported you was courting Miss
Dandridge and Miss Dangerfield? It might be worth your while to ask
whether they were in earnest or not. So far was I from it, that I
frequently bantered Miss J----y T----o about you, and told her how
feelingly you spoke of her. There is scarcely any thing now going on
here. You have heard, I suppose, that J. Page is courting Fanny
Burwell. W. Bland and Betsy Yates are to be married Thursday
se'nnight. The Secretary's son is expected in shortly. Willis has left
town entirely, so that your commands to him cannot be executed
immediately; but those to the ladies I shall do myself the pleasure of
delivering to-morrow night at the ball. Tom Randolph of Tuckahoe has a
suit of Mecklenburg silk which he offered me for a suit of
broadcloth."


... "I have not a syllable to write to you about. Would you that I
should write nothing but truth? I tell you I know nothing that is
true. Or would you rather that I should write you a pack of lies? Why,
unless they were more ingenious than I am able to invent, they would
furnish you with little amusement. What can I do then? Nothing, but
ask you the news in your world. How have you done since I saw you?
How did Nancy look at you when you danced with her at Southall's?
Have you any glimmering of hope? How does R. B. do? Had I better stay
here and do nothing, or go down and do less? or in other words, had I
better stay here while I am here, or go down that I may have the
pleasure of sailing up the river again in a full-rigged flat? You must
know that as soon as the Rebecca (the name I intend to give the vessel
above mentioned) is completely finished, I intend to hoist sail and
away. I shall visit particularly, England, Holland, France, Spain,
Italy, (where I would buy me a good fiddle,) and Egypt, and return
through the British provinces to the northward, home. This, to be
sure, would take us two or three years, and if we should not both be
cured of love in that time, I think the devil would be in it.

                                   T. JEFFERSON."


Many of these letters are written from "Devilsburg," which was the
college name for the metropolitan city in the days of yore. The reader
is referred to the first volume of Mr. Tucker's Life of Jefferson.

We shall make but one addition to our chronicle of those former
personages and their boyish pranks, and that shall be a quotation:

"On the 1st of January, 1772, I was married to Martha Skelton, widow
of Bathurst Skelton, and daughter of John Wayles, then twenty-three
years old."

See his memoir of himself.



FINIS.





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Youth of Jefferson - A Chronicle of College Scrapes at Williamsburg, in Virginia, A.D. 1764" ***

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