Part 11

“That is more than I can tell,” replied the young Saxon. “Not many paces hence did I encounter the valorous Sir Richard, who is now, peace be with him, no longer a man of this world. I had a heavy stroke, as ye may witness; nevertheless, it was my horse’s fault, or I had not been so foiled. I believe another minute would have caught the last breath of Lothaire, but for the help of the aforesaid knight of the ragged doublet. By the sword of Harold! he overthrew that proud Norman as if he were wrestling with a child. I saw not his features, but by his apparel he seemed to be the esquire of thine hopeful son-in-law, Reginald d’Arennes. But ye will see him presently.”

Lothaire was supported from the hall, and put under the care of the leech; for his wound, although he made so light of it in his story, wore a dangerous appearance.

As he retired, another loud acclamation announced the arrival of Elfrida’s deliverer. A tall, well-made figure advanced towards the daïs, clad, as Lothaire had intimated, in a short ragged doublet, with a small cap which was quite insufficient to confine the long dark tresses that floated luxuriantly down his neck. His arm supported the real Elfrida, whose personal charms amply deserved the encomium which had been lavished upon them in the forest. Animation seemed hardly restored to that beautiful form. Her eyes were half closed and her cheek very pale.

“Providence be thanked,” cried Leofwyn, “that my child is restored to me!”

Now it has been already hinted that Elfrida was possessed of a disposition somewhat untractable; in fact, loth as I am to speak aught ill of the fair sex, I must confess that the Lady Elfrida partook, in no trifling degree, both of the fantastic whims of her father Leofwyn and the violent obstinacy of her brother Lothaire. The reader, therefore, will not be surprised when he hears that the Saxon beauty, bowing respectfully to her father, thus addressed him:

“Not to thee, my father, not to thee is thy daughter restored; in good and in evil, in life and in death, she shall abide with her preserver--with him who hath delivered her from the grasp of the spoiler.”

“Thou art mad, my child!” said the old man in astonishment; “the knight that sued for thee thou didst contemn and reject, and wilt thou now wed with his serving-man?”

Elfrida appeared to recollect the circumstances which had preceded her capture, the suitor who had solicited her hand, and the deceit which she had conspired to put upon him: she looked up to the daïs, and beheld Bertha, her waiting-woman, seated by the side of the Norman guest; she glanced round and met the eye of her preserver turned upon her with an expression of the deepest adoration. She looked no further, but immediately, addressing her father, said:

“Why should it not be so, my father? To-day thou hast married thine handmaid to the Knight; to-morrow thou shalt marry thy daughter to the Knave.”

Her unknown deliverer at these words began to stare about him; he gazed upon his dress, upon his attendants, upon Elfrida; and then, with all the embarrassment of a performer who comes forward to play in a pageant without the smallest acquaintance with his part, observed: “This morning was I a knight, mounted on a goodly steed, and clad in goodly apparel; but whether I am now Norman or Saxon, knight or knave, by my grandfather’s sword--I doubt.”

Leofwyn stared; his large eyes were dilated into a truly comic expression of astonishment. “Who art thou?” he cried at last to the bridegroom; “art thou Reginald d’Arennes, or must we hang thee for a rogue?”

“Peace, good father-in-law,” said the sham Reginald, shaking off his drunkenness, and leering around him with an arch look of self-satisfaction; “I am not Reginald d’Arennes, but yet as good a man! I am Robin, the son of Egwulph; truly a cunning knave, and a wily.”

“I do begin to perceive,” said the waiting-woman, Bertha, looking on the sham Reginald with a disappointed air, “that our plot hath altogether failed.”

“Mine hath fared no better!” said the knave, returning a glance of equal disappointment upon the mock Elfrida. “In this I have been but a silly knave, and a witless!”

Dost thou comprehend, gentle reader, the circumstances which led to these mistakes? or is it necessary for me to inform thee that the knave Robin proceeded to Kennet Hold in Reginald’s apparel, with the purpose of revenging, by his wedding with the heiress, the death of his master, which he fancied had been occasioned by the heir; that at Kennet Hold the said knave met with the counterplot which had been prepared by the jocose Saxon, and became the husband of the maid instead of the mistress; that Reginald, recovering from his swoon after the departure of his attendant, advanced towards Kennet Hold, and encountered, in his way, his new acquaintance, Richard de Mallory, from whom he had the good fortune to rescue the life of Lothaire and the honour of Elfrida?

There is yet one point unexplained. The reader must be aware that a considerable interval took place between the memorable blow given by Lothaire and his rencontre with De Mallory. Upon this point the MS. makes mention of Winifred, a certain arch-damsel, who---- but Decorum puts her forefinger on her mouth--I have done.

Rather than desert a long established custom, I proceed to state that the personages of my tale lived and loved to a green old age. Robin died before it was thoroughly decided whether he was more properly termed “the Wily” or “the Witless.” Reginald, it appears, never got rid of his old trick of hesitation, for it is upon record that, when he told the story of his adventures to Cœur de Lion, at the siege of Acre, and was asked by the humorous monarch whether the knight or the knave were the more fortunate bridegroom, he scratched his chin for a few minutes, played with his sword for a few more, and replied slowly, “I have doubts as touching this matter.”

MAD--QUITE MAD!

“Great wits are sure to madness near allied.”--DRYDEN.

It has frequently been observed that Genius and Madness are nearly allied; that very great talents are seldom found unaccompanied by a touch of insanity, and that there are few bedlamites who will not, upon a close examination, display symptoms of a powerful, though ruined, intellect. According to this hypothesis, the flowers of Parnassus must be blended with the drugs of Anticyra; and the man who feels himself to be in possession of very brilliant wits may conclude that he is within an ace of running out of them. Whether this be true or false, we are not at present disposed to contradict the assertion. What we wish to notice is the pains which many young men take to qualify themselves for Bedlam, by hiding a good, sober, gentleman-like understanding beneath an assumption of thoughtlessness and whim. It is the received opinion among many that a man’s talents and abilities are to be rated by the quantity of nonsense he utters per diem, and the number of follies he runs into per annum. Against this idea we must enter our protest; if we concede that every real genius is more or less a madman, we must not be supposed to allow that every sham madman is more or less a genius.

In the days of our ancestors, the hot-blooded youth who threw away his fortune at twenty-one, his character at twenty-two, and his life at twenty-three, was termed “a good fellow,” “an honest fellow,” “nobody’s enemy but his own.” In our time the name is altered; and the fashionable who squanders his father’s estate, or murders his best friend--who breaks his wife’s heart at the gaming-table, and his own neck at a steeple-chase--escapes the sentence which morality would pass upon him, by the plea of lunacy. “He was a rascal,” says Common Sense. “True,” says the World, “but he was mad, you know--quite mad.”

We were lately in company with a knot of young men who were discussing the character and fortunes of one of their own body, who was, it seems, distinguished for his proficiency in the art of madness. “Harry,” said a young sprig of nobility, “have you heard that Charles is in the King’s Bench?” “I heard it this morning,” drawled the Exquisite; “how distressing! I have not been so hurt since poor Angelica (his bay mare) broke down. Poor Charles has been too flighty.” “His wings will be clipped for the furture!” observed young Caustic. “He has been very imprudent,” said young Candour.

I inquired of whom they were speaking. “Don’t you know Charles Gally?” said the Exquisite, endeavouring to turn in his collar. “Not know Charles Gally?” he repeated, with an expression of pity. “He is the best fellow breathing; only lives to laugh and make others laugh; drinks his two bottles with any man, and rides the finest mare I ever saw--next to my Angelica. Not know Charles Gally? Why everybody knows him! He is so amusing! Ha! ha! And tells such admirable stories! Ha! ha! Often have they kept me awake”--a yawn--“when nothing else could.” “Poor fellow!” said his lordship; “I understand he’s done for ten thousand!” “I never believe more than half what the world says,” observed Candour. “He that has not a farthing,” said Caustic, “cares little whether he owes ten thousand or five.” “Thank Heaven!” said Candour, “that will never be the case with Charles: he has a fine estate in Leicestershire.” “Mortgaged for half its value,” said his lordship. “A large personal property!” “All gone in annuity bills,” said the Exquisite. “A rich uncle upwards of fourscore!” “He’ll cut him off with a shilling,” said Caustic.

“Let us hope he may reform,” sighed the Hypocrite; “and sell the pack,” added the Nobleman; “and marry,” continued the Dandy. “Pshaw!” cried the Satirist, “he will never get rid of his habits, his hounds, or his horns.” “But he has an excellent heart,” said Candour. “Excellent,” repeated his lordship, unthinkingly. “Excellent,” lisped the Fop, effeminately. “Excellent,” exclaimed the Wit, ironically. We took this opportunity to ask by what means so excellent a heart and so bright a genius had contrived to plunge him into these disasters. “He was my friend,” replied his lordship, “and a man of large property; but he was mad--quite mad. I remember his leaping a lame pony over a stone wall, simply because Sir Marmaduke bet him a dozen that he broke his neck in the attempt; and sending a bullet through a poor pedlar’s pack because Bob Darrell said the piece wouldn’t carry so far.” “Upon another occasion,” began the Exquisite in his turn, “he jumped into a horse-pond after dinner in order to prove it was not six feet deep; and overturned a bottle of eau-de-cologne in Lady Emilia’s face, to convince me that she was not painted. Poor fellow! The first experiment cost him a dress, and the second an heiress.” “I have heard,” resumed the Nobleman, “that he lost his election for---- by lampooning the mayor; and was dismissed from his place in the Treasury for challenging Lord C----.” “The last accounts I heard of him,” said Caustic, “told me that Lady Tarrel had forbid him her house for driving a sucking-pig into her drawing-room; and that young Hawthorn had run him through for boasting of favours from his sister!” “These gentlemen are really too severe,” remarked young Candour to us. “Not a jot,” we said to ourselves.

“This will be a terrible blow for his sister,” said a young man who had been listening in silence. “A fine girl--a very fine girl,” said the Exquisite. “And a fine fortune,” said the Nobleman; “the mines of Peru are nothing to her.” “Nothing at all,” observed the Sneerer; “she has no property there. But I would not have you caught, Harry; her income was good, but is dipped, horribly dipped. Guineas melt very fast when the cards are put by them.” “I was not aware Maria was a gambler,” said the young man, much alarmed. “Her brother is, Sir,” replied his informant. The querist looked sorry, but yet relieved. We could see that he was not quite disinterested in his inquiries. “However,” resumed the young Cynic, “his profusion has at least obtained him many noble and wealthy friends.” He glanced at his hearers, and went on: “No one that knew him will hear of his distresses without being forward to relieve them. He will find interest for his money in the hearts of his friends.” Nobility took snuff; Foppery played with his watch-chain; Hypocrisy looked grave. There was long silence. We ventured to regret the misuse of natural talents, which, if properly directed, might have rendered their possessor useful to the interests of society and celebrated in the records of his country. Every one stared, as if we were talking Hebrew. “Very true,” said his lordship, “he enjoys great talents. No man is a nicer judge of horseflesh. He beats me at billiards, and Harry at picquet; he’s a dead shot at a button, and can drive his curricle-wheels over a brace of sovereigns. “Radicalism,” says Caustic, looking round for a laugh. “He is a great amateur of pictures,” observed the Exquisite, “and is allowed to be quite a connoisseur in beauty; but there,” simpering, “every one must claim the privilege of judging for themselves.” “Upon my word,” said Candour, “you allow poor Charles too little. I have no doubt he has great courage--though, to be sure, there was a whisper that young Hawthorn found him rather shy; and I am convinced he is very generous, though I must confess that I have it from good authority that his younger brother was refused the loan of a hundred when Charles had pigeoned that fool of a nabob but the evening before. I would stake my existence that he is a man of unshaken honour--though, when he eased Lieutenant Hardy of his pay, there certainly was an awkward story about the transaction, which was never properly cleared up. I hope that when matters are properly investigated he will be liberated from all his embarrassments; though I am sorry to be compelled to believe that he has been spending double the amount of his income annually. But I trust that all will be adjusted. I have no doubt upon the subject.” “Nor I,” said Caustic. “We shall miss him prodigiously at the Club,” said the Dandy, with a slight shake of the head. “What a bore!” replied the Nobleman, with a long yawn. We could hardly venture to express compassion for a character so despicable. Our auditors, however, entertained very different opinions of right and wrong! “Poor fellow! he was much to be pitied: had done some very foolish things--to say the truth was a sad scoundrel--but then he was always so mad.” And having come unanimously to this decision, the conclave dispersed.

Charles gave an additional proof of his madness within a week after this discussion by swallowing laudanum. The verdict of the coroner’s inquest confirmed the judgment of his four friends. For our own parts we must pause before we give in to so dangerous a doctrine. Here is a man who has outraged the laws of honour, the ties of relationship, and the duties of religion; he appears before us in the triple character of a libertine, a swindler, and a suicide. Yet his follies, his vices, his crimes, are all palliated or even applauded by this specious _façon de parler_--“He was mad--quite mad!”

THE BOGLE OF ANNESLIE; OR, THE THREE-CORNERED HAT.

A TALE.

“An’ ye winna believe i’ the bogle?” said a pretty young lassie to her sweetheart, as they sat in the door of her father’s cottage one fine autumn evening. “Do you hear that, mither? Andrew ’ll no believe i’ the bogle.”

“Gude be wi’ us, Effie!” exclaimed Andrew, a slender and delicate youth of about two-and-twenty, “a bonny time I wad hae o’t, gin I were to heed every auld wife’s clatter.”

The words “auld wife” had a manifest effect on Effie, and she bit her lips in silence. Her mother immediately opened a battery upon the young man’s prejudices, narrating how that on Anneslie Heath, at ten o’clock at night, a certain apparition was wont to appear, in the form of a maiden above the usual size, with a wide three-cornered hat. Sundry other particulars were mentioned, but Andrew was still incredulous. “He’ll rue that, dearly will he rue’t!” said Effie, as he departed.

Many days, however, passed away, and Effie was evidently much disappointed to find that the scepticism of her lover gathered strength. Nay, he had the audacity to insult, by gibes and jests, the true believers, and to call upon them for the reasons of their faith. Effie was in a terrible passion.

At last, however, her prophecy was fulfilled. Andrew was passing over the moor, while the clock struck ten; for it was his usual practice to walk at that hour, in order to mock the fears of his future bride. He was just winding round the thicket which opened to him a view of the cottage where Effie dwelt, when he heard a light step behind him, and, in an instant, his feet were tripped up, and he was laid prostrate on the turf. Upon looking up he beheld a tall muscular man standing over him, who, in no courteous manner, desired to see the contents of his pocket. “De’il be on ye!” exclaimed the young forester, “I hae but ae coin i’ the warld.” “That coin maun I hae,” said his assailant. “Faith! I’se show ye play for’t then,” said Andrew, and sprang upon his feet.

Andrew was esteemed the best cudgel-player for twenty miles round, so that in brief space he cooled the ardour of his antagonist, and dealt such visitations upon his skull as might have made a much firmer head ache for a fortnight. The man stepped back, and, pausing in his assault, raised his hand to his forehead, and buried it among his dark locks. It returned covered with blood. “Thou hast cracked my crown,” he said, “but yet ye sha’ na gang scatheless;” and, flinging down his cudgel, he flew on his young foe, and, grasping his body before he was aware of the attack, whirled him to the earth with an appalling impetus. “The Lord hae mercy on me!” said Andrew, “I’m a dead man.”

He was not far from it, for his rude foe was preparing to put the finishing stroke to his victory. Suddenly something stirred in the bushes, and the conqueror, turning away from his victim, cried out, “The bogle! the bogle!” and fled precipitately. Andrew ventured to look up. He saw the figure which had been described to him approaching; it came nearer and nearer; its face was very pale, and its step was not heard on the grass. At last it stood by his side, and looked down upon him. Andrew buried his face in his cloak: presently the apparition spoke--indistinctly indeed, for its teeth seemed to chatter with cold:

“This is a cauld an’ an eerie night to be sae late on Anneslie Muir!” and immediately it glided away. Andrew lay a few minutes in a trance; and then, arising from his cold bed, ran hastily towards the cottage of his mistress. His hair stood on end, and the vapours of the night sunk chill upon his brow as he lifted up the latch and flung himself upon an oaken seat.

“Preserve us!” cried the old woman. “Why, ye are mair than aneugh to frighten a body out o’ her wits! To come in wi’ sic a flaunt and a fling, bare-sconced, and the red bluid spatter’d a’ o’er your new leather jerkin! Shame on you, Andrew! in what mishanter hast thou broken that fule’s head o’ thine?”

“Peace, mither!” said the young man, taking breath, “I hae seen the bogle!”

The old lady had a long line of reproaches, drawn up in order of march, between her lips; but the mention of the bogle was the signal for disbanding them. A thousand questions poured in, in rapid succession. “How old was she? How was she dressed? Who was she like? What did she say?”

“She was a tall thin woman, about seven feet high!”

“Oh Andrew!” cried Effie.

“As ugly as sin!”

“Other people tell a different story,” said Effie.

“True, on my Bible oath! And then her beard----”

“A beard, Andrew!” shrieked Effie: “a woman with a beard! For shame, Andrew!”

“Nay, I’ll swear it upon my soul’s salvation! She had seen saxty winters and mair, afore e’er she died to trouble us!”

“I’ll wager my best new goun,” said the maiden, “that saxteen would be nearer the mark.”

“But wha was she like, Andrew?” said the old woman. “Was she like auld Janet that was drowned in the burn forenaint? or that auld witch that your maister hanged for stealing his pet lamb? or was she like----”

“Are you sure she was na like _me_, Andrew?” said Effie, looking archly in his face.

“You--pshaw! Faith, guid mither, she was like to naebody that I ken, unless it be auld Elspeth, the cobbler’s wife, that was blamed for a’ the mischief or misfortunes o’ the kintra roun’, and was drowned at last for having ‘sense aboon the lave.’”

“And how was she dressed, Andrew?”

“In that horrible three-cornered hat, which may I be blinded if ever I seek to look upon again!--an’ in a lang blue apron----”

“Green, Andrew!” cried Effie, twirling her own green apron round her thumb.

“How you like to tease ane!” said the lover. Poor Andrew did not at all enter into his mistress’s pleasantry, for he laboured under a great depression of spirits, and never lifted his eyes from the ground.

“But ye hae na tauld us what she said, lad!” said the old woman, assuming an air of deeper mystery as each question was put and answered in its turn.

“Lord! what signifies it whether she said this or that! Haud your tongue, and get me some comfort; for, to speak truth, I’m vera cauld.”

“Weel mayest thou be sae,” said Effie, “for indeed,” she continued, in a feigned voice, “_it was a cauld an’ an eerie night to be sae late on Anneslie Muir_.”

Andrew started, and a doubt seemed to pass over his mind. He looked up at the damsel, and perceived, for the first time, that her large blue eyes were laughing at him from under the shade of a huge three-cornered hat. The next moment he hung over her in an ecstasy of gratitude, and smothered with his kisses the ridicule which she forced upon him as the penalty of his preservation.

“Seven feet high, Andrew?”

“My dear Effie!”

“As ugly as sin?”

“My darling lassie!”

“And a beard?”

“Na! na! now you carry the jest o’er far!”

“And saxty winters?”

“Saxteen springs, Effie! Dear, delightfu’, smiling springs!”

“And Elspeth, the cobbler’s wife! Oh, Andrew, Andrew! I never can forgie you for the cobbler’s wife! And what say you now, Andrew--is there nae bogle on the muir?”

“My dear Effie, for your sake I’ll believe in a’ the bogles in Christendie!”

“That is,” said Effie, at the conclusion of a long and vehement fit of risibility, “that is, in a’ that wear ‘three-cornered hats.’”

ON THE PROPOSED ESTABLISHMENT OF A PUBLIC LIBRARY AT ETON.

We are very glad to be able to announce that, after the Easter holidays, a public library for the use of the school will be established by subscription, at Mr. Williams’s. We are very glad of it, not for our own sake, for before it shall rise to any degree of importance we shall be inhabitants of this spot no longer; our very names will be forgotten among its more recent inmates. But we hail with joy this institution, for the sake of the school we love and reverence, to which we hope it will prove, at some future period, a valuable addition.

The plan admits of one hundred subscribers--viz., the one hundred senior members of the school. If any of these decline to become members, the option will descend to the next in gradation. The subscription for the first year will be 10_s._ 6_d._ after the Easter, Election, and Christmas holidays; in future 10_s._ 6_d._ will be paid after the two latter vacations only. The library will consist of the classics, history, &c.; and subscribers will be allowed, under certain regulations, to take books from the room. Of course a thing of this kind has not been set on foot without the concurrence of the higher powers; and the head-master has assisted the promoters of it by his approbation, as well as by liberality of another description. We trust that Eton will not long continue to experience the want of an advantage which many other public schools enjoy.