CHAPTER TWELVE.
ON THE RIVER.
We left behind the painted buoy That tosses at the harbour mouth; And madly danced our heart with joy, As fast we fleeted to the south. How fresh was every sight and sound On open main, on winding shore! We knew the merry world was round, And we might sail for evermore.
"Frank, what do you mean by behaving so unkindly to Minnie Clyde?" wasthe opening salutation of little Miss Pimpernell to me, the sameevening, when I called round again at the vicarage, like Telemachus, insearch of consolation.
I was so utterly miserable and disheartened at the conviction thateverything was over between Min and myself--at the sudden collapse ofall my eager hopes and ardent longings--that I felt I must speak tosomebody and unbosom myself; or else I should go out of my senses.
"_I_ behave unkindly to Miss Clyde!" I exclaimed, in astonishment ather thus addressing me, before I could get out a word as to why I hadcome to see her--"I--I--I--don't know what you mean, Miss Pimpernell?"
"You know, or ought to know very well, Frank, without my telling you,"she rejoined; and there was a grave tone in her voice, for which I couldnot account.
However, the dear old lady did not leave me long in doubt.
She was never in the habit of "beating about the bush;" but always spokeout straight, plump and plain, to the point.
"Really, my boy," she continued, "I think there is no excuse for youracting so strangely to the poor little girl, after all your attentionsand long intimacy!"
"But, Miss Pimpernell," I commenced; however, she quickly interruptedme.
"`But me no buts,' Frank Lorton," she said, with more determination andseverity than she had ever used to me since I had known her. "I'm quiteangry with you. You have disappointed all my expectations, when Ithought I knew your character so well, too! Learn, that there is no oneI despise so much as a male flirt. Oh, Frank! I did not think you hada grain of such little-mindedness in you! I believed you to bestraightforward, and earnest, and true. I'm sadly disappointed in you,my boy; sadly disappointed!" and she shook her head reproachfully.
It was very hard being attacked in this way, when I had come forconsolation!
I had thought myself to be the injured party, whose wounds would havebeen bound up, and oil and wine inpoured by the good Samaritan to whom Ihad always looked as my staunchest ally; yet, here she was, upbraidingme as a heartless deceiver, a role which I had never played in my life!
I did not know what to make of it.
What was she driving at?
"I assure you, Miss Pimpernell," I said with all the earnestness whichthe circumstances really warranted, "that I have not behaved in any way,to my knowledge, of which you might be ashamed for my sake. I came inthis evening to ask your sympathy; and, here, you accuse me like this,without waiting to hear a word I have to say! Miss Pimpernell, you areunjust to me. I will go."
And I made as if to leave the room in a huff.
"Stop, Frank," said the dear little old lady, rising to her feet, andspeaking to me again with something of her old cordial manner--"Youspeak candidly; and I've always known you to tell the truth, so I won'tdoubt you now. Perhaps things have only got into a muddle after all.Let me see if I cannot get to the bottom of it, and set them straightfor you! You will not deny, I suppose, Frank, that up to a short timesince you've been in the habit of paying a good deal of attention toMinnie Clyde?"
"Miss Clyde is nothing to me now!" I said grandly: I did not deceiveher, however, nor turn her from her purpose.
"Wait a minute, my boy, and hear me out. You won't deny that you havebeen what you call `spoony,' in your abominable slang, eh, Frank?" sherepeated, with a knowing glance from her beady black eyes.
"Pay her attention, Miss Pimpernell," I said impetuously. "Goodheavens! Why, at one time I would have died for her, and let my body becut into little pieces, if it would only have done her any good!"
"Softly, Frank," responded the old lady. "I don't think that _would_have done her any good, or you either, for that matter! But, why haveyou changed towards her, Frank? I never thought you so false andfickle, my boy. She came in here to see me to-day, looking very excitedand unhappy; and when she had sat down--there, in that very chair youare now sitting in," continued Miss Pimpernell, emphasising her words bypointing to the corner I occupied, "and I asked her soothingly whatdistressed her, she burst into tears, and sobbed as if her little heartwould break. I declare, my boy," said the warm-hearted little body,with a husky cough, "I almost cried myself in company. However, I gotit all out of her afterwards. It seems to me, Frank, that you havebehaved very unkindly to her. She thought she had offended you in someway of which she declared that she was perfectly ignorant: she had askedyou, she said, but you would not tell her--treating her as if she were aperfect stranger. She's a sensitive girl, Frank, and you have hurt herfeelings to the quick! Now, what is the reason of this--do you care forher still?"
"Care for her! Miss Pimpernell," I said. "Why I love her--although Idid not intend telling you yet."
"As if I didn't know all about that already," said the old lady,laughing cheerily. "Oh, you lovers, you lovers! You are just for allthe world like a herd of wild ostriches, that stick their heads in thebush, and fancy that they are completely concealed from observation!All of you imagine, that, because you do not take people into yourconfidence, they are as blind as you are! Can't they see all that isgoing on well enough; don't your very looks, much less your actions,betray you? Why, Frank, I knew all about your case weeks ago, my boy!--without any information from you or anybody else! Besides, you know, I_ought_ to have some _little_ experience in such matters by this time;for, every boy and girl in the parish has made me their confidante foryears and years past!" and she laughed again.
Miss Pimpernell was once more her cheery old self, quite restored to hernormal condition of good humour.
No one, I believe, ever saw her "put out" for more than five minutesconsecutively at the outside; and very seldom for so long, at that.
"Ah!" I ejaculated with a deep sigh, "I wish I had told you before.Now, it is too late!"
"Too late!" she rejoined, briskly. "Too late! Nonsense; it's `nevertoo late to mend.'"
"It is in some cases," I said, as mournfully as Lady Dasher could havespoken; "and this is one of them!"
It was all over, I thought, so, why talk about it any more? What wasdone couldn't be helped!
"Rubbish!" replied Miss Pimpernell; "you've had a tiff with her, andthink you have parted for ever! You see, I know all about it withoutyour telling me. You lovers are ever quarrelling and making up again;though, how you manage it, I can't think. But, Frank, there must alwaysbe two to make a quarrel, and Minnie Clyde does not seem to have beenone to yours. Tell me why you have altered so towards her; and, let ussee whether old Sally cannot mend matters for you."
She looked at me so kindly that I made a clean breast of all mytroubles.
"Well, Frank!" she exclaimed, when I had got to the end of my story,"you are a big stupid, in spite of all your cleverness! You are not abit sharper than the rest of your sex:--a woman has twice the insight ofany of you lords of creation! Did I not tell you, not to believe thatabsurd story about Mr Mawley long ago--that it was only a silly tale ofShuffler's, and not worth a moment's credence? But, you wouldn'tbelieve me; and, here you have been knocking your head against a walljust on account of that cock-and-a-bull-story, and nothing else! Ah,you lovers will never learn common sense! If it wasn't for us oldladies, you would get into such fine scrapes that you would never getout of them, I can tell you!"
"And you are sure it is not true, Miss Pimpernell?" I asked,imploringly.
"Certainly, Frank. Where are your eyes? You are as blind as a mole, myboy."
"O, Miss Pimpernell!" I exclaimed, in remorse at my hasty conduct,"what shall I do to make my peace once more with her? She will neverspeak to me again, I know, unless you intercede for me, and tell her howthe misunderstanding arose
."
"You have been very foolish, Frank," said my kind old friend; "but Iwill try what I can do for you. You ought to have known that she didnot care for Mr Mawley--not in the way you mean; and, as for marryinghim, why, the curate himself does not dream of such a thing. I cannotimagine how you could have been so blind!"
"But you _will_ help me, Miss Pimpernell, won't you?" I entreated.
"Well, my boy, I will tell Minnie what you have just told me about yourdelusion, and say that you are very sorry for having treated her sobadly."
"And tell her," I interposed, "that she's dearer to me than ever."
"I will do nothing of the sort," hastily replied the old lady. "I amnot going to give Miss Spight another chance of calling me `a wretchedold match-maker,' as she did once! No, Master Frank, you must do allyour love-making yourself, my boy. I did not tell you that Minnie caresfor you, you know; and, I can't say whether she does, or no. She's onlyvery unhappy at your considering her no longer in the light of a friend,and has said nothing to lead me to imagine anything more than that. Shewould not have spoken to me at all about it, I'm confident, if she hadnot happened to have seen you only a moment before, and had hersensitive little heart wounded by your coldness! Why don't you tell heryourself, Frank, what you wish me to say for you?"
"So I would, Miss Pimpernell, at once," I replied, "if I only had anopportunity; but I never get a chance of seeing her alone."
"Why don't you make one, Frank?" said she. "For a young fellow of theday, you are wonderfully bashful and shy, not to be able to tell thegirl of your heart that you love her! I declare, if I had only donewhat they wanted me, I would have proposed for half of the wives of thepresent married men of my acquaintance! When I was a girl, gentlemenseemed to have twice the ardour about them that they have now! You areall, now-a-days, like a pack of boarding-school misses, and have to beas tenderly coaxed on into proposing, as if _you_ were the wooed and notthe wooers. You don't understand what ladies like," continued the oldlady, who, like most elderly maidens, had a strong spice of the romanticin her composition; "they prefer having their affections taken byassault instead of all this shilly-shallying and faint-heartedness. IfI had had my choice, when I thought, as girls will think, of suchthings, I would have liked my lover to carry me off like those gallantknights did in the good old days that we read of!"
"And had him prosecuted for abduction," said I, laughing at herenthusiasm.
"Well, well, Frank," she said, laughing too, "I don't mean to advise youto go to that extent; yet, you might easily find an opportunity to speakto Minnie Clyde, if you only set your wits to work. There's the schooltreat on Thursday, won't that do for you?"
"Really," I replied, "I never thought of that, Miss Pimpernell; indeed Ihad made up my mind not to go; and--"
"Why shouldn't you?" said the energetic little old lady, interruptingme. "What better chance could you have, I should like to know--a nicelong day in the country, a picnic excursion, a pleasant party, with lotsof openings for private conversation? Dear me, Frank, you are not halfa lover! If I were a handsome young fellow like you, I would soon cutyou out, my boy! Only be bold and speak out to her. Girls likeboldness. I wouldn't have given twopence for a bashful man when I wasyoung."
"So I will, Miss Pimpernell," said I, carried away by her energy andenthusiasm; "I will go to the school treat--that is, if you will onlykindly see _Miss Clyde_ for me"--I was rather diffident of letting MissPimpernell know of the friendly footing we had been on, regardingChristian nomenclature--"beforehand, and get her to forgive me. Youwill, won't you, dear Miss Pimpernell?"
"None of your soft-sawder, Master Frank," replied the old lady; "I willdo what I can to make your peace, as I promised; but, as to anythingfurther, you must be a man, and speak up for yourself."
"I will, you may rely," I said, determined to bring matters to an issueere the week should close.
Before Thursday came, however, I knew that Miss Pimpernell had kept herword in interceding for me, and that Min had quite forgiven me.
She was "friends with me once more," I was assured; for, when I passedher window the next evening, in fear and trembling lest she should stillbe hostile and not recognise me, she bowed and smiled to me in her ownold sweet way, as she used to do before my fit of jealousy and ourconsequent estrangement.
Oh! how ardently I looked forwards to the approaching school treat. Iwas then resolved to learn whether she loved me or no. "Faint heartnever won fair lady," as Miss Pimpernell had told me; I would deserveher reproach no longer.
Thursday arrived at length, and with it the school treat.
This summer "outing" had been an institution of annual celebration byour vicar long before it became a habit of London clergymen to sendcolumns of appeals to the benevolent in the daily papers to assist thepoor children of their respective congregations towards having "a day'spleasuring in the country."
Our vicar, however, was not one of those who thus "passed round the hat"to strange laity! No, he made _his_ institution entirely a self-supporting one; and his school-children had the additional pleasure ofknowing, that, they assisted in paying for their treat themselves,earning it in advance, with no thanks to "charity," or strangers, allthe same.
For some two months beforehand, the little ones used to deposit a weeklypenny for this special purpose; and, when their contributions werethought to nearly amount to a shilling each, the fund was heldsufficient to carry out the long-looked-for treat--although, of course,the vicar and other kindly-disposed persons would largely help to makethe affair go off with the eclat and dignity suited to the occasion, allof which resulted in its being turned into a general picnic for theparish.
The anniversary of the fete this year, was celebrated with even grandereffect than any former ones had been, imposing and satisfactory thoughthey were held at the time to be. Richmond Park was the scene of ourfestivities; and, not only had the vicar caused to be provided a coupleof roomy four-horse omnibuses, the leading one of which sported a band,to accommodate the rank and file of the juveniles under the escort ofsuch of their mothers as could spare the time to accompany them; but,those children who had particularly distinguished themselves during theyear for good conduct, were permitted to go in the gondola, in which weoldsters proceeded, to the same destination by water. It was arrangedthat the "'buses" should meet us at Richmond, where both descriptions ofconveyances were to disgorge their motley contents; and, the several andhitherto-severed parties, joining issue, would set about making aspleasant a day of it as could be effected under the circumstances.
A "gondola" seems at first sight an anachronism on the Thames; still, onmature reflection, there does not appear to be any reason why we shouldnot indulge in this respect equally as well as the inhabitants of much-idealised dirty Venice.
Whether you agree with me or not, however, I can tell you that there_are_ gondolas to be seen on our great watery highway--heavy barges,with bluff bows and fictitious awnings and problematical cushions, thatmay be had on hire for the asking, at most of the principal boatingplaces along the banks from Chelsea to Chiswick.
On first starting, one missed the many romantic associations with whichthe name of our floating vehicle was generally connected; yet,suggestive fancy could readily supply their place with kindred ideasculled from our more prosaic surroundings. We had, it is true, nocrimson-sashed, ragged, ballet-costumed gondolier to "ply the measuredoar;" because, in the first instance, we did not row up at all. We werea trifle too wise in our generation to pull up the river in a lumberingbarge under a broiling sun, and fancy we were amusing ourselves! No, wehad a horse and a tow-rope; and, went on our way gaily without exertion!
Just you volunteer, for once, to row an excursion party up toRichmond:--you'll enjoy it, I promise you! It is regular treadmillwork; see, if you won't afterwards think our plan the best, and adoptit, too, or I'm no prophet, that's all!
Our gondolier "was not;" but the mounted jockey who bestrode our towinghorse _was_; and, in lieu
of waking the echoes with choice extracts fromTasso in the liquid Venesian or harsh, gritty Tuscan dialect, _he_occasionally beguiled his monotonous jog-trot with a plaintive ballad,in which he rehearsed the charms of a certain "Pretty little Sarah;" orelse, "made the welkin ring"--though what a "welkin" is, I have neveryet been able to discover--with repeated injunctions to his somewhatlazy steed to "gee whup" and "gee wo!"
We had no "Bridge of Sighs," to pursue the parallel, where the rovingeye might detect "a palace and a prison on either hand;" but, in itsstead, we could gaze at the festooned chains of Hammersmith SuspensionBridge in all its simple beauty, and see the Soapworks and the Mall onthe hither and further shore. Our course led, not through serpentinecanals and past Doges' palaces, gaudy with the lavish adornments oftricky Byzantine architecture; nor could we expect to see "lions" ashistorical as those which ornament the facade of Saint Mark's. However,as we glided up against the tide, in slow but steady progress, bywillowy banks and osiered eyots, our boat yawning in and out andrequiring a stiff weather helm to keep her course, we often caughtglimpses of ivy-wreathed churches, charming villa residences and gothicsummer-houses, peeping out from amidst the river-lining trees--with averdant meadow here and there to break the view, its smoothly-mownsurface sweeping down to the water's edge; while, we knew, also, thatthe stream which bore us on its bosom flowed over stakes and hurdlesthat our indigo-dyed ancestors, the ancient Britons, had planted in itsbed, long before Caesar's conquering legions crossed the channel, orVenice possessed "a local habitation and a name."
You may say, probably, that all this is a regular rigmarole of nonsense;but, what else would you have?
It was a nice, beautiful, hot summer day, as our gondola glided onRichmondwards.
We were a merry party, all in all, passing the time with genial andgeneral conversation--and, occasionally, graver talk--as the mood suitedus. The cheerful voices of the children, who were packed as tightly asherrings in a barrel in the bows of our craft, and their happy laughter,chimed in with the wash of the tide as it swept by the sides of ourgallant barque, hurrying down to meet the flood at Gravesend. The larkswere singing madly in the blue sky overhead. Each and all completed theharmony of the scene, affording us enjoyment in turn.
Disgusted apparently with our merriment and frivolity, Miss Spight,shortly after we started, introduced a polemical discussion.
"My dear sir," said she to the vicar, our captain and coxswain in chief,who stately sat in the sternsheets of the gondola, "don't you thinkRomanism is getting very rife in the parish? They are building a newnunnery, I hear, in the main road; and they are going to set about achapel, too, I'm told."
"That won't hurt us," said the vicar, sententiously. He dislikedsectarian disputes excessively, and always avoided them if he could.
"But, don't you think," persisted Miss Spight, "that we ought to preventthis in some way?"
"I was going to speak to you on the very point to-day, sir," said MrMawley, before the vicar could answer. "Had we not better have a courseof controversial lectures, each giving one in turn?"
"No, Mawley," replied the vicar, "since I have had the living, I havenever yet permitted sectarian disputations to have a place in my pulpit;and, never will I do so as long as I live! We were instructed to preachthe Gospel by our Saviour, not to wage war against this or that creed;and the Gospel is one of peace and love. Don't you remember how SaintJohn, when he was upwards of fourscore years, continually taught this byhis constant text, `Little children, love one another?' Let us allowmen to judge us by our works. The labour of Protestantism will not beaccomplished by the pharisaical mode of priding ourselves on our faith,and damning that of every one else! Our mission is to preach the Gospelpure and simple. Too much time, too much money, too much of truereligion is wasted, in our common custom of trying to proselytiseothers! We should look at home first, Mawley."
"Still, sir," said the curate, "it is surely our mission to convert theheathen?"
"I do not argue against that," said the vicar. "God forbid that Ishould! But what I say is, that we are too apt, in seeking for foreignfields, to neglect the duty that lies nearer to us at home."
"It is a noble work, converting the heathen, though," said Miss Spight.
"That's just what I mean," responded our pastor. "All young minds areimpressed with this romantic view of religion. It appears much noblerto go abroad as a missionary to the burning deserts of Africa, and torun the risk of being eaten up by cannibals, to working in thisbenighted land of ours, which needs conversion just as much as thenegroes and Hindoos! But, there's no romance about visiting dirtyalleys in London!"
"There are the Scripture readers and district visitors, are there not?"said Mr Mawley.
"True," replied the vicar, "and I would be the last to disparage theirearnest efforts. What I meant was, that, while we give hundreds ofpounds to foreign missions, pence are grudged for home work! There'sthe Society for the Conversion of the Jews, for instance, to which Ihave sometimes to give up my pulpit. Now, I dare say, it is a verymeritorious society, but how many Jews does it gain over really toChristianity in return for the large sums that its travellingsecretaries collect every year?"
"These travelling secretaries," said I, "are what the _Saturday Review_would call `spiritual bagmen,' or `commercial travellers in themissionary line.'"
"And not very far out, either," said the vicar, smiling. "They are paida salary, at all events, if they do not get a commission, to beg as muchmoney as they can for the society to which they belong; and they dotheir work well, too! They succeed in carrying off an amount of moneyfrom poor parishes, which if laid out in the places where it isgarnered, instead of being devoted to alien expenditure, would do farmore good, and better advance the work of the Gospel than the conversionof a few renegade Jews, whose reclamation is, in the majority of cases,but a farce!"
"But, my dear sir!"--exclaimed Mr Mawley, completely shocked at thisoverturning of all his prejudices.
"Hear me out," continued the vicar; "you must not misunderstand me. I'mnot opposed to the principles of missions; but, to their being promotedto the disregard of all other considerations. Saint Paul says that weshould do good to all, and especially to such as are `of the householdof faith.' Our missionary societies never seem to consider this. Theendless number of charity sermons that we have to preach for their aid,not only extracts too much of what should be spent for the benefit ofour own special communities, but militates against our gettingcontributions to other works of greater utility. Our congregationsbecome so deadened by _these_ repeated onslaughts on their benevolence,that they button up their pockets and respond in only a half-hearted waywhen we claim their assistance for _our own_ poor and parish. Let us, Isay, look at home first, and reclaim the lost, the fallen, the destitutein our streets; let us convert our own `heathen,'--our murderers, ourdrunkards, our wife-beaters, our thieves, our adulterers; and, _then_,let us talk of converting Hindoos and regenerating the Jews! Our duty,Mawley, as I hold my commission, is to preach Christ's gospel in all itstruth and simplicity and love. We do not want to run down this or thatcreed, however reprehensible we may think it. Let us be judged by ourdeeds, and acts, and words. Let us show forth _our_ way of salvation,as we have learnt it: another authority, greater than us, will tell theworld in his own good time which is _the_ faith!"
A short pause ensued, after the vicar had thus spoken; none of us cared,for the moment, to pass on to the empty nothings of every-day talk.
Seraphine Dasher was the first to break the silence.
Seeing that Miss Spight had turned to address Monsieur Parole d'Honneur,who sat by her side, the good-natured Frenchman having accompanied us,to "assist at the fete" of his friend, "the good vicaire," as he said,the wicked little seraph created a diversion.
"Gracious, Miss Spight," she exclaimed, "how you are flirting!"
The indignation of the austere virgin, and the warmth with which sherepelled this accusation, caused us all so much amusement,
that inanother moment or two we were in the full swing again of our ordinarychatter.
As we passed under Barnes railway bridge, where the tide was rushingthrough the arches with all the pent-up waters of the reach beyond, Min,who had been hitherto apparently distrait, like myself, not havingspoken, observed, that, the sight of a river flowing along always madeher feel reflective and sad.
"It recalls to my mind," said she, "those lines of Longfellow's, fromthe _Coplas de Manrique_.
"`Our lives are rivers, gliding free, To that unfathom'd boundless sea, The silent grave! Thither all earthly pomp and boast Roll, to be swallowed up and lost In one dark wave.'"
"I prefer," said I, "Tennyson's _Brook_. Our laureate's description ofa moving river is not so sombre as that of the American poet; and,besides, has more life and action about it."
"How many different poets have sung the praises of the Thames," saidMiss Pimpernell. "I suppose more poetry,--good, bad, and indifferent--has been written about it, than for all the other rivers of the worldcombined."
"You are right, my dear," said the vicar; "more, by a good deal! TheJordan has been distinguished in Holy Writ especially; Horner hascelebrated the Xanthus and Simois, and Horace the tawny Tiber; therivers of Spain have been painted by Calderon, Lope de Vega and Aldana;the Rhine and its legends sang of by Uhland and Goethe and Schiller--notto speak of the fabled Nile, as it was in the days of Sesostris, whenHerodotus wrote of it; and the Danube, the Po, and the Arno,--all riversof the old world, that have been described by a thousand poets. But,above all these, the Thames has furnished a more frequent theme, and forgreat poets, too! Every aspirant for the immortal bays has tried his'prentice hand on it, from Chaucer, in excelsis, down to the poet Closeat the foot of the Parnassian ladder!
"We were talking of the Thames," continued the vicar, pouring out aflood of archaeological reminiscences--"The great reason why it is sosuggestive, beyond the great practical fact that it is the silenthighway of the fleets of nations, is, that it is also indissolubly boundup, as well, with by-gone memories of people that have lived and died,to the glory and disgrace of history--of places whose bare names wecherish and love! Every step, almost, along its banks is sacred to somenoble name. `Stat magno nominis umbra' should be its motto. StrawberryHill reminds you of witty, keen-sighted Horace Walpole, and hisgossiping chit-chat concerning wrangling princes, feeble-mindedministers, and all the other imbecilities of the last century.Twickenham brings back to one, bitter-tongued Pope, his distorted bodyand waspish mind. Richmond Hill recalls the Earl of Chatham in hisenforced retirement, his gout, and the memorable theatrical speech hemade on the floor of the House of Lords, at the time of our greatestnational triumph and exertion, that closed his public life. Further upthe stream, we come to old Windsor Castle, to be reminded of bluffBluebeard, bigamous, wicked, king Hal; higher still, we are at Oxford,the nursery of our Church, the `alma mater' of our learning. Lowerdown, at Whitehall stairs, we are face to face again with Roundheads,and regicides, and gunpowder plots; lower still, and we are at theTower, with its cruel tyrannies and beheadings of traitors and patriots;and then, we find ourselves amidst a sea of masts which bear the Englishflag to the uttermost parts of the earth. No wonder our river has beenso poetical:--it has deserved it! But, really, if all the poems thathave been written in its honour could be collected in one volume, what aprodigious tome it would be!--what a medley of versification it wouldpresent!"
"Sure you've forgotten the Shannon entirely," observed Lady Dasher inher plaintive way.
She was certainly waking up from her normal melancholic condition; for,before this, she had been seen to smile--a phenomenon never noticed inher before by her oldest acquaintance.
"You have quite forgotten the Shannon! My poor dear papa, when he wasalive, used to say that it was the finest river in the world. Iremember he had a favourite song about it--I don't know if I quiterecollect it now, but, I'll try."
"Do, Lady Dasher, do," said Mr Mawley, who, having been paying greatattention to Bessie the while, wished, I suppose, to ingratiate himselfwith her mother.
"I must put on the brogue, you know," said she, looking round with anaffectation of shyness, which was most incongruous on her melancholyvisage; it was just like a death's head trying to grin, I thought tomyself;--and then, she commenced, in a thin, quavering voice, the lay ofthe departed earl, her "poor dear papa."
"`O! Limerick is be-yewtifool, as iveryba-ady knows, And round about the city walls the reever Shannon flows; But 'tis not the reever, nor the feesh, that preys upon my mind, Nor, with the town of Limerick have I any fault to find!'"
"Ah! Very nice indeed! Thank you, Lady Dasher, thank you!" said thevicar, when she had got thus far, and succeeded in arresting theprogress of her ladyship's melody; otherwise, she might have gone on thelive-long summer day with the halting ditty, for it consisted, as shesubsequently told us, of no less than five-and-forty verses, all in thesame pleasant strain!
"I don't think," said I, to change the conversation, "that poetry isnearly as highly regarded in the present day, as it was some forty yearsback or so--if one may judge by the biographies of literary men of thattime."
"But, it sells more readily," said Mr Mawley; "not only do freshdebutantes appear, but new editions of the old poets come out daily."
"That may be," said I. "But they are not nearly so highly appreciated.I suppose it is because poetry is not so much a rarity now. We have somany mediocre poets, that our taste is more exigent. I dare say, if avery bright, particular star should arise, we would honour him; but wehave no bright particular star; and, thus, we learn to read poetrywithout reflection. Forty years ago, people used to talk over the lastproduction of the muse, and canvas its merits in coffee-rooms all overthe town; now, we only dash through it, as we would take up the last newnovel, or the evening paper, thinking no more about it!"
"When I was younger," said Miss Spight--she didn't say when she was"young," mark you--"no young gentlewoman's education would have beenthought complete without a course of the best poets, such as Milton's_Paradise Lost_."
"Which nine out of ten of the people who speak about it now, neverread," said I--and, Miss Spight did not reply.
"What queer people poets are, generally speaking," said Mr Mawley.
"Do you think so?" said I.
"Yes, I do," he replied. "I would divide poets into three greatclasses, which I would call respectively the enthusiastic school, thewater-cart school, and the horse-going-round-in-the-mill school."
"O-oh, Mr Mawley!" exclaimed Bessie Dasher, in the unmeaning mannercommon to young ladies, in lieu of saying anything, when they have gotnothing to say: the exclamation expressing either astonishment, horror,alarm, or rebuke, as the case may require.
"Instance, instance! Name, name!" said I, keeping the curate up to themark.
"Well, I will give you Horner, and Dante, Goethe, Byron, and, perhaps,Tennyson, from which to take your choice amongst those whom I call theenthusiastic school; Mrs Hemans, and others of her tearful race, in thesecond; and, in the third order, the majority of those who have spoiltgood ink and paper, from Dryden down to Martin F Tupper."
"What, no exceptions; not even my favourite Longfellow?" asked Min.
"No," said Mr Mawley, "not one--although Longfellow belongs more byrights to the water-cart line. The fact is," continued he, fairlystarted on his hobby, "that Pegasus, the charger of Mount Parnassus, isa most eccentric animal, who can be made to metamorphose himself socompletely according to the skill and ability or weakness of his rider,that even Apollo would not recognise him sometimes! When backed by anintrepid spirit, like the grand heroic poets, Pegasus is the statelywar-horse eager for the fray, and sniffing the battle from afar; orelse, controlled by the nervous reins of genius like that of Shelley andColeridge, he appears as the high-mettled racer, pure-blooded andfinely-trained, who may win some great race, but is unfit for anyordinary work; or, again, when ridden by a Wordsworth, he plods alongwearily, with lack
-lustre eyes, dragging a heavy load, such as _TheExcursion_, behind him!"
What the curate might have said further was lost to his hearers. Justat this moment, on turning a bend of the river, the pretty little low-arched bridge that spans it in front of Richmond came in sight; seeingwhich, the children raised such a shout of joy in the bows of thegondola, that our conversation shunted into a fresh channel, while ourteamster, urging his horse by a multitude of "gee wo's," into a brisktrot, tightened our tow-rope and led us up in fine style to our goal.
A short distance from the landing-place under the bridge, we found thedetachments that had gone by road, awaiting us. Joining company, weproceeded together to the park, and set about our picnic in the usualharum-scarum fashion, chasing truant children, losing one another,finding one another, making merry over the most dire mishaps, andenjoying the whole thing hugely--elders, juveniles, and all--frombeginning to end.
The vicar made a perfect boy of himself. With a charming gleefulness,he did the most outrageous things--at which Master Adolphus, aetattwelve, would have turned up his nose, as being much beneath his yearsand dignity. He said he did it only to amuse the children; but, he tooksuch an active part in the games he instituted, that we declared that hejoined in them for his own personal gratification.
Monsieur Parole d'Honneur, too, who was the gayest of the gay, speciallydistinguished himself for his vaulting powers in a sport which heentitled in his broken English manner "ze leap of ze frog;" and, as forgrave Doctor Batson, whom we all thought so formal and dignified in hisprofessional tether, why, the way in which he "stuck in his twopenny,"as the boys said, and "gave a `back,'" was a caution to the lookers-on!
Then we had a substantial "soldier's tea" in and around a little cottageconveniently-situated close to the park:--there, we boiled our kettles,and brewed great jorums of straw-coloured water, at the sight of which aChinaman would have been filled with horror, impregnated as it was withthe taste of new tin and the flavour of moist brown sugar and milk. Thechildren enjoyed it, however, in conjunction with clothes baskets fullof sliced bread-and-butter, and buns and cake galore:-- so, our mainconsideration was satisfied.
The whole thing passed off well, the only mishap, throughout the day,arising from Horner having filled Miss Spight's galoshes with hot tea;but, as she did not happen to be wearing them at the time, the accidentwas not of much consequence, although she soundly rated the younggentleman for his awkwardness.
Everybody, too, was satisfied--the vicar and Miss Pimpernell, at thesuccess of the treat and the pleasure of the school-children; thechurchwardens, that the expenses did not come out of their pockets; LadyDasher, at Mr Mawley's attentions to her daughter, which she reallythought "quite marked;" and the rest of us, more youthful members of theparish gathering, at the general delightfulness of the day's outing--theexcursion by water, the picnic in the park, the gipsying, the freshbreeze, the bright sun, the everything!
I was happy, too, although I had not yet had a chance of speaking to Minprivately--in the boat there were more listeners near than I cared for,and on shore she was too busy entertaining a small crowd of toddlekins,for whose delectation she told deeply-involved fairy stories, and woveunlimited daisy-chains of intricate patterns and simple workmanship.Still, I knew that before night closed, I should have the wished-foropportunity of telling my tale; and, in the meantime, I was quitecontented to sit near her, and hear her sweet voice, and be certain thatshe did not care for Mr Mawley after all!
The day could not pass, however, without the curate and I having ourcustomary spar; and it happened in this wise.
On our way down to the gondola, after packing up the omnibus contingentof juveniles safely, in company with their mothers and a hecatomb ofemptied baskets, and seeing the party off with a parting cheer from bothsides, Miss Spight amiably suggested that she thought it was going torain; at which, of course, there arose a general outcry.
"Dear me," said Miss Pimpernell, "I believe you are right, for, thereare the midges dancing, too! I hope none of you girls will get your newbonnets spoilt! But, you needn't be alarmed, my dears," she added toreassure us, "it is certain not to come down before morning, if you willtake an old woman's word for it."
"You may believe Sally, and set your minds at ease," said the vicar."She's a rare judge of the weather, and as good as a farmer or sailor inthat respect."
"Are the midges a sign of rain?" asked Min; "I never heard that before."
"Yes, my dear," said Miss Pimpernell, seating herself in the gondola,which we had now reached. "They always dance about twelve hours or sobefore it rains."
"Are there not some other signs given by animals, also, when there isgoing to be a change in the weather?" asked Bessie Dasher.
"Yes," said Mr Mawley, anxious, as usual, to show off his erudition,"cows low, swallows fly near the ground, sheep bleat, and--"
"Asses bray," said I, with emphasis.
"So I hear," said he quickly. The curate was getting sharper than ever.
"Ah," said I, "_that_ is only a `tu quoque!'"
"What is that?" asked Bessie Dasher, thinking I was making use of someterm of virulent abuse, I verily believe.
"Oh!" said Mr Mawley, who was in high feather at having retorted my cutso brilliantly, "it is only a polite way of saying `you're another,' anexpression which I dare say you have often heard vulgar little boys inthe street make use of. I say, Lorton," he added, addressing me, "Ithink that's one to me, eh?"
"All right," said I, "score it up, if you like."
And, we started down the stream homeward bound.
She and I, Volume 1 Page 12