Miss Crotchet had become Lady Bossnowl, but Lady Clarinda had not yet changed her name to Crotchet. She had, on one pretence and another, procrastinated the happy event, and the gentleman had not been very pressing; she had, however, accompanied her brother and sister-in-law, to pass Christmas at Crotchet Castle. With these, Mr. Mac Quedy, Mr. Philpot, Mr. Trillo, Mr. Skionar, Mr. Toogood, and Mr. Firedamp were sitting at breakfast, when the Reverend Doctor Folliott entered and took his seat at the table.
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. Well, Mr. Mac Quedy, it is now some weeks since we have met: how goes on the march of mind?
Mr. Mac Quedy. Nay, sir; I think you may see that with your own eyes.
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. Sir, I have seen it, much to my discomfiture. It has marched into my rickyard, and set my stacks on fire, with chemical materials, most scientifically compounded. It has marched up to the door of my vicarage, a hundred and fifty strong; ordered me to surrender half my tithes; consumed all the provisions I had provided for my audit feast, and drunk up my old October. It has marched in through my back-parlour shutters, and out again with my silver spoons, in the dead of the night. The policeman who has been down to examine says my house has been broken open on the most scientific principles. All this comes of education.
Mr. Mac Quedy. I rather think it comes of poverty.
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. No, sir. Robbery, perhaps, comes of poverty, but scientific principles of robbery come of education. I suppose the learned friend has written a sixpenny treatise on mechanics, and the rascals who robbed me have been reading it.
Mr. Crotchet. Your house would have been very safe, Doctor, if they had had no better science than the learned friend’s to work with.
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. Well, sir, that may be. Excellent potted char. The Lord deliver me from the learned friend.
Mr. Crotchet. Well, Doctor, for your comfort, here is a declaration of the learned friend’s that he will never take office.
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. Then, sir, he will be in office next week. Peace be with him. Sugar and cream.
Mr. Crotchet. But, Doctor, are you for Chainmail Hall on Christmas Day?
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. That am I, for there will be an excellent dinner, though, peradventure, grotesquely served.
Mr. Crotchet. I have not seen my neighbour since he left us on the canal.
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. He has married a wife, and brought her home.
Lady Clarinda. Indeed! If she suits him, she must be an oddity: it will be amusing to see them together.
Lord Bossnowl. Very amusing. He! He! Mr. Firedamp. Is there any water about Chainmail Hall?
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. An old moat.
Mr. Firedamp. I shall die of malaria.
Mr. Trillo. Shall we have any music?
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. An old harper.
Mr. Trillo. Those fellows are always horridly out of tune. What will he play?
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. Old songs and marches.
Mr. Skionar. Among so many old things, I hope we shall find Old Philosophy.
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. An old woman.
Mr. Philpot. Perhaps an old map of the river in the twelfth century.
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. No doubt.
Mr. Mac Quedy. How many more old things?
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. Old hospitality; old wine; old ale; all the images of old England; an old butler.
Mr. Toogood. Shall we all be welcome?
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. Heartily; you will be slapped on the shoulder, and called Old Boy.
Lord Bossnowl. I think we should all go in our old clothes. He! He!
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. You will sit on old chairs, round an old table, by the light of old lamps, suspended from pointed arches, which, Mr. Chainmail says, first came into use in the twelfth century, with old armour on the pillars and old banners in the roof.
Lady Clarinda. And what curious piece of antiquity is the lady of the mansion?
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. No antiquity there; none.
Lady Clarinda. Who was she?
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. That I know not.
Lady Clarinda. Have you seen her?
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. I have.
Lady Clarinda. Is she pretty?
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. More, — beautiful. A subject for the pen of Nonnus or the pencil of Zeuxis. Features of all loveliness, radiant with all virtue and intelligence. A face for Antigone. A form at once plump and symmetrical, that, if it be decorous to divine it by externals, would have been a model for the Venus of Cnidos. Never was anything so goodly to look on, the present company excepted; and poor dear Mrs. Folliott. She reads moral philosophy, Mr. Mac Quedy, which indeed she might as well let alone; she reads Italian poetry, Mr. Skionar; she sings Italian music, Mr. Trillo; but, with all this, she has the greatest of female virtues, for she superintends the household and looks after her husband’s dinner. I believe she was a mountaineer: Ηαρθένος ὀυρεσίφοιτος, ἐρήμαδι σύντροφος ὕλῃ as Nonnus sweetly sings.
CHAPTER XVIII. CHAINMAIL HALL.
VOUS AUTRES DICTES que ignorance est mère de tous maulx, et dictes vray: mais toutesfoys vous ne la bannissez mye de vos entendemens, et vivez en elle, avecques elle, et par elle. C’est pourquoy tant de maulx vous meshaignent de jour en jour. Rabelias, 1. 5. c. 7.
The party which was assembled on Christmas Day in Chainmail Hall comprised all the guests of Crotchet Castle, some of Mr. Chainmail’s other neighbours, all his tenants and domestics, and Captain Fitzchrome. The hall was spacious and lofty; and with its tall fluted pillars and pointed arches, its windows of stained glass, its display of arms and banners intermingled with holly and mistletoe, its blazing cressets and torches, and a stupendous fire in the centre, on which blocks of pine were flaming and crackling, had a striking effect on eyes unaccustomed to such a dining-room. The fire was open on all sides, and the smoke was caught and carried back under a funnel-formed canopy into a hollow central pillar. This fire was the line of demarcation between gentle and simple on days of high festival. Tables extended from it on two sides to nearly the end of the hall.
Mrs. Chainmail was introduced to the company. Young Crotchet felt some revulsion of feeling at the unexpected sight of one whom he had forsaken, but not forgotten, in a condition apparently so much happier than his own. The lady held out her hand to him with a cordial look of more than forgiveness; it seemed to say that she had much to thank him for. She was the picture of a happy bride, rayonnante de joie et d’amour.
Mr. Crotchet told the Reverend Doctor Folliott the news of the morning. “As you predicted,” he said, “your friend, the learned friend, is in office; he has also a title; he is now Sir Guy de Vaux.”
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. Thank heaven for that! he is disarmed from further mischief. It is something, at any rate, to have that hollow and wind-shaken reed rooted up for ever from the field of public delusion.
Mr. Crotchet. I suppose, Doctor, you do not like to see a great reformer in office; you are afraid for your vested interests.
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. Not I, indeed, sir; my vested interests are very safe from all such reformers as the learned friend. I vaticinate what will be the upshot of all his schemes of reform. He will make a speech of seven hours’ duration, and this will be its quintessence: that, seeing the exceeding difficulty of putting salt on the bird’s tail, it will be expedient to consider the best method of throwing dust in the bird’s eyes. All the rest will be
Τιτιτιτιτιμπρο.
Ποποποί, ποποποί
Τιοτιοτιοτιοτιοτίγξ.
Κικκαβαῦ, κικκαβαῦ.
Τοροτοροτοροτορολιλιλίγξ,
as Aristophanes has it; and so I leave him, in Nephelococcygia.
Mr. Mac Quedy came up to the divine as Mr. Crotchet left him, and said: “There is one piece of news which the old gentleman has not told you. The great firm of Catchflat and Company, in
which young Crotchet is a partner, has stopped payment.”
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. Bless me! that accounts for the young gentleman’s melancholy. I thought they would overreach themselves with their own tricks. The day of reckoning, Mr. Mac Quedy, is the point which your paper-money science always leaves out of view.
Mr. Mac Quedy. I do not see, sir, that the failure of Catchflat and Company has anything to do with my science.
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. It has this to do with it, sir, that you would turn the whole nation into a great paper-money shop, and take no thought of the day of reckoning. But the dinner is coming. I think you, who are so fond of paper promises, should dine on the bill of fare.
The harper at the head of the hall struck up an ancient march, and the dishes were brought in, in grand procession.
The boar’s head, garnished with rosemary, with a citron in its mouth, led the van. Then came tureens of plum-porridge; then a series of turkeys, and in the midst of them an enormous sausage, which it required two men to carry. Then came geese and capons, tongues and hams, the ancient glory of the Christmas pie, a gigantic plum pudding, a pyramid of mince pies, and a baron of beef bringing up the rear.
“It is something new under the sun,” said the divine, as he sat down, “to see a great dinner without fish.”
Mr. Chainmail. Fish was for fasts in the twelfth century.
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. Well, sir, I prefer our reformed system of putting fasts and feasts together. Not but here is ample indemnity.
Ale and wine flowed in abundance. The dinner passed off merrily: the old harper playing all the while the oldest music in his repertory. The tables being cleared, he indemnified himself for lost time at the lower end of the hall, in company with the old butler and the other domestics, whose attendance on the banquet had been indispensable.
The scheme of Christmas gambols, which Mr. Chainmail had laid for the evening, was interrupted by a tremendous clamour without.
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. What have we here? Mummers?
Mr. Chainmail. Nay, I know not. I expect none.
“Who is there?” he added, approaching the door of the hall.
“Who is there?” vociferated the divine, with the voice of Stentor.
“Captain Swing,” replied a chorus of discordant voices.
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. Ho, ho! here is a piece of the dark ages we did not bargain for. Here is the Jacquerie. Here is the march of mind with a witness.
Mr. Mac Quedy. Do you not see that you have brought disparates together? the Jacquerie and the march of mind.
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. Not at all, sir. They are the same thing, under different names. Πολλῶν ονομάτων μορφὴ μία. What was Jacquerie in the dark ages is the march of mind in this very enlightened one — very enlightened one.
Mr. Chainmail. The cause is the same in both; poverty in despair.
Mr. Mac Quedy. Very likely; but the effect is extremely disagreeable.
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. It is the natural result, Mr. Mac Quedy, of that system of state seamanship which your science upholds. Putting the crew on short allowance, and doubling the rations of the officers, is the sure way to make a mutiny on board a ship in distress, Mr. Mac Quedy.
Mr. Mac Quedy. Eh! sir, I uphold no such system as that. I shall set you right as to cause and effect. Discontent arises with the increase of information. That is all.
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. I said it was the march of mind. But we have not time for discussing cause and effect now. Let us get rid of the enemy.
And he vociferated at the top of his voice, “What do you want here?” “Arms, arms,” replied a hundred voices, “Give us the arms.”
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. You see, Mr. Chainmail, this is the inconvenience of keeping an armoury not fortified with sand bags, green bags, and old bags of all kinds.
Mr. Mac Quedy. Just give them the old spits and toasting irons, and they will go away quietly.
Mr. Chainmail. My spears and swords! not without my life. These assailants are all aliens to my land and house. My men will fight for me, one and all. This is the fortress of beef and ale.
Mr. Mac Quedy. Eh! sir, when the rabble is up, it is very indiscriminating. You are e’en suffering for the sins of Sir Simon Steeltrap and the like, who have pushed the principle of accumulation a little too far.
Mr. Chainmail. The way to keep the people down is kind and liberal usage.
Mr. Mac Quedy. That is very well (where it can be afforded) in the way of prevention; but in the way of cure the operation must be more drastic. (Taking down a battle-axe.) I would fain have a good blunderbuss charged with slugs.
Mr. Chainmail. When I suspended these arms for ornament, I never dreamed of their being called into use.
Mr. Skionar. Let me address them. I never failed to convince an audience that the best thing they could do was to go away.
Mr. Mac Quedy. Eh! sir, I can bring them to that conclusion in less time than you.
Mr. Crotchet. I have no fancy for fighting. It is a very hard case upon a guest, when the latter end of a feast is the beginning of a fray.
Mr. Mac Quedy. Give them the old iron.
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. Give them the weapons! Pessimo, medius fidius, exemplo. Forbid it the spirit of Frère Jean des Entommeures! No! let us see what the church militant, in the armour of the twelfth century, will do against the march of mind. Follow me who will, and stay who list. Here goes: Pro aris et focis! that is, for tithe pigs and fires to roast them.
He clapped a helmet on his head, seized a long lance, threw open the gates, and tilted out on the rabble, side by side with Mr. Chainmail, followed by the greater portion of the male inmates of the hall, who had armed themselves at random.
The rabble-rout, being unprepared for such a sortie, fled in all directions, over hedge and ditch.
Mr. Trillo stayed in the hall, playing a march on the harp, to inspirit the rest to sally out. The water-loving Mr. Philpot had diluted himself with so much wine as to be quite hors de combat. Mr. Toogood, intending to equip himself in purely defensive armour, contrived to slip a ponderous coat of mail over his shoulders, which pinioned his arms to his sides; and in this condition, like a chicken trussed for roasting, he was thrown down behind a pillar in the first rush of the sortie. Mr. Crotchet seized the occurrence as a pretext for staying with him, and passed the whole time of the action in picking him out of his shell.
“Phew!” said the divine, returning; “an inglorious victory; but it deserves a devil and a bowl of punch.”
Mr. Chainmail. A wassail-bowl.
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. No, sir. No more of the twelfth century for me.
Mr. Chainmail. Nay, Doctor. The twelfth century has backed you well. Its manners and habits, its community of kind feelings between master and man, are the true remedy for these ebullitions.
Mr. Toogood. Something like it: improved by my diagram: arts for arms.
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. No wassail-bowl for me. Give me an unsophisticated bowl of punch, which belongs to that blissful middle period, after the Jacquerie was down, and before the march of mind was up. But, see, who is floundering in the water?
Proceeding to the edge of the moat, they fished up Mr. Firedamp, who had missed his way back, and tumbled in. He was drawn out, exclaiming, “that he had taken his last dose of malaria in this world.”
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. Tut, man; dry clothes, a turkey’s leg and rump, well devilled, and a quart of strong punch, will set all to rights.
“Wood embers,” said Mr. Firedamp, when he had been accommodated with a change of clothes, “there is no antidote to malaria like the smoke of wood embers; pine embers.” And he placed himself, with his mouth open, close by the fire.
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. Punch, sir, punch: there is no antidote like punch.
Mr. Chainmail. Well, Doctor, you shall be indulged. But I shall have my wassail-bowl, nevertheless.
An immense bowl of spiced wine, with roasted apples hissing on its s
urface, was borne into the hall by four men, followed by an empty bowl of the same dimensions, with all the materials of arrack punch, for the divine’s especial brewage. He accinged himself to the task with his usual heroism, and having finished it to his entire satisfaction, reminded his host to order in the devil.
The Rev. Dr. Folliott. I think, Mr. Chainmail, we can amuse ourselves very well here all night. The enemy may be still excubant: and we had better not disperse till daylight. I am perfectly satisfied with my quarters. Let the young folk go on with their gambols; let them dance to your old harper’s minstrelsy; and if they please to kiss under the mistletoe, whereof I espy a goodly bunch suspended at the end of the hall, let those who like it not leave it to those who do. Moreover, if among the more sedate portion of the assembly, which, I foresee, will keep me company, there were any to revive the good old custom of singing after supper, so to fill up the intervals of the dances, the steps of night would move more lightly.
Mr. Chainmail. My Susan will set the example, after she has set that of joining in the rustic dance, according to good customs long departed.
After the first dance, in which all classes of the company mingled, the young lady of the mansion took her harp, and following the reverend gentleman’s suggestion, sang a song of the twelfth century.
FLORENCE AND BLANCHFLOR.
Florence and Blanchflor, loveliest maids,
Within a summer grove,
Amid the flower-enamelled shades
Together talked of love.
Complete Works of Thomas Love Peacock Page 75