GATTY'S back was hardly turned when a visitor arrived, and inquired, “Is Mr. Gatty at home?”
“What's your will wi' him?” was the Scottish reply.
“Will you give him this?”
“What est?”
“Are you fond of asking questions?” inquired the man.
“Ay! and fules canna answer them,” retorted Christie.
The little document which the man, in retiring, left with Christie Johnstone purported to come from one Victoria, who seemed, at first sight, disposed to show Charles Gatty civilities. “Victoria—to Charles Gatty, greeting! (salutem).” Christie was much struck with this instance of royal affability; she read no further, but began to think, “Victoree! that's the queen hersel. A letter fra the queen to a painter lad! Picters will rise i' the mairket—it will be an order to paint the bairns. I hae brought him luck; I am real pleased.” And on Gatty's return, canvas in hand, she whipped the document behind her, and said archly, “I hae something for ye, a tecket fra a leddy, ye'll no want siller fra this day.”
“Indeed!”
“Ay! indeed, fra a great leddy; it's vara gude o' me to gie ye it; heh! tak it.”
He did take it, looked stupefied, looked again, sunk into a chair, and glared at it.
“Laddy!” said Christie.
“This is a new step on the downward path,” said the poor painter.
“Is it no an orrder to paint the young prence?” said Christie, faintly.
“No!” almost shrieked the victim. “It's a writ! I owe a lot of money.
“Oh, Chairles!”
“See! I borrowed sixty pounds six months ago of a friend, so now I owe eighty!”
“All right!” giggled the unfriendly visitor at the door, whose departure had been more or less fictitious.
Christie, by an impulse, not justifiable, but natural, drew her oyster-knife out, and this time the man really went away.
“Hairtless mon!” cried she, “could he no do his am dirrty work, and no gar me gie the puir lad th' action, and he likeit me sae weel!” and she began to whimper.
“And love you more now,” said he; “don't you cry, dear, to add to my vexation.”
“Na! I'll no add to your vexation,” and she gulped down her tears.
“Besides, I have pictures painted worth two hundred pounds; this is only for eighty. To be sure you can't sell them for two hundred pence when you want. So I shall go to jail, but they won't keep me long.”
Then he took a turn, and began to fall into the artistic, or true view of matters, which, indeed, was never long absent from him.
“Look here, Christie,” said he, “I am sick of conventional assassins, humbugging models, with dirty beards, that knit their brows, and try to look murder; they never murdered so much as a tom-cat. I always go in for the real thing, and here I shall find it.”
“Dinna gang in there, lad, for ony favor.”
“Then I shall find the accessories of a picture I have in my head—chains with genuine rust and ancient mouldering stones with the stains of time.” His eye brightened at the prospect.
“You among fiefs, and chains, and stanes! Ye'll break my hairt, laddy, ye'll no be easy till you break my hairt.” And this time the tears would not be denied.
“I love you for crying; don't cry;” and he fished from the chaotic drawer a cambric handkerchief, with which he dried her tears as they fell.
It is my firm belief she cried nearly twice as much as she really wanted to; she contrived to make the grief hers, the sympathy his. Suddenly she stopped, and said:
“I'm daft; ye'll accept a lane o' the siller fra me, will ye no?”
“No!” said he. “And where could you find eighty pound?”
“Auchty pund,” cried she, “it's no auchty pund that will ding Christie Johnstone, laddy. I hae boats and nets worth twa auchtys; and I hae forty pund laid by; and I hae seven hundred pund at London, but that I canna meddle. My feyther lent it the king or the queen, I dinna justly mind; she pays me the interest twice the year. Sac ye ken I could na be sae dirty as seek my siller, when she pays me th' interest. To the very day, ye ken. She's just the only one o' a' my debtors that's hoenest, but never heed, ye'll no gang to jail.”
“I'll hold my tongue, and sacrifice my pictures,” thought Charles.
“Cheer up!” said Christie, mistaking the nature of his thoughts, “for it did na come fra Victoree hersel'. It wad smell o' the musk, ye ken. Na, it's just a wheen blackguards at London that makes use o' her name to torment puir folk. Wad she pairsecute a puir lad? No likely.”
She then asked questions, some of which were embarrassing. One thing he could never succeed in making her understand, how, since it was sixty pounds he borrowed, it could be eighty pounds he owed.
Then once more she promised him her protection, bade him be of good cheer, and left him.
At the door she turned, and said: “Chairles, here's an auld wife seeking ye,” and vanished.
These two young people had fallen acquainted at a Newhaven wedding. Christie, belonging to no one, had danced with him all the night, they had walked under the stars to cool themselves, for dancing reels, with heart and soul, is not quadrilling.
Then he had seen his beautiful partner in Edinburgh, and made a sketch of her, which he gave her; and by and by he used to run down to Newhaven, and stroll up and down a certain green lane near the town.
Next, on Sunday evenings, a long walk together, and then it came to visits at his place now and then.
And here. Raphael and Fornarina were inverted, our artist used to work, and Christie tell him stories the while.
And, as her voice curled round his heart, he used to smile and look, and lay inspired touches on his subject.
And she, an artist of the tongue (without knowing herself one), used to make him grave, or gay, or sad, at will, and watch the effect of her art upon his countenance; and a very pretty art it is—theviva vocestory-teller's—and a rare one among the nations of Europe.
Christie had not learned it in a day; when she began, she used to tell them like the other Newhaven people, with a noble impartiality of detail, wearisome to the hearer.
But latterly she had learned to seize the salient parts of a narrative; her voice had compass, and, like all fine speakers, she traveled over a great many notes in speaking; her low tones were gorgeously rich, her upper tones full and sweet; all this, and her beauty, made the hours she gave him very sweet to our poor artist.
He was wont to bask in her music, and tell her in return how he loved her, and how happy they were both to be as soon as he had acquired a name, for a name was wealth, he told her. And although Christie Johnstone did not let him see how much she took all this to heart and believed it, it was as sweet music to her as her own honeysuckle breath to him.
She improved him.
He dropped cigars, and medical students, and similar abominations.
Christie's cool, fresh breath, as she hung over him while painting, suggested to him that smoking might, peradventure, be a sin against nature as well as against cleanliness.
And he improved her; she learned from art to look into nature (the usual process of mind).
She had noticed too little the flickering gold of the leaves at evening, the purple hills, and the shifting stories and glories of the sky; but now, whatever she saw him try to imitate, she learned to examine. She was a woman, and admired sunset, etc., for this boy's sake, and her whole heart expanded with a new sensation that softened her manner to all the world, and brightened her personal rays.
This charming picture of mutual affection had hitherto been admired only by those who figured in it.
But a visitor had now arrived on purpose to inspect it, etc., attracted by report.
A friend had considerately informed Mrs. Gatty, the artist's mother, and she had instantly started from Newcastle.
This was the old lady Christie discovered on the stairs.
Her sudden appearance took her son's breath away.
No human event was less likely than that she should be there, yet there she was.
After the first surprise and affectionate greetings, a misgiving crossed him, “she must know about the writ”—it was impossible; but our minds are so constituted—when we are guilty, we fear that others know what we know. Now Gatty was particularly anxious she should not know about this writ, for he had incurred the debt by acting against her advice.
Last year he commenced a picture in which was Durham Cathedral; his mother bade him stay quietly at home, and paint the cathedral and its banks from a print, “as any other painter would,” observed she.
But this was not the lad's system; he spent five months on the spot, and painted his picture, but he had to borrow sixty pounds to do this; the condition of this loan was, that in six months he should either pay eighty pounds, or finish and hand over a certain half-finished picture.
He did neither; his new subject thrust aside his old one, and he had no money, ergo, his friend, a picture-dealer, who had found artists slippery in money matters, followed him up sharp, as we see.
“There is nothing the matter, I hope, mother. What is it?”
“I'm tired, Charles.” He brought her a seat; she sat down.
“I did not come from Newcastle, at my age, for nothing; you have formed an improper acquaintance.”
“I, who? Is it Jack Adams?”
“Worse than any Jack Adams!”
“Who can that be? Jenkyns, mother, because he does the same things as Jack, and pretends to be religious.”
“It is a female—a fishwife. Oh, my son!”
“Christie Johnstone an improper acquaintance,” said he; “why! I was good for nothing till I knew her; she has made me so good, mother; so steady, so industrious; you will never have to find fault with me again.”
“Nonsense—a woman that sells fish in the streets!”
“But you have not seen her. She is beautiful, her mind is not in fish; her mind grasps the beautiful and the good—she is a companion for princes! What am I that she wastes a thought or a ray of music on me? Heaven bless her. She reads our best authors, and never forgets a word; and she tells me beautiful stories—sometimes they make me cry, for her voice is a music that goes straight to my heart.”
“A woman that does not even wear the clothes of a lady.”
“It is the only genuine costume in these islands not beneath a painter's notice.”
“Look at me, Charles; at your mother.”
“Yes, mother,” said he, nervously.
“You must part with her, or kill me.”
He started from his seat and began to flutter up and down the room; poor excitable creature. “Part with her!” cried he; “I shall never be a painter if I do; what is to keep my heart warm when the sun is hid, when the birds are silent, when difficulty looks a mountain and success a molehill? What is an artist without love? How is he to bear up against his disappointments from within, his mortification from without? the great ideas he has and cannot grasp, and all the forms of ignorance that sting him, from stupid insensibility down to clever, shallow criticism?”
“Come back to common sense,” said the old lady, coldly and grimly.
He looked uneasy. Common sense had often been quoted against him, and common sense had always proved right.
“Come back to common sense. She shall not be your mistress, and she cannot bear your name; you must part some day, because you cannot come together, and now is the best time.”
“Not be together? all our lives, all our lives, ay,” cried he, rising into enthusiasm, “hundreds of years to come will we two be together before men's eyes—I will be an immortal painter, that the world and time may cherish the features I have loved. I love her, mother,” added he, with a tearful tenderness that ought to have reached a woman's heart; then flushing, trembling, and inspired, he burst out, “And I wish I was a sculptor and a poet too, that Christie might live in stone and verse, as well as colors, and all who love an art might say, 'This woman cannot die, Charles Gatty loved her.'”
He looked in her face; he could not believe any creature could be insensible to his love, and persist to rob him of it.
The old woman paused, to let his eloquence evaporate.
The pause chilled him; then gently and slowly, but emphatically, she spoke to him thus:
“Who has kept you on her small means ever since you were ten years and seven months old?”
“You should know, mother, dear mother.”
“Answer me, Charles.”
“My mother.”
“Who has pinched herself, in every earthly thing, to make you an immortal painter, and, above all, a gentleman?”
“My mother.”
“Who forgave you the little faults of youth, before you could ask pardon?”
“My mother! Oh, mother, I ask pardon now for all the trouble I ever gave the best, the dearest, the tenderest of mothers.”
“Who will go home to Newcastle, a broken-hearted woman, with the one hope gone that has kept her up in poverty and sorrow so many weary years, if this goes on?”
“Nobody, I hope.”
“Yes, Charles; your mother.”
“Oh, mother; you have been always my best friend.”
“And am this day.”
“Do not be my worst enemy now. It is for me to obey you; but it is for you to think well before you drive me to despair.”
And the poor womanish heart leaned his head on the table, and began to sorrow over his hard fate.
Mrs. Gatty soothed him. “It need not be done all in a moment. It must be done kindly, but firmly. I will give you as much time as you like.”
This bait took; the weak love to temporize.
It is doubtful whether he honestly intended to part with Christie Johnstone; but to pacify his mother he promised to begin and gradually untie the knot.
“My mother will go,” whispered his deceitful heart, “and, when she is away, perhaps I shall find out that in spite of every effort I cannot resign my treasure.”
He gave a sort of half-promise for the sake of peace.
His mother instantly sent to the inn for her boxes.
“There is a room in this same house,” said she, “I will take it; I will not hurry you, but until it is done, I stay here, if it is a twelvemonth about.”
He turned pale.
“And now hear the good news I have brought you from Newcastle.”
Oh! these little iron wills, how is a great artist to fight three hundred and sixty-five days against such an antagonist?
Every day saw a repetition of these dialogues, in which genius made gallant bursts into the air, and strong, hard sense caught him on his descent, and dabbed glue on his gauzy wings.
Old age and youth see life so differently. To youth, it is a story-book, in which we are to command the incidents, and be the bright exceptions to one rule after another.
To age it is an almanac, in which everything will happen just as it has happened so many times.
To youth, it is a path through a sunny meadow.
To age, a hard turnpike:
Whose travelers must be all sweat and dust, when they are not in mud and drenched:
Which wants mending in many places, and is mended with sharp stones.
Gatty would not yield to go down to Newhaven and take a step against his love, but he yielded so far as to remain passive, and see whether this creature was necessary to his existence or not. Mrs. G. scouted the idea. “He was to work, and he would soon forget her.” Poor boy! he wanted to work; his debt weighed on him; a week's resolute labor might finish his first picture and satisfy his creditor. The subject was an interior. He set to work, he stuck to work, he glued to work, his body—but his heart?
Ah, my poor fellow, a much slower horse than Gatty will go by you, ridden as you are by a leaden heart.
Tu nihil invita facies pingesve Minerva.
It would not lower a mechanical dog's efforts, but it must yours.
He was unhappy. He heard only one side for days; that side was recommended by his duty, filial affection, and diffidence of his own good sense.
He was brought to see his proceedings were eccentric, and that it is destruction to be eccentric.
He was made a little ashamed of what he had been proud of.
He was confused and perplexed; he hardly knew what to think or do; he collapsed, and all his spirit was fast leaving him, and then he felt inclined to lean on the first thing he could find, and nothing came to hand but his mother.
Meantime, Christie Johnstone was also thinking of him, but her single anxiety was to find this eighty pounds for him.
It is a Newhaven idea that the female is the natural protector of the male, and this idea was strengthened in her case.
She did not fully comprehend his character and temperament, but she saw, by instinct, that she was to be the protector. Besides, as she was twenty-one, and he only twenty-two, she felt the difference between herself, a woman, and him, a boy, and to leave him to struggle unaided out of his difficulties seemed to her heartless.
Twice she opened her lips to engage the charitable “vile count” in his cause, but shame closed them again; this would be asking a personal favor, and one on so large a scale.
Several days passed thus; she had determined not to visit him without good news.
She then began to be surprised, she heard nothing from him.
And now she felt something that prevented her calling on him.
But Jean Carnie was to be married, and the next day the wedding party were to spend in festivity upon the island of Inch Coombe.
She bade Jean call on him, and, without mentioning her, invite him to this party, from which, he must know, she would not be absent.
Jean Carnie entered his apartment, and at her entrance his mother, who took for granted this was his sweetheart, whispered in his ear that he should now take the first step, and left him.
What passed between Jean Carnie and Charles Gatty is for another chapter.
A YOUNG viscount with income and person cannot lieperduthree miles from Edinburgh.
First one discovers him, then another, then twenty, then all the world, as the whole clique is modestly called.
Before, however, Lord Ipsden was caught, he had acquired a browner tint, a more elastic step, and a stouter heart.
The Aberford prescription had done wonders for him.
He caught himself passing one whole day without thinking of Lady Barbara Sinclair.
But even Aberford had misled him; there were no adventures to be found in the Firth of Forth; most of the days there was no wind to speak of; twice it blew great guns, and the men were surprised at his lordship going out, but nobody was in any danger except himself; the fishermen had all slipped into port before matters were serious.
He found the merchantmen that could sail creeping on with three reefs in their mainsail; and the Dutchmen lying to and breasting it, like ducks in a pond, and with no more chance of harm.
On one of these occasions he did observe a little steam-tug, going about a knot an hour, and rolling like a washing-tub. He ran down to her, and asked if he could assist her; she answered, through the medium of a sooty animal at her helm, that she was (like our universities) “satisfied with her own progress”; she added, being under intoxication, “that, if any danger existed, her scheme was to drown it in the bo-o-owl;” and two days afterward he saw her puffing and panting, and fiercely dragging a gigantic three-decker out into deep water, like an industrious flea pulling his phaeton.
And now it is my office to relate how Mr. Flucker Johnstone comported himself on one occasion.
As the yacht worked alongside Granton Pier, before running out, the said Flucker calmly and scientifically drew his lordship's attention to three points:
The direction of the wind—the force of the wind—and his opinion, as a person experienced in the Firth, that it was going to be worse instead of better; in reply, he received an order to step forward to his place in the cutter—the immediate vicinity of the jib-boom. On this, Mr. Flucker instantly burst into tears.
His lordship, or, as Flucker called him ever since the yacht came down, “the skipper,” deeming that the higher appellation, inquired, with some surprise, what was the matter with the boy.
One of the crew, who, by the by, squinted, suggested, “It was a slight illustration of the passion of fear.”
Flucker confirmed the theory by gulping out: “We'll never see Newhaven again.”
On this the skipper smiled, and ordered him ashore, somewhat peremptorily.
Straightway he began to howl, and, saying, “It was better to be drowned than be the laughing-stock of the place,” went forward to his place; on his safe return to port, this young gentleman was very severe on open boats, which, he said “bred womanish notions in hearts naturally dauntless. Give me a lid to the pot,” added he, “and I'll sail with Old Nick, let the wind blow high or low.”
The Aberford was wrong when he called love a cutaneous disorder.
There are cutaneous disorders that take that name, but they are no more love than verse is poetry;
Than patriotism is love of country;
Than theology is religion;
Than science is philosophy;
Than paintings are pictures;
Than reciting on the boards is acting;
Than physic is medicine
Than bread is bread, or gold gold—in shops.
Love is a state of being; the beloved object is our center; and our thoughts, affections, schemes and selves move but round it.
We may diverge hither or thither, but the golden thread still holds us.
Is fair or dark beauty the fairest? The world cannot decide; but love shall decide in a moment.
A halo surrounds her we love, and makes beautiful to us her movements, her looks, her virtues, her faults, her nonsense, her affectation and herself; and that's love, doctor!
Lord Ipsden was capable of loving like this; but, to do Lady Barbara justice, she had done much to freeze the germ of noble passion; she had not killed, but she had benumbed it.
“Saunders,” said Lord Ipsden, one morning after breakfast, “have you entered everything in your diary?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“All these good people's misfortunes?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Do you think you have spelled their names right?”
“Where it was impossible, my lord, I substituted an English appellation, hidentical in meaning.”
“Have you entered and described my first interview with Christie Johnstone, and somebody something?”
“Most minutely, my lord.”
“How I turned Mr. Burke into poetry—how she listened with her eyes all glistening—how they made me talk—how she dropped a tear, he! he! he! at the death of the first baron—how shocked she was at the king striking him when he was dying, to make a knight-banneret of the poor old fellow?”
“Your lordship will find all the particulars exactly related,” said Saunders, with dry pomp.
“How she found out that titles are but breath—how I answered—some nonsense?”
“Your lordship will find all the topics included.”
“How she took me for a madman? And you for a prig?”
“The latter circumstance eluded my memory, my lord.”
“But when I told her I must relieve only one poor person by day, she took my hand.”
“Your lordship will find all the items realized in this book, my lord.”
“What a beautiful book!”
“Alba are considerably ameliorated, my lord.”
“Alba?”
“Plural of album, my lord,” explained the refined factotum, “more delicate, I conceive, than the vulgar reading.”
Viscount Ipsden read from
“MR. SAUNDERS'S ALBUM.
“To illustrate the inelegance of the inferior classes, two juvenile venders of the piscatory tribe were this day ushered in, and instantaneously, without the accustomed preliminaries, plunged into a familiar conversation with Lord Viscount Ipsden.
“Their vulgarity, shocking and repulsive to myself, appeared to afford his lordship a satisfaction greater than he derives from the graceful amenities of fashionable association—”
“Saunders, I suspect you of something.”
“Me, my lord!”
“Yes. Writing in an annual.”
“I do, my lord,” said he, with benignanthauteur.“It appears every month—The Polytechnic.”
“I thought so! you are polysyllabic, Saunders;en route!”
“In this hallucination I find it difficult to participate; associated from infancy with the aristocracy, I shrink, like the sensitive plant, from contact with anything vulgar.”
“I see! I begin to understand you, Saunders. Order the dog-cart, and Wordsworth's mare for leader; we'll give her a trial. You are an ass, Saunders.”
“Yes, my lord; I will order Robert to tell James to come for your lordship's commands about your lordship's vehicles. (What could he intend by a recent observation of a discourteous character?)”
His lordship soliloquized.
“I never observed it before, but Saunders is an ass! La Johnstone is one of Nature's duchesses, and she has made me know some poor people that will be richer than the rich one day; and she has taught me that honey is to be got from bank-notes—by merely giving them away.”
Among the objects of charity Lord Ipsden discovered was one Thomas Harvey, a maker and player of the violin. This man was a person of great intellect; he mastered every subject he attacked. By a careful examination of all the points that various fine-toned instruments had in common, he had arrived at a theory of sound; he made violins to correspond, and was remarkably successful in insuring that which had been too hastily ascribed to accident—a fine tone.
This man, who was in needy circumstances, demonstrated to his lordship that ten pounds would make his fortune; because with ten pounds he could set up a shop, instead of working out of the world's sight in a room.
Lord Ipsden gave him ten pounds!
A week after, he met Harvey, more ragged and dirty than before.
Harvey had been robbed by a friend whom he had assisted. Poor Harvey! Lord Ipsden gave him ten pounds more!
Next week, Saunders, entering Harvey's house, found him in bed at noon, because he had no clothes to wear.
Saunders suggested that it would be better to give his wife the next money, with strict orders to apply it usefully.
This was done!
The next day, Harvey, finding his clothes upon a chair, his tools redeemed from pawn, and a beefsteak ready for his dinner, accused his wife of having money, and meanly refusing him the benefit of it. She acknowledged she had a little, and appealed to the improved state of things as a proof that she knew better than he the use of money. He demanded the said money. She refused—he leathered her—she put him in prison.
This was the best place for him. The man was a drunkard, and all the riches of Egypt would never have made him better off.
And here, gentlemen of the lower classes, a word with you. How can you, with your small incomes, hope to be well off, if you are more extravagant than those who have large ones?
“Us extravagant?” you reply.
Yes! your income is ten shillings a week; out of that you spend three shillings in drink; ay! you, the sober ones. You can't afford it, my boys. Find me a man whose income is a thousand a year; well, if he imitates you, and spends three hundred upon sensuality, I bet you the odd seven hundred he does not make both ends meet; the proportion is too great. Andtwo-thirds of the distress of the lower orders is owing to this—that they are more madly prodigal than the rich; in the worst, lowest and most dangerous item of all human prodigality!
Lord Ipsden went to see Mrs. Harvey; it cost him much to go; she lived in the Old Town, and he hated disagreeable smells; he also knew from Saunders that she had two black eyes, and he hated women with black eyes of that sort. But this good creature did go; did relieve Mrs. Harvey; and, bare-headed, suffered himself to be bedewed ten minutes by her tearful twaddle.
For once Virtue was rewarded. Returning over the North Bridge, he met somebody whom but for his charity he would not have met.
He came in one bright moment plump upon—Lady Barbara Sinclair. She flushed, he trembled, and in two minutes he had forgotten every human event that had passed since he was by her side.
She seemed pleased to see him, too; she ignored entirely his obnoxious proposal; he wisely took her cue, and so, on this secret understanding, they were friends. He made his arrangements, and dined with her family. It was a family party. In the evening Lady Barbara allowed it to transpire that she had made inquiries about him.
(He was highly flattered.) And she had discovered he was lying hid somewhere in the neighborhood.
“Studying the guitar?” inquired she.
“No,” said he, “studying a new class of the community. Do you know any of what they call the 'lower classes'?”
“Yes.”
“Monstrous agreeable people, are they not?”
“No, very stupid! I only know two old women—except the servants, who have no characters. They imitate us, I suspect, which does not say much for their taste.”
“But some of my friends are young women; that makes all the difference.”
“It does! and you ought to be ashamed. If you want a low order of mind, why desert our own circle?”
“My friends are only low in station; they have rather lofty minds, some of them.”
“Well, amuse yourself with these lofty minds. Amusement is the end of being, you know, and the aim of all the men of this day.”
“We imitate the ladies,” said he, slyly.
“You do,” answered she, very dryly; and so the dialogue went on, and Lord Ipsden found the pleasure of being with his cousin compensate him fully for the difference of their opinions; in fact, he found it simply amusing that so keen a wit as his cousins s could be entrapped into the humor of decrying the time one happens to live in, and admiring any epoch one knows next to nothing about, and entrapped by the notion of its originality, above all things; the idea being the stale commonplace of asses in every age, and the manner of conveying the idea being a mere imitation of the German writers, not the good ones,bien entendu,but the quill-drivers, the snobs of the Teutonic pen.
But he was to learn that follies are not always laughable, thateadem sentireis a bond, and that, when a clever and pretty woman chooses to be a fool, her lover, if he is wise, will be a greater—if he can.
The next time they met, Lord Ipsden found Lady Barbara occupied with a gentleman whose first sentence proclaimed him a pupil of Mr. Thomas Carlyle, and he had the mortification to find that she had neither an ear nor an eye for him.
Human opinion has so many shades that it is rare to find two people agree.
But two people may agree wonderfully, if they will but let a third think for them both.
Thus it was that these two ran so smoothly in couples.
Antiquity, they agreed, was the time when the world was old, its hair gray, its head wise. Every one that said, “Lord, Lord!” two hundred years ago was a Christian. There were no earnest men now; Williams, the missionary, who lived and died for the Gospel, was not earnest in religion; but Cromwell, who packed a jury, and so murdered his prisoner—Cromwell, in whose mouth was heaven, and in his heart temporal sovereignty—was the pattern of earnest religion, or, at all events, second in sincerity to Mahomet alone, in the absence of details respecting Satan, of whom we know only that his mouth is a Scripture concordance, and his hands the hands of Mr. Carlyle's saints.
Then they went back a century or two, and were eloquent about the great antique heart, and the beauty of an age whose samples were Abbot Sampson and Joan of Arc.
Lord Ipsden hated argument; but jealousy is a brass spur, it made even this man fluent for once.
He suggested “that five hundred years added to a world's life made it just five hundred years older, not younger—and if older, grayer—and if grayer, wiser.
“Of Abbot Sampson,” said he, “whom I confess both a great and a good man, his author, who with all his talent belongs to the class muddle-head, tells us that when he had been two years in authority his red hair had turned gray, fighting against the spirit of his age; how the deuce, then, could he be a sample of the spirit of his age?
“Joan of Arc was burned by acclamation of her age, and is admired by our age. Which fact identifies an age most with a heroine, to give her your heart, or to give her a blazing fagot and death?”
“Abbot Sampson and Joan of Arc,” concluded he, “prove no more in favor of their age, and no less against it, than Lot does for or against Sodom. Lot was in Sodom, but not of it; and so were Sampson and Joan in, but not of, the villainous times they lived in.
“The very best text-book of true religion is the New Testament, and I gather from it, that the man who forgives his enemies while their ax descends on his head, however poor a creature he may be in other respects, is a better Christian than the man who has the God of Mercy forever on his lips, and whose hands are swift to shed blood.
“The earnest men of former ages are not extinct in this,” added he. “Whenever a scaffold is erected outside a prison-door, if you are earnest in pursuit of truth, and can put up with disgusting objects, you shall see a relic of ancient manners hanged.
“There still exist, in parts of America, rivers on whose banks are earnest men who shall take your scalp, the wife's of your bosom, and the innocent child's of her bosom.
“In England we are as earnest as ever in pursuit of heaven, and of innocent worldly advantages. If, when the consideration of life and death interposes, we appear less earnest in pursuit of comparative trifles such as kingdoms or dogmas, it is because cooler in action we are more earnest in thought—because reason, experience, and conscience are things that check the unscrupulousness or beastly earnestness of man.
“Moreover, he who has the sense to see that questions have three sides is no longer so intellectually as well as morally degraded as to be able to cut every throat that utters an opinion contrary to his own.
“If the phrase 'earnest man' means man imitating the beasts that are deaf to reason, it is to be hoped that civilization and Christianity will really extinguish the whole race for the benefit of the earth.”
Lord Ipsden succeeded in annoying the fair theorist, but not in convincing her.
The mediaeval enthusiasts looked on him as some rough animal that had burst into sacred grounds unconsciously, and gradually edged away from him.
LORD IPSDEN had soon the mortification of discovering that this Mr. —— was a constant visitor at the house; and, although his cousin gave him her ear in this man's absence, on the arrival of her fellow-enthusiast he had ever the mortification of finding himselfde trop.
Once or twice he demolished this personage in argument, and was rewarded by finding himself morede trop.
But one day Lady Barbara, being in a cousinly humor, expressed a wish to sail in his lordship's yacht, and this hint soon led to a party being organized, and a sort of picnic on the island of Inch Coombe; his lordship's cutter being the mode of conveyance to and from that spot.
Now it happened on that very day Jean Carnie's marriage was celebrated on that very island by her relations and friends.
So that we shall introduce our readers to
THE RIVAL PICNICS.
We begin withLes gens comme il faut.
PICNIC NO. 1.
The servants were employed in putting away dishes into hampers.
There was a calm silence. “Hem!” observed Sir Henry Talbot.
“Eh?” replied the Honorable Tom Hitherington.
“Mamma,” said Miss Vere, “have you brought any work?”
“No, my dear.”
“At a picnic,” said Mr. Hitherington, “isn't it the thing for somebody—aw—to do something?”
“Ipsden,” said Lady Barbara, “there is an understandingbetweenyou and Mr. Hitherington. I condemn you to turn him into English.”
“Yes, Lady Barbara; I'll tell you, he means—-do you mean anything, Tom?”
Hitherington.“Can't anybody guess what I mean?”
Lady Barbara.“Guess first yourself, you can't be suspected of being in the secret.”
Hither.“What I mean is, that people sing a song, or run races, or preach a sermon, or do something funny at a picnic—aw—somebody gets up and does something.”
Lady Bar.“Then perhaps Miss Vere, whose singing is famous, will have the complaisance to sing to us.”
Miss Vere.“I should be happy, Lady Barbara, but I have not brought my music.”
Lady Bar.“Oh, we are not critical; the simplest air, or even a fragment of melody; the sea and the sky will be a better accompaniment than Broadwood ever made.”
Miss V.“I can't sing a note without book.”
Sir H. Talbot.“Your music is in your soul—not at your fingers' ends.”
Lord Ipsden, to Lady Bar.“It is in her book, and not in her soul.”
Lady Bar., to Lord Ips.“Then it has chosen the better situation of the two.”
Ips.“Miss Vere is to the fine art of music what the engrossers are to the black art of law; it all filters through them without leaving any sediment; and so the music of the day passes through Miss Vere's mind, but none remains—to stain its virgin snow.”
He bows, she smiles.
Lady Bar., to herself.“Insolent. And the little dunce thinks he is complimenting her.”
Ips.“Perhaps Talbot will come to our rescue—he is a fiddler.”
Tal.“An amateur of the violin.”
Ips.“It is all the same thing.”
Lady Bar.“I wish it may prove so.”
[Note: original has music notation here]
Miss V.“Beautiful.”
Mrs. Vere.“Charming.”
Hither.“Superb!”
Ips.“You are aware that good music is a thing to be wedded to immortal verse, shall I recite a bit of poetry to match Talbot's strain?”
Miss V.“Oh, yes! how nice.”
Ips. (rhetorically).“A. B. C. D. E. F. G. H. I. J. K. L. M. N. O. P. Q. R. S. T. U. V. W. X. Y. Z. Y. X. W. V. U. T. S. O. N. M. L. K. J. I. H. G. F. A. M. little p. little t.”
Lady Bar.“Beautiful! Superb! Ipsden has been taking lessons on the thinking instrument.”
Hither.“He has beenperduamong vulgar people.”
Tal.“And expects a pupil of Herz to play him tunes!”
Lady Bar.“What are tunes, Sir Henry?”
Tal.“Something I don't play, Lady Barbara.”
Lady Bar.“I understand you; something we ought to like.”
Ips.“I have a Stradivarius violin at home. It is yours, Talbot, if you can define a tune.”
Tal.“A tune is—everybody knows what.”
Lady Bar.“A tune is a tune, that is what you meant to say.”
Tal.“Of course it is.”
Lady Bar.“Be reasonable, Ipsden; no man can do two things at once; how can the pupil of Herz condemn a thing and know what it means contemporaneously?”
Ips.“Is the drinking-song in 'Der Freischutz' a tune?”
Lady Bar.“It is.”
Ips.“And the melodies of Handel, are they tunes?”
Lady Bar. (pathetically).“They are! They are!”
Ips.“And the 'Russian Anthem,' and the 'Marseillaise,' and 'Ah, Perdona'?”
Tal.“And 'Yankee Doodle'?”
Lady Bar.“So that Sir Henry, who prided himself on his ignorance, has a wide field for its dominion.”
Tal.“All good violin players do like me; they prelude, not play tunes.”
Ips.“Then Heaven be thanked for our blind fiddlers. You like syllables of sound in unmeaning rotation, and you despise its words, its purposes, its narrative feats; carry out your principle, it will show you where you are. Buy a dirty palette for a picture, and dream the alphabet is a poem.”
Lady Bar., to herself.“Is this my cousin Richard?”
Hither.“Mind, Ipsden, you are a man of property, and there are such things as commissionsde lunatico.”
Lady Bar.“His defense will be that his friends pronounced him insane.”
Ips.“No; I shall subpoena Talbot's fiddle, cross-examination will get nothing out of that but, do, re, mi, fa.”
Lady Bar.“Yes, it will; fa, mi, re, do.”
Tal.“Violin, if you please.”
Lady Bar.“Ask Fiddle's pardon, directly.”
Sound of fiddles is heard in the distance.
Tal.“How lucky for you, there are fiddles and tunes, and the natives you are said to favor, why not join them?”
Ips. (shaking his head solemnly).“I dread to encounter another prelude.”
Hither.“Come, I know you would like it; it is a wedding-party—two sea monsters have been united. The sailors and fishermen are all blue cloth and wash-leather gloves.”
Miss V.“He! he!”
Tal.“The fishwives unite the colors of the rainbow—”
Lady Bar.“(And we all know how hideous they are)—to vulgar, blooming cheeks, staring white teeth, and sky-blue eyes.”
Mrs. V.“How satirical you are, especially you, Lady Barbara.”
Here Lord Ipsden, after a word to Lady Barbara, the answer to which did not appear to be favorable, rose, gave a little yawn, looked steadily at his companions without seeing them, and departed without seeming aware that he was leaving anybody behind him.
Hither.“Let us go somewhere where we can quiz the natives without being too near them.”
Lady Bar.“I am tired of this unbroken solitude, I must go and think to the sea,” added she, in a mock soliloquy; and out she glided with the same unconscious air as his lordship had worn.
The others moved off slowly together.
“Mamma,” said Miss Vere, “I can't understand half Barbara Sinclair says.”
“It is not necessary, my love,” replied mamma; “she is rather eccentric, and I fear she is spoiling Lord Ipsden.”
“Poor Lord Ipsden,” murmured the lovely Vere, “he used to be so nice, and do like everybody else. Mamma, I shall bring some work the next time.”
“Do, my love.”
PICNIC NO. 2.
In a house, two hundred yards from this scene, a merry dance, succeeding a merry song, had ended, and they were in the midst of an interesting story; Christie Johnstone was the narrator. She had found the tale in one of the viscount's books—it had made a great impression on her.
The rest were listening intently. In a room which had lately been all noise, not a sound was now to be heard but the narrator's voice.
“Aweel, lasses, here are the three wee kists set, the lads are to chuse—the ane that chuses reicht is to get Porsha, an' the lave to get the bag, and dee baitchelars—Flucker Johnstone, you that's sae clever—are ye for gowd, or siller, or leed?”
1st Fishwife.“Gowd for me!”
2d ditto.“The white siller's my taste.”
Flucker.“Na! there's aye some deevelish trick in thir lassie's stories. I shall ha to, till the ither lads hae chused; the mair part will put themsels oot, ane will hit it off reicht maybe, then I shall gie him a hidin' an' carry off the lass. You-hoo!”
Jean Carnie.“That's you, Flucker.”
Christie Johnstone.“And div ye really think we are gawn to let you see a' the world chuse? Na, lad, ye are putten oot o' the room, like witnesses.”
Flucker.“Then I'd toss a penny; for gien ye trust to luck, she whiles favors ye, but gien ye commence to reason and argefy—ye're done!”
Christie.“The suitors had na your wit, my manny, or maybe they had na a penny to toss, sae ane chused the gowd, ane the siller; but they got an awfu' affront. The gold kist had just a skull intil't, and the siller a deed cuddy's head!”
Chorus of Females.“He! he! he!”
Ditto of Males.“Haw! haw! haw! haw! Ho!”
Christie.“An' Porsha puttit the pair of gowks to the door. Then came Bassanio, the lad fra Veeneece, that Porsha loed in secret. Veeneece, lasses, is a wonderful city; the streets o' 't are water, and the carriages are boats—that's in Chambers'.”
Flucker.“Wha are ye making a fool o'?”
Christie.“What's wrang?”
Flucker.“Yon's just as big a lee as ever I heerd.”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth ere he had reason to regret them; a severe box on the ear was administered by his indignant sister. Nobody pitied him.
Christie.“I'll laern yet' affront me before a' the company.”
Jean Carnie.“Suppose it's a lee, there's nae silver to pay for it, Flucker.”
Christie.“Jean, I never telt a lee in a' my days.”
Jean.“There's ane to begin wi' then. Go ahead, Custy.”
Christie.“She bade the music play for him, for music brightens thoucht; ony way, he chose the leed kist. Open'st and wasn't there Porsha's pictur, and a posy, that said:
'If you be well pleased with this, And hold your fortune for your bliss; Turn you where your leddy iss, And greet her wi' a loving—'”(Pause).
“Kess,” roared the company.
Chorus, led by Flucker.“Hurraih!”
Christie (pathetically).“Flucker, behave!”
Sandy Liston (drunk).“Hur-raih!” He then solemnly reflected. “Na! but it's na hurraih, decency requires amen first an' hurraih afterward; here's kissin plenty, but I hear nae word o' the minister. Ye'll obsairve, young woman, that kissin's the prologue to sin, and I'm a decent mon, an' a gray-headed mon, an' your licht stories are no for me; sae if the minister's no expeckit I shall retire—an' tak my quiet gill my lane.”
Jean Carnie.“And div ye really think a decent cummer like Custy wad let the lad and lass misbehave thirsels? Na! lad, the minister's at the door, but” (sinking her voice to a confidential whisper) “I daurna let him in, for fear he'd see ye hae putten the enemy in your mooth sae aerly. (That's Custy's word.)”
“Jemmy Drysel,” replied Sandy, addressing vacancy, for Jemmy was mysteriously at work in the kitchen, “ye hae gotten a thoughtfu' wife.” (Then, with a strong revulsion of feeling.) “Dinna let the blackguard* in here,” cried he, “to spoil the young folk's sporrt.”