Scene IX.—
In the house of one of the Orval Family. Young
and Old Kinsman.
Young Kinsman.
I have been to the castle, but could learn no more
than that Orval had returned, and left it suddenly. I
am off to the camp this evening. Perhaps when you
see him you will oblige me by mentioning to him the
trifling service I have been so fortunate as to have had
it in my power to render him. I make a point of
neglecting no opportunity to help those who can help
me. And I like to show respect for the Head of our
House, and a due concern for the dignity of all its
members.
Old Kinsman.
Humph! But really I have half forgotten what it
was all about.
Young Kinsman.
You remember that shocking scene in the church the
other day—and all that has happened since? Well,
one of those daily scribblers—fellows who live in garrets
pelting princely names with onion peel,—contrived to
get hold of the story—wrote and printed it, after his
own fashion—not omitting our Cousin's name even, in
one of his insolent pamphlets, and
Old Kinsman.
All the world read it.—I remember. The publisher
made a fortune by it. Go on.
Young Kinsman.
I found out the hole where this vermin burrowed.
And sent my valet to cudgel the rascal. The castigation
was a sound one.
Old Kinsman.
Well?
Young Kinsman.
Whereupon my man . . . you will hardly believe
it, . . . sends me a challenge.
Old Kinsman.
Good heavens! You did not accept it?
Young Kinsman.
Of course not. How could I? I should have been
delighted to have had the honour of running any gentleman
through the body to oblige Orval. But a fellow
with no name—except on a title-page—whose father
nobody knows, and whose mother everybody might
have known.—A poor devil who must have pawned
his shirt, if he had one, for the loan of a sword to cross
with mine . . .
Old Kinsman.
Oh certainly—quite impossible—a very presumptuous
fellow. But what did you do?
Young Kinsman.
Put myself to infinite trouble—pray tell Orval—
went to town for no other purpose—saw the minister
—and had my man lodged in gaol the same evening;
where he is safe for life. And what is more, I flatter
myself that I have not only arranged this little private
matter promptly and satisfactorily, but also that it has
enabled me to become a public benefactor. For the
rascal, when he was arrested, had already begun the
publication of twelve volumes of periodical blasphemy
and sedition, which he entitled a Dictionary of the
Sciences (he is one of those confoundedly popular
busybodies who profess to know everything, and who
really know nobody), but which was in fact nothing
less than a series of insidious and venomous attacks
upon Religion and Aristocracy, Church and State, and
everything else that is sacred. I feel that I have
extinguished a volcano. And as for the publisher of
that libel . . Trust me, he will make no more fortunes
out of the affairs of our Family. The man is ruined.
Old Kinsman.
Oh, that is your man, is it? I know him well—his
books, I mean. A dangerous dog. For he writes
wittily, and, it must be confessed, with extreme
beauty of style. This sort of writers is the most
dangerous of all. Wit and elegance should not be
tolerated except in the well-born. Ministers make a
huge mistake in dealing with the press. They prohibit
coarse language, vulgar virulence, sheer downright
stupid abuse: all of which are harmless enough.
And they tolerate refinement, grace, wit, good taste;
which are damnably dangerous. I look upon all these
popular penmen as so many tailors, whose sly purpose
it is to cut out and put together the patchwork of
society after the pattern of their own interests. They
desire, of course, to stitch their frieze so fast to our
velvet, that all may look one and the same piece:
we, on the contrary, to prevent such ignoble contact.
Yet you prohibit the use of blunt bodkin, and coarse
packthread, that make no way at all through such a
piece of work; which needs delicate handling. And
you allow the sharp needle that flits fast, and the fine
silk that goes through. A mistake. Wit is the only
instrument nice enough to carry the social thread safely
from top to bottom, and tack the frieze to the velvet so
tight, that the seam between them is invisible.
Young Kinsman.
Wit or no wit . . if I were the State,
Old Kinsman.
The State would be even more in debt than it is.
But what then?
Young Kinsman.
I would hang all writers, printers, and publishers.
Old Kinsman.
No use. The stream of time is troubled to the
depth, and the mud must come to the surface somehow.
We must try to improve the people by degrees:
for, I doubt we cannot chain it up much longer, and
the cur is by no means fit to go loose. Fideliter
dedicisse . . . .
Young Kinsman.
Improve the people! Well, I saw a peasant broken
on the wheel yesterday for stabbing an abbot—a young
man of one of our best families—who had kindly improved
the condition of the brute's sister.
Old Kinsman.
Humph! You have acted very becomingly. And
I will tell Orval if I see him. Anything more? It is
time for my bath and chocolate.
Young Kinsman.
Thanks. I will not detain you.
Old Kinsman.
Detain me, young gentleman?
Young Kinsman.
Ten thousand pardons. I meant to say I kiss your
hand, Uncle. So delighted you approve. If you
will kindly tell Orval. Thanks. My coach is at the
door. An infinite number of good days to you,
Uncle!
