University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.
JACQUES BESTOWS HIS PATERNAL ADVICE UPON A SCHOOL-GIRL.

JUST a week after the practical lesson given by his
Excellency Governer Fauquier to Sir Asinus, and on
a bright fine morning, the melancholy Jacques issued
from the walls of his Alma Mater, and took his way along
Gloucester street toward the residence of his friend and
rival.

Jacques was dressed with unusual splendor. His coat
was heavy with embroidery—his waistcoat a blooming
flower-plat, upon whose emerald background roses, marigolds,
and lilies flaunted in their satin bravery—and his
scarlet silk stockings were held up by gold-colored garters.
His narrow-edged cocked hat drooped with its
feather over his handsome features, and in his delicately
gloved hand he held a slight cane, which from time to
time he rested on the point of his high-heeled shoes,
bending the lithe twig with irreproachable elegance.

Not far from the residence of the rebel he encountered
and saluted with melancholy courtesy a very lovely
young girl of about fifteen, who was tripping along to
school, a satchel full of books upon her arm, and, covering
her bright locks, a sun-bonnet such as school-girls
wore at that time, and indeed in our own day.

“Good morning, my dear Miss Merryheart,” said

Jacques, removing his glove and holding out his jewelled
hand.

The girl laughed artlessly, and gave him her hand,
saying:

“Good morning, sir; but you have mistaken my
name.”

“Mistaken your name?”

“Yes, sir; it is Martha.”

“And not Merryheart; but you are not responsible.
Merryheart is your real name—not Martha, who was
`cumbered,' you know.”

“But I am `cumbered,' ” replied the girl with a laugh.

“How, my dear madam?” asked the courteous Jacques.

“By my satchel.”

“Ah! let me carry it for you.”

“No, no.”

“Why not?”

“I won't trouble you.”

“No trouble in the world—I shall leave you in a street
or two. Come!”

And he took the satchel, and passing his cane through
the handles, gracefully deposited it behind his shoulders,
as a beggar does his bundle.

The girl laughed heartily; and this seemed to afford
the melancholy lover much satisfaction.

“Do they teach laughing at the Reverend Mrs.
White's?” he asked.

“Laughing, sir?”

“Yes; I thought you had been taking lessons.”

“Oh, sir!”

“Come! no fine-lady airs. I never compliment—we
are too intimate.”

And Jacques shifted his packet to the other shoulder.

“Just go to the ball and laugh in that way,” he said,
“and you'll slay all the hearts in a circle of ten feet.”

The girl repeated the fatal ceremony with more energy
than ever. The street echoed with it.

“I'm going to the ball, sir,” she said; “Bathurst—you
know Bathurst—he says he will go with me.”

“Little innocent!”

“Sir?”

“I was reflecting, my dear little friend,” said the melancholy
Jacques, “upon the superiority of your sex before
they reach the age of womanhood.”

“How, sir?”

“Why, thus. Suppose I had addressed that question
to a fine lady—`Are you going to the ball, madam?'
—what would her reply have been?”

“I don't know,” laughed the girl, pushing back a stray
lock from her forehead.

“I'll tell you,” continued Jacques. “With a negligent
and careless air she would have said, `Really, sir—I do
not know—I have scarcely made up my mind—if I decide
to go—I shall not go, however, I think—if I go, it
will be with Mr. Blank—I have half promised him;'
and so forth. How wearisome! You, on the contrary,
my little friend, clap your hands and cry, `Oh! I am
going! Bathurst says he'll go with me!' Bathurst is a
good boy; is n't he your sweetheart?”

The girl blushed and laughed.

“No, indeed, sir!” she said.

“That is well; choose some elderly admirer, my dear
child—like myself.”

The laughter was louder than ever.

“It would n't do for you to have two,” she said with a
merry glance.

Jacques recoiled.

“Every body knows it!” he murmured ruefully.

“They do so,” replied the merry girl, who caught
these half-uttered words; “but she's a very sweet lady.”

Jacques sighed.

“Are you not tired, sir?” asked the girl.

“No, no! my dear child; but I believe I must return
your little bulrush receptacle, for younder is my journey's
end. Look, Sir Asinus beholds us—see! there at the
window!”

In fact, Sir Asinus was at his open window, inhaling
the bright May morning joyously.

“Sir Asinus? Who is he?” asked the girl, with a puzzled
look.

“The great rebel, who tried to assassinate Doctor Small
and the Governer. Have you not heard of it?”

“Oh no, indeed, sir! Did he?”

“Well, principles are men, they say; and that makes
what I said quite true. Look at him: do n't he resemble
a murderer?”

“I do n't know, sir; I hardly know what one looks
like.”

“Look at his red hair.”

“It is red.”

“And his sharp features.”

“Yes, sir.”

“He has a real assassin's look, my dear little friend;
but he is a great thinker. That is the sort of beau I
recommend you to get instead of Bathurst.”

The girl laughed.

“But Bathurst is a great deal handsomer,” she said;
“then he promised to take me to the ball——”

“While Sir Asinus has not promised.”

“Oh, he would n't think of me. I am very much
obliged to you for carrying my satchel, sir,” added the
young girl, swinging it again on her arm.

“Not at all. See how Sir Asinus is staring at you—
a very ill-bred fellow!”

The young girl raised her head, for they were now
under the window at which sat Sir Asinus; and she
found the eyes of that gentleman fixed upon her in truth
with great pleasure and admiration.

She laughed and blushed, looking down again.

“Good-by, my dear young lady,” said the melancholy
Jacques with a paternal air; “continue on your way, and
present my most respectful regards to Mrs. White and
every body. Learn your lessons, jump the rope, and
never conjugate the verb amo, amas; get a poodle dog,
and hideous china, and prepare yourself for the noble
state of elderly maidenhood: so shall you pass serenely
through this vale of tears, and be for ever great, glorious,
and happy.”

With which friendly counsel the melancholy Jacques
sighed again—possibly from the thought that had he
followed the last piece of advice, his mind had not been
troubled—and so bade his young friend farewell, and
mounted the staircase leading to the chamber of his friend.

As for the young girl, she followed him for a moment
with her eyes, and then laughing merrily continued her
way, swinging her satchel and humming an old ditty.
We shall meet with her again.