University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.
DISGRACEFUL CONDUCT OF SIR ASINUS.

MOWBRAY was an early riser; and the morning
had not long looked upon the fresh fields, when he
was on his way to Williamsburg. With a hopeful
spirit, which banished peremptorily all those gloomy
thoughts which were accustomed to harass him, he
pressed on to commence his day of toil at the college.

As he entered Williamsburg, he came very near
being overturned by a gentleman who was leaving that
metropolitan city, at full gallop.

“Hey!” cried this gentleman, reining up; “why, good
day, Mowbray!”

And Sir Asinus made a bow of grotesque respect.

“Whither away, my dear fellow—to that den of iniquity,
the grammar school, eh?”

“Yes,” said Mowbray, smiling; “and you?”

“I go to other fields and pastures new—to those Hesperian
gardens famed of old, and so forth. Come with
me!”

“No, thank you. I suppose you are going to see a
lady?”

“Precisely; and now do you still refuse?”

“Yes.”

“You are an ungallant book-worm, a misogynist—
and that is the next thing to a conspirator. Leave your
books, and come and taste of sylvan joys.”

“Where are you going?”

“To see Dulcinea.”

“Who is she?”

“Her other name is Amaryllis.”

“Well, sing to her,” said Mowbray; “for my part, I
am going to visit Plato, Justinian, Blackstone, whose
lectures are better than Virgil's heroics, and Coke, who
is more learned, if not more agreeable, than any Hesperians.
Farewell.”

And Mowbray saluted Sir Asinus with a smile, and
rode on. The knight returned his salute, and continued
his way in the opposite direction.

Now, as our history concerns itself rather with Amaryllis
than Plato or Coke, we shall permit Mowbray to
go on, and retracing our steps, follow Sir Asinus to his
destination.

Sir Asinus on this morning is magnificent, and finds
the air very pleasant after his long imprisonment. He
inhales it joyously, and in thought, nay, often in words,
invokes confusion on the heads of proctors. He is in
full enjoyment of those three great rights for which he
has sacrificed so much—namely, life, liberty, and the
pursuit of happiness.

He is joyous, for he has stolen a march upon the
watchful guardians of the college; he revels in the sentiment
of freedom; and believes himself in pursuit of
that will o' the wisp called happiness.

He sings, as he goes onward on his hard-trotting
courser, the words of that song which we have heard him
sing before:

and is not mortified when a donkey in the neighboring
meadow brays responsively.

He bends his steps toward Shadynook, where he arrives
as the matutinal meal is smoking on the board;
and this Sir Asinus partakes of with noble simplicity.
One would have imagined himself in presence of Socrates
dining upon herbs, instead of Sir Asinus comforting
his inner man with ham and muffins.

After breakfast, Aunt Wimple, that excellent old lady
whose life was completely filled by a round of domestic
duties, banished her visitor to the sitting-room. To
make his exile more tolerable, however, she gave him
Belle-bouche for a companion.

Belle-bouche had never looked more beautiful, and
the tender simplicity of her languishing eyes almost
made the poetical Sir Asinus imagine himself in love.
He found himself endeavoring to recollect whether he
had not been induced to pay this visit by the expectation
of beholding her; but with that rigid truth which ever
characterized the operations of his great intellect, was
compelled to come to the conclusion that the motive
causes of his visit were the hope of a good breakfast,
and a morning lounge in country quarters, unalarmed
by the apprehension of invading deans and proctors.

In a word, our friend Sir Asinus had coveted a cool
morning at pleasant Shadynook, in company with Belle-bouche
or a novel; and this had spurred him to such
extraordinary haste, not to mention the early rising.

“Ah!” said Belle-bouche, as she sat down upon a sofa
in the cool pleasant apartment, whose open windows
permitted the odors of a thousand flowers to weigh the

air down with their fragrance, “what a lovely morning!
It is almost wrong to remain in the house.”

“Let us go forth then, my dear Madam Belle-bouche,”
said Sir Asinus.

“I see you retain that funny name for me,” said the
young girl with a smile.

“Yes: it is beautiful, as all about Shadynook is—the
garden most of all—yourself excepted of course, madam.”

“It was very adroitly done, that turn of the sentence,”
Belle-bouche replied, smiling again pleasantly. “Let us
go into the garden, as you admire it so much.”

And she rose.

Sir Asinus hastened to offer his arm, and they entered
the beautiful garden, alive with flowers.

Sir Asinus uttered a number of beautiful sentiments
on the subject of flowers and foliage, which we regret
our inability to report. After spending an hour or more
among the trees, they returned to the house.

Just as they entered, a gentleman was visible at the
gate—evidently a visitor. This gentleman had dismounted,
and as he stood behind his horse arranging the martingale,
he was for the moment unrecognisable.

“Will you permit me to remain in the garden, my
dear Miss Belle-bouche, until your visitor has departed?”
said Sir Asinus. “I find myself suddenly smitten with a
love of nature—and I would trouble you not to mention
the fact of my presence. It will be useless.”

“Certainly I will not, sir,” said Belle-bouche.

And Sir Asinus, seeing the gentleman move, precipitately
entered the garden, where he ignominiously concealed
himself—having snatched up a volume of poems
to console him in his retirement.

The visitor was Jacques.

He entered with his soft melancholy smile, and approaching
Belle-bouche, pressed her hand to his lips.

“I am glad to see you so bright,” he said; “but you
always look blooming.”

And he sat down and gazed around sadly.

Perhaps Jacques had never before so closely resembled
a tulip. His coat was red, his waistcoat scarlet,
his lace yellow, his stockings white; his shoes, lastly,
were adorned with huge rosettes, and his wig was a perfect
snow-storm of powder.

Belle-bouche casts down her eyes, and a roseate bloom
diffuses itself over her tender cheek. Jacques arrays his
forces, and gracefully smooths his Mechlin lace cravat.
Outwardly he is calm.

Belle-bouche raises her eyes, and gently flirts her fan,
covered with shepherds and shepherdesses in silks and
satins, who tend imaginary sheep by sky-blue waters,
against deeply emerald trees.

Jacques sighs, remembering his discourse on crooks,
and Belle-bouche smiles. He gathers courage then, and
says:

“I think I have never seen a more beautiful morning.”

“Yes,” says Belle-bouche in her soft tender voice, “I
have been out to take my customary walk before breakfast.”

“An excellent habit. The fields are the true abodes
of the Graces and Muses; all is so fresh.”

Belle-bouche smiles at this graceful and classic compliment;
but strange to say, does not feel disposed to
criticise it. Jacques has never seemed to her so intellectual

a man, so true a gentleman as at this moment.
The reason is that Belle-bouche has caught a portion of
her visitor's disease—a paraphrase which we are compelled
to make use of, from the well-known fact that
damsels are never what is vulgarly called “in love,”
until the momentous question has been asked; after
which, as well all know, this sentiment floods their tender
hearts with a sudden rush, as of unloosed waters.

Jacques sees the impression he has made, and in his
secret heart is flushed with anticipated conquest. He
smooths his frill, and gently arranges a drop curl.

“Love, I think, should inhabit the green fields,” he
says with melanoholy grace; “for love, dearest Miss
Bell-bouche, is the essence of freshness and delight.”

“The—fields?” says Belle-bouche, thoughtfully gazing
upon her fan.

“Yes; and the shepherd's life is certainly the happiest.
Ah! to love and be loved under the skies—in Arcady!
But Arcady is everywhere when the true heart is near.
To love and be loved!” says Jacques with a sad sigh;
“to know there is one near you whose whole heart is
yours—whose bosom would willingly support the weary
head; to have a heart to bring all your sorrows to; to
feel that the sky was brighter, and all the stars more
friendly and serene, if she were by you; to love and
love, and never change, and live a life of happy dreams,
however active it might be, when the dear image swept
across the horizon! To give the heart and mind out in
a sigh, and seal the vow of faith and truth upon loving
lips! In a word—one word speaks it all—to love! Yes,
yes! to love! To feel the horizon expand around you
till it seems to embrace every thing; to love innocently,

purely, under the holy heavens; to love till the dying
hour, and then, clasped in a pure embrace, to go away
together to another world!—Only to love!”

And Jacques raises his eyes to the blushing face of
Belle-bouche.

“Is it not fair to think of?” he says sadly.

She tries to smile, and can only murmur, “Yes.”

“I fear it is but a dream,” says Jacques.

She does not reply: she wishes a moment to collect
her thoughts and regain her ealmness.

“A dream,” he continues, “which many poor fellows
dream, and live in, and make a reality of—alas! never
to be realized.”

“Perhaps the world has changed since the old Arcadian
days,” murmurs Belle-bouche, gazing down with
rosy cheeks, and a bad attempt at ease. “You know the
earth has become different.”

“Yes, yes,” sighs Jacques; “I very much fear all this
is folly.”

“Who knows but—”

She pauses.

Jacques raises his eyes, and their glances meet. She
stops abruptly, and looks away. It is not affectation in
her. That deep blush is wholly irrepressible.

Jacques seizes her hand, and says:

“Give me the assurance that such things can be!
Tell me that this dream could be realized!”

She turns away.

“Tell me!” he continues, bending toward her, “tell
me, if I were to love any one thus—say it were yourself
—tell me, beautiful Belle-bouche! could I hope—”

“Oh, sir! I cannot now—”

“Belle-bouche! dearest Belle-bouche!—my picture
was a reality—I love as I have painted—and upon my
knees—”

sang the voice of Sir Asinus, entering from the garden;
and our unfortunate friend Jacques had just time to
drop Belle-bouche's hand, when sir Asinus entered.

“You're a pretty fellow!” said that worthy, “to
frighten me, and make me believe you were the—Well;
let us keep up appearances before the ladies. How goes
it, my dear Jacques?”

Jacques does not answer; he feels an unchristian
desire to exterminate his friend Sir Asinus from the
face of the earth—to blot that gentleman forcibly from
the sum of things.

Actuated by these friendly feelings, he gives the knight
a look which nearly takes his breath away.

“Why, what is the matter?” says Sir Asinus.

Jacques sees the false position which he occupies, and
groans.

“Why, dear Jacques, you distress me,” says Sir Asinus
with great warmth; “did I tread upon your toes?”

Jacques might very justly reply in the affirmative, but
he only turns away muttering disconsolately, “One more
chance!”

“I thought you were the proctor,” says Sir Asinus
pleasantly.

“Did you? I am going back soon, and will send him,”
replies Jacques with sad courtesy.

“No! do n't trouble yourself!” cries Sir Asinus; “it
is not necessary.”

“It is no trouble,” says Jacques; “but as you are
probably about to return to town yourself, I will not
send him.”

“To town? Indeed, I am about to do no such thing.
It is not every day that one gets a taste of the country.”

“You stay?”

“Yes.”

Jacques groans, and imprecates—sleep to descend
upon his friend.

He sits down wofully. Sir Asinus scenting the joke,
and determined to revenge himself, does the same joyfully.
Jacques sighs, Sir Asinus laughs. Jacques directs
an Olympian frown at his opponent, but Sir Asinus
answers it with smiles.

Belle-bouche all this time has been endeavoring to
produce the impression that she is looking over a book
of engravings—being interested in Heidelberg, and fascinated
with the Alhambra. From time to time her
timid glance steals toward Jacques, who is sighing, or
toward Sir Asinus, who is laughing.

Sir Asinus glories in his revenge. Jacques refused to
tell him the news, and maligned his character to the
Doctor, and forced him to listen in silence to that abuse.
He takes his promised revenge—for he understands very
well what he interrupted.

Jacques stays all the morning, hoping that Sir Asinus
will depart; but that gentleman betrays no intention
of vacating the premises. Finally, in a paroxysm
of internal rage, and a perfect outward calmness, the
graceful Jacques retires—with a last look for Belle-bouche.

One thought consoles him. He will escort her to the
ball, and on his return in his two-seated curriculum defy
the interruption of all the Asinuses that ever lived.

Poor Jacques! as he goes sadly back, the cloud riding
upon the dream is more asleep than ever.