University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.
HOW SIR ASINUS FISHED FOR SWALLOWS, AND WHAT HE
CAUGHT.

GLOUCESTER STREET was alive with a motley
crowd of every description, from the elegant dame
who drove by in her fine four-horse chariot with its outriders,
to the most obscure denizen of the surrounding old
field, come on this particular day to Williamsburg, in
view of the great ball to be held at the Raleigh tavern.

Mowbray and Hoffland gazed philosophically upon
the moving crowd, but threaded their way onward, without
much comment. Hoffland was anxious to reach his
lodging, it seemed; the culminating sun had already
made his face rosy with its warm radiance, and he held
a white handkerchief before his eyes to protect them.

“It is growing very warm,” he said; “really, Ernest,
I think your present will come into active use before the
summer.”

“My gloves?”

“No, mine.”

“Ah, well, Charles,” continued Ernest, “we ought to
rejoice in the warmth, inasmuch as it is better for the
poor than cold—the winter. Let us not complain.”

“I do not; but I see precious few poor about now:
they all seem to be rejoicing, without needing any assistance
therein from us. Look at that fine chariot.”

“At Madam Finette's door?”

“Yes.”

“I think I recognise the driver—Tom, from Mrs.
Wimple's,” said Mowbray calmly.

“Mrs. Wimple—who is she?”

“A lady, at whose house I suffered one of my cruellest
disappointments,” said Mowbray with a shadowed brow;
“let us not speak of that!”

“Of what?”

“You do not understand?”

“I? Of course not.”

“It was there that I was told, by the woman I loved,
how despicable I was,” said Mowbray with a cruel tremor
of his pale lip.

“Oh—yes—pardon me,” Hoffland said; and turning
aside his head, he murmured, “Men—men! how blind
you are! yes, high-gravel blind!” and looking again at
Mowbray, Hoffland perceived that his face had become
calm again.

“I promised Lucy to bring home some little articles
from this place,” he said calmly; “go in with me a
moment, Charles.”

Hoffland drew back.

“No,” he said; “I believe—I have—I think I'd rather
not.”

“I will detain you but a moment.”

Hoffland's glance plunged itself into the interior of
Madam Finette's emporium; and the consequence was
that the young gentleman retreated three steps.

“I don't think I have time,” he said laughing; “but
I'll wait for you here: the sun is warm, but I can easily
protect my face by holding my handkerchief to it.”

And taking up his position in the vestibule, so to
speak, of the shop, Hoffland placed himself as much out
of view as possible, and waited. Spite of the fact that
the sun's rays did not penetrate to the spot which he occupied,
the white handkerchief was still used as a shade.

Mowbray entered and approached Madam Finette.

But that lady was busy; her counter was covered with
magnificent silks, ribbons, velvets and laces, which she
was unrolling, folding up, drawing out, and chattering
about, as fast as her small hands and agile tongue would
permit. Before her stood a lady, who, accompanied by
her cavalier, was engaged in the momentous task of
making up her mind what colors of velvet and satin
ribbon she should select.

The lady was young and smiling—cheerful and graceful.
When she laughed, the musical chime of the timepiece
overhead was drowned, and died away; when she
smiled, the sunlight seemed to have darted one of its
brightest beams into the shop. The gentleman was elegant
and melancholy: he looked like Endymion on Latmos
trying to recall his dream, or like Narcissus fading
into shadow. His costume resembled a variegated Dutch
tulip; his hair was powdered to excess; he sighed and
whispered sadly, and looked at the lady.

The lady was called Belle-bouche, Belinda, or Rebecca.

The gentleman was familiarly known as Jacques.

“I think that would suit you,” sighed Jacques.

“This ribbon?” asked Belle-bouche, with a gay smile.

“Yes; it is yours by right. It is the prettiest of all.”

“I am glad you like it—I do.”

“It would suit the mythologic Maia.”

“Then it will not me.”

“Yes, yes,” sighed Jacques, in a whisper; “you are
May incarnate—with its tender grace, and lovely freshness,
and Arcadian beauty.”

Belle-bouche smiled, and yet did not laugh at the oft
repeated Arcadian simile.

“Methinks,” said Jacques, with a species of melancholy
grace, “these ribbons would suit your costume at
the Arcadian festival, which you have honored me with
the management of——”

“At Shadynook? Oh, yes! would they now?”

“I think so, madam. Imagine the crooks wreathed
with these ribbons and with flowers—the shepherds
would go mad with delight.”

“Then I will get a large roll of this.”

“No, no—that is my affair; but you must wear something
else.”

“I? What, pray?”

“Pink: it is the color of youth, and joy, and love—
worn by the Graces and the Naiads, Oreads and Dryads;
—the color of the sea-shell, and the autumn leaves and
flowers—something like it at least,” Jacques added, finding
himself mounting into the realms of imagination.

Belle-bouche blushed slightly, and turned away. Her
eyes fell upon Mowbray, who bowed.

“Oh, sir, I am very glad to see you,” said the cheerful
young girl, holding out her hand; “you must come
to our party at Shadynook.”

“Madam, I am afraid—” commenced Mowbray, with
a bow.

But Belle-bouche interrupted him:

“No! I really will take no refusal! It will be on

Thursday, and Aunt Wimple wishes you to come. I am
manageress, and I have masculine assistance to compel
all invited to be with us.”

With which words she glanced at Jacques, who saluted
Mowbray with a sad smile.

“And you must bring your sister Lucy, Mr. Mowbray.
I am sorry we know each other so slightly; but
I am sure we shall be intimate if she comes. Do not
refuse to bring her now.”

Belle-bouche enforced her requests with such a wealth
of smiles, that Mowbray was compelled to yield.

He promised to come, and then suddenly remembered
that Philippa would be there, and almost groaned.

Belle-bouche finished her purchases, and went out.

As she passed Hoffland she dropped her handkerchief.
That young gentleman, however, declined to pick it up
and restore it, though the absent Jacques did not perceive
it. Jacques assisted the young girl into her carriage,
pressed her hand with melancholy affection, and
went away sighing.

Mowbray, having procured what Lucy wished, came
forth again and was joined by Hoffland. That gentleman
held a magnificent lace handkerchief in his hand.

“See,” he said, “what that languishing little beauty
dropped in passing to her carriage. What a love of a
handkerchief!”

“What an odd vocabulary you have collected,” said
Mowbray, smiling. “Well, you should have restored it
to her, Charles.”

“Restored it!”

“Yes.”

“Ernest, you astonish me!” cried Hoffland, laughing;

“address a young lady whom I have not the pleasure of
knowing?”

“It would be to do her a simple service, and nothing
could be more proper.”

“You are a pretty guide for youth, are you not? No,
sir! I never intrude!”

“Suppose this young lady were asleep in a house
which was burning—would you not intrude to inform
her of that fact?”

“Never, sir! Enter a lady's bower? Is it possible
you counsel such a proceeding?”

Mowbray smiled sadly. “You have excellent spirits,
Charles,” he said; “I almost envy you.”

“No, indeed, I have not,” said Hoffland, with one of
his strange transitions from gaiety to thoughtfulness; “I
wear more than one mask, Ernest.”

“Are you ever sad?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Hoffland, with a little sigh.

“Well, well, I fancy 'tis not frequently. If you feel
so to-day, the ball to-night will restore your spirits; and
there you may restore your handkerchief with perfect
propriety.”

“How?”

“Get an introduction.”

Hoffland's lip crimped; but nodding his head—

“Yes,” said he, “I think I shall be introduced, for I
wish very much to be present at that Arcadian festival.”

“You heard, then?”

Hoffland colored.

“N—o,” he said; “but I believe a number of invitations
are out—for Denis, and others;—a good fellow,
Denis.”

“Excellent; and I suppose, therefore, you will be at
the Raleigh this evening?”

“Yes, about twelve—I have my studies to attend to,”
said Hoffland, laughing; “you have no idea how much
the character of Rosalind has interested me lately. I
think it never seized so strongly upon my attention. If
ever we have any private acting, I shall certainly appear
in that character!”

Mowbray smiled again.

“Your person would suit the forest page very well,”
he said; “for you are slender, and slight in figure.
But how would you compass the scenes where Rosalind
appears in her proper character—in female dress?”

“Oh!” laughed Hoffland, with some quickness, “I
think I could easily act that part.”

“I doubt it.”

“You don't know my powers, Ernest.”

“Well, perhaps not; but let us dismiss the ball, and
Rosalind, and all. How motley a crowd! I almost agree
with Jacques, that `motley's the only wear.' ”

“Jacques! that reminds me of the melancholy fellow
we saw just now, sighing and languishing with that little
Belle-bouche——”

“Why, you know her familiar name—how, Charlest?”

Hoffland laughed.

“Oh,” he said, “did I not leave my MS. love songs
to Jacques; and can you imagine that I was ignorant
of—but we are throwing away words. Everybody's in
love, I believe—Jacques is not singular. Look at this
little pair of lovers—school-girl and school-boy, devoted
to each other, and consuming with the tender passion.
Poor unfortunate creatures!”

With which words Hoffland laughed, and pointed to a
boy and girl who were passing along some steps in advance
of them.

The girl was that young lady who received, as the
reader may possibly recollect, so much excellent and
paternal advice from Jacques. She was not burdened
with her satchel on this occasion, but carried, in the
same careless and playful fashion, a small reticule;
while her cavalier took charge of her purchases, stored
in two or three bundles, and kindly relinquished to the
gentleman by the lady, as is still the custom in our own
day.

The boy was a fine manly young fellow of sixteen,
with a bright kind face, rosy and freckled. There
seemed to be quite an excellent understanding between
himself and his companion, and they went on conversing
gaily.

But in this world we know not when the fates will
interrupt our pleasures;—a profound remark which was
verified on this occasion.

Just as the girl was passing the residence of Sir Asinus,
her feet dancing for joy, her curls illuminated, her
reticule describing the largest possible are of a circle—
just then, little Martha, or Puss, as she was called, found
herself suddenly arrested, and the over-skirt of her silk
dress raised with a sudden jerk. The reticule ceased to
pendulate, the conversation stopped abruptly, the boy
and girl stood profoundly astonished.

“Oh, me!” cried the child, clasping her hands;
“what's that?”

“Witchcraft!” suggested her companion, laughing.

“No, my dear young friends,” here interposed a voice

from the clouds—figuratively speaking—really from an
upper window; “it is not witcheraft, but a simple result
of natural laws.”

The child raised her head quickly at these words, and
saw leaning out of a dormer window of Mrs. Bobbery's
mansion, that identical red-haired gentleman whom she
had seen upon a former occasion; in a word, Sir Asinus:
Sir Asinus dressed magnificently in his old faded dressing-gown;
his sandy hair standing erect upon his head;
his features sharper than ever; and his eyes more eloquent
with philosophical and cynical humor. As he
leaned far out of the window, he resembled a large owl
in a dressing-gown, with arms instead of legs, fingers
instead of claws.

“I repeat, sir and miss,” he said blandly—“or probably
it would be more proper to say, miss and sir—I
repeat that this is not witchcraft, and your dress is simply
caught by a hook, which hook contained a grain of
wheat, which wheat has been devoured. Wait! I will
descend.”

And disappearing from the window, Sir Asinus soon
made his appearance at the door, and approached the
boy and girl. The girl was laughing.

“Oh, sir! I think I understand now—you were fishing
for swallows, and the hook——”

“Caught in your dress! Precisely, my beautiful little
lady, whom I have the pleasure of seeing for the fiftieth
time, since I see you passing every morning, noon and
evening—precisely. Immured in my apartment for
political reasons, I am reduced to this species of amusement;
and this hook attached to this thread contained a
grain of wheat. It floated far up, and some cormorant

devoured it; then the wind ceasing, it had the misfortune
to strike into your dress.”

With which words Sir Asinus made an elegant bow,
wrapping his old dressing-gown about him with one
hand, while he extricated the hook with the other.

“There! you are free!” he said; “I am very sorry,
my dear little lady——”

“Oh, indeed, sir! it is very funny! I'm almost glad
it caught me, Bathurst laughed so much.”

“I have the pleasure of making Mr. Bathurst's acquaintance,”
said Sir Asinus politely; and in spite of little
Martha's correction, that Mr. Bathurst was not his name,
he added, “Your cavalier at the ball to-night, I presume?”

“Oh, sir, you are laughing,” said the girl, with her
bright face; “but we are going to the ball.”

“And will you dance with me?”

“If you will, sir.”

“Extraordinary innocence!” muttered the knight,
“not common among young ladies;” then he added, “I
assure you, Miss—you have not told me——”

“My name is Martha, sir.”

“Well, Miss Martha, I shall dance with you most delightedly.
Asinus is my name—I am descended from a
great Assyrian family; and this is my lodging. Looking
up any morning, my dear Miss Martha, you will
receive the most elegant bow I have—such as is due to
a Fairy Queen, and the empress of my soul.—Good
morning, Mowbray.”

And saluting the students who passed, laughing, Sir
Asinus ascended again, muttering and wrapping his old
dressing-gown more tightly around him.

“Yes,” he said, “there's no doubt about the fact in my

own mind;—I am just as much in love with that pretty
young girl who has left me laughing and joyous, as that
ridiculous Jacques is with his beauty at Shadynook. I
thought at one time I was in love with Belle-bouche
myself, but I was mistaken. I certainly was convinced
of it, however, or why did I name my sail-boat the
`Rebecca'—that being the actual name of Miss Belle-bouche?
Yet I was not in love with that young lady—and
am in love with this little creature of fifteen and a half,
who has passed me every morning and evening, going
to school. Going to school! there it is! I, the great
political thinker, the originator of ideas, the student, the
philosopher, the cynic—I am in love with a school-girl!
Well, I am not aware that the fact of acquiring a knowledge
of geography and numbers, music, and other things,
has the effect of making young ladies disagreeable.
Therefore I uphold the doctrine that love for young
ladies who attend school is not wholly ridiculous—else
how could those who go on studying until they are as
old as the surrounding hills, be ever loved with reason?
I am therefore determined to fall deeper still in love,
and write more verses, and abolish that old dull scoundrel
Coke, and become a sighing, languishing, poetic Lovelace.
I'll go and dance, and feel my pulse every hour,
and look at the weather-glass of my affections, and at
night, or rather in the morning, report to myself the
result. What a lucky lover I am! I will write a sonnet
to that thread, and an ode to the hook;—I will expand
the affair into an epic!”

With which gigantic idea Sir Asinus kicked aside a
volume of Coke which obstructed his way, seized a pen,
and frowning dreadfully, began to compose.