University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
SIR ASINUS INTENDS FOR EUROPE.

THE morning of the May-day festival dawned bright
and joyous;—nature seemed to be smiling, and the
“rosy-bosomed hours” began their flight toward the
west, with that brilliant splendor which they always
deck themselves in, in the merry month of May.

Jacques rose early, and was at his mirror betimes.
He had selected a suit of extraordinary richness, made
with express reference to the rainbow; and when he
drew on his coat, and took a last survey of himself in the
mirror, he smiled—no longer sighed—and thought of
Belle-bouche with the triumphant feeling of a general
who has driven the enemy at last into a corner.

He issued forth and mounted his gay charger, which,
with original and brilliant taste, he had decked with
ribbons for the joyous festival; and as he got into the
saddle and gathered up the reins, a little crowd of diminutive
negro boys, with sadly dilapidated garments,
cringed before him, and threw up their caps and split the
air with “hoora's” in his honor.

Jaeques pranced forth from the Raleigh stable yard in
state, and took his way along Gloucester street, the admiration
of every beholder. He was going to glory and
conquest—probably: he was on his way to happiness—
perhaps. He felt a sentiment of benevolent regard for

all the human family, and even, in passing, cast his
thoughts on Sir Asinus.

That gentleman's window was open, and something
strange seemed to be going on within.

And as Jacques drew nearer, he observed a placard
dangling from the window. This placard bore in huge
letters the mournful words:

“THE WITHIN INTENDS FOR EUROPE ON THE MORROW.”

Jacques felt his conscience smite him—he could not
let his friend depart without bidding him adieu. He
dismounted, tied his horse, and laughing to himself, ascended
to the chamber of the knight.

A sad sight awaited him.

Seated upon a travelling trunk, with a visage which
had become elongated to a really distressing degree, Sir
Asinus was sighing, and casting a last lingering look
behind.

His apartment was in great disorder—presenting
indeed that negligent appearance which rooms are accustomed
to present, when their occupants are about to
depart. The books were all stowed away in boxes—the
pictures taken down—the bed unmade—the sofa littered
with papers, and the violin, and flute—the general air of
the desolate room, that of a man who has parted with
his last hope and wishes to exist no longer.

But the appearance of Sir Asinus was worse than that
of his apartment.

“Good morning, my dear Jacques,” said the knight,
sighing; “you visit me at a sad moment.”

Jacques smiled.

“I am just on the wing.”

“As I see.”

“From my placard, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Well, have you any commands?”

“For Europe?”

“Precisely.”

“Well—no,” said Jacques, with indecorous levity;
“except that you will present my respects to Pitt and
Barré.”

“Scoffer!”

“Hey! who scoffed?”

“You!”

“I did not.”

“You laugh, unworthy friend that you are,” said Sir
Asinus; “you deride me.”

“Not at all.”

“You rejoice at my departure.”

“No.”

“At any rate, you are not sorry,” said Sir Asinus,
sighing; “and I return the compliment. I myself am
not sorry to part with the unworthy men who have misunderstood
me, and persecuted me. A martyr to political
ideas—to love for my country—I go to foreign lands
to seek a home.”

And having uttered this melancholy sentence, the
woful knight twirled his thumbs, and sighed piteously.

As for Jacques, he smiled.

“When do you leave?” he said.

Sir Asinus pointed to the placard.

“On the morrow?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there is time yet to attend the May-festival at
Shadynook. Come along.”

“No, no,” said Sir Asinus, sighing; “no, I thank
you. I have had all my noble aspirations chilled—my
grand ideas destroyed; my heart is no longer fit for
merriment. I depart.”

And rising, Sir Asinus seated himself upon the table
disconsolately.

Jacques looked at him and smiled.

“Do you know, my dear Asinus,” he said, “that you
present at this moment the grandest and most heroic
picture? When a great man suffers, the world should
weep.”

“Instead of which, you laugh.”

“I? I am not laughing.”

“You are smiling.”

“That is because, for the first time in my life, I am
nearly happy.”

“Happy? Would that I were! Happy? It is a
word which I seldom have use for,” said Sir Asinus,
dangling his legs and sighing piteously.

“Why not endeavor to use it?”

“I cannot.”

“Come and laugh with us at Shadynook.”

“I no longer laugh.”

“You weep?”

“No: my grief is too deep for tears—it is dried up—
I mean the tears.”

“Poor fellow!”

“There you are pitying my afflictions—spare me!”

“I do pity you. To see the noble and joyous Sir
Asinus grow melancholy—to see those legs, which ers
glided through the minuet and reel. now dangling wearily

—to see that handsome visage so drawn down; is there
no occasion for pity?”

And Jacques sighed.

“Well, well,” said Sir Asinus, “I am glad you came,
spite of your unworthy banter, you unfeeling fellow. I
I wish to send some messages to my friends.”

“What are they?”

“First, to Belle-bouche—love and remembrance.”

“That is beautiful; and I never knew these words yet
fail to touch the heart.”

“To all the boys, the fond regards of him who goes
from them—a martyr to the attempt to uphold their
rights.”

“That is affecting too.”

“To the little dame who passed with you some days
ago—Miss Martha Wayles by name—but no; nothing
to her.”

And Sir Asinus groaned.

“Nothing?” said Jacques.

“No; the memory of my love for her shall never
grieve her; let us say no more, Jacques, my friend. I
have finished.”

“And what do you leave to me?” said Jacques.

“My affection.”

“I would prefer that violin.”

“No, no, my friend; it will comfort me on my voyage.
Now farewell!”

“Shall I see you no more?”

“No more.”

“Why?”

“Do I not depart to-day?”

“True, true,” said Jacques; “and if you really must
go, farewell. Write to me.”

“Yes.”

“Let us embrace.”

“Willingly.”

And Sir Asinus caught his friend in his arms and
sniffled.

Jacques, with his head over his friend's shoulder,
chuckled.

“Now farewell,” said Sir Asinus; “perhaps some day
I may return—farewell.”

And covering his eyes, he turned away.

Jacques took out his pocket-handkerchief—pressed his
friend's hand for the last time, and departed.

He mounted his horse, gathered up the reins, and set
forward again toward Shadynook, leaving the disconsolate
Sir Asinus to finish his preparations for departure
in his beautiful sail-boat the Rebecca.

Poor Sir Asinus! He had not the courage to call it
the Martha: disappointed in love and politics, he no
longer clung to either, and thought the best name after
all would be the Martyr.