chapter 8.

‘fair women and brave men.’

mr. dacre received him with affection: his daughter with a cordiality which he had never yet experienced from her. though more simply dressed than when she first met his ardent gaze, her costume again charmed his practised eye. ‘it must be her shape,’ thought the young duke; ‘it is magical!’

the rooms were full of various guests, and some of these were presented to his grace, who was, of course, an object of universal notice, but particularly by those persons who pretended not to be aware of his entrance. the party assembled at castle dacre consisted of some thirty or forty persons, all of great consideration, but of a different character from any with whom the duke of st. james had been acquainted during his short experience of english society. they were not what are called fashionable people. we have no princes and no ambassadors, no duke who is a gourmand, no earl who is a jockey, no manoeuvring mothers, no flirting daughters, no gambling sons, for your entertainment. there is no superfine gentleman brought down specially from town to gauge the refinement of the manners of the party, and to prevent them, by his constant supervision and occasional sneer, from losing any of the beneficial results of their last campaign. we shall sadly want, too, a lady patroness to issue a decree or quote her code of consolidated etiquette. we are not sure that almack’s will ever be mentioned: quite sure that maradan has never yet been heard of. the jockey club may be quoted, but crockford will be a dead letter. as for the rest, boodle’s is all we can promise; miserable consolation for the bow-window. as for buffoons and artists, to amuse a vacant hour or sketch a vacant face, we must frankly tell you at once that there is not one. are you frightened? will you go on? will you trust yourself with these savages? try. they are rude, but they are hospitable.

the party, we have said, were all persons of great consideration; some were noble, most were rich, all had ancestors. there were the earl and countess of faulconcourt. he looked as if he were fit to reconquer palestine, and she as if she were worthy to reward him for his valour. misplaced in this superior age, he was sans peur and she sans reproche. there was lord mildmay, an english peer and a french colonel. methinks such an incident might have been a better reason for a late measure than an irishman being returned a member of our imperial parliament. there was our friend lord st. jerome; of course his stepmother, yet young, and some sisters, pretty as nuns. there were some cousins from the farthest north, northumbria’s bleakest bound, who came down upon yorkshire like the goths upon italy, and were revelling in what they considered a southern clime.

there was an m.p. in whom the catholics had hopes. he had made a great speech; not only a great speech, but a great impression. his matter certainly was not new, but well arranged, and his images not singularly original, but appositely introduced; in short, a bore, who, speaking on a subject in which a new hand is indulged, and connected with the families whose cause he was pleading, was for once courteously listened to by the very men who determined to avenge themselves for their complaisance by a cough on the first opportunity. but the orator was prudent; he reserved himself, and the session closed with his fame yet full-blown.

then there were country neighbours in great store, with wives that were treasures, and daughters fresh as flowers. among them we would particularise two gentlemen. they were great proprietors, and catholics and baronets, and consoled themselves by their active maintenance of the game-laws for their inability to regulate their neighbours by any other. one was sir chetwode chetwode of chetwode; the other was sir tichborne tichborne of tichborne. it was not easy to see two men less calculated to be the slaves of a foreign and despotic power, which we all know catholics are. tall, and robust, and rosy, with hearts even stouter than their massy frames, they were just the characters to assemble in runnymede, and probably, even at the present day, might have imitated their ancestors, even in their signatures. in disposition they were much the same, though they were friends. in person there were some differences, but they were slight. sir chetwode’s hair was straight and white; sir tichborne’s brown and curly. sir chetwode’s eyes were blue; sir tichborne’s grey.

sir chetwode’s nose was perhaps a snub; sir tichborne’s was certainly a bottle. sir chetwode was somewhat garrulous, and was often like a man at a play, in the wrong box! sir tichborne was somewhat taciturn; but when he spoke, it was always to the purpose, and made an impression, even if it were not new. both were kind hearts; but sir chetwode was jovial, sir tichborne rather stern. sir chetwode often broke into a joke; sir tichborne sometimes backed into a sneer. .

a few of these characters were made known by mr. dacre to his young friend, but not many, and in an easy way; those that stood nearest. introduction is a formality and a bore, and is never resorted to by your well-bred host, save in a casual way. when proper people meet at proper houses, they give each other credit for propriety, and slide into an acquaintance by degrees. the first day they catch a name; the next, they ask you whether you are the son of general ——. ‘no; he was my uncle.’ ‘ah! i knew him well. a worthy soul!’ and then the thing is settled. you ride together, shoot, or fence, or hunt. a game of billiards will do no great harm; and when you part, you part with a hope that you may meet again.

lord mildmay was glad to meet with the son of an old friend. he knew the late duke well, and loved him better. it is pleasant to hear our fathers praised. we, too, may inherit their virtues with their lands, or cash, or bonds; and, scapegraces as we are, it is agreeable to find a precedent for the blood turning out well. and, after all, there is no feeling more thoroughly delightful than to be conscious that the kind being from whose loins we spring, and to whom we cling with an innate and overpowering love, is viewed by others with regard, with reverence, or with admiration. there is no pride like the pride of ancestry, for it is a blending of all emotions. how immeasurably superior to the herd is the man whose father only is famous! imagine, then, the feelings of one who can trace his line through a thousand years of heroes and of princes!

’tis dinner! hour that i have loved as loves the bard the twilight; but no more those visions rise that once were wont to spring in my quick fancy. the dream is past, the spell is broken, and even the lore on which i pondered in my first youth is strange as figures in egyptian tombs.

no more, no more, oh! never more to me, that hour shall bring its rapture and its bliss! no more, no more, oh! never more for me, shall flavour sit upon her thousand thrones, and, like a syren with a sunny smile, win to renewed excesses, each more sweet! my feasting days are over: me no more the charms of fish, or flesh, still less of fowl, can make the fool of that they made before. the fricandeau is like a dream of early love; the fricassee, with which i have so often flirted, is like the tattle of the last quadrille; and no longer are my dreams haunted with the dark passion of the rich rago?t. ye soups! o’er whose creation i have watched, like mothers o’er their sleeping child! ye sauces! to which i have even lent a name, where are ye now? tickling, perchance, the palate of some easy friend, who quite forgets the boon companion whose presence once lent lustre even to his ruby wine and added perfume to his perfumed hock!

our duke, however, had not reached the age of retrospection. he pecked as prettily as any bird. seated on the right hand of his delightful hostess, nobody could be better pleased; supervised by his j?ger, who stood behind his chair, no one could be better attended. he smiled, with the calm, amiable complacency of a man who feels the world is quite right.