# Crotchet Castle/Chapter 18

CHAP. XVIII.
CHAINMAIL HALL.
Vous autres dictes que ignorance est mere de tous maulx, et dictes vray: mais toutesfoys vous ne la bannissez mye de vos entendemens, et vivez en elle, avecques elle, et par elle. C'est pourquoy tant de maulx vous meshaignent de jour en jour.
Rabelais, l. 5. c. 7.
The party which was assembled on Christmas-day in Chainmail Hall, comprised all the guests of Crotchet Castle, some of Mr. Chainmail's other neighbours, all his tenants and domestics, and Captain Fitzchrome. The hall was spacious and lofty; and with its tall fluted pillars and pointed arches, its windows of stained glass, its display of arms and banners intermingled with holly and ​misletoe, its blazing cressets and torches, and a stupendous fire in the centre, on which blocks of pine were flaming and crackling, had a striking effect on eyes unaccustomed to such a dining-room. The fire was open on all sides, and the smoke was caught and carried back, under a funnel-formed canopy, into a hollow central pillar. This fire was the line of demarcation between gentle and simple, on days of high festival. Tables extended from it on two sides, to nearly the end of the hall.
Mrs. Chainmail was introduced to the company. Young Crotchet felt some revulsion of feeling at the unexpected sight of one whom he had forsaken, but not forgotten, in a condition apparently so much happier than his own. The lady held out her hand to him with a cordial look of more than forgiveness; it seemed to say that she had much to thank ​him for. She was the picture of a happy bride, rayonnante de joie et d'amour.
Mr. Crotchet told the Reverend Doctor Folliott the news of the morning. "As you predicted," he said, "your friend, the learned friend, is in office; he has also a title; he is now Sir Guy de Vaux."
THE REV. DR. FOLLIOTT.
Thank heaven for that! he is disarmed from further mischief. It is something, at any rate, to have that hollow and wind-shaken reed rooted up for ever from the field of public delusion.
MR. CROTCHET.
I suppose, Doctor, you do not like to see a great reformer in office; you are afraid for your vested interests.
THE REV. DR. FOLLIOTT.
Not I, indeed, sir; my vested interests are ​very safe from all such reformers as the learned friend. I vaticinate what will be the upshot of all his schemes of reform. He will make a speech of seven hours' duration, and this will be its quintessence: that, seeing the exceeding difficulty of putting salt on the bird's tail, it will be expedient to consider the best method of throwing dust in the bird's eyes. All the rest will be
as Aristophanes has it; and so I leave him, in Nephelococcygia.
​Mr. Mac Quedy came up to the divine as Mr. Crotchet left him, and said: "There is one piece of news which the old gentleman has not told you. The great firm of Catchflat and Company, in which young Crotchet is a partner, has stopped payment."
THE REV. DR. FOLLIOTT.
Bless me! that accounts for the young gentleman's melancholy. I thought they would overreach themselves with their own tricks. The day of reckoning, Mr. Mac Quedy, is the point which your paper-money science always leaves out of view.
MR. MAC QUEDY.
I do not see, sir, that the failure of Catchflat and Company has any thing to do with my science.
THE REV. DR. FOLLIOTT.
It has this to do with it, sir, that you ​would turn the whole nation into a great paper-money shop, and take no thought of the day of reckoning. But the dinner is coming. I think you, who are so fond of paper promises, should dine on the bill of fare.
The harper at the head of the hall struck up an ancient march, and the dishes were brought in, in grand procession.
The boar's head, garnished with rosemary, with a citron in its mouth, led the van. Then came tureens of plum-porridge; then a series of turkeys, and, in the midst of them, an enormous sausage, which it required two men to carry. Then came geese and capons, tongues and hams, the ancient glory of the Christmas pie, a gigantic plum-pudding, a pyramid of minced pies, and a baron of beef bringing up the rear.
​"It is something new under the sun," said the divine, as he sat down, "to see a great dinner without fish."
MR. CHAINMAIL.
Fish was for fasts, in the twelfth century.
THE REV. DR. FOLLIOTT.
Well, sir, I prefer our reformed system of putting fasts and feasts together. Not but here is ample indemnity.
Ale and wine flowed in abundance. The dinner passed off merrily; the old harper playing all the while the oldest music in his repertory. The tables being cleared, he indemnified himself for lost time at the lower end of the hall, in company with the old butler and the other domestics, whose attendance on the banquet had been indispensable.
The scheme of Christmas gambols, which ​Mr. Chainmail had laid for the evening, was interrupted by a tremendous clamor without.
THE REV. DR. FOLLIOTT.
What have we here? Mummers?
MR. CHAINMAIL.
Nay, I know not. I expect none.
"Who is there?" he added, approaching the door of the hall.
"Who is there?" vociferated the divine, with the voice of Stentor.
"Captain Swing," replied a chorus of discordant voices.
THE REV. DR. FOLLIOTT.
Ho, ho! here is a piece of the dark ages we did not bargain for. Here is the Jacquerie. Here is the march of mind with a witness.
MR. MAC QUEDY.
Do you not see that you have brought disparates together? the Jacquerie and the march of mind.
THE REV. DR. FOLLIOTT.
Not at all, sir. They are the same thing, under different names. Πολλῶν ονομάτων μορφὴ μία. What was Jacquerie in the dark ages, is the march of mind in this very enlightened one—very enlightened one.
MR. CHAINMAIL.
The cause is the same in both; poverty in despair.
MR. MAC QUEDY.
Very likely; but the effect is extremely disagreeable.
THE REV. DR. FOLLIOTT.
It is the natural result, Mr. Mac Quedy, of that system of state seamanship which your science upholds. Putting the crew on short allowance, and doubling the rations of the officers, is the sure way to make a mutiny on board a ship in distress, Mr. Mac Quedy.
MR. MAC QUEDY.
Eh! sir, I uphold no such system as that. I shall set you right as to cause and effect. Discontent increases with the increase of information. That is all.
THE REV. DR. FOLLIOTT.
I said it was the march of mind. But we have not time for discussing cause and effect now. Let us get rid of the enemy.
And he vociferated at the top of his voice, "What do you want here?"
"Arms, arms," replied a hundred voices, "Give us the arms."
THE REV. DR. FOLLIOTT.
You see, Mr. Chainmail, this is the inconvenience of keeping an armoury, not fortified with sand bags, green bags, and old bags of all kinds.
MR. MAC QUEDY.
Just give them the old spits and toasting irons, and they will go away quietly.
MR. CHAINMAIL.
My spears and swords! not without my ​life. These assailants are all aliens to my land and house. My men will fight for me, one and all. This is the fortress of beef and ale.
MR. MAC QUEDY.
Eh! sir, when the rabble is up, it is very indiscriminating. You are e'en suffering for the sins of Sir Simon Steeltrap, and the like, who have pushed the principle of accumulation a little too far.
MR. CHAINMAIL.
The way to keep the people down, is kind and liberal usage.
MR. MAC QUEDY.
That is very well, (where it can be afforded,) in the way of prevention; but in the way of cure, the operation must be more drastic. (Taking down a battle-axe.) I would fain ​have a good blunderbuss charged with slugs.
MR. CHAINMAIL.
When I suspended these arms for ornament, I never dreamed of their being called into use.
MR. SKIONAR.
Let me address them. I never failed to convince an audience that the best thing they could do was to go away.
MR. MAC QUEDY.
Eh! sir, I can bring them to that conclusion in ⟨less⟩ time than you.
MR. CROTCHET.
I have no fancy for fighting. It is a very hard case upon a guest, when the latter end of a feast is the beginning of a fray.
MR. MAC QUEDY.
Give them the old iron.
THE REV. DR. FOLLIOTT.
Give them the weapons! Pessimo, medius fidius, exemplo. Forbid it the spirit of Frere Jean des Entommeures! No! let us see what the church militant, in the armour of the twelfth century, will do against the march of mind. Follow me who will, and stay who list. Here goes: Pro aris et focis! that is, for tithe pigs and fires to roast them!
He clapped a helmet on his head, seized a long lance, threw open the gates, and tilted out on the rabble, side by side with Mr. Chainmail, followed by the greater portion of the male inmates of the hall, who had armed themselves at random.
The rabble-rout, being unprepared for ​such a sortie, fled in all directions, over hedge and ditch.
Mr. Trillo stayed in the hall, playing a march on the harp, to inspirit the rest to sally out. The water-loving Mr. Philpot had diluted himself with so much wine, as to be quite hors de combat. Mr. Toogood, intending to equip himself in purely defensive armour, contrived to slip a ponderous coat of mail over his shoulders, which pinioned his arms to his sides; and in this condition, like a chicken trussed for roasting, he was thrown down behind a pillar, in the first rush of the sortie. Mr. Crotchet seized the occurrence as a pretext for staying with him, and passed the whole time of the action in picking him out of his shell.
"Phew!" said the divine, returning; "an ​inglorious victory: but it deserves a devil and a bowl of punch."
MR. CHAINMAIL.
A wassail-bowl.
THE REV. DR. FOLLIOTT.
No, sir. No more of the twelfth century for me.
MR. CHAINMAIL.
Nay, Doctor. The twelfth century has backed you well. Its manner and habits, its community of kind feelings between master and man, are the true remedy for these ebullitions.
MR. TOOGOOD.
Something like it: improved by my diagram: arts for arms.
THE REV. DR. FOLLIOTT.
No wassail-bowl for me. Give me an unsophisticated bowl of punch, which belongs to that blissful middle period, after the ​Jacquerie was down, and before the march of mind was up. But, see, who is floundering in the water?
Proceeding to the edge of the moat, they fished up Mr. Firedamp, who had missed his way back, and tumbled in. He was drawn out, exclaiming, "that he had taken his last dose of malaria in this world."
THE REV. DR. FOLLIOTT.
Tut, man; dry clothes, a turkey's leg and rump, well devilled, and a quart of strong punch, will set all to rights.
"Wood embers," said Mr. Firedamp, when he had been accommodated with a change of clothes, "there is no antidote to malaria like the smoke of wood embers; pine embers." And he placed himself, with his mouth open, close by the fire.
THE REV. DR. FOLLIOTT.
Punch, sir, punch: there is no antidote like punch.
MR. CHAINMAIL.
Well, Doctor, you shall be indulged. But I shall have my wassail-bowl, nevertheless.
An immense bowl of spiced wine, with roasted apples hissing on its surface, was borne into the hall by four men, followed by an empty bowl of the same dimensions, with all the materials of arrack punch, for the divine's especial brewage. He accinged himself to the task, with his usual heroism, and having finished it to his entire satisfaction, reminded his host to order in the devil.
THE REV. DR. FOLLIOTT.
I think, Mr. Chainmail, we can amuse ​ourselves very well here all night. The enemy may be still excubant: and we had better not disperse till daylight. I am perfectly satisfied with my quarters. Let the young folks go on with their gambols; let them dance to your old harper's minstrelsy; and if they please to kiss under the mistletoe, whereof I espy a goodly bunch suspended at the end of the hall, let those who like it not, leave it to those who do. Moreover, if among the more sedate portion of the assembly, which, I foresee, will keep me company, there were any to revive the good old custom of singing after supper, so to fill up the intervals of the dances, the steps of night would move more lightly.
MR. CHAINMAIL.
My Susan will set the example, after she has set that of joining in the rustic dance, according to good customs long departed.
​After the first dance, in which all classes of the company mingled, the young lady of the mansion took her harp, and following the reverend gentleman's suggestion, sang a song of the twelfth century.
Several others of the party sang in the intervals of the dances. Mr. Chainmail handed to Mr. Trillo another ballad of the ​twelfth century, of a merrier character than the former. Mr. Trillo readily accommodated it with an air, and sang
​Lady Clarinda, being prevailed on to take the harp in her turn, sang the following stanzas.
The glance which she threw at the Captain, as she sang the last verse, awakened his dormant hopes. Looking round for his rival, he saw that he was not in the hall; and, approaching the lady of his heart, he received one of the sweetest smiles of their earlier days.
After a time, the ladies, and all the females of the party, retired. The males remained on duty with punch and wassail, and dropped off one by one into sweet forgetfulness; so that when the rising sun of December looked through the painted windows on mouldering ​embers and flickering lamps, the vaulted roof was echoing to a mellifluous concert of noses, from the clarionet of the waiting-boy at one end of the hall, to the double bass of the Reverend Doctor, ringing over the empty punch-bowl, at the other.
CONCLUSION.
From this eventful night, young Crotchet was seen no more on English mould. Whither he had vanished, was a question that could no more be answered in his case, than in that of King Arthur, after the battle of Camlan. The great firm of Catchflat and ​Company figured in the Gazette, and paid sixpence in the pound; and it was clear that he had shrunk from exhibiting himself on the scene of his former greatness, shorn of the beams of his paper prosperity. Some supposed him to be sleeping among the undiscoverable secrets of some barbel-pool in the Thames; but those who knew him best were more inclined to the opinion that he had gone across the Atlantic, with his pockets full of surplus capital, to join his old acquaintance, Mr. Touchandgo, in the bank of Dotandcarryonetown.
Lady Clarinda was more sorry for her father's disappointment than her own; but she had too much pride to allow herself to be put up a second time in the money-market; and when the Captain renewed his assiduities, her old partiality for him, combining with a sense of gratitude for a degree of constancy which she ​knew she scarcely deserved, induced her, with Lord Foolincourt's hard-wrung consent, to share with him a more humble, but less precarious fortune, than that to which she had been destined as the price of a rotten borough.
THE END.
Printed by J. and C. Adlard, Bartholomew Close.
* ↑ Sounds without meaning; imitative of the voices of birds. From the Ὄπνιθες of Aristophanes.
* ↑ "Cuckoo-city-in-the-clouds." From the same comedy.
* ↑ "One shape of many names." Æschylus: Prometheus.
* ↑ This looks so like caricature, (a thing abhorrent to our candour,) that we must give authority for it. "We ought to look the evil manfully in the face, and not amuse ourselves with the dreams of fancy. The discontent of the laborers in our times is rather a proof of their superior information than of their deterioration."—Morning Chronicle: December 20, 1830.
* ↑ A most pernicious example, by Hercules! Petronius Arbiter.
* ↑ Imitated from the Fabliau, De Florance et de Blanche Flor, alias Jugement d'Amour.
* ↑ Imitated from the Fabliau, Du Provoire qui mengea des Môres.