SUNG BY GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELE, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD. [WILLIAM COLLINS, born at Chichester, December 25, 1720. Educated at Winchester and Oxford. Was insane during the latter part of his life. Died in 1756.] [ALAIN RENÉ LE SAGE, born at Sarzeau, in Morbihan, May 8, 1688. Educated by the Jesuits. Went to Paris, where he made a large fortune by dramatic and general literature. Died at Boulogne, November 17, 1747.] I ARRIVED in safety at Pennaflor; and, halting at the gate of an inn that made a tolerable appearance, I had no sooner alighted than the landlord came out and received me with great civility; he untied my portmanteau with his own hands, and, throwing it on his shoulders, conducted me into a room, while one of his servants led my mule into the stable. This innkeeper, the greatest talker of the Asturias, and as ready to relate his own affairs, without being asked, as to pry into those of another, told me that his name was Andrew Corcuelo; that he had served many years in the army, in quality of a serjeant, and had quitted the service fifteen months ago to marry a damsel of Castropol, who, though she was a little swarthy, knew very well how to turn the penny. He said a thousand other things which I could have dispensed with the hearing of; but, after having made me his confidant, he thought he had a right to exact the same condescension from me; and, accordingly, he asked me from whence I came, whither I was going, and what I was. I was obliged to answer article by article, because he accompanied every question with a profound bow, and begging me to excuse his curiosity with such a respectful air that I could not refuse to satisfy him in every particular. This engaged me in a long conversation with him, and gave me occasion to mention my design, and the reason I had for disposing of my mule, that I might take the opportunity of a carrier. He approved of my intention, though not in a very succinct manner, for he represented all the troublesome accidents that might befall me on the road, recounted many. dismal stories of travellers, and I was afraid would never have done; he concluded at length, however, telling me that if I had a mind to sell my mule, he was acquainted with a very honest jockey who would buy her. I assured him he would oblige me by sending for him, upon which he went in quest of him with great eagerness. doubtless, had his reasons for supporting his friend's assertions. "Well," said this dealer, with an air of indifference, "how much money do you expect for this wretched animal?" After the eulogium he had bestowed on her, and the attestation of Signor Corcuelo, whom I It was not long before he returned with his man, believed to be a man of honesty and understandwhom he introduced to me as a person of exceeding, I would have given my mule for nothing, and, ing honesty; and we went into the yard all to- therefore, told him I would rely on his integrity, gether. There my mule was produced, and passed and re-passed before the jockey, who examined her from head to foot, and did not fail to speak very disadvantageously of her. I own there was not much to be said in her praise; but, however, had it been the Pope's mule he would have found some defects in her. He assured me she had all the faults a mule could have, and, to convince me of his veracity, appealed to the landlord, who, bidding him appraise the beast in his own conscience, and I would stand to the valuation. Upon this he assumed the man of honour, and replied that, in engaging his conscience, I took him on the weak side. In good sooth, that did not seem to be his strong side; for, instead of valuing her at ten or twelve pistoles, as my uncle had done, he fixed the price at three ducats, which I accepted with as much joy as if I had made an excellent bargain. After having so advantageously disposed of my mule, the landlord conducted me to a carrier, who was to set out next day for Astorga. When everything was settled between us, I returned to the inn with Corcuelo, who, by the way, began to recount the carrier's history. He told me every circumstance of his character in town: and, in short, was going to stupefy me again with his intolerable loquacity, when a man of pretty good appearance prevented that misfortune, by accosting him with great civility. I left them together, and went on, without suspecting that I had the least concern in their conversation. When I arrived at the inn, I called for supper, and, it being a meagre day, was fain to put up with eggs. While they were getting ready, I made up to my landlady, whom I had not seen before. She appeared handsome enough, and withal so sprightly and gay, that I should have concluded (even if her husband had not told me so) that her house was pretty well frequented. When the omelet I had bespoken was ready, I sat down to table by myself; but had not swallowed the first morsel when the landlord came in, followed by the man who had stopped him in the street. This cavalier, who wore a long sword, and seemed to be about thirty years of age, advanced towards me with an eager air, saying— Is it "Mr. Student, I am informed that you are that Signor Gil Blas of Santillane, who is the flambeau of philosophy and ornament of Oviedo! possible that you are that mirror of learning, that sublime genius, whose reputation is so great in this country? You know not," continued he (addressing himself to the innkeeper and his wife), "you know not what you possess! You have a treasure in your house! Behold, in this young gentleman, the eighth wonder of the world!" Then, turning to me, and throwing his arms about my neck, "Forgive," cried he, "my transports. I cannot contain the joy your presence creates." I could not answer for some time, because he locked me so close in his arms that I was almost suffocated for want of breath; and it was not till I had disengaged my head from his embrace that I replied 66 Signor Cavalier, I did not think my name was known at Pennaflor." "Not known?" replied he, in his former strain. "We keep a register of all the celebrated names within twenty leagues of us. You, in particular, are looked upon as a prodigy, and I don't at all doubt that Spain will one day be as proud of you as Greece was of the Seven Sages." These words were followed by a fresh hug, which I was forced to endure, though at the risk of strangulation. With the little experience I had, I ought not to have been the dupe of his pro fessions and hyperbolical compliments. I ought to have known, by his extravagant flattery, that he was one of those parasites who abound in every town, and who, when a stranger arrives, introduce themselves to him, in order to fill their bellies at his expense. But my youth and vanity made me judge quite otherwise; my admirer appeared to me so much of a gentleman that I invited him to take a share of my supper. "Ah, with all my heart," cried he; "I am too much obliged to my kind stars for having thrown me in the way of the illustrious Gil Blas, not to enjoy my good fortune as long as I can. I own I have no great appetite," pursued he; "but I will sit down to bear you company, and eat a mouthful purely out of complaisance." So saying, my panegyrist took his place right over against me, and, a cover being laid for him, attacked the omelet as voraciously as if he had fasted three whole days. By his complaisant beginning I foresaw that one dish would not last long, and therefore ordered a second, which they dressed with such dispatch, that it was served up just as we-or rather he had made an end of the first. He proceeded on this with the same vigour, and found means, without losing one stroke of his teeth, to overwhelm me with praises during the whole repast, which made me very well pleased with my sweet self. He drank in proportion to his eating; sometimes to my health, sometimes to that of my father and mother, whose happiness in having such a son as I, he could not enough admire. In the meantime, he plied me with wine, and insisted upon my doing him justice, while I toasted health for health, a circumstance which, together with his intoxicating flattery, put me into such good humour, that, seeing our second omelet half devoured, I asked the landlord if he had no fish in the house. Signor Corcuelo, who, in all likelihood, had a fellow-feeling with the parasite, replied, "I have a delicate trout, but those who eat it must pay for the sauce: 'tis a bit too dainty for your palate, I doubt." "What do you call too dainty ?" said the sycophant, raising his voice. "You're a wiseacre, indeed! Know, that there is nothing in this house too good for Signor Gil Blas de Santillane, who deserves to be cntertained like a prince." I was pleased at his laying hold of the landlord's last words, in which he prevented me; and, feeling myself offended, said, with an air of disdain, “Produce this trout of yours, Gaffer Corcuelo, and give yourself no trouble about the consequence." This was what the inkeeper wanted: he got it ready and served it up in a trice. At sight of this new dish I could perceive the parasite's eyes sparkle with joy, and he renewed that complaisance-I mean for the fish-which he had already shown for the eggs. At last, however, he was obliged to give CUMNOR HALL. out, for fear of accident, being crammed to the very throat. Having, therefore, eaten and drank enough, he thought proper to conclude the farce by rising from table and accosting me in these words: "Signor Gil Blas, I am too well satisfied with your good cheer to leave you without offering you an important advice, which you seem to have great 4.7 occasion for. be upon your guard against everybody you do not know. You may meet with other people inclined to divert themselves with your credulity, and perhaps to push things still farther, but don't be duped again, nor believe yourself, though they should swear it, the Eighth Wonder of the World." Henceforth beware of flattery, and CUMNOR HALL. WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE, born in Dumfriesshire, 1734. Was a printer by profession. Subsequently secretary to Commodore Johnston. Died at Forest Hill, near Oxford, 1788.] THE dews of summer night did fall, And many an oak that grew thereby. That issued from the lonely pile. Immured in shameful privity? "No more thou com'st with lover's speed, Thy once beloved bride to see; But, be she alive or be she dead, I fear, stern Earl's the same to thee. "Not so the usage I received, When happy in my father's hall; No lark so blithe, no flower more gay; Among court ladies all despised, How fair I was, you oft would say; And, proud of conquest, plucked the fruit, Then left the blossom to decay. "Yes! now neglected and despised, The sweetest beauty will decay: "At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne, Where every lady's passing rare, That eastern flowers, that shame the sun, Are not so glowing, not so fair. "Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds, Where roses and where lilies vie, To seek a primrose, whose pale shades Must sicken when those gauds are by? "Mong rural beauties I was one; Among the fields wild flowers are fair; Some country swain might me have won, And thought my passing beauty rare. "But, Leicester-or I am much wrong— It is not beauty lures thy vows; Rather ambition's gilded crown Makes thee forget thy humble spouse. "Then, Leicester, why, again I pleadThe injured surely may repineWhy didst thou wed a country maid, When some fair princess might be thine? "Why didst thou praise my humble charms And, oh! then leave them to decay? Why didst thou win me to thy arms, Then leave me mourn the live-long day? "The village maidens of the plain Salute me lowly as they go; Envious they mark my silken train, Nor think a countess can have woe. "The simple nymphs! they little know "Nor, cruel Earl, can I enjoy The humble charms of solitude; Your minions proud my peace destroy, By sullen frowns, or pratings rude. "Last night, as sad I chanced to stray, The village death-bell smote my ear; They winked aside, and seemed to say'Countess, prepare-thy end is near.' "And now, while happy peasants sleep, Here I sit lonely and forlorn; No one to soothe me as I weep, Save Philomel on yonder thorn. "My spirits flag, my hopes decay; Still that dread death-bell smites my ear; And, many a boding seems to say'Countess, prepare-thy end is near.'' Thus sore and sad that lady grieved In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear; And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, And let fall many a bitter tear. And ere the dawn of day appeared, In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear, Full many a piercing scream was heard, d many a cry of mortal fear. The death-bell thrice was heard to ring, And pensive wept the Countess' fall, As wandering onward they've espied The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall. |