"A man is more like an atheist," retorted Mr Lutter, "who is ungrateful to God for the gift of song, and shuts up the sweetest avenue by which the spirit approaches its Creator. I admire poetry, and respect poets."

"Any one who holds such diabolic doctrines is not fit to remain in Belfront Castle."

"Nay," replied Mr Lutter, "Belfront Castle would be infinitely improved if such doctrines were adopted in it."

"Gentlemen," said Reginald, "you are both learned men; and I know nothing about the questions you discuss."

"Your lady shall judge between us," said Mr Lutter.

"She shall not," said Mr Peeper; "I am the sole judge in matters of the kind."

"Let us hear Phil's song in the mean time," said Reginald. "Come, Lorimer."

"What shall it be?" said Phil.

"Something comic," said Sir Bryan.

"Something bloody," said Hasket of Norland.

"Something loving," said Maulerer of Phascald.

"Will the lady decide for us?" said Phil, with a smile. "Will you have the 'Silver Scarf,' madam; or 'the Knight and the Soldan of Bagdad?' They are both done into my poor English from the troubadours of Almeigne."

The lady fixed, at haphazard, on "the Knight and the Soldan of Bagdad:" and Phil prepared to obey her commands. He took a small harp in his hand, and sate down in the vacant chair next to Sir Bryan de Bareilles. The rest of the company composed themselves to listen; and, after a short prelude, Lorimer, in a fine manly voice, began—

"Oh, brightly bloom'd the orange flow'r,
And fair the roses round;
And the fountain, in its marble bed,
Leapt up with a happy sound;
And stately, stately was the hall,
And rich the feast outspread;
But the Soldan of Bagdad sigh'd full sore,
And never a word he said.
Never a word the Soldan said,
But many a tear let fall;
He had tried all the joys that life could give,
And was weary of them all.
The Soldan lift up his heavy eye—
And to that garden fair,
A stranger enter'd with harp in hand,
And with a winsome air;
Long locks of yellow molten gold
Hung over his cheek so brown,
And a red mantle of Venice silk
Fell from his shoulders down.
A weary wanderer he did seem,
Come from a distant land;
And over the harpstrings thoughtfully,
He moveth his cunning hand.
He opes his lips, and he poureth forth
Such a sweet stream of sound,
That the Soldan's heart leaps up in his breast,
And his eye he casts around.
'Was never a voice,' the Soldan said,
'So sweet—nor so blest a song;—
Sing on, kind minstrel,' the Soldan said,
'I have been sad too long.'
The minstrel sang, and soft and sweet
The Soldan's tears fell free;
'Oh, tell me, thou minstrel dear,' he said,
'What boon shall I give to thee?
Oh, stay with me but a year and a day,
And sing sweet songs to me;
And whatever the boon, by Allah, I swear,
I will freely give it to thee.'
The minstrel stay'd a year and a day,
And the Soldan loved him well;
'Now what is the boon thou askest of me—
I prithee, dear minstrel, tell.'
'A Christian knight in thy dungeon pines,
And his hope is nearly o'er;
His freedom is the boon I ask—
Oh, open his prison door!'
The minstrel went—and no more was seen;
And the Christian knight, set free,
Found a stately ship, that bore him safe
Home to his own countrie.
And his lady met him at the gate,
His lady fair and young;
And with a scream of pride and joy,
She in his bosom hung.
Oh, glad, glad was the Christian knight,
And glad was his lady fair,
And her pale cheek flush'd as he cast aside
The locks of her raven hair,
And kiss'd her brow, and told the tale
Of his dungeon, deep and strong;
And of the minstrel, too, he told
And of the power of song.
And they blest the minstrel, and blest his song,
And soon the feast was dight;
And prince and noble crowded in,
To welcome home the knight.
And when the brimming cup went round,
Spoke out an evil tongue,
And blamed that lady to her lord,
That lady fair and young;
And told, with many a bitter sneer,
How that, for many a day,
When he was prison'd in Paynim land,
That dame was far away,
And none knew where; but all could guess—
Up rose the knight, and kept
His hand close clutch'd on his dagger heft,
And down the hall he stept;
And onwards with the dagger bared,
He rush'd to the lady's bower—
'Thou hast been false, and left thy home—
Thou diest this very hour!'
'Oh! it is true, I left my home;
But yet, before I die,
Oh! look not on me with face so changed,
Nor with so fierce an eye!
Oh! let me, but for a minute's space,
Into my chamber hie;
One prayer I would say for thee and me—
One prayer—before I die!'
She left the bower; and as he stept
To and fro in ireful mood,
A stranger from the chamber came,
And close behind him stood.
Long locks of molten yellow gold
Hung over his cheek so brown,
And a red mantle of Venice silk,
Fell from his shoulder, down.
Dark frown'd the knight—'Vile churl!' he said;
But ere he utter'd more,
The stranger let the mantle fall
Unclasp'd upon the floor,—
And off he cast the yellow locks—
And, lo! the lady fair,
Blushing and casting from her cheek
Her glossy raven hair!
Down fell the dagger; down the knight
Sank kneeling and opprest;
And the lady oped her snow white arms,
And wept upon his breast!"

"A foul song!—a wanton woman!"—exclaimed Sir Bryan de Barreilles—"he should have stabbed her for living so long with a Jew villain like the Soldan of Bagdad."

"Was the villain a Jew?" enquired Dr Howlet, who had caught the word. "I did not know Bagdad was in Jewry. Is a heathen the same as a Jew, Mr Peeper?"

The gentleman thus appealed to, coughed as if to clear his throat, and though he usually spoke with the utmost clearness, he mumbled and muttered in the same unintelligible manner as he had done when he was saying grace; and it was a very peculiar habit of the learned individual, whenever he was applied to for an explanation, to betake himself to a mode of speech that would have puzzled a far wiser head than Dr Howlet's, to make head or tail of it.

Dr Howlett, however, appeared to be perfectly satisfied with the information; and by the indignant manner in which he struck his long gold-headed ebony walking-stick on the floor, seemed entirely to agree with the worthy knight in his estimate of the heroine of Phil Lorimer's ballad.

"I like the ballad about the jousting of Romulus the bold Roman, with Judas Maccabaeus in the Camp at Ascalon far better," said Hasket of Norland. "Sing it, Phil."

"No, no," cried Maulerer, who was far gone in intoxication. "Sing us the song of the Feasting at Glaston, when Eneas the Trojan married Arthur's daughter.—Sing the song, sirrah, this moment, or I'll cut your tongue in two, to make your note the sweeter.—Sing."

Thus adjured, Phil once more began:—

"There was feasting high and revelry
In Glaston's lofty hall;
And loud was the sound, as the cup went round,
Of joyous whoop and call;
And Arthur the king, in that noble ring,
Was the merriest of them all.
No thought, no care, found entrance there,
But beauty's smiles were won;
No sour Jack Priest to spoil the feast"—

"Ha!" cried Howlet, interrupting Mr Lorimer in a tremendous passion, "what says the varlet? He is a heathen Turk, and no Christian. How dares he talk so of the church?" The old man rose as he spoke, and, suddenly catching hold of the enormous ebony walking-stick, which generally reposed at the side of his chair, he aimed a blow with all his force at the unfortunate songster; but, being blind, and not calculating his distance, his staff fell with tremendous effect on the left eye of Sir Bryan de Barreilles.

"Is it so?" cried the Knight, stunned; but resisting the tendency to prostration produced by the stroke, and flinging a large silver flagon across the table, which missed Dr Howlet, and made a deep indentation in the skull of Maulerer of Phascald—"Now, then!"

Hasket of Norland attempted to hold Sir Bryan, and prevent his following up his attack; and Mr Maulerer recovered sufficiently to fling the heavy candlestick at his assailant; the branches of which hit the cheek of Hasket, while the massive bottom ejected the three front teeth of Sir Bryan.

There was now no possibility of preventing the quarrel; and while the four strangers were pounding each other with whatever weapons came first to hand, and Mr Peeper crept under the table for safety, and Reginald essayed to talk them into reason, Mr Lutter politely handed Jane to the door of the hall.

"Permit me, madam, to rescue you from this dreadful scene."

"Is it thus always?" enquired Jane, nearly weeping with fright.

"There are many things that may be improved in the castle," said Mr Lutter. "I have seen the necessity of an alteration for a long time, and, if you will favour me with your assistance, much may be done."

"Oh! I will help you to the utmost of my power."

"We must upset the influence of Mr Peeper," said Mr Lutter. "May I speak to you on the subject to-morrow?"

A month had passed since Jane's arrival at Belfront Castle, and she had had many private and confidential conversations with Mr Lutter. The ominous eyes of Mr Peeper grew fiercer and fiercer, and she many times thought of coming to an open rupture with him at once; but was deterred from doing so, by not yet having ascertained whether her influence over Reginald was sufficiently established to stand a contest with the authority of his ancient friend. She could not understand how her husband could have remained hoodwinked so long; or how he had submitted to the despotic proceedings of his former tutor, who persisted in assembling the same airs of authority over him, as he had exercised when he was a child. Such, however, was evidently the case; and Reginald had never entertained a thought of rescuing himself from the thraldom in which he had grown up. A look from Mr Peeper; a solemn statement from him, that such and such things had never been heard of before in Belfront; and, above all, the use of the muttered and unintelligible jargon to which Mr Peeper betook himself in matters of weight and difficulty, were quite sufficient: Reginald immediately gave up his own judgment, and felt in fact rather ashamed of himself for having hinted that he had a judgement at all. Under these circumstances, Mr Lutter had a very difficult part to play; and all that Jane could do, was to second him whenever she had the opportunity. One day, in the lovely month of April, Phil Lorimer sat on a sunny part of the enornous wall that guarded the castle, and leaning his back against one of the little square towers that rose at intervals in the circuit of the fortifications, sang song after song, as if for the edification of a number of crows that were perched on the trees on the other side of the moat. The audience were grossly inattentive, and paid no respect whatever to the performer, who still continued his exertions, as highly satisfied as if he were applauded by boxes, pit, and gallery of a crowded theatre:—Among others, he sang the ballad of the "Silver Scarf."

"It was a King's fair daughter,
With eyes of deepest blue,
She wove a scarf of silver
The whole long summer through—

"A stately chair she sat on
Before the castle door,
And ever in the calm moonlight
She work'd it o'er and o'er.

"And many a knight and noble
Went daily out and in,
And each one marvell'd in his heart
Which the fair scarf might win.

"She took no heed of questions,
From her work ne'er raised her head,
And on the snow-white border
Sew'd her name in blackest thread.

"Then came a tempest roaring,
From the high hills it came,
And bore the scarf far out to sea
From forth its fragile frame:

"The maiden sate unstartled,
As if it must be so—
She stood up from her stately chair,
And to her bower did go.

"She took from forth her wardrobe
Her dress of mourning hue—
Whoever for a scarf before
Such weight of sorrow knew?

"In robes of deepest mourning,
Three nights and days she sate;
On the third night, the warder's horn
Was sounded at the gate—

"A messenger stands at the door,
And sad news bringeth he;
The king and all his gallant ships
Are wreck'd upon the sea.

"And now the tide is rising,
And casts upon the shore
Full many a gallant hero's corse,
And many a golden store.

"Then up rose the king's daughter,
Drew to her window near;
'What is it glitters on thine arm,
In the moonlight so clear?'

"'It is a scarf of silver,
I brought it from the strand;
I took it from the closed grasp
Of a strong warrior's hand.'

"That feat thou ne'er shouldst boast of
If but alive were he;
Go take him back thy trophy
To the blue rolling sea.

"And when that knight you've buried,
The scarf his grave shall grace;
And next to where you've laid him,
Oh, leave a vacant place!"

"Here, you cursed old piper! leave off frightening the crows, and open the gate this moment. Who the devil, do you think, is to burst a bloodvessel by hollowing here all day?"

Mr Lorimer, though used to considerable indignities, as we have already seen, had still a little of the becoming poetical pride about him, and looked rather angrily over the wall. "Nobody wishes you to break bloodvessels, or have their own ears disturbed by your screaming," he said. "What do you want?"

"To get into your infernal house, to be sure. Where did you get such unchristian roads? My bones are sore with the jolting. Send somebody to open the gate."

"The drawbridge is up, and Mr Peeper must have his twopence."

"Who the devil is Mr Peeper?" said the stranger. "I sha'n't give him a fraction. Who made the drawbridge his? Is Mr Belfront at home?"

"Yes, he is in Mr Peeper's study."

"And Mrs Belfront?"—

"Pickling cod. It is Mr Peeper's favourite dish; so we all live on it sometimes for weeks together."

"With such a trout-stream at your door? He'll be a cleverer fellow than I think him if he gets me to eat his salted carrion. Open the door, I say, or you'll have the worst of it when my stick gets near your head. Tell Mrs Belfront her uncle is here—her Uncle Samson."

Phil Lorimer saw no great resemblance to the Jewish Hercules in the little, dapper, bustling-mannered man in a blue coat with bright brass buttons, pepper-and-salt knee-breeches, and long gaiters, who thus proclaimed his relationship to the lady of the castle. He hurried down from the wall to make the required announcement.

"My uncle Samson, the manufacturer, from Leeds! Oh, let him in, by all means!" exclaimed Jane; "he was always so kind to me when I was a child!"

"He can't get in, madam, unless Mr Peeper orders the drawbridge to be lowered; and he is now busy with Mr Belfront."

"Go for Mr Lutter; he will be glad to hear of uncle Samson's arrival."

Mr Lorimer discovered Mr Lutter comfortably regaling himself in the buttery; but on hearing in what respect his services were required, he left unfinished a large tankard of ale, with which he was washing down an enormous quantity of bread and cheese, and proceeded to the moat.

"Don't disturb Mr Peeper," he said, "but help me to launch the little punt."

By dint of a little labour, the small vessel was got into the water, and Mr Lutter, taking a scull in his hand, paddled over to the other side, and embarked the gentleman in the blue coat. Paddling towards an undefended part of the castle, he taught him how to clamber up the wall; and Mr Samson, wiping the stains of his climbing from the knees of his nether habiliments, looked round the castle-yard. "Well! who'd have thought that such a monstrous strong-looking place should be stormed by a middle-aged gentleman in a punt!"

"You've a friend in the garrison, you'll remember, sir, and the battlements have never been repaired."

"They ain't worth repairing. It's a regular waste of building materials to make such thick walls and pinnacles. Blowed, if them stones wouldn't build a mill; and a precious water-power, too," he added, as he saw the river sparkling downward at the northern side. "Oho! I must have a talk with Jane. Will you take me to Mrs Belfront? I haven't seen her for five years. She must be much changed since then, and I must prepare her for the arrival of her cousins."

Jane was sitting in the great hall, feeling disconsolate enough. Often, in her father's comfortable parlour, she had read accounts of baronial residences of the olden time; and one of the greatest pleasures she had felt in becoming Mrs Belfront, was to be the possessor of a real bona fide castle that had been actually a fortress in the days of knighthood. She had studied long ago the adventures of high-born dames and stately nobles, till she was nearly as far gone in romance as Don Quixote; and many questions she had asked about Belfront, and donjon-towers, and keeps, and tiltyards, and laboured very hard to acquire a correct idea of the mode of life and manners of the days of chivalry. Her imagination, we have seen, was too lively to be restrained by the more matter-of-fact nature of her husband; and she now felt with great bitterness the difference between presiding at a tournament, or being present at the Vow of the Peacock, and the slavish submission in which she, with the whole household, was held by Mr Pepper. Deeply she now regretted the feelings of superiority she had experienced over her own relations by her marriage into such an ancient race as the Belfronts. She felt ashamed of the contempt she had felt for the industrious founders of her own family's wealth, and at that moment would have preferred the blue coat and brass buttons of her uncle Samson, to all the escutcheons and shields of the Norman conquest; and at that moment, luckily, the identical coat and buttons made their appearance.

"Well, niece, here's a go!" exclaimed the angry uncle. "Is this a way to receive a near relation after such a journey?"

"Oh, uncle!"

"Why, did ye never hear tell of such a place as Kidderminster?—have you no carpets?"

"Mr Belfront says there were no carpets in his ancestor's time"—

"And no railroads, nor postchaises, nor books, nor nothing; and is that any reason why we shouldn't have lots of every thing now? By dad, before I've been here a week I'll have a reg'lar French Revolution! No Bastille! says I; let's have a Turkey carpet, and a telescope dining-table, good roads, and no infernal punts—and, above all, let's get quit of the villain Peeper."

"Oh! if Reginald would only consent!"

"Why not? by dad, I'll make his fortune. I'll give him a thousand a-year for the water-power that's now all thrown away. I'll have a nice village built down in the valley. I'll get him two guineas an acre for his land that's now lying waste. I'll dig for coal. We'll build a nice comfortable house, and leave this old ruin to the crows."

"And the neighbours, uncle Samson?"

"Why, we'll build a church, and the parson will be a good companion. When the roads are made, you'll give a jolly dinner once a-week to every squire within ten miles. You'll have a book club. You'll help in the Sunday school. You'll go to the county balls. Your husband will join the agricultural society, and act as a magistrate. He'll subscribe to the hounds. He'll attend to the registrations. He'll have shooting-parties in September. And as to any old-world, wretched talks about chivalry and antiquity, we'll show him that there never was a time like the present—commerce, land, property, and intelligence, all in the very best condition. We'll make Lutter superintendent of the whole estate, and send old Peeper about his business. And in all this you must help; for there's nothing to be done without the help of the ladies: so give me your hand, dear niece, and don't cry."

"It would make me so happy! I would never look into Amadis de Gaul again!"

"Hang Amadis de Gall and Amadi de Spurzheim, too! Where is your husband?"

"I seldom see him now. He is always in the oratory with Mr Peeper."

"The deuce he is!" said the uncle. "And how do you get on in other respects? Are you comfortable—happy—contented?" Jane told him all she had encountered since she had come to the castle, and the uncle seemed thunderstruck at the recital.

"Well! bold measures are always the best," he said at last; "I'll kick Peeper into the moat!" and before his niece could interfere, the uncle had rushed across the quadrangle, guided, we are sorry to say, by Mr Lutter, and, grasping the venerable Peeper, whom he met near the drawbridge, he dragged him towards the water.

Jane ran to get assistance for the unfortunate victim; and crying "Help! help!" as she saw the wretched man forced over the walls, she looked in a state of distraction towards her husband. "Dear Jane," said that individual, smiling blandly, "I told you you had overtired yourself with walking." Jane gazed round; there was Reginald sitting beside her, with her head reclining on his shoulder, at the open window of the inn in Wales. The vale of Cwmcwyllchly was spread in a beautiful landscape below. They were still on their wedding tour.

"You have been asleep, Jane," said Reginald.

"And have had such dreadful dreams. Oh, Reginald! I have had such visions of horrid things and people. I shall never be romantic again about chivalry. Such coarseness!—such slavery!—such ignorance! Ah, how happy we ought to be that we are born in a civilized time, with no Mr Peepers for father confessors, nor fighting with firebrands for amusement!"

"You have been reading Hallam's Middle Ages—a present from your uncle Samson—till you have become a right-down Utilitarian. Come, let us ring for tea; and to-morrow we must start for Yorkshire! The Quarter-sessions are coming on."

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Blackwoods Edinburgh Magazine – Volume 55, No. 341, March, 1844

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