“For my present purpose, it is only necessary to state, that I have a nephew whom I have adopted as my son; I superintended his education; he arrived at manhood, and became an accomplished scholar and a polished gentleman. Naturally anxious to visit the ancient mistress of the world, he readily obtained my approbation of his plan. He embarked at Marseilles; but, meeting with one of those treacherous gales so characteristic of the Mediterranean, he was shipwrecked in the bay of Genoa. For three years did I mourn him as dead, and it was only by a train of circumstances of the most extraordinary description that I at length discovered him to be living. I will not now trouble you with the details of this most singular history; suffice it to say he is now well, and about to be married to a young lady for whom he has long entertained the purest attachment. I am in search of a country residence for them, and hearing that a Sir Thomas Sotherby, a resident, I understand, in your neighbourhood, is most desirous of disposing of Osterley Park, and offers many advantages to any one who will take it off his hands, and as I have both the inclination and the means to become its possessor, I have travelled hither for the purpose of inspecting it. So now you have my history.”
“It is perfectly true,” said the vicar, “that Sir Thomas is willing to make a considerable sacrifice in order to obtain an immediate purchaser. The health of her Ladyship is in so precarious a state that her physicians have ordered her to proceed, without delay, to Madeira. Sir Thomas, Major, is a fox-hunter, and I will venture to say that no one will miss him but the doctor and the foxes--the one will lose a profitable friend, the other a relentless enemy--‘Gaudet equis et canibus,’ as the poet has it.”
“Indeed! but I am no fox-hunter, and I therefore fear that, in the opinion of the country, Osterley Park will not exchange its proprietor to advantage. Pray, vicar, may I ask whether you are addicted to field-sports?”
“Addicted to field-sports!” repeated the reverend antiquary: “I am surprised, mortified, absolutely shocked! I--I addicted to field-sports!”
“Nay, Mr. Twaddleton,” observed the Major, “I am really sorry that I should have unintentionally excited your indignation. I am not aware that there is anything in the innocent pastime to which I have alluded inconsistent with your station and acquirements. As an antiquary, I need hardly remind you that the fathers of the Church were amongst the keenest sportsmen. Do you not remember the amusing portrait which Chaucer has given us of a sporting monastic in the 14th century, and which, by the by, was the model from which Sir Walter Scott drew the character of his Abbot in ‘Ivanhoe?’ Then again, need I call to your recollection the fame of Walter, Archdeacon of Canterbury, who was promoted to the see of Rochester in 1147, and who is said not only to have spent the whole of his time in hunting, but to have been as keen a sportsman at eighty as he was at twenty years of age? Then again, there was Reginald Brian, translated to the see of Worcester in 1352; and William de Clowne, whom his biographer celebrated as the most amiable ecclesiastic that ever filled the abbot’s throne of St. Mary in Leicestershire, the most knowing sportsman after a hare in the kingdom; insomuch, indeed, that Richard II. and his son allowed him annual pensions for his instructions in the art?”
“Major Snapwell, antiquity can no more privilege error, than novelty can prejudice truth,” exclaimed the vicar: “but, to be serious,” continued he, “I never could discover the principle upon which the pleasure of this said diversion of Diana can depend; and yet I do assure you, sir, that I have not failed to submit the question to a logical examination. Thus, for instance:--the fox emits from his body certain odorous particles;--that is my major, and I say concedo: very well; I proceed. The structure of the olfactory organs of the canine species enables them to perceive this said odour: that is my minor, and I say again concedo. But I should much like to be informed how any logician can defend the consequence which is deduced from these premises. To speak more syllogistically, why am I pleased to put my neck in jeopardy, because my dogs happen to perceive a smell?”
The Major laughed heartily at the very ludicrous point of view in which the worthy vicar had thought proper to represent the subject. Their discourse now took a different turn. The Major inquired what might be the origin of the singular sign of the village inn--The Devil and the Bag of Nails? “Satan,” continued the Major, “is unquestionably the patron of the public-house; but why he should be represented as holding in his hand a bag of nails, I cannot divine, unless, indeed, in reference to the old adage, that ‘Every glass of spirit is a nail in your coffin.’”
“Ha! ha! ha! whimsical enough,” cried the vicar; “but, unfortunately, your explanation is not the true one. The sign,” observed Mr. Twaddleton, “is not quite so uncommon as you seem to suppose; it was originally ‘Pan and his Bacchanals,’ but, by a very natural transition, the figure of the sylvan deity, which is certainly terrific[[14]] enough to sanction the mistake, has passed into that of the evil tempter; while the word Bacchanals, by one of those verbal corruptions so common in all languages, has been converted into the bag of nails.”
“Very true,” said the Major; “whenever the vulgar are incapable of understanding the meaning of a word, they are sure to substitute for it some one which has the nearest resemblance to it in sound, and which is more familiar to them. I had but just now an excellent instance of this kind: my blundering servant Jacob insisted upon it that you were fond of antics; and before I left London, on sending him out to purchase a Court Calendar, what do you suppose he brought home?--a Quart Colander!”
The vicar was much amused by the absurdity of the mistake.