John de Lancaster: a novel; vol. I.

by Richard Cumberland

As the porter, who lays down his burden and his knot, has probably a quicker sense, and greater relish for the pleasure, which that relaxation gives, than the gentleman, who never carried any thing heavier than the coat upon his back, so did it fare with the good old lord paramount of the manor of Glen-Morgan. He was just now the lightest man in the company, forasmuch as he had got rid of a heavy wallet of vexations, and in the gaiety of his heart, he declared, that as for any pain the gout could give (which in fact at that very moment gave no pain at all) he regarded it as nothing: a man was not to flinch and make wry faces at a little twinge of the toe, when he had a gallant officer in his eye, who had undergone the amputation of a leg.

Yes, said the colonel, I have lost one leg; I should not like to lose another; but in our way of life we must take things as they turn out; considering how often I have heard the bullets whistle, I think myself well off.

I perceive, cried the painter, it is your right leg, colonel, which you have lost: the misfortune I should think would have been greater, had you been deprived of your right arm.

So the world would think, sir, replied the colonel, had it been your case; but we poor soldiers sometimes want our legs to save our lives.

Your wounds sometimes, said De Lancaster, will save your lives: the scars, that Caius Marius bore about him, rendered his visage so terrible, that the assassinating soldier did not dare to strike him.—I have painted him in that very crisis, replied the artist; but I confess I have trusted to his natural expression, and left out the scars.—You have done right as a painter, rejoined De Lancaster; an historian is tied down to facts.

After an evening, passed in conversation, cheerful at least, though little worth recording, and a night consumed in sleep, of which no record can be taken, Robert De Lancaster rose with the sun, and, after about five hours travel, was set down in safety with his friend the colonel at his castle door, where Cecilia met him with a smiling welcome, and a happy report, that all was well. This report was in a few minutes after confirmed by Mr. Llewellyn, who had the health of the lady above stairs under his care. Mr. Philip also presented himself, and our hero John, (though last and least) exhibited his person, and seemed perfectly well satisfied with the reception, that was given him.

Llewellyn was a man of information, and had a spirit of enquiry, by which he became to the full as deep in the secrets of the families he visited, as in those of the medicines he administered. To Sir Owen at all times, sick or well, he had free access, and he paid him more than professional attendance: he now brought the news of Mrs. David Owen’s arrival at Penruth Abbey. He had seen her, and being as usual in a communicative vein, he proceeded to launch out into many of those trivial particulars, which are of easy carriage, and with which gentlemen of his vocation are apt to enrich their conversation to the great edification and amusement of their employers.

Mr. Llewellyn would not positively pronounce Mrs. David Owen to be a beauty, yet he was aware that many people would call her pretty; she was not however to his taste: there was a want of sensibility and a certain delicacy of expression, which in his conception of the female character (and here he addressed himself to Cecilia) was the very crisis of all that is charming in woman.

You mean criterion, my friend, said De Lancaster, but you are in the shop, and there errors are excepted; so go on; proceed with your description.

Mr. Llewellyn was too well accustomed to these little rubs to be daunted by them, and finding that he had gained attention, proceeded to describe Mrs. Owen as a sprightly little woman of a very dark complexion, with an aquiline nose, quick sparkling eyes and thick arched eyebrows, black as the raven’s plume: Mr. Llewellyn professed himself no admirer of black hair; (Cecilia’s was light brown). Her dress, he said, was after the fashion of the Spanish ladies, as he had seen them represented on the London stage, when he walked the hospitals.—Here Mr. Llewellyn made another slip, but it was out of De Lancaster’s reach, who had no data for a comment.—He acknowledged that her style of dress was well calculated to set off her shape, and display the elegance of her taper limbs to the best advantage: he would have the company be prepared to encounter the sight of bare elbows and short petticoats; for his own part he was no friend to either. She had taken up her guitar at Sir Owen’s desire, and sung two or three of her Spanish airs, accompanied by certain twanging strokes on that instrument, which, though it resembled nothing that could be called playing, had however no unpleasing effect. She sung in a high shrill tone, and accompanied the words, which he did not understand, with certain looks and gestures, which he did not wish to describe.