For the Southern Literary Messenger.
LIONEL GRANBY.
CHAP. V.
| The voice of youth! the air is rife With a dream of glorious things, And our harp is thrilling with the life Of all its shining strings.—Newspaper. |
The famed drinking song of Rabelais "Remplio tous verre vuide," the offspring of that wonderful man whose humor electrified an age, and whose sarcasm did as much for religious reformation as the logic of Luther, greeted my ears when I descended at the Raleigh in Williamsburg. Before me was a huge and curiously misshapen edifice, surmounted by a box, which looked more like a coffin than a porch. Over it the frowning head of the immortal patron of tobacco and potatoes ghastly smiled through its gamboge and vermilion, looking like one of those rough portraits, which in the earlier maps of Virginia, are placed amid the terra incognito, where "divers salvages inhabit." The porch was filled with young men, sitting in that peculiar posture, which resembled them to the mortars which grimly flank some armed fort, moving themselves and their legs from the banisters, only to examine a case of pistols, on which an atrabilarious youth was lecturing with great spirit. A few seemed to be absorbed in a newspaper, while more than one was employed in catching the echo of the bacchanial song, and murmuring it back to the festive board. The arrival of Arthur Ludwell and myself, produced a momentary sensation of curiosity and attention, and we had scarcely dismounted from our horses, ere we were frankly invited to join in the festivities of the club. With his accustomed prudence, Arthur declined the dangerous honor, while I, through an utter recklessness of heart, and a burning thirst for excitement, quickly accepted the offer, and was immediately ushered into the "Apollo," a long and dimly lighted room, in which, around a table, were gathered the bloom of boyhood and the bud of adolescence. Wine, adulterated into poison by its union with brandy, and that original sin of southern intemperance mint julap, stood forth the bold heralds of an incipient debauch. A young man of dark complexion and melancholy countenance, acted as the president of the board, occasionally struggling with himself for a bad pun, or joining in the chorus of each mirthful song.
"How has the affair between Leger and Allan terminated?" inquired a faint voice near me.
"Diffugere vives," responded the president, "for they fought this morning at the hay-yard with my pistols. Leger had the advantage of the ground, 'mutat terra vices,' and hit Allan at the third fire. However, his wound is not dangerous; they are now friends. Here's to their health, and to the ball, which in purifying honor, exalts friendship."
I did not comprehend either the logic or morality of this toast—yet I drank it through common civility; and from my desire to be considered as a youth of spirit, I soon reeled in the full grossness of intoxication. The lights were now extinguished, and we sallied forth, fired with the ambition of "putting the town to rights." At the door I met Scipio, who gazing on me for a moment, averted his face and burst into tears. I passed rapidly by him, and with difficulty smothered a curse which my pride aimed at his weakness. Unnoticed by my companions he silently followed me; and it was his hand which raised me from the earth where I had fallen, and his arm which bore me to my room.