Cradock Nowell: A Tale of the New Forest. Volume 1 of 3. Blackmore Richard Doddridge

his own iambics”?

      “First–rate ones, I dare say, Viley. Have a pipe, old fellow. After all, it doesnʼt matter much. Folk who have never been in them think a deal the most of these things. The wine–merchant laughs at beeswing; and so, I suppose, it is with all trades”. Cradock was not by any means prone to the discourse sententious; and the present lapse was due, no doubt, to the reaction ensuing upon his later scene with Viley, wherein each had promised heartily to hold fast by the brotherhood.

      On the following Saturday morning, John Rosedewʼs face flushed puce–colour as he opened his letters at breakfast–time. “Hurrah! Amy, darling; hurrah, my child! Terque quaterque, et novies evoe! Eat all the breakfast, melimel; I wonʼt tell you till I come back”.

      “Oh, wonʼt you, indeed”? cried Amy, with her back against the door and her arms in mock grimness folded. “I rather think you will, papa; unless you have made up your mind to choke me. And you are half way towards it already”.

      John saw that peculiar swell of her throat which had frightened him so often – her dear mother had died of bronchitis, and he knew nothing of medical subjects – and so he allayed her excitement at once, gave her over to Miss Eudoxia, who was late in her bedroom as usual, and then set off at his utmost speed to tell his old friend, Sir Cradock. And a fine turn of speed he still could show, though the whiskers under his college–cap (stuck on anyhow in the hurry) were as white as the breast of a martin quivering under the eaves. Since he lost his wife he had never cared to walk fast, subsiding into three miles an hour, as thoughtful and placid men will do, when they begin to thumb their waistcoats. But now through the waking life of “the Chase”, where the brown fern–stalks bent over the Ammon horn of the lifting frond, and the fescue grass was beading rough with dew already, here and among the rabbit–holes, nimbly dodging the undermine, ran as hard as a boy of twelve, the man of threescore, John Rosedew. Without stopping to knock as usual, he burst in upon Sir Cradock, now sitting all alone at his simple, old–fashioned breakfast. Classical and theological training are not locomotive, as we all know to our cost; and the rector stood gasping ever so long, with both hands pressed to his side.

      “Why, John; quick, quick! You frighten me. Is your house on fire”?

      “Old fellow – old fellow; such news! Shake hands – ever since the charta forestæ; shake hands again. Oh, I feel rather sick; pray excuse me; ἄνω κάτα στρέφεται”.

      “What is it, John? Do be quick. I must send for Mrs. OʼGaghan and the stomach–pump”. Biddy was now the licensed doctoress of the household, and did little harm with her simples, if she failed of doing good.

      “Times there? Open it; look, University news! Crad and Clayton”.

      Wondering, smiling, placidly anxious, Sir Cradock tore open the paper, and found, after turning a great many corners, the University news. Then he read out with a trembling voice, after glancing over it silently:

      “The Ireland scholarship has been awarded to Cradock Nowell, of Merton College. Proxime accessit Clayton Nowell, scholar of Corpus Christi. Unless we are misinformed, these gentlemen are twin–brothers”.

      “Grintie, grintie, grunt,

      Oos be arl tew blunt;

      Naw oose Hampshire hogs,

      But to zhow the way in bogs”.

      So John Rosedew quoted in the fulness of his glory from an old New Forest rhyme. Johnʼs delight transcended everything, because he had never expected it. He had taken his own degree ere ever the Ireland was heard of; but three pupils of his had won it while he was still in residence. Of that he had not thought much. But now to win it by proxy in his extreme old age, as he began to consider it, and from all the crack public schoolmen, and with his own pet alumni, whom no one else had taught anything – such an Ossa upon Pelion, such an Olympus on Ossa – no wonder that the snow of his whiskers shook and the dew trembled under his eyelids.

      Sir Cradock, on the other hand, had never a word to say, but turned his head like one who waits for a storm of dust to go by.

      “Why, Cradock, old friend, what on earth is the matter? You donʼt seem at all delighted”.

      “Yes, I am, of course, John; as delighted as I ought to be. But I wish it had been Viley; he wants it so much more, and he is so like his mother”.

      “So is Crad; every bit as much; an enlarged and grander portrait. Canʼt you see the difference between a large heart and a mere good one? Will no one ever appreciate my noble and simple Craddy”?

      John Rosedew spoke warmly, and was sorry before the breath from his lips was cold. Not that he had no right to say it, but because he felt that he had done far more harm than good.

      CHAPTER VIII

      Honours flash in the summer sun, as green corn does in the morning; then they gleam mature and mellow at the time of reaping; they are bagged, perhaps by a womanʼs arm, with a cut “below the knees”; set on their butt for a man to sit under while eating his bread and cheese; then they wither, and are tossed into chaff by a contumelious steam–engine with a leathern strap inflexible.

      Cradockʼs “Ireland” has gone by, and another has succeeded it, and this has fallen, as most things fall, to the sap of perseverance, steel–tipped with hard self–confidence – this Ireland has fallen to the lot of Brown Balliolensis. Clayton would not go in for it; his pride, or rather vanity, would not allow him to do so. Was he going to take Cradockʼs leavings, and be a year behind him, when he was only two minutes younger? However, he went in for the Hertford, and, what was a great deal more, he got it; for Cradock would not stand; and, even if he had, perhaps the result would have been the same. Viley had made up his mind to win it, and worked very hard indeed; and so won it very easily. Cradock could usually beat him in Greek, but not so often in Latin. And Clayton wrote the prettiest, most tripping, coquettish, neat–ankled hendecasyllables that ever whisked roguishly round a corner, wondering where Catullus was.

      Ah! light–hearted poet, sensitively sensuous, yet withal deep–hearted, with a vein of golden philosophy, and a pensive tenderness, now–a–days we overlook thee. Horace is more fashionable, more suited to a flippant age, because he has no passion.

      Early on a sunripe evening in the month of June, “when the sun was shifting the shadows of the hills, and doffed the jaded oxenʼs yoke, distributing the love time from his waning chariot”, a forest dell, soft, clear, and calm, was listening to its thrushes. And more than at the throstleʼs flute, or flageolet of the blackbird, oaks and chestnuts pricked their ears at the voice of a gliding maiden. Where the young fern was pluming itself, arching, lifting, ruffling in filigree, light perspective, and depth of Gothic tracery, freaked by the nip of fairy fingers, tremulous as a coral grove in a crystal under–current, the shyer fronds still nestling home, uncertain of the world as yet, and coiled like catherine–wheels of green; where the cranesbill pushed like Zedekiah, and the succory reared its sky–blue windmill (open for business till 8 P.M.); where the violet now was rolled up in the seed–pod, like a stylite millipede, and the great bindweed, in its crenate horn, piped and fluted spirally, had forgotten the noonday flaunt: here, and over the nibbled sward, where the crisp dew was not risen yet, here came wandering the lightest foot that ever passed, but shook not, the moss–bed of the glow–worm. Under the rigorous oaks (so corded, seamed, and wenned with humps of grey), the stately, sleek, mouse–coloured beech, the dappled, moss–beridden ash, and the birch–tree peeling silverly, beneath the murmuring congress of the sunproof leaves; and again in the open breaks and alleys, where light and shade went see–saw; by and through and under all, feeling for and with every one, glanced, and gleamed, and glistened, and listened the loveliest being where all was love, the pet in the nest of nature.

      Of all the beauty in that sweet dell, where the foot of man came scarcely once in a year; of all the largesse of earth and heaven; of all the grace which is Natureʼs gratitude to her heavenly Father: there was not one, from the lily–bell to the wild rose and the heather–sprig, fit for a man to put in his bosom, and look at Amy Rosedew.

      It is told of a certain good manʼs child, whose lineage still is cherished, that