The arrival of Major Snapwell, and the bustle it occasioned.--The Vicar’s interview with the stranger.--A curious discussion.--A word or two addressed to Fox-hunters.--Verbal corruptions.--Some geometrical definitions.--An enigma.

As the ladies of Overton were regaling themselves with a sociable dish of tea and chat, the conversation was abruptly interrupted by the appearance of a chariot-and-four, that passed along the road with luxurious speed, and which, as Miss Kitty Ryland declared, announced, by the dignified suavity of its roll, that the personage it conveyed must be of superior rank.

“Those,” exclaimed she, “who cannot at once distinguish such ‘spirit-stirring’ sounds from the discordant rattle of a plebeian chaise, deserve to wear the ears of Midas.”

This extraordinary subtlety of Miss Ryland’s ears is said to have been conferred upon them by those universal promoters of bodily vigour, air and exercise, of which they had received the combined advantage by the ingenious habit of listening to whispers through a certain pneumatic apparatus, familiarly termed a key-hole. In farther proof of the fidelity and alertness of her auditory establishment, we may just state, that, on passing Doseall’s shop, she never failed to distinguish, by the sound of the mortar, whether the medicines under preparation were designed for the stomachs of the rich or the poor. The vicar even admitted the correctness of her discrimination, for he had himself observed that the pestle beat dactyls in one case, and spondees in the other.

While the carriage was passing the window, the maiden companions were breathless with wonder, each catching a glance from the countenance of her neighbour, which heightened, as it were, by reflection, the surprise depicted on her own.

“Overton,” exclaimed Miss Noodleton, “is doubtless by this time honoured by the arrival of some distinguished stranger; but who he is, or what may be the object of his visit, I am at a loss to divine.”

“Pooh!” cried Miss Puttle; “what a fuss is here about a green carriage and four hack horses! I doubt not but that it has conveyed some visitor to the vicar: had the Seymours expected any company, I must have heard of it yesterday.”

“To the vicar!” exclaimed Miss Phillis Tapps; “and pray, Miss Puttle, allow me to ask whether you ever heard of the peacock nestling with the crow?”

“Or of the eagle taking up its abode in an ivy-bush?” vociferated Miss Ryland.

Conjectures were vain, and the party determined to resolve itself into a committee of inquiry. In the first place, it was judged expedient to see and question Ralph Spindle, whom Dr. Doseall employed on the arrival of a stranger, as certain insects are said to use their ‘feelers’ to discover the approach of any prey that may serve them as food.

The stranger was soon discovered to be a Major Snapwell, a rich and eccentric old bachelor, who had served in various campaigns in different parts of the globe, and received a competent number of wounds, in the defence of his king and country. His income was reported to be large, and it was said, that he had not any near relative to enjoy the reversion, since his nephew had perished about two years before by shipwreck. The circumstances that led to this disastrous event were believed to have so affected the veteran, as to have occasioned a very serious illness, and a consequent state of despondency, for which his physicians advised a constant change of scene; so that he had been rambling about the Continent during the last year and a half, accompanied only by his faithful servant, Jacob Watson, who was as much attached to the Major, as was ever a Newfoundland dog to his master.

Such was the information derived from Annette, the vicar’s housekeeper: what proportion of fiction was mingled with its truth, the reader will probably soon be able to discover.

“Well, Jacob,” said the Major, as his trusty but asthmatic valet was leisurely buttoning on the long gaiters of his master the morning after his arrival, “what do you hear about this village of Overton? Are there any sociable neighbours? I like the country; it is beautiful, Jacob, and the air appears mild: it promises to be the very place to kindle the sparks of my expiring constitution; and should you, at the same time, get your broken-winded bellows mended, my vital flame might, perhaps, burn a little brighter. But tell me, what do you hear of it, Jacob?”

“Why, and please you, Major, I just now met an old crony of mine, Mrs. Annette Brown, at the Devil and the Bag of Nails----”

“And pray, Jacob,” exclaimed the Major, “who taught you to speak thus irreverently of the village blacksmith?”

“The village blacksmith! Lord love you, it is the sign of the village alehouse!”

“Then it is a very odd one; but go on with your story.”

“As I was saying, Major, I met an old acquaintance who is housekeeper to Mr. Twaddleton, a bachelor gentleman, and the vicar of the parish. She tells me her master is downright adored in the place: though he must needs be a queer mortal, for she says he is so fond of antics that he won’t suffer a mop or broom in his house, lest, I suppose, it should spoil the hopping of the fleas, and put an end to the fly’s rope-dance upon a cobweb.”

“Jacob, Jacob, you are a wag, and had better go and offer your services to this merry parson; although, I fear, your asthmatic pipes would prove but a sorry accompaniment to his capering. But pshaw!--fiddlestick!--stuff and nonsense!--who ever heard of a vicar being fond of antics!--you are imposed upon, Jacob.”

“I am sure that how Annette told me as much. Ay, and she said he had all sorts of curiosities in his parlour--such as grinning faces, dogs with three heads, rusty swords, and I do not know what besides.”

“I see it!--see it all plainly!” exclaimed the Major; “and your story has so delighted me that I could almost dance myself.” This respectable clergyman, thought he, is, doubtless, an antiquary, a virtuoso--what a delightful companion will he prove! And a bachelor like myself!--what tÊte-À-tÊtes do I anticipate!

“Jacob,” exclaimed the Major, “you should have said that the vicar was fond of, or, to speak more correctly, devoted to antiques, not to antics. But, tell me whether there are any other agreeable persons in this village?”

“There’s the squire and his family,” answered the valet.

“The name, the name, Jacob?”

“Squire Seymour, and please you, Major.”

“Seymour, Seymour!” repeated the Major; “I seem to know that name--let me remember.”

The Major’s cogitations, however, were abruptly cut short by the entrance of the servant-maid, who informed him that Mr. Vicar Twaddleton had called.

“I beg that Mr. Twaddleton may be admitted.--Jacob, place a chair.”

“Mr. Twaddleton,” said the Major, as he advanced towards the door to meet his visitor, “I feel obliged and honoured by your kind attention. As a perfect stranger, I could scarcely have expected this civility; but your village, surrounded as it is by all the softer charms of Nature, is calculated to impress the hearts of its inhabitants with a kindred amenity. The inhabitants are, doubtless, much attached to their country.”

“Proverbially so: never was Ulysses more attached to his Ithaca! Allow me, also, to say that we all rejoice at the arrival of visitors; and, as vicar of the parish of Overton, I should consider myself criminally deficient in my duty were I to suffer a respectable stranger to depart from us without his having received the mark of my respect, and the tender of my humble but cordial hospitality. I am an old-fashioned person, Major Snapwell, and am well aware that these antiquated notions do not altogether accord with the cold and studied forms of the present day.”

“Mr. Twaddleton,” exclaimed the delighted Major, “I thank thee, most heartily thank thee, in the name of all those whose hearts have not yet been benumbed by worldly indifference. Sit thee down--I abhor ceremony--and let me beg of you not to take offence at a question to which I am most anxious you should give me an answer. Are you, my dear Sir, as I have just reasons for supposing, an Antiquary?”

“I am undoubtedly attached to pursuits which might have favoured such a report.”

“I thought so; I guessed as much. Then give me your hand; we must be friends and associates. If there be a pursuit on earth to which I am devotedly attached, it is to that of antiquities; and, let me add,” continued the Major with increasing animation, for, like bottled beer, he was the brisker for warmth, “that if there be a literary character to whom the professor of arms ought to feel superior gratitude, it is to the antiquary. How many victories, what valiant deeds, must have perished in the memory of mankind but for the kind offices of the virtuoso! under whose vivifying touch the laurels of the victor have bloomed with renovated vigour! and when the scythe of Time has left them to wither, and to be scattered on the wings of the wind, he collects their remains, and piously deposits them in a splendid mausoleum, in order to preserve them to the latest posterity!”

It were difficult to say, whether astonishment at the Major’s warmth, delight at the congenial sentiments he had expressed, or admiration at the language in which they had been conveyed, was the feeling predominant in the vicar’s mind, nor do we deem it necessary to inquire; suffice it to say, that, from the conversation of a few minutes, these two gentlemen felt incited to a mutual regard by sympathy and congeniality of soul; so true is it that, while we may be strangers with the companions of years, we may become friends with the strangers of yesterday!

“Major Snapwell,” said the vicar, “I may truly mark this day in the diary of my life in red letters; your society will add to my happiness, by extending the sphere of my literary intercourse. When may I expect the pleasure of your company at the vicarage? I am really impatient to show you my coins and a few dainty morsels of virtÙ.”

“I shall be at your service to-morrow,” answered the Major; “but I must now say something about my plans, for it is possible that you may assist me in carrying them into execution.”

“Command me,” said the vicar.

“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.

“I lately heard,” continued the Major, “of a Welsh squire, who, upon being questioned whether Socinianism or Arianism prevailed in his district, replied, that he could not answer that question, but that he knew there had been a great deal of Rheumatism.”

But the good company of the Major and his newly acquired friend must not detain us any longer from our duty. Mr. Seymour and his young family have reassembled in the library, and it is necessary that we should immediately join them. Some of our readers may, perhaps, decline accompanying us upon this occasion; for the subject to be discussed, however necessary it may be, is certainly not so entertaining as many of those which have engaged our attention. If this be the case, they may make a short cut, and join us again at the beginning of the following chapter. The children had arranged themselves around the table, when their father observed, that it would be necessary for their future progress, to devote an hour or two to the consideration of several mathematical figures and terms.

“As to mathematical figures,” said Tom, “if you allude to squares, circles, and figures of that description, and to parallel lines, angles, and so on, I can assure you that I am already well acquainted with them; for the work you have given us on Papyro-Plastics^[15] has fully instructed me in those particulars.”

“If that be the case,” replied Mr. Seymour, “you will not have any difficulty in answering my questions; but we must, nevertheless, go regularly through the subject, for the sake of your sisters, who may not be equally proficient in this elementary part of geometry: tell me, therefore, in the first place, what is meant by a parallelogram.”

“A four-sided figure,” answered Tom.

“That is true; but are there not some other conditions annexed to it?”

“Yes; its opposite sides are parallel.”

“And what do you understand by the term parallel?”

“Lines are said to be parallel,” said Tom, “when they are always at the same distance from each other, and which, therefore, can never meet, though ever so far continued.”

“You are quite right. What is a square?”

“A four-sided figure, in which the sides are all equal, and its angles all right angles.”

“Good again: but let me see whether you have a correct notion of the nature of an angle.”

“An angle is the opening formed by two lines meeting in a point.”

Mr. Seymour here acknowledged himself perfectly satisfied with his son’s answers, and said, that he should accordingly direct his attention more particularly to Louisa and Fanny; and, taking his pencil, he sketched the annexed figure.

“You perceive, Louisa,” said her father, “that the line AC makes two angles with the line BD, viz. the angle ACD and the angle ACB; and you perceive that these two angles are equal to each other.”

“How can they be equal?” cried Fanny, “for the lines are of very different lengths.”

“An angle, my dear girl, is not measured by the length of the lines, but by their opening.”

“But surely,” said Louisa, “that amounts to the same thing: for the longer the lines are, the greater must be the opening between them.”

“Take the pair of compasses,” replied her father, “and describe a circle around these angles, making the angular point C its centre.”

“To what extent am I to open them?”

“That is quite immaterial; you may draw your circle of any magnitude you please, provided it cuts both the lines of the angles we are about to measure. All circles, of whatever dimensions, are supposed to be divided into 360 parts, called degrees; the size, but not the number, of such degrees will therefore increase with the magnitude of the circle. And since the opening of an angle is necessarily a portion of a circle, it must embrace a certain number of degrees; and two angles are, accordingly, said to be equal, when they contain an equal number of them.”

“Now I understand it,” said Louisa: “as the dimensions of an angle depend upon the number of degrees contained between its lines, it evidently must be the opening, and not the length of the lines, that determines the measure of the angle.”

“Say, rather, the value of the angle, for that is the usual expression: but I perceive you understand me; tell me, therefore, how many degrees are contained in each of the two angles formed by one line falling perpendicularly on another, as in the above figure.”

“I perceive that the two angles together are just equal to half the circle; and, since you say that the whole circle is divided into 360 degrees, each angle must measure 90 of them, or the two together make up 180.”

“You are quite right, and I beg you to remember, that an angle of 90 degrees, is called a right angle, and that, when one line is perpendicular to another, it will always form, as you have just seen, a right angle on either side.”

“I now understand,” said Louisa, “what is meant BY lines being at right angles to each other: But, papa,” continued she, “what are obtuse and acute angles, of which I have so often heard you speak?”

Mr. Seymour replied, that he could better explain their nature by a drawing, than by any verbal description. “Here,” said he, “is an acute angle, A; and here an obtuse one, B: the former, you perceive, is one that contains less than 90 degrees; the latter, one which contains more, and is consequently greater than a right angle.”

Louisa fully comprehended the explanation, and observed, that she should remember, whenever an angle measured less than a right angle, that it was acute, and when more, obtuse. “But you have not yet explained to me,” she continued, “the meaning of a triangle.”

“That is a term denoting a figure of three sides, and angles. I dare say Tom can describe the several kinds of triangles.”

Tom accordingly took the pencil, and drew a set of figures, of which the annexed are faithful copies.

“A,” said he, “is an Equi-lateral triangle; its three sides being all equal. B is a Right-angled triangle, having one right angle. C represents an Obtuse-angled triangle, it having one obtuse angle. An Acute-angled triangle is one in which all the three angles are acute, as represented in figure A.”

“As you have succeeded so well in your explanation of a triangle, let us see whether you can describe the nature of a circle.”

“It is a round line, every part of which is equally distant from the centre.”

“And which round line,” said Mr. Seymour, “is frequently called the circumference. What is the diameter?”

“A straight line drawn through the centre, and terminating in the circumference on both sides.”

“And an arc?” said Mr. Seymour.

“Any portion of the circumference.”

“Now let me ask you, what name is given to a line which joins any two opposite angles of a four-sided figure?”

“The diagonal, papa.”

“You are quite right,” said Mr. Seymour; and, turning towards the girls, he desired them to remember that term, as they would frequently hear it mentioned during their investigation into the nature of “Compound Forces.” “I really think,” continued their father, “that Tom is as capable of instructing you in these elementary principles as myself; I shall, therefore, desire you, my dear boy, to conclude this lecture during my absence; remember, that by teaching others we always instruct ourselves: but before I quit you, I will give you a riddle to solve, for I well know that you all delight in an enigma.”

“Indeed do we,” said Louisa.

“Pray let us hear it, papa,” cried Fanny.

Mr. Seymour then recited the following lines, which he had hastily composed; the point having, no doubt, been suggested on the instant, by the remark he had just offered.

“Why,” cried Tom, “what can that be, of which the more we give away, the more we have left?”

“Ay,” added Louisa, “and that we actually increase the store, by giving away a part of it!”

“It is some word, I think,” observed Fanny; “do you not remember that mamma asked us what that was, from which we might take away some, and yet that the whole would remain?”

“To be sure,” cried Tom, “I remember it well; it was the word wholesome.”

Mr. Seymour here assured them, that the enigma they had just heard, did not depend upon any verbal quibble; and that as the object of its introduction was to instruct, rather than to puzzle them, he would explain it, and leave them to extract its moral, and profit by its application.

“It is Knowledge,” said he.

“‘No treasure’s so precious,’” repeated Louisa; “certainly none;--‘and yet those who gain me, though they give me away, will always retain me;’--to be sure,” added she. “How could I have been so simple as not to have guessed it? We can certainly impart all the knowledge we possess, and yet not lose any of it ourselves.”

“By instructing others,” said Mr. Seymour, “we are certain, at the same time, of instructing ourselves, and thus to increase our store of knowledge. Let this truth be impressed upon your memory, and, after our conversations, examine each other as to the knowledge you have gained by them: you will thus not only fix the facts more strongly in your recollection, but you will acquire a facility of conversing in philosophical language.”