Perplexed16 with these cogitations, Mr. Clarke appealed to our adventurer’s own reflection. He expatiated17 upon the bad consequences that would attend his uncle’s perseverance18 in the execution of a scheme so foreign to his faculties19; and entreated20 him, for the love of God, to divert him from his purpose, either by arguments or authority; as, of all mankind, the knight alone had gained such an ascendency over his spirits, that he would listen to his exhortations21 with respect and submission22.
Our adventurer was not so mad, but that he saw and owned the rationality of these remarks. He readily undertook to employ all his influence with Crowe, to dissuade23 him from his extravagant24 design; and seized the first opportunity of being alone with the captain, to signify his sentiments on this subject. “Captain Crowe,” said he, “you are then determined to proceed in the course of knight-errantry?” “I am,” replied the seaman25, “with God’s help, d’ye see, and the assistance of wind and weather”— “What dost thou talk of wind and weather?” cried the knight, in an elevated tone of affected26 transport; “without the help of Heaven, indeed, we are all vanity, imbecility, weakness, and wretchedness; but if thou art resolved to embrace the life of an errant, let me not hear thee so much as whisper a doubt, a wish, a hope, or sentiment with respect to any other obstacle, which wind or weather, fire or water, sword or famine, danger or disappointment, may throw in the way of thy career. When the duty of thy profession calls, thou must singly rush upon innumerable hosts of armed men. Thou must storm the breach27 in the mouth of batteries loaded with death and destruction, while, every step thou movest, thou art exposed to the horrible explosion of subterranean28 mines, which, being sprung, will whirl thee aloft in air, a mangled29 corse, to feed the fowls30 of heaven. Thou must leap into the abyss of dreadful caves and caverns31, replete32 with poisonous toads33 and hissing34 serpents; thou must plunge35 into seas of burning sulphur; thou must launch upon the ocean in a crazy bark, when the foaming36 billows roll mountains high—when the lightning flashes, the thunder roars, and the howling tempest blows, as if it would commix the jarring elements of air and water, earth and fire, and reduce all nature to the original anarchy37 of chaos38. Thus involved, thou must turn thy prow39 full against the fury of the storm, and stem the boisterous40 surge to thy destined41 port, though at the distance of a thousand leagues; thou must”——
“Avast, avast, brother,” exclaimed the impatient Crowe, “you’ve got into the high latitudes42, d’ye see. If so be as you spank43 it away at that rate, adad, I can’t continue in tow—we must cast off the rope, or ‘ware timbers. As for your ‘osts and breeches, and hurling44 aloft, d’ye see— your caves and caverns, whistling tuods and serpents, burning brimstone and foaming billows, we must take our hap—I value ‘em not a rotten ratline; but as for sailing in the wind’s eye, brother, you must give me leave—no offence, I hope—I pretend to be a thoroughbred seaman, d’ye see—and I’ll be d—ned if you, or e’er an arrant45 that broke biscuit, ever sailed in a three-mast vessel46 within five points of the wind, allowing for variation and lee-way. No, no, brother, none of your tricks upon travellers—I an’t now to learn my compass.” “Tricks!” cried the knight, starting up, and laying his hand on the pummel of his sword, “what! suspect my honour?”
Crowe, supposing him to be really incensed47, interrupted him with great earnestness, saying, “Nay, don’t—what apize!—adds-buntlines!—I didn’t go to give you the lie, brother, smite48 my limbs; I only said as how to sail in the wind’s eye was impossible.” “And I say unto thee,” resumed the knight, “nothing is impossible to a true knight-errant, inspired and animated11 by love.” “And I say unto thee,” hallooed Crowe, “if so be as how love pretends to turn his hawse-holes to the wind, he’s no seaman, d’ye see, but a snotty-nosed lubberly boy, that knows not a cat from a capstan—a don’t.”
“He that does not believe that love is an infallible pilot, must not embark49 upon the voyage of chivalry; for, next to the protection of Heaven, it is from love that the knight derives50 all his prowess and glory. The bare name of his mistress invigorates his arm; the remembrance of her beauty infuses into his breast the most heroic sentiments of courage, while the idea of her chastity hedges him round like a charm, and renders him invulnerable to the sword of his antagonist51. A knight without a mistress is a mere52 nonentity53, or, at least, a monster in nature—a pilot without a compass, a ship without rudder, and must be driven to and fro upon the waves of discomfiture54 and disgrace.”
“An that be all,” replied the sailor, “I told you before as how I’ve got a sweetheart, as true a hearted girl as ever swung in canvas. What thof she may have started a hoop55 in rolling, that signifies nothing; I’ll warrant her tight as a nut-shell.”
“She must, in your opinion, be a paragon56 either of beauty or virtue. Now, as you have given up the last, you must uphold her charms unequalled, and her person without a parallel.” “I do, I do uphold she will sail upon a parallel as well as e’er a frigate57 that was rigged to the northward58 of fifty.”
“At that rate, she must rival the attractions of her whom I adore; but that I say is impossible. The perfections of my Aurelia are altogether supernatural; and as two suns cannot shine together in the same sphere with equal splendour, so I affirm, and will prove with my body, that your mistress, in comparison with mine, is as a glow-worm to the meridian59 sun, a rushlight to the full moon, or a stale mackerel’s eye to a pearl of orient.” “Harkee, brother, you might give good words, however. An we once fall a-jawing, d’ye see, I can heave out as much bilgewater as another; and since you besmear my sweetheart, Besselia, I can as well bedaub your mistress Aurelia, whom I value no more than old junk, pork slush, or stinking61 stock-fish.”
“Enough, enough!—such blasphemy62 shall not pass unchastised. In consideration of our having fed from the same table, and maintained together a friendly, though short intercourse64, I will not demand the combat before you are duly prepared. Proceed to the first great town, where you can be furnished with horse and harnessing, with arms offensive and defensive65; provide a trusty squire66, assume a motto and device, declare yourself a son of chivalry, and proclaim the excellence67 of her who rules your heart. I shall fetch a compass; and wheresoever we may chance to meet, let us engage with equal arms in mortal combat, that shall decide and determine this dispute.”
So saying, our adventurer stalked with great solemnity into another apartment; while Crowe, being sufficiently68 irritated, snapped his fingers in token of defiance69. Honest Crowe thought himself scurvily70 used by a man whom he had cultivated with such humility71 and veneration; and, after an incoherent ejaculation of sea oaths, went in quest of his nephew, in order to make him acquainted with this unlucky transaction.
In the meantime, Sir Launcelot, having ordered supper, retired72 into his own chamber73, and gave a loose to the most tender emotions of his heart. He recollected74 all the fond ideas which had been excited in the course of his correspondence with the charming Aurelia. He remembered, with horror, the cruel letter he had received from that young lady, containing a formal renunciation of his attachment75, so unsuitable to the whole tenor76 of her character and conduct. He revolved77 the late adventure of the coach, and the declaration of Mr. Clarke, with equal eagerness and astonishment78; and was seized with the most ardent79 desire of unravelling80 a mystery so interesting to the predominant passion of his heart. All these mingled81 considerations produced a kind of ferment82 in the economy of his mind, which
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