What of that? We didn’t make Euryalus a young gentleman; it’s no fault of ours. Look here: to make the cases tally and dovetail, there must be a man and a woman in both. Very well, then; we bring our man and our woman; if Virgil does not bring his, whose fault is that, you know? But this shews what comes of meddling with criticism, when people “should engross.” We shake off the dust of our feet against the attorney, and we return to the young cornet and his enemy. Happier in this point than Nisus and Euryalus, they were detected by no Volscens; they arrived happily under the window; Mr. Ferdinand applied the ladder—steadied it, and prepared to hold it. From what womanly scruples it is not for us to say, but so it was, that upon this last service of the cornet’s—however respectfully tendered, Miss Fanny laid her interdict. On some rare occasions the gentlest of young women are peremptory; and, after vainly remonstrating, Mr. Ferdinand retired to a distance, and Miss Fanny began her ascent.
Meanwhile, old Mule was roaming about in unspeakable agitation, at the thought of being left alone in the house; much also he suffered from disinterested fear at the thoughts of Miss Fanny’s death; much also from selfish fear, on considering that he had thereby added another ghost to his list; and that (God knows!) was not at all necessary. Just at this moment, he came to his library window, and flung it up to see if the party were returning from Nelly’s. Ah! Mule! ah! persecuted Mule! ἔ! ἔ! (to borrow the voice of Greek Tragedy) ὀτοτοτοτο͂ι![1] There stood the bust of Miss Fanny, resting (as it seemed) in mid air, looking in at Mr. Mule, and manifestly meditating an eruption into Mr. Mule’s premises. Mule absolutely brayed and whinnied at this insufferable fright: he shyed, threw up his heels, curvetted, plunged, and finally bolted at full stretch out of the room. Miss Fanny was startled at this mode of reception; but what was to be done? In she must; and let us tell her, that if she frightens other people in this way, she must expect to be frightened in her turn: and so it was that, as she was getting in at the window, her face naturally turned round to the latter; on which (ἔ, ἔ, ἔ, ἔ,! ὀτοτοτοτο͂ι! παπᾶι!), occupying her own recent station, and presenting his bust precisely as she had presented hers to Mr. Mule, stood a man, who popped this question to her—“Who the devil are you?” Miss Fanny staid not upon any scruples of form, but pirouetted and fled like a fawn after old Mule. Mule heard the
- ↑ Some purists in Grecian ejaculation pretend to patronize the trisyllabic form ὀτοτοῖ, which is clearly a shabby concern. Besides, as the learned Bishop of C hints, if Aristophanes may discharge his five-barrelled ποποποποπο͂ι upon us [in which there are four pops and an oi] why may not Tragedy reply with as many guns?
