‘True,’ said Lord Anophel; ‘it was not necessary to your degree.’ His lordship’s next recourse was to Mr. Feathernest. ‘Feathernest, what is the spirit of the age of chivalry?’ Mr. Feathernest was taken by surprise. Since his profitable metamorphosis into an _ami du prince_, he had never dreamed of such a question. It burst upon him like the spectre of his youthful integrity, and he mumbled a half-intelligible reply about truth and liberty—disinterested benevolence—self-oblivion—heroic devotion to love and honour—protection of the feeble, and subversion of tyranny. ‘All the ingredients of a rank Jacobin, Feathernest, ‘pon honour!’ exclaimed his lordship. There was something in the word Jacobin very grating to the ears of Mr. Feathernest, and he feared he had thrown himself between the horns of a dilemma; but from all such predicament he was happily provided with an infallible means of extrication. His friend Mr. Mystic, of Cimmerian Lodge, had initiated him in some of the mysteries of the transcendental philosophy, which on this, as all similar occasions, he called in to his assistance; and overwhelmed his lordship with a volley of ponderous jargon, which left him in profound astonishment at the depth of Mr. Feathernest’s knowledge. ‘The spirit of the age of chivalry!’ soliloquised Mr. O’Scarum; ‘I think I know what that is: I’ll shoot all my rivals, one after another, as fast as I can find a decent pretext for picking a quarrel. I’ll write to my friend Major O’Dogskin to come to Low-Wood Inn, and hold himself in readiness. He is the neatest hand in Ireland at delivering a challenge.’ ‘The spirit of the age of chivalry!’ soliloquised Mr. Derrydown; ‘I think I am at home there. I will be a knight of the round table. I will be Sir Lancelot, or Sir Gawaine, or Sir Tristram. No: I will be a troubadour—a love-lorn minstrel. I will write the most irresistible ballads in praise of the beautiful Anthelia. She shall be my lady of the lake. We will sail about Ulleswater in our pinnace, and sing duets about Merlin, and King Arthur, and Fairyland. I will develop the idea to her in a ballad; it cannot fail to fascinate her romantic spirit.’ And he sat down to put his scheme in execution. Sir Telegraph’s head ran on tilts and tournaments, and trials of skill and courage. How could they be resolved into the forms of modern life? A four-in-hand race he thought would be a pretty substitute; Anthelia to be arbitress of the contest, and place the Olympic wreath on the head of the victor, which he had no doubt would be himself, though Harum O’Scarum, Esquire, would dash through neck or nothing, and Lord Anophel Achthar was reckoned one of the best coachmen in England. CHAPTER IX THE PHILOSOPHY OF BALLADS