Pelham
Edward Bulwer-Lytton




VOLUME I.



CHAPTER I.


             Ou peut-on etre mieux qu'au sein de sa famille?
                          --French Song.
                [Where can on be better than in the bosom of
                one's family?]


I am an only child. My father was the younger son of one of our oldest
earls; my mother the dowerless daughter of a Scotch peer. Mr. Pelham was
a moderate whig, and gave sumptuous dinners; Lady Frances was a woman of
taste, and particularly fond of diamonds and old china.

Vulgar people know nothing of the necessaries required in good society,
and the credit they give is as short as their pedigree. Six years after
my birth, there was an execution in our house. My mother was just setting
off on a visit to the Duchess of D_____; she declared it was impossible
to go without her diamonds. The chief of the bailiffs declared it was
impossible to trust them out of his sight. The matter was
compromised--the bailiff went with my mother to C___, and was introduced
as my tutor. "A man of singular merit," whispered my mother, "but so
shy!" Fortunately, the bailiff was abashed, and by losing his impudence
he kept the secret. At the end of the week, the diamonds went to the
jeweller's, and Lady Frances wore paste.

I think it was about a month afterwards that a sixteenth cousin left my
mother twenty thousand pounds. "It will just pay off our most importunate
creditors, and equip me for Melton," said Mr. Pelham.

"It will just redeem my diamonds, and refurnish the house," said Lady
Frances.

The latter alternative was chosen. My father went down to run his last
horse at Newmarket, and my mother received nine hundred people in a
Turkish tent. Both were equally fortunate, the Greek and the Turk; my
father's horse lost, in consequence of which he pocketed five thousand
pounds; and my mother looked so charming as a Sultana, that Seymour
Conway fell desperately in love with her.

Mr. Conway had just caused two divorces; and of course, all the women in
London were dying for him--judge then of the pride which Lady Frances
felt at his addresses. The end of the season was unusually dull, and my
mother, after having looked over her list of engagements, and ascertained
that she had none remaining worth staying for, agreed to elope with her
new lover.

The carriage was at the end of the square. My mother, for the first time
in her life, got up at six o'clock. Her foot was on the step, and her
hand next to Mr. Conway's heart, when she remembered that her favourite
china monster and her French dog were left behind. She insisted on
returning--re-entered the house, and was coming down stairs with one
under each arm, when she was met by my father and two servants. My
father's valet had discovered the flight (I forget how), and awakened his
master.

When my father was convinced of his loss, he called for his
dressing-gown--searched the garret and the kitchen--looked in the maid's
drawers and the cellaret--and finally declared he was distracted. I have
heard that the servants were quite melted by his grief, and I do not
doubt it in the least, for he was always celebrated for his skill in
private theatricals. He was just retiring to vent his grief in his
dressing-room, when he met my mother. It must altogether have been an
awkward rencontre, and, indeed, for my father, a remarkably unfortunate
occurrence; for Seymour Conway was immensely rich, and the damages would,
no doubt, have been proportionably high. Had they met each other alone,
the affair might easily have been settled, and Lady Frances gone off in
tranquillity;--those d--d servants are always in the way!

I have, however, often thought that it was better for me that the affair
ended thus,--as I know, from many instances, that it is frequently
exceedingly inconvenient to have one's mother divorced.

I have observed that the distinguishing trait of people accustomed to
good society, is a calm, imperturbable quiet, which pervades all their
actions and habits, from the greatest to the least: they eat in quiet,
move in quiet, live in quiet, and lose their wife, or even their money,
in quiet; while low persons cannot take up either a spoon or an affront
without making such an amazing noise about it. To render this observation
good, and to return to the intended elopement, nothing farther was said
upon that event. My father introduced Conway to Brookes's, and invited
him to dinner twice a week for a whole twelvemonth.

Not long after this occurrence, by the death of my grandfather, my uncle
succeeded to the title and estates of the family. He was, as people
justly observed, rather an odd man: built schools for peasants, forgave
poachers, and diminished his farmers' rents; indeed, on account of these
and similar eccentricities, he was thought a fool by some, and a madman
by others. However, he was not quite destitute of natural feeling; for he
paid my father's debts, and established us in the secure enjoyment of our
former splendour. But this piece of generosity, or justice, was done in
the most unhandsome manner; he obtained a promise from my father to
retire from Brookes's, and relinquish the turf; and he prevailed upon my
mother to take an aversion to diamonds, and an indifference to china
monsters.




CHAPTER II.

                   Tell arts they have no soundness,
                      But vary by esteeming;
                   Tell schools they want profoundness,
                      And stand too much on seeming.
                   If arts and schools reply,
                   Give arts and schools the lie.
                                 --The Soul's Errand.

At ten years old I went to Eton. I had been educated till that period by
my mother, who, being distantly related to Lord_____, (who had published
"Hints upon the Culinary Art"), imagined she possessed an hereditary
claim to literary distinction. History was her great forte; for she had
read all the historical romances of the day, and history accordingly I
had been carefully taught.

I think at this moment I see my mother before me, reclining on her sofa,
and repeating to me some story about Queen Elizabeth and Lord Essex; then
telling me, in a languid voice, as she sank back with the exertion, of
the blessings of a literary taste, and admonishing me never to read above
half an hour at a time for fear of losing my health.

Well, to Eton I went; and the second day I had been there, I was half
killed for refusing, with all the pride of a Pelham, to wash tea-cups. I
was rescued from the clutches of my tyrant by a boy not much bigger than
myself, but reckoned the best fighter, for his size, in the whole school.
His name was Reginald Glanville: from that period, we became inseparable,
and our friendship lasted all the time he stayed at Eton, which was
within a year of my own departure for Cambridge.

His father was a baronet, of a very ancient and wealthy family; and his
mother was a woman of some talent and more ambition. She made her house
one of the most recherchee in London. Seldom seen at large assemblies,
she was eagerly sought after in the well winnowed soirees of the elect.
Her wealth, great as it was, seemed the least prominent ingredient of her
establishment. There was in it no uncalled for ostentation--no
purse-proud vulgarity--no cringing to great, and no patronizing
condescension to little people; even the Sunday newspapers could not find
fault with her, and the querulous wives of younger brothers could only
sneer and be silent.

"It is an excellent connexion," said my mother, when I told her of my
friendship with Reginald Glanville, "and will be of more use to you than
many of greater apparent consequence. Remember, my dear, that in all the
friends you make at present, you look to the advantage you can derive
from them hereafter; that is what we call knowledge of the world, and it
is to get the knowledge of the world that you are sent to a public
school."

I think, however, to my shame, that notwithstanding my mother's
instructions, very few prudential considerations were mingled with my
friendship for Reginald Glanville. I loved him with a warmth of
attachment, which has since surprised even myself.

He was of a very singular character: he used to wander by the river in
the bright days of summer, when all else were at play, without any
companion but his own thoughts; and these were tinged, even at that early
age, with a deep and impassioned melancholy. He was so reserved in his
manner, that it was looked upon as coldness or pride, and was repaid as
such by a pretty general dislike. Yet to those he loved, no one could be
more open and warm; more watchful to gratify others, more indifferent to
gratification for himself: an utter absence of all selfishness, and an
eager and active benevolence were indeed the distinguishing traits of his
character. I have seen him endure with a careless goodnature the most
provoking affronts from boys much less than himself; but directly I, or
any other of his immediate friends, was injured or aggrieved, his anger
was almost implacable. Although he was of a slight frame, yet early
exercise had brought strength to his muscles, and activity to his limbs;
and his skill in all athletic exercises whenever (which was but rarely)
he deigned to share them, gave alike confidence and success to whatever
enterprise his lion-like courage tempted him to dare.

Such, briefly and imperfectly sketched, was the character of Reginald
Glanville--the one, who of all my early companions differed the most from
myself; yet the one whom I loved the most, and the one whose future
destiny was the most intertwined with my own.

I was in the head class when I left Eton. As I was reckoned an uncommonly
well-educated boy, it may not be ungratifying to the admirers of the
present system of education to pause here for a moment, and recal what I
then knew. I could make twenty Latin verses in half an hour; I could
construe, without an English translation, all the easy Latin authors, and
many of the difficult ones, with it: I could read Greek fluently, and
even translate it though the medium of a Latin version at the bottom of
the page. I was thought exceedingly clever, for I had only been eight
years acquiring all this fund of information, which, as one can never
recal it in the world, you have every right to suppose that I had
entirely forgotten before I was five and twenty. As I was never taught a
syllable of English during this period; as when I once attempted to read
Pope's poems, out of school hours, I was laughed at, and called "a sap;"
as my mother, when I went to school, renounced her own instructions; and
as, whatever school-masters may think to the contrary, one learns nothing
now-a-days by inspiration: so of everything which relates to English
literature, English laws, and English history (with the exception of the
said story of Queen Elizabeth and Lord Essex,) you have the same right to
suppose that I was, at the age of eighteen, when I left Eton, in the
profoundest ignorance.

At this age, I was transplanted to Cambridge, where I bloomed for two
years in the blue and silver of a fellow commoner of Trinity. At the end
of that time (being of royal descent) I became entitled to an honorary
degree. I suppose the term is in contradistinction to an honourable
degree, which is obtained by pale men in spectacles and cotton stockings,
after thirty-six months of intense application.

I do not exactly remember how I spent my time at Cambridge. I had a
piano-forte in my room, and a private billiard-room at a village two
miles off; and between these resources, I managed to improve my mind more
than could reasonably have been expected. To say truth, the whole place
reeked with vulgarity. The men drank beer by the gallon, and eat cheese
by the hundred weight--wore jockey-cut coats, and talked slang--rode for
wagers, and swore when they lost--smoked in your face, and expectorated
on the floor. Their proudest glory was to drive the mail--their mightiest
exploit to box with the coachman--their most delicate amour to leer at
the barmaid.

It will be believed, that I felt little regret in quitting companions of
this description. I went to take leave of our college tutor. "Mr.
Pelham," said he, affectionately squeezing me by the hand, "your conduct
has been most exemplary; you have not walked wantonly over the college
grassplats, nor set your dog at the proctor--nor driven tandems by day,
nor broken lamps by night--nor entered the chapel in order to display
your intoxication--nor the lecture-room, in order to caricature the
professors. This is the general behaviour of young men of family and
fortune; but it has not been your's. Sir, you have been an honour to your
college."

Thus closed my academical career. He who does not allow that it passed
creditably to my teachers, profitably to myself, and beneficially to the
world, is a narrow-minded and illiterate man, who knows nothing of the
advantages of modern education.




CHAPTER III.

             Thus does a false ambition rule us,
             Thus pomp delude, and folly fool us.
                          --Shenstone.

             An open house, haunted with great resort.
                          --Bishop Hall's Satires.

I left Cambridge in a very weak state of health; and as nobody had yet
come to London, I accepted the invitation of Sir Lionel Garrett to pay
him a visit at his country seat. Accordingly, one raw winter's day, full
of the hopes of the reviving influence of air and exercise, I found
myself carefully packed up in three great coats, and on the high road to
Garrett Park.

Sir Lionel Garrett was a character very common in England, and, in
describing him, I describe the whole species. He was of an ancient
family, and his ancestors had for centuries resided on their estates in
Norfolk. Sir Lionel, who came to his majority and his fortune at the same
time, went up to London at the age of twenty-one, a raw, uncouth sort of
young man, in a green coat and lank hair. His friends in town were of
that set whose members are above ton, whenever they do not grasp at its
possession, but who, whenever they do, lose at once their aim and their
equilibrium, and fall immeasurably below it. I mean that set which I call
"the respectable," consisting of old peers of an old school; country
gentlemen, who still disdain not to love their wine and to hate the
French; generals who have served in the army; elder brothers who succeed
to something besides a mortgage; and younger brothers who do not mistake
their capital for their income. To this set you may add the whole of the
baronetage--for I have remarked that baronets hang together like bees or
Scotchmen; and if I go to a baronet's house, and speak to some one whom I
have not the happiness to know, I always say "Sir John--."

It was no wonder, then, that to this set belonged Sir Lionel Garrett--no
more the youth in a green coat and lank hair, but pinched in, and curled
out--abounding in horses and whiskers--dancing all night--lounging all
day--the favourite of the old ladies, the Philander of the young.

One unfortunate evening Sir Lionel Garrett was introduced to the
celebrated Duchess of D. From that moment his head was turned. Before
then, he had always imagined that he was somebody--that he was Sir Lionel
Garrett, with a good-looking person and eight thousand a-year; he now
knew that he was nobody unless he went to Lady G.'s and unless he bowed
to Lady S. Disdaining all importance derived from himself, it became
absolutely necessary to his happiness, that all his importance should be
derived solely from his acquaintance with others. He cared not a straw
that he was a man of fortune, of family, of consequence; he must be a man
of ton; or he was an atom, a nonentity, a very worm, and no man. No
lawyer at Gray's Inn, no galley slave at the oar, ever worked so hard at
his task as Sir Lionel Garrett at his. Ton, to a single man, is a thing
attainable enough. Sir Lionel was just gaining the envied distinction,
when he saw, courted, and married Lady Harriett Woodstock.

His new wife was of a modern and not very rich family, and striving like
Sir Lionel for the notoriety of fashion; but of this struggle he was
ignorant. He saw her admitted into good society--he imagined she
commanded it; she was a hanger on--he believed she was a leader. Lady
Harriett was crafty and twenty-four--had no objection to be married, nor
to change the name of Woodstock for Garrett. She kept up the baronet's
mistake till it was too late to repair it.

Marriage did not bring Sir Lionel wisdom. His wife was of the same turn
of mind as himself: they might have been great people in the
country--they preferred being little people in town. They might have
chosen friends among persons of respectability and rank--they preferred
being chosen as acquaintance by persons of ton. Society was their being's
end and aim, and the only thing which brought them pleasure was the pain
of attaining it. Did I not say truly that I would describe individuals of
a common species? Is there one who reads this, who does not recognize
that overflowing class of the English population, whose members would
conceive it an insult to be thought of sufficient rank to be respectable
for what they are?--who take it as an honour that they are made by their
acquaintance?--who renounce the ease of living for themselves, for the
trouble of living for persons who care not a pin for their existence--who
are wretched if they are not dictated to by others--and who toil, groan,
travail, through the whole course of life, in order to forfeit their
independence?

I arrived at Garrett Park just time enough to dress for dinner. As I was
descending the stairs after having performed that ceremony, I heard my
own name pronounced by a very soft, lisping voice, "Henry Pelham! dear,
what a pretty name. Is he handsome?"

"Rather distingue than handsome," was the unsatisfactory reply, couched
in a slow, pompous accent, which I immediately recognized to belong to
Lady Harriett Garrett.

"Can we make something of him?" resumed the first voice.

"Something!" said Lady Harriett, indignantly; "he will be Lord
Glenmorris! and he is son to Lady Frances Pelham."

"Ah," said the lisper, carelessly; "but can he write poetry, and play
proverbes?"

"No, Lady Harriett," said I, advancing; "but permit me, through you, to
assure Lady Nelthorpe that he can admire those who do."

"So you know me then?" said the lisper: "I see we shall be excellent
friends;" and disengaging herself from Lady Harriett, she took my arm,
and began discussing persons and things, poetry and china, French plays
and music, till I found myself beside her at dinner, and most assiduously
endeavouring to silence her by the superior engrossments of a bechamelle
de poisson.

I took the opportunity of the pause, to survey the little circle of which
Lady Harriett was the centre. In the first place, there was Mr. Davison,
a great political economist, a short, dark, corpulent gentleman, with a
quiet, serene, sleepy countenance, which put me exceedingly in mind of my
grandmother's arm-chair; beside him was a quick, sharp little woman, all
sparkle and bustle, glancing a small, grey, prying eye round the table,
with a most restless activity: this, as Lady Nelthorpe afterwards
informed me, was a Miss Trafford, an excellent person for a Christmas in
the country, whom every body was dying to have: she was an admirable
mimic, an admirable actress, and an admirable reciter; made poetry and
shoes, and told fortunes by the cards, which came actually true.

There was also Mr. Wormwood, the noli-me-tangere of literary lions--an
author who sowed his conversation not with flowers but thorns. Nobody
could accuse him of the flattery generally imputed to his species;
through the course of a long and varied life, he had never once been
known to say a civil thing. He was too much disliked not to be recherche;
whatever is once notorious, even for being disagreeable, is sure to be
courted in England. Opposite to him sat the really clever, and affectedly
pedantic Lord Vincent, one of those persons who have been "promising
young men" all their lives; who are found till four o'clock in the
afternoon in a dressing-gown, with a quarto before them; who go down into
the country for six weeks every session, to cram an impromptu reply; and
who always have a work in the press which is never to be published.

Lady Nelthorpe herself I had frequently seen. She had some reputation for
talent, was exceedingly affected, wrote poetry in albums, ridiculed her
husband, who was a fox hunter, and had a great penchant pour les beaux
arts et les beaux hommes.

There were four or five others of the unknown vulgar, younger brothers,
who were good shots and bad matches; elderly ladies, who lived in
Baker-street, and liked long whist; and young ones, who never took wine,
and said "Sir."

I must, however, among this number, except the beautiful Lady Roseville,
the most fascinating woman, perhaps, of the day. She was evidently the
great person there, and, indeed, among all people who paid due deference
to ton, was always sure to be so every where. I have never seen but one
person more beautiful. Her eyes were of the deepest blue; her complexion
of the most delicate carnation; her hair of the richest auburn: nor could
even Mr. Wormwood detect the smallest fault in the rounded yet slender
symmetry of her figure.

Although not above twenty-five, she was in that state in which alone a
woman ceases to be a dependant--widowhood. Lord Roseville, who had been
dead about two years, had not survived their marriage many months; that
period was, however, sufficiently long to allow him to appreciate her
excellence, and to testify his sense of it: the whole of his unentailed
property, which was very large, he bequeathed to her.

She was very fond of the society of literati, though without the pretence
of belonging to their order. But her manners constituted her chief
attraction: while they were utterly different from those of every one
else, you could not, in the least minutiae, discover in what the
difference consisted: this is, in my opinion, the real test of perfect
breeding. While you are enchanted with the effect, it should possess so
little prominency and peculiarity, that you should never be able to guess
the cause.

"Pray," said Lord Vincent to Mr. Wormwood, "have you been to P--this
year?"

"No," was the answer.

"I have, my lord," said Miss Trafford, who never lost an opportunity of
slipping in a word.

"Well, and did they make you sleep, as usual, at the Crown, with the same
eternal excuse, after having brought you fifty miles from town, of small
house--no beds--all engaged--inn close by? Ah, never shall I forget that
inn, with its royal name, and its hard beds--

           "'Uneasy sleeps a head beneath the Crown!'"

"Ha, ha! Excellent!" cried Miss Trafford, who was always the first in at
the death of a pun. "Yes, indeed they did: poor old Lord Belton, with his
rheumatism; and that immense General Grant, with his asthma; together
with three 'single men,' and myself, were safely conveyed to that asylum
for the destitute."

"Ah! Grant, Grant!" said Lord Vincent, eagerly, who saw another
opportunity of whipping in a pun. "He slept there also the same night I
did; and when I saw his unwieldy person waddling out of the door the next
morning, I said to Temple, 'Well, that's the largest Grant I ever saw
from the Crown.'" [Note: It was from Mr. J. Smith that Lord Vincent
purloined this pun.]

"Very good," said Wormwood, gravely. "I declare, Vincent, you are growing
quite witty. Do you remember Jekyl? Poor fellow, what a really good
punster he was--not agreeable though--particularly at dinner--no punsters
are. Mr. Davison, what is that dish next to you?"

Mr. Davison was a great gourmand: "Salmi de perdreaux aux truffes,"
replied the political economist.

"Truffles!" said Wormwood, "have you been eating any?"

"Yes," said Davison, with unusual energy, "and they are the best I have
tasted for a long time."

"Very likely," said Wormwood, with a dejected air. "I am particularly
fond of them, but I dare not touch one--truffles are so very
apoplectic--you, I make no doubt, may eat them in safety."

Wormwood was a tall, meagre man, with a neck a yard long. Davison was, as
I have said, short and fat, and made without any apparent neck at
all--only head and shoulders, like a cod-fish.

Poor Mr. Davison turned perfectly white; he fidgeted about in his chair;
cast a look of the most deadly fear and aversion at the fatal dish he had
been so attentive to before; and, muttering "apoplectic," closed his
lips, and did not open them again all dinner-time.

Mr. Wormwood's object was effected. Two people were silenced and
uncomfortable, and a sort of mist hung over the spirits of the whole
party. The dinner went on and off, like all other dinners; the ladies
retired, and the men drank, and talked indecorums. Mr. Davison left the
room first, in order to look out the word "truffle," in the
Encyclopaedia; and Lord Vincent and I went next, "lest (as my companion
characteristically observed) that d--d Wormwood should, if we stayed a
moment longer, 'send us weeping to our beds.'"




CHAPTER IV.

                   Oh! la belle chose que la Poste!
                   --Lettres de Sevigne.

                   Ay--but who is it?
                   --As you Like it.

I had mentioned to my mother my intended visit to Garrett Park, and the
second day after my arrival there came the following letter:--

"My dear Henry,

"I was very glad to hear you were rather better than you had been. I
trust you will take great care of yourself. I think flannel waistcoats
might be advisable; and, by-the-by, they are very good for the
complexion. Apropos of the complexion: I did not like that green coat you
wore when I last saw you--you look best in black--which is a great
compliment, for people must be very distingue in appearance, in order to
do so.

"You know, my dear, that those Garretts are in themselves any thing but
unexceptionable; you will, therefore, take care not to be too intimate;
it is, however, a very good house: all you meet there are worth knowing,
for one thing or the other. Remember, Henry, that the acquaintance (not
the friends) of second or third-rate people are always sure to be good:
they are not independent enough to receive whom they like--their whole
rank is in their guests: you may be also sure that the menage will, in
outward appearance at least, be quite comme il faut, and for the same
reason. Gain as much knowledge de l'art culinaire as you can: it is an
accomplishment absolutely necessary. You may also pick up a little
acquaintance with metaphysics, if you have any opportunity; that sort of
thing is a good deal talked about just at present.

"I hear Lady Roseville is at Garrett Park. You must be particularly
attentive to her; you will probably now have an opportunity de faire
votre cour that may never again happen. In London, she is so much
surrounded by all, that she is quite inaccessible to one; besides, there
you will have so many rivals. Without flattery to you, I take it for
granted, that you are the best looking and most agreeable person at
Garrett Park, and it will, therefore, be a most unpardonable fault if you
do not make Lady Roseville of the same opinion. Nothing, my dear son, is
like a liaison (quite innocent of course) with a woman of celebrity in
the world. In marriage a man lowers a woman to his own rank; in an
affaire du coeur he raises himself to her's. I need not, I am sure, after
what I have said, press this point any further.

"Write to me and inform me of all your proceedings. If you mention the
people who are at Garrett Park, I can tell you the proper line of conduct
to pursue with each.

"I am sure that I need not add that I have nothing but your real good at
heart, and that I am your very affectionate mother,

"Frances Pelham.

"P.S. Never talk much to young men--remember that it is the women who
make a reputation in society."

"Well," said I, when I had read this letter, and adjusted my best curl,
"my mother is very right, and so now for Lady Roseville."

I went down stairs to breakfast. Miss Trafford and Lady Nelthorpe were in
the room talking with great interest, and, on Miss Trafford's part, with
still greater vehemence.

"So handsome," said Lady Nelthorpe, as I approached.

"Are you talking of me?" said I.

"Oh, you vanity of vanities!" was the answer. "No, we were speaking of a
very romantic adventure which has happened to Miss Trafford and myself,
and disputing about the hero of it. Miss Trafford declares he is
frightful; I say that he is beautiful. Now, you know, Mr. Pelham, as to
you--" "There can," interrupted I, "be but one opinion--but the
adventure?"

"Is this!" cried Miss Trafford, in a great fright, lest Lady Nelthorpe
should, by speaking first, have the pleasure of the narration.--"We were
walking, two or three days ago, by the sea-side, picking up shells and
talking about the 'Corsair,' when a large fierce--"

"Man!" interrupted I.

"No, dog, (renewed Miss Trafford) flew suddenly out of a cave, under a
rock, and began growling at dear Lady Nelthorpe and me, in the most
savage manner imaginable. He would certainly have torn us to pieces if a
very tall--" "Not so very tall either," said Lady Nelthorpe.

"Dear, how you interrupt one," said Miss Trafford, pettishly; "well, a
very short man, then, wrapped up in a cloak--"

"In a great coat," drawled Lady Nelthorpe. Miss Trafford went on without
noticing the emendation,--"had not with incredible rapidity sprung down
the rock and--"

"Called him off," said Lady Nelthorpe.

"Yes, called him off," pursued Miss Trafford, looking round for the
necessary symptoms of our wonder at this very extraordinary incident.

"What is the most remarkable," said Lady Nelthorpe, "is, that though he
seemed from his dress and appearance to be really a gentleman, he never
stayed to ask if we were alarmed or hurt--scarcely even looked at us--"
("I don't wonder at that!" said Mr. Wormwood, who, with Lord Vincent, had
just entered the room;)--"and vanished among the rocks as suddenly as he
had appeared."

"Oh, you've seen that fellow, have you?" said Lord Vincent: "so have I,
and a devilish queer looking person he is,--

         "'The balls of his broad eyes roll'd in his head,
           And glar'd betwixt a yellow and a red;
           He looked a lion with a gloomy stare,
           And o'er his eyebrows hung his matted hair.'

"Well remembered, and better applied--eh, Mr. Pelham!"

"Really," said I, "I am not able to judge of the application, since I
have not seen the hero."

"Oh! it's admirable," said Miss Trafford, "just the description I should
have given of him in prose. But pray, where, when, and how did you see
him?"

"Your question is religiously mysterious, tria juncta in uno," replied
Vincent; "but I will answer it with the simplicity of a Quaker. The other
evening I was coming home from one of Sir Lionel's preserves, and had
sent the keeper on before in order more undisturbedly to--"

"Con witticisms for dinner," said Wormwood.

"To make out the meaning of Mr. Wormwood's last work," continued Lord
Vincent. "My shortest way lay through that churchyard about a mile hence,
which is such a lion in this ugly part of the country, because it has
three thistles and a tree. Just as I got there, I saw a man suddenly rise
from the earth, where he appeared to have been lying; he stood still for
a moment, and then (evidently not perceiving me) raised his clasped hands
to Heaven, and muttered some words I was not able distinctly to hear. As
I approached nearer to him which I did with no very pleasant sensations,
a large black dog, which, till then, had remained couchant, sprung
towards me with a loud growl,

                   "'Sonat hic de nare canina
                     Litera,'

as Persius has it. I was too terrified to move--

                   "'Obstupui--steteruntque comae--'

and I should most infallibly have been converted into dog's meat, if our
mutual acquaintance had not started from his reverie, called his dog by
the very appropriate name of Terror, and then slouching his hat over his
face, passed rapidly by me, dog and all. I did not recover the fright for
an hour and a quarter. I walked--ye gods, how I did walk--no wonder, by
the by, that I mended my pace, for as Pliny says truly: 'Timor est
emendator asperrimus.'"

Mr. Wormwood had been very impatient during this recital, preparing an
attack upon Lord Vincent, when Mr. Davison entering suddenly, diverted
the assault.

"Good God!" said Wormwood, dropping his roll, "how very ill you look
to-day, Mr. Davison; face flushed--veins swelled--oh, those horrid
truffles! Miss Trafford, I'll trouble you for the salt."




CHAPTER V.

                   Be she fairer than the day,
                   Or the flowery meads in May;
                   If she be not so to me,
                   What care I how fair she be?
                   --George Withers.

                   It was a great pity, so it was,
                   That villainous saltpetre should be digged
                   Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
                   Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed.
                   --First Part of King Henry IV.

Several days passed. I had taken particular pains to ingratiate myself
with Lady Roseville, and so far as common acquaintance went, I had no
reason to be dissatisfied with my success. Any thing else, I soon
discovered, notwithstanding my vanity, (which made no inconsiderable part
in the composition of Henry Pelham) was quite out of the question. Her
mind was wholly of a different mould from my own. She was like a being,
not perhaps of a better, but of another world than myself; we had not one
thought or opinion in common; we looked upon things with a totally
different vision; I was soon convinced that she was of a nature exactly
contrary to what was generally believed--she was any thing but the mere
mechanical woman of the world. She possessed great sensibility, and even
romance of temper, strong passions, and still stronger imagination; but
over all these deeper recesses of her character, the extreme softness and
languor of her manners, threw a veil which no superficial observer could
penetrate. There were times when I could believe that she was inwardly
restless and unhappy; but she was too well versed in the arts of
concealment, to suffer such an appearance to be more than momentary.

I must own that I consoled myself very easily for my want, in this
particular instance, of that usual good fortune which attends me aupres
des dames; the fact was, that I had another object in pursuit. All the
men at Sir Lionel Garrett's were keen sportsmen. Now, shooting is an
amusement I was never particularly partial to. I was first disgusted with
that species of rational recreation at a battue, where, instead of
bagging anything, I was nearly bagged, having been inserted, like wine in
an ice pail, in a wet ditch for three hours, during which time my hat had
been twice shot at for a pheasant, and my leather gaiters once for a
hare; and to crown all, when these several mistakes were discovered, my
intended exterminators, instead of apologizing for having shot at me,
were quite disappointed at having missed.

Seriously, that same shooting is a most barbarous amusement, only fit for
majors in the army, and royal dukes, and that sort of people; the mere
walking is bad enough, but embarrassing one's arms moreover, with a gun,
and one's legs with turnip tops, exposing oneself to the mercy of bad
shots and the atrocity of good, seems to me only a state of painful
fatigue, enlivened by the probability of being killed.

This digression is meant to signify, that I never joined the single men
and double Mantons that went in and off among Sir Lionel Garrett's
preserves. I used, instead, to take long walks by myself, and found, like
virtue, my own reward, in the additional health and strength these
diurnal exertions produced me.

One morning, chance threw into my way une bonne fortune, which I took
care to improve. From that time the family of a farmer Sinclair, (one of
Sir Lionel's tenants) was alarmed by strange and supernatural noises: one
apartment in especial, occupied by a female member of the household, was
allowed, even by the clerk of the parish, a very bold man, and a bit of a
sceptic, to be haunted; the windows of that chamber were wont to open and
shut, thin airy voices confabulate therein, and dark shapes hover
thereout, long after the fair occupant had, with the rest of the family,
retired to repose. But the most unaccountable thing was the fatality
which attended me, and seemed to mark me out, nolens volens, for an
untimely death. I, who had so carefully kept out of the way of gunpowder
as a sportsman, very narrowly escaped being twice shot as a ghost. This
was but a poor reward for a walk more than a mile long, in nights by no
means of cloudless climes and starry skies; accordingly I resolved to
"give up the ghost" in earnest rather than in metaphor, and to pay my
last visit and adieus to the mansion of Farmer Sinclair. The night on
which I executed this resolve was rather memorable in my future history.

The rain had fallen so heavily during the day, as to render the road to
the house almost impassable, and when it was time to leave, I inquired
with very considerable emotion, whether there was not an easier way to
return. The answer was satisfactory, and my last nocturnal visit at
Farmer Sinclair's concluded.




CHAPTER VI.

             Why sleeps he not, when others are at rest?
                          --Byron.

According to the explanation I had received, the road I was now to pursue
was somewhat longer, but much better, than that which I generally took.
It was to lead me home through the churchyard of--, the same, by the by,
which Lord Vincent had particularized in his anecdote of the mysterious
stranger. The night was clear, but windy: there were a few light clouds
passing rapidly over the moon, which was at her full, and shone through
the frosty air, with all that cold and transparent brightness so peculiar
to our northern winters. I walked briskly on till I came to the
churchyard; I could not then help pausing (notwithstanding my total
deficiency in all romance) to look for a few moments at the exceeding
beauty of the scene around me. The church itself was extremely old, and
stood alone and grey, in the rude simplicity of the earliest form of
gothic architecture: two large dark yew-trees drooped on each side over
tombs, which from their size and decorations, appeared to be the last
possession of some quondam lords of the soil. To the left, the ground was
skirted by a thick and luxuriant copse of evergreens, in the front of
which stood one tall, naked oak, stern and leafless, a very token of
desolation and decay; there were but few grave stones scattered about,
and these were, for the most part, hidden by the long wild grass which
wreathed and climbed round them. Over all, the blue skies and still moon
shed that solemn light, the effect of which, either on the scene or the
feelings, it is so impossible to describe.

I was just about to renew my walk, when a tall, dark figure, wrapped up,
like myself, in a large French cloak, passed slowly along from the other
side of the church, and paused by the copse I have before mentioned. I
was shrouded at that moment from his sight by one of the yew trees; he
stood still only for a few moments; he then flung himself upon the earth,
and sobbed, audibly even at the spot where I was standing. I was in doubt
whether to wait longer or to proceed; my way lay just by him, and it
might be dangerous to interrupt so substantial an apparition. However, my
curiosity was excited, and my feet were half frozen, two cogent reasons
for proceeding; and, to say truth, I was never very much frightened by
any thing dead or alive.

Accordingly I left my obscurity, and walked slowly onwards. I had not got
above three paces before the figure rose, and stood erect and motionless
before me. His hat had fallen off, and the moon shone full upon his
countenance; it was not the wild expression of intense anguish which
dwelt on those hueless and sunken features; nor their quick change to
ferocity and defiance, as his eyes fell upon me, which made me start back
and feel my heart stand still! Notwithstanding the fearful ravages graven
in that countenance, then so brilliant with the graces of boyhood, I
recognized, at one glance, those still noble and chiselled features. It
was Reginald Glanville who stood before me! I recovered myself instantly;
I threw myself towards him, and called him by his name. He turned
hastily; but I would not suffer him to escape; I put my hand upon his
arm, and drew him towards me. "Glanville!" I exclaimed, "it is I! it is
your old--old friend, Henry Pelham. Good God! have I met you at last, and
in such a scene?"

Glanville shook me from him in an instant, covered his face with his
hands, and sunk down with one wild cry, which went fearfully through that
still place, upon the spot from which he had but just risen. I knelt
beside him; I took his hand; I spoke to him in every endearing term that
I could think of; and roused and excited as my feelings were, by so
strange and sudden a meeting, I felt my tears involuntarily falling over
the hand which I held in my own. Glanville turned; he looked at me for
one moment, as if fully to recognize me: and then throwing himself in my
arms, wept like a child.

It was but for a few minutes that this weakness lasted; he rose
suddenly--the whole expression of his countenance was changed--the tears
still rolled in large drops down his cheeks, but the proud, stern
character which the features had assumed, seemed to deny the feelings
which that feminine weakness had betrayed.

"Pelham," he said, "you have seen me thus; I had hoped that no living eye
would--this is the last time in which I shall indulge this folly. God
bless you--we shall meet again--and this night shall then seem to you
like a dream."

I would have answered, but he turned swiftly, passed in one moment
through the copse, and in the next had utterly disappeared.




CHAPTER VII.

             You reach a chilling chamber, where you dread
             Damps.
                          --Crabbe's Borough.

I could not sleep the whole of that night, and the next morning, I set
off early, with the resolution of discovering where Glanville had taken
up his abode; it was evident from his having been so frequently seen,
that it must be in the immediate neighbourhood.

I went first to Farmer Sinclair's; they had often remarked him, but could
give me no other information. I then proceeded towards the coast; there
was a small public house belonging to Sir Lionel close by the sea shore;
never had I seen a more bleak and dreary prospect than that which
stretched for miles around this miserable cabaret. How an innkeeper could
live there is a mystery to me at this day--I should have imagined it a
spot upon which anything but a sea-gull or a Scotchman would have
starved.

"Just the sort of place, however," thought I, "to hear something of
Glanville." I went into the house; I inquired, and heard that a strange
gentleman had been lodging for the last two or three weeks at a cottage
about a mile further up the coast. Thither I bent my steps; and after
having met two crows, and one officer on the preventive service, I
arrived safely at my new destination.

It was a house very little better, in outward appearance, than the
wretched but I had just left, for I observe in all situations, and in all
houses, that "the public" is not too well served. The situation was
equally lonely and desolate; the house, which belonged to an individual,
half fisherman and half smuggler, stood in a sort of bay, between two
tall, rugged, black cliffs. Before the door hung various nets, to dry
beneath the genial warmth of a winter's sun; and a broken boat,
with its keel uppermost, furnished an admirable habitation for
a hen and her family, who appeared to receive en pension, an old
clerico-bachelor-looking raven. I cast a suspicious glance at the
last-mentioned personage, which hopped towards me with a very hostile
appearance, and entered the threshold with a more rapid step, in
consequence of sundry apprehensions of a premeditated assault.

"I understand," said I, to an old, dried, brown female, who looked like a
resuscitated red-herring, "that a gentleman is lodging here."

"No, Sir," was the answer: "he left us this morning."

The reply came upon me like a shower bath; I was both chilled and stunned
by so unexpected a shock. The old woman, on my renewing my inquiries,
took me up stairs, to a small, wretched room, to which the damps
literally clung. In one corner was a flock-bed, still unmade, and
opposite to it, a three-legged stool, a chair, and an antique carved oak
table, a donation perhaps from some squire in the neighbourhood; on this
last were scattered fragments of writing paper, a cracked cup half full
of ink, a pen, and a broken ramrod. As I mechanically took up the latter,
the woman said, in a charming patois, which I shall translate, since I
cannot do justice to the original: "The gentleman, Sir, said he came here
for a few weeks to shoot; he brought a gun, a large dog, and a small
portmanteau. He used to spend all the mornings in the fens, though he
must have been but a poor shot, for he seldom brought home anything; and
we fear, Sir, that he was rather out of his mind, for he used to go out
alone at night, and stay sometimes till morning. However, he was quite
quiet, and behaved to us like a gentleman; so it was no business of ours,
only my husband does think--"

"Pray," interrupted I, "why did he leave you so suddenly?"

"Lord, Sir, I don't know! but he told us for several days past that he
should not stay over the week, and so we were not surprised when he left
us this morning at seven o'clock. Poor gentleman, my heart bled for him
when I saw him look so pale and ill."

And here I did see the good woman's eyes fill with tears: but she wiped
them away, and took advantage of the additional persuasion they gave to
her natural whine to say, "If, Sir, you know of any young gentleman who
likes fen-shooting, and wants a nice, pretty, quiet apartment--"

"I will certainly recommend this," said I.

"You see it at present," rejoined the landlady, "quite in a litter like:
but it is really a sweet place in summer."

"Charming," said I, with a cold shiver, hurrying down the stairs, with a
pain in my ear, and the rheumatism in my shoulder.

"And this," thought I, "was Glanville's residence for nearly a month! I
wonder he did not exhale into a vapour, or moisten into a green damp."

I went home by the churchyard. I paused on the spot where I had last seen
him. A small gravestone rose over the mound of earth on which he had
thrown himself; it was perfectly simple. The date of the year and month
(which showed that many weeks had not elapsed since the death of the
deceased) and the initials G. D. were all that was engraved upon the
stone. Beside this tomb was one of a more pompous description, to the
memory of a Mrs. Douglas, which had with the simple tumulus nothing in
common, unless the initial letter of the surname corresponding with the
latter initial on the neighbouring gravestone, might authorize any
connection between them, not supported by that similitude of style
usually found in the cenotaphs of the same family: the one, indeed, might
have covered the grave of a humble villager--the other, the resting-place
of the lady of the manor.

I found, therefore, no clue for the labyrinth of surmise: and I went
home, more vexed and disappointed with my day's expedition than I liked
to acknowledge to myself.

Lord Vincent met me in the hall. "Delighted to see you," said he, "I have
just been to--, (the nearest town) in order to discover what sort of
savages abide there. Great preparations for a ball--all the tallow
candles in the town are bespoken--and I heard a most uncivilized fiddle,

           "'Twang short and sharp, like the shrill swallow's cry.'"

The one milliner's shop was full of fat squiresses, buying muslin
ammunition, to make the ball go off; and the attics, even at four
o'clock, were thronged with rubicund damsels, who were already, as
Shakspeare says of waves in a storm,

                "'Curling their monstrous heads.'"




CHAPTER VIII.

             Jusqu'au revoir le ciel vous tienne tous en joie.
                          --Moliere.

I was now pretty well tried of Garrett Park. Lady Roseville was going to
H--t--d, where I also had an invitation. Lord Vincent meditated an
excursion to Paris. Mr. Davison had already departed. Miss Trafford had
been gone, God knows how long, and I was not at all disposed to be left,
like "the last rose of summer," in single blessedness at Garrett Park.
Vincent, Wormwood, and myself, all agreed to leave on the same day.

The morning of our departure arrived. We sat down to breakfast as usual.
Lord Vincent's carriage was at the door; his groom was walking about his
favourite saddle horse.

"A beautiful mare that is of your's," said I, carelessly looking at it,
and reaching across the table to help myself to the pate de foie gras.

"Mare!" exclaimed the incorrigible punster, delighted with my mistake: "I
thought that you would have been better acquainted with your propria quoe
maribus."

"Humph!" said Wormwood, "when I look at you I am always at least reminded
of the as in praoesenti!"

Lord Vincent drew up and looked unutterable anger. Wormwood went on with
his dry toast, and Lady Roseville, who that morning had, for a wonder,
come down to breakfast, good naturedly took off the bear. Whether or not
his ascetic nature was somewhat mollified by the soft smiles and softer
voice of the beautiful countess, I cannot pretend to say; but he
certainly entered into a conversation with her, not much rougher than
that of a less gifted individual might have been. They talked of
literature, Lord Byron, converzaziones, and Lydia White. [Note: Written
before the death of that lady.]

"Miss White," said Lady Roseville, "has not only the best command of
language herself, but she gives language to other people. Dinner parties,
usually so stupid, are, at her house, quite delightful. I have actually
seen English people look happy, and one or two even almost natural."

"Ah!" said Wormwood, "that is indeed rare. With us every thing is
assumption. We are still exactly like the English suitor to Portia, in
the Merchant of Venice. We take our doublet from one country, our hose
from another, and our behaviour every where. Fashion with us is like the
man in one of Le Sage's novels, who was constantly changing his servants,
and yet had but one suit of livery, which every new comer, whether he was
tall or short, fat or thin, was obliged to wear. We adopt manners,
however incongruous and ill suited to our nature, and thus we always seem
awkward and constrained. But Lydia White's soirees are indeed agreeable.
I remember the last time I dined there we were six in number, and though
we were not blessed with the company of Lord Vincent, the conversation
was without 'let or flaw.' Every one, even S----, said good things."

"Indeed!" cried Lord Vincent; "and pray, Mr. Wormwood, what did you say!"

"Why," answered the poet, glancing with a significant sneer over
Vincent's somewhat inelegant person, "I thought of your lordship's
figure, and said--grace!"

"Hem--hem!--'Gratia malorum tam infida est quam ipsi,' as Pliny says,"
muttered Lord Vincent, getting up hastily, and buttoning his coat.

I took the opportunity of the ensuing pause to approach Lady Roseville,
and whisper my adieus. She was kind and even warm to me in returning
them; and pressed me, with something marvellously like sincerity, to be
sure to come and see her directly she returned to London. I soon
discharged the duties of my remaining farewells, and in less than half an
hour, was more than a mile distant from Garrett Park and its inhabitants.
I can't say that for one, who, like me, is fond of being made a great
deal of, that there is any thing very delightful in those visits into the
country. It may be all well enough for married people, who, from the mere
fact of being married, are always entitled to certain consideration,
put--par exemple--into a bed-room, a little larger than a dog kennel, and
accommodated with a looking-glass, that does not distort one's features
like a paralytic stroke. But we single men suffer a plurality of evils
and hard-ships, in entrusting ourselves to the casualties of rural
hospitality. We are thrust up into any attic repository--exposed to the
mercy of rats, and the incursions of swallows. Our lavations are
performed in a cracked basin, and we are so far removed from human
assistance, that our very bells sink into silence before they reach half
way down the stairs. But two days before I left Garrett Park, I myself
saw an enormous mouse run away with my almond paste, without any possible
means of resisting the aggression. Oh! the hardships of a single man are
beyond conception; and what is worse, the very misfortune of being single
deprives one of all sympathy. "A single man can do this, and a single man
ought to do that, and a single man may be put here, and a single man may
be sent there," are maxims that I have been in the habit of hearing
constantly inculcated and never disputed during my whole life; and so,
from our fare and treatment being coarse in all matters, they have at
last grown to be all matters in course.




CHAPTER IX.

                          Therefore to France.
                                 --Henry IV.

I was rejoiced to find myself again in London. I went to my father's
house in Grosvenor-square. All the family, viz. he and my mother, were
down at H--t--d; and, malgre my aversion to the country, I thought I
might venture as far as Lady S--'s for a couple of days. Accordingly, to
H--t--d I went. That is really a noble house--such a hall--such a
gallery. I found my mother in the drawing-room, admiring the picture of
his late Majesty. She was leaning on the arm of a tall, fair young man.
"Henry," said she, (introducing me to him) "do you remember your old
schoolfellow, Lord George Clinton?"

"Perfectly," said I, (though I remembered nothing about him) and we shook
hands in the most cordial manner imaginable. By the way, there is no
greater bore than being called upon to recollect men, with whom one had
been at school some ten years back. In the first place, if they were not
in one's own set, one most likely scarcely knew them to speak to; and, in
the second place, if they were in one's own set, they are sure to be
entirely opposite to the nature we have since acquired: for I scarcely
ever knew an instance of the companions of one's boyhood being agreeable
to the tastes of one's manhood: a strong proof of the folly of common
people, who send their sons to Eton and Harrow to form connections.

Clinton was on the eve of setting out upon his travels. His intention was
to stay a year at Paris, and he was full of the blissful expectations the
idea of that city had conjured up. We remained together all the evening,
and took a prodigious fancy to one another. Long before I went to bed, he
had perfectly inoculated me with his own ardour for continental
adventures; and, indeed, I had half promised to accompany him. My mother,
when I first told her of my travelling intentions, was in despair, but by
degrees she grew reconciled to the idea.

"Your health will improve by a purer air," said she, "and your
pronunciation of French is, at present, any thing but correct. Take care
of yourself, therefore, my dear son, and pray lose no time in engaging
Coulon as your maitre de danse."

My father gave me his blessing, and a check on his banker. Within three
days I had arranged every thing with Clinton, and on the fourth,
I returned with him to London. From thence we set off to
Dover--embarked--dined, for the first time in our lives, on French
ground--were astonished to find so little difference between the two
countries, and still more so at hearing even the little children talk
French so well [Note: See Addison's Travels for this idea.]--proceeded to
Abbeville--there poor Clinton fell ill: for several days we were delayed
in that abominable town, and then Clinton, by the advice of the doctors,
returned to England. I went back with him as far as Dover, and then,
impatient at my loss of time, took no rest, night or day, till I found
myself at Paris.

Young, well-born, tolerably good-looking, and never utterly destitute of
money, nor grudging whatever enjoyment it could produce, I entered Paris
with the ability and the resolution to make the best of those beaux jours
which so rapidly glide from our possession.




CHAPTER X.

             Seest thou how gayly my young maister goes?
             --Bishop Hall's Satires.

             Qui vit sans folie, n'est pas si sage qu'il croit.
             --La Rochefoucault.

I lost no time in presenting my letters of introduction, and they were as
quickly acknowledged by invitations to balls and dinners. Paris was full
to excess, and of a better description of English than those who usually
overflow that reservoir of the world. My first engagement was to dine
with Lord and Lady Bennington, who were among the very few English
intimate in the best French houses.

On entering Paris I had resolved to set up "a character;" for I was
always of an ambitious nature, and desirous of being distinguished from
the ordinary herd. After various cogitations as to the particular one I
should assume, I thought nothing appeared more likely to be remarkable
among men, and therefore pleasing to women, than an egregious coxcomb:
accordingly I arranged my hair into ringlets, dressed myself with
singular plainness and simplicity (a low person, by the by, would have
done just the contrary), and putting on an air of exceeding languor, made
my maiden appearance at Lord Bennington's. The party was small, and
equally divided between French and English: the former had been all
emigrants, and the conversation was chiefly in our own tongue.

I was placed, at dinner, next to Miss Paulding, an elderly young lady, of
some notoriety at Paris, very clever, very talkative, and very conceited.
A young, pale, ill-natured looking man, sat on her left hand; this was
Mr. Aberton, one of the attaches.

"Dear me!" said Miss Paulding, "what a pretty chain that is of your's,
Mr. Aberton."

"Yes," said the attache, "I know it must be pretty, for I got it at
Brequet's, with the watch." (How common people always buy their opinions
with their goods, and regulate the height of the former by the mere price
or fashion of the latter.)

"Pray, Mr. Pelham," said Miss Paulding, turning to me, "have you got one
of Brequet's watches yet?"

"Watch!" said I: "do you think I could ever wear a watch? I know nothing
so plebeian. What can any one, but a man of business, who has nine hours
for his counting-house and one for his dinner, ever possibly want to know
the time for? An assignation, you will say: true, but (here I played with
my best ringlet) if a man is worth having, he is surely worth waiting
for!"

Miss Paulding opened her eyes, and Mr. Aberton his mouth. A pretty lively
French woman opposite (Madame D'Anville) laughed, and immediately joined
in our conversation, which, on my part, was, during the whole dinner,
kept up exactly in the same strain.

"What do you think of our streets?" said the old, yet still animated
Madame de G--s. "You will not find them, I fear, so agreeable for walking
as the trottoirs in London."

"Really," I answered, "I have only been once out in your streets, at
least a pied, since my arrival, and then I was nearly perishing for want
of help."

"What do you mean?" said Madame D'Anville.

"Why, I fell into that intersecting stream which you call a kennel, and I
a river. Pray, Mr. Aberton, what do you think I did in that dangerous
dilemma?"

"Why, got out again as fast as you could," said the literal attache.

"No such thing, I was too frightened: I stood still and screamed for
assistance."

Madame D'Anville was delighted, and Miss Paulding astonished. Mr. Aberton
muttered to a fat, foolish Lord Luscombe, "What a damnation puppy,"--and
every one, even to the old Madame de G--s, looked at me six times as
attentively as they had done before.

As for me, I was perfectly satisfied with the effect I had produced, and
I went away the first, in order to give the men an opportunity of abusing
me; for whenever the men abuse, the women, to support alike their
coquetry and the conversation, think themselves called upon to defend.

The next day I rode into the Champs Elysees. I always valued myself
particularly upon my riding, and my horse was both the most fiery and the
most beautiful in Paris. The first person I saw was Madame D'Anville. At
that moment I was reining in my horse, and conscious, as the wind waved
my long curls, that I was looking to the very best advantage, I made my
horse bound towards her carriage, which she immediately stopped, and
speaking in my natural tone of voice, and without the smallest
affectation, I made at once my salutations and my court.

"I am going," said she, "to the Duchesse D--g's this evening--it is her
night--do come."

"I don't know her," said I.

"Tell me your hotel, and I'll send you an invitation before dinner,"
rejoined Madame D'Anville.

"I lodge," said I, "at the Hotel de--, Rue de Rivoli, au second at
present; next year, I suppose, according to the usual gradations in the
life of a garcon, I shall be au troisieme: for here the purse and the
person seem to be playing at see-saw--the latter rises as the former
descends."

We went on conversing for about a quarter of an hour, in which I
endeavoured to make the pretty Frenchwoman believe that all the good
opinion I possessed of myself the day before, I had that morning entirely
transferred to her account.

As I rode home I met Mr. Aberton, with three or four other men; with that
glaring good-breeding, so peculiar to the English, he instantly directed
their eyes towards me in one mingled and concentrated stare. "N'importe,"
thought I, "they must be devilish clever fellows if they can find a
single fault either in my horse or myself."




CHAPTER XI.

             Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses,
             False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses.
             --Goldsmith's Epilogue to the Comedy of the Sisters.

Madame D'Anville kept her promise--the invitation was duly sent, and
accordingly at half past ten to the Rue D'Anjou I drove.

The rooms were already full. Lord Bennington was standing by the door,
and close by him, looking exceedingly distrait, was my old friend Lord
Vincent. They both came towards me at the same moment. "Strive not,"
thought I, looking at the stately demeanour of the one, and the humourous
expression of countenance in the other--"strive not, Tragedy nor Comedy,
to engross a Garrick." I spoke first to Lord Bennington, for I knew he
would be the sooner dispatched, and then for the next quarter of an hour
found myself overflowed with all the witticisms poor Lord Vincent had for
days been obliged to retain. I made an engagement to dine with him at
Very's the next day, and then glided off towards Madame D'Anville.

She was surrounded with men, and talking to each with that vivacity
which, in a Frenchwoman, is so graceful, and in an Englishwoman would be
so vulgar. Though her eyes were not directed towards me, she saw me
approach by that instinctive perception which all coquets possess, and
suddenly altering her seat, made way for me beside her. I did not lose so
favourable an opportunity of gaining her good graces, and losing those of
all the male animals around her. I sunk down on the vacant chair, and
contrived, with the most unabashed effrontery, and yet with the most
consummate dexterity, to make every thing that I said pleasing to her,
revolting to some one of her attendants. Wormwood himself could not have
succeeded better. One by on they dropped off, and we were left alone
among the crowd. Then, indeed, I changed the whole tone of my
conversation. Sentiment succeeded to satire, and the pretence of feeling
to that of affectation. In short, I was so resolved to please that I
could scarcely fail to succeed.

In this main object of the evening I was not however solely employed. I
should have been very undeserving of that character for observation which
I flatter myself I peculiarly deserve, if I had not during the three
hours I stayed at Madame D--g's, conned over every person remarkable for
any thing, from rank to a ribbon. The duchesse herself was a fair,
pretty, clever woman, with manners rather English than French. She was
leaning, at the time I paid my respects to her, on the arm of an Italian
count, tolerably well known at Paris. Poor O--i! I hear he is just
married. He did not deserve so heavy a calamity!

Sir Henry Millington was close by her, carefully packed up in his coat
and waistcoat. Certainly that man is the best padder in Europe.

"Come and sit by me, Millington," cried old Lady Oldtown; "I have a good
story to tell you of the Duc de G--e."

Sir Henry, with difficulty, turned round his magnificent head, and
muttered out some unintelligible excuse. The fact was, that poor Sir
Henry was not that evening made to sit down--he had only his standing up
coat on. Lady Oldtown--heaven knows--is easily consoled. She supplied the
place of the dilapidated baronet with a most superbly mustachioed German.

"Who," said I, to Madame D'Anville, "are those pretty girls in white,
talking with such eagerness to Mr. Aberton and Lord Luscombe?"

"What!" said the Frenchwoman, "have you been ten days at Paris and not
been introduced to the Miss Carltons? Let me tell you that your
reputation among your countrymen at Paris depends solely upon their
verdict."

"And upon your favour," added I.

"Ah!" said she, "you must have had your origin in France; you have
something about you presque Parisien."

"Pray," said I, (after having duly acknowledged this compliment, the very
highest that a Frenchwoman can bestow) "what did you really and candidly
think of our countrymen during your residence in England?"

"I will tell you," answered Madame D'Anville; "they are brave, honest,
generous, mais ils sont demi-barbares."




CHAPTER XII.

                              Pia mater,
             Plus quam se sapere, et virtutibus esse priorem
             Vult, et ait prope vera.
                          --Horace.

             Vere mihi festus atras
             Eximet curas.
                          --Horace.

The next morning I received a letter from my mother.

"My dear Henry," began my affectionate and incomparable parent--

"My dear Henry,

"You have now fairly entered the world, and though at your age my advice
may be but little followed, my experience cannot altogether be useless. I
shall, therefore, make no apology for a few precepts, which I hope may
tend to make you a wiser and better man.

"I hope, in the first place, that you have left your letter at the
ambassador's, and that you will not fail to go there as often as
possible. Pay your court in particular to Lady--She is a charming person,
universally popular, and one of the very few English people to whom one
may safely be civil. Apropos, of English civility, you have, I hope, by
this time discovered, that you have to assume a very different manner
with French people than with our own countrymen: with us, the least
appearance of feeling or enthusiasm is certain to be ridiculed every
where; but in France, you may venture to seem not quite devoid of all
natural sentiments: indeed, if you affect enthusiasm, they will give you
credit for genius, and they will place all the qualities of the heart to
the account of the head. You know that in England, if you seem desirous
of a person's acquaintance you are sure to lose it; they imagine you have
some design upon their wives or their dinners; but in France you can
never lose by politeness: nobody will call your civility forwardness and
pushing. If the Princess De T--, and the Duchesse de D--, ask you to
their houses (which indeed they will, directly you have left your
letters), go there two or three times a week, if only for a few minutes
in the evening. It is very hard to be acquainted with great French
people, but when you are, it is your own fault if you are not intimate
with them.

"Most English people have a kind of diffidence and scruple at calling in
the evening--this is perfectly misplaced: the French are never ashamed of
themselves, like us, whose persons, families, and houses are never fit to
be seen, unless they are dressed out for a party.

"Don't imagine that the ease of French manners is at all like what we
call ease: you must not lounge on your chair--nor put your feet upon a
stool--nor forget yourself for one single moment when you are talking
with women.

"You have heard a great deal about the gallantries of the French ladies;
but remember that they demand infinitely greater attention than English
women do; and that after a month's incessant devotion, you may lose every
thing by a moment's impolitesse.

"You will not, my dear son, misinterpret these hints. I suppose, of
course, that all your liaisons are platonic.

"Your father is laid up with the gout, and dreadfully ill-tempered and
peevish; however, I keep out of the way as much as possible. I dined
yesterday at Lady Roseville's: she praised you very much, said your
manners were particularly good, and that you had already quite the usage
du monde. Lord Vincent is, I understand, at Paris: though very tiresome
with his learning and Latin, he is exceedingly clever and repandu; be
sure to cultivate his acquaintance.

"If you are ever at a loss as to the individual character of a person you
wish to gain, the general knowledge of human nature will teach you one
infallible specific,--flattery! The quantity and quality may vary
according to the exact niceties of art; but, in any quantity and in any
quality, it is more or less acceptable, and therefore certain to please.
Only never (or at least very rarely) flatter when other people, besides
the one to be flattered, are by; in that case you offend the rest, and
you make even your intended dupe ashamed to be pleased.

"In general, weak minds think only of others, and yet seem only occupied
with themselves; you, on the contrary, must appear wholly engrossed with
those about you, and yet never have a single idea which does not
terminate in yourself: a fool, my dear Henry, flatters himself--a wise
man flatters the fool.

"God bless you, my dear child, take care of your health--don't forget
Coulon; and believe me your most affectionate mother,
"F. P."

By the time I had read this letter and dressed myself for the evening,
Vincent's carriage was at the porte cocher. I hate the affection of
keeping people waiting, and went down so quickly, that I met his
facetious lordship upon the stairs. "Devilish windy," said I, as we were
getting into the carriage.

"Yes," said Vincent; "but the moral Horace reminds us of our remedies as
well as our misfortune--

             "'Jam galeam Pallas, et aegida,
             Currusque parat,'--

that is, 'Providence that prepares the gale, gives us also a great coat
and a carriage.'"

We were not long driving to the Palais Royal. Very's was crowded to
excess--"A very low set!" said Lord Vincent, (who, being half a liberal,
is of course a thorough aristocrat) looking round at the various English
who occupied the apartment.

There was, indeed, a motley congregation; country esquires; extracts from
the Universities; half-pay officers; city clerks in frogged coats and
mustachios; two or three of a better looking description, but in reality
half swindlers half gentlemen. All, in short, fit specimens of that
wandering tribe, which spread over the continent the renown and the
ridicule of good old England. I know not why it is that we should look
and act so very disgracefully abroad; but I never meet in any spot out of
this happy island, a single Englishman, without instinctively blushing
for my native country.

"Garcon, garcon," cried a stout gentleman, who made one of three at the
table next to us. "Donnez-nous une sole frite pour un, et des pommes de
terre pour trois!"

"Humph!" said Lord Vincent; "fine ideas of English taste these garcons
must entertain; men who prefer fried soles and potatoes to the various
delicacies they can command here, might, by the same perversion of taste,
prefer Bloomfield's poems to Byron's. Delicate taste depends solely upon
the physical construction; and a man who has it not in cookery, must want
it in literature. Fried sole and potatoes!! If I had written a volume,
whose merit was in elegance, I would not show it to such a man!--but he
might be an admirable critic upon 'Cobbett's Register,' or 'Every Man his
own Brewer.'"

"Excessively true," said I; "what shall we order?"

"D'abord des huitres d'Ostende," said Vincent; "as to the rest," taking
hold of the carte, "deliberare utilia mora utilissima est."

We were soon engaged in all the pleasures and pains of a dinner.

"Petimus," said Lord Vincent, helping himself to some poulet a
l'Austerlitz, "petimus bene vivere--quod petis, hic est?"

We were not, however, assured of that fact at the termination of dinner.
If half the dishes were well conceived and better executed, the other
half were proportionably bad. Very is, indeed, no longer the prince of
Restaurateurs. The low English who have flocked there, have entirely
ruined the place. What waiter--what cook can possibly respect men who
take no soup, and begin with a roti; who know neither what is good nor
what is bad; who eat rognons at dinner instead of at breakfast, and fall
into raptures over sauce Robert and pieds de cochon; who cannot tell, at
the first taste, whether the beaune is premiere qualite, or the fricassee
made of yesterday's chicken; who suffer in the stomach after champignon,
and die with indigestion of a truffle? O! English people, English people!
why can you not stay and perish of apoplexy and Yorkshire pudding at
home?

By the time we had drank our coffee it was considerably past nine
o'clock, and Vincent had business at the ambassador's before ten; we
therefore parted for the night.

"What do you think of Very's?" said I, as we were at the door.

"Why," replied Vincent, "when I recal the astonishing heat of the place,
which has almost sent me to sleep; the exceeding number of times in which
that becasse had been re-roasted, and the extortionate length of our
bills, I say of Very's, what Hamlet said of the world, 'Weary, stale, and
unprofitable!'"




CHAPTER XIII.

      I would fight with broad swords, and sink point on the first blood
      drawn like a gentleman's.--The Chronicles of the Canongate.

I strolled idly along the Palais Royal (which English people, in some
silly proverb, call the capital of Paris, whereas no French man of any
rank, nor French woman of any respectability, are ever seen in its
promenades) till, being somewhat curious to enter some of the smaller
cafes, I went into one of the meanest of them; took up a Journal des
Spectacles, and called for some lemonade. At the next table to me sat two
or three Frenchmen, evidently of inferior rank, and talking very loudly
over L'Angleterre et les Anglois. Their attention was soon fixed upon me.

Have you ever observed that if people are disposed to think ill of you,
nothing so soon determines them to do so as any act of yours, which,
however innocent and inoffensive, differs from their ordinary habits and
customs? No sooner had my lemonade made its appearance, than I perceived
an increased sensation among my neighbours of the next table. In the
first place, lemonade is not much drank, as you may suppose, among the
French in winter; and, in the second, my beverage had an appearance of
ostentation, from being one of the dearest articles I could have called
for. Unhappily, I dropped my newspaper--it fell under the Frenchmen's
table; instead of calling the garcon, I was foolish enough to stoop for
it myself. It was exactly under the feet of one of the Frenchmen; I asked
him with the greatest civility, to move: he made no reply. I could not,
for the life of me, refrain from giving him a slight, very slight push;
the next moment he moved in good earnest; the whole party sprung up as he
set the example. The offended leg gave three terrific stamps upon the
ground, and I was immediately assailed by a whole volley of
unintelligible abuse. At that time I was very little accustomed to French
vehemence, and perfectly unable to reply to the vituperations I received.

Instead of answering them, I therefore deliberated what was best to be
done. If, thought I, I walk away, they will think me a coward, and insult
me in the streets; if I challenge them, I shall have to fight with men
probably no better than shopkeepers; if I strike this most noisy amongst
them, he may be silenced, or he may demand satisfaction: if the former,
well and good; if the latter, why I shall have a better excuse for
fighting him than I should have now.

My resolution was therefore taken. I was never more free from passion in
my life, and it was, therefore, with the utmost calmness and composure
that, in the midst of my antagonist's harangue, I raised my hand
and--quietly knocked him down.

He rose in a moment. "Sortons," said he, in a low tone, "a Frenchman
never forgives a blow!"

At that moment, an Englishman, who had been sitting unnoticed in an
obscure corner of the cafe, came up and took me aside.

"Sir," said he, "don't think of fighting the man; he is a tradesman in
the Rue St. Honore. I myself have seen him behind the counter; remember
that 'a ram may kill a butcher.'"

"Sir," I replied, "I thank you a thousand times for your information.
Fight, however, I must, and I'll give you, like the Irishman, my reasons
afterwards: perhaps you will be my second."

"With pleasure," said the Englishman, (a Frenchman would have said, "with
pain!")

We left the cafe together. My countryman asked them if he should go the
gunsmith's for the pistols.

"Pistols!" said the Frenchman's second: "we will only fight with swords."

"No, no," said my new friend. "'On ne prend le lievre au tabourin.' We
are the challenged, and therefore have the choice of weapons."

Luckily I overheard this dispute, and called to my second--"Swords or
pistols," said I; "it is quite the same to me. I am not bad at either,
only do make haste."

Swords, then, were chosen and soon procured. Frenchmen never grow cool
upon their quarrels: and as it was a fine, clear, starlight night, we
went forthwith to the Bois de Boulogne. We fixed our ground on a spot
tolerably retired, and, I should think, pretty often frequented for the
same purpose. I was exceedingly confident, for I knew myself to have few
equals in the art of fencing; and I had all the advantage of coolness,
which my hero was a great deal too much in earnest to possess. We joined
swords, and in a very few moments I discovered that my opponent's life
was at my disposal.

"C'est bien," thought I; "for once I'll behave handsomely."

The Frenchman made a desperate lunge. I struck his sword from his hand,
caught it instantly, and, presenting it to him again, said,

"I think myself peculiarly fortunate that I may now apologize for the
affront I have put upon you. Will you permit my sincerest apologies to
suffice? A man who can so well resent an injury, can forgive one."

Was there ever a Frenchman not taken by a fine phrase? My hero received
the sword with a low bow--the tears came into his eyes.

"Sir," said he, "you have twice conquered."

We left the spot with the greatest amity and affection, and re-entered,
with a profusion of bows, our several fiacres.

"Let me," I said, when I found myself alone with my second, "let me thank
you most cordially for your assistance; and allow me to cultivate an
acquaintance so singularly begun. I lodge at the Hotel de--, Rue de
Rivoli; my name is Pelham. Your's is--"

"Thornton," replied my countryman. "I will lose no time in profiting by
an offer of acquaintance which does me so much honour."

With these and various other fine speeches, we employed the time till I
was set down at my hotel; and my companion, drawing his cloak round him,
departed on foot, to fulfil (he said, with a mysterious air) a certain
assignation in the Faubourg St. Germain.

I said to Mr. Thornton, that I would give him many reasons for fighting
after I had fought. As I do not remember that I ever did, and as I am
very unwilling that they should be lost, I am now going to bestow them on
the reader. It is true that I fought a tradesman. His rank in life made
such an action perfectly gratuitous on my part, and to many people
perhaps perfectly unpardonable. The following was, however, my view of
the question: In striking him I had placed myself on his level; if I did
so in order to insult him, I had a right also to do it in order to give
him the only atonement in my power: had the insult come solely from him,
I might then, with some justice, have intrenched myself in my superiority
of rank--contempt would have been as optional as revenge: but I had left
myself no alternative in being the aggressor, for if my birth was to
preserve me from redressing an injury, it was also to preserve me from
committing one. I confess, that the thing would have been wholly
different had it been an English, instead of a French, man; and this,
because of the different view of the nature and importance of the
affront, which the Englishman would take. No English tradesman has an
idea of les lois d'armes--a blow can be returned, or it can be paid for.

But in France, neither a set-to, nor an action for assault, would repay
the generality of any class removed from the poverty of the bas peuple,
for so great and inexcusable an affront. In all countries it is the
feelings of the generality of people, that courtesy, which is the essence
of honour, obliges one to consult. As in England I should, therefore,
have paid, so in France I fought.

If it be said that a French gentleman would not have been equally
condescending to a French tradesman, I answer that the former would never
have perpetrated the only insult for which the latter might think there
could be only one atonement. Besides, even if this objection held good,
there is a difference between the duties of a native and a stranger. In
receiving the advantages of a foreign country, one ought to be doubly
careful not to give offence, and it is therefore doubly incumbent upon us
to redress it when given. To the feelings of the person I had offended,
there was but one redress. Who can blame me if I granted it?




CHAPTER XIV.

      Erat homo ingeniosus, acutus, acer, et qui plurimum et salis
      haberet et fellis, nec candoris minus.--Pliny.

I do not know a more difficult character to describe than Lord Vincent's.
Did I imitate certain writers, who think that the whole art of
pourtraying individual character is to seize hold of some prominent
peculiarity, and to introduce this distinguishing trait, in all times and
in all scenes, the difficulty would be removed. I should only have to
present to the reader a man, whose conversation was nothing but alternate
jest and quotation--a due union of Yorick and Partridge. This would,
however, be rendering great injustice to the character I wish to
delineate. There were times when Vincent was earnestly engrossed in
discussion in which a jest rarely escaped him, and quotation was
introduced only as a serious illustration, not as a humorous peculiarity.
He possessed great miscellaneous erudition, and a memory perfectly
surprising for its fidelity and extent. He was a severe critic, and had a
peculiar art of quoting from each author he reviewed, some part that
particularly told against him. Like most men, in the theory of philosophy
he was tolerably rigid; in its practice, more than tolerably loose. By
his tenets you would have considered him a very Cato for stubbornness and
sternness: yet was he a very child in his concession to the whim of the
moment. Fond of meditation and research, he was still fonder of mirth and
amusement; and while he was among the most instructive, he was also the
boonest of companions. When alone with me, or with men whom he imagined
like me, his pedantry (for more or less, he always was pedantic) took
only a jocular tone; with the savan or the bel esprit, it became grave,
searching, and sarcastic. He was rather a contradicter than a favourer of
ordinary opinions: and this, perhaps, led him not unoften into paradox:
yet was there much soundness, even in his most vehement notions, and the
strength of mind which made him think only for himself, was visible in
all the productions it created. I have hitherto only given his
conversation in one of its moods; henceforth I shall be just enough
occasionally to be dull, and to present it sometimes to the reader in a
graver tone.

Buried deep beneath the surface of his character, was a hidden, yet a
restless ambition: but this was perhaps, at present, a secret even to
himself. We know not our own characters till time teaches us
self-knowledge: if we are wise, we may thank ourselves; if we are great,
we must thank fortune.

It was this insight into Vincent's nature which drew us closer together.
I recognized in the man, who as yet was only playing a part, a
resemblance to myself, while he, perhaps, saw at times that I was
somewhat better than the voluptuary, and somewhat wiser than the coxcomb,
which were all that at present it suited me to appear.

In person, Vincent was short, and though not ill--yet ungracefully
made--but his countenance was singularly fine. His eyes were dark, bright
and penetrating, and his forehead (high and thoughtful) corrected the
playful smile of his mouth, which might otherwise have given to his
features too great an expression of levity. He was not positively ill
dressed, yet he paid no attention to any external art, except
cleanliness. His usual garb was a brown coat, much too large for him, a
coloured neckcloth, a spotted waistcoat, grey trowsers, and short
gaiters: add to these gloves of most unsullied doeskin, and a curiously
thick cane, and the portrait is complete.

In manners, he was civil, or rude, familiar, or distant, just as the whim
seized him; never was there any address less common, and less artificial.
What a rare gift, by the by, is that of manners! how difficult to
define--how much more difficult to impart! Better for a man to possess
them, than wealth, beauty, or talent; they will more than supply all. No
attention is too minute, no labour too exaggerated, which tends to
perfect them. He who enjoys their advantages in the highest degree, viz.,
he who can please, penetrate, persuade, as the object may require,
possesses the subtlest secret of the diplomatist and the statesman, and
wants nothing but opportunity to become "great."




CHAPTER XV.

      Le plaisir de la societe entre les amis se cultive par une
      ressemblance de gout sur ce qui regarde les moeurs, et par quelque
      difference d'opinions sur les sciences; par la ou l'on s'affermit
      dans ses sentiments, ou l'on s'exerce et l'on s'instruit par la
      dispute.
                --La Bruyere.

There was a party at Monsieur de V--e's, to which Vincent and myself were
the only Englishmen invited: accordingly as the Hotel de V. was in the
same street as my hotel, we dined together at my rooms, and walked from
thence to the minister's house.

The party was as stiff and formal as such assemblies invariably are, and
we were both delighted when we espied Monsieur d'A--, a man of much
conversational talent, and some celebrity as an ultra writer, forming a
little group in one corner of the room.

We took advantage of our acquaintance with the urbane Frenchman to join
his party; the conversation turned almost entirely on literary subjects.
Allusion being made to Schlegel's History of Literature, and the severity
with which he speaks of Helvetius, and the philosophers of his school, we
began to discuss what harm the free-thinkers in philosophy had effected.

"For my part," said Vincent, "I am not able to divine why we are
supposed, in works where there is much truth, and little falsehood, much
good, and a little evil, to see only the evil and the falsehood, to the
utter exclusion of the truth and the good. All men whose minds are
sufficiently laborious or acute to love the reading of metaphysical
inquiries, will by the same labour and acuteness separate the chaff from
the corn--the false from the true. It is the young, the light, the
superficial, who are easily misled by error, and incapable of discerning
its fallacy; but tell me, if it is the light, the young, the superficial,
who are in the habit of reading the abstruse and subtle speculations of
the philosopher. No, no! believe me that it is the very studies Monsieur
Schlegel recommends, which do harm to morality and virtue; it is the
study of literature itself, the play, the poem, the novel, which all
minds, however frivolous, can enjoy and understand, that constitute the
real foes to religion and moral improvement."

"Ma foi," cried Monsieur de G., (who was a little writer, and a great
reader of romances) "why, you would not deprive us of the politer
literature, you would not bid us shut up our novels, and burn our
theatres."

"Certainly not!" replied Vincent; "and it is in this particular that I
differ from certain modern philosophers of our own country, for whom, for
the most part, I entertain the highest veneration. I would not deprive
life of a single grace, or a single enjoyment, but I would counteract
whatever is pernicious in whatever is elegant; if among my flowers there
is a snake, I would not root up my flowers, I would kill the snake. Thus,
who are they that derive from fiction and literature a prejudicial
effect? We have seen already--the light and superficial;--but who are
they that derive profit from them?--they who enjoy well regulated and
discerning minds. Who pleasure?--all mankind! Would it not therefore be
better, instead of depriving some of profit, and all of pleasure, by
banishing poetry and fiction from our Utopia, to correct the minds which
find evil, where, if they were properly instructed, they would find good?
Whether we agree with Helvetius, that all men are born with an equal
capacity of improvement, or merely go the length with all other
metaphysicians, that education can improve the human mind to an extent
yet incalculable, it must be quite clear, that we can give sound views
instead of fallacies, and make common truths as easy to discern and adopt
as common errors. But if we effect this, which we all allow is so easy,
with our children; if we strengthen their minds, instead of weakening
them, and clear their vision, rather than confuse it, from that moment,
we remove the prejudicial effects of fiction, and just as we have taught
them to use a knife, without cutting their fingers, we teach them to make
use of fiction without perverting it to their prejudice. What philosopher
was ever hurt by reading the novels of Crebillon, or seeing the comedies
of Moliere? You understand me, then, Monsieur de G., I do, it is true,
think that polite literature (as it is termed,) is prejudicial to the
superficial, but for that reason, I would not do away with the
literature, I would do away with the superficial."

"I deny," said M. D'A--, "that this is so easy a task--you cannot make
all men wise."

"No," replied Vincent; "but you can all children, at least to a certain
extent. Since you cannot deny the prodigious effects of education, you
must allow that they will, at least, give common sense; for it they
cannot do this, they can do nothing. Now common sense is all that is
necessary to distinguish what is good and evil, whether it be in life or
in books: but then your education must not be that of public teaching and
private fooling; you must not counteract the effects of common sense by
instilling prejudice, or encouraging weakness; your education may not be
carried to the utmost goal: but as far as it does go you must see that
the road is clear. Now, for instance, with regard to fiction, you must
not first, as is done in all modern education, admit the disease, and
then dose with warm water to expel it; you must not put fiction into your
child's hands, and not give him a single principle to guide his judgment
respecting it, till his mind has got wedded to the poison, and too weak,
by its long use, to digest the antidote. No; first fortify his intellect
by reason, and you may then please his fancy by fiction. Do not excite
his imagination with love and glory, till you can instruct his judgment
as to what love and glory are. Teach him, in short, to reflect, before
you permit him full indulgence to imagine."

Here there was a pause. Monsieur D'A--looked very ill-pleased, and poor
Monsieur de G--thought that somehow or other his romance writing was
called into question. In order to soothe them, I introduced some subject
which permitted a little national flattery; the conversation then turned
insensibly on the character of the French people.

"Never," said Vincent, "has there been a character more often
described--never one less understood. You have been termed superficial. I
think, of all people, that you least deserve the accusation. With regard
to the few, your philosophers, your mathematicians, your men of science,
are consulted by those of other nations, as some of their profoundest
authorities. With regard to the many, the charge is still more unfounded.
Compare your mob, whether of gentlemen or plebeians, to those of Germany,
Italy--even England--and I own, in spite of my national prepossessions,
that the comparison is infinitely in your favour. The country gentlemen,
the lawyer, the petit maitre of England, are proverbially inane and
ill-informed. With you, the classes of society that answer to those
respective grades, have much information in literature, and often not a
little in science. In like manner, your tradesmen, your mechanics, your
servants, are, beyond all measure, of larger, better cultivated, and less
prejudiced minds than those ranks in England. The fact is, that all with
you pretend to be savans, and this is the chief reason why you have been
censured as shallow. We see your fine gentleman, or your petit bourgeois,
give himself the airs of a critic or a philosopher; and because he is
neither a Scaliger nor a Newton, we forget that he is only the bourgeois
or the pelit maitre, and set down all your philosophers and critics with
the censure of superficiality, which this shallow individual of a shallow
order may justly have deserved. We, the English, it is true, do not
expose ourselves thus: our dandies, our tradesmen, do not vent second
rate philosophy on the human mind, nor on les beaux arts: but why is
this? Not because they are better informed than their correspondent
ciphers in France, but because they are much worse; not because they can
say a great deal more on the subject, but because they can say nothing at
all."

"You do us more than justice," said Monsieur D'A--, "in this instance:
are you disposed to do us justice also in another? It is a favourite
propensity of your countrymen to accuse us of heartlessness and want of
feeling. Think you that this accusation is deserved?"

"By no means," replied Vincent. "The same cause that brought on the
erroneous censure we have before mentioned, appears to me also to have
created this; viz. a sort of Palais Royal vanity, common to all your
nation, which induces you to make as much display at the shop window as
possible. You show great cordiality, and even enthusiasm, to strangers;
you turn your back on them--you forget them. 'How heartless!' cry we. Not
at all! The English show no cordiality, no enthusiasm to strangers, it is
true: but they equally turn their backs on them, and equally forget them!
The only respect, therefore, in which they differ from you, is the
previous kindness: now if we are to receive strangers, I can really see
no reason why we are not to be as civil to them as possible; and so far
from imputing the desire to please them to a bad heart, I think it a
thousand times more amiable and benevolent than telling them, a
l'Anglaise, by your morosity and reserve, that you do not care a pin what
becomes of them. If I am only to walk a mile with a man, why should I not
make that mile as pleasant to him as I can; or why, above all, if I
choose to be sulky, and tell him to go and be d--d, am I to swell out my
chest, colour with conscious virtue, and cry, see what a good heart I
have?

"Ah, Monsieur D'A----, since benevolence is inseparable from all morality,
it must be clear that there is a benevolence in little things as well as
in great; and that he who strives to make his fellow creatures happy,
though only for an instant, is a much better man than he who is
indifferent to, or, (what is worse) despises, it. Nor do I, to say truth,
see that kindness to an acquaintance is at all destructive to sincerity
to a friend: on the contrary, I have yet to learn, that you are
(according to the customs of your country) worse friends, worse husbands,
or worse fathers than we are!"

"What!" cried I, "you forget yourself, Vincent. How can the private
virtues be cultivated without a coal fire? Is not domestic affection a
synonymous term with domestic hearth? and where do you find either,
except in honest old England?"

"True," replied Vincent; "and it is certainly impossible for a father and
his family to be as fond of each other on a bright day in the Tuilleries,
or at Versailles, with music and dancing, and fresh air, as they would be
in a back parlour, by a smoky hearth, occupied entirely by le bon pere,
et la bonne mere; while the poor little children sit at the other end of
the table, whispering and shivering, debarred the vent of all natural
spirits, for fear of making a noise; and strangely uniting the idea of
the domestic hearth with that of a hobgoblin, and the association of dear
papa with that of a birch rod."

We all laughed at this reply, and Monsieur D'A____, rising to depart,
said, "Well, well, milord, your countrymen are great generalizers in
philosophy; they reduce human actions to two grand touchstones. All
hilarity, they consider the sign of a shallow mind; and all kindness, the
token of a false heart."




CHAPTER XVI.

                           Quis sapiens bono
                   Confidat fragili.
                   --Seneca.

                   Grammatici certant et adhuc sub judice lis est.
                   --Horace.

When I first went to Paris, I took a French master, to perfect me in the
Parisian pronunciation. This "Haberdasher of Pronouns" was a person of
the name of Margot. He was a tall, solemn man, with a face of the most
imperturbable gravity. He would have been inestimable as an undertaker.
His hair was of a pale yellow; you would have thought it had caught a
bilious complaint from his complexion; the latter was, indeed, of so
sombre a saffron, that it looked as if ten livers had been forced into a
jaundice, in order to supply its colour. His forehead was high, bald, and
very narrow. His cheekbones were extremely prominent, and his cheeks so
thin, that they seemed happier than Pyramus and Thisbe, and kissed each
other inside without any separation or division. His face was as sharp
and almost as long as an inverted pyramid, and was garnished on either
side by a miserable half starved whisker, which seemed scarcely able to
maintain itself, amid the general symptoms of atrophy and decay. This
charming countenance was supported by a figure so long, so straight, so
shadowy, that you might have taken it for the monument in a consumption.

But the chief characteristic of the man was the utter and wonderful
gravity I have before spoken of. You could no more have coaxed a smile
out of his countenance, than you could out of the poker, and yet Monsieur
Margot was by no means a melancholy man. He loved his joke, and his wine,
and his dinner, just as much as if he had been of a fatter frame; and it
was a fine specimen of the practical antithesis, to hear a good story, or
a jovial expression, leap friskily out of that long, curved mouth; it was
at once a paradox and a bathos--it was the mouse coming out of its hole
in Ely Cathedral.

I said that this gravity was M. Margot's most especial characteristic. I
forgot:--he had two others equally remarkable; the one was an ardent
admiration for the chivalrous, the other an ardent admiration for
himself. Both of these are traits common enough in a Frenchman, but in
Mons. Margot their excesses rendered them uncommon. He was a most ultra
specimen of le chevalier amoureux--a mixture of Don Quixote and the Duc
de Lauzun. Whenever he spoke of the present tense, even en professeur, he
always gave a sigh to the preterite, and an anecdote of Bayard; whenever
he conjugated a verb, he paused to tell me that the favourite one of his
female pupils was je t'aime.

In short, he had tales of his own good fortune, and of other people's
brave exploits, which, without much exaggeration, were almost as long,
and had perhaps as little substance as himself; but the former was his
favourite topic: to hear him, one would have imagined that his face, in
borrowing the sharpness of the needle, had borrowed also its
attraction;--and then the prettiness of Mons. Margot's modesty!

"It is very extraordinary," said he, "very extraordinary, for I have no
time to give myself up to those affairs; it is not, Monsieur, as if I had
your leisure to employ all the little preliminary arts of creating la
belle passion. Non, Monsieur, I go to church, to the play, to the
Tuilleries, for a brief relaxation--and me voila partout accable with my
good fortune. I am not handsome, Monsieur, at least, not very; it is
true, that I have expression, a certain air noble, (my first cousin,
Monsieur, is the Chevalier de Margot) and above all, de l'a me in my
physiognomy; the women love soul, Monsieur--something intellectual and
spiritual always attracts them; yet my success certainly is singular."

"Bah! Monsieur," replied I: "with dignity, expression, and soul! how
could the heart of any French woman resist you? No, you do yourself
injustice. It was said of Caesar, that he was great without an effort;
much more, then, may Monsieur Margot be happy without an exertion."

"Ah, Monsieur!" rejoined the Frenchman, still looking

           "As weak, as earnest, and as gravely out
           As sober Lanesbro' dancing with the gout."

"Ah, Monsieur, there is a depth and truth in your remarks, worthy of
Montaigne. As it is impossible to account for the caprices of women, so
it is impossible for ourselves to analyze the merit they discover in us;
but, Monsieur, hear me--at the house where I lodge, there is an English
lady en pension. Eh bien, Monsieur, you guess the rest: she has taken a
caprice for me, and this very night she will admit me to her apartment.
She is very handsome,--Ah qu'elle est belle, une jolie petite bouche, une
denture eblouissante, un nez tout afait grec, in fine, quite a bouton de
rose."

I expressed my envy at Monsieur Margot's good fortune, and when he had
sufficiently dilated upon it, he withdrew. Shortly afterwards Vincent
entered--"I have a dinner invitation for both of us to-day," said he;
"you will come?"

"Most certainly," replied I; "but who is the person we are to honour?"

"A Madame Laurent," replied Vincent; "one of those ladies only found at
Paris, who live upon anything rather than their income. She keeps a
tolerable table, haunted with Poles, Russians, Austrians, and idle
Frenchmen, peregrinae gentis amaenum hospitium. As yet, she has not the
happiness to be acquainted with any Englishmen, (though she boards one of
our countrywomen) and (as she is desirous of making her fortune as soon
as possible) she is very anxious of having that honour. She has heard
vast reports of our wealth and wisdom, and flatters herself that we are
so many ambulatory Indies: in good truth, a Frenchwoman thinks she is
never in want of a fortune as long as there is a rich fool in the world.

                "'Stultitiam patiuntur, opes,'

is her hope; and

                "'Ut tu fortunam, sic nos te, Celse, feremus,'

is her motto."

"Madame Laurent!" repeated I, "why, surely that is the name of Mons.
Margot's landlady."

"I hope not," cried Vincent, "for the sake of our dinner; he reflects no
credit on her good cheer--

                "'Who eats fat dinners, should himself be fat.'"

"At all events," said I, "we can try the good lady for once. I am very
anxious to see a countrywoman of ours, probably the very one you speak
of, whom Mons. Margot eulogizes in glowing colours, and who has,
moreover, taken a violent fancy for my solemn preceptor. What think you
of that, Vincent?"

"Nothing extraordinary," replied Vincent; "the lady only exclaims with
the moralist--

           "'Love, virtue, valour, yea, all human charms,
           Are shrunk and centred in that heap of bones.
           Oh! there are wondrous beauties in the grave!'"

I made some punning rejoinder, and we sallied out to earn an appetite in
the Tuilleries for Madame Laurent's dinner.

At the hour of half-past five we repaired to our engagement. Madame
Laurent received us with the most evident satisfaction, and introduced us
forthwith to our countrywoman. She was a pretty, fair, shrewd looking
person, with an eye and lip which, unless it greatly belied her, showed
her much more inclined, as an amante, to be merry and wise, than honest
and true.

Presently Monsieur Margot made his appearance. Though very much surprised
at seeing me, he did not appear the least jealous of my attentions to his
inamorata. Indeed, the good gentleman was far too much pleased with
himself to be susceptible of the suspicions common to less fortunate
lovers. At dinner I sat next to the pretty Englishwoman, whose name was
Green.

"Monsieur Margot," said I, "has often spoken to me of you before I had
the happiness of being personally convinced how true and unexaggerated
were his sentiments."

"Oh!" cried Mrs. Green, with an arch laugh, "you are acquainted with
Monsieur Margot, then?"

"I have that honour," said I. "I receive from him every morning lessons
both in love and languages. He is perfect master of both."

Mrs. Green burst out into one of those peals so peculiarly British.

"Ah, le pauvre Professeur!" cried she. "He is too absurd!"

"He tells me," said I, gravely, "that he is quite accable with his bonnes
fortunes--possibly he flatters himself that even you are not perfectly
inaccessible to his addresses."

"Tell me, Mr. Pelham," said the fair Mrs. Green, "can you pass by this
street about half past twelve to-night?"

"I will make a point of doing so," replied I, not a little surprised by
the remark.

"Do," said she, "and now let us talk of old England."

When we went away I told Vincent of my appointment. "What!" said he,
"eclipse Monsieur Margot! Impossible!"

"You are right," replied I, "nor is it my hope; there is some trick
afloat of which we may as well be spectators."

"De tout mon coeur!" answered Vincent; "let us go till then to the
Duchesse de G----."

I assented, and we drove to the Rue de--.

The Duchesse de G--was a fine relict of the ancien regime--tall and
stately, with her own grey hair crepe, and surmounted by a high cap of
the most dazzling blonde. She had been one of the earliest emigrants, and
had stayed for many months with my mother, whom she professed to rank
amongst her dearest friends. The duchesse possessed to perfection that
singular melange of ostentation and ignorance which was so peculiar to
the ante-revolutionists. She would talk of the last tragedy with the
emphatic tone of a connoisseur, in the same breath that she would ask,
with Marie Antoinette, why the poor people were so clamorous for bread
when they might buy such nice cakes for two-pence a-piece? "To give you
an idea of the Irish," said she one day to an inquisitive marquess, "know
that they prefer potatoes to mutton!"

Her soirees were among the most agreeable at Paris--she united all the
rank and talent to be found in the ultra party, for she professed to be
quite a female Maecenas; and whether it was a mathematician or a
romance-writer, a naturalist or a poet, she held open house for all, and
conversed with each with equal fluency and self-satisfaction.

A new play had just been acted, and the conversation, after a few
preliminary hoverings, settled upon it.

"You see," said the duchesse, "that we have actors, you authors; of what
avail is it that you boast of a Shakspeare, since your Liseton, great as
he is, cannot be compared with our Talma?"

"And yet," said I, preserving my gravity with a pertinacity, which nearly
made Vincent and the rest of our compatriots assembled lose their's
"Madame must allow, that there is a striking resemblance in their
persons, and the sublimity of their acting?"

"Pour ca, j'en conviens," replied this 'critique de l'Ecole des Femmes.'
"Mais cependant Liseton n'a pas la Nature! l'ame! la grandeur de Talma!"

"And will you then allow us no actors of merit?" asked Vincent.

"Mais oui!--dans le genre comique, par exemple, votre buffo Kean met dix
fois plus d'esprit et de drollerie dans ses roles que La Porte."

"The impartial and profound judgment of Madame admits of no further
discussion on this point," said I. "What does she think of the present
state of our dramatic literature?"

"Why," replied Madame, "you have many great poets, but when they write
for the stage they lose themselves entirely; your Valter Scote's play of
Robe Roi is very inferior to his novel of the same name."

"It is a great pity," said I, "that Byron did not turn his Childe Harold
into a tragedy--it has so much energy--action--variety!"

"Very true," said Madame, with a sigh; "but the tragedy is, after all,
only suited to our nation--we alone carry it to perfection."

"Yet," said I, "Goldoni wrote a few fine tragedies."

"Eh bien!" said Madame, "one rose does not constitute a garden!"

And satisfied with this remark, la femme savante turned to a celebrated
traveller to discuss with him the chance of discovering the North Pole.

There were one or two clever Englishmen present; Vincent and I joined
them.

"Have you met the Persian prince yet?" said Sir George Lynton to me; "he
is a man of much talent, and great desire of knowledge. He intends to
publish his observations on Paris, and I suppose we shall have an
admirable supplement to Montesquieu's Lettres Persannes!"

"I wish we had," said Vincent: "there are few better satires on a
civilized country than the observations of visitors less polished; while
on the contrary the civilized traveller, in describing the manners of the
American barbarian, instead of conveying ridicule upon the visited,
points the sarcasm on the visitor; and Tacitus could not have thought of
a finer or nobler satire on the Roman luxuries than that insinuated by
his treatise on the German simplicity."

"What," said Monsieur D'E--(an intelligent ci-devant emigre), "what
political writer is generally esteemed as your best?"

"It is difficult to say," replied Vincent, "since with so many parties we
have many idols; but I think I might venture to name Bolingbroke as among
the most popular. Perhaps, indeed, it would be difficult to select a name
more frequently quoted and discussed than his; and yet his political
works are the least valuable part of his remains; and though they contain
many lofty sentiments, and many beautiful yet scattered truths, they were
written when legislation, most debated, was least understood, and ought
to be admired rather as excellent for the day than estimable in
themselves. The life of Bolingbroke would convey a juster moral than all
his writings: and the author who gives us a full and impartial memoir of
that extraordinary man, will have afforded both to the philosophical and
political literature of England one of its greatest desideratums."

"It seems to me," said Monsieur D'E--, "that your national literature is
peculiarly deficient in biography--am I right in my opinion?"

"Indubitably!" said Vincent; "we have not a single work that can be
considered a model in biography, (excepting, perhaps, Middleton's Life of
Cicero.) This brings on a remark I have often made in distinguishing your
philosophy from ours. It seems to me that you who excel so admirably in
biography, memoirs, comedy, satirical observation on peculiar classes,
and pointed aphorisms, are fonder of considering man in his relation to
society and the active commerce of the world, than in the more abstracted
and metaphysical operations of the mind. Our writers, on the contrary,
love to indulge rather in abstruse speculations on their species--to
regard man in an abstract and isolated point of view, and to see him
think alone in his chamber, while you prefer beholding him act with the
multitude in the world."

"It must be allowed," said Monsieur D'E----t, "that if this be true, our
philosophy is the most useful, though yours may be the most profound."

Vincent did not reply.

"Yet," said Sir George Lynton, "there will be a disadvantage attending
your writings of this description, which, by diminishing their general
applicability, diminish their general utility. Works which treat upon man
in his relation to society, can only be strictly applicable so long as
that relation to society treated upon continues. For instance, the play
which satirizes a particular class, however deep its reflections and
accurate its knowledge upon the subject satirized, must necessarily be
obsolete when the class itself has become so. The political pamphlet,
admirable for one state, may be absurd in another; the novel which
exactly delineates the present age may seem strange and unfamiliar to the
next; and thus works which treat of men relatively, and not man in se,
must often confine their popularity to the age and even the country in
which they were written. While on the other hand, the work which treats
of man himself, which seizes, discovers, analyzes the human mind, as it
is, whether in the ancient or the modern, the savage or the European,
must evidently be applicable, and consequently useful, to all times and
all nations. He who discovers the circulation of the blood, or the origin
of ideas, must be a philosopher to every people who have veins or ideas;
but he who even most successfully delineates the manners of one country,
or the actions of one individual, is only the philosopher of a single
country, or a single age. If, Monsieur D'E--t, you will condescend to
consider this, you will see perhaps that the philosophy which treats of
man in his relations is not so useful, because neither so permanent nor
so invariable, as that which treats of man in himself." [Note: Yet Hume
holds the contrary opinion to this, and considers a good comedy more
durable than a system of philosophy. Hume is right, if by a system of
philosophy is understood--a pile of guesses, false but plausible, set up
by one age to be destroyed by the next. Ingenuity cannot rescue error
from oblivion; but the moment Wisdom has discovered Truth, she has
obtained immortality.]

I was now somewhat weary of this conversation, and though it was not yet
twelve, I seized upon my appointment as an excuse to depart--accordingly
I rose for that purpose. "I suppose," said I to Vincent, "that you will
not leave your discussion."

"Pardon me," said he, "amusement is quite as profitable to a man of sense
as metaphysics. Allons."




CHAPTER XVII.

      I was in this terrible situation when the basket stopt.
      --Oriental Tales--History of the Basket.

We took our way to the street in which Madame Laurent resided. Meanwhile
suffer me to get rid of myself, and to introduce you, dear Reader, to my
friend, Monsieur Margot, the whole of whose adventures were subsequently
detailed to me by the garrulous Mrs. Green.

At the hour appointed he knocked at the door of my fair countrywoman, and
was carefully admitted. He was attired in a dressing-gown of sea-green
silk, in which his long, lean, hungry body, looked more like a river pike
than any thing human.

"Madame," said he, with a solemn air, "I return you my best thanks for
the honour you have done me--behold me at your feet!" and so saying the
lean lover gravely knelt down on one knee.

"Rise, Sir," said Mrs. Green, "I confess that you have won my heart; but
that is not all--you have yet to show that you are worthy of the opinion
I have formed of you. It is not, Monsieur Margot, your person that has
won me--no! it is your chivalrous and noble sentiments--prove that these
are genuine, and you may command all from my admiration."

"In what manner shall I prove it, Madame," said Monsieur Margot, rising,
and gracefully drawing his sea-green gown more closely round him.

"By your courage, your devotion, and your gallantry! I ask but one
proof--you can give it me on the spot. You remember, Monsieur, that in
the days of romance, a lady threw her glove upon the stage on which a
lion was exhibited, and told her lover to pick it up. Monsieur Margot,
the trial to which I shall put you is less severe. Look, (and Mrs. Green
threw open the window)--look, I throw my glove out into the
street--descend for it."

"Your commands are my law," said the romantic Margot. "I will go
forthwith," and so saying, he went to the door.

"Hold, Sir!" said the lady, "it is not by that simple manner that you are
to descend--you must go the same way as my glove, out of the window."

"Out of the window, Madame!" said Monsieur Margot, with astonished
solemnity; "that is impossible, because this apartment is three stories
high, and consequently I shall be dashed to pieces."

"By no means," answered the dame; "in that corner of the room there is a
basket, to which (already foreseeing your determination) I have affixed a
rope; by that basket you shall descend. See, Monsieur, what expedients a
provident love can suggest."

"H--e--m!" said, very slowly, Monsieur Margot, by no means liking the
airy voyage imposed upon him; "but the rope may break, or your hand may
suffer it to slip."

"Feel the rope," cried the lady, "to satisfy you as to your first doubt;
and, as to the second, can you--can you imagine that my affections would
not make me twice as careful of your person as of my own. Fie! ungrateful
Monsieur Margot! fie!"

The melancholy chevalier cast a rueful look at the basket. "Madame," said
he, "I own that I am very averse to the plan you propose: suffer me to go
down stairs in the ordinary way; your glove can be as easily picked up
whether your adorer goes out of the door or the window. It is only,
Madame, when ordinary means fail that we should have recourse to the
extraordinary."

"Begone, Sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Green; "begone! I now perceive that your
chivalry was only a pretence. Fool that I was to love you as I have
done--fool that I was to imagine a hero where I now find a--"

"Pause, Madame, I will obey you--my heart is firm--see that the rope
is--"

"Gallant Monsieur Margot!" cried the lady: and going to her
dressing-room, she called her woman to her assistance. The rope was of
the most unquestionable thickness, the basket of the most capacious
dimensions. The former was fastened to a strong hook--and the latter
lowered.

"I go, Madame," said Monsieur Margot, feeling the rope; "but it really is
a most dangerous exploit."

"Go, Monsieur! and the God of St. Louis befriend you!"

"Stop!" said Monsieur Margot, "let me fetch my coat: the night is cold,
and my dressing-gown thin."

"Nay, nay, my Chevalier," returned the dame, "I love you in that gown: it
gives you an air of grace and dignity, quite enchanting."

"It will give me my death of cold, Madame," said Monsieur Margot,
earnestly.

"Bah!" said the Englishwoman: "what knight ever feared cold? Besides, you
mistake; the night is warm, and you look so handsome in your gown."

"Do I!" said the vain Monsieur Margot, with an iron expression of
satisfaction; "if that is the case, I will mind it less; but may I return
by the door?"

"Yes," replied the lady; "you see that I do not require too much from
your devotion--enter."

"Behold me!" said the French master, inserting his body into the basket,
which immediately began to descend.

The hour and the police of course made the street empty; the lady's
handkerchief waved in token of encouragement and triumph. When the basket
was within five yards of the ground, Mrs. Green cried to her lover, who
had hitherto been elevating his serious countenance towards her, in
sober, yet gallant sadness--"Look, look, Monsieur--straight before you."

The lover turned round, as rapidly as his habits would allow him, and at
that instant the window was shut, the light extinguished, and the basket
arrested. There stood Monsieur Margot, upright in the basket, and there
stopped the basket, motionless in the air.

What were the exact reflections of Monsieur Margot, in that position, I
cannot pretend to determine, because he never favoured me with them; but
about an hour afterwards, Vincent and I (who had been delayed on the
road), strolling up the street, according to our appointment, perceived,
by the dim lamps, some opaque body leaning against the wall of Madame
Laurent's house, at about the distance of fifteen feet from the ground.

We hastened our steps towards it; a measured and serious voice, which I
well knew, accosted us--"For God's sake, gentlemen, procure me
assistance; I am the victim of a perfidious woman, and expect every
moment to be precipitated to the earth."

"Good Heavens!" said I, "surely it is Monsieur Margot, whom I hear. What
are you doing there?"

"Shivering with cold," answered Monsieur Margot, in a tone tremulously
slow.

"But what are you in? for I can see nothing but a dark substance."

"I am in a basket," replied Monsieur Margot, "and I should be very much
obliged to you to let me out of it."

"Well--indeed," said Vincent, (for I was too much engaged in laughing to
give a ready reply,) "your Chateau-Margot has but a cool cellar. But
there are some things in the world easier said than done. How are we to
remove you to a more desirable place?"

"Ah," returned Monsieur Margot, "how indeed! There is to be sure a ladder
in the porter's lodge long enough to deliver me; but then, think of the
gibes and jeers of the porter--it will get wind--I shall be ridiculed,
gentlemen--I shall be ridiculed--and what is worse, I shall lose my
pupils."

"My good friend," said I, "you had better lose your pupils than your
life; and the day-light will soon come, and then, instead of being
ridiculed by the porter, you will be ridiculed by the whole street!"

Monsieur Margot groaned. "Go, then, my friend," said he, "procure the
ladder! Oh, those she devils!--what could make me such a fool!"

Whilst Monsieur Margot was venting his spleen in a scarcely articulate
mutter, we repaired to the lodge, knocked up the porter, communicated the
accident, and procured the ladder. However, an observant eye had been
kept upon our proceedings, and the window above was re-opened, though so
silently that I only perceived the action. The porter, a jolly, bluff,
hearty-looking fellow, stood grinning below with a lantern, while we set
the ladder (which only just reached the basket) against the wall.

The chevalier looked wistfully forth, and then, by the light of the
lantern, we had a fair view of his ridiculous figure--his teeth chattered
woefully, and the united cold without and anxiety within, threw a double
sadness and solemnity upon his withered countenance; the night was very
windy, and every instant a rapid current seized the unhappy sea-green
vesture, whirled it in the air, and threw it, as if in scorn, over the
very face of the miserable professor. The constant recurrence of this
sportive irreverence of the gales--the high sides of the basket, and the
trembling agitation of the inmate, never too agile, rendered it a work of
some time for Monsieur Margot to transfer himself from the basket to the
ladder; at length, he had fairly got out one thin, shivering leg.

"Thank God!" said the pious professor--when at that instant the
thanksgiving was checked, and, to Monsieur Margot's inexpressible
astonishment and dismay, the basket rose five feet from the ladder,
leaving its tenant with one leg dangling out, like a flag from a balloon.

The ascent was too rapid to allow Monsieur Margot even time for an
exclamation, and it was not till he had had sufficient leisure in his
present elevation to perceive all its consequences, that he found words
to say, with the most earnest tone of thoughtful lamentation, "One could
not have foreseen this!--it is really extremely distressing--would to God
that I could get my leg in, or my body out!"

While we were yet too convulsed with laughter to make any comment upon
the unlooked-for ascent of the luminous Monsieur Margot, the basket
descended with such force as to dash the lantern out of the hand of the
porter, and to bring the professor so precipitously to the ground, that
all the bones in his skin rattled audibly!

"My God!" said he, "I am done for!--be witness how inhumanly I have been
murdered."

We pulled him out of the basket, and carried him between us into the
porter's lodge; but the woes of Monsieur Margot were not yet at their
termination. The room was crowded. There was Madame Laurent,--there was
the German count, whom the professor was teaching French;--there was the
French viscount, whom he was teaching German;--there were all his
fellow-lodgers--the ladies whom he had boasted of--the men he had boasted
to--Don Juan, in the infernal regions, could not have met with a more
unwelcome set of old acquaintance than Monsieur Margot had the happiness
of opening his bewildered eyes upon in the porter's lodge.

"What!" cried they all, "Monsieur Margot, is that you who have been
frightening us so? We thought the house was attacked; the Russian general
is at this very moment loading his pistols; lucky for you that you did
not choose to stay longer in that situation. Pray, Monsieur, what could
induce you to exhibit yourself so, in your dressing-gown too, and the
night so cold? Ar'n't you ashamed of yourself?"

All this, and infinitely more, was levelled against the miserable
professor, who stood shivering with cold and fright; and turning his eyes
first upon one, and then on another, as the exclamations circulated round
the room,

"I do assure you," at length he began.

"No, no," cried one, "it is of no use explaining now!"

"Mais, Messieurs," querulously recommenced the unhappy Margot.

"Hold your tongue," exclaimed Madame Laurent, "you have been disgracing
my house."

"Mais, Madame, ecoutez-moi--"

"No, no," cried the German, "we saw you--we saw you."

"Mais, Monsieur Le Comte--" "Fie, fie!" cried the Frenchman.

"Mais, Monsisur Le Vicomte--" At this every mouth was opened, and the
patience of Monsieur Margot being by this time exhausted, he flew into a
violent rage; his tormentors pretended an equal indignation, and at
length he fought his way out of the room, as fast as his shattered bones
would allow him, followed by the whole body, screaming, and shouting, and
scolding, and laughing after him.

The next morning passed without my usual lesson from Monsieur Margot;
that was natural enough: but when the next day, and the next, rolled on,
and brought neither Monsieur Margot nor his excuse, I began to be uneasy
for the poor man. Accordingly I sent to Madame Laurent's to inquire after
him: judge of my surprise at hearing that he had, early the day after his
adventure, left his lodgings with his small possession of books and
clothes, leaving only a note to Madame Laurent, enclosing the amount of
his debt to her, and that none had since seen or heard of him.

From that day to this I have never once beheld him. The poor professor
lost even the little money due to him for his lessons--so true is it,
that in a man of Monsieur Margot's temper, even interest is a subordinate
passion to vanity.




CHAPTER XVIII.

                   It is good to be merry and wise,
                      It's good to be honest and true;
                   It is good to be off with the old love
                      Before you be on with the new.
                                       --Song.

One morning, when I was riding to the Bois de Boulogne (the celebrated
place of assignation), in order to meet Madame d'Anville, I saw a lady on
horseback, in the most imminent danger of being thrown. Her horse had
taken fright at an English tandem, or its driver, and was plunging
violently; the lady was evidently much frightened, and lost her presence
of mind more and more every moment. A man who was with her, and who could
scarcely manage his own horse, appeared to be exceedingly desirous, but
perfectly unable, to assist her; and a great number of people were
looking on, doing nothing, and saying "Good God, how dangerous!"

I have always had a great horror of being a hero in scenes, and a still
greater antipathy to "females in distress." However, so great is the
effect of sympathy upon the most hardened of us, that I stopped for a few
moments, first to look on, and secondly to assist. Just when a moment's
delay might have been dangerous, I threw myself off my horse, seized
her's with one hand, by the rein which she no longer had the strength to
hold, and assisted her with the other to dismount. When all the peril was
over, Monsieur, her companion, managed also to find his legs; and I did
not, I confess, wonder at his previous delay, when I discovered that the
lady in danger had been his wife. He gave me a profusion of thanks, and
she made them more than complimentary by the glance which accompanied
them. Their carriage was in attendance at a short distance behind. The
husband went for it--I remained with the lady.

"Mr. Pelham," she said, "I have heard much of you from my friend Madame
D'Anville, and have long been anxious for your acquaintance. I did not
think I should commence it with so great an obligation."

Flattered by being already known by name, and a subject of previous
interest, you may be sure that I tried every method to improve the
opportunity I had gained; and when I handed my new acquaintance into her
carriage, my pressure of her hand was somewhat more than slightly
returned.

"Shall you be at the English ambassador's to-night?" said the lady, as
they were about to shut the door of the carriage.

"Certainly, if you are to be there," was my answer.

"We shall meet then," said Madame, and her look said more.

I rode into the Bois; and giving my horse to my servant, as I came near
Passy, where I was to meet Madame D'Anville, I proceeded thither on foot.
I was just in sight of the spot, and indeed of my inamorata, when two men
passed, talking very earnestly; they did not remark me, but what
individual could ever escape my notice? The one was Thornton; the
other--who could he be? Where had I seen that pale, but more than
beautiful countenance before? I looked again. I was satisfied that I was
mistaken in my first thought; the hair was of a completely different
colour. "No, no," said I, "it is not he: yet how like."

I was distrait and absent during the whole time I was with Madame
D'Anville. The face of Thornton's companion haunted me like a dream; and,
to say the truth, there were also moments when the recollection of my new
engagement for the evening made me tired with that which I was enjoying
the troublesome honour of keeping.

Madame D'Anville was not slow in perceiving the coldness of my behaviour.
Though a Frenchwoman, she was rather grieved than resentful.

"You are growing tired of me, my friend," she said: "and when I consider
your youth and temptations, I cannot be surprised at it--yet, I own, that
this thought gives me much greater pain than I could have supposed."

"Bah! ma belle amie," cried I, "you deceive yourself--I adore you--I
shall always adore you; but it's getting very late."

Madame D'Anville sighed, and we parted. "She is not half so pretty or
agreeable as she was," thought I, as I mounted my horse, and remembered
my appointment at the ambassador's.

I took unusual pains with my appearance that evening, and drove to the
ambassador's hotel in the Rue Faubourg St. Honore, full half an hour
earlier than I had ever done before. I had been some time in the rooms
without discovering my heroine of the morning. The Duchess of H--n passed
by.

"What a wonderfully beautiful woman," said Mr. Howard de Howard (the
spectral secretary of the embassy) to Mr. Aberton.

"Ay," answered Aberton, "but to my taste, the Duchesse de Perpignan is
quite equal to her--do you know her?"

"No--yes!" said Mr. Howard de Howard; "that is, not exactly--not well;"
an Englishman never owns that he does not know a duchess.

"Hem!" said Mr. Aberton, thrusting his large hand through his lank light
hair. "Hem--could one do anything, do you think, in that quarter?"

"I should think one might, with a tolerable person!" answered the
spectral secretary, looking down at a pair of most shadowy supporters.

"Pray," said Aberton, "what do you think of Miss--? they say she is an
heiress."

"Think of her!" said the secretary, who was as poor as he was thin, "why,
I have thought of her!"

"They say, that fool Pelham makes up to her." (Little did Mr. Aberton
imagine, when he made this remark, that I was close behind him.)

"I should not imagine that was true," said the secretary; "he is so
occupied with Madame D'Anville."

"Pooh!" said Aberton, dictatorially, "she never had any thing to say to
him."

"Why are you so sure?" said Mr. Howard de Howard.

"Why? because he never showed any notes from her, or ever even said he
had a liaison with her himself!"

"Ah! that is quite enough!" said the secretary. "But, is not that the
Duchesse de Perpignan?"

Mr. Aberton turned, and so did I--our eyes met--his fell--well they
might, after his courteous epithet to my name; however, I had far too
good an opinion of myself to care one straw about his; besides, at that
moment, I was wholly lost in my surprise and pleasure, in finding that
this Duchesse de Perpignan was no other than my acquaintance of the
morning. She caught my gaze and smiled as she bowed. "Now," thought I, as
I approached her, "let us see if we cannot eclipse Mr. Aberton."

All love-making is just the same, and, therefore, I shall spare the
reader my conversation that evening. When he recollects that it was Henry
Pelham who was the gallant, I am persuaded that he will be pretty certain
as to the success.

                                VOLUME II.




CHAPTER XIX.

             Alea sequa vorax species certissima furti
             Non contenta bonis, animum quoque perfida mergit;--
             Furca, furax--infamis, iners, furiosa, ruina.
             Petrarch: Dial.

I dined the next day at the Freres Provencaux; an excellent
restaurateur's, by-the-by, where one gets irreproachable gibier, and
meets no English. After dinner, I strolled into the various gambling
houses, with which the Palais Royal abounds.

In one of these, the crowd and heat were so great, that I should
immediately have retired if I had not been struck with the extreme and
intense expression of interest in the countenance of one of the
spectators at the rouge et noir table. He was a man about forty years of
age; his complexion was dark and sallow; the features prominent, and what
are generally called handsome; but there was a certain sinister
expression in his eyes and mouth, which rendered the effect of his
physiognomy rather disagreeable than prepossessing. At a small distance
from him, and playing, with an air which, in its carelessness and
nonchalance, formed a remarkable contrast to the painful anxiety of the
man I have just described, sate Mr. Thornton.

At first sight, these two appeared to be the only Englishmen present
besides myself; I was more struck by seeing the former in that scene,
than I was at meeting Thornton there; for there was something distingue
in the mien of the stranger, which suited far worse with the appearance
of the place, than the bourgeois air and dress of my ci-devant second.

"What! another Englishman?" thought I, as I turned round and perceived a
thick, rough great coat, which could possibly belong to no continental
shoulders. The wearer was standing directly opposite the seat of the
swarthy stranger; his hat was slouched over his face; I moved in order to
get a clearer view of his countenance. It was the same person I had seen
with Thornton that morning. Never to this moment have I forgotten the
stern and ferocious expression with which he was gazing upon the keen and
agitated features of the gambler opposite. In the eye and lip there was
neither pleasure, hatred, nor scorn, in their simple and unalloyed
elements; but each seemed blent and mingled into one deadly concentration
of evil passions.

This man neither played, nor spoke, nor moved. He appeared utterly
insensible of every feeling in common with those around. There he stood,
wrapt in his own dark and inscrutable thoughts, never, for one instant,
taking his looks from the varying countenance which did not observe their
gaze, nor altering the withering character of their almost demoniacal
expression. I could not tear myself from the spot. I felt chained by some
mysterious and undefinable interest; my attention was first diverted into
a new channel, by a loud exclamation from the dark visaged gambler at the
table; it was the first he had uttered, notwithstanding his anxiety; and,
from the deep, thrilling tone in which it was expressed, it conveyed a
keen sympathy with the overcharged feelings which it burst from.

With a trembling hand, he took from an old purse the few Napoleons that
were still left there. He set them all at one hazard, on the rouge. He
hung over the table with a dropping lip; his hands were tightly clasped
in each other; his nerves seemed strained into the last agony of
excitation. I ventured to raise my eyes upon the gaze, which I felt must
still be upon the gambler--there it was fixed, and stern as before; but
it now conveyed a deeper expression of joy than of the other passions
which were there met. Yet a joy so malignant and fiendish, that no look
of mere anger or hatred could have so chilled my heart. I dropped my
eyes. I redoubled my attention to the cards--the last two were to be
turned up. A moment more!--the fortune was to the noir. The stranger had
lost! He did not utter a single word. He looked with a vacant eye on the
long mace, with which the marker had swept away his last hopes, with his
last coin, and then, rising, left the room, and disappeared.

The other Englishman was not long in following him. He uttered a short,
low, laugh, unobserved, perhaps, by any one but myself; and, pushing
through the atmosphere of sacres and mille tonnerres, which filled that
pandaemonium, strode quickly to the door. I felt as if a load had been
taken from my bosom, when he was gone.




CHAPTER XX.

             Reddere person ae scit convenientia cuique.
                          --Horace: Ars Poetica.

I was loitering over my breakfast the next morning, and thinking of the
last night's scene, when Lord Vincent was announced.

"How fares the gallant Pelham?" said he, as he entered the room.

"Why, to say the truth," I replied, "I am rather under the influence of
blue devils this morning, and your visit is like a sun-beam in November."

"A bright thought," said Vincent, "and I shall make you a very pretty
little poet soon; publish you in a neat octavo, and dedicate you to Lady
D--e. Pray, by the by, have you ever read her plays? You know they were
only privately printed?"

"No," said I, (for in good truth, had his lordship interrogated me
touching any other literary production, I should have esteemed it a part
of my present character to return the same answer.)

"No!" repeated Vincent; "permit me to tell you, that you must never seem
ignorant of any work not published. To be recherche, one must always know
what other people don't--and then one has full liberty to sneer at the
value of what other people do know. Renounce the threshold of knowledge.
There every new proselyte can meet you. Boast of your acquaintance with
the sanctum, and not one in ten thousand can dispute it with you. Have
you read Monsieur de C--'s pamphlet?"

"Really," said I, "I have been so busy."

"Ah, mon ami!" cried Vincent, "the greatest sign of an idle man is to
complain of being busy. But you have had a loss: the pamphlet is good.
C--, by the way, has an extraordinary, though not an expanded mind; it is
like a citizen's garden near London: a pretty parterre here, and a
Chinese pagoda there; an oak tree in one corner, and a mushroom bed in
the other. You may traverse the whole in a stride; it is the four
quarters of the globe in a mole-hill. Yet every thing is good in its
kind; and is neither without elegance nor design in its arrangement."

"What do you think," said I, "of the Baron de--, the minister of--?"

"Of him!" replied Vincent--

           "'His soul
           Still sits at squat, and peeps not from its hole.'"

"It is dark and bewildered--full of dim visions of the ancient
regime;--it is a bat hovering about the chambers of an old ruin. Poor,
antique little soul! but I will say nothing more about it,--

                   "'For who would be satirical
                   Upon a thing so very small'"
                   as the soul of the Baron de--?"

Finding Lord Vincent so disposed to the biting mood, I immediately
directed his rabies towards Mr. Aberton, for whom I had a most
inexpressible contempt.

"Aberton," said Vincent, in answer to my question, if he knew that
aimable attache--"Yes! a sort of man who, speaking of the English
embassy, says we--who sticks his best cards on his chimney-piece, and
writes himself billets-doux from duchesses. A duodecimo of 'precious
conceits,' bound in calf-skin--I know the man well; does he not dress
decently, Pelham?"

"His clothes are well made," said I; "but no man can dress well with
those hands and feet!"

"Ah!" said Vincent, "I should think he went to the best tailor, and
said, 'give me a collar like Lord So and So's'; one who would not dare
to have a new waistcoat till it had been authoritatively patronized, and
who took his fashions, like his follies, from the best proficients. Such
fellows are always too ashamed of themselves not to be proud of their
clothes--like the Chinese mariners, they burn incense before the
needle!"

"And Mr. Howard de Howard," said I, laughing, "what do you think of him?"

"What! the thin secretary?" cried Vincent.

"He is the mathematical definition of a straight line--length without
breadth. His inseparable friend, Mr. Aberton, was running up the Rue St.
Honore yesterday in order to catch him."

"Running!" cried I, "just like common people--when were you or I ever
seen running?"

"True," continued Vincent; "but when I saw him chasing that meagre
apparition, I said to Bennington, 'I have found out the real Peter
Schlemil!' 'Who?'(asked his grave lordship, with serious naivete) 'Mr.
Aberton,'said I; 'don't you see him running after his shadow?' But the
pride of the lean thing is so amusing! He is fifteenth cousin to the
duke, and so his favourite exordium is, 'Whenever I succeed to the titles
of my ancestors.'It was but the other day, that he heard two or three
silly young men discussing church and state, and they began by talking
irreligion--(Mr. Howard de Howard is too unsubstantial not to be
spiritually inclined)--however he only fidgeted in his chair. They then
proceeded to be exceedingly disloyal. Mr. Howard de Howard fidgeted
again;--they then passed to vituperations on the aristocracy--this the
attenuated pomposity (magni nominis umbra) could brook no longer. He rose
up, cast a severe look on the abashed youths, and thus addressed
them--'Gentlemen, I have sate by in silence, and heard my King derided,
and my God blasphemed; but now in attacking the aristocracy, I can no
longer refrain from noticing so obviously intentional an insult. You have
become personal.' But did you know, Pelham, that he is going to be
married?"

"No," said I. "I can't say that I thought such an event likely. Who is
the intended?"

"A Miss--, a girl with some fortune. 'I can bring her none,' said he to
the father, 'but I can make her Mrs. Howard de Howard.'"

"Alas, poor girl!" said I, "I fear that her happiness will hang upon a
slender thread. But suppose we change the conversation: first, because
the subject is so meagre, that we might easily wear it out, and secondly,
because such jests may come home. I am not very corpulent myself."

"Bah!" said Vincent, "but at least you have bones and muscles. If you
were to pound the poor secretary in a mortar, you might take him all up
in a pinch of snuff."

"Pray, Vincent," said I, after a short pause, "did you ever meet with a
Mr. Thornton, at Paris?"

"Thornton, Thornton," said Vincent, musingly; "what, Tom Thornton?"

"I should think, very likely," I replied; "just the sort of man who would
be Tom Thornton--has a broad face, with a colour, and wears a spotted
neckcloth; Tom--what could his name be but Tom?"

"Is he about five-and-thirty?" asked Vincent, "rather short, and with
reddish coloured hair and whiskers?"

"Precisely," said I; "are not all Toms alike?"

"Ah," said Vincent, "I know him well: he is a clever, shrewd fellow, but
a most unmitigated rascal. He is the son of a steward in Lancashire, and
received an attorney's education; but being a humorous, noisy fellow, he
became a great favourite with his father's employer, who was a sort of
Mecaenas to cudgel players, boxers, and horse jockies. At his house,
Thornton met many persons of rank, but of a taste similar to their
host's: and they, mistaking his vulgar coarseness for honesty, and his
quaint proverbs for wit, admitted him into their society. It was with one
of them that I have seen him. I believe of late, that his character has
been of a very indifferent odour: and whatever has brought him among the
English at Paris--those white-washed abominations--those 'innocent
blacknesses,' as Charles Lamb calls chimney sweepers, it does not argue
well for his professional occupations. I should think, however, that he
manages to live here; for wherever there are English fools, there are
fine pickings for an English rogue."

"Ay," said I, "but are there enough fools here, to feed the rogues?"

"Yes, because rogues are like spiders, and eat each other, when there is
nothing else to catch; and Tom Thornton is safe, as long as the ordinary
law of nature lasts, that the greater knave preys on the lesser, for
there cannot possibly be a greater knave than he is. If you have made his
acquaintance, my dear Pelham, I advise you most soberly to look to
yourself, for if he doth not steal, beg, or borrow of you, Mr. Howard de
Howard will grow fat, and even Mr. Aberton cease to be a fool. And now,
most noble Pelham, farewell. Il est plus aise d'etre sage pour les autres
que de l'etre pour soi-meme."




CHAPTER XXI.

                   This is a notable couple--and have met
                   But for some secret knavery.
                                 --The Tanner of Tyburn.

I had now been several weeks in Paris, and I was not altogether
dissatisfied with the manner in which they had been spent. I had enjoyed
myself to the utmost, while I had, as much as possible, combined profit
with pleasure; viz. if I went to the Opera in the evening, I learned to
dance in the morning; if I drove to a soiree at the Duchesse de
Perpignan's, it was not till I had fenced an hour at the Salon des
Assauts d'Armes; and if I made love to the duchess herself it was sure to
be in a position I had been a whole week in acquiring from my master of
the graces; in short, I took the greatest pains to complete my education.
I wish all young men who frequented the Continent for that purpose, could
say the same.

One day (about a week after the conversation with Vincent, recorded in my
last CHAPTER) I was walking slowly along one of the paths in the Jardin des
Plantes, meditating upon the various excellencies of the Rocher de
Cancale and the Duchesse de Perpignan, when I perceived a tall man, with
a thick, rough coat, of a dark colour (which I recognized long before I
did the face of the wearer) emerging from an intersecting path. He
stopped for a few moments, and looked round as if expecting some one.
Presently a woman, apparently about thirty, and meanly dressed, appeared
in an opposite direction. She approached him; they exchanged a few words,
and then, the woman taking his arm, they struck into another path, and
were soon out of sight. I suppose that the reader has already discovered
that this man was Thornton's companion in the Bois de Boulogne, and the
hero of the Salon de Jeu, in the Palais Royal. I could not have supposed
that so noble a countenance, even in its frowns, could ever have wasted
its smiles upon a mistress of that low station to which the woman who had
met him evidently belonged. However, we all have our little foibles, as
the Frenchman said, when he boiled his grandmother's head in a pipkin.

I myself was, at that time, the sort of person that is always taken by a
pretty face, however coarse may be the garments which set it off; and
although I cannot say that I ever stooped so far as to become amorous of
a chambermaid, yet I could be tolerably lenient to any man under thirty
who did. As a proof of this gentleness of disposition, ten minutes after
I had witnessed so unsuitable a rencontre, I found myself following a
pretty little bourgeoise into a small sort of cabaret, which was, at the
time I speak of (and most probably still is), in the midst of the
gardens. I sat down, and called for my favourite drink of lemonade; the
little grisette, who was with an old woman, possibly her mother, and un
beau gros garcon, probably her lover, sat opposite, and began, with all
the ineffable coquetries of her country, to divide her attention between
the said garcon and myself. Poor fellow, he seemed to be very little
pleased by the significant glances exchanged over his right shoulder,
and, at last, under pretence of screening her from the draught of the
open window, placed himself exactly between us. This, however ingenious,
did not at all answer his expectations; for he had not sufficiently taken
into consideration, that I also was endowed with the power of locomotion;
accordingly I shifted my chair about three feet, and entirely defeated
the countermarch of the enemy.

But this flirtation did not last long; the youth and the old woman
appeared very much of the same opinion as to its impropriety; and
accordingly, like experienced generals, resolved to conquer by a retreat;
they drank up their orgeat--paid for it--placed the wavering regiment in
the middle, and left me master of the field. I was not, however, of a
disposition to break my heart at such an occurrence, and I remained by
the window, drinking my lemonade, and muttering to myself, "After all,
women are a great bore."

On the outside of the cabaret, and just under my window, was a bench,
which for a certain number of sous, one might appropriate to the entire
and unparticipated use of one's self and party. An old woman (so at least
I suppose by her voice, for I did not give myself the trouble of looking,
though, indeed as to that matter, it might have been the shrill treble of
Mr. Howard de Howard) had been hitherto engrossing this settlement with
some gallant or other. In Paris, no women are too old to get an amant,
either by love or money. In a moment of tenderness, this couple paired
off, and were immediately succeeded by another. The first tones of the
man's voice, low as they were, made me start from my seat. I cast one
quick glance before I resumed it. The new pair were the Englishman I had
before noted in the garden, and the female companion who had joined him.

"Two hundred pounds, you say?" muttered the man; "we must have it all."

"But," said the woman, in the same whispered voice, "he says, that he
will never touch another card."

The man laughed. "Fool," said he, "the passions are not so easily
quelled--how many days is it since he had this remittance from England?"

"About three," replied the woman.

"And it is absolutely the very last remnant of his property?"

"The last."

"I am then to understand, that when this is spent there is nothing
between him and beggary?"

"Nothing," said the woman, with a half sigh.

The man laughed again, and then rejoined in an altered tone, "Then, then
will this parching thirst be quenched at last. I tell you, woman, that it
is many months since I have known a day--night--hour, in which my life
has been as the life of other men. My whole soul has been melted down
into one burning, burning thought. Feel this hand--ay, you may well
start--but what is the fever of the frame to that within?"

Here the voice sunk so low as to be inaudible. The woman seemed as if
endeavouring to sooth him; at length she said--"But poor Tyrrell--you
will not, surely, suffer him to die of actual starvation?"

The man paused for a few moments, and then replied--"Night and day, I
pray to God, upon my bended knees, only one unvarying, unceasing prayer,
and that is--'When the last agonies shall be upon that man--when, sick
with weariness, pain, disease, hunger, he lies down to die--when the
death-gurgle is in the throat, and the eye swims beneath the last dull
film--when remembrance peoples the chamber with Hell, and his cowardice
would falter forth its dastard recantation to Heaven--then--may I be
there?"

There was a long pause, only broken by the woman's sobs, which she
appeared endeavouring to stifle. At last the man rose, and in a tone so
soft that it seemed literally like music, addressed her in the most
endearing terms. She soon yielded to their persuasion, and replied to
them with interest. "Spite of the stings of my remorse," she said, "as
long as I lose not you, I will lose life, honour, hope, even soul
itself!"

They both quitted the spot as she said this.

O, that woman's love! how strong is it in its weakness! how beautiful in
its guilt!




CHAPTER XXII.

             At length the treacherous snare was laid,
             Poor pug was caught--to town convey'd;
             There sold. How envied was his doom,
             Made captive in a lady's room!
                          --Gay's Fables.

I was sitting alone a morning or two after this adventure, when Bedos
entering, announced une dame. This dame was a fine tall thing, dressed
out like a print in the Magasin des Modes. She sate herself down, threw
up her veil, and, after a momentary pause, asked me if I liked my
apartment?

"Very much," said I, somewhat surprised at the nature of the
interrogatory.

"Perhaps you would wish it altered in some way?" rejoined the lady.

"Non--mille remercimens!" said I--"you are very good to be so interested
in my accommodation."

"Those curtains might be better arranged--that sofa replaced with a more
elegant one," continued my new superintendant.

"Really," said I, "I am too, too much flattered. Perhaps you would like
to have my rooms altogether; if so, make at least no scruple of saying
it."

"Oh, no," replied the lady, "I have no objection to your staying here."

"You are too kind," said I, with a low bow.

There was a pause of some moments--I took advantage of it.

"I think, Madame, I have the honour of speaking to--to--to--"

"The mistress of the hotel," said the lady, quietly. "I merely called to
ask you how you did, and hope you were well accommodated."

"Rather late, considering I have been six weeks in the house," thought I,
revolving in my mind various reports I had heard of my present visitor's
disposition to gallantry. However, seeing it was all over with me, I
resigned myself, with the patience of a martyr, to the fate that I
foresaw. I rose, approached her chair, took her hand (very hard and thin
it was too), and thanked her with a most affectionate squeeze.

"I have seen much English!" said the lady, for the first time speaking in
our language.

"Ah!" said I, giving another squeeze.

"You are handsome, garcon," renewed the lady.

"I am so," I replied.

At that moment Bedos entered, and whispered that Madame D'Anville was in
the anti-room.

"Good heavens!" said I, knowing her jealousy of disposition, "what is to
be done? Oblige me, Madame," seizing the unfortunate mistress of the
hotel, and opening the door to the back entrance--"There," said I, "you
can easily escape. Bon jour."

Hardly had I closed the door, and put the key in my pocket, before Madame
D'Anville entered.

"Do you generally order your servants to keep me waiting in your
anti-room?" said she haughtily.

"Not generally," I replied, endeavouring to make my peace; but all my
complaisance was in vain--she was jealous of my intimacy with the
Duchesse de Perpignan, and glad of any excuse to vent her pique. I am
just the sort of man to bear, but never to forgive a woman's ill temper,
viz.--it makes no impression on me at the time, but leaves a sore
recollection of something disagreeable, which I internally resolve never
again to experience. Madame D'Anville was going to the Luxembourg; and my
only chance of soothing her anger was to accompany her.

Down stairs, therefore, we went, and drove to the Luxembourg; I gave
Bedos, before my departure, various little commissions, and told him he
need not be at home till the evening. Long before the expiration of an
hour, Madame D'Anville's ill humour had given me an excuse for affecting
it myself. Tired to death of her, and panting for release, I took a high
tone--complained of her ill temper, and her want of love--spoke
rapidly--waited for no reply, and leaving her at the Luxembourg,
proceeded forthwith to Galignani's, like a man just delivered from a
strait waistcoat.

Leave me now, for a few minutes, in the reading-room at Galignani's, and
return to the mistress of the hotel, whom I had so unceremoniously thrust
out of my salon. The passage into which she had been put communicated by
one door with my rooms, and by another with the staircase. Now, it had so
happened, that Bedos was in the habit of locking the latter door, and
keeping the key; the other egress, it will be remembered, I myself had
secured; so that the unfortunate mistress of the hotel was no sooner
turned into this passage than she found herself in a sort of dungeon, ten
feet by five, and surrounded, like Eve in Paradise, by a whole
creation--not of birds, beasts, and fishes, but of brooms, brushes,
unclean linen, and a wood-basket. What she was to do in this dilemma was
utterly inconceivable; scream, indeed, she might, but then the shame and
ridicule of being discovered in so equivocal a situation, were somewhat
more than our discreet landlady could endure. Besides, such an expose
might be attended with a loss the good woman valued more than reputation,
viz. lodgers; for the possessors of the two best floors were both
Englishwomen of a certain rank; and my landlady had heard such accounts
of our national virtue, that she feared an instantaneous emigration of
such inveterate prudes, if her screams and situation reached their ears.

Quietly then, and soberly, did the good lady sit, eyeing the brooms and
brushes as they grew darker and darker with the approach of the evening,
and consoling herself with the certainty that her release must eventually
take place.

Meanwhile, to return to myself--from which dear little person, I very
seldom, even in imagination, digress--I found Lord Vincent at
Galignani's, carefully looking over "Choice Extracts from the best
English Authors."

"Ah, my good fellow!" said he, "I am delighted to see you; I made such a
capital quotation just now: the young Benningtons were drowning a poor
devil of a puppy; the youngest (to whom the mother belonged) looked on
with a grave earnest face, till the last kick was over, and then burst
into tears. 'Why do you cry so?' said I. 'Because it was so cruel in us
to drown the poor puppy!' replied the juvenile Philocunos. 'Pooh," said
I, "'Quid juvat errores mersa jam puppe fateri.'" Was it not good?--you
remember it in Claudian, eh, Pelham? Think of its being thrown away on
those Latinless young lubbers! Have you seen any thing of Mr. Thornton
lately?"

"No," said I, "I've not, but I am determined to have that pleasure soon."

"You will do as you please," said Vincent, "but you will be like the
child playing with edged tools."

"I am not a child," said I, "so the simile is not good. He must be the
devil himself, or a Scotchman at least, to take me in."

Vincent shook his head. "Come and dine with me at the Rocher," said he;
"we are a party of six--choice spirits all."

"Volontiers; but we can stroll in the Tuileries first, if you have no
other engagement."

"None," said Vincent, putting his arm in mine.

As we passed up the Rue de la Paix, we met Sir Henry Millington, mounted
on a bay horse, as stiff as himself, and cantering down the street as if
he and his steed had been cut out of pasteboard together.

"I wish," said Vincent, (to borrow Luttrel's quotation,) "that that
master of arts would 'cleanse his bosom of that perilous stuff.' I should
like to know in what recess of that immense mass now cantering round the
corner is the real body of Sir Henry Millington. I could fancy the poor
snug little thing shrinking within, like a guilty conscience. Ah, well
says Juvenal,

"'Mors sola fatetur Quantula sint hominum corpuscula.'"

"He has a superb head, though," I replied. "I like to allow that other
people are handsome now and then--it looks generous."

"Yes," said Vincent, "for a barber's block: but here comes Mrs. C--me,
and her beautiful daughter--those are people you ought to know, if you
wish to see human nature a little relieved from the frivolities which
make it in society so like a man milliner. Mrs. C--has considerable
genius, combined with great common sense."

"A rare union," said I.

"By no means," replied Vincent. "It is a cant antithesis in opinion to
oppose them to one another; but, so far as mere theoretical common sense
is concerned, I would much sooner apply to a great poet or a great orator
for advice on matter of business, than any dull plodder who has passed
his whole life in a counting-house. Common sense is only a modification
of talent--genius is an exaltation of it: the difference is, therefore,
in the degree, not nature. But to return to Mrs. C--; she writes
beautiful poetry--almost impromptu; draws excellent caricatures;
possesses a laugh for whatever is ridiculous, but never loses a smile for
whatever is good. Placed in very peculiar situations, she has passed
through each with a grace and credit which make her best eulogium. If she
possesses one quality higher than intellect, it is her kindness of heart:
no wonder indeed, that she is so really clever--those trees which are the
soundest at the core produce the finest fruits, and the most beautiful
blossoms."

"Lord Vincent grows poetical," thought I--"how very different he really
is to that which he affects to be in the world; but so it is with every
one--we are all like the ancient actors: let our faces be ever so
beautiful, we must still wear a mask."

After an hour's walk, Vincent suddenly recollected that he had a
commission of a very important nature in the Rue J. J. Rousseau. This
was--to buy a monkey. "It is for Wormwood," said he, "who has written me
a long letter, describing its' qualities and qualifications. I suppose he
wants it for some practical joke--some embodied bitterness--God forbid I
should thwart him in so charitable a design!"

"Amen," said I; and we proceeded together to the monkey-fancier. After
much deliberation we at last decided upon the most hideous animal I ever
beheld--it was of a--no, I will not attempt to describe it--it would be
quite impossible! Vincent was so delighted with our choice that he
insisted upon carrying it away immediately.

"Is it quite quiet?" I asked.

"Comme un oiseau," said the man.

We called a fiacre--paid for monsieur Jocko, and drove to Vincent's
apartments; there we found, however, that his valet had gone out and
taken the key.

"Hang it," said Vincent, "it does not signify! We'll carry le petit
monsieur with us to the Rocher."

Accordingly we all three once more entered the fiacre, and drove to the
celebrated restaurateur's of the Rue Mont Orgueil. O, blissful
recollections of that dinner! how at this moment you crowd upon my
delighted remembrance! Lonely and sorrowful as I now sit, digesting with
many a throe the iron thews of a British beef-steak--more
anglico--immeasurably tough--I see the grateful apparitions of Escallopes
de Saumon and Laitances de Carps rise in a gentle vapour before my eyes!
breathing a sweet and pleasant odour, and contrasting the dream-like
delicacies of their hue and aspect, with the dire and dure realities
which now weigh so heavily on the region below my heart! And thou, most
beautiful of all--thou evening star of entremets--thou that delightest in
truffles, and gloriest in a dark cloud of sauces--exquisite
foie-gras!--Have I forgotten thee? Do I not, on the contrary, see
thee--smell thee--taste thee--and almost die with rapture of thy
possession? What, though the goose, of which thou art a part, has,
indeed, been roasted alive by a slow fire, in order to increase thy
divine proportions--yet has not our Almanach--the Almanach des
Gourmands--truly declared that the goose rejoiced amid all her
tortures--because of the glory that awaited her? Did she not, in
prophetic vision, behold her enlarged and ennobled foie dilate into pates
and steam into sautees--the companion of truffles--the glory of
dishes--the delight--the treasure--the transport of gourmands! O, exalted
among birds--apotheosised goose, did not thy heart exult even when thy
liver parched and swelled within thee, from that most agonizing death;
and didst thou not, like the Indian at the stake, triumph in the very
torments which alone could render thee illustrious?

After dinner we grew exceedingly merry. Vincent punned and quoted; we
laughed and applauded; and our Burgundy went round with an alacrity, to
which every new joke gave an additional impetus. Monsieur Jocko was by no
means the dullest in the party; he cracked his nuts with as much grace as
we did our jests, and grinned and chatted as facetiously as the best of
us. After coffee we were all so pleased with one another, that we
resolved not to separate, and accordingly we adjourned to my rooms, Jocko
and all, to find new revelries and grow brilliant over Curacoa punch.

We entered my salon with a roar, and set Bedos to work at the punch
forthwith. Bedos, that Ganymede of a valet, had himself but just arrived,
and was unlocking the door as we entered. We soon blew up a glorious
fire, and our spirits brightened in proportion. Monsieur Jocko sate on
Vincent's knee--Ne monstrum, as he classically termed it. One of our
compotatores was playing with it. Jocko grew suddenly in earnest--a
grin--a scratch and a bite, were the work of a moment.

"Ne quid nimis--now," said Vincent, gravely, instead of endeavouring to
soothe the afflicted party, who grew into a towering passion. Nothing but
Jocko's absolute disgrace could indeed have saved his life from the
vengeance of the sufferer.

"Where shall we banish him?" said Vincent.

"Oh," I replied, "put him out in that back passage; the outer door is
shut; he'll be quite safe;" and to the passage he was therefore
immediately consigned.

It was in this place, the reader will remember, that the hapless Dame du
Chateau was at that very instant in "durance vile." Bedos, who took the
condemned monkey, opened the door, thrust Jocko in, and closed it again.
Meanwhile we resumed our merriment.

"Nunc est bibendum," said Vincent, as Bedos placed the punch on the
table. "Give us a toast, Dartmore."

Lord Dartmore was a young man, with tremendous spirits, which made up for
wit. He was just about to reply, when a loud shriek was heard from
Jocko's place of banishment: a sort of scramble ensued, and the next
moment the door was thrown violently open, and in rushed the terrified
landlady, screaming like a sea-gull, and bearing Jocko aloft upon her
shoulders, from which "bad eminence" he was grinning and chattering with
the fury of fifty devils. She ran twice round the room, and then sunk on
the floor in hysterics. We lost no time in hastening to her assistance;
but the warlike Jocko, still sitting upon her, refused to permit one of
us to approach. There he sat, turning from side to side, showing his
sharp, white teeth, and uttering from time to time the most menacing and
diabolical sounds.

"What the deuce shall we do?" cried Dartmore.

"Do?" said Vincent, who was convulsed with laughter, and yet endeavouring
to speak gravely; "why, watch like L. Opimius, 'ne quid respublica
detrimenti caperet.'"

"By Jove, Pelham, he will scratch out the lady's beaux yeux," cried the
good-natured Dartmore, endeavouring to seize the monkey by the tail, for
which he very narrowly escaped with an unmutilated visage. But the man
who had before suffered by Jocko's ferocity, and whose breast was still
swelling with revenge, was glad of so favourable an opportunity and
excuse for wreaking it. He seized the poker, made three strides to Jocko,
who set up an ineffable cry of defiance, and with a single blow split the
skull of the unhappy monkey in twain. It fell with one convulsion on the
ground, and gave up the ghost.

We then raised the unfortunate landlady, placed her on the sofa, and
Dartmore administered a plentiful potation of the Curacoa punch. By slow
degrees she revived, gave three most doleful suspirations, and then,
starting up, gazed wildly around her. Half of us were still laughing--my
unfortunate self among the number; this the enraged landlady no sooner
perceived than she imagined herself the victim of some preconcerted
villainy. Her lips trembled with passion--she uttered the most dreadful
imprecations; and had I not retired into a corner, and armed myself with
the dead body of Jocko, which I wielded with exceeding valour, she might,
with the simple weapons with which nature had provided her hands, have
for ever demolished the loves and graces that abide in the face of Henry
Pelham.

When at last she saw that nothing hostile was at present to be effected,
she drew herself up, and giving Bedos a tremendous box on the ear, as he
stood grinning beside her, marched out of the room.

We then again rallied around the table, more than ever disposed to be
brilliant, and kept up till day break a continued fire of jests upon the
heroine of the passage. "Cum qua (as Vincent observed) clauditur adversis
innoxia simia fatis!"




CHAPTER XXIII.

                   Show me not thy painted beauties,
                   These impostures I defy.
                                 --George Withers.

      The cave of Falri smelt not more delicately--on every side appeared
      the marks of drunkenness and gluttony. At the upper end of the cave
      the sorcerer lay extended, etc.
                --Mirglip the Persian, in the "Tales of the Genii."

I woke the next morning with an aching head and feverish frame. Ah, those
midnight carousals, how glorious they would be if there was no next
morning! I took my sauterne and sodawater in my dressing-room; and, as
indisposition always makes me meditative, I thought over all I had done
since my arrival at Paris. I had become (that, God knows, I soon manage
to do) rather a talked of and noted character. It is true that I was
every where abused--one found fault with my neckcloth--another with my
mind--the lank Mr. Aberton declared that I put my hair in papers, and the
stuffed Sir Henry Millington said I was a thread-paper myself. One blamed
my riding--a second my dancing--a third wondered how any woman could like
me, and a fourth said that no woman ever could.

On one point, however, all--friends and foes--were alike agreed; viz.
that I was a consummate puppy, and excessively well satisfied with
myself. A la verite, they were not much mistaken there. Why is it, by the
by, that to be pleased with one's-self is the surest way of offending
every body else? If any one, male or female, an evident admirer of his or
her own perfections, enter a room, how perturbed, restless, and unhappy
every individual of the offender's sex instantly becomes: for them not
only enjoyment but tranquillity is over, and if they could annihilate the
unconscious victim of their spleen, I fully believe no Christian
toleration would come in the way of that last extreme of animosity. For a
coxcomb there is no mercy--for a coquet no pardon. They are, as it were,
the dissenters of society--no crime is too bad to be imputed to them;
they do not believe the religion of others--they set up a deity of their
own vanity--all the orthodox vanities of others are offended. Then comes
the bigotry--the stake--the auto-da-fe of scandal. What, alas! is so
implacable as the rage of vanity? What so restless as its persecution?
Take from a man his fortune, his house, his reputation, but flatter his
vanity in each, and he will forgive you. Heap upon him benefits, fill him
with blessings: but irritate his self-love, and you have made the very
best man an ingrat. He will sting you if he can: you cannot blame him;
you yourself have instilled the venom. This is one reason why you must
not always reckon upon gratitude in conferring an obligation. It is a
very high mind to which gratitude is not a painful sensation. If you wish
to please, you will find it wiser to receive--solicit even--favours, than
accord them; for the vanity of the obliger is always flattered--that of
the obligee rarely.

Well, this is an unforeseen digression: let me return! I had mixed, of
late, very little with the English. My mother's introductions had
procured me the entree of the best French houses; and to them, therefore,
my evenings were usually devoted. Alas! that was a happy time, when my
carriage used to await me at the door of the Rocher de Cancale, and then
whirl me to a succession of visits, varying in their degree and nature as
the whim prompted: now to the brilliant soirees of Madame De--, or to the
appartemens au troisieme of some less celebrated daughter of dissipation
and ecarte;--now to the literary conversaziones of the Duchesse de D--s,
or the Vicomte d'A--, and then to the feverish excitement of the gambling
house. Passing from each with the appetite for amusement kept alive by
variety; finding in none a disappointment, and in every one a welcome;
full of the health which supports, and the youth which colours all excess
or excitation, I drained, with an unsparing lip, whatever that enchanting
metropolis could afford.

I have hitherto said but little of the Duchesse de Perpignan; I think it
necessary now to give some account of that personage. Ever since the
evening I had met her at the ambassador's, I had paid her the most
unceasing attentions. I soon discovered that she had a curious sort of
liaison with one of the attaches--a short, ill-made gentleman, with high
shoulders, and a pale face, who wore a blue coat and buff waistcoat,
wrote bad verses, and thought himself handsome. All Paris said she was
excessively enamoured of this youth. As for me, I had not known her four
days before I discovered that she could not be excessively enamoured of
any thing but an oyster pete and Lord Byron's Corsair. Her mind was the
most marvellous melange of sentiment and its opposite. In her amours she
was Lucretia herself; in her epicurism, Apicius would have yielded to
her. She was pleased with sighs, but she adored suppers. She would leave
every thing for her lover, except her dinner. The attache soon quarrelled
with her, and I was installed into the platonic honours of his office.

At first, I own that I was flattered by her choice, and though she was
terribly exigeante of my petits soins, I managed to keep up her
affection, and, what is still more wonderful, my own, for the better part
of a month. What then cooled me was the following occurrence:

I was in her boudoir one evening, when her femme de chambre came to tell
us that the duc was in the passage. Notwithstanding the innocence of our
attachment, the duchesse was in a violent fright; a small door was at the
left of the ottoman, on which we were sitting. "Oh, no, no, not there,"
cried the lady; but I, who saw no other refuge, entered it forthwith, and
before she could ferret me out, the duc was in the room.

In the meanwhile, I amused myself by examining the wonders of the new
world into which I had so abruptly immerged: on a small table before me,
was deposited a remarkably constructed night-cap; I examined it as a
curiosity: on each side was placed une petite cotelette de veau cru,
sewed on with green-coloured silk (I remember even the smallest
minutiae), a beautiful golden wig (the duchesse never liked me to play
with her hair) was on a block close by, and on another table was a set of
teeth, d'une blancheur eblouissante. In this manufactory of a beauty I
remained for a quarter of an hour; at the end of that time, the abigail
(the duchesse had the grace to disappear) released me, and I flew down
stairs like a spirit from purgatory.

From that moment the duchesse honoured me with her most deadly
abhorrence. Equally silly and wicked, her schemes of revenge were as
ludicrous in their execution as remorseless in their design: at one time
I narrowly escaped poison in a cup of coffee--at another, she endeavoured
to stab me to the heart with a paper cutter.

Notwithstanding my preservation from these attacks, this new Messalina
had resolved on my destruction, and another means of attempting it still
remained, which the reader will yet have the pleasure of learning.

Mr. Thornton had called upon me twice, and twice I had returned the
visit, but neither of us had been at home to benefit by these
reciprocities of politesse. His acquaintance with my mysterious hero of
the gambling house and the Jardin des Plantes, and the keen interest I
took, in spite of myself, in that unaccountable person, whom I was
persuaded I had seen before in some very different scene, and under very
different circumstances, made me desirous to increase a connoissance,
which, from Vincent's detail, I should otherwise have been anxious to
avoid. I therefore resolved to make another attempt to find him at home;
and my headache being somewhat better, I took my way to his apartments in
the Faubourg St. Germain.

I love that quartier--if ever I went to Paris again I should reside
there. It is quite a different world from the streets usually known to,
and tenanted by the English--there, indeed, you are among the French, the
fossilized remains of the old regime--the very houses have an air of
desolate, yet venerable grandeur--you never pass by the white and modern
mansion of a nouveau riche; all, even to the ruggedness of the pave,
breathes a haughty disdain of innovation--you cross one of the numerous
bridges, and you enter into another time--you are inhaling the atmosphere
of a past century; no flaunting boutique, French in its trumpery, English
in its prices, stares you in the face; no stiff coats and unnatural gaits
are seen anglicising up the melancholy streets. Vast hotels, with their
gloomy frontals, and magnificent contempt of comfort; shops, such as
shops might have been in the aristocratic days of Louis Quatorze, ere
British vulgarities made them insolent and dear; public edifices, still
redolent of the superb charities of le grand monarque--carriages with
their huge bodies and ample decorations; horses, with their Norman
dimensions and undocked honours; men, on whose more high though not less
courteous demeanour, the revolution seems to have wrought no democratic
plebeianism--all strike on the mind with a vague and nameless impression
of antiquity; a something solemn even in gaiety, and faded in pomp,
appear to linger over all you behold; there are the Great French people
unadulterated by change, unsullied with the commerce of the vagrant and
various tribes that throng their mighty mart of enjoyments.

The strangers who fill the quartiers on this side the Seine pass not
there; between them and the Faubourg there is a gulf; the very skies seem
different--your own feelings, thoughts--nature itself--alter, when you
have passed that Styx which divides the wanderers from the habitants;
your spirits are not so much damped, as tinged, refined, ennobled by a
certain inexpressible awe--you are girt with the stateliness of Eld, and
you tread the gloomy streets with the dignity of a man, who is recalling
the splendours of an ancient court where he once did homage.

I arrived at Thornton's chambers in the Rue St. Dominique. "Monsieur,
est-il chez lui?" said I to the ancient porteress, who was reading one of
Crebillon's novels.

"Oui, Monsieur, au quatrieme," was the answer. I turned to the dark and
unclean staircase, and, after incredible exertion and fatigue, arrived,
at last, at the elevated abode of Mr. Thornton.

"Entrez," cried a voice, in answer to my rap. I obeyed the signal, and
found myself in a room of tolerable dimensions and multiplied utilities.
A decayed silk curtain of a dingy blue, drawn across a recess, separated
the chambre a coucher from the salon. It was at present only half drawn,
and did not, therefore, conceal the mysteries of the den within; the bed
was still unmade, and apparently of no very inviting cleanliness; a red
handkerchief, that served as a nightcap, hung pendant from the foot of
the bed; at a little distance from it, more towards the pillow, were a
shawl, a parasol, and an old slipper. On a table, which stood between the
two dull, filmy windows, were placed a cracked bowl, still reeking with
the less of gin-punch, two bottles half full, a mouldy cheese, and a
salad dish; on the ground beneath it lay two huge books, and a woman's
bonnet.

Thornton himself sat by a small consumptive fire, in an easy chair;
another table, still spread with the appliances of breakfast, viz. a
coffee-pot, a milk-jug, two cups, a broken loaf, and an empty dish,
mingled with a pack of cards, one dice, and an open book de mauvais gout,
stood immediately before him.

Every thing around bore some testimony of the spirit of low debauchery;
and the man himself, with his flushed and sensual countenance, his
unwashed hands, and the slovenly rakishness of his whole appearance, made
no unfitting representation of the Genius Loci.

All that I have described, together with a flitting shadow of feminine
appearance, escaping through another door, my quick eye discovered in the
same instant that I made my salutation.

Thornton rose, with an air half careless and half abashed, and expressed,
in more appropriate terms than his appearance warranted, his pleasurable
surprise at seeing me at last. There was, however, a singularity in his
conversation, which gave it an air both of shrewdness and vulgarity. This
was, as may before have been noted, a profuse intermixture of proverbs,
some stale, some new, some sensible enough, and all savouring of a
vocabulary carefully eschewed by every man of ordinary refinement in
conversation.

"I have but a small tenement," said he, smiling; "but, thank Heaven, at
Paris a man is not made by his lodgings. Small house, small care. Few
garcons have indeed a more sumptuous apartment than myself."

"True," said I; "and if I may judge by the bottles on the opposite table,
and the bonnet beneath it, you find that no abode is too humble or too
exalted for the solace of the senses."

"'Fore Gad, you are in the right, Mr. Pelham," replied Thornton, with a
loud, coarse, chuckling laugh, which, more than a year's conversation
could have done, let me into the secrets of his character. "I care not a
rush for the decorations of the table, so that the cheer be good; nor for
the gew-gaws of the head-dress, as long as the face is pretty--'the taste
of the kitchen is better than the smell.' Do you go much to Madame B--'s
ion the Rue Gretry--eh, Mr. Pelham?--ah, I'll be bound you do."

"No," said I, with a loud laugh, but internal shiver; "but you know where
to find le bon vin et les jolies filles. As for me, I am still a stranger
in Paris, and amuse myself but very indifferently."

Thornton's face brightened. "I tell you what my good fell--I beg
pardon--I mean Mr. Pelham--I can shew you the best sport in the world, if
you can only spare me a little of your time--this very evening, perhaps?"

"I fear," said I, "I am engaged all the present week; but I long for
nothing more than to cultivate an acquaintance, seemingly so exactly to
my own taste."

Thornton's grey eyes twinkled. "Will you breakfast with me on Sunday?"
said he.

"I shall be too happy," I replied

There was now a short pause. I took advantage of it. "I think," said I,
"I have seen you once or twice with a tall, handsome man, in a loose
great coat of very singular colour. Pray, if not impertinent, who is he?
I am sure I have seen him before in England."

I looked full upon Thornton as I said this; he changed colour, and
answered my gaze with a quick glance from his small, glittering eye,
before he replied. "I scarcely know who you mean, my acquaintance is so
large and miscellaneous at Paris. It might have been Johnson, or Smith,
or Howard, or any body, in short."

"It is a man nearly six feet high," said I, "thin, and remarkably well
made, of a pale complexion, light eyes, and very black hair, mustachios
and whiskers. I saw him with you once in the Bois de Boulogne, and once
in a hell in the Palais Royal. Surely, now you will recollect who he is?"

Thornton was evidently disconcerted. "Oh!" said he, after a short pause,
and another of his peculiarly quick, sly glances--"Oh, that man; I have
known him a very short time. What is his name? let me see!" and Mr.
Thornton affected to look down in a complete reverie of dim remembrances.

I saw, however, that, from time to time, his eye glanced up to me, with a
restless, inquisitive expression, and as instantly retired.

"Ah," said I, carelessly, "I think I know who he is!"

"Who!" cried Thornton, eagerly, and utterly off his guard.

"And yet," I pursued, without noticing the interruption, "it scarcely can
be--the colour of the hair is so very different."

Thornton again appeared to relapse into his recollections.
"War--Warbur--ah, I have it now!" cried he, "Warburton--that's it--that's
the name--is it the one you supposed, Mr. Pelham?"

"No," said I, apparently perfectly satisfied. "I was quite mistaken. Good
morning, I did not think it was so late. On Sunday, then, Mr.
Thornton--au plaisir!"

"A d--d cunning dog!" said I to myself, as I left the apartments.
"However, on peut-etre trop fin. I shall have him yet."

The surest way to make a dupe is to let you victim suppose you are his




CHAPTER XXIV.

                          Voila de l'erudition.
                                 --Les Femmes Savantes.

I found, on my return, covered with blood, and foaming with passion, my
inestimable valet--Bedos!

"What's the matter?" said I.

"Matter!" repeated Bedos, in a tone almost inarticulate with rage; and
then, rejoicing at the opportunity of unbosoming his wrath, he poured out
a vast volley of ivrognes and carognes, against our Dame du Chateau, of
monkey reminiscence. With great difficulty, I gathered, at last, from his
vituperations, that the enraged landlady, determined to wreak her
vengeance on some one, had sent for him into her appartment, accosted
him with a smile, bade him sit down, regaled him with cold vol-au-vent,
and a glass of Curacoa, and, while he was felicitating himself on his
good fortune, slipped out of the room: presently, three tall fellows
entered with sticks.

"We'll teach you," said the biggest of them--"we'll teach you to lock up
ladies, for the indulgence of your vulgar amusement;" and, without one
other word, they fell upon Bedos, with incredible zeal and vigour. The
valiant valet defended himself, tooth and nail, for some time, for which
he only got the more soundly belaboured. In the meanwhile the landlady
entered, and, with the same gentle smile as before, begged him to make no
ceremony, to proceed with his present amusement, and when he was tired
with the exercise, hoped he would refresh himself with another glass of
Curacoa.

"It was this," said Bedos, with a whimper, "which hurt me the most, to
think she should serve me so cruelly, after I had eaten so plentifully of
the vol-au-vent; envy and injustice I can bear, but treachery stabs me to
the heart."

When these threshers of men were tired, the lady satisfied, and Bedos
half dead, they suffered the unhappy valet to withdraw; the mistress of
the hotel giving him a note, which she desired, with great civility, that
he would transmit to me on my return. This, I found, inclosed my bill,
and informed me that my month being out on the morrow, she was unwilling
to continue me any longer, and begged I would, therefore, have the bonte
to choose another apartment.

"Carry my luggage forthwith," said I, "to the Hotel de Mirabeau:" and
that very evening I changed my abode.

I am happy in the opportunity this incident affords me of especially
recommending the Hotel de Mirabeau, Rue de la Paix, to any of my
countrymen who are really gentlemen, and will not disgrace my
recommendation. It is certainly the best caravansera in the English
quartier.

I was engaged that day to a literary dinner at the Marquis D'Al--; and as
I knew I should meet Vincent, I felt some pleasure in repairing to my
entertainer's hotel. They were just going to dinner as I entered. A good
many English were of the party. The good natured (in all senses of the
word) Lady--, who always affected to pet me, cried aloud, "Pelham, mon
joli petit mignon, I have not seen you for an age--do give me your arm."

Madame D'Anville was just before me, and, as I looked at her, I saw that
her eyes were full of tears; my heart smote me for my late inattention,
and going up to her, I only nodded to Lady--, and said, in reply to her
invitation, "Non, perfide, it is my turn to be cruel now. Remember your
flirtation with Mr. Howard de Howard."

"Pooh!" said Lady--, taking Lord Vincent's arm, "your jealousy does
indeed rest upon 'a trifle light as air.'"

"Do you forgive me?" whispered I to Madame D'Anville, as I handed her to
the salle a manger. "Does not love forgive every thing?" was her answer.

"At least," thought I, "it never talks in those pretty phrases."

The conversation soon turned upon books. As for me, I never at that time
took a share in those discussions; indeed, I have long laid it down as a
rule, that a man never gains by talking to more than one person at a
time. If you don't shine, you are a fool--if you do, you are a bore. You
must become either ridiculous or unpopular--either hurt your own
self-love by stupidity, or that of others by wit. I therefore sat in
silence, looking exceedingly edified, and now and then muttering "good!"
"true!" Thank heaven, however, the suspension of one faculty only
increases the vivacity of the others; my eyes and ears always watch like
sentinels over the repose of my lips. Careless and indifferent as I seem
to all things, nothing ever escapes me: the minutest erreur in a dish or
a domestic, the most trifling peculiarity in a criticism or a coat, my
glance detects in an instant, and transmits for ever to my recollection.

"You have seen Jouy's 'Hermite de la Chaussee D'Antin?'" said our host to
Lord Vincent.

"I have, and think meanly of it. There is a perpetual aim at something
pointed, which as perpetually merges into something dull. He is like a
bad swimmer, strikes out with great force, makes a confounded splash, and
never gets a yard the further for it. It is a great effort not to sink.
Indeed, Monsieur D'A--, your literature is at a very reduced ebb;
bombastic in the drama--shallow in philosophy--mawkish in poetry, your
writers of the present day seem to think, with Boileau--

           "'Souvent de tous nos maux la raison est le pire.'"

"Surely," cried Madame D'Anville, "you will allow De la Martine's poetry
to be beautiful?"

"I allow it," said he, "to be among the best you have; and I know very
few lines in your language equal to the two first stanzas in his
'Meditation on Napoleon,' or to those exquisite verses called 'Le Lac;'
but you will allow also that he wants originality and nerve. His thoughts
are pathetic, but not deep; he whines, but sheds no tears. He has, in his
imitation of Lord Byron, reversed the great miracle; instead of turning
water into wine, he has turned wine into water. Besides, he is so
unpardonably obscure. He thinks, with Bacchus--(you remember, D'A--, the
line in Euripides, which I will not quote), that 'there is something
august in the shades;' but he has applied this thought wrongly--in his
obscurity there is nothing sublime--it is the back ground of a Dutch
picture. It is only a red herring, or an old hat, which he has invested
with such pomposity of shadow and darkness."

"But his verses are so smooth," said Lady--.

"Ah!" answered Vincent.

         "'Quand la rime enfin se trouve au bout des vers,
           Qu'importe que le reste y soit mis des travers.'"

"Helas" said the Viscount D'A--t, an author of no small celebrity
himself; "I agree with you--we shall never again see a Voltaire or a
Rousseau."

"There is but little justice in those complaints, often as they are
made," replied Vincent. "You may not, it is true, see a Voltaire or a
Rousseau, but you will see their equals. Genius can never be exhausted by
one individual. In our country, the poets after Chaucer in the fifteenth
century complained of the decay of their art--they did not anticipate
Shakspeare. In Hayley's time, who ever dreamt of the ascension of Byron?
Yet Shakspeare and Byron came like the bridegroom 'in the dead of night;'
and you have the same probability of producing--not, indeed, another
Rousseau, but a writer to do equal honour to your literature."

"I think," said Lady--, "that Rousseau's 'Julie' is over-rated. I had
heard so much of 'La Nouvelle Heloise' when I was a girl, and been so
often told that it was destruction to read it, that I bought the book the
very day after I was married. I own to you that I could not get through
it."

"I am not surprised at it," answered Vincent; "but Rousseau is not the
less a genius for all that: there is no story to bear out the style, and
he himself is right when he says 'ce livre convient a tres peu de
lecteurs.' One letter would delight every one--four volumes of them are a
surfeit--it is the toujours perdrix. But the chief beauty of that
wonderful conception of an empassioned and meditative mind is to be found
in the inimitable manner in which the thoughts are embodied, and in the
tenderness, the truth, the profundity of the thoughts themselves: when
Lord Edouard says, 'c'est le chemin des passions qui m'a conduit a la
philosophie,' he inculcates, in one simple phrase, a profound and
unanswerable truth. It is in these remarks that nature is chiefly found
in the writings of Rousseau: too much engrossed in himself to be deeply
skilled in the characters of others, that very self-study had yet given
him a knowledge of the more hidden recesses of the heart. He could
perceive at once the motive and the cause of actions, but he wanted the
patience to trace the elaborate and winding progress of their effects. He
saw the passions in their home, but he could not follow them abroad. He
knew mankind in the general, but not men in the detail. Thus, when he
makes an aphorism or reflection, it comes home at once to you as true;
but when he would analyze that reflection, when he argues, reasons, and
attempts to prove, you reject him as unnatural, or you refute him as
false. It is then that he partakes of that manie commune which he imputes
to other philosophers, 'de nier ce qui est, et d'expliquer ce qui n'est
pas.'"

There was a short pause. "I think," said Madame D'Anville, "that it is in
those pensees which you admire so much in Rousseau, that our authors in
general excel."

"You are right," said Vincent, "and for this reason--with you les gens de
letters are always les gens du monde. Hence their quick perceptions are
devoted to men as well as to books. They make observations acutely, and
embody them with grace; but it is worth remarking, that the same cause
which produced the aphorism, frequently prevents its being profound.
These literary gens du monde have the tact to observe, but not the
patience, perhaps not the time, to investigate. They make the maxim, but
they never explain to you the train of reasoning which led to it. Hence
they are more brilliant than true. An English writer would not dare to
make a maxim, involving, perhaps, in two lines, one of the most important
of moral truths, without bringing pages to support his dictum. A French
essayist leaves it wholly to itself. He tells you neither how he came by
his reasons, nor their conclusion, 'le plus fou souvent est le plus
satisfait.' Consequently, if less tedious than the English, your
reasoners are more dangerous, and ought rather to be considered as models
of terseness than of reflection. A man might learn to think sooner from
your writers, but he will learn to think justly sooner from ours. Many
observations of La Bruyere and Rochefoucault--the latter especially--have
obtained credit for truth solely from their point. They possess exactly
the same merit as the very sensible--permit me to add--very French line
in Corneille:--

           "'Ma plus douce esperance est de perdre l'espoir.'"

The Maquis took advantage of the silence which followed Vincent's
criticism to rise from table. We all (except Vincent, who took leave)
adjourned to the salon. "Qui est cet homme la?" said one, "comme il est
epris de lui-meme." "How silly he is," cried another--"how ugly," said a
third. What a taste in literature--such a talker--such shallowness, and
such assurance--not worth the answering--could not slip in a
word--disagreeable, revolting, awkward, slovenly, were the most
complimentary opinions bestowed upon the unfortunate Vincent. The women
called him un horreur, and the men un bete. The old railed at his mauvais
gout, and the young at his mauvais coeur, for the former always attribute
whatever does not correspond with their sentiments, to a perversion of
taste, and the latter whatever does not come up to their enthusiasm, to a
depravity of heart.

As for me, I went home, enriched with two new observations; first, that
one may not speak of any thing relative to a foreign country, as one
would if one was a native. National censures become particular affronts.

Secondly, that those who know mankind in theory, seldom know it in
practice; the very wisdom that conceives a rule, is accompanied with the
abstraction, or the vanity, which destroys it. I mean that the
philosopher of the cabinet is often too diffident to put into action his
observations, or too eager for display to conceal their design. Lord
Vincent values himself upon his science du monde. He has read much upon
men, he has reflected more; he lays down aphorisms to govern or to please
them. He goes into society; he is cheated by the one half, and the other
half he offends. The sage in the cabinet is but a fool in the salon; and
the most consummate men of the world are those who have considered the
least on it.




CHAPTER XXV.

                   Falstaff.  What money is in my purse?
                   Page.  Seven groats and two-pence.
                                 --Second Part of Henry IV.

                   En iterum Crispinus.

The next day a note was brought me, which had been sent to my former
lodgings in the Hotel de Paris: it was from Thornton.

"My dear Sir," (it began)

"I am very sorry that particular business will prevent me the pleasure of
seeing you at my rooms on Sunday. I hope to be more fortunate some other
day. I should like much to introduce you, the first opportunity, to my
friends in the Rue Gretry, for I like obliging my countrymen. I am sure,
if you were to go there, you would cut and come again--one shoulder of
mutton drives down another.

"I beg you to accept my repeated excuses, and remain,

"Dear Sir, "Your very obedient servant, "Thomas Thornton.

"Rue St. Dominique,

"Friday Morning."

This letter produced in me many and manifold cogitations. What could
possibly have induced Mr. Tom Thornton, rogue as he was, to postpone thus
of his own accord, the plucking of a pigeon, which he had such good
reason to believe he had entrapped? There was evidently no longer the
same avidity to cultivate my acquaintance as before; in putting off our
appointment with so little ceremony, he did not even fix a day for
another. What had altered his original designs towards me? for if
Vincent's account was true, it was natural to suppose that he wished to
profit by any acquaintance he might form with me, and therefore such an
acquaintance his own interests would induce him to continue and confirm.

Either, then, he no longer had the same necessity for a dupe, or he no
longer imagined I should become one. Yet neither of these suppositions
was probable. It was not likely that he should grow suddenly honest, or
suddenly rich: nor had I, on the other hand, given him any reason to
suppose I was a jot more wary than any other individual he might have
imposed upon. On the contrary, I had appeared to seek his acquaintance
with an eagerness which said but little for my knowledge of the world.
The more I reflected, the more I should have been puzzled, had I not
connected his present backwardness with his acquaintance with the
stranger, whom he termed Warburton. It is true, that I had no reason to
suppose so: it was a conjecture wholly unsupported, and, indeed, against
my better sense; yet, from some unanalysed associations, I could not
divest myself of the supposition.

"I will soon see," thought I; and wrapping myself in my cloak, for the
day was bitterly cold, I bent my way to Thornton's lodgings. I could not
explain to myself the deep interest I took in whatever was connected with
(the so-called) Warburton, or whatever promised to discover more clearly
any particulars respecting him. His behaviour in the gambling house; his
conversation with the woman in the Jardin des Plantes; and the singular
circumstance, that a man of so very aristocratic an appearance, should be
connected with Thornton, and only seen in such low scenes, and with such
low society, would not have been sufficient so strongly to occupy my
mind, had it not been for certain dim recollections, and undefinable
associations, that his appearance when present, and my thoughts of him
when absent, perpetually recalled.

As, engrossed with meditations of this nature, I was passing over the
Pont Neuf, I perceived the man Warburton had so earnestly watched in the
gambling house, and whom I identified with the "Tyrrell," who had formed
the subject of conversation in the Jardin des Plantes, pass slowly before
me. There was an appearance of great exhaustion in his swarthy and
strongly marked countenance. He walked carelessly on, neither looking to
the right nor the left, with that air of thought and abstraction which I
have remarked as common to all men in the habit of indulging any
engrossing and exciting passion.

We were just on the other side of the Seine, when I perceived the woman
of the Jardin des Plantes approach. Tyrrell (for that, I afterwards
discovered, was really his name) started as she came near, and asked her,
in a tone of some asperity, where she had been? As I was but a few paces
behind, I had a clear, full view of the woman's countenance. She was
about twenty-eight or thirty years of age. Her features were decidedly
handsome, though somewhat too sharp and aquiline for my individual taste.
Her eyes were light and rather sunken; and her complexion bespoke
somewhat of the paleness and languor of ill-health. On the whole, the
expression of her face, though decided, was not unpleasing, and when she
returned Tyrrell's rather rude salutation, it was with a smile, which
made her, for the moment, absolutely beautiful.

"Where have I been to?" she said, in answer to his interrogatory. "Why, I
went to look at the New Church, which they told me was so superbe."

"Methinks," replied the man, "that ours are not precisely the
circumstances in which such spectacles are amusing."

"Nay, Tyrrell," said the woman, as taking his arm they walked on together
a few paces before me, "nay, we are quite rich now to what we have been;
and, if you do play again, our two hundred pounds may swell into a
fortune. Your losses have brought you skill, and you may now turn them
into actual advantages."

Tyrrell did not reply exactly to these remarks, but appeared as if
debating with himself. "Two hundred pounds--twenty already gone!--in a
few months all will have melted away. What is it then now but a respite
from starvation?--but with luck it may become a competence."

"And why not have luck? many a fortune has been made with a worse
beginning," said the woman.

"True, Margaret," pursued the gambler, "and even without luck, our fate
can only commence a month or two sooner--better a short doom than a
lingering torture."

"What think you of trying some new game where you have more experience,
or where the chances are greater than in that of rouge et noir?" asked
the woman. "Could you not make something out of that tall, handsome man,
who Thornton says is so rich?"

"Ah, if one could!" sighed Tyrrell, wistfully. "Thornton tells me, that
he has won thousands from him, and that they are mere drops in his
income. Thornton is a good, easy, careless fellow, and might let me into
a share of the booty: but then, in what games can I engage him?"

Here I passed this well-suited pair, and lost the remainder of their
conversation. "Well," thought I, "if this precious personage does starve
at last, he will most richly deserve it, partly for his designs on the
stranger, principally for his opinion of Thornton. If he was a knave
only, one might pity him; but a knave and fool both, are a combination of
evil, for which there is no intermediate purgatory of opinion--nothing
short of utter damnation."

I soon arrived at Mr. Thornton's abode. The same old woman, poring over
the same novel of Crebillon, made me the same reply as before; and
accordingly again I ascended the obscure and rugged stairs, which seemed
to indicate, that the road to vice is not so easy as one generally
supposes. I knocked at the door, and receiving no answering
acknowledgment, opened it at once. The first thing I saw was the dark,
rough coat of Warburton--that person's back was turned to me, and he was
talking with some energy to Thornton (who lounged idly in his chair, with
one ungartered leg thrown over the elbow.)

"Ah, Mr. Pelham," exclaimed the latter, starting from his not very
graceful position, "it gives me great pleasure to see you--Mr. Warburton,
Mr. Pelham--Mr. Pelham, Mr. Warburton." My new-made and mysterious
acquaintance drew himself up to his full height, and bowed very slightly
to my own acknowledgment of the introduction. A low person would have
thought him rude. I only supposed him ignorant of the world. No real
gentleman is uncivil. He turned round after this stiff condescension de
sa part, and sunk down on the sofa, with his back towards me.

"I was mistaken," thought I, "when I believed him to be above such
associates as Thornton--they are well matched."

"My dear Sir," said Thornton, "I am very sorry I could not see you to
breakfast--a particular engagement prevented me--verbum sap. Mr. Pelham,
you take me, I suppose--black eyes white skin, and such an ancle;" and
the fellow rubbed his great hands and chuckled.

"Well," said I, "I cannot blame you, whatever may be my loss--a dark eye
and a straight ancle are powerful excuses. What says Mr. Warburton to
them?" and I turned to the object of my interrogatory.

"Really," he answered drily, and without moving from his uncourteous
position, "Mr. Thornton only can judge of the niceties of his peculiar
tastes, or the justice of his general excuses."

Mr. Warburton said this in a sarcastic, bitter tone. Thornton bit his
lip, more, I should think, at the manner than the words, and his small
grey eyes sparkled with a malignant and stern expression, which suited
the character of his face far better than the careless levity and
enjouement which his glances usually denoted.

"They are no such great friends after all," thought I; "and now let me
change my attack. Pray," I asked, "among all your numerous acquaintances
at Paris, did you ever meet with a Mr. Tyrrell?"

Warburton started from his chair, and as instantly re-seated himself.
Thornton eyed me with one of those peculiar looks which so strongly
reminded me of a dog, in deliberation whether to bite or run away.

"I do know a Mr. Tyrrell!" he said, after a short pause.

"What sort of a person is he?" I asked with an indifferent air--"a great
gamester, is he not?"

"He does slap it down on the colours now and then," replied Thornton. "I
hope you don't know him, Mr. Pelham!"

"Why?" said I, evading the question. "His character is not affected by a
propensity so common, unless, indeed, you suppose him to be more a
gambler than a gamester, viz. more acute than unlucky."

"God forbid that I should say any such thing," replied Thornton; "you
won't catch an old lawyer in such imprudence."

"The greater the truth, the greater the libel," said Warburton, with a
sneer.

"No," resumed Thornton, "I know nothing against Mr. Tyrrell--nothing! He
may be a very good man, and I believe he is; but as a friend, Mr. Pelham,
(and Mr. Thornton grew quite affectionate), I advise you to have as
little as possible to do with that sort of people."

"Truly," said I, "you have now excited my curiosity. Nothing, you know,
is half so inviting as mystery."

Thornton looked as if he had expected a very different reply; and
Warburton said, in an abrupt tone--"Whoever enters an unknown road in a
fog may easily lose himself."

"True," said I; "but that very chance is more agreeable than a road where
one knows every tree! Danger and novelty are more to my taste than safety
and sameness. Besides, as I never gamble myself, I can lose nothing by an
acquaintance with those who do."

Another pause ensued--and, finding I had got all from Mr. Thornton and
his uncourteous guest that I was likely to do, I took my hat and my
departure.

"I do not know," thought I, "whether I have profited much by this visit.
Let me consider. In the first place, I have not ascertained why I was put
off by Mr. Thornton--for as to his excuse, it could only have availed one
day, and had he been anxious for my acquaintance, he would have named
another. I have, however, discovered, first, that he does not wish me to
form any connection with Tyrrell; secondly, from Warburton's sarcasm, and
his glance of reply, that there is but little friendship between those
two, whatever be the intimacy; and, thirdly, that Warburton, from his
dorsal positions, so studiously preserved, either wished to be uncivil or
unnoticed." The latter, after all, was the most probable; and, upon the
whole, I felt more than ever convinced that he was the person I suspected
him to be.




CHAPTER XXVI.

             Tell how the fates my giddy course did guide,
             The inconstant turns of every changing hour.
                          --Pierce Gaveston, by M. Drayton.

             Je me retire donc.--Adieu, Paris, adieu!
                          --Boileau.

When I returned home, I found on my table the following letter from my
mother:

"My dear Henry,

"I am rejoiced to hear you are so well entertained at Paris--that you
have been so often to the D--s and C--s; that Coulon says you are his
best pupil--that your favourite horse is so much admired--and that you
have only exceeded your allowance by a L1,000; with some difficulty I
have persuaded your uncle to transmit you an order for L1,500, which
will, I trust, make up all your deficiencies.

"You must not, my dear child, be so extravagant for the future, and for a
very good reason, namely, I do not see how you can. Your uncle, I fear,
will not again be so generous, and your father cannot assist you. You
will therefore see more clearly than ever the necessity of marrying an
heiress: there are only two in England (the daughters of gentlemen)
worthy of you--the most deserving of these has L10,000 a year, the other
has L150,000. The former is old, ugly, and very ill tempered; the latter
tolerably pretty, and agreeable, and just of age; but you will perceive
the impropriety of even thinking of her till we have tried the other. I
am going to ask both to my Sunday soirees, where I never admit any single
men, so that there, at least, you will have no rivals.

"And now, my dear son, before I enter into a subject of great importance
to you, I wish to recal to your mind that pleasure is never an end, but a
means--viz. that in your horses and amusements at Paris--your visits and
your liaisons--you have always, I trust, remembered that these were only
so far desirable as the methods of shining in society. I have now a new
scene on which you are to enter, with very different objects in view, and
where any pleasures you may find have nothing the least in common with
those you at present enjoy.

"I know that this preface will not frighten you as it might many silly
young men. Your education has been too carefully attended to, for you to
imagine that any step can be rough or unpleasant which raises you in the
world.

"To come at once to the point. One of the seats in your uncle's borough
of Buyemall is every day expected to be vacated; the present member, Mr.
Toolington, cannot possibly live a week, and your uncle is very desirous
that you should fill the vacancy which Mr. Toolington's death will
create. Though I called it Lord Glenmorris's borough, yet it is not
entirely at his disposal, which I think very strange, since my father,
who was not half so rich as your uncle, could send two members to
Parliament without the least trouble in the world--but I don't understand
these matters. Possibly your uncle (poor man) does not manage them well.
However, he says no time is to be lost. You are to return immediately to
England, and come down to his house in--shire. It is supposed you will
have some contest, but be certain eventually to come in.

"You will also, in this visit to Lord Glenmorris, have an excellent
opportunity of securing his affection; you know it is some time since he
saw you, and the greater part of his property is unentailed. If you come
into the House you must devote yourself wholly to it, and I have no fear
of your succeeding; for I remember, when you were quite a child, how well
you spoke, 'My name is Norval,' and 'Romans, countrymen, and lovers,' I
heard Mr. Canning speak the other day, and I think his voice is quite
like yours; in short, I make no doubt of seeing you in the ministry in a
very few years.

"You see, my dear son, that it is absolutely necessary you should set out
immediately. You will call on Lady--, and you will endeavour to make firm
friends of the most desirable among your present acquaintance; so that
you may be on the same footing you are now, should you return to Paris.
This a little civility will easily do: nobody (as I before observed),
except in England, ever loses by politeness; by the by, that last word is
one you must never use, it is too Gloucester-place like.

"You will also be careful, in returning to England, to make very little
use of French phrases; no vulgarity is more unpleasing. I could not help
being exceedingly amused by a book written the other day, which professes
to give an accurate description of good society. Not knowing what to make
us say in English, the author has made us talk nothing but French. I have
often wondered what common people think of us, since in their novels they
always affect to pourtray us so different from themselves. I am very much
afraid we are in all things exactly like them, except in being more
simple and unaffected. The higher the rank, indeed, the less pretence,
because there is less to pretend to. This is the chief reason why our
manners are better than low persons: ours are more natural, because they
imitate no one else; theirs are affected, because they think to imitate
ours; and whatever is evidently borrowed becomes vulgar. Original
affection is sometimes ton--imitated affectation, always bad.

"Well, my dear Henry, I must now conclude this letter, already too long
to be interesting. I hope to see you about ten days after you receive
this; and if you could bring me a Cachemire shawl, it would give me great
pleasure to see your taste in its choice. God bless you, my dear son.

"Your very affectionate

"Frances Pelham."

"P.S. I hope you go to church sometimes: I am sorry to see the young men
of the present day so irreligious. Perhaps you could get my old friend,
Madame De--, to choose the Cachemire--take care of your health."

This letter, which I read carefully twice over, threw me into a most
serious meditation. My first feeling was regret at leaving Paris; my
second, was a certain exultation at the new prospects so unexpectedly
opened to me. The great aim of a philosopher is, to reconcile every
disadvantage by some counterbalance of good--where he cannot create this,
he should imagine it. I began, therefore, to consider less what I should
lose than what I should gain, by quitting Paris. In the first place, I
was tolerably tired of its amusements: no business is half so fatiguing
as pleasure. I longed for a change: behold, a change was at hand! Then,
to say truth, I was heartily glad of a pretence of escaping from a
numerous cohort of folles amours, with Madame D'Anville at the head; and
the very circumstance which men who play the German flute and fall in
love, would have considered the most vexatious, I regarded as the most
consolatory.

There was yet another reason which reconciled me more than any other to
my departure. I had, in my residence at Paris, among half wits and whole
roues, contracted a certain--not exactly grossierete--but want of
refinement--a certain coarseness of expression and idea which, though
slight, and easily thrown off, took in some degree from my approach to
that character which I wished to become. I know nothing which would so
polish the manners as continental intercourse, were it not for the
English debauches with which that intercourse connects one. English
profligacy is always coarse, and in profligacy nothing is more contagious
than its tone. One never keeps a restraint on the manner when one
unbridles the passions, and one takes from the associates with whom the
latter are indulged, the air and the method of the indulgence.

I was, the reader well knows, too solicitous for improvement, not to be
anxious to escape from such chances of deterioration, and I therefore
consoled myself with considerable facility for the pleasures and the
associates I was about to forego. My mind being thus relieved from all
regret at my departure, I now suffered it to look forward to the
advantages of my return to England. My love of excitement and variety
made an election, in which I was to have both the importance of the
contest and the certainty of the success, a very agreeable object of
anticipation.

I was also by this time wearied with my attendance upon women, and eager
to exchange it for the ordinary objects of ambition to men; and my vanity
whispered that my success in the one was no unfavourable omen of my
prosperity in the other. On my return to England, with a new scene and a
new motive for conduct, I resolved that I would commence a different
character to that I had hitherto assumed. How far I kept this resolution
the various events hereafter to be shown, will testify. For myself, I
felt that I was now about to enter a more crowded scene upon a more
elevated ascent; and my previous experience of human nature was
sufficient to convince me that my safety required a more continual
circumspection, and my success a more dignified bearing.




CHAPTER XXVII.

             Je noterai cela, Madame, dans mon livre.
                          --Moliere.

I am not one of those persons who are many days in deciding what may be
effected in one. "On the third day from this," said I to Bedos, "at half
past nine in the morning, I shall leave Paris for England."

"Oh, my poor wife!" said the valet, "she will break her heart if I leave
her."

"Then stay," said I. Bedos shrugged his shoulders.

"I prefer being with Monsieur to all things."

"What, even to your wife?" The courteous rascal placed his hand to his
heart and bowed. "You shall not suffer by your fidelity--you shall take
your wife with you."

The conjugal valet's countenance fell. "No," he said, "no; he could not
take advantage of Monsieur's generosity."

"I insist upon it--not another word."

"I beg a thousand pardons of Monsieur; but--but my wife is very ill, and
unable to travel."

"Then, in that case, so excellent a husband cannot think of leaving a
sick and destitute wife."

"Poverty has no law; if I consulted my heart and stayed, I should starve,
et il faut vivre."

"Je n'en vois pas la necessite," replied I, as I got into my carriage.
That repartee, by the way, I cannot claim as my own; it is the very
unanswerable answer of a judge to an expostulating thief.

I made the round of reciprocal regrets, according to the orthodox
formula. The Duchesse de Perpignan was the last--(Madame D'Anville I
reserved for another day)--that virtuous and wise personage was in the
boudoir of reception. I glanced at the fatal door as I entered. I have a
great aversion, after any thing has once happened and fairly subsided, to
make any allusion to its former existence. I never, therefore, talked to
the Duchess about our ancient egaremens. I spoke, this morning, of the
marriage of one person, the death of another, and lastly, the departure
of my individual self.

"When do you go?" she said, eagerly.

"In two days: my departure will be softened, if I can execute any
commissions in England for Madame."

"None," said she; and then in a low tone (that none of the idlers, who
were always found at her morning levees, should hear), she added, "you
will receive a note from me this evening."

I bowed, changed the conversation, and withdrew. I dined in my own rooms,
and spent the evening in looking over the various billets-doux, received
during my sejour at Paris.

"Where shall I put all these locks of hair?" asked Bedos, opening a
drawer full.

"Into my scrap-book."

"And all these letters?"

"Into the fire."

I was just getting into bed when the Duchesse de Perpignan's note
arrived--it was as follows:--

"My dear Friend,

"For that word, so doubtful in our language, I may at least call you in
your own. I am unwilling that you should leave this country with those
sentiments you now entertain of me, unaltered, yet I cannot imagine any
form of words of sufficient magic to change them. Oh! if you knew how
much I am to be pitied; if you could look for one moment into this lonely
and blighted heart; if you could trace, step by step, the progress I have
made in folly and sin, you would see how much of what you now condemn and
despise, I have owed to circumstances, rather than to the vice of my
disposition. I was born a beauty, educated a beauty, owed fame, rank,
power to beauty; and it is to the advantages I have derived from person
that I owe the ruin of my mind. You have seen how much I now derive from
art I loathe myself as I write that sentence; but no matter: from that
moment you loathed me too. You did not take into consideration, that I
had been living on excitement all my youth, and that in my maturer years
I could not relinquish it. I had reigned by my attractions, and I thought
every art preferable to resigning my empire: but in feeding my vanity, I
had not been able to stifle the dictates of my heart. Love is so natural
to a woman, that she is scarcely a woman who resists it: but in me it has
been a sentiment, not a passion.

"Sentiment, then, and vanity, have been my seducers. I said, that I owed
my errors to circumstances, not to nature. You will say, that in
confessing love and vanity to be my seducers, I contradict this
assertion--you are mistaken. I mean, that though vanity and sentiment
were in me, yet the scenes in which I have been placed, and the events
which I have witnessed, gave to those latent currents of action a wrong
and a dangerous direction. I was formed to love; for one whom I did love
I could have made every sacrifice. I married a man I hated, and I only
learnt the depths of my heart when it was too late.

"Enough of this; you will leave this country; we shall never meet
again--never! You may return to Paris, but I shall then be no more;
n'importe--I shall be unchanged to the last. Je mourrai en reine.

"As a latest pledge of what I have felt for you, I send you the enclosed
chain and ring; as a latest favour, I request you to wear them for six
months, and, above all, for two hours in the Tuileries tomorrow. You will
laugh at this request: it seems idle and romantic--perhaps it is so. Love
has many exaggerations in sentiment, which reason would despise. What
wonder, then, that mine, above that of all others, should conceive them?
You will not, I know, deny this request. Farewell!--in this world we
shall never meet again, and I believe not in the existence of another.
Farewell!

"E. P."


"A most sensible effusion," said I to myself, when I had read this
billet; "and yet, after all, it shows more feeling and more character
than I could have supposed she possessed." I took up the chain: it was of
Maltese workmanship; not very handsome, nor, indeed, in any way
remarkable, except for a plain hair ring which was attached to it, and
which I found myself unable to take off, without breaking. "It is a very
singular request," thought I, "but then it comes from a very singular
person; and as it rather partakes of adventure and intrigue, I shall at
all events appear in the Tuileries, tomorrow, chained and ringed."




CHAPTER XXVIII.

      Thy incivility shall not make me fail to do what becomes me; and
      since thou hast more valour than courtesy, I for thee will hazard
      that life which thou wouldst take from me.--Cassandra, "elegantly
      done into English by Sir Charles Cotterell."

About the usual hour for the promenade in the Tuileries, I conveyed
myself thither. I set the chain and ring in full display, rendered still
more conspicuous by the dark coloured dress which I always wore. I had
not been in the gardens ten minutes, before I perceived a young
Frenchman, scarcely twenty years of age, look with a very peculiar air at
my new decorations. He passed and repassed me, much oftener than the
alternations of the walk warranted; and at last, taking off his hat, said
in a low tone, that he wished much for the honour of exchanging a few
words with me in private. I saw, at the first glance, that he was a
gentleman, and accordingly withdrew with him among the trees, in the more
retired part of the garden.

"Permit me," said he, "to inquire how that ring and chain came into your
possession?"

"Monsieur," I replied, "you will understand me, when I say, that the
honour of another person is implicated in my concealment of that secret."

"Sir," said the Frenchman, colouring violently, "I have seen them
before--in a word, they belong to me!"

I smiled--my young hero fired at this. "Oui, Monsieur," said he, speaking
very loud, and very quick, "they belong to me, and I insist upon your
immediately restoring them, or vindicating your claim to them by arms."

"You leave me but one answer, Monsieur," said I; "I will find a friend to
wait upon you immediately. Allow me to inquire your address?" The
Frenchman, who was greatly agitated, produced a card. We bowed and
separated.

I was glancing over the address I held in my hand, which was--C.
D'Azimart, Rue de Bourbon Numero--, when my ears were saluted with--

           "'Now do you know me?--thou shouldst be Alonzo.'"

I did not require the faculty of sight to recognize Lord Vincent. "My
dear fellow," said I, "I am rejoiced to see you!" and thereupon I poured
into his ear the particulars of my morning adventure. Lord Vincent
listened to me with much apparent interest, and spoke very unaffectedly
of his readiness to serve me, and his regret at the occasion.

"Pooh." said I, "a duel in France, is not like one in England; the former
is a matter of course; a trifle of common occurrence; one makes an
engagement to fight, in the same breath as an engagement to dine; but the
latter is a thing of state and solemnity--long faces--early rising--and
willmaking. But do get this business over as soon as you can, that we may
dine at the Rocher afterwards."

"Well, my dear Pelham," said Vincent, "I cannot refuse you my services;
and as I suppose Monsieur D'Azimart will choose swords, I venture to
augur everything from your skill in that species of weapon. It is the
first time I have ever interfered in affairs of this nature, but I hope
to get well through the present,

          "'Nobilis ornatur lauro collega secundo,'

as Juvenal says: au revoir," and away went Lord Vincent, half forgetting
all his late anxiety for my life, in his paternal pleasure for the
delivery of his quotation.

Vincent is the only punster I ever knew with a good heart. No action to
that race in general is so serious an occupation as the play upon words;
and the remorseless habit of murdering a phrase, renders them perfectly
obdurate to the simple death of a friend. I walked through every variety
the straight paths of the Tuileries could afford, and was beginning to
get exceedingly tired, when Lord Vincent returned. He looked very grave,
and I saw at once that he was come to particularize the circumstances of
the last extreme. "The Bois de Boulogne--pistols--in one hour," were the
three leading features of his detail.

"Pistols!" said I; "well, be it so. I would rather have had swords, for
the young man's sake as much as my own: but thirteen paces and a steady
aim will settle the business as soon. We will try a bottle of the
chambertin to-day, Vincent." The punster smiled faintly, and for once in
his life made no reply. We walked gravely and soberly to my lodgings for
the pistols, and then proceeded to the engagement as silently as
Christians should do.

The Frenchman and his second were on the ground first. I saw that the
former was pale and agitated, not, I think, from fear, but passion. When
we took our ground, Vincent came to me, and said, in a low tone, "For
God's sake, suffer me to accommodate this, if possible?"

"It is not in our power," said I, receiving the pistol. I looked steadily
at D'Azimart, and took my aim. His pistol, owing, I suppose, to the
trembling of his hand, went off a moment sooner than he had
anticipated--the ball grazed my hat. My aim was more successful--I struck
him in the shoulder--the exact place I had intended. He staggered a few
paces, but did not fall.

We hastened towards him--his cheek assumed a still more livid hue as I
approached; he muttered some half-formed curses between his teeth, and
turned from me to his second.

"You will inquire whether Monsieur D'Azimart is satisfied," said I to
Vincent, and retired to a short distance.

"His second," said Vincent, (after a brief conference with that person,)
"replies to my question, that Monsieur D'Azimart's wound has left him,
for the present, no alternative." Upon this answer I took Vincent's arm,
and we returned forthwith to my carriage.

"I congratulate you most sincerely on the event of this duel," said
Vincent. "Monsieur de M--(D'Azimart's second) informed me, when I waited
on him, that your antagonist was one of the most celebrated pistol shots
in Paris, and that a lady with whom he had been long in love, made the
death of the chain-bearer the price of her favours. Devilish lucky for
you, my good fellow, that his hand trembled so; but I did not know you
were so good a shot."

"Why," I answered, "I am not what is vulgarly termed 'a crack shot'--I
cannot split a bullet on a penknife; but I am sure of a target somewhat
smaller than a man: and my hand is as certain in the field as it is in
the practice-yard."

"Le sentiment de nos forces les augmente," replied Vincent. "Shall I tell
the coachman to drive to the Rocher?"




CHAPTER XXIX.

             Here's a kind host, that makes the invitation,
             To your own cost to his fort bon collation.
             --Wycherly's Gent. Dancing Master.

      Vous pouvez bien juger que je n'aurai pas grande peine a me
      consoler d'une chose donc je me suis deja console tant de fois.
      --Lettres de Boileau.

As I was walking home with Vincent from the Rue Mont-orgueil, I saw, on
entering the Rue St. Honore, two figures before us; the tall and noble
stature of the one I could not for a moment mistake. They stopped at the
door of an hotel, which opened in that noiseless manner so peculiar to
the Conciergerie of France. I was at the porte the moment they
disappeared, but not before I had caught a glance of the dark locks and
pale countenance of Warburton--my eye fell upon the number of the hotel.

"Surely," said I, "I have been in that house before."

"Likely enough," growled Vincent, who was gloriously drunk. "It is a
house of two-fold utility--you may play with cards, or coquet with women,
selon votre gout."

At these words I remembered the hotel and its inmates immediately. It
belonged to an old nobleman, who, though on the brink of the grave, was
still grasping at the good things on the margin. He lived with a pretty
and clever woman, who bore the name and honours of his wife. They kept up
two salons, one pour le petit souper, and the other pour le petit jeu.
You saw much ecarte and more love-making, and lost your heart and your
money with equal facility. In a word, the marquis and his jolie petite
femme were a wise and prosperous couple, who made the best of their
lives, and lived decently and honourably upon other people.

"Allons, Pelham," cried Vincent, as I was still standing at the door in
deliberation; "how much longer will you keep me to congeal in this 'eager
and nipping air'--'Quamdiu nostram patientiam abutere Catilina.'"

"Let us enter," said I. "I have the run of the house, and we may find--"
"'Some young vices--some fair iniquities'" interrupted Vincent, with a
hiccup--

         "'Leade on good fellowe,' quoth Robin Hood,
           Lead on, I do bid thee.'"

And with these words, the door opened in obedience to my rap, and we
mounted to the marquis's tenement au premiere.

The room was pretty full--the soi-disante marquise was flitting from
table to table--betting at each, and coquetting with all; and the marquis
himself, with a moist eye and a shaking hand, was affecting the Don Juan
with the various Elviras and Annas with which his salon was crowded.
Vincent was trying to follow me through the crowd, but his confused
vision and unsteady footing led him from one entanglement to another,
till he was quite unable to proceed. A tall, corpulent Frenchman, six
foot by five, was leaning, (a great and weighty objection,) just before
him, utterly occupied in the vicissitudes of an ecarte table, and
unconscious of Vincent's repeated efforts, first on one side, and then on
the other, to pass him.

At last, the perplexed wit, getting more irascible as he grew more
bewildered, suddenly seized the vast incumbrance by the arm, and said to
him in a sharp, querulous tone, "Pray, Monsieur, why are you like the
lote tree in Mahomet's Seventh Heaven?"

"Sir!" cried the astonished Frenchman.

"Because," (continued Vincent, answering his own enigma)--"because,
beyond you there is no passing!"

The Frenchman (one of that race who always forgive any thing for a bon
mot) smiled, bowed, and drew himself aside. Vincent steered by, and,
joining me, hiccuped out, "In rebus adversis opponite pectora fortia."

Meanwhile I had looked round the room for the objects of my pursuit: to
my great surprise I could not perceive them; they may be in the other
room, thought I, and to the other room I went; the supper was laid out,
and an old bonne was quietly helping herself to some sweetmeat. All other
human beings (if, indeed, an old woman can be called a human being) were,
however, invisible, and I remained perfectly bewildered as to the
non-appearance of Warburton and his companion. I entered the Salle a
Jouer once more--I looked round in every corner--I examined every
face--but in vain; and with a feeling of disappointment very
disproportioned to my loss, I took Vincent's arm, and we withdrew.

The next morning I spent with Madame D'Anville. A Frenchwoman easily
consoles herself for the loss of a lover--she converts him into a friend,
and thinks herself (nor is she much deceived) benefited by the exchange.
We talked of our grief in maxims, and bade each other adieu in
antitheses. Ah! it is a pleasant thing to drink with Alcidonis (in
Marmontel's Tale) of the rose-coloured phial--to sport with the fancy,
not to brood over the passion of youth. There is a time when the heart,
from very tenderness, runs over, and (so much do our virtues as well as
vices flow from our passions) there is, perhaps, rather hope than anxiety
for the future in that excess. Then, if Pleasure errs, it errs through
heedlessness, not design; and Love, wandering over flowers, "proffers
honey, but bears not a sting." Ah! happy time! in the lines of one who
can so well translate feeling into words--

           "Fate has not darkened thee; Hope has not made
           The blossoms expand it but opens to fade;
           Nothing is known of those wearing fears
           Which will shadow the light of our after years."
           --The Improvisatrice.

Pardon this digression--not much, it must be confessed, in my ordinary
strain--but let me, dear reader, very seriously advise thee not to judge
of me yet. When thou hast got to the end of my book, if thou dost condemn
it or its hero--why "I will let thee alone (as honest Dogberry advises)
till thou art sober; and, if thou make me not, then, the better answer,
thou art not the man I took thee for."

                               VOLUME III.




CHAPTER XXX.

           It must be confessed, that flattery comes mighty
           easily to one's mouth in the presence of royalty.
                     --Letters of Stephen Montague.

             'Tis he.--How came he thence--what doth he here?
                     --Lara.

I had received for that evening (my last at Paris) an invitation from the
Duchesse de B----. I knew that the party was to be small, and that very few
besides the royal family would compose it. I had owed the honour of this
invitation to my intimacy with the ----s, the great friends of the
duchesse, and I promised myself some pleasure in the engagement.

There were but eight or nine persons present when I entered the royal
chamber. The most distingue of these I recognized immediately as the--.
He came forward with much grace as I approached, and expressed his
pleasure at seeing me.

"You were presented, I think, about a month ago," added the--, with a
smile of singular fascination; "I remember it well."

I bowed low to this compliment.

"Do you propose staying long at Paris?" continued the--.

"I protracted," I replied, "my departure solely for the honour this
evening affords me. In so doing, please your--, I have followed the wise
maxim of keeping the greatest pleasure to the last."

The royal chevalier bowed to my answer with a smile still sweeter than
before, and began a conversation with me which lasted for several
minutes. I was much struck with the--'s air and bearing. They possess
great dignity, without any affectation of its assumption. He speaks
peculiarly good English, and the compliment of addressing me in that
language was therefore as judicious as delicate. His observations owed
little to his rank; they would have struck you as appropriate, and the
air which accompanied them pleased you as graceful, even in a simple
individual. Judge, then, if they charmed me in the--. The upper part of
his countenance is prominent and handsome, and his eyes have much
softness of expression. His figure is slight and particularly well knit;
perhaps he is altogether more adapted to strike in private than in public
effect. Upon the whole, he is one of those very few persons of great rank
whom you would have had pride in knowing as an equal, and have pleasure
in acknowledging as a superior.

As the--paused, and turned with great courtesy to the Duc de--, I bowed
my way to the Duchesse de B--. That personage, whose liveliness and
piquancy of manner always make one wish for one's own sake that her rank
was less exalted, was speaking with great volubility to a tall, stupid
looking man, one of the ministers, and smiled most graciously upon me as
I drew near. She spoke to me of our national amusements. "You are not,"
said she, "so fond of dancing as we are."

"We have not the same exalted example to be at once our motive and our
model," said I, in allusion to the duchesse's well known attachment to
that accomplishment. The Duchesse D'A--came up as I said this, and the
conversation flowed on evenly enough till the--'s whist party was formed.
His partner was Madame de la R--, the heroine of La Vendee. She was a
tall and very stout woman, singularly lively and entertaining, and
appeared to possess both the moral and the physical energy to accomplish
feats still more noble than those she performed.

I soon saw that it would not do for me to stay very long. I had already
made a favourable impression, and, in such cases, it is my constant rule
immediately to retire. Stay, if it be whole hours, until you have
pleased, but leave the moment after your success. A great genius should
not linger too long either in the salon or the world. He must quit each
with eclat. In obedience to this rule, I no sooner found that my court
had been effectually made than I rose to withdraw.

"You will return soon to Paris," said the Duchesse de B--.

"I cannot resist it," I replied. "Mon corps reviendra pour chercher mon
coeur."

"We shall not forget you," said the duchesse.

"Your Highness has now given me my only inducement not to return," I
answered, as I bowed out of the room.

It was much too early to go home; at that time I was too young and
restless to sleep till long after midnight; and while I was deliberating
in what manner to pass the hours, I suddenly recollected the hotel in the
Rue St. Honore, to which Vincent and I had paid so unceremonious a visit
the night before. Impressed with the hope that I might be more successful
in meeting Warburton than I had then been, I ordered the coachman to
drive to the abode of the old Marquis--The salon was as crowded as usual.
I lost a few Napoleons at ecarte in order to pay my entree, and then
commenced a desultory flirtation with one of the fair decoys. In this
occupation my eye and my mind frequently wandered. I could not divest
myself of the hope of once more seeing Warburton before my departure from
Paris, and every reflection which confirmed my suspicions of his identity
redoubled my interest in his connection with Tyrrell and the vulgar
debauche of the Rue St. Dominique. I was making some languid reply to my
Cynthia of the minute, when my ear was suddenly greeted by an English
voice. I looked round, and saw Thornton in close conversation with a man
whose back was turned to me, but whom I rightly conjectured to be
Tyrrell.

"Oh! he'll be here soon," said the former, "and we'll bleed him regularly
to-night. It is very singular that you who play so much better should not
have floored him yesterday evening."

Tyrrell replied in a tone so low as to be inaudible, and a minute
afterwards the door opened, and Warburton entered. He came up instantly
to Thornton and his companion; and after a few words of ordinary
salutation, Warburton said, in one of those modulated tones so peculiar
to himself, "I am sure, Tyrrell, that you must be eager for your revenge.
To lose to such a mere Tyro as myself, is quite enough to double the pain
of defeat, and the desire of retaliation."

I did not hear Tyrrell's reply, but the trio presently moved towards the
door, which till then I had not noticed, and which was probably the
entrance to our hostess's boudoir. The soi-disant marquise opened it
herself, for which kind office Thornton gave her a leer and a wink,
characteristic of his claims to gallantry. When the door was again closed
upon them, I went up to the marquise, and after a few compliments, asked
whether the room Messieurs les Anglois had entered, was equally open to
all guests?

"Why," said she, with a slight hesitation, "those gentlemen play for
higher stakes than we usually do here, and one of them is apt to get
irritated by the advice and expostulations of the lookers on; and so
after they had played a short time in the salon last night, Monsieur
Thornton, a very old friend of mine," (here the lady looked down) "asked
me permission to occupy the inner room; and as I knew him so well, I
could have no scruple in obliging him."

"Then, I suppose," said I, "that, as a stranger, I have not permission to
intrude upon them?"

"Shall I inquire?" answered the marquise.

"No!" said I, "it is not worth while;" and accordingly I re-seated
myself, and appeared once more occupied in saying des belles choses to my
kind-hearted neighbour. I could not, however, with all my dissimulation,
sustain a conversation from which my present feelings were so estranged,
for more than a few minutes; and I was never more glad than when my
companion, displeased with my inattention, rose, and left me to my own
reflections.

What could Warburton (if he were the person I suspected) gain by the
disguise he had assumed? He was too rich to profit by any sums he could
win from Tyrrell, and too much removed from Thornton's station in life,
to derive any pleasure or benefit from his acquaintance with that person.
His dark threats of vengeance in the Jardin des Plantes, and his
reference to the two hundred pounds Tyrrell possessed, gave me, indeed,
some clue as to his real object; but then--why this disguise! Had he
known Tyrrell before, in his proper semblance, and had anything passed
between them, which rendered this concealment now expedient?--this,
indeed, seemed probable enough; but, was Thornton entrusted with the
secret?--and, if revenge was the object, was that low man a partaker in
its execution?--or was he not, more probably, playing the traitor to
both? As for Tyrrell himself, his own designs upon Warburton were
sufficient to prevent pity for any fall into the pit he had dug for
others.

Meanwhile, time passed on, the hour grew late, and the greater part of
the guests were gone; still I could not tear myself away; I looked from
time to time at the door, with an indescribable feeling of anxiety. I
longed, yet dreaded, for it to open; I felt as if my own fate were in
some degree implicated in what was then agitating within, and I could not
resolve to depart, until I had formed some conclusions on the result.

At length the door opened; Tyrrell came forth--his countenance was
perfectly hueless, his cheek was sunk and hollow, the excitement of two
hours had been sufficient to render it so. I observed that his teeth were
set, and his hand clenched, as they are when we idly seek, by the
strained and extreme tension of the nerves, to sustain the fever and the
agony of the mind. Warburton and Thornton followed him; the latter with
his usual air of reckless indifference--his quick rolling eye glanced
from the marquis to myself, and though his colour changed slightly, his
nod of recognition was made with its wonted impudence and ease; but
Warburton passed on, like Tyrrell, without noticing or heeding any thing
around. He fixed his large bright eye upon the figure which preceded him,
without once altering its direction, and the extreme beauty of his
features, which, not all the dishevelled length of his hair and whiskers
could disguise, was lighted up with a joyous but savage expression, which
made me turn away, almost with a sensation of fear.

Just as Tyrrell was leaving the room, Warburton put his hand upon his
shoulder--"Stay," said he, "I am going your way, and will accompany you."
He turned round to Thornton (who was already talking with the marquis) as
he said this, and waved his hand, as if to prevent his following; the
next moment, Tyrrell and himself had left the room.

I could not now remain longer. I felt a feverish restlessness, which
impelled me onwards. I quitted the salon, and was on the escalier before
the gamesters had descended. Warburton was, indeed, but a few steps
before me; the stairs were but very dimly lighted by one expiring lamp;
he did not turn round to see me, and was probably too much engrossed to
hear me.

"You may yet have a favourable reverse," said he to Tyrrell.

"Impossible!" replied the latter, in a tone of such deep anguish, that it
thrilled me to the very heart. "I am an utter beggar--I have nothing in
the world--I have no expectation but to starve!"

While he was saying this, I perceived by the faint and uncertain light,
that Warburton's hand was raised to his own countenance.

"Have you no hope--no spot wherein to look for comfort--is beggary your
absolute and only possible resource from famine?" he replied, in a low
and suppressed tone.

At that moment we were just descending into the court-yard. Warburton was
but one step behind Tyrrell: the latter made no answer; but as he passed
from the dark staircase into the clear moonlight of the court, I caught a
glimpse of the big tears which rolled heavily and silently down his
cheeks. Warburton laid his hand upon him.

"Turn," he cried, suddenly, "your cup is not yet full--look upon me--and
remember!"

I pressed forward--the light shone full upon the countenance of the
speaker--the dark hair was gone--my suspicions were true--I discovered at
one glance the bright locks and lofty brow of Reginald Glanville. Slowly
Tyrrell gazed, as if he were endeavouring to repel some terrible
remembrance, which gathered, with every instant, more fearfully upon him;
until, as the stern countenance of Glanville grew darker and darker in
its mingled scorn and defiance, he uttered one low cry, and sank
senseless upon the earth.




CHAPTER XXXI.

             Well, he is gone, and with him go these thoughts.
                          --Shakspeare.

                   What ho! for England!
                          --Shakspeare.

I have always had an insuperable horror of being placed in what the
vulgar call a predicament. In a predicament I was most certainly placed
at the present moment. A man at my feet in a fit--the cause of it having
very wisely disappeared, devolving upon me the charge of watching,
recovering, and conducting home the afflicted person--made a
concatenation of disagreeable circumstances, as much unsuited to the
temper of Henry Pelham, as his evil fortune could possibly have
contrived.

After a short pause of deliberation, I knocked up the porter, procured
some cold water, and bathed Tyrrell's temples for several moments before
he recovered. He opened his eyes slowly, and looked carefully round with
a fearful and suspicious glance: "Gone--gone--(he muttered)--ay--what did
he here at such a moment?--vengeance--for what?--I could not tell--it
would have killed her--let him thank his own folly. I do not fear; I defy
his malice." And with these words, Tyrrell sprung to his feet.

"Can I assist you to your home?" said I; "you are still unwell--pray
suffer me to have that pleasure."

I spoke with some degree of warmth and sincerity; the unfortunate man
stared wildly at me for a moment, before he replied. "Who," said he, at
last, "who speaks to me--the lost--the guilty--the ruined, in the accents
of interest and kindness?"

I placed his arm in mine, and drew him out of the yard into the open
street. He looked at me with an eager and wistful survey, and then, by
degrees, appearing to recover his full consciousness of the present, and
recollection of the past, he pressed my hand warmly, and after a short
silence, during which we moved on slowly towards the Tuileries, he
said,--"Pardon me, Sir, if I have not sufficiently thanked you for your
kindness and attention. I am now quite restored; the close room in which
I have been sitting for so many hours, and the feverish excitement of
play, acting upon a frame very debilitated by ill health, occasioned my
momentary indisposition. I am now, I repeat, quite recovered, and will no
longer trespass upon your good nature."

"Really," said I, "you had better not discard my services yet. Do suffer
me to accompany you home?"

"Home!" muttered Tyrrell, with a deep sigh; "no--no!" and then, as if
recollecting himself, he said, "I thank you, Sir, but--but--" I saw his
embarrassment, and interrupted him.

"Well, if I cannot assist you any further, I will take your dismissal. I
trust we shall meet again under auspices better calculated for improving
acquaintance."

Tyrrell bowed, once more pressed my hand, and we parted. I hurried on up
the long street towards my hotel.

When I had got several paces beyond Tyrrell, I turned back to look at
him. He was standing in the same place in which I had left him. I saw by
the moonlight that this face and hands were raised towards Heaven. It was
but for a moment: his attitude changed while I was yet looking, and he
slowly and calmly continued his way in the same direction as myself. When
I reached my chambers, I hastened immediately to bed, but not to sleep:
the extraordinary scene I had witnessed; the dark and ferocious
expression of Glanville's countenance, so strongly impressed with every
withering and deadly passion; the fearful and unaccountable remembrance
that had seemed to gather over the livid and varying face of the
gamester; the mystery of Glanville's disguise; the intensity of a revenge
so terribly expressed, together with the restless and burning anxiety I
felt--not from idle curiosity, but, from my early and intimate friendship
for Glanville, to fathom its cause--all crowded upon my mind with a
feverish confusion, that effectually banished repose.

It was with that singular sensation of pleasure which none but those who
have passed frequent nights in restless and painful agitation, can
recognize, that I saw the bright sun penetrate through my shutters, and
heard Bedos move across my room.

"What hour will Monsieur have the post horses?" said that praiseworthy
valet.

"At eleven," answered I, springing out of bed with joy at the change of
scene which the very mention of my journey brought before my mind.

I was a luxurious personage in those days. I had had a bath made from my
own design; across it were constructed two small frames--one for the
journal of the day, and another to hold my breakfast apparatus; in this
manner I was accustomed to lie for about an hour, engaging the triple
happiness of reading, feeding, and bathing. Owing to some unaccountable
delay, Galignani's Messenger did not arrive at the usual hour, on the
morning of my departure; to finish breakfast, or bathing, without
Galignani's Messenger, was perfectly impossible, so I remained, till I
was half boiled, in a state of the most indolent imbecility.

At last it came: the first paragraph that struck my eyes was the
following:--"It is rumoured among the circles of the Faubourg, that a
duel was fought on--, between a young Englishman and Monsieur D--; the
cause of it is said to be the pretensions of both to the beautiful
Duchesse de P--, who, if report be true, cares for neither of the
gallants, but lavishes her favours upon a certain attache to the English
embassy."

"Such," thought I, "are the materials for all human histories. Every one
who reads, will eagerly swallow this account as true: if an author were
writing the memoirs of the court, he would compile his facts and scandal
from this very collection of records; and yet, though so near the truth,
how totally false it is! Thank Heaven, however, that, at least, I am not
suspected of the degradation of the duchesse's love:--to fight for her
may make me seem a fool--to be loved by her would constitute me a
villain."

The next passage in that collection of scandal which struck me was--"We
understand that E. W. Howard de Howard, Esq., Secretary, is shortly to
lead to the hymeneal altar the daughter of Timothy Tomkins, Esq., late
Consul of--." I quite started out of my bath with delight. I scarcely
suffered myself to be dried and perfumed, before I sat down to write the
following congratulatory epistle to the thin man:--

"My dear Mr. Howard de Howard,

"Permit me, before I leave Paris, to compliment you upon that happiness
which I have just learnt is in store for you. Marriage to a man like you,
who has survived the vanities of the world--who has attained that prudent
age when the passions are calmed into reason, and the purer refinements
of friendship succeed to the turbulent delirium of the senses--marriage,
my dear Mr. Howard, to a man like you, must, indeed, be a most delicious
Utopia. After all the mortifications you may meet elsewhere, whether from
malicious females, or a misjudging world, what happiness to turn to one
being to whom your praise is an honour, and your indignation of
consequence!

"But if marriage itself be so desirable, what words shall I use
sufficiently expressive of my congratulation at the particular match you
have chosen, so suitable in birth and station? I can fancy you, my dear
Sir, in your dignified retirement, expatiating to your admiring bride
upon all the honours of your illustrious line, and receiving from her, in
return, a full detail of all the civic glories that have ever graced the
lineage of the Tomkins's. As the young lady is, I suppose, an heiress, I
conclude you will take her name, instead of changing it. Mr. Howard de
Howard de Tomkins, will sound peculiarly majestic; and when you come to
the titles and possessions of your ancestors, I am persuaded that you
will continue to consider your alliance with the honest citizens of
London among your proudest distinctions.

"Should you have any commands in England, a letter directed to me in
Grosvenor-square will be sure to find me; and you may rely upon my
immediately spreading among our mutual acquaintance in London, the happy
measure you are about to adopt, and my opinions on its propriety.

"Adieu, my dear Sir,

"With the greatest respect and truth,

"Yours,

"H. Pelham."


"There," said I, as I sealed my letter, "I have discharged some part of
that debt I owe to Mr. Howard de Howard, for an enmity towards me, which
he has never affected to conceal. He prides himself on his youth--my
allusions to his age will delight him! On the importance of his good or
evil opinion--I have flattered him to a wonder! Of a surety, Henry
Pelham, I could not have supposed you were such an adept in the art of
panegyric."

"The horses, Sir!" said Bedos; and "the bill, Sir?" said the garcon.
Alas! that those and that should be so coupled together; and that we can
never take our departure without such awful witnesses of our sojourn.
Well--to be brief--the bill for once was discharged--the horses
snorted--the carriage door was opened--I entered--Bedos mounted
behind--crack went the whips--off went the steeds, and so terminated my
adventures at dear Paris.




CHAPTER XXXII.

           O, cousin, you know him--the fine gentleman they
           talk of so much in town.
                     --Wycherly's Dancing Master.

By the bright days of my youth, there is something truly delightful in
the quick motion of four post-horses. In France, where one's steeds are
none of the swiftest, the pleasures of travelling are not quite so great
as in England; still, however, to a man who is tired of one
scene--panting for another--in love with excitement, and not yet wearied
of its pursuit--the turnpike road is more grateful than the easiest chair
ever invented, and the little prison we entitle a carriage, more cheerful
than the state-rooms of Devonshire House.

We reached Calais in safety, and in good time, the next day.

"Will Monsieur dine in his rooms, or at the table d'hote?"

"In his rooms, of course," said Bedos, indignantly deciding the question.
A French valet's dignity is always involved in his master's.

"You are too good, Bedos," said I, "I shall dine at the table d'hote--who
have you there in general?"

"Really," said the garcon, "we have such a swift succession of guests,
that we seldom see the same faces two days running. We have as many
changes as an English administration."

"You are facetious," said I.

"No," returned the garcon, who was a philosopher as well as a wit; "no,
my digestive organs are very weak, and par consequence, I am naturally
melancholy--Ah, ma fois tres triste!" and with these words the
sentimental plate-changer placed his hand--I can scarcely say, whether on
his heart, or his stomach, and sighed bitterly!

"How long," said I, "does it want to dinner?" My question restored the
garcon to himself.

"Two, hours, Monsieur, two hours," and twirling his serviette with an air
of exceeding importance, off went my melancholy acquaintance to
compliment new customers, and complain of his digestion.

After I had arranged myself and my whiskers--two very distinct
affairs--yawned three times, and drank two bottles of soda water, I
strolled into the town. As I was sauntering along leisurely enough, I
heard my name pronounced behind me. I turned, and saw Sir Willoughby
Townshend, an old baronet of an antediluvian age--a fossil witness of the
wonders of England, before the deluge of French manners swept away
ancient customs, and created, out of the wrecks of what had been, a new
order of things, and a new race of mankind.

"Ah! my dear Mr. Pelham, how are you? and the worthy Lady Frances, your
mother, and your excellent father, all well?--I'm delighted to hear it.
Russelton," continued Sir Willoughby, turning to a middle-aged man, whose
arm he held, "you remember Pelham--true Whig--great friend of
Sheridan's?--let me introduce his son to you. Mr. Russelton, Mr. Pelham;
Mr. Pelham, Mr. Russelton."

At the name of the person thus introduced to me, a thousand recollections
crowded upon my mind; the contemporary and rival of Napoleon--the
autocrat of the great world of fashion and cravats--the mighty genius
before whom aristocracy had been humbled and ton abashed--at whose nod
the haughtiest noblesse of Europe had quailed--who had introduced, by a
single example, starch into neckcloths, and had fed the pampered appetite
of his boot-tops on champagne--whose coat and whose friend were cut with
an equal grace--and whose name was connected with every triumph that the
world's great virtue of audacity could achieve--the illustrious, the
immortal Russelton, stood before me. I recognised in him a congenial,
though a superior spirit, and I bowed with a profundity of veneration,
with which no other human being has ever inspired me.

Mr. Russelton seemed pleased with my evident respect, and returned my
salutation with a mock dignity which enchanted me. He offered me his
disengaged arm; I took it with transport, and we all three proceeded up
the street.

"So," said Sir Willoughby--"so, Russelton, you like your quarters here;
plenty of sport among the English, I should think: you have not forgot
the art of quizzing; eh, old fellow?"

"Even if I had," said Mr. Russelton, speaking very slowly, "the sight of
Sir Willoughby Townshend would be quite sufficient to refresh my memory.
Yes," continued the venerable wreck, after a short pause,--"yes, I like
my residence pretty well; I enjoy a calm conscience, and a clean shirt:
what more can man desire? I have made acquaintance with a tame parrot,
and I have taught it to say, whenever an English fool with a stiff neck
and a loose swagger passes him--'True Briton--true Briton.' I take care
of my health, and reflect upon old age. I have read Gil Blas, and the
Whole Duty of Man; and, in short, what with instructing my parrot, and
improving myself, I think I pass my time as creditably and decorously as
the Bishop of Winchester, or my Lord of A--v--ly himself. So you have
just come from Paris, I presume, Mr. Pelham?"

"I left it yesterday!"

"Full of those horrid English, I suppose; thrusting their broad hats and
narrow minds into every shop in the Palais Royal--winking their dull eyes
at the damsels of the counter, and manufacturing their notions of French
into a higgle for sous. Oh! the monsters!--they bring on a bilious attack
whenever I think of them: the other day one of them accosted me, and
talked me into a nervous fever about patriotism and roast pigs: luckily I
was near my own house, and reached it before the thing became fatal; but
only think, had I wandered too far when he met me! at my time of life,
the shock would have been too great; I should certainly have perished in
a fit. I hope, at least, they would have put the cause of my death in my
epitaph--'Died, of an Englishman, John Russelton, Esq., aged,' Pah! You
are not engaged, Mr. Pelham; dine with me to-day; Willoughby and his
umbrella are coming."

"Volontiers," said I, "though I was going to make observations on men and
manners at the table d'hote of my hotel."

"I am most truly grieved," replied Mr. Russelton, "at depriving you of so
much amusement. With me you will only find some tolerable Lafitte, and an
anomalous dish my cuisiniere calls a mutton chop. It will be curious to
see what variation in the monotony of mutton she will adopt to-day. The
first time I ordered 'a chop,' I thought I had amply explained every
necessary particular; a certain portion of flesh, and a gridiron: at
seven o'clock, up came a cotelette panee, faute de mieux. I swallowed the
composition, drowned as it was, in a most pernicious sauce. I had one
hour's sleep, and the nightmare, in consequence. The next day, I imagined
no mistake could be made: sauce was strictly prohibited; all extra
ingredients laid under a most special veto, and a natural gravy gently
recommended: the cover was removed, and lo! a breast of mutton, all bone
and gristle, like the dying gladiator! This time my heart was too full
for wrath; I sat down and wept! To-day will be the third time I shall
make the experiment, if French cooks will consent to let one starve upon
nature. For my part, I have no stomach left now for art: I wore out my
digestion in youth, swallowing Jack St. Leger's suppers, and Sheridan's
promises to pay. Pray, Mr. Pelham, did you try Staub when you were at
Paris?"

"Yes; and thought him one degree better than Stultz, whom, indeed, I have
long condemned, as fit only for minors at Oxford, and majors in the
infantry."

"True," said Russelton, with a very faint smile at a pun, somewhat in his
own way, and levelled at a tradesman, of whom he was, perhaps, a little
jealous--"True; Stultz aims at making gentlemen, not coats; there is a
degree of aristocratic pretension in his stitches, which is vulgar to an
appalling degree. You can tell a Stultz coat any where, which is quite
enough to damn it: the moment a man's known by an invariable cut, and
that not original, it ought to be all over with him. Give me the man who
makes the tailor, not the tailor who makes the man."

"Right, by G--!" cried Sir Willoughby, who was as badly dressed as one of
Sir E--'s dinners. "Right; just my opinion. I have always told my
Schneiders to make my clothes neither in the fashion nor out of it; to
copy no other man's coat, and to cut their cloth according to my natural
body, not according to an isosceles triangle. Look at this coat, for
instance," and Sir Willoughby Townshend made a dead halt, that we might
admire his garment the more accurately.

"Coat!" said Russelton, with an appearance of the most naive surprise,
and taking hold of the collar, suspiciously, by the finger and thumb;
"coat, Sir Willoughby! do you call this thing a coat?"




CHAPTER XXXIII.

             J'ai toujours cru que le bon n'etait que le beau
             mis en action.
                          --Rousseau.

Shortly after Russelton's answer to Sir Willoughby's eulogistic
observations on his own attire, I left those two worthies till I was to
join them at dinner; it wanted three hours yet to that time, and I
repaired to my quarters to bathe and write letters. I scribbled one to
Madame D'Anville, full of antitheses and maxims, sure to charm her;
another to my mother, to prepare her for my arrival; and a third to Lord
Vincent, giving him certain commissions at Paris, which I had forgotten
personally to execute.

My pen is not that of a ready writer; and what with yawning, stretching,
admiring my rings, and putting pen to paper, in the intervals of these
more natural occupations, it was time to bathe and dress before my
letters were completed. I set off to Russelton's abode in high spirits,
and fully resolved to make the most of a character so original.

It was a very small room in which I found him; he was stretched in an
easy chair before the fire-place, gazing complacently at his feet, and
apparently occupied in any thing but listening to Sir Willoughby
Townsend, who was talking with great vehemence about politics and the
corn laws. Notwithstanding the heat of the weather, there was a small
fire on the hearth, which, aided by the earnestness of his efforts to
convince his host, put poor Sir Willoughby into a most intense
perspiration. Russelton, however, seemed enviably cool, and hung over the
burning wood like a cucumber on a hotbed. Sir Willoughby came to a full
stop by the window, and (gasping for breath) attempted to throw it open.

"What are you doing? for Heaven's sake, what are you doing?" cried
Russelton, starting up; "do you mean to kill me?"

"Kill you!" said Sir Willoughby, quite aghast.

"Yes; kill me! is it not quite cold enough already in this d--d seafaring
place, without making my only retreat, humble as it is, a theatre for
thorough draughts? Have I not had the rheumatism in my left shoulder, and
the ague in my little finger, these last six months? and must you now
terminate my miserable existence at one blow, by opening that abominable
lattice? Do you think, because your great frame, fresh from the Yorkshire
wolds, and compacted of such materials, that one would think, in eating
your beeves, you had digested their hides into skin--do you think,
because your limbs might be cut up into planks for a seventy-eight, and
warranted water-proof without pitch, because of the density of their
pores--do you think, because you are as impervious as an araphorostic
shoe, that I, John Russelton, am equally impenetrable, and that you are
to let easterly winds play about my room like children, begetting rheums
and asthmas and all manner of catarrhs? I do beg, Sir Willoughby
Townshend, that you will suffer me to die a more natural and civilized
death;" and so saying, Russelton sank down into his chair, apparently in
the last state of exhaustion.

Sir Willoughby, who remembered the humourist in all his departed glory,
and still venerated him as a temple where the deity yet breathed, though
the altar was overthrown, made to this extraordinary remonstrance no
other reply than a long whiff, and a "Well, Russelton, dash my wig (a
favourite oath of Sir W.'s) but you're a queer fellow."

Russelton now turned to me, and invited me, with a tone of the most
lady-like languor, to sit down near the fire. As I am naturally of a
chilly disposition, and fond, too, of beating people in their own line, I
drew a chair close to the hearth, declared the weather was very cold, and
rung the bell for some more wood. Russelton started for a moment, and
then, with a politeness he had not deigned to exert before, approached
his chair to mine, and began a conversation, which, in spite of his bad
witticisms, and peculiarity of manner, I found singularly entertaining.

Dinner was announced, and we adjourned to another room--poor Sir
Willoughby, with his waistcoat unbuttoned, and breathing like a pug in a
phthisis--groaned bitterly, when he discovered that this apartment was
smaller and hotter than the one before. Russelton immediately helped him
to some scalding soup--and said, as he told the servant to hand Sir
Willoughby the cayenne--"you will find this, my dear Townshend, a very
sensible potage for this severe season."

Dinner went off tamely enough, with the exception of "our stout friend's"
agony, which Russelton enjoyed most luxuriously. The threatened
mutton-chops did not make their appearance, and the dinner, though rather
too small, was excellently cooked, and better arranged. With the dessert,
the poor baronet rose, and pleading sudden indisposition, tottered out of
the door.

When he was gone, Russelton threw himself back in his chair, and laughed
for several minutes with a loud chuckling sound, till the tears ran down
his cheek. "A nice heart you must have!" thought I--(my conclusions of
character are always drawn from small propensities).

After a few jests at Sir Willoughby, our conversation turned upon other
individuals. I soon saw that Russelton was a soured and disappointed man;
his remarks on people were all sarcasms--his mind was overflowed with a
suffusion of ill-nature--he bit as well as growled. No man of the world
ever, I am convinced, becomes a real philosopher in retirement. People
who have been employed for years upon trifles have not the greatness of
mind, which could alone make them indifferent to what they have coveted
all their lives, as most enviable and important.

"Have you read ____'s memoirs?" said Mr. Russelton. "No! Well, I imagined
every one had at least dipped into them. I have often had serious
thoughts of dignifying my own retirement, by the literary employment of
detailing my adventures in the world. I think I could throw a new light
upon things and persons, which my contemporaries will shrink back like
owls at perceiving.

"Your life," said I, "must indeed furnish matter of equal instruction and
amusement."

"Ay," answered Russelton; "amusement to the fools, but instruction to the
knaves. I am, indeed, a lamentable example of the fall of ambition. I
brought starch into all the neckcloths in England, and I end by tying my
own at a three-inch looking-glass at Calais. You are a young man, Mr.
Pelham, about to commence life, probably with the same views as (though
greater advantages than) myself; perhaps in indulging my egotism, I shall
not weary without recompensing you.

"I came into the world with an inordinate love of glory, and a great
admiration of the original; these propensities might have made me a
Shakspeare--they did more, they made me a Russelton! When I was six years
old, I cut my jacket into a coat, and turned my aunt's best petticoat
into a waistcoat. I disdained at eight the language of the vulgar, and
when my father asked me to fetch his slippers, I replied, that my soul
swelled beyond the limits of a lackey's. At nine, I was self-inoculated
with propriety of ideas. I rejected malt with the air of His Majesty, and
formed a violent affection for maraschino; though starving at school, I
never took twice of pudding, and paid sixpence a week out of my shilling
to have my shoes blacked. As I grew up, my notions expanded. I gave
myself, without restraint, to the ambition that burnt within me--I cut my
old friends, who were rather envious than emulous of my genius, and I
employed three tradesmen to make my gloves--one for the hand, a second
for the fingers, and a third for the thumb! These two qualities made me
courted and admired by a new race--for the great secrets of being courted
are to shun others, and seem delighted with yourself. The latter is
obvious enough; who the deuce should be pleased with you, if you yourself
are not?

"Before I left college I fell in love. Other fellows, at my age, in such
a predicament, would have whined--shaved only twice a week, and written
verses. I did none of the three--the last indeed I tried, but, to my
infinite surprise, I found my genius was not universal. I began with

           "'Sweet nymph, for whom I wake my muse.'

"For this, after considerable hammering, I could only think of the rhyme
'shoes'--so I began again,--

           "'Thy praise demands much softer lutes.'

"And the fellow of this verse terminated like myself in 'boots.'--Other
efforts were equally successful--'bloom' suggested to my imagination no
rhyme but 'perfume!'--'despair' only reminded me of my 'hair,'--and
'hope' was met at the end of the second verse, by the inharmonious
antithesis of 'soap.' Finding, therefore, that my forte was not in the
Pierian line, I redoubled my attention to my dress; I coated, and
cravated, and essenced, and oiled, with all the attention the very
inspiration of my rhymes seemed to advise;--in short, I thought the best
pledge I could give my Dulcinea of my passion for her person, would be to
show her what affectionate veneration I could pay to my own.

"My mistress could not withhold from me her admiration, but she denied me
her love. She confessed Mr. Russelton was the best dressed man at the
University, and had the whitest hands; and two days after this avowal,
she ran away with a great rosy-cheeked extract from Leicestershire.

"I did not blame her: I pitied her too much--but I made a vow never to be
in love again. In spite of all advantages I kept my oath, and avenged
myself on the species for the insult of the individual.

"Before I commenced a part which was to continue through life, I
considered deeply on the humours of the spectators. I saw that the
character of the English was servile to rank, and yielding to
pretension--they admire you for your acquaintance, and cringe to you for
your conceit. The first thing, therefore, was to know great people--the
second to controul them. I dressed well, and had good horses--that was
sufficient to make me sought by the young of my own sex. I talked
scandal, and was never abashed--that was more than enough to make me
recherche among the matrons of the other. It is single men, and married
women, to whom are given the St. Peter's keys of Society. I was soon
admitted into its heaven--I was more--I was one of its saints. I became
imitated as well as initiated. I was the rage--the lion. Why?--was I
better--was I richer--was I handsomer--was I cleverer, than my kind? No,
no;--(and here Russelton ground his teeth with a strong and wrathful
expression of scorn);--and had I been all--had I been a very
concentration and monopoly of all human perfections, they would not have
valued me at half the price they did set on me. It was--I will tell you
the simple secret, Mr. Pelham--it was because I trampled on them, that,
like crushed herbs, they sent up a grateful incense in return.

"Oh! it was balm to my bitter and loathing temper, to see those who would
have spurned me from them, if they dared, writhe beneath my lash, as I
withheld or inflicted it at will. I was the magician who held the great
spirits that longed to tear me to pieces, by one simple spell which a
superior hardihood had won me--and, by Heaven, I did not spare to exert
it.

"Well, well, this is but an idle recollection now; all human power, says
the proverb of every language, is but of short duration. Alexander did
not conquer kingdoms for ever; and Russelton's good fortune deserted him
at last. Napoleon died in exile, and so shall I; but we have both had our
day, and mine was the brightest of the two, for it had no change till the
evening. I am more happy than people would think for--Je ne suis pas
souvent ou mon corps est--I live in a world of recollections, I trample
again upon coronets and ermine, the glories of the small great! I give
once more laws which no libertine is so hardy not to feel exalted in
adopting; I hold my court, and issue my fiats; I am like the madman, and
out of the very straws of my cell, I make my subjects and my realm; and
when I wake from these bright visions, and see myself an old, deserted
man, forgotten, and decaying inch by inch in a foreign village, I can at
least summon sufficient of my ancient regality of spirit not to sink
beneath the reverse. If I am inclined to be melancholy, why, I extinguish
my fire, and imagine I have demolished a duchess. I steal up to my
solitary chamber, to renew again, in my sleep, the phantoms of my youth;
to carouse with princes; to legislate for nobles; and to wake in the
morning (here Russelton's countenance and manner suddenly changed to an
affectation of methodistical gravity,) and thank Heaven that I have still
a coat to my stomach, as well as to my back, and that I am safely
delivered of such villainous company; 'to forswear sack and live
cleanly,' during the rest of my sublunary existence."

After this long detail of Mr. Russelton's, the conversation was but dull
and broken. I could not avoid indulging a reverie upon what I had heard,
and my host was evidently still revolving the recollections his narration
had conjured up; we sat opposite each other for several minutes as
abstracted and distracted as if we had been a couple two months married;
till at last I rose, and tendered my adieus. Russelton received them with
his usual coldness, but more than his usual civility, for he followed me
to the door.

Just as they were about to shut it, he called me back. "Mr. Pelham," said
he, "Mr. Pelham, when you come back this way, do look in upon me,
and--and as you will be going a good deal into society, just find out
what people say of my manner of life!" [It will be perceived by those
readers who are kind or patient enough to reach the conclusion of this
work, that Russelton is specified as one of my few dramatis personae of
which only the first outline is taken from real life: all the rest--all,
indeed, which forms and marks the character thus briefly delineated, is
drawn solely from imagination.]




CHAPTER XXXIV.

             An old worshipful gentleman, that had a great estate,
             And kept a brave old house at a hospitable rate.
                          --Old Song.

I think I may, without much loss to the reader, pass in silence over my
voyage, the next day, to Dover. (Horrible reminiscence!) I may also spare
him an exact detail of all the inns and impositions between that sea-port
and London; nor will it be absolutely necessary to the plot of this
history, to linger over every mile-stone between the metropolis and
Glenmorris Castle, where my uncle and my mother were impatiently awaiting
the arrival of the candidate to be.

It was a fine bright evening when my carriage entered the park. I had not
seen the place for years; and I felt my heart swell with something like
family pride, as I gazed on the magnificent extent of hill and plain that
opened upon me, as I passed the ancient and ivy-covered lodge. Large
groups of trees, scattered on either side, seemed, in their own
antiquity, the witness of that of the family which had given them
existence. The sun set on the waters which lay gathered in a lake at the
foot of the hill, breaking the waves into unnumbered sapphires, and
tinging the dark firs that overspread the margin, with a rich and golden
light, that put me excessively in mind of the Duke of--'s livery.

When I descended at the gate, the servants, who stood arranged in an
order so long that it almost startled me, received me with a visible
gladness and animation, which shewed me, at one glance, the old fashioned
tastes of their master. Who, in these days, ever inspires his servants
with a single sentiment of regard or interest for himself or his whole
race? That tribe one never, indeed, considers as possessing a life
separate from their services to us: beyond that purpose of existence, we
know not even if they exist. As Providence made the stars for the benefit
of earth, so it made servants for the use of gentlemen; and, as neither
stars nor servants appear except when we want them, so I suppose they are
in a sort of suspense from being, except at those important and happy
moments.

To return--for if I have any fault, it is too great a love for abstruse
speculation and reflection--I was formally ushered through a great hall,
hung round with huge antlers and rusty armour, through a lesser one,
supported by large stone columns, and without any other adornment than
the arms of the family; then through an anti-room, covered with tapestry,
representing the gallantries of King Solomon to the Queen of Sheba; and
lastly, into the apartment honoured by the august presence of Lord
Glenmorris. That personage was dividing the sofa with three spaniels and
a setter; he rose hastily when I was announced, and then checking the
first impulse which hurried him, perhaps, into an unseemly warmth of
salutation, held out his hand with a pompous air of kindly protection,
and while he pressed mine, surveyed me from head to foot to see how far
my appearance justified his condescension.

Having, at last, satisfied himself, he proceeded to inquire after the
state of my appetite. He smiled benignantly when I confessed that I was
excessively well prepared to testify its capacities (the first idea of
all kind-hearted, old-fashioned people, is to stuff you), and, silently
motioning to the grey-headed servant who stood in attendance, till
receiving the expected sign, he withdrew, Lord Glenmorris informed me
that dinner was over for every one but myself, that for me it would be
prepared in an instant, that Mr. Toolington had expired four days since,
that my mother was, at that moment, canvassing for me, and that my own
electioneering qualities were to open their exhibition with the following
day.

After this communication there was a short pause. "What a beautiful place
this is!" said I, with great enthusiasm. Lord Glenmorris was pleased with
the compliment, simple as it was.

"Yes," said he, "it is, and I have made it still more so than you have
yet been able to perceive."

"You have been planting, probably, on the other side of the park?"

"No," said my uncle, smiling; "Nature had done every thing for this spot
when I came to it, but one, and the addition of that one ornament is the
only real triumph which art ever can achieve."

"What is it?" asked I; "oh, I know--water."

"You are mistaken," answered Lord Glenmorris; "it is the ornament
of--happy faces."

I looked up to my uncle's countenance in sudden surprise. I cannot
explain how I was struck with the expression which it wore: so calmly
bright and open!--it was as if the very daylight had settled there.

"You don't understand this at present, Henry," said he, after a moment's
silence; "but you will find it, of all rules for the improvement of
property, the easiest to learn. Enough of this now. Were you not au
desespoir at leaving Paris?"

"I should have been, some months ago; but when I received my mother's
summons, I found the temptations of the continent very light in
comparison with those held out to me here."

"What, have you already arrived at that great epoch, when vanity casts
off its first skin, and ambition succeeds to pleasure? Why--but thank
Heaven that you have lost my moral--your dinner is announced."

Most devoutly did I thank Heaven, and most earnestly did I betake myself
to do honour to my uncle's hospitality.

I had just finished my repast, when my mother entered. She was, as you
might well expect from her maternal affection, quite overpowered with
joy, first, at finding my hair grown so much darker, and, secondly, at my
looking so well. We spent the whole evening in discussing the great
business for which I had been summoned. Lord Glenmorris promised me
money, and my mother advice; and I, in my turn, enchanted them, by
promising to make the best use of both.




CHAPTER XXXV.

             Cor.  Your good voice, Sir--what say you?
             2nd Cit.  You shall have it, worthy Sir.
                          --Coriolanus.

The borough of Buyemall had long been in undisputed possession of the
lords of Glenmorris, till a rich banker, of the name of Lufton, had
bought a large estate in the immediate neighbourhood of Glenmorris
Castle. This event, which was the precursor of a mighty revolution in the
borough of Buyemall, took place in the first year of my uncle's accession
to his property. A few months afterwards, a vacancy in the borough
occurring, my uncle procured the nomination of one of his own political
party. To the great astonishment of Lord Glenmorris, and the great
gratification of the burghers of Buyemall, Mr. Lufton offered himself in
opposition to the Glenmorris candidate. In this age of enlightenment,
innovation has no respect for the most sacred institutions of antiquity.
The burghers, for the only time since their creation as a body, were cast
first into doubt, and secondly into rebellion. The Lufton faction,
horresco referens, were triumphant, and the rival candidate was returned.
From that hour the Borough of Buyemall was open to all the world.

My uncle, who was a good easy man, and had some strange notions of free
representation, and liberty of election, professed to care very little
for this event. He contented himself henceforward, with exerting his
interest for one of the members, and left the other seat entirely at the
disposal of the line of Lufton, which, from the time of the first
competition, continued peaceably to monopolize it.

During the last two years, my uncle's candidate, the late Mr. Toolington,
had been gradually dying of a dropsy, and the Luftons had been so
particularly attentive to the honest burghers, that it was shrewdly
suspected a bold push was to be made for the other seat. During the last
month these doubts were changed into certainty. Mr. Augustus Leopold
Lufton, eldest son to Benjamin Lufton, Esq., had publicly declared his
intention of starting at the decease of Mr. Toolington; against this
personage, behold myself armed and arrayed.

Such is, in brief, the history of the borough, up to the time in which I
was to take a prominent share in its interests and events.

On the second day after my arrival at the castle, the following
advertisement appeared at Buyemall:--

"To the Independent Electors of the Borough of Buyemall.

"Gentlemen,

"In presenting myself to your notice, I advance a claim not altogether
new and unfounded. My family have for centuries been residing amongst
you, and exercising that interest which reciprocal confidence, and good
offices may fairly create. Should it be my good fortune to be chosen your
representative, you may rely upon my utmost endeavours to deserve that
honour. One word upon the principles I espouse: they are those which have
found their advocates among the wisest and the best; they are those
which, hostile alike to the encroachments of the crown, and the
licentiousness of the people, would support the real interest of both.
Upon these grounds, gentlemen, I have the honour to solicit your votes;
and it is with the sincerest respect for your ancient and honourable
body, that I subscribe myself your very obedient servant,

"Henry Pelham."

"Glenmorris Castle,"

Such was the first public signification of my intentions; it was drawn up
by Mr. Sharpon, our lawyer, and considered by our friends as a
masterpiece: for, as my mother sagely observed, it did not commit me in a
single instance--espoused no principle, and yet professed what all
parties would allow was the best.

At the first house where I called, the proprietor was a clergyman of good
family, who had married a lady from Baker-street: of course the Reverend
Combermere St. Quintin and his wife valued themselves upon being
"genteel." I arrived at an unlucky moment; on entering the hall, a dirty
footboy was carrying a yellow-ware dish of potatoes into the back room.
Another Ganymede (a sort of footboy major), who opened the door, and who
was still settling himself into his coat, which he had slipped on at my
tintinnabulary summons, ushered me with a mouth full of bread and cheese
into this said back room. I gave up every thing as lost, when I entered,
and saw the lady helping her youngest child to some ineffable trash,
which I have since heard is called "blackberry pudding." Another of the
tribe was bawling out, with a loud, hungry tone--"A tatoe, pa!" The
father himself was carving for the little group, with a napkin stuffed
into the top button-hole of his waistcoat, and the mother, with a long
bib, plentifully bespattered with congealing gravy, and the nectarean
liquor of the "blackberry pudding," was sitting, with a sort of presiding
complacency, on a high stool, like Jupiter on Olympus, enjoying rather
than stilling the confused hubbub of the little domestic deities, who
eat, clattered, spattered, and squabbled around her.

Amidst all this din and confusion, the candidate for the borough of
Buyemall was ushered into the household privacy of the genteel Mr. and
Mrs. St. Quintin. Up started the lady at the sound of my name. The
Reverend Combermere St. Quintin seemed frozen into stone. The plate
between the youngest child and the blackberry-pudding, stood as still as
the sun in Ajalon. The morsel between the mouth of the elder boy and his
fork had a respite from mastication. The Seven Sleepers could not have
been spell-bound more suddenly and completely.

"Ah!" cried I, advancing eagerly, with an air of serious and yet abrupt
gladness; "how deuced lucky that I should find you all at luncheon. I was
up and had finished breakfast so early this morning, that I am half
famished. Only think how fortunate, Hardy (turning round to one of the
members of my committee, who accompanied me); I was just saying what
would I not give to find Mr. St. Quintin at luncheon. Will you allow me,
Madam, to make one of your party?"

Mrs. St. Quintin coloured, and faltered, and muttered out something which
I was fully resolved not to hear. I took a chair, looked round the table,
not too attentively, and said--"Cold veal; ah! ah! nothing I like so
much. May I trouble you, Mr. St. Quintin?--Hollo, my little man, let's
see if you can't give me a potatoe. There's a brave fellow. How old are
you, my young hero?--to look at your mother, I should say two; to look at
you, six."

"He is four next May," said his mother, colouring, and this time not
painfully.

"Indeed!" said I, surveying him earnestly; and then, in a graver tone, I
turned to the Reverend Combermere with--"I think you have a branch of
your family still settled in France. I met Monsieur St. Quintin, the Due
de Poictiers, abroad."

"Yes," said Mr. Combermere, "yes, the name is still in Normandy, but I
was not aware of the title."

"No!" said I, with surprise; "and yet (with another look at the boy), it
is astonishing how long family likenesses last. I was a great favourite
with all the Duc's children. Do you know, I must trouble you for some
more veal, it is so very good, and I am so very hungry."

"How long have you been abroad?" said Mrs. St. Quintin, who had slipped
off her bib, and smoothed her ringlets; for which purposes I had been
most adroitly looking in an opposite direction the last three minutes.

"About seven or eight months. The fact is, that the continent only does
for us English people to see--not to inhabit; and yet, there are some
advantages there, Mr. St. Quintin!--Among others, that of the due respect
ancient birth is held in. Here, you know, 'money makes the man,' as the
vulgar proverb has it."

"Yes," said Mr. St. Quintin, with a sigh, "it is really dreadful to see
those upstarts rising around us, and throwing every thing that is
respectable and ancient into the back ground. Dangerous times these, Mr.
Pelham--dangerous times; nothing but innovation upon the most sacred
institutions. I am sure, Mr. Pelham, that your principles must be
decidedly against these new-fashioned doctrines, which lead to nothing
but anarchy and confusion--absolutely nothing."

"I'm delighted to find you so much of my opinion!" said I. "I cannot
endure any thing that leads to anarchy and confusion."

Here Mr. Combermere glanced at his wife--who rose, called to the
children, and, accompanied by them, gracefully withdrew.

"Now then," said Mr. Combermere, drawing his chair nearer to me,--"now,
Mr. Pelham, we can discuss these matters. Women are no politicians,"--and
at this sage aphorism, the Rev. Combermere laughed a low solemn laugh,
which could have come from no other lips. After I had joined in this
grave merriment for a second or two--I hemmed thrice, and with a
countenance suited to the subject and the hosts, plunged at once in
medias res.

"Mr. St. Quintin," said I, "you are already aware, I think, of my
intention of offering myself as a candidate for the borough of Buyemall.
I could not think of such a measure, without calling upon you, the very
first person, to solicit the honour of your vote." Mr. Combermere looked
pleased, and prepared to reply. "You are the very first person I called
upon," repeated I.

Mr. Combermere smiled. "Well, Mr. Pelham," said he, "our families have
long been on the most intimate footing."

"Ever since" cried I, "ever since Henry the Seventh's time have the
houses of St. Quintin and Glenmorris been allied. Your ancestors, you
know, were settled in the county before our's, and my mother assures me
that she has read in some old book or another, a long account of your
forefather's kind reception of mine at the castle of St. Quintin. I do
trust, Sir, that we have done nothing to forfeit a support so long
afforded us."

Mr. St. Quintin bowed in speechless gratification; at length he found
voice. "But your principles, Mr. Pelham?"

"Quite your's, my dear Sir: quite against anarchy and confusion."

"But the catholic question, Mr. Pelham?"

"Oh! the catholic question," repeated I, "is a question of great
importance; it won't be carried--no, Mr. St. Quintin, no, it won't be
carried; how did you think, my dear Sir, that I could, in so great a
question, act against my conscience?"

I said this with warmth, and Mr. St. Quintin was either too convinced or
too timid to pursue so dangerous a topic any further. I blessed my stars
when he paused, and not giving him time to think of another piece of
debateable ground, continued, "Yes, Mr. St. Quintin, I called upon you
the very first person. Your rank in the county, your ancient birth, to be
sure, demanded it; but I only considered the long, long time the St.
Quintins and Pelhams had been connected."

"Well," said the Rev. Combermere, "well, Mr. Pelham, you shall have my
support; and I wish, from my very heart, all success to a young gentleman
of such excellent principles."




CHAPTER XXXVI.

             More voices!

             Sic.  How now, my masters, have you chosen him?
             Cit.  He has our voices, Sir!
             --Coriolanus.

From Mr. Combermere St. Quintin's, we went to a bluff, hearty, radical
wine-merchant, whom I had very little probability of gaining; but my
success with the clerical Armado had inspirited me, and I did not suffer
myself to fear, though I could scarcely persuade myself to hope. How
exceedingly impossible it is, in governing men, to lay down positive
rules, even where we know the temper of the individual to be gained. "You
must be very stiff and formal with the St. Quintins," said my mother. She
was right in the general admonition, and had I found them all seated in
the best drawing-room, Mrs. St. Quintin in her best attire, and the
children on their best behaviour, I should have been as stately as Don
Quixote in a brocade dressing-gown; but finding them in such dishabille,
I could not affect too great a plainness and almost coarseness of
bearing, as if I had never been accustomed to any thing more refined than
I found there; nor might I, by any appearance of pride in myself, put
them in mind of the wound their own pride had received. The difficulty
was to blend with this familiarity a certain respect, just the same as a
French ambassador might have testified towards the august person of
George the Third, had he found his Majesty at dinner at one o'clock, over
mutton and turnips.

In overcoming this difficulty, I congratulated myself with as much zeal
and fervour as if I had performed the most important victory; for,
whether it be innocent or sanguinary, in war or at an election, there is
no triumph so gratifying to the viciousness of human nature, as the
conquest of our fellow beings.

But I must return to my wine-merchant, Mr. Briggs. His house was at the
entrance of the town of Buyemall; it stood inclosed in a small garden,
flaming with crocuses and sunflowers, and exhibiting an arbour to the
right, where, in the summer evenings, the respectable owner might be
seen, with his waistcoat unbuttoned, in order to give that just and
rational liberty to the subordinate parts of the human commonwealth which
the increase of their consequence after the hour of dinner, naturally
demands. Nor, in those moments of dignified ease, was the worthy burgher
without the divine inspirations of complacent contemplation which the
weed of Virginia bestoweth. There as he smoked and puffed, and looked out
upon the bright crocuses, and meditated over the dim recollections of the
hesternal journal, did Mr. Briggs revolve in his mind the vast importance
of the borough of Buyemall to the British empire, and the vast importance
of John Briggs to the borough of Buyemall.

When I knocked at the door a prettyish maidservant opened it with a
smile, and a glance which the vender of wine might probably have taught
her himself after too large potations of his own spirituous
manufactories. I was ushered into a small parlour--where sat, sipping
brandy and water, a short, stout, monosyllabic sort of figure,
corresponding in outward shape to the name of Briggs--even unto a very
nicety.

"Mr. Pelham," said this gentleman, who was dressed in a brown coat, white
waistcoat, buff-coloured inexpressibles, with long strings, and gaiters
of the same hue and substance as the breeches--"Mr. Pelham, pray be
seated--excuse my rising, I'm like the bishop in the story, Mr. Pelham,
too old to rise;" and Mr. Briggs grunted out a short, quick, querulous,
"he--he--he," to which, of course, I replied to the best of my
cachinnatory powers.

No sooner, however, did I begin to laugh, than Mr. Briggs stopped
short--eyed me with a sharp, suspicious glance--shook his head, and
pushed back his chair at least four feet from the spot it had hitherto
occupied. Ominous signs, thought I--I must sound this gentleman a little
further, before I venture to treat him as the rest of his species.

"You have a nice situation here, Mr. Briggs," said I.

"Ah, Mr. Pelham, and a nice vote too, which is somewhat more to your
purpose, I believe."

'Oh!' thought I, 'I see through you now, Mr. Briggs!'--you must not be
too civil to one who suspects you are going to be civil, in order to take
him in.

"Why," said I, "Mr. Briggs, to be frank with you, I do call upon you for
the purpose of requesting your vote; give it me, or not, just as you
please. You may be sure I shall not make use of the vulgar electioneering
arts to coax gentlemen out of their votes. I ask you for your's as one
freeman solicits another: if you think my opponent a fitter person to
represent your borough, give your support to him in God's name: if not,
and you place confidence in me, I will, at least, endeavour not to betray
it."

"Well done, Mr. Pelham," exclaimed Mr. Briggs: "I love candour--you speak
just after my own heart; but you must be aware that one does not like to
be bamboozled out of one's right of election, by a smooth-tongued fellow,
who sends one to the devil the moment the election is over--or still
worse, to be frightened out of it by some stiff-necked proud coxcomb,
with his pedigree in his hand, and his acres in his face, thinking he
does you a marvellous honour to ask you at all. Sad times these for this
free country, Mr. Pelham, when a parcel of conceited paupers, like Parson
Quinny (as I call that reverend fool, Mr. Combermere St. Quintin),
imagine they have a right to dictate to warm, honest men, who can buy
their whole family out and out. I tell you what, Mr. Pelham, we shall
never do anything for this country till we get rid of those landed
aristocrats, with their ancestry and humbug. I hope you're of my mind,
Mr. Pelham."

"Why," answered I, "there is certainly nothing so respectable in Great
Britain as our commercial interest. A man who makes himself is worth a
thousand men made by their forefathers."

"Very true, Mr. Pelham," said the wine-merchant, advancing his chair to
me, and then laying a short, thickset finger upon my arm--he looked up in
my face with an investigating air, and said:--"Parliamentary Reform--what
do you say to that? you're not an advocate for ancient abuses, and modern
corruption, I hope, Mr. Pelham?"

"By no means," cried I, with an honest air of indignation--"I have a
conscience, Mr. Briggs, I have a conscience as a public man, no less than
as a private one!"

"Admirable!" cried my host.

"No," I continued, glowing as I proceeded, "no, Mr. Briggs; I disdain to
talk too much about my principles before they are tried; the proper time
to proclaim them is when they have effected some good by being put into
action. I won't supplicate your vote, Mr. Briggs, as my opponent may do;
there must be a mutual confidence between my supporters and myself. When
I appear before you a second time, you will have a right to see how far I
have wronged that trust reposed in me as your representative. Mr. Briggs,
I dare say it may seem rude and impolitic to address you in this manner;
but I am a plain, blunt man, and I disdain the vulgar arts of
electioneering, Mr. Briggs."

"Give us your fist, old boy," cried the wine merchant, in a transport;
"give us your fist; I promise you my support, and I am delighted to vote
for a young gentleman of such excellent principles."

So much, dear reader, for Mr. Briggs, who became from that interview my
staunchest supporter. I will not linger longer upon this part of my
career; the above conversations may serve as a sufficient sample of my
electioneering qualifications: and so I shall merely add, that after the
due quantum of dining, drinking, spouting, lying, equivocating, bribing,
rioting, head-breaking, promise-breaking, and--thank the god Mercury, who
presides over elections--chairing of successful candidateship, I found
myself fairly chosen member for the borough of Buyemall.




CHAPTER XXXVII.

           Political education is like the keystone to the arch
           --the strength of the whole depends upon it.
                          --Encycl. Britt. Sup. Art. "Education."

I was sitting in the library of Glenmorris Castle, about a week after all
the bustle of contest and the eclat of victory had began to subside, and
quietly dallying with the dry toast, which constituted then, and does to
this day, my ordinary breakfast, when I was accosted by the following
speech from my uncle.

"Henry, your success has opened to you a new career: I trust you intend
to pursue it?"

"Certainly," was my answer.

"But you know, my dear Henry, that though you have great talents, which,
I confess, I was surprised in the course of the election to discover, yet
they want that careful cultivation, which, in order to shine in the House
of Commons, they must receive. Entre nous, Henry; a litle reading would
do you no harm."

"Very well," said I, "suppose I begin with Walter Scott's novels; I am
told they are extremely entertaining."

"True," answered my uncle, "but they don't contain the most accurate
notions of history, or the soundest principles of political philosophy in
the world. What did you think of doing to-day, Henry?"

"Nothing!" said I very innocently.

"I should conceive that to be an usual answer of yours, Henry, to any
similar question."

"I think it is," replied I, with great naivete.

"Well, then, let us have the breakfast things taken away, and do
something this morning."

"Willingly," said I, ringing the bell.

The table was cleared, and my uncle began his examination. Little, poor
man, had he thought, from my usual bearing and the character of my
education, that in general literature there were few subjects on which I
was not to the full as well read as himself. I enjoyed his surprise, when
little by little he began to discover the extent of my information, but I
was mortified to find it was only surprise, not delight.

"You have," said he, "a considerable store of learning; far more than I
could possibly have imagined you possessed; but it is knowledge not
learning, in which I wish you to be skilled. I would rather, in order to
gift you with the former, that you were more destitute of the latter. The
object of education, is to instil principles which are hereafter to guide
and instruct us; facts are only desirable, so far as they illustrate
those principles; principles ought therefore to precede facts! What then
can we think of a system which reverses this evident order, overloads the
memory with facts, and those of the most doubtful description, while it
leaves us entirely in the dark with regard to the principles which could
alone render this heterogeneous mass of any advantage or avail? Learning
without knowledge, is but a bundle of prejudices; a lumber of inert
matter set before the threshold of the understanding to the exclusion of
common sense. Pause for a moment, and recal those of your contemporaries,
who are generally considered well-informed; tell me if their information
has made them a whit the wiser; if not, it is only sanctified ignorance.
Tell me if names with them are not a sanction for opinion; quotations,
the representatives of axioms? All they have learned only serves as an
excuse for all they are ignorant of. In one month, I will engage that you
shall have a juster and deeper insight into wisdom, than they have been
all their lives acquiring; the great error of education is to fill the
mind first with antiquated authors, and then to try the principles of the
present day by the authorities and maxims of the past. We will pursue for
our plan, the exact reverse of the ordinary method. We will learn the
doctrines of the day, as the first and most necessary step, and we will
then glance over those which have passed away, as researches rather
curious than useful.

"You see this very small pamphlet; it is a paper by Mr. Mills, upon
Government. We will know this thoroughly, and when we have done so, we
may rest assured that we have a far more accurate information upon the
head and front of all political knowledge, than two-thirds of the young
men whose cultivation of mind you have usually heard panegyrized."

So saying, my uncle opened the pamphlet. He pointed out to me its close
and mathematical reasoning, in which no flaw could be detected, nor
deduction controverted: and he filled up, as we proceeded, from the
science of his own clear and enlarged mind, the various parts which the
political logician had left for reflection to complete. My uncle had this
great virtue of an expositor, that he never over-explained; he never made
a parade of his lecture, nor confused what was simple by unnecessary
comment.

When we broke off our first day's employment, I was quite astonished at
the new light which had gleamed upon me. I felt like Sinbad, the sailor,
when, in wandering through the cavern in which he had been buried alive,
he caught the first glimpse of the bright day. Naturally eager in every
thing I undertook, fond of application, and addicted to reflect over the
various bearings of any object that once engrossed my attention, I made
great advance in my new pursuit. After my uncle had brought me to be
thoroughly conversant with certain and definite principles, we proceeded
to illustrate them from fact. For instance, when we had finished the
"Essay upon Government," we examined into the several constitutions of
England, British America, and France; the three countries which pretend
the most to excellence in their government: and we were enabled to
perceive and judge the defects and merits of each, because we had,
previous to our examination, established certain rules, by which they
were to be investigated and tried. Here my sceptical indifference to
facts was my chief reason for readily admitting knowledge. I had no
prejudices to contend with; no obscure notions gleaned from the past; no
popular maxims cherished as truths. Every thing was placed before me as
before a wholly impartial inquirer--freed from all the decorations and
delusions of sects and parties, every argument was stated with logical
precision--every opinion referred to a logical test. Hence, in a very
short time, I owned the justice of my uncle's assurance, as to the
comparative concentration of knowledge. We went over the whole of Mills's
admirable articles in the encyclopaedia, over the more popular works of
Bentham, and thence we plunged into the recesses of political economy. I
know not why this study has been termed uninteresting. No sooner had I
entered upon its consideration, than I could scarcely tear myself from
it. Never from that moment to this have I ceased to pay it the most
constant attention, not so much as a study as an amusement; but at that
time my uncle's object was not to make me a profound political economist.
"I wish," said he, "merely to give you an acquaintance with the
principles of the science; not that you may be entitled to boast of
knowledge, but that you may be enabled to avoid ignorance; not that you
may discover truth, but that you may detect error. Of all sciences,
political economy is contained in the fewest books, and yet is the most
difficult to master; because all its higher branches require earnestness
of reflection, proportioned to the scantiness of reading. Mrs. Marsett's
elementary work, together with some conversational enlargement on the
several topics she treats of, will be enough for our present purpose. I
wish, then, to show you, how inseparably allied is the great science of
public policy with that of private morality. And this, Henry, is the
grandest object of all. Now to our present study."

Well, gentle Reader, (I love, by the by, as you already perceive, that
old-fashioned courtesy of addressing you)--well, to finish this part of
my life which, as it treats rather of my attempts at reformation than my
success in error, must begin to weary you exceedingly, I acquired, more
from my uncle's conversation than the books we read, a sufficient
acquaintance with the elements of knowledge, to satisfy myself, and to
please my instructor. And I must say, in justification of my studies and
my tutor, that I derived one benefit from them which has continued with
me to this hour--viz. I obtained a clear knowledge of moral principle.
Before that time, the little ability I possessed only led me into acts,
which, I fear, most benevolent Reader, thou hast already sufficiently
condemned: my good feelings--for I was not naturally bad--never availed
me the least when present temptation came into my way. I had no guide but
passion; no rule but the impulse of the moment. What else could have been
the result of my education? If I was immoral, it was because I was never
taught morality. Nothing, perhaps, is less innate than virtue. I own that
the lessons of my uncle did not work miracles--that, living in the world,
I have not separated myself from its errors and its follies: the vortex
was too strong--the atmosphere too contagious; but I have at least
avoided the crimes into which my temper would most likely have driven me.
I ceased to look upon the world as a game one was to play fairly, if
possible--but where a little cheating was readily allowed; I no longer
divorced the interests of other men from my own: if I endeavoured to
blind them, it was neither by unlawful means, nor for a purely selfish
end:--if--but come, Henry Pelham, thou hast praised thyself enough for
the present; and, after all, thy future adventures will best tell if thou
art really amended.




CHAPTER XXXVIII.

                          Mihi jam non regia Roma,
                   Sed vacuum Tibur placet.
                   --Horace.

"My dear child," said my mother to me, affectionately, "you must be very
much bored here, pour dire vrai, I am so myself. Your uncle is a very
good man, but he does not make his house pleasant; and I have, lately,
been very much afraid that he should convert you into a mere bookworm;
after all, my dear Henry, you are quite clever enough to trust to your
own ability. Your great geniuses never read."

"True, my dear mother," said I, with a most unequivocal yawn, and
depositing on the table Mr. Bentham upon Popular Fallacies; "true, and I
am quite of your opinion. Did you see in the Post of this morning, how
full Cheltenham was?"

"Yes, Henry; and now you mention it, I don't think you could do better
than to go there for a month or two. As for me, I must return to your
father, whom I left at Lord H--'s: a place, entre nous, very little more
amusing than this--but then one does get one's ecarte table, and that
dear Lady Roseville, your old acquaintance, is staying there."

"Well," said I, musingly, "suppose we take our departure the beginning of
next week?--our way will be the same as far as London, and the plea of
attending you will be a good excuse to my uncle, for proceeding no
farther in these confounded books."

"C'est une affaire finie," replied my mother, "and I will speak to your
uncle myself."

Accordingly the necessary disclosure of our intentions was made. Lord
Glenmorris received it with proper indifference, so far as my mother was
concerned; but expressed much pain at my leaving him so soon. However,
when he found I was not so much gratified as honoured by his wishes for
my longer sejour, he gave up the point with a delicacy that enchanted me.

The morning of our departure arrived. Carriage at the door--bandboxes in
the passage--breakfast on the table--myself in my great coat--my uncle in
his great chair. "My dear boy," said he, "I trust we shall meet again
soon: you have abilities that may make you capable of effecting much good
to your fellow-creatures; but you are fond of the world, and, though not
averse to application, devoted to pleasure, and likely to pervert the
gifts you possess. At all events, you have now learned, both as a public
character and a private individual, the difference between good and evil.
Make but this distinction, that whereas, in political science, though the
rules you have learned be fixed and unerring, yet the application of them
must vary with time and circumstance. We must bend, temporize, and
frequently withdraw, doctrines, which, invariable in their truth, the
prejudices of the time will not invariably allow, and even relinquish a
faint hope of obtaining a great good, for the certainty of obtaining a
lesser; yet in the science of private morals, which relate for the main
part to ourselves individually, we have no right to deviate one single
iota from the rule of our conduct. Neither time nor circumstance must
cause us to modify or to change. Integrity knows no variation; honesty no
shadow of turning. We must pursue the same course--stern and
uncompromising--in the full persuasion that the path of right is like the
bridge from earth to heaven, in the Mahometan creed--if we swerve but a
single hair's breadth, we are irrevocably lost."

At this moment my mother joined us, with a "Well, my dear Henry, every
thing is ready--we have no time to lose."

My uncle rose, pressed my hand, and left in it a pocket-book, which I
afterwards discovered to be most satisfactorily furnished. We took an
edifying and affectionate farewell of each other, passed through the two
rows of servants, drawn up in martial array, along the great hall,
entered the carriage, and went off with the rapidity of a novel upon
"fashionable life."




CHAPTER XXXIX.

                        Dic--si grave non est--
                   Quae prima iratum ventrem placaverit esca.
                                 --Horace.

I did not remain above a day or two in town. I had never seen much of the
humours of a watering-place, and my love of observing character made me
exceedingly impatient for that pleasure. Accordingly, the first bright
morning I set off for Cheltenham. I was greatly struck with the entrance
to that town: it is to these watering-places that a foreigner should be
taken, in order to give him an adequate idea of the magnificent opulence,
and universal luxury, of England. Our country has, in every province,
what France only has in Paris--a capital, consecrated to gaiety,
idleness, and enjoyment. London is both too busy in one class of society,
and too pompous in another, to please a foreigner, who has not excellent
recommendations to private circles. But at Brighton, Cheltenham,
Hastings, Bath, he may, as at Paris, find all the gaieties of society
without knowing a single individual.

My carriage stopped at the--Hotel. A corpulent and stately waiter, with
gold buckles to a pair of very tight pantaloons, showed me up stairs. I
found myself in a tolerable room facing the street, and garnished with
two pictures of rocks and rivers, with a comely flight of crows, hovering
in the horizon of both, as natural as possible, only they were a little
larger than the trees. Over the chimney-piece, where I had fondly hoped
to find a looking-glass, was a grave print of General Washington, with
one hand stuck out like the spout of a tea-pot. Between the two windows
(unfavourable position!) was an oblong mirror, to which I immediately
hastened, and had the pleasure of seeing my complexion catch the colour
of the curtains that overhung the glass on each side, and exhibit the
pleasing rurality of a pale green.

I shrunk back aghast, turned, and beheld the waiter. Had I seen myself in
a glass delicately shaded by rose-hued curtains, I should gently and
smilingly have said, "Have the goodness to bring me the bill of fare." As
it was, I growled out, "Bring me the bill, and be d--d to you."

The stiff waiter bowed solemnly, and withdrew slowly. I looked round the
room once more, and discovered the additional adornments of a tea-urn,
and a book. "Thank Heaven," thought I, as I took up the latter, "it can't
be one of Jeremy Bentham's." No! it was the Cheltenham Guide. I turned to
the head of amusements--"Dress ball at the rooms every--" some day or
other--which of the seven I utterly forget; but it was the same as that
which witnessed my first arrival in the small drawing-room of the--Hotel.

"Thank Heaven!" said I to myself, as Bedos entered with my things, and
was ordered immediately to have all in preparation for "the dressball at
the rooms," at the hour of half-past ten. The waiter entered with the
bill. "Soups, chops, cutlets, steaks, roast joints, birds."

"Get some soup," said I, "a slice or two of lion, and half a dozen
birds."

"Sir," said the solemn waiter, "you can't have less than a whole lion,
and we have only two birds in the house."

"Pray," asked I, "are you in the habit of supplying your larder from
Exeter 'Change, or do you breed lions here like poultry?"

"Sir," answered the grim waiter, never relaxing into a smile, "we have
lions brought us from the country every day."

"What do you pay for them?" said I.

"About three and sixpence a-piece, Sir."

"Humph!--market in Africa overstocked," thought I.

"Pray, how do you dress an animal of that description?"

"Roast and stuff him, Sir, and serve him up with currant jelly."

"What! like a hare?"

"It is a hare, Sir."

"What!"

"Yes, Sir, it is a hare! [Note: I have since learned, that this custom of
calling a hare a lion is not peculiar to Cheltenham. At that time I was
utterly unacquainted with the regulations of the London
coffee-houses.]--but we call it a lion, because of the Game Laws."

'Bright discovery,' thought I; 'they have a new language in Cheltenham:
nothing's like travelling to enlarge the mind.' "And the birds," said I,
aloud, "are neither humming birds, nor ostriches, I suppose?"

"No, Sir; they are partridges."

"Well, then, give me some soup; a cotelette de mouton, and a 'bird,' as
you term it, and be quick about it."

"It shall be done with dispatch," answered the pompous attendant, and
withdrew.

Is there, in the whole course of this pleasant and varying life, which
young gentlemen and ladies write verses to prove same and sorrowful,--is
there, in the whole course of it, one half-hour really and genuinely
disagreeable?--if so, it is the half-hour before dinner at a strange inn.
Nevertheless, by the help of philosophy and the window, I managed to
endure it with great patience: and though I was famishing with hunger, I
pretended the indifference of a sage, even when the dinner was at length
announced. I coquetted a whole minute with my napkin, before I attempted
the soup, and I helped myself to the potatory food with a slow dignity
that must have perfectly won the heart of the solemn waiter. The soup was
a little better than hot water, and the sharp sauced cotelette than
leather and vinegar; howbeit, I attacked them with the vigour of an
Irishman, and washed them down with a bottle of the worst liquor ever
dignified with the venerabile nomen of claret. The bird was tough enough
to have passed for an ostrich in miniature; and I felt its ghost hopping
about the stomachic sepulchre to which I consigned it, the whole of that
evening and a great portion of the next day, when a glass of curacoa laid
it at rest.

After this splendid repast, I flung myself back on my chair with the
complacency of a man who has dined well, and dozed away the time till the
hour of dressing.

"Now," thought I, as I placed myself before my glass, "shall I gently
please, or sublimely astonish the 'fashionables' of Cheltenham? Ah, bah!
the latter school is vulgar, Byron spoilt it. Don't put out that chain,
Bedos--I wear--the black coat, waistcoat, and trowsers. Brush my hair as
much out of curl as you can, and give an air of graceful negligence to my
tout ensemble."

"Oui, Monsieur, je comprends," answered Bedos.

I was soon dressed, for it is the design, not the execution, of all great
undertakings which requires deliberation and delay. Action cannot be too
prompt. A chair was called, and Henry Pelham was conveyed to the rooms.




CHAPTER XL.

             Now see, prepared to lead the sprightly dance,
             The lovely nymphs, and well dressed youths advance:
             The spacious room receives its jovial guest,
             And the floor shakes with pleasing weight oppressed.
                          --Art of Dancing.

             Page. His name, my lord, is Tyrrell.
                          --Richard III.

Upon entering, I saw several heads rising and sinking, to the tune of
"Cherry ripe." A whole row of stiff necks, in cravats of the most
unexceptionable length and breadth, were just before me. A tall thin
young man, with dark wiry hair brushed on one side, was drawing on a pair
of white Woodstock gloves, and affecting to look round the room with the
supreme indifference of bon ton.

"Ah, Ritson," said another young Cheltenhamian to him of the Woodstock
gauntlets, "hav'n't you been dancing yet?"

"No, Smith, 'pon honour!" answered Mr. Ritson; "it is so overpoweringly
hot; no fashionable man dances now;--it isn't the thing."

"Why," replied Mr. Smith, who was a good-natured looking person, with a
blue coat and brass buttons, a gold pin in his neckcloth, and
kneebreeches, "why, they dance at Almack's, don't they?"

"No, 'pon honour," murmured Mr. Ritson; "no, they just walk a quadrille
or spin a waltz, as my friend, Lord Bobadob, calls it, nothing more--no,
hang dancing, 'tis so vulgar."

A stout, red-faced man, about thirty, with wet auburn hair, a
marvellously fine waistcoat, and a badly-washed frill, now joined Messrs.
Ritson and Smith.

"Ah, Sir Ralph," cried Smith, "how d'ye do? been hunting all day, I
suppose?"

"Yes, old cock," replied Sir Ralph; "been after the brush till I am quite
done up; such a glorious run. By G--, you should have seen my grey mare,
Smith; by G--, she's a glorious fencer."

"You don't hunt, do you, Ritson?" interrogated Mr. Smith.

"Yes, I do," replied Mr. Ritson, affectedly playing with his Woodstock
glove; "yes, but I only hunt in Leicestershire with my friend, Lord
Bobadob; 'tis not the thing to hunt any where else, 'tis so vulgar."

Sir Ralph stared at the speaker with mute contempt: while Mr. Smith, like
the ass between the hay, stood balancing betwixt the opposing merits of
the baronet and the beau. Meanwhile, a smiling, nodding, affected female
thing, in ringlets and flowers, flirted up to the trio.

"Now, reelly, Mr. Smith, you should deence; a feeshionable young man,
like you--I don't know what the young leedies will say to you." And the
fair seducer laughed bewitchingly.

"You are very good, Mrs. Dollimore," replied Mr. Smith, with a blush and
a low bow; "but Mr. Ritson tells me it is not the thing to dance."

"Oh," cried Mrs. Dollimore, "but then he's seech a naughty, conceited
creature--don't follow his example, Meester Smith;" and again the good
lady laughed immoderately.

"Nay, Mrs. Dollimore," said Mr. Ritson, passing his hand through his
abominable hair, "you are too severe; but tell me, Mrs. Dollimore, is the
Countess St. A--coming here?"

"Now, reelly, Mr. Ritson, you, who are the pink of feeshion, ought to
know better than I can; but I hear so."

"Do you know the countess?" said Mr. Smith, in respectful surprise, to
Ritson.

"Oh, very well," replied the Coryphaeus of Cheltenham, swinging his
Woodstock glove to and fro; "I have often danced with her at Almack's."

"Is she a good deencer?" asked Mrs. Dollimore.

"O, capital," responded Mr. Ritson; "she's such a nice genteel little
figure."

Sir Ralph, apparently tired of this "feeshionable" conversation,
swaggered away.

"Pray," said Mrs. Dollimore, "who is that geentleman?"

"Sir Ralph Rumford," replied Smith, eagerly, "a particular friend of mine
at Cambridge."

"I wonder if he's going to make a long steey?" said Mrs. Dollimore.

"Yes, I believe so," replied Mr. Smith, "if we make it agreeable to him."

"You must positively introduce him to me," said Mrs. Dollimore.

"I will, with great pleasure," said the good-natured Mr. Smith.

"Is Sir Ralph a man of fashion?" inquired Mr. Ritson.

"He's a baronet!" emphatically pronounced Mr. Smith.

"Ah!" replied Ritson, "but he may be a man of rank, without being a man
of fashion."

"True," lisped Mrs. Dollimore.

"I don't know," replied Smith, with an air of puzzled wonderment, "but he
has L7,000. a-year."

"Has he, indeed?" cried Mrs. Dollimore, surprised into her natural tone
of voice; and, at that moment, a young lady, ringletted and flowered like
herself, joined her, and accosted her by the endearing appellation of
"Mamma."

"Have you been dancing, my love?" inquired Mrs. Dollimore.

"Yes, ma; with Captain Johnson."

"Oh," said the mother, with a toss of her head; and giving her daughter a
significant push, she walked away with her to another end of the room, to
talk about Sir Ralph Rumford, and his seven thousand pounds a-year.

"Well!" thought I, "odd people these; let us enter a little farther into
this savage country." In accordance with this reflection, I proceeded
towards the middle of the room.

"Who's that?" said Mr. Smith, in a loud whisper, as I passed him.

"'Pon honour," answered Ritson, "I don't know! but he's a deuced neat
looking fellow, quite genteel."

"Thank you, Mr. Ritson," said my vanity; "you are not so offensive after
all."

I paused to look at the dancers; a middle-aged, respectable looking
gentleman was beside me. Common people, after they have passed forty,
grow social. My neighbour hemmed twice, and made preparation for
speaking. "I may as well encourage him," was my reflection; accordingly I
turned round, with a most good-natured expression of countenance.

"A fine room this, Sir," said the man immediately.

"Very," said I, with a smile, "and extremely well filled."

"Ah, Sir," answered my neighbour, "Cheltenham is not as it used to be
some fifteen years ago. I have seen as many as one thousand two hundred
and fifty persons within these walls;" (certain people are always so d--d
particularizing,) "ay, Sir," pursued my laudator temporis acti, "and half
the peerage here into the bargain."

"Indeed!" quoth I, with an air of surprise suited to the information I
received, "but the society is very good still, is it not?"

"Oh, very genteel," replied the man; "but not so dashing as it used to
be." (Oh! those two horrid words! low enough to suit even the author
of"--.")

"Pray," asked I, glancing at Messrs. Ritson and Smith, "do you know who
those gentlemen are?"

"Extremely well!" replied my neighbour: "the tall young man is Mr.
Ritson; his mother has a house in Baker-street, and gives quite elegant
parties. He's a most genteel young man; but such an insufferable
coxcomb."

"And the other?" said I.

"Oh! he's a Mr. Smith; his father was an eminent merchant, and is lately
dead, leaving each of his sons thirty thousand pounds; the young Smith is
a knowing hand, and wants to spend his money with spirit. He has a great
passion for 'high life,' and therefore attaches himself much to Mr.
Ritson, who is quite that way inclined."

"He could not have selected a better model," said I.

"True," rejoined my Cheltenham Asmodeus, with naive simplicity; "but I
hope he won't adopt his conceit as well as his elegance."

"I shall die," said I to myself, "if I talk with this fellow any longer,"
and I was just going to glide away, when a tall, stately dowager, with
two lean, scraggy daughters, entered the room; I could not resist pausing
to inquire who they were.

My friend looked at me with a very altered and disrespectful air at this
interrogation. "Who?" said he, "why, the Countess of Babbleton, and her
two daughters, the Honourable Lady Jane Babel, and the Honourable Lady
Mary Babel. They are the great people of Cheltenham," pursued he, "and
it's a fine thing to get into their set."

Meanwhile Lady Babbleton and her two daughters swept up the room, bowing
and nodding to the riven ranks on each side, who made their salutations
with the most profound respect. My experienced eye detected in a moment
that Lady Babbleton, in spite of her title and her stateliness, was
exceedingly the reverse of good ton, and the daughters (who did not
resemble the scrag of mutton, but its ghost) had an appearance of sour
affability, which was as different from the manners of proper society, as
it possibly could be.

I wondered greatly who and what they were. In the eyes of the
Cheltenhamians, they were the countess and her daughters; and any further
explanation would have been deemed quite superfluous; further explanation
I was, however, determined to procure, and was walking across the room in
profound meditation as to the method in which the discovery should be
made, when I was startled by the voice of Sir Lionel Garrett: I turned
round, and to my inexpressible joy, beheld that worthy baronet.

"God bless me, Pelham," said he, "how delighted I am to see you. Lady
Harriett, here' your old favourite, Mr. Pelham."

Lady Harriet was all smiles and pleasure. "Give me your arm," said she;
"I must go and speak to Lady Babbleton--odious woman!"

"Do, my dear Lady Harriett," said I, "explain to me what Lady Babbleton
was?"

"Why--she was a milliner, and took in the late lord, who was an
idiot.--Voila tout!"

"Perfectly satisfactory," replied I.

"Or, short and sweet, as Lady Babbleton would say," replied Lady
Harriett, laughing.

"In antithesis to her daughters, who are long and sour."

"Oh, you satirist!" said the affected Lady Harriett (who was only three
removes better than the Cheltenham countess); "but tell me, how long have
you been at Cheltenham?"

"About four hours and a half!"

"Then you don't know any of the lions here?"

"None."

"Well, let me dispatch Lady Babbleton, and I'll then devote myself to
being your nomenclator."

We walked up to Lady Babbleton, who had already disposed of her
daughters, and was sitting in solitary dignity at the end of the room.

"My dear Lady Babbleton," cried Lady Harriett, taking both the hands of
the dowager, "I am so glad to see you, and how well you are looking; and
your charming daughters, how are they?--sweet girls!--and how long have
you been here?"

"We have only just come," replied the cidevant milliner, half rising and
rustling her plumes in stately agitation, like a nervous parrot; "we must
conform to modern ours, Lady Arriett, though for my part, I like the
old-fashioned plan of dining early, and finishing one's gaieties before
midnight; but I set the fashion of good ours as well as I can. I think
it's a duty we owe to society, Lady Arriett, to encourage morality by our
own example. What else do we have rank for?" And, so saying, the counter
countess drew herself up with a most edifying air of moral dignity.

Lady Harriett looked at me, and perceiving that my eye said "go on," as
plain as eye could possibly speak, she continued--"Which of the wells do
you attend, Lady Babbleton?"

"All," replied the patronizing dowager. "I like to encourage the poor
people here; I've no notion of being proud because one has a title, Lady
Arriett."

"No," rejoined the worthy helpmate of Sir Lionel Garrett; "every body
talks of your condescension, Lady Babbleton; but are you not afraid of
letting yourself down by going every where?"

"Oh," answered the countess, "I admit very few into my set, at home, but
I go out promiscuously;" and then, looking at me, she said, in a whisper,
to Lady Harriett, "Who is that nice young gentleman?"

"Mr. Pelham," replied Lady Harriett; and, turning to me, formally
introduced us to each other.

"Are you any relation (asked the dowager) to Lady Frances Pelham?"

"Only her son," said I.

"Dear me," replied Lady Babbleton, "how odd; what a nice elegant woman
she is! She does not go much out, does she? I don't often meet her."

"I should not think it likely that your ladyship did meet her much. She
does not visit promiscuously."

"Every rank has its duty," said Lady Harriett, gravely; "your mother, Mr.
Pelham, may confine her circle as much as she pleases; but the high rank
of Lady Babbleton requires greater condescension; just as the Dukes of
Sussex and Gloucester go to many places where you and I would not."

"Very true!" said the innocent dowager; "and that's a very sensible
remark! Were you at Bath last winter, Mr. Pelham?" continued the
countess, whose thoughts wandered from subject to subject in the most
rudderless manner.

"No, Lady Babbleton, I was unfortunately at a less distinguished place."

"What was that?"

"Paris!"

"Oh, indeed! I've never been abroad; I don't think persons of a certain
rank should leave England; they should stay at home and encourage their
own manufactories."

"Ah!" cried I, taking hold of Lady Babbleton's shawl, "what a pretty
Manchester pattern this is."

"Manchester pattern!" exclaimed the petrified peeress; "why it is real
cachemere: you don't think I wear any thing English, Mr. Pelham?"

"I beg your ladyship ten thousand pardons. I am no judge of dress; but to
return--I am quite of your opinion, that we ought to encourage our own
manufactories, and not go abroad: but one cannot stay long on the
Continent, even if one is decoyed there. One soon longs for home again."

"Very sensibly remarked," rejoined Lady Babbleton: "that's what I call
true patriotism and morality. I wish all the young men of the present day
were like you. Oh, dear!--here's a great favourite of mine coming this
way--Mr. Ritson!--do you know him; shall I introduce you?"

"God forbid!" exclaimed I--frightened out of my wits, and my manners.
"Come, Lady Harriett, let us rejoin Sir Lionel;" and, "swift at the
word," Lady Harriett retook my arm, nodded her adieu to Lady Babbleton,
and withdrew with me to an obscurer part of the room.

Here we gave way to our laughter for some time, till, at last, getting
weary of the Cheltenham Cleopatra, I reminded Lady Harriett of her
promise to name to me the various personages of the assemblage.

"Eh bien," began Lady Harriett; "d'abord, you observe that very short
person, somewhat more than inclined to enbonpoint?"

"What, that thing like a Chinese tumbler--that peg of old clothes--that
one foot square of mortality, with an aquatic-volucrine face, like a
spoonbill?"

"The very same," said Lady Harriett, laughing; "she is a Lady Gander. She
professes to be a patroness of literature, and holds weekly soirees in
London, for all the newspaper poets. She also falls in love every year,
and then she employs her minstrels to write sonnets: her son has a most
filial tenderness for a jointure of L10,000. a-year, which she casts away
on these feasts and follies; and, in order to obtain it, declares the
good lady to be insane. Half of her friends he has bribed, or persuaded,
to be of his opinion: the other half stoutly maintain her rationality;
and, in fact, she herself is divided in her own opinion as to the case;
for she is in the habit of drinking to a most unsentimental excess, and
when the fit of intoxication is upon her, she confesses to the charge
brought against her--supplicates for mercy and brandy, and totters to bed
with the air of a Magdalene; but when she recovers the next morning, the
whole scene is changed; she is an injured woman, a persecuted saint, a
female Sophocles--declared to be mad only because she is a miracle. Poor
Harry Darlington called upon her in town, the other day; he found her
sitting in a large chair, and surrounded by a whole host of hangers-on,
who were disputing by no means sotto voce, whether Lady Gander was mad or
not? Henry was immediately appealed to:--'Now, is not this a proof of
insanity?' said one.--'Is not this a mark of compos mentis?' cried
another. 'I appeal to you, Mr. Darlington,' exclaimed all. Meanwhile the
object of the conversation sate in a state of maudlin insensibility,
turning her head, first on one side, and then on the other; and nodding
to all the disputants, as if agreeing with each. But enough of her. Do
you observe that lady in--"

"Good heavens!" exclaimed I, starting up, "is that--can that be Tyrrell?"

"What's the matter with the man?" cried Lady Harriett.

I quickly recovered my presence of mind, and reseated myself: "Pray
forgive me, Lady Harriett," said I; "but I think, nay, I am sure, I see a
person I once met under very particular circumstances. Do you observe
that dark man in deep mourning, who has just entered the room, and is now
speaking to Sir Ralph Rumford?"

"I do, it is Sir John Tyrrell!" replied Lady Harriett: "he only came to
Cheltenham yesterday. His is a very singular history."

"What is it?" said I, eagerly.

"Why! he was the only son of a younger branch of the Tyrrells; a very old
family, as the name denotes. He was a great deal in a certain roue set,
for some years, and was celebrated for his affaires du coeur. His fortune
was, however, perfectly unable to satisfy his expenses; he took to
gambling, and lost the remains of his property. He went abroad, and used
to be seen at the low gaming houses at Paris, earning a very degraded and
precarious subsistence; till, about three months ago, two persons, who
stood between him and the title and estates of the family, died, and most
unexpectedly he succeeded to both. They say that he was found in the most
utter penury and distress, in a small cellar at Paris; however that may
be, he is now Sir John Tyrrell, with a very large income, and in spite of
a certain coarseness of manner, probably acquired by the low company he
latterly kept, he is very much liked, and even admired by the few good
people in the society of Cheltenham."

At this instant Tyrrell passed us; he caught my eye, stopped short, and
coloured violently. I bowed; he seemed undecided for a moment as to the
course he should adopt; it was but for a moment. He returned my
salutation with great appearance of cordiality; shook me warmly by the
hand; expressed himself delighted to meet me; inquired where I was
staying, and said he should certainly call upon me. With this promise he
glided on, and was soon lost among the crowd.

"Where did you meet him?" said Lady Harriett.

"At Paris."

"What! was he in decent society there?"

"I don't know," said I. "Good night, Lady Harriett;" and, with an air of
extreme lassitude, I took my hat, and vanished from that motley mixture
of the fashionably low and the vulgarly genteel!




CHAPTER XLI.

                             Full many a lady
             I have eyed with best regard, and many a time
             The harmony of their tongues hath unto bondage
             Drawn my too diligent eyes.
                          But you, oh! you,
             So perfect and so peerless, are created
             Of every creature's best.
             --Shakspeare.

Thou wilt easily conceive, my dear reader, who hast been in my confidence
throughout the whole of this history, and whom, though as yet thou hast
cause to esteem me but lightly, I already love as my familiar and my
friend--thou wilt easily conceive my surprise at meeting so unexpectedly
with my old hero of the gambling house. I felt indeed perfectly stunned
at the shock of so singular a change in his circumstances since I had
last met him. My thoughts reverted immediately to that scene, and to the
mysterious connection between Tyrrell and Glanville. How would the latter
receive the intelligence of his enemy's good fortune? was his vengeance
yet satisfied, or through what means could it now find vent?

A thousand thoughts similar to these occupied and distracted my attention
till morning, when I summoned Bedos into the room to read me to sleep. He
opened a play of Monsieur Delavigne's, and at the beginning of the second
scene I was in the land of dreams.

I woke about two o'clock; dressed, sipped my chocolate, and was on the
point of arranging my hat to the best advantage, when I received the
following note:

"My Dear Pelham,

"Me tibi commendo. I heard this morning, at your hotel, that you were
here; my heart was a house of joy at the intelligence. I called upon you
two hours ago; but, like Antony, 'you revel long o' nights.' Ah, that I
could add with Shakspeare, that you were 'notwithstanding up.' I have
just come from Paris, that umbilicus terrae, and my adventures since I
saw you, for your private satisfaction, 'because I love you, I will let
you know;' but you must satisfy me with a meeting. Till you do, 'the
mighty gods defend you!'

"Vincent."

The hotel from which Vincent dated this epistle, was in the same street
as my own caravansera, and to this hotel I immediately set off. I found
my friend sitting before a huge folio, which he in vain endeavoured to
persuade me that he seriously intended to read. We greeted each other
with the greatest cordiality.

"But how," said Vincent, after the first warmth of welcome had subsided,
"how shall I congratulate you upon your new honours? I was not prepared
to find you grown from a roue into a senator.

           "'In gathering votes you were not slack,
             Now stand as tightly by your tack,
             Ne'er show your lug an' fidge your back,
                             An' hum an' haw;
             But raise your arm, an' tell your crack
                                     Before them a'.'

"So saith Burns; advice which, being interpreted, meaneth, that you must
astonish the rats of St. Stephen's."

"Alas!" said I, "all one's clap-traps in that house must be baited."

"Nay, but a rat bites at any cheese, from Gloucester to Parmasan, and you
can easily scrape up a bit of some sort. Talking of the House, do you
see, by the paper, that the civic senator, Alderman W--, is at
Cheltenham?"

"I was not aware of it. I suppose he's cramming speeches and turtle for
the next season."

"How wonderfully," said Vincent, "your city dignities unloose the tongue:
directly a man has been a mayor, he thinks himself qualified for a Tully
at least. Faith, Venables asked me one day, what was the Latin for
spouting? and I told him, 'hippomanes, or a raging humour in mayors.'"

After I had paid, through the medium of my risible muscles, due homage to
this witticism of Vincent's, he shut up his folio, called for his hat,
and we sauntered down into the street. As we passed by one of the
libraries, a whole mob of the dandies of the last night were lounging
about the benches placed before the shop windows.

"Pray, Vincent," said I, "remark those worthies, and especially that tall
meagre youth in the blue frock-coat, and the buff waistcoat; he is Mr.
Ritson, the De Rous (viz. the finished gentleman) of the place."

"I see him," answered Vincent: "he seems a most happy mixture of native
coarseness and artificial decoration. He puts me in mind of the picture
of the great ox set in a gilt frame."

"Or a made dish in Bloomsbury-square, garnished with cut carrots, by way
of adornment," said I.

"Or a flannel petticoat, with a fine crape over it," added Vincent.
"Well, well, these imitators are, after all, not worse than the
originals. When do you go up to town?"

"Not till my senatorial duties require me."

"Do you stay here till then?"

"As it pleases the gods. But, good Heavens! Vincent, what a beautiful
girl!"

Vincent turned. "O Dea certe," murmured he, and stopped.

The object of our exclamations was standing by a corner shop, apparently
waiting for some one within. Her face, at the moment I first saw her, was
turned full towards me. Never had I seen any countenance half so lovely.
She was apparently about twenty; her hair was of the richest chesnut, and
a golden light played through its darkness, as if a sunbeam had been
caught in those luxuriant tresses, and was striving in vain to escape.
Her eyes were of a light hazel, large, deep, and shaded into softness (to
use a modern expression) by long and very dark lashes. Her complexion
alone would have rendered her beautiful, it was so clear--so pure; the
blood blushed beneath it, like roses under a clear stream; if, in order
to justify my simile, roses would have the complacency to grow in such a
situation. Her nose was of that fine and accurate mould that one so
seldom sees, except in the Grecian statues, which unites the clearest and
most decided outline with the most feminine delicacy and softness; and
the short curved arch which descended from thence to her mouth, was so
fine--so airily and exquisitely formed, that it seemed as if Love himself
had modelled the bridge which led to his most beautiful and fragrant
island. On the right side of the mouth was one dimple, which corresponded
so exactly with every smile and movement of those rosy lips, that you
might have sworn the shadow of each passed there; it was like the rapid
changes of an April heaven reflected upon a valley. She was somewhat, but
not much, taller that the ordinary height; and her figure, which united
all the first freshness and youth of the girl with the more luxuriant
graces of the woman, was rounded and finished so justly, so minutely,
that the eye could glance over the whole, without discovering the least
harshness or unevenness, or atom, to be added or subtracted. But over all
these was a light, a glow, a pervading spirit, of which it is impossible
to convey the faintest idea. You should have seen her by the side of a
shaded fountain on a summer's day. You should have watched her amidst
music and flowers, and she might have seemed to you like the fairy that
presided over both. So much for poetical description.

"What think you of her, Vincent?" said I.

"I say, with Theocritus, in his epithalamium of Helen--"

"Say no such thing," said I: "I will not have her presence profaned by
any helps from your memory."

At that moment the girl turned round abruptly, and re-entered the shop,
at the door of which she had been standing. It was a small perfumer's
shop. "Thank Heaven," said I, "that she does use perfumes. What scents
can she now be hesitating between?--the gentle bouquet du roi, the
cooling esprit de Portugal, the mingled treasures des mellifleurs, the
less distinct but agreeably adulterated miel, the sweet May-recalling
esprit des violets, or the--"

"Omnis copia narium," said Vincent: "let us enter; I want some eau de
Cologne."

I desired no second invitation: we marched into the shop. My Armida was
leaning on the arm of an old lady. She blushed deeply when she saw us
enter; and, as ill-luck would have it, the old lady concluded her
purchases the moment after, and they withdrew.

                "'Who had thought this clime had held
                A deity so unparallel'd!'"

justly observed my companion.

I made no reply. All the remainder of that day I was absent and reserved;
and Vincent, perceiving that I no longer laughed at his jokes, nor smiled
at his quotations, told me I was sadly changed for the worse, and
pretended an engagement, to rid himself of an auditor so obtuse.




CHAPTER XLII.

           Tout notre mal vient de ne pouvoir etre seuls; de la le jeu,
           le luxe, la dissipation, le vin, les femmes, l'ignorance,
           la medisance, l'envie, l'oubli de soi-meme et de Dieu.
           --La Bruyere.

The next day I resolved to call upon Tyrrell, seeing that he had not yet
kept his promise of anticipating me, and being very desirous not to lose
any opportunity of improving my acquaintance with him; accordingly, I
sent my valet to make inquiries as to his abode. I found that he lodged
in the same hotel as myself; and having previously ascertained that he
was at home, I made up my features into their most winning expression,
and was ushered by the head waiter into the gamester's apartment.

He was sitting by the fire in a listless, yet thoughtful attitude. His
muscular and rather handsome person, was indued in a dressing-gown of
rich brocade, thrown on with a slovenly nonchalance. His stockings were
about his heels, his hair was dishevelled, and the light streaming
through the half-drawn window-curtains, rested upon the grey flakes with
which its darker luxuriance was interspersed, and the cross light in
which he had the imprudence or misfortune to sit (odious cross light,
which even I already begin carefully to avoid), fully developed the deep
wrinkles which years and dissipation had planted round his eyes and
mouth. I was quite startled at the oldness and haggardness of his
appearance.

He rose gracefully enough when I was announced; and no sooner had the
waiter retired, than he came up to me, shook me warmly by the hand, and
said, "Let me thank you now for the attention you formerly shewed me,
when I was less able to express my acknowledgments. I shall be proud to
cultivate your intimacy."

I answered him in the same strain, and in the course of conversation,
made myself so entertaining, that he agreed to spend the remainder of the
day with me. We ordered our horses at three, and our dinner at seven, and
I left him till the former were ready, in order to allow him time for his
toilet.

During our ride we talked principally on general subjects, on the various
differences of France and England, on horses, on wines, on women, on
politics, on all things, except that which had created our acquaintance.
His remarks were those of a strong, ill-regulated mind, which had made
experience supply the place of the reasoning faculties; there was a
looseness in his sentiments, and a licentiousness in his opinions, which
startled even me (used as I had been to rakes of all schools); his
philosophy was of that species which thinks that the best maxim of wisdom
is--to despise. Of men he spoke with the bitterness of hatred; of women,
with the levity of contempt. France had taught him its debaucheries, but
not the elegance which refines them: if his sentiments were low, the
language in which they were clothed was meaner still: and that which
makes the morality of the upper classes, and which no criminal is
supposed to be hardy enough to reject; that religion which has no
scoffers, that code which has no impugners, that honour among gentlemen,
which constitutes the moving principle of the society in which they live,
he seemed to imagine, even in its most fundamental laws, was an authority
to which nothing but the inexperience of the young, and the credulity of
the romantic, could accede.

Upon the whole, he seemed to me a "bold, bad man," with just enough of
intellect to teach him to be a villain, without that higher degree which
shews him that it is the worst course for his interest; and just enough
of daring to make him indifferent to the dangers of guilt, though it was
not sufficient to make him conquer and control them. For the rest, he
loved trotting better than cantering--piqued himself upon being
manly--wore doe-skin gloves--drank port wine, par preference, and
considered beef-steaks and oysters as the most delicate dish in the whole
carte. I think, now, reader, you have a tolerably good view of his
character.

After dinner, when we were discussing the second bottle, I thought it
would not be a bad opportunity to question him upon his acquaintance with
Glanville. His countenance fell directly I mentioned that name. However,
he rallied himself. "Oh," said he, "you mean the soi-disant Warburton. I
knew him some years back--he was a poor silly youth, half mad, I believe,
and particularly hostile to me, owing to some foolish disagreement when
he was quite a boy."

"What was the cause?" said I.

"Nothing--nothing of any consequence," answered Tyrrell; and then added,
with an air of coxcombry, "I believe I was more fortunate than he, in an
affaire du coeur. Poor Granville is a little romantic, you know. But
enough of this now: shall we go to the rooms?"

"With pleasure," said I; and to the rooms we went.




CHAPTER XLIII.

                   Veteres revocavit artes.
                                 --Horace.

                   Since I came hither I have heard strange news.
                                 --King Lear.

Two days after my long conversation with Tyrrell, I called again upon
that worthy. To my great surprise he had left Cheltenham. I then strolled
to Vincent: I found him lolling on his sofa, surrounded, as usual, with
books and papers.

"Come in, Pelham," said he, as I hesitated at the threshold--"come in. I
have been delighting myself with Plato all the morning; I scarcely know
what it is that enchants us so much with the ancients. I rather believe,
with Schlegel, that it is that air of perfect repose--the stillness of a
deep soul, which rests over their writings. Whatever would appear
common-place amongst us, has with them I know not what of sublimity and
pathos. Triteness seems the profundity of truth--wildness the daring of a
luxuriant imagination. The fact is, that in spite of every fault, you see
through all the traces of original thought; there is a contemplative
grandeur in their sentiments, which seems to have nothing borrowed in its
meaning or its dress. Take, for instance, this fragment of Mimnermus, on
the shortness of life,--what subject can seem more tame?--what less
striking than the feelings he expresses?--and yet, throughout every line,
there is a melancholy depth and tenderness, which it is impossible to
define. Of all English writers who partake the most of this spirit of
conveying interest and strength to sentiments, subjects, and language,
neither novel in themselves, nor adorned in their arrangement, I know
none that equal Byron; it is indeed the chief beauty of that
extraordinary poet. Examine Childe Harold accurately, and you will be
surprised to discover how very little of real depth or novelty there
often is in the reflections which seem most deep and new. You are
enchained by the vague but powerful beauty of the style; the strong
impress of originality which breathes throughout. Like the oracle of
Dodona, he makes the forest his tablets, and writes his inspirations upon
the leaves of the trees: but the source of that inspiration you cannot
tell; it is neither the truth nor the beauty of his sayings which you
admire, though you fancy that it is: it is the mystery which accompanies
them."

"Pray," said I, stretching myself listlessly on the opposite sofa to
Vincent, "do you not imagine that one great cause of this spirit of which
you speak, and which seems to be nothing more than a thoughtful method of
expressing all things, even to trifles, was the great loneliness to which
the ancient poets and philosophers were attached? I think (though I have
not your talent for quoting) that Cicero calls the consideratio naturae,
the pabulum animi; and the mind which, in solitude, is confined
necessarily to a few objects, meditates more closely upon those it
embraces: the habit of this meditation enters and pervades the system,
and whatever afterwards emanates from it is tinctured with the thoughtful
and contemplative colours it has received."

"Heus Domine!" cried Vincent: "how long have you learnt to read Cicero,
and talk about the mind?"

"Ah," said I, "I am perhaps less ignorant than I affect to be: it is now
my object to be a dandy; hereafter I may aspire to be an orator--a wit, a
scholar, or a Vincent. You will see then that there have been many odd
quarters of an hour in my life less unprofitably wasted than you
imagine."

Vincent rose in a sort of nervous excitement, and then reseating himself,
fixed his dark bright eyes steadfastly upon me for some moments; his
countenance all the while assuming a higher and graver expression than I
had ever before seen it wear.

"Pelham," said he, at last, "it is for the sake of moments like these,
when your better nature flashes out, that I have sought your society and
your friendship. I, too, am not wholly what I appear: the world may yet
see that Halifax was not the only statesman whom the pursuits of
literature had only formed the better for the labours of business.
Meanwhile, let me pass for the pedant, and the bookworm: like a sturdier
adventurer than myself, 'I bide my time.'--Pelham--this will be a busy
session! shall you prepare for it?"

"Nay," answered I, relapsing into my usual tone of languid affectation;
"I shall have too much to do in attending to Stultz, and Nugee, and
Tattersall and Baxter, and a hundred other occupiers of spare time.
Remember, this is my first season in London since my majority."

Vincent took up the newspaper with evident chagrin; however, he was too
theoretically the man of the world, long to shew his displeasure.
"Parr--Parr--again," said he; "how they stuff the journals with that
name. God knows, I venerate learning as much as any man; but I respect it
for its uses, and not for itself. However, I will not quarrel with his
reputation--it is but for a day. Literary men, who leave nothing but
their name to posterity, have but a short twilight of posthumous renown.
Apropos, do you know my pun upon Parr and the Major?"

"Not I," said I, "Majora canamus!"

"Why, Parr and I, and two or three more were dining once at poor T.
M--'s, the author of 'The Indian Antiquities.'Major--, a great traveller,
entered into a dispute with Parr about Babylon; the Doctor got into a
violent passion, and poured out such a heap of quotations on his
unfortunate antagonist, that the latter, stunned by the clamour, and
terrified by the Greek, was obliged to succumb. Parr turned triumphantly
to me: 'What is your opinion, my lord,' said he; 'who is in the right?'

"Adversis major--par secundis," answered I.

"Vincent," I said, after I had expressed sufficient admiration at his
pun--"Vincent, I begin to be weary of this life; I shall accordingly pack
up my books and myself, and go to Malvern Wells, to live quietly till I
think it time for London. After to-day, you will, therefore, see me no
more."

"I cannot," answered Vincent, "contravene so laudable a purpose, however
I may be the loser." And after a short and desultory conversation, I left
him once more to the tranquil enjoyment of his Plato. That evening I went
to Malvern, and there I remained in a monotonous state of existence,
dividing my time equally between my mind and my body, and forming myself
into that state of contemplative reflection, which was the object of
Vincent's admiration in the writings of the ancients.

Just when I was on the point of leaving my retreat, I received an
intelligence which most materially affected my future prospects. My
uncle, who had arrived to the sober age of fifty, without any apparent
designs of matrimony, fell suddenly in love with a lady in his immediate
neighbourhood, and married her, after a courtship of three weeks.

"I should not," said my poor mother, very generously, in a subsequent
letter, "so much have minded his marriage, if the lady had not thought
proper to become in the family way; a thing which I do and always shall
consider a most unwarrantable encroachment on your rights."

I will confess that, on first hearing this news, I experienced a bitter
pang; but I reasoned it away. I was already under great obligations to my
uncle, and I felt it a very unjust and ungracious assumption on my part,
to affect anger at conduct I had no right to question, or mortification
at the loss of pretensions I had so equivocal a privilege to form. A man
of fifty has, perhaps, a right to consult his own happiness, almost as
much as a man of thirty; and if he attracts by his choice the ridicule of
those whom he has never obliged, it is at least from those persons he has
obliged, that he is to look for countenance and defence.

Fraught with these ideas, I wrote to my uncle a sincere and warm letter
of congratulation. His answer was, like himself, kind, affectionate, and
generous: it informed me that he had already made over to me the annual
sum of one thousand pounds; and that in case of his having a lineal heir,
he had, moreover, settled upon me, after his death, two thousand a-year.
He ended by assuring me, that his only regret at marrying a lady who, in
all respects, was above all women, calculated to make him happy, was his
unfeigned reluctance to deprive me of a station, which (he was pleased to
say), I not only deserved, but should adorn.

Upon receiving this letter, I was sensibly affected with my uncle's
kindness; and so far from repining at his choice, I most heartily wished
him every blessing it could afford him, even though an heir to the titles
of Glenmorris were one of them.

I protracted my stay at Malvern some weeks longer than I had intended;
the circumstance which had wrought so great a change in my fortune,
wrought no less powerfully on my character. I became more thoughtfully
and solidly ambitious. Instead of wasting my time in idle regrets at the
station I had lost, I rather resolved to carve out for myself one still
loftier and more universally acknowledged. I determined to exercise, to
their utmost, the little ability and knowledge I possessed; and while the
increase of income, derived from my uncle's generosity, furnished me with
what was necessary for my luxury, I was resolved that it should not
encourage me in the indulgence of my indolence.

In this mood, and with these intentions, I repaired to the metropolis.

                               VOLUME IV.




CHAPTER XLIV.

             Cum pulchris tunicis sumet nova consilia et spes.
                          --Horace.

             And look always that they be shape,
             What garment that thou shalt make
             Of him that can best do
             With all that pertaineth thereto.
                          --Romaunt of the Rose

How well I can remember the feelings with which I entered London, and
took possession of the apartments prepared for me at Mivart's. A year had
made a vast alteration in my mind; I had ceased to regard pleasure for
its own sake, I rather coveted its enjoyments, as the great sources of
worldly distinction. I was not the less a coxcomb than heretofore, nor
the less a voluptuary, nor the less choice in my perfumes, nor the less
fastidious in my horses and my dress; but I viewed these matters in a
light wholly different from that in which I had hitherto regarded them.
Beneath all the carelessness of my exterior, my mind was close, keen, and
inquiring; and under the affectations of foppery, and the levity of a
manner almost unique, for the effeminacy of its tone, I veiled an
ambition the most extensive in its object, and a resolution the most
daring in the accomplishment of its means.

I was still lounging over my breakfast, on the second morning of my
arrival, when Mr. N--, the tailor, was announced.

"Good morning, Mr. Pelham; happy to see you returned. Do I disturb you
too early? shall I wait on you again?"

"No, Mr. N--, I am ready to receive you; you may renew my measure."

"We are a very good figure, Mr. Pelham; very good figure," replied the
Schneider, surveying me from head to foot, while he was preparing his
measure; "we want a little assistance though; we must be padded well
here; we must have our chest thrown out, and have an additional inch
across the shoulders; we must live for effect in this world, Mr. Pelham;
a leetle tighter round the waist, eh?"

"Mr. N--," said I, "you will take, first, my exact measure, and,
secondly, my exact instructions. Have you done the first?"

"We are done now, Mr. Pelham," replied my man-maker, in a slow, solemn
tone.

"You will have the goodness then to put no stuffing of any description in
my coat; you will not pinch me an iota tighter across the waist than is
natural to that part of my body, and you will please, in your infinite
mercy, to leave me as much after the fashion in which God made me, as you
possibly can."

"But, Sir, we must be padded; we are much too thin; all the gentlemen in
the Life Guards are padded, Sir."

"Mr. N--," answered I, "you will please to speak of us, with a separate,
and not a collective pronoun; and you will let me for once have my
clothes such as a gentleman, who, I beg of you to understand, is not a
Life Guardsman, can wear without being mistaken for a Guy Fawkes on a
fifth of November."

Mr. N--looked very discomfited: "We shall not be liked, Sir, when we are
made--we sha'n't, I assure you. I will call on Saturday at 11 o'clock.
Good morning, Mr. Pelham; we shall never be done justice to, if we do not
live for effect; good morning, Mr. Pelham."

Scarcely had Mr. N--retired, before Mr.--, his rival, appeared. The
silence and austerity of this importation from Austria, were very
refreshing after the orations of Mr. N--.

"Two frock-coats, Mr.--," said I, "one of them brown, velvet collar same
colour; the other, dark grey, no stuffing, and finished by Wednesday.
Good morning, Mr.--."

"Monsieur B--, un autre tailleur," said Bedos, opening the door after Mr.
S.'s departure.

"Admit him," said I. "Now for the most difficult article of dress--the
waistcoat."

And here, as I am weary of tailors, let me reflect a little upon that
divine art of which they are the professors. Alas, for the instability of
all human sciences! A few short months ago, in the first edition of this
memorable Work, I laid down rules for costume, the value of which,
Fashion begins already to destroy. The thoughts which I shall now embody,
shall be out of the reach of that great innovator, and applicable not to
one age, but to all. To the sagacious reader, who has already discovered
what portions of this work are writ in irony--what in earnest--I
fearlessly commit these maxims; beseeching him to believe, with Sterne,
that "every thing is big with jest, and has wit in it, and instruction
too, if we can but find it out!"


MAXIMS.

1. Do not require your dress so much to fit, as to adorn you. Nature is
not to be copied, but to be exalted by art. Apelles blamed Protogenes for
being too natural.

2. Never in your dress altogether desert that taste which is general. The
world considers eccentricity in great things, genius; in small things,
folly.

3. Always remember that you dress to fascinate others, not yourself.

4. Keep your mind free from all violent affections at the hour of the
toilet. A philosophical serenity is perfectly necessary to success.
Helvetius says justly, that our errors arise from our passions.

5. Remember that none but those whose courage is unquestionable, can
venture to be effeminate. It was only in the field that the Lacedemonians
were accustomed to use perfumes and curl their hair.

6. Never let the finery of chains and rings seem your own choice; that
which naturally belongs to women should appear only worn for their sake.
We dignify foppery, when we invest it with a sentiment.

7. To win the affection of your mistress, appear negligent in your
costume--to preserve it, assiduous: the first is a sign of the passion of
love; the second, of its respect.

8. A man must be a profound calculator to be a consummate dresser. One
must not dress the same, whether one goes to a minister or a mistress; an
avaricious uncle, or an ostentatious cousin: there is no diplomacy more
subtle than that of dress.

9. Is the great man whom you would conciliate a coxcomb?--go to him in a
waistcoat like his own. "Imitation," says the author of Lacon, "is the
sincerest flattery."

10. The handsome may be shewy in dress, the plain should study to be
unexceptionable; just as in great men we look for something to admire--in
ordinary men we ask for nothing to forgive.

11. There is a study of dress for the aged, as well as for the young.
Inattention is no less indecorous in one than in the other; we may
distinguish the taste appropriate to each, by the reflection that youth
is made to be loved--age, to be respected.

12. A fool may dress gaudily, but a fool cannot dress well--for to dress
well requires judgment; and Rochefaucault says with truth, "On est
quelquefois un sot avec de l'esprit, mais on ne lest jamais avec du
jugement."

13. There may be more pathos in the fall of a collar, or the curl of a
lock, than the shallow think for. Should we be so apt as we are now to
compassionate the misfortunes, and to forgive the insincerity of Charles
I., if his pictures had pourtrayed him in a bob wig and a pigtail?
Vandyke was a greater sophist than Hume.

14. The most graceful principle of dress is neatness--the most vulgar is
preciseness.

15. Dress contains the two codes of morality--private and public.
Attention is the duty we owe to others--cleanliness that which we owe to
ourselves.

16. Dress so that it may never be said of you "What a well dressed
man!"--but, "What a gentlemanlike man!"

17. Avoid many colours; and seek, by some one prevalent and quiet tint,
to sober down the others. Apelles used only four colours, and always
subdued those which were more florid, by a darkening varnish.

18. Nothing is superficial to a deep observer! It is in trifles that the
mind betrays itself. "In what part of that letter," said a king to the
wisest of living diplomatists, "did you discover irresolution?"--"In its
ns and gs!" was the answer.

19. A very benevolent man will never shock the feelings of others, by an
excess either of inattention or display; you may doubt, therefore, the
philanthropy both of a sloven and a fop.

20. There is an indifference to please in a stocking down at heel--but
there may be a malevolence in a diamond ring.

21. Inventions in dressing should resemble Addison's definition of fine
writing, and consists of "refinements which are natural, without being
obvious."

22. He who esteems trifles for themselves, is a trifler--he who esteems
them for the conclusions to be drawn from them, or the advantage to which
they can be put, is a philosopher.




CHAPTER XLV.

             Tantot, Monseigneur le Marquis a cheval--
             Tantot, Monsieur du Mazin de bout!
                          --L'Art de se Promener a Cheval.

My cabriolet was at the door, and I was preparing to enter, when I saw a
groom managing, with difficulty, a remarkably fine and spirited horse.
As, at that time, I was chiefly occupied with the desire of making as
perfect an equine collection as my fortune would allow, I sent my cab boy
(vulgo Tiger) to inquire of the groom, whether the horse was to be sold,
and to whom it belonged.

"It was not to be disposed of," was the answer, "and it belonged to Sir
Reginald Glanville."

The name thrilled through me: I drove after the groom, and inquired Sir
Reginald Glanville's address. His house, the groom (whose dark coloured
livery was the very perfection of a right judgment) informed me, was at
No.--Pall Mall. I resolved to call that morning, but first I drove to
Lady Roseville's to talk about Almack's and the beau monde, and be
initiated into the newest scandal and satire of the day.

Lady Roseville was at home; I found the room half full of women: the
beautiful countess was one of the few persons extant who admit people of
a morning. She received me with marked kindness. Seeing that--, who was
esteemed, among his friends, the handsomest man of the day, had risen
from his seat, next to Lady Roseville, in order to make room for me, I
negligently and quietly dropped into it, and answered his grave and angry
stare at my presumption, with my very sweetest and most condescending
smile. Heaven be praised, the handsomest man of the day is never the
chief object in the room, when Henry Pelham and his guardian angel,
termed by his enemies, his self-esteem, once enter it.

"Charming collection you have here, dear Lady Roseville," said I, looking
round the room; "quite a museum! But who is that very polite,
gentlemanlike young man, who has so kindly relinquished his seat to
me,--though it quite grieves me to take it from him?" added I: at the
same time leaning back, with a comfortable projection of the feet, and
establishing myself more securely in my usurped chair. "Pour l'amour de
Dieu, tell me the on dits of the day. Good Heavens! what an unbecoming
glass that is! placed just opposite to me, too! Could it not be removed
while I stay here? Oh! by the by, Lady Roseville, do you patronize the
Bohemian glasses? For my part, I have one which I only look at when I am
out of humour; it throws such a lovely flush upon the complexion, that it
revives my spirits for the rest of the day. Alas! Lady Roseville, I am
looking much paler than when I saw you at Garrett Park; but you--you are
like one of those beautiful flowers which bloom the brightest in the
winter."

"Thank Heaven, Mr. Pelham," said Lady Roseville, laughing, "that you
allow me at last to say one word. You have learned, at least, the art of
making the frais of the conversation since your visit to Paris."

"I understand you," answered I; "you mean that I talk too much; it is
true--I own the offence--nothing is so unpopular! Even I, the civilest,
best natured, most unaffected person in all Europe, am almost disliked,
positively disliked, for that sole and simple crime. Ah! the most beloved
man in society is that deaf and dumb person, comment s'appelle-t-il?"

"Yes," said Lady Roseville, "Popularity is a goddess best worshipped by
negatives; and the fewer claims one has to be admired, the more
pretensions one has to be beloved."

"Perfectly true, in general," said I--"for instance, I make the rule, and
you the exception. I, a perfect paragon, am hated because I am one; you,
a perfect paragon, are idolized in spite of it. But tell me what literary
news is there. I am tired of the trouble of idleness, and in order to
enjoy a little dignified leisure, intend to set up as a savant."

"Oh, Lady C--B--is going to write a Commentary on Ude; and Madame de
Genlis a Proof of the Apocrypha. The Duke of N--e is publishing a
Treatise on 'Toleration;'and Lord L--y an Essay on 'Self-knowledge.'As
for news more remote, I hear that the Dey of Algiers is finishing an 'Ode
to Liberty,'and the College of Caffraria preparing a volume of voyages to
the North Pole!"

"Now," said I, "if I retail this information with a serious air, I will
lay a wager that I find plenty of believers; for falsehood, uttered
solemnly, is much more like probability than truth uttered doubtingly:
else how do the priests of Brama and Mahomet live?"

"Ah! now you grow too profound, Mr. Pelham!"

"C'est vrai--but--"

"Tell me," interrupted Lady Roseville, "how it happens that you, who talk
eruditely enough upon matters of erudition, should talk so lightly upon
matters of levity?"

"Why," said I, rising to depart, "very great minds are apt to think that
all which they set any value upon, is of equal importance. Thus Hesiod,
who, you know, was a capital poet, though rather an imitator of
Shenstone, tells us that God bestowed valour on some men, and on others a
genius for dancing. It was reserved for me, Lady Roseville, to unite the
two perfections. Adieu!"

"Thus," said I, when I was once more alone--"thus do we 'play the fools
with the time,'until Fate brings that which is better than folly; and,
standing idly upon the sea-shore, till we can catch the favouring wind
which is to waft the vessel of our destiny to enterprise and fortune,
amuse ourselves with the weeds and the pebbles which are within our
reach!"




CHAPTER XLVI.

             There was a youth who, as with toil and travel,
             Had grown quite weak and grey before his time;
             Nor any could the restless grief unravel,
             Which burned within him, withering up his prime,
             And goading him, like fiends, from land to land.
                          --P. B. Shelley.

From Lady Roseville's I went to Glanville's house. He was at home. I was
ushered into a beautiful apartment, hung with rich damask, and
interspersed with a profusion of mirrors, which enchanted me to the
heart. Beyond, to the right of this room, was a small boudoir, fitted up
with books, and having, instead of carpets, soft cushions of dark green
velvet, so as to supersede the necessity of chairs. This room, evidently
a favourite retreat, was adorned at close intervals with girandoles of
silver and mother-of-pearl; and the interstices of the book-cases were
filled with mirrors, set in silver: the handles of the doors were of the
same metal.

Beyond this library (if such it might be called), and only divided from
it by half-drawn curtains of the same colour and material as the cushion,
was a bath room. The decorations of this room were of a delicate rose
colour: the bath, which was of the most elaborate workmanship,
represented, in the whitest marble, a shell, supported by two Tritons.
There was, as Glanville afterwards explained to me, a machine in this
room which kept up a faint but perpetual breeze, and the light curtains,
waving to and fro, scattered about perfumes of the most exquisite odour.

Through this luxurious chamber I was led, by the obsequious and bowing
valet, into a fourth room, in which, opposite to a toilet of massive
gold, and negligently robed in his dressing-gown, sate Reginald
Glanville:--"Good Heavens," thought I, as I approached him, "can this be
the man who made his residence par choix, in a miserable hovel, exposed
to all the damps, winds, and vapours, that the prolific generosity of an
English Heaven ever begot?"

Our meeting was cordial in the extreme. Glanville, though still pale and
thin, appeared in much better health than I had yet seen him since our
boyhood. He was, or affected to be, in the most joyous spirits; and when
his dark blue eye lighted up, in answer to the merriment of his lips, and
his noble and glorious cast of countenance shone out, as if it had never
been clouded by grief or passion, I thought, as I looked at him, that I
had never seen so perfect a specimen of masculine beauty, at once
physical and intellectual.

"My dear Pelham," said Glanville, "let us see a great deal of each other:
I live very much alone: I have an excellent cook, sent me over from
France, by the celebrated gourmand Marechal de--. I dine every day
exactly at eight, and never accept an invitation to dine elsewhere. My
table is always laid for three, and you will, therefore, be sure of
finding a dinner here every day you have no better engagement. What think
you of my taste in furnishing?"

"I have only to say," answered I, "that since I am so often to dine with
you, I hope your taste in wines will be one half as good."

"We are all," said Glanville, with a faint smile, "we are all, in the
words of the true old proverb, 'children of a larger growth.'Our first
toy is love--our second, display, according as our ambition prompts us to
exert it. Some place it in horses--some in honours, some in feasts, and
some--voici un exemple--in furniture. So true it is, Pelham, that our
earliest longings are the purest: in love, we covet goods for the sake of
the one beloved; in display, for our own: thus, our first stratum of mind
produces fruit for others; our second becomes niggardly, and bears only
sufficient for ourselves. But enough of my morals--will you drive me out,
if I dress quicker than you ever saw man dress before?"

"No," said I; "for I make it a rule never to drive out a badly dressed
friend; take time, and I will let you accompany me."

"So be it then. Do you ever read? If so, my books are made to be opened,
and you may toss them over while I am at my toilet."

"You are very good," said I, "but I never do read."

"Look--here," said Glanville, "are two works, one of poetry--one on the
Catholic Question--both dedicated to me. Seymour--my waistcoat. See what
it is to furnish a house differently from other people; one becomes a bel
esprit, and a Mecaenas, immediately. Believe me, if you are rich enough
to afford it, that there is no passport to fame like eccentricity.
Seymour--my coat. I am at your service, Pelham. Believe hereafter that
one may dress well in a short time?"

"One may do it, but not two--allons!"

I observed that Glanville was dressed in the deepest mourning, and
imagined, from that circumstance, and his accession to the title I heard
applied to him for the first time, that his father was only just dead. In
this opinion I was soon undeceived. He had been dead for some years.
Glanville spoke to me of his family;--"To my mother," said he, "I am
particularly anxious to introduce you--of my sister, I say nothing; I
expect you to be surprised with her. I love her more than any thing on
earth now," and as Glanville said this, a paler shade passed over his
face.

We were in the Park--Lady Roseville passed us--we both bowed to her; as
she returned our greeting, I was struck with the deep and sudden blush
which overspread her countenance. "Can that be for me?" thought I. I
looked towards Glanville: his countenance had recovered its serenity, and
was settled into its usual proud, but not displeasing, calmness of
expression.

"Do you know Lady Roseville well?" said I. "Very," answered Glanville,
laconically, and changed the conversation. As we were leaving the Park,
through Cumberland Gate, we were stopped by a blockade of carriages; a
voice, loud, harsh, and vulgarly accented, called out to Glanville by his
name. I turned, and saw Thornton.

"For God's sake, Pelham, drive on," cried Glanville; "let me, for once,
escape that atrocious plebeian."

Thornton was crossing the road towards us; I waved my hand to him civilly
enough (for I never cut any body), and drove rapidly through the other
gate, without appearing to notice his design of speaking to us.

"Thank Heaven!" said Glanville, and sunk back in a reverie, from which I
could not awaken him, till he was set down at his own door.

When I returned to Mivart's, I found a card from Lord Dawton, and a
letter from my mother.

"My Dear Henry, (began the letter,)

"Lord Dawton having kindly promised to call upon you, personally, with
this note, I cannot resist the opportunity that promise affords me, of
saying how desirous I am that you should cultivate his acquaintance. He
is, you know, among the most prominent leaders of the Opposition; and
should the Whigs, by any possible chance, ever come into power, he would
have a great chance of becoming prime minister. I trust, however, that
you will not adopt that side of the question. The Whigs are a horrid set
of people (politically speaking), vote for the Roman Catholics, and never
get into place; they give very good dinners, however, and till you have
decided upon your politics, you may as well make the most of them. I
hope, by the by, that you see a great deal of Lord Vincent: every one
speaks highly of his talents; and only two weeks ago, he said, publicly,
that he thought you the most promising young man, and the most naturally
clever person, he had ever met. I hope that you will be attentive to your
parliamentary duties; and, oh, Henry, be sure that you see Cartwright,
the dentist, as soon as possible.

"I intend hastening to London three weeks earlier than I had intended, in
order to be useful to you. I have written already to dear Lady Roseville,
begging her to introduce you at Lady C.'s, and Lady--; the only places
worth going to at present. They tell me there is a horrid, vulgar,
ignorant book come out, about--. As you ought to be well versed in modern
literature, I hope you will read it, and give me your opinion. Adieu, my
dear Henry, ever your affectionate mother,

"Frances Pelham."

I was still at my solitary dinner, when the following note was brought me
from Lady Roseville:--

"Dear Mr. Pelham,

"Lady Frances wishes Lady C--to be made acquainted with you; this is her
night, and I therefore enclose you a card. As I dine at--House, I shall
have an opportunity of making your eloge before your arrival. Your's
sincerely,

"C. Roseville."

I wonder, thought I, as I made my toilet, whether or not Lady Roseville
is enamoured with her new correspondent? I went very early, and before I
retired, my vanity was undeceived. Lady Roseville was playing at ecarte,
when I entered. She beckoned to me to approach. I did. Her antagonist was
Mr. Bedford, a natural son of the Duke of Shrewsbury, and one of the best
natured and best looking dandies about town: there was, of course, a
great crowd round the table. Lady Roseville played incomparably; bets
were high in her favour. Suddenly her countenance changed--her hand
trembled--her presence of mind forsook her. She lost the game. I looked
up and saw just opposite to her, but apparently quite careless and
unmoved, Reginald Glanville. We had only time to exchange nods, for Lady
Roseville rose from the table, took my arm, and walked to the other end
of the room, in order to introduce me to my hostess.

I spoke to her a few words, but she was absent and inattentive; my
penetration required no farther proof to convince me that she was not
wholly insensible to the attentions of Glanville. Lady--was as civil and
silly as the generality of Lady Blanks are: and feeling very much bored,
I soon retired to an obscurer corner of the room. Here Glanville joined
me.

"It is but seldom," said he, "that I come to these places; to-night my
sister persuaded me to venture forth."

"Is she here?" said I.

"She is," answered he; "she has just gone into the refreshment room with
my mother, and when she returns, I will introduce you."

While Glanville was yet speaking, three middle-aged ladies, who had been
talking together with great vehemence for the last ten minutes,
approached us.

"Which is he?--which is he?" said two of them, in no inaudible accents.

"This," replied the third; and coming up to Glanville, she addressed him,
to my great astonishment, in terms of the most hyperbolical panegyric.

"Your work is wonderful! wonderful!" said she.

"Oh! quite--quite!" echoed the other two.

"I can't say," recommenced the Coryphoea, "that I like the moral--at
least not quite; no, not quite."

"Not quite," repeated her coadjutrices.

Glanville drew himself up with his most stately air, and after three
profound bows, accompanied by a smile of the most unequivocal contempt,
he turned on his heel, and sauntered away.

"Did your grace ever see such a bear?" said one of the echoes.

"Never," said the duchess, with a mortified air; "but I will have him
yet. How handsome he is for an author!"

I was descending the stairs in the last state of ennui, when Glanville
laid his hand on my shoulder.

"Shall I take you home?" said he: "my carriage has just drawn up."

I was too glad to answer in the affirmative.

"How long have you been an author?" said I, when we were seated in
Glanville's carriage.

"Not many days," he replied. "I have tried one resource after
another--all--all in vain. Oh, God! that for me there could exist such a
blessing as fiction! Must I be ever the martyr of one burning, lasting,
indelible truth!"

Glanville uttered these words with a peculiar wildness and energy of
tone: he then paused abruptly for a minute, and continued, with an
altered voice--"Never, my dear Pelham, be tempted by any inducement into
the pleasing errors of print; from that moment you are public property;
and the last monster at Exeter 'Change has more liberty than you; but
here we are at Mivart's. Addio--I will call on you to-morrow, if my
wretched state of health will allow me."

And with these words we parted.




CHAPTER XLVII.

           Ambition is a lottery, where, however uneven the chances,
           there are some prizes; but in dissipation, every one draws
           a blank.
                     --Letters of Stephen Montague.

The season was not far advanced before I grew heartily tired of what are
nicknamed its gaieties; I shrunk, by rapid degrees, into a very small
orbit, from which I rarely moved. I had already established a certain
reputation for eccentricity, coxcombry, and, to my great astonishment,
also for talent; and my pride was satisfied with finding myself
universally recherche, whilst I indulged my inclinations by rendering
myself universally scarce. I saw much of Vincent, whose varied
acquirements and great talents became more and more perceptible, both as
my own acquaintance with him increased, and as the political events with
which that year was pregnant, called forth their exertion and display. I
went occasionally to Lady Roseville's, and was always treated rather as a
long-known friend, than an ordinary acquaintance; nor did I undervalue
this distinction, for it was part of her pride to render her house not
only as splendid, but as agreeable, as her command over society enabled
her to effect.

At the House of Commons my visits would have been duly paid, but for one
trifling occurrence, upon which, as it is a very sore subject, I shall
dwell as briefly as possible. I had scarcely taken my seat, before I was
forced to relinquish it. My unsuccessful opponent, Mr. Lufton, preferred
a petition against me, for what he called undue means. God knows what he
meant; I am sure the House did not, for they turned me out, and declared
Mr. Lufton duly elected.

Never was there such a commotion in the Glenmorris family before. My
uncle was seized with the gout in his stomach, and my mother shut herself
up with Tremaine, and one China monster, for a whole week. As for me,
though I writhed at heart, I bore the calamity philosophically enough in
external appearance, nor did I the less busy myself in political matters:
with what address and success, good or bad, I endeavoured to supply the
loss of my parliamentary influence, the reader will see, when it suits
the plot of this history to touch upon such topics.

Glanville I saw continually. When in tolerable spirits, he was an
entertaining, though never a frank nor a communicative companion. His
conversation then was lively, yet without wit, and sarcastic, though
without bitterness. It abounded also in philosophical reflections and
terse maxims, which always brought improvement, or, at the worst, allowed
discussion. He was a man of even vast powers--of deep thought--of
luxuriant, though dark imagination, and of great miscellaneous, though,
perhaps, ill arranged erudition. He was fond of paradoxes in reasoning,
and supported them with a subtlety and strength of mind, which Vincent,
who admired him greatly, told me he had never seen surpassed. He was
subject, at times, to a gloom and despondency, which seemed almost like
aberration of intellect. At those hours he would remain perfectly silent,
and apparently forgetful of my presence, and of every object around him.

It was only then, when the play of his countenance was vanished, and his
features were still and set, that you saw in their full extent, the dark
and deep traces of premature decay. His cheek was hollow and hueless; his
eye dim, and of that visionary and glassy aspect, which is never seen but
in great mental or bodily disease, and which, according to the
superstitions of some nations, implies a mysterious and unearthly
communion of the soul with the beings of another world. From these
trances he would sometimes start abruptly, and renew any conversation
broken off before, as if wholly unconscious of the length of his reverie.
At others, he would rise slowly from his seat, and retire into his own
apartment, from which he never emerged during the rest of the day.

But the reader must bear in mind that there was nothing artificial or
affected in his musings, of whatever complexion they might be. Nothing
like the dramatic brown studies, and quick starts, which young gentlemen,
in love with Lara and Lord Byron, are apt to practise. There never,
indeed, was a character that possessed less cant of any description. His
work, which was a singular, wild tale--of mingled passion and
reflection--was, perhaps, of too original, certainly of too abstract a
nature, to suit the ordinary novel readers of the day. It did not acquire
popularity for itself, but it gained great reputation for the author. It
also inspired every one who read it, with a vague and indescribable
interest to see and know the person who had composed so singular a work.

This interest he was the first to laugh at, and to disappoint. He shrunk
from all admiration, and from all sympathy. At the moment when a crowd
assembled round him, and every ear was bent to catch the words, which
came alike from so beautiful a lip, and so strange and imaginative a
mind, it was his pleasure to utter some sentiment totally different from
his written opinion, and utterly destructive of the sensation he had
excited. But it was very rarely that he exposed himself to these "trials
of an author." He went out little to any other house but Lady
Roseville's, and it was seldom more than once a week that he was seen
even there. Lonely, and singular in mind and habits, he lived in the
world like a person occupied by a separate object, and possessed of a
separate existence, from that of his fellow-beings. He was luxurious and
splendid, beyond all men, in his habits, rather than his tastes. His
table groaned beneath a weight of gold, too costly for the daily service
even of a prince; but he had no pleasure in surveying it. His wines and
viands were of the most exquisite description; but he scarcely tasted
them. Yet, what may seem inconsistent, he was averse to all ostentation
and show in the eyes of others. He admitted very few into his society--no
one so intimately as myself. I never once saw more than three persons at
his table. He seemed, in his taste for furniture, in his love of
literature, and his pursuit after fame, to be, as he himself said,
eternally endeavouring to forget and eternally brought back to
remembrance.

"I pity that man even more than I admire him," said Vincent to me, one
night when we were walking home from Glanville's house. "His is, indeed,
the disease nulla medicabilis herba. Whether it is the past or the
present that afflicts him--whether it is the memory of past evil, or the
satiety of present good, he has taken to his heart the bitterest
philosophy of life. He does not reject its blessings--he gathers them
around him, but as a stone gathers moss--cold, hard, unsoftened by the
freshness and the greenness which surround it. As a circle can only touch
a circle in one place, every thing that life presents to him, wherever it
comes from--to whatever portion of his soul it is applied--can find but
one point of contact; and that is the soreness of affliction: whether it
is the oblivio or the otium that he requires, he finds equally that he is
for ever in want of one treasure:--'neque gemmis neque purpura venale nec
auro.'"




CHAPTER XLVIII.

           Mons. Jourdain.  Etes-vous fou de l'aller quereller' lui qui
           entend la tierce et la quarte, et qui sait tuer un homme par
           raison demonstrative?

           Le Maitre a Danser.  Je me moque de sa raison demonstrative,
           et de sa tierce et de sa quarte.
                     --Moliere.

"Hollo, my good friend; how are you?--d--d glad to see you in England,"
vociferated a loud, clear, good-humoured voice, one cold morning, as I
was shivering down Brook-street, into Bond-street. I turned, and beheld
Lord Dartmore, of Rocher de Cancale memory. I returned his greeting with
the same cordiality with which it was given: and I was forthwith saddled
with Dartmore's arm, and dragged up Bond-street, into that borough of all
noisy, riotous, unrefined, good fellows--yclept--'s Hotel.

Here we were soon plunged into a small, low apartment, which Dartmore
informed me was his room. It was crowded with a score of masculine
looking youths, at whose very appearance my gentler frame shuddered from
head to foot. However, I put as good a face on the matter as I possibly
could, and affected a freedom and frankness of manner, correspondent with
the unsophisticated tempers with which I was so unexpectedly brought into
contact.

Dartmore was still gloriously redolent of Oxford: his companions were all
extracts from Christchurch; and his favourite occupations were boxing and
hunting--scenes at the Fives' Court--nights in the Cider Cellar--and
mornings at Bowstreet. Figure to yourself a fitter companion for the hero
and writer of these adventures! The table was covered with boxing gloves,
single sticks, two ponderous pair of dumb bells, a large pewter pot of
porter, and four foils; one snapped in the middle.

"Well," cried Dartmore, to two strapping youths, with their coats off,
"which was the conqueror?"

"Oh, it is not yet decided," was the answer; and forthwith the bigger one
hit the lesser a blow, with his boxing glove, heavy enough to have felled
Ulysses, who, if I recollect aright, was rather 'a game blood' in such
encounters.

This slight salute was forthwith the prelude to an encounter, which the
whole train crowded round to witness. I, among the rest, pretending an
equal ardour, and an equal interest, and hiding, like many persons in a
similar predicament, a most trembling spirit beneath a most valorous
exterior.

When the match (which terminated in favour of the lesser champion) was
over, "Come, Pelham," said Dartmore, "let me take up the gloves with
you?"

"You are too good!" said I, for the first time using my drawing-room
drawl. A wink and a grin went round the room.

"Well, then, will you fence with Staunton, or play at single sticks with
me?" said the short, thick, bullying, impudent, vulgar Earl of Calton.

"Why," answered I, "I am a poor hand at the foils, and a still worse at
the sticks; but I have no objection to exchange a cut or two at the
latter with Lord Calton."

"No, no!" said the good-natured Dartmore;--"no, Calton is the best
stick-player I ever knew;" and then, whispering me, he added, "and the
hardest hitter--and he never spares, either."

"Really," said I aloud, in my most affected tone, "it is a great pity,
for I am excessively delicate; but as I said I would engage him, I don't
like to retract. Pray let me look at the hilt: I hope the basket is
strong: I would not have my knuckles rapped for the world--now for it.
I'm in a deuced fright, Dartmore;" and so saying, and inwardly chuckling
at the universal pleasure depicted in the countenances of Calton and the
by-standers, who were all rejoiced at the idea of the "dandy being
drubbed," I took the stick, and pretended great awkwardness, and lack of
grace in the position I chose.

Calton placed himself in the most scientific attitude, assuming at the
same time an air of hauteur and nonchalance, which seemed to call for the
admiration it met.

"Do we make hard hitting?" said I.

"Oh! by all means," answered Calton, eagerly.

"Well," said I, settling on my own chapeau, "had not you better put on
your hat?"

"Oh, no," answered Calton, imperiously; "I can take pretty good care of
my head;" and with these words we commenced.

I remained at first nearly upright, not availing myself in the least of
my superiority in height, and only acting on the defensive. Calton played
well enough for a gentleman; but he was no match for one who had, at the
age of thirteen, beat the Life Guardsmen at Angelo's. Suddenly, when I
had excited a general laugh at the clumsy success with which I warded off
a most rapid attack of Calton's, I changed my position, and keeping
Calton at arm's length till I had driven him towards a corner, I took
advantage of a haughty imprudence on his part, and by a common enough
move in the game, drew back from a stroke aimed at my limbs, and suffered
the whole weight of my weapon to fall so heavily upon his head, that I
felled him to the ground in an instant.

I was sorry for the severity of the stroke, the moment after it was
inflicted; but never was punishment more deserved. We picked up the
discomfited hero, and placed him on a chair to recover his senses;
meanwhile I received the congratulations of the conclave with a frank
alteration of manner which delighted them; and I found it impossible to
get away, till I had promised to dine with Dartmore, and spend the rest
of the evening in the society of his friends.




CHAPTER XLIX.

                       Heroes mischievously gay,
             Lords of the street and terrors of the way,
             Flush'd as they are with folly, youth, and wine.
                          --Johnson's London.

           Hol.  Novi hominem tanquam te--his humour is lofty, his
           discourse peremptory, his tongue filed, his eye ambitious, his
           gait majestical, and his general behaviour vain, ridiculous,
           and thrasonical.
                          --Shakspeare.

I went a little after seven o'clock to keep my dinner engagement at---'s;
for very young men are seldom unpunctual at dinner. We sat down, six in
number, to a repast at once incredibly bad, and ridiculously extravagant;
turtle without fat--venison without flavour--champagne with the taste of
a gooseberry, and hock with the properties of a pomegranate. [Note: Pomum
valde purgatorium.] Such is the constant habit of young men: they think
any thing expensive is necessarily good, and they purchase poison at a
dearer rate than the most medicine-loving hypochondriac in England.

Of course, all the knot declared the dinner was superb; called in the
master to eulogize him in person, and made him, to his infinite dismay,
swallow a bumper of his own hock. Poor man, they mistook his reluctance
for his diffidence, and forced him to wash it away in another potation.
With many a wry face of grateful humility, he left the room, and we then
proceeded to pass the bottle with the suicidal determination of defeated
Romans. You may imagine that we were not long in arriving at the devoutly
wished for consummation of comfortable inebriety; and with our eyes
reeling, our cheeks burning, and our brave spirits full ripe for a
quarrel, we sallied out at eleven o'clock, vowing death, dread, and
destruction to all the sober portion of his majesty's subjects.

We came to a dead halt in Arlington-street, which, as it was the quietest
spot in the neighbourhood, we deemed a fitting place for the arrangement
of our forces. Dartmore, Staunton, (a tall, thin, well formed, silly
youth,) and myself, marched first, and the remaining three followed. We
gave each other the most judicious admonitions as to propriety of
conduct, and then, with a shout that alarmed the whole street, we renewed
our way. We passed on safely enough till we got to Charing-Cross, having
only been thrice upbraided by the watchmen, and once threatened by two
carmen of prodigious size, to whose wives or sweethearts we had, to our
infinite peril, made some gentle overtures. When, however, we had just
passed the Opera Colonnade, we were accosted by a bevy of buxom Cyprians,
as merry and as drunk as ourselves. We halted for a few minutes in the
midst of the kennel, to confabulate with our new friends, and a very
amicable and intellectual conversation ensued. Dartmore was an adept in
the art of slang, and he found himself fairly matched, by more than one
of the fair and gentle creatures by whom we were surrounded. Just,
however, as we were all in high glee, Staunton made a trifling discovery,
which turned the merriment of the whole scene into strife, war, and
confusion. A bouncing lass, whose hands were as ready as her charms, had
quietly helped herself to a watch which Staunton wore, a la mode, in his
waistcoat pocket. Drunken as the youth was at that time, and dull as he
was at all others, he was not without the instinctive penetration with
which all human bipeds watch over their individual goods and chattels. He
sprung aside from the endearments of the syren, grasped her arm, and in a
voice of querulous indignation, accused her of the theft.

               "Then rose the cry of women--shrill
                As shriek of gosshawk on the hill."

Never were my ears so stunned. The angry authors in the adventures of Gil
Blas, were nothing to the disputants in the kennel at Charing Cross; we
rowed, swore, slanged with a Christian meekness and forbearance, which
would have rejoiced Mr. Wilberforce to the heart, and we were already
preparing ourselves for a more striking engagement, when we were most
unwelcomely interrupted by the presence of three watchmen.

"Take away this--this--d--d woman," hiccuped out Staunton, "She has
sto--len--(hiccup)--my watch"--(hiccup.)

"No such thing, watchman," hallooed out the accused, "the
b--counter-skipper never had any watch! he only filched a
twopenny-halfpenny gilt chain out of his master, Levi, the pawnbroker's
window, and stuck it in his eel-skin to make a show: ye did, ye pitiful,
lanky-chopped son of a dog-fish, ye did."

"Come, come," said the watchman, "move on, move on."

"You be d--d, for a Charley!" said one of our gang.

"Ho! ho! master jackanapes, I shall give you a cooling in the
watch-house, if you tips us any of your jaw. I dare say the young oman
here, is quite right about ye, and ye never had any watch at all, at
all."

"You are a d--d liar," cried Staunton; "and you are all in with each
other, like a pack of rogues as you are."

"I'll tell ye what, young gemman," said another watchman, who was a more
potent, grave, and reverend senior than his comrades, "if you do not move
on instantly, and let those decent young omen alone, I'll take you all up
before Sir Richard."

"Charley, my boy," said Dartmore, "did you ever get thrashed for
impertinence?"

The last mentioned watchman took upon himself the reply to this
interrogatory by a very summary proceeding: he collared Dartmore, and his
companions did the same kind office to us. This action was not committed
with impunity: in an instant two of the moon's minions, staffs, lanterns,
and all, were measuring their length at the foot of their namesake of
royal memory; the remaining Dogberry was, however, a tougher assailant;
he held Staunton so firmly in his gripe, that the poor youth could
scarcely breathe out a faint and feeble d--ye of defiance, and with his
disengaged hand he made such an admirable use of his rattle, that we were
surrounded in a trice.

As when an ant-hill is invaded, from every quarter and crevice of the
mound arise and pour out an angry host, of whose previous existence the
unwary assailant had not dreamt; so from every lane, and alley, and
street, and crossing, came fast and far the champions of the night.

"Gentlemen," said Dartmore, "we must fly--sauve qui peut." We wanted no
stronger admonition, and, accordingly, all of us who were able, set off
with the utmost velocity with which God had gifted us. I have some faint
recollection that I myself headed the flight. I remember well that I
dashed up the Strand, and dashed down a singular little shed, from which
emanated the steam of tea, and a sharp, querulous scream of "All hot--all
hot! a penny a pint." I see, now, by the dim light of retrospection, a
vision of an old woman in the kennel, and a pewter pot of mysterious
ingredients precipitated into a greengrocer's shop, "te virides inter
lauros," as Vincent would have said. On we went, faster and faster, as
the rattle rung in our ears, and the tramp of the enemy echoed after us
in hot pursuit.

"The devil take the hindmost," said Dartmore, breathlessly (as he kept up
with me).

"The watchman has saved his majesty the trouble," answered I, looking
back and seeing one of our friends in the clutch of the pursuers.

"On, on!" was Dartmore's only reply.

At last, after innumerable perils, and various immersements into back
passages, and courts, and alleys, which, like the chicaneries of law,
preserved and befriended us, in spite of all the efforts of justice, we
fairly found ourselves in safety in the midst of a great square.

Here we paused, and after ascertaining our individual safeties, we looked
round to ascertain the sum total of the general loss. Alas! we were
wofully fully shorn of our beams--we were reduced onehalf: only three out
of the six survived the conflict and the flight.

"Half," (said the companion of Dartmore and myself, whose name was
Tringle, and who was a dabbler in science, of which he was not a little
vain) "half is less worthy than the whole; but the half is more worthy
than nonentity."

"An axiom," said I, "not to be disputed; but now that we are safe, and
have time to think about it, are you not slightly of opinion that we
behaved somewhat scurvily to our better half, in leaving it so quietly in
the hands of the Philistines?"

"By no means," answered Dartmore. "In a party, whose members make no
pretensions to sobriety, it would be too hard to expect that persons who
are scarcely capable of taking care of themselves, should take care of
other people. No; we have, in all these exploits, only the one maxim of
self-preservation."

"Allow me," said Tringle, seizing me by the coat, "to explain it to you
on scientific principles. You will find, in hydrostatics, that the
attraction of cohesion is far less powerful in fluids than in solids;
viz. that persons who have been converting their 'solid flesh' into wine
skins, cannot stick so close to one another as when they are sober."

"Bravo, Tringle!" cried Dartmore; "and now, Pelham, I hope your delicate
scruples are, after so luminous an eclaircissement, set at rest for
ever."

"You have convinced me," said I; "let us leave the unfortunates to their
fate, and Sir Richard. What is now to be done?"

"Why, in the first place," answered Dartmore, "let us reconnoitre. Does
any one know this spot?"

"Not I," said both of us. We inquired of an old fellow, who was tottering
home under the same Bacchanalian auspices as ourselves, and found we were
in Lincoln's Inn Fields.

"Which shall we do?" asked I, "stroll home; or parade the streets, visit
the Cider-Cellar, and the Finish, and kiss the first lass we meet in the
morning bringing her charms and carrots to Covent Garden Market?"

"The latter," cried Dartmore and Tringle, "without doubt."

"Come, then," said I, "let us investigate Holborn, and dip into St.
Giles's, and then find our way into some more known corner of the globe."

"Amen!" said Dartmore, and accordingly we renewed our march. We wound
along a narrow lane, tolerably well known, I imagine, to the gentlemen of
the quill, and entered Holborn. There was a beautiful still moon above
us, which cast its light over a drowsy stand of hackney coaches, and shed
a 'silver sadness' over the thin visages and sombre vestments of two
guardians of the night, who regarded us, we thought, with a very ominous
aspect of suspicion.

We strolled along, leisurely enough, till we were interrupted by a
miserable-looking crowd, assembled round a dull, dingy, melancholy shop,
from which gleamed a solitary candle, whose long, spinster-like wick was
flirting away with an east wind, at a most unconscionable rate. Upon the
haggard and worn countenances of the by-standers, was depicted one
general and sympathizing expression of eager, envious, wistful anxiety,
which predominated so far over the various characters of each, as to
communicate something of a likeness to all. It was an impress of such a
seal as you might imagine, not the arch-fiend, but one of his subordinate
shepherds, would have set upon each of his flock.

Amid this crowd, I recognized more than one face which I had often seen
in my equestrian lounges through town, peering from the shoulders of some
intrusive, ragamuffin, wagesless lackey, and squealing out of its
wretched, unpampered mouth, the everlasting query of "Want your oss held,
Sir?" The rest were made up of unfortunate women of the vilest and most
ragged description, aged itinerants, with features seared with famine,
bleared eyes, dropping jaws, shivering limbs, and all the mortal signs of
hopeless and aidless, and, worst of all, breadless infirmity. Here and
there an Irish accent broke out in the oaths of national impatience, and
was answered by the shrill, broken voice of some decrepit but
indefatigable votaress of pleasure--(Pleasure! good God!) but the chief
character of the meeting was silence;--silence, eager, heavy, engrossing;
and, above them all, shone out the quiet moon, so calm, so holy, so
breathing of still happiness and unpolluted glory, as if it never looked
upon the traces of human passion, and misery, and sin. We stood for some
moments contemplating the group before us, and then, following the steps
of an old, withered crone, who, with a cracked cup in her hand, was
pushing her way through the throng, we found ourselves in that dreary
pandaemonium, at once the origin and the refuge of humble vices--a
Gin-shop.

"Poor devils," said Dartmore, to two or three of the nearest and eagerest
among the crowd, "come in, and I will treat you."

The invitation was received with a promptness which must have been the
most gratifying compliment to the inviter; and thus Want, which is the
mother of Invention, does not object, now and then, to a bantling by
Politeness.

We stood by the counter while our proteges were served, in silent
observation. In low vice, to me, there is always something too gloomy,
almost too fearful for light mirth; the contortions of the madman are
stranger than those of the fool, but one does not laugh at them; the
sympathy is for the cause--not the effect.

Leaning against the counter at one corner, and fixing his eyes
deliberately and unmovingly upon us, was a man about the age of fifty,
dressed in a costume of singular fashion, apparently pretending to an
antiquity of taste, correspondent with that of the material. This person
wore a large cocked-hat, set rather jauntily on one side,--a black coat,
which seemed an omnium gatherum of all abominations that had come in its
way for the last ten years, and which appeared to advance equal claims
(from the manner it was made and worn), to the several dignities of the
art military and civil, the arma and the toga:--from the neck of the
wearer hung a blue ribbon of amazing breadth, and of a very surprising
assumption of newness and splendour, by no means in harmony with the
other parts of the tout ensemble; this was the guardian of an eye-glass
of block tin, and of dimensions correspondent with the size of the
ribbon. Stuck under the right arm, and shaped fearfully like a sword,
peeped out the hilt of a very large and sturdy looking stick, "in war a
weapon, in peace a support."

The features of the man were in keeping with his garb; they betokened an
equal mixture of the traces of poverty, and the assumption of the
dignities reminiscent of a better day. Two small, light-blue eyes were
shaded by bushy, and rather imperious brows, which lowered from under the
hat, like Cerberus out of his den. These, at present, wore the dull,
fixed stare of habitual intoxication, though we were not long in
discovering that they had not yet forgotten to sparkle with all the
quickness, and more than the roguery of youth. His nose was large,
prominent, and aristocratic; nor would it have been ill formed, had not
some unknown cause pushed it a little nearer towards the left ear, than
would have been thought, by an equitable judge of beauty, fair to the
pretensions of the right. The lines in the countenance were marked as if
in iron, and had the face been perfectly composed, must have given to it
a remarkably stern and sinister appearance; but at that moment, there was
an arch leer about the mouth, which softened, or at least altered, the
expression the features habitually wore.

"Sir," said he, (after a few minutes of silence,) "Sir," said he,
approaching me, "will you do me the honour to take a pinch of snuff?" and
so saying, he tapped a curious copper box, with a picture of his late
majesty upon it.

"With great pleasure," answered I, bowing low, "since the act is a
prelude to the pleasure of your acquaintance."

My gentleman of the gin-shop opened his box with an air, as he
replied--"It is but seldom that I meet, in places of this description,
gentlemen of the exterior of yourself and your friends. I am not a person
very easily deceived by the outward man. Horace, Sir, could not have
included me, when he said, specie decipimur. I perceive that you are
surprised at hearing me quote Latin. Alas! Sir, in my wandering and
various manner of life, I may say, with Cicero and Pliny, that the study
of letters has proved my greatest consolation. 'Gaudium mihi,' says the
latter author, 'et solatium in literis: nihil tam laete quod his non
laetius, nihil tam triste quid non per hos sit minus triste.' God d--n
ye, you scoundrel, give me my gin! ar'n't you ashamed of keeping a
gentleman of my fashion so long waiting?" This was said to the sleepy
dispenser of the spirituous potations, who looked up for a moment with a
dull stare, and then replied, "Your money first, Mr. Gordon--you owe us
seven-pence halfpenny already."

"Blood and confusion! speakest thou to me of halfpence! Know that thou
art a mercenary varlet; yes, knave, mark that, a mercenary varlet." The
sleepy Ganymede replied not, and the wrath of Mr. Gordon subsided into a
low, interrupted, internal muttering of strange oaths, which rolled and
grumbled, and rattled in his throat, like distant thunder.

At length he cheered up a little--"Sir," said he, addressing Dartmore,
"it is a sad thing to be dependant on these low persons; the wise among
the ancients were never so wrong as when they panegyrized poverty: it is
the wicked man's tempter, the good man's perdition, the proud man's
curse, the melancholy man's halter."

"You are a strange old cock," said the unsophisticated Dartmore, eyeing
him from head to foot; "there's half a sovereign for you."

The blunt blue eyes of Mr. Gordon sharpened up in an instant; he seized
the treasure with an avidity, of which the minute after, he seemed
somewhat ashamed; for he said, playing with the coin, in an idle,
indifferent manner--"Sir, you show a consideration, and, let me add, Sir,
a delicacy of feeling, unusual at your years. Sir, I shall repay you at
my earliest leisure, and in the meanwhile allow me to say, that I shall
be proud of the honour of your acquaintance."

"Thank-ye, old boy," said Dartmore, putting on his glove before he
accepted the offered hand of his new friend, which, though it was
tendered with great grace and dignity, was of a marvellously dingy and
soapless aspect.

"Harkye! you d--d son of a gun!" cried Mr. Gordon, abruptly turning from
Dartmore, after a hearty shake of the hand, to the man at the
counter--"Harkye! give me change for this half sovereign, and be d--d to
you--and then tip us a double gill of your best; you whey-faced,
liverdrenched, pence-griping, belly-griping, paupercheating,
sleepy-souled Arismanes of bad spirits. Come, gentlemen, if you have
nothing better to do, I'll take you to my club; we are a rare knot of us,
there--all choice spirits; some of them are a little uncouth, it is true,
but we are not all born Chesterfields. Sir, allow me to ask the favour of
your name?"

"Dartmore."

"Mr. Dartmore, you are a gentleman. Hollo! you Liquorpond-street of a
scoundrel--having nothing of liquor but the name, you narrow, nasty,
pitiful alley of a fellow, with a kennel for a body, and a sink for a
soul; give me my change and my gin, you scoundrel! Humph, is that all
right, you Procrustes of the counter, chopping our lawful appetites down
to your rascally standard of seven-pence half-penny? Why don't you take a
motto, you Paynim dog? Here's one for you--'Measure for measure, and the
devil to pay!' Humph, you pitiful toadstool of a trader, you have no more
spirit than an empty water-bottle; and when you go to h--ll, they'll use
you to cool the bellows. I say, you rascal, why are you worse off than
the devil in a hip bath of brimstone?--because, you knave, the devil then
would only be half d--d, and you are d--d all over! Come, gentlemen, I am
at your service."




CHAPTER L.

                The history of a philosophical vagabond,
                pursuing novelty, and losing content.
                          --Vicar of Wakefield.

We followed our strange friend through the crowd at the door, which he
elbowed on either side with the most aristocratic disdain, perfectly
regardless of their jokes at his dress and manner; he no sooner got
through the throng, than he stopped short (though in the midst of the
kennel) and offered us his arm. This was an honour of which we were by no
means desirous; for, to say nothing of the shabbiness of Mr. Gordon's
exterior, there was a certain odour in his garments which was possibly
less displeasing to the wearer than to his acquaintance. Accordingly, we
pretended not to notice this invitation, and merely said, we would follow
his guidance.

He turned up a narrow street, and after passing some of the most ill
favoured alleys I ever had the happiness of beholding, he stopped at a
low door; here he knocked twice, and was at last admitted by a slip-shod,
yawning wench, with red arms, and a profusion of sandy hair. This Hebe,
Mr. Gordon greeted with a loving kiss, which the kissee resented in a
very unequivocal strain of disgustful reproach.

"Hush! my Queen of Clubs; my Sultana Sootina!" said Mr. Gordon; "hush! or
these gentlemen will think you in earnest. I have brought three new
customers to the club."

This speech somewhat softened the incensed Houri of Mr. Gordon's
Paradise, and she very civilly asked us to enter.

"Stop!" said Mr. Gordon with an air of importance, "I must just step in
and ask the gentlemen to admit you;--merely a form--for a word from me
will be quite sufficient." And so saying, he vanished for about five
minutes.

On his return, he said, with a cheerful countenance, that we were free of
the house, but that we must pay a shilling each as the customary fee.
This sum was soon collected, and quietly inserted in the waistcoat pocket
of our chaperon, who then conducted us up the passage into a small back
room, where were sitting about seven or eight men, enveloped in smoke,
and moistening the fever of the Virginian plant with various preparations
of malt. On entering, I observed Mr. Gordon deposit, at a sort of bar,
the sum of three-pence, by which I shrewdly surmised he had gained the
sum of two and nine-pence by our admission. With a very arrogant air, he
proceeded to the head of the table, sat himself down with a swagger, and
called out, like a lusty royster of the true kidney, for a pint of purl
and a pipe. Not to be out of fashion, we ordered the same articles of
luxury.

After we had all commenced a couple of puffs at our pipes, I looked round
at our fellow guests; they seemed in a very poor state of body, as might
naturally be supposed; and, in order to ascertain how far the condition
of the mind was suited to that of the frame, I turned round to Mr.
Gordon, and asked him in a whisper to give us a few hints as to the genus
and characteristics of the individual components of his club. Mr. Gordon
declared himself delighted with the proposal, and we all adjourned to a
separate table at the corner of the room, where Mr. Gordon, after a deep
draught at the purl, thus began:--"You observe yon thin, meagre,
cadaverous animal, with rather an intelligent and melancholy expression
of countenance--his name is Chitterling Crabtree: his father was an
eminent coal-merchant, and left him L10,000. Crabtree turned politician.
When fate wishes to ruin a man of moderate abilities and moderate
fortune, she makes him an orator. Mr. Chitterling Crabtree attended all
the meetings at the Crown and Anchor--subscribed to the aid of the
suffering friends of freedom--harangued, argued, sweated, wrote--was
fined and imprisoned--regained his liberty, and married--his wife loved a
community of goods no less than her spouse, and ran off with one citizen,
while he was running on to the others. Chitterling dried his tears; and
contented himself with the reflection, that, in 'a proper state of
things,' such an event could not have occurred.

"Mr. Crabtree's money and life were now half gone. One does not subscribe
to the friends of freedom and spout at their dinners for nothing. But the
worst drop was yet in the cup. An undertaking, of the most spirited and
promising nature, was conceived by the chief of the friends, and the
dearest familiar of Mr. Chitterling Crabtree. Our worthy embarked his
fortune in a speculation so certain of success;--crash went the
speculation, and off went the friend--Mr. Crabtree was ruined. He was
not, however, a man to despair at trifles. What were bread, meat, and
beer, to the champion of equality! He went to the meeting that very
night: he said he gloried in his losses--they were for the cause: the
whole conclave rang with shouts of applause, and Mr. Chitterling Crabtree
went to bed happier than ever. I need not pursue his history farther; you
see him here--verbum sat. He spouts at the 'Ciceronian,' for half a crown
a night, and to this day subscribes sixpence a week to the cause of
'liberty and enlightenment all over the world.'"

"By Heaven!" cried Dartmore, "he is a fine fellow, and my father shall do
something for him."

Gordon pricked up his ears, and continued,--"Now, for the second person,
gentlemen, whom I am about to describe to you. You see that middle-sized,
stout man, with a slight squint, and a restless, lowering, cunning
expression?"

"What! him in the kerseymere breeches and green jacket?" said I.

"The same," answered Gordon. "His real name, when he does not travel with
an alias, is Job Jonson. He is one of the most remarkable rogues in
Christendom; he is so noted a cheat, that there is not a pick-pocket in
England who would keep company with him if he had anything to lose. He
was the favourite of his father, who intended to leave him all his
fortune, which was tolerably large. He robbed him one day on the high
road; his father discovered it, and disinherited him. He was placed at a
merchant's office, and rose, step by step, to be head clerk, and intended
son-in-law. Three nights before his marriage, he broke open the till, and
was turned out of doors the next morning. If you were going to do him the
greatest favour in the world, he could not keep his hands out of your
pocket till you had done it. In short, he has rogued himself out of a
dozen fortunes, and a hundred friends, and managed, with incredible
dexterity and success, to cheat himself into beggary and a pot of beer."

"I beg your pardon," said I, "but I think a sketch of your own life must
be more amusing than that of any one else: am I impertinent in asking for
it?"

"Not at all," replied Mr. Gordon; "you shall have it in as few words as
possible."

"I was born a gentleman, and educated with some pains; they told me I was
a genius, and it was not very hard to persuade me of the truth of the
assertion. I wrote verses to a wonder--robbed orchards according to
military tactics--never played at marbles, without explaining to my
competitors the theory of attraction--and was the best informed,
mischievous, little rascal in the whole school. My family were in great
doubt what to do with so prodigious a wonder; one said the law, another
the church, a third talked of diplomacy, and a fourth assured my mother,
that if I could but be introduced at court, I should be lord chamberlain
in a twelvemonth. While my friends were deliberating, I took the liberty
of deciding; I enlisted, in a fit of loyal valour, in a marching
regiment; my friends made the best of a bad job, and bought me an
ensigncy.

"I recollect I read Plato the night before I went to battle; the next
morning they told me I ran away. I am sure it was a malicious invention,
for if I had, I should have recollected it; whereas I was in such a
confusion that I cannot remember a single thing that happened in the
whole course of that day. About six months afterwards, I found myself out
of the army, and in gaol; and no sooner had my relations released me from
the latter predicament, than I set off on my travels. At Dublin, I lost
my heart to a rich widow (as I thought); I married her, and found her as
poor as myself. God knows what would have become of me, if I had not
taken to drinking; my wife scorned to be outdone by me in any thing; she
followed my example, and at the end of a year I followed her to the
grave. Since then I have taken warning, and been scrupulously
sober.--Betty, my love, another pint of purl.

"I was now once more a freeman in the prime of my life; handsome, as you
see, gentlemen, and with the strength and spirit of a young Hercules.
Accordingly I dried my tears, turned marker by night, at a gambling
house, and buck by day, in Bond-street (for I had returned to London). I
remember well one morning, that his present Majesty was pleased, en
passant, to admire my buckskins--tempora mutantur. Well, gentlemen, one
night at a brawl in our salon, my nose met with a rude hint to move to
the right. I went, in a great panic to the surgeon, who mended the
matter, by moving it to the left. There, thank God! it has rested in
quiet ever since. It is needless to tell you the nature of the quarrel in
which this accident occurred; however, my friends thought it necessary to
remove me from the situation I then held. I went once more to Ireland,
and was introduced to 'a friend of freedom.' I was poor; that
circumstance is quite enough to make a patriot. They sent me to Paris on
a secret mission, and when I returned, my friends were in prison. Being
always of a free disposition, I did not envy them their situation:
accordingly I returned to England. Halting at Liverpool, with a most
debilitated purse, I went into a silversmith's shop to brace it, and
about six months afterwards, I found myself on a marine excursion to
Botany Bay. On my return from that country, I resolved to turn my
literary talents to account. I went to Cambridge, wrote declamations, and
translated Virgil at so much a sheet. My relations (thanks to my letters,
neither few nor far between) soon found me out; they allowed me (they do
so still) half a guinea a week; and upon this and my declamations, I
manage to exist. Ever since, my chief residence has been at Cambridge. I
am an universal favourite with both graduates and under-graduates. I have
reformed my life and my manners, and have become the quiet, orderly
person you behold me. Age tames the fiercest of us--

                    "'Non sum qualis eram.'

"Betsy, bring me my purl, and be d--d to you.

"It is now vacation time, and I have come to town with the idea of
holding lectures on the state of education. Mr. Dartmore, your health.
Gentlemen, yours. My story is done, and I hope you will pay for the
purl."




CHAPTER LI.

                      I hate a drunken rogue.
                                 --Twelfth Night.

We took an affectionate leave of Mr. Gordon, and found ourselves once
more in the open air; the smoke and the purl had contributed greatly to
the continuance of our inebriety, and we were as much averse to bed as
ever. We conveyed ourselves, laughing and rioting all the way, to a stand
of hackney-coaches. We entered the head of the flock, and drove to
Piccadilly. It set us down at the corner of the Haymarket.

"Past two!" cried the watchman, as we sauntered by him.

"You lie, you rascal," said I, "you have passed three now."

We were all merry enough to laugh at this sally; and seeing a light gleam
from the entrance of the Royal Saloon, we knocked at the door, and it was
opened unto us. We sat down at the only spare table in the place, and
looked round at the smug and varment citizens with whom the room was
filled.

"Hollo, waiter!" cried Tringle, "some red wine negus--I know not why it
is, but the devil himself could never cure me of thirst. Wine and I have
a most chemical attraction for each other. You know that we always
estimate the force of attraction between bodies by the force required to
separate them!"

While we were all three as noisy and nonsensical as our best friends
could have wished us, a new stranger entered, approached, looked round
the room for a seat, and seeing none, walked leisurely up to our table,
and accosted me with a--"Ha! Mr. Pelham, how d'ye do? Well met; by your
leave I will sip my grog at your table. No offence, I hope--more the
merrier, eh?--Waiter, a glass of hot brandy and water--not too weak. D'ye
hear?"

Need I say that this pithy and pretty address proceeded from the mouth of
Mr. Tom Thornton. He was somewhat more than half drunk, and his light
prying eyes twinkled dizzily in his head. Dartmore, who was, and is, the
best natured fellow alive, hailed the signs of his intoxication as a sort
of freemasonry, and made way for him beside himself. I could not help
remarking, that Thornton seemed singularly less sleek than heretofore:
his coat was out at the elbows, his linen was torn and soiled; there was
not a vestige of the vulgar spruceness about him which was formerly one
of his most prominent characteristics. He had also lost a great deal of
the florid health formerly visible in his face; his cheeks seemed sunk
and haggard, his eyes hollow, and his complexion sallow and squalid, in
spite of the flush which intemperance spread over it at the moment.
However, he was in high spirits, and soon made himself so entertaining
that Dartmore and Tringle grew charmed with him.

As for me, the antipathy I had to the man sobered and silenced me for the
rest of the night; and finding that Dartmore and his friend were eager
for an introduction to some female friends of Thornton's, whom he
mentioned in terms of high praise, I tore myself from them, and made the
best of my way home.




CHAPTER LII.

                   Illi mors gravis incubat
                   Qui notus nimis omnibus
                   Ignotus moritus sibi.
                                 --Seneca.

                   Nous serons par nos lois les juges
                   des ouvrages.
                                 --Les Femmes Savantes.

Vincent called on me the next day. "I have news for you," said he,
"though somewhat of a lugubrious nature. Lugete Veneres Cupidinesque. You
remember the Duchesse de Perpignan!"

"I should think so," was my answer.

"Well then," pursued Vincent, "she is no more. Her death was worthy of
her life. She was to give a brilliant entertainment to all the foreigners
at Paris: the day before it took place a dreadful eruption broke over her
complexion. She sent for the doctors in despair. 'Cure me against
to-morrow,' she said, 'and name your own reward.' 'Madame, it is
impossible to do so with safety to your health.' 'Au diable! with your
health,' said the duchesse, 'what is health to an eruption?' The doctors
took the hint; an external application was used--the duchesse woke in the
morning as beautiful as ever--the entertainment took place--she was the
Armida of the scene. Supper was announced. She took the arm of
the--ambassador, and moved through the crowd amidst the audible
admiration of all. She stopped for a moment at the door; all eyes were
upon her. A fearful and ghastly convulsion passed over her countenance,
her lips trembled, she fell on the ground with the most terrible
contortions of face and frame. They carried her to bed. She remained for
some days insensible; when she recovered, she asked for a looking-glass.
Her whole face was drawn on one side, not a wreck of beauty was
left;--that night she poisoned herself!"

I cannot express how shocked I was at this information. Much as I had
cause to be disgusted with the conduct of that unhappy woman, I could
find in my mind no feeling but commiseration and horror at her death; and
it was with great difficulty that Vincent persuaded me to accept an
invitation to Lady Roseville's for the evening, to meet Glanville and
himself.

However, I cheered up as the night came on; and though my mind was still
haunted with the tale of the morning, it was neither in a musing nor a
melancholy mood that I entered the drawing-room at Lady Roseville's--"So
runs the world away."

Glanville was there in his "customary mourning," and looking remarkably
handsome.

"Pelham," he said, when he joined me, "do you remember at Lady--'s one
night, I said I would introduce you to my sister? I had no opportunity
then, for we left the house before she returned from the refreshment
room. May I do so now?"

I need not say what was my answer. I followed Glanville into the next
room; and to my inexpressible astonishment and delight, discovered in his
sister the beautiful, the never-forgotten stranger I had seen at
Cheltenham.

For once in my life I was embarrassed--my bow would have shamed a major
in the line, and my stuttered and irrelevant address, an alderman in the
presence of His Majesty. However, a few moments sufficed to recover me,
and I strained every nerve to be as agreeable and seduisant as possible.

After I had conversed with Miss Glanville for some time, Lady Roseville
joined us. Stately and Juno-like as was that charming personage in
general, she relaxed into a softness of manner to Miss Glanville, that
quite won my heart. She drew her to a part of the room, where a very
animated and chiefly literary conversation was going on--and I, resolving
to make the best of my time, followed them, and once more found myself
seated beside Miss Glanville. Lady Roseville was on the other side of my
beautiful companion; and I observed that, whenever she took her eyes from
Miss Glanville, they always rested upon her brother, who, in the midst of
the disputation and the disputants, sat silent, gloomy, and absorbed.

The conversation turned upon Scott's novels; thence on novels in general;
and finally on the particular one of Anastasius.

"It is a thousand pities" said Vincent, "that the scene of that novel is
so far removed from us. Could the humour, the persons, the knowledge of
character, and of the world, come home to us, in a national, not an
exotic garb, it would be a more popular, as it is certainly a more gifted
work, than even the exquisite novel of Gil Blas. But it is a great
misfortune for Hope that--

                      "'To learning he narrowed his mind,
                And gave up to the East what was meant for mankind.'

"One often loses, in admiration at the knowledge of peculiar costume, the
deference one would have paid to the masterly grasp of universal
character."

"It must require," said Lady Roseville, "an extraordinary combination of
mental powers to produce a perfect novel."

"One so extraordinary," answered Vincent, "that, though we have one
perfect epic poem, and several which pretend to perfection, we have not
one perfect novel in the world. Gil Blas approaches more to perfection
than any other (owing to the defect I have just mentioned in Anastasius);
but it must be confessed that there is a want of dignity, of moral
rectitude, and of what I may term moral beauty, throughout the whole
book. If an author could combine the various excellencies of Scott and Le
Sage, with a greater and more metaphysical knowledge of morals than
either, we might expect from him the perfection we have not yet
discovered since the days of Apuleius."

"Speaking of morals," said Lady Roseville, "do you not think every novel
should have its distinct but, and inculcate, throughout, some one
peculiar moral, such as many of Marmontel's and Miss Edgeworth's?"

"No!" answered Vincent, "every good novel has one great end--the same in
all--viz. the increasing our knowledge of the heart. It is thus that a
novel writer must be a philosopher. Whoever succeeds in shewing us more
accurately the nature of ourselves and species, has done science, and,
consequently, virtue, the most important benefit; for every truth is a
moral. This great and universal end, I am led to imagine, is rather
crippled than extended by the rigorous attention to the one isolated
moral you mention.

"Thus Dryden, in his Essay on the Progress of Satire, very rightly
prefers Horace to Juvenal, so far as instruction is concerned; because
the miscellaneous satires of the former are directed against every
vice--the more confined ones of the latter (for the most part) only
against one. All mankind is the field the novelist should cultivate--all
truth, the moral he should strive to bring home. It is in occasional
dialogue, in desultory maxims, in deductions from events, in analysis of
character, that he should benefit and instruct. It is not enough--and I
wish a certain novelist who has lately arisen would remember this--it is
not enough for a writer to have a good heart, amiable sympathies, and
what are termed high feelings, in order to shape out a moral, either true
in itself, or beneficial in its inculcation. Before he touches his tale,
he should be thoroughly acquainted with the intricate science of morals,
and the metaphysical, as well as the more open, operations of the mind.
If his knowledge is not deep and clear, his love of the good may only
lead him into error; and he may pass off the prejudices of a susceptible
heart for the precepts of virtue. Would to God that people would think it
necessary to be instructed before they attempt to instruct. 'Dire
simplement que la vertu est vertu parce qu'elle est bonne en son fonds,
et le vice tout au contraire, ce n'est pas les faire connoitre.' For me,
if I was to write a novel, I would first make myself an acute, active,
and vigilant observer of men and manners. Secondly, I would, after having
thus noted effects by action in the world, trace the causes by books, and
meditation in my closet. It is then, and not till then, that I would
study the lighter graces of style and decoration; nor would I give the
rein to invention, till I was convinced that it would create neither
monsters of men nor falsities of truth. For my vehicles of instruction or
amusement, I would have people as they are--neither worse nor better--and
the moral they should convey, should be rather through jest or irony,
than gravity and seriousness. There never was an imperfection corrected
by portraying perfection; and if levity or ridicule be said so easily to
allure to sin, I do not see why they should not be used in defence of
virtue. Of this we may be sure, that as laughter is a distinct indication
of the human race, so there never was a brute mind or a savage heart that
loved to indulge in it." [Note: The Philosopher of Malmesbury express a
very different opinion of the origin of laughter, and, for my part, I
think his doctrine, in great measure, though not altogether--true.--See
Hobbes on Human Nature, and the answer to him in Campbell's Rhetoric.]

Vincent ceased.

"Thank you, my lord," said Lady Roseville, as she took Miss Glanville's
arm and moved from the table. "For once you have condescended to give us
your own sense, and not other people's; you have scarce made a single
quotation."

"Accept," answered Vincent, rising--

                "'Accept a miracle instead of wit.'"




CHAPTER LIII.

                             Oh! I love!--Methinks
             This word of love is fit for all the world,
             And that for gentle hearts, another name
             Should speak of gentler thoughts than the world owns.
                          --P. B. Shelley.

                     For me, I ask no more than honour gives,
             To think me yours, and rank me with your friends,
                          --Shakspeare

Callous and worldly as I may seem, from the tone of these memoirs, I can
say, safely, that one of the most delicious evenings I ever spent, was
the first of my introduction to Miss Glanville. I went home intoxicated
with a subtle spirit of enjoyment that gave a new zest and freshness to
life. Two little hours seemed to have changed the whole course of my
thoughts and feelings.

There was nothing about Miss Glanville like a heroine--I hate your
heroines. She had none of that "modest ease," and "quiet dignity," and
"English grace" (Lord help us!) of which certain writers speak with such
applause. Thank Heaven, she was alive. She had great sense, but the
playfulness of a child; extreme rectitude of mind, but with the
tenderness of a gazelle: if she laughed, all her countenance, lips, eyes,
forehead, cheeks laughed too: "Paradise seemed opened in her face:" if
she looked grave, it was such a lofty and upward, yet sweet and gentle
gravity, that you might (had you been gifted with the least imagination,)
have supposed, from the model of her countenance, a new order of angels
between the cherubim and the seraphim, the angels of Love and Wisdom. She
was not, perhaps, quite so silent in society as my individual taste would
desire; but when she spoke, it was with a propriety of thought and
diction which made me lament when her voice had ceased. It was as if
something beautiful in creation had stopped suddenly.

Enough of this now. I was lazily turning (the morning after Lady
Roseville's) over some old books, when Vincent entered. I observed that
his face was flushed, and his eyes sparkled with more than their usual
brilliancy. He looked carefully round the room, and then approaching his
chair towards mine, said, in a low tone--"Pelham, I have something of
importance on my mind which I wish to discuss with you; but let me
entreat you to lay aside your usual levity, and pardon me if I say
affectation; meet me with the candour and plainness which are the real
distinctions of your character."

"My Lord Vincent," I replied, "there is, in your words, a depth and
solemnity which pierce me, through one of N--'s best stuffed coats, even
to the very heart. Let me ring for my poodle and some eau de Cologne, and
I will hear you as you desire, from the alpha to the omega of your
discourse."

Vincent bit his lip, but I rung, had my orders executed, and then
settling myself and my poodle on the sofa, I declared my readiness to
attend to him.

"My dear friend," said he, "I have often seen that, in spite of all your
love of pleasure, you have your mind continually turned towards higher
and graver objects; and I have thought the better of your talents, and of
your future success, for the little parade you make of the one, and the
little care you appear to pay to the other: for

                             "''tis a common proof,
                That lowliness is young Ambition's ladder.'

"I have also observed that you have, of late, been much to Lord Dawton's;
I have even heard that you have been twice closeted with him. It is well
known that that person entertains hopes of leading the Opposition to the
grata arva of the Treasury benches; and notwithstanding the years in
which the Whigs have been out of office, there are some persons who
pretend to foresee the chance of a coalition between them and Mr.
Gaskell, to whose principles it is also added that they have been
gradually assimilating."

Here Vincent paused a moment, and looked full at me. I met his eye with a
glance as searching as his own. His look changed, and he continued.

"Now, listen to me, Pelham: such a coalition never can take place. You
smile; I repeat it. It is my object to form a third party; perhaps while
the two great sects 'anticipate the cabinet designs of fate,' there may
suddenly come by a third, 'to whom the whole shall be referred.' Say that
you think it not impossible that you may join us, and I will tell you
more."

I paused for three minutes before I answered Vincent. I then said--"I
thank you very sincerely for your proposal: tell me the names of two of
your designed party, and I will answer you."

"Lord Lincoln and Lord Lesborough."

"What!" said I--"the Whig, who says in the Upper House, that whatever may
be the distresses of the people, they shall not be gratified at the cost
of one of the despotic privileges of the aristocracy. Go to!--I will have
none of him. As to Lesborough, he is a fool and a boaster--who is always
puffing his own vanity with the windiest pair of oratorical bellows that
ever were made by air and brass, for the purpose of sound and smoke,
'signifying nothing.' Go to!--I will have none of him either."

"You are right in your judgment of my confreres," answered Vincent; "but
we must make use of bad tools for good purposes."

"No--no!" said I; "the commonest carpenter will tell you the reverse."

Vincent eyed me suspiciously. "Look you!" said he: "I know well that no
man loves better than you place, power, and reputation. Do you grant
this?"

"I do!" was my reply.

"Join with us; I will place you in the House of Commons immediately: if
we succeed, you shall have the first and the best post I can give you.
Now--'under which king, Bezonian, speak or die!'"

"I answer you in the words of the same worthy you quote," said I--"'A
foutra for thine office.'--Do you know, Vincent, that I have, strange as
it may seem to you, such a thing as a conscience? It is true I forget it
now and then; but in a public capacity, the recollection of others would
put me very soon in mind of it. I know your party well. I cannot
imagine--forgive me--one more injurious to the country, nor one more
revolting to myself; and I do positively affirm, that I would sooner feed
my poodle on paunch and liver, instead of cream and fricassee, than be an
instrument in the hands of men like Lincoln and Lesborough; who talk
much, who perform nothing--who join ignorance of every principle of
legislation to indifference for every benefit to the people:--who are
full of 'wise saws,' but empty of 'modern instances'--who level upwards,
and trample downwards--and would only value the ability you are pleased
to impute to me, in the exact proportion that a sportsman values the
ferret, that burrows for his pleasure, and destroys for his interest.
Your party sha'n't stand!"

Vincent turned pale--"And how long," said he, "have you learnt 'the
principles of legislation,' and this mighty affection for the 'benefit of
the people?'"

"Ever since," said I, coldly, "I learnt any thing! The first piece of
real knowledge I ever gained was, that my interest was incorporated with
that of the beings with whom I had the chance of being cast: if I injure
them, I injure myself: if I can do them any good, I receive the benefit
in common with the rest. Now, as I have a great love for that personage
who has now the honour of addressing you, I resolved to be honest for his
sake. So much for my affection for the benefit of the people. As to the
little knowledge of the principles of legislation, on which you are kind
enough to compliment me, look over the books on this table, or the
writings in this desk, and know, that ever since I had the misfortune of
parting from you at Cheltenham, there has not been a day in which I have
spent less than six hours reading and writing on that sole subject. But
enough of this--will you ride to-day?"

Vincent rose slowly--

                   "'Gli arditi (said he) tuoi voti
                     Gia noti mi sono;
                     Ma inveno a quel trono,
                     Tu aspiri con me
                     Trema per te!'"

"'Io trema' (I replied out of the same opera)--'Io trema--di te!'"

"Well," answered Vincent, and his fine high nature overcame his momentary
resentment and chagrin at my reception of his offer--"Well, I honour your
for your sentiments, though they are opposed to my own. I may depend on
your secrecy?"

"You may," said I.

"I forgive you, Pelham," rejoined Vincent: "we part friends."

"Wait one moment," said I, "and pardon me, if I venture to speak in the
language of caution to one in every way so superior to myself. No one, (I
say this with a safe conscience, for I never flattered my friend in my
life, though I have often adulated my enemy)--no one has a greater
admiration for your talents than myself; I desire eagerly to see you in
the station most fit for their display; pause one moment before you link
yourself, not only to a party, but to principles that cannot stand. You
have only to exert yourself, and you may either lead the opposition, or
be among the foremost in the administration. Take something certain,
rather than what is doubtful; or at least stand alone:--such is my belief
in your powers, if fairly tried, that if you were not united to those
men, I would promise you faithfully to stand or fall by you alone, even
if we had not through all England another soldier to our standard; but--"

"I thank you, Pelham," said Vincent, interrupting me; "till we meet in
public as enemies, we are friends in private--I desire no
more.--Farewell."




CHAPTER LIV.

                Il vaut mieux employer notre esprit a supporter
                les infortunes qui nous arrivent, qu'a prevoir
                celle qui nous peuvent arriver.
                          --Rochefoucault.

No sooner had Vincent departed, than I buttoned my coat, and sallied out
through a cold easterly wind to Lord Dawton's. It was truly said by the
political quoter, that I had been often to that nobleman's, although I
have not thought it advisable to speak of my political adventures
hitherto. I have before said that I was ambitious; and the sagacious have
probably already discovered, that I was somewhat less ignorant than it
was my usual pride and pleasure to appear. Heaven knows why! but I had
established among my uncle's friends, a reputation for talent, which I by
no means deserved; and no sooner had I been personally introduced to Lord
Dawton, than I found myself courted by that personage in a manner equally
gratifying and uncommon. When I lost my seat in Parliament, Dawton
assured me that before the session was over, I should be returned for one
of his boroughs; and though my mind revolted at the idea of becoming
dependant on any party, I made little scruple of promising conditionally
to ally myself to his. So far had affairs gone, when I was honoured with
Vincent's proposal. I found Lord Dawton in his library, with the Marquess
of Clandonald, (Lord Dartmore's father, and, from his rank and property,
classed among the highest, as, from his vanity and restlessness, he was
among the most active members of the Opposition.) Clandonald left the
room when I entered. Few men in office are wise enough to trust the
young; as if the greater zeal and sincerity of youth did not more than
compensate for its appetite for the gay, or its thoughtlessness of the
serious.

When we were alone, Dawton said to me, "We are in great despair at the
motion upon the--, to be made in the Lower House. We have not a single
person whom we can depend upon, for the sweeping and convincing answer we
ought to make; and though we should at least muster our full force in
voting, our whipper-in, poor--, is so ill, that I fear we shall make but
a very pitiful figure."

"Give me," said I, "full permission to go forth into the high-ways and
by-ways, and I will engage to bring a whole legion of dandies to the
House door. I can go no farther; your other agents must do the rest."

"Thank you, my dear young friend," said Lord Dawton, eagerly; "thank you
a thousand times: we must really get you in the House as soon as
possible; you will serve us more than I can express."

I bowed, with a sneer I could not repress. Dawton pretended not to
observe it. "Come," said I, "my lord, we have no time to lose. I shall
meet you, perhaps, at Brookes's, to morrow evening, and report to you
respecting my success."

Lord Dawton pressed my hand warmly, and followed me to the door.

"He is the best premier we could have," thought I; "but he deceives
himself, if he thinks Henry Pelham will play the jackall to his lion. He
will soon see that I shall keep for myself what he thinks I hunt for
him." I passed through Pall Mall, and thought of Glanville. I knocked at
his door: he was at home. I found him leaning his cheek upon his hand, in
a thoughtful position; an open letter was before him.

"Read that," he said, pointing to it.

I did so. It was from the agent to the Duke of--, and contained his
appointment to an opposition borough.

"A new toy, Pelham," said he, faintly smiling; "but a little longer, and
they will all be broken--the rattle will be the last."

"My dear, dear Glanville," said I, much affected, "do not talk thus; you
have every thing before you."

"Yes," interrupted Glanville, "you are right, for every thing left for me
is in the grave. Do you imagine that I can taste one of the possessions
which fortune has heaped upon me, that I have one healthful faculty, one
sense of enjoyment, among the hundred which other men are 'heirs to?'
When did you ever see me for a moment happy? I live, as it were, on a
rock, barren, and herbless, and sapless, and cut off from all human
fellowship and intercourse. I had only a single object left to live for,
when you saw me at Paris; I have gratified that, and the end and purpose
of my existence is fulfilled. Heaven is merciful; but a little while, and
this feverish and unquiet spirit shall be at rest."

I took his hand and pressed it.

"Feel," said he, "this dry, burning skin; count my pulse through the
variations of a single minute, and you will cease either to pity me, or
to speak to me of life. For months I have had, night and day, a
wasting--wasting fever, of brain, and heart, and frame; the fire works
well, and the fuel is nearly consumed."

He paused, and we were both silent. In fact, I was shocked at the fever
of his pulse, no less than affected at the despondency of his words. At
last I spoke to him of medical advice.

"'Canst thou,'" he said, with a deep solemnity of voice and manner,
"'administer to a mind diseased--pluck from the memory'--Ah! away with
the quotation and the reflection." And he sprung from the sofa, and going
to the window, opened it, and leaned out for a few moments in silence.
When he turned again towards me, his manner had regained its usual quiet.
He spoke about the important motion approaching on the--, and promised to
attend; and then, by degrees, I led him to talk of his sister.

He mentioned her with enthusiasm. "Beautiful as Ellen is," he said, "her
face is the very faintest reflection of her mind. Her habits of thought
are so pure, that every impulse is a virtue. Never was there a person to
whom goodness was so easy. Vice seems something so opposite to her
nature, that I cannot imagine it possible for her to sin."

"Will you not call with me at your mother's?" said I. "I am going there
to-day."

Glanville replied in the affirmative, and we went at once to Lady
Glanville's, in Berkeley-square. We were admitted into his mother's
boudoir. She was alone with Miss Glanville. Our conversation soon turned
from common-place topics to those of a graver nature; the deep melancholy
of Glanville's mind imbued all his thoughts when he once suffered himself
to express them.

"Why," said Lady Glanville, who seemed painfully fond of her son, "why do
you not go more into the world? You suffer your mind to prey upon itself,
till it destroys you. My dear, dear son, how very ill you seem."

Ellen, whose eyes swam in tears, as they gazed upon her brother, laid her
beautiful hand upon his, and said, "For my mother's sake, Reginald, do
take more care of yourself: you want air, and exercise, and amusement."

"No," answered Glanville, "I want nothing but occupation, and thanks to
the Duke of--, I have now got it. I am chosen member for--."

"I am too happy," said the proud mother; "you will now be all I have ever
predicted for you;" and, in her joy at the moment, she forgot the hectic
of his cheek, and the hollowness of his eye.

"Do you remember," said Reginald, turning to his sister, "those beautiful
lines in my favourite Ford--

                             '"Glories
             Of human greatness are but pleasing dreams,
             And shadows soon decaying. On the stage
             Of my mortality, my youth has acted
             Some scenes of vanity, drawn out at length
             By varied pleasures--sweetened in the mixture,
             But tragical in issue. Beauty, pomp,
             With every sensuality our giddiness
             Doth frame an idol--are inconstant friends
             When any troubled passion makes us halt
             On the unguarded castle of the mind.'"

"Your verses," said I, "are beautiful, even to me, who have no soul for
poetry, and never wrote a line in my life. But I love not their
philosophy. In all sentiments that are impregnated with melancholy, and
instil sadness as a moral, I question the wisdom, and dispute the truth.
There is no situation in life which we cannot sweeten, or embitter, at
will. If the past is gloomy, I do not see the necessity of dwelling upon
it. If the mind can make one vigorous exertion, it can another: the same
energy you put forth in acquiring knowledge, would also enable you to
baffle misfortune. Determine not to think upon what is painful;
resolutely turn away from every thing that recals it; bend all your
attention to some new and engrossing object; do this, and you defeat the
past. You smile, as if this were impossible; yet it is not an iota more
so, than to tear one's self from a favourite pursuit, and addict one's
self to an object unwelcome to one at first. This the mind does
continually through life: so can it also do the other, if you will but
make an equal exertion. Nor does it seem to me natural to the human heart
to look much to the past; all its plans, its projects, its aspirations,
are for the future; it is for the future, and in the future, that we
live. Our very passions, when most agitated, are most anticipative.
Revenge, avarice, ambition, love, the desire of good and evil, are all
fixed and pointed to some distant goal; to look backwards, is like
walking backwards--against our proper formation; the mind does not
readily adopt the habit, and when once adopted, it will readily return to
its natural bias. Oblivion is, therefore, an easier obtained boon than we
imagine. Forgetfulness of the past is purchased by increasing our anxiety
for the future."

I paused for a moment, but Glanville did not answer me; and, encouraged
by a look from Ellen, I continued--"You remember that, according to an
old creed, if we were given memory as a curse, we were also given hope as
a blessing. Counteract the one by the other. In my own life, I have
committed many weak, many wicked actions; I have chased away their
remembrance, though I have transplanted their warning to the future. As
the body involuntarily avoids what is hurtful to it, without tracing the
association to its first experience, so the mind insensibly shuns what
has formerly afflicted it, even without palpably recalling the
remembrance of the affliction. The Roman philosopher placed the secret of
human happiness in the one maxim--'not to admire.' I never could exactly
comprehend the sense of the moral: my maxim for the same object would
be--'never to regret.'"

"Alas! my dear friend," said Glanville--"we are great philosophers to
each other, but not to ourselves; the moment we begin to feel sorrow, we
cease to reflect on its wisdom. Time is the only comforter; your maxims
are very true, but they confirm me in my opinion--that it is in vain for
us to lay down fixed precepts for the regulation of the mind, so long as
it is dependent upon the body. Happiness and its reverse are
constitutional in many persons, and it is then only that they are
independent of circumstances. Make the health, the frames of all men
alike--make their nerves of the same susceptibility--their memories of
the same bluntness, or acuteness--and I will then allow, that you can
give rules adapted to all men; till then, your maxim, 'never to regret,'
is as idle as Horace's 'never to admire.' It may be wise to you--it is
impossible to me!"

With these last words, Glanville's voice faltered, and I felt averse to
push the argument further. Ellen's eye caught mine, and gave me a look so
kind, and almost grateful, that I forgot every thing else in the world. A
few moments afterwards a friend of Lady Glanville's was announced, and I
left the room.




CHAPTER LV.

                      Intus et in jecore aegro,
                   Nascuntur domini.
                                 --Persius.

The next two or three days I spent in visiting all my male friends in the
Lower House, and engaging them to dine with me, preparatory to the great
act of voting on--'s motion. I led them myself to the House of Commons,
and not feeling sufficiently interested in the debate to remain, as a
stranger, where I ought, in my own opinion, to have acted as a performer,
I went to Brookes's to wait the result. Lord Gravelton, a stout, bluff,
six-foot nobleman, with a voice like a Stentor, was "blowing up" the
waiters in the coffee-room. Mr.--, the author of T--, was conning the
Courier in a corner; and Lord Armadilleros, the haughtiest and most
honourable peer in the calendar, was monopolizing the drawing-room, with
his right foot on one hob and his left on the other. I sat myself down in
silence, and looked over the "crack article" in the Edinburgh. By and by,
the room got fuller; every one spoke of the motion before the House, and
anticipated the merits of the speeches, and the numbers of the voters.

At last a principal member entered--a crowd gathered round him. "I have
heard," he said, "the most extraordinary speech, for the combination of
knowledge and imagination, that I ever recollect to have listened to."

"From Gaskell, I suppose?" was the universal cry.

"No," said Mr.--, "Gaskell has not yet spoken. It was from a young man
who has only just taken his seat. It was received with the most unanimous
cheers, and was, indeed, a remarkable display."

"What is his name?" I asked, already half foreboding the answer.

"I only just learnt it as I left the House," replied Mr.--: "the speaker
was Sir Reginald Glanville."

Then every one whom I had often before heard censure Glanville for his
rudeness, or laugh at him for his eccentricity, opened their mouths in
congratulations to their own wisdom, for having long admired his talents
and predicted his success.

I left the "turba Remi sequens fortunam;" I felt agitated and feverish;
those who have unexpectedly heard of the success of a man for whom great
affection is blended with greater interest, can understand the
restlessness of mind with which I wandered into the streets. The air was
cold and nipping. I was buttoning my coat round my chest, when I heard a
voice say, "You have dropped your glove, Mr. Pelham."

The speaker was Thornton. I thanked him coldly for his civility, and was
going on, when he said, "If your way is up Pall Mall, I have no objection
to join you for a few minutes."

I bowed with some hauteur; and as I seldom refuse any opportunity of
knowing more perfectly individual character, I said I should be happy of
his company so long as our way lay together.

"It is a cold night, Mr. Pelham," said Thornton, after a pause. "I have
been dining at Hatchett's, with an old Paris acquaintance: I am sorry we
did not meet more often in France, but I was so taken up with my friend
Mr. Warburton."

As Thornton uttered that name, he looked hard at me, and then added, "By
the by, I saw you with Sir Reginald Glanville the other day; you know him
well, I presume?"

"Tolerably well," said I, with indifference.

"What a strange character he is," rejoined Thornton; "I also have known
him for some years," and again Thornton looked pryingly into my
countenance. Poor fool, it was not for a penetration like his to read the
cor inscrutabile of a man born and bred like me, in the consummate
dissimulation of bon ton.

"He is very rich, is he not?" said Thornton, after a brief silence.

"I believe so," said I.

"Humph!" answered Thornton. "Things have grown better with him, in
proportion as they grew worse with me, who have had 'as good luck as the
cow that stuck herself with her own horn.' I suppose he is not too
anxious to recollect me--'poverty parts fellowship.' Well, hang pride,
say I; give me an honest heart all the year round, in summer or winter,
drought or plenty. Would to God, some kind friend would lend me twenty
pounds."

To this wish I made no reply. Thornton sighed.

"Mr. Pelham," renewed he, "it is true I have known you but a short
time--excuse the liberty I take--but if you could lend me a trifle, it
would really assist me very much."

"Mr. Thornton," said I, "if I knew you better, and could serve you more,
you might apply to me for a more real assistance than any bagatelle I
could afford you would be. If twenty pounds would really be of service to
you, I will lend it you, upon this condition, that you never ask me for
another farthing."

Thornton's face brightened. "A thousand, thousand--" he began.

"No," interrupted I, "no thanks, only your promise."

"Upon my honour," said Thornton, "I will never ask you for another
farthing."

"There is honour among thieves," thought I, and so I took out the sum
mentioned, and gave it to him. In good earnest, though I disliked the
man, his threadbare garments and altered appearance moved me to
compassion. While he was pocketing the money, which he did with the most
unequivocal delight, a tall figure passed us rapidly. We both turned at
the same instant, and recognised Glanville. He had not gone seven yards
beyond us, before we observed his steps, which were very irregular, pause
suddenly; a moment afterwards he fell against the iron rails of an area;
we hastened towards him, he was apparently fainting. His countenance was
perfectly livid, and marked with the traces of extreme exhaustion. I sent
Thornton to the nearest public-house for some water; before he returned,
Glanville had recovered.

"All--all--in vain," he said, slowly and unconsciously, "death is the
only Lethe."

He started when he saw me. I made him lean on my arm, and we walked on
slowly.

"I have already heard of your speech," said I. Glanville smiled with the
usual faint and sicklied expression, which made his smile painful even in
its exceeding sweetness.

"You have also already seen its effects; the excitement was too much for
me."

"It must have been a proud moment when you sat down," said I.

"It was one of the bitterest I ever felt--it was fraught with the memory
of the dead. What are all honours to me now?--O God! O God! have mercy
upon me!"

And Glanville stopped suddenly, and put his hand to his temples.

By this time Thornton had joined us. When Glanville's eyes rested upon
him, a deep hectic rose slowly and gradually over his cheeks. Thornton's
lip curled with a malicious expression. Glanville marked it, and his brow
grew on the moment as black as night.

"Begone!" he said, in a loud voice, and with a flashing eye, "begone
instantly; I loathe the very sight of so base a thing."

Thornton's quick, restless eye, grew like a living coal, and he bit his
lip so violently that the blood gushed out. He made, however, no other
answer than--"You seem agitated to-night, Sir Reginald; I wish your
speedy restoration to better health. Mr. Pelham, your servant."

Glanville walked on in silence till we came to his door: we parted there;
and for want of any thing better to do, I sauntered towards the M--Hell.
There were only about ten or twelve persons in the rooms, and all were
gathered round the hazard table--I looked on silently, seeing the knaves
devour the fools, and younger brothers make up in wit for the
deficiencies of fortune.

The Honourable Mr. Blagrave came up to me; "Do you never play?" said he.

"Sometimes," was my brief reply.

"Lend me a hundred pounds!" rejoined my kind acquaintance.

"I was just going to make you the same request," said I.

Blagrave laughed heartily. "Well," said he, "be my security to a Jew, and
I'll be yours. My fellow lends me money at only forty per cent. My
governor is a d--d stingy old fellow, for I am the most moderate son in
the universe. I neither hunt, nor race, nor have I any one favourite
expense, except gambling, and he won't satisfy me in that--now I call
such conduct shameful!"

"Unheard-of barbarity," said I; "and you do well to ruin your property by
Jews, before you have it; you could not avenge yourself better on 'the
governor.'"

"No, d--me," said Blagrave, "leave me alone for that! Well, I have got
five pounds left, I shall go and slap it down."

No sooner had he left me than I was accosted by Mr. Goren, a handsome
little adventurer, who lived the devil knew how, for the devil seemed to
take excellent care of him.

"Poor Blagrave!" said he, eyeing the countenance of that ingenious youth.
"He is a strange fellow--he asked me the other day, if I ever read the
History of England, and told me there was a great deal in it about his
ancestor, a Roman General, in the time of William the Conqueror, called
Caractacus. He told me at the last New-market, that he had made up a
capital book, and it turned out that he had hedged with such dexterity,
that he must lose one thousand pounds, and he might lose two. Well,
well," continued Goren, with a sanctified expression; "I would sooner see
those real fools here, than the confounded scoundrels, who pillage one
under a false appearance. Never, Mr. Pelham, trust to a man at a
gaming-house; the honestest look hides the worst sharper! Shall you try
your luck to-night?"

"No," said I, "I shall only look on."

Goren sauntered to the table, and sat down next to a rich young man, of
the best temper and the worst luck in the world. After a few throws,
Goren said to him, "Lord--, do put your money aside--you have so much on
the table, that in interferes with mine--and that is really so
unpleasant. Suppose you put some of it in your pocket."

Lord--took a handful of notes, and stuffed them carelessly in his coat
pocket. Five minutes afterwards I saw Goren insert his hand, empty, in
his neighbour's pocket, and bring it out full--and half an hour
afterwards he handed over a fifty pound note to the marker, saying,
"There, Sir, is my debt to you. God bless me, Lord--, how you have won; I
wish you would not leave all your money about--do put it in your pocket
with the rest."

Lord--(who had perceived the trick, though he was too indolent to resent
it), laughed. "No, no, Goren," said he, "you must let me keep some!"

Goren coloured, and soon after rose. "D--n my luck!" said he, as he
passed me. "I wonder I continue to play--but there are such sharpers in
the room. Avoid a gaming house, Mr. Pelham, if you wish to live."

"And let live," thought I.

I was just going away, when I heard a loud laugh on the stairs, and
immediately afterwards Thornton entered, joking with one of the markers.
He did not see me; but approaching the table, drew out the identical
twenty pound note I had given him, and asked for change with the air of a
millionaire. I did not wait to witness his fortune, good or ill; I cared
too little about it. I descended the stairs, and the servant, on opening
the door for me, admitted Sir John Tyrrell. "What," I thought, "is the
habit still so strong?" We stopped each other, and after a few words of
greeting, I went, once more, up stairs with him.

Thornton was playing as eagerly with his small quota as Lord C--with his
ten thousands. He nodded with an affected air of familiarity to Tyrrell,
who returned his salutation with the most supercilious hauteur; and very
soon afterwards the baronet was utterly engrossed by the chances of the
game. I had, however, satisfied my curiosity, in ascertaining that there
was no longer any intimacy between him and Thornton, and accordingly once
more I took my departure.




CHAPTER LVI.

                The times have been
             That when the brains were out, the man would die,
             And there an end--but now they rise again.
                          --Macbeth.

It was a strange thing to see a man like Glanville, with costly tastes,
luxurious habits, great talents, peculiarly calculated for display,
courted by the highest members of the state, admired for his beauty and
genius by half the women in London, yet living in the most ascetic
seclusion from his kind, and indulging in the darkest and most morbid
despondency. No female was ever seen to win even his momentary glance of
admiration. All the senses seemed to have lost, for his palate, their
customary allurements. He lived among his books, and seemed to make his
favourite companions amidst the past. At nearly all hours of the night he
was awake and occupied, and at day-break his horse was always brought to
his door. He rode alone for several hours, and then, on his return, he
was employed till the hour he went to the House, in the affairs and
politics of the day. Ever since his debut, he had entered with much
constancy into the more leading debates, and his speeches were invariably
of the same commanding order which had characterised his first.

It was singular that, in his parliamentary display, as in his ordinary
conversation, there were none of the wild and speculative opinions, or
the burning enthusiasm of romance, in which the natural inclination of
his mind seemed so essentially to delight. His arguments were always
remarkable for the soundness of the principles on which they were based,
and the logical clearness with which they were expressed. The feverish
fervour of his temperament was, it is true, occasionally shown in a
remarkable energy of delivery, or a sudden and unexpected burst of the
more impetuous powers of oratory; but these were so evidently natural and
spontaneous, and so happily adapted to be impressive of the subject,
rather than irrelevant from its bearings, that they never displeased even
the oldest and coldest cynics and calculators of the House.

It is no uncommon contradiction in human nature (and in Glanville it
seemed peculiarly prominent) to find men of imagination and genius gifted
with the strongest common sense, for the admonition or benefit of others,
even while constantly neglecting to exert it for themselves. He was soon
marked out as the most promising and important of all the junior members
of the House; and the coldness with which he kept aloof from social
intercourse with the party he adopted, only served to increase their
respect, though it prevented their affection.

Lady Roseville's attachment to him was scarcely a secret; the celebrity
of her name in the world of ton made her least look or action the
constant subject of present remark and after conversation; and there were
too many moments, even in the watchful publicity of society, when that
charming but imprudent person forgot every thing but the romance of her
attachment. Glanville seemed not only perfectly untouched by it, but even
wholly unconscious of its existence, and preserved invariably, whenever
he was forced into the crowd, the same stern, cold, unsympathizing
reserve, which made him, at once, an object of universal conversation and
dislike.

Three weeks after Glanville's first speech in the House, I called upon
him, with a proposal from Lord Dawton. After we had discussed it, we
spoke on more familiar topics, and, at last, he mentioned Thornton. It
will be observed that we had never conversed respecting that person; nor
had Glanville once alluded to our former meetings, or to his disguised
appearance and false appellation at Paris. Whatever might be the mystery,
it was evidently of a painful nature, and it was not, therefore, for me
to allude to it. This day he spoke of Thornton with a tone of
indifference.

"The man," he said, "I have known for some time; he was useful to me
abroad, and, notwithstanding his character, I rewarded him well for his
services. He has since applied to me several times for money, which is
spent at the gambling-house as soon as it is obtained. I believe him to
be leagued with a gang of sharpers of the lowest description; and I am
really unwilling any farther to supply the vicious necessities of himself
and his comrades. He is a mean, mercenary rascal, who would scruple at no
enormity, provided he was paid for it!"

Glanville paused for a few moments, and then added, while his cheek
blushed, and his voice seemed somewhat hesitating and embarrassed--"You
remember Mr. Tyrrell, at Paris?"

"Yes," said I--"he is, at present, in London, and--" Glanville started as
if he had been shot.

"No, no," he exclaimed, wildly--"he died at Paris, from want--from
starvation."

"You are mistaken," said I; "he is now Sir John Tyrrell, and possessed of
considerable property. I saw him myself, three weeks ago."

Glanville, laying his hand upon my arm, looked in my face with a long,
stern, prying gaze, and his cheek grew more ghastly and livid with every
moment. At last he turned, and muttered something between his teeth; and
at that moment the door opened, and Thornton was announced. Glanville
sprung towards him and seized him by the throat!

"Dog!" he cried, "you have deceived me--Tyrrell lives!"

"Hands off!" cried the gamester, with a savage grin of defiance--"hands
off! or, by the Lord that made me, you shall have gripe for gripe!"

"Ho, wretch!" said Glanville, shaking him violently, while his worn and
slender, yet still powerful frame, trembled with the excess of his
passion; "dost thou dare to threaten me!" and with these words he flung
Thornton against the opposite wall with such force, that the blood gushed
out of his mouth and nostrils. The gambler rose slowly, and wiping the
blood from his face, fixed his malignant and fiery eye upon his
aggressor, with an expression of collected hate and vengeance, that made
my very blood creep.

"It is not my day now," he said, with a calm, quiet, cold voice, and
then, suddenly changing his manner, he approached me with a sort of bow,
and made some remark on the weather.

Meanwhile, Glanville had sunk on the sofa, exhausted, less by his late
effort than the convulsive passion which had produced it. He rose in a
few moments, and said to Thornton, "Pardon my violence; let this pay your
bruises;" and he placed a long and apparently well filled purse in
Thornton's hand. That veritable philosophe took it with the same air as a
dog receives the first caress from the hand which has just chastised him;
and feeling the purse between his short, hard fingers, as if to ascertain
the soundness of its condition, quietly slid it into his breeches pocket,
which he then buttoned with care, and pulling his waistcoat down, as if
for further protection to the deposit, he turned towards Glanville, and
said, in his usual quaint style of vulgarity--"Least said, Sir Reginald,
the soonest mended. Gold is a good plaister for bad bruises. Now, then,
your will:--ask and I will answer, unless you think Mr. Pelham un de
trop."

I was already at the door, with the intention of leaving the room, when
Glanville cried, "Stay, Pelham, I have but one question to ask Mr.
Thornton. Is John Tyrrell still living?"

"He is!" answered Thornton, with a sardonic smile.

"And beyond all want!" resumed Glanville.

"He is!" was the tautological reply.

"Mr. Thornton," said Glanville, with a calm voice, "I have now done with
you--you may leave the room!"

Thornton bowed with an air of ironical respect, and obeyed the command.

I turned to look at Glanville. His countenance, always better adapted to
a stern, than a soft expression, was perfectly fearful; every line in it
seemed dug into a furrow; the brows were bent over his large and flashing
eyes with a painful intensity of anger and resolve; his teeth were
clenched firmly as if by a vice, and the thin upper lip, which was drawn
from them with a bitter curl of scorn, was as white as death. His right
hand had closed upon the back of the massy chair, over which his tall
nervous frame leant, and was grasping it with an iron force, which it
could not support: it snapped beneath his hand like a hazel stick. This
accident, slight as it was, recalled him to himself. He apologized with
apparent self-possession for his disorder; and, after a few words of
fervent and affectionate farewell on my part, I left him to the solitude
which I knew he desired.




CHAPTER LVII.

           While I seemed only intent upon pleasure, I locked in my heart
           the consciousness and vanity of power; in the levity of the
           lip, I disguised the knowledge and the workings of the brain;
           and I looked, as with a gifted eye, upon the mysteries of the
           hidden depths, while I seemed to float an idler with the herd
           only upon the surface of the stream.
                     --Falkland.

As I walked home, revolving the scene I had witnessed, the words of
Tyrrell came into my recollection--viz. that the cause of Glanville's
dislike to him had arisen in Tyrrell's greater success in some youthful
liaison. In this account I could not see much probability. In the first
place, the cause was not sufficient to produce such an effect; and, in
the second, there was little likelihood that the young and rich
Glanville, possessed of the most various accomplishments, and the most
remarkable personal beauty, should be supplanted by a needy spendthrift
(as Tyrrell at that time was), of coarse manners, and unpolished mind;
with a person not, indeed, unprepossessing, but somewhat touched by time,
and never more comparable to Glanville's than that of the Satyr to
Hyperion.

While I was meditating over a mystery which excited my curiosity more
powerfully than anything, not relating to himself, ought ever to occupy
the attention of a wise man, I was accosted by Vincent: the difference in
our politics had of late much dissevered us, and when he took my arm, and
drew me up Bond-street, I was somewhat surprised at his condescension.

"Listen to me, Pelham," he said; "once more I offer you a settlement in
our colony. There will be great changes soon: trust me, so radical a
party as that you have adopted can never come in: our's, on the contrary,
is no less moderate than liberal. This is the last time of asking; for I
know you will soon have exposed your opinions in public more openly than
you have yet done, and then it will be too late. At present I hold, with
Hudibras, and the ancients, that it is--

                   "'More honourable far, servare
                   Civem than slay an adversary.'"

"Alas, Vincent," said I, "I am marked out for slaughter, for you cannot
convince me by words, and so, I suppose, you must conquer me by blows.
Adieu, this is my way to Lord Dawton's: where are you going?"

"To mount my horse, and join the parca juventus," said Vincent, with a
laugh at his own witticism, as we shook hands, and parted.

I grieve much, my beloved reader, that I cannot unfold to thee all the
particulars of my political intrigue. I am, by the very share which fell
to my lot, bound over to the strictest secrecy, as to its nature, and the
characters of the chief agents in its execution. Suffice it to say, that
the greater part of my time was, though furtively, employed in a sort of
home diplomacy, gratifying alike to the activity of my tastes, and the
vanity of my mind; and there were moments when I ventured to grasp in my
imagination the highest honours of the state, and the most lucrative
offices of power. I had filled Dawton, and his coadjutors, with an
exaggerated opinion of my abilities; but I knew well how to sustain it. I
rose by candle-light, and consumed, in the intensest application, the
hours which every other individual of our party wasted in enervating
slumbers, from the hesternal dissipation or debauch. Was there a question
in political economy debated, mine was the readiest and the clearest
reply. Did a period in our constitution become investigated, it was I to
whom the duty of expositor was referred. From Madame D'Anville, with whom
(though lost as a lover) I constantly corresponded as a friend, I
obtained the earliest and most accurate detail of the prospects and
manoeuvres of the court in which her life was spent, and in whose more
secret offices her husband was employed. I spared no means of extending
my knowledge of every the minutest point which could add to the
reputation I enjoyed. I made myself acquainted with the individual
interests and exact circumstances of all whom it was our object to
intimidate or to gain. It was I who brought to the House the younger and
idler members, whom no more nominally powerful agent could allure from
the ball-room or the gaming-house.

In short, while, by the dignity of my birth, and the independent hauteur
of my bearing, I preserved the rank of an equal amongst the highest of
the set, I did not scruple to take upon myself the labour and activity of
the most subordinate. Dawton declared me his right hand; and, though I
knew myself rather his head than his hand, I pretended to feel proud of
the appellation. In truth, I only waited for my entree into the House, to
fix my eye and grasp upon the very situation that nobleman coveted for
himself.

Meanwhile, it was my pleasure to wear in society the coxcombical and
eccentric costume of character I had first adopted, and to cultivate the
arts which won from women the smile which cheered and encouraged me in my
graver contest with men. It was only to Ellen Glanville, that I laid
aside an affectation, which I knew was little likely to attract a taste
so refined and unadulterated as her's. I discovered in her a mind which,
while it charmed me by its tenderness and freshness, elevated me by its
loftiness of thought. She was, at heart, perhaps, as ambitious as myself;
but while my aspirations were concealed by affectation, her's were
softened by her timidity, and purified by her religion. There were
moments when I opened myself to her, and caught a new spirit from her
look of sympathy and enthusiasm.

"Yes," thought I, "I do long for honours, but it is that I may ask her to
share and ennoble them." In fine, I loved as other men loved--and I
fancied a perfection in her, and vowed an emulation in myself, which it
was reserved for Time to ratify or deride.

Where did I leave myself? as the Irishman said--on my road to Lord
Dawton's. I was lucky enough to find that personage at home; he was
writing at a table covered with pamphlets and books of reference.

"Hush! Pelham," said his lordship, who is a quiet, grave, meditative
little man, always ruminating on a very small cud--"hush! or do oblige me
by looking over this history, to find out the date of the Council of
Pisa."

"That will do, my young friend," said his lordship, after I had furnished
him with the information he required--"I wish to Heaven, I could finish
this pamphlet by to-morrow: it is intended as an answer to--. But I am so
perplexed with business, that--"

"Perhaps," said I, "if you will pardon my interrupting you, I can throw
your observations together--make your Sibylline leaves into a book. Your
lordship will find the matter, and I will not spare the trouble."

Lord Dawton was profuse in his thanks; he explained the subject, and left
the arrangement wholly to me. He could not presume to dictate. I promised
him, if he lent me the necessary books, to finish the pamphlet against
the following evening.

"And now," said Lord Dawton--"that we have settled this affair--what news
from France?"--

"I wish," sighed Lord Dawton, as we were calculating our forces, "that we
could gain over Lord Guloseton."

"What, the facetious epicure?" said I.

"The same," answered Dawton: "we want him as a dinner-giver; and,
besides, he has four votes in the Lower House."

"Well," said I, "he is indolent and independent--it is not impossible."

"Do you know him?" answered Dawton.

"No:" said I.

Dawton sighed.--"And young A--?" said the statesman, after a pause.

"Has an expensive mistress, and races. Your lordship might be sure of
him, were you in power, and sure not to have him while you are out of
it."

"And B.?" rejoined Dawton.

                                VOLUME V.




CHAPTER LVIII.

                   Mangez-vous bien, Monsieur?
                   Oui, et bois encore mieux.
                                 --Mons. de Porceaugnac.

My pamphlet took prodigiously. The authorship was attributed to the most
talented member of the Opposition; and though there were many errors in
style, and (I now think) many sophisms in the reasoning, yet it carried
the end proposed by all ambition of whatever species--and imposed upon
the taste of the public.

Sometime afterwards, I was going down the stairs at Almack's, when I
heard an altercation, high and grave, at the door of reception. To my
surprise, I found Lord Guloseton and a very young man in great wrath; the
latter had never been to Almack's before, and had forgotten his ticket.
Guloseton, who belonged to a very different set to that of the
Almackians, insisted that his word was enough to bear his juvenile
companion through. The ticket inspector was irate and obdurate, and
having seldom or ever seen Lord Guloseton himself, paid very little
respect to his authority.

As I was wrapping myself in my cloak, Guloseton turned to me, for passion
makes men open their hearts: too eager for an opportunity of acquiring
the epicure's acquaintance, I offered to get his friend admittance in an
instant; the offer was delightedly accepted, and I soon procured a small
piece of pencilled paper from Lady--, which effectually silenced the
Charon, and opened the Stygian via to the Elysium beyond.

Guloseton overwhelmed me with his thanks. I remounted the stairs with
him--took every opportunity of ingratiating myself--received an
invitation to dinner on the following day, and left Willis's transported
at the goodness of my fortune.

At the hour of eight on the ensuing evening, I had just made my entrance
into Lord Guloseton's drawing-room. It was a small apartment furnished
with great luxury and some taste. A Venus of Titian's was placed over the
chimney-piece, in all the gorgeous voluptuousness of her unveiled
beauty--the pouting lip, not silent though shut--the eloquent lid
drooping over the eye, whose reveille you could so easily imagine--the
arms--the limbs--the attitude, so composed, yet so redolent of life--all
seemed to indicate that sleep was not forgetfulness, and that the dreams
of the goddess were not wholly inharmonious with the waking realities in
which it was her gentle prerogative to indulge. On either side, was a
picture of the delicate and golden hues of Claude; these were the only
landscapes in the room; the remaining pictures were more suitable to the
Venus of the luxurious Italian. Here was one of the beauties of Sir Peter
Lely; there was an admirable copy of the Hero and Leander. On the table
lay the Basia of Johannes Secundus, and a few French works on Gastronomy.

As for the genius loci--you must imagine a middle-sized, middle-aged man,
with an air rather of delicate than florid health. But little of the
effects of his good cheer were apparent in the external man. His cheeks
were neither swollen nor inflated--his person, though not thin, was of no
unwieldy obesity--the tip of his nasal organ was, it is true, of a more
ruby tinge than the rest, and one carbuncle, of tender age and gentle
dyes, diffused its mellow and moonlight influence over the physiognomical
scenery--his forehead was high and bald, and the few locks which still
rose above it, were carefully and gracefully curled a l'antique: Beneath
a pair of grey shaggy brows, (which their noble owner had a strange habit
of raising and depressing, according to the nature of his remarks,)
rolled two very small, piercing, arch, restless orbs, of a tender green;
and the mouth, which was wide and thick-lipped, was expressive of great
sensuality, and curved upwards in a perpetual smile.

Such was Lord Guloseton. To my surprise no other guest but myself
appeared.

"A new friend," said he, as we descended into the dining-room, "is like a
new dish--one must have him all to oneself, thoroughly to enjoy and
rightly to understand him."

"A noble precept," said I, with enthusiasm. "Of all vices, indiscriminate
hospitality is the most pernicious. It allows us neither conversation nor
dinner, and realizing the mythological fable of Tantalus, gives us
starvation in the midst of plenty."

"You are right," said Guloseton, solemnly; "I never ask above six persons
to dinner, and I never dine out; for a bad dinner, Mr. Pelham, a bad
dinner is a most serious--I may add, the most serious calamity."

"Yes," I replied, "for it carries with it no consolation: a buried friend
may be replaced--a lost mistress renewed--a slandered character be
recovered--even a broken constitution restored; but a dinner, once lost,
is irremediable; that day is for ever departed; an appetite once thrown
away can never, till the cruel prolixity of the gastric agents is over,
be regained. 'Il y a tant de maitresses, (says the admirable Corneille),
'il n'y a qu'un diner.'"

"You speak like an oracle--like the Cook's Oracle, Mr. Pelham: may I send
you some soup, it is a la Carmelite? But what are you about to do with
that case?"

"It contains" (said I) "my spoon, my knife, and my fork. Nature afflicted
me with a propensity, which through these machines I have endeavoured to
remedy by art. I eat with too great a rapidity. It is a most unhappy
failing, for one often hurries over in one minute, what ought to have
afforded the fullest delight for the period of five. It is, indeed, a
vice which deadens enjoyment, as well as abbreviates it; it is a shameful
waste of the gifts, and a melancholy perversion of the bounty of
Providence: my conscience tormented me; but the habit, fatally indulged
in early childhood, was not easy to overcome. At last I resolved to
construct a spoon of peculiarly shallow dimensions, a fork so small, that
it could only raise a certain portion to my mouth, and a knife rendered
blunt and jagged, so that it required a proper and just time to carve the
goods 'the gods provide me.' My lord, 'the lovely Thais sits beside me'
in the form of a bottle of Madeira. Suffer me to take wine with you?"

"With pleasure, my good friend; let us drink to the memory of the
Carmelites, to whom we are indebted for this inimitable soup."

"Yes!" I cried. "Let us for once shake off the prejudices of sectarian
faith, and do justice to one order of those incomparable men, who,
retiring from the cares of an idle and sinful world, gave themselves with
undivided zeal and attention to the theory and practice of the profound
science of gastronomy. It is reserved for us, my lord, to pay a grateful
tribute of memory to those exalted recluses, who, through a long period
of barbarism and darkness, preserved, in the solitude of their cloisters,
whatever of Roman luxury and classic dainties have come down to this
later age. We will drink to the Carmelites at a sect, but we will drink
also to the monks as a body. Had we lived in those days, we had been
monks ourselves."

"It is singular," answered Lord Guloseton--"(by the by, what think you of
this turbot?)--to trace the history of the kitchen; it affords the
greatest scope to the philosopher and the moralist. The ancients seemed
to have been more mental, more imaginative, than we are in their dishes;
they fed their bodies as well as their minds upon delusion: for instance,
they esteemed beyond all price the tongues of nightingales, because they
tasted the very music of the birds in the organs of their utterance. That
is what I call the poetry of gastronomy!"

"Yes," said I, with a sigh, "they certainly had, in some respects, the
advantage over us. Who can pore over the suppers of Apicius without the
fondest regret? The venerable Ude [Note: Q.--The venerable
Bede--Printer's Devil.] implies, that the study has not progressed.
'Cookery (he says, in the first part of his work) possesses but few
innovators.'"

"It is with the greatest diffidence," said Guloseton, (his mouth full of
truth and turbot,) "that we may dare to differ from so great an
authority. Indeed, so high is my veneration for that wise man, that if
all the evidence of my sense and reason were on one side, and the dictum
of the great Ude upon the other, I should be inclined--I think, I should
be determined--to relinquish the former, and adopt the latter." [Note:
See the speech of Mr. Brougham in honour of Mr. Fox.]

"Bravo, my lord," cried I, warmly. "'Qu'un Cuisinier est un mortel
divin!' Why should we not be proud of our knowledge in cookery? It is the
soul of festivity at all times, and to all ages. How many marriages have
been the consequence of meeting at dinner? How much good fortune has been
the result of a good supper? At what moment of our existence are we
happier than at table? There hatred and animosity are lulled to sleep,
and pleasure alone reigns. Here the cook, by his skill and attention,
anticipates our wishes in the happiest selection of the best dishes and
decorations. Here our wants are satisfied, our minds and bodies
invigorated, and ourselves qualified for the high delights of love,
music, poetry, dancing, and other pleasures; and is he, whose talents
have produced these happy effects, to rank no higher in the scale of man
than a common servant? [Note: Ude, verbatim.]

"'Yes,' cries the venerable professor himself, in a virtuous and
prophetic paroxysm of indignant merit--'yes, my disciples, if you adopt,
and attend to the rules I have laid down, the self-love of mankind will
consent at last, that cookery shall rank in the class of the sciences,
and its professors deserve the name of artists!'" [Note: Ibid.]

"My dear, dear Sir," exclaimed Guloseton, with a kindred glow, "I
discover in you a spirit similar to my own. Let us drink long life to the
venerable Ude!"

"I pledge you, with all my soul," said I, filling my glass to the brim.

"What a pity," rejoined Guloseton, "that Ude, whose practical science was
so perfect, should ever have written, or suffered others to write, the
work published under his name; true it is that the opening part which you
have so feelingly recited, is composed with a grace, a charm beyond the
reach of art; but the instructions are vapid, and frequently so
erroneous, as to make me suspect their authenticity; but, after all,
cooking is not capable of becoming a written science--it is the
philosophy of practice!"

"Ah! by Lucullus," exclaimed I, interrupting my host, "what a visionary
bechamelle! Oh, the inimitable sauce; these chickens are indeed worthy of
the honour of being dressed. Never, my lord, as long as you live, eat a
chicken in the country; excuse a pun, you will have foul fare."

         "'J'ai toujours redoute la volaille perfide,
           Qui brave les efforts d'une dent intrepide;
           Souvent par un ami, dans ses champs entraine.
           J'ai reconnu le soir le coq infortune
           Qui m'avait le matin a l'aurore naissante
           Reveille brusquement de sa voix glapissante;
           Je l'avais admire dans le sein de la cour,
           Avec des yeux jaloux, j'avais vu son amour.
           Helas! la malheureux, abjurant sa tendresse,
           Exercait a souper sa fureur vengeresse.'

"Pardon the prolixity of my quotation for the sake of its value."

"I do, I do," answered Guloseton, laughing at the humour of the lines:
till, suddenly checking himself, he said, "we must be grave, Mr. Pelham,
it will never do to laugh. What would become of our digestions?"

"True," said I, relapsing into seriousness; "and if you will allow me one
more quotation, you will see what my author adds with regard to any
abrupt interruption.

         "'Defendez que personne au milieu d'un banquet,
           Ne vous vienne donner un avis indiscret,
           Ecartez ce facheux qui vers vous s'achemine,
           Rien ne doit deranger l'honnete homme qui dine."

"Admirable advice," said Guloseton, toying with a filet mignon de poulet.
"Do you remember an example in the Bailly of Suffren, who, being in
India, was waited upon by a deputation of natives while he was at dinner.
'Tell them,' said he, 'that the Christian religion peremptorily forbids
every Christian, while at table, to occupy himself with any earthly
subject, except the function of eating.' The deputation retired in the
profoundest respect at the exceeding devotion of the French general."

"Well," said I, after we had chuckled gravely and quietly, with the care
of our digestion before us, for a few minutes--"well, however good the
invention was, the idea is not entirely new, for the Greeks esteemed
eating and drinking plentifully, a sort of offering to the gods; and
Aristotle explains the very word, THoinai, or feasts, by an etymological
exposition, 'that it was thought a duty to the gods to be drunk;' no bad
idea of our classical patterns of antiquity. Polypheme, too, in the
Cyclops of Euripides, no doubt a very sound theologian, says, his stomach
is his only deity; and Xenophon tells us, that as the Athenians exceeded
all other people in the number of their gods, so they exceeded them also
in the number of their feasts. May I send your lordship an ortolan?"

"Pelham, my boy," said Guloseton, whose eyes began to roll and twinkle
with a brilliancy suited to the various liquids which ministered to their
rejoicing orbs; "I love you for your classics. Polypheme was a wise
fellow, a very wise fellow, and it was a terrible shame in Ulysses to put
out his eye. No wonder that the ingenious savage made a deity of his
stomach; to what known and visible source, on this earth, was he indebted
for a keener enjoyment--a more rapturous and a more constant delight? No
wonder he honoured it with his gratitude, and supplied it with his
peace-offerings;--let us imitate so great an example:--let us make our
digestive receptacles a temple, to which we will consecrate the choicest
goods we possess;--let us conceive no pecuniary sacrifice too great,
which procures for our altar an acceptable gift;--let us deem it an
impiety to hesitate, if a sauce seems extravagant, or an ortolan too
dear; and let our last act in this sublunary existence, be a solemn
festival in honour of our unceasing benefactor."

"Amen to your creed," said I: "edibilatory Epicurism holds the key to all
morality: for do we not see now how sinful it is to yield to an obscene
and exaggerated intemperance?--would it not be to the last degree
ungrateful to the great source of our enjoyment, to overload it with a
weight which wo