“Exceeding fair she was not, and yet fair,In that she never studied to be fairerThan nature made her.”Chapman.
“Exceeding fair she was not, and yet fair,In that she never studied to be fairerThan nature made her.”Chapman.
“Exceeding fair she was not, and yet fair,
In that she never studied to be fairer
Than nature made her.”
Chapman.
In pursuance of the arrangement proposed the preceding evening, Mr. Martindale and his guest, immediately after an early breakfast, went out in search of Richard Smith’s cottage. They had some little difficulty to find the place; for, though the old man had lived several years at Brigland, he was of such retired habits that he was comparatively unknown inthe parish: some persons knew him by sight who did not know his name, and others had heard his name, who were unacquainted with his person.
The cottage in which he lived seemed to have been selected for its very retired situation. It stood in a narrow lane, which, before the building of the great house, had served as a thoroughfare from Brigland Common to the meadows, which, since the erection of the Abbey, had been included in the park. The cottage, though apparently so secluded and almost embowered in wood, was by no means a gloomy abode; for through a natural vista in the wood before it there was an extensive view of highly-cultivated scenery, which showed between the over-arching trees like a beautiful painting in a rustic frame. The light which shone through this opening, drew the eyes of Markham and his companion to notice the beauty of the landscape.
There is a peculiar and almost indescribable effect produced on the mind by the sight of well-known scenery taken from a new point, orviewed with some variety or novelty of accompaniment. The feeling thus excited, has not all its interest from novelty alone, nor is it indebted for its interest to association. In viewing this scene, Mr. Martindale enjoyed this pleasure: he had lived for many years in Brigland, and had long been in possession of this estate, but here was a beauty he had never seen before.
While they were both admiring the scene before them, Horatio Markham fancied that he could hear a distant sound of music, and stood for a moment in a listening attitude. Presently the sound caught the ear of Mr. Martindale; and the two companions looked at each other in mute astonishment, when the faint tinkling of the unknown instrument was accompanied with the human voice in notes of indescribable sweetness. The voice was near enough to be distinctly audible; and Markham, who had a more acute sense of hearing, and a more extensive knowledge of music than his friend Mr. Martindale, soon perceived that neither the words nor the melody were English. It waspresently obvious that the music was in the cottage of old Richard Smith. The two listeners waited till the voice was silent, and then, without the ceremony of tapping at the door, entered the poor man’s humble dwelling.
The interior of the cottage was perfectly neat and clean, as might have been anticipated from the style and appearance of the old man; but there was in it more than neatness—there were symptoms that its present tenants had seen better days. There were several articles of furniture and embellishment which cottagers have neither means nor inclination to purchase. Symptoms indeed of better days are to be continually met with in many humble, even in many miserable dwellings; but such symptoms consist generally of those articles which cannot find purchasers, or which are in daily use, or of indispensable utility, or which have an imaginary value far beyond their real value. And the poor people are sometimes proud of these mementos of their high descent. They can perhaps show, in an old black frame, and drawn on durable vellum, their family-arms:—they may have large unwieldyportraits of ancestors who were distinguished somehow or other in former days, but they know not when, and have perhaps forgotten their very names:—they still retain pieces of fine needlework, which make it manifest that some female ancestor had received a boarding-school education; and many a poor old couple eat their daily scanty meal on the remains of the fine porcelain which some of their progenitors used and exhibited only on days of high festivity.
But the articles in Richard Smith’s cottage were of a different character, and of much more recent date than such as those alluded to above. There hung upon the walls some landscapes, which indeed a person in poverty might have drawn, but which no poor man would keep or would embellish with handsome modern frames. There were also several engravings, which had not been published more than sixteen or seventeen years. Instead of the usual cottage clock with clumsily painted figures and elm-case, there stood on a bracket a neat time-piece, with the name of a celebrated Parisian maker. Upon a setof hanging-shelves there lay several volumes of fancifully and apparently foreign bound books. These were for the most part Italian, but a few were French.
While Mr. Martindale was talking to the old man, Horatio Markham, according to a very common, but not very decorous practice of young men who affect literature, was amusing himself with taking down and opening one after another of the books; and seeing the character of them, and that in their selection they gave proof of a correct and polished taste, he could not but look more attentively at the old man’s niece, with an endeavour to trace in her countenance an expression of a style above that of a simple rustic. The human countenance is susceptible of great variety of expression, and owes much to surrounding circumstances: the very same set of features which in one garb and place would savour of rusticity, would bear a different interpretation in another garb and with other adjuncts. In like manner, the imagination of the spectator does much in giving an interpretation to features, and ascertainingphysiognomical indications. So when Horatio Markham saw the young woman in the witness-box giving, with downcast look and trembling accents, her testimony as to the injury sustained by a poor old man, he could see nothing more, for he thought nothing more was to be seen, than a modest, simple, and tolerably pretty face, having no remarkable or peculiar expression. But when he saw the same person, with the same features and the same expression of retiring modesty, surrounded with the productions of art, and apparently the only person in the cottage to whom those productions could be interesting, and by whom those books should be read and enjoyed, he soon fancied that he observed indications of a superior mind and a cultivated understanding. Nay, so far did his imagination influence him, that the impulse which he first felt to address some inquiries to the old man’s niece concerning the books and drawings was absolutely repelled by a feeling of awe. He now began to paint to his imagination a person of superior rank, and to be astonished that he had not before observedthat her whole style and expression was far above her professed situation.
As he was replacing on the shelf one of the books into which he had been looking, a hard substance fell to the ground, and he stooped immediately to pick it up; but the young woman was before him, and Markham saw, or thought he saw, that the article which she had thus hastily picked up, was neither more nor less than an ivory crucifix. The object itself he would not have noticed, but he was very much struck with the eagerness with which it was taken up and concealed. Apologising for his awkwardness, and accepting an acknowledgment of his apology, he turned from the books to look more minutely at the pictures. The drawings were, without exception, scenes in Italy, evidently executed by a practised hand, and bearing a date which rendered it highly improbable that they should have been the production of the old man’s niece.
The conversation which passed between Mr. Martindale and Richard Smith was indeed heard, but not heeded by Horatio Markham.It had a reference chiefly to the nature of the injury for which the old man had recently sought legal redress; and the account which Mr. Martindale received concerning the conduct of his honourable relative, was not by any means calculated to soothe the already irritated mind of the old gentleman. Turning the discourse from these unpleasant matters, he suddenly asked:
“Did not I hear music just before I came in? Does this young woman play or sing?”
This question excited the attention of Markham, who cast his eyes round the apartment, but all in vain, to find what musical instrument it was which he had heard while he was standing near the cottage. To the question thus asked no answer was given, but the young woman held down her head and blushed; exhibiting, as Markham thought, much more confusion than such an inquiry in such circumstances seemed to demand. Mr. Martindale did not repeat the question, but proceeded to say:
“Well, my good man, I have brought withme the young advocate who pleaded your cause so effectually. I hope he will be as successful in every cause that he undertakes, and that he will never undertake any less honourable to himself.”
“The law is a dangerous profession, sir; but we must not measure a man’s integrity by the brief which he holds. The barrister professes himself an advocate, not a judge; and if he refuses a brief because he thinks the cause a bad one, he acts with prejudice, seeing only one side of the question. Besides, sir, there are few causes which may bear altogether the name of bad. Sometimes a cause may be bad in law, but good in morals; sometimes an action at law may be good so far as the moral feeling is concerned, and bad as to the letter of some statute; and it is possible that some persons may consider any litigation whatever as being inconsistent with the strict letter of Christianity. We must also make great allowances for diversity of temper and disposition: what may appear just to one man appears perhaps too rigidly strict to another. I think, sir, that the barrister’sprofession is unduly calumniated. If, indeed, a client comes to an advocate and says, ‘I wish to take an unfair advantage of my neighbour, and I will pay you to assist me,’ then the barrister would act improperly to sell his conscience to his client; but every litigant sees, or fancies he sees, something of right in his cause, and the barrister merely gives him legal assistance. The law is a dangerous profession indeed, because it may lead to a confusion of right and wrong; but while it endangers a man’s integrity, it also gives him abundant and honourable opportunity of displaying an upright mind and good principle. You will excuse an old man,” said he, turning towards Markham; “garrulity is the privilege of age; but I have had experience of the world. I see but little of it now; the time has been that I have seen more.”
Horatio Markham, though but five-and-twenty years of age—though he had gained two causes in the Court of King’s Bench—though he had been successful in his first brief in his native town—though he had at other towns onthe circuit held an extraordinary number of briefs for a first journey—though he held those briefs by means of a reputation going before him that he was a man of good talents—though he had more than once received a marked compliment from his seniors both at the bar and on the bench—and though he was of humble origin, and was rationally expecting to rise in a profession which would place him in a higher station than his parents or early acquaintance, yet, with all this, he was not a coxcomb. Moralists and divines may speak as contemptuously as they will of negative virtues; but in defiance of their wisdom, we will contend that, humanly speaking, there was great merit in Horatio, that he did not feel himself unduly elated by all his honors. He attentively listened to the common-place harangue of old Richard Smith, and replied to it with the respect due to old age.
“You are very candid to the profession, sir; few will concede so much: but it would be difficult to find any profession or employment which is not subject to the reproaches of those who are not engaged in it. Indeed, Ihave known that even individuals in the profession have also spoken disrespectfully of its moral character and tendency.”
“Then,” replied the old man, “they ought to leave it. A profession cannot be indispensable that is essentially immoral. But, sir, I have to thank you for the manner in which you conducted my cause. It was well done of you that you spoke so temperately of the defendant, or that you rather let facts speak for themselves. I have no spiteful feeling against the gentleman, and for my own part could easily have borne with what I received from him; but I have a serious charge here,” pointing to his niece; “that poor child looks up to me for protection, and I must not suffer any one to approach her disrespectfully. I love her as if she were my own. She has, indeed, no other protector. I must be almost fastidious and jealous in the care that I take of her: a life dearer to me than my own depends upon her happiness.”
As the old man was speaking, his face was suffused with a glow of strong feeling; theyoung woman’s lip quivered, her eye glistened, and she left the room where they were sitting. As she opened the door by which she made her retreat, Markham, whose curiosity had been strongly excited by all the appearances in the cottage, caught a glimpse of a second or inner apartment, apparently fitted up with very great neatness. Of its extent he could form no idea, but its ornaments were of the same nature as those in the room in which he was sitting. Old Mr. Martindale now felt his curiosity roused; he said:
“I am quite curious to know the history of this young woman. Is she really your niece?”
“She is really my niece,” said the old man, “so far as that her mother was my sister’s child.”
“Are these drawings done by your niece too? You seem to have given her a very good education.”
“These drawings,” replied the old man, “are not hers; and as for her education, such as it is, she received it before she was placed under my care.”
“Are her father and mother living?” continued Mr. Martindale; “but I suppose not, by her being placed, as you say, under your sole protection.”
This last part of the sentence was uttered at an interval after the first; for no immediate answer was returned to the interrogation concerning her father and mother. Indeed, the poor man did not seem very willing to enter into any very particular explanation upon the subject; and Mr. Martindale himself, though he had expressed a curiosity to know the history of the young woman, was not so very curious as to persevere in putting a multitude of questions.
There are some persons whose curiosity gains strength by opposition, and others who will not condescend to be at the expense of any great number of questions. Mr. Martindale was of this latter class. Indeed, had he received ever so much intelligence, it would have been of little use, for he would soon have forgotten it. There was another person present whose curiosityhad been much more strongly excited. Horatio Markham felt himself fully convinced that the young woman was not a daughter of a cottager: he could, as he fancied, see clearly enough, by her manner and expression, that she was of much superior rank. It was very ridiculous for a young barrister, who had scarcely seen any society at all, who had been born and brought up in a country town, and of a humble family, or, more properly speaking, of no family at all, and who had spent most of his time in study;—it was very ridiculous for him to affect to decide what manners designated or manifested superior breeding. It is a species of vanity, however, in which Markham is by no means singular.
Mr. Martindale having given the old man an assurance of his protection, and having now no more questions to ask, rose and took his leave, accompanied by his young friend.
“That was a pretty young woman at the cottage, Mr. Barrister; but you must not fall in love with her. It will never do for professionalmen to make love-matches. Love in a cottage is very pretty, very poetical, very well to talk about.”
Markham protested that he had not the slightest notion of falling in love with a person who was a total stranger to him; but seriously, he could not but acknowledge that there was something very superior in the look and manner of the young woman, and that it might not have been impossible for him to have received an impression, had he met with a similar person in a suitable rank in life. He felt himself not well pleased that Mr. Martindale should have thought it within the verge of possibility that a gentleman of the bar should condescend so low as to fall in love with a young woman, the niece of a poor cottager. He forgot, however, that during the time he was in the cottage, he had his eyes very much fixed upon the old man’s niece; he forgot how very completely his attention had been absorbed; and while he was speculating as to the causes which operated in bringing so much elegance and gracefulness into so humble an abode, Mr. Martindalethought him occupied in admiring the young woman’s pretty face. There was certainly a tolerable share of that species of beauty called prettiness in the composition of her features; but as she rather exceeded the middle stature, and wore a general look of thoughtfulness, the word pretty was not comprehensive enough for a description of her person. When she appeared in the court as a witness, her fine glossy black ringlets were totally concealed, and her dark eyes were so bent towards the ground that their life and expression were not visible. Markham had observed her but little; thinking probably that his behaviour could not be more becoming than when it was totally and directly opposed to that of the defendant’s counsel. He was, therefore, not a little surprised when he saw so much beauty and gracefulness in one whom he had taken for a mere country girl; and his curiosity was still more raised when he observed the nature of the decorations of the poor man’s cottage. The charm which struck him most of all was, the total absence of all affectation or artifice both in the old man andin his niece. Richard Smith, indeed, used language superior in ordinary correctness to that of the usual inhabitants of cottages, but did not give himself airs, as some poor men who fancy themselves conjurers, because they happen to be a little better informed than their neighbours; and the young woman appeared quite as free from any species of affectation, either of manner or of dress.
“And, madam, if it be a lie,You have the tale as cheap as I.”Swift.
“And, madam, if it be a lie,You have the tale as cheap as I.”Swift.
“And, madam, if it be a lie,
You have the tale as cheap as I.”
Swift.
The Rev. Cornelius Denver, perpetual curate of Brigland, was one of the best-tempered creatures in the world. He would not injure any one; he had almost every one’s good word; he was full of smiles and courtesy; he had nothing of the pomp or pride of priestly manners; he did not keep his parishioners at an awful distance, or affect to exercise any spiritual dominion over them by virtue of hiscalling; he was familiar with all, and good-humoured to all; he had not the slightest tincture of bigotry or party-spirit; in politics and religion he was most truly liberal; he had, of course, his own opinions on these subjects, but he called them into use so seldom, that he and his neighbours scarcely knew what they were; he was equally obliging to all parties, and there were many differing sects of religion in his parish; every possible variety of sectarianism flourished at Brigland, and they all united in praising the curate’s liberality.
There were also many members of the established church in the parish; but though they all praised their curate, they did not all very frequently attend his ministrations. Old Mr. Martindale used facetiously to say, that he should go to church much oftener if Mr. Denver would make longer sermons, but that it was so tantalising to be woke before his nap was half finished. But Mr. Denver served two other churches beside Brigland, and one of them was almost eight miles distant, so hehad not much time to spare on Sunday; for he had two services at his own parish, and one every Sunday at the other two.
Our worthy curate was a married man, but he had no family; and that circumstance gave him abundant opportunity to interest himself about the affairs of all the town. Mrs. Denver assisted him greatly in this public and universal sympathy. Mrs. Denver was said to be a very intelligent woman, and had enjoyed that reputation for many years. Her maiden name was Smith—no relation to old Richard Smith; and she had borne that name so long, that she was tired of it, regarding it as Archbishop Tillotson did the Athanasian Creed, wishing that she “was well rid of it.” Many people thought that Mr. Denver married her from a motive of pure good nature, because nobody else was likely to marry her. She was of high family “originally,” as she used to say; being descended from the Simsons of Devonshire, one of whom was knighted by Richard the Third; and she was very particular in statingthat her ancestors did not spell the name with p, for that was an innovation, and it was a very inferior family that was called Simpson.
All the gossip of the town and neighbourhood flowed to the parsonage as a centre, and again flowed from it as from a perennial and exhaustless fountain. In justice to the worthy curate it must be stated, that so far as he was concerned, there was nothing of censoriousness blended with his collecting and communicating disposition: he was happy to hear intelligence, and pleased to spread it; but he never pronounced an opinion as to the propriety or impropriety of the matters of which he heard and of which he spoke. It was not exactly so with Mrs. Denver; her candour was not equal to that of her husband: not that she was at all censorious, very far from it; but she could not help, as she said, feeling indignant at the vices and wickednesses which abounded in the world; and she was certainly not to be blamed for what she could not help. Sometimes she would even be angry with her husband on account of the placidity of his temper;and she would even acknowledge that she could have no patience with the abominations of the age. It must be also added, that Mrs. Denver was not quite equal to her husband in the virtue of liberality towards sectarians. She had been brought up as a member of the church established by law, and she could not see how it was possible that any other religion should be true; and for her part, she was fully determined not to countenance any false religion. It was rather unfortunate for the poor woman, that, with the exception of the Martindales, the principal people at Brigland were dissenters; and so there were two or three drawing-rooms from which her orthodoxy would have excluded her, but to which her love of the good things of life attracted her. Mrs. Denver was decidedly loyal: her reverence for majesty was unbounded. She was so grateful to Richard the Third for having knighted one of the Simsons, that she thought she could never say enough in favour of royalty.
Now it came to pass in the progress of events, that while Mr. Martindale and HoratioMarkham were in Richard Smith’s cottage, Mrs. Price, the wife of Philip Martindale’s attorney, had gained a piece of intelligence which, as she received it, was imperfect and obscure, but which she hoped and trusted that Mr. and Mrs. Denver might be able to elucidate and complete. She therefore made a very early call at the parsonage, and began by offering an apology for looking in so soon in the day. The apology was most readily accepted: for the good people of the parsonage knew that Mrs. Price would not have called so early had there not been something important to communicate. As soon as she was seated she began:—
“I suppose you have heard, Mrs. Denver, of the sheriffs’ officers being in possession at the Abbey.”
“Sheriffs’ officers in possession at the Abbey! Why, Mrs. Price, what do you mean?”
“Mean, Mrs. Denver! why I mean what I say; there are two sheriffs’ officers now at the Abbey. They were sent in yesterday morning;and old Mr. Martindale saw them there, and asked them what business they had there, and they told him that they were in possession; and the old gentleman asked what was the amount of the claim, and it was such an enormous sum that it was more than he could pay. I don’t know all the particulars, but I heard Oliver talking the matter over to my husband; and Mr. Philip is gone to London in a hired chaise, for they would not let him have his own carriage; and he is gone to get some money of the Jews. He intended to travel all night, that he might get home early this morning, and send the officers away before the old gentleman could know any thing of the matter.”
“Bless me, Mrs. Price, why you astonish me! Who would have thought it? Well, that’s what I always said; I knew it must come to that. You know it was not likely that he could ever support the expense of that great house; and really between ourselves, I never thought that old Mr. Martindale was so very rich as some people said.”
“I don’t know whether the old man is veryrich,” replied Mrs. Price; “I am sure the young one is very poor. My husband has advanced money to him which has been owing a very long while; and I cannot see any probability of his getting it again in any reasonable time; and then he cannot even pay the damages in which he was cast in the action of old Smith.”
“Oh, now you talk about old Smith,” interrupted Mrs. Denver, “do you know any thing about that man’s history? for I scarcely ever heard of him before this action took place. Pray where does he live?”
“He lives in the lone cottage in Old Field Lane, I understand. But there is something very odd about that man. I thought perhaps you might know something about him. As for his being a poor man, I don’t believe any such thing. Every body says he has money; and my husband says that he is very sure that Flint would never have undertaken that cause for a poor superannuated labourer; and then Flint told my husband that there was no hurry about the damages. I very much doubt whether theman’s real name is Smith; for that is such a very convenient name for any one to assume.”
“Well, I have never heard any thing of him before; but now you mention it, I think I remember to have seen him one morning when I walked up to the spring with Mr. Denver.”
At this moment the reverend gentleman entered the apartment where the ladies were conversing, and he was immediately assailed with an impetuous torrent of interrogations from both of them, as touching the birth, parentage and education, life, character, and behaviour of the above-named Richard Smith. To these inquiries he returned answers not very satisfactory; and they all three began to blame themselves and each other that they had suffered the old man to settle quietly in the parish without making due previous inquiry concerning his history and origin. He had been, as they all acknowledged, a very quiet, inoffensive creature; but quietness was sometimes a symptom of mischief: it was so with children, and why might it not be so with old men too.
Though Mr. Denver had it not in his power to indulge Mrs. Price with any information, the worthy lady was too generous to withhold from him any information which it was in her power to convey; and she liberally repeated the story of the bailiff being in possession at the Abbey, and of the Hon. Philip Martindale having made a journey to London for the purpose of borrowing money of such as accommodated their particular friends on the most liberal terms and with the strictest secrecy. Mr. Denver was as usual astonished, amazed, thunderstruck at all that was told him. By the way, some of the perpetual curate’s good friends used to think that the good man was not altogether judicious in the use of the word “thunderstruck,” which he always employed when he received any intelligence from any of the ladies of Brigland.
Mrs. Price went on to say, that old Mr. Martindale had expressed his determination to disinherit Mr. Philip; but as that was a very particular secret, she begged that it might not be mentioned. At hearing this request, Mrs. Denver looked at her watch, for she thought ithigh time that she should take her morning’s round, and endeavour to ascertain whether this profound secret were known to any one else. Mrs. Price took the hint, and departed.
It is by no means the best method to keep a secret to endeavour to find out how many others are in possession of the same. Many a secret has been thus revealed, which might otherwise have been inviolably and safely kept. On the subject of keeping secrets, a great deal may be said; and the matter is surrounded with more difficulties than superficial observers are apt to imagine. For what is the use or benefit of knowing any thing, if we cannot let that knowledge be known. If a secret be confided to us, an honour is thereby conferred; but if that secret be not by us again talked about, directly or indirectly, how can the world know how much we are honoured? Who would give a fig to receive the honour of knighthood, if he were under an obligation to let no one know it? or who would give fifteen pence (pounds some say it costs) for a doctor’s degree, if he could never blazon the honour to the world? We check ourselvesin the discussion with the consoling consideration that our business is with facts not with philosophy. Suffice it then to say, that before the day closed, every inhabitant of Brigland who had any care for other’s business, knew that old Richard Smith was mysteriously wealthy, that bailiffs were in possession at the Abbey, that the Hon. Philip Martindale was gone to London to borrow money, and that old Mr. Martindale would never speak to the young gentleman again. Then every body began to think that the Hon. Philip Martindale was the most profligate young man that ever lived; then all his follies became vices, and his irregularities most horrible enormities; then the talk was very loud concerning his pride and his overbearing manners; then Mrs. Dickinson, the landlady of the Red Lion, began to fear that she should not be paid for her chaise.
The good people of Brigland were unnecessarily alarmed for the result of Philip Martindale’s indiscretions: it was not true that the old gentleman knew for what purpose the bailiffs were in the house; nor was it probablethat, had he known it, he would therefore have cast off his dependent relative. Power is not willingly or readily parted with. So long as the honourable gentleman acknowledged by endeavours to conceal his irregularities that he stood in awe of his opulent relative, so long would he continue an interesting object of patronage to the old gentleman. As, however, it may not be easy to gather from the floating rumours of the gossips of Brigland what was the real truth of the matter, it may be as well to state explicitly that the Hon. Philip Martindale had paid certain debts of honour with that supply which Mr. Martindale thought had been devoted to some other purpose, and an impatient creditor had actually put into force a threat which he had made of sending officers to the Abbey. The young gentleman had recourse in this extremity to some good friends in the city, by whose prompt assistance the supplies were raised, and the Abbey was cleared of those birds of ill omen. Oliver’s story, as we have seen, had satisfied the old gentleman; and he alone remained in ignorance of a fact inhis relative’s conduct, which certainly would have disturbed him greatly, but which would not have provoked him to disinheriting.
By the same conveyance which brought the means of liberating the Abbey, old Richard Smith received through the hands of his attorney a satisfaction also of his claim; and as Mrs. Price was all the day occupied in telling the same story as she had told in the morning, it came to pass that she told more lies at the end of the day than she had at the beginning. In the mean time, the day was passing rapidly away, and Philip Martindale did not return. Oliver was a little puzzled to account for this delay to himself, but he could easily account for it to the old gentleman. What a pity it is that those ingenious gentlemen who can invent lies for the satisfaction of others, cannot invent any for the solution of their own difficulties. Mr. Oliver was in some degree of alarm, lest his stories, by some movement of his master, might not well hang together; and had it not been for some very natural fear that he might altogether lose his character and his place, he probablywould have been provoked to tell the old gentleman the truth: he considered, however, that as he had so long played a double part, it would be now too late to affect honesty.
“I joy to see you here, but should have thoughtIt likelier to have heard of you at court,Pursuing there the recompenses dueTo your great merit.”Tuke.
“I joy to see you here, but should have thoughtIt likelier to have heard of you at court,Pursuing there the recompenses dueTo your great merit.”Tuke.
“I joy to see you here, but should have thought
It likelier to have heard of you at court,
Pursuing there the recompenses due
To your great merit.”
Tuke.
It is now high time to introduce more particularly to our readers the Hon. Philip Martindale. He has been glancing and flitting before our eyes; but he has not stayed long enough to be fairly seen and understood. He did not appear to great advantage at the assizes, where he sat laughing or sneering at the progress of his own cause; nor would hehave made a very imposing figure, had we opened upon him on the evening of the day of the trial, when, on his return home, the trusty Oliver announced to him the arrival of two gentlemen, calling themselves sheriffs’ officers. To delay any longer to introduce our honorable acquaintance to our readers, would be intruding upon their patience beyond reason.
The Hon. Philip Martindale finding that it would not be possible to get rid of this encumbrance by any other means than by discharging the debt, and knowing that the debt could not be discharged without money, and knowing that money was not at that emergency to be obtained but by the medium of the people of Israel, sent his trusty Oliver to the Red Lion to provide a chaise to carry him on his way to London. It would be more agreeable to us, if it were possible, to bring our readers to an acquaintance with the honorable gentleman lolling in his own chariot, for that would be more befitting his rank in society, than to see him travelling in so plebeiana vehicle as a hired chaise, drawn by a pair of hack horses. But though the Hon. Philip Martindale was a man of high rank, and somewhat proud of the station which he held in society, he was not altogether unable or unwilling to condescend; and though the Denvers, the Flints, the Prices, and all the other gentry, thought him a very proud and haughty man, yet there were many in Brigland, many in Newmarket, and many in London and its vicinity, who could bear testimony to his condescension.
To describe a journey to London in a post-chaise, along thirty or forty miles of turnpike-road, bounded on the right hand by hedges and ditches, and on the left by ditches and hedges, requires powers of description and imagination to which we are too humble to make pretension. As we are not presuming to descant on the history of the journey, we may as well say a word or two concerning the person who took the said journey. We are perfectly aware that it would be more artist-like and effective, to let our characters speakfor themselves, and by their own acts or words develope their own peculiarities; but this is not altogether possible to be done effectually; for the same words from different lips have a different meaning; and there is a peculiarity of tone and accent and look which does much towards rendering the character intelligible. These matters may be imitated in the drama on the stage, but they cannot be well transfused into plainly-written dialogue.
Without farther apology, then, we proceed to speak of the Hon. Philip Martindale somewhat more particularly. We speak of this person in the first place, for that was a first consideration with himself. He was tall, but not thin; rather clumsily formed about the shoulders; his gait was rather swaggering than stately; his features were not unhandsome, but they wanted expression; his manner of speaking was not remarkable for its beauty, for he had a habit of drawling which seemed to strangers a piece of affectation; his style of dress was plain, somewhat approaching to that of the driver of a coach, but any one might seein a moment that he was a man of some consequence. As to his mind, he was by no means a blockhead or a simpleton; nor was he to be considered as ill-humored. He was of an easy disposition; and had he been placed in a situation which required the exercise of his mental powers to gain a living, he would have passed for a man of very good understanding.
But there is one kind of capacity required to gain a fortune, and another to spend it. Philip Martindale possessed the former, but he wanted the latter. Our readers are already aware that the young gentleman had for a short time assayed a professional life, and had given promise of fair success; but when he found that a title was awaiting him, and that a dependence was offered him, he renounced his profession, and gave up an independence for a dependence. Now ever since he had changed his style of life, he had changed his habits of social intercourse. While he had chambers in the Temple, he had for companions men of literary acquirements and taste; and all he knew ofthe prowess and powers of the celebrated dog Billy, or of the no less celebrated heroes of the ring, was from the interesting and beautiful reports which grace the columns of our newspapers: he was then acquainted with no other coachman than the driver of his father’s carriage, and he was not very intimate with him: at that time he was as ignorant of the highest as he was of the lowest ranks; and if he occasionally spent an evening at the Opera, he had nothing to do but to attend to the performance.
But when his circumstances changed, all other things changed too; he renounced the middle of society for the two extremes. It was new for him to have expensive horses; and it was pleasant for him to talk knowingly about what he knew imperfectly; and coachmen, grooms, and stable-boys, could talk best upon a topic which was a favorite with him; and as he had never before been so flattered by homage and deference, he thought that coachmen, grooms, and stable-boys, were most delightful companions; and his acquaintance with them extended and increased accordingly.Then it was that he began to feel the pleasures of high rank. Nobody can enjoy the pleasures of high station who associates only with his equals; it is when he looks into the depths below that he can feel his elevation. The ring and the cockpit are most admirable contrivances to bring men of high rank to a full sense of their dignity. The Hon. Philip Martindale used them abundantly, and doubtless with great advantage. As he descended, so also did he ascend; and from association with black legs, he became qualified to claim acquaintance with the highest ranks in society. The cockpit and the betting-table are very appropriate vestibules to Almack’s; and the slang of the stable is a very suitable accomplishment for a legislator. Farther particulars concerning the Hon. Philip Martindale may be learned from his history, as herein recorded.
As soon as the honorable gentleman arrived in London, he proceeded forthwith to his accommodating friends in the city, from whom he procured the means of ridding the Abbey of its unwelcome guests; and it was his intentionto return immediately to dismiss the disagreeable ones in person. But so full of accident and event is human life, that this intention was not put into immediate effect. Just as our young gentleman had left the door of a banking-house in Lombard Street, close behind him, he saw on the opposite side of the way an old, or more properly speaking a new acquaintance, who was as familiar as an old one. The personage in question wore a scarlet coat, white hat, yellow silk handkerchief, and crimson face mottled with purple. Without bending his body, or moving a muscle, he touched his hat to the Hon. Philip Martindale, who most graciously acknowledged the salute, and made a movement to cross the way towards him; whereupon he of the crimson face and scarlet coat hastened to anticipate his honorable friend; and the parties met in the middle of the street, even as Napoleon Bonaparte and the Emperor of Russia met in the middle of the river.
When the high-contracting parties were thus met, the Hon. Philip Martindale commenced the discourse by inquiring of his friend, whowas in the guards, that is, was guard to a mail-coach, and who was addressed by the name of Stephen, if he had succeeded in the commission with which he had been intrusted: this commission was the purchasing of a dog for fighting. Stephen expressed his great concern that this important affair had not been concluded; but he was happy to have it in his power to say, that he had heard of a capital bull-terrier to be disposed of at Finchley; and as price was no object, he hoped to bring him up next journey. In the mean time, he was very glad to inform his honour that he had that very morning brought up a couple of game-cocks in very high condition; and if Mr. Martindale would condescend to go as far as Tothill Street, he might see them that very afternoon.
This was too strong a temptation for the legislator to resist. Having therefore made arrangements for remitting to Brigland the means of discharging the claims upon him which were most urgent, he resolved to remain in town for that night at least, and leave it to Oliver’s ingenuity to account for his absence,if there should be any occasion to account for it at all. He appointed, therefore, to meet his friend Stephen in Tothill Street at five o’clock; and in the mean time, betook himself to a coffee-house in the neighbourhood of Charing Cross to fill up the interval.
This interval was exceedingly tedious. There were many newspapers in the room, but there was nothing in them. There was a clock, but it did not seem to go; at least so he thought, but after looking at it for a very long time he found it did go, but it went very slowly. Then he looked at his watch, and that went as slow as the clock. Then he took up the newspapers again one after the other very deliberately. He read the sporting intelligence and the fashionable news. But he did not read very attentively, as he afterwards discovered. Then he looked at the clock again, and was almost angry at the imperturbable monotony of its face. Then he took out his pocket-book to amuse himself by reading his memorandums, but they were very few and very unintelligible. Then he rose up from hisseat, and went to the window, and looked at the people in the street; he thought they looked very stupid, and wondered what they could all find to do with themselves. He looked at the carriages, and saw none with coronets, except now and then a hackney-coach. Then he began to pick his teeth, and that reminded him of eating; and then he rang the bell, which presently brought a waiter; and he took that opportunity of drawling out the word “waiter” in such lengthened tone, as if resolved to make one word last as long as possible.
While he was occupied bodily with his sandwich, he was also mentally engaged in reflections on days that were gone; and he could not but think that his hours were not so heavy when he was toiling at the study of law, as now when his rank was higher, and when his residence was one of the most splendid seats in the kingdom. He thought it was very hard that he should stand in awe of an old humorist, and he had for a moment thoughts of emancipating himself from trammels, and assuming to himself the direction of his own actions;but then, on the other hand, he also considered that without the assistance of the old gentleman, he should not be able to clear off the encumbrances with which his own hereditary estate had been burdened by his anticipations. His only resource was an advantageous match; but the difficulty was how to accomplish that object, and to preserve his dignity.
In the same street in which Lord Martindale, his father, lived, there was an heiress, but not altogether unobjectionable. Her origin was plebeian; her wealth was commercial; her connexions decidedly vulgar, notwithstanding all her pains to keep them select, and to curtail the number of her cousins; her manners awkward, and her taste in dress most execrable. Whenever Philip Martindale felt impatient of controul, he thought of Miss Celestina Sampson, and of the many thousands which her industrious father had accumulated by the manufacturing of soap; and by thinking much on the subject, he had been gradually led to consider the match as not altogether intolerable. He thought of many other persons of as high rankas himself, and even higher, who had not disdained to gild their coronets with city gold. There was nothing glaringly or hideously vulgar in Miss Sampson’s manners, though she was not the most graceful of her sex. Then her person was rather agreeable than otherwise, especially when she was not over-dressed; and as for her cousins, they might be easily cut.
In truth, these meditations had so frequently occupied the young gentleman’s mind, that there began to be actually some talk on the subject among the friends of the parties. These thoughts were by some fatality passing in his mind while he was waiting for the arrival of the hour for which his engagement was made; and by a very singular coincidence he was reminded of Miss Celestina: for while he was wishing the time to move more rapidly, there entered into the coffee-room two young gentlemen, who very noisily manifested their importance. They lounged up to the table on which the papers were lying, and each helped himself to one; then they sat down at separate and distanttables, each spreading his paper before him, and lolling with his elbows on the table, and his feet stretched out to the widest possible extent, as if begging to have his toes trod on; and they ever and anon laughed aloud, and called out the one to the other at any piece of intelligence which excited their astonishment, or gave occasion to witty remark. Among other announcements which they thus communicated to each other, was a short paragraph in the fashionable intelligence which had altogether escaped the notice of Philip Martindale; and as its announcement was preceded by a very loud laugh, his attention was especially drawn to it, and it was as follows:
“It is currently reported that the Hon. Philip Martindale of Brigland Abbey, eldest son of Lord Martindale, is about to lead to the hymeneal altar the accomplished and beautiful daughter and heiress of Sir Gilbert Sampson.”
“There, Smart,” said the reader of the above paragraph, “you have lost your chance for ever. What a pity it is you did not make a better use of your time. By the way, do youknow any thing of the Hon. Philip Martindale?”
“I know nothing about him, except that I have been told he is one of the proudest men that ever lived; and I can never suppose that he would condescend to marry the daughter of a soap-boiler.”
“There is no answering for that,” responded the other; “necessity has no law. Brigland Abbey cannot be kept up for a trifle; and if I am not misinformed, this same Philip Martindale has been rather hard run on settling-days.”
At hearing this conversation, the young gentleman was greatly annoyed; and in order to avoid any farther intelligence concerning himself, he took his departure, for the hour appointed for meeting his friend Stephen was now very near at hand. He was in very ill-humour with what he had heard, and was quite shocked at the liberties which common people took with the names and affairs of persons of rank. He had composed in his own mind, and was uttering with his mind’s voice, a most eloquentphilippic against the daring insolence of plebeian animals, who presumed to canvass the conduct of their superiors; and he was dwelling upon the enviable privacy of more humble life, which was not so watched and advertised in all its movements, till it occurred to him that this publicity was one of the distinctions of high life, and that even calumnious reports concerning the great were but a manifestation of the interest which the world took in their movements. It also came into his mind that many of those actions which seem otherwise unaccountable and ridiculous, owe their being to a love of notoriety; and he thought it not unlikely that some of the great might play fools’ tricks for the sake of being talked of by the little. So his anger abated, and he more than forgave the impertinent one who had made free with his name in a newspaper.
It has been said that we live in a strange world. We deny this position altogether. Nothing is less strange than this world and its contents. But if we will voluntarily and wilfullykeep our eyes closed, and form an imaginary world of our own, and only occasionally awake and take a transient glance of reality, and then go back to our dreamings, the world may well enough be strange to us.