“How durst you come into this room and company without leave?”Killegrew.
“How durst you come into this room and company without leave?”Killegrew.
“How durst you come into this room and company without leave?”
Killegrew.
Philip Martindale proceeded, as we have stated, from the coffee-house towards Tothill Street, with a view of keeping his engagement with his friend of the scarlet coat and crimson countenance. He had entered into his memorandum-book the number of the house to which he had been directed, but he omitted as useful a notice, namely, to take down the division or apartment in which the gentlemanof the pit had his residence. For the fact is, that the ingenious bird-feeder and fancier resided in an upper apartment, nearer to the sky by one flight of stairs than the Hon. Philip Martindale imagined. The house was a miserable contrast to the splendid mansion which he had left. Whether it had ever been cleansed either by paint or water, since the day it was built, seemed a matter of doubt. The windows had been broken, and had been mended partially but not with glass. The very window-frames seemed to be in such a state of dilapidation that a breeze might blow them from their position.
When the door was opened by a middle aged female, whose miserable and dirty attire made her look twenty years older than she was, the olfactory nerves of the young gentleman were assailed by a grievous combination of various odours, among which onions, tobacco, and gin, were the predominant. Asking of the miserable being who opened the door whether Clarke was within, he was told to walk upstairs. Very slowly and very cautiously did he mount the creaking staircase, setting his foot gently and inquiringly upon each successive stair to ascertain whether it would bear his weight: of one or two he had so much distrust as to step completely over them.
When arrived at the first landing-place, he heard a multitude of voices, which he naturally supposed to proceed from some gentlemen of the fancy. Without knocking at the door, he immediately let himself in, and found to his great astonishment that he had mistaken the apartment. He found himself surrounded by a group of dark-complexioned, sallow-looking, unshorn beings; some of whom were sitting on the floor, others on crazy boxes and broken chairs, and all of whom were smoking cigars. The dingy dress which they wore, and the faded decorations which were suspended on their left breast, immediately proclaimed them to be emigrants. As soon as he entered the room, their voices were stilled, and they turned their inquiring and sickened looks towards him as ifto a harbinger of some intelligence of good. The moment that he felt where and with whom he was thus accidentally placed, his spirit sunk within him; and he did feel a deep compassion for the miserable objects which surrounded him.
One of the party, by the freshness of his dress and the cleanliness of his person, appeared to have arrived but recently among them. He was a man of middle age, wearing a very respectable military dress; and though of thoughtful look, he did not appear dejected or heartbroken. To him Mr. Martindale addressed himself in the Italian language, apologising for his accidental and unintentional intrusion. The stranger replied in English, spoken with a foreign accent, but with tolerable fluency, stating that he had just arrived in England, and being directed to where he could find some of his fellow-countrymen, he had but recently entered the house, and was grieved to see them so situated. He also said that he himself was not much better provided for, but that his wife and child were in England, though he could notat present discover in what part of the country. He said that he had received letters from them, but that those letters were lost, with part of his own luggage. But he trusted, he continued, that he should find out, by inquiry, where his family was; and he concluded a long harangue by asking Philip Martindale, with great simplicity, if he knew where Mr. Smith lived.
This is a question which wiser men than the Hon. Philip Martindale would be puzzled to answer; and it is a question which weaker men than he would have smiled at. He was not a man without feeling, though he was a man of the world; and it excited in his mind other thoughts and feelings than those of a ridiculous nature, when he saw a foreigner in England, whose discovery of his wife and child depended on the finding out of the residence of a person of so common a name as Smith. Forgetting, therefore, his engagement with Stephen the guard, he set himself seriously and closely to interrogate the poor man, in order to find some better and more definite clue to the discovery of his family than the name of Smith. Thereuponthe countenance of the foreigner brightened up, his eyes sparkled, and the tear was on his cheek, when he said:
“Oh! sare, you are good. I thank you much for your great trouble: you are all so good in England to the poor estranger when he is in misery. It is sad to leave my own land; but what am I without my poor child?”
“Well, my good friend,” replied Philip, “I hope and trust you will find your child. But surely you must have some other knowledge of the person with whom your family is residing than merely the name of Smith. You have had letters from them, you say; can you not recollect from what place those letters were dated?”
“Oh, no! I could not recollect it once: it was no name in the geography; it was in the province.”
“Then, of course, it was not London;” replied Mr. Martindale.
“No, no, no, it was not London; it was in the province: it was far away from London thirty or forty mile.”
“But did not you sometimes send letters to your family, and can you not tell how you addressed your letters to them? Perhaps if you were to consider a little while, you might be able to call to mind something that might assist in discovering the place of their abode. If you had letters, most likely some account was given of the place where they lived: or if it were a small village, they may have mentioned the name of the nearest post-town.”
“Oh yes, it was very pretty place. It was thirty or forty mile from London. It was very beautiful place. There was large, very fine palace called Abbey. There was very fine lake.”
This description reminded Philip Martindale of the place of his own residence, and he therefore asked if the name of the place was at all like Brigland. The foreigner looked thoughtful, and attempted to repeat the word, saying: “Breeklan! Breeklan!” Then, after a pause of a few seconds, his features underwent a complete change, and with a kind of hysteric laugh or screech of exultation, he cried out:
“Oh, that was it! that was it! Oh, good sare, it was Breeklan—oh, tell me where is Breeklan, and I will see my child and my dear wife—oh, I will see them once again—oh, you have save me from great misery.”
Then he seized Philip Martindale’s hand and pressed it with great emotion, repeating his solicitations; and the tears rolled down his cheeks, and he smiled with such an expression of delight, that the young gentleman was moved; and after he had given some charitable donations to the rest of the unhappy ones in the miserable apartment, he proceeded to conduct the newly-arrived stranger where he might find a conveyance to take him to Brigland.
Philip Martindale then returned to the house where the game-cocks were to be seen, and there he met his friend Stephen the guard, and some other friends of the fancy, by the fascinations of whose sweet society he was detained in the metropolis somewhat longer than he designed, and by whose winning ways he found himself poorer than was quite convenient. The opinion he expressed concerning the fightingbirds—the particulars of the exhibition with which he was afterwards favoured at the Westminster-pit—the brilliant conversation in which he there engaged—the bets which there he laid and lost—the flattering homage which he there received—the satisfaction which resulted from it—all these and many other matters of a like nature we pass over unrecorded; trusting that, where one reader blames the omission, fifty will commend it.
But though we describe not these scenes, it does not follow that we should pass them over without reflection. One very natural reflection is, that gentlemen of high birth and estate are much to be envied for the pleasure which they enjoy in those scenes. There must be a peculiar delight in such pursuits, or the superfine part of our species could not possibly condescend, for the sake of them, to associate on most familiar terms with persons whose birth is most miserably low, whose understandings are most grievously defective, whose manners are abominably coarse. Take from the side of one of these honorables the jockey, the boxer, thefeeder, or the coachman, with whom he is all courtesy and good humor and familiarity, and place there a man of middle rank in society, respectable in every point of view, with what cool contempt would the dignity of high birth regard him. One other reflection is, that such pursuits ought to be calculated to raise these said gentle and noble ones very high in their own esteem, inasmuch as they are not thereby raised in the esteem of others. Their disinterested generosity is also much to be applauded, seeing that by thus lavishing their wealth on those whose only support is the gambling propensity of men of wealth, they take away from the public a large number of such as might otherwise have exercised their wits in picking pockets or breaking into houses. They who would suppress gambling deserve the thanks of the ninnies who would be thus preserved from being plundered in an honorable and gentlemanly manner; but what would become of the rogues and sharpers who live upon the folly of right honorable and high-born simpletons? Politic morality is perhaps one ofthe greatest difficulties which legislators have to contend with. Begging pardon for these reflections, we proceed with our story.
We have stated that the Hon. Philip Martindale suffered in his purse from his visit to the Westminster-pit. The following morning he meditated much upon the subject; and he also applied the powers of his mind to the ring, and recollected that he had there oftentimes suffered as much in his purse as some of the pummeled heroes had in their persons. Then while he was in the humor for thinking, he endeavoured to calculate how much these amusements had cost him; and in the course of that calculation it most unaccountably came into his mind that many of the frequenters of these exhibitions had no ostensible means of living, and that they yet lived well, and that of course they must have lived upon him and others of high rank and birth. Following that train of thought, and finding that several of the superfine ones who had formerly patronised these sports had for some reason or other gradually fallen off from them, he began to think thathe would also abstain from them, and confine himself to the more respectable and gentleman-like avocations of the race-course and the hazard-table: for there he should meet with a more numerous assemblage of persons of his own rank; and as he had three horses entered to run at Newmarket, and as one of these was an especial favorite, he had some expectation of retrieving his losses, at least in part. He fully determined that he would no longer associate with the vulgar ones of the ring and the pit. Oh, what an excellent homily is an empty purse!
Now it happened very fortunately for the trusty Oliver, and for his master too, that when the latter had finished his meditations, and was entering the shop of his gunsmith, he should meet there his worthy friend Sir Andrew Featherstone. The greeting was cordial; for the meeting was agreeable on both sides. Sir Andrew Featherstone was a baronet of very ancient family:—that rendered him acceptable to the Hon. Philip Martindale. But he had other recommendations—he was the best-temperedman in the world. There are myriads of this description. He kept a most excellent table, had a capital pack of hounds, and two very beautiful daughters, whom we shall have great pleasure in introducing to our readers in due course of time. The families of the Featherstones and the Martindales had been intimate time out of mind; and it was the wish of Sir Andrew to marry one of his daughters to the Hon. Philip Martindale. But the young gentleman himself had never given the subject a single thought. By one of those remarkable coincidences which are happening every day, Sir Andrew mentioned the archery-meeting, and expressed a wish that Philip would honor it with his presence. The young gentleman found this reality as great a relief to his mind, as his trusty Oliver had found the invention a relief to his mind; and he immediately dispatched a note to his venerable relative, stating his engagement, and fixing the day of his return to Brigland.
“A was an archer, and shot at a frog.”Anon.
“A was an archer, and shot at a frog.”Anon.
“A was an archer, and shot at a frog.”
Anon.
The residence of Sir Andrew Featherstone was called Hovenden Lodge; why it was called a lodge we cannot say. It was a large plain house, situated in a small level park. The hand of improvement had been very busy with it, but the genius of propriety had not presided over the improvements. Several different styles of architecture had been introduced, and to very ill effect; for the very square broad-sided formof the building rendered it unsusceptible of decoration. But Sir Andrew cared nothing about it—he left all those matters to the ladies, who gave directions according to their own taste or lack of taste; and all the return which he made for their architectural diligence and their skilful improvements was to laugh at what he called their absurdities. The usual order was quite reversed at Hovenden Lodge; for while Lady Featherstone and her two daughters, Lucy and Isabella, were drawing plans, or marching about the park, and pointing out to the architect the improvements which they thought desirable, Sir Andrew was standing by the kitchen fire and lecturing the cook, or translating aloud recipes from his favorite French cookery-book, which was the only book that he had ever purchased; and very highly did he value it, fancying that few persons in this kingdom were aware of its existence. He often however had, or we should more properly say, might have had, the mortification of finding that he had been translating from French into English that which had been previously translated fromEnglish into French; for whenever his knowing lady reminded him that any recipe was already in the English cookery-books, he would always contend for or discover some delicate variation which gave the French the advantage. He thought, too, that there was a peculiar piquancy in the French terms, and that there was a particular relish in foreign names, which he always took care to utter, but which his obstinately English organs of speech rendered mightily amusing in their utterance.
The greatest evil of the archery-meeting in Sir Andrew’s opinion was, that it must be attended only with a cold collation, and that must be in a marquee. It had been discussed repeatedly, but as frequently decided against him, that it was absolutely impossible to have a hot dinner. He did not like it, but he bore it very good-temperedly; and was brimful of jokes, ready to let fly with every arrow.
Lady Featherstone, who was never so happy as when she was patronising, was delighted with the thought of the long table under themarquee, and her own self smiling, nodding, and bowing most gracefully to every body: she could undergo a cold dinner every day of her life, for the happiness of thinking that every body said, “What a charming woman is Lady Featherstone!”
The young ladies were in proud and confident expectation of winning the prize; but in still more proud and more confident expectation of exhibiting their elegant selves to an admiring multitude. This, indeed, is the great beauty of archery; it is anelegantexercise, or in other words, it gives an opportunity to young ladies to exhibit themselves in elegant or attractive attitudes; and many a young woman who would have scarcely any chance of a display, hereby acquires a right to be stared at most perseveringly and inveterately. She may be as long as she pleases taking her aim; and if she fears that she shall not hit the target, she may take an aim elsewhere.
And it is a very pretty thing too for young gentlemen in the last year of being at school,or in the first of their undergraduateship. Dressed in the archery uniform, they look so very much like Robin Hood: they go back to old times in almost more than imagination; but more especially, they have an opportunity of playing off thepolites. At all events, it is a very innocent amusement; and if properly managed by the lady-patroness, it may rise into something of a matter of importance. If any of the party be in possession of the powers of eloquence, they may draw up a very pretty report of the meeting; and the editors of country papers will feel much honored by inserting the said report; and there will be a very pretty sprinkling of very pretty compliments to the very pretty young ladies, who may be compared to Diana’s nymphs; and there may be quotations from the old songs about Robin Hood and Maid Marian; and very pretty talk about the greenwood shade and the merry horn. Then the editor of the newspaper sells an extra number of papers, which are sent in different directions to distant friends.
The display of beauty and fashion which wasexhibited in Hovenden Park on the above-named occasion, bids defiance by its brilliancy to our powers of description. Sir Andrew himself, though his occupation was gone for that day at least, endured with a very good grace his absence from the kitchen; and was prepared to hear and say all that was polite, together with a little that was satirical. Before the business of the day began, he said in the hearing of the exhibitors: “Where shall I stand to be most out of the way; I think I had better take my station in front of the target.”
With many such sayings he entertained the young people; and some of the young ladies laughed so heartily at his attempts at humor, that they could hardly direct the arrows; and then, when any one shot very wide of the mark, he smilingly said, “Well done, my good girl, that’s right, take care you don’t spoil the target.” And notwithstanding all the frowns and rebukes of Lady Featherstone, the facetious baronet continued his interruptions much to the amusement and a little to the annoyance of the party.
We should not have mentioned this crotchetof Sir Andrew’s, but that we think it may be not amiss to take this opportunity of observing that persevering witticisms, forced out in rapid succession on all occasions, and a series of smart sayings, good, bad, and indifferent, uttered without abatement, may often excite the outward and visible sign of merriment long after they have ceased to be agreeable. For laughter is not always the sign of satisfaction, any more than tears are always a token of sorrow. There is no man, however stupid, who cannot occasionally say a good thing; and very few, if any, can utter real wit in every sentence; and miserable is the annoyance of everlasting efforts at facetiousness. It is only tolerable in those who are very young or very weak.
But as one great object of archery-meetings is display, we should be guilty of injustice in omitting to notice a young lady of the party, who came with the full intention of eclipsing every one there;—and she succeeded. We refer to Miss Celestina Sampson. She came accompanied by her father, Sir Gilbert Sampson; who, though a new man, was very well receivedby Sir Andrew. Miss Sampson was not a beauty, but was good-looking and rather pretty; of middle stature, light complexion, and fine natural colour; good-humored and cheerful; ambitious of elegance, but not well-informed as to the means; critical as to the externals of behaviour, and much exposed herself to the same kind of criticism; sadly afraid of vulgarity, though often sinning through mere ignorance. Her appearance and dress attracted, as she designed, universal attention; but not, as she hoped, universal admiration. She had studied costume with more zeal than taste; and vibrating between the costume of Diana and Maid Marian, she at last appeared, if like any thing at all, a tawdry imitation of Fatima, in the play of Blue-beard.
As Sir Gilbert Sampson was also present, we may say a word or two of him. He had been a soap-boiler. True; but what of that?—he had retired from business, and had washed his hands of soap. He had been a soap-boiler. True; but whose fault was that? Not his own: he had no innate, natural, violent, irresistible, unextinguishablepropensity for boiling soap; for if he had, he would never have relinquished the pursuit. The fault was his father’s; for had the father of Sir Gilbert been a duke, Sir Gilbert would never have been a soap-boiler. As to the rest, Sir Gilbert Sampson was a man of good understanding, of extensive knowledge, possessing strong natural powers of mind, and altogether free from every species of affectation.
Lady Sampson had, while she lived, governed by permission of her lord and master. She had dictated concerning the petty details of life; and after her death, her daughter reigned in her stead. Sir Gilbert never troubled himself about trifles; but Miss Sampson took all that care entirely off her father’s hands. The pleasure of his life was the company of a few old acquaintances; but he tolerated parties when Miss Sampson could manage to assemble them.
And this was not a difficulty, even though Sir Gilbert had been a soap-boiler; for his cook was not a soap-boiler, and his fishmonger was not a soap-boiler, and his wine merchant was not a soap-boiler. Sir Gilbert’s dinners werevery excellent; and those who partook of them praised them much, and did not say a word about soap while they were at dinner; and that was very kind, and exceedingly condescending: for it is a piece of great presumption in a man who has acquired a property by honest industry to give sumptuous entertainments to those who are spending or who have spent what their ancestors earned for them.
Enough for the present of Sir Gilbert Sampson. Be it however observed by the way, that our good and facetious friend, Sir Andrew Featherstone, regarded Sir Gilbert without any feeling of aristocratic pride, and so did many others of his acquaintance; and that even the Hon. Philip Martindale behaved very politely to him, inasmuch as he was occasionally under apprehension that it might be desirable for him to disencumber and improve the Martindale estate by the means of Sir Gilbert’s wealth. At this meeting, owing to previous matters already recorded, the idea of the possibility of Miss Sampson becoming Mrs., and, in process of time, Lady Martindale, took verystrong hold of the young gentleman’s imagination. He therefore, without being aware of any difference in his manner, paid very extraordinary attention to Sir Gilbert; and as the young lady observed this, and was rather ambitious of the honor of so high an alliance, and as she thought that the best way to make a conquest, or to secure one already made, was to make herself agreeable; and as she thought that the best way to make herself agreeable was to put herself very much in the way of the person to whom she wished to be agreeable, and to talk to him and listen to his talk, and smile at what he said if he seemed to think it witty, and to manifest that her attention was more taken up with him than with any one else: Miss Sampson acted upon this principle, but in the over-officiousness of her zeal carried her system so far as to make it almost a persecution.
As to the effect thereby produced upon the Hon. Philip Martindale, very little if any progress was made in his affections. He was accustomed to homage and attention, and took itas a matter of course; he had experienced quite as much attention from the friends of ladies of higher rank than Miss Sampson; and the charms of the young lady’s person or conversation were nothing to him in his matrimonial speculations. If Mr. John Martindale had been a man of infirm health, and likely soon to decide the question as to who should possess his large property, Philip Martindale would not have had any thought whatever of an alliance so much beneath the dignity of his rank and the purity of his blood; or were the old gentleman a little less capricious, or had the young gentleman been a little more prudent in the management of his affairs, then Miss Sampson might have had the beauty of a Venus, the wisdom of a Minerva, or the wealth of Crœsus, and these qualities would have made no impression. On the other hand, under the then present circumstances, Miss Sampson needed not to take any pains to render herself agreeable; for had her person been deformed, and her mind that of an idiot, yet her father,by the accumulation of a large fortune, had done quite enough to make her perfectly agreeable.
And yet, notwithstanding all this confession which we have made for Mr. Philip, we would not have our readers to imagine that the young gentleman was devoid of good qualities or good feelings altogether; he might not have been so candid in his confession for himself as we have been for him, but he was not altogether aware of the influence of circumstances upon his mind. He was placed in a certain rank in society, and must keep up the dignity of that rank; and it was his misfortune if necessity put him upon using means for that purpose not quite in unison with his better judgment. Royalty itself has not free choice in matters of the heart; and nobility, as it approaches royalty in its splendour, is sometimes assimilated to it in its restraints and perplexities. Still, however, making every concession which candour and human kindness prompt us to make in behalf of Philip Martindale; and admitting all the extenuations which a merciful advocatecould suggest, we cannot help thinking, and it is our duty to say it, that if he had abstained from the foolish and low pursuits of gaming in all its varieties, and if he had cherished and preserved that spirit of independence which his excellent mother, Lady Martindale, had endeavoured to instil into his mind, he might have upheld the dignity of his rank, if he had sacrificed a little of its splendour. But to our history.
We have mentioned as the patroness of the archery-meeting, Lady Featherstone; and we have said that this lady had two daughters, Lucy and Isabella. It has also been observed that Sir Andrew Featherstone felt a wish to unite one of these young ladies in marriage with Philip Martindale. This was a very natural ambition. The two families had been intimate for several generations. The Martindales had, by various circumstances, gradually advanced in wealth; but the reverse had been the lot of the Featherstones, though they were quite as old and good a family as the Martindales. Singular indeed it was that the onlyperson in the Martindale family who showed any symptoms of alienation from the Featherstones was old John Martindale: the singularity, however, consisted in this, that he had not shown any coolness, or behaved with any reserve, on the increase of his own property; but he had carried himself proudly towards them only since his cousin had acquired a title of nobility and had become a peer. Yet the old gentleman professed to laugh at titles; but nobody thought that old John Martindale was a fool.
Sir Andrew Featherstone, being a good-humoured man, took little notice of countless insults, affronts, slights, and disrespectfulnesses, whereby myriads of the human species are most grievously tormented. He did not, therefore, heed or observe the coldness of old Mr. Martindale; nor was he at all angry with Philip that he gave much of his attention to Sir Gilbert Sampson, and that he tolerated the attentions of Miss Sampson. Lady Featherstone, however, was more observant; and notwithstanding the incessant and manifold attention which she paid to all the party, could not help noticing how very gracious Philip Martindale was with SirGilbert. Various were the stratagems by which her ladyship endeavoured and contrived to place Philip in juxtaposition with her daughters when they adjourned to the collation; and very agreeable was her surprise when, after the strictest observation, she did not discern any wandering of the eyes of the young gentleman towards that part of the table where Miss Sampson was seated. Her fears were still farther diminished, when she found that Miss Sampson was deeply, and to all appearance most agreeably, engaged in conversation with a very elegant young gentleman, who seemed almost as much pleased with Miss Sampson as he was with himself. We owe it to our readers to introduce this young gentleman.
Henry Augustus Tippetson was a gentleman of good family, but being a younger brother, and very indolent, was not likely to make any great figure in the world. He was of middle stature; very slender, very fair, very near-sighted when he happened to think of it; having flaxen hair and blue eyes; suspected, but unjustly, of using rouge; very expensive in his dress, and one of Delcroix’s best customers.He was not one of the archers, though he had once attempted to use a bow. He found that the exertion was too much for him, and he feared it might harden his hands. He expressed to Miss Sampson the same fears for her; but the young lady heeded not the apprehension.
Lady Featherstone was very happy to see Miss Sampson so employed; but when her ladyship turned her attention to her own daughters and the gentleman whom she had seated by them, not all her powers of penetration could discover to which of the young ladies Philip Martindale was paying the greatest attention; and most of all was her mind disturbed by observing, that when he addressed himself either to one or the other, though it was with perfect politeness, it was with perfect indifference.
The sports of the day were concluded by a ball, which resembled in every point every ball of the same character. There was the usual allowance of dancing, negus, nonsense, tossing of heads, sneering, quizzing, showingoff, blundering, and all the rest of that kind of amusement. It enters not into our plan to dwell any longer on this festival. We must return to Brigland.
“For fame, (whose journies are through ways unknown,Traceless and swift and changeful as the wind,)The morn and Hurgonil had much outgone,While Truth mov’d patiently within behind.”Davenant.
“For fame, (whose journies are through ways unknown,Traceless and swift and changeful as the wind,)The morn and Hurgonil had much outgone,While Truth mov’d patiently within behind.”Davenant.
“For fame, (whose journies are through ways unknown,
Traceless and swift and changeful as the wind,)
The morn and Hurgonil had much outgone,
While Truth mov’d patiently within behind.”
Davenant.
From Hovenden Lodge, Philip Martindale returned home; and after finding every thing as it should be at the Abbey, and arranging with the trusty Oliver concerning uniformity of narrative, he called upon the old gentleman at the cottage. There he underwent a long harangue on the folly of archery, and the sillinessof Sir Andrew Featherstone, together with a desultory dissertation on the frivolity of the age in general. From which dissertation, it was to be inferred that old John Martindale was the only man living who had the least idea of propriety and wisdom of conduct.
With becoming deference and submission, the young gentleman gave his assent to whatsoever the senior was pleased to assert. This is one of the greatest pains of a state of dependence, that it robs a man of the pleasure of contradicting; and it is also one of the greatest evils of holding intercourse with dependants, that a man is thereby deprived of the pleasure of being contradicted. These were evils which the old and the young gentleman both felt, but the old gentleman felt it most deeply. Contradiction was so much his element, that he could hardly live without it; and rather than not enjoy the pleasure of it, he would contradict himself. That must have been a man of uncommon and high powers of mind, who could so have managed the old gentleman as to stimulate without offending him. TheHon. Philip Martindale was not equal to it, either from want of capacity or from lack of attention and diligence.
When the old gentleman had finished a tolerably long harangue on fools and follies of all descriptions, it almost occurred to him that if so great was the number of follies, and so long was the list of fools, there could be little else than folly in all human pursuits; and that he himself, in his own singularity of wisdom, was something of a fool for being so outrageously wise, when there was nobody left to keep him in countenance. Paradoxical as it may sound, it is not far from truth that excess of wisdom is excess of folly. The old gentleman thought so when he said to his cousin:
“I dare say now that you think me an old fool for my pains, if you would be honest enough to speak your mind.”
Not waiting for a reply to this very wise, though not very original remark, Mr. Martindale continued his talk: “I am sorry, Master Philip, you thought fit to take yourself off just at the very moment that you were wanted. Ihave had a very pleasant and intelligent companion at the cottage for the last two days, I particularly wished to introduce him to you; I mean the young barrister, who pleaded old Richard Smith’s cause so temperately and so successfully. I should have thought that the company of an intelligent young man would be far more agreeable than a set of idle gabbling chits, and an old simpleton of a baronet, who has not an idea in the world beyond a cookery-book. But every man to his taste.”
“I am sorry, sir,” replied Philip, “that I was not aware of your friend’s being at Brigland. It would have given me great pleasure to be introduced to him. He certainly conducted his cause with great propriety, and did not take, as some persons might have done, an opportunity of insulting me.”
“He did not conduct himself as your advocate did, Master Philip; he did not attempt to convert a court of justice into a bear-garden, or degrade the dignity of his profession by playing the buffoon to make boobies laugh. Mr. Markham is a man of good sense, and Ithink his conversation would have been of service to you: though he is a young man, he is very extensively informed.”
“I have not the least doubt of it,” replied Philip; “I am only sorry that I was so unfortunate as to be out of the way when he was here. I shall be more fortunate I hope another time.”
That was a lie; but dependants must lie if they would not lose their places. The Hon. Philip Martindale recollected the time when he was under no necessity of saying the thing which was not, when he was independent but of his profession; but then he was not called the honourable, then he had no rank to support or dignity to keep up. It was really mortifying and distressing to him that those very circumstances to which he had looked with hope and pleasure, and from which he had anticipated an accession to his happiness through the gratification of his pride, should become the means of annoying him so keenly where he was most susceptible. The dilemma in which he was placed was grievously perplexing. Turn which way hewould, mortifications awaited him. There was the daughter of a retired soap-boiler on one side; there was the son of a country shopkeeper pestering him on the other. To go back to his profession was quite out of the question. To marry rank and fortune too was not in the compass of probability. Oh, how perplexing and troublesome it is that such perpetual encroachments should be made upon persons of rank; so that notwithstanding all the care and pains which they take to avoid it, they are perpetually brought into contact with the commercial cast. Most deeply did Philip Martindale feel this inconvenience, but he could find no remedy for it. He had however one consolation, in the thought that he was not alone in his sorrows. He was acquainted with others who carried their heads much higher than himself, who yet suffered the convenient degradation of commercial affinities.
“Well, well,” said the old gentleman, “I am sorry that Mr. Markham is gone; and I fear we shall not see him again very soon.”
This was no subject of regret with the Hon.Philip Martindale; he was glad to hear that he was not likely to be soon annoyed by an introduction to a man of such equivocal rank as Horatio Markham. But seeing that his opulent relative was very much pleased with this stranger, he thought it might be agreeable if he made farther inquiries; he therefore asked, how it happened that Mr. Markham had made so short a visit. To his inquiries he received for answer, that an express had arrived calling the young barrister to London, and offering to his acceptance a highly respectable legal situation in one of the colonies. For this information Philip was thankful; and finding that there was no danger of being compelled to realise his profession, he began to speak very highly of the young barrister’s moral and intellectual qualities, and to express in still stronger terms the sorrow he felt at not being able to have the pleasure of his acquaintance. Cunning as old Mr. Martindale in general was, he was so far deceived by these protestations, that he was put by them into high good humour, both with himself and his relative; and then he went on to talk aboutRichard Smith and his niece. This, however, was a topic not altogether agreeable to Philip; but the young gentleman so far succeeded in explaining that affair, that Mr. Martindale was ready to accept the explanation. He then told Philip that Mr. Markham and he had visited the cottage; and so communicative and good-humoured was the elder Martindale, that he even repeated, as far as he could recollect, what took place at that visit, and how he had cautioned the young barrister not to lose his heart.
While this discourse was going on in the cottage, the town of Brigland was agitated to its very centre by a tragical event which had occurred at old Richard Smith’s cottage. Multitudes of idle people were running from place to place, full of dreadful news of a murder that had been committed in the course of the preceding night. Almost every one had a different story to tell; and the affair lost nothing of its horror and mystery by being transmitted from one to another. Mr. Denver, as in duty or in habit bound, brought the tidings to Mr. Martindale at the cottage. The story, as relatedby the good-humoured perpetual curate, spoke of poor old Richard Smith as having been murdered by the gipsies, and of his niece being carried away nobody knew where. Upon cross-examination, however, it was elicited that Mr. Denver had acquired his information by a very circuitous route; for he had heard Mrs. Price and Mrs. Flint both at once telling a different version of the same story to Mrs. Denver, who, while those two ladies were speaking narratively, noisily, and contradictorily, was herself also talking exclamatively and interrogatively. The ladies who communicated the event to Mrs. Denver had received their information also from compound sources, but both were satisfied that they had received their intelligence from the best authority; and in order to prove that they were both rightly informed, they both of them talked very loudly and very rapidly.
Mr. Denver must have been a very clever man under such circumstances to have made out any story at all; and he was a very clever man in such matters, and very much experienced incarrying and collecting intelligence: indeed, the mode above stated was that in which he usually acquired his knowledge. Practice gives great facility. But it must be acknowledged, notwithstanding all Mr. Denver’s accuracy and dexterity, that there were in his narrative some errors. It was not true that Richard Smith had been murdered; and it was not true that his niece had been carried away by violence or otherwise. These were the only two errors in the whole account. Much more however was reported, which Mr. Denver did not relate; and that which he did not relate was the part to which was most especially applicable that pathos of look and exclamation with which he introduced his narrative. This part of the story unfortunately was not true; we say unfortunately, because it is really mortifying to the multitude when investigation and inquiry deprive them of the richest part of a most horrible story. It was not likely that Mr. Denver should mention this part of the report when he saw Mr. Philip; for it was to that gentleman that it referred.
The report was, that Richard Smith had been murdered by some ruffians who had been employed by the Hon. Philip Martindale to carry off the niece of the poor old man. There was mention made of a fierce-looking military man, who was to all appearance a foreigner, who had been seen lurking about Brigland Common, and conversing with the gipsies that had but recently made their appearance there; and one person actually saw this foreigner enter the lane where old Smith’s cottage stood. All this part of the tale was very properly and very considerately omitted by Mr. Denver, who was a very candid man; and who thought that if it were true, it would in proper time transpire; and that if Mr. Philip had employed ruffians to carry off the young woman, he might have his own reasons for it.
At the hearing of this very serious story, the two Martindales expressed their horror and astonishment; and Philip immediately asked Mr. Denver why he had not gone to the old man’s cottage, in order to make some inquiry about the matter: to which interrogation Mr. Denvergave no answer. The retailers of intelligence would indeed lose many a choice and delightful story, if they were to take great pains to investigate the matter before they talked about it.
Philip Martindale requested Mr. Denver immediately to accompany him to the spot, that they might be assured whether or not any violence had been used, and whether there was any necessity for the interference of a magistrate. In their way they called on the constable, who was frightened out of his wits at the thought of going into a house where a man lay murdered. But the presence of Philip Martindale inspired him with an extraordinary share of courage. As they proceeded, they saw groups of people standing here and there, discussing with great gravity, the mysterious affair of the old man’s cottage. They looked with great earnestness on Mr. Martindale and his companions; and their murmurings and whisperings grew thicker and deeper.
When at length they arrived at the cottage, they found it surrounded by a crowd of women and children, and idle girls and boys. Thewomen were all talking, and the girls and boys were clambering up to the cottage-windows, or were mounted on trees that were near, as if to catch a glimpse of something within the cottage. At the approach of Philip Martindale and his party, the boys and girls slunk down from the windows; the women stayed their loud talking; the whole multitude buzzed with low whisperings; and the faces of all were turned towards the magistrate, who was hastily dragging the clergyman by his arm, and was followed at a very respectful distance by the constable.
Not staying to make any inquiries, Philip Martindale hastily opened the door of the cottage, and leading in Mr. Denver, he turned round and urged the constable to make haste in. When he entered the apartment, he saw presently that one part of the clergyman’s narrative was incorrect, namely, that which referred to the murder of old Richard Smith; for there sat the old man in life and health, but apparently in a state of great agitation, unable to answer a word to the impatient and numerous interrogatoriesof Philip Martindale and Mr. Denver. A very short interval elapsed, before there appeared from an inner-room a person who was likely to be able to give some rational account of the mystery. This person was a surgeon. As soon as he heard Mr. Martindale’s voice, he came forward to explain the affair.
“Pray, Mr. Davis,” exclaimed the magistrate, “what is the cause of all this bustle and confusion? Mr. Denver has been informed that this poor man was murdered. What has given rise to such a rumour?”
“I am happy to say, sir,” replied Mr. Davis, “that there has been no life lost, though there was great danger of it; and I fear that this poor man will suffer seriously from the agitation which he has undergone. If you will give me leave, sir, I will tell you all the particulars. A little better than an hour ago, just as I was preparing to go my rounds, a boy came running almost breathless into my surgery, imploring me to make all the haste I could up to old Richard Smith’s cottage, for there was a man there who was so dreadfully wounded thathe was almost killed. Of course I made the best of my way here; and when I arrived, I found the poor man sitting, as he is now, quite speechless; and while I was endeavouring to learn from him what was the matter, there came into the room a gentleman, who spoke like a foreigner, and asked if I was a surgeon, and begged me to step into the back room; there I found upon the bed one of the gipsies that have been here for some days, just at the edge of the common. They are gone now, all but this man. I found, sir, that this man had been severely wounded with a pistol-ball, and that he had suffered much from loss of blood. I immediately dressed the wound, which is by no means dangerous, and then inquired of the foreign gentleman what was the cause of the accident; for I could not get a single word from the man himself. It appeared, sir, from the account which the stranger gave me, that the gipsey had broke into the cottage in the night, or rather early in the morning, and that he was threatening to murder this poor old man if he would not tell where his moneywas. The stranger hearing a noise in the apartment where Richard Smith slept, listened, and soon ascertained the cause of it; fearing that the robber might have fire-arms in his possession, he seized a pistol, and without farther thought entered the room, and discharged it at the robber. The gentleman also informed me that he heard the voices of persons outside the cottage, but that after he had discharged the pistol, they retreated. He tells me that Richard Smith, in consequence of the fright, has not been able to speak since.”
On hearing this account, Philip Martindale expressed a wish to see the foreigner, of whom Mr. Davis had made mention; and upon his introduction, he immediately recognised the Italian whom he had met in London a day or two ago. The poor foreigner looked full of concern for the hasty manner in which he had acted, and seemed to fear that he had violated the law. He made many apologies to Philip Martindale, whom he presently recognised as a person of some importance; but his mind was soon set at ease, when he was informedthat what he had done was perfectly legal. He then repeated with great energy the obligations under which he lay to his very good friend, who had so kindly assisted him in finding his wife and child.
The next step was the committal of the wounded man for burglary; and upon the assurance of Mr. Davis that he might be safely moved, the commitment was accordingly made out; and the stranger, who gave his name as Giulio Rivolta, was bound over to give evidence at the trial.
Matters being thus arranged, Philip and the clergyman returned to give the old gentleman a more accurate version of the story than he had before heard. Mr. Denver underwent, as was usual, a lecture from the old gentleman, on the folly of telling stories just as he heard them, without taking any trouble, to ascertain as he easily might in most cases, whether those said stories were true or false. And when the truth of the matter came to be generally known in Brigland, every body laughed at every body for circulating, inventing, and believing improbabletales; and all the idle, gossiping people in the town, went about from house to house, complaining, bewailing, and lamenting, that Brigland was the most idle, gossiping, censorious place in the world. But still it was insinuated that there was something very mysterious in the business, which was not yet brought to light. There was more talk than ever concerning Richard Smith; and nobody could recollect when or how he first came to take up his abode at Brigland.