“This fellow is wise enough to play the fool,And to do that well craves a kind of wit;He must observe their mood on whom he jests,The quality of persons and the time.”Shakspeare.
“This fellow is wise enough to play the fool,And to do that well craves a kind of wit;He must observe their mood on whom he jests,The quality of persons and the time.”Shakspeare.
“This fellow is wise enough to play the fool,
And to do that well craves a kind of wit;
He must observe their mood on whom he jests,
The quality of persons and the time.”
Shakspeare.
The time was now arrived for Brigland Abbey to become the scene of festivity and hospitality. Under the direction and with the permission of old Mr. Martindale, the young tenant-at-will assembled at his splendid residence a set of people called his friends; but why they were called his friends is difficult to say, unless theywere so designated for want of some other comprehensive name. Two of the party certainly were his friends; and well would it have been for him, had he availed himself more of their friendship, and been ruled by their advice. We allude to his father and mother, Lord and Lady Martindale.
It is with great pleasure that we introduce to our readers a pair so truly respectable and honorable in every point of view. High rank certainly displays to great advantage those qualities which it is unable to give. Common-place minds do very well in common-place situations. It is sad indeed if they whose time is fully occupied by the duties of their station, and whose employments are marked out for them, should widely or grossly deviate from propriety: they have, comparatively speaking, but little room or time for folly. But they who have the direction of all their time, the choice of all their pursuits, need great steadiness of mind, and a strong sense of propriety to avoid follies and extravagance. They who have nothing to do have much to think of, andthey need to be vigilant; and when their conduct is indeed proper and good, then high rank and the leisure which wealth bestows appear to great advantage.
Thus honorable and reputable was the conduct of Lord and Lady Martindale. His lordship’s estate was not very large for his rank, yet quite large enough for him to make a fool of himself had he been so inclined:—he was wealthy enough to be his own coachman had he been so disposed, or to benefit the country by playing at cards and dice at Newmarket in order to improve the breed of horses:—he might have immortalized himself on the canisters of a snuff-shop, or by the cut of a coat:—he might have run away with his neighbour’s wife, or have insulted and neglected his own:—he might have spent more money upon his dogs than upon his children:—he might have sought for distinction through the medium of cookery, and have become so excessively refined as to ask if Captain Cook had not in one of his voyages seen a nation of cannibals who ate roast beef and drank port wine: and by many otherfooleries, equally reputable, he might have tempted the multitude to ask what lords were made for.
In like manner her ladyship might have done her part towards the dilapidation of their property. She might have spent a year’s income in a single entertainment:—she might have sent her jewels to the pawnbroker’s to pay her gambling-debts:—she might have forgotten the names and number of her children:—she might have been so superbly ignorant as not to know whether the kitchen was at the top of the house or at the bottom:—she might have played as many mad pranks as others in high life have done; but she coveted not that species of notoriety which arises from violating the principles of decorum and common sense.
The life of this truly respectable couple was not however indebted for its respectability merely to the absence of vice and folly. They cultivated positive as well as negative virtues. When they went into the country, it was for some better purpose than to be stared at; and when they resided in town, they did not converttheir house into a place of public amusement. The tenants in the country knew of their landlord’s presence there because they saw him not only in the field, but in their houses; and he saw that his steward neither oppressed the tenants, nor defrauded his master; and the poor people in the cottages saw him, and the labourers too could tell him their grievances, if they had any. Lady Martindale was also actively benevolent,—not merely giving away a periodical lot of advertised blankets, or a few bushels of coals to such as would take the trouble to fetch them; but she knew to whom her benevolence was directed, and considered rather what the poor had need to receive than what might best suit her to bestow. There was the same activity of benevolence when they were in town; and it was regulated there also by the same principle of propriety, not of convenience or fashion.
There was, however, in Lord Martindale one fault, and that in his son was almost a virtue, in consequence of its accompaniments—he had a great share of pride. He never spoke to orconversed with any of his inferiors, but that his style always proclaimed him a man of rank and consequence. We much doubt if, in the days when angels visited the sons of men, these heavenly visitants behaved with much more stately reserve than did Lord Martindale in his walks and visits of benevolence; or whether they showed so great a sense of their superior nature as he did of his superior rank. In this respect Lady Martindale had the advantage of his lordship. Nobody could help noticing her very graceful and dignified deportment; but the most humble never felt humiliation in her presence.
It was a pity that so excellent a couple were not more fortunate in their eldest son; but it was happy for them that they were not quite so much aware of the contrast as some of their neighbours were. It is not for us to propound theories of education, nor do we know of any one system which has been infallible in its application and universal in its success. We can only state the fact that Lord and Lady Martindale did not neglect the moral education oftheir children, nor did they carry discipline so far as to render re-action a necessary consequence. They were not low in their tastes, or headstrong in will; but their eldest son followed a line of action almost diametrically opposite to theirs. We do not represent, or at least we have not designed to represent, the character of Philip Martindale as being inveterately and unexceptionably vicious: we do not regard him as a monster of iniquity, but, according to the candid interpretation of Mr. Denver, he was rather a gay young man; and being unfortunately acquainted with some irregular companions, he had been occasionally led into follies. But, to proceed in the candid strain, he had not a decidedly bad heart; for he was not gratuitously vicious, and he was not altogether insensible to the emotions and feelings of humanity. Yet notwithstanding all our disposition to candour, we must acknowledge that the temper, tastes, and conduct of the Hon. Philip Martindale did occasionally lead him into mortifications and sorrows.
We are not expected to enter so minutelyand copiously into the description of the characters of the other guests at Brigland Abbey, as we have into the characters of Lord and Lady Martindale. Of Sir Andrew Featherstone and his lady and daughters we have already spoken. Our readers too are not altogether unacquainted with Sir Gilbert Sampson and his daughter Celestina. Sir Gilbert and Lord Martindale were very good friends; and Sir Gilbert was astonished that Lord Martindale should not be more sensible of his son’s follies, and Lord Martindale could hardly think it possible that a man of Sir Gilbert’s good understanding could tolerate such ridiculous affectations in his daughter.
In addition to these guests at the Abbey, there were also present the Dowager Lady Woodstock and her four daughters, Anne, Sarah, Jane, and Mary. Lady Woodstock was the widow of a baronet, whose services in the navy the country had repaid with little more than a title; but we would not say a word in censure of such economical remunerations, nor, on the other hand, would be very censorious, if the recompense had assumed the more solid form of anoble pension. We have read, and have in our political feelings profited by reading, the fable of the old man, his son, and his ass, and we know how difficult it is to please every body. We know that if the government does not reward its servants liberally, they will be very angry; and we know that if it does reward them liberally, others will be very angry. But let that pass. It is, however, a fact, that Lady Woodstock and her four daughters lived at Hollywick Priory in very good style, considering the limited means which they possessed. They were also very highly respected, and very much talked about as being persons of very superior minds and most amiable dispositions. They had cultivated their understandings; and indeed the pursuit and enjoyment of literature was the only occupation in which they could engage. They had no house in town, nor had they the means of splendid hospitality in the country. But what is most to our present purpose, they were one and all great favorites with old John Martindale. Lady Woodstock was a woman of great delicacy of feeling, andwas most scrupulously adverse to any thing like exhibiting her daughters, or as it were carrying them to market. It was only in consequence of the very earnest and almost angry importunity of the old gentleman that she would consent to share the festivities of Brigland Abbey. And when that paragraph appeared in a morning paper, announcing the approaching nuptials of the Hon. Philip Martindale and Miss Sampson; and when she knew that Sir Gilbert and his daughter were to be of the party, her reluctance abated. For though Lady Woodstock would have despised the use, and dreaded the repute, of stratagem to dispose of her daughters, she would not have been sorry to have them or any of them well settled.
As to the report that old Mr. Martindale himself had any design of offering his hand to the widow, the lady herself had not the slightest suspicion of the existence of such design, or even of the circulation of any such report. Lady Woodstock was a person of good sense and extensive information; but, happily, free from every species of pedantry; totally unpretendingand unartificial. She had pursued knowledge as the means of an agreeable occupation, and not as a medium of display or exhibition. She had read much, and had reflected more; so that her conversation was not the idle echo of others’ thoughts, but the result of her own mind’s movements and observation. Under such direction and tuition, her daughters had grown up to womanhood.
The young ladies were not distinguished for any great share of personal beauty, nor were they remarkable for any deficiency in that respect. They were not romantic, nor were they deficient in sensibility. They could talk well, but did not utter oracles or speak essays. They were not merely acquainted with books but with what books taught. They were also well aware that the knowledge which they possessed was in all probability possessed by others; and that many with whom they might converse were far better informed than themselves. They did not set up for literary ladies on the strength of having read Locke’s Essay, or being acquainted with a few Italianpoets. In fact, they had read to good purpose, and had thought to good purpose too. The worst of the matter was, there were four of them; and they were so nearly alike in moral and mental qualities, and so much together, and in such perfect confidence with each other, that there was not opportunity and distinctness enough for any one of the four to make an impression, and preserve or strengthen it. For if, by chance, any susceptible youth, who might be desirous of choosing a wife for her moral and mental qualities, should be seated next to or opposite to Miss Woodstock, and should by hearing very sensible and unaffected language fall from her lips, or by observing in her smiles or more serious looks an indication of excellent moral feeling, find that his heart was almost captivated; probably on the following morning chance might place him near another sister with whose taste he might be fascinated, and whose most agreeable manners would make him almost regret that he had already lost so much of his heart; and while he might be balancing in his mind on which of the two his affection shouldrest, a farther acquaintance with the family would still farther unsettle and embarrass his judgment; and he would at length conclude that, as it was impossible to be in love with four, he could not really be in love with any; and the result would be general commendation and respect; and the four young ladies would be left to enjoy their reputation of being the most agreeable, unaffected young women living.
Visiting in the country is what must be done; but there is some difficulty in managing it well, and making it perfectly agreeable. The entertainer must be entertaining, or the entertained will not be entertained; and the entertained must endeavour to entertain themselves, or their entertainer cannot entertain them. The Hon. Philip Martindale was not the most dexterous hand at this kind of employment. In fact, he felt himself not altogether master of his own house; and the good people who were there seemed rather to be visiting the house than its occupier. They did very well at dinner-time. Then there was amusement for all, adapted to the meanest capacities. There was also in themornings for the gentlemen the pleasure of shooting; or, more properly and accurately speaking, the pleasure of looking for something to shoot at: for as Philip Martindale was not very popular at Brigland, the poachers made a merit of plundering him with peculiar diligence. It also happened that the gentlemen who were at the Abbey were none of them very keen sportsmen. Sir Gilbert Sampson carried a gun, and occasionally discharged it; sometimes successfully, and sometimes unsuccessfully; and, in the latter case, Sir Andrew Featherstone laughed at him, and said it was a sad waste of shot, for powder alone would make noise enough to frighten the birds: and then he would ask Philip Martindale if small shot were not very useful to clean bottles withal.
As for old John Martindale, he was so perverse and obstinate that he would scarcely ever join the party at the Abbey till dinner-time; and then he would complain of late hours, and sit till midnight or later grumbling at the foolish fashion of turning night into day. Several mornings were wet, very wet: there wasno getting out of doors, and the Abbey was very ill-furnished with playthings. The young ladies could draw. The Miss Featherstones were adepts especially in architectural drawing. They sketched the interior of the principal apartments in the Abbey; and talked very learnedly of Palladio and Vitruvius, and Sir Christopher Wren and Mr. Nash, and others. They thought that Waterloo Place was not equal to the Parthenon, and St. Paul’s Cathedral was not equal to St. Peter’s. They talked about the building in which they were then sitting, demonstrated that it was the most beautiful and best proportioned building in the world, and then proceeded to show how much more beautiful it might be made. As the party had nothing else to do, they were very happy in listening to the architectural lectures of the Miss Featherstones.
There were more wet mornings than one; and as the Miss Featherstones had succeeded so well once in lecturing on architecture, they repeated the experiment. It was rather wearying, but it was better than nothing. Onthe morning of which we speak, old John Martindale was present. Contrary to his usual practice, the old gentleman made his appearance soon after breakfast, to congratulate them, as he said, on a fine wet morning. It appeared as if his object was to see what the party would do to amuse themselves and one another. The Miss Featherstones had recourse to their portfolio of plans and drawings, and sections, and elevations; and these they spread out on the table, in order to excite admiration, and to prompt discussion. Old Mr. Martindale was so perverse that he would not take any notice of the display; and the rest of the company had already, on a previous occasion, said all that they had to say. Isabella, the youngest of the Miss Featherstones, prided herself on her very superior wisdom, and therefore was very much disconcerted that any one should slightingly regard her favorite study; and especially was she disturbed that Mr. Martindale, who clearly had so great a taste or fancy for that pursuit, should behold unmoved, and without the least affectation of interest, a splendiddisplay of architectural drawings, and give no heed to the very philosophical remarks which, in her wisdom, she was making on the various styles of building. Determining, therefore, to compel the attention which she could not attract, she addressed herself directly to the old gentleman, asking his opinion of a design which she had drawn for the improvement of Hovenden Lodge. The answer which the old gentleman gave was so very uncourteous, that we almost blush to repeat it. Looking very sarcastically at the inquirer, he said:
“Hovenden Lodge, madam, is not yet quite spoiled by the improvements; but if you take a little more pains, I think you may make it one of the most ridiculous buildings in the kingdom.”
In justice to Mr. Martindale, we are bound to state that he would not have made such an observation to every one; but he knew Miss Isabella, and was sure that no very serious effects would follow from any severity of remark which he might make. And the result was as he had anticipated: for the young lady was not a whit abashed, but the rather encouraged toproceed, and to reply according to the spirit of the old gentleman’s remark.
“I think I shall endeavour to persuade papa to build a gothic front to Hovenden Lodge, in imitation of Brigland Abbey; and then, Mr. Martindale, I suppose you will acknowledge that it is really improved.”
“And then, Miss Isabella, I will pull down the front of Brigland Abbey, and supply its place by an exact imitation of the present front of Hovenden Lodge; and then it will be a difficult matter to decide which is the greatest blockhead, Sir Andrew Featherstone or old John Martindale.”
“Upon my word, Mr. Martindale, you are very polite,” replied Isabella, almost angry at being outdone in the way of banter.
“No such thing, madam, I am not polite. I am not fond of nonsense;” and then, in order to soften in some degree the apparent ruggedness of his manner, he added: “But if you have a taste for architecture, I shall be very happy to show you some engravings and drawings which I brought with me from Italy. You shall comedown to my cottage to-morrow morning, and you will find some pictures worth looking at.”
“When were you in Italy, sir? I never heard of it.”
“Perhaps not. I was there twenty years before you were born.” Mr. Martindale then turned away from the table, and looking out at window, declared that there was no occasion for any one to stay within on account of the weather; and, by way of setting an example to the rest of the party, he directly walked out alone. Isabella was pleased at the promise of poring over some architectural drawings, and most especially delighted with an opportunity which seemed to be promised of talking about Italy. It was a place which she had never visited, but she was proud of an acquaintance with its poetry and topography.
Since the peace of 1815, such myriads of people have visited France, that Paris has become as vulgar as Margate. It is most earnestly to be desired that the plebeian part of the community will not pollute with their presence, or profane with their prate, the classic plains,groves, temples, and cities of Italy. The establishment of steam-packets threatens the encroachment; and then the resource of the fashionable must be Constantinople; from whence, perhaps, they ultimately may be driven onwards to Ispahan and Delhi. The East India Company will not let them go to Canton.
The rest of the party gradually dispersed, most industriously and diligently bent on seeking some amusement wherewith to while away the weary hours which must be got rid of by some means or other before dinner. Let not the reader lightly regard this fact; for it is one of the greatest difficulties in the life of some persons at some periods of the year. There are to be found in this world not a few who are abundantly able and willing to reward with great liberality the genius who should be fortunate enough to discover or invent an infallible method of rendering it pleasant or tolerable to wait for dinner in the country.
“The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness,And time to speak it in; you rub the soreWhen you should find the plaster.”Shakspeare.
“The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness,And time to speak it in; you rub the soreWhen you should find the plaster.”Shakspeare.
“The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness,
And time to speak it in; you rub the sore
When you should find the plaster.”
Shakspeare.
Wandering in various directions, and engaged in divers pursuits, the visitors at Brigland Abbey were dispersed, to fill up the dreary morning hours. To follow them all is impossible; and to follow most of them would be uninteresting and uninstructive. Leaving, therefore, unobserved, all but Lady Woodstockand her eldest daughter, who reluctantly suffered themselves to be accompanied in their walk by Sir Andrew Featherstone, we will attend these three in their morning’s ramble.
With the scenery of the Abbey itself, and its park, our readers are partly acquainted. They know that the house stood on an open and gracefully sloping lawn; and that behind it rose a dense plantation, or rather wood. This wood was in one direction very extensive; but its breadth rendered it little more than a belt, which divided a tract of uncultivated land from one which was most highly embellished by art as well as by nature. In front of the Abbey, as far as the eye could reach, the land was highly cultivated, and thickly studded with trees and human dwellings. At the back of the wood the land was open and unenclosed; for the soil, if soil it might be called, was but a very thin stratum of light earth; through which, at short intervals, appeared the bare or moss-covered rock, which was the basis of the whole district. One part of this open space bore the name of the Common; and it was partly surroundedby a few miserable cottages: beyond that it bore the name of Brigland Heath. There was one advantage, however, in this barren scene; that the ground, being very high, afforded extensive prospects, keen air, and dry footing. There had been formerly a passage through the wood from the park to the common; but since the erection of the Abbey, that path was no longer used: there remained, however, a serpentine-road towards the heath; and at the end of this road stood one of the park-lodges, on the borders of the heath; and as the lodge was built to correspond with the style of the Abbey, it formed a very beautiful object in that otherwise dreary situation.
To this open and extensive heath the three above-named betook themselves for the sake of enjoying the fine air and wide scenery. Sir Andrew Featherstone, who was very ready with his quaint remarks when any thing was said or done at all susceptible of ridiculous construction or comment, was mute as fish, and awkward as a fish out of water, when his company was decidedly serious. Though the facetiousbaronet very promptly offered, or rather urged his services to accompany Lady Woodstock to the heath, yet before the party had made much progress, Sir Andrew felt himself almost weary of his charge. He had made several attempts at talk, and had failed; and to the few remarks uttered by the ladies, as he was not prepared with a lively or witty reply, he returned none at all, or such a one as did not by any means promise to be productive of further colloquy or discussion. Happy to avail himself of any thing which afforded a prospect of a subject for discourse, as soon as they had passed the lodge, the worthy baronet most fortunately descried at a little distance a great concourse of people issuing from that part of the wood which bordered on the common, and apparently surrounding a funeral procession. The multitude took the direction towards the town; and the curiosity of Sir Andrew and his party being excited by the unusual number of people who surrounded the procession, took the same direction, and arrived at the church-yard almost as soon as the funeral. Curiosity iscontagious; few can resist the impulse to gaze upon a spectacle surrounded by many spectators. The party from the Abbey were curious to know who and what it was which excited so very general an interest. They approached as near as they could, without forming part of the crowd. They waited till the coffin was deposited in the earth; and as many of the crowd stayed to gaze into the grave where the body was laid, the mourners in returning from the church-yard were less encumbered by the curious multitude, so that they were distinctly visible. The procession of the mourners was but short, yet several of them were real mourners. There is something very touching in the struggle which real sorrow makes to calm its agitation, and to suppress its tears; and there sometimes is a strong and deep feeling which tears or loud laments might relieve, but which, from a sense of its own intensity, dares not indulge in those expressions over which it might have no controul, or in yielding to which it might be betrayed into extravagance. This was a feeling which manifestlyhad possession of more than one of the mourners, who had attracted the curiosity of Sir Andrew Featherstone and the ladies that were with him. The keenness of their sorrow prevented Lady Woodstock and her daughter from gazing upon them with an eye of too curious inquiry. To gaze upon the afflicted without a look of sympathy is very cruel; and to look with compassion upon the eye that is full of tears, which it would fain suppress, does but still more unnerve the sorrowing heart. Lady Woodstock observed that the principal mourners were two females, who appeared, by their resemblance to each other, to be mother and daughter; and the scene brought to her recollection the time when she herself, accompanied by the daughter who was then leaning on her arm, did, in violation of the practice of the world, follow to the grave the remains of her beloved husband: nor were the recollections of her sorrows painful when thus brought back to her mind, but the rather was there a pure and holy pleasure in the tear which rose to her eye at the thought of thepast, so that she felt more than satisfied at having in that instance dared to be singular. Fashion forms pleasant leading-strings for those minds which are too weak to walk alone. The mind of Lady Woodstock was not of that description.
Sir Andrew Featherstone inquired of one of the spectators what was the name and character of the deceased, who seemed to have occupied so large a share in the interest and sympathy of the people of Brigland. He was informed that the name of the departed was Richard Smith; that he was a poor man whom nobody knew much about; but that lately a report was spread abroad that he was a rich man and a miser, and that, instigated probably by that report, one of the gipsies that had lately been in that neighbourhood, had broken into his cottage with the intent of robbing him; but there happened to be in the house with him at the time a foreign officer whose wife was related to Richard Smith, and this stranger wounded the gipsey so severely, that he was not able to effect his escape, and he was therefore sent off to thecounty jail; and that the old man was so dreadfully alarmed, that he soon after died in consequence of the fright. It appeared also from the informant, that the unusual number of persons congregated to witness the funeral was owing to the singularity of the circumstances of the old man’s death, and also to the desire felt to see the foreigner and his family; for the two females were, one of them the wife, and the other the daughter of the foreigner. The youngest of the two was the young woman of whom mention has before been made, as being the niece of old Richard Smith. This narrative happened to be somewhat more correct than many narratives which are thus picked up by an accidental inquiry. The account, however, of the motive which prompted the attendance of so many spectators of the funeral, in some degree disappointed the expectation of Lady Woodstock and her daughter; for they had promised themselves the pleasure of hearing an account of some specimen of humble virtue and extensive benevolent influence in a comparatively low sphere of life. They could not,therefore, but painfully smile at the thought that accident and unessential circumstance should excite an interest so strong and extensive.
At all events, serious feelings had been excited in the minds of the ladies; and even Sir Andrew himself partook of them, and no longer tasked his imagination for something remarkably witty or singular wherewith to amuse his companions, but very suitably and decently joined his companions in that species of talk which minds of their description would naturally have recourse to on such an occasion. And really, Sir Andrew could talk very well and very rationally when he was once set in the right key; but generally he seemed to think it necessary, in order to make himself agreeable, to be always uttering some quaint saying that should make his hearers laugh. He too often forgot that that which is very well as seasoning, is very unpalatable as food. This is a simile drawn from Sir Andrew’s favorite pursuit, which was the art of cookery, as we have above named.
When the party was assembled at dinner, it so happened that the old gentleman, Mr. John Martindale, took his seat at the side of Lady Woodstock, or to speak more definitely, caused Lady Woodstock to take a seat at his side. Some elderly unmarried gentlemen are remarkable for their love of monotony and exactness, always choosing the same seat, and ever going through the same daily routine. It was quite the reverse with John Martindale. In his own residence there was nothing of uniformity, and in his own habits there was nothing like regularity. He would sometimes rise at four or five, and sometimes not till eleven or twelve; and more than once he has been known to breakfast one day at the very same hour, at which he had dined the preceding day. He had the same crotchet in other houses where he could take the liberty, and in fact would rarely enter any house in which he was not so indulged. When he was at the Abbey, it was his very frequent practice to take a seat at table before any of the rest of the party, and to call some one by name to sit by him; and on these occasions he wasgenerally very talkative; but if he were silently inclined, he would go creeping to the lower end of the table like a humble tolerated guest, and never speak but when spoken to; and that was not frequently when amongst those who were acquainted with his habits. The present was not the first time that he had so distinguished Lady Woodstock; indeed, so frequently on other occasions, and at other tables, had he singled out this lady, that it is not to be wondered at that a rumour should have gone abroad of an intention on the old gentleman’s part to make her ladyship an offer of his hand. To say the truth, even Philip himself began to have some apprehensions, and rather to increase in his polite attentions to Miss Sampson.
“Now pray, madam,” said Mr. Martindale, in a very loud voice, “how have you been amusing yourself this morning? I suppose you would have stayed within all the morning studying architecture, if I had not mercifully driven you out to breathe a little wholesome air. You have not such fine air at Hollywick as we haveon the heath. You have been walking that way I presume.”
Lady Woodstock gently replied: “Sir Andrew Featherstone was so polite as to accompany me and one of my daughters in a ramble on the heath.”
“Sir Andrew was very polite, indeed,” replied Mr. Martindale; “and I have no doubt you had a most delightful walk. Sir Andrew made himself very agreeable, I hope; he is a witty man. But how is it, my good lady, that you look so unusually grave? Have you been laughing so heartily at Sir Andrew’s wit, that you have no more smiles left for us?”
Her ladyship then explained, and said that she really did feel rather more serious than usual. She then related what she had seen and heard that morning. Mr. Martindale listened with great attention to her narration, and as soon as it was concluded, he abruptly turned round and addressing himself to his relative exclaimed: “Philip, do you hear that? The poor old man who brought the action againstyou the other day is dead and buried. Lady Woodstock has been at his funeral this morning; and I think you should have been there too, if you had a spark of grace about you, young man.”
“You astonish me, sir,” replied Philip; “I had not heard that the poor man was ill.”
“Ay, but you ought to have known it. Did not you tell me the other day that he was so terrified at the gipsey breaking into his dwelling and threatening his life, that he was quite speechless. You ought to have made inquiries about him. If the poor man did bring an action against you, you ought not to bear malice.”
The Hon. Philip Martindale was most deeply mortified at being thus lectured at his own table, and schooled in the presence and hearing of his guests. To be dependent is bad enough; but to be thus publicly exposed as it were, is one of the severest parts of dependence. He had never felt any thing so mortifying while he was in chambers in the Temple; and he could not help thinking that those former acquaintances towards whom he had carried himselfwith proud and haughty reserve, would now look down on him with a much better grace than he could ever have looked contemptuously on them. The feeling of littleness is a very painful feeling, especially to one who has sacrificed his independence for the sake of the semblance of greatness. This was the case with Philip Martindale, whose dependent condition was entirely on his part wilful and voluntary. He had been cautioned by his most excellent mother, but he gave no heed to her admonitions. Lord and Lady Martindale felt on this occasion almost as much mortified as the young gentleman himself: indeed, there was at the table a general feeling of awkwardness and constraint. Philip himself was so far moved, that though he trusted not himself to the language of resentment, he could not altogether suppress a look of indignation at being thus accused of bearing malice against a poor old man. After a little interval of embarrassment, he ventured to say something in vindication of himself; but the very language and manner which he used, sufficiently manifestedthat he was fearful of offending the old gentleman, and left a very unpleasant impression on the mind of Lady Martindale.
In the evening of that day, Lady Martindale took occasion to converse with her son on the subject of his dependent situation, and to urge upon him the propriety of renouncing a patronage of such a mortifying nature. Her reasoning was very good, and her arguments for the most part unanswerable. It was very true that no confidence could be placed in the whims and caprices of a wealthy old humorist. He might, notwithstanding his advanced years, take it into his mind to marry. He might find out some new favourite on whom he might bestow the greatest part of his property. He would in all human probability live many years; and his capriciousness might, and most likely would, rather increase than diminish. Lady Martindale also reminded her son, that the allowance which he received from the old gentleman was barely sufficient to meet the increased expenses of so large an establishment; so that although he had the honor of living in a splendidmansion, he was rather poorer than richer by the change. To all this not a word of objection could be made; but there was an argument unnamed which had more weight with the young gentleman than all those which Lady Martindale had used. He was aware that he had so far anticipated that he must be indebted to other means than his own hereditary property, or the result of his own professional diligence, to get rid of the encumbrance. It was a truth, though a painful one, that he could never keep up his dignity but by continuing his dependence. His answers, therefore, to Lady Martindale’s persuasions, were such as gave her no hopes of success. As for returning to his profession, his own pride forbade that, and his “dread of shame among the spirits beneath.”
“——Whilst I rememberHer and her virtues, I cannot forgetMy blemishes in them.”Shakspeare.
“——Whilst I rememberHer and her virtues, I cannot forgetMy blemishes in them.”Shakspeare.
“——Whilst I remember
Her and her virtues, I cannot forget
My blemishes in them.”
Shakspeare.
In pursuance of the promise made by old Mr. Martindale, Miss Isabella Featherstone, and others of the party who had no other amusement in view, went the following morning to the cottage to look over the prints and drawings. The old gentleman had no light task to find and set in order his dispersed treasures: for his pictures were, as his books, in every part of the house, not even excepting thekitchen. He had risen early in order to find them; and it had been to him a task not without labour, though accompanied also with some powerful and interesting feelings. He had been looking back to past times and to years long gone by. He had been conversing with his former self, and had revived the forms of old acquaintances long since dead. He saw them again, and heard them again: their faces gleamed upon him through the lines of many an old engraving. He saw again, after dust had long covered, and darkness had long concealed them, drawings of many a palace in Rome, in Naples, in Venice, from the contemplation of which he had imbibed his love of architecture; and he began, as he looked back into the past, to entertain some feelings of regret. Almost every body looks back to the past with regret, especially old bachelors. By this employment the feelings of the old gentleman were greatly excited, and he began to be almost sentimental; so that when his visitors arrived at his cottage, he received them, not as usual with the odd manners of a humorist,but with a most courteous and old-fashioned politeness.
Isabella Featherstone observed his altered manner, and supposed that he was endeavouring to make amends for his abrupt and uncourteous manner of the preceding day. All the party, indeed, thought that a remarkable change had taken place in Mr. Martindale, but no one thought of attributing the change to any thing else than a little caprice. Isabella took great pains to show how ready she was to accept the practical apology, which she conceived was thus offered by the old gentleman. She talked therefore with more than her usual fluency, and exclaimed with more than usual rapture at every thing which could at all vindicate or allow of rapturous exclamation. The remains of antiquity, the works of modern art, the heathen temple or Christian church, were in their turns all complimented to the utmost of the young lady’s power of eloquence. Unmeaning compliments are inexhaustible; and well it is that they are so, or the great abundance and almostinfinite variety which was drawn forth from Mr. Martindale’s portfolios would have puzzled and perplexed the flatterer. To all this commendatory language the old gentleman was silent; and the party, who could not but notice the fluency of Isabella’s compliments, began to tremble for her, thinking that the old gentleman was silently meditating some keen satirical retort; the usual coin in which such geniuses as he repay the volubility of superabundant compliment. But their fears and apprehensions were unfounded. The young lady continued unexhausted and unreproved.
To examine a very large collection of prints and drawings, especially when an interest is felt or affected, occupies no inconsiderable portion of time. So the morning was rapidly passing away, and might have been entirely consumed by this amusement, had it not been for an interruption which put a stop to their employment.
A servant announced that the Rev. Mr. Denver and another gentleman wished tospeak with Mr. Martindale on particular business. The old gentleman was not best pleased with the interruption. Impatiently asking the servant into which room he had introduced the gentlemen, he immediately followed the man out of the apartment; and such was his haste, that he never thought to put out of his hand an engraving which he was just about to show to his party, but carried the print with him.
Mr. Denver introduced to Mr. Martindale with great parade Colonel Rivolta, whom he described as having recently made his escape from the continent, where he was exposed to persecution, if not to death, on account of his political opinions. The reverend gentleman then proceeded to state, that the Colonel had previously to his own arrival in England sent over his wife and daughter, whom he had committed to the care of Richard Smith; that with them he had also transmitted some property, which old Richard had invested for their use and benefit; that unfortunately the very first night of the Colonel’s arrival at Brigland, the cottage in which Richard Smith dwelt hadbeen entered by the gipsey, of whom mention has been already made; that in consequence of that event the poor old man had been so seriously alarmed, that he had been totally unable to attend to any thing, and that he had died, leaving this poor foreigner in a strange land, not knowing how to proceed as to the recovery of his little property. Under these circumstances, Mr. Denver had taken the liberty of introducing the poor man to Mr. Martindale; knowing from the general benevolence of his disposition, and from his acquaintance with practical affairs, that he would be best able to counsel and assist the foreigner in his present difficulties.
This appeal to the vanity and virtues of the old gentleman compensated for the interruption which had taken him from his company. And, indeed, we must do Mr. Martindale the justice to acknowledge that there really was a considerable share of benevolent feeling in the constitution of his mind, though that benevolence was attended, as it not unfrequently happens, by a very competent share of conceit. He wasindeed very happy in performing acts of kindness, and also very happy in enjoying the reputation of those acts. This is a failing which moralists ought to treat with much gentleness and consideration; for it does a great deal for those countless and useful institutions which are supported by voluntary contributions. Forgetting then the company which he had left, the old gentleman began to enter very freely and fully into the concerns of the foreigner, and to offer his best services to assist him in his difficulties. He soon found, however, upon inquiry, that there was not really so much difficulty as Mr. Denver had imagined or represented; and he was not altogether displeased at the opportunity thus afforded to him of ridiculing the clergyman for his ignorance of matters of business. It is indeed a sad fact, that so many of this order are quite ignorant of the affairs of common life in those points where they might often be of essential service to their parishioners. One should imagine that some little knowledge of this kind might be advantageously acquired even by the sacrifice, wereit necessary, of some of that energy and time devoted to dactyls and spondees, or to hares and partridges. But we must take the world as we find it, and be thankful that it is no worse.
The information and direction which the stranger sought were soon communicated to him, and most thankfully received by him. He then was rising to take leave and repeat his grateful acknowledgments, when his eye was arrested by the print which Mr. Martindale held in his hand, and which he had unrolled while he was talking. As soon as the Colonel saw the picture, he recognised the scene which it represented, and uttered an ejaculation, indicative of surprise and pleasure. Mr. Martindale then, for the first time, observed the print, and noticed its subject: he also looked upon it with surprise, but not with pleasure; and then he asked the stranger if that scene were familiar to him. With very great emotion the Colonel replied:
“That scene brings to my recollection the happiest day of my life.”
For a few seconds the party were totally silent;for the clergyman and the foreigner were struck dumb with astonishment at the altered looks of the old gentleman, and were surprised to see him crushing the picture in both his hands. He then, as if with an effort of great resolution, exclaimed:
“And it brings to my recollection the most miserable day of my life.”
Mr. Denver was not used to emotions; he was quite perplexed what to do, whether he should sympathise or retire. He very wisely and very calmly begged Mr. Martindale not to be agitated. That was a very rational request; but, unfortunately, when persons are in a state of agitation, they are not in a condition to attend to rational requests. Colonel Rivolta was more accustomed to the sight and expression of strong emotions, and he did not make any rational request; but turning towards the old gentleman, with a look of kindness and sympathy, he said:
“Ah, sir! I am sorry, very sorry, that I have caused you to think again of your miseries. But your lot is now in prosperity. Ah, sir! we are all liable to calamity: it is sad to think ofthe many pains of life; but your sorrow, sir, is no doubt without reproach to yourself.”
The agitation of the old gentleman abated, and he replied: “I thank you for your kindness, sir, but my sorrow arises from self-reproach. I have inflicted injuries which can never be redressed.”
He hesitated, as if wishing, but dreading to say more. Then changing the tone of his voice, as if he were about to speak on some totally different subject, he continued addressing himself to Colonel Rivolta:
“I presume, sir, you are a native of Genoa, or you are very familiar with that city.”
“I was born,” replied the foreigner, “at Naples; but very early in life I was removed to Genoa, that I might be engaged in merchandise; for my patrimony was very small, and my relations would have despised me, had I endeavoured by any occupation to gain a livelihood in my native city.”
“Then you were not originally destined for the army.”
“I was not; but after I had been some fewyears in Genoa, I began to grow weary of the pursuits of merchandise, and indeed to feel some of that pride of which I had accused my relations, and I thought that I should be satisfied with very little if I might be free from the occupation of the merchant; and while I was so thinking, I met by chance an old acquaintance who persuaded me to undertake the profession of arms, to which I was indeed not reluctant. And so I left my merchandise, and did not see Genoa again for nearly two years. It was then that I was so much interested in that scene which the picture portrays; for in a very small house which is in the same street, and directly opposite to that palace, there lived an old woman, whose name was.…”
The attention of the old gentleman had been powerfully arrested by the commencement of the Italian’s narrative; and he listened very calmly till the narrator arrived at the point when he was about to mention the name of the old woman who lived opposite to the palace in question: then was Mr. Martindale again excited,and without waiting for the conclusion of the sentence, interrupted it by exclaiming:
“Ah! what! do you know that old woman? Is she living? Where is she?—Stop—no—let me see—impossible!—Why I must be nearly seventy—yes—Are you sure? Is not her name Bianchi?”
To this hurried and confused mass of interrogation, the Colonel replied that her name was Bianchi; but that she had died nearly twenty years ago, at a very advanced age, being at the time of her death nearly ninety years of age. Hearing this, the old gentleman assumed a great calmness and composure of manner, though he trembled as if in an ague; and turning to the astonished clergyman, who was pleasing himself with the anticipation of some catastrophe or anecdote which might form a fine subject for town-talk, he very deliberately said:
“Mr. Denver, I beg I may not intrude any longer on your valuable time. This gentleman, I find, can give me some account of an old acquaintance of mine. The inquiries may not beinteresting to you. Make my best compliments to Mrs. Denver.”
Mr. Denver was so much in the habit of being dismissed at short notice from his audiences with Mr. Martindale, that he did not think any thing of this kind of language; but he was sadly disappointed at being sent away just at the moment that some important discovery seemed about to be made; for it was very obvious from the manner in which Mr. Martindale had interrogated the foreigner, and from the very great emotion which he had manifested, that the old gentleman had something more to inquire about than merely an old acquaintance. Mr. Denver, indeed, had little doubt, whatever might be the object of the disclosure about to be made, that he should ultimately come into possession of a knowledge of the fact; but it was painful to be put off to a future period, it was a suffering to have his curiosity strongly excited and not immediately gratified. In order, however, to insure as early a relief as possible, he had no sooner taken his leave of Mr. Martindale, than hedropped a hint to Colonel Rivolta, that he should be happy to see him again at the parsonage as soon as possible.
When this good man was withdrawn, Mr. Martindale requested the stranger to be seated; and unmindful of the guests whom he had left to amuse themselves and each other, he commenced very deliberately to examine the foreigner concerning those matters which had so strongly excited his feelings.
“You tell me,” said Mr. Martindale, “that the old woman Bianchi has been dead nearly twenty years. Now, my good friend, can you inform me how long you were acquainted with this old woman before her death.”
“I knew her,” replied the Colonel, “only for about four years before she died.”
“And had you much intimacy with her, so as to hear her talk about former days.”
“Very often, indeed,” replied the foreigner, “did she talk about the past; for as her age was very great, and her memory was very good, it was great interest to hear her tell of ancient things; and she was a woman of most excellentunderstanding, and very benevolent in her disposition. Indeed, I can say that I loved the old woman much, very much indeed. I was sorry at her death.”
“But tell me,” said Mr. Martindale impatiently, “did you ever hear her say any thing of an infant—an orphan that was committed to her care nearly forty years ago?”
At this question, the eyes of the stranger brightened, and his face was overspread with a smile of delight, when he replied: “Oh yes, much indeed, much indeed! that orphan is my wife.”
This rapidity of explanation was almost too much for the old gentleman’s feelings. His limbs had been trembling with the agitation arising from thus reverting to days and events long passed; and he had entertained some hope from the language of the foreigner, that he might gain some intelligence concerning one that had been forgotten, but whose image was again revived in his memory. He had thought but lightly in the days of his youth of that which he then called folly, but more seriouslyin the days of his age of that same conduct which then he called vice. It would have been happiness to his soul, could an opportunity have been afforded him of making something like amends to the representatives of the injured, even though the injured had been long asleep in the grave. When all at once, therefore, the intelligence burst upon him, that one was living in whom he possessed an interest, and over whose destiny he should have watched, but whom he had neglected and forgotten, he felt his soul melt within him; and well it was for him that he found relief in tears. Surprised beyond measure was Colonel Rivolta, when he observed the effect produced on Mr. Martindale, and heard the old gentleman say with trembling voice:
“And that orphan, sir, is my daughter.” He paused for a minute or two, and his companion was too much astonished and interested to interrupt him: recovering himself, he continued: “For many years after that child was born, I had not the means of making any other provision for it than placing it under the care ofthe old woman of whom we have been speaking. I gave her such compensation as my circumstances then allowed; and as the mother of the child died soon after the birth of the infant, I thought myself freed from all farther responsibility when I had made provision for the infant. I endeavoured, indeed, to forget the event altogether; and as I wished to form a respectable connexion in marriage, I took especial care to conceal this transgression. However, various circumstances prevented me from time to time from entering into the married state; and having within the last twelve years come into the possession of larger property than I had ever anticipated, it occurred to me that there should be living at Genoa a child of mine, then indeed long past childhood. I wrote to Genoa, and had no answer; I went to Genoa, and could find no trace either of my child or of the old woman to whose care I had entrusted her; and I was grieved not so much for the loss of my child, as for the lack of an opportunity of making some amends for my crime. I am delightedto hear that she lives. To-morrow I will see her.”
Colonel Rivolta scarcely believed his senses. He was indeed very sure that the person whom he had married was described as an orphan of English parents, and he had no reason to imagine that Mr. Martindale was attempting to deceive him. It was, indeed, a great discovery to him that he had married the daughter of an English gentleman of great fortune; and perhaps under all circumstances the foreigner was most delighted of the two at the discovery: for thereby he had insured to himself a friend and protector when he most needed one; and he was happy at the thought that his own child would thus have a powerful friend, and be preserved from the dangers and snares with which he might think that she would be otherwise surrounded; and with whatever sentiments Mr. Martindale might regard the discovery of his daughter, it may be easily imagined that Colonel Rivolta’s child, over whom he had constantly watched with the utmost care and anxiety, wasfar more affectionately interesting to him than was the daughter of Mr. Martindale to her parent, who had never seen her since her infancy, and who had never paid her any attention, but had almost endeavoured to forget her. It appeared indeed very singular to the Colonel, that Mr. Martindale should so patiently wait till the following day before he would see his newly-discovered daughter. But the old gentleman was a great oddity, and a most unaccountable being; and so any one would have thought who had seen him after this interview with the foreigner calmly return to his company, and amuse himself with looking over his portfolios of pictures. So however he did; and when this agitation was over, he was more cheerful than before, and quite as full as ever of whims and humours.