THE TRAGEDY AND THE ESSAYTHE TRAGEDY AND THE ESSAYFROM THE MANUSCRIPT ENTITLEDARTHURIANA, ORODDS AND ENDSBEINGA MISCELLANEOUS COLLECTIONOF PIECESINPROSE AND VERSE,BYLORD CHARLES A. F.WELLESLEY.Commenced September 27th, 1833.Finished November 20th, 1833.THE TRAGEDY AND THE ESSAYOnewet and rainy afternoon Arthur was sitting alone in his room. The unfavourable weather, united to a severe headache the consequence of certain vigils of the previous night, indisposed him for serious study, and he sat toasting his feet at a bright fire and languidly turning over Vernet’s splendid views of the scenery round Verdopolis.While thus employed, or rather indis-employed, in the vain endeavour to kill time, a servant entered and announced: ‘Mr. Hamilton.’‘Show him in,’ said Arthur with alacrity, glad of anything which might be likely to divert the tedious ennui which oppressed him.As the young architect, who it is well known is one of my brother’s numerous toadies, appeared at the door, he rose and, offering him his hand, said with that winning air of condescension which has gained for him the hearts of the rising geniuses in Verdopolis:‘Well, Edwin, how are you this suicidal day?’‘Quite well, my lord, I thank you. I trust I find your lordship the same?’As they seated themselves on a sofa the marquis replied:‘I cannot say that I am very brisk this afternoon, I have a slight headache…’A brief silence followed of which Arthur seemed impatient, and he broke it by saying:‘Now tell me, Edwin, what was your motive for coming to see me this dull day. I’m mistaken if you had not some particular reason.’‘Why, my lord,’ replied the architect, blushing and looking down with an embarrassed air, ‘I can’t deny that I have.’‘What is it, then?’ replied my brother eagerly. ‘Have you been striking out some plan for a new public building? If so, let me see it directly.’‘No, my lord; my employment lately has been of another kind to that to which you allude. I have been wooing—’‘Wooing!’ interrupted the marquis. ‘What! you are going to be married, are you? Humph! I see it all now. On my conscience, it’s a perfect miracle how such a bashful fellow as you ever summoned courage to pop the question! But pray, what is the fair lady’s name?’‘Melpomene, the muse of tears!’ replied the modest Hamilton, blushing to the temples as he spoke. ‘In short, I’ve ventured hither to show your lordship a tragedy which I have written, called “Petus and Aria.”’At these words the spirit of criticism began to sparkle in Arthur’s eye and the smile of sarcasm to curl his lip. Poor Hamilton shrunk together as he saw his patron gazing on him with that-cool, keen, composed aspect of contempt which he sometimes assumed in order to torture the wretches dependent on his favour.‘A tragedy!’ he began. ‘Produce it by all means. But first tell me, Edwin, is it constructed in the Grecian or Gothic style of architecture? Or perhaps you may have invented a kind of composite order out of your own head?’‘Eh, my lord?’ murmured his hapless victim.‘Petus and Aria,’ continued the unrelenting monster; ‘the former was, I believe, a somewhat timid and henpecked gentleman, whom for his arrant poltroonery I have always looked upon with supreme contempt; and the latter a strapping virago that showed herself particularly anxious to get her husband out of the world which he dishonoured. Queer materials these for a tragedy!’To his observations Hamilton’s only answer was a look of imploring agony. Its silent eloquence, however, touched Arthur more nearly than words would have done. He smiled and said in a more encouraging tone than he had hitherto used:‘Come, Edwin, dismiss that miserable expression from your face and let us see this notable play.’With a trembling hand the architect drew the manuscript from his pocket and presented it to my brother. Half an hour of profound silence ensued, during which he continued to endure all the torments of suspense. At length the marquis laid it down, and the single word ‘Admirable!’ which escaped from his lips at once relieved Hamilton from a host of fears.‘Are you in earnest, my lord?’ asked he.‘Perfectly so; and as a proof of it I advise you to offer this play without loss of time to Mr. Price of the Theatre Royal. I will write a few lines in favour of it to him, and I do not doubt but that my recommendation will be sufficient to secure you handsome treatment in that quarter.’A fortnight passed. Rumours began to be rife through Verdopolis that Mr. Hamilton the architect, whose skill had long advanced him to the rank of rival to the celebrated Turner, had laid down the compasses and taken up the pen. Ere long these reports were confirmed by the appearance one Wednesday morning of Price’s bill of fare, containing the following announcement:—This evening will be performed at the Theatre RoyalPETUS AND ARIA,an entirely new tragedy by Edwin Hamilton, Esq.,under the patronage of the Marquis of Douro.The character of Aria to be performed by Mrs. Siddons;that of Petus by Garry David.That night Price had reason to lick his lips with satisfaction. Never before was there such a crowded house: pit, box, and gallery overflowed; and the manager after all expenses were paid netted a clear profit of five hundred pounds.It was on this occasion that I took my station among the branches of the mighty golden chandelier which hangs from the centre of the dome; and from thence obtained a bird’s-eye view of the whole magnificent scene.Certainly there are few sights more animated and inspiring than a crowded theatre. The brilliant lights, the ceaseless hum of voices, the busy and visionary stage, all conspire to raise indescribable feelings in the soul. More than a thousand of the loveliest women on earth sparkled in the dress circle, where the waving of plumes, the rustling of robes, and the light-bright eyes were perfectly dazzling. Among these my eyes singled out Lady Zenobia Ellrington. I noticed her particularly, because she seldom visits the theatre. There she sat robed in gorgeous purple, a star-light band of jewels gleaming among her rich raven locks. Lord Ellrington stood beside her in his usual plain black attire, and wearing a white cravat in the centre of which shone a single diamond. From my elevated station I beheld the entrance of Mr. Hamilton. The Marquis of Douro preceded him, accompanied by a beautiful girl in a white dress and green sash without any ornament on her head except a profusion of chestnut curls which, clustering in the most luxuriant ringlets, obliged her every now and then to raise her small hand in order to put them back from her snowy forehead and laughing blue eyes, which they almost concealed. I need not say that this was the marchioness.Who shall describe the tumultuous rush of feelings which rose in Edwin’s bosom as he glanced hurriedly round at the vast assembly on which his fate this night depended. His eyes wildly wandered from the rough tenants of the gallery to the glittering population of the boxes, and finally fixed themselves on the mighty green curtain which still hung before the stage. The few moments that elapsed before its removal seemed to him an hour, but at last the tinkle of the prompter’s bell sounded and at once it was gathered to the ceiling.The prologue (which had been furnished by Arthur) was received with thunders of applause, amidst which arose one solitary note of disapprobation. All eyes turned on the utterer of this presumptuous squeal, which was a small deformed thing of the ape kind dressed in a green coat, and bearing the name of Captain Andrew.‘Knock him down!’ was the general cry of the gods in the gallery; which mandate was presently executed by my friend, John Bud, who stood near. The first scene now came on, in the course of which Mrs. Siddons displayed all her finest powers and even excelled herself. Peals of applause again shook the theatre to its foundations. Hamilton was scarcely able to contain the joy and gratitude which this intoxicating success excited. His cheeks glowed, his eye sparkled, and his frame trembled all over. His transports, however, were soon about to receive a fearful check. At the commencement of the second act Petus rushed into the tent of Camilus, exclaiming: ‘General, we breathe the air of death. Our plot is smoked!’‘Well,’ cried Lord Lofty, who with a bevy of puppies like himself occupied a box at no great distance; ‘Well, sir, and if your Pipe is smoked, can’t you light another?’The laughter of some of the audience was raised by this sally of miserable wit, which from what followed seemed to have been a preconcerted signal for an indiscriminate attack on the tragedy. The thread of approval being once broken it appeared impossible to reunite it. Hisses, groans, and peals of laughter now rose at the finest passages. The gods, who are ever ready to join in a tumult, without nicely inquiring into the cause, yelled aloud for the instant condemnation of the whole concern. Lofty and his gang joined them clamourosly in this demand, and at length the uproar rose to such a pitch that Mr. Price was compelled to come forward to the footlights and declare that since the audience disapproved of the play he consented to withdraw it.‘All hope of fame is gone and I desire to live no longer,’ said Hamilton, turning on the marquis his corpse-like countenance.‘Courage, Edwin,’ replied the latter. ‘It is part of my creed that there is no wound too deep to receive relief from the divine balsam of revenge. I know who is your principal foe, and if I live you shall enjoy the remedy in perfection.’It was a bright and lovely afternoon in the midst of autumn. The saloons of Waterloo Palace were thrown open for the admission of all the rank and fashion of Verdopolis. The doors of the great library were likewise unfolded, and there a knot ofbel-esprits, the very flower of Africa’s geniuses, had gathered round a large open bow-window through which might be seen the extensive pleasure-grounds where groups of the brighter children of fashion roamed idly about or reposed under the shade of sequestered bowers. Of course my brother and Lady Zenobia Ellrington formed the nucleus round which this literary party had assembled. While they were conversing Lord Lofty entered and took his station near them. He could not actually join their party, because, though a man of considerable talent, he had never written a book, painted a picture, or moulded a statue; and it is an understood regulation of this chosen band that none but genuine authors and artists shall have the privilege of entering into their high and exclusive society. While he listened to the noble sentiment, the brilliant wit, the exhaustless knowledge, and the varied information which, clothed in the purest language and uttered in the soft subdued tones which perfect refinement dictates, formed a conversazione of such fascinating brilliancy as he had never heard before, undefined longings arose in his heart to become a more immediate partaker of the feast of reason and the flow of soul he witnessed. At this moment the Marchioness of Douro, who, seated on a low footstool at the feet of her husband and Lady Ellrington, had been gazing up at them with her large blue eyes full of wonder and delight, suddenly exclaimed in her usual artless manner: ‘I wish I had written a book!’‘And so do I,’ was the response that immediately burst from Lofty’s lips. The marquis smiled at the characteristic simplicity of Marian’s aspiration; but he turned with a more serious air to Lofty, and said:‘Well, and what is there to hinder you from writing as many books as you like?’‘Nothing, my lord, except that I have not the genius.’‘Pshaw! nonsense! you can do anything you choose!’‘Are you in earnest, Douro?’‘In earnest? Yes, that I am: I never was more so in my life.’‘Well, then, I really do think I’ll turn author.’‘That’s right, Fred. I’ll breakfast with you to-morrow morning, and we’ll talk the matter over at our leisure.’Next day Arthur was punctual to his appointment. On entering the breakfast-room he found Lord Frederic seated in a morning gown of green and silver brocade with slippers to correspond, and on the table beside him lay a quire of paper and an inkstand of elaborate workmanship with golden pens, etc. The smile with which he viewed these preparations would have undeceived any other than Lofty, whose faculties were rendered, however, so obtuse by conceit that he conceived it to be merely a token of approbation.After the first cup or two of chocolate had been discussed the marquis entered upon business by saying: ‘Well, Fred, do you continue in the same mind I left you in last night?’‘Certainly, my lord; I am even confirmed in my determination to become an author. The only thing that puzzles me is on what subject to exercise that genius which you flatter me I possess.’After a moment’s silence and apparent consideration, Arthur said:‘Of course you would desire something original. Talent like yours would not be content to follow in any beaten path.’‘Surely. In fact, I have determined that no hackneyed theme shall receive immortality from my pen. Now, Douro, could you not help me to one that has never been touched on before?’‘I think I could; but before I mention it let me briefly define to you the meaning of originality. It consists in raising from obscurity some theme, topic, employment, or existence which has never been thought of by the great mass of men, or thought of only to be despised; in pouring around it the light of genius, proving its claim to admiration by subtlety of logic, clothing it with all the bright tones of a lively imagination, and presenting it thus adorned to the astonished world. I counsel you, Fred, to take for your subject the unjustly condemned art of the laundress. Write an essay on it divided into three parts, viz.: washing, starching, and ironing. In the first, summon up all your learning. Go back to the old times of Homer when princesses bleached linen in the gardens of Adcinous. Trace the art through the ramifications of ages and nations down to the present day. Expatiate upon the purity of the employment; give it an allegorical meaning, and conclude by saying that it excels all others in dignity and honour. Let the second be a dissertation on the process of making starch. Point out the grain which is most proper for it, and launch a thundering anathema against all adulterators of the genuine article. In the third, discourse most excellent music on the different kinds of irons, as box-irons, flat-irons, and Italian irons, and mind you give them the preference over such machines as mangles and calenders. Do all this and I think I can promise you as the reward of your labours renown of such a nature and extent as would satisfy the ambition of most men.’‘My lord,’ replied Lofty, ‘by this disinterested and noble counsel you have conferred on me an eternal obligation. I will follow up the hint you have given, and by so doing I hope to produce somewhat that the gracious public will not willingly let die.’From that day Lord Lofty became an altered man. He was no longer the free, dashing, gallant young nobleman whose handsome exterior and high-bred manners endeared him to the fair sex, and whose superiority both mental and personal had entitled him to the rank of viceroy in the world of fashion, subject only to those two mighty monarchs, Douro and Ellrington. Seldom now was either ballroom, race ground, parliament house, rotunda, or ring honoured with his presence. Day and night he immersed himself in the solitude of his study and gave access to none but my brother, who urged him unrelentingly to the completion of the task which he had assigned him. Sometimes, indeed, the unhappy gull ventured forth to his old haunts, but so changed was he become in dress, language, and behaviour as scarcely to be recognised by his most intimate friends. A shabby black coat was generally wrapped round him; shoes trodden down at the heels garnished his feet; and the fair hair which formerly was his greatest pride, and which he usually wore arranged in clustering curls, now hung neglected in elf-locks round a countenance that for consumptive paleness and attenuation might have been envied by the veriest tea-taster in existence. His conversation was in unison with his appearance, whining, sickly, pedantic, and filled with that disgusting species of affectation peculiar to literary coxcombs. The consequence of this was that those who had been accustomed to consider his acquaintance as an honour and a matter of boasting now grew ashamed to be seen in company with him. When he entered a drawing-room the ladies turned aside their heads, and the gentlemen regarded him with a glance of undisguised contempt. Not a hand was stretched out to welcome him; not a voice repeated his name except in atone of derision. These things, however, he neither saw nor regarded. Fenced by a triple shield of self-conceit, the scorn of women and the disgust of men moved him no more than hailstones would a rock.After some months of incessant labour he at length one evening announced to the marquis that his work was completed.‘Wait till to-morrow, Fred,’ replied that faithful friend. ‘I will then accompany you to Sergeant Tree’s, and you shall taste the first sweets of authorship.’That night and the first hours of morning seemed to Lofty an age. As soon as breakfast was over he stationed himself at the window and continued impatiently looking out for Arthur’s appearance. At length about eleven o’clock a.m. he perceived him advancing with his usual stately tread up the street. Flinging open the sash he jumped out and ran to meet him. As they walked towards the great bookseller’s the marquis mentioned that he had invited a few friends to meet him there that morning, as he wished them to be spectators of Lofty’s triumph. The latter bowed and expressed his gratitude for what he considered to be another instance of my brother’s attachment to him. They now entered the shop. Above a hundred men of the highest rank were assembled there, including Castlereagh, Molyneux, Aberford, Beauclerk, Sidney, Russell, Howard, Morpeth, etc., and by himself, leaning against a pillar, was Hamilton the architect, his pale face and his usually downcast eyes glowing with uncommon ardour behind the marble slab which, supported on Ionic columns, forms the counter. Sergeant Tree was seated in an elevated armchair. To him Lofty immediately advanced and, presenting his manuscript, said in a loud and pompous tone of voice:‘Look at that, sir, and tell me what you will give me for it.’Tree took out his spectacles, placed them with all imaginable tranquillity, and after reading the title-page and glancing over the body of the work returned it coolly to the washerwoman, saying in his quiet business-like manner: ‘This, my lord, is not in my way. You have probably mistaken me for Mrs. Bleachum, the washerwoman.’A peal of laughter from the noble bystanders accompanied these words. Lofty stood motionless a moment as if transfixed, then turned to the marquis with a look of speechless agony. Instead of the cloud of sympathetic sorrow he had expected to see brooding on his friend’s brow his eyes fell on a countenance illumined by a smile of arch, cold, triumphant, deep and devilish meaning. It pierced at once the thick veil of infatuation that obscured his-mental vision, and suddenly the light of truth burst on him with almost annihilating splendour. While he stood more like a statue than a living man Arthur advanced and said in a low and soft voice, but so distinct as to be heard by all present:‘Well, Frederic, don’t you think a rejected essay is almost as agreeable as a condemned tragedy?’C. Brontë,October 6th, 1833.
THE TRAGEDY AND THE ESSAYFROM THE MANUSCRIPT ENTITLEDARTHURIANA, ORODDS AND ENDSBEINGA MISCELLANEOUS COLLECTIONOF PIECESINPROSE AND VERSE,BYLORD CHARLES A. F.WELLESLEY.Commenced September 27th, 1833.Finished November 20th, 1833.
THE TRAGEDY AND THE ESSAY
FROM THE MANUSCRIPT ENTITLED
ARTHURIANA, ORODDS AND ENDS
BEINGA MISCELLANEOUS COLLECTIONOF PIECESINPROSE AND VERSE,BYLORD CHARLES A. F.WELLESLEY.
Commenced September 27th, 1833.Finished November 20th, 1833.
THE TRAGEDY AND THE ESSAY
Onewet and rainy afternoon Arthur was sitting alone in his room. The unfavourable weather, united to a severe headache the consequence of certain vigils of the previous night, indisposed him for serious study, and he sat toasting his feet at a bright fire and languidly turning over Vernet’s splendid views of the scenery round Verdopolis.
While thus employed, or rather indis-employed, in the vain endeavour to kill time, a servant entered and announced: ‘Mr. Hamilton.’
‘Show him in,’ said Arthur with alacrity, glad of anything which might be likely to divert the tedious ennui which oppressed him.
As the young architect, who it is well known is one of my brother’s numerous toadies, appeared at the door, he rose and, offering him his hand, said with that winning air of condescension which has gained for him the hearts of the rising geniuses in Verdopolis:
‘Well, Edwin, how are you this suicidal day?’
‘Quite well, my lord, I thank you. I trust I find your lordship the same?’
As they seated themselves on a sofa the marquis replied:
‘I cannot say that I am very brisk this afternoon, I have a slight headache…’
A brief silence followed of which Arthur seemed impatient, and he broke it by saying:
‘Now tell me, Edwin, what was your motive for coming to see me this dull day. I’m mistaken if you had not some particular reason.’
‘Why, my lord,’ replied the architect, blushing and looking down with an embarrassed air, ‘I can’t deny that I have.’
‘What is it, then?’ replied my brother eagerly. ‘Have you been striking out some plan for a new public building? If so, let me see it directly.’
‘No, my lord; my employment lately has been of another kind to that to which you allude. I have been wooing—’
‘Wooing!’ interrupted the marquis. ‘What! you are going to be married, are you? Humph! I see it all now. On my conscience, it’s a perfect miracle how such a bashful fellow as you ever summoned courage to pop the question! But pray, what is the fair lady’s name?’
‘Melpomene, the muse of tears!’ replied the modest Hamilton, blushing to the temples as he spoke. ‘In short, I’ve ventured hither to show your lordship a tragedy which I have written, called “Petus and Aria.”’
At these words the spirit of criticism began to sparkle in Arthur’s eye and the smile of sarcasm to curl his lip. Poor Hamilton shrunk together as he saw his patron gazing on him with that-cool, keen, composed aspect of contempt which he sometimes assumed in order to torture the wretches dependent on his favour.
‘A tragedy!’ he began. ‘Produce it by all means. But first tell me, Edwin, is it constructed in the Grecian or Gothic style of architecture? Or perhaps you may have invented a kind of composite order out of your own head?’
‘Eh, my lord?’ murmured his hapless victim.
‘Petus and Aria,’ continued the unrelenting monster; ‘the former was, I believe, a somewhat timid and henpecked gentleman, whom for his arrant poltroonery I have always looked upon with supreme contempt; and the latter a strapping virago that showed herself particularly anxious to get her husband out of the world which he dishonoured. Queer materials these for a tragedy!’
To his observations Hamilton’s only answer was a look of imploring agony. Its silent eloquence, however, touched Arthur more nearly than words would have done. He smiled and said in a more encouraging tone than he had hitherto used:
‘Come, Edwin, dismiss that miserable expression from your face and let us see this notable play.’
With a trembling hand the architect drew the manuscript from his pocket and presented it to my brother. Half an hour of profound silence ensued, during which he continued to endure all the torments of suspense. At length the marquis laid it down, and the single word ‘Admirable!’ which escaped from his lips at once relieved Hamilton from a host of fears.
‘Are you in earnest, my lord?’ asked he.
‘Perfectly so; and as a proof of it I advise you to offer this play without loss of time to Mr. Price of the Theatre Royal. I will write a few lines in favour of it to him, and I do not doubt but that my recommendation will be sufficient to secure you handsome treatment in that quarter.’
A fortnight passed. Rumours began to be rife through Verdopolis that Mr. Hamilton the architect, whose skill had long advanced him to the rank of rival to the celebrated Turner, had laid down the compasses and taken up the pen. Ere long these reports were confirmed by the appearance one Wednesday morning of Price’s bill of fare, containing the following announcement:—
This evening will be performed at the Theatre RoyalPETUS AND ARIA,an entirely new tragedy by Edwin Hamilton, Esq.,under the patronage of the Marquis of Douro.The character of Aria to be performed by Mrs. Siddons;that of Petus by Garry David.
That night Price had reason to lick his lips with satisfaction. Never before was there such a crowded house: pit, box, and gallery overflowed; and the manager after all expenses were paid netted a clear profit of five hundred pounds.
It was on this occasion that I took my station among the branches of the mighty golden chandelier which hangs from the centre of the dome; and from thence obtained a bird’s-eye view of the whole magnificent scene.
Certainly there are few sights more animated and inspiring than a crowded theatre. The brilliant lights, the ceaseless hum of voices, the busy and visionary stage, all conspire to raise indescribable feelings in the soul. More than a thousand of the loveliest women on earth sparkled in the dress circle, where the waving of plumes, the rustling of robes, and the light-bright eyes were perfectly dazzling. Among these my eyes singled out Lady Zenobia Ellrington. I noticed her particularly, because she seldom visits the theatre. There she sat robed in gorgeous purple, a star-light band of jewels gleaming among her rich raven locks. Lord Ellrington stood beside her in his usual plain black attire, and wearing a white cravat in the centre of which shone a single diamond. From my elevated station I beheld the entrance of Mr. Hamilton. The Marquis of Douro preceded him, accompanied by a beautiful girl in a white dress and green sash without any ornament on her head except a profusion of chestnut curls which, clustering in the most luxuriant ringlets, obliged her every now and then to raise her small hand in order to put them back from her snowy forehead and laughing blue eyes, which they almost concealed. I need not say that this was the marchioness.
Who shall describe the tumultuous rush of feelings which rose in Edwin’s bosom as he glanced hurriedly round at the vast assembly on which his fate this night depended. His eyes wildly wandered from the rough tenants of the gallery to the glittering population of the boxes, and finally fixed themselves on the mighty green curtain which still hung before the stage. The few moments that elapsed before its removal seemed to him an hour, but at last the tinkle of the prompter’s bell sounded and at once it was gathered to the ceiling.
The prologue (which had been furnished by Arthur) was received with thunders of applause, amidst which arose one solitary note of disapprobation. All eyes turned on the utterer of this presumptuous squeal, which was a small deformed thing of the ape kind dressed in a green coat, and bearing the name of Captain Andrew.
‘Knock him down!’ was the general cry of the gods in the gallery; which mandate was presently executed by my friend, John Bud, who stood near. The first scene now came on, in the course of which Mrs. Siddons displayed all her finest powers and even excelled herself. Peals of applause again shook the theatre to its foundations. Hamilton was scarcely able to contain the joy and gratitude which this intoxicating success excited. His cheeks glowed, his eye sparkled, and his frame trembled all over. His transports, however, were soon about to receive a fearful check. At the commencement of the second act Petus rushed into the tent of Camilus, exclaiming: ‘General, we breathe the air of death. Our plot is smoked!’
‘Well,’ cried Lord Lofty, who with a bevy of puppies like himself occupied a box at no great distance; ‘Well, sir, and if your Pipe is smoked, can’t you light another?’
The laughter of some of the audience was raised by this sally of miserable wit, which from what followed seemed to have been a preconcerted signal for an indiscriminate attack on the tragedy. The thread of approval being once broken it appeared impossible to reunite it. Hisses, groans, and peals of laughter now rose at the finest passages. The gods, who are ever ready to join in a tumult, without nicely inquiring into the cause, yelled aloud for the instant condemnation of the whole concern. Lofty and his gang joined them clamourosly in this demand, and at length the uproar rose to such a pitch that Mr. Price was compelled to come forward to the footlights and declare that since the audience disapproved of the play he consented to withdraw it.
‘All hope of fame is gone and I desire to live no longer,’ said Hamilton, turning on the marquis his corpse-like countenance.
‘Courage, Edwin,’ replied the latter. ‘It is part of my creed that there is no wound too deep to receive relief from the divine balsam of revenge. I know who is your principal foe, and if I live you shall enjoy the remedy in perfection.’
It was a bright and lovely afternoon in the midst of autumn. The saloons of Waterloo Palace were thrown open for the admission of all the rank and fashion of Verdopolis. The doors of the great library were likewise unfolded, and there a knot ofbel-esprits, the very flower of Africa’s geniuses, had gathered round a large open bow-window through which might be seen the extensive pleasure-grounds where groups of the brighter children of fashion roamed idly about or reposed under the shade of sequestered bowers. Of course my brother and Lady Zenobia Ellrington formed the nucleus round which this literary party had assembled. While they were conversing Lord Lofty entered and took his station near them. He could not actually join their party, because, though a man of considerable talent, he had never written a book, painted a picture, or moulded a statue; and it is an understood regulation of this chosen band that none but genuine authors and artists shall have the privilege of entering into their high and exclusive society. While he listened to the noble sentiment, the brilliant wit, the exhaustless knowledge, and the varied information which, clothed in the purest language and uttered in the soft subdued tones which perfect refinement dictates, formed a conversazione of such fascinating brilliancy as he had never heard before, undefined longings arose in his heart to become a more immediate partaker of the feast of reason and the flow of soul he witnessed. At this moment the Marchioness of Douro, who, seated on a low footstool at the feet of her husband and Lady Ellrington, had been gazing up at them with her large blue eyes full of wonder and delight, suddenly exclaimed in her usual artless manner: ‘I wish I had written a book!’
‘And so do I,’ was the response that immediately burst from Lofty’s lips. The marquis smiled at the characteristic simplicity of Marian’s aspiration; but he turned with a more serious air to Lofty, and said:
‘Well, and what is there to hinder you from writing as many books as you like?’
‘Nothing, my lord, except that I have not the genius.’
‘Pshaw! nonsense! you can do anything you choose!’
‘Are you in earnest, Douro?’
‘In earnest? Yes, that I am: I never was more so in my life.’
‘Well, then, I really do think I’ll turn author.’
‘That’s right, Fred. I’ll breakfast with you to-morrow morning, and we’ll talk the matter over at our leisure.’
Next day Arthur was punctual to his appointment. On entering the breakfast-room he found Lord Frederic seated in a morning gown of green and silver brocade with slippers to correspond, and on the table beside him lay a quire of paper and an inkstand of elaborate workmanship with golden pens, etc. The smile with which he viewed these preparations would have undeceived any other than Lofty, whose faculties were rendered, however, so obtuse by conceit that he conceived it to be merely a token of approbation.
After the first cup or two of chocolate had been discussed the marquis entered upon business by saying: ‘Well, Fred, do you continue in the same mind I left you in last night?’
‘Certainly, my lord; I am even confirmed in my determination to become an author. The only thing that puzzles me is on what subject to exercise that genius which you flatter me I possess.’
After a moment’s silence and apparent consideration, Arthur said:
‘Of course you would desire something original. Talent like yours would not be content to follow in any beaten path.’
‘Surely. In fact, I have determined that no hackneyed theme shall receive immortality from my pen. Now, Douro, could you not help me to one that has never been touched on before?’
‘I think I could; but before I mention it let me briefly define to you the meaning of originality. It consists in raising from obscurity some theme, topic, employment, or existence which has never been thought of by the great mass of men, or thought of only to be despised; in pouring around it the light of genius, proving its claim to admiration by subtlety of logic, clothing it with all the bright tones of a lively imagination, and presenting it thus adorned to the astonished world. I counsel you, Fred, to take for your subject the unjustly condemned art of the laundress. Write an essay on it divided into three parts, viz.: washing, starching, and ironing. In the first, summon up all your learning. Go back to the old times of Homer when princesses bleached linen in the gardens of Adcinous. Trace the art through the ramifications of ages and nations down to the present day. Expatiate upon the purity of the employment; give it an allegorical meaning, and conclude by saying that it excels all others in dignity and honour. Let the second be a dissertation on the process of making starch. Point out the grain which is most proper for it, and launch a thundering anathema against all adulterators of the genuine article. In the third, discourse most excellent music on the different kinds of irons, as box-irons, flat-irons, and Italian irons, and mind you give them the preference over such machines as mangles and calenders. Do all this and I think I can promise you as the reward of your labours renown of such a nature and extent as would satisfy the ambition of most men.’
‘My lord,’ replied Lofty, ‘by this disinterested and noble counsel you have conferred on me an eternal obligation. I will follow up the hint you have given, and by so doing I hope to produce somewhat that the gracious public will not willingly let die.’
From that day Lord Lofty became an altered man. He was no longer the free, dashing, gallant young nobleman whose handsome exterior and high-bred manners endeared him to the fair sex, and whose superiority both mental and personal had entitled him to the rank of viceroy in the world of fashion, subject only to those two mighty monarchs, Douro and Ellrington. Seldom now was either ballroom, race ground, parliament house, rotunda, or ring honoured with his presence. Day and night he immersed himself in the solitude of his study and gave access to none but my brother, who urged him unrelentingly to the completion of the task which he had assigned him. Sometimes, indeed, the unhappy gull ventured forth to his old haunts, but so changed was he become in dress, language, and behaviour as scarcely to be recognised by his most intimate friends. A shabby black coat was generally wrapped round him; shoes trodden down at the heels garnished his feet; and the fair hair which formerly was his greatest pride, and which he usually wore arranged in clustering curls, now hung neglected in elf-locks round a countenance that for consumptive paleness and attenuation might have been envied by the veriest tea-taster in existence. His conversation was in unison with his appearance, whining, sickly, pedantic, and filled with that disgusting species of affectation peculiar to literary coxcombs. The consequence of this was that those who had been accustomed to consider his acquaintance as an honour and a matter of boasting now grew ashamed to be seen in company with him. When he entered a drawing-room the ladies turned aside their heads, and the gentlemen regarded him with a glance of undisguised contempt. Not a hand was stretched out to welcome him; not a voice repeated his name except in atone of derision. These things, however, he neither saw nor regarded. Fenced by a triple shield of self-conceit, the scorn of women and the disgust of men moved him no more than hailstones would a rock.
After some months of incessant labour he at length one evening announced to the marquis that his work was completed.
‘Wait till to-morrow, Fred,’ replied that faithful friend. ‘I will then accompany you to Sergeant Tree’s, and you shall taste the first sweets of authorship.’
That night and the first hours of morning seemed to Lofty an age. As soon as breakfast was over he stationed himself at the window and continued impatiently looking out for Arthur’s appearance. At length about eleven o’clock a.m. he perceived him advancing with his usual stately tread up the street. Flinging open the sash he jumped out and ran to meet him. As they walked towards the great bookseller’s the marquis mentioned that he had invited a few friends to meet him there that morning, as he wished them to be spectators of Lofty’s triumph. The latter bowed and expressed his gratitude for what he considered to be another instance of my brother’s attachment to him. They now entered the shop. Above a hundred men of the highest rank were assembled there, including Castlereagh, Molyneux, Aberford, Beauclerk, Sidney, Russell, Howard, Morpeth, etc., and by himself, leaning against a pillar, was Hamilton the architect, his pale face and his usually downcast eyes glowing with uncommon ardour behind the marble slab which, supported on Ionic columns, forms the counter. Sergeant Tree was seated in an elevated armchair. To him Lofty immediately advanced and, presenting his manuscript, said in a loud and pompous tone of voice:
‘Look at that, sir, and tell me what you will give me for it.’
Tree took out his spectacles, placed them with all imaginable tranquillity, and after reading the title-page and glancing over the body of the work returned it coolly to the washerwoman, saying in his quiet business-like manner: ‘This, my lord, is not in my way. You have probably mistaken me for Mrs. Bleachum, the washerwoman.’
A peal of laughter from the noble bystanders accompanied these words. Lofty stood motionless a moment as if transfixed, then turned to the marquis with a look of speechless agony. Instead of the cloud of sympathetic sorrow he had expected to see brooding on his friend’s brow his eyes fell on a countenance illumined by a smile of arch, cold, triumphant, deep and devilish meaning. It pierced at once the thick veil of infatuation that obscured his-mental vision, and suddenly the light of truth burst on him with almost annihilating splendour. While he stood more like a statue than a living man Arthur advanced and said in a low and soft voice, but so distinct as to be heard by all present:
‘Well, Frederic, don’t you think a rejected essay is almost as agreeable as a condemned tragedy?’
C. Brontë,
October 6th, 1833.