LETTER FROM CAROLINE TO ERASMUS.
“MY DEAR ERASMUS,
“Your friend and patient, Mr. Gresham, was so eager to take your advice, and so quick in his movements, that your letter, announcing his intended visit, reached us but a few days before his arrival at the Hills. And—mark how great and little events, which seem to have no possible link of connexion, depend upon one another—Alfred or Mr. Gresham must have sat up all night, or slept on the floor, had not Alfred, that morning, received a letter from Mrs. Hungerford, summoning him to town to draw her son’s marriage settlements. It is thought that Colonel Hungerford, whose leave of absence from his regiment has, by special favour, been repeatedly protracted, will be very soon sent abroad. Lady Elizabeth Pembroke has, therefore, consented to his urgent desire for their immediate union; and Alfred will, I am sure, give them as little reason as possible to complain of the law’s delay. Lady Elizabeth, who has all that decision of mind and true courage which you know is so completely compatible with the most perfect gentleness of disposition and softness, even timidity of manners, resolves to leave all her relations and friends, and to go abroad. She says she knew what sacrifices she must make in marrying a soldier, and she is prepared to make them without hesitation or repining.
“And now to return to your friend, Mr. Gresham. The more we see of him the more we like him. Perhaps he bribed our judgment a little at first by the kind, affectionate manner in which he spoke of you; but, independently of this prepossession, we should, I hope, soon have discovered his merit. He is a good English merchant. Not a ‘M. Friport, qui sçait donner, mais qui ne sçait pas vivre,’ but a well-bred, well-informed gentleman, upright, liberal, and benevolent, without singularity or oddities of any sort. His quiet, plain manners, free from ostentation, express so well the kind feelings of his mind, that I prefer them infinitely to what are called polished manners. Last night Rosamond and I were amusing ourselves by contrasting him with our recollection of the polished M. de Tourville—but as you were not at home at the memorable time of the shipwreck, and of M. de Tourville’s visit, you cannot feel the force of our parallel between these two beings, the most dissimilar I have ever seen—an English merchant and a diplomatic Frenchman. You will ask, what put it into our heads to make the comparison? A slight circumstance which happened yesterday evening. Rosamond was showing Mr. Gresham some of my drawings, and among them the copy of that beautiful miniature in M. de Tourville’s snuff-box. My father told him the history of Euphrosyne, of her German prince, and Count Albert. Mr. Gresham’s way of listening struck us, by its contrast to the manner of M. de Tourville—and this led us on to draw a parallel between their characters. Mr. Gresham, instead of shrugging his shoulders, and smiling disdainfully, like the Frenchman, at the Quixotism of the young nobleman, who lost his favour at court by opposing the passion of his prince, was touched with Count Albert’s disinterested character; and quite forgetting, as Rosamond observed, to compliment me upon my picture of Euphrosyne, he laid down the miniature with a negligence of which M. de Tourville never would have been guilty, and went on eagerly to tell some excellent traits of the count. For instance, when he was a very young man in the Prussian or Austrian service, I forget which, in the heat of an engagement he had his sabre lifted over the head of one of the enemy’s officers, when, looking down, he saw that the officer’s right arm was broken. The count immediately stopped, took hold of the disabled officer’s bridle, and led him off to a place of safety. This and many other anecdotes Mr. Gresham heard, when he spent some time on the continent a few years ago, whilst he was transacting some commercial business. He had full opportunities of learning the opinions of different parties; and he says, that it was the prayer of all the good and wise in Germany, whenever the hereditary prince should succeed to the throne, that Count Albert Altenberg might be his minister.
“By-the-bye, Mr. Gresham, though he is rather an elderly man, and looks remarkably cool and composed, shows all the warmth of youth whenever any of his feelings are touched.
“I wish you could see how much my father is pleased with your friend. He has frequently repeated that Mr. Gresham, long as he has been trained in the habits of mercantile life, is quite free from the spirit of monopoly in small or great affairs. My father rejoices that his son has made such a friend. Rosamond charged me to leave her room to write to you at the end of my letter; but she is listening so intently to something Mr. Gresham is telling her, that I do not believe she will write one line. I hear a few words, which so much excite my curiosity, that I must go and listen too. Adieu.
“Affectionately yours,
“CAROLINE PERCY.”
Another letter from Caroline to Erasmus, dated some weeks after the preceding.
“Tuesday, 14th.
“Yes, my dear Erasmus, your friend, Mr. Gresham, is still with us; and he declares that he has not, for many years, been so happy as since he came here. He is now sufficiently intimate in this family to speak of himself, and of his own feelings and plans. You, who know what a horror he has of egotism, will consider this as a strong proof of his liking us, and of his confidence in our regard. He has related many of the instances, which, I suppose, he told you, of the ingratitude and disappointments he has met with from persons whom he attempted to serve. He has kept us all, for hours, Rosamond especially, in a state of alternate pity and indignation. For all that has happened, he blames himself more than he blames any one else; and with a mildness and candour which make us at once admire and love him, he adverts to the causes of his own disappointment.
“My father has spoken to him as freely as you could desire. He has urged, that as far as the public good is concerned, free competition is more advantageous to the arts and to artists than any private patronage can be.
“If the productions have real merit, they will make their own way; if they have not merit, they ought not to make their way. And the same argument he has applied to literary merit, and to the merit, generally speaking, of persons as well as of things. He has also plainly told Mr. Gresham that he considers the trade of a patron as one of the most thankless, as it is the least useful, of all trades.
“All this has made such an impression upon your candid friend, that he has declared it to be his determination to have no more protégées, and to let the competition of talents work fairly without the interference, or, as he expressed it, any of the bounties and drawbacks of patronage. ‘But then,’ he added, with a sigh, ‘I am a solitary being: am I to pass the remainder of my days without objects of interest or affection? While Constance Panton was a child, she was an object to me; but now she must live with her parents, or she will marry: at all events, she is rich—and is my wealth to be only for my selfish gratification? How happy you are, Mr. Percy, who have such an amiable wife, such a large family, and so many charming domestic objects of affection!’
“Mr. Gresham then walked away with my father to the end of the room, and continued his conversation in a low voice, to which I did not think I ought to listen, so I came up stairs to write to you. I think you told me that Mr. Gresham had suffered some disappointment early in life, which prevented his marrying; but if I am not mistaken, his mind now turns again to the hopes of domestic happiness. If I am not mistaken, Rosamond has made an impression on his heart. I have been as conveniently and meritoriously deaf, blind, and stupid, for some time past as possible; but though I shut my eyes, and stop my ears, yet my imagination will act, and I can only say to myself, as we used to do when we were children—I will not think of it till it comes, that I may have the pleasure of the surprise....
“Affectionately yours,
“CAROLINE PERCY.”
Caroline was right—Rosamond had made a great impression upon Mr. Gresham’s heart. His recollection of the difference between his age and Rosamond’s, and his consciousness of the want of the gaiety and attractions of youth, rendered him extremely diffident, and for some time suppressed his passion, at least delayed the declaration of his attachment. But Rosamond seemed evidently to like his company and conversation, and she showed that degree of esteem and interest for him which, he flattered himself, might be improved into a more tender affection. He ventured to make his proposal—he applied first to Mrs. Percy, and entreated that she would make known his sentiments to her daughter.
When Mrs. Percy spoke to Rosamond, she was surprised at the very decided refusal which Rosamond immediately gave. Both Mrs. Percy and Caroline were inclined to think that Rosamond had not only a high opinion of Mr. Gresham, but that she had felt a preference for him which she had never before shown for any other person; and they thought that, perhaps, some refinement of delicacy about accepting his large fortune, or some fear that his want of high birth, and what are called good connexions, would be objected to by her father and mother, might be the cause of this refusal. Mrs. Percy felt extremely anxious to explain her own sentiments, and fully to understand Rosamond’s feelings. In this anxiety Caroline joined most earnestly; all the kindness, sympathy, and ardent affection, which Rosamond had ever shown for her, when the interests of her heart were in question, were strong in Caroline’s recollection, and these were now fully returned. Caroline thought Mr. Gresham was too old for her sister; but she considered that this objection, and all others, should yield to Rosamond’s own opinion and taste. She agreed with her mother in imagining that Rosamond was not quite indifferent to his merit and to his attachment.
Mrs. Percy began by assuring Rosamond that she should be left entirely at liberty to decide according to her own judgment and feelings. “You have seen, my dear, how your father and I have acted towards your sister; and you may be sure that we shall show you equal justice. Though parents are accused of always rating ‘a good estate above a faithful lover,’ yet you will recollect that Mr. Barclay’s good estate did not induce us to press his suit with Caroline. Mr. Gresham has a large fortune; and, to speak in Lady Jane Granville’s style, it must be acknowledged, my dear Rosamond, that this would be a most advantageous match; but for this very reason we are particularly desirous that you should determine for yourself: at the same time, let me tell you, that I am a little surprised by the promptness of your decision. Let me be sure that this negative is serious—let me be sure that I rightly understand you, my love: now, when only your own Caroline is present, tell me what are your objections to Mr. Gresham?”
Thanks for her mother’s kindness; thanks repeated, with tears in her eyes, were, for a considerable time, all the answer that could be obtained from Rosamond. At length she said, “Without having any particular objection to a person, surely, if I cannot love him, that is sufficient reason for my not wishing to marry him.”
Rosamond spoke these words in so feeble a tone, and with so much hesitation, colouring at the same time so much, that her mother and sister were still uncertain how they were to understand her if—and Mrs. Percy replied, “Undoubtedly, my dear, if you cannot love him; but that is the question. Is it quite certain that you cannot?”
“Oh! quite certain—I believe.”
“This certainty seems to have come very suddenly,” said her mother, smiling.
“What can you mean, mother?”
“I mean that you did not show any decided dislike to him, till within these few hours, my dear.”
“Dislike! I don’t feel—I hope I don’t show any dislike—I am sure I should be very ungrateful. On the contrary, it would be impossible for any body, who is good for any thing, to dislike Mr. Gresham.”
“Then you can neither like him nor dislike him?—You are in a state of absolute indifference.”
“That is, except gratitude—gratitude for all his kindness to Erasmus, and for his partiality to me—gratitude I certainly feel.”
“And esteem?”
“Yes; to be sure, esteem.”
“And I think,” continued her mother, “that before he committed this crime of proposing for you, Rosamond, you used to show some of the indignation of a good friend against those ungrateful people who used him so ill.
“Indignation! Yes,” interrupted Rosamond, “who could avoid feeling indignation?”
“And pity?—I think I have heard you express pity for poor Mr. Gresham.”
“Well, ma’am, because he really was very much to be pitied—don’t you think so?”
“I do—and pity—” said Mrs. Percy, smiling.
“No, indeed, mother, you need not smile—nor you, Caroline; for the sort of pity which I feel is not—it was merely pity by itself, plain pity: why should people imagine and insist upon it, that more is felt than expressed?”
“My dear,” said Mrs. Percy, “I do not insist upon your feeling more than you really do; but let us see—you are in a state of absolute indifference, and yet you feel esteem, indignation, pity—how is this, Rosamond? How can this be?”
“Very easily, ma’am, because by absolute indifference, I mean—Oh! you know very well what I mean—absolute indifference as to—”
“Love, perhaps, is the word which you cannot pronounce this morning.”
“Now, mother! Now, Caroline! You fancy that I love him. But, supposing there were any if in the case on my side, tell me only why I should refuse him?”
“Nay, my dear, that is what we wait to hear from you,” said Mrs. Percy.
“Then I will tell you why,” said Rosamond: “in the first place, Mr. Gresham has a large fortune, and I have none. And I have the greatest horror of the idea of marrying for money, or of the possibility of its being suspected that I might do so.”
“I thought that was the fear!” cried Caroline: “but, my dear Rosamond, with your generous mind, you know it is quite impossible that you should marry from interested motives.”
“Absolutely impossible,” said her mother. “And when you are sure of your own mind, it would be weakness, my dear, to dread the suspicions of others, even if such were likely to be formed.”
“Oh! do not, my dearest Rosamond,” said Caroline, taking her sister’s hand, pressing it between hers, and speaking in the most urgent, almost supplicating tone, “do not, generous as you are, sacrifice your happiness to mistaken delicacy!”
“But,” said Rosamond, after a moment’s silence, “but you attribute more than I deserve to my delicacy and generosity: I ought not to let you think me so much better than I really am. I had some other motives: you will think them very foolish—very ridiculous—perhaps wrong; but you are so kind and indulgent to me, mother, that I will tell you all my follies. I do not like to marry a man who is not a hero—you are very good not to laugh, Caroline.”
“Indeed, I am too seriously interested at present to laugh,” said Caroline.
“And you must be sensible,” continued Rosamond, “that I could not, by any effort of imagination, or by any illusion of love, convert a man of Mr. Gresham’s time of life and appearance, with his wig, and sober kind of understanding, into a hero.”
“As to the wig,” replied Mrs. Percy, “you will recollect that both Sir Charles Grandison and Lovelace wore wigs; but, my dear, granting that a man cannot, in these days, be a hero in a wig, and granting that a hero cannot or should not have a sober understanding, will you give me leave to ask, whether you have positively determined that none but heroes and heroines should live, or love, or marry, or be happy in this mortal world?”
“Heaven forbid!” said Rosamond, “particularly as I am not a heroine.”
“And as only a few hundred millions of people in the world are in the same condition,” added Mrs. Percy.
“And those perhaps, not the least happy of human beings,” said Caroline. “Be that as it may, I think it cannot be denied that Mr. Gresham has, in a high degree, one of the qualities which ought to distinguish a hero.”
“What?” said Rosamond, eagerly.
“Generosity,” replied Caroline; “and his large fortune puts it in his power to show that quality upon a scale more extended than is usually allowed even to the heroes of romance.”
“True—very true,” said Rosamond, smiling: “generosity might make a hero of him if he were not a merchant—a merchant!—a Percy ought not to marry a merchant.”
“Perhaps, my dear,” said Mrs. Percy, “you don’t know that half, at least, of all the nobility in England have married into the families of merchants; therefore, in the opinion of half the nobility of England, there can be nothing discreditable or derogatory in such an alliance.”
“I know, ma’am, such things are; but then you will allow they are usually done for money, and that makes the matter worse. If the sons of noble families marry the daughters of mercantile houses, it is merely to repair the family fortune. But a nobleman has great privileges. If he marry beneath himself, his low wife is immediately raised by her wedding-ring to an equality with the high and mighty husband—her name is forgotten in her title—her vulgar relations are left in convenient obscurity: the husband never thinks of taking notice of them; and the wife, of course, may let it alone if she pleases. But a woman, in our rank of life, must bear her husband’s name, and must also bear all his relations, be they ever so vulgar. Now, Caroline, honestly—how should you like this?”
“Honestly, not at all,” said Caroline; “but as we cannot have every thing we like, or avoid every thing we dislike, in life, we must balance the good against the evil, when we are to make our choice: and if I found certain amiable, estimable qualities in a character, I think that I might esteem, love, and marry him, even though he had a vulgar name and vulgar connexions. I fairly acknowledge, however, that it must be something superior in the man’s character which could balance the objection to vulgarity in my mind.”
“Very well, my dear,” said Rosamond, “do you be a martyr to vulgarity and philosophy, if you like it—but excuse me, if you please. Since you, who have so much strength of mind, fairly acknowledge that this objection is barely to be overcome by your utmost efforts, do me the favour, do me the justice, not to expect from me a degree of civil courage quite above my powers.”
Caroline, still believing that Rosamond was only bringing forward all the objections that might be raised against her wishes, replied, “Fortunately, my dear Rosamond, you are not called upon for any such effort of philosophy, for Mr. Gresham is not vulgar, nor is even his name vulgar, and he cannot have any vulgar relations, because he has no relations of any description—I heard him say, the other day, that he was a solitary being.”
“That is a comfort,” said Rosamond, laughing; “that is a great thing in his favour; but if he has not relations, he has connexions. What do you think of those horrible Pantons? This instant I think I see old Panton cooling himself—wig pushed back—waistcoat unbuttoned—and protuberant Mrs. Panton with her bay wig and artificial flowers. And not the Pantons only, but you may be sure there are hordes of St. Mary Axe cockneys, that would pour forth upon Mrs. Gresham, with overwhelming force, and with partnership and old-acquaintance-sake claims upon her public notice and private intimacy. Come, come, my dear Caroline, don’t speak against your conscience—you know you never could withstand the hordes of vulgarians.”
“These vulgarians in buckram,” said Caroline, “have grown from two to two hundred in a trice, in your imagination, Rosamond: but consider that old Panton, against whom you have such an invincible horror, will, now that he has quarrelled with Erasmus, probably very soon eat himself out of the world; and I don’t see that you are bound to Mr. Gresham’s dead partner’s widow—is this your only objection to Mr. Gresham?”
“My only objection! Oh, no! don’t flatter yourself that in killing old Panton you have struck off all my objections. Independently of vulgar relations or connexions, and the disparity of age, my grand objection remains. But I will address myself to my mother, for you are not a good person for judging of prejudices—you really don’t understand them, my dear Caroline; one might as well talk to Socrates. You go to work with logic, and get one between the horns of a wicked dilemma directly—I will talk to my mother; she understands prejudices.”
“Your mother thanks you,” said Mrs. Percy, smiling, “for your opinion of her understanding.”
“My mother is the most indulgent of mothers, and, besides, the most candid, and therefore I know she will confess to me that she herself cherishes a little darling prejudice in favour of birth and family, a leetle prejudice—well covered by good-nature and politeness—but still a secret, invincible antipathy to low-born people.”
“To low-bred people, I grant.”
“Oh, mother! you are upon your candour—my dear mother, not only low-bred but low-born: confess you have a—what shall I call it?—an indisposition towards low-born people.”
“Since you put me upon my candour,” said Mrs. Percy, “I am afraid I must confess that I am conscious of a little of the aristocratic weakness you impute to me.”
“Impute!—No imputation, in my opinion,” cried Rosamond. “I do not think it any weakness.”
“But I do,” said Mrs. Percy—“I consider it as a weakness; and bitterly should I reproach myself, if I saw any weakness, any prejudice of mine, influence my children injuriously in the most material circumstance of their lives, and where their happiness is at stake. So, my dear Rosamond, let me intreat—”
“Oh! mother, don’t let the tears come into your eyes; and, without any intreaties, I will do just as you please.”
“My love,” said Mrs. Percy, “I have no pleasure but that you should please yourself and judge for yourself, without referring to any prepossession of mine. And lest your imagination should deceive you as to the extent of my aristocratic prejudices, let me explain. The indisposition, which I have acknowledged I feel towards low-born people, arises, I believe, chiefly from my taking it for granted that they cannot be thoroughly well-bred. I have accidentally seen examples of people of inferior birth, who, though they had risen to high station, and though they had acquired, in a certain degree, polite manners, and had been metamorphosed by fashion, to all outward appearance, into perfect gentry, yet betrayed some marks of their origin, or of their early education, whenever their passions or their interests were touched: then some awkward gesture, some vulgar expression, some mean or mercenary sentiment, some habitual contraction of mind, recurred.”
“True, true, most true!” said Rosamond. “It requires two generations, at least, to wash out the stain of vulgarity: neither a gentleman nor a gentlewoman can be made in less than two generations; therefore I never will marry a low-born man, if he had every perfection under the sun.”
“Nay, my dear, that is too strong,” said Mrs. Percy. “Hear me, my dearest Rosamond. I was going to tell you, that my experience has been so limited, that I am not justified in drawing from it any general conclusion. And even to the most positive and rational general rules you know there are exceptions.”
“That is a fine general softening clause,” said Rosamond; “but now positively, mother, would you have ever consented to marry a merchant?”
“Certainly, my dear, if your father had been a merchant, I should have married him,” replied Mrs. Percy.
“Well, I except my father. To put the question more fairly, may I ask, do you wish that your daughter should marry a merchant?”
“As I endeavoured to explain to you before, that depends entirely upon what the merchant is, and upon what my daughter feels for him.”
Rosamond sighed.
“I ought to observe, that merchants are now quite in a different class from what they were at the first rise of commerce in these countries,” continued her mother. “Their education, their habits of thinking, knowledge, and manners, are improved, and, consequently, their consideration, their rank in society is raised. In our days, some of the best informed, most liberal, and most respectable men in the British dominions are merchants. I could not therefore object to my daughter’s marrying a merchant; but I should certainly inquire anxiously what sort of a merchant he was. I do not mean that I should inquire whether he was concerned in this or that branch of commerce, but whether his mind were free from every thing mercenary and illiberal. I have done so with respect to Mr. Gresham, and I can assure you solemnly, that Mr. Gresham’s want of the advantage of high birth is completely counterbalanced in my opinion by his superior qualities. I see in him a cultivated, enlarged, generous mind. I have seen him tried, where his passions and his interests have been nearly concerned, and I never saw in him the slightest tincture of vulgarity in manner or sentiment: therefore, my dear daughter, if he has made an impression on your heart, do not, on my account, conceal or struggle against it; because, far from objecting to Mr. Gresham for a son-in-law, I should prefer him to any gentleman or nobleman who had not his exalted character.”
“There!” cried Caroline, with a look of joyful triumph, “there! my dear Rosamond, now your heart must be quite at ease!”
But looking at Rosamond at this moment, she saw no expression of joy or pleasure in her countenance; and Caroline was now convinced that she had been mistaken about Rosamond’s feelings.
“Really and truly, mother, you think all this?”
“Really and truly, my dear, no motive upon earth would make me disguise my opinions, or palliate even my prejudices, when you thus consult me, and depend upon my truth. And now that I have said this much, I will say no more, lest I should bias you on the other side: I will leave you to your own feelings and excellent understanding.”
Rosamond’s affectionate heart was touched so by her mother’s kindness, that she could not for some minutes repress her tears. When she recovered her voice, she assured her mother and Caroline, with a seriousness and an earnest frankness which at once convinced them of her truth, that she had not the slightest partiality for Mr. Gresham; that, on the contrary, his age was to her a serious objection. She had feared that her friends might wish for the match, and that being conscious she had no other objection to make to Mr. Gresham except that she could not love him, she had hesitated for want of a better reason, when her mother first began this cross-examination.
Relieved by this thorough explanation, and by the conviction that her father, mother, and sister, were perfectly satisfied with her decision, Rosamond was at ease as far as she herself was concerned. But she still dreaded to see Mr. Gresham again. She was excessively sorry to have given him pain, and she feared not a little that in rejecting the lover she should lose the friend.
Mr. Gresham, however, was of too generous a character to cease to be the friend of the woman he loved, merely because she could not return his passion: it is wounded pride, not disappointed affection, that turns immediately from love to hatred.
Rosamond was spared the pain of seeing Mr. Gresham again at this time, for he left the Hills, and set out immediately for London, where he was recalled by news of the sudden death of his partner. Old Mr. Panton had been found dead in his bed, after having supped inordinately the preceding night upon eel-pie. It was indispensably necessary that Mr. Gresham should attend at the opening of Panton’s will, and Mrs. Panton wrote to represent this in urgent terms. Mr. Henry was gone to Amsterdam; he had, for some time previously to the death of Mr. Panton, obtained the partnership’s permission to go over to the Dutch merchants, their correspondents in Amsterdam, to fill a situation in their house, for which his knowledge of the Dutch, French, and Spanish languages eminently qualified him.
When Mr. Henry had solicited this employment, Mr. Gresham had been unwilling to part with him, but had yielded to the young man’s earnest entreaties, and to the idea that this change would, in a lucrative point of view, be materially for Mr. Henry’s advantage.
Some apology to the lovers of romance may be expected for this abrupt transition from the affairs of the heart to the affairs of the counting-house—but so it is in real life. We are sorry, but we cannot help it—we have neither sentiments nor sonnets, ready for every occasion.
LETTER FROM ALFRED.
This appears to have been written some months after the vacation spent at the Hills.
“You remember, I am sure, my dear father, how angry we were some time ago with that man, whose name I never would tell you, the man whom Rosamond called Counsellor Nameless, who snatched a good point from me in arguing Mr. Hauton’s cause. This very circumstance has been the means of introducing me to the notice of three men, all eminent in their profession, and each with the same inclination to serve me, according to their respective powers—a solicitor, a barrister, and a judge. Solicitor Babington (by-the-by, pray tell Rosamond in answer to her question whether there is an honest attorney, that there are no such things as attorneys now in England—they are all turned into solicitors and agents, just as every shop is become a warehouse, and every service a situation), Babington the solicitor employed against us in that suit a man who knows, without practising them, all the tricks of the trade, and who is a thoroughly honest man. He saw the trick that was played by Nameless, and took occasion afterwards to recommend me to several of his own clients. Upon the strength of this point briefs appeared on my table day after day—two guineas, three guineas, five guineas! comfortable sight! But far more comfortable, more gratifying, the kindness of Counsellor Friend: a more benevolent man never existed. I am sure the profession of the law has not contracted his heart, and yet you never saw or can conceive a man more intent upon his business. I believe he eats, drinks, and sleeps upon law: he has the reputation, in consequence, of being one of the soundest of our lawyers—the best opinion in England. He seems to make the cause of every client his own, and is as anxious as if his private property depended on the fate of each suit. He sets me a fine example of labour, perseverance, professional enthusiasm and rectitude. He is one of the very best friends a young lawyer like me could have; he puts me in the way I should go, and keeps me in it by showing that it is not a matter of chance, but of certainty, that this is the right road to fortune and to fame.
“Mr. Friend has sometimes a way of paying a compliment as if he were making a reproach, and of doing a favour as a matter of course. Just now I met him, and apropos to some observations I happened to make on a cause in which he is engaged, he said to me, as if he were half angry, though I knew he was thoroughly pleased, ‘Quick parts! Yes, so I see you have: but take care—in your profession ‘tis often “Most haste, worst speed;” not but what there are happy exceptions, examples of lawyers, who have combined judgment with wit, industry with genius, and law with eloquence. But these instances are rare, very rare; for the rarity of the case, worth studying. Therefore dine with me to-morrow, and I will introduce you to one of these exceptions.’
“The person in question, I opine, is the lord chief justice—and Friend could not do me a greater favour than to introduce me to one whom, as you know, I have long admired in public, and with whom, independently of any professional advantage, I have ardently wished to be acquainted.
“I have been told—I cannot tell you what—for here’s the bell-man. I don’t wonder ‘the choleric man’ knocked down the postman for blowing his horn in his ear.
“Abruptly yours,
“ALFRED PERCY.”
Alfred had good reason to desire to be acquainted with this lord chief justice. Some French writer says, “Qu’il faut plier les grandes ailes de l’éloquence pour entrer dans un salon.” The chief justice did so with peculiar ease. He possessed perfect conversational tact, with great powers of wit, humour, and all that felicity of allusion, which an uncommonly recollective memory, acting on stores of varied knowledge, can alone command. He really conversed; he did not merely tell stories, or make bonmots, or confine himself to the single combat of close argument, or the flourish of declamation; but he alternately followed and led, threw out and received ideas, knowing how to listen full as well as how to talk, remembering always Lord Chesterfield’s experienced maxim, “That it is easier to hear than to talk yourself into the good opinion of your auditors.” It was not, however, from policy, but from benevolence, that the chief justice made so good a hearer. It has been said, and with truth, that with him a good point never passed unnoticed in a public court, nor was a good thing ever lost upon him in private company. Of the number of his own good things fewer are in circulation than might be expected. The best conversation, that which rises from the occasion, and which suits the moment, suffers most from repetition. Fitted precisely to the peculiar time and place, the best things cannot bear transplanting.
The day Alfred Percy was introduced to the chief justice, the conversation began, from some slight remarks made by one of the company, on the acting of Mrs. Siddons. A lady who had just been reading the memoirs of the celebrated French actress, Mademoiselle Clairon, spoke of the astonishing pains which she took to study her parts, and to acquire what the French call l’air noble, continually endeavouring, on the most common occasions, when she was off the stage, to avoid all awkward motions, and in her habitual manner to preserve an air of grace and dignity. This led the chief justice to mention the care which Lord Chatham, Mr. Pitt, and other great orators, have taken to form their habits of speaking, by unremitting attention to their language in private as well as in public. He maintained that no man can speak with ease and security in public till custom has brought him to feel it as a moral impossibility that he could be guilty of any petty vulgarism, or that he could be convicted of any capital sin against grammar.
Alfred felt anxious to hear the chief justice farther on this subject, but the conversation was dragged back to Mademoiselle Clairon. The lady by whom she was first mentioned declared she thought that all Mademoiselle Clairon’s studying must have made her a very unnatural actress. The chief justice quoted the answer which Mademoiselle Clairon gave, when she was reproached with having too much art.—“De l’art! et que voudroit-on done que j’eusse? Etois-je Andromaque? Etois-je Phédre?”
Alfred observed that those who complained of an actress’s having too much art should rather complain of her having too little—of her not having art enough to conceal her art.
The chief justice honoured Alfred by a nod and a smile.
The lady, however, protested against this doctrine, and concluded by confessing that she always did and always should prefer nature to art.
From this commonplace confession, the chief justice, by a playful cross-examination, presently made it apparent that we do not always know what we mean by art and what by nature; that the ideas are so mixed in civilized society, and the words so inaccurately used, both in common conversation, and in the writings of philosophers, that no metaphysical prism can separate or reduce them to their primary meaning. Next he touched upon the distinction between art and artifice. The conversation branched out into remarks on grace and affectation, and thence to the different theories of beauty and taste, with all which he played with a master’s hand.
A man accustomed to speak to numbers perceives immediately when his auditors seize his ideas, and knows instantly, by the assent and expression of the eye, to whom they are new or to whom they are familiar. The chief justice discovered that Alfred Percy had superior knowledge, literature, and talents, even before he spoke, by his manner of listening. The conversation presently passed from l’air noble to le style noble, and to the French laws of criticism, which prohibit the descending to allusions to arts and manufactures. This subject he discussed deeply, yet rapidly observed how taste is influenced by different governments and manners—remarked how the strong line of demarcation formerly kept in France between the nobility and the citizens had influenced taste in writing and in eloquence, and how our more popular government not only admitted allusions to the occupations of the lower classes, but required them. Our orators at elections, and in parliament, must speak so as to come home to the feelings and vocabulary of constituents. Examples from Burke and others, the chief justice said, might be brought in support of this opinion.
Alfred was so fortunate as to recollect some apposite illustrations from Burke, and from several of our great orators, Wyndham, Erskine, Mackintosh, and Romilly. As Alfred spoke, the chief justice’s eye brightened with approbation, and it was observed that he afterwards addressed to him particularly his conversation; and, more flattering still, that he went deeper into the subject which he had been discussing. From one of the passages which had been mentioned, he took occasion to answer the argument of the French critics, who justify their taste by asserting that it is the taste of the ancients. Skilled in classical as in modern literature, he showed that the ancients had made allusions to arts and manufactures, as far as their knowledge went; but, as he observed, in modern times new arts and sciences afford fresh subjects of allusion unknown to the ancients; consequently we ought not to restrict our taste by exclusive reverence for classical precedents. On these points it is requisite to reform the pandects of criticism.
Another passage from Burke, to which Alfred had alluded, the chief justice thought too rich in ornament. “Ornaments,” he said, “if not kept subordinate, however intrinsically beautiful, injure the general effect—therefore a judicious orator will sacrifice all such as draw the attention from his principal design.”
Alfred Percy, in support of this opinion, cited the example of the Spanish painter, who obliterated certain beautiful silver vases, which he had introduced in a picture of the Lord’s Supper, because he found, that at first view, every spectator’s eye was caught by these splendid ornaments, and every one extolled their exquisite finish, instead of attending to the great subject of the piece.
The chief justice was so well pleased with the conversation of our young barrister, that, at parting, he gave Alfred an invitation to his house. The conversation had been very different from what might have been expected: metaphysics, belles-lettres, poetry, plays, criticism—what a range of ideas, far from Coke and Selden, was gone over this evening in the course of a few hours! Alfred had reason to be more and more convinced of the truth of his father’s favourite doctrine, that the general cultivation of the understanding, and the acquirement of general knowledge, are essential to the attainment of excellence in any profession, useful to a young man particularly in introducing him to the notice of valuable friends and acquaintance.
An author well skilled in the worst parts of human nature has asserted, that “nothing is more tiresome than praises in which we have no manner of share.” Yet we, who have a better opinion of our kind, trust that there are some who can sympathize in the enthusiasm of a good and young mind, struck with splendid talents, and with a superior character; therefore we venture to insert some of the warm eulogiums, with which we find our young lawyer’s letters filled.
“My DEAR FATHER,
“I have only a few moments to write, but cannot delay to answer your question about the chief justice. Disappointed—no danger of that—he far surpasses my expectations. It has been said that he never opened a book, that he never heard a common ballad, or saw a workman at his trade, without learning something, which he afterwards turned to good account. This you may see in his public speeches, but I am more completely convinced of it since I have heard him converse. His illustrations are drawn from the workshop, the manufactory, the mine, the mechanic, the poet—from every art and science, from every thing in nature, animate or inanimate.