was, as she often declared, with gratitude to Providence, happier in age than she had been even in youth. With warm affections, and benevolence guided and governed in its objects by reason and religion; indulgent to human nature in general, and loving it, but not with German cosmopolitism—first and best, loving her daughter, her family, comprising a wide and happy extent of relations and connexions, sons and nephews in the army and navy, or in different employments in the state: many of these young men already distinguished, others wanting only opportunity to do equal honour to their name.
During the summer, Mrs. Mortimer usually spent some months at Hungerford Castle, and generally took with her from town some friends whose company she thought would peculiarly suit her mother’s taste. Mrs. Hungerford had always been in the habit of inviting the Percy family, whenever she had any body with her whom she thought they would wish to see or hear; and thus the young people, though living retired in the country, had enjoyed the advantages of becoming early acquainted with many celebrated literary and public characters, and of living in the best society; these were advantages which they obtained from their education and their merit; for assuredly Mrs. Hungerford would never have troubled herself with them merely because they were her neighbours, possessing so many thousand pounds a year, and representatives of the Percy interest in the county.—A proof of which, if any were wanting, is, that she never took the least notice of those who now held their place at Percy-hall; and the first visit she paid when she came to the country, the first visit she had been known to pay for years, was to her friends the Percys, after they had lost their thousands per annum. So completely was it themselves and not their fortune which she had always considered, that she never condoled with them, and scarcely seemed to advert to any change in their circumstances. She perceived, to be sure, that she was not at Percy-hall; she discovered, probably, that she was in a small instead of a large room; the change of prospect from the windows struck her eye, and she remarked that this part of the country was more beautiful than that to which she had been accustomed.—As to the more or less of show, of dress, or equipage, these things did not merely make no difference in Mrs. Hungerford’s estimation of persons, but in fact scarcely made any impression upon her senses or attention. She had been so much accustomed to magnificence upon a large scale, that the different subordinate degrees were lost upon her; and she had seen so many changes of fashion and of fortune, that she attached little importance to these. Regardless of the drapery of objects, she saw at once what was substantial and essential. It might, she thought, be one man’s taste to visit her in a barouche and four, with half-a-dozen servants, and another person’s pleasure to come without parade or attendants—this was indifferent to her. It was their conversation, their characters, their merit, she looked to; and many a lord and lady of showy dress and equipage, and vast importance in their own opinions, shrunk into insignificance in the company of Mrs. Hungerford; and, though in the room with her, passed before her eyes without making a sufficient sensation upon her organs to attract her notice, or to change the course of her thoughts.
All these peculiarities in this lady’s character rendered her particularly agreeable to the Percy family in their present circumstances. She pressed them to pay her a long visit.
“You see,” said Mrs. Hungerford, “that I had the grace to forbear asking this favour till I had possession of my daughter Mortimer, and could bring her with me to entice you.—And my dear young friends, you shall find young friends too, as well as old ones, at my house: my nieces, the Lady Pembrokes, are to be with me; and Lady Angelica Headingham, who will entertain you, though, perhaps, you will sometimes be tired for her, she works so hard aux galères de bel-esprit. I acknowledge she has a little too much affectation. But we must have charity for affectation and its multitude of foibles; for, you know, Locke says that it is only a mistaken desire to please. Angelica will find out her mistakes in time, and after trying all manners, will hold fast by the best—that is, the most natural: in the mean time, do you, my dear young friends, come and admire her as an inimitable actress. Then, Mr. Percy, I have for you three temptations—a man of letters, a man of science, and a man of sense. And, for the climax of my eloquence, I have reserved,” continued she turning to Mrs. Percy, “my appeal to the mother’s feelings. Know, then, that my son, my eldest hope, my colonel, has arrived from the continent—landed last night—I expect him home in a few days, and you must come and flatter me that he is prodigiously improved by the service he has seen, and the wounds which he can show, and assure me that, next to your own Godfrey, you would name my Gustavus, of all the officers in the army, as most deserving to be our commander-in-chief.”
An invitation, which there were so many good and kind reasons for accepting, could not be refused. But before we go to Hungerford Castle, and before we see Colonel Hungerford—upon whom, doubtless, many a one at this instant, as well as Rosamond Percy, has formed designs or prognostics in favour of Caroline—we must read the following letter, and bring up the affairs of Alfred and Erasmus.
LETTER FROM ALFRED PERCY TO HIS MOTHER.
“My Dear Mother,
“I am shocked by your story of Kate Robinson. I agree with you in rejoicing that Caroline had sufficient penetration to see the faults of Buckhurst Falconer’s character, and steadiness enough, notwithstanding his agreeable talents, never to give him any encouragement. I agree with you, also, that it was fortunate that her last letter to him was written and sent before this affair came to her knowledge. It was much better that she should abide by her objection to his general principles than to have had explanations and discussions on a subject into which she could not enter with propriety.
“I will, as you desire, keep Buckhurst’s secret. Indeed, in a worldly point of view, it behoves him that it should be carefully kept, because Bishop Clay, the prelate, who gave him his present living, though he tolerates gormandizing to excess, is extremely strict with his clergy in other matters; and, as I once heard Buckhurst say,
“Buckhurst had, I believe, hopes that Caroline would have relented, in consequence of his last overture; he was thrown into despair by her answer, containing, as he told me, such a calm and civil repetition of her refusal—that he swears he will never trouble her again. For a fortnight after, he protests he was ready to hang himself. About that time, I suppose, when he heard of Kate Robinson’s death, he shut himself up in his rooms for several days—said he was not well, and could not see any body. When he came out again, he looked wretchedly ill, and unhappy: I pitied him—I felt the truth of what Rosamond said, ‘that there is such a mixture of good and bad in his character, as makes me change my opinion of him every half hour.’
“He has just done me an essential service. He learnt the other day from one of his sisters the secret reason why Lord Oldborough was displeased with Godfrey, and why Godfrey was despatched to the West Indies.—Lord Oldborough had been told, either by Cunningham, or by one of his sisters, that Godfrey made love to Miss Hauton, and that when he came to town ostensibly on some regimental business, and was pleading for a brother officer, his concealed motive was to break off the marriage of his lordship’s niece. Buckhurst had been at the opera in the same box with Miss Hauton and with my brother Godfrey one night. Godfrey’s conduct had been misrepresented, and as soon as Buckhurst found that Lord Oldborough had been deceived, he was determined that he should know the truth; or, at least, that he should know that my brother was not to blame. Godfrey never mentioned the subject to me; but, from what I can understand, the lady showed him distinguished attention. How Buckhurst Falconer managed to right my brother in Lord Oldborough’s opinion without involving the young lady, I do not know.—He said that he had fortunately had an opportunity one evening at his father’s, when he was playing at chess with Lord Oldborough, of speaking to him on that subject, when none of his family was watching him. He told me that Lord Oldborough desires to see me, and has appointed his hour to-morrow morning. Now, Rosamond, my dear, set your imagination to work; I must go and draw a replication, which will keep mine fast bound.
“Yours truly,
“Alfred Percy.”
At the appointed hour, Alfred waited upon the minister, and was received graciously. Not one word of Godfrey, however, or of any thing leading to that subject. Lord Oldborough spoke to Alfred as to the son of his old friend. He began by lamenting the misfortunes which had deprived Mr. Percy of that estate and station to which he had done honour. His lordship went on to say that he was sorry that Mr. Percy’s love of retirement, or pride of independence, precluded all idea of seeing him in parliament; but he hoped that Mr. Percy’s sons were, in this extravagant notion of independence, and in this only, unlike their father.
With all due deference, Alfred took the liberty of replying to the word extravagant, and endeavoured to explain that his father’s ideas of independence did not go beyond just bounds: Lord Oldborough, contrary to his usual custom when he met with any thing like contradiction, did not look displeased; on the contrary, he complimented Alfred on his being a good advocate. Alfred was going to fall into a commonplace, about a good cause; but from that he was happily saved by Lord Oldborough’s changing the conversation.
He took up a pamphlet which lay upon his table. It was Cunningham Falconer’s, that is to say, the pamphlet which was published in Cunningham’s name, and for which he was mean enough to take the credit from the poor starving genius in the garret. Lord Oldborough turned over the leaves. “Here is a passage that was quoted yesterday at dinner at Commissioner Falconer’s, but I don’t think that any of the company, or the commissioner himself, though he is, or was, a reading man, could recollect to what author it alludes.”
Lord Oldborough pointed to the passage: “Thus the fame of heroes is at last neglected by their worshippers, and left to the care of the birds of heaven, or abandoned to the serpents of the earth.”
Alfred fortunately recollected that this alluded to a description in Arrian of the island of Achilles, the present Isle of Serpents, where there is that temple of the hero, of which, as the historian says, “the care is left to the birds alone, who every morning repair to the sea, wet their wings, and sprinkle the temple, afterwards sweeping with their plumage its sacred pavement.”
Lord Oldborough smiled, and said, “The author—the reputed author of this pamphlet, sir, is obliged to you for throwing light upon a passage which he could not himself elucidate.”
This speech of Lord Oldborough’s alluded to something that had passed at a dinner at Lord Skreene’s, the day before Cunningham had set out on his embassy. Cunningham had been posed by this passage, for which Secretary Cope, who hated him, had maliciously complimented him, and besought him to explain it. Secretary Cope, who was a poet, made an epigram on Cunningham the diplomatist. The lines we do not remember. The points of it were, that Cunningham was so complete a diplomatist, that he would not commit himself by giving up his authority, even for a quotation, and that when he knew the author of an excellent thing, he, with admirable good faith, kept it to himself. This epigram remained at the time a profound secret to Lord Oldborough. Whilst Cunningham was going with a prosperous gale, it was not heard of; but it worked round, according to the manoeuvres of courts, just by the time the tide of favour began to ebb. Lord Oldborough, dissatisfied with one of Cunningham’s despatches, was heard to say, as he folded it up, “A slovenly performance!”
Then, at the happy moment, stepped in the rival Secretary Cope, and put into his lordship’s hands the epigram and the anecdote.
All this the reader is to take as a note explanatory upon Lord Oldborough’s last speech to Alfred, and now to go on with the conversation—at the word elucidate.
“I suspect,” continued his lordship, “that Mr. Alfred Percy knows more of this pamphlet altogether than the reputed author ever did.”
Alfred felt himself change colour, and the genius in the garret rushed upon his mind; at the same instant he recollected that he was not at liberty to name Mr. Temple, and that he must not betray Cunningham. Alfred answered that it was not surprising he should know the pamphlet well, as he probably admired it more, and had read it oftener, than the author himself had ever done.
“Very well parried, young gentleman. You will not allow, then, that you had any hand in writing it?”
“No, my lord,” said Alfred, “I had none whatever; I never saw it till it was published.”
“I have not a right, in politeness, to press the question. Permit me, however, to say, that it is a performance of which any man might be proud.”
“I should, my lord, be proud—very proud, if I had written it; but I am incapable of assuming a merit that is not mine, and I trust the manner in which I now disclaim it does not appear like the affected modesty of an author who wishes to have that believed which he denies. I hope I convince your lordship of the truth.”
“I cannot have any doubt of what you assert in this serious manner, sir. May I ask if you can tell me the name of the real author?”
“Excuse me, my lord—I cannot. I have answered your lordship with perfect openness, as far as I am concerned.”
“Sir,” said Lord Oldborough, “I confess that I began this conversation with the prepossession that you were equal to a performance of which I think highly, but you have succeeded in convincing me that I was mistaken—that you are not equal—but superior to it.”
Upon this compliment, Alfred, as he thought the force of politeness could no farther go, rose, bowed, and prepared to retire.
“Are you in a hurry to leave me, Mr. Percy?”
“Quite the contrary, but I was afraid of encroaching upon your lordship’s goodness; I know that your time is most valuable, and that your lordship has so much business of importance.”
“Perhaps Mr. Alfred Percy may assist me in saving time hereafter.”
Alfred sat down again, as his lordship’s eye desired it.—Lord Oldborough remained for a few moments silent, leaning upon his arm on the table, deep in thought.
“Yes, sir,” said he, “I certainly have, as you say, much business upon my hands. But that is not the difficulty; with hands and heads business is easily arranged and expedited. I have hands and heads enough at my command. Talents of all sorts can be obtained for their price, but that which is above all price, integrity, cannot—there’s the difficulty—there is my difficulty. I have not a single man about me whom I can trust—many who understand my views, but none who feel them—‘Des ames de boue et de fange!’ Wretches who care not if the throne and the country perish, if their little interests—Young gentleman,” said he, recollecting himself, and turning to Alfred, “I feel as if I were speaking to a part of your father when I am speaking to you.”
Alfred felt this, and Lord Oldborough saw that he felt it strongly.
“Then, my dear sir,” said he, “you understand me—I see we understand and shall suit one another. I am in want of a secretary to supply the place of Mr. Cunningham Falconer. Mr. Drakelow is going to Constantinople; but he shall first initiate his successor in the business of his office—a routine, which little minds would make great minds believe is a mystery above ordinary comprehension. But, sir, I have no doubt that you will be expert in a very short time in the technical part—in the routine of office; and if it suits your views, in one word, I should be happy to have you for my private secretary. Take time to consider, if you do not wish to give an answer immediately; but I beg that you will consult no one but yourself—not even your father. And as soon as your mind is made up, let me know your decision.”
After returning thanks to the minister, who had, by this time, risen to a prodigious height in Alfred’s opinion; after having reiterated his thanks with a warmth which was not displeasing, he retired. The account of his feelings on this occasion is given with much truth in his own letter, from which we extract the passage:
“I believe I felt a little like Gil Blas after his first visit at court. Vapours of ambition certainly mounted into my head, and made me a little giddy; that night I did not sleep quite so well as usual. The bar and the court, Lord Oldborough and my special pleader, were continually before my eyes balancing in my imagination all the pros and cons. I fatigued myself, but could neither rest nor decide. Seven years of famine at the bar—horrible! but then independence and liberty of conscience—and in time, success—the certain reward of industry—well-earned wealth—perhaps honours—why not the highest professional honours? The life of a party-man and a politician, agreed by all who have tried, even by this very Lord Oldborough himself, agreed to be an unhappy life—obliged to live with people I despise—might be tempted, like others, to do things for which I should despise myself—subject to caprice—at best, my fortune quite dependent on my patron’s continuance in power—power and favour uncertain.
“It was long before I got my pros and cons even into this rude preparation for comparison, and longer still before the logical process of giving to each good and evil its just value, and drawing clear deductions from distinct premises, could be accomplished. However, in four-and-twenty hours I solved the problem.
“I waited upon Lord Oldborough to tell him my conclusion. With professions of gratitude, respect, and attachment, more sincere, I fancy, than those he usually hears, I began; and ended by telling him, in the best manner I could, that I thought my trade was more honest than his, and that, hard as a lawyer’s life was, I preferred it to a politician’s.—You don’t suspect me of saying all this—no, I was not quite so brutal; but, perhaps, it was implied by my declining the honour of the secretaryship, and preferring to abide by my profession. Lord Oldborough looked—or my vanity fancied that he looked—disappointed. After a pause of silent displeasure, he said, ‘Well, sir, upon the whole I believe you have decided wisely. I am sorry that you cannot serve me, and that I cannot serve you in the manner which I had proposed. Yours is a profession in which ministerial support can be of little use, but in which talents, perseverance, and integrity, are secure, sooner or later, of success. I have, therefore, only to wish you opportunity: and if any means in my power should occur of accelerating that opportunity, you may depend upon it, sir.’ said his lordship, holding out his hand to me, ‘I shall not forget you—even if you were not the son of my old friend, you have made an interest for yourself in my mind.’
“Thus satisfactorily we parted—no—just as I reached the door, his lordship added, ‘Your brother, Captain Percy—have you heard from him lately?’
“‘Yes, my lord, from Plymouth, where they were driven back by contrary winds.’
“‘Ha!—he was well, I hope?’
“‘Very well, I thank your lordship.’
“‘That’s well—he is a temperate man, I think. So he will stand the climate of the West Indies—and, probably, it will not be necessary for his majesty’s service that he should remain there long.’
“I bowed—was again retiring and was again recalled.
“‘There was a major in your brother’s regiment about whom Captain Percy spoke to me—Major—’
“‘Gascoigne, I believe, my lord.’
“‘Gascoigne—true—Gascoigne.’ His lordship wrote the name down in a note-book.
“Bows for the last time—not a word more on either side.
“And now that I have written all this to you, my dear mother, I am almost ashamed to send it—because it is so full of egotism. But Rosamond, the excuser general, will apologize for me, by pleading that I was obliged to tell the truth, and the whole truth.
“Love to Caroline, and thanks for her letter.—Love to Rosamond, upon condition that she will write to me from Hungerford Castle, and cheer my solitude in London with news from the country, and from home.
“Your affectionate son,
“ALFRED PERCY.
“P.S. I hope you all like O’Brien.”
We hope the reader will recollect the poor Irishman, whose leg the surgeon had condemned to be cut off, but which was saved by Erasmus. A considerable time afterwards, one morning, when Erasmus was just getting up, he heard a loud knock at his door, and in one and the same instant pushing past his servant into his bedchamber, and to the foot of his bed, rushed this Irishman O’Brien, breathless, and with a face perspiring joy. “I axe your honour’s pardon, master, but it’s what you’re wanting down street in all haste—here’s an elegant case for ye, doctor dear!—That painter-jantleman down in the square there beyond that is not expicted.”
“Not expected!” said Erasmus.
“Ay, not expected: so put on ye with the speed of light—Where’s his waistcoat,” continued he, turning to Dr. Percy’s astonished servant, “and coat?—the top coat, and the wig—has he one?—Well! boots or shoes give him any way.”
“But I don’t clearly understand—Pray did this gentleman send for me?” said Dr. Percy.
“Send for your honour! Troth he never thought of it—no, nor couldn’t—how could he? and he in the way he was and is. But God bless ye! and never mind shaving, or another might get it afore we’d be back. Though there was none in it but myself when I left it—but still keep on buttoning for the life.”
Erasmus dressed as quickly as he could, not understanding, however, above one word in ten that had been said to him. His servant, who did not comprehend even one word, endeavoured in vain to obtain an explanation; but O’Brien, paying no regard to his solemn face of curiosity, put him aside with his hand, and continuing to address Dr. Percy, followed him about the room.
“Master! you mind my mintioning to you last time I seen your honour, that my leg was weak by times, no fault though to the doctor that cured it—so I could not be after carrying the weighty loads I used up and down the ladders at every call, so I quit sarving the masons, and sought for lighter work, and found an employ that shuted me with a ‘jantleman painter’, grinding of his colours, and that was what I was at this morning, so I was, and standing as close to him as I am this minute to your honour, thinking of nothing at all just now, please your honour, forenent him—asy grinding, whin he took some sort or kind of a fit.”
“A fit! Why did you not tell me that sooner?”
“Sure I tould you he was not expicted,—that is, if you don’t know in England, not expicted to live; and sure I tould your honour so from the first,” said O’Brien. “But then the jantleman was as well as I am this minute, that minute afore—and the nixt fell his length on the floor entirely. Well! I set and up again, and, for want of better, filled out a thimble-full, say, of the spirits of wine as they call it, which he got by good luck for the varnish, and made him take it down, and he come to, and I axed him how was he after it?—Better, says he. That’s well, says I; and who will I send for to ye, sir? says I. But afore he could make answer, I bethought me of your own honour; and for fear he would say another, I never troubled him, putting the question to him again, but just set the spirits nigh hand him, and away with me here; I come off without letting on a word to nobody, good or bad, in dread your honour would miss the job.”
“Job!” said Dr. Percy’s servant: “do you think my master wants a job?”
“Oh! Lord love ye, and just give his hat. Would you have us be standing on ceremony now in a case of life and death?”
Dr. Percy was, as far as he understood it, of the Irishman’s way of thinking. He followed as fast as he could to the painter’s—found that he had had a slight paralytic stroke, from which he had recovered. We need not detail the particulars. Nature and Dr. Percy brought him through. He was satisfied with his physician; for Erasmus would not take any fee, because he went unsent for by the patient. The painter, after his recovery, was one day complimenting Dr. Percy on the inestimable service he had done the arts in restoring him to his pencil, in proof of which the artist showed many master-pieces that wanted only the finishing touch, in particular a huge, long-limbed, fantastic, allegorical piece of his own design, which he assured Dr. Percy was the finest example of the beau idéal, ancient or modern, that human genius had ever produced upon canvas. “And what do you think, doctor,” said the painter, “tell me what you can think of a connoisseur, a patron, sir, who could stop my hand, and force me from that immortal work to a portrait? A portrait! Barbarian! He fit to encourage genius! He set up to be a Mecænas! Mere vanity! Gives pensions to four sign-post daubers, not fit to grind my colours! Knows no more of the art than that fellow,” pointing to the Irishman, who was at that instant grinding the colours—asy as he described himself.
“And lets me languish here in obscurity!” continued the enraged painter. “Now I’ll never put another stroke to his Dutch beauty’s portrait, if I starve—if I rot for it in jail! He a Mecænas!”
The changes upon this abuse were rung repeatedly by this irritated genius, his voice and palsied hand trembling with rage while he spoke, till he was interrupted by a carriage stopping at the door.
“Here’s the patron!” cried the Irishman, with an arch look. “Ay, it’s the patron, sure enough!”
Dr. Percy was going away, but O’Brien got between him and the door, menacing his coat with his pallet-knife covered with oil—Erasmus stopped.
“I axe your pardon, but don’t go,” whispered he: “I wouldn’t for the best coat nor waistcoat ever I seen you went this minute, dear!”
Mr. Gresham was announced—a gentleman of a most respectable, benevolent, prepossessing appearance, whom Erasmus had some recollection of having seen before. Mr. Gresham recognized him instantly: he was the merchant whom Erasmus had met at Sir Amyas Courtney’s the morning when he offended Sir Amyas about the made shell. After having spoken a few words to the painter about the portrait, Mr. Gresham turned to Dr. Percy, and said, “I am afraid, sir, that you lost a friend at court by your sincerity about a shell.”
Before Erasmus could answer—in less time than he could have thought it possible to take off a stocking, a great bare leg—O’Brien’s leg, came between Mr. Gresham and Dr. Percy. “There’s what lost him a rich friend any way, and gained him a poor one, if that would do any good. There it is now! This leg! God for ever bless him and reward him for it!”
Then with eloquence, emphasis, and action, which came from the heart, and went to the heart, the poor fellow told how his leg had been saved, and spoke of what Dr. Percy had done for him, in terms which Erasmus would have been ashamed to hear, but that he really was so much affected with O’Brien’s gratitude, and thought it did so much honour to human nature, that he could not stop him.—Mr. Gresham was touched also; and upon observing this, Erasmus’s friend, with his odd mixture of comedy and pathos, ended with this exhortation, “And God bless you, sir! you’re a great man, and have many to my knowledge under a compliment to you, and if you’ve any friends that are lying, or sick, if you’d recommend them to send for him in preference to any other of the doctors, it would be a charity to themselves and to me; for I will never have peace else, thinking how I have been a hinderance to him. And a charity it would be to themselves, for what does the sick want but to be cured? and there’s the man will do that for them, as two witnesses here present can prove—that jantleman, if he would spake, and myself.”
Erasmus now peremptorily stopped this scene, for he began to feel for himself, and to be ashamed of the ridicule which his puffing friend, in his zeal, was throwing upon him. Erasmus said that he had done nothing for O’Brien except placing him in St. George’s Hospital, where he had been admirably well attended. Mr. Gresham, however, at once relieved his wounded delicacy, and dispelled all fears and anxiety, by the manner in which he spoke and looked. He concluded by inviting Dr. Percy to his house, expressing with much cordiality a wish to be more intimately acquainted with a young gentleman, of whose character he had accidentally learned more good than his modesty seemed willing to allow should be known.
O’Brien’s eyes sparkled; he rubbed his hands, but restrained himself lest Dr. Percy should be displeased. When Erasmus went away, O’Brien followed him down stairs, begging his honour’s pardon—if he had said any thing wrong or unbecoming, it was through ignorance.
It was impossible to be angry with him.
We extract from Erasmus’s letter to his mother the following account of his first visit to Mr. Gresham.
“When I went to see Mr. Gresham, I was directed to an unfashionable part of the town, to one of the dark old streets of the city; and from all appearance I thought I was going to grope my way into some strange dismal den, like many of the ancient houses in that quarter of the town. But, to my surprise, after passing through a court, and up an unpromising staircase, I found myself in a spacious apartment. The darkness changed to light, the smoke and din of the city to retirement and fresh air. A near view of the Thames appeared through large windows down to the floor, balconies filled with flowers and sweet shrubs!—It was an Arabian scene in London. Rosamond, how you would have been delighted! But I have not yet told you that there was a young and beautiful lady sitting near the balcony, and her name is Constance: that is all I shall tell you about the young lady at present. I must go on with Mr. Gresham, who was in his picture-gallery—yes, picture-gallery—and a very fine one it is. Mr. Gresham, whose fortune is one of those of which only English merchants can form any adequate idea, makes use of it in a manner which does honour to his profession and to his country: he has patronized the arts with a munificence not unworthy of the Medici.
“My complaining genius, the painter, who had abused his patron so much, was there with his portrait, which, notwithstanding his vow never to touch it again, he had finished, and brought home, and with it the sprawling Venus: he was now extremely angry with Mr. Gresham for declining to purchase this chef-d’oeuvre. With the painter was a poet equally vain and dissatisfied.
“I admired the mildness with which Mr. Gresham bore with their ill-humour and vanity.—After the painter and poet, to my satisfaction, had departed, I said something expressive of my pity for patrons who had to deal with the irritable race. He mildly replied, that he thought that a man, surrounded as he was with all the comforts and luxuries of life, should have compassion, and should make allowance for genius struggling with poverty, disease, and disappointment. He acknowledged that he had met with much ingratitude, and had been plagued by the pretensions, expectations, and quarrels of his tribe of poets and painters. ‘For a man’s own happiness,’ said he, ‘the trade of a patron is the most dreadful he can follow—gathering samphire were nothing to it.’
“Pray tell my father this, because it opens a new view, and new confirmation of his opinions—I never spent a more agreeable day than this with Mr. Gresham. He converses well, and has a variety of information, which he pours forth liberally, and yet without the slightest ostentation: his only wish seems to be to entertain and inform those to whom he speaks—he has no desire to shine. In a few hours we went over a world of literature. I was proud to follow him, and he seemed pleased that I could sometimes anticipate—I happened to know as well as he did the history of the two Flamels, and several particulars of the Jesuits in Paraguay.
“My father often told us, when we were boys, that there is no knowledge, however distant it seems from our profession, that may not, some time or other, be useful; and Mr. Gresham, after he had conversed sufficiently with me both on literature and science, to discover that I was not an ignorant pretender, grew warm in his desire to serve me. But he had the politeness to refrain from saying any thing directly about medicine; he expressed only an increased desire to cultivate my acquaintance, and begged that I would call upon him at any hour, and give him the pleasure of my conversation, whenever I had time.
“The next morning he called upon me, and told me that he was desired to ask my advice for a sick partner of his, to whom, if I would accompany him, he would immediately introduce me. Who and what this partner is, and of what disease he is dying, if you have any curiosity to know, you shall hear in my next, this frank will hold no more—except love, light as air, to all at home.
“Dear mother, affectionately yours,
“E. PERCY”
Now for the visit to Hungerford Castle—a fine old place in a beautiful park, which excelled many parks of greater extent by the uncommon size of its venerable oaks. In the castle, which was sufficiently spacious to accommodate with ease and perfect comfort the troops of friends which its owner’s beneficent character drew round her, there were apartments that usually bore the name of some of those persons who were considered as the most intimate friends of the family. The Percys were of this number. They found their own rooms ready, the old servants of the house rejoicing to see them again, and eager in offering their services. Many things showed that they had been thought of, and expected; yet there was nothing that could remind them that any change had taken place in their fortune: no formal or peculiar civilities from the mistress of the house, from her daughter, or nieces—neither more nor less attention than usual; but by every thing that marked old habits of intimacy and confidence, the Percys were, as if undesignedly and necessarily, distinguished from other guests.
Of these the most conspicuous was the Lady Angelica Headingham.—Her ladyship had lately come to a large estate, and had consequently produced a great sensation in the fashionable world. During the early part of her life she had been much and injudiciously restrained. The moment the pressure was taken off, the spirit boiled with surprising rapidity: immediately Lady Angelica Headingham shone forth a beauty, a bel-esprit, and a patroness; and though she appeared as it were impromptu in these characters, yet, to do her justice, she supported them with as much spirit, truth, and confidence, as if she had been in the habit of playing them all her life, and as if she had trod the fashionable stage from her teens. There was only one point in which, perhaps, she erred: from not having been early accustomed to flattery, she did not receive it with quite sufficient nonchalance. The adoration paid to her in her triple capacity by crowds of worshippers only increased the avidity of her taste for incense, to receive which she would now and then stoop lower than became a goddess. She had not yet been suspected of a real partiality for any of her admirers, though she was accused of giving each just as much encouragement as was necessary to turn his head. Of these admirers, two, the most eager and earnest in the pursuit, had followed her ladyship to the country, and were now at Hungerford Castle—Sir James Harcourt and Mr. Barclay.
Sir James Harcourt was remarkably handsome and fashionable—completely a man of the world, and a courtier: who, after having ruined his fortune by standing for government two contested county elections, had dangled year after year at court, living upon the hope and promise of a pension or a place, till his creditors warning him that they could wait no longer, he had fallen in love with Lady Angelica Headingham. Her ladyship’s other admirer, Mr. Barclay, was a man of considerable fortune, of good family, and of excellent sense and character. He had arrived at that time of life when he wished to settle to the quiet enjoyment of domestic happiness; but he had seen so much misery arise from unfortunate marriages among some of his particular friends, that he had been afraid of forming any attachment, or, at least, engagement. His acquaintance with fashionable life had still further rendered him averse from matrimony; and from love he had defended himself with infinite caution, and escaped, till in an unlucky moment he had met with Lady Angelica. Against his better judgment, he had been captivated by her charms and talents: his reason, however, still struggled with his passion—he had never actually declared his love; but the lady knew it probably better than he did, and her caprice and coquetry cost him many an agonizing hour. All which he bore with the silence and patience of a martyr.
When the Percy family saw Lady Angelica for the first time, she was in all her glory—fresh from a successful toilette, conscious of renovated powers, with an accumulated spirit of animation, and inspired by the ambition to charm a new audience. Though past the bloom of youth, she was a handsome showy woman, with the air of one who requires and receives admiration. Her attitudes, her action, and the varied expression she threw into her countenance, were more than the occasion required, and rather too evidently designed to interest or to fascinate. She was surrounded by a group of gentlemen; Sir James Harcourt, Mr. Barclay, Mr. Seebright, a young poet; Mr. Grey, a man of science; and others—personnages muets. Arduous as was the task, Lady Angelica’s various powers and indefatigable exertion proved capable of keeping each of these different minds in full play, and in high admiration.
Beauties are always curious about beauties, and wits about wits. Lady Angelica had heard that one of the Miss Percys was uncommonly handsome. Quick as eye could glance, her ladyship’s passed by Mrs. Percy and Rosamond as they entered the room, fixed upon Caroline, and was satisfied. There was beauty enough to alarm, but simplicity sufficient to remove all fears of rivalship. Caroline entered, without any prepared grace or practised smile, but merely as if she were coming into a room. Her two friends, the Lady Pembrokes, instantly placed her between them, her countenance expressing just what she felt, affectionate pleasure at seeing them.
“A sweet pretty creature, really!” whispered Lady Angelica, to her admirer in waiting, Sir James Harcourt.
“Ye—ye—yes; but nothing marquante,” replied Sir James.
Mr. Barclay’s eye followed, and fixed upon Caroline, with a degree of interest. The room was so large, and they were at such a distance from Caroline, who was now occupied in listening to her friends, that Lady Angelica could continue her observations without fear of being overheard.
“There is something so interesting in that air of simplicity!” pursued her ladyship, addressing herself to Mr. Barclay. “Don’t you think there is a wonderful charm in simplicity? ‘Tis a pity it can’t last: it is like those delicate colours which always catch the eye the moment they are seen, by which I’ve been taken in a hundred times, and have now forsworn for ever—treacherous colours that fade, and fly even while you look at them.”
“That is a pity,” said Mr. Barclay, withdrawing his eyes from Caroline.
“A thousand pities,” said Lady Angelica. “Perhaps, in the country, this delicate charm might possibly, and with infinite care and caution, last a few years, but in town it would not last a season.”
“True—too true,” said Mr. Barclay.
“For which reason,” pursued Lady Angelica, “give me something a little more durable, something that can stand what it must meet with in the world: fashion, for instance, though not half so charming till we are used to it; or knowledge, though often dearly bought; or genius, though doubly taxed with censure; or wit, though so hard to be had genuine—any thing is better than a faded charm, a has-been-pretty simplicity.”
“When it comes to that, it is lamentable, indeed,” said Mr. Barclay. He seemed to wish to say something more in favour of simplicity, but to be overpowered by wit.
Sir James shrugged his shoulders, and protested that simplicity had something too fade in it, to suit his taste.
All this time, where was Colonel Hungerford? He had been expected to arrive this day; but a letter came to tell his mother, that he was detained by indispensable military business, and that, he feared, he could not for some weeks have the pleasure of being at home. Every one looked and felt disappointed.
“So,” thought Rosamond, “we shall be gone before he comes, and he will not see Caroline!”
“So!” said Lady Angelica, to herself, “he will not see me.”
Rosamond was somewhat comforted for her disappointment, by observing that Caroline was not quite lost upon Mr. Barclay, pre-occupied though he was with his brilliant mistress. She thought he seemed to notice the marked difference there was in their manner of passing the day.
Lady Angelica, though she would sometimes handle a pencil, touch the harp, or take up a book, yet never was really employed. Caroline was continually occupied. In the morning, she usually sat with Rosamond and the two Lady Pembrokes, in a little room called the Oriel, which opened into the great library. Here in happy retirement Caroline and Rosamond looked over Mrs. Hungerford’s select library, and delighted to read the passages which had been marked with approbation. At other times, without disturbing the rest of the company, or being disturbed by them, Caroline enjoyed the opportunity of cultivating her talents for music and painting, with the assistance of her two friends, who eminently excelled in these accomplishments.
All this time Lady Angelica spent in talking to show her wit, or lounging to show her grace. Now and then her ladyship condescended to join the young people, when they went out to walk, but never unless they were attended by gentlemen. The beauties of nature have come into fashion of late, and Lady Angelica Headingham could talk of bold outlines, and sublime mountains, the charming effects of light and shade, fine accidents, and rich foliage, spring verdure and autumnal tints,—whilst Caroline could enjoy all these things, without expecting to be admired for admiring them. Mrs. Mortimer was planting a new shrubbery, and laying out a ride through the park. Caroline took an unaffected interest in all her plans, whilst Lady Angelica was interested only in showing how much she remembered of Price, and Repton, and Knight. She became too hot or too cold, or she was tired to death, the moment she ceased to be the principal object of attention. But though her ladyship was thus idle by day, she sometimes worked hard by night—hard as Butler is said to have toiled in secret, to support the character of an idle universal genius, who knows every thing without studying any thing. From dictionaries and extracts, abridgments and beauties of various authors, here, and there, and every where, she picked up shining scraps, and often by an ostentation of superficial knowledge succeeded in appearing in conversation to possess a vast extent of literature, and to be deeply skilled in matters of science, of which she knew nothing, and for which she had no taste.
Mr. Seebright, the poet, was easily duped by this display: he expressed the most flattering astonishment, and pronounced her ladyship to be an universal genius. He looked up to Lady Angelica for patronage. He was so weak, or so ignorant of the world, as to imagine that the patronage of a fashionable literary lady of high rank would immediately guide the opinion of the public, and bring a poet forward to fortune and fame. With these hopes he performed his daily, hourly duty of admiration to his fair patroness, with all possible zeal and assiduity; but it was observed by Rosamond that, in conversation, whenever Mr. Seebright had a new idea or a favourite allusion to produce, his eye involuntarily turned first to Caroline; and though he professed, on all points of taste and criticism, to be implicitly governed by Lady Angelica Headingham, there was “a small still voice” to which he more anxiously listened.
As to Mr. Grey, the roan of science—he soon detected Lady Angelica’s ignorance; smiled in silence at her blunders, and despised her for her arts of pretence. In vain, to win his suffrage, she produced the letters of various men of note and talent with whom she was in correspondence; in vain she talked of all the persons of rank who were her relations or dear friends:—she should be so happy to introduce him to this great man, or to mention him to that great lady; she should be so proud, on her return to town, to have Mr. Grey at her esprit parties; she would have such and such celebrated characters to meet him, and would have the pleasure and honour of introducing him to every person worth knowing in town.
With all due civility Mr. Grey declined these offers. There were few persons the pleasure or honour of whose company could compensate to him for the loss of his time, or equal the enjoyment he had in his own occupations; and those few he was so happy to have for his friends, he did not wish to form new acquaintance—he never went to conversaziones—he was much obliged to her ladyship, but he did not want to be mentioned to great men or great women. The nature of his fame was quite independent of fashion.—In this respect men of science have much the advantage of men of taste. Works of taste may, to a certain degree, be cried up or cried down by fashion. The full-fledged bard soars superior, and looks down at once upon the great and little world; but the young poet, in his first attempts to rise, is often obliged, or thinks himself obliged, to have his wing impelled by patronage.
With all her resources, however, both of patronage and of bel-esprit, Lady Angelica was equally surprised and mortified to find herself foiled at her own arms, by a girl whom nobody knew. She changed her manoeuvres—she thought she could show Miss Caroline Percy, that, whatever might be her abilities, her knowledge, or her charms, these must all submit to the superior power of fashion. Caroline having lived in the country, could not know much of the world of fashion. This was a world from which she thought she could move every other at pleasure. Her conversation was no longer of books, of which all of equal talents were competent to form a judgment; but her talk was now of persons, with whom no one who had not lived in the great world could pretend to be acquainted, of whom they could not presume to judge. Her ladyship tried in vain to draw Mrs. Hungerford and Mrs. Mortimer to her aid; they were too well-bred to encourage this exclusive and unprofitable conversation. But her ladyship knew that she could be sufficiently supported by Sir James Harcourt! He prided himself upon knowing and being known to every body, that is, any body, in London; he had an inexhaustible fund of town and court anecdote. What an auxiliary for Lady Angelica! But though their combined operations were carried on with consummate skill, and though the league offensive was strictly kept with every demonstration of mutual amity that could excite jealousy or express contempt for rival powers; yet the ultimate purpose was not gained—Caroline was not mortified, and Mr. Barclay was not jealous; at least, he was not sufficiently jealous to afford a clear triumph.
One morning, when she had been playing off all her graces, while Sir James admired her in every Proteus form of affectation, Mr. Barclay, as she thought, evidently pained by her coquetry, retired from the sofa, where she sat, and went to Mrs. Hungerford’s table, where he took up a book and began to read. Lady Angelica spared no art to distract his attention: she contrived for herself an employment, which called forth continual exclamations of admiration, joy, despair, which at first made Mr. Barclay turn to see by what they could be caused; but when he found that they were occasioned only by the rise or fall of a house of cards which she was building, he internally said, “Pshaw!” and afterwards kept his eyes fixed upon his book. Sir James continued to serve the fair architect with the frail materials for her building—her Folly, as she called it—and for his services he received much encouragement of smiles, and many marked commendations. Mrs. Hungerford called upon Mr. Barclay to read a favourite poem.
Mr. Barclay read remarkably well, and soon fixed the attention of all the company, except that of Lady Angelica and her knight, Sir James Harcourt, whom she detained in her service. She could not be so flagrantly rude as to interrupt the reader by audible exclamations, but by dumb-show, by a variety of gestures and pretty looks of delight at every fresh story added to her card edifice, and at every motion of terror lest her tower should fall, her ladyship showed Mr. Barclay that she was not listening to that which she knew he was particularly desirous that she should hear.
The moment the reader’s voice ceased, Lady Angelica approached the table. “Ten millions of pardons!” said she, drawing some cards from beneath Miss Caroline Percy’s elbow, which rested on them. “Unpardonable wretch that I am, to have disturbed such a reverie—and such an attitude! Mr. Barclay,” continued her ladyship, “now if you have leisure to think of me, may I trouble you for some of your little cards for the attic of my dear Folly?”
Mr. Barclay coolly presented the cards to her ladyship: then looked out of the window, observed that his horse was at the door, and was following Mr. Percy out of the room, when Lady Angelica, just as Mr. Barclay passed, blew down her tower, and exclaimed, “There’s an end of my folly—of one of my follies, I mean: I wish I could blow them all away so easily.”
The sigh and look of penitence with which she pronounced these words were accepted as expiation—Mr. Barclay stopped and returned; while sweeping the wreck of her tower from the table, she repeated,