RANK AND TALENT.

VOL. III.

PRINTED BY A. J. VALPY, RED LION COURT, FLEET STREET.

RANK AND TALENT;
A NOVEL.

BY THE
AUTHOR OF “TRUCKLEBOROUGH-HALL.”

When once he’s made a Lord,

Who’ll be so saucy as to think he can

Be impotent in wisdom?

Cook.

Why, Sir, ’tis neither satire nor moral, but the mere passage of an history; yet there are a sort of discontented creatures, that bear a stingless envy to great ones, and these will wrest the doings of any man to their base malicious appliment.

Marston.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. III.

LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1829.

RANK AND TALENT.

CHAPTER I.

“——th’ high vulgar of the town,

Which England’s common courtesy,

To make bad fellowship go down,

Politely calls good company.”

Cooper.

We left Dr. Crack at the end of the last volume in a fair way of falling deeply in love with Miss Henderson, and there, for the present, we will leave him still, conscious that no one envies him. Our attention is now required in another quarter. The gentle, unobtrusive Clara Rivolta, whom nature indeed had never destined to be a heroine or even to be talked about, continued to undergo with much forbearance and quietness the persecuting attentions of the fragrant Henry Augustus Tippetson, who divided his time and attentions between the Countess of Trimmerstone and the grand-daughter of old John Martindale. What points of resemblance there were between these two ladies is not easy to say. Tippetson, however, thought much of rank: it was so great an honor to be intimate with a countess. Every body said that Tippetson was too intimate with the Countess, and another every body said that he was going to be married to Clara Rivolta.

Our readers must have observed that we are in general tolerably candid. But sometimes we do find ourselves glowing with an indignation not easily expressed, and feeling a contempt, for the conveyance of which no ordinary terms or allowed language will suffice. This contempt and this indignation do we now feel for that most execrable fribble, for that most attenuated shred of a dandikin, Henry Augustus Tippetson. Singleton Sloper is a lazy, ignorant lob, and Dr. Crack is a conceited puppy; but in neither of these two do we discern any thing at all equivalent in moral turpitude to that effeminate, that more than unmanly, that almost inhuman selfishness that disgraces, or rather constitutes, the character of Tippetson. This young gentleman had learned by rote the common places of polished society, and he played them off with a vile, cunning dexterity on the simple Clara Rivolta, till she was almost deceived as to his character. Her mind had been injured, though unintentionally, by the trumpery sentimentality of Miss Henderson’s foolish correspondence. The circumstances, also, of Mr. Martindale’s oddness of character, of Signora Rivolta’s retired habits, and of the Colonel’s general indifference to every thing, allowed to Clara but little opportunity of seeing or learning the world and its moral elements.

Markham now but seldom paid his visits. When he did, he was sure to find Tippetson there before him, or soon after he entered the house; and such was the cunning and craftiness of that young fox, that, whenever Markham was present, he contrived to pay such attentions as might corroborate to his eye the report of an engagement, and yet such as Clara could not pointedly or freezingly repel. To Markham, therefore, it seemed almost demonstrated that there subsisted an implicit engagement or understanding between the two; and as Markham saw in Tippetson nothing but the perfumed fop, and was not aware of his dirty cunning, he began to fancy that he had given Clara credit for more discernment than she possessed, when she could tolerate and be pleased with the attentions of such an unfurnished blockhead.

The days passed away to Clara very heavily. There was but little comfort to her in life, for there was little satisfaction in her situation. Without exactly knowing it, she missed the intelligent conversation of Markham, which was but imperfectly supplied by the common-place prate of Tippetson. She did not feel that she loved Markham, or that she hated Tippetson; but her feeling was that of dissatisfaction with herself. It was not a feeling of moral pain, but of moral uneasiness. There was nothing in amusement that amused her, and there was nothing in pleasure that pleased her. Her mother was intelligent and parentally kind; but there was in the construction of her mother’s mind that which rendered it unfit for a dexterous and accommodating sympathy with hers. Her mother had all the wisdom of a Mentor, but could not lay aside the majesty of a Minerva. It is a painful and disagreeable state of being, when a soul of natural and ardent sensibility has had its feelings wrongly excited and improperly directed, and when, from the disappointment which naturally results from this, it is beginning to settle down into the coldness of apathy and indifference. This is a condition in which multitudes have been placed; and shame be the portion of those who have placed them therein. “In the transition of this bitter hour” the strength of the mind is tried, and the destiny for life is decided.

Clara Rivolta was at this time in such state of mind, that had Tippetson made an offer of his hand, and had her parents approved it, she would have accepted the offer. And on the other hand, had Markham proposed to her, and had her parents expressed the slightest opposition, she would without any painful effort have refused him. To her mother’s mental discernment and strength of character was she indebted for the prevention of the first of these evils. Tippetson saw, as we have said above, that Signora Rivolta knew him, and he was therefore well aware that he could not have any hope of obtaining Clara’s hand till he had gained her affections, and had become essential to her happiness. How soon that was likely to take place is not easy to say. For greater coxcombs than he have been loved by women in other respects sensible and rational.

The mind of Tippetson, if such expression be consistent, was of such a nature as to be totally unable to exist without some stimulus, and yet absolutely without power to frame amusement or employment for itself. He had an ambition, but not a laborious ambition; it was composed of and impelled by trick and artifice. He could only ascend by creeping; and he found it easier to distinguish himself by singularity than by strength, to attract attention by eccentricity than to gain notice by excellence. He had been for a long while Clara’s companion. By the sufferance of the odd old gentleman, Mr. John Martindale, he had been in the habit of considering and finding himself at home at their house. He had never so far committed himself as to give Clara an opportunity of refusing him, nor had his behaviour to her been such as she could at all take notice of. There was nothing in his manner which demanded an explanation; and had he been asked what were his intentions, he could have replied that no one had any right to ask such a question from any part of his conduct. In the same manner as he deported himself towards Clara Rivolta did he, considering the different circumstances of the parties, behave towards the Countess of Trimmerstone. There was, however, this difference in the two cases; viz. that while his attentions were indifferent to the former, they were manifestly agreeable to the latter. In his company Clara was grave and silent, but Lady Trimmerstone cheerful and loquacious. Her ladyship’s ignorance attributed to the young gentleman a high degree of fashionable and scientific knowledge. Few were the Countess’s friends and intimates among persons of real consequence in society. Her parties were as numerously attended as need be, and the report of them looked as well in the Morning Post as the record of any other congregation of the superfine. But though many were her visitors, few were her friends. The cards which announced calls did not bear the names of those with whom she was personally intimate; and if by any accident she met any of the number, their chilling, freezing formality kept her at a mighty distance from them; and so far as acquaintance went, her intimacy with them was no more than if she had been presented at the court of the Emperor of China: she had an audience, but not any understanding of the party. We have, in the course of this narrative, mentioned it as a misfortune that Clara Rivolta had a female friend. We may here state that it was a misfortune that the Countess of Trimmerstone had not a female friend; for the Dowager Lady Martindale had taken herself quite out of the world, and had gone to reside at a distance from town, that she might give her undivided attention to her family. Of her eldest son she had long ceased to have any hopes; and of her daughter-in-law such was her opinion, that she was happy in any excuse to avoid her society.

The Earl of Trimmerstone, who had cared but little for Miss Sampson, now cared less for Lady Trimmerstone. His own acquaintance with that part of polite society with which his lady might with propriety have been made intimate, was very small and contracted; and he took little pains to form any friendships or intimacies for her with them. Every body pitied her, but nobody patronised her. Some, indeed, have gone so far as to say, that whenever they called, they were sure to see Mr. Tippetson there. Some grave ladies thought of hinting to the Countess the impropriety of such familiarity and unreasonable intimacy with this young gentleman. But they thought again that it was no business of theirs; and so they let her alone.

It would be an ingenious work for an ingenious man to write an essay on every body. Many can write well on nothing; but who can write well on every body? Every body is a paradox and a contradiction. Every body said that Tippetson was always with the Countess of Trimmerstone; and every body said that Tippetson was always with Clara Rivolta. This could not be true. Clara was not aware of the young gentleman’s intimacy with the Countess; nor had she ever heard the censorious remarks which the calumnious and wicked world had circulated concerning him. But the Countess was aware of his intimacy with the family of old John Martindale, and of the intention with which that intimacy was kept up. Frequently would she make allusion to it in such style of expression, as to lead the young puppy to imagine that she should, in the event of his marriage, feel the loss of his company. Such indeed was the impudence of this young coxcomb, that he has actually been heard to say that he had not quite made up his mind whether he should take Clara to Scotland, or the Countess to Italy.

All this time, where, it may be asked, was the Earl of Trimmerstone? Where, indeed! Every where but where he ought to be. Not having the fear of old John Martindale’s will before his eyes; either forgetting what the old gentleman had threatened, or flattering himself that the language of the will would be altered, he did not for any great length of time abstain from the indulgence of gaming; and though he was by no means a desperate gamester, setting his life on the cast of a die, yet he could not live comfortably without the stimulus; and he did not like to be called a methodist. He still kept horses at Newmarket, but not in his own name. His patriotism was still so great, that for the pure purpose of training up a breed of horses which may make the English cavalry the glory of the world, he continued to dawdle away his time with stable-boys, and lose his money to sharpers. He gamed elsewhere as well as at Newmarket; and sometimes he was a winner. He kept up but little intercourse with his opulent relative; for he was not able to give a very good account of himself. He had taken his seat in the House of Lords, but he had not much distinguished himself as an orator or a voter; for he had once been so careless as to give a proxy against ministers: he apologised for it afterwards, and promised to be more careful for the future. He was grievously negligent of home, and thought that to be the most melancholy hour of the twenty-four, in which having nothing else to do, and no where else to go, he was almost necessitated to return to his own home. We have not described this noble Earl as an ill-tempered or churlish man: he was indeed rather good-humored than otherwise; but his habits and pursuits had rendered him exceedingly anti-domestic. He never spoke a word of a harsh nature to his Countess; and even when he had lost at play, which happened more frequently than the reverse, he did not swear, stamp, or rave; nor was he moody and melancholy; but he would walk restlessly about the house with his hands in his pockets, whistling or humming odds and ends of old songs. When he was a winner, his raptures were not great, and he kept his joys to himself in silent meditation. Thus much for vindication of his behaviour in the married state may be said for him, that he did not deport himself very differently in marriage and in courtship. He had never been a very ardent or attentive lover; and no expectations were therefore raised by the lover’s attentions to be frustrated by the husband’s neglect. He suffered some disappointment indeed in the gratifications derived from exalted rank. He found himself of no more consequence or importance now that he was a noble Earl, than when he was simply and plainly Mr. Martindale; and though this disappointment did not sour his temper, it rendered him still more negligent and careless. Such was the stimulus that his mind required, that he suffered himself not unfrequently to be led into scenes and fooleries by which the dignity of his character was not a little impaired. It may be very well for lads just come from school, and abounding more in high spirits than discretion, to transgress occasionally the limits of strict decorum and grave propriety of demeanour; but it does not become right honorable hereditary legislators approaching the middle of life to play boy’s pranks, and disturb the peace of the neighbourhood. Such conduct does not add greatly to human dignity; and though very amusing for the time being, is not always productive of any permanent satisfaction.

As one of these frolics to which we here allude is somewhat connected with the development of our history, we will relate it. One evening, towards the latter end of May, when the days are at such an inconvenient length that it is hardly candle-light by dinner-time, the Earl of Trimmerstone and Singleton Sloper had agreed to dine at a club-house at nine in the evening, together with a set of honorable ones of the same slip-shod dignity as themselves. Every thing was ordered to be prepared on the most sumptuous possible scale; and though the weather was not warm enough to render ice a luxury, the apartment was ordered to be raised to such a temperature that iced wines might be properly enjoyed. The Earl and his friend did not design to be at the expense of this entertainment; but promised themselves that a young gentleman who was to be of the party, would, for the sake of the honor of such high society, suffer himself to be honorably deprived of enough, and more than enough, to defray the cost of the banquet. The bait appeared to take; but as neither the Earl nor his friend Sloper was absolutely dishonest or addicted to play unfairly, as they both trusted rather to their own skill and experience than to any dishonorable artifices, they were most cruelly and miserably disappointed. For our own part, such is our fastidiousness and delicacy, that we think it at least dishonorable, if not absolutely dishonest, to sit down deliberately to play for large stakes where there is a supposed great advantage in skill or experience; and therefore we do not think that money is fairly won under such circumstances, even though only what is called fair play has been used. We are, however, very glad, when in such cases the knowing ones are taken in. So it happened in the present case. Whatever the young gentleman, whom his lordship intended to pluck, wanted in experience, he seemed to make up by natural quickness and observant attention; and without any design of deep play, he was led on “deeper and deeper still.” Now, Singleton hinted to his lordship that it would be absolutely necessary to apply the “vinous stimulus,” as Dr. Crack called it, more copiously to their too vigilant friend. But whether it was from superior strength and vigor of constitution in the young man, or from the anxiety and agitation of the others, it so happened that the Right Hon. the Earl of Trimmerstone and his worthy friend Mr. Singleton Sloper felt most powerfully the effects of the wine. So much did they feel its effects, that they were compelled to leave off play after being considerable losers. The young gentleman, who had not the slightest supposition that any conspiracy had been formed against him, though he, perhaps, might not be reluctant, with his apparent simplicity, to form a conspiracy against another, felt in high spirits, pleased with his winnings, and proud of the honor of an acquaintance with a man of rank. At an early hour in the morning the party separated; but the young gentleman, as his home lay partly in the same direction, accompanied the Earl and his friend Mr. Sloper. By this time all three of them were under the influence of strong drink, and they were disposed to be exceedingly facetious. The Earl and his friend were on very intimate terms with the watchmen of their own immediate neighbourhood; but, to speak again after the manner of Dr. Crack, “the vinous stimulus had obfuscated their geographical apprehension,” so that they roamed beyond their usual precincts, amusing themselves as they went by copiously complying with the exhortation inscribed on many doors—“knock and ring.” This was not unobserved, nor did it pass unrebuked by the trusty guardians of the night. Advice and reproof are seldom very agreeable; and they are more frequently received with nominal than with real thanks. In the present instance they were most uncourteously received, seeing that an hereditary legislator ought certainly to know how to conduct himself without any monitory assistance from a watchman. The consequence of this indisposition to take good advice, terminated in the unpleasant and mortifying catastrophe of sending a noble earl and two illustrious commoners to the watch-house. But this was not effected by the arm of one individual watchman, nor was it accomplished till a great conflict had taken place between the parties; by the exertions of which conflict the already inebriated gentlemen were reduced to a state of nearly unconscious apathy and insensibility.

If this chapter were not already sufficiently long, we should certainly be tempted to lengthen it by a dissertation on dignity and propriety: in which dissertation we should attempt to demonstrate that nobility and gentry, however ornamental to society under certain conditions, may become, by means of weakness of head and emptiness of mind, a most intolerable nuisance; and we should also show that the homage which is paid to exalted station, undignified by exalted conduct, is the mere sycophancy of selfishness, altogether undesirable to those to whom it is offered, and disgraceful to those who offer it; and we should likewise have set forth, for the edification of the Toms and Jerrys of high life, the bitterness of mortification which is felt by that amiable class when they perceive that those whom they consider as their inferiors actually look down upon them with contempt. Still farther, it would be our laudable endeavour to remind those who squander away their means by low-minded pursuits, are tolerably sure to remain for life in that low and vulgar level to which they have reduced themselves; and lastly, though not least, we should say, with the utmost seriousness of manner, that the low-minded, profligate, and vulgar extravagants in high life, proud as they may be of their loyalty and toryism, do more rapidly and surely hasten the disorganization of society and the downfall of its Corinthian capital, than all the declamations of grumblers general, the washy sophistries of puling debating societies, or the clamorous mob of noisy radicals.

For this fine dissertation we have no room; and we pity our readers that they cannot have the pleasure of reading the development of the above scheme.

CHAPTER II.

“The next advantage

Will we take thoroughly.”

Shakspeare.

That very same worthy magistrate before whom the Hon. Philip Martindale was obliged, as above recorded, to enter into an engagement to keep the peace towards Mr. Isaac Solomons, junior, of St. Mary Axe, in the county of Middlesex, did again cast magisterial eyes on the same person under the style and title of the Right Hon. the Earl of Trimmerstone. Before his lordship and his companions made their appearance before the magistrate, they were perfectly sober, and of course completely mortified. They could not escape without betraying their names, and they hoped, by means of a private hearing, to escape a public exhibition; but as soon as they made their appearance, and the complaint was exhibited against them, the magistrate uttered an exclamation of surprise, and addressed his lordship by name. The secret being thus published, the Right Honorable and his two companions made their peace with justice as soon as possible, and retired. Now, as soon as this event was made public, the Earl of Trimmerstone expected a visit from his caustic and opulent relative, Mr. John Martindale. Nor was he disappointed in the expectation.

His lordship’s town mansion was magnificently furnished: this was owing to the taste of the Countess. Mr. Martindale, who waited some minutes in the drawing-room before his cousin made his appearance, was, when his lordship entered, surveying the apartment with a sneer of contempt.

“Good morrow; I greet you well;” said the old gentleman. “I have called to pay my compliments, and to offer my cordial congratulations on your very providential escape from Bridewell, of which I think that your lordship has been recently in very imminent danger.”

His lordship could not afford to quarrel with his wealthy relative; and therefore, though most deeply mortified by this salutation, he was under the absolute necessity of putting up with it, and preparing himself to expect as much more. It is very painful for a man of rank, who has passed some years beyond the age of boyhood, to be snubbed, schooled, and lectured. There is not one man in a thousand who would put up with it. But so it was that, step by step, this Hon. Earl of Trimmerstone had been entangled in the snares of dependence, and was now unable to extricate himself. He was caught in a net which he had not strength to break or patience to untie.

In a subdued and sheepish tone, he replied to his cousin’s taunts: “I am very sorry, sir, that I was so much off my guard.”

“Oh! yes, no doubt, you are very sorry; but I think if I had such a fine drawing-room as this, I should not leave it so much as you do, nor endanger its decorations by the dice-box. For I suppose you have been at your usual amusements. Oh! Philip, Philip—I beg pardon—I mean, my lord; if your lordship spends all your lordship’s means in gambling, pray what do you intend to do in order to keep up your dignity. You are too great a man to earn a living for yourself. Your lordship has nothing before you but beggary and dependence.”

His lordship was not quite such a simpleton as to fly out into a violent passion; nor was he so far sunk in self-esteem as to bear this language with unreplying patience. He replied, with a little more firmness:

“I hope, sir, I have some better prospect than this, which you are pleased to lay out for me. There do exist many men who were giddy in youth, and are respectable in age.”

“Very likely, very likely,” replied the old gentleman. “I understand you, my lord.”

“My remark, sir, was not designed to be of any particular application. I only spoke generally.”

“Oh, oh! then you disclaim all reference to me, when you speak of respectability in age.”

“Indeed, sir, you put a very unfavorable construction on my words as well as on my actions.”

“Unfavorable construction! Now, pray, my lord, as you are so very ingenious a personage, will you be so kind as to enlighten my ignorance so far as to tell me what you would call a favorable construction of such an elegant and accomplished feat as that which you performed last night, in company with that paragon of wit and elegance, Mr. Singleton Sloper? Only suppose that you wished to communicate that truly noble and gentleman-like transaction to the world through the medium of the press, and suppose the very kind and accommodating reporters were to give you leave to use your own language, how would you express yourself? In the first place, perhaps, you would think it an unfavorable construction to say that you were in company with Mr. Singleton Sloper. Or, perhaps, if you could not conscientiously suppress the fact, you would attribute the same to your most humane and kind consideration in taking notice of a vulgar blockhead, whom nobody else would deign to honor with their company and countenance. And pray, my lord, what is the most favorable construction your lordship would put upon the simple and silly fact of reeling about the streets in a state of intoxication? I suppose you would take credit to yourself for being above the milksop system now so fashionable; and magnanimously reverting to the practice of the good old times, by making a beast of yourself. And your knocking and ringing at the doors you no doubt designed as a gentle admonition to your neighbours, that they should not spend so much of their precious time in slothful sleep. There, my lord, is that construction favorable enough?”

His lordship smiled, and said: “Perfectly so, sir; perhaps rather too flattering.”

The old gentleman smiled not when his lordship smiled; but changing a sneer for a frown, he said: “And what construction, my lord, is favorable enough to your taste to be put on the fact of your money, or rather your wife’s money, lost at the gaming-table?”

His lordship started, and looked pale; and the amount of his loss came over him like a dream.

“Yes,” continued the old gentleman, “I will totally acquit you of any intention of losing your money; but can you acquit yourself of a mean and contemptible design of plundering a simple and untutored boy, by the assistance of that contemptible fellow, Singleton Sloper?”

“Mr. Singleton Sloper, sir,” replied the Earl, “is a gentleman of good family.”

“So much the worse for his family, for they have reason to be ashamed of him; and you, my lord, would never have taken notice of him, or associated with him, but for purposes of gaming. I know the whole transaction. I know that you had encouraged Sloper to induce that simple boy to sit down and play with you, and that you made yourself sure of repaying yourself by his means for the losses which you had yourself sustained. You cannot deny the fact; and I think you cannot put a very favorable construction upon it.”

All that the old gentleman said was perfectly true, and the Right Hon. Earl knew it to be so; and though he had not been ashamed to act thus, he did feel ashamed at the mention of it.

It is very unpleasant to have a serious accusation brought home so pointedly; but it is more unpleasant still not to be able to say a single word by way of extenuation. His lordship, not caring to be speechless and self-convicted, replied:

“There was nothing but fair play, sir, used or intended; as is manifest from the fact of my having been loser.”

“Whatever was intended, I know not; but I cannot call it fair play to take advantage of youth and inexperience: that, I know, you designed to do; and I am very happy the design was frustrated. My Lord of Trimmerstone, you and I must come to a better understanding. I will not suffer you to suppose that my property is to be made answerable for your gambling-debts. I have once told you the condition on which my will was made; and on that condition I am well assured you are never likely to receive a shilling of my property. But as I have no design to leave you without some legacy, I will tell you now that I will make one more, and that a final alteration. A legacy of thirty thousand pounds you will find in my last will and testament. You know best how much of that is already anticipated; and as a friend, I would advise you to make the best of what remains. It must be a miracle of reformation that will make any change in this disposal.”

Without waiting for a word in answer, the old gentleman rung for his carriage and departed, leaving the Right Hon. the Earl of Trimmerstone in a very disagreeable position.

As soon as Mr. Martindale had departed, the Right Honorable began to think again most soberly and seriously of his perplexities and embarrassments. He made a great variety of calculations, but none of them were definite or satisfactory. The figures and the sums whirled round and round in his head, and all was confusion. He scarcely knew, nor could he by any means make out, whether or not he was solvent. He knew nothing more of his own affairs than that he was solicited for money which he could not pay; and when by any contrivance he could put off the time of payment, that postponement set him at rest for the time being.

There was no one with whom he could consult. He had not a single friend in the world on whose good counsel he could rely. As for Sir Gilbert Sampson, he was afraid or ashamed to mention to him a word on the subject; and indeed there had been lately a great coolness between them, arising from the very negligent behaviour of his Lordship to the Countess. And she, who should have been his best friend and most confidential adviser, had very little capacity or inclination for prudential and deliberate thought.

When noblemen and gentlemen marry for the sake of money, they ought always to take especial care that they have money enough: for it is much better to suffer many disadvantages from pecuniary deficiency, and to remain unmarried, than to marry one who has not money enough to answer all purposes. Ladies with small fortunes may not thank us for this remark; but they will, on second thoughts, consider that such a husband as the Right Hon. the Earl of Trimmerstone is not worth having. It is not unlikely that his lordship would, had the law allowed him so to do, have married another wife for the sake of pecuniary aid, and have deserted the daughter of Sir Gilbert Sampson. Perhaps it might be an improvement in the system of accommodating legislation, if hereditary legislators would allow themselves the privilege of marrying two or more wives, provided these wives were all of plebeian extraction; by such means a greater number of city people might purchase nobility for their daughters, and the estates of the titled be relieved from many of their embarrassments. But legislation is not our present subject; so to proceed.

The Earl of Trimmerstone finding that thinking was a disagreeable and unpleasant occupation, and not being much allured to stay at home by the magnificent decorations of his drawing-room, which Mr. Martindale had so much admired, took his departure without any inquiries after the health or even existence of the Countess. He sauntered about the streets, and looked at the shop-windows, and looked at the people as they passed, and at the carriages; and he looked among those on foot, and among those in carriages, for some one to speak or move to; but his friends were not to be met with that morning. He wondered what had become of Sloper; for he used to be almost always sure of meeting him in St. James’s Street at a certain hour of the day. He strolled into Pall Mall, and was very sleepy; and he stood so long rubbing his eyes and stretching his arms at the gate of St. James’s Palace, that he positively set the sentinels yawning. He smiled at the effect of sympathy; and the sentinels also smiled modestly, and with appearance of great gratification: for it is a high honor to be smiled at by a man of rank and consequence; and they knew that he must be a man of rank and consequence, because he was very sleepy, and did not know what to do with himself.

To keep himself awake he walked along Pall Mall, but not very fast, lest he might have too much time on his hands when he should arrive at the other end. Then he threw the contents of his snuff-box into the street, that he might have the amusement of getting it filled again at Pontet’s. When he had, by dint of great exertion to walk slow, and make the most of his expedition, arrived, after a quarter of an hour’s sauntering, at the little snuff-shop at the corner of the street, he felt almost fatigued enough to enjoy the pleasure of sitting down; and he accordingly took his seat, and was for a time exceedingly happy, enjoying the pleasure of kicking his heels against the frames of the high shop-stool, and gazing at the passengers.

Not long had he been thus occupied, when two persons passed the shop-door in apparently close and earnest conversation, and seemingly on very good terms with each other. One of them, turning a side glance towards the snuff-shop, caught the eye of Lord Trimmerstone, and turned away his head again in great haste, as if to avoid being recognised. This movement excited his lordship’s curiosity; and a few seconds after they had passed, he cautiously stepped to the door and looked after them. He was certain that one of the two was Singleton Sloper. He knew by the broad shoulders, short neck, and shuffling gait, that it could be no other. As to Sloper’s companion, who was the one that had so suddenly withdrawn from his eye in passing the shop-door, his lordship could not form the slightest conjecture. Curiosity induced him to follow them at a considerable distance, and without being discerned by them, he watched them into a coffee-house; where, soon after they had entered, he followed them.

Before he entered the room, he looked through the glass of the inner door, and saw that the two persons who had attracted his attention were Mr. Singleton Sloper and the young gentleman to whom his lordship and Mr. Sloper had lost their money the preceding evening. This was a strange sight; and the very good understanding between the two led his lordship into strong and unpleasant suspicions concerning the purity and integrity of Mr. Singleton Sloper. He determined, however, not to make any sudden interruption; but as he was unseen by them, he watched their proceedings, and saw a pocket-book produced and opened; and he saw some of the contents of that pocket-book handed over by the young gentleman to Mr. Singleton Sloper.

Lord Trimmerstone was greatly astonished at what he saw; and though the mere fact of something being thus transferred to Sloper was no proof of fraud on his part, yet the looks and smiles of the two gentlemen were so very significant and expressive of collusion, that could these looks have been sworn to and properly described to an honest and discerning jury, there would have been in them very powerful evidence to convict the parties of conspiracy.

Lord Trimmerstone was in doubt how to proceed; and after a few moments’ hesitation, he thought it best to walk into the coffee-room as if not having seen the gentlemen, and to give them an opportunity to part, or at least to lay aside their confidential looks, before he fixed his eyes upon them.

The opening of the door soon excited their attention, and they presently assumed a different complexion towards each other; so that by the time that his lordship thought proper to see and recognise them, there was so great a change of look as to corroborate his suspicion. He knew, however, that it would not answer his purpose to manifest the slightest symptom of what was passing in his mind; he therefore greeted them carelessly, and received their careless reply. Attentively as he could, he watched the countenance of the young gentleman, and thought he saw in that face symptoms of more advanced age than he had given him credit for. He was very sure that it was not the face of an inexperienced simpleton.

There was, notwithstanding all efforts to the contrary, a feeling of embarrassment between the parties; and much common-place talk was uttered at awkward little intervals, before any allusion was made to the transaction of the preceding evening. Sloper at length said:

“Trimmerstone, I have been endeavouring to make an arrangement with our young friend to let us have our revenge. When will it suit you to meet us? Will to-morrow night be convenient?”

Now it happened that his lordship had already written his name on several inconvenient pieces of paper and in connexion with certain ugly figures, and he was not very desirous of multiplying and enlarging these perplexities. He would have been happy to have his revenge; but it appeared very probable that the only revenge which he should be likely to obtain, would be to inflict on the person of Mr. Singleton Sloper the castigation of a horsewhip.

“I cannot say this moment; but if you will step home with me, Sloper, I will see how my engagements stand, and give you an answer; which you may communicate to our friend.”

Mr. Singleton Sloper did not much approve of this arrangement, but was, nevertheless, unwilling to exhibit any strong symptoms of disapprobation. He only said:

“I will follow you in half an hour.”

This, however, would not answer his lordship’s purpose, for he was very desirous of ascertaining the nature of those papers which Sloper had just received from the young gentleman.

“Oh no, come with me now, for I have an engagement an hour hence.”

Thus saying, his lordship took Singleton by the arm and led him away, saying to the young stranger, “You shall hear by my friend Mr. Sloper, when it will be convenient to have another meeting.”

Sloper had very little suspicion that his lordship entertained any ideas unfavorable to his integrity. But though he had little suspicion, he was not altogether free from such unpleasant thoughts. As the two worthies therefore walked together, there was much constraint in their manners, and every effort to get rid of it only made the matter worse. His lordship felt more and more convinced that all was not right; but he had some difficulty in making his decision how to act, so as to ensure conviction if he was right, and to avoid an awkward quarrel if he was wrong.

CHAPTER III.

“He said, and stalk’d away.”

Dodsley.

When the Earl of Trimmerstone and his good friend, Mr. Singleton Sloper, arrived at the house of the former, his lordship ushered his friend into his own apartment, and requested him to be seated. Sloper thought that the Earl had locked the door; but in that suspicion he was wrong: the thought, however, staggered and perplexed him. With as much indifference as he could assume, his lordship said:—

“Sloper, do you know any thing of that young man that we lost our money to last night? I am of opinion that he is not quite so young and inexperienced as you imagined him to be. How came you acquainted with him?”

His lordship watched Sloper’s countenance very narrowly, while he replied:

“He was introduced to me by that Tippetson, who is paying court to Mr. Martindale’s foreign grand-daughter. I was as much deceived in him as you were. Tippetson told me that he was quite young, and had just stepped into a very pretty fortune, and that he seemed very well disposed to enter into gaiety.”

There was very little hesitation in the manner in which Sloper made this reply, and no inference could be drawn from it. But Lord Trimmerstone saw that there was an unusual awkwardness of manner about his friend, so that his suspicions continued unabated though unconfirmed. With a view therefore of probing him, his lordship said, with more significance of expression than he had adopted before:—

“Have you no suspicion that this very young gentleman has a partner rather older than himself?”

No immediate answer was given to this inquiry; and Lord Trimmerstone, after proposing the question, kept his eyes firmly fixed on his friend with a most searching and almost threatening expression. Sloper looked pale, and was angry, and rose from his seat with great indignation, replying:

“Do you mean to insinuate, by that question, any thing dishonorable against me, my lord? I really do not understand your question. What am I to know about his partners?”

This was quite enough to satisfy his lordship that there was some ground for his suspicions; and feeling therefore indignant at the treachery of his pretended friend, he returned with considerable warmth, almost with violence:

“I do mean to insinuate something dishonorable against you; I mean to say that you have now in your possession damning proofs of your guilt and your meanness. Clear yourself if you can.”

With a contemptuous sneer, Mr. Singleton Sloper replied: “Upon my word, I shall not take the trouble to argue with a madman. I must leave you, my lord, for the present; we shall meet again shortly, and then I will give you or you shall give me satisfaction.”

“You shall not leave this apartment, sir, till I have satisfied myself of the extent of your treachery. You have conspired with that young thief to defraud me, and I saw you divide the plunder; you have my note now in your possession.”

Mr. Singleton Sloper had not much of a character to lose, but what little he had he was desirous of preserving. Seeing that Lord Trimmerstone was resolute, and knowing that his own case was really a bad one, he endeavoured to soften matters down as well as he could; and with that cowardice which continually attends guilt, he pleaded guilty to the accusation, and urged his own necessity as a plea. Lord Trimmerstone should have spurned such a caitiff from him with contempt; but Lord Trimmerstone recollected that his own dear character was as much implicated as that of his friend, Mr. Singleton Sloper: they were, in fact, in each other’s power. Then did his lordship gradually descend from his high and towering attitude, and feel that he himself was but one degree more respectable than that very Sloper against whom he was beginning to launch the bolts of his mighty indignation, and the shafts of his withering contempt.

Now there was this difference between the Earl of Trimmerstone and Mr. Singleton Sloper: to wit, that the first-mentioned personage had been led rather by what he considered fashion or fashionable practice from one degree of foolery to another; but the latter was habitually and constitutionally of low and mean habits. Lord Trimmerstone was not essentially and constitutionally of low habits, but he had been by various circumstances drawn into the vortex. He was a careless rather than a weak man, and he had fallen into bad hands. Singleton Sloper was what may be designated a moral sloven, a man of no mind, and of little feeling; incapable of any thing great or good; one of the condescending among the patricians, and never stooping but to something that was low. These two personages were on the whole well met. The difference certainly was in favor of his lordship, but the difference was not great. His lordship felt this in their rising quarrel, and was therefore under the necessity of bearing patiently that which otherwise he must have resented indignantly.

When this explanation was entered into, if explanation it may be called, the two friends looked at one another like a couple of fools, or perhaps to speak more properly, like a couple of knaves. The Right. Hon. the Earl of Trimmerstone was so exceedingly out of humor with himself, that he scarcely knew how to act or what to say. He was going to say, “Sloper, I can never trust you again.” But upon second thoughts he considered that Sloper was really no worse than he had previously known him to be. He was tempted to call Sloper a knave; but he recollected that he himself was as great a knave. He was tempted to think that he would discontinue all intimacy with a man who had thus, as he called it, defrauded him; but he recollected that Singleton Sloper had been serviceable to him, and might be again; and he thought it better to depend on a rogue that he did know, than to run the risk of relying on a rogue that he did not know.

It might not be at this juncture that his lordship’s character received the deepest stain of degradation; but it was at this period, and by this circumstance, that his lordship was brought to feel how very low he had sunk in the scale of moral worth. Then did he again and more deeply than ever regret that the days of his independence were passed away, and that he had sacrificed for the sake of honors which were no honor to him, that composure of mind and that independence of spirit which had in early life been his portion and blessing. He became very low-spirited, and almost morose. His appetite for pleasure was greatly abated. He no longer considered the turf and the betting-table the true and supreme enjoyment of life, or the dignified enjoyment of rank and fortune.

Many days passed away in a state of nervous depression bordering on insanity; and had he in this period laid violent hands on himself, there would have been quite sufficient evidence to convince a coroner’s jury that a verdict of insanity should be brought in.

Coroner’s juries have a very ingenious mode of reasoning on this subject. Thus may the argument be stated: If a poor, pennyless, friendless outcast of society, broken down by calamity, and having no resource whereby to mend his fortunes, or to better his condition, does through an absolute weariness of life lay hands on himself, and thus commit the sin of suicide, he acts from an apparently sufficient motive; and he could not have been insane, inasmuch as it is considered that no man in his senses could desire the continuance of such a life. But if a person of rank or fortune who may live sumptuously every day, or any one even in actual and personal distress from reduced circumstances, but yet having friends or relatives by whose wealth his poverty may be relieved, and at whose table he may, if he pleases, yet enjoy life’s luxuries, should, notwithstanding all that he does or may possess or enjoy, destroy himself, surely he must be insane: for who but a madman would throw away a life which could possibly be enjoyed? This is an invariable and infallible rule.

That period of Lord Trimmerstone’s life and experience at which we are now arrived, was indeed to himself a season of very great interest and emotion; but could not be so rendered to our readers without a very long, and to some perhaps, a very tedious analysis of human feelings; and as our business is more with facts than philosophies, we must pass very briefly over this period; not endeavouring to portray his lordship’s state of mind, but contenting ourselves with narrating the facts to which these feelings led.

Being upon reflection convinced of the meanness and littleness of those pursuits in which he had been engaged, and finding that there was not in his honors that enjoyment and satisfaction which he had anticipated from them, he seriously resolved that he would no longer expose himself to those mortifications which had of late gathered so thick upon him. He made up his mind that he would give up his establishment in town; that he would dispose of his horses, and retire to Trimmerstone, to enjoy, if possible, the quiet comforts of domestic life. But when he thought of domestic life, he could not help also thinking how ill-adapted was his Countess for a life of that description. He had taken but little notice of her or her proceedings, and often, while he had been spending the night at the hazard-table, her rooms had been lighted up for the reception and entertainment of such guests as she could procure. In a large party, and in the display of finery, the Countess had her happiness. The proposal therefore to her of removal from town and of quiet domestic life in the country, especially such a dull place as Trimmerstone, came very mournfully to her ears, and she would fain have expostulated and demurred. But his lordship, now he had grown wiser, had become rather sulky and obstinate; that good-humor for which he had formerly been remarkable was considerably abated; and his Countess perceived the change with a feeling of concern and uneasiness.

The Countess, as our readers may probably have discovered, was a thoughtless, unreflecting, though good-humored woman; very fond was she of gaiety, mistaking, as many vulgar fine folks do, gaiety for greatness, and fancying that the most magnificent entertainments were the chief good of life. Her ladyship’s taste was rather more vulgar than usually happens in that class of society from whence she had her origin; and as the exclusives were not well pleased with her birth, they could easily apologise for their neglect of her on account of her manners. In spite, however, of all the indifference of what is called the fashionable world, she contrived to live a life of no little gaiety. Such companions and intimates as she honored with her acquaintance were not the best adapted to prepare her mind for retirement. Mr. Tippetson, so far as reflection or intellectual digestion was concerned, had not a single idea in his head. He had by no means any capacity either for thinking or exciting thought in others; but in common-place he was perfect.

Dr. Crack was also another intimate of the Countess. He at least thought that he thought; and his ambition was to unite the philosopher with the man of fashion; which very ambition was proof positive that he never thought to any good purpose. He had endeavoured by various theories to immortalise himself; but, unfortunately, he was so conscientious, that he suffered facts to overturn his theories, and so none of them lasted long enough to establish his reputation. He also was very powerful in common-place, but nothing equal to Mr. Tippetson. His style of talk was very magnificent, so much so that the Countess of Trimmerstone could not always understand his fine words and his long elaborate sentences. This is not said by way of depreciating the understanding of her ladyship; for many minds of a much higher order than hers would have found quite as great difficulty in comprehending the meaning of many of Dr. Crack’s prodigiously wise speeches.

It may readily be imagined that a lady of rank whose most intimate acquaintants were such as Mr. Tippetson and Dr. Crack, could not have much relish for a life of retirement, wherein her enjoyments must be of her own procuring, and must have their seat in the mind. When, therefore, his lordship mentioned the topic of retirement, it by no means met with her ladyship’s approbation. She laughed at his lordship’s gravity. That was bad policy; for laughing at gravity only makes it worse. By this mode of treating her lord’s humors, the Countess made him angry and positive; then he insisted and commanded; and then, in the wantonness of resistance and the impotence of opposition, her ladyship refused to obey. That was very great folly; because she could not help herself, and obey she must. Then his lordship was more positive and more angry; then her ladyship was more vexed, and burst into a flood of tears. This last expression seems to us a very foolish one, and an absolute contradiction; but it sounds very fine, and is generally understood in England; and is much more eloquent than simply saying that her ladyship cried, or wept, or shed tears. Her ladyship also would have gone into hysterics; but that part of her education had been sadly neglected, therefore she could only cry and be sulky.

His lordship, however, was very positive; and in that positive humor did he depart from his home, and direct his steps to the house of his troublesome but indispensable relative, Mr. Martindale. At that house Mr. Henry Augustus Tippetson was at that moment paying his most gracious attention to Clara; and the poor girl was listening with all the complacency of indifference to his silly prate concerning last night’s opera. Mr. Tippetson had just persuaded the young lady to indulge him so far as to permit him to hear one of Rossini’s airs on the piano-forte; and the first bar was hardly finished, when the arrival of the Earl of Trimmerstone was announced.

This announcement was an interruption more agreeable to Clara than to Mr. Tippetson, for the young lady was not in spirits; and to a dejected mind, sounds of joy are a sad and painful discord. But though Mr. Tippetson was sorry to be deprived of the pleasure of hearing the promised performance, he speedily took his leave of Clara, expressing a hope that he should enjoy that pleasure another day; and he left the room as soon as his lordship made his appearance.

CHAPTER IV.

“To go, alas! we know not where.”

Cooper.

Lord Trimmerstone had not been a very frequent visitor at his relative’s house, and therefore Mr. Martindale apprehended that the present was more likely a call of business than compliment; especially did he think so when he observed how very grave and serious his lordship looked. Conducting the Earl into the library, Mr. Martindale began:

“What, in the name of wonder, can be the matter with you now? Has your lordship had the misfortune to lose more than is quite convenient to pay, and are you coming to ask me to pay it for you?”

“You may very well upbraid me, sir, with my sad propensity to gaming,” replied his lordship; “but I trust this is the last time I shall hear such reproof from you. I have seen my folly.”

“Have you, indeed?” interrupted the old gentleman; “what a wonderful discovery you have made! Every body else has seen it for a long while past. Now I suppose that you are going to let the world see your wisdom. But pray, what is the amount which you wish me to discharge for you in the present awkward juncture of affairs?”

“I have not any request of that kind to make, sir;” replied his lordship.

“Oh, oh!” said the old gentleman, “indeed! I am very happy to hear it. But I should be glad to know what it is that makes you look so serious.”

“I have been thinking,” said his lordship, with great formality of manner and expression…

“It is high time you should think,” responded the old gentleman; “and what has your lordship been thinking about?”

“I have been thinking,” continued the Earl, “that it will be prudent for me, at least for the present, to give up my establishment in town, and retire, with your permission, to Trimmerstone, where I may be out of the way of temptation. If you still continue in the same mind with respect to Trimmerstone Hall, I think it might be put into tenantable repair at a small expense.”

“Very good, very good, young man;—I beg pardon—I mean my lord.”

“Nay, sir, I beg that you will not use such taunting expressions. My title, you know, was not of my seeking.”

His lordship uttered this last sentence in a tone of such humility and submissiveness that the old gentleman was touched, and he saw that his relative felt a strong impression of humiliation, and therefore he felt more compassionately, and replied in tones rather more conciliating.

“Yes, yes, very true; it was my fault. I am sorry for it. I don’t know which was the greatest fool of the two; you for accepting the title, or I for obtaining it for you. Now if your poor father had not been smitten with the ambition of rank, and had you continued in your profession, you might at this time have been in the enjoyment of a handsome and honorable competency. But now you are a nobleman, you can do nothing to help yourself. I am sorry for you. But if you wish to reside at Trimmerstone, I will put the house in repair for you, and make any alterations or additions you please. Your wife, too, is to be consulted in this matter. Are you not apprehensive of some opposition to your schemes from that quarter?”

“Some objection was expressed when I made the proposal, but of course I must overrule every thing of that kind.”

“Ay, ay, there again you have been unfortunate. With your views you should never have married such a woman as that. You see it has not answered your purpose after all, even in a pecuniary point of view. You have made a bad business of it altogether. I am sorry for you; but I cannot see what is to be done for you.”

It might be very true that Mr. Martindale was sorry for his unfortunate relative, but it was not very decorous to speak thus of a lady before her husband’s face. This circumstance also contributed to increase his lordship’s mortifications, and to add to the weight of his grief.

After much more conversation to the same purpose, by which the old gentleman endeavoured to prove his lordship’s folly, and by which his lordship admitted it in all its extent, the interview terminated; and the result of the negotiation was, that orders were forthwith issued for the repair of Trimmerstone Hall for the reception of his lordship.

While the Earl of Trimmerstone was engaged with Mr. Martindale, the Countess was occupied by the condoling and sympathising attentions of Mr. Henry Augustus Tippetson. For as soon as Mr. Tippetson was aware of the Earl’s absence from home, he took the opportunity of paying his respects to the Countess; and he found her ladyship in great affliction, and from her appearance he judged that she had been very recently dissolved in tears. This phrase, dissolved in tears, is one of those expressions which, for the sake of pathos, we must now and then use, but it is far too hyperbolical and exaggerated for our taste; and it is our firm and unalterable opinion, that the cause of sympathy is not effectually served by words that mean nothing, or that mean too much. The Countess, however, had very clearly been weeping, and was very obviously in ill-humor with her lord and master.

When Mr. Tippetson, therefore, made his appearance, and her ladyship, just recovered from her tears, expressed with more than usual cordiality how glad she was to see him, it was impossible for so tender-hearted a creature as Mr. Tippetson not to make some kind and condoling remark on the appearance which she exhibited of illness or great affliction.

“I am infinitely concerned to see your ladyship in low spirits this morning.” Thus spoke the tender Henry Augustus.

“Oh, Mr. Tippetson,” responded her ladyship, “I may well be in low spirits. This very morning, my brute of a husband, God forgive me for using such language,” here her ladyship’s tears flowed afresh, “has absolutely insisted on my leaving town; and he says that we must both go and end our days at that vile dull place, Trimmerstone.”

“Has your ladyship ever been at Trimmerstone?” inquired the attentive and sympathising youth.

“Never,” replied her ladyship; “but I am sure it must be a dull place; there is not a soul to speak to but a dull country squire or two, and the parson of the parish, and he is but the curate; for it is such a stupid place that even the rector cannot reside there. His lordship did not seem to want much of my company in town—I think he might do very well without it in the country.”

“Your ladyship is very ill-used,” said Mr. Tippetson; “I have been often astonished that you could patiently put up with such behaviour.”

“But I must put up with it, Mr. Tippetson, I have no remedy.”

So spake the Countess of Trimmerstone; but her ladyship knew that she had a remedy—only the remedy was worse than the disease. Mr. Tippetson also knew that there was a remedy; but Mr. Tippetson was not quite so great a novice as to name that remedy in so many words. He therefore made no reply, and her ladyship was also silent; yet her heart swelled, and the tears were in her eyes, and she seemed altogether given up to the hopelessness of sorrow. Now as Henry Augustus Tippetson was an adept in common-place, he knew that there was more prudence and policy in absolute silence under present circumstances, than in any language which he could utter. And as the Countess, in the hurry and agitation of her grief, was now in one part of the room, now in another, now sitting, now walking, now before the glass, and now before the window, Mr. Tippetson was always at her side; and after many changes of place, they at length sat down together on a sofa; and Mr. Tippetson, scarcely thinking what he did, actually took hold of her ladyship’s hand, and pressed it between his two hands more tenderly than any single man ought to press the hand of any married woman. What was the young gentleman’s design in this, or whether he had any design in it at all or not, we cannot say. But be it as it may, he approached her ladyship in such a questionable shape, that whether his intents were wicked or charitable, she spoke to him, saying, “Oh, Tippetson!”

Now this was too bad. Whatever were the young gentleman’s intentions, her ladyship ought certainly to have left him to himself, and to have suffered him to evolve his own schemes: it was grievously indecorous, we think, to give the gentleman any assistance or prompting in such matter; but we will not be very positive, seeing that we do not understand the etiquette of elopement. And perhaps the Countess herself thought that Mr. Tippetson was also inexpert, and therefore assisted him in the development of his scheme for relieving her from the burden of a disagreeable husband.

When, therefore, the Countess had with so much tenderness said, “Oh, Tippetson!” it was impossible for Henry Augustus to avoid saying, “Oh, Celestina!”—for thus familiarly had he been accustomed to address the lady while she was a spinster. As by the use of this familiar mode of address her ladyship’s active fancy imagined that more was meant than met the ear, and as there was evidently little time for deliberation, and as she thought it absolutely indispensable to make some show of opposition to such a wicked proposal, as she construed “Oh, Celestina!” to mean, her ladyship immediately withdrew her hand from Mr. Tippetson, and exclaimed, “Oh, never! never! never! do not be so barbarous; I cannot—no, I cannot—I would undergo any thing rather than take so imprudent a step.”

Mr. Tippetson, whose ideas of morality were not very nice, and whose sense of propriety was not very acute, thought that it was a gentle designation of elopement to call it only “an imprudent step.” He was not best pleased, therefore, with this mode of resistance; but he was now under the absolute necessity of kneeling to her ladyship, and of seizing her hand again most passionately, and pressing it to his heart, and vowing eternal fidelity, and exclaiming—

“Oh, fly with me, my dearest Celestina; I will go with you to the end of the world.”

By the way, he had not the slightest intention of going farther than Paris, or to the south of France at the utmost. But, of course, when a single gentleman tells a married lady that he will go with her to the end of the world, it is absolutely impossible for her to avoid or to refuse leaving her husband, her friends, and her reputation. So felt, and so acted, the Countess of Trimmerstone; and considering the short notice which she had, it is somewhat astonishing that she was so soon ready to depart. She was gone before her husband returned from Mr. Martindale’s. Some of the servants said that she had prepared for the excursion before Mr. Tippetson proposed it.

It is a question which requires a nicer casuistry than we are master of, to decide which of these two precious ones was most to blame. When a husband neglects his wife, it is the opinion of some considerate and candid creatures, that the lady’s conduct in leaving him, if not justified, is palliated. But perhaps some husbands would not neglect their wives so much as they do, if these aforesaid wives could not find some one else to pay attention to them. The lady, however, in the present case, did not leave her husband during his neglect of her, but just at the very moment that he was beginning to be more attentive than ever, and to claim her sweet company all to himself. But then she did not like to live in the country all alone, as it were, and out of society and gaiety. Oh, no! certainly not. Therefore she thought it much more lively to go to Paris to reside with a perfumed puppy in an obscure lodging, surrounded with people of whom she knew, and could know, and wished to know nothing.

Our readers would think us very methodistical if we were to express ourself in very strong terms against the abomination of elopements; and those very same readers would think us very irreligious, should we question any of those dogmas which are supposed to form part and parcel of the religion of the state. We are not however about to do either the one or the other; but we cannot help recommending all married ladies to be very cautious how they talk to their friends concerning the cruelty of their husbands. We would also recommend married ladies, and single ones too, not to place unlimited confidence in romantic protestations; and above all, would we tell married ladies that the worst husbands are better than the best seducers.

As it is not our intention to suffer Mr. Henry Augustus Tippetson to intrude again on our pages after his present disappearance, and as the Countess of Trimmerstone disappears with him, we will now so far violate chronological order as to narrate all that remains to be said concerning that hopeful couple.

Mr. Tippetson, who had desired to immortalise himself by an elopement with a lady of rank, now that the Countess of Trimmerstone was in his power, did not feel quite so proud of his conquest as he had anticipated and fancied. There is nothing in rank where there is no distance and reserve. The Countess, even before they had reached Dover, began to appear to him as a weak, silly woman. Now, if in stealing a countess, he had stolen the title of earl for himself, he might have been more proud of his exploit; but as it was, he still kept the name of Mr. Tippetson, and his poor simpleton of a companion had no name at all. Then again he could not enjoy the pleasure of hearing himself talked about in the fashionable circles. He saw very soon in the newspapers that he gained celebrity by the elopement, but he could not hear any remarks upon the subject. He very soon found that his companion was no companion; and therefore, with mighty energy and resignation, he determined to make the best of a bad bargain. It is a great pity that the Countess had not come to that resolution before she left her husband. Here again we have a lesson for married ladies; and beg most respectfully and kindly to inform them, that it is much more inconvenient to be neglected by a seducer, than to be neglected by a husband.

Mr. Tippetson was a man of the world; but he did not know much of the world, especially of the world of Paris. It is very good that English people in the one shilling gallery should believe that one Englishman can beat three Frenchmen, and that they generally do believe till they try; but one simple Englishman, like Mr. Tippetson, may generally be beaten by one Frenchman at games of skill or chance in the Palais-Royal. The perfumed seducer found out this to his cost; and thereupon the Countess of Trimmerstone became more inconveniently expensive to him. There arose also another inconvenience to the young gentleman, viz. her ladyship’s prodigious vulgarity. He could never be seen with her in public. The Parisian ladies used to stare at her, though she thought herself prodigiously fine. Mr. Tippetson accommodated himself to the people among whom he dwelt. The Countess began soon to grow sulky, because she had no society. Tippetson thought his own society quite enough for her ladyship. By degrees that society was more and more curtailed: sometimes he left her for a whole day; and sometimes he was absent day and night; and sometimes he would stay from her ladyship two or three days successively. This was very sad, but she had no remedy. To utter angry reproaches she dared not; she could only plead pathetically, and call him unkind, and use the gentlest tones of expostulation. Her ladyship was far more afraid of Mr. Tippetson than ever she had been of her husband, and was much more careful of offending him by look, word, or deed. On the other hand, the gentleman was sooner weary of the Countess than he would have been of a wife; and whensoever the gentleman, in the expression of his weariness, took it into his head to use the language of reproach, her ladyship, from the peculiarity of her situation, felt unable to return or repel it.

Whether it be possible or not for a married woman who has lost the affection of her husband, ever to regain and recover that affection, we presume not to say; but notwithstanding the diffidence we feel in our own judgment, and notwithstanding our own inexperience of such matters, we will venture to give it as our firm opinion, that when the affections of a seducer are gone away from the silly one whom he has beguiled, or who has beguiled him, it is the most hopeless of all efforts to endeavour to recall them. But however hopeless the effort may be, it still must be made. So felt the unfortunate and unhappy woman, who, under the notion of liberty, had sold herself into an irretrievable slavery. If however she possessed not sufficient discernment and strength of mind to keep herself from this miserable condition, it was not very likely that she should be possessed of wit and wisdom enough to perform one of the most difficult of all difficult tasks, to recall a wandering affection. And the efforts which are used for this purpose are in their nature, or from the nature of the human mind, so exceedingly perverse, that in the same ratio as they fail of doing good, they are productive of evil.

Thus it came to pass that the affections of Mr. Tippetson for the poor witless Countess of Trimmerstone grew weaker and fainter; and in proportion to her endeavours to retain him, she found that she was nearer to losing him. Not many years passed away before he absolutely left her; and from this state of humiliation she wrote to her broken-hearted father, praying that he would not let her perish for want in a strange land. That supplication was not unheeded; she was saved from absolute want; but she lived the remainder of her days in solitude, obscurity, and self-reproach. We now return to the period from whence we have digressed.

CHAPTER V.

“Ha!—my fears

Anticipate thy words!”

Smollett.

When Lord Trimmerstone returned from his visit to Mr. Martindale, it was with the full intention of firmly though gently insisting on preparations being forthwith made for a departure from town and a settlement in the country. When he inquired for the Countess, the domestics answered by looking at each other with manifest symptoms of confusion, as if to ask which should be the herald of evil tidings. His lordship was naturally impatient; and such a mode of meeting his inquiries was not likely to make him less so. With great impetuosity, therefore, he exclaimed,

“What is the matter? Why don’t you speak? Tell me this instant where is the Countess!”

Thus speaking, he laid hold of his own valet, who trembling in every limb replied,

“My lady is gone…”

“Gone!” exclaimed his lordship; “where, and with whom?”

“With Mr. Tippetson, my lord.”

This answer solved all difficulties; and his lordship immediately understood the cause of the embarrassment manifested by his domestics. At the information he was more enraged than surprised, and he flew into a violent passion; from which the rest of the servants present were glad to escape, leaving the valet with his lordship to answer any farther questions which the Earl might be curious enough to ask.

From this man sufficient particulars were gathered to make the whole story clear, and to fit the matter for the natural result of an appearance before the public in the form of an action at law; in which action Mr. Markham held a brief for the plaintiff, and a gentleman, whose name we could not learn, held a brief for the defendant. As trials of this nature are in the newspapers given at full length, and as they are usually read with great attention by all whom they concern, and by many whom they do not concern, we should only be guilty of a needless repetition were we to lay this trial before our readers. We have noticed and alluded to the trial simply for the sake of two remarkable points in it: one of them is an instance of great simplicity on the part of Markham; and the other is a specimen of great acuteness and penetration on the part of the defendant’s counsel. We have here mentioned but two counsellors; there were however six engaged: not that they were absolutely wanted any more than six horses are wanted for a hearse; but it is the fashion.

The simplicity of Markham was manifested in the circumstance, that notwithstanding the fine opportunity afforded him for pouring out a torrent of metaphors and indignation, whereby he might have gained a six-month’s immortality among the unfledged spoutlings of debating-societies and wisdom-clubs, he merely endeavoured to put the jury into full and clear possession of the facts of the case, and to meet the plausibilities which might be started by the counsel on the other side. He did not say a word about honey and turtles on the one hand, or scowling fiends and demons on the other. He did not talk about paradise, for he did not suppose that there was any such place in Piccadilly. He did not talk as if he thought that heaven and earth must come together, because Mr. Tippetson had run away with the Countess of Trimmerstone. He did not seem to think it at all a miracle that their post-chaise arrived safely at Dover, and the steam-boat took them safely to Calais. He did not run over all the elopements from Helen downwards, and demonstrate that Mr. Tippetson was worse than Paris, or that the Countess of Trimmerstone was more beautiful than Helen. He did not tell the jury that all morality and domestic virtue would be banished from the earth, or even from the west end of the town, if they should sentence Mr. Tippetson to pay Lord Trimmerstone a farthing less than twenty thousand pounds. He did not quote poetry or spout froth. So much for Markham’s simplicity.

Now, on the other hand, let us record for the honor of that gentleman whose name we do not know, a specimen of his dexterity in making the most and the best of a bad cause. It had been proved in the course of the trial, according to the usual practice in such cases, that the Earl and Countess of Trimmerstone had lived very happily together. There was perhaps some difficulty in finding persons who had seen them much together; but there was evidence enough to prove the point, and there was none to disprove it. The opposing counsel then had nothing left but to persuade the jury that Mr. Tippetson was so much superior to the Earl of Trimmerstone, that the Countess was almost pardonable for making the exchange; or that his lordship was so indifferent to her ladyship, that the loss was a matter of little concern to him. On the latter topic he dwelt with the greatest force; and in illustrating that point, he made use of a most powerful and convincing argument, drawn from the fact that his lordship did not immediately with all his household and establishment pursue her ladyship and bring her back again. This was a most ingenious argument, and for the eloquence and dexterity with which it was used, we are tempted to make a brief extract from the learned gentleman’s address to the jury. After having stated that the plaintiff did not immediately pursue the defendant and the fugitive fair one, he continued:

“Now, gentlemen of the jury, can you for a moment imagine that the plaintiff had any regard whatever for his wife, when he did not even take the trouble to pursue her and bring her home again. Here was a virtual manifestation of his indifference to her. If a robber carries off that which is valuable and valued, and the person robbed has time and power to pursue the plunderer, does he not immediately use his efforts to compel the thief to restore his ill-gotten booty? Gentlemen of the jury, if one of you should have your pockets picked, would you not immediately cry out, ‘Stop thief!’ Yet the plaintiff, in the present action, suffered a robber to carry off his greatest treasure without any endeavour on his part to recover it. Here, gentlemen, is proof positive, that the plaintiff cared less for his wife than any one of you would for a snuff-box or pocket-handkerchief.”

At this impressive and conclusive sentence, the learned gentleman paused, astonished at his own wit, and waiting for the murmur of approbation, which he thought must necessarily follow such a combination of eloquence and sagacity; but, unfortunately, some of the jury did not see the point of the argument, and they smiled at the learned gentleman’s simplicity; but they saw that he was a young man, and knew no better.

It has often been with us a matter of consideration, how far it is advisable to defend a bad cause; and what discretion should be allowed in such cases to those learned gentlemen, who have not received from nature any very great share of discernment. We have heard that it has been said by them of Ireland, that bad luck is better than no luck at all; and by parity of reasoning, peradventure it may appear to some, both of Ireland and England, that a bad defence is better than no defence at all. Of this we have our doubts; for we can suppose it very possible that a defendant, whose cause was a bad one, should say to his counsel, “My cause is bad enough of itself, I beseech you not to make it worse by your wit or eloquence.” The use of a clumsy non sequitur argument has sometimes prevailed with some juries. But juries are now growing more enlightened; and the system of composing juries is improved. There still, however, remains room for farther improvement: for since the science of crani…—we beg pardon, we mean phrenology—has been brought to such perfection as to prove, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that a man who has been hanged for murder has the organ of destructiveness strongly developed, it is quite a reproach to the legislature that no steps have been taken to render that most exact of all the sciences subservient to the purposes of society. The size of the head is the measure of the judgment: the upper classes, as it has lately been shown, having larger heads, generally speaking, than the lower and labouring classes. In order then to form an intelligent jury, nothing farther is necessary than that a law should be forthwith made, enacting that no person should be eligible on a jury who has not a head of a certain thickness. The discovery that wisdom and thick heads go together is certainly not modern; it is quite as old as our big wigs for judges, bishops, and others who, if not absolutely wise, ought to be always thought so. Moreover, we are humbly of opinion, that the vulgar notion that thick-headed people are stupid, has arisen from the ironical application of the term thick-head. Exactly in the same manner do we now give the name of Solomon to a simpleton; not that we consider Solomon to have been a fool, but quite the reverse. This theory of ours also solves what has hitherto been a matter of difficulty and perplexity to the ingenious; viz. the apparent paradox that thick-headed and shallow-pated should mean the same. Thick-headed, we see, is used ironically, and shallow-pated seriously, to express a fool. It may be still farther observed, that our young gentlemen do now take marvellous pains to make their heads appear thick, by wearing a large quantity of hair, bushed and bristled out with great pains and study; and when entering a house, or any place of public resort, they do ordinarily poke their fingers through their hair to make it stick out as widely as possible. This is a nasty trick; but for the sake of looking very wise, it is worth while to be a little nasty. We make no apology for this digression, seeing that it is very wise and valuable and entertaining; and an apology would be dull, flat, and unprofitable.

To proceed then with our narrative. The plaintiff received an award of five thousand pounds; and the defendant, not finding it convenient or agreeable to pay that sum, remained a voluntary exile from his native land.

The Earl of Trimmerstone had begun to think seriously, and almost painfully. He looked back on the past, and was astonished to see what opportunities of rendering himself respectable he had suffered to pass away unimproved. He now saw that in almost every step he had been wrong, and he was bitterly mortified. He knew not how to escape from his miserable feelings, or to what object or pursuit to direct his attention. Mr. Martindale pitied him very sincerely; but Mr. Martindale ought to have blamed himself that he had not taken pains to prevent this unpleasant catastrophe. For under pretence and colour of supplying the young man with the means of keeping up an appearance in the world, he had only furnished him with an opportunity of making a fool of himself. Mr. Martindale had never given his young relative any of his confidence; he had treated him with a distant and capricious patronage. The old gentleman knew well enough the character of Celestina Sampson; and he also knew enough of his kinsman to be well aware that there could not be on his part much sincerity of attachment to her; but he must have known that mere necessity compelled the match. That necessity it was in his power to remove; and it was indeed his duty, inasmuch as his own fanciful liberality had in the first instance created it. It was also the duty of the old gentleman to watch a little more attentively over the conduct of his relative, even after his marriage, and after his accession of title. But the truth is, that old Mr. Martindale, like many other rich, queer, liberal, or money-giving men, consulted rather his own humor in his liberality than any advantage or benefit likely to accrue from it to the object of his bounty. It had so happened, that at the time that his large property came into his possession, he had no other probable or plausible recipient of his superfluous wealth than the Martindale family. For then he had not discovered, nor did he think it probable that he ever should discover, his lost and long-neglected daughter. Now, however, that this discovery was made, all his thoughts were centred in her and her child; and though he professed not to have forgotten his cousin, the attention which he paid him was very capricious.

Finding then at last that the Earl of Trimmerstone was really melancholy, and deeply dejected at his disappointments, Mr. Martindale began at length to feel for him, and talk to him with friendly condolence. He quite approved of his design of leaving London, and spending a little time in retirement and solitude. He offered Trimmerstone Hall, and proposed, if it were necessary or even desirable, that it should be totally rebuilt. He would insist on making over to his lordship that dwelling, and the estate connected with it, as properly belonging to the title. He also requested that Lord Trimmerstone would favor him with as much of his company as possible before he left town.

This was not only substantially kind, but it was also done in such a manner as to render it pleasing as well as profitable. It somewhat melted and moved the heart of the young nobleman; but it did not by any means effectually and entirely dissipate that melancholy which was preying upon his spirits. He accepted the invitation to spend much of his time with Mr. Martindale; and when his thoughts were removed from schemes of gaming, and from the vulgar amusements of the turf and the ring, his understanding being naturally good, he much enjoyed the conversation of Signora Rivolta and her daughter, in both of whom he observed an agreeable and rational manner of thinking and speaking. Their society was to him also the more pleasant, as it was so completely the reverse of that to which he had been long accustomed, and with which he connected no pleasant ideas. He was weary of slang, artificialness, and common-place; and he was glad to exchange them for common sense, good taste, and sound judgment. There might be some regrets that he had sacrificed himself to a creature so frivolous as Celestina; but there was no distinct wish in his mind that he had preferred and chosen the gentle, intelligent, and unobtrusive Clara Rivolta. This was fortunate for him, because it rendered his intimacy with the family so much more agreeable than it would otherwise have been had he looked back with vain regret to the past, so far as any of them were concerned.

Signora Rivolta, who was a woman of good discernment, and somewhat proud of that discernment, fancied that Lord Trimmerstone was quite an altered man, and that the character in which he had hitherto appeared was not his real character, but was merely a piece of that apery, by which clumsy ones make fools of themselves in endeavouring to become fashionable or distinguished. Under this impression, the Signora paid very especial attention to his lordship; and with a view of confirming and establishing him in good resolutions and good principles, very frequently directed her conversation to the subject of religion, using however very general language, lest the old gentleman her father should entertain a suspicion that there was any design of making a convert to the faith of Rome: for Mr. Martindale had dreadful notions of the Roman Catholic faith, though he did not exactly know what it was. He needed not, however, have given himself much uneasiness about the matter; for when people of rank become religious, it is almost, if not quite always, according to the religion of the state.

What effect conversation of this nature produced on his lordship’s mind must be narrated hereafter. We must now pay our attention elsewhere.

CHAPTER VI.

“There are that love the shades of life,

And shun the splendid walks of fame.”

Langhorne.

Horatio Markham has been but seldom before our readers during the progress of our narrative; but when he has been introduced, it has been very apparent that he has been somewhat of a favorite with us. When a young barrister attends closely and seriously to business; and when, in addition to his rising reputation, which promises at once profit and honor, he enjoys the patronage of a nobleman of exalted rank and commanding influence; when the young man has a motive to industry in seeing and partly enjoying the fruits of professional diligence, his adventures must of necessity be very few, and the tenor of his life must be very monotonous. He may indeed, as Markham very probably did, visit many respectable families; may slip quietly into many an evening party, and as quietly slip out again. He may sit still, or walk about, and say little to any body present at these parties; for his mind may be otherwise engaged; his eyes may be dazzled with many a beauty, and may twinkle for an hour or two, annoyed by excess of artificial light; and he may go home and dream about the Arabian Nights’ Entertainments, and the Statutes at Large, and be very glad of a quiet cup of coffee the next morning. He may perhaps think now and then that it would be very desirable that he should have a house at the west end of the town with three drawing-rooms; and that he should have an income, allowing him to spend four or five hundred pounds in an evening to entertain four or five hundred people who would never thank him for his trouble; and that he should have for his wife a woman possessed of every virtue under the sun, beautiful as Venus, but infinitely more decent; majestic as Juno, but not quite such a termagant; and wise as Minerva, but not quite so prosy as Mentor. He may think, again, that perhaps rather less may content his ambition. He may occasionally, by way of recreation, attend a theatre or an opera, and he may forget next morning whether he had been witnessing tragedy or comedy; and perhaps he might not know at the time if he had not a play-bill. He may sometimes have a friend to breakfast with him at his chambers, and he may talk very sensibly on an infinite variety of subjects, and may give his opinions on many a decision, and on various points of law. He may sometimes in an evening visit a quiet domestic family, and make himself very agreeable to all branches of the family, talking politics with the gentleman, economy with the lady, poetry with the daughters, and science with the sons: he may even carry his complaisance so far as to discover tokens of genius in infants six months old; and if the mania of craniology has bitten any of the family, he may discover the organ of numbers in a great booby who, at ten years of age, has just got into long division. He may hold a share in a literary and scientific institution; and he may look wise over a lecture on chemistry without learning how to make soap, or acquiring the art of detecting the admixture of cape with sherry.

Thus quietly may he hold on the even tenor of his way; and gradually, though surely, may he rise to celebrity in his profession, and to reputation in the world. All this while, however, he has no adventures; he is as monotonous and remarkless as the sun when it rises without a cloud. But if the said young man neglect his business and run riot, and yield himself up to any species of intemperance and folly, then does he bring himself into ten thousand pretty scrapes, which though not very pleasant to himself, may by a skilful narrator be rendered highly diverting to a reader; or, if the narrator have not confidence in his power of amusing, he may at least assume the air of a monitor, and give through the narrative of transgression an admonition to transgressors.

Now, if the gentleman whose vanity we have represented as being gratified by the title of Earl of Trimmerstone had been content to form his fortunes for himself, instead of leaning luxuriously idle on a capricious relative, he would have avoided many of those perplexities into which he was thrown; and though he might not have been honored so much by an association with men of high rank, he would have been honored much more by an intimacy with men of good understanding and decorous conduct. His history would have been more brief, and his mortifications fewer.

The above remarks are designed not as an apology for, but as an explanation of, the circumstance that so little has been said of Markham in this our narrative. Our readers, however, will bear in mind, that such is the young man’s character, that he must have been all this while employing his time and talents as he ought. Some little exception may be made, and that we have mentioned: our allusion is to the weakness by which he suffered himself to be made almost the prey of Miss Henderson. We have alluded, and but slightly, to the perplexity and embarrassment wherewith he was annoyed and distressed on this account. It would be almost wearisome to describe at length the torment which that silly affair inflicted on him. He was not indeed quite such a hero as to resolve in spite of himself to marry the young lady merely because he saw that she thought that he was in love with her. He had not quite so much of the heroism of prudishness, or the prudishness of heroism in his composition, as to make so great a sacrifice. When, however, that ingenious, eloquent, and learned physician, Dr. Crack, made his appearance as a visitor and dangler at Mr. Henderson’s; and when Miss Henderson showed a manifest partiality to Dr. Crack, and when Dr. Crack showed a manifest partiality for Miss Henderson, then a weight was removed from the mind of Markham, and he recovered his spirits most surprisingly.

But such is the lot of humanity, that the removal of one calamity or sorrow is but the making way for another. For now that Markham’s mind was emancipated from Miss Henderson, he began to feel more uneasiness at Tippetson’s intimacy with Clara. It had been, hitherto, a matter of comparative indifference to him while he was annoyed by the persecutions of Miss Henderson; but when trouble was removed, the other appeared greater. He continued, however, his intercourse with Mr. Martindale’s family, out of respect to and at the request of that queer old gentleman.

Now, Markham was modest almost to sheepishness. He had a confidence in his judgment as to matters of an abstract nature, but he had not the slightest share of personal conceit or vanity. He did not think, as some young gentlemen seem to do, that he might have any hand he pleased to ask for. He did not for a moment think of setting himself up as a rival to supplant Mr. Tippetson in the affections of Clara; nor did it altogether comport with his notions of propriety and dignity to sigh and mope like a lackadaisical disappointed lover. He conducted himself, therefore, with cheerful good-humor; and the only symptom he showed of uneasiness was, that he seldom stayed when Tippetson was there.

Any one but himself might observe that Markham was decidedly the favorite; but as for a long while Clara thought that he was engaged to Miss Henderson, she was herself scarcely aware of the existence, still less of the manifestation of any partiality for him. But Tippetson could always see it, inasmuch as he was a crafty man and full of design. And it is not improbable that seeing this he resolved on that scheme which he at last carried into execution.

Although in some respect Markham may be called our hero, as Lord Trimmerstone is our anti-hero, yet as Lord Trimmerstone is not all that is bad, so neither is Markham a paragon of all possible and impossible excellence. What a stupid world it would be if we were all heroes! it would be like a great school of good boys. Now if Markham had been a true hero, he would have married Miss Henderson without any attempt at shuffling or delaying; and if he had been a true hero, he would also have been sadly grieved for Lord Trimmerstone’s loss, and he would have lamented Mr. Tippetson’s wickedness. But in spite of himself, he could not but feel pleased at Tippetson’s departure under circumstances which rendered his return as a suitor absolutely impossible. Unobservant and inattentive as he was, this movement of Mr. Tippetson came upon him with the suddenness and unpreparedness of a thunderbolt. And when soon after hearing the news of the elopement he received a brief from the plaintiff’s attorney, he looked over that brief with most prodigious attention; he saw hope in every line of it. Never before had he perused the long, dry, prosy details of a stupidly-drawn brief with one half the interest with which he perused this brief, in which the Earl of Trimmerstone was plaintiff, and Mr. Henry Augustus Tippetson defendant. While he was reading it, he could not but recollect the very complimentary epistle which he had once received from Miss Henderson in consequence of his dexterity and sagacity in a suit of a delicate nature. He had no wish to receive another epistle from the same quarter, nor would he have been much pleased had Clara in like manner complimented him on the present occasion. But he knew, or thought he knew, Clara better than to suppose that he should be thus complimented by her. Supposing that Tippetson was an accepted, or presumedly accepted lover of Clara, he thought it very natural that the present occurrence would be to her a painful event. He wished to console her, but he feared lest his offers of condolence might be repulsed or ungraciously accepted.

Very anxiously did he await the day of trial, and very carefully did he weigh in his own mind the various modes of treating the subject. Finding that the chief speaker on the other side was a man of prodigious eloquence, he determined that he would not have recourse to balderdash, but that he would manage the business in such a plain matter-of-fact style as that the frothy, sloppy, feathery, flowery sputtering of the antagonist counsel should not have an inch of foundation to rest upon. This arrangement, as we have mentioned, answered his purpose. And when the defendant’s counsel had made a long, vehement spoutification, all about nothing at all at all, the judge in summing up observed, that though a very beautiful speech had been delivered by the defendant’s counsel, there did not seem to be any real defence set up against the action.

Now, in making this remark, the judge laid such a peculiar emphasis on the word beautiful, and at the same time gave such a schoolmaster-look to the gentleman who had spouted that schoolboy speech, that the orator himself looked absolutely sheepish, and he almost determined never to be eloquent again; but, as second thoughts are best, he retracted that determination, for he considered that if he were not eloquent he was nothing.

Wishing to be instructive as well as amusing, we cannot overlook the present opportunity of a digression in favor of eloquence. It is a great pity that our barristers cannot plead in Greek, for then Demosthenes might be very useful to them; and it would be, in all probability, quite as intelligible to the jury as much of that eloquence which is now spouted in English. To use Greek is quite out of the question, and therefore all they can do is to make their English as much like Greek to the jury as they possibly can. This they often do with wonderful success. Eloquence is in our days most grievously neglected, being almost solely confined to provincial newspapers, in which we may still enjoy the fine metaphorical language of the olden time. It is in those choice repositories that we can even yet revel in that fine figure of speech called “circumbendibus;” and were it not for these and a few eloquent barristers, and divers aggrieved parishioners in divers little city parishes which become immortalized by vestry squabbles, we should have scarcely any eloquence at all. This is such a favorite topic with us that we dare not trust ourselves to give way to our feelings; we will therefore content ourselves with giving a valuable hint to eloquent barristers. We advise them, if they wish to keep their eloquence and their countenance too, never to look at the judge, or at the opposing counsel, or at any attorney, or at any one of the jury who has the least look of understanding, but to direct their eyes, if they must keep them open, to any one who looks prodigiously serious and has his mouth wide open.

CHAPTER VII.

“I have liv’d long enough: my way of life

Is fall’n into the sear and yellow leaf.”

Shakspeare.

It might be supposed that, now Mr. Tippetson had very clearly relinquished all intention of offering his hand to Clara, and Miss Henderson had appointed Dr. Crack successor to Mr. Markham, no objection or impediment lay in the way of the last-named gentleman to prevent a regular and formal offer of his heart to Clara Rivolta. So for a moment he thought, and but for a moment. Most curiously do actual events seem to amuse themselves by opposing and contradicting human anticipations.

One morning when there was no business in Westminster Hall, and when Markham, after a late and lounging breakfast in his chamber, was preparing to saunter to the west, and spend his morning and, if Mr. Martindale pleased, his day with Clara Rivolta, just as he had drawn the brush round his hat, that daily author of ten thousand times ten thousand palpitations, the postman, brought him a letter, on which he recognised the hand-writing of his father; but the young man thought that the writing seemed of an unsteadier hand than usual, and he was alarmed.

We have hitherto said little or next to nothing concerning Markham’s father. Our reason for so doing is, that the elder Markham was a linen-draper; and we were very naturally afraid lest any of our readers should for a moment suppose that we knew any thing about such vulgar people. As the subject, however, must be introduced, we hope that our readers will imagine that all the knowledge we have of the linen-draper cast has been derived from some cyclopedia or dictionary of universal knowledge.

When Markham opened the letter, he was still more grieved and surprised to find that its brief and hastily-written contents announced his father’s failure. It had been the young man’s opinion and full persuasion, that his father had been for a shopkeeper rather an opulent man. In such towns as he dwelt in, though the gentry look down with contempt upon shopkeepers, yet there are among shopkeepers an almost infinite variety of gradations and degrees of dignity and rank. Mr. Markham the elder was one of the principal shopkeepers, and he held his head considerably above many of the tradespeople in his own town; and his intimacy was rather with professional than with trading people. But, unfortunately, in order to keep up his rank in society, he had lived somewhat too expensively; and by the untoward introduction of an underselling, semi-roguish draper into the town, Mr. Markham’s business fell off most pitiably, and he was compelled to propose to his creditors the horrors of a composition. We say here, and in this instance, the horrors of a composition, inasmuch as to such a man as Mr. Markham there was something in it most truly distressing and painful. We have indeed heard that there are those who by means of such arrangements grow wealthy, and unblushingly rise in the world; these, we apprehend, can never become part of the Corinthian capital of society, they may be rather described as of the Composite order.

This calamity, which had so unexpectedly befallen the elder Markham, afflicted him most deeply; and he communicated the information to his son in language so desponding, and with such broken-heartedness, that the young man was quite overwhelmed with the information. Breaking through every other engagement, he hastened down to the country to condole with his father on the calamity which had overtaken him; and not without some faint hope that there might be a possibility of averting the blow.

The letter simply stated that a composition had been proposed. Markham the younger, therefore, thought that it might perhaps be within the compass of his power to obviate the necessity of bringing that negotiation to a conclusion. He made therefore as rapid and at the same time as accurate a calculation as he could of the means which were in his power, and forthwith hastened to the scene of perplexity and difficulty.

As he entered the abode of his infancy, he saw, or fancied he saw, a melancholy change. The furniture of the apartment looked as if it had been neglected. The whole house appeared gloomy and still; but worst of all, when his poor father came into the room and took his son by the hand, there was a hardness in the pressure, but no cordiality. Markham thought that his father’s hand felt cold, and he saw that his dress lacked its usual neatness, while the countenance was pale, and the voice was tremulous, and the eye looked downwards. The young man would fain have made the meeting cheerful, but his sympathy with his father’s sorrow was stronger than the father’s sympathy with the young man’s buoyant spirits and hopeful thoughts. Markham caught the contagion of his father’s sorrow; and after some vain attempts to put a cheerful aspect on the matter, he ventured to say:

“But is there no remedy to be suggested? It is not much that is in my power at this very moment; but I do trust that I might shortly be able to command all that may be wanted.”

The father averted his face to conceal the tears which he could not suppress; and he extended his hand towards his son. The young man took the offered hand, pressed it, and was for some minutes silent. With difficulty the elder Markham replied:

“No, no, my dear boy, I will not hear a word about involving you in my troubles. You are beginning life, I am finishing my course. It is one comfort to me that I shall not leave you destitute: and perhaps when I am gone, you will not neglect your poor mother. It is kind of you to come down to see us in our troubles: my portion in them will be but short; and when I am gone, I hope and trust you will continue attentive to your dear mother. You owe much to her care, and I am sure you will not forget her. Poor thing! she will see you presently, but her spirits are very much agitated. She knows you are come. It is a great blessing to us, my dear boy, that you have succeeded so well in the world.”

To this and much more did Markham the younger lend a painful and reluctant attention; but he was too much distressed to trust his voice to interrupt the desultory talk of his afflicted father. It was indeed very afflictive to him that, at the very time when he was, by means of an honorable and diligent application to the duties of his profession, rising in the world both in wealth and reputation, there should come suddenly and unexpectedly upon him this drawback to his success; for he could not for a moment admit the idea of enjoying his prosperity while his father should be living under the unpleasant consciousness that his debts were but partially discharged. After a little more conversation, and when the first uneasiness of their painful meeting had been somewhat abated, the young man very earnestly, but respectfully, desired to be informed concerning the particulars of his father’s embarrassments, and the amount of the claims upon him. This inquiry, so humiliating to a parent and to a man of such feelings as the elder Markham, was managed by the young barrister with so exquisitely delicate address, that instead of grieving and irritating, it rather soothed and composed the father’s mind. There was also a happy and pleasing consciousness that there had been, on his own part, no impropriety or inaccuracy of conduct; the misfortune was simply and purely a misfortune, arising from events over which he had no control. Perhaps it would be rather too severe, and savour somewhat of moral pedantry, should we say that Mr. Markham the elder ought to have been sooner aware of his changing circumstances, and ought to have curtailed his expenses as his means diminished; and that he ought to have known very fully and very exactly all the probabilities and possibilities of mercantile fluctuation. But even supposing him to have had some little suspicion and some faint consciousness that all was not right, it would have been a piece of magnanimity seldom witnessed in the commercial world, had he resolutely and boldly abridged very essentially his usual expenditure; and perhaps that very abridgment would have been the means of hastening the dreaded calamity. Generally speaking, we may say that the calamity in which the elder Markham was involved was not from his own imprudence.

To expose and regularly set forth the whole state of his affairs was not the work of a moment. This business, therefore, was postponed till the following day. In the mean time Markham’s mother made her appearance, wearing a much more composed aspect than the young gentleman had expected, judging from the language which his father had used. Mrs. Markham has little to do in our history; but the mother of an amiable, well-conducted, and intelligent young man is almost always an object of respect. The direction and moral habits of the youthful mind depend much on the practical wisdom of a mother. She does not indeed create the mind, but she gives its energies their first impulse. For when the infant first wakes to consciousness, and commences its converse with the world, the first ray of knowledge, and the earliest of its discriminations, beam from a mother’s eye; and the emotions of its little heart receive their modulation from the melody of a mother’s voice. And is there not an undefinable, but powerfully apprehensible difference between the voice of inanity, selfishness, and grossness, and the voice of intelligence, generosity, and purity? Is there not also as great a difference between an eye which indicates mind, and one which is but a cold glassy inlet of uninterpreted light? We have before professed not to philosophise, and we restrain ourselves from farther digression here. But when there stands beside the path of our narrative a character so truly respectable as that of Mrs. Markham, we cannot resist the inclination to notice and eulogise it. Much talk has been made of the dignity of females in the higher walks of life, and many fine and interesting specimens have been handed up to the world of rustic purity and simplicity; but the character of Markham’s mother belongs not to either of these classes. Hers was a moral, natural, essential dignity: it was not stateliness and pomp, for in her situation these would have been ridiculous, and of consequence undignified. Nature often gives to individuals in every rank of life a species of inalienable nobility, and sometimes denies even to some in the highest walks that nobility of character, by which alone the artificial nobility of civilised society can be properly upheld in its dignity.

All this our readers know as well as we do; and we have not mentioned it by way of instruction or discovery, but simply to let them understand the character of Markham’s mind as having been in its earliest developments under the guidance of a mother of this description, and as having received no ordinary portion of the same spirit. The meeting of the mother and the son was not quite so painful as had been the meeting of the father and the son; for the agitation which Mr. Markham had attributed to her had been more in his own feelings than in hers.

The Markhams were what is called old-fashioned people: not that their manners or opinions really coincided with the manners and opinions of any by-gone age or past generation, but because their notions were somewhat romantic, and their manners somewhat formal. They had their own peculiar views of objects; and in these they differed from their contemporaries, and therefore they were called old-fashioned. They would have been quite as old-fashioned a thousand years ago: for the past is the repository in which imagination finds its stock of virtues. They were people of integrity of spirit and of great moral purity, of mild, not cold decorum. They were scrupulously punctual and exact; and therefore when necessity prevented punctuality in that most delicate of all points, the payment of accounts, they felt it as a severe and painful affliction.

From what we have said of the family, their character and circumstances, our readers may readily imagine the feelings with which the younger Markham quitted his mother. In the minds of some there is a lurking suspicion that these people were proud, and that in order to preserve fairness and honesty in our descriptions and representations, we should acknowledge that much of their then suffering arose from pride. Perhaps it might be so. Let it be acknowledged. We can only say that it would have been much better for the Earl and Countess of Trimmerstone had they possessed more of that species of pride which abounded in the humbler family of Markham: then would his lordship have avoided the mortification of dependence; then would his lordship have avoided the degradation of associating with divers gentlemen of the fancy, and the perplexity of losing his money to them; then would his lordship have escaped the lectures of the police magistrate, as touching a quarrel with Mr. Isaac Solomons, junior, of St. Mary Axe, and also as touching a squabble with the watchmen in connexion with Mr. Singleton Sloper; and then would her ladyship also have escaped an ill-assorted marriage with one who had no regard for her, and an elopement with one of the dirtiest coxcombs that ever perfumed and disgraced humanity. There is a pride which has its uses and benefits.

When Markham the younger had prepared himself for a painful and distressing meeting with his mother, he was agreeably disappointed to find her so very calm and composed; and it also gave him satisfaction to hear that the state of affairs was not quite so bad as from his father’s letter he had been led to imagine. A composition indeed had been offered, or rather proposed; for as yet the poor man had merely ascertained his inability to meet all the claims upon him, and he had found himself in a reduced state, but he hardly knew how much or how little he was reduced. Mrs. Markham, who was a woman of business and of good understanding, and who, though not gratuitously and curiously interfering, had examined and investigated the pecuniary difficulties, gave to her son a more particular statement than his father’s nervous and agitated frame of mind would allow him to do. From this statement it appeared that the sum required to meet the exigencies of the case was altogether within the compass of the young man’s power. This thought dispersed much of the uneasiness which he had felt at first receiving the painful intelligence. Not entirely however was his mind freed from perplexity; for he had doubts and fears concerning his father’s willingness to accept relief from such quarter. Nor was it altogether without some disagreeable feelings that the young man contemplated the loss of the first-fruits of his professional success. On the other hand, it was a high gratification to him that it was in his power to avert a heavy affliction from those parents to whom he owed so much.

Some very profound philosophers, who are a great deal wiser than we are or ever wish to be, are of opinion that mankind are not under very great obligations to parents, and that parents having a pleasure in doing the best they can for their offspring, and feeling a satisfaction in making all manner of sacrifices for their children, have their reward and motive in the very acts themselves, and therefore deserve no very particular thanks or expressions of gratitude. For whatsoever any one finds pleasure in doing, has not the character of virtue, or the power of binding or leading another to gratitude. So to illustrate this philosophy, we may state the matter thus. If a benefactor can truly say to the object of his benevolence or benefaction, “I thoroughly hate, and most cordially detest you; and I have not any pleasure, but rather a great deal of pain, in doing you any kind offices; and it would give me much greater satisfaction to see you starve, than to be conscious that you are enjoying any of the blessings of life;”—then the benefaction is most truly disinterested, and the recipient is bound to be truly grateful. Though we must acknowledge ourselves puzzled to know where to find such disinterested goodness; therefore, in the mean time, we will patiently put up with such benevolence as the world supplies us with; and we will explain away and apologise for any feelings of gratitude which we may entertain towards benefactors and friends, by saying, that our gratitude is not exercised towards them because they deserve it, but because we like it, and it is exceedingly pleasant to ourselves to think and speak handsomely of those who have been the means of doing us good.

It is, no doubt, only on this ground that we can account for so sensible a man as Horatio Markham being grateful to his parents for the sacrifices which they had made, for the purpose of establishing him in that possession to which his taste and ambition were so strongly directed.

CHAPTER VIII.

“I have neither wit nor words nor worth,

Action or utterance or the power of speech,

To stir men’s blood. I only speak right on.”

Shakspeare.

Now during the first day of Markham’s visit to his parents no progress had been made in the matter of business, for as yet the answers of the creditors had not been received. The elder Markham had sent off by the same post the letter to his son, and those which were destined for his creditors. That which had been sent to his son was first answered, as we have stated.

On the morning, therefore, after the young man’s arrival, the coming of the postman was anxiously looked for by all three. The father, indeed, seemed more and more dejected; and ever and anon, instead of taking notice of his wife and son, he muttered to himself, “They won’t accept a composition; I am sure they won’t; it was foolish of me to expect it.”

This was at the breakfast-table; and when either his wife or son urged him to partake of the morning meal, he coldly said, “It is not mine, it belongs to my creditors.” That was very true; but it was distressing to his family to hear such language; and that not merely because it was true, but because it indicated a bitterness of soul in him who used it.

No answer was made; for neither mother nor son had steadiness enough to trust themselves to speak to one who was under the influence of such distressful feelings. They sat at the breakfast-table beyond their usual time, and the postman brought no letters. The elder Markham looked wildly and distractedly, and he said, “Pray give me the letters; let me know the worst. I can very well bear it.” But when they told him that no letters were arrived, he smiled incredulously, and replied, “It is very kind and considerate of you, that you will break the matter to me gradually.”

“Indeed, my dear,” replied Mrs. Markham, “there are no letters this morning.”

“Then they have detained the letters in the shop,” said Mr. Markham; “I will go and fetch them.”

He rose for the purpose, but he presently returned; and just as he was at the door of the apartment, he hastily came back again, and resuming his seat, he covered his face with his hands, and said, in a melancholy under tone, “Oh! I can never show my face there again.”

The poor man’s distress now increased to a degree that rendered it almost as painful to witness as to bear. It is indeed hardly to be imagined to what excess it might have proceeded, had it not been for an interruption of a peculiar and unexpected nature. This was the appearance of the principal creditor, whose high opinion of Mr. Markham’s integrity would not permit him to satisfy himself with a mere letter of reply to the communication which he had received from the embarrassed tradesman.

There was ushered into the apartment where the family was sitting a very tall thin man, in a long single-breasted drab coat of the finest cloth that was ever woven, and wearing a hat which in its shape and expression so sympathised with the wearer’s look, that the hat and the head seemed made for each other. The visitor stalked directly and undeviatingly up to the elder Markham, took hold of the poor man’s hand, squeezed it very hard, and shook it very violently; and after performing this ceremony in total silence, and with most unperturbable steadiness of look, he then spoke with a shrill nasal twang, at the very top of his voice; “Neighbour Markham, I am sorry to see thee.”

This unusually loud noise and strange-sounding voice was quite a relief to the party, who had that morning held intercourse with each other only in low murmurings and subdued and sorrowful tones. To such a greeting, on such an occasion, Mr. Markham felt it difficult to reply. He only shook his head, and said, “I am sorry to see you, sir.”

Thereupon the man in drab, who had taken a seat by the side of poor Mr. Markham, and had crossed his extended legs and clasped his long fingers, leaving only his thumbs at liberty to move, screwed up his lips as tight as a miser’s purse, and, as if economical of words, uttered through the nose a sound which no vowels or consonants in any European alphabet are competent to express, either severally or conjointly. As it oftentimes occurs that words are used when no meaning is conveyed, so does it on the other hand sometimes happen that much meaning is conveyed when no words are uttered. Thus it was on the occasion to which we now allude. Mr. Markham was familiar with the above-named unwriteable sound; and he knew that it indicated in the mind of him, through whose nose it passed, a feeling of compassion and a promise of kindness.

Turning to Mrs. Markham, the visitor said, “Mary Markham, this is thy son, probably.” On this, Horatio Markham took occasion to speak to the creditor, and began by saying,

“I am very much concerned, sir, for the unpleasant situation in which my father is now placed; but I believe we shall be able to surmount the difficulty, if not immediately, at least in a very short time.”

“Do thee, indeed?” said the Quaker; and without making more reply, or vouchsafing to the young gentleman any farther attention, he directed himself again to the elder Markham, and said to him, “Thy son is a promising young man.”

“I have reason, Mr. Wiggins, to be very well pleased with my son; he is indeed a blessing to us.”

“Neighbour Markham, my name is Wiggins; but my name is not Mister. But let us proceed to business; for to that intent I came hither.”

Thereupon the creditor thrust his long arm into a deep side-pocket, and extracted therefrom a long black letter-case, and from that letter-case he drew out the letter which he had received from Mr. Markham.

“Neighbour,” said the Quaker, “thee might be disposed to think that I had forgotten thee, seeing that thy letter did not receive an immediate answer: but I was willing to see thy other creditors to know how they stood inclined towards thee. So yesterday we had a meeting.”

“A meeting of my creditors!” exclaimed Mr. Markham, with great emphasis of grief; “Oh God! that I should ever come to this!”

“Thee will come to something worse, neighbour Markham, if thee don’t leave off taking the name of the Lord in vain,” replied Mr. Wiggins; “but thee is impatient; thee will not listen. I tell thee that there has been a meeting of thy creditors, and they are sorry for thy misfortunes, and they are disposed to assist thee. They respect thy integrity; but they would not have thee take the name of the Lord in vain. It is a sad thing, neighbour, to want money; but it is worse to want patience: thee will never get rich by putting thyself in a passion. But thy creditors will not trouble thee at present. They besought me to tell thee that they would wait thy own time.”

At this information Mr. Markham shook his head mournfully. There are those who when in trouble are exceeding sceptical as to good tidings, and are slow to believe what pretends to promise them good. Poor Mr. Markham was of that description. He hardly liked to have the pathos of his deep sorrow interrupted or interfered with. But his son Horatio was a man of more words and somewhat less formality. He readily expressed his thanks to the principal creditor, but at the same time added,

“I trust, sir, there will be no necessity for any long forbearance; had my father stated all the particulars to me before he wrote to his creditors, I believe there would not have been found any occasion for the step which he has now taken. I will be answerable—”

Here Mr. Wiggins interrupted the young barrister. “Young man, be not in too great haste to part with thy money; thee has not been in possession of it long enough to know its weight.” Then turning to the elder Markham, he said, “Neighbour Markham, thee shall go on with thy business, and if thee needs any supply, thy credit is good with me yet. Let thy son keep that which he has earned. Farewell.”

Not a word that could be said, nor any entreaties whatever were effectual to detain the strange Mr. Wiggins a moment after he had said farewell. It seemed to him a matter of conscience to depart as soon as he had uttered the word which indicated the intention of going.

The spirits of the elder Markham were not cheered by that visit which was designed to remove an oppressive weight of sorrow from his mind. The very consideration that there had been any thing like a necessity for proposing a composition weighed very deeply upon him, and produced serious illness.

Markham, whose intention it had been to make a short visit to his native place, now found himself powerfully and indeed irresistibly detained. It was not indeed absolutely necessary for him to be in town at this time; and had even his professional occupations urged his attendance, it is more than probable that their importunity would have been disregarded: for it is not likely that his father’s commercial perplexities should have commanded his sympathies more strongly than an actual sickness.

Our English proverbs are not frequently to our taste; for many of them want point, not a few are destitute of truth, and most of those which are correct are cold common-place truisms. There is, however, one which occurs at the present juncture, not indeed very graceful in its expression or profound in its observation, but having in its meaning and application a moral lesson which cannot be too frequently or too earnestly inculcated on the misery-loving and ever-grumbling people of this most highly-favored land. The proverb to which our allusion points is as follows, “It is an ill wind that blows nobody good.” Certainly it was not pleasant to the father of Horatio Markham to be so situated that he must be within a little of bankruptcy. Certainly it was not pleasant to the young man to find that his professional success should in its earliest stages be destined to repair the ravages which untoward circumstances had made in his father’s property. Certainly it was very painful to see that after this calamity had been partially healed, or at least palliated, his poor father had so taken to heart the unexpected affliction, as to suffer from its influences a severe bodily illness. Certainly it was mortifying to the young man who was looking upwards in society, and was in the way of what is called making his fortune, to have this sudden and unforeseen blight coming over his fair hopes. Certainly also there was something sorrowful to his soul in the consideration that at the very moment in which there seemed a probability that his attachment to Clara might be honorably avowed, he should be called away from scenes of hope and brightness and opulence, to a house of fear, of gloom, of poverty.

These circumstances gathering together round the mind of our young friend perplexed and pained him. It is very true that he was perfectly well acquainted with all the commonplaces of consolation, and he knew that there not unfrequently arises good out of evil. But what does knowledge amount to in the way of consolation? He saw no particular good end likely to be answered by all these perplexities; but he saw, or thought he saw, a great evil as the probable result of them. He had left London without giving notice to any of his friends; and the business on which he visited the country was not one which he was very desirous of advertising. He therefore very naturally thought that Clara would suppose that he was not very anxious to renew the acquaintance with her; and he also contemplated the possibility of some more rational being than Tippetson making advances more acceptably and successfully. This thought was a source of uneasiness to him, and he could not see any mode of communicating to Mr. Martindale the cause of his sudden absence from town. He had thought that a day or two would suffice, and that in that short time he should not be missed; but now he found that he was likely to be detained much longer; and should he on his return to London state that his father’s illness had delayed him in the country beyond his intention, there would still be something remarkable in the fact of his hasty and silent departure from town.

He therefore thought that this illness was most peculiarly unfortunate and calamitous, as not only being distressing to his parents, but probably productive of serious inconvenience to himself.

We have already intimated that Horatio Markham was deficient in some of those qualities that form a hero. Here we have occasion to repeat the observation. His want of heroism was manifested in several points alluded to in the present chapter. For had he been a proper hero, he would never have suffered Mr. Wiggins to grant any thing of indulgence to the embarrassed shopkeeper, but he would forthwith have paid to the utmost every farthing of the debt to him and the other creditors, had he been under the necessity for that purpose of parting with his library and every saleable article in his possession, even to his very watch. Had he been a proper hero, he would have regarded with more apathy and magnanimity a commercial failure. Had he been a proper hero, he would not have admitted the possibility that there could exist on the face of the earth any human being but himself worthy of Clara’s hand, or likely to obtain it. Had he been a proper hero, he would not have been quite so shy, as he clearly was, of the fact that his father kept a linen-draper’s shop in a country town.

We have represented Horatio Markham as a man of talent and general good judgment, but we have not described him as a paragon of all possible and impossible excellence. He was a steady, quiet, sober, clear-headed man, who understood his professional and his moral duties, who gave himself seriously to the business to which he was brought up, and who wished very naturally to rise in the world. In a very high degree he was early successful; but he was not vain of that success, nor did he think himself the greatest or the only genius in the world. In matters of intellect he was unpretending, and in matters of a moral nature pure and conscientious.

As he had proceeded he became more ambitious; and by the distinguished patronage which he enjoyed, he hoped to take ultimately a higher rank in society than at the commencement of his career he had anticipated. He had hoped that his parents, either by his own exertions or by their circumstances, might soon retire from business; but when instead of this retirement he found that there was pecuniary embarrassment which he could not easily, if at all, remove, he was severely disappointed; and when in addition to this the illness of his father detained him from town and from Clara, he feared the worst that could happen. Nor could he imagine that in this complication of unfortunate and perplexing circumstances there was any good likely to arise either to himself or to any one else. But he was wrong; for the illness of the father was the means of deciding the destiny of the son’s life.

CHAPTER IX.

“To deal in wordy compliment

Is much against the plainness of my nature.”

Rowe.

Considering the language with which the preceding chapter is closed, it would not be decorous to fly off in a tangent to discuss the movements of other characters in our narrative; though we may very well suppose that some of our readers would be glad to know how the Right Hon. the Earl of Trimmerstone bears his retirement, and how he looks in his reformed condition. Nothing more, however, does it suit us now to state on this head, than that orders had been given, and were rapidly proceeding in their execution, for the repair and reformation of Trimmerstone Hall, and that his lordship found some amusement in superintending these repairs.

In the mean time, however, Mr. Martindale, who was aware that it would be doing more harm than good to supply his noble relative’s extravagance with unlimited means of indulgence, thought that he should do his lordship more essential service by procuring him some appointment, which might have at least the semblance of occupation for him. With this view he waited upon the nobleman whom we have before mentioned as having patronised Horatio Markham. Here we are strongly tempted to observe how inaccurate is our ordinary language. We call men high in office, men in power. This is wrong. They find that the higher they rise, the more circumscribed is their power. The greater is their patronage, the less able are they to do as they will. A country parson has power to appoint his own curate; a country squire may choose whom he will for butler, coachman, or footman; but they who have the distribution of better things than curacies and coach-boxes, have to consult and to be guided by many more wills, minds, and opinions than their own.

Mr. Martindale found this to be the case with the nobleman to whom he made application in the present instance. Nothing could be more cordial or polite than the reception which Mr. Martindale experienced, and nothing could be more gratifying than the kind attention wherewith his lordship made inquiry after the health of the various members of his family. But when the business was mentioned for which the call was made, nothing could exceed the regret which his lordship felt and expressed that at present he had it not in his power to accommodate so respectable and valued a friend as Mr. Martindale. There was certainly sincerity in these expressions, though probably they were used with little variation of phraseology to many others. It would have been much more agreeable to his lordship had it been in his power to grant many more requests, and to oblige many more friends; but, as he himself said to Mr. Martindale, he actually had for every place at his disposal at least fifty applications, and many of them accompanied with recommendations and arguments of a most pressing nature.

As Mr. Martindale was a reasonable man, and one to whom his lordship could speak freely, there soon sprung up between them some conversation on the topic of patronage.

“I assure you, Mr. Martindale,” said his lordship, “it is by no means correct to say that I enjoy the distribution of patronage. It is an affair of constant perplexity; and I sometimes am tempted to wish that some of the public grumblers were placed for a while in my situation. They would then see that it is not the easiest matter in the world to please every body.”

“I dare say not, I dare say not, my lord,” replied Mr. Martindale; “we cannot administer our own affairs to please every body, and it is not easier to give satisfaction by the administration of public affairs. I will not fly out into discontent and opposition, because I cannot have every thing I wish for my scape-grace kinsman.”

The distributer of patronage smiled, and replied, “It is not every one that is so considerate, Mr. Martindale. There was a situation vacant some time ago, and I disposed of it to a young man of no family or connexion, and with whom I was made acquainted by mere accident, and whom I took up purely on the ground of his good sense and honorable application to business, and I find that I was abundantly right in the judgment which I formed. But I was afterwards exposed to so much expostulation and reproof from quarters where you might least expect it, that I am almost afraid of following my own judgment in the most trifling matters that relate to the public service.”

“I know,” replied Mr. Martindale, “the person to whom your lordship alludes: he is certainly a man of most excellent mental and moral qualities.”

“And for a man of real ability,” added his lordship, “the most unpretending and unassuming I ever knew. He carries his reserve to an excess; for I never see him here among my visitors.”

Now, as Mr. Martindale was an impetuous and hasty man, and was withal mightily partial to this said Horatio Markham, he forgot for a time his noble kinsman, and after taking leave of his lordship, he went immediately to Markham’s chambers to give him a hint that it might be advisable to pay a little more attention to his patron. It also occurred to the old gentleman that he himself had not seen Markham for several days; so he designed to give him also an intimation concerning that neglect.

Greatly to the surprise of the old gentleman, Markham was not in town; and more than that, his clerk could not say for a certainty when he would be in town. Upon receiving this information, Mr. Martindale took the liberty of inquiring very particularly and curiously to find out where he was, and what was the occasion of his absence. Now, when a rich old man asks questions, a poor young man is ready enough to answer them according to the best of his ability, unless he have some especial reason for concealment. There being with Markham’s clerk no such reason, he endeavoured to give Mr. Martindale the benefit of all his knowledge together with the result of his conjectures. From all that could be gathered from this informant, it appeared that Markham was with his parents, and that his father was unwell.

Now Mr. Martindale did not blame the young man for visiting a sick parent, but he thought it very strange that he should make a secret of his departure from town. It was therefore the old gentleman’s first intention to send a note to his young friend reminding him of the neglect with which he had unintentionally treated his kind and considerate patron; but as the town where Markham’s father resided was not much out of the line of road leading to Trimmerstone, and as the old gentleman was especially fond of a personal intermeddlement with brick and mortar, he conceived the design of paying a visit to Trimmerstone Hall, and calling upon Markham in his way there.

The old gentleman found his way into the little parlour at the back of the shop in the same manner as when he first introduced himself, as stated in the commencement of our narrative. His appearance, on the present occasion, did not excite less surprise, than when he first made himself known to them. When he entered the apartment, the elder Markham was sitting by the fire-side in an easy chair, and had the appearance of one slowly recovering from a long illness. His countenance was much changed, and he looked considerably older than when Mr. Martindale first saw him. The old gentleman was a very observant, quick-sighted man, and had a perfect recollection of Mr. Markham’s appearance when he had seen him in health. He was sorry to see him so much altered, and he expressed his concern accordingly. Mr. Markham attempted to rise. Mr. Martindale quickly caught hold of his hand, and almost too roughly for an invalid forced him back into his chair.

“Sit down, my good friend, sit down. I hate ceremony. Sorry to see you so ill. Your son never let me know any thing of your indisposition.” Then addressing himself to Horatio Markham, he went on, “So, Mr. Barrister, you left town in so great a hurry, you could not condescend to give me notice of your departure.”

The younger Markham was about to speak, but Mr. Martindale waited not for a reply. He proceeded to make more minute inquiries concerning the illness of Mr. Markham the elder; but was not patient enough to wait for distinct and separate answers. When a person in high spirits and of natural hastiness of manner enters into any thing of a conversation with others who are not in high spirits, he does not immediately notice the contrast, for the loud crowing of his own voice is for a time a reflection of his own cheerful thoughts; but even vivacity needs sympathy to support it, and cannot long exist without. And when the first rush of hasty greeting is over, then it is seen and felt that the vivacity is not mutual, and then the cheerfulness abates. So fared it with Mr. Martindale, who was for his years a man of astonishing vivacity and activity. He soon perceived that there was a depression of spirits in the family, and he rebuked himself for the almost levity of manner with which he had addressed them. He then went on to talk common-place, and took an opportunity of hinting to Horatio that it would be proper for him to pay a little more homage to his patron. The mention of this brought some observations from Mrs. Markham, acknowledging Mr. Martindale’s kindness in taking notice of her son.

“Madam,” replied the old gentleman, “I think it an honor to have your son’s acquaintance; and I wish he would not be quite so diffident of himself. He is in the way to preferment; but he must not forget that though such men as his noble patron may be ready enough to reward merit, they have no time to hunt about for it.”