CHAPTER III.
Thus does a false ambition rule us, Thus pomp delude, and folly fool us.--Shenstone.
An open house, haunted with great resort.--Bishop Hall's Satires.
I left Cambridge in a very weak state of health; and as nobody had yetcome to London, I accepted the invitation of Sir Lionel Garrett to payhim a visit at his country seat. Accordingly, one raw winter's day,full of the hopes of the reviving influence of air and exercise, I foundmyself carefully packed up in three great coats, and on the high road toGarrett Park.
Sir Lionel Garrett was a character very common in England, and, indescribing him, I describe the whole species. He was of an ancientfamily, and his ancestors had for centuries resided on their estatesin Norfolk. Sir Lionel, who came to his majority and his fortune at thesame time, went up to London at the age of twenty-one, a raw, uncouthsort of young man, in a green coat and lank hair. His friends in townwere of that set whose members are above ton, whenever they do not graspat its possession, but who, whenever they do, lose at once their aim andtheir equilibrium, and fall immeasurably below it. I mean that set whichI call "the respectable," consisting of old peers of an old school;country gentlemen, who still disdain not to love their wine and to hatethe French; generals who have served in the army; elder brothers whosucceed to something besides a mortgage; and younger brothers who donot mistake their capital for their income. To this set you may add thewhole of the baronetage--for I have remarked that baronets hang togetherlike bees or Scotchmen; and if I go to a baronet's house, and speakto some one whom I have not the happiness to know, I always say "SirJohn--."
It was no wonder, then, that to this set belonged Sir Lionel Garrett--nomore the youth in a green coat and lank hair, but pinched in, and curledout--abounding in horses and whiskers--dancing all night--lounging allday--the favourite of the old ladies, the Philander of the young.
One unfortunate evening Sir Lionel Garrett was introduced to thecelebrated Duchess of D. From that moment his head was turned. Beforethen, he had always imagined that he was somebody--that he was SirLionel Garrett, with a good-looking person and eight thousand a-year;he now knew that he was nobody unless he went to Lady G.'s and unlesshe bowed to Lady S. Disdaining all importance derived from himself, itbecame absolutely necessary to his happiness, that all his importanceshould be derived solely from his acquaintance with others. He cared nota straw that he was a man of fortune, of family, of consequence; he mustbe a man of ton; or he was an atom, a nonentity, a very worm, and noman. No lawyer at Gray's Inn, no galley slave at the oar, ever worked sohard at his task as Sir Lionel Garrett at his. Ton, to a single man,is a thing attainable enough. Sir Lionel was just gaining the envieddistinction, when he saw, courted, and married Lady Harriett Woodstock.
His new wife was of a modern and not very rich family, and striving likeSir Lionel for the notoriety of fashion; but of this struggle hewas ignorant. He saw her admitted into good society--he imagined shecommanded it; she was a hanger on--he believed she was a leader. LadyHarriett was crafty and twenty-four--had no objection to be married, norto change the name of Woodstock for Garrett. She kept up the baronet'smistake till it was too late to repair it.
Marriage did not bring Sir Lionel wisdom. His wife was of the sameturn of mind as himself: they might have been great people in thecountry--they preferred being little people in town. They might havechosen friends among persons of respectability and rank--they preferredbeing chosen as acquaintance by persons of ton. Society was theirbeing's end and aim, and the only thing which brought them pleasurewas the pain of attaining it. Did I not say truly that I would describeindividuals of a common species? Is there one who reads this, who doesnot recognize that overflowing class of the English population, whosemembers would conceive it an insult to be thought of sufficient rank tobe respectable for what they are?--who take it as an honour that theyare made by their acquaintance?--who renounce the ease of living forthemselves, for the trouble of living for persons who care not a pinfor their existence--who are wretched if they are not dictated to byothers--and who toil, groan, travail, through the whole course of life,in order to forfeit their independence?
I arrived at Garrett Park just time enough to dress for dinner. As I wasdescending the stairs after having performed that ceremony, I heard myown name pronounced by a very soft, lisping voice, "Henry Pelham! dear,what a pretty name. Is he handsome?"
"Rather distingue than handsome," was the unsatisfactory reply, couchedin a slow, pompous accent, which I immediately recognized to belong toLady Harriett Garrett.
"Can we make something of him?" resumed the first voice.
"Something!" said Lady Harriett, indignantly; "he will be LordGlenmorris! and he is son to Lady Frances Pelham."
"Ah," said the lisper, carelessly; "but can he write poetry, and playproverbes?"
"No, Lady Harriett," said I, advancing; "but permit me, through you, toassure Lady Nelthorpe that he can admire those who do."
"So you know me then?" said the lisper: "I see we shall be excellentfriends;" and disengaging herself from Lady Harriett, she took my arm,and began discussing persons and things, poetry and china, Frenchplays and music, till I found myself beside her at dinner, and mostassiduously endeavouring to silence her by the superior engrossments ofa bechamelle de poisson.
I took the opportunity of the pause, to survey the little circle ofwhich Lady Harriett was the centre. In the first place, there wasMr. Davison, a great political economist, a short, dark, corpulentgentleman, with a quiet, serene, sleepy countenance, which put meexceedingly in mind of my grandmother's arm-chair; beside him was aquick, sharp little woman, all sparkle and bustle, glancing a small,grey, prying eye round the table, with a most restless activity: this,as Lady Nelthorpe afterwards informed me, was a Miss Trafford, anexcellent person for a Christmas in the country, whom every body wasdying to have: she was an admirable mimic, an admirable actress, andan admirable reciter; made poetry and shoes, and told fortunes by thecards, which came actually true.
There was also Mr. Wormwood, the noli-me-tangere of literary lions--anauthor who sowed his conversation not with flowers but thorns. Nobodycould accuse him of the flattery generally imputed to his species;through the course of a long and varied life, he had never oncebeen known to say a civil thing. He was too much disliked not to berecherche; whatever is once notorious, even for being disagreeable, issure to be courted in England. Opposite to him sat the really clever,and affectedly pedantic Lord Vincent, one of those persons who have been"promising young men" all their lives; who are found till four o'clockin the afternoon in a dressing-gown, with a quarto before them; who godown into the country for six weeks every session, to cram an impromptureply; and who always have a work in the press which is never to bepublished.
Lady Nelthorpe herself I had frequently seen. She had some reputationfor talent, was exceedingly affected, wrote poetry in albums, ridiculedher husband, who was a fox hunter, and had a great penchant pour lesbeaux arts et les beaux hommes.
There were four or five others of the unknown vulgar, younger brothers,who were good shots and bad matches; elderly ladies, who lived inBaker-street, and liked long whist; and young ones, who never took wine,and said "Sir."
I must, however, among this number, except the beautiful Lady Roseville,the most fascinating woman, perhaps, of the day. She was evidently thegreat person there, and, indeed, among all people who paid due deferenceto ton, was always sure to be so every where. I have never seen but oneperson more beautiful. Her eyes were of the deepest blue; her complexionof the most delicate carnation; her hair of the richest auburn: norcould even Mr. Wormwood detect the smallest fault in the rounded yetslender symmetry of her figure.
Although not above twenty-five, she was in that state in which alone awoman ceases to be a dependant--widowhood. Lord Roseville, who had beendead about two years, had not survived their marriage many months; thatperiod was, however, sufficiently long to allow him to appreciate herexcellence, and to testify his sense of it: the whole of his
unentailedproperty, which was very large, he bequeathed to her.
She was very fond of the society of literati, though without thepretence of belonging to their order. But her manners constituted herchief attraction: while they were utterly different from those of everyone else, you could not, in the least minutiae, discover in what thedifference consisted: this is, in my opinion, the real test of perfectbreeding. While you are enchanted with the effect, it should possessso little prominency and peculiarity, that you should never be able toguess the cause.
"Pray," said Lord Vincent to Mr. Wormwood, "have you been to P--thisyear?"
"No," was the answer.
"I have, my lord," said Miss Trafford, who never lost an opportunity ofslipping in a word.
"Well, and did they make you sleep, as usual, at the Crown, with thesame eternal excuse, after having brought you fifty miles from town,of small house--no beds--all engaged--inn close by? Ah, never shall Iforget that inn, with its royal name, and its hard beds--
"'Uneasy sleeps a head beneath the Crown!'"
"Ha, ha! Excellent!" cried Miss Trafford, who was always the first inat the death of a pun. "Yes, indeed they did: poor old Lord Belton,with his rheumatism; and that immense General Grant, with his asthma;together with three 'single men,' and myself, were safely conveyed tothat asylum for the destitute."
"Ah! Grant, Grant!" said Lord Vincent, eagerly, who saw anotheropportunity of whipping in a pun. "He slept there also the same nightI did; and when I saw his unwieldy person waddling out of the door thenext morning, I said to Temple, 'Well, that's the largest Grant I eversaw from the Crown.'" [Note: It was from Mr. J. Smith that Lord Vincentpurloined this pun.]
"Very good," said Wormwood, gravely. "I declare, Vincent, you aregrowing quite witty. Do you remember Jekyl? Poor fellow, what a reallygood punster he was--not agreeable though--particularly at dinner--nopunsters are. Mr. Davison, what is that dish next to you?"
Mr. Davison was a great gourmand: "Salmi de perdreaux aux truffes,"replied the political economist.
"Truffles!" said Wormwood, "have you been eating any?"
"Yes," said Davison, with unusual energy, "and they are the best I havetasted for a long time."
"Very likely," said Wormwood, with a dejected air. "I am particularlyfond of them, but I dare not touch one--truffles are so veryapoplectic--you, I make no doubt, may eat them in safety."
Wormwood was a tall, meagre man, with a neck a yard long. Davison was,as I have said, short and fat, and made without any apparent neck atall--only head and shoulders, like a cod-fish.
Poor Mr. Davison turned perfectly white; he fidgeted about in his chair;cast a look of the most deadly fear and aversion at the fatal dish hehad been so attentive to before; and, muttering "apoplectic," closed hislips, and did not open them again all dinner-time.
Mr. Wormwood's object was effected. Two people were silenced anduncomfortable, and a sort of mist hung over the spirits of the wholeparty. The dinner went on and off, like all other dinners; the ladiesretired, and the men drank, and talked indecorums. Mr. Davison leftthe room first, in order to look out the word "truffle," in theEncyclopaedia; and Lord Vincent and I went next, "lest (as my companioncharacteristically observed) that d--d Wormwood should, if we stayed amoment longer, 'send us weeping to our beds.'"
Pelham — Complete Page 3
