“Perhaps, my dear,” said Mrs. Percy, “you don’t know that half, at least, of all the nobility in England have married into the families of merchants; therefore, in the opinion of half the nobility of England, there can be nothing discreditable or derogatory in such an alliance.”
“I know, ma’am, such things are; but then you will allow they are usually done for money, and that makes the matter worse. If the sons of noble families marry the daughters of mercantile houses, it is merely to repair the family fortune. But a nobleman has great privileges. If he marry beneath himself, his low wife is immediately raised by her wedding-ring to an equality with the high and mighty husband — her name is forgotten in her title — her vulgar relations are left in convenient obscurity: the husband never thinks of taking notice of them; and the wife, of course, may let it alone if she pleases. But a woman, in our rank of life, must bear her husband’s name, and must also bear all his relations, be they ever so vulgar. Now, Caroline, honestly — how should you like this?”
“Honestly, not at all,” said Caroline; “but as we cannot have every thing we like, or avoid every thing we dislike, in life, we must balance the good against the evil, when we are to make our choice: and if I found certain amiable, estimable qualities in a character, I think that I might esteem, love, and marry him, even though he had a vulgar name and vulgar connexions. I fairly acknowledge, however, that it must be something superior in the man’s character which could balance the objection to vulgarity in my mind.”
“Very well, my dear,” said Rosamond, “do you be a martyr to vulgarity and philosophy, if you like it — but excuse me, if you please. Since you, who have so much strength of mind, fairly acknowledge that this objection is barely to be overcome by your utmost efforts, do me the favour, do me the justice, not to expect from me a degree of civil courage quite above my powers.”
Caroline, still believing that Rosamond was only bringing forward all the objections that might be raised against her wishes, replied, “Fortunately, my dear Rosamond, you are not called upon for any such effort of philosophy, for Mr. Gresham is not vulgar, nor is even his name vulgar, and he cannot have any vulgar relations, because he has no relations of any description — I heard him say, the other day, that he was a solitary being.”
“That is a comfort,” said Rosamond, laughing; “that is a great thing in his favour; but if he has not relations, he has connexions. What do you think of those horrible Pantons? This instant I think I see old Panton cooling himself — wig pushed back — waistcoat unbuttoned — and protuberant Mrs. Panton with her bay wig and artificial flowers. And not the Pantons only, but you may be sure there are hordes of St. Mary Axe cockneys, that would pour forth upon Mrs. Gresham, with overwhelming force, and with partnership and old-acquaintance-sake claims upon her public notice and private intimacy. Come, come, my dear Caroline, don’t speak against your conscience — you know you never could withstand the hordes of vulgarians.”
“These vulgarians in buckram,” said Caroline, “have grown from two to two hundred in a trice, in your imagination, Rosamond: but consider that old Panton, against whom you have such an invincible horror, will, now that he has quarrelled with Erasmus, probably very soon eat himself out of the world; and I don’t see that you are bound to Mr. Gresham’s dead partner’s widow — is this your only objection to Mr. Gresham?”
“My only objection! Oh, no! don’t flatter yourself that in killing old Panton you have struck off all my objections. Independently of vulgar relations or connexions, and the disparity of age, my grand objection remains. But I will address myself to my mother, for you are not a good person for judging of prejudices — you really don’t understand them, my dear Caroline; one might as well talk to Socrates. You go to work with logic, and get one between the horns of a wicked dilemma directly — I will talk to my mother; she understands prejudices.”
“Your mother thanks you,” said Mrs. Percy, smiling, “for your opinion of her understanding.”
“My mother is the most indulgent of mothers, and, besides, the most candid, and therefore I know she will confess to me that she herself cherishes a little darling prejudice in favour of birth and family, a leetle prejudice — well covered by good-nature and politeness — but still a secret, invincible antipathy to low-born people.”
“To low-bred people, I grant.”
“Oh, mother! you are upon your candour — my dear mother, not only low-bred but low-born: confess you have a — what shall I call it? — an indisposition towards low-born people.”
“Since you put me upon my candour,” said Mrs. Percy, “I am afraid I must confess that I am conscious of a little of the aristocratic weakness you impute to me.”
“Impute! — No imputation, in my opinion,” cried Rosamond. “I do not think it any weakness.”
“But I do,” said Mrs. Percy—”I consider it as a weakness; and bitterly should I reproach myself, if I saw any weakness, any prejudice of mine, influence my children injuriously in the most material circumstance of their lives, and where their happiness is at stake. So, my dear Rosamond, let me intreat—”
“Oh! mother, don’t let the tears come into your eyes; and, without any intreaties, I will do just as you please.”
“My love,” said Mrs. Percy, “I have no pleasure but that you should please yourself and judge for yourself, without referring to any prepossession of mine. And lest your imagination should deceive you as to the extent of my aristocratic prejudices, let me explain. The indisposition, which I have acknowledged I feel towards low-born people, arises, I believe, chiefly from my taking it for granted that they cannot be thoroughly well-bred. I have accidentally seen examples of people of inferior birth, who, though they had risen to high station, and though they had acquired, in a certain degree, polite manners, and had been metamorphosed by fashion, to all outward appearance, into perfect gentry, yet betrayed some marks of their origin, or of their early education, whenever their passions or their interests were touched: then some awkward gesture, some vulgar expression, some mean or mercenary sentiment, some habitual contraction of mind, recurred.”
“True, true, most true!” said Rosamond. “It requires two generations, at least, to wash out the stain of vulgarity: neither a gentleman nor a gentlewoman can be made in less than two generations; therefore I never will marry a low-born man, if he had every perfection under the sun.”
“Nay, my dear, that is too strong,” said Mrs. Percy. “Hear me, my dearest Rosamond. I was going to tell you, that my experience has been so limited, that I am not justified in drawing from it any general conclusion. And even to the most positive and rational general rules you know there are exceptions.”
“That is a fine general softening clause,” said Rosamond; “but now positively, mother, would you have ever consented to marry a merchant?”
“Certainly, my dear, if your father bad been a merchant, I should have married him,” replied Mrs. Percy.
“Well, I except my father. To put the question more fairly, may I ask, do you wish that your daughter should marry a merchant?”
“As I endeavoured to explain to you before, that depends entirely upon what the merchant is, and upon what my daughter feels for him.”
Rosamond sighed.
“I ought to observe, that merchants are now quite in a different class from what they were at the first rise of commerce in these countries,” continued her mother. “Their education, their habits of thinking, knowledge, and manners, are improved, and, consequently, their consideration, their rank in society is raised. In our days, some of the best informed, most liberal, and most respectable men in the British dominions are merchants. I could not therefore object to my daughter’s marrying a merchant; but I should certainly inquire anxiously what sort of a merchant he was. I do not mean that I should inquire whether he was concerned in this or that branch of commerce, but whether his mind were free from every thing mercenary and illiberal. I have done so with respect to Mr. Gresham, and I can assure you solemnly, that
Mr. Gresham’s want of the advantage of high birth is completely counterbalanced in my opinion by his superior qualities. I see in him a cultivated, enlarged, generous mind. I have seen him tried, where his passions and his interests have been nearly concerned, and I never saw in him the slightest tincture of vulgarity in manner or sentiment: therefore, my dear daughter, if he has made an impression on your heart, do not, on my account, conceal or struggle against it; because, far from objecting to Mr. Gresham for a son-in-law, I should prefer him to any gentleman or nobleman who had not his exalted character.”
“There!” cried Caroline, with a look of joyful triumph, “there! my dear Rosamond, now your heart must be quite at ease!”
But looking at Rosamond at this moment, she saw no expression of joy or pleasure in her countenance; and Caroline was now convinced that she had been mistaken about Rosamond’s feelings.
“Really and truly, mother, you think all this?”
“Really and truly, my dear, no motive upon earth would make me disguise my opinions, or palliate even my prejudices, when you thus consult me, and depend upon my truth. And now that I have said this much, I will say no more, lest I should bias you on the other side: I will leave you to your own feelings and excellent understanding.”
Rosamond’s affectionate heart was touched so by her mother’s kindness, that she could not for some minutes repress her tears. When she recovered her voice, she assured her mother and Caroline, with a seriousness and an earnest frankness which at once convinced them of her truth, that she had not the slightest partiality for Mr. Gresham; that, on the contrary, his age was to her a serious objection. She had feared that her friends might wish for the match, and that being conscious she had no other objection to make to Mr. Gresham except that she could not love him, she had hesitated for want of a better reason, when her mother first began this cross-examination.
Relieved by this thorough explanation, and by the conviction that her father, mother, and sister, were perfectly satisfied with her decision, Rosamond was at ease as far as she herself was concerned. But she still dreaded to see Mr. Gresham again. She was excessively sorry to have given him pain, and she feared not a little that in rejecting the lover she should lose the friend.
Mr. Gresham, however, was of too generous a character to cease to be the friend of the woman he loved, merely because she could not return his passion: it is wounded pride, not disappointed affection, that turns immediately from love to hatred.
Rosamond was spared the pain of seeing Mr. Gresham again at this time, for he left the Hills, and set out immediately for London, where he was recalled by news of the sudden death of his partner. Old Mr. Panton had been found dead in his bed, after having supped inordinately the preceding night upon eel-pie. It was indispensably necessary that Mr. Gresham should attend at the opening of Panton’s will, and Mrs. Panton wrote to represent this in urgent terms. Mr. Henry was gone to Amsterdam; he had, for some time previously to the death of Mr. Panton, obtained the partnership’s permission to go over to the Dutch merchants, their correspondents in Amsterdam, to fill a situation in their house, for which his knowledge of the Dutch, French, and Spanish languages eminently qualified him.
When Mr. Henry had solicited this employment, Mr. Gresham had been unwilling to part with him, but had yielded to the young man’s earnest entreaties, and to the idea that this change would, in a lucrative point of view, be materially for Mr. Henry’s advantage.
Some apology to the lovers of romance may be expected for this abrupt transition from the affairs of the heart to the affairs of the counting-house — but so it is in real life. We are sorry, but we cannot help it — we have neither sentiments nor sonnets, ready for every occasion.
CHAPTER XXII.
LETTER FROM ALFRED.
This appears to have been written some months after the vacation spent at the Hills.
‘Oh! thoughtless mortals, ever blind to fate,
Too soon dejected, and too soon elate.’
“You remember, I am sure, my dear father, how angry we were some time ago with that man, whose name I never would tell you, the man whom Rosamond called Counsellor Nameless, who snatched a good point from me in arguing Mr. Hauton’s cause. This very circumstance has been the means of introducing me to the notice of three men, all eminent in their profession, and each with the same inclination to serve me, according to their respective powers — a solicitor, a barrister, and a judge. Solicitor Babington (by-the-by, pray tell Rosamond in answer to her question whether there is an honest attorney, that there are no such things as attorneys now in England — they are all turned into solicitors and agents, just as every shop is become a warehouse, and every service a situation), Babington the solicitor employed against us in that suit a man who knows, without practising them, all the tricks of the trade, and who is a thoroughly honest man. He saw the trick that was played by Nameless, and took occasion afterwards to recommend me to several of his own clients. Upon the strength of this point briefs appeared on my table day after day — two guineas, three guineas, five guineas! comfortable sight! But far more comfortable, more gratifying, the kindness of Counsellor Friend: a more benevolent man never existed. I am sure the profession of the law has not contracted his heart, and yet you never saw or can conceive a man more intent upon his business. I believe he eats, drinks, and sleeps upon law: he has the reputation, in consequence, of being one of the soundest of our lawyers — the best opinion in England. He seems to make the cause of every client his own, and is as anxious as if his private property depended on the fate of each suit. He sets me a fine example of labour, perseverance, professional enthusiasm and rectitude. He is one of the very best friends a young lawyer like me could have; he puts me in the way I should go, and keeps me in it by showing that it is not a matter of chance, but of certainty, that this is the right road to fortune and to fame.
“Mr. Friend has sometimes a way of paying a compliment as if he were making a reproach, and of doing a favour as a matter of course. Just now I met him, and apropos to some observations I happened to make on a cause in which he is engaged, he said to me, as if he were half angry, though I knew he was thoroughly pleased, ‘Quick parts! Yes, so I see you have: but take care — in your profession ’tis often “Most haste, worst speed;” not but what there are happy exceptions, examples of lawyers, who have combined judgment with wit, industry with genius, and law with eloquence. But these instances are rare, very rare; for the rarity of the case, worth studying. Therefore dine with me to-morrow, and I will introduce you to one of these exceptions.’
“The person in question, I opine, is the lord chief justice — and Friend could not do me a greater favour than to introduce me to one whom, as you know, I have long admired in public, and with whom, independently of any professional advantage, I have ardently wished to be acquainted.
“I have been told — I cannot tell you what — for here’s the bell-man. I don’t wonder ‘the choleric man’ knocked down the postman for blowing his horn in his ear.
“Abruptly yours,
“ALFRED PERCY.”
Alfred had good reason to desire to be acquainted with this lord chief justice. Some French writer says, “Qu’il faut plier les grandes ailes de l’éloquence pour entrer dans un salon.” The chief justice did so with peculiar ease. He possessed perfect conversational tact, with great powers of wit, humour, and all that felicity of allusion, which an uncommonly recollective memory, acting on stores of varied knowledge, can alone command. He really conversed; he did not merely tell stories, or make bonmots, or confine himself to the single combat of close argument, or the flourish of declamation; but he alternately followed and led, threw out and received ideas, knowing how to listen full as well as how to talk, remembering always Lord Chesterfield’s experienced maxim, “That it is easier to hear than to talk yourself into the good opinion of your auditors.” It was not, however, from policy, but from benevolence, that the chief justice made so good a hearer. It has been said, and with truth, that with him
a good point never passed unnoticed in a public court, nor was a good thing ever lost upon him in private company. Of the number of his own good things fewer are in circulation than might be expected. The best conversation, that which rises from the occasion, and which suits the moment, suffers most from repetition. Fitted precisely to the peculiar time and place, the best things cannot bear transplanting.
The day Alfred Percy was introduced to the chief justice, the conversation began, from some slight remarks made by one of the company, on the acting of Mrs. Siddons. A lady who had just been reading the memoirs of the celebrated French actress, Mademoiselle Clairon, spoke of the astonishing pains which she took to study her parts, and to acquire what the French call l’air noble, continually endeavouring, on the most common occasions, when she was off the stage, to avoid all awkward motions, and in her habitual manner to preserve an air of grace and dignity. This led the chief justice to mention the care which Lord Chatham, Mr. Pitt, and other great orators, have taken to form their habits of speaking, by unremitting attention to their language in private as well as in public. He maintained that no man can speak with ease and security in public till custom has brought him to feel it as a moral impossibility that he could be guilty of any petty vulgarism, or that he could be convicted of any capital sin against grammar.
Alfred felt anxious to hear the chief justice farther on this subject, but the conversation was dragged back to Mademoiselle Clairon. The lady by whom she was first mentioned declared she thought that all Mademoiselle Clairon’s studying must have made her a very unnatural actress. The chief justice quoted the answer which Mademoiselle Clairon gave, when she was reproached with having too much art.—”De l’art! et que voudroit-on done que j’eusse? Etois-je Andromaque? Etois-je Phédre?”
Alfred observed that those who complained of an actress’s having too much art should rather complain of her having too little — of her not having art enough to conceal her art.
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