 | CHAPTER VI. Clarence, or, A tale of our own times |  |
6. CHAPTER VI.
So beautiful in Spencer's rhymes,
So dazzling to the dreaming boy;
Ours are the days of fact, not fable,
Of Knights, but not of the Round table.”
Halleck.
Miss Clarence had now been long enough in
town, to get fairly started in the career of fashionable
life. She had been visited by the haut ton of
the city; and was already besieged by half a score
of aspirants for her matrimonial favor. There
were among them genteel young men, who made
their approaches and their retreats, in the delicate
mode, prescribed by the received usages of society.
Such persons fill a respectable niche in life, bnt are
not destined to `adorn a tale;' we shall therefore,
omit them in our dramatis personœ
By far the most important personage among our
heroine's lovers, was the ci-devant friend of the Roscoes,
Stephen Morley, Esq. No longer the cringing,
sycophantic, all-calculating Mr. Morley, for
these qualities had achieved their end, and obtained
their reward. He had risen to be a dispenser, instead
of a seeker of political favors; he stood high
in office, and higher in hope—so elevated that many
believed that the most exalted post in our country,
was within his possible grasp—it certainly was in
the eye of his ambition.
Mr. Morley, it was true, was some twenty or thirty
(and it must be confessed sub modo) `that Miss Clacence,
though young, was not beautiful'—he had half
a dozen well-grown children; but `she was neither
gay nor girlish, and after all, what were these trifles
weighed against the name of Morley, with the cabalistic
prefix of Judge, Governor, Secretary, or
President?—Thane of Glamis—Cawdor—King!'
Next in importance, was Major Daisy. Let not
the reader mistake, the major was no champ de mars
hero, but a gentle carpet knight. It might almost
be said, that he was born to his title, for he received
it as commander-in-chief of a nursery regiment,
and had probably retained it on the principle of attraction
in opposites. It was true of the Major,
as of many nobler victims, that `Fortune smiled
deceitful on his birth;' he was lapped in luxury, but
when it was time for him to have walked alone, viz.
when he had advanced some thirty years on the journey
of life, the rich house of his father, Daisy & Co.,
did what most others, rich and poor, do in our city,
failed; and the major, not being of a temper to turn
the tide of fortune, played the philosopher, and took
the easy part of submitting to evils, he had not energy
to resist. The world used him kindly. It fared
with him, as with few who do not hold the golden
key; the passe-partout in a society of moneyed aristocracy—he
retained his place in the beau-monde.
For this he was indebted to old and confirmed associations.
But what made Major Daisy an Areopagite
in the female fashionable world, must be
incomprehensible to those who do not know how important
it is in that dominion of debateable land, of
that some infallible hand should hold a scale by
which to graduate the pretensions to gentility. Instead
of the tiresome investigation at the ascension
of a new family in the firmament of fashion, of
`who are they?' `whom do they visit?' or `who
visits them'—the simple appeal to the Major, `are
they genteel?' laid all doubt and discussion at rest.
Then the Major had acquired a great reputation,
(as some other tribunals do, simply by giving judgment,)
in the questions of fashion and belleism. If
the mothers relied on him in matters of more vital
importance, the daughters listened, as devotees to an
oracle, to his opinion, of `who was the best dressed
lady at the fancy-ball,' and the Major's decision that,
such a fair-one was `the decided belle,' was the fiat
of fate. He knew at a coup-d'œil whether a hat
were really Parisian, or of home manufacture—could
tell a real blond, or camel's hair, at a bird's-eye
view—was a connoisseur in pretty feet, and an exquisite
judge of perfumes. To conclude all, the
Major, like most poor gentlemen, dressed with elaborate
neatness and taste—and, (to the utter perplexity
of that large class of persons, who tax their
wits to solve the problem of their neighbor's expenditures,)
with very genteel expense.
Major Daisy had rather an undue portion of the
better part of valor in his composition. He had
been all his life afraid of committing himself in a connubial
pursuit. There was nothing but death which
he dreaded so much as a refusal; but of late, there
had come a small voice from his inmost soul, saying,
if ever he meant to marry, it was time to think of it.
gave out its intimations about the time Miss
Clarence became an inmate in the family of Mrs.
Layton, with whom the Major was on the footing of
an old and intimate friend, and cotemporary.
The rival whom the Major most feared, and with
least reason, was a young scion of the old and universal
family of Smiths. Mr. John Smith, jr. the only
son of a rich broker—a vulgar, half-bred youth, recently
moulded into a dandy; and as that implies the
negation of every thing manly, and worth describing,
we shall pass him over, only saying, that he
presumed to our heroine's hand, incited thereto,
by certain refined suggestions from his father, such
as, `John, my boy, there's a chance for you!—a
nice girl they say—her father is heavy, I know all
about that—like to like, birds of a feather—fortune
to fortune—that's the way to roll up the ball, my
boy—set about it, John.' And the exemplary son,
with infinite self-complacency, obeyed the paternal
mandate.
Mr. D. Flint, who has already been repeatedly
presented to our readers, must make of the
lovers a partie quarré. Flint was of the emigrating
race of New England, and from the heart of
it; and a fair specimen of a class not rare in that
enterprising land. He was a lawyer, but even the
arts of that profession, which is supposed to sharpen
all the wits, could not improve his natural faculty
of `getting along,' and pushing along. He
came to the city without acquaintance, friends, or
patronage of any sort; but by dint of indefatigable
industry, vigilant activity, and irrepressible forwardness,
and obtained an uncontested circulation in the
fashionable circles. This latter was accomplished
much in the same way as the cat's celebrated ascent
of the well, `three steps up, and two steps down;'
but though the rebuffs he received, were innumerable,
he was never disheartened by them. If utterly
destitute of that tact which is the best guide in the
art of pleasing, he was entirely free from the sensitiveness
that is curiously compounded of sensibility,
pride, self-love, and selfishness. He never took offence—the
delicate intimations of the refined, the
coarse joke, the rough reproach, disdain, contempt,
neglect, all glanced from his armor proof of triple
steel—good nature, self-complacency, and insensibility.
He was perfectly free from affectation, save
in the single point of concealing his Christian name;
of this he had unwarily made a mystery, when he
first came to town; and his reluctance to disclose it
had been confirmed by some of his mischievous acquaintance,
who had appended to the initial D. every
ridiculous prefix in the language. He was not
only free in all other respects from affectation, but
he had not aimed at polish, or even quite freed himself
from a rusticity of dialect, that betrayed his
early associations. If told any thing that excited
his wonder—this was rare, for true to the character
of his all-knowing countrymen, he had
—“a natural talent for foreseeing
And knowing all things;”—
`do tell!' or `you don't!' instead of those expletives
of custom, `Mon Dieu!'—`God bless me!'—and
provincialisms, he guessed, concluded, or calculated,
in every sentence.
We hope to be forgiven for calling this portrait
a national sketch: `Who may we take liberties with
if not with our relations?' and we must not be suspected
of disloyalty to our race, though the man is
not always painted triumphing over the lion—the
New Englandman superior to every other. Besides,
we sincerely like Mr. D. Flint, and the class
of character to which he belongs. If deficient in
the niceties of feeling, he abounded in active useful
kindness. If unpolished, he was honest; and if unrefined,
he afforded a sort of safety valve for the
over refinement and irascibility of others.
These were the satellites that revolved around
the envied heiress! and these were assembled about
her one evening when Mr. Flint, always the first to
move, proposed they should go to the Athenæum
lecture. Miss Clarence assented, glad of any opportunity
of escaping from the siege of her suitors.
Mr. Morley was quite too much a man of affairs to
waste an hour at a lecture of any kind, and he withdrew.
Mr. Smith “would go if Miss Clarence
wished, for,” he gently murmured, “I am like him
which divided the world into one part—that where
she is.”
“Oh, my poor friend, Rousseau!” exclaimed Mrs.
Layton, at this version of one of the most felicitous
passages of her favorite author, “it is too hard that
you should fall on evil tongues, as well as evil times.
But come, Pedrillo, the world is divided into one
hemisphere to you too, I believe, what say you to
death at the Athenæum.”
Pedrillo replied, to Mrs. Layton's ear alone,
`that the Athenæum was a bore, and he preferred
remaining at home, provided Miss Emilie did the
honors of the house in her mother's absence.'
Emilie was appealed to, but on every occasion—
with and without reason—she shrunk from Pedrillo,
and she expressed an earnest wish to accompany her
friend to the Athenæum; whereupon Pedrillo
bowed, and declared he should be most happy to
attend her. Mr. Flint murmured at these preliminaries.
He was for making the most of every
thing. `The lecture was on astronomy—there
were to be fine transparencies exhibited, and the
ladies would lose their chance of good seats by this
delay.'
“Pshaw, Mr. Flint,” said Mrs. Layton, “are
you under the delusion of imagining we go to the
Athenæum to see, or to hear?”
“What do you go for, then?” honestly asked
Flint.
“To be seen, my good friend—to fulfil our destiny,
and be the observed of all observers. Blues,
pedants, and school-boys may go to stare, and listen;
but we of the privileged class have, thank
Heaven, a dispensation.”
“Privileged class! what a happy expression!”
exclaimed Mr. George Smith, eying himself obliquely
in the mantel-glass.
“Pardon me, madam, I do not agree with you,”
said Major Daisy. “The Athenæum lectures afford
a remarkably genteel way of getting information,
philosophy, and all that sort of thing, can be made.
You know — is of my opinion—he remarked in
last evening's paper that the tone of society had
improved since their institution.”
“They are certainly useful,” said Mr. Flint.
“Oh l'utile—t'utile—Je te deteste,” exclaimed
Mrs. Layton. “How do you like my hat, Daisy?”
The ladies were adjusting their cloaks and hats.
“Admirable, Madame!—from the Rue Italienne
—is it not?”
“You have the best eye in the city—yes—Miss
Thompson imported it for me. You see it is a
demi-saison—the flowers half hidden by the feathers—the
reign of summer yielding to winter.
And then observe how happily it is adapted to the
demi-saison of life—alas the while!”
“I declare it is a very pretty-looking hat,” said
Mr. Flint. “What was the price of it, Mrs. Layton?”
“Pardon me, Mr. Flint, that is the only particular
I never inquire about.” Mrs. Layton was
right; such vulgar queries are for those who mean
to pay, or at least not to postpone payment indefinitely.
The party was now equipped and proceeded to
their destination. “I told you so—we are too late,”
said Mr. Flint, on opening the door, and finding
the room full to overflowing.
“A room is never too full,” replied the gallant
major, “for certain persons to find a place.”
“A very good rule, Major, and another is, Miss
happen to prefer is occupied—now follow me.”
Suiting the action to the word, Mrs. Layton pushed
her way to the upper end of the room, declining
gracefully, as she proceeded, numerous offers of
seats, till she obtained the conspicuous position at
which she aimed. Gertrude was amazed at what
would have startled a novice only, the ease with
which a lady of fashionable notoriety can doff the
prescriptive delicacy of her sex, and force her way
to a commanding station, with a boldness that
would better become a military chieftain. The
lecturer paused at the bustle occasioned by the entrance
of the brilliant party. Mrs. Layton always
commanded notice. Her daughter, a newly risen
star in the fashionable hemisphere, had not yet
sated curiosity, and our heroine was known—we
grieve so often to repeat the unprized distinction—
as `Miss Clarence—the great fortune.'
In our commercial city every thing is inspired or
infected by the bustling genius of the place. Even
scientific associations, and literary institutions, are
modified by the habits of business. The merchant,
who has a hundred argosies at sea, can give but brief
attention to any thing but the chances and losses of
trade; and thus it happens that at the Athenæum,
the most fashionable of our literary resorts, four
lectures only are allowed to the discussion of the
most useful arts—to the most abstruse science—to
the inexhaustible topic of metaphysics—to the fascinating
themes of German and English literature.
If poetry is the subject, the lecturer must discuss its
origin, its nature, its uses and abuses—he must sail
stanza by Moore, or Halleck, or Bryant. He must
prove that if our soil has as yet produced few
flowers of poesy, we have a greater capacity to develope
than any other people, (for our patriotic
audiences are not quite satisfied without this sacrifice
to the local divinities,) and he must do all this in
four lectures of one hour each, `counted by the
stop-watch, my lord.' In this brief space the geologist
scales the Andes, dives to the primitive rocks,
and imparts his revelations of antediluvian worlds.
The astronomer comprises the brilliant discoveries
of his science within this Procrustes measure.
Doubtless there are fortunate and dexterous individuals
who in this match of knowledge against time
may, like persons running through the Hesperian
gardens, catch some of the golden fruit as it falls.
But miracles are past, and for the most part we
must say, `Alas, for this multitude, for they go
empty away!'
A limited time is not the only difficulty with
which the lecturer has to contend. He must possess
a rare art who commands the attention of a
popular assembly constituted of young ladies just
escaped from the thraldom of school—their beaux
just launched on the tide of fashion—married pairs,
seeking a refuge from conjugal ennui—a few complaisant
literati, who go `pour encourager les autres,'
and a very few honest devotees in every temple of
knowledge. But even in such an auditory `the
air, a chartered libertine is still, while — defines
and magnifies the art his genius illustrates; and
while — kindles up the dim speculations of
to their abstractions the vivifying essence of
his wit.
The particular attraction of the evening we have
selected, was some fine transparencies. Gertrude
had taken an unambitious seat behind Mrs. Layton.
“I am afraid,” she said, “my rue Italienne is in
your way, my darling,—my feathers de trop, are
they not?—You cannot see any body?”
“I cannot see the lecturer, and as I must honestly
confess, I am smitten with the rustic desire to see
the transparencies, I will trouble Mr. Pedrillo to
conduct me to an unoccupied place just below us.”
“Rather an eccentric movement for a fashionable
young lady, but `chacun à son gout! go, we will not
lose sight of you.”
Pedrillo saw her ensconced in a position that promised
to be a favorable point of sight; but here too
a phalanx of plumes waved and nodded before her,
and the fair wearers were reconnoitering the company
through their eye-glasses, and interchanging
their remarks on new dresses and new faces. Pedrillo
left her, saying, he could not presume to divide
her attention with the lecturer, and resumed
his station at Emilie's side. The lights were soon
after all extinguished to give full effect to the transparencies,
and directly two gentlemen took an unoccupied
place before Gertrude. The one, she recognised
by his voice to be Flint, who had left his
party to speak, as he said, `to a member of Congress—a
particular friend,' and the other was Gerald
Roscoe. The gentlemen were as sincere as
the lecturer, but it was impossible; the fairer part
of the audience had taken advantage of the entertainment
being chiefly addressed to the eye, and
were indulging in whispered tête-à-têtes. The gentlemen
followed their example, holding their hats
before their faces to secure their communications
from general circulation, and thus giving them more
distinctly to their back auditor. “Have you met
Miss Clarence yet?” asked Flint.
“No—never.”
“I will introduce you to her after the lecture; I
am quite intimate with her.”
“Thank you—I have already been offered that
honor once to-day by the mother of our client,
Stevy Brown; the poor dog is at home again, in
high favor with the old tailor; and his wife,
who is very much my friend, and overflowing with
gratitude to Miss C. for some part she had in the
reconciliation, predicts a match between us, and
actually sent for me to-day, to propose we should
help on our destiny by meeting at a sociable teadrinking
at her house!”
“Well—what did you do about it?”
“Heavens, Flint! I should think even your business
spirit would shrink from such an encounter.”
“I don't know that—it is not best to be too
romantic; but I am glad at any rate that you declined
the meeting. You are such a favorite with
the girls, Roscoe, that I had rather not have you for
a rival.”
“The danger of my rivalship, Flint, would depend
on the value of the prize to be striven for.”
“Oh, certainly—and the prize in this case is
worth striving for. I should despise marrying for
fortune alone as much as any man, but I presume
fortune don't disqualify—I can tell you, Roscoe,
Miss Clarence is a very sensible young lady.”
“Heaven defend us from your very sensible young
ladies!”
“Oh, well, she is very fashionable, if you prefer
that, and very much admired.”
“So I am told by Morley, Daisy, & Co.—a
goodly company, truly—all, all honorable men.
The value of their admiration can be pretty accurately
calculated—what is the amount of the stock,
Flint—the consideration for which these gentlemen
will give their matrimonial bonds?”
“Now you are too severe, Roscoe. There are
several ladies in the city as much of an object as
Miss Clarence; but then, I must own, there is an
advantage in having an elegant sufficiency, secured
from all contingencies.”
“I am ignorant of the terms of the trade, Flint;
what do you mean by an elegant sufficiency?”
“A hundred thousand dollars. I know, on the
best authority, that the old man has secured her that,
so that if he marries again, and some folks think he
will, or if he lives for ever—dyspepsia never kills
any body, you know—still there is enough for any
reasonable man. I tell you again, Roscoe, Miss
Clarence would not be a bad bargain without her
money. Upon my honor, I would as soon sell my
soul as marry for money alone—but she comes up
fortune that I would not marry if I had the fortune,
and she were without it—that's about fair, is
it not?”
Roscoe was struck with this naïve exposé of sordid
calculation, just notions, and honest feeling, and
he was on the point of wasting a little sentiment on
Flint, in a remonstrance against this admixture of the
pure and base, but he remembered in time that there
is nothing more quixotic than to attempt to change
the current of a man's mind by a single impulse,
and he contented himself with saying, “I am no
casuist in these matters; I conceived an early prejudice,
a sort of natural antipathy against a fortune—
that I believe is the technical term for a
prize-lady.”
“You don't say so—that's very odd.”
“It may be so, but as a natural antipathy is a
feeling of which we do not know the origin, and
which we never hope or try to overcome, you may
venture to introduce me to Miss C. without any fear
of competition.”
Flint had a profound respect for Roscoe's opinion,
and after a short interval of silence, he said, “Do
tell me why you so much object to marrying a fortune?”
Roscoe replied, in the words of an old ballad,
And her kye into the byre,
And I shall hae nothing to mysel,
But a fat fadge by the fyre.”
Gertrude smiled, she could not help it, at the
ridiculous light in which Roscoe had placed her;
but a captive at the stake would have had no reason
to envy her, delicate as she was almost to fastidiousness,
while she heard her market value so coarsely
set forth by Flint, and her father, who was embalmed
in her heart in the sanctity of filial love, spoken
of as the `old man,' whose projects, health, and life
were of value only as enhancing, or diminishing her
chances of wealth—and this to Roscoe too. Gertrude
felt for the first time the full force of a sentiment
that she had almost unconsciously cherished.
If a woman would make discoveries in that intricate
region, her heart, let her analyze the solicitude she
feels about the light in which she is presented even
to the imagination of him whom she prefers. The
estimation of the most indifferent or despised becomes
of consequence, when it may color with one
shade the opinion of that individual. `Is it not
possible,' thought Gertrude, `to escape this introduction,—I
cannot—I will not become at once in
his eyes this detested `prize-lady'—what an odious
term! this object of the pursuit of `Morley, Daisy,
& Co.'—this `fat fadge' of his perspective;' and
dreading any thing less than the threatened presentation
and consequent éclaircissement, she determined
to make her way to Mrs. Layton, and on
some pretext retire from the lecture-room, before
she again encountered Flint. She had half-risen,
when she was arrested by some disorder in that part
of the room where she had left her party, and directly
the cause was explained by several voices exclaiming,
`there's a lady fainting!'—`open a window'—`make
A candle was lighted at his lamp, and Gertrude
saw Emilie supported, almost carried in Randolph
Marion's arms, and followed by Pedrillo and her
mother. Marion's face was pale and agitated.
Flint sprang forward with his usual alacrity to offer
assistance; Gertrude lost every other consideration
in her interest for her friend, and would have followed,
but she heard Mrs. Layton say, “It is merely
the heat of the room—come with us, Mr. Flint—
Major Daisy stays for Miss Clarence—run forward,
Mr. Flint, and see if there is a carriage at the
door—if not, get one.” Never was there a more
useful man for an exigency than Flint. Roscoe
had stepped forward to assist the retiring party,
but after exchanging a word with Mrs. Layton,
he resumed his place. Miss Clarence was before
him, and the candle still near enough to reveal
her features. Their eyes encountered. She bowed,
but with the coldest reserve, for at that moment she
felt her identity with the `prize-lady' only. Roscoe's
surprise and pleasure at meeting her prevented
his observing her coldness. “Is it possible,” he
exclaimed, with the utmost animation, “that I have
been unconsciously near you; I shall never again
believe in those delicate spiritual intimations that
are supposed to be conveyed without the intervention
of the senses.” Gertrude secretly wished that
the senses too had suspended their ministry, that her
ear had been deaf to those sounds that seemed now
to paralyze the organs of speech.
Roscoe looked curiously round in quest of some
person, or persons, who should appear to be of Miss
his perplexity, and kept her attention apparently
fixed on the lecturer. “It is a pity my friend,
Mr. —, does not speak loud enough to be heard,”
said Roscoe, “since he is so fortunate as to engross
your attention.”
“It aids one materially in hearing, to listen,” replied
Gertrude.
“A good hit,” said an elderly gentleman, who
sat next Miss Clarence; “a word, young man,”
he continued, drawing Roscoe towards him, “I advise
you not to interrupt that young woman any
longer; she comes here for some profitable purpose
—she is a teacher in the High-school, I surmise.”
`She certainly listens most dutifully', thought
Roscoe, `but this good gentleman's surmise is not
mine.' “If the lady is a teacher, sir,” he replied,
with the utmost good humor, “I am a learner, and
you must allow me to use my golden opportunity.
`The gods send opportunities—the wise man profits
by them,' you know”—he quoted the Latin saying
in its original. His admonisher was so propitiated
by the implied compliment to his learning, that,
though he did not understand a word of it, Roscoe
might have talked through the lecture without any
further reproof from him.
The lecture was evidently drawing to a close, and
Gertrude heartily wished that, like Cinderella, she
had some good fairy at hand to assist her departure;
and Roscoe secretly exulted that now at least she
could not disappear without affording him some clue
by which to ascertain her name—all that seemed to
him unknown. So satisfactory is that internal conviction
Roscoe availed himself of a pause, while the
lecturer was adjusting a transparency. “I shall
hope again to meet you here; pardon this uncourteous
you—our barbarous language has no more
gentle substitute for the name. Do not,” he added,
in a lowered and earnest tone, “do not leave it to
destiny any farther to weave the web of our acquaintance;
allow me to seek you elsewhere, or, at least,
to expect to meet you again here?”
“Have you forgotten,” asked Gertrude, referring
to an expression in Roscoe's note, “have you forgotten
your voluntary `covenant with your lips?”'
“Pardon me—that covenant only extended to
impertinent questions of others, and indirect inquiries.”
“But those were not the terms of the compact,
and you have given me new reasons this evening for
enforcing it.”
“Impossible! what can I have said or done to
deserve such a mark of your displeasure?”
“Not my displeasure—exactly,” she said—and
`not my displeasure at all,' spoke the sweet smile
that beamed from her lips; but now the candles
were re-lighted, and she perceived Major Daisy
eagerly making his way through the crowd to her.
She abruptly left Roscoe, and met Daisy. She had
dropped her veil to prevent all recognitions from
her acquaintance. “Do not speak to me,” she
said, as the major was beginning to describe the
anxiety with which he had looked for her, “there is
a person here I wish particularly to avoid—let me
pass out as if entirely unknown.” Daisy, not doubting
implicitly obeyed her, admiring the facility with
which she was acquiring the arts of polite life. She
thus succeeded in completely eluding the vigilance
of Roscoe. His eye followed her till she was lost
in the crowd; but he saw no one join her, and he was
not without some uncomfortable reflections on the
singularity of a lady violating the common forms of
society. Yet there was so marked a propriety and
delicacy in Gertrude's deportment, that it seemed
ridiculous to doubt her. He racked his brain to
conjecture what she could have meant by alleging
that he had that very evening given `her new reason
for her mystery.' `She might,' he thought,
`have overheard my discussion with Flint; but I
said nothing dishonorable to her sex—or any individual
of the blessed community but poor Miss
Clarence. Heaven forgive me, for my antipathy to
that girl's name even—Well, I will home to my
mother, and see if female ingenuity can help me to
unravel this mystery.'
| CHAPTER VI. Clarence, or, A tale of our own times | |