 | CHAPTER II. A volume from the life of Herbert Barclay |  |
2. CHAPTER II.
Herbert was at that age when the present
is all in all. Experience has not taught its
lessons of forethought: the mind has not yet
worn itself a channel for a continuous course,
but overflows in sudden unconnected impulses:
young memory carries no burden—
imagination sees no obstacle: the past is a
dream—the future a vision. To Herbert the
world appeared a plain, over which he could
course at will;—the area where the movements
of his mind were to pass into easy actions.
As he rode into town the next day, no object
sparkling in the sunshine felt its warmth
more genially than he did. Although looking
forward to happy hours, he was not impatient
in the enjoyment of undefined feelings: the
sense of existence was a full pleasure. His
situation left him nothing to desire. His
uncle and aunt had no children: he was to
them the object of parental instinct: in their
house he enjoyed the affection and the freedom
of a home. The future lay before him
as inviting as the town towards which he
rode.
On his entrance into the city, his musings
and vague sensations gave place to a more
lively pleasure. The noises and sights of a
busy town, have an animating effect even
upon those who are daily accustomed to them.
The activity of perception required by the
variety of objects is enlivening: the mere passer-by
catches from the crowd some of that
cheerfulness which occupation always communicates:
there is, too, on every side, much
that is directly designed to attract the beholder.
This moving scene acted upon the
happy mood of Herbert, like the wind upon
artless harmony. As he walked through the
spacious streets, the large houses, with their
marble steps and bright windows, looked to
him to enclose happiness and elegance and
intelligence. When, in passing an open door,
his eye wandered for a moment up a long
hall, he felt curious to enter—the inmates, he
thought, must be charming people. Did the
sound of a piano reach his ear—it bore on its
melody a form of loveliness.
Alfred Grey was rejoiced to see him. He
was several years older than Herbert, and
was on terms of intimacy with Mr. Barclay.
Herbert had known him as the most frequent
visitor at his uncle's, and had early felt for
him that confiding regard which the younger
members of a family are prone to entertain
towards the friends of the elder. The frank
and sprightly manner of Alfred was calculated
to encourage this feeling, and the interest he
always manifested in Herbert, had ripened it
into a personal attachment, so that Herbert
towards him.
When the hour for dining drew near, Alfred
interrupted their conversation, telling
Herbert that his sister expected them to dine
with her. “You have seen my sister, Mrs.
Vernon, at your uncle's. I have told her you
were coming to pass the day with me, and
that I would give her a share of your visit.—
Ellen is fond of company, so that we shall
probably have two or three others at dinner.
The better for you, as you are now to begin
the study of what is called the world. You
will find men harder that Latin or Greek.—
Their radical motives are often much more
unlike their outward demonstrations than a
Greek root is unlike its derivatives. And
women—but let us go, or we shall get into
another long talk.”
They found at Mrs. Vernon's, Mr. Seldon,
and another gentleman whom Herbert had
seen before, Mr. Penniman; and a short time
after themselves, Dr. Walsall and his daughter
came in.
Notwithstanding the contrary conclusion to
which the spectacle of a dinner at the public
table of one of our large American hotels
would lead, it may be stated as a fact in the
natural history of man, that eating is a sociable
occupation. Whether it is to be accounted
for by the action of the selfish principle,
that the feeling of prosperity in himself diffuses
over a man a superficial benevolence
towards others,—according to which a diner
would grow in graciousness with each
mouthful; or that the sympathy of a common
object renders a circle, engaged simultaneously
in the satisfying of the first of earthly
wants, peculiarly susceptible of mutual good
will; or that the moistening of the palate like
the oiling of a hinge, imparts a smoothness to
the motions of the tongue; or that these several
causes combine,—which is the most likely;
certain it is, that good humor, if it be in
the nature of the individuals at all, prevails
round a dinner table. Each one is disposed
to expand towards his neighbors accommodatingly
beings,—with the one exception of the spectacle
above alluded to,—differ from other
carnivorous animals, which in their hurried
craunching and intent looks, have an aspect
of concentrated selfishness.
The elements of social enjoyment were on
this occasion present in the fittest quantity and
in excellent proportions. The company was
small, so that at the table its unity was not
broken; each individual contributing according
to his will and means to the general entertainment.
What each one had to say, went
to the common fund of conversation, and
was not diverted into separate channels, as it
is apt to be when a meeting of the kind is
numerous. The hostess was well suited to
call into play the social and conversational resources
of her guests, so as to produce lively
harmony. Fond of society, she appeared in
it with the animation of unaffected pleasure,
so becoming in itself and so flattering to others.
Graceful and affable, she possessed that
please confer. Mr. Vernon showed also to
advantage. The most of his time was spent
in the routine of mercantile business; but he
had taste to view a scene like this as something
more than mere relaxation from labor.
He was one of those men whose surface is very
susceptible of polish, and had his opportunities
been better his merits would have been
more substantial; still, his natural endowments
were not of a calibre to induce the opinion
that much had been lost for want of cultivation.
Dr. Walsall was a talker; and like all
others of the class, disposed to that conversational
monopolizing which is only bearable
when made by talent and wit. He was here
kept in check by the superior intelligence of
Alfred Grey, and somewhat, perhaps, by the
fear of a more direct rebuke, which Alfred,
at all times impatient of encroachment of any
kind, would not have been slow to give.—
Herbert was the least active participant in the
scene: the most animated contributor to its
pleasure than he did. He felt at his ease: the
absence of this feeling is the only drawback
to the enjoyment of a young person beginning
to associate with men and women. Few
young men were more than Herbert under
the influence of youthful diffidence, which,
like the chill of the first plunge into a bath,
betokens a healthful warmth below the surface.
But there was in him no want of the
self-confidence, which is the result of proper
self-respect; and his mind was by nature too
well balanced and his character too frank for
the exhibition, under any circumstances, of an
awkward bashfulness. His feelings at once
shared the familiar sociability of the circle.—
As the one who was most the stranger, and as
the friend of her brother, Mrs. Vernon was
led both by courtesy and duty to make him the
particular object of hospitable attention. This
she did, not by distinguishing him from the
rest of the company by a direct attentiveness,
but by a bearing as winning as it was natural,
unobtrusive personal interest in Herbert; so
that he felt as much at his ease beside her as
if he had been seated there for the hundredth
time. On the other side of him sat Miss
Walsall. He had never seen her before.—
Her manner towards Herbert was as unconstrained
as towards an old acquaintance, so
that he several times looked into her face inquiringly,
thinking that he must have been
mistaken in believing her a stranger to him:
there was a quiet self-possession in it. Hers
was a countenance that invited observation by
the placid calmness with which it bore it.—
The eye returned to it the more frequently
and dwelt upon it the longer from its superficial
insensibility to the gaze. It did not
court admiration: it was a passive recipient of
it. It did not reflect the looks that fell upon
it: it absorbed them. In such a countenance,
there is a peculiar attractiveness, owing, perhaps,
partly to the scope it gives to the imagination—its
tranquil surface tempting each beholder
fancies or wishes it to express; partly, perhaps,
to the character of submissiveness it
seems to bespeak—always to a man's eye an
engaging sign in woman.
The conversation was lively; at first, as is
wont, skimming over the surface of ordinary
topics, and becoming deeper as the company
became disengaged from the business of eating.
Although Dr. Walsall was withheld
from indulging his propensity at the expense
of the others; being, like all great talkers
similarly situated, uncomfortable under the
restriction, he every now and then made an
effort to break through it. Herbert was the
pivot of one of these attempts. The Doctor
had been thrown out for some time. Mr.
Seldon had just been giving a description of
an English nobleman's household, having been
led to do so by allusions in a recent novel,
which Alfred, called upon by the ladies, had
criticised somewhat at length. When Mr.
Seldon ceased speaking, the Doctor, who had
who felt piqued that these two gentlemen
should have held possession of the company's
ear longer than they were disposed to let him
hold it, took advantage of the pause, and abruptly
asked Herbert what profession he had
chosen. Herbert was taken by surprise by
the question, not only from the sudden interruption
of the current given to his thoughts
by the previous conversation, but because the
subject was one he had not as yet steadily considered.
He answered, that he had made no
choice. Alfred remarked, that he thought
Mr. Barclay had done well in not hurrying
his decision on such a point. The Doctor,
delighted at having succeeded in introducing
a topic on which he felt confident he could
take the lead, was pleased to hear this from
Alfred.
“Hurrying his decision!” said he. “Why,
Mr. Grey, when I was at Mr. Barclay's age,
I had taken my degree in medicine and commenced
the practice.”
“In your day, Doctor,” said Alfred, “there
was something to be gained by hurry. The
number of professional men was so small, that
young graduates found practice waiting for
them: now, they have to wait for practice.”
“The greater reason for commencing early,”
said the Doctor. “The longer they
have to wait, the sooner they should begin.”
“But a hasty choice may mar a man's fortune
by a misdirection of his powers,” rejoined
Alfred. “Moreover, the trials of competition
are now so much greater, that when
the choice is made—”
“What,” interrupted the Doctor, “can fit a
man for competition so well as practice? The
sooner he begins, therefore, the sooner and
the more effectually will he be formidable to
competitors. As to misdirection of powers;
there can be no misdirection, when a young
man has industry and ambition. The mind,
as Mr. Locke says, is like a sheet of white
paper, upon which any thing may be written,
and the way to make the most of its universal
Division of labor is as productive in the intellectual
as in the mechanical world. A young
man who wishes for eminence should concentrate
his mind upon his profession, and the
younger he is (his preparatory education being
completed) the more easy will this concentration
be. If he postpones determining
upon his career, he will become interested
in other pursuits, and when he sets about
professional studies, he will find, that his
mind, distracted by miscellaneous smatterings,
is unfitted for the exclusive devotion which is
essential to success, or will be trained to it
with difficulty.” Here the Doctor, well satisfied
with his progress, and not doubting
that all who heard him were equally so, diverged
into a panegyric on his own profession.
This was a favorite topic with him;
partly from sincerity, of which egotism was
the father, and partly from the affectation
which is the growth of worldliness. He was
interrupted by Alfred: “Doctor, there is a
the one you are entering upon—even admitting
that the comparative merits of different
professions and honest callings can be properly
a subject for abstract discussion.”
“What is that?” said the Doctor.
“Whether,” answered Alfred, “the engaging
in a profession or other established lucrative
occupation be in all cases advisable. You
seem to take that for granted.”
“And do not you?” exclaimed the Doctor.
“I look upon that as an established American
idea. Mr. Seldon, who avows his English
prepossessions, is the only one of this company,
I presume, who does not adopt it.”
“I do not differ from you entirely, Dr.
Walsall,” said Mr. Seldon. “I regard the
law as a branch of a liberal education: the
study of it is essential to a gentleman.”
“For one, Doctor, I do not agree with
you,” said Mr. Penniman. “The prevalence
of the notion, which you call an American
idea, that every young man, whatever may be
is no favorable sign of the taste of a
community, and is an evidence that the refinements
and elegancies of life are not appreciated.
The labors and habits of business
are incompatible with that pervading polish,
which only can make society agreeable. A
few individuals may always be picked out”—
here he bowed to the company—“who are
exceptions to this effect; but their presence
renders the general deficiency in manners the
more conspicuous.”
“Mr. Penniman,” said Dr. Walsall, “this
exclusiveness is not only unrepublican—it is
impracticable. You would undermine the
basis of society in attempting to polish its
surface.”
“Not at all,” said Mr. Penniman. “In a
wealthy city, the number of persons who
have the means to live in elegance is large.—
This class should be contented with their
wealth, and not labor to increase it. Manners
are artificial: they are like green-house
can men who pass the most of every day in
the drudgery and routine of business, acquire
gracefulness either of body or mind? The
business of the affluent should be the elegances
of life. Duty as well as taste commends
this to them. The refining of the manners
elevates the morals of a community.”
Mr. Penniman's father had been a tanner,
and having made a large fortune, died, leaving
his only son, just of age, his heir. The
young Mr. Penniman immediately sold the
tannery and bought a curricle. He soon after
“made the tour of Europe,” and returned
with a coat of arms and a French valet. He
was now about eight and twenty, and a by
no means insignificant member of “good society.”
“The neglect, or more properly, the perversion
of natural advantages,” said Alfred,
“is strikingly exemplified in the conduct of
those classes of this country who are the
most favored by circumstances. It would
justice,—ever active to equalize the
lots of humanity,—we restrict ourselves socially
in proportion to our exemption from
political trammels. Unburdened from the
state by the weight of laws, we counterbalance
our freedom as citizens by the voluntary
subjection of ourselves, as men, to a social
despotism of opinion, to which is applied the
name of public—with as much reason as that
of world is to a coterie of gossips.” Mr.
Penniman had a horror of satire, and began
to feel uncomfortable. Dr. Walsall was not
less dissatisfied: he perceived that he should
have to be silent for some time. Alfred had
not taken up the conversation for the purpose
of refuting the opinions of either of these
gentlemen: that, by itself, he thought an unprofitable
task, and he never talked for display.
Truth was always his object when in
earnest, and he became so now on Herbert's
account. Observing that Herbert listened attentively,
he proceeded.—“The mighty circumstances
upon these fresh shores, disenthralled us
from the tyranny of European custom as well
as from that of government. Boldly and wisely
have we used our liberty in the construction
of our political system; but in much else
we have been blind to its value or we have
abused it. Original in our principles of government,
we are in our manners and many
of our habits servile imitators. The result is,
the littleness inseparable from any imitation of
the kind, and the awkwardness which is the
effect of its unfitness, superadded to the native
vulgarity of the foreign original. We set
up the idol fashion, and we worship it in the
spirit of exclusiveness;—a false idol, even
where it is rendered imposing by the prestiges
of custom and the pomp of aristocratic
circumstance,—a mean spirit even where the
worship is sanctioned by national institutions
and hereditary usage. Here, where the idol
stands—not on the high pedestal of time-honored
privilege, crowned with precious
shallow basis of ephemeral pretension, unadorned,
in naked deformity,—the worship is
self-degradation.”
“Come, Alfred,” interrupted Mrs. Vernon,
“you view the subject too seriously.—
The monster fashion is a very harmless monster;
fantastic, if you please, but nothing
more. The worst of fashion is its folly.”
“You give it respectability by making it of
so much importance. Ridicule is weapon
enough for it,” said Mr. Seldon.
“You are too severe,” said Mr. Penniman.”
“Entirely so,” said the Doctor.
“Were the social defect,” resumed Alfred,
“to which I allude, on the surface,—a mere
partial disfigurement of bad taste,—a blister,
without depth; the fine point of ridicule were
enough. Or, were it nothing more than the
impertinence of a few pretenders, aiming at
the hollow distinctions of ostentation; contempt
alone would be its due: it would not
move indignation. These are but symptoms:
(this for example,) in that portion
of it which should be the freest, there is a
slavery of the mind—a double slavery; to the
object which is little, and to the means to attain
it which are debasing. The object is,
the outward shows, the public sensualism, if
I may so speak, of life: the means are, the
soul-absorbing, soul-contracting gathering of
wealth. The mind is sold, that the body may
be gaudily decked. What is called fashionable
life is wholly corporeal. For what is the intercourse
of the self-important actors in it
more than the mechanical movements and
automaton mutterings of puppets—etiquette
being the wire that guides them? What are
their equipages and halls but so much superfiuous
raiment? Means and leisure which
might be profile, are barrenly dedicated to
empty nothings. The substantial goods of
existence,—the gladdening, the heart-purifying,—are
cast away: and not even is the outward
form of beauty acquired; for polish and
possession of a library imbue its possessor
with literature. Manners should flow from
within: their only pure source is in the heart—
in high and proper feeling. The manners of
outward putting on—the factitious accompaniment
of conventional observance, are to the
ease and frank bearing which unconsciously
attend a cultivated mind, what the changeless
color of a painted cheek is to the tint of na
ture varying with the heart's impulses.
“This coarse poison which thus blotches
the face, as it were, of the social body, pervades
other of its limbs. The small circle,
drawn in the spirit of exclusiveness by vulgar
vanity, casts a glare over a wide circumference.
To a crowd without its jealous
limits, it is radiant with attraction; to those
particularly, upon whom fortune has sprinkled
her golden dust, the object of envy and admiration
and hope. Seeing that gold is its
basis, as well as the stuff of which its ornaments
are made, they task both mind
smoothest key to open its barriers, and the
surest source of brilliancy when within them.
What a waste of energy! What a prostitution
of mind! What a shallow result! What
an unprofitable existence!”
“This is very well as satire, Alfred,” said
Mr. Vernon. “But it is as applicable to a
European as to an American city. It has no
peculiar fitness to ourselves.”
“It has a peculiar fitness to ourselves,” answered
Alfred. “We are a republic: Europe
is aristocratic. The forms and modes of social
intercourse and occupation there, have
grown out of political institutions: they are
the leaves that are fed and take their shape
and hue from old deep roots. We are free,
alike from the necessity imposed by laws, and
from the habit of centuries. The class here
which has leisure, is called by circumstances
and ambition as well as by duty and taste, to
self-improvement. It does not heed or it
does not understand the call. It has no zeal
ending in avarice, its aspirations in ostentation.”
After a few remarks from Mr. Penniman
and Dr. Walsall, neither of whom, however,
attempted to continue the subject in this
strain, the conversation became political.—
Mrs. Vernon made a movement to rise, saying,
that Miss Walsall and herself would
leave the gentlemen to politics. Mr. Penniman
protested against such a double infliction:
this separation, he said, was a Vandal
custom, and politics were under any circumstances
the bane of good company. Some
one proposed that it be put to the vote
whether the gentlemen should leave the table
with the ladies.
“Voting is so vulgar,” said Mr. Penniman.
“That's a good thought,” said Mr. Vernon,
not noticing the comment of Mr. Penniman.
Alfred, Mr. Penniman, and Herbert, were
for accompanying them: Mr. Seldon and the
Doctor against it.
“Three to two, gentlemen,” said Mr. Vernon,
rising; and the whole party went into
the drawing room.
There the conversation reassumed a lighter
character. After some time, Dr. Walsall
asked if any of the gentlemen were going to
Mrs. Gore's; it was time to think of it if they
were. “Mr. Barclay, you are, I am sure, and
you, Mr. Seldon, are you not?”
“No; I believe not,” said Mr. Seldon.—
“But I recommend to Mr. Barclay to go. It
will amuse him, and a young man should go
through a course of balls.”
“Yes,” said Alfred; “as he does through a
course of metaphysics. They are both parts
of a liberal education, and one is as profitable
as the other.”
“Fie, Alfred,” cried Mr. Vernon, “you are
as bad as a merchant,—always calculating
profit and loss.”
“Besides,” said Mrs. Vernon, “there is profit
as well as amusement in such a scene to a
young man. You think so much is to be
classes of men; you will admit that the study
of women is not without instruction.”
“The study of women! A young man
studying women!” said Alfred. “Herbert,
can you with your naked eye see the spots on
the sun at mid-day? You can do that as easily
as you can see what a woman really is.”
“No man, Alfred,” said Mrs. Vernon,
“young or old, can fix his eyes on the sun at
mid-day, so that your illustration is not good;
for you surely wont assert, that no man can
understand a woman.”
“He can look undazzled at the sun rising
or setting; so I advise you, Herbert, to stay
here and study Mrs. Vernon and her daughter,”
said Alfred.
Mrs. Vernon, one of whose children was
by her side, was still beautiful at thirty-five.
To attract the attention of the company towards
her in this way, was an indirect compliment:
had it not been so, Alfred would
not have done it.
“You shall not escape,” returned Mrs.
Vernon. “You ca'nt support your illustration.”
“Yes, I can,” said Alfred. “I did not say
a man cannot gaze at the sun at mid-day; but
that he can not do it with his naked eye.—
He can do it through a smoked glass.”
“A smoked glass!”
“Yes. The smoked glass of a man before
the dazzling being of woman, is his own
darkened heart. Disappointment cleanses
his brain of bewildering fancies. The mariner
approaches the glittering form floating
majestically across his path: it is an iceberg.
Too late he discovers his peril, when wrecked
on its treacherous roots spread invisible
under him. Fortunate if he escapes with
life,—ever after to fly when its glancing rays
meet his sight.”
“You carry such a glass, yourself, do you
not Mr. Grey?” said Mr. Penniman.
Mr. Penniman would have liked to have
some deflecting substance before his own
him.
“Come Mr. Barclay,” said Dr. Walsall, let
me have the honor of presenting you at Mrs.
Gore's.”
“Be my knight, Mr. Barclay,” added his
daughter.
Herbert gave his arm to Miss Walsall, who
took her leave.
“I got the better of you, Mr. Grey.”
said the Doctor, as Herbert went out of the
room, “notwithstanding your camera obscura
of the heart and your similes.”
“Ah! Doctor,” retorted Alfred, “you are
accustomed to mistake the triumphs of nature
for your own.”
| CHAPTER II. A volume from the life of Herbert Barclay | |