 | CHAPTER V. The monikins |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
About the social-stake system, the dangers of concentration,
and other moral and immoral curiosities.
The affairs of my father were almost as easy of
settlement as those of a pauper. In twenty-four
hours I was completely master of them, and found
myself, if not the very richest, certainly one of the
richest subjects of Europe. I say subjects, for
sovereigns frequently have a way of appropriating
the effects of others, that would render a pretension
to rivalry ridiculous. Debts there were none;
and if there had been, ready money was not wanting:
the balance in cash in my favor at the bank
amounted of itself to a fortune.
The reader may now suppose that I was perfectly
happy. Without a solitary claim on either my
time or my estate, I was in the enjoyment of an
income that materially exceeded the revenues of
a vicious habit of any sort. Of houses, horses,
hounds, packs, and menials, there were none to vex
or perplex me. In every particular save one, I was
completely my own master. That one was the
near, dear, cherished sentiment that rendered Anna
in my eyes an angel, (and truly she was little
short of it in those of other people,) and made her
the polar star to which every wish pointed. How
gladly would I have paid half a million, just then,
to be the grandson of a baronet, with precedency
from the seventeenth century!
There was, however, another and a present
cause for uneasiness, that gave me even more concern
than the fact that my family reached the dark
ages with so much embarrassing facility. In witnessing
the dying agony of my ancestor, I had
got a dread lesson on the vanity, the hopeless
character, the dangers and the delusions of wealth,
that time can never eradicate. The history of its
accumulation was ever present to mar the pleasure
of its possession. I do not mean that I suspected
what, by the world's convention, is deemed dishonesty—of
that there had been no necessity—but
simply that the heartless and estranged existence,
the waste of energies, the blunted charities, and
the isolated and distrustful habits of my father,
appeared to me to be but poorly requited by the
joyless ownership of his millions. I would have
given largely to be directed in such a way as,
while escaping the wastefulness of the shoals of
Scylla, I might in my own case steer clear of the
miserly rocks of Charybdis.
When I drove from between the smoky lines of
the London houses, into the green fields, and amid
the blossoming hedges, this earth looked beautiful,
and as if it were made to be loved. I saw in it
Creator, and it was not difficult to persuade myself
that he who dwelt in the confusion of a town,
in order to transfer gold from the pocket of his
neighbor to his own, had mistaken the objects
of his being. My poor ancestor, who had never
quitted London, stood before me with his dying
regrets; and my first resolution was, to live in
open communion with my kind. So intense,
indeed, did my anxiety to execute this purpose
become, that it might have led even to frenzy, had
not a fortunate circumstance interposed to save
me from so dire a calamity.
The coach in which I had taken passage, (for I
purposely avoided the parade and trouble of a
post-chaise and servants,) passed through a market
town of known loyalty, on the eve of a contested
election. This appeal to the intelligence
and patriotism of the constituency, had occurred
in consequence of the late incumbent having taken
office. The new minister, for he was a member
of the cabinet, had just ended his canvass, and he
was about to address his fellow-subjects, from a
window of the tavern in which he lodged. Fatigued,
but ready to seek mental relief by any
means, I threw myself from the coach, secured a
room, and made one of the multitude.
The favorite candidate occupied a large balcony,
surrounded by his principal friends, among
whom it was delightful to see Earls, Lords John,
Baronets, dignitaries of the church, tradesmen of
influence in the borough, and even a mechanic or
two, all squeezed together in the agreeable amalgamation
of political affinity. `Here then,' thought
I, `is an example of the heavenly charities! The
candidate, himself the son and heir of a peer, feels
that he is truly of the same flesh and blood as his
are his manners!—and with what cordiality does
he shake hands with the greasiest and the worst!
There must be a corrective to human pride, a
stimulus to the charities, a never-ending lesson of
benevolence in this part of our excellent system,
and I will look farther into it.'—The candidate
appeared, and his harangue commenced.
Memory would fail me, were I to attempt recording
the precise language of the orator, but his
opinions and precepts are so deeply graven on my
recollection, that I do not fear misrepresenting
them. He commenced with a very proper and an
eloquent eulogium on the constitution, which he
fearlessly pronounced to be, in its way, the very
perfection of human reason; in proof of which
he adduced the well-ascertained fact, that it had
always been known, throughout the vicissitudes and
trials of so many centuries, to accommodate itself
to circumstances, abhorring change. “Yes, my
friends,” he exclaimed, in a burst of patriotic and
constitutional fervor—“whether under the roses,
or the lilies—the Tudors, the Stuarts, or the illustrious
house of Brunswick, this glorious structure
has resisted the storms of faction, has been able to
receive under its sheltering roof the most opposite
elements of domestic strife, affording protection,
warmth, ay, and food and raiment”—(here the orator
happily laid his hand on the shoulder of a
butcher, who wore a frieze over-coat that made
him look not unlike a stall-fed beast)—“yes, food
and raiment, victuals and drink, to the meanest
subject in the realm. Nor is this all; it is a constitution
peculiarly English: and who is there so
base, so vile, so untrue to himself, to his fathers,
to his descendants, as to turn his back on a constitution
that is thoroughly and inherently English—a
ancestors, and which, by every obligation, both
human and divine, he is bound to transmit unchanged
to posterity;”—here the orator, who continued
to speak, however, was deafened by shouts
of applause, and that part of the subject might
very fairly be considered as definitively settled.
From the constitution as a whole, the candidate
next proceeded to extol the particular feature of
it, that was known as the borough of Householder.
According to his account of this portion of the
government, its dwellers were animated by the
noblest spirit of independence, the most rooted determination
to uphold the ministry, of which he
was the least worthy member, and were distinguished
by what, in an ecstasy of political eloquence,
he happily termed the most freeborn
understanding of its rights and privileges. This
loyal and judicious borough had never been known
to waste its favors on those who had not a stake
in the community. It understood that fundamental
principle of good government, which lays down
the axiom, that none were to be trusted but those
who had a visible and an extended interest in the
country; for without these pledges of honesty and
independence, what had the elector to expect but
bribery and corruption—a traffic in his dearest
rights, and a bargaining that might destroy the
glorious institutions under which he dwelt. This
part of the harangue was listened to in respectful
silence, and shortly after the orator concluded;—
when the electors dispersed with, no doubt, a better
opinion of themselves and the constitution,
than it had probably been their good fortune to
entertain since the previous election.
Accident placed me, at dinner, (the house being
crowded,) at the same table with an attorney who
the householders, and who, I soon learned from
himself, was the especial agent of the owner of
the independent borough in question. He told me
that he had come down with the expectation of
disposing of the whole property to Lord Pledge,
the ministerial candidate named; but the means
had not been forthcoming, as he had been led to
hope, and the bargain was unluckily off, at the
very moment when it was of the utmost importance
to know to whom the independent electors
rightfully belonged.
“His Lordship, however,” continued the attorney,
winking, “has done what is handsome; and
there can be no more doubt of his election, than
there would be of yours, did you happen to own
the borough.”
“And is the property now open for sale?” I
asked.
“Certainly—my principal can hold out no longer.
The price is settled, and I have his power of
attorney to make the preliminary bargain. 'Tis
a thousand pities that the public mind should be
left in this undecided state on the eve of an election.”
“Then, sir, I will be the purchaser.”
My companion looked at me with astonishment
and doubt. He had transacted too much business
of this nature, however, not to feel his way before
he was either off or on.
“The price of the estate is three hundred and
twenty-five thousand pounds, sir, and the rental
is only six!”
“Be it so. My name is Goldencalf: by accompanying
me to town, you shall receive the money.”
“Goldencalf!—What, sir, the only son and heir
of the late Thomas Goldencalf, of Cheapside?”
“The same. My father has not been dead a
month.”
“Pardon me, sir—convince me of your identity
—we must be particular in matters of this sort—
and you shall have possession of the property in
season to secure your own election, or that of any
of your friends. I will return Lord Pledge his
small advances, and another time he will know
better than to fail of keeping his promises. What
is a borough good for, if a nobleman's word is not
sacred? You will find the electors, in particular,
every way worthy of your favor. They are as
frank, loyal, and straight-forward a constituency,
as any in England. No skulking behind the ballot
for them!—and, in all respects, they are fearless
Englishmen, who will do what they say, and say
whatever their landlord shall please to require of
them.”
As I had sundry letters and other documents
about me, nothing was easier than to convince the
attorney of my identity. He called for pen and
ink; drew out of his pocket the contract that had
been prepared for Lord Pledge; gave it to me to
read; filled the blanks; and affixing his name, called
the waiters as witnesses, and presented me the
paper with a promptitude and respect that I found
really delightful. So much, thought I, for having
given pledges to society by the purchase of a borough.
I drew on my bankers for three hundred
and twenty-five thousand pounds, and arose from
table, virtually, the owner of the estate of Householder,
and of the political consciences of its tenantry.
A fact so important could not long be unknown;
and in a few minutes all eyes in the coffee-room
were upon me. The landlord presented himself,
and begged I would do him the honor to take possession
at his disposal. I was hardly installed, before a
servant in a handsome livery presented the following
note:—
I have this moment heard of your being in town, and
am exceedingly rejoiced to learn it. A long intimacy with
your late excellent and most loyal father, justifies my claiming
you for a friend, and I waive all ceremony, (official, of
course, is meant, there being no reason for any other between
us,) and beg to be admitted for half an hour.
Your's, very faithfully and sincerely,
Monday evening.
I begged that the noble visiter might not be made
to wait a moment. Lord Pledge met me like an
old and an intimate friend. He made a hundred
handsome inquiries after my dead ancestor; spoke
feelingly of his regret at not having been summoned
to attend his death-bed; and then very ingenuously
and warmly congratulated me on my succession
to so large a property.
“I hear, too, you have bought this borough, my
dear sir.—I could not make it convenient, just at
this particular moment, to conclude my own arrangement,—but
it is a good thing. Three hundred
and twenty thousand, I suppose, as was mentioned
between me and the other party?”
“Three hundred and twenty-five thousand, Lord
Pledge.”
I perceived by the countenance of the noble candidate,
that I had paid the odd five thousand as a
fine,—a circumstance which accounted for the
most probably pocketing the difference himself.
“You mean to sit, of course?”
“I do, my Lord, as one of the members, at the
next general election; but at present, I shall be
most happy to aid your return.”
“My dear Mr. Goldencalf—”
“Really, without presuming to compliment, Lord
Pledge, the noble sentiments I heard you express
this morning, were so very proper, so exceedingly
statesmanlike, so truly English, that I shall feel infinitely
more satisfaction in knowing that you fill
the vacant seat, than if it were in my own possession.”
“I honor your public spirit, Mr. Goldencalf, and
only wish to God, there was more of it in the world.
But you can count on our friendship, sir. What
you have just remarked, is true—very true—only
too true—true to a hair—a-a-a I mean, my dear
Mr. Goldencalf, most especially those sentiments
of mine which—a-a-a—I say it, before God, without
vanity—but which, as you have so very ably
intimated, are so truly proper and English.”
“I sincerely think so, Lord Pledge, or I should
not have said it. I am peculiarly situated, myself.
With an immense fortune, without rank, name, or
connexions, nothing is easier than for one of my
years to be led astray; and it is my ardent desire
to hit upon some expedient that may connect me
properly with society.”
“Marry, my dear young friend—select a wife
from among the fair and virtuous of this happy
isle—unluckily I can propose nothing in this way
myself—for both my own sisters are disposed of.”
“I have made my choice, already, I thank you
a thousand times, my dear Lord Pledge; although
I scarcely dare execute my own wishes. There
baronet's second son, or—”
“Become a baronet yourself,” once more interrupted
my noble friend, with an evident relief from
suspense; for I verily believe he thought I was
about to ask for something better. “Your affair
shall be arranged by the end of the week—and if
there is any thing else I can do for you, I beg you
to name it without reserve.”
“If I could hear a few more of those remarkable
sentiments of yours, concerning the stake we
should all have in society, I think it would relieve
my mind.”
My companion looked at me a moment, with a
very awkward sort of intensity, drew his hand
across his brows, reflected, and then obligingly
complied.
“You attach too much importance, Mr. Goldencalf,
to a few certainly very just, but very ill-arranged
ideas. That a man, without a proper stake
in society, is little better than the beast of the fields,
I hold to be so obvious, that it is unnecessary to
dwell on the point. Reason as you will, forward
or backward, you arrive at the same result,—he
that hath nothing, is usually treated by mankind
little better than a dog, and he that is little better
than a dog, usually has nothing.—Again,—What
distinguishes the savage from the civilized man?—
why, civilization, to be sure.—Now, what is civilization?—the
arts of life.—What feeds, nourishes,
sustains the arts of life?—money, or property. By
consequence, civilization is property, and property
is civilization. If the control of a country is in the
hands of those who possess the property, the government
is a civilized government; but, on the
other hand, if it is in the hands of those who have
no property, the government is necessarily an uncivilized
any one should become a safe statesman, who does
not possess a direct property interest in society.
You know there is not a tyro of our political sect
who does not fully admit the truth of this axiom.”
“Mr. Pitt?”
“Why, Pitt was certainly an exception, in one
way; but then, you will recollect, he was the immediate
representative of the tories, who own most
of the property of England.”
“Mr. Fox?”
“Fox represented the whigs, who own all the
rest, you know. No, my dear Goldencalf, reason
as you will, we shall always arrive at the same
results.—You will, of course, as you have just said,
take one of the seats yourself, at the next general
election?”
“I shall be too proud of being your colleague, to
hesitate.”
This speech sealed our friendship; for it was a
pledge to my noble acquaintance of his future connexion
with the borough. He was much too highbred
to express his thanks in vulgar phrases, (though
high-breeding rarely exhibits all its finer qualities
pending an election,) but, a man of the world, and
one of a class whose main business it is to put the
suaviter in modo, as the French have it, en evidence,
the reader may be sure that when we parted that
night, I was in perfect good humor with myself,
and, as a matter of course, with my new acquaintance.
The next day the canvass was renewed, and we
had another convincing speech on the subject of
the virtue of “a stake in society;” for Lord Pledge
was tactician enough to attack the citadel, once
assured of its weak point, rather than expend his
efforts on the out-works of the place. That night
all properly executed, (they had been some time
in preparation for Lord Pledge,) and the following
morning early, the tenants were served with the
usual notices, with a handsomely expressed sentiment,
on my part, in favor of “a stake in society.”
About noon, Lord Pledge walked over the course,
as it is expressed at New-Market and Doncaster.
After dinner we separated, my noble friend returning
to town, while I pursued my way to the Rectory.
Anna never appeared more fresh, more serene,
more elevated above mortality, than when we met,
a week after I had quitted Householder, in the
breakfast-parlor of her father's abode.
“You are beginning to look like yourself again,
Jack,” she said, extending her hand, with the simple
cordiality of an Englishwoman; “and I hope
we shall find you more rational.”
“Ah, Anna, if I could only presume to throw
myself at your feet, and to tell you how much and
what I feel, I should be the happiest fellow in all
England.”
“As it is, you are the most miserable!” the
laughing girl answered, as, crimsoned to the temples,
she drew away the hand I was foolishly
pressing against my heart. “Let us go to breakfast,
Mr. Goldencalf—my father has ridden across
the country to visit Dr. Liturgy.”
“Anna,” I said, after seating myself, and taking
a cup of tea from fingers that were rosy as the
morn, “I fear you are the greatest enemy that I
have on earth.”
“John Goldencalf!” exclaimed the startled girl,
turning pale, and then flushing violently. “Pray,
explain yourself.”
“I love you to my heart's core—could marry
before worshipped woman.”
Anna laughed faintly.
“And you feel in danger of the sin of idolatry?”
she at length succeeded in saying.
“No, I am in danger of narrowing my sympathies—of
losing a broad and safe hold of life—of
losing my proper stake in society—of—in short,
of becoming as useless to my fellows as my poor,
poor father, and of making an end as miserable!
Oh! Anna, could you have witnessed the hopelessness
of that death-bed, you could never wish me
a fate like his!”
My pen is unequal to convey an adequate idea
of the expression with which Anna regarded me.
Wonder, doubt, apprehension, affection, and anguish,
were all beaming in her eyes; but the
unnatural brightness of these conflicting sentiments
was tempered by a softness that resembled
the pearly lustre of an Italian sky.
“If I yield to my fondness, Anna, in what will
my condition differ from that of my miserable
father's? He concentrated his feelings in the love
of money, and I—yes, I feel it here, I know it is
here—I should love you so intensely, as to shut out
every generous sentiment in favor of others. I
have a fearful responsibility on my shoulders,—
wealth—gold;—gold, beyond limits; and to save
my very soul, I must extend, not narrow, my interest
in my fellow-creatures. Were there a hundred
such Annas, I might press you all to my heart,—
but, one! no—no—'t would be misery—'t would be
perdition! The very excess of such a passion
would render me a heartless miser, unworthy of
the confidence of my fellow-men!”
The radiant and yet serene eyes of Anna seemed
to read my soul; and when I had done speaking,
woman approaches when she feels most, placed
her velvet-like hand on my burning forehead,
pressed its throbbing pulses gently to her heart,
burst into tears, and fled.
We dined alone, nor did we meet again until
the dinner hour. The manner of Anna was soothing,
gentle, even affectionate; but she carefully
avoided the subject of the morning. As for myself,
I was constantly brooding over the danger of concentrating
interests, and of the excellence of the
social-stake system.
“Your spirits will be better, Jack, in a day or
two,” said Anna, when we had taken wine after
the soup. “Country air, and old friends, will restore
your freshness and color.”
“If there were a thousand Annas, I could be
happy, as man was never happy, before! But I
must not, dare not, lessen my hold on society.”
“All of which proves my insufficiency to render
you happy. But here comes Francis, with yesterday
morning's paper—let us see what society is
about, in London.”
After a few moments of intense occupation with
the journal, an exclamation of pleasure and surprise
escaped the sweet girl. On raising my eyes,
I saw her gazing (as I fancied) fondly at myself.
“Read what you have, that seems to give you
so much pleasure.”
She complied, reading with an eager and tremulous
voice the following paragraph:—
“His Majesty has been most graciously pleased
to raise John Goldencalf, of Householder Hall, in
the county of Dorset, and of Cheapside, Esquire,
to the dignity of a Baronet of the United Kingdoms
of Great Britain and Ireland.”
“Sir John Goldencalf, I have the honor to drink
to your health and happiness!” cried the delighted
girl, brightening like the dawn, and wetting her
pouting lip with liquor less ruby than itself. “Here,
Francis, fill a bumper, and drink to the new
baronet.”
The gray-headed butler did as ordered, with a
very good grace, and then hurried into the servants'
hall, to communicate the news.
“Here at least, Jack, is a new hold that society
has on you, whatever hold you may have on
society.”
I was pleased, because she was pleased, and
because it showed that Lord Pledge had some
sense of gratitude, (although he afterwards took
occasion to intimate that I owed the favor chiefly
to hope,) and I believe my eyes never expressed
more fondness.
“Lady Goldencalf would not have an awkward
sound, after all, dearest Anna.”
“As applied to one, Sir John, it might possibly
do; but not as applied to a hundred.” Anna
laughed, blushed, burst into tears once more, and
again fled.
“What right have I to trifle with the feelings
of this single-hearted and excellent girl,” said I to
myself; “it is evident that the subject distresses
her—she is unequal to its discussion, and it is
unmanly and improper in me to treat it in this
manner. I must be true to my character as a
gentleman and a man—ay, and, under present
circumstances, as a baronet; and—I will never
speak of it again as long as I live.”
The following day I took leave of Dr. Etherington
and his daughter, with the avowed intention
of travelling for a year or two. The good rector
expressions of confidence in my discretion, and,
squeezing me warmly by the hand, begged me to
recollect that I had always a home at the rectory.
When I had made my adieus to the father, I went,
with a sorrowful heart, in quest of the daughter.
She was still in the little breakfast parlor—that
parlor so loved! I found her pale, timid, sensitive,
bland, but serene. Little could ever disturb that
heavenly quality in the dear girl; if she laughed, it
was with a restrained and moderated joy; if she
wept, it was like rain falling from a sky that still
shone with the lustre of the sun. It was only
when feeling and nature were unutterably big
within her, that some irresistible impulse of her
sex betrayed her into emotions like those I had
twice witnessed so lately.
“You are about to leave us, Jack,” she said,
holding out her hand kindly, and without the affectation
of an indifference she did not feel—“you
will see many strange faces, but you will see none
who—”
I waited for the completion of the sentence, but,
although she struggled hard for self-possession, it
was never finished.
“At my age, Anna, and with my means, it
would be unbecoming to remain at home, when,
if I may so express it, `human nature is abroad.'
I go to quicken my sympathies, to open my heart
to my kind, and to avoid the cruel regrets that
tortured the death-bed of my father.”
“Well—well”—interrupted the sobbing girl,
“we will talk of it no more. It is best that you
should travel; and so adieu, with a thousand—nay,
millions of good wishes for your happiness and
safe return.—You will come back to us, Jack,
when tired of other scenes?”
This was said with gentle earnestness, and a
sincerity so winning, that it came near upsetting
all my philosophy; but I could not marry the
whole sex, and to bind down my affections in one,
would have been giving the death-blow to the development
of that sublime principle on which I was
bent, and which I had already decided was to
make me worthy of my fortune, and the ornament
of my species. Had I been offered a kingdom,
however, I could not speak. I took the unresisting
girl in my arms, folded her to my heart, pressed a
burning kiss on her cheek, and withdrew.
“You will come back to us, Jack?” she half
whispered, as her hand was reluctantly drawn
through my own.
Oh! Anna, it was indeed painful to abandon thy
frank and gentle confidence, thy radiant beauty,
thy serene affections, and all thy womanly virtues,
in order to practise my newly discovered theory!
Long did thy presence haunt me—nay, never did
it entirely desert me—putting my constancy to a
severe proof, and threatening, at each remove, to
contract the lengthening chain that still bound me
to thee, thy fire-side, and thy altars! But I triumphed,
and went abroad upon the earth, with a
heart expanding towards all the creatures of God,
though thy image was still enshrined in its inmost
core, shining in womanly glory, pure, radiant, and
without spot, like the floating prism that forms
the lustre of the diamond.
| CHAPTER V. The monikins | |