University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

Cowper.

Crabbe.

We have really been very remiss in omitting so long to
notice the rapid strides with which Mr. Pompey Taylor had
advanced on the road to fame and fortune, during the two
years in which we have lost sight of him. He might have
addressed, to the reader, the remark that the Emperor Napoleon
applied to his secretary, after the conquest of Prussia
and Austria: “J'ai fait des progrès immenses depuis que
Bourienne m'a quitté!”

It is a rule, in composition, it was so, at least, when people
wrote by rule, to compare the little with the great. If we
were to follow the direction, it would be easy to prove that
these two individuals, the conqueror, Napoleon, and the speculator,
Taylor, were not too widely separated for many
points of resemblance to be traced between them. Ambition
was the ruling passion of both; and both were alike insatiable.
Bonaparte added kingdom to kingdom; Taylor,
house to house; the emperor might believe himself equal to
ruling half the world; the merchant felt capable of owning
the other half. The one raised army after army; the other
fitted out vessel after vessel. The energies of both were
inexhaustible, and both aimed at an ever-receding goal;
while each, in his own way, soon reached a height never
dreamed of by the mothers who rocked their cradles. Nor
would it be justice to Mr. Taylor, to suppose, that the love of
money, alone, was the main-spring of his actions; he, too,
was spurred on by the love of glory; dollars and cents were
not the end, with him; he looked upon his thousands, in
gold and paper, as Napoleon did upon his thousands in flesh
and blood — they were but the instruments which were to
open the road to fame. The man of commerce, and the man
of war, were alike lavish of their treasures, when the object
of their lives was in view. If one was the boldest of generals,
the other was the most enterprising of merchants; and
Fortune favoured the daring of both. In short, Mr. Taylor
was no common, plodding trader, content with moderate
gains and safe investments, and fixing his hopes on probabilities—he
pursued traffic with the passion of a gambler, united
to the close calculation of a miser; and yet, he spent freely
what he had acquired easily.

There are merchants, who, by their education, their integrity,
their talents and their liberality, are an honour to the
profession; but Mr. Pompey Taylor was not of the number.
We have all heard the anecdote of the young man addicted
to the sin of swearing, whose conversation, during dinner,

was taken down in short-hand, and, when read afterwards,
shocked the individual himself. Could the thoughts and
words of Mr. Taylor, during a single day, have been as fairly
registered, perhaps he himself would have been astonished
to find how very large a portion of them were given to gain
and speculation, in some shape or other. At social meetings,
whether dinners or evening parties, he seldom talked long
on any other subject: he has been known to utter the word
`stocks,' just as he entered a church, on Sunday; while a
question about certain lots was the first sentence which
passed his lips, as he crossed the threshold on his way out.
Eating his meals under his own roof; walking down Broadway
to Wall-Street, every morning, at nine o'clock, and back
again every afternoon at three; still the echo of Mr. Taylor's
thoughts and words was `dollars,' `stocks,' and `lots'—`lots,'
`stocks,' and `dollars.' He had a value for everything in
dollars—his jokes turned upon stocks—and his dreams were
filled with lots. Let it not be supposed, however, that
Mr. Pompey Taylor was born with the phrenological organ
of the love of money more strongly developed than other
human beings. By no means. He was endowed by nature
with faculties and feelings as varied as other men. But,
from the time he could first walk and talk, precept and example
had gradually turned all his faculties in one direction;
for, such had been the opinions and views of his father and
elder brothers; and there was no other impulse in his
nature or education, sufficiently strong to give a different
bent to his energies. Under other circumstances, Pompey
Taylor might have been a quick-witted lawyer, a supple
politician, a daring soldier, or, with a different moral training,
he might have been something far superior to either; but
the field of commerce was the only one that opened to him,
at his entrance into life; and it was too well adapted to the
man, such as nature and education had made him, to be neglected.
He found full scope, in such a sphere, for all his
energies of body and mind—he delighted in its labours and
its rewards.

Mr. Taylor had forgotten, if he had ever known the fact,
that the best pleasures of this world even, are those which
money cannot purchase, the severest wants those which it
cannot supply. He had no conception of any consideration
equal to that which riches give. Beauty unadorned was no
beauty in his eyes; and he chiefly valued talent as a means
of making good investments and wily speculations. He
looked upon Science as the hand-maiden of Commerce;
Armies and Navies existed only to defend a nation's wealth,
not its liberties, or its honour. The seat of his patriotism
was in his pocket; and the only internal improvement
in which he was interested, was that which opened new
facilities for acquiring money. It is surprising how totally
such a mind becomes unfitted to enjoy and admire any great
or noble quality in the abstract; in spite of a quick wit and
keen organs, such men become the most one-sided beings,
perhaps, in the whole human family. To moral beauty Mr.
Taylor seemed quite blind; his mental vision resembled the
physical sight of those individuals whose eyes, though perfect
in every other respect, are incapable of receiving any
impression of an object tinged with blue—the colour of the
heavens. Even the few ideas he had upon religious subjects
partook of the character of loss and gain; the simple spirit
of true piety could never enter into a mind in the state of
his. And yet, Mr. Taylor was looked upon as a happy
man. Fortunate he certainly was, for wealth and luxury
had risen around him almost as readily as if possessed of
Aladdin's lamp. Had he been actually in possession of this
gift of the genii, he could scarcely have found a wish to
gratify, as money had already provided him with all it can
supply in this country, and the pursuit of wealth itself was
his delight. Deprived of this, Othello's occupation were
gone.

Justice to Mr. Taylor would require that we should follow
him to the counting-house, for it was there that he appeared
in the most brilliant light. His talents were undoubted; his

sagacity, his skill, and his daring were great; and his undertakings
were generally successful. Thus far all appeared
very well; but those who looked closer into the matter would
have found that his integrity was anything but unimpeachable,
his love of money far surpassing his love of truth and
justice. This part of his career must be left, however, to
other hands; it is only what he was in social and domestic
life, that the merchant appears among our Longbridge friends.

The first few months after he had removed to New York,
the utmost extent of Mr. Taylor's ambitious dreams had been
the possession of a brick house in Broadway, on a lot of
ground twenty-three feet by seventy. According to the
favourite rule of New York architecture, the rule of three,
the building was to be three stories high, and three windows
wide. But the end of the first ninety days in Wall-Street,
brought an accession of several thousands, and the brilliant
promise of so many more, that this plan was enlarged several
inches each way. As every succeeding season brought an
increase of wealth and ambition, the projected dwelling
grew at last to be taller and broader by several feet, until, at
length, it had reached the limits which magnificence usually
attains on the island of Manhattan. Had Mr. Taylor built
his house in Philadelphia, or almost any other American
town, he might have laid rather a broader foundation for his
habitation; but New York houses, as a rule, are the narrowest
and the tallest in the land. Some of those three-story
dwellings, however, whatever may be their architectural
defects, contain inmates who are as much to be desired for
friends as any others in the world. But to return to Mr.
Taylor's new house; we have said that it was one of the
proud few which could boast its four stories and its four
windows. He was perfectly satisfied with the result when
finished, for his house from the garret to the cellar was a
faithful copy of one opposite to him, which had been built
some months earlier, and was pronounced the house of the
season.

The American people may have been perfectly original
in their constitution, but in most other respects they are
particularly imitative. An observer, at a first glance, wonders
that so much cleverness should be wasted in mere imitation;
but it is, after all, the simple result of the position of the
country. An intelligent people, we are furnished by books
with more ideas than we have models on which to shape
them. In an old state of society, there is always a class
who labour after originality, and are proud to be called
eccentric; but a young nation, cut off from the rest of the
civilized world, must necessarily be imitative in its character
until it has arrived at maturity. This spirit of imitation, to
a certain extent an advantage, is, to be sure, often carried to
a laughable extent when it loses sight of common sense.
People seem to forget the fact that propriety must always be
the first step to true elegance. As a proof of it, we see
men who appear to have consulted their neighbours' tastes,
habits, and means, instead of their own, in building the
house they themselves are to inhabit; like Mr. Taylor,
without any very good reason, they imitate their opposite
neighbour. Again, it is surprising to see what time and
toil are spent in following every variation of fashion in dress,
by many women who certainly can ill afford it; we do not
mean fashion in its general outlines, but in its most trifling
details. If one could watch the progress of an idle fancy of
this nature, from the moment it springs from the caprice of
some European élégante, with more time and money than
she knows how to throw away, until it becomes a necessity
to an American housemaid, earning a dollar a week—we
have no doubt the period would be found surprisingly short.

The habit of imitation just alluded to, is more striking
perhaps in architecture than in anything else, for in that
shape it is always before our eyes; and no place in the
country is more marked with it than New York. In no
town in the world are there as many dwellings so much
alike; and this fact is not the result of necessity, or of any

plan of architectural unity—it is not that the plan first hit
upon proved to be the most rational, or best suited to the
spot and its inhabitants—but it is chiefly the consequence of
a spirit of imitation.

To return to our story: this new house of Mr. Taylor,
this successful imitation of his opposite neighbour, had been
opened the first of May, the general moving day in New
York. It was fitted up in the richest manner, young Taylor
having received carte blanche from his father to purchase
handsome furniture in Paris. Rosewood and satin, gilt
bronzes and Sévres vases, were all of the best kind—and
Mr. Taylor was perfectly satisfied with the effect of his two
drawing-rooms. It was determined they should be shown
off during the following winter, by a succession of dinners
and parties. He had already tried his hand at entertaining;
after having eaten a dozen great dinners with different commercial
notabilities, he had given one himself just before
leaving town. The affair, a man-dinner, of course, had
gone off brilliantly—thanks to his beautiful porcelaine de
Sévres, his candelabras and his épergnes, his English plate
and English glass; all of which showed off to great advantage
the best of the good things abounding in the New York
market, cooked by a Frenchman, and washed down by wines
from the most famous vineyards of France, Germany, and
Spain. His entertainment was pronounced as handsome as
any given that winter in town; and Mr. Taylor determined
that it should be only the first of a long series.

His country-house rivalled his establishment in town. By
his first plan, he had intended that it should equal that of
Mr. Hubbard, at Longbridge; but eighteen months had
made a material change in his affairs, which produced corresponding
alterations in the building. First one large wing
was added, then another; Mr. Hubbard's house had but one
Corinthian portico, Mr. Taylor's had two. He was born in
a house which had been painted only on one front, and he
was now of the opinion of the old tar, who purchased a

handsome jacket like his commanding officer, but ordered
the back as well as the front to be made of satin, and meeting
the admiral, pulled up his coat-tails to show that there was
“no sham.” Mr. Taylor could not outdo the plate-glass,
and mahogany doors of Mr. Hubbard's house, but he had
great satisfaction in showing him his portico on the south
front, and in proving there was no sham. When the wings
were added, they were completely surrounded on three sides
by a colonnade. Mr. Taylor having happened, just at the
moment, to make thirty thousand dollars by one successful
speculation, he sent orders to the master-builder for a double
set of columns; and as a consequence, the colonnade was so
very conspicuous that it became the pride of the neighbourhood.
Mr. Taylor, himself, was so much struck with the
first view, when completed, that he decided to name
the place “Colonnade Manor.” There is no accounting
for taste in names, we suppose, any more than in other
matters. Like No. five hundred and — Broadway, Colonnade
Manor was furnished with rosewood and satin from
Paris.

Mrs. Taylor, good soul, entered very little into the spirit
of this magnificence. She still sat in her nursery with her
younger children as much as possible, darning all the stockings
of the family; an occupation which Adeline thought
very ungenteel, for she never condescended to use her
needle at all. To make Mrs. Taylor a fine lady had been
one of the least successful of Mr. Taylor's efforts; she was
much too honest by nature to assume a character for which
she was so little qualified. There was but one way in which
she could succeed in interesting herself in all the parade
which gratified Mr. Taylor's taste; she found it gave pleasure
to her husband and children, and she endeavoured to
make the best of it. She wore the fine dresses purchased
for her by Adeline, and drove out once in a while in her
handsome carriage, to pay at least a few of the many visits
urged by Mr. Taylor. Among the new acquaintances she

had made in the last ten years, there were few Mrs. Taylor
liked as well as Miss Wyllys; and Miss Agnes, in her turn,
respected all that was honest and straight-forward in the
character of her new neighbour; indeed, the whole family
at Wyllys-Roof very much preferred her to the more pretending
husband and daughter. The note, of which Adeline
was the bearer, was an application to Miss Wyllys for
advice in some domestic difficulty. It ran as follows:

Miss Wyllys had no sooner read the note, than, full of
sympathy for Mrs. Taylor's difficulties, she held a consultation
with her female factotum, Elinor's nurse, or Mammy
as she was called. All the men, women, and children in
the neighbourhood, who might possibly possess some qualifications
for the duties of cook, chamber-maid, or footman,
were run over in Miss Agnes' mind; and she succeeded at
last, by including one superannuated old woman, and another
child of ten, in making out a list of some dozen names for
her neighbour's benefit. The whole morning was spent by
the coachman, scouring the country with the Taylor barouche
and horses—for no time was to be spent in changing harness
— in pursuit of Dianthy This, and Araminty That. Mrs.
Taylor, of course, awaited his return with trembling anxiety;
the Saratoga party had gone off to fish, escorted by Mr.
Taylor and a younger daughter; Adeline having taken that
opportunity to go to see Jane, excusing herself from accompanying
the fishing set, on account of the arrival of this
very intimate friend of hers. The mistress of the house,
after having administered a dose of medicine to the sick
nurse, and sent the little girl of twelve to make the beds and
sweep, gave one melancholy look at things in the kitchen,
and then remembered that she could no longer leave this
particular old friend of her's alone in the drawing-room.
While talking over past times, Mrs. Taylor chose a rocking-chair

commanding a view of the approach to the house:
just at the moment when she began to fear the horses had
run away, killed the coachman, and broken the carriage,
she saw the barouche driving up the avenue, but, alas, sans
cook! She kept her seat womanfully, and heard out the
end of a long story which the old friend was relating about
a family of relations. But at length Mrs. Taylor found that
the moment for action had come; and giving her friend the
choice of her own knitting-work, or a walk in the garden
with her youngest child, a pretty prattling little boy, she excused
herself for a few moments, under pretext of looking
after the sick nurse. The old friend was quite a talkative
person, and one to whom a listener was very necessary; she
preferred the little boy to the knitting-work, and set out to
look at the garden.

Mrs. Taylor instantly disappeared in the direction of the
kitchen.

“Well, John!”

“Well, marm, I couldn't pick up nobody, for love or
money.”

“Didn't Miss Wyllys know of any one in the neighbourhood?”

“Yes, marm, I have got a list here; but some of 'em had
got places already; there was two that was sick; one, Araminty
Carpenter, I guess, would have suited Mrs. Taylor
very well, for, I know the young woman's father; but she
has gone over to Longbridge, to work at the Union Hotel,
for a week. There was one name written so I couldn't
make it out; and two of 'em I couldn't find; folks couldn't
tell me where they lived. There is a young thing down at
the Mill, who looks handy, but doesn't know anything of
cooking; but, I engaged her to come to-morrow, and Mrs.
Taylor can see if she suits.”

“Why didn't you bring her with you at once, John?”

“She couldn't come, no ways, till to-morrow; she was
washing; and, if she left the work, there was no one to do
it.”

Let it not be supposed that Mrs. Taylor sunk under these
difficulties. The fishing-party returned; and, by means
known only to herself, the coachman, and the little girl of
twelve, a dinner, much as usual, was provided for her guests,
who were left in happy ignorance of the desertion in the
kitchen.

It must be surprising, to those unaccustomed to such
things, to observe with what courage and cheerfulness the
mistress of an American family encounters the peculiar evils
of her lot—evils undreamt of by persons in the same station
in any other part of the world. Her energies seem to rise
with the obstacles that call them out; she is full of expedients—full
of activity; and, unless fairly worn out by exertions
for which she has not the physical strength, always
manages to keep up appearances, and provide for the comfort
of her household, until her troubles are surmounted, for the
time being, and she gathers strength, in a moment of respite,
for fresh difficulties, when they present themselves. Even
her husband and sons are seldom aware of the full extent of
her toils and vexations. Many persons are ignorant of the
number of virtues that are included, at such moments, in that
of hospitality; could a plain, unvarnished account, be made
out, of the difficulties surmounted, at some time or other, by
most American matrons, the world would wonder at their
fortitude and perseverance. Not that difficulties like those
of our friend, Mrs. Taylor, are of constant duration, but they
occur oftener than the uninitiated are aware of. Yet even
obstacles like these seem never to interfere with that constant
intercourse, from tea-parties to visits of weeks, which are
exchanged between all American families and their friends.
But then no people in the world are more truly hospitable—
none are more social in their feelings, than the inhabitants
of these United States.