 | Traits of American life |  |
THE LLOYDS.
1. CHAPTER I.
Or wealth, raked up together with much care,
To be kept with more, when the heart pines,
In being dispossessed of what it longs for
Beyond the Indian mines?”
Massinger.
“Why is it,” inquired my friend, “that you so
generally have chosen your heroes among the parvenus
rather than the distingues of society? Have
the old rich families no characteristics worthy of
notice? Or are those Americanisms, which make
the peculiarities of our national habits and manners,
more easily discovered in country life and among
the middling classes?”
“That would undoubtedly be a good reason; for
the middling class is allowed, in every country, to
exhibit the most distinct and accurate pictures of
I confess I have been chiefly influenced
by the wish of displaying the American character
in its fairest light; and I found the rising stars more
brilliant than the meridian ones, because the last
do not increase in brightness and magnitude in proportion
to their height and distance. To speak
without metaphor—the engrossing pursuit of Americans
is wealth. Now while there is a necessity
for this exertion in the circumstances of the individual,
the struggle ennobles his character, by calling
forth the strongest energies of his mind and
action. It is not merely to be rich that he strives.
He usually has some beloved and dependent ones
to provide for, which exercises and strengthens his
tender and affectionate feelings. And then he is
indulging the hope of achieving great things hereafter,
and the world gives him credit for the good
intention. But when his fortune is made, and he
continues the pursuit of gain, mostly, as it seems,
from the habit of accumulating, all the generosity
and nobleness of his enterprises vanish. What in
the rising man was industry and economy, becomes
in the rich man parsimony and avarice. To avoid
these imputations the rich often display an extravagance
in their style of living, which they do not
approve, and do not enjoy; only they feel it to be
necessary to silence the cavils of those who would
a show where they can so well afford it. I wish I
had models, such as I can imagine, of our republican
character, among the rich. How proud I should
be to make them heroes of the sketch and the
song!”
“Well, pray delineate such an one,” said my
friend, “if it be but a sketch of fancy.”
And I will—and should any rich man think the
character of the Lloyds fictitious, I wish he would,
before affirming such an opinion, to the injury of
my veracity, as a faithful delineator of American
traits, make an experiment of five years, at least, in
his own case, and see if these pictures cannot be
realized.
Arthur Lloyd was about twenty-two when, by
his father's death, he came into possession of property
worth half a million. His father died somewhat
suddenly, and the young man, who was then
in Paris, partly on business for his father, partly to
see the world, was summoned home by the cares
which such an inheritance naturally involved.
There are few scenes that more deeply try the spirit
of a man than a return to a desolate home. The
mind can support the separations, which the inevitable
current of human affairs renders inevitable,
without much suffering. One may even dwell in
the midst of strangers, and not feel lonely, if the
open the solitary apartments, where every thing we
see calls up associations of dear friends we can hope
to meet no more for ever, a blight falls on our path
of life, and we know that whatever of happiness
may await us, our enjoyments can never be as in
days past.
It was late on Saturday night when Arthur
Lloyd reached the elegant mansion in — street,
New York, of which he was now the sole proprietor.
The domestics had been expecting his arrival,
and every arrangement had been made, as far as
they knew his wishes and taste, to gratify him.
Wealth will command attention; but in this case
there was more devotion to the man than to his
money; for Arthur was beloved, and affection needs
no prompter.
“How sorry I am that this pretty mignonette is
not in blossom,” said Mrs. Ruth, the housekeeper;
“you remember, Lydia, how young Mr. Lloyd
liked the mignonette.”
“Yes, I remember it well—but I always thought
it was because Miss Ellen called it her flower, and
he wanted to please the pretty little girl.”
“That might make some difference, Lydia, for
he has such a kind heart. And now I think of it,
I wonder if Miss Ellen knows he is expected home
so soon.”
“She does,” said Lydia, “for I told her yesterday—but
she did'nt seem to care; and I do not
think she likes him.”
“She is melancholy, poor child! and who can
blame her, when she has lost her best friend?”
“Why, Mrs. Ruth, cannot young Mr. Lloyd be
as good a friend as his father? I am sure he will
be as kind.”
“Yes, no doubt of that. But, Lydia, it will not
do for a young man to be so kind to a pretty girl.
Ellen is now quite a young lady,—the world
would talk about it.”
“I wonder who would dare to speak a word
against Mr. Arthur?”—said Lydia, reddening with
indignation. When a man's household are his
friends, he hardly need care for the frowns of the
world; and even the gloom of sorrow was relieved
as Arthur shook hands with the old and favoured
domestics, whose familiar faces glowed with that
honest, hearty welcome, which no parasite can
counterfeit. But when he retired to his chamber,
the silence and solitude brought the memory of his
lost friends sadly and deeply on his mind. He felt
alone in the world. What did it avail that he had
wealth to purchase all which earth calls pleasures,
when the disposition to enjoy them could not be
purchased? The brevity of life seemed written on
every object around. All these things had belonged
all that was done beneath the sun.
“And yet,” thought Arthur, “who knows that
their interest in earthly things is annihilated by
death? Why may not a good man receive much
of his heavenly felicity from witnessing the growth
of the good seed he has planted in living hearts?
Why may he not be gladdened, even when singing
the song of his own redemption, by seeing that the
plans he had devised for the improvement of his
fellow-beings are in progress, carried forward by
agents whom God has raised up to do their share of
the labour in fitting this world for the reign of the
just?—If—if my good parents are ever permitted
to look down upon the son they have trained so
carefully,—God grant they may find he has not departed
from the way their precepts and example
have alike made plain before him.”
There is no opiate, excepting a good conscience,
like a good resolution. And Arthur slept soundly
that night, and passed the Sabbath in the tranquillity
which a spirit resigned to the will of heaven,
and yet resolved to do all that earth demands of a
rational being, cannot but enjoy. But one thought
would intrude to harass him. His father's death
had occurred while Arthur was far away. He had
not heard the parting counsel, the dying benediction.
Perhaps his father had, in his last moments,
for his son, but there was no ear, tuned by affection,
to vibrate at the trembling sound, and catch and
interpret the whispered and broken sentence, and
so the pale lips were mute.
With such impressions on his mind, Arthur was
prepared to read eagerly a letter, directed to himself,
which he found deposited in his father's desk,
purposely, as it appeared, to meet the notice of his
son, before beginning the inspection of those papers
business would render necessary. I shall give
the entire letter, because the character of the father
must be understood in order to comprehend the
influences which had modelled that of his son.
It is on the very rich and the very poor that domestic
example and instruction operate with the
most sure and abiding effect. We find the children
of parents in the middling class, removed
from the temptation of arrogance on the one hand
and despair on the other, are those who admire and
endeavour to imitate the models of goodness and
greatness which history furnishes, or the world
presents. Such may become, what is termed, self-educated—but
this process the very rich think unnecessary,
and the very poor impossible. Therefore,
when the early training of these two classes
has inclined them to evil, they rarely recover themselves
ran thus:
“I informed you in my last letter, that my health
was declining. I felt, even then, though I did not
express it, that I should never see you again in this
world; still I did not anticipate the rapid progress
which my disease has since made. However, I
have much cause for thankfulness. I endure little
pain, and my mind was never more calm and collected.
I have resolved, therefore, to arrange some
of my thoughts and reflections for your perusal,
knowing that you will prize them as the last expression
of your father's love.
“I have often endeavoured, in my hours of health,
to bring the final scene of departure from this
world vividly before my mind. I have thought
I had succeeded. But the near approach to the
borders of eternity, wonderfully alters the appearance
of all earthly things. I often find myself saying—`What
shadows we are—and what shadows
we pursue!'
“Shadows, indeed! But it would not be well
that the veil should be removed from the eyes of
those whose journey of life is, apparently, long before
them. The duties which prepare us for heaven
which makes the importance of every
action we perform. Considered in this light, the
example of every rational being is invested with a
mighty power for good or evil; and that good is
productive of happiness, and evil of misery, we
need not the award of the last judgment to convince
us. The history of the world, our observation,
our conscience, and our reason, all prove that
to deal justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly
before God, is the perfection of man's felicity. The
great error lies in mistaking our true interest. We
separate earth from heaven by an impassable gulf,
and in our labours for the body think the spirit's
work has no connexion. This false philosophy
makes us selfish while we are young, and superstitious
when we are old, and of consequence unhappy
through life. But these things may be remedied.
If the wise man spoke truth, there is a way
in which we should go, and we may be so trained
as to walk in it when we are young, and prefer it
when we are old.
“It has, my son, since you were given me, been
the great aim of my life to educate you in such
habits and principles as I believe will ensure your
present and final felicity. When I speak of what
I have done, it is with a humble acknowledgment
of the mercy and goodness of God, who has supported
your heart, that heaven's blessing will descend on
every one who seeks it with patience and with
prayer. But I did not always have these views.
I was not educated as you have been; and it is for
the purpose of explaining to you the motives which
have governed my conduct towards you, that I shall
enter into a recital of some incidents, which you
may know as facts, but of their consequences you
are not aware.
“My father, as you have often heard, left a handsome
fortune to each of his ten children, but as he
acquired his property late in life, by lucky speculations,
we were none of us subjected to the temptations
of luxury in our childhood. We were all
educated to be industrious and prudent, and an uncommon
share of these virtues had, as the eldest,
been inculcated on me. So that when, in addition
to my well-won thrift, the share I received from
my father's estate made me a rich man, I felt no
disposition to enjoy it in any other mode than to
increase it. I did not mean to drudge always in
the service of mammon; but I thought I must wait
till I was somewhat advanced, before I could retire
and live honourably without exertion; but, in
the meantime, I would heap pleasures on my family.
“Your mother was a lovely, amiable woman,
affluence; and she thought, out of gratitude to me,
she must be happy as I chose. The only path of
felicity before us, seemed that of fashion; and so
we plunged into all the gaieties of our gay city;
and for eight or ten years we lived a life of constant
bustle, excitement, show, and apparent mirth.
Yet, Arthur, I declare to you, I was never satisfied
with myself,—never contented during the whole
time. I do not say I was wretched—that would
be too strong an expression—but I was restless.
The excitements of pleasure stimulate; they never
satisfy. And then there was a constant succession
of disagreements, rivalries, and slanders, arising
from trifling things; but those whose great business
it was to regulate fashionable society, contrived to
make great matters out of these mole-hills. Your
mother was a sweet-tempered woman, forbearing
and forgiving, as a true woman should be; but,
nevertheless, she used sometimes to be involved in
these bickerings, and then what scenes of accusation
and explanation must be endured before the
matter could be finally settled, and harmony restored!
and what precious time was wasted on
questions of etiquette, which, after all, made no individual
better, wiser, or happier.
“We lived thus nearly ten years, and might have
had not heaven awakened us by a stroke, severe
indeed, but I trust salutary. We had, as you know,
Arthur, three children, a son and two daughters.
Fashion had never absorbed our souls, so as to
overpower natural affection. We did love our
children most dearly, and every advantage money
could purchase had been lavished upon them. They
were fair flowers, but owing to the delicacy of their
rearing, very frail. One after the other sickened;
the croup was fatal to our little Mary; the measles
and the scarlet fever destroyed the others. In
six months they were all at peace.
“Never, never can the feeling of desolation I then
experienced be effaced from my heart. A house
of mourning had no attraction for our fashionable
friends. They pitied, but deserted us; the thought
of our wealth only made us more miserable; the
splendour which surrounded, seemed to mock us.
“`For what purpose,' I frequently asked myself,
`for what purpose had been all my labour? I
might heap up, but a stranger would inherit.' My
wife was more tranquil, but then her disposition
was to be resigned. Still she yielded, I saw, to
the gloom of grief, and I feared the consequences.
But her mind was differently employed from what
I had expected.
“She asked me one day if there was no method
in which I could employ my wealth to benefit
others.
“I inquired what she meant.
“`I am weary,' said she, `of this pomp of wealth.
It is nothingness; or worse, it is a snare. I feel
that our children have been taken from the temptations
of the world, which we were drawing
around them. There is surely, my husband, some
object more worthy the time and hearts of Christians
than this pursuit of pleasure.'
“These observations may seem only the common-place
remarks of a saddened spirit; but to me they
were words fitly spoken. They opened a communion
of sentiment between us, such as we had never
before enjoyed. I had often felt the vanity of our
fashionable life, but thought my wife was happier
for the display, and that it would be cruel for me
to deprive her of amusements I could so well afford,
and which she so gracefully adorned; and
I did not see what better use to make of my riches.
But the spell of the world was broken when we
began to reason together of its folly, and strengthen
each other to resist its enticements.
“Man is sovereign of the world; but a virtuous
woman is the crown of her husband—and this proverb
was doubtless intended to teach us that the
highest excellences of the human character, in
other.
“I could fill a volume with our conversations on
these subjects; but the result is the most important:
we resolved to make the aim of doing good the
governing principle of our lives and conduct.
“And these resolutions, by the blessing of God,
we were enabled in a measure to fulfil. Our fashionable
friends ascribed the alteration in our habits
and manners to melancholy for the loss of our children;
but it was a course entered on with the firm
conviction of its superior advantages, both of improvement
and happiness. We realized more than
we anticipated. There is a delight in the exertion
of our benevolent faculties which seems nearly allied
to the joy of the angels in heaven—for these
are ministering spirits; and this felicity the rich
may command.
“In a few years after we had entered on our new
mode of life, you, my son, were bestowed to crown
our blessings. We felt that the precious trust was
a trial of our faith. To have an heir to our fortune
was a temptation to selfishness; to have an heir to
our name was a chord to draw us again into the vortex
of the world. But we did not look back. We
resolved to train you to enjoy active habits, and benevolent
pleasures. It was for this purpose I used
to take you, when a little child, with me to visit the
earned of me by some feats of strength or dexterity,
to those you thought needed it. And when
you grew larger, you recollect, probably, how steadily
you would work in the shop, with your little
tools, finishing tiny boxes, &c. that your mother or
I paid you for, at stated prices, which money you
appropriated to the support of the poor families in
— street. By these means we gave you a motive
for exertions which improved your health, and
made you happy; and we gave you, also, an opportunity
of taking thought for others, and enjoying the
pleasure of relieving the destitute. The love for
our fellow-beings, like all other feelings, must be
formed by the wish, and improved by the habit of
doing them good. We never paid you for mental
efforts, or moral virtues, because we thought
these should find their reward in the pleasure
improvement communicated to your own heart
and mind, aided by our caresses and commendations,
which testified the pleasure your conduct
gave us.
“Thus you see, my son, that in all the restrictions
we imposed, and indulgences we permitted, it was
our grand object to make you a good, intelligent,
useful and happy man. We endeavoured to make
wisdom's ways those of pleasantness to you; and I
feel confident that the course your parents have
conscience and reason shall approve.
“You will find yourself what the world calls rich.
To human calculation, had I rigidly sought my
own interest in all my business, I should have left
you a much larger fortune. But who knows that
the blessing which has crowned all my enterprises
would not have been withdrawn, had such selfish
policy governed me? I thank my Saviour that I
was inspired with a wish to serve my fellow men.
And my greatest regret now arises from the reflection,
that with such means I have done so little
good. Endeavour, my son, to exceed your father
in righteousness. The earth is the Lord's—consider
yourself only as the steward over the portion
he has assigned you. Enter into business, not to
add to your stores of wealth, but as the best means
of making that wealth useful to the cause of human
improvement. And let the honourable acquisition
and the generous distribution go on together. The
man, whose heart of marble must be smote by the
rod of death, before a stream of charity can gush
forth, deserves little respect from the living. To
give what we can no longer enjoy, is not charity
—that heavenly virtue is only practised by those
who enjoy what they give.
“I do not undervalue charitable bequests. These
may be of great public utility; and when they harmonize
grateful acknowledgment and everlasting remembrance.
But I cannot commend, as a model,
the character of a man who has been exclusively
devoted all his life to amassing property, because
he acquires the means of leaving a large charitable
donation at his decease. This seems to be making
virtue a penance, rather than a pleasure.
“I wish you, my son, to frame for yourself a system
of conduct, founded on the rational as well as
religious principle, of doing to others as you would
they should do to you; and then your life, as well
as death, will be a public blessing. Another great
advantage will be, you can hold on your consistent,
christian course, to the end. You need never
retire from business, in order to enjoy yourself.
But I must shorten what I would wish to say, were
my own strength greater, or my confidence in your
character less firm. There is one other subject to
which I must refer.
“Your dear mother, as you well know, adopted
Ellen Gray, and intended to educate the girl, in
every respect, like a child. After your mother's
death, I placed the child under the care of Mrs. C.,
where she has ever since remained. You know
but little of Ellen, for you entered college soon
after she came to our house, and have been mostly
absent since; but when you return, it will be necessary
friend she has a claim upon, become acquainted
with her. She is now at the winning age of sixteen—a
very lovely being in person and disposition;
one that I should be proud to call my daughter.
“Her mother was the dear friend of your mother;
and that circumstance, which first induced us to take
the orphan, joined with her own sweetness and
affectionate gratitude, has deeply endeared her to
me. And now, when I am gone, she will feel her
loneliness, for she has no relative; you will have a
delicate part to act as the son of her benefactor, and
the person whom, in the singleness and simplicity
of her pure heart, she will think she has a right to
confide in, to preserve that just measure of kindness
and dignity which will satisfy her you are her
friend, and make the world understand you intend
never to be more. I have secured her an independence,
and provided that she shall remain, for
the present, with Mrs. C. May the Father of the
Orphan guard her and bless her! She loved your
mother, Arthur, and for that you must be to her a
brother.
“And now, my son—farewell! I feel my hour has
nearly come, and I am ready and willing to depart.
My last days have been, by the blessing of the
Almighty, made my best. I have lived to the last,
lay nearest my heart. Do not grieve that I am at
rest; but arouse all your energies for the work that
is before you. In a country and age distinguished
by such mighty privileges, it requires warm hearts,
and strong minds, and liberal hands to devise, and
dare, and do. May God preserve, strengthen and
bless you.
I am glad, thought Arthur, as he wiped away his
tears, after reading the letter for the third time in
the course of the day—I am glad my father has left
me perfectly free respecting Ellen. Had he expressed
a wish that I should marry her, it would
have been to me sacred as the laws of the Medes
and Persians. Yet I might have felt it a fetter on
my free will—and so capricious is fancy, I should
not, probably, have loved the girl as I now hope to
love her, that is, if she will love me—as a brother.
2. CHAPTER II.
“Count that day lost, whose low descending sun
Views from thy hand no worthy action done.”
“It seems strange our children should be so perverse;
we have always given them good counsel,”
said a lady, whose darling son had just been sent to
sea, as the last scheme parental anxiety could devise
for his reformation.
Good counsel is a very good thing, doubtless; but
to make it effectual, we must convince our children
that goodness is pleasure. I once saw a lady punishing
her little son for playing on the Sabbath.
The boy sat sobbing and sulky, and his mother,
whose heart melted at his tears, while her sense of
duty forbade her to indulge him, turned to me and
said: “The Sabbath is a most trying day; I can
keep it myself, though it is dull; but my children
have nothing to occupy their minds, and they will
be in mischief. I am always glad when the Sabbath
is over.” The children looked up very pleasantly
at this, and probably thought their mother
hated the Sabbath as truly as they did; and they
were no Sabbath.
The elder Mr. Lloyd managed things better.
He maintained that children were inclined to good,
or tempted to evil, by the influences of their education;
that the fear of losing a pleasure operated
more forcibly on their hearts than the fear of incurring
a punishment; and, consequently, that we must
make the way in which we would have them go
seem so pleasant by our own gladness while treading
it, that they may be inclined to follow, as from
choice. “It is a poor compliment to virtue, if her
votaries must be always sad,” he would say, “and
the peace and good will, which the gospel was
given expressly to diffuse over the earth, should
make men gloomy and children miserable.”—
What he commended he practised. In forming
the character of Arthur, he was careful to make
him distinguish between the happiness which in
his own heart he enjoyed, and that which others
might flatter him with possessing.
“The reason why so many are blind to their
best interests,” Mr. Lloyd would say, “is because
they will trust to their neighbours' eyes rather
than their own. I intend Arthur shall see for
himself. Had Bonaparte done what his own heart
approved, he would have preserved freedom and
the republic; but he wanted the world should flatter
he violated his integrity of purpose, and grasped a
crown that proved but a shadow.”
It would be very gratifying to me to describe
particularly the manner of Arthur Lloyd's domestic
education, the means which were employed to
draw forth his powers, ascertain his peculiar talents,
and exercise and direct these as they were
developed. But it is now my purpose rather to display
effects than trace causes. Yet one thing must
be noted—his father's great aim was to cultivate
the reason and judgment of his son. Mathematics,
and natural history, and philosophy, had been
made to occupy a prominent place in his studies.
“The pleasures these pursuits confer,” Mr. Lloyd
would wisely remark, “cannot be enjoyed without
self-exertion. Any man who has money may obtain
the reputation of taste by the mere purchasing
of works of art, while his own mind is as inert as the
canvas or statue on which he gazes with so much
seeming admiration. But he who would gain credit
for understanding mathematical sciences, or natural
philosophy, must deserve it by patient toil and
persevering industry. Now this thirst for knowledge,
which must be won by personal exertion, is
the talisman which will effectually secure the rich
man from the torment of ennui; and if with this
knowledge be united the disposition to make his
world, his own happiness is secure as that derived
from earthly objects can be.”
So thought the father, and so he trained his son
to think.
“I did not expect to find you thus deeply at
work,” said George Willet, a classmate, who had
called on Arthur shortly after he was settled in his
home. “Why, the arrangement of all these minerals,
and shells, and insects, must be an endless
task? If I had as much money as you, I would
purchase my cabinets ready furnished.”
“So would I, if all I wanted was to exhibit
them,” replied Arthur.
“And what more important purpose do you intend
these shall serve?”
“I intend they shall contribute to my own gratification
and improvement,” said Arthur. “There
is hardly a specimen here but has its history,
which awakens some pleasant association of heart,
memory or mind. Some were presented by men
I honour, and some by friends I love. This curious
shell was the gift of a lady, on my last birthday;
and the benignant wishes that accompanied,
made me, I trust, a better man; or, at least, they
inspired me with new resolutions to deserve her
commendations. These petrifactions and fossils
are a memento of many delightful hours I have
and philosophers. That beetle—I could tell you a
long story about it—the time I spent in watching
its habits, the pains I took to assure myself it was
a nondescript, and the pleasure I enjoyed when
the great Cuvier complimented me for my patience
and research—but I fear you would think
this all nonsense.”
“It is not what I should go to Paris to learn,”
returned the other. “But then I must think of my
profession; a physician is the slave of the public.
You can use your time as you please, and are not
compelled to coin it into money in order to live.”
“No, but I have had as hard a lesson, perhaps; I
have had to learn that money will not buy happiness,
and that he who is not compelled to labour
for food, must labour for an appetite, which in the
end amounts to about the same thing.”
“You were always stoically inclined, Arthur;
but a young man, with half a million at command,
will find it rather difficult to act the philosopher.
The world has a powerful current, and fashion a
sweeping breeze.”
“They will not move me from my course,
George: that is fixed, and, with heaven's blessing,
I will hold on my way. My father's example is
my chart, and the Christian rule my compass.”
“You think so now. Well, we shall see. Your
is much in your favour. Had you witnessed, as I
have done, the weary, monotonous, heartless,
wretched life of many who call themselves good
undergo, and, what is worse, inflict on others, you
would not have much inclination for goodness.”
“Your remarks, George, are just. I have known
young gentlemen to plunge into dissipation avowedly
to shake off the restraints of morality which
had been imposed in a manner so galling. And I
have known others hold business in abhorrence,
only because the selfish, slavish life their fathers
had led, made application seem a drudgery. I
trust I have more rational views—thanks to my
good parents.”
No man should say he will be always wise.
Who would guess that Arthur, so calm, rational,
and discriminating, would have fallen in love with
a coquette! But this he did, notwithstanding the
penchant he intended to cultivate for the pretty
Ellen Gray. My lady readers probably thought
she was predestined to be his wife, and I should
have been glad to have described the tender and
tranquil loves of two beings who seemed so congenial.
But authors cannot control fate.
Arthur Lloyd was, to be sure, deeply interested
with Ellen's meek and innocent beauty; and he
which any allusion to his parents would excite in
her manner, even when she controlled the expression
of her grief, which she could not always.
And he often thought nothing could be more lovely
than her fair face, rather pale perhaps, but then
the predominance of the lily seemed to be the
effect of purity of mind, not languor of body, when
contrasted with the deep mourning habiliments,
which he knew were in truth the outward token
of that sadness of spirit which she was cherishing
for the loss of those who had also been the dearest
to him. Could they choose but sympathise? If
they did, it was very secretly and silently.
It might be that this necessity for communion
was the very cause which prevented Arthur from
feeling other than a brother's affection for the
sweet girl whose interests he was deputed to defend—and
on her part there hardly seemed a sister's
confidence yielded to her young guardian.
—A guardian! who ever read of a lady falling in
love with her guardian? The impossibility of the
circumstance seemed fully understood and acted
upon by the belles of New York, who were sedulous
to attract the attention of such a fine man as
Arthur Lloyd. But he was not disposed to mingle
much in society, and during the winter which
succeeded his father's death, he was almost wholly
promoting public education, and elevating the character
of our national literature. This was the
favourite object to which he resolved to devote his
energies and his resources. He was persuaded
that a republican people must derive their chief
happiness and their highest honours from intellectual
pursuits, if they intend their institutions shall
be permanent. The glories of conquest and the
luxuries of wealth alike tend to make the few
masters, and the many slaves; but if the mild light
of science and literature be the guide of a people,
all will move onward together, for the impulse of
knowledge has an attractive force that elevates,
proportionally, every mind over which its influence
can be extended.
Such were Arthur Lloyd's sentiments; and it
would have been strange if he had not felt a deep
respect for the character of the Puritans, and a
wish to cultivate an acquaintance with New England
people, who, whatever be their faults, have
rarely sinned through ignorance.
So Arthur visited Boston during the summer of
18—, and received, from the elevés of society, all
that courtesy and hospitality which a rich stranger
is sure to elicit. He could hardly be termed a
stranger, however, for his father had many commercial
friends in Boston, and they cordially
was calculated to make Arthur think highly of the
people; the tone of intelligent and liberal feeling
appeared the result of liberality, which had laid
the foundation of popular instruction, and young
Lloyd became every day more satisfied of the
truth of his favourite theory—namely—educate
all the children and you will reform all the world.
A man is never more self satisfied than when he is
confirming a favourite theory.
Among the multitude of friends and flatterers
that surrounded Arthur, none charmed him so
completely as the Hon. Mr. Markley and family.
The gentleman was himself very eloquent, his
lady very elegant, and their daughters exceedingly
fascinating. They all exerted their talents to
please Arthur,—it was no more than he merited—
a stranger and a guest, and so handsome, and intelligent,
and agreeable! Who thought he was
worth half a million? not the Markleys, for they
were never heard to speak of a selfish sentiment
except to condemn it. Arthur thought he never
met with a more disinterested family.
Arabella Markley was a most captivating creature,
and she soon contrived to make Arthur sensible
of it; and he found, to his mortification, that
he had not so fully and firmly the mastery of his
own mind as he had flattered himself with possessing.
the wise as the weak; and Arthur, when beside
Arabella, forgot there was for him any higher object
in this world than to please a woman. But
sometimes, in the solitude of his chamber, other
thoughts would arise; he could not but see that the
Markleys were devoted to fashion and gaiety,
though Arabella had assured him she did not
enjoy the bustle, but that excitement was necessary
for her father's spirits and health.
If she makes this sacrifice for her father,
thought Arthur, how gladly will she conform to
my quiet domestic plan! Still there was something
in the expression of her face, and more
in her manner, which denoted a fondness for
show and variety; and whenever Arthur wrote to
Ellen Gray, which he often did, as he had promised
to give her the history of his tour, the contrast
between her beauty and that of Arabella
always came over his mind. He described Arabella
in one of his letters to Ellen, and concluded
with observing, “If she had a little more of your
tenderness and placidity, in the expression of her
eyes, she would be a perfect model of female loveliness,
but that would make her too angelic; the
arch vivacity of her glance assures her to be human,
and susceptible of human sympathies.”
Ellen Gray read that passage over and over, but
to New York before she could arrange her
thoughts for a reply.
Arthur left Boston without any explanation, as
they say, though he had been several times on the
point of making the love speech. It seemed as if
some spell were restraining him, for Arabella had
given him opportunities of seeing her alone, and
Mr. and Mrs. Markley had evidently sought to
draw him to their parties. Perhaps this solicitude
had been one means of deferring the proposals.
Lloyd found himself so agreeably entertained, he
could hardly wish to be happier. Like the
Frenchman who would not marry the lady he
admired and visited constantly, because he should
have no place to pass his evenings, Arthur Lloyd
might have been fearful that certainty would
have made his visits, which were hailed as favours,
appear only events of course. Young gentlemen
have thus reasoned.
Arabella was sadly disappointed, for she had
really acted her part most admirably, and she expected
to succeed. She knew the power of her
charms, and, fond of flattery as she was, had resolved
such unsubstantial coin should never gain
her hand. A coquette by nature and habit, she
had managed to draw many distinguished beaux in
her train, but none, till Arthur had appeared, had
he had agreed to correspond, and she knew
well how to draw an inference, or frame a remark
which would render it necessary for him to explain.
So they parted—both persuaded in their own
hearts that they should soon meet, though he did
not feel that the choice was one his parents would
entirely have approved. But her letters might
prove her excellence; he knew the fashionable
scenes in which he had chiefly beheld her were
not calculated to display the amiable traits of character
in a female. And there were several circumstances
which occurred to Arthur, as he journeyed
homeward, that determined him to be
guarded in his letters, at least for a season. And
he determined also to consult Ellen Gray on the
subject, for he considered her as having a sister's
right to his confidence. But Ellen was very ill,
he found, and any allusion to the fair lady he had
seen in Boston seemed difficult to introduce to one
who looked so sad and serious. Nevertheless, he
ventured to name the subject once, and Ellen
listened calmly to all his praises of Arabella; and
to his reiterated request that his sister, as he called
Ellen, should give him her opinion. She advised
him to marry the lady if he loved her, and felt
assured she loved him. The last remark was
entering at that moment, thought Ellen was too
much fatigued for further conversation. And so
it proved, for she was seriously ill for several days
after, and it was weeks before she was able to see
Arthur again.
In the meantime the correspondence between
Mr. Lloyd and Arabella commenced with spirit;
on his part, rather intended to fathom her principles
and taste, than her affections; and on hers,
under an appearance of careless vivacity, to ascertain
his real intentions respecting her. There
is nothing like a little jealousy for expediting love
matters, many ladies believe; and Arabella held
the creed fully, as her third letter proved. It was
filled with the description and praises of an emigrant
Frenchman, Count de Verger, who had recently
arrived in Boston. His merits could be
equalled only by his misfortunes, which had been
manifold as those of Ulysses. His courage and
constancy had hitherto borne him up, but when he
arrived pennyless on the shore of the New World,
his mental sufferings were, as Arabella described
them, extreme. In Europe, a man was respected
for his birth and breeding, and, though he had lost
his property, his rank entitled him to consideration.
But in our republic, where men were
judged by their own merits, not by their father's
misfortunes might be imputed as crimes. He
would endure poverty, but not contempt. He
had once resolved to conceal his rank, and even
his name, but his abhorrence of falsehood and hypocrisy
enabled him to overcome this false pride;
and so he was known for a nobleman, though he
modestly disclaimed all intention of endeavouring
to support his rank. If he could earn sufficient by
his talents and accomplishments to maintain himself,
he felt that he should be truly happy. Among
his accomplishments was that of playing the harp,
with a degree of skill surprising, when it was considered
that he had only practised for his own
amusement. But he now thought it possible he
might make this knowledge of music available, if
any of the fair ladies of Boston should feel disposed
to take lessons on the harp. His wonderful
condescension was no sooner known than there
appeared a competition among fashionable ladies
who should first secure the services of this amiable
and gifted nobleman. His tuition charges were
exorbitant, but he was a foreigner, and a Count,
and, besides, he had been unfortunate, and republicans
must pay liberally for the graces which can
only be taught by those who have witnessed the
refinements of royal taste, and the magnificence of
courts.
These were the items of intelligence Arabella dilated
upon, with touching pathos, in her letter to
Arthur Lloyd; she was in raptures with the Count
de Verger. Such an accomplished scholar! so perfect
and gentlemanly. His mind was a constellation
of all brilliant qualities; his manners the embodied
essence of suavity and elegance! There
were but two objections the most fastidious critic
could make to his appearance. He squinted a little—but
Arabella did not dislike a slight cast of
the eye, it rather gave a fascinating effect to a
handsome countenance. The other fault was, in
her opinion, a perfection. The Count wore mustachios,
and our smooth puritan-faced men of business
disliked mustachios; but Arabella was glad
the ladies had more taste for the picturesque. For
her part she should, for the future, make it a sine
qua non with all gentlemen who aspired to her
friendship to cultivate mustachios. It was needless
to say she was learning to play the harp; it
might more properly be called adoring it. She
was never before so engrossed with any pursuit;
and she only wished, to complete her felicity, that
Mr. Lloyd could become acquainted with her
tutor, and witness the proficiency she was making.
“Fudge!” said Arthur, giving audible expression
to his thoughts, as he kicked a fallen brand
with the petulance of a poet, forgetting there was
—wears mustachios and squints—I'll see the fellow.”
Arthur felt disappointed; not so much that Arabella
proved a coquette, as that his estimate of the
effect of education on the female mind should be
found false. He had drawn his conclusion logically:
thus, virtuous and intelligent women are sincere
and reasonable. New-England ladies are
virtuous and intelligent: therefore they are sincere
and reasonable. And yet here was one who had
enjoyed every mental and moral advantage a lady
could require to perfect her character, acting the
part of an artful coquette; or otherwise she was a
silly dupe, for the story of the Count de Verger,
Arthur credited no more than the adventures of
Baron Munchausen.
He did not write to Arabella to announce his
intention of visiting her, fearing the Count might,
in that case, retire for a season, and he much wished
to see him. So Arthur reached Boston and
astonished his friends, who could find no solution
for the sudden movement, but that he had learned
the danger there was that Miss Markley would be
won by the gallant Frenchman; and all the inquiries
he made respecting the Count, he had the
mortification of finding were regarded as the
promptings of a jealous spirit seeking to find matter
gentlemen whom he addressed on the subject, declared
their belief that the professor of the harp
was a real count; his bearing and manner were decidedly
noble, and there was a thorough-bred air
in his address which distinguished foreigners of
high rank, and which our richest and most eminent
men, who were always compelled to speak of
themselves as plain citizens, and only enjoying
equal privileges with the people, never could display.
“I would give fifty thousand,” said a young
mercantile gentleman, whose father had by careful
industry amassed a large fortune, “if I could appear
with the case and elegance of the Count de
Verger: I met him the other day at the dinner
party of Mr. —, and I assure you he was the
lion of the day. It is no wonder the ladies admire
him.”
“No, it is no wonder,” thought Arthur, “that
our ladies despise us for not possessing the manners
of slaves, while we men so undervalue and
abuse our privilege of being free. If fashion and
etiquette are to be considered the most important
objects of pursuit among those who assume the
first place in our society, we shall always be inferior
to the nations where the distinctions of rank
and descent of property are so established, that
established laws. We republicans must have our
standard of respectability founded on moral worth,
usefulness and intelligence, or the discrepancy between
our institutions and manners will make us
ridiculous in the eyes of other nations, and contemptible
in that of our own. But I will see this
Count, and if he prove to be my old valet”—
compressing his lips as if to prevent the expression
of a hasty resolve, he bent his steps to the
dwelling of Mr. Markley.
It was in the morning, and too early for a fashionable
call, but Arthur had learned that the
Count de Verger gave lessons to Miss Markley at
half past ten; and that the young lady frequently
admitted her particular friends to congratulate her
respecting the astonishing progress she made on
the harp. Mr. Lloyd was known to the servants
as a favourite visitor, and found no difficulty in
being admitted, and ushered familiarly into the
parlour where Arabella was practising. There
were two ladies, her intimate friends, and one
gentleman present. Neither Arabella nor the
Count noticed the entrance of Mr. Lloyd, and he
stood for several minutes regarding them. Arabella
was playing with enthusiasm; it was evident
she was charmed with her own performance; and
her noble teacher sat beside her, the music book
upward in admiration; but as his glance could rest
on the face of his fair pupil, it was not certain
whether her beauty or her music caused his raptures.
“Martin,” said Mr. Lloyd, in a deep, commanding
tone.
The Count started to his feet, every nerve agitated,
as though he had received a shock from a
galvanic battery.
“Jean Martin—how came you here?” continued
Lloyd, sternly.
“I—I am not here—that is your mistake—I
am the Count de Verger.” Lloyd walked closely
up to the imposter. “Villain, let me hear no
more of your falsehoods; away, instantly, or you
shall answer for your crimes.”
The accomplished nobleman obeyed the order
promptly as it was given, bolting from the apartment
without the ceremony of a single bow. There
was blank silence for a moment, when Arabella indignantly
inquired the reason of such a proceeding
in her father's house, and without her father's
knowledge.
“Pardon me, Miss Markley,” said Arthur; “I
am aware my conduct requires explanation. That
fellow was my valet. I hired him in Paris;
shrewd, ingenious and attentive, he won my confidence,
like a friend than servant. He accompanied me
to Germany, and there found means to rob me of a
considerable sum of money, besides a casket of
jewellery I had in my charge, belonging to a banker
of Paris, and for which I was responsible. Martin
escaped, and I had no idea of ever meeting him
again, till your eloquent description of the Count
de Verger awakened my suspicions. I came here,
therefore, unceremoniously, for which I again beg
pardon, but trust you and your father will not regret
the imposter is detected and exposed.”
“You must be mistaken, Mr. Lloyd. This gentleman
is a real Count, I have seen his coat of arms,
and seals and rings.”
Just then Mr. Markley entered; the whole affair
was detailed, and Lloyd produced an order which
had been granted by the Austrian government, for
the apprehension of Jean Martin for the robbery;
the paper contained a particular description of his
person, and all, except Arabella, were convinced of
the identity of the cidevant valet and the elegant
Count de Verger.
“It is impossible a person so exquisitely skilled
in music, and every accomplishment, can be of
base extraction and character,” sighed Arabella.
“You fancied him noble, and invested him with
music, but he played vastly better for his title,
than though you had heard him as my valet.”
The lady tossed her head scornfully, taking care
at the same time to wreathe her features in a very
sweet smile—the scorn was intended for Martin,
the smile for Lloyd; and then she requested the
latter to tell her all the particulars, saying that she
felt under the greatest obligations for the care he
had shown to detect an imposition which she could
never have suspected, and in which the whole
town participated. Arthur might have complied
with her request; he might even have forgiven her
taking lessons of his valet, and honouring him as a
nobleman, for he was aware that other ladies had
been deceived by Martin, and that his own sex had
favoured the imposter, because he pretended to a
title; but as she extended her hand in token of
amity, his eye caught a brilliant on her finger; he
knew it was one of the banker's jewels.
“That was the gift of Martin,” said he.
“Of the Count de Verger,” she stammered.
Arthur bade her good morning. The next day
he left Boston, but not before he had learned that
the Count had decamped, leaving his landlord's
bill, and sundry loans of money from honourable
men undischarged.
“It will learn me wisdom, I hope,” said one
gentleman. “I will never again lend money to
the Count, when I would not trust it to the man.”
Arthur Lloyd was blamed by some prudent people,
for the abruptness of his proceedings in the
affair, as it severely wounded the feelings of the
Markleys. Arabella did not recover from this
shock till after she learned that Mr. Lloyd had
wedded the pretty Ellen Gray, when she sent him
a congratulating letter, which ended their correspondence.
I wish I could describe the course Arthur Lloyd
is now pursuing, without incurring the charge of
personality. There are so few like him, that the
picture would be instantly recognized. But I can
repeat two of his favourite maxims.
The first—“We must educate our sons to consider
the title of Republican a prouder boast than
the highest order of nobility that implies subjection,
and requires homage to a mortal.”
Second—“We must train our daughters to respect
talent in a man more than money, and a character
for usefulness more than a showy exterior;
to consider their countrymen superior to the men
of every other nation in the world; and mental and
moral worth a passport to the best society.”
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