University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

Glassman lived near the “west end” of the city,
in a by-street leading to it, that was not much frequented.
A few steps bore him from a kind of retirement,
to the glitter and magnificence of wealth
and fashion. Bradshaw soon reached his residence,
and entered his office, which was in the front room
of the house. Passing into the back room, he found
Mr. Glassman with a book of poems in his hand,
that he had been perusing.

“Walk in, Mr. Bradshaw; be seated, sir. I
passed you in the street after we parted; but you
were so closely engaged in conversation with your
fair companion, that you did not observe me. I
think she is the loveliest and most agreeable lady
of her age, I ever beheld. I met her lately, and
had some chat with her; I don't know when I have
been so delightfully entertained. She is the only
daughter, I believe, of Mr. Carlton?” While Mr.
Glassman spoke, he eyed his companion with the
close scrutiny of a man of the world.

With an easy manner, Bradshaw replied—“Yes,
sir, the only daughter. Any eulogy which may be
pronounced on Miss Carlton will be deserved;
though I am four or five years the older, yet I remember

her as long as I remember myself. We
were early school-mates, and she is very intimate
with my sister.”

“Ay, well, sir, be careful that the sex do not allure
you from your studies. And, yet, I do not
know why we should not wish to yield to their allurements:
I have no doubt that youth is the happiest
period of our life—and why not yield to its
bias and impressions, as the leaf, upon the stream,
floats as the wind bloweth.”

“I should not suppose, sir, that you would preach
that doctrine.”

“The preachment and the practice are not always
the same—but you know we cannot say which
is the best part of the road until we have travelled
it. I do not know but what our profession—from
our habit of disputation in the defence of any side—
leads us very much into doubting; makes us specious
reasoners, and wayward actors. I won't say
that in a dull man, who pursues closely and exclusively
the practice of the profession, this effect is
produced; but one who is a general reader—who
has a taste for polite literature, and who cultivates
it, is very apt to be thus influenced.”

“But, sir,” remarked Bradshaw, “do you not
believe that Erskine and Curran, if they had been
followers of literature, would have been more devoted
to pleasure than they were, and that Sheridan,
if he had been a lawyer, would have been less
so. Sheridan thought so himself, I believe, from
the fact of his having wished towards the close of
his life, that he had studied law: `I would have
done, at least, as well,' said he, `as Tom Erskine.”'

“I remember having seen something like that
recorded of Sheridan. Old Sherry paid himself as
great a compliment as he ever had paid to him,
when he uttered that remark. Take him all in
all, sir, I consider Erskine the most accomplished
advocate that ever spoke the English language. I
was educated in England, and I have had the pleasure
of hearing him and most of his contemporaries,
Fox, Burke, Sheridan, Pitt, &c. I do not think
that Erskine was much of a statesman;—facts
prove, indeed, that he comparatively failed in the
House of Commons; but I believe he would have
made a better statesman than either of his contemporaries
could have made advocates, if I may institute
such a comparison, and if they had been advocates
they would not have equalled him. He was
a fine-looking man, and a most accomplished gentleman,
and then he had every weapon of oratory
at command. His argument was lucid; I was about
to say Johnsonian, but there was more naturalness
in it, if I may so express myself, than there was in
that of the great lexicographer, owing to his analogy
and illustrations being derived from simpler
sources—more from nature, not so much from books.
He never used his imagination merely to adorn—
his most brilliant adornment contained illustration
and argument: here he differed widely from Curran,
who often let his imagination run away with
him, a complete John Gilpin frolic, leaving his admirers
as much amazed as were the folks of Islington,
wondering, too, what he was after. Fox, as
an advocate, would have reasoned better; Pitt
would have had more subtlety; Sheridan more wit

—much more. Great as Erskine was in cross-examining
a witness, Sheridan would have surpassed
him. But admit all this, and before an English
jury, in the generality of cases, Erskine would
have excelled them. Burke I never considered an
orator. Sometimes, from the violence of his temper,
in very madness, like the Pythoness, he would
be eloquent in utterance—in language, he always
was eloquent—but he often wanted true oratorical
inspiration, and lamely affected, acted it; as when,
for instance, he drew from his pocket a dagger,
which, no doubt, he had pocketed for the occasion,
and flourished it in such a histrionic manner.”

“My political impressions have been such,” replied
Bradshaw, “as to lead me to think that Burke
was more splendid than profound; and yet who
does not admire the lofty enthusiasm with which
he pours forth his whole soul for the ancient regime?
With a holy devotion, Old Mortality, as
Scott describes him, leaned over the tombs of the
departed covenanters, to revive their names upon
the marble; with a similar feeling, Burke would
clear away what he calls rubbish, foulness, and degradation
from the old monarchy of France—like
the antiquary, he washes the relic, and finds it a
common stone; he had better have been like the
other antiquary, who refused to wash what he pronounced
an ancient shield, for fear it would prove
to be a pot-lid. Yet I admire him; I think him,
perhaps, the master spirit of his day.”

“No, indeed, sir; you are wrong, you are wrong.
I know that the generality of scholars would agree
with you, and be disposed to laugh at me; but I

have lived long enough in the world to dare to
think for myself. I admire Burke's brilliant imagination.
He was meant for a literary character,
if nature ever means a man for any thing. I am
no defender of the French revolution—I mean of
its atrocities—but I often think of what Paine said
of Burke, that `He pitied the plumage, and forgot
the dying bird.' Burke, sir, in my opinion, dressed
the iron hand of despotism in flowers, and then exclaimed,
how beautiful! The serpent which had
stolen into the lily of France, and become torpid
there, he would have you place in your bosom and
warm into life. He seems to say, “It hath no
sting, it is incapable of ingratitude: I know the fable
says the contrary, but what's a fable!” He
would present that lily to you poisoned with that
serpent's contact, and with one of his best bows,
request my dear sir, or miss, or madam, that you
would wear it as a nosegay. Burke enthrones
prejudice on the ruins of some old feudal tower,
and then would have the world bow down to it in
political idolatry. He reminds us of the heathen,
who makes unto himself an idol and then worships
it—no small portion of his worship proceeding from
a reverence of his own handiwork. He could defend
all sides with equal ability, or, rather, he could
defend a sophism best; for his was an imagination
that did not illumine, but dazzle—not the light that
enables us to see clearly and distinctly the objects before
us, but the lurid blaze that flashes in the tempest
—not the beacon-fire, burning on the steep, to guide
the shipwrecked in safety, but its deceiving resemblance,
that whelms them in ruin. Burke threw
the gorgeous splendour of his imagination over the
departed tyranny of France, as we throw the pall
over the bier to hide the sense of the cold, distorted,
blackened corpse beneath, that died in convulsions.
He goes farther; he chants over it an incantation
to raise the dead withal. And what spirits he
would call from the `vasty deep' of despotism!
Understand me; to his splendid intellect, I pay the
respect of profound homage; but I believe that the
most of his political acts were dictated by an uncontrollable
temper; that his inspiration proceeded
from his frenzy; and that his conduct towards Fox,
when they differed with regard to the French revolution,
was all that is censurable. That one
act shows the man to my mind.”

Bradshaw could not but smile at what he considered
the wildest prejudices; just as he was
about to reply, the servant entered to announce
dinner. They dined alone: with the exception
of an aged house-keeper and one servant, there
was no one beside themselves in the room. The
room was furnished with an austerity of taste.
From the books, busts, and pictures around it, any
one would have taken it for the abode of an intellectual
man. After they had dined, and while
they were taking their wine, Bradshaw rose, with
enthusiasm, to contemplate closer a splendid bust
of Chatham, which had, even during dinner, and
notwithstanding the temptation of the viands and
the fascination of Glassman's conversation, occupied
a considerable portion of his attention.

“Yes—I knew it was Chatham,” said he; “I
knew it by instinct, as Falstaff knew the true

Prince. This is Alexander Hamilton. What a
striking bust! It reminds one of the ancient
heads. And this is Byron. Ah, is it a good likeness?”

“Yes, sir, very much like him. It was given
to me by one of his friends, Mr. —. He is almost
the only great man of my day, whom I cannot
say I personally knew, so far as to have had
some conversation with him. I once saw Byron
in the theatre; that is very much like him. I
keep it for the likeness; the execution of the picture
is not remarkable. I stood, unobserved, and
watched him for some time; it was in Drury
Lane; Kean was playing Othello. I thought him
an unhappy man, and affected, though not so much
so as you might imagine. His personal appearance
was deeply interesting—there was that in
him that would please a woman: his face was fine
—intellectual in its expression, yet not devoid of
sensuality; it combined, at once, manliness and
beauty—there, the fulness of the chin, in the picture,
is very much like—the eye is not so good;
the expression of his face changed momently. I
thought his hair, from its look, was indebted much
to the barber for its curl. That of Alexander Hamilton
is a first-rate likeness. He had quite a rosy
cheek, which you would not believe from looking
at that bust; he was a dressy man, too—that is,
what we would call dressy now-a-days. He was,
also, a great beau.”

“Did you know Burr?”

“Oh, yes. I saw a great deal of Burr when
young—about the eye, you remind me of him.

Have you never been told your eye was like
his?”

“Yes, sir, I believe I have.”

“There is much of a resemblance; and, sir,
you must know it's a high compliment. I never
heard a man speak of Burr in my life, who did
not speak of his eye. Your eye is more impulsive
in its expression than his, if I may so express
myself. His eye was keen, quick, fiery;
and yet the most common observer would know
him to be a man of self-control. The keenness
of his look contrasted strangely with the calmness
of his brow, and reminded one of the flame
of the volcano bursting from the ice-bound brow
of Hecla. He was a man of great personal neatness,
and generally dressed in black; plain, but of
the richest. He combined the gentlest and most
seductive address with more command than any
man I ever saw—and he was a very small man.
I have heard jurymen say that they never could
take their eyes off of him, when he was addressing
them: each thought that Burr was looking at
him. When I think of his character, I am always
reminded of some of the most distinguished
Italian and French politicians. Burr should have
been cast in the stormy time of the French revolution;
he would have equalled Talleyrand in tact,
and Napoleon in energy. I believe it. His character
and operations were unsuited to the simple
machinery, and the honesty of our republican institutions.
He did not enough wait upon events
and developments—he tried too much to force
them. Alexander, a prince born to power, might

dare to cut the Gordian knot, which he could not
untie. But, in our country, you must learn to
untie it; or, if you do cut, it must not be with
the daring of Alexander, nor with the exhibition
of surpassing strength, as Richard the Lion-hearted,—Melec
Ric,—in Scott's beautiful tale of the
Talisman, cut the steel mace, when Saladin requested
a display of his prowess. No! you must
cut it as Saladin cut the cushion of silk and down,
with sleight of hand. You must wait patiently.
In this respect, Talleyrand would have excelled
Burr—but in no other. In an age of great men,
Burr is one of the greatest.”

“I agree with you,” replied Bradshaw, “in
your estimate of Burr's talents; but I think these
sleight of hand tricks give one the reputation of being
a political juggler, that, in our country, injures
a man more than any thing else. Honesty, I conscientiously
believe, is the best policy,—I mean
the best selfish policy,—the policy for success.—
And then it is the only policy which will console
you in defeat.”

“Why,” replied Glassman, “I ever mingled,
but very little, in politics. I have been once or
twice forced to take part in them; but, even in
success, I always found the play was not worth
the candle. And, then, think of its uncertainties.
Now you are on the crest of the wave,—mountain
high,—and the next moment you are in
the slough of despond. I always preferred the
even tenor of my profession. This ducking of
the head to every plebeian dog you may meet, I
never could, nor would do, for his vote—there is

personal debasement in the thought. I would salute
any man through courtesy. I applaud the sentiment
of him, who replied to the reproach of one
who reproved him for speaking to a negro, by the
remark, `That he would not let a negro surpass
him in politeness:' there is chivalry in that; I can
find nothing but self-debasement in the other.”

Bradshaw mused for some time, abstractedly,
when Glassman interrupted him, by asking—

“Who is that young man who was with you
last night, named Willoughby?”

“He is a Kentuckian,” replied Bradshaw, “and
he possesses all the chivalry that is attributed to
his country. He is a young man who expects a
large fortune from his uncle, and has come here
to attend the law lectures this winter. We call
him, familiarly, Kentuck. He is the most truly
independent and generous fellow I ever met with.
He is very proud of his state, and reminds me of
the preacher, who, in describing the beatitude of
heaven, capped the climax by saying, `In short,
my beloved brethren, heaven is a Kentuck of a
place.' ”.

“I like such spirits,” exclaimed Glassman. “Is
he a man of talents?”

“Yes, sir, a great deal of natural talent, but uncultivated,
yet there is shrewd common sense, an
observation of character, and an energy about him,
which lead me to think, at times, that he will be a
distinguished man. I am satisfied he will, if he's
ever thrown in some great crisis of human affairs
—then he'll either make a spoon, or spoil a hoon.”

In such conversation, several hours passed. Glassman

was much struck with the bearing and conversation
of Bradshaw, and, when they parted, he
pressed him warmly to call and see him often. “If
you get into any knotty point of law,” said he, “in
which I can be of any service to you, command me,
don't fail to do it—or upon any point of practice,—
no man can learn the practice from books. Read, rather,
a few standard works thoroughly, than many
promiscuously. Understand every thought of the author,
as you go along. Sit and think over what you
have read—think steadily, not impulsively—think
long. Keep not your habits of study for your office;
study as you walk the streets, here, there, everywhere.
I do not mean that you should lose yourself
in abstractions—by no means; but that you
should observe things around you, and understand
exactly their relative positions—not only things, but
men, and women, too,” said Glassman, smiling.
“You must keep your intellectual armour on, and
always have it bright. Eschew prejudice; be not
too much influenced by first impressions, but weigh
them well; they are instincts, and often tell the
truth. Acquire self-possession, but not heartlessness.
Act towards women without one particle of
foppery or affectation—be natural with them, and
be gentle: they are best won, as the summer sun
wins the dew from the rose, and causes its bud to
blossom, gradually, with an insinuating power.
When you go a wooing, make not your intentions
known too soon; it throws a woman upon her guard,
and she watches every avenue to her heart, arguseyed—you
will have twice the toil to win her.
What we win with great toil, must have rare excellencies
to reward us; if it have not, we are sadly
disappointed. I was going to advise you against
wedding a very poor girl, but I had better warn
you against a rich one: you can make money, if
you try; and your wife will not only love, but respect
you, if she owes all to you:—if you owe all
to her, why, she must not only love, but respect
you, very much, if you do not often hear of your
indebtedness. But marry for love, be she rich, or
be she poor. You think this strange advice from
me, don't you? It is good advice. I could read
you a homily on it with a sad moral. You are a
young man of penetration, Mr. Bradshaw, of sagacity—cultivate
it: 'tis better than all the books
that ever were written. Books tell us what has
been, just as a man would tell us—and both books
and men may distort and misrepresent: sagacity
sees through them. In your intercourse with men,
treat them with all courtesy, but not sycophancy.
Be rather too proud than too humble. Understand
which way men's interests lead them, and observe
them in little things. Many a man braces himself
up to heroism in great things, who is no hero at all.
Perhaps his heroism is forced upon him, as courage
is forced on a cornered rat; he acts well upon compulsion,
and obtains a reputation for it that lasts
him through life, which he no more deserves than
would the rat a reputation for courage. Practise
oratory: in our country it is more powerful
than the two-edged sword in the strong hand, in
battle. Read the old English authors; they are
the best—their thoughts are the solid metal: the
moderns have hammered it out. Be natural in
your speaking, and have a manner of your own.
Obtain self-possession, and the power of looking far
a-head, while you speak; see your way through before
you start. Never go on at a venture, unless
you know your subject, and then 'tis no venture,
because you are like the pilot who knows the
whereabout of the quicksand, and sees the shore.”

“That is a man of talents, of glorious talents,”
thought Bradshaw, when he left Glassman; “but,
perhaps, he wants vim a little; he thinks too much
about side-blows; his bump of caution must be prodigious—yet,
he's a man of great experience, and
he thinks most acutely. Why did not Chesterfield
succeed as eminently as Chatham? Chesterfield
was a man of talents; no one knew the world better;
but he wanted energy—or, rather, he was too
cautious to go a-head much; he was afraid of so
many side hits, and back hits, that he was always
looking around, and about him, to see exactly how
he stood; he never thought of advancing till it was
too late—till he saw some one before him. Chatham
had too much pride; several times it nearly
wrecked him, and it often marred his influence;
but, by Jove, if Chatham had had as much caution
as Chesterfield, he never would have been as distinguished
a man as the Earl of Stanhope. Here's
a day gone, and I've not read one line—last night at
the party, too. Mary looked well; I never saw
her look better. This morning, what a delightful
walk! Mr. Clinton Bradshaw, you must quit these
vanities; they are idlesse, all. What good will
they do you a year hence? But I've spent the day
profitably. To my books, to my books; I must get

into that chapter on executory devises, and puzzle
through what my Lord Thurlow says on it. I must
stop at the library, however, and have some new
novel to qualify it. I'll take no supper, but straight
to my office. I agree with Mr. Glassman in a good
many of his notions, but he has too bad an opinion
of men and of women. He's a man that thinks for
himself, though. When I heard him express his
sentiments on Burke, I thought he must surely be
a Jacobin, but he is rather aristocratical in his
views. I suspect that he is, personally, aristocratical,
and, politically, republican.”

At night, and long after Bradshaw heard the
raps of different of his friends at his office door, but
they were unanswered. The watchman cried past
twelve under his window, before he quit his legal
studies, notwithstanding his dissipation of the previous
night. Then he ensconced himself in bed,
with the light placed at his bed-head, and it was
not until he had glanced through the fashionable
novel he had obtained at the library, that he
composed himself on his pillow to sleep.