This eBook was produced by Tapio Riikonen
and David Widger
PART THE SECOND.
PROLOGUE TO PART THE SECOND.
The century has advanced. The rush of the deluge has ebbed back; the old
landmarks have reappeared; the dynasties Napoleon willed into life have
crumbled to the dust; the plough has passed over Waterloo; autumn after
autumn the harvests have glittered on that grave of an empire. Through
the immense ocean of universal change we look back on the single track
which our frail boat has cut through the waste. As a star shines
impartially over the measureless expanse, though it seems to gild but one
broken line into each eye, so, as our memory gazes on the past, the light
spreads not over all the breadth of the waste where nations have battled
and argosies gone down,--it falls narrow and confined along the single
course we have taken; we lean over the small raft on which we float, and
see the sparkles but reflected from the waves that it divides.
On the terrace at Laughton but one step paces slowly. The bride clings
not now to the bridegroom's arm. Though pale and worn, it is still the
same gentle face; but the blush of woman's love has gone from it
evermore.
Charles Vernon (to call him still by the name in which he is best known
to us) sleeps in the vault of the St. Johns. He had lived longer than he
himself had expected, than his physician had hoped,--lived, cheerful and
happy, amidst quiet pursuits and innocent excitements. Three sons had
blessed his hearth, to mourn over his grave. But the two elder were
delicate and sickly. They did not long survive him, and died within a
few months of each other. The third seemed formed of a different mould
and constitution from his brethren. To him descended the ancient
heritage of Laughton, and he promised to enjoy it long.
It is Vernon's widow who walks alone in the stately terrace; sad still,
for she loved well the choice of her youth, and she misses yet the
children in the grave. From the date of Vernon's death, she wore
mourning without and within; and the sorrows that came later broke more
the bruised reed,--sad still, but resigned. One son survives, and earth
yet has the troubled hopes and the holy fears of affection. Though that
son be afar, in sport or in earnest, in pleasure or in toil, working out
his destiny as man, still that step is less solitary than it seems. When
does the son's image not walk beside the mother? Though she lives in
seclusion, though the gay world tempts no more, the gay world is yet
linked to her thoughts. From the distance she hears its murmurs in
music. Her fancy still mingles with the crowd, and follows on, to her
eye, outshining all the rest. Never vain in herself, she is vain now of
another; and the small triumphs of the young and well-born seem trophies
of renown to the eyes so tenderly deceived.
In the old-fashioned market-town still the business goes on, still the
doors of the bank open and close every moment on the great day of the
week; but the names over the threshold are partially changed. The junior
partner is busy no more at the desk; not wholly forgotten, if his name
still is spoken, it is not with thankfulness and praise. A something
rests on the name,--that something which dims and attaints; not proven,
not certain, but suspected and dubious. The head shakes, the voice
whispers; and the attorney now lives in the solid red house at the verge
of the town.
In the vicarage, Time, the old scythe-bearer, has not paused from his
work. Still employed on Greek texts, little changed, save that his hair
is gray and that some lines in his kindly face tell of sorrows as of
years, the vicar sits in his parlour; but the children no longer, blithe-
voiced and rose-cheeked, dart through the rustling espaliers. Those
children, grave men or staid matrons (save one whom Death chose, and
therefore now of all best beloved!) are at their posts in the world. The
young ones are flown from the nest, and, with anxious wings, here and
there, search food in their turn for their young. But the blithe voice
and rose-cheek of the child make not that loss which the hearth misses
the most. From childhood to manhood, and from manhood to departure, the
natural changes are gradual and prepared. The absence most missed is
that household life which presided, which kept things in order, and must
be coaxed if a chair were displaced. That providence in trifles, that
clasp of small links, that dear, bustling agency,--now pleased, now
complaining,--dear alike in each change of its humour; that active life
which has no self of its own; like the mind of a poet, though its prose
be the humblest, transferring self into others, with its right to be
cross, and its charter to scold; for the motive is clear,--it takes what
it loves too anxiously to heart. The door of the parlour is open, the
garden-path still passes before the threshold; but no step now has full
right to halt at the door and interrupt the grave thought on Greek texts;
no small talk on details and wise sayings chimes in with the wrath of
"Medea." The Prudent Genius is gone from the household; and perhaps as
the good scholar now wearily pauses, and looks out on the silent garden,
he would have given with joy all that Athens produced, from Aeschylus to
Plato, to hear again from the old familiar lips the lament on torn
jackets, or the statistical economy of eggs.
But see, though the wife is no more, though the children have departed,
the vicar's home is not utterly desolate. See, along the same walk on
which William soothed Susan's fears and won her consent,--see, what fairy
advances? Is it Susan returned to youth? How like! Yet look again, and
how unlike! The same, the pure, candid regard; the same, the clear,
limpid blue of the eye; the same, that fair hue of the hair,--light, but
not auburn; more subdued, more harmonious than that equivocal colour
which too nearly approaches to red. But how much more blooming and
joyous than Susan's is that exquisite face in which all Hebe smiles
forth; how much airier the tread, light with health; how much rounder, if
slighter still, the wave of that undulating form! She smiles, her lips
move, she is conversing with herself; she cannot be all silent, even when
alone, for the sunny gladness of her nature must have vent like a bird's.
But do not fancy that that gladness speaks the levity which comes from
the absence of thought; it is rather from the depth of thought that it
springs, as from the depth of a sea comes its music. See, while she
pauses and listens, with her finger half-raised to her lip, as amidst
that careless jubilee of birds she hears a note more grave and
sustained,--the nightingale singing by day (as sometimes, though rarely,
he is heard,--perhaps because he misses his mate; perhaps because he sees
from his bower the creeping form of some foe to his race),--see, as she
listens now to that plaintive, low-chanted warble, how quickly the smile
is sobered, how the shade, soft and pensive, steals over the brow. It is
but the mystic sympathy with Nature that bestows the smile or the shade.
In that heart lightly moved beats the fine sense of the poet. It is the
exquisite sensibility of the nerves that sends its blithe play to those
spirits, and from the clearness of the atmosphere comes, warm and
ethereal, the ray of that light.
And does the roof of the pastor give shelter to Helen Mainwaring's youth?
Has Death taken from her the natural protectors? Those forms which we
saw so full of youth and youth's heart in that very spot, has the grave
closed on them yet? Yet! How few attain to the age of the Psalmist!
Twenty-seven years have passed since that date: how often, in those
years, have the dark doors opened for the young as for the old! William
Mainwaring died first, careworn and shamebowed; the blot on his name had
cankered into his heart. Susan's life, always precarious, had struggled
on, while he lived, by the strong power of affection and will; she would
not die, for who then could console him? But at his death the power gave
way. She lingered, but lingered dyingly, for three years; and then, for
the first time since William's death, she smiled: that smile remained on
the lips of the corpse. They had had many trials, that young couple whom
we left so prosperous and happy. Not till many years after their
marriage had one sweet consoler been born to them. In the season of
poverty and shame and grief it came; and there was no pride on
Mainwaring's brow when they placed his first-born in his arms. By her
will, the widow consigned Helen to the joint guardianship of Mr. Fielden
and her sister; but the latter was abroad, her address unknown, so the
vicar for two years had had sole charge of the orphan. She was not
unprovided for. The sum that Susan brought to her husband had been long
since gone, it is true,--lost in the calamity which had wrecked William
Mainwaring's name and blighted his prospects; but Helen's grandfather,
the landagent, had died some time subsequent to that event, and, indeed,
just before William's death. He had never forgiven his son the stain on
his name,--never assisted, never even seen him since that fatal day; but
he left to Helen a sum of about 8,000 pounds; for she, at least, was
innocent. In Mr. Fielden's eyes, Helen was therefore an heiress. And
who amongst his small range of acquaintance was good enough for her?--not
only so richly portioned, but so lovely,--accomplished, too; for her
parents had of late years lived chiefly in France, and languages there
are easily learned, and masters cheap. Mr. Fielden knew but one, whom
Providence had also consigned to his charge,--the supposed son of his old
pupil Ardworth; but though a tender affection existed between the two
young persons, it seemed too like that of brother and sister to afford
much ground for Mr. Fielden's anxiety or hope.
From his window the vicar observed the still attitude of the young orphan
for a few moments; then he pushed aside his books, rose, and approached
her. At the sound of his tread she woke from her revery and bounded
lightly towards him.
"Ah, you would not see me before!" she said, in a voice in which there
was the slightest possible foreign accent, which betrayed the country in
which her childhood had been passed; "I peeped in twice at the window. I
wanted you so much to walk to the village. But you will come now, will
you not?" added the girl, coaxingly, as she looked up at him under the
shade of her straw hat.
"And what do you want in the village, my pretty Helen?"
"Why, you know it is fair day, and you promised Bessie that you would buy
her a fairing,--to say nothing of me."
"Very true, and I ought to look in; it will help to keep the poor people
from drinking. A clergyman should mix with his parishioners in their
holidays. We must not associate our office only with grief and sickness
and preaching. We will go. And what fairing are you to have?"
"Oh, something very brilliant, I promise you! I have formed grand
notions of a fair. I am sure it must be like the bazaars we read of last
night in that charming 'Tour in the East.'"
The vicar smiled, half benignly, half anxiously. "My dear child, it is
so like you to suppose a village fair must be an Eastern bazaar. If you
always thus judge of things by your fancy, how this sober world will
deceive you, poor Helen!"
"It is not my fault; ne me grondez pas, mechant," answered Helen, hanging
her head. "But come, sir, allow, at least, that if I let my romance, as
you call it, run away with me now and then, I can still content myself
with the reality. What, you shake your head still? Don't you remember
the sparrow?"
"Ha! ha! yes,--the sparrow that the pedlar sold you for a goldfinch; and
you were so proud of your purchase, and wondered so much why you could
not coax the goldfinch to sing, till at last the paint wore away, and it
was only a poor little sparrow!"
"Go on! Confess: did I fret then? Was I not as pleased with my dear
sparrow as I should have been with the prettiest goldfinch that ever
sang? Does not the sparrow follow me about and nestle on my shoulder,
dear little thing? And I was right after all; for if I had not fancied
it a goldfinch, I should not have bought it, perhaps. But now I would
not change it for a goldfinch,--no, not even for that nightingale I heard
just now. So let me still fancy the poor fair a bazaar; it is a double
pleasure, first to fancy the bazaar, and then to be surprised at the
fair."
"You argue well," said the vicar, as they now entered the village; "I
really think, in spite of all your turn for poetry and Goldsmith and
Cowper, that you would take as kindly to mathematics as your cousin John
Ardworth, poor lad!
"Not if mathematics have made him so grave, and so churlish, I was going
to say; but that word does him wrong, dear cousin, so kind and so rough!"
"It is not mathematics that are to blame if he is grave and absorbed,"
said the vicar, with a sigh; "it is the two cares that gnaw most,--
poverty and ambition."
"Nay, do not sigh; it must be such a pleasure to feel, as he does, that
one must triumph at last!"
"Umph! John must have nearly reached London by this time," said Mr.
Fielden, "for he is a stout walker, and this is the third day since he
left us. Well, now that he is about fairly to be called to the Bar, I
hope that his fever will cool, and he will settle calmly to work. I have
felt great pain for him during this last visit."
"Pain! But why?"
"My dear, do you remember what I read to you both from Sir William Temple
the night before John left us?"
Helen put her hand to her brow, and with a readiness which showed a
memory equally quick and retentive, replied, "Yes; was it not to this
effect? I am not sure of the exact words: 'To have something we have
not, and be something we are not, is the root of all evil.'"
"Well remembered, my darling!"
"Ah, but," said Helen, archly, "I remember too what my cousin replied:
'If Sir William Temple had practised his theory, he would not have been
ambassador at the Hague, or--"
"Pshaw! the boy's always ready enough with his answers," interrupted Mr.
Fielden, rather petulantly. "There's the fair, my dear,--more in your
way, I see, than Sir William Temple's philosophy."
And Helen was right; the fair was no Eastern bazaar, but how delighted
that young, impressionable mind was, notwithstanding,--delighted with the
swings and the roundabouts, the shows, the booths, even down to the gilt
gingerbread kings and queens! All minds genuinely poetical are
peculiarly susceptible to movement,--that is, to the excitement of
numbers. If the movement is sincerely joyous, as in the mirth of a
village holiday, such a nature shares insensibly in the joy; but if the
movement is a false and spurious gayety, as in a state ball, where the
impassive face and languid step are out of harmony with the evident
object of the scene, then the nature we speak of feels chilled and
dejected. Hence it really is that the more delicate and ideal order of
minds soon grow inexpressibly weary of the hack routine of what are
called fashionable pleasures. Hence the same person most alive to a
dance on the green, would be without enjoyment at Almack's. It was not
because one scene is a village green, and the other a room in King
Street, nor is it because the actors in the one are of the humble, in the
others of the noble class; but simply because the enjoyment in the first
is visible and hearty, because in the other it is a listless and
melancholy pretence. Helen fancied it was the swings and the booths that
gave her that innocent exhilaration,--it was not so; it was the
unconscious sympathy with the crowd around her. When the poetical nature
quits its own dreams for the actual world, it enters and transfuses
itself into the hearts and humours of others. The two wings of that
spirit which we call Genius are revery and sympathy. But poor little
Helen had no idea that she had genius. Whether chasing the butterfly or
talking fond fancies to her birds, or whether with earnest, musing eyes
watching the stars come forth, and the dark pine-trees gleam into silver;
whether with airy daydreams and credulous wonder poring over the magic
tales of Mirglip or Aladdin, or whether spellbound to awe by the solemn
woes of Lear, or following the blind great bard into "the heaven of
heavens, an earthly guest, to draw empyreal air,"--she obeyed but the
honest and varying impulse in each change of her pliant mood, and would
have ascribed with genuine humility to the vagaries of childhood that
prompt gathering of pleasure, that quick-shifting sport of the fancy by
which Nature binds to itself, in chains undulating as melody, the lively
senses of genius.
While Helen, leaning on the vicar's arm, thus surrendered herself to the
innocent excitement of the moment, the vicar himself smiled and nodded to
his parishioners, or paused to exchange a friendly word or two with the
youngest or the eldest loiterers (those two extremes of mortality which
the Church so tenderly unites) whom the scene drew to its tempting
vortex, when a rough-haired lad, with a leather bag strapped across his
waist, turned from one of the gingerbread booths, and touching his hat,
said, "Please you, sir, I was a coming to your house with a letter."
The vicar's correspondence was confined and rare, despite his distant
children, for letters but a few years ago were costly luxuries to persons
of narrow income, and therefore the juvenile letter-carrier who plied
between the post-town and the village failed to excite in his breast that
indignation for being an hour or more behind his time which would have
animated one to whom the post brings the usual event of the day. He took
the letter from the boy's hand, and paid for it with a thrifty sigh as he
glanced at a handwriting unfamiliar to him,--perhaps from some clergyman
poorer than himself. However, that was not the place to read letters, so
he put the epistle into his pocket, until Helen, who watched his
countenance to see when he grew tired of the scene, kindly proposed to
return home. As they gained a stile half-way, Mr. Fielden remembered his
letter, took it forth, and put on his spectacles. Helen stooped over the
bank to gather violets; the vicar seated himself on the stile. As he
again looked at the address, the handwriting, before unfamiliar, seemed
to grow indistinctly on his recollection. That bold, firm hand--thin and
fine as woman's, but large and regular as man's--was too peculiar to be
forgotten. He uttered a brief exclamation of surprise and recognition,
and hastily broke the seal. The contents ran thus:--
DEAR SIR,--So many years have passed since any communication has taken
place between us that the name of Lucretia Dalibard will seem more
strange to you than that of Lucretia Clavering. I have recently returned
to England after long residence abroad. I perceive by my deceased
sister's will that she has confided her only daughter to my guardianship,
conjointly with yourself. I am anxious to participate in that tender
charge. I am alone in the world,--an habitual sufferer; afflicted with a
partial paralysis that deprives me of the use of my limbs. In such
circumstances, it is the more natural that I should turn to the only
relative left me. My journey to England has so exhausted my strength,
and all movement is so painful, that I must request you to excuse me for
not coming in person for my niece. Your benevolence, however, will, I am
sure, prompt you to afford me the comfort of her society, and as soon as
you can, contrive some suitable arrangement for her journey. Begging you
to express to Helen, in my name, the assurance of such a welcome as is
due from me to my sister's child, and waiting with great anxiety your
reply, I am, dear Sir, Your very faithful servant,
LUCRETIA DALIBARD.
P. S. I can scarcely venture to ask you to bring Helen yourself to town,
but I should be glad if other inducements to take the journey afforded me
the pleasure of seeing you once again. I am anxious, in addition to such
details of my late sister as you may be enabled to give me, to learn
something of the history of her connection with Mr. Ardworth, in whom I
felt much interested years ago, and who, I am recently informed, left an
infant, his supposed son, under your care. So long absent from England,
how much have I to learn, and how little the mere gravestones tell us of
the dead!
While the vicar is absorbed in this letter, equally unwelcome and
unexpected; while, unconscious as the daughter of Ceres, gathering
flowers when the Hell King drew near, of the change that awaited her and
the grim presence that approached on her fate, Helen bends still over the
bank odorous with shrinking violets,--we turn where the new generation
equally invites our gaze, and make our first acquaintance with two
persons connected with the progress of our tale.
The britzska stopped. The servant, who had been gradually accumulating
present dust and future rheumatisms on the "bad eminence" of a rumble-
tumble, exposed to the nipping airs of an English sky, leaped to the
ground and opened the carriage-door.
"This is the best place for the view, sir,--a little to the right."
Percival St. John threw aside his book (a volume of Voyages), whistled to
a spaniel dozing by his side, and descended lightly. Light was the step
of the young man, and merry was the bark of the dog, as it chased from
the road the startled sparrow, rising high into the clear air,--
favourites of Nature both, man and dog. You had but to glance at
Percival St. John to know at once that he was of the race that toils not;
the assured step spoke confidence in the world's fair smile. No care for
the morrow dimmed the bold eye and the radiant bloom.
About the middle height,--his slight figure, yet undeveloped, seemed not
to have attained to its full growth,--the darkening down only just shaded
a cheek somewhat sunburned, though naturally fair, round which locks
black as jet played sportively in the fresh air; about him altogether
there was the inexpressible charm of happy youth. He scarcely looked
sixteen, though above four years older; but for his firm though careless
step, and the open fearlessness of his frank eye, you might have almost
taken him for a girl in men's clothes,--not from effeminacy of feature,
but from the sparkling bloom of his youth, and from his unmistakable
newness to the cares and sins of man. A more delightful vision of
ingenuous boyhood opening into life under happy auspices never inspired
with pleased yet melancholy interest the eye of half-envious, half-
pitying age.
"And that," mused Percival St. John,--"that is London! Oh for the Diable
Boiteux to unroof me those distant houses, and show me the pleasures that
lurk within! Ah, what long letters I shall have to write home! How the
dear old captain will laugh over them, and how my dear good mother will
put down her work and sigh! Home!--um, I miss it already. How strange
and grim, after all, the huge city seems!"
His glove fell to the ground, and his spaniel mumbled it into shreds.
The young man laughed, and throwing himself on the grass, played gayly
with the dog.
"Fie, Beau, sir, fie! gloves are indigestible. Restrain your appetite,
and we'll lunch together at the Clarendon."
At this moment there arrived at the same patch of greensward a pedestrian
some years older than Percival St. John,--a tall, muscular, raw-boned,
dust-covered, travel-stained pedestrian; one of your pedestrians in good
earnest,--no amateur in neat gambroon manufactured by Inkson, who leaves
his carriage behind him and walks on with his fishing-rod by choice, but
a sturdy wanderer, with thick shoes and strapless trousers, a threadbare
coat and a knapsack at his back. Yet, withal, the young man had the air
of a gentleman,--not gentleman as the word is understood in St. James's,
the gentleman of the noble and idle class, but the gentleman as the title
is accorded, by courtesy, to all to whom both education and the habit of
mixing with educated persons gives a claim to the distinction and imparts
an air of refinement. The new-comer was strongly built, at once lean and
large,--far more strongly built than Percival St. John, but without his
look of cheerful and comely health. His complexion had not the florid
hues that should have accompanied that strength of body; it was pale,
though not sickly; the expression grave, the lines deep, the face
strongly marked. By his side trotted painfully a wiry, yellowish,
footsore Scotch terrier. Beau sprang from his master's caress, cocked
his handsome head on one side, and suspended in silent halt his right
fore-paw. Percival cast over his left shoulder a careless glance at the
intruder. The last heeded neither Beau nor Percival. He slipped his
knapsack to the ground, and the Scotch terrier sank upon it, and curled
himself up into a ball. The wayfarer folded his arms tightly upon his
breast, heaved a short, unquiet sigh, and cast over the giant city, from
under deep-pent, lowering brows, a look so earnest, so searching, so full
of inexpressible, dogged, determined power, that Percival, roused out of
his gay indifference, rose and regarded him with curious interest.
In the mean while Beau had very leisurely approached the bilious-looking
terrier; and after walking three times round him, with a stare and a
small sniff of superb impertinence, halted with great composure, and
lifting his hind leg-- O Beau, Beau, Beau! your historian blushes for
your breeding, and, like Sterne's recording angel, drops a tear upon the
stain which washes it from the register--but not, alas, from the back of
the bilious terrier! The space around was wide, Beau; you had all the
world to choose: why select so specially for insult the single spot on
which reposed the wornout and unoffending? O dainty Beau! O dainty
world! Own the truth, both of ye. There is something irresistibly
provocative of insult in the back of a shabby-looking dog! The poor
terrier, used to affronts, raised its heavy eyelids, and shot the gleam
of just indignation from its dark eyes. But it neither stirred nor
growled, and Beau, extremely pleased with his achievement, wagged his
tail in triumph and returned to his master,--perhaps, in parliamentary
phrase, to "report proceedings and ask leave to sit again."
"I wonder," soliloquized Percival St. John, "what that poor fellow is
thinking of? Perhaps he is poor; indeed, no doubt of it, now I look
again. And I so rich! I should like to-- Hem! let's see what he's made
of."
Herewith Percival approached, and with all a boy's half-bashful, half-
saucy frankness, said: "A fine prospect, sir." The pedestrian started,
and threw a rapid glance over the brilliant figure that accosted him.
Percival St. John was not to be abashed by stern looks; but that glance
might have abashed many a more experienced man. The glance of a squire
upon a corn-law missionary, of a Crockford dandy upon a Regent Street
tiger, could not have been more disdainful.
"Tush!" said the pedestrian, rudely, and turned upon his heel.
Percival coloured, and--shall we own it?--was boy enough to double his
fist. Little would he have been deterred by the brawn of those great arms
and the girth of that Herculean chest, if he had been quite sure that it
was a proper thing to resent pugilistically so discourteous a
monosyllable. The "tush!" stuck greatly in his throat. But the man, now
removed to the farther verge of the hill, looked so tranquil and so lost
in thought that the short-lived anger died.
"And after all, if I were as poor as he looks, I dare say I should be
just as proud," muttered Percival. "However, it's his own fault if he
goes to London on foot, when I might at least have given him a lift.
Come, Beau, sir."
With his face still a little flushed, and his hat unconsciously cocked
fiercely on one side, Percival sauntered back to his britzska.
As in a whirl of dust the light carriage was borne by the four posters
down the hill, the pedestrian turned for an instant from the view before
to the cloud behind, and muttered: "Ay, a fine prospect for the rich,--a
noble field for the poor!" The tone in which those words were said told
volumes; there spoke the pride, the hope, the energy, the ambition which
make youth laborious, manhood prosperous, age renowned.
The stranger then threw himself on the sward, and continued his silent
and intent contemplation till the clouds grew red in the west. When,
then, he rose, his eye was bright, his mien erect, and a smile, playing
round his firm, full lips, stole the moody sternness from his hard face.
Throwing his knapsack once more on his back, John Ardworth went
resolutely on to the great vortex.
CHAPTER I.
THE CORONATION.
The 8th of September, 1831, was a holiday in London. William the Fourth
received the crown of his ancestors in that mighty church in which the
most impressive monitors to human pomp are the monuments of the dead.
The dust of conquerors and statesmen, of the wise heads and the bold
hands that had guarded the thrones of departed kings, slept around; and
the great men of the Modern time were assembled in homage to the monarch
to whom the prowess and the liberty of generations had bequeathed an
empire in which the sun never sets. In the Abbey--thinking little of the
past, caring little for the future--the immense audience gazed eagerly on
the pageant that occurs but once in that division of history,--the
lifetime of a king. The assemblage was brilliant and imposing. The
galleries sparkled with the gems of women who still upheld the celebrity
for form and feature which, from the remotest times, has been awarded to
the great English race. Below, in their robes and coronets, were men who
neither in the senate nor the field have shamed their fathers.
Conspicuous amongst all for grandeur of mien and stature towered the
brothers of the king; while, commanding yet more the universal gaze, were
seen, here the eagle features of the old hero of Waterloo, and there the
majestic brow of the haughty statesman who was leading the people (while
the last of the Bourbons, whom Waterloo had restored to the Tuileries,
had left the orb and purple to the kindred house so fatal to his name)
through a stormy and perilous transition to a bloodless revolution and a
new charter.
Tier upon tier, in the division set apart for them, the members of the
Lower House moved and murmured above the pageant; and the coronation of
the new sovereign was connected in their minds with the great measure
which, still undecided, made at that time a link between the People and
the King, and arrayed against both, if not, indeed, the real Aristocracy,
at least the Chamber recognized by the Constitution as its
representative. Without the space was one dense mass. Houses, from
balcony to balcony, window to window, were filled as some immense
theatre. Up, through the long thoroughfare to Whitehall, the eye saw
that audience,--A PEOPLE; and the gaze was bounded at the spot where
Charles the First had passed from the banquet-house to the scaffold.
The ceremony was over, the procession had swept slowly by, the last huzza
had died away; and after staring a while upon Orator Hunt, who had
clambered up the iron palisade near Westminster Hall, to exhibit his
goodly person in his court attire, the serried crowds, hurrying from the
shower which then unseasonably descended, broke into large masses or
lengthening columns.
In that part of London which may be said to form a boundary between its
old and its new world, by which, on the one hand, you pass to
Westminster, or through that gorge of the Strand which leads along
endless rows of shops that have grown up on the sites of the ancient
halls of the Salisburys and the Exeters, the Buckinghams and
Southamptons; to the heart of the City built around the primeval palace
of the "Tower;" while, on the other hand, you pass into the new city of
aristocracy and letters, of art and fashion, embracing the whilom chase
of Marylebone, and the once sedge-grown waters of Pimlico,--by this
ignoble boundary (the crossing from the Opera House, at the bottom of the
Haymarket, to the commencement of Charing Cross) stood a person whose
discontented countenance was in singular contrast with the general gayety
and animation of the day. This person, O gentle reader, this sour,
querulous, discontented person, was a king, too, in his own walk! None
might dispute it. He feared no rebel; he was harassed by no reform; he
ruled without ministers. Tools he had; but when worn out, he replaced
them without a pension or a sigh. He lived by taxes, but they were
voluntary; and his Civil List was supplied without demand for the redress
of grievances. This person, nevertheless, not deposed, was suspended
from his empire for the day. He was pushed aside; he was forgotten. He
was not distinct from the crowd. Like Titus, he had lost a day,--his
vocation was gone. This person was the Sweeper of the Crossing!
He was a character. He was young, in the fairest prime of youth; but it
was the face of an old man on young shoulders. His hair was long, thin,
and prematurely streaked with gray; his face was pale and deeply
furrowed; his eyes were hollow, and their stare gleamed, cold and stolid,
under his bent and shaggy brows. The figure was at once fragile and
ungainly, and the narrow shoulders curved in a perpetual stoop. It was a
person, once noticed, that you would easily remember, and associate with
some undefined, painful impression. The manner was humble, but not meek;
the voice was whining, but without pathos. There was a meagre,
passionless dulness about the aspect, though at times it quickened into a
kind of avid acuteness. No one knew by what human parentage this
personage came into the world. He had been reared by the charity of a
stranger, crept through childhood and misery and rags mysteriously; and
suddenly succeeded an old defunct negro in the profitable crossing
whereat he is now standing. All education was unknown to him, so was all
love. In those festive haunts at St. Giles's where he who would see
"life in London" may often discover the boy who has held his horse in the
morning dancing merrily with his chosen damsel at night, our sweeper's
character was austere as Charles the Twelfth's. And the poor creature
had his good qualities. He was sensitively alive to kindness,--little
enough had been shown him to make the luxury the more prized from its
rarity! Though fond of money, he would part with it (we do not say
cheerfully, but part with it still),--not to mere want, indeed (for he
had been too pinched and starved himself, and had grown too obtuse to
pinching and to starving for the sensitiveness that prompts to charity),
but to any of his companions who had done him a good service, or who had
even warmed his dull heart by a friendly smile. He was honest, too,--
honest to the backbone. You might have trusted him with gold untold.
Through the heavy clod which man's care had not moulded, nor books
enlightened, nor the priest's solemn lore informed, still natural rays
from the great parent source of Deity struggled, fitful and dim. He had
no lawful name; none knew if sponsors had ever stood security for his
sins at the sacred fount. But he had christened himself by the strange,
unchristian like name of "Beck." There he was, then, seemingly without
origin, parentage, or kindred tie,--a lonesome, squalid, bloodless thing,
which the great monster, London, seemed to have spawned forth of its own
self; one of its sickly, miserable, rickety offspring, whom it puts out
at nurse to Penury, at school to Starvation, and, finally, and literally,
gives them stones for bread, with the option of the gallows or the
dunghill when the desperate offspring calls on the giant mother for
return and home.
And this creature did love something,--loved, perhaps, some fellow-being;
of that hereafter, when we dive into the secrets of his privacy.
Meanwhile, openly and frankly, he loved his crossing; he was proud of his
crossing; he was grateful to his crossing. God help thee, son of the
street, why not? He had in it a double affection,--that of serving and
being served. He kept the crossing, if the crossing kept him. He smiled
at times to himself when he saw it lie fair and brilliant amidst the mire
around; it bestowed on him a sense of property! What a man may feel for
a fine estate in a ring fence, Beck felt for that isthmus of the kennel
which was subject to his broom. The coronation had made one rebellious
spirit when it swept the sweeper from his crossing.
He stood, then, half under the colonnade of the Opera House as the crowd
now rapidly grew thinner and more scattered: and when the last carriage
of a long string of vehicles had passed by, he muttered audibly,--
"It'll take a deal of pains to make she right agin!"
"So you be's 'ere to-day, Beck!" said a ragamuffin boy, who, pushing and
scrambling through his betters, now halted, and wiped his forehead as he
looked at the sweeper. "Vy, ve are all out pleasuring. Vy von't you
come with ve? Lots of fun!"
The sweeper scowled at the urchin, and made no answer, but began
sedulously to apply himself to the crossing.
"Vy, there isn't another sweep in the streets, Beck. His Majesty King
Bill's currynation makes all on us so 'appy!"
"It has made she unkimmon dirty!" returned Beck, pointing to the dingy
crossing, scarce distinguished from the rest of the road.
The ragamuffin laughed.
"But ve be's goin' to 'ave Reform now, Beck. The peopul's to have their
rights and libties, hand the luds is to be put down, hand beefsteaks is
to be a penny a pound, and--"
"What good will that do to she?"
"Vy, man, ve shall take turn about, and sum vun helse will sveep the
crossings, and ve shall ride in sum vun helse's coach and four, p'r'aps,-
-cos vy? ve shall hall be hequals!"
"Hequals! I tells you vot, if you keeps jawing there, atween me and she,
I shall vop you, Joe,--cos vy? I be's the biggest!" was the answer of
Beck the sweeper to Joe the ragamuffin.
The jovial Joe laughed aloud, snapped his fingers, threw up his ragged
cap with a shout for King Bill, and set off scampering and whooping to
join those festivities which Beck had so churlishly disdained.
Time crept on; evening began to close in, and Beck was still at his
crossing, when a young gentleman on horseback, who, after seeing the
procession, had stolen away for a quiet ride in the suburbs, reined in
close by the crossing, and looking round, as for some one to hold his
horse, could discover no loiterer worthy that honour except the solitary
Beck. So young was the rider that he seemed still a boy. On his smooth
countenance all that most prepossesses in early youth left its witching
stamp. A smile, at once gay and sweet, played on his lips. There was a
charm, even in a certain impatient petulance, in his quick eye and the
slight contraction of his delicate brows. Almaviva might well have been
jealous of such a page. He was the beau-ideal of Cherubino. He held up
his whip, with an arch sign, to the sweeper. "Follow, my man," he said,
in a tone the very command of which sounded gentle, so blithe was the
movement of the lips, and so silvery the easy accent; and without
waiting, he cantered carelessly down Pall Mall.
The sweeper cast a rueful glance at his melancholy domain. But he had
gained but little that day, and the offer was too tempting to be
rejected. He heaved a sigh, shouldered his broom, and murmuring to
himself that he would give her a last brush before he retired for the
night, he put his long limbs into that swinging, shambling trot which
characterizes the motion of those professional jackals who, having once
caught sight of a groomless rider, fairly hunt him down, and appear when
he least expects it, the instant he dismounts. The young rider lightly
swung himself from his sleek, high-bred gray at the door of one of the
clubs in St. James's Street, patted his horse's neck, chucked the rein to
the sweeper, and sauntered into the house, whistling musically,--if not
from want of thought, certainly from want of care.
As he entered the club, two or three men, young indeed, but much older,
to appearance at least, than himself, who were dining together at the
same table, nodded to him their friendly greeting.
"Ah, Perce," said one, "we have only just sat down; here is a seat for
you."
The boy blushed shyly as he accepted the proposal, and the young men made
room for him at the table, with a smiling alacrity which showed that his
shyness was no hindrance to his popularity.
"Who," said an elderly dandy, dining apart with one of his
contemporaries,--"who is that lad? One ought not to admit such mere boys
into the club."
"He is the only surviving son of an old friend of ours," answered the
other, dropping his eyeglass,--"young Percival St. John."
"St. John! What! Vernon St. John's son?"
"Yes."
"He has not his father's good air. These young fellows have a tone, a
something,--a want of self-possession, eh?"
"Very true. The fact is, that Percival was meant for the navy, and even
served as a mid for a year or so. He was a younger son, then,--third, I
think. The two elder ones died, and Master Percival walked into the
inheritance. I don't think he is quite of age yet."
"Of age! he does not look seventeen."
"Oh, he is more than that; I remember him in his jacket at Laughton. A
fine property!"
"Ay, I don't wonder those fellows are so civil to him. This claret is
corked! Everything is so bad at this d----d club,--no wonder, when a
troop of boys are let in! Enough to spoil any club; don't know Larose
from Lafitte! Waiter!"
Meanwhile, the talk round the table at which sat Percival St. John was
animated, lively, and various,--the talk common with young idlers; of
horses, and steeplechases, and opera-dancers, and reigning beauties, and
good-humoured jests at each other. In all this babble there was a
freshness about Percival St. John's conversation which showed that, as
yet, for him life had the zest of novelty. He was more at home about
horses and steeplechases than about opera-dancers and beauties and the
small scandals of town. Talk on these latter topics did not seem to
interest him, on the contrary, almost to pain. Shy and modest as a girl,
he coloured or looked aside when his more hardened friends boasted of
assignations and love-affairs. Spirited, gay, and manly enough in all
really manly points, the virgin bloom of innocence was yet visible in his
frank, charming manner; and often, out of respect for his delicacy, some
hearty son of pleasure stopped short in his narrative, or lost the point
of his anecdote. And yet so lovable was Percival in his good humour, his
naivete, his joyous entrance into innocent joy, that his companions were
scarcely conscious of the gene and restraint he imposed on them. Those
merry, dark eyes and that flashing smile were conviviality of themselves.
They brought with them a contagious cheerfulness which compensated for
the want of corruption.
Night had set in. St. John's companions had departed to their several
haunts, and Percival himself stood on the steps of the club, resolving
that he would join the crowds that swept through the streets to gaze on
the illuminations, when he perceived Beck (still at the rein of his
dozing horse), whom he had quite forgotten till that moment. Laughing at
his own want of memory, Percival put some silver into Beck's hand,--more
silver than Beck had ever before received for similar service,--and
said,--
"Well, my man, I suppose I can trust you to take my horse to his
stables,--No.----, the Mews, behind Curzon Street. Poor fellow, he wants
his supper,--and you, too, I suppose!"
Beck smiled a pale, hungry smile, and pulled his forelock politely.
"I can take the 'oss werry safely, your 'onor."
"Take him, then, and good evening; but don't get on, for your life."
"Oh, no, sir; I never gets on,--'t aint in my ways."
And Beck slowly led the horse through the crowd, till he vanished from
Percival's eyes.
Just then a man passing through the street paused as he saw the young
gentleman on the steps of the club, and said gayly, "Ah! how do you do?
Pretty faces in plenty out to-night. Which way are you going?"
"That is more than I can tell you, Mr. Varney. I was just thinking which
turn to take,--the right or the left."
"Then let me be your guide;" and Varney offered his arm.
Percival accepted the courtesy, and the two walked on towards Piccadilly.
Many a kind glance from the milliners--and maid-servants whom the
illuminations drew abroad, roved, somewhat impartially, towards St. John
and his companion; but they dwelt longer on the last, for there at least
they were sure of a return. Varney, if not in his first youth, was still
in the prime of life, and Time had dealt with him so leniently that he
retained all the personal advantages of youth itself. His complexion
still was clear; and as only his upper lip, decorated with a slight
silken and well-trimmed mustache, was unshaven, the contour of the face
added to the juvenility of his appearance by the rounded symmetry it
betrayed. His hair escaped from his hat in fair unchanged luxuriance.
And the nervous figure, agile as a panther's, though broad-shouldered and
deep-chested, denoted all the slightness and elasticity of twenty-five,
combined with the muscular power of forty. His dress was rather
fantastic,--too showy for the good taste which is habitual to the English
gentleman,--and there was a peculiarity in his gait, almost approaching
to a strut, which bespoke a desire of effect, a consciousness of personal
advantages, equally opposed to the mien and manner of Percival's usual
companions; yet withal, even the most fastidious would have hesitated to
apply to Gabriel Varney the epithet of "vulgar." Many turned to look
again, but it was not to remark the dress or the slight swagger; an
expression of reckless, sinister power in the countenance, something of
vigour and determination even in that very walk, foppish as it would have
been in most, made you sink all observation of the mere externals, in a
sentiment of curiosity towards the man himself. He seemed a somebody,--
not a somebody of conventional rank, but a somebody of personal
individuality; an artist, perhaps a poet, or a soldier in some foreign
service, but certainly a man whose name you would expect to have heard
of. Amongst the common mob of passengers he stood out in marked and
distinct relief.
"I feel at home in a crowd," said Varney. "Do you understand me?"
"I think so," answered Percival. "If ever I could become distinguished,
I, too, should feel at home in a crowd."
"You have ambition, then; you mean to become distinguished?" asked
Varney, with a sharp, searching look.
There was a deeper and steadier flash than usual from Percival's dark
eyes, and a manlier glow over his cheek, at Varney's question. But he
was slow in answering; and when he did so, his manner had all its wonted
mixture of graceful bashfulness and gay candour.
"Our rise does not always depend on ourselves. We are not all born
great, nor do we all have 'greatness thrust on us.'"
"One can be what one likes, with your fortune," said Varney; and there
was a growl of envy in his voice.
"What, be a painter like you! Ha, ha!"
"Faith," said Varney, "at least, if you could paint at all, you would
have what I have not,--praise and fame."
Percival pressed kindly on Varney's arm. "Courage! you will get justice
some day."
Varney shook his head. "Bah! there is no such thing as justice; all are
underrated or overrated. Can you name one man who you think is estimated
by the public at his precise value? As for present popularity, it
depends on two qualities, each singly, or both united,--cowardice and
charlatanism; that is, servile compliance with the taste and opinion of
the moment, or a quack's spasmodic efforts at originality. But why bore
you on such matters? There are things more attractive round us. A good
ankle that, eh? Why, pardon me, it is strange, but you don't seem to
care much for women?"
"Oh, yes, I do," said Percival, with a sly demureness. "I am very fond
of--my mother!"
"Very proper and filial," said Varney, laughing; "and does your love for
the sex stop there?"
"Well, and in truth I fancy so,--pretty nearly. You know my grandmother
is not alive! But that is something really worth looking at!" And
Percival pointed, almost with a child's delight, at an illumination more
brilliant than the rest.
"I suppose, when you come of age, you will have all the cedars at
Laughton hung with coloured lamps. Ah, you must ask me there some day; I
should so like to see the old place again."
"You never saw it, I think you say, in my poor father's time?"
"Never."
"Yet you knew him."
"But slightly."
"And you never saw my mother?"
"No; but she seems to have such influence over you that I am sure she
must be a very superior person,--rather proud, I suppose."
"Proud, no,--that is, not exactly proud, for she is very meek and very
affable. But yet--"
"'But yet--' You hesitate: she would not like you to be seen, perhaps,
walking in Piccadilly with Gabriel Varney, the natural son of old Sir
Miles's librarian,--Gabriel Varney the painter; Gabriel Varney the
adventurer!"
"As long as Gabriel Varney is a man without stain on his character and
honour, my mother would only be pleased that I should know an able and
accomplished person, whatever his origin or parentage. But my mother
would be sad if she knew me intimate with a Bourbon or a Raphael, the
first in rank or the first in genius, if either prince or artist had
lost, or even sullied, his scutcheon of gentleman. In a word, she is
most sensitive as to honour and conscience; all else she disregards."
"Hem!" Varney stooped down, as if examining the polish of his boot, while
he continued carelessly: "Impossible to walk the streets and keep one's
boots out of the mire. Well--and you agree with your mother?"
"It would be strange if I did not. When I was scarcely four years old,
my poor father used to lead me through the long picture-gallery at
Laughton and say: 'Walk through life as if those brave gentlemen looked
down on you.' And," added St. John, with his ingenuous smile, "my mother
would put in her word,--'And those unstained women too, my Percival.'"
There was something noble and touching in the boy's low accents as he
said this; it gave the key to his unusual modesty and his frank,
healthful innocence of character.
The devil in Varney's lip sneered mockingly.
"My young friend, you have never loved yet. Do you think you ever
shall?"
"I have dreamed that I could love one day. But I can wait."
Varney was about to reply, when he was accosted abruptly by three men of
that exaggerated style of dress and manner which is implied by the vulgar
appellation of "Tigrish." Each of the three men had a cigar in his
mouth, each seemed flushed with wine. One wore long brass spurs and
immense mustaches; another was distinguished by an enormous surface of
black satin cravat, across which meandered a Pactolus of gold chain; a
third had his coat laced and braided a la Polonaise, and pinched and
padded a la Russe, with trousers shaped to the calf of a sinewy leg, and
a glass screwed into his right eye.
"Ah, Gabriel! ah, Varney! ah, prince of good fellows, well met! You sup
with us to-night at little Celeste's; we were just going in search of
you."
"Who's your friend,--one of us?" whispered a second. And the third
screwed his arm tight and lovingly into Varney's.
Gabriel, despite his habitual assurance, looked abashed foz a moment, and
would have extricated himself from cordialities not at that moment
welcome; but he saw that his friends were too far gone in their cups to
be easily shaken off, and he felt relieved when Percival, after a
dissatisfied glance at the three, said quietly: "I must detain you no
longer; I shall soon look in at your studio;" and without waiting for an
answer, slid off, and was lost among the crowd.
Varney walked on with his new-found friends, unheeding for some moments
their loose remarks and familiar banter. At length he shook off his
abstraction, and surrendering himself to the coarse humours of his
companions, soon eclipsed them all by the gusto of his slang and the
mocking profligacy of his sentiments; for here he no longer played a
part, or suppressed his grosser instincts. That uncurbed dominion of the
senses, to which his very boyhood had abandoned itself, found a willing
slave in the man. Even the talents themselves that he displayed came
from the cultivation of the sensual. His eye, studying externals, made
him a painter,--his ear, quick and practised, a musician. His wild,
prodigal fancy rioted on every excitement, and brought him in a vast
harvest of experience in knowledge of the frailties and the vices on
which it indulged its vagrant experiments. Men who over-cultivate the
art that connects itself with the senses, with little counterpoise from
the reason and pure intellect, are apt to be dissipated and irregular in
their lives. This is frequently noticeable in the biographies of
musicians, singers, and painters; less so in poets, because he who deals
with words, not signs and tones, must perpetually compare his senses with
the pure images of which the senses only see the appearances,--in a word,
he must employ his intellect, and his self-education must be large and
comprehensive. But with most real genius, however fed merely by the
senses,--most really great painters, singers, and musicians, however
easily led astray into temptation,--the richness of the soil throws up
abundant good qualities to countervail or redeem the evil; they are
usually compassionate, generous, sympathizing. That Varney had not such
beauties of soul and temperament it is unnecessary to add,--principally,
it is true, because of his nurture, education, parental example, the
utter corruption in which his childhood and youth had passed; partly
because he had no real genius,---it was a false apparition of the divine
spirit, reflected from the exquisite perfection of his frame (which
rendered all his senses so vigorous and acute) and his riotous fancy and
his fitful energy, which was capable at times of great application, but
not of definite purpose or earnest study. All about him was flashy and
hollow. He had not the natural subtlety and depth of mind that had
characterized his terrible father. The graft of the opera-dancer was
visible on the stock of the scholar; wholly without the habits of method
and order, without the patience, without the mathematical calculating
brain of Dalibard, he played wantonly with the horrible and loathsome
wickedness of which Olivier had made dark and solemn study. Extravagant
and lavish, he spent money as fast as he gained it; he threw away all
chances of eminence and career. In the midst of the direst plots of his
villany or the most energetic pursuit of his art, the poorest excitement,
the veriest bauble would draw him aside. His heart was with Falri in the
sty, his fancy with Aladdin in the palace. To make a show was his
darling object; he loved to create effect by his person, his talk, his
dress, as well as by his talents. Living from hand to mouth, crimes
through which it is not our intention to follow him had at times made him
rich to-day, for vices to make him poor again to-morrow. What he called
"luck," or "his star," had favoured him,--he was not hanged!--he lived;
and as the greater part of his unscrupulous career had been conducted in
foreign lands and under other names, in his own name and in his own
country, though something scarcely to be defined, but equivocal and
provocative of suspicion, made him displeasing to the prudent, and
vaguely alarmed the experience of the sober, still, no positive
accusation was attached to the general integrity of his character, and
the mere dissipation of his habits was naturally little known out of his
familiar circle. Hence he had the most presumptuous confidence in
himself,--a confidence native to his courage, and confirmed by his
experience. His conscience was so utterly obtuse that he might almost be
said to present the phenomenon of a man without conscience at all.
Unlike Conrad, he did not "know himself a villain;" all that he knew of
himself was that he was a remarkably clever fellow, without prejudice or
superstition. That, with all his gifts, he had not succeeded better in
life, he ascribed carelessly to the surpassing wisdom of his philosophy.
He could have done better if he had enjoyed himself less; but was not
enjoyment the be-all and end-all of this little life? More often,
indeed, in the moods of his bitter envy, he would lay the fault upon the
world. How great he could have been, if he had been rich and high-born!
Oh, he was made to spend, not to save,--to command, not to fawn! He was
not formed to plod through the dull mediocrities of fortune; he must toss
up for the All or the Nothing! It was no control over himself that made
Varney now turn his thoughts from certain grave designs on Percival St.
John to the brutal debauchery of his three companions,--rather, he then
yielded most to his natural self. And when the morning star rose over
the night he passed with low profligates and venal nymphs; when over the
fragments on the board and emptied bottles and drunken riot dawn gleamed
and saw him in all the pride of his magnificent organization and the
cynicism of his measured vice, fair, fresh, and blooming amidst those
maudlin eyes and flushed cheeks and reeling figures, laughing hideously
over the spectacle he had provoked, and kicking aside, with a devil's
scorn, the prostrate form of the favoured partner whose head had rested
on his bosom, as alone with a steady step, he passed the threshold and
walked into the fresh, healthful air,--Gabriel Varney enjoyed the fell
triumph of his hell-born vanity, and revelled in his sentiment of
superiority and power.
Meanwhile, on quitting Varney young Percival strolled on as the whim
directed him. Turning down the Haymarket, he gained the colonnade of the
Opera House. The crowd there was so dense that his footsteps were
arrested, and he leaned against one of the columns in admiration of the
various galaxies in view. In front blazed the rival stars of the United
Service Club and the Athenaeum; to the left, the quaint and peculiar
device which lighted up Northumberland House; to the right, the anchors,
cannons, and bombs which typified ingeniously the martial attributes of
the Ordnance Office.
At that moment there were three persons connected with this narrative
within a few feet of each other, distinguished from the multitude by the
feelings with which each regarded the scene, and felt the jostle of the
crowd. Percival St. John, in whom the harmless sense of pleasure was yet
vivid and unsatiated, caught from the assemblage only that physical
hilarity which heightened his own spirits. If in a character as yet so
undeveloped, to which the large passions and stern ends of life were as
yet unknown, stirred some deeper and more musing thoughts and
speculations, giving gravity to the habitual smile on his rosy lip, and
steadying the play of his sparkling eyes, he would have been at a loss
himself to explain the dim sentiment and the vague desire.
Screened by another column from the pressure of the mob, with his arms
folded on his breast, a man some few years older in point of time,--many
years older in point of character,--gazed (with thoughts how turbulent,--
with ambition how profound!) upon the dense and dark masses that covered
space and street far as the eye could reach. He, indeed, could not have
said, with Varney, that he was "at home in a crowd." For a crowd did not
fill him with the sense of his own individual being and importance, but
grappled him to its mighty breast with the thousand tissues of a common
destiny. Who shall explain and disentangle those high and restless and
interwoven emotions with which intellectual ambition, honourable and
ardent, gazes upon that solemn thing with which, in which, for which it
lives and labours,--the Human Multitude? To that abstracted, solitary
man, the illumination, the festivity, the curiosity, the holiday, were
nothing, or but as fleeting phantoms and vain seemings. In his heart's
eye he saw before him but the PEOPLE, the shadow of an everlasting
audience,--audience at once and judge.
And literally touching him as he stood, the ragged sweeper, who had
returned in vain to devote a last care to his beloved charge, stood
arrested with the rest, gazing joylessly on the blazing lamps, dead as
the stones he heeded, to the young vivacity of the one man, the solemn
visions of the other. So, O London, amidst the universal holiday to
monarch and to mob, in those three souls lived the three elements which,
duly mingled and administered, make thy vice and thy virtue, thy glory
and thy shame, thy labour and thy luxury; pervading the palace and the
street, the hospital and the prison,--enjoyment, which is pleasure;
energy, which is action; torpor, which is want!