OPINIONS OF OUR AUTHOR’S ANCESTOR, TOGETHER WITH SOME OF HIS OWN, AND
SOME OF OTHER PEOPLE’S.
Dr. Etherington was both a pious man and a gentleman. The second son of
a baronet of ancient lineage, he had been educated in most of the
opinions of his caste, and possibly he was not entirely above its
prejudices; but, this much admitted, few divines were more willing to
defer to the ethics and principles of the Bible than himself. His
humility had, of course, a decent regard to station; his charity was
judiciously regulated by the articles of faith; and his philanthropy
was of the discriminating character that became a warm supporter of
church and state.
In accepting the trust which he was now obliged to assume, he had
yielded purely to a benevolent wish to smooth the dying pillow of my
mother. Acquainted with the character of her husband, he had committed
a sort of pious fraud, in attaching the condition of the endowment to
his consent; for, notwithstanding the becoming language of his own
rebuke, the promise, and all the other little attendant circumstances
of the night, it might be questioned which felt the most surprise after
the draft was presented and duly honored, he who found himself in
possession, or he who found himself deprived, of the sum of ten
thousand pounds sterling. Still Dr. Etherington acted with the most
scrupulous integrity in the whole affair; and although I am aware that
a writer who has so many wonders to relate, as must of necessity adorn
the succeeding pages of this manuscript, should observe a guarded
discretion in drawing on the credulity of his readers, truth compels me
to add, that every farthing of the money was duly invested with a
single eye to the wishes of the dying Christian, who, under Providence,
had been the means of bestowing so much gold on the poor and
unlettered. As to the manner in which the charity was finally improved,
I shall say nothing, since no inquiry on my part has ever enabled me to
obtain such information as would justify my speaking with authority.
As for myself, I shall have little more to add touching the events of
the succeeding twenty years. I was baptized, nursed, breeched,
schooled, horsed, confirmed, sent to the university, and graduated,
much as befalls all gentlemen of the established church in the united
kingdoms of Great Britain and Ireland, or, in other words, of the land
of my ancestor. During these pregnant years, Dr. Etherington acquitted
himself of a duty that, judging by a very predominant feeling of human
nature (which, singularly enough, renders us uniformly averse to being
troubled with other people’s affairs), I think he must have found
sufficiently vexatious, quite as well as my good mother had any right
to expect. Most of my vacations were spent at his rectory; for he had
first married, then become a father, next a widower, and had exchanged
his town living for one in the country, between the periods of my
mother’s death and that on my going to Eton; and, after I quitted
Oxford, much more of my time was passed beneath his friendly roof than
beneath that of my own parent. Indeed, I saw little of the latter. He
paid my bills, furnished me with pocket-money, and professed an
intention to let me travel after I should reach my majority. But,
satisfied with these proofs of paternal care, he appeared willing to
let me pursue my own course very much in my own way.
My ancestor was an eloquent example of the truth of that political
dogma which teaches the efficacy of the division of labor. No
manufacturer of the head of a pin ever attained greater dexterity in
his single-minded vocation than was reached by my father in the one
pursuit to which he devoted, as far as human ken could reach, both soul
and body. As any sense is known to increase in acuteness by constant
exercise, or any passion by indulgence, so did his ardor in favor of
the great object of his affections grow with its growth, and become
more manifest as an ordinary observer would be apt to think the motive
of its existence at all had nearly ceased. This is a moral phenomenon
that I have often had occasion to observe, and which, there is some
reason to think, depends on a principle of attraction that has hitherto
escaped the sagacity of the philosophers, but which is as active in the
immaterial, as is that of gravitation in the material world. Talents
like his, so incessantly and unweariedly employed, produced the usual
fruits. He grew richer hourly, and at the time of which I speak he was
pretty generally known to the initiated to be the warmest man who had
anything to do with the stock exchange.
I do not think that the opinions of my ancestor underwent as many
material changes between the ages of fifty and seventy as they had
undergone between the ages of ten and forty. During the latter period
the tree of life usually gets deep root, its inclination is fixed,
whether obtained by bending to the storms, or by drawing toward the
light; and it probably yields more in fruits of its own, than it gains
by tillage and manuring. Still my ancestor was not exactly the same man
the day he kept his seventieth birthday as he had been the day he kept
his fiftieth. In the first place, he was worth thrice the money at the
former period that he had been worth at the latter. Of course his moral
system had undergone all the mutations that are known to be dependent
on a change of this important character. Beyond a question, during the
last five-and-twenty years of the life of my ancestor, his political
bias, too, was in favor of exclusive privileges and exclusive benefits.
I do not mean that he was an aristocrat in the vulgar acceptation. To
him, feudality was a blank; he had probably never heard the word.
Portcullises rose and fell, flanking towers lifted their heads, and
embattled walls swept around their fabrics in vain, so far as his
imagination was concerned. He cared not for the days of courts leet and
courts baron; nor for the barons themselves; nor for the honors of a
pedigree (why should he?—no prince in the land could more clearly trace
his family into obscurity than himself), nor for the vanities of a
court, nor for those of society; nor for aught else of the same nature
that is apt to have charms for the weak-minded, the imaginative, or the
conceited. His political prepossessions showed themselves in a very
different manner. Throughout the whole of the five lustres I have
named, he was never heard to whisper a censure against government, let
its measures, or the character of its administration, be what it would.
It was enough for him that it was government. Even taxation no longer
excited his ire, nor aroused his eloquence. He conceived it to be
necessary to order, and especially to the protection of property, a
branch of political science that he had so studied as to succeed in
protecting his own estate, in a measure, against even this great ally
itself. After he became worth a million, it was observed that all his
opinions grew less favorable to mankind in general, and that he was
much disposed to exaggerate the amount and quality of the few boons
which Providence has bestowed on the poor. The report of a meeting of
the Whigs generally had an effect on his appetite; a resolution that
was suspected of emanating from Brookes’s commonly robbed him of a
dinner, and the Radicals never seriously moved that he did not spend a
sleepless night, and pass a large portion of the next day in uttering
words that it would be hardly moral to repeat. I may without
impropriety add, however, that on such occasions he did not spare
allusions to the gallows; Sir Francis Burdett, in particular, was a
target for a good deal of billingsgate; and men as upright and as
respectable even as my lords Grey, Landsdowne, and Holland, were
treated as if they were no better than they should be. But on these
little details it is unnecessary to dwell, for it must be a subject of
common remark, that the more elevated and refined men become in their
political ethics, the more they are accustomed to throw dirt upon their
neighbors. I will just state, however, that most of what I have here
related has been transmitted to me by direct oral traditions, for I
seldom saw my ancestor, and when we did meet, it was only to settle
accounts, to eat a leg of mutton together, and to part like those who,
at least, have never quarrelled.
Not so with Dr. Etherington. Habit (to say nothing of my own merits)
had attached him to one who owed so much to his care, and his doors
were always as open to me as if I had been his own son.
It has been said that most of my idle time (omitting the part misspent
in the schools) was passed at the rectory.
The excellent divine had married a lovely woman, a year or two after
the death of my mother, who had left him a widower, and the father of a
little image of herself, before the expiration of a twelvemonth. Owing
to the strength of his affections for the deceased, or for his
daughter, or because he could not please himself in a second marriage
as well as it had been his good fortune to do in the first, Dr.
Etherington had never spoken of forming another connection. He appeared
content to discharge his duties, as a Christian and a gentleman,
without increasing them by creating any new relations with society.
Anna Etherington was of course my constant companion during many long
and delightful visits at the rectory. Three years my junior, the
friendship on my part had commenced by a hundred acts of boyish
kindness. Between the ages of seven and twelve, I dragged her about in
a garden-chair, pushed her on the swing, and wiped her eyes and uttered
words of friendly consolation when any transient cloud obscured the
sunny brightness of her childhood. From twelve to fourteen, I told her
stories; astonished her with narratives of my own exploits at Eton, and
caused her serene blue eyes to open in admiration at the marvels of
London. At fourteen, I began to pick up her pocket-handkerchief, hunt
for her thimble, accompany her in duets, and to read poetry to her, as
she occupied herself with the little lady-like employments of the
needle. About the age of seventeen I began to compare cousin Anna, as I
was permitted to call her, with the other young girls of my
acquaintance, and the comparison was generally much in her favor. It
was also about this time that, as my admiration grew more warm and
manifest, she became less confiding and less frank; I perceived too
that, for a novelty, she now had some secrets that she did not choose
to communicate to me, that she was more with her governess, and less in
my society than formerly, and on one occasion (bitterly did I feel the
slight) she actually recounted to her father the amusing incidents of a
little birthday fete at which she had been present, and which was given
by a gentleman of the vicinity, before she even dropped a hint to me,
touching the delight she had experienced on the occasion. I was,
however, a good deal compensated for the slight by her saying, kindly,
as she ended her playful and humorous account of the affair:
“It would have made you laugh heartily, Jack, to see the droll manner
in which the servants acted their parts” (there had been a sort of
mystified masque), “more particularly the fat old butler, of whom they
had made a Cupid, as Dick Griffin said, in order to show that love
becomes drowsy and dull by good eating and drinking—I DO wish you COULD
have been there, Jack.”
Anna was a gentle feminine girl, with a most lovely and winning
countenance, and I did inherently like to hear her pronounce the word
“Jack”—it was so different from the boisterous screech of the Eton
boys, or the swaggering call of my boon companions at Oxford!
“I should have liked it excessively myself, Anna,” I answered; “more
particularly as you seem to have so much enjoyed the fun.”
“Yes, but that COULD NOT BE” interrupted Miss-Mrs. Norton, the
governess. “For Sir Harry Griffin is very difficult about his
associates, and you know, my dear, that Mr. Goldencalf, though a very
respectable young man himself, could not expect one of the oldest
baronets of the county to go out of his way to invite the son of a
stock-jobber to be present at a fete given to his own heir.”
Luckily for Miss-Mrs. Norton, Dr. Etherington had walked away the
moment his daughter ended her recital, or she might have met with a
disagreeable commentary on her notions concerning the fitness of
associations. Anna herself looked earnestly at her governess, and I saw
a flush mantle over her sweet face that reminded me of the ruddiness of
morn. Her soft eyes then fell to the floor, and it was some time before
she spoke.
The next day I was arranging some fishing-tackle under a window of the
library, where my person was concealed by the shrubbery, when I heard
the melodious voice of Anna wishing the rector good morning. My heart
beat quicker as she approached the casement, tenderly inquiring of her
parent how he had passed the night. The answers were as affectionate as
the questions, and then there was a little pause.
“What is a stock-jobber, father?” suddenly resumed Anna, whom I heard
rustling the leaves above my head.
“A stock-jobber, my dear, is one who buys and sells in the public
funds, with a view to profit.”
“And is it thought a PARTICULARLY disgraceful employment?”
“Why, that depends on circumstances. On ’Change it seems to be well
enough—among merchants and bankers there is some odium attached to it,
I believe.”
“And can you say why, father?”
“I believe,” said Dr. Etherington, laughing, “for no other reason than
that it is an uncertain calling—one that is liable to sudden
reverses—what is termed gambling—and whatever renders property insecure
is sure to obtain odium among those whose principal concern is its
accumulation; those who consider the responsibility of others of
essential importance to themselves.”
“But is it a dishonest pursuit, father?”
“As the times go, not necessarily, my dear; though it may readily
become so.”
“And is it disreputable, generally, with the world?”
“That depends on circumstances, Anna. When the stock-jobber loses, he
is very apt to be condemned; but I rather think his character rises in
proportion to his gains. But why do you ask these singular questions,
love?”
I thought I heard Anna breathe harder than usual, and it is certain
that she leaned far out of the window to pluck a rose.
“Why, Mrs. Norton said Jack was not invited to Sir Harry Griffin’s
because his father was a stock-jobber. Do you think she was right,
sir?”
“Very likely, my dear,” returned the divine, who I fancied was smiling
at the question. “Sir Harry has the advantages of birth, and he
probably did not forget that our friend Jack was not so fortunate—and,
moreover, Sir Harry, while he values himself on his wealth, is not as
rich as Jack’s father by a million or two—in other words, as they say
on ’Change, Jack’s father could buy ten of him. This motive was perhaps
more likely to influence him than the first. In addition, Sir Harry is
suspected of gambling himself in the funds through the aid of agents;
and a gentleman who resorts to such means to increase his fortune is a
little apt to exaggerate his social advantages by way of a set-off to
the humiliation.”
“And GENTLEMEN do really become stock-jobbers, father?”
“Anna, the world has undergone great changes in my time. Ancient
opinions have been shaken, and governments themselves are getting to be
little better than political establishments to add facilities to the
accumulation of money. This is a subject, however, you cannot very well
understand, nor do I pretend to be very profound in it myself.”
“But is Jack’s father really so very, very rich?” asked Anna, whose
thoughts had been wandering from the thread of those pursued by her
father.
“He is believed to be so.”
“And Jack is his heir.”
“Certainly—he has no other child; though it is not easy to say what so
singular a being may do with his money.”
“I hope he will disinherit Jack!”
“You surprise me, Anna! You, who are so mild and reasonable, to wish
such a misfortune to befall our young friend John Goldencalf!” I gazed
upward in astonishment at this extraordinary speech of Anna, and at the
moment I would have given all my interest in the fortune in question to
have seen her face (most of her body was out of the window, for I heard
her again rustling the bush above my head), in order to judge of her
motive by its expression; but an envious rose grew exactly in the only
spot where it was possible to get a glimpse.
“Why do you wish so cruel a thing?” resumed Dr. Etherington, a little
earnestly.
“Because I hate stock-jobbing and its riches, father. Were Jack poorer,
it seems to me he would be better esteemed.”
As this was uttered the dear girl drew back, and I then perceived that
I had mistaken her cheek for one of the largest and most blooming of
the flowers. Dr. Etherington laughed, and I distinctly heard him kiss
the blushing face of his daughter. I think I would have given up my
hopes in another million to have been the rector at Tenthpig at that
instant.
“If that be all, child,” he answered, “set thy heart at rest. Jack’s
money will never bring him into contempt unless through the use he may
make of it. Alas! Anna, we live in an age of corruption and cupidity!
Generous motives appear to be lost sight of in the general desire of
gain; and he who would manifest a disposition to a pure and
disinterested philanthropy is either distrusted as a hypocrite or
derided as a fool. The accursed revolution among our neighbors the
French has quite unsettled opinions, and religion itself has tottered
in the wild anarchy of theories to which it has given rise. There is no
worldly advantage that has been more austerely denounced by the divine
writers than riches, and yet it is fast rising to be the god of the
ascendant. To say nothing of an hereafter, society is getting to be
corrupted by it to the core, and even respect for birth is yielding to
the mercenary feeling.”
“And do you not think pride of birth, father, a mistaken prejudice as
well as pride of riches?”
“Pride of any sort, my love, cannot exactly be defended on evangelical
principles; but surely some distinctions among men are necessary, even
for quiet. Were the levelling principle acknowledged, the lettered and
the accomplished must descend to an equality with the ignorant and
vulgar, since all men cannot rise to the attainments of the former
class, and the world would retrograde to barbarism. The character of a
Christian gentleman is much too precious to trifle with in order to
carry out an impracticable theory.”
Anna was silent. Probably she was confused between the opinions which
she most liked to cherish and the faint glimmerings of truth to which
we are reduced by the ordinary relations of life. As for the good
rector himself, I had no difficulty in understanding his bias, though
neither his premises nor his conclusions possessed the logical
clearness that used to render his sermons so delightful, more
especially when he preached about the higher qualities of the Saviour’s
dispensation, such as charity, love of our fellows, and, in particular,
the imperative duty of humbling ourselves before God.
A month after this accidental dialogue, chance made me auditor of what
passed between my ancestor and Sir Joseph Job, another celebrated
dealer in the funds, in an interview that took place in the house of
the former in Cheapside. As the difference was so PATENT, as the French
express it, I shall furnish the substance of what passed.
“This is a serious and a most alarming movement, Mr. Goldencalf,”
observed Sir Joseph, “and calls for union and cordiality among the
holders of property. Should these damnable opinions get fairly abroad
among the people, what would become of us? I ask, Mr. Goldencalf, what
would become of us?”
“I agree with you, Sir Joseph, it is very alarming!—frightfully
alarming!”
“We shall have agrarian laws, sir. Your money, sir, and mine—our hard
earnings—will become the prey of political robbers, and our children
will be beggared to satisfy the envious longings of some pitiful
scoundrel without a six-pence!”
“’Tis a sad state of things, Sir Joseph; and government is very
culpable that it don’t raise at least ten new regiments.”
“The worst of it is, good Mr. Goldencalf, that there are some
jack-a-napeses of the aristocracy who lead the rascals on and lend them
the sanction of their names. It is a great mistake, sir, that we give
so much importance to birth in this island, by which means proud
beggars set unwashed blackguards in motion, and the substantial
subjects are the sufferers. Property, sir, is in danger, and property
is the only true basis of society.”
“I am sure, Sir Joseph, I never could see the smallest use in birth.”
“It is of no use but to beget pensioners, Mr. Goldencalf. Now with
property it is a different thing—money is the parent of money, and by
money a state becomes powerful and prosperous. But this accursed
revolution among our neighbors the French has quite unsettled opinions,
and, alas! property is in perpetual danger!”
“Sorry am I to say, I feel it to be so in every nerve of my body, Sir
Joseph.”
“We must unite and defend ourselves, Mr. Goldencalf, else both you and
I, men warm enough and substantial enough at present, will be in the
ditch. Do you not see that we are in actual danger of a division of
property?”
“God forbid!”
“Yes, sir, our sacred property is in danger!”
Here Sir Joseph shook my father cordially by the hand and withdrew. I
find, by a memorandum among the papers of my deceased ancestor, that he
paid the broker of Sir Joseph, that day month, sixty-two thousand seven
hundred and twelve pounds difference (as bull and bear), owing to the
fact of the knight having got some secret information through a clerk
in one of the offices; an advantage that enabled him, in this instance,
at least, to make a better bargain than one who was generally allowed
to be among the shrewdest speculators on ’Change.
My mind was of a nature to be considerably exercised (as the pious
purists express it), by becoming the depository of sentiments so
diametrically opposed to each other as those of Dr. Etherington and
those of Sir Joseph Job. On the one side, I was taught the degradation
of birth; on the other, the dangers of property. Anna was usually my
confidant, but on this subject I was tongue-tied, for I dared not
confess that I had overheard the discourse with her father, and I was
compelled to digest the contradictory doctrines by myself in the best
manner I could.