SHOWING THE UPS AND DOWNS, THE HOPES AND FEARS, AND THE VAGARIES OF
LOVE, SOME VIEWS OF DEATH, AND AN ACCOUNT OF AN INHERITANCE.
From my twentieth to my twenty-third year no event occurred of any
great moment. The day I became of age my father settled on me a regular
allowance of a thousand a year, and I make no doubt I should have spent
my time much as other young men had it not been for the peculiarity of
my birth, which I now began to see was wanting in a few of the
requisites to carry me successfully through a struggle for place with a
certain portion of what is called the great world. While most were
anxious to trace themselves into obscurity, there was a singular
reluctance to effecting the object as clearly and as distinctly as it
was in my power to do. From all which, as well as from much other
testimony, I have been led to infer that the doses of mystification
which appear to be necessary to the happiness of the human race require
to be mixed with an experienced and a delicate hand. Our organs, both
physically and morally, are so fearfully constituted that they require
to be protected from realities. As the physical eye has need of clouded
glass to look steadily at the sun so it would seem the mind’s eye has
also need of something smoky to look steadily at truth. But, while I
avoided laying open the secret of my heart to Anna, I sought various
opportunities to converse with Dr. Etherington and my father on those
points which gave me the most concern. From the first, I heard
principles which went to show that society was of necessity divided
into orders; that it was not only impolitic but wicked to weaken the
barriers by which they were separated; that Heaven had its seraphs and
cherubs, its archangels and angels, its saints and its merely happy,
and that, by obvious induction, this world ought to have its kings,
lords, and commons. The usual winding-up of all the Doctor’s essays was
a lamentation on the confusion in classes that was visiting England as
a judgment. My ancestor, on the other hand, cared little for social
classification, or for any other conservatory expedient but force. On
this topic he would talk all day, regiments and bayonets glittering in
every sentence. When most eloquent on this theme he would cry (like Mr.
Manners Sutton), “ORDER—order!” nor can I recall a single disquisition
that did not end with, “Alas, Jack, property is in danger!”
I shall not say that my mind entirely escaped confusion among these
conflicting opinions, although I luckily got a glimpse of one important
truth, for both the commentators cordially agreed in fearing and, of
necessity, in hating the mass of their fellow-creatures. My own natural
disposition was inclining to philanthropy, and as I was unwilling to
admit the truth of theories that arrayed me in open hostility against
so large a portion of mankind, I soon determined to set up one of my
own, which, while it avoided the faults, should include the excellences
of both the others. It was, of course, no great affair merely to form
such a resolution; but I shall have occasion to say a word hereafter on
the manner in which I attempted to carry it out in practice.
Time moved on, and Anna became each day more beautiful. I thought that
she had lost some of her frankness and girlish gayety, it is true,
after the dialogue with her father; but this I attributed to the
reserve and discretion that became the expanding reason and greater
feeling of propriety that adorn young womanhood. With me she was always
ingenuous and simple, and were I to live a thousand years the angelic
serenity of countenance with which she invariably listened to the
theories of my busy brain would not be erased from recollection.
We were talking of these things one morning quite alone. Anna heard me
when I was most sedate with manifest pleasure, and she smiled
mournfully when the thread of my argument was entangled by a vagary of
the imagination. I felt at my heart’s core what a blessing such a
mentor would be, and how fortunate would be my lot could I succeed in
securing her for life. Still I did not, could not, summon courage to
lay bare my inmost thoughts, and to beg a boon that in these moments of
transient humility I feared I never should be worthy to possess.
“I have even thought of marrying,” I continued—so occupied with my own
theories as not to weigh, with the accuracy that becomes the frankness
and superior advantages which man possesses over the gentler sex, the
full import of my words; “could I find one, Anna, as gentle, as good,
as beautiful, and as wise as yourself who would consent to be mine, I
should not wait a minute; but, unhappily, I fear this is not likely to
be my blessed lot. I am not the grandson of a baronet, and your father
expects to unite you with one who can at least show that the ‘bloody
hand’ has once been born on his shield; and, on the other side, my
father talks of nothing but millions.” During the first part of this
speech the amiable girl looked kindly up at me, and with a seeming
desire to soothe me; but at its close her eyes dropped upon her work
and she remained silent. “Your father says that every man who has an
interest in the state should give it pledges”—here Anna smiled, but so
covertly that her sweet mouth scarce betrayed the impulse—“and that
none others can ever control it to advantage. I have thought of asking
my father to buy a borough and a baronetcy, for with the first, and the
influence that his money gives, he need not long wish for the last; but
I never open my lips on any matter of the sort that he does not answer
‘Fol lol der rol, Jack, with your knighthoods, and social order, and
bishoprics, and boroughs—property is in danger!—loans and regiments, if
thou wilt—give us more order “ORDER—order”—bayonets are what we want,
boy, and good wholesome taxes, to accustom the nation to contribute to
its own wants and to maintain its credit. Why, youngster, if the
interest on the debt were to remain unpaid twenty-four hours, your body
corporate, as you call it, would die a natural death; and what would
then become of your knights—barro-knights?—and barren enough some of
them are getting to be by their wastefulness and extravagance. Get thee
married, Jack, and settle prudently. There is neighbor Silverpenny has
an only daughter of a suitable age; and a good hussy is she in the
bargain. The only daughter of Oliver Silverpenny will be a suitable
wife for the only son of Thomas Goldencalf; though I give thee notice,
boy, that thou wilt be cut off with a competency; so keep thy head
clear of extravagant castle-building, learn economy in season, and,
above all, make no debts.’” Anna laughed as I humorously imitated the
well-known intonations of Mr. Speaker Sutton, but a cloud darkened her
bright features when I concluded.
“Yesterday I mentioned the subject to your father,” I resumed, “and he
thought with me that the idea of the borough and the baronetcy was a
good one. ‘You would be the second of your line, Jack,’ he said, ‘and
that is always better than being the first; for there is no security
for a man’s being a good member of society like that of his having
presented to his eyes the examples of those who have gone before him,
and who have been distinguished by their services or their virtues. If
your father would consent to come into parliament and sustain
government at this critical moment, his origin would be overlooked, and
you would have pride in looking back on his acts. As it is, I fear his
whole soul is occupied with the unworthy and debasing passion of mere
gain. Money is a necessary auxiliary to rank, and without rank there
can be no order, and without order no liberty; but when the love of
money gets to occupy the place of respect for descent and past actions,
a community loses the very sentiment on which all its noble exploits
are bottomed.’ So you see, dear Anna, that our parents hold very
different opinions on a very grave question, and between natural
affection and acquired veneration I scarcely know which to receive. If
I could find one sweet, and wise, and beautiful as thou, and who could
pity me, I would marry to-morrow, and cast all the future on the
happiness that is to be found with such a companion.”
As usual, Anna heard me in silence. That she did not, however, view
matrimony with exactly the same eyes as myself was clearly proved the
very next day, for young Sir Harry Griffin (the father was dead)
offered in form and was very decidedly refused.
Although I was always happy at the rectory, I could not help feeling
rather than seeing that, as the French express it, I occupied a false
position in society. Known to be the expectant of great wealth, it was
not easy to be overlooked altogether in a country whose government is
based on a representation of property, and in which boroughs are openly
in market; and yet they who had obtained the accidental advantage of
having their fortunes made by their grandfathers were constantly
convincing me that mine, vast as it was thought to be, was made by my
father. Ten thousand times did I wish (as it has since been expressed
by the great captain of the age), that I had been my own grandson; for
notwithstanding the probability that he who is nearest to the founder
of a fortune is the most likely to share the largest in its
accumulations, as he who is nearest in descent to the progenitor who
has illustrated his race is the most likely to feel the influence of
his character, I was not long in perceiving that in highly refined and
intellectual communities the public sentiment, as it is connected with
the respect and influence that are the meed of both, directly refutes
the inferences of all reasonable conjectures on the subject. I was out
of my place, uneasy, ashamed, proud, and resentful; in short I occupied
a FALSE POSITION, and unluckily one from which I saw no plausible
retreat except by falling back on Lombard street or by cutting my
throat. Anna alone—kind, gentle, serene-eyed Anna—entered into all my
joys, sympathized in my mortifications, and appeared to view me as I
was; neither dazzled by my wealth nor repelled by my origin. The day
she refused young Sir Harry Griffin I could have kneeled at her feet
and called her blessed!
It is said that no moral disease is ever benefited by its study. I was
a living proof of the truth of the opinion that brooding over one’s
wrongs or infirmities seldom does much more than aggravate the evil. I
greatly fear it is in the nature of man to depreciate the advantages he
actually enjoys and to exaggerate those which are denied him. Fifty
times during the six months that succeeded the repulse of the young
baronet did I resolve to take heart and to throw myself at the feet of
Anna, and as often was I deterred by the apprehension that I had
nothing to render me worthy of one so excellent, and especially of one
who was the granddaughter of the seventh English baronet. I do not
pretend to explain the connection between cause and effect, for I am
neither physician nor metaphysician; but the tumult of spirits that
resulted from so many doubts, hopes, fears, resolutions, and breakings
of resolutions, began to affect my health, and I was just about to
yield to the advice of my friends (among whom Anna was the most earnest
and the most sorrowful), to travel, when an unexpected call to attend
the death-bed of my ancestor was received. I tore myself from the
rectory and hurried up to town with the diligence and assiduity of an
only son and heir summoned on an occasion so solemn.
I found my ancestor still in the possession of his senses, though given
over by the physicians; a circumstance that proved a degree of
disinterestedness and singleness of purpose on their part that was
scarcely to be expected towards a patient who it was commonly believed
was worth more than a million. My reception by the servants and by the
two or three friends who had assembled on this melancholy occasion,
too, was sympathizing, warm, and of a character to show their
solicitude and forethought.
My reception by the sick man was less marked. The total abstraction of
his faculties in the one great pursuit of his life; a certain sternness
of purpose which is apt to get the ascendant with those who are
resolute to gain, and which usually communicates itself to the manners;
and an absence of those kinder ties that are developed by the exercise
of the more familiar charities of our existence had opened a breach
between us that was not to be filled by the simple unaided fact of
natural affinity. I say of natural affinity, for notwithstanding the
doubts that cast their shadows on that branch of my genealogical tree
by which I was connected with my maternal grandfather, the title of the
king to his crown is not more apparent than was my direct lineal
descent from my father. I always believed him to be my ancestor de jure
as well as de facto, and could fain have loved him and honored him as
such had my natural yearnings been met with more lively bowels of
sympathy on his side.
Notwithstanding the long and unnatural estrangement that had thus
existed between the father and son, the meeting on the present occasion
was not entirely without some manifestations of feeling.
“Thou art come at last, Jack,” said my ancestor; “I was afraid, boy,
thou might’st be too late.”
The difficult breathing, haggard countenance, and broken utterance of
my father struck me with awe. This was the first death-bed by which I
had ever stood; and the admonishing picture of time passing into
eternity was indelibly stamped on my memory. It was not only a
death-bed scene, but it was a family death-bed scene. I know not how it
was, but I thought my ancestor looked more like the Goldencalfs than I
had ever seen him look before.
“Thou hast come at last, Jack,” he repeated, “and I’m glad of it. Thou
art the only being in whom I have now any concern. It might have been
better, perhaps, had I lived more with my kind—but thou wilt be the
gainer. Ah! Jack, we are but miserable mortals after all! To be called
away so suddenly and so young!”
My ancestor had seen his seventy-fifth birthday; but unhappily he had
not settled all his accounts with the world, although he had given the
physician his last fee and sent the parson away with a donation to the
poor of the parish that would make even a beggar merry for a whole
life.
“Thou art come at last, Jack! Well, my loss will be thy gain, boy! Send
the nurse from the room.”
I did as commanded, and we were left to ourselves.
“Take this key,” handing me one from beneath his pillow, “and open the
upper drawer of my secretary. Bring me the packet which is addressed to
thyself.”
I silently obeyed; when my ancestor, first gazing at it with a sadness
that I cannot well describe—for it was neither worldly nor quite of an
ethereal character, but a singular and fearful compound of both—put the
papers into my hand, relinquishing his hold slowly and with reluctance.
“Thou wilt wait till I am out of thy sight, Jack?”
A tear burst from out its source and fell upon the emaciated hand of my
father. He looked at me wistfully, and I felt a slight pressure that
denoted affection.
“It might have been better, Jack, had we known more of each other. But
Providence made me fatherless, and I have lived childless by my own
folly. Thy mother was a saint, I believe; but I fear I learned it too
late. Well, a blessing often comes at the eleventh hour!”
As my ancestor now manifested a desire not to be disturbed, I called
the nurse and quitted the room, retiring to my own modest chamber,
where the packet, a large bundle of papers sealed and directed to
myself in the handwriting of the dying man, was carefully secured under
a good lock. I did not meet my father again but once under
circumstances which admitted of intelligible communion. From the time
of our first interview he gradually grew worse, his reason tottered,
and, like the sinful cardinal of Shakespeare, “he died and gave no
sign.”
Three days after my arrival, however, I was left alone with him, and he
suddenly revived from a state approaching to stupor. It was the only
time since the first interview in which he had seemed even to know me.
“Thou art come at last!” he said, in a tone that was already
sepulchral. “Canst tell me, boy, why they had golden rods to measure
the city?” His nurse had been reading to him a chapter of the
Revelations which had been selected by himself. “Thou seest, lad, the
wall itself was of jasper and the city was of pure gold—I shall not
need money in my new habitation—ha! it will not be wanted there!—I am
not crazed, Jack—would I had loved gold less and my kind more. The city
itself is of pure gold and the walls of jasper—precious abode!—ha!
Jack, thou hearest, boy—I am happy—too happy, Jack!—gold—gold!”
The final words were uttered with a shout. They were the last that ever
came from the lips of Thomas Goldencalf. The noise brought in the
attendants, who found him dead. I ordered the room to be cleared as
soon as the melancholy truth was fairly established, and remained
several minutes alone with the body. The countenance was set in death.
The eyes, still open, had that revolting glare of frenzied delight with
which the spirit had departed, and the whole face presented the dread
picture of a hopeless end. I knelt and, though a Protestant, prayed
fervently for the soul of the deceased. I then took my leave of the
first and the last of all my ancestors.
To this scene succeeded the usual period of outward sorrow, the
interment, and the betrayal of the expectations of the survivors. I
observed that the house was much frequented by many who rarely or never
had crossed its threshold during the life of its late owner. There was
much cornering, much talking in an undertone, and looking at me that I
did not understand, and gradually the number of regular visitors
increased until it amounted to about twenty. Among them were the parson
of the parish, the trustees of several notorious charities, three
attorneys, four or five well-known dealers of the stock exchange,
foremost among whom was Sir Joseph Job, and three of the professionally
benevolent, or of those whose sole occupation appears to be that of
quickening the latent charities of their neighbors.
The day after my ancestor was finally removed from our sight, the house
was more than usually crowded. The secret conferences increased both in
earnestness and in frequency, and finally I was summoned to meet these
ill-timed guests in the room which had been the sanctum sanctorum of
the late owner of the dwelling. As I entered among twenty strange
faces, wondering why I, who had hitherto passed through life so little
heeded, should be unseasonably importuned, Sir Joseph Job presented
himself as the spokesman of the party.
“We have sent for you, Mr. Goldencalf,” the knight commenced, decently
wiping his eyes, “because we think that respect for our late
much-esteemed, most excellent, and very respectable friend requires
that we no longer neglect his final pleasure, but that we should
proceed at once to open his will, in order that we may take prompt
measures for its execution. It would have been more regular had we done
this before he was interred, for we cannot have foreseen his pleasure
concerning his venerable remains; but it is fully my determination to
have everything done as he has ordered, even though we may be compelled
to disinter the body.”
I am habitually quiescent, and possibly credulous, but nature has not
denied me a proper spirit. What Sir Joseph Job, or any one but myself,
had to do with the will of my ancestor did not strike me at first
sight; and I took care to express as much, in terms it was not easy to
misunderstand.
“The only child and, indeed, the only known relative of the deceased,”
I said, “I do not well see, gentlemen, how this subject should interest
in this lively manner so many strangers!”
“Very spirited and proper, no doubt, sir,” returned Sir Joseph,
smiling; “but you ought to know, young gentleman, that if there are
such things as heirs there are also such things as executors!”
This I did know already, and I had also somewhere imbibed an opinion
that the latter was commonly the most lucrative situation.
“Have you any reason to suppose, Sir Joseph Job, that my late father
has selected you to fulfil this trust?”
“That will be better known in the end, young gentleman. Your late
father is known to have died rich, very rich—not that he has left as
much by half a million as vulgar report will have it—but what I should
term comfortably off; and it is unreasonable to suppose that a man of
his great caution and prudence should suffer his money to go to the
heir-at-law, that heir being a youth only in his twenty-third year,
ignorant of business, not over-gifted with experience, and having the
propensities of all his years in this ill-behaving and extravagant age,
without certain trusts and provisions which will leave his hard
earnings for some time to come under the care of men who like himself
know the full value of money.”
“No, never!—’tis quite impossible—’tis more than impossible!” exclaimed
the bystanders, all shaking their heads.
“And the late Mr. Goldencalf, too, intimate with most of the
substantial names on ’Change, and particularly with Sir Joseph Job!”
added another.
Sir Joseph Job nodded his head, smiled, stroked his chin, and stood
waiting for my reply.
“Property is in danger, Sir Joseph,” I said, ironically; “but it
matters not. If there is a will, it is as much my interest to know it
as it can possibly be yours; and I am quite willing that a search be
made on the spot.”
Sir Joseph looked daggers at me; but being a man of business he took me
at my word, and, receiving the keys I offered, a proper person was
immediately set to work to open the drawers. The search was continued
for four hours without success. Every private drawer was rummaged,
every paper opened, and many a curious glance was cast at the contents
of the latter, in order to get some clew to the probable amount of the
assets of the deceased. Consternation and uneasiness very evidently
increased among most of the spectators as the fruitless examination
proceeded; and when the notary ended, declaring that no will was to be
found, nor any evidence of credits, every eye was fastened on me as if
I were suspected of stealing that which in the order of nature was
likely to be my own without the necessity of crime.
“There must be a secret repository of papers somewhere,” said Sir
Joseph Job, as if he suspected more than he wished just then to
express; “Mr. Goldencalf is largely a creditor on the public books, and
yet here is not so much as a scrip for a pound!”
I left the room and soon returned, bringing with me the bundle that had
been committed to me by my father.
“Here, gentlemen,” I said, “is a large packet of papers that were given
to me by the deceased on his death-bed with his own hands. It is, as
you see, sealed with his seal and especially addressed to me in his own
handwriting, and it is not violent to suppose that the contents concern
me only. Still, as you take so great an interest in the affairs of the
deceased, it shall now be opened, and those contents, so far as you can
have any right to know them, shall not be hid from you.”
I thought Sir Joseph looked grave when he saw the packet and had
examined the handwriting of the envelope. All, however, expressed their
satisfaction that the search was now most probably ended. I broke the
seals and exposed the contents of the envelope. Within it there were
several smaller packets, each sealed with the seal of the deceased, and
each addressed to me in his own handwriting like the external covering.
Each of these smaller packets, too, had a separate indorsement of its
contents. Taking them as they lay, I read aloud the nature of each
before I proceeded to the next. They were also numbered.
“No. 1,” I commenced. “Certificates of public stock held by Tho.
Goldencalf, June 12th, 1815.” We were now at June 29th of the same
year. As I laid aside this packet I observed that the sum indorsed on
its back greatly exceeded a million. “No. 2. Certificates of Bank of
England stock.” This sum was several hundred thousands of pounds. “No.
3. South Sea Annuities.” Nearly three hundred thousand pounds. “No. 4.
Bonds and mortgages.” Four hundred and thirty thousand pounds. “No. 5.
The bond of Sir Joseph Job for sixty-three thousand pounds.”
I laid down the paper and involuntarily exclaimed, “Property is in
danger!” Sir Joseph turned pale, but he beckoned to me to proceed,
saying, “We shall soon come to the will, sir.”
“No. 6.—” I hesitated; for it was an assignment to myself, which from
its very nature I perceived was an abortive attempt to escape the
payment of the legacy duty.
“Well, sir, No. 6?” inquired Sir Joseph, with tremulous exultation.
“Is an instrument affecting myself, and with which you have no concern,
sir.”
“We shall see, sir, we shall see, sir—if you refuse to exhibit the
paper there are laws to compel you.”
“To do what, Sir Joseph Job? To exhibit to my father’s debtors’ papers
that are exclusively addressed to me and which can affect me only? But
here is the paper, gentlemen, that you so much desire to see. ‘No. 7.
The last will and testament of Tho. Goldencalf, dated June 17th,
1816.’” (He died June the 24th of the same year.)
“Ah! the precious instrument!” exclaimed Sir Joseph Job, eagerly
extending his hand as if expecting to receive the will.
“This paper, as you perceive, gentlemen,” I said, holding it up in a
manner that all present might see it, “is especially addressed to
myself, and it shall not quit my hands until I learn that some other
has a better right to it.”
I confess my heart failed me as I broke the seals, for I had seen but
little of my father and I knew that he had been a man of very peculiar
opinions as well as habits. The will was all in his own handwriting,
and it was very short. Summoning courage I read it aloud in the
following words:
“In the name of God—Amen: I, Tho. Goldencalf, of the parish of Bow, in
the city of London, do publish and declare this instrument to be my
last will and testament:
“That is to say; I bequeath to my only child and much-beloved son, John
Goldencalf, all my real estate in the parish of Bow and city of London,
aforesaid, to be held in free-simple by him, his heirs, and assigns,
forever.
“I bequeath to my said only child and much-beloved son, John
Goldencalf, all my personal property of every sort and description
whatever of which I may die possessed, including bonds and mortgages,
public debt, bank stock, notes of hand, goods and chattels, and all
others of my effects, to him, his heirs, or assigns.
“I nominate and appoint my said much-beloved son, John Goldencalf, to
be the sole executor of this my last will and testament, counselling
him not to confide in any of those who may profess to have been my
friends; and particularly to turn a deaf ear to all the pretensions and
solicitations of Sir Joseph Job, Knight. In witness whereof,” etc.,
etc.
This will was duly executed, and it was witnessed by the nurse, his
confidential clerk, and the housemaid.
“Property is in danger, Sir Joseph!” I dryly remarked, as I gathered
together the papers in order to secure them.
“This will may be set aside, gentlemen!” cried the knight in a fury.
“It contains a libel!”
“And for whose benefit, Sir Joseph?” I quietly inquired. “With or
without the will my title to my father’s assets would seem to be
equally valid.”
This was so evidently true that the more prudent retired in silence;
and even Sir Joseph after a short delay, during which he appeared to be
strangely agitated, withdrew. The next week his failure was announced,
in consequence of some extravagant risks on ’Change, and eventually I
received but three shillings and fourpence in the pound for my bond of
sixty-three thousand.
When the money was paid I could not help exclaiming mentally, “Property
is in danger!”
The following morning Sir Joseph Job balanced his account with the
world by cutting his throat.