ABOUT THE SOCIAL-STAKE SYSTEM, THE DANGERS OF CONCENTRATION, AND OTHER
MORAL AND IMMORAL CURIOSITIES.
The affairs of my father were almost as easy of settlement as those of
a pauper. In twenty-four hours I was completely master of them, and
found myself if not the richest, certainly one of the richest subjects
of Europe. I say subjects, for sovereigns frequently have a way of
appropriating the effects of others that would render a pretension to
rivalry ridiculous. Debts there were none: and if there had been, ready
money was not wanting; the balance in cash in my favor at the bank
amounted in itself to a fortune.
The reader may now suppose that I was perfectly happy. Without a
solitary claim on either my time or my estate, I was in the enjoyment
of an income that materially exceeded the revenues of many reigning
princes. I had not an ex-pensive nor a vicious habit of any sort. Of
houses, horses, hounds, packs, and menials, there were none to vex or
perplex me. In every particular save one I was completely my own
master. That one was the near, dear, cherished sentiment that rendered
Anna in my eyes an angel (and truly she was little short of it in those
of other people), and made her the polar star to which every wish
pointed. How gladly would I have paid half a million just then to be
the grandson of a baronet with precedency from the seventeenth century!
There was, however, another and a present cause for un-easiness that
gave me even more concern than the fact that my family reached the dark
ages with so much embarrassing facility. In witnessing the dying agony
of my ancestor I had got a dread lesson on the vanity, the hopeless
character, the dangers, and the delusions of wealth that time can never
eradicate. The history of its accumulation was ever present to mar the
pleasure of its possession. I do not mean that I suspected what by the
world’s convention is deemed dishonesty—of that there had been no
necessity—but simply that the heartless and estranged existence, the
waste of energies, the blunted charities, and the isolated and
distrustful habits of my father appeared to me to be but poorly
requited by the joyless ownership of its millions. I would have given
largely to be directed in such a way as while escaping the wastefulness
of the shoals of Scylla I might in my own case steer clear of the
miserly rocks of Charybdis.
When I drove from between the smoky lines of the London houses into the
green fields and amid the blossoming hedges, this earth looked
beautiful and as if it were made to be loved. I saw in it the
workmanship of a divine and beneficent Creator, and it was not
difficult to persuade myself that he who dwelt in the confusion of a
town in order to transfer gold from the pocket of his neighbor to his
own had mistaken the objects of his being. My poor ancestor who had
never quitted London stood before me with his dying regrets; and my
first resolution was to live in open communion with my kind. So
intense, indeed, did my anxiety to execute this purpose become that it
might have led even to frenzy had not a fortunate circumstance
interposed to save me from so dire a calamity.
The coach in which I had taken passage (for I purposely avoided the
parade and trouble of post-chaise and servants), passed through a
market town of known loyalty on the eve of a contested election. This
appeal to the intelligence and patriotism of the constituency had
occurred in consequence of the late incumbent having taken office. The
new minister, for he was a member of the cabinet, had just ended his
canvass, and he was about to address his fellow-subjects from a window
of the tavern in which he lodged. Fatigued, but ready to seek mental
relief by any means, I threw myself from the coach, secured a room, and
made one of the multitude.
The favorite candidate occupied a large balcony surrounded by his
principal friends, among whom it was delightful to see earls, lords
John, baronets, dignitaries of the church, tradesmen of influence in
the borough, and even a mechanic or two, all squeezed together in the
agreeable amalgamation of political affinity. Here then, thought I, is
an example of the heavenly charities I The candidate himself, the son
and heir of a peer, feels that he is truly of the same flesh and blood
as his constituents; how amiably he smiles!—how bland are his
manners!—and with what cordiality does he shake hands with the
greasiest and the worst! There must be a corrective to human pride, a
stimulus to the charities, a never-ending lesson of benevolence in this
part of our excellent system, and I will look farther into it. The
candidate appeared and his harangue commenced.
Memory would fail me were I to attempt recording the precise language
of the orator, but his opinions and precepts are so deeply graven on my
recollection that I do not fear misrepresenting them. He commenced with
a very proper and eloquent eulogium on the constitution, which he
fearlessly pronounced to be in its way the very perfection of human
reason; in proof of which he adduced the well-ascertained fact that it
had always been known throughout the vicissitudes and trials of so many
centuries to accommodate itself to circumstances, abhorring change.
“Yes, my friends,” he exclaimed, in a burst of patriotic and
constitutional fervor, “whether under the roses or the lilies—the
Tudors, the Stuarts, or the illustrious house of Brunswick, this
glorious structure has resisted the storms of faction, has been able to
receive under its sheltering roof the most opposite elements of
domestic strife, affording protection, warmth, aye, and food and
raiment”—(here the orator happily laid his hand on the shoulder of a
butcher, who wore a frieze overcoat that made him look not unlike a
stall-fed beast)—“yes, food and raiment, victuals and drink, to the
meanest subject in the realm. Nor is this all; it is a constitution
peculiarly English: and who is there so base, so vile, so untrue to
himself, to his fathers, to his descendants, as to turn his back on a
constitution that is thoroughly and inherently English, a constitution
that he has inherited from his ancestors, and which by every obligation
both human and divine he is bound to transmit unchanged to
posterity”;—here the orator, who continued to speak, however, was
deafened by shouts of applause, and that part of the subject might very
fairly be considered as definitively settled.
From the constitution as a whole the candidate next proceeded to extol
the particular feature of it that was known as the borough of
Householder. According to his account of this portion of the
government, its dwellers were animated by the noblest spirit of
independence, the most rooted determination to uphold the ministry of
which he was the least worthy member, and were distinguished by what in
an ecstasy of political eloquence he happily termed the most freeborn
understanding of its rights and privileges. This loyal and judicious
borough had never been known to waste its favors on those who had not a
stake in the community. It understood that fundamental principle of
good government which lays down the axiom that none were to be trusted
but those who had a visible and an extended interest in the country;
for without these pledges of honesty and independence what had the
elector to expect but bribery and corruption—a traffic in his dearest
rights, and a bargaining that might destroy the glorious institutions
under which he dwelt. This part of the harangue was listened to in
respectful silence, and shortly after the orator concluded; when the
electors dispersed, with, no doubt, a better opinion of themselves and
the constitution than it had probably been their good fortune to
entertain since the previous election.
Accident placed me at dinner (the house being crowded) at the same
table with an attorney who had been very active the whole morning among
the Householders, and who I soon learned, from himself, was the
especial agent of the owner of the independent borough in question. He
told me that he had came down with the expectation of disposing of the
whole property to Lord Pledge, the ministerial candidate named; but the
means had not been forthcoming as he had been led to hope, and the
bargain was unluckily broken off at the very moment when it was of the
utmost importance to know to whom the independent electors rightfully
belonged.
“His lordship, however,” continued the attorney, winking, “has done
what is handsome; and there can be no more doubt of his election than
there would be of yours did you happen to own the borough.”
“And is the property now open for sale?” I asked.
“Certainly-my principal can hold out no longer. The price is settled,
and I have his power of attorney to make the preliminary bargain. ’Tis
a thousand pities that the public mind should be left in this undecided
state on the eve of an election.”
“Then, sir, I will be the purchaser.”
My companion looked at me with astonishment and doubt. He had
transacted too much business of this nature, however, not to feel his
way before he was either off or on.
“The price of the estate is three hundred and twenty-five thousand
pounds, sir, and the rental is only six!”
“Be it so. My name is Goldencalf: by accompanying me to town you shall
receive the money.”
“Goldencalf! What, sir, the only son and heir of the late Thomas
Goldencalf of Cheapside?”
“The same. My father has not been dead a month.”
“Pardon me, sir—convince me of your identity—we must be particular in
matters of this sort—and you shall have possession of the property in
season to secure your own election or that of any of your friends. I
will return Lord Pledge his small advances, and another time he will
know better than to fail of keeping his promises. What is a borough
good for if a nobleman’s word is not sacred? You will find the
electors, in particular, every way worthy of your favor. They are as
frank, loyal, and straightforward a constituency as any in England. No
skulking behind the ballot for them!—and in all respects they are
fearless Englishmen who will do what they say, and say whatever their
landlord shall please to require of them.”
As I had sundry letters and other documents about me, nothing was
easier than to convince the attorney of my identity. He called for pen
and ink; drew out of his pocket the contract that had been prepared for
Lord Pledge; gave it to me to read; filled the blanks; and affixing his
name, called the waiters as witnesses, and presented me the paper with
a promptitude and respect that I found really delightful. So much,
thought I, for having given pledges to society by the purchase of a
borough. I drew on my bankers for three hundred and twenty-five
thousand pounds, and arose from table virtually the owner of the estate
of Householder and of the political consciences of its tenantry.
A fact so important could not long be unknown; and in a few minutes all
eyes in the coffee-room were upon me. The landlord presented himself
and begged I would do him the honor to take possession of his family
parlor, there being no other at his disposal. I was hardly installed
before a servant in a handsome livery presented the following note.
“DEAR MR. GOLDENCALF:
“I have this moment heard of your being in town, and am exceedingly
rejoiced to learn it. A long intimacy with your late excellent and most
loyal father justifies my claiming you for a friend, and I waive all
ceremony (official, of course, is meant, there being no reason for any
other between us), and beg to be admitted for half an hour.
“Dear Mr. Goldencalf,”
“Yours very faithfully and sincerely,”
“PLEDGE.”
“—GOLDENCALF, Esquire.”
“Monday evening.”
I begged that the noble visitor might not be made to wait a moment.
Lord Pledge met me like an old and intimate friend. He made a hundred
handsome inquiries after my dead ancestor; spoke feelingly of his
regret at not having been summoned to attend his death-bed; and then
very ingenuously and warmly congratulated me on my succession to so
large a property.
“I hear, too, you have bought this borough, my dear sir. I could not
make it convenient just at this particular moment to conclude my own
arrangement—but it is a good thing. Three hundred and twenty thousand,
I suppose, as was mentioned between me and the other party?”
“Three hundred and twenty-five thousand, Lord Pledge.”
I perceived by the countenance of the noble candidate that I had paid
the odd five thousand as a fine—a circumstance which accounted for the
promptitude of the attorney in the transaction, he most probably
pocketing the difference himself.
“You mean to sit, of course?”
“I do, my lord, as one of the members, at the next general election;
but at present I shall be most happy to aid your return.”
“My dear Mr. Goldencalf—”
“Really, without presuming to compliment, Lord Pledge, the noble
sentiments I heard you express this morning were so very proper, so
exceedingly statesmanlike, so truly English, that I shall feel
infinitely more satisfaction in knowing that you fill the vacant seat
than if it were in my own possession.”
“I honor your public spirit, Mr. Goldencalf, and only wish to God there
was more of it in the world. But you can count on our friendship, sir.
What you have just remarked is true, very true, only too true, true to
a hair-a-a-a—I mean, my dear Mr. Goldencalf, most especially those
sentiments of mine which-a-a-a-I say it, before God, without vanity—but
which, as you have so very ably intimated, are so truly proper and
English.”
“I sincerely think so, Lord Pledge, or I should not have said it. I am
peculiarly situated myself. With an immense fortune, without rank,
name, or connections, nothing is easier than for one of my years to be
led astray; and it is my ardent desire to hit upon some expedient that
may connect me properly with society.”
“Marry, my dear young friend—select a wife from among the fair and
virtuous of this happy isle—unluckily I can propose nothing in this way
myself—for both my own sisters are disposed of.”
“I have made choice, already, I thank you a thousand times, my dear
Lord Pledge; although I scarcely dare execute my own wishes. There are
objections—if I were only the child, now, of a baronet’s second son,
or—”
“Become a baronet yourself,” once more interrupted my noble friend,
with an evident relief from suspense; for I verily believe he thought I
was about to ask for something better. “Your affair shall be arranged
by the end of the week—and if there is anything else I can do for you,
I beg you to name it without reserve.”
“If I could hear a few more of those remarkable sentiments of yours,
concerning the stake we should all have in society, I think it would
relieve my mind.”
My companion looked at me a moment with a very awkward sort of an
intensity, drew his hand across his brows, reflected, and then
obligingly complied.
“You attach too much importance, Mr. Goldencalf, to a few certainly
very just but very ill-arranged ideas. That a man without a proper
stake in society is little better than the beasts of the fields, I hold
to be so obvious that it is unnecessary to dwell on the point. Reason
as you will, forward or backward, you arrive at the same result—he that
hath nothing is usually treated by mankind little better than a dog,
and he that is little better than a dog usually has nothing. Again.
What distinguishes the savage from the civilized man? Why, civilization
to be sure. Now, what is civilization? The arts of life. What feeds,
nourishes, sustains the arts of life? Money or property. By
consequence, civilization is property, and property is civilization. If
the control of a country is in the hands of those who possess the
property, the government is a civilized government; but, on the other
hand, if it is in the hands of those who have no property, the
government is necessarily an uncivilized government. It is quite
impossible that any one should become a safe statesman who does not
possess a direct property interest in society. You know there is not a
tyro of our political sect who does not fully admit the truth of this
axiom.”
“Mr. Pitt?”
“Why, Pitt was certainly an exception in one way; but then, you will
recollect, he was the immediate representative of the tories, who own
most of the property of England.”
“Mr. Fox?”
“Fox represented the whigs, who own all the rest, you know. No, my dear
Goldencalf, reason as you will, we shall always arrive at the same
results. You will, of course, as you have just said, take one of the
seats yourself at the next general election?”
“I shall be too proud of being your colleague to hesitate.”
This speech sealed our friendship; for it was a pledge to my noble
acquaintance of his future connection with the borough. He was much too
high-bred to express his thanks in vulgar phrases (though high-breeding
rarely exhibits all its finer qualities pending an election), but—a man
of the world, and one of a class whose main business it is to put the
suaviter in modo, as the French have it en evidence,—the reader may be
sure that when we parted that night I was in perfect good humor with
myself and, as a matter of course, with my new acquaintance.
The next day the canvass was renewed, and we had another convincing
speech on the subject of the virtue of “a stake in society”; for Lord
Pledge was tactician enough to attack the citadel, once assured of its
weak point, rather than expend his efforts on the outworks of the
place. That night the attorney arrived from town with the title-deeds
all properly executed (they had been some time in preparation for Lord
Pledge), and the following morning early the tenants were served with
the usual notices, with a handsomely expressed sentiment on my part in
favor of “a stake in society.” About noon Lord Pledge walked over the
course, as it is expressed at Newmarket and Doncaster. After dinner we
separated, my noble friend returning to town, while I pursued my way to
the rectory.
Anna never appeared more fresh, more serene, more elevated above
mortality, than when we met, a week after I had quitted Householder, in
the breakfast-parlor of her father’s abode.
“You are beginning to look like yourself again, Jack,” she said,
extending her hand with the simple cordiality of an Englishwoman; “and
I hope we shall find you more rational.”
“Ah, Anna, if I could only presume to throw myself at your feet, and
tell you how much and what I feel, I should be the happiest fellow in
all England.”
“As it is you are the most miserable!” the laughing girl answered as,
crimsoned to the temples, she drew away the hand I was foolishly
pressing against my heart. “Let us go to breakfast, Mr. Goldencalf—my
father has ridden across the country to visit Dr. Liturgy.”
“Anna,” I said, after seating myself and taking a cup of tea from
fingers that were rosy as the morn, “I fear you are the greatest enemy
that I have on earth.”
“John Goldencalf!” exclaimed the startled girl, turning pale and then
flushing violently. “Pray explain yourself.”
“I love you to my heart’s core—could marry you, and then, I fear,
worship you, as man never before worshipped woman.”
Anna laughed faintly.
“And you feel in danger of the sin of idolatry?” she at length
succeeded in saying.
“No, I am in danger of narrowing my sympathies—of losing a broad and
safe hold of life—of losing my proper stake in society—of—in short, of
becoming as useless to my fellows as my poor, poor father, and of
making an end as miserable. Oh! Anna, could you have witnessed the
hopelessness of that death-bed, you could never wish me a fate like
his!”
My pen is unequal to convey an adequate idea of the expression with
which Anna regarded me. Wonder, doubt, apprehension, affection, and
anguish were all beaming in her eyes; but the unnatural brightness of
these conflicting sentiments was tempered by a softness that resembled
the pearly lustre of an Italian sky.
“If I yield to my fondness, Anna, in what will my condition differ from
that of my miserable father’s? He concentrated his feelings in the love
of money, and I—yes, I feel it here, I know it is here—I should love
you so intensely as to shut out every generous sentiment in favor of
others. I have a fearful responsibility on my shoulders—wealth, gold;
gold beyond limits; and to save my very soul I must extend not narrow
my interest in my fellow-creatures. Were there a hundred such Annas I
might press you all to my heart—but, one!—no—no—’twould be
misery—’twould be perdition! The very excess of such a passion would
render me a heartless miser, unworthy of the confidence of my
fellow-men!”
The radiant and yet serene eyes of Anna seemed to read my soul; and
when I had done speaking she arose, stole timidly to my side of the
table, as woman approaches when she feels most, placed her velvet-like
hand on my burning forehead, pressed its throbbing pulses gently to her
heart, burst into tears, and fled.
We dined alone, nor did we meet again until the dinner hour. The manner
of Anna was soothing, gentle, even affectionate; but she carefully
avoided the subject of the morning. As for myself, I was constantly
brooding over the danger of concentrating interests, and of the
excellence of the social-stake system. “Your spirits will be better,
Jack, in a day or two,” said Anna, when we had taken wine after the
soup. “Country air and old friends will restore your freshness and
color.”
“If there were a thousand Annas I could be happy as man was never happy
before! But I must not, dare not, lessen my hold on society.”
“All of which proves my insufficiency to render you happy. But here
comes Francis with yesterday morning’s paper—let us see what society is
about in London.”
After a few moments of intense occupation with the journal, an
exclamation of pleasure and surprise escaped the sweet girl. On raising
my eyes I saw her gazing (as I fancied) fondly at myself.
“Read what you have that seems to give you so much pleasure.”
She complied, reading with an eager and tremulous voice the following
paragraph:
“His majesty has been most graciously pleased to raise John Goldencalf
of Householder Hall, in the county of Dorset, and of Cheapside,
Esquire, to the dignity of a baronet of the united kingdoms of Great
Britain and Ireland.”
“Sir John Goldencalf, I have the honor to drink to your health and
happiness!” cried the delighted girl, brightening like the dawn, and
wetting her pouting lip with liquor less ruby than itself. “Here,
Francis, fill a bumper and drink to the new baronet.”
The gray-headed butler did as ordered with a very good grace, and then
hurried into the servants’ hall to communicate the news.
“Here at least, Jack, is a new hold that society has on you, whatever
hold you may have on society.”
I was pleased because she was pleased, and because it showed that Lord
Pledge had some sense of gratitude (although he afterward took occasion
to intimate that I owed the favor chiefly to HOPE), and I believe my
eyes never expressed more fondness.
“Lady Goldencalf would not have an awkward sound after all, dearest
Anna.”
“As applied to one, Sir John, it might possibly do; but not as applied
to a hundred.” Anna laughed, blushed, burst into tears once more, and
again fled.
What right have I to trifle with the feelings of this single-hearted
and excellent girl, said I to myself; it is evident that the subject
distresses her—she is unequal to its discussion, and it is unmanly and
improper in me to treat it in this manner. I must be true to my
character as a gentleman and a man—aye, and, under present
circumstances, as a baronet; and—I will never speak of it again as long
as I live.
The following day I took leave of Dr. Etherington and his daughter,
with the avowed intention of travelling for a year or two. The good
rector gave me much friendly advice, flattered me with expressions of
confidence in my discretion, and, squeezing me warmly by the hand,
begged me to recollect that I had always a home at the rectory. When I
had made my adieus to the father, I went, with a sorrowful heart, in
quest of the daughter. She was still in the little
breakfast-parlor—that parlor so loved! I found her pale, timid,
sensitive, bland, but serene. Little could ever disturb that heavenly
quality in the dear girl; if she laughed, it was with a restrained and
moderated joy; if she wept, it was like rain falling from a sky that
still shone with the lustre of the sun. It was only when feeling and
nature were unutterably big within her, that some irresistible impulse
of her sex betrayed her into emotions like those I had twice witnessed
so lately.
“You are about to leave us, Jack,” she said, holding out her hand
kindly and without the affectation of an indifference she did not feel;
“you will see many strange faces, but you will see none who—”
I waited for the completion of the sentence, but, although she
struggled hard for self-possession, it was never finished.
“At my age, Anna, and with my means, it would be unbecoming to remain
at home, when, if I may so express it, ‘human nature is abroad.’ I go
to quicken my sympathies, to open my heart to my kind, and to avoid the
cruel regrets that tortured the death-bed of my father.”
“Well—well,” interrupted the sobbing girl, “we will talk of it no more.
It is best that you should travel; and so adieu, with a thousand—nay,
millions of good wishes for your happiness and safe return. You will
come back to us, Jack, when tired of other scenes.”
This was said with gentle earnestness and a sincerity so winning that
it came near upsetting all my philosophy; but I could not marry the
whole sex, and to bind down my affections in one would have been giving
the death-blow to the development of that sublime principle on which I
was bent, and which I had already decided was to make me worthy of my
fortune and the ornament of my species. Had I been offered a kingdom,
however, I could not speak. I took the unresisting girl in my arms,
folded her to my heart, pressed a burning kiss on her cheek, and
withdrew.
“You will come back to us, Jack?” she half whispered, as her hand was
reluctantly drawn through my own.
Oh! Anna, it was indeed painful to abandon thy frank and gentle
confidence, thy radiant beauty, thy serene affections, and all thy
womanly virtues, in order to practise my newly-discovered theory! Long
did thy presence haunt me—nay, never did it entirely desert me—putting
my constancy to a severe proof, and threatening at each remove to
contract the lengthening chain that still bound me to thee, thy
fireside, and thy altars! But I triumphed, and went abroad upon the
earth with a heart expanding towards all the creatures of God, though
thy image was still enshrined in its inmost core, shining in womanly
glory, pure, radiant, and without spot, like the floating prism that
forms the lustre of the diamond.