BLACKWOOD’S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
NO. DLXIX. MARCH 1863. VOL. XCIII.
CONTENTS.
CAXTONIANA.—PART XIV., 267
NO. XIX.—MOTIVE POWER (_concluded_)
MRS CLIFFORD’S MARRIAGE.—PART I., 284
AN ENGLISH VILLAGE—IN FRENCH, 301
LORD MACKENZIE’S ROMAN LAW, 314
THE PERIPATETIC POLITICIAN—IN FLORENCE, 321
THE FRANK IN SCOTLAND, 330
KINGLAKE’S INVASION OF THE CRIMEA, 355
THE OPENING OF THE SESSION, 384
EDINBURGH:
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, 45 GEORGE STREET.
AND 37 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON.
_To whom all Communications (post paid) must be addressed._
SOLD BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.
BLACKWOOD’S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
NO. DLXIX. MARCH 1863. VOL. XCIII
CAXTONIANA:
A SERIES OF ESSAYS ON LIFE, LITERATURE, AND MANNERS.
By the Author of ‘The Caxton Family.’
PART XIV.
NO. XIX.—MOTIVE POWER (_concluded_).
The next day the atmosphere was much cooler, refreshed by a heavy shower
that had fallen at dawn; and when, not long after noon, Percival and I,
mounted on ponies bred in the neighbouring forests, were riding through
the narrow lanes towards the house we had agreed to visit, we did not
feel the heat oppressive. It was a long excursion; we rode slowly, and
the distance was about sixteen miles.
We arrived at last at a little hamlet remote from the highroads. The
cottages, though old-fashioned, were singularly neat and
trim—flower-plots before them, and small gardens for kitchen use behind.
A very ancient church, with its parsonage, backed the broad
village-green; and opposite the green stood one of those small quaint
manor-houses which satisfied the pride of our squires two hundred years
ago. On a wide garden-lawn in front were old yew-trees cut into
fantastic figures of pyramids and obelisks and birds and animals; beyond
the lawn, on a levelled platform immediately before the house, was a
small garden, with a sundial, and a summer-house or pavilion of the date
of William III., when buildings of that kind, for a short time, became
the fashionable appendage to country-houses, frequently decorated inside
with musical trophies, as if built for a music-room; but, I suspect,
more generally devoted to wine and pipes by the host and his male
friends. At the rear of the house stretched an ample range of
farm-buildings in very good repair and order, the whole situated on the
side of a hill, sufficiently high to command an extensive prospect,
bounded at the farthest distance by the sea, yet not so high as to lose
the screen of hills, crested by young plantations of fir and larch;
while their midmost slopes were, in part, still abandoned to
sheep-walks; in part, brought (evidently of late) into cultivation; and
farther down, amid the richer pastures that dipped into the valley,
goodly herds of cattle indolently grazed or drowsily reposed.
We dismounted at the white garden-gate. A man ran out from the farmyard
and took our ponies; evidently a familiar acquaintance of Tracey’s, for
he said heartily, “that he was glad to see his honour looking so well,”
and volunteered a promise that the ponies should be well rubbed down,
and fed. “Master was at home; we should find him in the orchard swinging
Miss Lucy.”
So, instead of entering the house, Tracey, who knew all its ways, took
me round to the other side, and we came into one of those venerable
orchards which carry the thought back to the early day when the orchard
was, in truth, the garden.
A child’s musical laugh guided us through the lines of heavy-laden
apple-trees to the spot where the once famous prizeman—the once
brilliant political thinker—was now content to gratify the instinctive
desire _tentare aërias vias_—in the pastime of an infant.
He was so absorbed in his occupation that he did not hear or observe us
till we were close at his side. Then, after carefully arresting the
swing, and tenderly taking out the little girl, he shook hands with
Percival; and when the ceremony of mutual introduction was briefly
concluded, extended the same courtesy to myself.
Gray was a man in the full force of middle life, with a complexion that
seemed to have been originally fair and delicate, but had become bronzed
and hardened by habitual exposure to morning breezes and noonday suns.
He had a clear bright blue eye, and a countenance that only failed of
being handsome by that length and straightness of line between nostril
and upper lip, which is said by physiognomists to be significant of
firmness and decision. The whole expression of his face, though frank
and manly, was, however, rather sweet than harsh; and he had one of
those rare voices which almost in themselves secure success to a public
speaker—distinct and clear, even in its lowest tone, as a silvery bell.
I think much of a man’s nature is shown by the way in which he shakes
hands. I doubt if any worldly student of Chesterfieldian manners can
ever acquire the art of that everyday salutation, if it be not inborn in
the kindness, loyalty, and warmth of his native disposition. I have
known many a great man who lays himself out to be popular, who can
school his smile to fascinating sweetness, his voice to persuasive
melody, but who chills or steels your heart against him the moment he
shakes hands with you.
But there is a cordial clasp which shows warmth of impulse, unhesitating
truth, and even power of character—a clasp which recalls the classic
trust in the “faith of the right hand.”
And the clasp of Hastings Gray’s hand at once propitiated me in his
favour. While he and I exchanged the few words with which acquaintance
commences, Percival had replaced Miss Lucy in the swing, and had taken
the father’s post. Lucy, before disappointed at the cessation of her
amusement, felt now that she was receiving a compliment, which she must
not abuse too far; so she very soon, of her own accord, unselfishly
asked to be let down, and we all walked back towards the house.
“You will dine with us, I hope,” said Gray. “I know when you come at
this hour, Sir Percival, that you always meditate giving us that
pleasure.” (Turning to me,) “It is now half-past three, we dine at four
o’clock, and that early hour gives you time to rest, and ride back in
the cool of the evening.”
“My dear Gray,” answered Percival, “I accept your invitation for myself
and my friend. I foresaw you would ask us, and left word at home that we
were not to be waited for. Where is Mrs Gray?”
“I suspect that she is about some of those household matters which
interest a farmer’s wife. Lucy, run and tell your mamma that these
gentlemen will dine with us.”
Lucy scampered off.
“The fact is,” said Tracey, “that we have a problem to submit to you.
You know how frequently I come to you for a hint when something puzzles
me. But we can defer that knotty subject till we adjourn, as usual, to
wine and fruit in your summer-house. Your eldest boy is at home for the
holidays?”
“Not at home, though it is his holidays. He is now fifteen, and he and a
school friend of his are travelling on foot into Cornwall. Nothing, I
think, fits boys better for life than those hardy excursions in which
they must depend on themselves, shift for themselves, think for
themselves.”
“I daresay you are right,” said Tracey; “the earlier each of us human
beings forms himself into an individual God’s creature, distinct from
the _servum pecus_, the better chance he has of acquiring originality of
mind and dignity of character. And your other children?”
“Oh, my two younger boys I teach at home, and one little girl—I play
with.” Here addressing me, Gray asked “If I farmed?”
“Yes,” said I, “but very much as _les Rois Fainéants_ reigned. My
bailiff is my _Maire du Palais_. I hope, therefore, that our friend Sir
Percival will not wound my feelings as a lover of Nature by accusing me
of wooing her for the sake of her turnips.”
“Ah!” said Gray, smiling, “Sir Percival, I know, holds to the doctrine
that the only pure love of Nature is the æsthetic; and looks upon the
intimate connection which the husbandman forms with her as a
cold-blooded _mariage de convenance_.”
“I confess,” answered Percival, “that I agree with the great German
philosopher, that the love of Nature is pure in proportion as the
delight in her companionship is unmixed with any idea of the gain she
can give us. But a pure love may be a very sterile affection; and a
_mariage de convenance_ may be prolific in very fine offspring. I
concede to you, therefore, that the world is bettered by the practical
uses to which Nature has been put by those who wooed her for the sake of
her dower: and I no more commend to the imitation of others my abstract
æsthetic affection for her abstract æsthetic beauty, than I would
commend Petrarch’s poetical passion for Laura to the general adoption of
lovers. I give you, then, gentlemen farmers, full permission to woo
Nature for the sake of her turnips. Our mutton is all the better for
it.”
“And that is no small consideration,” said Gray. “If I had gazed on my
sheep-walks with the divine æsthetic eye, and without one forethought of
the profit they might bring me, I should not already have converted 200
out of the 1000 acres I possess into land that would let at 30s. per
acre, where formerly it let at 5s. But, with all submission to the great
German philosopher, I don’t think I love Nature the less because of the
benefits with which she repays the pains I have taken to conciliate her
favour. If, thanks to her, I can give a better education to my boys, and
secure a modest provision for my girl, is it the property of gratitude
to destroy or to increase affection? But you see, sir, there is this
difference between Sir Percival and myself:—He has had no motive in
improving Nature for her positive uses, and therefore he has been
contented with giving her a prettier robe. He loves her as a _grand
seigneur_ loves his mistress. I love her as a man loves the helpmate who
assists his toils. According as in rural life my mind could find not
repose, but occupation—according as that occupation was compatible with
such prudent regard to fortune as a man owes to the children he brings
into the world—my choice of life would be a right or a wrong one. In
short, I find in the cultivation of Nature my business as well as my
pleasure. I have a motive for the business which does not diminish my
taste for the pleasure.”
Tracey and I exchanged looks. So, then, here was a motive for activity.
But why was the motive towards activity in pursuits requiring so little
of the intellect for which Gray had been characterised, and so little of
the knowledge which his youth had acquired, so much stronger than the
motive towards a career which proffered an incalculably larger scope for
his powers? Here, there was no want of energy—here, there had been no
philosophical disdain of ambition—here, no great wealth leaving no
stimulant to desires—no niggard poverty paralysing the sinews of hope.
The choice of retirement had been made in the full vigour of a life
trained from boyhood to the exercises that discipline the wrestlers for
renown.
While I was thus musing, Gray led the way towards the farmyard, and on
reaching it said to me,—
“Since you do farm, if only by deputy, I must show you the sheep with
which I hope to win the first prize at our agricultural show in
September.”
“So you still care for prizes?” said I: “the love of fame is not dead
within your breast.”
“Certainly not; ‘Pride attends us still.’ I am very proud of the prizes
I have already won; last year for my wurzel—the year before, for the cow
I bred on my own pastures.”
We crossed the farmyard, and arrived at the covered sheep-pens. I
thought I had never seen finer sheep than those which Gray showed me
with visible triumph. Then we two conversed with much animation upon the
pros and cons in favour of stall-feeding _versus_ free grazing, while
Tracey amused himself, first in trying to conciliate a great dog,
luckily for him chained up in the adjoining yard, and next, in favouring
the escape of a mouse who had incautiously quitted the barn, and
ventured within reach of a motherly hen, who seemed to regard it as a
monster intent on her chicks.
Reaching the house, Gray conducted us up a flight of oak
stairs—picturesque in its homely old-fashioned way—with wide
landing-place, adorned by a blue china jar, filled with _pot-pourri_,
and by a tall clock (one of Tompion’s, now rare), in walnut-wood case;
consigning us each to a separate chamber, to refresh ourselves by those
simple ablutions, with which, even in rustic retirements, civilised
Englishmen preface the hospitable rites of Ceres and Bacchus.
The room in which I found myself was one of those never seen out of
England, and only there in unpretending country-houses which have
escaped the innovating tastes of fashion. A bedstead of the time of
George I., with mahogany fluted columns and panels at the bedhead,
dark and polished, decorated by huge watch-pockets of some
great-grandmother’s embroidery, white spotless curtains, the walls in
panel, also painted white, and covered in part with framed engravings
a century old. A large high screen, separating the washstand from the
rest of the room, made lively by old caricatures and prints, doubtless
the handiwork of female hands long stilled. A sweet, not strong, odour
of dried lavender escaped from a chest of drawers, polished as bright
as the bedstead. The small lattice-paned window opened to the fresh
air; the woodbine framing it all round from without; amongst the
woodbine the low hum of bees. A room for early sleep and cheerful
rising with the eastern sun, which the window faced.
Tracey came into my room while I was still looking out of the casement,
gazing on the little gardenplot without, bright with stocks and pinks
and heartsease, and said, “Well, you see £600 a-year can suffice to
arrest a clever man’s ambition.”
“I suspect,” answered I, “that the ambition is not arrested but turned
aside to the object of doubling the £600 a-year. Neither ambition nor
the desire of gain is dead in that farmyard.”
“We shall cross-question our host after dinner,” answered Tracey;
“meanwhile let me conduct you to the dining-room. A pretty place this,
in its way, is it not?”
“Very,” said I, with enthusiasm. “Could you not live as happily here as
in your own brilliant villa?”
“No, not quite, but still happily.”
“Why not quite?”
“First, because there is nothing within or without the house which one
could attempt to improve, unless by destroying the whole character of
what is so good in its way; secondly, where could I put my Claudes and
Turners? where my statues? where, oh where, my books? where, in short,
the furniture of Man’s mind?”
I made no answer, for the dinner-bell rang loud, and we went down at
once into the dining-room—a quaint room, scarcely touched since the date
of William III. A high and heavy dado of dark oak, the rest of the walls
in Dutch stamped leather, still bright and fresh; a high mantelpiece,
also of oak, with a very indifferent picture of still life let into the
upper panel; arched recesses on either side, receptacles for china and
tall drinking-glasses; heavy chairs, with crests inlaid on their
ponderous backs, and faded needlework on their ample seats;—all,
however, speaking of comfort and home, and solid though unassuming
prosperity. Gray had changed his rude morning dress, and introduced me
to his wife with an evident husbandlike pride. Mrs Gray was still very
pretty; in her youth she must have been prettier even than Clara
Thornhill, and though very plainly dressed, still it was the dress of a
gentlewoman. There was intelligence, but soft timid intelligence, in her
dark hazel eyes and broad candid forehead. I soon saw, however, that she
was painfully shy, and not at all willing to take her share in the
expense of conversation. But with Tracey she was more at her ease than
with a stranger, and I thanked him inwardly for coming to my relief, as
I was vainly endeavouring to extract from her lips more than a murmured
monosyllable.
The dinner, however, passed off very pleasantly. Simple old English
fare—plenty of it—excellent of its kind. Tracey was the chief talker,
and made himself so entertaining, that at last even Mrs Gray’s shyness
wore away, and I discovered that she had a well-informed graceful mind,
constitutionally cheerful, as was evidenced by the blithe music of her
low but happy laugh.
The dinner over, we adjourned, as Percival had proposed, to the
summer-house. There we found the table spread with fruits and wine, of
which last the port was superb; no better could be dragged from the bins
of a college, or blush on the board of a prelate. Mrs Gray, however,
deserted us, but we now and then caught sight of her in the garden
without, playing gaily with her children—two fine little boys, and Lucy,
who seemed to have her own way with them all, as she ought—the youngest
child, the only girl—justifiably papa’s pet, for she was the one most
like her mother.
“Gray,” said Tracey, “my friend and I have had some philosophical
disputes, which we cannot decide to our own satisfaction, on the reasons
why some men do so much more in life than other men, without having any
apparent intellectual advantage over those who are contented to be
obscure. We have both hit on a clue to the cause, in what we call motive
power. But what this motive power really is, and why it should fail in
some men and be so strong in others, is matter of perplexity, at least
to me, and I fancy my friend himself is not much more enlightened
therein than I am. So we have both come here to hear what you have to
say—you, who certainly had motive enough for ambitious purposes when you
swept away so many academical prizes—when you rushed into speech and
into print, and cast your bold eye on St Stephen’s. And now, what has
become of that motive power? Is it all put into prizes for root-crops
and sheep?”
“As to myself,” answered Gray, passing the wine, “I can give very clear
explanations. I am of a gentleman’s family, but the son of a very poor
curate. Luckily for me, we lived close by an excellent grammar-school,
at which I obtained a free admission. From the first day I entered, I
knew that my poor father, bent on making me a scholar, counted on my
exertions not only for my own livelihood, but for a provision for my
mother should she survive him. Here was motive enough to supply motive
power. I succeeded in competition with rivals at school, and success
added to the strength of the motive power. Our county member, on whose
estate I was born, took a kindly interest in me, and gave me leave, when
I quitted school, as head boy, to come daily to his house and share the
studies of his son, who was being prepared for the university by a
private tutor, eminent as a scholar and admirable as a teacher. Thus I
went up to college not only full of hope (in itself a motive power,
though, of itself, an unsafe one), but of a hope so sustained that it
became resolution, by the knowledge that to maintain me at the
university my parents were almost literally starving themselves. This
suffices to explain whatever energy and application I devoted to my
academical career. At last I obtained my fellowship; the income of that
I shared with my parents; but if I died before them the income would die
also—a fresh motive power towards a struggle for fortune in the Great
World. I took up politics, I confess it very frankly, as a profession
rather than a creed; it was the shortest road to fame, and, with
prudence, perhaps to pecuniary competence. If I succeeded in Parliament
I might obtain a living for my father, or some public situation for
myself not dependent on the fluctuations of party. A very high political
ambition was denied me by the penury of circumstance. A man must have
good means of his own who aspires to rank among party chiefs. I knew I
was but a political adventurer, that I could only be so considered; and
had it not been for my private motive power, I should have been ashamed
of my public one. As it was, my scholarly pride was secretly chafed at
the thought that I was carrying into the affairs of state the greed of
trade. Suddenly, most unexpectedly, this estate was bequeathed to me.
You large proprietors will smile when I say that we had always regarded
the Grays of Oakden Hall with venerating pride; they were the head of
our branch of the clan. My father had seen this place in his boyhood;
the remembrance of it dwelt on his mind as the unequivocal witness of
his dignity as a gentleman born. He came from the same stock as the
Grays of Oakden, who had lived on the land for more than three
centuries, entitled to call themselves squires. The relationship was
very distant, still it existed. But a dream that so great a place as
Oakden Hall, with its 1000 acres, should ever pass to his son—no, my
father thought it much more likely that his son might be prime minister!
John Gray of Oakden had never taken the least notice of us, except that,
when I won the Pitt scholarship, he sent me a fine turkey, labelled
‘From John Gray, Esq. of Oakden.’ This present I acknowledged, but John
Gray never answered my letter. Just at that time, however, as appears by
the date, he re-made his will, and placed me as remainder-man in case of
the deaths, without issue, of two nearer relations, both nephews. These
young men died unmarried—the one of rheumatic fever, a few months before
old Gray’s decease; the other, two weeks after it; poor fellow, he was
thrown from his horse and killed on the spot. So, unexpectedly, I came
into this property. Soon afterwards I married. The possession of land is
a great tranquilliser to a restless spirit, and a happy marriage is as
sedative as potent. Poverty is a spur to action. Great wealth, on the
other hand, not unnaturally tends to the desire of display, and in free
countries often to the rivalry for political power. The golden mean is
proverbially the condition most favourable to content, and content is
the antidote to ambition. Mine was the golden mean! Other influences of
pride and affection contributed to keep me still. Of pride; for was I
not really a greater man here, upon my ancestral acres and my few yearly
hundreds, than as a political aspirant, who must commence his career by
being a political dependant? How rich I felt here! how poor I should be
in London! How inevitably, in the daily expenses of a metropolitan life,
and in the costs of elections (should I rise beyond being a mere
nominee), I must become needy and involved! So much for the influence of
pride. Now for the influence of affection; my dear wife had never been
out of these rural shades among which she was born. She is of a nature
singularly timid, sensitive, and retiring. The idea of that society to
which a political career would have led me terrified her. I loved her
the better for desiring no companionship but mine. In fine, my desires
halted at once on these turfs; the Attraction of the Earth, of which I
had a share, prevailed; the motive power stopped here.”
“You have never regretted your choice?” said Tracey.
“Certainly not; I congratulate myself on it more and more every year.
For, after all, here I have ample occupation and a creditable career. I
have improved my fortune, instead of wasting it. I have a fixed,
acknowledged, instead of an unsettled, equivocal position. I am an
authority on many rural subjects of interest besides those of husbandry.
I am an active magistrate; and, as I know a little of the law, I am the
habitual arbiter upon all the disputes in the neighbourhood. I employ
here with satisfaction, and not without some dignity, the energies
which, in the great world, would have bought any reputation I might have
gained at the price of habitual pain and frequent mortification.”
“Then,” said I, “you do not think that a saying of Dr Arnold’s, which I
quoted to Tracey as no less applicable to men than to boys, is
altogether a true one—viz., that the difference between boys, as regards
the power of acquiring distinction, is not so much in talent as in
energy; you retain the energies that once raised you to public
distinction, but you no longer apply them to the same object.”
“I believe that Dr Arnold, if he be quoted correctly, spoke only half
the truth. One difference between boy and boy or man and man, no doubt,
is energy; but for great achievements or fame there must be also
application—viz., every energy concentred on one definite point, and
disciplined to strain towards it by patient habit. My energy, such as it
is, would not have brought my sheep-walks into profitable cultivation if
the energy had not been accompanied with devoted application to the
business. And it is astonishing how, when the energy is constantly
applied towards one settled aim—astonishing, I say—how invention is
kindled out of it. Thus, in many a quiet solitary morning’s walk round
my farm, some new idea, some hint of improvement or contrivance, occurs
to me; this I ponder and meditate upon till it takes the shape of
experiment. I presume that it is so with poet, artist, orator, or
statesman. His mind is habituated to apply itself to definite subjects
of observation and reflection, and out of this habitual musing thereon,
involuntarily spring the happy originalities of thinking which are
called his ‘inspirations.’”
“One word more,” said I. “Do you consider, then, that which makes a man
devote himself to fame or ambition is a motive power of which he himself
is conscious?”
“No; not always. I imagine that most men entering on some career are
originally impelled towards it by a motive which, at the time, they
seldom take the trouble to analyse or even to detect. They would at once
see what that motive was if early in the career it was withdrawn. In a
majority of cases it is the _res angusta_, yet not poverty in itself,
but a poverty disproportioned to the birth, or station, or tastes, or
intellectual culture of the aspirant. Thus, the peasant or operative
rarely feels in his poverty a motive power towards distinction out of
his craft; but the younger son of a gentleman does feel that motive
power. And hence a very large proportion of those who in various ways
have gained fame, have been the cadets of a gentleman’s family, or the
sons of poor clergymen, sometimes of farmers and tradesmen, who have
given them an education beyond the average of their class. Other motive
powers towards fame have been sometimes in ambition, sometimes in love;
sometimes in a great sorrow, from which a strong mind sought to wrest
itself; sometimes even in things that would appear frivolous to a
philosopher. I knew a young man, of no great talents, but of keen vanity
and great resolution and force of character, who, as a child, had been
impressed with envy of the red ribbon which his uncle wore as Knight of
the Bath. From his infancy he determined some day or other to win a red
ribbon for himself. He did so at last, and in trying to do so became
famous.
“In great commercial communities a distinction is given to successful
trade, so that the motive power of youthful talent nourished in such
societies is mostly concentred on gain, not through avarice, but through
the love of approbation or esteem. Thus, it is noticeable that our great
manufacturing towns, where energy and application abound, have not
contributed their proportionate quota of men distinguished in arts or
sciences (except the mechanical), or polite letters, or the learned
professions. In rural districts, on the contrary, the desire of gain is
not associated with the desire of honour and distinction, and therefore,
in them, the youth early coveting fame strives for it in other channels
than those of gain. But whatever the original motive power, if it has
led to a continuous habit of the mind, and is not withdrawn before that
habit becomes a second nature, the habit will continue after the motive
power has either wholly ceased or become very faint, as the famous
scribbling Spanish cardinal is said, in popular legends, to have
continued to write on after he himself was dead. Thus, a man who has
acquired the obstinate habit of labouring for the public originally from
an enthusiastic estimate of the value of public applause, may, later,
conceive a great contempt for the public, and, in sincere cynicism,
become wholly indifferent to its praise or its censure, and yet, like
Swift, go on as long as the brain can retain faithful impressions and
perform its normal functions, writing for the public he so disdains.
Thus many a statesman, wearied and worn, satisfied of the hollowness of
political ambition, and no longer enjoying its rewards, sighing for
retirement and repose, nevertheless continues to wear his harness. Habit
has tyrannised over all his actions; break the habit, and the thread of
his life snaps with it!
“Lastly, however, I am by no means sure that there is not in some few
natures an inborn irresistible activity, a constitutional attraction
between the one mind and the human species, which requires no special,
separate motive power from without to set it into those movements
which, perforce, lead to fame. I mean those men to whom we at once
accord the faculty which escapes all satisfactory metaphysical
definition—INGENIUM;—viz., the inborn spirit which we call genius.
“And in _these_ natures, whatever the motive power that in the first
instance urged them on, if at any stage, however early, that motive
power be withdrawn, some other one will speedily replace it. Through
them Providence mysteriously acts on the whole world, and their genius
while on earth is one of Its most visible ministrants. But genius is the
exceptional phenomenon in human nature; and in examining the ordinary
laws that influence human minds we have no measurement and no scales for
portents.”
“There is, however,” said Tracey, “one motive power towards careers of
public utility which you have not mentioned, but the thought of which
often haunts me in rebuke of my own inertness,—I mean, quite apart from
any object of vanity or ambition, the sense of our own duty to mankind;
and hence the devotion to public uses of whatever talents have been
given to us—not to hide under a bushel.”
“I do not think,” answered Gray, “that when a man feels he is doing good
in his own way he need reproach himself that he is not doing good in
some other way to which he is not urged by special duty, and from which
he is repelled by constitutional temperament. I do not, for instance,
see that because you have a very large fortune you are morally obliged
to keep correspondent establishments, and adopt a mode of life hostile
to your tastes; you sufficiently discharge the duties of wealth if the
fair proportion of your income go to objects of well-considered
benevolence and purposes not unproductive to the community. Nor can I
think that I, who possess but a very moderate fortune, am morally called
upon to strive for its increase in the many good speculations which life
in a capital may offer to an eager mind, provided always that I do
nevertheless remember that I have children, to whose future provision
and wellbeing some modest augmentations of my fortune would be
desirable. In improving my land for their benefit, I may say also that I
add, however trivially, to the wealth of the country. Let me hope that
the trite saying is true, that ‘he who makes two blades of corn grow
where one grew before,’ is a benefactor to his race. So with mental
wealth: surely it is permitted to us to invest and expend it within that
sphere most suited to those idiosyncrasies, the adherence to which
constitutes our moral health. I do not, with the philosopher, condemn
the man who, irresistibly impelled towards the pursuit of honours and
power, persuades himself that he is toiling for the public good when he
is but gratifying his personal ambition;—probably he is a better man
thus acting in conformity with his own nature, than he would be if
placed beyond all temptation in Plato’s cave. Nor, on the other hand,
can I think that a man of the highest faculties and the largest
attainments, who has arrived at a sincere disdain of power or honours,
would be a better man if he were tyrannically forced to pursue the
objects from which his temperament recoils, upon the plea that he was
thus promoting the public welfare. No doubt, in every city, town,
street, and lane, there are bustling, officious, restless persons, who
thrust themselves into public concerns, with a loud declaration that
they are animated only by the desire of public good; they mistake their
fidgetiness for philanthropy. Not a bubble company can be started, but
what it is with a programme that its direct object is the public
benefit, and the ten per cent promised to the shareholders is but a
secondary consideration. Who believes in the sincerity of that
announcement? In fine, according both to religion and to philosophy,
virtue is the highest end of man’s endeavour; but virtue is wholly
independent of the popular shout or the lictor’s fasces. Virtue is the
same, whether with or without the laurel crown or the curule chair.
Honours do not sully it, but obscurity does not degrade. He who is
truthful, just, merciful, and kindly, does his duty to his race, and
fulfils his great end in creation, no matter whether the rays of his
life are not visibly beheld beyond the walls of his household, or
whether they strike the ends of the earth; for every human soul is a
world complete and integral, storing its own ultimate uses and destinies
within itself; viewed only for a brief while, in its rising on the gaze
of earth; pressing onward in its orbit amidst the infinite, when,
snatched from our eyes, we say, ‘It has passed away!’ And as every star,
however small it seem to us from the distance at which it shines,
contributes to the health of our atmosphere, so every soul, pure and
bright in itself, however far from our dwelling, however unremarked by
our vision, contributes to the wellbeing of the social system in which
it moves, and, in its privacy, is part and parcel of the public weal.”
Shading my face with my hand, I remained some moments musing after
Gray’s voice had ceased. Then looking up, I saw so pleased and grateful
a smile upon Percival Tracey’s countenance, that I checked the reply by
which I had intended to submit a view of the subject in discussion
somewhat different from that which Gray had taken from the Portico of
the Stoics. Why should I attempt to mar whatever satisfaction Percival’s
reason or conscience had found in our host’s argument? His tree of life
was too firmly set for the bias of its stem to swerve in any new
direction towards light and air. Let it continue to rejoice in such
light and such air as was vouchsafed to the site on which it had taken
root. Evening, too, now drew in, and we had a long ride before us. A
little while after, we had bid adieu to Oakden Hall, and were once more
threading our way through the green and solitary lanes.
We conversed but little for the first five or six miles. I was revolving
what I had heard, and considering how each man’s reasoning moulds itself
into excuse or applause for the course of life which he adopts.
Percival’s mind was employed in other thoughts, as became clear when he
thus spoke:—
“Do you think, my dear friend, that you could spare me a week or two
longer? It would be a charity to me if you could, for I expect, after
to-morrow, to lose my young artist, and, alas! also the Thornhills.”
“How! The Thornhills? So soon!”
“I count on receiving to-morrow the formal announcement of Henry’s
promotion and exchange into the regiment he so desires to enter, with
the orders to join it abroad at once. Clara, I know, will not stay here;
she will be with her husband till he sails, and after his departure will
take her abode with his widowed mother. I shall miss them much. But
Thornhill feels that he is wasting his life here; and so—well—I have
acted for the best. With respect to the artist, this morning I received
a letter from my old friend Lord ——. He is going into Italy next week;
he wishes for some views of Italian scenery for a villa he has lately
bought, and will take Bourke with him, on my recommendation, leaving him
ultimately at Rome. Lord ——‘s friendship and countenance will be of
immense advantage to the young painter, and obtain him many orders. I
have to break it to Bourke this evening, and he will, no doubt, quit me
to-morrow to take leave of his family. For myself, as I always feel
somewhat melancholy in remaining on the same spot after friends depart
from it, I propose going to Bellevue, where I have a small yacht. It is
glorious weather for sea excursions. Come with me, my dear friend! The
fresh breezes will do you good; and we shall have leisure for talk on
all the subjects which both of us love to explore and guess at.”
No proposition could be more alluring to me. My recent intercourse with
Tracey had renewed all the affection and interest with which he had
inspired my youth. My health and spirits had been already sensibly
improved by my brief holiday, and an excursion at sea had been the
special advice of my medical attendant. I hesitated a moment. Nothing
called me back to London except public business, and, in that, I foresaw
but the bare chance of a motion in Parliament which stood on the papers
for the next day; but my letters had assured me that this motion was
generally expected to be withdrawn or postponed.
So I accepted the invitation gladly, provided nothing unforeseen should
interfere with it.
Pleased by my cordial assent, Tracey’s talk now flowed forth with genial
animation. He described his villa overhanging the sea, with its covered
walks to the solitary beach—the many objects of interest and landscapes
of picturesque beauty within reach of easy rides, on days in which the
yacht might not tempt us. I listened with the delight of a schoolboy, to
whom some good-natured kinsman paints the luxuries of a home at which he
invites the schoolboy to spend the vacation.
By little and little our conversation glided back to our young past, and
thence to those dreams, nourished ever by the young;—love and romance,
and home brightened by warmer beams than glow in the smile of sober
friendship. How the talk took this direction I know not; perhaps by
unconscious association, as the moon rose above the forest-hills, with
the love-star by her side. And, thus conversing, Tracey for the first
time alluded to that single passion which had vexed the smooth river of
his life—and which, thanks to Lady Gertrude, was already, though
vaguely, known to me.
“It was,” said he, “just such a summer night as this, and, though in a
foreign country, amidst scenes of which these woodland hills remind me,
that the world seemed to me to have changed into a Fairyland; and,
looking into my heart, I said to myself, ‘This, then, is—love.’ And a
little while after, on such a night, and under such a moon, and amidst
such hills and groves, the world seemed blighted into a desert—life to
be evermore without hope or object; and, looking again into my heart, I
said, ‘This, then, is love denied!’”
“Alas!” answered I, “there are few men in whose lives there is not some
secret memoir of an affection thwarted; but rarely indeed does an
affection thwarted leave a permanent influence on the after-destinies of
a man’s life. On that question I meditate an essay, which, if ever
printed, I will send to you.”
I said this, wishing to draw him on, and expecting him to contradict my
assertion as to the enduring influence of a disappointed love. He mused
a moment or so in silence, and then said, “Well, perhaps so; an unhappy
love may not permanently affect our after-destinies, still it colours
our after-thoughts. It is strange that I should have only seen,
throughout my long and various existence, one woman whom I could have
wooed as my wife—one woman in whose presence I felt as if I were born
for her and she for me.”
“May I ask you what was her peculiar charm in your eyes; or, if you
permit me to ask, can you explain it?”
“No doubt,” answered Tracey, “much must be ascribed to the character of
her beauty, which realised the type I had formed to myself from boyhood
of womanly loveliness in form and face, and much also to a mind with
which a man, however cultivated, could hold equal commune. But to me her
predominating attraction was in a simple, unassuming nobleness of
sentiment—a truthful, loyal, devoted, self-sacrificing nature. In her
society I felt myself purified, exalted, as if in the presence of an
angel. But enough of this. I am resigned to my loss, and have long since
hung my votive tablet in the shrine of ‘Time the Consoler.’”
“Forgive me if I am intrusive; but did she know that you loved her?”
“I cannot say; probably most women discover if they are loved; but I
rejoice to think that I never told her so.”
“Would she have rejected you if you had?”
“Yes, unhesitatingly; her word was plighted to another. And though she
would not, for the man to whom she had betrothed herself, have left her
father alone in poverty and exile, she would never have married any one
else.”
“You believe, then, that she loved your rival with a heart that could
not change?”
Tracey did not immediately reply. At last he said, “I believe this—that
when scarcely out of girlhood, she considered herself engaged to be one
man’s wife, or for ever single. And if, in the course of time, and in
length of absence, she could have detected in her heart the growth of a
single thought unfaithful to her troth, she would have plucked it forth
and cast it from her as firmly as if already a wedded wife, with her
husband’s honour in her charge. She was one of those women with whom
man’s trust is for ever safe, and to whom a love at variance with
plighted troth is an impossibility. So, she lives in my thoughts still,
as I saw her last, five-and-twenty years ago, unalterable in her youth
and beauty. And I have been as true to her hallowed remembrance as she
was true to her maiden vows. May I never see her again on earth! Her or
her likeness I may find amidst the stars.” “No,” he added, in a lighter
and cheerier tone—“No; I do not think that my actual destinies, my ways
of life here below, have been affected by her loss. Had I won her, I can
scarcely conceive that I should have become more tempted to ambition or
less enamoured of home. Still, whatever leaves so deep a furrow in a
man’s heart cannot be meant in vain. Where the ploughshare cuts, there
the seed is sown, and there later the corn will spring. In a word, I
believe that everything of moment which befalls us in this life—which
occasions us some great sorrow—for which, in this life, we see not the
uses—has, nevertheless, its definite object, and that that object will
be visible on the other side of the grave. It may seem but a barren
grief in the history of a life—it may prove a fruitful joy in the
history of a soul. For if nothing in this world is accident, surely all
that which affects the only creature upon earth to whom immortality is
announced, must have a distinct and definite purpose, often not
developed till immortality begins.”
Here we had entered on the wide spaces of the park. The deer and the
kine were asleep on the silvered grass, or under the shade of the quiet
trees. Now, as we cleared a beech-grove, we saw the lights gleaming from
the windows of the house, and the moon, at her full, resting still over
the peaceful housetop! Truly had Percival said, “That there are trains
of thought set in motion by the stars which are dormant in the glare of
the sun”—truly had he said, too, “That without such thoughts man’s
thinking is incomplete.”
We gained the house, and, entering the library, it was pleasant to see
how instinctively all rose to gather round the master. They had missed
Percival’s bright presence the whole day.
Some little time afterwards, when, seated next to Lady Gertrude, I was
talking to her of the Grays, I observed Tracey take aside the Painter,
and retire with him into the adjoining colonnade. They were not long
absent. When they returned, Bourke’s face, usually serious, was joyous
and elated. In a few moments, with all his Irish warmth of heart, he
burst forth with the announcement of the new obligations he owed to Sir
Percival Tracey. “I have always said,” exclaimed he, “that, give me an
opening and I will find or make my way. I have the opening now; you
shall see!” We all poured our congratulations upon the young enthusiast,
except Henry Thornhill, and his brow was shaded and his lip quivered.
Clara, watching him, curbed her own friendly words to the artist, and,
drawing to her husband’s side, placed her hand tenderly on his shoulder.
“Pish! do leave me alone,” muttered the ungracious churl.
“See,” whispered Percival to me, “what a brute that fine young fellow
would become if we insisted on making him happy our own way, and saving
him from the chance of being shot!”
Therewith rising, he gently led away Clara, to whose soft eyes tears had
rushed; and looking back to Henry, whose head was bended over a volume
of ‘The Wellington Despatches,’ said in his ear, half-fondly,
half-reproachfully, “Poor young fool! how bitterly you will repent every
word, every look of unkindness to her, when—when she is no more at your
side to pardon you!”
That night it was long before I slept. I pleased myself with what is now
grown to me a rare amusement—viz., the laying out plans for the morrow.
This holiday, with Tracey all to myself; this summer sail on the seas;
this interval of golden idlesse, refined by intercourse with so serene
an intelligence, and on subjects so little broached in the world of
cities, fascinated my imagination; and I revolved a hundred questions it
would be delightful to raise, a hundred problems it would be impossible
to solve. Though my life has been a busy one, I believe that
constitutionally I am one of the most indolent men alive. To lie on the
grass in summer noons under breathless trees, to glide over smooth
waters, and watch the still shadows on tranquil shores, is happiness to
me. I need then no books—then, no companion. But if to that happiness in
the mere luxury of repose, I may add another happiness of a higher
nature, it is in converse with some one friend, upon subjects remote
from the practical work-day world,—subjects akin less to our active
thoughts than to our dreamlike reveries,—subjects conjectural,
speculative, fantastic, embracing not positive opinions—for opinions are
things combative and disputatious—but rather those queries and guesses
which start up from the farthest border-land of our reason, and lose
themselves in air as we attempt to chase and seize them.
And perhaps this sort of talk, which leads to no conclusions clear
enough for the uses of wisdom, is the more alluring to me, because it is
very seldom to be indulged. I carefully separate from the business of
life all which belong to the visionary realm of speculative conjecture.
From the world of action I hold it imperatively safe to banish the ideas
which exhibit the cloud-land of metaphysical doubts and mystical
beliefs. In the actual world let me see by the same broad sun that gives
light to all men; it is only in the world of reverie that I amuse myself
with the sport of the dark lantern, letting its ray shoot before me into
the gloom, and caring not if, in its illusive light, the thorn-tree in
my path take the aspect of a ghost. I shall notice the thorn-tree all
the better, distinguish more clearly its shape, when I pass by it the
next day under the sun, for the impression it made on my fancy seen
first by the gleam of the dark lantern. Now, Tracey is one of the very
few highly-educated men it has been my lot to know, with whom one can
safely mount in rudderless balloons, drifting wind-tossed after those
ideas which are the phantoms of Reverie, and wander, ghost-like, out of
castles in the air. And my mind found a playfellow in his, where, in
other men’s minds, as richly cultured, it found only companions or
competitors in task-work.
Towards dawn, I fell asleep, and dreamt that I was a child once more,
gathering bluebells and chasing dragonflies amidst murmuring
water-reeds. The next day I came down late; all had done breakfast. The
Painter was already gone; the Librarian had retired into his den. Henry
Thornhill was walking by himself to and fro, in front of the window,
with folded arms and downcast brow. Percival was seated apart, writing
letters. Clara was at work, stealing every now and then a mournful
glance towards Henry. Lady Gertrude, punctiliously keeping her place by
the tea-urn, filled my cup, and pointed to a heap of letters formidably
ranged before my plate. I glanced anxiously and rapidly over these
unwelcomed epistles. Thank heaven, nothing to take me back to London! My
political correspondent informed me, by a hasty line, that the dreaded
motion which stood first on the parliamentary paper for that day would
in all probability be postponed, agreeably to the request of the
Government. The mover of it had not, however, given a positive answer;
no doubt he would do so in the course of the night (last night); and
there was little doubt that, as a professed supporter of the Government,
he would yield to the request that had been made to him.
So, after I had finished my abstemious breakfast, I took Percival aside
and told him that I considered myself free to prolong my stay, and asked
him, in a whisper, if he had yet received the official letter he
expected, announcing young Thornhill’s exchange and promotion.
“Yes,” said he, “and I only waited for you to announce its contents to
poor Henry; for I wish you to tell me whether you think the news will
make him as happy as yesterday he thought it would.”
Tracey and I then went out, and joined Henry in his walk. The young man
turned round on us an impatient countenance.
“So we have lost Bourke,” said Tracey. “I hope he will return to England
with the reputation he goes forth to seek.”
“Ay,” said Henry, “Bourke is a lucky dog to have found, in one who is
not related to him, so warm and so true a friend.”
“Every dog, lucky or unlucky, has his day,” said Percival, gravely.
“Every dog except a house-dog,” returned Henry. “A house-dog is thought
only fit for a chain and a kennel.”
“Ah, happy if his happiness he knew!” replied Tracey. “But I own that
liberty compensates for the loss of a warm litter and a good dinner.
Away from the kennel and off with the chain! Read this letter, and
accept my congratulations—_Major_ Thornhill!”
The young man started; the colour rushed to his cheeks; he glanced
hastily over the letter held out to him; dropped it; caught his
kinsman’s hand, and pressing it to his heart, exclaimed, “Oh, sir,
thanks, thanks! So then, all the while I was accusing you of obstructing
my career you were quietly promoting it! How can you forgive me my
petulance, my ingratitude?”
“Tut,” said Percival, kindly, “the best-tempered man is sometimes cross
in his cups; and nothing, perhaps, more irritates a young brain than to
get drunk on the love of glory.”
At the word glory the soldier’s crest rose, his eye flashed fire, his
whole aspect changed, it became lofty and noble. Suddenly his eye caught
sight of Clara, who had stepped out of the window, and stood gazing on
him. His head drooped, tears rushed to his eyes, and with a quivering,
broken voice, he muttered, “Poor Clara—my wife, my darling! Oh, Sir
Percival, truly you said how bitterly I should repent every unkind word
and look. Ah, they will haunt me!”
“Put aside regrets now. Go and break the news to your wife: support,
comfort her; you alone can. I have not dared to tell her.”
Henry sighed and went, no longer joyous, but with slow step and paling
cheek, to the place where Clara stood. We saw him bend over the hand she
held out to him, kiss it humbly, and then passing his arm round her
waist, he drew her away into the farther recesses of the garden, and
both disappeared from our eyes.
“No,” said I, “he is not happy; like us all, he finds that things
coveted have no longer the same charm when they are things possessed.
Clara is avenged already. But you have done wisely. Let him succeed or
let him fail, you have removed from Clara her only rival. If you had
debarred him from honour you would have estranged him from love. Now you
have bound him to Clara for life. She has ceased to be an obstacle to
his dreams, and henceforth she herself will be the dream which his
waking life will sigh to regain.”
“Heaven grant he may come back, with both his legs and both his arms;
and, perhaps, with a bit of ribbon, or five shillings’ worth of silver
on his breast,” said Percival, trying hard to be lively. “Of all my
kinsmen, I think I like him the best. He is rough as the east wind, but
honest as the day. Heigho! they will both leave us in an hour or two.
Clara’s voice is so sweet; I wonder when she will sing again! What a
blank the place will seem without those two young faces! As soon as they
are gone, we two will be off. Aunt Gertrude does not like Bellevue, and
will pay a visit for a few days to a cousin of hers on the other side of
the county. I must send on before to let the housekeeper at Bellevue
prepare for our coming. Meanwhile, pardon me if I leave you—perhaps you
have letters to write; if so, despatch them.”
I was in no humour for writing letters, but when Percival left me I
strolled from the house into the garden, and, reclining there on a bench
opposite one of the fountains, enjoyed the calm beauty of the summer
morning. Time slipped by. Every now and then I caught sight of Henry and
Clara among the lilacs in one of the distant walks, his arm still round
her waist, her head leaning on his shoulder. At length they went into
the house, doubtless to prepare for their departure.
I thought of the wild folly with which youth casts away the substance of
happiness to seize at the shadow which breaks on the wave that mirrors
it; wiser and happier surely the tranquil choice of Gray, though with
gifts and faculties far beyond those of the young man who mistook the
desire of fame for the power to win it. And then my thoughts settling
back on myself, I became conscious of a certain melancholy. How poor and
niggard compared with my early hopes had been my ultimate results! How
questioned, grudged, and litigated, my right of title to every inch of
ground that my thought had discovered or my toils had cultivated! What
motive power in me had, from boyhood to the verge of age, urged me on
“to scorn delight and love laborious days?” Whatever the motive power
once had been, I could no longer trace it. If vanity—of which,
doubtless, in youth I had my human share—I had long since grown rather
too callous than too sensitive to that love of approbation in which
vanity consists. I was stung by no penury of fortune, influenced by no
feverish thirst for a name that should outlive my grave, fooled by no
hope of the rewards which goad on ambition. I had reached the age when
Hope weighs her anchor and steers forth so far that her amplest sail
seems but a silvery speck on the last line of the horizon. Certainly I
flattered myself that my purposes linked my toils to some slight service
to mankind; that in graver efforts I was asserting opinions in the value
of which to human interests I sincerely believed, and in lighter aims
venting thoughts and releasing fancies which might add to the culture of
the world—not, indeed, fruitful harvests, but at least some lowly
flowers. But though such intent might be within my mind, could I tell
how far I unconsciously exaggerated its earnestness—still less could I
tell how far the intent was dignified by success? “Have I done aught for
which mankind would be the worse were it swept into nothingness
to-morrow?”—is a question which many a grand and fertile genius may, in
its true humility, address mournfully to itself. It is but a negative
praise, though it has been recorded as a high one, to leave
“No line which, dying, we would wish to blot.”
If that be all, as well leave no line at all. He has written in vain who
does not bequeath lines that, if blotted, would be a loss to that
treasure-house of mind which is the everlasting possession of the world.
Who, yet living, can even presume to guess if he shall do this? Not till
at least a century after his brain and his hand are dust can even
critics begin to form a rational conjecture of an author’s or a
statesman’s uses to his kind. Was it, then, as Gray had implied, merely
the force of habit which kept me in movement? if so, was it a habit
worth all the sacrifice it cost? Thus meditating, I forgot that if all
men reasoned thus and acted according to such reasoning, the earth would
have no intermediate human dwellers between the hewers and diggers, and
the idlers, born to consume the fruits which they do not plant.
Farewell, then, to all the embellishments and splendours by which
civilised man breathes his mind and his soul into nature. For it is not
only the genius of rarest intellects which adorns and aggrandises social
states, but the aspirations and the efforts of thousands and millions,
all towards the advance and uplifting and beautifying of the integral,
universal state, by the energies native to each. Where would be the
world fit for Traceys and Grays to dwell in, if all men philosophised
like the Traceys and the Grays? Where all the gracious arts, all the
generous rivalries of mind, that deck and animate the bright calm of
peace? Where all the devotion, heroism, self-sacrifice in a common
cause, that exalt humanity even amidst the rage and deformities of war,
if, throughout well-ordered, close-welded states, there ran not
electrically, from breast to breast, that love of honour which is a part
of man’s sense of beauty, or that instinct towards utility which, even
more than the genius too exceptional to be classed amongst the normal
regulations of social law, creates the marvels of mortal progress? Not,
however, I say, did I then address to myself these healthful and manly
questions. I felt only that I repined, and looked with mournful and
wearied eyes along an agitated, painful, laborious past. Rousing myself
with an effort from these embittered contemplations, the charm of the
external nature insensibly refreshed and gladdened me. I inhaled the
balm of an air sweet with flowers, felt the joy of the summer sun, from
which all life around seemed drawing visible happiness, and said to
myself gaily, “At least to-day is mine—this blissful sunlit day—
‘Nimium breves
Flores amænæ ferre jube rosæ,
Dum res et ætas et sororum,
Fila trium patiuntur atra!’”
So murmuring, I rose as from a dream, and saw before me a strange
figure—a figure, uncouth, sinister, ominous as the evil genius that
startled Brutus on the eve of Philippi. I knew by an unmistakable
instinct that that figure _was_ an evil genius.
“Do you want me? Who and what are you?” I asked, falteringly.
“Please your honour, I come express from the N—— Station. A telegram.”
I opened the scrap of paper extended to me, and read these words,—
“O—— positively brings on his motion. Announced it last night too late
for post. Division certain—probably before dinner. Every vote wanted.
Come directly.”
Said the Express with a cruel glee, as I dropped the paper, “Sir, the
station-master also received a telegram to send over a fly. I have
brought one; only just in time to catch the half-past twelve o’clock; no
other train till six. You had best be quick, sir.”
No help for it. I hurried back to the house, bade my servant follow by
the next train with my portmanteau—no moments left to wait for packing;
found Tracey in his quiet study—put the telegram into his hands. “You
see my excuse—adieu.”
“Does this motion, then, interest you so much? Do you mean to speak on
it?”
“No, but it must not be carried. Every vote against it is of
consequence. Besides, I have promised to vote, and cannot stay away with
honour.”
“Honour! That settles it. I must go to Bellevue alone; or shall I take
Caleb and make him teach me Hebrew? But surely you will join me
to-morrow, or the next day?”
“Yes, if I can. But heavens!” (glancing at the clock)—“not half an hour
to reach the station—six miles off. Kindest regards to Lady
Gertrude—poor Clara—Henry—and all. Heaven bless you!”
I am in the fly—I am off. I gain the station just in time for the
train—arrive at the House of Commons in more than time as to a vote, for
the debate not only lasted all that night, but was adjourned till the
next week, and lasted the greater part of that, when it was withdrawn,
and—no vote at all!
But I could not then return to Tracey. Every man accustomed to business
in London knows how, once there, hour after hour, arises a something
that will not allow him to depart. When at length freed, I knew Tracey
would no longer need my companionship—his Swedish philosopher was then
with him. They were deep in scientific mysteries, on which, as I could
throw no light, I should be but a profane intruder. Besides, I was then
summoned to my own country place, and had there to receive my own
guests, long pre-engaged. So passed the rest of the summer; in the
autumn I went abroad, and have never visited the Castle of Indolence
since those golden days. In truth I resisted a frequent and a haunting
desire to do so. I felt that a second and a longer sojourn in that
serene but relaxing atmosphere might unnerve me for the work which I had
imposed on myself, and sought to persuade my tempted conscience was an
inexorable duty. Experience had taught me that in the sight of that
intellectual repose, so calm and so dreamily happy, my mind became
unsettled, and nourished seeds that might ripen to discontent of the lot
I had chosen for myself. So then, _sicut meus est mos_, I seize a
consolation for the loss of enjoyments that I may not act anew by living
them over again, in fancy and remembrance: I give to my record the title
of “Motive Power,” though it contains much episodical to that thesis,
and though it rather sports around the subject so indicated than
subjects it to strict analysis. But I here take for myself the excuse I
have elsewhere made for Montaigne, in his loose observance of the
connection between the matter and the titles of his essays.
I must leave it to the reader to blame or acquit me for having admitted
so many lengthy descriptions, so many digressive turns and shifts of
thought and sentiment, through which, as through a labyrinth, he winds
his way, with steps often checked and often retrogressive, still, sooner
or later, creeping on to the heart of the maze. There I leave him to
find the way out. Labyrinths have no interest if we give the clue to
them.
MRS CLIFFORD’S MARRIAGE.
PART I.
CHAPTER I.—THE LADIES’ OPINION.
“You don’t mean to say she’s going to be married—not Mary? I don’t
believe a word of it. She was too fond of her poor husband who put such
trust in her. No, no, child—don’t tell such nonsense to me.”
So said old Miss Harwood when the dreadful intelligence was first
communicated to her. The two old sisters, who were both charitable old
souls, and liked to think the best of everybody, were equally distressed
about this piece of village scandal. “I don’t say anything about her
poor husband—he was a fool to trust so much to a woman of her age,” said
Miss Amelia; “but in my opinion Mary Clifford has sense to know when
she’s well off.” The very idea made the sisters angry: a woman with five
thousand a-year, with five fine children, with the handsomest house and
most perfect little establishment within twenty miles of Summerhayes; a
widow, with nobody to cross or contradict her, with her own way and will
to her heart’s content—young enough to be still admired and paid
attention to, and old enough to indulge in those female pleasures
without any harm coming of it; to think of a woman in such exceptionally
blessed circumstances stooping her head under the yoke, and yielding a
second time to the subjection of marriage, was more than either of the
Miss Harwoods could believe.
“But I believe it’s quite true—indeed, I _know_ it’s quite true,” said
the curate’s little wife. “Mr Spencer heard it first from the Miss
Summerhayes, who did not know what to think—their own brother, you know;
and yet they couldn’t forget that poor dear Mr Clifford was their
cousin; and then they are neither of them married themselves, poor
dears, which makes them harder upon her.”
“We have never been married,” said Miss Amelia; “I don’t see what
difference that makes. It is amusing to see the airs you little
creatures give yourselves on the strength of being married. I suppose
_you_ think it’s all right—it’s a compliment to her first husband, eh?
and shows she was happy with him?—that’s what the men say when they take
a second wife; that’s how you would do I suppose, if——”
“Oh, Miss Amelia, don’t be so cruel,” cried the little wife. “I should
die. Do you think I could ever endure to live without Julius? I don’t
understand what people’s hearts are made of that can do such things: but
then,” added the little woman, wiping her bright eyes, “Mr Clifford was
not like my husband. He was very good, I daresay, and all that—but he
wasn’t ——. Well, I don’t think he was a taking man. He used to sit such
a long time after dinner. He used to——it’s very wicked to be unkind to
the dead—but he wasn’t the sort of man a woman could break her heart
for, you know.”
“I should like to know who is,” said Miss Amelia. “He left her
everything, without making provision for one of the children. He gave
her the entire power, like a fool, at her age. He did not deserve
anything better; but it appears to me that Mary Clifford has the sense
to know when she’s well off.”
“Well, well!” said old Miss Harwood, “I couldn’t have believed it, but
now as you go on discussing, I daresay it’ll turn out true. When a thing
comes so far as to be discussed, it’s going to happen. I’ve always found
it so. Well, well! love has gone out of fashion nowadays. When I was a
girl things were different. We did not talk about it half so much, nor
read novels. But we had the right feelings. I daresay she will just be
as affectionate to Tom Summerhayes as she was to her poor dear husband.
Oh, my dear, it’s very sad—I think it’s very sad—five fine children, and
she can’t be content with that. It’ll turn out badly, dear, and that
you’ll see.”
“He’ll swindle her out of all her money,” said Miss Amelia.
“Oh, don’t say such dreadful things,” cried the curate’s little wife,
getting up hastily. “I am sure I hope they’ll be happy—that is, as happy
as they _can_ be,” she added, with a touch of candid disapproval. “I
must run away to baby now; the poor dear children!—I must say I am sorry
for them—to have another man brought in in their poor papa’s place; but
oh, I must run away, else I shall be saying cruel things too.”
The two Miss Harwoods discussed this interesting subject largely after
Mrs Spencer had gone. The Summerhayes people had been, on the whole,
wonderfully merciful to Mrs Clifford during her five years’ solitary
reign at Fontanel. She had been an affectionate wife—she was a good
mother—she had worn the weeds of her widowhood seriously, and had not
plunged into any indiscreet gaieties when she took them off; while, at
the same time, she had emerged sufficiently from her seclusion to
restore Fontanel to its old position as one of the pleasantest houses in
the county. What could woman do more? Tom Summerhayes was her husband’s
cousin; he had been brought up to the law, and naturally understood
affairs in general better than she did. Everybody knew that he was an
idle fellow. After old Mr Summerhayes died, everybody quite expected
that Tom would settle down in the old manor, and live an agreeable
useless life, instead of toiling himself to death in hopes of one day
being Lord Chancellor—a very unlikely chance at the best; and events
came about exactly as everybody had predicted. At the same time, the
entire neighbourhood allowed that Tom had exerted himself quite beyond
all precedent on behalf of his cousin’s widow. Poor Mary Clifford had a
great deal too much on her hands, he was always saying. It was a selfish
sort of kindness to crush down a poor little woman under all that weight
of wealth and responsibility; and so, at last, here was what had come of
it. The Miss Harwoods sat and talked it all over that cold day in the
drawing-room of Woodbine Cottage, which had one window looking to the
village-green, and another, a large, round, bright bow-window, opening
to the garden. The fire was more agreeable than the garden that day.
Miss Harwood sat knitting in her easy-chair, while Miss Amelia occupied
herself in ticketing all that miscellaneous basket of articles destined
for the bazaar of ladies’ work to be held in Summerhayes in February;
but work advanced slowly under the influence of such an inducement to
talk. The old ladies, as may be supposed, came to a sudden pause and
looked confused and guilty when the door opened and the Miss Summerhayes
were announced. Perhaps the new visitors might even have heard something
of the conversation which was going on with so much animation. Certainly
it came to a most abrupt conclusion, and the Miss Harwoods looked
consciously into each other’s faces when the ladies of the manor-house
came to the door.
These ladies were no longer young, but they were far from having reached
the venerable certainty of old-maidenhood which possessed the atmosphere
of Woodbine Cottage. They were still in the fidgety unsettled stage of
unweddedness—women who had fallen out of their occupation, and were
subject to little tempers and vapours, not from real ill-humour or
sourness, but simply by reason of the vacancy and unsatisfaction of
their lives. The Miss Summerhayes often enough did not know what to do
with themselves; and being unphilosophical, as women naturally are, they
set down this restless condition of mind, not to the account of human
nature generally, and of female impatience in particular, but to their
own single and unwedded condition—a matter which still seemed capable of
remedy; so that the fact must be admitted, that Miss Laura and Miss
Lydia were sometimes a little flighty and uncertain in their temper;
sometimes a little harsh in their judgments; and, in short, in most
matters, betrayed a certain unsettledness and impatience in their minds,
as people generally do, in every condition of existence, when they are
discontented with their lot. The chances are that nothing would have
pleased them better than to have plunged into an immediate discussion of
all the circumstances of this strange piece of news with which
Summerhayes was ringing; but the position was complicated by the fact
that they were accompanied by little Louisa Clifford, who was old enough
to understand all that was said, and quick enough to guess at any
allusion which might be made to her mother, however skilfully veiled; so
that, on the whole, the situation was as difficult a one for the four
ladies, burning to speak but yet incapable of utterance, as can well be
conceived.
“Oh, how far on _you_ are,” cried Miss Laura; “I have not got in half
the work that has been promised to me; but you always are first with
everything—first in gardening, first in working, first in——”
“All the news, I am sure,” said Miss Lydia; “we, of course, never hear
anything till it has happened. Provoking! Loo, shouldn’t you like to go
to Miss Harwood’s maid, and ask her to show you the chickens? She has a
perfect genius for poultry, though she is such a little thing; and Miss
Amelia has such loves of dorkings. We shan’t be leaving for half an
hour; now go, there’s a dear!”
“Thank you, cousin Lydia, I’d rather look at the things for the bazaar,”
returned Loo, lifting a pair of acute suspicious eyes; a pale-faced
little creature, sharp-witted and vigilant, instinctively conscious why
her amusement was thus carefully provided for—Loo did not choose to go.
“Such a nuisance!” said Miss Laura; “I say we are just far enough off at
the manor to be out of reach of everything except the bores and the
troubles. You always think of us when you have stupid visitors, but you
keep all that’s exciting to yourselves. Loo, darling! the Miss Harwoods’
violets are always out earlier than any one else’s. I have such a
passion for violets! Do run out, dear, and see if you can find one for
me yonder under the hedge.”
“I will ask mamma to send you some to-morrow, cousin Laura,” said the
determined little Loo.
“Did you ever hear anything like it?” said Miss Lydia, in a half
whisper. “Loo!”
“Loo will carry this basket up-stairs for me to my room,” said Miss
Harwood, “and ask Harriet to show you the things in my cupboard, dear.
All the prettiest things are there, and such a very grand cushion that I
mean to make your mamma buy. Tell Harriet to show you everything;
there’s a darling! That is a very bright little girl, my dears,” said
the old lady, when Loo withdrew, reluctant but dutiful. “I hope nothing
will ever be done to crush her spirit. I suppose you must have both come
to tell us it’s not true.”
“Oh, you mean about my brother and Mary Clifford,” cried out both
sisters in a breath. “Oh, Miss Harwood, did you ever hear of such a
thing! Did you ever know anything so dreadful! Tom, that might have
married anybody!” cried Miss Lydia; “and Mary Clifford, that was so
inconsolable, and pretended to have broken her heart!” cried the younger
sister. They were both in a flutter of eagerness, neither permitting the
other to speak.
“Oh dear, dear, it does come so hard upon us,” said Miss Laura, “we that
have always had such a prejudice against second marriages; and a
cousin’s widow—it’s almost like a brother; and if poor Harry could rise
from his grave, what would he say!” concluded Miss Lydia, who took up
the strain without any intervals of punctuation. “I begin to think it’s
all true the gentlemen say about women’s inconstancy; that is, your
common style of women,” ran on the elder without any pause; “and poor
dear Tom, who might have married any one,” cried the younger, out of
breath.
“Then I perceive,” said Miss Amelia Harwood, “it’s true? Well, I don’t
see much harm, for my part, if they have everything properly settled
first. Poor Harry was all very well, I daresay, but he was a great fool
not to provide for his children. Your brother said so at the time; but I
did think, for my part, that Mary Clifford had the sense to know when
she was well off.”
“Oh, she shows that,” cried Lydia Summerhayes, with a little toss of her
head; “widows are so designing; they know the ways of men, and how to
manage them, very differently from any of us—if _we_ could stoop to such
a thing, which of course, we wouldn’t. Oh yes, Mary Clifford knows
_very_ well what she’s about. I am sure I have told Tom he was her
honorary secretary for many a day. I thought she was just making use of
him to serve her own purpose; I never thought how far her wiles went. If
it had been her lawyer, or the curate, or any humble person; but Tom! He
might have done so much better,” said Laura, chiming in at some
imperceptible point, so that it was impossible to tell where one voice
ended and the other began.
“Well, I must say I am disappointed in Mary Clifford,” said Miss
Harwood, “she was always such an affectionate creature. That’s why it
is, I daresay. These affectionate people can’t do without an object; but
her five children——”
“Ah! yes, her five children,” exclaimed the Miss Summerhayes; “only
imagine dear Tom making such a marriage! Why, Charley Clifford has been
at Eton ever so long; he is fifteen. And dear Tom is quite a young man,
and might have married anybody,” said the last of the two, taking up the
chorus: “it is too dreadful to think of it—such a cutting blow to us.”
“I can’t see how it is so very bad for you,” said Miss Amelia Harwood;
“of course they will live at Fontanel, and you will still keep the
manor-house. I think it’s rather a good thing for you for my part. Hush!
there’s the child again—clever little thing—she knows quite well what
we’ve been talking of. My dear, I hope Harriet showed you all the
things—and isn’t that a pretty cushion? Tell your mamma I mean to make
her buy it, as she is the richest lady I know.”
“Are you going, my dears?” said the elder old lady. “I am sorry you have
so little time to stay—I hope you will find things arrange themselves
comfortably, and that everybody will be happy. Don’t get excited—it’s
astonishing how everything settles down. You want to speak to me, Loo,”
said Miss Harwood, starting a little when she had just reseated herself
in her easy-chair after dismissing her visitors. “Certainly, dear; I
suppose you have set your little heart on one of the pretty pincushions
up-stairs.”
“No, indeed, nothing of the sort—I hope I know better than to care for
such trumpery,” said Loo, with an angry glow on her little pale face. “I
stopped behind to say, that whatever mamma pleases to do, we mean to
stand by her,” cried poor Mary Clifford’s only champion. “I’m not sure
whether I shall like it or not for myself—but we have made up our minds
to stand by mamma, and so we will, as long as we live; and she shall do
what she likes!” cried the little heroine. Two big tears were in those
brown eyes, which looked twice as bright and as big through those great
dew-drops which Loo would not for the world have allowed to fall. She
opened her eyelids wider and wider to re-absorb the untimely tears, and
looked full, with childish defiance, in Miss Harwood’s face.
“Loo, you are a dear!” said prompt Miss Amelia, kissing the child; “you
shall have the prettiest pincushion in all my basket.” The little girl
vanished suddenly after this speech, half in indignation at the promise,
half because the tears would not be disposed of otherwise, and it was
necessary to rush outside to conceal their dropping. “Ah! Amelia,” said
kind old Miss Harwood, “I’m sorry for poor Mary in my heart—but I’d
rather have that child’s love than Tom Summerhayes.”
“_Poor_ Mary! for my part, I have no patience with her,” said the
practical Miss Amelia; “a woman come to her time of life ought to have
the sense to know when she’s well off.”
Such was the character of the comments made upon Mrs Clifford’s marriage
when it was first talked of, in Woodbine Cottage, and generally among
all the female portion of society as it existed in Summerhayes.