We have all of us, no doubt, had a fine experience of the world, and a
vast variety of characters have passed under our eyes; but there is one
sort of men not an uncommon object of satire in novels and plays--of
whom I confess to have met with scarce any specimens at all in my
intercourse with this sinful mankind. I mean, mere religious hypocrites,
preaching for ever, and not believing a word of their own sermons;
infidels in broad brims and sables, expounding, exhorting, comminating,
blessing, without any faith in their own paradise, or fear about their
pandemonium. Look at those candid troops of hobnails clumping to church
on a Sunday evening; those rustling maid-servants in their ribbons whom
the young apprentices follow; those little regiments of schoolboys;
those trim young maidens and staid matrons, marching with their
glistening prayer-books, as the chapel bell chinks yonder (passing
Ebenezer, very likely, where the congregation of umbrellas, great
bonnets, and pattens, is by this time assembled under the flaring
gas-lamps). Look at those! How many of them are hypocrites, think you?
Very likely the maid-servant is thinking of her sweetheart: the grocer
is casting about how he can buy that parcel of sugar, and whether the
County Bank will take any more of his paper: the head-schoolboy is
conning Latin verses for Monday's exercise: the young scapegrace
remembers that after his service and sermon, there will be papa's
exposition at home, but that there will be pie for supper: the clerk who
calls out the psalm has his daughter in trouble, and drones through his
responses scarcely aware of their meaning: the very moment the parson
hides his face on his cushion, he may be thinking of that bill which is
coming due on Monday. These people are not heavenly-minded; they are of
the world, worldly, and have not yet got their feet off of it; but they
are not hypocrites, look you. Folks have their religion in some handy
mental lock-up, as it were--a valuable medicine, to be taken in
ill health; and a man administers his nostrum to his neighbour, and
recommends his private cure for the other's complaint. “My dear madam,
you have spasms? You will find these drops infallible!” “You have been
taking too much wine, my good sir? By this pill you may defy any evil
consequences from too much wine, and take your bottle of port daily.” Of
spiritual and bodily physic, who are more fond and eager dispensers than
women? And we know that, especially a hundred years ago, every lady
in the country had her still-room, and her medicine chest, her pills,
powders, potions, for all the village round.
My Lady Warrington took charge of the consciences and the digestions of
her husband's tenants and family. She had the faith and health of the
servants'-hall in keeping. Heaven can tell whether she knew how to
doctor them rightly: but, was it pill or doctrine, she administered one
or the other with equal belief in her own authority, and her disciples
swallowed both obediently. She believed herself to be one of the most
virtuous, self-denying, wise, learned women in the world; and, dinning
this opinion perpetually into the ears of all round about her, succeeded
in bringing not few persons to join in her persuasion.
At Sir Miles's dinner there was so fine a sideboard of plate, and such
a number of men in livery, that it required some presenter: of mind
to perceive that the beer was of the smallest which the butler brought
round in the splendid tankard, and that there was but one joint of
mutton on the grand silver dish. When Sir Miles called the King's
health, and smacked his jolly lips over his wine, he eyed it and the
company as if the liquor was ambrosia. He asked Harry Warrington whether
they had port like that in Virginia? He said that was nothing to the
wine Harry should taste in Norfolk. He praised the wine so, that Harry
almost believed that it was good, and winked into his own glass, trying
to see some of the merits which his uncle perceived in the ruby nectar.
Just as we see in many a well-regulated family of this present century,
the Warringtons had their two paragons. Of the two grown daughters, the
one was the greatest beauty, the other the greatest genius and angel of
any young lady then alive, as Lady Warrington told Harry. The eldest,
the Beauty, was engaged to dear Tom Claypool, the fond mother informed
her cousin Harry in confidence. But the second daughter, the Genius and
Angel, was for ever set upon our young friend to improve his wits and
morals. She sang to him at the harpsichord--rather out of tune for
an angel, Harry thought; she was ready with advice, instruction,
conversation--with almost too much instruction and advice, thought
Harry, who would have far preferred the society of the little cousin
who reminded him of Fanny Mountain at home. But the last-mentioned young
maiden after dinner retired to her nursery commonly. Beauty went off
on her own avocations; mamma had to attend to her poor or write her
voluminous letters; papa dozed in his arm-chair; and the Genius remained
to keep her young cousin company.
The calm of the house somehow pleased the young man, and he liked
to take refuge there away from the riot and dissipation in which he
ordinarily lived. Certainly no welcome could be kinder than that which
he got. The doors were opened to him at all hours. If Flora was not at
home, Dora was ready to receive him. Ere many days' acquaintance, he and
his little cousin Miles had been to have a galloping-match in the Park,
and Harry, who was kind and generous to every man alive who came near
him, had in view the purchase of a little horse for his cousin, far
better than that which the boy rode, when the circumstances occurred
which brought all our poor Harry's coaches and horses to a sudden
breakdown.
Though Sir Miles Warrington had imagined Virginia to be an island, the
ladies were much better instructed in geography, and anxious to hear
from Harry all about his home and his native country. He, on his part,
was not averse to talk about it. He described to them the length and
breadth of his estate; the rivers which it coasted; the produce which
it bore. He had had with a friend a little practice of surveying in
his boyhood. He made a map of his county, with some fine towns here and
there, which, in truth, were but log-huts (but, for the honour of his
country, he was desirous that they should wear as handsome a look as
possible). Here was Potomac; here was James river; here were the wharves
whence his mother's ships and tobacco were brought to the sea. In truth,
the estate was as large as a county. He did not brag about the place
overmuch. To see the handsome young fellow, in a fine suit of velvet and
silver lace, making his draught, pointing out this hill and that forest
or town, you might have imagined him a travelling prince describing the
realms of the queen his mother. He almost fancied himself to be so at
times. He had miles where gentlemen in England had acres. Not only Dora
listened but the beauteous Flora bowed her fair head and heard him with
attention. Why, what was young Tom Claypool, their brother baronet's son
in Norfolk with his great boots, his great voice, and his heirdom to
a poor five thousand acres, compared to this young American prince and
charming stranger? Angel as she was, Dora began to lose her angelic
temper, and to twit Flora for a flirt. Claypool in his red waistcoat,
would sit dumb before the splendid Harry in his ruffles and laces,
talking of March and Chesterfield, Selwyn and Bolingbroke, and the whole
company of macaronis. Mamma began to love Harry more and more as a son.
She was anxious about the spiritual welfare of those poor Indians, of
those poor negroes in Virginia. What could she do to help dear Madam
Esmond (a precious woman, she knew!) in the good work? She had a serious
butler and housekeeper: they were delighted with the spiritual behaviour
and sweet musical gifts of Gumbo.
“Ah! Harry, Harry! you have been a sad wild boy! Why did you not come
sooner to us, sir, and not lose your time amongst the spendthrifts and
the vain world? But 'tis not yet too late. We must reclaim thee, dear
Harry! Mustn't we, Sir Miles? Mustn't we Dora? Mustn't we, Flora?”
The three ladies all look up to the ceiling. They will reclaim the dear
prodigal. It is which shall reclaim him most. Dora sits by and watches
Flora. As for mamma when the girls are away, she talks to him more and
more seriously, more and more tenderly. She will be a mother to him in
the absence of his own admirable parent. She gives him a hymn-book.
She kisses him on the forehead. She is actuated by the purest love,
tenderness, religious regard, towards her dear, wayward, wild, amiable
nephew.
Whilst these sentimentalities were going on, it is to be presumed that
Mr. Warrington kept his own counsel about his affairs out-of-doors,
which we have seen were in the very worst condition. He who had been
favoured by fortune for so many weeks was suddenly deserted by her, and
a few days had served to kick down all his heap of winnings. Do we say
that my Lord Castlewood, his own kinsman, had dealt unfairly by the
young Virginian, and in the course of a couple of afternoons' closet
practice had robbed him? We would insinuate nothing so disrespectful to
his lordship's character; but he had won from Harry every shilling which
properly belonged to him, and would have played him for his reversions,
but that the young man flung up his hands when he saw himself so
far beaten, and declared that he must continue the battle no more.
Remembering that there still remained a spar out of the wreck, as
it were--that portion which he had set aside for poor Sampson--Harry
ventured it at the gaming-table; but that last resource went down along
with the rest of Harry's possessions, and Fortune fluttered off in the
storm, leaving the luckless adventurer almost naked on the shore.
When a man is young and generous and hearty the loss of money scarce
afflicts him. Harry would sell his horses and carriages, and diminish
his train of life. If he wanted immediate supplies of money, would not
his Aunt Bernstein be his banker, or his kinsman who had won so much
from him, or his kind Uncle Warrington and Lady Warrington who were
always talking virtue and benevolence, and declaring that they loved
him as a son? He would call upon these, or any one of them whom he might
choose to favour, at his leisure; meanwhile, Sampson's story of his
landlord's distress touched the young gentleman, and, in order to raise
a hasty supply for the clergyman, he carried off all his trinkets to a
certain pawnbroker's shop in St. Martin's Lane.
Now this broker was a relative or partner of that very Mr. Sparks
of Tavistock Street, from whom Harry had purchased--purchased did we
say?--no; taken the trinkets which he had intended to present to his
Oakhurst friends; and it chanced that Mr. Sparks came to visit his
brother-tradesman very soon after Mr. Warrington had disposed of his
goods. Recognising immediately the little enamelled diamond-handled
repeater which he had sold to the Fortunate Youth, the jeweller broke
out into expressions regarding Harry which I will not mention here,
being already accused of speaking much too plainly. A gentleman who
is acquainted with a pawnbroker, we may be sure has a bailiff or two
amongst his acquaintances; and those bailiffs have followers who, at the
bidding of the impartial Law, will touch with equal hand the fiercest
captain's epaulet or the finest macaroni's shoulder. The very gentlemen
who had seized upon Lady Maria at Tunbridge were set upon her cousin in
London. They easily learned from the garrulous Gumbo that his honour was
at Sir Miles Warrington's house in Hill Street, and whilst the black was
courting Mrs. Lambert's maid at the adjoining mansion, Mr. Costigan and
his assistant lay in wait for poor Harry, who was enjoying the delights
of intercourse with a virtuous family circle assembled round his
aunt's table. Never had Uncle Miles been more cordial, never had Aunt
Warrington been more gracious, gentle, and affectionate; Flora looked
unusually lovely, Dora had been more than ordinarily amiable. At
parting, my lady gave him both her hands, and called benedictions from
the ceiling down upon him. Papa had said in his most jovial manner,
“Hang it, nephew! when I was thy age I should have kissed two such fine
girls as Do and Flo ere this, and my own flesh and blood too! Don't tell
me! I should, my Lady Warrington! Odds-fish! 'tis the boy blushes, and
not the girls! I think--I suppose they are used to it. He, he!”
“Papa!” cry the virgins.
“Sir Miles!” says the august mother at the same instant.
“There, there!” says papa. “A kiss won't do no harm, and won't tell no
tales: will it, nephew Harry?” I suppose, during the utterance of the
above three brief phrases, the harmless little osculatory operation has
taken place, and blushing cousin Harry has touched the damask cheek of
cousin Flora and cousin Dora.
As he goes downstairs with his uncle, mamma makes a speech to the
girls, looking, as usual, up to the ceiling, and saying, “What precious
qualities your poor dear cousin has! What shrewdness mingled with his
simplicity, and what a fine genteel manner, though upon mere worldly
elegance I set little store. What a dreadful pity to think that such a
vessel should ever be lost! We must rescue him, my loves. We must
take him away from those wicked companions, and those horrible
Castlewoods--not that I would speak ill of my neighbours. But I shall
hope, I shall pray, that he may be rescued from his evil courses!” And
again Lady Warrington eyes the cornice in a most determined manner, as
the girls wistfully look towards the door behind which their interesting
cousin has just vanished.
His uncle will go downstairs with him. He calls “God bless you, my boy!”
most affectionately: he presses Harry's hand, and repeats his valuable
benediction at the door. As it closes, the light from the hall within
having sufficiently illuminated Mr. Warrington's face and figure, two
gentlemen, who have been standing on the opposite side of the way,
advance rapidly, and one of them takes a strip of paper out of his
pocket, and putting his hand upon Mr. Warrington's shoulder, declares
him his prisoner. A hackney-coach is in attendance, and poor Harry goes
to sleep in Chancery Lane.
Oh, to think that a Virginian prince's back should be slapped by a
ragged bailiffs follower!--that Madam Esmond's son should be in a
spunging-house in Cursitor Street! I do not envy our young prodigal his
rest on that dismal night. Let us hit him now he is down, my beloved
young friends. Let us imagine the stings of remorse keeping him wakeful
on his dingy pillow; the horrid jollifications of other hardened inmates
of the place ringing in his ears from the room hard by, where they sit
boozing; the rage and shame and discomfiture. No pity on him, I say,
my honest young gentlemen, for you, of course, have never indulged in
extravagance or folly, or paid the reckoning of remorse.