RURAL HOSPITALITY.--AN EXTRAORDINARY GUEST.--A FIN$ GENTLEMAN IS NOT
NECESSARILY A FOOL.
WE were all three (my brothers and myself) precocious geniuses. Our
early instructions, under a man like the Abbe, at once learned and
worldly, and the society into which we had been initiated from our
childhood, made us premature adepts in the manners of the world; and I,
in especial, flattered myself that a quick habit of observation rendered
me no despicable profiter by my experience. Our academy, too, had been
more like a college than a school; and we had enjoyed a license that
seemed to the superficial more likely to benefit our manners than to
strengthen our morals. I do not think, however, that the latter
suffered by our freedom from restraint. On the contrary, we the earlier
learned that vice, but for the piquancy of its unlawfulness, would never
be so captivating a goddess; and our errors and crimes in after life had
certainly not their origin in our wanderings out of academical bounds.
It is right that I should mention our prematurity of intellect, because,
otherwise, much of my language and reflections, as detailed in the first
book of this history, might seem ill suited to the tender age at which
they occurred. However, they approach, as nearly as possible, to my
state of mind at that period; and I have, indeed, often mortified my
vanity in later life by thinking how little the march of time has
ripened my abilities, and how petty would have been the intellectual
acquisitions of manhood, if they had not brought me something like
content!
My uncle had always, during his retirement, seen as many people as he
could assemble out of the "mob of gentlemen who /live at/ ease." But,
on our quitting school and becoming men, he resolved to set no bounds to
his hospitality. His doors were literally thrown open; and as he was by
far the greatest person in the district--to say nothing of his wines,
and his French cook--many of the good people of London did not think it
too great an honour to confer upon the wealthy representative of the
Devereuxs the distinction of their company and compliments. Heavens!
what notable samples of court breeding and furbelows did the crane-neck
coaches, which made our own family vehicle look like a gilt tortoise,
pour forth by couples and leashes into the great hall; while my gallant
uncle, in new periwig and a pair of silver-clocked stockings (a present
from a /ci-devant/ fine lady), stood at the far end of the
picture-gallery to receive his visitors with all the graces of the last
age.
My mother, who had preserved her beauty wonderfully, sat in a chair of
green velvet, and astonished the courtiers by the fashion of a dress
only just imported. The worthy Countess (she had dropped in England the
loftier distinction of /Madame la Marechale/) was however quite innocent
of any intentional affectation of the /mode/; for the new stomacher, so
admired in London, had been the last alteration in female garniture at
Paris a month before my father died. Is not this "Fashion" a noble
divinity to possess such zealous adherents?--a pitiful, lackey-like
creature, which struts through one country with the cast-off finery of
another!
As for Aubrey and Gerald, they produced quite an effect; and I should
most certainly have been thrown irrevocably into the background had I
not been born to the good fortune of an eldest son. This was far more
than sufficient to atone for the comparative plainness of my person; and
when it was discovered that I was also Sir William's favourite, it is
quite astonishing what a beauty I became! Aubrey was declared too
effeminate; Gerald too tall. And the Duchess of Lackland one day, when
she had placed a lean, sallow ghost of a daughter on either side of me,
whispered my uncle in a voice, like the /aside/ of a player, intended
for none but the whole audience, that the young Count had the most
imposing air and the finest eyes she had ever seen. All this inspired
me with courage, as well as contempt; and not liking to be beholden
solely to my priority of birth for my priority of distinction, I
resolved to become as agreeable as possible. If I had not in the vanity
of my heart resolved also to be "myself alone," Fate would have
furnished me at the happiest age for successful imitation with an
admirable model.
Time rolled on; two years were flown since I had left school, and
Montreuil was not yet returned. I had passed the age of eighteen, when
the whole house, which, as it was summer, when none but cats and
physicians were supposed gifted by Providence with the power to exist in
town, was uncommonly full,--the whole house, I say, was thrown into a
positive fever of expectation. The visit of a guest, if not of greater
consequence at least of greater interest than any who had hitherto
honoured my uncle, was announced. Even the young Count, with the most
imposing air in the world and the finest eyes, was forgotten by
everybody but the Duchess of Lackland and her daughters, who had just
returned to Devereux Court to observe how amazingly the Count had grown!
Oh! what a prodigy wisdom would be, if it were but blest with a memory
as keen and constant as that of interest!
Struck with the universal excitement, I went to my uncle to inquire the
name of the expected guest. My uncle was occupied in fanning the Lady
Hasselton, a daughter of one of King Charles's Beauties. He had only
time to answer me literally, and without comment; the guest's name was
Mr. St. John.
I had never conned the "Flying Post," and I knew nothing about politics.
"Who is Mr. St. John?" said I; my uncle had renewed the office of a
zephyr. The daughter of the Beauty heard and answered, "The most
charming person in England." I bowed and turned away. "How vastly
explanatory!" said I. I met a furious politician. "Who is Mr. St.
John?" I asked.
"The cleverest man in England," answered the politician, hurrying off
with a pamphlet in his hand.
"Nothing can be more satisfactory," thought I. Stopping a coxcomb of
the first water, "Who is Mr. St. John?" I asked.
"The finest gentleman in England," answered the coxcomb, settling his
cravat.
"Perfectly intelligible!" was my reflection on this reply; and I
forthwith arrested a Whig parson,--"Who is Mr. St. John?" said I.
"The greatest reprobate in England!" answered the Whig parson, and I was
too stunned to inquire more.
Five minutes afterwards the sound of carriage wheels was heard in the
courtyard, then a slight bustle in the hall, and the door of the
ante-room being thrown open Mr. St. John entered.
He was in the very prime of life, about the middle height, and of a mien
and air so strikingly noble that it was some time before you recovered
the general effect of his person sufficiently to examine its peculiar
claims to admiration. However, he lost nothing by a further survey: he
possessed not only an eminently handsome but a very extraordinary
countenance. Through an air of /nonchalance/, and even something of
lassitude; through an ease of manners sometimes sinking into effeminate
softness, sometimes bordering upon licentious effrontery,--his eye
thoughtful, yet wandering, seemed to announce that the mind partook but
little of the whim of the moment, or of those levities of ordinary life
over which the grace of his manner threw so peculiar a charm. His brow
was, perhaps, rather too large and prominent for the exactness of
perfect symmetry, but it had an expression of great mental power and
determination. His features were high, yet delicate, and his mouth,
which, when closed, assumed a firm and rather severe expression,
softened, when speaking, into a smile of almost magical enchantment.
Richly but not extravagantly dressed, he appeared to cultivate rather
than disdain the ornaments of outward appearance; and whatever can
fascinate or attract was so inherent in this singular man that all which
in others would have been most artificial was in him most natural: so
that it is no exaggeration to add that to be well dressed seemed to the
elegance of his person not so much the result of art as of a property
innate and peculiar to himself.
Such was the outward appearance of Henry St. John; one well suited to
the qualities of a mind at once more vigorous and more accomplished than
that of any other person with whom the vicissitudes of my life have ever
brought me into contact.
I kept my eye on the new guest throughout the whole day: I observed the
mingled liveliness and softness which pervaded his attentions to women,
the intellectual yet unpedantic superiority he possessed in his
conversations with men; his respectful demeanour to age; his careless,
yet not over-familiar, ease with the young; and, what interested me more
than all, the occasional cloud which passed over his countenance at
moments when he seemed sunk into a revery that had for its objects
nothing in common with those around him.
Just before dinner St. John was talking to a little group, among whom
curiosity seemed to have drawn the Whig parson whom I have before
mentioned. He stood at a little distance, shy and uneasy; one of the
company took advantage of so favourable a butt for jests, and alluded to
the bystander in a witticism which drew laughter from all but St. John,
who, turning suddenly towards the parson, addressed an observation to
him in the most respectful tone. Nor did he cease talking with him
(fatiguing as the conference must have been, for never was there a
duller ecclesiastic than the gentleman conversed with) until we
descended to dinner. Then, for the first time, I learned that nothing
can constitute good breeding that has not good-nature for its
foundation; and then, too, as I was leading Lady Barbara Lackland to the
great hall by the tip of her forefinger I made another observation.
Passing the priest, I heard him say to a fellow-clerk,--
"Certainly, he is the greatest man in England;" and I mentally remarked,
"There is no policy like politeness; and a good manner is the best thing
in the world, either to get one a good name or to supply the want of
it."