“Is it not obvious, my dear Vivian, that true Fame and true Happiness

must rest upon the imperishable social affections? I do not mean that

coterie celebrity which paltry minds accept as fame; but that which

exists independent of the opinions or the intrigues of individuals: nor

do I mean that glittering show of perpetual converse with the world

which some miserable wanderers call Happiness; but that which can only

be drawn from the sacred and solitary fountain of your own feelings.

“Active as you have now become in the great scenes of human affairs, I

would not have you be guided by any fanciful theories of morals or of

human nature. Philosophers have amused themselves by deciding on human

actions by systems; but, as these systems are of the most opposite

natures, it is evident that each philosopher, in reflecting his own

feelings in the system he has so elaborately formed, has only painted

his own character.

“Do not, therefore, conclude, with Hobbes and Mandeville, that man lives

in a state of civil warfare with man; nor with Shaftesbury, adorn with a

poetical philosophy our natural feelings. Man is neither the vile nor

the excellent being which he sometimes imagines himself to be. He does

not so much act by system as by sympathy. If this creature cannot always

feel for others, he is doomed to feel for himself; and the vicious are,

at least, blessed with the curse of remorse.

“You are now inspecting one of the worst portions of society in what is

called the great world (St. Giles’ is bad, but of another kind), and it

may be useful, on the principle that the actual sight of brutal ebriety

was supposed to have inspired youth with the virtue of temperance; on

the same principle that the Platonist, in the study of deformity,

conceived the beautiful. Let me warn you not to fall into the usual

error of youth in fancying that the circle you move in is precisely the

world itself. Do not imagine that there are not other beings, whose

benevolent principle is governed by finer sympathies, by more generous

passions, and by those nobler emotions which really constitute all our

public and private virtues. I give you this hint, lest, in your present

society, you might suppose these virtues were merely historical.

“Once more, I must beseech you not to give loose to any elation of mind.

The machinery by which you have attained this unnatural result must be

so complicated that in the very tenth hour you will find yourself

stopped in some part where you never counted on an impediment; and the

want of a slight screw or a little oil will prevent you from

accomplishing your magnificent end.

“We are, and have been, very dull here. There is every probability of

Madame de Genlis writing more volumes than ever. I called on the old

lady, and was quite amused with the enthusiasm of her imbecility.

Chateaubriand is getting what you call a bore; and the whole city is mad

about a new opera by Boieldieu. Your mother sends her love, and desires

me to say, that the _salmi_ of woodcocks, _à la Lucullus_, which you write

about, does not differ from the practice here in vogue. How does your

cousin Hargrave prosper on his circuit? The Delmingtons are here, which

makes it very pleasant for your mother, as well as for myself; for it

allows me to hunt over the old bookshops at my leisure. There are no new

books worth sending you, or they would accompany this; but I would

recommend you to get Meyer’s new volume from Treüttel and Wurtz, and

continue to make notes as you read it. Give my compliments to the

Marquess, and believe me,

“Your affectionate father,

“HORACE GREY.”

CHAPTER IX

It was impossible for any human being to behave with more kindness than

the Marquess of Carabas did to Vivian Grey after that young gentleman’s

short conversation with Mrs. Felix Lorraine in the conservatory. The

only feeling which seemed to actuate the Peer was an eager desire to

compensate, by his present conduct, for any past misunderstanding, and

he loaded his young friend with all possible favour. Still Vivian was

about to quit Château Desir; and in spite of all that had passed, he was

extremely loth to leave his noble friend under the guardianship of his

female one.

About this time, the Duke and Duchess of Juggernaut, the very pink of

aristocracy, the wealthiest, the proudest, the most ancient, and most

pompous couple in Christendom, honoured Château Desir with their

presence for two days; only two days, making the Marquess’s mansion a

convenient resting-place in one of their princely progresses to one of

their princely castles.

Vivian contrived to gain the heart of her Grace by his minute

acquaintance with the Juggernaut pedigree; and having taken the

opportunity, in one of their conversations, to describe Mrs. Felix

Lorraine as the most perfect specimen of divine creation with which he

was acquainted, at the same time the most amusing and the most amiable

of women, that lady was honoured with an invitation to accompany her

Grace to Himalaya Castle. As this was the greatest of all possible

honours, and as Desir was now very dull, Mrs. Felix Lorraine accepted

the invitation, or rather obeyed the command, for the Marquess would not

hear of a refusal, Vivian having dilated in the most energetic terms on

the opening which now presented itself of gaining the Juggernaut. The

coast being thus cleared, Vivian set off the next day for Sir

Berdmore Scrope’s.

BOOK IV

CHAPTER I

The important hour drew nigh. Christmas was to be passed by the Carabas

family, the Beaconsfields, the Scropes, and the Clevelands at Lord

Courtown’s villa at Richmond; at which place, on account of its vicinity

to the metropolis, the Viscount had determined to make out the holidays,

notwithstanding the Thames entered his kitchen windows, and the Donna

del Lago was acted in the theatre with real water, Cynthia Courtown

performing Elena, paddling in a punt.

“Let us order our horses, Cleveland, round to the Piccadilly gate, and

walk through the Guards. I must stretch my legs. That bore, Horace

Buttonhole, captured me in Pall Mall East, and has kept me in the same

position for upwards of half an hour. I shall make a note to blackball

him at the Athenaeum. How is Mrs. Cleveland?”

“Extremely well. She goes down to Buckhurst Lodge with Lady Carabas. Is

not that Lord Lowersdale?”

“His very self. He is going to call on Vivida Vis, I have no doubt.

Lowersdale is a man of very considerable talent; much more than the

world gives him credit for.”

“And he doubtless finds a very able counsellor in Monsieur le

Sécrétaire?”

“Can you name a better one?”

“You rather patronise Vivida, I think, Grey?”

“Patronise him! he is my political pet!”

“And yet Kerrison tells me you reviewed the Suffolk papers in the

Edinburgh.”

“So I did; what of that? I defended them in Blackwood.”

“This, then, is the usual method of you literary gentlemen. Thank God! I

never could write a line.”

“York House rises proudly; if York House be its name.”

“This confounded Catholic Question is likely to give us a great deal of

trouble, Grey. It is perfect madness for us to advocate the cause of the

‘six millions of hereditary bondsmen;’ and yet, with not only the

Marchese, but even Courtown and Beaconsfield committed, it is, to say

the least, a very delicate business.”

“Very delicate, certainly; but there are some precedents, I suspect,

Cleveland, for the influence of a party being opposed to measures which

the heads of that party had pledged themselves to adopt.”

“Does old Gifford still live at Pimlico, Grey?”

“Still.”

“He is a splendid fellow, after all.”

“Certainly, a mind of great powers, but bigoted.”

“Oh, yes! I know exactly what you are going to say. It is the fashion, I

am aware, to abuse the old gentleman. He is the Earl of Eldon of

literature; not the less loved because a little vilified. But, when I

just remember what Gifford has done; when I call to mind the perfect and

triumphant success of everything he has undertaken; the Anti-Jacobin,

the Baviad and Maeviad, the Quarterly; all palpable hits, on the very

jugular; I hesitate before I speak of William Gifford in any other

terms, or in any other spirit, than those of admiration and of

gratitude.

“And to think. Grey, that the Tory Administration and the Tory party of

Great Britain should never, by one single act, or in a single instance,

have indicated that they were in the least aware that the exertions of

such a man differed in the slightest degree from those of Hunt and Hone!

Of all the delusions which flourish in this mad world, the delusion of

that man is the most frantic who voluntarily, and of his own accord,

supports the interest of a party. I mention this to you because it is

the rock on which all young politicians strike. Fortunately, you enter

life under different circumstances from those which usually attend most

political debutants. You have your connections formed and your views

ascertained. But if, by any chance, you find yourself independent and

unconnected, never, for a moment, suppose that you can accomplish your

objects by coming forward, unsolicited, to fight the battle of a party.

They will cheer your successful exertions, and then smile at your

youthful zeal; or, crossing themselves for the unexpected succour, be

too cowardly to reward their unexpected champion. No, Grey; make them

fear you, and they will kiss your feet. There is no act of treachery or

meanness of which a political party is not capable; for in politics

there is no honour.

“As to Gifford, I am surprised at their conduct towards him, although I

know better than most men of what wood a minister is made, and how much

reliance may be placed upon the gratitude of a party: but Canning; from

Canning I certainly did expect different conduct.”

“Oh, Canning! I love the man: but as you say, Cleveland, ministers have

short memories, and Canning’s; that was Antilles that just passed us;

apropos to whom, I quite rejoice that the Marquess has determined to

take such a decided course on the West India Question.”

“Oh, yes! curse your East India sugar.”

“To be sure; slavery and sweetmeats forever!”

“But, aside with joking, Grey, I really think, that if any man of

average ability dare rise in the House, and rescue many of the great

questions of the day from what Dugald Stuart or Disraeli would call the

spirit of Political Religionism, with which they are studiously mixed

up, he would not fail to make a great impression upon the House, and a

still greater one upon the country.”

“I quite agree with you; and certainly I should recommend commencing

with the West India Question. Singular state of affairs when even

Canning can only insinuate his opinion when the very existence of some

of our most valuable colonies is at stake, and when even his

insinuations are only indulged with an audience on the condition that he

favours the House with an introductory discourse of twenty minutes on

‘the divine Author of our faith,’ and an éloge of equal length on the

Génie du Christianisme, in a style worthy of Chateaubriand.”

“Miserable work, indeed! I have got a pamphlet on the West India

Question sent me this morning. Do you know any raving lawyer, any mad

Master in Chancery, or something of the kind, who meddles in

these affairs?”

“Oh! Stephen! a puddle in a storm! He is for a crusade for the

regeneration of the Antilles; the most forcible of feebles, the most

energetic of drivellers; Velluti acting Pietro l’Eremita.”

“Do you know, by any chance, whether Southey’s Vindiciae is out yet? I

wanted to look it over during the holidays.”

“Not out, though it has been advertised some time; but what do you

expect?”

“Nay, it is an interesting controversy, as controversies go. Not exactly

Milton and Salmasius; but fair enough.”

“I do not know. It has long degenerated into a mere personal bickering

between the Laureate and Butler. Southey is, of course, revelling in the

idea of writing an English work with a Latin title! and that, perhaps,

is the only circumstance for which the controversy is prolonged.”

“But Southey, after all, is a man of splendid talents.”

“Doubtless; the most philosophical of bigots, and the most poetical of

prose writers.”

“Apropos to the Catholic Question, there goes Colonial Bother’em trying

to look like Prince Metternich; a decided failure.”

“What can keep him in town?”

“Writing letters, I suppose, Heaven preserve me from receiving any of

them!”

“Is it true, then, that his letters are of the awful length that is

whispered?”

“True! Oh! they are something beyond all conception! Perfect epistolary

Boa Constrictors. I speak with feeling, for I have myself suffered under

their voluminous windings.”

“Have you seen his quarto volume: ‘The Cure for the Catholic Question?’”

“Yes.”

“If you have it, lend it to me. What kind of thing is it?”

“Oh! what should it be! ingenious and imbecile. He advises the

Catholics, in the old nursery language, to behave like good boys; to

open their mouths and shut their eyes, and see what God will send them.”

“Well, that is the usual advice. Is there nothing more characteristic of

the writer?”

“What think you of a proposition of making Jockey of Norfolk Patriarch

of England, and of an ascertained _credo_ for our Catholic

fellow-subjects? Ingenious, is not it?”

“Have you seen Puff’s new volume of Ariosto?”

“I have. What could possibly have induced Mr. Partenopex Puff to have

undertaken such a duty? Mr. Puff is a man destitute of poetical powers,

possessing no vigour of language, and gifted with no happiness of

expression. His translation is hard, dry, and husky, as the outside of a

cocoanut. I am amused to see the excellent tact with which the public

has determined not to read his volumes, in spite of the incessant

exertions of a certain set to ensure their popularity; but the time has

gone by when the smug coterie could create a reputation.”

“Do you think the time ever existed, Cleveland?”

“What could have seduced Puff into being so ambitious? I suppose his

admirable knowledge of Italian; as if a man were entitled to strike a

die for the new sovereign merely because he was aware how much alloy

might legally debase its carats of pure gold.”

“I never can pardon Puff for that little book on Cats. The idea was

admirable; but, instead of one of the most delightful volumes that ever

appeared, to take up a dull, tame compilation from Bingley’s Animal

Biography!”

“Yes! and the impertinence of dedicating such a work to the Officers of

His Majesty’s Household troops! Considering the quarter from whence it

proceeded, I certainly did not expect much, but still I thought that

there was to be some little esprit. The poor Guards! how nervous they

must have been at the announcement! What could have been the point of

that dedication?”

“I remember a most interminable proser, who was blessed with a very

sensible-sounding voice, and who, on the strength of that, and his

correct and constant emphases, was considered by the world, for a great

time, as a sage. At length it was discovered that he was quite the

reverse. Mr. Puff’s wit is very like this man’s wisdom. You take up one

of his little books, and you fancy, from its titlepage, that it is going

to be very witty; as you proceed, you begin to suspect that the man is

only a wag, and then, surprised at not ‘seeing the point,’ you have a

shrewd suspicion that he is a great hand at dry humour. It is not till

you have closed the volume that you wonder who it is that has had the

hardihood to intrude such imbecility upon an indulgent world.”

“Come, come! Mr. Puff is a worthy gentleman. Let him cease to dusk the

radiancy of Ariosto’s sunny stanzas, and I shall be the first man who

will do justice to his merits. He certainly tattles prettily about

tenses and terminations, and is not an inelegant grammarian.”

“Our literature, I think, is at a low ebb.”

“There is nothing like a fall of stocks to affect what it is the fashion

to style the Literature of the present day, a fungus production which

has flourished from the artificial state of our society, the mere

creature of our imaginary wealth. Everybody being very rich, has

afforded to be very literary, books being considered a luxury almost as

elegant and necessary as ottomans, bonbons, and pier-glasses. Consols

at 100 were the origin of all book societies. The Stockbrokers’ ladies

took off the quarto travels and the hot-pressed poetry. They were the

patronesses of your patent ink and your wire-wove paper. That is all

past. Twenty per cent difference in the value of our public securities

from this time last year, that little incident has done more for the

restoration of the old English feeling, than all the exertions of Church

and State united. There is nothing like a fall in Consols to bring the

blood of our good people of England into cool order. It is your grand

state medicine, your veritable Doctor Sangrado!

“A fall in stocks! and halt to ‘the spread of knowledge!’ and ‘the

progress of liberal principles’ is like that of a man too late for

post-horses. A fall in stocks! and where are your London Universities,

and your Mechanics’ Institutes, and your new Docks? Where your

philosophy, your philanthropy, and your competition? National prejudices

revive as national prosperity decreases. If the Consols were at 60 we

should be again bellowing, God save the King! eating roast beef, and

damning the French.”

“And you imagine literature is equally affected, Grey?”

“Clearly. We were literary because we were rich. Amid the myriad of

volumes which issued monthly from the press, what one was not written

for the mere hour? It is all very well to buy mechanical poetry and

historical novels when our purses have a plethora; but now, my dear

fellow, depend upon it, the game is up. We have no scholars now, no

literary recluses, no men who ever appear to think. ‘Scribble, scribble,

scribble’ as the Duke of Cumberland said to Gibbon, should be the motto

of the mighty ‘nineteenth century.’”

“Southey, I think, Grey, is an exception.”

“By no means. Southey is a political writer, a writer for a particular

purpose. All his works, from those in three volumes quarto to those in

one duodecimo, are alike political pamphlets.”

“We certainly want a master-spirit to set us right, Grey. We want

Byron.”

“There was the man! And that such a man should be lost to us at the very

moment that he had begun to discover why it had pleased the Omnipotent

to have endowed him with such powers!”

“If one thing were more characteristic of Byron’s mind than another, it

was his strong, shrewd, common sense; his pure, unalloyed sagacity.”

“You knew him, I think, Cleveland?”

“Well, I was slightly acquainted with him when in England; slightly,

however, for I was then very young. But many years afterwards I met him

in Italy. It was at Pisa, just before he left that place for Genoa. I

was then very much struck at the alteration in his appearance.”

“Indeed.”

“Yes; his face was swollen, and he was getting fat. His hair was grey,

and his countenance had lost that spiritual expression which it once

eminently possessed. His teeth were decaying; and he said that if ever

he came to England it would be to consult Wayte about them. I certainly

was very much struck at his alteration for the worse. Besides, he was

dressed in the most extraordinary manner.”

“Slovenly?”

“Oh, no, no, no! in the most dandified style that you can conceive; but

not that of an English dandy either. He had on a magnificent foreign

foraging cap, which he wore in the room, but his grey curls were quite

perceptible; and a frogged surtout; and he had a large gold chain round

his neck, and pushed into his waistcoat pocket. I imagined, of course,

that a glass was attached to it; but I afterwards found that it bore

nothing but a quantity of trinkets. He had also another gold chain tight

round his neck, like a collar.”

“How odd! And did you converse much with him?”

“I was not long at Pisa, but we never parted, and there was only one

subject of conversation, England, England, England. I never met a man in

whom the maladie du pays was so strong. Byron was certainly at this time

restless and discontented. He was tired of his dragoon captains and

pensioned poetasters, and he dared not come back to England with what he

considered a tarnished reputation. His only thought was of some

desperate exertion to clear himself: it was for this he went to Greece.

When I was with him he was in correspondence with some friends in

England about the purchase of a large tract of land in Colombia. He

affected a great admiration of Bolivar.”

“Who, by-the-bye, is a great man.”

“Assuredly.”

“Your acquaintance with Byron must have been one of the gratifying

incidents of your life, Cleveland?”

“Certainly; I may say with Friar Martin, in Goetz of Berlichingen, ‘The

sight of him touched my heart. It is a pleasure to have seen a

great man.’”

“Hobhouse was a faithful friend to him?”

“His conduct has been beautiful; and Byron had a thorough affection for

him, in spite of a few squibs and a few drunken speeches, which damned

good-natured friends have always been careful to repeat.”

“The loss of Byron can never be retrieved. He was indeed a real man; and

when I say this, I award him the most splendid character which human

nature need aspire to. At least, I, for my part, have no ambition to be

considered either a divinity or an angel; and truly, when I look round

upon the creatures alike effeminate in mind and body of which the world

is, in general, composed, I fear that even my ambition is too exalted.

Byron’s mind was like his own ocean, sublime in its yesty madness,

beautiful in its glittering summer brightness, mighty in the lone

magnificence of its waste of waters, gazed upon from the magic of its

own nature, yet capable of representing, but as in a glass darkly, the

natures of all others.”

“Hyde Park is greatly changed since I was a dandy, Vivian. Pray, do the

Misses Otranto still live in that house?”

“Yes; blooming as ever.”

“It is the fashion to abuse Horace Walpole, but I really think him the

most delightful writer that ever existed. I wonder who is to be the

Horace Walpole of the present century? some one, perhaps, we

least suspect.”

“Vivida Vis, think you?”

“More than probable. I will tell you who ought to be writing Memoirs;

Lord Dropmore. Does my Lord Manfred keep his mansion there, next to the

Misses Otranto?”

“I believe so, and lives there.”

“I knew him in Germany; a singular man, and not understood. Perhaps he

does not understand himself. I see our horses.”

“I will join you in an instant, Cleveland. I just want to speak one word

to Osborne, whom I see coming down here. Well, Osborne, I must come and

knock you up one of these mornings. I have got a commission for you from

Lady Julia Knighton, to which you must pay particular attention.”

“Well, Mr. Grey, how does Lady Julia like the bay mare?”

“Very much, indeed; but she wants to know what you have done about the

chestnut.”

“Oh! put it off, sir, in the prettiest style, on young Mr. Feoffment,

who has just married, and taken a house in Gower Street. He wanted a bit

of blood; hopes he likes it!”

“Hopes he does, Jack. There is a particular favour which you can do for

me, Osborne, and which I am sure you will. Ernest Clay; you know Ernest

Clay; a most excellent fellow is Ernest Clay, you know, and a great

friend of yours, Osborne; I wish you would just step down to Connaught

Place, and look at those bays he bought of Harry Mounteney. He is in a

little trouble, and we must do what we can for him; you know he is an

excellent fellow, and a great friend of yours. Thank you, I knew you

would. Good morning; remember Lady Julia. So you really fitted young

Feoffment with the chestnut; well, that was admirable! Good morning.”

“I do not know whether you care for these things at all, Cleveland, but

Premium, a famous millionaire, has gone this morning, for I know not how

much! Half the new world will be ruined; and in this old one a most

excellent fellow, my friend Ernest Clay. He was engaged to Premium’s

daughter, his last resource, and now, of course, it is all up with him.”

“I was at College with his brother, Augustus Clay. He is a nephew of

Lord Mounteney’s, is he not?”

“The very same. Poor fellow! I do not know what we must do for him. I

think I shall advise him to change his name to Clay_ville_; and if the

world ask him the reason of the euphonious augmentation, why, he can

swear it was to distinguish himself from his brothers. Too many roués of

the same name will never do. And now spurs to our steeds! for we are

going at least three miles out of our way, and I must collect my senses

and arrange my curls before dinner, for I have to flirt with at least

three fair ones.”

CHAPTER II

These conversations play the very deuce with one’s story. We had

intended to have commenced this book with something quite terrific, a

murder or a marriage; and all our great ideas have ended in a lounge.

After all, it is, perhaps, the most natural termination. In life,

surely man is not always as monstrously busy as he appears to be in

novels and romances. We are not always in action, not always making

speeches or making money, or making war, or making love. Occasionally we

talk, about the weather generally; sometimes about, ourselves; oftener

about our friends; as often about our enemies, at least, those who have

any; which, in my opinion, is the vulgarest of all possessions.

But we must get on.

Mr. Cleveland and Mrs. Felix Lorraine again met, and the gentleman

scarcely appeared to be aware that this meeting was not their first. The

lady sighed and remonstrated. She reproached Mr. Cleveland with passages

of letters. He stared, and deigned not a reply to an artifice which he

considered equally audacious and shallow. There was a scene. Vivian was

forced to interfere; but as he deprecated all explanation, his

interference was of little avail; and, as it was ineffectual for one

party and uncalled for by the other, it was, of course, not encouraged.

The presence of Mrs. Cleveland did not tend to assist Mrs. Felix in that

self-control which, with all her wildness, she could appositely

practise. In the presence of the Clevelands she was fitful, capricious,

perplexing; sometimes impertinent, sometimes humble; but always ill at

ease, and never charming.

Peculiar, however, as was her conduct in this particular relation, it

was in all others, at this moment, most exemplary. Her whole soul seemed

concentrated in the success of the approaching struggle. No office was

too mechanical for her attention, or too elaborate for her enthusiastic

assiduity. Her attentions were not confined merely to Vivian and the

Marquess, but were lavished with equal generosity on their colleagues.

She copied letters for Sir Berdmore, and composed letters for Lord

Courtown, and construed letters to Lord Beaconsfield; they, in return,

echoed her praises to her delighted relative, who was daily

congratulated on the possession of “such a fascinating sister in law.”

“Well, Vivian,” said Mrs. Lorraine, to that young gentleman, the day

previous to his departure from Buckhurst Lodge, “you are going to leave

me behind you.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes! I hope you will not want me. I am very annoyed at not being able

to go to town with you, but Lady Courtown is so pressing! and I have

really promised so often to stay a week with her, that I thought it was

better to make out my promise at once than in six months hence.”

“Well! I am exceedingly sorry, for you really are so useful! and the

interest you take in everything is so encouraging, that I very much fear

we shall not be able to get on without you. The important hour

draws nigh.”

“It does, indeed, Vivian; and I assure you that there is no person

awaiting it with intenser interest than myself. I little thought,” she

added, in a low but distinct voice, “I little thought, when I first

reached England, that I should ever again be interested in anything in

this world.”

Vivian was silent, for he had nothing to say.

“Vivian!” very briskly resumed Mrs. Lorraine, “I shall get you to frank

all my letters for me. I shall never trouble the Marquess again. Do you

know, it strikes me you will make a very good speaker!”

“You flatter me exceedingly; suppose you give me a few lessons.”

“But you must leave off some of your wicked tricks, Vivian! You must not

improvise parliamentary papers!”

“Improvise papers, Mrs. Lorraine! What can you mean?”

“Oh! nothing. I never mean anything.”

“But you must have had some meaning.”

“Some meaning! Yes, I dare say I had; I meant; I meant; do you think it

will rain to-day?”

“Every prospect of a hard frost. I never knew before that I was an

improvisatore.”

“Nor I. Have you heard from papa lately? I suppose he is quite in

spirits at your success?”

“My father is a man who seldom gives way to any elation of mind.”

“Ah, indeed! a philosopher, I have no doubt, like his son.”

“I have no claims to the title of philosopher, although I have had the

advantage of studying in the school of Mrs. Felix Lorraine.”

“What do you mean? If I thought you meant to be impertinent, I really

would; but I excuse you; I think the boy means well.”

“The boy ‘means nothing; he never means anything.’”

“Come, Vivian! we are going to part. Do not let us quarrel the last day.

There, there is a sprig of myrtle for you!

What! not accept my foolish flower?

Nay, then, I am indeed unblest!

and now you want it all! Unreasonable young man! If I were not the

kindest lady in the land I should tear this sprig into a thousand pieces

sooner; but come, my child! you shall have it. There! it looks quite

imposing in your button-hole. How handsome you look to-day!”

“How agreeable you are! I love compliments!”

“Ah, Vivian! will you never give me credit for anything but a light and

callous heart? Will you never be convinced that, that; but why make this

humiliating confession? Oh! no, let me be misunderstood for ever! The

time may come when Vivian Grey will find that Amalia Lorraine was--”

“Was what, madam?”

“You shall choose the word, Vivian.”

“Say, then, my friend.”

“‘Tis a monosyllable full of meaning, and I will not quarrel with it.

And now, adieu! Heaven prosper you! Believe me, that my first thoughts

and my last are for you and of you!”

CHAPTER III

“This is very kind of you, Grey! I was afraid my note might not have

caught you. You have not breakfasted? Really I wish you would take up

your quarters in Carabas House, for I want you now every moment.”

“What is the urgent business of this morning?”

“Oh! I have seen Bromley.”

“Hah!”

“And everything most satisfactory, I did not go into detail; I left that

for you: but I ascertained sufficient to convince me that management is

now alone required.”

“Well, my Lord, I trust that will not be wanting.”

“No, Vivian; you have opened my eyes to the situation in which fortune

has placed me. The experience of every day only proves the truth and

soundness of your views. Fortunate, indeed, was the hour in which

we met.”

“My Lord, I do trust that it was a meeting which neither of us will live

to repent.”

“Impossible! my dear friend, I do not hesitate to say that I would not

change my present lot for that of any Peer of this realm; no, not for

that of His Majesty’s most favoured counsellor. What! with my character

and my influence, and my connections, I to be a tool! I, the Marquess of

Carabas! I say nothing of my own powers; but, as you often most justly

and truly observe, the world has had the opportunity of judging of them;

and I think I may recur, without vanity, to the days in which my voice

had some weight in the Royal Councils. And, as I have often remarked, I

have friends, I have you, Vivian. My career is before you. I know what I

should have done at your age; not to say what I did do. I to be a tool!

The very last person that ought to be a tool. But I see my error: you

have opened my eyes, and blessed be the hour in which we met. But we

must take care how we act, Vivian; we must be wary; eh! Vivian, wary,

wary. People must know what their situations are; eh! Vivian?”

“Exceedingly useful knowledge; but I do not exactly understand the

particular purport of your Lordship’s last observation.”

“You do not, eh?” asked the Peer; and he fixed his eyes as earnestly and

expressively as he possibly could upon his young companion. “Well, I

thought not. I was positive it was not true,” continued the Marquess

in a murmur.

“What, my Lord?”

“Oh! nothing, nothing; people talk at random, at random, at random. I

feel confident you quite agree with me; eh! Vivian?”

“Really, my Lord, I fear I am unusually dull this morning.”

“Dull! no, no; you quite agree with me. I feel confident you do. People

must be taught what their situations are; that is what I was saying,

Vivian. My Lord Courtown,” added the Marquess, in a whisper, “is not to

have everything his own way; eh! Vivian?”

“Oh, oh!” thought Vivian; “this, then, is the result of that admirable

creature, Miss Felix Lorraine, staying a week with her dear friend, Lady

Courtown.”

“My Lord, it would be singular if, in the Carabas party, the Carabas

interest was not the predominant one.”

“I knew you thought so. I could not believe for a minute that you could

think otherwise: but some people take such strange ideas into their

heads, I cannot account for them. I felt confident what would be your

opinion. My Lord Courtown is not to carry everything before him in the

spirit that I have lately observed; or rather, in the spirit which I

understand, from very good authority, is exhibited. Eh! Vivian; that is

your opinion, is not it?”

“Oh! my dear Marquess, we must think alike on this, as on all points.”

“I knew it. I felt confident as to your sentiments upon this subject. I

cannot conceive why some people take such strange ideas into their

heads! I knew that you could not disagree with me upon this point. No,

no, no; my Lord Courtown must feel which is the predominant interest, as

you so well express it. How choice your expressions always are! I do not

know how it is, but you always hit upon the right expression, Vivian.

The predominant interest, the pre-do-mi-nant in-te-rest. To be sure.

What! with my high character and connections, with my stake in society,

was it to be expected that I, the Marquess of Carabas, was going to make

any move which compromised the predominancy of my interests? No, no, no,

my Lord Courtown; the predominant interest must be kept predominant;

eh! Vivian?”

“To be sure, my Lord; explicitness and decision will soon arrange any

désagrémens.”

“I have been talking to Lady Carabas, Vivian, upon the expediency of her

opening the season early. I think a course of parliamentary dinners

would produce a good effect. It gives a tone to a political party.”

“Certainly; the science of political gastronomy has never been

sufficiently studied.”

“Egad! Vivian, I am in such spirits this morning. This business of

Bromley so delights me; and finding you agree with me about Lord

Courtown, I was confident as to your sentiments on that point. But some

people take such strange ideas into their heads! To be sure, to be sure,

the predominant interest, mine, that is to say ours, Vivian, is the

predominant interest. I have no idea of the predominant interest not

being predominant; that would be singular! I knew you would agree with

me; we always agree. ‘Twas a lucky hour when we met. Two minds so

exactly alike! I was just your very self when I was young; and as for

you, my career is before you.”

Here entered Mr. Sadler with the letters.

“One from Courtown. I wonder if he has seen Mounteney. Mounteney is a

very good-natured fellow, and I think might be managed. Ah! I wish you

could get hold of him, Vivian; you would soon bring him round. What it

is to have brains, Vivian!” and here the Marquess shook his head very

pompously, and at the same time tapped very significantly on his left

temple. “Hah! what, what is all this? Here, read it, read it, man; I

have no head to-day.”

Vivian took the letter, and his quick eye dashed through its contents in

a second. It was from Lord Courtown, and dated far in the country. It

talked of private communications, and premature conduct, and the

suspicious, not to say dishonourable, behaviour of Mr. Vivian Grey: it

trusted that such conduct was not sanctioned by his Lordship, but

“nevertheless obliged to act with decision, regretted the necessity,”

&c. &c. &c. &c. In short, Lord Courtown had deserted, and recalled his

pledge as to the official appointment promised to Mr. Cleveland,

“because that promise was made while he was the victim of delusions

created by the representations of Mr. Grey.”

“What can all this mean, my Lord?”

The Marquess swore a fearful oath, and threw another letter.

“This is from Lord Beaconsfield, my Lord,” said Vivian, with a face

pallid as death, “and apparently the composition of the same writer; at

least, it is the same tale, the same refacimento of lies, and treachery,

and cowardice, doled out with diplomatic politesse. But I will off

to ----shire instantly. It is not yet too late to save everything. This

is Wednesday; on Thursday afternoon I shall be at Norwood Park. Thank

God! I came this morning.”

The face of the Marquess, who was treacherous as the wind, seemed

already to indicate “Adieu! Mr. Vivian Grey!” but that countenance

exhibited some very different passions when it glanced over the contents

of the next epistle. There was a tremendous oath and a dead silence. His

Lordship’s florid countenance turned as pale as that of his companion.

The perspiration stole down in heavy drops. He gasped for breath!

“Good God! my Lord, what is the matter?”

“The matter!” howled the Marquess, “the matter! That I have been a vain,

weak, miserable fool!” and then there was another oath, and he flung the

letter to the other side of the table.

It was the official congé of the Most Noble Sydney Marquess of Carabas.

His Majesty had no longer any occasion for his services. His successor

was Lord Courtown!

We will not affect to give any description of the conduct of the

Marquess of Carabas at this moment. He raved, he stamped, he

blasphemed! but the whole of his abuse was levelled against his former

“monstrous clever” young friend; of whose character he had so often

boasted that his own was the prototype, but who was now an adventurer, a

swindler, a scoundrel, a liar, a base, deluding, flattering, fawning

villain, &c. &c. &c. &c,

“My Lord,” said Vivian.

“I will not hear you; out on your fair words! They have duped me enough

already. That I, with my high character and connections! that I, the

Marquess of Carabas, should have been the victim of the arts of a young

scoundrel!”

Vivian’s fist was once clenched, but it was only for a moment. The

Marquess leant back in his chair with his eyes shut. In the agony of the

moment a projecting tooth of his upper jaw had forced itself through his

under lip, and from the wound the blood was flowing freely over his dead

white countenance. Vivian left the room.

CHAPTER IV

He stopped one moment on the landing-place, ere he was about to leave

the house for ever.

“‘Tis all over! and so, Vivian Grey, your game is up! and to die, too,

like a dog! a woman’s dupe! Were I a despot, I should perhaps satiate my

vengeance upon this female fiend with the assistance of the rack, but

that cannot be; and, after all, it would be but a poor revenge in one

who has worshipped the Empire of the Intellect to vindicate the agony I

am now enduring upon the base body of a woman. No! ‘tis not all over.

There is yet an intellectual rack of which few dream: far, far more

terrific than the most exquisite contrivances of Parysatis. Jacinte,”

said he to a female attendant that passed, “is your mistress at home?”

“She is, sir.”

“‘Tis well,” said Vivian, and he sprang upstairs.

“Health to the lady of our love!” said Vivian Grey, as he entered the

elegant boudoir of Mrs. Felix Lorraine. “In spite of the easterly wind,

which has spoiled my beauty for the season, I could not refrain from

inquiring after your prosperity before I went to the Marquess. Have you

heard the news?”

“News! no; what news?”

“‘Tis a sad tale,” said Vivian, with a melancholy voice.

“Oh! then, pray do not tell it me. I am in no humour for sorrow to-day.

Come! a bon-mot, or a calembourg, or exit Mr. Vivian Grey.”

“Well, then, good morning! I am off for a black crape, or a Barcelona

kerchief. Mrs. Cleveland is dead.”

“Dead!” exclaimed Mrs. Lorraine.

“Dead! She died last night, suddenly. Is it not horrible?”

“Shocking!” exclaimed Mrs. Lorraine, with a mournful voice and an eye

dancing with joy. “Why, Mr. Grey, I do declare you are weeping.”

“It is not for the departed!”

“Nay, Vivian! for Heaven’s sake, what is the matter?”

“My dear Mrs. Lorraine!” but here the speaker’s voice was choked with

grief, and he could not proceed.

“Pray compose yourself.”

“Mrs. Felix Lorraine, can I speak with you half an hour, undisturbed?”

“By all means. I will ring for Jacinte. Jacinte! mind I am not at home

to anyone. Well, what is the matter?”

“O! madam, I must pray your patience; I wish you to shrive a penitent.”

“Good God! Mr. Grey! for Heaven’s sake be explicit.”

“For Heaven’s sake, for your sake, for my soul’s sake, I would be

explicit; but explicitness is not the language of such as I am. Can you

listen to a tale of horror? can you promise me to contain yourself?”

“I will promise anything. Pray, pray proceed.”

But in spite of her earnest solicitations her companion was mute. At

length he rose from his chair, and leaning on the chimney-piece, buried

his face in his hands and wept.

“Vivian,” said Mrs. Lorraine, “have you seen the Marquess yet?”

“Not yet,” he sobbed; “I am going to him, but I am in no humour for

business this morning.”

“Compose yourself, I beseech you. I will hear everything. You shall not

complain of an inattentive or an irritable auditor. Now, my dear Vivian,

sit down and tell me all.” She led him to a chair, and then, after

stifling his sobs, with a broken voice he proceeded.

“You will recollect, madam, that accident made me acquainted with

certain circumstances connected with yourself and Mr. Cleveland. Alas!

actuated by the vilest of sentiments, I conceived a violent hatred

against that gentleman, a hatred only to be equalled by my passion for

you; but I find difficulty in dwelling upon the details of this sad

story of jealousy and despair.”

“Oh! speak, speak! compensate for all you have done by your present

frankness; be brief, be brief.”

“I will be brief,” said Vivian, with earnestness: “I will be brief. Know

then, madam, that in order to prevent the intercourse between you and

Mr. Cleveland from proceeding I obtained his friendship, and became the

confidante of his heart’s sweetest secret. Thus situated, I suppressed

the letters with which I was entrusted from him to you, and, poisoning

his mind, I accounted for your silence by your being employed in other

correspondence; nay, I did more; with the malice of a fiend, I boasted

of--; nay, do not stop me; I have more to tell.”

Mrs. Felix Lorraine, with compressed lips and looks of horrible

earnestness, gazed in silence.

“The result of all this you know; but the most terrible part is to come;

and, by a strange fascination, I fly to confess my crimes at your feet,

even while the last minutes have witnessed my most heinous one. Oh!

madam. I have stood over the bier of the departed; I have mingled my

tears with those of the sorrowing widower, his young and tender child

was on my knee, and as I kissed his innocent lips, me thought it was but

my duty to the departed to save the father from his mother’s rival--”

He stopped.

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Mrs. Felix Lorraine, in a low whisper.

“It was then, even then, in the hour of his desolation, that I mentioned

your name, that it might the more disgust him; and while he wept over

his virtuous and sainted wife, I dwelt on the vices of his rejected

mistress.”

Mrs. Lorraine clasped her hands, and moved restlessly on her seat.

“Nay! do not stop me; let me tell all. ‘Cleveland,’ said I, ‘if ever you

become the husband of Mrs. Felix Lorraine, remember my last words: it

will be well for you if your frame be like that of Mithridates of

Pontus, and proof against ---- poison.’”

“And did you say this?” shrieked the woman.

“Even these were my words.”

“Then may all evil blast you!” She threw herself on the sofa; her voice

was choked with the convulsions of her passion, and she writhed in

fearful agony.

Vivian Grey, lounging in an arm-chair in the easiest of postures, and

with a face brilliant with smiles, watched his victim with the eye of a

Mephistopheles.

She slowly recovered, and, with a broken voice, poured forth her sacred

absolution to the relieved penitent.

“You wonder I do not stab you; hah! hah! hah! there is no need for that!

the good powers be praised that you refused the draught I once

proffered. Know, wretch, that your race is run. Within five minutes you

will breathe a beggar and an outcast. Your golden dreams are over, your

cunning plans are circumvented, your ambitious hopes are crushed for

ever, you are blighted in the very spring of your life. Oh, may you

never die! May you wander for ever, the butt of the world’s malice; and

may the slow moving finger of scorn point where’er you go at the ruined

Charlatan!”

“Hah, hah! is it so? Think you that Vivian Grey would fall by a woman’s

wile? Think you that Vivian Grey could be crushed by such a worthless

thing as you? Know, then, that your political intrigues have been as

little concealed from me as your personal ones; I have been acquainted

with all. The Marquess has himself seen the Minister, and is more firmly

established in his pride of place than ever. I have myself seen our

colleagues, whom you tampered with, and their hearts are still true, and

their purpose still fixed. All, all prospers; and ere five days are

passed ‘the Charlatan’ will be a Senator.”

The shifting expression of Mrs. Lorraine’s countenance, while Vivian was

speaking, would have baffled the most cunning painter. Her complexion

was capricious as the chameleon’s, and her countenance was so convulsed

that her features seemed of all shapes and sizes. One large vein

protruded nearly a quarter of an inch from her forehead, and the dank

light which gleamed in her tearful eye was like an unwholesome meteor

quivering in a marsh. When he ended she sprang from the sofa, and,

looking up and extending her arms with unmeaning wildness, she gave one

loud shriek and dropped like a bird shot on the wing; she had burst a

blood-vessel.

Vivian raised her on the sofa and paid her every possible attention.

There is always a medical attendant lurking about the mansions of the

noble, and to this worthy and the attendant Jacinte Vivian delivered

his patient.

Had Vivian Grey left the boudoir a pledged bridegroom his countenance

could not have been more triumphant; but he was labouring under

unnatural excitement; for it is singular that when, as he left the

house, the porter told him that Mr. Cleveland was with his Lord, Vivian

had no idea at the moment what individual bore that name. The fresh air

of the street revived him, and somewhat cooled the bubbling of his

blood. It was then that the man’s information struck upon his senses.

“So, poor Cleveland!” thought Vivian; “then he knows all!” His own

misery he had not yet thought of; but when Cleveland occurred to him,

with his ambition once more baulked, his high hopes once more blasted,

and his honourable soul once more deceived; when he thought of his fair

wife, and his infant children, and his ruined prospects, a sickness came

over his heart, he grew dizzy, and fell.

“And the gentleman’s ill, I think,” said an honest Irishman; and, in the

fulness of his charity, he placed Vivian on a door-step.

“So it seems,” said a genteel passenger in black; and he snatched, with

great sang-froid, Vivian’s watch. “Stop thief!” hallooed the Hibernian.

Paddy was tripped up. There was a row, in the midst of which Vivian Grey

crawled to an hotel.

CHAPTER V

In half an hour Vivian was at Mr. Cleveland’s door.

“My master is at the Marquess of Carabas’, sir; he will not return, but

is going immediately to Richmond, where Mrs. Cleveland is staying.”

Vivian immediately wrote to Mr. Cleveland. “If your master have left the

Marquess’, let this be forwarded to him at Richmond immediately.”

“CLEVELAND!

“You know all. It would be mockery were I to say that at this moment I

am not thinking of myself. I am a ruined man in body and in mind. But

my own misery is nothing; I can die, I can go mad, and who will be

harmed? But you! I had wished that we should never meet again; but my

hand refuses to trace the thoughts with which my heart is full, and I am

under the sad necessity of requesting you to see me once more. We have

been betrayed, and by a woman; but there has been revenge. Oh,

what revenge!

“VIVIAN GREY.”

When Vivian left Mr. Cleveland’s he actually did not know what to do

with himself. Home, at present, he could not face, and so he continued

to wander about, quite unconscious of locality. He passed in his

progress many of his acquaintance, who, from his distracted air and

rapid pace, imagined that he was intent on some important business. At

length he found himself in one of the most sequestered parts of

Kensington Gardens. It was a cold, frosty day, and as Vivian flung

himself upon one of the summer seats the snow drifted from off the

frozen board; but Vivian’s brow was as burning hot as if he had been an

inhabitant of Sirius. Throwing his arms on a small garden table, he

buried his face in his hands and wept as men can but once weep in

this world.

O, thou sublime and most subtle philosopher, who, in thy lamp-lit cell,

art speculating upon the passions which thou hast never felt! O, thou

splendid and most admirable poet, who, with cunning words, art painting

with a smile a tale of woe! tell me what is Grief, and solve me the

mystery of Sorrow.

Not for himself, for after the first pang he would have whistled off his

high hopes with the spirit of a Ripperda; not even for Cleveland, for at

this moment, it must be confessed, his thoughts were not for his friend,

did Vivian Grey’s soul struggle as if it were about to leave its fleshy

chamber. We said he wept as men can weep but once in this world, and yet

it would have been impossible for him to have defined what, at that

fearful moment, was the cause of his heart’s sorrow. Incidents of

childhood of the most trivial nature, and until this moment forgotten,

flashed across his memory; he gazed on the smile of his mother, he

listened to the sweet tones of his father’s voice, and his hand

clenched, with still more agonised grasp, his rude resting-place, and

the scalding tears dashed down his cheek in still more ardent torrents.

He had no distinct remembrance of what had so lately happened; but

characters flitted before him as in a theatre, in a dream, dim and

shadowy, yet full of mysterious and undefinable interest; and then there

came a horrible idea across his mind that his glittering youth was gone

and wasted; and then there was a dark whisper of treachery, and

dissimulation, and dishonour; and then he sobbed as if his very heart

were cracking. All his boasted philosophy vanished; his artificial

feelings fled him. Insulted Nature reasserted her long-spurned

authority, and the once proud Vivian Grey felt too humble even to curse

himself. Gradually his sobs became less convulsed and his brow more

cool; and, calm from very exhaustion, he sat for upwards of an hour

motionless.

At this moment there issued, with their attendant, from an adjoining

shrubbery, two beautiful children. They were so exceedingly lovely that

the passenger would have stopped to gaze upon them. The eldest, who yet

was very young, was leading his sister hand in hand with slow and

graceful steps, mimicking the courtesy of men. But when his eye caught

Vivian’s the boy uttered a loud cry of exultation, and rushed, with the

eagerness of infantile affection, to his gentle and favourite playmate.

They were the young Clevelands. With what miraculous quickness will man

shake off the outward semblance of grief when his sorrow is a secret!

The mighty merchant, who knows that in four-and-twenty hours the world

must be astounded by his insolvency, will walk in the front of his

confident creditor as if he were the lord of a thousand argosies; the

meditating suicide will smile on the arm of a companion as if to breathe

in this sunny world were the most ravishing and rapturous bliss. We

cling to our stations in our fellow-creatures’ minds and memories; we

know too well the frail tenure on which we are in this world great and

considered personages. Experience makes us shrink from the specious

sneer of sympathy; and when we are ourselves falling, bitter Memory

whispers that we have ourselves been neglectful.

And so it was that even unto these infants Vivian Grey dared not appear

other than a gay and easy-hearted man; and in a moment he was dancing

them on his knee, and playing with their curls, and joining in their

pretty prattle, and pressing their small and fragrant lips.

It was night when he paced down--. He passed his club; that club to

become a member of which had once been the object of his high ambition,

and to gain which privilege had cost such hours of canvassing, such

interference of noble friends, and the incurring of favours from so many

people, “which never could be forgotten!”

A desperate feeling actuated him, and he entered the Club-house. He

walked into the great saloon and met some fifty “most particular

friends,” all of whom asked him “how the Marquess did,” or “have you

seen Cleveland?” and a thousand other as comfortable queries. At length,

to avoid these disagreeable rencontres, and indeed to rest himself, he

went to a smaller and more private room. As he opened the door his eyes

lighted upon Cleveland.

He was standing with his back to the fire. There were only two other

persons in the room; one was a friend of Cleveland’s, and the other an

acquaintance of Vivian’s. The latter was writing at the table.

When Vivian saw Cleveland he would have retired, but he was bid to “come

in” in a voice of thunder.

As he entered he instantly perceived that Cleveland was under the

influence of wine. When in this situation, unlike other men, Mr.

Cleveland’s conduct was not distinguished by any of the little

improprieties of behaviour by which a man is always known by his friends

“to be very drunk.” He neither reeled, nor hiccuped, nor grew maudlin.

The effect of drinking upon him was only to increase the intensity of

the sensation by which his mind was at the moment influenced. He did not

even lose the consciousness of identity of persons. At this moment it

was clear to Vivian that Cleveland was under the influence of the

extremest passion; his eyes rolled wildly, and seemed fixed only upon

vacancy. As Vivian was no friend to scenes before strangers he bowed to

the two gentlemen and saluted Cleveland with his wonted cordiality; but

his proffered hand was rudely repelled.

“Away!” exclaimed Cleveland, in a furious tone; “I have no friendship

for traitors.”

The two gentlemen stared, and the pen of the writer stopped.

“Cleveland!” said Vivian, in an earnest whisper, as he came up close to

him; “for God’s sake contain yourself. I have written you a letter which

explains all; but--”

“Out! out upon you. Out upon your honied words and your soft phrases! I

have been their dupe too long;” and he struck Vivian.

“Sir John Poynings!” said Vivian, with a quivering lip, turning to the

gentleman who was writing at the table, “we were school-fellows;

circumstances have prevented us from meeting often in after-life; but I

now ask you, with the frankness of an old acquaintance, to do me the sad

service of accompanying me in this quarrel, a quarrel which I call

Heaven to witness is not of my seeking.”

The Baronet, who was in the Guards, and although a great dandy, quite a

man of business in these matters, immediately rose from his seat and led

Vivian to a corner of the room. After some whispering he turned round to

Mr. Cleveland, and bowed to him with a very significant look. It was

evident that Cleveland comprehended his meaning, for, though he was

silent, he immediately pointed to the other gentleman, his friend, Mr.

Castleton.

“Mr. Castleton,” said Sir John, giving his card, “Mr. Grey will

accompany me to my rooms in Pall Mall; it is now ten o’clock; we shall

wait two hours, in which time I hope to hear from you. I leave time, and

place, and terms to yourself. I only wish it to be understood that it is

the particular desire of my principal that the meeting should be as

speedy as possible.”

About eleven o’clock the communication from Mr. Castleton arrived. It

was quite evident that Cleveland was sobered, for in one instance Vivian

observed that the style was corrected by his own hand. The hour was

eight the next morning, at ---- Common, about six miles from town.

Poynings wrote to a professional friend to be on the ground at half-past

seven, and then he and Vivian retired.

Did you ever fight a duel? No? nor send a challenge either? Well! you

are fresh, indeed! ‘Tis an awkward business, after all, even for the

boldest. After an immense deal of negotiation, and giving your opponent

every opportunity of coming to an honourable understanding, the fatal

letter is at length signed, sealed, and sent. You pass your mornings at

your second’s apartments, pacing his drawing-room with a quivering lip

and uncertain step. At length he enters with an answer; and while he

reads you endeavour to look easy, with a countenance merry with the most

melancholy smile. You have no appetite for dinner, but you are too brave

not to appear at table; and you are called out after the second glass by

the arrival of your solicitor, who comes to alter your will. You pass a

restless night, and rise in the morning as bilious as a Bengal general.

Urged by impending fate, you make a desperate effort to accommodate

matters; but in the contest between your pride and your terror you at

the same time prove that you are a coward and fail in the negotiation.

You both fire and miss, and then the seconds interfere, and then you

shake hands: everything being arranged in the most honourable manner and

to the mutual satisfaction of both parties. The next day you are seen

pacing Bond Street with an erect front and a flashing eye, with an air

at once dandyish and heroical, a mixture at the same time of Brummell

and the Duke of Wellington.

It was a fine February morning. Sir John drove Vivian to the ground in

his cabriolet.

“Nothing like a cab, Grey, for the business you are going on: you glide

along the six miles in such style that it actually makes you quite

courageous. I remember once going down, on a similar purpose, in a post

and pair, and ‘pon my soul, when I came to the ground, my hand shook so

that I could scarcely draw. But I was green then. Now, when I go in my

cab, with Philidor with his sixteen-mile-an-hour paces, egad! I wing my

man in a trice; and take all the parties home to Pall Mall, to celebrate

the event with a grilled bone, Havannahs, and Regent’s punch. Ah! there!

that is Cleveland that we have just passed, going to the ground in a

chariot: he is a dead man, or my name is not Poynings.”

“Come, Sir John; no fear of Cleveland’s dying,” said Vivian, with a

smile.

“What? You mean to fire in the air, and all that sort of thing?

Sentimental, but slip-slop!”

The ground is measured, all is arranged. Cleveland, a splendid shot,

fired first. He grazed Vivian’s elbow. Vivian fired in the air. The

seconds interfered. Cleveland was implacable, and, “in the most

irregular manner,” as Sir John declared, insisted upon another shot. To

the astonishment of all, he fired quite wild. Vivian shot at random, and

his bullet pierced Cleveland’s heart. Cleveland sprang nearly two yards

from the ground and then fell upon his back. In a moment Vivian was at

the side of his fallen antagonist, but the dying man “made no sign;” he

stared wildly, and then closed his eyes for ever!

CHAPTER VI

When Vivian Grey remembered his existence he found himself in bed. The

curtains of his couch were closed; but as he stared around him they were

softly withdrawn, and a face that recalled everything to his

recollection gazed upon him with a look of affectionate anxiety.

“My father!” exclaimed Vivian; but the finger pressed on the parental

lip warned him to silence. His father knelt by his side, and then the

curtains were again closed.

Six weeks, unconsciously to Vivian, had elapsed since the fatal day, and

he was now recovering from the effects of a fever from which his medical

attendants had supposed he never could have rallied. And what had been

the past? It did indeed seem like a hot and feverish dream. Here was he

once more in his own quiet room, watched over by his beloved parents;

and had there then ever existed such beings as the Marquess, and Mrs.

Lorraine, and Cleveland, or were they only the actors in a vision? “It

must be so,” thought Vivian; and he jumped up in his bed and stared

wildly around him. “And yet it was a horrid dream! Murder, horrible

murder! and so real, so palpable! I muse upon their voices as upon

familiar sounds, and I recall all the events, not as the shadowy

incidents of sleep, that mysterious existence in which the experience of

a century seems caught in the breathing of a second, but as the natural

and material consequences of time and stirring life. O, no! it is too

true!” shrieked the wretched sufferer, as his eye glanced upon a

despatch-box which was on the table, and which had been given to him by

Lord Carabas; “It is true! it is true! Murder! murder!” He foamed at the

mouth, and sank exhausted on his pillow.

But the human mind can master many sorrows, and, after a desperate

relapse and another miraculous rally, Vivian Grey rose from his bed.

“My father, I fear that I shall live!”

“Hope, rather, my beloved.”

“Oh! why should I hope?” and the sufferer’s head sank upon his breast.

“Do not give way, my son; all will yet be well, and we shall all yet be

happy,” said the father, with streaming eyes.

“Happy! oh, not in this world, my father!”

“Vivian, my dearest, your mother visited you this morning, but you were

asleep. She was quite happy to find you slumbering so calmly.”

“And yet my dreams were not the dreams of joy. O, my mother! you were

wont to smile upon me; alas! you smiled upon your sorrow.”

“Vivian, my beloved! you must indeed restrain your feelings. At your age

life cannot be the lost game you think it. A little repose, and I shall

yet see my boy the honour to society which he deserves to be.”

“Alas! my father, you know not what I feel. The springiness of my mind

has gone. O, man, what a vain fool thou art! Nature has been too

bountiful to thee. She has given thee the best of friends, and thou

valuest not the gift of exceeding price until the griefs are past even

friendship’s cure. O, my father! why did I leave thee?” and he seized

Mr. Grey’s hand with convulsive grasp.

Time flew on, even in this house of sorrow. “My boy,” said Mr. Grey to

his son one day, “your mother and I have been consulting together about

you; and we think, now that you have somewhat recovered your strength,

it may be well for you to leave England for a short time. The novelty of

travel will relieve your mind without too much exciting it; and if you

can manage by the autumn to settle down anywhere within a thousand miles

of England, why we will come and join you, and you know that will be

very pleasant. What say you to this little plan?”

In a few weeks after this proposition had been made Vivian Grey was in

Germany. He wandered for some months in that beautiful land of rivers,

among which flows the Rhine, matchless in its loveliness; and at length

the pilgrim shook the dust off his feet at Heidelberg, in which city

Vivian proposed taking up his residence. It is, in truth, a place of

surpassing loveliness, where all the romantic wildness of German scenery

is blended with the soft beauty of the Italian. An immense plain, which,

in its extent and luxuriance, reminds you of the fertile tracts of

Lombardy, is bordered on one side by the Bergstrasse Mountains, and on

the other by the range of the Vosges. Situate on the river Neckar, in a

ravine of the Bergstrasse, amid mountains covered with vines, is

Heidelberg; its ruined castle backing the city, and still frowning from

one of the most commanding heights. In the middle of the broad plain may

be distinguished the shining spires of Mannheim, Worms, and Frankenthal;

and pouring its rich stream through this luxuriant land, the beautiful

and abounding Rhine receives the tribute of the Neckar. The range of the

Vosges forms the extreme distance.

To the little world of the little city of which he was now an habitant

Vivian Grey did not appear a broken-hearted man. He lived neither as a

recluse nor a misanthrope. He became extremely addicted to field sports,

especially to hunting the wild boar; for he feared nothing so much as

thought, and dreaded nothing so much as the solitude of his own chamber.

He was an early riser to escape from hideous dreams; and at break of

dawn he wandered among the wild passes of the Bergstrasse; or, climbing

a lofty ridge, was a watcher for the rising sun; and in the evening he

sailed upon the star-lit Neckar.

BOOK V

CHAPTER I

Thou rapid Aar! thy waves are swollen by the snows of a thousand hills;

but for whom are thy leaping waters fed? Is it for the Rhine?

Calmly, O placid Neckar! does thy blue stream glide through thy

vine-clad vales; but calmer seems thy course when it touches the

rushing Rhine!

How fragrant are the banks which are cooled by thy dark-green waters,

thou tranquil Maine! but is not the perfume sweeter of the gardens of

the Rhine?

Thou impetuous Nah! I lingered by thine islands of nightingales, and I

asked thy rushing waters why they disturbed the music of thy groves?

They told me they were hastening to the Rhine!

Red Moselle! fierce is the swell of thy spreading course; but why do thy

broad waters blush when they meet the Rhine?

Thou delicate Meuse! how clear is the current of thy limpid wave; as the

wife yields to the husband do thy pure waters yield to the Rhine!

And thou, triumphant and imperial River, flushed with the tribute of

these vassal streams! thou art thyself a tributary, and hastenest even

in the pride of conquest to confess thine own vassalage! But no superior

stream exults in the homage of thy servile waters; the Ocean, the

eternal Ocean, alone comes forward to receive thy kiss! not as a

conqueror, but as a parent, he welcomes with proud joy his gifted child,

the offspring of his honour; thy duty, his delight; thy tribute, thine

own glory!

Once more upon thy banks, most beauteous Rhine! In the spring-time of my

youth I gazed on thee, and deemed thee matchless. Thy vine-enamoured

mountains, thy spreading waters, thy traditionary crags, thy shining

cities, the sparkling villages of thy winding shores, thy antique

convents, thy grey and silent castles, the purple glories of thy radiant

grape, the vivid tints of thy teeming flowers, the fragrance of thy sky,

the melody of thy birds, whose carols tell the pleasures of their sunny

woods; are they less lovely now, less beautiful, less sweet?

The keen emotions of our youth are often the occasion of our estimating

too ardently; but the first impression of beauty, though often

overcharged, is seldom supplanted: and as the first great author which

he reads is reverenced by the boy as the most immortal, and the first

beautiful woman that he meets is sanctified by him as the most adorable;

so the impressions created upon us by those scenes of nature which first

realise the romance of our reveries never escape from our minds, and are

ever consecrated in our memories; and thus some great spirits, after

having played their part on the theatre of the world, have retired from

the blaze of courts and cities to the sweet seclusion of some spot with

which they have accidentally met in the earliest years of their career.

But we are to speak of one who had retired from the world before his

time.

Upwards of a year had elapsed since Vivian Grey left England. The mode

of life which he pursued at Heidelberg for many months has already been

mentioned. He felt himself a broken-hearted man, and looked for death,

whose delay was no blessing; but the feelings of youth which had misled

him in his burning hours of joy equally deceived him in his days of

sorrow. He lived; and in the course of time found each day that life was

less burdensome. The truth is, that if it be the lot of man to suffer,

it is also his fortune to forget. Oblivion and sorrow share our being,

as Darkness and Light divide the course of time. It is not in human

nature to endure extremities, and sorrows soon destroy either us or

themselves. Perhaps the fate of Niobe is no fable, but a type of the

callousness of our nature. There is a time in human suffering when

succeeding sorrows are but like snow falling on an iceberg. It is indeed

horrible to think that our peace of mind should arise, not from a

retrospection of the past, but from a forgetfulness of it; but, though

this peace be produced at the best by a mental opiate, it is not

valueless; and Oblivion, after all, is a just judge. As we retain but a

faint remembrance of our felicity, it is but fair that the smartest

stroke of sorrow should, if bitter, at least be brief. But in feeling

that he might yet again mingle in the world, Vivian Grey also felt that

he must meet mankind with different feelings, and view their pursuits

with a different interest. He woke from his secret sorrow in as changed

a state of being as the water nymph from her first embrace; and he woke

with a new possession, not only as miraculous as Undine’s soul, but

gained at as great a price, and leading to as bitter results. The nymph

woke to new pleasures and to new sorrows; and, innocent as an infant,

she deemed mankind a god, and the world a paradise. Vivian Grey

discovered that this deity was but an idol of brass, and this garden of

Eden but a savage waste; for, if the river nymph had gained a soul, he

had gained Experience.

Experience, mysterious spirit! whose result is felt by all, whose nature

is described by none. The father warns the son of thy approach, and

sometimes looks to thee as his offspring’s cure and his own consolation.

We hear of thee in the nursery, we hear of thee in the world, we hear of

thee in books; but who has recognised thee until he was thy subject, and

who has discovered the object of so much fame until he has kissed thy

chain? To gain thee is the work of all and the curse of all; thou art at

the same time necessary to our happiness and destructive of our

felicity; thou art the saviour of all things and the destroyer of all

things; our best friend and our bitterest enemy; for thou teachest us

truth, and that truth is, despair. Ye youth of England, would that ye

could read this riddle!

To wake from your bright hopes, and feel that all is vanity, to be

roused from your crafty plans and know that all is worthless, is a

bitter, but your sure, destiny. Escape is impossible; for despair is the

price of conviction. How many centuries have fled since Solomon, in his

cedar palaces, sung the vanity of man! Though his harp was golden and

his throne of ivory, his feelings were not less keen, and his conviction

not less complete. How many sages of all nations have, since the monarch

of Jerusalem, echoed his sad philosophy! yet the vain bubble still

glitters and still allures, and must for ever.

The genealogy of Experience is brief; for Experience is the child of

Thought, and Thought is the child of Action. We cannot learn men from

books, nor can we form, from written descriptions, a more accurate idea

of the movements of the human heart than we can of the movements of

nature. A man may read all his life, and form no conception of the rush

of a mountain torrent, or the waving of a forest of pines in a storm;

and a man may study in his closet the heart of his fellow-creatures for

ever, and have no idea of the power of ambition, or the strength

of revenge.

It is when we have acted ourselves, and have seen others acting; it is

when we have laboured ourselves under the influence of our passions, and

have seen others labouring; it is when our great hopes have been

attained or have been baulked; it is when, after having had the human

heart revealed to us, we have the first opportunity to think; it is then

that the whole truth lights upon us; it is then that we ask of ourselves

whether it be wise to endure such anxiety of mind, such agitation of

spirit, such harrowing of the soul, to gain what may cease to interest

to-morrow, or for which, at the best, a few years of enjoyment can alone

be afforded; it is then that we waken to the hollowness of all human

things; it is then that the sayings of sages and the warnings of

prophets are explained and understood; it is then that we gain

Experience.

Vivian Grey was now about to join, for the second time, the great and

agitated crowd of beings who are all intent in the search after that

undiscoverable talisman, Happiness. That he entertained any hope of

being the successful inquirer is not to be imagined. He considered that

the happiest moment in human life is exactly the sensation of a sailor

who has escaped a shipwreck, and that the mere belief that his wishes

are to be indulged is the greatest bliss enjoyed by man.

How far his belief was correct, how he prospered in this his second

venture on the great ocean of life, it is our business to relate. There

were moments when he wished himself neither experienced nor a

philosopher; moments when he looked back to the lost paradise of his

innocent boyhood, those glorious hours when the unruffled river of his

Life mirrored the cloudless heaven of his Hope!

CHAPTER II

Vivian pulled up his horse as he ascended through the fine beechwood

which leads immediately to the city of Frankfort from the Darmstadt

road. The crowd seemed to increase every moment, but as they were all

hastening the same way, his progress was not much impeded. It was

Frankfort fair; and all countenances were expressive of that excitement

which we always experience at great meetings of our fellow-creatures;

whether the assemblies be for slaughter, pleasure, or profit, and

whether or not we ourselves join in the banquet, the battle, or the

fair. At the top of the hill is an old Roman tower, and from this point

the flourishing city of Frankfort, with its picturesque Cathedral, its

numerous villas, and beautiful gardens in the middle of the fertile

valley of the Maine, burst upon Vivian’s sight. On crossing the bridge

over the river, the crowd became almost impassable, and it was with the

greatest difficulty that Vivian steered his way through the old narrow

winding streets, full of tall ancient houses, with heavy casements and

notched gable ends. These structures did not, however, at the present

moment, greet the traveller with their usual sombre and antique

appearance: their outside walls were, in most instances, covered with

pieces of broad cloth of the most showy colours, red, blue, and yellow

predominating. These standards of trade were not merely used for the

purpose of exhibiting the quality of the article sold in the interior,

but also of informing the curious traveller the name and nation of their

adventurous owners. Inscriptions in German, French, Russian, English,

Italian, and even Hebrew, appeared in striking characters on each

woollen specimen; and, as if these were not sufficient to attract the

attention of the passenger, an active apprentice, or assistant,

commented in eloquent terms on the peculiar fairness and honesty of his

master. The public squares and other open spaces, and indeed every spot

which was secure from the hurrying wheels of the heavy old-fashioned

coaches of the Frankfort aristocracy and the spirited pawings of their

sleek and long-tailed coach-horses, were covered with large and showy

booths, which groaned under the accumulated treasures of all countries.

French silks and French clocks rivalled Manchester cottons and Sheffield

cutlery, and assisted to attract or entrap the gazer, in company with

Venetian chains, Neapolitan coral, and Vienna pipe-heads: here was the

booth of a great book-seller, who looked to the approaching Leipsic fair

for some consolation for his slow sale and the bad taste of the people

of Frankfort; and there was a dealer in Bologna sausages, who felt quite

convinced that in some things the taste of the Frankfort public was by

no means to be lightly spoken of. All was bustle, bargaining, and

business: there were quarrels and conversation in all languages; and

Vivian Grey, although he had no chance either of winning or losing

money, was amused.

At last Vivian gained the High Street; and here, though the crowd was

not less, the space was greater; and so in time he arrived at the grand

hotel of “the Roman Emperor,” where he stopped. It was a long time

before he could be informed whether Baron Julius von Konigstein at

present honoured that respectable establishment with his presence; for,

although Vivian did sometimes succeed in obtaining an audience of a

hurrying waiter, that personage, when in a hurry, has a peculiar habit

of never attending to a question which a traveller addresses to him. In

this dilemma Vivian was saluted by a stately-looking personage above the

common height. He was dressed in a very splendid uniform of green and

gold, covered with embroidery, and glittering with frogs. He wore a

cocked hat adorned with a flowing parti-coloured plume, and from his

broad golden belt was suspended a weapon of singular shape and costly

workmanship. This personage was as stiff and stately as he was

magnificent. His eyes were studiously preserved from the profanation of

meeting the ground, and his well-supported neck seldom condescended to

move from its perpendicular position. His coat was buttoned to the chin

and over the breast, with the exception of one small aperture, which was

elegantly filled up by a delicate white cambric handkerchief, very

redolent of rich perfumes. This gorgeous gentleman, who might have been

mistaken for an elector of the German Empire, had the German Empire been

in existence, or the governor of the city at the least, turned out to be

the chasseur of the Baron von Konigstein; and with his courtly

assistance Vivian soon found himself ascending the staircase of the

Roman Emperor.

Vivian was ushered into an apartment, in which he found three or four

individuals at breakfast. A middle-aged man of distinguished appearance,

in a splendid chamber robe, sprung up from a many-cushioned easy-chair,

and seized his hand as he was announced.

“My dear Mr. Grey! I have left notes for you at the principal hotels.

And how is Eugene? wild blood for a student, but an excellent heart, and

you have been so kind to him! He feels under such particular obligations

to you. Will you breakfast? Ah! I see you smile at my supposing a

horseman unbreakfasted. And have you ridden here from Heidelberg this

morning? Impossible! Only from Darmstadt! I thought so! You were at the

Opera then last night. And how is the little Signora? We are to gain

her though! trust the good people of Frankfort for that! Pray be

seated, but really I am forgetting the commonest rules of breeding. Next

to the pleasure of having friends is that of introducing them to each

other. Prince, you will have great pleasure in being introduced to my

friend, Mr. Grey: Mr. Grey! Prince Salvinski! my particular friend,

Prince Salvinski. The Count von Altenburgh! Mr. Grey! my very particular

friend, the Count von Altenburgh. And the Chevalier de Boeffleurs! Mr.

Grey! my most particular friend, the Chevalier de Boeffleurs.”

Baron Julius von Konigstein was minister to the Diet of Frankfort from a

first-rate German power. In person he was short, but delicately formed;

his head a little bald, but as he was only five-and-thirty, this could

scarcely be from age; and his remaining hair, black, glossy, and

curling, proved that their companion ringlets had not been long lost.

His features were small, but not otherwise remarkable, except a pair of

liquid black eyes, of great size, which would have hardly become a

Stoic, and which gleamed with great meaning and perpetual animation.

“I understand, Mr. Grey, that you are a regular philosopher. Pray who is

the favourite master? Kant or Fichte? or is there any other new star who

has discovered the origin of our essence, and proved the non-necessity

of eating? Count, let me help you to a little more of these saucisses

aux choux. I am afraid, from Eugene’s account, that you are almost past

redemption; and I am sorry to say that, although I am very desirous of

being your physician and effecting your cure, Frankfort will supply me

with very few means to work your recovery. If you could but get me an

appointment once again to your delightful London, I might indeed produce

some effect; or were I even at Berlin, or at your delicious Vienna,

Count Altenburgh! (the Count bowed); or at that Paradise of women,

Warsaw, Prince Salvinski!! (the Prince bowed); or at Paris, Chevalier!!!

(the Chevalier bowed); why, then, indeed, you should have some

difficulty in finding an excuse for being in low spirits with Julius von

Konigstein! But Frankfort, eh! de Boeffleurs?”

“Oh! Frankfort!” sighed the French Chevalier, who was also attached to a

mission in this very city, and who was thinking of his own gay

Boulevards and his brilliant Tuileries.

“We are mere citizens here!” continued the Baron, taking a long pinch of

snuff, “mere citizens! Do you snuff?” and here he extended to Vivian a

gold box, covered with the portrait of a crowned head, surrounded with

diamonds. “A present from the King of Sardinia, when I negotiated the

marriage of the Duke of ---- and his niece, and settled the

long-agitated controversy about the right of anchovy fishing on the left

shore of the Mediterranean.

“But the women,” continued the Baron, “the women; that is a different

thing. There is some amusement among the little bourgeoises, who are

glad enough to get rid of their commercial beaus; whose small talk,

after a waltz, is about bills of exchange, mixed up with a little

patriotism about their free city, and some chatter about what they call

‘the fine arts;’ their awful collections of ‘the Dutch school:’ school

forsooth! a cabbage, by Gerard Dowl and a candlestick, by Mieris! And

now will you take a basin of soup, and warm yourself, while his Highness

continues his account of being frozen to death this spring at the top of

Mont-Blanc: how was it, Prince?”

“Your Highness has been a great traveller?” said Vivian.

“I have seen a little of most countries. These things are interesting

enough when we are young; but when we get a little more advanced in

life, the novelty wears off, and the excitement ceases. I have been in

all quarters of the globe. In Europe I have seen everything except the

miracles of Prince Hohenlohe. In Asia, everything except the ruins of

Babylon. In Africa, I have seen every thing but Timbuctoo; and, in

America, everything except Croker’s Mountains.”

Next to eating, music is the business in which an Austrian is most

interested, and Count von Altenburgh, having had the misfortune of

destroying, for the present, one great source of his enjoyment, became

now very anxious to know what chance there existed of his receiving some

consolation from the other. Pushing his plate briskly from him, he

demanded with an anxious air, “Can any gentleman inform me what chance

there is of the Signora coming?”

“No news to-day,” said the Baron, with a mournful look; “I am almost in

despair. What do you think of the last notes that have been

interchanged?”

“Very little chance,” said the Chevalier de Boeffleurs, shaking his

head. “Really these burghers, with all their affected enthusiasm, have

managed the business exceedingly bad. No opera can possibly succeed that

is not conducted by a committee of noblemen.”

“Certainly!” said the Baron; “we are sure then to have the best singers,

and be in the Gazette the same season.”

“Which is much better, I think, Von Konigstein, than paying our bills

and receiving no pleasure.”

“But,” continued the Baron, “these clumsy burghers, with their affected

enthusiasm, as you well observe; who could have contemplated such

novices in diplomacy! Whatever may be the issue, I can at least lay my

head upon my pillow and feel that I have done my duty. Did not I, de

Boeffleurs, first place the negotiation on a basis of acknowledged

feasibility and mutual benefit? Who drew the protocol, I should like to

know? Who baffled the intrigues of the English Minister, the Lord

Amelius Fitzfudge Boroughby? Who sat up one whole night with the

Signora’s friend, the Russian Envoy, Baron Squallonoff, and who was it

that first arranged about the extra chariot?” and here the

representative of a first-rate German Power looked very much like a

resigned patriot, who feels that he deserves a ribbon.

“No doubt of it, my dear Von Konigstein,” echoed the French Chargé

d’Affaires, “and I think, whatever may be the result, that I, too, may

look back to this negotiation with no ungratified feelings. Had the

arrangement been left as I had wished, merely to the Ministers of the

Great Powers, I am confident that the Signora would have been singing

this night in our Opera House.”

“What is the grand point of difference at present?” asked the Austrian.

“A terrific one,” said the Baron; “the lady demanded twenty covers, two

tables, two carriages, one of which I arranged should be a chariot; that

at least the town owes to me; and, what else? merely a town mansion and

establishment. Exerting myself day and night, these terms were at length

agreed to by the municipality, and the lady was to ride over from

Darmstadt to sign and seal. In the course of her ride she took a cursed

fancy to the country villa of a great Jew banker, and since that moment

the arrangement has gone off. We have offered her everything; the

commandant’s country castle; his lady’s country farm; the villa of the

director of the Opera; the retreat of our present prima donna; all in

vain. We have even hinted at a temporary repose in a neighbouring royal

residence; but all useless. The banker and the Signora are equally

intractable, and Frankfort is in despair.”

“She ought to have signed and sealed at Darmstadt,” said the Count, very

indignantly.

“To be sure! they should have closed upon her caprice, and taken her

when she was in the fancy.”

“Talking of Opera girls,” commenced the Polish Prince, “I remember the

Countess Katszinski--”

“Your Highness has nothing upon your plate,” quickly retorted the Baron,

who was in no humour for a story.

“Nothing more, I thank you,” continued the Prince: “as I was saying, I

remember the Countess Katszinski--” but just at this moment the door

opened, and Ernstorff entered and handed a despatch to the Baron,

recommending it to his Excellency’s particular attention.

“Business, I suppose,” said the Plenipotentiary; “it may wait till

to-morrow.”

“From M. Clarionet, your Excellency.”

“From M. Clarionet!” eagerly exclaimed the Baron, and tore open the

epistle. “Gentlemen! congratulate me, congratulate yourselves,

congratulate Frankfort;” and the diplomatist, overcome, leant back in

his chair. “She is ours, Salvinski! she is ours, Von Altenburgh! she is

ours, my dear de Boeffleurs! Mr. Grey, you are most fortunate; the

Signora has signed and sealed; all is arranged; she sings to-night! What

a fine-spirited body is this Frankfort municipality! what elevation of

soul! what genuine enthusiasm! eh! de Boeffleurs?”

“Most genuine!” exclaimed the Chevalier, who hated German music with all

his heart, and was now humming an air from La Dame Blanche.

“But mind, my dear friend, this is a secret, a cabinet secret; the

municipality are to have the gratification of announcing the event to

the city in a public decree; it is but fair. I feel that I have only to

hint to secure your silence.”

At this moment, with a thousand protestations of secresy, the party

broke up, each hastening to have the credit of first spreading the

joyful intelligence through the circles, and of depriving the Frankfort

senate of their hard-earned gratification. The Baron, who was in high

spirits, ordered the carriage to drive Vivian round the ramparts, where

he was to be introduced to some of the most fashionable beauties,

previous to the evening triumph.

CHAPTER III

Vivian passed a week very agreeably at Frankfort. In the Baron and his

friends he found the companions that he had need of; their conversation

and pursuits diverted his mind without engaging his feelings, and

allowed him no pause to brood. There were moments, indeed, when he found

in the Baron a companion neither frivolous nor uninstructive. His

Excellency had travelled in most countries, and had profited by his

travels. His taste for the fine arts was equalled by his knowledge of

them; and his acquaintance with many of the most eminent men of Europe

enriched his conversation with a variety of anecdotes, to which his

lively talents did ample justice. He seemed fond at times of showing

Vivian that he was not a mere artificial man of the world, destitute of

all feelings, and thinking only of himself: he recurred with

satisfaction to moments of his life when his passions had been in full

play; and, while he acknowledged the errors of his youth with candour,

he excused them with grace. In short, Vivian and he became what the

world calls friends; that is to say, they were men who had no objection

to dine in each other’s company, provided the dinner were good; assist

each other in any scrape, provided no particular personal responsibility

were incurred by the assistant; and live under the same roof, provided

each were master of his own time. Vivian and the Baron, indeed, did more

than this; they might have been described as particular friends, for his

Excellency had persuaded our hero to accompany him for the summer to the

Baths of Ems, a celebrated German watering-place, situate in the duchy

of Nassau, in the vicinity of the Rhine.

On the morrow they were to commence their journey. The fair of

Frankfort, which had now lasted nearly a month, was at its close. A

bright sunshiny afternoon was stealing into twilight, when Vivian,

escaping from the principal street and the attractions of the Braunfels,

or chief shops under the Exchange, directed his steps to some of the

more remote and ancient streets. In crossing a little square his

attention was excited by a crowd which had assembled round a conjuror,

who, from the top of a small cart, which he had converted into a stage,

was haranguing, in front of a green curtain, an audience with great

fervency, and apparently with great effect; at least Vivian judged so

from the loud applauses which constantly burst forth. The men pressed

nearer, shouted, and clapped their hands; and the anxious mothers

struggled to lift their brats higher in the air that they might early

form a due conception of the powers of magic, and learn that the

maternal threats which were sometimes extended to them at home were not

mere idle boasting. Altogether, the men with their cocked hats, stiff

holiday coats, and long pipes; the women with their glazed gowns of

bright fancy patterns, close lace caps, or richly-chased silver

headgear; and the children with their gaping mouths and long heads of

hair, offered quaint studies for a German or Flemish painter. Vivian

became also one of the audience, and not an uninterested one.

The appearance of the conjuror was peculiar. He was not much more than

five feet high, but so slightly formed that he reminded you rather of

the boy than the dwarf. The upper part of his face was even delicately

moulded; his sparkling black eyes became his round forehead, which was

not too much covered by his short glossy black hair; his complexion was

clear, but quite olive; his nose was very small and straight, and

contrasted singularly with his enormous mouth, the thin bluish lips of

which were seldom closed, and consequently did not conceal his large

square teeth, which, though very white, were set apart, and were so

solid that they looked almost like double teeth. This enormous mouth,

which was supported by large jawbones, attracted the attention of the

spectator so keenly that it was some time before you observed the

prodigious size of the ears, which also adorned this extraordinary

countenance. The costume of this being was not less remarkable than his

natural appearance. He wore a complete under dress of pliant leather,

which fitted close up to his throat and down to his wrists and ankles,

where it was clasped with large fastenings, either of gold or some gilt

material. This, with the addition of a species of hussar jacket of green

cloth, which was quite unadorned with the exception of its vivid red

lining, was the sole covering of the conjuror; who, with a light cap and

feather in his hand, was now haranguing the spectators. The object of

his discourse was a panegyric of himself and a satire on all other

conjurors. He was the only conjuror, the real one, a worthy descendant

of the magicians of old.

“Were I to tell that broad-faced Herr,” continued the conjuror, “who is

now gaping opposite to me, that this rod is the rod of Aaron, mayhap he

would call me a liar; yet were I to tell him that he was the son of his

father, he would not think it wonderful! And yet, can he prove it? My

friends, if I am a liar, the whole world is a liar, and yet any one of

you who’ll go and proclaim that on the Braunfels will get his skull

cracked. Every truth is not to be spoken, and every lie is not to be

punished. I have told you that it is better for you to spend your money

in seeing my tricks than in swigging schnaps in the chimney corner; and

yet, my friends, this may be a lie. I have told you that the profits of

this whole night shall be given to some poor and worthy person in this

town; and perhaps I shall give them to myself. What then! I shall speak

the truth; and you will perhaps crack my skull. Is this a reward for

truth? O generation of vipers! My friends, what is truth? who can find

it in Frankfort? Suppose I call upon you, Mr. Baker, and sup with you

this evening; you will receive me as a neighbourly man should, tell me

to make myself at home, and do as I like. Is it not so? I see you smile,

as if my visit would make you bring out one of the bottles of your best

Asmanshausen!”

Here the crowd laughed out; for we are always glad when there is any

talk of another’s hospitality being put to the test, although we stand

no chance of sharing in the entertainment ourselves. The baker looked

foolish, as all men singled out in a crowd do.

“Well, well,” continued the conjuror, “I have no doubt his wine would

be as ready as your tobacco, Mr. Smith; or a wafila from your basket, my

honest cake-seller;” and so saying, with a long thin wand the conjuror

jerked up the basket of an itinerant and shouting pastry-cook, and

immediately began to thrust the contents into his mouth with a rapidity

ludicrously miraculous. The laugh now burst out again, but the honest

baker joined in it this time with an easy spirit.

“Be not disconcerted, my little custard-monger; if thou art honest, thou

shalt prosper. Did I not say that the profits of this night were for the

most poor and the most honest? If thy stock in trade were in thy basket,

my raspberry-puff, verily thou art not now the richest here; and so,

therefore, if thy character be a fair one, that is to say, if thou only

cheat five times a day, and give a tenth of thy cheatery to the poor,

thou shalt have the benefit. I ask thee again, what is truth? If I sup

with the baker, and he tells me to do what I like with all that is his,

and I kiss his wife, he will kick me out; yet to kiss his wife might be

my pleasure, if her breath were sweet. I ask thee again, what is truth?

Truth, they say, lies in a well; but perhaps this is a lie. How do we

know that truth is not in one of these two boxes?” asked the conjuror,

placing his cap on his head, and holding one small snuff-box to a tall,

savage-looking, one-eyed Bohemian, who, with a comrade, had walked over

from the Austrian garrison at Mentz.

“I see but one box,” growled the soldier.

“It is because thou hast only one eye, friend; open the other, and thou

shalt see two,” said the conjuror, in a slow, malicious tone, with his

neck extended, and his hand with the hateful box outstretched in it.

“Now, by our black Lady of Altoting, I’ll soon stop thy prate,

chitterling!” bellowed the enraged Bohemian.

“Murder! the protection of the free city against the Emperor of Austria,

the King of Bohemia, Hungary, and Lombardy!” and the knave retreated to

the very extremity of the stage, and affecting agitating fear, hid

himself behind the green curtain, from a side of which his head was

alone visible, or rather an immense red tongue, which wagged in all

shapes at the unlucky soldier, except when it retired to the interior of

his mouth, to enable him to reiterate “Murder!” and invoke the

privileges of the free city of Frankfort.

When the soldier was a little cooled, the conjuror again came forward,

and, having moved his small magical table to a corner, and lit two

tapers, one of which he placed at each side of the stage, he stripped

off his hussar jacket, and began to imitate a monkey; an animal which,

by the faint light, in his singular costume, he very much resembled. How

amusing were his pranks! He first plundered a rice plantation, and then

he cracked cocoa-nuts; then he washed his face and arranged his toilet

with his right paw; and finally he ran a race with his own tail, which

humorous appendage to his body was very wittily performed for the

occasion by a fragment, of an old tarred rope. His gambols were so

diverting that they even extracted applause from his enemy the one-eyed

serjeant; and, emboldened by the acclamations, from monkeys the conjuror

began to imitate men. He first drank like a Dutchman, and having reeled

round with a thousand oaths, to the manifold amusement of the crowd, he

suddenly began to smoke like a Prussian. Nothing could be more admirable

than the look of complacent and pompous stolidity with which he

accompanied each puff of his pipe. The applause was continued; and the

one-eyed Bohemian serjeant, delighted at the ridicule which was heaped

on his military rival, actually threw the mimic some groschen.

“Keep thy pence, friend,” said the conjuror; “thou wilt soon owe me

more; we have not yet closed accounts. My friends, I have drank like a

Dutchman; I have smoked like a Prussian; and now I will eat like an

Austrian!” and here the immense mouth of the actor seemed distended even

a hundred degrees bigger, while with gloating eyes and extended arms he

again set to at the half-emptied wafila basket of the unhappy

pastry-cook.

“Now, by our black Lady of Altoting, thou art an impudent varlet!”

growled the Austrian soldier.

“You are losing your temper again,” retorted the glutton, with his mouth

full; “how difficult you are to please! Well, then, if the Austrians may

not be touched, what say you to a Bohemian! a tall one-eyed Bohemian

serjeant, with an appetite like a hog and a liver like a lizard?”

“Now, by our black Lady of Altoting, this is too much!” and the soldier

sprang at the conjuror.

“Hold him!” cried Vivian Grey; for the mob, frightened at the soldier,

gave way.

“There is a gentle’s voice under a dark cloak!” cried the conjuror; “but

I want no assistance;” and so saying, with a dexterous spring the

conjuror leaped over the heads of two or three staring children, and

lighted on the nape of the serjeant’s gigantic neck; placing his

forefingers behind each of the soldier’s ears, he threatened to slit

them immediately if he were not quiet. The serjeant’s companion, of

course, came to his rescue, but Vivian engaged him, and attempted to

arrange matters. “My friends, surely a gay word at a fair is not to meet

with military punishment! What is the use of living in the free city of

Frankfort, or, indeed, in any other city, if jokes are to be answered

with oaths, and a light laugh met with a heavy blow? Avoid bloodshed, if

possible, but stand by the conjuror. His business is jibes and jests,

and this is the first time that I ever saw Merry Andrew arrested. Come,

my good fellows!” said he to the soldiers, “we had better be off; men so

important as you and I should not be spectators of these mummeries.” The

Austrians, who understood Vivian’s compliment literally, were not sorry

to make a dignified retreat; particularly as the mob, encouraged by

Vivian’s interference, began to show fight. Vivian also took his

departure as soon as he could possibly steal off unnoticed; but not

before he had been thanked by the conjuror.

“I knew there was gentle blood under that cloak. If you like to see the

Mystery of the Crucifixion, with the Resurrection, and real fireworks,

it begins at eight o’clock, and you shall be admitted gratis. I knew

there was gentle blood under that cloak, and some day or other, when

your Highness is in distress, you shall not want the aid of

ESSPER GEORGE!”

CHAPTER IV

It was late in the evening when a britzska stopped at the post-house at

Coblentz. The passage-boat from Bingen had just arrived; and a portly

judge from the Danube, a tall, gaunt Prussian officer, a sketching

English artist, two University students, and some cloth-merchants,

returning from Frankfort fair, were busily occupied at a long table in

the centre of the room, at an ample banquet, in which sour-crout,

cherry-soup, and savoury sausages were not wanting. So keen were the

appetites of these worthies, that the entrance of the new comers, who

seated themselves at a small table in the corner of the room, was

scarcely noticed; and for half-an-hour nothing was heard but the sound

of crashing jaws and of rattling knives and forks. How singular is the

sight of a dozen hungry individuals intent upon their prey! What a noisy

silence! A human voice was at length heard. It proceeded from the fat

judge; a man at once convivial, dignified, and economical: he had not

spoken for two minutes before his character was evident to every person

in the room, although he flattered himself that his secret purpose was

concealed from all. Tired with the thin Moselle gratuitously allowed to

the table, the judge wished to comfort himself with a glass of more

generous liquor; aware of the price of a bottle of good Rudesheimer, he

was desirous of forming a copartnership with one or two gentlemen in the

venture; still more aware of his exalted situation, he felt it did not

become him to appear in the eyes of any one as an unsuccessful

suppliant.

“This Moselle is very thin,” observed the judge, shaking his head.

“Very fair table-wine, I think” said the artist, refilling his tumbler,

and then proceeding with his sketch, which was a rough likeness, in

black chalk, of the worthy magistrate himself.

“Very good wine, I think,” swore the Prussian, taking the bottle. With

the officer there was certainly no chance.

The cloth-merchants mixed even this thin Moselle with water, and

therefore they could hardly be looked to as boon companions; and the

students were alone left. A German student is no flincher at the bottle,

although he generally drinks beer. These gentry, however, were no great

favourites with the magistrate, who was a loyal man, of regular habits,

and no encourager of brawls, duels, and other still more disgraceful

outrages; to all which abominations, besides drinking beer and chewing

tobacco, the German student is remarkably addicted; but in the present

case what was to be done? He offered the nearest a pinch of snuff, as a

mode of commencing his acquaintance and cultivating his complacency. The

student dug his thumb into the box, and, with the additional aid of the

forefinger sweeping out half its contents, growled out something like

thanks, and then drew up in his seat, as if he had too warmly encouraged

the impertinent intrusion of a Philistine to whom he had never been

introduced.

The cloth-merchant, ceasing from sipping his meek liquor, and taking out

of his pocket a letter, from which he tore off the back, carefully

commenced collecting with his forefinger the particles of dispersed

snuff in a small pyramid, which, when formed, was dexterously slided

into the paper, then folded up and put into his pocket; the prudent

merchant contenting himself for the moment with the refreshment which

was afforded to his senses by the truant particles which had remained

in his nail.

“Waiter, a bottle of Rudesheimer!” bellowed the judge; “and if any

gentleman or gentlemen would like to join me, they may,” he added, in a

more subdued tone. No one answered, and the bottle was put down. The

judge slowly poured out the bright yellow fluid into a tall bell glass,

adorned with a beautiful and encircling wreath of vine leaves; he held

the glass a moment before the lamp, for his eye to dwell with still

greater advantage on the transparent radiancy of the contents; and then

deliberately pouring them down his throat, and allowing them to dwell a

moment on his palate, he uttered an emphatic “bah!” and sucking in his

breath, leaned back in his chair. The student immediately poured out a

glass from the same bottle, and drank it off. The judge gave him a look,

and then blessed himself that, though his boon companion was a brute,

still he would lessen the expense of the bottle, which nearly amounted

to a day’s pay; and so he again filled his glass, but this was merely to

secure his fair portion. He saw the student was a rapid drinker; and,

although he did not like to hurry his own enjoyment, he thought it most

prudent to keep his glass well stored by his side.

“I hope your Lordships have had a pleasant voyage,” exclaimed a man,

entering the room rapidly as he spoke; and, deliberately walking up to

the table, he pushed between two of the cloth-merchants, who quietly

made way; and then placing a small square box before him, immediately

opened it, and sweeping aside the dishes and glasses which surrounded

him, began to fill their places with cups, balls, rings, and other

mysterious-looking matters, which generally accompany a conjuror.

“I hope your Lordships have had a pleasant voyage. I have been thinking

of you all the day. (Here the cups were arranged.) Next to myself, I am

interested for my friends. (Here the rice was sprinkled.) I came from

Fairy-land this morning. (Here the trick was executed.) Will any

gentleman lend me a handkerchief? Now, sir, tie any knot you choose:

tighter, tighter, tight as you can, tight as you can: now pull! Why,

sir, where’s your knot?” Here most of the company good-naturedly

laughed at a trick which had amused them before a hundred times. But

the dignified judge had no taste for such trivial amusements; and,

besides, he thought that all this noise spoilt the pleasure of his wine,

and prevented him from catching the flavour of his Rudesheimer.

Moreover, the Judge was not in a very good humour. The student appeared

to have little idea of the rules and regulations of a fair partnership:

for not only did he not regulate his draughts by the moderate example of

his bottle companion, but actually filled the glass of his University

friend, and even offered the precious green flask to his neighbour, the

cloth-merchant. That humble individual modestly refused the proffer. The

unexpected circumstance of having his health drank by a stranger seemed

alone to have produced a great impression upon him; and adding a little

more water to his already diluted potation, he bowed reverently to the

student, who, in return, did not notice him. All these little

circumstances prevented the judge from laughing at the performances of

our friend Essper George; for we need hardly mention that the conjuror

was no other. His ill-humour did not escape the lord of the cups and

balls, who, as was his custom, immediately began to torment him.

“Will you choose a card?” asked the magician of the judge, with a most

humble look.

“No, sir!”

Essper George looked very penitent, as if he felt he had taken a great

liberty by his application; and so, to compensate for his incorrect

behaviour, he asked the magistrate whether he would have the goodness to

lend him his watch. The judge was irate, and determined to give the

intruder a set down.

“I am not one of those who can be amused by tricks that his grandfather

knew.”