Amongst a crowd of persons who were waiting to get into the train, at
the--station of--railway, was one exceedingly well dressed young man
in deep mourning. He was tall, perhaps standing six feet in height, or
a little more, exceedingly broad over the chest, with long and
powerful arms, and a small waist. His features were fine, and the
expression of his countenance though very grave, was engaging and
noble. He had a first-class ticket, and got into a carriage in which
were already three other passengers. One was a tall middle-aged man,
with a dull-coloured handkerchief, high up, upon his chin; another, a
young dandified looking person, not very gentlemanly in appearance;
and the third, was a short personage, with an air of great importance,
a tin case, and a large roll of papers and parchments, tied up with a
piece of green ribbon. His face was round, his figure was round, his
legs were round, and his hands were round. In short, he would have
looked like a congeries of dumplings, if it had not been for the
colour of his countenance, which equalled that of an autumnal sun seen
through a London fog. Round and rosy countenances are not generally
the most expressive; and there was but one feature in that of this
worthy personage, which redeemed it from flat insipidity. That was the
eye; black, small, twinkling, ever in motion, it was one of the
shrewdest, cunningest little eyes that ever rolled in a human head.
There was not a vestige of eyebrow above it--nothing but a scalded red
line. There was very little eyelash around it, but yet it is wonderful
how it twinkled, without any accessories: a fixed star, shining by its
own light; and yet the simile is not a good one, for it was anything
but fixed, glancing from person to person, and object to object as
fast as it could go.
When the stranger entered the carriage, this round gentleman was
holding forth to him in the dark handkerchief, upon some subject which
seemed to be provocative of that very troublesome quality, called
_eloquence_; but, nevertheless, without for one moment interrupting
his declamation, he had in an instant investigated every point of his
new fellow-traveller's exterior, while he was getting in, and had
doubtless made his own comments thereon, with proper sagacity.
"It matters not one straw, my dear Sir," said the round man, with
infinite volubility, "whether it be the broad gauge or the narrow
gauge, whether it be well-constructed or ill-constructed, whether
well-worked or ill-worked, what are its facilities, whence it comes,
whither it goes, or any other accidental circumstance whatever. It is
a railroad, my dear Sir--a railroad, _in esse_ or _in posse_; and a
man of sense never considers a railroad, except under one point of
view, videlicet, as a speculation. That is the only question for any
man--How is it as a speculation? Is it up or down? Has it had its
_up?_--And here I must explain what I mean by having its _up_. Every
railroad that can be conceived, will, and does rise in the market, to
a certain height, at some time. Let me explain: By a certain height, I
mean a height above its real value. Well, it is sure to reach that
height at some time. All things are relative, of course. For instance,
and by way of illustration: Suppose some ingenious surveyor, with the
assistance of an engineer in some repute--say, Brunel, Cubit,
Vignoles--and a railway solicitor, were to start the project of a
railway to the Canary Islands. A number of stupid fellows would at
once say, 'That is impossible!' and scrip would be very low. But then
the projectors would wisely put a number of influential names in the
direction. The least scrap of writing in the world, will suffice to
justify you in putting a man's name in the direction; and if you
cannot get that, you take it for granted that he will support so
excellent a scheme, and put him on without. Well, _the rail to the
Canary Islands_ is before the public for some time--scrip very
low--perhaps no quotations--but two or three knowing ones are well
aware that it will have _its up_, and they buy. It gets rumoured that
Rothschild has bought, or Goldschmid has bought, or any other great
name has bought; scrip begins to rise. The bill goes in to the Board
of Trade--not the slightest chance of its being recommended--never
mind! There's an immense deal of bustle, an immense deal of talk: one
man says, it is folly; another, that it is a bubble--but then comes
some one and says, 'Look at Rothschild, look at Goldschmid, look at
the list of directors.' Scrip goes up! People begin to bet upon its
passing the Board. Scrip goes up! The last minute before the decision
arrives; and then, or at some period before or after, it may be said
to have its _up_. Then all wise men sell, and scrip goes down. If it
is a very bad job, it goes down, down, down, till the whole thing
bursts. If, however, it is feasible, with good and sturdy men
concerned, it will go on varying, sometimes high, sometimes low, for
months or years. But I would never advise any one to have to do with
such a line as that. The very worst and most impracticable are always
the best speculations."
"I do not understand that," said the man in the dull handkerchief. "I
made ten thousand clear in one day by the Birmingham, which, after
all, is the best line going."
"You might have made a hundred thousand if it had been the worst,"
answered the man of rounds. "You say you don't understand it. I will
explain--I am always ready to explain. On uncertain lines, very
uncertain indeed, there is always the most fluctuation. Now the
business of a speculator is to take advantage of fluctuations. You
will say it is not safe, perhaps; but that is a mistake. The
speculation in the bad-line business can be reduced to a mathematical
certainty, as I proved to the worthy gentleman with whom I have been a
doing a little business this morning, Mr. Tracy, of Northferry. He
preferred good lines, and thought them both safer and more right and
proper, and all that sort of thing. So I only dealt with the safeness;
for, after all, that is the question with a speculator; and I showed
him that the very worst lines have their up at some time; it may not
be very great, but the difference between it and the down is greater
always than in good lines. 'Suppose, my dear Sir,' I said, 'that the
fifty-pound share is at first at ninety per cent. discount; then is
the time to buy. You never suppose that it will rise to par; but when
the surveying is all done, the notices are served, the forms all
complied with, and after a tremendous bustle--always make a tremendous
bustle, it tells on the market--and, after a tremendous bustle, you
have got your bill into the Board of Trade, the share is sure to go up
till it sticks at seventy or seventy-five per cent, discount. Then
sell as fast as possible, and you gain more than cent. per cent. upon
your outlay.' There is no scheme so bad upon the face of the earth
that it cannot be raised full ten per cent. with a little trouble. Let
a man start a line to the moon, and if I do not bring it up ten per
cent. from the first quotations, my name is not Scriptolemus Bond."
"You must have made a good thing of it, Mr. Bond, I suppose," said the
man in the handkerchief.
"Pretty well, pretty well!" answered the other with a shrewd wink of
the eye; "not quite up to Hudson yet; but I shall soon be a head of
him, for he does nothing but dabble with paltry good lines. I have
enough in this box to make three men's fortunes;" and he rapped the
tin case by his side.
How the real Charlatan does vary its operations in different ages!
This same man, a century ago, would have been selling pills and
powders at a fair. His attention, however, was at this point called in
another direction, by the tall, elegant stranger in mourning, who had
lately come in, inquiring in a quiet tone, "Pray, Sir, does Mr. Arthur
Tracy speculate much in railroads?"
"No man more," answered Mr. Scriptolemus Bond. "Are you acquainted
with him, Sir?"
"I have seen and conversed with him several times," replied the other;
"but we are no farther acquainted."
"Well, Sir, Mr. Tracy is a lucky man," said Mr. Bond; "he has
several hundred thousands of pounds in some of the most promising
speculations going. Too much in the good lines, indeed, to get as much
out of it as possible; but he has this morning, at my suggestion,
embarked in an excellent affair. 'The diagonal North of England and
John-o'-Groats-House Railway.' The fifty-pound share is now at
seventeen and sixpence, and I'll stake my reputation that in six weeks
it will be up at five pounds; for a great number of capital people are
only waiting to come in when they see it on the rise. Now the very
fact of Mr. Tracy having taken five hundred shares will raise them ten
or twelve shillings in the market; so that he might sell to-morrow,
and be a gainer of fifty per cent. Oh, I never advise a bad
speculation. I am always sure, quite sure. Would you like to embark a
few hundred pounds in the same spec as your friend, Sir? I have no
doubt I could get you shares at the same rate, or within a fraction,
if you decide at once. To-morrow they will probably be up to twenty or
five-and-twenty. How many shall I say, Sir?" and Mr. Scriptolemus took
out his note-book.
"None, I thank you," answered Chandos Winslow; "I never speculate."
"Humph!" said the other; and turning to the dandified young man in the
corner, he applied to him with better success. The youth's ears had
been open all the time, and the oratory displayed had produced the
greater effect, because it was not addressed immediately to him.
No further conversation took place between Chandos Winslow and Mr.
Scriptolemus Bond. The latter found that he was not of the stuff of
which gentlemen of his cloth make conveniences, and, what is more,
discovered it at once. Indeed, it is wonderful what tact a practised
guller of the multitude displays in selecting the materials for his
work.
At the London terminus, the young gentleman got into a cabriolet, and
took his way to a small quiet hotel in Cork-street, and remained
thinking during the evening a great deal more of Mr. Scriptolemus Bond
and his sayings and doings, than of anything else on earth, except
Rose Tracy. It was not that the prospect of making rapidly large sums
of money by the speculations of the day had any great effect upon him,
although it must be owned that such hopes would have been very
attractive in conjunction with that bright image of Rose Tracy, had it
not been for certain prejudices of habit and education. But he had a
higher flying ambition; he longed not only to win wealth for Rose
Tracy's sake, but to win it with distinction, in the straightforward,
open paths of personal exertion. He did not wish that his marriage
with her should be brought about like the denouement of a third-rate
French comedy, by a lucky hit upon the Bourse. It was the words which
Mr. Bond had spoken regarding the large speculations of Mr. Tracy
which surprised and somewhat alarmed him. He knew well that the
railroad mania was the fever of the day, that it affected every rank
and every profession, that neither sex and no age but infancy was
free; but he was sorry to find that Rose's father was infected with
the disease in so serious a form. What might be the consequences of a
mistake in such a course, to her he loved best! How great was the
probability of a mistake on the part of a man in Mr. Tracy's position!
He was removed from all sources of immediate information; he had few
means of ascertaining the feasibility of the schemes in which he
engaged; he had no means of ascertaining the characters of those with
whom he was associated. Young as he was, Chandos saw dangers great and
probable in such a course; and not knowing the almost omnipotent power
of a popular passion over the minds of men, he could not conceive how
a person of Mr. Tracy's sense, blessed with affluence, in need of
nothing, with but two daughters to succeed to wealth already great,
could yield himself to such infatuation.
The next morning passed in visits to several of his old friends and
some of his mother's relations. His story, as far as regarded his
father's will, was already known, and he was received everywhere with
kindness--apparent, if not real; for it is a mistake to suppose that
the world is so impolitic as to show its selfishness in a way to
ensure contempt. One or two were really kind, entered warmly into his
feelings and his wishes, and consulted as to how his interests were
best to be served, his objects most readily to be gained. A cousin of
his mother's, an old lady with a large fortune at her disposal, wrote
at once to her nephew, one of the ministers, who had a good number of
daughters, begging him to espouse the cause of Chandos Winslow, and
obtain for him some employment in which his abilities would have room
to display themselves. An answer, however, was not to be expected
immediately; and Chandos went back to his solitary hotel with
gratitude for the kindness he had met with, but nevertheless with
spirits not raised.
Several days passed dully. The hopes of youth travel by railroad, but
fulfilment goes still by the waggon. He found petty impediments at
every step: people out whom he wanted to see; hours wasted by waiting
in ante-rooms; ministers occupied all day long; friends who forgot
what they had promised to remember, and were very much ashamed to no
effect. To a man who seeks anything of his fellow-men, there is always
a terrible consumption of time. Sometimes it is accidental on the
part of those who inflict it--sometimes, alas! though by no means
always--it is in a degree intentional, for there is a pleasure in
keeping application waiting. It prolongs our importance.
"My dear Sir, I am very sorry to have detained you," said a high
officer one day, running into the waiting room and shaking his hand;
"but I have had pressing business all the morning, and now I must ask
you to call on me to-morrow about two, for I am forced to run away
upon a matter that cannot be delayed."
What had he been doing for the last hour? What was he going to do? He
had been reading the newspaper. He was going to trifle with a pretty
woman.
A fortnight passed, and on the second Saturday of his stay in London,
Chandos, who loved music, went with a friend, a young guardsman, to
the opera. During the first act, for they were both enthusiasts in
their way, neither Chandos nor Captain Parker saw or heard anything
but what was going on upon the stage--I call him Captain Parker by a
licence common to those who write such books as this; for in reality
his name was not Parker, though in other respects the tale is true. At
the end of the first act, as usually happens with young men, they
began to look round the house from their station below in search of
friendly or of pretty faces. "There is my aunt, Lady Mary," said
Parker; "I must go up and speak with her for a minute. Will you come,
Winslow? I will introduce you. My two young cousins are very handsome,
people think."
"Not to-night," said Chandos; "I am out of spirits, Parker, and unfit
for fair ladies' sweet companionship."
Parker accordingly went away alone, and spent some time in his aunt's
box. Chandos looked up once, and saw bright eyes and a glass turned to
where he sat in the pit. "Parker is telling my story," he thought; and
an unpleasant feeling of being talked about made him turn away his
eyes and look at some other people. A few minutes after, his friend
rejoined him, and sat out the opera; then went to speak with some
other party; and Chandos, who was in a mood to be bored by a ballet,
and to detest even Cerito, walked slowly out. There were a good many
people going forth, and a crush of carriages. Lady Mary Parker's
carriage was shouted forth. (There may be another Lady Mary Parker; I
believe there is.) The lady advanced with her two daughters: the
servant was at the carriage-door: a chariot dashed violently up, and,
as her carriage had not drawn close to the curb, on account of another
that was before, cut in, jamming the footman, and almost running down
the old lady. Chandos started forward, caught the intruding horses'
heads, and forced them back, the coachman, as such cattle will
sometimes do, cutting at him with his whip. Of the latter circumstance
Chandos took but little notice, the police interfering to make the
coachman keep back when the mischief was done, according to the
practice of the London police; but he instantly approached Lady Mary,
expressing a hope in very courteous terms, that she was neither hurt,
nor much alarmed.
"Oh, no! Mr. Winslow," said the lady, leaning on her eldest daughter;
"but I fear my poor servant is. He was jammed between the carriages."
Ere Chandos could say anything in return, some one pushed roughly
against him, exclaiming, "Get out of the way, fellow!" and the next
moment Lord Overton was before him.
"What do you mean, Sir?" cried Chandos, turning upon him fiercely, and
for an instant forgetting the presence of women.
"I mean that you are an impertinent, blackguard," replied Lord
Overton. "I hope, Lady Mary, my fellow did not frighten you. He is
rather too quick."
"So quick, my lord, that he should be discharged very quickly," said
Lady Mary Parker, taking Chandos's arm unoffered, and walking with him
to the side of her carriage. The young ladies followed; a question was
asked of the footman, who said he was a little hurt, but not much; and
the door was shut.
Before the vehicle drove on, however, the ladies within had the
satisfaction, if it was one, of seeing Chandos Winslow lead Lord
Overton towards his carriage by the nose.