THE WORLD
SELLING THE COPYRIGHT--THE POLITICIAN’S
DAY-DREAMS--TATTERSALL’S AT FLOOD--A DANDY’S DESTINY
“Can’t do it, my lord--your lordship must consider--overwritten
yourself sadly of late--your ‘Broadsides from the Baltic’ were
excellent--telling, clever, and eloquent; but you’ll excuse me--you
were incorrect in your statistics and mistaken in your facts. Then
your last novel, ‘Captain Flash; or, the Modern Grandison,’ was a dead
loss to us--lively work--well reviewed--but it _didn’t sell_. In these
days people don’t care to go behind the scenes for a peep at
aristocratic ruffians and chivalrous black-legs--no, what we want is
something original--hot and strong, my lord, and lots of nature. Now,
these translations”--and the publisher, for a publisher it was who
spoke, waved his sword of office, a huge ivory paper-cutter, towards a
bundle of manuscripts--“these translations from the ‘Medea’ are
admirably done--elegant language--profound scholarship--great
merit--but the public won’t look at them; and even with your
lordship’s name to help them off, we cannot say more than three
hundred--in point of fact, I think we are hardly justified in going as
far as that;” and the publisher crossed his legs and sat back in his
arm-chair, like a man who had made up his mind.
We have almost lost sight of Lord Mount Helicon since the Guyville
ball, but he now turns up, attending to business, as he calls it, and
is sitting in Mr. Bracketts’ back-room, driving as hard a bargain as
he can for the barter of his intellectual produce, and conducting the
sale in his usual careless, good-humoured manner, although he has a
bill coming due to-morrow, and ready money is a most important
consideration. The little back-room is perfectly lined with
newspapers, magazines, prospectuses, books, proof-sheets, and
manuscripts, whilst the aristocracy of talent frown in engravings from
the walls--faces generally not so remarkable for their beauty as for a
dishevelled, untidy expression, consequent on disordered hair pushed
back from off the temples, and producing the unbecoming effect of
having been recently exposed to a gale of wind; nevertheless, the
illegible autographs beneath symbolise names which fill the world.
Mr. Bracketts, the presiding genius of the place, is a remarkable man;
his broad, high brow and deep-set flashing eyes betray at once the man
of intellect, the champion whose weapon is the brain, whilst his
spare, bent frame is attenuated by that mental labour which produces
results precisely the converse of healthy physical exertion. Mr.
Bracketts might have been a great poet, a successful author, or a
scientific explorer; but, like the grocer’s apprentice who is clogged
with sweets till he loathes the very name of sugar, our publisher has
been surfeited with talent till he almost pines to be a boor, to
exchange the constant intellectual excitement which wears him to
shreds for placid ignorance, a good appetite, and fresh air. How can
he find time to embody his own thoughts who is continually perusing,
rejecting, perhaps licking into shape those of others? How can he but
be disgusted with the puny efforts of the scribbler’s wing, when he
himself feels capable of flights that would soar far out of the ken of
that every-day average authorship of which his soul is sick?--so
beyond an occasional slashing review, written in no forbearing spirit,
he seldom puts pen to paper, save to score and interline and correct;
yet is he, with all his conscious superiority, not above our national
prejudices in favour of what we playfully term _good_ society. We fear
he had rather go to a “crush” at Lady Dinadam’s than sup with Boz. He
is an Englishman, and his heart warms to a peer--so he lets Lord Mount
Helicon down very easy, and offers him three hundred for his
manuscript.
“Hang it, Bracketts,” said his lordship, “it’s worth more than
that--look what it cost me; if it hadn’t been for that cursed
‘Sea-breeze’ chorus I should have been at Newmarket, when
‘Bowse-and-Bit’ won ‘The Column’--and I should have landed ‘_a Thou_’
_at least_. But I was so busy at it I was late for the train. Come,
Bracketts, spring a point, and I’ll put you ‘on’ about ‘Sennacherib’
for the Goodwood Cup.”
“We should wish to be as liberal as possible, my lord,” replied Mr.
Bracketts, shaking his head with a smile, “but we have other interests
to consult--if I was the only person concerned it would be
different--but, in short, I have already rather exceeded my powers,
and I can go no farther!”
“Very well,” said Lord Mount Helicon, looking at his watch, and seeing
it was time for him to be at Tattersall’s; “only if it goes through
another edition, we’ll have a fresh arrangement. It’s time for me to
be off. Any news among the fraternity? Anything _good_ coming out
soon?”
“Nothing but a novel by a lady of rank,” returned Mr. Bracketts, with
a meaning smile; “and we all know what that is likely to be. Capital
title, though: ‘Blue-bell; or, the Double Infidelity’--the name will
sell it. Good-morning; good-morning, my lord. Pray look in again, when
you are this way.” And the publisher, having bowed out his noble
guest, returned to his never-ending labours, whilst Lord Mount Helicon
whisked into the street, with five hundred things to do, and, as
usual, a dozen appointments to keep, all at the same time.
Let us follow him down to Tattersall’s, whither, on the principle of
“business first and pleasure afterwards,” he betakes himself at once,
treading as it were upon air, his busy imagination teeming with a
thousand schemes, and his spirits rising with that self-distilled
elixir which is only known to the poetic temperament, and which,
though springing to a certain extent from constitutional recklessness,
owes its chief potency to the self-confidence of mental
superiority--the reflection that, when all externals are swept away,
when ruin and misfortune have done their wickedest, the productive
treasure, the germ of future success, is still untouched within.
“If the worst comes to the worst,” thinks his lordship, “if
‘Sennacherib’ breaks down, and Blanche Kettering fights shy, and the
sons of Judah thunder at the door of the ungodly, and ‘the pot boils
over,’ and the world says ‘it’s all up with Mount,’ have I not still
got something to fall back upon? Shall not my very difficulties point
the way to overcome them? and when I am driven into a corner, _won’t_
I come out and astonish them all? I’ve got it _in_ me--I know I have.
And the reviewers--pshaw! I defy them! Let them but lay a finger on my
‘Medea,’ and I’ll give them such a roasting as they haven’t had since
the days of the ‘Dunciad.’ Byron did it: why shouldn’t I? If I could
only settle down--and I _could_ settle down if I was regularly cleaned
out--I think I am man enough to succeed. Bring out a work that would
shake the Ministry, and scatter the moderate party--then for Progress,
Improvement, Enfranchisement, and the March with the Times (rogue’s
march though it be), and Mount Helicon, at the head of an invincible
phalanx, in the House, with unbounded popularity out of doors, an
English peerage--fewer points to the coronet--a seat in the
Cabinet--why not? But here we are at Tattersall’s;” and the future
statesman is infernally in want of a few hundreds, so now for “good
information, long odds, a safe man, and a shot at the favourite!”
As he walked down the narrow passage out of Grosvenor Place, now
bowing to a peer, now nodding to a trainer, now indulging in quaint
_badinage_, which the vulgar call “chaff,” with a dog-stealer, who
would have suspected the rattling, agreeable, off-hand Mount Helicon
of deep-laid schemes and daring ambition? Nobody saw through him but
old Barabbas, the Leg; and he once confided to a confederate on
Newmarket Heath, “There’s not one of the young ones as knows his
alphabet, ’cept the Lively Lord; and take my word for it, Plunder,
he’s a deep ’un.”
If a foreigner would have a comprehensive view of our system of
English society all at one glance, let him go into the yard at
Tattersall’s any crowded “comparing day,” before one of our great
events on the turf. There will he see, in its highest perfection, the
apparent anomaly of aristocratic opinions and democratic habits, the
social contradiction by which the peer reconciles his familiarity
with the Leg, and his _hauteur_ towards those almost his equals in
rank, who do not happen to be “of his own set.” There he may behold
Privy Councillors rubbing shoulders with convicted swindlers, noblemen
of unstained lineage, themselves the “mirror of honour,” passing their
jests for the time, on terms of the most perfect equality, with
individuals whose only merit is success; and that indescribable
immunity some persons are allowed to enjoy, by which, according to the
proverb, “one man is entitled to steal a horse, when another may not
even look at a halter.” But this apparent equality can only flourish
in the stifling atmosphere of the ring, or the free breezes of
Newmarket Heath. Directly the book is shut my lord is a very different
man, and Tom This or Dick That would find it another story altogether
were he to expect the same familiarity in the county-rooms or the
hunting-field which he has enjoyed in that vortex of speculation,
where, after all, he merely represents a “given quantity,” as a layer
of the odds, and where his money is as good as another man’s, or, at
least, is so considered. Nay, the very crossing which divides
Grosvenor Place from the Park is a line of demarcation quite
sufficient to convert the knowing, off-hand nod of our lordly
speculator into the stiff, cold bow and studiously polite greeting of
the “Grand Seigneur.” Verily, would-be gentlemen, who take to racing
as a means of “getting into society,” must often find themselves
grievously deceived. But Lord Mount Helicon is in the thick of it.
Tattersall greets him with that respectful air which his good taste
never permits him to lay aside, whether he is discussing a matter of
thousands with Sir Peter Plenipo, or arranging the sale of a
forty-pound hack for an ensign in the Guards; therefore is he himself
respected by all. “_You_ should have bought two of the yearlings, my
lord,” says he, in his quiet, pleasant voice; “Colonel Cavesson never
sent us up such a lot in his life before.”
“Ha! Mount!” exclaims Lord Middle Mile, with a hearty smack on his
friend’s shoulders, “the very man I wanted to see,” and straightway he
draws him aside, and plunges into an earnest conversation, in which,
ever and anon, the whispered words--“Carry the weight,” “Stay the
distance,” and “Stand _a cracker_ on Sennacherib,” are distinctly
audible.
“I can afford to lay your lordship seven to one,” observes an
extra-polite individual, who seems to consider the laying and taking
the odds as the normal condition of man, and whose superabundant
courtesy is only equalled by the deliberate carefulness of his every
movement, masking, as it does, the lightning perception of the hawk,
and, shall we add, the insatiable rapacity of that bird of prey? Mount
Helicon moves from one group to another, intent on the business in
hand. He invests largely against “Nesselrode” (not the diplomatist nor
the pudding, but the race-horse of that name), and backs “Sennacherib”
heavily for the Goodwood Cup. He takes the odds to a hundred pounds,
besides, from his polite friend, “who regrets he cannot offer him a
point or two more,” and, on looking over the well-filled pages of his
book, hugs himself with the self-satisfied feeling of a man who has
done a good day’s work, and effected the crowning stroke to a
flourishing speculation.
As he walks up the yard a quick step follows close upon him, a hand is
laid upon his shoulder, and a well-known voice greets him in drawling
tones, which he recognises as the property of our military Adonis, the
irresistible Captain Lacquers. “Going to the Park, Mount?” says the
hussar, with more animation than he usually betrays. “If you’ve a mind
for a turn, I’ll send my cab away;” and the peer, who cultivates
Lacquers, as he himself says, “for amusement, just as he goes to see
Keeley,” replying in the affirmative, a tiny child, in top-boots and a
cockade, is with difficulty woke, and dismissed, in company with a
gigantic chestnut horse, towards his own stables. How that urchin,
who, being deprived of his natural rest at night, constantly sleeps
whilst driving by day, is to steer through the omnibuses in
Piccadilly, is a matter of speculation for those who love “horrid
accidents”; but it is fortunate that the magnificent animal knows his
own way home, and will only stop once, at a door in Park Lane, where
he is used to being pulled up, and where, we are concerned to add, his
master has no business, although he is sufficiently welcome. “The
fact is, I want to consult you, Mount, about a deuced ticklish
affair,” proceeded the dandy, as he linked his arm in his companion’s,
and wended his way leisurely towards the Park.
“Not going to call anybody out, are you?” rejoined Mount, with a
quaint expression of countenance. “’Pon my soul, if you are, I’ll put
you up with your back to a tree, or along a furrow, or get you shot
somehow, and then no one will ever ask me to be a ‘friend’ again.”
“Worse than that,” replied Lacquers, looking very grave; “I’m in a
regular fix--_up a tree_, by Jove. Fact is, I’m thinking of
marrying--marrying, you know; devilish bad business, isn’t it?”
“Why, that depends,” said his confidant; “of course you’ll be a great
loss, and all that; break so many hearts too; but then, think--the
duty you owe your country. The breed of such men must not be allowed
to become extinct. No; I should say you ought to make the sacrifice.”
Lacquers looked immensely comforted, and went on--“Well, I’ve
made arrangements--that’s to say, I’ve ordered some of the
things--dressing-case, set of phaeton-harness, large chest of
cigars--but, of course, it’s no use getting everything till it’s all
settled. Now, _you_ know, Mount, I’m a deuced domestic fellow, likely
to make a girl happy. I’m not one of your tearing dogs that require
constant excitement; I could live in the country quite contentedly
part of the year. I’ve got resources within myself--I’m fond of
hunting and shooting and--no, I can’t stand fishing, but still, don’t
you think I’m just the man to settle?”
“Certainly; it’s all you’re fit for,” replied his friend.
“Well, now to the point. I’ve not asked the girl yet, you know, but I
don’t anticipate much difficulty there,” and the suitor smoothed his
moustaches with a self-satisfied smile; “but, of course, the relations
will make a bother about settlements, ‘love light as air,’ you know,
and ‘human flies,’ and that; still we must provide for everything.
Well, _my_ lawyer informs me that I can’t settle anything during my
brother’s lifetime, and he’s just a year older than myself--that’s
what I call ‘a stopper.’ Now, Mount, you’re a sharp fellow--man of
intellect, you know--’gad, I wouldn’t give a pin for a fellow without
brains--what do you advise me to do?”
This was rather a poser, even for a gentleman of Lord Mount Helicon’s
fertile resources; but he was never long at a loss, so as he took off
his hat to a very pretty woman in a barouche, he replied, in his
off-hand way, “Do? why, elope, my good fellow--run away with
her--carry her off like a Sabine bride, only let her take all her
clothes with her--save you a _trousseau_. Has she money?”
“Plenty, I fancy; from what I hear, I should think Miss Kettering
can’t have less than----”
“The devil!” interrupted Lord Mount Helicon, in a tone that would have
made most men start. “You don’t mean to say _you_ want to marry Miss
Kettering?”
“Well, I think _she_ wants to marry _me_,” rejoined Lacquers,
perfectly unmoved; “and you know one can’t refuse a lady; but it’s
only fair to say she hasn’t actually _asked_ me.”
Lord Mount Helicon felt for a moment intensely disgusted. Blanche’s
beauty, and her simple, pretty manner, had touched him, as far as a
man could be touched who had so many irons in the fire as his
lordship, but the impulse for _fun_, the delight he experienced in
quizzing his unsuspecting friend, soon overcame all other feelings,
and he proceeded to egg Lacquers on, and assure him of his undoubted
success, for the express purpose of amusing himself with the hussar’s
method of courtship. “Besides,” thought he, “such a flat as this
hanging about her will keep the other fellows off; and with a girl
like _her_, I shall have little difficulty in ‘cutting _him_ out.’” So
he advised his friend to take time, and “allow her to get accustomed
to his society, and gradually entangled in his fascinations; and then,
my dear fellow,” he added, “when she finds she can’t live without
you--when she has got used to your engaging ways, as she is to her
poodle’s--when she can no more bear to be parted from you than from
her bullfinch, then speak up like a man--bring all your science into
play--come with a rush--and win cleverly at the finish!”
“Ay, that’s all very well,” mused the captain, “that’s just my idea;
but in the meantime some fellow might cut me out. Now, there’s our
Major--D’Orville, you know (’gad, how hot it is! let’s lean over the
rails)--D’Orville seems to be always in Grosvenor Square. He’s an old
fellow, too, but he has a deuced taking way with women. I don’t know
what they see in him either. To be sure he _was_ good-looking; but
he’s a man of no education” (Lacquers himself could scarcely spell his
own name), “and he must be forty, if he’s a day. Look at this fellow
on the black cob. By Jove! it’s old Bounce, and talk of the
devil--there’s D’Orville riding with Miss Kettering next the rails.
This _is_ a go.”
Now, the little guileless conversation we have here related was hardly
more worthy of record than the hundred and one nothings by the
interchange of which gentlemen of the present day veil their want of
ideas from each other, save for the fact of its being overheard by
ears into which it sank like molten lead, creating an effect far out
of proportion to its own triviality. Frank Hardingstone was walking
close behind the speakers, and unwittingly heard their whole dialogue,
even to the concluding remark with which Lacquers, as he leaned his
elbows on the rails, and passed the frequenters of “the Ride” in
review before him, expressed his disapprobation of the terms on which
Major D’Orville stood with Blanche Kettering. Poor Frank! How often a
casual word, dropped perhaps in jest from a coxcomb’s lips, has power
to wring an honest, manly heart to very agony! Our man of action had
been endeavouring, ever since the Guyville ball, to drive Blanche’s
image from his thoughts, with an energy worthy of better success than
it obtained. He had busied himself at his country place with his farm
and his library and his tenants and his poor, and had found it all in
vain. The fact is, he was absurdly in love with Blanche--that was the
long and short of it--and after months of self-restraint and
self-denial and discomfort, he resolved to do what he had better have
done at first, to go to London, mingle in society, and enter the lists
for his lady-love on equal terms with his rivals. And this was the
encouragement he received on his appearance in the metropolis. He had
a great mind to go straight home again, so he resolved to call on the
morrow in Grosvenor Square, to ascertain with his own eyes the utter
hopelessness of his affection, and then--why, then make up his mind to
the worst, and bear his destiny like a man, though the world would be
a lonely world to him for evermore. Frank was still young, and would
have repelled indignantly the consolation, had such been offered him,
of brighter eyes and a happier future. No, at his age there is but one
woman in the universe. Seared, callous hearts, that have sustained
many a campaign, know better; but verily in this respect we hold that
ignorance is bliss. Frank, too, leaned against the rails when Mount
Helicon and Lacquers passed on, and gazed upon the sunshiny, gaudy
scene around him with a wistful eye and an aching heart.