At the time of the fire at Percy-hall, a painted glass window in the
passage--we should say the gallery--leading to the study had been
destroyed.--Old Martha, whose life Caroline had saved, had a son, who
possessed some talents as a painter, and who had learnt the art of
painting on glass. He had been early in his life assisted by the Percy
family, and, desirous to offer some small testimony of his gratitude, he
begged permission to paint a new window for the gallery.--He chose for
his subject the fire, and the moment when Caroline was assisting his
decrepit mother down the dangerous staircase.--The painting was finished
unknown to Caroline, and put up on her birthday, when she had just
attained her eighteenth year. This was the only circumstance worth
recording which the biographer can find noted in the family annals
at this period. In this dearth of events, may we take the liberty of
introducing, according to the fashion of modern biography, a few private
letters? They are written by persons of whom the reader as yet knows
nothing--Mr. Percy’s second and third sons, Alfred and Erasmus. Alfred
was a barrister; Erasmus a physician: they were both at this time in
London, just commencing their professional career. Their characters--but
let their characters speak for themselves in their letters, else neither
their letters nor their characters can be worth attention.
ALFRED PERCY TO HIS FATHER.
“MY DEAR FATHER,
“Thank you for the books--I have been reading hard lately, for I have
still, alas! leisure enough to read. I cannot expect to be employed,
or to have _fees_ for some time to come. I am armed with patience--I
am told that I have got through the worst part of my profession, the
reading of dry law. This is tiresome enough, to be sure; but I think the
courting of attorneys and solicitors is the worst part of the beginning
of my profession: for this I was not, and I believe I never shall be,
sufficiently prepared. I give them no dinners, and they neglect me; yet
I hope I pay them proper attention. To make amends, however, I have been
so fortunate as to form acquaintance with some gentlemen of the bar, who
possess enlarged minds and general knowledge: their conversation is of
the greatest use and pleasure to me. But many barristers here are men
who live entirely among themselves, with their heads in their green
bags, and their souls narrowed to a point: mere machines for drawing
pleas and rejoinders.
“I remember Burke asserts (and I was once, with true professional
party-spirit, angry with him for the assertion) that the study of the
law has a contractile power on the mind; I am now convinced it has, from
what I see, and what I feel; therefore I will do all I can to counteract
this contraction by the expansive force of literature. I lose no
opportunity of making acquaintance with literary men, and cultivating
their society. The other day, at Hookham’s library, I met with a man of
considerable talents--a Mr. Temple: he was looking for a passage in
the life of the lord-keeper Guildford, which I happened to know. This
brought us into a conversation, with which we were mutually so well
pleased, that we agreed to dine together, for further information--and
we soon knew all that was to be known of each other’s history.
“Temple is of a very good family, though the younger son of a younger
brother. He was brought up by his grandfather, with whom he was a
favourite. Accustomed, from his childhood, to live with the rich
and great, to see a grand establishment, to be waited upon, to have
servants, horses, carriages at his command, and always to consider
himself as a part of a family who possessed every thing they could wish
for in life; he says, he almost forgot, or rather never thought of
the time when he was to have nothing, and when he should be obliged
to provide entirely for himself. Fortunately for him, his grandfather
having early discerned that he had considerable talents, determined that
he should have all the advantages of education, which he thought would
prepare him to shine in parliament.--His grandfather, however, died when
Temple was yet scarcely eighteen.--He had put off writing a codicil
to his will, by which Temple lost the provision intended for him.--All
hopes of being brought into parliament were over. His uncle, who
succeeded to the estate, had sons of his own. There were family
jealousies, and young Temple, as having been a favourite, was
disliked.--Promises were made by other relations, and by former friends,
and by these he was amused and misled for some time; but he found he
was only wasting his life, attending upon these great relations. The
unkindness and falsehood of some, and the haughty neglect of others,
hurt his high spirit, and roused his strong indignation. He, in his
turn, neglected and offended, was cast off at last, or forgotten by most
of the fine promisers.--At which, he says, he has had reason to rejoice,
for this threw him upon his own resources, and made him exert his own
mind.--He applied, in earnest, to prepare himself for the profession for
which he was best fitted, and went to the bar.--Now comes the part of
his history for which he, with reason, blames himself. He was disgusted,
not so much by the labour, as by the many disagreeable circumstances,
which necessarily occur in the beginning of a barrister’s course.--He
could not bear the waiting in the courts, or on circuit, without
business, without notice. He thought his merit would never make its
way, and was provoked by seeing two or three stupid fellows pushed on by
solicitors, or helped up by judges.--He had so much knowledge, talent,
and eloquence, that he must in time have made a great figure, and would,
undoubtedly, have risen to the first dignities, had he persevered; but
he sacrificed himself to pique and impatience. He quitted the bar, and
the very summer after he had left it, the illness of a senior counsel on
that circuit afforded an opportunity where Temple would have been called
upon, and where he could fully have displayed his talents. Once known,
such a man would have been always distinguished.--He now bitterly
regrets that he abandoned his profession.--This imprudence gave his
friends a fair excuse for casting him off; but, he says, their neglect
grieves him not, for he had resolved never more to trust to their
promises, or to stoop to apply to them for patronage. He has been these
last two years in an obscure garret writing for bread. He says, however,
that he is sure he is happier, even in this situation, than are some
of his cousins at this instant, who are struggling in poverty to be
genteel, or to keep up a family name, and he would not change places
with those who are in a state of idle and opprobrious dependence. I
understand (remember, this is a secret between ourselves)--I understand
that _Secretary_ Cunningham Falconer has found him out, and makes _good
use of his pen_, but pays him shabbily. Temple is too much of a man of
honour to _peach_. So Lord Oldborough knows nothing of the matter;
and Cunningham gets half his business done, and supplies all his
deficiencies, by means of this poor drudging genius. Perhaps I have
tired you with this history of my new friend; but he has interested me
extremely:--he has faults certainly, perhaps too high a spirit, too much
sensibility; but he has such strict integrity, so much generosity of
mind, and something so engaging in his manners, that I cannot help
loving, admiring, and pitying him--that last sentiment, however, I am
obliged to conceal, for he would not bear it.
“I see very little of Erasmus. He has been in the country this fortnight
with some patient. I long for his return.--I will make the inquiries you
desire about Buckhurst Falconer.
“Your affectionate son,
“ALFRED PERCY.
“P.S. Yes, my dear Rosamond, I _shall_ be obliged to you for the
flower-roots for my landlady’s daughter.”
LETTER FROM ERASMUS TO HIS FATHER.
“MY DEAR FATHER,
“Pray do not feel disappointed when I tell you that I am not getting
on quite so fast as I expected. I assure you, however, that I have not
neglected any honourable means of bringing myself into notice. But it
is very difficult for a young man to rise without puffing, or using low
means.
“I met Lady Jane Granville a few days ago. She gave me a note to
Sir Amyas Courtney, a fashionable physician and a great favourite of
hers.--She told me that he had formerly been acquainted with some of
my family, and she so strongly urged me to wait upon him, that to avoid
offending her ladyship, I promised to avail myself of her introduction.
“I called several times before I found Sir Amyas at home. At last,
by appointment, I went to breakfast with him one morning when he was
confined to the house by an _influenza_. He received me in the most
courteous manner--recollected to have danced with my mother years ago,
at a ball at Lord Somebody’s--professed the greatest respect for the
name of Percy--asked me various questions about my grandfather, which I
could not answer, and paid you more compliments than I can remember. Sir
Amyas is certainly the prettiest behaved physician breathing, with the
sweetest assortment of tittle-tattle, with an inexhaustible fund of
anecdotes and compliments for the great, and an intimate acquaintance
with the fair and fashionable. He has also the happiest art of speaking
a vast deal, and yet saying nothing; seeming to give an opinion, without
ever committing himself.--The address with which he avoids contested
points of science, and the art with which he displays his superficial
knowledge, and conceals his want of depth, is truly amusing. He slid
away from science as soon as he could, to politics, where he kept safe
in commonplace newspaper-phrases; and in the happy persuasion that every
thing is for the best, and that every man in power, let him be of what
party he may, can do no wrong. He did not seem quite satisfied with
my countenance as he spoke, and once or twice paused for my
acquiescence--in vain.
“We were interrupted by the entrance of a Mr. Gresham, a rich merchant,
who came to look at a picture which Sir Amyas shows as a true Titian.
Mr. Gresham spoke, as I thought, with much good sense and taste about
it, and Sir Amyas talked a great deal of amateur-nonsense. Still in the
same namby-pamby style, and with the same soft voice and sweet smile,
Sir Amyas talked on of pictures and battles, and carnage and levees,
and drawing-rooms and balls, and butterflies.--He has a museum for the
ladies, and he took me to look at it.--Sad was the hour and luckless
was the day!--Among his shells was one upon which he peculiarly prided
himself, and which he showed me as an unique. I was, I assure you,
prudently silent till he pressed for my opinion, and then I could not
avoid confessing that I suspected it to be a _made_ shell--_made_,
Caroline knows how, by the application of acids. The countenance of Sir
Amyas clouded over, and I saw that I at this moment lost all chance of
his future favour. He made me some fine speeches, when I was going
away, and dwelt upon his great desire to oblige any friend of Lady Jane
Granville’s.
“A few days afterwards, I saw her ladyship again, and found, by her
manner, that she had not been satisfied by Sir Amyas Courtney’s report
of me. She pressed me to tell her all that had passed between us. She
was provoked by my imprudence, as she called it, about the shell, and
exhorted me to repair it by future attentions and complaisance. When I
declined paying court to Sir Amyas, as inconsistent with my ideas and
feelings of independence, her ladyship grew angry--said that my father
had inspired all his sons with absurd notions of independence,
which would prevent their rising in the world, or succeeding in any
profession. I believe I then grew warm in defence of my father and
myself. The conclusion of the whole was, that we remained of our own
opinions, and that her ladyship protested she would never more attempt
to serve us. Alfred has called since on Lady Jane, but has not been
admitted. I am sorry that I too have offended her, for I really like
her, and am grateful for her kindness, but I cannot court her patronage,
nor bend to her idol, Sir Amyas.--
“Your affectionate son,
“ERASMUS PERCY.”
LETTER FROM ERASMUS PERCY TO HIS FATHER.
“MY DEAR FATHER,
“I told you in my last how I lost all hopes of favour from Sir Amyas
Courtney, and how determined I was not to bend to him.--On some
occasion soon afterwards this determination appeared, and recommended
me immediately to the notice of a certain Dr. Frumpton, who is the
antagonist and sworn foe to Sir Amyas.--Do you know who Dr. Frumpton
is--and who he was--and how he has risen to his present height?
“He was a farrier in a remote county: he began by persuading the country
people in his neighbourhood that he had a specific for the bite of a mad
dog.
“It happened that he cured an old dowager’s favourite waiting-maid who
had been bitten by a cross lap-dog, which her servants pronounced to be
mad, that they might have an excuse for hanging it.
“The fame of this cure was spread by the dowager among her numerous
acquaintance in town and country.
“Then he took agues--and afterwards scrofula--under his protection;
patronized by his old dowager, and lucky in some of his desperate
quackery, Dr. Frumpton’s reputation rapidly increased, and from
different counties fools came to consult him. His manners were bearish
even to persons of quality who resorted to his den; but these brutal
manners _imposed_ upon many, heightened the idea of his confidence
in himself, and commanded the submission of the timid.--His tone grew
higher and higher, and he more and more easily bullied the credulity of
man and woman-kind.--It seems that either extreme of soft and
polished, or of rough and brutal manner, can succeed with certain
physicians.--_Dr._ Frumpton’s name, and Dr. Frumpton’s wonderful cures,
were in every newspaper, and in every shop-window. No man ever puffed
himself better even in this puffing age.--His success was viewed with
scornful yet with jealous eyes by the regularly bred physicians,
and they did all they could to keep him down--Sir Amyas Courtney, in
particular, who would never call him any thing but _that farrier_,
making what noise he could about Frumpton’s practising without a
diploma. In pure spite, Frumpton took to learning--late as it was, he
put himself to school--with virulent zeal he read and _crammed_
till, Heaven knows how! he accomplished getting a diploma--stood all
prescribed examinations, and has grinned defiance ever since at Sir
Amyas.
“Frumpton, delighted with the story of the _made shell_, and conceiving
me to be the enemy of his enemy, resolved, as he declared, to take me
by the hand; and, such is the magical deception of self-love, that his
apparent friendliness towards me made him appear quite agreeable, and
notwithstanding all that I had heard and known of him, I fancied his
brutality was frankness, and his presumption strength of character.--I
gave him credit especially for a happy instinct for true merit, and an
honourable antipathy to flattery and meanness.--The manner in which he
pronounced the words, _fawning puppy!_ applied to Sir Amyas Courtney,
pleased me peculiarly--and I had just exalted Frumpton into a great man,
and an original genius, when he fell flat to the level, and below the
level of common mortals.
“It happened, as I was walking home with him, we were stopped in the
street by a crowd, which had gathered round a poor man, who had fallen
from a scaffold, and had broken his leg. Dr. Frumpton immediately said,
‘Send for Bland, the surgeon, who lives at the corner of the street.’
The poor man was carried into a shop; we followed him. I found that his
leg, besides being broken, was terribly bruised and cut. The surgeon
in a few minutes arrived. Mr. Bland, it seems, is a _protégé_ of
Frumpton’s, who formerly practised human farriery under him.
“Mr. Bland, after slightly looking at it, said, ‘the leg must come off,
the sooner the better.’ The man, perceiving that I pitied him, cast such
a beseeching look at me, as made me interpose, impertinently perhaps,
but I could not resist it. I forget what I said; but I know the sense
of it was, that I thought the poor fellow’s leg could and ought to be
saved.--I remember Dr. Frumpton glared upon me instantly with eyes of
fury, and asked how I dared to interfere in a surgical case; and to
contradict his friend, Mr. Bland, a surgeon!
“They prepared for the operation--the surgeon whipped on his
mittens--the poor man, who was almost fainting with loss of blood, cast
another piteous look at me, and said, in an Irish accent, ‘Long life to
you, dear!--and don’t let’m--for what will I be without a leg? And my
wife and children!’
“He fell back in a swoon, and I sprung between the surgeon and him;
insisting that, as he had appealed to me, he should be left to me; and
declared that I would have him carried to St. George’s Hospital, where I
knew he would be taken care of properly.
“Frumpton stamped, and scarcely articulate with rage, bade me--‘stir the
man at your peril!’ adding expressions injurious to the hospital, with
the governors of which he had some quarrel. I made a sign to the workmen
who had brought in the wounded man; they lifted him instantly, and
carried him out before me; and one of them, being his countryman,
followed, crying aloud, ‘_Success_ to your honour! and may you _never_
want a _friend_!’
“Frumpton seized him by both shoulders, and pushing him out of the
house, exclaimed, ‘Success, by G----, he shall never have, if I can help
it! He has lost a friend such as he can never get again--By G--, I’ll
make him repent this!’
“Unmoved by these denunciations, I pursued my way to the hospital. You
know in what an admirable manner the London hospitals are conducted.--At
St. George’s this poor man was received, and attended with the greatest
care and skill. The surgeon who has taken charge of him assures me that
his leg will, a month hence, be as useful as any leg in London.
“Dr. Frumpton and Mr. Bland have, I find, loudly complained of my
interference, as contrary to all medical etiquette--_Etiquette!_--from
Frumpton!--The story has been told with many exaggerations, and always
to my disadvantage.--I cannot, however, repent.--Let me lose what I may,
I am satisfied with the pleasure of seeing the poor man in a way to do
well. Pray let me hear from you, my dear father, and say, if you can,
that you think me right--Thank Caroline for her letter.
“Your affectionate
“ERASMUS PERCY.”
LETTER FROM ALFRED.
“My dear father, I have made all possible inquiries about Buckhurst
Falconer. He stayed at Cheltenham till about a month ago with the
Hautons, and I hear attended Miss Hauton every where: but I do not think
there is any reason to believe the report of his paying his addresses
to her. The public attention he showed her was, in my opinion, designed
only to pique Caroline, whom, I’m persuaded, he thinks (between the fits
of half-a-dozen other fancies) the first of women--as he always
calls her. Rosamond need not waste much pity on him. He is an
out-of-sight-out-of-mind man. The pleasure of the present moment is
all in all with him.--He has many good points in his disposition; but
Caroline had penetration enough to see that his character would never
suit hers; and I rejoice that she gave him a decided refusal.
“Since he came to town, he has, by his convivial powers, his good
stories, good songs, and knack of mimicry, made himself so _famous_,
that he has more invitations to dinner than he can accept. He has wit
and talents fit for more than being the buffoon or mocking-bird of a
good dinner and a pleasant party; but he seems so well contented with
this _réputation de salon_, that I am afraid his ambition will not rise
to any thing higher. After leading this idle life, and enjoying
this cheap-earned praise, he will never submit to the seclusion
and application necessary for the attainment of the great prizes of
professional excellence. I doubt whether he will even persevere so
far as to be called to the bar; though the other day when I met him in
Bond-street, he assured me, and bid me assure you, that he is getting on
_famously_, and eating his terms with a prodigious appetite. He seemed
heartily glad to see me, and expressed warm gratitude for your having
saved his conscience, and having prevented his father from forcing him,
as he said, to be a disgrace to the church.
“Rosamond asks what sort of girls the Miss Falconers are, and whether
the Falconers have been civil to me since I settled in town?--Yes;
pretty well. The girls are mere _show_ girls--like a myriad of
others--sing, play, dance, dress, flirt, and _all that_. Georgiana is
_beautiful sometimes_; Arabella, _ugly always_. I don’t like either of
them, and they don’t like me, for I am not an eldest son. The mother
was prodigiously pleased with me at first, because she mistook me for
Godfrey, or rather she mistook me for the heir of our branch of the
Percys. I hear that Mrs. Falconer has infinite address, both as a
political and hymeneal _intrigante_: but I have not time to study her.
Altogether, the family, though they live in constant gaiety, do not
give me the idea of being happy among one another. I have no particular
reason for saying this. I judge only from the tact on this subject which
I have acquired from my own happy experience.
“Love to Rosamond--I am afraid she will think I have been too severe
upon Buckhurst Falconer. I know he is a favourite, at least a _protégé_
of hers and of Godfrey. Bid her remember I have acknowledged that he has
talents and generosity; but that which interests Rosamond in his
favour inclines ill-natured me against him--his being one of Caroline’s
suitors. I think he has great assurance to continue, in spite of all
repulse, to hope, especially as he does nothing to render himself more
worthy of encouragement. Thank Caroline for her letter; and assure
Rosamond, that, though I have never noticed it, I was grateful for her
entertaining account of M. de Tourville’s _vis_: I confess, I am rather
late with my acknowledgments; but the fire at Percy-hall, and many
events which rapidly succeeded, put that whole affair out of my head.
Moreover, the story of Euphrosyne and Count Albert was so squeezed under
the seal, that I must beg notes of explanation in her next. Who the
deuce is Euphrosyne? and what does the letter P--for the rest of the
word was torn out--stand for? and is Count Albert a hero in a novel, or
a real live man?
“I saw a live man yesterday, whom I did not at all like to see--Sharpe,
walking with our _good_ cousin, Sir Robert Percy, in close conversation.
This conjunction, I fear, bodes us no good.--Pray, do pray make another
search for _the deed_.
“Your affectionate son,
“ALFRED PERCY.”
Soon after this letter had been received, and while the picture of his
life, and the portraits of his worthy companions were yet fresh in her
view, Buckhurst Falconer took the unhappy moment to write to renew
his declaration of passionate attachment to Caroline, and to beg to be
permitted to wait upon her once more.
From the indignant blush which mounted in Caroline’s face on reading
his letter, Rosamond saw how unlikely it was that this request should be
granted. It came, indeed, at an unlucky time. Rosamond could not refrain
from a few words of apology, and looks of commiseration for Buckhurst;
yet she entirely approved of Caroline’s answer to his letter, and the
steady repetition of her refusal, and even of the strengthened terms in
which it was now expressed. Rosamond was always prudent for her friends,
when it came to any serious point where their interests or happiness
were concerned. Her affection for her friends, and her fear of doing
wrong on such occasions, awakened her judgment, and so controlled her
imagination, that she then proved herself uncommonly judicious and
discreet.--Prudence had not, it is true, been a part of Rosamond’s
character in childhood; but, in the course of her education, a
considerable portion of it had been infused by a very careful and
skilful hand. Perhaps it had never completely assimilated with the
original composition: sometimes the prudence fell to the bottom,
sometimes was shaken to the top, according to the agitation or
tranquillity of her mind; sometimes it was so faintly visible, that
its existence might be doubted by the hasty observer; but when put to
a proper test, it never failed to reappear in full force.--After any
effort of discretion in conduct, Rosamond, however, often relieved
and amused herself by talking in favour of the imprudent side of the
question.
“You have decided prudently, my dear Caroline, I acknowledge,” said she.
“But now your letter is fairly gone; now that it is all over, and that
we are safe, I begin to think you are a little too prudent for your
age.--Bless me, Caroline, if you are so prudent at eighteen, what will
you be at thirty? Beware!--and in the mean time you will never be a
heroine--what a stupid uninteresting heroine you will make! You will
never get into any _entanglements_, never have any adventures; or if
kind fate should, propitious to my prayer, bring you into some charming
difficulties, even then we could not tremble for you, or enjoy all the
luxury of pity, because we should always know that you would be so well
able to extricate yourself--so certain to conquer, or--not die--but
endure.--Recollect that Doctor Johnson, when his learned sock was off,
confessed that he could never be thoroughly interested for Clarissa,
because he knew that her prudence would always be equal to every
occasion.”
Mrs. Percy began to question whether Johnson had ever expressed
this sentiment seriously: she reprobated the cruelty of _friendly_
biographers, who publish every light expression that escapes from
celebrated lips in private conversation; she was going to have added
a word or two about the injury done to the public, to young people
especially, by the spreading such rash dogmas under the sanction of a
great name.
But Rosamond did not give her mother time to enforce this moral; she
went on rapidly with her own thoughts.
“Caroline, my dear,” continued she, “you shall not be my heroine; you
are too well proportioned for a heroine--in mind, I mean: a
heroine may--_must_ have a finely-proportioned person, but never a
well-proportioned mind. All her virtues must be larger than the life;
all her passions those of a tragedy queen. Produce--only dare to
produce--one of your reasonable wives, mothers, daughters, or sisters
on the theatre, and you would see them hissed off the stage. Good people
are acknowledged to be the bane of the drama and the novel--I never wish
to see a reasonable woman on the stage, or an unreasonable woman off it.
I have the greatest sympathy and admiration for your true heroine in a
book; but I grant you, that in real life, in a private room, the tragedy
queen would be too much for me; and the novel heroine would be the most
useless, troublesome, affected, haranguing, egotistical, insufferable
being imaginable! So, my dear Caroline, I am content, that you are my
sister, and my friend, though I give you up as a heroine.”