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Pelham — Complete
No sooner had Vincent departed, than I buttoned my coat, and sallied out through a cold easterly wind to Lord Dawton’s. It was truly said by the political quoter, that I had been often to that nobleman’s, although I have not thought it advisable to speak of my political adventures hitherto. I have before said that I was ambitious; and the sagacious have probably already discovered, that I was somewhat less ignorant than it was my usual pride and pleasure to appear. Heaven knows why! but I had established among my uncle’s friends, a reputation for talent, which I by no means deserved; and no sooner had I been personally introduced to Lord Dawton, than I found myself courted by that personage in a manner equally gratifying and uncommon. When I lost my seat in Parliament, Dawton assured me that before the session was over, I should be returned for one of his boroughs; and though my mind revolted at the idea of becoming dependant on any party, I made little scruple of promising conditionally to ally myself to his. So far had affairs gone, when I was honoured with Vincent’s proposal. I found Lord Dawton in his library, with the Marquess of Clandonald, (Lord Dartmore’s father, and, from his rank and property, classed among the highest, as, from his vanity and restlessness, he was among the most active members of the Opposition.) Clandonald left the room when I entered. Few men in office are wise enough to trust the young; as if the greater zeal and sincerity of youth did not more than compensate for its appetite for the gay, or its thoughtlessness of the serious.
When we were alone, Dawton said to me, “We are in great despair at the motion upon the—, to be made in the Lower House. We have not a single person whom we can depend upon, for the sweeping and convincing answer we ought to make; and though we should at least muster our full force in voting, our whipper-in, poor—, is so ill, that I fear we shall make but a very pitiful figure.”
“Give me,” said I, “full permission to go forth into the high-ways and by-ways, and I will engage to bring a whole legion of dandies to the House door. I can go no farther; your other agents must do the rest.”
“Thank you, my dear young friend,” said Lord Dawton, eagerly; “thank you a thousand times: we must really get you in the House as soon as possible; you will serve us more than I can express.”
I bowed, with a sneer I could not repress. Dawton pretended not to observe it. “Come,” said I, “my lord, we have no time to lose. I shall meet you, perhaps, at Brookes’s, to morrow evening, and report to you respecting my success.”
Lord Dawton pressed my hand warmly, and followed me to the door.
“He is the best premier we could have,” thought I; “but he deceives himself, if he thinks Henry Pelham will play the jackall to his lion. He will soon see that I shall keep for myself what he thinks I hunt for him.” I passed through Pall Mall, and thought of Glanville. I knocked at his door: he was at home. I found him leaning his cheek upon his hand, in a thoughtful position; an open letter was before him.
“Read that,” he said, pointing to it.
I did so. It was from the agent to the Duke of—, and contained his appointment to an opposition borough.
“A new toy, Pelham,” said he, faintly smiling; “but a little longer, and they will all be broken—the rattle will be the last.”
“My dear, dear Glanville,” said I, much affected, “do not talk thus; you have every thing before you.”
“Yes,” interrupted Glanville, “you are right, for every thing left for me is in the grave. Do you imagine that I can taste one of the possessions which fortune has heaped upon me, that I have one healthful faculty, one sense of enjoyment, among the hundred which other men are ‘heirs to?’ When did you ever see me for a moment happy? I live, as it were, on a rock, barren, and herbless, and sapless, and cut off from all human fellowship and intercourse. I had only a single object left to live for, when you saw me at Paris; I have gratified that, and the end and purpose of my existence is fulfilled. Heaven is merciful; but a little while, and this feverish and unquiet spirit shall be at rest.”
I took his hand and pressed it.
“Feel,” said he, “this dry, burning skin; count my pulse through the variations of a single minute, and you will cease either to pity me, or to speak to me of life. For months I have had, night and day, a wasting—wasting fever, of brain, and heart, and frame; the fire works well, and the fuel is nearly consumed.”
He paused, and we were both silent. In fact, I was shocked at the fever of his pulse, no less than affected at the despondency of his words. At last I spoke to him of medical advice.
“‘Canst thou,’” he said, with a deep solemnity of voice and manner, “‘administer to a mind diseased—pluck from the memory’—Ah! away with the quotation and the reflection.” And he sprung from the sofa, and going to the window, opened it, and leaned out for a few moments in silence. When he turned again towards me, his manner had regained its usual quiet. He spoke about the important motion approaching on the—, and promised to attend; and then, by degrees, I led him to talk of his sister.
He mentioned her with enthusiasm. “Beautiful as Ellen is,” he said, “her face is the very faintest reflection of her mind. Her habits of thought are so pure, that every impulse is a virtue. Never was there a person to whom goodness was so easy. Vice seems something so opposite to her nature, that I cannot imagine it possible for her to sin.”
“Will you not call with me at your mother’s?” said I. “I am going there to-day.”
Glanville replied in the affirmative, and we went at once to Lady Glanville’s, in Berkeley-square. We were admitted into his mother’s boudoir. She was alone with Miss Glanville. Our conversation soon turned from common-place topics to those of a graver nature; the deep melancholy of Glanville’s mind imbued all his thoughts when he once suffered himself to express them.
“Why,” said Lady Glanville, who seemed painfully fond of her son, “why do you not go more into the world? You suffer your mind to prey upon itself, till it destroys you. My dear, dear son, how very ill you seem.”
Ellen, whose eyes swam in tears, as they gazed upon her brother, laid her beautiful hand upon his, and said, “For my mother’s sake, Reginald, do take more care of yourself: you want air, and exercise, and amusement.”
“No,” answered Glanville, “I want nothing but occupation, and thanks to the Duke of—, I have now got it. I am chosen member for—.”
“I am too happy,” said the proud mother; “you will now be all I have ever predicted for you;” and, in her joy at the moment, she forgot the hectic of his cheek, and the hollowness of his eye.
“Do you remember,” said Reginald, turning to his sister, “those beautiful lines in my favourite Ford—
‘“Glories Of human greatness are but pleasing dreams, And shadows soon decaying. On the stage Of my mortality, my youth has acted Some scenes of vanity, drawn out at length By varied pleasures—sweetened in the mixture, But tragical in issue. Beauty, pomp, With every sensuality our giddiness Doth frame an idol—are inconstant friends When any troubled passion makes us halt On the unguarded castle of the mind.’”
“Your verses,” said I, “are beautiful, even to me, who have no soul for poetry, and never wrote a line in my life. But I love not their philosophy. In all sentiments that are impregnated with melancholy, and instil sadness as a moral, I question the wisdom, and dispute the truth. There is no situation in life which we cannot sweeten, or embitter, at will. If the past is gloomy, I do not see the necessity of dwelling upon it. If the mind can make one vigorous exertion, it can another: the same energy you put forth in acquiring knowledge, would also enable you to baffle misfortune. Determine not to think upon what is painful; resolutely turn away from every thing that recals it; bend all your attention to some new and engrossing object; do this, and you defeat the past. You smile, as if this were impossible; yet it is not an iota more so, than to tear one’s self from a favourite pursuit, and addict one’s self to an object unwelcome to one at first. This the mind does continually through life: so can it also do the other, if you will but make an equal exertion. Nor does it seem to me natural to the human heart to look much to the past; all its plans, its projects, its aspirations, are for the future; it is for the future, and in the future, that we live. Our very passions, when most agitated, are most anticipative. Revenge, avarice, ambition, love, the desire of good and evil, are all fixed and pointed to some distant goal; to look backwards, is like walking backwards—against our proper formation; the mind does not readily adopt the habit, and when once adopted, it will readily return to its natural bias. Oblivion is, therefore, an easier obtained boon than we imagine. Forgetfulness of the past is purchased by increasing our anxiety for the future.”
I paused for a moment, but Glanville did not answer me; and, encouraged by a look from Ellen, I continued—“You remember that, according to an old creed, if we were given memory as a curse, we were also given hope as a blessing. Counteract the one by the other. In my own life, I have committed many weak, many wicked actions; I have chased away their remembrance, though I have transplanted their warning to the future. As the body involuntarily avoids what is hurtful to it, without tracing the association to its first experience, so the mind insensibly shuns what has formerly afflicted it, even without palpably recalling the remembrance of the affliction. The Roman philosopher placed the secret of human happiness in the one maxim—‘not to admire.’ I never could exactly comprehend the sense of the moral: my maxim for the same object would be—‘never to regret.’”
“Alas! my dear friend,” said Glanville—“we are great philosophers to each other, but not to ourselves; the moment we begin to feel sorrow, we cease to reflect on its wisdom. Time is the only comforter; your maxims are very true, but they confirm me in my opinion—that it is in vain for us to lay down fixed precepts for the regulation of the mind, so long as it is dependent upon the body. Happiness and its reverse are constitutional in many persons, and it is then only that they are independent of circumstances. Make the health, the frames of all men alike—make their nerves of the same susceptibility—their memories of the same bluntness, or acuteness—and I will then allow, that you can give rules adapted to all men; till then, your maxim, ‘never to regret,’ is as idle as Horace’s ‘never to admire.’ It may be wise to you—it is impossible to me!”
With these last words, Glanville’s voice faltered, and I felt averse to push the argument further. Ellen’s eye caught mine, and gave me a look so kind, and almost grateful, that I forgot every thing else in the world. A few moments afterwards a friend of Lady Glanville’s was announced, and I left the room.
CHAPTER LV
Intus et in jecore aegro, Nascuntur domini. —Persius.The next two or three days I spent in visiting all my male friends in the Lower House, and engaging them to dine with me, preparatory to the great act of voting on—‘s motion. I led them myself to the House of Commons, and not feeling sufficiently interested in the debate to remain, as a stranger, where I ought, in my own opinion, to have acted as a performer, I went to Brookes’s to wait the result. Lord Gravelton, a stout, bluff, six-foot nobleman, with a voice like a Stentor, was “blowing up” the waiters in the coffee-room. Mr.—, the author of T—, was conning the Courier in a corner; and Lord Armadilleros, the haughtiest and most honourable peer in the calendar, was monopolizing the drawing-room, with his right foot on one hob and his left on the other. I sat myself down in silence, and looked over the “crack article” in the Edinburgh. By and by, the room got fuller; every one spoke of the motion before the House, and anticipated the merits of the speeches, and the numbers of the voters.
At last a principal member entered—a crowd gathered round him. “I have heard,” he said, “the most extraordinary speech, for the combination of knowledge and imagination, that I ever recollect to have listened to.”
“From Gaskell, I suppose?” was the universal cry.
“No,” said Mr.—, “Gaskell has not yet spoken. It was from a young man who has only just taken his seat. It was received with the most unanimous cheers, and was, indeed, a remarkable display.”
“What is his name?” I asked, already half foreboding the answer.
“I only just learnt it as I left the House,” replied Mr.—: “the speaker was Sir Reginald Glanville.”
Then every one whom I had often before heard censure Glanville for his rudeness, or laugh at him for his eccentricity, opened their mouths in congratulations to their own wisdom, for having long admired his talents and predicted his success.
I left the “turba Remi sequens fortunam;” I felt agitated and feverish; those who have unexpectedly heard of the success of a man for whom great affection is blended with greater interest, can understand the restlessness of mind with which I wandered into the streets. The air was cold and nipping. I was buttoning my coat round my chest, when I heard a voice say, “You have dropped your glove, Mr. Pelham.”
The speaker was Thornton. I thanked him coldly for his civility, and was going on, when he said, “If your way is up Pall Mall, I have no objection to join you for a few minutes.”
I bowed with some hauteur; and as I seldom refuse any opportunity of knowing more perfectly individual character, I said I should be happy of his company so long as our way lay together.
“It is a cold night, Mr. Pelham,” said Thornton, after a pause. “I have been dining at Hatchett’s, with an old Paris acquaintance: I am sorry we did not meet more often in France, but I was so taken up with my friend Mr. Warburton.”
As Thornton uttered that name, he looked hard at me, and then added, “By the by, I saw you with Sir Reginald Glanville the other day; you know him well, I presume?”
“Tolerably well,” said I, with indifference.
“What a strange character he is,” rejoined Thornton; “I also have known him for some years,” and again Thornton looked pryingly into my countenance. Poor fool, it was not for a penetration like his to read the cor inscrutabile of a man born and bred like me, in the consummate dissimulation of bon ton.
“He is very rich, is he not?” said Thornton, after a brief silence.
“I believe so,” said I.
“Humph!” answered Thornton. “Things have grown better with him, in proportion as they grew worse with me, who have had ‘as good luck as the cow that stuck herself with her own horn.’ I suppose he is not too anxious to recollect me—‘poverty parts fellowship.’ Well, hang pride, say I; give me an honest heart all the year round, in summer or winter, drought or plenty. Would to God, some kind friend would lend me twenty pounds.”
To this wish I made no reply. Thornton sighed.
“Mr. Pelham,” renewed he, “it is true I have known you but a short time—excuse the liberty I take—but if you could lend me a trifle, it would really assist me very much.”
“Mr. Thornton,” said I, “if I knew you better, and could serve you more, you might apply to me for a more real assistance than any bagatelle I could afford you would be. If twenty pounds would really be of service to you, I will lend it you, upon this condition, that you never ask me for another farthing.”
Thornton’s face brightened. “A thousand, thousand—” he began.
“No,” interrupted I, “no thanks, only your promise.”
“Upon my honour,” said Thornton, “I will never ask you for another farthing.”
“There is honour among thieves,” thought I, and so I took out the sum mentioned, and gave it to him. In good earnest, though I disliked the man, his threadbare garments and altered appearance moved me to compassion. While he was pocketing the money, which he did with the most unequivocal delight, a tall figure passed us rapidly. We both turned at the same instant, and recognised Glanville. He had not gone seven yards beyond us, before we observed his steps, which were very irregular, pause suddenly; a moment afterwards he fell against the iron rails of an area; we hastened towards him, he was apparently fainting. His countenance was perfectly livid, and marked with the traces of extreme exhaustion. I sent Thornton to the nearest public-house for some water; before he returned, Glanville had recovered.
“All—all—in vain,” he said, slowly and unconsciously, “death is the only Lethe.”
He started when he saw me. I made him lean on my arm, and we walked on slowly.
“I have already heard of your speech,” said I. Glanville smiled with the usual faint and sicklied expression, which made his smile painful even in its exceeding sweetness.
“You have also already seen its effects; the excitement was too much for me.”
“It must have been a proud moment when you sat down,” said I.
“It was one of the bitterest I ever felt—it was fraught with the memory of the dead. What are all honours to me now?—O God! O God! have mercy upon me!”
And Glanville stopped suddenly, and put his hand to his temples.
By this time Thornton had joined us. When Glanville’s eyes rested upon him, a deep hectic rose slowly and gradually over his cheeks. Thornton’s lip curled with a malicious expression. Glanville marked it, and his brow grew on the moment as black as night.
“Begone!” he said, in a loud voice, and with a flashing eye, “begone instantly; I loathe the very sight of so base a thing.”
Thornton’s quick, restless eye, grew like a living coal, and he bit his lip so violently that the blood gushed out. He made, however, no other answer than—“You seem agitated to-night, Sir Reginald; I wish your speedy restoration to better health. Mr. Pelham, your servant.”
Glanville walked on in silence till we came to his door: we parted there; and for want of any thing better to do, I sauntered towards the M—Hell. There were only about ten or twelve persons in the rooms, and all were gathered round the hazard table—I looked on silently, seeing the knaves devour the fools, and younger brothers make up in wit for the deficiencies of fortune.
The Honourable Mr. Blagrave came up to me; “Do you never play?” said he.
“Sometimes,” was my brief reply.
“Lend me a hundred pounds!” rejoined my kind acquaintance.
“I was just going to make you the same request,” said I.
Blagrave laughed heartily. “Well,” said he, “be my security to a Jew, and I’ll be yours. My fellow lends me money at only forty per cent. My governor is a d—d stingy old fellow, for I am the most moderate son in the universe. I neither hunt, nor race, nor have I any one favourite expense, except gambling, and he won’t satisfy me in that—now I call such conduct shameful!”
“Unheard-of barbarity,” said I; “and you do well to ruin your property by Jews, before you have it; you could not avenge yourself better on ‘the governor.’”
“No, d—me,” said Blagrave, “leave me alone for that! Well, I have got five pounds left, I shall go and slap it down.”
No sooner had he left me than I was accosted by Mr. Goren, a handsome little adventurer, who lived the devil knew how, for the devil seemed to take excellent care of him.
“Poor Blagrave!” said he, eyeing the countenance of that ingenious youth. “He is a strange fellow—he asked me the other day, if I ever read the History of England, and told me there was a great deal in it about his ancestor, a Roman General, in the time of William the Conqueror, called Caractacus. He told me at the last New-market, that he had made up a capital book, and it turned out that he had hedged with such dexterity, that he must lose one thousand pounds, and he might lose two. Well, well,” continued Goren, with a sanctified expression; “I would sooner see those real fools here, than the confounded scoundrels, who pillage one under a false appearance. Never, Mr. Pelham, trust to a man at a gaming-house; the honestest look hides the worst sharper! Shall you try your luck to-night?”
“No,” said I, “I shall only look on.”
Goren sauntered to the table, and sat down next to a rich young man, of the best temper and the worst luck in the world. After a few throws, Goren said to him, “Lord—, do put your money aside—you have so much on the table, that in interferes with mine—and that is really so unpleasant. Suppose you put some of it in your pocket.”
Lord—took a handful of notes, and stuffed them carelessly in his coat pocket. Five minutes afterwards I saw Goren insert his hand, empty, in his neighbour’s pocket, and bring it out full—and half an hour afterwards he handed over a fifty pound note to the marker, saying, “There, Sir, is my debt to you. God bless me, Lord—, how you have won; I wish you would not leave all your money about—do put it in your pocket with the rest.”
Lord—(who had perceived the trick, though he was too indolent to resent it), laughed. “No, no, Goren,” said he, “you must let me keep some!”
Goren coloured, and soon after rose. “D—n my luck!” said he, as he passed me. “I wonder I continue to play—but there are such sharpers in the room. Avoid a gaming house, Mr. Pelham, if you wish to live.”
“And let live,” thought I.
I was just going away, when I heard a loud laugh on the stairs, and immediately afterwards Thornton entered, joking with one of the markers. He did not see me; but approaching the table, drew out the identical twenty pound note I had given him, and asked for change with the air of a millionaire. I did not wait to witness his fortune, good or ill; I cared too little about it. I descended the stairs, and the servant, on opening the door for me, admitted Sir John Tyrrell. “What,” I thought, “is the habit still so strong?” We stopped each other, and after a few words of greeting, I went, once more, up stairs with him.
Thornton was playing as eagerly with his small quota as Lord C—with his ten thousands. He nodded with an affected air of familiarity to Tyrrell, who returned his salutation with the most supercilious hauteur; and very soon afterwards the baronet was utterly engrossed by the chances of the game. I had, however, satisfied my curiosity, in ascertaining that there was no longer any intimacy between him and Thornton, and accordingly once more I took my departure.
CHAPTER LVI
The times have been That when the brains were out, the man would die, And there an end—but now they rise again. —Macbeth.It was a strange thing to see a man like Glanville, with costly tastes, luxurious habits, great talents, peculiarly calculated for display, courted by the highest members of the state, admired for his beauty and genius by half the women in London, yet living in the most ascetic seclusion from his kind, and indulging in the darkest and most morbid despondency. No female was ever seen to win even his momentary glance of admiration. All the senses seemed to have lost, for his palate, their customary allurements. He lived among his books, and seemed to make his favourite companions amidst the past. At nearly all hours of the night he was awake and occupied, and at day-break his horse was always brought to his door. He rode alone for several hours, and then, on his return, he was employed till the hour he went to the House, in the affairs and politics of the day. Ever since his debut, he had entered with much constancy into the more leading debates, and his speeches were invariably of the same commanding order which had characterised his first.