The Monikins

By J. Fenimore Cooper

CONTENTS

 INTRODUCTION.
 THE MONIKINS.
 CHAPTER I. THE AUTHOR’S PEDIGREE,—ALSO THAT OF HIS FATHER
 CHAPTER II. TOUCHING MYSELF AND TEN THOUSAND POUNDS
 CHAPTER III. OPINIONS OF OUR AUTHOR’S ANCESTOR, TOGETHER WITH SOME OF HIS OWN, AND SOME OF OTHER PEOPLE’S
 CHAPTER IV. SHOWING THE UPS AND DOWNS, THE HOPES AND FEARS, AND THE VAGARIES OF LOVE, SOME VIEWS OF DEATH, AND AN ACCOUNT OF AN INHERITANCE
 CHAPTER V. ABOUT THE SOCIAL-STAKE SYSTEM, THE DANGERS OF CONCENTRATION, AND OTHER MORAL AND IMMORAL CURIOSITIES
 CHAPTER VI. A THEORY OF PALPABLE SUBLIMITY—SOME PRACTICAL IDEAS, AND THE COMMENCEMENT OF ADVENTURES
 CHAPTER VII. TOUCHING AN AMPHIBIOUS ANIMAL, A SPECIAL INTRODUCTION, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
 CHAPTER VIII. AN INTRODUCTION TO FOUR NEW CHARACTERS, SOME TOUCHES OF PHILOSOPHY, AND A FEW CAPITAL THOUGHTS ON POLITICAL ECONOMY
 CHAPTER IX. THE COMMENCEMENT OF WONDERS, WHICH ARE THE MORE EXTRAORDINARY ON ACCOUNT OF THEIR TRUTH
 CHAPTER X. A GREAT DEAL OF NEGOTIATION, IN WHICH HUMAN SHREWDNESS IS COMPLETELY SHAMED, AND HUMAN INGENUITY IS SHOWN TO BE OF A VERY SECONDARY QUALITY
 CHAPTER XI. A PHILOSOPHY THAT IS BOTTOMED ON SOMETHING SUBSTANTIAL—SOME REASONS PLAINLY PRESENTED, AND CAVILLING OBJECTIONS PUT TO FLIGHT BY A CHARGE OF LOGICAL BAYONETS.
 CHAPTER XII. BETTER AND BETTER—A HIGHER FLIGHT OF REASON—MORE OBVIOUS TRUTHS, DEEPER PHILOSOPHY, AND FACTS THAT EVEN AN OSTRICH MIGHT DIGEST
 CHAPTER XIII. A CHAPTER OF PREPARATIONS—DISCRIMINATION IN CHARACTER—A TIGHT FIT, AND OTHER CONVENIENCES, WITH SOME JUDGMENT
 CHAPTER XIV. HOW TO STEER SMALL—HOW TO RUN THE GAUNTLET WITH A SHIP—HOW TO GO CLEAR—A NEW-FASHIONED SCREW—DOCK, AND CERTAIN MILE-STONES
 CHAPTER XV. AN ARRIVAL—FORMS OF RECEPTION—SEVERAL NEW CHRISTENINGS—AN OFFICIAL DOCUMENT, AND TERRA FIRMA
 CHAPTER XVI. AN INN—DEBTS PAID IN ADVANCE, AND A SINGULAR TOUCH OF HUMAN NATURE FOUND CLOSELY INCORPORATED WITH MONIKIN NATURE
 CHAPTER XVII. NEW LORDS, NEW LAWS—GYRATION, ROTATION, AND ANOTHER NATION; ALSO AN INVITATION
 CHAPTER XVIII. A COURT, A COURT-DRESS, AND A COURTIER—JUSTICE IN VARIOUS ASPECTS, AS WELL AS HONOR
 CHAPTER XIX. ABOUT THE HUMILITY OF PROFESSIONAL SAINTS, A SUCCESSION OF TAILS, A BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM, AND OTHER HEAVENLY MATTERS, DIPLOMACY INCLUDED
 CHAPTER XX. A VERY COMMON CASE: OR A GREAT DEAL OF LAW, AND VERY LITTLE JUSTICE—HEADS AND TAILS, WITH THE DANGERS OF EACH
 CHAPTER XXI. BETTER AND BETTER—MORE LAW AND MORE JUSTICE—TAILS AND HEADS: THE IMPORTANCE OF KEEPING EACH IN ITS PROPER PLACE
 CHAPTER XXII. A NEOPHYTE IN DIPLOMACY—DIPLOMATIC INTRODUCTION—A CALCULATION—A SHIPMENT OF OPINIONS—HOW TO CHOOSE AN INVOICE, WITH AN ASSORTMENT
 CHAPTER XXIII. POLITICAL BOUNDARIES—POLITICAL RIGHTS—POLITICAL SELECTIONS, AND POLITICAL DISQUISITIONS; WITH POLITICAL RESULTS
 CHAPTER XXIV. AN ARRIVAL—AN ELECTION—ARCHITECTURE—A ROLLING-PIN, AND PATRIOTISM OF THE MOST APPROVED WATER
 CHAPTER XXV. A FUNDAMENTAL PRINCIPLE, A FUNDAMENTAL LAW, AND A FUNDAMENTAL ERROR
 CHAPTER XXVI. HOW TO ENACT LAWS—ORATORY, LOGIC, AND ELOQUENCE; ALL CONSIDERED IN THEIR EVERY-DAY ASPECTS
 CHAPTER XXVII. AN EFFECT OF LOGARITHMS ON MORALS—AN OBSCURATION, A DISSERTATION, AND A CALCULATION
 CHAPTER XXVIII. THE IMPORTANCE OF MOTIVES TO A LEGISLATOR—MORAL CONSECUTIVENESS, COMETS, KITES, AND A CONVOY; WITH SOME EVERY-DAY LEGISLATION; TOGETHER WITH CAUSE AND EFFECT.
 CHAPTER XXIX. SOME EXPLANATIONS—A HUMAN APPETITE—A DINNER AND A BONNE BOUCHE
 CHAPTER XXX. EXPLANATIONS—A LEAVE-TAKING—LOVE—CONFESSIONS, BUT NO PENITENCE

INTRODUCTION.

It is not improbable that some of those who read this book, may feel a
wish to know in what manner I became possessed of the manuscript. Such
a desire is too just and natural to be thwarted, and the tale shall be
told as briefly as possible.

During the summer of 1828, while travelling among those valleys of
Switzerland which lie between the two great ranges of the Alps, and in
which both the Rhone and the Rhine take their rise, I had passed from
the sources of the latter to those of the former river, and had reached
that basin in the mountains that is so celebrated for containing the
glacier of the Rhone, when chance gave me one of those rare moments of
sublimity and solitude, which are the more precious in the other
hemisphere from their infrequency. On every side the view was bounded
by high and ragged mountains, their peaks glittering near the sun,
while directly before me, and on a level with the eye, lay that
miraculous frozen sea, out of whose drippings the Rhone starts a
foaming river, to glance away to the distant Mediterranean. For the
first time, during a pilgrimage of years, I felt alone with nature in
Europe. Alas! the enjoyment, as all such enjoyments necessarily are
amid the throngs of the old world, was short and treacherous. A party
came round the angle of a rock, along the narrow bridle-path, in single
file; two ladies on horseback, followed by as many gentlemen on foot,
and preceded by the usual guide. It was but small courtesy to rise and
salute the dove-like eyes and blooming cheeks of the former, as they
passed. They were English, and the gentlemen appeared to recognize me
as a countryman. One of the latter stopped, and politely inquired if
the passage of the Furca was obstructed by snow. He was told not, and
in return for the information said that I would find the Grimsel a
little ticklish; “but,” he added, smiling, “the ladies succeeded in
crossing, and you will scarcely hesitate.” I thought I might get over a
difficulty that his fair companions had conquered. He then told me Sir
Herbert Taylor was made adjutant-general, and wished me good morning.

I sat reflecting on the character, hopes, pursuits, and interests of
man, for an hour, concluding that the stranger was a soldier, who let
some of the ordinary workings of his thoughts overflow in this brief
and casual interview. To resume my solitary journey, cross the Rhone,
and toil my way up the rugged side of the Grimsel, consumed two more
hours, and glad was I to come in view of the little chill-looking sheet
of water on its summit, which is called the Lake of the Dead. The path
was filled with snow, at a most critical point, where, indeed, a
misplaced footstep might betray the incautious to their destruction. A
large party on the other side appeared fully aware of the difficulty,
for it had halted, and was in earnest discussion with the guide,
touching the practicability of passing. It was decided to attempt the
enterprise. First came a female of one of the sweetest, serenest
countenances I had ever seen. She, too, was English; and though she
trembled, and blushed, and laughed at herself, she came on with spirit,
and would have reached my side in safety, had not an unlucky stone
turned beneath a foot that was much too pretty for those wild hills. I
sprang forward, and was so happy as to save her from destruction. She
felt the extent of the obligation, and expressed her thanks modestly
but with fervor. In a minute we were joined by her husband, who grasped
my hand with warm feeling, or rather with the emotion one ought to feel
who had witnessed the risk he had just run of losing an angel. The lady
seemed satisfied at leaving us together.

“You are an Englishman?” said the stranger.

“An American.”

“An American! This is singular—will you pardon a question?—You have
more than saved my life—you have probably saved my reason—will you
pardon a question?—Can money serve you?”

I smiled, and told him, odd as it might appear to him, that though an
American, I was a gentleman. He appeared embarrassed, and his fine face
worked, until I began to pity him, for it was evident he wished to show
me in some way, how much he felt he was my debtor, and yet he did not
know exactly what to propose.

“We may meet again,” I said, squeezing his hand.

“Will you receive my card?”

“Most willingly.”

He put “Viscount Householder” into my hand, and in return I gave him my
own humble appellation.

He looked from the card to me, and from me to the card, and some
agreeable idea appeared to flash upon his mind.

“Shall you visit Geneva this summer?” he asked, earnestly.

“Within a month.”

“Your address—”

“Hotel de l’Ecu.”

“You shall hear from me. Adieu.”

We parted, he, his lovely wife, and his guides descending to the Rhone,
while I pursued my way to the Hospice of the Grimsel. Within the month
I received a large packet at l’Ecu. It contained a valuable diamond
ring, with a request that I would wear it, as a memorial of Lady
Householder, and a fairly written manuscript. The following short note
explained the wishes of the writer:

“Providence brought us together for more purposes than were at first
apparent. I have long hesitated about publishing the accompanying
narrative, for in England there is a disposition to cavil at
extraordinary facts, but the distance of America from my place of
residence will completely save me from ridicule. The world must have
the truth, and I see no better means than by resorting to your agency.
All I ask is, that you will have the book fairly printed, and that you
will send one copy to my address, Householder Hall, Dorsetshire, Eng.,
and another to Captain Noah Poke, Stonington, Conn., in your own
country. My Anna prays for you, and is ever your friend. Do not forget
us.

“Yours, most faithfully,”

“HOUSEHOLDER.”

I have rigidly complied with this request, and having sent the two
copies according to direction, the rest of the edition is at the
disposal of any one who may feel an inclination to pay for it. In
return for the copy sent to Stonington, I received the following
letter:

“ON BOARD THE DERBY AND DOLLY, “STONNIN’TUN, April 1st, 1835.

“AUTHOR OF THE SPY, ESQUIRE:

“Dear Sir:—Your favor is come to hand, and found me in good health, as
I hope these few lines will have the same advantage with you. I have
read the book, and must say there is some truth in it, which, I
suppose, is as much as befalls any book, the Bible, the Almanac, and
the State Laws excepted. I remember Sir John well, and shall gainsay
nothing he testifies to, for the reason that friends should not
contradict each other. I was also acquainted with the four Monikins he
speaks of, though I knew them by different names. Miss Poke says she
wonders if it’s all true, which I wunt tell her, seeing that a little
unsartainty makes a woman rational. As to my navigating without
geometry, thats a matter that wasn’t worth booking, for it’s no
curiosity in these parts, bating a look at the compass once or twice a
day, and so I take my leave of you, with offers to do any commission
for you among the Sealing Islands, for which I sail to-morrow, wind and
weather permitting.

“Yours to sarve, NOAH POKE.”

“To the Author of THE SPY, Esquire, ——— town, ——— county, York state.

“P. S.—I always told Sir John to steer clear of too much journalizing,
but he did nothing but write, night and day, for a week; and as you
brew, so you must bake. The wind has chopped, and we shall take our
anchor this tide; so no more at present.

“N. B.—Sir John is a little out about my eating the monkey, which I
did, four years before I fell in with him, down on the Spanish Main. It
was not bad food to the taste, but was wonderful narvous to the eye. I
r’ally thought I had got hold of Miss Poke’s youngest born.”

THE MONIKINS.

CHAPTER I.
THE AUTHOR’S PEDIGREE,—ALSO THAT OF HIS FATHER.

The philosopher who broaches a new theory is bound to furnish, at
least, some elementary proofs of the reasonableness of his positions,
and the historian who ventures to record marvels that have hitherto
been hid from human knowledge, owes it to a decent regard to the
opinions of others, to produce some credible testimony in favor of his
veracity. I am peculiarly placed in regard to these two great
essentials having little more than its plausibility to offer in favor
of my philosophy, and no other witness than myself to establish the
important facts that are now about to be laid before the reading world
for the first time. In this dilemma, I fully feel the weight of
responsibility under which I stand; for there are truths of so little
apparent probability as to appear fictitious, and fictions so like the
truth that the ordinary observer is very apt to affirm that he was an
eye-witness to their existence: two facts that all our historians would
do well to bear in mind, since a knowledge of the circumstances might
spare them the mortification of having testimony that cost a deal of
trouble, discredited in the one case, and save a vast deal of painful
and unnecessary labor, in the other. Thrown upon myself, therefore, for
what the French call les pieces justificatives of my theories, as well
as of my facts, I see no better way to prepare the reader to believe
me, than by giving an unvarnished the result of the orange-woman’s
application; for had my worthy ancestor been subjected to the happy
accidents and generous caprices of voluntary charity, it is more than
probable I should be driven to throw a veil over those important years
of his life that were notoriously passed in the work-house, but which,
in consequence of that occurrence, are now easily authenticated by
valid minutes and documentary evidence. Thus it is that there exists no
void in the annals of our family, even that period which is usually
remembered through gossiping and idle tales in the lives of most men,
being matter of legal record in that of my progenitor, and so continued
to be down to the day of his presumed majority, since he was indebted
to a careful master the moment the parish could with any legality,
putting decency quite out of the question, get rid of him. I ought to
have said, that the orange-woman, taking a hint from the sign of a
butcher opposite to whose door my ancestor was found, had very cleverly
given him the name of Thomas Goldencalf.

This second important transition in the affairs of my father, might be
deemed a presage of his future fortunes. He was bound apprentice to a
trader in fancy articles, or a shopkeeper who dealt in such objects as
are usually purchased by those who do not well know what to do with
their money. This trade was of immense advantage to the future
prosperity of the young adventurer; for, in addition to the known fact
that they who amuse are much better paid than they who instruct their
fellow-creatures, his situation enabled him to study those caprices of
men, which, properly improved, are of themselves a mine of wealth, as
well as to gain a knowledge of the important truth that the greatest
events of this life are much oftener the result of impulse than of
calculation.

I have it by a direct tradition, orally conveyed from the lips of my
ancestor, that no one could be more lucky than himself in the character
of his master. This personage, who came, in time, to be my maternal
grandfather, was one of those wary traders who encourage others in
their follies, with a view to his own advantage, and the experience of
fifty years had rendered him so expert in the practices of his calling,
that it was seldom he struck out a new vein in his mine, without
finding himself rewarded for the enterprise, by a success that was
fully equal to his expectations.

“Tom,” he said one day to his apprentice, when time had produced
confidence and awakened sympathies between them, “thou art a lucky
youth, or the parish officer would never have brought thee to my door.
Thou little knowest the wealth that is in store for thee, or the
treasures that are at thy command, if thou provest diligent, and in
particular faithful to my interests.” My provident grandfather never
missed an occasion to throw in a useful moral, notwithstanding the
general character of veracity that distinguished his commerce. “Now,
what dost think, lad, may be the amount of my capital?”

My ancestor in the male line hesitated to reply, for, hitherto, his
ideas had been confined to the profits; never having dared to lift his
thoughts as high as that source from which he could not but see they
flowed in a very ample stream; but thrown upon himself by so unexpected
a question, and being quick at figures, after adding ten per cent. to
the sum which he knew the last year had given as the net avail of their
joint ingenuity, he named the amount, in answered to the interrogatory.

My maternal grandfather laughed in the face of my direct lineal
ancestor.

“Thou judgest, Tom,” he said, when his mirth was a little abated, “by
what thou thinkest is the cost of the actual stock before thine eyes,
when thou shouldst take into the account that which I term our floating
capital.”

Tom pondered a moment, for while he knew that his master had money in
the funds, he did not account that as any portion of the available
means connected with his ordinary business; and as for a floating
capital, he did not well see how it could be of much account, since the
disproportion between the cost and the selling prices of the different
articles in which they dealt was so great, that there was no particular
use in such an investment. As his master, however, rarely paid for
anything until he was in possession of returns from it that exceeded
the debt some seven-fold, he began to think the old man was alluding to
the advantages he obtained in the way of credit, and after a little
more cogitation, he ventured to say as much.

Again my maternal grandfather indulged in a hearty fit of laughter.

“Thou art clever in thy way, Tom,” he said, “and I like the minuteness
of thy calculations, for they show an aptitude for trade; but there is
genius in our calling as well as cleverness. Come hither, boy,” he
added, drawing Tom to a window whence they could see the neighbors on
their way to church, for it was on a Sunday that my two provident
progenitors indulged in this moral view of humanity, as best fitted the
day, “come hither, boy, and thou shalt see some small portion of that
capital which thou seemest to think hid, stalking abroad by daylight,
and in the open streets. Here, thou seest the wife of our neighbor, the
pastry-cook; with what an air she tosses her head and displays the
bauble thou sold’st her yesterday: well, even that slattern, idle and
vain, and little worthy of trust as she is, carries about with her a
portion of my capital!”

My worthy ancestor stared, for he never knew the other to be guilty of
so great an indiscretion as to trust a woman whom they both knew bought
more than her husband was willing to pay for.

“She gave me a guinea, master, for that which did not cost a
seven-shilling piece!”

“She did, indeed, Tom, and it was her vanity that urged her to it. I
trade upon her folly, younker, and upon that of all mankind; now dost
thou see with what a capital I carry on affairs? There—there is the
maid, carrying the idle hussy’s patterns in the rear; I drew upon my
stock in that wench’s possession, no later than the last week, for
half-a-crown!”

Tom reflected a long time on these allusions of his provident master,
and although he understood them about as well as they will be
understood by the owners of half the soft humid eyes and sprouting
whiskers among my readers, by dint of cogitation he came at last to a
practical understanding of the subject, which before he was thirty he
had, to use a French term, pretty well exploite.

I learn by unquestionable tradition, received also from the mouths of
his contemporaries, that the opinions of my ancestor underwent some
material changes between the ages of ten and forty, a circumstance that
has often led me to reflect that people might do well not to be too
confident of the principles, during the pliable period of life, when
the mind, like the tender shoot, is easily bent aside and subjected to
the action of surrounding causes.

During the earlier years of the plastic age, my ancestor was observed
to betray strong feelings of compassion at the sight of
charity-children, nor was he ever known to pass a child, especially a
boy that was still in petticoats, who was crying with hunger in the
streets, without sharing his own crust with him. Indeed, his practice
on this head was said to be steady and uniform, whenever the rencontre
took place after my worthy father had had his own sympathies quickened
by a good dinner; a fact that maybe imputed to a keener sense of the
pleasure he was about to confer.

After sixteen, he was known to converse occasionally on the subject of
politics, a topic on which he came to be both expert and eloquent
before twenty. His usual theme was justice and the sacred rights of
man, concerning which he sometimes uttered very pretty sentiments, and
such as were altogether becoming in one who was at the bottom of the
great social pot that was then, as now, actively boiling, and where he
was made to feel most, the heat that kept it in ebullition. I am
assured that on the subject of taxation, and on that of the wrongs of
America and Ireland, there were few youths in the parish who could
discourse with more zeal and unction. About this time, too, he was
heard shouting “Wilkes and liberty!” in the public streets.

But, as is the case with all men of rare capacities, there was a
concentration of powers in the mind of my ancestor, which soon brought
all his errant sympathies, the mere exuberance of acute and overflowing
feelings, into a proper and useful subjection, centring all in the one
absorbing and capacious receptacle of self. I do not claim for my
father any peculiar quality in this respect, for I have often observed
that many of those who (like giddy-headed horsemen that raise a great
dust, and scamper as if the highway were too narrow for their eccentric
courses, before they are fairly seated in the saddle, but who afterward
drive as directly at their goals as the arrow parting from the bow),
most indulge their sympathies at the commencement of their careers, are
the most apt toward the close to get a proper command of their
feelings, and to reduce them within the bounds of common sense and
prudence. Before five-and-twenty, my father was as exemplary and as
constant a devotee of Plutus as was then to be found between Ratcliffe
Highway and Bridge Street:—I name these places in particular, as all
the rest of the great capital in which he was born is known to be more
indifferent to the subject of money.

My ancestor was just thirty, when his master, who like himself was a
bachelor, very unexpectedly, and a good deal to the scandal of the
neighborhood, introduced a new inmate into his frugal abode, in the
person of an infant female child. It would seem that some one had been
speculating on his stock of weakness too, for this poor, little,
defenceless, and dependent being was thrown upon his care, like Tom
himself, through the vigilance of the parish officers. There were many
good-natured jokes practised on the prosperous fancy-dealer, by the
more witty of his neighbors, at this sudden turn of good fortune, and
not a few ill-natured sneers were given behind his back; most of the
knowing ones of the vicinity finding a stronger likeness between the
little girl and all the other unmarried men of the eight or ten
adjoining streets, than to the worthy housekeeper who had been selected
to pay for her support. I have been much disposed to admit the opinions
of these amiable observers as authority in my own pedigree, since it
would be reaching the obscurity in which all ancient lines take root, a
generation earlier, than by allowing the presumption that little Betsey
was my direct male ancestor’s master’s daughter; but, on reflection, I
have determined to adhere to the less popular but more simple version
of the affair, because it is connected with the transmission of no
small part of our estate, a circumstance of itself that at once gives
dignity and importance to a genealogy.

Whatever may have been the real opinion of the reputed father touching
his rights to the honors of that respectable title, he soon became as
strongly attached to the child, as if it really owed its existence to
himself. The little girl was carefully nursed, abundantly fed, and
throve accordingly. She had reached her third year, when the
fancy-dealer took the smallpox from his little pet, who was just
recovering from the same disease, and died at the expiration of the
tenth day.

This was an unlooked-for and stunning blow to my ancestor, who was then
in his thirty-fifth year and the head shopman of the establishment,
which had continued to grow with the growing follies and vanities of
the age. On examining his master’s will, it was found that my father,
who had certainly aided materially of late in the acquisition of the
money, was left the good-will of the shop, the command of all the stock
at cost, and the sole executorship of the estate. He was also intrusted
with the exclusive guardianship of little Betsey, to whom his master
had affectionately devised every farthing of his property. An ordinary
reader may be surprised that a man who had so long practised on the
foibles of his species, should have so much confidence in a mere
shopman, as to leave his whole estate so completely in his power; but,
it must be remembered, that human ingenuity has not yet devised any
means by which we can carry our personal effects into the other world;
that “what cannot be cured must be endured”; that he must of necessity
have confided this important trust to some fellow-creature, and that it
was better to commit the keeping of his money to one who, knowing the
secret by which it had been accumulated, had less inducement to be
dishonest, than one who was exposed to the temptation of covetousness,
without having a knowledge of any direct and legal means of gratifying
his longings. It has been conjectured, therefore, that the testator
thought, by giving up his trade to a man who was as keenly alive as my
ancestor to all its perfections, moral and pecuniary, he provided a
sufficient protection against his falling into the sin of peculation,
by so amply supplying him with simpler means of enriching himself.
Besides, it is fair to presume that the long acquaintance had begotten
sufficient confidence to weaken the effect of that saying which some
wit has put into the mouth of a wag, “Make me your executor, father; I
care not to whom you leave the estate.” Let all this be as it might,
nothing can be more certain than that my worthy ancestor executed his
trust with the scrupulous fidelity of a man whose integrity had been
severely schooled in the ethics of trade. Little Betsey was properly
educated for one in her condition of life; her health was as carefully
watched over as if she had been the only daughter of the sovereign
instead of the only daughter of a fancy-dealer; her morals were
superintended by a superannuated old maid; her mind left to its
original purity; her person jealously protected against the designs of
greedy fortune-hunters; and, to complete the catalogue of his paternal
attentions and solicitudes, my vigilant and faithful ancestor, to
prevent accidents, and to counteract the chances of life, so far as it
might be done by human foresight, saw that she was legally married, the
day she reached her nineteenth year, to the person whom, there is every
reason to think, he believed to be the most unexceptionable man of his
acquaintance—in other words, to himself. Settlements were unnecessary
between parties who had so long been known to each other, and, thanks
to the liberality of his late master’s will in more ways than one, a
long minority, and the industry of the ci-devant head shopman, the
nuptial benediction was no sooner pronounced, than our family stepped
into the undisputed possession of four hundred thousand pounds. One
less scrupulous on the subject of religion and the law, might not have
thought it necessary to give the orphan heiress a settlement so
satisfactory, at the termination of her wardship.

I was the fifth of the children who were the fruits of this union, and
the only one of them all that passed the first year of its life. My
poor mother did not survive my birth, and I can only record her
qualities through the medium of that great agent in the archives of the
family, tradition. By all that I have heard, she must have been a meek,
quiet, domestic woman; who, by temperament and attainments, was
admirably qualified to second the prudent plans of my father for her
welfare. If she had causes of complaint, (and that she had, there is
too much reason to think, for who has ever escaped them?) they were
concealed, with female fidelity, in the sacred repository of her own
heart; and if truant imagination sometimes dimly drew an outline of
married happiness different from the fact that stood in dull reality
before her eyes, the picture was merely commented on by a sigh, and
consigned to a cabinet whose key none ever touched but herself, and she
seldom.

Of this subdued and unobtrusive sorrow, for I fear it sometimes reached
that intensity of feeling, my excellent and indefatigable ancestor
appeared to have no suspicion. He pursued his ordinary occupations with
his ordinary single-minded devotion, and the last thing that would have
crossed his brain was the suspicion that he had not punctiliously done
his duty by his ward. Had he acted otherwise, none surely would have
suffered more by his delinquency than her husband, and none would have
a better right to complain. Now, as her husband never dreamt of making
such an accusation, it is not at all surprising that my ancestor
remained in ignorance of his wife’s feelings at the hour of his death.

It has been said that the opinions of the successor of the fancy-dealer
underwent some essential changes between the ages of ten and forty.
After he had reached his twenty-second year, or, in other words, the
moment he began to earn money for himself, as well as for his master,
he ceased to cry “Wilkes and liberty!” He was not heard to breathe a
syllable concerning the obligations of society toward the weak and
unfortunate, for the five years that succeeded his majority; he touched
lightly on Christian duties in general, after he got to be worth fifty
pounds of his own; and as for railing at human follies, it would have
been rank ingratitude in one who so very unequivocally got his bread by
them. About this time, his remarks on the subject of taxation, however,
were singularly caustic, and well applied. He railed at the public
debt, as a public curse, and ominously predicted the dissolution of
society, in consequence of the burdens and incumbrances it was hourly
accumulating on the already overloaded shoulders of the trader.

The period of his marriage and his succession to the hoardings of his
former master, may be dated as the second epocha in the opinions of my
ancestor. From this moment his ambition expanded, his views enlarged in
proportion to his means, and his contemplations on the subject of his
great floating capital became more profound and philosophical. A man of
my ancestor’s native sagacity, whose whole soul was absorbed in the
pursuit of gain, who had so long been forming his mind, by dealing as
it were with the elements of human weaknesses, and who already
possessed four hundred thousand pounds, was very likely to strike out
for himself some higher road to eminence, than that in which he had
been laboriously journeying, during the years of painful probation. The
property of my mother had been chiefly invested in good bonds and
mortgages; her protector, patron, benefactor, and legalized father,
having an unconquerable repugnance to confiding in that soulless,
conventional, nondescript body corporate, the public. The first
indication that was given by my ancestor of a change of purpose in the
direction of his energies, was by calling in the whole of his
outstanding debts, and adopting the Napoleon plan of operations, by
concentrating his forces on a particular point, in order that he might
operate in masses. About this time, too, he suddenly ceased railing at
taxation. This change may be likened to that which occurs in the
language of the ministerial journals, when they cease abusing any
foreign state with whom the nation has been carrying on a war, that it
is, at length, believed politic to terminate; and for much the same
reason, as it was the intention of my thrifty ancestor to make an ally
of a power that he had hitherto always treated as an enemy. The whole
of the four hundred thousand pounds were liberally intrusted to the
country, the former fancy-dealer’s apprentice entering the arena of
virtuous and patriotic speculation, as a bull; and, if with more
caution, with at least some portion of the energy and obstinacy of the
desperate animal that gives title to this class of adventurers. Success
crowned his laudable efforts; gold rolled in upon him like water on a
flood, buoying him up, soul and body, to that enviable height, where,
as it would seem, just views can alone be taken of society in its
innumerable phases. All his former views of life, which, in common with
others of a similar origin and similar political sentiments, he had
imbibed in early years, and which might with propriety be called near
views, were now completely obscured by the sublimer and broader
prospect that was spread before him.

I am afraid the truth will compel me to admit, that my ancestor was
never charitable in the vulgar acceptation of the term; but then, he
always maintained that his interest in his fellow-creatures was of a
more elevated cast, taking a comprehensive glance at all the bearings
of good and evil—being of the sort of love which induces the parent to
correct the child, that the lesson of present suffering may produce the
blessings of future respectability and usefulness. Acting on these
principles, he gradually grew more estranged from his species in
appearance, a sacrifice that was probably exacted by the severity of
his practical reproofs for their growing wickedness, and the austere
policy that was necessary to enforce them. By this time, my ancestor
was also thoroughly impressed with what is called the value of money; a
sentiment which, I believe, gives its possessor a livelier perception
than common of the dangers of the precious metals, as well as of their
privileges and uses. He expatiated occasionally on the guaranties that
it was necessary to give to society, for its own security; never even
voted for a parish officer unless he were a warm substantial citizen;
and began to be a subscriber to the patriotic fund, and to the other
similar little moral and pecuniary buttresses of the government, whose
common and commendable object was, to protect our country, our altars,
and our firesides.

The death-bed of my mother has been described to me as a touching and
melancholy scene. It appears that as this meek and retired woman was
extricated from the coil of mortality, her intellect grew brighter, her
powers of discernment stronger, and her character in every respect more
elevated and commanding. Although she had said much less about our
firesides and altars than her husband, I see no reason to doubt that
she had ever been quite as faithful as he could be to the one, and as
much devoted to the other. I shall describe the important event of her
passage from this to a better world, as I have often had it repeated
from the lips of one who was present, and who has had an important
agency in since making me the man I am. This person was the clergyman
of the parish, a pious divine, a learned man, and a gentleman in
feeling as well as by extraction.

My mother, though long conscious that she was drawing near to her last
great account, had steadily refused to draw her husband from his
absorbing pursuits, by permitting him to be made acquainted with her
situation. He knew that she was ill; very ill, as he had reason to
think; but, as he not only allowed her, but even volunteered to order
her all the advice and relief that money could command (my ancestor was
not a miser in the vulgar meaning of the word), he thought that he had
done all that man could do, in a case of life and death—interests over
which he professed to have no control. He saw Dr. Etherington, the
rector, come and go daily, for a month, without uneasiness or
apprehension, for he thought his discourse had a tendency to
tranquillize my mother, and he had a strong affection for all that left
him undisturbed, to the enjoyment of the occupation in which his whole
energies were now completely centred. The physician got his guinea at
each visit, with scrupulous punctuality; the nurses were well received
and were well satisfied, for no one interfered with their acts but the
doctor; and every ordinary duty of commission was as regularly
discharged by my ancestor, as if the sinking and resigned creature from
whom he was about to be forever separated had been the spontaneous
choice of his young and fresh affections.

When, therefore, a servant entered to say that Dr. Etherington desired
a private interview, my worthy ancestor, who had no consciousness of
having neglected any obligation that became a friend of church and
state, was in no small measure surprised.

“I come, Mr. Goldencalf, on a melancholy duty,” said the pious rector,
entering the private cabinet to which his application had for the first
time obtained his admission; “the fatal secret can no longer be
concealed from you, and your wife at length consents that I shall be
the instrument of revealing it.”

The Doctor paused; for on such occasions it is perhaps as well to let
the party that is about to be shocked receive a little of the blow
through his own imagination; and busily enough was that of my poor
father said to be exercised on this painful occasion. He grew pale,
opened his eyes until they again filled the sockets into which they had
gradually been sinking for twenty years, and looked a hundred questions
that his tongue refused to put.

“It cannot be, Doctor,” he at length querulously said, “that a woman
like Betsey has got an inkling into any of the events connected with
the last great secret expedition, and which have escaped my jealousy
and experience?”

“I am afraid, dear sir, that Mrs. Goldencalf has obtained glimpses of
the last great and secret expedition on which we must all, sooner or
later, embark, that have entirely escaped your vigilance. But of this I
will speak some other time. At present it is my painful duty to inform
you it is the opinion of the physician that your excellent wife cannot
outlive the day, if, indeed, she do the hour.”

My father was struck with this intelligence, and for more than a minute
he remained silent and without motion. Casting his eyes toward the
papers on which he had lately been employed, and which contained some
very important calculations connected with the next settling day, he at
length resumed:

“If this be really so, Doctor, it may be well for me to go to her,
since one in the situation of the poor woman may indeed have something
of importance to communicate.”

“It is with this object that I have now come to tell you the truth,”
quietly answered the divine, who knew that nothing was to be gained by
contending with the besetting weakness of such a man, at such a moment.

My father bent his head in assent, and, first carefully enclosing the
open papers in a secretary, he followed his companion to the bedside of
his dying wife.

CHAPTER II.
TOUCHING MYSELF AND TEN THOUSAND POUNDS.

Although my ancestor was much too wise to refuse to look back upon his
origin in a worldly point of view, he never threw his retrospective
glances so far as to reach the sublime mystery of his moral existence;
and while his thoughts might be said to be ever on the stretch to
attain glimpses into the future, they were by far too earthly to extend
beyond any other settling day than those which were regulated by the
ordinances of the stock exchange. With him, to be born was but the
commencement of a speculation, and to die was to determine the general
balance of profit and loss. A man who had so rarely meditated on the
grave changes of mortality, therefore, was consequently so much the
less prepared to gaze upon the visible solemnities of a death-bed.
Although he had never truly loved my mother, for love was a sentiment
much too pure and elevated for one whose imagination dwelt habitually
on the beauties of the stock-books, he had ever been kind to her, and
of late he was even much disposed, as has already been stated, to
contribute as much to her temporal comforts as comported with his
pursuits and habits. On the other hand, the quiet temperament of my
mother required some more exciting cause than the affections of her
husband, to quicken those germs of deep, placid, womanly love, that
certainly lay dormant in her heart, like seed withering with the
ungenial cold of winter. The last meeting of such a pair was not likely
to be attended with any violent outpourings of grief.

My ancestor, notwithstanding, was deeply struck with the physical
changes in the appearance of his wife.

“Thou art much emaciated, Betsey,” he said, taking her hand kindly,
after a long and solemn pause; “much more so than I had thought, or
could have believed! Dost nurse give thee comforting soups and generous
nourishment?”

My mother smiled the ghastly smile of death; but waved her hand, with
loathing, at his suggestion.

“All this is now too late, Mr. Goldencalf,” she answered, speaking with
a distinctness and an energy for which she had long been reserving her
strength. “Food and raiment are no longer among my wants.”

“Well, well, Betsey, one that is in want of neither food nor raiment,
cannot be said to be in great suffering, after all; and I am glad that
thou art so much at ease. Dr. Etherington tells me thou art far from
being well bodily, however, and I am come expressly to see if I can
order anything that will help to make thee more easy.”

“Mr. Goldencalf, you can. My wants for this life are nearly over; a
short hour or two will remove me beyond the world, its cares, its
vanities, its—” My poor mother probably meant to add, its heartlessness
or its selfishness; but she rebuked herself, and paused: “By the mercy
of our blessed Redeemer, and through the benevolent agency of this
excellent man,” she resumed, glancing her eye upwards at first with
holy reverence, and then at the divine with meek gratitude, “I quit you
without alarm, and were it not for one thing, I might say without
care.”

“And what is there to distress thee, in particular, Betsey?” asked my
father, blowing his nose, and speaking with unusual tenderness; “if it
be in my power to set thy heart at ease on this, or on any other point,
name it, and I will give orders to have it immediately performed. Thou
hast been a good pious woman, and canst have little to reproach thyself
with.”

My mother looked earnestly and wistfully at her husband. Never before
had he betrayed so strong an interest in her happiness, and had it not,
alas! been too late, this glimmering of kindness might have lighted the
matrimonial torch into a brighter flame than had ever yet glowed upon
the past.

“Mr. Goldencalf, we have an only son—”

“We have, Betsey, and it may gladden thee to hear that the physician
thinks the boy more likely to live than either of his poor brothers and
sisters.”

I cannot explain the holy and mysterious principle of maternal nature
that caused my mother to clasp her hands, to raise her eyes to heaven,
and, while a gleam flitted athwart her glassy eyes and wan cheeks, to
murmur her thanks to God for the boon. She was herself hastening away
to the eternal bliss of the pure of mind and the redeemed, and her
imagination, quiet and simple as it was, had drawn pictures in which
she and her departed babes were standing before the throne of the Most
High, chanting his glory, and shining amid the stars—and yet was she
now rejoicing that the last and the most cherished of all her
offsprings was likely to be left exposed to the evils, the vices, nay,
to the enormities, of the state of being that she herself so willingly
resigned.

“It is of our boy that I wish now to speak, Mr. Goldencalf,” replied my
mother, when her secret devotion was ended. “The child will have need
of instruction and care; in short, of both mother and father.”

“Betsey, thou forgettest that he will still have the latter.”

“You are much wrapped up in your business, Mr. Goldencalf, and are not,
in other respects, qualified to educate a boy born to the curse and to
the temptations of immense riches.”

My excellent ancestor looked as if he thought his dying consort had in
sooth finally taken leave of her senses.

“There are public schools, Betsey; I promise thee the child shall not
be forgotten: I will have him well taught, though it cost me a thousand
a year!”

His wife reached forth her emaciated hand to that of my father, and
pressed the latter with as much force as a dying mother could use. For
a fleet moment she even appeared to have gotten rid of her latest care.
But the knowledge of character that had been acquired by the hard
experience of thirty years, was not to be unsettled by the gratitude of
a moment.

“I wish, Mr. Goldencalf,” she anxiously resumed, “to receive your
solemn promise to commit the education of our boy to Dr.
Etherington—you know his worth, and must have full confidence in such a
man.”

“Nothing would give me greater satisfaction, my dear Betsey; and if Dr.
Etherington will consent to receive him, I will send Jack to his house
this very evening; for, to own the truth, I am but little qualified to
take charge of a child under a year old. A hundred a year, more or
less, shall not spoil so good a bargain.”

The divine was a gentleman, and he looked grave at this speech, though,
meeting the anxious eyes of my mother, his own lost their displeasure
in a glance of reassurance and pity.

“The charges of his education will be easily settled, Mr. Goldencalf,”
added my mother; “but the Doctor has consented with difficulty to take
the responsibility of my poor babe, and that only under two
conditions.”

The stock-dealer required an explanation with his eyes.

“One is, that the child shall be left solely to his own care, after he
has reached his fourth year; and the other is, that you make an
endowment for the support of two poor scholars, at one of the principal
schools.”

As my mother got out the last words, she fell back on her pillow,
whence her interest in the subject had enabled her to lift her head a
little, and she fairly gasped for breath, in the intensity of her
anxiety to hear the answer. My ancestor contracted his brow, like one
who saw it was a subject that required reflection.

“Thou dost not know perhaps, Betsey, that these endowments swallow up a
great deal of money—a great deal—and often very uselessly.”

“Ten thousand pounds is the sum that has been agreed upon between Mrs.
Goldencalf and me,” steadily remarked the Doctor, who, in my soul, I
believe had hoped that his condition would be rejected, having yielded
to the importunities of a dying woman, rather than to his own sense of
that which might be either very desirable or very useful.

“Ten thousand pounds!”

My mother could not speak, though she succeeded in making an imploring
sign of assent.

“Ten thousand pounds is a great deal of money, my dear Betsey—a very
great deal!”

The color of my mother changed to the hue of death, and by her
breathing she appeared to be in the agony.

“Well, well, Betsey,” said my father a little hastily, for he was
frightened at her pallid countenance and extreme distress, “have it
thine own way—the money, yes, yes—it shall be given as thou wishest—now
set thy kind heart at rest.”

The revulsion of feeling was too great for one whose system had been
wound up to a state of excitement like that which had sustained my
mother, who, an hour before, had seemed scarcely able to speak. She
extended her hand toward her husband, smiled benignantly in his face,
whispered the word “Thanks,” and then, losing all her powers of body,
sank into the last sleep, as tranquilly as the infant drops its head on
the bosom of the nurse. This was, after all, a sudden, and, in one
sense, an unexpected death: all who witnessed it were struck with awe.
My father gazed for a whole minute intently on the placid features of
his wife, and left the room in silence. He was followed by Dr.
Etherington, who accompanied him to the private apartment where they
had first met that night, neither uttering a syllable until both were
seated.

“She was a good woman, Dr. Etherington!” said the widowed man, shaking
his foot with agitation.

“She was a good woman, Mr. Goldencalf.”

“And a good wife, Dr. Etherington.”

“I have always believed her to be a good wife, sir.”

“Faithful, obedient, and frugal.”

“Three qualities that are of much practical use in the affairs of this
world.”

“I shall never marry again, sir.”

The divine bowed.

“Nay, I never could find such another match!”

Again the divine inclined his head, though the assent was accompanied
by slight smile.

“Well, she has left me an heir.”

“And brought something that he might inherit,” observed the Doctor,
dryly.

My ancestor looked up inquiringly at his companion, but apparently most
of the sarcasm was thrown away,

“I resign the child to your care, Dr. Etherington, conformably to the
dying request of my beloved Betsey.”

“I accept the charge, Mr. Goldencalf, comformably to my promise to the
deceased; but you will remember that there was a condition coupled with
that promise which must be faithfully and promptly fulfilled.”

My ancestor was too much accustomed to respect the punctilios of trade,
whose code admits of frauds only in certain categories, which are
sufficiently explained in its conventional rules of honor; a sort of
specified morality, that is bottomed more on the convenience of its
votaries than on the general law of right. He respected the letter of
his promise while his soul yearned to avoid its spirit; and his wits
were already actively seeking the means of doing that which he so much
desired.

“I did make a promise to poor Betsey, certainly,” he answered, in the
way of one who pondered, “and it was a promise, too, made under very
solemn circumstances.”

“The promises made to the dead are doubly binding; since, by their
departure to the world of spirits, it may be said they leave the
performance to the exclusive superintendence of the Being who cannot
lie.”

My ancestor quailed; his whole frame shuddered, and his purpose was
shaken.

“Poor Betsey left you as her representative in this case, however,
Doctor,” he observed, after the delay of more than a minute, casting
his eyes wistfully towards the divine.

“In one sense, she certainly did, sir.”

“And a representative with full powers is legally a principal under a
different name. I think this matter might be arranged to our mutual
satisfaction, Dr. Etherington, and the intention of poor Betsey most
completely executed; she, poor woman, knew little of business, as was
best for her sex; and when women undertake affairs of magnitude, they
are very apt to make awkward work of it.”

“So that the intention of the deceased be completely fulfilled, you
will not find me exacting, Mr. Goldencalf.”

“I thought as much—I knew there could be no difficulty between two men
of sense, who were met with honest views to settle a matter of this
nature. The intention of poor Betsey, Doctor, was to place her child
under your care, with the expectation—and I do not deny its
justice—that the boy would receive more benefit from your knowledge
than he possibly could from mine.”

Dr. Etherington was too honest to deny these premises, and too polite
to admit them without an inclination of acknowledgment.

“As we are quite of the same mind, good sir, concerning the
preliminaries,” continued my ancestor, “we will enter a little nearer
into the details. It appears to me to be no more than strict justice,
that he who does the work should receive the reward. This is a
principle in which I have been educated, Dr. Etherington; it is one in
which I could wish to have my son educated; and it is one on which I
hope always to practise.”

Another inclination of the body conveyed the silent assent of the
divine.

“Now, poor Betsey, Heaven bless her!—for she was a meek and tranquil
companion, and richly deserves to be rewarded in a future state—but,
poor Betsey had little knowledge of business. She fancied that, in
bestowing these ten thousand pounds on a charity, she was acting well;
whereas she was in fact committing injustice. If you are to have the
trouble and care of bringing up little Jack, who but you should reap
the reward?”

“I shall expect, Mr. Goldencalf, that you will furnish the means to
provide for the child’s wants.”

“Of that, sir, it is unnecessary to speak,” interrupted my ancestor,
both promptly and proudly. “I am a wary man, and a prudent man, and am
one who knows the value of money, I trust; but I am no miser, to stint
my own flesh and blood. Jack shall never want for anything, while it is
in my power to give it. I am by no means as rich, sir, as the
neighborhood supposes; but then I am no beggar. I dare say, if all my
assets were fairly counted, it might be found that I am worth a plum.”

“You are said to have received a much larger sum than that with the
late Mrs. Goldencalf,” the divine observed, not without reproof in his
voice.

“Ah, dear sir, I need not tell you what vulgar rumor is—but I shall not
undermine my own credit; and we will change the subject. My object, Dr.
Etherington, was merely to do justice. Poor Betsey desired that ten
thousand pounds might be given to found a scholarship or two: now, what
have these scholars done, or what are they likely to do, for me or
mine? The case is different with you, sir; you will have trouble—much
trouble, I make no doubt; and it is proper that you should have a
sufficient compensation. I was about to propose, therefore, that you
should consent to receive my check for three, or four, or even for five
thousand pounds,” continued my ancestor, raising the offer as he saw
the frown on the brow of the Doctor deepen. “Yes, sir, I will even say
the latter sum, which possibly will not be too much for your trouble
and care; and we will forget the womanish plan of poor Betsey in
relation to the two scholarships and the charity. Five thousand pounds
down, Doctor, for yourself, and the subject of the charity forgotten
forever.”

When my father had thus distinctly put his proposition, he awaited its
effect with the confidence of a man who had long dealt with cupidity.
For a novelty, his calculation failed. The face of Dr. Etherington
flushed, then paled, and finally settled into a look of melancholy
reprehension. He arose and paced the room for several minutes in
silence; during which time his companion believed he was debating with
himself on the chances of obtaining a higher bid for his consent, when
he suddenly stopped and addressed my ancestor in a mild but steady
tone.

“I feel it to be a duty, Mr. Goldencalf,” he said, “to admonish you of
the precipice over which you hang. The love of money, which is the root
of all evil, which caused Judas to betray even his Saviour and God, has
taken deep root in your soul. You are no longer young, and although
still proud in your strength and prosperity, are much nearer to your
great account than you may be willing to believe. It is not an hour
since you witnessed the departure of a penitent soul for the presence
of her God; since you heard the dying request from her lips; and since,
in such a presence and in such a scene, you gave a pledge to respect
her wishes, and, now, with the accursed spirit of gain upper-most, you
would trifle with these most sacred obligations, in order to keep a
little worthless gold in a hand that is already full to overflowing.
Fancy that the pure spirit of thy confiding and single-minded wife were
present at this conversation; fancy it mourning over thy weakness and
violated faith—nay, I know not that such is not the fact; for there is
no reason to believe that the happy spirits are not permitted to watch
near, and mourn over us, until we are released from this mass of sin
and depravity in which we dwell—and, then, reflect what must be her
sorrow at hearing how soon her parting request is forgotten, how
useless has been the example of her holy end, how rooted and fearful
are thine own infirmities!”

My father was more rebuked by the manner than by the words of the
divine. He passed his hand across his brow, as if to shut out the view
of his wife’s spirit; turned, drew his writing materials nearer, wrote
a check for the ten thousand pounds, and handed it to the Doctor with
the subdued air of a corrected boy.

“Jack shall be at your disposal, good sir,” he said, as the paper was
delivered, “whenever it may be your pleasure to send for him.”

They parted in silence; the divine too much displeased, and my ancestor
too much grieved, to indulge in words of ceremony.

When my father found himself alone, he gazed furtively about the room,
to assure himself that the rebuking spirit of his wife had not taken a
shape less questionable than air, and then, he mused for at least an
hour, very painfully, on all the principal occurrences of the night. It
is said that occupation is a certain solace for grief, and so it proved
to be in the present case; for luckily my father had made up that very
day his private account of the sum total of his fortune. Sitting down,
therefore, to the agreeable task, he went through the simple process of
subtracting from it the amount for which he had just drawn, and,
finding that he was still master of seven hundred and eighty-two
thousand three hundred and eleven pounds odd shillings and even pence,
he found a very natural consolation for the magnitude of the sum he had
just given away, by comparing it with the magnitude of that which was
left.

CHAPTER III.
OPINIONS OF OUR AUTHOR’S ANCESTOR, TOGETHER WITH SOME OF HIS OWN, AND
SOME OF OTHER PEOPLE’S.

Dr. Etherington was both a pious man and a gentleman. The second son of
a baronet of ancient lineage, he had been educated in most of the
opinions of his caste, and possibly he was not entirely above its
prejudices; but, this much admitted, few divines were more willing to
defer to the ethics and principles of the Bible than himself. His
humility had, of course, a decent regard to station; his charity was
judiciously regulated by the articles of faith; and his philanthropy
was of the discriminating character that became a warm supporter of
church and state.

In accepting the trust which he was now obliged to assume, he had
yielded purely to a benevolent wish to smooth the dying pillow of my
mother. Acquainted with the character of her husband, he had committed
a sort of pious fraud, in attaching the condition of the endowment to
his consent; for, notwithstanding the becoming language of his own
rebuke, the promise, and all the other little attendant circumstances
of the night, it might be questioned which felt the most surprise after
the draft was presented and duly honored, he who found himself in
possession, or he who found himself deprived, of the sum of ten
thousand pounds sterling. Still Dr. Etherington acted with the most
scrupulous integrity in the whole affair; and although I am aware that
a writer who has so many wonders to relate, as must of necessity adorn
the succeeding pages of this manuscript, should observe a guarded
discretion in drawing on the credulity of his readers, truth compels me
to add, that every farthing of the money was duly invested with a
single eye to the wishes of the dying Christian, who, under Providence,
had been the means of bestowing so much gold on the poor and
unlettered. As to the manner in which the charity was finally improved,
I shall say nothing, since no inquiry on my part has ever enabled me to
obtain such information as would justify my speaking with authority.

As for myself, I shall have little more to add touching the events of
the succeeding twenty years. I was baptized, nursed, breeched,
schooled, horsed, confirmed, sent to the university, and graduated,
much as befalls all gentlemen of the established church in the united
kingdoms of Great Britain and Ireland, or, in other words, of the land
of my ancestor. During these pregnant years, Dr. Etherington acquitted
himself of a duty that, judging by a very predominant feeling of human
nature (which, singularly enough, renders us uniformly averse to being
troubled with other people’s affairs), I think he must have found
sufficiently vexatious, quite as well as my good mother had any right
to expect. Most of my vacations were spent at his rectory; for he had
first married, then become a father, next a widower, and had exchanged
his town living for one in the country, between the periods of my
mother’s death and that on my going to Eton; and, after I quitted
Oxford, much more of my time was passed beneath his friendly roof than
beneath that of my own parent. Indeed, I saw little of the latter. He
paid my bills, furnished me with pocket-money, and professed an
intention to let me travel after I should reach my majority. But,
satisfied with these proofs of paternal care, he appeared willing to
let me pursue my own course very much in my own way.

My ancestor was an eloquent example of the truth of that political
dogma which teaches the efficacy of the division of labor. No
manufacturer of the head of a pin ever attained greater dexterity in
his single-minded vocation than was reached by my father in the one
pursuit to which he devoted, as far as human ken could reach, both soul
and body. As any sense is known to increase in acuteness by constant
exercise, or any passion by indulgence, so did his ardor in favor of
the great object of his affections grow with its growth, and become
more manifest as an ordinary observer would be apt to think the motive
of its existence at all had nearly ceased. This is a moral phenomenon
that I have often had occasion to observe, and which, there is some
reason to think, depends on a principle of attraction that has hitherto
escaped the sagacity of the philosophers, but which is as active in the
immaterial, as is that of gravitation in the material world. Talents
like his, so incessantly and unweariedly employed, produced the usual
fruits. He grew richer hourly, and at the time of which I speak he was
pretty generally known to the initiated to be the warmest man who had
anything to do with the stock exchange.

I do not think that the opinions of my ancestor underwent as many
material changes between the ages of fifty and seventy as they had
undergone between the ages of ten and forty. During the latter period
the tree of life usually gets deep root, its inclination is fixed,
whether obtained by bending to the storms, or by drawing toward the
light; and it probably yields more in fruits of its own, than it gains
by tillage and manuring. Still my ancestor was not exactly the same man
the day he kept his seventieth birthday as he had been the day he kept
his fiftieth. In the first place, he was worth thrice the money at the
former period that he had been worth at the latter. Of course his moral
system had undergone all the mutations that are known to be dependent
on a change of this important character. Beyond a question, during the
last five-and-twenty years of the life of my ancestor, his political
bias, too, was in favor of exclusive privileges and exclusive benefits.
I do not mean that he was an aristocrat in the vulgar acceptation. To
him, feudality was a blank; he had probably never heard the word.
Portcullises rose and fell, flanking towers lifted their heads, and
embattled walls swept around their fabrics in vain, so far as his
imagination was concerned. He cared not for the days of courts leet and
courts baron; nor for the barons themselves; nor for the honors of a
pedigree (why should he?—no prince in the land could more clearly trace
his family into obscurity than himself), nor for the vanities of a
court, nor for those of society; nor for aught else of the same nature
that is apt to have charms for the weak-minded, the imaginative, or the
conceited. His political prepossessions showed themselves in a very
different manner. Throughout the whole of the five lustres I have
named, he was never heard to whisper a censure against government, let
its measures, or the character of its administration, be what it would.
It was enough for him that it was government. Even taxation no longer
excited his ire, nor aroused his eloquence. He conceived it to be
necessary to order, and especially to the protection of property, a
branch of political science that he had so studied as to succeed in
protecting his own estate, in a measure, against even this great ally
itself. After he became worth a million, it was observed that all his
opinions grew less favorable to mankind in general, and that he was
much disposed to exaggerate the amount and quality of the few boons
which Providence has bestowed on the poor. The report of a meeting of
the Whigs generally had an effect on his appetite; a resolution that
was suspected of emanating from Brookes’s commonly robbed him of a
dinner, and the Radicals never seriously moved that he did not spend a
sleepless night, and pass a large portion of the next day in uttering
words that it would be hardly moral to repeat. I may without
impropriety add, however, that on such occasions he did not spare
allusions to the gallows; Sir Francis Burdett, in particular, was a
target for a good deal of billingsgate; and men as upright and as
respectable even as my lords Grey, Landsdowne, and Holland, were
treated as if they were no better than they should be. But on these
little details it is unnecessary to dwell, for it must be a subject of
common remark, that the more elevated and refined men become in their
political ethics, the more they are accustomed to throw dirt upon their
neighbors. I will just state, however, that most of what I have here
related has been transmitted to me by direct oral traditions, for I
seldom saw my ancestor, and when we did meet, it was only to settle
accounts, to eat a leg of mutton together, and to part like those who,
at least, have never quarrelled.

Not so with Dr. Etherington. Habit (to say nothing of my own merits)
had attached him to one who owed so much to his care, and his doors
were always as open to me as if I had been his own son.

It has been said that most of my idle time (omitting the part misspent
in the schools) was passed at the rectory.

The excellent divine had married a lovely woman, a year or two after
the death of my mother, who had left him a widower, and the father of a
little image of herself, before the expiration of a twelvemonth. Owing
to the strength of his affections for the deceased, or for his
daughter, or because he could not please himself in a second marriage
as well as it had been his good fortune to do in the first, Dr.
Etherington had never spoken of forming another connection. He appeared
content to discharge his duties, as a Christian and a gentleman,
without increasing them by creating any new relations with society.

Anna Etherington was of course my constant companion during many long
and delightful visits at the rectory. Three years my junior, the
friendship on my part had commenced by a hundred acts of boyish
kindness. Between the ages of seven and twelve, I dragged her about in
a garden-chair, pushed her on the swing, and wiped her eyes and uttered
words of friendly consolation when any transient cloud obscured the
sunny brightness of her childhood. From twelve to fourteen, I told her
stories; astonished her with narratives of my own exploits at Eton, and
caused her serene blue eyes to open in admiration at the marvels of
London. At fourteen, I began to pick up her pocket-handkerchief, hunt
for her thimble, accompany her in duets, and to read poetry to her, as
she occupied herself with the little lady-like employments of the
needle. About the age of seventeen I began to compare cousin Anna, as I
was permitted to call her, with the other young girls of my
acquaintance, and the comparison was generally much in her favor. It
was also about this time that, as my admiration grew more warm and
manifest, she became less confiding and less frank; I perceived too
that, for a novelty, she now had some secrets that she did not choose
to communicate to me, that she was more with her governess, and less in
my society than formerly, and on one occasion (bitterly did I feel the
slight) she actually recounted to her father the amusing incidents of a
little birthday fete at which she had been present, and which was given
by a gentleman of the vicinity, before she even dropped a hint to me,
touching the delight she had experienced on the occasion. I was,
however, a good deal compensated for the slight by her saying, kindly,
as she ended her playful and humorous account of the affair:

“It would have made you laugh heartily, Jack, to see the droll manner
in which the servants acted their parts” (there had been a sort of
mystified masque), “more particularly the fat old butler, of whom they
had made a Cupid, as Dick Griffin said, in order to show that love
becomes drowsy and dull by good eating and drinking—I DO wish you COULD
have been there, Jack.”

Anna was a gentle feminine girl, with a most lovely and winning
countenance, and I did inherently like to hear her pronounce the word
“Jack”—it was so different from the boisterous screech of the Eton
boys, or the swaggering call of my boon companions at Oxford!

“I should have liked it excessively myself, Anna,” I answered; “more
particularly as you seem to have so much enjoyed the fun.”

“Yes, but that COULD NOT BE” interrupted Miss-Mrs. Norton, the
governess. “For Sir Harry Griffin is very difficult about his
associates, and you know, my dear, that Mr. Goldencalf, though a very
respectable young man himself, could not expect one of the oldest
baronets of the county to go out of his way to invite the son of a
stock-jobber to be present at a fete given to his own heir.”

Luckily for Miss-Mrs. Norton, Dr. Etherington had walked away the
moment his daughter ended her recital, or she might have met with a
disagreeable commentary on her notions concerning the fitness of
associations. Anna herself looked earnestly at her governess, and I saw
a flush mantle over her sweet face that reminded me of the ruddiness of
morn. Her soft eyes then fell to the floor, and it was some time before
she spoke.

The next day I was arranging some fishing-tackle under a window of the
library, where my person was concealed by the shrubbery, when I heard
the melodious voice of Anna wishing the rector good morning. My heart
beat quicker as she approached the casement, tenderly inquiring of her
parent how he had passed the night. The answers were as affectionate as
the questions, and then there was a little pause.

“What is a stock-jobber, father?” suddenly resumed Anna, whom I heard
rustling the leaves above my head.

“A stock-jobber, my dear, is one who buys and sells in the public
funds, with a view to profit.”

“And is it thought a PARTICULARLY disgraceful employment?”

“Why, that depends on circumstances. On ’Change it seems to be well
enough—among merchants and bankers there is some odium attached to it,
I believe.”

“And can you say why, father?”

“I believe,” said Dr. Etherington, laughing, “for no other reason than
that it is an uncertain calling—one that is liable to sudden
reverses—what is termed gambling—and whatever renders property insecure
is sure to obtain odium among those whose principal concern is its
accumulation; those who consider the responsibility of others of
essential importance to themselves.”

“But is it a dishonest pursuit, father?”

“As the times go, not necessarily, my dear; though it may readily
become so.”

“And is it disreputable, generally, with the world?”

“That depends on circumstances, Anna. When the stock-jobber loses, he
is very apt to be condemned; but I rather think his character rises in
proportion to his gains. But why do you ask these singular questions,
love?”

I thought I heard Anna breathe harder than usual, and it is certain
that she leaned far out of the window to pluck a rose.

“Why, Mrs. Norton said Jack was not invited to Sir Harry Griffin’s
because his father was a stock-jobber. Do you think she was right,
sir?”

“Very likely, my dear,” returned the divine, who I fancied was smiling
at the question. “Sir Harry has the advantages of birth, and he
probably did not forget that our friend Jack was not so fortunate—and,
moreover, Sir Harry, while he values himself on his wealth, is not as
rich as Jack’s father by a million or two—in other words, as they say
on ’Change, Jack’s father could buy ten of him. This motive was perhaps
more likely to influence him than the first. In addition, Sir Harry is
suspected of gambling himself in the funds through the aid of agents;
and a gentleman who resorts to such means to increase his fortune is a
little apt to exaggerate his social advantages by way of a set-off to
the humiliation.”

“And GENTLEMEN do really become stock-jobbers, father?”

“Anna, the world has undergone great changes in my time. Ancient
opinions have been shaken, and governments themselves are getting to be
little better than political establishments to add facilities to the
accumulation of money. This is a subject, however, you cannot very well
understand, nor do I pretend to be very profound in it myself.”

“But is Jack’s father really so very, very rich?” asked Anna, whose
thoughts had been wandering from the thread of those pursued by her
father.

“He is believed to be so.”

“And Jack is his heir.”

“Certainly—he has no other child; though it is not easy to say what so
singular a being may do with his money.”

“I hope he will disinherit Jack!”

“You surprise me, Anna! You, who are so mild and reasonable, to wish
such a misfortune to befall our young friend John Goldencalf!” I gazed
upward in astonishment at this extraordinary speech of Anna, and at the
moment I would have given all my interest in the fortune in question to
have seen her face (most of her body was out of the window, for I heard
her again rustling the bush above my head), in order to judge of her
motive by its expression; but an envious rose grew exactly in the only
spot where it was possible to get a glimpse.

“Why do you wish so cruel a thing?” resumed Dr. Etherington, a little
earnestly.

“Because I hate stock-jobbing and its riches, father. Were Jack poorer,
it seems to me he would be better esteemed.”

As this was uttered the dear girl drew back, and I then perceived that
I had mistaken her cheek for one of the largest and most blooming of
the flowers. Dr. Etherington laughed, and I distinctly heard him kiss
the blushing face of his daughter. I think I would have given up my
hopes in another million to have been the rector at Tenthpig at that
instant.

“If that be all, child,” he answered, “set thy heart at rest. Jack’s
money will never bring him into contempt unless through the use he may
make of it. Alas! Anna, we live in an age of corruption and cupidity!
Generous motives appear to be lost sight of in the general desire of
gain; and he who would manifest a disposition to a pure and
disinterested philanthropy is either distrusted as a hypocrite or
derided as a fool. The accursed revolution among our neighbors the
French has quite unsettled opinions, and religion itself has tottered
in the wild anarchy of theories to which it has given rise. There is no
worldly advantage that has been more austerely denounced by the divine
writers than riches, and yet it is fast rising to be the god of the
ascendant. To say nothing of an hereafter, society is getting to be
corrupted by it to the core, and even respect for birth is yielding to
the mercenary feeling.”

“And do you not think pride of birth, father, a mistaken prejudice as
well as pride of riches?”

“Pride of any sort, my love, cannot exactly be defended on evangelical
principles; but surely some distinctions among men are necessary, even
for quiet. Were the levelling principle acknowledged, the lettered and
the accomplished must descend to an equality with the ignorant and
vulgar, since all men cannot rise to the attainments of the former
class, and the world would retrograde to barbarism. The character of a
Christian gentleman is much too precious to trifle with in order to
carry out an impracticable theory.”

Anna was silent. Probably she was confused between the opinions which
she most liked to cherish and the faint glimmerings of truth to which
we are reduced by the ordinary relations of life. As for the good
rector himself, I had no difficulty in understanding his bias, though
neither his premises nor his conclusions possessed the logical
clearness that used to render his sermons so delightful, more
especially when he preached about the higher qualities of the Saviour’s
dispensation, such as charity, love of our fellows, and, in particular,
the imperative duty of humbling ourselves before God.

A month after this accidental dialogue, chance made me auditor of what
passed between my ancestor and Sir Joseph Job, another celebrated
dealer in the funds, in an interview that took place in the house of
the former in Cheapside. As the difference was so PATENT, as the French
express it, I shall furnish the substance of what passed.

“This is a serious and a most alarming movement, Mr. Goldencalf,”
observed Sir Joseph, “and calls for union and cordiality among the
holders of property. Should these damnable opinions get fairly abroad
among the people, what would become of us? I ask, Mr. Goldencalf, what
would become of us?”

“I agree with you, Sir Joseph, it is very alarming!—frightfully
alarming!”

“We shall have agrarian laws, sir. Your money, sir, and mine—our hard
earnings—will become the prey of political robbers, and our children
will be beggared to satisfy the envious longings of some pitiful
scoundrel without a six-pence!”

“’Tis a sad state of things, Sir Joseph; and government is very
culpable that it don’t raise at least ten new regiments.”

“The worst of it is, good Mr. Goldencalf, that there are some
jack-a-napeses of the aristocracy who lead the rascals on and lend them
the sanction of their names. It is a great mistake, sir, that we give
so much importance to birth in this island, by which means proud
beggars set unwashed blackguards in motion, and the substantial
subjects are the sufferers. Property, sir, is in danger, and property
is the only true basis of society.”

“I am sure, Sir Joseph, I never could see the smallest use in birth.”

“It is of no use but to beget pensioners, Mr. Goldencalf. Now with
property it is a different thing—money is the parent of money, and by
money a state becomes powerful and prosperous. But this accursed
revolution among our neighbors the French has quite unsettled opinions,
and, alas! property is in perpetual danger!”

“Sorry am I to say, I feel it to be so in every nerve of my body, Sir
Joseph.”

“We must unite and defend ourselves, Mr. Goldencalf, else both you and
I, men warm enough and substantial enough at present, will be in the
ditch. Do you not see that we are in actual danger of a division of
property?”

“God forbid!”

“Yes, sir, our sacred property is in danger!”

Here Sir Joseph shook my father cordially by the hand and withdrew. I
find, by a memorandum among the papers of my deceased ancestor, that he
paid the broker of Sir Joseph, that day month, sixty-two thousand seven
hundred and twelve pounds difference (as bull and bear), owing to the
fact of the knight having got some secret information through a clerk
in one of the offices; an advantage that enabled him, in this instance,
at least, to make a better bargain than one who was generally allowed
to be among the shrewdest speculators on ’Change.

My mind was of a nature to be considerably exercised (as the pious
purists express it), by becoming the depository of sentiments so
diametrically opposed to each other as those of Dr. Etherington and
those of Sir Joseph Job. On the one side, I was taught the degradation
of birth; on the other, the dangers of property. Anna was usually my
confidant, but on this subject I was tongue-tied, for I dared not
confess that I had overheard the discourse with her father, and I was
compelled to digest the contradictory doctrines by myself in the best
manner I could.

CHAPTER IV.
SHOWING THE UPS AND DOWNS, THE HOPES AND FEARS, AND THE VAGARIES OF
LOVE, SOME VIEWS OF DEATH, AND AN ACCOUNT OF AN INHERITANCE.

From my twentieth to my twenty-third year no event occurred of any
great moment. The day I became of age my father settled on me a regular
allowance of a thousand a year, and I make no doubt I should have spent
my time much as other young men had it not been for the peculiarity of
my birth, which I now began to see was wanting in a few of the
requisites to carry me successfully through a struggle for place with a
certain portion of what is called the great world. While most were
anxious to trace themselves into obscurity, there was a singular
reluctance to effecting the object as clearly and as distinctly as it
was in my power to do. From all which, as well as from much other
testimony, I have been led to infer that the doses of mystification
which appear to be necessary to the happiness of the human race require
to be mixed with an experienced and a delicate hand. Our organs, both
physically and morally, are so fearfully constituted that they require
to be protected from realities. As the physical eye has need of clouded
glass to look steadily at the sun so it would seem the mind’s eye has
also need of something smoky to look steadily at truth. But, while I
avoided laying open the secret of my heart to Anna, I sought various
opportunities to converse with Dr. Etherington and my father on those
points which gave me the most concern. From the first, I heard
principles which went to show that society was of necessity divided
into orders; that it was not only impolitic but wicked to weaken the
barriers by which they were separated; that Heaven had its seraphs and
cherubs, its archangels and angels, its saints and its merely happy,
and that, by obvious induction, this world ought to have its kings,
lords, and commons. The usual winding-up of all the Doctor’s essays was
a lamentation on the confusion in classes that was visiting England as
a judgment. My ancestor, on the other hand, cared little for social
classification, or for any other conservatory expedient but force. On
this topic he would talk all day, regiments and bayonets glittering in
every sentence. When most eloquent on this theme he would cry (like Mr.
Manners Sutton), “ORDER—order!” nor can I recall a single disquisition
that did not end with, “Alas, Jack, property is in danger!”

I shall not say that my mind entirely escaped confusion among these
conflicting opinions, although I luckily got a glimpse of one important
truth, for both the commentators cordially agreed in fearing and, of
necessity, in hating the mass of their fellow-creatures. My own natural
disposition was inclining to philanthropy, and as I was unwilling to
admit the truth of theories that arrayed me in open hostility against
so large a portion of mankind, I soon determined to set up one of my
own, which, while it avoided the faults, should include the excellences
of both the others. It was, of course, no great affair merely to form
such a resolution; but I shall have occasion to say a word hereafter on
the manner in which I attempted to carry it out in practice.

Time moved on, and Anna became each day more beautiful. I thought that
she had lost some of her frankness and girlish gayety, it is true,
after the dialogue with her father; but this I attributed to the
reserve and discretion that became the expanding reason and greater
feeling of propriety that adorn young womanhood. With me she was always
ingenuous and simple, and were I to live a thousand years the angelic
serenity of countenance with which she invariably listened to the
theories of my busy brain would not be erased from recollection.

We were talking of these things one morning quite alone. Anna heard me
when I was most sedate with manifest pleasure, and she smiled
mournfully when the thread of my argument was entangled by a vagary of
the imagination. I felt at my heart’s core what a blessing such a
mentor would be, and how fortunate would be my lot could I succeed in
securing her for life. Still I did not, could not, summon courage to
lay bare my inmost thoughts, and to beg a boon that in these moments of
transient humility I feared I never should be worthy to possess.

“I have even thought of marrying,” I continued—so occupied with my own
theories as not to weigh, with the accuracy that becomes the frankness
and superior advantages which man possesses over the gentler sex, the
full import of my words; “could I find one, Anna, as gentle, as good,
as beautiful, and as wise as yourself who would consent to be mine, I
should not wait a minute; but, unhappily, I fear this is not likely to
be my blessed lot. I am not the grandson of a baronet, and your father
expects to unite you with one who can at least show that the ‘bloody
hand’ has once been born on his shield; and, on the other side, my
father talks of nothing but millions.” During the first part of this
speech the amiable girl looked kindly up at me, and with a seeming
desire to soothe me; but at its close her eyes dropped upon her work
and she remained silent. “Your father says that every man who has an
interest in the state should give it pledges”—here Anna smiled, but so
covertly that her sweet mouth scarce betrayed the impulse—“and that
none others can ever control it to advantage. I have thought of asking
my father to buy a borough and a baronetcy, for with the first, and the
influence that his money gives, he need not long wish for the last; but
I never open my lips on any matter of the sort that he does not answer
‘Fol lol der rol, Jack, with your knighthoods, and social order, and
bishoprics, and boroughs—property is in danger!—loans and regiments, if
thou wilt—give us more order “ORDER—order”—bayonets are what we want,
boy, and good wholesome taxes, to accustom the nation to contribute to
its own wants and to maintain its credit. Why, youngster, if the
interest on the debt were to remain unpaid twenty-four hours, your body
corporate, as you call it, would die a natural death; and what would
then become of your knights—barro-knights?—and barren enough some of
them are getting to be by their wastefulness and extravagance. Get thee
married, Jack, and settle prudently. There is neighbor Silverpenny has
an only daughter of a suitable age; and a good hussy is she in the
bargain. The only daughter of Oliver Silverpenny will be a suitable
wife for the only son of Thomas Goldencalf; though I give thee notice,
boy, that thou wilt be cut off with a competency; so keep thy head
clear of extravagant castle-building, learn economy in season, and,
above all, make no debts.’” Anna laughed as I humorously imitated the
well-known intonations of Mr. Speaker Sutton, but a cloud darkened her
bright features when I concluded.

“Yesterday I mentioned the subject to your father,” I resumed, “and he
thought with me that the idea of the borough and the baronetcy was a
good one. ‘You would be the second of your line, Jack,’ he said, ‘and
that is always better than being the first; for there is no security
for a man’s being a good member of society like that of his having
presented to his eyes the examples of those who have gone before him,
and who have been distinguished by their services or their virtues. If
your father would consent to come into parliament and sustain
government at this critical moment, his origin would be overlooked, and
you would have pride in looking back on his acts. As it is, I fear his
whole soul is occupied with the unworthy and debasing passion of mere
gain. Money is a necessary auxiliary to rank, and without rank there
can be no order, and without order no liberty; but when the love of
money gets to occupy the place of respect for descent and past actions,
a community loses the very sentiment on which all its noble exploits
are bottomed.’ So you see, dear Anna, that our parents hold very
different opinions on a very grave question, and between natural
affection and acquired veneration I scarcely know which to receive. If
I could find one sweet, and wise, and beautiful as thou, and who could
pity me, I would marry to-morrow, and cast all the future on the
happiness that is to be found with such a companion.”

As usual, Anna heard me in silence. That she did not, however, view
matrimony with exactly the same eyes as myself was clearly proved the
very next day, for young Sir Harry Griffin (the father was dead)
offered in form and was very decidedly refused.

Although I was always happy at the rectory, I could not help feeling
rather than seeing that, as the French express it, I occupied a false
position in society. Known to be the expectant of great wealth, it was
not easy to be overlooked altogether in a country whose government is
based on a representation of property, and in which boroughs are openly
in market; and yet they who had obtained the accidental advantage of
having their fortunes made by their grandfathers were constantly
convincing me that mine, vast as it was thought to be, was made by my
father. Ten thousand times did I wish (as it has since been expressed
by the great captain of the age), that I had been my own grandson; for
notwithstanding the probability that he who is nearest to the founder
of a fortune is the most likely to share the largest in its
accumulations, as he who is nearest in descent to the progenitor who
has illustrated his race is the most likely to feel the influence of
his character, I was not long in perceiving that in highly refined and
intellectual communities the public sentiment, as it is connected with
the respect and influence that are the meed of both, directly refutes
the inferences of all reasonable conjectures on the subject. I was out
of my place, uneasy, ashamed, proud, and resentful; in short I occupied
a FALSE POSITION, and unluckily one from which I saw no plausible
retreat except by falling back on Lombard street or by cutting my
throat. Anna alone—kind, gentle, serene-eyed Anna—entered into all my
joys, sympathized in my mortifications, and appeared to view me as I
was; neither dazzled by my wealth nor repelled by my origin. The day
she refused young Sir Harry Griffin I could have kneeled at her feet
and called her blessed!

It is said that no moral disease is ever benefited by its study. I was
a living proof of the truth of the opinion that brooding over one’s
wrongs or infirmities seldom does much more than aggravate the evil. I
greatly fear it is in the nature of man to depreciate the advantages he
actually enjoys and to exaggerate those which are denied him. Fifty
times during the six months that succeeded the repulse of the young
baronet did I resolve to take heart and to throw myself at the feet of
Anna, and as often was I deterred by the apprehension that I had
nothing to render me worthy of one so excellent, and especially of one
who was the granddaughter of the seventh English baronet. I do not
pretend to explain the connection between cause and effect, for I am
neither physician nor metaphysician; but the tumult of spirits that
resulted from so many doubts, hopes, fears, resolutions, and breakings
of resolutions, began to affect my health, and I was just about to
yield to the advice of my friends (among whom Anna was the most earnest
and the most sorrowful), to travel, when an unexpected call to attend
the death-bed of my ancestor was received. I tore myself from the
rectory and hurried up to town with the diligence and assiduity of an
only son and heir summoned on an occasion so solemn.

I found my ancestor still in the possession of his senses, though given
over by the physicians; a circumstance that proved a degree of
disinterestedness and singleness of purpose on their part that was
scarcely to be expected towards a patient who it was commonly believed
was worth more than a million. My reception by the servants and by the
two or three friends who had assembled on this melancholy occasion,
too, was sympathizing, warm, and of a character to show their
solicitude and forethought.

My reception by the sick man was less marked. The total abstraction of
his faculties in the one great pursuit of his life; a certain sternness
of purpose which is apt to get the ascendant with those who are
resolute to gain, and which usually communicates itself to the manners;
and an absence of those kinder ties that are developed by the exercise
of the more familiar charities of our existence had opened a breach
between us that was not to be filled by the simple unaided fact of
natural affinity. I say of natural affinity, for notwithstanding the
doubts that cast their shadows on that branch of my genealogical tree
by which I was connected with my maternal grandfather, the title of the
king to his crown is not more apparent than was my direct lineal
descent from my father. I always believed him to be my ancestor de jure
as well as de facto, and could fain have loved him and honored him as
such had my natural yearnings been met with more lively bowels of
sympathy on his side.

Notwithstanding the long and unnatural estrangement that had thus
existed between the father and son, the meeting on the present occasion
was not entirely without some manifestations of feeling.

“Thou art come at last, Jack,” said my ancestor; “I was afraid, boy,
thou might’st be too late.”

The difficult breathing, haggard countenance, and broken utterance of
my father struck me with awe. This was the first death-bed by which I
had ever stood; and the admonishing picture of time passing into
eternity was indelibly stamped on my memory. It was not only a
death-bed scene, but it was a family death-bed scene. I know not how it
was, but I thought my ancestor looked more like the Goldencalfs than I
had ever seen him look before.

“Thou hast come at last, Jack,” he repeated, “and I’m glad of it. Thou
art the only being in whom I have now any concern. It might have been
better, perhaps, had I lived more with my kind—but thou wilt be the
gainer. Ah! Jack, we are but miserable mortals after all! To be called
away so suddenly and so young!”

My ancestor had seen his seventy-fifth birthday; but unhappily he had
not settled all his accounts with the world, although he had given the
physician his last fee and sent the parson away with a donation to the
poor of the parish that would make even a beggar merry for a whole
life.

“Thou art come at last, Jack! Well, my loss will be thy gain, boy! Send
the nurse from the room.”

I did as commanded, and we were left to ourselves.

“Take this key,” handing me one from beneath his pillow, “and open the
upper drawer of my secretary. Bring me the packet which is addressed to
thyself.”

I silently obeyed; when my ancestor, first gazing at it with a sadness
that I cannot well describe—for it was neither worldly nor quite of an
ethereal character, but a singular and fearful compound of both—put the
papers into my hand, relinquishing his hold slowly and with reluctance.

“Thou wilt wait till I am out of thy sight, Jack?”

A tear burst from out its source and fell upon the emaciated hand of my
father. He looked at me wistfully, and I felt a slight pressure that
denoted affection.

“It might have been better, Jack, had we known more of each other. But
Providence made me fatherless, and I have lived childless by my own
folly. Thy mother was a saint, I believe; but I fear I learned it too
late. Well, a blessing often comes at the eleventh hour!”

As my ancestor now manifested a desire not to be disturbed, I called
the nurse and quitted the room, retiring to my own modest chamber,
where the packet, a large bundle of papers sealed and directed to
myself in the handwriting of the dying man, was carefully secured under
a good lock. I did not meet my father again but once under
circumstances which admitted of intelligible communion. From the time
of our first interview he gradually grew worse, his reason tottered,
and, like the sinful cardinal of Shakespeare, “he died and gave no
sign.”

Three days after my arrival, however, I was left alone with him, and he
suddenly revived from a state approaching to stupor. It was the only
time since the first interview in which he had seemed even to know me.

“Thou art come at last!” he said, in a tone that was already
sepulchral. “Canst tell me, boy, why they had golden rods to measure
the city?” His nurse had been reading to him a chapter of the
Revelations which had been selected by himself. “Thou seest, lad, the
wall itself was of jasper and the city was of pure gold—I shall not
need money in my new habitation—ha! it will not be wanted there!—I am
not crazed, Jack—would I had loved gold less and my kind more. The city
itself is of pure gold and the walls of jasper—precious abode!—ha!
Jack, thou hearest, boy—I am happy—too happy, Jack!—gold—gold!”

The final words were uttered with a shout. They were the last that ever
came from the lips of Thomas Goldencalf. The noise brought in the
attendants, who found him dead. I ordered the room to be cleared as
soon as the melancholy truth was fairly established, and remained
several minutes alone with the body. The countenance was set in death.
The eyes, still open, had that revolting glare of frenzied delight with
which the spirit had departed, and the whole face presented the dread
picture of a hopeless end. I knelt and, though a Protestant, prayed
fervently for the soul of the deceased. I then took my leave of the
first and the last of all my ancestors.

To this scene succeeded the usual period of outward sorrow, the
interment, and the betrayal of the expectations of the survivors. I
observed that the house was much frequented by many who rarely or never
had crossed its threshold during the life of its late owner. There was
much cornering, much talking in an undertone, and looking at me that I
did not understand, and gradually the number of regular visitors
increased until it amounted to about twenty. Among them were the parson
of the parish, the trustees of several notorious charities, three
attorneys, four or five well-known dealers of the stock exchange,
foremost among whom was Sir Joseph Job, and three of the professionally
benevolent, or of those whose sole occupation appears to be that of
quickening the latent charities of their neighbors.

The day after my ancestor was finally removed from our sight, the house
was more than usually crowded. The secret conferences increased both in
earnestness and in frequency, and finally I was summoned to meet these
ill-timed guests in the room which had been the sanctum sanctorum of
the late owner of the dwelling. As I entered among twenty strange
faces, wondering why I, who had hitherto passed through life so little
heeded, should be unseasonably importuned, Sir Joseph Job presented
himself as the spokesman of the party.

“We have sent for you, Mr. Goldencalf,” the knight commenced, decently
wiping his eyes, “because we think that respect for our late
much-esteemed, most excellent, and very respectable friend requires
that we no longer neglect his final pleasure, but that we should
proceed at once to open his will, in order that we may take prompt
measures for its execution. It would have been more regular had we done
this before he was interred, for we cannot have foreseen his pleasure
concerning his venerable remains; but it is fully my determination to
have everything done as he has ordered, even though we may be compelled
to disinter the body.”

I am habitually quiescent, and possibly credulous, but nature has not
denied me a proper spirit. What Sir Joseph Job, or any one but myself,
had to do with the will of my ancestor did not strike me at first
sight; and I took care to express as much, in terms it was not easy to
misunderstand.

“The only child and, indeed, the only known relative of the deceased,”
I said, “I do not well see, gentlemen, how this subject should interest
in this lively manner so many strangers!”

“Very spirited and proper, no doubt, sir,” returned Sir Joseph,
smiling; “but you ought to know, young gentleman, that if there are
such things as heirs there are also such things as executors!”

This I did know already, and I had also somewhere imbibed an opinion
that the latter was commonly the most lucrative situation.

“Have you any reason to suppose, Sir Joseph Job, that my late father
has selected you to fulfil this trust?”

“That will be better known in the end, young gentleman. Your late
father is known to have died rich, very rich—not that he has left as
much by half a million as vulgar report will have it—but what I should
term comfortably off; and it is unreasonable to suppose that a man of
his great caution and prudence should suffer his money to go to the
heir-at-law, that heir being a youth only in his twenty-third year,
ignorant of business, not over-gifted with experience, and having the
propensities of all his years in this ill-behaving and extravagant age,
without certain trusts and provisions which will leave his hard
earnings for some time to come under the care of men who like himself
know the full value of money.”

“No, never!—’tis quite impossible—’tis more than impossible!” exclaimed
the bystanders, all shaking their heads.

“And the late Mr. Goldencalf, too, intimate with most of the
substantial names on ’Change, and particularly with Sir Joseph Job!”
added another.

Sir Joseph Job nodded his head, smiled, stroked his chin, and stood
waiting for my reply.

“Property is in danger, Sir Joseph,” I said, ironically; “but it
matters not. If there is a will, it is as much my interest to know it
as it can possibly be yours; and I am quite willing that a search be
made on the spot.”

Sir Joseph looked daggers at me; but being a man of business he took me
at my word, and, receiving the keys I offered, a proper person was
immediately set to work to open the drawers. The search was continued
for four hours without success. Every private drawer was rummaged,
every paper opened, and many a curious glance was cast at the contents
of the latter, in order to get some clew to the probable amount of the
assets of the deceased. Consternation and uneasiness very evidently
increased among most of the spectators as the fruitless examination
proceeded; and when the notary ended, declaring that no will was to be
found, nor any evidence of credits, every eye was fastened on me as if
I were suspected of stealing that which in the order of nature was
likely to be my own without the necessity of crime.

“There must be a secret repository of papers somewhere,” said Sir
Joseph Job, as if he suspected more than he wished just then to
express; “Mr. Goldencalf is largely a creditor on the public books, and
yet here is not so much as a scrip for a pound!”

I left the room and soon returned, bringing with me the bundle that had
been committed to me by my father.

“Here, gentlemen,” I said, “is a large packet of papers that were given
to me by the deceased on his death-bed with his own hands. It is, as
you see, sealed with his seal and especially addressed to me in his own
handwriting, and it is not violent to suppose that the contents concern
me only. Still, as you take so great an interest in the affairs of the
deceased, it shall now be opened, and those contents, so far as you can
have any right to know them, shall not be hid from you.”

I thought Sir Joseph looked grave when he saw the packet and had
examined the handwriting of the envelope. All, however, expressed their
satisfaction that the search was now most probably ended. I broke the
seals and exposed the contents of the envelope. Within it there were
several smaller packets, each sealed with the seal of the deceased, and
each addressed to me in his own handwriting like the external covering.
Each of these smaller packets, too, had a separate indorsement of its
contents. Taking them as they lay, I read aloud the nature of each
before I proceeded to the next. They were also numbered.

“No. 1,” I commenced. “Certificates of public stock held by Tho.
Goldencalf, June 12th, 1815.” We were now at June 29th of the same
year. As I laid aside this packet I observed that the sum indorsed on
its back greatly exceeded a million. “No. 2. Certificates of Bank of
England stock.” This sum was several hundred thousands of pounds. “No.
3. South Sea Annuities.” Nearly three hundred thousand pounds. “No. 4.
Bonds and mortgages.” Four hundred and thirty thousand pounds. “No. 5.
The bond of Sir Joseph Job for sixty-three thousand pounds.”

I laid down the paper and involuntarily exclaimed, “Property is in
danger!” Sir Joseph turned pale, but he beckoned to me to proceed,
saying, “We shall soon come to the will, sir.”

“No. 6.—” I hesitated; for it was an assignment to myself, which from
its very nature I perceived was an abortive attempt to escape the
payment of the legacy duty.

“Well, sir, No. 6?” inquired Sir Joseph, with tremulous exultation.

“Is an instrument affecting myself, and with which you have no concern,
sir.”

“We shall see, sir, we shall see, sir—if you refuse to exhibit the
paper there are laws to compel you.”

“To do what, Sir Joseph Job? To exhibit to my father’s debtors’ papers
that are exclusively addressed to me and which can affect me only? But
here is the paper, gentlemen, that you so much desire to see. ‘No. 7.
The last will and testament of Tho. Goldencalf, dated June 17th,
1816.’” (He died June the 24th of the same year.)

“Ah! the precious instrument!” exclaimed Sir Joseph Job, eagerly
extending his hand as if expecting to receive the will.

“This paper, as you perceive, gentlemen,” I said, holding it up in a
manner that all present might see it, “is especially addressed to
myself, and it shall not quit my hands until I learn that some other
has a better right to it.”

I confess my heart failed me as I broke the seals, for I had seen but
little of my father and I knew that he had been a man of very peculiar
opinions as well as habits. The will was all in his own handwriting,
and it was very short. Summoning courage I read it aloud in the
following words:

“In the name of God—Amen: I, Tho. Goldencalf, of the parish of Bow, in
the city of London, do publish and declare this instrument to be my
last will and testament:

“That is to say; I bequeath to my only child and much-beloved son, John
Goldencalf, all my real estate in the parish of Bow and city of London,
aforesaid, to be held in free-simple by him, his heirs, and assigns,
forever.

“I bequeath to my said only child and much-beloved son, John
Goldencalf, all my personal property of every sort and description
whatever of which I may die possessed, including bonds and mortgages,
public debt, bank stock, notes of hand, goods and chattels, and all
others of my effects, to him, his heirs, or assigns.

“I nominate and appoint my said much-beloved son, John Goldencalf, to
be the sole executor of this my last will and testament, counselling
him not to confide in any of those who may profess to have been my
friends; and particularly to turn a deaf ear to all the pretensions and
solicitations of Sir Joseph Job, Knight. In witness whereof,” etc.,
etc.

This will was duly executed, and it was witnessed by the nurse, his
confidential clerk, and the housemaid.

“Property is in danger, Sir Joseph!” I dryly remarked, as I gathered
together the papers in order to secure them.

“This will may be set aside, gentlemen!” cried the knight in a fury.
“It contains a libel!”

“And for whose benefit, Sir Joseph?” I quietly inquired. “With or
without the will my title to my father’s assets would seem to be
equally valid.”

This was so evidently true that the more prudent retired in silence;
and even Sir Joseph after a short delay, during which he appeared to be
strangely agitated, withdrew. The next week his failure was announced,
in consequence of some extravagant risks on ’Change, and eventually I
received but three shillings and fourpence in the pound for my bond of
sixty-three thousand.

When the money was paid I could not help exclaiming mentally, “Property
is in danger!”

The following morning Sir Joseph Job balanced his account with the
world by cutting his throat.

CHAPTER V.
ABOUT THE SOCIAL-STAKE SYSTEM, THE DANGERS OF CONCENTRATION, AND OTHER
MORAL AND IMMORAL CURIOSITIES.

The affairs of my father were almost as easy of settlement as those of
a pauper. In twenty-four hours I was completely master of them, and
found myself if not the richest, certainly one of the richest subjects
of Europe. I say subjects, for sovereigns frequently have a way of
appropriating the effects of others that would render a pretension to
rivalry ridiculous. Debts there were none: and if there had been, ready
money was not wanting; the balance in cash in my favor at the bank
amounted in itself to a fortune.

The reader may now suppose that I was perfectly happy. Without a
solitary claim on either my time or my estate, I was in the enjoyment
of an income that materially exceeded the revenues of many reigning
princes. I had not an ex-pensive nor a vicious habit of any sort. Of
houses, horses, hounds, packs, and menials, there were none to vex or
perplex me. In every particular save one I was completely my own
master. That one was the near, dear, cherished sentiment that rendered
Anna in my eyes an angel (and truly she was little short of it in those
of other people), and made her the polar star to which every wish
pointed. How gladly would I have paid half a million just then to be
the grandson of a baronet with precedency from the seventeenth century!

There was, however, another and a present cause for un-easiness that
gave me even more concern than the fact that my family reached the dark
ages with so much embarrassing facility. In witnessing the dying agony
of my ancestor I had got a dread lesson on the vanity, the hopeless
character, the dangers, and the delusions of wealth that time can never
eradicate. The history of its accumulation was ever present to mar the
pleasure of its possession. I do not mean that I suspected what by the
world’s convention is deemed dishonesty—of that there had been no
necessity—but simply that the heartless and estranged existence, the
waste of energies, the blunted charities, and the isolated and
distrustful habits of my father appeared to me to be but poorly
requited by the joyless ownership of its millions. I would have given
largely to be directed in such a way as while escaping the wastefulness
of the shoals of Scylla I might in my own case steer clear of the
miserly rocks of Charybdis.

When I drove from between the smoky lines of the London houses into the
green fields and amid the blossoming hedges, this earth looked
beautiful and as if it were made to be loved. I saw in it the
workmanship of a divine and beneficent Creator, and it was not
difficult to persuade myself that he who dwelt in the confusion of a
town in order to transfer gold from the pocket of his neighbor to his
own had mistaken the objects of his being. My poor ancestor who had
never quitted London stood before me with his dying regrets; and my
first resolution was to live in open communion with my kind. So
intense, indeed, did my anxiety to execute this purpose become that it
might have led even to frenzy had not a fortunate circumstance
interposed to save me from so dire a calamity.

The coach in which I had taken passage (for I purposely avoided the
parade and trouble of post-chaise and servants), passed through a
market town of known loyalty on the eve of a contested election. This
appeal to the intelligence and patriotism of the constituency had
occurred in consequence of the late incumbent having taken office. The
new minister, for he was a member of the cabinet, had just ended his
canvass, and he was about to address his fellow-subjects from a window
of the tavern in which he lodged. Fatigued, but ready to seek mental
relief by any means, I threw myself from the coach, secured a room, and
made one of the multitude.

The favorite candidate occupied a large balcony surrounded by his
principal friends, among whom it was delightful to see earls, lords
John, baronets, dignitaries of the church, tradesmen of influence in
the borough, and even a mechanic or two, all squeezed together in the
agreeable amalgamation of political affinity. Here then, thought I, is
an example of the heavenly charities I The candidate himself, the son
and heir of a peer, feels that he is truly of the same flesh and blood
as his constituents; how amiably he smiles!—how bland are his
manners!—and with what cordiality does he shake hands with the
greasiest and the worst! There must be a corrective to human pride, a
stimulus to the charities, a never-ending lesson of benevolence in this
part of our excellent system, and I will look farther into it. The
candidate appeared and his harangue commenced.

Memory would fail me were I to attempt recording the precise language
of the orator, but his opinions and precepts are so deeply graven on my
recollection that I do not fear misrepresenting them. He commenced with
a very proper and eloquent eulogium on the constitution, which he
fearlessly pronounced to be in its way the very perfection of human
reason; in proof of which he adduced the well-ascertained fact that it
had always been known throughout the vicissitudes and trials of so many
centuries to accommodate itself to circumstances, abhorring change.
“Yes, my friends,” he exclaimed, in a burst of patriotic and
constitutional fervor, “whether under the roses or the lilies—the
Tudors, the Stuarts, or the illustrious house of Brunswick, this
glorious structure has resisted the storms of faction, has been able to
receive under its sheltering roof the most opposite elements of
domestic strife, affording protection, warmth, aye, and food and
raiment”—(here the orator happily laid his hand on the shoulder of a
butcher, who wore a frieze overcoat that made him look not unlike a
stall-fed beast)—“yes, food and raiment, victuals and drink, to the
meanest subject in the realm. Nor is this all; it is a constitution
peculiarly English: and who is there so base, so vile, so untrue to
himself, to his fathers, to his descendants, as to turn his back on a
constitution that is thoroughly and inherently English, a constitution
that he has inherited from his ancestors, and which by every obligation
both human and divine he is bound to transmit unchanged to
posterity”;—here the orator, who continued to speak, however, was
deafened by shouts of applause, and that part of the subject might very
fairly be considered as definitively settled.

From the constitution as a whole the candidate next proceeded to extol
the particular feature of it that was known as the borough of
Householder. According to his account of this portion of the
government, its dwellers were animated by the noblest spirit of
independence, the most rooted determination to uphold the ministry of
which he was the least worthy member, and were distinguished by what in
an ecstasy of political eloquence he happily termed the most freeborn
understanding of its rights and privileges. This loyal and judicious
borough had never been known to waste its favors on those who had not a
stake in the community. It understood that fundamental principle of
good government which lays down the axiom that none were to be trusted
but those who had a visible and an extended interest in the country;
for without these pledges of honesty and independence what had the
elector to expect but bribery and corruption—a traffic in his dearest
rights, and a bargaining that might destroy the glorious institutions
under which he dwelt. This part of the harangue was listened to in
respectful silence, and shortly after the orator concluded; when the
electors dispersed, with, no doubt, a better opinion of themselves and
the constitution than it had probably been their good fortune to
entertain since the previous election.

Accident placed me at dinner (the house being crowded) at the same
table with an attorney who had been very active the whole morning among
the Householders, and who I soon learned, from himself, was the
especial agent of the owner of the independent borough in question. He
told me that he had came down with the expectation of disposing of the
whole property to Lord Pledge, the ministerial candidate named; but the
means had not been forthcoming as he had been led to hope, and the
bargain was unluckily broken off at the very moment when it was of the
utmost importance to know to whom the independent electors rightfully
belonged.

“His lordship, however,” continued the attorney, winking, “has done
what is handsome; and there can be no more doubt of his election than
there would be of yours did you happen to own the borough.”

“And is the property now open for sale?” I asked.

“Certainly-my principal can hold out no longer. The price is settled,
and I have his power of attorney to make the preliminary bargain. ’Tis
a thousand pities that the public mind should be left in this undecided
state on the eve of an election.”

“Then, sir, I will be the purchaser.”

My companion looked at me with astonishment and doubt. He had
transacted too much business of this nature, however, not to feel his
way before he was either off or on.

“The price of the estate is three hundred and twenty-five thousand
pounds, sir, and the rental is only six!”

“Be it so. My name is Goldencalf: by accompanying me to town you shall
receive the money.”

“Goldencalf! What, sir, the only son and heir of the late Thomas
Goldencalf of Cheapside?”

“The same. My father has not been dead a month.”

“Pardon me, sir—convince me of your identity—we must be particular in
matters of this sort—and you shall have possession of the property in
season to secure your own election or that of any of your friends. I
will return Lord Pledge his small advances, and another time he will
know better than to fail of keeping his promises. What is a borough
good for if a nobleman’s word is not sacred? You will find the
electors, in particular, every way worthy of your favor. They are as
frank, loyal, and straightforward a constituency as any in England. No
skulking behind the ballot for them!—and in all respects they are
fearless Englishmen who will do what they say, and say whatever their
landlord shall please to require of them.”

As I had sundry letters and other documents about me, nothing was
easier than to convince the attorney of my identity. He called for pen
and ink; drew out of his pocket the contract that had been prepared for
Lord Pledge; gave it to me to read; filled the blanks; and affixing his
name, called the waiters as witnesses, and presented me the paper with
a promptitude and respect that I found really delightful. So much,
thought I, for having given pledges to society by the purchase of a
borough. I drew on my bankers for three hundred and twenty-five
thousand pounds, and arose from table virtually the owner of the estate
of Householder and of the political consciences of its tenantry.

A fact so important could not long be unknown; and in a few minutes all
eyes in the coffee-room were upon me. The landlord presented himself
and begged I would do him the honor to take possession of his family
parlor, there being no other at his disposal. I was hardly installed
before a servant in a handsome livery presented the following note.

“DEAR MR. GOLDENCALF:

“I have this moment heard of your being in town, and am exceedingly
rejoiced to learn it. A long intimacy with your late excellent and most
loyal father justifies my claiming you for a friend, and I waive all
ceremony (official, of course, is meant, there being no reason for any
other between us), and beg to be admitted for half an hour.

“Dear Mr. Goldencalf,”

“Yours very faithfully and sincerely,”

“PLEDGE.”

“—GOLDENCALF, Esquire.”

“Monday evening.”

I begged that the noble visitor might not be made to wait a moment.
Lord Pledge met me like an old and intimate friend. He made a hundred
handsome inquiries after my dead ancestor; spoke feelingly of his
regret at not having been summoned to attend his death-bed; and then
very ingenuously and warmly congratulated me on my succession to so
large a property.

“I hear, too, you have bought this borough, my dear sir. I could not
make it convenient just at this particular moment to conclude my own
arrangement—but it is a good thing. Three hundred and twenty thousand,
I suppose, as was mentioned between me and the other party?”

“Three hundred and twenty-five thousand, Lord Pledge.”

I perceived by the countenance of the noble candidate that I had paid
the odd five thousand as a fine—a circumstance which accounted for the
promptitude of the attorney in the transaction, he most probably
pocketing the difference himself.

“You mean to sit, of course?”

“I do, my lord, as one of the members, at the next general election;
but at present I shall be most happy to aid your return.”

“My dear Mr. Goldencalf—”

“Really, without presuming to compliment, Lord Pledge, the noble
sentiments I heard you express this morning were so very proper, so
exceedingly statesmanlike, so truly English, that I shall feel
infinitely more satisfaction in knowing that you fill the vacant seat
than if it were in my own possession.”

“I honor your public spirit, Mr. Goldencalf, and only wish to God there
was more of it in the world. But you can count on our friendship, sir.
What you have just remarked is true, very true, only too true, true to
a hair-a-a-a—I mean, my dear Mr. Goldencalf, most especially those
sentiments of mine which-a-a-a-I say it, before God, without vanity—but
which, as you have so very ably intimated, are so truly proper and
English.”

“I sincerely think so, Lord Pledge, or I should not have said it. I am
peculiarly situated myself. With an immense fortune, without rank,
name, or connections, nothing is easier than for one of my years to be
led astray; and it is my ardent desire to hit upon some expedient that
may connect me properly with society.”

“Marry, my dear young friend—select a wife from among the fair and
virtuous of this happy isle—unluckily I can propose nothing in this way
myself—for both my own sisters are disposed of.”

“I have made choice, already, I thank you a thousand times, my dear
Lord Pledge; although I scarcely dare execute my own wishes. There are
objections—if I were only the child, now, of a baronet’s second son,
or—”

“Become a baronet yourself,” once more interrupted my noble friend,
with an evident relief from suspense; for I verily believe he thought I
was about to ask for something better. “Your affair shall be arranged
by the end of the week—and if there is anything else I can do for you,
I beg you to name it without reserve.”

“If I could hear a few more of those remarkable sentiments of yours,
concerning the stake we should all have in society, I think it would
relieve my mind.”

My companion looked at me a moment with a very awkward sort of an
intensity, drew his hand across his brows, reflected, and then
obligingly complied.

“You attach too much importance, Mr. Goldencalf, to a few certainly
very just but very ill-arranged ideas. That a man without a proper
stake in society is little better than the beasts of the fields, I hold
to be so obvious that it is unnecessary to dwell on the point. Reason
as you will, forward or backward, you arrive at the same result—he that
hath nothing is usually treated by mankind little better than a dog,
and he that is little better than a dog usually has nothing. Again.
What distinguishes the savage from the civilized man? Why, civilization
to be sure. Now, what is civilization? The arts of life. What feeds,
nourishes, sustains the arts of life? Money or property. By
consequence, civilization is property, and property is civilization. If
the control of a country is in the hands of those who possess the
property, the government is a civilized government; but, on the other
hand, if it is in the hands of those who have no property, the
government is necessarily an uncivilized government. It is quite
impossible that any one should become a safe statesman who does not
possess a direct property interest in society. You know there is not a
tyro of our political sect who does not fully admit the truth of this
axiom.”

“Mr. Pitt?”

“Why, Pitt was certainly an exception in one way; but then, you will
recollect, he was the immediate representative of the tories, who own
most of the property of England.”

“Mr. Fox?”

“Fox represented the whigs, who own all the rest, you know. No, my dear
Goldencalf, reason as you will, we shall always arrive at the same
results. You will, of course, as you have just said, take one of the
seats yourself at the next general election?”

“I shall be too proud of being your colleague to hesitate.”

This speech sealed our friendship; for it was a pledge to my noble
acquaintance of his future connection with the borough. He was much too
high-bred to express his thanks in vulgar phrases (though high-breeding
rarely exhibits all its finer qualities pending an election), but—a man
of the world, and one of a class whose main business it is to put the
suaviter in modo, as the French have it en evidence,—the reader may be
sure that when we parted that night I was in perfect good humor with
myself and, as a matter of course, with my new acquaintance.

The next day the canvass was renewed, and we had another convincing
speech on the subject of the virtue of “a stake in society”; for Lord
Pledge was tactician enough to attack the citadel, once assured of its
weak point, rather than expend his efforts on the outworks of the
place. That night the attorney arrived from town with the title-deeds
all properly executed (they had been some time in preparation for Lord
Pledge), and the following morning early the tenants were served with
the usual notices, with a handsomely expressed sentiment on my part in
favor of “a stake in society.” About noon Lord Pledge walked over the
course, as it is expressed at Newmarket and Doncaster. After dinner we
separated, my noble friend returning to town, while I pursued my way to
the rectory.

Anna never appeared more fresh, more serene, more elevated above
mortality, than when we met, a week after I had quitted Householder, in
the breakfast-parlor of her father’s abode.

“You are beginning to look like yourself again, Jack,” she said,
extending her hand with the simple cordiality of an Englishwoman; “and
I hope we shall find you more rational.”

“Ah, Anna, if I could only presume to throw myself at your feet, and
tell you how much and what I feel, I should be the happiest fellow in
all England.”

“As it is you are the most miserable!” the laughing girl answered as,
crimsoned to the temples, she drew away the hand I was foolishly
pressing against my heart. “Let us go to breakfast, Mr. Goldencalf—my
father has ridden across the country to visit Dr. Liturgy.”

“Anna,” I said, after seating myself and taking a cup of tea from
fingers that were rosy as the morn, “I fear you are the greatest enemy
that I have on earth.”

“John Goldencalf!” exclaimed the startled girl, turning pale and then
flushing violently. “Pray explain yourself.”

“I love you to my heart’s core—could marry you, and then, I fear,
worship you, as man never before worshipped woman.”

Anna laughed faintly.

“And you feel in danger of the sin of idolatry?” she at length
succeeded in saying.