CHAPTER XXXVI.
AND LAST.
Subtle, Surly,--Mammon, Dol,
Hot Ananias, Dapper, Dragger,--all
With whom I traded.
The Alchemist.
As when some rural citizen-retired for a fleeting holiday, far from the
cares of the world _strepitumque Romae_,--[" And the roar of Rome."]--
to the sweet shades of Pentonville or the remoter plains of Clapham--
conducts some delighted visitor over the intricacies of that Daedalian
masterpiece which he is pleased to call his labyrinth or maze,--now
smiling furtively at his guest's perplexity, now listening with calm
superiority to his futile and erring conjectures, now maliciously
accompanying him through a flattering path in which the baffled
adventurer is suddenly checked by the blank features of a
thoroughfareless hedge, now trembling as he sees the guest stumbling
unawares into the right track, and now relieved as he beholds him after
a pause of deliberation wind into the wrong,--even so, O pleasant reader!
doth the sage novelist conduct thee through the labyrinth of his tale,
amusing himself with thy self-deceits, and spinning forth, in prolix
pleasure, the quiet yarn of his entertainment from the involutions which
occasion thy fretting eagerness and perplexity. But as when, thanks to
the host's good-nature or fatigue, the mystery is once unravelled, and
the guest permitted to penetrate even into the concealed end of the leafy
maze, the honest cit, satisfied with the pleasant pains he has already
bestowed upon his visitor, puts him not to the labour of retracing the
steps he hath so erratically trod, but leads him in three strides, and
through a simpler path, at once to the mouth of the maze, and dismisseth
him elsewhere for entertainment; even so will the prudent narrator, when
the intricacies of his plot are once unfolded, occasion no stale and
profitless delays to his wearied reader, but conduct him, with as much
brevity as convenient, without the labyrinth which has ceased to retain
the interest of a secret.
We shall therefore, in pursuance of the tit's policy, relate as rapidly
as possible that part of our narrative which yet remains untold. On
Brandon's person was found the paper which had contained so fatal an
intelligence of his son; and when brought to Lord Mauleverer, the words
struck that person (who knew Brandon had been in search of his lost son,
whom we have seen that he had been taught however to suppose
illegitimate, though it is probable that many doubts whether he had not
been deceived must have occurred to his natural sagacity) as sufficiently
important to be worth an inquiry after the writer. Dummie was easily
found, for he had not yet turned his back on the town when the news of
the judge's sudden death was brought back to it; and taking advantage of
that circumstance, the friendly Dunnaker remained altogether in the town
(albeit his long companion deserted it as hastily as might be), and
whiled the time by presenting himself at the jail, and after some
ineffectual efforts winning his way to Clifford. Easily tracked by the
name he had given to the governor of the jail, he was conducted the same
day to Lord Mauleverer; and his narrative, confused as it was, and
proceeding even from so suspicious a quarter, thrilled those digestive
organs, which in Mauleverer stood proxy for a heart, with feelings as
much resembling awe and horror as our good peer was capable of
experiencing. Already shocked from his worldly philosophy of
indifference by the death of Brandon, he was more susceptible to a
remorseful and salutary impression at this moment than he might have been
at any other; and he could not, without some twinges of conscience, think
of the ruin he had brought on the mother of the being he had but just
prosecuted to the death. He dismissed Dummie, and after a little
consideration he ordered his carriage, and leaving the funeral
preparations for his friend to the care of his man of business, he set
off for London, and the house, in particular, of the Secretary of the
Home Department. We would not willingly wrong the noble penitent;
but we venture a suspicion that he might not have preferred a personal
application for mercy to the prisoner to a written one, had he not felt
certain unpleasant qualms in remaining in a country-house overshadowed by
ceremonies so gloomy as those of death. The letter of Brandon and the
application of Mauleverer obtained for Clifford a relaxation of his
sentence. He was left for perpetual transportation. A ship was already
about to sail; and Mauleverer, content with having saved his life, was by
no means anxious that his departure from the country should be saddled
with any superfluous delay.
Meanwhile the first rumour that reached London respecting Brandon's fate
was that he had been found in a fit, and was lying dangerously ill at
Mauleverer's; and before the second and more fatally sure report arrived,
Lucy had gathered from the visible dismay of Barlow, whom she anxiously
cross-questioned, and who, really loving his master, was easily affected
into communication, the first and more flattering intelligence. To
Barlow's secret delight, she insisted instantly on setting off to the
supposed sick man; and accompanied by Barlow and her woman, the
affectionate girl hastened to Mauleverer's house on the evening after the
day the earl left it. Lucy had not proceeded far before Barlow learned,
from the gossip of the road, the real state of the case. Indeed, it was
at the first stage that with a mournful countenance he approached the
door of the carriage, and announcing the inutility of proceeding farther,
begged of Lucy to turn back. So soon as Miss Brandon had overcome the
first shock which this intelligence gave her, she said with calmness,--
"Well, Barlow, if it be so, we have still a duty to perform. Tell the
postboys to drive on!"
"Indeed, madam, I cannot see what use it can be fretting yourself,--and
you so poorly. If you will let me go, I will see every attention paid to
the remains of my poor master."
"When my father lay dead," said Lucy, with a grave and sad sternness in
her manner, "he who is now no more sent no proxy to perform the last
duties of a brother; neither will I send one to discharge those of a
niece, and prove that I have forgotten the gratitude of a daughter.
Drive on!"
We have said that there were times when a spirit was stricken from Lucy
little common to her in general; and now the command of her uncle sat
upon her brow. On sped the horses, and for several minutes Lucy remained
silent. Her woman did not dare to speak. At length Miss Brandon turned,
and, covering her face with her hands, burst into tears so violent that
they alarmed her attendant even more than her previous stillness. "My
poor, poor uncle!" she sobbed; and those were all her words.
We must pass over Lucy's arrival at Lord Mauleverer's house; we must
pass over the weary days which elapsed till that unconscious body was
consigned to dust with which, could it have retained yet one spark of its
haughty spirit, it would have refused to blend its atoms. She had loved
the deceased incomparably beyond his merits, and resisting all
remonstrance to the contrary and all the forms of ordinary custom, she
witnessed herself the dreary ceremony which bequeathed the human remains
of William Brandon to repose and to the worm. On that same day Clifford
received the mitigation of his sentence, and on that day another trial
awaited Lucy. We think briefly to convey to the reader what that scene
was; we need only observe that Dummie Dunnaker, decoyed by his great love
for little Paul, whom he delightedly said he found not the least "stuck
up by his great fame and helewation," still lingered in the town, and was
not only aware of the relationship of the cousins, but had gleaned from
Long Ned, as they journeyed down to ------, the affection entertained by
Clifford for Lucy. Of the manner in which the communication reached
Lucy, we need not speak; suffice it to say, that on the day in which she
had performed the last duty to her uncle, she learned for the first time
her lover's situation.
On that evening, in the convict's cell, the cousins met.
Their conference was low, for the jailer stood within hearing; and it was
broken by Lucy's convulsive sobs. But the voice of one whose iron nerves
were not unworthy of the offspring of William Brandon, was clear and
audible to her ear, even though uttered in a whisper that scarcely
stirred his lips. It seemed as if Lucy, smitten to the inmost heart by
the generosity with which her lover had torn himself from her at the time
that her wealth might have raised him in any other country far above the
perils and the crimes of his career in this; perceiving now, for the
first time, and in all their force, the causes of his mysterious conduct;
melted by their relationship, and forgetting herself utterly in the
desolation and dark situation in which she beheld one who, whatever his
crimes, had not been criminal towards her;--it seemed as if, carried away
by these emotions, she had yielded altogether to the fondness and
devotion of her nature,--that she had wished to leave home and friends
and fortune, and share with him his punishment and his shame.
"Why," she faltered,--"why--why not? We are all that is left to each
other in the world! Your father and mine were brothers; let me be to you
as a sister. What is there left for me here? Not one being whom I love,
or who cares for me,--not one!"
It was then that Clifford summoned all his courage, as he answered.
Perhaps, now that he felt (though here his knowledge was necessarily
confused and imperfect) his birth was not unequal to hers; now that he
read, or believed he read, in her wan cheek and attenuated frame that
desertion to her was death, and that generosity and self-sacrifice had
become too late,--perhaps these thoughts, concurring with a love in
himself beyond all words, and a love in her which it was above humanity
to resist, altogether conquered and subdued him. Yet, as we have said,
his voice breathed calmly in her ear; and his eye only, which brightened
with a steady and resolute hope, betrayed his mind. "Live, then!" said
he, as he concluded. "My sister, my mistress, my bride, live! In one
year from this day--I repeat--I promise it thee!"
The interview was over, and Lucy returned home with a firm step. She was
on foot. The rain fell in torrents, yet even in her precarious state her
health suffered not; and when within a week from that time she read that
Clifford had departed to the bourne of his punishment, she read the news
with a steady eye and a lip that, if it grew paler, did not quiver.
Shortly after that time Miss Brandon departed to an obscure town by the
seaside; and there, refusing all society, she continued to reside. As
the birth of Clifford was known but to few, and his legitimacy was
unsuspected by all except, perhaps, by Mauleverer, Lucy succeeded to the
great wealth of her uncle; and this circumstance made her more than ever
an object of attraction in the eyes of her noble adorer. Finding himself
unable to see her, he wrote to her more than one moving epistle; but as
Lucy continued inflexible, he at length, disgusted by her want of taste,
ceased his pursuit, and resigned himself to the continued sterility of
unwedded life. As the months waned, Miss Brandon seemed to grow weary of
her retreat; and immediately on attaining her majority, which she did
about eight months after Brandon's death, she transferred the bulk of her
wealth to France, where it was understood (for it was impossible that
rumour should sleep upon an heiress and a beauty) that she intended in
future to reside. Even Warlock (that spell to the proud heart of her
uncle) she ceased to retain. It was offered to the nearest relation of
the family at a sum which he did not hesitate to close with; and by the
common vicissitudes of Fortune, the estate of the ancient Brandons has
now, we perceive by a weekly journal, just passed into the hands of a
wealthy alderman.
It was nearly a year since Brandon's death when a letter bearing a
foreign postmark came to Lucy. From that time her spirits--which before,
though subject to fits of abstraction, had been even and subdued, not
sad--rose into all the cheerfulness and vivacity of her earliest youth.
She busied herself actively in preparations for her departure from this
country; and at length the day was fixed, and the vessel was engaged.
Every day till that one, did Lucy walk to the seaside, and ascending the
highest cliff, spend hours, till the evening closed, in watching, with
seemingly idle gaze, the vessels that interspersed the sea; and with
every day her health seemed to strengthen, and the soft and lucid colour
she had once worn, to rebloom upon her cheek.
Previous to her departure Miss Brandon dismissed her servants, and only
engaged one female, a foreigner, to accompany her. A certain tone of
quiet command, formerly unknown to her, characterized these measures, so
daringly independent for one of her sex and age. The day arrived,--it
was the anniversary of her last interview with Clifford. On entering the
vessel it was observed that she trembled violently, and that her face was
as pale as death. A stranger, who had stood aloof wrapped in his cloak,
darted forward to assist her; that was the last which her discarded and
weeping servants beheld of her from the pier where they stood to gaze.
Nothing more in this country was ever known of the fate of Lucy Brandon;
and as her circle of acquaintances was narrow, and interest in her fate
existed vividly in none save a few humble breasts, conjecture was never
keenly awakened, and soon cooled into forgetfulness. If it favoured,
after the lapse of years, any one notion more than another, it was that
she had perished among the victims of the French Revolution.
Meanwhile let us glance over the destinies of our more subordinate
acquaintances.
Augustus Tomlinson, on parting from Long Ned, had succeeded in reaching
Calais; and after a rapid tour through the Continent, he ultimately
betook himself to a certain literary city in Germany, where he became
distinguished for his metaphysical acumen, and opened a school of morals
on the Grecian model, taught in the French tongue. He managed, by the
patronage he received and the pupils he enlightened, to obtain a very
decent income; and as he wrote a folio against Locke, proved that men had
innate feelings, and affirmed that we should refer everything not to
reason, but to the sentiments of the soul, he became greatly respected
for his extraordinary virtue. Some little discoveries were made after
his death, which perhaps would have somewhat diminished the general odour
of his sanctity, had not the admirers of his school carefully hushed up
the matter, probably out of respect for the "sentiments of the soul!"
Pepper, whom the police did not so anxiously desire to destroy as they
did his two companions, might have managed, perhaps many years longer,
to graze upon the public commons, had not a letter, written somewhat
imprudently, fallen into wrong hands. This, though after creating a
certain stir it apparently died away, lived in the memory of the police,
and finally conspired, with various peccadilloes, to produce his
downfall. He was seized, tried, and sentenced to seven years'
transportation. He so advantageously employed his time at Botany Bay,
and arranged things there so comfortably to himself, that at the
expiration of his sentence he refused to return home. He made an
excellent match, built himself an excellent house, and remained in "the
land of the blest" to the end of his days, noted to the last for the
redundance of his hair and a certain ferocious coxcombry of aspect.
As for Fighting Attie and Gentleman George, for Scarlet Jem and for Old
Bags, we confess ourselves destitute of any certain information of their
latter ends. We can only add, with regard to Fighting Attie, "Good luck
be with him wherever he goes!" and for mine host of the Jolly Angler,
that, though we have not the physical constitution to quaff "a bumper of
blue ruin," we shall be very happy, over any tolerable wine and in
company with any agreeable convivialist, to bear our part in the polished
chorus of--
"Here's to Gentleman George, God bless him!"
Mrs. Lobkins departed this life like a lamb; and Dummie Dunnaker obtained
a license to carry on the business at Thames Court. He boasted, to the
last, of his acquaintance with the great Captain Lovett, and of the
affability with which that distinguished personage treated him. Stories
he had, too, about Judge Brandon, but no one believed a syllable of them;
and Dummie, indignant at the disbelief, increased, out of vehemence, the
marvel of the stories, so that, at length, what was added almost
swallowed up what was original, and Dummie himself might have been
puzzled to satisfy his own conscience as to what was false and what was
true.
The erudite Peter MacGrawler, returning to Scotland, disappeared by the
road. A person singularly resembling the sage was afterward seen at
Carlisle, where he discharged the useful and praiseworthy duties of Jack
Ketch. But whether or not this respectable functionary was our identical
Simon Pure, our ex-editor of "The Asinaeum," we will not take upon
ourselves to assert.
Lord Mauleverer, finally resolving on a single life, passed the remainder
of his years in indolent tranquillity. When he died, the newspapers
asserted that his Majesty was deeply affected by the loss of so old and
valued a friend. His furniture and wines sold remarkably high; and a
Great Man, his particular intimate, who purchased his books, startled to
find, by pencil marks, that the noble deceased had read some of them,
exclaimed, not altogether without truth,
"Ah! Mauleverer might have been a deuced clever fellow--if he had liked
it!"
The earl was accustomed to show as a curiosity a ring of great value,
which he had received in rather a singular manner. One morning a packet
was brought him which he found to contain a sum of money, the ring
mentioned, and a letter from the notorious Lovett, in which that person
in begging to return his lordship the sums of which he had twice assisted
to rob him, thanked him, with earnest warmth, for the consideration
testified towards him in not revealing his identity with Captain
Clifford; and ventured, as a slight testimony of respect, to inclose the
aforesaid ring with the sum returned.
About the time Mauleverer received this curious packet, several anecdotes
of a similar nature appeared in the public journals; and it seemed that
Lovett had acted upon a general principle of restitution,--not always, it
must be allowed, the offspring of a robber's repentance. While the idle
were marvelling at these anecdotes, came the tardy news that Lovett,
after a single month's sojourn at his place of condemnation, had, in the
most daring and singular manner, effected his escape. Whether, in his
progress up the country, he had been starved or slain by the natives, or
whether, more fortunate, he had ultimately found the means of crossing
seas, was as yet unknown. There ended the adventures of the gallant
robber; and thus, by a strange coincidence, the same mystery which
wrapped the fate of Lucy involved also that of her lover. And here, kind
reader, might we drop the curtain on our closing scene, did we not think
it might please thee to hold it up yet one moment, and give thee another
view of the world behind.
In a certain town of that Great Country where shoes are imperfectly
polished--[See Captain Hall's late work on America]--and opinions are not
prosecuted, there resided, twenty years after the date of Lucy Brandon's
departure from England, a man held in high and universal respect, not
only for the rectitude of his conduct, but for the energies of his mind,
and the purposes to which they were directed. If you asked who
cultivated that waste, the answer was, "Clifford!" who procured the
establishment of that hospital, "Clifford!" who obtained the redress of
such a public grievance, "Clifford!" who struggled for and won such a
popular benefit, "Clifford!" In the gentler part of his projects and his
undertakings--in that part, above all, which concerned the sick or the
necessitous--this useful citizen was seconded, or rather excelled, by a
being over whose surpassing loveliness Time seemed to have flown with a
gentle and charming wing. There was something remarkable and touching in
the love which this couple (for the woman we refer to was Clifford's
wife) bore to each other; like the plant on the plains of Hebron, the
time which brought to that love an additional strength brought to it also
a softer and a fresher verdure. Although their present neighbours were
unacquainted with the events of their earlier life previous to their
settlement at ----------, it was known that they had been wealthy at the
time they first came to reside there, and that, by a series of
fatalities, they had lost all. But Clifford had borne up manfully
against fortune; and in a new country, where men who prefer labour to
dependence cannot easily starve, he had been enabled to toil upward
through the severe stages of poverty and hardship with an honesty and
vigour of character which won him, perhaps, a more hearty esteem for
every successive effort than the display of his lost riches might ever
have acquired him. His labours and his abilities obtained gradual but
sure success; and he now enjoyed the blessings of a competence earned
with the most scrupulous integrity, and spent with the most kindly
benevolence. A trace of the trials they had passed through was
discernible in each; those trials had stolen the rose from the wife's
cheek, and had sown untimely wrinkles in the broad brow of Clifford.
There were moments, too, but they were only moments, when the latter sank
from his wonted elastic and healthful cheerfulness of mind into a gloomy
and abstracted revery; but these moments the wife watched with a jealous
and fond anxiety, and one sound of her sweet voice had the power to
dispel their influence; and when Clifford raised his eyes, and glanced
from her tender smile around his happy home and his growing children, or
beheld through the very windows of his room the public benefits he had
created, something of pride and gladness glowed on his countenance, and
he said, though with glistening eyes and subdued voice, as his looks
returned once more to his wife, "I owe these to thee!"
One trait of mind especially characterized Clifford,--indulgence to the
faults of others. "Circumstances make guilt," he was wont to say; "let
us endeavour to correct the circumstances, before we rail against the
guilt!" His children promised to tread in the same useful and honourable
path that he trod himself. Happy was considered that family which had
the hope to ally itself with his.
Such was the after-fate of Clifford and Lucy. Who will condemn us for
preferring the moral of that fate to the moral which is extorted from the
gibbet and the hulks,--which makes scarecrows, not beacons; terrifies our
weakness, not warms our reason. Who does not allow that it is better to
repair than to perish,--better, too, to atone as the citizen than to
repent as the hermit? Oh, John Wilkes, Alderman of London, and
Drawcansir of Liberty, your life was not an iota too perfect,--your
patriotism might have been infinitely purer, your morals would have
admitted indefinite amendment, you are no great favourite with us or with
the rest of the world,--but you said one excellent thing, for which we
look on you with benevolence, nay, almost with respect. We scarcely know
whether to smile at its wit or to sigh at its wisdom. Mark this truth,
all ye gentlemen of England who would make law as the Romans made
fasces,--a bundle of rods with an axe in the middle,--mark it, and
remember! long may it live, allied with hope in ourselves, but with
gratitude in our children,--long after the book which it now "adorns" and
"points" has gone to its dusty slumber,--long, long after the feverish
hand which now writes it down can defend or enforce it no more: "THE VERY
WORST USE TO WHICH YOU CAN PUT A MAN IS TO HANG HIM!"
NOTE.
In the second edition of this novel there were here inserted two
"characters" of "Fighting Attie" and "Gentleman George," omitted in the
subsequent edition published by Mr. Bentley in the "Standard Novels." At
the request of some admirers of those eminent personages, who considered
the biographical sketches referred to impartial in themselves, and
contributing to the completeness of the design for which men so
illustrious were introduced, they are here retained, though in the more
honourable form of a separate and supplementary notice.
FIGHTING ATTIE.
When be dies, the road will have lost a great man, whose foot was rarely
out of his stirrup, and whose clear head guided a bold hand. He carried
common-sense to its perfection, and he made the straight path the
sublimest. His words were few, his actions were many. He was the
Spartan of Tobymen, and laconism was the short soul of his professional
legislation!
Whatever way you view him, you see those properties of mind which command
fortune; few thoughts not confusing each other,--simple elements, and
bold. His character in action maybe summed in two phrases,--"a fact
seized, and a stroke made." Had his intellect been more luxurious, his
resolution might have been less hardy; and his hardiness made his
greatness. He was one of those who shine but in action,--chimneys (to
adapt the simile of Sir Thomas More) that seem useless till you light
your fire. So in calm moments you dreamed not of his utility, and only
on the road you were struck dumb with the outbreaking of his genius.
Whatever situation he was called to, you found in hire what you looked
for in vain in others; for his strong sense gave to Attie what long
experience ought, but often fails, to give to its possessors. His energy
triumphed over the sense of novel circumstance, and be broke in a moment
through the cobwebs which entangled lesser natures for years. His eye
saw a final result, and disregarded the detail. He robbed his man.
without chicanery; and took his purse by applying for it rather than
scheming. If his enemies wish to detract from his merit,--a merit great,
dazzling, and yet solid,--they may, perhaps, say that his genius fitted
him better to continue exploits than to devise them; and thus that,
besides the renown which he may justly claim, he often wholly engrossed
that fame which should have been shared by others: he took up the
enterprise where it ceased at Labour, and carried it onwards, where it
was rewarded with Glory. Even this charge proves a new merit of address,
and lessens not the merit less complicated the have allowed him before.
The fame he has acquired may excite our emulation; the envy he has not
appeased may console us for obscurity.
A stanza of Greek poetry--Thus, not too vigorously, translated by Mr.
West,--
"But wrapped in error is the human mind,
And human bliss is ever insecure--
Know we what fortune shall remain behind?
Know we how long the present shall endure?"
GENTLEMAN GEORGE.
For thee, Gentleman George, for thee, what conclusive valediction
remains? Alas! since we began the strange and mumming scene wherein
first thou went introduced, the grim foe hath knocked thrice at thy
gates; and now, as we write,--[In 1830]--thou art departed thence,--thou
art no more! A new lord presides to thine easy-chair, a new voice rings
from thy merry board,--thou art forgotten! thou art already, like these
pages, a tale that is told to a memory that retaineth not! Where are thy
quips and cranks; where thy stately coxcombries and thy regal gauds?
Thine house and thy pagoda, thy Gothic chimney and thy Chinese sign-
post,--these yet ask the concluding hand. Thy hand is cold; their
completion, and the enjoyment the completion yields, are for another!
Thou sowest, and thy follower reaps; thou buildest, thy successor holds;
thou plantest, and thine heir sits beneath the shadow of thy trees,--
"Neque harum, quas colis, arborum
Te, praeter invisas cupressos,
Ulla brevem dominum sequetur!"
["Nor will any of these trees thou didst cultivate follow thee,
the shortlived lord, save the hateful Cyprus."]
At this moment thy life,--for thou veert a Great Man to thine order, and
they have added thy biography to that of Abershaw and Sheppard,--thy life
is before us. What a homily in its events! Gayly didst thou laugh into
thy youth, and run through the courses of thy manhood. Wit sat at thy
table, and Genius was thy comrade. Beauty was thy handmaid; and
Frivolity played around thee,--a buffoon that thou didst ridicule, and
ridiculing enjoy! Who among us can look back to thy brilliant era, and
not sigh to think that the wonderful men who surrounded thee, and amidst
whom thou wert a centre and a nucleus, are for him but the things of
history, and the phantoms of a bodiless tradition? Those brilliant.
suppers, glittering with beauty, the memory of which makes one spot (yet
inherited by Bachelor Bill) a haunted and a fairy ground; all who
gathered to that Armida's circle,--the Grammonts and the Beauvilliers and
the Rochefoucaulds of England and the Road,--who does not feel that to
have seen these, though but as Gil Blas saw the festivities of his
actors, from the sideboard and behind the chair, would have been a
triumph for the earthlier feelings of his old age to recall? What,
then, must it have been to have seen them as thou didst see,--thou, the
deceased and the forgotten!---seen them from the height of thy youth and
power and rank (for early wert thou keeper to a public), and reckless
spirits, and lusty capacities of joy? What pleasures where sense
lavished its uncounted varieties? What revellings where wine was the
least excitement?
Let the scene shift. How stirring is the change! Triumph and glitter
and conquest! For thy public was a public of renown; thither came the
Warriors of the Ring,--the Heroes of the Cross,--and thou, their patron,
wert elevated on their fame! "Principes pro victoria pugnant, comites
pro Principe."--[Chiefs for the victory fight,--for chiefs the soldiers]
--What visions sweep across us! What glories didst thou witness! Over
what conquests didst thou preside! The mightiest epoch, the most
wonderful events which the world, _thy_ world, ever knew,--of these was
it not indeed, and dazzlingly thine,--
"To share the triumph and partake the gale"?
Let the scene shift. Manhood is touched by age; but Lust is "heeled" by
Luxury, and Pomp is the heir of Pleasure; gewgaws and gaud, instead of
glory, surround, rejoice, and flatter thee to the last. There rise thy
buildings; there lie, secret but gorgeous, the tabernacles of thine ease;
and the earnings of thy friends, and the riches of the people whom they
plunder, are waters to thine imperial whirlpool. Thou art lapped in
ease, as is a silkworm; and profusion flows from thy high and unseen
asylum as the rain poureth from a cloud.--Much didst thou do to beautify
chimney-tops, much to adorn the snuggeries where thou didst dwell.
Thieving with thee took a substantial shape; and the robberies Of the
public passed into a metempsychosis of mortar, and became public-houses.
So there and thus, building and planning, didst thou spin out thy latter
yarn, till Death came upon thee; and when we looked around, lo! thy
brother was on thy hearth. And thy parasites and thy comrades and thine
ancient pals and thy portly blowens, they made a murmur, and they packed
up their goods; but they turned ere they departed, and they would have
worshipped thy brother as they worshipped thee,--but he would not! And
thy sign-post is gone and mouldered already; and to the Jolly Angler has
succeeded the Jolly Tar! And thy picture is disappearing fast from the
print-shops, and thy name from the mouths of men! And thy brother, whom
no one praised while thou didst live, is on a steeple of panegyric built
above the churchyard that contains thy grave. O shifting and volatile
hearts of men! Who would be keeper of a public? Who dispense the wine
and the juices that gladden, when the moment the pulse of the band
ceases, the wine and the juices are forgotten?
To History,--for thy name will be preserved in that record which, whether
it be the calendar of Newgate or of nations, telleth its alike how men
suffer and sin and perish,--to History we leave the sum and balance of
thy merits and thy faults. The sins that were thine were those of the
man to whom pleasure is all in all: thou wert, from root to branch, sap
and in heart, what moralists term the libertine; hence the light wooing,
the quick desertion, the broken faith, the organized perfidy, that
manifested thy bearing to those gentler creatures who called thee
'Gentleman George.' Never to one solitary woman, until the last dull
flame of thy dotage, didst thou so behave as to give no foundation to
complaint and no voice to wrong. But who shall say be honest to one, but
laugh at perfidy to another? Who shall wholly confine treachery to one
sex, if to that sex he hold treachery no offence? So in thee, as in all
thy tribe, there was a laxness of principle, an insincerity of faith,
even unto men: thy friends, when occasion suited, thou couldst forsake;
and thy luxuries were dearer to thee than justice to those who supplied
them. Men who love and live for pleasure as thou, are usually good-
natured; for their devotion to pleasure arises from the strength of their
constitution, and the strength of their constitution preserves them from
the irritations of weaker nerves. So went thou good-natured and often
generous; and often with thy generosity didst thou unite a delicacy that
showed thou hadst an original and a tender sympathy with men. But as
those who pursue pleasure are above all others impatient of interruption,
so to such as interfered with thy main pursuit thou didst testify a deep,
a lasting, and a revengeful anger. Yet let not such vices of temperament
be too severely judged! For to thee were given man's two most persuasive
tempters, physical and moral,--Health and Power! Thy talents, such as
they were,--and they were the talents of a man of the world,--misled
rather than guided thee, for they gave thy mind that demi-philosophy,
that indifference to exalted motives, which is generally found in a
clever rake. Thy education was wretched; thou hadst a smattering of
Horace, but thou couldst not write English, and thy letters betray that
thou went wofully ignorant of logic. The fineness of thy taste has been
exaggerated; thou wert unacquainted with the nobleness of simplicity; thy
idea of a whole was grotesque and overloaded, and thy fancy in details
was gaudy and meretricious. But thou hadst thy hand constantly in the
public purse, and thou hadst plans and advisers forever before thee; more
than all, thou didst find the houses in that neighbourbood wherein thou
didst build, so preternaturally hideous that thou didst require but
little science to be less frightful in thy creations. If thou didst not
improve thy native village and thy various homes with a solid, a lofty,
and a noble taste, thou didst nevertheless very singularly improve. And
thy posterity, in avoiding the faults of thy masonry, will be grateful
for the effects of thy ambition. The same demi-philosophy which
influenced thee in private life exercised a far benigner and happier
power over thee in public. Thou wert not idly vexatious in vestries, nor
ordinarily tyrannic in thy parish; if thou wert ever arbitrary it was
only when thy pleasure was checked, or thy vanity wounded. At other
times thou didst leave events to their legitimate course, so that in thy
latter years thou wert justly popular in thy parish; and in the grave thy
great good fortune will outshine thy few bad qualities, and men will say
of thee with a kindly, not an erring judgment, "In private life he was
not worse than the Rufers who came to this bar; in public life he was
better than those who kept a public before him." Hark! those huzzas!
what is the burden of that chorus? Oh, grateful and never time-serving
Britons, have ye modified already for another the song ye made so solely
in honour of Gentleman George: and must we, lest we lose the custom of
the public and the good things of the tap-room,--roust we roar with
throats yet hoarse with our fervour for the old words, our ardour for the
new--
"Here's to Mariner Bill, God bless him!
God bless him!
God bless him!
Here 's to Mariner Bill, God bless him!"
TOMLINSONIANA;
OR,
THE POSTHUMOUS WRITINGS
OF THE CELEBRATED
AUGUSTUS TOMLINSON,
PROFESSOR OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF -------
ADDRESSED TO HIS PUPILS,
AND COMPRISING
I
MAXIMS ON THE POPULAR ART OF CREATING, ILLUSTRATED BY TEN CHARACTERS,
BEING AN INTRODUCTION TO THAT NOBLE SCIENCE BY WHICH EVERY MAN MAY BECOME
HIS OWN ROGUE.
II
BRACHYLOGIA; OR, ESSAYS CRITICAL, SENTIMENTAL, MORAL, AND ORIGINAL.
INTRODUCTION.
Having lately been travelling in Germany, I spent some time at that
University in which Augustus Tomlinson presided as Professor of Moral
Philosophy. I found that that great man died, after a lingering illness,
in the beginning of the year 1822, perfectly resigned to his fate, and
conversing, even on his deathbed, on the divine mysteries of Ethical
Philosophy. Notwithstanding the little peccadilloes to which I have
alluded in the latter pages of "Paul Clifford," and which his pupils
deemed it advisable to hide from--
"The gaudy, babbling, and remorseless day,"
his memory was still held in a tender veneration. Perhaps, as in the
case of the illustrious Burns, the faults of a great man endear to you
his genius. In his latter days the PROFESSOR was accustomed to wear a
light-green silk dressing-gown, and, as he was perfectly bald, a little
black velvet cap; his small-clothes were pepper and salt. These
interesting facts I learned from one of his pupils. His old age was
consumed in lectures, in conversation, and in the composition of the
little _morceaux_ of wisdom we present to the public. In these essays
and maxims, short as they are, he seems to have concentrated the wisdom
of his industrious and honourable life. With great difficulty I procured
from his executors the manuscripts which were then preparing for the
German press. A valuable consideration induced those gentlemen to become
philanthropic, and to consider the inestimable blessings they would
confer upon this country by suffering me to give the following essays to
the light, in their native and English dress, on the same day whereon
they appear in Germany in the graces of foreign disguise.
At an age when, while Hypocrisy stalks, simpers, sidles, struts, and
hobbles through the country, Truth also begins to watch her adversary in
every movement, I cannot but think these lessons of Augustus Tomlinson
peculiarly well-timed. I add them as a fitting Appendix to a Novel that
may not inappropriately be termed a Treatise on Social Frauds; and if
they contain within them that evidence of diligent attention and that
principle of good in which the satire of Vice is only the germ of its
detection, they may not, perchance, pass wholly unnoticed; nor be even
condemned to that hasty reading in which the Indifference of to-day is
but the prelude to the Forgetfulness of to-morrow.
CONTENTS.
MAXIMS ON THE POPULAR ART OF CHEATING, Illustrated by Ten
Characters, being an Introduction to that noble Science by which
every Man may become his own Rogue
BRACHYLOGIA:
On the Morality taught by the Rich to the Poor
Emulation
Caution against the Scoffers of "Humbug"
Popular Wrath at Individual Imprudence
Dum deflnat Amnis
Self-Glorifiers
Thought on Fortune
Wit, and Truth
Auto-theology
Glorious Constitution
Answer to the Popular Cant that Goodness in a Statesman is
better than Ability
Common-sense
Love, and Writers on Love
The Great Entailed
The Regeneration of a Knave
Style
MAXIMS
ON
THE POPULAR ART OF CHEATING,
ILLUSTRATED BY TEN CHARACTERS;
BEING AN INTRODUCTION TO THAT NOBLE SCIENCE BY WHICH EVERY MAN MAY BECOME
HIS OWN ROGUE.
Set a thief to catch a thief.---Proverb.
I.
Whenever you are about to utter something astonishingly false, always
begin with, "It is an acknowledged fact," etc. Sir Robert Filmer was a
master of this method of writing. Thus, with what a solemn face that
great man attempted to cheat! "It is a truth undeniable that there
cannot be any multitude of men whatsoever, either great or small, etc.,
but that in the same multitude there is one man amongst them that in
nature hath a right to be King of all the rest,--as being the next heir
to Adam!"
II.
When you want something from the public, throw the blame of the asking on
the most sacred principle you can find. A common beggar can read you
exquisite lessons on this the most important maxim in the art of popular
cheating. "For the love of God, sir, a penny!"
III.
Whenever on any matter, moral, sentimental, or political, you find
yourself utterly ignorant, talk immediately of "The Laws of Nature." As
those laws are written nowhere,--[Locke]--they are known by nobody.
Should any ask you how you happen to know such or such a doctrine as the
dictate of Nature, clap your hand to your heart and say, "Here!"
IV.
Yield to a man's tastes, and he will yield to your interest.
V.
When you talk to the half-wise, twaddle; when you talk to the ignorant,
brag; when you talk to the sagacious, look very humble, and ask their
opinion.
VI.
Always bear in mind, my beloved pupils, that the means of livelihood
depend not on the virtues, but the vices of others. The lawyer, the
statesman, the hangman, the physician, are paid by our sins; nay, even
the commoner professions--the tailor, the coachmaker, the upholsterer,
the wine-merchant--draw their fortunes, if not their existence, from
those smaller vices, our foibles. Vanity is the figure prefixed to the
ciphers of Necessity. Wherefore, oh my beloved pupils! never mind what a
man's virtues are; waste no time in learning them. Fasten at once on his
infirmities. Do to the One as, were you an honest man, you would do to
the Many. This is the way to be a rogue individually, as a lawyer is a
rogue professionally. Knaves are like critics,--[Nullum simile est quod
idem.--EDITOR.]--"flies that feed on the sore part, and would have
nothing to live on were the body in health."--[Tatler].
VII.
Every man finds it desirable to have tears in his eyes at times,--one has
a sympathy with humid lids. Providence hath beneficially provided for
this want, and given to every man, in its divine forethought, misfortunes
painful to recall. Hence, probably, those human calamities which the
atheist rails against! Wherefore, when you are uttering some affecting
sentiment to your intended dupe, think of the greatest misfortune you
ever had in your life; habit will soon make the association of tears and
that melancholy remembrance constantly felicitous. I knew, my dear
pupils, a most intelligent Frenchman, who obtained a charming legacy from
an old poet by repeating the bard's verses with streaming eyes. "How
were you able to weep at will?" asked I (I was young then, my pupils).
"Je pensois," answered he, "a mon pauvre pere, qui est mort." The union
of sentiment with the ability of swindling made that Frenchman a most
fascinating creature!
VIII.
Never commit the error of the over-shrewd, and deem human nature worse
than it is. Human nature is so damnably good that if it were not for
human art, we knaves could not live. The primary elements of a man's
mind do not sustain us; it is what he owes to "the pains taken with his
education," and "the blessings of civilized society!"
IX.
Whenever you doubt, my pupils, whether your man be a quack or not, decide
the point by seeing if your man be a positive asserter. Nothing
indicates imposture like confidence. Volney saith well, "that the most
celebrated of charlatans--[Mahomet]--and the boldest of tyrants begins
his extraordinary tissue of lies by these words, 'There is no doubt in
this book!'"
X.
There is one way of cheating people peculiar to the British Isles, and
which, my pupils, I earnestly recommend you to import hither,--cheating
by subscription. People like to be plundered in company; dupery then
grows into the spirit of party. Thus one quack very gravely requested
persons to fit up a ship for him and send him round the world as its
captain to make discoveries; and another patriotically suggested that
L10,000 should be subscribed--for what?--to place him in parliament!
Neither of these fellows could have screwed an individual out of a
shilling had he asked him for it in a corner; but a printed list, with
"His Royal Highness" at the top, plays the devil with English guineas.
A subscription for individuals may be considered a society for the
ostentatious encouragement of idleness, impudence, beggary, imposture,
and other public virtues!
XI.
Whenever you read the life of a great man, I mean a man eminently
successful, you will perceive all the qualities given to him are the
qualities necessary even to a mediocre rogue. "He possessed," saith the
biographer, "the greatest address [namely, the faculty of wheedling]; the
most admirable courage [namely, the faculty of bullying]; the most noble
fortitude [namely, the faculty of bearing to be bullied]; the most
singular versatility [namely, the faculty of saying one thing to one man,
and its reverse to another]; and the most wonderful command over the mind
of his contemporaries [namely, the faculty of victimizing their purses or
seducing their actions]." Wherefore, if luck cast you in humble life,
assiduously study the biographies of the great, in order to accomplish
you as a rogue; if in the more elevated range of society, be thoroughly
versed in the lives of the roguish: so shall you fit yourself to be
eminent!
XII.
The hypocrisy of virtue, my beloved pupils, is a little out of fashion
nowadays; it is sometimes better to affect the hypocrisy of vice. Appear
generously profligate, and swear with a hearty face that you do not
pretend to be better than the generality of your neighbours. Sincerity
is not less a covering than lying; a frieze great-coat wraps you as well
as a Spanish cloak.
XIII.
When you are about to execute some great plan, and to defraud a number
of persons, let the first one or two of the allotted number be the
cleverest, shrewdest fellows you can find. You have then a reference
that will alone dupe the rest of the world. "That Mr. Lynx is
satisfied," will amply suffice to satisfy Mr. Mole of the honesty of your
intentions! Nor are shrewd men the hardest to take in; they rely on
their strength: invulnerable heroes are necessarily the bravest. Talk to
them in a business-like manner, and refer your design at once to their
lawyer. My friend John Shamberry was a model in this grand stroke of
art. He swindled twelve people to the tune of some thousands, with no
other trouble than it first cost him to swindle--whom do you think?--
the Secretary to the Society for the Suppression of Swindling!
XIV.
Divide your arts into two classes,--those which cost you little labour,
those which cost much. The first,--flattery, attention, answering
letters by return of post, walking across a street to oblige the man you
intend to ruin; all these you must never neglect. The least man is worth
gaining at a small cost. And besides, while you are serving yourself,
you are also obtaining the character of civility, diligence, and good-
nature. But the arts which cost you much labour--a long subservience to
one testy individual; aping the semblance of a virtue, a quality, or a
branch of learning which you do not possess, to a person difficult to
blind,--all these never begin except for great ends, worth not only the
loss of time, but the chance of detection. Great pains for small gains
is the maxim of the miser. The rogue should have more _grandeur d'ame!_
--[Greatness of soul].
XV.
Always forgive.
XVI.
If a man owe you a sum of money--pupils though you be of mine, you may
once in your lives be so silly as to lend--and you find it difficult to
get it back, appeal, not to his justice, but to his charity. The
components of justice flatter few men! Who likes to submit to an
inconvenience because he ought to do it,--without praise, without even
self--gratulation? But charity, my dear friends, tickles up human
ostentation deliciously. Charity implies superiority; and the feeling of
superiority is most grateful to social nature. Hence the commonness of
charity, in proportion to other virtues, all over the world; and hence
you will especially note that in proportion as people are haughty and
arrogant, will they laud almsgiving and encourage charitable
institutions.
XVII.
Your genteel rogues do not sufficiently observe the shrewdness of the
vulgar ones. The actual beggar takes advantage of every sore; but the
moral swindler is unpardonably dull as to the happiness of a physical
infirmity. To obtain a favour, neglect no method that may allure
compassion. I knew a worthy curate who obtained two livings by the
felicity of a hectic cough, and a younger brother who subsisted for ten
years on his family by virtue of a slow consumption.
XVIII.
When you want to possess yourself of a small sum, recollect that the
small sum be put into juxtaposition with a great. I do not express
myself clearly--take an example. In London there are sharpers who
advertise L70,000 to be advanced at four per cent; principals only
conferred with. The gentleman wishing for such a sum on mortgage goes to
see the advertiser; the advertiser says he must run down and look at the
property on which the money is to be advanced; his journey and expenses
will cost him a mere trifle,--say, twenty guineas. Let him speak
confidently; let the gentleman very much want the money at the interest
stated, and three to one but our sharper gets the twenty guineas,--so
paltry a sum in comparison to L70,000 though so serious a sum had the
matter related to halfpence!
XIX.
Lord Coke has said: "To trace an error to its fountainhead is to refute
it." Now, my young pupils, I take it for granted that you are interested
in the preservation of error; you do not wish it, therefore, to be traced
to its fountain head. Whenever, then, you see a sharp fellow tracking it
up, you have two ways of settling the matter. You may say, with a smile,
"Nay, now, sir, you grow speculative,--I admire your ingenuity;" or else
look grave, colour up, and say, "I fancy, sir, there is no warrant for
this assertion in the most sacred of all authorities!" The Devil can
quote Scripture, you know; and a very sensible Devil it is too!
XX.
Rochefoucauld has said: "The hate of favourites is nothing else but the
love of favour." The idea is a little cramped; the hate we bear to any
man is only the result of our love for some good which we imagine he
possesses, or which, being in our possession, we imagine he has attacked.
Thus envy, the most ordinary species of hate, arises from our value for
the glory, or the plate, or the content we behold; and revenge is born
from our regard for our fame that has been wounded, or our acres
molested, or our rights invaded. But the most noisy of all hatreds is
hatred for the rich, from love for the riches. Look well on the poor
devil who is always railing at coaches and four! Book him as a man to
be bribed!
XXI.
My beloved pupils, few have yet sufficiently studied the art by which the
practice of jokes becomes subservient to the science of swindlers. The
heart of an inferior is always fascinated by a jest. Men know this in
the knavery of elections. Know it now, my pupils, in the knavery of
life! When you slap yon cobbler so affectionately on the back, it is
your own fault if you do not slap your purpose into him at the same time.
Note how Shakspeare (whom study night and day,--no man hath better
expounded the mysteries of roguery!) causes his grandest and most
accomplished villain, Richard III., to address his good friends, the
murderers, with a jocular panegyric on that hardness of heart on which,
doubtless, those poor fellows most piqued themselves,--
"Your eyes drop millstones, where fools' eyes drop tears--
I like you, lads!"
Can't you fancy the knowing grin with which the dogs received this
compliment, and the little sly punch in the stomach with which Richard
dropped those loving words, "I like you, lads!"
XXII.
As good-nature is the characteristic of the dupe, so should good-temper
be that of the knave; the two fit into each other like joints. Happily,
good-nature is a Narcissus, and falls in love with its own likeness. And
good-temper is to good-nature what the Florimel of snow was to the
Florimel of flesh,--an exact likeness made of the coldest materials.
XXIII.
BEING THE PRAISE OF KNAVERY.
A knave is a philosopher, though a philosopher is not necessarily a
knave. What hath a knave to do with passions? Every irregular desire he
must suppress; every foible he must weed out; his whole life is spent in
the acquisition of knowledge: for what is knowledge?--the discovery of
human errors! He is the only man always consistent yet ever examining;
he knows but one end, yet explores every means; danger, ill-repute, all
that terrify other men, daunt not him; he braves all, but is saved from
all: for I hold that a knave ceaseth to be the knave--he hath passed into
the fool--the moment mischief befalls him. He professes the art of
cheating; but the art of cheating is to cheat without peril. He is
_teres et rotundas_; strokes fly from the lubricity of his polish, and
the shiftings of his circular formation. He who is insensible of the
glory of his profession, who is open only to the profit, is no disciple
of mine. I hold of knavery, as Plato hath said of virtue, "Could it be
seen incarnate, it would beget a personal adoration!" None but those who
are inspired by a generous enthusiasm will benefit by the above maxims,
nor (and here I warn you solemnly from the sacred ground, till your head
be uncovered, and your feet be bared in the awe of veneration) enter with
profit upon the following descriptions of character,--that Temple of the
Ten Statutes, wherein I have stored and consecrated the most treasured
relics of my travelled thoughts and my collected experience.
TEN CHARACTERS.
I.
The mild, irresolute, good-natured, and indolent man. These qualities
are accompanied with good feelings, but no principles. The want of
firmness evinces also the want of any peculiar or deeply rooted system
of thought. A man conning a single and favourite subject of meditation
grows wedded to one or the other of the opinions on which he revolves. A
man universally irresolute has generally led a desultory life, and never
given his attention long together to one thing. This is a man most easy
to cheat, my beloved friends; you cheat him even with his eyes open.
Indolence is dearer to him than all things; and if you get him alone and
put a question to him point blank, he cannot answer, No.
II.
The timid, suspicious, selfish, and cold man. Generally a character of
this description is an excellent man of business, and would at first
sight seem to baffle the most ingenious swindler. But you have one
hope,--I have rarely found it deceive me,--this man is usually
ostentatious. A cold, a fearful, yet a worldly person has ever an eye
upon others; he notes the effect certain things produce on them; he is
anxious to learn their opinions, that he may not transgress; he likes to
know what the world say of him; nay, his timidity makes him anxious to
repose his selfishness on their good report. Hence he grows
ostentatious, likes that effect which is favourably talked of, and that
show which wins consideration. At him on this point, my pupils!
III.
The melancholy, retired, sensitive, intellectual character. A very good
subject this for your knaveries, my young friends, though it requires
great discrimination and delicacy. This character has a considerable
portion of morbid suspicion and irritation belonging to it,--against
these you must guard; at the same time its prevailing feature is a
powerful but unacknowledged vanity. It is generally a good opinion of
himself, and a feeling that he is not appreciated by others, that make a
man reserved; he deems himself unfit for the world because of the
delicacy of his temperament, and the want of a correspondent
insensibility in those he sees! This is your handle to work on. He is
peculiarly flattered, too, on the score of devotion and affection; he
exacts in love, as from the world, too much. He is a Lara, whose females
must be Medoras; and even his male friends should be extremely like
Kaleds! Poor man! you see how easily he can be duped. Mem.--Among
persons of this character are usually found those oddities, humours, and
peculiarities which are each a handle. No man lives out of the world
with impunity to the solidity of his own character. Every new outlet to
the humour is a new inlet to the heart.
IV.
The bold, generous, frank, and affectionate man,--usually a person of
robust health. His constitution keeps him in spirits, and his spirits
in courage and in benevolence. He is obviously not a hard character, my
good young friends, for you to deceive; for he wants suspicion, and all
his good qualities lay him open to you. But beware his anger when he
finds you out! He is a terrible Othello when his nature is once stung.
Mem.--A good sort of character to seduce into illegal practices; makes a
tolerable traitor or a capital smuggler. You yourselves must never
commit any illegal offence,--aren't there cat's-paws for the chestnuts?
As all laws are oppressions (only necessary and often sacred oppressions,
which you need not explain to him), and his character is especially
hostile to oppression, you easily seduce the person we describe into
braving the laws of his country. Yes! the bold, generous, frank, and
affectionate man has only to be born in humble life to be sure of a
halter!
V.
The bold, selfish, close, grasping man will in all probability cheat you,
my dear friends. For such a character makes the master-rogue, the stuff
from which Nature forms a Richard the Third. You had better leave such a
man quite alone. He is bad even to serve. He breaks up his tools when
he has done with them. No, you can do nothing with him, my good young
men!
VI.
The eating, drinking, unthoughtful, sensual, mechanical man,--the
ordinary animal. Such a creature has cunning, and is either cowardly or
ferocious; seldom in these qualities he preserves a medium. He is not by
any means easy to dupe. Nature defends her mental brutes by the
thickness of their hide. Win his mistress if possible; she is the best
person to manage him. Such creatures are the natural prey of artful
women; their very stolidity covers all but sensuality. To the Samson-the
Delilah.
VII.
The gay, deceitful, shrewd, polished, able man,--the courtier, the man of
the world. In public and stirring life this is the fit antagonist,--
often the successful and conquering rival of Character V. You perceive a
man like this varies so greatly in intellect--from the mere butterfly
talent to the rarest genius, from the person you see at cards to the
person you see in Cabinets, from the ----- to the Chesterfield, from the
Chesterfield to the Pericles--that it is difficult to give you an exact
notion of the weak points of a character so various. But while he dupes
his equals and his superiors, I consider him, my attentive pupils, by no
means a very difficult character for an inferior to dupe. And in this
manner you must go about it. Do not attempt hypocrisy; he will see
through it in an instant. Let him think you at once, and at first sight,
a rogue. Be candid on that matter yourself; but let him think you a
useful rogue. Serve him well and zealously; but own that you do so,
because you consider your interest involved in this. This reasoning
satisfies him; and as men of this character are usually generous, he will
acknowledge its justice by throwing you plenty of sops, and stimulating
you with bountiful cordials. Should he not content you herein, appear
contented; and profit in betraying him (that is the best way to cheat
him), not by his failings, but by opportunity. Watch not his character,
but your time.
VIII.
The vain, arrogant, brave, amorous, flashy character. This sort of
character we formerly attributed to the French, and it is still more
common to the Continent than that beloved island which I shall see no
more! A creature of this description is made up of many false virtues;
above others, it is always profuse where its selfishness is appealed to,
not otherwise. You must find, then, what pleases it, and pander to its
tastes. So will ye cheat it,--or ye will cheat it also by affecting the
false virtues which it admires itself,--rouge your sentiments highly, and
let them strut with a buskined air; thirdly, my good young men, ye will
cheat it by profuse flattery, and by calling it in especial "the mirror
of chivalry."
IX.
The plain, sensible, honest man,--a favourable, but not elevated specimen
of our race. This character, my beloved pupils, you may take in once,
but never twice. Nor can you take in such a man as a stranger; he must
be your friend or relation, or have known intimately some part of your
family. A man of this character is always open, though in a moderate and
calm degree, to the duties and ties of life. He will always do something
to serve his friend, his brother, or the man whose father pulled his
father out of the Serpentine. Affect with him no varnish; exert no
artifice in attempting to obtain his assistance. Candidly state your
wish for such or such a service, sensibly state your pretensions,
modestly hint at your gratitude. So may you deceive him once, then leave
him alone forever!
X.
The fond, silly, credulous man, all impulse and no reflection,--how my
heart swells when I contemplate this excellent character! What a Canaan
for you does it present! I envy you launching into the world with the
sanguine hope of finding all men such! Delightful enthusiasm of youth,--
would that the hope could be realized! Here is the very incarnation of
gullibility. You have only to make him love you, and no hedgehog ever
sucked egg as you can suck him. Never be afraid of his indignation; go
to him again and again; only throw yourself on his neck and weep. To
gull him once is to gull him always; get his first shilling, and then
calculate what you will do with the rest of his fortune. Never desert so
good a man for new friends; that would be ungrateful in you! And take
with you, by the way, my good young gentlemen, this concluding maxim: Men
are like lands; you will get more by lavishing all your labour again and
again upon the easy than by ploughing up new ground in the sterile!
Legislators,--wise, good, pious men,--the Tom Thumbs of moral science,
who make giants first, and then kill them,--you think the above lessons
villanous. I honour your penetration. They are not proofs of my
villany, but of your folly! Look over them again, and you will see that
they are designed to show that while ye are imprisoning, transporting,
and hanging thousands every day, a man with a decent modicum of cunning
might practise every one of those lessons which seem to you so heinous,
and not one of your laws could touch him!
BRACHYLOGIA;
OR,
ESSAYS, CRITICAL, SENTIMENTAL, MORAL, AND ORIGINAL.
ADDRESSED TO HIS PUPILS
BY AUGUSTUS TOMLINSON.
The irony in the preceding essays is often lost sight of in the
present. The illness of this great man, which happened while
composing these little gems, made him perhaps more in earnest
than when in robust health.--Editor's Note.
ON THE MORALITY TAUGHT BY THE RICH TO THE POOR.
As soon as the urchin pauper can totter out of doors, it is taught to
pull off its hat, and pull its hair to the quality. "A good little boy,"
says the squire; "there's a ha'penny for you." The good little boy glows
with pride. That ha'penny instils deep the lesson of humility. Now goes
our urchin to school. Then comes the Sunday teaching,--before church,
which enjoins the poor to be lowly, and to honour every man better off
than themselves. A pound of honour to the squire, and an ounce to the
beadle. Then the boy grows up; and the Lord of the Manor instructs him
thus: "Be a good boy, Tom, and I'll befriend you. Tread in the steps of
your father; he was an excellent man, and a great loss to the parish; he
was a very civil, hard-working, well-behaved creature; knew his station;
--mind, and do like him!" So perpetual hard labour and plenty of cringing
make the ancestral virtues to be perpetuated to peasants till the day of
judgment! Another insidious distillation of morality is conveyed through
a general praise of the poor. You hear false friends of the people, who
call themselves Liberals and Tories, who have an idea of morals half
chivalric, half pastoral, agree in lauding the unfortunate creatures whom
they keep at work for them. But mark the virtues the poor are always to
be praised for,--industry, honesty, and content. The first virtue is
extolled to the skies, because industry gives the rich everything they
have; the second, because honesty prevents an iota of the said everything
being taken away again; and the third, because content is to hinder these
poor devils from ever objecting to a lot so comfortable to the persons
who profit by it. This, my pupils, is the morality taught by the rich to
the poor!
EMULATION.
The great error of emulation is this: we emulate effects without
inquiring into causes. When we read of the great actions of a man,
we are on fire to perform the same exploits, without endeavouring to
ascertain the precise qualities which enabled the man we imitate to
commit the actions we admire. Could we discover these, how often might
we discover that their origin was a certain temper of body, a certain
peculiarity of constitution, and that, wish we for the same success, we
should be examining the nature of our bodies rather than sharpening the
faculties of our minds,--should use dumbbells, perhaps, instead of books;
nay, on the other hand, contract some grievous complaint rather than
perfect our moral salubrity. Who should say whether Alexander would have
been a hero had his neck been straight; or Boileau a satirist, had he
never been pecked by a turkey? It would be pleasant to see you, my
beloved pupils, after reading "Quintus Curtius," twisting each other's
throat; or, fresh from Boileau, hurrying to the poultry-yard in the hope
of being mutilated into the performance of a second "Lutrin."
CAUTION AGAINST THE SCOFFERS OF "HUMBUG."
My beloved pupils, there is a set of persons in the world, daily
increasing, against whom you must be greatly on your guard; there is a
fascination about them. They are people who declare themselves
vehemently opposed to humbug,--fine, liberal fellows, clear-sighted, yet
frank. When these sentiments arise from reflection, well and good,--they
are the best sentiments in the world; but many take them up second hand.
They are very inviting to the indolence of the mob of gentlemen who see
the romance of a noble principle, not its utility. When a man looks at
everything through this dwarfing philosophy, everything has a great
modicum of humbug. You laugh with him when he derides the humbug in
religion, the humbug in politics, the humbug in love, the humbug in the
plausibilities of the world; but you may cry, my dear pupils, when he
derides what is often the safest of all practically to deride,--the
humbug in common honesty! Men are honest from religion, wisdom,
prejudice, habit, fear, and stupidity; but the few only are wise; and the
persons we speak of deride religion, are beyond prejudice, unawed by
habit, too indifferent for fear, and too experienced for stupidity.
POPULAR WRATH AT INDIVIDUAL IMPRUDENCE.
You must know, my dear young friends, that while the appearance of
magnanimity is very becoming to you, and so forth, it will get you a
great deal of ill-will if you attempt to practise it to your own
detriment. Your neighbours are so invariably, though perhaps insensibly,
actuated by self-interest--self-interest--[Mr. Tomlinson is wrong here;
but his ethics were too much narrowed to Utilitarian principles.--
EDITOR.]--is so entirely, though every twaddler denies it, the axis of
the moral world--that they fly into a rage with him who seems to
disregard it. When a man ruins himself, just hear the abuse he receives;
his neighbours take it as a personal affront!
DUM DEFLUAT AMNIS.
One main reason why men who have been great are disappointed, when they
retire to private life, is this: Memory makes a chief source of enjoyment
to those who cease eagerly to hope; but the memory of the great recalls
only that public life which has disgusted them. Their private life hath
slipped insensibly away, leaving faint traces of the sorrow or the joy
which found them too busy to heed the simple and quiet impressions of
mere domestic vicissitude.
SELF-GLORIFIERS.
Providence seems to have done to a certain set of persons--who always
view their own things through a magnifying medium, deem their house the
best in the world, their gun the truest, their very pointer a miracle--
as Colonel Hanger suggested to economists to do; namely, provide their
servants each with a pair of large spectacles, so that a lark might
appear as big as a fowl, and a twopenny loaf as large as a quartern.
THOUGHT ON FORTUNE.
It is often the easiest move that completes the game. Fortune is like
the lady whom a lover carried off from all his rivals by putting an
additional lace upon his liveries.
WIT AND TRUTH.
People may talk about fiction being the source of fancy, and wit being at
variance with truth. Now, some of the wittiest things in the world are
witty solely from their truth. Truth is the soul of a good saying. "You
assert," observes the Socrates of modern times, "that we have a virtual
representation; very well, let us have a virtual taxation too!" Here the
wit is in the fidelity of the sequitur. When Columbus broke the egg,
where was the wit? In the completeness of conviction in the broken egg.
AUTO-THEOLOGY.
Not only every sect but every individual modifies the general attributes
of the Deity towards assimilation with his own character: the just man
dwells on the justice, the stern upon the wrath; the attributes that do
not please the worshipper he insensibly forgets. Wherefore, O my pupils,
you will not smile when you read in Barnes that the pygmies declared Jove
himself was a pygmy. The pious vanity of man makes him adore his own
qualities under the pretence of worshipping those of his God.
GLORIOUS CONSTITUTION.
A sentence is sometimes as good as a volume. If a man ask you to give
him some idea of the laws of England, the answer is short and easy: In
the laws of England there are somewhere about one hundred and fifty laws
by which a poor man may be hanged, but not one by which he can obtain
justice for nothing!
ANSWER TO THE POPULAR CANT THAT
GOODNESS IN A STATESMAN IS
BETTER THAN ABILITY.
As in the world we must look to actions, not motives, so a knave is the
man who injures you; and you do not inquire whether the injury be the
fruit of malice or necessity. Place, then, a fool in power, and he
becomes unconsciously the knave. Mr. Addington stumbled on the two very
worst and most villanous taxes human malice could have invented,--one on
medicines, the other on justice. What tyrant's fearful ingenuity could
afflict us more than by impeding at once redress for our wrongs, and cure
for our diseases? Mr. Addington was the fool _in se_, and therefore the
knave in office; but, bless you! he never meant it!
COMMON-SENSE.
Common-sense,--common-sense,--of all phrases, all catchwords, this is
often the most deceitful and the most dangerous. Look, in especial,
suspiciously upon common-sense whenever it is opposed to discovery.
Common-sense is the experience of every day. Discovery is something
against the experience of every day. No wonder, then, that when Galileo
proclaimed a great truth, the universal cry was, "Pshaw! common-sense
will tell you the reverse." Talk to a sensible man for the first time on
the theory of vision, and hear what his common-sense will say to it. In
a letter in the time of Bacon, the writer, of no mean intellect himself,
says: "It is a pity the chancellor should set his opinion against the
experience of so many centuries and the dictates of common-sense."
Common-sense, then, so useful in household matters, is less useful in the
legislative and in the scientific world than it has been generally
deemed. Naturally, the advocate for what has been tried, and averse to
what is speculative, it opposes the new philosophy that appeals to
reason, and clings to the old which is propped by sanction.
LOVE, AND WRITERS ON LOVE.
My warm, hot-headed, ardent young friends, ye are in the flower of your
life, and writing verses about love,--let us say a word on the subject.
There are two species of love common to all men and to most animals,--
[Most animals; for some appear insensible to the love of custom]--one
springs from the senses, the other grows out of custom. Now, neither of
these, my dear young friends, is the love that you pretend to feel,--the
love of lovers. Your passion, having only its foundation (and that
unacknowledged) in the senses, owes everything else to the imagination.
Now, the imagination of the majority is different in complexion and
degree in every country and in every age; so also, and consequently, is
the love of the imagination. As a proof, observe that you sympathize
with the romantic love of other times or nations only in proportion as
you sympathize with their poetry and imaginative literature. The love
which stalks through the "Arcadia" or "Amadis of Gaul" is to the great
bulk of readers coldly insipid or solemnly ridiculous. Alas! when those
works excited enthusiasm, so did the love which they describe. The long
speeches, the icy compliments, expressed the feeling of the day. The
love madrigals of the time of Shenstone, or the brocade gallantries of
the French poets in the last century, any woman now would consider hollow
or childish, imbecile or artificial. Once the songs were natural, and
the love seductive. And now, my young friends, in the year 1822, in
which I write, and shall probably die, the love which glitters through
Moore, and walks so ambitiously ambiguous through the verse of Byron; the
love which you consider now so deep and so true; the love which tingles
through the hearts of your young ladies, and sets you young gentlemen
gazing on the evening star,--all that love too will become unfamiliar or
ridiculous to an after age; and the young aspirings and the moonlight
dreams and the vague fiddle-de-dees which ye now think so touching and so
sublime will go, my dear boys, where Cowley's Mistress and Waller's
Sacharissa have gone before,--go with the Sapphos and the Chloes, the
elegant "charming fairs," and the chivalric "most beauteous princesses!"
The only love-poetry that stands through all time and appeals to all
hearts is that which is founded on either or both the species of love
natural to all men,--the love of the senses, and the love of custom. In
the latter is included what middle-aged men call the rational attachment,
the charm of congenial minds, as well as the homely and warmer
accumulation of little memories of simple kindness, or the mere brute
habitude of seeing a face as one would see a chair. These, sometimes
singly, sometimes skilfully blended, make the theme of those who have
perhaps loved the most honestly and the most humanly; these yet render
Tibullus pathetic, and Ovid a master over tender affections; and these,
above all, make that irresistible and all-touching inspiration which
subdues the romantic, the calculating, the old, the young, the courtier,
the peasant, the poet, the man of business, in the glorious love-poetry
of Robert Burns.
THE GREAT ENTAILED.
The great inheritance of man is a commonwealth of blunders. One race
spend their lives in botching the errors transmitted to them by another;
and the main cause of all political, that is, all the worst and most
general, blunders is this,--the same rule we apply to individual cases we
will not apply to public. All men consent that swindling for a horse is
swindling,--they punish the culprit and condemn the fault. But in a
State there is no such unanimity. Swindling, Lord help you! is called by
some fine name; and cheating grows grandiloquent, and styles itself
"Policy." In consequence of this there is always a battle between those
who call things by their right names and those who pertinaciously give
them the wrong ones. Hence all sorts of confusion. This confusion
extends very soon to the laws made for individual cases; and thus in old
States, though the world is still agreed that private swindling is
private swindling, there is the Devil's own difficulty in punishing the
swindling of the public. The art of swindling now is a different thing
to the art of swindling a hundred years ago; but the laws remain the
same. Adaptation in private cases is innovation in public; so, without
repealing old laws, they make new. Sometimes these are effectual, but
more often not. Now, my beloved pupils, a law is a gun which if it
misses a pigeon always kills a crow; if it does not strike the guilty, it
hits some one else. As every crime creates a law, so in turn every law
creates a crime; and hence we go on multiplying sins and evils, and
faults and blunders, till society becomes the organized disorder for
picking pockets.
THE REGENERATION OF A KNAVE.
A man who begins the world by being a fool often ends it by becoming a
knave; but he who begins as a knave, if he be a rich man (and so not
hanged), may end, my beloved pupils, in being a pious creature. And this
is the wherefore: "a knave early" soon gets knowledge of the world. One
vice worn out makes us wiser than fifty tutors. But wisdom causes us to
love quiet, and in quiet we do not sin. He who is wise and sins not can
scarcely fail of doing good; for let him but utter a new truth, and even
his imagination cannot conceive the limit of the good he may have done to
man!
STYLE.
Do you well understand what a wonderful thing style is? I think not; for
in the exercises you sent me, your styles betrayed that no very earnest
consideration had been lavished upon them. Know, then, that you must
pause well before you take up any model of style. On your style often
depends your own character,--almost always the character given you by the
world. If you adopt the lofty style,--if you string together noble
phrases and swelling Sonora,--you have expressed, avowed, a frame of mind
which you will insensibly desire to act up to; the desire gradually
begets the capacity. The life of Dr. Parr is Dr. Parr's style put in
action; and Lord Byron makes himself through existence unhappy for having
accidentally slipped into a melancholy current of words. But suppose you
escape this calamity by a peculiar hardihood of temperament, you escape
not the stamp of popular opinion. Addison must ever be held by the
vulgar the most amiable of men, because of the social amenity of his
diction; and the admirers of language will always consider Burke a nobler
spirit than Fox, because of the grandeur of his sentences. How many wise
sayings have been called jests because they were wittily uttered! How
many nothings swelled their author into a sage, ay, a saint, because they
were strung together by the old hypocrite nun,--Gravity!
THE END.
