CHAPTER XLV. In which Harry finds two Uncles
We have all of us, no doubt, had a fine experience of the world, and avast variety of characters have passed under our eyes; but there is onesort of men not an uncommon object of satire in novels and plays--ofwhom I confess to have met with scarce any specimens at all in myintercourse with this sinful mankind. I mean, mere religious hypocrites,preaching for ever, and not believing a word of their own sermons;infidels in broad brims and sables, expounding, exhorting, comminating,blessing, without any faith in their own paradise, or fear about theirpandemonium. Look at those candid troops of hobnails clumping to churchon a Sunday evening; those rustling maid-servants in their ribbons whomthe young apprentices follow; those little regiments of schoolboys;those trim young maidens and staid matrons, marching with theirglistening prayer-books, as the chapel bell chinks yonder (passingEbenezer, very likely, where the congregation of umbrellas, greatbonnets, and pattens, is by this time assembled under the flaringgas-lamps). Look at those! How many of them are hypocrites, think you?Very likely the maid-servant is thinking of her sweetheart: the groceris casting about how he can buy that parcel of sugar, and whether theCounty Bank will take any more of his paper: the head-schoolboy isconning Latin verses for Monday's exercise: the young scapegraceremembers that after his service and sermon, there will be papa'sexposition at home, but that there will be pie for supper: the clerk whocalls out the psalm has his daughter in trouble, and drones through hisresponses scarcely aware of their meaning: the very moment the parsonhides his face on his cushion, he may be thinking of that bill which iscoming due on Monday. These people are not heavenly-minded; they are ofthe world, worldly, and have not yet got their feet off of it; but theyare not hypocrites, look you. Folks have their religion in some handymental lock-up, as it were--a valuable medicine, to be taken inill health; and a man administers his nostrum to his neighbour, andrecommends his private cure for the other's complaint. "My dear madam,you have spasms? You will find these drops infallible!" "You have beentaking too much wine, my good sir? By this pill you may defy any evilconsequences from too much wine, and take your bottle of port daily." Ofspiritual and bodily physic, who are more fond and eager dispensers thanwomen? And we know that, especially a hundred years ago, every ladyin the country had her still-room, and her medicine chest, her pills,powders, potions, for all the village round.
My Lady Warrington took charge of the consciences and the digestions ofher husband's tenants and family. She had the faith and health of theservants'-hall in keeping. Heaven can tell whether she knew how todoctor them rightly: but, was it pill or doctrine, she administered oneor the other with equal belief in her own authority, and her disciplesswallowed both obediently. She believed herself to be one of the mostvirtuous, self-denying, wise, learned women in the world; and, dinningthis opinion perpetually into the ears of all round about her, succeededin bringing not few persons to join in her persuasion.
At Sir Miles's dinner there was so fine a sideboard of plate, and sucha number of men in livery, that it required some presenter: of mindto perceive that the beer was of the smallest which the butler broughtround in the splendid tankard, and that there was but one joint ofmutton on the grand silver dish. When Sir Miles called the King'shealth, and smacked his jolly lips over his wine, he eyed it and thecompany as if the liquor was ambrosia. He asked Harry Warrington whetherthey had port like that in Virginia? He said that was nothing to thewine Harry should taste in Norfolk. He praised the wine so, that Harryalmost believed that it was good, and winked into his own glass, tryingto see some of the merits which his uncle perceived in the ruby nectar.
Just as we see in many a well-regulated family of this present century,the Warringtons had their two paragons. Of the two grown daughters, theone was the greatest beauty, the other the greatest genius and angel ofany young lady then alive, as Lady Warrington told Harry. The eldest,the Beauty, was engaged to dear Tom Claypool, the fond mother informedher cousin Harry in confidence. But the second daughter, the Genius andAngel, was for ever set upon our young friend to improve his wits andmorals. She sang to him at the harpsichord--rather out of tune foran angel, Harry thought; she was ready with advice, instruction,conversation--with almost too much instruction and advice, thoughtHarry, who would have far preferred the society of the little cousinwho reminded him of Fanny Mountain at home. But the last-mentioned youngmaiden after dinner retired to her nursery commonly. Beauty went offon her own avocations; mamma had to attend to her poor or write hervoluminous letters; papa dozed in his arm-chair; and the Genius remainedto keep her young cousin company.
The calm of the house somehow pleased the young man, and he likedto take refuge there away from the riot and dissipation in which heordinarily lived. Certainly no welcome could be kinder than that whichhe got. The doors were opened to him at all hours. If Flora was not athome, Dora was ready to receive him. Ere many days' acquaintance, he andhis little cousin Miles had been to have a galloping-match in the Park,and Harry, who was kind and generous to every man alive who came nearhim, had in view the purchase of a little horse for his cousin, farbetter than that which the boy rode, when the circumstances occurredwhich brought all our poor Harry's coaches and horses to a suddenbreakdown.
Though Sir Miles Warrington had imagined Virginia to be an island, theladies were much better instructed in geography, and anxious to hearfrom Harry all about his home and his native country. He, on his part,was not averse to talk about it. He described to them the length andbreadth of his estate; the rivers which it coasted; the produce whichit bore. He had had with a friend a little practice of surveying inhis boyhood. He made a map of his county, with some fine towns here andthere, which, in truth, were but log-huts (but, for the honour of hiscountry, he was desirous that they should wear as handsome a look aspossible). Here was Potomac; here was James river; here were the wharveswhence his mother's ships and tobacco were brought to the sea. In truth,the estate was as large as a county. He did not brag about the placeovermuch. To see the handsome young fellow, in a fine suit of velvet andsilver lace, making his draught, pointing out this hill and that forestor town, you might have imagined him a travelling prince describing therealms of the queen his mother. He almost fancied himself to be so attimes. He had miles where gentlemen in England had acres. Not only Doralistened but the beauteous Flora bowed her fair head and heard him withattention. Why, what was young Tom Claypool, their brother baronet's sonin Norfolk with his great boots, his great voice, and his heirdom toa poor five thousand acres, compared to this young American prince andcharming stranger? Angel as she was, Dora began to lose her angelictemper, and to twit Flora for a flirt. Claypool in his red waistcoat,would sit dumb before the splendid Harry in his ruffles and laces,talking of March and Chesterfield, Selwyn and Bolingbroke, and the wholecompany of macaronis. Mamma began to love Harry more and more as a son.She was anxious about the spiritual welfare of those poor Indians, ofthose poor negroes in Virginia. What could she do to help dear MadamEsmond (a precious woman, she knew!) in the good work? She had a seriousbutler and housekeeper: they were delighted with the spiritual behaviourand sweet musical gifts of Gumbo.
"Ah! Harry, Harry! you have been a sad wild boy! Why did you not comesooner to us, sir, and not lose your time amongst the spendthrifts andthe vain world? But 'tis not yet too late. We must reclaim thee, dearHarry! Mustn't we, Sir Miles? Mustn't we Dora? Mustn't we, Flora?"
The three ladies all look up to the ceiling. They will reclaim the dearprodigal. It is which shall reclaim him most. Dora sits by and watchesFlora. As for mamma when the girls are away, she talks to him more andmore seriously, more and more tenderly. She will be a mother to him inthe absence of his own admirable parent. She gives him a hymn-book.She kisses him on the forehead. She is actuated by the purest love,tenderness, religious regard, towards her dear, wayward, wild, amiablenephew.
Whilst these sentimentalities were going on, it is to be presumed thatMr. Warrington kept his own counsel about his affairs out-of-doors,which we have
seen were in the very worst condition. He who had beenfavoured by fortune for so many weeks was suddenly deserted by her, anda few days had served to kick down all his heap of winnings. Do we saythat my Lord Castlewood, his own kinsman, had dealt unfairly by theyoung Virginian, and in the course of a couple of afternoons' closetpractice had robbed him? We would insinuate nothing so disrespectful tohis lordship's character; but he had won from Harry every shilling whichproperly belonged to him, and would have played him for his reversions,but that the young man flung up his hands when he saw himself sofar beaten, and declared that he must continue the battle no more.Remembering that there still remained a spar out of the wreck, asit were--that portion which he had set aside for poor Sampson--Harryventured it at the gaming-table; but that last resource went down alongwith the rest of Harry's possessions, and Fortune fluttered off in thestorm, leaving the luckless adventurer almost naked on the shore.
When a man is young and generous and hearty the loss of money scarceafflicts him. Harry would sell his horses and carriages, and diminishhis train of life. If he wanted immediate supplies of money, would nothis Aunt Bernstein be his banker, or his kinsman who had won so muchfrom him, or his kind Uncle Warrington and Lady Warrington who werealways talking virtue and benevolence, and declaring that they lovedhim as a son? He would call upon these, or any one of them whom he mightchoose to favour, at his leisure; meanwhile, Sampson's story of hislandlord's distress touched the young gentleman, and, in order to raisea hasty supply for the clergyman, he carried off all his trinkets to acertain pawnbroker's shop in St. Martin's Lane.
Now this broker was a relative or partner of that very Mr. Sparksof Tavistock Street, from whom Harry had purchased--purchased did wesay?--no; taken the trinkets which he had intended to present to hisOakhurst friends; and it chanced that Mr. Sparks came to visit hisbrother-tradesman very soon after Mr. Warrington had disposed of hisgoods. Recognising immediately the little enamelled diamond-handledrepeater which he had sold to the Fortunate Youth, the jeweller brokeout into expressions regarding Harry which I will not mention here,being already accused of speaking much too plainly. A gentleman whois acquainted with a pawnbroker, we may be sure has a bailiff or twoamongst his acquaintances; and those bailiffs have followers who, at thebidding of the impartial Law, will touch with equal hand the fiercestcaptain's epaulet or the finest macaroni's shoulder. The very gentlemenwho had seized upon Lady Maria at Tunbridge were set upon her cousin inLondon. They easily learned from the garrulous Gumbo that his honour wasat Sir Miles Warrington's house in Hill Street, and whilst the black wascourting Mrs. Lambert's maid at the adjoining mansion, Mr. Costigan andhis assistant lay in wait for poor Harry, who was enjoying the delightsof intercourse with a virtuous family circle assembled round hisaunt's table. Never had Uncle Miles been more cordial, never had AuntWarrington been more gracious, gentle, and affectionate; Flora lookedunusually lovely, Dora had been more than ordinarily amiable. Atparting, my lady gave him both her hands, and called benedictions fromthe ceiling down upon him. Papa had said in his most jovial manner,"Hang it, nephew! when I was thy age I should have kissed two such finegirls as Do and Flo ere this, and my own flesh and blood too! Don't tellme! I should, my Lady Warrington! Odds-fish! 'tis the boy blushes, andnot the girls! I think--I suppose they are used to it. He, he!"
"Papa!" cry the virgins.
"Sir Miles!" says the august mother at the same instant.
"There, there!" says papa. "A kiss won't do no harm, and won't tell notales: will it, nephew Harry?" I suppose, during the utterance of theabove three brief phrases, the harmless little osculatory operation hastaken place, and blushing cousin Harry has touched the damask cheek ofcousin Flora and cousin Dora.
As he goes downstairs with his uncle, mamma makes a speech to thegirls, looking, as usual, up to the ceiling, and saying, "What preciousqualities your poor dear cousin has! What shrewdness mingled with hissimplicity, and what a fine genteel manner, though upon mere worldlyelegance I set little store. What a dreadful pity to think that such avessel should ever be lost! We must rescue him, my loves. We musttake him away from those wicked companions, and those horribleCastlewoods--not that I would speak ill of my neighbours. But I shallhope, I shall pray, that he may be rescued from his evil courses!" Andagain Lady Warrington eyes the cornice in a most determined manner, asthe girls wistfully look towards the door behind which their interestingcousin has just vanished.
His uncle will go downstairs with him. He calls "God bless you, my boy!"most affectionately: he presses Harry's hand, and repeats his valuablebenediction at the door. As it closes, the light from the hall withinhaving sufficiently illuminated Mr. Warrington's face and figure, twogentlemen, who have been standing on the opposite side of the way,advance rapidly, and one of them takes a strip of paper out of hispocket, and putting his hand upon Mr. Warrington's shoulder, declareshim his prisoner. A hackney-coach is in attendance, and poor Harry goesto sleep in Chancery Lane.
Oh, to think that a Virginian prince's back should be slapped by aragged bailiffs follower!--that Madam Esmond's son should be in aspunging-house in Cursitor Street! I do not envy our young prodigal hisrest on that dismal night. Let us hit him now he is down, my belovedyoung friends. Let us imagine the stings of remorse keeping him wakefulon his dingy pillow; the horrid jollifications of other hardened inmatesof the place ringing in his ears from the room hard by, where they sitboozing; the rage and shame and discomfiture. No pity on him, I say,my honest young gentlemen, for you, of course, have never indulged inextravagance or folly, or paid the reckoning of remorse.