CHAPTER XXIII.
THE WAY OF THE WORLD.
A short time after the piece of good fortune which befel ColonelAltamont at Epsom, that gentleman put into execution his projectedforeign tour, and the chronicler of the polite world who goes down toLondon-bridge for the purpose of taking leave of the people of fashionwho quit this country, announced that among the company on board theSoho to Antwerp last Saturday, were "Sir Robert, Lady, and the MissesHodge; Mr. Sergeant Kewsy, and Mrs. and Miss Kewsy; Colonel Altamont,Major Coddy, &c." The colonel traveled in state, and as became agentleman: he appeared in a rich traveling costume: he drankbrandy-and-water freely during the passage, and was not sick, as someof the other passengers were; and he was attended by his body servant,the faithful Irish legionary who had been for some time in waitingupon himself and Captain Strong in their chambers of Shepherd's Inn.
The chevalier partook of a copious dinner at Blackwall with hisdeparting friend the colonel, and one or two others, who drank manyhealths to Altamont at that liberal gentleman's expense. "Strong, oldboy," the chevalier's worthy chum said, "if you want a little money,now's your time. I'm your man. You're a good feller, and have been agood feller to me, and a twenty pound note, more or less, will make noodds to me." But Strong said, no, he didn't want any money; he wasflush, quite flush--"that is, not flush enough to pay you back yourlast loan, Altamont, but quite able to carry on for some time tocome"--and so, with a not uncordial greeting between them, the twoparted. Had the possession of money really made Altamont more honestand amiable than he had hitherto been, or only caused him to seemmore amiable in Strong's eyes? Perhaps he really was better; and moneyimproved him. Perhaps it was the beauty of wealth Strong saw andrespected. But he argued within himself "This poor devil, this unluckyoutcast of a returned convict, is ten times as good a fellow as myfriend Sir Francis Clavering, Bart. He has pluck and honesty, in hisway. He will stick to a friend, and face an enemy. The other never hadcourage to do either. And what is it that has put the poor devil undera cloud? He was only a little wild, and signed his father-in-law'sname. Many a man has done worse, and come to no wrong, and holds hishead up. Clavering does. No, he don't hold his head up: he never didin his best days." And Strong, perhaps, repented him of the falsehoodwhich he had told to the free-handed colonel, that he was not in wantof money; but it was a falsehood on the side of honesty, and thechevalier could not bring down his stomach to borrow a second timefrom his outlawed friend. Besides, he could get on. Clavering hadpromised him some: not that Clavering's promises were much to bebelieved, but the chevalier was of a hopeful turn, and trusted in manychances of catching his patron, and waylaying some of those strayremittances and supplies, in the procuring of which for his principallay Mr. Strong's chief business.
He had grumbled about Altamont's companionship in the Shepherd's Innchambers; but he found those lodgings more glum now without hispartner than with him. The solitary life was not agreeable to hissocial soul; and he had got into extravagant and luxurious habits,too, having a servant at his command to run his errands, to arrangehis toilet, and to cook his meal. It was rather a grand and touchingsight now to see the portly and handsome gentleman painting his ownboots, and broiling his own mutton chop. It has been before statedthat the chevalier had a wife, a Spanish lady of Vittoria, who hadgone back to her friends, after a few months' union with the captain,whose head she broke with a dish. He began to think whether he shouldnot go back and see his Juanita. The chevalier was growing melancholyafter the departure of his friend the colonel; or, to use his ownpicturesque expression, was "down on his luck." These moments ofdepression and intervals of ill-fortune occur constantly in the livesof heroes; Marius at Minturnae, Charles Edward in the Highlands,Napoleon before Elba. What great man has not been called upon to faceevil fortune? From Clavering no supplies were to be had for some time.The five-and-twenty pounds, or "pony" which the exemplary baronet hadreceived from Mr. Altamont, had fled out of Clavering's keeping asswiftly as many previous ponies. He had been down the river with achoice party of sporting gents, who dodged the police and landed inEssex, where they put up Billy Bluck to fight Dick the cabman, whomthe baronet backed, and who had it all his own way for thirteenrounds, when, by an unluckly blow in the windpipe, Billy killed him."It's always my luck, Strong," Sir Francis said; "the betting wasthree to one on the cabman, and I thought myself as sure of thirtypounds, as if I had it in my pocket. And dammy, I owe my manLightfoot fourteen pound now which he's lent and paid for me: and heduns me--the confounded impudent blackguard: and I wish to Heaven Iknew any way of getting a bill done, or of screwing a little out of mylady! I'll give you half, Ned, upon my soul and honor, I'll give youhalf if you can get any body to do us a little fifty."
But Ned said sternly that he had given his word of honor, as agentleman, that he would be no party to any future bill-transactionsin which her husband might engage (who had given his word of honortoo), and the chevalier said that he, at least, would keep his word,and Would black his own boots all his life rather than break hispromise. And what is more, he vowed he would advise Lady Claveringthat Sir Francis was about to break his faith toward her, upon thevery first hint which he could get that such was Clavering'sintention. Upon this information Sir Francis Clavering, according tohis custom, cried and cursed very volubly. He spoke of death as hisonly resource. He besought and implored his dear Strong, his bestfriend, his dear old Ned, not to throw him over; and when he quittedhis dearest Ned, as he went down the stairs of Shepherd's Inn, sworeand blasphemed at Ned as the most infernal villain, and traitor, andblackguard, and coward under the sun, and wished Ned was in his grave,and in a worse place, only he would like the confounded ruffian tolive, until Frank Clavering had had his revenge out of him.
In Strong's chambers the baronet met a gentleman whose visits werenow, as it has been shown, very frequent in Shepherd's Inn, Mr. SamuelHuxter, of Clavering. That young fellow, who had poached the walnutsin Clavering Park in his youth, and had seen the baronet drive throughthe street at home with four horses, and prance up to church withpowdered footmen, had an immense respect for his member, and aprodigious delight in making his acquaintance. He introduced himself,with much blushing and trepidation, as a Clavering man--son of Mr.Huxter, of the market-place--father attended Sir Francis's keeper,Coxwood, when his gun burst and took off three fingers--proud to makeSir Francis's acquaintance. All of which introduction Sir Francisreceived affably. And honest Huxter talked about Sir Francis to thechaps at Bartholomew's; and told Fanny, in the lodge, that, after all,there was nothing like a thorough-bred un, a regular good old Englishgentleman, one of the olden time! To which Fanny replied, that shethought Sir Francis was an ojous creature--she didn't know why--butshe couldn't a-bear him--she was sure he was wicked, and low, andmean--she knew he was; and when Sam to this replied that Sir Franciswas very affable, and had borrowed half a sov' of him quite kindly,Fanny burst into a laugh, pulled Sam's long hair (which was not yet ofirreproachable cleanliness), patted his chin, and called him astoopid, stoopid, old foolish stoopid, and said that Sir Francis wasalways borrering money of every body, and that Mar had actiallyrefused him twice, and had to wait three months to get seven shillingswhich he had borrered of 'er.
"Don't say 'er but her, borrer but borrow, actially but actually,Fanny," Mr. Huxter replied--not to a fault in her argument, but togrammatical errors in her statement.
"Well then, her, and borrow, and hactually--there then, you stoopid,"said the other; and the scholar made such a pretty face that thegrammar master was quickly appeased, and would have willingly givenher a hundred more lessons on the spot at the price which he tookfor that one.
Of course Mrs. Bolton was by, and I suppose that Fanny and Mr. Samwere on exceedingly familiar and confidential terms by this time, andthat time had brought to the former certain consolations, and soothedcertain regrets, which are deucedly bitter when they occur, but whichare, no more than tooth-pulling, or any other pang, eternal.
As you sit, surrounded by respect and
affection; happy, honored, andflattered in your old age; your foibles gently indulged; your leastwords kindly cherished; your garrulous old stories received for thehundredth time with dutiful forbearance, and never-failinghypocritical smiles; the women of your house constant in theirflatteries; the young men hushed and attentive when you begin tospeak; the servants awe-stricken; the tenants cap in hand, and readyto act in the place of your worship's horses when your honor takes adrive--it has often struck you, O thoughtful Dives! that this respect,and these glories, are for the main part transferred, with yourfee-simple, to your successor--that the servants will bow, and thetenants shout, for your son as for you; that the butler will fetch himthe wine (improved by a little keeping) that's now in your cellar; andthat, when your night is come, and the light of your life is gonedown, as sure as the morning rises after you and without you, the sunof prosperity and flattery shines on your heir. Men come and bask inthe halo of consols and acres that beams round about him: thereverence is transferred with the estate; of which, with all itsadvantages, pleasures, respect, and good-will, he in turn becomes thelife-tenant. How long do you wish or expect that your people willregret you? How much time does a man devote to grief before he beginsto enjoy? A great man must keep his heir at his feast like a living_memento mori_. If he holds very much by life, the presence of theother must be a constant sting and warning. "Make ready to go," saysthe successor to your honor; "I am waiting: and I could hold it aswell as you."
What has this reference to the possible reader, to do with any of thecharacters of this history? Do we wish to apologize for Pen because hehas got a white hat, and because his mourning for his mother isfainter? All the lapse of years, all the career of fortune, all theevents of life, however strongly they may move or eagerly excite him,never can remove that sainted image from his heart, or banish thatblessed love from its sanctuary. If he yields to wrong, the dear eyeswill look sadly upon him when he dares to meet them; if he does well,endures pain, or conquers temptation, the ever present love will greethim, he knows, with approval and pity; if he falls, plead for him; ifhe suffers, cheer him;--be with him and accompany him always untildeath is past, and sorrow and sin are no more. Is this mere dreamingor, on the part of an idle storyteller, useless moralizing? May notthe man of the world take his moment, too, to be grave and thoughtful?Ask of your own hearts and memories, brother and sister, if we do notlive in the dead; and (to speak reverently) prove God by love?
Of these matters Pen and Warrington often spoke in many a solemn andfriendly converse in after days; and Pendennis's mother was worshipedin his memory, and canonized there, as such a saint ought to be. Luckyhe in life who knows a few such women! A kind provision of Heaven itwas, that sent us such; and gave us to admire that touching andwonderful spectacle of innocence, and love, and beauty.
But as it is certain that if, in the course of these sentimentalconversations, any outer stranger, Major Pendennis for instance, hadwalked into Pen's chambers, Arthur and Warrington would have stoppedtheir talk, and chosen another subject, and discoursed about theOpera, or the last debate in Parliament, or Miss Jones's marriage withCaptain Smith, or what not--so let us imagine that the public steps inat this juncture, and stops the confidential talk between author andreader, and begs us to resume our remarks about this world, with whichboth are certainly better acquainted than with that other one intowhich we have just been peeping.
On coming into his property, Arthur Pendennis at first comportedhimself with a modesty and equanimity which obtained his friendWarrington's praises, though Arthur's uncle was a little inclined toquarrel with his nephew's meanness of spirit, for not assuming greaterstate and pretensions now that he had entered on the enjoyment of hiskingdom. He would have had Arthur installed in handsome quarters, andriding on showy park hacks, or in well-built cabriolets, every day. "Iam too absent," Arthur said, with a laugh, "to drive a cab in London;the omnibuses would cut me in two, or I should send my horse's headinto the ladies' carriage windows; and you wouldn't have me drivenabout by my servant like an apothecary, uncle?" No, Major Pendenniswould on no account have his nephew appear like an apothecary; theaugust representative of the house of Pendennis must not so demeanhimself. And when Arthur, pursuing his banter, said, "And yet, Idaresay, sir, my father was proud enough when he first set up hisgig," the old major hemmed and ha'd, and his wrinkled face reddenedwith a blush as he answered, "You know what Bonaparte said, sir, '_Ilfaut laver son linge sale en famille.'_ There is no need, sir, for youto brag that your father was a--a medical man. He came of a mostancient but fallen house, and was obliged to reconstruct the familyfortunes as many a man of good family has done before him. You arelike the fellow in Sterne, sir--the marquis who came to demand hissword again. Your father got back yours for you. You are a man oflanded estate, by Gad, sir, and a gentleman--never forget you are agentleman."
Then Arthur slily turned on his uncle the argument which he had heardthe old gentleman often use regarding himself. "In the society which Ihave the honor of frequenting through your introduction, who cares toask about my paltry means or my humble gentility, uncle?" he asked."It would be absurd of me to attempt to compete with the great folks;and all that thay can ask from us is, that we should have a decentaddress and good manners."
"But for all that, sir, I should belong to a better Club or two," theuncle answered: "I should give an occasional dinner, and select mysociety well; and I should come out of that horrible garret in theTemple, sir." And so Arthur compromised by descending to the secondfloor in Lamb-court: Warrington still occupying his old quarters, andthe two friends being determined not to part one from the other.Cultivate kindly, reader, those friendships of your youth: it is onlyin that generous time that they are formed. How different theintimacies of after days are, and how much weaker the grasp of yourown hand after it has been shaken about in twenty years' commerce withthe world, and has squeezed and dropped a thousand equally carelesspalms! As you can seldom fashion your tongue to speak a new languageafter twenty, the heart refuses to receive friendship pretty soon: itgets too hard to yield to the impression.
So Pen had many acquaintances, and being of a jovial and easy turn,got more daily: but no friend like Warrington; and the two mencontinued to live almost as much in common as the Knights of theTemple, riding upon one horse (for Pen's was at Warrington's service),and having their chambers and their servitor in common.
Mr. Warrington had made the acquaintance of Pen's friends ofGrosvenor-place during their last unlucky season in London, and hadexpressed himself no better satisfied with Sir Francis and LadyClavering and her ladyship's daughter than was the public in general."The world is right," George said, "about those people. The young menlaugh and talk freely before those ladies, and about them. The girlsees people whom she has no right to know, and talks to men with whomno girl should have an intimacy. Did you see those two reprobatesleaning over Lady Clavering's carriage in the Park the other day, andleering under Miss Blanche's bonnet? No good mother would let herdaughter know those men, or admit them within her doors."
"The Begum is the most innocent and good-natured soul alive,"interposed Pen. "She never heard any harm of Captain Blackball, orread that trial in which Charley Lovelace figures. Do you suppose thathonest ladies read and remember the Chronique Scandaleuse as well asyou, you old grumbler?"
"Would you like Laura Bell to know those fellows?" Warrington asked,his face turning rather red. "Would you let any woman you loved becontaminated by their company? I have no doubt that poor Begum isignorant of their histories. It seems to me she is ignorant of a greatnumber of better things. It seems to me that your honest Begum is nota lady, Pen. It is not her fault, doubtless, that she has not had theeducation, or learned the refinements of a lady."
"She is as moral as Lady Portsea, who has all the world at her balls,and as refined as Mrs. Bull, who breaks the king's English, and hashalf-a-dozen dukes at her table," Pen answered, rather sulkily. "Whyshould you and I be more squeamish than the rest of the world? Why arewe to visi
t the sins of her fathers on this harmless, kind creature?She never did any thing but kindness to you or any mortal soul. As faras she knows she does her best. She does not set up to be more thanshe is. She gives you the best dinners she can buy, and the bestcompany she can get. She pays the debts of that scamp of a husband ofhers. She spoils her boy like the most virtuous mother in England. Heropinion about literary matters, to be sure, is not much; and I daresayshe never read a line of Wordsworth, or heard of Tennyson inher life."
"No more has Mrs. Flanagan the laundress," growled out Pen's Mentor;"no more has Betty the housemaid; and I have no word of blame againstthem. But a high-souled man doesn't make friends of these. Agentleman doesn't choose these for his companions, or bitterly rues itafterward if he do. Are you, who are setting up to be a man of theworld and philosopher, to tell me that the aim of life is to guttlethree courses and dine off silver? Do you dare to own to yourself thatyour ambition in life is good claret, and that you'll dine with any,provided you get a stalled ox to feed on? You call me a Cynic--why,what a monstrous Cynicism it is, which you and the rest of you men ofthe world admit. I'd rather live upon raw turnips and sleep in ahollow tree, or turn backwoodsman or savage, than degrade myself tothis civilization, and own that a French cook was the thing in lifebest worth living for."
"Because you like a raw beef-steak and a pipe afterward," broke outPen, "you give yourself airs of superiority over people, whose tastesare more dainty, and are not ashamed of the world they live in. Whogoes about professing particular admiration, or esteem, or friendship,or gratitude, even for the people one meets every day? If A. asks meto his house, and gives me his best, I take his good things for whatthey are worth, and no more. I do not profess to pay him back infriendship, but in the convention's money of society. When we part, wepart without any grief. When we meet, we are tolerably glad to see oneanother. If I were only to live with my friends, your black muzzle,old George, is the only face I should see."
"You are your uncle's pupil," said Warrington, rather sadly; "and youspeak like a worldling."
"And why not?" asked Pendennis; "why not acknowledge the world I standupon, and submit to the conditions of the society which we live in andlive by? I am older than you, George, in spite of your grizzledwhiskers, and have seen much more of the world than you have in yourgarret here, shut up with your books and your reveries and your ideasof one-and-twenty. I say, I take the world as it is, and being of it,will not be ashamed of it. If the time is out of joint, have I anycalling or strength to set it right?"
"Indeed, I don't think you have much of either," growled Pen'sinterlocutor.
"If I doubt whether I am better than my neighbor," Arthurcontinued--"if I concede that I am no better--I also doubt whether heis better than I. I see men who begin with ideas of universal reform,and who, before their beards are grown, propound their loud plans forthe regeneration of mankind, give up their schemes after a few yearsof bootless talking and vain-glorious attempts to lead their fellows;and after they have found that men will no longer hear them, as indeedthey never were in the least worthy to be heard, sink quietly into therank and file--acknowledging their aims impracticable, or thankfulthat they were never put into practice. The fiercest reformers growcalm, and are fain to put up with things as they are: the loudestRadical orators become dumb, quiescent placemen: the most ferventLiberals, when out of power, become humdrum Conservatives, ordownright tyrants or despots in office. Look at Thiers, look atGuizot, in opposition and in place! Look at the Whigs appealingto the country, and the Whigs in power! Would you say that the conductof these men is an act of treason, as the Radicals bawl--who wouldgive way in their turn, were their turn ever to come? No, only thatthey submit to circumstances which are stronger than they--march asthe world marches toward reform, but at the world's pace (and themovements of the vast body of mankind must needs be slow)--forego thisscheme as impracticable, on account of opposition--that as immature,because against the sense of the majority--are forced to calculatedrawbacks and difficulties, as well as to think of reforms andadvances--and compelled finally to submit, and to wait, and tocompromise."
"The Right Honorable Arthur Pendennis could not speak better, or bemore satisfied with himself, if he was First Lord of the Treasury andChancellor of the Exchequer," Warrington said.
"Self-satisfied? Why self-satisfied?" continued Pen. "It seems to methat my skepticism is more respectful and more modest than therevolutionary ardor of other folks. Many a patriot of eighteen, many aspouting-club orator, would turn the bishops out of the House of Lordsto-morrow, and throw the lords out after the bishops, and throw thethrone into the Thames after the peers and the bench. Is that man moremodest than I, who take these institutions as I find them, and waitfor time and truth to develop, or fortify, or (if you like) destroythem? A college tutor, or a nobleman's toady, who appears one fine dayas my right reverend lord, in a silk apron and a shovel-hat, andassumes benedictory airs over me, is still the same man we remember atOxbridge, when he was truckling to the tufts, and bullying the poorunder-graduates in the lecture-room. An hereditary legislator, whopasses his time with jockeys and blacklegs and ballet-girls, and whois called to rule over me and his other betters, because hisgrandfather made a lucky speculation in the funds, or found a coal ortin-mine on his property, or because his stupid ancestor happened tobe in command of ten thousand men as brave as himself, who overcametwelve thousand Frenchmen, or fifty thousand Indians--such a man, Isay, inspires me with no more respect than the bitterest democrat canfeel toward him. But, such as he is, he is a part of the old societyto which we belong: and I submit to his lordship with acquiescence;and he takes his place above the best of us at all dinner parties, andthere bides his time. I don't want to chop his head off with aguillotine, or to fling mud at him in the streets. When they call sucha man a disgrace to his order; and such another, who is good andgentle, refined and generous, who employs his great means in promotingevery kindness and charity, and art and grace of life, in the kindestand most gracious manner, an ornament to his rank--the question as tothe use and propriety of the order is not in the least affected oneway or other. There it is, extant among us, a part of our habits, thecreed of many of us, the growth of centuries, the symbol of a mostcomplicated tradition--there stand my lord the bishop and my lord thehereditary legislator--what the French call _transactions_ both ofthem--representing in their present shape mail-clad barons anddouble-sworded chiefs (from whom their lordships the hereditaries,for the most part, _don't_ descend), and priests, professing to holdan absolute truth and a divinely inherited power, the which truthabsolute our ancestors burned at the stake, and denied there; thewhich divine transmissible power still exists in print--to bebelieved, or not, pretty much at choice; and of these, I say, Iacquiesce that they exist, and no more. If you say that these schemes,devised before printing was known, or steam was born; when thought wasan infant, scared and whipped; and truth under its guardians wasgagged, and swathed, and blindfolded, and not allowed to lift itsvoice, or to look out or to walk under the sun; before men werepermitted to meet, or to trade, or to speak with each other--if anyone says (as some faithful souls do) that these schemes are for ever,and having been changed, and modified constantly are to be subject tono farther development or decay, I laugh, and let the man speak. But Iwould have toleration for these, as I would ask it for my ownopinions; and if they are to die, I would rather they had a decent andnatural than an abrupt and violent death."
"You would have sacrificed to Jove," Warrington said, "had you livedin the time of the Christian persecutions."
"Perhaps I would," said Pen, with some sadness. "Perhaps I am acoward--perhaps my faith is unsteady; but this is my own reserve. WhatI argue here is that I will not persecute. Make a faith or a dogmaabsolute, and persecution becomes a logical consequence; and Dominicburns a Jew, or Calvin an Arian, or Nero a Christian, or Elizabeth orMary a Papist or Protestant; or their father both or either, accordingto his humor; and acting without any pangs of remorse--but, on thecontrary, w
ith strict notions of duty fulfilled. Make dogma absolute,and to inflict or to suffer death becomes easy and necessary; andMahomet's soldiers shouting 'Paradise! Paradise!' and dying on theChristian spears, are not more or less praiseworthy than the same menslaughtering a townful of Jews, or cutting off the heads of allprisoners who would not acknowledge that there was but one prophetof God."
"A little while since, young one," Warrington said, who had beenlistening to his friend's confessions neither without sympathy norscorn, for his mood led him to indulge in both, "you asked me why Iremained out of the strife of the world, and looked on at the greatlabor of my neighbor without taking any part in the struggle. Why,what a mere dilettante you own yourself to be, in this confession ofgeneral skepticism, and what a listless spectator yourself! You aresix-and-twenty years old, and as _blase_ as a rake of sixty. Youneither hope much, nor care much, nor believe much. You doubt aboutother men as much as about yourself. Were it made of such_pococuranti_ as you, the world would be intolerable; and I had ratherlive in a wilderness of monkeys, and listen to their chatter, than ina company of men who denied every thing."
"Were the world composed of Saint Bernards or Saint Dominics, it wouldbe equally odious," said Pen, "and at the end of a few scores of yearswould cease to exist altogether. Would you have every man with hishead shaved, and every woman in a cloister--carrying out to the fullthe ascetic principle? Would you have conventicle hymns twanging fromevery lane in every city in the world? Would you have all the birds ofthe forest sing one note and fly with one feather? You call me askeptic because I acknowledge what _is_; and in acknowledging that, beit linnet or lark, a priest or parson, be it, I mean, any single oneof the infinite varieties of the creatures of God (whose very name Iwould be understood to pronounce with reverence, and never to approachbut with distant awe), I say that the study and acknowledgment of thatvariety among men especially increases our respect and wonder for theCreator, Commander, and Ordainer of all these minds, so different andyet so united--meeting in a common adoration, and offering up eachaccording to his degree and means of approaching the Divine centre,his acknowledgment of praise and worship, each singing (to recur tothe bird simile) his natural song."
"And so, Arthur, the hymn of a saint, or the ode of a poet, or thechant of a Newgate thief, are all pretty much the same in yourphilosophy," said George.
"Even that sneer could be answered were it to the point," Pendennisreplied; "but it is not; and it could be replied to you, that even tothe wretched outcry of the thief on the tree, the wisest and the bestof all teachers we know of, the untiring Comforter and Consoler,promised a pitiful hearing and a certain hope. Hymns of saints! Odesof poets! who are we to measure the chances and opportunities, themeans of doing, or even judging, right and wrong, awarded to men; andto establish the rule for meting out their punishments and rewards? Weare as insolent and unthinking in judging of men's morals as of theirintellects. We admire this man as being a great philosopher, and setdown the other as a dullard, not knowing either, or the amount oftruth in either, or being certain of the truth any where. We sing TeDeum for this hero who has won a battle, and De Profundis for thatother one who has broken out of prison, and has been caught afterwardby the policemen. Our measure of rewards and punishments is mostpartial and incomplete, absurdly inadequate, utterly worldly, and wewish to continue it into the next world. Into that next and awfulworld we strive to pursue men, and send after them our impotent partyverdicts of condemnation or acquittal. We set up our paltry littlerods to measure Heaven immeasurable, as if, in comparison to that,Newton's mind or Pascal's or Shakspeare's was any loftier than mine;as if the ray which travels from the sun would reach me sooner thanthe man who blacks my boots. Measured by that altitude, the tallestand the smallest among us are so alike diminutive and pitifully base,that I say we should take no count of the calculation, and it is ameanness to reckon the difference."
"Your figure fails there, Arthur," said the other, better pleased; "ifeven by common arithmetic we can multiply as we can reduce almostinfinitely, the Great Reckoner must take count of all; and the smallis not small, or the great great, to his infinity."
"I don't call those calculations in question," Arthur said: "I onlysay that yours are incomplete and premature; false in consequence,and, by every operation, multiplying into wider error. I do notcondemn the man who murdered Socrates and damned Galileo. I say thatthey damned Galileo and murdered Socrates."
"And yet but a moment since you admitted the propriety of acquiescencein the present, and, I suppose, all other tyrannies?"
"No: but that if an opponent menaces me, of whom and without cost ofblood and violence I can get rid, I would rather wait him out, andstarve him out, than fight him out. Fabius fought Hannibalskeptically. Who was his Roman coadjutor, whom we read of in Plutarchwhen we were boys, who scoffed at the other's procrastination anddoubted his courage, and engaged the enemy and was beaten forhis pains?"
In these speculations and confessions of Arthur, the reader mayperhaps see allusions to questions which, no doubt, have occupied anddiscomposed himself, and which he has answered by very differentsolutions to those come to by our friend. We are not pledgingourselves for the correctness of his opinions, which readers willplease to consider are delivered dramatically, the writer being nomore answerable for them, than for the sentiments uttered by any othercharacter of the story: our endeavor is merely to follow out, in itsprogress, the development of the mind of a worldly and selfish, butnot ungenerous or unkind, or truth-avoiding man. And it will be seenthat the lamentable stage to which his logic at present has broughthim, is one of general skepticism and sneering acquiescence in theworld as it is; or if you like so to call it, a belief qualified withscorn in all things extant. The tastes and habits of such a manprevent him from being a boisterous demagogue, and his love of truthand dislike of cant keep him from advancing crude propositions, suchas many loud reformers are constantly ready with; much more ofuttering downright falsehoods in arguing questions or abusingopponents, which he would die or starve rather than use. It was not inour friend's nature to be able to utter certain lies; nor was hestrong enough to protest against others, except with a polite sneer;his maxim being, that he owed obedience to all Acts of Parliament, aslong as they were not repealed.
And to what does this easy and skeptical life lead a man? FriendArthur was a Sadducee, and the Baptist might be in the Wildernessshouting to the poor, who were listening with all their might andfaith to the preacher's awful accents and denunciations of wrath orwoe or salvation; and our friend the Sadducee would turn his sleekmule with a shrug and a smile from the crowd, and go home to the shadeof his terrace, and muse over preacher and audience, and turn to hisroll of Plato, or his pleasant Greek song-book babbling of honey andHybla, and nymphs and fountains and love. To what, we say, does thisskepticism lead? It leads a man to a shameful loneliness andselfishness, so to speak--the more shameful, because it is sogood-humored and conscienceless and serene. Conscience! What isconscience? Why accept remorse? What is public or private faith?Mythuses alike enveloped in enormous tradition. If seeing andacknowledging the lies of the world, Arthur, as see them you can withonly too fatal a clearness, you submit to them without any protestfarther than a laugh: if plunged yourself in easy sensuality, youallow the whole wretched world to pass groaning by you unmoved: if thefight for the truth is taking place, and all men of honor are on theground armed on the one side or the other, and you alone are to lie onyour balcony and smoke your pipe out of the noise and the danger, youhad better have died, or never have been at all, than such asensual coward.
"The truth, friend!" Arthur said, imperturbably; "where is the truth?Show it me. That is the question between us. I see it on both sides. Isee it in the Conservative side of the house, and among the Radicals,and even on the ministerial benches. I see it in this man who worshipsby act of Parliament, and is rewarded with a silk apron and fivethousand a year; in that man, who, driven fatally by the remorselesslogic of his creed, gives up every thing, fri
ends, fame, dearest ties,closest vanities, the respect of an army of churchmen, the recognizedposition of a leader, and passes over, truth-impelled, to the enemy,in whose ranks he will serve henceforth as a nameless privatesoldier:--I see the truth in that man, as I do in his brother, whoselogic drives him to quite a different conclusion, and who, afterhaving passed a life in vain endeavors to reconcile an irreconcileablebook, flings it at last down in despair, and declares, with tearfuleyes, and hands up to heaven, his revolt and recantation. If the truthis with all these, why should I take side with any one of them? Someare called upon to preach: let them preach. Of these preachers thereare somewhat too many, methinks, who fancy they have the gift. But wecan not all be parsons in church, that is clear. Some must sit silentand listen, or go to sleep mayhap. Have we not all our duties? Thehead charity-boy blows the bellows; the master canes the other boys inthe organ-loft; the clerk sings out Amen from the desk; and the beadlewith the staff opens the door for his Reverence, who rustles in silkup to the cushion. I won't cane the boys, nay, or say Amen always, oract as the church's champion and warrior, in the shape of the beadlewith the staff; but I will take off my hat in the place, and say myprayers there too, and shake hands with the clergyman as he steps onthe grass outside. Don't I know that his being there is a compromise,and that he stands before me an Act of Parliament? That the church heoccupies was built for other worship? That the Methodist chapel isnext door; and that Bunyan the tinker is bawling out the tidings ofdamnation on the common hard by? Yes, I am a Sadducee; and I takethings as I find them, and the world, and the Acts of Parliament ofthe world, as they are; and as I intend to take a wife, if I findone--not to be madly in love and prostrate at her feet like afool--not to worship her as an angel, or to expect to find her assuch--but to be good-natured to her, and courteous, expectinggood-nature and pleasant society from her in turn. And so, George, ifever you hear of my marrying, depend on it, it won't be a romanticattachment on my side: and if you hear of any good place underGovernment, I have no particular scruples that I know of, which wouldprevent me from accepting your offer."
"O Pen, you scoundrel! I know what you mean," here Warrington brokeout. "This is the meaning of your skepticism, of your quietism, ofyour atheism, my poor fellow. You're going to sell yourself, andHeaven help you! You're going to make a bargain which will degrade youand make you miserable for life, and there's no use talking of it. Ifyou are once bent on it, the devil won't prevent you."
"On the contrary, he's on my side, isn't he, George?" said Pen with alaugh. "What good cigars these are! Come down and have a little dinnerat the Club; the _chef's_ in town, and he'll cook a good one for me.No, you won't? Don't be sulky, old boy, I'm going down to--to thecountry to-morrow."