CHAPTER LXII. The Way of the World
A short time after the piece of good fortune which befell 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. Serjeant Kewsy, and Mrs. and Miss Kewsy; Colonel Altamont,Major Coddy, etc." The Colonel travelled in state, and as becamea gentleman: he appeared in a rich travelling costume; he drankbrandy-and-water freely during the passage, and was not sick, as some ofthe other passengers were; and he was attended by his body-servant;the faithful Irish legionary who had been for some time in waiting uponhimself 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 makeno odds 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 your lastloan, Altamont, but quite able to carry on for some time to come," andso, with a not uncordial greeting between them, the two parted. Had thepossession of money really made Altamont more honest and amiable than hehad hitherto been, or only caused him to seem more amiable in Strong'seyes? Perhaps he really was better, and money improved him. Perhaps itwas the beauty of wealth Strong saw and respected. But he argued withinhimself, "This poor devil, this unlucky outcast of a returned convict,is ten times as good a fellow as my friend Sir Francis Clavering, Bart.He has pluck and honesty in his way. He will stick to a friend, and facean enemy. The other never had courage to do either. And what is it thathas put the poor devil under a cloud? He was only a little wild, andsigned his father-in-law's name. Many a man has done worse, and come tono wrong, and holds his head up. Clavering does. No, he don't hold hishead up: he never did in his best days." And Strong, perhaps, repentedhim of the falsehood which he had told to the free-handed Colonel,that he was not in want of money; but it was a falsehood on the side ofhonesty, and the Chevalier could not bring down his stomach to borrowa second time from his outlawed friend. Besides, he could get on.Clavering had promised him some: not that Clavering's promises were muchto be believed, but the Chevalier was of a hopeful turn, and trusted inmany chances 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 his partnerthan with him. The solitary life was not agreeable to his social soul;and he had got into extravagant and luxurious habits, too, having aservant at his command to run his errands, to arrange his toilets, andto cook his meal. It was rather a grand and touching sight now to seethe portly and handsome gentleman painting his own boots, and broilinghis own mutton chop. It has been before stated that the Chevalier hada wife, a Spanish lady of Vittoria, who had gone back to her friends,after a few months' union with the Captain, whose head she broke witha dish. He began to think whether he should not go back and see hisJuanita. The Chevalier was growing melancholy after the departure of hisfriend the Colonel; or, to use his own picturesque expression, was "downon his luck." These moments of depression and intervals of ill fortuneoccur constantly in the lives of heroes; Marius at Minturme, CharlesEdward in the Highlands, Napoleon before Elba. What great man has notbeen called upon to face evil fortune?
From Clavering no supplies were to be had for some time, thefive-and-twenty pounds or the "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 whom theBaronet backed, and who had it all his own way for thirteen rounds,when, by an unlucky blow in the windpipe, Billy killed him. "It's alwaysmy luck, Strong," Sir Francis said; "the betting was three to one on thecabman, and I thought myself as sure of thirty pound, as if I had it inmy pocket. And dammy, I owe my man Lightfoot fourteen pound now whichhe's lent and paid for me: and he duns me--the confounded impudentblackguard: and I wish to Heaven I knew any way of getting a bill done,or of screwing a little out of my lady! I'll give you half, Ned, uponmy soul and honour, I'll give you half if you can get anybody to do us alittle fifty."
But Ned said sternly that he had given his word of honour, as agentleman, that he would be no party to any future bill transactions inwhich her husband might engage (who had given his word of honour too),and the Chevalier said that he, at least, would keep his word, and wouldblack his own boots all his life rather than break his promise. And whatis more, he vowed he would advise Lady Clavering that Sir Francis wasabout to break his faith towards her upon the very first hint which hecould get that such was Clavering's intention.
Upon this information Sir Francis Clavering, according to his custom,cried and cursed very volubly. He spoke of death as his only resource.He besought and implored his dear Strong, his best friend, his dear oldNed, not to throw him over: and when he quitted his dearest Ned, as hewent down the stairs of Shepherd's Inn, swore and blasphemed at Ned asthe most infernal villain, and traitor, and blackguard, and coward underthe sun, and wished Ned was in his grave, and in a worse place, only hewould like the confounded ruffian to live, until Frank Clavering had hadhis 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 walnuts inClavering Park in his youth, and had seen the Baronet drive through thestreet at home with four horses, and prance up to church with powderedfootmen, had an immense respect for his Member, and a prodigious delightin making his acquaintance. He introduced himself with much blushingand trepidation, as a Clavering man--son of Mr. Huxter, of themarket-place--father attended Sir Francis's keeper, Coxwood, whenhis gun burst and took off three fingers--proud to make Sir Francis'sacquaintance. All of which introduction Sir Francis receivedaffably. And honest Huxter talked about Sir Francis to the chaps atBartholomew's: and told Fanny, in the lodge, that, after all, there wasnothing like a thoroughbred un, a regular good old English gentleman,one of the olden time! To which Fanny replied, that she thought SirFrancis was an ojous creature--she didn't know why--but she couldn'tabear him--she was sure he was wicked, and low, and mean--she knew hewas; and when Sam to this replied that Sir Francis was very affable, andhad borrowed half a sov' of him quite kindly, Fanny burst into alaugh, pulled Sam's long hair (which was not yet of irreproachablecleanliness), patted his chin, and called him a stoopid, stoopid, oldfoolish stoopid, and said that Sir Francis was always borrering money ofeverybody, and that Mar had actially refused him twice, and had had towait three months to get seven shillings which he had borrowed 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 the grammarmaster was quickly appeased, and would have willingly given her ahundred more lessons on the spot at the price which he took for thatone.
Of course Mrs. Bolton was by, and I suppose that Fanny and Dr. Sam wereon exceedingly familiar and confidential terms by this time, and thattime had brought to the former certain consolations, and soothed certainregrets, which are deucedly bitter when they occur, but which are, nomore than tooth-pulling, or any other pang, eternal.
As you si
t, surrounded by respect and affection; happy, honoured, 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-failing hypocriticalsmiles; the women of your house constant in their flatteries; theyoung men hushed and attentive when you begin to speak; the servantsawestricken; the tenants cap in hand, and ready to act in the placeof your worship's horses when your honour takes a drive--it has oftenstruck you, O thoughtful Dives! that this respect, and these glories,are for the main part transferred, with your fee simple, to yoursuccessor--that the servants will bow, and the tenants shout, for yourson as for you; that the butler will fetch him the wine (improved by alittle keeping) that's now in your cellar; and that, when your night iscome, and the light of your life is gone down, as sure as the morningrises after you and without you, the sun of prosperity and flatteryshines on your heir. Men come and bask in the halo of consols andacres that beams round about him: the reverence is transferred withthe estate; of which, with all its advantages, pleasures, respect, andgood-will, he in turn becomes the life-tenant. How long do you wish orexpect that your people will regret you? How much time does a man devoteto grief before he begins to enjoy? A great man must keep his heir athis feast like a living memento mori. If he holds very much by life, thepresence of the other must be a constant sting and warning. "Make readyto go," says the successor to your honour; "I am waiting: and I couldhold it as well as you."
What has this reference to the possible reader, to do with any of thecharacters of this history? Do we wish to apologise for Pen because hehas got a white hat, and because his mourning for his mother is fainter?All the lapse of years, all the career of fortune, all the events oflife, however strongly they may move or eagerly excite him, never canremove that sainted image from his heart, or banish that blessed lovefrom its sanctuary. If he yields to wrong, the dear eyes will look sadlyupon him when he dares to meet them; if he does well, endures pain, orconquers temptation, the ever present love will greet him, he knows,with approval and pity; if he falls, plead for him; if he suffers, cheerhim;--be with him and accompany him always until death is past; andsorrow and sin are no more. Is this mere dreaming, or, on the part of anidle story-teller, useless moralising? May not the man of the world takehis moment, too, to be grave and thoughtful? Ask of your own hearts andmemories, brother and sister, if we do not live in the dead; and (tospeak 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 worshippedin his memory, and canonised there, as such a saint ought to be. Luckyhe in life who knows a few such women! A kind provision of Heavenit was, 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 the Opera,or the last debate in Parliament, or Miss Jones's marriage with CaptainSmith, or what not,--so, let us imagine that the public steps in at thisjuncture, and stops the confidential talk between author and reader,and begs us to resume our remarks about this world, with which both arecertainly better acquainted than with that other one into which we havejust been peeping.
On coming into his property, Arthur Pendennis at first comported himselfwith a modesty and equanimity which obtained his friend Warrington'spraises, though Arthur's uncle was a little inclined to quarrel withhis nephew's meanness of spirit, for not assuming greater state andpretensions now that he had entered on the enjoyment of his kingdom.He would have had Arthur installed in handsome quarters, and ridingon showy park hacks, or in well-built cabriolets, every day. "I amtoo absent," Arthur said, with a laugh, "to drive a cab in London; theomnibus would cut me in two, or I should send my horse's head into theladies' carriage-windows; and you wouldn't have me driven about by myservant like an apothecary, uncle?" No, Major Pendennis would onno account have his nephew appear like an apothecary; the augustrepresentative of the house of Pendennis must not so demean himself. Andwhen Arthur, pursuing his banter, said, "And yet, I dare say, sir, myfather was proud enough when he first set up his gig," the old Majorhemmed and ha'd, and his wrinkled face reddened with a blush as heanswered, "You know what Buonaparte said, sir, 'Il faut laver son lingesale en famille.' There is no need, sir, for you to brag that yourfather was a--a medical man. He came of a most ancient but fallen house,and was obliged to reconstruct the family fortunes as many a man of goodfamily has done before him. You are like the fellow in Sterne, sir--theMarquis who came to demand his sword again. Your father got backyours for you. You are a man of landed estate, by Gad, sir, and agentleman--never forget you are a gentleman."
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 honour of frequenting through your introduction, who cares toask about my paltry means or my humble gentility, uncle?" he asked. "Itwould be absurd of me to attempt to compete with the great folks; andall that they can ask from us is, that we should have a decent addressand 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,and the two friends being determined not to part one from the other.Cultivate kindly, reader, those friendships of your youth: it is only inthat generous time that they are formed. How different the intimacies ofafter days are, and how much weaker the grasp of your own hand after ithas been shaken about in twenty years' commerce with the world, andhas squeezed and dropped a thousand equally careless palms! As you canseldom fashion your tongue to speak a new language after twenty, theheart refuses to receive friendship pretty soon: it gets too hard toyield to the impression.
So Pen had many acquaintances, and being of a jovial and easy turn, gotmore daily: but no friend like Warrington; and the two men continued tolive almost as much in common as the Knights of the Temple, riding uponone horse (for Pen's was at Warrington's service), and having theirchambers and their servitor in common.
Mr. Warrington had made the acquaintance of Pen's friends of GrosvenorPlace during their last unlucky season in London, and had expressedhimself no better satisfied with Sir Francis and Lady Clavering andher ladyship's daughter than was the public in general. "The world isright," George said, "about those people. The young men laugh and talkfreely before those ladies, and about them. The girl sees people whomshe has no right to know, and talks to men with whom no girl shouldhave an intimacy. Did you see those two reprobates leaning over LadyClavering's carriage in the Park the other day, and leering under MissBlanche's bonnet? No good mother would let her daughter know those men,or admit them within her doors."
"The Begum is the most innocent and good-natured soul alive," interposedPen. "She never heard any harm of Captain Blackball, or read that trialin which Charley Lovelace figures. Do you suppose that honest ladiesread and remember the Chronique Scandaleuse as well as you, you oldgrumbler?"
"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 the 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 has halfa dozen dukes at her table," Pen answered, rather sulkily. "Why shouldyou and I be more squeamish than th
e rest of the world? Why are we tovisit the sins of her father on this harmless kind creature? She neverdid anything but kindness to you or any mortal soul. As far as she knowsshe does her best. She does not set up to be more than she is. She givesyou the best dinners she can buy, and the best company she can get. Shepays the debts of that scamp of a husband of hers. She spoils her boylike the most virtuous mother in England. Her opinion about literarymatters, to be sure, is not much; and I daresay she never read a line ofWordsworth, or heard of Tennyson in her life."
"No more has Mrs. Flanagan the laundress," growled out Pen's Mentor; "nomore has Betty the housemaid; and I have no word of blame against them.But a high-souled man doesn't make friends of these. A gentleman doesn'tchoose these for his companions, or bitterly rues it afterwards ifhe do. Are you, who are setting up to be a man of the world and aphilosopher, to tell me that the aim of life is to guttle three coursesand dine off silver? Do you dare to own to yourself that your ambitionin life is good claret, and that you'll dine with any, provided youget a stalled ox to feed on? You call me a Cynic--why, what a monstrousCynicism it is, which you and the rest of you men of the world admit!I'd rather live upon raw turnips and sleep in a hollow tree, or turnbackwoodsman or savage, than degrade myself to this civilisation, andown that a French cook was the thing in life best worth living for."
"Because you like a raw beefsteak and a pipe afterwards," broke out Pen,"you give yourself airs of superiority over people whose tastes are moredainty, and are not ashamed of the world they live in. Who goes aboutprofessing particular admiration, or esteem, or friendship, or gratitudeeven, for the people one meets every day? If A. asks me to his house,and gives me his best, I take his good things for what they are worthand no more. I do not profess to pay him back in friendship, but in theconventional money of society. When we part, we part without any grief.When we meet, we are tolerably glad to see one another. If I were onlyto live with my friends, your black muzzle, old George, is the only faceI 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 inand live 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 ideas ofone-and-twenty. I say, I take the world as it is, and being of it, willnot be ashamed of it. If the time is out of joint, have I any calling orstrength 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 neighbour," Arthur continued,"if I concede that I am no better,--I also doubt whether he is betterthan I. I see men who begin with ideas of universal reform, and who,before their beards are grown, propound their loud plans for theregeneration of mankind, give up their schemes after a few years ofbootless talking and vainglorious attempts to lead their fellows; andafter they have found that men will no longer bear them, as indeedthey never were in the least worthy to be heard, sink quietly into theranks-and-file,--acknowledging their aims impracticable, or thankfulthat they were never put into practice. The fiercest reformers growcalm, and are faire 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 or downrighttyrants or despots in office. Look at the Thiers, look at Guizot, inopposition and in place! Look at the Whigs appealing to the country, andthe Whigs in power! Would you say that the conduct of these men is anact of treason, as the Radicals bawl,--who would give way in their turn,were their turn ever to come? No, only that they submit to circumstanceswhich are stronger than they,--march as the world marches towardsreform, but at the world's pace (and the movements of the vast bodyof mankind must needs be slow), forgo this scheme as impracticable, onaccount of opposition,--that as immature, because against the sense ofthe majority,--are forced to calculate drawbacks and difficulties, aswell as to think of reforms and advances,--and compelled finally tosubmit, and to wait, and to compromise."
"The Right Honourable 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 tome that my scepticism is more respectful and more modest than therevolutionary ardour 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 takes these institutions as I find them, and waitsfor 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, and assumesbenedictory airs over me, is still the same man we remember at Oxbridge,when he was truckling to the tufts, and bullying the poor undergraduatesin the lecture-room. An hereditary legislator, who passes his time withjockeys and black-legs and ballet-girls, and who is called to ruleover me and his other betters because his grandfather made a luckyspeculation in the funds, or found a coal or tin mine on his property,or because his stupid ancestor happened to be in command of ten thousandmen as brave as himself, who overcame twelve thousand Frenchmen, orfifty thousand Indians--such a man, I say, inspires me with no morerespect than the bitterest democrat can feel towards him. But, such ashe is, he is a part of the old society to which we belong and I submitto his lordship with acquiescence; and he takes his place above the bestof us at all dinner-parties, and there bides his time. I don't wantto chop his head off with a guillotine, or to fling mud at him in thestreets. When they call such a man a disgrace to his order; and suchanother, who is good and gentle, refined and generous, who employs hisgreat means in promoting every kindness and charity, and art and graceof life, in the kindest and most gracious manner, an ornament to hisrank--the question as to the use and propriety of the order is not inthe least affected one way or other. There it is, extant among us, apart of our habits, the creed of many of us, the growth of centuries,the symbol of a most complicated tradition--there stand my lord thebishop and my lord the hereditary legislator--what the French calltransactions both of them,--representing in their present shapemail-clad barons and double-sworded chiefs (from whom their lordshipsthe hereditaries, for the most part, don't descend), and priests,professing to hold an absolute truth and a divinely inherited power,the which truth absolute our ancestors burned at the stake, and deniedthere; the which divine transmissible power still exists in print--tobe believed, 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 was gagged,and swathed, and blindfolded, and not allowed to lift its voice, or tolook out or to walk under the sun; before men were permitted to meet, orto trade, or to speak with each other--if any one says (as some faithfulsouls do) that these schemes are for ever, and having been changedand modified constantly are to be subject to no further development ordecay, I laugh, and let the man speak. But I would have toleration forthese, as I would ask it for my own opinions; and if they are to die,I would rather they had a decent and natural than an abrupt and violentdeath."
"You would have sacrificed to Jove," Warrington said, "had you lived inthe 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.What I 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 humour; and acting
without any pangs of remorse,--but, on thecontrary, notions of duty fulfilled. Make dogma absolute, and to inflictor to suffer death becomes easy and necessary; and Mahomet's soldiersshouting, 'Paradise! Paradise!' and dying on the Christian spears, arenot more or less praiseworthy than the same men slaughtering a townfulof Jews, or cutting off the heads of all prisoners who would notacknowledge that there was but one Prophet of 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 greatlabour of my neighbour without taking any part in the struggle? Why,what a mere dilettante you own yourself to be, in this confession ofgeneral scepticism, and what a listless spectator yourself! You aresix-and-twenty years old; and as blase as a rake of sixty. You neitherhope much nor care much, nor believe much. You doubt about other menas much as about yourself. Were it made of such pococuranti as you, theworld would be intolerable; and I had rather live in a wilderness ofmonkeys, and listen to their chatter, than in a company of men whodenied everything."
"Were the world composed of Saint Bernards or Saint Dominies, 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 his headshaved, and every woman in a cloister,--carrying out to the full theascetic principle? Would you have conventicle hymns twanging from everylane in every city in the world? Would you have all the birds of theforest sing one note and fly with one feather? You call me a scepticbecause I acknowledge what is; and in acknowledging that, be it linnetor lark, or priest or parson, be it, I mean, any single one of theinfinite varieties of the creatures of God (whose very name I would beunderstood to pronounce with reverence, and never to approach but withdistant awe), I say that the study and acknowledgment of that varietyamongst men especially increases our respect and wonder for the Creator,Commander, and Ordainer of all these minds, so different and yet sounited,--meeting in a common adoration, and offering up, eachaccording to his degree and means of approaching the Divine centre, hisacknowledgment of praise and worship, each singing (to recur to the birdsimile) his natural song."
"And so, Arthur, the hymn of a saint, or the ode of a poet, or the chantof a Newgate thief, are all pretty much the same in your philosophy,"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 best ofall teachers we know of, the untiring Comforter and Consoler, promised apitiful hearing and a certain hope. Hymns of saints! odes of poets! whoare we to measure the chances and opportunities, the means of doing, oreven judging, right and wrong, awarded to men; and to establish the rulefor meting out their punishments and rewards? We are as insolent andunthinking in judging of men's morals as of their intellects. We admirethis man as being a great philosopher, and set down the other as adullard, not knowing either, or the amount of truth in either, or beingcertain of the truth anywhere. We sing Te Deum for this hero who haswon a battle, and De Profundis for that other one who has broken out ofprison, and has been caught afterwards by the policeman. Our measureof rewards and punishments is most partial and incomplete, absurdlyinadequate, utterly worldly, and we wish to continue it into the nextworld. Into that next and awful world we strive to pursue men, and sendafter them our impotent party verdicts of condemnation or acquittal. Weset up our paltry little rods to measure Heaven immeasurable, as if, incomparison to that, Newton's mind or Pascal's or Shakspeare's was anyloftier than mine; as if the ray which travels from the sun would reachme sooner than the man who blacks my boots. Measured by that altitude,the tallest and the smallest among us are so alike diminutive andpitifully base, that I say we should take no count of the calculation,and it is a meanness to reckon the difference."
"Your figure fails there, Arthur," said the other, better pleased;"if even by common arithmetic we can multiply as we can reduce almostinfinitely, the Great Reckoner must take count of all; and the small isnot small, or the great great, to his infinity."
"I don't call those calculations in question," Arthur said; "I only saythat yours are incomplete and premature; false in consequence, and, byevery operation, multiplying into wider error. I do not condemn the menwho murdered Socrates and damned Galileo. I say that they damned Galileoand 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 Hannibal sceptically.Who was his Roman coadjutor, whom we read of in Plutarch when wewere boys, who scoffed at the other's procrastination and doubted hiscourage, and engaged the enemy and was beaten for his pains?"
In these speculations and confessions of Arthur, the reader mayperhaps see allusions to questions which, no doubt, have occupiedand discomposed himself, and which he has answered by very differentsolutions to those come to by our friend. We are not pledging ourselvesfor the correctness of his opinions, which readers will please toconsider are delivered dramatically, the writer being no more answerablefor them, than for the sentiments uttered by any other character ofthe story: our endeavour is merely to follow out, in its progress, thedevelopment of the mind of a worldly and selfish, but not ungenerous orunkind or truth-avoiding man. And it will be seen that the lamentablestage to which his logic at present has brought him, is one of generalscepticism and sneering acquiescence in the world as it is; or if youlike so to call it, a belief qualified with scorn in all things extant.The tastes and habits of such a man prevent him from being a boisterousdemagogue, and his love of truth and dislike of cant keep him fromadvancing crude propositions, such as many loud reformers are constantlyready with; much more of uttering downright falsehoods in arguingquestions or abusing opponents, which he would die or starve rather thanuse. It was not in our friend's nature to be able to utter certain lies;nor was he strong enough to protest against others, except with apolite sneer; his maxim being, that he owed obedience to all Acts ofParliament, as long as they were not repealed.
And to what does this easy and sceptical life lead a man? Friend Arthurwas a Sadducee, and the Baptist might be in the Wilderness shoutingto the poor, who were listening with all their might and faith to thepreacher's awful accents and denunciations of wrath or woe or salvation;and our friend the Sadducee would turn his sleek mule with a shrug and asmile from the crowd, and go home to the shade of his terrace, andmuse over preacher and audience, and turn to his roll of Plato, or hispleasant Greek songbook babbling of honey and Hybla, and nymphs andfountains and love. To what, we say, does this scepticism lead? It leadsa man to a shameful loneliness and selfishness, so to speak--the moreshameful, because it is so good-humoured and conscienceless and serene.Conscience! What is conscience? Why accept remorse? What is public orprivate faith? Mythuses alike enveloped in enormous tradition. If seeingand acknowledging the lies of the world, Arthur, as see them you canwith only too fatal a clearness, you submit to them without any protestfurther than a laugh: if, plunged yourself in easy sensuality, you allowthe whole wretched world to pass groaning by you unmoved: if the fightfor the truth is taking place, and all men of honour are on the groundarmed on the one side or the other, and you alone are to lie on yourbalcony and smoke your pipe out of the noise and the danger, you hadbetter have died, or never have been at all, than such a sensual 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 on the Conservative side of the house, and amongst 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 rem
orselesslogic of his creed, gives up everything, friends, fame, dearest ties,closest vanities, the respect of an army of churchmen, the recognisedposition of a leader, and passes over, truth-impelled, to the enemy, inwhose ranks he will serve henceforth as a nameless private soldier:--Isee the truth in that man, as I do in his brother, whose logic driveshim to quite a different conclusion, and who, after having passed a lifein vain endeavours to reconcile an irreconcilable book, flings it atlast down in despair, and declares, with tearful eyes, and hands up toheaven, his revolt and recantation. If the truth is with all these, whyshould I take side with any one of them? Some are called upon topreach: let them preach. Of these preachers there are somewhat too many,methinks, who fancy they have the gift. But we cannot all be parsons inchurch, that is clear. Some must sit silent and listen, or go to sleepmayhap. Have we not all our duties? The head charity-boy blows thebellows; the master canes the other boys in the organ-loft; the clerksings out Amen from the desk; and the beadle with the staff opens thedoor for his Reverence, who rustles in silk up to the cushion. I won'tcane the boys, nay, or say Amen always, or act as the church's championand warrior, in the shape of the beadle with the staff; but I will takeoff my hat in the place, and say my prayers there too, and shake handswith the clergyman as he steps on the grass outside. Don't I know thathis being there is a compromise, and that he stands before me an Actof Parliament? That the church he occupies was built for other worship?That the Methodist chapel is next door; and that Bunyan the tinker isbawling out the tidings of damnation on the common hard by? Yes, I am aSadducee; and I take things as I find them, and the world, and the Actsof Parliament of the world, as they are; and as I intend to take a wife,if I find one--not to be madly in love and prostrate at her feet likea fool--not to worship her as an angel, or to expect to find heras such--but to be good-natured to her, and courteous, expectinggood-nature and pleasant society from her in turn. And so, George,if ever 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 scepticism, of your quietism, of youratheism, my poor fellow. You're going to sell yourself, and Heaven helpyou! You are going to make a bargain which will degrade you and make youmiserable for life, and there's no use talking of it. If you are oncebent 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 the countryto-morrow."