The Caxtons, Part 6

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PART VI.

CHAPTER I.

"I don't know that," said my father.

What is it my father does not know? My father does not know that
"happiness is our being's end and aim."

And pertinent to what does my father reply, by words so sceptical,
to an assertion so seldom disputed?

Reader, Mr. Trevanion has been half an hour seated in our little
drawing-room. He has received two cups of tea from my mother's fair
hand; he has made himself at home. With Mr. Trevanion has come another
friend of my father's, whom he has not seen since he left college,--Sir
Sedley Beaudesert.

Now, you must understand that it is a warm night, a little after nine
o'clock,--a night between departing summer and approaching autumn. The
windows are open; we have a balcony, which my mother has taken care to
fill with flowers; the air, though we are in London, is sweet and fresh;
the street quiet, except that an occasional carriage or hackney
cabriolet rolls rapidly by; a few stealthy passengers pass to and fro
noiselessly on their way homeward. We are on classic ground,--near that
old and venerable Museum, the dark monastic pile which the taste of the
age had spared then,--and the quiet of the temple seems to hallow the
precincts. Captain Roland is seated by the fire-place, and though there
is no fire, he is shading his face with a hand-screen; my father and Mr.
Trevanion have drawn their chairs close to each other in the middle of
the room; Sir Sedley Beaudesert leans against the wall near the window,
and behind my mother, who looks prettier and more pleased than usual
since her Austin has his old friends about him; and I, leaning my elbow
on the table and my chin upon my hand, am gazing with great admiration
on Sir Sedley Beaudesert.

Oh, rare specimen of a race fast decaying,--specimen of the true fine
gentleman, ere the word "dandy" was known, and before "exquisite" became
a noun substantive,--let me here pause to describe thee! Sir Sedley
Beaudesert was the contemporary of Trevanion and my father; but without
affecting to be young, he still seemed so. Dress, tone, look, manner,--
all were young; yet all had a certain dignity which does not belong to
youth. At the age of five and twenty he had won what would have been
fame to a French marquis of the old regime; namely, the reputation of
being "the most charming man of his day,"--the most popular of our sex,
the most favored, my dear lady-reader, by yours. It is a mistake, I
believe, to suppose that it does not require talent to become the
fashion,--at all events, Sir Sedley was the fashion, and he had talent.

He had travelled much, he had read much,--especially in memoirs,
history, and belles-lettres,--he made verses with grace and
a certain originality of easy wit and courtly sentiment, he conversed
delightfully, he was polished and urbane in manner, he was brave and
honorable in conduct; in words he could flatter, in deeds he was
sincere.

Sir Sedley Beaudesert had never married. Whatever his years, he was
still young enough in looks to be married for love. He was high-born,
he was rich, he was, as I have said, popular; yet on his fair features
there was an expression of melancholy, and on that forehead--pure from
the lines of ambition, and free from the weight of study--there was the
shadow of unmistakable regret.

"I don't know that," said my father; "I have never yet found in life one
man who made happiness his end and aim. One wants to gain a fortune,
another to spend it; one to get a place, another to build a name: but
they all know very well that it is not happiness they search for. No
Utilitarian was ever actuated by self-interest, poor man, when he sat
down to scribble his unpopular crotchets to prove self-interest
universal. And as to that notable distinction between self-interest
vulgar and self-interest enlightened, the more the self-interest is
enlightened, the less we are influenced by it. If you tell the young
man who has just written a fine book or made a fine speech that he will
not be any happier if he attain to the fame of Milton or the power of
Pitt, and that, for the sake of his own happiness, he had much better
cultivate a farm, live in the country, and postpone to the last the days
of dyspepsia and gout, he will answer you fairly, 'I am quite as
sensible of that as you are. But I am not thinking whether or not I
shall be happy. I have made up my mind to be, if I can, a great author
or a prime minister.' So it is with all the active sons of the world.
To push on is the law of Nature. And you can no more say to men and to
nations than to children: 'Sit still, and don't wear out your shoes!'"

"Then," said Trevanion, "if I tell you I am not happy, your only answer
is that I obey an inevitable law."

"No, I don't say that it is an inevitable law that man should not be
happy; but it is an inevitable law that a man, in spite of himself,
should live for something higher than his own happiness. He cannot live
in himself or for himself, however egotistical he may try to be. Every
desire he has links him with others. Man is not a machine,--he is a
part of one."

"True, brother, he is a soldier, not an army," said Captain Roland.

"Life is a drama, not a monologue," pursued my father. "'Drama' is
derived from a Greek verb signifying 'to do.' Every actor in the drama
has something to do, which helps on the progress of the whole: that is
the object for which the author created him. Do your part, and let the
Great Play get on."

"Ah!" said Trevanion, briskly, "but to do the part is the difficulty.
Every actor helps to the catastrophe, and yet must do his part without
knowing how all is to end. Shall he help the curtain to fall on a
tragedy or a comedy? Come, I will tell you the one secret of my public
life, that which explains all its failure (for, in spite of my position,
I have failed) and its regrets,--I want Conviction!"

"Exactly," said my father; "because to every question there are two
sides, and you look at them both."

"You have said it," answered Trevanion, smiling also. "For public life
a man should be one-sided: he must act with a party; and a party insists
that the shield is silver, when, if it will take the trouble to turn the
corner, it will see that the reverse of the shield is gold. Woe to the
man who makes that discovery alone, while his party are still swearing
the shield is silver, and that not once in his life, but every night!

"You have said quite enough to convince me that you ought not to belong
to a party, but not enough to convince me why you should not be happy,"
said my father.

"Do you remember," said Sir Sedley Beaudesert, "an anecdote of the first
Duke of Portland? He had a gallery in the great stable of his villa in
Holland, where a concert was given once a week, to cheer and amuse his
horses! I have no doubt the horses thrived all the better for it. What
Trevanion wants is a concert once a week. With him it is always saddle
and spur. Yet, after all, who would not envy him? If life be a drama,
his name stands high in the play-bill, and is printed in capitals on the
walls."

"Envy me!" said Trevanion,--"Me! No, you are the enviable man,--you,
who have only one grief in the world, and that so absurd a one that I
will make you blush by disclosing it. Hear, O sage Austin! O sturdy
Roland! Olivares was haunted by a spectre, and Sedley Beaudesert by the
dread of old age!"

"Well," said my mother, seriously, "I do think it requires a great sense
of religion, or at all events children' of one's own, in whom one is
young again, to reconcile oneself to becoming old."

"My dear ma'am," said Sir Sedley, who had slightly colored at
Trevanion's charge, but had now recovered his easy self-possession, "you
have spoken so admirably that you give me courage to confess my
weakness. I do dread to be old. All the joys of my life have been the
joys of youth. I have had so exquisite a pleasure in the mere sense of
living that old age, as it comes near, terrifies me by its dull eyes and
gray hairs. I have lived the life of a butterfly. Summer is over, and
I see my flowers withering; and my wings are chilled by the first airs
of winter. Yes, I envy Trevanion; for in public life no man is ever
young, and while he can work he is never old."

"My dear Beaudesert," said my father, "when Saint Amable, patron saint
of Riom, in Auvergne, went to Rome, the sun waited upon him as a
servant, carried his cloak and gloves for him in the heat, and kept off
the rain, if the weather changed, like an umbrella. You want to put the
sun to the same use you are quite right; but then, you see, you must
first be a saint before you can be sure of the sun as a servant."

Sir Sedley smiled charmingly; but the smile changed to a sigh as he
added, "I don't think I should much mind being a saint, if the sun would
be my sentinel instead of my courier. I want nothing of him but to
stand still. You see he moved even for Saint Amable. My dear madam,
you and I understand each other; and it is a very hard thing to grow
old, do what one will to keep young."

"What say you, Roland, of these two malcontents?" asked my father. The
Captain turned uneasily in his chair, for the rheumatism was gnawing his
shoulder, and sharp pains were shooting through his mutilated limb.

"I say," answered Roland, "that these men are wearied with marching from
Brentford to Windsor,--that they have never known the bivouac and the
battle."

Both the grumblers turned their eyes to the veteran: the eyes rested
first on the furrowed, care-worn lines in his eagle face; then they fell
on the stiff outstretched cork limb; and then they turned away.

Meanwhile my mother had softly risen, and under pretence of looking for
her work on the table near him, bent over the old soldier and pressed
his hand.

"Gentlemen," said my father, "I don't think my brother ever heard of
Nichocorus, the Greek comic writer; yet he has illustrated him very
ably. Saith Nichocorus, 'The best cure for drunkenness is a sudden
calamity.' For chronic drunkenness, a continued course of real
misfortune must be very salutary!"

No answer came from the two complainants; and my father took up a great
book.

CHAPTER II.

"Mr friends," said my father, looking up from his book, and addressing
himself to his two visitors, know of one thing, milder than calamity,
that would do you both a great deal of good."

"What is that?" asked Sir Sedley.

"A saffron bag, worn at the pit of the stomach!"

"Austin, my dear," said my mother, reprovingly.

My father did not heed the interruption, but continued gravely: "Nothing
is better for the spirits! Roland is in no want of saffron, because he
is a warrior; and the desire of fighting and the hope of victory infuse
such a heat into the spirits as is profitable for long life, and keeps
up the system."

"Tut!" said Trevanion.

"But gentlemen in your predicament must have recourse to artificial
means. Nitre in broth, for instance,--about three grains to ten (cattle
fed upon nitre grow fat); or earthy odors,--such as exist in cucumbers
and cabbage. A certain great lord had a clod of fresh earth, laid in a
napkin, put under his nose every morning after sleep. Light anointing
of the head with oil, mixed with roses and salt, is not bade but, upon
the whole, I prescribe the saffron bag at the--"

"Sisty, my dear, will you look for my scissors?" said my mother.

"What nonsense are you talking! Question! question!" cried Mr.
Trevanion.

"Nonsense!" exclaimed my father, opening his eyes: "I am giving you the
advice of Lord Bacon. You want conviction: conviction comes from
passion; passion from the spirits; spirits from a saffron bag. You,
Beaudesert, on the other hand, want to keep youth. He keeps youth
longest, who lives longest. Nothing more conduces to longevity than a
saffron bag, provided always it is worn at the--"

"Sisty, my thimble!" said my mother.

"You laugh at us justly," said Beaudesert, smiling; "and the same
remedy, I dare say, would cure us both."

"Yes," said my father, "there is no doubt of that. In the pit of the
stomach is that great central web of nerves called the ganglions; thence
they affect the head and the heart. Mr. Squills proved that to us,
Sisty."

"Yes," said I; "but I never heard Mr. Squills talk of a saffron bag."

"Oh, foolish boy! it is not the saffron bag, it is the belief in the
saffron bag. Apply Belief to the centre of the nerves, and all will go
well," said my father.

CHAPTER III.

"But it is a devil of a thing to have too nice a conscience!" quoth the
member of parliament.

"And it is not an angel of a thing to lose one's front teeth!"
sighed the fine gentleman.

Therewith my father rose, and putting his hand into his waistcoat, more
suo, delivered his famous Sermon Upon The Connection Between Faith And
Purpose.

Famous it was in our domestic circle, but as yet it has not gone beyond;
and since the reader, I am sure, does not turn to the Caxton Memoirs
with the expectation of finding sermons, so to that circle let its fame
be circumscribed. All I shall say about it is that it was a very fine
sermon, and that it proved indisputably--to me at least--the salubrious
effects of a saffron bag applied to the great centre of the nervous
system. But the wise Ali saith that "a fool doth not know what maketh
him look little, neither will he hearken to him that adviseth him." I
cannot assert that my father's friends were fools, but they certainly
came under this definition of Folly.

CHAPTER IV.

For therewith arose, not conviction, but discussion; Trevanion was
logical, Beaudesert sentimental. My father held firm to the saffron
bag. When James the First dedicated to the Duke of Buckingham his
meditation on the Lord's Prayer, he gave a very sensible reason for
selecting his Grace for that honor; "For," saith the king, "it is made
upon a very short and plain prayer, and, therefore, the fitter for a
courtier, for courtiers are for the most part thought neither to have
lust nor leisure to say long prayers, liking best courte messe et long
disner." I suppose it was for a similar reason that my father persisted
in dedicating to the member of parliament and the fine gentleman "this
short and plaine" morality of his,--to wit, the saffron bag. He was
evidently persuaded, if he could once get them to apply that, it was all
that was needful; that they had neither lust nor leisure for longer
instructions. And this saffron bag,--it came down with such a whack, at
every round in the argument! You would have thought my father one of
the old plebeian combatants in the popular ordeal, who, forbidden to use
sword and lance, fought with a sand-bag tied to a flail: a very stunning
weapon it was when filled only with sand; but a bag filled with saffron,
it was irresistible! Though my father had two to one against him, they
could not stand such a deuce of a weapon. And after tats and pishes
innumerable from Mr. Trevanion, and sundry bland grimaces from Sir
Sedley Beaudesert, they fairly gave in, though they would not own they
were beaten.

"Enough," said the member, "I see that you don't comprehend me; I must
continue to move by my own impulse."

My father's pet book was the Colloquies of Erasmus; he was wont to say
that those Colloquies furnished life with illustrations in every page.
Out of the Colloquies of Erasmus he now answered the member.

"Rabirius, wanting his servant Syrus to get up," quoth my father, "cried
out to him to move. 'I do move,' said Syrus. 'I see you move,' replied
Rabirius, 'but you move nothing.' To return to the saffron bag--"

"Confound the saffron bag!" cried Trevanion, in a rage; and then
softening his look as he drew on his gloves, he turned to my mother and
said, with more politeness than was natural to, or at least customary
with, him,--

"By the way, my dear Mrs. Caxton, I should tell you that Lady Ellinor
comes to town to-morrow on purpose to call on you. We shall be here
some little time, Austin; and though London is so empty, there are still
some persons of note to whom I should like to introduce you and yours--"

"Nay," said my father; "your world and my world are not the same. Books
for me, and men for you. Neither Kitty nor I can change our habits,
even for friendship: she has a great piece of work to finish, and so
have I. Mountains cannot stir, especially when in labor; but Mahomet
can come to the mountain as often as he likes."

Mr. Trevanion insisted, and Sir Sedley Beaudesert mildly put in his own
claims; both boasted acquaintance with literary men whom my father
would, at all events, be pleased to meet. My father doubted whether he
could meet any literary men more eloquent than Cicero, or more amusing
than Aristophanes; and observed that if such did exist, he would rather
meet them in their books than in a drawing-room. In fine, he--was
immovable; and so also, with less argument, was Captain Roland.

Then Mr. Trevanion turned to me.

"Your son, at all events, should see something of the world."

My mother's soft eye sparkled.

"My dear friend, I thank you," said my father, touched; "and Pisistratus
and I will talk it over."

Our guests had departed. All four of us gathered to the open window,
and enjoyed in silence the cool air and the moonlight.

"Austin," said my mother at last, "I fear it is for my sake that you
refuse going amongst your old friends: you knew I should be frightened
by such fine people, and--"

"And we have been happy for more than eighteen years without them,
Kitty! My poor friends are not happy, and we are. To leave well alone
is a golden rule worth all in Pythagoras. The ladies of Bubastis, my
dear,--a place in Egypt where the cat was worshipped,--always kept
rigidly aloof from the gentlemen in Athribis, who adored the shrew-mice.
Cats are domestic animals, your shrew-mice are sad gadabouts: you can't
find a better model, any Kitty, than the ladies of Bubastis!"

"How Trevanion is altered!" said Roland, musingly,--"he who was so
lively and ardent!"

"He ran too fast up-hill at first, and has been out of breath ever
since," said my father.

"And Lady Ellinor," said Roland, hesitatingly, "shall you see her to-
morrow?"

"Yes!" said my father, calmly.

As Captain Roland spoke, something in the tone of his question seemed to
flash a conviction on my mother's heart, the woman there was quick; she
drew back, turning pale even in the moonlight, and fixed her eyes on my
father, while I felt her hand, which had clasped mine, tremble
convulsively.

I understood her. Yes, this Lady Ellinor was the early rival whose name
till then she had not known. She fixed her eyes on my father; and at
his tranquil tone and quiet look she breathed more freely, and, sliding
her hand from mine, rested it fondly on his shoulder. A few moments
afterwards, I and Captain Roland found ourselves standing alone by the
window.

"You are young, nephew," said the Captain, "and you have the name of a
fallen family to raise. Your father does well not to reject for you
that opening into the great world which Trevanion offers. As for me, my
business in London seems over: I cannot find what I came to seek. I
have sent for my daughter; when she arrives I shall return to my old
tower, and the man and the ruin will crumble away together."

"Tush, uncle! I must work hard and get money; and then we will repair
the old tower and buy back the old estate. My father shall sell the red
brick house; we will fit him up a library in the keep; and we will all
live united, in peace, and in state, as grand as our ancestors before
us."

While I thus spoke, my uncle's eyes were fixed upon a corner of the
street, where a figure, half in shade, half in moonlight, stood
motionless. "Ah!" said I, following his eye, "I have observed that man
two or three times pass up and down the street on the other side of the
way and turn his head towards our window. Our guests were with us then,
and my father in full discourse, or I should have--"

Before I could finish the sentence my uncle, stifling an exclamation,
broke away, hurried out of the room, stumped down the stairs, and was in
the street, while I was yet rooted to the spot with surprise. I
remained at the window, and my eye rested on the figure. I saw the
Captain, with his bare head and his gray hair, cross the street; the
figure started, turned the corner, and fled.

Then I followed my uncle, and arrived in time to save him from falling;
he leant his head on my breast, and I heard him murmur: "It is he--it is
he! He has watched us!---he repents!"

CHAPTER V.

The next day Lady Ellinor called; but, to my great disappointment,
without Fanny.

Whether or not some joy at the incident of the previous night had served
to rejuvenate my uncle, I know not, but he looked to me ten years
younger when Lady Ellinor entered. How carefully the buttoned-up coat
was brushed; how new and glossy was the black stock! The poor Captain
was restored to his pride, and mighty proud he looked! with a glow on
his cheek and a fire in his eye, his head thrown back, and his whole air
composed, severe, Mavortian, and majestic, as if awaiting the charge of
the French cuirassiers at the head of his detachment.

My father, on the contrary, was as usual (till dinner, when he always
dressed punctiliously, out of respect to his Kitty), in his easy
morning-gown and slippers; and nothing but a certain compression in his
lips, which had lasted all the morning, evinced his anticipation of the
visit, or the emotion it caused him.

Lady Ellinor behaved beautifully. She could not conceal a certain
nervous trepidation when she first took the hand my father extended; and
in touching rebuke of the Captain's stately bow, she held out to him the
hand left disengaged, with a look which brought Roland at once to her
side. It was a desertion of his colors to which nothing, short of Ney's
shameful conduct at Napoleon's return from Elba, affords a parallel in
history. Then, without waiting for introduction, and before a word
indeed was said, Lady Ellinor came to my mother so cordially, so
caressingly; she threw into her smile, voice, manner, such winning
sweetness,--that I, intimately learned in my poor mother's simple,
loving heart, wondered how she refrained from throwing her arms round
Lady Ellinor's neck and kissing her outright. It must have been a great
conquest over herself not to do it! My turn came next; and talking to
me and about me soon set all parties at their ease,--at least
apparently.

What was said, I cannot remember; I do not think one of us could. But
an hour slipped away, and there was no gap in the conversation.

With curious interest, and a survey I strove to make impartial, I
compared Lady Ellinor with my mother; and I comprehended the fascination
which the high-born lady must, in their earlier youth, have exercised
over both brothers, so dis-similar to each other. For charm was the
characteristic of Lady Ellinor,--a charm indefinable. It was not the
mere grace of refined breeding, though that went a great way, it was a
charm that seemed to spring from natural sympathy. Whomsoever she
addressed, that person appeared for the moment to engage all her
attention, to interest her whole mind. She had a gift of conversation
very peculiar. She made what she said like a continuation of what was
said to her. She seemed as if she had entered into your thoughts, and
talked them aloud. Her mind was evidently cultivated with great care,
but she was perfectly void of pedantry. A hint, an allusion, sufficed
to show how much she knew, to one well instructed, without mortifying or
perplexing the ignorant. Yes, there probably was the only woman my
father had ever met who could be the companion to his mind, walk through
the garden of knowledge by his side, and trim the flowers while he
cleared the vistas. On the other hand, there was an inborn nobility in
Lady Ellinor's sentiments that must have struck the most susceptible
chord in Roland's nature, and the sentiments took eloquence from the
look, the mien, the sweet dignity of the very turn of the head. Yes,
she must have been a fitting Oriana to a young Amadis. It was not hard
to see that Lady Ellinor was ambitious, that she had a love of fame for
fame itself, that she was proud, that she set value (and that morbidly)
on the world's opinion. This was perceptible when she spoke of her
husband, even of her daughter. It seemed to me as if she valued the
intellect of the one, the beauty of the other, by the gauge of the
social distinction it conferred. She took measure of the gift as I was
taught at Dr. Herman's to take measure of the height of a tower,--by the
length of the shadow it cast upon the ground.

My dear father, with such a wife you would never have lived eighteen
years shivering on the edge of a Great Book!

My dear uncle, with such a wife you would never have been contented with
a cork leg and a Waterloo medal!

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