Oh! I love!—Methinks This word of love is fit for all the world, And that for gentle hearts, another name Should speak of gentler thoughts than the world owns.—P. B. Shelley.
For me, I ask no more than honour gives,
To think me yours, and
rank me with your friends,—Shakspeare
Callous and worldly as I may seem, from the tone of these memoirs, I can say, safely, that one of the most delicious evenings I ever spent, was the first of my introduction to Miss Glanville. I went home intoxicated with a subtle spirit of enjoyment that gave a new zest and freshness to life. Two little hours seemed to have changed the whole course of my thoughts and feelings.
There was nothing about Miss Glanville like a heroine—I hate your heroines. She had none of that “modest ease,” and “quiet dignity,” and “English grace” (Lord help us!) of which certain writers speak with such applause. Thank Heaven, she was alive. She had great sense, but the playfulness of a child; extreme rectitude of mind, but with the tenderness of a gazelle: if she laughed, all her countenance, lips, eyes, forehead, cheeks laughed too: “Paradise seemed opened in her face:” if she looked grave, it was such a lofty and upward, yet sweet and gentle gravity, that you might (had you been gifted with the least imagination,) have supposed, from the model of her countenance, a new order of angels between the cherubim and the seraphim, the angels of Love and Wisdom. She was not, perhaps, quite so silent in society as my individual taste would desire; but when she spoke, it was with a propriety of thought and diction which made me lament when her voice had ceased. It was as if something beautiful in creation had stopped suddenly.
Enough of this now. I was lazily turning (the morning after Lady Roseville’s) over some old books, when Vincent entered. I observed that his face was flushed, and his eyes sparkled with more than their usual brilliancy. He looked carefully round the room, and then approaching his chair towards mine, said, in a low tone—“Pelham, I have something of importance on my mind which I wish to discuss with you; but let me entreat you to lay aside your usual levity, and pardon me if I say affectation; meet me with the candour and plainness which are the real distinctions of your character.”
“My Lord Vincent,” I replied, “there is, in your words, a depth and solemnity which pierce me, through one of N—‘s best stuffed coats, even to the very heart. Let me ring for my poodle and some eau de Cologne, and I will hear you as you desire, from the alpha to the omega of your discourse.”
Vincent bit his lip, but I rung, had my orders executed, and then settling myself and my poodle on the sofa, I declared my readiness to attend to him.
“My dear friend,” said he, “I have often seen that, in spite of all your love of pleasure, you have your mind continually turned towards higher and graver objects; and I have thought the better of your talents, and of your future success, for the little parade you make of the one, and the little care you appear to pay to the other: for
“‘’tis a common proof,
That lowliness is young
Ambition’s ladder.’
“I have also observed that you have, of late, been much to Lord Dawton’s; I have even heard that you have been twice closeted with him. It is well known that that person entertains hopes of leading the Opposition to the grata arva of the Treasury benches; and notwithstanding the years in which the Whigs have been out of office, there are some persons who pretend to foresee the chance of a coalition between them and Mr. Gaskell, to whose principles it is also added that they have been gradually assimilating.”
Here Vincent paused a moment, and looked full at me. I met his eye with a glance as searching as his own. His look changed, and he continued.
“Now, listen to me, Pelham: such a coalition never can take place. You smile; I repeat it. It is my object to form a third party; perhaps while the two great sects ‘anticipate the cabinet designs of fate,’ there may suddenly come by a third, ‘to whom the whole shall be referred.’ Say that you think it not impossible that you may join us, and I will tell you more.”
I paused for three minutes before I answered Vincent. I then said—“I thank you very sincerely for your proposal: tell me the names of two of your designed party, and I will answer you.”
“Lord Lincoln and Lord Lesborough.”
“What!” said I—“the Whig, who says in the Upper House, that whatever may be the distresses of the people, they shall not be gratified at the cost of one of the despotic privileges of the aristocracy. Go to!—I will have none of him. As to Lesborough, he is a fool and a boaster—who is always puffing his own vanity with the windiest pair of oratorical bellows that ever were made by air and brass, for the purpose of sound and smoke, ‘signifying nothing.’ Go to!—I will have none of him either.”
“You are right in your judgment of my confreres,” answered Vincent; “but we must make use of bad tools for good purposes.”
“No—no!” said I; “the commonest carpenter will tell you the reverse.”
Vincent eyed me suspiciously. “Look you!” said he: “I know well that no man loves better than you place, power, and reputation. Do you grant this?”
“I do!” was my reply.
“Join with us; I will place you in the House of Commons immediately: if we succeed, you shall have the first and the best post I can give you. Now—‘under which king, Bezonian, speak or die!’”
“I answer you in the words of the same worthy you quote,” said I—“‘A foutra for thine office.’—Do you know, Vincent, that I have, strange as it may seem to you, such a thing as a conscience? It is true I forget it now and then; but in a public capacity, the recollection of others would put me very soon in mind of it. I know your party well. I cannot imagine—forgive me—one more injurious to the country, nor one more revolting to myself; and I do positively affirm, that I would sooner feed my poodle on paunch and liver, instead of cream and fricassee, than be an instrument in the hands of men like Lincoln and Lesborough; who talk much, who perform nothing—who join ignorance of every principle of legislation to indifference for every benefit to the people:—who are full of ‘wise saws,’ but empty of ‘modern instances’—who level upwards, and trample downwards—and would only value the ability you are pleased to impute to me, in the exact proportion that a sportsman values the ferret, that burrows for his pleasure, and destroys for his interest. Your party sha’n’t stand!”
Vincent turned pale—“And how long,” said he, “have you learnt ‘the principles of legislation,’ and this mighty affection for the ‘benefit of the people?’”
“Ever since,” said I, coldly, “I learnt any thing! The first piece of real knowledge I ever gained was, that my interest was incorporated with that of the beings with whom I had the chance of being cast: if I injure them, I injure myself: if I can do them any good, I receive the benefit in common with the rest. Now, as I have a great love for that personage who has now the honour of addressing you, I resolved to be honest for his sake. So much for my affection for the benefit of the people. As to the little knowledge of the principles of legislation, on which you are kind enough to compliment me, look over the books on this table, or the writings in this desk, and know, that ever since I had the misfortune of parting from you at Cheltenham, there has not been a day in which I have spent less than six hours reading and writing on that sole subject. But enough of this—will you ride to-day?”
Vincent rose slowly—
“‘Gli arditi (said he) tuoi voti Gia noti mi sono; Ma inveno a quel trono, Tu aspiri con me Trema per te!’”
“‘Io trema’ (I replied out of the same opera)—‘Io trema—di te!’”
“Well,” answered Vincent, and his fine high nature overcame his momentary resentment and chagrin at my reception of his offer—“Well, I honour your for your sentiments, though they are opposed to my own. I may depend on your secrecy?”
“You may,” said I.
“I forgive you, Pelham,” rejoined Vincent: “we part friends.”
“Wait one moment,” said I, “and pardon me, if I venture to speak in the language of caution to one in every way so superior to myself. No one, (I say this with a safe conscience, for I never flattered my friend in my life, though I have often adulated my enemy)—no one has a greater admiration for your talents than myself; I desire eagerly to see you in the station most fit for their display; pause one moment before you link yourself, not only to a party, but to principles that cannot stand. You have only to exert yourself, and you may either lead the opposition, or be among the foremost in the administration. Take something certain, rather than what is doubtful; or at least stand alone:—such is my belief in your powers, if fairly tried, that if you were not united to those men, I would promise you faithfully to stand or fall by you alone, even if we had not through all England another soldier to our standard; but—”
“I thank you, Pelham,” said Vincent, interrupting me; “till we meet in public as enemies, we are friends in private—I desire no more.—Farewell.”
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg