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TALES AND NOVELS
BY
MARIA EDGEWORTH
IN TEN VOLUMES
WITH ENGRAVINGS ON STEEL
VOL. IX.
HARRINGTON; THOUGHTS ON BORES;
AND
ORMOND.
TO THE READER.
In my seventy-fourth year, I have the satisfaction of seeing another work
of my daughter brought before the public. This was more than I could have
expected from my advanced age and declining health.
I have been reprehended by some of the public critics for the _notices_
which I have annexed to my daughter's works. As I do not know their reasons
for this reprehension, I cannot submit even to their respectable authority.
I trust, however, the British public will sympathize with what a father
feels for a daughter's literary success, particularly as this father and
daughter have written various works in partnership.
The natural and happy confidence reposed in me by my daughter puts it in my
power to assure the public that she does not write negligently. I can
assert that twice as many pages were written for these volumes as are now
printed.
The first of these tales, HARRINGTON, was occasioned by an extremely
well-written letter, which Miss Edgeworth received from America, from a
Jewish lady, complaining of the illiberality with which the Jewish nation
had been treated in some of Miss Edgeworth's works.
The second tale, ORMOND, is the story of a young gentleman, who is in some
respects the reverse of Vivian. The moral of this tale does not immediately
appear, for the author has taken peculiar care that it should not obtrude
itself upon the reader.
Public critics have found several faults with Miss Edgeworth's former
works--she takes this opportunity of returning them sincere thanks for the
candid and lenient manner in which her errors have been pointed out. In the
present Tales she has probably fallen into many other faults, but she has
endeavoured to avoid those for which she has been justly reproved.
And now, indulgent reader, I beg you to pardon this intrusion, and, with
the most grateful acknowledgments, I bid you farewell for ever.
RICHARD LOVELL EDGEWORTH.
_Edgeworthstown, May_ 31,1817.
_Note_--Mr. Edgeworth died a few days after he wrote this Preface--the
13th June, 1817.
* * * * *
HARRINGTON.
CHAPTER I.
When I was a little boy of about six years old, I was standing with a
maid-servant in the balcony of one of the upper rooms of my father's house
in London--it was the evening of the first day that I had ever been in
London, and my senses had been excited, and almost exhausted, by the vast
variety of objects that were new to me. It was dusk, and I was growing
sleepy, but my attention was awakened by a fresh wonder. As I stood peeping
between the bars of the balcony, I saw star after star of light appear in
quick succession, at a certain height and distance, and in a regular line,
approaching nearer and nearer. I twitched the skirt of my maid's gown
repeatedly, but she was talking to some acquaintance at the window of a
neighbouring house, and she did not attend to me. I pressed my forehead
more closely against the bars of the balcony, and strained my eyes more
eagerly towards the object of my curiosity. Presently the figure of the
lamp-lighter with his blazing torch in one hand, and his ladder in the
other, became visible; and, with as much delight as philosopher ever
enjoyed in discovering the cause of a new and grand phenomenon, I watched
his operations. I saw him fix and mount his ladder with his little black
pot swinging from his arm, and his red smoking torch waving with
astonishing velocity, as he ran up and down the ladder. Just when he
reached the ground, being then within a few yards of our house, his torch
flared on the face and figure of an old man with a long white beard and a
dark visage, who, holding a great bag slung over one shoulder, walked
slowly on, repeating in a low, abrupt, mysterious tone, the cry of "Old
clothes! Old clothes! Old clothes!" I could not understand the words he
said, but as he looked up at our balcony he saw me--smiled--and I remember
thinking that he had a good-natured countenance. The maid nodded to him; he
stood still, and at the same instant she seized upon me, exclaiming, "Time
for you to come off to bed, Master Harrington."
I resisted, and, clinging to the rails, began kicking and roaring.
"If you don't come quietly this minute, Master Harrington," said she, "I'll
call to Simon the Jew there," pointing to him, "and he shall come up and
carry you away in his great bag."
The old man's eyes were upon me; and to my fancy the look of his eyes and
his whole face had changed in an instant. I was struck with terror--my
hands let go their grasp--and I suffered myself to be carried off as
quietly as my maid could desire. She hurried and huddled me into bed, bid
me go to sleep, and ran down stairs. To sleep I could not go, but full of
fear and curiosity I lay, pondering on the thoughts of Simon the Jew and
his bag, who had come to carry me away in the height of my joys. His face
with the light of the torch upon it appeared and vanished, and flitted
before my eyes. The next morning, when daylight and courage returned, I
asked my maid whether Simon the Jew was a good or a bad man? Observing the
impression that had been made upon my mind, and foreseeing that the
expedient, which she had thus found successful, might be advantageously
repeated, she answered with oracular duplicity, "Simon the Jew is a good
man for naughty boys." The threat of "Simon the Jew" was for some time
afterwards used upon every occasion to reduce me to passive obedience; and
when by frequent repetition this threat had lost somewhat of its power, she
proceeded to tell me, in a mysterious tone, stories of Jews who had been
known to steal poor children for the purpose of killing, crucifying, and
sacrificing them at their secret feasts and midnight abominations. The less
I understood, the more I believed.
Above all others, there was one story--horrible! most horrible!--which she
used to tell at midnight, about a Jew who lived in Paris in a dark alley,
and who professed to sell pork pies; but it was found out at last that the
pies were not pork--they were made of the flesh of little children. His
wife used to stand at the door of her den to watch for little children,
and, as they were passing, would tempt them in with cakes and sweetmeats.
There was a trap-door in the cellar, and the children were dragged down;
and--Oh! how my blood ran cold when we came to the terrible trap-door.
Were there, I asked, such things in London now?
Oh, yes! In dark narrow lanes there were Jews now living, and watching
always for such little children as me; I should take care they did not
catch me, whenever I was walking in the streets; and Fowler (that was my
maid's name) added, "There was no knowing what they might do with me."
In our enlightened days, and in the present improved state of education, it
may appear incredible that any nursery-maid could be so wicked as to
relate, or any child of six years old so foolish as to credit, such tales;
but I am speaking of what happened many years ago: nursery-maids and
children, I believe, are very different now from what they were then; and
in further proof of the progress of human knowledge and reason, we may
recollect that many of these very stories of the Jews, which we now hold
too preposterous for the infant and the nursery-maid to credit, were some
centuries ago universally believed by the English nation, and had furnished
more than one of our kings with pretexts for extortion and massacres.
But to proceed with my story. The impression made on my imagination by
these horrible tales was greater than my nursery-maid intended. Charmed by
the effect she had produced, she was next afraid that I should bring her
into disgrace with my mother, and she extorted from me a solemn promise
that I would never tell any body the secret she had communicated. From that
moment I became her slave, and her victim. I shudder when I look back to
all I suffered during the eighteen months I was under her tyranny. Every
night, the moment she and the candle left the room, I lay in an
indescribable agony of terror; my head under the bed-clothes, my knees
drawn up, in a cold perspiration. I saw faces around me grinning, glaring,
receding, advancing, all turning at last into the same face of the Jew with
the long beard and the terrible eyes; and that bag, in which I fancied were
mangled limbs of children--it opened to receive me, or fell upon my bed,
and lay heavy on my breast, so that I could neither stir nor scream; in
short, it was one continued nightmare; there was no refreshing sleep for me
till the hour when the candle returned and my tyrant--my protectress, as I
thought her--came to bed. In due course she suffered in her turn; for I
could not long endure this state, and, instead of submitting passively or
lying speechless with terror, the moment she left the room at night I began
to roar and scream till I brought my mother and half the house up to my
bedside. "What could be the matter with the child?" Faithful to my promise,
I never betrayed the secrets of my prison-house. Nothing could he learned
from me but that "I was frightened," that "I could not go to sleep;" and
this, indeed, my trembling condition, and convulsed countenance,
sufficiently proved. My mother, who was passionately fond of me, became
alarmed for my health, and ordered that Fowler should stay in the room with
me every night till I should be quite fast asleep.
So Fowler sat beside my bed every night, singing, caressing, cajoling,
hushing, conjuring me to sleep: and when in about an hour's time, she
flattered herself that her conjurations had succeeded; when my relaxing
muscles gave her hope that she might withdraw her arm unperceived; and when
slowly and dexterously she had accomplished this, and, watching my
eyelashes, and cautiously shading the candle with her hand, she had happily
gained the door; some slipping of the lock, some creaking of the hinge,
some parting sound startled me, and bounce I was upright in my bed, my eyes
wide open, and my voice ready for a roar: so she was compelled instantly to
return, to replace the candle full in my view, to sit down close beside the
bed, and, with her arm once more thrown over me, she was forced again to
repeat that the Jew's bag could not come there, and, cursing me in her
heart, she recommenced her deceitful songs. She was seldom released in less
than two hours. In vain she now tried by day to chase away the terrors of
the night: to undo her own work was beyond her power. In vain she confessed
that her threats were only to frighten me into being a good boy. In vain
she told me that I was too old now to believe such nonsense. In vain she
told me that Simon was only an old-clothes-man, that his cry was only "Old
clothes! Old clothes!" which she mimicked to take off its terror; its
terror was in that power of association which was beyond her skill to
dissolve. In vain she explained to me that his bag held only my old shoes
and her yellow petticoat. In vain she now offered to let me _see with my
own eyes_. My imagination was by this time proof against ocular
demonstration. One morning early, she took me down stairs into the
housekeeper's room, where Simon and his bag were admitted; she emptied the
bag in my presence, she laughed at my foolish fears, and I pretended to
laugh, but my laugh was hysterical. No power could draw me within arm's-
length of the bag or the Jew. He smiled and smoothed his features, and
stroked his white beard, and, stooping low, stretched out his inoffensive
hand to me; my maid placed sugared almonds on the palm of that hand, and
bid me approach and eat. No! I stood fixed, and if the Jew approached, I
ran back and hid my head in Fowler's lap. If she attempted to pull or push
me forwards I screamed, and at length I sent forth a scream that wakened my
mother--her bell rang, and she was told that it was only Master Harrington,
who was afraid of poor Simon, the old-clothes-man. Summoned to the side of
my mother's bed, I appeared nearly in hysterics--but still faithful to my
promise, I did not betray my maid;--nothing could be learned from me but
that I could not bear the sight of Old Simon the Jew. My mother blamed
Fowler for taking me down to see such a sort of a person. The equivocating
maid replied, that Master Harrington could not or would not be asy unless
she did; and that indeed now it was impossible to know how to make him asy
by day or by night; that she lost her natural rest with him; and that for
her part she could not pretend to stand it much longer, unless she got her
natural rest. Heaven knows _my_ natural rest was gone! But, besides, she
could not even get her cup of tea in an evening, or stir out for a mouthful
of fresh air, now she was every night to sing Master Harrington to sleep.
It was but poetical justice that she who had begun by terrifying me, in
order to get me to bed, and out of her way, should end by being forced to
suffer some restraint to cure me of my terrors: but Fowler did not
understand or relish poetical justice, or any kind of justice: besides, she
had heard that Lady de Brantefield was in want of a nursery-maid for the
little Lady Anne Mowbray, who was some years younger than Master
Harrington, and Fowler humbly represented to my mother that she thought
Master Harrington was really growing too stout and too much of a man; and
she confessed quite above and beyond her management and comprehension; for
she never pretended to any thing but the care of young children that had
not arrived at the years of discretion; this she understood to be the case
with the little Lady Anne Mowbray; therefore a recommendation to Lady de
Brantefield would be very desirable, and, she hoped, but justice to her.
The very desirable recommendation was given by my mother to Lady de
Brantefield, who was her particular friend; nor was my mother in the least
to blame on this occasion, for she truly thought she was doing nothing but
justice; had it been otherwise, those who know how these things are usually
managed, would, I trust, never think of blaming my mother for a _sort of
thing_ which they would do, and doubtless have done themselves without
scruple, for a favourite maid, who is always a _faithful creature_.
So Fowler departed, happy, but I remained unhappy--not with her, departed
my fears. After she was gone I made a sort of compromise with my
conscience, and without absolutely breaking my promise, I made a half
confession to my mother that I had somehow or other horrid notions about
Jews; and that it was the terror I had conceived of Simon the Jew which
prevented me from sleeping all night. My mother felt for me, and considered
my case as no laughing matter.
My mother was a woman of weak health, delicate nerves, and a kind of morbid
sensibility; which I often heard her deplore as a misfortune, but which I
observed every body about her admire as a grace. She lamented that her dear
Harrington, her only son, should so much resemble her in this exquisite
sensibility of the nervous system. But her physician, and he was a man who
certainly knew better than she did, she confessed, for he was a man who
really knew every thing, assured her that this was indisputably "the
genuine temperament of genius."
I soon grew vain of my fears. My antipathy, my _natural_, positively
natural antipathy to the sight or bare idea of a Jew, was talked of by
ladies and by gentlemen; it was exhibited to all my mother's acquaintance,
learned and unlearned; it was a medical, it was a metaphysical wonder, it
was an _idiosyncrasy_, corporeal, or mental, or both; it was--in short,
more nonsense was talked about it than I will repeat, though I perfectly
remember it all; for the importance of which at this period I became to
successive circles of visitors fixed every circumstance and almost every
word indelibly in my memory. It was a pity that I was not born some years
earlier or later, for I should have flourished a favourite pupil of Mesmer,
the animal magnetizer, or I might at this day be a celebrated somnambulist.
No, to do myself justice, I really had no intention to deceive, at least
originally; but, as it often happens with those who begin by being dupes, I
was in imminent danger of becoming a knave. How I escaped it, I do not well
know. For here, a child scarce seven years old, I saw myself surrounded by
grown-up wise people, who were accounting different ways for that, of which
I alone knew the real, secret, simple cause. They were all, without my
intending it, my dupes. Yet when I felt that I had them in my power, I did
not deceive them much, not much more than I deceived myself. I never was
guilty of deliberate imposture. I went no farther than affectation and
exaggeration, which it was in such circumstances scarcely possible for me
to avoid; for I really often did not know the difference between my own
feelings, and the descriptions I heard given of what I felt.
Fortunately for my integrity, my understanding, and my health, people began
to grow tired of seeing and talking of Master Harrington. Some new wonder
came into fashion; I think it was Jedediah Buxton, the man of prodigious
memory, who could multiply in his head nine figures by nine; and who, the
first time he was taken to the playhouse, counted all the steps of the
dancers, and all the words uttered by Garrick in Richard the Third. After
Jedediah Buxton, or about the same time, if I recollect rightly, came
George Psalmanazar, from his Island of Formosa, who, with his pretended
Dictionary of the Pormosan language, and the pounds of raw beef he devoured
per day, excited the admiration and engrossed the attention of the Royal
Society and of every curious and fashionable company in London: so that
poor little I was forgotten, as though I had never been. My mother and
myself were left to settle the affair with my nerves and the Jews, as we
could. Between the effects of real fear, and the exaggerated expression of
it to which I had been encouraged, I was now seriously ill. It is well
known that persons have brought on fits by pretending to have them; and by
yielding to feelings, at first slight and perfectly within the command of
the will, have at last acquired habits beyond the power of their reason, or
of their most strenuous voluntary exertion, to control. Such was my
pitiable case; and at the moment I was most to be pitied, nobody pitied me.
Even my mother, now she had nobody to talk to about me, grew tired of my
illness. She was advised by her physician, on account of her own health, by
no means to keep so close to the house as she had done of late: she went
out therefore every night to refresh herself at crowded parties; and as
soon as she left the house, the nurse and every body in the family left me.
The servants settled it, in my hearing, that there was nothing in life the
matter with me, that my mother and I were equally vapoursome-ish and
_timersome_, and that there was no use in nursing and pampering of me up in
them fantastical _fancifulnesses_: so the nurse, and lady's maid, and
housekeeper, went down all together to _their_ tea; and the housemaid, who
was ordered by the housekeeper to stay with me, soon followed, charging the
under housemaid to supply her place; who went off also in her turn, leaving
me in charge of the cook's daughter, a child of nine years old, who soon
stole out of the room, and scampered away along the gallery out of the
reach of my voice, leaving the room to darkness and to me--and there I lay,
in all the horrors of a low nervous fever, unpitied and alone.
Shall I be pardoned for having dwelt so long on this history of the mental
and corporeal ills of my childhood? Such details will probably appear more
trivial to the frivolous and ignorant than to the philosophic and well
informed: not only because the best informed are usually the most indulgent
judges, but because they will perceive some connexion between these
apparently puerile details and subjects of higher importance. Bacon, and
one who in later days has successfully followed him on this ground, point
out as one of the most important subjects of human inquiry, equally
necessary to the science of morals and of medicine, "The history of the
power and influence of the imagination, not only upon the mind and body of
the imaginant, but upon those of other people." This history, so much
desired and so necessary, has been but little advanced. One reason for this
may be, that both by the learned and the unlearned it is usually begun at
the wrong end.
"_Belier, mon ami, commences par le commencement_," is excellent advice;
equally applicable to philosophical history and to fairy tale. We must be
content to begin at the beginning, if we would learn the history of our own
minds; we must condescend to be even as little children, if we would
discover or recollect those small causes which early influence the
imagination, and afterwards become strong habits, prejudices, and passions.
In this point of view, if they might possibly tend to turn public attention
in a new direction to an important subject, my puerile anecdotes may be
permitted. These, my experiments, _solitary and in concert, touching fear_,
and _of and concerning sympathies and antipathies_, are perhaps as well
worth noting for future use, as some of those by which Sir Kenelm Digby and
others astonished their own generation, and which they bequeathed to
ungrateful posterity.
CHAPTER II.
My mother, who had a great, and perhaps not altogether a mistaken,
opinion, of the sovereign efficacy of the touch of gold in certain cases,
tried it repeatedly on the hand of the physician who attended me, and who,
in consequence of this application, had promised my cure; but that not
speedily taking place, and my mother, naturally impatient, beginning to
doubt his skill, she determined to rely on her own. On Sir Kenelm Digby's
principle of curing wounds, by anointing the weapon with which the wound
had been inflicted, she resolved to try what could be done with the Jew,
who had been the original cause of my malady, and to whose malignant
influence its continuance might be reasonably ascribed; accordingly one
evening, at the accustomed hour when Simon the old-clothes-man's cry was
heard coming down the street, I being at that time seized with my usual fit
of nerves, and my mother being at her toilette crowning herself with roses
to go to a ball, she ordered the man to be summoned into the housekeeper's
room, and, through the intervention of the housekeeper, the application was
made on the Jew's hand; and it was finally agreed that the same should be
renewed every twelvemonth, upon condition that he, the said Simon, should
never more be seen or heard under our windows or in our square. My evening
attack of nerves intermitted, as the signal for its coming on, ceased. For
some time I slept quietly: it was but a short interval of peace. Simon,
meanwhile, told his part of the story to his compeers, and the fame of his
annuity ran through street and alley, and spread through the whole tribe of
Israel. The bounty acted directly as an encouragement to ply the profitable
trade, and "Old clothes! Old clothes!" was heard again punctually under my
window; and another and another Jew, each more hideous than the former,
succeeded in the walk. Jews I should not call them; though such they
appeared to be at the time: we afterwards discovered that they were good
Christian beggars, dressed up and daubed, for the purpose of looking as
frightful, and as like the traditionary representations and vulgar notions
of a malicious, revengeful, ominous looking Shylock as ever whetted his
knife. The figures were well got up; the tone, accent, and action, suited
to the parts to be played; the stage effect perfect, favoured as it was by
the distance at which I saw and wished ever to keep such personages; and as
money was given, by my mother's orders, to these people to send them away,
they came the more. If I went out with a servant to walk, a Jew followed
me; if I went in the carriage with my mother, a Jew was at the coach-door
when I got in, or when I got out: or if we stopped but five minutes at a
shop, while my mother went in, and I was left alone, a Jew's head was at
the carriage window, at the side next me; if I moved to the other side, it
was at the other side; if I pulled up the glass, which I never could do
fast enough, the Jew's head was there opposite to me, fixed as in a frame;
and if I called to the servants to drive it away, I was not much better
off, for at a few paces' distance the figure would stand with his eyes
fixed upon me; and, as if fascinated, though I hated to look at those eyes,
for the life of me I could not turn mine away. The manner in which I was
thus haunted and pursued wherever I went, seemed to my mother something
"really extraordinary;" to myself, something magical and supernatural. The
systematic roguery of beggars, their combinations, meetings, signals,
disguises, transformations, and all the secret tricks of their trade of
deception, were not at this time, as they have in modern days, been
revealed to public view, and attested by indisputable evidence. Ignorance
is always credulous. Much was then thought wonderful, nay, almost
supernatural, which can now be explained and accounted for, by asy and very
ignoble means. My father--for all this time, though I have never mentioned
him, I had a father living--my father, being in public life, and much
occupied with the affairs of the nation, had little leisure to attend to
his family. A great deal went on in his house, without his knowing any
thing about it. He had heard of my being ill and well, at different hours
of the day; but had left it to the physicians and my mother to manage me
till a certain age: but now I was nine years old, he said it was time I
should be taken out of the hands of the women; so he inquired more
particularly into my history, and, with mine, he heard the story of Simon
and the Jews. My mother said she was glad my father's attention was at last
awakened to this extraordinary business. She expatiated eloquently upon the
medical, or, as she might call them, magical effects of sympathies and
antipathies: on the nervous system; but my father was not at all addicted
to a belief in magic, and he laughed at the whole _female_ doctrine, as he
called it, of sympathies and antipathies: so, declaring that they were all
making fools of themselves, and a Miss Molly of his boy, he took the
business up short with a high hand. There was some trick, some roguery in
it. The Jews were all rascals, he knew, and he would soon _settle_ them. So
to work he set with the beadles, and the constables, and the overseers. The
corporation of beggars were not, in those days, so well grounded in the
theory and so alert in the practice of evasion as, by long experience, they
have since become. The society had not then, as they have now, in a certain
lane, their regular rendezvous, called the _Beggars' Opera_; they had not
then, as they have now, in a certain cellar, an established school for
teaching the art of scolding, kept by an old woman, herself an adept in the
art; they had not even their regular nocturnal feasts, where they planned
the operations of the next day's or the next week's campaign, so that they
could not, as they now do, set at nought the beadle and the parish
officers: the system of signals was not then perfected, and the means of
conveying secret and swift intelligence, by telegraphic science, had not in
those days been practised. The art of begging was then only art without
science: the native genius of knavery unaided by method or discipline. The
consequence was, that the beggars fled before my father's beadles,
constables, and overseers; and they were dispersed through other parishes,
or led into captivity to roundhouses, or consigned to places called asylums
for the poor and indigent, or lodged in workhouses, or crammed into houses
of industry or penitentiary houses, where, by my father's account of the
matter, there was little industry and no penitence, and from whence the
delinquents issued, after their seven days' captivity, as bad or worse than
when they went in. Be that as it may, the essential point with my father
was accomplished: they were got rid of that season, and before the next
season he resolved that I should be out of the hands of the women, and safe
at a public school, which he considered as a specific for all my
complaints, and indeed for every disease of mind and body incident to
childhood. It was the only thing, he said, to make a man of me. "There was
Jack B----, and Thomas D----, and Dick C----, sons of gentlemen in our
county, and young Lord Mowbray to boot, all at school with Dr. Y----, and
what men they were already!" A respite of a few months was granted, in
consideration of my small stature, and of my mother's all eloquent tears.
Meantime my father took me more to himself; and, mixed with men, I acquired
some manly, or what were called manly, ideas. My attention was awakened,
and led to new things. I took more exercise and less medicine; and with my
health and strength of body my strength of mind and courage increased. My
father made me ashamed of that nervous sensibility of which I had before
been vain. I was glad that the past should be past and forgotten; yet a
painful reminiscence would come over my mind, whenever I heard or saw the
word _Jew_. About this time I first became fond of reading, and I never saw
the word in any page of any book which I happened to open, without
immediately stopping to read the passage. And here I must observe, that not
only in the old story books, where the Jews are as sure to be wicked as the
bad fairies, or bad genii, or allegorical personifications of the devils,
and the vices in the old emblems, mysteries, moralities, &c.; but in almost
every work of fiction, I found them represented as hateful beings; nay,
even in modern tales of very late years, since I have come to man's estate,
I have met with books by authors professing candour and toleration--books
written expressly for the rising generation, called, if I mistake not,
Moral Tales for Young People; and even in these, wherever the Jews are
introduced, I find that they are invariably represented as beings of a
mean, avaricious, unprincipled, treacherous character. Even the
peculiarities of their persons, the errors of their foreign dialect and
pronunciation, were mimicked and caricatured, as if to render them objects
of perpetual derision and detestation. I am far from wishing to insinuate
that such was the serious intention of these authors. I trust they will in
future benefit by these hints. I simply state the effect which similar
representations in the story books I read, when I was a child, produced on
my mind. They certainly acted most powerfully and injuriously,
strengthening the erroneous association of ideas I had accidentally formed,
and confirming my childish prejudice by what I then thought the
indisputable authority of _printed books_.
About this time also I began to attend to conversation--to the conversation
of gentlemen as well as of ladies; and I listened with a sort of personal
interest and curiosity whenever Jews happened to be mentioned. I recollect
hearing my father talk with horror of some young gentleman who had been
_dealing with the Jews_, I asked what this meant, and was answered, "'Tis
something very like dealing with the devil, my dear." Those who give a
child a witty instead of a rational answer, do not know how dearly they
often make the poor child pay for their jest. My father added, "It is
certain, that when a man once goes to the Jews, he soon goes to the devil.
So Harrington, my boy, I charge you at your peril, whatever else you do,
keep out of the hands of the Jews--never go near the Jews: if once they
catch hold of you, there's an end of you, my boy."
Had the reasons for the prudential part of this charge been given to me,
and had the nature of the disgraceful transactions with the Hebrew nation
been explained, it would have been full as useful to me, and rather more
just to them. But this was little or no concern of my father's. With some
practical skill in the management of the mind, but with short-sighted views
as to its permanent benefit, and without an idea of its philosophic moral
cultivation, he next undertook to cure me of the fears which he had
contributed to create. He took opportunities of pointing out how poor, how
helpless, how wretched they are; how they are abused continually, insulted
daily, and mocked by the lowest of servants, or the least of children in
our streets; their very name a by-word of reproach: "He is a Jew--an actual
Jew," being the expression for avarice, hard-heartedness, and fraud. Of
their frauds I was told innumerable stories. In short, the Jews were
represented to me as the lowest, meanest, vilest of mankind, and a
conversion of fear into contempt was partially effected in my mind;
partially, I say, for the conversion was not complete; the two sentiments
existed together, and by an experienced eye, could easily be detected and
seen even one through the other.
Now whoever knows any thing of the passions--and who is there who does
not?--must be aware how readily fear and contempt run into the kindred
feeling of hatred. It was about this time, just before I went to school,
that something relative to the famous _Jew Bill_ became the subject of
vehement discussion at my father's table. My father was not only a member
of parliament, but a man of some consequence with his party. He had usually
been a staunch friend of government; but upon one occasion, when he first
came into parliament, nine or ten years before the time of which I am now
writing, in 1753 or 54, I think, he had voted against ministry upon this
very bill for the Naturalization of the Jews in England. Government
liberally desired that they should be naturalized, but there was a popular
cry against it, and my father on this one occasion thought the voice of the
people was right. After the bill had been carried half through, it was
given up by ministry, the opposition to it proving so violent. My father
was a great stickler for parliamentary consistency, and moreover he was of
an obstinate temper. Ten years could make no change in his opinions, as he
was proud to declare. There was at this time, during a recess of
parliament, some intention among the London merchants to send addresses to
government in favour of the Jews; and addresses were to be procured from
the country. The county members, and among them of course my father, were
written to; but he was furiously against _the naturalization_: he
considered all who were for it as enemies to England; and, I believe, to
religion. He hastened down to the country to take the sense of his
constituents, or to impress them with his sense of the business. Previously
to some intended county meeting, there were, I remember, various dinners of
constituents at my father's, and attempts after dinner, over a bottle of
wine, to convince them, that they were, or ought to be, of my father's
opinion, and that they had better all join him in the toast of "The Jews
are down, and keep 'em down."
A subject apparently less liable to interest a child of my age could hardly
be imagined; but from my peculiar associations it did attract my attention.
I was curious to know what my father and all the gentlemen were saying
about the Jews at these dinners, from which my mother and the ladies were
excluded. I was eager to claim my privilege of marching into the
dining-room after dinner, and taking my stand beside my father's elbow; and
then I would gradually edge myself on, till I got possession of half his
chair, and established a place for my elbow on the table. I remember one
day sitting for an hour together, turning from one person to another as
each spoke, incapable of comprehending their arguments, but fully
understanding the vehemence of their tones, and sympathizing in the varying
expression of passion; as to the rest, quite satisfied with making out
which speaker was _for_, and which against the Jews. All those who were
against them, I considered as my father's friends; all those who were _for_
them, I called by a common misnomer, or metonymy of the passions, my
father's enemies, because my father was their enemy. The feeling of party
spirit, which is caught by children as quickly as it is revealed by men,
now combined to strengthen still more and to exasperate my early
prepossession. Astonished by the attention with which I had this day
listened to all that seemed so unlikely to interest a boy of my age, my
father, with a smile and a wink, and a side nod of his head, not meant, I
suppose, for me to see, but which I noticed the more, pointed me out to the
company, by whom it was unanimously agreed, that my attention was a proof
of uncommon abilities, and an early decided taste for public business.
Young Lord Mowbray, a boy two years older than myself, a gawkee schoolboy,
was present; and had, during this long hour after dinner, manifested sundry
symptoms of impatience, and made many vain efforts to get me out of the
room. After cracking his nuts and his nut-shells, and thrice cracking the
cracked--after suppressing the thick-coming yawns that at last could no
longer be suppressed, he had risen, writhed, stretched, and had fairly
taken himself out of the room. And now he just peeped in, to see if he
could tempt me forth to play.
"No, no," cried my father, "you'll not get Harrington, he is too deep here
in politics--but however, Harrington, my dear boy, 'tis not _the thing_ for
your young companion--go off and play with Mowbray: but stay, first, since
you've been one among us so long, what have we been talking of?"
"The Jews, to be sure, papa."
"Right," cried my father; "and what about them, my dear?"
"Whether they ought to be let to live in England, or any where."
"Right again, that is right in the main," cried my father; "though that is
a larger view of the subject than we took."
"And what reasons did you hear?" said a gentleman in company.
"Reasons!" interrupted my father: "oh! sir, to call upon the boy for all
the reasons he has heard--But you'll not pose him: speak up, speak up,
Harrington, my boy!"
"I've nothing to say about reasons, sir."
"No! that was not a fair question," said my father; "but, my boy, you know
on which side you are, don't you?"
"To be sure--on your side, father."
"That's right--bravo! To know on which side one is, is one great point in
life."
"And I can tell on which side every one here is." Then going round the
table, I touched the shoulder of each of the company, saying, "A Jew!--No
Jew!" and bursts of applause ensued.
When I came to my father again, he caught me in his arms, kissed me, patted
my head, clapped me on the back, poured out a bumper of wine, bid me drink
his toast, "No Naturalization Bill!--No Jews!" and while I blundered out
the toast, and tossed off the bumper, my father pronounced me a clever
fellow, "a spirited little devil, who, if I did but live to be a man, would
be, he'd engage, an honour to my country, my family, and my _party_."
Exalted, not to say intoxicated, by my father's praise, when I went to the
drawing-room to the ladies, I became rather more eloquent and noisy than my
mother thought quite becoming; she could not, indeed, forbear smiling
furtively at my wit, when, in answer to some simple country lady's question
of "After all, why should not the Jews be naturalized?" I, with all the
pertness of ignorance, replied, "Why, ma'am, because the Jews are naturally
an unnatural pack of people, and you can't naturalize what's naturally
unnatural."
Kisses and cake in abundance followed--but when the company was gone, my
mamma thought it her duty to say a few words to me upon politeness, and a
few words to my father upon the _too much_ wine he had given me. The
reproach to my father, being just, he could not endure; but instead of
admitting the truth, he vowed, by Jupiter Ammon, that his boy should never
be made a Miss Molly, and to school I should go, by Jupiter Ammon, next
morning, plump.
Now it was well known in our house, that a sentence of my father's
beginning and ending "_by Jupiter Ammon_" admitted of no reply from any
mortal--it was the stamp of fate; no hope of any reversion of the decree:
it seemed to bind even him who uttered the oath beyond his own power of
revocation. My mother was convinced that even her intercession was vain; so
she withdrew, weeping, to the female apartments, where, surrounded by her
maids, the decree of fate was reported, but not verbatim, after the manner
of the gods and goddesses. The maids and the washerwoman, however, scolded
one another very much after their manner, in a council held at midnight,
about my clothes; the result of the whole was that "they must be found and
packed;" and found and packed at last they were; and the next morning, as
decreed, early as Aurora streaked the east, to school I went, very little
thinking of her rosy-tipped fingers.
CHAPTER III.
My life at school was like that of any other school-boy. I shall not
record, even if I could remember, how often I was flogged when I did not
deserve it, or how often I escaped when I did. Five years of my life passed
away, of which I have nothing to relate but that I learned to whip a top,
and to play at ball and marbles, each in their season; that I acquired in
due course the usual quantity of Greek and Latin; and perpetrated in my
time, I presume, the usual quantity of mischief. But in the fourth year of
my schoolboy life, an opportunity for unusual mischief occurred. An
accident happened, which, however trifling in itself, can never be effaced
from my memory. Every particular connected with it, is indeed as fresh in
my recollection as it was the day after it happened. It was a circumstance
which awakened long dormant associations, and combined them with all the
feelings and principles of party spirit, which had first been inculcated by
my father at home, and which had been exercised so well and so continually
by my companions at school, as to have become the governing power of my
mind.
Schoolboys, as well as men, can find or make a party question, and quarrel
out of any thing or out of nothing. There was a Scotch pedlar, who used to
come every Thursday evening to our school to supply our various wants and
fancies. The Scotch pedlar died, and two candidates offered to supply his
place, an English lad of the name of Dutton, and a Jew boy of the name of
Jacob. Dutton was son to a man who had lived as butler in Mowbray's family.
Lord Mowbray knew the boy to be a rogue, but thought he was attached to the
Mowbrays, and at all events was determined to support him, as being somehow
supposed to be connected with his family. Reminding me of my early
declaration at my father's table against the naturalization of the Jews,
and the _bon-mot_ I had made, and the toast I had drunk, and the pledge I
had given, Mowbray easily engaged me to join him against the Jew boy; and a
zealous partisan against Jacob I became, canvassing as if my life had
depended upon this point. But in spite of all our zeal, noise, violence,
and cabal, it was the least and the most simple child in the school who
decided the election. This youngster had in secret offered to exchange a
silver pencil-case for a top, or something of such inadequate value: Jacob,
instead of taking advantage of the child, explained to him that his
pencil-case was worth twenty tops. On the day of election, this little boy,
mounted upon the top of a step-ladder, appeared over the heads of the
crowd, and in a small clear voice, and with an eagerness which fixed
attention, related the history of his pencil-case, and ended by hoping with
all his heart that his friend Jacob, his honest Jacob, might be chosen.
Jacob was elected. Mowbray and I, and all our party, vexed and mortified,
became the more inveterate in our aversion to the successful candidate; and
from this moment we determined to plague and persecute him, till we should
force him to _give up_. Every Thursday evening, the moment he appeared in
the school-room, or on the play-ground, our party commenced the attack upon
"the Wandering Jew," as we called this poor pedlar; and with every
opprobrious nickname, and every practical jest, that mischievous and
incensed schoolboy zealots could devise, we persecuted and tortured him
body and mind. We twanged at once a hundred Jew's-harps in his ear, and
before his eyes we paraded the effigy of a Jew, dressed in a gabardine of
rags and paper. In the passages through which he was to pass, we set
stumbling-blocks in his way, we threw orange-peel in his path, and when he
slipped or fell, we laughed him to scorn, and we triumphed over him the
more, the more he was hurt, or the more his goods were injured. "We laughed
at his losses, mocked at his gains, scorned his nation, thwarted his
bargains, cooled his friends, heated his enemies--and what was our reason?
he was a Jew."
But he was as unlike to Shylock as it is possible to conceive. Without one
thought or look of malice or revenge, he stood before us Thursday after
Thursday, enduring all that our barbarity was pleased to inflict; he stood
patient and long-suffering, and even of this patience and resignation we
made a jest, and a subject of fresh reproach and taunt.
How I, who was not in other cases a cruel or an ill-natured boy, could be
so inhuman to this poor, unprotected, unoffending creature I cannot
conceive; but such in man or boy is the nature of persecution. At the time
it all appeared to me quite natural and proper; a just and necessary war.
The blame, if blame there were, was divided among so many, that the share
of each, my share at least, appeared to me so small, as not to be worth a
moment's consideration. The shame, if we had any, was carried away in the
tide of popular enthusiasm, and drowned and lost in the fury and noise of
the torrent. In looking back upon this disgraceful scene of our boyish
days--boyish indeed I can scarcely call them, for I was almost, and Mowbray
in his own opinion was quite, a man--I say, in looking hack upon this time,
I have but one comfort. But I have _one_, and I will make the most of it: I
think I should never have done so _much_ wrong, had it not been for
Mowbray. We were both horribly to blame; but though I was full as wrong in
action, I flatter myself that I was wrong upon better or upon less bad
motives. My aversion to the Jew, if more absurd and violent, was less
interested and malignant than Mowbray's. I never could stand as he did to
parley, and barter, and chaffer with him--if I had occasion to buy any
thing, I was high and haughty, and at a word; he named his price, I
questioned not, not I--down was thrown my money, my back was turned--and
away! As for stooping to coax him as Mowbray would, when he had a point to
gain, I could not have done it. To ask Jacob to lend me money, to beg him
to give me more time to pay a debt, to cajole and bully him by turns, to
call him alternately usurer and _my honest fellow_, extortioner and _my
friend Jacob_--my tongue could not have uttered the words, my soul detested
the thought; yet all this, and more, could Mowbray do, and did.
Lord Mowbray was deeply in Jacob's debt, especially for two watches which
he had taken upon trial, and which he had kept three months, making, every
Thursday, some fresh excuse for not paying for them; at last Jacob said
that he must have the money, that his employer could wait no longer, and
that he should himself be thrown into prison. Mowbray said this was only a
trick to work upon his compassion, and that the Jew might very well wait
for his money, because he asked twice as much for the watches as they were
worth. Jacob offered to leave the price to be named by any creditable
watchmaker. Lord Mowbray swore that he was as good a judge as any
watchmaker in Christendom. Without pretending to dispute that point, Jacob
finished by declaring, that his distress was so urgent that he must appeal
to some of the masters. "You little Jewish tell-tale, what do you mean by
that pitiful threat? Appeal to the higher powers if you dare, and I'll make
you repent it, you usurer! Only do, if you dare!" cried he, clenching his
hand and opening it, so as to present, successively, the two ideas of a box
on the ear, and a blow on the stomach. "That was logic and eloquence,"
added Mowbray, turning to me. "Some ancient philosopher, _you_ know, or _I_
know, has compared logic to the closed fist, and eloquence to the open
palm. See what it is, Harrington, to make good use of one's learning."
This was all very clever, at least our party thought so, and at the moment
I applauded with the rest, though in my secret soul I thought Jacob was ill
used, and that he ought to have had justice, if he had not been a Jew. His
fear of a prison proved to be no pretence, for it surmounted his dread of
Mowbray's logic and eloquence, and of all the unpopularity which he was
well aware must be the consequence of his applying to the higher powers.
Jacob appealed, and Lord Mowbray was summoned to appear before the head
master, and to answer to the charge. It was proved that the price set upon
the two watches was perfectly fair, as a watchmaker, who was examined on
this point, declared. The watches had been so damaged during the two months
they had been in his lordship's possession, that Jacob declined taking them
back. Lord Mowbray protested that they were good for nothing when he first
had them.
Then why did he not return them after the first week's trial, when Jacob
had requested either to have them back or to be paid for them? His lordship
had then, as half a dozen of the boys on the Jew's side were ready to
testify, refused to return the watches, declaring they went very well, and
that he would keep them as long as he pleased, and pay for them when he
pleased, and no sooner.
This plain tale put down the Lord Mowbray. His wit and his party now
availed him not; he was publicly reprimanded, and sentenced to pay Jacob
for the watches in a week, or to be expelled from the school. Mowbray would
have desired no better than to leave the school, but he knew that his
mother would never consent to this.
His mother, the Countess de Brantefield, was a Countess in her own right,
and had an estate in her own power;--his father, a simple commoner, was
dead, his mother was his sole guardian.
"That mother of mine," said he to us, "would not hear of her son's being
_turned out_--so I must set my head to work against the head of the head
master, who is at this present moment inditing a letter to her ladyship,
beginning, no doubt, with, '_I am sorry to be obliged to take up my pen_,'
or, '_I am concerned to be under the necessity of sitting down to inform
your ladyship_.' Now I must make haste and inform my lady mother of the
truth with my own pen, which luckily is the pen of a ready writer. You will
see," continued he, "how cleverly I will get myself out of the scrape with
her. I know how to touch her up. There's a folio, at home, of old
Manuscript Memoirs of the De Brantefield family, since the time of the
flood, I believe: it's the only book my dear mother ever looks into; and
she has often made me read it to her, till--no offence to my long line of
ancestry--I cursed it and them; but now I bless it and them for supplying
my happy memory with a case in point, that will just hit my mother's fancy,
and, of course, obtain judgment in my favour. A case, in the reign of
Richard the Second, between a Jew and my great, great, great, six times
great grandfather, whom it is sufficient to name to have all the blood of
all the De Brantefields up in arms for me against all the Jews that ever
were born. So my little Jacob, I have you."
Mowbray, accordingly, wrote to his mother what he called a _chef-d'oeuvre_
of a letter, and next post came an answer from Lady de Brantefield with the
money to pay her son's debt, and, as desired and expected, a strong reproof
to her son for his folly in ever dealing with a Jew. How could he possibly
expect not to be cheated, as, by his own confession, it appeared he had
been, grossly? It was the more extraordinary, since he so well recollected
the ever to be lamented case of Sir Josseline de Brantefield, that her son
could, with all his family experience, be, at this time of day, a dupe to
one of a race branded by the public History of England, and private Memoirs
of the De Brantefields, to all eternity!
Mowbray showed this letter in triumph to all his party. It answered the
double purpose of justifying his own bad opinion of the tribe of Israel,
and of tormenting Jacob.
The next Thursday evening after that on which judgment had been given
against Mowbray, when Jacob appeared in the school-room, the anti-Jewish
party gathered round him, according to the instructions of their leader,
who promised to show them some good sport at the Jew's expense.
"Only give me fair play," said Mowbray, "and stick close, and don't let him
off, for your lives don't let him break through you, till I've _roasted_
him well."
"There's your money," cried Mowbray, throwing down the money for the
watches--"take it--ay, count it--every penny right--I've paid you by the
day appointed; and, thank Heaven and my friends, the pound of flesh next my
heart is safe from your knife, Shylock!"
Jacob made no reply, but he looked as if he felt much.
"Now tell me, honest Jacob," pursued Mowbray, "honest Jacob, patient Jacob,
tell me, upon your honour, if you know what that word means--upon your
conscience, if you ever heard of any such thing--don't you think yourself a
most pitiful dog, to persist in coming here to be made game of for
twopence? 'Tis wonderful how much your thoroughbred Jew will do and suffer
for gain. We poor good Christians could never do as much now--could we any
soul of us, think you, Jacob?"
"Yes," replied Jacob, "I think you _could_, I think you _would."_
Loud scornful laughter from our party interrupted him; he waited calmly
till it was over, and then continued, "Every soul of you good Christians
would, I think, do as much for a father, if he were in want and dying, as
mine is." There was a silence for the moment: we were all, I believe,
struck, or touched, except Mowbray, who, unembarrassed by feeling, went on
with the same levity of tone as before: "A father in want! Are you sure now
he is not a father of straw, Jacob, set up for the nonce, to move the
compassion of the generous public? Well, I've little faith, but I've some
charity--here's a halfpenny for your father, to begin with."
"Whilst I live, my father shall ask no charity, I hope," said the son,
retreating from the insulting alms which Mowbray still proffered.
"Why now, Jacob, that's bad acting, out o' character, Jacob, my Jew; for
when did any son of Israel, any one of your tribe, or your twelve tribes,
despise a farthing they could get honestly or dishonestly? Now this is a
halfpenny--a good halfpenny. Come, Jacob, take it--don't be too proud--
pocket the affront--consider it's for your father, not for yourself--you
said you'd do much for your father, Jacob."
Jacob's countenance continued rigidly calm, except some little convulsive
twitches about the mouth.
"Spare him, Mowbray," whispered I, pulling back Mowbray's arm; "Jew as he
is, you see he has some feeling about his father."
"Jew as he is, and fool as you are, Harrington," replied Mowbray, aloud,
"do you really believe that this hypocrite cares about his father,
supposing he has one? Do _you_ believe, boys, that a Jew pedlar _can_ love
a father gratis, as we do?"
"As we do!" repeated some of the boys: "Oh! no, for his father can't be as
good as ours--he is a Jew!"
"Jacob, is your father good to you?" said one of the little boys.
"He is a good father, sir--cannot be a better father, sir," answered Jacob:
the tears started into his eyes, but he got rid of them in an instant,
before Mowbray saw them, I suppose, for he went on in the same insulting
tone.
"What's that he says? Does he say he has a good father? If he'd swear it, I
would not believe him--a good father is too great a blessing for a Jew."
"Oh! for shame, Mowbray!" said I. And "For shame! for shame, Mowbray!"
echoed from the opposite, or, as Mowbray called it, from the Jewish party:
they had by this time gathered in a circle at the outside of that which we
had made round Jacob, and many had brought benches, and were mounted upon
them, looking over our heads to see what was going on.
Jacob was now putting the key in his box, which he had set down in the
middle of the circle, and was preparing to open it.
"Stay, stay, honest Jacob! tell us something more about this fine father;
for example, what's his name, and what is he?" "I cannot tell you what he
is, sir," replied Jacob, changing colour, "nor can I tell you his name."
"Cannot tell me the name of his own father! a precious fellow! Didn't I
tell you 'twas a sham father? So now for the roasting I owe you, Mr. Jew."
There was a large fire in the school-room; Mowbray, by a concerted movement
between him and his friends, shoved the Jew close to the fire, and
barricadoed him up, so that he could not escape, bidding him speak when he
was too hot, and confess the truth.
Jacob was resolutely silent; he would not tell his father's name. He stood
it, till I could stand it no longer, and I insisted upon Mowbray's letting
him off.
"I could not use a dog so," said I.
"A dog, no! nor I; but this is a Jew."
"A fellow-creature," said I.
"A fine discovery! And pray, Harrington, what has made you so
tender-hearted all of a sudden for the Jews?"
"Your being so hard-hearted, Mowbray," said I: "when you persecute and
torture this poor fellow, how can I help speaking?"
"And pray, sir," said Mowbray, "on _which_ side are you speaking?"
"On the side of humanity," said I.
"Fudge! On _whose_ side are you?"
"On yours, Mowbray, if you won't be a tyrant."
"_If!_ If you have a mind to rat, rat _sans phrase_, and run over to the
Jewish side. I always thought you were a Jew at heart, Harrington."
"No more a Jew than yourself, Mowbray, nor so much," said I, standing firm,
and raising my voice, so that I could be heard by all.
"No more a Jew than myself! pray how do you make that out?"
"By being more of a Christian--by sticking more to the maxim 'Do as you
would be done by.'"
"That is a good maxim," said Jacob: a cheer from all sides supported me, as
I advanced to liberate the Jew; but Mowbray, preventing me, leaped upon
Jacob's box, and standing with his legs stretched out, Colossus-like,
"Might makes right," said he, "all the world over. You're a mighty fine
preacher, Master Harrington; let's see if you can preach me down."
"Let's see if I can't _pull_ you down!" cried I, springing forward:
indignation giving me strength, I seized, and with one jerk pulled the
Colossus forward and swung him to the ground.
"Well done, Harrington!" resounded from all sides. Mowbray, the instant he
recovered his feet, flew at me, furious for vengeance, dealing his blows
with desperate celerity. He was far my overmatch in strength and size; but
I stood up to him. Between the blows, I heard Jacob's voice in tones of
supplication. When I had breath I called out to him, "Jacob! Escape!" And I
heard the words, "Jacob! Jacob! Escape!" repeated near me.
But, instead of escaping, he stood stock still, reiterating his prayer to
be heard: at last he rushed between us--we paused--both parties called to
us, insisting that we should hear what the Jew had to say.
"Young Lord--," said he, "and _dear_ young gentleman," turning to me, "let
poor Jacob be no more cause now, or ever, of quarrel between you. He shall
trouble you never more. This is the last day, the last minute he will ever
trouble you."
He bowed. Looking round to all, twice to the upper circle, where his
friends stood, he added, "Much obliged--for all kindness--grateful.
Blessings!--Blessings on all!--and may--"
He could say no more; but hastily taking up his box, he retired through
the opening crowd. The door closed after him. Both parties stood silent for
a moment, till Mowbray exclaimed, "Huzza! Dutton for ever! We've won the
day. Dutton for Thursday! Huzza! Huzza! Adieu! Adieu!--_Wandering Jew!_"
No one echoed his adieu or his huzzas. I never saw man or boy look more
vexed and mortified. All further combat between us ceased, the boys one and
all taking my part and insisting upon peace. The next day Mowbray offered
to lay any wager that Jacob the Jew would appear again on the ensuing
Thursday; and that he would tell his father's name, or at least come
provided, as Mowbray stated it, with a name for his father. These wagers
were taken up, and bets ran high on the subject. Thursday was anxiously
expected--Thursday arrived, but no Jacob. The next Thursday came--another,
and another--and no Jacob!
When it was certain that poor Jacob would appear no more--and when his
motive for resigning, and his words at taking leave were recollected--and
when it became evident that his balls, and his tops, and his marbles, and
his knives, had always been better and _more reasonable_ than Dutton's, the
tide of popularity ran high in his favour. _Poor Jacob_ was loudly
regretted; and as long as schoolboys could continue to think about the same
thing, we continued conjecturing why it was that Jacob would not tell us
his father's name. We made many attempts to trace him, and to discover his
secret; but all our inquiries proved ineffectual: we could hear no more of
Jacob, and our curiosity died away.
Mowbray, who was two or three years my senior, left school soon afterwards.
We did not meet at the university; he went to Oxford, and I to Cambridge.
CHAPTER IV.
When the mind is full of any one subject, that subject seems to recur with
extraordinary frequency--it appears to pursue or to meet us at every turn:
in every conversation that we hear, in every book we open, in every
newspaper we take up, the reigning idea recurs; and then we are surprised,
and exclaim at these wonderful coincidences. Probably such happen every
day, but pass unobserved when the mind is not intent upon similar ideas, or
excited by any strong analogous feeling.
When the learned Sir Thomas Browne was writing his Essay on the Gardens of
Cyrus, his imagination was so possessed by the idea of a quincunx, that he
is said to have seen a quincunx in every object in nature. In the same
manner, after a Jew had once made an impression on my imagination, a Jew
appeared wherever I went.
As I was on my road to Cambridge, travelling in a stagecoach, whilst we
were slowly going up a steep hill, I looked out of the window, and saw a
man sitting under a hawthorn-bush, reading very intently. There was a
pedlar's box beside him; I thought I knew the box. I called out as we were
passing, and asked the man, "What's the mile-stone?" He looked up. It was
poor Jacob. The beams of the morning sun dazzled him; but he recognized me
immediately, as I saw by the look of joy which instantly spread over his
countenance. I jumped out of the carriage, saying that I would walk up the
hill, and Jacob, putting his book in his pocket, took up his well-known
box, and walked along with me. I began, not by asking any question about
his father, though curiosity was not quite dead within me, but by observing
that he was grown very studious since we parted; and I asked what book he
had been reading so intently. He showed it to me; but I could make nothing
of it, for it was German. He told me that it was the Life of the celebrated
Mendelssohn, the Jew. I had never heard of this celebrated man. He said
that if I had any curiosity about it, he could lend me a translation which
he had in his pack; and with all the alacrity of good-will, he set down the
box to look for the book.
"No, don't trouble yourself--don't open it," said I, putting my hand on the
box. Instantly a smile, and a sigh, and a look of ineffable kindness and
gratitude from Jacob, showed me that all the past rushed upon his heart.
"Not trouble myself! Oh, Master Harrington," said he, "poor Jacob is not so
ungrateful as that would come to."
"You're only too grateful," said I; "but walk on--keep up with me, and tell
me how your affairs are going on in the world, for I am much more
interested about them than about the life of the celebrated Mendelssohn."
Is that possible! said his looks of genuine surprised simplicity. He
thanked me, and told me that he was much better in the world than formerly;
that a good friend of his, a London jeweller of his own tribe, who had
employed him as a pedlar, and had been satisfied with his conduct, had
assisted him through his difficulties. This was the last time he should go
his rounds in England as a pedlar; he said he was going into another and a
much better way of business. His friend, the London jeweller, had
recommended him to his brother, a rich Israelite, who had a valuable store
in Gibraltar, and who wanted a young man to assist him, on whom he could
entirely depend. Jacob was going out to Gibraltar in the course of the next
week. "And now, Mr. Harrington," said he, changing his tone and speaking
with effort, as if he were conquering some inward feeling, "now it is all
over, Mr. Harrington, and that I am leaving England, and perhaps may never
see you again; I wish before I take leave of you, to tell you, sir, who my
father was--_was_, for he is no more. I did not make a mystery of his name
merely to excite curiosity, as some of the young gentlemen thought, nor
because I was ashamed of my low birth. My father was Simon the old
clothes-man. I knew you would start, Mr. Harrington, at hearing his name. I
knew all that you suffered in your childhood about him, and I once heard
you say to Lord Mowbray who was taunting you with something about _old
Simon_, that you would not have that known, upon any account, to your
school-fellows, for that they would plague you for ever. From that moment I
was determined that _I_ would never be the cause of recalling or publishing
what would be so disagreeable to you. This was the reason why I persisted
in refusing to tell my father's name, when Lord Mowbray pressed me so to
declare it before all your school-fellows. And now, I hope," concluded he,
"that Mr. Harrington will not hate poor Jacob, though he is the son of--"
He paused. I assured him of my regard: I assured him that I had long since
got rid of all the foolish prejudices of my childhood. I thanked him for
the kindness and generosity he had shown in bearing Mowbray's persecution
for my sake, and in giving up his own situation, rather than say or do what
might have exposed me to ridicule.
Thanking me again for taking, as he said, such a kind interest in the
concerns of a poor Jew like him, he added, with tears in his eyes, that he
wished he might some time see me again: that he should to the last day of
his life remember me, and should pray for my health and happiness, and that
he was sorry he had no way of showing me his gratitude. Again he recurred
to his box, and would open it to show me the translation of Mendelssohn's
Life; or, if that did not interest me, he begged of me to take my choice
from among a few books he had with him; perhaps one of them might amuse me
on my journey, for he knew I was a _reading young gentleman_.
I could not refuse him. As he opened the packet of books, I saw one
directed to Mr. Israel Lyons, Cambridge. I told Jacob that I was going to
Cambridge. He said he should be there in a few days, for that he took
Cambridge in his road; and he rejoiced that he should see me again. I gave
him a direction to my college, and for his gratification, in truth, more
than for my own, I borrowed the magazine containing the life of
Mendelssohn, which he was so anxious to lend me. We had now reached the
coach at the top of the hill; I got in, and saw Jacob trudging after me for
some time; but, at the first turn of the road, I lost sight of him, and
then, as my two companions in the coach were not very entertaining, one of
them, a great fat man, being fast asleep and snoring, the other, a pale
spare woman, being very sick and very cross, I betook myself to my
magazine. I soon perceived why the life of Mendelssohn had so deeply
interested poor Jacob. Mendelssohn was a Jew, born like himself in abject
poverty, but, by perseverance, he made his way through incredible
difficulties to the highest literary reputation among the most eminent men
of his country and of his age; and obtained the name of the Jewish
Socrates. In consequence of his early, intense, and misapplied application
in his first Jewish school, he was seized at ten years old with some
dreadful nervous disease; this interested me, and I went on with his
history. Of his life I should probably have remembered nothing, except what
related to the nervous disorder; but it so happened, that, soon after I had
read this life, I had occasion to speak of it, and it was of considerable
advantage in introducing me to good company at Cambridge. A few days after
I arrived there, Jacob called on me: I returned his book, assuring him that
it had interested me very much. "Then, sir," said he, "since you are so
fond of learning and learned men, and so kind to the Jews, there is a
countryman of mine now at Cambridge, whom it will be well worth your while
to be acquainted with; and who, if I may be bold enough to say so, has been
prepossessed in your favour, by hearing of your humanity to poor Jacob."
Touched as I was by his eagerness to be of use to me, I could not help
smiling at Jacob's simplicity and enthusiasm, when he proceeded to explain,
that this person with whom he was so anxious to make me acquainted was a
learned rabbi, who at this time taught Hebrew to several of the gownsmen of
Cambridge. He was the son of a Polish Jew, who had written a Hebrew
grammar, and was himself author of a treatise on fluxions (since presented
to, and accepted by the university), and moreover the author of a
celebrated work on botany. At the moment Jacob was speaking, certainly my
fancy was bent on a phaeton and horses, rather than on Hebrew or fluxions,
and the contrast was striking, between what he conceived my first objects
at Cambridge would be, and what they really were. However, I thanked him
for his good opinion, and promised to make myself acquainted with his
learned countryman. To make the matter secure, as Jacob was to leave
Cambridge the next day, and as the rabbi was at the house of one of his
scholars in the country, and was not to return to Cambridge till the
ensuing week, Jacob left with me a letter for him, and the very parcel
which I had seen directed to Mr. Israel Lyons: these I engaged to deliver
with my own hands. Jacob departed satisfied--happy in the hope that he had
done me a service; and so in fact it proved. Every father, and every son,
who has been at the university, knows how much depends upon the college
companions with whom a young man first associates. There are usually two
sets: if he should join the dissipated set, it is all over with him, he
learns nothing; but if he should get into the set with whom science and
literature are in fashion, he acquires knowledge, and a taste for
knowledge; with all the ardour inspired by sympathy and emulation, with all
the facility afforded by public libraries and public lectures--the
collected and combined information of the living and the dead--he pursues
his studies. He then fully enjoys the peculiar benefits of a university
education, the union of many minds intent upon the same object, working,
with all the advantages of the scientific division of labour, in a literary
manufactory.
When I went to deliver my packet to Mr. Lyons, I was surprised by seeing in
him a man as different as possible from my preconceived notion of a Jewish
rabbi; I never should have guessed him to be either a rabbi, or a Jew. I
expected to have seen a man nearly as old as Methuselah, with a reverend
beard, dirty and shabby, and with a blue pocket handkerchief. Instead of
which I saw a gay looking man, of middle age, with quick sparkling black
eyes, and altogether a person of modern appearance, both in dress and
address. I thought I must have made a mistake, and presented my packet with
some hesitation, reading aloud the direction to Mr. Israel Lyons--"I am the
man, sir," said he; "our honest friend Jacob has described you so well, Mr.
Harrington--_Mr. William Harrington Harrington_ (you perceive that I am
well informed)--that I feel as if I had had the pleasure of being
acquainted with you for some time. I am very much obliged by this visit; I
should have done myself the honour to wait upon you, but I returned only
yesterday from the country, and my necessary engagements do not leave as
much time for my pleasures as I could wish."
I perceived by the tone of his address, that, though he was a Hebrew
teacher, he was proud of showing himself to be a man of the world. I found
him in the midst of his Hebrew scholars, and moreover with some of the best
mathematicians, and some of the first literary men in Cambridge. I was
awe-struck, and should have been utterly at a loss, had it not been for a
print of Mendelssohn over the chimney-piece, which recalled to my mind the
life of this great man; by the help of that I had happily some ideas in
common with the learned Jew, and we; entered immediately into conversation,
much to our mutual relief and delight. Dr. Johnson, in one of his letters,
speaking of a first visit from a young gentleman who had been recommended
to his acquaintance, says, that "the initiatory conversation of two
strangers is seldom pleasing or instructive;" but I am sure that I was both
pleased and instructed during this initiatory conversation, and Mr. Lyons
did not appear to be oppressed or encumbered by my visit. I found by his
conversation, that though he was the son of a great Hebrew grammarian, and
himself a great Hebrew scholar, and though he had written a treatise on
fluxions, and a work on botany, yet he was not a mere mathematician, a mere
grammarian, or a mere botanist, nor yet a dull pedant. In despite of the
assertion, that
"----Hebrew roots are always found
To flourish best on barren ground,"
this Hebrew scholar was a man of a remarkably fertile genius. This visit
determined my course, and decided me as to the society which I kept during
the three happy and profitable years I afterwards spent at Cambridge.
Mr. Israel Lyons is now no more. I hope it is no disrespect to his memory
to say that he had his foibles. It was no secret among our contemporaries
at Cambridge that he was like too many other men of genius, a little
deficient in economy--shall I say it? a little extravagant. The
difficulties into which he brought himself by his improvidence were,
however, always to him matters of jest and raillery; and often, indeed,
proved subjects of triumph, for he was sure to extricate himself, by some
of his many talents, or by some of his many friends.
I should be very sorry, however, to support the dangerous doctrine, that
men of genius are privileged to have certain faults. I record with quite a
different intention these _facts_, to mark the effect of circumstances in
changing my own prepossessions.
The faults of Israel Lyons were not of that species which I expected to
find in a Jew. Perhaps he was aware that the Hebrew nation is in general
supposed to be too _careful_, and he might, therefore, be a little vain of
his own carelessness about money matters. Be this as it may, I confess
that, at the time, I rather liked him the better for it. His disregard, on
all occasions, of pecuniary interest, gave me a conviction of his liberal
spirit. I was never fond of money, or remarkably careful of it myself; but
I always kept out of debt; and my father gave me such a liberal allowance,
that I had it in my power to assist a friend. Mr. Lyons' lively disposition
and manners took off all that awe which I might have felt for his learning
and genius. I may truly say, that these three years, which I spent at
Cambridge, fixed my character, and the whole tone and colour of my future
life. I do not pretend to say that I had not, during my time at the
university, and afterwards in London, my follies and imprudences; but my
soul did not, like many other souls of my acquaintance, "embody and
embrute." When the time for my quitting Cambridge arrived, I went to take
leave of my learned friend Mr. Israel Lyons, and to offer him my grateful
acknowledgments. In the course of the conversation I mentioned the childish
terror and aversion with which I had been early taught to look upon a Jew.
I rejoiced that, even while a schoolboy, I had conquered this foolish
prejudice; and that at the university, during those years which often
decide our subsequent opinions in life, it had been my good fortune to
become acquainted with one, whose superior abilities and kindness of
disposition, had formed in my mind associations of quite an opposite
nature. Pleased with this just tribute to his merit, and with the
disposition I showed to think candidly of persons of his persuasion, Mr.
Lyons wished to confirm me in these sentiments, and for this purpose gave
me a letter of introduction to a friend, with whom he was in constant
correspondence, Mr. Montenero, a Jewish gentleman born in Spain, who had
early in life quitted that country, in consequence of his horror of tyranny
and persecution. He had been fortunate enough to carry his wealth, which
was very considerable, safely out of Spain, and had settled in America,
where he had enjoyed perfect toleration and freedom of religious opinion;
and as, according to Mr. Lyons' description of him, this Spanish Jew must,
I thought, be a most accomplished and amiable person, I eagerly accepted
the offered letter of introduction, and resolved that it should be my first
business and pleasure, on arriving in London, to find and make myself
acquainted with Mr. Montenero.
CHAPTER V.
People like myself, of lively imagination, may have often felt that change
of place suddenly extinguishes, or gives a new direction to, the ardour of
their enthusiasm. Such persons may, therefore, naturally suspect, that, as
"my steps retired from Cam's smooth margin," my enthusiasm for my learned
rabbi might gradually fade away; and that, on my arrival in London, I
should forget my desire to become acquainted with the accomplished Spanish
Jew. But it must be observed that, with my mother's warmth of imagination,
I also had, I will not say, I inherited, some of my father's "_intensity of
will_,"--some of that firmness of adhesion to a preconceived notion or
purpose, which in a good cause is called resolution, in a bad cause
obstinacy; and which is either a curse or a blessing to the possessor,
according to the degree or habit of exercising the reasoning faculty with
which he may be endowed.
On my arrival in London, a variety of petty unforeseen obstacles occurred
to prevent my accomplishing my visit to the Spanish Jew. New and
never-ending demands upon my time arose, both in and out of my own family,
so that there seemed a necessity for my spending every hour of the day and
night in a manner wholly independent of my will. There seemed to be some
fatality that set at nought all my previous plans and calculations. Every
morning for a week after my arrival, I regularly put my letter of
introduction to Mr. Montenero into my pocket, resolving that I would that
day find him out, and pay my visit; but after walking all the morning, to
bear and to forbear various engagements, to execute promised commissions,
and to fulfil innumerable duties, I regularly came home as I went out, with
my letter in my pocket, and with the sad conviction that it was utterly
impossible to deliver it that day. These obstacles, and this contrariety of
external circumstances, instead of bending my will, or making me give up my
intention, fixed it more firmly in my mind, and strengthened my
determination. Nor was I the least shaken from the settled purpose of my
soul, by the perversity with which every one in our house opposed or
contemned that purpose. One morning, when I had my letter and my hat in my
hand, I met my father, who after looking at the direction of the letter,
and hearing that I was going on a visit to a Spanish Jew, asked what
business upon earth I could have with a Jew--cursed the whole race--
rejoiced that he had five-and-twenty years ago voted against their
naturalization in England, and ended as he began, by wondering what in the
name of Heaven could make me scrape acquaintance with such fellows. When,
in reply, I mentioned my friend, Mr. Israel Lyons, and the high character
he had drawn of Mr. Montenero, my father laughed, saying that he would
answer for it my friend Israel was not an Israelite without guile; for that
was a description of Israelite he had never yet seen, and he had seen a
confounded deal of the world. He decided that my accomplished Spanish Jew
would prove an adventurer, and he advised me, a young man, heir to a good
English fortune, to keep out of his foreign clutches: in short, he stuck to
the advice he gave me, and only wished I would stick to the promise I gave
him, when I was ten years old, to have _no dealings with the Jews_. It was
in vain that I endeavoured to give my explanation of the word _dealings_.
My father's temper, naturally positive, had, I observed, become, as he
advanced in years, much more dogmatic and intolerant. I avoided
contradicting his assertions; but I determined to pursue my own course in a
matter where there could be nothing really wrong or improper. That morning,
however, I must, I perceived, as in duty bound, sacrifice to my father; he
took me under the arm, and carried me away to introduce me to some
commonplace member of parliament, who, as he assured me, was a much fitter
and more profitable acquaintance for me than any member of the synagogue
could possibly be.
The next morning, when, firm to my purpose, I was sallying forth, my
mother, with a face of tender expostulation and alarm, stopped me, and
entreated me to listen to her. My mother, whose health had always been
delicate, had within these three last years fallen into what is called a
very nervous state, and this, with her natural timidity and sensibility,
inclined her now to a variety of superstitious feelings--to a belief in
_presentiments_ and presages, omens and dreams, added to her original
belief in sympathies and antipathies. Some of these her peculiarities of
opinion and feeling had perhaps, at first, only been assumed, or yielded to
in her season of youth and beauty, to interest her admirers and to
distinguish herself in society; but as age advanced, they had been
confirmed by habit and weakness, so that what in the beginning might have
been affectation, was in the end reality. She was alarmed, she said, by the
series of strange coincidences which, from my earliest childhood, had
occurred, seeming to connect my fate, in some extraordinary manner, with
these Jews. She recalled all the circumstances of my illness when I was a
child: she confessed that she had retained a sort of antipathy to the idea
of a Jew--a weakness it might be--but she had had dreams and
_presentiments_, and my fortune had been told her while I was at Cambridge;
and some evil, she had been assured, hung over me within the five ensuing
years--some evil connected with a Jew: in short, she did not absolutely
believe in such prophecies, but still it was extraordinary that the first
thing my mind should be intent upon, in coming to town, should be a Spanish
Jew, and she earnestly wished that I would avoid rather than seek the
connexion.
Knowing my mother's turn for the romantic, I had anticipated her delight at
the idea of making acquaintance with a noble-minded travelled Spaniard; but
unluckily her imagination had galloped off in a contrary direction to mine,
and now my only chance was to make her hear reason, and a very bad chance I
knew this to be. I endeavoured to combat her _presentiment_, and to explain
whatever appeared extraordinary in my love and hatred of the Jews, by
recalling the slight and natural circumstances at school and the
university, which had changed my early prejudice; and I laboured to show
that no natural antipathy could have existed, since it had been completely
conquered by humanity and reason; so that now I had formed what might
rather appear a natural sympathy with the race of Israel. I laboured these
points in vain. When I urged the literary advantages I had reaped from my
friendship with Mr. Israel Lyons, she besought me not to talk of friendship
with persons of that sort. I had now awakened another train of
associations, all unfavourable to my views. My mother _wondered_--for both
she and my father were great _wonderers_, as are all, whether high or low,
who have lived only with one set of people--my mother wondered that,
instead of seeking acquaintance in the city with old Jews and persons of
whom nobody had ever heard, I could not find companions of my own age and
rank in life: for instance, my schoolfellow and friend, Lord Mowbray, who
was now in town, just returned from abroad, a fine young officer, "much
admired here by the ladies, I can assure you, Harrington," added my mother.
This, as I had opportunity of seeing, was perfectly true; four, nearly five
years had made a great apparent change in Mowbray for the better; his
manners were formed; his air that of a man of fashion--a military man of
fashion. He had served a campaign abroad, had been at the siege of
Gibraltar, had much to say, and could say it well. We all know what
astonishing metamorphoses are sometimes wrought even on the most hopeless
subjects, by seeing something of the world, by serving a campaign or two.
How many a light, empty shell of a young man comes home full, if not of
sense, at least of something bearing the semblance of sense! How many a
heavy lout, a dull son of earth, returns enlivened into a conversable
being, who can tell at least of what it has seen, heard, and felt, if not
understood; and who for years, perhaps for ever afterwards, by the help of
telling of other countries, may pass in his own for a man of solid
judgment! Such being the advantages to be derived by these means, even in
the most desperate cases, we may imagine the great improvement produced in
a young man of Lord Mowbray's abilities, and with his ambition both to
please and to shine. In youth, and by youth, improvement in appearance and
manner is easily mistaken for improvement in mind and principle. All that I
had disliked in the schoolboy--the tyrannical disposition--the cruel
temper--the insolent tone--had disappeared, and in their place I saw the
deportment which distinguished a gentleman. Whatever remained of party
spirit, so different from the wrangling, overbearing, mischievous party
spirit of the boy, was in the man and the officer so happily blended with
love of the service, and with _l'esprit de corps_, that it seemed to add a
fresh grace, animation, and frankness to his manner. The evil spirit of
persecution was dislodged from his soul, or laid asleep within him, and in
its place appeared the conciliating spirit of politeness. He showed a
desire to cultivate my friendship, which still more prepossessed me in his
favour.
Mowbray happened to call upon me soon after the conversation I had with my
mother about the Spanish Jew. I had not been dissuaded from my purpose by
her representations; but I had determined to pay my visit without saying
any thing more about the matter, and to form my own judgment of the man. A
new difficulty, however, occurred: my letter of introduction had
disappeared. I searched my pockets, my portfolios, my letter-case, every
conceivable place, but it was not to be found. Mowbray obligingly assisted
me in this search; but after emptying half a dozen times over portfolios,
pockets, and desks, I was ashamed to give him more trouble, and I gave up
the letter as lost. When Mowbray heard that this letter, about which I was
so anxious, was an introduction to a Jewish gentleman, he could not forbear
rallying me a little, but in a very agreeable tone, upon the constancy of
my Israelitish taste, and the perfect continuance of my identity.
"I left you, Harrington, and I find you, after four years' absence, intent
upon a Jew; boy and man you are one and the same; and in your case, 'tis
well that the boy and man should an individual make; but for my part, I am
glad to change my identity, like all other mortals, once in seven years;
and I hope you think I have changed for the better."
It was impossible to think otherwise, especially at that moment. In a
frank, open-hearted manner, he talked of his former tyrannical nature, and
blamed himself for our schoolboy quarrel. I was charmed with him, and the
more so, when he entered so warmly or so politely into my present distress,
and sympathized with my madness of the moment. He suggested all that was
possible to be done to supply the loss of the letter. Could not I get
another in its stead? The same friend who gave me one letter of
introduction could write another. No; Mr. Israel Lyons had left Cambridge,
and I knew not where to direct to him. Could not I present myself to Mr.
Montenero without a letter? That might be rather an awkward proceeding, but
I was not to be stopped by any nice observances, now that I had set my mind
upon the matter. Unluckily, however, I could by no means recollect the
exact address of Mr. Montenero. I was puzzled among half a dozen different
streets and numbers: Mowbray offered to walk with me, and we went to each
of these streets, and to all the variety of numbers I suggested, but in
vain; no Mr. Montenero was to be found. At last, tired and disappointed, as
I was returning home, Mowbray said he thought he could console me for the
loss of my chance of seeing my Spanish Jew, by introducing me to the most
celebrated Jew that ever appeared in England. Then turning into a street
near one of the play-houses, he knocked at the door of a house where
Macklin the actor lodged. Lord Mowbray was well acquainted with him, and I
was delighted to have an opportunity of seeing this celebrated man. He was
at this time past the meridian of ordinary life, but he was in the zenith
of his extraordinary course, and in the full splendour and vigour of his
powers.
"Here," said Mowbray, presenting me to Macklin, "is a young gentleman, who
is ambitious of being acquainted with the most celebrated Jew that ever
appeared in England. Allow me to introduce him to the real, original Jew of
Venice:
'This is the Jew
That Shakspeare drew!'
Whose lines are those, Harrington? do you know?"
"_Yours_, I suppose."
"Mine! you do me much honour: no, they are Mr. Pope's. Then you don't know
the anecdote?
"Mr. Pope, in the decline of life, was persuaded by Bolingbroke to go once
more to the play-house, to see Mr. Macklin in the character of Shylock.
According to the custom of the time, Pope was seated among the critics in
the pit. He was so much struck and transported with admiration, that in the
middle of the play, he started up, and repeated that distich.
"Now, was not I right when I told you, Harrington, that I would introduce
you to the most celebrated Jew in all England, in all Christendom, in the
whole civilized world?"
No one better than Mowbray knew the tone of enthusiastic theatric
admiration in which the heroes of the stage like, or are supposed to like,
to be addressed. Macklin, who was not asy to please, was pleased. The
_lines_, or as Quin insisted upon their being called, the _cordage_ of his
face relaxed. He raised, turned, and settled his wig, in sign of
satisfaction; then with a complacent smile gave me a little nod, and
suffered Lord Mowbray to draw him out by degrees into a repetition of the
history of his first attempt to play the character of Shylock. A play
altered from Shakespeare's, and called "The Jew of Venice," had been for
some time in vogue. In this play, the Jew had been represented, by the
actors of the part, as a ludicrous and contemptible, rather than a
detestable character; and when Macklin, recurring to Shakespeare's original
Shylock, proposed, in the revived Merchant of Venice, to play the part in a
serious style, he was scoffed at by the whole company of his brother
actors, and it was with the utmost difficulty he could screw the manager's
courage to the sticking-place, and prevail upon him to hazard the attempt.
Take the account in Macklin's own words. [Footnote: Vide Macklin's Life.]
"When the long expected night at last arrived, the house was crowded from
top to bottom, with the first company in town. The two front rows of the
pit, as usual, were full of critics. I eyed them," said Macklin, "I eyed
them, sir, through the slit in the curtain, and was glad to see them there;
as I wished, in such a cause, to be tried by a _special jury_. When I made
my appearance in the green-room, dressed for the part, with my red hat on
my head, my piqued beard, my loose black gown, and with a confidence which
I had never before assumed, the performers all stared at one another, and
evidently with a stare of disappointment. Well, sir, hitherto all was
right, till the last bell rung; then, I confess, my heart began to beat a
little: however, I mustered up all the courage I could, and recommending my
cause to Providence, threw myself boldly on the stage, and was received by
one of the loudest thunders of applause I ever before experienced. The
opening scenes being rather tame and level, I could not expect much
applause; but I found myself listened to: I could hear distinctly in the
pit, the words '_Very well--very well indeed! this man seems to know what
he is about_.' These encomiums warmed me, but did not overset me. I knew
where I should have the pull, which was in the third act, and accordingly
at this period I threw out all my fire; and as the contrasted passions of
joy for the merchant's losses, and grief for the elopement of Jessica, open
a fine field for an actor's powers, I had the good fortune to please beyond
my most sanguine expectations. The whole house was in an uproar of
applause; and I was obliged to pause between the speeches to give it vent,
so as to be heard. The _trial scene_ wound up the fulness of my reputation.
Here I was well listened to, and here I made such a silent yet forcible
impression on my audience, that I retired from this great attempt most
perfectly satisfied. On my return to the green-room, after the play was
over, it was crowded with nobility and critics, who all complimented me in
the warmest and most unbounded manner; and the situation I felt myself in,
I must confess, was one of the most flattering and intoxicating of my whole
life. No money, no title, could purchase what I felt. By G--, sir, though I
was not worth fifty pounds in the world at that time, yet let me tell you,
I was _Charles the Great_ for that night."
The emphasis and enthusiasm with which Macklin spoke, pleased me--
enthusiastic people are always well pleased with enthusiasm. My curiosity
too was strongly excited to see him play Shylock. I returned home full of
the Jew of Venice; but, nevertheless, not forgetting my Spanish Jew.--At
last, my mother could no longer bear to see me perplex and vex myself in my
fruitless search for the letter, and confessed that while we were talking
the preceding day, finding that no arguments or persuasions of hers had had
any effect, she had determined on what she called a pious fraud: so, while
I was in the room--before my face--while I was walking up and down, holding
forth in praise of my Jewish friend whom I did know, and my Jewish friend
whom I did not know, she had taken up Mr. Israel Lyons' letter of
introduction to Mr. Montenero, and had thrown it into the fire.
I was very much provoked; but to my mother, and a mother who was so fond of
me, what could I say? After all, I confessed there was a good deal of fancy
in the case on my side as well as on hers. I endeavoured to forget my
disappointment. My imagination turned again to Shylock and Macklin; and, to
please me, my mother promised to make a large party to go with me to see
the Merchant of Venice the next night that Macklin should act; but,
unfortunately, Macklin had just now quarrelled with the manager, and till
this could be made up, there was no chance of his condescending to perform.
Meantime my mother having, as she thought, fairly got rid of the Jews, and
Mowbray having, as he said, cured me of my present fit of Jewish insanity,
desired to introduce me to his mother and sister. They had now just come to
town from the Priory--Brantefield Priory, an ancient family-seat, where,
much to her daughter's discomfiture, Lady de Brantefield usually resided
eight months of the year, because there she felt her dignity more safe from
contact, and herself of more indisputable and unrivalled consequence, than
in the midst of the jostling pretensions and modern innovations of the
metropolis. At the Priory every thing attested, recorded, and flattered her
pride of ancient and illustrious descent. In my childhood I had once been
with my mother at the Priory, and I still retained a lively recollection of
the antique wonders of the place. Foremost in my memory came an old
picture, called "Sir Josseline going to the Holy Land," where Sir
Josseline de Mowbray stood, in complete armour, pointing to a horrid figure
of a prostrate Jew, on whose naked back an executioner, with uplifted whip,
was prepared to inflict stripes for some shocking crime.--This picture had
been painted in times when the proportions of the human figure were little
attended to, and when foreshortening was not at all understood: this added
to the horrible effect, for the executioner's arm and scourge were of
tremendous size; Sir Josseline stood miraculously tall, and the Jew,
crouching, supplicating, sprawling, was the most distorted squalid figure,
eyes ever beheld, or imagination could conceive.
After having once beheld it, I could never bear to look upon it again, nor
did I ever afterwards enter the tapestry chamber:--but there were some
other of the antique rooms in which I delighted, and divers pieces of old
furniture which I reverenced. There was an ancient bed, with scolloped
tester, and tarnished quilt, in which Queen Elizabeth had slept; and a huge
embroidered pincushion done by no hands, as you may guess, but those of the
unfortunate Mary, Queen of Scots, who, during her captivity, certainly
worked harder than ever queen worked before or since.
Then there was an old, worm-eaten chair, in which John of Gaunt had sat;
and I remember that while Lady de Brantefield expressed her just
indignation against the worms, for having dared to attack this precious
relique, I, kneeling to the chair, admired the curious fretwork, the dusty
honeycombs, which these invisible little workmen had excavated. But John of
Gaunt's chair was nothing to King John's table. There was a little black
oak table, too, with broken legs, which was invaluable--for, as Lady de
Brantefield confidently affirmed, King John of France, and the Black
Prince, had sat and supped at it. I marvelled much in silence--for I had
been sharply reproved for some observation I had unwittingly made on the
littleness and crookedness of a dark, corner-chimneyed nook shown us for
the banqueting-room; and I had fallen into complete disgrace for having
called the winding staircases, leading to the turret-chambers, _back
stairs._
Of Lady de Brantefield, the _touch-me-not_ mistress of the mansion, I had
retained a sublime, but not a beautiful idea--I now felt a desire to see
her again, to verify my old notion.
Of Lady Anne Mowbray, who at the time I had been at the Priory, was a
little child, some years younger than myself, I could recollect nothing,
except that she wore a pink sash, of which she was very vain, and that she
had been ushered into the drawing-room after dinner by Mrs. Fowler, at the
sight of whom my inmost soul had recoiled. I remember, indeed, pitying her
little ladyship for being under such dominion, and longing to ask her
whether Fowler had told her the story of Simon the Jew. But I could never
commune with Lady Anne; for either she was up in the nursery, or Fowler was
at her back in the drawing-room, or little Lady Anne was sitting upright on
her stool at her mother's feet, whom I did not care to approach, and in
whose presence I seldom ventured to speak--consequently my curiosity on
this point had, from that hour, slumbered within me; but it now wakened,
upon my mother's proposing to present me to Lady Anne, and the pleasure of
asking and the hope of obtaining an answer to my long-meditated question,
was the chief gratification I promised myself from the renewal of our
acquaintance with her ladyship.
CHAPTER VI.
My recollection of Lady de Brantefield proved wonderfully correct; she
gave me back the image I had in my mind--a stiff, haughty-looking picture
of a faded old beauty. Adhering religiously to the fashion of the times
when she had been worshipped, she made it a point to wear the old
head-dress exactly. She was in black, in a hoop of vast circumference, and
she looked and moved as if her being Countess de Brantefield in her own
right, and concentring in her person five baronies, ought to be for ever
present to the memory of all mankind, as it was to her own.
My mother presented me to her ladyship. The ceremony of introduction
between a young gentleman and an old lady of those times, performed on his
part with a low bow and look of profound deference, on hers, with back
stepping-curtsy and bridled head, was very different from the nodding,
bobbing trick of the present day. As soon as the _finale_ of Lady de
Brantefield's sentence, touching honour, happiness, and family connexion,
would permit, I receded, and turned from the mother to the daughter, little
Lady Anne Mowbray, a light fantastic figure, bedecked with "daisies pied,"
covered with a profusion of tiny French flowers, whose invisible wire
stalks kept in perpetual motion as she turned her pretty head from side to
side. Smiling, sighing, tittering, flirting with the officers round her,
Lady Anne appeared, and seemed as if she delighted in appearing, as perfect
a contrast as possible to her august and formidable mother. The daughter
had seen the ill effect of the mother's haughty demeanour, and, mistaking
reverse of wrong for right, had given reserve and dignity to the winds.
Taught by the happy example of Colonel Topham, who preceded me, I learned
that the low bow would have been here quite out of place. The sliding bow
was for Lady Anne, and the way was to dash into nonsense with her directly,
and full into the midst of nonsense I dashed. Though her ladyship's perfect
accessibility seemed to promise prompt reply to any question that could be
asked; yet the single one about which I felt any curiosity, I could not
contrive to introduce during the first three hours I was in her ladyship's
company. There was such a quantity of preliminary nonsense to get through,
and so many previous questions to be disposed of: for example, I was first
to decide which of three colours I preferred, all of them pronounced to be
the _prettiest_ in, the universe, _boue de Paris, oeil de l'empereur_, and
a _suppressed sigh_.
At that moment, Lady Anne wore the _suppressed sigh_, but I did not know
it--I mistook it for _boue de Paris_--conceive my ignorance! No two things
in nature, not a horse-chestnut and a chestnut-horse, could be more
different.
Conceive my confusion! and Colonels Topham and Beauclerk standing by. But I
recovered myself in public opinion, by admiring the slipper on her
ladyship's little foot. Now I showed my taste, for this slipper had but the
night before arrived express from Paris, and it was called a _venez-y
voir_; and how a slipper, with a heel so high, and a quarter so low, could
be kept on the foot, or how the fair could walk in it, I could not
conceive, except by the special care of her guardian sylph.
After the _venez-y voir_ had fixed all eyes as desired, the lady turning
alternately to Colonels Topham and Beauclerk, with rapid gestures of
ecstasy, exclaimed, "The _pouf!_ the _pouf!_ Oh! on Wednesday I shall have
the _pouf_!"
Now what manner of thing a _pouf!_ might be, I had not the slightest
conception. "It requireth," said Bacon, "great cunning for a man in
discourse to seem to know that which he knoweth not." Warned by _boue de
Paris_ and the _suppressed sigh_, this time I found safety in silence. I
listened, and learned, first that _un pouf_ was the most charming thing in
the creation; next, that nobody upon earth could be seen in Paris without
one; that one was coming from Mademoiselle Berlin, per favour of Miss
Wilkes, for Lady Anne Mowbray, and that it would be on her head on
Wednesday; and Colonel Topham swore there would be no resisting her
ladyship in the _pouf_, she would look so killing.
"So killing," was the colonel's last.
I now thought that I had Lady Anne's ear to myself; but she ran on to
something else, and I was forced to follow as she skimmed over fields of
nonsense. At last she did stop to take breath, and I did get in my one
question: to which her ladyship replied, "Poor Fowler frighten me? Lord!
No. Like her? oh! yes--dote upon Fowler! didn't you?--No, you hated her, I
remember. Well, but I assure you she's the best creature in the world; I
could always make her do just what I pleased. Positively, I must make you
make it up with her, if I can remember it, when she comes up to town--she
is to come up for my birthday. Mamma, you know, generally leaves her at the
Priory, to take care of all the old trumpery, and show the place--you know
it's a _show place_. But I tell Colonel Topham, when I've a place of my
own, I positively will have it modern, and all the furniture in the very
newest style. I'm so sick of old reliques! Natural, you know, when _I have
been having_ a surfeit all my life of old beds and chairs, and John of
Gaunt and the Black Prince. But the Black Prince, I remember, was always a
vast favourite of yours. Well, but poor Fowler, you must like her, too--I
assure you she always speaks with tenderness of you; she is really the best
old soul! for she's growing oldish, but so faithful, and so sincere too.
Only flatters mamma sometimes so, I can hardly help laughing in her face;
but then you know mamma, and old ladies, when they come to that pass, must
be flattered to keep them up--'tis but charitable--really right. Poor
Fowler's daughter is to be my maid."
"I did not know Fowler had a daughter, and a daughter grown up."
"Nancy Fowler! not know! Oh! yes, quite grown up, fit to be married--only a
year younger than I am. And there's our old apothecary in the country has
taken such a fancy to her! But he's too old and _wiggy_--but it would make
a sort of lady of her, and her mother will have it so--but she sha'n't--
I've no notion of compulsion. Nancy shall be my maid, for she is quite out
of the common style; can copy verses for one--I've no time, you know--and
draws patterns in a minute. I declare I don't know which I love best--
Fowler or Nancy--poor old Fowler, I think. Do you know she says I'm so like
the print of the Queen of France. It never struck me; but I'll go and ask
Topham."
I perceived that Fowler, wiser grown, had learned how much more secure the
reign of flattery is, than the reign of terror. She was now, as I found,
supreme in the favour of both her young and old lady. The specimen I have
given of Lady Anne Mowbray's conversation, or rather of Lady Anne's mode of
talking, will, I fancy, be amply sufficient to satiate all curiosity
concerning her ladyship's understanding and character. She had, indeed,
like most of the young ladies her companions--"no character at all."
Female conversation in general was, at this time, very different from what
it is in our happier days. A few bright stars had risen, and shone, and
been admired; but the useful light had not diffused itself. Miss Talbot's
and Miss Carter's learning and piety, Mrs. Montague's genius, Mrs. Vesey's
elegance, and Mrs. Boscawen's [Footnote: See Bas-Bleu.] "polished ease,"
had brought female literature into fashion in certain favoured circles; but
it had not, as it has now, become general in almost every rank of life.
Young ladies had, it is true, got beyond the Spectator and the Guardian:
Richardson's novels had done much towards opening a larger field of
discussion. One of Miss Burney's excellent novels had appeared, and had
made an era in London conversation; but still it was rather venturing out
of the safe course for a young lady to talk of books, even of novels; it
was not, as it is now, expected that she should know what is going on in
the literary world. The Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews, and varieties of
literary and scientific journals, had not
"Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way."
Before there was a regular demand and an established market, there were
certain hawkers and pedlars of literature, fetchers and carriers of bays,
and at every turn copies of impromptus, charades, and lines by the
honourable Miss C----, and the honourable Mrs. D----, were put into my
hands by young ladies, begging for praise, which it was seldom in my power
conscientiously to bestow. I early had a foreboding--one of my mother's
_presentiments_--that I should come to disgrace with Lady Anne Mowbray
about some of these cursed scraps of poetry. Her ladyship had one--shall I
say?--_peculiarity_. She could not bear that any one should differ from her
in matters of taste; and though she regularly disclaimed being a reading
lady, she was most assured of what she was most ignorant. With the
assistance of Fowler's flattery, together with that of all the hangers-on
at Brantefield Priory, her temper had been rendered incapable of bearing
contradiction. But this defect was not immediately apparent: on the
contrary, Lady Anne was generally thought a pleasant, good-humoured
creature, and most people wondered that the daughter could be so different
from the mother. Lady de Brantefield was universally known to be positive
and prejudiced. Her prejudices were all old-fashioned, and ran directly
counter to the habits of her acquaintance. Lady Anne's, on the contrary,
were all in favour of the present fashion, whatever it might be, and ran
smoothly with the popular stream. The violence of her temper could,
therefore, scarcely be suspected, till something opposed the current: a
small obstacle would then do the business--would raise the stream suddenly
to a surprising height, and would produce a tremendous noise. It was my ill
fortune one unlucky day to cross Lady Anne Mowbray's humour, and to oppose
her opinion. It was about a trifle; but trifles, indeed, made, with her,
the sum of human things. She came one morning, as it was her custom, to
loiter away her time at my mother's till the proper hour for going out to
visit. For five minutes she sat at some fashionable kind of work--_wafer
work_, I think it was called, a work which has been long since consigned to
the mice; then her ladyship yawned, and exclaiming, "Oh, those lines of
Lord Chesterfield's, which Colonel Topham gave me; I'll copy them into my
album. Where's my _album_?--Mrs. Harrington, I lent it to you. Oh! here it
is. Mr. Harrington, you will finish copying this for me." So I was set down
to the _album_ to copy--_Advice to a Lady in Autumn_.
"Asses' milk, half a pint, take at seven, or before."
My mother, who saw that I did not relish the asses' milk, put in a word for
me.
"My dear Lady Anne, it is not worth while to write these lines in your
_album_, for they were in print long ago, in every lady's old
memorandum-book, and in Dodsley's Collection, I believe."
"But still that was quite a different thing," Lady Anne said, "from having
them in her _album_; so Mr. Harrington must be so very good." I did not
understand the particular use of copying in my illegible hand what could be
so much better read in print; but it was all-sufficient that her ladyship
chose it. When I had copied the verses I must, Lady Anne said, read the
lines, and admire them. But I had read them twenty times before, and I
could not say that they were as fresh the twentieth reading as at the
first. Lord Mowbray came in, and she ran to her brother:--"Mowbray! can
any thing in nature be prettier than these verses of Lord Chesterfield?
Mowbray, you, who are a judge, listen to these two lines:
'The dews of the evening moat carefully shun,
Those tears of the sky for the loss of the sun.'
_Now_, here's your friend, Mr. Harrington, says it's only a _prettiness_,
and something about Ovid. I'm sure I wish you'd advise some of your friends
to leave their classics, as you did, at the musty university. What have we
to do with Ovid in London? You, yourself, Mr. Harrington, who set up for
such a critic, what fault can you find, pray, with
'Keep all cold from your breast, there's already too much?'"
By the lady's tone of voice, raised complexion, and whole air of the head,
I saw the danger was imminent, and to avoid the coming storm, I sheltered
myself under the cover of modesty; but Mowbray dragged me out to make sport
for himself.
"Oh! Harrington, that will never do. No critic! No judge! You! with all
your college honours fresh about you. Come, come, Harrington, pronounce you
must. Is this poetry or not?
'_Keep all cold from your breast, there's already too much_.'"
"Whether prose or poetry, I pronounce it to be very good advice."
"Good advice! the thing of all others I have the most detested from my
childhood," cried Lady Anne; "but I insist upon it, it is good poetry, Mr.
Harrington."
"And equally good grammar, and good English, and good sense," cried her
brother, in an ironical tone. "Come, Harrington, acknowledge it all, man--
all equally. Never stop half way, when a young--and such a young lady,
summons you to surrender to her your truth, taste, and common sense. Gi'
her a' the plea, or you'll get na good of a woman's hands."
"So, sir!--So, my lord, you are against me too, and you are mocking me too,
I find. I humbly thank you, gentlemen," cried Lady Anne, in a high tone of
disdain; "from a colonel in the army, and a nobleman who has been on the
continent, I might have expected more politeness. From a Cambridge scholar
no wonder!"
My mother laid down her netting in the middle of a row, and came to keep
the peace. But it was too late; Lady Anne was deaf and blind with passion.
She confessed she could not see of what use either of the universities were
in this world, except to make bears and bores of young men.
Her ladyship, fluent in anger beyond conception, poured, as she turned from
her brother to me, and from me to her brother, a flood of nonsense, which,
when it had once broken bounds, there was no restraining in its course.
Amazed at the torrent, my mother stood aghast; Mowbray burst into
unextinguishable laughter: I preserved my gravity as long as I possibly
could; I felt the risible infection seizing me, and that malicious Mowbray,
just when he saw me in the struggle--the agony--sent me back such an image
of my own length of face, that there was no withstanding it. I, too,
breaking all bounds of decorum, gave way to visible and audible laughter;
and from which I was first recovered by seeing the lady burst into tears,
and by hearing, at the same moment, my mother pronounce in a tone of grave
displeasure, "Very ill-bred, Harrington!" My mother's tone of displeasure
affecting me much more than the young lady's tears, I hastened to beg
pardon, and I humbled myself before Lady Anne; but she spurned me, and
Mowbray laughed the more. Mowbray, I believe, really wished that I should
like his sister; yet he could not refrain from indulging his taste for
ridicule, even at her expense. My mother wondered how Lord Mowbray could
tease his sister in such a manner; and as for Harrington, she really
thought he had known that the first law of good-breeding is never to say or
do any thing that can hurt another person's feelings.
"Never _intentionally_ to hurt another's feelings, ma'am," said I; "I hope
you will allow me to plead the innocence of my intentions."
"Oh, yes! there was no malicious _intent_: Not guilty--Not guilty!" cried
Mowbray. "Anne, you acquit him there, don't you, Anne?"
Anne sobbed, but spoke not.
"It is little consolation, and no compensation, to the person who is hurt,"
said my mother, "that the offender pleads he did not mean to say or do any
thing rude: a rude thing is a rude thing--the intention is nothing--all we
are to judge of is the fact."
"Well, but after all, in fact," said Mowbray, "there was nothing to make
any body seriously angry."
"Of that every body's own feelings must be the best judge," said my mother,
"the best and the sole judge."
"Thank Heaven! that is not the law of libel _yet_, not the law of the land
_yet_," said Mowbray; "no knowing what we may come to. Would it not be
hard, ma'am, to constitute the feelings of one person _always_ sole judge
of the intentions of another? though in cases like the present I submit.
Let it be a ruled case, that the sensibility of a lady shall be the measure
of a gentleman's guilt."
"I don't judge of these things by rule and measure," said my mother: "try
my smelling-bottle, my dear." Very few people, especially women of delicate
nerves and quick feelings, could, as my mother observed, bear to be laughed
at; particularly by those they loved; and especially before other people
who did not know them perfectly. My mother was persuaded, she said, that
Lord Mowbray had not reflected on all this when he had laughed so
inconsiderately.
Mowbray allowed that he certainly had not reflected when he had laughed
inconsiderately. "So come, come. Anne, sister Anne, be friends!" then
playfully tapping his sister on the back, the pretty, but sullen back of
the neck, he tried to raise the drooping head; but finding the chin resist
the upward motion, and retire resentfully from his touch, he turned upon
his heel, and addressing himself to me, "Well! Harrington," said he, "the
news of the day, the news of the theatre, which I was bringing you full
speed, when I stumbled upon this cursed half-pint of asses' milk, which
Mrs.. Harrington was so angry with me for overturning--"
"But what's the news, my lord?" said my mother.
"News! not for you, ma'am, only for Harrington; news of the Jews."
"The Jews!" said my mother.
"The Jews!" said I, both in the same breath, but in very different tones.
"_Jews_, did I say?" replied Mowbray: "Jew, I should have said."
"Mr. Montenero?" cried I.
"Montenero!--Can you think of nothing but Mr. Montenero, whom you've never
seen, and never will see?"
"Thank you for that, my lord," said my mother; "one touch from you is worth
a hundred from me."
"But of what Jew then are you talking? and what's your news, my lord?" said
I.
"My news is only--for Heaven's sake, Harrington, do not look expecting a
mountain, for 'tis only a mouse. The news is, that Macklin, the honest Jew
of Venice, has got the pound, or whatever number of pounds he wanted to get
from the manager's heart; the quarrel's made up, and if you keep your
senses, you may have a chance to see, next week, this famous Jew of
Venice."
"I am heartily glad of it!" cried I, with enthusiasm.
"And is that all?" said my mother, coldly.
"Mr. Harrington," said Lady Anne, "is really so enthusiastic about some
things, and so cold about others, there is no understanding him; he is
very, very _odd_."
Notwithstanding all the pains my mother took to atone for my offence, and
notwithstanding that I had humbled myself to the dust to obtain pardon, I
was not forgiven.
Lady de Brantefield, Lady Anne, and some other company, dined with us; and
Mowbray, who seemed to be really sorry that he had vexed his sister, and
that he had in the heyday of his spirit unveiled to me her defects of
temper, did every thing in his power to make up matters between us. At
dinner he placed me beside Anne, little sister Anne; but no caressing tone,
no diminutive of kindness in English, or soft Italian, could touch her
heart, or move the gloomy purpose of her soul. Her sulky ladyship almost
turned her back upon me, as she listened only to Colonel Topham, who was
on the other side. Mowbray coaxed her to eat, but she refused every thing
he offered--would not accept even his compliments--his compliments on her
_pouf_--would not allow him to show her off, as he well knew how to do, to
advantage; would not, when he exerted himself to prevent her silence from
being remarked, smile at any one of the many entertaining things he said;
she would not, in short, even passively permit his attempts to cover her
ill-humour, and to make things pass off well.
In the evening, when the higher powers drew off to cards, and when Lady
Anne had her phalanx of young ladies round her; and whilst I stood a
defenceless young man at her mercy, she made me feel her vengeance. She
talked _at_ me continually, and at every opening gave me sly cuts, which
she flattered herself I felt sorely.
Mowbray turned off the blows as fast as they were aimed, or treated them
all as playful traits of lover-like malice, tokens of a lady's favour.
"Ha! a good cut, Harrington!--Happy man!--Up to you there, Harrington! High
favour, when a lady condescends to remember and retaliate. Paid you for old
scores!--Sign you're in her books now!--'No more to say to you, Mr.
Harrington'--a fair challenge to say a great deal more to her."
And all the time her ladyship was aiming to vex, and hoping that I was
heartily mortified, as from my silence and melancholy countenance she
concluded that I was; in reality I stood deploring that so pretty a
creature had so mean a mind. The only vexation I felt was at her having
destroyed the possibility of my enjoying that delightful illusion which
beauty creates.
My mother, who had been, as she said, quite nervous all this evening, at
last brought Lady Anne to terms, and patched up a peace, by prevailing on
Lady de Brantefield, who could not be prevailed on by any one else, to make
a party to go to some new play which Lady Anne was _dying_ to see. It was a
sentimental comedy, and I did not much like it; however, I was all
complaisance for my mother's sake, and she in return renewed her promise to
go with me to patronize Shylock. By the extraordinary anxiety my mother
showed, and by the pains she took that there should be peace betwixt Lady
Anne and me, I perceived, what had never before struck me, that my mother
wished me to be in love with her ladyship.
Now I could sooner have been in love with Lady de Brantefield. Give her
back a decent share of youth and beauty, I think I could sooner have liked
the mother than the daughter.
By the force and plastic power of my imagination, I could have turned and
moulded Lady de Brantefield, with all her repulsive haughtiness, into a
Clelia, or a Princess de Cleves, or something of the Richardson
full-dressed heroine, with hoop and fan, and _stand off, man_!--and then
there would be cruelty and difficulty, and incomprehensibility-something
to be conquered--something to be wooed and won. But with Lady Anne Mowbray
my imagination had nothing to work upon, no point to dwell on, nothing on
which a lover's fancy could feed: there was no doubt, no hope, no fear, no
reserve of manner, no dignity of mind.
My mother, I believe, now saw that it would not do, at least for the
present; but she had known many of Cupid's capricious turns. Lady Anne was
extremely pretty, and universally allowed to be so; her ladyship was much
taken notice of in public, and my mother knew that young men are vain of
having their mistresses and wives admired by our sex. But my mother
calculated ill as to my particular character. To the Opera and to Ranelagh,
to the Pantheon, and to all the fashionable public places of the day, I had
had the honour of attending Lady Anne; and I had had the glory of hearing
"Beautiful!" "Who is she?"--and "Who is with her?" My vanity, I own, had
been flattered, but no further. My imagination was always too powerful, my
passions too sincere and too romantic, to be ruled by the opinions of
others, or to become the dupe of personal vanity. My mother had fancied
that a month or two in London would have brought my imagination down to be
content with the realities of fashionable life. My mother was right as to
the fact, but wrong in her conclusion. This did not incline me more towards
Lady Anne, but it disinclined me towards marriage.
My exalted ideas of love were lowered--my morning visions of life fled--I
was dispirited.
Mowbray had rallied me on my pining for Cambridge, and on preferring Israel
Lyons, the Jew, to him and all the best company in London.
He had hurried me about with him to all manner of gaieties, but still I was
not happy; my mind--my heart wanted something more.
In this my London life, I found it irksome that I could never, as at dear
Cambridge, pause upon my own reflections. If I stopped awhile, "to plume
contemplation's wings, so ruffled and impaired," some of the low realities,
some of the impertinent necessities of fashionable life, would tread on my
heels. The order of the day or night was for ever pressed upon me--and the
order of the day was now to go to this new sentimental comedy--my mother's
favourite actor, the silver-toned Barry, was to play the lover of the
piece; so she was sure of as many fashionable young ladies as her box could
possibly hold. At this period, in England, every fashionable belle declared
herself the partisan of some actor or actress; and every fashionable beau
aspired to the character of a dramatic critic. Mowbray, of course, was
distinguished in that line, and his pretty little sister, Lady Anne, was,
at least in face, formed to grace the front box. The hours of the great
world were earlier then than they are now, and nothing interfered, indeed
nothing would have been suffered to interfere, with the hour for the play.
As a veteran wit described it, "There were at this time four estates in the
English Constitution, kings, lords, commons, and the theatre." Statesmen,
courtiers, poets, philosophers, crowded pell mell with the white-gloved
beaux to the stage box and the pit. It was thought well-bred, it was _the
thing_ to be in the boxes before the third act, even before the second,
nay, incredible as it may in these times appear, before the first act
began. Our fashionable party was seated some minutes before the curtain
drew up.
CHAPTER VII.
The beaux and belles in the boxes of the crowded theatre had bowed and
curtsied, for in those days beaux did bow and belles did curtsy; the
impatient sticks in the pit, and shrill catcalls in the gallery, had begun
to contend with the music in the orchestra; and thrice had we surveyed the
house to recognize every body whom any body knew, when the door of the box
next to ours, the only box that had remained empty, was thrown open, and in
poured an over-dressed party, whom _nobody knew_. Lady de Brantefield,
after one reconnoitring glance, pronounced them to be city Goths and
Vandals; and without resting her glass upon them for half a moment, turned
it to some more profitable field of speculation. There was no gentleman of
this party, but a portly matron, towering above the rest, seemed the
principal mover and orderer of the group. The awkward bustle they made,
facing and backing, placing and changing of places, and the difficulty they
found in seating themselves, were in striking contrast with the high-bred
ease of the ladies of our party. Lady Anne Mowbray looked down upon their
operations with a pretty air of quiet surprise, tinctured with horror;
while my mother's shrinking delicacy endeavoured to suggest some idea of
propriety to the city matron, who having taken her station next to us in
the second row, had at last seated herself so that a considerable portion
of the back part of her head-dress was in my mother's face: moreover, the
citizen's huge arm, with its enormous gauze cuff, leaning on the partition
which divided, or ought to have divided, her from us, considerably passed
the line of demarcation. Lady de Brantefield, with all the pride of all the
De Brantefields since the Norman Conquest concentrated in her countenance,
threw an excommunicating, withering look upon the arm--but the elbow felt
it not--it never stirred. The lady seemed not to be made of penetrable
stuff. In happy ignorance she sat fanning herself for a few seconds; then
suddenly starting and stretching forward to the front row, where five of
her young ladies were wedged, she aimed with her fan at each of their backs
in quick succession, and in a more than audible whisper asked, "Cecy! Issy!
Henny! Queeney! Miss Coates, where's Berry?"--All eyes turned to look for
Berry--"Oh! mercy, behind in the back row! Miss Berry, that must not be--
come forward, here's my place or Queeney's," cried Mrs. Coates, stretching
backwards with her utmost might to seize some one in the farthest corner of
the back row, who had hitherto been invisible. We expected to see in Miss
Berry another vulgarian produced, but to our surprise, we beheld one who
seemed of a different order of beings from those by whom she was
surrounded. Lord Mowbray and I looked at each other, struck by the same
sentiment, pained for this elegant timid young creature, as we saw her, all
blushing and reluctant, forced by the irresistible fat orderer of all
things to "step up on the seat," to step forward from bench to bench, and
then wait in painful pre-eminence while Issy, and Cecy, and Queeney, and
Miss Coates, settled how they could make room, or which should vacate her
seat in her favour. In spite of the awkwardness of her situation she stood
with such quiet, resigned, yet dignified grace, that ridicule could not
touch her. The moment she was seated with her back to us, and out of
hearing, Lady de Brantefield turned to her son and asked "Who is she?"
"An East Indian, I should guess, by her dark complexion," whispered Lady
Anne to me.
Some feather or lappet intercepted my view of her face, but from the
glimpse I caught of it as she passed, it struck me as uncommonly
interesting, though with a peculiar expression and foreign air--whether she
was handsome or not, though called upon to decide, I could not determine.
But now our attention was fixed on the stage. It was announced to the
audience that, owing to the sudden illness of the actor who was to have
performed the principal part in the comedy advertised for this night, there
was a necessity for changing the play, and they should give in its stead
the Merchant of Venice.
The Merchant of Venice and Macklin the Jew!--Murmurs of discontent from the
ladies in my box, who regretted their sentimental comedy and their silver-
toned Barry, were all lost upon me; I rejoiced that I should see Macklin in
Shylock. Before the performance began, my attention was again caught by the
proceedings of the persons in the next box. There seemed to be some sudden
cause of distress, as I gathered from exclamations of "How unlucky!--How
distressing!--What shall we do?--What can we do?--Better go away--carriage
gone!--must sit it out--May be she won't mind--Oh! she will--Shylock!--
Jessica!--How unfortunate!--poor Miss Berry!"
"Jessica!" whispered Mowbray to me, with an arch look: "let me pass," added
he, just touching my shoulder. He made his way to a young lady at the other
end of the box; and I, occupying immediately the ceded place, stationed
myself so that I had a better view of my object, and could observe her
without being seen by any one. She was perfectly still, and took no notice
of the whispering of the people about her, though, from an indescribable
expression in the air of the back of her head and neck, I was convinced
that she heard all that passed among the young and old ladies in her box.
The play went on--Shylock appeared--I forgot every thing but him.--Such a
countenance!--Such an expression of latent malice and revenge, of every
thing detestable in human nature! Whether speaking or silent, the Jew fixed
and kept possession of my attention. It was an incomparable piece of
acting: much as my expectations had been raised, it far surpassed any thing
I had conceived--I forgot it was Macklin, I thought only of Shylock. In my
enthusiasm I stood up, I pressed forward, I leaned far over towards the
stage, that I might not lose a word, a look, a gesture. When the act
finished, as the curtain fell, and the thunders of applause died away, I
heard a soft low sigh near me; I looked, and saw the Jewess! She had turned
away from the young ladies her companions, and had endeavoured to screen
herself behind the pillar against which I had been leaning. I had, for the
first time, a full view of her face and of her countenance, of great
sensibility, painfully, proudly repressed. She looked up while my eyes were
fixed upon her--a sudden and deep colour spread over her face and mounted
to her temples. In my confusion I did the very thing I should not have
done, and said the thing of all others I should not have said. I expressed
a fear that I had been standing in such a manner as to prevent her from
seeing Shylock; she bowed mildly, and was, I believe, going to speak.
"You have indeed, sir," interrupted Mrs. Coates, "stood so that nobody
could see nothing but yourself. So, since you mention it, and speak without
an introduction, excuse me if I suggest, against the next act, that this
young lady has never been at a play before in her life--in Lon'on, at
least. And though it i'n't the play I should have chose for her, yet since
she is here, 'tis better she should see something than nothing, if
gentlemen will give her leave." I bowed in sign of submission and
repentance; and was retiring, so as to leave my place vacant, and a full
opening to the stage. But in a sweet, gentlewomanlike voice, seeming,
perhaps, more delightful from contrast, the young lady said that she had
seen and could see quite as much as she wished of the play; and she begged
that I would not quit my place. "I should oblige her," she added, in a
lower tone, "if I would continue to stand as I had done." I obeyed, and
placed myself so as to screen her from observation during the whole of the
next act. But now, my pleasure in the play was over. I could no longer
enjoy Macklin's incomparable acting; I was so apprehensive of the pain
which it must give to the young Jewess. At every stroke, characteristic of
the skilful actor, or of the master poet, I felt a strange mixture of
admiration and regret. I almost wished that Shakspeare had not written, or
Macklin had not acted the part so powerfully: my imagination formed such a
strong conception of the pain the Jewess was feeling, and my inverted
sympathy, if I may so call it, so overpowered my direct and natural
feelings, that at every fresh development of the Jew's villany I shrunk as
though I had myself been a Jew.
Each exclamation against this dog of a Jew, and still more every general
reflection on Jewish usury, avarice, and cruelty, I felt poignantly. No
power of imagination could make me pity Shylock, but I felt the force of
some of his appeals to justice; and some passages struck me in quite a new
light on the Jewish side of the question.
"Many a time, and oft,
In the Rialto, you have rated me,
About my moneys and my usances;
Still have I borne it with a patient shrug;
For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.
You call me misbeliever! cut-throat dog!
And spit upon my Jewish gabardine;
And all, for use of that which is my own.
Well, then, it now appears you need my help.
Go to, then--you come to me, and you say,
Shylock, we would have moneys; you say so.
* * * * *
Shall I bend low, and in a bondsman key, With bated breath, and whisp'ring
humbleness, Say this--Fair sir, you spit on me last Wednesday; You
spurned me such a day; another time You called me dog; and for these
courtesies I'll lend you thus much moneys?"
As far as Shylock was concerned, I was well content he should be used in
such a sort; but if it had been any other human creature, any other Jew
even--if it had been poor Jacob, for instance, whose image crossed my
recollection--I believe I should have taken part with him. Again, I was
well satisfied that Antonio should have hindered Shylock of half a million,
should have laughed at his losses, thwarted his bargains, cooled his
friends, heated his enemies; Shylock deserved all this: but when he came
to, "What's his reason?--I am a _Jew_. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew
hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with the same
food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by
the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer as a
Christian is?--If you prick us, do we not bleed?--If you tickle us, do we
not laugh?--If you poison us, do not we die?--and if you wrong us, shall we
not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that.
If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility?--Revenge. If a Christian
wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be, by Christian example?--Why,
revenge."
I felt at once horror of the individual Shylock, and submission to the
strength of his appeal. During the third act, during the Jessica scenes, I
longed so much to have a look at the Jewess, that I took an opportunity of
changing my position. The ladies in our box were now so happily occupied
with some young officers of the guards, that there was no farther danger of
their staring at the Jewess. I was so placed that I could see her, without
being seen; and during the succeeding acts, my attention was chiefly
directed to the study of all the changes in her expressive countenance. I
now saw and heard the play solely with reference to her feelings; I
anticipated every stroke which could touch her, and became every moment
more and more interested and delighted with her, from the perception that
my anticipations were just, and that I perfectly knew how to read her soul,
and interpret her countenance. I saw that the struggle to repress her
emotion was often the utmost she could endure; and at last I saw, or
fancied I saw, that she grew so pale, that, as she closed her eyes at the
same instant, I was certain she was going to faint; and quite forgetting
that I was an utter stranger to her, I started forward--and then
unprovided with an apology, could only turn to Mrs. Coates, and fear that
the heat of the house was too much for this young lady. Mrs. Coates,
alarmed immediately, wished they could get her out into the air, and
regretted that her gentlemen were not with their party to-night--there
could be no getting servants or carriage--what could be done? I eagerly
offered my services, which were accepted, and we conducted the young lady
out. She did not faint; she struggled against it; and it was evident that
there was no affectation in the case; but, on the contrary, an anxious
desire not to give trouble, and a great dread of exposing herself to public
observation. The carriage, as Mrs. Coates repeated twenty times, was
ordered not to come till after the farce, and she kept on hoping and hoping
that Miss Berry would be stout enough to go back to see "The Maid of the
Oaks." Miss Berry did her utmost to support herself; and said she believed
she was now quite well, and could return; but I saw she wished to get away,
and I ran to see if a chair could be had. Lord Mowbray, who had assisted in
conducting the ladies out, now followed me; he saw, and called to one of
his footmen, and despatched him for a chair.
"There, now," said Mowbray, "we may leave the rest to Mrs. Coates, who can
elbow her own way through it. Come back with me--Mrs. Abingdon plays Lady
Bab Lardoon, her favourite character--she is incomparable, and I would not
miss it for the world."
I begged Mowbray to go back, for I could not leave these ladies.
"Well," said he, parting from me, and pursuing his own way, "I see how it
is--I see how it will be. These things are ruled in heaven above, or hell
beneath. 'Tis in vain struggling with one's destiny--so you to your Jewess,
and I to my little Jessica. We shall have her again, I hope, in the farce,
the prettiest creature I ever saw."
Mowbray hastened back to his box, and how long it might be between my
return to the Jewess, and the arrival of the chair, I do not know: it
seemed to me not above two minutes, but Mowbray insisted upon it, that it
was a full quarter of an hour. He came to me again, just as I had received
one look of silent gratitude; and while I was putting the young lady into
the chair, and bustling Mrs. Coates was giving her orders and address to
the servant, Mowbray whispered me that my mother was in an agony, and had
sent him out to see what was become of me. Mrs. Coates, all thanks, and
apologies, and hurry, now literally elbowed her way back to her box,
expressing her reiterated fears that we should lose the best part of "The
Maid of the Oaks," which was the only farce she made it a rule ever to stay
for. In spite of her hurry and her incessant talking, I named the thing I
was intent upon. I said, that with her permission I should do myself the
honour of calling upon her the next morning to inquire after Miss Berry's
health.
"I am sure, sir," she replied, "Mr. Alderman Coates, and myself, will be
particularly glad of the honour of seeing you tomorrow, or any time; and
moreover, sir, the young lady," added she, with a shrewd, and to me
offensive smile, "the young lady no doubt's well worth inquiring after--a
great heiress, as the saying is, as rich as a Jew she'll be, Miss
Montenero."
"Miss Montenero!" repeated Lord Mowbray and I, in the same instant. "I
thought," said I, "this young lady's name was Berry.
"Berry, yes--Berry, we call her, we who are intimate, I call her for
short--that is short for Berenice, which is her out o' the way Christian,
that is, Jewish name. Mr. Montenero, the father, is a Spanish or American
Jew, I'm not clear which, but he's a charming man for a Jew, and the
daughter most uncommon fond of him, to a degree! Can't, now, bear any
reflections the most distant, now, sir, upon the Jews, which was what
distressed me when I found the play was to be this Jew of Venice, and I
would have come away, only that I couldn't possibly." Here Mrs. Coates,
without any mercy upon my curiosity about Mr. Montenero and his daughter,
digressed into a subject utterly uninteresting to me, and would explain to
us the reasons why Mr. Alderman Coates and Mr. Peter Coates her son were
not this night of her party. This lasted till we reached her box, and then
she had so much to say to all the Miss Issys, Cecys, and Hennys, that it
was with the utmost difficulty I could, even by carefully watching my
moment, obtain a card with her own, and another with Miss Montenero's
address. This time there was no danger of my losing it. I rejoiced to see
that Miss Montenero did not live with Mrs. Coates.
For all further satisfaction of my curiosity, I was obliged to wait till
the next morning.
CHAPTER VIII.
During the whole of the night, sleeping or waking, the images of the fair
Jewess, of Shylock, and of Mrs. Coates, were continually recurring, and
turning into one another in a most provoking manner. At breakfast my mother
did not appear; my father said that she had not slept well, and that she
would breakfast in her own apartment; this was not unusual; but I was
particularly sorry that it happened this morning, because, being left
_tete-a-tete_ with my father, and he full of a debate on the malt-tax,
which he undertook to read to me from the rival papers, and to make me
understand its merits, I was compelled to sit three-quarters of an hour
longer after breakfast than I had intended; so that the plan I had formed
of waiting upon Mr. Montenero very early, before he could have gone out for
the day, was disconcerted. When at last my father had fairly finished, when
he had taken his hat and his cane, and departing left me, as I thought,
happily at liberty to go in search of my Jewess, another detainer came. At
the foot of the stairs my mother's woman appeared, waiting to let me know
that her lady begged I would not go out till she had seen me--adding, that
she would be with me in less than a quarter of an hour.
I flung down my hat, I believe, with rather too marked an expression of
impatience; but five minutes afterwards came a knock at the door. Mr.
Montenero was announced, and I blessed my mother, my father, and the malt-
tax, for having detained me at home. The first appearance of Mr. Montenero
more than answered my expectations. He had that indescribable air, which,
independently of the fashion of the day, or the mode of any particular
country, distinguishes a gentleman--dignified, courteous, and free from
affectation. From his features, he might have been thought a Spaniard--from
his complexion, an East Indian; but he had a peculiar cast of countenance,
which seemed not to belong to either nation. He had uncommonly black
penetrating eyes, with a serious, rather melancholy, but very benevolent
expression. He was past the meridian of life. The lines in his face were
strongly marked; but they were not the common-place wrinkles of ignoble
age, nor the contractions of any of the vulgar passions: they seemed to be
the traces of thought and feeling. He entered into conversation directly
and easily. I need not say that this conversation was immediately
interesting, for he spoke of Berenice. His thanks to me were, I thought,
peculiarly gentlemanlike, neither too much nor too little. Of course, I
left him at liberty to attribute her indisposition to the heat of the
playhouse, and I stood prepared to avoid mentioning Shylock to Jewish ears;
but I was both surprised and pleased by the openness and courage with which
he spoke on the very subject from which I had fancied he would have shrunk.
Instead of looking for any excuse for Miss Montenero's indisposition, he at
once named the real cause; she had been, he said, deeply affected by the
representation of Shylock; that detestable Jew, whom the genius of the
greatest poet that ever wrote, and the talents of one of the greatest
actors who had ever appeared, had conspired to render an object of public
execration. "But recently arrived in London," continued Mr. Montenero, "I
have not had personal opportunity of judging of this actor's talent; but no
Englishman can have felt more strongly than I have, the power of your
Shakspeare's genius to touch and rend the human heart."
Mr. Montenero spoke English with a foreign accent, and something of a
foreign idiom; but his ideas and feelings forced their way regardless of
grammatical precision, and I thought his foreign accent agreeable. To an
Englishman, what accent that conveys the praise of Shakspeare can fail to
be agreeable? The most certain method by which a foreigner an introduce
himself at once to the good-will and good opinion of an Englishman, is by
thus doing homage to this national object of idolatry. I perceived that Mr.
Montenero's was not a mere compliment--he spoke with real feeling. "In this
instance," resumed he, "we poor Jews have felt your Shakspeare's power to
our cost--too severely, and, considering all the circumstances, rather
unjustly, you are aware."
"_Considering all the circumstances_," I did not precisely understand; but
I endeavoured, as well as I could, to make some general apology for
Shakspeare's severity, by adverting to the time when he wrote, and the
prejudices which then prevailed.
"True," said he; "and as a dramatic poet, it was his business, I
acknowledge, to take advantage of the popular prejudice as a _power_--as a
means of dramatic pathos and effect; yet you will acknowledge that we Jews
must feel it peculiarly hard, that the truth of the story on which the poet
founded his plot should have been completely sacrificed to fiction, so that
the characters were not only misrepresented, but reversed."
I did not know to what Mr. Montenero meant to allude: however, I
endeavoured to pass it off with a slight bow of general acquiescence, and
the hundred-times-quoted remark, that poets always succeed better in
fiction than in truth. Mr. Montenero had quick penetration--he saw my
evasion, and would not let me off so easily. He explained.
"In the _true_ story, [Footnote: See Stevens' Life of Sixtus V., and
Malone's Shakspeare.] from which Shakspeare took the plot of the Merchant
of Venice, it was a Christian who acted the part of the Jew, and the Jew
that of the Christian; it was a Christian who insisted upon having the
pound of flesh from next the Jew's heart. But," as Mr. Montenero repeated,
"Shakspeare was right, as a dramatic poet, in reversing the characters."
Seeing me struck, and a little confounded, by this statement, and even by
his candour, Mr. Montenero said, that perhaps his was only the Jewish
version of the story, and he quickly went on to another subject, one far
more agreeable to me--to Berenice. He hoped that I did not suspect her of
affectation from any thing that had passed; he was aware, little as he knew
of fine ladies, that they sometimes were pleased to make themselves
noticed, perhaps rather troublesome, by the display of their sensibility;
but he assured me that his Berenice was not of this sort.
Of this I was perfectly convinced. The moment he pronounced the name of
Berenice, he paused, and looked as if he were afraid he should say too much
of her; and I suppose I looked as I felt--afraid that he would not say
enough. He gently bowed his head and went on. "There are reasons why she
was peculiarly touched and moved by that exhibition. Till she came to
Europe--to England--she was not aware, at least not practically aware, of
the strong prepossessions which still prevail against us Jews." He then
told me that his daughter had passed her childhood chiefly in America, "in
a happy part of that country, where religious distinctions are scarcely
known--where characters and talents are all sufficient to attain
advancement--where the Jews form a respectable part of the community--
where, in most instances, they are liberally educated, many following the
honourable professions of law and physic with credit and ability, and
associating with the best society that country affords. Living in a retired
village, her father's the only family of Israelites who resided in or near
it, all her juvenile friendships and attachments had been formed with those
of different persuasions; yet each had looked upon the variations of the
other as things of course, or rather as things which do not affect the
moral character--differences which take place in every society."--"My
daughter was, therefore, ill prepared," said Mr. Montenero, "for European
prepossessions; and with her feeling heart and strong affection for those
she loves, no wonder that she has often suffered, especially on my account,
since we came to England; and she has become, to a fault, tender and
susceptible on this point."
I could not admit that there was any fault on her part; but I regretted
that England should be numbered among the countries subject to such
prejudices. I hoped, I added, that such illiberality was now confined to
the vulgar, that is, the ill-educated and the ill-informed.
The well-educated and well-informed, he answered, were, of course, always
the most liberal, and were usually the same in all countries. He begged
pardon if he had expressed himself too generally with respect to England.
It was the common fault of strangers and foreigners to generalize too
quickly, and to judge precipitately of the whole of a community from a
part. The fact was, that he had, by the business which brought him to
London, been unfortunately thrown among some vulgar rich of contracted
minds, who, though they were, as he was willing to believe, essentially
good and good-natured persons, had made his Berenice suffer, sometimes more
than they could imagine, by their want of delicacy, and want of toleration.
As Mr. Montenero spoke these words, the image of vulgar, ordering Mrs.
Coates--that image which had persecuted me half the night, by ever
obtruding between me and the fair Jewess--rose again full in my view. I
settled immediately, that it was she and her tribe of Issys, and Cecys, and
Hennys, and Queeneys, were "the vulgar rich" to whom Mr. Montenero alluded.
I warmly expressed my indignation against those who could have been so
brutal as to make Miss Montenero suffer by their vile prejudices.
"_Brutal_," Mr. Montenero repeated, smiling at my warmth, "is too strong an
expression: there was no brutality in the case. I must have expressed
myself ill to give rise to such an idea. There was only a little want of
consideration for the feelings of others--a little want of liberality."
Even so I could not bear the thought that Miss Montenero should have been,
on her first arrival in England, thrown among persons who might give her
quite a false idea of the English, and a dislike to the country.
"There is no danger of that sort," he replied. "Had she been disposed to
judge so rashly and uncharitably, the humane and polite attentions she met
with last night from a gentleman who was an utter stranger to her, and who
could only know that she was a foreigner in want of assistance, must have
been to her at once conviction and reproof." (I bowed, delighted with Mr.
Montenero and with myself.) "But I hope and believe," continued he, "that
my Berenice is not disposed to form uncharitable judgments either of
individuals or nations; especially not of the English, of whom she has,
from their history and literature, with which we are not wholly
unacquainted, conceived the highest ideas." I bowed again, though not quite
so much delighted with this general compliment to my nation as by that
peculiar to myself. I expressed my hopes that the English would justify
this favourable prepossession, and that on farther acquaintance with
different societies in London, Mr. and Miss Montenero would find, that
among the higher classes in this country there is no want of liberality of
opinion, and certainly no want of delicacy of sentiment and manner--no want
of attention to the feelings of those who are of a different persuasion
from ourselves. Just at this moment my mother entered the room. Advancing
towards Mr. Montenero, she said, with a gracious smile, "You need not
introduce us to each other, my dear Harrington, for I am sure that I have
the pleasure of seeing Mr. Clive, from India."
"Mr. Montenero, from America, ma'am."
"Mr. Montenero! I am happy to have the honour--the pleasure--I am very
happy--"
My mother's politeness struggled against truth; but whilst I feared that
Mr. Montenero's penetration would discern that there was no pleasure in the
honour, a polite inquiry followed concerning Miss Montenero's
indisposition. Then, after an ineffectual effort to resume the ease and
cordiality of her manner, my mother leaned back languidly on the sofa, and
endeavoured to account for the cloud which settled on her brow by adverting
to the sleepless night she had passed, and to the fears of an impending
headache; assuring Mr. Montenero at the same time that society and
conversation were always of service to her. I was particularly anxious to
detain, and to draw him out before my mother, because I felt persuaded that
his politeness of manner, and his style of conversation, would counteract
any _presentiment_ or prejudice she had conceived against him and his race.
He seemed to lend himself to my views, and with benevolent politeness
exerted himself to entertain my mother. A Don Quixote was on the table, in
which there were some good prints, and from these he took occasion to give
us many amusing and interesting accounts of Spain, where he had passed the
early part of his life. From Don Quixote to Gil Blas--to the Duc de Lerma--
to the tower of Segovia--to the Inquisition--to the Spanish palaces and
Moorish antiquities, he let me lead him backwards and forwards as I
pleased. My mother was very fond of some of the old Spanish ballads and
Moorish romances: I led to the _Rio Verde_, and the fair Zaida, and the
Moor Alcanzor, with whom both in their Moorish and English dress Mr.
Montenero was well acquainted, and of whom he was enthusiastically fond.
My mother was fond of painting: I asked some questions concerning the
Spanish painters, particularly about Murillo; of one of his pictures we had
a copy, and my mother had often wished to see the original. Mr. Montenero
said he was happy in having it in his power to gratify her wish; he
possessed the original of this picture. But few of Murillo's paintings had
at this time found their way out of Spain; national and regal pride had
preserved them with jealous care; but Mr. Montenero had inherited some of
Murillo's master-pieces. These, and a small but valuable collection of
pictures which he had been many years in forming, were now in England: they
were not yet arranged as he could wish, but an apartment was preparing for
them; and in the mean time, he should be happy to have the honour of
showing them to us and to any of our friends. He particularly addressed
himself to my mother; she replied in those general terms of acquiescence
and gratitude, which are used when there is no real intention to accept an
invitation, but yet a wish to avoid such an absolute refusal as should
appear ill-bred. I, on the contrary, sincerely eager to accept the offered
favour, fixed instantly the time, and the soonest possible. I named the
next day at one o'clock. Mr. Montenero then took his leave, and as the door
closed after him, I stood before my mother, as if waiting for judgment; she
was silent.
"Don't you think him agreeable, ma'am?"
"Very agreeable."
"I knew you would think so, my dear mother; an uncommonly agreeable man."
"But--"
"But what, ma'am?"
"But so much the worse."
"How so, ma'am? Because he is a Jew, is he forbidden to be agreeable?" said
I, smiling.
"Pray be serious, Harrington--I say the more agreeable this man is, the
better his manner, the more extensive his information, the higher the
abilities he possesses, the greater are his means of doing mischief." "A
conclusive argument," said. I, "against the possession of good manners,
information, abilities, and every agreeable and useful quality! and an
argument equally applicable to Jews and Christians."
"Argument!" repeated my mother: "I know, my dear, I am not capable of
arguing with you--indeed I am not fond of arguments, they are so
unfeminine: I seldom presume to give even my opinion, except on subjects of
sentiment and feeling; there ladies may venture, I suppose, to have a voice
as well as gentlemen, perhaps better, sometimes. In the present case, it
may be very ridiculous; but I own that, notwithstanding this Mr. Montenero
is what you'd call an uncommonly agreeable man, there is a something about
him--in short, I feel something like an antipathy to him--and in the whole
course of my life I have never been misled by these _antipathies_. I don't
say they are reasonable, I only say that I can't help feeling them; and if
they never mislead us, you know they have all the force of instincts, and
in some cases instincts are superior even to that reason of which man is so
proud."
I did not advert to the _if_, on which this whole reasoning rested, but I
begged my mother would put herself out of the question for one moment, and
consider to what injustice and intolerance such antipathies would lead in
society.
"Perhaps in general it might be so," she said; "but in this particular
instance she was persuaded she was right and _correct_; and after all, is
there a human being living who is not influenced at first sight by
countenance! Does not Lavater say that even a cockchafer and a dish of tea
have a physiognomy?"
I could not go quite so far as to admit the cockchafer's physiognomy in our
judgment of characters. "But then, ma'am," concluded I, "before we can
judge, before we can decide, we should see what is called the play of the
countenance--we should see the working of the muscles. Now, for instance,
when we have seen Mr. Montenero two or three times, when we have studied
the muscles of his countenance--"
"I! I study the muscles of the man's countenance!" interrupted my mother,
indignantly; "I never desire to see him or his muscles again! Jew, Turk, or
_Mussulman_, let me hear no more about him. Seriously, my dear Harrington,
this is the subject on which I wished to speak to you this morning, to warn
you from forming this dangerous acquaintance. I dreamed last night--but I
know you won't listen to dreams; I have a _presentiment_--but you have no
faith in _presentiments_: what shall I say to you?--Oh! my dear Harrington,
I appeal to your own heart--your own feelings, your own conscience, must
tell you all I at this moment foresee and dread. Oh! with your ardent, too
ardent imagination--your susceptibility! Surely, surely, there is an
absolute fatality in these things! At the very moment I was preparing to
warn you, Mr. Montenero appears, and strengthens the dangerous impression.
And after all the pains I took to prevent your ever meeting, is it not
extraordinary that you should meet his daughter at the playhouse? Promise
me, I conjure you," cried she, turning and seizing both my hands, "promise
me, my dear son, that you will see no more of this Jew and Jewess."
It was a promise I could not, would not make:--some morning visitors came
in and relieved me. My mother's imagination was as vivacious, but not as
tenacious as my own. There was in her a feminine mobility, which, to my
masculine strength of passion, and consequent tenacity of purpose, appeared
often inconceivable, and sometimes provoking. In a few minutes her fancy
turned to old china and new lace, and all the fears which had so possessed
and agitated her mind subsided.
Among the crowd of morning visitors, Lady Anne Mowbray ran in and ran out;
fortunately she could not stay one minute, and still more fortunately my
mother did not hear a word she said, or even see her ladyship's exit and
entrance, so many ladies had encompassed my mother's sofa, displaying
charming bargains of French lace. The subject abstracted their attention,
and engrossed all their faculties. Lady Anne had just called to tell me a
secret, that her mother had been saying all the morning to every body, how
odd it was of Mr. Harrington to take notice whether a Jewess fainted or
not. Lady Anne said, for her part, she had taken my part; she did not think
it _so_ odd of me, but she thought it odd and ridiculous of the Jewess to
faint about Shylock. But the reason she called was, because she was dying
with curiosity to know if I had heard any more about the Jewess. Was she an
heiress or not? I must find out and tell: she had heard--but she could not
stay now--going to ride in the park.
I had often observed that my mother's _presentiments_ varied from day to
day, according to the state of her nerves, or of some slight external
circumstances. I was extremely anxious to prevail upon her to accompany me
to see the Spanish pictures, and I therefore put off my visit for a day,
when I found my mother had engaged herself to attend a party of fair
encouragers of smugglers to a cheap French lace shop. I wrote an apology to
Mr. Montenero, and Heaven knows how much it cost me. But my heroic patience
was of no avail; I could not persuade my mother to accompany me. To all her
former feelings, the pride of opinion and the jealousy of maternal
affection were now added; she was piqued to prove herself in the right, and
vexed to see that, right or wrong, I would not yield to her entreaties. I
thought I acted solely from the dictates of pure reason and enlightened
philanthropy.
CHAPTER IX.
Mowbray was curious, he said, to know how the Jewess would look by
daylight, and he begged that he might accompany me to see the pictures. As
I had told him that I had permission to take with me any of my friends, I
could not refuse his request, though I must own that I would rather have
gone without him. I was a little afraid of his raillery, and of the
quickness of his observation. During our walk, however, he with address--
with that most irresistible kind of address, which assumes an air of
perfect frankness and cordiality, contrived to dissipate my feelings of
embarrassment; and by the time we got to Mr. Montenero's door, I rejoiced
that I had with me a friend and supporter.
"A handsome house--a splendid house, this," said Mowbray, looking up at the
front, as we waited for admission. "If the inside agree with the out,
faith, Harrington, your Jewish heiress will soon be heard of on 'Change,
and at court too, you'll see. Make haste and secure your interest in her, I
advise you."
To our great disappointment the servant told us that neither Mr. nor Miss
Montenero was at home. But orders had been left with a young man of his to
attend me and my company. At this moment I heard a well-known voice on the
stairs, and Jacob, poor Jacob, appeared: joy flashed in his face at the
sight of me; he flew down stairs, and across the hall, exclaiming, "It is--
it is my own good Mr. Harrington!"
But he started back at the sight of Mowbray, and his whole countenance and
manner changed. In an embarrassed voice, he began to explain why Mr.
Montenero was not at home; that he had waited yesterday in hopes of seeing
me at the appointed time, till my note of apology had arrived. I had not
positively named any day for my visit, and Mr. Montenero had particular
business that obliged him to go out this morning, but that he would be back
in an hour: "Meantime, sir, as Mr. Montenero has desired," said Jacob, "I
shall have the honour of showing the pictures to you and your friend."
It was not till he came to the words _your friend_, that Jacob recollected
to bow to Lord Mowbray, and even then it was a stiff-necked bow. Mowbray,
contrary to his usual assurance, looked a little embarrassed, yet spoke to
Jacob as to an old acquaintance.
Jacob led us through several handsome, I might say splendid, apartments, to
the picture-room.
"Good! Good!" whispered Mowbray, as we went along, till the moment we
entered the picture-room; then making a sudden stop, and start of
recollection, and pulling out his watch, he declared that he had till that
minute forgotten an indispensable engagement--that he must come some other
day to see these charming pictures. He begged that I would settle that for
him--he was excessively sorry, but go he must--and off he went immediately.
The instant he was out of sight, Jacob seemed relieved from the
disagreeable constraint under which he laboured, and his delight was
manifest when he had me to himself. I conceived that Jacob still felt
resentment against Mowbray, for the old quarrel at school. I was surprised
at this, and in my own mind I blamed Jacob.
I have always found it the best way to speak openly, and to go to the
bottom of mysteries and quarrels at once: so turning to Jacob, I asked him,
whether, in right of our former acquaintance, I might speak to him with the
freedom of one who heartily wished him well? The tears came into his eyes,
and he could only say, "Speak, pray--and thank you, sir."
"Then, Jacob," said I, "I thought you could not for such a number of years
bear malice for a schoolboy's offence; and yet your manner just now to Lord
Mowbray--am I mistaken?--set me right, if I am--did I misinterpret your
manner, Jacob?"
"No, sir," said he, looking up in my face, with his genuine expression of
simplicity and openness; "no, sir, you do not mistake, nor misinterpret
Jacob's manner; you know him too well, and his manner tells too plainly;
you do not misinterpret the feeling, but you mistake the cause; and since
you are so kind as to desire me to set you right, I will do so; but it is
too long a story to tell while you are standing."
"Not at all--I am interested--go on."
"I should not," said Jacob, "be worthy of this interest--this regard, which
it is joy to my very heart to see that you still feel for me--I should not
be worthy in the least of it, if I could bear malice so many years for a
schoolboy's offence.
"No, Mr. Harrington, the schoolboy young lord is forgotten. But long since
that time, since this young lord has been grown into a man, and an
officer--at Gibraltar--"
The recollection of whatever it was that happened at Gibraltar seemed to
come at this instant so full upon Jacob's feelings, that he could not go
on. He took up his story farther back. He reminded me of the time when we
had parted at Cambridge; he was then preparing to go to Gibraltar, to
assist in keeping a store there, for the brother and partner of his friend
and benefactor, the London jeweller, Mr. Manessa, who had ventured a very
considerable part of his fortune upon this speculation.
About that time many Jews had enriched themselves at Gibraltar, by keeping
stores for the troops; and during the siege it was expected that it would
be a profitable business. Mr. Manessa's store under Jacob's care went on
prosperously till the day when Lord Mowbray arrived at Gibraltar with a
regiment, of which, young as he was, he had been appointed lieutenant-
colonel: "He recognized me the first time we met; I saw he was grown into a
fine-looking officer; and indeed, Mr. Harrington, I saw him, without
bearing the least malice for any little things that had passed, which I
thought, as you say, were only schoolboy follies. But in a few minutes I
found, to my sorrow, that he was not changed in mind towards me.
"His first words at meeting me in the public streets were, 'So! are you
here, _young Shylock?_ What brings you to Gibraltar? You are of the tribe
of Gad, I think, _thou Wandering Jew!_'
"Lord Mowbray's servants heard, and caught their lord's witticism: the
serjeants and soldiers repeated the colonel's words, and the nicknames
spread through the regiment, and through the garrison; wherever I turned, I
heard them echoed: poor Jacob was called _young Shylock_ by some, and by
others the _Wandering Jew_. It was a bitter jest, and soon became bitter
earnest.
"The ignorant soldiers really believed me to be that Jew whom Christians
most abominate. [Footnote: See Percy's Reliques of Ancient Poetry, for the
ballad of the Wandering Jew.]
"The common people felt a superstitious dread of me: the mothers charged
their children to keep out of my way; and if I met them in the streets,
they ran away and hid themselves.
"You may think, sir, I was not happy. I grew melancholy; and my melancholy
countenance, they said, was a proof that I was what I was said to be. I was
ashamed to show my face. I lost all relish for my food, and began to pine
away. My master noticed it, and he was sorry for me; he took my part, and
spoke to the young lord, who thereupon grew angry, and high words passed;
the young lord cursed at my master for an insolent Jew dog. As to me, his
lordship swore that he knew me from a boy; that he had known enough of my
tricks, and that of course for that I must bear him malice; and he vowed I
should not bear it to him for nothing.
"From that day there was a party raised against us in the garrison. Lord
Mowbray's soldiers of course took his part; and those who were most his
favourites abused us the most. They never passed our store any day without
taunt and insult; ever repeating the names their colonel had given me. It
was hard to stand still and mute, and bear every thing, without reply. But
I was determined not to bring my master into any quarrel, so I bore all.
Presently the time came when there was great distress for provisions in
the garrison; then the cry against the Jews was terrible: but I do not wish
to say more of what followed than is necessary to my own story. You must
have heard, sir, of the riot at Gibraltar, the night when the soldiery
broke into the spirit stores?"
I had read accounts of some such thing in the newspapers of the day; I had
heard of excesses committed by the soldiery, who were enraged against the
Jew merchants; and I recollected some story [Footnote: Drinkwater's Siege
of Gibraltar.] of the soldiers having roasted a pig before a Jew's door,
with a fire made of the Jew's own cinnamon.
"That fire, sir," said Jacob, "was made before our door: it was kindled by
a party of Lord Mowbray's soldiers, who, madly intoxicated with the spirits
they had taken from the stores, came in the middle of that dreadful night
to our house, and with horrible shouts, called upon my master to give up to
them the _Wandering Jew_. My master refusing to do this, they burst open
his house, pillaged, wasted, destroyed, and burnt all before our eyes! We
lost every thing! I do not mean to say _we--I_, poor Jacob, had little to
lose. It is not of that, though it was my all, it is not of that I speak--
but my master! From a rich man in one hour he became a beggar! The fruit of
all his labour lost--nothing left for his wife or children! I never can
forget his face of despair by that fire-light. I think I see it now! He did
not recover it, sir,--he died of a broken heart. He was the best and
kindest of masters to me. And can you wonder now, Mr. Harrington, or do
you blame Jacob, that he could not look upon that lord with a pleased eye,
nor smile when he saw him again?"
I did not blame Jacob--I liked him for the warmth of his feeling for his
master. When he was a little composed, however, I represented that his
affection and pity might have raised his indignation too strongly, and
might have made him impute to Lord Mowbray a greater share than he really
had in their misfortunes. Lord Mowbray was a very young officer at that
time, too young to be trusted with the command of men in such difficult
circumstances. His lordship had been exceedingly blamable in giving, even
in jest, the nicknames which had prejudiced his soldiers against an
innocent individual; but I could not conceive that he had a serious design
to injure; nor could he, as I observed, possibly foresee the fatal
consequences that afterwards ensued. As to the excesses of his soldiers,
for their want of discipline he was answerable; but Jacob should recollect
the distress to which the soldiers had been previously reduced, and the
general prejudice against those who were supposed to be the cause of the
scarcity. Lord Mowbray might be mistaken like others; but as to his
permitting their outrages, or directing them against individual Jews whom
he disliked, I told Jacob it was impossible for me to believe it. Why did
not the Jew merchant state his complaint to the general, who had, as Jacob
allowed, punished all the soldiers who had been convicted of committing
outrages? If Lord Mowbray had been complained of by Mr. Manessa, a
court-martial would have been held; and if the charges had been
substantiated, his title of colonel or lord would have availed him nothing
--he would have been broke. Jacob said, his poor master, who was ruined and
in despair, thought not of courts-martial--perhaps he had no legal proofs
--perhaps he dreaded, with reason, the popular prejudice in the garrison,
and dared not, being a Jew, appear against a Christian officer. How that
might have been, Jacob said, he did not know--all he knew was that his
master was very ill, and that he returned to England soon afterwards.
But still, argued I, if Lord Mowbray had not been brought to a court-
martial, if it had been known among his brother officers that he had been
guilty of such unofficer-like conduct, no British officer would have kept
company with him. I was therefore convinced that Jacob must have been
misinformed and deceived by exaggerated reports, and prejudiced by the
warmth of his own feelings for the loss of his master. Jacob listened to me
with a look of incredulity, yet as if with a wish to believe that I was
right: he softened gradually--he struggled with his feelings.
"He knew," he said, "that it was our Christian precept to forgive our
enemies--a very good precept: but was it easy? Did all Christians find it
easy to put it in practice? And you, Mr. Harrington, you who can have no
enemies, how can you judge?"
Jacob ended by promising, with a smile, that he would show me that a Jew
could forgive.
Then, eager to discard the subject, he spoke of other things. I thanked him
for his having introduced me to Mr. Israel Lyons:--he was delighted to hear
of the advantage I had derived from this introduction at Cambridge, and of
its having led to my acquaintance with Mr. Montenero.
He had been informed of my meeting Miss Montenero at the theatre: and he
told me of his hopes and fears when he heard her say she had been assisted
by a gentleman of the name of Harrington.
I did not venture, however, to speak much of Miss Montenero; but I
expatiated on the pleasure I had in Mr. Montenero's conversation, and on
the advantages I hoped to derive from cultivating his society.
Jacob, always more disposed to affection and gratitude than to suspicion or
revenge, seemed happy to be relieved from the thoughts of Lord Mowbray, and
he appeared inspired with fresh life and spirit when he talked of Mr.
Montenero and his daughter. He mentioned their kindness to the widow and
children of his deceased master, and of Mr. Montenero's goodness to the
surviving brother and partner, the London jeweller, Mr. Manessa, Jacob's
first benefactor. The Manessas had formerly been settled in Spain, at the
time Mr. Montenero had lived there; and when he was in some difficulties
with the Inquisition, they had in some way essentially served him, either
in assisting his escape from that country, or in transmitting his property.
Jacob was not acquainted with the particulars, but he knew that Mr.
Montenero was most grateful for the obligation, whatever it had been; and
now that he was rich and the Manessas in distress, he seemed to think he
could never do enough for them. Jacob became first acquainted, as he told
me, with Mr. Montenero in consequence of his connexion with this family.
The widow had represented him as being a faithful friend, and the two
children of his deceased master were fond of him. Mr. Montenero's
attachment to the Manessas immediately made him take notice of Jacob. Jacob
told me that he was to go to their house in the city, and to take charge of
their affairs, as soon as they could be settled; and that Mr. Montenero had
promised if possible to obtain for him a share in the firm of the surviving
brother and partner. In the mean time Jacob was employed by Mr. Montenero
in making out catalogues of his books and pictures, arranging his library
and cabinet of medals, &c., to all which he was fully competent. Jacob said
he rejoiced that these occupations would keep him a little while longer at
Mr. Montenero's, as he should there have more frequent opportunities of
seeing me, than he could hope for when he should be at the other end of the
town. "Besides," added he, "I don't know how I shall ever be able to do
without the kindness Mr. Montenero shows me; and as for Miss Montenero--!"
Jacob's countenance expanded, and his voice was by turns softened into
tenderness, and raised to enthusiasm, as he again spoke of the father and
daughter: and when my mind was touched and warmed by his panegyric of
Berenice--pronounced with the true eloquence of the heart--she, leaning on
her father's arm, entered the room. The dignified simplicity, the graceful
modesty of her appearance, so unlike the fashionable forwardness or the
fashionable bashfulness, or any of the various airs of affectation, which I
had seen in Lady Anne Mowbray and her class of young ladies, charmed me
perhaps the more from contrast and from the novelty of the charm. There was
a timid sensibility in her countenance when I spoke to her, which joined to
the feminine reserve of her whole manner, the tone of her voice, and the
propriety and elegance of the very little she said, pleased me
inexpressibly. I wished only that she had said more. However, when her
father spoke, it seemed to be almost the same as if she spoke herself--her
sympathy with him appeared so strongly. He began by speaking of Jacob: he
was glad to find that I was _the_ Mr. Harrington whom Jacob had been so
eager to see. It was evident that they knew all the good that grateful
young man could tell of me; and the smile which I received from the father
and daughter at this instant would have overpaid me for any obligations I
could have conferred. Jacob retired, observing that he had taken up all the
time with the history of his own private affairs, and that I had not yet
seen any of the pictures. Mr. Montenero immediately led me to one of
Murillo's, regretting that he had not the pleasure of showing it to my
mother. I began to speak of her sorrow at not being able to venture out; I
made some apology, but whatever it was, I am sure I did not, I could not,
pronounce it well. Mr. Montenero bowed his head courteously, removed his
eyes from my face, and glanced for one moment at Miss Montenero with a look
of regret, quickly succeeded by an expression in his countenance of calm
and proud independence. He was sorry, he said, that he could not have the
honour of seeing Mrs. Harrington--the pleasure of presenting his daughter
to her.
I perceived that he was aware of what I had hoped had escaped his
penetration--my mother's prepossession against him and his daughter. I saw
that he attributed it to a general prejudice against his race and religion,
and I perceived that this hurt his feelings much, though his pride or his
philosophy quickly repressed his sensibility. He never afterwards spoke of
my mother--never hoped to see her another day--nor hoped even that the
cold, which had prevented her from venturing out, would be better. I was
the more vexed and ashamed that I had not been able to bring my mother with
me. I turned the conversation as quickly as I could to Mr. Israel Lyons.
I observed, by what Mr. Montenero said, that from the information he had
received from Mr. Lyons and from Jacob, he was thoroughly aware of my early
prejudices and antipathy to the Jews. He observed to his daughter, that Mr.
Harrington had double merit in his present liberality, since he had
conquered what it is so difficult, scarcely possible, completely to
conquer--an early prepossession, fostered perhaps by the opinion of many
who must have had great influence on his mind. Through this compliment, I
thought I saw in Mr. Montenero's, and still more in the timid countenance
of his daughter, a fear that I might relapse; and that _these early
prepossessions, which were so difficult, scarcely possible, completely to
conquer_, might recur. I promised myself that I should soon convince them
they were mistaken, if they had formed any such notion, and I was flattered
by the fear, as it implied that I had inspired some interest. We went on
with the pictures. Not being a connoisseur, though fond of the arts, I was
relieved and pleased to find that Mr. Montenero had none of the jargon of
connoisseurship: while his observations impressed me with a high idea of
his taste and judgment, they gave me some confidence in my own. I was
delighted to find that I understood, and could naturally and truly agree
with all he said, and that my untutored preferences were what they ought to
be, according to the right rules of art and science. In short, I was proud
to find that my taste was in general the same as his and his daughter's.
What pleased me far more than Mr. Montenero's taste, was the liberality and
the enlargement of mind I saw in all his opinions and sentiments. There was
in him a philosophic calmness and moderation; his reason seemed to have
worked against great natural sensibility, perhaps susceptibility, till this
calm had become the unvarying temper of his mind. I fancied, also, that I
perceived a constant care in him to cultivate the same temper in his
daughter, and to fortify her against that extreme sensibility to the
opinion of others, and that diffidence of herself, to which, as I
recollected, he had formerly adverted.
After having admired some of Murillo's pictures, we came to one which I,
unpractised as I was in judging of painting, immediately perceived to be
inferior.
"You are quite right," said Mr. Montenero; "it is inferior to Murillo, and
the sudden sense of this inferiority absolutely broke the painter's heart.
This picture is by a painter of the name of Castillo, who had thought
comfortably well of himself, till he saw the master-pieces of Murillo's
genius; Castillo surveyed them for some time in absolute silence, then
turning away, exclaimed _Castillo is no more!_ and soon Castillo was no
more. From that moment he pined away, and shortly afterwards died: not from
envy," continued Mr. Montenero; "no, he was a man of mild, amiable temper,
incapable of envy; but he fell a victim to excessive sensibility--a
dangerous, though not a common vice of character."
"Weakness, not vice, I hope," I heard Miss Montenero say in a low voice.
The father answered with a sigh, "_that_, however, cannot be called a
virtue, which incapacitates from the exercise of independent virtue, and
which, as you find, not only depresses genius, but may extinguish life
itself."
Mr. Montenero then turned to me, and with composure went on speaking of the
pictures. Ever since I knew I was to see these, I had been studying
Cumberland's Lives of the Spanish Painters, and this I honestly told Mr.
Montenero, when he complimented me upon my knowing all the names and
anecdotes to which he alluded: he smiled--so did his daughter; and he was
so good as to say that he liked me better for telling him this so candidly,
than if I had known all that the connoisseurs and anecdote-mongers, living
or dead, had ever said or written. We came to a picture by Alonzo Cano,
who, excelling in architecture, statuary, and painting, has been called the
Michael Angelo of Spain.
"He at least was not deficient in a comfortably good opinion of himself,
Mr. Montenero," said I. "Is not it recorded of Cano, that having finished a
statue of Saint Antonio de Padua for a Spanish counsellor, the tasteless
lawyer and niggardly devotee hesitated to pay the artist his price,
observing that Cano, by his own account, had been only twenty-five days
about it? The counsellor sat down, with stupid self-sufficiency, to
calculate, that at a hundred pistoles, divided by twenty-five days, the
artist would be paid at a higher rate than he was himself for the exercise
of his talents. 'Wretch! talk to me of your talents!' exclaimed the enraged
artist; 'I have been fifty years learning to make this statue in
twenty-five days!' And as he spoke, Cano dashed his statue to pieces on the
pavement of the academy. The affrighted counsellor fled from the house with
the utmost precipitation, concluding that the man who was bold enough to
destroy a saint, would have very little remorse in destroying a lawyer.
"Happily for Cano, this story did not reach the ears of the Inquisition,"
said Mr. Montenero, "or he would have been burnt alive."
Mr. Montenero then pointed out some exquisite pieces by this artist, and
spoke with enthusiasm of his genius. I perceived some emotion, of which I
could not guess the cause, in the countenance of his daughter; she seemed
touched by what her father said about this painter or his pictures.
Mr. Montenero concluded his panegyric on Cano's genius by saying, "Besides
being a great genius, we are told that he was very religious, and, some few
peculiarities excepted, very charitable."
"You are very charitable, I am sure," said Miss Montenero, looking at her
father, and smiling: "I am not sure that I could speak so charitably of
that man." A sigh quickly followed her smile, and I now recollected having
heard or read that this painter bore such an antipathy to the Jews, that he
considered every touch of theirs as contamination; and, if he accidentally
came in contact with them, would cast off and give away his clothes,
forbidding the servant to whom he gave them, on any account to wear them.
Miss Montenero saw that I recollected to what she alluded--that I had a
just feeling of the benevolent magnanimity of her father's character. This
raised me, I perceived, in the daughter's opinion. Though scarcely a word
passed at the moment, yet I fancied that we felt immediately better
acquainted. I ventured to go and stand beside her, from doing which I had
hitherto been prevented by I know not what insurmountable difficulty or
strange spell.
We were both opposite to a Spanish copy of Guido's Aurora Surgens. I
observed that the flame of the torch borne by the winged boy, representing
Lucifer, points westward, in a direction contrary to that in which the
manes of the horses, the drapery of Apollo, and that of the dancing Hours,
are blown, which seemed to me to be a mistake.
Berenice said that Guido had taken this picture from Ovid's description,
and that he had, with great art, represented, by the very circumstance to
which I objected, the swiftness of the motion with which the chariot was
driven forward. The current of the morning wind blowing from the east was
represented by the direction of the hair of Lucifer, and of the flame of
his torch; while the rapidity of the motion of the chariot was such, that,
notwithstanding the eastern wind, which would otherwise have blown them
towards the west, the manes of the horses, and the drapery of the figures,
were driven backwards, by the resistance of the air against which they were
hurried. She then repeated, in a pleasing but timid manner, in support of
her opinion, these two beautiful lines of Addison's translation:
"With winged speed outstrips the eastern wind,
And leaves the breezes of the morn behind."
I need not say that I was delighted with this criticism, and with the
modest manner in which it was spoken: but I could not honestly help
remarking that, to the description immediately alluded to in Ovid, Addison
had added the second beautiful line,
"And leaves the breezes of the morn behind."
Mr. Montenero looked pleased, and said to me, "It is very true, in the
immediate passage describing the chariot of the Sun issuing from the gates
of Heaven, this line is not in the original; but if you look further back
in the fable, you will find that the idea is still more strongly expressed
in the Latin than in the English."
It was with the utmost difficulty that I at last forced myself away, nor
was I in the least aware of the unconscionable length of my visit. What
particularly pleased me in the conversation of Miss Montenero was, that she
had none of those fashionable phrases which fill each vacuity of sense, and
which level all distinctions of understanding. There was none of that
commonplace stuff which passes for conversation in the world, and which we
hear and repeat till we are equally tired of others and of ourselves.
There were, besides, in her manner and countenance, indications of perfect
sweetness of temper, a sort of feminine gentleness and softness which art
cannot feign nor affectation counterfeit; a gentleness which, while it is
the charm of female manners, is perfectly consistent with true spirit, and
with the higher or the stronger qualities of the mind. All I had seen of
Miss Montenero in this first visit inspired me with the most ardent desire
to see more. Here was a woman who could fill my whole soul; who could at
once touch my heart and my imagination. I felt inspired with new life--I
had now a great object, a strong and lively interest in existence. At
parting, Mr. Montenero shook hands with me, which, he said, he knew was the
English mode of showing kindness: he expressed an earnest, but proudly
guarded wish, that I might he _so circumstanced_, and so inclined, as to
allow him the pleasure he much desired, of cultivating my acquaintance.
CHAPTER X
The interest which Berenice inspired, so completely absorbed my mind, that
I never thought again of Jacob and his story, till I met Lady Anne and her
brother the next morning, when I went to take a ride in the park: they were
with Colonel Topham, and some people of her ladyship's acquaintance.
Lady Anne, after the usual preliminary quantity of nonsense, and after she
had questioned and cross-questioned me, to the best of her slender
abilities, about the Jewess, told me a long story about herself, and her
fears, and the fears of her mare, and a horse-laugh of Mowbray's which
Colonel Topham said no horse could stand: not much applause ensuing from
me, she returned to the witty colonel, and left me to her brother. Mowbray
directly began to talk about Jacob. He said he supposed Jacob had not
failed to make his Gibraltar story good; but that "Hear both sides" was an
indispensable maxim, even where such a favourite as Jacob was concerned.
"But first let us take one other good gallop," said Mowbray; "Anne, I leave
you here with Mrs. Carrill and Colonel Topham;" and away he galloped. When
he thought, as he said, that he had shaken off some of my prejudices, he
drew up his horse, and talked over the Gibraltar affair.
His dashing, jocular, military mode of telling the thing, so different from
Jacob's plain, mercantile, matter-of-fact method, quite changed my view and
opinion of the transaction. Mowbray blamed himself with such a good grace,
and wished so fervently that he could make any reparation to "the poor
devils who had suffered," that I acquitted him of all malice, and forgave
his imprudence.
The frankness with which he spoke to Jacob, when they met, was proof
conclusive to me that he was incapable, as he declared, of harbouring any
malice against Jew or Christian. He inquired most particularly into Jacob's
own losses at Gibraltar, called for pen, ink, and paper, and in his
off-hand manner wrote a draft on his banker, and put it into Jacob's hand.
"Here, my honest Jacob, you are a Jew whose accounts I can take at your
word. Let this settle the balance between us. No scruples, Jacob--no
present, this--nothing but remuneration for your losses."
Jacob accepted Lord Mowbray's apologies, but could not by any means be
prevailed upon to accept from him any present or remuneration. He seemed
willing to forgive, but not to trust Lord Mowbray. All trace of resentment
was cleared from his countenance, but no condescension of his lordship
could move Jacob to throw off his reserve beyond a certain point. He
conquered aversion, but he would not pretend to like. Mr. Montenero came
into the room while we were speaking, and I presented Lord Mowbray to him.
There was as marked a difference as politeness would allow in Mr.
Montenero's manner towards his lordship and towards me, which I justly
attributed to Jacob's previous representations. We looked at the pictures,
and talked, and loitered, but I turned my eyes in vain to the door every
time it opened--no Miss Montenero appeared. I was so much preoccupied with
my object that I was silent, and left Mowbray to make his own way, which no
one was more capable of doing. In a few minutes he was in full
conversation. He went over again, without my attending to it, his _piece
justificative_ about the riot at Gibraltar, and Jacob, and the Manessas;
and between the fits of my reverie, I perceived Mowbray was talking of the
Due de Crillon and General Elliot, and red-hot balls; but I took no
interest in the conversation, till I heard him speak of an officers' ball
at Gibraltar, and of dancing with a Jewess. The very night he had first
landed at Gibraltar, there happened to be a ball to which he went with a
friend, who was also just landed, and a stranger. It was the custom to draw
lots for partners. His friend, a true-born Englishman, took fright at the
foreign-sounding name of the lady who fell to his lot--Mowbray changed
tickets with him, and had, he said, great reason to rejoice. The lady with
the foreign name was a Jewess, the handsomest, the most graceful, the most
agreeable woman in the room. He was the envy of every man, and especially
of his poor friend, who too late repented his rash renunciation of his
ticket. Lord Mowbray, by several other slight anecdotes, which he
introduced with happy effect, contrived to please Mr. Montenero; and if any
unfavourable prepossession had existed against him, it was, I thought,
completely removed. For my own part, I was delighted with his presence of
mind in recollecting all that was best worth seeing in London, and
arranging parties in which we could have the honour of attending Miss
Montenero, and the pleasure of being of some use to her.
Mr. Montenero's own acquaintance in London was chiefly with the families of
some of the foreign ambassadors, and with other foreigners of distinction;
but his daughter was not yet acquainted with any English ladies, except the
lady of General B----, with whom the Monteneros had been intimate in
America. Lady Emily B---- was detained in the country by the illness of one
of her family, and Miss Montenero, having declined going into public with
Mrs. Coates, would wait quietly at home till her English friends should
come to town. Again shame for my mother's remissness obliged me to cast
down my eyes in awkward silence. But Mowbray, Heaven bless him for it! went
on fluently. This was the moment, he said, before Miss Montenero should
appear in public, and get into the whirl of the great world, before
engagements should multiply and press upon her, as inevitably they would as
soon as she had made her debut--this was the moment, and the only moment
probably she would ever have to herself, to see all that was worth a
stranger's notice in London. Mr. Montenero was obliged to Mowbray, and I am
sure so was I.
Miss Montenero, infinitely more desirous to see than to be seen, was
pleased with the parties we arranged for her and from this time forward,
scarcely a day passed without our having the pleasure of attending the
father and daughter. My mother sighed and remonstrated in vain; my father,
absorbed in the House of Commons, was satisfied with seeing me regularly at
breakfast. He usually dined at clubs, and it was happily his principle to
let his son amuse himself his own way. But I assured her, and truly, that I
was only amusing myself, and that I had not formed any serious intentions.
I wished to see more of the lady. Mowbray, with ready invention,
continually suggested something particularly well worth seeing or hearing,
some delightful pretext for our being together. Sometimes he accompanied
us, sometimes he excused himself--he had indispensable engagements. His
_indispensable engagements_ I knew were usually with ladies of a very
different sort from Miss Montenero. Mowbray was desperately in love with
the young actress who had played the part of Jessica, and to her he devoted
every moment he could command. I regretted for his sake his dissipated
tastes, but I felt the more obliged to him for the time he sacrificed to
friendship; and perhaps, to tell things just as they were, I was glad he
was safely in love with a Jessica of his own, as it secured me from all
apprehension of his rivalling or wishing to rival me. Miss Montenero he
confessed was not in the least to his taste. In this instance I was quite
satisfied that our tastes should completely differ. I never liked him so
well--we went on most happily together. I felt uncommonly benevolent
towards the whole world; my heart expanded with increased affection for all
my friends--every thing seemed to smile upon me--even the weather. The
most delicious morning I ever remember was that on which we rowed along the
banks of the Thames with Miss Montenero. I always enjoyed every beautiful
object in nature with enthusiasm, but now with new delight--with all the
enchantment of a first love, and of hope that had never known
disappointment.
I was almost angry with my dear friend Mowbray, for not being as
enthusiastic this day as I was myself.
There were certain points of taste and character on which we never could
agree; my romantic imagination and enthusiastic manner of expressing
myself, were often in contrast with his worldly comic mode of seeing and
talking. He hurt, sometimes, my feelings by his raillery--he pulled me down
too suddenly from my flights of imagination. By the flashes of his wit he
showed, perhaps too clearly, the danger of my fall from "high sublime to
deep absurd;" but, after all, I was satisfied that Miss Montenero preferred
my style, and in general I was content that he should enjoy his dear wit
and gay rhetoric--even a little at my expense.
The morning we went to Westminster Abbey, I own I was provoked with him,
for pointing out to my observation, at the moment when my imagination was
struck with the sense of sublimity at the sight of the awful pile, the
ridiculous contrast of the showman and his keys, who was impatiently
waiting till I had finished my exclamations; but I soon forgot both the
showman and the wit, while at every step, among the illustrious dead, my
enthusiasm was raised, and some anecdote of their lives, or some striking
quotation from their works, rushed upon my mind. I was inspired and
encouraged by the approbation of the father, and the sympathy of the
daughter.
As we were quitting the Abbey, Mr. Montenero stopped, turned to me, and
said, "You have a great deal of enthusiasm, I see, Mr. Harrington: so much
the better, in my opinion--I love generous enthusiasm."
And at the moment I flattered myself that the eyes of his daughter repeated
"I love generous enthusiasm," her father caught the expression, and
immediately, with his usual care, moderated and limited what he had said.
"Enthusiasm well governed, of course, I mean--as one of your English
noblemen lately said, 'There is an enthusiasm of the head, and that is
genius--there is an enthusiasm of the heart, and that is virtue--there is
an enthusiasm of the temper, and that is--'"
Miss Montenero looked uneasy, and her father perceiving this, checked
himself again, and, changing his tone, added, "But with all its dangers and
errors, enthusiasm, in either man or woman, is more amiable and respectable
than selfishness. Enthusiasm is not the vice of the young men or women of
the present day."
"Certainly not," said Mowbray, who was now very attentive to every thing
that passed. I forgave him the witticisms with which he had crossed my
humour this morning, for the kind sympathy he showed with the pleasure I
felt at this moment. Afterwards, when Mowbray and I were alone together,
and _compared notes_, as we were in the habit of doing, upon all that had
been said, and had been looked, during the day, Mowbray congratulated me
upon the impression I had made by my eloquence. "Enthusiasm, you see, is
the thing both with father and daughter: you succeed in that line--follow
it up!"
I was incapable of affecting enthusiasm, or of acting any part to show
myself off; yet Mowbray's opinion and my own observations coinciding,
unconsciously and involuntarily, I afterwards became more at my ease in
yielding to my natural feelings and habitual expressions.
Miss Montenero had not yet seen the Tower, and Mowbray engaged himself to
be of our party. But at the same time, he privately begged me to keep it a
dead secret from his sister. Lady Anne, he said, would never cease to
ridicule him, if she were to hear of his going to the Tower, after having
been too lazy to go with her, and all the fashionable world, the night
before, to the Fantoccini.
Though I had lived in London half my childhood, my nervous disease had
prevented my being taken to see even the sights that children are usually
shown; and since my late arrival in town, when I had been my own master,
engagements and emotions had pressed upon me too fast to leave time or
inclination to think of such things. My object, of course, was now merely
to have the pleasure of accompanying Berenice.
I was unexpectedly struck, on entering the armoury at the Tower. The walls,
three hundred feet in length, covered with arms for two hundred thousand
men, burnished arms, glittering in fancy figures on the walls, and ranged
in endless piles from the ceiling to the floor of that long gallery; then
the apartment with the line of ancient kings, clad in complete armour,
mounted on their steeds fully caparisoned--the death-like stiffness of the
figures--the stillness--the silence of the place--altogether awe the
imagination, and carry the memory back to the days of chivalry. When among
these forms of kings and heroes who had ceased to be, I beheld the Black
Prince, lance couched, vizor down, with the arms he wore at Cressy and
Poictiers, my enthusiasm knew no bounds. The Black Prince, from my
childhood, had been the object of my idolatry. I kneeled--I am ashamed to
confess it--to do homage to the empty armour.
Mr. Montenero, past the age of romantic extravagance, could not sympathize
with this enthusiasm, but he bore with it.
We passed on to dark Gothic nooks of chambers, where my reverence for the
beds on which kings had slept, and the tables at which kings had sat, much
increased by my early associations formed of Brantefield Priory, was
expressed with a vehemence which astonished Mr. Montenero; and, I fear,
prevented him from hearing the answers to various inquiries, upon which he,
with better regulated judgment, was intent.
An orator is the worst person to tell a plain fact; the very worst guide,
as Mowbray observed, that a foreigner can have. Still Mr. Montenero had
patience with me, and supplied the elisions in my rhetoric, by what
information he could pick up from the guide, and from Mowbray, with whom,
from time to time, he stopped to see and hear, after I had passed on with
Berenice. To her quickness and sympathy I flattered myself that I was
always intelligible.
We came at last to the chamber where Clarence and the young princes had
been murdered. Here, I am conscious, I was beyond measure exuberant in
exclamations, and in quotations from Shakspeare.
Mr. Montenero came in just as I was ranting, from Clarence's dream--
"Seize on him, furies! take him to your torments!
--With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends
Environ'd me, and howled in mine ears"
Such hideous cries! that with the very noise I made, I prevented poor Mr.
Montenero from hearing the answer to some historic question he was asking.
Berenice's eye warned me to lower my voice, and I believe I should have
been quiet, but that unluckily, Mowbray set me off in another direction, by
reminding me of the tapestry-chamber and Sir Josseline. I remember covering
my face with both my hands, and shuddering with horror.
Mr. Montenero asked, "What of the tapestry-chamber?"
And immediately recollecting that I should not, to him, and before his
daughter, describe the Jew, who had committed a deed without a name, I with
much embarrassment said, that "it was nothing of any consequence--it was
something I could not explain."
I left it to Mowbray's superior presence of mind, and better address, to
account for it, and I went on with Berenice. Whenever my imagination was
warmed, verses poured in upon my memory, and often without much apparent
connexion with what went before. I recollected at this moment the passage
in Akenside's "Pleasures of the Imagination" describing the early delight
the imagination takes in horrors:--the children closing round the village
matron, who suspends the infant audience with her tales breathing
astonishment; and I recited all I recollected of
"Evil spirits! of the deathbed call
Of him who robb'd the widow, and devour'd
The orphan's portion--of unquiet souls
Ris'n from the grave, to ease the heavy guilt
Of deeds in life conceal'd--of shapes that walk
At dead of night, and clank their chains, and wave
The torch of Hell around the murderer's bed!"
Mowbray and Mr. Montenero, who had stayed behind us a few minutes, came up
just as I was, with much emphasis and gesticulation,
"Waving the torch of Hell."
I am sure I must have been a most ridiculous figure. I saw Mowbray on the
brink of laughter; but Mr. Montenero looked so grave, that he fixed all my
attention. I suddenly stopped.
"We were talking of 'The Pleasures of Imagination,'" said Berenice to her
father. "Mr. Harrington is a great admirer of Akenside."
"Is he?" replied Mr. Montenero coldly, and with a look of absence. "But, my
dear, we can have the pleasures of the imagination another time. Here are
some realities worthy of our present attention."
He then drew his daughter's arm within his. I followed; and all the time he
was pointing out to her the patterns of the Spanish instruments of torture,
with which her politic majesty Queen Elizabeth frightened her subjects into
courage sufficient to repel all the invaders on board the invincible
armada--I stood silent, pondering on what I might have said or done to
displease him whom I was so anxious to please. First, I thought he
suspected me of what I most detested, the affectation of taste,
sensibility, and enthusiasm; next, I fancied that Mowbray, in explaining
about the tapestry-chamber, Sir Josseline, and the bastinadoed Jew, had
said something that might have hurt Mr. Montenero's Jewish pride. From
whichever of these causes his displeasure arose, it had the effect of
completely sobering my spirits. My poetic fit was over. I did not even dare
to speak to his daughter.
During our drive home, Berenice, apropos to something which Mowbray had
said, but which I did not hear, suggested to her father some lines of
Akenside, which she knew he particularly admired, on the nature and power
of the early association of ideas. Mr. Montenero, with all the warmth my
heart could wish, praised the poetic genius, and the intimate and deep
knowledge of the human mind displayed in this passage. His gravity
gradually wore off, and I began to doubt whether the displeasure had ever
existed. At night, before Mowbray and I parted, when we talked over the
day, he assured me that he had said nothing that could make Mr. Montenero
displeased with me or any living creature; that they had been discussing
some point of English History, on which old Montenero had posed him. As to
my fears, Mowbray rallied me out of them effectually. He maintained that
Montenero had not been at all displeased, and that I was a most absurd
_modern self-tormentor._ "Could not a man look grave for two minutes
without my racking my fancy for two hours to find a cause for it? Perhaps
the man had the toothache; possibly the headache; but why should I,
therefore, insist upon having the heartache?"
CHAPTER XI.
Mowbray's indifference was often a happy relief to my anxiety of temper;
and I had surely reason to be grateful to him for the sacrifices he
continued daily to make of his own tastes and pleasures, to forward my
views.
One morning in particular, he was going to a rehearsal at Drury-lane,
where I knew his heart was; but finding me very anxious to go to the Mint
and the Bank with Mr. Montenero and Berenice, Mowbray, who had a relation a
Bank director, immediately offered to accompany us, and procured us the
means of seeing every thing in the best possible manner.
Nothing could, as he confessed, be less to his taste; and he was surprised
that Miss Montenero chose to be of the party. A day spent in viewing the
Mint and the Bank, it may perhaps be thought, was a day lost to love--quite
the contrary; I had an opportunity of feeling how the passion of love can
throw its enchantment over scenes apparently least adapted to its nature.
Before this time I had twice gone over every part of these magnificent
establishments. I had seen at the Bank the spirit of order operating like
predestination, compelling the will of man to act necessarily and
continually with all the precision of mechanism. I had beheld human
creatures, called clerks, turned nearly into arithmetical machines.
But how new did it all appear in looking at it with Berenice! How would she
have been delighted if she had seen those machines, "instinct with spirit,"
which now perform the most delicate manoeuvres with more than human
dexterity--the self-moving balance which indefatigably weighs, accepts,
rejects, disposes of the coin, which a mimic hand perpetually presents!
What chiefly pleased me in Miss Montenero was the composure, the
_sincerity_ of her attention. She was not anxious to display herself: I was
the more delighted when I discovered her quickness of comprehension. I was
charmed too by the unaffected pleasure she showed in acquiring new ideas,
and surprised by the judicious _proportion_ of the admiration she expressed
for all that was in various degrees excellent in arrangement, or ingenious
in contrivance: in short....
"In short, man," as Mowbray would say, "in short, man, you were in love,
and there's an end of the matter: if your Berenice had hopped forty paces
in the public streets, it would have been the same with you."
That I deny--but I will go on with my story.
As we were going away, Mr. Montenero, after thanking Lord Mowbray and his
cousin, the Bank director, who had shown and explained every thing to us
with polite and intelligent patience, observed that the Bank was to him a
peculiarly interesting sight.
"You know," said he, "that we Jews were the first inventors of bills of
exchange and bank-notes--we were originally the bankers and brokers of the
world."
Then, as we walked to the carriage, he continued addressing himself to his
daughter, in a lowered voice, "You see, Berenice, here, as in a thousand
instances, how general and permanent good often results from partial and
temporary evil. The persecutions even to which we Jews were exposed--the
tyranny which drove us from place to place, and from country to country, at
a moment's or without a moment's warning, compelled us, by necessity, to
the invention of a happy expedient, by which we could convert all our
property into a scrap of paper, that could be carried unseen in a
pocket-book, or conveyed in a letter unsuspected."
Berenice thanked Heaven that the times of persecution were over; and added,
that she hoped any prejudice which still existed would soon die away.
Mowbray exclaimed against the very idea of the existence of such prejudices
at this time of day in England, among the higher classes.
He did not recollect his own mother, I believe, when he said this; but I
know I had a twinge of conscience about mine, and I did not dare to look at
Mr. Montenero; nor did I know well which way to look, when his lordship,
persisting in his assertion, asked Miss Montenero if she could possibly
imagine that any such vulgar prejudices existed among well-bred persons.
Berenice mildly answered, that she had really as yet enjoyed so few
opportunities of seeing the higher classes of society in London that she
could not form a judgment. She was willing to take upon trust his
lordship's opinion, who must have means of knowing.
I imagined that Mr. Montenero's eye was upon me, and that he was thinking
of my mother's never having made the slightest advance towards an
acquaintance with his daughter. I recollected the speeches I had made on
his first visit, pledging my mother to that which she had never performed.
I felt upon the rack--and a pause, that ensued afterwards, increased my
misery. I longed for somebody to say something--any thing. I looked for
assistance to Mowbray. He repeated, confidently, that Miss Montenero might
entirely rely upon what he said as to London and England--indeed he had
been a good deal abroad _too_. He seemed to be glad to get to the continent
again--I followed him as fast as I could, and inquired whether he did not
think that the French and Germans were much improved in liberality, and a
spirit of toleration.
"Give me leave," said Mr. Montenero, "to answer for the improvement of the
Germans. Fifteen years ago, I remember, when I was travelling in Germany, I
was stopped at a certain bridge over the Rhine, and, being a Jew, was
compelled to pay rather an ignominious toll. The Jews were there classed
among cloven-footed beasts, and as such paid toll. But, within these few
years, sixteen German princes, enlightened and inspired by one great
writer, and one good minister, have combined to abolish this disgraceful
tax. You see, my dear Berenice, your hope is quickly fulfilling--prejudices
are dying away fast. Hope humbly, but hope always."
The playful tone in which Mr. Montenero spoke, put me quite at my ease.
The next day I was determined on an effort to make my mother acquainted
with Miss Montenero. If I could but effect a meeting, a great point I
thought would be gained. Mowbray undertook to manage it, and he, as usual,
succeeded. He persuaded his mother to go to an auction of pictures, where
he assured her she would be likely to meet with a Vandyke of one of her
ancestors, of whose portrait she had long been in search. Lady de
Brantefield engaged my mother to be of the party, without her having any
suspicion that she would meet the Monteneros. We arrived in time to secure
the best places, before the auction began. Neither Mr. nor Miss Montenero
were there; but, to my utter discomfiture, a few minutes after we were
seated, vulgar Mrs. Coates and all her tribe appeared. She elbowed her
difficult way onward towards us, and nodding to me familiarly, seated
herself and her Vandals on a line with us. Then, stretching herself across
the august Lady de Brantefield, who drew back, far as space would permit,
"Beg your pardon, ma'am, but I just want to say a word to this lady. A'n't
you the lady--yes--that sat beside me at the play the other night--the
Merchant of Venice and the Maid of the Oaks, was not it, Izzy? I hope you
caught no cold, ma'am--you look but poorly, I am sorry to notice--but what
I wanted to say, ma'am, here's an ivory fan Miss Montenero was in a pucker
and quandary about." _Pucker and quandary!_--Oh! how I groaned inwardly!
"I was in such a fuss about her, you know, sir, that I never found out,
till I got home, I had pocketed a strange fan--here it is, ma'am, if it is
yours--it's worth any body's owning, I am sure."
The fan was my mother's, and she was forced to be much obliged. Lady de
Brantefield, still painfully holding back, did not resume her position till
some seconds had elapsed after Mrs. Coates had withdrawn her fat bust--till
it might be supposed that the danger of coming into contact with her was
fairly over. My mother, after a decent interval, asked me if it were
possible to move to some place where they could have more air, as the crowd
was increasing. Lord Mowbray and I made way for her to a seat by an open
window; but the persevering Mrs. Coates followed, talking about the famous
elbows of Mr. Peter Coates, on whose arm she leaned. "When Peter chooses,
there's not a man in Lon'on knows the use of his elbows better, and if we'd
had him, Mr. Harrington, with us at the play, the other night, we should
not have given you so much trouble with Miss Montenero, getting her out."
Lord Mowbray, amused by my look of suffering, could not refrain from
diverting himself further by asking a question or two about the Monteneros.
It was soon apparent, from the manner in which Mrs. Coates answered, that
she was not as well pleased with them as formerly.
It was her maxim, she said, to speak of the bridge as she went over it; and
for her part, if she was to give her verdict, she couldn't but say Miss
Montenero--for they weren't on terms to call her Miss Berry now--was a
little incomprehensible sometimes.
A look of surprise from Lord Mowbray, without giving himself the trouble to
articulate, was quite sufficient to make the lady go on.
"Why, if it concerned any gentleman" (glancing her ill-bred eye upon me),
"if any gentleman was thinking of looking that way, it might be of use to
him to know the land. Miss Montenero, then, if truth must be told, is a
little touchy on the Jewish chapter."
Lord Mowbray urged Mrs. Coates on with "How, for instance?" "Oh, how! why,
my lord, a hundred times I've hurt her to the quick. One can't always be
thinking of people's different persuasions you know--and if one asked a
question, just for information's sake, or made a natural remark, as I did
t'other day, Queeney, you know, just about Jew butchers, and pigeons--'It's
a pity,' said I, 'that Jews must always have Jew butchers, Miss Berry, and
that there is so many things they can't touch: one can't have pigeons nor
hares at one's table,' said I, thinking only of my second course; 'as to
pork, Henny,' says I, 'that's a coarse butcher's meat, which I don't
regret, nor the alderman, a pinch o' snuff'--now, you know, I thought that
was kind of me; but Miss Montenero took it all the wrong way, quite to
heart so, you've no idear! After all, she may say what she pleases, but
it's my notion the Jews is both a very unsocial and a very revengeful
people; for, do you know, my lord, they wouldn't dine with us next day,
though the alderman called himself."
My mother was so placed that she could not avoid hearing all that Mrs.
Coates said to Lord Mowbray; and though she never uttered a syllable, or
raised her eyes, or moved the fan she held in her hand, I knew by her
countenance the impression that was made on her mind: she would have
scorned, on any other subject of human life or manners, to have allowed
the judgment of Mrs. Coates to weigh with her in the estimation of a single
hair; yet here her opinion and _idears_ were admitted to be decisive.
Such is prejudice! thought I. Prejudice, even in the proudest people, will
stoop to accept of nourishment from any hand. Prejudice not only grows on
what it feeds upon, but converts every thing it meets with into
nourishment.
How clear-sighted I was to the nature of prejudice at this moment, and how
many reflections passed in one instant, which I had never made before in
the course of my life!--Meantime Mrs. Coates had beckoned to her son Peter,
and Peter had drawn near, and was called upon by his mother to explain to
my lord the cause of the _coolness_ betwixt the alderman and Mr.
Montenero: "It was," she said, "about the Manessas, and a young man called
Jacob."
Peter was not as fluent as his mother, and she went on. "It was some money
matter. Mr. Montenero had begun by acting a very generous part, she
understood, at first, by way of being the benevolent Jew, but had not come
up to the alderman's expectations latterly, and had shown a most illiberal
partiality to the Manessas, and this Jacob, only because they _was_ Jews;
which, you know," said Mrs. Coates, "was very ungentleman-like to the
alderman, after all the civilities we had shown the Monteneros on their
coming to Lon'on--as Peter, if he could open his mouth, could tell you."
Peter had just opened his mouth, when Mr. Montenero appearing, he closed it
again. To my inexpressible disappointment, Miss Montenero was not with her
father. Mr. Montenero smiled the instant he caught my eye, but seeing my
mother as he approached, he bowed gravely, and passed on.
"And never noticed me, I declare," said Mrs. Coates: "that's too good!"
"But Miss Montenero! I thought she was to be here?" cried Mowbray.
Mrs. Coates, after her fashion, stretching across two of her daughters,
whispered to the third, loud enough for all to hear, "Queeney, this comes
of airs!--This comes of her not choosing for to go abroad with me, I
suppose."
"If people doesn't know their friends when they has 'em," replied Queeney,
"they may go farther and fare worse: that's all I have to say."
"Hush!" said Peter, giving his sister a monitory pinch--"can't you say your
say under your breath? _he's_ within seven of you, and he has ears like the
devil."
"All them Jews has, and Jewesses too; they think one's always talking of
them, they're so suspicious," said Mrs. Coates. "I am told, moreover, that
they've ways and means of hearing."
To my great relief, she was interrupted by the auctioneer, and the sound of
his hammer. The auction went on, and nothing but "Who bids more? going!--
going!--who bids more?" was heard for a considerable time. Not being able
to get near Mr. Montenero, and having failed in all my objects, I grew
excessively tired, and was going away, leaving my mother to the care of
Mowbray, but he stopped me. "Stay, stay," said he, drawing me aside,
behind two connoisseurs, who were babbling about a Titian, "you will have
some diversion by and by. I have a picture to sell, and you must see how it
will go off. There is a painting that I bought at a stall for nothing, upon
a speculation that my mother, who is a judge, will pay dear for; and what
do you think the picture is? Don't look so stupid--it will interest you
amazingly, and Mr. Montenero too, and 'tis a pity your Jewess is not here
to see it. Did you ever hear of a picture called the 'Dentition of the
Jew?'"
"Not I."
"You'll see, presently," said Mowbray.
"But tell me _now_," said I.
"Only the drawing the teeth of the Jew, by order of some one of our most
merciful lords the kings--John, Richard, or Edward."
"It will be a companion to the old family picture of the Jew and Sir
Josseline," continued Mowbray; "and this will make the vile daub, which
I've had the luck to pick up, invaluable to my mother, and I trust very
valuable to me."
"There! Christie has it up! The dear rascal! hear him puff it!"
Lady de Brantefield put up her glass, but neither she nor I could
distinguish a single figure in the picture, the light so glared upon it.
Christie caught her ladyship's eye, and addressed himself directly to her.
But her ladyship was deaf. Mowbray pressed forward to her ear, and repeated
all Christie roared. No sooner did she understand the subject of the
picture than she turned to her son, to desire him to bid for her; but
Mowbray substituted Topham in his stead: Topham obeyed.
"Who bids more?"
A bidder started up, who seemed very eager. He was, we were told, an
engraver.
"Who bids more?"
To our surprise, Mr. Montenero was the person to bid more--and more, and
more, and more. The engraver soon gave up the contest, but her ladyship's
pride and passions rose when she found Mr. Montenero continued to bid
against her; and she persisted, till she came up to an extravagant sum; and
still she desired Colonel Topham to bid on.
"Beyond my expectation, faith! Both mad!" whispered Mowbray. I thought so
too. Still Mr. Montenero went higher.
"I'll go no higher," said Lady de Brantefield; "you may let it be knocked
down to that person, Colonel." Then turning to her son, "Who is the man
that bids against me?"
"A Jewish gentleman, ma'am, I believe."
"A Jew, perhaps--gentleman, I deny; no Jew ever was or ever will be a
gentleman. I am sure our family, since the time of Sir Josseline, have had
reason enough to know that."
"Very true, ma'am--I'll call for your carriage, for I suppose you have had
enough of this."
Mowbray carried me with him. "Come off," said he; "I long to hear Montenero
descant on the merits of the dentition. Do you speak, for you can do it
with a better face."
Mowbray seemed to be intent merely upon his own diversion; he must have
seen and felt how reluctant I was: but, taking my arm, he dragged me on to
Mr. Montenero, who was standing near a window, with the picture in his
hand, examining it attentively. Mowbray pushed me on close behind Mr.
Montenero--the light now falling on the picture, I saw it for the first
time, and the sight struck me with such associated feelings of horror, that
I started back, exclaiming, with vehement gestures, "I cannot bear it! I
cannot bear that picture!"
Mr. Montenero turned, and looked at me with surprise.
"I beg pardon, sir," said I; "but it made me absolutely--"
"Sick," said Mr. Montenero, opening the window, as I leaned back against
the wall, and the eyes of all present were fixed upon me. Ashamed of the
exaggerated expression of my feelings, I stood abashed. Mr. Montenero, with
the greatest kindness of manner, and with friendly presence of mind, said
he remembered well having felt actually sick at the sight of certain
pictures. "For instance, my lord," said he, addressing himself to Lord
Mowbray, "the famous picture of the flaying the unjust magistrate I never
could look at steadily."
I recovered myself--and squeezing Mr. Montenero's hand to express my sense
of his kind politeness, I exerted myself to talk and to look at the
picture. Afraid of Mowbray's ridicule, I never once turned my eyes towards
him--I fancied that he was laughing behind me: I did him injustice; he was
not laughing--he looked seriously concerned. He whispered to me, "Forgive
me, my dear Harrington--I aimed at _mamma_--I did not mean to hurt you."
Before we quitted the subject, I expressed to Mr. Montenero my surprise at
his having purchased, at an extraordinary price, a picture apparently of so
little merit, and on such a disgusting subject.
"Abuse the subject as much as you please," interrupted Mowbray; "but as to
the merit of the painting, have the grace, Harrington, to consider, that
Mr. Montenero must be a better judge than you or I."
"You are too good a judge yourself, my lord," replied Mr. Montenero, in a
reserved tone, "not to see this picture to be what it really is, a very
poor performance." Then turning to me in a cordial manner, "Be assured, Mr.
Harrington, that I am at least as clear-sighted, in every point of view, as
you can possibly be, to its demerits."
"Then why did you purchase it?" was the question, which involuntarily
recurred to Mowbray and to me; but we were both silent, and stood with our
eyes fixed upon the picture.
"Gentlemen, if you will do me the honour to dine with me to-morrow," said
Mr. Montenero, "you shall know the purpose for which I bought this
picture."
We accepted the invitation; Mowbray waited for to-morrow with all the
eagerness of curiosity, and I with the eagerness of a still more impatient
passion.
I pass over my mother's remonstrances against my _dining at the
Monteneros';_ remonstrances, strengthened as they were in vehemence, if not
in reason, by all the accession of force gathered from the representations
and insinuations of Mrs. Coates.
The next day came. "Now we shall hear about the dentition of the Jew," said
Mowbray, as we got to Mr. Montenero's door.
And now we shall see Berenice! thought I.
We found a very agreeable company assembled, mixed of English and
foreigners. There was the Spanish ambassador and the Russian envoy--who,
by-the-by, spoke English better than any foreigner I ever heard; a Polish
Count, perfectly well bred, and his lady, a beautiful woman, with whom
Mowbray of course was half in love before dinner was over. The only English
present were General and Lady Emily B----. We soon learned, by the course
of the conversation, that Mr. Montenero stood high in the estimation of
every individual in the company, all of whom had known him intimately at
different times of his life, and in different countries. The general had
served in America during the beginning of the war; he had been wounded
there, and in great difficulties and distress. He and his lady, under very
trying circumstances, had been treated in the most kind and hospitable
manner by Mr. Montenero and his family. With that true English warmth of
gratitude, which contrasts so strongly and agreeably with the natural
reserve of English manner and habits, the general and his wife, Lady Emily,
expressed their joy at having Mr. Montenero in England, in London, among
their own friends.
"My dear, Mr. Montenero must let us introduce him to your brother and our
other friends--how delighted they will be to see him! And Berenice!--she
was such a little creature, General, at the time you saw her last!--but
such a kind, sweet, little creature!--You remember her scraping the lint!"
"Remember it! certainly."
They spoke of her, and looked at her, as if she was their own child; and
for my part, I could have embraced both the old general and his wife. I
only wished that my mother had been present to receive an antidote to Mrs.
Coates.
"Oh! please Heaven, we will make London--we'll make England agreeable to
you--two years! no; that won't do--we will keep you with us for ever--you
shall never go back to America."
Then, in a low voice, to Mr. Montenero, the general added, "Do you think we
have not an Englishman good enough for her?"
I felt the blood rush into my face, and dreaded that every eye must see it.
When I had the courage to raise my head and to look round, I saw that I was
perfectly safe, and that no creature was thinking about me, not even
Mowbray, who was gallanting the Polish lady. I ventured then to look
towards Berenice; but all was tranquil there--she had not, I was sure,
heard the whisper. Mr. Montenero had his eye upon her; the father's eye and
mine met--and such a penetrating, yet such a benevolent eye! I endeavoured
to listen with composure to whatever was going on. The general was talking
of his brother-in-law, Lord Charles; a panic seized me, and a mortal
curiosity to know what sort of a man the brother-in-law might be. I was
not relieved till the dessert came on the table, when, apropos to something
a Swedish gentleman said about Linnaeus, strawberries, and the gout, it
appeared, to my unspeakable satisfaction, that Lord Charles had the gout at
this instant, and had been subject to it during the last nine years. I had
been so completely engrossed by my own feelings and imaginations, that I
had never once thought of that which had previously excited our curiosity--
the picture, till, as we were going into another room to drink coffee,
Mowbray said to me, "We hear nothing of the dentition of the Jew: I can't
put him in mind of it."
"Certainly not," said I. "There is a harp; I hope Miss Montenero will play
on it," added I.
After coffee we had some good music, in different styles, so as to please,
and interest, and join in one common sympathy, all the company, many of
whom had never before heard each other's national music. Berenice was asked
to play some Hebrew music, the good general reminding her that he knew she
had a charming ear and a charming voice when she was a child. She had not,
however, been used to sing or play before numbers, and she resisted the
complimentary entreaties; but when the company were all gone, except the
general and his lady, Mowbray and myself, her father requested that
Berenice would try one song, and that she would play one air on the harp to
oblige her old friends: she immediately complied, with a graceful
unaffected modesty that interested every heart in her favour--I can answer
for my own; though no connoisseur, I was enthusiastically fond of good
music. Miss Montenero's voice was exquisite: both the poetry and the music
were sublime and touching. No compliments were paid; but when she ceased,
all were silent, in hopes that the harp would be touched again by the same
hand. At this moment, Mr. Montenero, turning to Lord Mowbray and to me,
said, "Gentlemen, I recollect my promise to you, and will perform it--I
will now explain why I bought that painting which you saw me yesterday so
anxious to obtain."
He rang the bell, and desired a servant to bring in the picture which he
had purchased at the auction, and to desire Jacob to come with it. As soon
as it was brought in, I retired to the farther end of the room. In
Mowbray's countenance there was a strange mixture of contempt and
curiosity.
Mr. Montenero kindly said to me, "I shall not insist, Mr. Harrington, on
your looking at it; I know it is not to your taste."
I immediately approached, resolved to stand the sight, that I might not be
suspected of affectation.
Berenice had not yet seen the painting: she shrunk back the moment she
beheld it, exclaiming, "Oh, father! Why purchase such a horrible picture?"
"To destroy it," said Mr. Montenero. And deliberately he took the picture
out of its frame and cut it to pieces, repeating, "To destroy it, my dear,
as I would, were it in my power, every record of cruelty and intolerance.
So perish all that can keep alive feelings of hatred and vengeance between
Jews and Christians!"
"Amen," said the good old general, and all present joined in that _amen_. I
heard it pronounced by Miss Montenero in a very low voice, but distinctly
and fervently.
While I stood with my eyes fixed on Berenice, and while Mowbray loudly
applauded her father's liberality, Mr. Montenero turned to Jacob and said,
"I sent for my friend Jacob to be present at the burning of this picture,
because it was he who put it in my power to prevent this horrid
representation from being seen and sold in every print-shop in London.
Jacob, who goes every where, and _sees_ wherever he goes, observed this
picture at a broker's shop, and found that two persons had been in treaty
for it. One of them had the appearance of an amateur, the other was an
artist, an engraver. The engraver was, I suppose, the person who bid
against Colonel Topham and me; who the other gentleman was, and why he
bought in to sell it again at that auction, perhaps Jacob knows, but I have
never inquired."
Then, with Jacob's assistance, Mr. Montenero burned every shred of this
abominable picture, to my inexpressible satisfaction.
During this _auto-da-fe_, Jacob cast a glance at Mowbray, the meaning of
which I could not at first comprehend; but I supposed that he was thinking
of the fire, at which all he had in the world had been consumed at
Gibraltar. I saw, or thought I saw, that Jacob checked the feeling this
recollection excited. He turned to me, and in a low voice told me, that Mr.
Montenero had been so kind as to obtain for him a lucrative and creditable
situation in the house of Manessa, the jeweller; and the next day he was to
go to Mr. Manessa's, and to commence business.
"So, Mr. Harrington, you see that after all my misfortunes, I am now
established in a manner far above what could have been expected for poor
Jacob--far above his most sanguine hopes. Thanks to my good friends."
"And to your good self," said I.
I was much pleased with Mowbray at this instant, for the manner in which he
joined in my praise of Jacob, and in congratulations to him. His lordship
promised that he would recommend his house to all his family and friends.
"What a contrast," said Mowbray, as soon as Jacob had left the room, "there
is between Jacob and his old rival, Dutton! That fellow has turned out very
ill--drunken, idle dog--is reduced to an old-iron shop, I believe--always
plaguing me with begging letters. Certainly, Harrington, you may triumph in
your election of Jacob."
I never saw Berenice and her father look so much pleased with Mowbray as
they did at this instant.
Of the remainder of the evening I recollect nothing but Berenice, and of my
staying later than I ought to have done. Even after the general and his
wife had departed some time, I lingered. I was to go home in Mowbray's
carriage, and twice he had touched my shoulder, telling me that I was not
aware how late it was. I could not conceive how he could think of going so
early.
"Early!" He directed my eye to the clock on the chimneypiece. I was ashamed
to see the hour. I apologized to Mr. Montenero. He replied in a manner that
was more than polite--that was quite affectionate; and his last words,
repeated at the head of the stairs, expressed a desire to see me again
_frequently_.
I sprang into Mowbray's carriage one of the happiest men on earth, full of
love, hope, and joy.
CHAPTER XII.
"All gone to bed but you?" said I to the footman, who opened the door.
"No, sir," said the drowsy fellow, "my lady is sitting up for you, I
believe."
"Then, Mowbray, come in--come up with me to my mother, pray do, for one
instant."
Before she slept, I said, he must administer an antidote to Coates's
poison. While the impression was still fresh in his mind, I entreated he
would say what a delightful party we had had. My mother, I knew, had such a
high idea of his lordship's judgment in all that concerned gentility and
fashion, that a word from him would be decisive. "But let it be to-morrow
morning," said Mowbray; "'tis shamefully late to-night."
"To-night--to-night--now, now," persisted I. He complied: "Any thing to
oblige you."
"Remember," said I, as we ran up stairs, "Spanish ambassador, Russian
envoy, Polish Count and Countess, and an English general and his lady--
strong in rank we'll burst upon the enemy." I flung open the door, but my
spirits were suddenly checked; I saw it was no time for jest and merriment.
Dead silence--solemn stillness--candles with unsnuffed wicks of portentous
length. My father and mother were sitting with their backs half turned to
each other, my mother leaning her head on her hand, with her elbow on the
table, her salts before her. My father sitting in his arm-chair, legs
stretched out, feet upon the bars of the grate, back towards us--but that
back spoke anger as plainly as a back could speak. Neither figure moved
when we entered. I stood appalled; Mowbray went forward, though I caught
his arm to pull him back. But he did not understand me, and with ill-timed
gaiety and fluency, that I would have given the world to stop, he poured
forth to my mother in praise of all we had seen and heard; and then turning
to my father, who slowly rose, shading his eyes from the candle, and
looking at me under the hand, Lord Mowbray went on with a rapturous
eulogium upon Harrington's Jew and Jewess.
"Then it is all true," said my father. "It is all very well, Harrington--
but take notice, and I give you notice in time, in form, before your friend
and counsellor, Lord Mowbray, that by Jupiter--by Jupiter Ammon, I will
never leave one shilling to my son, if he marry a Jewess! Every inch of my
estate shall go from him to his cousin Longshanks in the North, though I
hate him like sin. But a Jewess for my daughter-in-law I will never have--
by Jupiter Ammon!"
So snatching up a bougie, the wick of which scattered fire behind him, he
left the room.
"Good Heavens! what have I done?" cried Mowbray.
"What you can never undo," said I.
My mother spoke not one word, but sat smelling her salts.
"Never fear, man," whispered Mowbray; "he will sleep it off, or by
to-morrow we shall find ways and means."
He left me in despair. I heard his carriage roll away--and then there was
silence again. I stood waiting for some explanation from my mother--she saw
my despair--she dreaded my anger: in broken and scarcely intelligible,
contradictory phrases, she declared her innocence of all intention to do me
mischief, and acknowledged that all was her doing; but reminded me, that
she had prophesied it would come to this--it would end ill--and at last,
trembling with impatience as I stood, she told me all that had happened.
The fact was, that she had talked to her friend Lady de Brantefield, and
some other of her dear friends, of her dread that I should fall in love
with Miss Montenero; and the next person said I had fallen in love with
her; and under the seal of secresy,--it was told that I had actually
proposed for her, but that my father was to know nothing of the matter.
This story had been written in some young lady's letter to her
correspondent in the country, and miss in the country had told it to her
brother, who had come to town this day, dined in company with my father,
got drunk, and had given a bumper toast to "Miss Montenero, the Jewish
heiress--_Mrs. Harrington, jun. that is to be!_"
My father had come home foaming with rage; my mother had done all she could
to appease him, and to make him comprehend that above half what he had
heard was false; but it had gone the wrong way into his head, and there was
no getting it out again. My father had heard it at the most unlucky time
possible, just after he had lost a good place, and was driven to the
necessity of selling an estate that had been in his family since the time
of Richard the Second. My mother farther informed me, that my father had
given orders, in his usual sudden way when angry, for going into the
country immediately. While she was yet speaking, the door opened, and my
father, with his nightcap on, put his head in, saying, "Remember, ma'am,
you are to be off at seven to-morrow--and you sir," continued he, advancing
towards me, "if you have one grain of sense left, I recommend it to you to
come with us. But no, I see it written in your absurd face, that you will
not--obstinate madman! I leave you to your own discretion," cried he,
turning his back upon me; "but, by Jupiter Ammon, I'll do what I say, by
Jupiter!" And carrying my mother off with him, he left me to my pleasing
reflections.
All was tumult in my mind: one moment I stood motionless in utter despair,
the next struck with some bright hope. I walked up and down the room with
hasty strides--then stopped short again, and stood fixed, as some dark
reality, some sense of improbability--of impossibility, crossed my mind,
and as my father's denunciation recurred to my ear.
A Jewess!--her religion--her principles--my principles!--And can a Jewess
marry a Christian? And should a Christian marry a Jewess? The horrors of
family quarrels, of religious dissensions and disputes between father and
child, husband and wife--All these questions, and fears, and doubts, passed
through my imagination backwards and forwards with inconceivable rapidity--
struck me with all the amazement of novelty, though in fact they were not
new to me. The first moment I saw her, I was told she was a Jewess; I was
aware of the difficulties, and yet I had never fixed my view upon them: I
had suffered myself to waive the consideration of them till this moment. In
the hope, the joy, the heaven of the first feelings of the passion of love,
I had lost sight of all difficulties, human or divine; and now I was called
upon to decide in one hour upon questions involving the happiness of my
whole life. To be called upon before it was necessary too--for I was not in
love, not I--at least I had formed no idea of marrying, no resolution to
propose. Then bitterly I execrated the reporters, and the gossipers, and
the letter-writing misses, whose tattling, and meddling, and idleness, and
exaggeration, and absolute falsehood, had precipitated me into this misery.
The drunken brute, too, who had blundered out to my father that fatal
toast, had his full share of my indignation; and my mother, with her
_presentiments_--and Mowbray, with his inconceivable imprudence--and my
father, with his prejudices, his violence, and his Jupiter Ammon--every
body, and every thing I blamed, except myself. And when I had vented my
rage, still the question recurred, what was to be done? how should I
resolve? Morning was come, the grey light was peeping through the shutters:
I opened the window to feel the fresh calm air. I heard the people
beginning to stir in the house: my father and mother were to be called at
half after six. Six struck; I must decide at least, whether I would go with
them or not. No chance of my father sleeping it off! Obstinate beyond
conception; and by Jupiter Ammon once sworn, never revoked. But after all,
where was the great evil of being disinherited? The loss of my paternal
estate, in this moment of enthusiasm, appeared a loss I could easily
endure. Berenice was an heiress--a rich heiress, and I had a small estate
of my own, left to me by my grandfather. I could live with Berenice upon
any thing--upon nothing. Her wishes were moderate, I was sure--I should
not, however, reduce her to poverty; no, her fortune would be sufficient
for us both. It would be mortifying to my pride--it would be painful to
receive instead of to give--I had resolved never to be under such an
obligation to a wife; but with such a woman as Berenice!--I would submit--
submit to accept her and her fortune.
Then, as to her being a Jewess--who knows what changes love might produce?
Voltaire and Mowbray say, "qu'une femme est toujours de la religion de son
amant."
At this instant I heard a heavy foot coming down the back stairs; the door
opened, and a yawning housemaid appeared, and started at the sight of me.
"Gracious! I didn't think it was so late! Mistress bid me ask the first
thing I did--but I didn't know it was so late--Mercy! there's master's
bell--whether you go or not, sir?"
"Certainly not," said I; and after having uttered this determination, I was
more at ease. I sat down, and wrote a note to my father, in the most
respectful and eloquent terms I could devise, judging that it was better to
write than to speak to him on the subject. Then I vacated the room for the
housemaid, and watched in my own apartment till all the noises of
preparation and of departure were over; and till I heard the sound of the
carriage driving away. I was surprised that my mother had not come to me to
endeavour to persuade me to change my determination; but my father, I
heard, had hurried her into the carriage--my note I found on the table torn
down the middle.
I concluded that my cousin Longshanks was in a fair way to have the estate;
but I went to bed and to sleep, and I was consoled with dreams of Berenice.
Mowbray was with me in the morning before I was dressed. I had felt so
angry with him, that I had resolved a hundred times during the night that I
would never more admit him into my confidence--however, he contrived to
prevent my reproaches, and dispel my anger, by the great concern he
expressed for his precipitation. He blamed himself so much, that, instead
of accusing, I began to comfort him. I assured him that he had, in fact,
done me a service instead of an injury, by bringing my affairs suddenly to
a crisis: I had thus been forced to come at once to a decision. "What
decision?" he eagerly asked. My heart was at this instant in such immediate
want of sympathy, that it opened to him. I told him all that had passed
between my father and me, told him my father's vow, and my resolution to
continue, at all hazards, my pursuit of Berenice. He heard me with
astonishment: he said he could not tell which was most rash, my father's
vow, or my resolution.
"And your father is gone, actually gone," cried Mowbray; "and, in spite of
his Jupiter Ammon, you stand resolved to brave your fate, and to pursue the
fair Jewess?"
"Even so," said I: "this day I will know my fate--this day I will propose
for Miss Montenero."
Against this mad precipitation he argued in the most earnest manner.
"If you were the first duke in England, Harrington," said he, "with the
finest estate, undipped, unencumbered, unentailed; if, consequently, you
had nothing to do but to ask and have any woman for a wife; still I should
advise you, if you meant to secure the lady's heart as well as her hand,
not to begin in this novice-like manner, by letting her see her power over
you: neither woman nor man ever valued an easy conquest. No, trust me, keep
your mind to yourself till the lady is dying to know it--keep your own
counsel till the lady can no longer keep hers: when you are sure of her not
being able to refuse you, then ask for her heart as humbly as you please."
To the whole of this doctrine I could not, in honour, generosity, or
delicacy accede. Of the wisdom of avoiding the danger of a refusal I was
perfectly sensible; but, in declaring my attachment to Miss Montenero, I
meant only to ask permission to address her. To win her heart I was well
aware must be a work of time; but the first step was to deserve her esteem,
and to begin by conducting myself towards her, and her father, with perfect
sincerity and openness. The more I was convinced of my father's
inflexibility, the more desperate I knew my circumstances were, the more I
was bound not to mislead by false appearances. They would naturally suppose
that I should inherit my father's fortune--I knew that I should not, if--
"So, then," interrupted Mowbray, "with your perfect openness and sincerity,
you will go to Mr. Montenero, and you will say, 'Sir, that you are a Jew, I
know; that you are as rich as a Jew, I hope; that you are a fool, I take
for granted: at all events, I am a madman and a beggar, or about to be a
beggar. My father, who is a good and a most obstinate Christian, swore last
night by Jupiter Ammon, the only oath which he never breaks, that he will
disinherit me if I marry a Jewess: therefore, I come this morning to ask
you, sir, for your daughter, who is a Jewess, and as I am told, a great
heiress--which last circumstance is, in my opinion, a great objection, but
I shall overcome it in favour of your daughter, if you will be pleased to
give her to me. Stay, sir, I beg your pardon, sir, excuse the hurry of the
passions, which, probably, you have long since forgotten; the fact is, I do
not mean to ask you for your daughter,--I came simply to ask your
permission to fall in love with her, which I have already done without your
permission; and I trust she has, on her part, done likewise; for if I had
not a shrewd suspicion that your Jessica was ready, according to the custom
of Jews' daughters, to jump out of a two-pair of stairs window into her
lover's arms, madman as I am, I could not be such an idiot as to present
myself before you, as I now do, sir, suing _in forma pauperis_ for the
pleasure of becoming your son-in-law. I must further have the honour to
tell you, and with perfect sincerity and consideration let me inform you,
sir, that my Christian father and mother having resolved never to admit a
Jewish daughter-in-law to the honours of the maternal or paternal embrace,
when your daughter shall do me the favour to become my wife, she need not
quit your house or family, as she cannot be received into mine. Here, sir,
I will rest my cause; but I might farther plead--'"
"Plead no more for or against me, Mowbray," interrupted I, angrily turning
from him, for I could bear it no longer. Enthusiasm detests wit much, and
humour more. Enthusiasm, fancying itself raised above the reach of
ridicule, is always incensed when it feels that it is not safe from its
shafts.
Mowbray changed his tone, and checking his laughter, said seriously, and
with an air of affectionate sympathy, that, at the hazard of displeasing
me, he had used the only means he had conceived to be effectual to prevent
me from taking a step which he was convinced would be fatal.
I thanked him for his advice, but I had previously been too much piqued by
his raillery to allow his reasons even their due weight: besides, I began
to have a secret doubt of the sincerity of his friendship. In his turn, he
was provoked by my inflexible adherence to my own opinion; and perhaps,
suspecting my suspicion, he was the more readily displeased. He spoke with
confidence, I thought with arrogance, as a man notoriously successful in
the annals of gallantry, treating me, as I could not bear to be treated,
like a novice.
"I flatter myself, no man is less a coxcomb with regard to women than I
am," Lord Mowbray modestly began; "but if I were inclined to boast, I
believe it is pretty generally allowed in town, by all who know any thing
of these things, that my practice in gallantry has been somewhat
successful--perhaps undeservedly so; still, in these cases, the world
judges by success: I may, therefore, be permitted to think that I know
something of women. My advice consequently, I thought, might be of use;
but, after all, perhaps I am wrong: often those who imagine that they know
women best, know them least."
I replied that I did not presume to vie with Lord Mowbray as a man of
gallantry; but I should conceive that the same precepts, and the same arts,
which ensured success with women of a _certain class_, might utterly fail
with women of different habits and tastes. If the question were how to win
such and such an actress (naming one who had sacrificed her reputation for
Mowbray, and another, for whom he was sacrificing his fortune), I should, I
said, implicitly follow his advice; but that, novice as I was in gallantry,
I should venture to follow my own judgment as to the mode of pleasing such
a woman as Miss Montenero.
"None but a novice," Mowbray answered, laughing, "could think that there
was any essential difference between woman and woman." Every woman was at
heart the same. Of this he was so much convinced, that though he had not,
he said, any absurd confidence in his own peculiar powers of pleasing, he
was persuaded, that if honour had not put the trial quite out of the
question on his part, he could as easily have won the fair Jewess as any
other of her sex.
My indignation rose.
"Honour and friendship to me, my lord, are out of the question: forgive me,
if I own that I do not think your lordship would there have any chance of
success."
"At all events you know you are safe; I cannot make the trial without your
permission." "Your lordship is perfectly at liberty, if you think proper,
to make the trial."
"Indeed!--Are you in earnest?--Now you have put it into my head, I will
think of it seriously."
Then in a careless, pick-tooth manner, he stood, as if for some moments
debating the matter with himself.
"I have no great taste for matrimony or for Jewesses, but a Jewish heiress
in the present state of my affairs--Harrington, you know the pretty little
gipsy--the actress who played Jessica that night, so famous in your
imagination, so fatal to us both--well, my little Jessica has, since that
time, played away at a rare rate with my ready money--_dipped me_
confoundedly--'twould be poetic justice to make one Jewess pay for another,
if one could. Two hundred thousand pounds, Miss Montenero is, I think they
say. 'Pon my sincerity, 'tis a temptation! Now it strikes me--if I am not
bound in honour--"
I walked away in disgust, while Mowbray, in the same tone, continued, "Let
me see, now--suppose--only suppose--any thing may be by supposition--
suppose we were rivals. As rivals, things would be wonderfully fair and
even between us. You, Harrington, I grant, have the advantage of first
impressions--she has smiled upon you; while I, bound in honour, stood by
like a mummy--but unbound, set at liberty by express permission--give me a
fortnight's time, and if I don't make her blush, my name's not Mowbray!--
and no matter whom a woman smiles upon, the man who makes her blush is the
man. But seriously, Harrington, am I hurting your feelings? If what is play
to me is death to you, I have done. Bind me over again to my good behaviour
you may, by a single word. Instead of defying me, only swear, or, stay--I
won't put you to your oath--say candidly, upon your honour, Lord Mowbray
puts you in fear of your love."
"I neither defy you nor fear you, my lord!" said I, with a tone and look
which at any other time Lord Mowbray, who was prompt enough to take
offence, would have understood as it was meant. But he was now determined
not to be provoked by any thing I could say or look. Standing still at
ease, he continued, "Not fear me!--Not bind me in honour!--Then I have
nobody's feelings to consult but my own. So, as I was considering, things
are marvellously nicely balanced between us. In point of fortune, both
beggars--nearly; for though my father did not disinherit me, I have
disinherited myself. Then our precious mothers will go mad on the spot, in
white satin, if either of us marry a Jewess. Well! that is even between us.
Then religious scruples--you have some, have not you?"
"I have, my lord."
"Dry enough--there I have the advantage--I have none. Mosque--high church--
low church--no church--don't let me shock you. I thought you were for
universal toleration; I am for liberty of conscience, in marriage at least.
You are very liberal, I know. You're in love, and you'd marry even a
Jewess, would not you, if you could not contrive to convert her? I am not
in love, but shall be soon, I feel; and when once I am in love!--I turn
idolater, plump. Now, an idolater's worse than a Jew: so I should make it a
point of conscience to turn Jew, to please the fair Jewess, if requisite."
"My lord, this trifling I can bear no longer; I must beg seriously that we
may understand each other."
"Trifling!--Never was more serious in my life. I'd turn Jew--I'd turn any
thing, for a woman I loved."
"Have you, or have you not, my lord, any intention of addressing Miss
Montenero?"
"Since I have your permission--since you have put it in my head--since you
have piqued me--frankly--yes."
"I thank you for your frankness, my lord; I understand you. Now we
understand each other," said I.
"Why, yes--and 'tis time we should," said Mowbray, coolly, "knowing one
another, as we have done, even from our boyish days. You may remember, I
never could bear to be piqued, _en honneur;_ especially by you, my dear
Harrington. It was written above, that we were to be rivals. But still, if
we could command our tempers--I was the hottest of the two, when we were
boys; but seeing something of the world, abroad and at home, has done
wonders for me. If you could coolly pursue this business as I wish, in the
comic rather than the heroic style, we might still, though rivals, be
friends--very good friends."
"No, my lord, no: here all friendship between us ends." "Be it so," said
Lord Mowbray: "then sworn foes instead of sworn friends--and open war is
the word!"
"Open war!--yes--better than hollow peace."
"Then a truce for to-day; to-morrow, with your good leave, I enter the
lists."
"When you please, my lord."
"Fearful odds, I own. The first flourish of trumpets, by that trumpeter of
yours, Jacob, has been in favour of the champion of the Jew pedlars; and
the lady with bright Jewish eyes has bowed to her knight, and he has walked
the field triumphantly alone; but Mowbray--Lord Mowbray appears! Farewell,
Harrington!"
He bowed, laughing, and left me. 'Twas well he did; I could not have borne
it another second, and I could not insult the man in my own house--anger,
disdainful anger, possessed me. My heart had, in the course of a few hours,
been successively a prey to many violent conflicting passions; and at the
moment when I most wanted the support, the sympathy of a friend, I found
myself duped, deserted, ridiculed! I felt alone in the world, and
completely miserable.
A truce for this day was agreed upon. I had a few hours' time for
reflection--much wanted. During this interval, which appeared to me a most
painful suspense, I had leisure to reconsider my difficulties. Now that I
was left to my own will entirely, should I decide to make an immediate
declaration? As I revolved this question in my thoughts, my mind altered
with every changing view which the hopes and fears of a lover threw upon
the subject. I was not perfectly well informed as to the material point,
whether the Jewish religion and Jewish customs permitted intermarriages
with Christians. Mowbray's levity had suggested alarming doubts: perhaps he
had purposely thrown them out; be that as it would, I must be satisfied. I
made general inquiries as to the Jewish customs from Jacob, and he, careful
to answer with propriety, kept also to general terms, lest he should appear
to understand my particular views: he could tell me only, that in some
cases, more frequently on the continent and in America than in England,
Jews have married Christian women, and the wives have continued undisturbed
in their faith; whether such marriages were regularly permitted or not,
Jacob could not say--no precedent that he could recollect was exactly a
case in point. This difficulty concerning religion increased, instead of
diminishing, in magnitude and importance, the more my imagination dwelt
upon it--the longer it was considered by my reason: I must take more time
before I could determine. Besides, I was _curious_--I would not allow that
I was _anxious_--to see how Miss Montenero would conduct herself towards
Lord Mowbray--a man of rank--a man of fashion--supposed to be a man of
fortune--known to be a man of wit and gallantry: I should have an
opportunity, such as I had never before had, of seeing her tried; and I
should be able to determine whether I had really obtained any interest in
her heart. On this last point particularly, I could now, without hazard of
a mortifying refusal, or of a precipitate engagement, decide. Add to these
distinct reasons, many mixed motives, which acted upon me without my
defining or allowing them in words. I had spoken and thought with contempt
of Lord Mowbray's chance of success; but in spite of my pride in my own
superiority of principle and character, in spite of my confidence in
Berenice and in myself, I had my secret, very secret, quailings of the
heart. I thought, when it came to the point, that it would be best to wait
a little longer, before I hazarded that declaration which must bring her to
direct acceptance or rejection; in short, I determined not to throw myself
at her feet precipitately. I took Mowbray's advice after all; but I took it
when I had made it my own opinion: and still I rejoiced that my resistance
to the arrogant manner in which Lord Mowbray had laid down the law of
gallantry, had produced that struggle of the passions, in the height of
which his mask had fallen off. I never could decide whether the thought of
becoming my rival really struck him, as he said it did, from the pique of
the moment; or whether he only seized the occasion to declare a design he
had previously formed: no matter--we were now declared rivals.
CHAPTER XIII.
After our declaration of hostilities, Lord Mowbray and I first met on
neutral ground at the Opera--Miss Montenero was there. We were both eager
to mark our pretensions to her publicly. I appeared this night to great
disadvantage: I certainly did not conduct myself prudently--I lost the
command of my temper. Lord Mowbray met me with the same self-possession,
the same gay, careless manner which had provoked me so much during our last
interview. To the by-standers, who knew nothing of what had passed between
us, his lordship must have appeared the pink of courtesy, the perfection of
gentlemanlike ease and good-humour; whilst I, unable to suppress symptoms
of indignation, of contempt, and perhaps of jealousy, appeared, in striking
contrast, captious, haughty, and at best incomprehensible. Mr. Montenero
looked at me with much surprise, and some concern. In Miss Montenero's
countenance I thought I saw more concern than surprise; she was alarmed--
she grew pale, and I repented of some haughty answer I had made to Lord
Mowbray, in maintaining a place next to her, which he politely ceded to my
impetuosity: he seated himself on the other side of her, in a place which,
if I had not been blinded by passion, I might have seen and taken as
quietly as he did. I was more and more vexed by perceiving that Mr.
Montenero appeared to be, with all his penetration, duped this night by
Mowbray's show of kindness towards me; he whispered once or twice to Mr.
Montenero, and they seemed as if they were acting in concert, both
observing that I was out of temper, and Lord Mowbray showing Mr. Montenero
how he bore with me. In fact, I desired nothing so much as an opportunity
of quarrelling with him, and he, though determined to put me ostensibly and
flagrantly in the wrong, desired nothing better than to commence his
operation by the eclat of a duel. If Miss Montenero had understood her
business as a heroine, a duel, as every body expected, must have taken
place between us, in consequence of the happy dispositions in which we both
were this night: nothing but the presence of mind and unexpected
determination of Miss Montenero could have prevented it. I sat regretting
that I had given a moment's pain or alarm to her timid sensibility, while I
observed the paleness of her cheek, and a tremor in her under lip, which
betrayed how much she had been agitated. Some talking lady of the party
began to give an account, soon afterwards, of a duel in high life, which
was then the conversation of the day: Lord Mowbray and I were both
attentive, and so was Miss Montenero. When she observed that our attention
was fixed, and when there was a pause in the conversation in which her low
voice could be distinctly heard, she, conquering her extreme timidity, and
with a calmness that astonished us all, said, that she did not pretend to
be a judge of what gentlemen might think right or wrong about duels, but
that for her own part she had formed a resolution--an unalterable
resolution, never to marry a man who had fought a duel in which he had been
the challenger. Her father, who was behind her, leaned forward, and asked
what his daughter said--she deliberately repeated her words.
That instant I recovered perfect command of temper--I resolved that at all
events I never would be the person to give the challenge, and Lord Mowbray,
at the same instant, I believe, resolved that I should, if he could so
manage it without appearing to be the aggressor. We were both of us firmly
convinced that Miss Montenero was in earnest; the manner in which she
spoke, and the strong evidence of her power over herself at this moment,
impressed us completely with this conviction. A young lady, a stranger in
London, averse from appearing, infinitely more averse from speaking before
numbers, who, when all eyes, and some of them no friendly eyes, were fixed
upon her, could so far conquer her excessive susceptibility to the opinion
of others, as to pronounce, in such circumstances, such a new and
extraordinary determination, was certainly to be deemed capable of abiding
by her resolution. She was much blamed, I heard afterwards, for the
resolution, and more for the declaration. It was said to be "quite unfit
for a lady, and particularly for so young a lady. Till swords were actually
drawn, she should never have thought of such a thing: then, to presume that
she or her fortune were of such consequence, that her declaration could
influence gentlemen--could have any effect on Lord Mowbray! He did her a
vast deal too much honour in paying her any of those attentions which every
body knew meant nothing--a Jewess, too!"
Miss Montenero never afterwards spoke on the subject; the effect she
desired was produced, and no other power, I am persuaded, could have been
sufficient to have made me preserve command of myself, during my daily,
hourly trials of temper, in those contentions for her favour which ensued.
Lord Mowbray, by every secret art that could pique my pride, my jealousy,
or my love, endeavoured to provoke me to challenge him. At first this
struggle in my mind was violent--I had reason to fear my rival's address,
and practised powers of pleasing. He used his utmost skill, and that skill
was great. He began by exerting all his wit, humour, and vivacity, to
entertain in conversation; while I, with a spell over my faculties, could
not produce to advantage any one thing I knew or had ever known. What
became of my ideas I know not, but I was sensible of my being very stupid
and disagreeable. Aware of the contrast, aware that Miss Montenero saw and
felt it, I grew ten times worse, more silent, and more stupid. Mowbray,
happy and confident, went on, secure of victory. He was an excellent actor,
and he was now to act falling in love, which he did by such fine degrees,
and with a nicety of art which so exquisitely imitated nature, that none
but the most suspicious or the most practised could have detected the
counterfeit. From being the most entertaining, lively man in London, Lord
Mowbray became serious, grave, and sentimental. From being a gallant, gay
Lothario, he was reformed, likely to make the best husband in the world,
provided he marry the woman he loves, and who has influence over him
sufficient to make his reformation last for life. This Lord Mowbray, in
every possible form of insinuation, gave Miss Montenero to understand was
precisely her case and his; she had first, he said, given him a taste for
refined female society, disgusted him with his former associates,
especially with the women of whom he could not now bear to think; he had
quarrelled with--parted with all his mistresses--his Jessica, the best
beloved--parted from irrevocably. This was dropped with propriety in
conversation with Mr. Montenero. The influence of a virtuous attachment is
well known. The effects on Lord Mowbray were, as he protested, wonderful;
he scarcely knew himself--indeed I scarcely knew him, though I had been, as
it were, behind the scenes, and had seen him preparing for his character.
Though he knew that I knew that he was acting, yet this never disconcerted
him in the slightest degree--never gave him one twinge of conscience, or
hesitation from shame, in my presence. Whenever I attempted openly--I was
too honourable, and he knew I was too honourable, to betray his confidence,
or to undermine him secretly--whenever I attempted openly to expose him, he
foiled me--his cunning was triumphant, and the utmost I could accomplish
was, in the acme of my indignation, to keep my temper, and recollect Miss
Montenero's resolution.
Though she seemed not at first in the least to suspect Lord Mowbray's
sincerity, she was, as I rejoiced to perceive, little interested by his
professions: she was glad he was reformed, for his sake; but for her own
part, her vanity was not flattered. There seemed to be little chance on
this plea of persuading her to take charge of him for life. My heart beat
again with hope--how I admired her!--and I almost forgave Lord Mowbray. My
indignation against him, I must own, was not always as steadily
proportioned to his deserts as for the sake of my pride and consistency I
could wish to represent it. In recording this part of the history of my
life, truth obliges me to acknowledge that my anger rose or fell in
proportion to the degree of fear I felt of the possibility of his success;
whenever my hope and my confidence in myself increased, I found it
wonderfully easy to command my temper.
But my rival was a man of infinite resource; when one mode of attack
failed, he tried another. Vanity, in some form, he was from experience
convinced must be the ruling passion of the female heart--and vanity is so
accessible, so easily managed. Miss Montenero was a stranger, a Jewess,
just entering into the fashionable world--just doubting, as he understood,
whether she should make London her future residence, or return to her
retirement in the wilds of America. Lord Mowbray wished to make her
sensible that his public attentions would bring her at once into fashion;
and though his mother, the prejudiced Lady De Brantefield, could not be
prevailed upon to visit a Jewess, yet his lordship had a vast number of
high connexions and relations, to all of whom he could introduce Mr. and
Miss Montenero. Lady Anne Mowbray, indeed, unaccountably persisted in
saying every where, that she was certain her brother had no more thought of
the Jewess than of the queen of the gipsies. Whenever she saw Miss
Montenero in public, her ladyship had, among her own set, a never-failing
source of sarcasm and ridicule in the Spanish fashion of Miss Montenero's
dress, especially her long veils--veils were not then in fashion, and Lady
Anne of course pronounced them to be hideous. It was at this time, in
England, the reign of high heads: a sort of triangular cushion or edifice
of horsehair, suppose nine inches diagonal, three inches thick, by seven in
height, called I believe a _toque_ or a _system_, was fastened on the
female head, I do not well know how, with black pins a quarter of a yard
long; and upon and over this _system_, the hair was erected, and crisped,
and frizzed, and thickened with soft pomatum, and filled with powder,
white, brown, or red, and made to look as like as possible to a fleece of
powdered wool, which _battened_ down on each side of the triangle to the
face. Then there were things called _curls_--nothing like what the poets
understand by curls or ringlets, but layers of hair, first stiffened and
then rolled up into hollow cylinders, resembling sausages, which were set
on each side of the system, "artillery tier above tier," two or three of
the sausages dangling from the ear down the neck. The hair behind, natural
and false, plastered together to a preposterous bulk with quantum sufficit
of powder and pomatum, was turned up in a sort of great bag, or club, or
_chignon_--then at the top of the mount of hair and horsehair was laid a
gauze platform, stuck full of little red daisies, from the centre of which
platform rose a plume of feathers a full yard high--or in lieu of platform,
flowers, and feathers, there was sometimes a fly-cap, or a wing-cap, or a
_pouf_. If any one happens to have an old pocket-book for 1780, a single
glance at the plate of fashionable heads for that year will convey a more
competent idea of the same than I, unknowing in the terms of art, can
produce by the most elaborate description. Suffice it for me to observe,
that in comparison with this head-dress, to which, in my liberality and
respect for departed fashion, I forbear to fix any of the many epithets
which present themselves, the Spanish dress and veil worn by Miss
Montenero, associated as it was with painting and poetry, did certainly
appear to me more picturesque and graceful. In favour of the veil, I had
all the poets, from Homer and Hesiod downwards, on my side; and moreover, I
was backed by the opinion of the wisest of men, who has pronounced that "_a
veil addeth to beauty._" Armed with such authority, and inspired by love, I
battled stoutly with Lady Anne upon several occasions, especially one night
when we met at the Pantheon. I was walking between Lady Emily B---- and
Miss Montenero, and two or three times, as we went round the room, we met
Lady Anne Mowbray and her party, and every time we passed, I observed
scornful glances at the veil. Berenice was too well-bred to suspect
ill-breeding in others; she never guessed what was going forward, till one
of the youngest and boldest of these high-born vulgarians spoke so loud as
she passed, and pronounced the name of _Montenero,_ and the word _Jewess,_
so plainly, that both Miss Montenero and Lady Emily B---- could not avoid
hearing what was said. Lord Mowbray was not with us. I took an opportunity
of quitting the ladies as soon as general B----, who had left us for a few
minutes, returned. I went to pay my compliments to Lady Anne Mowbray, and,
as delicately as I could, remonstrated against their proceedings. I said
that her ladyship and her party were not aware, I was sure, how loudly they
had spoken. Lady Anne defended herself and her companions by fresh attacks
upon the veil, and upon the lady, "who had done vastly well to take the
veil." In the midst of the nonsense which Lady Anne threw out, there now
and then appeared something that was a little like her brother Mowbray's
wit--little bits of sparkling things, _mica,_ not ore. I was in no humour
to admire them, and her ladyship took much offence at a general observation
I made, "that people of sense submit to the reigning fashion, while others
are governed by it." We parted this night so much displeased with each
other, that when we met again in public, we merely exchanged bows and
curtsies--in private we had seldom met of late--I never went to Lady de
Brantefield's. I was really glad that the battle of the veil had ended in
this cessation of intercourse between us. As soon as Miss Montenero found
that her Spanish dress subjected her to the inconvenience of being remarked
in public she laid it aside. I thought she was right in so doing--and in
three days' time, though I had at first regretted the picturesque dress, I
soon became accustomed to the change. So easily does the eye adapt itself
to the fashion, so quickly do we combine the idea of grace and beauty with
whatever is worn by the graceful and the beautiful, and I may add, so
certainly do we learn to like whatever is associated with those we love.
The change of dress which Berenice had so prudently adopted, did not,
however, produce any change in the manners of Lady Anne and of her party.
Lady Anne, it was now evident, had taken an unalterable dislike to Miss
Montenero. I am not coxcomb enough to imagine that she was jealous; I know
that she never had the slightest regard for me, and that I was not the sort
of man whom she could like; but still I had been counted, perhaps by
others, in the list of her admirers, and I was a young man, and an admirer
the less was always to be regretted--deserting to a _Jewess_, as she said,
was intolerable. But I believe she was also secretly afraid, that her
brother was more in earnest in his attentions to Miss Montenero, than she
affected to suppose possible. From whatever cause, she certainly hated
Berenice cordially, and took every means of mortifying me by the display of
this aversion. I shall not be at the trouble of recording the silly and
petty means she took to vex. I was not surprised at any thing of this sort
from her ladyship; but I was much surprised by her brother's continuing to
be absolutely blind and deaf to her proceedings. It is true, sometimes it
happened that he was not present, but this was not always the case; and I
was convinced that it could not be from accident or inadvertency, that it
must be from settled design, that he persisted in this blindness. Combining
my observations, I discovered that he wanted to make Miss Montenero feel
how impossible it was for her to escape the ridicule of certain
_fashionable impertinents_, and how impracticable it would be to _get on_
among people of the ton in London, without the aid of such a champion as
himself. One day he suddenly appeared to discover something of what was
going forward, and assumed great indignation; then affecting to suppress
that feeling, "wished to Heaven he were _authorized_ to speak"--and there
he paused--but no inclination to authorize him appeared. I had sometimes
seen Miss Montenero distressed by the rude manner in which she had been
stared at. I had seen her colour come and go, but she usually preserved a
dignified silence on such occasions. Once, and but once, I heard her advert
to the subject in speaking to her father, when Lord Mowbray was not
present. "You see, I hope, my dear father," said she, "that I am curing
myself of that _morbid sensibility_, that excessive susceptibility to the
opinion of others, with which you used to reproach me. I have had some good
lessons, and you have had some good trials of me, since we came to
England."
"How much I am obliged to those persons or those circumstances, which have
done what I thought was impossible, which have raised my daughter in my
opinion!" said her father. The look of affectionate approbation with which
these words were pronounced, and the grateful delight with which Berenice
heard them, convinced me that Lord Mowbray had completely mistaken his
ground--had mistaken strong sensibility for weakness of mind. It now
appeared, to my entire satisfaction, that Miss Montenero was really and
truly above the follies and the meanness of fashion. She did not wish to be
acquainted with these fine people, nor to make a figure in public; but she
did wish to see the best society in London, in order to compare it with
what she had been accustomed to in other countries, and to determine what
would be most for her future happiness. Through the friendship of General
B---- and his family, she had sufficient opportunities of seeing in public,
and enjoying in private, the best society in London. Lord Mowbray,
therefore, had no power over her, as a leader of fashion; his general
character for being a favourite with the ladies, and his gallant style of
conversation, did not make the impression upon her that he had expected.
He did not know how to converse with one who could not be answered by a
play upon words, nor satisfied by an appeal to precedents, or the authority
of numbers and of high names.
Lord Chesterfield's style of conversation, and that of any of the
personages in Xenophon's Cyropaedia, could not be more different, or less
compatible, than the simplicity of Miss Montenero and the wit of Lord
Mowbray.
I never saw any one so puzzled and provoked as was this man of wit by a
character of genuine simplicity. He was as much out of his element with
such a character as any of the French lovers in Marmontel's Tales would be
tete-a-tete with a Roman or a Grecian matron--as much at a loss as one of
the fine gentlemen in Congreve's plays might find himself, if condemned to
hold parley with a heroine of Sophocles or of Euripides.
Lord Mowbray, a perfect Proteus when he wished to please, changed his
manner successively from that of the sentimental lover, to that of the
polite gallant and accomplished man of the world; and when this did not
succeed, he had recourse to philosophy, reason, and benevolence. No hint,
which cunning and address could improve to his purpose, was lost upon
Mowbray. Mrs. Coates had warned me that Miss Montenero was _touchy on the
Jewish chapter_, and his lordship was aware it was as the champion of the
Jews that I had first been favourably represented by Jacob, and favourably
received by Mr. Montenero. Soon Lord Mowbray appeared to be deeply
interested and deeply read in very thing that had been written in their
favour.
He rummaged over Tovey and Ockley; and "Priestley's Letters to the Jews,"
and "The Letters of certain Jews to M. de Voltaire," were books which he
now continually quoted in conversation. With great address he wondered that
he had never happened to meet with them till lately; and confessed that he
believed he never should have thought of reading them, but that really the
subject had of late become so interesting! Of Voltaire's illiberal attacks
upon the Jews, and of the King of Prussia's intolerance towards them, he
could not express sufficient detestation; nor could he ever adequately
extol Cumberland's benevolent "Jew," or Lessing's "Nathan the Wise."
Quotations from one or the other were continually in readiness, uttered
with all the air of a man so deeply impressed with certain sentiments, that
they involuntarily burst from him on every occasion. This I could also
perceive to be an imitation of what he had seen _suceed_ with me; and I was
not a little flattered by observing, that Berenice was unconsciously
pleased, if not caught by the counterfeit. The affectation was skilfully
managed, with a dash of his own manner, and through the whole preserving an
air of nature and consistency: so that he had all the appearance of a
person whose understanding, naturally liberal, had, on one particular
subject, been suddenly warmed and exalted by the passion of love. It has
often been said, that liars have need of good memories. Mowbray had really
an excellent memory, but yet it was not sufficient for all his occasions.
He contradicted himself sometimes without perceiving it, but not without
its being perceived. Intent upon one point, he laboured that admirably; but
be sometimes forgot that any thing could be seen beyond that point--he
forgot the bearings and connexions. He never forgot his liberality about
the Jews, and about every thing relative to Hebrew ground; but on other
questions, in which he thought Mr. Montenero and his daughter had no
concern, his party spirit and his want of toleration for other sects broke
out.
One day a Rabbi came to Mr. Montenero's while we were there, to solicit
his contribution towards the building or repairing a synagogue. The priest
was anxious to obtain leave to build on certain lands which belonged to the
crown. These lands were in the county where Lord Mowbray's or Lady de
Brantefield's property lay. With the most engaging liberality of manner,
Lord Mowbray anticipated the wishes of the Jewish priest, declaring that he
was happy on this occasion publicly and practically to show his principles
of toleration; he would immediately use whatever influence he might possess
with government to obtain the desired grant; and if that application should
fail, there was still a resource in future. At present, unfortunately, his
mother's opinions differing from his own, nothing could be done; but he
could, in future, offer a site for a synagogue in the very part of the
country that was desired, on lands that must in time be his.
The priest was down to the ground, bowing, full of acknowledgments, and
admiration of his lordship's generosity and liberality of principle. A few
minutes afterwards, however, his lordship undid all he had done with
Berenice and with her father, by adding that he regretted that his mother
had given a lease of a bit of land to some confounded dissenters: he was
determined, he said, whenever the estate should come into his own hands, to
break that lease--he would have no meeting-house, no dissenting chapel on
his estate--he considered them as nuisances--he would raze the chapel to
the ground--he would much rather have a synagogue on that spot.
Lord Mowbray walked to the window with the Jewish priest, who was eager to
press his own point while his lordship was in the humour.
Mowbray looked back for Mr. Montenero, but, to his evident mortification,
neither Mr. Montenero nor Berenice followed to this consultation. Mr.
Montenero turned to me, and, with a peculiar look of his, an expression of
grave humour and placid penetration, said, "Did you ever hear, Mr.
Harrington, of a sect of Jews called the Caraites?"
"Never, sir."
"The _Caraites_ are what we may call Jewish dissenters. Lord Mowbray's
notions of toleration remind me of the extraordinary liberality of one of
our Rabbies, who gave it as his opinion that if a _Caraites_ and a
Christian were drowning, we Jews ought to make a bridge of the body of the
Caraite, for the purpose of saving the Christian."
Berenice smiled; and I saw that my fears of her being duped by mock
philanthropy were vain. Lord Mowbray was soon tired of his colloquy with
the priest, and returned to us, talking of the Hebrew chanting at some
synagogue in town which he had lately visited; and which, he said, was the
finest thing he had ever heard. A Jewish festival was in a few days to be
celebrated, and I determined, I said, to go on that day to hear the
chanting, and to see the ceremony. In the countenance of Berenice, to whom
my eyes involuntarily turned as I spoke, I saw an indefinable expression,
on which I pondered, and finished by interpreting favourably to my wishes.
I settled that she was pleased, but afraid to show this too distinctly.
Lord Mowbray regretted, what I certainly did not in the least regret, that
he should be on duty at Windsor on the day of this festival. I was the more
determined to be at the synagogue, and there accordingly I went punctually;
but, to my disappointment, Berenice did not appear. Mr. Montenero saw me
come in, and made room for me near him. The synagogue was a spacious,
handsome building; not divided into pews like our churches, but open, like
foreign churches, to the whole congregation. The women sat apart in a
gallery. The altar was in the centre, on a platform, raised several steps
and railed round. Within this railed space were the high-priest and his
assistants. The high-priest with his long beard and sacerdotal vestments,
struck me as a fine venerable figure. The service was in Hebrew: but I had
a book with a translation of it. All I recollect are the men and women's
thanksgivings.
"Blessed art thou, O Everlasting King! that thou hast not made me a woman."
The woman's lowly response is, "Blessed art thou, O Lord! that thou hast
made me according to thy will."
But of the whole ceremony I must confess that I have but a very confused
recollection. Many things conspired to distract my attention. Whether it
was that my disappointment at not seeing Berenice indisposed me to be
pleased, or whether the chanting was not this day, or at this synagogue, as
fine as usual, it certainly did not answer my expectations. However
pleasing it might be to other ears, to mine it was discordant; and I was
afraid that Mr. Montenero should perceive this. I saw that he observed me
from time to time attentively, and I thought he wanted to discover whether
there was within me any remains of my old antipathies. Upon this subject I
knew he was peculiarly susceptible. Under this apprehension, I did my
utmost to suppress my feelings; and the constraint became mentally and
corporeally irksome. The ceremonials, which were quite new to me,
contributed at once to strain my attention, and to increase the painful
confusion of my mind. I felt relieved when the service was over; but when I
thought that it was finished, all stood still, as if in expectation, and
there was a dead silence. I saw two young children appear from the crowd:
way was made for them to the altar. They walked slowly, hand in hand, and
when they had ascended the steps, and approached the altar, the priest
threw over them a white scarf, or vestment, and they kneeled, and raising
their little hands, joined them together, in the attitude of supplication.
They prayed in silence. They were orphans, praying for their father and
mother, whom they had lately lost. Mr. Montenero told me that it is the
Jewish custom for orphans, during a year after the death of their parents,
to offer up at the altar, on every public meeting of their synagogue, this
solemn commemoration of their loss. While the children were still kneeling,
a man walked silently round the synagogue, collecting contributions for the
orphans. I looked, and saw, as he came nearer to me, that this was Jacob.
Just as I had taken out my purse, I was struck by the sight of a face and
figure that had terrible power over my associations--a figure exactly
resembling one of the most horrible of the Jewish figures which used to
haunt me when I was a child. The face with _terrible eyes_ stood fixed
opposite to me. I was so much surprised and startled by this apparition,
that a nervous tremor seized me in every limb. I let the purse, which I had
in my hand, fall upon the ground. Mr. Montenero took it up again, and
presented it to me, asking me, in a very kind voice, "if I was ill." I
recollected myself--when I looked again, the figure had disappeared in the
crowd. I had no reason to believe that Mr. Montenero saw the cause of my
disorder. He seemed to attribute it to sudden illness, and hastened to get
out of the synagogue into the fresh air. His manner, on this occasion, was
so kind towards me, and the anxiety he showed about my health so
affectionate, that all my fears of his misinterpreting my feelings
vanished; and to me the result of all that had passed was a firmer
conviction, than I had ever yet felt, of his regard.
It was evident, I thought, that after all the disadvantages I had had on
some points, and after all the pains that Lord Mowbray had taken to please,
Mr. Montenero far preferred me, and was interested in the highest degree
about my health, and about every thing that concerned me. Nevertheless,
Lord Mowbray persevered in showing the most profound respect for Mr.
Montenero, by acting an increasing taste for his conversation, deference
for his talents, and affection for his virtues. This certainly succeeded
better with Berenice than any thing else his lordship had tried; but when
he found it please, he overdid it a little. The exaggeration was
immediately detected by Berenice: the heart easily detects flattery. Once,
when Lord Mowbray praised her father for some accomplishment which he did
not possess--for pronouncing and reading English remarkably well--his
daughter's glance at the flatterer expressed indignation, suddenly
extinguished by contempt. Detected and baffled, he did not well know how,
by a woman whom he considered as so much his inferior in ability and
address, Lord Mowbray found it often difficult to conceal his real feelings
of resentment, and then it was that he began to hate her. I, who knew his
countenance too well to be deceived by his utmost command of face, saw the
evil turn of the eye--saw looks from time to time that absolutely alarmed
me--looks of hatred, malice, vengeance, suddenly changed to smiles,
submission, and softness of demeanour. Though extremely vain, and possessed
with an opinion that no woman could resist him, yet, with his understanding
and his experience in gallantry, I could not conceive it possible that,
after all the signs and tokens he had seen, he should persist in the hope
of succeeding; he was certainly aware that I was preferred. I knew it to be
natural that jealousy and anger should increase with fears and doubts of
success; and yet there was something incomprehensible in the manner which,
before Mr. Montenero, he now adopted towards me: he appeared at once to
yield the palm to me, and yet to be resolved not to give up the contest; he
seemed as if he was my rival against his will, and my friend if I would but
permit it; he refrained, with ostentatious care, from giving me any
provocation, checking himself often, and drawing back with such expressions
as these:--"If it were any other man upon earth--but Mr. Harrington might
say and do what he pleased--in any other circumstances, he could not
hazard contradicting or quarrelling with _him_; indeed he could never
forget--"
Then he would look at Berenice and at Mr. Montenero, and they would look as
if they particularly approved of his conduct. Berenice softened towards
him, and I trembled. As she softened towards him, I fancied she became
graver and more reserved towards me. I was more provoked by the new tone of
sentimental regret from Mowbray than I had been by any of his other
devices, because I thought I saw that it imposed more than any thing else
had done on Berenice and Mr. Montenero, and because I knew it to be so
utterly false.
Once, as we were going down stairs together, after I had disdainfully
expressed my contempt of hypocrisy, and my firm belief that my plain truth
would in the end prevail with Berenice against all his address, he turned
upon me in sudden anger, beyond his power to control, and exclaimed,
"Never!--She never shall be yours!"
It appeared as if he had some trick yet in store--some card concealed in
his hand, with which he was secure, at last, of winning the game. I
pondered, and calculated, but I could not make out what it could be.
One advantage, as he thought it, I was aware he had over me--he had no
religious scruples; he could therefore manage so as to appear to make a
great sacrifice to love, when, in fact, it would cost his conscience
nothing. One evening he began to talk of Sir Charles Grandison and
Clementina--he blamed Sir Charles Grandison; he declared, that for his part
_there was nothing he would not sacrifice to a woman he loved_.
I looked at Miss Montenero at that instant--our eyes met--she blushed
deeply--withdrew her eyes from me--and sighed. During the remainder of the
evening, she scarcely spoke to me, or looked toward me. She appeared
embarrassed; and, as I thought, displeased. Lord Mowbray was in high
spirits--he seemed resolved to advance--I retired earlier than usual. Lord
Mowbray stayed, and seized the moment to press his own suit. He made his
proposal--he offered to sacrifice religion--every thing to love. He was
refused irrevocably. I know nothing of the particulars, nor should I have
known the fact but for his own intemperance of resentment. It was not only
his vanity--his mortified, exasperated vanity--that suffered by this
refusal; it was not only on account of his rivalship with me that he was
vexed to the quick; his interest, as much as his vanity, had suffered. I
did not know till this night how completely he was ruined. He had depended
upon the fortune of the Jewess. What resource for him now?--None. In this
condition, like one of the Indian gamblers, when they have lost all, and
are ready _to run amuck_ on all who may fall in their way, he this night,
late, made his appearance at a club where he expected to find me.
Fortunately, I was not there; but a gentleman who was, gave me an account
of the scene. Disappointed at not finding me, with whom he had determined
to quarrel, he supped in absolute silence--drank hasty and deep draughts of
wine--then burst out into abuse of Mr. and Miss Montenero, and challenged
any body present to defend them: he knew that several of their
acquaintances were in company; but all, seeing that from the combined
effects of passion and wine he was not in his senses, suffered him to
exhale his fury without interruption or contradiction. Then he suddenly
demanded the reason of this silence; and seemingly resolved to force some
one into a quarrel, [Footnote: Strange as it may appear, this
representation is true.] he began by the gentleman next to him, and said
the most offensive and provoking things he could think of to him--and to
each in turn; but all laughed, and told him they were determined not to
quarrel with him--that he must take four-and-twenty hours to cool before
they would take notice of any thing he should say. His creditors did not
give him four-and-twenty hours' time: a servant, before whom he had vented
his rage against the Jewess, comprehended that all his hopes of her were
over, and gave notice to the creditors, who kept him in their pay for that
purpose. Mowbray was obliged the next day to leave town, or to conceal
himself in London, to avoid an arrest. I heard no more of him for some
time--indeed I made no inquiries. I could have no farther interest
concerning a man who had conducted himself so ill. I only rejoiced that he
was now out of my way, and that he had by all his treachery, and by all his
artifices, given me an opportunity of seeing, more fully tried, the
excellent understanding and amiable disposition of Berenice. My passion was
now justified by my reason: my hopes were high, not presumptuous--nothing
but the difficulty about her religion stood between me and happiness. I was
persuaded that the change by which I had been alarmed in Miss Montenero's
manner towards me had arisen only from doubts of my love, or from
displeasure at the delay of an explicit declaration of my passion.
Determined, at all hazards, now to try my fate, I took my way across the
square to Mr. Montenero's--Across the square?--yes! I certainly took the
diagonal of the square.
CHAPTER XIV.
When I arrived at Mr. Montenero's I saw the window-shutters closed, and
there was an ominous stillness in the area--no one answered to my knock. I
knocked louder--I rang impatiently; no footsteps were heard in the hall: I
pulled the bell incessantly. During the space of three minutes that I was
forced to wait on the steps, I formed a variety of horrid imaginations. At
last I heard approaching sounds: an old woman very deliberately opened the
door. "Lauk, sir, how you do ring! There's not a body to be had but me--all
the servants is different ways, gone to their friends."
"But Mr. and Miss Montenero--"
"Oh! they was off by times this morning--they be gone--"
"Gone?"
I suppose my look and accent of despair struck the old woman with some
pity, for she added, "Lauk, sir, they be only gone for a few days."
I recovered my breath. "And can you, my good lady, tell me where they are
gone?"
"Somewhere down in Surrey--Lord knows--I forget the names--but to General
somebody's."
"General B----'s, perhaps."
"Ay, ay,--that's it."
My imagination ran over in an instant all the general's family, the gouty
brother, and the white-toothed aide-de-camp.
"How long are they to stay at General B----'s, can you tell me, my good
lady?"
"Dear heart! I can't tell, not I's, how they'll cut and carve their
visitings--all I know is, they be to be back here in ten days or a
fortnight or so."
I put a golden memorandum, with my card, into the old woman's hand, and she
promised that the very moment Mr. and Miss Montenero should return to town
I should have notice.
During this fortnight my anxiety was increased by hearing from Mrs. Coates,
whom I accidentally met at a fruit-shop, that "Miss Montenero was taken
suddenly ill of a scarlet fever down in the country at General B----'s,
where," as Mrs. Coates added, "they could get no advice for her at all, but
a country apothecary, which was worse than nobody."
Mrs. Coates, who was not an ill-natured, though a very ill-bred woman,
observing the terrible alarm into which she had thrown me by her
intelligence, declared she was quite sorry she had _outed_ with the news so
sudden upon me. Mrs. Coates now stood full in the doorway of the
fruit-shop, so as to stop me completely from effecting my retreat; and
while her footman was stowing into her carriage the loads of fruit which
she had purchased, I was compelled to hear her go on in the following
style.
"Now, Mr. Harrington--no offence--but I couldn't have conceived it was so
re'lly over head and ears an affair with you, as by your turning as pale as
the table-cloth I see it re'lly is. For there was my son Peter, he admired
her, and the alderman was not against it; but then the Jewess connexion was
always a stumbling-block Peter could not swallow;--and as for my Lord
Mowbray, that the town talked of so much as in love with the Jewess
heiress--heiress, says I, very like, but not Jewess, I'll engage; and,
said I, from the first, he is no more in love with her than I am. So many
of them young men of the ton is always following of them heiresses up and
down for fashion or _fortin's_ sake, without caring sixpence about them,
that--I ask your pardon, Mr. Harrington--but I thought you might, in the
alderman's phrase, be _of the same kidney_; but since I see 'tis a real
downright affair of the heart, I shall make it my business to call myself
at your house to-morrow in my carriage. No--that would look odd, and you a
bachelor, and your people out o'town. But I'll send my own footman with a
message, I promise you now, let 'em be ever so busy, if I hear any good
news. No need to send if it be bad, for ill news flies apace evermore, all
the world over, as Peter says. Tom! I say! is the fruit all in, Tom?--Oh!
Mr. Harrington, don't trouble yourself--you're too polite, but I always get
into my coach best myself, without hand or arm, except it be Tom's. A good
morning, sir--I sha'n't forget to-morrow: so live upon hope--lover's
fare!--Home, Tom."
The next day, Mrs. Coates, more punctual to her word than many a more
polished person, sent as early as it was possible "to set my heart at ease
about Miss Montenero's illness, and _other_ _matters_." Mrs. Coates
enclosed in her note two letters, which her maid had received that morning
and last Tuesday. This was the way, as Mrs. Coates confessed, that the
report reached her ears. The waiting-maid's first letter had stated "that
her lady, though she did not complain, had a cold and sore throat coming
down, and this was alarming, with a spotted fever in the neighbourhood."
Mrs. Coates's maid had, in repeating the news, "turned the sore throat into
a spotted fever, or a scarlet fever, she did not rightly know which, but
both were said by the apothecary to be generally fatal, where there was any
Jewish taint in the blood."
The waiting-maid's second epistle, on which Mrs. Coates had written, "_a
sugar plum for a certain gentleman_," contained the good tidings "that the
first was all a mistake. There was no spotted fever, the general's own man
would take his Bible oath, within ten miles round--and Miss Montenero's
throat was gone off--and she was come out of her room. But as to spirits
and good looks, she had left both in St. James'-square, Lon'on; _where her
heart was, fur certain_. For since she come to the country, never was there
such a change in any living lady, young or old--quite moped!--The general,
and his aide-de-camp, and every body, noticing it at dinner even. To be
sure if it did not turn out a _match_, which there was some doubts of, on
account of the family's and the old gentleman's particular oaths and
objections, as she had an inkling of, there would be two broken hearts.
Lord forbid!--though a Jewish heart might be harder to break than
another's, yet it looked likely."
The remainder of the letter, Mrs. Coates, or her maid, had very prudently
torn off. I was now relieved from all apprehensions of spotted fever; and
though I might reasonably have doubted the accuracy of all the intelligence
conveyed by such a correspondent, yet I could not help having a little
faith in some of her observations. My hopes, at least, rose delightfully;
and with my hope, my ardent impatience to see Berenice again. At last, the
joyful notice of Mr. and Miss Montenero's return to town was brought to me
by the old woman. Mr. Montenero admitted me the moment I called. Miss
Montenero was not at home, or not visible. I was shown into Mr. Montenero's
study. The moment I entered, the moment I saw him, I was struck with some
change in his countenance--some difference in his manner of receiving me.
In what the difference consisted, I could not define; but it alarmed me.
"Good Heavens!" I exclaimed, "is Miss Montenero ill?"
"My daughter is perfectly well, my dear sir."
"Thank Heaven! But you, sir?"
"I," said Mr. Montenero, "am also in perfect health. What alarms you?"
"I really don't well know," said I, endeavouring to laugh at myself, and my
own apprehensions; "but I thought I perceived some change in the expression
of your countenance towards me, my dear Mr. Montenero. You must know, that
all my life, my quickness of perception of the slightest change in the
countenance and manner of those I love, has ever been a curse to me; for my
restless imagination always set to work to invent causes--and my causes,
though ingenious, unluckily, seldom happened to be the real causes. Many a
vain alarm, many a miserable hour, has this superfluous activity of
imagination cost me--so I am determined to cure myself."
At the moment I was uttering the determination, I stopped short, for I felt
that I could not keep it, on this occasion. Mr. Montenero sighed, or I
thought he sighed, and there was such an unusual degree of gravity and
deliberation in the mildness of his manner, that I could not believe my
alarm was without cause. I took the chair which he placed for me, and we
both sat down: but he looked so prepared to listen, that I could not
articulate. There was a sudden revulsion in my spirits, and all my ideas
were in utter confusion. Mr. Montenero, the kindness of whose manner was
not changed towards me, I saw pitied my confusion. He began to talk of his
excursion into the country--he spoke of General B---- and of the whole
county of Surrey. The words reached my ears, but conveyed no ideas to my
mind, except the general notion that Mr. Montenero was giving me time to
recover myself. I was grateful for the kind intention, and somewhat
encouraged by the softness of voice, and look of pity. But still there was
something so measured--so guarded--so prepared!--At last, when he had
exhausted all that he could say about the county of Surrey, and a dead
silence threatened me, I took courage, and plunged into the middle of
things at once. I cannot remember exactly the words, but what I said was to
this effect.
"Mr. Montenero, you know so much of the human heart, and of my heart, that
you must be aware of the cause of my present embarrassment and emotion. You
must have seen my passion for your incomparable daughter."
"I have seen it, I own--I am well aware of it, Mr. Harrington," replied Mr.
Montenero, in a mild and friendly tone; but there was something of self-
accusation and repentance in the tone, which alarmed me inexpressibly.
"I hope, my dear good sir, that you do not repent of your kindness," said
I, "in having permitted me to cultivate your society, in having indulged me
in some hours of the most exquisite pleasure I ever yet enjoyed."
He sighed; and I went on with vehement incoherence.
"I hope you cannot suspect me of a design to abuse your confidence, to win,
if it were in my power, your daughter's affections, without your knowledge,
surreptitiously, clandestinely. She is an heiress, a rich heiress, I know,
and my circumstances--Believe me, sir, I have never intended to deceive
you; but I waited till--There I was wrong. I wish I had abided by my own
opinion! I wish I had followed my first impulse! Believe me, sir, it was my
first thought, my first wish, to speak to you of all the circumstances; if
I delayed, it was from the fear that a precipitate declaration would have
been imputed to presumption. As Heaven is my judge, I had no other motive.
I abhor artifice. I am incapable of the base treachery of taking advantage
of any confidence reposed in me."
"My good sir," said Mr. Montenero, when at last I was forced to pause for
breath, "why this vehemence of defence? I do not accuse--I do not suspect
you of any breach of confidence. Pray compose yourself."
Calmed by this assurance, I recovered some presence of mind, and proceeded,
as I thought, in a most tranquil manner to express my regret, at all
events, that I should not have been the first person to have explained to
him my unfortunate circumstances. "But this," I said, "was like the rest of
Lord Mowbray's treacherous conduct."
I was going on again in a tone of indignation, when Mr. Montenero again
begged me to compose myself, and asked "to what unfortunate circumstances I
alluded?"
"You do not know then? You have not been informed? Then I did Lord Mowbray
injustice."
I explained to Mr. Montenero to what circumstances I had so unintelligibly
alluded. I gained courage as I went on, for I saw that the history of my
father's vow, of which Mr. Montenero had evidently never heard till this
moment, did not shock or offend him, as I had expected that it would.
With the most philosophic calmness and benevolence, he said that he could
forgive my father for his prejudices the more readily, because he was
persuaded that if he had ever become known to my father, it would not have
been impossible to conquer this prepossession.
I sighed, for I was convinced this was a vain hope. There was some
confusion in the tenses in Mr. Montenero's sentence too, which I did not
quite like, or comprehend; he seemed as if he were speaking of a thing that
might have been possible, at some time that was now completely past. I
recollect having a painful perception of this one instant, and the next
accounting for it satisfactorily, by supposing that his foreign idiom was
the cause of his confusion of speech.
After a pause, he proceeded. "Fortune," said he, "is not an object to me in
the choice of a son-in-law: considering the very ample fortune which my
daughter will possess, I am quite at ease upon that point."
Still, though he had cleared away the two first great obstacles, I saw
there was some greater yet unnamed. I thought it was the difference of our
religion. We were both silent, and the difficulty seemed to me at this
moment greater, and more formidable, than it had ever yet appeared. While I
was considering how I should touch upon the subject, Mr. Montenero turned
to me and said, "I hate all mysteries, and yet I cannot be perfectly
explicit with you, Mr. Harrington; as far as I possibly can, however, I
will speak with openness--with sincerity, you may depend upon it, I have
always spoken, and ever shall speak. You must have perceived that your
company is particularly agreeable to me. Your manners, your conversation,
your liberal spirit, and the predilection you have shown for my society--
the politeness, the humanity, you showed my daughter the first evening you
met--and the partiality for her, which a father's eye quickly perceived
that you felt, altogether won upon my heart. My regard for you has been
strengthened and confirmed by the temper, prudence, and generosity, I have
seen you evince towards a rival. I have studied your character, and I think
I know it as thoroughly as I esteem and value it. If I were to choose a
son-in-law after my own heart, you should be the man. Spare me your
thanks--spare me this joy," continued he; "I have now only said what it was
just to say--just to you and to myself."
He spoke with difficulty and great emotion, as he went on to say, that he
feared he had acted very imprudently for my happiness in permitting, in
encouraging me to see so much of his daughter; for an obstacle--he feared
an obstacle that--His voice almost failed.
"I am aware of it," said I.
"Aware of it?" said he, looking up at me suddenly with astonishment: he
repeated more calmly, "Aware of it? Let us understand one another, my dear
sir."
"I understand you perfectly," cried I. "I am well aware of the nature of
the obstacle. At once I declare that I can make no sacrifice, no compromise
of my religious principles, to my passion."
"You would be unworthy of my esteem if you could," said Mr. Montenero. "I
rejoice to hear this declaration unequivocally made; this is what I
expected from you."
"But," continued I, eagerly, "Miss Montenero could be secure of the free
exercise of her own religion. You know my principles of toleration--you
know my habits; and though between man and wife a difference of religion
may be in most cases a formidable obstacle to happiness, yet permit me to
hope--"
"I cannot permit you to hope," interrupted Mr. Montenero. "You are mistaken
as to the nature of the obstacle. A difference of religion would be a most
formidable objection, I grant; but we need not enter upon that subject--
that is not the obstacle to which I allude."
"Then of what nature can it be? Some base slander--Lord Mowbray--Nothing
shall prevent me!" cried I, starting up furiously.
"Gently--command yourself, and listen to reason and truth," said Mr.
Montenero, laying his hand on my arm. "Am I a man, do you think, to listen
to base slander? Or, if I had listened to any such, could I speak to you
with the esteem and confidence with which I have just spoken? Could I look
at you with the tenderness and affection which I feel for you at this
instant?"
"Oh! Mr. Montenero," said I, "you know how to touch me to the heart; but
answer me one, only one question--has Lord Mowbray any thing to do with
this, whatever it is?"
"I have not seen or heard from him since I saw you last."
"Your word is sufficient," said I. "Then I suspected him unjustly."
"Heaven forbid," said Mr. Montenero, "that I should raise suspicion in a
mind which, till now, I have always seen and thought to be above that
meanness. The torture of suspense I must inflict, but inflict not on
yourself the still worse torture of suspicion--ask me no farther questions
--I can answer none--time alone can solve the difficulty. I have now to
request that you will never more speak to me on this subject: as soon as my
own mind is satisfied, depend upon it I shall let you know it. In the mean
time I rely upon your prudence and your honour, that you will not declare
your attachment to my daughter, that you will take no means, direct or
indirect, to draw her into any engagement, or to win her affections: in
short, I wish to see you here as a friend of mine--not a suitor of hers. If
you are capable of this necessary self-control, continue your visits; but
if this effort be beyond your power, I charge you, as you regard her
happiness and your own, see her no more. Consider well, before you decide."
I had confidence in my own strength of mind and honour; I knew that want of
resolution was not the defect of my character. Difficult as the conditions
were, I submitted to them--I promised that if Mr. Montenero permitted me to
continue my visits, I would strictly comply with all he desired. The moment
I had given this promise, I was in haste to quit the room, lest Berenice
should enter, before I had time to recover from the excessive agitation
into which I had been thrown.
Mr. Montenero followed me to the antechamber. "My daughter is not at home--
she is taking an airing in the park. One word more before we part--one word
more before we quit this painful subject," said he: "do not, my dear young
friend, waste your time, your ingenuity, in vain conjectures--you will not
discover that which I cannot impart; nor would the discovery, if made,
diminish the difficulty, or in the least add to your happiness, though it
might to your misery. It depends not on your will to remove the obstacle--
by no talents, no efforts of yours can it be obviated: one thing, and but
one, is in your power--to command your own mind."
"Command my own mind! Oh! Mr. Montenero, how easy to say--how difficult to
command the passions--such a passion!"
"I acknowledge it is difficult, but I hope it is not impossible. We have
now an opportunity of judging of the strength of your mind, the firmness of
your resolution, and your power over yourself. Of these we must see proofs
--without these you never could be, either with my consent or by her own
choice, accepted by my daughter, even if no other obstacle intervened.--
Adieu." A bright idea, a sudden ray of hope, darted into my mind. It might
be all intended for a trial of me--there was, perhaps, no real obstacle!
But this was only the hope of an instant--it was contradicted by Mr.
Montenero's previous positive assertion. I hurried home as fast as
possible, shut myself up in my own room, and bolted the door, that I might
not be interrupted. I sat down to think--I could not think, I could only
feel. The first thing I did was, as it were, to live the whole of the last
hour over again--I recollected every word, recalled every look, carefully
to impress and record them in my memory. I felt that I was not at that
moment capable of judging, but I should have the means, the facts, safe for
a calmer hour. I repeated my recollections many times, pausing, and forming
vague and often contradictory conjectures; then driving them all from my
mind, and resolving to think no more on this mysterious subject; but on no
other subject could I think--I sat motionless. How long I remained in this
situation I have no means of knowing, but it must have been for some hours,
for it was evening, as I remember, when I wakened to the sense of its being
necessary that I should exert myself, and rouse my faculties from this
dangerous state of abstraction. Since my father and mother had been in the
country, I had usually dined at taverns or clubs, so that the servants had
no concern with my hours of meals. My own man was much attached to me, and
I should have been tormented with his attentions, but that I had sent him
out of the way as soon as I had come home. I then went into the park,
walking there as fast and as long as I possibly could. I returned late,
quite exhausted; hoped I should sleep, and waken with a calmer mind; but I
believe I had overwalked myself, or my mind had been overstrained--I was
very feverish this night, and all the horrors of early association returned
upon me. Whenever I began to doze, I felt the nervous oppression, the
dreadful weight upon my chest--I saw beside my bed the old figure of Simon
the Jew; but he spoke to me with the voice and in the words of Mr.
Montenero. The dreams of this night were more terrible than any reality
that can be conceived; and even when I was broad awake, I felt that I had
not the command of my mind. My early prepossessions and _antipathies_, my
mother's _presentiments_, and prophecies of evil from the connexion with
the Monteneros, the prejudices which had so long, so universally prevailed
against the Jews, occurred to me. I knew all this was unreasonable, but
still the thoughts obtruded themselves. When the light of morning returned,
which I thought never would return, I grew better.
Mr. Montenero's impressive advice, and all the kindness of his look and
manner, recurred to my mind. The whole of his conduct--the filial
affection of Berenice--the gratitude of Jacob--the attachment of friends,
who had known him for years, all assured me of his sincerity towards
myself; and the fancies, I will not call them suspicions, of the night,
were dispelled.
I was determined not to see either Mr. Montenero or Berenice for a few
days. I knew that the best thing I could do, would be to take strong bodily
exercise, and totally to change the course of my daily occupations. There
was an excellent riding-house at this time in London, and I had been
formerly in the habit of riding there. I was a favourite with the master--
he was glad to see me again. I found the exercise, and the immediate
necessity of suspending all other thoughts to attend to the management of
my horse, of sovereign use. I thus disciplined my imagination at the time
when I seemed only to be disciplining an Arabian horse. I question whether
reading Seneca, or Epictetus, or any moral or philosophic writer, living or
dead, would have as effectually _medicined_ my mind. While I was at the
riding-house, General B---- came in with some young officers. The general,
who had distinguished me with peculiar kindness, left the young men who
were with him, and walked home with me. I refrained from asking any
questions about Mr. or Miss Montenero's visit at his house in Surrey; but
he led to the subject himself, and spoke of her having been less cheerful
than usual--dwelt on his wish that she and her father should settle in
England--said there was a young American, a relation of the Manessas, just
come over; he hoped there was no intention of returning with him to
America. I felt a terrible twinge, like what I had experienced when the
general had first mentioned his brother-in-law--perhaps, said I to myself,
it may he as vain. General B---- was going to speak further on the subject,
but though my curiosity was much raised, I thought I was bound in honour
not to obtain intelligence by any secondary means. I therefore requested
the general to let us change the subject. He tapped my shoulder: "You are
right," said he; "I understand your motives--you are right--I like your
principles."
On returning from the riding-house, I had the pleasure of hearing that Mr.
Montenero had called during my absence, and had particularly inquired from
my own man after my health.
I forgot to mention, that in one of the young officers whom I met at the
riding-house, I recognized a schoolfellow, that very little boy, who,
mounted upon the step-ladder on the day of Jacob's election, turned the
election in his favour by the anecdote of the silver pencil-case. My little
schoolfellow, now a lath of a young man, six feet high, was glad to meet me
again, and to talk over our schoolboy days. He invited me to join him and
some of his companions, who were going down to the country on a fishing
party. They promised themselves great sport in dragging a fish-pond. I
compelled myself to join this party for the mere purpose of changing the
course of my thoughts. For three days I was hurried from place to place,
and not a single thing that I liked to do did I do--I was completely put
out of my own way--my ideas were forced into new channels. I heard of
nothing but of fishing and fishing-tackle--of the pleasures there would be
in the shooting season--of shooting-jackets, and powder-horns, and guns,
and _proof_ guns. All this was terribly irksome at the time, and yet I was
conscious that it was of service to me, and I endured it with heroic
patience.
I was heartily glad when I got back to town. When I felt that I was able to
bear the sight of Berenice, I went again to Mr. Montenero's. From that hour
I maintained my resolution, I strictly adhered to my promise, and I felt
that I was rewarded by Mr. Montenero's increasing esteem and affection. My
conversation was now addressed chiefly to him, and I remarked that I was
always the chief object of his attention. I observed that Berenice was much
paler, and not in such good spirits as formerly: she was evidently under
great constraint and anxiety, and the expression of her countenance towards
me was changed; there was an apprehensiveness, which she in vain
endeavoured to calm--her attention to whatever I was saying or doing, even
when she appeared to be occupied with other things, was constant. I was
convinced that I was continually in her thoughts; I felt that I was not
indifferent to her: yet the expression of her countenance was changed--it
was not love--or it was love strongly repressed by fear--by fear!--was it
of her father's disapprobation? I had been assured by Mr. Montenero, in
whom I had perfect confidence, that no power of mine could remove the
obstacle, if it existed--then his advice was wise not to waste my thoughts
and spirits in vain conjectures. As far as it was in human nature, I took
his advice, repressed my curiosity, and turned my thoughts from that too
interesting subject. I know not how long I should have maintained my
fortitude in this passive state of forbearance. Events soon called me again
into active exertion.
CHAPTER XV.
Party spirit, in politics, ran very high about this time in London--it was
in the year 1780. The ill success of the American war had put the people in
ill-humour; they were ready to believe any thing against the ministry, and
some who, for party purposes, desired to influence the minds of the people,
circulated the most ridiculous reports, and excited the most absurd
terrors. The populace were made to believe that the French and the papists
were secret favourites of government: a French invasion, the appearance of
the French in London, is an old story almost worn out upon the imaginations
of the good people of England; but now came a new if not a more plausible
bugbear--the Pope! It was confidently affirmed that the Pope would soon be
in London, he having been seen in disguise in a gold-flowered nightgown on
_St. James's_ parade at Bath. A poor gentleman, who appeared at his door in
his nightgown, had been actually taken by the Bath mob for the Pope; and
they had pursued him with shouts, and hunted him, till he was forced to
scramble over a wall to escape from his pursuers.
Ludicrous as this may appear, the farce, we all know, soon turned to
tragedy. From the smallest beginnings, the mischief grew and spread; half-
a-dozen people gathered in one street, and began the cry of "No popery!--no
papists!--no French!"--The idle joined the idle, and the discontented the
discontented, and both were soon drawn in to assist the mischievous; and
the cowardly, surprised at their own prowess, when joined with numbers, and
when no one opposed them, grew bolder and bolder. Monday morning Mr.
Strachan was insulted; Lord Mansfield treated it as a slight irregularity.
Monday evening Lord Mansfield himself was insulted by the mob, they pulled
down his house, and burnt his furniture. Newgate was attacked next; the
keeper went to the Lord Mayor, and, at his return, he found the prison in a
blaze; that night the Fleet, and the King's Bench prisons, and the popish
chapels, were on fire, and the glare of the conflagration reached the
skies. I was heartily glad my father and mother were safe in the country.
Mr. Montenero and Berenice were preparing to go to a villa in Surrey, which
he had just purchased; but they apprehended no danger for themselves, as
they were inoffensive strangers, totally unconnected with party or
politics. The fury of the mob had hitherto been directed chiefly against
papists, or persons supposed to favour their cause. The very day before Mr.
Montenero was to leave town, without any conceivable reason, suddenly a cry
was raised against the Jews: unfortunately, Jews rhymed to shoes: these
words were hitched into a rhyme, and the cry was, "_No Jews, no wooden
shoes_!" Thus, without any natural, civil, religious, moral, or political
connexion, the poor Jews came in remainder to the ancient anti-Gallican
antipathy felt by English feet and English fancies against the French
wooden shoes. Among the London populace, however, the Jews had a
respectable body of friends, female friends of noted influence in a mob--
the orange-women--who were most of them bound by gratitude to certain
opulent Jews. It was then, and I believe it still continues to be, a
customary mode of charity with the Jews to purchase and distribute large
quantities of oranges among the retail sellers, whether Jews or Christians.
The orange-women were thus become their staunch friends. One of them in
particular, a warm-hearted Irishwoman, whose barrow had, during the whole
season, been continually replenished by Mr. Montenero's bounty, and by
Jacob's punctual care, now took her station on the steps of Mr. Montenero's
house; she watched her opportunity, and when she saw _the master_ appear in
the hall, she left her barrow in charge with her boy, came up the steps,
walked in, and addressed herself to him thus, in a dialect and tone as new,
almost to me, as they seemed to be to Mr. Montenero.
"Never fear, jewel!--Jew as you have this day the misfortune to be, you're
the best Christian any way ever I happened on! so never fear, honey, for
yourself nor your daughter, God bless her! Not a soul shall go near yees,
nor a finger be laid on her, good or bad. Sure I know them all--not a
mother's son o' the _boys_ but I can call my frind--not a captain or lader
that's in it, but I can lade, dear, to the devil and back again, if I'd but
whistle: so only you keep quite, and don't be advertising yourself any way
for a Jew, nor be showing your cloven _fut_, with or without the wooden
shoes. _Keep ourselves to ourselves_, for I'll tell you a bit of a sacret--
I'm a little bit of a cat'olic myself, all as one as what _they_ call a
_papish_; but I keep it to myself, and nobody's the wiser nor the worse--
they'd tear me to pieces, may be, did they suspect _the like_, but I keep
never minding, and you, jewel, do the like. They call you a Levite, don't
they? then I, the Widow Levy, has a good right to advise ye; we were all
brothers and sisters once--no offence--in the time of Adam, sure, and we
should help one another in all times. 'Tis my turn to help _yees_ now, and,
by the blessing, so I will--accordingly I'll be sitting all day and night,
mounting guard on your steps there without. And little as you may think of
me, the devil a guardian angel better than myself, only just the Widow
Levy, such as ye see!"
The Widow Levy took her stand, and kept her word. I stayed at Mr.
Montenero's all day, saw every thing that passed, and had frequent
opportunities of admiring her address.
She began by making the footman take down "the outlandish name from off the
door; for no name at all, sure, was better _nor_ a foreign name these
times." She charged the footman to "say _sorrow_ word themselves to the mob
for their lives, in case they would come; but to lave it all entirely to
her, that knew how to spake to _them_. For see!" said she, aside to me--
"For see! them powdered numskulls would spoil all--they'd be taking it too
high or too low, and never hit the right _kay_, nor mind when to laugh or
cry in the right place; moreover, when they'd get _frighted_ with a
cross-examination, they'd be apt to be _cutting_ themselves. Now, the ould
one himself, if he had me _on the table_ even, I'd defy to get the truth
out of me, if not convanient, and I in the sarvice of a frind."
In the pleasure of telling a few superfluous lies it seemed to be necessary
that our guardian angel should be indulged; and there she sat on the steps
quite at ease, smoking her pipe, or wiping and _polishing_ her oranges. As
parties of the rioters came up, she would parley and jest with them, and by
alternate wit and humour, and blunder, and bravado, and flattery, and
_fabling_, divert their spirit of mischief, and forward them to distant
enterprise. In the course of the day, we had frequent occasion to admire
her intrepid ingenuity and indefatigable zeal. Late at night, when all
seemed perfectly quiet in this part of the town, she, who had never stirred
from her post all day, was taken into the kitchen by the servants to eat
some supper. While she was away, I was standing at an open window of the
drawing-room, watching and listening--all was silence; but suddenly I heard
a shriek, and two strange female figures appeared from the corner of the
square, hurrying, as if in danger of pursuit, though no one followed them.
One was in black, with a hood, and a black cloak streaming behind; the
other in white, neck and arms bare, head full dressed, with high feathers
blown upright. As they came near the window at which I stood, one of the
ladies called out, "Mr. Harrington! Mr. Harrington! For Heaven's sake let
us in!"
"Lady Anne Mowbray's voice! and Lady de Brantefield!" cried I.
Swiftly, before I could pass her, Berenice ran down stairs, unlocked--threw
open the hall-door, and let them in. Breathless, trembling so that they
could not speak, they sunk upon the first seat they could reach; the
servants hearing the hall-door unchained, ran into the hall, and when sent
away for water, the three footmen returned with each something in his hand,
and stood with water and salvers as a pretence to satisfy their curiosity;
along with them came the orange-woman, who, wiping her mouth, put in her
head between the footmen's elbows, and stood listening, and looking at the
two ladies with no friendly eye. She then worked her way round to me, and
twitching my elbow, drew me back, and whispered--"What made ye let 'em in?
Take care but one's a mad woman, and t'other a bad woman." Lady Anne, who
had by this time drank water, and taken hartshorn, and was able to speak,
was telling, though in a very confused manner, what had happened. She said
that she had been dressed for the opera--the carriage was at the door--her
mother, who was to set her down at Lady Somebody's, who was to _chaperon_
her, had just put on her hood and cloak, and was coming down stairs, when
they heard a prodigious noise of the mob in the street. The mob had seized
their carriage--and had found in one of the pockets a string of beads,
which had been left there by the Portuguese ambassador's lady, whom Lady De
Brantefield had taken home from chapel the preceding day. The mob had seen
the carriage stop at the chapel, and the lady and her confessor get into
it; and this had led to the suspicion that Lady de Brantefield was a
catholic, or in their language, a concealed papist_.
On searching the carriage farther, they had found a breviary, and one of
them had read aloud the name of a priest, written in the beginning of the
book--a priest whose name was peculiarly obnoxious to some of the leaders.
As soon as they found the breviary, and the rosary, and this priest's name,
the mob grew outrageous, broke the carriage, smashed the windows of the
house, and were bursting open the door, when, as Lady Anne told us, she and
her mother, terrified almost out of their senses, escaped through the back
door _just in the dress they were_, and made their way through the stables,
and a back lane, and a cross street: still hearing, or fancying they heard,
the shouts of the mob, they had run on without knowing how, or where, till
they found themselves in this square, and saw me at the open window.
"What is it? Tell me, dear," whispered the orange-woman, drawing me back
behind the footman. "Tell me, for I can't understand her for looking at
the figure of her. Tell me plain, or it may be the ruen of yees all before
ye'd know it."
I repeated Lady Anne's story, and from me the orange-woman understood it;
and it seemed to alarm her more than any of us.
"But are they _Romans?_" (Roman Catholics) said she. "How is that, when
they're not Irish!--for I'll swear to their not being Irish, tongue or
pluck. I don't believe but they're impostors--no right _Romans_, sorrow bit
of the likes; but howsomdever, no signs of none following them yet--thanks
above! Get rid on 'em any way as smart as ye can, dear; tell Mr.
Montenero."
As all continued perfectly quiet, both in the back and front of the house,
we were in hopes that they would not be pursued or discovered by the mob.
We endeavoured to quiet and console them with this consideration; and we
represented that, if the mob should break into their house, they would,
after they had searched and convinced themselves that the obnoxious priest
was not concealed there, disperse without attempting to destroy or pillage
it "Then," said Lady de Brantefield, rising, and turning to her daughter,
"Lady Anne, we had better think of returning to our own house."
Though well aware of the danger of keeping these suspected ladies this
night, and though our guardian angel repeatedly twitched us, reiterating,
"Ah! let 'em go--don't be keeping 'em!" yet Mr. Montenero and Berenice
pressed them, in the kindest and most earnest manner, to stay where they
were safe. Lady Anne seemed most willing, Lady de Brantefield most
unwilling to remain; yet her fears struggled with her pride, and at last
she begged that a servant might be sent to her house to see how things were
going on, and to order chairs for her, if their return was practicable.
"Stop!" cried the orange-woman, laying a strong detaining hand on the
footman's arm; "stop you--'tis I'll go with more sense--and speed."
"What is that person--that woman?" cried Lady de Brantefield, who now heard
and saw the orange-woman for the first time.
"Woman!--is it me she manes?" said the orange-woman, coming forward quite
composedly, shouldering on her cloak.
"Is it who I am?--I'm the Widow Levy.--Any commands?"
"How did she get in?" continued Lady de Brantefield, still with a look of
mixed pride and terror: "how did she get in?"
"Very asy!--through the door--same way you did, my lady, if ye had your
senses. Where's the wonder? But what commands?--don't be keeping of me."
"Anne!--Lady Anne!--Did she follow us in?" said Lady de Brantefield.
"Follow yees!--not I!--no follower of yours nor the likes. But what
commands, nevertheless?--I'll do your business the night, for the sake of
them I love in my heart's core," nodding at Mr. and Miss Montenero; "so, my
lady, I'll bring ye word, faithful, how it's going with ye at home--which
is her house, and where, on God's earth?" added she, turning to the
footmen.
"If my satisfaction be the object, sir, or madam," said Lady de
Brantefield, addressing herself with much solemnity to Mr. and Miss
Montenero, "I must take leave to request that a fitter messenger be sent; I
should, in any circumstances, be incapable of trusting to the
representations of such a person."
The fury of the orange-woman kindled--her eyes flashed fire--her arms
a-kimbo, she advanced repeating, "Fitter!--Fitter!--What's that ye say?--
You're not Irish--not a bone in your skeleton!"
Lady Anne screamed. Mr. Montenero forced the orange-woman back, and
Berenice and I hurried Lady de Brantefield and her daughter across the hall
into the eating-room. Mr. Montenero followed an instant afterwards, telling
Lady de Brantefield that he had despatched one of his own servants for
intelligence. Her ladyship bowed her head without speaking. He then
explained why the orange-woman happened to be in his house, and spoke of
the zeal and ability with which she had this day served us. Lady de
Brantefield continued at intervals to bow her head while Mr. Montenero
spoke, and to look at her watch, while Lady Anne, simpering, repeated,
"Dear, how odd!" Then placing herself opposite to a large mirror, Lady Anne
re-adjusted her dress. That settled, she had nothing to do but to recount
her horrors over again. Her mother, lost in reverie, sat motionless.
Berenice, meantime, while the messenger was away, made the most laudable
and kind efforts, by her conversation, to draw the attention of her guests
from themselves and their apprehensions; but apparently without effect, and
certainly without thanks.
At length, Berenice and her father being called out of the room, I was left
alone with Lady de Brantefield and Lady Anne: the mother broke silence, and
turning to the daughter, said, in a most solemn tone of reproach, "Anne!
Lady Anne Mowbray!--how could you bring me into this house of all others--a
Jew's--when you know the horror I have always felt--"
"La, mamma! I declare I was so terrified, I didn't know one house from
another. But when I saw Mr. Harrington, I was so delighted I never thought
about it's being _the Jew's_ house--and what matter?"
"What matter!" repeated Lady de Brantefield: "are you my daughter, and a
descendant of Sir Josseline de Mowbray, and ask what matter?"
"Dear mamma, that's the old story! that's so long ago!--How can you think
of such old stuff at such a time as this? I'm sure I was frightened out of
my wits--I forgot even my detestation of----But I must not say that
before Mr. Harrington. But now I see the house, and _all that,_ I don't
wonder at him so much; I declare it's a monstrous handsome house--as rich
as a Jew! I'm sure I hope those wretches will not destroy _our_ house--and,
oh! the great mirror, mamma!"
Mr. and Miss Montenero returned with much concern in their countenances:
they announced that the messenger had brought word that the mob were
actually pulling down Lady de Brantefield's house--that the furniture had
all been dragged out into the street, and that it was now burning. Pride
once more gave way to undisguised terror in Lady de Brantefield's
countenance, and both ladies stood in speechless consternation. Before we
had time to hear or to say more, the orange-woman opened the door, and
putting in her head, called out in a voice of authority, "Jantlemen, here's
one wants yees, admits of no delay; lave all and come out, whether you will
or no, the minute."
We went out, and with an indescribable gesture, and wink of satisfaction,
the moment she had Mr. Montenero and me in the hall, she said in a whisper,
"'Tis only myself, dears, but 'tis I am glad I got yees out away from being
bothered by the presence of them women, whiles ye'd be settling all for
life or death, which we must now do--for don't be nursing and dandling
yourselves in the notion that _the boys_ will not be wid ye. It's a folly
to talk--they will; my head to a China orange they will, now: but take it
asy, jewels--we've got an hour's law--they've one good hour's work first--
six garrets to gut, where they are, and tree back walls, with a piece of
the front, still to pull down. Oh! I larnt all. He is a _'cute_ lad you
sent, but not being used to it, just went and ruined and murdered us all by
what he let out! What do ye tink? But when one of the boys was questioning
him who he belonged to, and what brought him in it, he got frighted, and
could think of noting at all but the truth to tell: so they've got the
scent, and they'll follow the game. Ogh! had I been my own messenger, in
lieu of minding that woman within, I'd have put 'em off the scent. But it's
past me now--so what next?" While Mr. Montenero and I began to consult
together, she went on--"I'll tell you what you'll do: you'll send for two
chairs, or one--less suspicious, and just get the two in asy, the black one
back, the white for'ard, beca'ase she's coming nat'ral from the Opera--if
stopped, and so the chairmen, knowing no more than Adam who they would be
carrying, might go through the thick of the boys at a pinch safe enough, or
round any way, sure; they know the town, and the short cuts, and set 'em
down (a good riddance!) out of hand, at any house at all they mention,
who'd resave them of their own frinds, or kith and kin--for, to be sure, I
suppose they _have_ frinds, tho' I'm not one. You'll settle with them by
the time it's come, where they'll set down, and I'll step for the chair,
will I?"
"No," said Mr. Montenero, "not unless it be the ladies' own desire to go: I
cannot turn them out of my house, if they choose to stay; at all hazards
they shall have every protection I can afford. Berenice, I am sure, will
think and feel as I do."
Mr. Montenero returned to the drawing-room, to learn the determination of
his guests.
"There goes as good a Christian!" cried the Widow Levy, holding up her
forefinger, and shaking it at Mr. Montenero the moment his back was turned:
"didn't I tell ye so from the first? Oh! if he isn't a jewel of a Jew!--and
the daughter the same!" continued she, following me as I walked up and down
the hall: "the kind-hearted cratur, how tinder she looked at the fainting
Jezabel--while the black woman turning from her in her quality scowls.--
Oh! I seed it all, and with your own eyes, dear--but I hope they'll go--and
once we get a riddance of them women. I'll answer for the rest. Bad luck to
the minute they come into the house! I wish the jantleman would be back--
Oh! here he is--and will they go, jewel?" cried she, eagerly. "The ladies
will stay," said Mr. Montenero.
"Murder!--but you can't help it--so no more about it--but what arms have
ye?"
No arms were to be found in the house but a couple of swords, a pair of
pistols of Mr. Montenero's, and one gun, which had been left by the former
proprietor. Mr. Montenero determined to write immediately to his friend
General B--, to request that a party of the military might be sent to guard
his house.
"Ay, so best, send for the dragoons, the only thing left on earth for us
now: but don't let 'em fire on _the boys_--disperse 'em with the horse,
asy, ye can, without a shot; so best--I'll step down and feel the pulse of
all below."
While Mr. Montenero wrote, Berenice, alarmed for her father, stood leaning
on the back of his chair, in silence.
"Oh! Mr. Harrington! Mr. Harrington!" repeated Lady Anne, "what will become
of us! If Colonel Topham was but here! Do send to the Opera, pray, pray,
with _my_ compliments--Lady Anne Mowbray's compliments--he'll come
directly, I'm sure."
"That my son, Lord Mowbray, should be out of town, how extraordinary and
how unfortunate!" cried Lady de Brantefield, "when we might have had his
protection, his regiment, without applying to strangers."
She walked up and down the room with the air of a princess in chains. The
orange-woman bolted into the room, and pushed past her ladyship, while Mr.
Montenero was sealing his note.
"Give it, jewel!--It's I'll be the bearer; for all your powdered men below
has taken fright by the dread the first messenger got, and dares not be
carrying a summons for the military through the midst of _them_: but I'll
take it for yees--and which way will I go to get quickest to your
general's? and how will I know his house?--for seven of them below bothered
my brains."
Mr. Montenero repeated the direction--she listened coolly, then stowing the
letter in her bosom, she stood still for a moment with a look of deep
deliberation--her head on one side, her forefinger on her cheek-bone, her
thumb under her chin, and the knuckle of the middle-finger compressing her
lips.
"See, now, _they'll_ be apt to come up the stable lane for the back o' the
house, and another party of them will be in the square, in front; so how
will it be with me to get into the house to yees again, without opening the
doors for _them_, in case they are wid _ye_ afore I'd get the military up?
--I have it," cried she.
She rushed to the door, but turned back again to look for her pipe, which
she had laid on the table.
"Where's my pipe?--Lend it me--What am I without my pipe?"
"The savage!" cried Lady de Brantefield.
"The fool!" said Lady Anne.
The Widow Levy nodded to each of the two ladies, as she lit the pipe again,
but without speaking to them, turned to us, and said, "If the boys would
meet me without my pipe, they'd not know me; or smell something odd, and
guess I was on some unlawful errand."
As she passed Berenice and me, who were standing together, she hastily
added, "Keep a good heart, sweetest!--At the last push, you have one will
shed the heart's drop for ye!"
A quick, scarcely perceptible motion of her eye towards me marked her
meaning; and one involuntary look from Berenice at that moment, even in the
midst of alarm, spread joy through my whole frame. In the common danger we
were drawn closer together--we _thought_ together;--I was allowed to help
her in the midst of the general bustle.
It was necessary, as quickly as possible, to determine what articles in the
house were of most value, and to place these in security. It was
immediately decided that the pictures were inestimable.--What was to be
done with them? Berenice, whose presence of mind never forsook her, and
whose quickness increased with the occasion, recollected that the
unfinished picture-gallery, which had been built behind the house,
adjoining to the back drawing-room, had no window opening to the street: it
was lighted by a sky-light; it had no communication with any of the
apartments in the house, except with the back drawing-room, into which it
was intended to open by large glass doors; but fortunately these were not
finished, and, at this time, there was no access to the picture-gallery but
by a concealed door behind the gobelin tapestry of the back drawing-room--
an entrance which could hardly be discovered by any stranger. In the
gallery were all the plasterers' trestles, and the carpenters' lumber;
however, there was room soon made for the pictures: all hands were in
motion, every creature busy and eager, except Lady de Brantefield and her
daughter, who never offered the smallest assistance, though we were
continually passing with our loads through the front drawing-room, in which
the two ladies now were. Lady Anne standing up in the middle of the room
looked like an actress ready dressed for some character, but without one
idea of her own. Her mind, naturally weak, was totally incapacitated by
fear: she kept incessantly repeating as we passed and repassed, "Bless me!
one would think the day of judgment was coming!"
Lady de Brantefield all the time sat in the most remote part of the room,
fixed in a huge arm-chair. The pictures and the most valuable things were,
by desperately hard work, just stowed into our place of safety, when we
heard the shouts of the mob, at once at the back and front of the house,
and soon a thundering knocking at the hall-door. Mr. Montenero and I went
to the door, of course without opening it, and demanded, in a loud voice,
what they wanted.
"We require the papists," one answered for the rest, "the two women papists
and the priest you've got within, to be given up, for your lives!"
"There is no priest here--there are no papists here:--two protestant
ladies, strangers to me, have taken refuge here, and I will not give them
up," said Mr. Montenero.
"Then we'll pull down the house."
"The military will be here directly," said Mr. Montenero, coolly; "you had
better go away."
"The military!--then make haste, boys, with the work."
And with a general cry of "No papists!--no priests!--no Jews!--no wooden
shoes!" they began with a volley of stones against the windows. I ran to
see where Berenice was. It had been previously agreed among us, that she
and her guests, and every female in the house, should, on the first alarm,
retire into a back room; but at the first shout of the mob, Lady de
Brantefield lost the little sense she ever possessed: she did not faint,
but she stiffened herself in the posture in which she sat, and with her
hands turned down over the elbows of the huge chair, on which her arms were
extended, she leaned back in all the frightful rigidity of a corpse, with a
ghastly face, and eyes fixed.
Berenice, in vain, tried to persuade her to move. Her ideas were bewildered
or concentrated. Only the obstinacy of pride remained alive within her.
"No," she said, "she would never move from that spot--she would not be
commanded by Jew or Jewess."
"Don't you hear the mob--the stones at the windows?"
"Very well. They would all pay for it on the scaffold or the gibbet."
"But if they break in here you will be torn to pieces."
"No--those only will be sacrificed who _have sacrificed_. A 'de
Brantefield'--they dare not!--I shall not stir from this spot. Who will
presume to touch Lady de Brantefield?"
Mr. Montenero and I lifted up the huge chair on which she sat, and carried
her and it into the back room.
The door of this room was scarcely shut, and the tapestry covering but just
closed over the entrance into the picture-gallery, when there was a cry
from the hall, and the servants came rushing to tell us that one of the
window-shutters had given way.
Mr. Montenero, putting the pistols into my hand, took the gun, ran down
stairs, and stationed himself so as to defend the entrance to the window,
at which the people were pelting with stones; declaring that he would fire
on the first man who should attempt to enter.
A man leaped in, and, in the struggle, Mr. Montenero's gun was wrested from
him.
On my presenting a pistol, the man scrambled out of the window, carrying
away with him the prize he had seized.
At this moment the faithful Jacob appeared amongst us as if by miracle.
"Master, we are safe," said he, "if we can defend ourselves for a few
minutes. The orange-woman delivered your letter, and the military are
coming. She told me how to get in here, through the house that is building
next door, from the leads of which I crept through a trap-door into your
garret."
With the pistols, and with the assistance of the servants who were armed,
some of them with swords, and others with whatever weapons came to hand, we
made such a show of resistance as to keep the mob at bay for some moments.
"Hark!" cried Jacob; "thank Heaven, there's the military!" There was a
sudden cessation of stones at the window. We heard the joyful sound of the
horses' hoofs in the street. A prodigious uproar ensued, then gradually
subsided. The mob was dispersed, and fled in different directions, and the
military followed. We heard them gallop off. We listened till not a sound,
either of human voice or of horse's foot, was to be heard. There was
perfect silence; and when we looked as far as our eyes could reach out of
the broken window, there was not a creature to be seen in the square or in
the line of street to which it opened.
We ran to let out our female prisoners; I thought only of Berenice--she,
who had shown so much self-possession during the danger, seemed most
overpowered at this moment of joy; she threw her arms round her father, and
held him fast, as if to convince herself that he was safe. Her next look
was for me, and in her eyes, voice, and manner, when she thanked me, there
was an expression which transported me with joy; but it was checked, it was
gone the next moment: some terrible recollection seemed to cross her mind.
She turned from me to speak to that odious Lady de Brantefield. I could not
see Mr. Montenero's countenance, for he, at the same instant, left us, to
single out, from the crowd assembled in the hall, the poor Irishwoman,
whose zeal and intrepid gratitude had been the means of our deliverance. I
was not time enough to hear what Mr. Montenero said to her, or what reward
he conferred; but that the reward was judicious, and that the words were
grateful to her feelings in the highest degree, I had full proof; for when
I reached the hall, the widow was on her knees, with hands uplifted to
Heaven, unable to speak, but with tears streaming down her hard face: she
wiped them hastily away, and started up.
"It's not a little thing brings me to this," said she; "none ever drew a
tear from my eyes afore, since the boy I lost."
She drew the hood of her cloak over her head, and pushed her way through
the servants to get out of the hall-door; I unbolted and unchained it for
her, and as I was unlocking it, she squeezed up close to me, and laying her
iron hand on mine, said in a whisper, "God bless yees! and don't forget my
thanks to the sweet _Jewish_--I can't speak 'em now, 'tis you can best,
and joined in my prayers ye shall ever be!" said our guardian angel, as I
opened the door; and as she passed out, she added, "You are right, jewel--
she's worth all the fine ladies in Lon'on, feathers an' all in a bag."
I had long been entirely of the Widow Levy's opinion, though the mode of
expression would never have occurred to me. What afterwards became of Lady
Anne and of her mother this night, I do not distinctly recollect. Lady de
Brantefield, when the alarm was over, I believe, recovered her usual
portion of sense, and Lady Anne her silly spirits; but neither of them, I
know, showed any feeling, except for themselves. I have an image of Lady de
Brantefield standing up, and making, at parting, such ungracious
acknowledgments to her kind hostess and generous protector, as her pride
and her prejudices would permit. Both their ladyships seemed to be in a
hurry to get out of the house, and I know that I rejoiced in their
departure. I was in hopes of one moment, one explanatory word or look from
Berenice. She was retiring to her own apartment, as I returned, with her
father, after putting those two women into their carriage.
"I am now quite convinced," said Mr. Montenero, smiling, "that Mr.
Harrington never could have been engaged or attached to Lady Anne Mowbray."
"Is it possible you ever imagined?"
"I did not _imagine_, I only heard and believed--and now I have seen, and I
disbelieve."
"And is this the obstacle, the invincible obstacle?" cried I.
Berenice sighed, and walked on to her room.
"I wish it were!" said Mr. Montenero; "but I pray you, sir, do not speak,
do not think of this to-night--farewell! we all want repose."
I did not think that I wanted repose till the moment I lay down in bed, and
then, overpowered with bodily fatigue, I fell into a profound sleep, from
which I did not awaken till late the next morning, when my man, drawing
back my curtains, presented to me a note from--I could hardly believe my
eyes--"from Miss Montenero"--from Berenice! I started up, and read these
words written in pencil: "My father is in danger--come to us."
How quick I was in obeying may be easily imagined. I went well armed, but
in the present danger arms were of no use. I found that Mr. Montenero was
summoned before one of the magistrates, on a charge of having fired from
his window the preceding night before the Riot Act had been read--of having
killed an inoffensive passenger. Now the fact was, that no shot had ever
been fired by Mr. Montenero; but such was the rage of the people at the
idea that the _Jew_ had killed a Christian, and one of their party, that
the voice of truth could not be heard. They followed with execrations as he
was carried before the magistrate; and waited with impatience, assembled
round the house, in hopes of seeing him committed to prison to take his
trial for murder. As I was not ignorant of the substantial nature of the
defence which the spirit and the forms of English law provide in all cases
for truth and innocence, against false accusation and party prejudice, I
was not alarmed at the clamour I heard; I was concerned only for the
temporary inconvenience and mortification to Mr. Montenero, and for the
alarm to Berenice. The magistrate before whom Mr. Montenero appeared was an
impartial and very patient man: I shall not so far try the patience of
others as to record all that was positively said, but which could not be
sworn to--all that was offered in evidence, but which contradicted itself,
or which could not be substantiated by any good witness--at length one
creditable-looking man came forward against Mr. Montenero.
He said he was an ironmonger--that he had been passing by at the time of
the riot, and had been hurried along by the crowd against his will to Mr.
Montenero's house, where he saw a sailor break open the window-shutter of
one of the lower rooms--that he saw a shot fired by Mr. Montenero--that the
sailor, after a considerable struggle, wrested the gun, with which the shot
had been fired, from Mr. Montenero, and retreated with it from the window--
that hearing the cry of murder in the crowd, he thought it proper to secure
the weapon, that it might be produced in evidence--and that the piece which
he now produced was that which had been taken from Mr. Montenero.
I perceived great concern in the countenance of the magistrate, who,
addressing himself to Mr. Montenero, asked him what he had to say in his
defence.
"Sir," said Mr. Montenero, "I acknowledge that to be the gun which was
wrested from my hands by the sailor; and I acknowledge that I attempted
with that gun to defend my family and my house from immediate violence; I
am, however," continued he, "happy to have escaped having injured any
person, even in the most justifiable cause, for the piece did not go off,
it only flashed in the pan."
"If that be the case," said the magistrate, "the piece is still loaded."
The gun was tried, and it was found to be empty both of powder and ball. As
the magistrate returned the piece to the man, I came forward and asked
leave to examine it. I observed to the magistrate, that if the piece had
been fired, the inside of the barrel must retain marks of the discharge,
whereas, on the contrary, the inside of the barrel was perfectly smooth and
clean. To this the man replied, that he had cleaned the piece when he
brought it home, which might indeed have been true. At this moment, I
recollected a circumstance that I had lately heard from the officers in the
country, who had been talking about a fowling-piece, and of the careless
manner in which fire-arms are sometimes proved [Footnote: See Manton
on Gunnery.]. Upon examination, I found that what I suspected might be just
possible was actually the case with respect to the piece in question--the
touch-hole had never been bored through, though the piece was marked as
_proof_! I never shall forget the satisfaction which appeared in the
countenance of the humane magistrate, who from the beginning had suspected
the evidence, whom he knew from former delinquency. The man was indeed
called an ironmonger, but his was one of those _old iron shops_ which were
known to be receptacles of stolen goods of various descriptions. To my
surprise, it now appeared that this man's name was Dutton: he was the very
Dutton who had formerly been Jacob's rival, and who had been under Lord
Mowbray's protection. Time and intemperance had altered him so much, that I
had not, till I heard his name, the slightest recollection of his face.
What his motive for appearing against Mr. Montenero might be, whether it
was hatred to him as being the patron of Jacob, whom Dutton envied and
detested, or whether Dutton was instigated by some other and higher person,
I shall not now stop to inquire. As he had not been put upon his oath, he
had not been guilty of perjury; he was discharged amidst the hootings of
the mob. Notwithstanding their prejudice against the Jews, and their rage
against a Jew who had harboured, as they conceived, two _concealed_ papists
and a priest, yet the moment an attempt to bear false witness against Mr.
Montenero appeared, the people took his part. In England the mob is always
in favour of truth and innocence, wherever these are made clearly evident
to their senses. Pleased with themselves for their impartiality, it was not
difficult at this moment for me to convince them, as I did, that Mr.
Montenero had not harboured either papists or priest. The mob gave us three
cheers. As we passed through the crowd, I saw Jacob and the orange-woman--
the orange-woman, with broad expanded face of joy, stretched up her arms,
and shouted loud, that all the mob might hear. Jacob, little accustomed to
sympathy, and in the habit of repressing his emotions, stood as one unmoved
or dumb, till his eyes met mine, and then suddenly joy spread over his
features and flashed from his dark eyes--that was a face of delight I never
can forget; but I could not stay: I hastened to be the first to tell
Berenice of her father's safety, and of the proof which all the world had
had of the falsehood of the charge against him. I ran up to the
drawing-room, where she was alone. She fainted in my arms.
And now you think, that when she came to herself, there was an end of all
my fears, all my suspense--you think that her love, her gratitude, overcame
the objection, whatever it may be, which has hitherto been called
invincible--alas! you are mistaken.
I was obliged to resign Berenice to the care of her attendants. A short
time afterwards I received from her father the following note:--
"My obligations to you are great, so is my affection for you; but the
happiness of my child, as well as your happiness, is at stake.
"I dare not trust my gratitude--my daughter and you must never meet again,
or must meet to part no more.
"I cannot yet decide: if I shall be satisfied that the obstacle do not
exist, she shall be yours; if it do exist, we sail the first of next month
for America, and you, Mr. Harrington, will not be the only, or perhaps the
most, unhappy person of the three.
"A. MONTENERO."
CHAPTER XVI.
The Sunday after the riots, I happened to see Mrs. Coates, as we were
coming out of St. George's church. She was not in full-blown, happy
importance, as formerly: she looked ill and melancholy; or, as one of her
city neighbours, who was following her out of church, expressed it, quite
"crest-fallen." I heard some whispering that "things were going wrong at
home with the Coates's--that the world was going down hill with the
alderman."
But a lady, who was quite a stranger, though she did me the honour to speak
to me, explained that it was "no such thing--worth a plum still, if he be
worth a farthing. 'Tis only that she was greatly put out of her way last
week, and frightened, till well nigh beside herself, by them rioters that
came and set fire to one of the Coates's, Mr. Peter's, warehouse. Now,
though poor Mrs. Coates, you'd think, is so plump and stout to look at, she
is as nervous!--you've no notion, sir!--shakes like an aspen leaf, if she
but takes a cup of green tea--so I prescribe bohea. But there she's
curtsying, and nodding, and kissing hands to you, sir, see!--and can tell
you, no doubt, all about herself."
Mrs. Coates's deplorably placid countenance, tremulous muscles, and
lamentable voice and manner, confirmed to me the truth of the assertion
that she had been frightened nearly out of her senses.
"Why now, sir, after all," said she, "I begin to find what fools we were,
when we made such a piece of work one election year, and said that no
soldiers should come into the town, 'cause we were _free Britons_. Why,
Lord 'a mercy! 'tis a great deal better _maxim_ to sleep safe in our beds
than to be _free Britons_ and burnt to death [Footnote: Vide Mrs. Piozzi's
Letters.]."
Persons of higher pretensions to understanding and courage than poor Mrs.
Coates, seemed at this time ready to adopt her maxim; and patriots feared
that it might become the national sentiment. No sooner were order and
tranquillity perfectly re-established in the city, than the public in
general, and party politicians in particular, were intent upon the trials
of the rioters, and more upon the question whether the military had
suppressed the riots constitutionally or unconstitutionally. It was a
question to be warmly debated in parliament; and this, after the manner in
which great public and little private interests, in the chain of human
events, are continually linked together, proved of important consequence to
me and my love affairs.
A call of the house brought my father to town, contrary to his will, and
consequently in ill-humour. This ill-humour was increased by the perplexing
situation in which he found himself, with his passions on one side of the
question and his principles on the other: hating the papists, and loving
the ministry. In his secret soul, my father cried with the rioters, "No
papists!--no French!--no Jews!--no wooden shoes!" but a cry against
government was abhorrent to his very nature. My conduct, with regard to the
riot at Mr. Montenero's, and towards the rioters, by whom he had been
falsely accused, my father heard spoken of with approbation in the
political circles which he most reverenced; and he could not but be
pleased, he confessed, to hear that his son had so properly conducted
himself: but still it was all in defence of the Jews, and of the father of
that Jewess whose very name was intolerable to his ear.
"So, Harrington, my boy, you've gained great credit, I find, by your
conduct last Wednesday night. Very lucky, too, for your mother's friend,
Lady de Brantefield, that you were where you were. But after all, sir, what
the devil business had you there?--and again on Thursday morning!--I
acknowledge that was a good hit you made, about the gun--but I wish it had
been in the defence of some good Christian: what business has a Jew with a
gun at all?--Government knows best, to be sure; but I split against them
once before, three-and-twenty years ago, on the naturalization bill. What
is this cry which the people set up?--'_No Jews!--no wooden shoes_!'--ha!
ha! ha!--the dogs!--but they carried it too far, the rascals!--When it
comes to throwing stones at gentlemen's carriages, and pulling down
gentlemen's and noblemen's dwelling-houses, it's a mob and a riot, and the
rioters deserve certainly to be hanged--and I'm heartily glad my son has
come forward, Mrs. Harrington, and has taken a decided and distinguished
part in bringing the offenders to justice. But, Harrington, pray tell me
now, young gentleman, about that Jewess."
Before I opened my lips, something in the turn of my physiognomy enraged my
father to such a degree that all the blood in his body came into his face,
and, starting up, he cried, "Don't answer me, sir--I ask no questions--I
don't want to hear any thing about the matter! Only _if_--if, sir--if--
that's all I have to say--if--by Jupiter Ammon--sir, I won't hear a word--a
syllable! You only wish to explain--I won't have any explanation--I have
business enough on my hands, without listening to a madman's nonsense!"
My father began to open his morning's packet of letters and newspapers.
One letter, which had been directed to his house in the country, and which
had followed him to town, seemed to, alarm him terribly. He put the letter
into my mother's hand, cursed all the post-masters in England, who were
none of them to blame for its not reaching him sooner, called for his hat
and cane, said he must go instantly to the city, but "feared all was, too
late, and that we were undone." With this comfortable assurance he left us.
The letter was from a broker in Lombard-street, who did business for my
father, and who wrote to let him know that, "in consequence of the
destruction of a great brewery in the late riots, several mercantile houses
had been injured. Alderman Coates had died suddenly of an apoplexy, it was
said: his house had closed on Saturday; and it was feared that Baldwin's
bank would not stand the run made on it."
Now in Baldwin's bank, as my mother informed me, my father had eight days
before lodged L30,000, the purchase money of that estate which he had been
obliged to sell to pay for his three elections. This sum was, in fact,
every shilling of it due to creditors, who had become clamorous; and "if
_this_ be gone," said my mother, "we are lost indeed!--this house must go,
and the carriages, and every thing; the Essex estate is all we shall have
left, and live there as we can--very ill it must be, to us who have been
used to affluence and luxury. Your father, who expects his table, and every
individual article of his establishment, to be in the first style, as if by
magic, without ever reflecting on the means, but just inviting people, and
leaving it to me to entertain them properly--oh! I know how bitterly he
would feel even retrenchment!--and this would be ruin; and every thing that
vexes him of late brings on directly a fit of the gout--and then you know
what his temper is! Heaven knows what I had to go through with my nerves,
and my delicate health, during the last fit, which came on the very day
after we left you, and lasted six weeks, and which he sets down to your
account, Harrington, and to the account of your Jewess."
I had too much feeling for my mother's present distress to increase her
agitation by saying any thing on this tender subject. I let her accuse me
as she pleased--and she very soon began to defend me. The accounts she had
heard in various letters of the notice that had been taken of Miss
Montenero by some of the leading persons in the fashionable world, the
proposals that had been made to her, and especially the addresses of Lord
Mowbray, which had been of sufficient publicity, had made, I found, a
considerable alteration in my mother's judgment or feelings. She observed
that it was a pity my father was so violently prejudiced and obstinate, for
that, after all, it would not be an unprecedented marriage. My mother,
after a pause, went on to say, that though she was not, she hoped, an
interested person, and should scorn the idea of her son's being a
fortune-hunter--and indeed I had given pretty sufficient proof that I was
not of that description of suitors; yet, if the Jewess were really amiable,
and as capable of generous attachment, it would be, my mother at last
acknowledged, the best thing I could do, to secure an independent
establishment with the wife of my choice.
I was just going to tell my mother of the conversation that I had had with
Mr. Montenero, and of _the obstacle_, when her mind reverted to the
Lombard-street letter, and to Baldwin's bank; and for a full hour we
discussed the probability of Baldwin's standing or failing, though neither
of us had any means of judging--of this, being perhaps the least anxious of
the two, I became sensible the first. I finished, by stationing myself at
the window to watch for my father's return, of which I promised to give my
mother notice, if she would lie down quietly on the sofa, and try to
compose her spirits; she had given orders to be denied to all visitors, but
every knock at the door made her start, and "There's your father! There's
Mr. Harrington!" was fifty times repeated before the hour when it was even
possible that my father could have returned from the city.
When the probable time came and passed, when it grew later and later
without my father's appearing, our anxiety and impatience rose to the
highest pitch.
At last I gave my mother notice that I saw among the walkers at the end of
the street which joined our square, an elderly gentleman with a cane.
"But there are so many elderly gentlemen with canes," said my mother,
joining me at the window. "Is it Mr. Harrington?"
"It is very like my father, ma'am. Now you can see him plainly picking his
way over the crossing."
"He is looking down," said my mother; "that is a very bad sign.--But is he
not looking up now?"
"No, ma'am; and now he is taking snuff."
"Taking snuff! is he? Then there is some hope," said my mother.
During the last forty yards of my father's walk, we each drew innumerable
and often opposite conclusions, from his slightest gestures and motions,
interpreting them all as favourable or unfavourable omens. In the course of
five minutes my mother's _presentiments_ varied fifty times. At length came
his knock at the door. My mother grew pale--to her ear it said "all's
lost;" to mine it sounded like "all's safe."
"He stays to take off his great coat! a good sign; but he comes heavily up
stairs." Our eyes were fixed on the door--he opened it, and advanced
towards us without uttering one syllable.
"All's lost--and all's safe," said my father. "My fortune's safe, Mrs.
Harrington."
"What becomes of your presentiments, my dear mother?" said I.
"Thank Heaven!" said my mother, "I was wrong for once."
"You might thank Heaven for more than once, madam," said my father.
"But then what did you mean by all's lost, Mr. Harrington; if all's safe,
how can all be lost?"
"My all, Mrs. Harrington, is not all fortune. There is such a thing as
credit as well as fortune, Mrs. Harrington."
"But if you have not lost your fortune, you have not lost your credit, I
presume," said my mother.
"I have a character as a gentleman, Mrs. Harrington."
"Of course."
"A character for consistency, Mrs. Harrington, to preserve."
"'Tis a hard thing to preserve, no doubt," said my mother.
"But I wish you'd speak plain, for my nerves can't bear it."
"Then I can tell you, Mrs. Harrington, your nerves have a great deal to
bear yet. What will your nerves feel, madam--what will your enthusiasm say,
sir--when I tell you, that I have lost my heart to--a Jewess?"
"Berenice!" cried I.
"Impossible!" cried my mother. "How came you to see her?"
"That's not for you to know yet; but first, young gentleman, you who are
hanging on tenter-hooks, you must hang there a little longer."
"As long as you please, my dear father," said I.
"_Your dear father_!--ay, I'm very dear to you now, because you are in
hopes, sir, I shall turn fool, and break my vow into the bargain; but I am
not come to _that_ yet, my good sir--I have some consistency."
"Oh! never mind your consistency, for mercy's sake, Mr. Harrington," said
my mother, "only tell us your story, for I really am dying to hear it, and
I am so weak."
"Ring the bell for dinner," said my father, "for Mrs. Harrington's so weak,
I'll keep my story till after dinner." My mother protested she was quite
strong, and we both held my father fast, insisting--he being in such
excellent humour and spirits that we might insist--insisting upon his
telling his story before he should have any dinner.
"Where was I?" said he.
"You know best," said my mother; "you said you had lost your heart to a
Jewess, and Harrington exclaimed _Berenice!_ and that's all I've heard
yet."
"Very well, then, let us leave Berenice for the present"--I groaned--"and
go to her father, Mr. Montenero, and to a certain Mrs. Coates."
"Mrs. Coates! did you see her too?" cried my mother: "you seem to have seen
every body in the world this morning, Mr. Harrington. How happened it that
you saw vulgar Mrs. Coates?"
"Unless I shut my eyes, how can I avoid seeing vulgar people, madam? and
how can I tell my story, Mrs. Harrington, if you interrupt me perpetually,
to ask how I came to see every soul and body I mention?"
"I will interrupt you no more," said my mother, submissively, for she was
curious.
I placed an arm-chair for my father--in my whole life I never felt so
dutiful or so impatient.
"There, now," said my father, taking his seat in the chair, "if you will
promise not to interrupt me any more, I will tell you my story regularly. I
went to Baldwin's bank: I found a great crowd, all pressing their demands--
the clerks as busy as they could be, and all putting a good face upon the
matter. The head-clerk I saw was vexed at the sight of me--he came out from
behind his desk, and begged I would go up stairs to Mr. Baldwin, who wished
to speak to me. I was shown up stairs to Mr. Baldwin, with whom I found a
remarkably gentlemanlike foreign-looking man.
"Yes, sir--yes, ma'am--Mr. Montenero: it is well you did not either of you
interrupt me to tell me his name, for if you had, I would not have told you
a word more. Well, Mr. Baldwin, evidently wishing me at the devil, came
forward to receive me, and, in great perplexity, said he would be at my
command; he would settle my business immediately; but must beg my pardon
for five minutes, while he settled with this gentleman, _Mr. Montenero_. On
hearing the name, I am sure my look would have said plain enough to any man
alive but Baldwin, that I did not choose to be introduced; but Baldwin has
no breeding: so it was _Mr. Montenero, Mr. Harrington--Mr. Harrington, Mr.
Montenero_. I bowed, and wished the _Jew_ in the Red Sea, and Baldwin along
with him. I then took up a newspaper and retreated to the window, begging
that I might not be any interruption. The cursed paper was four days old,
so I put it down; and as I stood looking at nothing out of the window, I
heard Baldwin going on with your Jew. They had a load of papers on the
table, which Baldwin kept shuffling, as he talked about the losses the
house had sustained by the sudden death of Alderman Coates, and the sad
bankruptcy of the executors. Baldwin seasoned high with compliments to the
Jew upon his known liberality and generosity, and was trying to get him to
enter into some security, which the Jew refused, saying that what he gave
he gave willingly, but he would not enter into security: he added, that the
alderman and his family had been unjustifiably extravagant; but on
condition that all was given up fairly to the creditors, and a new course
entered upon, he and his daughter would take care that the widow should be
provided for properly. As principal creditor, Mr. Baldwin would, by this
means, be first satisfied. I could not help thinking that all the Jew said
was fair enough, and firm too; but when he had said and done, I wondered
that he did not go away. He and Baldwin came to the window to which I had
retreated, and Baldwin, like a city bear as he is, got in his awkward way
between us, and seizing one button of my coat and one of Mr. Montenero's,
held us there face to face, while he went on talking of my demand on the
house.
"'You see, Mr. Harrington,' said he, 'how we are circumstanced. The
property of the firm is able to answer all fair demands in due course. But
here's a set and a run made against us, and no house could stand without
the assistance, that is, the forbearance of friends--that's what we must
look to. Some of our friends, in particular Mr. Montenero, have been very
friendly indeed--very handsome and liberal--and we have nothing to say; we
cannot, in reason, expect him to do more for the Coates's or for us.' And
then came accounts of the executors, &c., in his banking jargon.
"What the deuce was all this to me, you know? and how awkward I felt, held
by the button there, to rejudge Mr. Montenero's acts! I had nothing for it
but my snuff-box. But Baldwin's a mere clerk--cannot guess at the feelings
of a gentleman. Mr. Montenero, I observed, looked down upon Baldwin all the
time with so much the air of a high-bred gentleman, that I began to think
he could not be the Jew--Montenero.
"Baldwin, still thinking only of holding him up as an example to me, went
on, saying, 'Mr. Montenero, who is a foreigner, and a stranger to the
house, has done so and so, and we trust our old friends will do as much--
Mr. Harrington in particular. There's our books on the table, open to Mr.
Harrington--he will see we shall be provided on the fifteenth instant; but,
in short, if Mr. Harrington draws his L30,000 to-day, he drives us to pay
in sixpences--so there's the case.' In short, it came to this: if I drew, I
certainly ruined them; if I did not draw, I ran a great hazard of being
ruined myself. No, Baldwin would not have it that way--so when he had
stated it after his own fashion, and put it into and out of his banker's
jargon, it came out to be, that if I drew directly I was certain to lose
the whole; and if I did not draw, I should have a good chance of losing a
great part. I pulled my button away from the fellow, and without listening
to any more of his jabbering, for I saw he was only speaking _against
time_, and all on his own side of the question, I turned to look at the
books, of which I knew I never should make head or tail, being no auditor
of accounts, but a plain country gentleman. While I was turning over their
confounded day-books and ledgers in despair, your Jew, Harrington, came up
to me, and with such a manner as I did not conceive a Jew could have--but
he is a Spanish Jew--that makes all the difference, I suppose--'Mr.
Harrington,' said he, 'though I am a stranger to you, permit me to offer my
services in this business--I have some right to do so, as I have accepted
of services, and am under real obligations to Mr. Harrington, your son, a
young gentleman for whom I feel the highest attachment as well as
gratitude, but of whom I will now say only, that he has been one of the
chief means of saving my life and my character. His father cannot,
therefore, I think, refuse to let me show at least some sense of the
obligations I have willingly received. My collection of Spanish pictures,
which, without your son's exertions, I could not have saved on the night of
the riot, has been estimated by your best English connoisseurs at L60,000.
Three English noblemen are at this moment ready to pay down L30,000 for a
few of these pictures: this will secure Mr. Harrington's demand on this
house. If you, Mr. Baldwin, pay him, before three hours are over the money
shall be with you. It is no sacrifice of my taste or of my pictures,'
continued your noble Jew, in answer to my scruples: 'I lodge them with
three different bankers only for security for the money. If Mr. Baldwin
stands the storm, we are all as we were--my pictures into the bargain. If
the worst happen, I lose only a few instead of all my collection.'
"This was very generous--quite noble, but you know I am an obstinate old
fellow. I had still the Jewess, the daughter, running in my head, and I
thought, perhaps, I was to be asked for my _consent_, you know, Harrington,
or some sly underplot of that kind.
"Mr. Montenero has a quick eye--I perceived that he saw into my thoughts;
but we could not speak to our purpose before Baldwin, and Baldwin would
never think of stirring, if one was dying to get him out of the room.
Luckily, however, he was called away by one of the clerks.
"Then Mr. Montenero, who speaks more to the point than any man I ever
heard, spoke directly of your love for his daughter, and said he understood
that it would not be a match that I should approve. I pleaded my principles
and religious difficulties:--he replied, 'We need not enter into that, for
the present business I must consider as totally independent of any view to
future connexion:'--if his daughter was going to be married to-morrow to
another man, he should do exactly the same as he now proposed to do. He did
not lessen her fortune:--he should say nothing of what her sense of
gratitude was and ought to be--she had nothing to do with the business.
"When I found that my _Jupiter Amman_ was in no danger, and that the love
affair was to be kept clear out of the question, I was delighted with your
generous Jew, Harrington, and I frankly accepted his offer. Baldwin came in
again, was quite happy when he heard how it was settled, gave me three
drafts at thirty-one days for my money on the bankers Mr. Montenero named:
here I have them safe in my pocket. Mr. Montenero then said, he would go
immediately and perform his part of the business; and, as he left the room,
he begged Mr. Baldwin to tell his daughter that he would call for her in an
hour.
"I now, for the first time, understood that the daughter was in the house;
and I certainly felt a curiosity to see her. Baldwin told me she was
settling some business, signing some papers in favour of poor Mrs. Coates,
the alderman's widow. He added, that the Jewess was a charming creature,
and as generous as her father:--he told all she had done for this widow and
her children, on account of some kindness her mother had received in early
life from the Coates's family; and then there was a history of some other
family of Manessas--I never heard Baldwin eloquent but this day, in
speaking of your Jewess:--Harrington, I believe he is in love with her
himself. I said I should like to see her, if it could be managed.
"Nothing easier, if I would partake of a cold collation just serving in the
next room for the friends of the house.
"You know the nearer a man is to being ruined, the better he must entertain
his friends. I walked into the next room, when collation time came, and I
saw Miss Montenero. Though I had given him a broad hint--but the fellow
understands nothing but his IOU's--he fell to introducing of course: she
is a most interesting-looking creature, I acknowledge, my boy, if--she were
not a Jewess. I thought she would have sunk into the earth when she heard
my name. I could not eat one morsel of the man's collation--so--Ring for
dinner, and let us say no more about the matter at present: there is my
oath against it, you know--there is an end of the matter--don't let me
hear a word from you, Harrington--I am tired to death, quite exhausted,
body and mind."
I refrained most dutifully, and most prudently, from saying one word more
on the subject, till my father, after dinner, and after being refreshed by
a sound and long-protracted sleep, began again to speak of Mr. and Miss
Montenero. This was the first time he omitted to call them the Jew and
Jewess. He condescended to say repeatedly, and with many oaths, that they
both deserved to be Christians--that if there was any chance of the girl's
conversion, even _he_ would overlook the father's being a Jew, as he was
such a noble fellow. Love could do wonders--as my father knew when he was a
young man--perhaps I might bring about her conversion, and then all would
be smooth and right, and no oath against it.
I thanked my father for the kind concessions he now appeared willing to
make for my happiness, and from step to step, at each step repeating that
he did not want to hear a syllable about the matter, he made me tell him
every thing that had passed. Mowbray's rivalship and treachery excited his
indignation in the highest degree: he was heartily glad that fellow was
refused--he liked the girl for refusing him--some spirit--he liked spirit--
and he should be glad that his son carried away the prize.
He interrupted himself to tell me some of the feats of gallantry of his
younger days, and of the manner in which he had at last carried off my
mother from a rascal of a rival--a Lord Mowbray of those times.
When my father had got to this point, my mother ventured to ask whether I
had ever gone so far as to propose, actually to _propose_, for Miss
Montenero.
"Yes."
Both father and mother turned about, and asked, "What answer?"
I repeated, as nearly as I could, Mr. Montenero's words--and I produced his
note.
Both excited surprise and curiosity.
"What can this obstacle--this mysterious obstacle be?" said my mother.
"An obstacle on their side!" exclaimed my father: "is that possible?"
I had now, at least, the pleasure of enjoying their sympathy: and of
hearing them go over all the conjectures by which I had been bewildered. I
observed that the less chance there appeared to be of the match, the more
my father and mother inclined towards it.
"At least," said my mother, "I hope we shall know what the objection is."
"It is very extraordinary, after all, that it should be on their side,"
repeated my father.
My mother's imagination, and my father's pride, were both strongly excited;
and I let them work without interruption.
CHAPTER XVII.
The time appointed for Mr. Montenero's final decision approached. In a few
days my fate was to be decided. The vessel that was to sail for America was
continually before my eyes.
It was more difficult to me to endure the suspense of these few days than
all the rest. My mother's sympathy, and the strong interest which had been
excited on the subject in my father's mind, were at first highly agreeable;
but there was so much more of curiosity and of pride in their feelings than
in mine, that at last it became irksome to me to hear their conjectures and
reflections. I did not like to answer any questions--I could not bear to
speak of Berenice, or even of Mr. Montenero.
I took refuge in silence--my mother reproached me for my silence. I talked
on fast of any thing but that which interested me most.
My mother became extremely alarmed for my health, and I believe with more
reason than usual; for I could scarcely either eat, drink, or sleep, and
was certainly very feverish; but still I walked about, and to escape from
the constraint to which I put myself in her company, to avoid giving her
pain--to relieve myself from her hourly fond inquiries--from the effort of
talking, when I wished to be silent--of appearing well, and in spirits,
when I was ill, and when my heart was dying within me, I escaped from her
presence as much as possible. To feed upon my thoughts in solitude, I
either shut myself up in my room, or walked all day in those streets where
I was not likely to meet with any one who knew me, or whom I knew; and
there I was at least safe from all notice, and secure from all sympathy: I
am sure I experienced at this time the truth of what some one has quaintly
but justly asserted, that an individual can never feel more completely
alone than in the midst of a crowded metropolis.
One evening when I was returning homewards through the city, fatigued, but
still prolonging my walk, that I might not be at home too early for dinner,
I was met and stopped by Jacob: I had not thought of him lately, and when I
looked up in his face, I was surprised by an appearance of great
perturbation. He begged pardon for stopping me, but he had been to my
house--he had been all over the town searching for me, to consult me about
a sad affair, in which he was unfortunately concerned. We were not far from
Manessa's, the jeweller's shop; I went in there with Jacob, as he wished,
he said, that I should hear Mr. Manessa's evidence on the business, as well
as his own. The affair was this: Lady de Brantefield had, some time ago,
brought to Mr. Manessa's some very fine antique jewels, to be re-set for
her daughter, Lady Anne Mowbray. One day, immediately after the riots, both
the ladies called at Mr. Manessa's, to inquire if the jewels were ready.
They were finished; the new setting was approved: but Lady de Brantefield
having suffered great losses by the destruction of her house and furniture
in the riots, and her son, Lord Mowbray, being also in great pecuniary
difficulties, it was suggested by Lady Anne Mowbray, that her mother would
be glad if Mr. Manessa could dispose of some of the jewels, without letting
it be known to whom they had belonged. Mr. Manessa, willing to oblige,
promised secresy, and offered immediately to purchase the jewels himself;
in consequence, the jewels were all spread out upon a little table in the
back parlour--no one present but Jacob, Mr. Manessa, and the two ladies. A
great deal of conversation passed, and the ladies were a long time settling
what trinkets they would part with.
It was very difficult to accommodate at once the personal vanity of the
daughter, the family pride of the mother, and their pecuniary difficulties.
There occurred, in particular, a question about a topaz ring, of
considerable value, but of antique setting, which Lady Anne Mowbray wished
her mother to part with, instead of some more fashionable diamond ornament
that Lady Anne wanted to keep for herself. Lady de Brantefield had,
however, resisted all her daughter's importunities--had talked a vast deal
about the ring--told that it had been Sir Josseline de Mowbray's--that it
had come into his possession by ducal and princely descent--that it was one
of four rings, which had been originally a present from Pope Innocent to
King John, of which rings there was a full description in some old
chronicle [Footnote: Rymer's Foedera.], and in Mr. Hume's History of
England, to which her ladyship referred Mr. Manessa: his curiosity
[Footnote: For the satisfaction of any readers who may have more curiosity
upon the subject than Mr. Manessa had, but yet who would not willingly rise
from their seats to gratify their curiosity, the passage is here given
_gratis_. "Innocent wrote John a mollifying letter, and sent him four
golden rings, set with precious stones; and endeavoured to enhance the
value of the present, by informing him of the many mysteries which were
implied by it. He begged him to consider, seriously, the _form_ of the
rings, their _number_, their _matter_, and their _colour_. Their form, he
said, being round, shadowed out eternity, which has neither beginning nor
end. Their number, four, being a square, denoted steadiness of mind, not to
be subverted either by adversity or prosperity, fixed for ever on the four
cardinal virtues. Gold, which is the matter, signified wisdom. The blue of
the sapphire, faith. The verdure of the emerald, hope. The redness of the
ruby, charity. And splendour of the topaz, good works." "By these
conceits," continued the historian, "Innocent endeavoured to repay John for
one of the most important prerogatives of the crown."], however, was
perfectly satisfied upon the subject, and he was, with all due deference,
willing to take the whole upon her ladyship's word, without presuming to
verify her authorities. While she spoke, she took the ring from her finger,
and put it into Jacob's hand, desiring to know if he could make it fit her
finger better, as it was rather too large. Jacob told her it could be
easily lessened, if her ladyship would leave it for an hour or two with
him. But her ladyship said she could not let Sir Josseline's ring out of
her own sight, it was of such inestimable value. The troublesome affair of
satisfying both the vain daughter and the proud mother being accomplished--
the last bows were made at the door--the carriage drove away, and Manessa
and Jacob thanked Heaven that they had done with these _difficult_
customers. Two hours had scarcely elapsed before a footman came from Lady
de Brantefield with the following note:--
"Lady de Brantefield informs Mr. Manessa that she is in the greatest
anxiety--not finding Sir Josseline de Mowbray's ring on her finger, upon
her return home. Her ladyship now recollects having left it in the hands of
one of Mr. Manessa's shopmen, a young man she believes of the name of
Jacob, the only person except Mr. Manessa, who was in the little parlour,
while her ladyship and Lady Anne Mowbray were there.
"Lady de Brantefield requests that Mr. Manessa will bring the ring
_himself_ to Lady Warbeck's, Hanover-square, where Lady de Brantefield is
at present.
"Lady de Brantefield desires Mr. M. will make _no delay_, as her ladyship
must remain in indescribable anxiety till Sir Josseline's ring shall be
restored. Her ladyship could not answer for such a loss to her family and
posterity.
"_Hanover-square, Tuesday._"
* * * * *
Jacob was perfectly certain that her ladyship had not left the ring with
him; nevertheless he made diligent search for it, and afterwards
accompanied Mr. Manessa to Lady Warbeck's, to assure Lady de Brantefield
that the ring was not in their house. He endeavoured to bring to her
recollection her having put it on her finger just before she got into the
carriage; but this her ladyship would not admit. Lady Anne supported her
mother's assertions; and Lady de Brantefield ended by being haughtily
angry, declaring she would not be contradicted by a shopman, and that she
was positive the ring had never been returned to her. Within eight-and-
forty hours the story was told by Lady de Brantefield and her friends at
every card-table at the polite end of the town, and it was spread by Lady
Anne through the park and the ball-rooms; and the ladies'-maids had
repeated it, with all manner of exaggerations, through their inferior but
not less extensive circles. The consequence was, that the character of Mr.
Manessa's house was hurt, and Jacob, who was the person accused as the
cause of it, was very unhappy. The confidence Mr. Manessa had in him, and
the kindness he showed him, increased his regret. Lady de Brantefield had,
in a high tone, threatened a prosecution for the value of her _inestimable_
ring. This was what both Jacob and Mr. Manessa would have desired--a public
trial, they knew, would bring the truth to light; but her ladyship was
probably discouraged by her legal advisers from a prosecution, so that Mr.
Manessa and Jacob were still left to suffer by the injustice of private
whisperings. Jacob offered to replace, as far as he could, the value of
this ring; but in Lady de Brantefield's opinion nothing could compensate
for its loss. Poor Jacob was in despair. Before I heard this story, I
thought that nothing could have forced my attention from my own affairs;
but I could not be so selfish as to desert or neglect Jacob in his
distress. I went with my mother this evening to see Lady de Brantefield;
her ladyship was still at her relation's, Lady Warbeck's house, where she
had apartments to herself, in which she could receive what company she
pleased. There was to be a ball in the house this evening, but Lady de
Brantefield never mixed in what she called _idle gaieties_; she abhorred a
bustle, as it infringed upon her personal dignity, and did not agree with
her internal persuasion that she was, or ought to be, the first object in
all company. We found her ladyship in her own retired apartment; her eyes
were weak, and the room had so little light in it, that when we first went
in, I could scarcely distinguish any object: I saw, however, a young woman,
who had been reading to her ladyship, rise as we entered, put down her
book, and prepare to retire. My mother stopped her as she was passing, and
turning to me, said, that this was a young person, she was sure, I should
be glad to see, the daughter of an old friend of mine.
I looked, and saw a face which awakened the most painful associations of my
childhood.
"Did not I perceive any likeness?" my mother continued. "But it was so many
years since I had seen poor Fowler, and I was so very young a child, no
wonder I should not in the least recollect."
I had some recollection--if I was not mistaken--I stammered--I stopped. In
fact, I recollected too well to be able to pay the expected compliment.
However, after I had got over the first involuntary shudder, I tried to say
something to relieve the embarrassment which I fancied the girl must feel.
She, in a mincing, waiting-gentlewoman's manner, and with a certain
unnatural softness of voice, which again brought all the mother to my mind,
assured me that if I'd forgot her mother, she had not forgot me; for that
she'd often and often heard her mother talk of me, and she was morally
confident her mother had never loved any child so doatingly, except, to be
sure, her own present lady's, Lady Anne Mowbray. Her mother had often and
often regretted she could never get a sight or sentence of me since I grew
up to be a great gentleman, she always having been stationary down at my
lady's, in Surrey, at the Priory--housekeeper--and I never there; but if
I'd have the condescension to wish to gratify her mother, as it would be
the greatest gratification in life--if Lady de Brantefield--"
"Presently, perhaps--when I ring," said Lady de Brantefield, "and you,
Nancy Fowler, may come back yourself with my treble ruffles: Mrs.
Harrington, I know, will have the goodness to permit. I keep her as much
under my own eye, and suffer her to be as much even in the room with me, as
possible," added Lady de Brantefield, as Nancy left the room; "for she is a
young person quite out of the common line, and her mother i--but you first
recommended her to me, Mrs. Harrington, I remember."
"_The most faithful creature!_" said my mother, in the very tone I had
heard it pronounced twenty years before.
I was carried back so far, so forcibly, and so suddenly, that it was some
time before I could recover myself sufficiently to recollect what was the
order of the day; but no matter--my mother passed on quite easily to the
jewels, and my silence was convenient, and had an air of perfect deference
for Lady de Brantefield's long story of Sir Josseline's ring, now told
over, I believe, for the ninety-ninth time this season. She ended where she
began, with the conviction that, if the secretary of state would, as he
ought, on such an occasion, grant a general search-warrant, as she was
informed had been done for papers, and things of much less value, her ring
would be found in _that_ Jacob's possession--_that_ Jacob, of whom she had
a very bad opinion!
I took the matter up as quietly as was in my nature, and did not begin with
a panegyric on my friend Jacob, but simply asked, what reason her ladyship
had for her very bad opinion of him?
Too good reason, her ladyship emphatically said: she had heard her son,
Lord Mowbray, express a _very_ bad opinion of him.
Lord Mowbray had known this Jacob, she believed, when a boy, and afterwards
when a man at Gibraltar, and had always thought ill of him. Lord Mowbray
had said, that Jacob was avaricious and revengeful; as you know Jews always
are, added her ladyship.
I wondered she had trusted her jewels, then, in such hands.
There, she owned, she had for once been wrong--overruled by others--by her
daughter, Lady Anne, who said the jewels could be more fashionably set at
Manessa's than any where else.
She had never acted against her own judgment in her life, without repenting
of it. Another circumstance, Lady de Brantefield said, prepossessed her,
she owned, against this Jacob; he was from the very dregs of the people;
the son absolutely of an old clothes-man, she had been informed. What
could be expected from such a person, when temptation came in his way? and
could we trust to any thing such a low sort of person would say?
Lady Anne Mowbray, before I had time to answer, entered dressed for the
ball, with her jewels in full blaze, and for some time there was a
suspension of all hope of coming to any thing like common sense. When her
mother appealed to her about Jacob, Lady Anne protested she took a horrid
dislike to his face the moment she saw him; she thought he had a shocking
Jewish sort of countenance, and she was positive he would swear falsely,
because he was ready to swear that her mamma had the ring on her finger
when she got into the carriage--now Lady Anne was clear she had not.
"Has your ladyship," I asked, "any particular reason for remembering this
fact?"
"Oh, yes! several very particular reasons."
There is sometimes wisdom in listening to a fool's reasons; for ten to one
that the reasons will prove the contrary to what they are brought to
support, or will at least bring out some fact, the distant bearing of which
on the point of question the fool does not perceive. But when two fools
pour out their reasons at once, it is difficult to profit even by their
folly. The mother's authority at last obtaining precedency, I heard Lady de
Brantefield's cause of belief, first: her ladyship declared that she never
wore Sir Josseline's ring without putting on after it a _guard ring_, a
ring which, being tighter than Sir Josseline's, kept it safe on her finger.
She remembered drawing off the guard ring when she took off Sir
Josseline's, and put that into Jacob's hands; her ladyship said it was
clear to her mind that she could not have put on Sir Josseline's again,
because here was the guard ring on her _wrong_ finger--a finger on which
she never in her life wore it when she wore Sir Josseline's, for Sir
Josseline's was so loose, it would drop off, unless she had the guard on.
"But was not it possible," I asked, "that your ladyship might this once
have put on Sir Josseline's ring without recollecting the guard?"
No, absolutely impossible: if Jacob and all the Jews upon earth swore it
(who, by-the-bye, would swear any thing), she could not be convinced
against her reason--she knew her own habits--her private reasons to her
were unanswerable.
Lady Anne's private reasons to her were equally unanswerable; but they were
so confused, and delivered with so much volubility, as to be absolutely
unintelligible. All I could gather was, that Fowler and her daughter Nancy
were in the room when Lady Anne and her mother first missed the ring--that
when her mother drew off her glove, and exclaimed, "Bless me, Sir
Josseline's not here!" Lady Anne ran up to the dressing-table, at which her
mother was standing, to try to find the ring, thinking that her mother
might have dropped it in drawing off her glove; "but it certainly was not
drawn off with the glove."
"But might not it be left in the glove?" I asked.
"Oh! dear, no: I shook the glove myself, and Fowler turned every finger
inside out, and Nancy moved every individual box upon the dressing-table.
We were all in such a fuss, because you know mamma's so particular about
Sir Josseline; and to tell you the truth, I was uncommonly anxious, because
I knew if mamma was vexed and lost the ring, she would not give me a
certain diamond cross, that makes me so particularly remember every
circumstance--and I was in such a flurry, that I know I threw down a bottle
of aether that was on mamma's toilette, on her muff--and it had such a
horrid smell!"
The muff! I asked if the muff, as well as the glove, had been searched
carefully.
"La! to be sure--I suppose so--of course it was shaken, as every thing else
in the room was, a hundred times over: the toilette and mamma's petticoats
even, and cloak, and gloves, as I told you."
"Yes, but the muff, did your ladyship examine it yourself?"
"Did I examine it? I don't recollect. No, indeed, after the aether, how
could I touch it? you know: but of course it was shaken, it was examined, I
am sure; but really I know nothing about it--but this, that it could not
possibly be in it, the ring, I mean, because mamma had her glove on."
I requested permission to see the muff.
"Oh, mamma was forced to give it away because of the horrid smell--she bid
Fowler take it out of the room that minute, and never let it come near her
again; but if you want to see it, ring for Fowler: you can examine it as
much as you please; depend upon it the ring's no more there than I am--send
for Fowler and Nancy, and they can tell you how we shook every thing to no
purpose. The ring's gone, and so am I, for Colonel Topham's waiting, and I
must lead off." And away her ladyship tripped, flirting her perfumed fan
as she went. Persisting in my wish to see the muff, Lady de Brantefield
desired me to ring for Fowler.
Her ladyship wondered, she said, how I could, after the reasons she had
given me for her being morally certain that she had left the ring with
Jacob, and after Lady Anne had justly remarked that the ring could not get
through her glove, entertain a hope of finding it in such a ridiculous
place as a muff. But since I was so possessed with this idea, the muff
should be produced--there was nothing like ocular demonstration in these
cases, except internal conviction: "Did you ring, Mr. Harrington?"
"I did."
And Miss Nancy with the treble ruffles in her hand now appeared.
"'Tis your mother, child, I want," said Lady de Brantefield.
"Yes, my lady, she is only just finished assisting to lay out the ball
supper."
"But I want her--directly."
"Certainly, my lady, directly."
"And bid her bring--" A whisper from me to my mother, and from my mother
to her ladyship, failed of effect: after turning half round, as if to ask
me what I said--a look which did not pass unnoticed by Miss Nancy--her
ladyship finished her sentence--"And tell Fowler I desire she will bring me
the muff that I gave her last week--the day I lost my ring."
This message would immediately put Fowler upon her guard, and I was at
first sorry that it had been so worded; but I recollected having heard an
eminent judge, a man of great abilities and experience, say, that if he
were called upon to form a judgment of any character, or to discover the
truth in any case, he would rather that the persons whom he was to examine
were previously put on their guard, than that they were not; for that he
should know, by what they guarded, of what they were afraid.
Fowler appeared--twenty years had so changed her face and figure, that the
sight of her did not immediately shock me as I feared it would. The
daughter, who, I suppose, more nearly resembled what her mother had been at
the time I had known her, was, of the two, the most disagreeable to my
sight and feelings. Fowler's voice was altered by the loss of a tooth, and
it was even by this change less odious to my ear. The daughter's voice I
could scarcely endure. I was somewhat relieved from the fear of being
prejudiced against Fowler by the perception of this change in her; and
while she was paying me her compliments, I endeavoured to fortify the
resolution I had made to judge of her with perfect impartiality. Her
delight at seeing me, however, I could not believe to be sincere; and the
reiterated repetition of her sorrow for her never having been able to get a
sight of me before, I thought ill-judged: but no matter; many people in
her station make these sort of unmeaning speeches. If I had suffered my
imagination to act, I should have fancied that under a sort of prepared
composure there was constraint and alarm in her look as she spoke to me. I
thought she trembled; but I resolved not to be prejudiced--and this I
repeated to myself many times.
"Well, Fowler, but the muff," said Lady de Brantefield.
"The muff--oh! dear, my lady, I'm so sorry I can't have it for you--it's
not in the house nowhere--I parted with it out of hand directly upon your
saying, my lady, that you desired it might never be suffered to come nigh
your ladyship again. Then, says I to myself, since my lady can't abide the
smell, I can't never wear it, which it would have been my pride to do; so I
thought I could never get it fast enough out of the house."
"And what did you do with it?"
"I made a present of it, my lady, to poor Mrs. Baxter, John Dutton's
sister, my lady, who was always so much attached to the family, and would
have a regard for even the smallest relic, vestige, or vestment, I knew,
above all things in nature, poor old soul!--she has, what with the
rheumatic pains, and one thing or another, lost the use of her right arm,
so it was particularly agreeable and appropriate--and she kissed the muff--
oh! my lady, I'm sure I only wish your ladyship could have witnessed the
poor soul's veneration."
In reply to a question which made my mother ask about the "poor soul," I
further learned that Mrs. Baxter was wife to a pawnbroker in Swallow-
street. Fowler added, "If my lady wished any way for the muff, I can get it
to-morrow morning by breakfast, or by the time _you's up_, my lady."
"Very well, very well, that will do, I suppose, will it not, Mr.
Harrington?"
I bowed, and said not a word more--Fowler, I saw, was glad to get rid of
the subject, and to go on to the treble ruffles, on which while she and my
mother and Lady de Brantefield were descanting, I made my exit, and went to
the ball-room.
I found Lady Anne Mowbray--talked nonsense to her ladyship for a quarter of
an hour--and at last, _a propos _to her perfumed fan, I brought in the old
muff with the horrid smell, on purpose to obtain a full description of it.
She told me that it was a gray fox-skin, lined with scarlet; that it had
great pompadour-coloured knots at each end, and that it was altogether
hideous. Lady Anne declared that she was heartily glad it would never shock
her eyes more.
It was now just nine o'clock; people then kept better hours than they do at
present; I was afraid that all the shops would be shut; but I recollected
that pawnbrokers' shops were usually kept open late. I lost no time in
pursuing my object.
I took a hackney coach, bribed the coachman to drive very fast to Mr.
Manessa--found Manessa and Jacob going to bed sleepy--but at sight of me
Jacob was alert in an instant, and joyfully ready to go with me immediately
to Baxter, the pawnbroker's.
I made Jacob furnish me with an old surtout and slouched hat, desiring to
look as shabby as possible, that the pawnbroker might take me for one of
his usual nightly customers, and might not be alarmed at the sight of a
gentleman.
"That won't do yet, Mr. Harrington," said Jacob, when I had equipped myself
in the old hat and coat. "Mr. Baxter will see the look of a gentleman
through all that. It is not the shabby coat that will make the gentleman
look shabby, no more than the fine coat can ever make _the shabby_ look
like the gentleman. The pawnbroker, who is used to observe and find out all
manner of people, will know that as well as I--but now you shall see how
well at one stroke I will disguise the gentleman."
Jacob then twisted a dirty silk handkerchief round my throat, and this did
the business so completely, that I defied the pawnbroker and all his
penetration.
We drove as fast as we could to Swallow-street--dismissed our hackney
coach, and walked up to the pawnbroker's.
Light in the shop!--all alive!--and business going on. The shop was so
full of people, that we stood for some minutes unnoticed.
We had leisure to look about us, as we had previously agreed to do, for
Lady De Brantefield's muff.
I had a suspicion that, notwithstanding the veneration with which it had
been said to be treated, it might have come to the common lot of cast
clothes.
Jacob at one side, and I at the other, took a careful survey of the
multifarious contents of the shop; of all that hung from the ceiling; and
all that was piled on the shelves; and all that lay huddled in corners, or
crammed into dark recesses.
In one of the darkest and most ignominious of these, beneath a heap of
sailors' old jackets and trowsers, I espied a knot of pompadour riband. I
hooked it out a little with the stick I had in my hand; but Jacob stopped
me, and called to the shopboy, who now had his eye upon us, and with him we
began to bargain hard for some of the old clothes that lay upon the muff.
The shopboy lifted them up to display their merits, by the dimness of the
candle-light, and, as he raised them up, there appeared beneath the gray
fox-skin with its scarlet lining and pompadour knots, the Lady de
Brantefield's much venerated muff.
I could scarcely refrain from seizing upon it that moment, but Jacob again
restrained me.
He went on talking about the sailors' jackets, for which we had been in
treaty; and he insisted upon having the old muff into the bargain. It
actually was at last thrown in as a makeweight. Had she been witness to
this bargain, I believe Lady De Brantefield would have dropped down in a
swoon.
The moment I got possession of it, I turned it inside out.--There were
several small rents in the lining--but one in particular had obviously been
cut open with scissars. The shopboy, who thought I was pointing out the
rents to disparage my purchase, assured me that any woman, clever at her
needle, would with half-a-dozen stitches sew all up, and make the muff as
good again as new. Jacob desired the boy to show him some old seals, rings,
and trinkets, fit for a pedlar to carry into the country; Jacob was, for
this purpose, sent to the most respectable place at the counter, and
promoted to the honour of dealing face to face with Mr. Baxter himself:--
drawers, which had before been invisible, were now produced; and I stood by
while Jacob looked over all the new and old trinkets. I was much surprised
by the richness and value of various brooches, picture settings, watches,
and rings, which had come to this fate: at last, in a drawer with many
valuables, which Mr. Baxter told us that some great man's mistress had,
last week, been obliged to leave with him, Jacob and I, at the same
moment, saw "_the splendour of the topaz_"--Lady de Brantefield's
inestimable ring! I must do myself the justice to say that I behaved
incomparably well--did not make a single exclamation, though I was sure it
was the identical ring, the moment I caught a glimpse of the topaz--and
though a glance from Jacob convinced me I was right. I said I could wait no
longer, but would call again for him in half an hour's time. This was what
we had agreed upon beforehand should be the signal for my summoning a
Bow-street officer, whom Mr. Manessa had in readiness. Jacob identified
and swore to the property--Mr. Baxter was seized. He protested he did not
know the ring was _stolen goods_--he could not recollect who had sold it to
him; but when we mentioned Fowler's name, he grew pale, was disconcerted,
and not knowing how much or how little we knew, decided at once to get out
of the scrape himself by giving her up, and turning evidence against her.
He stated that she had found it in the old muff, but that he never knew
That this muff had belonged to Lady de Brantefield. Mrs. Fowler had assured
Him that it had been left to her along with the wardrobe of a lady with
Whom she had formerly lived.
As soon as Baxter had told all the lies he chose to invent, and confessed
as much of the truth as he thought would serve his purpose, his deposition
was taken and sworn to. This was all that could then be done, as it was
near twelve o'clock.
Poor Jacob's joy at having his innocence proved, and at being relieved from
the fear of injuring the credit of his master's house, raised his spirits
higher than I ever saw them in my life before. But still his joy and
gratitude were more shown by looks than words. He thanked me once, and but
once, warmly and strongly.
"Ah! Mr. Harrington," said he, "from the time you were _Master_ Harrington
at school, you were my best friend--always my friend in most need--I
trusted in you, and still I hoped!--hoped that the truth would stand, and
the lie fall. See at last our Hebrew proverb right--'_A lie has no feet._'"
CHAPTER XVIII.
The next morning, before I left my room to go down to breakfast, my
servant told me that Lady de Brantefield's housekeeper, Mrs. Fowler, begged
to speak to me--she had been come some time. I went into my mother's
dressing-room, where she was waiting alone. I could not bear to fix my eyes
upon her; I advanced towards her, wishing, as I believe I said aloud, that
she had spared me the pain of this interview. I waited in silence for her
to speak, but she did not say a word--I heard the unhappy woman sobbing
violently. Suddenly she took her handkerchief from before her face, and her
sobs ceasing, she exclaimed, "I know you hate me, Mr. Harrington, and you
have reason to hate me--more--much more than you know of! But Lord Mowbray
is the most to blame."
I stood in astonishment. I conceived either that the woman was out of her
senses, or that she had formed the not unprecedented design of affecting
insanity, in hope of escaping the punishment of guilt: she threw herself at
my feet--she would have clasped my knees, but I started back from her
insufferable touch; provoked by this, she exclaimed, in a threatening tone,
"Take care, sir!--The secret is still in my power."
Then observing, I believe, that her threat made no impression, her tone
changed again to the whine of supplication.
"Oh, Mr. Harrington, if I could hope for your forgiveness, I could reveal
such a secret--a secret that so concerns you!"
I retreated, saying that I would not hear any secret from her. But I
stopped, and was fixed to the spot, when she added, under her breath, the
name of Montenero. Then, in a hypocritical voice, she went on--"Oh, Mr.
Harrington!--Oh, sir, I have, been a great sinner! led on--led on by them
that was worse than myself; but if you will plead for me with my lady, and
prevail upon her not to bring me to public shame about this unfortunate
affair of the ring, I will confess all to you--I will throw myself on your
mercy. I will quit the country if you will prevail on my lady--to let my
daughter's marriage go on, and not to turn her out of favour."
I refused to make any terms; but my mother, whose curiosity could refrain
no longer, burst into the room; and to her Fowler did not plead in vain.
Shocked as she was with the detection of this woman's fraud, my mother was
so eager to learn the secret concerning me, that she promised to obtain a
pardon from Lady de Brantefield for the delinquent, if she would
immediately communicate the secret. I left the room.
I met my father with letters and newspapers in his hand. He looked in
consternation, and beckoned to me to follow him into his own room.
"I was just going in search of you, Harrington," said he: "here's a devil
of a stroke for your mother's friend, Lady de Brantefield."
"The loss of her jewels, do you mean, sir?" said I: "they are found."
"Jewels!" said my father; "I don't know what you are talking of."
"I don't know then what you mean, sir," said I.
"No, to be sure you do not, how could you? for the news is but this instant
come--in this letter which I was carrying to you--which is addressed to
you, as I found, when I got to the middle of it. I beg your pardon for
opening it. Stay, stay--this is not the right letter."
My father seemed much hurried, and looked over his parcel of letters, while
he went on, saying, "This is directed to William Harrington, instead of
William Harrington Harrington. Never mind about that now, only I don't like
to open letters that don't belong to me--here it is--run your eye over it
as fast as you can, and tell me--for I stopped, as soon as I saw it was not
to me--tell me how it is with Mowbray--I never liked the fellow, nor his
mother either; but one can't help pitying--and being shocked--shocked
indeed I was, the moment I read the letter."
The letter, which appeared to have been written in great perturbation, and
at two or three different times, with different inks, was from a brother
officer of Lord Mowbray's. It began in a tolerably composed and legible
hand, with an account of a duel, in which the writer of the letter said
that he had been second to Lord Mowbray. His lordship had been wounded, but
it was hoped he would do well. Then came the particulars of the duel, which
the second stated, of course, as advantageously for himself and his
principal as he could; but even by his own statement it appeared that Lord
Mowbray had been the aggressor; that he had been intemperate; and, in
short, entirely in the wrong: the person with whom he fought was a young
officer, who had been his schoolfellow: the dispute had begun about some
trivial old school quarrel, on the most nonsensical subject; something
about a Jew boy of the name of Jacob, and a pencil-case; the young
gentleman had appealed to the evidence of Mr. Harrington, whom he had
lately met on a fishing-party, and who, he said, had a perfect recollection
of the circumstance. Lord Mowbray grew angry; and in the heat of
contradiction, which, as his second said, his lordship could never bear, he
gave his opponent the lie direct. A duel was the necessary consequence.
Lord Mowbray insisted on their firing across the table: his opponent was
compelled to it. They fired, as it was agreed, at the same instant: Lord
Mowbray fell. So far was written while the surgeon was with his patient.
Afterwards, the letter went on in a more confused manner. The surgeon
begged that Lord Mowbray's friends might be informed, to prepare them for
the event; but still there were hopes. Lord Mowbray had begun to write a
letter to Mr. Harrington, but could not go on--had torn it to bits--and had
desired the writer of the present letter to say, "that he could not go out
of the world easy, without his forgiveness--to refer him to a woman of the
name of Fowler, for explanation--a waiting-maid--a housekeeper now, in his
mother's family. Lord Mowbray assured Mr. Harrington, that he did not mean
to have carried the _jest_ (the word _jest_ scratched out), the thing
farther than to show him his power to break off matters, if he pleased--but
he now repented."
This dictated part of the letter was so confused, and so much like the
delirium of a man in a fever, that I should certainly have concluded it to
be without real meaning, had it not coincided with the words which Fowler
had said to me. On turning over the page I saw a postscript--Lord Mowbray,
at two o'clock that morning, had expired. His brother officer gave no
particulars, and expressed little regret, but begged me to represent the
affair properly; and added something about the lieutenant-colonelcy, which
was blotted so much, either purposely or accidentally, that I could not
read it.
My father, who was a truly humane man, was excessively shocked by the
letter; and at first, so much engrossed by the account of the manner of the
young man's death, and by the idea of the shock and distress of the mother
and sister, that he scarcely adverted to the unintelligible messages to me.
He observed, indeed, that the writer of the letter seemed to be a fool, and
to have very little feeling. We agreed that my mother was the fittest
person to break the matter to poor Lady de Brantefield. If my mother should
not feel herself equal to the task, my father said he would undertake it
himself, though he had rather have a tooth pulled out than go through it.
We went together to my mother. We found her in hysterics, and Fowler beside
her; my mother, the moment she saw us, recovered some recollection, and
pushing Fowler from her with both her hands, she cried, "Take her away--out
of my sight--out of my sight." I took the hartshorn from Fowler, and bid
her leave the room; ordering her, at her peril, not to leave the house.
"Why did you tell Mrs. Harrington so suddenly, Mrs. Fowler?" my father
began, supposing that my mother's hysterics were the consequence of having
been told, too suddenly, the news of Lord Mowbray's death.
"I did not tell her, sir; I never uttered a sentence of his lordship's
_death_."
In her confusion, the woman betrayed her knowledge of the circumstance,
though on her first speaking to me she had not mentioned it. While I
assisted and soothed my mother, I heard my father questioning her. "She
heard the news that morning, early, in a letter from Lord Mowbray's
gentleman--had not yet had the heart to mention it to her lady--believed
she had given a hint of it to Lady Anne--was indeed so flurried, and still
was so flurried--"
My father, perceiving that Fowler did not know what she was saying,
good-naturedly attributed her confusion to her sorrow for her ladies; and
did not wonder, he said, she was flurried: he was not nervous, but it had
given him a shock. "Sit down, poor Fowler."
The words caught my mother's ear, who had now recovered her recollection
completely; and with an effort, which I had never before seen her make, to
command her own feelings--an effort, for which I thank her, as I knew it
arose from her strong affection for me, she calmly said, "I will bear that
woman--that fiend, in my sight, a few minutes longer, for your sake,
Harrington, till her confession be put in writing and signed: this will, I
suppose, be necessary."
"I desire to know, directly, what all this means?" said my father, speaking
in a certain repressed tone, which we and which Fowler knew to be the
symptom of his being on the point of breaking out into violent anger.
"Oh! sir," said Fowler, "I have been a very sad sinner; but indeed I was
not so much to blame as them that knew better, and ought to know better--
that bribed and deceived me, and lured me by promises to do that--to say
that--but indeed I was made to believe it was all to end in no harm--only a
jest."
"A jest! Oh, wretch!" cried my mother.
"I was a wretch, indeed, ma'am; but Lord Mowbray was, you'll allow, the
wickedest."
"And at the moment he is dead," said my father, "is this a time--"
Fowler, terrified to her inmost coward soul at the sight of the powerful
indignation which appeared in my father's eyes, made an attempt to throw
herself at his feet, but he caught strong hold of her arm.
"Tell me the plain fact at once, woman."
Now she literally could not speak; she knew my father was violent, and
dreaded lest what she had to say should incense him beyond all bounds.
My mother rose, and said that she would tell the plain fact.
Fowler, still more afraid that my mother should tell it--as she thought, I
suppose, she could soften it best herself--interposed, saying, "Sir, if you
will give me a moment's time for recollection, sir, I will tell all. Dear
sir, if one had committed murder, and was going to be put to death, one
should have that much mercy shown--hard to be condemned unheard."
My father let go her arm from his strong grasp, and sat down, resolved to
be patient. It was just, he said, that she, that every human creature
should be heard before they were condemned.
When she came to the facts, I was so much interested that I cannot
recollect the exact words in which the account was given; but this was the
substance. Lord Mowbray, when refused by Miss Montenero, had sworn that he
would he revenged on her and on me. Indeed, from our first acquaintance
with her, he had secretly determined to supplant me; and a circumstance
soon occurred which served to suggest the means. He had once heard Miss
Montenero express strongly her terror at seeing an insane person--her
horror at the idea of a marriage which a young friend of hers had made with
a man who was subject to fits of insanity. Upon this hint Mowbray set to
work.
Before he opened his scheme to Fowler, he found how he could bribe her, as
he thought, effectually, and secure her secrecy by making her an
accomplice. Fowler had a mind to marry her daughter to a certain
apothecary, who, though many years older than the girl, and quite old
enough to be her father, was rich, and would raise her to be a lady. This
apothecary lived in a country town near the Priory; the house, and ground
belonging to it, which the apothecary rented, was on her ladyship's estate,
and would be the inheritance of Lord Mowbray. He promised that he would
renew this lease to her future son-in-law, provided she and the apothecary
continued to preserve his good opinion. His lordship had often questioned
Fowler as to the strange nervous fits I had had when a boy. He had repeated
all he had heard reported; and certainly exaggerated stories in abundance
had, at the time, been circulated. Lord Mowbray affirmed that most people
were of opinion it was _insanity_. Fowler admitted that was always her own
opinion--Lord Mowbray supposed that was the secret reason for her quitting
my mother's service--it certainly was, though she was too delicate, and
afraid at the time, to mention it. By degrees he worked Fowler partly to
acquiesce in all he asserted, and to assert all he insinuated. The
apothecary had been an apprentice to the London apothecary who attended me;
he had seen me often at the time I was at the _worst_; he had heard the
reports too, and he had heard opinions of medical men, and he was brought
to assert whatever his future mother-in-law pleased, for he was much in
love with the young girl. This combination was formed about the period when
I first became attached to Miss Montenero: the last stroke had been given
at the time when Mr. Montenero and Berenice were at General B----'s, in
Surrey. The general's house was within a few miles of the country town in
which the said apothecary lived; it was ten or twelve miles from the
Priory, where Fowler was left, at that time, to take care of the place. The
apothecary usually attended the chief families in the neighbourhood, and
was recommended to General B----'s family. Miss Montenero had a slight sore
throat, and no physician being near, this apothecary was sent for; he made
use of this opportunity, spoke of the friends he had formerly had in
London, in particular of Mr. Harrington's family, for whom he expressed
much gratitude and attachment; inquired anxiously and mysteriously about
young Mr. Harrington's state of health. One day Miss Montenero and her
father called at this apothecary's, to see some curious things that had
been found in a Roman bath, just dug up in the county of Surrey. Fowler,
who had been apprised of the intended visit, was found in the little
parlour behind the shop talking to the apothecary about poor young Mr.
Harrington. While Mr. and Miss Montenero were looking at the Roman
curiosities, Fowler contrived, in half sentences, to let out what she
wished to be overheard about _that_ poor young gentleman's _strange fits_;
and she questioned the apothecary whether they had come on ever _very_
lately, and hoped that for the family's sake, as well as his own, it would
never break out publicly. All which observations and questions the
apothecary seemed discreetly and mysteriously to evade answering. Fowler
confessed that she could not get out on this occasion the whole of what she
had been instructed to say, because Miss Montenero grew so pale, they
thought she would have dropped on the floor.
The apothecary pretended to think the young lady had been made sick by the
smell of the shop. It passed off--nothing more was done at that time. Mr.
Montenero, before he left the house, made inquiries who Fowler was--
learned that she had been, for many years, a servant in the Harrington
family,--children's maid. Her evidence, and that of the apothecary who had
attended me in my _extraordinary illness_, agreed; and there seemed no
reason to suspect its truth. Mr. and Miss Montenero went with a party from
General B----'s to see Brantefield Priory. Fowler attended the company
through the house: Mr. Montenero took occasion to question her most
minutely--asked, in particular, about a tapestry room--a picture of Sir
Josseline and the Jew--received such answers as Lord Mowbray had prepared
Fowler to give: so artfully had he managed, that his interference could not
be suspected. Fowler pretended to know scarcely any thing of her young
lord--she had always lived here at the Priory--his lordship had been
abroad--was in the army--always _on the move_--did not know where he was
now--probably in town: her present ladies had her good word--but her
heart, she confessed, was always with her first mistress, Mrs. Harrington,
and poor Master Harrington--_never to be mentioned without a sigh_--that
was noted in her instructions. All that I or Mowbray had mentioned before
Mr. Montenero of my aversion to Fowler, now appeared to be but the dislike
which an insane person is apt to take against those about them, even to
those who treat them most kindly. Fowler was a good actress, and she was
well prompted--she produced, in her own justification, instructions, in
unsigned letters of Lord Mowbray's. I knew his hand, however disguised. She
was directed to take particular care not to go too far--to let things be
_drawn_ from her--to refuse to give further information lest she should do
mischief. When assured that the Monteneros were friends, then to tell
_circumstances agreed upon_--to end with a promise to produce a _keeper_
who had attended the poor gentleman not long since, who could satisfy all
doubts. Lord Mowbray noted that this must be promised to be done within the
ensuing month--something about a ship's sailing for America was scratched
out in these last instructions.
I have calmly related the facts, but I cannot give an idea of the
transports of passion into which my father burst when he heard them. It was
with the utmost difficulty that we could restrain him till the woman had
finished her confession. Lord Mowbray was dead. His death--his penitence--
pity for his family, quenched my father's rage against Mowbray; all his
fury rose with tenfold violence against Fowler. It was with the greatest
difficulty that I got her out of the room in safety:--he followed, raging;
and my mother, seeing me put Fowler into a parlour, and turn the key in the
door, began beseeching that I would not keep her another instant in the
house. I insisted, however, upon being permitted to detain her till her
confession should be put into writing, or till Mr. Montenero could hear it
from her own lips: I represented that if once she quitted the house, we
might never see her again; she might make her escape out of town; might,
for some new interest, deny all she had said, and leave me in as great
difficulties as ever.
My father, sudden in all his emotions, snatched his hat from the hall-
table, seized his cane, and declared he would that instant go and settle
the point at once with Mr. Montenero and the daughter. My mother and I, one
on each side of him, pleaded that it would be best not to speak so suddenly
as he proposed to do, especially to Berenice. Heaven bless my mother! she
called her _Berenice_: this did not escape my ear. My father let us take
off his hat, and carry away his cane. He sat down and wrote directly to Mr.
Montenero, requesting to see him immediately, on particular business.
My mother's carriage was at the door; it was by this time the hour for
visiting.
"I will bring Mr. Montenero back with me," said my mother, "for I am going
to pay a visit I should have paid long ago--to Miss Montenero."
I kissed my mother's hand I don't know how many times, till my father told
me I was a _fool_.
"But," turning to me, when the carriage had driven off, "though I am
delighted that the _obstacle_ will be removed on their part, yet remember,
Harrington, I can go no farther--not an inch--not an inch: sorry for it--
but you know all I have said--by Jupiter Ammon, I cannot eat my own words!"
"But you ought to eat your own words, sir," said I, venturing to jest, as I
knew that I might in his present humour, and while his heart was warmed;
"your words were a libel upon Jews and Jewesses; and the most appropriate
and approved punishment invented for the libeller is--to eat his own
words."
CHAPTER XIX.
My mother returned almost as quickly as my impatience expected, and from
afar I saw that Mr. Montenero was in the carriage with her. My heart did
certainly beat violently; but I must not stop to describe, if I could, my
various sensations. My mother, telling Mr. Montenero all the time that she
would tell him nothing, had told him every thing that was to be told: I was
glad of it--it spared me the task of detailing Lord Mowbray's villany. He
had once been my friend, or at least I had once been his--and just after
his death it was a painful subject. Besides, on my own account, I was
heartily glad to leave it to my father to complete what my mother had so
well begun.
He spoke with great vehemence. I stood by, proud all the time to show Mr.
Montenero my calmness and self-possession; while Fowler, who was under
salutary terror of my father, repeated, without much prevarication, all the
material parts of her confession, and gave up to him Lord Mowbray's
letters. Astonishment and horror at the discovery of such villany were Mr.
Montenero's first feelings--he looked at Lord Mowbray's writing again and
again, and shuddered in silence, as he cast his eyes upon Fowler's guilty
countenance. We all were glad when she was dismissed.
Mr. Montenero turned to me, and I saw tears in his eyes.
"There is no obstacle between us now, I hope," said I, eagerly seizing the
hand which he held out to me.
Mr. Montenero pressed me in his arms, with the affection of a parent.
"Heyday! heyday!" said my father, in a tone between pleasure and anger,--
"do you at all know what you are about, Harrington?--remember!"
"Oh! Mr. Montenero," said my mother, "speak, for Heaven's sake, and tell me
that you are perfectly convinced that there was no shadow of truth."
"Nonsense! my dear, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Harrington," said my father,--
"to be sure he is convinced, he is not an idiot--all my astonishment is,
how he could ever be made to believe such a thing!"
Mr. Montenero answered my mother and my father alternately, assuring my
mother that he was quite convinced, and agreeing with my father that he had
been strangely imposed upon. He turned again to me, and I believe at the
same instant the same recollections occurred to us both--new light seemed
to break upon us, and we saw in a different point of view a variety of past
circumstances. Almost from the moment of my acquaintance with Berenice, I
could trace Lord Mowbray's artifices. Even from the time of our first going
out together at Westminster Abbey, when Mr. Montenero said he loved
enthusiasm, how Mowbray encouraged, excited me to follow that line. At the
Tower, my kneeling in raptures to the figure of the Black Prince--my
exaggerated expressions of enthusiasm--my poetic and dramatic declamation
and gesture--my start of horror at Mowbray's allusion to the _tapestry-
chamber_ and the picture of Sir Josseline--my horror afterwards at the
auction, where Mowbray had prepared for me the sight of the picture of the
Dentition of the Jew--and the appearance of the figure with the terrible
eyes at the synagogue; all, I now found, had been contrived or promoted by
Lord Mowbray: Fowler had dressed up the figure for the purpose. They had
taken the utmost pains to work on my imagination on this particular point,
on which he knew my early associations might betray me to symptoms of
apparent insanity. Upon comparing and explaining these circumstances, Mr.
Montenero further laid open to me the treacherous ingenuity of the man who
had so duped me by the show of sympathy and friendship. By dexterous
insinuations he had first excited curiosity--then suggested suspicions,
worked every accidental circumstance to his purpose, and at last, rendered
desperate by despair, and determined that I should not win the prize which
he had been compelled to resign, had employed so boldly his means and
accomplices, that he was dreadfully near effecting my ruin.
While Mr. Montenero and I ran over all these circumstances, understanding
each other perfectly, but scarcely intelligible to either my father or
mother, they looked at us both with impatience and surprise, and rejoiced
when we had finished our explanations--and yet, when we had finished, an
embarrassing minute of silence ensued.
My mother broke it, by saying something about Miss Montenero. I do not know
what--nor did she. My father stood with a sort of bravadoing look of
firmness, fixing himself opposite to me, as though he were repeating to
himself, "If, sir!--If--By Jupiter Ammon! I must be consistent."
Mr. Montenero appeared determined not to say any more, but something seemed
to be still in reserve in his mind.
"I hope, Mr. Montenero," said I, "that now no obstacle exists."
"On my part none," replied Mr. Montenero; "but you recollect--"
"I recollect only your own words, my dear sir," cried I. "'either my
daughter and you must never meet again, or must meet to part no more'--I
claim your promise."
"At all hazards?" said Mr. Montenero.
"No hazards with such a woman as Berenice," said I, "though her
religion--"
"I would give," exclaimed my father, "I would give one of my fingers this
instant, that she was not a Jewess!"
"Is your objection, sir, to her not being a Christian, or to her being the
daughter of a Jew?"
"Can you conceive, Mr. Montenero," cried my father, "that after all I have
seen of you--all you have done for me--can you conceive me to be such an
obstinately prejudiced brute? My r prejudices against the Jews I give up--
you have conquered them--all, all. But a difference of religion between man
and wife--"
"Is a very serious objection indeed," said Mr. Montenero; "but if that be
the only objection left in your mind, I have the pleasure to tell you, Mr.
Harrington," addressing himself to me, "that your love and duty are not at
variance: I have tried you to the utmost, and am satisfied both of the
steadiness of your principles and of the strength of your attachment to my
daughter--Berenice is not a Jewess."
"Not a Jewess!" cried my father, starting from his spat: "Not a Jewess!
Then my Jupiter Ammon may go to the devil! Not a Jewess!--give you joy,
Harrington, my boy!--give me joy, my dear Mrs. Harrington--give me joy,
excellent--(_Jew_, he was on the point of saying) excellent Mr.
Montenero; but, is not she your daughter?"
"She is, I hope and believe, my daughter," said Mr. Montenero smiling; "but
her mother was a Christian; and according to my promise to Mrs. Montenero,
Berenice has been bred in her faith--a Christian--a Protestant."
"A Christian! a Protestant!" repeated my father.
"An English Protestant: her mother was daughter of--"
"An English Protestant!" interrupted my father, "English! English! Do you
hear that, Mrs. Harrington?"
"Thank Heaven! I do hear it, my dear," said my mother. "But, Mr. Montenero,
we interrupt--daughter of--?"
"Daughter of an English gentleman, of good family, who accompanied one of
your ambassadors to Spain."
"Of good family, Mr. Harrington," said my mother, raising her head proudly
as she looked at me with a radiant countenance: "I knew she was of a good
family from the first moment I saw her at the play--so different from the
people she was with--even Lady de Brantefield asked who she was. From the
first moment I thought--"
"You thought, Mrs. Harrington," interposed my father, "you thought, to be
sure, that Miss Montenero _looked like a Christian_. Yes, yes; and no doubt
you had _presentiments_ plenty."
"Granted, granted, my dear; but don't let us say any more about them now."
"Well, my boy! well, Harrington! not a word?"
"No--I am too happy!--the delight I feel--But, my dear Mr. Montenero," said
I, "why--_why_ did not you tell all this sooner? What pain you would have
spared me!"
"Had I spared you the pain, you would never have enjoyed the delight; had I
spared you the trial, you would never have had the triumph--the triumph,
did I say? Better than all triumph, this sober certainty of your own
integrity. If, like Lord Mowbray--but peace be to the dead! and forgiveness
to his faults. My daughter was determined never to marry any man who could
be induced to sacrifice religion and principle to interest or to passion.
She was equally determined never to marry any man whose want of the spirit
of toleration, whose prejudices against the Jews, might interfere with the
filial affection she feels for her father--though he be a Jew."
"_Though_"--Gratitude, joy, love, so overwhelmed me at this moment, that I
could not say another syllable; but it was enough for Mr. Montenero, deeply
read as he was in the human heart.
"Why did not I spare you the pain?" repeated he. "And do you think that the
trial cost _me_, cost _us_ no pain?" said Mr. Montenero. "The time may come
when, as my son, you may perhaps learn from Berenice--"
"The time is come!--this moment!" cried my father; "for you see the poor
fellow is burning with impatience--he would not be my son if he were not."
"That is true, indeed!" said my mother.
"True--very likely," said Mr. Montenero, calmly holding me fast. "But,
impetuous sir, recollect that once before you were too sudden for Berenice:
after you had saved my life, you rushed in with the joyful news, and--"
"Oh! no rushing, for mercy's sake, Harrington!" said my mother: "some
consideration for Miss Montenero's nerves!"
"Nerves! nonsense, my dear," said my father: "what woman's nerves were ever
the worse for seeing her lover at her feet? I move--and I am sure of one
honourable gentleman to second my motion--I move that we all adjourn,
forthwith, to Mr. Montenero's."
"This evening, perhaps, Miss Montenero would allow us," said my mother.
"This instant," said Mr. Montenero, "if you will do me the honour, Mrs.
Harrington."
"The carriage," said my mother, ringing.
"The carriage, directly," cried my father to the servant as he entered.
"Here's a fellow will certainly fly the moment you let him go," said my
father.
And away I flew, with such swiftness, that at the foot of the stairs I
almost fell over Jacob. He, not knowing any thing of what had happened this
morning, full of the events of the preceding night, and expecting to find
me the same, began to say something about a ring which he held in his hand.
"That's all settled--all over--let me pass, good Jacob."
Still he endeavoured to stop me. I was not pleased with this interruption.
But there was something so beseeching and so kind in Jacob's manner that I
could not help attending to him. Had the poor fellow known the cause of my
impatience, he would mot certainly have detained me. He begged me, with
some hesitation, to accept of a ring, which Mr. Manessa his partner and he
took the liberty of offering me as a token of their gratitude. It was not
of any great value, but it was finished by an artist who was supposed to be
one of the best in the world.
"Willingly, Jacob," said I; "and it comes at the happiest moment--if you
will allow me to present it, to offer it to a lady, who--"
"Who will, I hope," said my father, appearing at the top of the stairs,
"soon be his bride."
"His bride!"
Jacob saw Mr. Montenero's face behind me, and clasping his, hands, "The
very thing I wished!" cried he, opening the house-door.
"Follow us, Jacob," I heard Mr. Montenero say, as we stepped into the
carriage; "follow us to the house of joy, you who never deserted the house
of mourning."
The ring, the history of it, and the offering it to Berenice, prepared my
way in the happiest manner, and prevented the danger, which Mr. Montenero
feared, of my own or my father's precipitation. We told her in general the
circumstances that had happened, but spared her the detail.
"And now, my beloved daughter," said Mr. Montenero, "I may express to you
all the esteem, all the affection, all the fulness of approbation I feel
for _your choice_." |
