The line of the Rockvilles was evidently running fast out. It had reached the extremity of imbecility and contempt—it must soon reach its close.
Sir Roger used to make his regular annual visit to town; but of late, when there, he had wandered restlessly about the streets, peeping into the shop-windows; and if it rained, standing under entries for hours after, till it was gone over. The habit of lurking and peering about was upon him; and his feet bore him instinctively into those narrow and crowded alleys where swarm the poachers of the city—the trespassers and anglers in the game preserves and streams of humanity. He had lost all pleasure in his club; the most exciting themes of political life retained no piquancy for him. His old friends ceased to find any pleasure in him. He was become the driest of all dry wells. Poachers, and anglers, and Methodists, haunted the wretched purlieus of his fast fading-out mind, and he resolved to go to town no more. His whole nature was centered in his woods. He was forever on the watch; and when at Rockville again, if he heard a door clap when in bed, he thought it a gun in his woods, and started up, and was out with his keepers.
Of what value was that magnificent estate to him?—those superb woods; those finely-hanging cliffs; that clear and riant river coming traveling on, and taking a noble sweep below his windows—that glorious expanse of neat verdant meadows, stretching almost to Stockington, and enlivened by numerous herds of the most beautiful cattle—those old farms and shady lanes overhung with hazel and wild rose; the glittering brook, and the songs of woodland birds—what were they to that worn-out old man, that victim of the delusive doctrine of blood, of the man-trap of an hereditary name?
There the poet could come, and feel the presence of divinity in that noble scene, and hear sublime whispers in the trees, and create new heavens and earths from the glorious chaos of nature around him, and in one short hour live an empyrean of celestial life and love. There could come the very humblest children of the plebeian town, and feel a throb of exquisite delight pervade their bosoms at the sight of the very flowers on the sod, and see heaven in the infinite blue above them. And poor Sir Roger, the holder, but not the possessor of all, walked only in a region of sterility, with no sublimer ideas than poachers and trespassers-no more rational enjoyment than the brute indulgence of hunting like a ferret, and seizing his fellow-men like a bulldog. He was a specimen of human nature degenerated, retrograded from the divine to the bestial, through the long operating influences of false notions and institutions, continued beyond their time. He had only the soul of a keeper. Had he been only a keeper, he had been a much happier man.
His time was at hand. The severity which he had long dealt out toward all sorts of offenders made him the object of the deepest vengeance. In a lonely hollow of his woods, watching at midnight with two of his men, there came a sturdy knot of poachers. An affray ensued. The men perceived that their old enemy, Sir Roger, was there: and the blow of a hedge-stake stretched him on the earth. His keepers fled—and thus ignominiously terminated the long line of the Rockvilles. Sir Roger was the last of his line, but not of his class. There is a feudal art of sinking, which requires no study; and the Rockvilles are but one family among thousands who have perished in its practice.
In Great Stockington there lived a race of paupers. From the year of the 42d of Elizabeth, or 1601, down to the present generation, this race maintained an uninterrupted descent. They were a steady and unbroken line of paupers, as the parish books testify. From generation to generation their demands on the parish funds stand recorded. There were no lacunæ in their career; there never failed an heir to these families; fed on the bread of idleness and legal provision, these people flourished, increased and multiplied. Sometimes compelled to work for the weekly dole which they received, they never acquired a taste for labor, or lost the taste for the bread for which they did not labor. These paupers regarded this maintenance by no means as a disgrace. They claimed it as a right,—as their patrimony. They contended that one-third of the property of the Church had been given by benevolent individuals for the support of the poor, and that what the Reformation wrongfully deprived them of, the great enactment of Elizabeth rightfully—and only rightfully—restored.
Those who imagine that all paupers merely claimed parish relief because the law ordained it, commit a great error. There were numbers who were hereditary paupers, and that on a tradition carefully handed down, that they were only manfully claiming their own. They traced their claims from the most ancient feudal times, when the lord was as much bound to maintain his villein in gross, as the villein was to work for the lord. These paupers were, in fact, or claimed to be, the original adscripti glebæ, and to have as much a claim to parish support as the landed proprietor had to his land. For this reason, in the old Catholic times, after they had escaped from villenage by running away and remaining absent from their hundred for a year and a day, dwelling for that period in a walled town, these people were amongst the most diligent attendants at the Abbey doors, and when the Abbeys were dissolved, were, no doubt, amongst the most daring of these thieves, vagabonds, and sturdy rogues, who, after the Robin Hood fashion, beset the highways and solitary farms of England, and claimed their black mail in a very unceremonious style. It was out of this class that Henry VIII. hanged his seventy-two thousand during his reign, and, as it is said, without appearing materially to diminish their number.
That they continued to "increase, multiply, and replenish the earth," overflowing all bounds, overpowering by mere populousness all the severe laws against them of whipping, burning in the hand, in the forehead or in the breast, and hanging, and filling the whole country with alarm, is evident by the very act itself of Elizabeth.
Amongst these hereditary paupers who, as we have said, were found in Stockington, there was a family of the name of Deg. This family had never failed to demand and enjoy what it held to be its share of its ancient inheritance. It appeared from the parish records, that they had practiced in different periods the crafts of shoemaking, tailoring, and chimney-sweeping; but since the invention of the stocking-frame, they had, one and all of them, followed the profession of stocking weavers, or as they were there called, stockingers. This was a trade which required no extreme exertion of the physical or intellectual powers. To sit in a frame, and throw the arms to and fro, was a thing that might either be carried to a degree of extreme diligence, or be let down into a mere apology for idleness. An "idle stockinger" was there no very uncommon phrase, and the Degs were always classed under that head. Nothing could be more admirably adapted than this trade for building a plan of parish relief upon. The Degs did not pretend to be absolutely without work, or the parish authorities would soon have set them to some real labor,—a thing that they particularly recoiled from, having a very old adage in the family, that "hard work was enough to kill a man." The Degs were seldom, therefore out of work, but they did not get enough to meet and tie. They had but little work if the times were bad, and if they were good, they had large families, and sickly wives or children. Be times what they would, therefore, the Degs were due and successful attendants at the parish pay-table. Nay, so much was this a matter of course, that they came at length not even trouble themselves to receive their pay, but sent their young children for it; and it was duly paid. Did any parish officer, indeed, turn restive, and decline to pay a Deg, he soon found himself summoned before a magistrate, and such pleas of sickness, want of work, and poor earnings brought up, that he most likely got a sharp rebuke from the benevolent but uninquiring magistrate, and acquired a character for hard-heartedness that stuck to him.
So parish overseers learnt to let the Degs alone; and their children regularly brought up to receive the parish money for their parents, were impatient as they grew up to receive it for themselves. Marriages in the Deg family were consequently very early, and there were plenty of instances of married Degs claiming parish relief under the age of twenty, on the plea of being the parent of two children. One such precocious individual being asked by a rather verdant officer why he had married before he was able to maintain a family, replied, in much astonishment, that he had married in order to maintain himself by parish assistance. That he never had been able to maintain himself by his labor, nor ever expected to do it; his only hope, therefore, lay in marrying, and becoming the father of two children, to which patriarchal rank he had now attained, and demanded his "pay."
Thus had lived and flourished the Degs on their ancient patrimony, the parish, for upward of two hundred years. Nay, we have no doubt whatever that, if it could have been traced, they had enjoyed an ancestry of paupers as long as the pedigree of Sir Roger Rockville himself. In the days of the most perfect villenage, they had, doubtless, eaten the bread of idleness, and claimed it as a right. They were numerous, improvident, ragged in dress, and fond of an alehouse and of gossip. Like the blood of Sir Roger, their blood had become peculiar through a long persistence of the same circumstances. It was become pure pauper blood. The Degs married, if not entirely among Degs, yet amongst the same class. None but a pauper would dream of marrying a Deg. The Degs, therefore, were in constitution, in mind, in habit, and in inclination, paupers. But a pure and unmixed class of this kind does not die out like an aristocratic stereotype. It increases and multiplies. The lower the grade, the more prolific, as is sometimes seen on a large and even national scale. The Degs threatened, therefore, to become a most formidable clan in the lower purlieus of Stockington, but luckily there is so much virtue even in evils, that one, not rarely, cures another. War, the great evil, cleared the town of Degs.
Fond of idleness, of indulgence, of money easily got, and as easily spent, the Degs were rapidly drained off by recruiting parties during the last war. The young men enlisted, and were marched away; the young women married soldiers that were quartered in the town from time to time, and marched away with them. There were, eventually, none of the once numerous Degs left except a few old people, whom death was sure to draft off at no distant period with his regiment of the line which has no end. Parish overseers, magistrates, and master manufacturers, felicitated themselves at this unhoped-for deliverance from the ancient family of the Degs.
But one cold, clear, winter evening, the east wind piping its sharp sibilant ditty in the bare shorn hedges, and poking its sharp fingers into the sides of well broad-clothed men by the way of passing jest, Mr. Spires, a great manufacturer of Stockington, driving in his gig some seven miles from the town, passed a poor woman with a stout child on her back. The large ruddy-looking man in the prime of life, and in the great coat and thick worsted gloves of a wealthy traveler, cast a glance at the wretched creature trudging heavily on, expecting a pitiful appeal to his sensibilities, and thinking it a bore to have to pull off a glove and dive into his pocket for a copper; but to his surprise there was no demand, only a low courtesy, and the glimpse of a face of singular honesty of expression, and of excessive weariness.
Spires was a man of warm feelings; he looked earnestly at the woman, and Thought he had never seen such a picture of fatigue in his life. He pulled up and said,
"You seem very tired, my good woman."
"Awfully tired, sir."
"And are you going far to-night?"
"To Great Stockington, sir, if God give me strength."
"To Stockington!" exclaimed Mr. Spires. "Why, you seem ready to drop.
You'll never reach it. You'd better stop at the next village."
"Ay, sir, it's easy stopping, for those that have money."
"And you've none, eh?"
"As God lives, sir, I've a sixpence, and that's all."
Mr. Spires put his hand in his pocket, and held out to her, the next instant, half-a-crown.
"There stop, poor thing—make yourself comfortable—it's quite out of the question to reach Stockington. But stay—are your friends living in Stockington—what are you?"
"A poor soldier's widow, sir. And may God Almighty bless you!" said the poor woman, taking the money, the tears standing in her large brown eyes as she courtesied very low.
"A soldier's widow!" said Mr. Spires. She had touched the softest place in the manufacturer's heart, for he was a very loyal man, and vehement champion of his country's honor in the war. "So young," said he, "how did you lose your husband?"
"He fell, sir," said the poor woman; but she could get no further; she suddenly caught up the corner of her gray cloak, covered her face with it, and burst into an excess of grief.
The manufacturer felt as if he had hit the woman a blow by his careless
question; he sat watching her for a moment in silence, and then said,
"Come, get into the gig, my poor woman; come, I must see you to
Stockington."
The poor woman dried her tears, and heavily climbed into the gig, expressing her gratitude in a very touching and modest manner. Spires buttoned the apron over her, and taking a look at the child, said in a cheerful tone to comfort her, "Bless me, but that is a fine thumping fellow, though. I don't wonder that you are tired, carrying such a load."
The poor woman pressed the stout child, apparently two years old, to her breast, as if she felt it a great blessing and no load: the gig drove rapidly on.
Presently Mr. Spires resumed his conversation.
"So you are from Stockington?"
"No, sir, my husband was."
"So: what was his name?"
"John Deg, sir."
"Deg?" said Mr. Spires. "Deg, did you say?"
"Yes, sir."
The manufacturer seemed to hitch himself off toward his own side of the gig, gave another look at her, and was silent. The poor woman was somewhat astonished at his look and movement, and was silent too.
After awhile Mr. Spires said again, "And do you hope to find friends in
Stockington? Had you none where you came from?"
"None, sir, none in the world!" said the poor woman, and again her feelings seemed too strong for her. At length she added, "I was in service, sir, at Poole, in Dorsetshire, when I married; my mother only was living, and while I was away with my husband, she died. When-when the news came from abroad—that when I was a widow, sir, I went back to my native place, and the parish officers said I must go to my husband's parish lest I and my child should become troublesome."
"You asked relief of them?"
"Never; Oh, God knows, no, never! My family have never asked a penny of a parish. They would die first, and so would I, sir; but they said I might do it, and I had better go to my husband's parish at once—and they offered me money to go."
"And you took it, of course?"
"No, sir; I had a little money, which I had earned by washing and laundering, and I sold most of my things, as I could not carry them, and came off. I felt hurt, sir; my heart rose against the treatment of the parish, and I thought I should be better amongst my friends—and my child would, if anything happened to me; I had no friends of my own."
Mr. Spires looked at the woman in silence. "Did your husband tell you anything of his friends? What sort of a man was he?"
"Oh, he was a gay young fellow, rather, sir; but not bad to me. He always said his friends were well off in Stockington."
"He did!" said the manufacturer, with a great stare, and as if bolting the words from his heart in a large gust of wonder.
The poor woman again looked at him with a strange look. The manufacturer Whistled to himself, and giving his horse a smart cut with the whip, drove on faster than ever. The night was fast settling down; it was numbing cold; a gray fog rose from the river as they thundered over the old bridge; and tall engine chimneys, and black smoky houses loomed through the dusk before them. They were at Stockington.
As they slackened their pace up a hill at the entrance of the town, Mr.
Spires again opened his mouth.
"I should be sorry to hurt your feelings, Mrs. Deg," he said, "but I have my fears that you are coming to this place with false expectations. I fear your husband did not give you the truest possible account of his family here."
"Oh, sir! what—what is it?" exclaimed the poor woman; "in God's name, tell me!"
"Why, nothing more than this," said the manufacturer, "that there are very few of the Degs left here. They are old, and on the parish, and can do nothing for you."
The poor woman gave a deep sigh, and was silent.
"But don't be cast down," said Mr. Spires. He would not tell her what a pauper family really was, for he saw that she was a very feeling woman, and he thought she would learn that soon enough. He felt that her husband had from vanity given her a false account of his connections; and he was really sorry for her.
"Don't be cast down," he went on; "you can wash and iron, you say; you are young and strong: those are your friends. Depend on them, and they'll be better friends to you than any other."
The poor woman was silent, leaning her head down on her slumbering child, and crying to herself; and thus they drove on, through many long and narrow streets, with gas flaring from the shops, but with few people in the streets, and these hurrying shivering along the pavement, so intense was the cold. Anon they stopped at a large pair of gates; the manufacturer rung a bell, which he could reach from his gig, and the gates presently were flung open, and they drove into a spacious yard, with a large handsome house, having a bright lamp burning before it, on one side of the yard, and tall warehouses on the other.
"Show this poor woman and her child to Mrs. Craddock's, James," said Mr. Spires, "and tell Mrs. Craddock to make them very comfortable; and if you will come to my warehouse to-morrow," added he, addressing the poor woman, "perhaps I can be of some use to you."
The poor woman poured out her heartfelt thanks, and following the old man-servant, soon disappeared, hobbling over the pebbly pavement with her living load, stiffened almost to stone by her fatigue and her cold ride.
We must not pursue too minutely our narrative Mrs. Deg was engaged to do the washing and getting up of Mr. Spires' linen, and the manner in which she executed her task insured her recommendations to all their friends. Mrs. Deg was at once in full employ. She occupied a neat house in a yard near the meadows below the town, and in those meadows she might be seen spreading out her clothes to whiten on the grass, attended by her stout little boy. In the same yard lived a shoemaker, who had two or three children of about the same age as Mrs. Deg's child. The children, as time went on, became playfellows. Little Simon might be said to have the free run of the shoemaker's house, and he was the more attracted thither by the shoemaker's birds, and by his flute, on which he often played after his work was done.
Mrs. Deg took a great friendship for this shoemaker; and he and his wife, a quiet, kind-hearted woman, were almost all the acquaintances that she cultivated. She had found out her husband's parents, but they were not of a description that at all pleased her. They were old and infirm, but they were of the true pauper breed, a sort of person whom Mrs. Deg had been taught to avoid and to despise. They looked on her as a sort of second parish, and insisted that she should come and live with them, and help to maintain them out of her earnings. But Mrs. Deg would rather her little boy had died than have been familiarized with the spirit and habits of those old people. Despise them she struggled hard not to do, and she agreed to allow them sufficient to maintain them on condition that they desisted from any further application to the parish. It would be a long and disgusting story to recount all the troubles, annoyance, and querulous complaints, and even bitter accusations that she received from these connections, whom she could never satisfy; but she considered it one of the crosses in her life, and patiently bore it, seeing that they suffered no real want, so long as they lived, which was for years; but she would never allow her little Simon to be with them alone.
The shoemaker neighbor was a stout protection to her against the greedy demands of these old people, and of others of the old Degs, and also against another class of inconvenient visitors, namely, suitors, who saw in Mrs. Deg a neat and comely young woman, with a flourishing business and a neat and soon well-furnished house, a very desirable acquisition. But Mrs. Deg had resolved never again to marry, but to live for her boy, and she kept her resolve in firmness and gentleness.
The shoemaker often took walks in the extensive town meadows, to gather groundsell and plantain for his canaries and gorse-linnets, and little Simon Deg delighted to accompany him with his own children. There William Watson, the shoemaker, used to point out to the children the beauty of the flowers, the insects, and other objects of nature; and while he sat on a style and read in a little old book of poetry, as he often used to do, the children sat on the summer grass, and enjoyed themselves in a variety of plays.
The effect of these walks and the shoemaker's conversation on little Simon Deg was such as never wore out of him through his whole life, and soon led him to astonish the shoemaker by his extraordinary conduct. He manifested the utmost uneasiness at their treading on the flowers in the grass; he would burst with tears if they persisted in it; and when asked why, he said they were so beautiful, that they must enjoy the sunshine, and be very unhappy to die. The shoemaker was amazed, but indulged the lad's fancy. One day he thought to give him a great treat, and when they were out in the meadows, he drew from under his coat a bow and arrow, and shot the arrow high up in the air. He expected to see him in an ecstasy of delight: his own children clapped their hands in transport, but Simon stood silent, and as if awe-struck.
"Shall I send up another?" asked the shoemaker.
"No, no," exclaimed the child, imploringly. "You say God lives up there, and he mayn't like it."
The shoemaker laughed, but presently he said, as if to himself, "There is too much imagination there. There will be a poet, if we don't take care."
The shoemaker offered to teach Simon to read, and to solidify his mind, as he termed it, by arithmetic, and then to teach him to work at his trade. His mother was very glad, and thought shoemaking would be a good trade for the boy; and that with Mr. Watson she should have him always near her. He was growing now a great lad, and was especially strong, and of a frank and daring habit. He was especially indignant at any act of oppression of the weak by the strong, and not seldom got into trouble by his championship of the injured in such cases among the boys of the neighborhood.
He was now about twelve years of age; when, going one day with a basket of clothes on his head to Mr. Spires's for his mother, he was noticed by Mr. Spires himself from his counting-house window. The great war was raging; there was much distress among the manufacturers; and the people were suffering and exasperated against their masters. Mr. Spires, as a staunch tory, and supporter of the war, was particularly obnoxious to the workpeople, who uttered violent threats against him. For this reason his premises were strictly guarded, and at the entrance of his yard, just within the gates, was chained a huge and fierce mastiff, his chain allowing him to approach near enough to intimidate any stranger, though not to reach him. The dog knew the people who came regularly about, and seemed not to notice them, but on the entrance of a stranger, he rose up, barked fiercely, and came to the length of his chain. This always drew the attention of the porter, if he were away from his box, and few persons dared to pass till he came.
Simon Deg was advancing with the basket of clean linen on his head, when the dog rushed out, and barking loudly, came exactly opposite to him, within a few feet. The boy, a good deal startled at first, reared himself with his back against the wall, but at a glance perceiving that the dog was at the length of his tether, he seemed to enjoy his situation, and stood smiling at the furious animal, and lifting his basket with both hands above his head, nodded to him, as if to say, "Well, old boy, you'd like to eat me, wouldn't you?"
Mr. Spires, who sat near his counting-house window at his books, was struck with the bold and handsome bearing of the boy, and said to a clerk:
"What boy is that?"
"It is Jenny Deg's," was the answer.
"Ha! that boy! Zounds! how boys do grow! Why that's the child that Jenny Deg was carrying when she came to Stockington: and what a strong, handsome, bright-looking fellow he is now!"
As the boy was returning, Mr. Spires called him to the counting-house door, and put some questions to him as to what he was doing and learning, and so on.
Simon, taking off his cap with much respect, answered in such a clear and Modest way, and with a voice that had so much feeling and natural music in it, that the worthy manufacturer was greatly taken with him.
"That's no Deg," said he, when he again entered the counting-house, "not a bit of it. He's all Goodrick, or whatever his mother's name was, every inch of him."
The consequence of that interview was, that Simon Deg was very soon after Perched on a stool in Mr. Spires's counting-house, where he continued till he was twenty-two. Mr. Spires had no son, only a single daughter; and such were Simon Deg's talents, attention to business, and genial disposition, that at that age Mr. Spires gave him a share in the concern. He was himself now getting less fond of exertion than he had been, and placed the most implicit reliance on Simon's judgment and general management. Yet no two men could be more unlike in their opinions beyond the circle of trade. Mr. Spires was a staunch tory of the staunch old school. He was for Church and King, and for things remaining forever as they had been. Simon, on the other hand, had liberal and reforming notions. He was for the improvement of the people, and their admission to many privileges. Mr. Spires was therefore liked by the leading men of the place, and disliked by the people. Simon's estimation was precisely in the opposite direction. But this did not disturb their friendship; it required another disturbing cause—and that came.
Simon Deg and the daughter of Mr. Spires grew attached to each other; and as the father had thought Simon worthy of becoming a partner in the business, neither of the young people deemed that he would object to a partnership of a more domestic description. But here they made a tremendous mistake. No sooner was such a proposal hinted at, than Mr. Spires burst forth with the fury of all the winds from the bag of Ulysses.
"What! a Deg aspire to the hand of the sole heiress of the enormously opulent Spires?"
The very thought almost cut the proud manufacturer off with an apoplexy. The hosts of a thousand paupers rose up before him, and he was black in the face. It was only by a prompt and bold application of leeches and lancet that the life of the great man was saved. But there was an end of all further friendship between himself and the expectant Simon. He insisted that he should withdraw from the concern, and it was done. Simon, who felt his own dignity deeply wounded too, for dignity he had, though the last of a long line of paupers—his own dignity, not his ancestors'—took silently, yet not unrespectfully, his share—a good, round sum, and entered another house of business.
For several years there appeared to be a feud and a bitterness between the former friends; yet it showed itself in no other manner than by a careful avoidance of each other. The continental war came to an end; the manufacturing distress increased exceedingly. There came troublous times, and a fierce warfare of politics. Great Stockington was torn asunder by rival parties. On one side stood preeminent, Mr. Spires; on the other towered conspicuously, Simon Deg. Simon was grown rich, and extremely popular. He was on all occasions the advocate of the people. He said that he had sprung from, and was one of them. He had bought a large tract of land on one side of the town; and intensely fond of the country and flowers himself, he had divided this into gardens, built little summer-houses in them, and let them to the artisans. In his factory he had introduced order, cleanliness, and ventilation. He had set up a school for the children in the evenings, with a reading-room and conversation-room for the work-people, and encouraged them to bring their families there, and enjoy music, books, and lectures. Accordingly, he was the idol of the people, and the horror of the old school of manufacturers.
"A pretty upstart and demagogue I've nurtured," said Mr. Spires often, to his wife and daughter, who only sighed, and were silent.
Then came a furious election. The town, for a fortnight, more resembled the worst corner of Tartarus than a Christian borough. Drunkenness, riot, pumping on one another, spencering one another, all sorts of violence and abuse ruled and raged till the blood of all Stockington was at boiling heat. In the midst of the tempest were everywhere seen, ranged on the opposite sides, Mr. Spires, now old and immensely corpulent, and Simon Deg, active, buoyant, zealous, and popular beyond measure. But popular though he was, the other and old tory side still triumphed. The people were exasperated to madness; and when the chairing of the successful candidate commenced, there was a terrific attack made on the procession by the defeated party. Down went the chair, and the new member, glad to escape into an inn, saw his friends mercilessly assailed by the populace. There was a tremendous tempest of sticks, brickbats, paving-stones, and rotten eggs. In the midst of all this, Simon Deg and a number of his friends, standing at the upper window of an hotel, saw Mr. Spires knocked down and trampled on by the crowd. In an instant, and before his friends had missed him from amongst them, Simon Deg was seen darting through the raging mass, cleaving his way with a surprising vigor, and gesticulating, and no doubt shouting vehemently to the rioters, though his voice was lost in the din. In the next moment his hat was knocked off, and himself appeared in imminent danger: but, another moment, and there was a pause, and a group of people were bearing somebody from the frantic mob into a neighboring shop. It was Simon Deg, assisting in the rescue of his old friend and benefactor, Mr. Spires.
Mr. Spires was a good deal bruised, and wonderfully confounded and bewildered by his fall. His clothes were one mass of mud, and his face was bleeding copiously; but when he had had a good draught of water, and his face washed, and had time to recover himself, it was found that he had received no serious injury.
"They had like to have done for me, though," said he.
"Yes, and who saved you?" asked a gentleman.
"Ay, who was it? who was it?" asked the really warm-hearted manufacturer; "let me know? I owe him my life."
"There he is!" said several gentlemen, at the same instant, pushing forward Simon Deg.
"What, Simon!" said Mr. Spires, starting to his feet. "Was it thee, my boy?" He did more, he stretched out his hand; the young man clasped it eagerly, and the two stood silent, and with a heart-felt emotion, which blended all the past into forgetfulness, and the future into a union more sacred than esteem.
A week hence, and Simon Deg was the son-in-law of Mr. Spires. Though Mr. Spires had misunderstood Simon, and Simon had borne the aspect of opposition to his old friend, in defense of conscientious principle, the wife and daughter of the manufacturer had always understood him, and secretly looked forward to some day of recognition and reunion.
Simon Deg was now the richest man in Stockington. His mother was still living to enjoy his elevation. She had been his excellent and wise housekeeper, and she continued to occupy that post still.
Twenty-five years afterward, when the worthy old Spires was dead, and Simon Deg had himself two sons attained to manhood; when he had five times been mayor of Stockington, and had been knighted on the presentation of a loyal address; still his mother was living to see it; and William Watson, the shoemaker, was acting as a sort of orderly at Sir Simon's chief manufactory. He occupied the lodge, and walked about, and saw that all was safe, and moving on as it should do.
It was amazing how the most plebeian name of Simon Deg had slid, under the hands of the heralds, into the really aristocratical one of Sir Simon Degge. They had traced him up a collateral kinship, spite of his own consciousness, to a baronet of the same name of the county of Stafford, and had given him a coat of arms that was really astonishing.
It was some years before this, that Sir Roger Rockville had breathed his last. His title and estate had fallen into litigation. Owing to two generations having passed without any issue of the Rockville family except the one son and heir, the claims, though numerous, were so mingled with obscuring circumstance, and so equally balanced, that the lawyers raised quibbles and difficulties enough to keep the property in Chancery, till they had not only consumed all the ready money and rental, but had made frightful inroads into the estate itself. To save the remnant, the contending parties came to a compromise. A neighboring squire, whose grandfather had married a Rockville, was allowed to secure the title, on condition that the rest carried off the residuum of the estate. The woods and lands of Rockville were announced for sale!
It was at this juncture that old William Watson reminded Sir Simon Degge of a conversation in the great grove of Rockville, which they had held at the time that Sir Roger was endeavoring to drive the people thence.
"What a divine pleasure might this man enjoy," said Simon Deg to his humble friend, "if he had a heart capable of letting others enjoy themselves."
"But we talk without the estate," said William Watson; "what might we do if we were tried with it?"
Sir Simon was silent for a moment; then observed that there was sound philosophy in William Watson's remark. He said no more, but went away; and the next day announced to the astonished old man that he had purchased the groves and the whole ancient estate of Rockville!
Sir Simon Degge, the last of a long line of paupers, was become the possessor of the noble estate of Sir Roger Rockville, of Rockville, the last of a long line of aristocrats!
The following summer, when the hay was lying in fragrant cocks in the great meadows of Rockville, and on the little islands in the river, Sir Simon Degge, Baronet, of Rockville—for such was now his title-through the suggestion of a great lawyer, formerly Recorder of the Borough of Stockington, to the crown—held a grand fête on the occasion of his coming to reside at Rockville Hall, henceforth the family seat of the Degges. His house and gardens had all been restored to the most consummate order. For years Sir Simon had been a great purchaser of works of art and literature, paintings, statuary, books, and articles of antiquity, including rich armor and precious works in ivory and gold.
First and foremost he gave a great banquet to his wealthy friends, and no man with a million and a half is without them—and in abundance. In the second place, he gave a substantial dinner to all his tenantry, from the wealthy farmer of five hundred acres to the tenant of a cottage. On this occasion he said, "Game is a subject of great heart-burning and of great injustice to the country. It was the bane of my predecessors: let us take care it is not ours. Let every man kill the game on the land that he rents—then he will not destroy it utterly, nor allow it to grow into a nuisance. I am fond of a gun myself, but I trust to find enough for my propensity to the chase in my own fields and woods—if I occasionally extend my pursuit across the lands of my tenants, it shall not be to carry off the first fruits of their feeding, and I shall still hold the enjoyment as a favor."
We need not say that this speech was applauded most vociferously. Thirdly, and lastly, he gave a grand entertainment to all his work people, both of the town and the country. His house and gardens were thrown open to the inspection of the whole assembled company. The delighted crowd admired immensely the pictures and the pleasant gardens. On the lawn, lying between the great grove and the hall, an enormous tent was pitched, or rather a vast canvas canopy erected, open on all sides, in which was laid a charming banquet; a military band from Stockington barracks playing during the time. Here Sir Simon made a speech as rapturously received as that to the farmers. It was to the effect, that all the old privileges of wandering in the grove, and angling, and boating on the river were restored. The inn was already rebuilt in a handsome Elizabethan style, larger than before, and to prevent it ever becoming a fane of intemperance, he had there posted as landlord, he hoped for many years to come, his old friend and benefactor, William Watson. William Watson should protect the inn from riot, and they themselves the groves and river banks from injury.
Long and loud were the applauses which this announcement occasioned. The young people turned out upon the green for a dance, and in the evening, after an excellent tea, the whole company descended the river to Stockington in boats and barges decorated with boughs and flowers, and singing a song made by William Watson for the occasion, called "The Health of Sir Simon, last and first of his Line!"
Years have rolled on. The groves and river banks and islands of Rockville are still greatly frequented, but are never known to be injured: poachers are never known there, for four reasons. First, nobody would like to annoy the good Sir Simon; secondly, game is not very numerous there; thirdly, there is no fun in killing it, where there is no resistance; and fourthly, it is vastly more abundant in other proprietors' demesnes, and it is fun to kill it there, where it is jealously watched, and there is a chance of a good spree with the keepers.
And with what different feelings does the good Sir Simon look down from his lofty eyrie, over the princely expanse of meadows, and over the glittering river, and over the stately woods to where Great Stockington still stretches farther and farther its red brick walls, its red-tiled roofs, and its tall smoke-vomiting chimneys. There he sees no haunts of crowded enemies to himself or any man. No upstarts, nor envious opponents, but a past family of human beings, all toiling for the good of their families and their country. All advancing, some faster, some slower, to a better education, a better social condition, a better conception of the principles of art and commerce, and a clearer recognition of their rights and duties, and a more cheering faith in the upward tendency of humanity.
Looking on this interesting scene from his distant and quiet home, Sir Simon sees what blessings flow—and how deeply he feels them in his own case—from a free circulation, not only of trade, but of human relations. How this corrects the mischiefs, moral and physical, of false systems and rusty prejudices;—and he ponders on schemes of no ordinary beauty and beneficence yet to reach his beloved town through them. He sees lecture halls and academies, means of sanitary purification, and delicious recreation, in which baths, wash-houses, and airy homes figure largely; while public walks extend all round the great industrial hive, including wood, hills, meadow and river in their circuit of many miles. There he lived and labored; there live and labor his sons; and there he trusts his family will continue to live and labor to all future generations: never retiring to the fatal indolence of wealth, but aiding onward its active and ever-expanding beneficence.
Long may the good Sir Simon live and labor to realize these views. But already in a green corner of the pleasant churchyard of Rockville may be read this inscription on a marble headstone:—"Sacred to the memory of Jane Deg, the mother of Sir Simon Degge, Bart., of Rockville. This stone is erected in honor of the best of Mothers by the most grateful of sons."
* * * * *
[From Fraser's Magazine.]
Elegant and ingenious as are the structures and collections of the satin bower-bird, the species of the allied genus Chlamydera display still greater architectural abilities, and more extensive, collective, and decorative powers.
The spotted bower-bird[A] is an inhabitant of the interior. Its probable range, in Mr. Gould's opinion, is widely extended over the central portions of the Australian continent; but the only parts in which he observed it, or from which he procured specimens, were the districts immediately to the north of the colony of New South Wales. During his journey into the interior he saw it in tolerable abundance at Brezi, on the river Mokai, to the northward of the Liverpool plains; and it was also equally numerous in all the low scrubby ranges in the neighborhood of the Namoi, as well as in the open brushes that intersect the plains on its borders. Mr. Gould is gifted with the eye of an observer; but from the extreme shyness of its disposition, it generally escapes the attention of ordinary travelers, and it seldom allows itself to be approached near enough for the spectator to discern its colors. Its 'harsh, grating, scolding note,' betrays its haunts to the intruder; but, when disturbed, it seeks the tops of the highest trees, and, generally, flies off to another locality.
[Footnote A: Chlamydera maculala.—GOULD.]
Mr. Gould obtained his specimens most readily by watching at the water-holes where they come to drink; and on one occasion, near the termination of a long drought, he was guided by a native to a deep basin in a rock where water, the produce of many antecedent months, still remained. Numbers of the spotted bower-birds, honeysuckers, and parrots, sought this welcome reservoir, which had seldom, if ever before, reflected a white face. Mr. Gould's presence was regarded with suspicion by the winged frequenters of this attractive spot; but while he remained lying on the ground perfectly motionless, though close to the water, their wants overpowered their misgivings, and they would dash down past him and eagerly take their fill, although an enormous black snake was lying coiled upon a piece of wood near the edge of the pool. At this interesting post Mr. Gould remained for three days. The spotted bower-birds were the most numerous of the thirsty assemblage there congregated, and the most shy, and yet he had the satisfaction of frequently seeing six or eight of them displaying their beautiful necks as they were perched within a few feet of him. He states that the scanty supply of water remaining in the cavity must soon have been exhausted by the thousands of birds that daily resorted to it, if the rains which had so long been suspended had not descended in torrents.
Mr. Gould discovered several of the bowers of this species during his journey to the interior, the tiniest of which, now in the National Museum, he brought to England. He found the situations of these runs or bowers to be much varied. Sometimes he discovered them on the plains studded with Myalls (Acacia pendula,) and sometimes in the brushes with which the lower hills were clothed. He describes them as considerably longer, and more avenue-like, than those of the satin bower-bird, extending in many instances to three feet in length. Outwardly they were built with twigs, and beautifully lined with tall grasses, so disposed that their upper ends nearly met. The decorations were very profuse, consisting of bivalve shells, skulls of small animals, and other bones.
Evident and beautiful indications of design (continues Mr. Gould) are manifest throughout the whole of the bower and decorations formed by this species, particularly in the manner in which the stones are placed within the bower, apparently to keep the grasses with which it is lined fixed firmly in their places, these stones diverge from the mouth of the run on each side so as to form little paths, while the immense collection of decorative materials, bones, shells, &c., are placed in a heap before the entrance of the avenue, this arrangement being the same at both ends. In some of the larger bowers, which had evidently been resorted to for many years, I have seen nearly half a bushel of bones, shells, &c., at each of the entrances. In some instances, small bowers, composed almost entirely of grasses, apparently the commencement of a new place of rendezvous, were observable. I frequently found these structures at a considerable distance from the rivers, from the borders of which they could alone have procured the shells, and small, round pebbly stones; their collection and transportation must, therefore, be a task of great labor and difficulty. As these birds feed almost entirely upon seeds and fruits, the shells and bones cannot have been collected for any other purpose than ornament; besides, it is only those which have been bleached perfectly white in the sun, or such as have been roasted by the natives, and by this means whitened, that attract their attention. I fully ascertained that these runs, like those of the satin bower-bird, formed the rendezvous of many individuals; for, after secreting myself for a short space of time near one of them, I killed two males which I had previously seen running through the avenue.
The plumage of this species is remarkable. A rich brown pervades the crown of the head, the ear-coverts and the throat, each feather being bordered by a narrow black line; and, on the crown, the feathers are small and tipped with silver gray. The back of the neck is crossed by a beautiful, broad, light, rosy pink band of elongated feathers, so as to form a sort of occipital crest. The wings, tail, and upper surface, are deep brown, every feather of the back, rump, scapularies, and secondaries, having a large round spot of full buff at the tip. Primaries slightly tipped with white. All the tail-feathers with buffy white terminations. Under parts grayish white. Flank-feathers zigzagged with faint transverse light brown lines. Bill and feet dusky brown. At the corner of the mouth the bare, thick, fleshy, prominent skin, is of a pinky flesh colour, and the irides are dark brown.
The rosy frill adorns the adults of both sexes: but the young male and female of the years have it not.
Another species, the great bower-bird,[B] was probably the architect of the bowers found by Captain Grey during his Australian rambles, and which interested him greatly in consequence of the doubts entertained by him whether they were the works of a bird or of a quadruped,—the inclination of his mind being that their construction was due to the four-footed animal. They were formed of dead grass and parts of bushes, sunk a slight depth into two parallel furrows, in sandy soil, and were nicely arched above; they were always full of broken sea-shells, large heaps of which also protruded from the extremity of the bower. In one of these bowers, the most remote from the sea of those discovered by Captain Grey, was a heap of the stones of some fruit that evidently had been rolled therein. He never saw any animal in or near these bowers; but the abundant droppings of a small species of kangaroo close to them, induced him to suppose them to be the work of some quadruped.
[Footnote B: Chlamydora nuchalis.]
Here, then, we have a race of birds whose ingenuity is not merely directed to the usual; ends of existence, self-preservation, and the continuation of the species, but to the elegancies and amusements of life. Their bowers are their ball and assembly rooms; and we are very much mistaken if they are not, like places of meeting,
For whispering lovers made.
The male satin bower-bird, in the garden at the Regent's Park, is indefatigable in his assiduity toward the female; and his winning ways to coax her into the bower conjure up the notion that the soul of some Damon in the course of his transmigration, has found its way into his elegant form. He picks up a brilliant feather, flits about with it before her, and when he has caught her eye adds it to the decorations.
Haste, my Nanette, my lovely maid,
Haste to the bower thy swain has made.
No enchanted prince could act the deferential lover with more delicate or graceful attention. Poor fellow, the pert, intruding sparrows plague him abominably; and really it becomes almost an affair of police that some measures should be adopted for their exclusion. He is subject to fits, too, and suddenly, without the least apparent warning, falls senseless, like an epileptic patient; but presently recovers, and busies himself about the bower. When he has induced the female to enter it, he seems greatly pleased; alters the disposition of a feather or a shell, as if hoping that the change may meet her approbation; and looks at her as she sits coyly under the overarching twigs, and then at the little arrangement which he has made, and then at her again, till one could almost fancy that one hears him breathe a sigh. He is still in his transition dress, and has not yet donned his full Venetian suit of black.
In their natural state, the satin bower-birds associate in autumn in small parties; and Mr. Gould states that they may then often be seen on the ground near the sides of rivers, particularly where the brush feathers the descending bank down to the water's edge. The male has a loud liquid call; and both sexes frequently utter a harsh, gutteral note, expressive of surprise and displeasure.
Geffrey Chaucer, in his argument to The Assemblie of Foules, relates that, "All foules are gathered before Nature on St. Valentine's day, to chose their makes. A formell egle beyng beloved of three tercels, requireth a yeeres respite to make her choise: upon this triall, Qui bien aime tard oublie-'He that loveth well is slow to forget.'" The female satin-bower bird in the Regent's Park seems to have taken a leaf out of the 'formell egle's' book: for I cannot discover that her humble and most obsequious swain has been rewarded for his attentions though they have been continued through so many weary months; but we shall never be able entirely to solve these mysteries till we become possessed of the rare ring sent to the King of Sarra by the King of Arable, 'by the vertue whereof' his daughter understood 'the language of all foules,' unless we can
Call up him that left untold
The story of Cambuscan bold,
Of Camball and of Algersife,
And who had Canace to wife,
That own'd the virtuous ring and glass,
And of the wondrous horse of brass,
On which the Tartar king did ride.
Edmund Spenser, with due reverence for
Dan Chauser (well of English undefiled),
has indeed done his best to supply the defect,[C] and has told us that
Cambello's sister was fair Canacee,
That was the learnedst lady in her days,
Well seem in every science that mote be,
And every secret work of nature's ways,
In witty riddles, and in wise soothsays,
In power of herbs and tunes of beasts and birds:
but we learn from him no more of the ring than 'Dan Chaucer' tells us:—
The vertue of this ring, if ye woll here,
Is this, that if she list it for to were
Upon her thombe, or in her purse it bere,
There is no foule that fleeth under heven
That she no shall understand his steven,[D]
And know his meaning openly and plaine,
And answer him in his language againe:
as Canace does in her conversation with the falcon in The Squires Tale. Nor is the 'vertue' of the ring confined to bird-intelligence, for the knight who came on the 'steed of brasse,' adds,—
And every grasse that groweth upon root
She shall well know to whom it will do boot,
And be his wounds never so deep and wide.
But we must return from these realms of fancy to a country hardly less wonderful; for Australia presents, in the realities of its quadrupedal forms, a scene that might well pass for one of enchantment.
[Footnote C: Fairy Queen, book iv. cant. 2, et seq.]
[Footnote D: Sound.]
* * * * *
The French Society of Geography have just given their grand gold medal to two brothers, Antoine and Arnaud d'Abadie, for the progress which geography has received from their travels in Abyssinia, which were begun in 1837 and finished in 1848. This period they spent in exploring together, not only Abyssinia, but the whole eastern part of Africa. Their enterprise was wholly at their own expense, and was undertaken from the love of science and adventure.
* * * * *
The French Government are now publishing at Algiers the History of the Berbers, by Ibn Chaldun, the greatest of Arabian historians. It is printed in quarto form, with the types of the National Printing Establishment, sent from Paris for the purpose. The French translation will appear as soon as the second volume of the original, which is now in press, is completed.
* * * * *
[From Fraser's Magazine.]
In the gallery of the Louvre at Paris there is, or was some few years ago, a crayon drawing by La Tour, which represents Madame de Pompadour in all the pride and luster of her early beauty. The marchioness is seated near a table covered with books and papers, among which may be distinguished Montesquieu's Spirit of Laws and the Encyclopædia, two of the remarkable works which appeared during her reign of favor. An open album shows an engraving of Gay, chiseling some portrait of Louis XV., or his mistress. The marchioness is represented with her hair slightly powdered; she is clad in an open, flowered brocade robe, and wears red-heeled shoes, of a delicacy, as regards size, worthy of an Oriental foot. In this portrait there is much to admire: the neck, which is slender and well-shaped, springs most gracefully from the shoulders; the head, which is also admirably proportioned, is a model of feminine beauty; the brow is lofty and severe; the lips, slightly compressed, express at the same time decision and irony; the eyes are of a most vivid brilliancy, and the nose is perfection itself: in short, there reigns throughout every lineament of this most striking countenance an air of nobility, and even of dignity, which qualifies in some measure the accounts left us by history of the share she bore in the petits soupers of Versailles, the masked balls of the Hôtel de Ville, and the thousand other orgies got up for the entertainment of the most dissolute monarch of (at that period) one of the most dissolute courts of Europe.
The history of Madame de Pompadour is not generally known in all its particulars, though much has been written of her by persons of every shade of opinion. Some have exalted her virtues, while others have multiplied her crimes. Both parties are right, and both wrong. A courtier, and a man seeking to be revenged, are not historians when they write. With a little patience, and by a careful study of the writers of the eighteenth century, we are enabled to seize here and there a faithful trait of this extraordinary, yet most fascinating woman, and by diligently sifting conflicting opinions arrive at something approaching the truth. That Madame de Pompadour was a woman endowed with great talents, many virtues, and as many vices, is not to be denied; that she employed those talents in general for her country's good we think is equally true, though many writers have unjustly contended that all the defeats and reverses of France are to be traced to the influence exercised by her over the mind of Louis XV. Beyond a doubt the ruling passion of her heart was ambition, and yet even this passion, which according to many writers of her day was boundless, she kept so skillfully concealed from all her intimates, that not one of the many courtiers, philosophers, and men of letters, who thronged her antechambers—with the exception, perhaps, of the Abbé de Bernis, of whom more anon—was ever enabled to discover the secrets of that heart, which, in the words of a writer of the time, "she ever kept closely hidden beneath an eternal smile."
Madame de Pompadour was born in Paris in the year 1720. She herself always said, in 1722. We are told that Poisson, her father, at least her mother's husband, was employed in the commissariat department of the French army: some historians affirm that her father was a butcher of the Invalides, who was condemned to be hung; according to Voltaire she was the daughter of a farmer of the Ferté-sous-Jouarre. But this is of slight consequence, as her true father was the Fermier-général, Lenorman de Tourneheim. This individual having taken a fancy to Poisson's daughter when she was quite an infant, took her to his house, and brought her up as his own child. Having from her earliest years displayed quite passion for music and drawing, the first masters of the day were engaged by Lenorman de Tourneheim for his adopted child. Under a diligent course of study the little Jeanne Antoinette made rapid strides toward perfection in the arts she loved, and her intellectual acquirements were vaunted by all who knew her. Fontenelle, Voltaire, Duclos, and Crebillon, who, in their character of beaux esprits, had the entrée of the house, spread everywhere abroad throughout the fashionable world the praises of her beauty, her grace, and her talents.
Madame de Pompadour offered in her person the model of a woman, at the same time beautiful in the strict acceptation of the word, and simply pretty. The lines of her features possessed all the purity of one of Raphael's creations, but there it must be said the resemblance ceased; the spirit which animated these features was of the world, worldly: in short, it was the true spirit of a Parisian woman. All that gives brilliancy, charm, and play to the physiognomy she possessed in the happiest degree. Not a single court lady could at that period boast an air at the same time so noble and yet so coquettish, features so imposing and yet so delicate and playful, or a figure at once so elegant and yet so supple and undulating: her mother used always to say that a king alone was worthy of her daughter. Jeanne, it is said, had at in early age what might be called the presentiment of the throne, at first on account of this frequently-expressed opinion of her mother's, and afterward because she fancied she loved the king. "She owned to me," says Voltaire, in his Memoirs, "that she had a s[*illegible] presentiment that she would be loved by [*illegible] king, and that she had herself a violent inclination for him." There are certain [*illegible] in life in which destiny permits itself for a moment, as it were, to be divined. [* illegible] those who have succeeded in climbing [*illegible] rugged mountain of human vanities [*illegible ] that from their earliest youth certain visions and presentiments have ever warned them of their future glory.
But how was she to attain to this throne of France, the object of her ambition? This was a difficult question to solve. In the meanwhile she familiarized herself with what might be considered the life of a queen, a part which, it must be allowed, she could play to admiration. Beautiful, witty, intellectual, ever admired and ever listened to, she soon beheld at her feet all the courtiers of her father's fortune; she gathered around her, consequently, a brilliant crowd of poets, artists, and philosophers, over whom she reigned with all the dignity of majesty.
The Fermier-général had a nephew named Lenorman d'Etioles, a young man of Amiable character, and with the feelings and habits of a gentleman. This was the reputed heir of the immense wealth of the old Fermier-général, according to the established laws, though Jeanne had on her side also some claims to a share of the property. A very simple means was however devised to prevent all after litigation, namely, by arranging a marriage between the two young people. Jeanne, as we have already seen, loved the king, and she married d'Etioles without her feelings in this respect undergoing any change. Versailles was her horizon, the goal to which she aspired. D'Etioles, it is said, became deeply enamored of his young bride; but this passion, which amounted almost to fanaticism, never touched her heart. To use her own words, she "accepted him with resignation, as a misfortune which was not to last long."
The hôtel of the new-married couple was organized upon a lordly footing; the best society in Paris was there to be found, for all those whose company was worth having deserted the salons of the fashionable world for those of Madame d'Etioles. Never until then had such a lavish display of luxury been seen. The young bride hoped by these means to make a noise at court, and thus pique the curiosity of the king. The days passed in fêtes and entertainments of every kind. The celebrated comedians of the day, the popular poets, artists, foreigners of distinction, all had ready access to the splendid mansion of Lenorman d'Etioles, of which the mistress was the life and ornament; every one visited there, in short, except the king.
Ever since the celebrated réunions of the Hôtel de Rambouillet, there have always been in France a succession of circles of beaux esprits, presided over by some queen of fashion. Louis XIV. hated these réunions, saying that the court was spread abroad into all [*illegible] hôtels of Paris. In fact, for many, the [*illegible ] of the Duchesse de Main or of the [*illegible ]ise de Lambert, of Madame de Tencin [*illegible] Madame Géoffrin, possessed far greater [*illegible ]ons than the already superannuated [*illegible ] of Versailles. The French Revolution [*illegible ] its rise in these very circles, for in them they laughed a little at the great powers of the earth, and there philosophy and liberty were allowed elbow-room. Thus, at Madame d'Etioles' might be seen old Fontenelle, who believed in nothing, not even in his own heart; Voltaire, still young, and armed with the keen weapons of his ready wit, prepared to make war upon those whose reign was of this world, above all upon the Jesuits; Montesquieu and Maupertuis, born skeptics and mockers; along with many others of a kindred spirit who had beheld the decline of royalty and religion, when Louis XIV., in the latter years of his reign, had permitted Scarron's widow to make religion fashionable, by cloaking France with the mask of hypocritical piety—a mask soon, however, to be torn aside by Philippe of Orleans in the wild saturnalia of the Regency. The Abbé de Bernis was also a constant visitor at the house of Madame d'Etioles; he was, in the parlance of the time, the Abbé de la Maison—it is true he had no other benefice—but little thought then, either the abbé of the house or the mistress of the house, that within ten years from that time they would reign over France as absolute ministers. There was one other individual of this brilliant circle worthy of a passing notice, and this was an amiable and simple-minded poet, of good appearance and the best temper in the world, named Gentil Bernard.[A] Madame d'Etioles used to pet him like a spoiled child. Some said he was her lover. However that may be, Madame de Pompadour, who, whether she had or had not a secret penchant for the poet, never forgot her old friends, procured for him, as soon as she came into power, the appointment of librarian to the king at the château de Choisy, where she built him, at her own expense, a little cottage ornée, named by the poets of the time, the Parnassus of the French Anacreon. This appointment was a complete sinecure, for we know that the king never opened a book, and we are equally assured that Bernard never put his foot inside the library.
[Footnote A: Pierre Bernard, nicknamed Gentil Bernard by Voltaire[1] was born at Grenoble about the same time as Louis XV. "It is strange," said Madame de Pompadour later, "that two lovers should be born for me during the same season—a king and a poet." Bernard ever refused all favors, and was singularly devoid of ambition. "What can I do for you, my dear poet?" Madame de Pompadour is reported to have said on her coming into Power. Bernard contented himself with kissing the hand of the marchioness. "Go to," returned she, "you will never get on in the world."
[Footnote 1: This nickname was given in a poetical invitation to
a supper-party at Madame Duchatelet's, sent by Voltaire to the poet:
"Au nom du Pinde et de Cythère
Gentil Bernard est averti,
Que l'Art d'Aimer doit Samedi
Venir souper chez l'Art de Plaire."]]
We have already named the Abbé, afterward Cardinal, de Bernis; and as he was the only individual who ever succeeded in being admitted into the entire confidence of the royal favorite, a brief notice of his birth, and rise and fall at court, may not be altogether out of place, so closely linked for many years were his fortunes with those of Madame de Pompadour.
Joachim de Pierres, abbé de Bernis, was born at Saint-Marcel, near Narbonne, in the month of May, 1715. His family, which was of the most ancient noblesse, was allied to the king through the house of Rohan; a circumstance, however, which did not prevent it being one of the poorest in the kingdom. As his relatives had nothing to give Joachim, they made him an abbé. Like Bernard, he came when very young to Paris, confiding in his lucky planet, smiling on every one, and reaping a plentiful harvest of smiles in return. He was then a handsome young man, with a bright eye and an animated mouth. In figure he was herculean, and here we find, in contradiction of Buffon's saying, that the style was not the man, no more than it was with Bernard, who was also of large stature.
Joachim passed the winter at Saint-Sulpice, but, like Boufflers a little later, far from singing the Canticles, he employed his time in the more mundane occupation of scribbling love-songs. At the end of the winter he was appointed vicar in a little town of his native department. "Vicar!" said Joachim; "I'll not disturb myself for such a trifle." Shortly afterward he was nominated Abbé de Bernis; but not a step would he budge from the capital. In Paris then he remained, penniless it is true, but without a care or thought for the future, and full of confidence in his lucky planet—a confidence which, it must be said, was not misplaced. His acquaintance with Madame d'Etioles began through an intrigue which he had with a certain marchande des modes, who worked for the future favorite. Having perceived the young girl one night at the theater in company with her lover, Madame d'Etioles summoned her the following morning to her house, and in the course of conversation inquired if that handsome young man she had with her at the theater was her cousin.
"No, madame," replied the milliner; "he is my lover."
"Ah, indeed! he is your lover is he? And what does he do?"
"No great things, madame; he makes verses."
"A maker of verses!" said Madame d'Etioles; "that is amusing. Do not forget my cap, and tell your young poet to come and see me."
In consequence of this invitation Bernis called on Madame d'Etioles, who
Received him with all the graces in the world, and from that hour
commenced a friendship which lasted for many years, and was the origin of
De Bernis' future advancement in the world.
Despite his great acquaintances, our abbé was none the richer; but he laughed gaily at his poverty, and waited for better times. According to all accounts the garret which he inhabited was in a wretchedly dilapidated condition; his furniture consisted of a "bad bed covered with some mules' saddle-cloths, which M. de Ferriol had brought from Constantinople, a rickety table covered with books and papers and faded bouquets, and an old worm-eaten arm-chair." Our abbé's purse was no better garnished than his lodgings; and so well-known was this fact in the world, that Senac de Meilhan tells us, that "when the Abbé de Bernis supped out some one of the party always gave him a crown to pay his coach-hire. At first this gift had been invented as a pleasantry, on the abbé invariably refusing to stay to supper, alleging as an excuse that he had no carriage; but it was a pleasantry which continued for some time."
In society, however, De Bernis was a general favorite, and was everywhere
Welcomed with open arms. They doated on Bernard, and they doated also on
on Bernis. Voltaire wrote in verse to both, Duclos spoke of their wit,
Helvetius gave them suppers, and the women did their best to spoil them.
From Cardinal de Fleury, however, our abbé received a rebuff. Having, in order to humor his relative the Princess de Rohan, who had lately taken him by the hand, applied to the minster for a convent, the latter sternly replied,—
"Monsieur l'Abbé, your debaucheries render you unworthy of the favors of the church. As long as I remain in power you shall obtain nothing."
"Well, Monseigneur," replied De Bernis, "I'll wait."
This repartee was an event; it was repeated and applauded everywhere until it reached the ears of royalty itself.
On Madame de Pompadour coming to power, the Princess de Rohan deigned to write to her in behalf of her dear abbé. "Madame la Marquis," she wrote, "you have not forgotten M. l'Abbé de Bernis; you will deign, I trust, to do something for him, he is worthy of your favors." Apropos of this letter, Madame de Pompadour wrote the following to some minister of the day: "I forgot, my dear Nigaud, to ask you what you have done for the Abbé de Bernis; write me word, I beg of you, as I shall see him on Sunday." Like Voltaire, Madame de Pompadour had the mania of nicknaming her friends and acquaintances; even the king himself figured more than once in her grotesque vocabulary.[B]