CHAPTER V.
RURAL HOSPITALITY.--AN EXTRAORDINARY GUEST.--A FIN$ GENTLEMAN IS NOTNECESSARILY A FOOL.
WE were all three (my brothers and myself) precocious geniuses. Ourearly instructions, under a man like the Abbe, at once learned andworldly, and the society into which we had been initiated from ourchildhood, made us premature adepts in the manners of the world; and I,in especial, flattered myself that a quick habit of observation renderedme no despicable profiter by my experience. Our academy, too, had beenmore like a college than a school; and we had enjoyed a license thatseemed to the superficial more likely to benefit our manners than tostrengthen our morals. I do not think, however, that the latter sufferedby our freedom from restraint. On the contrary, we the earlier learnedthat vice, but for the piquancy of its unlawfulness, would never beso captivating a goddess; and our errors and crimes in after life hadcertainly not their origin in our wanderings out of academical bounds.
It is right that I should mention our prematurity of intellect, because,otherwise, much of my language and reflections, as detailed in the firstbook of this history, might seem ill suited to the tender age at whichthey occurred. However, they approach, as nearly as possible, to mystate of mind at that period; and I have, indeed, often mortifiedmy vanity in later life by thinking how little the march of time hasripened my abilities, and how petty would have been the intellectualacquisitions of manhood, if they had not brought me something likecontent!
My uncle had always, during his retirement, seen as many people as hecould assemble out of the "mob of gentlemen who _live at_ ease." But,on our quitting school and becoming men, he resolved to set no bounds tohis hospitality. His doors were literally thrown open; and as he was byfar the greatest person in the district--to say nothing of his wines,and his French cook--many of the good people of London did not thinkit too great an honour to confer upon the wealthy representative of theDevereuxs the distinction of their company and compliments. Heavens!what notable samples of court breeding and furbelows did the crane-neckcoaches, which made our own family vehicle look like a gilt tortoise,pour forth by couples and leashes into the great hall; while my gallantuncle, in new periwig and a pair of silver-clocked stockings (apresent from a _ci-devant_ fine lady), stood at the far end of thepicture-gallery to receive his visitors with all the graces of the lastage.
My mother, who had preserved her beauty wonderfully, sat in a chair ofgreen velvet, and astonished the courtiers by the fashion of a dressonly just imported. The worthy Countess (she had dropped in England theloftier distinction of _Madame la Marechale_) was however quite innocentof any intentional affectation of the _mode_; for the new stomacher, soadmired in London, had been the last alteration in female garnitureat Paris a month before my father died. Is not this "Fashion" a nobledivinity to possess such zealous adherents?--a pitiful, lackey-likecreature, which struts through one country with the cast-off finery ofanother!
As for Aubrey and Gerald, they produced quite an effect; and I shouldmost certainly have been thrown irrevocably into the background had Inot been born to the good fortune of an eldest son. This was far morethan sufficient to atone for the comparative plainness of my person; andwhen it was discovered that I was also Sir William's favourite, itis quite astonishing what a beauty I became! Aubrey was declared tooeffeminate; Gerald too tall. And the Duchess of Lackland one day, whenshe had placed a lean, sallow ghost of a daughter on either side of me,whispered my uncle in a voice, like the _aside_ of a player, intendedfor none but the whole audience, that the young Count had the mostimposing air and the finest eyes she had ever seen. All this inspired mewith courage, as well as contempt; and not liking to be beholden solelyto my priority of birth for my priority of distinction, I resolved tobecome as agreeable as possible. If I had not in the vanity of my heartresolved also to be "myself alone," Fate would have furnished me at thehappiest age for successful imitation with an admirable model.
Time rolled on; two years were flown since I had left school, andMontreuil was not yet returned. I had passed the age of eighteen,when the whole house, which, as it was summer, when none but cats andphysicians were supposed gifted by Providence with the power to existin town, was uncommonly full,--the whole house, I say, was thrown intoa positive fever of expectation. The visit of a guest, if not of greaterconsequence at least of greater interest than any who had hithertohonoured my uncle, was announced. Even the young Count, with themost imposing air in the world and the finest eyes, was forgotten byeverybody but the Duchess of Lackland and her daughters, who had justreturned to Devereux Court to observe how amazingly the Count had grown!Oh! what a prodigy wisdom would be, if it were but blest with a memoryas keen and constant as that of interest!
Struck with the universal excitement, I went to my uncle to inquire thename of the expected guest. My uncle was occupied in fanning the LadyHasselton, a daughter of one of King Charles's Beauties. He had onlytime to answer me literally, and without comment; the guest's name wasMr. St. John.
I had never conned the "Flying Post," and I knew nothing about politics."Who is Mr. St. John?" said I; my uncle had renewed the office ofa zephyr. The daughter of the Beauty heard and answered, "The mostcharming person in England." I bowed and turned away. "How vastlyexplanatory!" said I. I met a furious politician. "Who is Mr. St. John?"I asked.
"The cleverest man in England," answered the politician, hurrying offwith a pamphlet in his hand.
"Nothing can be more satisfactory," thought I. Stopping a coxcomb of thefirst water, "Who is Mr. St. John?" I asked.
"The finest gentleman in England," answered the coxcomb, settling hiscravat.
"Perfectly intelligible!" was my reflection on this reply; and Iforthwith arrested a Whig parson,--"Who is Mr. St. John?" said I.
"The greatest reprobate in England!" answered the Whig parson, and I wastoo stunned to inquire more.
Five minutes afterwards the sound of carriage wheels was heard inthe courtyard, then a slight bustle in the hall, and the door of theante-room being thrown open Mr. St. John entered.
He was in the very prime of life, about the middle height, and of a mienand air so strikingly noble that it was some time before you recoveredthe general effect of his person sufficiently to examine its peculiarclaims to admiration. However, he lost nothing by a further survey:he possessed not only an eminently handsome but a very extraordinarycountenance. Through an air of _nonchalance_, and even something oflassitude; through an ease of manners sometimes sinking into effeminatesoftness, sometimes bordering upon licentious effrontery,--his eyethoughtful, yet wandering, seemed to announce that the mind partook butlittle of the whim of the moment, or of those levities of ordinary lifeover which the grace of his manner threw so peculiar a charm. Hisbrow was, perhaps, rather too large and prominent for the exactness ofperfect symmetry, but it had an expression of great mental power anddetermination. His features were high, yet delicate, and his mouth,which, when closed, assumed a firm and rather severe expression,softened, when speaking, into a smile of almost magical enchantment.Richly but not extravagantly dressed, he appeared to cultivate ratherthan disdain the ornaments of outward appearance; and whatever canfascinate or attract was so inherent in this singular man that all whichin others would have been most artificial was in him most natural: sothat it is no exaggeration to add that to be well dressed seemed to theelegance of his person not so much the result of art as of a propertyinnate and peculiar to himself.
Such was the outward appearance of Henry St. John; one well suited tothe qualities of a mind at once more vigorous and more accomplished thanthat of any other person with whom the vicissitudes of my life have everbrought me into contact.
I kept my eye on the new guest throughout the whole day: I observed themingled liveliness and softness which pervaded his attentions towomen, the intellectual yet unpedantic superiority he possessed in hisconversations with men; his respectful demeanour to age; his careless,yet not over-familiar, ease with the young; and, what interested memore than all, the occasional cloud which
passed over his countenanceat moments when he seemed sunk into a revery that had for its objectsnothing in common with those around him.
Just before dinner St. John was talking to a little group, among whomcuriosity seemed to have drawn the Whig parson whom I have beforementioned. He stood at a little distance, shy and uneasy; one of thecompany took advantage of so favourable a butt for jests, and alluded tothe bystander in a witticism which drew laughter from all but St. John,who, turning suddenly towards the parson, addressed an observationto him in the most respectful tone. Nor did he cease talking with him(fatiguing as the conference must have been, for never was therea duller ecclesiastic than the gentleman conversed with) until wedescended to dinner. Then, for the first time, I learned thatnothing can constitute good breeding that has not good-nature for itsfoundation; and then, too, as I was leading Lady Barbara Lackland tothe great hall by the tip of her forefinger I made another observation.Passing the priest, I heard him say to a fellow-clerk,--
"Certainly, he is the greatest man in England;" and I mentally remarked,"There is no policy like politeness; and a good manner is the best thingin the world, either to get one a good name or to supply the want ofit."