Chapter Forty Eight.
Oh, for a forty-parson power to chant
Thy praise, Hypocrisy! Oh, for a hymn
Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt,
Not practise!
Byron.
Hypocrisy, the thriving’st calling,
The only saint’s-bell that rings all in:
A gift that is not only able
To domineer among the rabble,
But by the law’s empowered to rout,
And awe the greatest that stand out.
Hudibras.
“All-pervading essence, whose subtle spirit hath become a part component of everything this universe contains — power that presidest over nations and countries, kingdoms and cities, courts and palaces, and every human tenement, even to the lowly cot — leaven of the globe, that workest in the councils of its princes, in the reasonings of its senates, in the atmosphere of the court, in the traffic of the city, in the smiles of the enamoured youth, and in the blush of the responding maid — thou that clothest with awe the serjeant’s coif and the bishop’s robe — thou that assistest at our nurture, our education, and our marriage, our death, our funeral, and habiliments of woe, — all hail!
“Chameleon spirit — at once contributing to the misery of our existence and adding to its fancied bliss — at once detested and a charm, to be eschewed and to be practised — that, with thy mystic veil, dimmest the bright beauty of virtue, and concealest the dark deformity of vice — imperishable, glorious, and immortal Humbug! Hail!
“Thee I invoke — and thus, with talismanic pen, commence my spells, — and charge thee, in the name of courtiers’ bows, of great men’s promises, of bribery oaths, of woman’s smiles, and tears of residuary legatees —
“Appear!
“By thy favourite works, — thy darling sinking fund, — the blessings of free-trade, — thy joint-stock companies, — the dread of Popery, — the liberality of East India Directors, and the sincerity of West India philanthropists —
“Descend!
“By the annual pageants — by the Lord Mayor’s show, and reform in parliament — by Burdett’s democracy, and the first of April — by explanations, and calls for papers — by Bartlemy fair, and the minister’s budget —
“Come!
“By lawyers’ consultations, and Chancery delay — public meetings, and public dinners, — loyal toasts, and ‘three times three’ — lady patronesses, and lords directors, — and by the decoy subscription of the chair —
“Descend!
“By the nolo episcopari of the Bishops —
“Come!
“By newspaper puffs, and newspaper reports, — by patent medicines, and portable dressing-cases, wine-merchant’s bottles, ne-plus-ultra corkscrews, — H — t’s corn, C — tt’s maize, W — ’s blacking, and W — ’s champagne —
“Appear!
“By thy professional followers, the fashionable tailors, hairdressers, boot-makers, milliners, jewellers — all the auctioneers, and all the bazaars —
“Come to my aid!
“By thy interested worshippers by shuffling W — e, by Z — M — y, Lawyer S — ns, W — m S — th, T — l B — n, Sir G — r McG — r, and Dom M — l —
“Appear!
“By thy talented votaries —
“Descend!
“Still heedless! — Then by the living B — m, and the shade of C — g, come!
“Rebellious and wayward spirit! I tell thee, come thou must, whether thou art at a council to wage a war in which thousands shall perish, or upon the padding of a coat, by which, unpaid for, but one ninth part of a man shall suffer — whether thou art forging the powerful artillery of woman against unarmed man, and directing the fire from her eye, which, like that of the Egyptian queen, shall lose an empire — or art just as busy in the adjustment of the bustle
1
Bustle. I am not certain whether I spell this modern invention correctly; if not, I must plead ignorance. I have asked several ladies of my acquaintance, who declare that they never heard of such a thing, which, perhaps, the reader will agree with me, is all humbug.
of a lady’s-maid — appear thou must. There is one potent spell, one powerful name, which shall force thee trembling to my presence. — Now —
“By all that is contemptible —
“By all his patriotism, his affection for the army and the navy — by his flow of eloquence, and his strength of argument — by the correctness of his statements, and the precision of his arithmetic — by his sum tottle, and by Joey H — e, himself —
“Appear!”
(Humbug descends, amidst a discharge of Promethean and copperplate thunder.)
“’Tis well!
2
“’Tis well! — Thou hast ‘done thy spiriting gently,’ or, for thy tardy coming, I would have sentenced thee to the task of infusing thy spirit into the consistent Eldon, or into Arthur Duke of Wellington — where, like a viper at a file, thou shouldest have tortured thyself in vain.”
Now perch upon the tip, and guide my pen, and contrive that the wickedness and hypocrisy of the individual may be forgotten in the absurdity of the scene.”
The grooms made no scruple, after the catastrophe, to state all that had passed between them and their master; it was spread through Cheltenham with the usual rapidity of all scandal, in a place where people have nothing to do but to talk about each other. The only confutation which the report received, was the conduct of Mr Rainscourt. He was positively inconsolable — he threw himself upon the remains, declaring that nothing should separate him from his dear — dear Clara. The honest old curate, who had attended Mrs Rainscourt in her last moments, had great difficulty, with the assistance of the men servants, in removing him to another chamber on the ensuing day. Some declared that he repented of his unkind behaviour, and that he was struck with remorse; the females observed, that men never knew the value of a wife until they lost her; others thought his grief was all humbug, although they acknowledged, at the same time, that they could not find out any interested motives to induce him to act such a part.
But when Mr Rainscourt insisted that the heart of the deceased should be embalmed, and directed it to be enshrined in an urn of massive gold, then all Cheltenham began to think that he was sincere, — at least all the ladies did; and the gentlemen, married or single, were either too wise or too polite to offer any negative remark, when his conduct was pronounced to be a pattern for all husbands. Moreover, Mr Potts, the curate, vouched for his sincerity, in consequence of the handsome gratuity which he had received for consigning Mrs Rainscourt to the vault, and the liberal largess to the poor upon the same occasion. “How could any man prove his sincerity more?” thought Mr Potts, who, blinded by gratitude, forgot that although in affliction our hearts are softened towards the miseries of others, on the other hand, we are quite as (if not more) liberal when intoxicated with good fortune.
Be it as it may, the conduct of Mr Rainscourt was pronounced most exemplary. All hints and surmises of former variance were voted scandalous, and all Cheltenham talked of nothing but the dead Mrs Rainscourt, the living Mr Rainscourt, the heart, and the magnificent gold urn.
“Have you heard how poor Mr Rainscourt is?” was the usual question at the pump, as the ladies congregated to pour down Number 3, or Number 4, in accordance with the directions of the medical humbugs.
“More resigned — they say he was seen walking after dark?”
“Was he, indeed? to the churchyard, of course. Poor dear man!”
“Miss Emily’s maid told my Abigail last night, that she looks quite beautiful in her mourning. But I suppose she will not come on the promenade again, before she leaves Cheltenham.”
“She ought not,” replied a young lady who did not much approve of so handsome an heiress remaining at Cheltenham. “It will be very incorrect if she does; some one ought to tell her so.”
With the exception of Mr Potts, no one had dared to break in upon the solitude of Mr Rainscourt, who had remained the whole day upon the sofa, with the urn on the table before him, and the shutters closed to exclude the light. The worthy curate called upon him every evening, renewing his topics of consolation, and pointing out the duty of Christian resignation. A deep sigh! a heavy Ah! or a long drawn Oh! were all the variety of answers that could be obtained for some days. But time does wonders; and Mr Rainscourt at last inclined an ear to the news of the day, and listened with marked attention to the answers which he elicited from the curate, by his indirect questions, as to what the world said about him.
“Come, come, Mr Rainscourt, do not indulge your grief any more. Excess becomes criminal. It is my duty to tell you so, and yours to attend to me. It is not to be expected that you will immediately return to the world and its amusements; but as there must be a beginning, why not come and take your family dinner to-day with Mrs Potts and me? Now let me persuade you — she will be delighted to see you — we dine at five. A hot joint — nothing more.”
Rainscourt, who was rather tired of solitude, refused in such a way as to induce the worthy curate to reiterate his invitation, and at length, with great apparent unwillingness, consented. The curate sat with him until the dinner hour, when, leaning on the pastor’s arm, Rainscourt walked down the street, in all the trappings of his woe, and his eyes never once raised from the ground.
“There’s Mr Rainscourt! There’s Mr Rainscourt!” whispered some of the promenaders who were coming up the street.
“No! that’s not him.”
“Yes it is, walking with Mr Potts! Don’t you see his beautiful large dog following him? He never walks without it. An’t it a beauty? It’s a Polygar dog from the East Indies. His name is Tippoo.”
The house of the curate was but a short distance from the lodgings occupied by Mr Rainscourt. They soon entered, and were hid from the prying eyes of the idle and the curious.
“I have persuaded Mr Rainscourt to come and take a family dinner with us, my dear.”
“Quite delighted to see him,” replied Mrs Potts, casting a sidelong angry glance at her husband.
Mr Rainscourt made a slight bow, and threw himself on the sofa, covering his face with his hand, as if the light was hideous.
Mrs Potts took the opportunity of escaping by the door, beckoning to her husband as soon as she was outside.
“And I will go and decant the wine. — Quite in the family way, Mr Rainscourt — no ceremony. You’ll excuse me,” continued the curate, as he obeyed the summons of his wife, like a school-boy ordered up to be birched.
“Well, my dear,” interrogated Mr Potts, humbly, as soon as the door was closed. But Mrs Potts made no reply, until she had led her husband to such a distance from the parlour as she imagined would prevent Mr Rainscourt from being roused by the high pitch to which she intended to raise her voice.
“I do declare, Mr Potts, you are a complete fool. Saturday — all the maids washing — and ask him to dinner! There’s positively nothing to eat. It really is too provoking.”
“Well, my dear, what does it matter? The poor, man will, in all probability, not eat a bit — he is so overcome.”
“So over-fiddlesticked!” replied the lady. “Grief never hurts the appetite, Mr Potts; on the contrary, people care more then about a good dinner than at other times. It’s the only enjoyment they can have without being accused by the world of want of feeling.”
“Well, you know better than I, my dear; but I really think that if you were to die I could not eat a bit.”
“And I tell you, Mr Potts, I could, if you were to die tomorrow. — So stupid of you! — Sally, run and take off the tablecloth, — it’s quite dirty; put on one of the fine damask.”
“They will be very large for the table, ma’am.”
“Never mind — be quick, and step next door, and ask the old German to come in and wait at table. He shall have a pint of strong beer.”
Sally did as she was bid. Mr Potts, whose wine had been decanted long before, and Mrs Potts, who had vented her spleen upon her husband, returned into the parlour together.
“My dear Mr Potts is so particular about decanting his wine,” observed the lady, with a gracious smile, as she entered — “he is so long about it, and scolds me so if ever I wish to do it for him.”
Mr Potts was a little surprised at the last accusation: but as he had long been drilled, he laughed assent. A tedious half-hour — during which the lady had all the conversation to herself, for the curate answered only in monosyllabic compliance, and Rainscourt made no answer whatever — elapsed before dinner was announced by the German mercenary who had been subsidised.
“Meinheer, de dinner was upon de table.”
“Come, Mr Rainscourt,” said the curate, in a persuasive tone.
Rainscourt got up, and without offering his arm to the lady, who had her own bowed out in readiness, stalked out of the room by the side of Mr Potts, followed by his wife, who, by her looks, seemed to imply that she considered that the demise of one woman was no excuse for a breach of politeness towards another.
The covers were removed — two small soles (much too small for three people), and a dish of potatoes. “Will you allow me to offer you a little sole, Mr Rainscourt? I am afraid you will have a very poor dinner.”
Rainscourt bowed in the negative, and the soles disappeared in a very short time between the respective organs of mastication of Mr and Mrs Potts.
The dishes of the first course were removed; and the German appeared with a covered dish, followed by Sally, who brought some vegetables, and returned to the kitchen for more.
“I’m afraid you will have a very poor dinner,” repeated the lady. — “Take off the cover, Sneider. — Will you allow me to help you to a piece of this?”
Rainscourt turned his head round to see if the object offered was such as to tempt his appetite, and beheld a — smoking bullock’s heart!
“My wife, my wife!” exclaimed he, as he darted from his chair; and covering his face, as if to hide from his sight the object which occasioned the concatenation of ideas, attempted to run out of the room.
But his escape was not so easy. In his hurried movement he had entangled himself with the long table-cloth that trailed on the carpet, and, to the dismay of the party, everything that was on the table was swept off in his retreat; and as he had blindfolded himself, he ran with such force against the German, who was in the act of receiving a dish from Sally, that, precipitating him against her, they both rolled prostrate on the floor.
“Ah, mein Got, mein Got!” roared the German, as his face was smothered with the hot stewed peas, a dish of which he was carrying as he fell on his back.
“Oh, my eye, my eye!” bellowed Sally, as she rolled upon the floor.
“My wife, my wife!” reiterated Rainscourt, as he trampled over them, and secured his retreat.
“And oh, my dinner, my dinner!” ejaculated the curate, as he surveyed the general wreck.
“And oh, you fool, you fool, Mr Potts!” echoed the lady, with her arms akimbo — “to ask such a man to dine with you!”
“Well, I had no idea that he could have taken it so much to heart,” replied the curate meekly.
But we must follow Rainscourt, who — whether really agitated by the circumstance, or, aware that it would be bruited abroad, thought that a display of agitation would be advisable — proceeded with hurried steps to the promenades, where he glided through the thoughtless crowd with the silent rapidity of a ghost. Having sufficiently awakened the curiosity of the spectators, he sank down on one of the most retired benches, with his eyes for some time thrown up in contemplation of the fleecy clouds, beyond which kind spirits are supposed to look down, and weep over the follies and inconsistencies of an erring world. Casting his eyes to earth, he beheld — horror upon horrors — the detested bullock’s heart, which his great Polygar dog had seized during the confusion of the dinner scene, and had followed him out with it in his mouth. Finding it too hot to carry immediately after its seizure, he had, for a time, laid it down, and had just arrived with it. There he was, not a foot from the bench, his jaws distended with the prize, tossing up his head as if in mockery of his master, and wagging his long, feathered tail.
Rainscourt again made a precipitate retreat to his own lodgings, accompanied by the faithful animal, who, delighted at the unusual rapidity of his master’s movements, bounded before him with his treasure, of which he was much too polite to think of making a repast until a more seasonable opportunity. Rainscourt knocked at the door — as soon as it was opened, the dog bounced up before him, entering the chamber of woe, and crouching under the table upon which the golden urn was placed with the heart between his paws, saluted his master with a rap or two of his tail on the carpet, and commenced his dinner.
The servant was summoned, and Rainscourt, without looking at either the urn, the dog, or the man, cried — in an angry tone, “Take that heart, and throw it away immediately.”
“Sir!” replied the domestic with astonishment, who did not observe the dog and his occupation.
“Throw it away immediately, sir — do you hear?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the man, taking the urn from the table, and quitting the room with it, muttering to himself, as he descended the stairs “I thought it wouldn’t last long.” Having obeyed his supposed instructions, he returned — “If you please, sir, where am I to put the piece of plate?”
“The piece of plate!” Rainscourt turned round, and beheld the vacant urn. It was too much — that evening he ordered the horses, and left Cheltenham for ever.
Various were the reports of the subsequent week. Some said that the fierce dog had broken open the urn, and devoured the embalmed heart. Some told one story — some another; and before the week was over, all the stories had become incomprehensible.
In one point they all agreed — that Mr Rainscourt’s grief was all humbug.
Chapter Forty Nine.
There leviathan,
Hugest of living creatures, on the deep,
Stretch’d like a promontory, sleeps or swims.
Milton.
Congratulate me, Reader, that, notwithstanding I have been beating against wind and tide, that is to say, writing this book, through all the rolling and pitching, headache and indigestion, incident to the confined and unnatural life of a sailor, I have arrived at my last chapter. You may be surprised at this assertion, finding yourself in the middle of the third volume; but such is the fact. Doubtless you have imagined, that according to the usual method, I had begun at the beginning, and would have finished at the end. Had I done so, this work would not have been so near to a close as, thank Heaven, it is at present. At times I have been gay, at others, sad; and I am obliged to write according to my humour, which, as variable as the wind, seldom continues in one direction. I have proceeded with this book as I should do if I had had to build a ship. The dimensions of every separate piece of timber I knew by the sheer-draught which lay before me. It therefore made no difference upon which I began, as they all were to be cut out before I bolted them together. I should have taken them just as they came to hand, and sorted them for their respective uses. My keel is laid on the slips, and my stern is raised; these will do for futtocks — these for beams. I lay those aside for riders; and out of these gnarled and twisted pieces of oak, I select my knees. It is of little consequence on which my adze is first employed. Thus it was that a fit of melancholy produced the last half of the third volume; and my stern-post, transoms, and fashion-pieces, were framed out almost before my floor-timbers were laid. But you will perceive that this is of no consequence. All are now bolted together; and, with the exception of a little dubbing away here and there, a little gingerbread work, and a coat of paint, she is ready for launching. Now all is ready. — Give me the bottle of wine — and, as she rushes into the sea of public opinion, upon which her merits are to be ascertained, I christen her “The King’s Own.”
And now that she is afloat, I must candidly acknowledge that I am not exactly pleased with her. To speak technically, her figure-head is not thrown out enough. To translate this observation into plain English, I find, on turning over the different chapters, that my hero, as I have often designated him, is not sufficiently the hero of my tale. As soon as he is shipped on board of a man-of-war, he becomes as insignificant as a midshipman must unavoidably be, from his humble situation. I see the error — yet I cannot correct it, without overthrowing all “rules and regulations,” which I cannot persuade myself to do, even in a work of fiction. Trammelled as I am by “the service,” I can only plead guilty to what it is impossible to amend without commencing de novo — for everything and everybody must find their level on board of a king’s ship. Well, I’ve one comfort left — Sir Walter Scott has never succeeded in making a hero; or, in other words, his best characters are not those which commonly go under the designation of “the hero.” I am afraid there is something irreclaimably insipid in these preux chevaliers.
But I must go in search of the Aspasia. There she is, with studding-sails set, about fifty miles to the northward of the Cape of Good Hope; and I think that when the reader has finished this chapter, he will be inclined to surmise that the author, as well as the Aspasia, has most decidedly “doubled the Cape.” The frigate was standing her course before a light breeze, at the rate of four or five knots an hour, and Captain M — was standing at the break of the gangway, talking with the first-lieutenant, when the man stationed at the mast-head called out, “A rock on the lee-bow!” The Télémaque shoal, which is supposed to exist somewhere to the southward of the Cape, but whose situation has never been ascertained, had just before been the subject of their conversation. Startled at the intelligence, Captain M — ordered the studding-sails to be taken in, and, hailing the man at the mast-head, inquired how far the rock was distant from the ship.
“I can see it off the fore-yard,” answered Pearce, the master, who had immediately ascended the rigging upon the report.
The first-lieutenant now went aloft, and soon brought it down to the lower ratlines. In a few minutes it was distinctly seen from the deck of the frigate.
The ship’s course was altered three or four points, that no risk might be incurred; and Captain M — , directing the people aloft to keep a sharp look-out for any change in the colour of the water, continued to near the supposed danger in a slanting direction.
The rock appeared to be about six or seven feet above the water’s edge, with a base of four or five feet in diameter. To the great surprise of all parties, there was no apparent change in colour to indicate that they shoaled their water; and it was not until they hove-to within two cables’ length, and the cutter was ordered to be cleared away to examine it, that they perceived that the object of their scrutiny was in motion. This was now evident, and in a direction crossing the stern of the ship.
“I think that it is some kind of fish,” observed Seymour; “I saw it raise its tail a little out of the water.”
And such it proved to be, as it shortly afterwards passed the ship within half a cable’s length. It was a large spermaceti whale, on the head of which some disease had formed an enormous spongy excrescence, which had the appearance of a rock, and was so buoyant that, although the animal made several attempts as it approached the ship, it could not sink under water. Captain M — , satisfied that it really was as we have described, again made sail, and pursued his course.
“It is very strange and very important,” observed he, “that a disease of any description can scarcely be confined to one individual, but must pervade the whole species. This circumstance may account for the many rocks reported to have been seen in various parts of the southern hemisphere, and which have never been afterwards fallen in with. A more complete deception I never witnessed.”
“Had we hauled off sooner, and not have examined it, I should have had no hesitation in asserting, most confidently, that we had seen a rock,” answered the first-lieutenant.
Captain M — went below, and was soon after at table with the first-lieutenant and Macallan, who had been invited to dine in the cabin. After dinner, the subject was again introduced. “I have my doubts, sir,” observed the first-lieutenant, “whether I shall ever venture to tell the story in England. I never should be believed.”
“Le vrai n’est pas toujours le vraisemblable,” answered Captain M — ; “and I am afraid that too often a great illiberality is shown towards travellers, who, after having encountered great difficulties and dangers, have the mortification not to be credited upon their return. Although credulity is to be guarded against, I do not know a greater proof of ignorance than refusing to believe anything because it does not exactly coincide with one’s own ideas. The more confined these may be, from want of education or knowledge, the more incredulous people are apt to become. Two of the most enterprising travellers of modern days, Bruce and Le Vaillant, were ridiculed and discredited upon their return. Subsequent travellers, who went the same track as the former, with a view to confute, were obliged to corroborate his assertions; and all who have followed the latter have acknowledged the correctness of his statements.�