Let us pause now to ask whether this poor little creature was not to be pitied? Did he not seem to have been plucked out of his own sphere of safe and comparatively happy obscurity, only in order to become every one's game—an object of everybody's cupidity and cruelty? May he not be compared to the flying-fish, who, springing out of the water to avoid his deadly pursuer there, is instantly pounced upon by his ravenous assailants in the air? In the lower, and in the upper regions of society, was not this the condition of poor Tittlebat Titmouse? Was not his long-coveted advancement merely a transition from scenes of vulgar to refined rapacity? Had he, ever since "luck had happened to him," had one single friend to whisper in his ear one word of pity and of disinterested counsel? In the splendid regions which he had entered, who regarded him otherwise than as a legitimate object for plunder or ridicule, the latter disguised by the designing only? Was not even his dignified and exemplary old kinsman, the Earl of Dreddlington, Right Honorable as he was, influenced solely by considerations of paltry self-interest? Had he not his own ridiculous and mercenary designs to accomplish, amid all the attentions he vouchsafed to bestow upon Titmouse? 'Twas, I think, old Hobbes of Malmesbury who held, that the natural state of mankind was one of war with each other. One really sees a good deal in life, especially after tracing the progress of society, that would seem to give some color to so strange a notion. 'Twas, of course, at first a matter of downright fisticuffs—of physical strife, occasioned, in a great measure, by our natural tendencies, according to him of Malmesbury; and aggravated by the desire which everybody had, to take away from everybody else what he had. In process of time we have, in a measure, dropped the physical part of the business; and instead of punching, scratching, kicking, biting, and knocking down one another, still true to the original principles of our nature, we are all endeavoring to circumvent one another: everybody is trying to take everybody in; the moment that one of us has got together a thing or two, he is pounced upon by his neighbor, who in his turn falls a prey to another, and so on in endless succession. We cannot effectually help ourselves, though we are splitting our heads to discover devices by way of laws, to restrain this propensity of our nature: it will not do; we are all overreaching, cheating, swindling, robbing one another, and, if necessary, are ready to ruin, maim, and murder one another in the prosecution of our designs. So is it with nations as with individuals, and minor collections of individuals. Truly, truly, we are a precious set, whether the sage of Malmesbury be right or wrong in his speculations!–
The more that the earl and Lady Cecilia perceived of Titmouse's popularity, the more eager were they in parading their connection with him, and openly investing him with the character of a protégé. In addition to this, the Lady Cecilia had begun to have now and then a glimmering notion of the objects which the earl was contemplating. If the earl, having taken him down to the House of Lords, and secured him a place at the bar, would, immediately on entering, walk up to him, and be seen for some time—august instructor!—condescendingly pointing out to him the different peers by name, as they entered, and explaining to his intelligent auditor the period, and mode, and cause, of the creation and accession of many of them to their honors, and also the forms, ceremonies, and routine of business in the House; so Lady Cecilia was not remiss in availing herself, in her way, of the little opportunities which presented themselves. She invited him, for instance, one day early in the week, to accompany them to church on the ensuing Sunday, and during the interval gave out among her intimate friends that they might expect to see Mr. Titmouse in her papa's pew. The lion accepted the invitation; and, on the arrival of the appointed hour, might have been seen in the earl's carriage, driving to attend the afternoon's service, at the Reverend Morphine Velvet's chapel—Rosemary Chapel, near St. James's Square. 'Twas a fashionable chapel; a chapel of Ease: rightly so called, for it was a very easy mode of worship, discipline, and doctrine that was there practised and inculcated. If I may adopt without irreverence the language of Scripture, but apply it very differently, I should say that Mr. Morphine Velvet's yoke was very "easy," his burden very "light." He was a popular preacher; middle-aged; sleek, serene, solemn in his person and demeanor. He had a very gentlemanlike appearance in the pulpit and reading-desk. There was a sort of soothing, winning elegance and tenderness in the tone and manner in which he "prayed" and "besought" his "dearly beloved brethren, as many as were there present, to accompany him," their bland and graceful pastor, "to the throne of the heavenly grace!" Fit leader was he of such a flock. He read the prayers remarkably well, in a quiet and subdued tone, very distinctly, and with marked emphasis and intonation—in fact, in a most gentlemanly manner—having sedulously studied under a crack theatrical teacher of elocution, who had given him several "points"—in fact, a new reading entirely of one of the clauses in the Lord's Prayer; and which, he had the gratification of perceiving, produced a striking, if not, indeed, a startling effect. On the little finger of the hand which he used most, was to be observed the sparkle of a diamond ring; and there was a sort of careless grace in the curl of his hair, which it had taken his hairdresser at least half an hour, before Mr. Velvet's leaving home for his chapel, to secure. In the pulpit he was calm and fluent. That, he rightly considered, ought not to be the scene for attempting intellectual display. He took care, therefore, that there should be nothing in his sermons to arrest the understanding, or unprofitably occupy it; addressing himself entirely to the feelings and fancy of his cultivated audience, in frequently interesting and even charming imaginative compositions. On the occasion I am speaking of, he took for his text a fearful passage of Scripture, 2 Cor. iv. 3,—"But if our gospel be hid, it is hid to them that are lost." If any words were calculated to startle such a congregation as was arrayed before Mr. Velvet, out of their guilty and fatal apathy, were not these? Ought not their minister to have looked round him and trembled? So one would have thought; but "dear Mr. Velvet" knew his mission and his flock better. He presented them with an elegant description of heaven, with its crystal battlements, its jasper walls, its buildings of pure gold, its foundations of precious stones; its balmy air, its sounds of mysterious melody, its overflowing fulness of everlasting happiness—amid which friends, parted upon earth by the cruel stroke of death, recognize and are reunited to each other, never more to pronounce the agonizing word "adieu!" And would his dear hearers be content to lose all this—content to enjoy the pleasures of sin for a season? Forbid it, eternal mercy!—But lest a strain like this should disturb or distress his hearers, he took the opportunity to enforce and illustrate the consolatory truth that—
"Religion never was design'd
To make our pleasures less;"
and presently resuming the thread of his discourse, went on to speak of the unquestionably serious consequences attending a persevering indifference to religion; and proceeded to give striking instances of it in—the merchant in his counting-house, and on 'change; the lawyer in his office; the tradesman in his shop; the operative in the manufactory; showing how each was absorbed in his calling—laboring for the meat which perisheth, till he had lost all appetite and relish for spiritual food, and never once troubled himself about "the momentous concerns of hereafter!" Upon these topics he dwelt with such force and feeling, that he sent his distinguished congregation away—those of them, at least, who could retain any recollection of what they had heard for five minutes after entering their carriages—with lively fears that there was a very black look-out, indeed, for—the kind of persons whom Mr. Velvet had mentioned—viz. tailors, milliners, mercers, jewellers, and so forth; and who added graver offences, and of a more positive character, to the misconduct which he had pointed out—in their extortion and their rapacity! Would that some of them had been present!—Thus was it that dear Mr. Velvet sent away his hearers overflowing with Christian sympathy; very well pleased with Mr. Velvet, but infinitely better pleased with themselves! The deep impression he had made, was evidenced by a note which he received that evening from the Duchess of Broadacre; most earnestly begging permission to copy his "beautiful sermon," in order to send it to her sister, Lady Belle Almacks, who (through early dissipation) was ill of a decline at Naples. I may as well here mention, that about the time of which I am speaking, there came out an engraved portrait of "the Rev. Morphine Velvet, M. A., Minister of Rosemary Chapel, St. James," and a very charming picture it was, representing the aforesaid Mr. Velvet in pulpit costume and attitude, with hands gracefully outstretched, and his face directed upward, with a heavenly expression; suggesting to you the possibility that some fine day, when his hearers least expected it, he might gently rise out of his pulpit into the air, like Stephen, with heaven open before him, and be no more seen of men!
Four or five carriages had to set down before that containing the Earl of Dreddlington, Lady Cecilia, and Mr. Titmouse, could draw up; by which time there had accumulated as many in its rear, so eager were the pious aristocrats to get into this holy retreat. As Titmouse, holding his hat and cane in one hand, while with the other he arranged his hair, strutted up the centre aisle, following the earl and Lady Cecilia, he could hardly repress the exultation with which he thought of a former visit of his to that very fabric some two years before. Then, on attempting to enter the body of the chapel, the vergers had politely but firmly repulsed him; on which, swelling with vexation, he had ascended to the gallery, where, after having been kept standing for ten minutes at least, he had been beckoned by the pew-opener towards, and squeezed into, the furthermost pew, close at the back of the organ, and in which said pew were two powdered footman. If disgusted with his mere contiguity, guess what must have been his feelings when his nearest companion good-naturedly forced upon him a part of his prayer-book; which Titmouse, ready to spit in his face, held with his finger and thumb, as though it had been the tail of a snake! Now, how changed was all! He had become an aristocrat; in his veins ran some of the richest and oldest blood in the country; his brow might ere long be graced by the coronet which King Henry II. had placed upon the brow of the founder of his family, some seven hundred years before; and a tall footman, with powdered head, glistening silver shoulder-knot, and sky-blue livery, and carrying in a bag the gilded implements of devotion, was humbly following behind him! What a remarkable and vivid contrast between his present and his former circumstances, was present at that moment to his reflecting mind! As he stood, his hat covering his face, in an attitude of devotion—"I wonder," thought he, "what all these nobs and swells would say, if they knew the sort of figure I had cut here on the last time?" and again—"'Pon my life, what would I give for—say Huckaback—to see me just now!" What an elegant and fashionable air the congregation wore! Surely there must be something in religion, when people such as were around him came so punctually to church, and behaved so seriously! The members of that congregation were, indeed, exemplary in their strict discharge of their public religious duties! Scarce one of them was there who had not been at the opera till twelve o'clock over-night; the dulcet notes of the singers were still thrilling in their ears, the graceful attitudes of the dancers still present to their eyes. Every previous night of the week had they been engaged in the brilliant ball-room, and whirled in the mazes of the voluptuous waltz, or glittering in the picturesque splendor of fancy dress, till three, four, and five o'clock in the morning: yet here they were in the house of God, in spite of all their exhaustion, testified by the heavy eye, the ill-suppressed yawn, the languor and ennui visible in their countenances, prepared to accompany their polite pastor, "with a pure heart and humble voice, unto the throne of the heavenly grace," to acknowledge, with lively emotion, that they "had followed too much the devices and desires of their own hearts;" praying for "mercy upon them, miserable offenders," that God would "restore them, being penitent," so that "they might thereafter lead a godly, righteous, and sober life." Here they were, punctual to their time, decorous in manner, devout in spirit, earnest and sincere in repentance and good resolutions—knowing, nevertheless the while, how would be spent the remainder of the season—of their lives; and yet resolving to attend to the respectfully affectionate entreaties of Mr. Velvet, to be "not hearers only, but doers of the word." Generally, I should say, that the state of mind of most, if not all of those present, was analogous to that of persons who sit in the pump-room, to drink the Bath or Cheltenham waters. Everybody did the same thing; and each hoped that, while sitting in his pew, what he heard would, like what he drank at the pump-room, in some secret mode of operation, insensibly benefit the hearer, without subjecting him to any unpleasant restraint or discipline—without requiring active exertion, or inconvenience, or sacrifice. This will give you a pretty accurate notion of Lord Dreddlington's state of mind upon the present occasion. With his gold glasses on, he followed with his eye, and also with his voice, every word of the prayers, with rigid accuracy and unwavering earnestness; but as soon as Mr. Velvet had mounted the pulpit, and risen to deliver his discourse, the earl quietly folded his arms, closed his eyes, and, in an attentive posture, dignifiedly composed himself to sleep. Lady Cecilia sat beside him perfectly motionless during the whole sermon, her eyes fixed languidly upon the preacher. As for Titmouse, he bore it pretty well for about five minutes; then he pulled his gloves off and on at least twenty times; then he twisted his handkerchief round his fingers; then he looked with a vexed air at his watch; then he stuck his glass in his eye, and stared about him. By the time that Mr. Velvet had ceased, Titmouse had conceived a very great dislike to him, and was indeed in a fretful humor. But when the organ struck up, and they rose to go; when he mingled with the soft, crushing, fluttering, rustling, satin-clad throng—nodding to one, bowing to another, and shaking hands with a third, he felt "himself again." The only difference between him and those around him was, that they had learned to bear with calm fortitude what had so severely tried his temper. All were glad to get out: the crash of carriages at the door was music in their ears—the throng of servants delightful objects to their eyes—they were, in short, in the dear world again, and breathed as freely as ever!
Mr. Titmouse took leave of the earl and Lady Cecilia at their carriage-door, having ordered his cab to be in waiting—as it was; and entering it, he drove about leisurely till it was time to think of dressing for dinner. He had accepted an invitation to dine with a party of officers in the Guards, and a merry time they had on't. Titmouse in due time got blind drunk; and then one of his companions, rapidly advancing towards the same happy state, seized the opportunity, with a burned cork, to blacken poor Titmouse's face all over—who thereupon was pronounced to bear a very close resemblance to one of the black boys belonging to the band of the regiment; and thus, when dead drunk, afforded nearly as much fun to his companions as when sober. As he was quite incapable of taking care of himself, they put a servant with him into his cab, (judging his little tiger to be unequal to the responsibility.)
Titmouse passed a sad night, but got better towards the middle of the ensuing day; when he was sufficiently recovered to receive two visitors. One of them was young Lord Frederic Feather, (accompanied by a friend,) both of whom had dined in company with Titmouse over-night; and his Lordship it was, who, having decorated Titmouse's countenance in the way I have described—so as to throw his valet almost into fits on seeing him brought home—imagining it might possibly come to his ears who it was that had done him such a favor, had come to acknowledge and apologize for it frankly and promptly. When, however, he perceived what a fool he had got to deal with, he suddenly changed his course—declared that Titmouse had not only done it himself, but had then presumed to act similarly towards his Lordship, whose friend corroborated the charge—and they had called to receive, in private, an apology! Titmouse's breath seemed taken away on first hearing this astounding version of the affair. He swore that he had done nothing of the sort, but had suffered a good deal; dropping, however, from the tight rope, on observing the stern looks of his companions, he protested that at all events "he did not recollect" anything of the kind; on which they smiled good-naturedly, and said that that was very possible. Then Titmouse made the requisite apology; and thus this "awkward affair" ended. Lord Frederic continued for some time with Titmouse in pleasant chat; for he foresaw that, "hard up" as he frequently was, Mr. Titmouse was a friend who might be exceedingly serviceable. In fact, poor Lord Frederic could, on that very occasion, have almost gone on his knees for a check of Mr. Titmouse upon his bankers for a couple of hundred pounds. Oh, thought that "noble" young spark—what would he have given to be in Titmouse's position, with his twenty thousand a-year, and a hundred thousand pounds of hard cash! But, as the reader well knows, poor Titmouse's resources, ample as they were, were upon a far less splendid scale than was supposed. Partly from inclination, and partly through a temporary sense of embarrassment, occasioned by the want of ready money, Titmouse did not spend a tenth part of the sum which it had been everywhere supposed he could disburse freely on all hands: and this occasioned him to be given credit for possessing all that rumor assigned to him; and, moreover, for a disposition not to squander it. He had several times been induced to try his hand at écarté, rouge et noir, and hazard; and had, on the first occasion or two, been a little hurried away, through deference to his distinguished associates, and bled rather freely; but when he found that it was a matter of business—that he must pay—and felt his purse growing lighter, and his pocket-book, in which he kept his bank-notes, rapidly shrinking in dimensions as the evening wore on, he experienced vivid alarm and disgust, and an increasing disinclination to be "victimized;" and his aversion to play was infinitely strengthened by the frequent cautions of his distinguished and disinterested monitor, the Earl of Dreddlington.
But there was one step in Mr. Titmouse's upward progress which he presently took, and which is worthy of special mention; I mean his presentation at court by the Earl of Dreddlington. The necessity for such a move was explained to Titmouse by his illustrious kinsman, a day or two after the appearance of the ordinary official announcement of the next levee. This momentous affair was broached by the earl, one day after dinner, with an air of almost mysterious anxiety and interest. Had, indeed, that stately and solemn old simpleton been instructing his gaping protégé, in the minutely-awful etiquettes requisite for the due discharge of his duties, as an ambassador sent upon a delicate and embarrassing mission to the court of his Sacred Majesty the King of Sulkypunctilio, he could not have appeared more penetrated by a sense of the responsibility he was incurring. He commenced by giving Titmouse a very long history of the origin and progress of such ceremonies, and a minute account of the practical manner of their observance, all of which, however, was to Titmouse only like breathing upon a mirror—passing as quickly out of one ear as it had entered into the other. When, however, the earl came to the point of dress, Titmouse was indeed "a thing all ear, all eye," his little faculties being stimulated to their utmost. The next morning he hurried off to his tailor, to order a court dress. When it had been brought home for trial, and he had put it on, upon returning to his room in his new and imposing costume, and glancing at his figure in the glass, his face fell; and he felt infinitely disappointed. It is to be remembered in candor, however, that he had not on lace ruffles at his coat-cuffs, nor on his shirt-front. After gazing at himself for a few moments in silence, he suddenly snapped his fingers, and exclaimed to the tailor, who, with the valet, was standing beside him, "Curse me if I like this thing at all!"
"Not like it, sir!" exclaimed Mr. Clipclose, with astonishment.
"No, I don't, demme! Is this a court dress? It's a quaker's made into a footman's! 'Pon my soul, I look the exact image of a footman; and a devilish vulgar one too!" The two individuals beside him turned suddenly away—looking in different directions—and from their noses there issued the sounds of ill-suppressed laughter.
"Oh, sir—I beg a thousand pardons!"—quickly exclaimed Mr. Clipclose, "what can I have been thinking about? There's the sword—we've quite forgot it!"
"Ah—'pon my life, I thought there was something wrong!" quoth Titmouse, as Mr. Clipclose, having brought the sword from the table at the other end of the room, where he had laid it upon entering, buckled it upon his distinguished customer.
"I flatter myself that now, sir"—commenced he.
"Ya—as—Quite the correct thing! 'Pon my soul—must say—most uncommon striking!"—exclaimed Titmouse, glancing at his figure in the glass, with a triumphant smile. "Isn't it odd, now, that this sword should make all the difference between me and a footman, by Jove?" Here his two companions were seized with a simultaneous fit of coughing.
"Ah, ha—it's so, a'n't it?" continued Titmouse, his eyes glued to the glass.
"Certainly, sir," replied Mr. Clipclose, "it undoubtedly gives—what shall I call it? a grace—a finish—a sort of commanding appearance—especially to a figure that becomes it"—he continued with cool assurance, observing that the valet understood him. "But—may I, sir, take so great a liberty? If you are not accustomed to wear a sword—as I think you said you had not been at court before—I beg to remind you that it will require particular care to manage it, and prevent it from getting between"–
"Demme, sir!" exclaimed Titmouse, turning round with an offended air—"d'ye think I don't know how to manage a sword? By all that's tremendous"—and plucking the taper weapon out of its scabbard, he waved it over his head; and throwing himself into the first position—he had latterly paid a good deal of attention to fencing—with rather an excited air, he went through several of the preliminary movements. 'Twas a subject for a painter, and exhibited a very striking spectacle—as an instance of power silently concentrated, and ready to be put forth upon an adequate occasion. The tailor and the valet, who stood separate from each other, and at a safe and respectful distance from Mr. Titmouse, gazed at him with silent admiration.
When the great day arrived—Titmouse having thought of scarce anything else in the interval, and teased every one whom he had met with his endless questions and childish observations on the subject—he drove up, at the appointed hour, to the Earl of Dreddlington's; whose carriage, with an appearance of greater state than usual about it, was standing at the door. On alighting from his cab, he skipped so nimbly up-stairs, that he could not have had time to observe the amusement which his figure occasioned even to the well-disciplined servants of the Earl of Dreddlington. Much allowance ought to have been made for them. Think of Mr. Titmouse's little knee-breeches, white silks, silver shoe-buckles, shirt ruffles and frills, coat, bag, and sword; and his hair, plastered up with bear's grease, parted down the middle of his head, and curling out boldly over each temple; and his open countenance irradiated with a subdued smile of triumph and excitement! On entering the drawing-room he beheld a really striking object—the earl in court costume, wearing his general's uniform, with all his glistening orders, standing in readiness to set off, and holding in his hand his hat, with its snowy plume. His posture was at once easy and commanding. Had he been standing to Sir Thomas Lawrence, he could not have disposed himself more effectively. Lady Cecilia was sitting on the sofa, leaning back, and languidly talking to him; and, from the start which they both gave on Titmouse's entrance, it was plain that they could not have calculated upon the extraordinary transmogrification he must have undergone, in assuming court costume. For a moment or two, each was as severely shocked as when his absurd figure had first presented itself in that drawing-room. "Oh, heavens!" murmured Lady Cecilia: while the earl seemed struck dumb by the approaching figure of Titmouse. That gentleman, however, was totally changed from the Titmouse of a former day. He had now acquired a due sense of his personal importance, a just confidence in himself. Greatness had lost its former petrifying influence over him. And, as for his appearance on the present occasion, he had grown so familiar with it, as reflected in his glass, that it never occurred to him that the case might be different with others who beheld him for the first time. The candor upon which I pride myself urges me to state, however, that when Titmouse beheld the military air and superb equipments of the earl—notwithstanding that Titmouse, too, wore a sword—he felt himself done. He advanced, nevertheless, pretty confidently—bobbing about, first to Lady Cecilia, and then to the earl; and after a hasty salutation, observed,—"'Pon my life, my Lord, I hope it's no offence, but your Lordship does look most remarkable fine." The earl made no reply, but inclined towards him magnificently—not seeing the meaning and intention of Titmouse, but being affronted by his words.
"May I ask what your Lordship thinks of me? First time I ever appeared in this kind of thing, my Lord—ha! ha, your Lordship sees!" As he spoke, his look and voice betrayed the overawing effects of the earl's splendid appearance, which was rapidly freezing up the springs of familiarity, if not, indeed, of flippancy, which were bubbling up within the little bosom of Titmouse, on his entering the room. His manner became involuntarily subdued and reverential. The Earl of Dreddlington in plain clothes, and in full court costume, were two very different persons; though his Lordship would have been terribly mortified if he had known that any one thought so. However much he now regretted having offered to take Titmouse to the levee, there was no escape from the calamity; so, after a few minutes' pause, his Lordship rang the bell, and announced his readiness to set off. Followed by Mr. Titmouse, the earl slowly descended the stairs; and when he was within two or three steps of the hall floor, it distresses me to relate, that his Lordship suddenly fell nearly flat upon his face, and, but for his servants' rushing up, would have been seriously hurt. Poor Titmouse had been the occasion of this dismal disaster; for his sword getting between his legs, down he went against the earl, who went naturally down upon the floor, as I have mentioned. Titmouse was not much hurt, but terribly frightened, and became as pale as death when he looked at the earl; who appeared a little agitated, but, not having been really injured, soon recovered a considerable measure of self-possession. Profuse were poor Titmouse's apologies, as may be supposed; but much as he was distressed at what had taken place, a glance at the angry countenances with which the servants regarded him, as if inwardly cursing his stupidity and clumsiness, stirred up his spirit a little with a feeling of resentment. He would have given a hundred pounds to have been able to discharge every one of them on the spot!—
"Sir—enough has been said," quoth the earl, rather coldly and haughtily, tired of the multiplied apologies and excuses of Titmouse. "I thank God, sir, that I am not hurt, though at my time of life a fall is not a slight matter. Sir," continued the earl, bitterly—again interrupting Titmouse—"you are not so much to blame as your tailor; he should have explained to you how to wear your sword!" With this, having cut Titmouse to the very quick, the earl motioned him towards the door. They soon entered the carriage; the door was closed; and, with a brace of footmen behind, away rolled these two truly distinguished subjects to pay their homage to Majesty—which might well be proud of such homage!—They both sat in silence for some time. At length—"Beg your Lordship's pardon," quoth Titmouse, with some energy; "but I wish your Lordship only knew how I hate this cursed skewer that's pinned to me:" and he looked at his sword, as if he could have snapped it into halves, and thrown them through the window.
"Sir, I can appreciate your feelings. The sword was not to blame; and you have my forgiveness," replied the still ruffled earl.