# Vivian Grey/Volume 2/Chapter 4.1

VIVIAN GREY.
BOOK THE FOURTH.
CHAP. I.
THE PARKS.
The important time drew nigh. Christmas was to be passed by the Carabas family, the Beaconsfields, the Scropes, and the Clevelands, at Lord Courtown's villa at Richmond; at which place, on account of its vicinity to the MetropoUs, the Viscount had determined to make out the holidays,' notwithstanding the Thames entered his kitchen windows, and the ​Donna del Lago was acted in the theatre with real water,—Cynthia Courtown performing Elena, paddling in a punt.
"Let us order our horses, Cleveland, round to the Piccadilly gate, and walk through the Guards. I must stretch my legs. That bore, Horace Buttonhole, captured me in Pall-Mall East, and has kept me in the same position for upwards of half an hour. I shall make a note to blackball him at the Athenæum. How's Mrs. Cleveland?"
"Extremely well. She goes down to Buckhurst Lodge with the Marchioness. Isn't that Lord Lowersdale?"
"His very self. He's going to call on Vivida Vis, I've no doubt. Lowersdale is a man of very considerable talent—much more than the world gives him credit for."
"And he doubtless finds a very able counsellor in Monsieur le Sécretaire?"
" Can you name a better one.""
​"You rather patronize Vivida, I think, Grey?"
"Patronize him! he's my political pet!"
"And yet Kerrison tells me, you reviewed the Suffolk Papers in the Edinburgh."
"So I did—what of that? I defended them in Blackwood."
"This, then, is the usual method of you literary gentlemen. Thank God! I never could write a line."
"York House rises proudly—if York House be its name."
"This confounded Catholic Question is likely to give us a great deal of trouble. Grey. It's perfect madness for us to advocate the cause the 'six millions of hereditary bondsmen;' and yet, with not only the Marchese, but even Courtown and Beaconsfield committed, it is, to say the least, a very delicate business."
"Very delicate, certainly; but there are some precedents, I shrewdly suspect, Cleve​land, for the influence of a party being opposed to measures, which the heads of that party had pledged themselves to adopt."
"Does old Gifford still live at Pimlico, Grey?"
"Still."
"He's a splendid fellow, after all."
"Certainly, a mind of great powers—but bigotted."
"Oh! yes—I know exactly what you're going to say. It's the fashion, I'm aware, to abuse the old gentleman. He's the Earl of Eldon of literature;—not the less loved, because a little vilified. But, when I just remember what Gifford has done—when I call to mind the perfect and triumphant success of every thing he has undertaken—the Anti-Jacobin—the Baviad and Mæviad—the Quarterly—all palpable hits—on the very jugular—upon my honour, I hesitate before I speak of William Gifford in any other terms, or in any other ​spirit, than those of admiration and of gratitude.
"And to think, Grey, that the Tory administration, and the Tory party of Great Britain, should never, by a single act, or in one single instance, have indicated, that they were in the least aware, that the exertions of such a man differed in the slightest degree from those of Hunt and Hone!—Oh! Grey, of all the delusions which flourish in this mad world, the delusion of that man is the most frantic, who voluntarily, and of his own accord, supports the interest of a party. I mention this to you, because it is the rock on which all young politicians strike. Fortunately, you enter life under different circumstances from those which usually attend most political debutants. You have your connexions formed, and your views ascertained. But if, by any chance, you find yourself independent and unconnected, never, for a moment, suppose that you can accomplish your ​objects by coming forward, unsolicited, to fight the battle of a party. They will cheer your successful exertions, and then smile at your youthful zeal—or, crossing themselves for the unexpected succour, be too cowardly to reward their unexpected champion. No, Grey; make them fear you,—and they will kiss your feet. There is no act of treachery, or meanness, of which a political party is not capable;—for in politics there is no honour.
"As to Gifford, I am surprised at their conduct towards him,—although I know better than most men, of what wood a minister is made, and how much reliance may be placed upon the gratitude of a party: but Canning—from Canning I certainly did expect different conduct."
"Oh, Canning! I love the man: but, as you say, Cleveland, ministers have short memories, and Canning's—that was Antilles that just passed us; apropos to whom, I quite rejoice ​that the Marquess has determined to take such a decided course on the West India Question."
"Oh, yes! curse your East India sugar."
"To be sure—slavery, and sweetmeats, for ever!"
"I was always for the West India interest, from a boy. Grey. I had an aunt who was a Creole, and who used to stuff me with guava jelly, and small delicate limes, that looked, for all the world, like emeralds powdered with diamond dust."
"Pooh! my dear Cleveland, they shouldn't have looked like any such thing. What your Creole aunt gave you must have been candied. The delicate fruit should swim in an ocean of clarified sugar."
"I believe you're right. Grey: I sacrificed truth to a trope. Do you like the Barbados ginger?"
"If it is mild, and of a pale golden colour. ​How delicious the Bourdeaux flows after it! Oh I the West India interest for ever!
"But, aside with joking. Grey, I really think, that if any man of average ability dare rise in the House, and rescue many of the great questions of the day from what Dugald Stuart, or D'Israeli would call the spirit of Political Religionism, with which they are studiously mixed up, he would not fail to make a great impression upon the House, and a still greater one upon the country."
"I quite agree with you; and certainly I should recommend commencing with the West India Question. Singular state of affairs! when even Canning can only insinuate his opinion, when the very existence of some of our most valuable colonies is at stake, and when even his insinuations are only indulged with an audience, on the condition that he favours the House with an introductory discourse of twenty minutes on 'the divine Author of our faith'—and an ​éloge of equal length on the esprit du Christianisme, in a style worthy of Chateaubriand."
"Miserable work, indeed! I have got a pamphlet on the West India Question sent me this morning. Do you know any raving lawyer, any mad Master in Chancery, or something of the kind, who meddles in these affairs?"
"Oh! Stephen! a puddle in a storm! He's for a crusade for the regeneration of the Antilles—the most forcible of feebles—the most energetic of drivellers,—Velluti acting Pietro L'Eremita."
"Do you know, by any chance, whether Southey's Vindiciæ is out yet. I wanted to look it over during the holidays."
"Not out—though it has been advertised some time: but what do you expect?"
"Nay! it's an interesting controversy, as controversies go. Not exactly Milton, and Salmasius—but fair enough."
"Oh! I don't know. It has long degene​rated into a mere personal bickering between the Laureate and Butler. Southey is, of course, revelling in the idea of writing an English work with a Latin title; and that, perhaps, is the only circumstance for which the controversy is prolonged."
"But Southey, after all, is a man of splendid talents."
"Doubtless—the most philosophical of bigots, and the most poetical of prose writers."
"Apropos to the Catholic Question—there goes Colonial Bother'em, trying to look like Prince Metternich;—a decided failure."
"What can keep him in town?"
"Writing letters, I suppose. Heaven preserve me from receiving any of them!"
"Is it true, then, that his letters are of the awful length that is whispered?"
"True! Oh! they're something beyond all conception! Perfect epistolary Boa Constrictors. I speak with feeling, for I have myself suffered under their voluminous windings."
​"Have you seen his quarto volume—'The Cure for the Catholic Question?'"
"Yes."
"If you have it, lend it to me. What kind of thing is it?"
"Oh! what should it be!—ingenious, and imbecile. He advises the Catholics, in the old nursery language, to behave like good boys—to open their mouths, and shut their eyes, and see what God will send them."
"Well, that's the usual advice. Is there nothing more characteristic of the writer?"
"What think you of a proposition of making Jocky of Norfolk Patriarch of England, and of an ascertained credo for our Catholic fellow-subjects? Ingenious—isn't it?"
"Have you seen Puff's new volume of Ariosto?"
"I have. What could possibly have induced Mr. Parthenopex Puff to have undertaken such a duty? Mr. Puff is a man destitute of ​poetical powers; possessing no vigour of language, and gifted with no happiness of expression. His translation is hard, dry, and husky, as the outside of a cocoa-nut. I am amused to see the excellent tact with which the public has determined not to read his volumes, in spite of the incessant exertions of a certain set to ensure their popularity; but the time has gone by, when the smug coterie could create a reputation."
"Do you think the time ever existed, Cleveland?"
"What could have seduced Puff into being so ambitious? I suppose his admirable knowledge of Italian; as if a man were entitled to strike a die for the new sovereign, merely because he was aware how much alloy might legally debase its carats of pure gold.
"I never can pardon Puff for that little book on Cats. The idea was admirable; but, instead of one of the most delightful volumes that ever ​appeared, to take up a dull, tame, compilation from Bingley's Animal Biography!"
"Yes! and the impertinence of dedicating such a work to the Officers of His Majesty's Household Troops! Considering the quarter from whence it proceeded, I certainly did not expect much, but still I thought that there was to be some little esprit. The poor Guards! how nervous they must have been at the announcement! What could have been the point of that dedication?"
"I remember a most interminable proser, that was blessed with a very sensible-sounding voice, and who, on the strength of that, and his correct and constant emphases, was considered by the world, for a great time, as a sage. At length it was discovered that he was quite the reverse. Mr. Puff's wit is very like this man's wisdom. You take up one of his little books, and you fancy, from its title-page, that it's going to be very witty; as you ​proceed, you begin to suspect that the man is only a wag, and then, surprised at not "seeing the point," you have a shrewd suspicion that he is a great hand at dry humour. It is not till you have closed the volume, that you wonder who it is, that has had the hardihood to intrude such imbecility upon an indulgent world."
"Come, come! Mr. Puff is a worthy gentleman. Let him cease to dusk the radiancy of Ariosto's sunny stanzas, and I shall be the first man who will do justice to his merits. He certainly tattles prettily about tenses, and terminations, and is not an inelegant grammarian."
"Another failure among the booksellers to-day!"
"Indeed! Literature, I think, is at a low ebb."
"Certainly. There is nothing like a fall of stocks to affect what it is the fashion to style the Literature of the present day—a fungus pro​duction, which has flourished from the artificial state of our society—the mere creature of our imaginary wealth. Every body being very rich, has afforded to be very literary—books being considered a luxury almost as elegant and necessary as Ottomans, bonbons, and pier-glasses. Consols at 100 were the origin of all book societies. The Stockbrokers' ladies took off the quarto travels, and the hot-pressed poetry. They were the patronesses of your patent ink, and your wire wove paper. That is all passed. Twenty per cent difference in the value of our public securities from this time last year—that little incident has done more for the restoration of the old English feeling, than all the exertions of Church and State united. Oh! there is nothing like a fall in Consols to bring the blood of our good people of England into cool order. It's your grand state medicine—your veritable Doctor Sangrado!
"A fall in stocks! and halt! to 'the spread ​of knowledge!' and 'the progress of liberal principles' is like that of a man too late for post-horses. A fall in stocks! and where are your London Universities and your Mechanics' Institutes, and your new Docks? Where your philosophy, your philanthropy, and your competition? National prejudices revive, as national prosperity decreases. If the Consols were at sixty, we should be again bellowing, God save the King! eating roast beef and damning the French."
"And you imagine literature is equally affected, Grey?"
"Clearly. We were literary, because we were rich. Amid the myriad of volumes which issued monthly from the press, what one was not written for the mere hour? It is all very well to buy mechanical poetry, and historical novels, when our purses have a plethora; but now, my dear fellow, depend upon it, the game is up. We have no scholars now—no literary recluses—no men who ever appear to ​think. 'Scribble, scribble, scribble,' as the Duke of Cumberiand said to Gibbon, should be the motto of the mighty 'nineteenth century.'"
"Southey, I think. Grey, is an exception."
"By no means. Southey is a political writer—a writer for a particular purpose. All his works, from those in three volumes quarto, to those in one duodecimo, are alike political pamphlets. Sharon Turner, in his solitude, alone seems to have his eye upon Prince Posterity; but, as might be expected, the public consequently has not its eye upon Sharon Turner. Twenty years hence they may discover that they had a prophet among them, and knew him not."
"His history is certainly a splendid work, but little known. Lingard's, which in ten years time will not be known even by name, sells admirably, I believe."
"I was very much amused, Cleveland, with Allen's review of Lingard in the Edinburgh. ​His opinion of 'the historian"s' style—that it combined, at the same time, the excellencies of Gibbon, and Hume—was one of the most exquisite specimens of irony that, I think, I ever met with: it was worthy of former days. I was just going to give up the Edinburgh, when I read that sentence, and I continued it in consequence."
"We certainly want a master-spirit to set us right. Grey. Scott, our second Shakspeare, we, of course, cannot expect to step forward to direct the public mind. He is too much engaged in delighting it. Besides, he is not the man for it. He is not a litterateur. We want Byron."
"Ah! there was the man! And that such a man should be lost to us, at the very moment that he had begun to discover why it had pleased the Omnipotent to have endowed him with such powers!""
"If one thing was more characteristic of ​Byron's mind than another, it was his strong, shrewd, common sense—his pure, unalloyed sagacity."
"You knew the glorious being, I think, Cleveland?"
"Well; I was slightly acquainted with him, when in England; slightly, however, for I was then very young. But many years afterwards I met him in Italy. It was at Pisa, just before he left for Genoa. I was then very much struck at the alteration in his appearance."
"Indeed!"
"Yes; his face was very much swollen, and he was getting fat. His hair was grey, and his countenance had lost that spiritual expression which it once so eminently possessed. His teeth were decaying; and he said, that if ever he came to England, it would be to consult Wayte about them. I certainly was very much struck at his alteration for the worse. Besides, he was dressed in the most extraordinary manner." ​"Slovenly?"
"Oh! no, no, no—in the most dandified style that you can conceive; but not that of an English dandy either. He had on a magnificent foreign foraging cap, which he wore in the room, but his grey curls were quite perceptible; and a frogged surtout; and he had a large gold chain round his neck, and pushed into his waistcoat pocket. I imagined, of course, that a glass was attached to it; but I afterwards found that it bore nothing but a quantity of trinkets. He had also another gold chain tight round his neck, like a collar."
"How extraordinary! And did you converse much with him?"
"I was not long at Pisa, but we never parted, and there was only one subject of conversation—England, England, England. I never met a man in whom the maladie du pays was so strong. Byron was certainly at this time restless and discontented. He was tired ​of his dragoon captains, and pensioned poetasters, and he dared not come back to England with, what he considered, a tarnished reputation. His only thought was of some desperate exertion to clear himself. It was for this he went to Greece. When I was with him, he was in correspondence with some friends in England, about the purchase of a large tract of land in Colombia. He affected a great admiration of Bolivar."
"Who, by the bye, is a great man."
"Assuredly."
"Your acquaintance with Byron must have been one of the most gratifying incidents of your life, Cleveland?"
"Certainly; I may say with Friar Martin, in Goetz of Berlichingen, 'The sight of him touched my heart. It is a pleasure to have seen a great man.'"
"Hobhouse was a very faithful friend to him?"
​"His conduct has been beautiful—and Byron had a thorough affection for him in spite of a few squibs, and a few drunken speeches, which damned good-natured friends have always been careful to repeat."
"The loss of Byron can never be retrieved. He was indeed a man—a real man; and when I say this, I award him, in my opinion, the most splendid character which human nature need aspire to. At least, I, for my part, have no ambition to be considered either a divinity, or an angel; and truly, when I look round upon the creatures alike effeminate in mind and body, of which the world is, in general, composed, I fear that even my ambition is too exalted. Byron's mind was like his own ocean—sublime in its yesty madness—beautiful in its glittering summer brightness—mighty in the lone magnificence of its waste of waters—gazed upon from the magic of its own nature, yet capable of representing, but, as in a glass darkly, the ​natures of all others. I say, Cleveland, here comes the greatest idiot in town; Craven Bucke. He came to me the other day complaining bitterly of the imperfections of Johnson's Dictionary. He had looked out Doncaster St. Leger in it, and couldn't find the word."
"How d'ye do, Bucke? you 're just the man I wanted to meet. Make a note of it while I remember. There is an edition of Johnson just published, in which you'll find every single word you want. Now put it down at once. It's published under the title of John Bees' Slang Lexicon. Good b'ye! How's your brother?
Pray, Cleveland, what do you think of Milman's' 'new dramatic poem,' Anne Boleyn?"
"I think it's the dullest work on the Catholic Question that has yet appeared."
"Is it true, that Lockhart is going to have the Quarterly?"
"It was told me as a positive fact to-day. I believe it."
​"Murray can't do better. It's absolutely necessary that he should do something. Lockhart is a man of prodigious talents. Do you know him?"
"Not in the least.—He certainly is a man of great powers, but I think rather too hot for the Quarterly."
"Oh! no, no, no—a little of the Albemarle Anti-attrition will soon cool the fiery wheels of his bounding chariot. Come! I see our horses."
"Hyde Park is greatly changed since I was a dandy, Vivian. Pray, do the Misses Otranto still live in that house?"
"Yes— blooming as ever."
"It's the fashion to abuse Horace Walpole, but I really think him one of the most delightful writers that ever existed. I wonder who is to be the Horace Walpole of the present century? some one perhaps we least suspect."
"Vivida Vis, think you?"
"More than probable. I'll tell you who ​ought to be writing Memoirs—Lord Dropmore.'"
"Does my Lord Manfred keep his mansion there, next to the Misses Otranto?"
"I believe so, and lives there."
"I knew him in Germany—a singular man, and not understood. Perhaps he does not understand himself."
"I'll join you in an instant, Cleveland. I just want to speak one word to Master Osborne, who I see coming down here. Well, Osborne! I must come and knock you up one of these mornings. I've got a nice little commission for you from Lady Julia Knighton, which you must pay particular attention to."
"Well, Mr. Grey, how does Lady Julia like the bay mare?"
"Very much, indeed; but she wants to know what you've done about the chesnut?"
"Oh! put it off, Sir, in the prettiest style, on young Mr. Feoffment, who has just married, ​and taken a house in Gower-street. He wanted a bit of blood—hopes he likes it!"
"Hopes he does. Jack. There's a particular favour which you can do me, Osborne, and which I'm sure you will. Ernest Clay—you know Ernest Clay—a most excellent fellow is Ernest Clay, you know, and a great friend of yours, Osborne;—I wish you'd just step down to Connaught Place, and look at those bays he bought of Harry Mounteney. He's in a little trouble, and we must do what we can for him—you know he's an excellent fellow, and a great friend of yours. Thank you, thank you—I knew you would. Good morning:—remember Lady Julia. So you really fitted young Feoffment with the chesnut. Well, that was admirable!—Good morning;—good morning."
"I don't know whether you care for these things at all, Cleveland, but Premium, a famous Millionaire, has gone this morning, for I ​don't know how much! Half the new world will be ruined; and in this old one, a most excellent fellow, my friend Ernest Clay. He was engaged to Premium's daughter—his dernière resource; and now, of course, it's all up with him."
"I was at College with his brother, Augustus Clay. He's a nephew of Lord Mounteney's, is he not?"
"The very same. Poor fellow! I don't know what we must do for him. I think I shall advise him to change his name to Clayville; and if the world ask him the reason of the euphonious augmentation, why, he can swear that it was to distinguish himself from his brothers. Too many roués of the same name will never do.—And now spurs to our steeds, for we are going at least three miles out of our way, and I must collect my senses, and arrange my curls before dinner; for I have to flirt with, at least, three fair ones."