The Monikins. Джеймс Фенимор Купер
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it so. My name is Goldencalf: by accompanying me to town you shall receive the money.”
“Goldencalf! What, sir, the only son and heir of the late Thomas Goldencalf of Cheapside?”
“The same. My father has not been dead a month.”
“Pardon me, sir—convince me of your identity—we must be particular in matters of this sort—and you shall have possession of the property in season to secure your own election or that of any of your friends. I will return Lord Pledge his small advances, and another time he will know better than to fail of keeping his promises. What is a borough good for if a nobleman's word is not sacred? You will find the electors, in particular, every way worthy of your favor. They are as frank, loyal, and straightforward a constituency as any in England. No skulking behind the ballot for them!—and in all respects they are fearless Englishmen who will do what they say, and say whatever their landlord shall please to require of them.”
As I had sundry letters and other documents about me, nothing was easier than to convince the attorney of my identity. He called for pen and ink; drew out of his pocket the contract that had been prepared for Lord Pledge; gave it to me to read; filled the blanks; and affixing his name, called the waiters as witnesses, and presented me the paper with a promptitude and respect that I found really delightful. So much, thought I, for having given pledges to society by the purchase of a borough. I drew on my bankers for three hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds, and arose from table virtually the owner of the estate of Householder and of the political consciences of its tenantry.
A fact so important could not long be unknown; and in a few minutes all eyes in the coffee-room were upon me. The landlord presented himself and begged I would do him the honor to take possession of his family parlor, there being no other at his disposal. I was hardly installed before a servant in a handsome livery presented the following note.
“DEAR MR. GOLDENCALF:
“I have this moment heard of your being in town, and am exceedingly rejoiced to learn it. A long intimacy with your late excellent and most loyal father justifies my claiming you for a friend, and I waive all ceremony (official, of course, is meant, there being no reason for any other between us), and beg to be admitted for half an hour.
“Dear Mr. Goldencalf,”
“Yours very faithfully and sincerely,”
“PLEDGE.”
“—GOLDENCALF, Esquire.”
“Monday evening.”
I begged that the noble visitor might not be made to wait a moment. Lord Pledge met me like an old and intimate friend. He made a hundred handsome inquiries after my dead ancestor; spoke feelingly of his regret at not having been summoned to attend his death-bed; and then very ingenuously and warmly congratulated me on my succession to so large a property.
“I hear, too, you have bought this borough, my dear sir. I could not make it convenient just at this particular moment to conclude my own arrangement—but it is a good thing. Three hundred and twenty thousand, I suppose, as was mentioned between me and the other party?”
“Three hundred and twenty-five thousand, Lord Pledge.”
I perceived by the countenance of the noble candidate that I had paid the odd five thousand as a fine—a circumstance which accounted for the promptitude of the attorney in the transaction, he most probably pocketing the difference himself.
“You mean to sit, of course?”
“I do, my lord, as one of the members, at the next general election; but at present I shall be most happy to aid your return.”
“My dear Mr. Goldencalf—”
“Really, without presuming to compliment, Lord Pledge, the noble sentiments I heard you express this morning were so very proper, so exceedingly statesmanlike, so truly English, that I shall feel infinitely more satisfaction in knowing that you fill the vacant seat than if it were in my own possession.”
“I honor your public spirit, Mr. Goldencalf, and only wish to God there was more of it in the world. But you can count on our friendship, sir. What you have just remarked is true, very true, only too true, true to a hair-a-a-a—I mean, my dear Mr. Goldencalf, most especially those sentiments of mine which-a-a-a-I say it, before God, without vanity—but which, as you have so very ably intimated, are so truly proper and English.”
“I sincerely think so, Lord Pledge, or I should not have said it. I am peculiarly situated myself. With an immense fortune, without rank, name, or connections, nothing is easier than for one of my years to be led astray; and it is my ardent desire to hit upon some expedient that may connect me properly with society.”
“Marry, my dear young friend—select a wife from among the fair and virtuous of this happy isle—unluckily I can propose nothing in this way myself—for both my own sisters are disposed of.”
“I have made choice, already, I thank you a thousand times, my dear Lord Pledge; although I scarcely dare execute my own wishes. There are objections—if I were only the child, now, of a baronet's second son, or—”
“Become a baronet yourself,” once more interrupted my noble friend, with an evident relief from suspense; for I verily believe he thought I was about to ask for something better. “Your affair shall be arranged by the end of the week—and if there is anything else I can do for you, I beg you to name it without reserve.”
“If I could hear a few more of those remarkable sentiments of yours, concerning the stake we should all have in society, I think it would relieve my mind.”
My companion looked at me a moment with a very awkward sort of an intensity, drew his hand across his brows, reflected, and then obligingly complied.
“You attach too much importance, Mr. Goldencalf, to a few certainly very just but very ill-arranged ideas. That a man without a proper stake in society is little better than the beasts of the fields, I hold to be so obvious that it is unnecessary to dwell on the point. Reason as you will, forward or backward, you arrive at the same result—he that hath nothing is usually treated by mankind little better than a dog, and he that is little better than a dog usually has nothing. Again. What distinguishes the savage from the civilized man? Why, civilization to be sure. Now, what is civilization? The arts of life. What feeds, nourishes, sustains the arts of life? Money or property. By consequence, civilization is property, and property is civilization. If the control of a country is in the hands of those who possess the property, the government is a civilized government; but, on the other hand, if it is in the hands of those who have no property, the government is necessarily an uncivilized government. It is quite impossible that any one should become a safe statesman who does not possess a direct property interest in society. You know there is not a tyro of our political sect who does not fully admit the truth of this axiom.”
“Mr. Pitt?”
“Why, Pitt was certainly an exception in one way; but then, you will recollect, he was the immediate representative of the tories, who own most of the property of England.”
“Mr. Fox?”
“Fox represented the whigs, who own all the rest, you know. No, my dear Goldencalf, reason as you will, we shall always arrive at the same results. You will, of course, as you have just said, take one of the seats yourself at the next general election?”
“I shall be too proud of being your colleague to hesitate.”
This speech sealed our friendship; for it was a pledge to my noble acquaintance of his future connection with the borough. He was much too high-bred to express his thanks in vulgar phrases (though high-breeding rarely exhibits all its finer qualities pending an election), but—a man of the world, and one of a class whose main business it is to put the suaviter in modo, as the French have it en evidence,—the reader may be sure that when we parted that night I was in perfect good humor with myself and, as a matter of course, with my new acquaintance.
The next day the