The International Monthly, Volume 3, No. 1, April, 1851

Parson, still philologically occupied. "Gumptious—gumptious. I think I remember the substantive at school—not that my master taught it to me. 'Gumption,' it means cleverness."

Landlord, (doggedly.)—"There's gumption and gumptious! Gumption is knowing; but when I say that sum un is gumptious, I mean—though that's more vulgar like—sum un who does not think small beer of hisself. You take me, sir!"

"I think I do," said the Parson, half-smiling. "I believe the Avenels have only two of their children alive still—their daughter, who married Mark Fairfield, and a son who went off to America?"

"Ah, but he made his fortune there, and has come back."

"Indeed! I'm very glad to hear it. He has settled at Lansmere?"

"No, sir. I hear as he's bought a property a long way off. But he comes to see his parents pretty often—so John tells me—but I can't say that I ever see him, I fancy Dick doesn't like to be seen by folks who remember him playing in the kennel."

"Not unnatural," said the Parson indulgently; "but he visits his parents: he is a good son, at all events, then?"

"I've nothing to say against him. Dick was a wild chap before he took himself off. I never thought he would make his fortune; but the Avenels are a clever set. Do you remember poor Nora—the Rose of Lansmere, as they called her? Ah, no, I think she went up to Lunnun afore your time, sir."

"Humph!" said the Parson drily. "Well, I think you may take away now. It will be dark soon, and I'll just stroll out and look about me."

"There's a nice tart coming, sir."

"Thank you, I've dined."

The Parson put on his hat and sallied forth into the streets. He eyed the houses on either hand with that melancholy and wistful interest with which, in middle life, we revisit scenes familiar to us in youth—surprised to find either so little change or so much, and recalling, by fits and snatches, old associations and past emotions. The long High Street which he threaded now began to change its bustling character, and slide, as it were gradually, into the high road of a suburb. On the left, the houses gave way to the moss-grown pales of Lansmere Park: to the right, though houses still remained, they were separated from each other by gardens, and took the pleasing appearance of villas—such villas as retired tradesmen or their widows, old maids, and half-pay officers, select for the evening of their days.

Mr. Dale looked at these villas with the deliberate attention of a man awakening his power of memory, and at last stopped before one, almost the last on the road, and which faced the broad patch of sward that lay before the lodge of Lansmere Park. An old pollard oak stood near it, and from the oak there came a low discordant sound; it was the hungry cry of young ravens, awaiting the belated return of the parent bird. Mr. Dale put his hand to his brow, paused a moment, and then, with a hurried step, passed through the little garden and knocked at the door. A light was burning in the parlor, and Mr. Dale's eye caught through the window a vague outline of three forms. There was an evident bustle within at the sound of the knocks. One of the forms rose and disappeared. A very prim, neat, middle-aged maid-servant now appeared at the threshold, and austerely inquired the visitor's business.

"I want to see Mr. or Mrs. Avenel. Say that I have come many miles to see them; and take in this card."

The maid-servant took the card, and half-closed the door. At least three minutes elapsed before she reappeared.

"Missis says it's late, sir; but walk in."

The Parson accepted the not very gracious invitation, stepped across the little hall, and entered the parlor.

Old John Avenel, a mild-looking man, who seemed slightly paralytic, rose slowly from his arm-chair. Mrs. Avenel, in an awfully stiff, clean, and Calvinistical cap, and a gray dress, every fold of which bespoke respectability and staid repute—stood erect on the floor, and, fixing on the Parson a cold and cautious eye, said:

"You do the like of us great honor, Mr. Dale—take a chair! You call upon business?"

"Of which I have apprised you by letter, Mr. Avenel."

"My husband is very poorly."

"A poor creature!" said John feebly, and as if in compassion of himself, "I can't get about as I used to do. But it ben't near election time, be it, sir?"

"No, John," said Mrs. Avenel, placing her husband's arm within her own. "You must lie down a bit, while I talk to the gentleman."

"I'm a real good blue," said poor John; "but I an't quite the man I was;" and leaning heavily on his wife, he left the room, turning round at the threshold, and saying, with great urbanity—"Any thing to oblige, sir?"

Mr. Dale was much touched. He had remembered John Avenel the comeliest, the most active, and the most cheerful man in Lansmere; great at glee club and cricket, (though then stricken in years,) greater in vestries; reputed greatest in elections.

"Last scene of all," murmured the Parson; "and oh well, turning from the poet, may we cry with the disbelieving philosopher, 'Poor, poor humanity!'"[21 - Mr. Dale probably here alludes to Lord Bolingbroke's ejaculation as he stood by the dying Pope; but his memory does not serve him with the exact words.]

In a few minutes Mrs. Avenel returned. She took a chair at some distance from the Parson's, and, resting one hand on the elbow of the chair, while with the other she stiffly smoothed the stiff gown, she said—

"Now, sir."

That "Now, sir," had in its sound something sinister and warlike. This the shrewd Parson recognized with his usual tact. He edged his chair nearer to Mrs. Avenel, and placing his hand on hers—

"Yes, now then, and as friend to friend."

From Fraser's Magazine.

AN INEDITED LETTER OF EDWARD GIBBON

The following is an inedited letter of the celebrated author of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. It is addressed to his friend M. D'Eyverdun (who was at that time at Leipsig), and has lately been found among a mass of papers in the house which M. D'Eyverdun possessed at Lausanne, and where Mr. Gibbon resided several years.

To M. D'Eyverdun, at Leipsig.

    London, May 7th, 1776.

My long silence towards you has been occasioned (if I have properly analyzed what has lately passed in my mind) by different reasons. During the Summer there was indolence and procrastination; since the opening of parliament the necessity of finishing my book, and at the same time of subduing America. I have been involved in a multitude of public, private, and literary business, such as I had never experienced in the whole course of my life. The materials of my correspondence I have gradually accumulated, and despairing of being able to say any thing, I have wisely finished by saying nothing. Meantime, it is not necessary to inform my dear reader that I love him just as much as if I had written to him every week.

Where, then, shall I begin this letter? Can this question be put to a man who has just published his book? I shall speak of myself, and I shall enjoy the pleasure which renders the conversation of friends so delightful,—the pleasure of talking of one's self with somebody who will take an interest in the subject. It is true I should greatly prefer conversing with you, walking backwards and forwards in my library, where I could, without blushing, make to you all the confessions which my vanity might prompt. But at this lamentable distance from London to Leipsig we cannot do without a confidant, and the paper might one day disclose the little secrets which I am obliged to confide to you.

You know that the first volume of The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire has had the most complete success, and the most flattering to the author. But I must take up the matter a little further back. I do not know whether you recollect that I had agreed with my bookseller for an edition of 500 copies. This was a very moderate number; but I wished to learn the taste of the public, and to reserve to myself the opportunity of soon making, in a second edition, all the changes which the observations of critics and my own reflections might suggest. We had come, perhaps, to the twenty-fifth sheet, when my publisher and my printer, men of sense and taste, began to perceive that the work in question might be worth something, and that the said 500 copies would not suffice for the demands of the British readers. They stated their reasons to me, and very humbly, but very earnestly, begged me to permit 500 more to be printed. I yielded to their entreaties, not, however, without fearing that the younger brothers of my numerous family might be condemned to an inglorious old age, in the obscurity of some warehouse. Meantime the printing went on; and, in spite of paternal affection, I sometimes cursed the attention which I was obliged to pay to the education of my children, to cure them of the little defects which the negligence of their preceptors had suffered to pass without correcting them.

At length, in the month of February, I saw the decisive hour arrive, and I own to you that it was not without some sort of uneasiness. I knew that my book was good, but I would have had it excellent; I could not rely on my own judgment, and I feared that of the public,—that tyrant who often destroys in an instant the fruit of ten years' labor. At length, on the 16th of February, I gave myself to the universe, and the universe—that is to say, a small number of English readers—received me with open arms. In a fortnight the whole edition was so completely exhausted that not a single copy was left. Mr. Cadell (my publisher) proposed to me to publish a second edition of 1000 copies, and in a few days he saw reason to beg me to allow him to print 1500 copies. It will appear at the beginning of next month; and he already ventures to promise me that it will be sold before the end of the year, and that he shall be obliged to importune me a third time. The volume—a handsome quarto—costs a guinea in boards; it has sold, as my publisher expresses it, like a sixpenny pamphlet on the affairs of the day.

I have hitherto contented myself with stating the fact, which is the least equivocal testimony in favor of the History. It is said that a horse alone does not flatter kings when they think fit to mount him; might we not add, that the bookseller is the only person who does not flatter authors when they take it into their heads to appear in print? But you conceive that from a small number of eager readers one always finds means to catch praises, and for my part, I own to you that I am very fond of these praises; those of women of rank, especially when they are young and handsome, though not of the greatest weight, amuse me infinitely. I have had the good fortune to please some of these persons, and the ancient History of your learned friend has succeeded with them like a fashionable novel. Now hear what Robertson says in a letter which was not designed to fall into my hands:—

"I have read (says he) Mr. Gibbon's History with great attention, and with singular pleasure. It is a work of great merit. We find in it that sagacity of research, without which an author does not merit the name of an historian. His narrative is clear and interesting; his style is elegant and vigorous, sometimes rather too labored, and, perhaps, studied: but these defects are amply compensated by the beauty of the language, and sometimes by a rare felicity of expression."

Now listen attentively to poor David Hume:

"After having read with impatience and avidity the first volume of your History, I feel the same impatience to thank you for your interesting present; and to express to you the satisfaction which this production has afforded me, under the several points of view, of the dignity of the style, the extent of your researches, the profound manner in which the subject is treated. This work is entitled to the highest esteem. You will feel pleasure, as I do myself, from hearing that all the men of letters in this city (Edinburgh) agree in admiring your work, and in desiring the continuation of it."

Do you know, too, that the Tacitus and Livy of Scotland have been useful to me in more ways than one. Our good English folk had long lamented the superiority which these historians had acquired; and as national prejudices are kept up at a small expense, they have eagerly raised their unworthy countrymen by their acclamations to a level with these great men. Besides, I have had the good fortune to avoid the shoal which is the most dangerous in this country. A historian is always to a certain degree a political character, and every reader according to his private opinion seeks in the most remote ages the sentiments of the historian upon kings and governments. A minister who is a great friend to the prerogatives of the crown has complimented me, on my having everywhere professed the soundest doctrines.

Mr. Walpole, on the other hand, and my Lord Camden, both partisans of liberty, and even of a republic, are persuaded that I am not far from their ideas. This is a proof, at least, that I have observed a fair neutrality.

Let us now look at the reverse of the medal, and inspect the means which Heaven has thought fit to employ to humble my pride. Would you think, my dear sir, that injustice has been carried so far as to attack the purity of my faith? The cry of the bishops and of a great number of ladies, equally respectable for their age and understanding, has been raised against me. It has been maintained, that the last two chapters of my pretended History are only a satire on the Christian religion—a satire the more dangerous as it is concealed under a veil of moderation and impartiality: and that the emissary of Satan, after having long amused his readers with a very agreeable tale, insensibly leads them into the infernal snare. You perceive all the horror of this accusation, and will easily understand that I shall oppose only a respectful silence to the clamors of my enemies?

And the Translation? Will you soon cause me to be read and burnt in the rest of Europe? After a short suspension, the reasons for which it is useless to detail, I re-commenced sending the sheets as they issued from the press. They went regularly by way of Gottingen, where M. Sprengel has, doubtless, taken care to forward them to you; so that the whole of the English original must have been long since in your hands. What use have you made of it? Is the translation finished? When and where do you intend it shall appear? I cannot help fearing accidents that may have happened by the way, and still more apprehending your indolence or forgetfulness; and the more so, as I have learned from several quarters that you are engaged in the translation of some German work. Notwithstanding my silence, you might have informed me of the state of things; at all events you have not a moment to lose, for the Duke de Choiseul, who is quite delighted with my work, has signified to Mr. Walpole his intentions to have it translated as soon as possible. I believe I have put a stop to this design by assuring him that your translation was in the press at Leipsig; but we cannot long answer for events, and it would be equally unpleasant to be anticipated by a bel esprit of Paris, or by a manœuvre of an Amsterdam bookseller.

This is a pretty decent letter; I know, however, that you ought not to give me credit for it, because it is all about myself. I have a thousand other things to tell you, and as many questions to ask you. Depend on another letter in a week. Fear nothing, I swear by holy friendship; and my oath will not remain without effect.

    Ever yours,
    Ed. Gibbon.