Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine - Volume 54, No. 338, December 1843

It is now proper to state, that on the very day that Michael's draft of five thousand pounds applied for honourable reception at the counter of his most respectable establishment, by a curious coincidence another demand for double that amount appeared there likewise; not in the shape of cheque or written order, but in that of a request, personal and oral, proceeding from the proud and high-born lips of Walter Bellamy, Esquire, lord of the manor—gentleman and banker. Mr Bellamy was not the first man, by a great number, who has attempted to clothe and conceal real poverty in the stately apparel of arrogance and offensive self-sufficiency. He, man of the world, knew well enough, that, thus disguised, necessity need never fear discovery—might look and laugh in secret at mankind—might feed and thrive upon its faults and weaknesses. How comparatively easy it is to avoid the shoals and rocks of life—to sail smoothly and pleasantly on its waters, when we take for our rudder and our guide the world's great axiom, "riches are virture—poverty is vice." "Assume the virtue, if you have it not;" assume its shows and appearances, its tricks, its offences, and its crimes, rather than confess your nakedness. Be liberal and prodigal, if it must be, with the crown you need to pay your necessary lodging; adorn with velvet and with silk the body that grows sick for lack of wholesome food; bribe, beyond their expectation, the pampered things in livery that stand between you and the glory you aspire to—bribe them, though to part with money is to lose your meal. Upon this broad principle it was, that Walter Bellamy existed—in virtue of it he held lands, and by its means he had become a partner in the bank, an active one, as very soon he proved himself to be. His property was estimated by shrewd calculators at a hundred thousand pounds—that, at the very least. And Bellamy chuckled at his fireside—no one being by—at the universal gullibility of man. A hundred thousand pounds! Why, he could not—at any one period during the last twenty years, command as many farthings. What right had strangers to calculate for him? What right had Allcraft to depend upon such calculations? We may well ask the question, since Mr Bellamy did so, when he endeavoured, as the worst of us will do, to justify bad conduct to an unfaithful conscience. Why, what was he? a simple locum tenens of a dozen mortgagees, who had advanced upon the estate a great deal more money than it would ever realize, if forced to sale—a haughty, overbearing man, (though very benevolent to postboys and other serving men,) a magistrate, and a great disciplinarian. This was the amount of his pretensions, and yet men worshipped him. It was surely not the fault of Mr Bellamy, but rather his good fortune; and if he chose to make the most of it, he was a wise and prudent personage. When it is borne in mind that the possessions of Mr Bellamy were involved beyond their actual worth—that for some time he had lived in a perpetual dread of exposure and utter ruin—that for years he had looked abroad for some kind friend, who, if not altogether willing, might still be prevailed upon to release him from his difficulties—it will be easy to understand his very great desire to confer on Michael Allcraft all the advantages of his own position and high character.

The part which Bellamy had taken in the business of the house, was very inconsiderable until Michael's departure. Up to that time, he came to the bank in his carriage with much ceremony—spoke to the dependents there with becoming hauteur, and took his leave, on all occasions, as a rich man should, with abundant fuss, scarcely troubling himself with the proceedings of the day. "He had," he was always repeating the words, "he had the greatest confidence in Allcraft. It was unbounded. He felt that he could trust to him entirely and unreservedly." Gratefully did such expressions fall upon the flattered ear of Michael, applauding himself ever upon his victory—upon the acquisition of such a man. Of what service he would be to him in his well-laid plans! Of what use was his name already—and how much more serviceable than all would be the noble sum of money which he had promised to bring into the bank at the close of the year! Michael, in his moments of chivalry, standing in the presence of Bellamy, looked upon him almost with an eye of pity and self-reproach. Whilst he himself could only plead guilty to a most refined and cunning policy, his innocent partner was but too full of trust; too simple and too unsuspecting. Somebody remarks, that God reserves unto himself that horrid sight—a naked, human heart. Had Allcraft and Bellamy, during one of their early interviews, suddenly stripped, and favoured each other with reciprocal glances—one or both would have been slightly startled by the unexpected exhibition. Planner had always looked upon Mr Bellamy as a very great man indeed—had contemplated him with that exact admixture of awe and admiration, that was pleasing and acceptable to the subject of it. Mr Bellamy, in his turn, conducted himself towards the schemer with much cordiality and kindness. Proud men never unbend until their supremacy is acknowledged through your servility. Your submission turns their gall to honey—converts their vinegar to milk—to the very cream of human complaisance. Mr Bellamy acted his part in this respect, as in every other—well; a tiger to such as would not cringe, he could become a playful lamb to all who were content to fawn. Planner and he were on the best possible terms. Looking into what is called the nature of things, we shall think it very natural on the part of Mr Bellamy, when he found himself so agreeably situated in regard to the circulating medium, if he took an early opportunity to help himself of the abundance by which he was surrounded. The truth is, that some time before the visit of Allcraft to the Continent, he had entertained a very serious intention of drawing out of the concern the anticipatory profits of a few years, in order to relieve himself and fine estate from certain engagements which pressed inconveniently on both—but his object had not, for many reasons, been carried into effect. In the first place, a moderate degree of actual shame withheld him—and again, he had begged for time from his creditor, and obtained it. Allcraft absent, the sense of shame diminished; before he could return to England, the grateful respite was at an end. It was a fine bright morning when Mr Bellamy's grand carriage drew up in state before the banking-house, and the highly respectable proprietor descended from it with his accustomed style and dignity. Mr Planner was, at the moment, at his desk, very busy with the prospectus of the Pantamorphica Association, in which he had just completed some very striking additions—but perceiving his respected colleague, he jumped from his seat, and hastened to give him greeting.

"Don't let me disturb you, my dear friend," said the gracious Mr Bellamy. "I beg you'll prosecute your labours."

"Don't mention it, I pray—so like you, Mr Bellamy—always considerate and kind."

"Busy, Mr Planner—eh?—a deal to do now in the absence of our good friend?"

"Enough, enough sir, I assure you—but business, sir, is pleasure to the active mind."

"Very true—we feel your worth, sir—the house acknowledges your ability, Mr Planner."

"Dear Mr Bellamy—you are very flattering."

"No—not at all. Have you any engagement, Mr Planner, for this evening? Can you find time to dine with us at the Hall? I am positively angry with you for your repeated excuses."

"I shall be too proud, sir—business hitherto"——

"Ay—ay—but, my good sir, we must not sacrifice ourselves to business. A little recreation is absolutely necessary."

"So it is, sir—so it is—and you, sir, with your splendid fortune and superior taste"——

"Ah, ah—apropos! have you heard from Mr Allcraft lately?"

"This morning, sir."

"When does he return, pray?"

"In about a week from this. He writes he leaves Vienna this very day."

"Dear me, how very inconvenient, how very vexing!"

"What is it, may I ask, sir?"

"Oh, a trifle, Mr Planner. Dear me—dear me—it is annoying too!"

"Is it nothing that we can do, sir? Any thing the bank can offer?"

"Why—my dear sir—it is rather awkward, certainly. I have engaged to complete a purchase, and it must be done to-morrow. What cash have we in the house? There can be no impropriety in withdrawing a few thousand pounds for a short time. What do you think—Mr Allcraft being away?"

Now, Planner himself, during the last few days, had been very busy with the cash-box, in order to meet the expenses of certain preliminaries essential to the success of the infant Pantamorphica—into which speculation, by the way, he had entered heart and soul—and it was quite a relief and a joy to him to find his partner turning his attention to the same quarter; so true it is, that no pleasure is so sweet to a sinner, as the wickedness and companionship of a brother criminal.

"Impropriety, sir!" exclaimed the schemer. "Certainly not. Draw your cheque, sir. If we have not the money here, we have a heavy purse in London—and I beg you will command it."

"You think, then, that until our friend's return"——

"I am perfectly satisfied, Mr Bellamy," said Planner, with an emphasis on every word, as men will sometimes use, feeling and believing all that they assert. "I am thoroughly convinced that nothing would give Mr Allcraft greater pain than to know you had needed a temporary loan, and had not availed yourself of every opportunity that the bank affords you. I entreat you not to hesitate one instant. How much may you require?"

"Well, my dear sir—you will dine with us this evening. We will talk the matter over. Don't be late. Upon consideration, it may be quite as well, perhaps, to draw upon the bank."

"Much better, sir, I am sure, in every way. Will you walk into the private room? You'll find pen, ink, and paper there. We can accommodate you, sir—no doubt."

"Thank you, Mr Planner, thank you."

How very few of the numerous clients of Messrs Allcraft, Bellamy, Brammel, and Planner, in their worst dreams that night, dreamt of the havoc which was making with their beloved and hard-earned cash!

COLLEGE THEATRICALS

It wanted but two or three weeks to the Christmas vacation, and we—the worshipful society of under-graduates of —— College, Oxford—were beginning to get tired of the eternal round of supper parties which usually marked the close of our winter's campaign, and ready to hail with delight any proposition that had the charm of novelty. A three weeks' frost had effectually stopped the hunting; all the best tandem leaders were completely screwed; the freshmen had been "larked" till they were grown as cunning as magpies; and the Dean had set up a divinity lecture at two o'clock, and published a stringent proclamation against rows in the Quad. It was, in short, in a particularly uninteresting state of things, with the snow falling lazily upon the grey roofs and silent quadrangle, that some half dozen of us had congregated in Bob Thornhill's rooms, to get over the time between lunch and dinner with as little trouble to our mental and corporal faculties as possible. Those among us who had been for the last three months promising to themselves to begin to read "next week," had now put off that too easy creditor, conscience, till "next term." One alone had settled his engagements of that nature, or, in the language of his "Testamur"—the prettiest bit of Latin, he declared, that he ever saw—"satisfecit examinatoribus." Unquestionably, in his case, the examiners must have had the rare virtue of being very easily satisfied. In fact, Mr Savile's discharge of his educational engagements was rather a sort of "whitewashing" than a payment in full. His passing was what is technically called a "shave," a metaphor alluding to that intellectual density which finds it difficult to squeeze through the narrow portal which admits to the privileges of a Bachelor of Arts. As Mr S. himself, being a sporting man, described it, it was "a very close run indeed;" not that he considered that circumstance to derogate, in any way, from his victory; he was rather inclined to consider, that, having shown the field of examiners capital sport, and fairly got away from them in the end without the loss of his brush, his examination had been one of the very best runs of the season. In virtue whereof he was now mounted on the arm of an easy-chair, with a long chibouque, which became the gravity of an incipient bachelor better than a cigar, and took upon himself to give Thornhill (who was really a clever fellow, and professing to be reading for a first) some advice as to his conducting himself when his examination should arrive.

"I'll tell you what, Thornhill, old boy, I'll give you a wrinkle; it doesn't always answer to let out all you know at an examination. That sly old varmint, West of Magdalen, asked me who Hannibal was. 'Aha!'—said I to myself—'that's your line of country, is it? You want to walk me straight into those botheration Punic Wars, it's no go, though; I sha'n't break cover in that direction.' So I was mute. 'Can't you tell me something about Hannibal?' says old West again. 'I can,' thinks I, 'but I won't.' He was regularly flabbergasted; I spoilt his beat entirely, don't you see? so he looked as black as thunder, and tried it on in a fresh place. If I had been fool enough to let him dodge me in those Punic Wars, I could have been run into in no time. Depend upon it, there's nothing like a judicious ignorance occasionally."

"Why," said Thornhill, "'when ignorance is bliss,' (i. e. when it gets through the schools,) 'tis folly to be wise.'"

"Ah! that's Shakspeare says that, isn't it? I wish one could take up Shakspeare for a class! I'm devilish fond of Shakspeare. We used to act Shakspeare at a private school I was at."

"By Jove!" said somebody from behind a cloud of smoke—whose the brilliant idea was, was afterwards matter of dispute—"why couldn't we get up a play?"

"Ah! why not? why not? Capital!"

"It's such a horrid bore learning one's part," lisped the elegant Horace Leicester, half awake on the sofa.

"Oh, stuff!" said Savile, "it's the very thing to keep us alive! We could make a capital theatre out of the hall; don't you think the little vice principal would give us leave?"

"You had better ask for the chapel at once. Why, don't you know, my dear fellow, the college hall, in the opinion of the dean and the vice, is held rather more sacred of the two? Newcome, poor devil, attempted to cut a joke at the high table one of the times he dined there after he was elected, and he told me that they all stared at him as if he had insulted them; and the vice (in confidence) explained to him that such 'levity' was treason against the 'reverentia loci!'"

"Ay, I remember when that old villain Solomon, the porter, fined me ten shillings for walking in there with spurs one day when I was late for dinner; he said the dean always took off his cap when he went in there by himself, and threatened to turn off old Higgs, when he had been scout forty years, because he heard him whistling one day while he was sweeping it out! Well," continued Savile, "you shall have my rooms; I sha'n't trouble them much now. I am going to pack all my books down to old Wise's next week, to turn them into ready tin; so you may turn the study into a carpenter's shop, if you like. Oh, it can be managed famously!"

So, after a few pros and cons, it was finally settled that Mr Savile's rooms should become the Theatre Royal, —— College; and I was honoured with the responsible office of stage-manager. What the play was to be was a more difficult point to settle. Savile proposed Romeo and Juliet, and volunteered for the hero; but it passed the united strength of the company to get up a decent Juliet. Richard the Third was suggested; we had "six Richards in the field" at once. We soon gave up the heroics, and decided on comedy; for, since our audience would be sure to laugh, we should at least have a chance of getting the laugh in the right place. So, after long discussion, we fixed on She Stoops to Conquer. There were a good many reasons for this selection. First, it was a piece possessing that grand desideratum in all amateur performances, that there were several parts in it of equal calibre, and none which implied decided superiority of talent in its representative. Secondly, there was not much love in it; a material point where, as an Irishman might say, all the ladies were gentlemen. Thirdly, the scenery, dresses, properties, and decorations, were of the very simplest description: it was easily "put upon the stage." We found little difficulty in casting the male characters; old Mrs Hardcastle, not requiring any great share of personal attractions, and being considered a part that would tell, soon found a representative; but when we came to the "donnas"—prima and secunda—then it was that the manager's troubles began. It was really necessary, to ensure the most moderate degree of success to the comedy, that Miss Hardcastle should have at least a lady-like deportment. The public voice, first in whispers, then audibly, at last vociferously, called upon Leicester. Slightly formed, handsome, clever and accomplished, with naturally graceful manners, and a fair share of vanity and affectation, there was no doubt of his making a respectable heroine if he would consent to be made love to. In vain did he protest against the petticoats, and urge with affecting earnestness the claims of the whiskers which for the last six months he had so diligently been cultivating; the chorus of entreaty and expostulation had its effect, aided by a well-timed compliment to the aristocratically small hand and foot, of which Horace was pardonably vain. Shaving was pronounced indispensable to the due growth of the whiskers; and the importance of the character, and the point of the situations, so strongly dwelt upon, that he became gradually reconciled to his fate, and began seriously to discuss the question whether Miss Hardcastle should wear her hair in curls or bands. A freshman of seventeen, who had no pretensions in the way of whiskers, and who was too happy to be admitted on any terms to a share in such a "fast idea" as the getting up a play, was to be the Miss Neville; and before the hall bell rang for dinner, an order had been despatched for a dozen acting copies of "She Stoops to Conquer."

Times have materially changed since Queen Elizabeth's visit to Christ-Church; the University, one of the earliest nurses of the infant drama, has long since turned it out of doors for a naughty child; and forbid it, under pain of worse than whipping, to come any nearer than Abingdon or Bicester. Taking into consideration the style of some of the performances, in which under-graduates of some three hundred years ago were the actors, the "Oxford Theatre" of those days, if it had more wit in it than the present, had somewhat less decency: the ancient "moralities" were not over moral, and the "mysteries" rather Babylonish. So far we have had no great loss. Whether the judicious getting up of a tragedy of Sophocles or Æschylus, or even a comedy of Terence—classically managed—as it could be done in Oxford—and well acted, would be more unbecoming the gravity of our collected wisdom, or more derogatory to the dignity of our noble "theatre," than the squalling of Italian singers, masculine, feminine, and neuter—is a question which, when I take my M.A., I shall certainly propose in convocation. Thus much I am sure of, if a classical play-bill were duly announced for the next grand commemoration, it would "draw" almost as well as the Duke; the dresses might be quite as showy, the action hardly less graceful, than those of the odd-looking gentlemen who are dubbed doctors of civil law on such occasions; and the speeches of Prometheus, Oedipus, or Antigone, would be more intelligible to the learned, and more amusing to the ladies, than those Latin essays or the Creweian oration.

However, until I am vice-chancellor, the legitimate drama, Greek, Roman, or English, seems little likely to revive in Oxford. Our branch of that great family, I confess, bore the bar-sinister. The offspring of our theatrical affections was unrecognized by college authority. The fellows of —— would have done any thing but "smile upon its birth." The dean especially would have burked it at once had he suspected its existence. Nor was it fostered, like the former Oxford theatricals to which we have alluded, by royal patronage; we could not, consistently with decorum, request her Majesty to encourage an illegitimate. Nevertheless—spite of its being thus born under the rose—it grew and prospered. Our plan of rehearsal was original. We used to adjourn from dinner to the rooms of one or other of the company; and there, over our wine and dessert, instead of quizzing freshmen and abusing tutors, open each our copy, and, with all due emphasis and intonation, go regularly through the scenes of "She Stoops to Conquer." This was all the study we ever gave to our parts: and even thus it was difficult to get a muster of all the performers, and we had generally to play dummy for some one or more of the characters, or "double" them, as the professionals call it. The excuses for absenteeism were various. Mrs Hardcastle and Tony were gone to Woodstock with a team, and were not to be waited for; Diggory had a command to dine with the principal; and once an interesting dialogue was cut short by the untoward event of Miss Neville's being "confined"—in consequence of some indiscretion or other—"to chapel." It was necessary in our management, as much as in Mr Bunn's or Mr Macready's, to humour the caprices of the stars of the company: but the lesser lights, if they became eccentric at all in their orbits, were extinguished without mercy. Their place was easily supplied; for the moment it became known that a play was in contemplation, there were plenty of candidates for dramatic fame, especially among the freshmen: and though we mortally offended one or two aspiring geniuses by proffering them the vacant situations of Ralph, Roger, and Co., in Mr Hardcastle's household, on condition of having their respective blue dress coats turned up with yellow to represent the family livery, there were others to whom the being admitted behind the scenes, even in these humble characters, was a subject of laudable ambition. Nay, unimportant as were some parts in themselves, they were quite enough for the histrionic talent of some of our friends. Till I became a manager myself, I always used to lose patience at the wretched manner in which some of the underlings on the stage went through the little they had to say and do: there seemed no reason why the "sticks" should be so provokingly sticky; and it surprised me that a man who could accost one fluently enough at the stage door, should make such a bungle as some of them did in a message of some half dozen words "in character." But when I first became initiated into the mysteries of amateur performances, and saw how entirely destitute some men were of any notion of natural acting, and how they made a point of repeating two lines of familiar dialogue with the tone and manner, but without the correctness of a schoolboy going through a task—then it ceased to be any matter of wonder that those to whom acting was no joke, but an unhappily earnest mode of getting bread, should so often make their performance appear the uneasy effort which it is. There was one man in particular, a good-humoured, gentlemanly fellow, a favourite with us all; not remarkable for talent, but a pleasant companion enough, with plenty of common sense. Well, "he would be an actor"—it was his own fancy to have a part, and, as he was "one of us," we could not well refuse him. We gave him an easy one, for he was not vain of his own powers, or ambitious of theatrical distinction; so he was to be "second fellow"—one of Tony's pot-companions. He had but two lines to speak; but, from the very first time I heard him read them, I set him down as a hopeless case. He read them as if he had just learned to spell the words; when he repeated them without the book, it was like a clergyman giving out a text. And so it was with a good many of the rank and file of the company; we had more labour to drill them into something like a natural intonation than to learn our own longest speeches twice over. So we made their attendance at rehearsals a sine qua non. We dismissed a promising "Mat Muggins" because he went to the "Union" two nights successively, when he ought to have been at "The Three Pigeons." We superseded a very respectable "landlord" (though he had actually been measured for a corporation and a pair of calves) for inattention to business. The only one of the supernumeraries whom it was at all necessary to conciliate, was the gentleman who was to sing the comic song instead of Tony, (Savile, the representative of the said Tony, not having music in his soul beyond a view-holloa.) He was allowed to go and come at our readings ad libitum, upon condition of being very careful not to take cold.

When we had become tolerably perfect in the words of our parts, it was deemed expedient to have a "dress rehearsal"—especially for the ladies. It is not very easy to move safely—let alone gracefully—in petticoats, for those who are accustomed to move their legs somewhat more independently. And it would not have been civil in Messrs Marlow and Hastings to laugh outright at their lady-loves before company, as they were sure to do upon their first appearance. A dress rehearsal, therefore, was a very necessary precaution. But if it was difficult to get the company together at six o'clock under the friendly disguise of a wine-party, doubly difficult was it to expect them to muster at eleven in the morning. The first day that we fixed for it, there came a not very lady-like note, evidently written in bed, from Miss Hardcastle, stating, that having been at a supper-party the night before, and there partaken of brandy-punch to an extent to which she was wholly unaccustomed, it was quite impossible, in the present state of her nervous system, for her to make her appearance in character at any price. There was no alternative but to put off the rehearsal; and that very week occurred a circumstance which was very near being the cause of its adjournment sine die.

"Mr Hawthorne," said the dean to me one morning, when I was leaving his rooms, rejoicing in the termination of lecture, "I wish to speak with you, if you please." The dean's communications were seldom of a very pleasing kind, and on this particular morning his countenance gave token that he had hit upon something more than usually piquant. The rest of the men filed out of the door as slowly as they conveniently could, in the hope, I suppose, of hearing the dean's fire open upon me, but he waited patiently till my particular friend, Bob Thornhill, had picked up carefully, one by one, his miscellaneous collection of note-book, pencil, penknife, and other small wares, and had been obliged at length to make an unwilling exit; when, seeing the door finally closed, he commenced with his usual—"Have the goodness to sit down, sir."

Experience had taught me, that it was as well to make one's-self as comfortable as might be upon these occasions; so I took the easy-chair, and tried to look as if I thought the dean merely wanted to have a pleasant half-hour's chat. He marched into a little back-room that he called his study, and I began to speculate upon the probable subject of our conference. Strange! that week had been a more than usually quiet one. No late knocking in; no cutting lectures at chapel; positively I began to think that, for once, the dean had gone on a wrong scent, and that I should repel his accusations with all the dignity of injured innocence; or had he sent for me to offer his congratulations on my having commenced in the "steady" line, and to ask me to breakfast? I was not long to indulge such delusive hopes. Re-enter the dean, O. P., as our stage directions would have had it, with—a pair of stays!

By what confounded ill-luck they had got into his possession I could not imagine; but there they were. The dean touched them as if he felt their very touch an abomination, threw them on the table, and briefly said—"These, sir, were found in your rooms this morning. Can you explain how they came there?"

True enough, Leicester had been trying on the abominable articles in my bedroom, and I had stuffed them into a drawer till wanted. What to say was indeed a puzzle. To tell the whole truth would, no doubt, have ended the matter at once, and a hearty laugh should I have had at the dean's expense; but it would have put the stopper on "She Stoops to Conquer." It was too ridiculous to look grave about; and blacker grew the countenance before me, as, with a vain attempt to conceal a smile, I echoed his words, and stammered out—"In my rooms, sir?"

"Yes, sir, in your bed-room." He rang the bell. "Your servant, Simmons, most properly brought them to me."

The little rascal! I had been afraid to let him know any thing about the theatricals; for I knew perfectly well the dean would hear of it in half an hour, for he served him in the double capacity of scout and spy. Before the bell had stopped, Dick Simmons made his appearance, having evidently been kept at hand. He did look rather ashamed of himself, when I asked him, what business he had to search my wardrobe?