Pelham | Page 2

indeed, for my father, a remarkably unfortunate
occurrence; for Seymour Conway was immensely rich, and the
damages would, no doubt, have been proportionably high. Had they

met each other alone, the affair might easily have been settled, and
Lady Frances gone off in tranquillity;-- those d--d servants are always
in the way!
I have, however, often thought that it was better for me that the affair
ended thus,--as I know, from many instances, that it is frequently
exceedingly inconvenient to have one's mother divorced.
I have observed that the distinguishing trait of people accustomed to
good society, is a calm, imperturbable quiet, which pervades all their
actions and habits, from the greatest to the least: they eat in quiet, move
in quiet, live in quiet, and lose their wife, or even their money, in quiet;
while low persons cannot take up either a spoon or an affront without
making such an amazing noise about it. To render this observation
good, and to return to the intended elopement, nothing farther was said
upon that event. My father introduced Conway to Brookes's, and
invited him to dinner twice a week for a whole twelvemonth.
Not long after this occurrence, by the death of my grandfather, my
uncle succeeded to the title and estates of the family. He was, as people
justly observed, rather an odd man: built schools for peasants, forgave
poachers, and diminished his farmers' rents; indeed, on account of these
and similar eccentricities, he was thought a fool by some, and a
madman by others. However, he was not quite destitute of natural
feeling; for he paid my father's debts, and established us in the secure
enjoyment of our former splendour. But this piece of generosity, or
justice, was done in the most unhandsome manner; he obtained a
promise from my father to retire from Brookes's, and relinquish the turf;
and he prevailed upon my mother to take an aversion to diamonds, and
an indifference to china monsters.

CHAPTER II.
Tell arts they have no soundness, But vary by esteeming; Tell schools
they want profoundness, And stand too much on seeming. If arts and
schools reply, Give arts and schools the lie. --The Soul's Errand.

At ten years old I went to Eton. I had been educated till that period by
my mother, who, being distantly related to Lord_____, (who had
published "Hints upon the Culinary Art"), imagined she possessed an
hereditary claim to literary distinction. History was her great forte; for
she had read all the historical romances of the day, and history
accordingly I had been carefully taught.
I think at this moment I see my mother before me, reclining on her sofa,
and repeating to me some story about Queen Elizabeth and Lord Essex;
then telling me, in a languid voice, as she sank back with the exertion,
of the blessings of a literary taste, and admonishing me never to read
above half an hour at a time for fear of losing my health.
Well, to Eton I went; and the second day I had been there, I was half
killed for refusing, with all the pride of a Pelham, to wash tea-cups. I
was rescued from the clutches of my tyrant by a boy not much bigger
than myself, but reckoned the best fighter, for his size, in the whole
school. His name was Reginald Glanville: from that period, we became
inseparable, and our friendship lasted all the time he stayed at Eton,
which was within a year of my own departure for Cambridge.
His father was a baronet, of a very ancient and wealthy family; and his
mother was a woman of some talent and more ambition. She made her
house one of the most recherchee in London. Seldom seen at large
assemblies, she was eagerly sought after in the well winnowed soirees
of the elect. Her wealth, great as it was, seemed the least prominent
ingredient of her establishment. There was in it no uncalled for
ostentation--no purse- proud vulgarity--no cringing to great, and no
patronizing condescension to little people; even the Sunday newspapers
could not find fault with her, and the querulous wives of younger
brothers could only sneer and be silent.
"It is an excellent connexion," said my mother, when I told her of my
friendship with Reginald Glanville, "and will be of more use to you
than many of greater apparent consequence. Remember, my dear, that
in all the friends you make at present, you look to the advantage you
can derive from them hereafter; that is what we call knowledge of the
world, and it is to get the knowledge of the world that you are sent to a

public school."
I think, however, to my shame, that notwithstanding my mother's
instructions, very few prudential considerations were mingled with my
friendship for