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THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CHARLES CHESTERFIELD,*

THE YOUTH OF GENIUS.

BY MRS. TRollope.

CHAP. VI.

CHARLES CHESTERFIELD MAKES RAPID STRIDES TOWARDS RENOWN-HE
IS INTRODUCED to a pre-EMINENTLY LITERARY COTERIE, AND PRE-
SENTED TO MR. MARCHMONT, ONE OF THE GREATEST MEN OF THE AGE,
AND EDITOR OF THE REGENERATOR"-
-ITS EFFECT UPON HIM.

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It will not be doubted that Charles arrived punctually at the breakfast-table of Mr. Dalrymple; so punctually, indeed, that it was nearly half an hour before Mr. Gibson arrived. But his host, who perhaps anticipated this ultra-exactness, was ready to receive him, and the halfhour was spent very advantageously for Charles in tête-à-tête conversation with a man, equally favoured by nature and fortune, and with a heart and head less corrupted by the world, and his own prosperous position in it, than it is by any means common to meet with, at the ripe age of twenty-five years and nine months.

With such a one it was impossible that Charles Chesterfield could fail to inspire a friendly degree of interest. The genuine enthusiasm, the youthful freshness of all his feelings, and of all his thoughts,-the glowing yet almost unspeakable gratitude with which Dalrymple's attention inspired him, and the tone of old-fashioned quaintness, if not of originality, which he found in his various compositions and remarks (for Charles had brought a few verses), altogether produced a very strong impression in his favour.

This happy half-hour wore rapidly away, and Mr. Gibson made his appearance. No individual whom his distinguished young neighbour could have invited to breakfast would have appeared to this gentleman unworthy of the most marked politness and attention; but when Mr. Dalrymple stated Charles Chesterfield to be a young author, whom he expected would speedily become a great favourite with the public, his advances towards forming an immediate friendship with him were very ardent indeed. Charles at this moment appeared to touch the very goal of all his fondest hopes. He was already spoken of, and spoken to, as an author, a poet, a London author, and a London poet; and had he been offered five hundred pounds in exchange for the honours of that morning he would have rejected them with indignation.

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"I trust you are not as yet so buried up and overwhelmed with invitations, my dear sir, as to prevent my introducing you to my family immediately?" said Mr. Gibson.

"I have no acquaintance in London as yet, sir, and shall be most happy to have the honour of waiting upon you," replied Charles, ingenuously.

"Is it possible? I will confess to you, my dear young gentleman, that I hear this with great pleasure, and I feel extremely grateful to my

Continued from No. ccxxxvi., page 489.

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friend, Mr. Dalrymple, for having given me this opportunity of making your acquaintance before the innumerable claims which are sure to beset a man of genius have so entangled you in their chains, as to render it difficult, not to say impossible, to lay the foundation of that sort of particular intimacy which thoroughly literary people are so desirous of cultivating with the favourite authors of the day. We now start fair, Mr. Chesterfield, nay, I am willing to hope with some little advantage and I think I may venture to promise you many thoroughly intellectual hours at my house. Mrs. Gibson, though I say it that should not, is certainly rather a remarkable person.-Is she not, Dalrymple? I don't mean at all, however, to speak of her as an authoress -nothing like it. In fact, she has never done any thing herself, beyond the illustrating the great work of the immortal Milton, and there, indeed, she has shown what the tone of her mind really is, without exaggeration, I may avow to you, sir, that it is extraordinary. I have been told by one or two of our leading print-shops, that if she perseveres-and upon my word I think she is capable of any thing on such a subject-if she perseveres, they assure me that the copy may become worth a thousand pounds. It is a singular undertaking, a very singular undertaking for a lady. But you will judge of this better for yourself, Mr. Chesterfield, when you become an habitué in the boudoir, as I trust you soon will do, than I can enable you to do by any description."

Notwithstanding the flattering conclusion of this speech, poor Charles at that moment felt a pang most completely new to him. He shuddered, literally shuddered, at his own ignorance! Of the "Paradise Lost" he knew more perhaps than most lads of his age, but as to what could be meant by a lady's illustrating the work, till it became worth a thousand pounds, he knew no more than his mother's cow, Brindle. Mr. Dalrymple'saw all this in his heightened colour and troubled aspect. His very eyes seemed to blush as he turned them from the face of Mr. Gibson to his own coffee-cup, and from his coffee-cup again to Mr. Gibson's face. But in this Arthur saw no very important drawback to the young man's success. "His learning is of another kind," thought he. "He would have better understood a gloss upon Appian, or Oppian, than a fair lady's illustration of any work under the sun," and coming across the stream of Mr. Gibson's eloquence, by calling his attention to a broiled chicken, he said "I am quite pleased, Gibson, that I have contrived to get you and Mr. Chesterfield here together, as I feel certain that the acquaintance will be mutually gratifying. You will find in him the sort of talent so well appreciated by yourself, and all your family, and by your means I am in hopes he will soon overcome all the difficulties which of necessity surround a young author, when first entering upon his career. You are well acquainted, I believe, with the editors of several popular periodical works, and it may be desirable, perhaps, that Mr. Chesterfield's first efforts should appear in one of these. Will you have the kindness to introduce him wherever you think there would be the best chance of his finding encouragement?" "Let him come to us to-night," replied Mr. Gibson eagerly. "Mrs. Gibson will have a small, quite a small committee, this evening, of some of the very cleverest men of the day. Our system is to take no colour Mr. Dalrymple, absolutely no colour whatever, and this enables us to

seize upon talent wherever we find it, and our little party to-night will be perfectly antithistic. This, as I take it, is the real secret of a perfectly well organized literary society. In my own family I encourage the greatest freedom of opinion on all subjects. No two of us, I believe, think exactly the same on any subject of importance; the consequence of which is, that our salon is equally agreeable to all parties. I mention this, Mr. Chesterfield, to set you at your ease among us. Let your colour be what it may, you may venture to pronounce yourself."

Poor Charles again fell terribly in the dark; nevertheless he had understood enough to make him superlatively happy. He was invited to make one in a party of London litterati, and the wide earth had no pleasure to offer which he would have accepted in exchange for it.

Mr. Dalrymple perceived that he had achieved exactly what he wished as an opening, and trusted to his protegé's good gifts for the rest. While Mr. Gibson knew that he was about to convey to his lady and daughters the most agreeable news he could possibly bring them.

Thus all, equally pleased by the result of the meeting, were equally willing to bring it to a close, and they soon separated, with a most satisfactory increase of contentment on all sides.

It was with great modesty, though with undisguised delight, that Charles announced at the dinner-table the invitation he had received. Sir George expressed himself well pleased. "I knew Dalrymple could be useful," he said. "He could not have done any thing better for you. Every body knows Gibson; and, better still, Gibson knows every body. But, look ye, Charles, if you begin to get invitations in this way, I must positively send my tailor to you. That broad-cloth suit your good father boasted of may be kept as good as new till you get back to Maplebury. I'll send to Willis and order him to dispatch a fellow here to-morrow to take your measure."

Clara Meddows heard all this, and knit her brows. Mrs. Longueville did not hear it at all, and as neither of them spoke, and Sir George drew forth two or three letters from his pocket, Charles ventured to make a circular bow and steal away, thinking it might be advantageous to spend a solitary hour or two at his lodgings, preparing himself for any questions which might be asked him, concerning what he had already done, or what it was his intention to do; and also by selecting such of his more important compositions as he should best like to show, in case he should be asked to exhibit a specimen. Slowly and carefully he dressed himself, though more than half ashamed of deeming his external appearance of any consequence on an occasion so purely intellectual; and then, for a long hour of trembling but delicious agitation, he sat before his large country-made desk, surrounded by folio pages, on which were written, in a fair, round hand, odes, sonnets, and songs, while the more massive labour of a recently finished volume of tales, lay neatly packed in quarto sheets beside him. Often did he make a selection for the possible wants of the evening, and as often change it, till at length the dreaded yet longed-for moment arrived, and the girl of the house entered to announce that the cab he had ordered to convey him to Bakerstreet, was at the door. In all haste he now seized upon the three

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