“No doubt he is a contributor to ‘The
Londoner,’” said the Parson, sarcastically.
“True. He writes our classical, theological,
and metaphysical articles. Suppose I invite him
to come here for a day or two, and you can see him
and judge for yourself, Sir Peter?”
“Do.”
MR. WELBY arrived, and pleased everybody. A man
of the happiest manners, easy and courteous.
There was no pedantry in him, yet you could soon see
that his reading covered an extensive surface, and
here and there had dived deeply. He enchanted
the Parson by his comments on Saint Chrysostom; he
dazzled Sir Peter with his lore in the antiquities
of ancient Britain; he captivated Kenelm by his readiness
to enter into that most disputatious of sciences called
metaphysics; while for Lady Chillingly, and the three
sisters who were invited to meet him, he was more
entertaining, but not less instructive. Equally
at home in novels and in good books, he gave to the
spinsters a list of innocent works in either; while
for Lady Chillingly he sparkled with anecdotes of
fashionable life, the newest bons mots, the
latest scandals. In fact, Mr. Welby was one of
those brilliant persons who adorn any society amidst
which they are thrown. If at heart he was a disappointed
man, the disappointment was concealed by an even serenity
of spirits; he had entertained high and justifiable
hopes of a brilliant career and a lasting reputation
as a theologian and a preacher; the succession to
his estate at the age of twenty-three had changed
the nature of his ambition. The charm of his manner
was such that he sprang at once into the fashion,
and became beguiled by his own genial temperament
into that lesser but pleasanter kind of ambition which
contents itself with social successes and enjoys the
present hour. When his circumstances compelled
him to eke out his income by literary profits, he
slid into the grooves of periodical composition, and
resigned all thoughts of the labour required for any
complete work, which might take much time and be attended
with scanty profits. He still remained very popular
in society, and perhaps his general reputation for
ability made him fearful to hazard it by any great
undertaking. He was not, like Mivers, a despiser
of all men and all things; but he regarded men and
things as an indifferent though good-natured spectator
regards the thronging streets from a drawing-room
window. He could not be called blase, but
he was thoroughly desillusionne. Once
over-romantic, his character now was so entirely imbued
with the neutral tints of life that romance offended
his taste as an obtrusion of violent colour into a
sober woof. He was become a thorough Realist
in his code of criticism, and in his worldly mode
of action and thought. But Parson John did not
perceive this, for Welby listened to that gentleman’s
eulogies on the Ideal school without troubling himself
to contradict them. He had grown too indolent
to be combative in conversation, and only as a critic
betrayed such pugnacity as remained to him by the polished
cruelty of sarcasm.
