There is something very artistic in the way your picture-dealer, having brushed away the dust from a Mieris or a Gerard Dow, places the work in a favorite light before you, and then stands to watch the effect on your countenance. So, too, will your man of rare manuscripts and illuminated missals offer to your notice some illegible treasure of the fourth century; but these are nothing to the mysterious solemnity of him who, uncorking a bottle of rare wine, waits to note the varying sensations of your first enjoyment down to your perfect ecstasy.
I tried to perform my part of the piece with credit: I looked long at the amber-colored liquor in the glass; I sniffed it and smiled approvingly; the host smiled too, and said, “Ja!” Not another syllable did he utter, but how expressive was that “Ja!” “Ja!” meant, “You are right, Potts, it is the veritable wine of 1764, bottled for the Herzog Ludwig's marriage; every drop of it is priceless. Mark the odor, how it perfumes the air around us; regard the color—the golden hair of Venus can alone rival it; see how the oily globules cling to the glass!” “Ja!” meant all this, and more.
As I drank off my glass, I was sorely puzzled by the precise expression in which to couch my approval; but he supplied it and said, “Is it not Gôttlich?” and I said it was Gôttlich; and while we finished the two bottles, this solitary phrase sufficed for converse between us, “Gôttlich!” being uttered by each as he drained his glass, and “Gôttlich!” being re-echoed by his companion.
There is great wisdom in reducing our admiration to a word; giving, as it were, a cognate number to our estimate of anything. Wherever we amplify, we usually blunder: we employ epithets that disagree, or, in even less questionable taste, soar into extravagances that are absurd. Besides, our moods of highest enjoyment are not such as dispose to talkativeness; the ecstasy that is most enthralling is self-contained. Who, on looking at a glorious landscape, does not feel the insufferable bathos of the descriptive enthusiast beside him? How grateful would he own himself if he would be satisfied with one word for his admiration! And if one needs this calm repose, this unbroken peace, for the enjoyment of scenery, equally is it applicable to our appreciation of a curious wine. I have no recollection that any further conversation passed between us, but I have never ceased, and most probably never shall cease, to have a perfect memory of the pleasant ramble of my thoughts as I sat there sipping, sipping. I pondered long over a plan of settling down in this place for life, by what means I could realize. sufficient to live in that elevated sphere the host spoke of. If Potts père—I mean my father—were to learn that I were received in the highest circles, admitted to all that was most socially exclusive, would he be induced to make an adequate provision for me? He was an ambitious and a worldly man; would he see in these beginnings of mine the seeds of future greatness? Fathers, I well knew, are splendidly generous to their successful children, and “the poor they send empty away.” It is so pleasant to aid him who does not need assistance, and such a hopeless task to be always saving him who will be drowned.
My first care, therefore, should be to impress upon my parent the appropriateness of his contributing his share to what already was an accomplished success. “Wishing, as the French say, to make you a part in my triumph, dear father, I write these lines.” How I picture him to my mind's eye as he reads this, running frantically about to his neighbors, and saying, “I have got a letter from Algy,—strange boy,—but as I always foresaw, with great stuff in him, very remarkable abilities. See what he has done,—struck out a perfect line of his own in life; just the sort of thing genius alone can do. He went off from this one' morning by way of a day's excursion, never returned,—never wrote. All my efforts to trace him were in vain. I advertised, and offered rewards, did everything, without success; and now, after all this long interval, comes a letter by this morning's post to tell me that he is well, happy, and prosperous. He is settled, it appears, in a German capital with a hard name, a charming spot, with every accessory of enjoyment in it: men of the highest culture, and women of most graceful and attractive manner; as he himself writes, 'the elegance of a Parisian salon added to the wisdom of the professor's cabinet.' Here is Algy living with all that is highest in rank and most distinguished in station; the favored guest of the Prince, the bosom friend of the English minister; his advice sought for, his counsel asked in every difficulty; trusted in the most important state offices, and taken into the most secret counsels of the duchy. Though the requirements of his station make heavy demands upon his means, very little help from me will enable him to maintain a position which a few years more will have consolidated into a rank recognized throughout Europe.” Would the flintiest of fathers, would the most primitive rock-hearted of parents, resist an appeal like this? It is no hand to rescue from the waves is sought, but a little finger to help to affluence. “Of course you 'll do it, Potts, and do it liberally; the boy is a credit to you. He will place your name where you never dreamed to see it. What do you mean to settle on him? Above all things, no stinginess; don't disgust him.”
I hear these and such-like on every hand; even the most close-fisted and miserly of our acquaintances will be generous of their friend's money; and I think I hear the sage remarks with which they season advice with touching allusions to that well-known ship that was lost for want of a small outlay in tar. “Come down handsomely, Potts,” says a resolute man, who has sworn never to pay a sixpence of his son's debts. “What better use can we make of our hoardings than to render our young people happy?” I don't like the man who says this, but I like his sentiments; and I am much pleased when he goes on to remark that “there is no such good investment as what establishes a successful son. Be proud of the boy, Potts, and thank your stars that he had a soul above senna, and a spirit above sal volatile!”
As I invent all this play of dialogue for myself, and picture the speakers before me, I come at last to a small peevish little fellow named Lynch, a merchant tailor, who lived next door to us, and enjoyed much of my father's confidence. “So they tell me you have heard from that runaway of yours, Potts. Is it true? What face does he put upon his disgraceful conduct? What became of the livery-stable-keeper's horse? Did he sell him, or ride him to death? A bad business if he should ever come back again, which, of course, he's too wise for. And where is he now, and what is he at?”
“You may read this letter, Mr. Lynch,” replies my father; “he is one who can speak for himself.” And Lynch reads and sniggers, and reads again. I see him as plainly as if he were but a yard from me. “I never heard of this ducal capital before,” he begins, “but I suppose it's like the rest of them,—little obscure dens of pretentious poverty, plenty of ceremony, and very little to eat. How did he find it out? What brought him there?”
“You have this letter before you, sir,” says my parent, proudly. “Algernon Sydney is, I imagine, quite competent to explain what relates to his own affairs.”
“Oh, perfectly, perfectly; only that I can't really make out how he first came to this place, nor what it is that he does there now that he's in it.”