French Clay, hurried by a smile he saw on Rosamond’s lips, changed his ground again for the worse, and said he was not speaking of wars, of foreign conquests, but of defensive wars, where foolish people, from an absurd love of their own country, that is, of certain barren mountains, of a few acres of snow, or of collections of old houses and churches, called capital cities, will expose themselves to fire, flame, and famine, and will stand to be cut to pieces inchmeal, rather than to submit to a conqueror, who might, ten to one, be a more civilized or cleverer sort of a person than their own rulers; and under whom they might enjoy all the luxuries of life—changing only the name of their country for some other equally well-sounding name; and perhaps adopting a few new laws, instead of what they might have been in the habit from their childhood of worshipping, as a wittenagemote, or a diet, or a constitution. “For my part,” continued French Clay, “I have accustomed myself to go to the bottom of things. I have approfondied. I have not suffered my understanding to be paralysed—I have made my own analysis of happiness, and find that your legislators, and moralists, and patriots, would juggle me out of many solid physical comforts, by engaging me to fight for enthusiasms which do me no manner of good.”
Count Altenberg’s countenance had flushed with indignation, and cooled with contempt, several times during Mr. Clay’s speech. Beginning in a low composed voice, he first answered, whatever pretence to reason it contained, in the analysis of human happiness, he observed, Mr. Clay had bounded his to physical comforts—this was reducing civilized man below even the savage, and nearly to the state of brutes. Did Mr. Clay choose to leave out all intellectual pleasures—all the pleasures of self-complacency, self-approbation, and sympathy? But, supposing that he was content to bound his happiness, inelegant and low, to such narrow limits, Count Altenberg observed, he did not provide for the security even of that poor portion. If he were ready to give up the liberty or the free constitution of the country in which he resided, ready to live under tyrants and tyranny, how could he be secure for a year, a day, even an hour, of his epicurean paradise?
Mr. Clay acknowledged, that, “in this point of view, it might be awkward to live in a conquered country; but if a man has talents to make himself agreeable to the powers that be, and money in his purse, that can never touch him, chacun pour soi—et honi soit qui mal y pense.”
“Is it in England!—Oh! can it be in England, and from an Englishman, that I hear such sentiments!” exclaimed Count Altenberg. “Such I have heard on the continent—such we have heard the precursors of the ruin, disgrace, destruction of the princes and nations of Europe!”
Some painful reflections or recollections seemed to absorb the Count for a few moments.
“Foi d’honnête homme et de philosophe,” French Clay declared, that, for his own part, he cared not who ruled or how, who was conqueror, or what was conquered, provided champagne and burgundy were left to him by the conqueror.
Rosamond thought it was a pity Mr. Clay was not married to the lady who said she did not care what revolutions happened, as long as she had her roast chicken, and her little game at cards.
“Happen what will,” continued French Clay, “I have two hundred thousand pounds, well counted—as to the rest, it is quite indifferent to me, whether England be called England or France; for,” concluded he, walking off to the committee of dress, “after all I have heard, I recur to my first question, what is country—or, as people term it, their native land?”
The following lines came full into Caroline’s recollection as French Clay spoke:
“Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself has said,
This is my own, my native land?
Whose heart has ne’er within him burn’d,
As home his footsteps he hath turn’d,
From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there he, go, mark him well;
High though his titles, proud his fame,
Boundless his wealth, as wish can claim,
Despite these titles, power and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living shall forfeit fair renown,
And doubly dying shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung.
Unwept, unhonour’d, and unsung.”