LETTER XXXVI.
From Emily Douglas to Miss Sandford.
My dearest Julia,
This will, probably, be my last letter from Marsden, unless any unfavourable change in my dear uncle’s health should alter the present arrangements for our departure. We are to go by Brighton and Dieppe, instead of by the route first proposed; and you may expect to hear from me as frequently as possible, though I shall never persecute you with my travels as travels: for I do believe there is nothing left in France or Italy, which has not been served up in every practicable variety of form, to meet each different character of taste; but I trust to your affection for finding interest in every stage of our journey, though the map of it be so familiar to your memory as to deprive me of all hope to amuse you by descriptions of scenery or costumes. Since I wrote last, I have seen much that was new to me, without going abroad; and, though I should be very ungrateful not to acknowledge thankfully the great kindness with which we have been received in Hampshire, I cannot permit even gratitude to blind me, and confound distinctions which I never desire to see melted into an undistinguishable mass of uniform colouring. My dear Julia, I sometimes stare with such amazement at the things that present themselves, as to fear that my eye-lids may be overstrained, and lose the power of closing; but, instead of egotizing on the effects produced upon my mind, I will beg you to accompany me to three or four splendid mansions in our neighbourhood, where you shall judge for yourself. About a week ago, Mr. Otway, Frederick, Charlotte, and I, took a delightful ride through the New Forest, to pay our respects to Mrs. Hannaper, a Begum of this country, who commands several hundred votes, and who is, therefore, a grand bone of contention in this terrible electioneering struggle. She has a beautiful niece, Miss Ormsby, who is dressed all over in the colours of that party which her aunt espouses; and is so full of stripes that she might be supposed to have made her gown and shawl out of the flag of a ship belonging to the United States. This young lady assists Mrs. Hannaper in canvassing for her favourite candidate, to whom it is said that she is to be married; and I have heard many gentlemen complain of being attacked with such perseverance, as to find great difficulty in retreating from the united influence of beauty and supplication. As we rode along, several groups of riotous, drunken men, in smock frocks, bearing bunches of buff and blue ribbons in their hats, interrupted our progress, and startled our horses, by tumultuary shouts which rent the air with cries “Sir Christopher Cromie, and Mrs. Hannaper for ever!” As we approached to Lyndhurst, the vociferation increased, and we were just consulting whether it would not be prudent to turn about, when a crowd came rushing down the road, which branched off at right angles with that by which we were journeying forward; and we found ourselves immediately surrounded by three or four hundred people, who had taken Mrs. Hannaper’s horses from the carriage in which she and her niece were sitting, and insisted on drawing them home themselves, to testify their attachment to the cause which she patronizes. Mrs. Hannaper is apparently from sixty to sixty-five, with a face and form neither rough nor unpleasing; but a cloth habit, tight beaver hat, over a Brutus wig, a coloured silk handkerchief tied round her throat, and a collar rising almost to her cheek bones, gave so masculine an air as completely to deceive me, while the interposition of some drooping branches of an ash tree concealed the lower part of her dress from my view. She stood up in her barouchette, waved her hat to the multitude, huzzaed, and acted so like a man upon the occasion, that when I came near enough to see a petticoat, I blushed for the honour of my sex. Her niece held a parasol over her head, and seemed less inclined to make these outrageous demonstrations than her aunt; but she held a sort of banner in the left hand with Sir Christopher’s name worked in gold letters, and her hat was ornamented with a great cockade of his colours. The carriage stopped when we appeared, and Mrs. Hannaper covering her head sat down, and desiring Mr. Otway, whom she had previously seen, to present my brother, sister, and me, very politely requested us to breakfast on the following day, when she meant, as she told us, to turn out a bagged fox; and her “Liliputians”—the name by which she distinguished a favourite pack of some tiny breed, with the technical appellation of which I am unacquainted. “Come early,” added she, “Sir Christopher, and a few friends, will be at Parham, where I shall be happy to see you.” I was beginning to say why we could not accept her kind invitation, when, in the same moment, I read “do let us go” in Frederick’s eye, and a glance from Mr. Otway’s, in which was legibly written, “it is something new, do not refuse.” I suppose that I mismanaged my excuse, for Mrs. Hannaper, nothing daunted, replied, “oh really you must come, I never take refusals.” Mr. Otway told her that some of the party would certainly attend her; and the intoxicated leaders becoming impatient of so long a parley, threw up a cloud of hats into the air, with a deafening uproar, and the ladies were whirled along to our no small contentment, for our steeds threatened, by the noise, to become ungovernable. When we had resumed our peaceful track, we interchanged, as you may believe, some remarks upon the extraordinary vision that had just crossed our path. Mr. Otway was excessively amused by Charlotte’s asking whether Mrs. Hannaper, and her niece, were Blue-stockings. “No, I dare say not,” answered our friend. “Why do you suppose them to be so?” “Oh,” replied Charlotte, “I have no reason, further than that from the masculine air of these ladies, I conclude that they must be disliked extremely by the other sex, and perhaps considered intruders sufficiently to be called Blues.” An explanation ensued, and we learned that, though it is an inexcusable offence for a woman to fancy that she possesses any understanding, or is capable of any mental acquirement, notwithstanding that Heaven may have bestowed upon her the brightest abilities, it is perfectly admissible, under certain circumstances, to be a female Nimrod—to hunt and course, dress like a mail coachman, drive a curricle at full speed, ride like a Bedouin Arab, and be in at the death. Nay, Mr. Otway assured us, that Mrs. Hannaper is generally ornamented by the Fox’s brush in returning from the chase, and that she cries talliho with peculiar gusto! “But then,” added he, “she is a woman of immense fortune; and, however people might laugh at inferior folk, so many gentlemen are aspiring to the hand of this Diana, that a thousand knights would take the field to resent the slightest indignity offered to the goddess of their adoration.” No language can paint my astonishment to learn that this old lady went out hunting; to hear her huzzaing, and to see her manly costume, had been wonder enough for one day; but to fancy it possible, that a veteran belle of Mrs. Hannaper’s age, could dream of marriage, or, like queen Elizabeth, permit herself, in this age of the world, to be surrounded by people daring to talk of love to a woman of sixty, was something beyond my comprehension or credulity. For the first time in my life I thought, dearest Mr. Otway ill-natured, and, slackening my pace, fell back with Charlotte, allowing him, and Frederick, to take the lead—shall I own my weakness? I felt so humbled for my sex, that low spirits took possession of me; a melancholy dialogue succeeded, and a hearty fit of tears relieved the oppression which manners so novel had occasioned. My sister, and I, entreated that we might not be forced to attend the morning party; so Frederick went alone, and came back thoroughly disgusted with all that he saw. A gay party met at a breakfast à la fourchette, where the ladies, he told us, played their parts most vigorously at ham, dried fish, and all sorts of substantial fare, not disdaining to wash it down with a glass of champagne.
“To horse, to horse,” was the next order of the day, and the ladies, dressed in uniform, rode in the most sportsman-like manner, clearing gates, banks, and ditches. I cannot dwell upon the disgraceful theme. Alas! is learning decried? Are women ridiculed for improving their minds, and gaining useful knowledge, while such a surrender of every characteristic that distinguishes the feminine from the masculine gender, is tolerated and encouraged? I feel a nausea when I hear the name of Hannaper; but I have not done with her yet. In a day or two after our meeting, she came to see us, having duly ascertained that my uncle would not give his interest to either party at the approaching election; and certainly nothing can be more appropriate than the name by which she is called in the country. “Jack Hannaper,” exactly prepares one for the abrupt masculine unceremonious assault which she makes on the people at whose houses she visits. Mamma’s gentle and retiring manner, the gravity of her dress, and total absence of interest in the gossip of the neighbourhood, induced the Dame of Parham Hall, to address herself chiefly to my uncle, whom she overpowered with her volubility. After having talked of her dogs which have got the distemper, of a horse which she had shot, perhaps with her own hand, because it had the glanders, she proceeded, and with all the technicality of the hustings, proclaimed the state of the poll, her intention of appearing on a favourite charger at the head of her plumpers, and giving a coup de grace to the enemy. Perceiving, it may be, from the languid appearance of my dear uncle, that he was fatigued by this farrago of nonsense, Mrs. Hannaper suddenly turned to me, and said, “Oh, but my dear Miss Douglas, you really had a great loss in not coming to Parham the other day. We had very good fun I assure you, and I dare say you will be glad to hear that your brother was much admired. He rides particularly well, and no centaur ever sat a horse more firmly. Upon my word he is a very handsome fine young fellow, and I have no doubt will make a figure yet. I shall be always happy to see him at Parham Hall.” Frederick’s praises would go far to put me in good humour with any medium through which they met my ear; but these fell upon it in sounds so coarse, and unaccustomed, that I felt they were a sort of profanation, and wished that my brother had never joined the unrefined society of this unfeminine female. My cheeks glowed, but not with pleasure. It was a fevered flush. I longed for Mrs. Hannaper’s departure, and did not know how to answer her; but she did not leave me many seconds in a state of embarrassment on Frederick’s account. All minor vexation was presently merged in the shame which I felt on my own, when this “she wolf with unrelenting fangs,” seized my arm, and, starting with real or affected recollection, exclaimed, “Well, but only fancy my omitting to tell you before, that Sir Archibald Johnson is thinking of you for his son, who makes no kind of objection, and if your fortune can liberate the estate from some thousands of embarrassment, it will be quite a nice hit. Lady Johnson of Norbury Park will not sound badly. The settlements and pin money will be liberal I dare say, and any assistance which my work-people in London can give, I shall be vastly happy, I assure you, to offer. You know that you need not have much at present: a few things made by the first hands will do, till you go to town yourself, and choose your own jewels, and select your own favourite colours. I am sure that Sir Archibald will be anxious to hasten matters, for I know at this moment, that a sum of ten thousand is called in by Mr. Fletcher, who is going to marry one of his girls famously to that madcap, Colonel Anstruther, who will be as rich as a jew bye and bye. To be sure he is a sad roué at present, but either he will sow his wild oats or run a muck. If the latter, he will shoot himself, or end his days in the Fleet; but people must not look forward; if we did, what a dull sort of thing you know it would be. I doat on the little Scotch song, which says ‘the present moment is our ain, the next we never saw;’ how pretty!”
By this time I was burning indeed: shame, indignation, and surprise, were so strongly excited, that, like contrary forces, they had the effect of paralyzing all movement. I sat like a fool, totally unable to speak; and how long I should have been doomed to listen to a strain so uncouth, the more humiliating, because uttered in the presence of mamma and my uncle, I know not, if Mr. Bolton had not been announced in this crisis, when Mrs. Hannaper jumped up, called her niece, who had been talking to Charlotte in the music-room adjoining, and, hastily nodding to me, shook my hand with an air of intelligence, saying, “I hate old Bolton, so must take fresh ground; well, we will talk over matters when next we meet, and perhaps the neighbourhood may be enlivened by more than one wedding ere long.” Miss Ormsby laughed so loud as this sally burst upon her ear, that I was absolutely confounded. “Good morrow” being hurried over, the same opening of the door served to usher in the old gentleman, to whose rescue I had been once before indebted, and to float away the most intolerable specimen of inelegance and indelicacy that I ever met with in the form of woman. The dear little Mr. Bolton was received with rapture. He seemed like a guardian spirit, and I believe that he saw how truly he was welcome to me, as in the most good-humoured and playful manner possible, he said, “Oh, do you know I have had a great escape. Mrs. Hannaper looked as if she could have eaten me up; and only that your hall is so spacious, I question whether I could have avoided a bite at least. Miss Douglas, I take it into my head that this amazonian chieftainess is not a greater favourite of yours than she is of mine.” I confessed that she would not be my model, and Mr. Bolton continued, “But you and I shall have ample revenge, if I may depend on a little bit of backstairs intelligence which has reached me through my own man.
“Now, you must not set me down as an old gossip because I tell you so, and suppose that I am always employed in running to and fro, to pick up scandal; but really poetic justice requires that such a creature as Mrs. Hannaper should receive some check, and be reminded of her age, before she is called to her great account. So far therefore, from thinking myself ill-natured at chuckling in the anticipation of a disappointment, which I have good reason to believe is suspended by a hair over her head, I am bound as a Christian to rejoice in any thing that may awaken her to a sense of her folly, and drive her to more serious thoughts than those which possess her idle brain.”
Much as I dislike Mrs. Hannaper, there was something so repugnant to my feelings of humanity in suffering a fellow-creature to encounter any ill, which timely notice might prevent, that I expostulated with Mr. Bolton, and implored him to apprize the old lady of his apprehensions, that so the catastrophe, however it might threaten, should be averted. Mr. Bolton was silent for a moment, while he fixed his eyes intently upon me, then catching my hand affectionately, he pressed it like a friend of the “olden time,” and with a tear starting to his eye, said, “God bless you child! my heart opens to the voice of nature, and it has taken me by surprise to-day, for her’s is a language which I seldom hear.” Oh, Julia, when such a commonplace sentiment as that which I had expressed, in wishing to spare a fellow-creature pain, had power to astonish by its novelty, and delight for its moral virtue, what a comment is furnished by such an anecdote as this upon modern society. If this be the world (and people are the same I suppose, whether rolling through the streets of London, or over the roads in Hampshire), defend me from its attractions. I feel like the country mouse longing for my grey peas and peaceful Glenalta; but the lovely Alps will refresh my eyes with images of God’s creation, and I shall soon bid farewell to these disgusting scenes of artificial life.
Mr. Bolton, after the little episode which I have described, returned to the merry mood, and rubbing his hands in an ecstacy, said, “No, no, depend upon it I will be ‘mute as a coach-horse.’ You shall none of you know a word of the under-plot which is weaving. I will not be a tell-tale. Let all things take their course.”
This dear little man is the soul of pleasantry, and seems to have an excellent heart, though bound up in a quaint outside. He is very English, and has a snug facetiousness of manner irresistibly diverting. I hope that I may be fortunate enough to meet him often in this neighbourhood, for he has both tact and feeling; and while his uncommon drollery amuses, his keen observation protects. He seems to delight in young people, and to understand us. My uncle enjoys his company, and they had a great deal of conversation, after which he took his leave, entreating that we should not fail to meet him at Lady Campion’s, to whose house we were invited for the following morning, to a trial of skill in archery. The time for these revels is not yet come; but as several families are prevented this year, I am told, from being in town, through one cause or other, they are doing the best they can to keep up the ball of pleasure, and rehearse for a more full and fashionable season. Mr. Bolton was my allurement, and the hope of seeing him, emboldened me to go under the wing of Mr. Otway, accompanied by Charlotte and Frederick.
Lady Campion and her daughters are come home within the last month, from Italy. They are a lovely group. Mother and daughters beautiful, and dressed in the same way, like sisters, it was not easy to distinguish the parent from the offspring. I do not like this. Surely the most tender love may subsist without this confusion of relationships. In the deep attachment which binds my heart to the precious author of my being, how sorry I should be even for a moment, to forget that she is my mother. But though not yet twenty, I feel as if I were fourscore, when I look around me. Nothing could be prettier than the little lawn on which we marshalled to see the archers. The graceful figures, the skill with which they managed the bow, the beauty of the fair competitors, clad in a livery of “Lincoln green,” the exquisite flowers which perfumed the amphitheatre of their sports, altogether charmed Charlotte and me. We were asked to join the lists, but as we could truly plead ignorance of the art, we gladly dropped back upon a fringe of the finest rhododendrons I ever beheld, lined by a bank of arbutus, to witness the combat. There were from forty to fifty spectators, amongst whom were only two, besides Mr. Bolton, whom I ever desire to see again. These were a Mrs. and Miss Fraser, Scotch people, a mother and daughter, very unlike our pretty hostess, who, to my amazement, I found was a rival candidate for the prize with her children; and, alas, can you believe it! is jealous of a Lord Thornborough’s attentions to the elder of them. This young and vapid peer was of our party; the most finnikin object that you can imagine. He had called one day at Marsden, so that I did not see him for the first time at Lady Campion’s; and when he visited my uncle, Fanny, whose fresh naïveté supplies a constant source of amusement to us, said, “Well, if in one of my walks I met Lord Thornborough and his friend Mr. Freeman (a young man of fashion who has accompanied him to this country), I am sure that I could not help offering them my assistance were there any difficulty to be got over; for certainly those young men could not help themselves over a hedge, ditch, or stile.”
I must give you a sketch of this London pair. They have both such heads for size, from the abundance of curled hair and whiskers that disfigure them, that if their bodies were concealed you would expect to see giants, judging by the proportion of limb that would suit such prodigious capitals. On the contrary, however, they are both rather diminutive than tall; their hands are not larger than a young lady’s, and as white as alabaster. Add to this appearance, rings, pins, chains, &c., and judge whether Fanny was very wide of the mark, when, with the rosy glow of sixteen, “redolent of life and spring,” her humanity would prompt the offer of her aid to creatures so pale, so thin, so cadaverous, that Mr. Bolton very truly said, that “they looked like weavers just out of an hospital.” But I have not done. How can I believe the things that I hear? Two pink spots, which alone distinguished Lord Thornborough’s face from that of a corpse, and which I thought indicated consumption, are, Mr. Bolton declares, positively rouge! I blush as I write the word! But to return to the archery.—The gentlemen were not so successful as the ladies: Miss Campion sped her arrow right through the centre of the target, and claimed a victory, which her mother, who came within half an inch of the bull’s eye, refused to admit, demanding to be queen herself, and awarding only the second prize to her daughter. An altercation ensued, and the angry looks, the unkind taunts which I witnessed, live still in my memory.
Matters grew so serious, that Mr. Otway proposed lots: Lady Campion drew the longest, and darting a look of fire at her rival, was crowned by Lord Thornborough, whom she in turn voted to be winner in the teeth of justice and truth; and, after having reciprocally distinguished him by a wreath of Fame, caught him by the hand, and triumphantly led the way towards a fine Grecian temple in the grounds, where a magnificent collation was prepared, and where the pseudo king and queen occupied a throne of scarlet and gold, decorated with laurels; while the rightful monarchs had not even the satisfaction of mingling their complaints, as the real hero was a sweet young midshipman, son to Mrs. Fraser, who laughed heartily at being choused, as he said, out of his conquest, and who seemed of much too noble a stamp to kneel at the feet of a haughty regina, who, though herself mortified, treated him with sovereign contempt.
While we were seated at a table covered with refreshments, one of the Misses Campion asked me, so suddenly, the ridiculous question, “Have you been out yet?” that though I have heard that it is the technical phrase for being presented in the world, the more familiar meaning occurred to my mind, and, like an idiot, I answered, that I should think a walk round the grounds very pleasant. A loud and rude burst of laughter drew the attention of the company upon me, and would have overwhelmed me with confusion, if Mr. Bolton, who was sitting between me and my tormentor, had not, with the celerity of an arrow, upset a flask of Champagne into the lap of the fair follower of Diana, which produced such a prompt metamorphosis, as “turned the green one red” in an instant, and the laugh against her from me. The thing was done so adroitly, that it appeared accidental, and as no one was more busy than the perpetrator in offering the most gallant commiseration, I never knew till two days after that I was thus indebted in a third instance to my faithful knight.
We adjourned presently to a music-room, where harp and piano-forte, with all “means and appliances to boot,” challenged competition in a new form; and here another sad scene was exhibited. A charming Italian duet was asked for by Lord Thornborough, and Miss Campion, who was in the habit of singing the second, was called very authoritively by her mother to take her part: she was also to accompany on the piano-forte. With a cheerful alacrity which delighted me, as evincing, I thought, a sweet forgiving temper, she took her seat at the instrument; but the harmony was soon disturbed, for she had no sooner landed her mother in a solo recitative, which the latter was singing to admiration, than, jumping up, overturning the music-desk, and rushing towards a window, she exclaimed, “Look at the eagle!” The company followed; and a crow, which had crossed the house, and was picking up worms in the lawn, was the only winged animal that presented itself to view. Peals of unmeaning laughter succeeded. Lady Campion was outrageous, and could scarcely preserve an appearance of decency; but as I felt how very irritating her daughter intended to be, I begged Mrs. and Miss Fraser to come and make a little party at her side. We entreated her to excuse Miss Campion’s mistake, and to indulge us with a repetition of the delightful air in which she had been interrupted.
After much disquietude, matters were arranged once more, and the solo was achieved; but in the midst of the concluding movement, which was very brilliant, and calculated to make a striking impression in the winding up, Miss Campion uttered a piercing shriek, the effect of which was ludicrous in the extreme, mingling as it did with the full harmony, and vociferated, “a bee, a bee!” and a bee there certainly was, crawling up the leg of the piano-forte, so weak and so drowsy after the cold weather, that the last of its intentions, poor thing, seemed to be to inflict the slightest injury on any one. Frederick put the obnoxious insect out of the window, but Lady Campion was now inexorable: she lost all control over looks and manner, which seemed to affect every one, except the person to whom they were directed; and, quite shocked by the scene, I requested that we might take our departure, which we did without delay, leaving such a domestic broil as I had then witnessed for the first time, to cool as it might.
Lord Thornborough handed me to the carriage, and with an unfeeling “Hah! hah! hah!” said, Miss Douglas, “you have come in for a thunder-storm to-day. Her ladyship was rather sublime; don’t you think so?” I was too much disgusted to reply, and, contenting myself with a passing bow, was happy to find myself on the high road to Marsden.
Am I sure that my senses do not deceive me, and that such things are? Is the sacred relationship of parent and child out of fashion? And is it possible, that while a daughter forgets the respect due to a mother, mothers have forgotten to respect themselves? I am not surprised now, when I hear Mr. Otway and Mr. Bolton speak of the present times, and compare them with the period immediately preceding the Revolution in France. I heard them agree a day or two ago in drawing the parallel with mournful fidelity, and finding in the frightful demoralization of continental manners, which is making, they said, rapid progress in these countries, but too certain a prognostic of the fate that will follow, if the tide be not arrested, of which there seems but little hope.
If I had staid at home I should never have known these things; and however one may detest, I do not feel that we can become familiar with what is wrong, without being the worse for it.
In two days after Lady Campion’s popping-jay, we were forced by my uncle to attend an evening party at Lady Neville’s. It is not more than two months since she has lost a beautiful and accomplished daughter, who died of decline. If my beloved mother had hung over the dying couch of a child, would she——but I must curb myself, and relate facts, not comment upon them, or I shall never have done. Till ten o’clock at night we did not go to Neville Court, though the cards particularly notified “an early party;” and when we reached that splendid mansion, we found an immense assemblage of the beau monde, greater than it was possible to suppose could be mustered at such a distance from London which is the focus of all fashionable rays, a few of which only are scattered and refracted by various accidents in certain individual families, as cracks in a glass will disturb the transmission of the sun’s beams. Here was another lie direct, for the cards also informed us, that the party was to be a “small” one. Why this perversion of language? I cannot fathom it. If some lurking remnant of compunctious feeling crossed the heart of Lady Neville; and in the words “small” and “early” she discovered a slight palliation of the offence against decency (for I will not profane the sweet idea of maternal love by using its language in such company), which she had determined on committing, I should perceive the reason of the strange deception of which I am speaking, but all was gaiety and glitter. Lady Neville and her daughters sparkled with diamonds arranged upon a sort of gossamer drapery, so light, so graceful, so artificially adjusted, fashionable and becoming, that mourning was the last sentiment which such paraphernalia could excite or indicate. Their dress told lies as well as their cards.
The house at Neville Court is superb, and as I wandered from room to room with the amiable Frasers and my own Charlotte, I felt the luxury of kindred sentiment in a new world, and gave free course to thoughts that were little in unison with the passing scene. I fancied this magnificent ball-room, with its chandeliers, its lustres, and chalked floor, two short months ago, perhaps, the theatre of another sort of assembly. I marked the spot where, in imagination, I could descry the lonely tressels supporting their sad and youthful burthen——that opening flower untimely torn from its stalk, and snatched from the warm hopes of unfolding spring. I beheld the mutes, and saw the tables spread with funeral fare; the “cold baked meats” of death; the sable hangings; the hirelings of office, marshalling their dismal train, at least with features screwed to the occasion, and voices subdued to whisper. With the most painful feelings I asked within myself, “must we fly from the fondest ties of nature, to seek for sorrow in ‘those chambers of imagery supplied from the undertaker’s mercenary taste;’ and fail to find it enshrined within the breast of a mother or a sister?” My cheek curdled, and my breathing became oppressed, while these melancholy phantoms glided past my mental vision, and like spectres mingled in the dance. The brilliant ball-room seemed to me no other than Holbein’s “dance of Death;” and when I was roused from my reverie by, “Miss Douglas, will you daunce?” let slip, as if from the mouth of one just dropping asleep, whose muscles had become too flaccid to retain the words within its lips any longer, I started as if I had been shot by one of Lady Campion’s arrows, and turned round upon—Mr. Johnson. Though I delight in dancing, there was too much lead at my heart to allow of merriment in my feet at this moment; and I therefore instinctively declined, and for a time got rid of the consummate puppyism of this disagreeable young man.
To my utter astonishment I was asked to join in the next quadrille by Lord Thornborough, whose politeness I should not have supposed from any thing else I had witnessed, could have induced the remembrance of a country lass, and a stranger (though the latter is the highest claim to attention in my dear Ireland), amidst such dazzling beauty and attraction as solicited his regards. You see I did him injustice, and am ready to make the amende honorable; but as I had refused Mr. Johnson, I could not dance with any one else, and though I did not regret this circumstance from any admiration of milord, I confess to having found it difficult to sit still, when the gloomy contemplations with which the evening commenced, began to yield to the inspiring influence of lively music. I had, however, the great pleasure of seeing Charlotte enjoying a gratification which was denied to me; and, would you believe it, she had scarcely begun to move, when a crowd was collected to see her dance. Her figure is so like what one imagines of a Sylph, and her ear is so perfect, that to admire her performance in a quadrille, would appear nothing more than the necessary routine of cause and effect, if I had not believed the group by which we were surrounded quite too artificial in its construction to leave a corner for nature to slide in at. However, so it was, that I heard several of the gentlemen express their approbation in terms more energetic than I should have thought such indolent looking people likely to employ on any occasion, even of the moment; and dear unconscious Charlotte seemed for a time Reine de la fête.
“Yes,” said Mr. Bolton, who came to sit by me for a little while, “there is the triumph of truth and native grace over all the contrivances of fashion. There is your sister, who has never seen London or Paris, bearing away the palm from all those painted dolls who are swinging their persons round the room.”
Quadrilles ended, how shall I express my feelings at seeing Lady Campion and Lord Thornborough get up to waltz! Timanthes, a painter of ancient times, drew a veil over the face of a father whose grief he felt unequal to pourtray. I must borrow his device, and let a curtain fall over an exhibition which I wish obliterated from my memory. I found a few lines by Frederick, which he wrote in London, after returning from a ball, part of the concluding stanza of which shall finish my descant upon this distasteful theme:
The dancing wanted that gaieté du cœur which alone renders it an agreeable and animating amusement. The ladies glided like silver eels, and the gentlemen groped about the room as if their eyes were shut, so that absolutely, if a stranger had been introduced, who never saw a modern ball-room before, he might have been excused for imagining that the dancers were playing blind man’s buff, and afraid of knocking their heads against the panels, if they moved their bodies without the utmost circumspection. In short, a child of nature would wonder why people should take the trouble of submitting their feet to a sort of rhythm just enough to shackle their freedom, and prevent the luxury of perfect inanition. Well, thought I to myself, this society is fashionable. These men and women move in what is called the first circle. The former will, many of them, become our Members of Parliament; senators, by whose collective wisdom we are to be directed. These asses in human form, the most idle, ignorant, effeminate animals possible to conceive, are to be husbands, fathers, landlords, masters! It is a melancholy prospect, and in looking to my own sex, on thoughts of which my mind from infancy has dwelt with pride and pleasure, as the sweet depository of religion, morals, fond affections, taste and talents softened down to social converse, and illuminating the domestic sphere, oh, what a contrast meets my eye! what will these creatures be when all that art can do to whiten the poor sepulchre shall fail, and wrinkles insurmountable will raise their fearful lines of circumvalation round the once bright orbs? when rouge itself, the last faithful handmaid of departing beauty, no longer sticks to the haggard cheek, no longer lights up the extinguished eye; when the ethereal form of finished symmetry is either swelled to the mountain size of those round matrons who in vain would try to grasp the pedal harp which shuns the corpulent embrace, or dwindled to the bony frame which only serves for draperies to be hung upon? What will be the fate of these hapless wrecks of vanished youth, when even cards, the ultimate resource of age, the last strong hold of veteran nothingness, shall cease to charm? Oh, my Julia, how will these miserable beings tremble, as the grave yawns beneath their feet! Eternity awaits all these butterflies, whether male or female; and I shudder, as imagination presents the grisly group of coxcombs, and of belles, stripped of their paint and patches, wigs, and waltzes, and standing to receive the final sentence at an Almighty tribunal.
I was interrupted in my sermon by a call to the library. It was to meet our new chaplain, for whom my uncle promised to provide, when he procured the appointment of Mr. Oliphant to the parish of Glenalta; and what words can describe our joy at finding in this young man, no other than your neighbour and intimate friend, Alfred Stanley. A person with whom we all feel so well acquainted, and have such reason, through your dear aunt’s eloquent sketches of his character, to admire and value without having ever seen him till now.
Mamma, you know of old, loves to play us a little trick sometimes; and in the present instance I find that all the Checkley family have been in league with her to surprise us. Judge then of our astonishment at receiving your packet by Mr. Stanley, whose groom returns to-morrow into Derbyshire, and shall take this volume to you.
A few days now will see us en route. I cannot hope to send you more than a line till I reach Paris.
Adieu, my dearest Julia; I would that we had done with towns, and were safely arrived in that beautiful region where the mighty “Alps have reared a throne” worthy of those skies which gild their everlasting snows with refulgent glory.
A thousand loves attend you all.
Ever your affectionate,
Emily Douglas.
LETTER XXXVII.
Rev. Mr. Oliphant to Mr. Otway.
To you, my dear friend, I address myself upon the present occasion, though gratitude has long ere this, dictated a return of my best acknowledgments to Mrs. Douglas, for two such letters as deserve indeed my heart-felt thanks. But I have been painfully occupied, and I leave to your discretion the time and method of explaining to my dear friend, the cause of my silence, which is no other than the death of our worthy and much lamented neighbour Mr. Bentley, an event, intelligence of which, I well know, will not be heard at Marsden with indifference. A fortnight ago he returned, as usual, from his ride, accompanied by George, and immediately on entering the house, fell into a sort of fit, which appeared to result from determination of blood towards the head. George sent directly for me, and we had Mr. Pigot immediately from Tralee, who acted with judgment, and ere the surgeon and physician, for whom we sent to Dublin, had reached Mount Prospect, our poor friend had recovered his sensibility. The devotion of George to his uncle could not be exceeded, and it was so purely disinterested, that the wealth of Potosi would have weighed but as a feather in the balance, against the re-establishment of Mr. Bentley’s health. The medical people, however, saw from the first, that his situation was precarious, of which he was conscious from the beginning himself. With Christian courage, he began to prepare for the awful change which he perceived to be approaching, and truly died the death of the righteous. Yesterday evening he breathed his last in the arms of his nephew. I never left him, except for the necessary purposes of refreshment, from the time of his first seizure, and have the happiness of believing that my presence afforded him comfort. As the short period of his indisposition spared him any great exhaustion of strength, he spoke without uneasiness, and in the most collected manner adverted to the nature of his hopes. Nothing could be more deeply interesting than his discourse, during the few latter hours which preceded the closing scene.
“Oliphant,” said he, “I have never in my life, been an unbeliever; but how small is the difference between infidelity, and a mere nominal Christianity: a meagre religion of form and habit! Nay, of the two, is there not a better chance, that the avowed scoffer, terrified by the abyss which lies before him, may turn from the evil of his ways, than the self-satisfied moralist, who depends on his miserable, his imperfect works, for eternal salvation? My friend, I was in the latter predicament. I received a commonplace Church of England education, said my prayers mechanically, went to church, gave alms, abstained from travelling on Sundays; and was for years of my life, so entirely persuaded, that as a Christian character, I stood on a high pedestal, removed from the vulgar level of mankind, that the Pharisee’s words, though not perhaps actually expressed by my lips, were never far from my heart; and, ‘Lord, I thank Thee, that I am not as other men,’ was a sentiment continually present to me, whenever I thought upon serious subjects. Oh, how far from God was I in those days, when I thought myself so near Him!”
Here he paused, and after the interval of a few minutes, resumed the train of solemn reflection upon which he had entered.
“Yes,” added he, “blessed be Heaven, such vain-glorious delusions are far from me now, and I am not ashamed to say, that I owe the change to this young man.”
Here poor George was completely overwhelmed. He pressed his uncle’s hand to his lips, and shed a torrent of tears.
“George,” continued the dying man, “first taught me the religion of the heart. Of what avail are the cold conclusions of reason? they teach not humility, they do not subdue the passions, they do not improve the temper, nor allay one demoniac ebullition of malice or revenge. My practice has been wretchedly vacillating. I have been continually led away from the right way; but it is something to know this, and to put no confidence in aught but the redeeming mercy of Him who suffered in our mortal form, for guilty man, and died upon the cross to save our souls alive.”
My poor friend told me that his worldly affairs were all settled.
“My temporal house,” said he, “has been set in order. May the heavenly mansions be opened to receive me!”
From time to time, he held this kind of language, placidly awaiting the awful mandate. The bursting of a blood vessel in the temple is not attended by much pain, and he suffered none that was not incident to the remedies employed. On Tuesday he gave me a key, and told me where I should find all his papers regularly labelled, adding, “George’s character is not one of shew. He will be sorry for me in the bottom of his heart: give him assistance now, and he will not need it long. Religion has taken fast hold upon him, and her consolations will quickly restore the equilibrium of his spirits. He will never forget, but he will soon cease to grieve.”
After so saying, he fell into a tranquil slumber, and spoke no more, except to ask for certain portions of the sacred volume. He repeated the 15th chapter of St. John with fervour; desired us to read the 53d of Isaiah, the 23d Psalm, and other favourite parts of scripture. A restless night proclaimed the approach of death, and the last afternoon witnessed his peaceful exit. He left his affectionate regards for all of you, and has bequeathed, he told me, some little memorial of respectful esteem to each individual at Glenalta and Lisfarne.
Thus has passed away our kind-hearted neighbour Roger Bentley, and his loss would be too sad to dwell upon, if his excellent nephew were not heir to his uncle’s virtues, as well as property. No change will be felt, I venture to assert, by any one who depended on the bounty of our departed friend. Poor George is absorbed in silent sorrow; he neither weeps nor talks, but the chalky paleness of his countenance, is a faithful index to what passes within. He courts solitude, and wishes no other companionship than his Bible. When the last ceremony is performed, I shall write to my dear friend, Mrs. Douglas, and in the mean time, with the most affectionate remembrances to her, the General, and my pupils, believe me, my dear sir,
Yours most sincerely,
J. Oliphant.
LETTER XXXVIII.
From Edward Otway, Esq. to Rev. Mr. Oliphant.
My dear Oliphant,
I cannot describe the shock which your intelligence imparted. It was but a week before that day, on which his final summons was issued, that I received a letter from my valued and lamented friend, full of project and futurity; warm with friendship, and seasoned with that peculiar and pungent humour which rendered him so singularly entertaining and lively a companion. Sic transit gloria mundi! In middle age, rich, healthy, divested of care, and happy in the society of that good young man, who would have thought the end so near? Who could have anticipated this sudden wreck of human hope? Such is life! And does not such a tragedy, as it often presents, call upon the actors in the drama for serious thoughts of what may follow? I will not say that