for Bentley was an excellent character, but I may truly say, that many who fill a much larger circle than he did in the world’s estimation, would not have left such a chasm in society. To the poor, his loss would be irreparable, were it not that he leaves in George a representative so worthy of him. Oh! when I reflect upon the habit which prevails so generally at present, of taking young people abroad, educating them in distant climes, alienating their minds from the land that gave them birth, and forming their tastes to foreign manners; when I compare this dismal error, and its consequences, with the scene which we are contemplating at Mount Prospect, surely there is reason to apprehend a fatal overthrow for our hapless country. How few George Bentleys are ready to succeed the present generation amongst us! I have seen much of the world in my day, but have latterly lived in such abstraction from its vices and its follies, that they strike me with almost as much wonder in their modern dress, as if I had not before been familiar with their features. True it is, that they are to be found everywhere, and the deepest retirement is not necessarily virtuous, because it is solitary; but the fashionable community of the present day seems to “out-Herod Herod” in all that marks the absence of head and heart. These dear young people are quite an affecting study. I never saw such purity in mortal mould as breathes around them. Each seems to be provided by nature with a safety lamp that preserves them from contact with the noxious miasma of a vicious world; and I should be repaid for much greater dereliction from my usual habits than I submit to here, by the pleasure which I derive from the unsophisticated singleness, instinctive modesty, and fine feeling of my youthful associates, to whom it has fallen to my lot to act the part of Chaperone. Never had Duenna reason to be prouder of a trust than I have of the charge confided to my care; and my vanity has cause of excitement in full proportion with my pride, as the charm of nature in the midst of an artificial society is irresistibly refreshing, like the admittance of Heaven’s sweet breath, the pure mountain breeze, into a heated atmosphere, loaded with the costly, but insalubrious exhalation of a thousand perfumes. You are so much a part of the Glenalta family, through the claims of a long acquaintance and mutual regard, that I do not feel as if I were betraying the delicacy of my young friend Emily Douglas, in telling you of the proof which we have just received of her total indifference to rank and fortune. Two days ago, General Douglas was applied to in form on the part of an old Baronet in this neighbourhood, who requested permission to announce his only son in quality of suitor to his niece, promising that nothing should be wanting in the liberality of settlements to render the proposed alliance agreeable to the young lady and her mother. I need scarcely add, how unhesitatingly these advances were rejected. You are too well acquainted with the charming girl who was the object of them, to doubt her reception of such an offer. Emily’s hand will follow her heart, not precede it; and happy will he be for whom such a treasure may be destined.
When a favourable moment occurs, and that you find dear George capable of deriving pleasure from hearing of a tribute to his uncle’s memory, tell him, that all the gaieties of a week, in prospect, have been suspended at Marsden by the young people, as a mark of the sincere esteem in which our late friend was held by the inhabitants of Glenalta. Adieu, my dear Oliphant. All here unite in kindest remembrances with
Your faithful and affectionate,
Ed. Otway.
LETTER XXXIX.
Emily Douglas to Julia Sandford.
Brighton.
Here we are, dearest Julia, and, as I find that we are to stay here for some days, I cannot employ myself more agreeably than in writing you “a few more last words” ere we embark for the Continent. But I must carry you back to Marsden, where we remained full three weeks after the period which had been fixed upon for our departure, on account of the fluctuations in my uncle’s health. The day after I sent you my last letter, we received the sad news from Glenalta, which mamma conveyed to Checkley. Till we lost dear Mr. Bentley, I had no idea how much we all loved him; and I feel that his death has left a cruel blank in our social circle. The intelligence of an event so painful, naturally restrained the course of our amusement, if that deserve the name which owes to the weakness of our fellow creatures its whole power of affording entertainment. I am such a novice in the ways of polite life, that I have not yet learned to laugh at the people around me, without something of self-reproach, which sends me to my pillow in an uneasy state of mind, that “murders sleep;” and I was growing very weary of what is so falsely, in my opinion, called pleasure, when Mr. Oliphant’s melancholy letter occasioned a complete cessation of dinner and evening parties, so far as we were concerned. We had no spirits to join the insipid society of the neighbourhood, when our minds were transplanted to the awful scene at Mount Prospect. During several days we did not stir from the demesne of Marsden, and these, if not clouded by the death of our kind neighbour, would have been by far the happiest that I have passed since we left home—talismanic word, which I never write, nor speak, without an emotion peculiar to itself. We are greatly delighted with your friend Alfred Stanley. What a heavenly sight is that of a young heart devoted to its God? Mr. Stanley is, indeed, a clergyman, and his life and manners explain that text of Scripture so often cavilled at, which beautifully provides at once for the purity of the Apostle and the utility of his example, in the injunction to come out of the world; yet, while avoiding its contagion, not to mistake a local removal, or a cold abstraction from its concerns, for that holiness which the Great Founder of our religion urges on his followers. Mr. Stanley is a practical illustration of the precept intended, I am convinced, to be understood, as he enacts it.—Cheerful, elegant, informed, and pleasing, there is no society which is not rendered more agreeable by his presence; but there is none in which it would be possible to forget his sacred calling. Religion seems to have its rise in the centre of his heart, and to send forth streams into every action; yet not such as dash and foam, and startle by their impetuosity, but the existence of which, within the soil, is discovered from the verdure and fertility of the surface. His opinions seem, as far as I can judge in a short time, to be purely those of Gospel truth, equally remote from the lifeless formalism of what is now, by a strange and melancholy distinction, designated Orthodoxy; and, on the other side, those peculiar tenets so seldom honestly avowed, but sometimes defacing the Christian scheme, which derive their name and character from Geneva. Your friend, Alfred, realizes my idea of a faithful messenger. His piety is evangelical, but he is not a Calvinist—he is—what was I going to say? I had just begun a sentence when Fanny came flying into my room to tell me that the packet which sails on Monday is to waft us from the British shores. My uncle, it appears also, has received a letter stating, that the repairs of the parish church at Swainton, where Mr. Stanley is to officiate, cannot be completed under three months. In consequence of this intelligence, a warm invitation to accompany us on the Continent has been made and accepted; so we shall take our chaplain with us, and I have no doubt that we shall find him a great acquisition to our party. The concluding week of our sojournment at Marsden was marked by some extraordinary events. Sir Christopher Cromie, the most pudding-headed puffin that ever was destined to take his seat in the House of Commons, has now the privilege of franking in such a claw—for hand-writing you cannot call it—that if he should doze away, per force of segars, the recollection of his own name, as I have been assured that a gentleman, equally enlightened with our baronet, once did, Sir Christopher’s autograph has this advantage over all others, that it may stand for any, or for every thing, according to the skill employed in deciphering his pot-hooks and hangers. He was duly returned—chaired—feasted; and gave a foretaste of his Parliamentary eloquence at a great election “feed,” as Mr. Bolton told us, in a speech which, though evidently conned over long before it was spoken, proved such a desperate failure, that even the newspaper editor in his pay could not tack any epithet more flattering than “neat” to Sir Kit’s address to his constituents. Quere, may not this word neat, applied to gentlemen’s harangues, which are neither sensible, witty, eloquent, nor impressive, be a delicate cover for—calf? Well, shouts rent the air, and the sweet sounds of “Sir Christopher for ever!” struck upon the listening organs of Mrs. Hannaper, who was seated in a balcony of the Red Lion inn, glowing like a Chinese poppy, and surrounded with her attendant nymphs, though certainly very unlike Calypso herself, awaiting the happy moment of victory to buff and blue. No sooner did the glad tidings reach the portals of her ear, than Mrs. Hannaper, with her plumed hat in one hand, and a white handkerchief in the other, cheered the populace. A shower of silver next bestrewed the pavement. Tar barrels, beer barrels, and all the usual vulgarities of mobbish demonstration, had their turn, and the tables at Parham Hall groaned under the hecatomb sacrificed that day to this new pillar of the Constitution, this swollen, shining faced, addle pated, member of the British Senate, duly elected to represent that goodly portion of the British empire; the ale-steeped suffrages of which gave him a trifling majority over a sensible, worthy man, who was his opponent, and committed its interests to the head of one who would never have made the troublesome discovery through any appeal to his judgment, that he had a head at all on his shoulders, if it had not been for a reference once submitted to his fiat, to decide between the rival merits of unadulterated Lundy Foot, and the Duke of York’s mixture. On the evening of that auspicious day, Mrs. Hannaper, wound up to the highest height of generous enthusiasm, took her niece aside, and just as the dancing was about to commence, presented her with a power of attorney, duly executed to her agents in London, and enabling them to transfer £20,000 from her name to that of Miss Ormsby, in the New Four per Cents, saying, as she slipped the paper into her niece’s hand, “we do not know what is before us; this is a day of rejoicing, and you shall have your share in it. Here I have made you independent, and you may please yourself in the choice of a husband.” Little did the poor lady dream of what she was about, nor guess the prompt obedience of Miss Ormsby in adopting her aunt’s suggestion.
Mrs. Hannaper retired from the revels worn out with fatigue at twelve o’clock; but when Sol, drawing aside the golden curtains of the east, ventured to peep within the crimson hangings of Mrs. Hannaper’s pavilion, Sir Christopher Cromie and the fair Ormsby were dashing away towards London, carrying safely with them those credentials which, on their being presented at the Bank of England, put the young lady in possession of her fortune, and by so doing, kicked the beam, and sent poor Hannaper up in her scale, which had previously been kept by the pressure of her purse in trembling balance with its partner, in which Miss Ormsby’s beauty weighed but unsteadily against it. Words are inadequate to paint the surprise, rage, and disappointment which alternately struggled, and then burst all in a mess together from the lips of our heroine. After the first explosion was over, the spirit of intrigue raised its head over the troubled waters, and, re-asserting its wonted pre-eminence, suggested the idea of a glorious revenge, in setting aside Sir Christopher’s election, on the ground of bribery and corruption, most abundant proof of which, Mrs Hannaper was able to command, her own diminished caskets having chiefly supplied the sinews of the war, and bearing testimony to the truth of that plea, on which it is now her object to humble the god of her whilom idolatry. If she is able to succeed, it is imagined that she has two strings to her bow, as a corps of reserve, either to bring forward an old East Indian, who has a fine place in her neighbourhood for the borough of Jobton, and marry him out of spite to Sir Kit; or, to set up a numskull nephew, who sold out of the guards some time ago, and has been since trying to barter a fine figure for a heavy purse. It is thought that with M. P. gracefully appended to his name, he might prevail on Lady Florence Languish, to accept his hand upon a life insurance, and certain reversionary hopes connected with Parham Hall, in which case, Mrs. Hannaper will make him heir, and cut out her niece’s farther expectations.
Oh, Julia, what abominations have I been describing! This narrative, as I have given it to you, is as nearly as I can remember, in the very words of Mr. Bolton, our merry chronicler; and this was the mystery, to which he alluded, when he hinted at back stairs intelligence, but refused to explain farther, lest we should mar poetic justice, by revealing the plot. Alas! I have worse than this to tell you, and then my pen shall never be dipped again in subjects such as these. It is not good to talk, to write, to think on themes of this nature; were they simply disgusting, they would not be dangerous; but it is not in human nature to resist the ridiculous when Mr. Bolton is the Biographer, and such people as I have been introducing to your acquaintance are the subjects of a memoir compiled by him. I laughed till the tears made channels in my cheeks. Not so, when he told us a story of another neighbour, whose house I have journalized you into visiting along with me. Only conceive Lady Campion’s having made proposals of marriage to Lord Thornborough, who had, after too liberal a potation of Burgundy, made his to her daughter; and preparations are actually in train for this unnatural union, Lord T. having deserted his first love. The contemptible animal, miscalled nobleman, has made his terms: Lady Campion settles a thousand a-year upon him in perpetuity, of which she deprives her own offspring, and receives a coronet in exchange! Thank heaven that we have left Marsden, the air of which seems tainted by such corruption.
Before I close my letter I must refresh myself, and obey you, by looking into Frederick’s humourous diary, and trying whether I can give you another scrap out of it in the way of a vignette. I told you the dear fellow diverted himself by scribbling in verse, when he reached his lodgings at night, rehearsing for his diversion the principal circumstances that had struck him ludicrously in the course of each day, while in London. I find a ball at Lady Gosling’s mentioned in the three following stanzas, which are a good specimen of Frederick’s merry vein:—
I bid adieu to sarcasm here, and must not take the memory of such beings as I leave behind me, into the vallies of Piémont. I must purify myself by bathing in the Pelice, before I presume to penetrate farther into those enchanting regions of nature and simplicity. What have Mrs. Hannaper and Lady Campion in common with the glorious Alps? I wish that I had never seen or heard of them.
This Brighton is not worth a sketch; a meagre strand, a barren flat, dressed up indeed, and frequented as the seat of majesty. But the palace here is no better than a wart, a mere excrescence without either grace or beauty, bereft of all that constitutes grandeur, or excites an idea of tasteful feeling without, and within seeming like a mighty store-house, in which all sorts of splendid things from east, west, north, and south, are accumulated, as in a great bazaar. I wonder that the king did not grow weary of its dull monotony long ago. My uncle, dear soul, is much less well than he was a month ago, and I grow impatient till we arrive at Turin, in hope, (oh, what a desert would this world be but for its sweet influence), that change of climate may effect some happy alteration. Mamma has been employing all her rhetoric in vain, to persuade him into passing on at once to our destination, but he will halt in Paris, that we may gaze upon its wonders. Once more adieu. Wish us a fair wind and quick passage, dearest Julia, and with love to all you love, believe me, till death, your affectionate
Emily Douglas.
LETTER XL.
Frederick Douglas to the Rev. Mr. Oliphant.
Paris.
My dear Friend,
The first fruits of my pen in a foreign land, shall be dedicated to you. Though you have only travelled by the fire-side, there is not any thing in the route that we are to trace which could afford you the slightest pleasure from its novelty. The appearance of Dieppe, the country, the posting, Rouen, the windings of the Seine, the chateaux, what is there that I have yet seen, which is not as familiar to you in description, as the map of Dublin? We left Brighton on Monday, and I felt as I took a farewell view of Beachy-head, an undefined sensation, which I dare say that thousands have felt before me, compounded of pride, pleasure, and sorrow. To go abroad, though become so common, that the difficulty is to find any one now who stays at home, has something in the very sound of the words inspiring to one’s spirits; a vague hope of adventure, a sort of self-applause at having commenced an enterprise; and a kind of nameless triumph in touching a foreign shore, and finding oneself understood when speaking a strange tongue; all these circumstances elevate the mind to enthusiasm, while the parting pang on quitting home, country, friends, though but for a limited season, must chequer the gladness of any heart, in whatever breast it may reside. I wish for your company always, but I particularly desired to have you at my elbow when I passed St. Germain en Laye, Rosni, and Malmaison. What a crowd of recollections rushed upon my mind, as Sully, Louis the Fourteenth, Madame de Maintenon, James the Second, and Napoleon, pressed upon my thoughts, and struggled for a precedence, which the different ages in which they played their parts, arranged in an order very unlike that in which they rose to my imagination; the wonderful Corsican contriving generally to jostle out every reminiscence that was not connected with his astonishing appearance upon earth.
I wanted you also at my side as we approached Paris, the coup d’œil of which as you enter the Place Louis Quinze is superb. In one point of view the eye takes in, as if in an immense panorama the entire circle of those objects which at once exalt and degrade man, exhibit his power, and prove his nothingness. Palaces that have stood for ages, the great triumphal pillar which records the conquests of that preternatural chief who frowned the world into fetters at his feet, then that spot where the martyred Bourbons ascended the scaffold, where that angel Elizabeth exchanged the horrors of her prison for the crown of glory that awaited such faith, such love, such heroism as her’s! But whither is my pen straying? What is there in Paris that you have not at your finger’s ends? Aye, you could direct me to the very shelf in the Royal Library on which any book is placed which you desired to consult. You could send me north, south, east, or west, in the Jardin des Plantes for this, that, or the other class of Linnæus. You could take a wand, and, pointing to the pictures of the Louvre, give me a history of every subject which they exhibit, and name the master who executed each. In short, the only thing which you at this moment in the county of Kerry could not describe much more accurately to me than I to you is precisely that which no pen is capable of conveying, namely, the direct impression made upon the senses by the objects themselves; and this is so exhilarating, that I seem to myself to tread on air, and to breathe an atmosphere, like that which Saussure found on the summit of Mont Blanc, almost threatening delirium by its rarefaction. How striking the difference between history and fiction in the effects produced upon the mind while we are visiting the several theatres allotted to the drama of one or the other! All the charms of association, the powers of memory, the magic of imagination, are called into vivid action as we take our seat in a chair which had held Henry the Fourth, or place ourselves at a table on which Sully wrote; but when we look upon a Prior Park as the seat of Mr. Allworthy, Tom Jones vanishes from the scene, and we feel almost ashamed when fictitious personages lay claim to any region of the brain except that which is inhabited by fancy. “Unreal mockery hence” is the sentiment which I felt on viewing the scene of Fielding’s tale, and being desired to mark the wood, the pond, the garden, which are supposed by the author to have witnessed the early squabbles of Bliffield and the youthful hero. Is not this an argument for keeping truth and fiction separate?
With few exceptions, I hate historical novels, which, losing the sobriety of fact, are equally divested of the grace which attaches to invention, and present all the whalebone and starch of ruffs and farthingales without being faithful to costume; thus producing a chaos in the memory, and blending incidents and people till we can no longer trace the line between substance and shadow.
Emily is the pupil who does you most credit; Charlotte and Fanny are very intelligent, and see their way so well, that if Em. were not of our party, the others would perhaps astonish; but old and young, we all flock to your Pulcheria, as you have called her from her childhood, to tell us whatever we want to know. Her memory is so admirable that nothing seems to run through it, and she has the whole story of every thing that we see by heart, while, as you know, she cannot imagine herself to be superior to any one with whom she converses.
I must tell you, that nothing could exceed the admiration which these amiable, unartificial sisters of mine have excited in Hampshire. How is it that people can relinquish all right and title to understanding or good feeling, in their own case, and yet retain enough of each to admire both when they have met with them in others?
I hope that George Bentley has received all my letters, and that he may turn in his thoughts the proposal which I made in my last, that he should meet us at Turin. My uncle talks of remaining here not less than a fortnight.
Stanley improves upon us every day: he is a very fine young man, and equally a favourite with us all.
I am on the tip-toe of expectation till the post comes in, which will decide whether Arthur and his friend Falkland can come here. It will be delightful if they can join us; and fortunately our hotel is large enough for us to be all together.
Huzza!—They will be in Paris to-morrow evening.—God bless you, my dear sir.—Love to Lawrence.
Vale, vale,
Ever your affectionate,
F. Douglas.
LETTER XLI.
Emily Douglas to Julia Sandford.
Dearest Julia,
Here we are, in that truly magnificent street, the Rue Royale, to which we removed immediately after I sent off my last letter. From our hotel we look upon such a world of monuments, that every object which the windows open upon seems to beckon like a ghost, and invite one to hear the tales which it could disclose; but you lived so near this spot when you were in Paris, that you can place yourself in the midst of us, and accompany your friends in every excursion.—I am bewildered! The beauty of the buildings, the foreign air of all things around me, the confusion of tongues, the quantity to be seen and heard on the one hand; then the anxiety which presses daily on our hearts, and mamma’s evident apprehension that the end so much dreaded is not far distant, hang a mill-stone round my neck and chequer every enjoyment; but I have a great deal to tell you, of one sort or other.
Here I broke off; my letter, only written thus far, has lain by during upwards of a week. Arthur and his friend are with us; and Time flies on golden pinions. If happiness be not made for mortals, why have we sometimes a cup of such sparkling brilliancy presented to our lips only to make us suffer the fate of Tantalus? I am driven to ask this murmuring discontented question on looking around, and casting up the sum of such treasures as I cannot bear to part with.
You know how we love Arthur, who is so improved that I should scarcely know him; and, oh, what a being is Charles Falkland! It would seem as if Nature, in one of her happiest moods, had sent him into our planet just to shew what she was able to perform. I had heard of him, and read his letters; I therefore expected something unlike the average of human kind, but I was not prepared for such a creature as I find, who seems to have been endowed at his birth by all the fairies, who, according to the ancient legends, used to subscribe “a virtue each, and each a grace,” to produce perfection! I rejoice for Frederick in such a companion; and as for the female part of our circle, every enjoyment afforded by the interminable delights of this surprising Paris, is rendered tenfold attractive by the society which it is our fortune to have assembled here.
We passed two days at Versailles most agreeably, and have been at St. Cloud. After all my resolutions to the contrary, I should find it impossible to avoid dilating on themes so fruitful of reflection, were my mind not too much taken up at present with thoughts that corrode and distress, to admit of musing on more abstract subjects.
Hardly is my dear Arthur happy in a reunion with so many who are dear to him, ere a fatal interruption occurs in a letter from Louisa Howard, and a second from young Annesley, dated Milan. The first informs him that my aunt is seriously ill, and so harassed by applications for money, both on her own and her unfortunate son-in-law’s account, that the most distressing consequences may be apprehended.
Poor Louisa writes in sad spirits, and entreats her brother to lose as little time as possible in setting out for Selby. Mr Annesley’s letter brings the painful tidings that Lord Crayton has had a quarrel with an officer, to whom he had lost a large sum of money. They fought; Lord C. killed his antagonist, and then absconded: Lady Crayton accompanied his flight. They left Milan deeply in debt, and no one is able to trace the fugitives. At this moment the family are in consultation respecting what is to be done; and before I close this, you shall hear the result of the council.
Well, our much loved Arthur, who is greatly depressed, sets out for Calais to-morrow; and Mr. Falkland, who gives your friend Stanley a seat in his carriage, has resolved on accompanying us. We have outstayed the time allotted to Paris, and are to commence our journey in three or four days.
Adieu, dearest Julia!
Your affectionate
Emily Douglas.
LETTER XLII.
From the Same to the Same.
Turin.
My dearest Julia,
Though it is not above a fortnight since I closed my last letter, my life has latterly become so full, that days, happily as they glide away, seem to occupy years in their passage, when I count the measure of their duration by the variety of scene, the stimulus of movement, and the excitement of mind, which I have to remember.
We left Paris on Thursday, and did not enter the Forest of Fontainebleau till its majestic shades were involved in twilight. No, never while I have life, can I forget the emotions which this scene, so noble in its solitude—so melancholy—yet so romantic, excited in my soul! The pensive drapery which approaching night cast over the venerable woods before us! the magnificence of the single trees, which stood out every now and then from the masses of mingled rock and foliage, as if to exhibit all the pride of individuality! the fantastic shapes of hill and crag—the silence only broken by a stream which murmured to the right of us as we moved slowly forwards: and all this, contrasted with the din of that noisy, vicious, and idle multitude that we had left behind, struck upon my heart an impression which, while “memory holds her seat,” can never be obliterated.
I could have lingered for ever in the dreary, yet beautiful Forest of Fontainebleau, regardless of the present and future, so wrapped was I in contemplation of the past. Henry the Great rose upon my vision, and the horns seemed to sound in my ear, that summoned him and his brilliant cortege to the royal sports, of which this splendid forest was the favourite scene. The ghost of Bayard, dear to France, and adored by all whose breasts own a sympathetic spark of those glowing fires kindled by the spirit of chivalry, glided across my imagination; but the images of grandeur, and the phantoms of romance, soon vanished from my mind, and left it fixed in the concluding act of that astonishing drama, over which the curtain dropped at Fontainebleau, when Napoleon, fallen from his high estate, resigned the sovereignty of Europe, and sealed the death-warrant of that power which had subdued the world, and drawn the nations captive at his chariot wheels. Forgive me, I have broken my resolution, and am wandering from my purpose; but I promised more than I find it possible to perform, a lesson you will say, to my presumption. No, to pass through such scenes as these, as if one were travelling over a turnpike-road in the west of England, would argue something either above or below human nature; and, as I profess to be a very mortal of earth, I feel that I may claim your pardon for my digression. I could tell you of the softest, stillest, most heavenly moon that ever lent its silver beams to heighten a prospect and inspire the genius of meditation. I could dilate in raptures on the landscape round Nemours; I could break from every restraining bond to expatiate on the transports with which, on arriving at the brow of the prodigious steep which overhangs Briare, I first beheld the Loire, rolling through a perfect Elysium: but I will hasten onwards. You shall not be detained at Moulins, though we staid there two days. You shall not halt in the lovely Nivernois, though we broke down, and had thence the happiness of remaining for several hours in one of the sweetest cottages imaginable, admiring the groups of peasants at their daily toil, so cheerful—so picturesque.
At Lyons, too, we rested; visited “Les Etroits,” though not for the sake of that bad man, Rousseau; and thence pursued our way. That odious Charles Emanuel, the tyrant of this region, haunted me as we passed through Savoy. It is true that I would fain stand still with you for a moment on Mont Cenis, and make you partake of my enthusiasm as I gazed from the plain of St. Nicholas; but it must not be; “Hark forward!” must be our motto. There! I have brought you safely into Turin, and you have not yawned over a single syllable of controversy respecting the station from which Hannibal encouraged his army by a sight of the Italian plains, nor gone to sleep over a single calculation upon the impossibility of traversing the Alps with a numerous host of elephants. My business is not with the truth or falsehood of Livy’s descriptions at present, though he was one of our travelling companions; but as I said before, you have stepped out of your traineau, and are with whole bones deposited in a large commodious dwelling in one of the finest streets of the capital of Piémont.
Thank Heaven, my beloved mother, and her precious charge, have surmounted the difficulties of our journey with far less of inconvenience than I could have anticipated. My uncle suffers no pain, but his languor increases with increasing weakness. The wonderful blessings of the Almighty warm my heart to unspeakable gratitude; and when I consider the chain of circumstances attending on the return of this once dreaded relation to his own country, I cannot call them less than providential. I told you not long ago, how happy he is in the removal of those doubts which harassed his mind; and no sooner have Mr. Otway and mamma finished this work, and arrived at a “consummation so devoutly to have been wished for,” than the saint-like voice and countenance of Alfred Stanley “take up the wondrous tale,” and truth that comes “mended from his tongue,” by the holy sincerity in which it is uttered, pours oil and honey over the wounds so newly cicatrized, and, with a sacred unction, prepares our dear invalid for his celestial rest. Of Falkland, like the Alps, I must not speak, lest I should say too much. His society is the best consolation which could be offered in the bereavement of Arthur, and we literally devour this magic scenery together, with our eyes and hearts. The beauties of nature are not like those of art, addressed only to the outward sense. They captivate the affections, and I always find that they point my mind to Heaven, there to glorify that creative wisdom and beneficence, which saw it good thus to adorn the earth. We are engaged in planning various schemes for seeing the surrounding country, and only wait to hear from Arthur, and learn whether we have a chance of his returning, and accompanying us in the excursion, to make arrangements for our darling project of visiting the vallies of the Waldenses. Adieu, dearest Julia,
Your ever after,
Emily Douglas.
LETTER XLIII.
Arthur Howard to Frederick Douglas.
Selby.
My dear Frederick,
Alas! I cannot rejoin your party for the present. I reached this place with as little delay as winds, waves, and mail coaches permitted, and found my poor mother so frightfully altered, that I should scarcely recognize her at the distance of a few paces. I was not aware, till I arrived at home that she had had a paralytic stroke, which she cannot endure to have known, and Louisa would not risk the communication by letter, lest I might, inadvertently, betray a knowledge of the fact on meeting her. Of this there is no danger in telling it to you, and in doing so, I explain at once how impossible it is for me to quit England while matters remain in their present precarious condition. You will rejoice to hear that domestic misfortunes have had the happiest effect on my sister’s mind. She is wonderfully changed, and her whole attention is devoted to the melancholy duty of watching our invalid, whose illness appeared immediately after a sudden and unlooked for demand of £2,000 on the miserable Crayton’s account, accompanied by an earnest request from Adelaide that her mother would honour the bill, or, at least, give security for its payment at a future day. This was impossible, for my poor mother was overwhelmed by debts of her own. The grief and mortification which are now her portion are not rendered more tolerable by the accompanying reflection that she brought them on herself; and it is the cruel nature of her complaint to aggravate every vexation by the dreadful irritability which is one of its constant symptoms, as I am informed by Doctor Leach, who is in daily attendance at Selby. Need I say that almost every hour is occupied in endeavouring to soothe our poor patient, and relieve Louisa’s care? You know nothing of the hopeless task which we have daily to encounter. The life that is led by fashion’s votaries, ill prepares the mind I see for finding refuge in the only consolations which a sick room supplies. How often am I irresistibly led to a comparison of my uncle’s couch with that on which my poor mother’s faded form reclines! We can impart no comfort. We fail of amusing, as of consoling her. Neither book nor conversation delights, the affrighted spirit turns in anguish from viewing the grave as it gapes beneath, and dares not seek for refuge in Him who is neglected while the blood circulates freely in the veins, and the wheel rolls on, as if it were never to meet obstruction. I never pondered on these things till I lived at Glenalta, and I am now endeavouring to impress them on Louisa. Cards are my poor mother’s only resource, and my sister, Turner, and I, are in constant requisition. We play whist to amuse her, and suffer her to win every game. Perhaps by keeping her mind as calm and unruffled as possible, I may prevail with her to see Mr. Arundel, an excellent clergyman in our neighbourhood, who has often proffered his service, but whose visits she has hitherto declined. The Doctor gives me no hope of her recovery, though he thinks that she may endure repeated attacks before her strength sinks entirely under them. Some of the good people of our country are loud, I am told in their abuse of my sister, and me, for permitting a card inside my mother’s apartment. We ought, they say, to insist on her seeing Mr. Arundel, and oblige her to listen to pious reading. Alas! what mischief may be wrought even by the best intentions, when zeal is so wholly unaccompanied by discretion! Should we hope to render a temper fitter for Heaven by exciting its utmost animosity, or secure a reception in the heart for doctrines forced upon the ear? So certain am I of the contrary, that I will take the whole responsibility on myself, and trust that the motive which impels me to brave the opinion of several who are older than I am, may insure forgiveness, if I am wrong. Ask Stanley for his advice, and tell Falkland to write to me. You must remember the life that Louisa and I are leading, and have pity on us. Let me hear often from you, and tell my dear Emily, and Charlotte, that I think a few words of cousinly kindness would produce a happy effect upon my poor sister’s mind; she would find too, perhaps, an interesting recreation in corresponding with them. It is a distressing circumstance to me, that I know not where to address Adelaide, nor does she know where to find me. Of her situation I must remain ignorant, till Annesley can trace the route by which she and her unfortunate husband have evaded pursuit. My dear uncle’s noble gift shall be forwarded to Milan for the payment of debts, and we must, if practicable, purchase off the prosecution for Castelli’s death. You will assist me, I am sure, in every possible way. God bless you, dearest Frederick. Loves to all.
Your affectionate, but harassed,
A. Howard.
LETTER XLIV.
Frederick Douglas to Arthur Howard.
Turin.
My dear Arthur,
An entire month has passed since the date of my last letter to you; and I have now to recount an adventure which has deeply interested me, and will, I have no doubt, produce as much excitement in your mind as it has done in my own. When we had been at Turin about ten days, Mr. Otway, Emily, and I, returned late one evening from a scramble amongst the rocky scenery by which we are surrounded, and found George Bentley seated with the rest of the party. You may imagine that the meeting affected us all. Poor fellow, he is a sincere mourner for his uncle’s loss, and is grown more serious than I ever saw him; but he is one whom I shall always love, and we all felt at sight of him as if Glenalta had come over to pay us a visit. After George had rested for a day or two we made our final arrangements, which had been pending for some time previous to his arrival, for the projected excursion into the vallies. It was ruled in congress that we juniors should not all desert the home party together; and as it was considered likely that at a future day when you rejoin us, another sortie may be determined upon; Stanley volunteered in remaining with my uncle, while Fanny begged to be left as guardian of my mother.
To begin then, methodically, you may fancy the travelling party consisting of Mr. Otway, Falkland, George Bentley, Emily, Charlotte, and myself, in full march, on the fifteenth ultimo, issuing from the Posta Nuova, and taking the high road to Pinerolo. The Po rolled impetuously on its course, and brought to my mind those lines of Virgil, which describe its rushing flood, when swelled by the tributary waters of spring:—