How like a dream--a delicious, balmy, summer night’s dream--is this life
I am leading! For the first time have I tasted the soothing tranquillity
of domestic life. A uniformity, that tells rather of security than
sameness, pervades every thing in this well-ordered household, where all
come and go as if under the guidance of some ruling genius, unseen and
unheard. Sir Gordon, too, is like a father; at least as I can fancy a
father to be, for I was too early left an orphan to preserve my
memory of either parent. His kindness is even more than what we call
friendship. It is actually paternal. He watches over my health with
all the unobtrusive solicitude of true affection; and if I even hint at
departure, he seizes the occasion to oppose it, not with the warmth of
hospitality alone, but a more deeply-meaning interest that sometimes
puzzles me. Can it be that he recognises in my weakened frame and
shrunken cheek, greater ravages of disease than I yet feel or know of?
Is it that he perceives me nearer the goal than as yet I am aware? It
was yesterday, as we sat in the library together, running over the
pages of an almanac, I remarked something about my liking to travel by
moonlight, when, with a degree of emotion that amazed me, he said, “Pray
do not talk of leaving us; I know that in this quiet monotony there may
be much to weary you; but remember that you are not strong enough
for the world, did you even care to take your place in it as of old.
Besides,”--here he faltered, and it was with a great effort that he
resumed--“besides, for _my_ sake, if the selfishness of the request
should not deter you, for _my_ sake remain with us some time longer.”
I protested most warmly, as I had all reason to do, that for years past
I had never known time pass on so happily; that in the peaceful calm
we lived, I had tasted a higher enjoyment than all the most buoyant
pleasures of healthier and younger days had ever given me. “But,”--I
believe I tried to smile as I spoke,--“but recollect, Sir Gordon, I have
got my billet: the doctors have told me to go, and die, at Naples. What
a shock to science if I should remain, to live, at Como!”
“Do so, my dearest friend,” said he, grasping my hands within both of
his, while the tears swam in his eyes; “I cannot--I dare not--I have
not strength to tell you, all that your compliance with this wish will
confer on me Spare me this anguish, and do not leave us.” As he uttered
these words he left me, his emotion too great to let me reply.
The sick man’s selfishness would say, that his anxiety is about that
wasting malady, whose ravages are even more plainly seen than felt.
Turn the matter over how I will, I cannot reconcile this eager anxiety
for my remaining with any thing but a care for myself. It is clear he
thinks me far worse than I can consent to acknowledge. I do not disguise
from myself the greater lassitude I experience after a slight exertion,
a higher tension of the nervous system, and an earlier access of that
night fever, which, like the darkness of the coming winter, creeps daily
on, shortening the hours of sunlight, and ushering in a deeper and more
solemn gloom; but I watch these symptoms as one already prepared for
their approach, and feel grateful that their coming has not clouded the
serenity with which I hope to journey to the last.
Kind old man! I would that I were his son, that I could feel my rightful
claim to the affection he lavishes on me; but for _his_ sake it is
better as it is! And Miss Howard--Lucy, let me call her, since I am
permitted so to accost her--what a blessing I should have felt such a
sister to be, so beautiful, so kind, so gently feminine! for that is
the true charm. This, too, is better as it is. How could I take leave of
life, if I were parting with such enjoyments?
She is greatly changed since we came here. Every day seems to gain
something over the malady she laboured under. She is no longer faint and
easily wearied, but able to take even severe exercise without fatigue;
her cheek has grown fuller, and its rosy tint is no longer hectic, but
the true dye of health; and instead of that slow step and bent-down
head, her walk is firm and her air erect; while her spirits, no longer
varying from high excitement to deep depression, are uniformly good and
animated. Life is opening in all its bloom to her, as rapidly as its
shadows are closing and gathering around me. Were it mine to bestow,
how gladly would I give what remains of flickering life to strengthen
the newly-sprung vitality, her light step, her brilliant smile and dark
blue eye! That coming back to health, from out of the very shadow of
death, must be a glorious sensation! The sudden outbursting of all this
fair world’s joys, on a spirit over which the shade of sickness has only
swept, and not rested long enough to leave its blight. I think I read in
that almost heroic elevation of sentiment, that exquisite perception
of whatever is beautiful in Lucy, the triumph of returning energy and
health. She is less fanciful and less capricious, too. Formerly, the
least remark, in which she construed a difference of opinion, would
distress or irritate her, and her temper appeared rather under the sway
of momentary impulse than the guidance of right principle. Now, she
accepts even correction, mildly and gratefully, and if a sudden spark of
former haste flash forth, she seems eager to check and repress it; she
acts as though she felt that restored health imposed more restraint and
less of self-indulgence than sickness. How happy if one were only to
bring out of the sick chamber its teaching of submission, patience, and
gratitude, and leave behind its egotism and its irritability! This she
would appear to aim at; and to strive is to win.
And now I quit this chronicling to join her. Already she is on her way
to the boat, and we are going to see Pliny’s villa; at least the dark
and shadowy nook where it once stood. The lake is still as a mirror,
and a gorgeous mirror it is, reflecting a scene of faëry brilliancy and
beauty. She is waving her handkerchief to me to come. “_Vengo, subito_.”
This has been a delightful day. We rowed along past Melzi till we
came under the tall cliffs near Bellagio; and there, in a little bay,
land-locked and shaded by olive-trees, we dined. I had never seen Sir
Gordon so thoroughly happy. When Lucy’s spirits have been higher, and
her fancy has taken wilder and bolder wings, he has usually worn a
look of anxiety through all his admiring fondness. To-day, she was less
animated than she generally is--almost grave at times--but not sad; and
I think that “Grandpapa” loved her better in this tranquil mood, than
in those of more eager enjoyment. I believe I read his meaning, that, in
her highest flow of spirits, he dreads the wear and tear consequent on
so much excitement; while in her more sombre days he indulges the hope
that she is storing up in repose the energies of future exertion. How it
takes off the egotism of sickness to have some one whose ever-watchful
care is busy for our benefit! how it carries away the load of “self,”
and all its troubles! while I.... But I must not dwell on this theme,
nor disturb that deep sense of gratitude I feel for all that I possess
of worldly advantage, were it no more than this blessing, that on
quitting life I leave it when my sense of enjoyment has mellowed into
that most lasting and enduring one, the love of quiet, of scenery, of
converse with old friends on by-gone events--the tranquil pleasures of
age tasted without the repining of age!
Lucy bantered me to-day upon my inordinate love of ease, as she called
it, forgetting that this inactivity was at first less from choice than
compulsion; now, it is a habit, one I may as well wear out, for I
have no time left to acquire new ones. She even tried to stimulate my
ambition, by alluding to my old career and the rewards it might have
opened to me. I could have told her that a father or an uncle at the
“Council” was of more avail than a clever despatch or a well-concluded
treaty; that some of our ablest Ministers are wasting life and energy at
small, obscure, and insignificant missions, where their functions never
rise beyond the presentation of letters of congratulation or condolence,
attendance on a court ball, or a _Te Deum_ for the sovereign’s birthday;
while capacities that would be unnoticed, if they were not dangerous,
have the destinies of great events in their keeping. True, there is
always the Foreign Office as the “_Cour d’Appel_” and, whatever may be
the objections--grave and weighty they certainly are at times--against
those parliamentary interrogations by which the Minister is compelled to
reveal the object and course of his dealings with foreign nations, there
is one admirable result,--our foreign policy will always be National.
No Minister can long pursue any course in defiance of the approval of
Parliament; nor can any Parliament, in our day, long resist the force of
public opinion.
While, therefore, Nicholas or Metternich may precipitate the nations
they rule over into a war, where there is neither the sympathy nor the
prejudices of a people involved, _we_ never draw the sword without a
hearty good will to wield it.
To what end all this in reference to Lucy Howard’s question? None
whatever; for, in truth, I was half flattered by the notion that the
shattered, storm-beaten wreck, could be supposed sea-worthy, and so I
promised amendment. How pleasant it was, sitting Tityrus-like, to dream
over high rewards and honours! She, at least, seemed to think so; for
whether to stimulate my ardour, or merely following the impulse of her
own, I know not, but she certainly dwelt with animation and delight on
the advantages of a career that placed one almost _au pied d’égal_ with
sovereigns. “I am sure,” said she, “that you cannot look upon those who
started in the race with yourself, without some repinings that others,
whom you know to be inferior to you, have passed you; and that men whom
you would never have thought of as competitors, are now become more than
equals.”
If I accede to this opinion to a certain extent, still I must protest
against any feeling of real regret when I think that success is much
oftener obtained by what is called a “lucky hit,” than by years of
zealous and intelligent exertion. I have known a man obtain credit for
stopping a courier--waylaying him, I might rather call it--and taking
by force a secret treaty from his hand, while the steady services of a
life-long have gone unrewarded. These things have an evil influence upon
diplomacy as a “career;” they suggest to young men to rely rather on
address and dexterity than upon “prudence and forethought.” Because Lord
Palmerston discourses foreign politics with a certain gifted and very
beautiful Countess, or that M. Guizot deigns to take counsel from a most
accomplished Princess of Russian origin, every small _Attaché_ thinks
he is climbing the short road to fame and honours by listening to the
_fadaise_ of certain political _boudoirs_, and hearing “pretty ladies
talk” about Spielberg and Monkopf. When the Northern minister sent his
son to travel through the world, that he might see with his own eyes
by what “commonplace mortals states were governed,” he might have
recommended to his especial notice Plenipo’s and Envoys Extraordinary.
From time to time, it is otherwise. Lord Castlereagh, whatever
detraction party hate may visit on his home politics, was a consummate
Ambassador. Not of that school which Talleyrand created, and of which he
was the head, but a man of unflinching courage, high determination, and
who, with a strong purpose and resolute will, never failed to make felt
the influence of a nation he so worthily represented. With this, he was
a perfect courtier; the extreme simplicity of his manner and address was
accompanied by an elegance and a style of the most marked distinction.
Another, but of a different stamp, was Lord Whitworth; one on whom all
the dramatic passion and practised outrage of Napoleon had no effect
whatever.
Sir Gordon remarked, that in this quality of coolness and
imperturbability he never saw any one surpass his friend, Sir Robert
Darcy. One evening when playing at whist, at Potzdam, with the late
King of Prussia, his Majesty, in a fit of inadvertence, appropriated to
himself several gold pieces belonging to Sir Robert. The King at last
perceived and apologised for his mistake, adding, “Why did you not
inform me of it?” “Because I knew your Majesty always makes restitution
when you have obtained time for reflection.” Hanover was then on the
_tapis_, and the King felt the allusion. I must not forget a trait of
that peculiar sarcastic humour for which Sir Robert was famous. Although
a Whig--an old blue-and-yellow of the Fox school--he hated more than any
man that mongrel party which, under the name of Whigs, have carried on
the Opposition in Parliament for so many years; and of that party, a
certain well-known advocate for economical reforms came in for his most
especial detestation: perhaps he detested him particularly, because he
had desecrated the high ground of Oppositional attack, and brought it
down to paltry cavillings about the sums accorded to poor widows on
the Pension List, or the amount of sealing-wax consumed in the Foreign
Office. When, therefore, the honourable and learned gentleman, in the
course of a continental tour, happened to pass through the city where
Sir Robert lived as ambassador, he received a card of invitation to
dinner, far more on account of a certain missive from the Foreign
Office, than from any personal claims he was possessed of. The Member
of Parliament was a _gourmand_ of the first water; he had often heard
of Sir Robert’s _cuisine_--various travellers had told him that such
a table could not be surpassed, and so, although desirous of getting
forward, he countermanded his horses, and accepted the invitation.
Sir Robert, whose taste for good living was indisputable, no sooner read
the note acceding to his request than he called his _attachés_ together,
and said, “Gentlemen, you will have a very bad dinner to-day, but
I request you will all dine here, as I have a particular object in
expressing the wish.”
Dinner-hour came; and after the usual ceremony the party were seated at
table, when a single soup appeared: this was followed by a dish of
fish, and then, without _entrée_ or _hors d’oevre_, came a boiled leg
of mutton, Sir Robert premising to his guest that it was to have no
successor: adding, “You see, sir, what a poor entertainment I have
provided for you; but to this have the miserable economists in
Parliament brought us--next session may carry it further, and leave us
without even so much.” Joseph was sold, and never forgot it since.
I saw, that while Sir Gordon and I discussed people and events in this
strain, Lucy became inattentive and pre-occupied by other thoughts; and
on charging her with being so, she laughingly remarked that Englishmen
always carry about with them the one range of topics; and whether they
dine in Grosvenor Square, or beneath an olive-tree in the Alps, the
stream of the table-talk is ever the same. “Now a Frenchman,” said she,
gaily, “had uttered I cannot say how many flat sentimentalisme about the
place we are in; a German had mysticised to no end; and an Italian would
have been improvising about every thing, from the wire that restrained
the champagne cork to the woes of enchained Italy. Tell us a story, Mr.
Templeton.”
“A story! What shall it be? A love story? a ghost story? a merry, or a
sad one?”
“Any of these you like, so that it be true. Tell me something that has
actually happened.”
“That is really telling a secret,” said I; “for while truth can be,
and oftener is, stranger than fiction, it is so, rather from turning
ordinary materials to extraordinary uses--making of every-day people
singular instances of vice and virtue--than for any great peculiarity in
the catastrophes to which they contribute.”
“Well, I don’t believe in the notion of everyday people. I have a
theory, that what are so summarily disposed of in this fashion are just
as highly endowed with individualities as any others. Do you remember a
beautiful remark, made in the shape of a rebuke, that Scott one day gave
his daughter for saying that something was ‘Vulgar?’ ‘Do you know what
is the meaning of the word vulgar? It is only common; and nothing that
is common, except wickedness, can deserve to be spoken of in terms of
contempt: and when you have lived to my years, you will be disposed to
agree with me in thanking God that nothing really worth having or caring
about in this world is _uncommon_.’”
“When I said ordinary, every-day people, don’t mistake me; I meant only
those who, from class and condition, follow a peculiar ritual, and live
after a certain rubric of fashion; and who, hiding themselves under a
common garment, whose cut, colour, and mode are the same, are really
undistinguishable, save on great and trying occasions.
“Kings, for instance! whom great diplomatic folks are supposed to see a
great deal of, and know in all the terms of an easy intimacy.
“But how do we see them? In an armour of reserve and caution, never
assumed to any one else. The ease you speak of is all assumed. It is the
conventional politeness accorded to a certain station. Kings, so far as
I have seen, are never really engaging, save to a great minister out
of power. Then their manner assumes all its attractiveness; on
the principle, perhaps, that Curran paid his homage to the antique
Hercules,--that _his_ day might yet come uppermost, and he would not
forget the friend who visited him in adversity.”
“Well, to come back, tell us a story. Let it be what you will, or of
where and whom you please, so that it last while we are rowing homeward.
Monologue is always better than conversation by moonlight.
“But stay; what are the lights we see yonder, glancing from amid the
trees? And there, now, see the bright blaze that has sprung up, and
is reflected red and lurid on the lake below. It is a ‘Festa’ of the
Church; for hear, the bells are ringing merrily from the mountain-top,
and there go the people in procession, climbing the steep path towards
the summit.”
Wonderful superstition! that has fashioned itself to every phase and
form of human nature--now, sending its aid to the darkest impulses of
passion, as we see in Ireland--now, conforming to the most simple tastes
of an unthinking people; for these peasants here are not imbued with the
piety of the Church--they only love its gauds. It is to the Tyrol you
must go to witness the real devotional feeling of a people.
“Well, shall I tell you a story?”
“No; I am weaving one, now, for myself!”