BLUE-STOCKING HALL.
J. D. NICHOLS, 25, PARLIAMENT STREET.
BLUE-STOCKING HALL.
“From woman’s eyes this doctrine I derive:
They sparkle still the right Promethean fire;
They are the books, the arts, the academes,
That show, contain, and nourish all the world.”
LOVE’S LABOUR LOST.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1827.
BLUE-STOCKING HALL.
LETTER XXVII.
FREDERICK TO EMILY DOUGLAS.
This, my dearest Emily, is the last letter which you will receive from
Frederick in London; and though time speeds on rapid wing in this focus
of attraction, I reckon the days with impatience till the heath-clad
tops of our dear mountains break upon my view. To travel, and see new
men and manners, would be too delightful, if mother and sisters were
with me, but, unfashionable as the confession may be, I own to the
_weakness_ of loving mine enough to make me wish to be always near
them. In a few days we are to set out, and Arthur starts for France,
when we turn our faces towards Glenalta. I fear that my uncle is not
gaining ground; there is a consultation every day, but it seems to me
as if many of these great doctors make up in _mannerism_ of one sort
or other what they want in penetration. One assumes a rough tone, and
thinks it for his advantage to act the brute, in order to assure his
patients that he is an honest man. Another looks as smooth as satin,
and prescribes such numerous and expensive remedies, that none but
a nabob could afford to be cured. A third experiments upon all the
vegetables and minerals in the modern Pharmacopœia, and “thrice slays
the slain,” before he stumbles by accident on the disease. If I am to
be killed by Esculapian skill, I would rather receive my _quietus_ from
a sober practitioner in the country, who had never heard of _arsenic_,
_digitalis_, or the _prussic acid_, than be torn piece-meal by a triad
of London physicians, who, ten to one, know as little of the case as of
the constitution submitted to them, and ceremoniously agree to put one
out of the world with the profoundest adherence to etiquette. I cannot
help thinking the business altogether a solemn farce, which I long to
see brought to a conclusion, and as I am growing every day more and
more attached to this near and dear relation, I look anxiously for his
removal, from what appears to me, a pick-pocket confederacy. The dread
with which my uncle’s manner at first inspired me, is gradually wearing
away. With Phil. and me he is charming, full of information, classical
taste, and literary criticism. He has a fund of humour also, which gives
variety to his powers of pleasing; and when bodily pain does not weigh
upon his spirits, he is a delightful companion, whose society will add
considerably to the pleasures of our winter fire-side. But his frown is
as awful as his smile is beaming, and would have petrified me long ago,
if I had ever encountered his brow in the act of concentrating its forces
upon me, as it does when aunt Howard and Louisa appear in his presence.
The whole horizon of his forehead is then hung thickly in clouds, a
morose expression marks his countenance, and a sullen silence indicates
displeasure, as far as the rules of common civility will permit. With
Arthur he is less unconstrained than with me; but I hope that ere we quit
London, there will be no difference in his feelings towards us. The kind
partiality with which he treats your Frederick is easily accounted for,
and arises _not_ from any comparison between the individuals in question,
or _I_ could not be his favourite. I should write with more satisfaction
than I feel at present, if I were not so soon to see you; but the
slowness of my pen makes me impatient, when I reflect on the _glibness_
of tongue with which I hope in less than a fortnight to pour out all my
news _vivâ voce_, for your amusement. Besides, when once the novelty
of the thing is over, there is a tiresome monotony in the routine of a
London life.
I have met with very few who deserve to be recorded for any
qualifications that distinguish individuals from each other. A certain
number of airs, and affectations, mixed with accomplishments and French
flounces, in proportions a little varying, but producing generally the
same result, may serve as a recipe by which to compound the modern belle;
and for the beau, a mixture somewhat different, without being in the
least more solid, will suffice as universally as the former; but Arthur
procured me an invitation the other day to a dinner party, which being
unlike its predecessors, I must particularize, reserving the names of the
_dramatis personæ_, till we meet, lest my letter should _miss stays_, and
its writer be prosecuted for a libel.
This dinner was given by a literary amateur, to several authors and
authoresses, who furnish our _running account_ of novels, essays,
disquisitions reviews, articles, fugitive poems, squibs, and _bon mots_.
And in the evening we had a numerous accession of both sexes, who were
brought together as professedly _bookish_ people, and therefore fit
audience for the writers who, I suppose, were expected to be speakers
also. I know, that I for _one_, went fully possessed with the idea, that
at least I should hear a great _quantity_ of discourse, however I might
chance to think of its _quality_; and, moreover, I was rejoicing for
two entire days at the prospect that lay before me: but disappointment
was the portion of every novice, who, like myself, looked for “a feast
of reason and a flow of soul.” Of all the dull uninteresting meetings
of which I ever happened to be a member, I willingly vote the palm of
pre-eminence to that at Sir Marmaduke Liston’s. However, as knowledge
is always valuable, I stand indebted to that assembly for one piece of
information, which, till now, I have taken upon hearsay evidence.
It was in Lady Liston’s drawing room that I first saw that gorgon, yclept
“_Blue-stocking_,” which we used to think was like other spectres, the
offspring of a distempered imagination. I can assure you that such
things are, and, if I was heartily disgusted with the authors at dinner,
I was no less heartily nauseated by the _Blues_ at tea. The former
only reminded me of rival tradesmen, who forgot a part of their craft,
namely, adulation of their patron, in the absorbing energy of their
hatred towards each other. As to _conversation_, we had none, for every
man seemed afraid to utter a sentence, lest his neighbour should slip
it into _a book_, and thus defraud the real owner. A few nods, shrugs,
and _hahs_, which might be interpreted _ad libitum_, occupied the place
of language, and constituted nearly the whole intercourse of _mind_
which was not directed to the _matter_ of fish, flesh, and fowls. On
_these_, indeed, and their individual merits, our _wittenagemot_ were
eloquent “with all alliteration’s artful aid;” and they also proved
themselves nothing loath to exercise whatever critical _acumen_ any of
them possessed on Sir Marmaduke’s wines which were discussed from humble
port to imperial tokay, with glistening eyes, glazed noses, and expanding
vests. Yet you may tell Mr. Oliphant that we had not even _allusion_
to a feast of the ancients, not a word of old Falernian, nor a single
glimmering of classic lore, though in the fields of Horace one would
imagine that the company might have expatiated on neutral ground without
danger of petty larceny on any side. One prodigious person, who seemed
like “Behemoth, biggest born,” and who quaffed accordingly, particularly
diverted me: he sat next to a tall thin phantom who looked of Pharoah’s
lean kine, and wore a little black cap on his skull, which appeared
as if “moulded on a porringer,” This shadowy form was, I was told, a
metaphysician, and certainly he gave me the idea of having come into the
world for the express purpose of illustrating the extension of tenuity.
He drank nothing but toast and water, and consequently had the advantage
of preserving such store of faculties as he brought to the entertainment,
in all their clearness, when his neighbours were “veiled in mist;” but
either the measure was so small, or the nature of his _wares_ prevented
them from being pilfered. Whatever the reason, so it was, that he seemed
to enjoy all the ease of a sinecure in guarding his mental property from
depredation. He, and his ample companion, threw glances at each other of
mutual contempt every now and then, and from time to time, as opportunity
presented itself, kept up at intervals a meagre snarl, altogether
divested of wit or point, till the big man, who, of a class that it might
be presumed
“Had but seldom known the use
Of the grape’s surprising juice,”
became so top heavy, that I saw his head gently let down, as if by a
pully and tackle, on the shoulder of the metaphysician, who not inclined
to enact the prop to a fallen foe, disengaged himself so abruptly from
this mountain of the muses (for Behemoth is a poet), that the chair on
which he sat, having glided away, the latter came down on the floor
plump, like a full sack that had broken from the crane. My gravity was
not proof against this downfall of Parnassus, and I made my way up stairs
as quickly as I could, only lagging behind a sufficient length of time
for the water-drinking philosopher to be lodged before me. Oh ye gods,
what an exhibition did I open upon! the only similitude which I can find
at hand for the drawing-room that presented itself, was a glass of some
highly bottled liquid, in which a froth of white muslin occupied the
upper, and a sediment of black cloth its lower extremity. Not a sound
was to be heard as I entered the room; but I soon perceived that the _et
ceteras_ of coffee, tea, cakes, and bread and butter, were not at all
more indifferent in the superior, than soups, meats, and wine had been in
the inferior regions of this intellectual _festum_. It quite astonished
me to see the quantity of all these appurtenances of the _soireé_, that
almost immediately vanished, “leaving not a wreck behind.” During the
consumption of these mere _creatures_ of the entertainment, certain
solemn sentences were fired at intervals, after the manner of minute
guns, each succeeded by a deadly pause.
The gentlemen below stairs sat a long time, but I was resolved to see
_out_ the evening, ere I passed judgment on a party of the literati. At
length the authors ascended, and, had I been a young lady, I should have
felt most unwilling
----“to meet the rudeness and swilled insolence
Of such late wassailers;”
but the habits of the _trade_ triumphed over the occasional excess which
Sir Marmaduke’s hospitality had caused his guests to commit, and so
profoundly discreet was this book-making assembly, that while, on the one
hand, not a syllable that betrayed either taste or genius escaped, and
laid them open to plagiarism, I must do justice to the equal taciturnity
which they observed upon every subject less immediately connected with
the direct views of their calling; insomuch, that, for the greater
number, they withstood the most pedantic efforts, on the side of the
_blues_, to draw them out, and--with the exception of some tedious
verbiage pronounced, _ex cathedrâ_, by the man in the black cap, who,
perceiving the advantage which his abstemiousness gave him over the rest,
grew loquacious and collected a circle of ladies around him--One might
have imagined that rumination was the object of the meeting, and that the
members of this tiresome confraternity had come together principally for
the purpose of feeding first, and then chewing the cud on the subjects of
their next lucubrations. I never was so weary of the “human face divine,”
as on the memorable occasion which I have mentioned, and gladly banished
all recollection of a party, over which the goddess of dulness had
especially presided--in the most leaden slumber that I have experienced
since my arrival in the British capital.
I shall part from Arthur with such sorrow as a brother’s love might feel.
He must positively be a changeling in his mother’s house, so entirely
does he differ from his family. Yet in Louisa there are, as our country
taylor would say, “_the makings_” of something good, had she received
a decent education. But empty heads and flinty hearts are quite _the
thing_; and if nature throw away her labours, and, forgetting the class
on which she is operating, lavish fine faculties and gentle affections on
one of your _exquisites_, whether male or female, these, like troublesome
excrescences, must be amputated; and a better hand at performing such a
species of excision cannot exist than that of my aunt. Her influence is
enough to eradicate the deepest sensibilities, and cut to the quick the
most promising intellect. She cannot bear me, because my uncle takes kind
notice of me, and it is time that we should part; for a day in Grosvenor
Square seems to me as if passed in purgatory; though Arthur is there.
With true loves, adieu, and believe me
Your affectionate
FREDERICK.
LETTER XXVIII.
ARTHUR HOWARD TO FREDERICK DOUGLAS.
_Paris._
My dear Fred.
Your letter, announcing safe return to the “happy valley,” found me
on the very eve of my departure to Dover. Need I say how welcome it
was?--Yes, you did indeed describe your feelings to one who could
participate in every sensation, and feel every beat of your heart, as the
well known land marks, the _termini_ that bound your glen of enchantment,
rose smiling in the western beam, above the misty fleece which had rolled
over their summits from the sea. I saw the first faggot blaze on the peak
of Lisfarne; I heard the first joyous announcement of Tom Collins, the
eager bark of Gelert, Eva, and Bran, the din of voices, the pattering
of bare feet across every path-way in the bog; in short, what incident,
however trifling, was a stranger to my breast that prepared for the final
folding in your mother’s arms?
How different my journey and my arrival at its termination! I could
have joined several gay parties, proceeding in the same route which
I was about to tread; but I was not in a humour for such company as
they offered, and so I preferred commencing my travels _solus_, Lewis
being only an appendage who permits me to be more alone than I should
be without him, by taking all the minor cares that belong to _chemin
faisant_ off my shoulders.
My mother and Louisa were to leave town on the day after I set out, and
are by this time at Selby--would that I could say enjoying the quiet of
that beautiful place; but the former, poor soul, is not happy any where,
and my sister, alas, though she feels little pleasure in the scenes
which she has left behind, cannot be expected to derive much from those
which in providing food, and giving time for meditation, bring no peace
to a bosom at war within itself. Louisa, I predict, will be an altered
character, but the work will be slow, and experience many interruptions.
I see, however, some very promising circumstances on which to build my
hopes. Adelaide’s marriage is already acting as a salutary beacon; and I
have extorted a faithful promise from Louisa that she will no longer give
encouragement to Lord G. Villiers, whose attentions, if they ended in a
serious address, would be directed by the same base motives which brought
Crayton and Adelaide together. Thus one great point is gained, but every
step which I achieve with Louisa, throws me farther back in my mother’s
regard; so the task is like that of Sisyphus, and very disheartening.
On reaching this place, I received letters from Falkland, and one from
my brother-in-law, entreating my interference with my uncle for a loan.
This I must peremptorily refuse, and cordially do I wish that the latter
had returned home a poor man, that such of his family, as are inclined
to love him, might indulge the feeling without suspicion of its purity;
and that such as would prey upon his very vitals, without regard to any
thing but the most sordid self-interest, should be kept from persecuting
and injuring his fine mind, by increasing the measure of its distrust.
He is not fond of me, but I love him because he has good taste enough to
distinguish you. Say every thing kind and respectful to him for me, which
you do not think him likely to reject, and with tender loves to the rest
of the dear group, I am, dearest Frederick, in haste,
Your affectionate,
A. HOWARD.
LETTER XXIX.
MRS. DOUGLAS TO MRS. E. SANDFORD.
You would have reason, my Elizabeth, to complain of my silence, were your
heart less alive than it is to the interesting occupations which have
devolved upon your friends of the valley; and though I am blessed with
such coadjutors as few can boast, there is employment for us _all_ in our
several departments.
My dear brother’s health declines so slowly, that the progress of disease
is scarcely perceptible, and deceives all the young group, as well as
the sanguine Oliphant; but I feel that Edward Otway and I are prophets
but too true when we agree in prognosticating a termination to all his
sufferings, whether of mind or body, that belong to this world, and
that too at no great distance of time. He has been so wearied out by
medicines, that he now resolves on trying the effects of a system in
which nature and affection shall be chief instruments. I submit to his
views in the full belief that a winter’s repose is necessary to his
existence, and as my solicitude is increased by the responsibility which
we encounter in permitting this dear invalid to remain so far removed
from what is called “the best advice,” you may suppose how continually my
thoughts are employed about him.
I had been prepared by Edward Otway’s letters, while he remained in
London, for finding my brother’s character deeply interesting; but I had
no notion in what degree, and my heart still lingers with him in the
moments of our necessary separation. He is a theme so engrossing, that I
could dilate much more upon it than the limits which I have prescribed to
myself will allow; but all that I have not time to write, you shall one
day hear, for I lay up every word that he utters, not only because of the
intrinsic value which I attach to his sentiments and opinions, but they
derive a sacredness from his present situation (hovering as the bright
spirit now is upon the confines of eternity), which keeps me almost
breathless in his company, lest I should lose a syllable that falls from
his lips. You already know what a _mine_ we have discovered, of the
richest treasure, under that scaly armour, in which he had fortified
himself against the anticipated assaults of such sordid principles as he
was accustomed to see govern the conduct of those men with whom early
habit had associated him. Imagine then the happiness of seeing all this
rough coating drop off, and present the sweetest, most confiding nature
to our view.
You and I have often watched the unfolding of that beautiful zoophyte,
the sea anemone, when, after having been left exposed, by the retreat of
the waves from its rocky asylum, to the chilling influence of a northern
blast, it expanded its delicate fibres to the soft returning tide; and
from a shrunk and shapeless thing, opened into a star of glowing and
transparent brilliancy. Just in such manner has the noble mind of our
precious invalid been blighted by the pitiless storms which rage along
the coasts of avarice and self-interest. In such manner also has he
unlocked his soul in this little sheltered bay, to the gentle flow of
affection. How thankful do I feel for the blessing of being permitted to
see this hour, and bear a part in the scene which Glenalta now exhibits!
The process of change too has been as quick as it is gratifying; a
cautious and alternating advance and recession would have been the
history of an ordinary mind, but the impulses of a generous character are
instinctive and uncalculating. They yielded at once in my brother to the
force of truth; and that reserve which is still occasionally observable
in his manner, expresses nothing like the coldness of doubt, but seems
only to say, “alas! why has this native element of kindness, this
congenial sympathy, been so long withheld, and why am I only learning,
for the first time, to bask in the warm sunshine, when the orb of day is
descending from his meridian, and hastening to hide his radiant beams in
the deep?” So powerfully do I feel impressed with a belief that this is
the secret language of his heart, that my eyes too often betray me, and
I am obliged to hurry from his presence, that I may avoid discovering my
emotion.
One little incident alone proclaimed the slightest vacillation in his
mind since he came here, and as it ended happily, and bore evidence to
the delicacy of my dear Frederick’s feeling, I have pleasure in recording
it.
A letter from Arthur, in which he expressed a wish that his uncle had
returned poor, in order to enjoy the luxury of being loved, with freedom
from the base insinuations that restrain the manifestation of affection,
and also speaking the pleasure which he experienced in the certainty
that his cousin is more highly considered than himself, was received,
and shewn to me some time ago, by my dear boy. Some allusion being made
to news from Arthur, my brother asked one or two questions about him,
which Frederick’s first unguarded movement led him to answer, by putting
his friend’s letter into his uncle’s hands; but instantly recollecting
the passage which I have mentioned, he altered his purpose, and blushed
so violently while he made an awkward reply, that a brow for the first
time overcast by clouds of suspicion, met my poor fellow’s eye, and
occasioned an unspeakable agony in his mind, which he saw no means of
relieving; for the same nice feeling that had stayed his first impulse,
forbade him to explain the subsequent embarrassment; yet he saw that an
unfavourable surmise, perhaps detracting from Arthur’s honorable motives,
was the alternative. Mr. Otway was in the room when this incident
occurred, and mentioned it to me in private. I immediately unravelled
the mystery, produced the letter for this dear friend, who shewed it
without Frederick’s knowledge, or mine, to his uncle; and the result has
been the most perfect understanding on all sides, and the completest
re-establishment of confidence on the part of my amiable guest.
My brother speaks with joy of never parting from me, and as every
consideration must give place to the hope of protracting his existence,
I shall not oppose his wishes, though I augur a removal from my cell,
which I never before contemplated, in fulfilling them. My poor invalid
talks of the Continent for next spring, and has heard so much of Turin,
that thither he has set his heart on going in quest of that which he will
never find. What is so far distant, may never come to pass; but I must
prepare for it, and _you_ know how painful to me is change of place;
yet the bitterest potion is mercifully diluted for us, if we attempt to
perform a _duty_ with cheerfulness; and He who “tempers the wind to the
shorn lamb,” will sustain me through whatever trials may be in prospect.
Winter has been for many years a heavy season with me. Long nights of
watchfulness, and sad musing, impede the progress of our daily task;
and the summer has been my comforter--its warm sunshine tempts abroad;
its bowery shades invite to rest; its long days furnish occupation, and
its short nights are often sweetly passed in gazing on the starry host,
and pondering on those mansions of eternal blessedness that lie beyond
the firmament. But this is mere indulgence, selfish indulgence, and my
present cares have taught me a lesson, which I ought to have learned
before. Engaged now from morning till night in trying to assuage the
sufferings of another, I have not time to dwell on sorrow of my own; and
winter glides away unperceived, except by the rapidity of its flight.
It will rejoice you to learn that our _great_ concern prospers; and the
earnest desire to infuse “that peace which passeth all understanding”
into the sinking spirit, has been blessed with success beyond our hopes.
No formal siege, no angry attack, no querulous disputation has been
opened here upon error and scepticism. We read, we converse, but we
patiently wait for the troubling of the waters ere assistance is offered.
The _forcing_ system surely deters many from entering the lists of
proselytism from the evil of their ways. You have often heard me say that
there is nothing like Butler’s Analogy for minds of a certain calibre,
which must have strong food. _Here_ is a new instance in proof of its
excellence. Our invalid is charmed with this masterly work, and pores
over it incessantly. We have got Tremaine too, of which so many various
opinions are in circulation: but as we have not yet finished it, I do not
say more at present.
Adieu, dearest friend,
All, to all, with true affection,
ever yours is
C. DOUGLAS.
LETTER XXX.
FREDERICK DOUGLAS TO ARTHUR HOWARD.
_Glenalta._
Dearest Arthur,
Our letters to and fro, seem all to have reached their several
destinations in safety, and yours have truly been a rich resource this
winter in our retirement. Little did I imagine when we parted, that you
and I were likely to meet in a foreign territory before we shook hands
once more at Glenalta; but this letter is actually to be your manifesto
of full power to treat in my uncle’s name for all such accommodations
as may suit his circumstances and the number of our party at Turin,
whither you are directing your steps, you say, and where you may expect
to see us all, Mr. Oliphant excepted, in two months, should no unforeseen
interventions mar the present plan of proceeding.
How extraordinarily the most unlooked for events come round, and
sometimes turn up the very thing that we most desire, and which seemed
the least within our own power to accomplish!
My college course just finished, my degree taken, and the mind
experiencing the _pains_ of liberty, not its _pleasures_, how delightful
is this new direction of its activity! I cannot describe the feelings
with which I paid my last accounts to Alma Mater, and took leave _for
ever_ of a heap of books which now that I am not obliged to read, I dare
say I shall never be likely to open again.
Well, man is surely a perfect enigma! _Venteroli_, _La Place_, _La
Croix_, all those volumes with the red, blue, and yellow, covers, which
when lying on my table you used to call my _parterre of tulips_, and at
which I have often worked till my mind was reduced to a state of complete
inanition, became objects of affection when the task was finished,--_not_
that I had any inclination to continue the toil, when the necessity for
it had ceased; but I regretted the absence of that necessity, and sat
mournfully gazing on those books which I had longed so often to lay upon
the shelf. I felt exactly, I dare say, as a piece of clock-work would
tell us that it does, were it able to speak, when the main spring, after
being wound up to the utmost extremity of tension, is suddenly let go,
and flies back with proportionate and painful velocity. In short, I
know not how to express the collapsed, unstrung, nerveless condition of
my mind, which I suppose was somewhat over wrought by study, and the
repose for which I had so often sighed, had so little rest for me when it
arrived, that I should gladly have preferred the labour of a coal porter
to the relaxation which I had been anticipating with such impatience.
Doctor Evelyn is certainly right, when he says that every gratification
to be truly felt, must be _earned_; and when I ceased to _earn_, I ceased
to enjoy. All this egotism would be unpardonable if it were not necessary
to your right understanding of my present gratitude for the delightful
excitement in prospect.
Emily, Charlotte, Fanny, and I, have something new and stimulating to
talk of, and our preparations for quitting home already occupy hands as
well as heads. We build castles, lay plans, read books with reference to
our _travels_, and, by-the-bye, Em. and I are so completely bitten by
the idea of visiting the vallies of Piémont, that I prepare you now for
being pressed into the service. We are longing, too, to be acquainted
with your friend Falkland: and dear Phil. who has promised my poor uncle
to accompany the party, writes to Stanhope to meet us at Turin with Mr.
Oliphant, junior. So really it is quite an _embarras de richesses_, and
I should be too happy were it not for a few counteracting circumstances
which put a wholesome log about my neck, and restrain my buoyancy from
breaking into any indecorous exuberance.
The first in magnitude of these, is my uncle’s state of health, which
hangs a cloud over our spirits. He is so much beloved by us all, that to
witness his decline, gentle and almost imperceptible as it is, gives the
truest pain to every heart at Glenalta. For a long time after he arrived
here, I resisted conviction, and could not believe that my dearest mother
was not influenced by morbid melancholy in her forebodings; but she was
too well skilled in every symptom of the disease to doubt its progress;
and I grieve to say that every day adds testimony to the correctness of
her predictions. Nothing immediate is to be dreaded, however, while so
much bodily strength remains: but how sad it is to watch the increasing
emaciation, and witness the gradual decay of one who is dear to your
affections! You never saw a character so changed, or rather so developed
under a new aspect, as that of our uncle. All appearance of harshness has
subsided, every semblance of suspicion has given place to the kindest
expression of trust and affection. The effects are painful as they are
pleasing, as in learning to love we are taught to fear; and dread to lose
what we have so lately known how to estimate in all its excellence.
In considering him, he suggests the analogy of a fine instrument of music
that had been consigned to the cobwebs of neglect by the rude hands of
some ferocious banditti, who, in their barbarous attempts to draw forth
harmony, which refused to flow for them, crushed the sound-board and
tore the strings, then flung the sweet cremona to the crowd, who knew
nothing of its worth. Falling at length into the possession of one whose
delicate ear recognizes its full perfections, the structure is repaired,
the strings are tuned anew; and now the liquid tones are poured with
generous freedom, to repay that skilful touch, that refined taste, which
alone has power to unlock all its stores of melody. Such a musician is
my mother, and the attachment with which she has inspired my uncle, is
reflected on us all. Of you also dear Arthur he speaks as he ought to do;
and I have pleasure in thinking, that when we meet, you will be loved by
him, as you deserve to be by all who know you. Another grief is, that
_Domine_ is not to accompany us. His enthusiasm in pursuit of knowledge,
and the abundant store which he already possesses, so peculiarly qualify
him for travelling with delight to himself and benefit to others, that
it is cruelly vexatious to go without him. To see his younger brother
also, to whom he is attached with paternal tenderness, would be a great
indulgence. Yet all this he _insists_ on relinquishing, well aware,
though my mother did not utter a syllable on the subject, that her mind
was suffering a martyrdom at the idea of leaving Lawrence and all her
poor people without some hostage in their hands, to give security of
return, supply a channel of communication, disburse her weekly bounties,
and watch over the old, the sick, the helpless, and forlorn. Even the
assurance that Mr. Oliphant will remain at Glenalta, which is hailed
as a blessing by the people, cannot prevent the bitterness of their
lamentations; and these have such an effect in depressing the spirits of
our little party, that I long till we are absolutely _under weigh_; I
will not write again till we reach our journey’s end, as you may easily
suppose how completely I shall be occupied in the interim.
The sisters will depend on me for shewing them every thing worth seeing
as we go along, and I must try and not disappoint their expectations of
my skill in quality of _cicerone_. Adieu. All unite in loves.
Ever your affectionate,
F. DOUGLAS.
LETTER XXXI.
MISS DOUGLAS TO MISS SANDFORD.
Dearest Julia,
Here is my last letter from Glenalta, but as I promised to _stake the
course_ for you from hence to Turin, you may expect short notices
at least from every resting place, and thus be enabled, as you
affectionately wish, to enter into all the feelings of your friends,
as they proceed in a journey which would be such unmixed happiness in
prospect, were we not leaving sorrowful hearts behind, and taking with us
a beloved relation whose fading form presents continual comment on the
vanity of human joys.
I look upon my dear uncle’s expressive countenance, and sometimes fix my
thoughts so intently on the world of spirits, while I contemplate the
mild intelligence of that deep-sunk eye, that I lose all idea of an
earthly travel, and could fancy that he is setting out upon a heaven-ward
pilgrimage, in which it is graciously permitted us to be the companions
of his way.
In some sort surely, this reverie is not the work of mere imagination;
for that he is not long for this world I begin to believe. That he is
destined for communion with the just made perfect in another, I cannot
doubt.
He has an angel to pilot his progress, and in all things he obeys that
voice which calls upon him to follow in the only path that leads to a
life of immortal blessedness. Mamma is for ever employed in reading to,
and conversing with him; and it is impossible to conceive any thing more
interesting than the dialogues to which I am sometimes a listener.
We are to go to Marsden before we set out on our tour. My uncle wishes
to see the place which he calls _home_--a word which fills me with
melancholy when he pronounces it. Alas! I fear that Marsden will not be
long a home to him; but some repose will be required before he proceeds
on his journey. I think that we are to sail from Southampton, and travel
through Normandy to Paris, which my uncle insists on our seeing before
we take up our abode at Turin. My mind is at present in such a state of
agitation, that I scarcely know how to define the emotions which are in
continual conflict, at one moment presenting nothing but images of grief,
and in the next exhibiting bright hope and trust, with all the airy train
of “pleasures yet untried.” If I could take Glenalta, and all the dear
_Penates_ that I must leave behind; but if, and if, would lead us into
labyrinths which I must not enter, or perhaps I might feel not satisfied
with dislodging this little valley, but increasing in my demands, might
pray that the kingdom of Kerry, _perhaps_ the whole of Ireland might
accompany me; and improved as are the powers of accommodation by the
magical working of steam, I question the capacity of any packet, on any
construction, to transport the hundredth part of those objects which
my troublesome affections would have ever present, were such things
possible.
Fairies are out of date, and we must be resigned. Worthy Mr. Bentley
takes the approaching departure of my uncle so much to heart, that I
shall not be surprised if Mount Prospect, like Birnam Wood, should put
itself in march, and come to Turin instead of Dunsinane. Mrs. Fitzroy
used to be very entertaining in her attacks on our good friend Mr.
Bentley, and asked him one day, when he had said something that provoked
her, what could possess him to give such a name to his place; adding, “I
assure you, Mr. Bentley, that _sort_ of name is quite generic; it marks
a class so decidedly that I could not be mistaken in peopling a Mount
Prospect, a Bettyville, or O’Sullivan’s Lodge, with exactly appropriate
inhabitants, and such as I do not imagine that you would like to
acknowledge for your relations.”
Our neighbour comically replied, “Madam, if what you say be true, a name
is of more importance than I thought, and I feel less inclined than ever
to part with that which has the power of conjuring up to your view my
grandfather, honest Roger Bentley, who named the farm which I inhabit
Mount Prospect. No, Madam, fond as I am of my ancestors, though they were
neither possessed of rank or fortune, I should be ashamed, if, instead
of being sheltered by a solid _lump_ of a house fit for our climate, I
was perched upon the top of a hill in some fine Italian edifice, spread
out with corridors, supported on piazzas, and looking as if it had
been blown, by contrary winds, like a tropical bird, into our bogs by
accident. Your Tivolis, Valambrosas, and Rialtas are capital absurdities,
Madam; and I should blush were I obliged by filial respect to defend
them; but, thank God, _my_ parents were plain worthy people, who built a
snug square house, and called it Mount Prospect.”
Mrs. Fitzroy told him that the wings, colonnades, and transalpine
nomenclature, were as ridiculous in her eyes as in his, “but,” added she,
“I find you very ready to inveigh against one class of follies, while
you are all clemency towards others; and as to the names of your country
seats in Ireland, they are quite a reproach to you as a nation. If I
hear that I am going to visit at _Oakpark_, I am certain that I shall
see a desert moor, with a few ten-year old elms, thinly scattered, and
paled in with hurdles, to prevent the sheep from barking them. If I am
to call at _Hazlewood_, I am equally sure to find no wood at all, or at
most an old hawthorn bush in solitary abstraction. _Hollybrook_ has, I am
convinced, neither brook nor holly near it. _Rockview_ has, probably, not
a stone larger than an orange to be seen within its precincts; and so on
of a thousand other misnomers that I could enumerate.”
I remember that Mr. Bentley was _rising_ in choler, as he felt _lowered_
from not being ready at reply; but dear Domine flew to the rescue, and
seeing the commotion of our worthy friend, he brought him off with a sort
of triumph, by assuring Mrs. Fitzroy that oaks _had_ stood where now
there are only the ghosts of these forest kings; that rocks _had_ been
where now the quarryman’s pick-axe has left a level plain; that brooks,
which meandered once, are now dry; and that our names are often remnants
of our former, not indications of our present pride. I forget how the
conversation ended, but it amused me at the time that it happened, and
slipped out of my recollection, till having written Mount Prospect, that
name revived the remembrance of a combat which diverted us.
I shall pity George Bentley, when he loses so many friends with whom he
is accustomed to pass a part of almost every day, but he will bear it
better than Frederick would do in the same situation. How wonderfully the
good and evil of life are balanced! Sensibility increases every pleasure,
but as certainly augments every pain. George seems always to enjoy a sort
of calm tranquillity, which generally defends him from any species of
excitement. Is he happier than those of more sensitive structure? perhaps
about the same. He gains on the one side what he loses on the other. He
is an excellent young man, but he wants light and shade, that is, he
wants variety. Characters, like countries, may be too little diversified,
and in the midst of the highest cultivation, I should sigh for the sweet
glens, and bowery labyrinths that lie in retreat, and offer their
refreshing charms to those alone who love to seek their deep recesses. We
hear from Arthur frequently, and I grieve to tell you that his letters
bring us sad accounts of the Craytons. Mr. Otway, I believe, has made an
effort to obtain some money from my uncle, but with what success I know
not; however I greatly fear that no moderate sum would be of more than
temporary use, for Lord C. is a determined gambler, and poor Adelaide
has plunged into every sort of extravagance without supplies adequate to
sustain it. Dear Arthur’s anxiety is corroding his spring time of life;
and my poor aunt, I am told, is not lightening his uneasiness. These
are gloomy subjects, and I will release my dearest Julia from their
melancholy influence.--Adieu dear friend,
Your affectionate,
EMILY DOUGLAS.
LETTER XXXII.
FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.
_Marsden._
My dearest Julia,
Here we are, and my letters have so punctually informed you of each stage
in our journey, that I resolved on arriving at this beautiful place to
look about me, and grant a respite to my pen, ere I gave you an account
of Marsden and its surrounding scenery. The mere fact of our arrival
was mentioned by mamma to your dear aunt; and at the distance of a
fortnight from the short letter which conveyed that intelligence to our
beloved friends at Checkley, I gladly resume my office of journalist,
recommencing my task with the delightful news that my uncle is a great
deal better than when we first reached this house. The symptoms of his
disorder, at _least_, appear to be suspended, and it is impossible not
to yield, in some measure, to the sweet persuasions of hope. Mamma shakes
her head, and, though she will not repress our joyful anticipations,
I perceive with pain that _we_, the young and inexperienced, make no
impression on her mind, when we endeavour to gain her over to our own
bright visions of recovery. Whether it be the change of air, the novelty
of the scene, or that we are naturally inclined to feel a particular
interest in whatever is our _own_, I will not pretend to determine; but
certain it is, that from some happy cause my dear uncle is apparently
much invigorated, and seems to enjoy life doubly himself, since he has
come to a place where he is the immediate dispenser of pleasure to all
around him. His desire to see us gratified, stimulates every action;
and we are obliged to suppress, with care, every half-formed wish, lest
he should be led into more exertion to indulge our curiosity than is
good for him. Julia, you bid me tell you _truly_ how I like your noble
country, and you tell me also to employ the same candour in describing
my feelings respecting the people with whom I meet. Fortunately for me
you were born in Ireland, though all your early associations are English,
and therefore I feel bold in taking some liberties with this country,
which all your encouragement could not induce me to venture upon, were
it your actual birthplace. The beauty of England indeed I admit, without
any drawback, and if I confess that I love my own hills and vallies
better, such predilection is easily resolvable into affections which may
often bestow pre-eminence where it is intrinsically wanting, and raise
the barren wild without depressing the cultured garden. This kingdom
with which I was only acquainted before as a child, and which therefore
possesses all the charms of novelty in addition to its other attractions,
in my eyes appears a perfect paradise, so rich, so cultivated is every
part of it; and if I sometimes long for a tangled dell like that of the
“Retreat,” I am bound in honesty to confess what an extent of cheerless
waste I must travel over, ere I could be indulged by a sight of its soft
shades again.
_Here_ then there is a fair _set-off_ which squares accounts; but I come
now to the _people_, who bold the same relation, in every country, with
the land which they inhabit that the kernel of a nut bears to the shell;
and here I unhesitatingly declare my preference for the Irish character
beyond any specimens which I have as yet met with in English society,
provided always that you suppose me to compare people of education with
each other. If you _descend_ in the scale, the balance is greatly in
favour of the English, whose trading and yeomen classes exhibit patterns
which I wish my countrymen would copy; but in the extreme of the series
we Hibernians hold up our heads again, and though our peasants may be,
and alas are, more meanly fed, clothed, and lodged, than the sleek sons
of Albion, there is a union of heart and intelligence to be found in
every Kerry cabin, of which I would not give up one little grain, for
all the artificial benefits in the power of bacon and beans to confer
upon these votaries of good cheer. Certainly, one half at least of every
Englishman amongst the lower orders must be _stomach_, and if so, a
stranger need not be surprised at the unceasing anxiety expressed to
provide for the due support of such extensive capacity; but there is more
room for the exercise of our affections, where the mere animal range of
the human economy is not the Aaron’s rod that swallows up all the rest.
The eating and drinking _here_ are quite astonishing to one accustomed to
our aërial diet; and I have no doubt that an English _mind_ is subdued by
weight of matter, as effectually as fire is smothered by the pressure of
wet sods.
There is something so beneath the dignity of human kind, when compared
with the inferior creation, in submitting thus entirely to _animal_
control, and being only the thing which a full or scanty meal may
determine, that, much as I desire to behold some amelioration of my dear
Paddy’s lot, I hope I shall never live to see his bright imagination
quenched in ale, nor his light heels fettered by the leaden influence of
over-feeding on beef and pork.
But to return to Marsden (which, though sold from the caprice of its
former possessor for £50,000, is said to be worth double that sum),
it seems to me a fit residence for a prince. We have a splendid house,
magnificent grounds, hot-houses, conservatories, and all the long line of
fine and handsome appendages to rank and fortune, for which I have made
the discovery, that I possess no taste, unless upon the quiet scale of
Glenalta, where, by the bye, we have just as good and as pretty things
in the fruit and flower way as any situation can boast. The views from
Marsden are superb, and on a clear day command an immense extent.
We have had crowds of visitors coming to pay their compliments to my
uncle, who has the reputation of being enormously rich; and whether it
be that there is really nothing to interest in the character of our
neighbourhood, or that the heartlessness of an acquaintance formed on the
ground of mere wealth, has nothing congenial with my disposition in the
nature of its cement, I perhaps ought not to determine too hastily; but
though we have seen a great many people, I have not as yet met with any
who has left on my mind a distinct impression. I had often heard that
the English are reserved, and I expected to find them silent. This is not
the case as far as my experience extends; but were I to furnish a motto
for the talkers who have fallen in my way, it should be “_beaucoup parler
et rien dire_.” To be sure we have come at a bad time, for we are in
the midst of an election for the county, which occupies every creature,
rich and poor, to the exclusion of every topic unconnected with itself;
and yet, though I have tried to interest myself in that which engages
the attention of all, down to the little children who have got party
badges for play-things, and have learned to shout for the candidates to
which they severally belong, I have not heard a single syllable in which
a stranger could sympathize--not a word of parliamentary fitness--no
mention of head or heart that could induce one to hope for this one
or the other amongst the combatants. I am sick of the sounds, “weight
of influence, county men, borough interests, large estates, numerous
tenantry,” &c.