dressed in uniform, rode in the most sportsman-like manner, clearing
gates, banks, and ditches. I cannot dwell upon the disgraceful theme.
Alas! is learning decried? Are women ridiculed for improving their
minds, and gaining useful knowledge, while such a surrender of every
characteristic that distinguishes the feminine from the masculine gender,
is tolerated and encouraged? I feel a _nausea_ when I hear the name of
Hannaper; but I have not done with her yet. In a day or two after our
meeting, she came to see us, having duly ascertained that my uncle would
not give his interest to either party at the approaching election; and
certainly nothing can be more appropriate than the name by which she is
called in the country. “_Jack Hannaper_,” exactly prepares one for the
abrupt masculine unceremonious _assault_ which she makes on the people
at whose houses she visits. Mamma’s gentle and retiring manner, the
gravity of her dress, and total absence of interest in the gossip of
the neighbourhood, induced the Dame of Parham Hall, to address herself
chiefly to my uncle, whom she overpowered with her volubility. After
having talked of her dogs which have got the distemper, of a horse which
she had shot, _perhaps_ with her own hand, because it had the glanders,
she proceeded, and with all the technicality of the hustings, proclaimed
the state of the poll, her intention of appearing on a favourite charger
at the head of her _plumpers_, and giving a _coup de grace_ to the enemy.
Perceiving, it may be, from the languid appearance of my dear uncle,
that he was fatigued by this farrago of nonsense, Mrs. Hannaper suddenly
turned to me, and said, “Oh, but my dear Miss Douglas, you really had a
great loss in not coming to Parham the other day. We had very good fun I
assure you, and I dare say you will be glad to hear that your brother was
much admired. He rides particularly well, and no centaur ever sat a horse
more firmly. Upon my word he is a very handsome fine young fellow, and
I have no doubt will make a figure yet. I shall be always happy to see
him at Parham Hall.” Frederick’s praises would go far to put me in good
humour with any medium through which they met my ear; but these fell upon
it in sounds so coarse, and unaccustomed, that I felt they were a sort
of profanation, and wished that my brother had never joined the unrefined
society of this _unfeminine female_. My cheeks glowed, but not with
pleasure. It was a fevered flush. I longed for Mrs. Hannaper’s departure,
and did not know how to answer her; but she did not leave me many seconds
in a state of embarrassment on Frederick’s account. All minor vexation
was presently merged in the shame which I felt on my _own_, when this
“she wolf with unrelenting fangs,” seized my arm, and, starting with real
or affected recollection, exclaimed, “Well, but only fancy my omitting to
tell you before, that Sir Archibald Johnson is thinking of you for his
son, who makes no kind of objection, and if your fortune can liberate
the estate from some thousands of embarrassment, it will be quite a nice
hit. Lady Johnson of Norbury Park will not sound badly. The settlements
and _pin money_ will be liberal I dare say, and any assistance which
my work-people in London can give, I shall be vastly happy, I assure
you, to offer. You know that you need not have much at present: a few
things made by the first hands will do, till you go to town yourself,
and choose your own jewels, and select your own favourite colours. I am
sure that Sir Archibald will be anxious to hasten matters, for I know at
this moment, that a sum of ten thousand is called in by Mr. Fletcher,
who is going to marry one of his girls famously to that madcap, Colonel
Anstruther, who will be as rich as a jew bye and bye. To be sure he is
a sad _roué_ at present, but either he will sow his wild oats or run a
muck. If the latter, he will shoot himself, or end his days in the Fleet;
but people must not look forward; if we did, what a dull sort of thing
you know it would be. I doat on the little Scotch song, which says ‘the
present moment is our ain, the next we never saw;’ how pretty!”
By this time I was burning indeed: shame, indignation, and surprise, were
so strongly excited, that, like contrary forces, they had the effect of
paralyzing all movement. I sat like a fool, totally unable to speak; and
how long I should have been doomed to listen to a strain so uncouth,
the more humiliating, because uttered in the presence of mamma and my
uncle, I know not, if Mr. Bolton had not been announced in this crisis,
when Mrs. Hannaper jumped up, called her niece, who had been talking to
Charlotte in the music-room adjoining, and, hastily nodding to me, shook
my hand with an air of _intelligence_, saying, “I hate old Bolton, so
must take fresh ground; well, we will talk over matters when next we
meet, and _perhaps_ the neighbourhood may be enlivened by more than _one_
wedding ere long.” Miss Ormsby laughed so loud as this sally burst upon
her ear, that I was absolutely confounded. “Good morrow” being hurried
over, the same opening of the door served to usher in the old gentleman,
to whose _rescue_ I had been once before indebted, and to float away
the most intolerable specimen of inelegance and indelicacy that I ever
met with in the form of woman. The dear little Mr. Bolton was received
with rapture. He seemed like a guardian spirit, and I believe that he
saw how truly he was welcome to me, as in the most good-humoured and
playful manner possible, he said, “Oh, do you know I have had a great
escape. Mrs. Hannaper looked as if she could have eaten me up; and only
that your hall is so spacious, I question whether I could have avoided a
_bite_ at least. Miss Douglas, I take it into my head that this amazonian
_chieftainess_ is not a greater favourite of yours than she is of mine.”
I confessed that she would not be my _model_, and Mr. Bolton continued,
“But you and I shall have ample revenge, if I may depend on a little bit
of _backstairs_ intelligence which has reached me through my own man.
“Now, you must not set me down as an old gossip because I tell you so,
and suppose that I am always employed in running to and fro, to pick
up scandal; but really poetic justice requires that such a creature
as Mrs. Hannaper should receive _some_ check, and be reminded of her
age, before she is called to her great account. So far therefore, from
thinking myself ill-natured at _chuckling_ in the anticipation of a
disappointment, which I have good reason to believe is suspended by a
hair over her head, I am bound as a Christian to rejoice in any thing
that may awaken her to a sense of her folly, and drive her to more
serious thoughts than those which possess her idle brain.”
Much as I dislike Mrs. Hannaper, there was something so repugnant to my
feelings of humanity in suffering a fellow-creature to encounter any
ill, which timely notice might prevent, that I expostulated with Mr.
Bolton, and implored him to apprize the old lady of his apprehensions,
that so the catastrophe, however it might threaten, should be averted.
Mr. Bolton was silent for a moment, while he fixed his eyes intently upon
me, then catching my hand affectionately, he pressed it like a friend of
the “olden time,” and with a tear starting to his eye, said, “God bless
you child! my heart opens to the voice of nature, and it has taken me
by surprise to-day, for her’s is a language which I seldom hear.” Oh,
Julia, when such a commonplace sentiment as that which I had expressed,
in wishing to spare a fellow-creature pain, had power to astonish
by its novelty, and delight for its moral virtue, what a comment is
furnished by such an anecdote as this upon modern society. If this be
the world (and people are the same I suppose, whether rolling through the
streets of London, or over the roads in Hampshire), defend me from its
attractions. I feel like the country mouse longing for my grey peas and
peaceful Glenalta; but the lovely Alps will refresh my eyes with images
of God’s creation, and I shall soon bid farewell to these disgusting
scenes of artificial life.
Mr. Bolton, after the little episode which I have described, returned
to the merry mood, and rubbing his hands in an ecstacy, said, “No, no,
depend upon it I will be ‘mute as a coach-horse.’ You shall none of
you know a word of the under-plot which is weaving. I will not be a
tell-tale. Let all things take their course.”
This dear little man is the soul of pleasantry, and seems to have an
excellent heart, though bound up in a quaint outside. He is _very_
English, and has a _snug_ facetiousness of manner irresistibly diverting.
I hope that I may be fortunate enough to meet him often in this
neighbourhood, for he has both tact and feeling; and while his uncommon
drollery amuses, his keen observation protects. He seems to delight in
young people, and to understand _us_. My uncle enjoys his company, and
they had a great deal of conversation, after which he took his leave,
entreating that we should not fail to meet him at Lady Campion’s, to
whose house we were invited for the following morning, to a trial of
skill in archery. The time for these revels is not yet come; but as
several families are prevented this year, I am told, from being in town,
through one cause or other, they are doing the best they can to keep up
the ball of pleasure, and _rehearse_ for a more full and fashionable
season. Mr. Bolton was _my_ allurement, and the hope of seeing him,
emboldened me to go under the wing of Mr. Otway, accompanied by Charlotte
and Frederick.
Lady Campion and her daughters are come home within the last month, from
Italy. They are a lovely group. Mother and daughters beautiful, and
dressed in the same way, like sisters, it was not easy to distinguish the
parent from the offspring. I do not like this. Surely the most tender
love may subsist without this confusion of relationships. In the deep
attachment which binds my heart to the precious author of my being, how
sorry I should be even for a moment, to forget that she is my _mother_.
But though not yet twenty, I feel as if I were fourscore, when I look
around me. Nothing could be prettier than the little lawn on which we
marshalled to see the archers. The graceful figures, the skill with
which they managed the bow, the beauty of the fair competitors, clad in
a livery of “Lincoln green,” the exquisite flowers which perfumed the
amphitheatre of their sports, altogether charmed Charlotte and me. We
were asked to join the lists, but as we could truly plead ignorance of
the art, we gladly dropped back upon a fringe of the finest rhododendrons
I ever beheld, lined by a bank of arbutus, to witness the combat. There
were from forty to fifty spectators, amongst whom were only two, besides
Mr. Bolton, whom I ever desire to see again. These were a Mrs. and Miss
Fraser, Scotch people, a mother and daughter, very unlike our pretty
hostess, who, to my amazement, I found was a rival candidate for the
prize with her _children_; and, alas, _can_ you believe it! is jealous
of a Lord Thornborough’s attentions to the elder of them. This young
and vapid peer was of our party; the most finnikin object that you can
imagine. He had called one day at Marsden, so that I did not see him for
the _first_ time at Lady Campion’s; and when he visited my uncle, Fanny,
whose _fresh naïveté_ supplies a constant source of amusement to us,
said, “Well, if in one of my walks I met Lord Thornborough and his friend
Mr. Freeman (a young man of fashion who has accompanied him to this
country), I am sure that I could not help offering them my assistance
were there any difficulty to be got over; for certainly those young men
could not help themselves over a hedge, ditch, or stile.”
I _must_ give you a sketch of this London pair. They have both such
heads for size, from the abundance of curled hair and whiskers that
disfigure them, that if their bodies were concealed you would expect
to see giants, judging by the proportion of limb that would suit such
prodigious _capitals_. On the contrary, however, they are both rather
diminutive than tall; their hands are not larger than a young lady’s, and
as white as alabaster. Add to this appearance, rings, pins, chains, &c.,
and judge whether Fanny was very wide of the mark, when, with the rosy
glow of sixteen, “redolent of life and spring,” her humanity would prompt
the offer of her aid to creatures so pale, so thin, so cadaverous, that
Mr. Bolton very truly said, that “they looked like weavers just out of
an hospital.” But I have not done. How _can_ I believe the things that
I hear? Two pink spots, which alone distinguished Lord Thornborough’s
face from that of a corpse, and which I thought indicated consumption,
are, Mr. Bolton declares, positively rouge! I blush as I write the word!
But to return to the archery.--The gentlemen were not so successful as
the ladies: Miss Campion sped her arrow right through the centre of the
target, and claimed a victory, which her mother, who came within half an
inch of the bull’s eye, refused to admit, demanding to be queen herself,
and awarding only the second prize to her daughter. An altercation
ensued, and the angry looks, the unkind taunts which I witnessed, live
still in my memory.
Matters grew so serious, that Mr. Otway proposed lots: Lady Campion drew
the longest, and darting a look of fire at her rival, was crowned by
Lord Thornborough, whom she in turn _voted_ to be winner in the teeth
of justice and truth; and, after having reciprocally distinguished him
by a wreath of Fame, caught him by the hand, and triumphantly led the
way towards a fine Grecian temple in the grounds, where a magnificent
collation was prepared, and where the _pseudo_ king and queen occupied a
throne of scarlet and gold, decorated with laurels; while the rightful
monarchs had not even the satisfaction of _mingling_ their complaints,
as the _real_ hero was a sweet young midshipman, son to Mrs. Fraser, who
laughed heartily at being _choused_, as he said, out of his conquest, and
who seemed of much too noble a stamp to kneel at the feet of a haughty
_regina_, who, though herself mortified, treated him with _sovereign_
contempt.
While we were seated at a table covered with refreshments, one of the
Misses Campion asked me, so suddenly, the ridiculous question, “Have you
been out yet?” that though I have heard that it is the _technical_ phrase
for being presented in the world, the more familiar meaning occurred
to my mind, and, like an idiot, I answered, that I should think a walk
round the grounds very pleasant. A loud and rude burst of laughter drew
the attention of the company upon me, and would have overwhelmed me with
confusion, if Mr. Bolton, who was sitting between me and my tormentor,
had not, with the celerity of an arrow, upset a flask of Champagne into
the lap of the fair follower of Diana, which produced such a prompt
metamorphosis, as “turned the green one red” in an instant, and the laugh
against her from me. The thing was done so adroitly, that it appeared
accidental, and as no one was more busy than the _perpetrator_ in
offering the most gallant commiseration, I never knew till two days after
that I was thus indebted in a third instance to my faithful knight.
We adjourned presently to a music-room, where harp and piano-forte,
with all “means and appliances to boot,” challenged competition in a
new form; and here another sad scene was exhibited. A charming Italian
duet was asked for by Lord Thornborough, and Miss Campion, who was in
the habit of singing the second, was called very authoritively by her
mother to take her part: she was also to accompany on the piano-forte.
With a cheerful alacrity which delighted me, as evincing, I thought, a
sweet forgiving temper, she took her seat at the instrument; but the
harmony was soon disturbed, for she had no sooner _landed_ her mother
in a solo recitative, which the latter was singing to admiration, than,
jumping up, overturning the music-desk, and rushing towards a window, she
exclaimed, “Look at the eagle!” The company followed; and a crow, which
had crossed the house, and was picking up worms in the lawn, was the only
winged animal that presented itself to view. Peals of unmeaning laughter
succeeded. Lady Campion was outrageous, and could scarcely preserve an
appearance of decency; but as I felt how very irritating her daughter
_intended_ to be, I begged Mrs. and Miss Fraser to come and make a little
party at her side. We entreated her to excuse Miss Campion’s mistake, and
to indulge us with a repetition of the delightful air in which she had
been interrupted.
After much disquietude, matters were arranged once more, and the solo was
achieved; but in the midst of the concluding movement, which was very
brilliant, and calculated to make a striking impression in the winding
up, Miss Campion uttered a piercing shriek, the effect of which was
ludicrous in the extreme, mingling as it did with the full harmony, and
vociferated, “a bee, a bee!” and a bee there certainly _was_, crawling up
the leg of the piano-forte, so weak and so drowsy after the cold weather,
that the last of its _intentions_, poor thing, seemed to be to inflict
the slightest injury on any one. Frederick put the obnoxious insect out
of the window, but Lady Campion was now inexorable: she lost all control
over looks and manner, which seemed to affect every one, except the
person to whom they were directed; and, quite shocked by the scene, I
requested that we might take our departure, which we did without delay,
leaving such a domestic _broil_ as I had then witnessed for the first
time, to cool as it might.
Lord Thornborough handed me to the carriage, and with an unfeeling “Hah!
hah! hah!” said, Miss Douglas, “you have come in for a thunder-storm
to-day. Her ladyship was rather sublime; don’t you think so?” I was too
much disgusted to reply, and, contenting myself with a passing bow, was
happy to find myself on the high road to Marsden.
Am I sure that my senses do not deceive me, and that such things are?
Is the sacred relationship of parent and child _out of fashion_? And is
it possible, that while a daughter forgets the respect due to a mother,
mothers have forgotten to respect themselves? I am not surprised now,
when I hear Mr. Otway and Mr. Bolton speak of the present _times_, and
compare them with the period immediately preceding the Revolution in
France. I heard them agree a day or two ago in drawing the parallel
with mournful fidelity, and finding in the frightful demoralization of
continental manners, which is making, they said, rapid progress in these
countries, but too certain a prognostic of the fate that will follow, if
the tide be not arrested, of which there seems but little hope.
If I had staid at home I should never have known these things; and
however one may detest, I do not feel that we can become familiar with
what is wrong, without being the worse for it.
In two days after Lady Campion’s _popping-jay_, we were forced by my
uncle to attend an evening party at Lady Neville’s. It is not more than
two months since she has lost a beautiful and accomplished daughter, who
died of decline. If _my_ beloved mother had hung over the dying couch
of a child, would _she_----but I must curb myself, and _relate_ facts,
not _comment_ upon them, or I shall never have done. Till ten o’clock
at night we did not go to Neville Court, though the cards particularly
notified “an early party;” and when we reached that splendid mansion,
we found an immense assemblage of the _beau monde_, greater than it was
possible to suppose could be mustered at such a distance from London
which is the focus of all fashionable rays, a few of which only are
scattered and refracted by various accidents in certain individual
families, as cracks in a glass will disturb the transmission of the sun’s
beams. _Here_ was another _lie direct_, for the cards also informed
us, that the party was to be a “_small_” one. Why this perversion of
language? I cannot fathom it. If some lurking remnant of compunctious
feeling crossed the heart of Lady Neville; and in the words “small” and
“early” she discovered a slight palliation of the offence against decency
(for I will not profane the sweet idea of maternal love by using its
language in _such_ company), which she had determined on committing,
I should perceive the reason of the strange deception of which I am
speaking, but all was gaiety and glitter. Lady Neville and her daughters
sparkled with diamonds arranged upon a sort of gossamer drapery, so
light, so graceful, so artificially adjusted, fashionable and becoming,
that mourning was the last sentiment which such paraphernalia could
excite or indicate. Their dress told lies as well as their cards.
The house at Neville Court is superb, and as I wandered from room to
room with the amiable Frasers and my own Charlotte, I felt the luxury of
kindred sentiment in a _new world_, and gave free course to thoughts that
were little in unison with the passing scene. I fancied this magnificent
ball-room, with its chandeliers, its lustres, and chalked floor, two
short months ago, _perhaps_, the theatre of _another_ sort of assembly. I
marked the spot where, in imagination, I could descry the lonely tressels
supporting their sad and youthful burthen----that opening flower untimely
torn from its stalk, and snatched from the warm hopes of unfolding
spring. I beheld the mutes, and saw the tables spread with funeral fare;
the “cold baked meats” of death; the sable hangings; the hirelings of
office, marshalling their dismal train, at least with _features screwed_
to the occasion, and _voices_ subdued to whisper. With the most painful
feelings I asked within myself, “must we fly from the fondest ties of
nature, to seek for sorrow in ‘those chambers of imagery supplied from
the undertaker’s mercenary taste;’ and fail to find it enshrined within
the breast of a mother or a sister?” My cheek _curdled_, and my breathing
became oppressed, while these melancholy phantoms glided past my mental
vision, and like spectres mingled in the dance. The brilliant ball-room
seemed to me no other than Holbein’s “dance of Death;” and when I was
roused from my reverie by, “Miss Douglas, will you _daunce_?” let slip,
as if from the mouth of one just dropping asleep, whose muscles had
become too flaccid to retain the words within its lips any longer, I
started as if I had been shot by one of Lady Campion’s arrows, and turned
round upon--Mr. Johnson. Though I delight in dancing, there was too
much lead at my heart to allow of merriment in my feet at this moment;
and I therefore instinctively declined, and for a time got rid of the
consummate puppyism of this disagreeable young man.
To my utter astonishment I was asked to join in the next quadrille by
Lord Thornborough, whose politeness I should not have supposed from
any thing else I had witnessed, could have induced the remembrance of
a country lass, and a stranger (though the latter is the highest claim
to attention in my dear Ireland), amidst such dazzling beauty and
attraction as solicited his regards. You see I did him injustice, and am
ready to make the _amende honorable_; but as I had refused Mr. Johnson,
I could not dance with any one else, and though I did not regret this
circumstance from any admiration of _milord_, I confess to having found
it difficult to sit still, when the gloomy contemplations with which the
evening commenced, began to yield to the inspiring influence of lively
music. I had, however, the great pleasure of seeing Charlotte enjoying
a gratification which was denied to me; and, would you believe it, she
had scarcely begun to move, when a crowd was collected to see her dance.
Her figure is so like what one imagines of a Sylph, and her ear is so
perfect, that to admire her performance in a quadrille, would appear
nothing more than the necessary routine of cause and effect, if I had not
believed the group by which we were surrounded quite too artificial in
its construction to leave a corner for nature to slide in at. However, so
it was, that I heard several of the gentlemen express their approbation
in terms more energetic than I should have thought such indolent looking
people likely to employ on any occasion, _even_ of the moment; and dear
unconscious Charlotte seemed for a time _Reine de la fête_.
“Yes,” said Mr. Bolton, who came to sit by me for a little while,
“_there_ is the triumph of truth and native grace over all the
contrivances of fashion. There is your sister, who has never seen London
or Paris, bearing away the palm from all those painted dolls who are
swinging their persons round the room.”
Quadrilles ended, how shall I express my feelings at seeing Lady Campion
and Lord Thornborough get up to waltz! Timanthes, a painter of ancient
times, drew a veil over the face of a father whose grief he felt unequal
to pourtray. I must borrow his device, and let a curtain fall over an
exhibition which I wish obliterated from my memory. I found a few lines
by Frederick, which he wrote in London, after returning from a ball,
part of the concluding stanza of which shall finish my descant upon this
distasteful theme:
“But there is something in a waltz which wears
Off all the lovely bloom of virgin grace,
When round Belinda’s form a stranger dares
Fling the unhallowed arm in bold embrace,
And rudely gazes on her beauteous face.”