agreeable and animating amusement. The ladies glided like silver eels,
and the gentlemen groped about the room as if their eyes were shut, so
that absolutely, if a stranger had been introduced, who never saw a
modern ball-room before, he might have been excused for imagining that
the dancers were playing blind man’s buff, and afraid of knocking their
heads against the panels, if they moved their bodies without the utmost
circumspection. In short, a child of nature would wonder why people
should take the trouble of submitting their feet to a sort of _rhythm_
just enough to shackle their freedom, and prevent the luxury of perfect
inanition. Well, thought I to myself, this society is _fashionable_.
These men and women move in what is called the first circle. The former
will, many of them, become our Members of Parliament; senators, by whose
collective wisdom we are to be directed. These asses in human form, the
most idle, ignorant, effeminate animals possible to conceive, are to
be husbands, fathers, landlords, masters! It is a melancholy prospect,
and in looking to my own sex, on thoughts of which my mind from infancy
has dwelt with pride and pleasure, as the sweet depository of religion,
morals, fond affections, taste and talents softened down to social
converse, and illuminating the domestic sphere, oh, what a contrast meets
my eye! what will these creatures be when all that art can do to whiten
the poor sepulchre shall fail, and wrinkles insurmountable _will_ raise
their fearful lines of circumvalation round the once bright orbs? when
rouge itself, the last faithful handmaid of departing beauty, no longer
sticks to the haggard cheek, no longer lights up the extinguished eye;
when the ethereal form of finished symmetry is either swelled to the
mountain size of those round matrons who in vain would try to grasp the
pedal harp which shuns the corpulent embrace, or dwindled to the bony
frame which only serves for draperies to be hung upon? What will be the
fate of these hapless wrecks of vanished youth, when even cards, the
ultimate resource of age, the last strong hold of veteran nothingness,
shall cease to charm? Oh, my Julia, how will these miserable beings
tremble, as the grave yawns beneath their feet! Eternity awaits all
these butterflies, whether male or female; and I shudder, as imagination
presents the grisly group of coxcombs, and of belles, stripped of their
paint and patches, wigs, and waltzes, and standing to receive the final
sentence at an Almighty tribunal.
I was interrupted in my _sermon_ by a call to the library. It was to meet
our new chaplain, for whom my uncle promised to provide, when he procured
the appointment of Mr. Oliphant to the parish of Glenalta; and what
words can describe our joy at finding in this young man, no other than
your neighbour and intimate friend, Alfred Stanley. A person with whom
we all feel so well acquainted, and have such reason, through your dear
aunt’s eloquent sketches of his character, to admire and value without
having ever seen him till now.
Mamma, you know of old, loves to play us a little trick sometimes; and
in the present instance I find that all the Checkley family have been
in league with her to surprise us. Judge then of our astonishment at
receiving your packet by Mr. Stanley, whose groom returns to-morrow into
Derbyshire, and shall take this _volume_ to you.
A few days now will see us _en route_. I cannot hope to send you more
than a _line_ till I reach Paris.
Adieu, my dearest Julia; I would that we had done with towns, and were
safely arrived in that beautiful region where the mighty “Alps have
reared a throne” worthy of those skies which gild their everlasting
snows with refulgent glory.
A thousand loves attend you all.
Ever your affectionate,
EMILY DOUGLAS.
LETTER XXXVII.
REV. MR. OLIPHANT TO MR. OTWAY.
To you, my dear friend, I address myself upon the present occasion,
though gratitude has long ere this, dictated a return of my best
acknowledgments to Mrs. Douglas, for _two_ such letters as deserve
indeed my heart-felt thanks. But I have been painfully occupied, and I
leave to your discretion the time and method of explaining to my dear
friend, the cause of my silence, which is no other than the death of our
worthy and much lamented neighbour Mr. Bentley, an event, intelligence
of which, I well know, will not be heard at Marsden with indifference.
A fortnight ago he returned, as usual, from his ride, accompanied by
George, and immediately on entering the house, fell into a sort of
fit, which appeared to result from determination of blood towards the
head. George sent directly for me, and we had Mr. Pigot immediately from
Tralee, who acted with judgment, and ere the surgeon and physician, for
whom we sent to Dublin, had reached Mount Prospect, our poor friend had
recovered his sensibility. The devotion of George to his uncle could
not be exceeded, and it was so purely disinterested, that the wealth of
Potosi would have weighed but as a feather in the balance, against the
re-establishment of Mr. Bentley’s health. The medical people, however,
saw from the first, that his situation was precarious, of which he was
conscious from the beginning himself. With Christian courage, he began
to prepare for the awful change which he perceived to be approaching,
and truly died the death of the righteous. Yesterday evening he breathed
his last in the arms of his nephew. I never left him, except for the
necessary purposes of refreshment, from the time of his first seizure,
and have the happiness of believing that my presence afforded him
comfort. As the short period of his indisposition spared him any great
exhaustion of strength, he spoke without uneasiness, and in the most
collected manner adverted to the nature of his hopes. Nothing could be
more deeply interesting than his discourse, during the few latter hours
which preceded the closing scene.
“Oliphant,” said he, “I have never in my life, been an unbeliever; but
how small is the difference between infidelity, and a mere nominal
Christianity: a meagre religion of form and habit! Nay, of the two, is
there not a better chance, that the avowed scoffer, terrified by the
abyss which lies before him, may turn from the evil of his ways, than
the self-satisfied moralist, who depends on his miserable, his imperfect
works, for eternal salvation? My friend, I was in the latter predicament.
I received a commonplace Church of England education, said my prayers
mechanically, went to church, gave alms, abstained from travelling on
Sundays; and was for years of my life, so entirely persuaded, that as a
Christian character, I stood on a high pedestal, removed from the vulgar
level of mankind, that the Pharisee’s words, though not perhaps actually
expressed by my lips, were never far from my heart; and, ‘Lord, I thank
Thee, that I am not as other men,’ was a sentiment continually present to
me, whenever I thought upon serious subjects. Oh, how far from God was I
in those days, when I thought myself so near Him!”
Here he paused, and after the interval of a few minutes, resumed the
train of solemn reflection upon which he had entered.
“Yes,” added he, “blessed be Heaven, such vain-glorious delusions are far
from me now, and I am not ashamed to say, that I owe the change to this
young man.”
Here poor George was completely overwhelmed. He pressed his uncle’s hand
to his lips, and shed a torrent of tears.
“George,” continued the dying man, “first taught me the religion of the
heart. Of what avail are the cold conclusions of reason? they teach
not humility, they do not subdue the passions, they do not improve the
temper, nor allay one demoniac ebullition of malice or revenge. My
practice has been wretchedly vacillating. I have been continually led
away from the right way; but it is something to know this, and to put no
confidence in aught but the redeeming mercy of Him who suffered in our
mortal form, for guilty man, and died upon the cross to save our souls
alive.”
My poor friend told me that his worldly affairs were all settled.
“My temporal house,” said he, “has been set in order. May the heavenly
mansions be opened to receive me!”
From time to time, he held this kind of language, placidly awaiting
the awful mandate. The bursting of a blood vessel in the temple is not
attended by much pain, and he suffered none that was not incident to
the remedies employed. On Tuesday he gave me a key, and told me where
I should find all his papers regularly labelled, adding, “George’s
character is not one of shew. He will be sorry for me in the bottom
of his heart: give him assistance now, and he will not need it long.
Religion has taken fast hold upon him, and her consolations will quickly
restore the equilibrium of his spirits. He will never _forget_, but he
will soon cease to _grieve_.”
After so saying, he fell into a tranquil slumber, and spoke no more,
except to ask for certain portions of the sacred volume. He repeated the
15th chapter of St. John with fervour; desired us to read the 53d of
Isaiah, the 23d Psalm, and other favourite parts of scripture. A restless
night proclaimed the approach of death, and the last afternoon witnessed
his peaceful exit. He left his affectionate regards for all of you, and
has bequeathed, he told me, some little memorial of respectful esteem to
each individual at Glenalta and Lisfarne.
Thus has passed away our kind-hearted neighbour Roger Bentley, and his
loss would be too sad to dwell upon, if his excellent nephew were not
heir to his uncle’s virtues, as well as property. No change will be
felt, I venture to assert, by any one who depended on the bounty of our
departed friend. Poor George is absorbed in silent sorrow; he neither
weeps nor talks, but the chalky paleness of his countenance, is a
faithful index to what passes within. He courts solitude, and wishes no
other companionship than his Bible. When the last ceremony is performed,
I shall write to my dear friend, Mrs. Douglas, and in the mean time, with
the most affectionate remembrances to her, the General, and _my pupils_,
believe me, my dear sir,
Yours most sincerely,
J. OLIPHANT.
LETTER XXXVIII.
FROM EDWARD OTWAY, ESQ. TO REV. MR. OLIPHANT.
My dear Oliphant,
I cannot describe the shock which your intelligence imparted. It was but
a week before that day, on which his final summons was issued, that I
received a letter from my valued and lamented friend, full of project
and futurity; warm with friendship, and seasoned with that peculiar and
pungent humour which rendered him so singularly entertaining and lively
a companion. _Sic transit gloria mundi!_ In middle age, rich, healthy,
divested of care, and happy in the society of that good young man, who
would have thought the end so near? Who could have anticipated this
sudden wreck of human hope? Such is life! And does not such a tragedy,
as it often presents, call upon the actors in the drama for serious
thoughts of what may follow? I will not say that
“We could have better spared a better man,”
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.