into Frederick’s humourous diary, and trying whether I can give you
another scrap out of it in the way of _a vignette_. I told you the
dear fellow diverted himself by scribbling in verse, when he reached
his lodgings at night, rehearsing for his diversion the principal
circumstances that had struck him ludicrously in the course of each day,
while in London. I find a ball at Lady Gosling’s mentioned in the three
following stanzas, which are a good specimen of Frederick’s merry vein:--
There, as each dandy _sidles_ round the room,
So like a crab, both in his claws and motion,
Whose head is a soft sponge to hold perfume,
Whose face a platter, shining with some lotion,
Who is the idol of his own devotion.
And thinks that all must hold the self same creed
On this important point. How little notion
Has he, of all the answers matrons need,
Ere with his favouring fiat they can be agreed.
“Has he got brothers?” “Yes.” “Is he the heir?”
“No, he’s a younger son of Viscount D----,”
“What are his prospects?” “None.” “then I declare
I think it very wrong of Lady E.
To have invited him.” Now, as for me,
I never see a younger brother’s face,
Unless the second’s, should the eldest be
Consumptive,--clearly a _decided_ case,
For then in fact, the second soon must take his place.
Heavens! has she presented him to Jane!
I will not let her dance,--a younger brother
To waltz with Jane!--a beggar to profane
Her hand! no, he may go and seek some other.
I’m sure if Lady E. had been a mother,
She had not dared such impropriety.
Good heavens! to be the cause of such a pother;
It will get wind:--such notoriety,
A breach of every rule of civilized society!
I bid adieu to sarcasm here, and must not take the memory of such beings
as I leave behind me, into the vallies of Piémont. I must purify
myself by bathing in the Pelice, before I presume to penetrate farther
into those enchanting regions of nature and simplicity. What have Mrs.
Hannaper and Lady Campion in common with the glorious Alps? I wish that I
had never seen or heard of them.
This Brighton is not worth a sketch; a meagre strand, a barren flat,
dressed up indeed, and frequented as the seat of majesty. But the palace
here is no better than a _wart_, a mere excrescence without either
grace or beauty, bereft of all that constitutes grandeur, or excites an
idea of tasteful feeling _without_, and _within_ seeming like a mighty
store-house, in which all sorts of splendid things from east, west,
north, and south, are accumulated, as in a great bazaar. I wonder that
the king did not grow weary of its dull monotony long ago. My uncle, dear
soul, is much less well than he was a month ago, and I grow impatient
till we arrive at Turin, in _hope_, (oh, what a desert would this world
be but for its sweet influence), that change of climate may effect some
happy alteration. Mamma has been employing all her rhetoric in vain, to
persuade him into passing on at once to our destination, but he _will_
halt in Paris, that we may gaze upon its wonders. Once more adieu. Wish
us a fair wind and quick passage, dearest Julia, and with love to all
_you_ love, believe me, till death, your affectionate
EMILY DOUGLAS.
LETTER XL.
FREDERICK DOUGLAS TO THE REV. MR. OLIPHANT.
_Paris._
My dear Friend,
The first fruits of my pen in a foreign land, shall be dedicated to you.
Though you have only travelled by the fire-side, there is not any thing
in the route that we are to trace which could afford you the slightest
pleasure from its novelty. The appearance of Dieppe, the country, the
posting, Rouen, the windings of the Seine, the chateaux, what is there
that I have yet seen, which is not as familiar to you in description, as
the map of Dublin? We left Brighton on Monday, and I felt as I took a
farewell view of Beachy-head, an undefined sensation, which I dare say
that thousands have felt before me, compounded of pride, pleasure, and
sorrow. To go _abroad_, though become so common, that the difficulty is
to find any one now who stays at home, has something in the very sound
of the words inspiring to one’s spirits; a vague hope of adventure, a
sort of self-applause at having commenced an enterprise; and a kind
of nameless triumph in touching a foreign shore, and finding oneself
understood when speaking a strange tongue; all these circumstances
elevate the mind to enthusiasm, while the parting pang on quitting
home, country, friends, though but for a limited season, must chequer
the gladness of any heart, in whatever breast it may reside. I wish for
your company always, but I particularly desired to have you at my elbow
when I passed St. Germain en Laye, Rosni, and Malmaison. What a crowd of
recollections rushed upon my mind, as Sully, Louis the Fourteenth, Madame
de Maintenon, James the Second, and Napoleon, pressed upon my thoughts,
and struggled for a precedence, which the different ages in which they
played their parts, arranged in an order very unlike that in which they
rose to my imagination; the wonderful Corsican contriving generally to
jostle out every reminiscence that was not connected with his astonishing
appearance upon earth.
I wanted you also at my side as we approached Paris, the _coup d’œil_
of which as you enter the Place Louis Quinze is superb. In one point of
view the eye takes in, as if in an immense panorama the entire circle of
those objects which at once exalt and degrade man, exhibit his power,
and prove his nothingness. Palaces that have stood for ages, the great
triumphal pillar which records the conquests of that preternatural chief
who frowned the world into fetters at his feet, then that spot where
the martyred Bourbons ascended the scaffold, where that angel Elizabeth
exchanged the horrors of her prison for the crown of glory that awaited
such faith, such love, such heroism as her’s! But whither is my pen
straying? What is there in Paris that you have not at your finger’s ends?
Aye, you could direct me to the very shelf in the Royal Library on which
any book is placed which you desired to consult. You could send me
north, south, east, or west, in the Jardin des Plantes for this, that,
or the other class of _Linnæus_. You could take a wand, and, pointing
to the pictures of the Louvre, give me a history of every subject which
they exhibit, and name the master who executed each. In short, the only
thing which you at this moment in the county of Kerry could not describe
much more accurately to me than I to you is precisely that which no pen
is capable of conveying, namely, the direct impression made upon the
senses by the objects themselves; and this is so exhilarating, that I
seem to myself to tread on air, and to breathe an atmosphere, like that
which Saussure found on the summit of Mont Blanc, almost threatening
delirium by its rarefaction. How striking the difference between history
and fiction in the effects produced upon the mind while we are visiting
the several theatres allotted to the drama of one or the other! All the
charms of association, the powers of memory, the magic of imagination,
are called into vivid action as we take our seat in a chair which had
held Henry the Fourth, or place ourselves at a table on which Sully
wrote; but when we look upon a Prior Park as the seat of Mr. Allworthy,
Tom Jones vanishes from the scene, and we feel almost ashamed when
fictitious personages lay claim to any region of the brain except that
which is inhabited by fancy. “Unreal mockery hence” is the sentiment
which I felt on viewing the scene of Fielding’s tale, and being desired
to mark the wood, the pond, the garden, which are supposed by the author
to have witnessed the early _squabbles_ of Bliffield and the youthful
hero. Is not this an argument for keeping truth and fiction separate?
With few exceptions, I hate historical novels, which, losing the sobriety
of fact, are equally divested of the grace which attaches to invention,
and present all the whalebone and starch of ruffs and farthingales
without being faithful to costume; thus producing a chaos in the memory,
and blending incidents and people till we can no longer trace the line
between substance and shadow.
Emily is the pupil who does you most credit; Charlotte and Fanny are
very intelligent, and see their way so well, that if _Em._ were not of
our party, the others would perhaps astonish; but old and young, we all
flock to your _Pulcheria_, as you have called her from her childhood, to
tell us whatever we want to know. Her memory is so admirable that nothing
seems _to run through_ it, and she has the whole story of every thing
that we see by heart, while, as you know, she cannot imagine herself to
be superior to any one with whom she converses.
I must tell you, that nothing could exceed the admiration which these
amiable, unartificial sisters of mine have excited in Hampshire. How
is it that people can relinquish all right and title to understanding
or good feeling, in their _own_ case, and yet retain enough of each to
admire both when they have met with them in others?
I hope that George Bentley has received all my letters, and that he
may turn in his thoughts the proposal which I made in my last, that he
should meet us at Turin. My uncle talks of remaining here not less than a
fortnight.
Stanley improves upon us every day: he is a very fine young man, and
equally a favourite with us all.
I am on the tip-toe of expectation till the post comes in, which will
decide whether Arthur and his friend Falkland can come here. It will be
delightful if they can join us; and fortunately our hotel is large enough
for us to be all together.
Huzza!--They will be in Paris to-morrow evening.--God bless you, my dear
sir.--Love to Lawrence.
Vale, vale,
Ever your affectionate,
F. DOUGLAS.
LETTER XLI.
EMILY DOUGLAS TO JULIA SANDFORD.
Dearest Julia,
Here we are, in that truly magnificent street, the Rue Royale, to which
we removed immediately after I sent off my last letter. From our hotel
we look upon such a world of _monuments_, that every object which the
windows open upon seems to beckon like a ghost, and invite one to hear
the tales which it could disclose; but you lived so near this spot when
you were in Paris, that you can place yourself in the midst of us,
and accompany your friends in every excursion.--I am bewildered! The
beauty of the buildings, the _foreign air_ of all things around me, the
confusion of tongues, the quantity to be seen and heard on the one hand;
then the anxiety which presses daily on our hearts, and mamma’s evident
apprehension that _the end_ so much dreaded is not far distant, hang a
mill-stone round my neck and chequer every enjoyment; but I have a great
deal to tell you, of one sort or other.
Here I broke off; my letter, only written thus far, has lain by during
upwards of a week. Arthur and his friend are with us; and Time flies
on golden pinions. If happiness be not made for mortals, why have we
sometimes a cup of such sparkling brilliancy presented to our lips only
to make us suffer the fate of Tantalus? I am driven to ask this murmuring
discontented question on looking around, and casting up the sum of such
treasures as I cannot bear to part with.
You know how we love Arthur, who is so improved that I should scarcely
know him; and, oh, what a being is Charles Falkland! It would seem as
if Nature, in one of her happiest moods, had sent him into our planet
just to shew what she was able to perform. I had heard of him, and read
his letters; I therefore expected something unlike the average of human
kind, but I was not prepared for such a creature as I find, who seems to
have been endowed at his birth by all the fairies, who, according to the
ancient legends, used to subscribe “a virtue each, and each a grace,”
to produce perfection! I rejoice for Frederick in such a companion; and
as for the female part of our circle, every enjoyment afforded by the
interminable delights of this surprising Paris, is rendered tenfold
attractive by the society which it is our fortune to have assembled here.
We passed two days at Versailles most agreeably, and have been at St.
Cloud. After all my resolutions to the contrary, I should find it
impossible to avoid dilating on themes so fruitful of reflection, were
my mind not too much taken up at present with thoughts that corrode and
distress, to admit of musing on more abstract subjects.
Hardly is my dear Arthur happy in a reunion with so many who are dear to
him, ere a fatal interruption occurs in a letter from Louisa Howard, and
a second from young Annesley, dated Milan. The first informs him that
my aunt is seriously ill, and so harassed by applications for money,
both on her own and her unfortunate son-in-law’s account, that the most
distressing consequences may be apprehended.
Poor Louisa writes in sad spirits, and entreats her brother to lose as
little time as possible in setting out for Selby. Mr Annesley’s letter
brings the painful tidings that Lord Crayton has had a quarrel with an
officer, to whom he had lost a large sum of money. They fought; Lord C.
killed his antagonist, and then absconded: Lady Crayton accompanied his
flight. They left Milan deeply in debt, and no one is able to trace the
fugitives. At this moment the family are in consultation respecting what
is to be done; and before I close this, you shall hear the result of the
council.
Well, our much loved Arthur, who is greatly depressed, sets out for
Calais to-morrow; and Mr. Falkland, who gives your friend Stanley a seat
in his carriage, has resolved on accompanying us. We have outstayed the
time allotted to Paris, and are to commence our journey in three or four
days.
Adieu, dearest Julia!
Your affectionate
EMILY DOUGLAS.
LETTER XLII.
FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.
_Turin._
My dearest Julia,
Though it is not above a fortnight since I closed my last letter, my
life has latterly become _so full_, that days, happily as they glide
away, seem to occupy years in their passage, when I count the measure of
their duration by the variety of scene, the stimulus of movement, and the
excitement of mind, which I have to remember.
We left Paris on Thursday, and did not enter the Forest of Fontainebleau
till its majestic shades were involved in twilight. No, never while I
have life, can I forget the emotions which this scene, so noble in its
solitude--so melancholy--yet so romantic, excited in my soul! The pensive
drapery which approaching night cast over the venerable woods before
us! the magnificence of the single trees, which stood out every now and
then from the masses of mingled rock and foliage, as if to exhibit all
the pride of individuality! the fantastic shapes of hill and crag--the
silence only broken by a stream which murmured to the right of us as we
moved slowly forwards: and all this, contrasted with the din of that
noisy, vicious, and idle multitude that we had left behind, struck upon
my heart an impression which, while “memory holds her seat,” can never be
obliterated.
I could have lingered for ever in the dreary, yet beautiful Forest of
Fontainebleau, regardless of the present and future, so wrapped was I
in contemplation of the past. Henry the Great rose upon my vision, and
the horns seemed to sound in my ear, that summoned him and his brilliant
cortege to the royal sports, of which this splendid forest was the
favourite scene. The ghost of Bayard, dear to France, and adored by all
whose breasts own a sympathetic spark of those glowing fires kindled by
the spirit of chivalry, glided across my imagination; but the images of
grandeur, and the phantoms of romance, soon vanished from my mind, and
left it fixed in the concluding act of that astonishing drama, over which
the curtain dropped at Fontainebleau, when Napoleon, fallen from his high
estate, resigned the sovereignty of Europe, and sealed the death-warrant
of that power which had subdued the world, and drawn the nations captive
at his chariot wheels. Forgive me, I have broken my resolution, and am
wandering from my purpose; but I promised more than I find it possible to
perform, a lesson you will say, to my presumption. No, to pass through
such scenes as these, as if one were travelling over a turnpike-road in
the west of England, would argue something either above or below human
nature; and, as I profess to be a very mortal of earth, I feel that I may
claim your pardon for my digression. I _could_ tell you of the softest,
stillest, most heavenly moon that ever lent its silver beams to heighten
a prospect and inspire the genius of meditation. I _could_ dilate in
raptures on the landscape round Nemours; I _could_ break from every
restraining bond to expatiate on the transports with which, on arriving
at the brow of the prodigious steep which overhangs Briare, I first
beheld the Loire, rolling through a perfect Elysium: but I will hasten
onwards. _You_ shall not be detained at Moulins, though we staid there
two days. You shall not halt in the lovely Nivernois, though we broke
down, and had thence the happiness of remaining for several hours in one
of the sweetest cottages imaginable, admiring the groups of peasants at
their daily toil, so cheerful--so picturesque.
At Lyons, too, we rested; visited “Les Etroits,” though not for the
sake of that bad man, Rousseau; and thence pursued our way. That odious
Charles Emanuel, the tyrant of this region, haunted me as we passed
through Savoy. It is true that I would fain stand still with you for a
moment on Mont Cenis, and make you partake of my enthusiasm as I gazed
from the plain of St. Nicholas; but it must not be; “Hark forward!” must
be our motto. There! I have brought you safely into Turin, and you have
not yawned over a single syllable of controversy respecting the station
from which Hannibal encouraged his army by a sight of the Italian plains,
nor gone to sleep over a single calculation upon the impossibility of
traversing the Alps with a numerous host of elephants. My business is not
with the truth or falsehood of Livy’s descriptions at present, though
he was one of our travelling companions; but as I said before, you have
stepped out of your _traineau_, and are with whole bones deposited in a
large commodious dwelling in one of the finest streets of the capital of
Piémont.
Thank Heaven, my beloved mother, and her precious charge, have surmounted
the difficulties of our journey with far less of inconvenience than
I could have anticipated. My uncle suffers no pain, but his languor
increases with increasing weakness. The wonderful blessings of the
Almighty warm my heart to unspeakable gratitude; and when I consider
the chain of circumstances attending on the return of this once dreaded
relation to his own country, I cannot call them less than providential.
I told you not long ago, how happy he is in the removal of those doubts
which harassed his mind; and no sooner have Mr. Otway and mamma finished
this work, and arrived at a “consummation so devoutly to have been wished
for,” than the saint-like voice and countenance of Alfred Stanley “take
up the wondrous tale,” and truth that comes “mended from his tongue,”
by the holy sincerity in which it is uttered, pours oil and honey over
the wounds so newly cicatrized, and, with a sacred unction, prepares
our dear invalid for his celestial rest. Of Falkland, like the Alps,
I must not speak, lest I should say too much. His society is the best
consolation which could be offered in the bereavement of Arthur, and we
literally _devour_ this magic scenery together, with our eyes and hearts.
The beauties of nature are not like those of art, addressed only to the
outward sense. They captivate the affections, and I always find that
they point my mind to Heaven, there to glorify that creative wisdom and
beneficence, which saw it good thus to adorn the earth. We are engaged
in planning various schemes for seeing the surrounding country, and
only wait to hear from Arthur, and learn whether we have a chance of his
returning, and accompanying us in the excursion, to make arrangements
for our darling project of visiting the vallies of the Waldenses. Adieu,
dearest Julia,
Your ever after,
EMILY DOUGLAS.
LETTER XLIII.
ARTHUR HOWARD TO FREDERICK DOUGLAS.
_Selby._
My dear Frederick,