[Illustration: Front Cover]
BLUE-STOCKING HALL.
J. B. 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. II.
LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1827.
BLUE-STOCKING HALL.
LETTER XII.
MR. OTWAY TO GENERAL DOUGLAS.
[In point of _time_, this letter should not appear till later in the
series; but as it is an answer to the preceding, the Editor judged it
expedient to insert it in this place.]
My dear General, _Lisfarne_.
It gave me sincere pleasure to see your hand-writing once more; and if
I had required any thing beyond the gratification of an assurance that
you had not forgotten your old friend, to put me in good humour, the
commission which you have given me would secure all the benevolence
of which I am possessed in excusing your long silence. Most readily
do I accept the trust which you confide in me, and happy shall I be
if my exertions facilitate the event of your return to your native
land, there to enjoy the _otium cum dignitate_ to which every man
naturally aspires who has passed the best of his days in toiling for
and realizing an honorable independence.
It is one of the sophisms of this paradoxical age in which we live, to
prove that the absentee commits no crime against either patriotism,
or political economy; but I rejoice that you have not fallen into the
snare, and are coming to repose your mind, and spend your money, where
every honest man ought to bring himself to anchor; namely, in his own
country, and amongst his own people. By a lucky coincidence there is
a splendid mansion with highly finished grounds and plantations, just
offered for sale in Hampshire; and if I am fortunate enough to conclude
a bargain for the sum which I have offered in your name, I shall think
myself no ordinary diplomatist. The present possessor, Sir Reginald
Barnes, is like yourself, a _nabob_, but after rendering his demesne
at Marsden a fit residence for a prince, he is grown weary of it, and
is so anxious to dispose of the whole as it stands, that I am not
without hope of procuring all you want at a single stroke.
This letter shall be sent through Ingoldsby, to catch you at the Cape,
and of my farther negociation with Mr. Snubb, Sir Reginald's agent, you
shall have due notice. I know the place for which I am in treaty, and
therefore, if I succeed, my _trouble_ will be as _zero_. If not, I must
look elsewhere, and you shall have reports of progress.
With respect to your relations, I have the pleasure to give you
satisfactory intelligence. Your eldest brother, poor man, was
rapidly advancing towards "that bourne from which no traveller
returns," when Mr. Howard died and left him a fine estate, though
very heavily burthened, in Buckinghamshire, together with his house
in Grosvenor-square, plate, books, etcætera. To substitute the name
of Howard for that of Douglas was all the qualification required to
enable the family to take possession, and this was soon arranged.
Your brother was taken to his grave without ever having visited any
part of his new property, of which young Arthur is the heir, and a
very fine youth he is: he will soon be of age, and is now on a visit
in this neighbourhood to his aunt, Mrs. Henry Douglas, who lives at a
sweet spot which you may remember that I purchased for my invaluable
friend. A legacy of £20,000 left to your sister-in-law, by her great
aunt, old Mrs. Norton, has enabled that first of women and mothers to
reside at Glenalta, where she lives adored by her children, and by all
who surround her dwelling. I have the happiness to enjoy the beloved
society which her family affords, from which I am not more than half
a mile distant, and here I shall hope to see you, ere long, added to
the circle. Of Mrs. Howard and her daughters I only know by report:
they live _in_ the world, and I _out_ of it; but of Caroline and her
children I can venture to affirm, that had independence (beyond which
their wishes never appear to extend) been withheld by Providence, you
would never have known them in the character of needy suppliants, or
cringing sycophants. They are as much above any people with whom I am
acquainted in every noble principle of heart, as they excel all others
that I have met with in their powers of pleasing. Your nephew is likely
to make a distinguished figure at the University, and is as amiable as
he is clever.
There are three girls, all pretty and accomplished; and as to your
sister, she is such a woman as, when you have once been in her company,
will no longer permit you to remain in astonishment that our dear
lamented Henry should have preferred poverty itself in Caroline's
society, to the wealth of Potosi without her.
I trust to your own taste and discrimination for this tribute to your
departed brother when you become acquainted with the object of his
tenderest and unceasing affection; and will not take up any more time
in describing the characters of your family, nor anticipate the delight
which you will feel in exercising your own judgment as they develope
themselves to your penetrating eye.
The family of Glenalta beg to send you, through me, their affectionate
greetings, and old Bentley, who is likewise a neighbour of mine, and as
_caustic_ as ever, desires me to say how much he rejoices in the hope
of shaking you by the hand.
Farewell, my dear General! may you have a prosperous voyage, and be
permitted, ere long, to set your foot on British ground once more!
Believe me very
Sincerely and faithfully yours,
ED. OTWAY.
LETTER XIII.
MRS. ELIZA SANDFORD TO MRS. DOUGLAS.
My beloved Friend,
Your kind affection has anticipated all that I have to say: it has
pleaded for me more powerfully than I could do for myslf, and has
surely told you how much I have been engaged on returning after so
long an absence, to Checkley. At last I begin to breathe; and my
little Agnes makes such rapid advance to returning health, that I can
now, without self-reproach, indulge in the dearest pleasure of life
except that of conversing with you, and begin once more to pour out
my heart into your faithful bosom. I may now in full security of our
punctual English posts give you undisguised details of every thing
most interesting, and expect the same from you, till the happy season
arrive which will, I trust, re-unite us, and give me the delight of
re-visiting Glenalta. I must obey you before I follow the dictates of
my own feelings, and answer your questions ere I touch upon matter of
another description. "Describe your girls," you say. Well, then, in a
few words, they are dear children: Julia is a charming creature, and
if I do not take the _mother too much upon me_ in saying so, is worthy
of that friendship which is the boast and pride of her life, and which
is bestowed upon her by your Emily. _Such_ a letter as she has lately
received, describing _the retreat_! but I must not digress. Julia,
then, is really, at seventeen, a most interesting character. She is
docile as possible, singularly artless and innocent, yet possessed of
admirable faculties, which appear capable of application to a great
variety of different pursuits. In short, whatever Julia attempts she
accomplishes, and performs well, but without the slightest vanity
that I have been able to detect. Bertha is handsomer, _quicker_, and
more striking, though not nearly so solid nor reflecting as her elder
sister. She commits more faults in a week than Julia in a year, from
an impetuosity of temper which was not corrected while she was a
little one; but her contrition is so genuine, and her nature so frank,
that I always find myself loving her better than I did before whenever
she has offended. She will be fifteen, you know, her next birth-day,
and is certainly much improved since we went abroad.
The extreme youth of my dear girls, my particular _object_ in leaving
England being _truly_ the recovery of health for one of them; the
recent losses which they had sustained, and my dislike of company, all
conspired to preserve _us_ from the contagion of foreign influence;
while I was enabled, by taking my young charge entirely from home, to
break at once through a thousand ties which would have perplexed me
exceedingly had I remained at Checkley. What I should have found much
difficulty in _gradually_ unloosening, I have now boldly dissevered,
I shall not hold myself under any obligation to resume the thread of
acquaintance with any whose society may not be advantageous to my young
people, who at present furnish me with ample excuse for declining
_all_ invitations, and thus avoiding _jealousy_ on the part of our
neighbours. Julia has never been in company, and is the only one of my
girls whose age makes it _expected_ that she should go out. Bertha will
suffer no _persecution_ as yet, and my little dear Agnes is _hors de
combat_. Her delicate state affords me a reason, as genuinely sincere
as it is opportune, for lying by in perfect tranquillity; and during
this happy _interregnum_ I shall profit by your advice, and learn to
act with decision when I am forced out of my retirement.
As I consider myself only in the light of _guardian_, and have really
no _stake_ in this country myself, even the most calculating of the
neighbouring gentry must perceive that I am not bound to any particular
style of life; and the more discriminating amongst them, I may hope,
will give me credit for acting upon principle. This is all that I
want. I know how impossible it is to _please_ every body, and indeed I
wonder how an upright mind should desire the approval of a multitude
made up of the most discordant elements; but I am much puzzled,
notwithstanding, what course to steer, and shall require all your
pilotage to keep me steadily in the right track. To give you an idea of
my dilemma, I must tell you what sort of people we are living amongst,
and present you with a survey of our vicinage, before you can be of use
in directing my steps.
The Burleys, who are our nearest neighbours, are people of large
fortune, and decidedly children of this world. They have sons and
daughters all brought up in luxury. They have a house in London, go to
town every year, have large expectancies, and _so_ no doubt are full
of the present "life's futurities;" but while they are in the country,
they are inclined to be very friendly, and it will not be _their_ fault
if the inhabitants of their splendid hall and those of humbler Checkley
are not allied in close intimacy. I am quite aware how the homely adage
of "for want of company, welcome trumpery," applies upon many occasions
when fine people leave the "flaunting crowd," and come to rusticate for
a season in their country seats. But the Burleys, to do them justice,
seem to wish for a familiar acquaintance on truer principles. Sir
Thomas is a complete Englishmen, worthy, hospitable, open-hearted, up
to the eyes in county politics, and when the affairs of this _wider_
range are so balanced as not to call forth the extent of his powers,
the parish cabals supply an under plot, which is sure to keep them in
full practice for larger matters when they may arrive. At present, the
game laws absorb all that is not given to conviviality, in the circuit
of his head and heart, _without_ the pale of his own family, _in_ which
he is deservedly beloved, and _of_ which he is the sun-beam. Lady B. is
simply vapid. She is neither ill-natured nor unkind, but so exceedingly
insipid, that were not a log as troublesome as a wasp, though not
so active, you might be justified in forgetting that she makes one
of the family group. Devoured by _ennui_ herself, she operates on
all around her till the whole mass would be _vaporized_, were it not
for the broad good-humour of her spouse, who is as alert as she is
inanimate. They do not _quarrel_, however, and the young people, though
very uninteresting, are sufficiently alive to keep up something like
cheerfulness, though not of that species which the French appropriately
denominate _gaieté du coeur_. The _talk_ at Burley Hall is so
entirely of fashion, and _supposes_ such a sympathy of pursuit, as well
as conversancy with topics of which Julia is ignorant, that I question
the honesty of permitting her to associate amongst those whose thoughts
and feelings are so much at variance with her own, and of such a nature
that I never desire to see her approximate to increased congeniality
with them.
A mile farther off, we have the Henleys; excellent people, who are
from morning till night engaged in doing good. They are rich and
bountiful, friendly and good-humoured, but so strict, and so devoted
to the _letter_ of their particular sect, that if you agreed to
travel with them over a line which had been divided into a hundred
distinct measures, of a cubit length in each, and that after performing
ninety-nine steps in the series, you were to stop at the hundredth,
your former task would go for nothing, and you would be as completely
distanced as if you had never attempted to walk the course. These good
people are anxious in the greatest degree to enlist my young folks,
and like the nuns think it no harm to employ every art of affectionate
inveiglement to persuade them into an adoption of a certain distinctive
phraseology, and _form_ of thinking which I do not like, and therefore
shall endeavour to avoid without wishing to repel the kind fellowship
which is proffered, though I conclude that _our_ religion will be at
once condemned, when it is discovered that I do not disapprove of many
things which are proscribed at the Priory. I heard it rumoured the
other day, that I am considered one of the _pie-bald_ race. What am I
to do?
Well, a third description of neighbour, and by much the most numerous,
I find planted in three or four pretty places at no great distance from
Checkley. There is a family of Liner, another of Peachum, and others
whose names I need not plague you by calling over, who with competent
fortunes enjoy all the comfort of life which money can bestow, and
feel all the title to consideration which belongs to independence;
_but_ who are so intolerably dull, unimproving, and self-complacent, so
vulgar too in a perpetual rivalry of fine dinners, fine furniture, and
fine dress, which have not even the stamp of fashion to recommend them,
that my mind revolts against introducing my nieces into such a society
as they form.
A fourth order remains to be mentioned, and here my pen could
expatiate, untired of so delightful a theme. There is a family of
Stanley who live six miles from this, and with whom it would be
delightful to live in constant communion, if the distance between our
two houses did not throw a barrier in the way of daily intercourse.
They put me in mind of the Douglas circle, and can I say more to mark
the estimation in which I hold them? Father, mother, and children of
both sexes are superior to almost any people that I have ever met
with, learned, informed, accomplished, the mind is kept in a continual
round of exertion in their company, refreshing from its variety,
and stimulating from its animation. An hour passed at Brandon Court
supplies materials for a week's _rumination_; and, like animals that
chew the cud, we repose day after day, living on the nutriment which
we have collected in the fertile pastures of that attractive spot.
Nature's economy is such, in the midst of her lavish profusion, that
she seldom endows the same individual with very opposite qualities;
and we usually seek for the serenity of contemplation in scenes and
amongst people far remote from the busy practitioner. The Stanleys,
like yourselves, combine all the characteristics so rarely found in
union. At Brandon Court you have meditation, not monastic--seriousness,
not rigid--sentiment, never morbid--and practical energy, neither
coarse nor bustling. Perfect harmony subsists amongst the various
members of the interesting group. Mr. and Mrs. Stanley are truly _one_.
Every thought expressed by either, meets from the other a response
of delighted affection, whilst a joyous band of happy youth disport
around them, whose only rivalry consists in trying who shall contribute
most to the general stock of happiness, and pay most attention to the
cherished authors of their being.
I fancy that I hear you exclaim, "How can Elizabeth hesitate? Why not
cultivate the Stanleys, and forget that there is a vulgar world to be
passed by?" I will tell you why Elizabeth doubts what path to choose.
These inestimable persons are stigmatized by the paltry and mindless
animals who environ them, and the Miss Stanleys are yclept blues, while
all the rest are called philosophers.
For _myself_ you know, that I have no possible feeling upon such a
subject. Were I called _Blue_, because I was seen with the Stanleys,
or reading any thing but a novel, it would not signify. _My_ walk in
life has long been determined, and I have outlived (if indeed I ever
felt like the Mimosa upon such occasions) all sensibility to those
nick-names, which are so generously bestowed upon single women. I am
a _veteran_, and can stand fire. I can endure to be called by any
appellation, the _true_ meaning of which, is that I have preferred
remaining unmarried to being encumbered by the cares of wedded life;
and if heaven have granted any measure of understanding, have chosen
to employ, rather than let it lie fallow. But this is my individual
view of the matter. Have I a right to place my _nieces_ in society
which they would certainly love and imitate? am I to incur for them
the obloquy that waits on superior knowledge and acquirements in their
sex? impeding perhaps, also, the chances of that settlement in future
life which, though I have never desired for myself, and am in reality
very indifferent about for them, I am still bound to consider as the
ordinance of nature, besides being the point to which the artificial
laws of the world are universally directed. Many cares will necessarily
spring up in my way as I proceed, but at present, how to steer a middle
course between Scylla and Charybdis is my chief difficulty. With the
inanity of fashion, and its opposite vulgarity on the one hand; a
religion which deals too much in external observances, and the reproach
of female _learning_ on the other, is there any _honest_ method by
which, without sacrificing integrity of principle, I may _skim the
cream_ of _each_ class, and save my children from the evils attendant
upon _all_ the classes that I have described? Be my Cumean Sybil; look
into the page of destiny for me; say what is before me, and how I shall
act.
The priest in the proverb, "christens his own child first;" you see
that I have adopted the same prudent maxim, and given you nothing as
yet, but my own story; but for this you need no apology my dearest
Caroline. Innumerable interruptions break my purposes, and deprive me
of any command over my time just now. By and by I shall be able to
write less selfishly I trust, and repay your kindness by more agreeable
matter than you will find in a _dish_ of egotism which I have served up
for your this day's fare. Before I release you, however, I must tell
you that I was not a little surprised yesterday, by the appearance of
an Irish acquaintance, Mr. Bentley, whom I have seen frequently at
Lisfarne, and uncle to George, who is, I believe, an intimate still at
your house, and Mr. Otway's. When I was at Glenalta, the young man was,
I suppose, at the University, for I did not see him, but I heard the
girls and Frederick name him familiarly.
In the midst of giving directions to my work-men, a travelling
carriage drove up to the hall-door, and I was really delighted to see
Mr. Bentley, who is a highly respectable man, but who appeared in a
new light of interest to my eyes, from all the associations which
his presence awakened. I endeavoured to shew how glad I felt to see
him; and though I could not prevail with him to make a longer stay,
he indulged me by remaining, to pass a few hours, and walk round our
pretty grounds. In the course of conversation, I asked for his nephew,
and was answered, that he was at Lisfarne, where he would remain till
Mr. Bentley, senior, returns to the county of Kerry. I spoke of the
advantage which any young person must derive from such society as that
of Mr. Otway, upon whose character I expatiated with my usual warmth.
"Yes," replied Mr. Bentley, "Otway is a noble fellow, though one
of your _oddities_; and poor George absolutely worships him, but
nevertheless; I am not very sure that his staying at Lisfarne is for
either his happiness or advantage."
"Pray, how so?" answered I, "with perfect unconsciousness."
"My dear madam," said the good man, "your friends at Glenalta are
too near I should think, for my poor boy's peace. I do not say that
_it is_ so. I only mean that such things flow naturally from near
neighbourhood, which often brings people into _scrapes_. I have known
many a heart lost through the insensible influence of contiguity.
_Op_portunity is the deadliest foe of the one sex, _Im_portunity of the
other; and between them both, many a match is brought about, to which
an unwilling consent is wrung out of parents and guardians when it is
too late to withhold one's fiat."
I looked grave, and begged him to be explicit. "Do you speak merely,"
said I, "Mr. Bentley, upon a general supposition of what may be
possible, or have you any reason to suppose that your nephew's
happiness is likely to be endangered? Not the remotest suspicion has
ever glanced across _my_ mind, and I should take it as a favour,
if, since you have touched upon the subject, you would enlighten me
farther, by mentioning the ground of your surmise?"
"My dear ma'am, it is not _actually_ surmise. I may be wrong, and must
acquit George of having given me the slightest insight into his mind.
In fact, he is very close; it is the only fault that I find with him,
and my sole reason for _suspecting_, is derived from my own observation
of his avidity to puzzle his brains about a great many useless things,
such as chemistry, botany, and the like, which never put a guinea into
a young gentleman's pocket. Now, you know that Mrs. Douglas and her
daughters are so learned, that they could sack a grand jury; though I
must do them the justice to add, that no people in the country are more
beloved than they are. Nothing can exceed their unpretending goodness.
But George has no pretensions; he must make his own way in the world,
and cannot afford to waste his precious hours in learning what I call
_fal lals_, that will never help him through life. To tell you the
honest truth, I am a little jealous of both Lisfarne and Glenalta. I
see no business that any young man has to love or like mortal better
than his own flesh and blood; and more time and wits are lavished in
these foolish _episodes_ which just end in nothing, than would put a
man many a mile forward in his professional career. People fall in love
through very idleness and vacuity. A young tenant of my own, excused
himself lately, when I asked him what could possess him to marry a
girl without sixpence, by replying, 'Indeed, sir, she lived _so handy_
that we were always together, and 'twas the same thing we thought to
get married.' Poor George would be probably dismissed by the Douglas
family if they entertained the least idea of such presumption, as no
doubt, a hope on my nephew's part, would be considered; and you will
therefore not wonder, my dear Mrs. Sandford, that I am anxious to get
my business in London, and a month at Buxton well over, that I may
return home, where it is necessary that George should see after my
affairs during my absence. I have seen a great deal of life, though not
upon a _grand_ scale; and I know the folly of romance. Mrs. Douglas,
I make no question, is as prudent as she is sensible, and has never
given her children so elegant an education, to throw them away upon
paupers. My own opinion is, that money is the only thing that does
not disappoint. I do not say the only thing that is _good_, far from
it; but while mental qualities may be only feigned, sweet tempers
and dispositions assumed but for a season, accomplishments suffered
to languish, beauty doomed to fade, money performs its promise, and
procures all the comfort, and all the happiness that it ever engages to
purchase. I repeat this every week of my life to poor George, but he is
so reserved, that I never have the satisfaction of hearing whether or
not I make any impression upon him."
To this _exposé_, I listened with the most profound attention, and
could only reply, "my dear sir, it appears to me that you are putting
trouble out to interest, and _compound_ interest, by the view that you
take of your family affairs. I can assure you that the remotest hint
has never reached me, respecting any suspicion of a feeling such as you
ascribe to your nephew, who I dare say, is too much in the habit of
venerating your counsels to fly in your face, by presuming to bestow
his affections without your approbation; though whenever he _does_, at
some distant period of his life, obtain your permission to offer his
hand in marriage, I conclude that you will have no objection to his
loving his wife better than you, as he must make a solemn vow to that
effect, and cleave to her in preference to all created things. But
of one part of your anxiety, I can with certainty relieve you; rest
assured, that if the slightest symptom appeared to warrant my friend,
Mrs. Douglas, in _imagining_ as you do, the most decisive measures
would be instantly adopted to prevent any painful result."
"I _thought_ so; I always _said_ so," rejoined hastily, Mr. Bentley.
"I knew that Mrs. Douglas had a judgment too profound not to determine
on marrying her daughters to men of fortune. I have told my opinion in
George's presence (not _to_ him, for the last thing I should desire,
would be to convey to _his_ mind, that an idea, such as I have confided
to you, ever entered _mine_), a thousand and a thousand times; and
I feel that my discernment is extremely flattered by your assurance,
that I saw how the land lay so clearly. Your allusion to interest, and
compound interest, is very just and beautiful; and I declare that you
have set my mind quite at rest."
So enraptured was the poor man, or rather I _suspect, rich_ man, with
his own sagacity, and my illustration, that I found the greatest
possible difficulty in edging in a word or two to undeceive him
respecting your mercenary projects. If none are so blind as those who
will not see, there are certainly none more deaf than such as will not
hear. Full of courtesy, bustle, and acknowledgment, this little worldly,
but goodly _puffin_, bundled himself up in his chaise, and posted
off, lightened of a load of care, and in such buoyant humour, that I
prophecy a fortnight at Buxton will do the needful, and return him in
half the time that he had devoted to his bodily weal, in a state of
perfect restoration, to Mount Prospect and "poor George."
When he was gone, I resolved on giving you intimation of all that
had passed. It is very evident to me, that this visit, which I took
so kindly, was paid at Checkley, for the sole purpose of _sounding_;
and I think that I can perceive exactly the conflict of his mind. His
vanity would be flattered to the highest degree, by even the remotest
hope that his nephew might be accepted at Glenalta, while he is also
manifestly bent on a rich wife for George with such hearty purpose,
that no disappointment is consequent upon believing, as he now does,
that there is no chance of a Miss Douglas for his niece. I am _sure_
that he has a very _snug_ store laid up somewhere or other; that being
an old batchelor, George is his object, and that had he found reason
for his conjecture in any confirmation afforded by me, he would have
taught himself to be very well pleased, while he can, as sincerely,
turn the current of his thoughts into another stream, in which he
hopes that a larger quantity of the precious metals may be found. How
comically people who are accustomed to employ a little cunning in
their devices, betray themselves. Old Bentley, however, is a worthy
man; and a very acute, though rather a vulgar observer. You need not
dread the slightest indiscretion on his part, in making the young
man a party in his cogitations. One excellent remark which he made
with much shrewdness, convinced me that you have nothing to fear on
that score. "Madam," said he, "I shall never give George the remotest
hint of what has been passing in my head. No, no, when you want to
keep young people from committing themselves, be very sure of what
you are about, in expressing your fears upon the subject. If you have
reason to _know_ that there is an understanding, why then you _must_
either sanction or refuse, and of course must speak; but if you have
to deal with timidity, or reserve, be assured that the first word is
half the battle; and in proclaiming your own apprehensions, you have
at one stroke levelled a barrier which might have remained for ever
impregnable but for your incaution."
Well, dearest friend, here is a long letter. Let me have a speedy
answer, and tell me of George Bentley; is there any foundation for his
uncle's fancy: is he a person of whom you could ever think, for one of
your dear children? My sweet girls unite in all that is affectionate to
their young friends. Farewell.
I am ever your attached,
ELIZ. SANDFORD.
LETTER XIV.
ARTHUR HOWARD TO CHARLES FALKLAND.
My dear Falkland,
Whether I blush or not is not for me to tell; but surely I feel that
I ought to do so. Yes, it is an absolute fact, that I am ashamed to
recollect the date of my last letter; and, therefore, if you please,
we will hush it up. All that I will put forward in extenuation of my
guilt is, that my journal bears weighty evidence to the truth of your
not being forgotten. In that faithful repository you will find, one of
these days, a minute registry of all that passes; and I promise myself
much amusement at some future time in recalling to my own mind, while
I read it to you, this record of the happiest period of my life. Hey
day! here is a downright confession. Even so: and I am not inclined to
retract the avowal. As I am not in love, (at least I do not _believe_
that I am,) I suppose that I have less hesitation in proclaiming
the state of my feelings than were Dan Cupid to be a witness to the
declaration of my being more at home at Glenalta, and more happy with
the Douglas family, than I ever felt at any place, and amongst any
people, since I was born. I find one great disadvantage in having lost
the thread of my good old diary, for I know not now where to begin or
what to tell you, though I would have you to know that my difficulty
does not arise from paucity of incident. On the contrary, my time
has been so occupied, and so many novelties have varied the scene,
that I am, to use a homely illustration, in the predicament of "not
being able to see the wood for trees." The _ground tint_ of life at
Glenalta is soft and reposing, without being dead; and it has latterly
been _picked_ out (my simile savours, you will say, of Long Acre) by
sundry events which have given contrast to its colouring. You are to
be informed that I am up to the eyes in all the pursuits which afford
constant delight to the Cousins: and would you believe that from
morning till night I am never conscious of time, except by its rapid
flight? Falkland, I am awakened as if from a heavy sleep, which had
dulled my faculties, and my mind seems to take new views of everything.
Will this last? If it should, the age of man is doubled by the
animation of such feelings as have been evolved in this Irish world. I
tread on air--the sun shines into my _heart_--and you will never hear
me again envying an opium-eater while I live. In three days we set out
for Killarney; and, as I will certainly devote a letter exclusively to
the _Lakes_, this shall contain a sketch of some minor exploits in the
way of sight-seeing.
But I ought not to have proceeded thus far without saying that our
Fred. returned, after his short absence, wreathed with victory; and
I would give more than I am worth to have been able to call back the
shade of Titian by some magical incantation, that his glowing pencil
might have _fixed_ that arrival in perennial freshness. Domestic love,
what an exquisite painter thou art! Not all the most skilful efforts
of factitious refinement can group and touch like this artist of
Nature.
It was Frederick's plan to be his own messenger; and, therefore, as no
announcement of success or failure preceded his appearance amongst us,
suspense hung upon the carriage-wheels as it drove to the very door,
and only gave way to joyful assurance, from the uncontrolable gladness
of Domine's eye, which sparkled a contradiction, detected at the first
glance by Fanny, to the serious air with which the travellers had
determined on playfully deceiving the sisterhood. "The Science Premium"
presently resounded through the air, and a delighted group of servants,
headed by old Lawrence, wafted the glad tidings to an outer circle, who
stood peeping from behind the holly-hedge, ready to catch the first
contagion that might reach them of joy or sorrow, without understanding
how excited, or for what displayed.
When the transport seemed at its height, Mr. Oliphant abruptly
exclaimed, "But how easily you are all satisfied! Not a soul has
asked me what became of all _my_ hard work at Greek and Latin." Here
followed the news that Fred. was doubly crowned, and had also borne
away the palm of classical triumph. This was too much; the cup of bliss
was full before, and now it overflowed. No, I never saw any thing like
it; and even _this_ scene, I suppose, could never _again_ produce the
magical sensations which I felt. The intensity of emotion, and the
gradations evinced in its exhibition, from the silent, grateful tear
that trickled down the hectic cheek of aunt Douglas--then passing
through the gentle transports of Emily and Charlotte, the mad delirium
of Fanny, the honest pride of Oliphant, the full, yet chastened glow
of Frederick, the paternal exultation of old Lawrence, down to the
untutored burst of the barefooted mountaineers, reminded me forcibly
of that admirable picture by Le Thiers of the Judgment of Brutus, in
which you and I used to admire the author's tact in apportioning the
varieties of expression in all those numerous countenances, to the
exact measure of refinement in each which accompanied the feeling that
gave it birth. After the first tumult of congratulations had subsided,
I ran to the seashore, to get rid of some unwelcome thoughts, that were
not in unison with the scene which I had witnessed, when I overtook a
little band of young peasants, who were dragging along large bundles
of what we call gorse, but is here yclept furze; and this circumstance
soon turned the current of my musings.
"Where are you going, my lads?" quoth I. "Plase your honour, to get
ready the bonfires for Maaster Frederick agin the evening." "I am a
stranger in these parts, and should like to know what all this work is
for," said I, turning to a fine, active youth, who led the van. "Why,
indeed, sir, I don't _rightly_ know; but, be what I can larn, Maasther
Fred. is to be King o' the College from this time out." "Och! you fool,
Jack!" cried another, "that isn't it at all. I heard my father say just
now that he was (that's Maasther Fred.) _cheered_ round the city like a
Parliamint man, and that he flogged all the scholars in Ireland." "Well
_you're_ out too, Flurry," vociferated a third; "for Nance Hagerty
tould Kit Lacy and she ought to know, be raison of being about the
cows morning and evening at the big house, that Maaster Fred. got a
power of money for making an illigant spaach about mancipashon."
I was greatly amused. It was all the same to these poor fellows. Joy
was depicted on every face at Glenalta, and to enquire into whys and
wherefores is quite too tame for the rush of Hibernian sympathy. The
meeting with _Phil._ was another rich repast of mind; and young Bentley
seemed so share the scene like a brother. When I returned to dinner,
I found preparations going forward near the house which ended in a
piper and a dance upon the green turf, in which the young people of
the family took part. A great basket of bread-cakes sweetened with
a little sugar, and a single draught to each of Kerry cider, made
_all_ the entertainment as related to eating and drinking; hilarity
and affection supplied the rest, and I could not help remarking, that
I had never till then seen so many people made supremely happy at
so trifling an expense. With us at Selby it would have required the
winning wiles of at least an ox, and tree tierces of ale, to have
prevailed on so many people to come together. When assembled, they
would neither pipe nor dance: the gladdest tribute would consist in
a few deafening shouts, and, after some coarse and clumsy merriment,
the well-fed sons of England would stagger home, filled to the throat,
regardless of all sentiment which could not be identified with roast
beef and brown stout. Only give an Irish population permission to
share in your feelings, and you may have a crowd at your heels in a
moment, in any part of the kingdom, as I am told; but I can now say
from experience, that, if you _deserve_ affection, you may have an
honest flow of its choicest streams unbought, except by reciprocating
kindness. These poor people would endure anything for my aunt, her
children, and Mr. Otway; and though I have given you a ridiculous
specimen of ignorance, in relating the conversation of the bonfire, I
am bound in justice, as a _set off_, to add, that when the festivities
of the evening were at an end, Mr. Oliphant beckoned to two youths,
who appeared to be about seventeen or eighteen, and whom he called by
the names of Cronin and Riely, saying, "Boys, I know very well that
you are just longing to hear more about Mr. Frederick, so come in the
morning, bring your Homer, and I will show you the part in which he was
examined." The poor fellows seemed overjoyed, and kicking up a bare
heel behind, pulled each a lock of hair on his forehead in token of
thanks, neither of these young men having a hat with which to perform
the ceremony of a bow, and this extra-ordinary mode of salutation
serving as the substitute here for a more civilized mode of obeisance.
To my amazement, I now learned that several individuals are to be found
in these mountains who can read Horace and Virgil familiarly. The Homer
which was brought in the morning was a curiosity too, for so filthy, so
broken, and so disjointed a concern, I suppose you never beheld; and
it astonished me, not only to hear these tattered academicians read
passages with precision which were almost effaced, but translate with
fidelity, of which Cowper would not have been ashamed. Frederick gave
them each a new book, and I presented a trifling sum to be expended
in shoes and hats, sending off our poor scholars as happy as kings are
said to be in fairy tales. When Frederick had been at home a day or
two, he proposed that we should make the first use of his liberty in
extending our excursions both by land and water. "We will begin with
the nearest object," said he, "and as you enter with so much zeal into
our Irish character, I _must_ take you to see a person whom we have
given the name of Wise Ned of the Hill." The next day was appointed,
and we were on horseback at four in the morning, each provided with a
sort of _wallet_, containing an ample supply of sandwiches, a small
bottle of brandy, a canister of snuff for Ned, with a large parcel
of newspapers, and a tin box (which Fanny insisted on adding to our
accoutrements) to be filled with any plants which Glenalta did not
produce. In this rustic guise, accompanied by three fine dogs, one of
which is a noble animal of a species now very scarce, namely, the Irish
wolf dog, we commenced our campaign, halting at Lisfarne, to call for
young Bentley, by whom we were speedily joined. As we rode along, I
begged to know in the true Irish style what it was that we were going
to see, and why "Ned of the Hill," was worthy of a pilgrimage to his
shrine. "He is," said Frederick, "a most uncommon character, and one
who will, I think, reward your trouble in _getting at him_, for I can
tell you that his only neighbours are the eagles. Ned, like the poor
boys of Homeric memory, received an education beyond the vulgar level,
in the days of his youth. He was born of parents who were strict Roman
Catholics; and having an uncle who was priest in a neighbouring parish,
it was intended that young Edmund Burke (a promising name, you will
say) should succeed to his relation's holy office. With this view he
was taught Greek and Latin, though his temporal situation was scarcely
raised above absolute want. His father was an idle profligate, his
mother a bigot, entirely under the control of her brother, the priest.
The boy grew up in the strange jumble of fastings and confessions,
prayers and penances, with swearing, drinking, and all manner of
profaneness, acted continually in his presence, till his father was
suddenly seized with a fit of apoplexy, on recovering from which he
had some 'compunctious visitings,' and desired his son, for the first
time, to read the Bible for him. There was none to be had except one
which had been left in pledge by a poor Protestant woman, who owed
a trifle to the little shop kept by these people. Ned objected to
read out of such an unholy book, but the father insisted, alleging
that his time was hastening to a close, and it was no season to stand
upon ceremonies. A Bible was a Bible; and, if it was good _at all_ to
read it, the Protestant version could not be _very_ far astray. Ned
reluctantly complied, and felt it necessary at first, I dare say, to
perform a sort of quarantine after touching the sacred volume; but his
father desired that neither his wife nor the priest her brother should
hear a word about the matter. The invalid gradually recovered strength,
which he ascribed to the fit of piety that had come upon him; and
though he did not dream of changing his religion, and was punctilious
in his observance of its rites, he still felt a sort of superstitious
respect for the book that had been instrumental in keeping up a serious
impression of divine things upon his mind; and was not displeased at
seeing his son frequently poring over its contents after the daily task
of reading to the old man was ended."
"At length Ned, through the single and simple force of truth, became
convinced of the errors of the Romish Church; and, afraid to tell
his parents, he quitted home, and sought the aid of an exemplary
clergyman in an adjoining county. From this gentleman he received the
kindest treatment, and the most judicious advice not to be precipitate
in the adoption of a new creed. This good man gave him books, and
protected his destitute youth from persecution, to which the poor
fellow became subject, as soon as it was hinted that he was likely to
renounce Popery; but Heaven had endowed Ned with one of those acute
understandings which are rarely found in any class of men, and the
books which were given him by the excellent pastor under whose tutelage
he had placed himself, did not satisfy his inquiring mind. Contending
between a sense of duty to his family, his temporal benefit, and the
habits of his whole life, on one side, and his newly awakened, and,
as he considered, providentially directed, search after truth on the
other, he roamed about, suffering the greatest privations, sculking
in the mountains, and indebted to charity for his scanty fare, till
accident brought Mr. Otway to the spot where he lay stretched upon the
heath apparently dead, and a ragged Bible clenched in his hands. He
was conveyed to Lisfarne, where he found the asylum after which his
soul panted. When his strength was recruited, he was supplied with
such books as were calculated to meet the sagacity of his doubts,
and a short time made him a fixed and conscientious believer in the
superiority of the Protestant faith over that in which he had been
educated. About this time his father died, leaving him a little
profit-rent of fifteen pounds a year, arising out of a poor tenement
in Tralee. This is Ned's _all_, and as soon as he became possessed of
independence he resolved to quit his benefactor and devote himself to
the good of his fellow creatures. No argument will tempt him to accept
of a salary that would better his condition. A few books, newspapers,
and a little snuff, are all that he will permit any of us to add to his
hermit's fare. You will see his dwelling, and be surprized perhaps by
his remarks. The mountain on which he resides belongs to an absentee
nobleman, and Ned lives there unmolested amongst almost inaccessible
crags. The singularity of his character, its natural force, and the
genuine disinterestedness of conduct which he manifests, combine
to produce unbounded influence on the minds of the people, who,
notwithstanding the charge of heresy against him, seek his advice, and
consider his wisdom as quite oracular. Ned's life is passed in doing
good. He traverses hill and dale on foot in quest of all whom he can
succour by his counsel or sooth by his kindness. His Bible travels
with him, and in spite of the avowed hatred of the priests, and the
heavy denunciations of punishment which two or three of them have
fulminated against any one who shall listen to, or harbour, poor Ned,
he is a universal favourite, and often let in at a back door when his
hosts would not venture to receive him at the front of their miserable
hovels. He reads the scriptures incessantly, expounding and applying
them to the individual necessities of his needy neighbours. He attends
the fairs, and prevents many a quarrel. His talents as an arbitrator
are in such request that he keeps several paltry cases of contention
from the petty sessions, and is even consulted as an almanack, for the
signs of bad or good weather."
With this outline of Ned's character and history we approached his
extra-ordinary _tabernacle_, which had no appearance whatsoever of
human dwelling, till we reached it close enough to see a little wreath
of blue smoke curling up from an orifice in the rock, and were assailed
by the sharp and angry bark of a terrier, who lay sunning himself,
with a cat lying close by him on a tuft of dried heath. A few great
stones piled one upon the other, at each side of a natural aperture in
the craggy face of the mountain, seemed to indicate the hand of man in
bringing them together, and likewise to afford shelter to the entrance.
A stout wooden door opening inwards appeared the only means of ingress
to admit even the light of heaven, for windows I saw none.
A few goats were roused from their _meditations_ by our arrival, and
I had just pronounced the name of Robinson Crusoe to my companions,
when, at the end of our scramble, which had occupied three hours
in its performance, Ned himself started from his _lair_, and stood
before us clad in a strong comfortable loose coat of a greyish frize,
manufactured in this country by the poor people. He had shoes and
stockings of coarse but warm materials; and moreover, a hat, which,
though it had seen better days, defended his head from the rude blast
of this desolate wilderness, and was fastened to a button-hole by an
old red worsted garter. Such was his joy at sight of Frederick, that
some minutes elapsed before he seemed sensible that his friend had any
companions. "Oh, sir," said he, "the news came to me just as I was
lying down last night; Tom Collins sent off little Maurice his son to
Tim Scannel, who put his brother across the bay in the fishing-boat;
and he ran every step o'the way over the hills till he brought me _the
account_."