devotedly were they attached to each other, that even at school
they were always called Pylades and Orestes. At the University
they lived together; and the same day saw them both embark in the
same profession. For the character of that loved parent who was
taken from us, before his children were of an age to appreciate
his various excellences, his splendid talents, exquisite taste,
and uncommon attainments, I must refer you to his friend, who, it
is probable will one day describe your uncle, and tell you that he
was indeed 'a man whose like we ne'er shall look upon again.' I
could not hope to do justice to the portrait, and will therefore
not attempt to draw his resemblance. My father and mother, who
seemed to have been peculiarly formed for each other, met in early
life, and became mutually attached, as one might naturally suppose
that two such gifted beings would be. Pecuniary circumstances alone
prevented their union; but while their happiness was retarded,
their affection was tried in the furnace, and came out purified.
Mr. Otway was the sole guardian of their secret, and the only
support of their long deferred hopes. After years of devoted
constancy, they were rewarded at last by such domestic felicity
as I have heard from Mr. Otway falls to the lot of very few on
earth, and was too perfect for continuance in a world designed by
its Great Creator to serve only as a vestibule to more abiding
mansions. The friends were separated by the tide of events,
but never ceased to correspond. Once, and I believe but once,
imagining that he had found a resemblance of my mother, Mr. Otway's
affections were engaged, and he resigned himself to the fascination
of such an attachment as only minds of lofty pitch are capable of
feeling at once noble, disinterested, and devoted. The lady whom he
loved was rich, while, he at _that_ time, was a younger brother,
and but slenderly provided for. The dread of being suspected of
mercenary motives, sealed his lips; and a man of fortune making his
appearance, the object of his thoughts proved how little worthy she
was of such a being, by marrying this more opulent suitor after a
very short acquaintance. So dreadful was the shock which our dear
friend's sensitive nature sustained upon this unexpected event,
that his life nearly fell a sacrifice to the conflicts which he
endured. My father and mother were now his staff and solace in the
hour of trial; and their tender solicitude, aided by time, restored
to comparative peace that generous spirit which had nearly sunk
under the pressure of disappointment. He travelled, and ere the
expiration of many years, was recalled to England, by the death of
his elder brother, which event was followed at no great distance
of time by that of Mr. Stanhope, the husband of her who had so
cruelly trifled with his happiness. Mrs. Stanhope was the mother
of an only child, and the noble character of our friend overcoming
every selfish retrospect, cast off the memory of past wrongs, and
he stepped forward to offer the aid of his best services to the
widow and the orphan, without, however, I believe, even for a
moment, entertaining the remotest idea of renewing his suit. His
lot had been cast; he had retired from what is called the world,
and though so far from becoming a misanthrope that all his fine
qualities appeared to expand when he obtained the means of making
others happy; yet he never seemed to calculate upon any change
in his own situation. Though delicacy and feeling prevented him
from ever uttering a harsh sentiment, his friends were of opinion
that he had arrived at a full conviction of having misplaced his
affections in early life; and that conviction once attained, he
never sought to hazard a new experiment.
But the care of young Stanhope became a favourite object, and no
assistance which the most efficient friendship could bestow was
withheld from the boy's mother. Lisfarne was part of the property
which devolved to this invaluable neighbour of ours by his
brother's bequest; and the retired beauty of the scenery determined
him to make this his asylum. His next object was to induce the
beloved companions of youth, who had shared the gladness of his
brightest, and dispelled the clouds of his darkest days, to come
and live in his immediate vicinity. He purchased Glenalta for my
father, and by his good taste and activity, transformed its rude
wilds into the little paradise which you see. Here resided the
happiest family which, I believe, ever existed; but I cannot talk
of home, I must proceed with the story which I promised you:--Mr.
Otway received a letter from a Solicitor in London, to say that
the interests of his young ward (not that he was _legally_ so)
required his immediate attendance in town. It was to him a most
disagreeable undertaking. A recluse through long habit, and devoted
to the society of Glenalta; active in the discharge of such
multiplied duties at Lisfarne, as could ill spare his vigilant eye
and beneficent heart, it was great pain to set out upon a journey
without understanding its object, and plunge anew into scenes which
he had abjured in idea for ever. But dear Phil. only hesitates till
he has satisfied himself concerning what is right to be done, and
there is no farther pause--he proceeds to execution. To London he
went, and never shall I forget how much we longed for his return;
and what blazing fires of heath _telegraphed_ his approach upon our
neighbouring hills. On reaching town, he only waited to refresh
himself before he set forward to the Solicitor's, from whom his
summons had issued, and the mystery was soon unravelled. Mrs.
Stanhope had married a young fortune-hunter, and was endeavouring
to prevail upon her son, then a child of fourteen, to make a
settlement on his pennyless stepfather. Relying on the influence of
her former attractions, she had prepared a _scene_, and desiring
her Attorney carefully to abstain from giving Mr. Otway the least
intimation of her new tie, she burst upon him in the moment of
his entrance at Mr. Scriven's house, dressed in fashionable
attire, which had succeeded in all the gay colouring of a London
milliner's shop, to the garb of sorrow in which he had seen her
arrayed in _one_ personal interview after her husband's death. The
only time of their meeting had been upon that occasion, when he
begged permission to consider himself as guardian to her child,
thus proving that, though he had ceased to _love_, he still felt
the kindest and most sacred interest in her fate. Disgusted now
beyond the power of controlling his feelings, he put a speedy
termination to a conference, the manner, as well as the matter
of which had excited his utmost indignation; and assuring her
that if any undue advantage was taken by her influence over the
minor, a suit should be immediately commenced against her and her
husband, he took a hasty leave. Frightened by these menaces, the
lady retired, and soon announced her departure to the Continent,
where, about two years ago, she died of a broken heart. Mr. Otway's
business completed, he quickly returned to his favourite retreat,
and loved to wander alone along the beach which surrounds a part of
his demesne. My dear father once caught him upon a rocky promontory
with pencil and paper in his hand. The question of 'what is that?
Has Otway secrets with _me_?' was answered by 'it is a worthless
scrap; take it, but Henry touch not that chord again--it jars upon
my ear, and spoils all harmony.' I will now read you the lines
which my father obtained by this surprise. It is the only poetry
which even mamma has ever seen of her friend's writing.--Here
Emily read to me the following stanzas:--
_On first seeing Stella in a coloured dress after her second
marriage._
"Stella! thy beauty rested on the shade
Of sorrow's lonely night, like that fair flower,[A]
Queen of the dark, whose tender glories fade
In the gay radiance of a noon-tide hour.
"That flower supreme in loveliness--and pure
As the pale Cynthian beam thro' which unveiled
It blooms--as if unwilling to endure
The gaze by which such beauties are assailed.
"And in the solitude of Nature's sleep,
Unfolds such treasures to the midnight gloom,
As gem the vault of Heaven in silence deep
When widowed wanderer seeks the mouldering tomb.
"Yes! like the velvet-soft, and snowy star,
Wrapped in thy sable garb, it erst was thine,
With unassuming lustre, spreading far,
In mild and chastened majesty to shine.
"Each stranger footstep that approached the fane,
Eager to view, yet fearful to intrude;
Seemed to partake the dread of giving pain,
By glance unhallowed, or by finger rude.
"And has Aurora chased the sable cloud,
And, even jealous of a twilight grey,
Dispelled with sudden touch that mourning shroud,
And with her saffron robe unfurled the day?
"Alas! the graceful Cactus now no more,
Queen of the dark, asserts her silver reign,
Her empire nought on earth can e'er restore,
With other faded flowers she strews the plain."
[Footnote A: The Cactus Grandiflora, or Night-blowing Cereus.]
"These lines," continued Emily, "first taught my parents the nature
and extent of those feelings which had outlived the blights of
early hope. They appear to prove that, however shipwrecked had
been his own happiness, Mr. Otway had respected a perfect freedom
of choice, and, though Mr. Stanhope differed widely from him,
he had tutored his unselfish soul to consider this rival as the
successful candidate in an election, the honourable fairness of
which he had no right to question. It would seem that, in the
depth of his heart, Mrs. Stanhope's pardon had been sealed, and
when the death of her husband released her from her first vows,
a romantic mixture of affection, which borrowed a reflected glow
from the memory of brighter days, and that high and delicate
respect of which the most refined and exalted minds alone are
capable, spread round the consecrated image a mantle of fond
protective kindness, akin perhaps to love, as pity is said to be,
but so beautifully tempered, that it would never have passed the
sacred boundary of friendship pure as angels might have breathed.
The unseen bonds which had silently preserved connection between
our friend and a woman whom I can never believe to have been at any
time deserving such attachment as he bestowed, was rudely severed
by Mrs. Stanhope's late conduct; and, for some time, the impression
which such levity as was discovered in her second ill-assorted
marriage made upon a mind almost morbidly sensitive, threatened to
impair the benevolence of a character formed to shed on all around
an atmosphere of happiness; but a strong sense of religion, which
is the pole-star of his every action, gained its second victory;
and time gave him back, once more unshorn of his beams, to be the
life and animation of that little society who enjoy the blessing of
his presence. I must hurry you through the remaining part of my
_memoir_, not only because we are arriving at Susan's cabin, but
also because it is so interwoven with the sorrows of Glenalta, that
I fear to trust myself with a theme too fresh in recollection to
bear the light; suffice it to say, that Heaven has given us such a
friend in Mr. Otway, as no measure of gratitude can ever repay."
Emily paused, and I expressed my warm interest in her narrative,
and thankfulness for the eloquent sketch which she had thrown off;
but as my evil genius never even _dozes_ in the county of Kerry,
what should I unfortunately add, but "Phil. indeed is a treasure,
and I rejoice for you all in such a tower of strength as his
friendship affords to my aunt and her family. Frederick too is, I
dare say, his object, and will inherit his possessions."
Emily blushed scarlet; her eyes were instantly suffused with
tears, and she seemed ready to choke; but, recovering herself in
an instant, with a little effort she said, "Arthur, I _will_ not
attribute any thing of this sort to motives unworthy of you; I am
determined to set down to the mode of your own education whatever
may appear like want of feeling. You are mistaken in your surmises;
but, while it pleases God to continue to us the happiness which we
now enjoy, let us not embitter life by dreadful anticipations."
We reached the hut to which we were bound, and I had no time for
reply: I could only remark, in my own mind, on the difficulty of
accommodating the ways of the world to the peculiarities of these
simple folks; yet, at the same time, no doubt it is a pleasanter
sensation to be "_Alcibiade ou le Moi_," rather than cherished for
the sake of one's money.--On entering the cabin, alias cottage, we
found a boy of about twelve years old nursing a weeping infant,
and vainly endeavouring with one hand to scrape together a few
expiring embers, while a poor woman, apparently in the extremity
of weakness, lay in a corner, upon a miserable bed. "Susan, how do
you do?" was answered faintly by, "very ill, dear miss." "Where is
Nancy?" "Gone to the fair to buy a bit of flannel for the child,
and her father is gone with her to sell our _slip_ of a pig."
"Arthur," said Emily, throwing off shawl and bonnet in an instant,
"here is work to be done, and we must not be idle. You have taken
Frederick's place this morning, and will kindly, I am sure, perform
his duty: fly and bring me a good bundle of dry heath, or any
thing else that you can find of which we can make a fire. Paddy,
bring me a pitcher of water directly; and you, Tommy, give me
your little sister, and settle the turf in a moment." So saying,
she took the child, and soon set the poor thing at rest with some
milk, which the basket contained, while I, glad to make the _amende
honorable_ by my alacrity, went off as if quicksilver were in my
heels, to rummage up whatever combustible the mountain afforded.
I was successful, and got credit for my speed. You never saw any
thing like the magic of Emily's operations: as if she had been
a peasant born, she broke up the sticks which I had gathered,
and, blowing with her breath, for the cabin was unfurnished with
bellows, she had a blazing fire in five minutes. Then, with a
neatness and dexterity which would have done honor to a Welch
inn, she washed an old sauce-pan, and put some meal into it to
make gruel; hushed the baby to sleep, and, after laying it by the
poor mother, and giving the latter a little weak wine and water,
she desired Paddy to remain and stir the gruel till her return;
then, taking my arm, hurried down the hill, and crossing a field
which we had not come through before, tripped lightly up to a
half-ruined gate, which was fastened by a twig to an old post, and
disengaging this rustic band, lifted the frame, and we were in the
adjoining space before I perceived that my fair cousin, to avoid
interrupting our conversation, had performed the office of pioneer,
which, according to all the laws of chivalry, should have fallen
to my portion. I was going to apologize, when Emily pointed to a
path, and turning into another herself, bid me fly, or I should be
late at Lisfarne. We shook hands, and separated; and as I walked
on alone, I could not help moralizing on the novelties which daily
present themselves to my view. Lighting a fire, boiling gruel,
sweeping up a cabin-hearth, and singing lullaby to a squalid infant
in a dirty dress; and all this done and executed as if custom had
rendered the whole business perfectly familiar, by a young lady of
family and education; a scholar too, well read in Greek, Latin,
Italian, French,--skilled in botany, chemistry, and I know not how
much more; in short, a _Blue_ to all intents and purposes. It is
certainly neither more nor less than an anomaly which as yet I am
unable to account for.
The Douglas girls are totally divested of affectation. Whatever
they say or do, is said and done without the slightest reference to
_effect_ farther than this, that the best tact seems to regulate
every word and action. The desire to impart pleasure makes them
sure to please, and the dread of giving pain must, I think, render
it impossible that they should wound one's feelings. Beyond this
limit my cousins know no art. I fancy that I see a half-suppressed
smile curling on your lip, as you exclaim, _mentally_ at least,
"What a revolution! Why here is Howard talking sense like a doctor
of the _Sorbonne_!"
I confess to some very sober thoughts as I jogged on to Lisfarne;
but as I was alone, I had nothing else to do except to muse and
moralize; however, no triumph. I enter a caveat against any manner
of rejoicing. I have not read my recantation, having a just dread
of hasty judgments, and also of old Oliphant: he is the Mordecai
sitting in my gate, and another week at Glenalta may bring out a
very different story.
In four-and-twenty hours Kill-joy will have arrived, and then comes
Sunday, as if at one blow to crush one's spirits to annihilation.
These were my lucubrations _en chemin faisant_, and just as I
reached the hall-door at Lisfarne, the nine-o'clock bell ushered
me in with _eclat_, though as little _hinging_ upon my _entrée_,
as the thunder and lightning which happened to synchronise with
the poor Jew's carousal over a pork steak at Genoa. I was met
at the threshold by Mr. Otway, who smiled a delightful welcome,
and, taking me by both hands, accosted me with, "My dear Howard,
I am heartily glad to see you at Lisfarne, and not the less so,
because you are _punctual_. You should have had your breakfast
at _any_ hour; but I love to see young people recollective." I
did not think it exactly _honest_ to appropriate this compliment
of the old school to myself, as I certainly never deserved it in
all my life, and therefore expressed my happiness at not having
kept him waiting; but _handed_ over to Emily the whole merit of
Cindarillaship in this my first visit at Lisfarne.
"Emily is a charming creature," answered mine host, "but that
is nothing wonderful at Glenalta, where such a mother presides.
Howard, you have the good fortune to reckon amongst your nearest
relations, a little group whose virtues would save the universe
from destruction, were the divine vengeance to over-take a guilty
world, as in days of yore.--How do you like your aunt and cousin?"
"Extremely, were I to judge by what I have seen; but we are new to
each other, and they are very kind in excusing all the blunders
which a man wholly unused to retirement is liable to make in a
circle where a much higher standard of moral feeling prevails than
that which governs what we call 'the world.'"
Mr. Otway looked benignly at me, saying, "Come, we must not get
into a discussion now; you deserve your breakfast, and shall not
be interrupted." And a capital breakfast we had.
A beautiful Newfoundland dog lay at his master's feet; a fine
tortoise-shell cat purred upon the back of his arm-chair; and the
windows were presently assailed by an army of supplicants in the
shape of the finest pea-fowls that I ever saw.
"See what it is, Arthur, to be an old batchelor! I am obliged to
keep my affections from becoming stagnant, you find, by practising
them upon all these birds and beasts which you perceive are my
companions as well as pensioners." After feeding the numerous
host, we sallied from the breakfast-parlour, and Phil. escorted me
to his study, a most comfortable apartment, and well lined with
books. He has a beautiful collection of the classics, all the best
modern works of science, and a rich assortment of history and
_Belles Lettres_. While I was glancing over this, he pointed to
a compartment in the far end of the room, desiring me to examine
its contents. "There I keep my novels, reviews, and magazines; for
you know, that 'all work and no play would make Jack a dull boy;'
and as I suppose that you do not intend to read yourself into a
consumption while you stay at Glenalta, I give you a letter of
credit on whatever amusement these shelves can supply." In this
Poets' Corner I found Scott's works, both in prose and verse;
several other modern novels of good name; and all the early poems
of Lord Byron. "I perceive," said I, "Mr. Otway, that you have
not yet completed your set of Byron's works; you have not got Don
Juan, nor--" "Nor never shall, my young friend," answered the sage
of Lisfarne. "I cannot prevent people who have money to buy and
inclination to peruse, from reading these works; but they shall
not find them in _my_ library." "Then, sir, you are, I presume, of
opinion that one cannot separate the poison from the poetry, and
avoid imbibing the one, while we enjoy the exquisite beauty of the
other."
"No, my dear boy; these are idle notions. Wherever vice is an
ingredient in any compound so mingled as to seize upon the
passions, or delight the imagination, the draught will always be
injurious more or less. Even those minds of finer mould than we
commonly meet with, will not escape, though they hate the contact,
they cannot shun its defilement; and that which is impure, must
sully whatever it touches." "Well, I should have supposed that good
taste would protect a man of refined education. In fact, such a
man rejects whatever is coarse, and simply vicious: he reads Lord
Byron, not _because_ of his occasional deviations from religion and
morality; but in _spite_ of them he admires the splendid genius who
of all modern writers best understands, if I may so express myself,
the metaphysics of the human heart, while every man of feeling must
lament the shipwreck of such talents. The broad-cast pollution
which is necessary to season a mess for vulgar palates, _must_
be pernicious in the highest degree; but I confess I have never
felt in the same way of those _polished_ compositions which are
only read by people of superior attainment, and who are fortified
against evil by knowledge of the world."
"Alas, Howard, these are nice distinctions, and lead but to
delusion. Our morals are much like a taper lit at each extremity,
they are consuming at both ends. You talk of coarse messes,
seasoned to the taste of vulgar appetite: believe me, it is a
melancholy fact, that there are cooks who undertake to cater
for nicer stomachs, and who know how to insinuate their poisons
with such skill as to secure the custom of all who are not proof
against their temptation. That number, I fear, is small; and as to
the difference between vice well and ill dressed, you will find
that it is about the same with that which distinguishes Tilburina
stark mad in white satin, from her confidante stark mad in white
linen. Amongst the mal-contents of the present day, you hear the
complaint continually repeated, that there is one law for the rich,
and another for the poor: the charge is unfounded, and, generally
speaking, _known_ to be so by the men who bring it forward. It
will neither do to have two sets of laws, nor of _morals_, in any
country. The tendency of all ranks in the community is to imitate
those who are placed above them; and this aspiring inclination is
to be traced from the lowest grade in society, till having reached
the throne, you can rise no higher. The self-same rule applies to
religion. I was glad to hear you say yesterday at Glenalta that
you felt the absolute necessity of its influence in a state for
the preservation of order and virtue; and that you considered
women as the natural guardians of its altars. This is all right;
but you are egregiously mistaken if you suppose that women will,
generally speaking, take pains to nurture and cherish what is
despised by the other sex. There are a few, and very few, such
beings as your aunt, who appear to have dropped into our planet
from some happier sphere, and who adjust their principles of action
to a model of abstract perfection, with which common-place mortals
are unacquainted. Such beings only think of how to please God; but
the mass of men and women dress themselves daily in the mirror of
each other's approbation, and act reciprocally on each others'
characters. Let one sex degenerate, it matters not which, you will
find the other follow in the downward course."
"But, my dear sir, these authors whom you decry, do not _create_
vice, they only _exhibit_ it; and though I do not advocate the
practice, yet after all it would seem that men need not be
much worse for _reading_, than for hearing and seeing what is
exceptionable. If infidelity and immorality were only propagated
by books, your argument against such writers as Lord Byron would
be unanswerable. But allow me to say, that the Bible itself,
in the strongest terms, insists on the depravity of the human
species, and offers the most flagrant illustrations in proof of
human delinquency. The hardness of heart, and unbelief of man,
are frequently held up to view in Holy Writ; and what does a
Rochefaucauld in prose, or a Byron in verse, do more than represent
things as they _are_?"