into our councils, and his excellent taste has assisted us not
a little; but dear Phil., Charlotte, Fanny, and Arthur are as
ignorant as mamma, of our necromancy. A beautiful rustic temple
has taken place of the stone seat. It is lined with reeds,
interleaved in a sort of basket-matting, which fits close to
the inside; and the front is supported by pillars of twisted
elm, which are surmounted by capitals of remarkably fine cones
from the stone-pine. These supporters are covered with clematis,
honeysuckle, and roses. A circular seat, equal in softness to any
Ottoman divan, is raised to a convenient height, and covered with
the same reed-matting which I have mentioned. The paving is of
snow-white pebbles, which Collins' little girls have collected for
me on the strand, and the whole Glen has been decorated by every
thing either fragrant or beautiful, which was not out of character
with its wildness. I have trained a number of Alpine plants over
the rocks, and taught the lovely water-lily to unfold its flowers
upon a tiny basin, which Frederick has scooped out, lower down the
stream. We have secured this bower from trespassers, and made a
serpentine path through the tangled brush-wood, to permit the dear
sovereign of these sylvan dominions to descend the hill without
fatigue, and admit of her being brought by Dapple the _second_, up
to the door of her rural palace. When this was completed, we set
to work at Tom Collins' abode, which is now raised and enlarged
into a thoroughly comfortable habitation. A nice cabbage-garden
is inclosed at the back, and the front is thickly planted with
a double hedge of quicks and privet, separating a little space
from the moor, which is filled with sweet, but common flowers. The
family have been set to spin, and are already clothed in their own
manufacture. Frederick has given poor Tom a cow, to which I have
added half a dozen sheep; and such a scene of contentment above,
and of beauty below, it would be difficult to equal: at least so
_we_ think; and when we contemplate the entire as a creation of
our own, Frederick and I certainly do confess to some degree of
self-complacency. But as far as I have hitherto narrated, only
relates to the _body_ of our exertions. I must now describe the
_soul_ of them. In the back part of our rustic temple, is a door
so completely concealed by the matting of reeds, as not to be
discernible to ordinary observers. This door, upon being opened,
discovers a little cell of just sufficient size to admit of one
person's sitting in it without inconvenience. Its furniture
consists of a small pedestal of delicate workmanship in white
marble, upon which Frederick has placed the exquisite urn that
you may remember, of alabaster, found at Pompeïa. It belonged to
my father, and has been kept in a closet, hidden from every eye
since the time of his death. Upon the front of the pedestal which
supports it, we have had engraved the following lines:--
Bless'd refuge of a sad and broken heart,
Soft soothing solitude, thy balm impart;
Come with thy gentle train, thy peaceful rest,
Thy tender stillness to this grief-worn breast.
With thee, how sweet to climb the craggy way,
And o'er these rocky cliffs in silence stray,
In Nature's temple to expand the soul,
While tears distil refreshing as they roll,
What fond deceit the present to beguile,
And bid the shades of past delight to smile.
Call back the dreams of youth, and hope, and love,
And 'mid the dear aërial phantoms rove.
But hush! too sharp that pang, my heart gives o'er,
Invoke the memory of thy bliss no more!
Raise up to heaven thy soul, quit earth, and fly,
Go seek thy refuge in yon azure sky;
Ask mercy's aid to shed celestial light
Upon the dismal gloom of sorrow's night,
And God's own spirits of the mountain air,
Shall waft on high the deep unuttered prayer,
While filial love shall consecrate the scene,
That gave a mother's tears for hope serene.
Immediately behind the urn, which with its pedestal is let into a
niche, is a pretty little arched window of stained glass; and at
the opposite extremity of our Anchorite's cell stands a slab of
Kerry marble, which rests upon a simple cabinet of the beautiful
black oak of the bog which our island furnishes from its _ebony_
stores. When opened, a flat box of polished beech-wood presents
itself, and this serves as a solid portfolio, preserving from damp
an exquisite drawing in pencil, by Frederick, of the large tree
to which you have been already introduced. Underneath the tree,
mamma's lines which we found, are neatly transcribed; and the old
pencil, with its original paper wrapped round it, as when first
discovered in its hiding place, and a pocket Bible, in the first
page of which, after the name of Caroline Douglas, are written
these words; "The prayer of the righteous availeth much," complete
the furniture of this rustic sanctuary.
When Frederick and I went this morning at early dawn, to see that
all was finished according to our design, we found Tom Collins
already there, leaning against one of the pillars, in an attitude
of contemplation. He started from his reverie as we approached, and
twirling his old hat in his hands, resting first upon one foot,
then upon the other, he said, after the usual salutation, "Miss,
dear, I was thinking that you would'nt refuse me, if you plase,
just to let me be standing overright there beyant the big baach,
when my mistress will be coming--I'll engage I'll not let her see a
bit o'me, any more than if I was a sperret, nor I'ont brathe a word
good, or bad, only to set my two looking eyes upon her, when she'll
see the place you done for her." Could such a request fail of being
granted?
This romantic mountaineer is full of the finest sensibilities,
and not perverted, as so much of acute feeling often is, to the
purposes of discontent and ingratitude. Tom is a good husband,
a good son, and a good father. Yet he knows not a letter in the
alphabet.
"What shameful ignorance," I hear you exclaim! Ignorance of
letters it surely is, but not shameful. You, in England, can be
sure of giving your poor a religious education. We cannot! but
some of our peasants _act_ the Bible, which their priests will not
allow them to read; and what benefit would these derive from the
pennyworth of sedition or impurity which they might be permitted to
purchase, and instructed to peruse? With what fresh delight have I
sometimes returned to this dear desert, after having visited some
of the districts _said_ to be civilized when compared with our
neighbourhood!--Oh it is a great mistake to imagine that _reading_
is a cure for every evil, unless the Bible be allowed to offer its
blessed promises, and hold forth its bright meed of reward for
patience in adversity, and resignation under privations, which all
other learning is calculated to reveal in the strongest light,
without affording any means to remedy. The will of God has made
inequality the very essence of every social scheme. No spread of
knowledge can improve the lot of him who must till the ground in
the sweat of his brow, if that knowledge be not of a nature to
make him _better_, and therefore happier; and I never pass by our
smith's forge, which is the parish coffee-house, without hearing
expressions, and seeing looks that mark a murmuring spirit.
The other day I asked an aged peasant, who lives on the lands of
Lisfarne, about fairies; "Did you ever see the _Luracawn_," said
I, "of which people say, that it is a sort of fairy that lives
always by the sea-side, and carries a purse such as we often find
on the strand with strings to it?"
"No, miss, I never did _myself_; but in ould times they used to be
seen plenty enough."
"Then," answered I, "perhaps the truth may be, that the people now
are grown too wise to believe the stories which were swallowed in
old times."
The old man replied, "Miss, there's a great dael o' larning that
is'nt knowledge, and there's more of it than is good, I can assure
you. The people now gets hould o'books, and cares very little about
their parents, who were better folk than many o'_them_ that are
going now a' days."
"Then you don't approve of learning Andrew."--"Why, miss, you might
as well say I don't approve o'my fellow craitures. There's two
kinds o'one as of the other.--Good men and good books, bad men and
bad books. I likes the two first, and I don't like the two last,
and when people gets hould o'larning, the're vastly fonder o'the
bad than the good."
Really these people astonish me by the clearness of their views
and the acuteness of their observations. But before I close
this long letter, I must say a word of Arthur Howard, who is a
great favourite already at Glenalta. Had he been born under a
happier star than that which presided at his birth, he would be a
charming young man, and great improvements may yet be effected,
for he is young and full of generous feeling as of quick tact.
The contrarieties which nature and art sometimes display in
their contest for pre-eminence in his actions, would divert us
excessively, if there were not so much to love and regard in the
compound, that vexation must ever be a predominating sentiment
when he obeys an unworthy impulse. Selfishness is, I believe, the
leading vice of fashionable people; and it must be very difficult
to throw off the habits in which education has taught us that
comfort (that _aldermanic_ little word, as many use it) consists.
The first thought in what is called the world, appears to be,
"is such or such a thing for _my_ pleasure, _my_ interest, _my_
convenience;" and the _last_ is, "whether the matter in question
be useful, or agreeable to other people?" I am now speaking of the
school, not the scholar, for though Arthur has necessarily adopted
_some_ of the folly in the midst of which he has lived, moved, and
had his being, it is astonishing how little the natural tendencies
of his heart are obscured. He came here, as I told you, with very
strong prejudices, but I perceive with delight that they are fading
away; and, I believe, that he thinks less hardly than he did when
he first came amongst us, of female improvement. How could he bask
in the sunshine of mamma's sweet smile, and enjoy the constant
variety of her unrivalled powers in conversation, without feeling
how compatible are the charms of high cultivation with all that
is excellent in private life--all that is fascinating in female
softness?
As I listened eagerly to a dialogue the other day, in which she
was engaged, shedding light and animation upon every subject which
came before her, I could not help thinking, that were amusement
the only object and end of existence, cultivation of mind would
appear, in my opinion, to be an indispensable requisite in the art
of attaining it. The gay world, I suppose has its charms, and may
attract for a season. Change of place, and change of faces, may
please perhaps for a time, but this cannot last for ever, and when
the period arrives in which people _must_ rely upon the resources
of _home_, what an immeasurable distance must there be between the
full mind and the empty one! The very playfulness of a superior
person is so exhilarating that I never grow weary of it; but of all
the tiresome companionships on earth, it is that of animal spirits
in perennial flow, that bear no treasure on the tide. How well Pope
has expressed what I mean! "For lively Dulness ever loves a joke."
I must reserve space for a concluding word after our visit at the
Retreat. Till then adieu.
Well, dear Julia, I feel the repose of my own room most welcome
after the excitement of this day. The sun shone in full splendor
on our project. Last night Frederick and I spoke to mamma of some
trifling alterations that we had been making for the comfort of Tom
Collins and his family, whose little dwelling had suffered much
from the winter storms.
"Yes, my loves," said she, "I am rejoiced that your activity has
anticipated me. Since the death of my poor Dapple, I have not
gone so far as Tom's house, and have been _intending_ a visit to
the mountain, till you have made me ashamed by this lesson on
procrastination. The truth is, that my present _steed_ is so unlike
his predecessor in gait and humour, that he and I are not such
friends as to make me quite at home in his company; and I hate
to have Paddy running after me. My morning rambles were always
solitary, and I should not be at ease now in going alone, till I
am more accustomed to my _new Neddy_, or his temper becomes more
amiable; but all this is no excuse for not having employed other
eyes to see that the Collins' were not unroofed. I wonder why Tom
did not come."
"We happened to see him," said Frederick, "which probably prevented
his applying to you, as Emily and I did the needful; but if
to-morrow should be a fine day, suppose that I drive you and Em.
in the pony car, before breakfast, and we will shew you how we have
patched up these poor people for the present."
Mamma consented, and this morning early we sat out; but my tears
suffocate me at the bare remembrance of my mother's emotion.
She was amazed and delighted with our improvements. The garden,
the hedge, the clean house, and clean people, all appeared the
effect of enchantment. Tom, his wife, and children, grinned with
broad uncontrolled rapture, and overwhelmed the little party with
blessings. When we had praised, and been praised (_such_ praise
warms the heart without enervating its powers), Frederick took
mamma's arm, and said, "You must come, dearest mother, to look at
a dell which Emily and I discovered some time ago, the sweetest
spot that you ever beheld." A faint blush overspread her cheek, and
I perceived a thrill run through her frame. She hesitated, then
hinted that the banks were steep, and that we should be late for
breakfast; but _we_ coaxed, and she evidently not desiring to say
how well she was acquainted with the scene which she was about to
visit, suffered herself to be led forward, I walking behind with a
palpitating heart, down the narrow descent, and poor Tom following
at a discreet distance. As we proceeded, I observed mamma gaze to
the right and the left with amazement; but when our rustic temple
burst upon her eye, the expression of her countenance became
painfully inquisitive. The mysterious door was opened, Frederick
pushed her gently in, closed the wicker-work, and waited with me in
the outer inclosure. We heard her sob aloud, and in a few moments
she was in our arms.
Here I pause. The sweetness of the feeling reciprocally called
forth, would baffle my little powers of language to describe. Is it
not Cora, in the play of Pizarro, who talks of three bright moments
in her life? No moment in any one's life ever surpassed this
expansion of hearts linked by a tie so pure end so affectionate as
binds our's to each other. We sat till breakfast was forgotten.
We looked, and looked again, and when the first swell of painful
pleasure had given way to more tranquil sensations, _we_
architects became garrulous, and in the vanity of success, hurrying
our beloved mother from flower to flower, shrub to shrub, rock
to rivulet, that we might not lose one _atom_, or one _item_ of
applause; and at length so completely communicated the contagion of
_gladness_ to her who had inspired the emotion in ourselves, that
she entered zealously into the idea of surprising the rest of our
party, adding, "I will first come here alone with our dear friend
of Lisfarne, after which we will revisit this beloved retreat in a
body, and enjoy in common the pleasures which you have created." We
were now turning our steps towards Glenalta, when the sight of poor
Tom wiping his eyes in the sleeve of his coat, as he leaned against
the beech-tree, arrested mamma's attention. She went up, shook him
warmly by the hand, and without a word uttered on either side, we
separated.
I am promised a conveyance of this _pamphlet_ rather than letter
by that excellent creature George Bentley, and I am particularly
pleased with the power of sending you so voluminous a packet
by private hand at present, because I may not be able to write
for some time again. We are all going to Killarney. Arthur is an
enthusiast about our Glen scenery, and I enjoy exceedingly the
delight of shewing him that gem of purest water. Some anxiety,
however, is always wisely mingled in our cup, which mamma's promise
to accompany us, would have rendered too intoxicating, and this
anxiety is relating to dearest Fred. whose College examinations
must precede our excursion. He and Mr. Oliphant leave us on
Thursday next, and will only be absent during five or six days. I
cannot sleep from feverish solicitude, though I believe that my
Fred. is very well prepared; but we have so managed this charming
trip to Killarney, that it will either crown our victory, should
such happiness be in store, or divert our melancholy, should the
dear fellow be doomed to suffer a disappointment. Phil. and Mr.
Bentley are to be of our party. Do you know that Arthur is quite
a surprising botanist already; and as I am his _Linnæa_, I am as
proud as a peacock of my pupil. He can now walk without _leading
strings_, and is grown so expert that our rambles are become trials
of rival skill. Well, I must bid my dear friends adieu. With many
loves from Charlotte and Fanny to Bertha and Agnes; and _all_
our loves to your _dearly_ loved aunt, believe me, Julia's most
affectionate,
EMILY DOUGLAS.
LETTER IX.
CHARLES FALKLAND TO ARTHUR HOWARD.
My dear Howard, _Rome_.