which you have afforded me is inexpressible. Two of your admirable
journals reached me at Pisa, and the last treasure I have
received since I came here in company with--whom do you think?
Why, actually, Mr. Richard Oliphant, young Stanhope, and I are
dwelling under the same roof, and enthusiastically employed in
exploring the wonders both within and without this enchanting city.
Stanhope has given Mr. Otway a detailed account of our meeting,
in consequence of a letter from Lisfarne, after your arrival at
Glenalta; and I will therefore not take up your time, nor my own,
in repetition, but proceed to say how greatly pleased I am with my
new acquaintances. Their grand object was Rome, and I determined
to quit Pisa much sooner than was my original design, that I might
enjoy such excellent society. Here then we are together, and,
should no unforeseen circumstances prevent the completion of our
arrangements, I think it likely that we shall not separate hastily,
but visit Florence, and Naples, see Pæstum, go to Venice, and pass
the winter at Paris in company with each other. If _you_ join us
there what a coterie shall we form. I feel now as if I were in
the midst of the Douglas group. I can see the very countenances,
and already make my selections, _even_ in that society where all
are so much to my taste, that it seems at first view difficult to
_prefer_, without doing injustice. From Stanhope I receive the
most satisfactory answers to every question which your _volume_
suggests; and, oh! what happiness it is to know that in any
favoured spot of earth such purity and peace are to be found as
bless that little valley of Glenalta with their presence. In any
situation the contemplation of such a family would possess charms
for me beyond the power of any other pleasure to excite; but if it
required to be heightened through contrast, surely that contrast
is to be met with on the Continent! Yes, to a sober mind, there is
something horrible in the metamorphosis produced in the minds of
some with whom you and I are acquainted. Letters are so frequently
opened at the foreign post-offices, and so often lost, that I shall
be prudent, and not send names out to the winds; however, you will
have no difficulty in recognizing F---- and L---- by their initials;
and, though you are _still_ a wild sort of being yourself, you
will be sorry to hear that they are immersed in every thing at
Paris which they used to withstand so vigorously at Cambridge. We
ranked them there amongst the _élite_, for genius, good taste, and
polished habits. Alas! how are the mighty fallen? The facilitie
afforded in Paris to the commission of every vice, are, perhaps
hardly greater than those which London offers to tempt unwary
youth; but there is all the difference in the world between the
_manner_ of doing the thing in the two capitals. Notwithstanding
the daily intercourse between England and France, there is _still_
such a body of national virtue and good feeling unshaken in the
former country, that the most profligate can hardly sin with
absolute impunity, and vice is scarcely bold enough to throw off
the veil which, however flimsy, still protects some purer eyes from
beholding corruption in all its deformity. Have you ever felt, when
you lingered at a ball till day-light, and the bright beams of a
newly risen sun shone with open freshness on the expiring lamps,
the pale faces, and the tinsel finery of the last night's pageant;
a sort of undefined sensation of shame at being thus caught by
the truth-telling hour of waking seriousness, in the midst of a
scene so unsuited to the time? If you have, I may avail myself of
the similitude to describe the difference which I feel between
England and the Continent. I say Continent at large, for the great
towns are alike in this; ours is a daylight dance, while here
is the nightly revel. With us the clear sunshine of opinion, if
it cannot prevent excess, at least exhibits its faded form and
haggard countenance, pronouncing on their ugliness, and inducing
their concealment. Cross the channel, and a new order of things
presents itself. _Decorum_ is busy indeed, but it is to deceive,
and while the fascination of gaiety and ease presents an opiate to
circumspection, the good taste which borrows an external clothing
of propriety in which to dress the votaries of pleasure, finishes
the delusion, and many young men are not aware of the counterfeit
till they are fast bound in the spell like Telemachus in the island
of Calypso. The French language too, now so universal, is a potent
ingredient in the intoxicating cup. It acts as a _mask_, and since
I left England, I have met with numbers of my countrymen, aye, and
countrywomen also, who say things at Paris in the idiom of another
tongue, which could never find utterance in their own, though no
infringement of decency in _conduct_ would be tolerated publicly
in good society abroad. All this renders foreign travelling a very
insidious poison, and happy are those who can enjoy the benefits
derivable from extensive acquaintance with men and manners, without
risk of confounding the boundaries which separate vice from virtue.
In short, no man is _safe_, upon whom the grand tour produces
other effect than to send him back with increased thankfulness to
the British Isles, as (waving adieu to the shores he has quitted)
he borrows the words of the poet to say, "these are my visits;"
and, turning to the white cliffs of Albion, finishes the line with
"but thou art my home." It would be stupid, however, as well as
ungrateful to deny the witchery, by way of securing either one's
self, or one's friends against its allurements. This device, which
my worthy guardian, I believe, in the honesty of his heart employed
as a bastion of strength to fortify my weakness, will never, in
any case, survive the first shot that experience levels against
it. It is in vain to call the Syren's song discord, to say that
nectar is but extract of wormwood, and Ambrosia but a mess of
Spartan pottage. The first sound, and the first taste, disabuse
the ignorant, adding the stimulus of surprise to what was but too
attractive without it. No, let us fairly acknowledge the magic, and
then try our best to repel its influence. You know that I shall
keep all my _scenery_, whether moral or physical, for fireside
talk, _perhaps_ at Glenalta, and not so much as a moon-beam on the
Coliseum will you have in the way of description, already exhausted
by abler limners than I am; but I cannot avoid adding my testimony
to the charms of foreign society. It is not that it is wiser or
better; it is not that you have better cheer, or one half so good
accommodation as at home. No, the whole necromancy exits in one
monosyllable--ease. In England ease is _practised_; in France it
springs naturally from every one with whom you converse. In England
people are _remembering_ to forget themselves; in France they do
_really_ forget themselves, and in this simple circumstance resides
the whole secret of being _at ease_. In England people _run_ to
shew you how freely they can _walk_, never considering that _ease_,
that grand desideratum, is as much banished by over exertion to
be gay, as by the torpor of _mauvaise honte_. In France there
is neither a _jerking_ activity, nor a leaden stupor, but people
convey the idea, while you are in their company, of being pleased,
interested, and animated, by the subject of conversation. There is
no _acted_ egotism, no effort at making display; and the effect of
an evening passed in a Parisian society is that of gaiety without
fatigue. You have, perhaps, not heard a single sentence that you
desire to treasure; but there has been no _strain_ upon your
animal spirits. You have spoken naturally what really presented
itself to be said, instead of _fishing_ for a theme, and having to
recollect at every turn whether you were going to speak to a man
or a woman. In fine, conversation, however trifling, flows on the
Continent, while with us it resembles _pints_ of water, _chucked_
one after another into a pump. You work the handle, and up comes
your pint, but there is no more till you make a new deposit, and a
fresh exertion. It is unnecessary to add that I speak of _mixed_
society, and of its _average_ state in the two countries. Come to
the sincere intercourse of mind and heart, when the affectations
of fashion are in _abeyance_, or I should more justly say where
they have never existed, and who would go to any climate of the
earth from that in which our happy stars have placed us, to enjoy
"the feast of reason and the flow of soul!" Ireland and Scotland,
remember, are always included in this preference. But we do not
understand _society_, even imitating the French, as we prove,
alas, that we can do continually, in their _faults_, while we
cannot throw off our whalebone and buckram. In France there is
much less of _gossip_ than in England; the King, the Court, the
national prosperity, or distress, the political relations of
Europe, philosophy, sentiment, all find their way broken down to
a convenient circulable medium into company. You hear many false
positions in each several department, but you have likewise a great
deal of good sense and discrimination; and at all events you have
_common property_ in the subjects which are treated in a French
circle, as if they really _interested_ the assembly. Perhaps at
the moment of reading this passage of my letter, you recollect
what _pops_ into my memory in the moment of writing it; I mean
a paragraph upon which you and I commented together, in one of
the letters of Madame du Deffand, where she describes to Horace
Walpole the "_grand succes_" of a _soirée_ at her house, from the
introduction of some paltry New-year or Easter gifts. There is no
inconsistency here. Whether it be the army, the navy, the funds,
Cuvier's last work, La Place's talents, the Jardin des Plantes,
the fashionable actor or musician; the last song, epigram, bon-mot
cap, bonnet or pin-cushion; the thing is talked of with animation,
and apparent _interest_; and it is the want of this that renders
common place society in England so insufferably dull, as often to
suggest the idea that the several members who compose it prepare
for meeting, by committing to memory a set of vapidly disjointed
questions, and answers; a very catechism of inanity upon the least
amusing topics which it is possible to select, and invariably such
as no stranger can participate in from the strict _confinement_
of their locality. Here, men, women, old, young, handsome or
ugly; all who can speak the language, take a part according to
their several measures of ability in the general conversation.
All look happy, and, from being at perfect ease themselves,
possess the power of imparting this indispensable charm, this
_essential essence_ of society, to every one with whom they hold
companionship. Why cannot we seize upon this talent, and convert it
to our own use, grateful as we must ever feel for its enlivening
influence? Our deficiencies in colloquial power have long been
matter of observation; and it is a trite remark, that the English
cannot converse; but as it is admitted that every ingredient
requisite for conversation of the most brilliant kind is to be
found in our island, it would seem that we only want the method of
_combining_, in which our neighbours excel. Your charming circle in
Ireland have caught the happy art, and vainly should we look around
for many such specimens as Glenalta exhibits of its perfection; but
why cannot we all go into company determined to trade freely upon
our capitals, be they large or small, avoiding on the one hand that
_broad-cast_ sincerity which I am afraid I must call selfishness,
that refuses to take interest in any concern which does not come
home to the narrow enclosure of individual loss and gain, pain, or
pleasure; and on the other, that conventional adoption of trifles
incapable of amusing in any community, except a paradise of fools,
with which we are in the habit of performing the _mechanism_ of
society, fatiguing our friends, and doing penance ourselves?
Stanhope is a very fine young man, full of fire and enterprize,
yet gentle and rational. He has a great deal of taste, and is very
fond of the classics. We are going presently, armed with a pocket
Horace, to visit Soracte, accompanied by Oliphant, who is exactly
the sort of man to whose care Mr. Otway may fearlessly confide
his charge. He has very good manners, plain, and unassuming, and
possesses that fortunate mixture of sobriety and cheerfulness,
which peculiarity befits the character of a tutor, securing at once
the double tribute of respect and affection.
How I long for your next letter, which will tell me of your
expedition to Killarney, and, oh that I could transport myself into
the midst of you!
Before I close my letter, I must express the joy of a _true_
friend, at finding that you are so happy with your relations. Dear
Arthur, I _knew_ that your mind would undergo a revolution. It is
only in _progress_ at present, but I anticipate more decision in
all your views of people and things. You have too much sense, and
your feelings are too fine, to admit of your being hood-winked.
You must not drop into the crowd and suffer yourself to be borne
upon its tide, without the slightest sympathy in the folly, and,
shall I add, the _vulgarity_ that surround you. Yes, do not start,
and suppose that I have lost my senses. I repeat the word; there
is infinite _vulgarity_ in mere fashion. Something very poor and
mean, in never daring to think for oneself, and in sacrificing
every inclination and faculty to the tyranny of arbitrary control;
but you will speedily rise into the consequence of a rational
creature. You will take your station amongst intellectual beings,
and, giving reins to the _real_ bent of your character, find
that fulness of mind, which absolutely excludes _ennui_. I cannot
express how much I am interested by the conversations which you
have given me. A volume of description would not have conveyed a
_tithe_ of what you have imparted in the way of information, by
bringing me thus into the midst of the circle. I see the whole
mental _map_ before me, and though it would be unreasonable to
think that you can have time for such details in future, I cannot
set you entirely free; but would fain hope that, coupled with the
"incidents" which are all that you _promise_, henceforward I may
still find a few of those graphic touches which make me present in
that unrivalled group with whom your good fortune has _bound you
up_.
To Mr. Otway I feel that I may desire to be presented with
gratitude for the pleasure of which he has thought me worthy, in
an introduction to my agreeable _colleagues_; but how shall I
contrive to make my bow at Glenalta? If you _can_ find a happy
moment in which to say with a good grace, "_Charles Falkland, Mrs.
Douglas_," you will be more than ever the cherished friend of,
Your affectionate,
C. F----.
P. S. Whenever you visit the city of the Seven Hills, be sure and
come hither provided with "Rome in the nineteenth Century." It is a
tribute which I for one, most willingly pay, to declare this work
of a female pen to be by a thousand degrees the best _vade mecum_
with which you can furnish yourself.
LETTER X.
MISS HOWARD TO ARTHUR HOWARD, ESQ.
Dear Arthur, _London_.
I am so completely _obsedée_ with all that I have to accomplish,
that really you must be very thankful for a letter on any terms at
present. The fact is that _la Madre_ is put into a _flutterment_
by news which we have just had from that old quiz, Mr. Ingoldsby,
of the India House, who says poz, that our ancient uncle is coming
home as rich as Cr[oe]sus. What is bringing him, we know not. No
matter for the cause, the effect is that _Ingot_ (as I always call
him) came here last week _express_ with the intelligence, since
when I could not command five minutes, or you should have had the
_on dit_ on the wings of the wind. At first I felt transformed into
a _begum_, and transported with joy. Shawls, gems, and jewels,
dazzled my senses. I dreamt of lacs of rupees, snuffed otto in
every breeze, and read envy, malice, and all uncharitableness, in
every female face throughout the metropolitan world.
Such was the bright vision of half an hour, when, on the _per
contra_ side of the question a grisly band rose upon my disordered
imagination, and I terrified myself with the bare idea, that
_vielle-cour_ is becoming religious, to such a degree that I had
hardly spirits left for Lady Anne Legrave's "At Home," to which
I was obliged to go in the evening. I told my fears to mamma and
Adelaide. The former said that she would hope the best; but, if the
worst comes to the worst, we must, she says, of course indulge the
whim as long as it lasts. _Ingot_ does not expect him for several
months, so that we may take time by the forelock. Then it may be
only a rumour, and he may be snug at Calcutta; but to make _sure_,
we shall take a few _good books_ down to Selby, and, _per_ favour
of the Morleys and Arundels, and a few more of the "Praise God
Barebones" community, we shall get up a nice vocabulary, and with
the help of a fawn-coloured bonnet, which I shall certainly borrow
from Deborah Prim the grocer, that "demurest of the tabby kind,"
who is of the society called _Friends_, I do not despair of acting
my part _à merveille_.
Mamma is rather _cross_ upon the matter, I think, and _foresees_
trouble; but she is always a bit of a Cassandra; and besides, she
lost horribly the other night at _ecarté_; but for heavens sake
don't say that I told you so.
Adelaide, some how or other too, does not enter into the thing
_con amore_, and is not as much alive as one might expect upon a
point of such magnitude, for though we have at present nothing to
go upon but Ingot's testimony, and our own surmises, the return of
the old lad is a serious sort of concern. If he is in good humour,
and neither sick, nor pious, we are _Nabobs_ and _Nabobesses_ at
once. _C'est tout dit._ If, on the other hand, he has _got the
liver_ (as the Indians say so vulgarly), or has any crotchet in
his head, connected with new-light fantasies, I do assure you that
we may have much vexation in prospect; and unless you just put
yourself in training, and help me out, I do not promise myself any
effective assistance. Our poor mother is, as I said before, in an
acid vein, and will require Cheltenham certainly, when we leave
town; and as to Adelaide, she has other fish to fry, and till the
cookery is performed or the finny race, sent swimming _again from
the net_ (_vous comprenez_); I shall not be able to enlist her in
my pantomime. _Apropos_, Lord George was with us last night, and
protests that his mother shall give a masquerade at which he will
perform the part of our old Rajah, and I shall _rehearse_ my new
character, dressed as a quaker, carrying a basket of _tracts_ on my
arm, and, followed by half a dozen of his sister, Lady Somerville's
children, who are perfect cherubs, and are to enact _my school_.
You can't fancy any thing more _spirituel_. It was quite a
_scene_, and we were decidedly the attraction of the evening. I
was evidently _prima donna_, and felt so _couleur de rose_ with
every thing, and every body, that, forgetful of a quarrel which
I had with _Ady_. in the morning, I caught Lord Crayton by the
arm, and, under pretence of asking his advice how to prepare for
uncle's arrival, gave him such a _teeth-watering_ account of the
old boy's investments in the 3 _per cent. Consols_, that milord
stuck, for the rest of the evening, like bird-lime to my pensive
sister, and almost overturned poor Sir Leonard Twig to _beau_ mamma
down stairs; since when, he has never missed a day in visiting,
riding with our coterie in the park; and in short I shall not be
surprized if, before your return from the _land of darkness_, you
see a paragraph in the Morning Post: but what should bring the
Morning Post into the wilderness? I give myself immense credit for
remembering ever since I performed the Druidical priestess at Lady
Penguin's, and learned my evening's task for the occasion, that
Annan is the Druid's name for your island of saints, and that it
was held to be the dominions of night. It is _so à propos_!
Well, but I was talking of Crayton and Adelaide. If indeed a
London newspaper should meet your eyes while you are suffering
_ostracism_, (I got _such_ credit for that stroke last night) I
verily think it not improbable, that you will stumble ere long,
upon, "It is rumoured in the higher circles, that Viscount Crayton
is shortly to lead to the Hymeneal altar the lovely Miss A.
Howard." What more you may see here-after, I cannot give you a hint
of till you come.
Poor Lionel Strangeways bores me to death with his _petits soins_.
Sir Stephen (that odious name always sets me sneezing) haunts
Grosvenor-square; and Annesley with whom you used to be so _lié_,
and who, begging your pardon, is neither more nor less than _bête_,
worries me to dance wherever I meet him.
Adelaide, Crayton, Lord George, and I, made a _parti quarré_, in
the park yesterday, when we met him quite _en polisson_. He had no
servant, looked _bourgeois_; and though I am not ill-natured as you
_know_, I was obliged to sham blindness, and to pass by without
even a nod. This may cure _him_, and release _me_ from a _blister_.
If he were not nephew to the Duke of Elsbury, there would be no
bearing him; but every one knows the relationship, and therefore
one is _safe_ in acknowledging him, though he is so horribly
disagreeable. Directly after I gave him _the go by_, I recollected
that perhaps he had heard from you since your letter to us of the
5th, and I might have asked how your cough is, but I did not think
of it in time.
The match between Lady J. Marston and Mr. Harrop, ditto between
Miss Percy and Lord Anfield are off, positively off _faute
d'argent_. The old Countess held out for £2,000 a-year settlement,
and Harrop was tied up by his former marriage. It is whispered
that a Scotch coronet _hove in sight_ just before poor H. got his
_congé_; but I don't pledge myself for the truth of this _codicil_
to the story.--I was interrupted here by Lord George and Mr.
Cambray, and have been laughing till I am weary at the best thing
in the world. I told you in a former part of this letter, that I
was in particularly good spirits last night, and made a sally,
in speaking of your banishment. Lord George's "_bravissimo_"
was the signal of applause, but poor Sir Hargrove Miles did not
know the meaning of _ostracism_, and asked some one (I believe
young Felton), who, in a funny mood, told him that I was talking
of oysters. There was a laugh, and some ridiculous things were
said which I did not hear, but Sir Hargrove looked _cloudy_, and
your Marplot friend, Annesley, dreading a meeting in the morning,
_explained_ like a goose, and put him into good humour by allowing
him to turn the joke against me. Poor Sir H. has accordingly been
representing me to-day up and down the whole length of Bond-street
as a _Blue_, and were it not that Lord George is my _chevalier_,
and that _nuncle_ is coming home with a heavy purse, it would not
be so pleasant. As things _are_, I can _afford_ a blue banner,
or, as Lord George says, "We may hoist the _blue Peter_ now if we
like." He is very witty, and I assure you that _our_ society is
considered quite _haut ton_--quite _French_.
I did not intend to have written six lines, and you see how I have
run on. Do, my dear, return to us as quickly as possible: you ought
to be at your _post_ when the old fellow lands on English ground.
_You_ will of course be his principal _look out_, and ought
certainly to _toad_ him a little, especially as he will probably
be very bilious after the voyage. Mamma thinks it likely that the
new light and the bile will be extinguished together, and proposes
being ready at an hour's notice to _whisk_ him off to Leamington;
but should we find that there is any thing so fixed in his
religious derangement as not to give way immediately to the waters,
she says that the worst which can happen is our leaving him for a
time, and going to the continent. He will probably come home after
so long an absence with his heart in his hand, and be as generous
as a prince. If so, we shall get plenty of money to take us abroad,
and thus fare the better for any little _twist_ that he may have
got from received opinions, I do not say from _fashionable_ ways
of thinking; for I observe, that East Indians are never people of
_ton_: they are expensive and luxurious, but want the _je ne sais
quoi_, that inexplicable _odeur de la bonne société_ which marks
the select few in a London circle.
My uncle, in all likelihood, will purchase a magnificent seat,
have a splendid establishment; and as a little time will remove
any quaint prejudices which he may have contracted, he may keep
a first-rate table, and see the best company if he is properly
managed. The _great_ bore will be to watch him so vigilantly as to
prevent his marrying. I am _sure_ that I know at least six regular
sieges that will be commenced against the citadel of his purse,
besides whatever masked batteries may be prepared to take him by
surprise. It must be our care to be his _videttes_, and keep a
strict guard upon the motions of the enemy, giving him notice upon
every approach of danger.
Well, I must go and dress: I hate the Opera, but we are forced to
join a party of Lady Mildmay's, and Lord Clayton will not let us
be off. _Adio mio Caro._ Say something civil to the goodies of the
Glen. What sickly stuff is pastoral life! I yawn as I write the
word. Heaven defend me from your Arcadias! I absolutely shudder
at the notion of a golden age, cool grots, and mountain nymphs.
That milk diet, too, is a sleepy, corpulent sort of thing. You
will loose your _air de noblesse_, and we shall have to put you in
training, and fine you down like a jockey before you are fit to be
seen.
Come quickly. _Bon repos._ _You_ are retiring to your slumbers, no
doubt.
Your mother and Ady said something, I suppose--loves, and so forth,
but I'm not sure.
Yours, ever,
L. HOWARD.
LETTER XI.
GENERAL DOUGLAS TO MR. OTWAY.
My dear old Friend, _Calcutta_.
Were I less acquainted than I am with what was once Edward Otway, I
could not dare to address a line with any hope of being remembered
after the lapse which has occurred since last I wrote to you. I
almost dread to look back and mark the time; I fear too that I
should not advance a very satisfactory apology in declaring that I
have been equally silent to all the European world. I am in this
dilemma. I will therefore make no effort at defence or explanation,
but proceed to tell you my present object in applying to you. A
short time ago I wrote to my old friend Ingoldsby, one of the
East India Directors to the like effect; but it may be prudent
to provide against casualties, and therefore be it known to you,
that with a constitution much shattered through vicissitudes of
climate, and a mind _somewhat_ jaundiced by disappointment, I am
turning my face towards England, which I hope to reach in about
six months after you receive this announcement of my design. Though
I speak of disappointment I am not _poor_; on the contrary I have
amassed more money than enough to secure all the luxuries, as well
as comforts of life, for my remaining term; but I have lived in
banishment from all that ought to have been dear to me; I have lost
my health, seen little but wickedness in my early intercourse with
mankind, and, now arrived at a premature old age, I look on the
past without pleasure, and to the future divested of hope. I have
for some time been determined to return, but found my pecuniary
circumstances in much need of winding up; and having learned,
through sad experience, to distrust the people in whose rectitude
I had principally confided, I resolved on an arduous undertaking,
which was no other than to go myself first to Delhi, and thence
across the country to Bombay, hoping not only to settle my affairs
in the best manner, but to retrieve my health by change of air
and scene. The first object I have in a great measure achieved,
but my liver is deranged, my digestive powers are so impaired
that I almost despair of cure, and my spirits are _gone_. Here
is a sorry picture; but to business. If this should find you in
England, I wish your own taste to be employed, and if you are in
Ireland, that of any friend on whose judgment you can rely, in
the purchase of a snug demesne, well wooded, well watered, and
having a handsome, commodious house, in an airy situation, into
which I may step as soon as possible after landing. As well as I
recollect my own impressions, I liked Hampshire, Staffordshire,
and Warwickshire, better than any other parts of the country,
and I have no objection to go as far as forty or fifty thousand
pounds; it must be fee simple property, and in a rich, cultivated
district. Order whatever furniture you think suitable, and let me
find a travelling carriage, five or six good horses, and a few
servants to begin with.--Dear Otway forgive me if I am giving
you a great deal of trouble; but Ingoldsby is a fixture in town,
and I know so little of my relations, that I am hardly aware to
whom I could give these commissions. The Howards, I conclude, are
flourishing, for I believe that when my poor brother took the
name he got a pretty estate. Of the Douglas family I have lost
sight, and as I have long enjoyed the privilege (no small one I
promise you) of being considered an oddity, I mean to preserve the
character, and choose for myself amongst the people I may meet
with. I _hate_ consanguinity. It is a cursed plague to have a set
of needy folks continually pressing about one, whose claims are
supported by relationship, and whose cares are generally directed
by self-interest. I have lived too long, and seen too much to be
bamboozled, though I do not mean to be uncivil. Poor Henry might
have made a fortune had he taken my advice, and come out to India
according to my suggestion; he was my favourite brother, and I
should have found both pride and pleasure in providing handsomely
for him; but so absurd a marriage as his naturally alienates a
prudent man. Poor fellow! I never answered his letters, and looked
on him as my son; for he was several years my junior, and _felt_
his resistance to my advice. I never saw his wife, nor any of
his children, who have all been born since I came from Europe,
and though I _do_ feel sorry that he died without any act of
reconciliation on my part; though I intend also to settle something
on his family if they are in want; yet I certainly cannot blame
myself for having shewn a well merited resentment at conduct so
highly injurious to himself, and _obstinate_ towards me. It is
all over now, and I may perhaps follow him ere long; yet, while
we _are_ here, it is human nature to deplore _that_ folly which
blights the happiest anticipations in the bud. No man knows the
value of money so well as he who has made it for himself. If you
know where poor Mrs. H. Douglas and her family are, I shall thank
you to let me hear of their retreat, and believe me, my dear Otway,
with best wishes for a happy meeting,
Your very sincere old friend,
FRED. AUBREY DOUGLAS.
END OF VOL. I
PRINTED BY J. B. NICHOLS, 25, PARLIAMENT-STREET