Heaven first, in its mercy, taught mortals their letters,
For ladies in limbo, and lovers in fetters,
Or some author, who, placing his persons before ye,
Ungallantly leaves them to write their own story.
Pope, imitated.
When Mannering returned to England, his first object had been to
place his daughter in a seminary for female education, of
established character. Not, however, finding her progress in the
accomplishments which he wished her to acquire so rapid as his
impatience expected, he had withdrawn Miss Mannering from the
school at the end of the first quarter. So she had only time to
form an eternal friendship with Miss Matilda Marchmont, a young
lady about her own age, which was nearly eighteen. To her faithful
eye were addressed those formidable quires which issued forth from
Mervyn Hall, on the wings of the post, while Miss Mannering was a
guest there. The perusal of a few short extracts from these may be
necessary to render our story intelligible.
First Extract
"Alas! my dearest Matilda, what a tale is mine to tell! Misfortune
from the cradle has set her seal upon your unhappy friend. That we
should be severed for so slight a cause--an ungrammatical phrase in
my Italian exercise, and three false notes in one of Paesiello's
sonatas! But it is a part of my father's character, of whom it is
impossible to say, whether I love, admire, or fear him the most.
His success in life and in war-his habit of making every obstacle
yield before the energy of his exertions, even where they seemed
insurmountable-all these have given a hasty and peremptory cast to
his character, which can neither endure contradiction, nor make
allowance for deficiencies. Then he is himself so very
accomplished. Do you know there was a murmur half confirmed too by
some mysterious words which, dropped from my poor mother, that he
possesses other sciences, now lost to the world, which enable the
possessor to summon up before him the dark and shadowy forms of
future events! Does not the very idea of such a power, or even of
the high talent and commanding intellect which the world may
mistake for it,--does it not, dear Matilda, throw a mysterious
grandeur about its possessor? You will call this romantic: but
consider I was born in the land of talisman and spell, and my
childhood lulled by tales which you can only enjoy through the
gauzy frippery of a French translation. O Matilda, I wish you
could have seen the dusky visages of my Indian attendants, bending
in earnest devotion round the magic narrative, that flowed, half
poetry, half prose, from the lips of the tale-teller! No wonder
that European fiction sounds cold and meagre, after the wonderful
effects which I have seen the romances of the East produce upon
their hearers."
Second Extract.
"You are possessed, my dear Matilda, of my bosom-secret, in those
sentiments with which I regard Brown. I will not say his memory. I
am convinced he lives, and is faithful. His addresses to me were
countenanced by my deceased parent; imprudently countenanced
perhaps, considering the prejudices of my father, in favour of
birth and rank. But I, then almost a girl, could not be expected
surely to be wiser than her, under whose charge nature had placed
me. My father, constantly engaged in military duty, I saw but at
rare intervals, and was taught to look up to him with more awe than
confidence. Would to Heaven it had been otherwise! It might have
been better for us all at this day!"
Third Extract.
"You ask me why I do not make known to my father that Brown yet
lives, at least that he survived the wound he received in that
unhappy duel; and had written to my mother, expressing his entire
convalescence, and his hope of speedily escaping from captivity. A
soldier, that 'in the trade of war has oft slain men,' feels
probably no uneasiness at reflecting upon the supposed catastrophe,
which almost turned me into stone. And should I show him that
letter, does it not follow, that Brown, alive and maintaining with
pertinacity the pretensions to the affections of your poor friend,
for which my father formerly sought his life would be a more
formidable disturber of Colonel Mannering's peace of mind than in
his supposed grave? If he escapes from the hands of these
marauders, I am convinced he will soon be in England, and it will
be then time to consider how his existence is to be disclosed to my
father--But if, alas! my earnest and confident hope should betray
me, what would it avail to tear open a mystery fraught with so many
painful recollections?--My dear mother had such dread of its being
known, that I think she even suffered my father to suspect that
Brown's attentions were directed towards herself, rather than
permit him to discover their real object; and, oh, Matilda,
whatever respect I owe to the memory of a deceased parent, let me
do justice to a living one. I cannot but condemn the dubious
policy which she adopted, as unjust to my father, and highly
perilous to herself and me.--But peace be with her ashes! her
actions were guided by the heart rather than the head; and shall
her daughter, who inherits all her weakness, be the first to
withdraw the veil from her defects?"
Fourth Extract
"Mervyn Hall.
"If India be the land of magic, this my dearest Matilda, is the
country of romance. The scenery is such as nature brings together
in her sublimest moods;--sounding cataracts-hills which rear their
scathed heads to the sky-lakes, that, winding up the shadowy
valleys, lead at every turn to yet more romantic recesses-rocks
which catch the clouds of heaven. All the wildness of Salvator
here, and there the fairy scenes of Claude. I am happy too, in
finding at least one object upon which my father can share my
enthusiasm. An admirer of nature, both as an artist and a poet, I
have experienced the utmost pleasure from the observations by which
he explains the character and the effect of these brilliant
specimens of her power. I wish he would settle in this enchanting
land' But his views lie still farther north, and he is at present
absent on a tour in Scotland, looking, I believe, for some purchase
of land which may suit him as a residence. He is partial, from
early recollections, to that country. So, my dearest Matilda, I
must be yet farther removed from you before I am established in a
home--And oh how delighted shall I be when I can say, Come,
Matilda, and be the guest of your faithful Julia!
"I am at present the inmate of Mr. and Mrs. Mervyn, old friends of
my father. The latter is precisely a good sort of woman;--ladylike
and housewifely, but, for accomplishments or fancy--good lack, my
dearest Matilda, your friend might as well seek sympathy from Mrs.
Teach'em,--you see I have not forgot school nicknames. Mervyn is
a different--quite a different being from my father; yet he amuses
and endures me. He is fat and good-natured, gifted with strong
shrewd sense, and some powers of humour; but having been handsome,
I suppose, in his youth, has still some pretension to be a beau
garcon, as well as an enthusiastic agriculturist. I delight to
make him scramble to the tops of eminences and to the foot of
waterfalls, and am obliged in turn to admire his turnips, his
lucerne, and his timothy grass.--He thinks me, I fancy, a simple
romantic Miss, with some--(the word will he out) beauty, and some
good nature; and I hold that the gentleman has good taste for the
female outside, and do not expect he should comprehend my
sentiments further. So he rallies, hands, and hobbles (for the
dear creature has got the gout too), and tells old stories of high
life of which he has seen a great deal; and I listen, and smile,
and look as pretty, as pleasant, and as simple as I can, and we do
very well. But, alas! my dearest Matilda, how would time pass
away, even in this paradise of romance, tenanted as it is by a pair
assorting so ill with the scenes around them, were it not for your
fidelity in replying to my uninteresting details? Pray do not fail
to write three times a week at least--you can be at no loss what to
say."
Fifth Extract.
"How shall I communicate what I have now to tell!--My hand and
Heart still flutter so much, that the task of writing is almost
impossible!--Did I not say that he lived? did I not say I would not
despair? How could you suggest, my dear Matilda, that my feelings,
considering I had parted from him so young, rather arose from the
warmth of my imagination than of my heart?--Oh! I was sure that
they were genuine, deceitful as the dictates of our bosom so
frequently are.--But to my tale--let it be, my friend, the most
sacred, as it is the most sincere, pledge of our friendship.
"Our hours here are early--earlier than my heart, with its load of
care, can compose itself to rest. I, therefore, usually take a
book for an hour or two after retiring to my own room, which I
think I have told you opens to a small balcony, looking down upon
that beautiful lake, of which I attempted to give you a slight
sketch. Mervyn Hall, being partly an ancient building--, and
constructed with a view to defence, is situated an the verge of the
lake. A stone dropped from the projecting balcony plunges into
water deep enough to float a skiff. I had left my window partly
unbarred, that, before I went to bed, I might, according to my
custom, look out and see the moonlight shining upon the lake. I
was deeply engaged with that beautiful scene in the Merchant of
Venice, where two lovers, describing the stillness of a summer
night, enhance on each other its charms, and was lost in the
associations of story and of feeling which it awakens, when I heard
upon the lake the sound of a flageolet. I have told you it was
Brown's favourite instrument. Who could touch it in a night which,
though still and serene, was too cold, and too late in the year, to
invite forth any wanderer for more pleasure? I drew yet nearer the
window, and hearkened with breathless attention--the sounds paused
a space, were then resumed--paused again--and again reached my
ear, ever coming nearer and nearer. At length, I distinguished
plainly that little Hindu air which you called my favourite--I have
told you by whom it was taught me--the instrument, the tones, were
his own!--was it earthly music, or notes passing on the wind, to
warn me of his death?
"It was some time ere I could summon courage to step on the
balcony--nothing could have emboldened me to do so but the strong
conviction of my mind, that he was still alive, and that we should
again meet--but that conviction did embolden me, and I ventured,
though with a throbbing heart. There was a small skiff with a
single person--O Matilda, it was himself!--I knew his appearance
after so long an absence, and through the shadow of the night, as
perfectly as if we had parted yesterday, and met again in the broad
sunshine! He guided his boat under the balcony, and spoke to me; I
hardly knew what he said, or what I replied. Indeed, I could
scarcely speak for weeping, but they were joyful tears. We were
disturbed by the barking of a dog at some distance, and parted, but
not before he had conjured me to prepare to. meet him at the same
place and hour this evening.
"But where and to what is all this tending?--Can I answer this
question? I cannot.--Heaven, that saved him from death, and
delivered him from captivity; that saved my father too, from
shedding the blood of one who would not have blemished a hair of
his head, that Heaven must guide me out of this labyrinth. Enough
for lane the firm resolution, that Matilda shall not blush for her
friend, my father for his daughter, nor my lover for her on whom he
has fixed his affection."