THE CHAPLAIN.
In some minds, emotions of joy are always connected with feelings of
benevolence and generosity. Lady Delacour’s heart expanded with the
sensations of friendship and gratitude, now that she was relieved from
those fears by which she had so long been oppressed.
“My dear daughter,” said she to Helena, “have you at this instant any
wish that I can gratify?--Ask any thing you please, the fairy Goodwill
shall contrive to get it for you in a trice. You have thought of a
wish at this moment, I know, by your eyes, by your blush. Nay, do not
hesitate. Do you doubt me because I do not appear before you in the
shape of a little ugly woman, like Cinderella’s godmother? or do you
despise me because you do not see a wand waving in my hand?--‘Ah, little
skilled of fairy lore!’ know that I am in possession of a talisman that
can command more than ever fairy granted. Behold my talisman,” continued
she, drawing out her purse, and showing the gold through the net-work.
“Speak boldly, then,” cried she to Helena, “and be obeyed.”
“Ah, mamma,” said Helena, “I was not thinking of what fairies or gold
can give; but you can grant my wish, and if you will let me, I will
whisper it to you.”
Lady Delacour stooped to hear her daughter’s whisper.
“Your wish is granted, my own grateful, charming girl,” said her mother.
Helena’s wish was, that her mother could be reconciled to her good aunt,
Margaret Delacour.
Her ladyship sat down instantly, and wrote to Mrs. Delacour. Helena was
the bearer of this letter, and Lady Delacour promised to wait upon this
excellent old lady as soon as she should return to town.
In the meantime her ladyship’s health rapidly improved under the skilful
care of Dr. X----: it had been terribly injured by the ignorance and
villany of the wretch to whom she had so long and so rashly trusted. The
nostrums which he persuaded her to take, and the immoderate use of opium
to which she accustomed herself, would have ruined her constitution, had
it not been uncommonly strong. Dr. X---- recommended it to her ladyship
to abstain gradually from opium, and this advice she had the resolution
to follow with uninterrupted perseverance.
The change in Lady Delacour’s manner of life, in the hours and the
company that she kept, contributed much to her recovery.[9] She was no
longer in continual anxiety to conceal the state of her health from the
world. She had no secret to keep--no part to act; her reconciliation
with her husband and with his friends restored her mind to ease and
self-complacency. Her little Helena was a source of daily pleasure; and
no longer conscious of neglecting her daughter, she no longer feared
that the affections of her child should be alienated. Dr. X----, well
aware that the passions have a powerful influence over the body, thought
it full as necessary, in some cases, to attend to the mind as to the
pulse. By conversing with Lady Delacour, and by combining hints and
circumstances, he soon discovered what had lately been the course of
her reading, and what impression it had made on her imagination.
Mrs. Marriott, indeed, assisted him with her opinion concerning _the
methodistical books_; and when he recollected the forebodings of death
which her ladyship had felt, and the terror with which she had been
seized on the night of Mrs. Freke’s adventure, he was convinced that
superstitious horrors hung upon his patient’s spirits, and affected her
health. To argue on religious subjects was not his province, much less
his inclination; but he was acquainted with a person qualified by his
profession and his character ‘to minister to a mind diseased,’ and he
resolved on the first favourable opportunity to introduce this gentleman
to her ladyship.
One morning Lady Delacour was complaining to Belinda, that the books in
the library were in dreadful confusion. “My lord has really a very fine
library,” said she; “but I wish he had half as many books twice as well
arranged: I never can find any thing I want. Dr. X----, I wish to heaven
you could recommend a librarian to my lord--not a chaplain, observe.”
“Why not a chaplain, may I ask your ladyship?” said the doctor.
“Oh, because we had once a chaplain, who gave me a surfeit of the whole
tribe. The meanest sycophant, yet the most impertinent busy-body--always
cringing, yet always intriguing--wanting to govern the whole family, and
at the same time every creature’s humble servant--fawning to my lord
the bishop, insolent to the poor curate--anathematizing all who differed
from him in opinion, yet without dignity to enforce the respect due
to his faith or his profession--greedy for preferment, yet without a
thought of the duties of his office. It was the common practice of
this man to leap from his horse at the church door on a holiday, after
following a pack of hounds, huddle on his surplice, and gabble over
the service with the most indecent mockery of religion. Do I speak with
acrimony? I have reason. It was this chaplain who first led my lord to
Newmarket; it was he who first taught my lord to drink. Then he was _a
wit_--an insufferable wit. His conversation after he had drank was
such as no woman but Harriot Freke could understand, and such as few
_gentlemen_ could hear. I have never, alas! been thought a prude, but in
the heyday of my youth and gaiety, this man always disgusted me. In one
word, he was a buck parson. I hope you have as great a horror for this
species of animal as I have?”
“Full as great,” replied Dr. X----; “but I consider them as monsters,
which belonging to no species, can disgrace none.”
“They ought to be hunted by common consent out of civilized society,”
said Lady Delacour.
“They are by public opinion banished from all rational society; and your
ladyship’s just indignation proves, that they have no chance of being
tolerated by fashion. But would it not allow such beings too much
consequence, would it not extend their power to do mischief, if we
perceived that one such person could disgust Lady Delacour with the
whole race of chaplains?”
“It is uncommon,” replied her ladyship, “to hear a physician _earnest_
in the defence of the clergy--and a literary philosophic physician too!
Shall we have an eulogium upon bishops as well as chaplains?”
“We have had that already,” replied Dr. X----. “All ranks, persuasions,
and descriptions of people, including, I hope, those stigmatized by the
name of philosophers, have joined in admiration of the bishop of St.
Pol de Leon. The conduct of the real martyrs to their faith amongst
the French clergy, not even the most witty or brutal sceptic could
ridicule.”
“You surprise me, doctor!” said Lady Delacour; “for I assure you that
you have the character of being very liberal in your opinions.”
“I hope I am liberal in my opinions,” replied the doctor, “and that I
give your ladyship a proof of it.”
“You would not then persecute a man or woman with ridicule for believing
more than you do?” said Lady Delacour.
“Those who persecute, to overturn religion, can scarcely pretend to more
philosophy, or more liberality, than those who persecute to support it,”
said Dr. X----.
“Perhaps, doctor, you are only speaking popularly?”
“I believe what I now say to be true,” said Dr. X----, “and I always
endeavour to make truth popular.”
“But possibly these are only truths for ladies. Doctor X---- may be such
an ungallant philosopher, as to think that some truths are not fit for
ladies. He may hold a different language with gentlemen.”
“I should not only be an ungallant but a weak philosopher,” said Dr.
X----, “if I thought that truth was not the same for all the world
who can understand it. And who can doubt Lady Delacour’s being of that
number?”
Lady Delacour, who, at the beginning of this conversation, had spoken
guardedly, from the fear of lowering the doctor’s opinion of her
understanding, was put at her ease by the manner in which he now spoke;
and, half laying aside the tone of raillery, she said to him, “Well,
doctor! seriously, I am not so _illiberal_ as to condemn _all_ chaplains
for one, odious as he was. But where to find his contrast in these
degenerate days? Can you, who are a defender of the faith, and so forth,
assist me? Will you recommend a chaplain to my lord?”
“Willingly,” said Dr. X----; “and that is what I would not say for a
world of fees, unless I were sure of my man.”
“What sort of a man is he?”
“Not a buck parson.”
“And I hope not a pedant, not a dogmatist, for that would be almost
as bad. Before we domesticate another chaplain, I wish to know all his
qualities, and to have a full and true description of him.”
“Shall I then give you a full and true description of him in the words
of Chaucer?”
“In any words you please. But Chaucer’s chaplain must be a little
old-fashioned by this time, I should think.”
“Pardon me. Some people, as well as some things, never grow
old-fashioned. I should not be ashamed to produce Chaucer’s parish
priest at this day to the best company in England--I am not ashamed to
produce him to your ladyship; and if I can remember twenty lines in his
favour, I hope you will give me credit for being a sincere friend to the
worthy part of the clergy. Observe, you must take them as I can patch
them together; I will not promise that I can recollect twenty lines _de
suite_, and without missing a word; that is what I would not swear to do
for His Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury.”
“His Grace will probably excuse you from swearing; at least I will,”
said Lady Delacour, “on the present occasion: so now for your twenty
lines in whatever order you please.”
Doctor X----, with sundry intervals of recollection, which may be spared
the reader, repeated the following lines:
“Yet has his aspect nothing of severe,
But such a face as promised him sincere.
Nothing reserved or sullen was to see,
But sweet regards, and pleasing sanctity,
Mild was his accent, and his action free.
With eloquence innate his tongue was arm’d,
Though harsh the precept, yet the preacher charm’d;
For, letting down the golden chain from high,
He drew his audience upwards to the sky.
He taught the Gospel rather than the law,
And forced himself to drive, but loved to draw.
The tithes his parish freely paid, he took;
But never sued, or curs’d with bell and book.
Wide was his parish, not contracted close
In streets--but here and there a straggling house.
Yet still he was at hand, without request,
To serve the sick, and succour the distressed.
The proud he tamed, the penitent he cheer’d,
Nor to rebuke the rich offender fear’d.
His preaching much, but more his practice wrought,
A living sermon of the truths he taught.”
Lady Delacour wished that she could find a chaplain, who in any degree
resembled this charming parish priest, and Dr. X----promised that he
would the next day introduce to her his friend Mr. Moreton.
“Mr. Moreton!” said Belinda, “the gentleman of whom Mr. Percival spoke,
Mrs. Freke’s Mr. Moreton?”
“Yes,” said Dr. X----, “the clergyman whom Mrs. Freke hanged in effigy,
and to whom Clarence Hervey has given a small living.”
These circumstances, even if he had not precisely resembled Chaucer’s
character of a benevolent clergyman, would have strongly interested
Lady Delacour in his favour. She found him, upon farther acquaintance, a
perfect contrast to her former chaplain; and he gradually acquired such
salutary influence over her mind, that he relieved her from the terrors
of methodism, and in their place substituted the consolations of mild
and rational piety.
Her conscience was now at peace; her spirits were real and equable, and
never was her conversation so agreeable. Animated with the new feelings
of returning health, and the new hopes of domestic happiness, she
seemed desirous to impart her felicity to all around her, but chiefly
to Belinda, who had the strongest claims upon her gratitude, and the
warmest place in her affections. Belinda never made her friend feel the
weight of any obligation, and consequently Lady Delacour’s gratitude
was a voluntary pleasure--not an expected duty. Nothing could be more
delightful to Miss Portman than thus to feel herself the object at once
of esteem, affection, and respect; to see that she had not only been
the means of saving her friend’s life, but that the influence she had
obtained over her mind was likely to be so permanently beneficial both
to her and to her family.
Belinda did not take all the merit of this reformation to herself: she
was most willing to share it, in her own imagination, not only with Dr.
X----and Mr. Moreton, but with poor Clarence Hervey. She was pleased to
observe that Lady Delacour never omitted any occasion of doing justice
to his merit, and she loved her for that generosity, which sometimes
passed the bounds of justice in her eulogiums. But Belinda was careful
to preserve her consistency, and to guard her heart from the dangerous
effect of these enthusiastic praises; and as Lady Delacour was now
sufficiently re-established in her health, she announced her intention
of returning immediately to Oakly-park, according to her promise to Lady
Anne Percival and to Mr. Vincent.
“But, my dear,” said Lady Delacour, “one week more is all I ask from
you--may not friendship ask such a sacrifice from love?”
“You expect, I know,” said Miss Portman, ingenuously, “that before the
end of that time Mr. Hervey will be here.”
“True. And have you no friendship for him?” said Lady Delacour with
an arch smile, “or is friendship for every man in the creation,
one Augustus Vincent always excepted, prohibited by the statutes of
Oakly-park?”
“By the statutes of Oakly-park nothing is forbidden,” said Belinda, “but
what reason--”
“Reason! Oh, I have done if you go to reason! You are invulnerable to
the light shafts of wit, I know, when you are cased in this heavy armour
of reason; Cupid himself may strain his bow, and exhaust his quiver
upon you in vain. But have a care--you cannot live in armour all your
life--lay it aside but for a moment, and the little bold urchin will
make it his prize. Remember, in one of Raphael’s pictures, Cupid
creeping into the armour of the conqueror of the world.”
“I am sufficiently aware,” said Belinda, smiling, “of the power of
Cupid, and of his wiles. I would not brave his malice, but I will fly
from it.”
“It is so cowardly to fly!”
“Surely prudence, not courage, is the virtue of our sex; and seriously,
my dear Lady Delacour, I entreat you not to use your influence over my
mind, lest you should lessen my happiness, though you cannot alter my
determination.”
Moved by the earnest manner in which Belinda uttered these words, Lady
Delacour rallied her no more, nor did she longer oppose her resolution
of returning immediately to Oakly-park.
“May I remind you,” said Miss Portman, “though it is seldom either
politic or polite, to remind people of their promises,--but may I
remind you of something like a promise you made, to accompany me to Mr.
Percival’s?”
“And would you have me behave so brutally to poor Lord Delacour, as to
run away from him in this manner the moment I have strength to run?”
“Lord Delacour is included in this invitation,” said Miss Portman,
putting the last letter that she had received from Lady Anne Percival
into her hands.
“When I recollect,” said Lady Delacour, as she looked over the letter,
“how well this Lady Anne of yours has behaved to me about Helena, when
I recollect, that, though you have been with her so long, she has not
supplanted me in your affections, and that she did not attempt to detain
you when I sent Marriott to Oakly-park, and when I consider how much for
my own advantage it will be to accept this invitation, I really cannot
bring myself, from pride, or folly, or any other motive, to refuse it.
So, my dear Belinda, prevail upon Lord Delacour to spend his Christmas
at Oakly-park, instead of at Studley-manor (Rantipole, thank Heaven! is
out of the question), and prevail upon yourself to stay a few days for
me, and you shall take us all with you in triumph.”
Belinda was convinced that, when Lady Delacour had once tasted the
pleasures of domestic life, she would not easily return to that
dissipation which she had followed from habit, and into which she had
first been driven by a mixture of vanity and despair. All the connexions
which she had imprudently formed with numbers of fashionable but
extravagant and thoughtless women would insensibly be broken off by
this measure; for Lady Delacour, who was already weary of their company,
would be so much struck with the difference between their insipid
conversation and the animated and interesting society in Lady Anne
Percival’s family, that she would afterwards think them not only
burdensome but intolerable. Lord Delacour’s intimacy with Lord Studley
was one of his chief inducements to that intemperance, which injured
almost equally his constitution and his understanding: for some weeks
past he had abstained from all excess, and Belinda was well aware, that,
when the immediate motive of humanity to Lady Delacour ceased to act
upon him, he would probably return to his former habits, if he continued
to visit his former associates. It was therefore of importance to break
at once his connexion with Lord Studley, and to place him in a situation
where he might form new habits, and where his dormant talents might be
roused to exertion. She was convinced that his understanding was not so
much _below par_ as she had once been taught to think it: she perceived,
also, that since their reconciliation, Lady Delacour was anxious to
make him appear to advantage: whenever he said any thing that was worth
hearing, she looked at Belinda with triumph; and whenever he happened to
make _a mistake_ in conversation, she either showed involuntary signs of
uneasiness, or passed it off with that easy wit, by which she generally
knew how “to make the worse appear the better reason.” Miss Portman
knew that Mr. Percival possessed the happy talent of drawing out all the
abilities of those with whom he conversed, and that he did not value men
merely for their erudition, science, or literature; he was capable of
estimating _the potential_ as well as _the actual range_ of the mind. Of
his generosity she could not doubt, and she was persuaded that he would
take every possible means which good nature, joined to good sense, could
suggest, to raise Lord Delacour in his lady’s esteem, and to make that
union happy which was indissoluble. All these reflections passed with
the utmost rapidity in Belinda’s mind, and the result of them was, that
she consented to wait Lady Delacour’s leisure for her journey.