Il vaut mieux employer notre esprit a supporter les infortunes qui nous
arrivent, qu’a prevoir celle qui nous peuvent arriver.--Rochefoucault.
No sooner had Vincent departed, than I buttoned my coat, and sallied out
through a cold easterly wind to Lord Dawton’s. It was truly said by the
political quoter, that I had been often to that nobleman’s, although
I have not thought it advisable to speak of my political adventures
hitherto. I have before said that I was ambitious; and the sagacious
have probably already discovered, that I was somewhat less ignorant than
it was my usual pride and pleasure to appear. Heaven knows why! but I
had established among my uncle’s friends, a reputation for talent, which
I by no means deserved; and no sooner had I been personally introduced
to Lord Dawton, than I found myself courted by that personage in
a manner equally gratifying and uncommon. When I lost my seat in
Parliament, Dawton assured me that before the session was over, I should
be returned for one of his boroughs; and though my mind revolted at
the idea of becoming dependant on any party, I made little scruple of
promising conditionally to ally myself to his. So far had affairs gone,
when I was honoured with Vincent’s proposal. I found Lord Dawton in his
library, with the Marquess of Clandonald, (Lord Dartmore’s father, and,
from his rank and property, classed among the highest, as, from his
vanity and restlessness, he was among the most active members of the
Opposition.) Clandonald left the room when I entered. Few men in office
are wise enough to trust the young; as if the greater zeal and sincerity
of youth did not more than compensate for its appetite for the gay, or
its thoughtlessness of the serious.
When we were alone, Dawton said to me, “We are in great despair at the
motion upon the--, to be made in the Lower House. We have not a single
person whom we can depend upon, for the sweeping and convincing answer
we ought to make; and though we should at least muster our full force in
voting, our whipper-in, poor--, is so ill, that I fear we shall make but
a very pitiful figure.”
“Give me,” said I, “full permission to go forth into the high-ways and
by-ways, and I will engage to bring a whole legion of dandies to the
House door. I can go no farther; your other agents must do the rest.”
“Thank you, my dear young friend,” said Lord Dawton, eagerly; “thank
you a thousand times: we must really get you in the House as soon as
possible; you will serve us more than I can express.”
I bowed, with a sneer I could not repress. Dawton pretended not to
observe it. “Come,” said I, “my lord, we have no time to lose. I shall
meet you, perhaps, at Brookes’s, to morrow evening, and report to you
respecting my success.”
Lord Dawton pressed my hand warmly, and followed me to the door.
“He is the best premier we could have,” thought I; “but he deceives
himself, if he thinks Henry Pelham will play the jackall to his lion.
He will soon see that I shall keep for myself what he thinks I hunt for
him.” I passed through Pall Mall, and thought of Glanville. I knocked at
his door: he was at home. I found him leaning his cheek upon his hand,
in a thoughtful position; an open letter was before him.
“Read that,” he said, pointing to it.
I did so. It was from the agent to the Duke of--, and contained his
appointment to an opposition borough.
“A new toy, Pelham,” said he, faintly smiling; “but a little longer, and
they will all be broken--the rattle will be the last.”
“My dear, dear Glanville,” said I, much affected, “do not talk thus; you
have every thing before you.”
“Yes,” interrupted Glanville, “you are right, for every thing left
for me is in the grave. Do you imagine that I can taste one of the
possessions which fortune has heaped upon me, that I have one healthful
faculty, one sense of enjoyment, among the hundred which other men are
‘heirs to?’ When did you ever see me for a moment happy? I live, as it
were, on a rock, barren, and herbless, and sapless, and cut off from
all human fellowship and intercourse. I had only a single object left to
live for, when you saw me at Paris; I have gratified that, and the end
and purpose of my existence is fulfilled. Heaven is merciful; but a
little while, and this feverish and unquiet spirit shall be at rest.”
I took his hand and pressed it.
“Feel,” said he, “this dry, burning skin; count my pulse through the
variations of a single minute, and you will cease either to pity me,
or to speak to me of life. For months I have had, night and day, a
wasting--wasting fever, of brain, and heart, and frame; the fire works
well, and the fuel is nearly consumed.”
He paused, and we were both silent. In fact, I was shocked at the fever
of his pulse, no less than affected at the despondency of his words. At
last I spoke to him of medical advice.
“‘Canst thou,’” he said, with a deep solemnity of voice and manner,
“‘administer to a mind diseased--pluck from the memory’--Ah! away with
the quotation and the reflection.” And he sprung from the sofa, and
going to the window, opened it, and leaned out for a few moments in
silence. When he turned again towards me, his manner had regained its
usual quiet. He spoke about the important motion approaching on the--,
and promised to attend; and then, by degrees, I led him to talk of his
sister.
He mentioned her with enthusiasm. “Beautiful as Ellen is,” he said, “her
face is the very faintest reflection of her mind. Her habits of thought
are so pure, that every impulse is a virtue. Never was there a person
to whom goodness was so easy. Vice seems something so opposite to her
nature, that I cannot imagine it possible for her to sin.”
“Will you not call with me at your mother’s?” said I. “I am going there
to-day.”
Glanville replied in the affirmative, and we went at once to Lady
Glanville’s, in Berkeley-square. We were admitted into his mother’s
boudoir. She was alone with Miss Glanville. Our conversation soon
turned from common-place topics to those of a graver nature; the deep
melancholy of Glanville’s mind imbued all his thoughts when he once
suffered himself to express them.
“Why,” said Lady Glanville, who seemed painfully fond of her son, “why
do you not go more into the world? You suffer your mind to prey upon
itself, till it destroys you. My dear, dear son, how very ill you seem.”
Ellen, whose eyes swam in tears, as they gazed upon her brother, laid
her beautiful hand upon his, and said, “For my mother’s sake, Reginald,
do take more care of yourself: you want air, and exercise, and
amusement.”
“No,” answered Glanville, “I want nothing but occupation, and thanks to
the Duke of--, I have now got it. I am chosen member for--.”
“I am too happy,” said the proud mother; “you will now be all I have
ever predicted for you;” and, in her joy at the moment, she forgot the
hectic of his cheek, and the hollowness of his eye.
“Do you remember,” said Reginald, turning to his sister, “those
beautiful lines in my favourite Ford--
‘“Glories Of human greatness are but pleasing dreams, And shadows soon
decaying. On the stage Of my mortality, my youth has acted Some scenes
of vanity, drawn out at length By varied pleasures--sweetened in the
mixture, But tragical in issue. Beauty, pomp, With every sensuality our
giddiness Doth frame an idol--are inconstant friends When any troubled
passion makes us halt On the unguarded castle of the mind.’”
“Your verses,” said I, “are beautiful, even to me, who have no soul
for poetry, and never wrote a line in my life. But I love not their
philosophy. In all sentiments that are impregnated with melancholy, and
instil sadness as a moral, I question the wisdom, and dispute the truth.
There is no situation in life which we cannot sweeten, or embitter, at
will. If the past is gloomy, I do not see the necessity of dwelling upon
it. If the mind can make one vigorous exertion, it can another: the same
energy you put forth in acquiring knowledge, would also enable you
to baffle misfortune. Determine not to think upon what is painful;
resolutely turn away from every thing that recals it; bend all your
attention to some new and engrossing object; do this, and you defeat the
past. You smile, as if this were impossible; yet it is not an iota more
so, than to tear one’s self from a favourite pursuit, and addict
one’s self to an object unwelcome to one at first. This the mind does
continually through life: so can it also do the other, if you will but
make an equal exertion. Nor does it seem to me natural to the human
heart to look much to the past; all its plans, its projects, its
aspirations, are for the future; it is for the future, and in the
future, that we live. Our very passions, when most agitated, are most
anticipative. Revenge, avarice, ambition, love, the desire of good and
evil, are all fixed and pointed to some distant goal; to look backwards,
is like walking backwards--against our proper formation; the mind does
not readily adopt the habit, and when once adopted, it will readily
return to its natural bias. Oblivion is, therefore, an easier obtained
boon than we imagine. Forgetfulness of the past is purchased by
increasing our anxiety for the future.”
I paused for a moment, but Glanville did not answer me; and, encouraged
by a look from Ellen, I continued--“You remember that, according to an
old creed, if we were given memory as a curse, we were also given hope
as a blessing. Counteract the one by the other. In my own life, I have
committed many weak, many wicked actions; I have chased away their
remembrance, though I have transplanted their warning to the future. As
the body involuntarily avoids what is hurtful to it, without tracing the
association to its first experience, so the mind insensibly shuns
what has formerly afflicted it, even without palpably recalling the
remembrance of the affliction. The Roman philosopher placed the secret
of human happiness in the one maxim--‘not to admire.’ I never could
exactly comprehend the sense of the moral: my maxim for the same object
would be--‘never to regret.’”
“Alas! my dear friend,” said Glanville--“we are great philosophers to
each other, but not to ourselves; the moment we begin to feel sorrow, we
cease to reflect on its wisdom. Time is the only comforter; your maxims
are very true, but they confirm me in my opinion--that it is in vain for
us to lay down fixed precepts for the regulation of the mind, so long
as it is dependent upon the body. Happiness and its reverse are
constitutional in many persons, and it is then only that they are
independent of circumstances. Make the health, the frames of all men
alike--make their nerves of the same susceptibility--their memories of
the same bluntness, or acuteness--and I will then allow, that you can
give rules adapted to all men; till then, your maxim, ‘never to regret,’
is as idle as Horace’s ‘never to admire.’ It may be wise to you--it is
impossible to me!”
With these last words, Glanville’s voice faltered, and I felt averse to
push the argument further. Ellen’s eye caught mine, and gave me a look
so kind, and almost grateful, that I forgot every thing else in the
world. A few moments afterwards a friend of Lady Glanville’s was
announced, and I left the room.