Short is the sequel of the history which is now to be related. The
strong arm of power soon suppressed this partial rebellion. Buchanan
was found stretched in death upon the field of battle, lovely in form
even in that hour.
The Marquis of Delaval, restored to his family and fortune, soon
forgot the lesson adversity had taught. In the same follies and the
same vanities his predecessors had passed their days, he likewise
endeavoured to enjoy the remainder of his. The Duke of Altamonte lived
long enough to learn the mournful truth, which pride had once forborne
to teach, the perishableness of all human strength, the littleness
of all human greatness, and the vanity of every enjoyment this world
can offer. Of Sophia, of Frances, of Lady Dartford, what is there
to relate? They passed joyfully with the thousands that sail daily
along the stream of folly, uncensured and uncommended. Youth, beauty,
and vanity, were theirs: they enjoyed and suffered all the little
pleasures, and all the little pains of life, and resisted all its
little temptations. Lady Mandeville and Lady Augusta Selwyn fluttered
away likewise each pleasureable moment as frivolously, though perhaps
less innocently; then turned to weep for the errors into which they had
been drawn, more humble in themselves when sorrow had chastened them.
Then it was that they called to the flatterers of their prosperous
days; but they were silent and cold: then it was that they looked
for the friends who had encircled them once; but they were not to be
found: and they learned, like the sinner they had despised, all that
terror dreams of on its sick bed, and all that misery in its worst
moments can conceive. Mrs. Seymour, in acts of piety and benevolence,
retired to the Garden Cottage, a small estate the Duke of Altamonte
had settled on her; and she found that religion and virtue, even in
this world, have their reward. The coldness, the prejudice, which,
in the presumption of her heart had once given her an appearance of
austerity, softened in the decline of life; and when she considered
the frailty of human nature, the misery and uncertainty of existence,
she turned not from the penitent wanderer who had left the right road,
and spoke with severity alone of hardened and triumphant guilt. Her
life was one fair course of virtue; and when she died, thousands of
those whom she had reclaimed or befriended followed her to the grave.
As to the Princess of Madagascar, she lived to a good old age,
though death repeatedly gave her warning of his approach. “Can any
humiliation, any sacrifice avail?” she cried, in helpless alarm, seeing
his continual advances. “Can I yet be saved?” she said, addressing
Hoiouskim, who often by a bold attempt had hurried away this grim
king of terrors. “If we were to sacrifice the great nabob, and all
our party, and our followers—can fasting, praying, avail? shall the
reviewers be poisoned in an eminée! shall—” It was hinted to the
princess at length, though in the gentlest manner possible, that this
time, nor sacrifice, nor spell, would save her. Death stood broad and
unveiled before her. “If then I must die,” she cried, weeping bitterly
at the necessity, “send with haste for the dignitaries of the church.
I would not enter upon the new world without a passport; I, who have
so scrupulously courted favour every where in this. As to confession
of sins, what have I to confess, Hoiouskim? I appeal to you: is there
a scribbler, however contemptible, whose pen I feared might one day be
turned against me, that I have not silenced by the grossest flattery?
Is there a man or woman of note in any kingdom that I have not crammed
with dinners, and little attentions, and presents, in hopes of gaining
them over to my side? And is there, unless the helpless, the fallen,
and the idiot, appear against me, any one whom it was my interest to
befriend that I have not sought for and won? What minion of fashion,
what dandy in distress, what woman of intrigue, who had learned to
deceive with ease, have I not assisted? Oh, say, what then are my
sins, Hoiouskim? Even if self-denial be a virtue, though I have not
practised it myself, have I not made you and others daily and hourly
do so?” Hoiouskim bowed assent. Death now approached too near for
further colloquy. The princess, pinching her attendants, that they
might feel for what she suffered, fainted: yet with her dying breath
again invoking the high priest: “Hoiouskim,” she cried, “obey my last
command: send all my attendants after me, my eider down quilts, my
coffee pots, my carriages, my confectioner: and tell the cook—” As
she uttered that short but comprehensive monosyllable, she expired.
Peace to her memory! I wish not to reproach her: a friend more false,
a foe more timid yet insulting, a princess more fond of power, never
before or since appeared in Europe. Hoiouskim wept beside her, yet,
when he recovered (and your philosophers seldom die of sorrow) it is
said he retired to his own country, and shrunk from every woman he
afterwards beheld, for fear they should remind him of her he loved so
well, and prove another Princess of Madagascar. The dead, or yellow
poet was twice carried by mistake to the grave. It is further said,
that all the reviewers, who had bartered their independence for the
comforts and flattery of Barbary House, died in the same year as the
princess, of an epidemic disorder; but of this, who can be secure?
Perhaps, alas! one yet remains to punish the flippant tongue, that
dared to assert they were no more. But to return from this digression.