time the tranquillity of the finest weather, appeared to be gathering
over our heads. Dark clouds were driven impetuously over the clear sky,
and the refreshing coolness of the atmosphere was changed to a close and
overpowering heat. Matilda looked up in admiration--Emily in alarm;
Sensibility was thinking of a landscape--Sense of a wet pelisse. “This
would make a fine sketch,” said the first. “We had better make haste,”
said the second. The tempest continued to grow gloomier above us: we
passed a ruined hut, which had been long deserted by its inhabitants.
“Suppose we take refuge here for the evening,” said Morris. “It would be
very romantic,” said Sensibility. “It would be very disagreeable,” said
Sense. “How it would astonish my father!” said the heroine. “How it
would alarm him!” said her sister.
As yet we had only observed distant prognostics of the tumult of the
elements which was about to take place. Now, however, the collected fury
of the storm burst at once upon us. A long and bright flash of
lightning, together with a continued roll of thunder, accompanied one of
the heaviest rains that we have ever experienced. “We shall have an
adventure!” cried Matilda. “We shall be very late,” observed Emily. “I
wish we were a hundred miles off,” said the one hyperbolically. “I wish
we were at home,” replied the other soberly. “Alas! we shall never get
home to-night,” sighed Sensibility pathetically. “Possibly,” returned
Sense dryly. The fact was that the eldest of the sisters was quite calm,
although she was aware of all the inconveniences of their situation; and
the youngest was terribly frightened, although she began quoting poetry.
There was another and a brighter flash, another and a louder peal: Sense
quickened her steps--Sensibility fainted.
With some difficulty, and not without the aid of a conveyance from a
neighbouring farmer, we brought our companions in safety to their
father’s door. We were of course received with an invitation to remain
under shelter till the weather should clear up; and of course we felt no
reluctance to accept the offer. The house was very neatly furnished,
principally by the care of the two young ladies; but here again the
diversity of their manners showed itself very plainly. The useful was
produced by the labour of Emily; the ornamental was the fruit of the
leisure hours of Matilda. The skill of the former was visible in the
sofa-covers and the curtains, but the latter had decorated the
card-racks and painted the roses on the hand-screens. The neat little
bookcases, too, which contained their respective libraries, suggested a
similar remark. In that of the eldest we observed our native English
worthies--Milton, Shakespeare, Dryden, and Pope; on the shelves of her
sister reclined the more effeminate Italians--Tasso, Ariosto,
Metastasio, and Petrarch. It was a delightful thing to see two amiable
beings with tastes so widely different, yet with hearts so closely
united.
It is not to be wondered at that we paid a longer visit than we had
originally intended. The conversation turned, at one time, upon the late
revolutions. Matilda was a terrible Radical, and spoke most
enthusiastically of tyranny and patriotism, the righteous cause, and the
Holy Alliance: Emily, however, declined to join in commiseration or
invective, and pleaded ignorance in excuse for her indifference. We
fancy she was apprehensive of blundering against a stranger’s political
prejudices. However that may be, Matilda sighed and talked, and Emily
smiled and held her tongue. We believe the silence was the most
judicious; but we are sure the loquacity was the most interesting.
We took up the newspaper. There was an account of a young man who had
gone out alone to the rescue of a vessel in distress. The design had
been utterly hopeless, and he had lost his life in the attempt. His fate
struck our fair friends in very different lights. “He ought to have had
a better fortune,” murmured Matilda. “Or more prudence,” added Emily.
“He must have been a hero,” said the first. “Or a madman,” rejoined the
second.
The storm now died away in the distance, and a tranquil evening
approached. We set out on our return. The old gentleman, with his
daughters, accompanied us a small part of the way. The scene around us
was beautiful; the birds and the cattle seemed to be rejoicing in the
return of the sunshine, and every herb and leaf had derived a brighter
tint from the rain-drops with which it was spangled. As we lingered for
a few moments by the side of a beautiful piece of water, the mellowed
sound of a flute was conveyed to us over its clear surface. The
instrument was delightfully played: at such an hour, on such a spot, and
with such companions, we could have listened to it for ever. “That is
George Mervyn,” said Morris to us. “How very clever he is!” exclaimed
Matilda. “How very imprudent,” replied Emily. “He will catch all the
hearts in the place!” said Sensibility, with a sigh. “He will catch
nothing but a cold!” said Sense, with a shiver. We were reminded that
our companions were running the same risk, and we parted from them
reluctantly.
After this introduction we had many opportunities of seeing them; we
became every day more pleased with the acquaintance, and looked forward
with regret to the day on which we were finally to leave so enchanting a
neighbourhood. The preceding night it was discovered that the cottage of
Mr. Lowrie was on fire. The destructive element was soon checked, and
the alarm quieted; but it produced a circumstance which illustrated, in
a very affecting manner, the observations we have been making. As the
family were greatly beloved by all who knew them, every one used the
most affectionate exertions in their behalf. When the father had been
brought safely from the house, several hastened to the relief of the
daughters. They were dressed, and were descending the stairs. The
eldest, who had behaved with great presence of mind, was supporting her
sister, who trembled with agitation. “Take care of this box,” said
Emily: it contained her father’s title-deeds. “For Heaven’s sake
preserve this locket!” sobbed Matilda; it was a miniature of her mother!
We have left, but not forgotten you, beautiful creatures! Often, when we
are sitting in solitude, with a pen behind our ear and a proof before
our eyes, you come, hand in hand, to our imagination! Some, indeed,
enjoin us to prefer esteem to fascination--to write sonnets to
Sensibility, and to look for a wife in Sense. These are the suggestions
of age; perhaps of prudence. We are young, and may be allowed to shake
our heads as we listen!
MR. LOZELL’S ESSAY ON WEATHERCOCKS.
“Round he spun.”--BYRON.
We have a great respect for a Weathercock! There is something about it
so springy, so sprightly, and, at the same time, so complying and so
accommodating, that we are not ashamed to confess that we have long
taken it for our model. It changes sides perpetually, yet always
preserves one unvaried elevation; it is always in motion, yet always
remains the same. We could look at a Weathercock for hours!
To us, however, it has another charm, independent of its intrinsic good
qualities. Its name, not less than its character, recalls to our
recollection a family which is entitled, in the highest degree, to our
esteem; of which we should never cease to think, even if our memory were
not daily sharpened by the little remembrancer, which is at once their
namesake, their crest, and their model.
The family of the Weathercocks is one of considerable antiquity. The
first of the name, whom we find distinguishing himself in any
extraordinary degree, is Sir Anthony Weathercock of Fetherly,
Staffordshire; who changed his party seven times during the unfortunate
dissensions between the houses of York and Lancaster. And this he
contrived to do with so much tact, that he was a considerable gainer by
his six first defections. By his seventh he certainly sustained a
trifling loss--he lost his head!
It is a well-known observation, that the descendants of surpassingly
great men are often either blockheads or idiots. The present instance
certainly affords us an exemplification of the truth of the remark. The
successor of this genuine Weathercock was a poor weak fellow, who had no
more idea of turning to the rightabout, without compulsion, than he had
of breakfasting without beef. Upon his refusing to deliver up the castle
of Nounhame to the celebrated Warwick, he was besieged, compelled to
surrender, and immediately hung up upon the gates of the fort, to learn
to behave like his forefathers.
The religious prosecutions which followed the union of the White and Red
Roses afforded fresh opportunity for the manifestation of the merits of
the Weathercocks. Theirs was almost the only family of any note in
England which did not lose one or other of its members from the
indiscriminate fury of superstition. The head of the house appears to
have embraced as many religions, and more wives, than Henry himself; and
a younger branch is said to have been, within a week, a serving-man in
the train of Gardiner and a clerk in the household of Cranmer. But we
are forgetting that we and our friends live in 1821, and that we shall
weary the patience of our reader by tracing those dry historical facts
_ab ovo_.
The Weathercock family, or rather that branch of it with which we are at
present concerned, resides on a large and productive estate in
Leicestershire. We have spent much time with them, and have had several
opportunities of studying their peculiar merits. Their mansion affords a
perfect college for mutability; everything is kept in readiness to be
destroyed or refitted, removed or replaced, at a minute’s warning. It is
quite delightful to see how new fashions of furniture come in and go
out; how the faces of the servants are continually altered; how the
hour of meals, the regulation of the parterres--in short, the whole
system of domestic economy is always subjected to some new ephemeral
arrangement, which must soon give way to another equally new and equally
ephemeral. To us, we say, this is delightful. But one seldom finds two
tastes alike. Many pronounce the Weathercocks to be quite crazed; and
many decide that “they are mighty good kind of people, but have very odd
whimsies!”
The disposition for change, which is inherent in the family, has
produced very strange effects upon their place of residence. The house
was originally a good stout old-fashioned house, remarkable for nothing
but the antiquity of its pictures and the size of its dining-hall. But
its name and character have shifted considerably since it came into the
possession of my worthy friends. It has been alternately a Hall, an
Abbey, a Castle, and a Lodge; nay, during the life of the late Sir
Adonis Weathercock, it became, for a few months, a Cottage. The
proprietor, however, in this instance, gave up his design before it had
affected anything beyond the windows. The mansion bears more permanent
marks of its other metamorphoses. On one side it has the square turrets
and battlements of the feudal system; on another, the flowery-pointed
arch of a Gothic cathedral. One of the owners of the place thought
proper to sink a moat round his habitation; but he afterwards filled it
up, and converted it into a circular gravel walk. Another had a fancy
for erecting some solid Doric pillars; he, doubtless, much improved
their appearance, by placing upon them a beautiful Chinese veranda.
Similar observations are suggested by an inspection of the interior of
the building. You may almost read a history of two or three centuries in
the reliques of their manners which are scattered in every apartment.
War has been carried on with tolerably equal success between Lely’s
portraits, Gainsborough’s landscapes, and Bunbury’s caricatures. A cast
of a Hercules looks somewhat angrily upon a mandarin, who is his next
neighbour; and a timorous Venus maintains her post with great obstinacy,
although her divine presence is invaded by the scaly folds of an
enormous dragon. There are bronzes and Cupids, oaken tables and
mahogany tables, drab papering and crimson papering, high mantelpieces
and low mantelpieces, Dresden china and French china; everything is
superb, everything incongruous, everything unfinished.
The old park has been reduced to the same state. A scrupulous homage has
been paid to every new mode of cultivation; a thousand emendations, and
additions, and improvements have been successively introduced. But it is
easier to plant new customs than to eradicate the old. Lycaon was turned
into a beast, but he retained his old habits of atrocity. Arachne was
transformed into a spider, but she did not forget her spinning. The park
of the Weathercocks has, in like manner, assumed various novel shapes,
without losing the traces of its old ones. At one time it was dressed
out in all the stiff regularity of alleys and arcades; at another, it
was dubbed a “wilderness,” and was immediately laid waste by a terrible
inroad of shrubs and weeds without number. In one part your eye rests
upon the muddy vestiges of an artificial cascade; in another, your foot
stumbles over a heap of rubbish, which has been produced by the
demolition of an artificial ruin. Some people object to these things;
for my part, I own I am delighted with them. They show a proper distrust
of one’s own opinion, a decorous compliance with the unstable will of
the world, an eager spirit of enterprise; in short, they prove that the
Weathercocks have not an ounce of obstinacy in their composition.
Sir Wilfrid Weathercock, the present head of the family, is a cheerful
and hale man, between forty and fifty years of age. He is about the
middle stature, although, upon some occasions, by the affectation of a
fashionable stoop, he appears somewhat dwarfish; while, upon others, by
the assumption of a military gait and a pair of high heels, he bids fair
to be accounted a giant. With a self-denial worthy of a Cincinnatus, he
has avoided all offers of place or pension, all invitations to embark in
public life; he has confined his manifold talents and his extraordinary
versatility to the limits of his own estate. Perhaps, indeed, his
determination, in this respect, may have been a prudent one; for,
although any ministry would have been benefited by the unusual facility
with which Sir Wilfrid would have flown from patriotic speeches to
taxation and gagging bills, from prayers for peace to declarations of
war, from professions of economy to measures of profusion; yet it must
be confessed that his reluctance to remain a minute stationary would
have driven him from one side of the House to the other oftener than is
seemly in a public man. Let it be understood that we speak with all due
deference and respect for the numerous precedents which are to be found
in our English history. Leaving great statesmen to settle this point, we
can only express our opinion that our friend has certainly acted best
for his own comfort, by choosing a quiet privacy, where he may “change
every hour,” undisturbed by the malevolence of envy or the violence of
faction.
His education was, in his youth, sadly neglected. Indeed, his father
fluctuated so long, first between Eton and Westminster, and afterwards
between Cambridge and Oxford, that it is marvellous to me how little
Wilfrid picked up any education at all. He has, however, obtained just
so much learning as enables him to cry up the Greeks and the Latins
alternately, and to flirt with all the nine Muses in succession. He
escaped the fatigue of deliberation in the choice of a profession, by
the death of his father; who left him, in very early life, the heir to
all his fortune, all his friendships, and all his follies. He spent his
first two years upon the estate, occupied in reflections of no very
serious import: such as, whether his coat should be red or green,
whether his hunter should be bay or brown, whether his equipage should
be a barouche or a curricle. So far all was sunshine; but some
tempestuous days were approaching. It was suggested to him that the
ancient family of the Weathercocks ought to have an heir to its honours
and possessions. No evasion would serve; Sir Wilfrid must take a wife.
He was now in a novel and a disagreeable dilemma. In any trifling part
of his domestic economy, in the livery of his servants, in the
arrangement of his dinner-table, in the fashion of his plate, he would
have bowed without a murmur to the decision of his friends; but to
inflict upon himself a wife was a thing so utterly unlooked for and
unprepared for, that Sir Wilfrid paused. He hesitated and decided, and
hesitated again, through three years; at the termination of which he
broke his leg in a fox-chase, grew quiet in consequence, sold his
hounds, and looked out for a wife. Then another perplexity occurred.
Who was to be the happy woman? He could never resolve to make so
invidious a distinction.
“It is very true,” said poor Sir Wilfrid, “that Miss Dormer has a very
fine face, but then I never much admired her nose. I certainly have
always preferred her cousin, although that unfortunate cast of the
eye--well, well, I am a young man, and, as my aunt says, ‘there is no
hurry!’ Miss Rayner is very beautiful, and has such charming dark
hair--I always liked dark hair; yet I don’t know if light is not as
pretty--prettier sometimes, as for instance Miss Chevier’s--only she is
so insipid; I think Lady Mary is more fascinating, but then she is so
terribly satirical. Perhaps her sister would make a better wife--if she
was not such a fool!”
He consulted in this manner with himself for a long time: half the
belles of the county were ready to pull caps for him, but he “prattled
with fifty fair maids, and changed them as oft.” At last, in a fit of
courage, he flung himself at the feet of his chosen one, talked some
rhapsodies, sighed some sighs, and awaited his sentence. The lady was
sorry, very sorry--and she was flattered, highly flattered--and she was
sure, quite sure--it would only be attributed to her own want of
discernment, that she declined the favour, the honour, the distinction,
the---- He heard no more; he hesitated! Should he leave the room?
Yes!--no!--yes! And he escaped as well as he could.
He has continued to this day a bachelor. In spite of all intrigue, all
solicitation, all persecution, he has remained, in this one instance,
obstinate. In all others he is a real Weathercock. He builds cottages,
apparently with no object but pulling them down; and pulls them down,
apparently with no object but that of building them up: he is a Tory one
hour and a Whig the next, and takes in the _Chronicle_ and _Courier_
alternately; he seldom reads more than half a number of a periodical
work, and never wears the same coat above a month. In his conversation
he pursues the same plan--or rather want of plan--
Modo reges atque tetrarchas,
Omnia magna, loquens; modo “sit mihi mensa tripes, et
Concha salis puri, et toga, quæ defendere frigus,
Quamvis crassa, queat ----.”
In short--in manner, in language, in business, and in pleasure, he sets
an admirable example of mutability, which we shall always make it our
study to imitate--especially when we take up our pens.
Of Sir Wilfrid’s nephew and heir we shall here say nothing, as his
character has been elsewhere noticed by another hand, under the name of
Arthur Clavering. We pass on, therefore, to the Baronet’s maiden sister,
Lady Rachel Weathercock, who is nowise deficient in the peculiarities
for which her family is remarkable. Lady Rachel has now attained her
fiftieth year; the caprices and follies of her youth have gradually
subsided; and, in many points, she has become more stationary than a
Weathercock ought to be. Her character, however, is just saved by one
little ingredient, by which a person who is unacquainted with her habits
may be not a little puzzled. Lady Rachel is an inveterate reader, an
inveterate talker, and an inveterate arguer. You might therefore suppose
that few subjects could be started upon which the lady would not ground
a dispute; but it is no such thing. Her ladyship possesses such a
delightful pliability of opinion, that it is hardly possible to differ
from her upon any topic. We have heard her advocate and abuse every
school of painting or poetry in almost immediate succession. She combats
to-day the very opinions she maintained yesterday; yet, upon the first
semblance of a contradiction, she veers round forthwith, and proves
herself a more accommodating antagonist, if possible, than the
Neapolitans. Mr. Oakley was three hours in conversation with her; and
though the burden of his song was No, No, No, he was unable to pick a
quarrel. Like Sir Robert Bramble and Job, “they couldn’t disagree--and
so they parted.”
The only remaining member of the family is Sir Wilfrid’s niece. How
delightful is your mutability, charming Leonora! You are like a
chess-board which is checquered with black and white squares
alternately; or a melodrama, in which the tears of Tragedy are relieved
by the follies of Farce; or a day in April which blends rain with
sunshine, summer with winter; or the _Etonian_, in which the serious is
united with the absurd, and pathos is intermingled with puns. What a
wardrobe must be yours! To-day you assume the costume of the victim
Mary--to-morrow that of the executioner Elizabeth; you put off the
diamonds of the queen for the garland of the peasant, the curls of the
coquette for the veil of the nun. Your voice has a thousand tones; your
lips have a thousand smiles--all of them distinct, yet all of them
engaging! You are always the same, yet always varying; consistent only
in your inconsistency! Be always so! We will build a fane in the most
beautiful region of Fancy, where no two flowers shall wear the same hue,
no two days be of the same length or temperature: light gales shall
breathe from all points of the compass by turns, and clear streams shall
vary their course every hour; stability shall be sacrilege--and Leonora
shall be the Goddess of the Temple.
GOLIGHTLY’S ESSAY ON BLUES.
A FRAGMENT.
Lady Dabble is a True Blue. She is a meddler in literature of every sort
and description. Poetry and prose, pamphlets and plays, sermons and
satires, overtures and odes--all are her hobbies, all are the objects of
her patronage, all are subjects of her harangues. At her house is the
synod held: where criticism and tea are poured out together, where sweet
sugar and sweeter sonnets melt in delicious unison. It is delightful to
spend a few hours at Lady Babble’s _conversazione_. All inferior wits
and witlings flit around her like twinkling stars; while her ladyship,
with her full-moon face--but it strikes us that this is a very old
simile.
Of all Blues we think the Light Blue is our favourite. Mark the
surprising difference which exists between Emilia, the Light Blue, and
her sister Sophia, the Dark Blue. Sophia is a fine vessel, properly
supplied with everything requisite for a long voyage; but a villanous
slow sailer. Emilia is the same vessel, but certainly it has thrown out
a vast quantity of ballast. To speak in plainer language, Sophia talks
learnedly, and puzzles you; Emilia talks learnedly, and amuses you; the
latter sets you a laughing, and the former sends you to sleep. A good
painter will select for his picture only the most agreeable parts of the
landscape which lies before him; a good talker will notice the more
pleasing points of his subject, while he will throw aside the tedious.
But, alas! Emilia will describe a statue, while Sophia is treating of a
finger; and the Light Blue will analyse the “Iliad,” while the Dark Blue
is discussing the Digamma.
Fannia is a fair one, who endeavours to unite the extreme of fashionable
dress with the extreme of unfashionable Blue-ism. Mr. Hodgson made a
vile pun (as usual) when he denominated her a Blue _Belle_.