Illi mors gravis incubat
Qui notus nimis omnibus
Ignotus moritus sibi.
--Seneca.
Nous serons par nos lois les juges
des ouvrages.
--Les Femmes Savantes.
Vincent called on me the next day. "I have news for you," said he,
"though somewhat of a lugubrious nature. Lugete Veneres Cupidinesque. You
remember the Duchesse de Perpignan!"
"I should think so," was my answer.
"Well then," pursued Vincent, "she is no more. Her death was worthy of
her life. She was to give a brilliant entertainment to all the foreigners
at Paris: the day before it took place a dreadful eruption broke over her
complexion. She sent for the doctors in despair. 'Cure me against to-
morrow,' she said, 'and name your own reward.' 'Madame, it is impossible
to do so with safety to your health.' 'Au diable! with your health,' said
the duchesse, 'what is health to an eruption?' The doctors took the hint;
an external application was used--the duchesse woke in the morning as
beautiful as ever--the entertainment took place--she was the Armida of
the scene. Supper was announced. She took the arm of the--ambassador, and
moved through the crowd amidst the audible admiration of all. She stopped
for a moment at the door; all eyes were upon her. A fearful and ghastly
convulsion passed over her countenance, her lips trembled, she fell on
the ground with the most terrible contortions of face and frame. They
carried her to bed. She remained for some days insensible; when she
recovered, she asked for a looking-glass. Her whole face was drawn on one
side, not a wreck of beauty was left;--that night she poisoned herself!"
I cannot express how shocked I was at this information. Much as I had
cause to be disgusted with the conduct of that unhappy woman, I could
find in my mind no feeling but commiseration and horror at her death; and
it was with great difficulty that Vincent persuaded me to accept an
invitation to Lady Roseville's for the evening, to meet Glanville and
himself.
However, I cheered up as the night came on; and though my mind was still
haunted with the tale of the morning, it was neither in a musing nor a
melancholy mood that I entered the drawing-room at Lady Roseville's--"So
runs the world away."
Glanville was there in his "customary mourning," and looking remarkably
handsome.
"Pelham," he said, when he joined me, "do you remember at Lady--'s one
night, I said I would introduce you to my sister? I had no opportunity
then, for we left the house before she returned from the refreshment
room. May I do so now?"
I need not say what was my answer. I followed Glanville into the next
room; and to my inexpressible astonishment and delight, discovered in his
sister the beautiful, the never-forgotten stranger I had seen at
Cheltenham.
For once in my life I was embarrassed--my bow would have shamed a major
in the line, and my stuttered and irrelevant address, an alderman in the
presence of His Majesty. However, a few moments sufficed to recover me,
and I strained every nerve to be as agreeable and seduisant as possible.
After I had conversed with Miss Glanville for some time, Lady Roseville
joined us. Stately and Juno-like as was that charming personage in
general, she relaxed into a softness of manner to Miss Glanville, that
quite won my heart. She drew her to a part of the room, where a very
animated and chiefly literary conversation was going on--and I, resolving
to make the best of my time, followed them, and once more found myself
seated beside Miss Glanville. Lady Roseville was on the other side of my
beautiful companion; and I observed that, whenever she took her eyes from
Miss Glanville, they always rested upon her brother, who, in the midst of
the disputation and the disputants, sat silent, gloomy, and absorbed.
The conversation turned upon Scott's novels; thence on novels in general;
and finally on the particular one of Anastasius.
"It is a thousand pities" said Vincent, "that the scene of that novel is
so far removed from us. Could the humour, the persons, the knowledge of
character, and of the world, come home to us, in a national, not an
exotic garb, it would be a more popular, as it is certainly a more gifted
work, than even the exquisite novel of Gil Blas. But it is a great
misfortune for Hope that--
"'To learning he narrowed his mind,
And gave up to the East what was meant for mankind.'
"One often loses, in admiration at the knowledge of peculiar costume, the
deference one would have paid to the masterly grasp of universal
character."
"It must require," said Lady Roseville, "an extraordinary combination of
mental powers to produce a perfect novel."
"One so extraordinary," answered Vincent, "that, though we have one
perfect epic poem, and several which pretend to perfection, we have not
one perfect novel in the world. Gil Blas approaches more to perfection
than any other (owing to the defect I have just mentioned in Anastasius);
but it must be confessed that there is a want of dignity, of moral
rectitude, and of what I may term moral beauty, throughout the whole
book. If an author could combine the various excellencies of Scott and Le
Sage, with a greater and more metaphysical knowledge of morals than
either, we might expect from him the perfection we have not yet
discovered since the days of Apuleius."
"Speaking of morals," said Lady Roseville, "do you not think every novel
should have its distinct but, and inculcate, throughout, some one
peculiar moral, such as many of Marmontel's and Miss Edgeworth's?"
"No!" answered Vincent, "every good novel has one great end--the same in
all--viz. the increasing our knowledge of the heart. It is thus that a
novel writer must be a philosopher. Whoever succeeds in shewing us more
accurately the nature of ourselves and species, has done science, and,
consequently, virtue, the most important benefit; for every truth is a
moral. This great and universal end, I am led to imagine, is rather
crippled than extended by the rigorous attention to the one isolated
moral you mention.
"Thus Dryden, in his Essay on the Progress of Satire, very rightly
prefers Horace to Juvenal, so far as instruction is concerned; because
the miscellaneous satires of the former are directed against every vice--
the more confined ones of the latter (for the most part) only against
one. All mankind is the field the novelist should cultivate--all truth,
the moral he should strive to bring home. It is in occasional dialogue,
in desultory maxims, in deductions from events, in analysis of character,
that he should benefit and instruct. It is not enough--and I wish a
certain novelist who has lately arisen would remember this--it is not
enough for a writer to have a good heart, amiable sympathies, and what
are termed high feelings, in order to shape out a moral, either true in
itself, or beneficial in its inculcation. Before he touches his tale, he
should be thoroughly acquainted with the intricate science of morals, and
the metaphysical, as well as the more open, operations of the mind. If
his knowledge is not deep and clear, his love of the good may only lead
him into error; and he may pass off the prejudices of a susceptible heart
for the precepts of virtue. Would to God that people would think it
necessary to be instructed before they attempt to instruct. 'Dire
simplement que la vertu est vertu parce qu'elle est bonne en son fonds,
et le vice tout au contraire, ce n'est pas les faire connoitre.' For me,
if I was to write a novel, I would first make myself an acute, active,
and vigilant observer of men and manners. Secondly, I would, after having
thus noted effects by action in the world, trace the causes by books, and
meditation in my closet. It is then, and not till then, that I would
study the lighter graces of style and decoration; nor would I give the
rein to invention, till I was convinced that it would create neither
monsters of men nor falsities of truth. For my vehicles of instruction or
amusement, I would have people as they are--neither worse nor better--and
the moral they should convey, should be rather through jest or irony,
than gravity and seriousness. There never was an imperfection corrected
by portraying perfection; and if levity or ridicule be said so easily to
allure to sin, I do not see why they should not be used in defence of
virtue. Of this we may be sure, that as laughter is a distinct indication
of the human race, so there never was a brute mind or a savage heart that
loved to indulge in it." [Note: The Philosopher of Malmesbury express a
very different opinion of the origin of laughter, and, for my part, I
think his doctrine, in great measure, though not altogether--true.--See
Hobbes on Human Nature, and the answer to him in Campbell's Rhetoric.]
Vincent ceased.
"Thank you, my lord," said Lady Roseville, as she took Miss Glanville's
arm and moved from the table. "For once you have condescended to give us
your own sense, and not other people's; you have scarce made a single
quotation."
"Accept," answered Vincent, rising--
"'Accept a miracle instead of wit.'"