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To a refined and sensible people, —says Mr. Rousseau,—instruction can only be offered in form of a novel. The English are a refined and sensible people; and I desire to instruct them in the best manner possible. Indeed, the mode of instruction by novels, is become as prevalent as Mr. Rousseau himself could have wished; and, to all who think in his elegant manner, will be irrefragable proof of my beloved country being, whatsoever may become of our politics, the first of nations, for refinement and sensibility.
Whether reviewers are graver than the rest of mankind; whether they do not accord to the abovementioned sentiment of John James; or whether they do not think us yet sufficiently refined and sensible; it is certain the whole corps, una voce, exclaim against this favor'd species of composition. Some, I believe, because they think, les Sages, les Marivaux, the Fieldings, the Smollets, are dead and buried, and will not rise again; others, because novels, as novels, do poison the minds of young ladies; and young ladies do poison young gentlemen; and so there is danger of an universal sanies, from this corrupted and corrupting cause. But I humbly opine, that boarding schools, where young ladies go to learn to dress and behave, and where they do learn to dress with vanity, and behave with pride, may at least claim an equal share in this business of corruption.
It is true, and it is pity; but it must be owned, there are books called novels, and it is probable I am increasing the number, which would weary the patience of German or Dutch reviewers. Our gentlemen, might with reason complain of their tristes calendoe, those sad days when they were obliged to labour through them, if they were obliged; but surely, here, if any where, it may be allowed them to catch the eel of science, by the tail.
It is not now—as in the days of good Queen Ann—when none read, but those who could read. Except the wives and daughters of country labourers, all women read now, or seem to read. Whether fairy tales or novels, be the mental food most meet for a moiety of our reading ladies, I do not determine; but since, as I presume by the demand, their choice falls upon the latter—I remember what the great king of Prussia said upon a sort of similar occasion:—If my loving subjects chuse to be damned, I give them my permission.—So, if my pretty country women will read nonsense, I am not a man to bar them so reasonable a liberty; and I hope the reviewers will henceforward, grant them the same indulgence.
Upon a serious consideration of the foregoing premises, smit with the love of fame, and having weighed my own abilities in the accurate balance, which authors generally use upon such occasions, I ventured to assume the pen. For fame is fame; whither it arise from the delicate whisper of the well judging few, or the loud roar of the many. Kings have been known to prefer the latter. So has John Wesley. Why not I?
When I had gotten together a competent aggregate, I submitted it to the inspection of a lady of taste, who reads all novels, and has more to say in their praise, than reviewers. She returned my manuscript with this compliment: I thank you, sir, for the perusal; but it by no means answers my expectation.
"Pray ma'am," said I, with an odd sort of trepidation; for authors have delicate nervous systems, and I felt mine rather deranged; "pray ma'am—what a—are your—objections?"
"You call it a novel," answered she. "No, sir—it is not a novel. A novel should have plot. You have no plot. Character—but character is not your forte. Incident—you have indeed a few small incidents, but weak, and by no means of the right sort. Of the marvellous—nothing. Of distress —why you have absolutely no distress that deserves the name. And for love!—oh, I promise you, your twenty thousand fair readers will not thank you for the lessons you have given them on that subject."
"Pray, madam," said I, humbled to the dust, "if it is not a novel, what is it?"
"Really," answered she, "it is totally out of my power to solve that enigma. It is, I believe, what naturalists call a non-descript. However, if you will print, don't mind the title. Leave it to the reviewers to give your book a name; they will do it—depend upon it."
To the reviewers then, with all humiliation of spirit, I commit it; hoping they will condescend to tell us, as soon as may be convenient—
WHAT IT IS.
That a deviation from virtue is a deviation from happiness, divines have always taught; yet men will not believe; for there are still deviations from virtue. As far as my own experience reaches, I can aver the truth of this first of moral maxims, which cannot be too often inculcated. I have friends who deny its universality. I have others who are assured of it; and who, for the benefit of the universe, have put into my hands the papers whence I have extracted the following true history. Which without farther preface, begins thus;
The family of the Paradynes is very ancient in England. Walter Erdolf Paradyne held of Henry the second in capite; and having delivered up one of the king's castles when nothing was left in it to eat, the monarch ordered him into close custody in the castle of Winchester. Alice, his wife, paid this gracious king ten marks, to be with her husband one night. Those were the times when kings were considerate, and attentive to the wishes of the subject.
When the antiquity of a family is once established, it seldom renders any very material service to it to enquire why the original honours were bestowed, or how supported; satisfied, therefore, with having built upon a solid foundation, the right of looking down upon the common herd; I pass over from the reign of Henry the second to that of George the third, without taking the trouble to make comparisons.
As a country gentleman, the late Sir Jeffery Paradyne must have been in some estimation. His estate was large; he was oeconomical, without avarice; and his tenantry were flourishing. He was in the house many years; always endeavoured to distinguish the right from the wrong in a question; and when he could perform this arduous operation to his own satisfaction, always voted for this right; although he had married the sister of Lord Auschamp; who never fluctuated in his opinions; was always the firm friend of administration; and took all complaisant pains to instruct his ill-informed brother-in-law.
Lady Mary Paradyne had little fortune, and was therefore under the necessity of setting a very high value upon rank. It was troublesome to Sir Jeffery, to the country ladies, and even to Lady Mary herself. I speak of the routine of etiquette which it induced. Sir Jeffery would sometimes endeavour to break it; but never had the happiness to render his lady less perverse by the attempt. Not that she was perverse in all her ways. She brought Sir Jeffery three sons and a daughter, charming children, and so properly brought up, that they seldom laughed at papa and mama, or ventured to make mouths, till they were at a reasonable distance.
Whatsoever might be the portion of Sir Jeffery's happiness, it was terminated very prematurely by a fatal accident. The Drogheda, from Dublin to Holyhead, was lost in a storm, and all on board perished. The principal of the unfortunate passengers were Sir Jeffery and his two eldest sons, returning from Ireland, where the baronet had improveable estates.
I do not pretend to describe the affliction of Lady Mary Paradyne; one may judge of its excess by its consequences. The first quarter, Lady Mary resolved to pass in silence. In the second, she would allow herself to speak, provided any kind friend would indulge her in the language of sorrow. Cards were absolutely to be interdicted during this immense portion of widowhood. In the third quarter they might be allowed to appear, for the comfort of her condoling friends, but not her own. No—the world should not bribe her to touch them till the last period of widowhood; if, even then, she should be able to endure them.
Those who know what cards and ladies are, will be amazed at the astonishing effects of so common a cause, for husbands die daily; and what ladies are found so deficient in true piety, not to bear the dispensations of Providence with due resignation? But it was not the simple death of Sir Jeffery and her sons which afflicted Lady Mary so inordinately; it was the manner of it. Had it happened in bed, after a year's substantial sickness, I dare say, lady Mary would have been governed by the milder laws which fashion has in that case made and provided.
I cannot speak of the grief of Miss Paradyne in the same terms. She was only in her nineteenth year, not yet much initiated in ton, and knew to grieve only as nature taught her. She loved her father and brothers; the rose died upon her cheeks; her appetite was lost; her amusements were no longer amusements; her breast was oppressed with an uncommon sense of weight, and her hours wasted in weariness and languor. Disposed nearly in the same manner, were the feelings of Mr. George, now Sir George Paradyne, a student at Oxford. A strong addiction to science had hitherto been his guard against libertinism, without having weakened the social affections. He felt his loss; and was little inclined to admit the rich succession he became heir to, as an alleviation.
When he arrived at Dennington, he found himself more disposed to a soft sympathy with his sister, than to adopt the mode of sorrow Lady Mary had chosen. It was their duty, however, to endeavour to comfort their mother; it was a vain endeavour. Lady Mary could not support the idea of comfort. It absolutely enraged her, and she actually broke her determined silence in the very first week of her widowhood, in order to chastise the presumption of two unnatural children, who could suppose her capable of entertaining so preposterous an idea.
Sir George Paradyne, now in his twenty-first year, had been designed for the church, had subscribed to the thirty-nine articles, which he perfectly understood, that is, as perfectly as those who made them; and was upon the point of declaring his call to the ministry by the holy spirit, when the news of this family misfortune reached him. It was not till three months after, he could resume this divine consideration; and then he perceived clearly his call was gone; and that the spirit had quite abandoned him— so hard is it for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven.
In a month, the family removed to London, Lady Mary conceiving the metropolis wanted an example such as hers; and her son an instructor, like the Earl of Auschamp. The Earl would willingly have undertaken the entire guardianship of his nephew, with all its appendages; but by Sir Jeffery's last will, made many years before his melancholy catastrophe, he had given this guardianship of all the minors of the family to Mr. James Paradyne, his brother.
Mr. James Paradyne was a plain country gentleman, and an honest, though not perhaps very sagacious, justice of the peace. In the language of the last half century, he was a jolly hale hearty fellow, kept fox hounds, loved his bottle, had no objections to a pretty girl in the dark; but had the wisdom to take warning by his elder brother; and keep out of the matrimonial precincts.
Lady Mary Paradyne never could bear the untutored manners of her brother-in-law, and contrived to shew her contempt of him so many ways, that he became an entire stranger at Dennington-hall. This contempt he returned as oft' as opportunity offered, so that the lady and the gentleman soon conceived as cordial a hatred for each other as ever need to disgrace humanity.
Mr. Paradyne was much bent upon opposing the journey of his wards to town; and of consigning Lady Mary over to her, jointure and jointure-house. The nephew made pious and even learned remonstrances against it without effect. The gentle and smiling entreaties of his engaging niece were the sole powers capable of changing the direction of a will, unaccustomed to find any impediment to its resolutions.
Lord Auschamp had the mortification to find Sir George a most indocile scholar in the great school of politics. He never could make him comprehend that great political truth, that power is always right; and the consequent necessity of supporting government in all its motions. So untractable was his pupil in these particulars, so obstinate in opposition, that the smiling politeness of Lord Auschamp would sometimes give way to angry conceptions; and suffer him to be surprised into very uncourtly language.
On the other hand, Sir George, warm with the ideas of Greece and Rome, began to suspect that his uncle was little of a statesman and less of a patriot; that his morals were versatile; and his manners affected. So he determined to confine his reverence to the exterior respect due to the brother of his mother, but by no means to consider him as a model for himself.
Something of this was perceptible to Lord Auschamp, who knowing the force of early impressions, and the importance Sir George might be of to him in his political capacity; communicated his opinions to Lady Mary. That gentle sister concurred with her brother in thinking it expedient Sir George should travel. "Abroad, Lord Auschamp said, he will learn a little more implicit obedience, and correct the errors of his academic education."
Sir George assented to the proposal willingly; for over and above the pleasures the idea of travelling presents to youthful minds, the temper of Lady Mary made it a difficult task to him to treat her with all the attention and respect her maternal relation demanded.
Mr. Paradyne consented also, because, as he said, Lady Mary would make the boy a beau and a milksop; and Lord Auschamp would make him a jacobite. It is true, this did not demonstrate the accuracy of Mr. Paradyne's ideas, but fully denoted their tenor.
Nothing therefore remained but to seek a tutor worthy of so important a trust. Many were sound and rejected. It was his lordship's department, as he was a courtier, to examine their morals; her ladyship's, as she was a lady, their manners, and Sir George, with all the sapience of twenty years and a half, undertook the article of wisdom.
Lady Mary was so attentive to this important office, that she rejected five successive candidates. Lord Auschamp only three. I believe I ought rather to say three were rejected for want of virtue, moral or political; five for want of grace. Not that either of these polite inquisitors thought it necessary to inquire whether the candidate had a few private vices more or less; but Lord Auschamp thought, true virtue was to love one's king, and to support his ministers; whilst Lady Mary thought the perfection of human nature, was taste in dress and elegance of deportment. In short, the difficulty of choice was so great, that it is probable none would ever have been made, had not chance, or what we are pleased to call so, determined Sir George to make his own election.
One Mr. Lagray, a mathematical instrument maker, had got into the king's bench prison for certain failures of payment; occasioned, as he afterwards assured Sir George, by the misfortune of having Lords for customers. He was a very honest man, his scales were very exact, and he had a very pretty daughter, who being of French extraction, had a great deal of French freedom and vivacity.
Sometimes Sir George amused himself in Mr. Lagray's workshop; sometimes in Miss Lagray's parlour. He had too tender a heart to bear to see Miss Lagray weep. He had also, for he was yet young in the world, money, liberality, and compassion. Would nature, if it is her business, but give the two latter, wherever fortune is pleased to bestow the former, it is inconceivable how this single circumstance would change, all for the better, the moral face of this our globe. At least, this was the opinion of Epictetus; I answer for nothing.
Sir George went to the king's bench prison to confer with Mr. Lagray, who having proved, that had he been possessed of x+y+z pounds, he might still have been making diagonals in his own attic story, Sir George agreed to replace him there. The probability of such an event, being only as one to ninety-seven against it, according to the marquis of Condorcel's moral calculations, it excited the honest mechanic's wonder, almost as much as it excited his gratitude.
Whilst they were standing in a corner of the area, considering the steps necessary to procure Mr. Lagray's freedom, Sir George saw a middle aged gentleman pass by, in company with another, too gaily dressed to be thought an inhabitant of any prison. The first, who had been a prisoner some years, was decently dressed in a plain suit of broad cloth; had an open agreeable face, but tinged with the hue of sickliness; a pensive cast of feature; eyes which indicated intelligence, and a tout ensemble capable of interesting a profound physiognomist in no small degree.
"Once again, sir, I answer no. I can have bread here, sir, bread and peace. What I believe to be wrong, I will not say or write for any man; nor will I owe an obligation to—" was his reply to the gentleman as they passed along; but the close was lost by the distance.
Sir George asked Mr. Lagray if he knew him? Mr. Lagray answered, he knew no more of him than his name, which was Lindsay; and that he was regarded in the prison as a man of nice honour, and active kindness; who never refused pity and comfort to wretchedness, and often found a way to relieve it more substantially.
By the keeper of the prison, Sir George was informed that Mr. Lindsay was the son of a clergyman; and thrown into prison by his father's widow, for a debt of fifty pounds. That he was visited occasionally by respectable people, some of whom had in his hearing solicited leave to pay the debt. That Mr. Lindsay always refused this kindness, saying that it was the demand of malignity, and should not be gratified. That he supported himself by the press, and when he had a superfluity of money, he parted with it to relieve the necessities of those who were most in want. For more particulars he referred him to the lodgings whence the arrest had taken him.
These were in Bloomsbury, at the house of a widow, who burst into tears at the mention of Mr. Lindsay, and spoke of him in terms which increased Sir George's respect for his character.
Repairing the next day to the prison and calling for a room, he sent to request Mr. Lindsay's company; and having an idea (would all men had it) that a person in Mr. Lindsay's situation ought to be treated with peculiar delicacy, began the conversation with an apology for the liberty he had presumed to take; but that his character had inspired him with the desire of soliciting his friendship.
Mr. Lindsay, who knew the world, and did not believe that motives of mere benevolence could induce a young man of Sir George's gay appearance to seek him in prison, answered politely, but with some coldness and reserve.
"Mr. Lindsay, says Sir George, you do right to repress my presumption. Friendship, I know, is not to be had for the mere asking; and yours, I believe, is too valuable to be bestowed upon a man, who may possibly never possess sufficient merit to deserve it. I should have asked your acquaintance only, and left it to time and my own attentions, to procure the whole of my desire."
"You treat me with a candour, sir, replies Mr. Lindsay, which demands an equal return of candour on my part. I cannot suppose a gentleman would descend into a prison with the sole view of adding an unhappy man to the number of his acquaintance. You conceive probably some service I might be able to render you for this condescension."
"So far, Mr. Lindsay, answered Sir George, you are perfectly right."
"It depends then upon the nature of that service, what reply I ought to make."
"Nothing in the world, says Sir George, but to ingraft your knowledge upon my ignorance; your experience upon my want of it."
"Have the goodness to be more explicit."
"Most willingly, answered Sir Geo. You have your misfortunes; so have I, but they happen to be the reverse of yours. You have too much poverty; I have too much wealth. I have just experience enough of the world to know my own danger; just prudence enough to desire to take cautions, against the follies of the age, and my own. I am a minor of family. My relations are looking out for a tutor.
Dare you undertake the task?"
"Indeed I dare not."
"Oh, says Sir George, smiling, you have a competent idea of its nature."
"I have, answered Mr. Lindsay, a competent idea of my own impotence. I have never yet been able to govern myself."
"That indeed, says Sir George, is the most difficult of all government. You'll learn it, as other people do, when you come to three score years and ten. I believe the wise Solomon did not acquire it much before that term. In the mean time, make a few experiments upon other subjects. I offer myself for your first essay."
"If, says Mr. Lindsay, I could believe myself capable of doing you service, this engaging frankness might determine me to try. But it cannot be; a tutor should be well acquainted with the world. I am not so—at least not your world. His mind and body ought to be in habits of activity. Mine is lost. Disgusted with mankind —is it for me to introduce a gentleman into a proper commerce with it? It is your humanity, sir, has betrayed you into this error. It ought to be the part of my integrity to prevent your suffering by the illusion."
"So it is, says Sir George, men draw conclusions.—Hear mine. You have been taught in the great school of adversity, where men best learn prudence, temperance, and fortitude. Now these I have much inclination to learn, but none to go into your school. In short, it was written in the book of fate, that you should buy virtue at the price of affliction, and I should have the benefit of it. And what is it that induces you to quarrel so bitterly with the race of man, oh septuagenary of forty?"
"A long series of distressing sensations."
Of which you are so violently enamoured, that you will not change them for the agreeable tribe."
"Most willingly, sir; but what should change them? shall I no longer find selfish meanness, fraud, cunning, and ingratitude, amongst men? Is there in so small a time, so large an increase of moral virtues, with human kindness at their head?
"Excellent, says Sir George; this is precisely what I want, I love the world too well, especially the fairer part of it. A gentleman of your misanthropic turn will mitigate the violence of this passion. It is through magnifiers I look at the world and its pleasures. You turn the glass the opposite way; who knows, but that by our mutual labours, we may at length construct that catoptric instrument, at which divines and philosophers have been labouring so long, and with so little success— the glass of truth; and see things as they are."
"It does not appear to me, says Mr. Lindsay with a smile, that you want a tutor." "No—replies Sir George. That is the want of my friends, not mine. Lord Auschamp, my uncle, and Lady Mary Paradyne my mother, are for sending me the grand tour; and are looking out for me, one, a guide, who has studied politics under Sir Robert Filmer; the other, who has studied manners under Lord Chesterfield. I am seeking out too—for a gentleman, a scholar and a friend."
"A friend, Sir George? and is it in me you could expect to find one? In a close unsociable contracted heart, shut to pleasure, and unopening even to kindness."
"Oh, replies Sir George, I could find plenty of friends with hearts open to profess, and hands open to receive, the common currency of coffee-houses and taverns. I want friendship a' la mode d' antiquite. I know too it is not an act of volition, and I know the kind of merit I must have to obtain yours. I request permission to try; consent dear Lindsay, to endure the world and me a year or two. Whatsoever be the result, you shall be so far benefited as to be no more exposed to indigence. When you chuse to retire, you shall retire with the means of comfort; or if (smiling) you prefer this splendid and happy mansion to every other, means may be found to reinstate you in it."
"There are, replies Mr. Lindsay, worse prisons than this, with far different names. Compared with the Escurial and Versailles, this is a little world of freedom."
"Oh, you need not, says Sir George, have crossed the seas for a comparison. I am not yet entered at St. James's."
The conversation did not end here. The gentleman dined together, and before they parted, Mr. Lindsay consented to Sir George's request; in consequence of which, the following day he was in possession of his old lodgings, which happened fortunately to be unoccupied.
Sir George, eager in the execution of a scheme, formed by the concurring powers of wisdom and benevolence, proposed Mr. Lindsay on the next day, to Lady Mary, and Lord Auschamp, relating at the same time, the manner in which he became acquainted with him, and dwelling largely on his good sense, his candour, and integrity. Lady Mary was passive; Lord Auschamp desired to see him: Although, says he, I am unable to comprehend how a jail can be a good seminary for tutors—and I, says Lady Mary, suppose the man may do very well to teach boys their letters; but really, Sir George, you have already too much college rust about you.
Lord Auschamp received Mr. Lindsay with great politeness; and after usual civilities said,—I have not the honour to know you, Mr. Lindsay: I have no doubt you may be extremely well qualified for the office of tutor, but I believe it is customary to enquire for certain credentials in such cases; and you are too much a gentleman to be offended with proper precautions.
"If it is character, my Lord, answered Mr. Lindsay, you wish to investigate, I know not how to direct your inquiry: mine is so perfectly unknown, that I am afraid your Lordship cannot be satisfied in that particular."
"My nephew has celebrated your candour, sir—probably with Justice." —Mr. Lindsay bowed.
"Sir George Paradyne, Mr. Lindsay, is a young man of vast fortune, and great political connections. Betwixt the morals that befit a gentleman, and that which is calculated for common life, I make no doubt you distinguish properly."
"I presume your Lordship means manners, not morals."
"Mr. Lindsay, I understand the English language tolerably well.— There is no necessity to suppose I mean any thing but what I say."
"I beg your Lordship's pardon. There may be a commodious morality for the exclusive use of the rich and great; but I own myself unacquainted with it."
"You do not mean to recommend yourself by liberality of idea, I perceive; but let us pass this. Sir George is going to make the grand tour. It is to be wished he may return rather with an enlarged than a diminished affection for his own country."
"As far as depends upon me, my Lord, I shall be attentive to this; nor can the task be difficult. The superiority of his own country, when compared with those he visits, will be so evident, that he must love it the more, the more he compares."
"In what, Mr. Lindsay," asked Lord Auschamp, "do you conceive this superiority to consist?"
"In good laws, my Lord; by which personal liberty is as well secured, and private property as well guarded, as is consistent with civil society."
"These blessings, says Lord Auschamp, we owe to the indulgent family upon the throne; to which I suppose you will think it just to inculcate a peculiar loyalty."
"I hope my Lord, I have the proper sentiments of a subject to this illustrious family; to which all loyalty will be due so long as it continues the faithful guardian and executor of our laws. As to the civil blessings we enjoy, I humbly conceive we owe them to our own good sense and manly exertions; nor do I know that liberty like ours ever flowed, with design at least, from any throne on earth."
"Very well Mr.—a—a—Mr. Lindsay, said my Lord, I believe we need not extend the conversation farther; I see you are perfectly qualified, and if it lies in my way to do you service, depend upon me."
I know not how it is possible to carry politeness higher than it was carried by Lord Auschamp. Unless he conceived himself directly offended by a want of a proper deference to his consequence, he could seldom be brought to say a disagreeable thing. So great a superiority of courtesy have courtiers over the rest of mankind.
Whilst Mr. Lindsey was assuring Sir George, that Lord Auschamp would oppose his schemes with respect to himself; and whilst Sir George was wondering how Lindsay could draw such a presage from a discourse which seemed to promise the contrary, Lady Mary received the following note: "I have conversed with Lindsay, the person on whom Sir George was so lavish in his encomiums. My opinion is, that he is, as your Ladyship justly observed, very well to teach letters to boys, but by no means to introduce into the world the son of Lady Mary Paradyne, and the nephew of the Earl of Auschamp."
It was kind in Lord Auschamp to pay so polite an attention to Lady Mary's observations; and particularly so, because he had not the highest opinion either of Lady Mary's wisdom or temper. But politeness has many causes; one of these is money. Lady Mary had great power over her son. Sir George had great power of accommodation —at his banker's. And some causes had arisen which rendered accommodation highly convenient to Lord Auschamp.
There were but two people in the world who appeared to Lady Mary to be always right,—Lord Auschamp and herself. The late Sir Jeffery indeed, had formerly contested the opinion in both its branches; but her Ladyship supported it with equal firmness and intrepidity, and Sir Jeffery loving peace, had suffered it to pass sub silentio, so that Lady Mary had no apprehension she should ever more hear it controverted.
"Sir George," says she, "my dear, your uncle, Lord Auschamp, does not like Mr. Lindsay."
"But I do, Madam," answered Sir George.
Lady Mary was struck at once with the simplicity and grandeur of the reply. "Eh well—says she— after the astonishment of a minute— what am I to understand by this?"
"Mr. Lindsey, I presume, is designed to be my tutor, not Lord Auschamp's."
"And when, my pretty master, do boys choose their own tutors?"
"I am so near the age of discretion by law, that I think it scarce worth Lord Auschamp's while to trouble himself about me."
"I wish, Sir George, you were at the age of discretion by nature."
"I think I am, madam."
"Young men are apt to make mistakes upon that head."
"I allow it, madam. Granting then my deficiency, is it to Lord Auschamp I am to apply for wisdom?"
"Certainly, sir; where can you apply better?"
"My father's will has directed me to my uncle James."
"The boor. Could it have directed you worse?"
"I own I think it might, madam."
"I wonder where?"
"Excuse me, madam."
"What, Sir George—is it possible you can mean Lord Auschamp?"— Sir George did not answer. "Lord Auschamp despised by his sister's son!"
"Despised, madam! no certainly. I am sensible of the proper respect due to him, and mean to pay it."
"Let me tell you, sir—he is considered as a man of the very first understanding about court."
"It may be so, madam. I have not the honour to know the court."
"But I suppose you know it is the place which all look up to for the highest degrees of understanding and politeness."
"Oh—for politeness, madam;—it is impossible now to look where it is not. An hundred years since, no doubt, the court got it up in a superior manner; but the manufacture has been since so extended, that it is now become a question whether the finest fabric is at St. James's. As to the other article, it was always a question."
"I don't like your Spitalfields wit; and admire your obstinacy, and persisting in error. As to reasoning with you, it is in vain—therefore I desire, to oblige me, you will give up the design of taking Mr. Lindsay as a tutor."
"I obey, madam.—I shall henceforth consider him only as a friend."
"No—I insist upon it you give up his acquaintance."
"I beg you will not think of it, madam; I am engaged to Mr. Lindsay by honour and inclination."
"I don't see what business you have to form acquaintances without my leave. I must have him given up. You take an early opportunity to let me know my authority is gone."
It was Lady Mary's custom, when she got into the strain of declamation, to persist in it a long time with great rapidity of utterance; and it was Sir George's, to hear with respectful silence, and without reply. For the first time in his life, in the midst of a long oration, which had become violent and rather abusive, he rose and making his bow, departed.
Before he was dressed to go out, Lord Auschamp called. Sir George, little disposed for a lecture upon the same topic, heard Lord Auschamp's remarks with more impatience; supported the character of Mr. Lindsay with a degree of warmth very well authorized by the occasion, but by no means agreeable to the pride of his uncle. The language of anger ceases to be polite; and the imperial part of Lord Auschamp's character took the ascendant over the art of the courtier.
Sir George Paradyne had his pride also, too much to bear insult or contempt from any man. He had discernment too, perhaps sharpened by resentment; and began to perceive more and more clearly, that Lord Auschamp was not that prodigious luminary he wished to be thought. It is not indeed always for the benefit of those who shine—especially in courts—to be too deeply appreciated.
Of this new-born spirit of Sir George, Lady Mary formed a prognostic not favourable to the continuance of her authority; and Lord Auschamp began to doubt whether he should draw six new members to the court party next sessions, by the influence of his nephew, or not. As far as politicians can be convinced they have acted wrong, Lord Auschamp was so, in having forgot that dissimulation was the first and greatest quality of a great man; and having in consequence, treated Sir George too much en hauteur.
"This seed of rebellion to paternal and matruelian authority, Lady Mary, says Lord Auschamp, at their next conference, has been sown by that Lindsay. The man has parts; so much the worse. He will the more successfully inculcate his pernicious opinions; opinions calculated to depress the true spirit of allegiance, and change a government one may call divine, into democratic anarchy."
"That is your Lordship's province to judge of, answered Lady Mary. Pray how is the man with regard to elegance and address?"
"Oh—answered Lord Auschamp, who instantly perceived he had not applied his discourse to Lady Mary's ruling ideas—intolerable, my dear; no man had ever less obligation to the graces. My fear is, lest he should inspire Sir George with a notion that bon ton air is useless to a gentleman.
"My dear Lord, says Lady Mary, I never shall be able to endure him."
"I am confident your ladyship never will. One way or other they must be separated. I will think of it. In the mean time, it may be proper that you should take no notice of it to Sir George at present. The young man is irritable, and the too free laws of this country will support him in disobedience. We must be cautious. I must confess, too peremptory a tone lost us America."
"So well know ministers and ministerial coadjutors the road of
secret intelligence, that in three days Lord Auschamp was provided with
some respecting Mr. Lindsay, of immense importance as a dernier resort.
But as it is the fashion—for all things have fashion—not now to use
force 'till influence fails, Lord Auschamp prepared to try his
influence once more, and putting on his aspect of ceremony, began thus:
"I flatter myself, Sir George, I need not make use of many words to
convince you that I have your interest sincerely at heart, or that I
have any motive for giving my advice but your own good. You are of an
ancient family, have large property, and may aspire to the first
honours of the state. Your education however, has not been
correspondent to your prospects, and I fear, the defect is not to be
amended by taking Mr. Lindsay as a tutor. I do not mean that Mr.
Lindsay wants learning or good common sense, but it is of the academic
kind, and smells of the lamp. Of the world, I presume to say, he is
ignorant; nor have I much doubt, whatsoever glosses may have been
used, but from this ignorance have arisen his distresses; unless
indeed one might suppose him to have been addicted to expensive private
vices. Nor is this an improbable supposition. I know mankind pretty
well, and I always suspect your men who make a shew of virtue; let
this however be as it may. Certainly Mr. Lindsay is not a proper person
to be your tutor."
"So, answered Sir George, so he says himself, and pleads his ignorance as your Lordship does. My mother, Lady Mary too, thinks he has had a bad dancing master. And indeed, except learning, probity, and a total absence of vice, be qualifications for modern tutorage, which I am informed they are not, I know not how Mr. Lindsay can be recommended. But will your Lordship permit me to ask, where is the necessity for any tutor at all?"
"Really, Sir George, answered my Lord, you ought to spare my delicacy on this head."
"I thank your Lordship. I had a tutor at Oxford; is it to continue me in the same line of study you wish to provide me a tutor now?"
"By no means. Upon academic science you are now to engraft the science of politics; a very important one to men of rank and fortune. Youthful minds are apt to run impetuously into maxims of liberty—I should rather say licence.—A man of experience may be useful, in shewing how to avoid the rocks on which so many young politicians wreck their frail barks, in teaching the genuine principles of government; and painting, in their true but abominable colours, the factious principles of the leaders of opposition."
"I hope, my Lord, I may be able to build my own system upon general history and the rights of man.—Not borrow it ready formed, and independent of my own understanding, from any teacher—from any advocate of despotism, or of license."
"This is a pretty plausible way of talking, sir, and must procure you much admiration—from the ladies. But if you will prefer the crude notions of youth to the experience of age—be it so. It is not my occupation to read lectures on politics to statesmen just sprung up from the banks of the Cam or the Isis; I have really no such time to waste. May I make Lady Mary happy, by letting her know you intend to pay her the compliment of conforming to her inclination respecting this god of your idolatry, this Mr. Lindsay, and that you will give up his acquaintance."
"His tutorage, if your lordship pleases. You are too just to prescribe to me in respect of friendship."
"Then I am to inform Lady Mary of your absolute non-compliance."
"I shall be obliged to your Lordship for permission to inform Lady Mary myself. It is a very unfortunate circumstance when mediation is necessary betwixt a mother and son. I have not any idea of this being the case between Lady Mary and I."
"This means then, that you determine to reject my advice and authority."
"I beg your Lordship's pardon; it means no such thing. I may often have occasion to look up to your Lordship's superior wisdom and experience. At present, I am under no perplexity; I have no advice to ask, and know not how I could make your Lordship's authority useful to me."
Although Sir George said this with the most respectful air possible, there was something in it which offended the dignity of Lord Auschamp. All at once, his politeness was giving way. "Sir George," says he, "you provoke me to say"—A ray of recollection came. He stopt. "You are a very strange young man. However, if you do think you are fit to govern yourself —"
"I shall certainly think so, my Lord, a few months hence, and I am endeavouring to accustom myself to the idea."
"Oh—nothing so easy."
It is probable the policy of Lord Auschamp would have induced him to drop an opposition, which must appear trifling to the reader; but some causes prevented it. In the first place, he had himself given Lady Mary an impression much to Mr. Lindsay's disadvantage; and impressions of dislike were with Lady Mary indeliable. In the second place, Sir George's borough interest was very large; he was a young man of promising talents; and it was of great importance to Lord Auschamp, that Sir George should enter the political career under his auspices, and that he should gain an ascendency which it would not be easy for Sir George himself to break. Lastly, he had learned that Mr. Lindsay was a writer of no small abilities, and that he had exercised his pen, principally, though not constantly, on the side of opposition.
It was no undesirable thing to have such a man for a friend; and next to this was the not having him for an enemy. He considered the means he ought to pursue, and imagining condescension in so great a man as himself, might be a good pre-disposing cause, he took the courteous method of calling upon him at his own lodgings.
"When I had the pleasure of seeing you in South Audley-street, Mr. Lindsay," Lord Auschamp began, "I was not perhaps in proper temper of mind to see all your merit, though I saw you had very much. I am sorry for your misfortunes, and wish I might be the happy means of placing you out of their reach. I assure you Sir, it would give me infinite pleasure.
Your talents are really too great to be lost in the little occupation of a tutor. I do not see why one day you might not serve your country in some conspicuous station; but every thing has its beginning. What should you think of an office under government, requiring attendance only a few hours a-day. I have such an one in my eye, likely to fall in soon, about 200l. a year; too small for your abilities, no doubt; but small things lead to great."
Mr. Lindsay not offering to answer, Lord Auschamp continued, "I own frankly to you, Mr. Lindsay, that I am not without some self consideration in my desire to serve you. In a good heart, gratitude is a predominant sentiment. I am informed you write sometimes. Every man of sense allows that the political pro and con, out of doors, is nothing but a play of words, merely to amuse the public, and that it is of no consideration which side a man takes, except so far as regards his own emolument. Now I presume, Mr. Lindsay, this is better secured on the side of administration than on that of opposition; what think you?"
"I dare say it is, my Lord; and if I had nothing in view but my own emolument, I should embrace your Lordship's proposals with pleasure; and as your Lordship observes, with gratitude. But it would be presumption to trifle with your Lordship. I cannot accept of bread with the condition annexed, of no longer daring to think for myself. I have been in that habit so long, that I should find the labour of divesting myself of it too difficult, and as I cannot hope that all the plans of administration merit the public thanks, I should sometimes be in danger of incurring the imputation of ingratitude, even for the exercise of that common right of man, the saying that he thinks. It is probable also I should sometimes incur it, for not doing that which no emolument shall ever persuade me to do— say what I do not think."
Even that great school of virtue, the court, had not taught Lord Auschamp totally to subdue a certain irrascibility of temper, to which the pride of rank, and other pride, too frequently gave birth; nor could he forbear being piqued, that an argument which had converted so many patriots, should in his hands fail of success with a man so poor.
"I suppose sir," says Lord Auschamp, "you depend upon the plility of my nephew for something greater than you think it is in my power to bestow."
"I do not see," answered Mr. Lindsay, "the necessity or the politeness of your Lordship's supposition."
"Nor do I," says my Lord, "see the necessity of politeness to a man, who I have reason to believe, is making his prey of the easy credulity of my own nephew."
"I must intreat the favour of your Lordship to change this language; I have not learned to bear it."
"Learn then, sir, not to deserve it."
"My Lord, said Mr. Lindsay, with a rising spirit, I have been unfortunate, but never mean. What right have you acquired to insult me?"
"If you call this insult, sir, I have acquired it I think, by my rank, and my affinity to Sir George Paradyne."
"You oblige me to tell your Lordship I regard not either. Whether you allow me the title of a gentleman or not, I will support the character. If I could think it worth a boast, there is in the family whence I spring, blood as illustrious as your Lordship's. Nor shall you or any man insult me with impunity."
"Look up then, says his Lordship, to this illustrious blood for your protection; you will hear from me in a manner that will require it."
"In any manner your Lordship pleases."
Lady Mary Paradyne was the best of mothers; for she doated upon this dear son ever since he became Sir George, and never omitted her daily precepts to him, to behave with dignity and grace. It must be owned they were wanted; for Sir George had yet only the politeness of good humour, of an obliging temper, and of unaffected ease. The more essential politeness of a dancing master he had still to learn.
Lady Mary's affections went to the whole duties of a mother. It was not her fault, if he was not the most accomplished fine gentleman of his age. It was she who regulated his taste in dress, who superintended the friseur in the important decoration of his head, and who most willingly would have taken the trouble to regulate his amusements and even his studies.
Of these maternal cares, Sir George began to be weary; so much the more as they were accompanied with a diffusive oratory; preceptive when Lady Mary was in good humour, vituperative when she was not; and always unwilling to come to a close. This smooth and orderly course of things was interrupted by Lord Auschamp's communication of his last conversation with Mr. Lindsay. Lady Mary could not conceive that such a man as he would dare to offend such a man as Lord Auschamp, unless encouraged, perhaps prompted, by Sir George, and assured of his support. On the first hearing of it, she was almost suffocated with passion; but as Sir George happened not to be in the way to receive it, it began to subside, and at last sunk into a something, known to the canaille by the name of the sullens; but in the beau monde, which acknowledges nothing in common with roturius, we must give it the appellation of a dignified anger. This agreeable swell of the bosom continued four days, in which time Lady Mary scarce honoured Sir George with a word, or even a look. Sir George, who knew the cause but not the remedy, and who liked this mode of reproof, quite as well as the mode oratorial, permitted it quietly to take its course. It terminated towards the conclusion of a dinner, and in a manner quite unexpected. When the servants were withdrawn, Lady Mary took up her fourth glass of madeira, and looking at Sir George with uncommon tenderness, drank his health. This ceremony over—"You know, says she, how dearly I love you, you know I doat upon you to distraction." Sir George bowed. "You know you are the comfort of my life—my only comfort." Miss Paradyne bowed. "Don't be silly Emilia, cries Lady Mary; I do not mean domestic comfort; but Sir George is the only remaining support of the honour and dignity of the Paradyne family; nay, there stands but one life betwixt him and my brother's earldom; if that drops, the dignity of his father's house will be lost in the far superior dignity and splendor of mine.
"To be sure, continued Lady Mary, wiping her eyes when she spoke of Sir Jeffery—your father was considered in the country; especially after his marriage; he was an affectionate husband, and would have been still more so, but for that brute your uncle; I shall never survive his loss many years. It weighs too heavy upon me. Especially since I see my cares in forming you, Sir George, to dignity and honour, are thrown away. Oh, if children knew what they owed to parents—especially mothers! But what is filial gratitude in this age? and what is a mother but an old woman?"
Lady Mary was now got into her own peculiar strain; in which, aided by the fifth glass of madeira, she might have kept rolling on, a little eternity, without interruption; for Sir George made it a point of duty to attend, or seem to attend his mother's beneficent lectures. It is true, this was unusually long, but he considered the four preceding days of silence, and armed himself with a dutiful degree of patience accordingly.
But, in an instant, when Lady Mary was peculiarly emphatical, Sir George mechanically—yes certainly mechanically gave the wonted signal to Chloe, who lay at her master's feet, and sprung up to receive her usual caresses at his hand. Sir George was apprised of his error, by the instantaneous cessation of Lady Mary's eloquence, and looking up at her, saw an increased inflammation upon her cheek, and her eyes sparkling with new fire.
"Oh—says she—after the angry pause of a minute—oh that I was with my dear Sir Jeffery in his watry grave, where no undutiful children trouble!"
"Good Heaven! madam—says the astonished Sir George,—am I so unhappy as to be the object of your present anger?"
"Yes—answered Lady Mary— yes you are—who is there else in this world that can give me any cause of grief? the very son who ought to give me comfort and consolation in my hapless widowed state, despises me, pays no attention to my advice, though all for his own good—and—"
"Dear madam—says Sir George —why do you say this? sure you have not the least cause—my respect—"
"Yes—it's very respectful to be sure to interrupt me in the midst of what I was saying, and with a flat contradiction—God help me. Oh! if mothers could but foresee how their pains and tenderness would be rewarded, they would spare themselves a world of anxiety. I suppose it was out of respect to me that you encouraged that Lindsay to affront Lord Auschamp."
"May I take the liberty to say madam, that Lord Auschamp gave the offence."
"How could such a fellow dare to take offence at the Earl of Auschamp, and presume to affront a peer of the realm? I have not patience."
"I incline to lose my patience also, when I think of a peer of the realm forgetting himself so far as to affront his inferior."
"Who else should they affront, pray? and what business have inferiors to be affronted?"
"Sure madam, you would not confine all the sensibilities of life to the great."
"I hate to hear you talk. For any dignity of sentiment, you might have been bred and born amongst mechanics; but it does not signify talking, I will have you discharge that Lindsay."
"He is not my servant, madam."
"I don't care what he is; you shall give up his acquaintance."
"In this I am sorry I cannot obey your Ladyship. I cannot stoop to affront a gentleman because he is poor."
"You provoking monster. Go— go—I cannot bear to see you." Sir George bowed and withdrew. "Stay, says Lady Mary, you are mighty fond of this sort of obedience. Stay, I say." But Sir George was not at present in the humour to hear.
Lady Mary gave herself and Sir George so little respite, that he now began to find his days pass without enjoyment, and his nights without repose. Miss Paradyne was also drooping under her mother's tyranny; but, like the brother whom she loved, too dutiful to think of resistance.
This Sir George could less bear than his own usage, nor did he know a remedy, such as he durst advise or Miss Paradyne take. He determined therefore, as the spring was now come, to take the advice of Mr. Lindsay, to put off his tour abroad till the end of his minority, and to employ the intervening summer, except as much of it as was necessary to become well acquainted with his estates, and to settle a plan of oeconomy equally free from meanness and profusion, in a tour of Great Britain.
Sir George took leave of his sister with tears, of Lady Mary by a respectful letter, and accompanied by Mr. Lindsay, with each a servant, set out on horseback, and took the road to Dennington, in Sussex, Sir George's principal country seat.
I beg the gentlemen minors of the present day will not suppose I mean Sir George Paradyne as a model of duty for them; I only desire to make his apology. The respect he paid to Lady Mary Paradyne would hardly be paid to the queen of England, if her requests took the air of authority; but Sir George was totally ignorant how slender are now the fashionable ties of affinity.
One mile from Dennington lived Mr. James Paradyne, of whom I have spoke in the first chapter. Sir George surprised him by a visit; "fore George, says he, when you went with your mother to London, I gave you up for lost. Lord Auschamp I knew would want to enlist you among the court puppies. Lady Mary among the danglers at the tail of the ladies, and the loungers at coffee-houses. I shall be glad to hear of a good escape from both."
Of Lady Mary Sir George spoke with great caution, not to give her to his uncle for a subject of exultation. On Lord Auschamp's account, he had not this delicacy, but gave Mr. Paradyne an exact relation of what had passed betwixt the noble peer, himself, and Mr. Lindsay.
No subject could have pleased him better. He ordered his horse to ride with Sir George to Dennington, on purpose to dine and make an acquaintance with such a spirited and honest fellow—a man after his own heart.
The plan concerted with Mr. Lindsay made the principal subject of the evenings conversation. Mr. Paradyne thought it good, so far as it drew Sir George away from the auspices of Lord Auschamp and Lady Mary.— "But as to travelling, George, why I think looking at other people's estates not so good as cultivating one's own. However, young men must do some foolish things; for how should they do wise ones before they have learnt. And riding through France and Italy! why I'm told you may sit at home, and see every nook and corner of both; and how many streets and churches there are, and how many miles from town to town. Then why can't you stay at home and save your money? Look at me George;—I am fifty-eight next birth-day;—I can rise with the sun and hunt him down;—ay, and afterwards drink down the moon my boy, as the song says, if I get among the right sort.—Never had the head-ache in my life.—Good luck too to keep out of matrimony.—Never rack'd a tenant, George,—no occasion—never went to court."
"I never could understand, dear uncle, says Sir George, whence proceeded your aversion to marriage.— Did you ever meet with peculiar ill usage from the fair sex?"
"No—nothing peculiar George. Jilted and robbed; common luck— it might have been worse with a wife."
"A good wife, they say, is the greatest blessing heaven can bestow upon man here below."
"Too great for mortal man, George. Rara avis. Ever see one, George?"
"Sir George answered this question with a smile. Mr. Lindsay with a sigh."
After a month's stay at Dennington, having made the necessary oeconomical regulations in concord with Mr. Paradyne, having been fortified by him with excellent advice, and receiving from him a competent quantity of cash and bank notes, our travellers set forward on their tour.
Sentimental travellers ought to find matter fit to make books of at every inn. Landlords and Landladies have been extremely facetious for twenty years last past; their daughters and chambermaids, patterns of chastity, sensibility, and refined love. Something worthy of notice, out of the abundant notes and journals I am favoured with, I hope to be able to extract—for I would please every body. My first ambition however, is to make a selection agreeable to my fair readers, of whom I promise myself just twenty thousand. If I am happy enough to succeed in this laudable expectation, I shall think little of men, and less of critics.
Now the subject most agreeable to the fair is love; the second in estimation fashion. These propositions are demonstrable. As to love—it will come when it will come. Fashion is always, as it occasionally occupied the attention of our travellers. I hope I shall be able to draw something from their remarks, to extend its influence, and enlarge the power of charming, of the charming sex.
I find by the perusal of their papers, that it was the custom of Sir George and Mr. Lindsay to speculate along the king's highway, both with mental and bodily eyes, and to employ an hour of the evening in recording these speculations, and the present state of their own opinions. Sir George's I find rather characterized with instability; for all objects do not appear to the same eye, under the same angle, every time they are viewed, let mathematicians say what they will. Peace to the manes of the Dioclesians and Carol. Quints! they were honest people, who saw at sixty what fools, or knaves perhaps, they had been at forty. But I appeal to my fair readers, whether amongst their numerous acquaintance there may not be some, to whom at twenty a ball room was not the most animating of all objects; and at sixty, a card table.
As Mr. Lindsay, though imprisonment and disquiet had given him an older appearance, was only thirty, and Sir George twenty years and a half old, it might have been expected their sentiments would generally have coincided. So they did, when they talked of Cicero and Demosthenes, of Horace and Virgil; but when the subjects were human manners and improvements, there was as fine an opposition as ever gave birth to argument. According to Sir George, the present times were in all respects the best which England had ever known. Mr. Lindsay allowed them so, for the civilities and exterior courtesies of life; but contended that what we had gained in the milder virtues, we had lost in the manly ones.
One day they were observing a handsome house a little on the left of the road, beautifully situated, but all around it bore the marks of neglect. Sir George wished to know whose it was, and asked the question of some workmen who were felling trees in the hedge row.
"It belongs to 'squire Garford, says one, but he does not live here now; he's in Swee—Swee—some where a great way over sea, where living is cheap: they sain here that he's tied up."
The true meaning of the phrase did not occur to Sir George; tied up, says he; what, is he mad?"
"No sir, says the woodman, his estate's out at nurse." I understand you, says Sir George, he lived beyond his income."
"He kept bad hours, sir."
"Sure a man may keep bad hours, without running out his fortune."
"That's according to how he keeps them, I believe sir. 'Squire Garford married before he came of age, a very pretty young lady from Londonwards. Neither house nor ground was like what it is now; for the ground would have done you good to look at, it was in such condition; but the house was old. Now the ground's old and the house new. Then you see a mort of obelisks they call 'em, and temples up and down; and six hundred acres of prime land as crow e'er flew over, was turned into pleasure ground. But this was not all sir; for he built a vast great place for a play-house; so they played plays, and 'squire Garford treated every body as came to look at 'em. My sister was one of the six chambermaids, and she says, many's the time they have made up four score beds and above, only for guests."
"His fortune was supposed to be large?" says Sir George. "Aboon ten thousand a year sir, as they said; but they lived so cruel comical, an it had been twenty, it would have been scant."
"Pray how did they live?" asked Sir George.
"Why I'll tell you sir: About twelve o'clock they began to breakfast, and by two they had done all over the house, for mayhap they'd breakfast in twenty rooms. Then they went some to their airings, and some to their dressings; about four or five o'clock they had soups, and jellies, and what not; then behap, music, and at eight they sat down to dinner."
"Very well, says Sir George, soon after dinner I suppose they went to bed."
"No sir—they went to cards all over the house, tag, rag, and bobtail, excepting play nights and ball nights. At two it was supper; and before six, they would have been asleep from the garret to the cellar, only for the stable-boys getting up to their horses."
Giving the men something to drink, our travellers rode on in contemplative silence, only sometimes Mr. Lindsay looked at Sir George with a sort of smile. At length he said, "and this is fashion—fashion in its leading principles, which disdains order, and tramples upon common sense. Are you prepared Sir George to be its advocate here?"
"I am not, answered Sir George, the advocate of disorder, and hope I shall never be troubled with a vanity, which must be gratified at the expence of ruin. But Mr. Garford's case is singular and outrè, consequently not fashion."
"I should rather call it fashion at its apex, says Mr. Lindsay, but this is only disputing about a name. Is the mode of life, and consequently the example, pernicious to society? If not, I know no other cause why the natural liberty of man should be restrained."
"Oh, yes, replies Sir George; I can allow that if all the sons and daughters of labour and industry were to live like Garford, it might rather disarrange the order of society."
"If nature ever speaks intelligibly to man, it is when she says, night, not day, was designed for sleep. It is when she says to all animal existence—excess is disorder. All but man understand and obey. In the body natural, in the body politic, in health, in oeconomy, excess is disorder."
"Oh, says Sir George—a new edition of Horace's golden mean; which whosoever does not believe and practise, is damned poetically and morally, to all eternity."
"That whosoever deviates pretty much from the practice will be punished more or less, is indeed my creed; only it sometimes happens when a man finishes at once with eclat, his constitution, his fortune, and his life, and can no longer feel poverty, contempt, and the gout; these descend as an inheritance to his children. He is only punished in his generations. But in general, nature punishes pretty regularly the breach of this her golden rule, and society suffers when it is deviated from too widely—even on the side of virtue."
"Faith, that's hard, answered Sir George; but supposing we allow the expediency of this famous mean, so constantly recommended, and as you say, so little observed, who shall fix it? Every one for himself, or our gracious lord the king, or the philosophers, or William Lindsay the cynic; he who would rob poor girls of their ostrich plumes and bracelets, unless they could afford to pay for them; who arraigns the taste even of those who can, and calls them spoilers of beauty and apes of fashion; suppose the dear creatures a little fantastical, is it not their destiny here below to endeavour to please men? and do they not fulfil their destiny?"
"Their endeavours are ill-directed, they apply all to their outsides—this does not please men."
"No—such men as you perhaps; but they are always endeavouring, and who would not pardon a simple error of judgment in favour of such amiable intentions?"
"Oh, any man; every man, if it could be found; but know you any individual in which such judgment resides? If any one has pretensions to elegance of her own, is it not sacrificed at the shrine of fashion? Is there any one who does not execrate (I do not mean that ladies swear) the tyranny which subjects them to incommodious and ugly habiliments? one who does not cry out upon the shocking—the absurd of this new invented —something, even on their way to the miliners, where they are hastening, like racers to the goal, lest the evanescent cap of folly should be gone before they had worn it?"
"Poor Lindsay, replies Sir George, these are the infallible symptoms of premature old age—why, splenetic moralizer —why would you circumscribe the bounties of heaven? not a vanity you know is given in vain."
"Certainly, Sir George; a poet said it, and poets are inspired. I know also that this agreeable expansion of the mind is so dear to the dear sex— so much their own—makes so conspicuous a part of their identity, that I should think a woman more changed by the loss of it, than by the ravages of the small pox."
"Inhuman satirist! be thy spleen thy punishment. For my part, I do not see what should provoke the bile of a philosopher, in the innocent luxury of dress?"
"Innocent! Sir George—true— in itself it is nothing: I arraign it only as the pander to those numerous follies of which we complain and with which we comply."
"Let us hear how you prosecute the indictment.
"You quoted a poet just now, and will not deny your own authority. 'Just as the twig is bent the tree's inclin'd.' Look now at the present generation of mothers; observe how early by the means of dress, they sow the seeds of vanity in their daughters minds. How plentifully they water these seeds! and keep them free of that unprofitable weed, once called modesty, now better known by the name of awkwardness. Can you wonder at the strength and duration of a plant so carefully cultivated? Now what follows this dissemination? Universal emulation in the most paltry of all vanities; universal contention and expence; nor does it stop at personal ornaments, it extends to every particle of inanimate matter which custom or convenience has introduced to the service of the ladies; all things must be fine, all must be costly."
"Of the rich and great I am not now speaking; taste and expence are with them in their proper elements, whilst they are contained within the limits of their fortune; their palaces, their gilded cielings, their lustres, and their girandoles, encourage the arts and reward ingenuity. I stop not here to enquire whether this expence might not be better directed. My censure chiefly applies to the middle ranks. To how many thousands of individuals do these vanities pursued, prove destructive of tranquillity and ruinous to fortune. So parents give their offspring a thousand wants which nature never gave, and exhausts the springs which should be destined to their supply."
"Had you been a painter, Lindsay, says Sir George, one may judge by this gloomy declamation, what would have been the genius of your pictures: the dark objects would have been illumined, the bright ones thrown into the shade; and at what are you railing? at that diffusion of wealth thro' the whole body of a society, which has humanized our manners, purified our religion, has rendered the nation happy, strong within, terrible without, and unbounded in its resources; if you believe orthodox divines, and statesmen in place. And may not a nation be truly said to flourish, when science is cultivated, the arts cherished, and the accommodations of life abundant?"
"If, replied Mr. Lindsay, the increase of printing presses, carvers, and gilders, be a proof of the increase of science and of art, you are right. The accommodations of life—meaning no doubt, down beds and coaches, looking-glasses and gauze—are abundant; too abundant. Refinement is progressive; there is somewhere a degree of it, at which if it would stop the happiness of a whole people might be the greatest possible, and the most permanent. This point, I doubt, we have reached—and passed."
"Is it, asked Sir George, that you regret the elegant times of the Edwards and the Henries? Or at what period would you have stopped the progress?"
"Not at those times, certainly. Perhaps I might have chosen the beginning of the eighteenth century— before nabobs were—when wealth was more moderate, and more equal— when coxcombry, now swelled into a deluge, entered the land in a gentle current, capable of being checked in its course by the pen of the poet and the moralist—before the poor, that tolerably large proportion of the human race, forgot in all our disquisitions, political and moral, whom we despise, and to whom we owe our subsistence, and the gratification of our pride—had learned in an alehouse to imitate, at humble distance, the luxury of the tavern—before this imitation had tainted their—." Mr. Lindsay did not see that they were now under the very sign of the inn, where they had proposed to dine; his horse did; stopt, and broke the period. No matter. I hope there is not one of my fair readers will regret it, or pay any regard to such cold blooded, prudential declaimers. Not one, who will not still do what is right in the eye of fashion. And with this hope I conclude the chapter.
The Falcon at Comber, where our travellers had stopped to dine, was a spacious, but quiet, unfastidious village inn, to which the cold and chilling elegance of more superb houses was unknown. It was beautifully situated on rising ground; in front was a romantic valley, at the bottom of which was the village. It possessed a good bowling-green, and was a favourite house for justice meetings. The hostess, Mrs. Bane, a widow, to a fine open good humoured countenance, added great personal gravity, perhaps equal to 250lb. avoirdupois; and was besides a very reputable and respected good woman.
Behind the house, the ground rose gradually for the space of half a
mile; on the highest part was situated the church, an old and large
structure, in an ample church-yard, skirted by pines. Hither, after
dinner, our travellers chose to walk, and richly was the trouble repaid
by the magnificence and grandeur of the views:
Towards the south was a distant view of the Isle of Wight, and the
channel; on the north-east, Winchester; on the east, Portsmouth;
nearer, a fine view of Southampton. My fair geographers will perceive
we are now in Hampshire, not far from the new forest. The landscape
immediately surrounding was beautiful; the principal object was the
once fine, but now rather neglected seat of Sir Simon Haubert. On the
other side, a small dry common skirted round with houses and cots.
Having admired these views to satiety, they returned to the Falcon, where having invited Mrs. Bane to make their tea, and declared their intention of remaining there till monday, Sir George asked her, if there was any thing in the neighbourhood worthy the particular attention of travellers.
Mrs. Bane answered, that many gentlemen took views from the church-yard; some went to see the late Sir Simon Haubert's; and now and then one called upon Mr. Holford the clergyman, who was a great florist, and a collector of medals; but what she believed principally recommended him to notice, was some sort of model he was taking of the country a mile or two round, after the manner of some gentleman abroad, who lived, she thought, in Swisserland. No doubt, this was general Ofisser.
The introduction to Mr. Holford was very easy; the good man had a taste for fame, and did not know a better road to it than his exhibitions. It is a charming advantage when we can gratify ourselves, under the appearance of kindness and courtesy to others. Our travellers paid the visit and the price, which was nothing more than a few compliments to the obsequious entertainer. Once indeed, Sir George was upon the point of quitting his politeness in favour of historical truth; Mr. Holford having in his medalic elucidation made a considerable anachronism. Mr. Lindsay saw its effects upon Sir George, and pushed before him, with something very agreeable to the reverend gentleman. Sir George thought flattery was never worse applied.
In the garden part of the exhibition, Mrs. Holford was so obliging to add herself to the company; they soon found her value; it was sufficient for Mr. Holford to give a hint; she took care to pursue it; discoursed upon the variegated tints of nature; and as the garden commanded a prospect, upon picturesque beautè. Nor did she miss any kind opportunity to correct Mr. Holford's mistakes. Her diffusive powers had kept them an hour longer than the visit was intended; and had began to afflict Sir George with an involuntary hiatus of the mouth; Mr. Lindsay saw this effect also, and thought proper to counter act it by a still greater profusion of compliment than he had bestowed upon Mr. Holford.
God had given to Mrs. Holford, and will I hope give it to every lady who desires to fulfil all the duties of a wife, the agreeable and useful talent of quick penetration into her husband's faults, and indeed into those of most of her neighbours; and she did not bury it in the earth. When Mr. Holford cast the eyes of affection upon her, she was an elderly maiden, and had been accustomed to amuse her leisure hours in writing novels. The several merits of the great mistresses of this noble art she perfectly knew; and from her pen may be expected one day, that great desideratum in this most favoured production of the press, canons of criticism; for want of which, I must needs say, after Mrs. Holford herself, there is rather too much heterogeneity.
A servant maid came into the garden to say something to her mistress, who answered, shew the ladies into the parlour. She was just then informing Mr. Holford, that if, according to her advice, he had managed his bed of auriculas so and so, the colours would have been deeper, and the silk more glossy. Mr. Holford answered that he did not know that any body knew better than himself the management of these beauties of the garden. Mrs. Holford said, that had it been so, it would have been acknowledged at the late florist's feast; from whence if he would please to remember, he returned home typsey, from mere vexation at having been honoured with no prize; for nature, she said, was uniform in all her works; and had the best methods been taken, there would have slowed the best results. The reply Mr. Holford was going to make, if it might be judged of from the cast his brow had taken, would not have been the reply courteous; but a chariot at that instant driving by, followed by two footmen, put a stop to it, and Mrs. Holford ran to receive a lady who was in it alone.
Sir George was beginning to thank Mr. Holford for the great pleasure he had given them, and to invite him to the Falcon, when Mrs. Holford sent her compliments to the gentlemen and hoped they would favour her with their company to tea. The gentlemen accepting the invitation, were conducted to the parlour by Mr. Holford, who announced Miss Haubert to the gentlemen, and these to the lady, by the names of Sir George Paradyne and Mr. Lindsay. Two other ladies were there whom he noticed only by a slight inclination of the head, for it did not amount to a bow.
One of these appeared by her dress to be a quaker; she seemed about thirty, had a pretty face, and a pair of black eyes very intelligent, and denoting a certain archness: this was Miss Carlill.
The other was in deep mourning, about twenty, apparently; a fine shape, blue eyes, expressive of peculiar sweetness, but with that pensive and dejected cast of countenance, which long continued anxiety is wont to give; her name was Colerain.
The other lady, Miss Haubert, appeared to approach her fiftieth year, was richly drest, with an aspect not quite charming, and a shape not quite regular; but these were trifles, she had 5000l. a year, and was patroness of the living.
This lady began the conversation, by enquiring of Sir George if he had been lately in town. He answered in the affirmative, and expected a succession of questions concerning the court, perhaps the theatres, or the fashions. No, the next enquiry was, if the town was full of literati? Sir George replied, he was too young to have made a general acquaintance with these gentlemen.
"You have probably been at Oxford Sir George, or Cambridge?"
"At Oxford, madam."
"I presume the sciences there are in a very flourishing state?"
"I hope they are always so there, madam."
"Has any able metaphysician arisen, or is likely to arise, capable of confuting Mr. Hume's system of universal non-existence."
"Dr. Reid, madam."
"Oh, no—I have read him; he does not go to the bottom."
"I have often admired, madam, says Mr. Holford, that a lady of your profound science, should think any thing worth notice which comes from the pen of such a man, so great an enemy to religion and piety."
"A man may be wrong in one thing and right in another, Mr. Holford, answered the lady. Every man who wants religion, may not want knowledge."
"It is pity but he did," replied Mr. Holford.
"You are certainly right, madam, says Mrs. Holford. Many of our most celebrated novels have characters tainted with infidelity, in other respects very learned and amiable. As Mr. Wolmar in Rousseau's Eloisa, the elegant Sir Charles Seymour in Cornelia Sedley, and many others."
"Very true, Mrs. Holford; I don't read many novels except yours; but I believe it is allowable to draw all sorts of characters as they are, and since it does happen that there are ingenuous people infidels, to be sure they may be drawn."
"I wish, says Mr. Holford, they were all drawn upon hurdles to the stake."
"Miss Colerain absolutely gave a little start, and was upon the point of an exclamation, but corrected herself, and only said, with a smile—no, Mr. Holford, I must beg leave to refuse you credit on this head; your theory is cruel, your practice would be merciful."
"I have no mercy for the enemies of God," answered Mr. Holford. "The lady, says Miss Haubert with a scornful toss of her head, choses to shew her sensibility."
"I hope, says Miss Carlill, if the occasion was real, thou would'st shew thine." Miss Haubert replied with another toss. "Then you don't approve of zeal in the cause of God, Miss Carlill?" asked Mr. Holford. "Yea—answered she—if it is of the spirit."
"Oh ma'm, replies Mr. Holford, we cannot boast of so plentiful a communication with the spirit, as your people."
"Thy spirit seems not to be our sort; we persecute no one."
"Nor would Mr. Holford, I am well convinced, says Miss Colerain."
"Why not? says Miss Haubert; very great and good men have thought it right to persecute heresy."
"They would have been better employed, perhaps, in praying for it, says Miss Colerain."
"You may think so madam, answered Miss Haubert, but without zeal what is religion?"
"We also approve zeal, Miss Haubert, when it tends to improve our own faith; not when it condemns others, says Miss Carlill."
"Ay, says Mr. Holford, this is the modern doctrine of toleration, by which all unity of christianity is cut off from the face of the earth; and men are led astray by pretended spiritual guides, or permitted to wander without any."
"Thou knowest that in heaven there are many mansions. Why should there not be many roads?" says Miss Carlill.
"There can be but one road, madam, answered Mr. Holford, the road of truth."
"And few there be that find it," replied Miss Carlill.
"It is because they shut their eyes, says Mr. Holford, and harden their hearts, and God gives them up to their own perverseness, and to all unquietness of mind. Here are the presbyterians again, I am told, up in arms, about the repeal of the test act, that bulwark of the church and constitution. Had there been any understanding among them, they must have acknowledged the superior force of our arguments."
"If the arguments of thy people, replied Miss Carlill, had been as strong as their motives, the dissenters must have found them irresistible long ago."
"Blindness, wilful blindness," says Mr. Holford.
Nay, now friend Holford, replied Miss Carlill, thou must excuse me; it is so important to see the truth, if they could, that I should rather impute it to their not being able to find good oculists."
"They envy us, says Mr. Holford, the very bread we eat, and would snatch it out of our mouths."
"I fancy, replies Miss Carlill, it will take them a great many pulls. Thy church is indeed built upon a rock, if it holds its faith with as firm a hand as its emoluments."
"Have we not a right to them?" asked Mr. Holford.
"Yea, two rights, replied Miss Carlill; power and possession: neither of these, have the dissenters."
"I say, says the parson, the dissenters have no rights whatever."
"They were born, answers Miss Carlill, with as many as other people. What is become of them?"
"They incapacitate themselves, by maintaining religious tenets which government chooses should not be maintained."
"So, says Miss Carlill, it was in the time of Dioclesian. Ye know the law, said the emperor; all christians are to be hanged. But ye need not incur the penalty; ye have nothing to do in order to avoid it, but return to Jupiter, the god of your fathers. Did Dioclesian reason well, thinkest thou?"
"How can you ask such a question, madam?" says Mr. Holford.
"Nay—answered Miss Carlill—I know not; if it were not that I thought the reasoning of Dioclesian and thy people, something similar."
"I assure you, madam, says Mr. Holford, you never were more mistaken; and you impute motives to us which never entered our pure hearts. All we want is to bring the community into one faith, and thereby avoid the confusion of sects, and the nonsense of sectaries."
"Thou need'st not tell me this. It is, they say, the distinguishing garb of the priesthood. If a man, in matters of faith, incline to tolerate any nonsense but his own, he hath not on a wedding garment; he is not a true brother."
"You are smart, Miss Carlill, says Mr. Holford, but smartness is not argument. Let us come to the point. There must be a national religion. Grant that."
"I pray thee, Miss Carlill asked, which is the national religion of America?"
"Pshaw! says the parson, rather angrily; they'll come to nothing for the want of it."
"When they do the argument will be in thy favour, answered Miss Carlill."
"But if they flourish, says Mr. Holford, they must have one; they must have a chief magistrate; one or many. This chief must have a religion; he must prefer his own, and the very preference will soon give a decided majority; and a national religion follows of course."
"I do not at present see the justness of thy premises, or of thy conclusion, answered the lady. A Frenchman of great consequence, was once at Amsterdam, and being desirous to see every thing, was attended by a burgomaster, who noticed, as they passed along, many small places of worship. This, says he, belongs to the anabaptists, very industrious people and good subjects; this to the moravians, very diligent, quiet, good, orderly people; so he went on to twenty different sects, giving each its due praise of industry and obedience to the laws. And pray sir, says the count, what religion are you of? Me, answers the magistrate, —my lord, I am burgomaster of Amsterdam. Dost thou not think it a wise answer?"
"It would not do in England, Mr. Holford said. The constitution was founded upon the inseparable connection of church and state."
"Pray of what nature may this connection be? How may it differ from the general connection betwixt crown and people?" asked Miss Carlill.
"In being more close and intimate, answered Mr. Holford, in mutual assistance, when assistance is wanted."
"I believe I understand thee, replied Miss Carlill. If the crown gets into a scrape, the clergy will kindly help it out. If the crown has something to do the people don't like, the clergy is ready with its aid."
"What right have you to suppose this, Madam?" asked Mr. Holford.
"Why, replied Miss Carlill, when the crown is doing that which the people does approve, it will necessarily have its support—the best of all supports, I think—surely, when it has the whole it cannot want a part."
"There is no reasoning, says Mr. Holford, with people whose prejudices are so inveterate, they will hear nothing which contradicts them. To me, there is not a problem of Euclid, which is more clear, than that the test act, and subscription to articles, are the bulwarks of the church; and that the church is the best bulwark of the state."
"I have heard of that Euclid, replied Miss Carlill; pray thee, how came it to pass that his problems were so clear, as to pass almost into a proverb. Did he demonstrate after thy manner?"
"That—let me tell you ma'm is a very ignorant question, and shews you do not distinguish betwixt mathematical and speculative science;" says Miss Haubert, with much dignity of aspect.
"I own my ignorance, says Miss Carlill, still addressing herself to Mr. Holford, without noticing the rudeness of Miss Haubert—wilt thou instruct me in the nature of those articles thou hast just mentioned."
"Mr. Holford did not seem to relish the employment, and only said, read, read, madam, and understand."
"Alas! says Miss Carlill, I have read, and do not understand."
"You read, madam, with the prejudice of a sectary."
"Possibly so. Considering however the very important part they were to act upon this stage of ours, one might have expected they would have exhibited the collected wisdom of ages. At least one should not have found them incomprehensible."
"There is no necessity, ma'm, says Miss Haubert, who never opened her lips to-day, but to express scorn or dislike—there is no necessity that your comprehension should be the measure of other people's."
"I grant that, replies Miss Carlill; but do not many of thy communion, learned divines, nay, prelates, acknowledge the same difficulty? have the faculties of mankind degenerated?"
"No, madam, answered Mr. Holford; God has given to man his wonted capacity; but how does he now apply it? In the luxuries and vanities of this world; and in opposing his own vain imaginations to the mysteries of faith."
"I should imagine, my very good friends, says Miss Colerain, that you would become weary of an argument in which you conclude nothing; and perhaps in which nothing can be concluded. I apprehend, speculations of this kind do not possess absolute, but relative truth only. Each party may be right, relative to the different views in which their objects are placed. What I should most complain of is, the loss of mutual benevolence and good will in the conflict. The occasion may call for activity on both sides, but surely need not generate animosity. Why is it not possible that contentions—for remote objects at least—should be amicable?"
"Sir George and Mr. Lindsay had been much amused with the dialogue, and had not once attempted to interrupt it by any observation of their own. This placid speech of Miss Colerain, which denoted gentleness at least, now drew their regards more particularly upon her. Certainly it lost nothing by coming from the lips of a beauty and a grace.
Miss Haubert, as it was warm weather, fanned herself; indeed she was never able to look upon Miss Colerain, or see her looked on by man with complacence, without kindling a sort of fire, which all the wind of Nova Zembla would have been insufficient to cool. If ever I should find myself at leisure to relate the cause, my fair readers will allow its universal potency, and forgive Miss Haubert —almost her rudeness.
A rudeness of an inferior degree, was become almost a habit with Miss Haubert, who indeed seldom saw any but flatterers about her, and was supported by a high sense of her own greatness, and a higher still of her intellectual attainments. But this habitual rudeness was become acrimony to Miss Colerain, who seldom spoke but she met with contradiction from her, little short of insult; who however from the footstool of humility, looked down upon the throne of greatness, and never condescended to honour her effusions with the least notice.
Not so the lively quaker;—her friendship for Miss Colerain was little short of enthusiasm: she was by education and habit, a free and most determined speaker, and would not probably have borne in silence an insult upon her friend, scarcely from a queen.
The tea equipage introduced, as usual, tea-table conversation, and the remainder of the visit passed without any remarkable production of malice. The hour of departure came, and I believe Miss Haubert would have gone away without any fresh instance of malevolence to Miss Colerain, had not this lady, in reply to something Sir George had said, made this innocent reflection—that indeed would be a valuable school, which could teach with success, the happy art of subduing the passions, when they tended to disturb the peace of society.
Whither Miss Haubert saw any thing in this applicable to herself, or whether it was pure kindness to correct Miss Colerain's error, I know not, but she answered rather with too much fiertè, that the passions were given us by God himself, that they were the gales of life, that she did not see the necessity of subduing them, and if there was, they would never be conquered by formal speeches, and a studied display of affectation of sentiment.
"Thou art right there, says the animated quaker, some of them are unconquerable things indeed; I have seen when they would not yield even to the established laws of decorum and politeness."
"Oh—as to that—says Miss Haubert, making the application instantly to herself—I always use as much of both as I think necessary."
"It would not be amiss then to rectify thy way of thinking. People of thy rank and fortune think them always necessary, especially to those whom they suppose their inferiors."
"I am not so complaisant. I only pay when due."
"That is to say, when thou canst find inferiors. I own then it will not often be required of thee."
"My dear Miss Carlill, said Miss Colerain, cease this unavailing, this unprofitable exertion of spirit on my account. I am not angry at Miss Haubert. When I was prosperous, she was not my friend; I have nothing to ask from her but common civilities of life when we do happen to meet, and it is most probable—a tear starting into her eyes—she will never more be under this disagreeable necessity."
A black servant was waiting to attend his mistress home. Miss Haubert sprung into her chariot with more than common alertness, and having observed that when people kept black servants, they ought to be able to pay them, bade the coachman drive on.
The black grinned, and muttered a few execrations; Miss Carlill said a prayer or two aloud, to the same purpose; and Miss Colerain took her leave with a silent tear.
On their walk home, Sir George amused himself with remarks on the uncommon character of Miss Haubert, and the very common one of Mr. and Mrs. Holford. He applauded the spirit of Miss Carlill, and admired the dignified placidity of Miss Colerain. From Mr. Lindsay he got nothing but assenting monosyllables, and these oft' misplaced. Sir George had often seen him grave, it was his general habit; but so grave, so distant, so almost sad, he had never seen him before.
At supper, during which Mrs. Bane usually waited, Sir George enquired if she knew Miss Colerain? Mrs. Bane answered, she knew her only by report, which spoke of her as a very good, but unfortunate young lady. "Do you know a Miss Carlill?" asked Sir George. "She is another unfortunate young woman, Mrs. Bane answered; but is supposed to have more spirit than her friend. She almost supports her mother and herself, by peculiar needle-work, much seen and admired."
After supper, Sir George enquired of Mr. Lindsay if any thing had occurred that day which had given him pain. Mr. Lindsay owned he had been much hurt by the circumstances which had deservedly given Sir George much pleasure. Miss Colerain and Miss Carlill were charming women. Two years ago he had lost a wife who constituted his chief happiness, whilst they lived together. Miss Carlill resembled her in person. She seems to have resembled Miss Colerain in mind."
"Dear Lindsay, said Sir George, I have often wished to know your history, but never chose to ask the relation, fearing some recollections might give you pain."
"You are welcome to the relation, Sir George, but there is nothing in it, which can gratify curiosity, or reward attention. Tyrannic fathers, improvident sons, and insidious stepmothers, are to be seen every day." Sir George still expressing the same desire, Mr. Lindsay proceeded as in the next chapter.
I am of a Scotch family, there are titles in it too, if titles were of value when wealth, their most useful and brilliant appendage was gone. My father, a younger brother, was bred for the kirk; some agreeablenesses in conversation procured him the patronage of a Northumbrian gentleman, who offered him a living of value which my father accepted, and then saw very little difference betwixt the English and Scotch church, which could divide sensible people. My father, who had some patrimony of his own, married a lady with a genteel fortune, I was the only issue, she died in the twentieth year of her married state, whilst I was at Cambridge, for I was designed for the church; this loss was fatal to me; in one year my father married a widow, a Mrs. Robarts, whose principal wealth lay in three unportioned daughters, the eldest of whom approached the marriageable state.
At the next vacation I came home to pay my new duty, and rejoice in
my father's felicity, but I came with the full remembrance of my mother
in my head and heart, and performed my new task but ill; next morning
my father sent for me into his study, and accosted me in this manner:
"So sir—like other dutiful children of the present day, I see you
have sat in judgment upon a father's actions, and condemned them; dead
to all sensations of a parent's happiness, their desires and affections
are fixed upon possessions and inheritances, upon the joyful hour that
gives a father to the grave."
This, Sir George, is a specimen of my father's manner; it had always inspired me with awe, and now with terror. I made haste to pay my humblest submission, for submission was the only road to my father's affection: He forgave me on proper conditions.
In reality, as soon as I could forget the dear woman whom I had been accustomed to see mistress of my father's house, I did not find my situation disagreeable. My new mother was all graciousness, Miss Robarts all softness, the girls playful and good-humoured.
It was not till toward the middle of the third vacation, that I began to make certain reflections. Such is the condition of human life, that without certain reflection, man is an idiot; with them, too often a wretch. My father was dictatorial, my mother the bending reed; It was her peculiar happiness constantly to receive instruction from the mouth of wisdom, and to be led into the paths of science by the most enlightened man of this age; this was the tenor of her language to my father, and she had so many various and agreeable modes of speaking it, that he thought her a prodigy of penetration; and believing that mere worldly concerns, were indeed beneath the care of such a man, he consigned these over totally to my mother, who, though with infinite reluctance, condescended to ease him of the buthen.
Mrs. Lindsay had this charming politeness in such abundance, that it flowed over even upon me; of all men she ever knew I had the sweetest temper—yes—I had quite the manners of a gentleman. Me! the manners of a gentleman. Mrs. Lindsay however did not run into this absurdity before company. When my father was present, she praised no one but himself.
Miss Robarts was very engaging also, though not quite in the same way. A Cambridge scholar has, I should think, no right to give the ton to female elegance, yet Miss Robarts always found my taste so just, that she found no difficulty in conforming to it. Once I said, I thought it a singular fancy, that nature having allotted at a medium, about two hundred cubic inches for a lady's head, she should want an envelope of two thousand to put it in. Miss Robarts's caps were very soon contracted in all their dimensions. All at once, as if it had fallen from heaven upon them for their sins—if ladies can sin. An ugly protuberance lodged itself upon the hips of the dear sex. On this occasion, I happened to say, I acquitted ladies of being fond and vain of their own persons. It was evident they were fond of any distortion which made them most unlike themselves. Miss Robarts's protuberance vanished.
This was a delicate flattery, and must have its effect upon the vanity of a raw lad, who had never yet seen women. I really liked her company, and was often favoured with it in an alcove of our garden, which she herself had adorned. Our employment there was reading, conversing, and angling for small fish in a little stream which ran on the outside. In any liberty, decent or indecent, which denoted a difference of sex, I never indulged, for I did not love; that passion I was not destined to feel for Miss Robarts.
One evening, when the sun was set, and left a beautiful gloom upon the objects it had ceased to illumine, I strolled, on my return from a walk, down to this favourite alcove, and there found Miss Robarts—weeping. Except in haram's and opera-houses, I know not where is to be found any thing in shape of man, insensible to beauty in tears. I sat down by her, and asked the cause of her affliction; she wept the faster; I talked of my regard to her, and how happy it would make me to be the means of diminishing her affliction: she grew by degrees more composed, and began to endeavour to speak; I took her hand, looked at her with all the softness to which I could compose my features, and asked —"Will you not confide the cause of your grief to me?" She answered quick and earnestly—"Oh no—indeed —never."
"Why not? did I say—be assured, Miss Robarts, I shall always take a brother's interest in what concerns you."
"A brother's!" answered she with great quickness, at the same time withdrawing her hand, and applying her handkerchief to her face, as I thought to hide a blush; there was something in it which struck me—I wanted to think—but this was neither the time nor place. I took her hand again by a sort of involuntary motion —I had indeed no inclination to press it, but it remained so acquiescent, I could as little think of giving it its dismission. At this instant the younger ladies came running to the alcove to inform us supper was ready. We rose to walk, still the hand was not withdrawn; my father and mother were at the parlour window, and saw this awkward piece of gallantry. I afterwards learned, she drew him thither on our distant appearance, observing what a charming thing was family concord.
Horace has said that women have wiles; and Juvenal, that they have wickedness. In my commerce with Greek, Latin, and English, I had found the feminas caveto so frequently inculcated, that I was not perfectly clear, that some of the dear sex might not formerly have given cause for the caution. This feminas caveto occupied me a part of the night. I was not quite fool enough to be the dupe of art without suspicion, nor wise enough to comprehend clearly, upon what to ground it.
The following morning, after we had breakfasted in great good
humour, my father sent for me to his study, and with much solemnity
began to read me a lecture upon the sacred duties, and the sacred
institution of marriage. If my respect had not kept me silent,
astonishment would; and my father, uninterrupted, said all he thought
proper to say. The closing periods came at last, and brought with them
a most luminous elucidation of the dark parts of his discourse:
"Since it has so happened, son William, that you have placed your
virtuous affections upon Miss Robarts, and she her's upon you, I
believe it is God's doing, to perpetuate concord in a family of love.
Most fathers would have chose more wealthy daughter's-in-law; but what
are riches? Solomon chose wisdom. I am desirous to make you happy, and
Miss Robarts being a perfect copy of her excellent mother, you cannot
fail of being so with her. You must go back to Cambridge, and when you
have got into orders, come to me and I will give you felicity; I will
give you the best of wives, and a good living, of which I have just
bought the advowson, and the incumbent is in the last stage of a
dropsy."
I never was eloquent, and especially in my father's presence. It was quite necessary to speak however, and to thank him for his paternal love; this I did as well as I was able, and added a few faltering sentences, calculated to inform him of his error.
Long accustomed to consider his opinion, and even his ideas, as infallible, my father was some time before he understood me; when he did he became angry, accused me of deceit, and finally summoned Mrs. Lindsay, to whom he gave this new information.
It was one of Mrs. Lindsay's virtues not to suffer herself to be betrayed into anger; she said she was sorry, excessively sorry for the mistake; any one might have fallen into it, who saw the engaging manner in which Mr. William had behaved to Miss Robarts. She did not so well know how to excuse her daughter, who certainly ought to have had decisive proofs before she suffered her affections to be engaged.
"He has deceived her, cried my enraged father, he has deceived her."
"No—father—no—" I answered.
"You are ready at contradiction, sir, says he, but will not find me so easily deluded as a young girl. Send for her, my dear Mrs. Lindsay, let us hear the truth from her own mouth."
"It is my duty, sir, as it is my inclination, to obey you in all things, my mother answered; but I hope you will spare my daughter the blushes such an examination must raise—her modesty, sir—you know, her modesty is excessive. Permit me to interrogate her, sir, unless you chuse to let this unhappy affair sink into oblivion."
"Manage it as you please, my dear Mrs. Lindsay, but I insist upon knowing if deceit has been used; I cannot pardon deceit." Mrs. Lindsay withdrew with a curtesy, a ceremony she usually observed when she left my father's presence; as to me I was dismissed with a menace, and retired wondering to my own apartment.
I had not enjoyed the solid comforts of reflecting upon a father's kindness more than twenty minutes, when I heard a bustle below. I opened the door. Heavens—what an alarm! Miss Robarts is dead—Miss Robarts is dying—my sister is fallen into a swoon; and my mamma is going to fall into a swoon too. Lord have mercy,—what will become of us all.
I could not help running down to assist at the obsequies, and met my father at the door of Miss Robarts's apartment. This young lady was not dead; she must have swooned indeed, for her mother said so; at present there was only a disposition to shed tears, which on my father's entrance, flowed profusely. These did not tend to quench my father's anger; (but even in anger he could be pathetic) and he concluded a bitter philippic against me, with a sort of an address to heaven: —"Why—O why—says he— am I punished with an obdurate wretch, whose heart is heardened, and whose eyes are blind to so much merit and softness!" In reality my father was mistaken here; those eyes began to see but too clearly.
Miss Robarts, as soon as she could speak, spoke in extenuation of my culpability. "Love, she said, was involuntary. It was more her misfortune than my fault. She must own, indeed, that the many agreeable and flattering things Mr. William had said to her, did seem to indicate affection; she feared she had misinterpreted; gentlemen, now a days, she was informed, took great liberties of language with young women."
"I see it all—says my angry father —I see it all; he is undone, corrupted, and sunk into perdition, by the vile manners of the age. Go, sir, —go back to college—and think of your transgressions. But presume not to take holy orders, contaminated as you are with fraud and perfidy.— Go.—" I intreated to be heard; my father would not hear, and my mother, with great gentleness, intreated me to retire for the present—"till, (says she in a whisper) your father's anger is abated; that shall be my business."
I waited for this abatement till the next day, but received only a positive order to go back to Cambridge, for that whilst I stayed he should be confined to his study, not being able to endure to see me. So this house of concord fell all into disorder. I left it as soon as possible, and, with an humble mind, but proud, angry, and I fear, a little vindictive.
Into this state of mind I was brought, by a sense of my father's ill usage, and Mrs Lindsay's art; but from submission and repentance, my father's injunctions, I was withheld by love. One mile from Cambridge lived a Miss Johnson, elegant, penny-less, and devoted to anxiety. Family misfortunes had reduced her to the necessity of living a dependent upon a peevish aunt, and submitting to the insults of half a dozen cousins. I had the good fortune to relieve her from the impertinence of a young, rich, licentious scholar, and she thanked me for it—with all her heart. I loved her with all the honour, all the ardour of ingenuous youth, and waited only an establishment to make her my own for life.
This dear girl I went to see on my arrival at Cambridge, and found her in a worse situation than my own. A disagreeable man had been offered her for a husband; she had refused, and in consequence had received a peremptory dismission, only that the excessive goodness of her aunt had permitted her to stay one month, that she might have time to seek out a place.
I wrote to my father with great respect, but my mind was too high set to permit me to use those humiliating terms, which alone could procure my pardon. I was even foolish enough to hint something about women and wiles, and pour le comble, as the French say, I declared my situation with regard to Miss Johnson.
My father was too indignant to return me an answer; it came from Mrs. Lindsay's pen, and it said, how she had endeavoured, and would continue her endeavours to assuage my father's anger. At present he was more enraged than ever, and had commanded her to tell me—she could not write the harsh sentence— He refused me any remittance whatever, till I returned to my duty—and banished me his house and presence. She was afraid I might be distressed for want of money, and therefore, unknown to him, had inclosed a 20l. bank note.
My first impulses were to return this note, and reject her friendship; but Miss Johnson—she indeed declared it better that she should go out to service, or any thing, than that I should confirm my father in his displeasure. I reasoned differently, and as men in love generally do reason. As long, says I, as Miss Robarts and I remain single, Mrs. Lindsay will suppose we may be married. The most prudent step will be to end the controversy by my marriage. My father will be angry for a time, but the anger of parents soon ceases when children are submissive: certainly he will not carry it beyond the grave. I shall be in orders soon. The wants of nature are easily supplied; let us not distrust providence. We shall have acted virtuously, and virtue is her own reward.
Upon the strength of these self-evident axioms, Miss Johnson—for she too was in love—was persuaded to do that which she wished, rather than that which she thought prudent—and we were married.
Our good aunt, continued Mr. Lindsay, very much approved the match, and even promoted it, when she knew I lay under my father's displeasure; but when, in consequence of my first letter after marriage, my father wrote to the provost of our college, only that he had renounced and disinherited me, it made a great alteration in her manner of thinking. She then said I was a knave and her niece a fool, and that she washed her hands of both of us.
In effect, not being able to stay at Cambridge, consequently losing the power of getting into orders, I was obliged to have recourse to my pen for a livelihood. I began, as young authors usually do, with newspapers and magazines. I grew by degrees more confident, became a politician, an essayist, and even a poet. I laboured, Mrs. Lindsay was oeconomical, we had two pretty children, loved each other, and were happy.
Our first distress arose from a long illness of my wife; it exhausted our savings, and enervated my pen. We began to want necessaries, and consequently to acquire humility. I wrote to my father, he was still inexorable; Mrs. Lindsay was so good as to inform me of it with her own pen: she said she was excessively sorry for my distresses, and lamented my father's inflexibility. Had she had any power over him, things should not be so. Out of her own and daughter's savings, she had scraped together 50l. this she sent me, requiring my note in return; for the time might come, she said, and God knew how soon, when I might abound in wealth, and she be under the necessity of making a claim upon me.
It was not a time for consideration or delicacy. Nay, I was sometimes grateful enough to think that I might have misinterpreted or judged Mrs. Lindsay too severely, and that she might have a good heart. So I wrote her a letter of thanks, inclosing my note.
The two following years I lived like most other men; sometimes with tolerable happiness, sometimes with intolerable misery. The latter arose from my wife's declining health. At the end of this time I was summoned to my father's funeral, without having heard of his illness, though it had been of long continuance.
I found my mother-in-law, overwhelmed with grief; and I said, I know not what unmeaning things by way of consolation. I enquired after the young ladies, and was answered they had been sent to the house of a friend a few days—God knows, Mr. Lindsay, said she, whether ever to return; for I am ignorant, totally ignorant, whether any provision be made for me, except the slender pittance settled at my marriage. I beg, Mr. Lindsay, you will make perfectly free with every thing in the house. Indeed I believe every thing is yours; and have the goodness to excuse me; so saying, she retired to her apartment.
My father's funeral had been over several days, for the distance from London was too great to wait for me; so the attorney being sent for, and a neighbour or two, we proceeded to our only business, the promulgation of the will. It was short, but expressive. All his possessions whatsoever and wheresoever, he bequeathed to his dear wife; except—according to the old, but unnecessary form of disinherison —one shilling to me.
My wishes to procure my Charlotte that change of situation and those other reliefs which her disorder required, had made me indulge some hope during my journey, and the expression of my mother's fears had increased it. My disappointment was almost too strong to bear. I had however the resolution to suppress complaint, and to shew no striking marks of discontent.
Mrs. Lindsay was not present at the opening of the will; it would have been too much for her feeble spirits. So she requested the attorney to inform her of the melancholy contents. When she had received this information, she sent down by the same gentleman a polite message, to excuse her coming down, but requesting that I would consider her house as my own.
Her house! The expression mortified me; but it was not my interest, nor indeed my inclination, to shew her any disrespect; so I spent that night alone, amusing myself with reflecting upon the evils brought into the world by unrelenting fathers, and insiduous step-mothers; I might have added improvident sons, but I do not remember that they made any part of my meditation.
The next day I expected to be favoured with Mrs. Lindsay's company, but she was ill—exceeding ill—her loss was more than she could bear; she was afraid she should not be able to leave her room many days; hoped I was accommodated to my liking, and that I should stay as long as was convenient and agreeable to myself.
This message I interpreted into a civil desire that I would leave her house as soon as I could. I obeyed. In a note I thanked my mother for her kind invitation; but said, that as I had now nothing left, not even hope, I was under the necessity of employing my time and talents, such as they were, for the support of my family. She wished me a good journey.
I mentioned that I had two children; one had died a year before, and had rendered the other doubly dear. It was a sweet little girl, a most beautiful picture of health, innocence, and her mother. Entering my own house, I found this little darling dead upon the bed, my wife in strong convulsions, and the terrified maid screaming for help, which however nobody brought.
Upon this scene I cannot dwell, for I am no painter of agony. My Charlotte recovered, only to present me with the still more distressing scene of death daily expected. All the vigour of my mind was gone; I thought not of living, and suffered poverty to approach me unregarded. It came too soon. Of the full fide of affluence which flowed in upon my mother-in-law from my ruin, I had constantly expected to be a small partaker; not from her benevolence—I now knew her too well, but from a woman who might be desirous to save appearances, and stand wel