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 Another Random Document on
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as love should be allowed by possibility to mingle in the motives to
conversion, and by so doing, sully the integrity of change. With
these defects, however, and some inequalities in the argument,
Tremaine is a charming work, and breathes nothing from beginning
to end, which is not calculated, in some way or other, to render
people wiser and better who read it; a character which it would be a
great happiness were to be able with truth to attribute in this age of
novels to many of the most celebrated amongst them.
Having said so much of my invalid’s mind, I must mournfully add of
his bodily frame, that it gradually declines, yet so imperceptibly, that
it requires such minute observation as strong affection can alone
awaken, to perceive the progress of decay. My dear children, and
our friend Mr. Otway, unite in kindest remembrances to you. Speak
of us all to our poor neighbours with affectionate recollection, and
tell them that I long to re-visit my little valley, and am only
supported through the pain of absence from home, and the fatigue
of more society, than for many years I have been accustomed to, by
the pleasant assurance that I am not uselessly employed. The
remarks of my young people, in a land of strangers, furnish me too
with a perpetual source of gratification, they are so true to nature
and good sense, as well as feeling. We continue to hear constantly
from Arthur, who is happy in the company of Mr. Charles Falkland, a
young man whose friendship I anticipate for my Frederick with great
pleasure. We hear also of Lord and Lady Crayton, of whom I wish I
could add that our accounts are agreeable. Lord C. is, I fear, ill
calculated to make my poor niece happy; and they both exhibit, but
too faithfully, a specimen of fashionable marriage. I tremble, as I
look forward, and bless God when I gaze with thankfulness on my
children, that they have been preserved from the vortex of folly,
which draws thousands daily into its dangerous and seductive abyss.
Can all the riches of the East, added to all “the boast of heraldry,
and pomp of power,” supply the place of domestic love, or
compensate for the absence of moral virtue? I sometimes feel like
an old picture that, after having been hung up during a century, has
suddenly received the gift of animation, and descended from its
frame to mingle in the social group. The world, even as seen at this
distance from our metropolis, appears almost as new to me as to my
girls; and, I am sorry to confess, how little find in it to gratify my
mental taste. Perhaps retirement may have soured my disposition,
but if this be not the case, society is not improved in this kingdom.
We are encircled by people of princely fortune; and luxury, in all its
fertility of invention, reigns throughout this rich and beautiful
country. But, oh! how much I miss the England of my early
recollections! Mr. Otway and I often mourn over the progress of
what is falsely called refinement, which has made the lower classes
forget the simple sobriety, the active industry, the nice cleanliness of
former times, and has rendered the higher orders a disgusting
engraftment of foreign manners, customs, and language, upon a
British stock. My dear home! My pure mountain breezes and rational
fire-side, I sigh to behold you once more! Adieu, my valued friend. I
hope to hear from you before we leave Marsden, and am,
Sincerely yours,
Caroline Douglas.
 LETTER XXXVI.
From Emily Douglas to Miss Sandford.
My dearest Julia,
This will, probably, be my last letter from Marsden, unless any
unfavourable change in my dear uncle’s health should alter the
present arrangements for our departure. We are to go by Brighton
and Dieppe, instead of by the route first proposed; and you may
expect to hear from me as frequently as possible, though I shall
never persecute you with my travels as travels: for I do believe there
is nothing left in France or Italy, which has not been served up in
every practicable variety of form, to meet each different character of
taste; but I trust to your affection for finding interest in every stage
of our journey, though the map of it be so familiar to your memory
as to deprive me of all hope to amuse you by descriptions of scenery
or costumes. Since I wrote last, I have seen much that was new to
me, without going abroad; and, though I should be very ungrateful
not to acknowledge thankfully the great kindness with which we
have been received in Hampshire, I cannot permit even gratitude to
blind me, and confound distinctions which I never desire to see
melted into an undistinguishable mass of uniform colouring. My dear
Julia, I sometimes stare with such amazement at the things that
present themselves, as to fear that my eye-lids may be overstrained,
and lose the power of closing; but, instead of egotizing on the
effects produced upon my mind, I will beg you to accompany me to
three or four splendid mansions in our neighbourhood, where you
shall judge for yourself. About a week ago, Mr. Otway, Frederick,
Charlotte, and I, took a delightful ride through the New Forest, to
pay our respects to Mrs. Hannaper, a Begum of this country, who
commands several hundred votes, and who is, therefore, a grand
bone of contention in this terrible electioneering struggle. She has a
beautiful niece, Miss Ormsby, who is dressed all over in the colours
of that party which her aunt espouses; and is so full of stripes that
she might be supposed to have made her gown and shawl out of the
flag of a ship belonging to the United States. This young lady assists
Mrs. Hannaper in canvassing for her favourite candidate, to whom it
is said that she is to be married; and I have heard many gentlemen
complain of being attacked with such perseverance, as to find great
difficulty in retreating from the united influence of beauty and
supplication. As we rode along, several groups of riotous, drunken
men, in smock frocks, bearing bunches of buff and blue ribbons in
their hats, interrupted our progress, and startled our horses, by
tumultuary shouts which rent the air with cries “Sir Christopher
Cromie, and Mrs. Hannaper for ever!” As we approached to
Lyndhurst, the vociferation increased, and we were just consulting
whether it would not be prudent to turn about, when a crowd came
rushing down the road, which branched off at right angles with that
by which we were journeying forward; and we found ourselves
immediately surrounded by three or four hundred people, who had
taken Mrs. Hannaper’s horses from the carriage in which she and her
niece were sitting, and insisted on drawing them home themselves,
to testify their attachment to the cause which she patronizes. Mrs.
Hannaper is apparently from sixty to sixty-five, with a face and form
neither rough nor unpleasing; but a cloth habit, tight beaver hat,
over a Brutus wig, a coloured silk handkerchief tied round her throat,
and a collar rising almost to her cheek bones, gave so masculine an
air as completely to deceive me, while the interposition of some
drooping branches of an ash tree concealed the lower part of her
dress from my view. She stood up in her barouchette, waved her hat
to the multitude, huzzaed, and acted so like a man upon the
occasion, that when I came near enough to see a petticoat, I
blushed for the honour of my sex. Her niece held a parasol over her
head, and seemed less inclined to make these outrageous
demonstrations than her aunt; but she held a sort of banner in the
left hand with Sir Christopher’s name worked in gold letters, and her
hat was ornamented with a great cockade of his colours. The
carriage stopped when we appeared, and Mrs. Hannaper covering
her head sat down, and desiring Mr. Otway, whom she had
previously seen, to present my brother, sister, and me, very politely
requested us to breakfast on the following day, when she meant, as
she told us, to turn out a bagged fox; and her “Liliputians”—the
name by which she distinguished a favourite pack of some tiny
breed, with the technical appellation of which I am unacquainted.
“Come early,” added she, “Sir Christopher, and a few friends, will be
at Parham, where I shall be happy to see you.” I was beginning to
say why we could not accept her kind invitation, when, in the same
moment, I read “do let us go” in Frederick’s eye, and a glance from
Mr. Otway’s, in which was legibly written, “it is something new, do
not refuse.” I suppose that I mismanaged my excuse, for Mrs.
Hannaper, nothing daunted, replied, “oh really you must come, I
never take refusals.” Mr. Otway told her that some of the party
would certainly attend her; and the intoxicated leaders becoming
impatient of so long a parley, threw up a cloud of hats into the air,
with a deafening uproar, and the ladies were whirled along to our no
small contentment, for our steeds threatened, by the noise, to
become ungovernable. When we had resumed our peaceful track,
we interchanged, as you may believe, some remarks upon the
extraordinary vision that had just crossed our path. Mr. Otway was
excessively amused by Charlotte’s asking whether Mrs. Hannaper,
and her niece, were Blue-stockings. “No, I dare say not,” answered
our friend. “Why do you suppose them to be so?” “Oh,” replied
Charlotte, “I have no reason, further than that from the masculine
air of these ladies, I conclude that they must be disliked extremely
by the other sex, and perhaps considered intruders sufficiently to be
called Blues.” An explanation ensued, and we learned that, though it
is an inexcusable offence for a woman to fancy that she possesses
any understanding, or is capable of any mental acquirement,
notwithstanding that Heaven may have bestowed upon her the
brightest abilities, it is perfectly admissible, under certain
circumstances, to be a female Nimrod—to hunt and course, dress
like a mail coachman, drive a curricle at full speed, ride like a
Bedouin Arab, and be in at the death. Nay, Mr. Otway assured us,
that Mrs. Hannaper is generally ornamented by the Fox’s brush in
returning from the chase, and that she cries talliho with peculiar
gusto! “But then,” added he, “she is a woman of immense fortune;
and, however people might laugh at inferior folk, so many
gentlemen are aspiring to the hand of this Diana, that a thousand
knights would take the field to resent the slightest indignity offered
to the goddess of their adoration.” No language can paint my
astonishment to learn that this old lady went out hunting; to hear
her huzzaing, and to see her manly costume, had been wonder
enough for one day; but to fancy it possible, that a veteran belle of
Mrs. Hannaper’s age, could dream of marriage, or, like queen
Elizabeth, permit herself, in this age of the world, to be surrounded
by people daring to talk of love to a woman of sixty, was something
beyond my comprehension or credulity. For the first time in my life I
thought, dearest Mr. Otway ill-natured, and, slackening my pace, fell
back with Charlotte, allowing him, and Frederick, to take the lead—
shall I own my weakness? I felt so humbled for my sex, that low
spirits took possession of me; a melancholy dialogue succeeded, and
a hearty fit of tears relieved the oppression which manners so novel
had occasioned. My sister, and I, entreated that we might not be
forced to attend the morning party; so Frederick went alone, and
came back thoroughly disgusted with all that he saw. A gay party
met at a breakfast à la fourchette, where the ladies, he told us,
played their parts most vigorously at ham, dried fish, and all sorts of
substantial fare, not disdaining to wash it down with a glass of
champagne.
“To horse, to horse,” was the next order of the day, and the ladies,
dressed in uniform, rode in the most sportsman-like manner, clearing
gates, banks, and ditches. I cannot dwell upon the disgraceful
theme. Alas! is learning decried? Are women ridiculed for improving
their minds, and gaining useful knowledge, while such a surrender of
every characteristic that distinguishes the feminine from the
masculine gender, is tolerated and encouraged? I feel a nausea
when I hear the name of Hannaper; but I have not done with her
yet. In a day or two after our meeting, she came to see us, having
duly ascertained that my uncle would not give his interest to either
party at the approaching election; and certainly nothing can be more
appropriate than the name by which she is called in the country.
“Jack Hannaper,” exactly prepares one for the abrupt masculine
unceremonious assault which she makes on the people at whose
houses she visits. Mamma’s gentle and retiring manner, the gravity
of her dress, and total absence of interest in the gossip of the
neighbourhood, induced the Dame of Parham Hall, to address
herself chiefly to my uncle, whom she overpowered with her
volubility. After having talked of her dogs which have got the
distemper, of a horse which she had shot, perhaps with her own
hand, because it had the glanders, she proceeded, and with all the
technicality of the hustings, proclaimed the state of the poll, her
intention of appearing on a favourite charger at the head of her
plumpers, and giving a coup de grace to the enemy. Perceiving, it
may be, from the languid appearance of my dear uncle, that he was
fatigued by this farrago of nonsense, Mrs. Hannaper suddenly turned
to me, and said, “Oh, but my dear Miss Douglas, you really had a
great loss in not coming to Parham the other day. We had very good
fun I assure you, and I dare say you will be glad to hear that your
brother was much admired. He rides particularly well, and no
centaur ever sat a horse more firmly. Upon my word he is a very
handsome fine young fellow, and I have no doubt will make a figure
yet. I shall be always happy to see him at Parham Hall.” Frederick’s
praises would go far to put me in good humour with any medium
through which they met my ear; but these fell upon it in sounds so
coarse, and unaccustomed, that I felt they were a sort of
profanation, and wished that my brother had never joined the
unrefined society of this unfeminine female. My cheeks glowed, but
not with pleasure. It was a fevered flush. I longed for Mrs.
Hannaper’s departure, and did not know how to answer her; but she
did not leave me many seconds in a state of embarrassment on
Frederick’s account. All minor vexation was presently merged in the
shame which I felt on my own, when this “she wolf with unrelenting
fangs,” seized my arm, and, starting with real or affected
recollection, exclaimed, “Well, but only fancy my omitting to tell you
before, that Sir Archibald Johnson is thinking of you for his son, who
makes no kind of objection, and if your fortune can liberate the
estate from some thousands of embarrassment, it will be quite a
nice hit. Lady Johnson of Norbury Park will not sound badly. The
settlements and pin money will be liberal I dare say, and any
assistance which my work-people in London can give, I shall be
vastly happy, I assure you, to offer. You know that you need not
have much at present: a few things made by the first hands will do,
till you go to town yourself, and choose your own jewels, and select
your own favourite colours. I am sure that Sir Archibald will be
anxious to hasten matters, for I know at this moment, that a sum of
ten thousand is called in by Mr. Fletcher, who is going to marry one
of his girls famously to that madcap, Colonel Anstruther, who will be
as rich as a jew bye and bye. To be sure he is a sad roué at present,
but either he will sow his wild oats or run a muck. If the latter, he
will shoot himself, or end his days in the Fleet; but people must not
look forward; if we did, what a dull sort of thing you know it would
be. I doat on the little Scotch song, which says ‘the present moment
is our ain, the next we never saw;’ how pretty!”
By this time I was burning indeed: shame, indignation, and surprise,
were so strongly excited, that, like contrary forces, they had the
effect of paralyzing all movement. I sat like a fool, totally unable to
speak; and how long I should have been doomed to listen to a strain
so uncouth, the more humiliating, because uttered in the presence
of mamma and my uncle, I know not, if Mr. Bolton had not been
announced in this crisis, when Mrs. Hannaper jumped up, called her
niece, who had been talking to Charlotte in the music-room
adjoining, and, hastily nodding to me, shook my hand with an air of
intelligence, saying, “I hate old Bolton, so must take fresh ground;
well, we will talk over matters when next we meet, and perhaps the
neighbourhood may be enlivened by more than one wedding ere
long.” Miss Ormsby laughed so loud as this sally burst upon her ear,
that I was absolutely confounded. “Good morrow” being hurried
over, the same opening of the door served to usher in the old
gentleman, to whose rescue I had been once before indebted, and
to float away the most intolerable specimen of inelegance and
indelicacy that I ever met with in the form of woman. The dear little
Mr. Bolton was received with rapture. He seemed like a guardian
spirit, and I believe that he saw how truly he was welcome to me, as
in the most good-humoured and playful manner possible, he said,
“Oh, do you know I have had a great escape. Mrs. Hannaper looked
as if she could have eaten me up; and only that your hall is so
spacious, I question whether I could have avoided a bite at least.
Miss Douglas, I take it into my head that this amazonian chieftainess
is not a greater favourite of yours than she is of mine.” I confessed
that she would not be my model, and Mr. Bolton continued, “But you
and I shall have ample revenge, if I may depend on a little bit of
backstairs intelligence which has reached me through my own man.
“Now, you must not set me down as an old gossip because I tell you
so, and suppose that I am always employed in running to and fro, to
pick up scandal; but really poetic justice requires that such a
creature as Mrs. Hannaper should receive some check, and be
reminded of her age, before she is called to her great account. So
far therefore, from thinking myself ill-natured at chuckling in the
anticipation of a disappointment, which I have good reason to
believe is suspended by a hair over her head, I am bound as a
Christian to rejoice in any thing that may awaken her to a sense of
her folly, and drive her to more serious thoughts than those which
possess her idle brain.”
Much as I dislike Mrs. Hannaper, there was something so repugnant
to my feelings of humanity in suffering a fellow-creature to
encounter any ill, which timely notice might prevent, that I
expostulated with Mr. Bolton, and implored him to apprize the old
lady of his apprehensions, that so the catastrophe, however it might
threaten, should be averted. Mr. Bolton was silent for a moment,
while he fixed his eyes intently upon me, then catching my hand
affectionately, he pressed it like a friend of the “olden time,” and
with a tear starting to his eye, said, “God bless you child! my heart
opens to the voice of nature, and it has taken me by surprise to-day,
for her’s is a language which I seldom hear.” Oh, Julia, when such a
commonplace sentiment as that which I had expressed, in wishing
to spare a fellow-creature pain, had power to astonish by its novelty,
and delight for its moral virtue, what a comment is furnished by such
an anecdote as this upon modern society. If this be the world (and
people are the same I suppose, whether rolling through the streets
of London, or over the roads in Hampshire), defend me from its
attractions. I feel like the country mouse longing for my grey peas
and peaceful Glenalta; but the lovely Alps will refresh my eyes with
images of God’s creation, and I shall soon bid farewell to these
disgusting scenes of artificial life.
Mr. Bolton, after the little episode which I have described, returned
to the merry mood, and rubbing his hands in an ecstacy, said, “No,
no, depend upon it I will be ‘mute as a coach-horse.’ You shall none
of you know a word of the under-plot which is weaving. I will not be
a tell-tale. Let all things take their course.”
This dear little man is the soul of pleasantry, and seems to have an
excellent heart, though bound up in a quaint outside. He is very
English, and has a snug facetiousness of manner irresistibly
diverting. I hope that I may be fortunate enough to meet him often
in this neighbourhood, for he has both tact and feeling; and while
his uncommon drollery amuses, his keen observation protects. He
seems to delight in young people, and to understand us. My uncle
enjoys his company, and they had a great deal of conversation, after
which he took his leave, entreating that we should not fail to meet
him at Lady Campion’s, to whose house we were invited for the
following morning, to a trial of skill in archery. The time for these
revels is not yet come; but as several families are prevented this
year, I am told, from being in town, through one cause or other, they
are doing the best they can to keep up the ball of pleasure, and
rehearse for a more full and fashionable season. Mr. Bolton was my
allurement, and the hope of seeing him, emboldened me to go
under the wing of Mr. Otway, accompanied by Charlotte and
Frederick.
Lady Campion and her daughters are come home within the last
month, from Italy. They are a lovely group. Mother and daughters
beautiful, and dressed in the same way, like sisters, it was not easy
to distinguish the parent from the offspring. I do not like this. Surely
the most tender love may subsist without this confusion of
relationships. In the deep attachment which binds my heart to the
precious author of my being, how sorry I should be even for a
moment, to forget that she is my mother. But though not yet twenty,
I feel as if I were fourscore, when I look around me. Nothing could
be prettier than the little lawn on which we marshalled to see the
archers. The graceful figures, the skill with which they managed the
bow, the beauty of the fair competitors, clad in a livery of “Lincoln
green,” the exquisite flowers which perfumed the amphitheatre of
their sports, altogether charmed Charlotte and me. We were asked
to join the lists, but as we could truly plead ignorance of the art, we
gladly dropped back upon a fringe of the finest rhododendrons I
ever beheld, lined by a bank of arbutus, to witness the combat.
There were from forty to fifty spectators, amongst whom were only
two, besides Mr. Bolton, whom I ever desire to see again. These
were a Mrs. and Miss Fraser, Scotch people, a mother and daughter,
very unlike our pretty hostess, who, to my amazement, I found was
a rival candidate for the prize with her children; and, alas, can you
believe it! is jealous of a Lord Thornborough’s attentions to the elder
of them. This young and vapid peer was of our party; the most
finnikin object that you can imagine. He had called one day at
Marsden, so that I did not see him for the first time at Lady
Campion’s; and when he visited my uncle, Fanny, whose fresh
naïveté supplies a constant source of amusement to us, said, “Well,
if in one of my walks I met Lord Thornborough and his friend Mr.
Freeman (a young man of fashion who has accompanied him to this
country), I am sure that I could not help offering them my
assistance were there any difficulty to be got over; for certainly
those young men could not help themselves over a hedge, ditch, or
stile.”
I must give you a sketch of this London pair. They have both such
heads for size, from the abundance of curled hair and whiskers that
disfigure them, that if their bodies were concealed you would expect
to see giants, judging by the proportion of limb that would suit such
prodigious capitals. On the contrary, however, they are both rather
diminutive than tall; their hands are not larger than a young lady’s,
and as white as alabaster. Add to this appearance, rings, pins,
chains, &c., and judge whether Fanny was very wide of the mark,
when, with the rosy glow of sixteen, “redolent of life and spring,” her
humanity would prompt the offer of her aid to creatures so pale, so
thin, so cadaverous, that Mr. Bolton very truly said, that “they looked
like weavers just out of an hospital.” But I have not done. How can I
believe the things that I hear? Two pink spots, which alone
distinguished Lord Thornborough’s face from that of a corpse, and
which I thought indicated consumption, are, Mr. Bolton declares,
positively rouge! I blush as I write the word! But to return to the
archery.—The gentlemen were not so successful as the ladies: Miss
Campion sped her arrow right through the centre of the target, and
claimed a victory, which her mother, who came within half an inch of
the bull’s eye, refused to admit, demanding to be queen herself, and
awarding only the second prize to her daughter. An altercation
ensued, and the angry looks, the unkind taunts which I witnessed,
live still in my memory.
Matters grew so serious, that Mr. Otway proposed lots: Lady
Campion drew the longest, and darting a look of fire at her rival, was
crowned by Lord Thornborough, whom she in turn voted to be
winner in the teeth of justice and truth; and, after having
reciprocally distinguished him by a wreath of Fame, caught him by
the hand, and triumphantly led the way towards a fine Grecian
temple in the grounds, where a magnificent collation was prepared,
and where the pseudo king and queen occupied a throne of scarlet
and gold, decorated with laurels; while the rightful monarchs had
not even the satisfaction of mingling their complaints, as the real
hero was a sweet young midshipman, son to Mrs. Fraser, who
laughed heartily at being choused, as he said, out of his conquest,
and who seemed of much too noble a stamp to kneel at the feet of a
haughty regina, who, though herself mortified, treated him with
sovereign contempt.
While we were seated at a table covered with refreshments, one of
the Misses Campion asked me, so suddenly, the ridiculous question,
“Have you been out yet?” that though I have heard that it is the
technical phrase for being presented in the world, the more familiar
meaning occurred to my mind, and, like an idiot, I answered, that I
should think a walk round the grounds very pleasant. A loud and
rude burst of laughter drew the attention of the company upon me,
and would have overwhelmed me with confusion, if Mr. Bolton, who
was sitting between me and my tormentor, had not, with the celerity
of an arrow, upset a flask of Champagne into the lap of the fair
follower of Diana, which produced such a prompt metamorphosis, as
“turned the green one red” in an instant, and the laugh against her
from me. The thing was done so adroitly, that it appeared
accidental, and as no one was more busy than the perpetrator in
offering the most gallant commiseration, I never knew till two days
after that I was thus indebted in a third instance to my faithful
knight.
We adjourned presently to a music-room, where harp and piano-
forte, with all “means and appliances to boot,” challenged
competition in a new form; and here another sad scene was
exhibited. A charming Italian duet was asked for by Lord
Thornborough, and Miss Campion, who was in the habit of singing
the second, was called very authoritively by her mother to take her
part: she was also to accompany on the piano-forte. With a cheerful
alacrity which delighted me, as evincing, I thought, a sweet forgiving
temper, she took her seat at the instrument; but the harmony was
soon disturbed, for she had no sooner landed her mother in a solo
recitative, which the latter was singing to admiration, than, jumping
up, overturning the music-desk, and rushing towards a window, she
exclaimed, “Look at the eagle!” The company followed; and a crow,
which had crossed the house, and was picking up worms in the
lawn, was the only winged animal that presented itself to view. Peals
of unmeaning laughter succeeded. Lady Campion was outrageous,
and could scarcely preserve an appearance of decency; but as I felt
how very irritating her daughter intended to be, I begged Mrs. and
Miss Fraser to come and make a little party at her side. We
entreated her to excuse Miss Campion’s mistake, and to indulge us
with a repetition of the delightful air in which she had been
interrupted.
After much disquietude, matters were arranged once more, and the
solo was achieved; but in the midst of the concluding movement,
which was very brilliant, and calculated to make a striking
impression in the winding up, Miss Campion uttered a piercing
shriek, the effect of which was ludicrous in the extreme, mingling as
it did with the full harmony, and vociferated, “a bee, a bee!” and a
bee there certainly was, crawling up the leg of the piano-forte, so
weak and so drowsy after the cold weather, that the last of its
intentions, poor thing, seemed to be to inflict the slightest injury on
any one. Frederick put the obnoxious insect out of the window, but
Lady Campion was now inexorable: she lost all control over looks
and manner, which seemed to affect every one, except the person to
whom they were directed; and, quite shocked by the scene, I
requested that we might take our departure, which we did without
delay, leaving such a domestic broil as I had then witnessed for the
first time, to cool as it might.
Lord Thornborough handed me to the carriage, and with an
unfeeling “Hah! hah! hah!” said, Miss Douglas, “you have come in for
a thunder-storm to-day. Her ladyship was rather sublime; don’t you
think so?” I was too much disgusted to reply, and, contenting myself
with a passing bow, was happy to find myself on the high road to
Marsden.
Am I sure that my senses do not deceive me, and that such things
are? Is the sacred relationship of parent and child out of fashion?
And is it possible, that while a daughter forgets the respect due to a
mother, mothers have forgotten to respect themselves? I am not
surprised now, when I hear Mr. Otway and Mr. Bolton speak of the
present times, and compare them with the period immediately
preceding the Revolution in France. I heard them agree a day or two
ago in drawing the parallel with mournful fidelity, and finding in the
frightful demoralization of continental manners, which is making,
they said, rapid progress in these countries, but too certain a
prognostic of the fate that will follow, if the tide be not arrested, of
which there seems but little hope.
If I had staid at home I should never have known these things; and
however one may detest, I do not feel that we can become familiar
with what is wrong, without being the worse for it.
In two days after Lady Campion’s popping-jay, we were forced by
my uncle to attend an evening party at Lady Neville’s. It is not more
than two months since she has lost a beautiful and accomplished
daughter, who died of decline. If my beloved mother had hung over
the dying couch of a child, would she——but I must curb myself, and
relate facts, not comment upon them, or I shall never have done. Till
ten o’clock at night we did not go to Neville Court, though the cards
particularly notified “an early party;” and when we reached that
splendid mansion, we found an immense assemblage of the beau
monde, greater than it was possible to suppose could be mustered
at such a distance from London which is the focus of all fashionable
rays, a few of which only are scattered and refracted by various
accidents in certain individual families, as cracks in a glass will
disturb the transmission of the sun’s beams. Here was another lie
direct, for the cards also informed us, that the party was to be a
“small” one. Why this perversion of language? I cannot fathom it. If
some lurking remnant of compunctious feeling crossed the heart of
Lady Neville; and in the words “small” and “early” she discovered a
slight palliation of the offence against decency (for I will not profane
the sweet idea of maternal love by using its language in such
company), which she had determined on committing, I should
perceive the reason of the strange deception of which I am
speaking, but all was gaiety and glitter. Lady Neville and her
daughters sparkled with diamonds arranged upon a sort of gossamer
drapery, so light, so graceful, so artificially adjusted, fashionable and
becoming, that mourning was the last sentiment which such
paraphernalia could excite or indicate. Their dress told lies as well as
their cards.
The house at Neville Court is superb, and as I wandered from room
to room with the amiable Frasers and my own Charlotte, I felt the
luxury of kindred sentiment in a new world, and gave free course to
thoughts that were little in unison with the passing scene. I fancied
this magnificent ball-room, with its chandeliers, its lustres, and
chalked floor, two short months ago, perhaps, the theatre of another
sort of assembly. I marked the spot where, in imagination, I could
descry the lonely tressels supporting their sad and youthful burthen
——that opening flower untimely torn from its stalk, and snatched
from the warm hopes of unfolding spring. I beheld the mutes, and
saw the tables spread with funeral fare; the “cold baked meats” of
death; the sable hangings; the hirelings of office, marshalling their
dismal train, at least with features screwed to the occasion, and
voices subdued to whisper. With the most painful feelings I asked
within myself, “must we fly from the fondest ties of nature, to seek
for sorrow in ‘those chambers of imagery supplied from the
undertaker’s mercenary taste;’ and fail to find it enshrined within the
breast of a mother or a sister?” My cheek curdled, and my breathing
became oppressed, while these melancholy phantoms glided past
my mental vision, and like spectres mingled in the dance. The
brilliant ball-room seemed to me no other than Holbein’s “dance of
Death;” and when I was roused from my reverie by, “Miss Douglas,
will you daunce?” let slip, as if from the mouth of one just dropping
asleep, whose muscles had become too flaccid to retain the words
within its lips any longer, I started as if I had been shot by one of
Lady Campion’s arrows, and turned round upon—Mr. Johnson.
Though I delight in dancing, there was too much lead at my heart to
allow of merriment in my feet at this moment; and I therefore
instinctively declined, and for a time got rid of the consummate
puppyism of this disagreeable young man.
To my utter astonishment I was asked to join in the next quadrille by
Lord Thornborough, whose politeness I should not have supposed
from any thing else I had witnessed, could have induced the
remembrance of a country lass, and a stranger (though the latter is
the highest claim to attention in my dear Ireland), amidst such
dazzling beauty and attraction as solicited his regards. You see I did
him injustice, and am ready to make the amende honorable; but as I
had refused Mr. Johnson, I could not dance with any one else, and
though I did not regret this circumstance from any admiration of
milord, I confess to having found it difficult to sit still, when the
gloomy contemplations with which the evening commenced, began
to yield to the inspiring influence of lively music. I had, however, the
great pleasure of seeing Charlotte enjoying a gratification which was
denied to me; and, would you believe it, she had scarcely begun to
move, when a crowd was collected to see her dance. Her figure is so
like what one imagines of a Sylph, and her ear is so perfect, that to
admire her performance in a quadrille, would appear nothing more
than the necessary routine of cause and effect, if I had not believed
the group by which we were surrounded quite too artificial in its
construction to leave a corner for nature to slide in at. However, so it
was, that I heard several of the gentlemen express their approbation
in terms more energetic than I should have thought such indolent
looking people likely to employ on any occasion, even of the
moment; and dear unconscious Charlotte seemed for a time Reine
de la fête.
“Yes,” said Mr. Bolton, who came to sit by me for a little while, “there
is the triumph of truth and native grace over all the contrivances of
fashion. There is your sister, who has never seen London or Paris,
bearing away the palm from all those painted dolls who are swinging
their persons round the room.”
Quadrilles ended, how shall I express my feelings at seeing Lady
Campion and Lord Thornborough get up to waltz! Timanthes, a
painter of ancient times, drew a veil over the face of a father whose
grief he felt unequal to pourtray. I must borrow his device, and let a
curtain fall over an exhibition which I wish obliterated from my
memory. I found a few lines by Frederick, which he wrote in London,
after returning from a ball, part of the concluding stanza of which
shall finish my descant upon this distasteful theme:
 “But there is something in a waltz which wears
Off all the lovely bloom of virgin grace,
When round Belinda’s form a stranger dares
Fling the unhallowed arm in bold embrace,
And rudely gazes on her beauteous face.”

The dancing wanted that gaieté du cœur which alone renders it an

agreeable and animating amusement. The ladies glided like silver
eels, and the gentlemen groped about the room as if their eyes were
shut, so that absolutely, if a stranger had been introduced, who
never saw a modern ball-room before, he might have been excused
for imagining that the dancers were playing blind man’s buff, and
afraid of knocking their heads against the panels, if they moved their
bodies without the utmost circumspection. In short, a child of nature
would wonder why people should take the trouble of submitting their
feet to a sort of rhythm just enough to shackle their freedom, and
prevent the luxury of perfect inanition. Well, thought I to myself, this
society is fashionable. These men and women move in what is called
the first circle. The former will, many of them, become our Members
of Parliament; senators, by whose collective wisdom we are to be
directed. These asses in human form, the most idle, ignorant,
effeminate animals possible to conceive, are to be husbands,
fathers, landlords, masters! It is a melancholy prospect, and in
looking to my own sex, on thoughts of which my mind from infancy
has dwelt with pride and pleasure, as the sweet depository of
religion, morals, fond affections, taste and talents softened down to
social converse, and illuminating the domestic sphere, oh, what a
contrast meets my eye! what will these creatures be when all that
art can do to whiten the poor sepulchre shall fail, and wrinkles
insurmountable will raise their fearful lines of circumvalation round
the once bright orbs? when rouge itself, the last faithful handmaid of
departing beauty, no longer sticks to the haggard cheek, no longer
lights up the extinguished eye; when the ethereal form of finished
symmetry is either swelled to the mountain size of those round
matrons who in vain would try to grasp the pedal harp which shuns
the corpulent embrace, or dwindled to the bony frame which only
serves for draperies to be hung upon? What will be the fate of these
hapless wrecks of vanished youth, when even cards, the ultimate
resource of age, the last strong hold of veteran nothingness, shall
cease to charm? Oh, my Julia, how will these miserable beings
tremble, as the grave yawns beneath their feet! Eternity awaits all
these butterflies, whether male or female; and I shudder, as
imagination presents the grisly group of coxcombs, and of belles,
stripped of their paint and patches, wigs, and waltzes, and standing
to receive the final sentence at an Almighty tribunal.
I was interrupted in my sermon by a call to the library. It was to
meet our new chaplain, for whom my uncle promised to provide,
when he procured the appointment of Mr. Oliphant to the parish of
Glenalta; and what words can describe our joy at finding in this
young man, no other than your neighbour and intimate friend, Alfred
Stanley. A person with whom we all feel so well acquainted, and
have such reason, through your dear aunt’s eloquent sketches of his
character, to admire and value without having ever seen him till now.
Mamma, you know of old, loves to play us a little trick sometimes;
and in the present instance I find that all the Checkley family have
been in league with her to surprise us. Judge then of our
astonishment at receiving your packet by Mr. Stanley, whose groom
returns to-morrow into Derbyshire, and shall take this volume to
you.
A few days now will see us en route. I cannot hope to send you
more than a line till I reach Paris.
Adieu, my dearest Julia; I would that we had done with towns, and
were safely arrived in that beautiful region where the mighty “Alps
have reared a throne” worthy of those skies which gild their
everlasting snows with refulgent glory.
A thousand loves attend you all.
Ever your affectionate,
Emily Douglas.
 LETTER XXXVII.
Rev. Mr. Oliphant to Mr. Otway.
To you, my dear friend, I address myself upon the present occasion,
though gratitude has long ere this, dictated a return of my best
acknowledgments to Mrs. Douglas, for two such letters as deserve
indeed my heart-felt thanks. But I have been painfully occupied, and
I leave to your discretion the time and method of explaining to my
dear friend, the cause of my silence, which is no other than the
death of our worthy and much lamented neighbour Mr. Bentley, an
event, intelligence of which, I well know, will not be heard at
Marsden with indifference. A fortnight ago he returned, as usual,
from his ride, accompanied by George, and immediately on entering
the house, fell into a sort of fit, which appeared to result from
determination of blood towards the head. George sent directly for
me, and we had Mr. Pigot immediately from Tralee, who acted with
judgment, and ere the surgeon and physician, for whom we sent to
Dublin, had reached Mount Prospect, our poor friend had recovered
his sensibility. The devotion of George to his uncle could not be
exceeded, and it was so purely disinterested, that the wealth of
Potosi would have weighed but as a feather in the balance, against
the re-establishment of Mr. Bentley’s health. The medical people,
however, saw from the first, that his situation was precarious, of
which he was conscious from the beginning himself. With Christian
courage, he began to prepare for the awful change which he
perceived to be approaching, and truly died the death of the
righteous. Yesterday evening he breathed his last in the arms of his
nephew. I never left him, except for the necessary purposes of
refreshment, from the time of his first seizure, and have the
happiness of believing that my presence afforded him comfort. As
the short period of his indisposition spared him any great exhaustion
of strength, he spoke without uneasiness, and in the most collected
manner adverted to the nature of his hopes. Nothing could be more
deeply interesting than his discourse, during the few latter hours
which preceded the closing scene.
“Oliphant,” said he, “I have never in my life, been an unbeliever; but
how small is the difference between infidelity, and a mere nominal
Christianity: a meagre religion of form and habit! Nay, of the two, is
there not a better chance, that the avowed scoffer, terrified by the
abyss which lies before him, may turn from the evil of his ways, than
the self-satisfied moralist, who depends on his miserable, his
imperfect works, for eternal salvation? My friend, I was in the latter
predicament. I received a commonplace Church of England
education, said my prayers mechanically, went to church, gave alms,
abstained from travelling on Sundays; and was for years of my life,
so entirely persuaded, that as a Christian character, I stood on a
high pedestal, removed from the vulgar level of mankind, that the
Pharisee’s words, though not perhaps actually expressed by my lips,
were never far from my heart; and, ‘Lord, I thank Thee, that I am
not as other men,’ was a sentiment continually present to me,
whenever I thought upon serious subjects. Oh, how far from God
was I in those days, when I thought myself so near Him!”
Here he paused, and after the interval of a few minutes, resumed
the train of solemn reflection upon which he had entered.
“Yes,” added he, “blessed be Heaven, such vain-glorious delusions
are far from me now, and I am not ashamed to say, that I owe the
change to this young man.”
Here poor George was completely overwhelmed. He pressed his
uncle’s hand to his lips, and shed a torrent of tears.
“George,” continued the dying man, “first taught me the religion of
the heart. Of what avail are the cold conclusions of reason? they
teach not humility, they do not subdue the passions, they do not
improve the temper, nor allay one demoniac ebullition of malice or
revenge. My practice has been wretchedly vacillating. I have been
continually led away from the right way; but it is something to know
this, and to put no confidence in aught but the redeeming mercy of
Him who suffered in our mortal form, for guilty man, and died upon
the cross to save our souls alive.”
My poor friend told me that his worldly affairs were all settled.
“My temporal house,” said he, “has been set in order. May the
heavenly mansions be opened to receive me!”
From time to time, he held this kind of language, placidly awaiting
the awful mandate. The bursting of a blood vessel in the temple is
not attended by much pain, and he suffered none that was not
incident to the remedies employed. On Tuesday he gave me a key,
and told me where I should find all his papers regularly labelled,
adding, “George’s character is not one of shew. He will be sorry for
me in the bottom of his heart: give him assistance now, and he will
not need it long. Religion has taken fast hold upon him, and her
consolations will quickly restore the equilibrium of his spirits. He will
never forget, but he will soon cease to grieve.”
After so saying, he fell into a tranquil slumber, and spoke no more,
except to ask for certain portions of the sacred volume. He repeated
the 15th chapter of St. John with fervour; desired us to read the 53d
of Isaiah, the 23d Psalm, and other favourite parts of scripture. A
restless night proclaimed the approach of death, and the last
afternoon witnessed his peaceful exit. He left his affectionate
regards for all of you, and has bequeathed, he told me, some little
memorial of respectful esteem to each individual at Glenalta and
Lisfarne.
Thus has passed away our kind-hearted neighbour Roger Bentley,
and his loss would be too sad to dwell upon, if his excellent nephew
were not heir to his uncle’s virtues, as well as property. No change
will be felt, I venture to assert, by any one who depended on the
bounty of our departed friend. Poor George is absorbed in silent
sorrow; he neither weeps nor talks, but the chalky paleness of his
countenance, is a faithful index to what passes within. He courts
solitude, and wishes no other companionship than his Bible. When
the last ceremony is performed, I shall write to my dear friend, Mrs.
Douglas, and in the mean time, with the most affectionate
remembrances to her, the General, and my pupils, believe me, my
dear sir,
Yours most sincerely,
J. Oliphant.
 LETTER XXXVIII.
From Edward Otway, Esq. to Rev. Mr.
Oliphant.
My dear Oliphant,
I cannot describe the shock which your intelligence imparted. It was
but a week before that day, on which his final summons was issued,
that I received a letter from my valued and lamented friend, full of
project and futurity; warm with friendship, and seasoned with that
peculiar and pungent humour which rendered him so singularly
entertaining and lively a companion. Sic transit gloria mundi! In
middle age, rich, healthy, divested of care, and happy in the society
of that good young man, who would have thought the end so near?
Who could have anticipated this sudden wreck of human hope? Such
is life! And does not such a tragedy, as it often presents, call upon
the actors in the drama for serious thoughts of what may follow? I
will not say that

“We could have better spared a better man,”

for Bentley was an excellent character, but I may truly say, that
many who fill a much larger circle than he did in the world’s
estimation, would not have left such a chasm in society. To the poor,
his loss would be irreparable, were it not that he leaves in George a
representative so worthy of him. Oh! when I reflect upon the habit
which prevails so generally at present, of taking young people
abroad, educating them in distant climes, alienating their minds from
the land that gave them birth, and forming their tastes to foreign
manners; when I compare this dismal error, and its consequences,
with the scene which we are contemplating at Mount Prospect,
surely there is reason to apprehend a fatal overthrow for our hapless
country. How few George Bentleys are ready to succeed the present
generation amongst us! I have seen much of the world in my day,
but have latterly lived in such abstraction from its vices and its
follies, that they strike me with almost as much wonder in their
modern dress, as if I had not before been familiar with their
features. True it is, that they are to be found everywhere, and the
deepest retirement is not necessarily virtuous, because it is solitary;
but the fashionable community of the present day seems to “out-
Herod Herod” in all that marks the absence of head and heart.
These dear young people are quite an affecting study. I never saw
such purity in mortal mould as breathes around them. Each seems
to be provided by nature with a safety lamp that preserves them
from contact with the noxious miasma of a vicious world; and I
should be repaid for much greater dereliction from my usual habits
than I submit to here, by the pleasure which I derive from the
unsophisticated singleness, instinctive modesty, and fine feeling of
my youthful associates, to whom it has fallen to my lot to act the
part of Chaperone. Never had Duenna reason to be prouder of a
trust than I have of the charge confided to my care; and my vanity
has cause of excitement in full proportion with my pride, as the
charm of nature in the midst of an artificial society is irresistibly
refreshing, like the admittance of Heaven’s sweet breath, the pure
mountain breeze, into a heated atmosphere, loaded with the costly,
but insalubrious exhalation of a thousand perfumes. You are so
much a part of the Glenalta family, through the claims of a long
acquaintance and mutual regard, that I do not feel as if I were
betraying the delicacy of my young friend Emily Douglas, in telling
you of the proof which we have just received of her total
indifference to rank and fortune. Two days ago, General Douglas was
applied to in form on the part of an old Baronet in this
neighbourhood, who requested permission to announce his only son
in quality of suitor to his niece, promising that nothing should be
wanting in the liberality of settlements to render the proposed
alliance agreeable to the young lady and her mother. I need scarcely
add, how unhesitatingly these advances were rejected. You are too
well acquainted with the charming girl who was the object of them,
to doubt her reception of such an offer. Emily’s hand will follow her
heart, not precede it; and happy will he be for whom such a treasure
may be destined.
When a favourable moment occurs, and that you find dear George
capable of deriving pleasure from hearing of a tribute to his uncle’s
memory, tell him, that all the gaieties of a week, in prospect, have
been suspended at Marsden by the young people, as a mark of the
sincere esteem in which our late friend was held by the inhabitants
of Glenalta. Adieu, my dear Oliphant. All here unite in kindest
remembrances with
Your faithful and affectionate,
Ed. Otway.
 LETTER XXXIX.
Emily Douglas to Julia Sandford.
Brighton.
Here we are, dearest Julia, and, as I find that we are to stay here for
some days, I cannot employ myself more agreeably than in writing
you “a few more last words” ere we embark for the Continent. But I
must carry you back to Marsden, where we remained full three
weeks after the period which had been fixed upon for our departure,
on account of the fluctuations in my uncle’s health. The day after I
sent you my last letter, we received the sad news from Glenalta,
which mamma conveyed to Checkley. Till we lost dear Mr. Bentley, I
had no idea how much we all loved him; and I feel that his death
has left a cruel blank in our social circle. The intelligence of an event
so painful, naturally restrained the course of our amusement, if that
deserve the name which owes to the weakness of our fellow
creatures its whole power of affording entertainment. I am such a
novice in the ways of polite life, that I have not yet learned to laugh
at the people around me, without something of self-reproach, which
sends me to my pillow in an uneasy state of mind, that “murders
sleep;” and I was growing very weary of what is so falsely, in my
opinion, called pleasure, when Mr. Oliphant’s melancholy letter
occasioned a complete cessation of dinner and evening parties, so
far as we were concerned. We had no spirits to join the insipid
society of the neighbourhood, when our minds were transplanted to
the awful scene at Mount Prospect. During several days we did not
stir from the demesne of Marsden, and these, if not clouded by the
death of our kind neighbour, would have been by far the happiest
that I have passed since we left home—talismanic word, which I
never write, nor speak, without an emotion peculiar to itself. We are
greatly delighted with your friend Alfred Stanley. What a heavenly
sight is that of a young heart devoted to its God? Mr. Stanley is,
indeed, a clergyman, and his life and manners explain that text of
Scripture so often cavilled at, which beautifully provides at once for
the purity of the Apostle and the utility of his example, in the
injunction to come out of the world; yet, while avoiding its
contagion, not to mistake a local removal, or a cold abstraction from
its concerns, for that holiness which the Great Founder of our
religion urges on his followers. Mr. Stanley is a practical illustration of
the precept intended, I am convinced, to be understood, as he
enacts it.—Cheerful, elegant, informed, and pleasing, there is no
society which is not rendered more agreeable by his presence; but
there is none in which it would be possible to forget his sacred
calling. Religion seems to have its rise in the centre of his heart, and
to send forth streams into every action; yet not such as dash and
foam, and startle by their impetuosity, but the existence of which,
within the soil, is discovered from the verdure and fertility of the
surface. His opinions seem, as far as I can judge in a short time, to
be purely those of Gospel truth, equally remote from the lifeless
formalism of what is now, by a strange and melancholy distinction,
designated Orthodoxy; and, on the other side, those peculiar tenets
so seldom honestly avowed, but sometimes defacing the Christian
scheme, which derive their name and character from Geneva. Your
friend, Alfred, realizes my idea of a faithful messenger. His piety is
evangelical, but he is not a Calvinist—he is—what was I going to
say? I had just begun a sentence when Fanny came flying into my
room to tell me that the packet which sails on Monday is to waft us
from the British shores. My uncle, it appears also, has received a
letter stating, that the repairs of the parish church at Swainton,
where Mr. Stanley is to officiate, cannot be completed under three
months. In consequence of this intelligence, a warm invitation to
accompany us on the Continent has been made and accepted; so we
shall take our chaplain with us, and I have no doubt that we shall
find him a great acquisition to our party. The concluding week of our
sojournment at Marsden was marked by some extraordinary events.
Sir Christopher Cromie, the most pudding-headed puffin that ever
was destined to take his seat in the House of Commons, has now
the privilege of franking in such a claw—for hand-writing you cannot
call it—that if he should doze away, per force of segars, the
recollection of his own name, as I have been assured that a
gentleman, equally enlightened with our baronet, once did, Sir
Christopher’s autograph has this advantage over all others, that it
may stand for any, or for every thing, according to the skill employed
in deciphering his pot-hooks and hangers. He was duly returned—
chaired—feasted; and gave a foretaste of his Parliamentary
eloquence at a great election “feed,” as Mr. Bolton told us, in a
speech which, though evidently conned over long before it was
spoken, proved such a desperate failure, that even the newspaper
editor in his pay could not tack any epithet more flattering than
“neat” to Sir Kit’s address to his constituents. Quere, may not this
word neat, applied to gentlemen’s harangues, which are neither
sensible, witty, eloquent, nor impressive, be a delicate cover for—
calf? Well, shouts rent the air, and the sweet sounds of “Sir
Christopher for ever!” struck upon the listening organs of Mrs.
Hannaper, who was seated in a balcony of the Red Lion inn, glowing
like a Chinese poppy, and surrounded with her attendant nymphs,
though certainly very unlike Calypso herself, awaiting the happy
moment of victory to buff and blue. No sooner did the glad tidings
reach the portals of her ear, than Mrs. Hannaper, with her plumed
hat in one hand, and a white handkerchief in the other, cheered the
populace. A shower of silver next bestrewed the pavement. Tar
barrels, beer barrels, and all the usual vulgarities of mobbish
demonstration, had their turn, and the tables at Parham Hall
groaned under the hecatomb sacrificed that day to this new pillar of
the Constitution, this swollen, shining faced, addle pated, member of
the British Senate, duly elected to represent that goodly portion of
the British empire; the ale-steeped suffrages of which gave him a
trifling majority over a sensible, worthy man, who was his opponent,
and committed its interests to the head of one who would never
have made the troublesome discovery through any appeal to his
judgment, that he had a head at all on his shoulders, if it had not
been for a reference once submitted to his fiat, to decide between
the rival merits of unadulterated Lundy Foot, and the Duke of York’s
mixture. On the evening of that auspicious day, Mrs. Hannaper,
wound up to the highest height of generous enthusiasm, took her
niece aside, and just as the dancing was about to commence,
presented her with a power of attorney, duly executed to her agents
in London, and enabling them to transfer £20,000 from her name to
that of Miss Ormsby, in the New Four per Cents, saying, as she
slipped the paper into her niece’s hand, “we do not know what is
before us; this is a day of rejoicing, and you shall have your share in
it. Here I have made you independent, and you may please yourself
in the choice of a husband.” Little did the poor lady dream of what
she was about, nor guess the prompt obedience of Miss Ormsby in
adopting her aunt’s suggestion.
Mrs. Hannaper retired from the revels worn out with fatigue at
twelve o’clock; but when Sol, drawing aside the golden curtains of
the east, ventured to peep within the crimson hangings of Mrs.
Hannaper’s pavilion, Sir Christopher Cromie and the fair Ormsby
were dashing away towards London, carrying safely with them those
credentials which, on their being presented at the Bank of England,
put the young lady in possession of her fortune, and by so doing,
kicked the beam, and sent poor Hannaper up in her scale, which had
previously been kept by the pressure of her purse in trembling
balance with its partner, in which Miss Ormsby’s beauty weighed but
unsteadily against it. Words are inadequate to paint the surprise,
rage, and disappointment which alternately struggled, and then
burst all in a mess together from the lips of our heroine. After the
first explosion was over, the spirit of intrigue raised its head over the
troubled waters, and, re-asserting its wonted pre-eminence,
suggested the idea of a glorious revenge, in setting aside Sir
Christopher’s election, on the ground of bribery and corruption, most
abundant proof of which, Mrs Hannaper was able to command, her
own diminished caskets having chiefly supplied the sinews of the
war, and bearing testimony to the truth of that plea, on which it is
now her object to humble the god of her whilom idolatry. If she is
able to succeed, it is imagined that she has two strings to her bow,
as a corps of reserve, either to bring forward an old East Indian,
who has a fine place in her neighbourhood for the borough of
Jobton, and marry him out of spite to Sir Kit; or, to set up a numskull
nephew, who sold out of the guards some time ago, and has been
since trying to barter a fine figure for a heavy purse. It is thought
that with M. P. gracefully appended to his name, he might prevail on
Lady Florence Languish, to accept his hand upon a life insurance,
and certain reversionary hopes connected with Parham Hall, in which
case, Mrs. Hannaper will make him heir, and cut out her niece’s
farther expectations.
Oh, Julia, what abominations have I been describing! This narrative,
as I have given it to you, is as nearly as I can remember, in the very
words of Mr. Bolton, our merry chronicler; and this was the mystery,
to which he alluded, when he hinted at back stairs intelligence, but
refused to explain farther, lest we should mar poetic justice, by
revealing the plot. Alas! I have worse than this to tell you, and then
my pen shall never be dipped again in subjects such as these. It is
not good to talk, to write, to think on themes of this nature; were
they simply disgusting, they would not be dangerous; but it is not in
human nature to resist the ridiculous when Mr. Bolton is the
Biographer, and such people as I have been introducing to your
acquaintance are the subjects of a memoir compiled by him. I
laughed till the tears made channels in my cheeks. Not so, when he
told us a story of another neighbour, whose house I have journalized
you into visiting along with me. Only conceive Lady Campion’s
having made proposals of marriage to Lord Thornborough, who had,
after too liberal a potation of Burgundy, made his to her daughter;
and preparations are actually in train for this unnatural union, Lord T.
having deserted his first love. The contemptible animal, miscalled
nobleman, has made his terms: Lady Campion settles a thousand a-
year upon him in perpetuity, of which she deprives her own
offspring, and receives a coronet in exchange! Thank heaven that
we have left Marsden, the air of which seems tainted by such
corruption.
Before I close my letter I must refresh myself, and obey you, by
looking into Frederick’s humourous diary, and trying whether I can
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