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tionsi It is tastefully done ; and is wliat is 

called a* oompaniou *^ to all Icreie of poetry. 

The selections are chosen firom the elder aud 

later tnaaters of song, in almost equal pro> 

portlras; aad we hvre heenstSiiab, in the 

aenual, at the kiadred spirit ^reakia^from 

nie Mnse at these two distaut periods. 

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anr.n t»v at.T. BOOKSELLERS: AND AT THE RAILWAY STAWONS. 



N 



a 

ft 

n. 






ROMANCE 



AND 



REALITY. 



BT 

L. £j. L. 

AUTHOK OF *' THB UPBOnaATSIOfi," " TH* YXXITIAll BBAOBLR,* 

STO. RO. no. 



'V Thus hare I begun : 

^ And 'tis my liopo to end BttooeasfuUy. 

Sbajuesfsakb. 



a 

fl 

i 

i 

i 

I 

< WITH A MEMOIR OF THE 

1 



LONDON ; . 

WAED AND LOCK, 158, FLE^.,£?REET. 




t 

% MDCCCLVI. 



z^^^. ^.//^. .' 



^ 



LOHDOV: 

FBOITSD BT.PBTTES AHD OALPIN, FI^THOUSg TABD, 

ADJOINIirO TBK ** TUBS" 07FICK. 



MBMOIE OF L. E. L. 



This volume, in the usual form of three volumes, was 
the first prose publication of L. E. !#., who had previously 
achieved, even in her girlhood, a widely popular fame 
by her poetical productions. If these had startled the 
public by their fancy, beauty, feeling, and passion, the 
sparkling vivacity, the wonderful display of acute and 
com|^rehensive observation, and the neatness with which 
the ideas were expressed, the novelty in matter and 
manner, and the variety and charm of the whole, in 
this new exercise of luxuriant faculties, raised the re- 
putation of the author to a still higher pitch ; and those 
who are unwilling to bend the knee to Grenius in Poetry 
were foremost to comprehend and appreciate this more 
ordinary form of its development. The Improvisatriee 
of the incognito and spell-like initials became yet more 
celebrated; and from that period, for many years, con- 
tinued to delight the world with an unceasing efflux 
of many-coloured literature. The amount which she 
wrote is almost incredible. It was not *^ no day without 
a line,'' but no day without a piece of poetical composi* 
tion, an essay, or a chapter. Writing was the atmo- 
sphere in which she breathed and lived, and her facility 
was so great that no task ever seemed to be a labour to 
her. Her invention and powers were equal to any de- 
mand ; and what to others must have been a heavy 
burthen, was to her, as it were, a plaything. But let it 
not therefore be supposed that what appeared to be so 
easily and lightly done was c^ that quality which has 



\ 

Viii VEMOIB OF U E. L. 

wittily been denominated "hard reading:" on the con- 
trary, it was full of thought, and drawn from a vast 
fountain of intel%ence collected from the perusal of the 
best authors, ds well as from mingling with the best 
orders of societj, whether with regard to station and 
refin^nent or to intellectual accomplishments. In fact, 
it might be said she devoured books of every kind, and 
transferred their stores of knowledge to her owii tich 
treasury by a species df alchemy, which can belong only 
to the gifted few who ftre bot:^ to immortality. 

Of this fine being, who^ life and death have 86 deeply 
Interested, not England alone, bat Europe and America ; 
not where the English language is spoken or read, but 
throughout the civilised globe, several biographies have 
been published; generaHy pretty accurate as to facts 
and dates, but hardly sufficient to satisfy the inquiring 
mind. Nor have we, it a sketch necessarily so brief as 
this, an opportiinHy- to discuss the phenomena of her 
extraordinary nature ; but our view, however limited, 
must differ materially from aught that has gone before. 
The best account of her more infantile years is that which 
proceeds from her own pen. ^ 

Letitia Elizabeth Landon was bom in Hans Place, 
Brompton. Her father was first a superior clerk in the 
house of Adair and Co., eminent army agents, and ulti- 
mately a partner, to whom, when Mr. Adair retired, he 
left the business in conjunction with Mr- Bruce and 
another. It was a lucrative concern, productive, as Mr. 
Adair himself assured the writer, of many thousands a year, 
and the splendid style in which that gentleman lived fully 
sustained the estimate. When he left, it appealed as if 
each of his three successors thought they might indulge 
in similarly expensive style or tastes, and as some loss 
of connexion also took place, the consequences were un- 
fortunate. Mr. Landofl's hobby was a most innocent one^ 



MEMOIR OF L. E. L. IX 

and well became a man of his simple heartodnessy kindlj 
nature, and f[uiet worth. He was attached to agricul- 
tural pursuits, and the cultivation of a fancy farm, and 
Trevor Park, near Bamet,not only interfered detrimentalljr 
with his official affairs, but turned out to be a toj too 
costly for his circumstances. Eesolved to suit his ex- 
penditure to the. reduction imposed upon him, he removed 
to a house in Old Brompton, near Gloucester Lodge, 
with a fair garden and paddock, and though within less 
than two milc^ of the capital, altogether free from its 
noisy intercourse. The cottage occupied by Jenny Lind 
is the next to it on the London side. Mrs. Landon was 
the daughter of a Mrs. Bishop, who was in some way 
descended "from noble blood ; and the fondest of grand, 
mothers. After her writings had led to celebrity and 
offered an independency, the young Letitia, who was most 
warmly attached to her, took up her residence with her 
in Sloane Street, and there remained till the good old lady 
died. With her an annuity died also, but the small pro- 
perty she had, she bequeathed to her favourite grandchild. 
Previous to this. Miss Landon's father, to whose memory 
she has ministered such imperishable verse, had been 
gathered to the grave, and the death also of a younger* 
sister, a sweet and amiable little girl, had made her but 
too familiar with the sorrows of life and the shadows of 
death. For all these she mourned with touching affection ; 
and many pathetic and admired sentiments in her after 
poems may be traced to the remembrance of these scenes 
and feelings. And it may here be stated that her memory 
was most wonderful : she never seemed to have forgotten 
any thing, even the slightest passages in books or the 
commonest incidents of the day. 

To conclude with family relations, we may mention that 
an aunt in Gloucestershire, and Dr. Landon the Dean of 
Worcester College, and the Rev. "Mr, Landon, Rector of 



X UBAIOIB OF L. E. Ij. 

^"beiford, Yorkahire, her uncles, afforded her ocoattons^ 
as die visited them, to enlarge her acquaintance with 
rarious classes of society in various conditions of life. 
There were the old secluded country mansion,, the swaim- 
ing univernty, and the domestic happiness of the northern 
vicarage, combining all of ^^elegant content " and rural 
pleasures, to change the scene and recreate and improve 
a mind upon which nothing was lost. At home an only and 
younger brother, the present Rev. Whittington Landon^ 
educated at Worcester College, was her dear companion^ 
and one for whom she felt all a sister's anxiety and love.* 
Come we now to her literary career. When the 
writer first noticed her from his adjacent residence she 
appeared to be a girl qf some fourteen or fifteen years 
of age, slightly proportioned, with yet an exuberance of 
form. In manners she was simplicity' itself and firom.her 

* He ia his youth exhibited some of the talent inhereot in liis 
family, and many amvt impromptus and epigrams showed, that if he 
had ehosen to cultivate it, he might have attained a literary reputa- 
tion. We cite a short example, where the host Jiesitatingly, after 
dinner, offered to order in another bottle of wine, vrith the remark 

that heads the impromptu : — 

I 

TOU CAN IP TOU WILL. 

To drink I'm willing if I can ; 

Sure mine's a very hard doom ; 
I have the Witt, — but tell me, pray. 

Where is the Can. to oome from ? 

Another on an incident of the day : — 

ADTBNTDRM* OV ▲ THIEF. 

A thief stole a tea-pot in a window placed ; 
Both pot and thief excessively were chased; 
And after being taken, as they tell. 
Were both of them directly sent to cell. 
/ Still they were both alike, both still were suited, 

For each of them was highly executed! 



MSaiOIB OV L. B. L. tk 

previously retired life, and not haying' associated with 
children of her own age, strangely combined the infantile 
with the intellectual. With her book in one hand, reading as 
well as she could by snatches, she might be seen trundling 
her hoop, during the hours for exercise^ round and round 
the lawn, and it would have been difficult to suppose that 
she was doing aught else than combining lesson, with play 
in a curious fashion. But the soul* of Poetry was already 
there ; and her first essays in song came with the hoop. 

A few specimens of her earliest productions were shown 

to the Editor of the Literary Gazette, who was much 

struck by their immaturity and originality. Indeed he 

was so surprised by them that he could not believe they 

were written by the young creature whose name was 

attached to them, but attributed them to a cousin of more 

mature years and more poetic semblance, who might wish 

to remain incognita; and although he soon after inserted 

several of them in the Literary Gazette, it was not till he 

had put the authorship to the test, that he was convinced 

of their being in truth from the pen of the girlish L. E. L. 

As evidence of the rapidity with which she composed, it 

may be related what the test was : in driving from town 

to Brompton immediately before dinner, on passing St. 

George's Hospital, it was suggested to be a good subject 

for verse, and Miss Landon was requested to adopt iL. 

Dhm&t passed,, and within an hour the ladies were joined 

at tea, by which timB a most touching poem of seventy. 

four lines was completed on ^e given theme. The 

aiidior entered tiie- re^age of the £dek and dyings and 

painted tiidr various conditions- and sad flaAes with most 

pathetic touches. We quota one of the individual 

sketches : — 

I looked upon another, wasted, pale, 
With ejea alliievry in the rietp 06 death: 
Tet she wai lovelj: stiU**— -the ooid damps^ hn^ 

b 2 



^ 



Zii MEICOIB OF L. S. L. 

Upon a brow like marble, and her eyes. 
Though dim, bad yet their beautiful blue tinge. 
Neglected as it was, her long fair hair 
Was like the plumage of the dove, and spread 
Its waving curls like gold upon her pillow. 

Her &oe was a sweet ruin. She had lov'd. 
Trusted, and been betray'd t In other days, 
< Had but her cheek look'd pale, how tenderly 

Fond hearts had watched it I They were &r away. 
She was a stranger in her loneliness. 
And sinking to the grave, of that worst ill, 
A broken heart 

Her first contributions to the Literary Gazette were few 
and far between, but their appearance in print, and the 
praises they received, gave the impulse, which grew and 
grew till it was the occupation of life. These had not the 
signature which afterwards became so famous, but were 
signed L. alone ; and the earliest, as far as we can at 
present ascertain, was entitled " Rome," and published in 
March 1820. One stanza will intimate its promise : — 

But, Rome, thou art fitllen ! the memory of yore. 
Only serves to reproach thee with what thou art now ; 
The joy of thy triumph for ever is o*er, 
And sorrow and shame set their seal on thy brow. 

In August 1821, her first work was published with her 
name at full length. The Fate of Adelaide, a Swiss 
Romantic Tale, and other Poems ; dedicated to Mrs. Sid- 
dons, between whom and some elder branch of her family 
a bygone intimacy had subsisted, "With the blemishes of 
inexperience, it displayed so much beauty that it imme- 
diately excited public attention and critical applause ; and 
its melancholy tone ensured it the favour of a large class 
of readers who delight in poetry. It was noticed with 
much commendation of the merits mixed with its in- 
equalities, in the Literary Gazette of the period, and 
henceforward the writer became for many years at con- 



lUDfOIB OF Xto B. Ito XHl 

tributor to almost every number of that joximal) wherein 
hundreds of her compositions are to be found ; the first 
which bore her magical initials being inscribed Bells, and 
inserted in No. 244. September, 22. 1821. 

Throughout the year 1822, L. E. L. was as full of song 
as the nightingale in May ; and excited a very general 
enthusiasm by the Sapphic warmth, the mournful emotion^ 
and the imaginative invention, the profound thought and 
the poetic charm with which she invested every strain* 
Readers of the present day, short as is the time which has 
elapsed since then, can hardly fancy the difference between 
that Then and Now, as regards the production of poetry, 
and the imiversal feeling which pervaded the country, as 
publication after publication claimed attention and sym^ 
pathy. The muse did not then struggle as at present 
with almost unavailing energy to make her voice heard 
amid the duU and engrossing pursuits of utilitarianism, 
the crushing weight of inferior literature, and the de- 
structive effects of cold busy- world apathy. Scott^ Byron, 
Moore, CampheUy Coleridge, Southey, Wordsworth, 
Bowles^ Milman, James Montgomery, Croly^ Procter^ 
Watts, Hemans *, B, Barton, Maginn, AUan Cunningham, 
Shelley, Keats, Bloomfield, KLrke White, Hunt, Neele, 
Porden, Wiffen, T. Gaspey, Beresford, Reade, R. Ryan, 
Fitzadam, Hogg, and even Lord John Russell (Carlos, a 
Tragedy) were rejoicing in their strength ; and if you 
looked towards the north, there were the sustainers of 
Blackwood in similar force, and Lockhart, Wilson, and 
others, upholding the glory of the Modern Athens. As a 
curiosity in literature, we have marked the contemporaries 
of L. E. L. in 1822, and distinguished by italics such of 
them as appeared side by side with her in original poetry, 
contributed to the journal adorned by her effusions. It 

• Under the signature of H. About a hundred of Croly's and 
Procter's most beautiful productions were written and inserted in the 
Literary Gazette this year. 



aeiV MSMOIR OF L. -E. fi. 

is a striking list, and forms an extraordinary- contrast to 
ihe year 1848, only a quarter of a century later. 

IReviewing the productions of L. E. L. at this period, 
we cannot quite assent to the propositions laid down by 
preceding biographers that the whole preceded from 
imagination and not real feeling. On the contrary, we 
think it impossible that such could have been the case 
with any mind that ever existed. We are far more in- 
clined to agree with an anonymous writer, A. H. B., one 
of the multitude who addressed her in terms of enthusi- 
astic admiration, and who wrote thus : — 

Farewell I sweet minstrel ! Never hath mine ear 
!Drank in more magic melody ; thy power 
Wakens those 'ballow*d feelings, pure, and dear, 
That lie close by the heart, like to a flower 
Thfft waits the influence of the April diower 
To call its incense forth ; so waked by thee, 
Come fond remembrances of Youth's light hour, 
And Hope*s wild dreams of joy that is to be. 
And Pity's tender burst of gentlest sympathy. 

And Love, oh liove I is pictured in thy lay. 
True to the very life ; that gentle Love 
That knows no change, no shadow, no decay, 
But sad and tender as the pining dove ; 
Bleak storms may pass, imd fickleness may prove 
' tits truth, and wring its bosom to the core ; 
But storms, or change, would all in vain remove 
The love which is the heart's most precious store, 
Even in its hopelessness, but prized the more. 

Deeply and wild, it has been thine to feel 
Xrfjve's power on thee ; for never may they tell 
Of hope and fear, and visions bright, which steal 
Upon the thralled senses like a spell, 
'Who have not known that flame unquenchable ; 
How sweetly hast thou told of that pale one, 
Who loved too £uthfully, and loved too well, * 

** Fate of Addaide. 



H£MOIB OF If. E. Ifc XT 

Brooked cold desertioo, and yet still loyed on, 
Till hope, and life, and love, were altogether gone. 

I've heard at night, when the young moon was high. 

And dew was on the flower, a light breeze, 

Bidx witii-tfae nightingale and rose's aagh. 

Sweep with wild nuisic throi^^b the munniuii^ trees ; 

Such are thy harp's sad but sweet symphonies* 

Sad as the lover's song, who loves in vain. 

Sweet as the melody of wind- waked seas. 

Farewell, young minstrel, to thy witching strain, 

"Soon wake thy plaintive harp's dream of romance ogun. 

This seems to us to be no less faithfdlly descriptiTe 
than rationally and metaphysically just^ but we must 
leave speculation to those who will peruse the poetry and 
draw their own conclusions. Pursuing her course, L. E. L. 
wrote three series of poetic sketches of luxuriant grace 
;and beauty, charaoterised \^ Bernard Barton as '^ gentle 
music : " — 

Whose guriimg forth and dying fid], 
fiuipass'd the nolaB of NourmahaL 

Sappho, the first of the second series, is a remarkable 
example of the passionate force in which the ideas are 
couched ; and is a poem, of its order, unsurpassed in any 
language. In this series, too, began a line of poetry in 
which she afterwards loved to indulge, namely, the ex- 
pression of her feelings on seeing works of fine art Thus 
one of her noblest tributes to genius was addressed to 
Lough's Milo, the first grand welcome cheer given to his 
immortal chisel, and thus Martin, Maclise, and other 
.eminent artists were embalmed in enduring verse. A 
few designs sketched by Mr. Eichard Dagley, author of 
Gems from the Antique, and a dear old friend, were next 
Bang with the ardour of personal and poetical affection ; 
and dramatic sketches' followed, being her first attempts in 



XTI BIEHOIB OF L. B. L. 

that species of composition. They also were greatly 
admired, and added much to the popularity of their author. 
Her perception of the beauties of pictures seemed to be 
innate and peculiar to herself, and had a strange effect 
upon her mind ; but objects of interest never impressed 
her in the same way as they did the generality of specta- 
tors. Her first view of St. Paul's Cathedral, for instance^ 
was an epoch in her life; under the dome, her whole being 
was absorbed in its grandeur and inmiensity ; and it was 
with no small difficulty that her senses could be recalled 
to an ordinary state. That day was indeed altogether 
memorable. From St. Paul's she visited Pateinioster Eow, 
and was prevailed on to dine, for the first time in her life^ 
with a party of strangers at Messrs. Longman's hospitable 
and literary table, and, in the evening,^ witnessed the 
private theatrical entertainment given by Mr. Mathews 
at the Lyceum, — what a crowd of new ideas for the teeming 
brain of the poet ! 

Ten fragments in rhyme were her next compositions^ 
but it needs not to pursue these particulars, the bare 
enumeration of which would fill many dry pages of this 

narrative. 

After the death of her grandmother, Miss Landon took 
up her residence in Hans Place, with Miss Lance and 
Miss Mary Lance, who kept a limited school and a boarding 
house. They were the kindest of human beings, and dearly 
did they love their petted inmate. Here she remained 
for years, till they gave up housekeeping ; and during that 
period had for cherished companions^ Miss Emma Ro- 
berts and her sister, the amiable .Mrs. Newport, a valued 
and friendly adviser of her youthful associate, and also two 
charming girls of different characters, the' one all live- 
liness, and the other all softness, the Miss Williams', to 
whom Miss LaJidon was much attached. The society 
here was of the most pleasant description, and afforded 



MBMOIB OF L. B. L. XTU 

rdazation from literary employment of a quiet, tastefu!, 
and intelligent kind. Intimacies with persons of rank and 
literary celebrity varied the scene ; and Mr. Bulwer, (now 
Sir E. B. Lytton,) Lady Enmieline Wortley> Mrs. Doctor 
Thomson, Mrs. Hall, and others may be mentioned as 
amongst her most frequent entertainers. 

She now began to try her powers in prose, and/i mul- 
litude of criticisms of every description, tales, essays, and 
humorous performances continued to pour from her ex- 
hainstless pen. 

In mixed society she was briUiant and witty, and 
perhaps it would have been safer and better for herself 
if she had not also been, with a strong sense of the 
ridiculous, occasionally sarcastic. This turn, in fact, 
provoked some to become her enemies ; whilst those who 
knew her were perfectly aware that the character of 
satirist was only assumed, and that there was not ^ one 
grain of iU-will or spiteftdness in her disposition. It 
was, however, a fault, and she paid rather dearly for it. 
Tet was she generous, foi^ving, and affectionate. Every* 
body near her loved her ; whilst the buzzard world, froBi 
some ludicrous sally, was being persuaded of her envy 
and bitterness. In her expenditure on self she was 
strictly economic ; towards all others liberal in the ex- 
treme. And, whilst speaking of her person and habits, 
we may notice that her arm and hand were so femininely 
perfect that Mr. Barlow Behnes sought and obtained 
leave to make a model of the latter, which he executed 
in a lovely style ; and that of this fair hand she was wont 
to make a droll use, for two of its fingers were very apt 
to find their way into her mouth when she was deep in 
the act of contemplation and writing. The childish ap- 
pearance of this custom raised many a laugh at the 
expense of the wrapt minstrel. Of her features we need 
say nothing. They are sweetly given by Madise j and 



Xmi UBMOIR OP L.<E.Zt. 

£bere'i0 a noble portrait of her in oil bj I^okfiringy wliioh 
Los not yet been -engraved. 

In July 1824 the ^improviaatrioe" iasued from the 
presBy and we believe she receiTed 800/. from .Messie. 
Hurst, BobinsoHy and Co. for that exquisite poem. 
Simplicity, gracefolni^ss, fiancy, and .pathos breathed in 
«Tery,Iine, and it oreated an immense sensation; but 
here we have no loeoasion to dwell on its delidous at* 
tnctions. Time flew on, and in NoTember, 16&1, '' Bo*- 
mance and Reality," her first production of prose -fictioaL 
appeared, and Was zeoeived with similir fervour. This 
novel was accordingly most euecessful, and no wonder, 
for it combines in one happy miifture the romantic, the 
high life, the common life, the odtirioal, the historical, 
and the other attsihiites of the best works of its class. 
The ^delity of its deliiwMrttopa evinoe a )£ine portion of 
tha^ Shakspeiian genius whidi 'oan identify itself with 
every dbavaoter, and <be at hooms in every place. It is 
marvellous that a rfemale observer coidd have so truly 
pidLed up so mueh of vamed life ; but as it .is hete 
i^nrodueed, we -shall leave it to -tell its lown story, and 
plead its own cause. 

Till June, 1838, the :author held on, we cannot say the 
•even (for it was' somewhat disturbed by ciroumstances on 
which we cannot animadvert), but the lenour.of her way. 
In ihat month ahfe .consummated her iU^rstarred and 
ominous marriage with ^Greovge Jtfaclean, Esq., the go- 
vecnor of Cape Coast Castle, with the prospect of speedily 
aocompanying him to the fatal coast of Africa. Her best 
friends strenuously advised her against 'ibis step ; but 
her position in society, lone and :improtected, had become 
kksome to her, and she Tesolved on Tany<cfaange whidh 
might relieve her irom it. It *was >no union of love, 
and was therefore most like to end ni^ppify. But still 
Ihe worrt-— fthe tragic end could mot »be foreseen*— the 



end 6f mystery whicb cannot be deared tktw that it is 
passed, could not be anticipated wbilst y^t in the womb 
of time. In July the bridal pair sailed on their voyage, 
and on the 15th of October, following, Mrs. Maclean died, 
in Cape Coast Castle, from the effects of prussic acid, 
why or how taken a hurried ooroner's inquest, with 
scarcely any examination^ eofM noi proHOunoe, 

.The veil of utter obscurity hangs over her fate, and 
will, in all probability, never be l^ed till the last trumpet 
sounds to call the inhabitants of earth to their final 
account It is an awful contamplation. 

A monument with a fitting inscription hms been erected 
to her memory by her husband, who oflerwards returned 
to England, and died last year. That they were most 
iU suited to each other is evident &om every circumstance 
that has transpired, and God onlyimowB the depths which 
human conjecture half beemi so anxious .to penfiteate. 

Two unpublished poems are added, 'which may partly 
illustrate the position assumed in this briftf biographical 
sketch. They may be placed by the side of 'Sappho to 
Phaon, or Eloise to Abelard; and yet they emanated 
(with another apparently more impassioned, !ihe MS. of 
which is imperfeet). from a mere transient indulgence, in 
what young ladies are pleased to call ajQixtatioiu The feel- 
ings conjured'Up in>the composition, conq>ared with those 
inspired by the occasion, were as death from ^ntaneous 
combustion, instead of a casual bum from a jparticle of 
hot sealing-wax. 

DESPAIRING LOVE. 

In sooth 'twas foolighness to dream 
Of ever lovipg thee. 
The flowers I fling upon the stream 
Tel) what my feite will be. 



MEIIOIB OF L. E. I*. 



fairer and fresher than at first 

Light bubbles round them play. 

The wind comes by, the bubbles bursty 

And they are swept away ! 

I lov'd you, scarcely I know why. 

And still less when or how. 

Perchance 'twas for your falcon eye^ 

Or for your noble brow : 

It stole on me unconsciously^ 

Like dew upon the flower, 

I know not how my heart could be 

So captured in an hour. 

It was a sense of happiness, 

A vision of delight, 

My heart shed forth its own excess 

Till all around grew bright ; 

Things I had utterly disdain'd 

Now pleasant to me grew. 

An added zest each pleasure gain*d. 

For they were shared with you. 

I was so happy, and all seem'd 

So happy, too, with me^ 

I marvell'd that I had not dream'd 

How sweet our life would be ! 

Too soon the false light was remov'd. 

The veil flung from the flame. 

My tears first taught me that I lov'd. 

And grief and knowledge came. 

I am not lov'd ; weak, blind, and vaiii, 

What could I hope from thee ? 

The thought of being lov'd again 

Is dream too wild for me. 

The moment that my love I knew. 

That moment was despair. 

What had my foolish heart to do 

With such an image there ? 

Yet I must love thee ; but such love 

As might beseem a slave. 

The tenderness of the wood'^oye. 

The silence of the grave ! 



MEMOIR OF I» E. Xm XZt 

To breathe the air yoa breathe, to catch 

The lightest word of thine. 

The looks of thy dark eyes to watch. 

Although they are not mine. 

My cheek has faded for thy sake. 

The tears have dimm*d my eyes. 

And yet it soothes me thus to make 

For Uiee some sacrifice ! 

Would that my sea, so passion-toss'd. 

Could make thine own more fair ! 

My happiness, that were well lost. 

If added to thy share. 

Thine, only thine I and when that death 

Shall force these links apart, 

1*11 die, thy name on my last breath. 

Thine image on my heart 1 

Ii« £• mj» 



SEOOND FITTB* 

Oh pray thee do not name his name ! 

I cannot bear the sound ; 

Too much the echo of that word 

In my own heart is found. 

Oh breathe it not ! that name recalls 

All that I would forget, 

A hope long since turn'd into tears, 

A still but deep regret. 

It calls to me a happy time, 

When, like a bird in spring. 

My heart was in its sweetest tune. 

Was on its lightest wing. 

It minds me, too, how that light song 

Was into mourning changed, 

And what a weight fell on the wings 

That had so gaily ranged. 

It tells me, too, I cannot trust 

Thee as I trusted then, 

For who that has been once deceiv'd 

Holds such belief again ? 



ZZn VEHOIB OF Ii».ikl<. 

lu tella me, I was onee bebv'd, 

And that I now am not. 

And that^ forgotten as I am^ 

Yet I have not forgot 

Then do mot speak, of him. to me, 

I cannot bear his name-!: 

It is a tordi that lights again 

A long since darken'd flame^. 

And deemest ikon that he was * 

Because my brow seem'd gay ? 

Oh I have veil'd eadi outward sign 

With more than eastern sway, 

What.dio' around. yon fallenpile 

The ivy greenly wreathe, 

Yet nott^e less the niin'd wall 

Lies worn and rent beneath. 

I've sear'd the wound I cannot heal. 

But still the wound is there ; 

Then pray thee do not name his name, 

'Tis more than I can bear J 

L. £• L« 



* The wor^ illegible ; bat the aense can be gathered wnnont it. 



PREFACE. 



RotTSSEAu says^ nobody reads prefaces. I suspect there is more 
truth in the assertion than one is qidte willing to admit ; for a 
preface is a species of literary luxury, where an author^ like a 
lover^ is privileged to be egotistical; and really it is very 
pleasant to dwell upon our own thoughts^ hopes^ fears^ and 
feelings. But all this is laying a very '' flattering unction to 
our souls ; " for who really enters into our thoughts, cares for 
our hopes^ allows for our fears, or sympathises with our 
feelings ? The gratitude and the modesty of an author are 
equally thrown away. Our readers only open our pages for 
amusement : if they find it^ well and good — if not^ our most 
eloquent pleading will not make them read on. The term 
'^courteous reader" is as much a misnomer as any of the 
grandiloquent titles of the Great Mogul, Emperor of the 
World — which means a league round Delhi. 

Prefaces want reform quite as much as Parliament : so I 
beg to retrench the gratitude, modesty, &c. usual on such oc- 
casions. Piron used to observe, that the introductory speeches 
made when a member was elected to the French Institute 
were quite superfluous, and that the new Academician needed 
only to say, '^Messieurs, grand merci ; " while the Directeur 
should answer, " H rCy a pas de quoi" I am sure that when 
the author begins his "grand merci" to the public, that public 
may very well reply, " II ny a pas de qmu 



EOMANCE AND KEALITT. 



CHAPTER I. 

** It wai ao andent yenenble hall.** — Cbashi. 

** This ii the. 
Our consecrated Emily.** — Wordswortb, 

Such a room as must be at least a oentory's remove from 
London^ large^ white, and wainscoted ; six narrow windows, 
red curtains most ample in their dimensions, an Indian screen, 
a present in which expectation had found ^' ample space and 
verge enough " to erect theories of their cousin the nabobV 
rich legacies, ending, however, as many such expectations do, 
in a foolish marriage and a large family ; a dry-rubhed floor, 
only to have been stepped in the days of hoops and handings ; 
and some dozen of large chairs covered with elaborate tracery, 
each chair-cover the business of a life spent in satin- stitch. 
On the walls were divers whole-length portraits, most pastoral- 
looking grandmammas, when a broad green sash, a small 
straw hat, whose siie the very babies of our time would dis- 
dain, a nosegay somewhat larger than life, a lamb tied with 
pink riband, concocted a shepherdess just stepped out of an 
edpgue into a picture. Grandpapas by their side, one hand, 
4>r rather three fingers, in the bosom of each flowered waist- 
coat, the small three-cornered hat under each arm; two 
sedate-looking personages in gowns and wigs, and one — the 
fine gentleman of the family — in a cream-coloured coat, 
extending a rose for the benefit of the company in generaL 
Over the chimney-piece was a glass, in a most intricate frame 
of eut crystal within the gilt one, which gave you the advan- 
tage of seeing your face in square, round, oblong, triangular* 
or all shapes but its natural one. On each side the fire-placje 



X ROMANCE AND BBALITT. 

was an arm-chair ; and in them sat, firsts Mr. Arundel, read- 
ing the county newspaper as if he had been solving a problem ; 
and, secondly, his lady dozing very comfortably over her 
knitting ; while the centre of the rug was occupied by two 
white •alA,*— one worked in worsted, and surrounded by a 
wrea^'of-rr««i-— the other a£ee|>> with a VLue riband ttound 
her neck; and all as still and quiet as the Princess Non- 
chalante — who, during her lover's most earnest supphcation, 
only begged he would not hurry himself — could have wished. 
The quiet was not very lasting, for the fire was stirred 
somewhat suddenly, the chairs |M}shed aside somewhat hastily^ 
the cat disturbed^ but without any visible notice from either 
reader or sleeper. ''My ami atle^-^my uncle as bad!" 
exclaimed Emily Arundel^ emerging from the corner where 
she had been indulging in one of those moods which may be 
called melancholy or sullen, out of temper or out of spirits, 
accordingly as they are spoken of hi the first or second person | 
and Emily was young, pretty, and spoilt enough to consider 
herself privileged to indulge in any or all of them. 

The course of life is like the child's game — **here we go 
round by the.rule of contrary " — and youth, above all others, is 
the season of united opposites, with all its freshness and 
buoyancy. At no period of our existence is depression of the 
spirits more common or noore painful. As we advance in life 
our duties become defined ; we act more from necessity anA 
less from impulse ; custom takes the place of energy, and 
feelings, no longer powerfully excited, are proportionably quiet 
in re-action. But youth, balancing itself upon hope, is tar 
ever in extremes; its expectations are continually aroused 
only to be baffled ; and disappointment, like a summer rfiower, 
is violent in proportion to its brevity. 

Young she was — but nineteen, that pleasantest of ages, 
just past the blushing, bridling, bewildering coming out, when 
a courtesy and a compliment are equally embarrassing ; when 
one half the evening is spent in thinking what to do and say, 
and the other half in repenting what has been said and done. 
Pretty she was — very pretty : a profusion of dark, dancing 
ringlets, that caught the sun-beanw and then kept them pri- 
soners ; beautiful dark-grey eyes with large black pupils, very 
mirrors of her meaning; that long curled eye-lash, wbieh 
giTes a softness nothing else can give; features smaUy but 



.iiiecMn in tfadr rtffaiuitj ; ft flight 4eli€ate figwSj w 9«U» 
£t for. a £iiry, a hstutd ^t for a dach«a^ — no muvd EwAj 
was (he retg^ing beautjK of the oounty, Spnvig fropn 009 «f 
ita oidcBt families, ita heiroas too, tli« idol of. her ande aii4 
avnt^ who bad hciottght to up from infancy ; aocttston^ t0 
be made much of, that moHt captivating kind of flat((ery,-«^ 
il nuij be pardpned if her own estiaato was a very pleaeaBt 
one. Indeed, with the excep^ioa of young genUemeo she had 
unused, and: ye«ng laiUea sha had rivaUed^ Emily v(as uni- 
iviaaUy liked : . kind, enthusiastic, warm, and affectionate, h^ 
good qualitiet were of a popular kind; and her faults — a 
temper too hasty, a vanity too cultivated — weve kept pretty 
well in the background by , the interest or affection, by the 
politioiess or kindneas, of her usual circ]e. To conclude, she 
waa very, much like othor young ladies, excepting that she had 
nether lover nor : confidante : a little romance, a. little pride, 
and not' a little good taste, had prevented the ^rs^j so that tha 
last was oat aHogetber indispensable. . 

Her fathef bad been the youn^^t br^pther, and, like ma9>y 
other younger brothers, both unnecessary and inip^udent; a 
eapiain in a dragoon regiment, who spent his allowance on 
his penoB, and his pay on bis horse. He was the last man 
in the world who ought to have fallen in love, excepting with 
an heiress, yet he married suddenly and secretly the pretty 
$od portionless Emily Delawarr, and wrote hotne to ask 
pardpu and cash. The former was withheld on account of 
the laitter, till his elder brother's unexceptionable marriiiga 
with Mist Belgrave, and her estate, gave him an interest in 
the family which he forthwith exerted in favom: of Captain 
Arundel. . iBut a few short years, and the young officer died 
in battle, and his widow only survived to pUce tbfir or|)haa 
gjud in Mr. and Mrs. Arundel's can, to whom Emily had ever 
been even as their own. 

. Hf* Arundel was a favonmbie specimen of the old scho<d> 
when courtesy, though stately, was kind, and, though el^o* 
rate, yet of costly materiel; a well-read, though not a literary 
man — everybody did not write in his day — generous to 
excess ; and if proud, his consciousness of gentlemanlike 
descent was but shown in his strictness of gentlemanlike feel- 
ings. The last of a very old family, an indolent, perhaps an 
over-sensitive temper — often closely allied — had kept him a 

B 2 



4 ROMANOB AN0 BBALITT. 

quiet dweller on hb own lands ; and though, from incie»rfng 
expenses without increasing fiinds, many an old manor and 
ancient wood had developed those a§ria^ propensities which 
modem times have shown to be inherent in their nature, and 
had made themselves wings and flown away, yet enough re- 
mained for dignity, and more than enough for comfort : and 
in a county where people had large families, £mily was an 
heiress of considerable pretension. 

His lady was one of those thousand-and-^ne women who 
wore dark silk dresses and lace caps— who, after a fashion of 
their own, have made most exemplary wives ; that is to say, 
they took to duties instead of accomplishments, and gave up 
music when they married — who spent the mornings in the 
housekeeper's room, and the evenings at the tea-table, waiting 
for the guests who came not — who rose after the first glass 
of wine — whose bills and calls were paid punctually, and 
whose dinners were a credit to them. In addition to this, she 
always knitted Mr. A.'s worsted stockings with her own hand% 
was good-natured, had a whole book of receipts, and loved her 
husband and niece as parts of herself. 

Few families practised more punctuality and propriety, and 
perhaps in few could more happiness, or rather content, be 
found. Occasionally, Mr. ArundeVs temper might be ruffled 
by pheasants and poachers, and his wife*s by some ill-dressed 
dish ; but then there were the quarter sessions to talk of^ and 
other and faultless dinners to redeem aught of failure in the 
last. Sometimes Emily might think it was rather dull, and 
lay down the Morning Post with a sigh, or close her novel 
with a hope ; but in general her spirits were buoyant as her 
steps, and the darilng of the household was also its life and 
deUght. But to-night, the third rainy evening of three rainy 
days, every flower in the divers china bowls, cups, vases, was 
withered ; the harp was out of tune with the damp ; and 
Emily betook herself to the leafy labyrinth of a muslin flouncej 
la beUe aBUmce of uselessnets and industry. 



KOVANOB AITB. 



CHAPTER II. 

** And Haaotod to oar veij age 

With the rain shadow of the past'* — "Mm/eppm, 

** Who knocks so late, 

And knocks so loud at our convent gate ? "— Soorr. 

But obe rosebad and half a leaf of the iounoe were finiahed, 
when it was hastily restored to the work-box, the ringlets 
iAvolantarily smoothed back, both uncle and anntawakeiied> for 
a carriage had driren rapidly into the eourt ; a loud ring at 
the gutes, and a .loud barking of the dogs, had announced an 
arriTal. . In less than two minutes Mr. Mawanr had enteved 
ttnifroom, and been installed in a seat near the fire; Mia. 
Arundel had Tanishcd ; and her husband had called up his 
best manner, his kindest, to welcome one who, thoi^ an M 
friend, hlid been mostly recalled to his memory by the news- 
paper. The riMitor was as gracefidly as briefly rather ae- 
counting than apologising for his sudden intrusion, by saying 
that an accident to his carriage had made him late, and turned 
liim from the direct road ; and that, though a sportsman no 
longer, he could not be so near without coming to see if his 
old instructor in the game laws had quite forgotten the feats 
of other days. Now this was both vrai and vraUembUUe 
enough ; for, to do Mr. Delawarr justice, if there had been 
mention made of the declining health of the member for 
Avonsford, and of his friend's influence in that town, at whose 
entrance -stood the ancient family house^ it only gave inclination 
a motive, or rather an excuse for indulgence* 

Very diffineat was the impression produced on all the party. 
Mr. Arundd could not conceal Ms surprise, or rather emotion, 
to see in the pale, mind*-wom brow*— the el^ant but indolent 
movements of the man of forty^ so little trace remaining of the 
bright-eyed and bright-haired, the lively and impetuous fa- 
vourite of nineteen ; still less in the worldly, half-studied, half- 
sarcastic tone of his conversation, did any thing recal the 
romance, the early enthusiasm, which once rendered the interest 
he inspired one of anxiety. But Mr. Arundel forgot that the 
most sparkling wines soonest lose that sparkle. The impe- 
tuosity of youth becomes energy in manhood, and Mr. Pela- 

B B 



6^. BOafAlfiCK Attn REALIVr. 

warr's stormy political career was one to call forth every 
talent ; circumstances form the character^ but^ like petrifying 
waters, they harden while* they fcvin. ' 

To Mrs. Arundel he was the same as any other guest — 
one who was to eat, drink, and sleep in her house ; all her 
hopes, fears, " an undistinguishable throngs" rested -with her 
cook and housemaid. 

Emily had at first shrunk back, in that intuitive awe which 
alt If etle people al letsl ihutrt harve dssperienced' — the feefiiig 
wbi<^' llxe& the eye and ohalils the Kp, on finding ourselves 
f^ the first time in the pretence of some great nan, hiUierCo 
tt» u» tm hi^torieid portirttit, one wh<»e tfaonghte are ef the 
deetiniei of ntttieni^ whose pJM-t seems in the annals of Bngland, 
and net fn its ioeiety. If sttch tbere^ be, who cati come in 
oentftct trifh » being lifte Aii without drawing the breath* mote 
qnicklf and qahdf, iliey have only less excitability than we 
hate ; atid fo* tliem tant ffU or innnt #i«etM?, aeoerdiog ti> that 
golden rtdei of' jndgmetit, as it tarns ont. Tbfs, however,' 
we»e otf*; the attention c^ a superior is too flattering to otar 
vanity ' not to eaS il lorth, and Emily soon firaaid herself 
talking, smiling, and singing her very best : not that Mr. 
Delawarr was, generally speaking, at all like the knights of 
old, vouis aux Satnee. Married metaphorically to bis place 
in the ministry, and actaally to the daughter of Lord Ethering- 
heme ; too worldly to be interested, teo busy to be anmsed ; 
young ladies were very much to him what inhabitants in a 
borough without votes are — nen^entities in creation. But 
sentiment, like salt, is so universat an ingredient in Cfst com** 
position, diat eren Mr. Delawarr, years and years ago, bad 
looked at a rainbow to dream of a ebeek, had gathered violeta 
with the dew on them, and bought them less bright than the 
eyes to which they were offerings, had rhymed to one beloved 
name, and had felt one fair cousin to be the fairest of created 
things. That cousin was Emily's mother, and her great like- 
ness to her called up a host of early fancies and feelings, over 
which he scarcely knew whether to sigh or smile. He might 
smile to thhik how. the lover had wasted his time, and yet stg^ 
to think how pleasantly iff had been wasted. But Mr. Di^warr 
kikwwell 

. I . ^ 

** 'Tis ibIlV to dceam of a bover of groen, 
WhMi«W»e«ln<it»lMifoillti«tr0S;'*^ . ' *' 



aift4i.tiiv»iaf ftftm Uit pul to the preacnt^a 1Mb jndknu 
^preciatioik^ ol !»»( lMMt'».cliNrc!t aod coByflnt&OB obtained,- 
iKfore thejF pbrted for tkw nighW noie tiMB a hint tbat Mr. 
AriiBdel*» wfluenfle in (he bovough waa at tbe ^■p o a ai of the 
man who «o well wndereteod Utt- coofttry's tme interests. 
Stilly Emlj ^as not fbrgotAen ; and tbe MKt moroiag she 
looked so like her modier whik pewuig the cieam into hta 
cQ&e»t that the iovHation he gpva her to visit Lady Alicia in 
I#n4oa> waa aa aaoeia as it was covdiaUlj expseued. And 
wh^u they g^thejrec^ with old«faahioned oeiirtesy, on the stone, 
sfops of tiue anciofit h^, to give theif parting gneetii^ aa the 
<*>rijagf drove) oS with true BogUsh haste> nerec did man leave 
hia chsKaattf moie saiiidy behiiid ham. Mr. Arandel went to 
read a panipblet en the eorn laws with demUe distilled ad^ 
ixdc^oi)^ af (er hia own coHVictioa had been strengthened by 
that of one of his migeaty'a miaistera; fimiLy went to her 
fameurite. lime-walk, to w^Mlder what Lady Alicia Was like, to 
dream of the delightft.of a *' London season/' to adnife Ms.. 
Delawarr*8 manaery ^- i^ shorty he need only not. have been a. 
politician (the vecy name wias a stumbling Uocfc to a yonng 
lady's xomanoe)i and he would have betti erected into a. hero 
fit fox a xQodera novel, a destiny not exaetly what he antici*' 
pated. Mn. Arundel was aa thoroughly satiafied as either, 
perhaps mfore so, for she was satisfied with herself— a sufiper, 
sleeping, and breafcfsaty got through without a blttndea; ao to 
her housekeeper she went " m> her glory." 



CHAPTER III. 



" Two sprkiga I raw."— Moors. 

" Good night-how can rack night he good?" — Sublux. 

*'Nighe« oh, not night: where are its comrades twain — silence and 
sleep?'*— L. E. L. 

Swow-sBorPED, cxocused, and viokted Spring, in the country, 
waa beginning. to eonsidec about making her.wili> and leaving 
her legacdes of full-blown flowers and green fruit to Summer^, 
when a letter from- town arrived, franked by Montague Dek-; 
warr,. M.P., s^iag, that as the ^ring was mw comsnencing 
in town, perl^.Mist A^Mdd would, re^aeniber at fabee afa«i 

B 4 



81' AOMANOB AlTD- BBJtUTT* 

onoe gaTe, and comply with die request nmtaliied ui dienbUi* 
which the said Mr. Delawarr had the honour of enclosing. 

The note expressed the usual number of fearSj honours^ and 
pleasures, whioh usually accompany invitations ; was written 
in a hand of even more than usually elegant uHinteUigilile 
expansiveness ; was on pale sea-green paper, sealed with Vfihe 
wax ; and came from Lady Abcia. Now this was a most 
disinterested act ; for the member had recovered, and tafcen 
that step of all others which insures existence, purchased a life 
annuity; and it is a well-known fact in physiology, that 
anmiitants and old women never die. But Mr. Delawarr had 
taken an interest in bis young relative; he knew his houiEieiv<a8 
one of the most elegant, his wife one of the best-dressed 
women in London, and that she never spent an evening at 
home, — could he do more for £mily than open such* a crista 
of fetes and fashions to her futurity ? 
' If any of the party at Arundel House hesitated about the 
invitation's affirmative, it was herself. Her aunt had a great 
notion of giving young people as much pleasure as possible 
for they would have no time for it after they were married ; 
and her uncle, kind and affectionate, only thought of his 
favourite's enjoyment, perhaps her advantage. Like many 
men of quiet manners, and still quieter habits, his imagination 
was active in the extreme, and had been but little put out of 
its way by either worldly exertions or disappointments. Thus, 
before his first egg was finished, Emily had refused three 
baronets, looked coldly on a viscount, had two earls at her feet ; 
and, if the object of this reverie had not destroyed her own 
good fortune by speaking, she was in a fair way of becoming 
a duchess. 

Bat, though to Emily London was m much an £1 Dorado 
as novels and novelty could make it ; yet if her first exdaroa- 
tion was delight, her second was, '' But, my dear uncle, you 
will miss me so ; " and a long array of solitary walks and 
lonely rides rose almost reproachfully to her mind. This, 
however, the uncle would not admit ; and youth, if not selfidii, 
is at least thoughtless ; so a few minutes saw Emily bounding 
up stairs, with spirits even lighter than her steps, to answer 
the important billet, which she had already conned over tlB 
fibe eould have repeated it from the ** Dear Miss Arundel'* at 
tho bagiiming, to the ^' Alida C. F. Q. Delawanr" of the sig^ 



Xmf AHOV AND WULUTV* 9 

Bfltnre. ' Many a dieet of pi^>er was thrown aside in various 
stages, from two to ten lines — twice was the ink changed^ and 
twen^ tnwft the pen, before a note worthy of either writer or 
veader oouM be eflfeeCed : but time and the post wait for no 
na»> and necessity was in ihia case, as in most o^ers, the 
BMilher df invention. 

- The next week passed, as sach weeks always do^ in doing- 
BOChingV because so much is to be done — in packing and nnpack* 
ing^ tiUi the Labyrinth of Crete was nothing to that of tmnks ; 
m farewdl calls^ in lingering walks, in careful commendations 
to the gardener of divers pet roses, carnations^ Are. ; and more 
than three parts of the time at her uncle's side, who every now 
and then b^an giving good advice, which always ended in 
affeetionate wishes. 

The morning of her d^arture arrived — cold, rainy, miser- 
able, but very much in unison with Emily's feelings. A 
giva^ehaage in lifo is like a cold bath in winter — we all 
heatfate at the first phmge. Affection is more matter of habit 
than sentiment, more so than we like to admit ; and she was 
leaving both habits and affections behind. There were the 
servants gathered in the hall, with proper fareweU faces ; her 
aunt, hitherto busy in seeing the carriage duly crammed with 
sandwiches and sweetmeats, having nothing more to do, began 
to weep. A white handkerchief is a signal of distress always 
wawered : and when Mr. Arundel took his place beside his 
niece, he had nothing but the vague and usual consolation of 
*' Love, pray don't cry so,'* to ofibr for the first stage. 

• But the day and EmOy's face cleared up at last ; her unde 
i^as still with her, the post-boys drove with exhilarating 
rapidity, and night found them seated by a cheerfal fire, with 
a good snpper and better appetite. The morning came again, 
and Mr* Arundel was now to leave his niece^ 

** O pleuure ! you're indeed a pleasant thing : ** 

and our hermne was setting off in pursuit of it, as miserable 
as any young lady need be. The last sight of the panels of 
the M yellow coach was the signal for another burst of tears, 
which extended to three stages to-day, and perhaps would 
have reached to a fourth, had she not been roused to anger by 
her maid's laughter, whose gmvity, thou|^ most exemplary in 
the outsat, now gave way to the mirth excited by the rapidity 



%0 B^MJiyeB; 41911 «R*JUirT» 

^ixh which a ponderoii04ookiiig fevsmn, €ofii4e m iMg^mmkf 

had lost hat| uiBbrslla, and bundle, ,wbik Ifae vehMe raUcd' 
rapidly- aver them. There is aomethiag very attiMiaip in the 
ipisfortuiisa of othexSk Hpwever^ — ^ to boivfiw an ealablkli^d 
pbcase Imhs those worthy little yplmnes^ entitled the* CAst^^ 
man's, Officer's and Merchant's Widows^ when the di^wmiHtor 
relict is recalled from weeping over the dear depifrtedi h^ the 
paarfunount necessity of getting one ot her fbiurieeB chiJitren. 
into the Blue-eoat Scfaoolj — '^ the exeriion did her |^ ;'* 
and she was soon sufficiently amused to regpret when the 
darknesa shut out all view save the poet>boy. 

Adventure* never haj^en now-a-rdaya; there are neither 
ioiights nor highwaymen ; no lonely heatl^ with gibbets, te 
finger-posts; no hope of even a dangerous rut, or &iteep<hill; 
romance and roads are alike macadanuaed ; no youag Mies 
are either run away with, or run oyer ;— and £i9ily tf rived 
in inglorious safety among the argpind lamps and rosewood 
tables in Mr. Delawarr'^. drawing-room.^ was properly wel- 
comed — introduced — took a hasty dinner, for her boat wat> 
hurrying to the Hoifse, and her hostess to the Opei^«— wa« 
supposed to be very much fatigued — installed into a very 
pretty little boudoir — and found herself in a seat by the fire^ 
tired enough for an arm-chair, but much too excited for ha: 
pillow ; and she leaned back in that most soothing state of 
indolence^ fireside's fantasies ' — while her uncle's wig, Lady. 
Alicia's black velvet hat, Mr. Uelawarr's kindness, &c. &c* 
fioated down the ^'mer of her thoughts." But the three 
hours before, of, and after midnight in a. fashionable squsre, 
are not very favourable to a reverie, when the ear has only 
been accustomed to the quiet midnights of the country-—, 
where the quiet is rather echoed than brojcen by the wind 
wandering among boughs of the oak and beech, ^d whose 
every leaf is a note of viewless and mysterious music. But in 
London, where from door to door "leaps the live thunder;" 
the distant roll of wheels) the nearer; dash of carriages, the 
human voices minglfng, as if Babel were still building — these 
soon awakened Emily's attention— ^ even the fire had lesa 
^traction than the window ; and. below waa a scene, wtMHe 
only fault is we are sp used to it* 

' In the middle of the sqiuare was the. gardeti> whose ftwee|V' 
of; terf was [M«L?eKed with moonUghl ; * wouad . woe the dartt-: 



JUWMHim Amur BttAIiIVT.^ 11 

8l|Miiii|^ lAWtI% Midail.tbe pile vtfietiet of coIoib- tliat flower 
and shruib wear •! sneh » tione^ and girdled in by the line of 
lar^ olear lainpoy tbo iptrits of the place. Al least every 
second house wea lighted up» and that most yisiUe^ the eorner 
ooe^ «aa illuinufiated like a palaee widi tbc rich atieaai of 
Ta<}iaQee that flowed througb the crixnaon blinds; ever and 
anon a bturat of music rose upon the air^ and wee lost again 
in«a, £rc9Bh arriirad of oarriagea ; then the cavriages thsmaelvea, 
with their small bright lights flitting over the riiadowy foot 
pasfl^ng^s,— -tlie whole aqoare was left to the care of the gas 
and the watchman^ befor* Emily remembeied that she had 
ne&t da^ to do justice to her eountry roses. 



GHAPTER IV. 



** Fast twelve o'clock, and a doody rooming.*' 

THe ^atdlman. 

"Hot Sfcgsat tui aeeompBihed Ittdfthlp." 

EsiiLT just rose an hour too soon the next morning— * mornings 
that breaker of spells and sleep. There was the garden dingy 
and dusty» the gireen trees with a yellow fever^ and the 
flowering shrubs drooping as if they had been crossed in love 
of the fresh air. The milkman wa% jailor like^ going his 
clanking rounds; and, instead of gay equips^es waiting for 
the graceful figures that passed over the steps lightly as their 
blonde> — now stood a pail^ a mop^ and a slipshod domestic^ 
whose arms^ at least, said much for the carnationa of London. 
Around, like the rival houses of York and Lancaster, some 
white, some red, stood mansions whose nobility was certainly 
not of outward show^ and setting forth every variety of arehi- 
tecture save its own peculiar beauty^ uniformity ; and windows 
on which ^* the dust of ages" had gathered, and even that only 
dimly seen through smoke and fog — those advantages of early, 
rising in London. The sun, the nurserymaids, and children^ . 
had all come out before Emily was summoned to tl^ breakfast^ 
tabjljc^ where a French mubreUe^^yfho made^as only her natioA: 
can do^ a pretty face out of nothing, with an apron whose 



12^^ KOMANO0 J(HI> BBAUVT* 

pocket8 were pkieed a Tenme^ and a cap put on hfiiinre nmuHr 
— was pouring out coffee for the yery fair« yery languid* an4 
very lady-like Lady Alicia, who^ enyeloped in a laige ihawrl^ 
was almost lost in that and the pillowed arm-chair. 

Few women, indeed, think, but most feel ; now Lady Alicia 
did neither : nature had made her weak and indolent, and ^e 
had never been placed in circumstances either to create or eall 
forth character. As an infant she had the richest of worked 
robes, and the finest of lace caps ; the nurse was in due dme 
succeeded by the nursery goremess, whose situation was doon 
filled by the most accomplished person the united efforts of 
fourteen countesses could discoTer. Pian>os> harps, colour^ 
boxes, collars, French, Italian, &c. &c. duly filled the schooW 
room : but for music Lady Alicia had no ear, for dancing no 
liking, for drawing no taste ; and French and Italian were^ it 
must be owned, somewhat unnecessary to one who considered 
her own language an unnecessary fatigue. At eighteen she 
came out, beautiful she certainly was ; highly accomplished—* 
for Lady F., her mother's intimate friend, had several timet 
confidentially mentioned the names of h^ masters ; while 
Lady C. had expressed her approbation of the reserved dignity 
which led the daughter of one of our oldest families to shun 
that display which might gratify her vanity, but wounded her 
pride. 

All was prepared for a ducal coronet at least ; when the very 
day after her presentation, her father went out of town, and the 
ministry toge^er ; and three long useless years were wasted in 
the stately seclusion of Etheringhame Castle ; where the morn- 
ings in summer were spent at a small table by the window, 
and in winter by the fire, putting in practice the only accom^- 
plishment that remained — like a ghost of the past — cutting 
out figures and landscapes in white paper, whose cold, colourless 
regularity were too much in sympathy with herself for her not 
to excel in the art. The middle of the day was devoted to a 
drive, if fair, — if wet, to wondering whether it would dear. 
Dressing came next, — a mere mechanical adjustment of certain 
rich silks and handsome jewds, where vanity was as much out 
of the question, as if its own peculiar domain had not been a 
looking-glass : with no one to attract, and, still dearer hope, 
no one to surpasi^ cut bono f for, after all, vanity is like those 



•dbemical MfteDoes* whote only- exktenoe it when called into 
being by the action of some opposite influence. 

During djnnor the £arl kmented the inevitable ruin to 
which the country was hastening; and after grace. had been 
said^ the Countess agreed with hiin^ moreoTer observingy that 
dress alone was destroying the distinction of ranks^ and that at 
^fanrch siilcs were commoner than stufik Here the conversation 
ceased, and they returned to the drawing-room ; the Countess 
to sleep— "Lady Alicia to cut out more paper landscapes. 

Twice a-year there was a great dinner, to which she was 
vegufauiy handed down by the old Marquess of Snowdon, who 
dnlyt impressed upon her mind how very cold it was ; and, in 
truth, he looked like an embodied shiver. 

At one and twenty an important change took place. Lady 
Alicia was summoned from a little paper poodle, on whose 
white curls she had been bestowing peculiar pains, by the 
drawing-room doors being thrown open with even more than 
their usual solemnity, and she was informed, by his own man, 
dnt his lordship requested her presence in the library : the 
surprise was sufficiently great to make her cut off her little dog's 
taiL 

The ex-minister was too important a person to be kept waiting, 
at'least in his own family ; what he now wanted in quantity of 
authority, he made up in quality. She descended into the large 
Gothic room deiticated to the learning of past ages, and the 
dignity of the present ; a large round table stood in the middle, 
t»vered with political pamphlets, cut open, at least, most care- 
Mly^ and a newspaper lying on a folio volume of Bolingbroke's. 
In a large arm-chair, with the Peerage in one hand, and an 
0peti letterin the other, whose seal^ though broken, still showed 
'the crimson glory of the coat of arms, sat Lord Etheringbame ; 
and on the other side, in a chair equally erect, and in her 
person still more so, was the lady moth»'. What circum- 
stance could have occasioned such a change in the casde^s do- 
mestic economy — a matrimonial t^te^dUite tit suqh unusual 
hiimrs, and in such an unusnal place ? What but a circum- 
ittanoe that has authorised many extraordinary proceedings*'^— 
•an offer of marriage.- Lady Alicia took the seat assigned her 
by a wave of his lordship's hand. 

The consequence of our family, " said her father. 
The advantages of such a union," observed the sr^ 

/ 



* u 



14 n^ttothm Am) 

<^^ Tli« fiofi^iide to trbieb «iy pllil(M9{dflbal andlHeMrffMiilw 
suits . — " here th« retired BUtesmata psused. 

<' Well iLware of the €xedient principiet imtilkd iiA» your 
-mind/' exclaimed mamma; ^ 

'< Connected with some of the Ik^^tioifieiA^ke kln^om/' 
ejaculated papa. 

" Fastidious as my dattghCeriimil Ims/' and %Mdj Btheii«g^ 
itame drew up d 2a giraffe. 

'* So desirahle a political co^meoVkm,^ wad hi» lordship ioeked 
at his 'daughter and his pamphlete. 

^' I shall be freed from the weight of so wnieh iBatanud 
anxiety $" but her ladyship was stopped in hsr pafcntflddtififplay 
by the positive declaration of — 

'^ And now, Alicia, !^hall I w/ite an answer es 'aftrouiti^e as 
suits the dignity of our house?" * 

AHcia said nothing, and looked less. 

'^ We will spare her oonfusion, " and the Oounteas. 

^' You may retire/' said the Barl. 

Lady Alicia was as much bewildeved «8 it mtst in her iiatont 
to be ; but she made up her mind to ask hermodier wbablliey 
wanted with her in the library, and seated herself to out rat 
another little poodle. 

The dinna'-bell rang, and Lady Etberinigfaaine entered* 

'^ Alicia, my love, wear your torqaoiee ast to-4lay : of oo«rte» 
I sliould wish you to appear to adva&tsge on Mr. ]>elawsn^a 
first visit/' 

It was as if all the astonishment of her life was to be 
crowded into one day ; for on retiring to her toilette, her hand- 
maiden, the very reverse of her mistress, extremes meet (vide 
Lara and Jaqueline), by dint of eompliments and insinuations^ 
succeeded at length in drawing from iier something like a ^uet- 
tion ; and with all her father's eloquence and mother s anxiety, 
Alicia only now began to snjspect a husband in the case, and 
that the library audienee and the turquoises referred to Mr, 
Delawarr. 

Deiawarr Hall was die nearest seat to Etfaeringhame Castle, 
and tbe families had for years run thrtragh every possible 
variety of opposition and alliance. Between the present pro- 
prietors there had existed rather civility than cordiality. Lord 
£theringhame*s opmions were «s hereditary as hi» halls $ inno- 
▼•etion W!as moral rebellion ; the change of a fashion, a symptom 



of dopiwriBf ; lie woaU as soon faawv. destroy td hh pcdig^ne 
U his p%tail ; and looked on cMiy new patent^ wbecher foe s 
p^ragi or a pia-ditli, at onotfier step to rnin ; in slioit^ he 
held just the reverse of the poet*s opinion — with hini^ aoi 
whatever is^ but wbateTcr had heen^ was light. 

& Walter, on the contraryy was a man ef plans and pr** 
JeetB : he refurnished hie heitse, .and talked of the dmlkcIi of 
iatelkot ; cut down a plantation o£ old oaks in aeavrii of a lead 
wine ; pat ut Fmnnb windows instead of ,Gothte» on which hia 
mother died -of cold, or grief; named hia firgt wife for fanc^y 
and teUted of aenttnxent ; his aeeond.fbr money, and talked of 
iiherality^ and depoecated vain pride of hirtb ; he lost money 
by taking aharea in a canal^ which to have aaade profitable rouot 
have ent just across his owii park ; sabscribed to a book aodety, 
and was eloquent about enoooraging genins; had a newly 
invented stare in hia hail ; and novelty to him was what ao» 
ct^oity was to the other -^ each, like charity, covered a multi* 
todeof sine. But, above all^ ^ Walter *s great pride was hia 
oon, who, already far beyond hia competitor^, gave assurance 
ai liie distingQiahed career he ran in after life. Two things 
were at thia period necessary for Montague Delawarr, -^ to get 
married, and returned for the county. 

The Baceoet a dresaiiig-room h^d a view of the castle. No 
wonder that Lady Alicia ouggested herself to hia mind. Mon- 
tague was now in the country ; and if 3b. Valentine could aid 
Sl Stephen, why married he intended to be, some time or 
other ; so the letter of proposal was written, and the result 
had been a^ favourable as they could wish. 

Seven o'clock came, and with it Sir Walter and his son. 
The dinner-bell to-^ay w^ indeed to>be ^^the tocsin of the 
heart" With something more like emotion than she had ever 
felt in her life before. Lady Alicia Lorraine made her appear- 
ance, and a very fair appearance it was ; both figure and face 
were fine, her dress elegant,. and the turquoises so becoming, 
that when Montague took his seat by her at table, he began 
to think the wife herself was aomethiaag in the matrimonial 
oontraot about to be made* The delusion by a little maternal 
arrangement, hints of timidity, &c., lasted very respectably 
till after the wedding, when with as little blushing and as 
mnch blonde as poasibk, the name of Lorraine was changed 
lor that of Delawaib They were the happiest couple apok«n 



16 BOMANCB AlCD BJSAUTT* 

of. Sir Walter had presented his late wife's emeralds^ and 
his son had them reset ; the bride's heauty quite inspired Sir 
Thomas Lawrence ; and Mr. Belawarr was returned for the 
eounty. 

In the midst of a brilliant public career^ he had little time 
to discover whether his household divinity was very like those 
of old — a statue. Lady Alicia was good-natured — that 
good nature which is composed of a soft smile^ a low voioe^ 
indulgence of every kind — self among lihe number : for the 
rest^ if her mind had a feature^ it was indolence; and her 
cashmere, character, and carriage^ were alike irreproachable. 

Snch was the lady with whom Emily had to encounter tbn 
dangers of a tSte^A-t^e, It passed off better than she boped^ 
Lady Alicia liked to be amused, and her young companion 
was soon encouraged to be amusing. Their arrangementa 
were speedily made ; they were to dine with Lady Ethering* 
hame ; his lordship's magnificent funeral had filled a column 
in the paper three years before ; the dowager took to study 
her health, and lived in town to be near her physidana-^ 
and with a little illness and a great deal of complaint, managed 
to live on. The morning was to be devoted to millinen^ 
shopping, &c. ; both went to prepare for the drive ; Lady 
Alicia convinced that Miss Arundel was a very charming girl^ 
and Miss Arundel wondering if fairy tales were true, and 
whether her hostess was a snow woman animated by a spelL 



CHAPTER V. . 

** The bondage of certain ribands and glores.*' 

** Your gown is a most rare Cuhioo, i*(Uth.*' 

• • « • 

** These pelican daughters." «- SHAKsnuu. 

Shopping, true feminine felicity ! how rapidly it pawed the 
morning away -— how in a few short hours were Emily 'a ideas 
expanded ! Here she blushed for her sleeves, there for htr 
flounces : how common seemed the memory of her lod : rtfae 
wreath beside her newly-acquired taste for golden oats ! T^ 
bonnets that were tried on, the silks that were unfolded, the 



ROKANOB AMD REALITY. If 

'iibands that were chosen,-^ till she went home happy in a hat^ 
irhose dimensions far exceeded the shields of any of her fan* 
^EtiherSj and having chosen a hall dress^ on whose compositioD, 
the milliner assured her^ genius had exhausted itself. 

Lady fithertnghame heing now a oonsdtutionaliaty dined 
rather early : and Emily^ her head like a kaleidoscope, full of 
colours, with not a little disdain, put on the hlue silk she had 
draught bleu cHegie, at least in the country. What a march 
iloes a woman's intellect, t. «. taste, take in the streets of 
London' ! 

Bxactly at fiye they were at the dowager's door -— exactly 
ftfe minutes after they were seated in her dining-room ; and 
Emily hegan to consider whether she or. the wine-coolers were 
most chilled — whether Lady Etheringhame's Uack satin or 
herself were stifi^t — - and whether she weighed her words as 
she did lier food in the little pair of scales hy her side. They 
adjourned to the drawing-room, and sat '*like figures ranged 
upon a diaUplate." The French dock on the mantel-piece, 
ticked audihly -— Lady Alicia dozed -— their hostess detailed 
symptoms and remedies, and eulogized mustard-seed, •—» 
while Emily sat like a good child, playing propriety, and 
looking the listener at least. Ten o'clock came at last, and 
with it the carriage. 
• ^* I am afraid, mamma, you are so tired," said the daughter. 

** How much we gire to thoughts and things our tone. 
And Judge of others* feelings by our own ! " 

*' I hope Miss Arundel will do me the honour of accom- 
panying you on your next visit ? " 

A stately hend from the elder -— a low '^ many thanks " — 
a good night — and the visit was over. 

'* Is it possible/' thought Emily, '^ a visit in London could 
besoduU?" 

The next morning was more amusing — visitor after visitor 
came in ; for Lady Alicia, like most indolent people, preferred 
any one else's company to her own, — all could entertain 
her. better than she could entertain herself. An elderly gentle- 
man had gone off with a cough, and a lady of no particular 
Bgie with a prophecy. 

** Well, take my word for it, those girfa will never marry ; 
marriage is like money — seem to want it, and you never get 

it:' 



t$ HOmAMSn ANA BJBAUHry. 

. The Cassandra was scarcely departed^ irhen the objects of 
her oracle appeared — Mvs. FerguasaD and her two daugliters^ 
Nothing ccuki be more correct &an the externalH of these 
young ladies — large curls, large fik»ve% stiU fanger bonseisy 
words like the poel's idea of adieu, or the adricet ta make good 
children — ^' to be seen, not heard," — ' aad faces indicative o# 
elegant indifference. 

Mr. Fergusson had made his: fortune, and Mrs. F. now 
meant to make her w^ in the world ; her aoeiet^F was to be 
refined and exalted ; she resolved on getting people to her 
honse, and going to people's hoisses^ whose names as yet were 
all she knew of them ; and by dint of patience, perse verancej 
and pushing, she had to a great degree succeeded. Is not 
Locke the great phiksopher who says;, th6 strokes of the pick^ 
asie buUd the pyranaid ? But these soeial contraet* were sub- 
seiricnt to one great end — domesdc economy. Mrs. Fer- 
gnsson had a family o£ six dattghtars ; and to get these well 
mavried was the hope aoA ain» of her existence, '* the ocean 
to the river " of her theughta. By day she kid plans, by 
night dreamed they had sacoeedecU To this point temded 
dresses, dances,, dinners ; for this dbe drove in the park — for 
this watted out tbe bdlet at the. opera -^-^ for this Mr. St. 
Leger found his favourite pate de coeur des iomH9r9Ue» perfect 
at hec table ; for thia Mr. Herbert^ twice a week daring last 
Af ril, was asked to a famUy dinner -^ un d£nd Mons' famous est 
une perfidie, though in a different sense to what the poet de$ 
pktieaux intended ; for this, on Mr. Hoggart a Scotchman — 
who wore a blue coat, which he always began to button when 
economy Was tallied of — did mamma impress, what a treasure 
her Elizabeth was, and how well she supplted her place at 
home. [By the bye, what an. odious thing is a blue coat with 
brass buttons, shining as if to stare you out of countenance, and ' 
reflecting in every button a concave composition, which you 
recogmse as a caricature of yourself. No lady should dance with 
a ftfioi who wears a blue coat and brass buttons.^ For Mr. ' 
Resedsie did Laura wear vestal white, when every one else 
was et la Zamiel, and a cottage bonnet — a cottage omi^e, to 
be sure — when every other head was in a hat 

' SttD, two seasons, besides watering places, had passed away 
fruitlessly ; and the Misses Fergussous, of .whom two only had 
yet passed the Rubicon of balls, opens, &c. coming ou^ were 



4tm tlie fair but unapproprUud acy^ctiyes oi the iKHin-matirK 
monial husband ; still it was something to be " read^j ay 
ready/' — the family xootto^ Of theai Jiothiog more can be 
usaid> than that Laura was pretty, anci enacted the beauty; 
Elizabeth was plain, and therefore waa to be^ sensible: the on« 
131^ at her harp,, the other at her work-box. 

Now, Mrs. F^guBson thought a visit to Lady Alida a sad 
waste of time : there were no sons, no brothers, at least as bad 
as no9e — for the Earl was in the oouatry, the youdger abroad; 
stiU she was too little established in society fov neglect. So^ 
collecting a few facts ajul fkneiea, putting oa her most fatigued 
face, she began talking, while the daughters sat such complete 
persouiiications of indiflTerence, that Mrs. Granville might very 
well have addressed her ode to either of thepa« 

^' Mrs. De Lisle's rooms were so crowded last night— very 
brilliant Stilly alas!" — (here Mrs. Fergusson looked philo- 
sophical) — ^^the weariness of pleasure ; but these dear girls 
were in such requisition, it was nearly day before we left. 
Conceive my fatigue." • • . * 

'^ Why then," said her hearer, very quietly, " did you not 
leave before ? " 

" Ah, Lady AIicia> how little do you understand the feelings 
of a mother ! Could I break in upon their young pleasures ? 
Besides" — and here her voice sank to a whisper —^ ** I do own 
my weakness ; yet what maternal heart but muat be gratified 
by such admiration as was excited by my sweet Laura? It 
is danger^Aia to a yoRiing'ltead; but she ia so sinlpie>< se- unpre- 
steading." 

" Very tame/* said her ladyehip. 

Now came one of those audible pauses, the tiddngs of the 
death-watch of English conversation. This was broken by Mrs* 
Fd^uason's asking a ^Mcstipft* Haw many ^e adced for want 
of something to aay ! The qnesl&ons of enriosity are few to 
those of politeness. 

'' Pray wheui do you ^^et ywa br«*ther,. Mr. Lorsawe, in 
England?*' 

*^ Ah^ Bdward ! Ddianrarr toild me he was coming, at last. 
He is to stay with ufi»" 

J^frs. Fefgusaaii mwy for the fiavt time^ looked at Emily, 
mkor, occwpied in co&sidbritf^ trhHher the Misses Fergusson 



20 ROMANCI!; AND REALIT7. 

were deaf or dumb^ or both, was quite unconscious of tills 
scrutiny. 

A marriage and a death concluded the visit. 

" Well ! " ejaculated Mrs. Fergusson, as soon as the carriage 
gave security to that flow of soul, entitled confidential conver- 
sation, '^ to think of the luck of some people — there will this 
Miss Arundel be living in the house widi the Hon. Edward 
Lorraine." 

No one knew better than this lady the dangers or Advan- 
tages of propinquity. 

I hate that odious dark hair and ringlets too^ so affected ; 
but she is not pretty," said Miss Laura. 

^' There is nothing in her," said Miss Elizabeth, who piqued 
herself on discrimination of character. 



CHAPTER VI. 

'* I lore a devious path that windi askance, v 

And hate to keep one object still in view ; 
The dowers are fragrant that we find by chance—* 
Amd in both life and nature I would rather 
Have those I meet than those I come to gather.** — J%e Brunswick, 

*' All, 'tis a pleasure that none can tell. 
To feel you're the wild wave's master.*'* 



" lupoMiBLE ! If his highness would but consider"—— 

*' 1 never considered in my life, and am not going to begin 
now. I cross the river, if you please, before yon black cloud." 

'* We must put back — we cannot allow a stranger to 
perish." 

*' Gentlemen of the sail, I can assure you it is not tny 
destiny to be drowned ; fulfil your agreement or forfeit your 
dollars." 

One of the most pertinacious of the boatmen now begati to 
mutter something about a family at once large and small. 
. ^*l can endure no more: when a man begins to talk of his 
wife and family, I consider his designs on my purse and time 
to be quite desperate. Pescendants of the sea-kings ! I am 
sure I shall not drown ; and if you do, I promise to increaae 
your donation, till your widows may erect a church and belfry 



BOMANOB AND BBAUTY. 9^ 

loTing a rc;)oieing peal over your memory ; and thus I end the 
dispute/* 

So saying, the young Englishman rose from the deck, whert 
he had lain wrapped in his doak and his thoughts — ana 
putting the sullen steersman aside^ took the helm into his own 
hands. A few moments saw the little vessel gallantly scudding 
through the waters, dashing hefore her a shower of foam like 
sudden snow — and leaving behind a silver tracks like a shining 
serpent^ called by some strange spell from its emerald palaae« 
and yet bright with the mysterious light of its birthplace. The 
river^ now like an allied army^ swollen with the gathered rains 
of many weeks^ was darkened on one side by an ancient forest, 
black as night and deaths and seeming almost as eternal. It 
was swept, but not bowed, by a mighty wind, now loud as 
mountain thunder, and now low with that peculiar whisper 
which haunts the leaf of the pine — such as might have suited 
the oracles of old — an articulate ttiough unknown language, 
— - and ever and anon rushing from its depths till the slight 
bark was hidden by the driven waters ; while overhead hung 
one dense mass of doud — a gathered storm, heavy as the 
woods it overshadowed. The banks on the other side were as 
those of another world ; there arose rocks covered with coloured 
lichens, or bare and showing the rainbow-stained granite, and 
between them small open spaces of long soft grass, filled with 
yellow flowers ; and here and there slight shrubs yielding to 
the wind, and one or two stately trees which defied it. Still, 
the tempest was evidently rolling away in the distance ; a few 
large drops of rain seemed to be the melting of the light which 
was now breaking through its cloudy barrier; already the 
moon, like the little bark beneath, was visible amid surrounding 
darkness, and at last illuminated, encouragingly, the deck and 
its youthful master, whose noble and romantic style of beauty 
suited well a scene like this. 

The excitement of the moment had given even more than 
its ordinary paleness to his cheek, while its character of deter- 
mination redeemed, what was almost a fault, the feminine 
delici^cy of his mouth; the moonlight. above was not more 
spiritual than the depths of his large blue eyes ; and the rain 
that had washed his hair only gave even more glossiness to 
the light auburn waves that diadowed a forehead whose jiow- 
ing line was that of genius and of grace : it was a face and 

3 



flgare to Yihiiih the mind gA^ ptower, and wiiose' ^ligbt iniiP 
delicate proportions had been effeminate but for the &tnsng<i^ 
which is of the spirit. 

Successful daring makes its own way ; and ii^hen the 
dangerous bend of the river was passed, and the wind had 
gradually wailed itself to rest like a ipsBsionate child, hia 
boatmen were as elated as if the triumph bad been Cheir owut 
They reached the landing-placej ruled by $Mt old oak, beneatb 
whose shade the sea*kings must have stood : tbe crew went 
on to the little village^ whose homses were already' those of 
promise ; while Edward loitered after^ languid with the luxury 
of exertion^ and the softness of the »ow lulled and lovely 
night The moon was yet very young— that clear diamoiMl 
crescent which looks as if undimmed by the sorront^^ or txn<^ 
sullied by the crimes, whidi will fill even the brief period of 
her reign over earth : but there was ample l%ht to show Jus 
way across a vast fields where every step he took filled liie air 
with fragrance — for the ground was covered tttth those fairy 
flowers, the lilies of the valley — their ivory bells bowed the 
slight stalks by thousands, and their snow was like frost-work 
— as if winter had given her only loveliness to eumner. 

As he approached the village, the wild cherry'-trees 8ur<» 
rounded it like an orchard, the boughs covered with crimsdii 
profusion, and the cottage where he -stopped was crowned 
with flowers ; for here the turf-fiods, which form the roof^ are 
the nursery of numberless Uossoming plants, all fair, and 
most of them fragrant. The door opened^ a bright hearth 
was glowing with its wood fire of the odoriferous youi^ pine- 
branches ; and the hostess was quite pretty enough to make 
the short scarlet petticoat, and red handkerchief which gathered 
up her profusion of light Presses, seem the most beooming of 
costumes. 

The game had the perfection of wild-heath flavour ; and 
the rich peach brandy was most exhilarating to the wet and 
weary. After supper they gathered round the hearth. Many 
a tale was told of wood and water spirit, with all the eloquent 
earnestness of belief. The national song Gank Norge was 
sung, as people always sing national songs after dinner — with 
all their heart, and as much voice as they have left ; and 
Edward Lorraine went to bed, when nothing was wanting bat 
an audience^ to have made him declaim most eloquently on the 
excellence of unsophisticated pleasure. ^ 



The next day he ro6e eariy to joia in the chase of an elli:, 
tn animal rarely seen even in that vnmAe part. The band of 
hunters were young and bold> and there was just enough of 
danger for excitement Many a deep Tailev and dark ravine 
did they pass, when a loud shout told that their prey was at 
hand. Fronting them» on a barfen and steep height, stood 
the stately creature^ his siae thrown tout in bold relief by the 
dear blue sky behind : he tossed his proud antlers defyingly^ 
as if he were conscious of ihe approacidng enemy — when sud- 
denly he turned, and dai^e^ down the 'Opposite side. Their 
game was now secure ; gradtnlly they narrowed their circle, t^ 
diey quite hemmed in the little ddl where it bad taken refbgfe. 
Their noiseless steps might have defied even an Indian ear, 
and a few scattered trees concealed them. The stag was lying 
amid the grass ; his horns, in forcing a passage tht'ough the 
woods, had borne away their spoil ; and a creeping plant with 
large gteen leaves and small bright bioe flowers, had wound 
round them, as if the Tictim were bound with wreaths for 
sacrifice. Another moment, and the hunters rushed forward ; 
£ve spears were in its side at once. Awakened more than 
injured^ the elk sprang up. One incautious youtii was thix)wn 
on the ground in a moment^ while it made for the thicket 
where Edward was hid. 

He had meant to have witnessed rsther than have joined in 
the attack; but the danger was imminent — ^his life was on a 
chance' — ^^the shot rang from his pistol — and the next moment 
he felt the large dark eye of the dying animal fix on his, and 
it lay in the dea^ agony at his feet, for the bullet had entered 
its forehead. His comrades gathered round, received the 
reward he had promised, and prepared for supper in the woods, 
while Kdward stood gazing on the giKant stag. 

It was fifteen years since one of the kind had been seen in 
the district. A few hours and a few dollars finished his brief 
reign in the woods ; and Lorraine tiiought a little sadly on the 
bold and the lonely whicli had Mien to gratify his curiosity. 

Your moralising is, after all) but a zest to pleasure ; and 
his remorse was more than mitigated by the applause bestowed 
on his address and presence of mind, — till the horns of the 
elk came to be viewed with very selfHsatisfactory feeling^. 
Active pleasures, however, had their day ; and Edward soeti 
began to prefer wandering amid the mighty forests, till he 

4 



,d4 .JIOMA19GR AVD SLBAhlTV. 

.half believed in the spirits of which they were the home ; or 
he would lie for hours embedded in some little nook of wild 
flowers, amid the rocks that looked down on the river — a wikl 
soaring bird the sole interruption to his solitude. But one 
cannot practise poetry for ever ; and he soon found he was 
decUning rapidly from the golden age of uinocent pleasure 
to the silver one of insipidity. So one fine morning saw him 
bribing his driver^ and urging the pretty little brown horses 
of the country to their utmost speedy on his way to England. 
The sea- port was gained — the wind as favourable as if that 
had been bribed too — and in a fortnight he was at Hull, quite 
as pleased to return to his native land as he had been to leave it. 

This jouniey to Norway may be considered the specimen 
brick of Edward Lorraine's life and character ; for the seascm 
before, he had been le Prince chM of the Park and Pall Mall 
— his dressing-room was one mirror — his sofas pink satin. — 
his taste was as perfect in beauty as it was in perfume —-his 
box at the Opera exhaled every evening a varying atmosphere ; 
it was not ibe night of Medea or Otello, but that of the 
heliotrope or the esprit dee violeties ;-«-he talked of building 
a rival Regent Street with his invitation cards -^ and actually 
took a cottage ^' all of liUe^and roses " at Richmond, as fitting 
warehouse for his pink and blue notes, " sweets to the sweet/' 
-^and drove even Mr. Delawarr Out of his patience and polite- 
ness, by asking who was prime minister. 

But, alas, for the vanity of human enjoyment ! we grow 
weary of even our own perfection. About July, fashion took a 
shade of philosophy— friends became weary, we mean wearisome 
— pleasures stale-* pursuits unprofitable — and. Lorraine de- 
cided on change; he was resolved to be natural, nay^ a little 
picturesque; all that remained was the how, when, and where. 
He thought of the lakes — but they are given up to new mar- 
ried couples, poets, and painters ; next, of the Highlands — 
but a steam-boat had profaned Loch Lomond, and pic-nics Ben 
Nevis; of Greece he had already had a campaign, in which he 
had been robbed of eve^y thing, from his slippers to his ciraeter 
— and had returned home, leaving behind his classical enthu- 
siasm, and bringing back with him an ague. He took up the 
Gazetteer in desperation for a Sortes, and laid it down de- 
lighted and decided : next day he set off for Norway. 



J 



\ 



BOHANOK AKD BBAUTY, S5 

In fail mind the imagination was as yet the most proroinent 
feature; it made him impetuous-— for the unknown is ever 
coloured by the most attractiye hues ; it made him versatile— 
for those very hues, from their falsehood, are fleeting, and pass 
easily from one object to another; it made him melancholy — 
for the imagination, which lives on excitement, most powerfully 
exaggerates the reaction; but, like a fairy gift, it threw its own 
nameless charm over all he did— and a touch, as it were, of 
poetry^ spiritualised all the common-places of life. His was 
a character full of great and glorious elements, but dangerous; 
so aUve to external impressions, so full of self-deceit — for wl^at 
deceives us as we deceive ourselves? To what might not some 
daasling dream of honour or of lave lead ! It was one that re- 
quired to be subdued by time, checked by obstacles, and soft- 
ened hy sorrow; afterwards to be acted upon by some high and 
sufficient motive to call its energies into action — and then, of 
such stuff Nature makes her noblest and best. As yet his life 
had, like that of the cuckoo, known 

" No lorrow In its song. 
No wiuter in its year." 

His beauty had charmed even his stately lady-mother into 
softness; and he was the only being now on earth whom his 
brother loved. Young, noble, rich, gifted with that indefinable 
grace which, like the fascination of the serpent, draws all 
within its circle, but not for such fatal purpose — with a temper 
almost womanly in its afiectionate sweetness — with those bold 
buoyant spirits that make their own eagle- wings, — what did 
Edward de Lorrdne want in this world but a few difficulties 
and a little misfortune? 



CHAPTER VII. 

*< Uii ba] I U falUdt de grandes toilettes." 

MtmoireB tur Josephine, 

** Midnight revels — on their mirth and dance intent. 
At once with joy and fear Aer heart rebounds."— MttTOM. 

The boudoir was a very pretty boudoir ; the curtains at the 
window were rich rose colour, the paper a pale pink, and the 



d6 kOAAWSK »91> ft^Ai^mK 

fite-plaeelike the altar of hope — oneftparklinjg^hlaM. On the 
mantel.piece two alabaster Hgures supported each a little lamp^ 
whose fiame was tinted by the stained flowers; some eliina 
ornaments, purple and goid^ and a vase filled with double 
violets, were reflected in the mirror. On the <fne side was a 
stand of moss roses, on the other a dressing-table^ and a glass 
A la Psyche, over whose surface the wax tapers flung a soft 
light, worthy of any complexion, even had it rivalled the caliph 
Vathek*s pages, whose skins *'were fair as the enamel of 
Prangistan." In short, it was one of those becoming rooms 
which would put even a Grace in additional good htimour. — By 
the bye, what a barbarous, what an uncharitable act it is, of 
some people to fiu-nish their rooms as they do, against all laws 
of humanity as well as taste ! We have actually seen rooms 
fitted, up with sea-green, and an indigo-coloured paper: what 
complexion could stand it? The most proper of becoming 
blushes would be utterly wasted, and perhaps at the most cri- 
tical moment. Mrs. Fergusson never would let her daughters 
visit at Lady Carysfort's, on account of the unabated crimson 
of her walls and furniture: as she justly observed, the dancers 
looked like ghosts. For ourselves^, when we furnish our iKx>mi^ 
we have decided on a delicate pink paper ; it lights up well, 
and is such a relief to the foreground of whites, reds^ and blue. 
The hangings^ &c., certainly of Prencfa rose: windows are 
favourite seats; and who knows how much may be effested in 
a tite-d'tiU, by the crimson shade iyf the curtain flitting over 
a fair cheek d. propos ? But we are patriotic peo^, and write 
treatises for the Society of Useful Knowledge, 

Emily Arundel stood by the dressing-table. The last curl 
of her dark hair had received its last braid of pearls ; the pro- 
fessor of papillotes had decided, and she quite agreed with him, 
that d la Calypso best suited with her Grecian style of feature. 
The white eatin slip^ over which floated ,the cloud-like gauze, 
suited well with the extreme delicacy of her figure ; and the 
little snow-slipper would not have disgraced the silver-footed 
Thetis^ or Cinderella herself. The b&uquetde rots shed its last 
tears on the cambric parsemis de lis — and Emily turned from 
her glass with that beau idM of all reflections^ '^ I am looking 
my very best ! " 

"Really, Emily, you are very pretty,*' said Lady Alicia^ 



\ 



irheti ' she entered the dnrwing room. Emily qtdte agreed ivbih 
her. 

The carnage soon T^fairled them to Lady Mandeville's ; a 
proper length of time elapsed before they penetrated the block- 
ade of coaches ; a most scientlile rap annouiiced thdr arrival, 
and Emily's heart went c[aicker than t3ie knocker. The old 
sdng says, 

** My heart with lore is beating — " 

of pleasure, should be added. But soon admiration was the 
only active faculty. The noble staircase was lined with the 
rarest greenhouse plants ; she might have gone through a whole 
course of botany before they anived at the drawing-room, — for 
two quadrilles and three waltzes were played while they stood 
on the stairs. As tfaey entered, an opening In the figure of the 
dance gave a transient view of nearly the whole length of the 
apartments. It was a brilliant eoup d'iBii: mirrors, like the 
child's nrorsery-song, ^ op to the ceiling, and down to the 
ground," reflected an almost endless crowd— the graceful 
figures '^ in shining draperies enlblded," the gay wreaths round 
the heads of the young, the white waves of feathers on their 
seniors — the silver light from the moonlike lamps flashed back 
from bright gems and brighter eyes; the rich decorations — 
alabaster vases, their delicate tracery like the frost-work of 
winter fllled with the flowers of sunsmer — the sweep of the 
purple curtains — the gold mouldings, and a few beautiful 
pictures — while all terminated in a splendidly illuminated con- 
servatory. 

Emily had plenty of time to ^'sate herself with gazing," — for 
Lady Alicia quietly seated hetself on a 80&, and seemed to 
trust to ikte about finding either hostess, or pcMrtaer for iier 
protegee, who at last began to think the mere spectator of 
pleasane ought to be a philosopher. We have heard of the 
soliMde of the wide ocean, of tlie sandy desert, of ^le pathless 
fbrest; imt, for a real, thorough, and entive knowledge, far 
beyond Zimmerman^ of the pleaMres of soUtnde, eoanmend«s 
to a young damsel doomed to a sofa and female society, while 
quadrille after quadrille is formed in her -sight, aad.^e waltaes 
go round like stars with whose motions we have nothing to <bo. 

The crowd was now Iwginning rapidly to disperse: true, there 
more spaoe for the jpM a»u/; but fat%ae liad i^acno6ed its 



-98 HOMANOB ^VD JUSAXaTT. 

spirit— curls showed symptoms of straightDess— the bouqaets 
had lost their freshness^ and so had many a cheek. At this 
moment Lady Mandeyille came up ; and a shade^ the least in 
the worlds on the brow of her young visitor showed a discontent 
which, in her hearty she thought such a chaperone as Lady 
Alicia might well justify. Never was kindness more gracious 
in its courtesy than hers. '< Captain St. Leger^ Miss Arundel;" 
and the next minute Emily prepared smile and stelp : one at 
least was thrown away ; her partner, strong in the consciousness 
of coat, curls, and commission, the best of their kind, deemed 
it risking the peace of the female world unnecessarily to add 
other dangers to those so irresistible. During ie PantaJon he 
arranged his neckcloth ; tEU, drew his fingers through his 
curls ; la Pauley he asked if she had been that morning in the 
Park; during la PastoreUe prepared for his pas wul; and 
during la Finale, recovered the trouble of dancing, gave his 
arm, and, as the carriage was announced, handed her into it 
" A ball is not always the comble de bonheur" to papas, says 
the author of the Disowned ; *' nor to theif daughters either," 
•could have added £mily Arundel. 



CHAPTER VIIL 

** And muiie too^dear moric, which can touch 
Beyond all else the soul that loves it much.*' 

MOOBK. 

*^ Your destiny is in her hands," ay, utterly : the Society for 
the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge does not depend more 
on its encyclopedia, Mr. Brougham — the new tragedy on 
Macready— the balance of Europe on the Duke — none of 
these are so utterly dependent as a young lady on her. chape- 
rone. She may be a beauty — but the Medicean herself would 
require announcing as Venus: we all see with other, people's 
^es, especially in matters of taste. She may be rich — but 
an heiress^ like a joint-ttock company^ reqiures to be properly 
advertised* She may be witty— but bon-'mQts require to^be 
repeated rather than heard for a reputation ; and who is to do 
ihiBjmt a chaperone? — That being of delicate insinuations^ 



BOMANOK AND BEALITY. 29 

of confidential whispers^ of research in elder lirotbers^ of ex- 
dusiyeness in younger ones — she of praises and partners for 
her own prot^g^^ of interruptions^ ih, and bats, for others. 
But^ as Ude says of a forcemeat ball, " il faut un g^ie pour 
cela,*' and to that Lady Alicia made no pretensions. 

Evening after evening Emily stepped into the carriage with 
all the slowness of discontent, and flung off robe and wreath 
on her return with all the pettishness of disappointment. In 
the mean time her uncle was quite edified by her letters : she 
spoke with such regret of ihe country, with its simple and 
innocent pleasures, how difRsrent to the weariness which at- 
tended London dissipation ; she was eloquent on the waste of 
time, the heartlessness 6f its pursuits ; she anticipated with so 
much deUght her return to the friends of her youth, diat they 
scarcely knew whether to be most enchanted with her afiection 
or her sense. What a foundation mortified ranity is for phi- 
losophy ! 

The Opera was the only place where she had experienced 
unmixed gratification : from her first glance at its magnificent 
outline — its sea of white waving plumes, with many a bright 
eye and jewelled arm shining Uke its meteors, its beautiful 
faces, seen in all the advantage of full dress — full dress, 
which, like Florimel's magic girdle, is the true test of beauty 
•» to the moment when she lingered to catch the last swell of 
the superb orchestra •» she was ''under the wand of the en- 
chanter." Emily possessed what, like songs and sonnets, 
must be bom with you, — a musical ear; that sixth sense, in 
search of which you may subscribe to the Ancient Music and 
the Philharmonic you may go to every concert — you may go 
into ecstasies, and encore every song-— you may prefer Italian 
singing, talk learnedly of tone and touch, all in vain — a musi- 
cal ear is no more to be acquired than Lady H.'s beauty or 
Mrs. T.'s grace. 

'* What a pity," sdd old Lord E., a man whom a peerage 
spoilt for a professor, whose heart had performed- Cowley's 
ludlad for the whole succession of prima donnas,— *-'' what a 
pity you have not seen Pasta -^ a C^reek statue stepped from 
its pedestal, and animated by the Promethean fire of genius! 
Why is not such personified poetry immortal ? My feeling 
of rqgret for my grandchildren half destroys my eiyoyraent of 
the pfSMnt; it is the feelibg of a patriot, Miss Arundel. 



30 Wm/^OHi •*X'> BJiAUTV. 

Eyary oflier $pecie& of talent carries with it its eternity ; w« 
enjoy the work of the poet, the painter, the 8culpu>r, only as 
thousands will do after us; but the actor — his memory i$ 
with his. generation, and that passes away. What a slight 
idea, even I^ who speak as a last year's eye-witness, can give 
of her magnificent Semixamide, defying even fate — of the 
deep passionate love, ever the ill-requited, expressed in her 
Medea ; her dark hair bound in its classical simplicity round 
her fine head, her queen-like step—- Miss Arundel^ I am very 
sorry for you;'* aiid he stopped. in one of those d^p pauses 
of emotion, when the feeling is too great for words. 

At thijs moment Sontag burst upon tiie ear with one of 
those .^Im sweeps of music, so peculiarly her own : ^'Can 
Any thing be more exquisite ? " exclaimed fimily. 

" Granted," returned Lord K;. ^' musical talent is at its 
perfection ii;i he]: — the finest natural organ modulated by 
first-rate science ; but where is the mind of Pasta ? It is 
Solly to compaie beings so opposijbe : like the child^ when 
^ktd which he preferred, some grapes or a nectarine, { a»- 
swez^ ' both*' Tbe one is the woman of genius— the other 
a most lovely cvfiatuxe, with die finest of voices." 

<^Uo<v beautiful db^ ia!" rejoined £mily, adhering with* 
tru^ feimpiAe perthucity to her opinion, though verjK wjllSitg 
to choose ne/w ground. for her argument. 

'' First of ^ allow me - to observe, I hate to he«r one 
woman praise another's beauty; they doit with such a cove- 
nanting air of selfr«acrifice, such vain-g^rious setting forth 
of — ' There,. you ^ee JL am not the least 'envious*' Seeosdly^ 
1 beg to di^r from you.: I rewemb^ aoj^iety wns wourtd up 
to its Hghest of. e3^ectation when tha fair songstiefiB first ap- 
peared: she advanced to the front, pf the stage — her whi'l^ 
arms. in. that half-crossed, half<«idasped attitude, whieh so de- 
precatingly expresses female timidity — a burst of applause 
wenjt round u^ compliment to those superlatiyely snowy hands 
and arms ; next, she mwie a step forward, Miid in so dding 
displa/y^ed a foot,, small enough fbc the slipper whidi the Mork' 
so maliciouslf dropped to; waken the £gyptian king* from his 
reverie — <« and a second sound of applaufie an^ncniaceki dee ap» 
preciation of that, aerial foot.; finally, the efe»' weve mised^ 
and the face turned to the audience, but the ^oe w«« isoeeived ^ 
in ,deep silence ; that fiixst opinion was the true Que^ Bui wai£ 



BflW^NQB AND RUAMjnY 91 

till the next scene^ and we shall agree — for our admiration of 
Malibran is mutual." 

^' My first impresflloo of her^" said Emily^ ''was very 
««riking; it was at an evening concert, which^ like many 
others — when some three-drawing-roomed lady enacts pa- 
troness, and throws open her house for the saJce of tickets, 
^trangers^ and a paragraph — was rather dimly lighted. - Ma- 
libran was- seated in an open window, round which some 
4aMpvas plant hung in proftise luxuriance ; the back-ground 
was a sky of the deepest blue and dearest moonlight— so that 
Iver figujre was. thrown out in strong relief. Her hair was just 
beund roiuwi her head, widi a blue wreath quite at the back, 
S» in^aeme of the antique figures of the njrHiphs, who seem to 
have wreathed the flowcEs Uiey had gathnred. She was pale, 
aiMl hear tegedsjek eyes filled with that lustrous gase of al>- 
sorbed afetNiiioR OMly given to music I thought, what a 
lovely pictnie she would have made ! " 

But here a aong cenmencedi ; send the sitence enforced by a 
schoolsBuatresa was not atrieter than that Lord £. held it a 
duty to obaeive. during singing* 

By the hiye» both in print and parlance^ how much nensense 
is set lorih tonching *' the BngUsh having no soul* for wasio ! ** 
The love «£ nneic, lilte a conlaaent, may be divided into two 
parts; first, that aeientsfio appreeiatiaa which depends on na- 
tnral organisalion and highly cultivated taste; and> sccoacQy, 
that love of sweat 80iindB> for the sske 'Of tine associations 
linked with them, and the> feelings they waken from the 
deq^ths of memory : the latter is a higher love than the former, 
and in the first onlj are we Rngltsh deficient. The man who 
stands listening taevcA a barrel-organ, hecaaee it repeats the 
tones *^)» laved froos the fips of bis. nurse'' — - or who follows 
a eonmon baUad>4inger, because her song is familiar in its 
sweetness, or ^ked with tonchiag wonl% or' hallowed by the 
rememhfaone oil some, other and dearesS voice -^duiely that 
man has a thousandt times more ''soul for musio'* than he 
who. JNffies abont exeontioo, chromatic runs, semi«tones, &e. 
Wq viQuld liken aanaic to Aladdin's lamp -^-^ worthless in it- 
self» noi so for the spicita whieh obey its call. We lov« it for 
the bulled hepea^ ike ganeved meRwries, the tender feelings, 
it can anmoMitt-wiUta tonsh. 



V 



S2 BOMAIttfB AND BCAUTT. 



CHAPTER IX. 

Very good sort of people.— Common Conversatum. 

A little innocent flirtation Ibid. 

** Enamoured of mine own conceit.**— Loeo SriEUira. 

A fancy ball ! Pray where is the fancy ?— Rational QuetHon. 

Is it not Rochefoucaiilt who says, ^' there are tnany who 
would never have fallen in love, had they not first heard it 
talked ahout ? " What he says of love may extend to a great 
variety of other propensities. How many gtutnmomes, with 
mouths never meant but for mutton and mashed potatoes^ 
dilate learnedly on the merits of salmis and sautis — but far 
less as matter of taste than flavour ! How many a red-cheeked 
and red-jacketed squire exchanges the early hours of the 
field for the late hours of the House, from that univerval 
ambition called example ! And what but that powerful ar- 
gument, *< why, every body gives them," ever made Mrs. 
Danvers give parties ? Without one of the ordinary induce* 
ments which light up the saloon, and cover the supper-table 
with spun-sugar temples; — she had no son, for whom an 
heiress was to be drawn from her '' bright peculiar sphere " 
in the mazes of a mazurka — no daughters, making waltzes, 
and window-seats so desirable ; not so much as a niece, or 
even a disposable second cousin ; — ^without one grain of e^M^t 
de societi, or one atom of desire for its success ; — the Morn- 
ing Post might have eulogised for ever the stars that made 
her drawing.room ^^a perfect constellation of rank, beau^, 
and fashion,'*— and before Mrs, Danvers had read one half 
of the paragraph, she would have forgotten the other. She 
had a good-natured husband, a large fortune, and a noUe 
house in an unexceptionable street; and in giving parties, 
she only fulfilled the destiny attached to such possessions. 

Their year was the most uniform of Time's quietest c«r- 
rent. In February they came up to town, for three reasons : 
they had a family house, to which the family had come up 
for a century past,—- and they were none of those new-lig^ 
pet^le who so disrespectfully difibr from their grandfathers 
and grandmothers; secondly, aU, their neighboun came to 
town, — ^for their neighbourhood was too aristocratic not to be 



ROKANCB AND REALIVY. SB 

migratory ; and^ thirdlj^ Mr. Danrers represented a borough 
which was very prolific in petitions^ road-bills, &c. In town 
they remained till near August, when Mr. Danyers went to 
Scotland to shoot grouse ; and Mrs. Danvers consoled her* 
self^ during his absence^ at their seat, by wondering how 
much the children of her parish-school and shrubs had shot 
up while she was away^ and by superintending the house* 
keeper's room — where, with almost a dash of sentiment^ she 
SAW to her husband's grouse being potted, and a whole array 
of white jars filled with pickles as acid as Mr. Roger's tem- 
per and tongue, and with preserres as sweet as Sir Walter 
Scott's letter of thanks — (by the by, they say he keeps a set 
lithographed) — for the first copy of some young poet's first 
^unon. Partridges and Mr. Danvers re-appeared in Sep-* 
tember. He shot before Christmas, and hunted after ; whUe 
the rest of the time was disposed of by dinners and drow- 
siness in the afternoon ; but, we must add, with every morn- 
ing given to kind and useful employment, — ^for their tenants 
might have changed landlord and lady some dozen times, and 
yet have changed for the worse. 

But to return to May and its multitudes. Mrs. Danvers 
was in a black velvet dress, mutuaUy pertinacious in their 
adherence to each other — and diamonds, which only required 
sew setting to have made her the envy of half her acquaint- 
ance, three parts of whom were already crowding her su- 
pefrb rooms. Kmily first went through a languid quadrille, 
with a partner whose whole attention was given to his 
«t^d-vt9, and then resumed her seat by Lady Alicia, melan- 
choly and meditative, when her attention was attracted by 
that most musical inquiry of, " Who is that pretty dark -eyed 
gifl? — a very wood-nymph beside that frozen water-spirit 
Lady Alicia Delawarr !" The reply was inaudible ; but a 
moment afterwards Mrs, Danvers presented Mr. Boyne Sillery. 
" Miss Arundel for the next quadrille." 

With such an introduction, what partner but would have 
been graciously received ? Perhaps, had not Emily's judg- 
ment been a little blinded by the diamond-dust which vanity 
fifngs in the eyes, Mr. Boyne Sillery might not have appeared 
sach a=very nice young man. He was precisely of an order 
she had too' much good taste to admire — ^he was, to use the 
expresdion A French critic applied to Moore's poetry, tr&p 



3^ ii«MAfioB AKfi' BBAiaanr.. 

pairfwnii these, was- vot ooettionai^ gliafen' on his cnis«. tibat 
savoiued too much, of » proleiGDr audi Thuih ana mUie fleam-i 
his tailoE was- eTideo;tly'a.per80ii.o^gi«at considecatioii in fail 
eyos — thai, wafr hot gratittidfe;, and hia cfaanoe mention, of 
acqaaintaooe was too^oaie^illj con-ectr— thait air of tiie Coucfc 
Guide whiah so nuich betiayft the parvenu. oitid^kitaxiiL Bat 
Bmily: waa in no moodt to ^ be cciticaL Doeiiig the quadrille 
they pzogreaaed' aa« xapidly a»> an Afneideani settXeinent. He 
gave her lus aon to the Bapper-i»onii : g^apes^ piiie-«()ple> 
jelly> and pnitty 8peecbeB>. bluided amleaUy tc^then M^t^ 
warda thair engagemoit waa extended to a waltz. Tbey. 
talked o£ the. C<Heak^— 4he ex^iaite pictem^of FaiEia'a Bride- 
maid in die British GaUery — and aided with luHf and^ 
moonlight ; when, she was. shawled^. eloabBd> and. handed to 
the carriage, with the most, exqineita air of anxietiy — but nob 
till her paring had. learned the number of Lady AliciaT^ 
opeEa4)ox, and that ^ey were gping the following erening to* 
Mrs. William Carson's fancy balL 

Alas ! for the weakness and. ▼aaity of the female- sex» 
MUe. Hyacinthine quite marvelled at her youi^ lady's ani- 
mation^'as she unbonnd the wreath of lilies: from her hair, 
and receivedv a caution about to-morrow's costume : such anr 
kyunction had not passed JBmiiy's lips for week& 

Even in this* world of wonders^, tliere are two subjects, of 
our eqiecial marvel ; — how people can be so silly as to give 
fancy balls ; and,, still more,' how peopile can be so silly aas 
to go to than. With a due propontion of the coldness of our 
insular atmosphece entering like a damp sea^H'eeae into our 
composition, we English are. the worst peopk ia the world 
to. assume characters not our own^ — we adapt and ad^ most 
miserably— and a fiiney ball is just a. caricature of a volume 
of costumea^ only the figuces are somewhat stifi^r and not so 
well executed; 

Emily was that evenings by the aid of shining spangles 
and silver gauze^ an. embroidered sylph ; and in attempting 
to be especially airy and graceful, was, of course, consteaiUed 
and awkward. However, Mr. Boyne Sillery aorured her she 
looked like the emanation of a moonlit cloud ; and she could 
not do less than admire the old English costume, by which 
f^ meant the slashed doublet and lace ruff of her companion* 
Oa they went, through, the most illrassonted gTOup&— -young 



kdiea whota 8 pretty: ankle had seduced into 9witzeriaiid, 
but ivho now willed about as if stmok by sudden shame at 
their short bliie silk skistat;. aultanav radiant in their mother's 
diamonds, which they seemed torribfy afraid of losing ; and 
beauties^ in the style of Charles the Second^ wholly engrossed 
by the rdaxatiou of their rioglets* 

But if the ladies were bad^ the cctaiierfr wete wone. Was 
there a youth with a bright fiuf^sh cdour^ and a small nose 
with an elevated terminatian^ ^ he slaiek a turban on his brow^ 
and called hioiaeif Ahdalhh/' Was there a '^ delicate atomy " 
of minute dinendonS' and. pale oemplexion^ he forthwith 
strutted a hardy Hollander; But our very pages would 
|p»w weary were we to enumerate the solemn Roehesters^ the 
hesry Buckinghama, contrasted. 1^ Spanlaxds all slip, slide, 
.and amile — and officers with notbing waiiike about them but 
their regimentals. The very drawing-rooms partook of the 
^nend discomfort : one waa fitted up as a Turkish tent, wheie, 
^propog das Tures^ tite TiaitoiB drank cluanpagne and punch ; 
while a settle in. Layland,. terribly true as tO' chiUinessf was 
filled with eoor^ pla^ero and; moet rheumatic draughts. The 
master of the honae wundered about, linking as. if he longed 
1»v ask. his. way ; and the nuatroBs, whO' was qoeen of some 
oounfry — whelhcr Alnean or Asiatic it weuld have been 
difficult from her' dress ta decide — curtsied and csmplimentod, 
tiUi she seemed equally* weaiy of her* dignity, diupmes, and 
guests* 

To Emily the scsner was now — and novd^T" is the best half 
of pleasure.. Mr: Be|yne> Sillery was too> attendms not to be 
j^pneabk^ Attentiou is dsKaya feasant, in an acquaintance 
till we tixu of themb, Moreover, he was very- entertaining, 
talked mudi, of every bedy>. and well of none ; aaid iil^nature 
is to conveuBation wkai oiyL is to the lamp — the only thing 
that keeps it alvve.. Bteides> th&e were two or tiapee whispers, 
whoes sweetness wae gooc^ at least i& the way of contrast. 

Mr. Boyne Sillery' was seventh, eighth, or math, among a 
score of divers-sized children — in a large family, likfr a long 
sum, it is difficult to^rememfaer the exact number. His father 
was the possessor of some half-doaeu: aneesturs^ a manor, and 
landed property worth about twdive hundsed^ a^year. Me 
married the daughter of a neighbour whose pune and pedi- 
gree were on a par with hist owp — ••thfrhetrsss o£ twovmaadan 

D 2 



.96 BOIIANCE AND REALITY. 

aunts, one of whom left her a set of garnets, three lockets, and 
the miniature of an officer ; the other a hook of receipts, axiA 
three thousand pounds, which, together with what her father 
gave, was properly settled on the younger scions of the house 
of Sdlery. 

Had Mr. S. studied Malthus more, and multiplication less, 
it would have greatly added to the dignity and comfort of his 
household. As it was, he had to give up his hunters, and look 
after his preserves. His wife took to nursing and cotton 
velvet — and every fiftieth cousin was propitiated with phea* 
sants and partridges, to keep up a hope at least of future in-^ 
terest with the three hlack graces, '' law, physic, and divinity;" 
nay, even a merchant, who lived in Leathering Lane, waa 
duly conciliated at Michaelmas hy a goose, and at Christmas 
by a turkey ; the more patrician presents being addressed due 
west. 

" There is a tide in the affairs of men ;" and the tide on 
which Francis Boyne Sillery's fortune floated was of esprit de 
vaniUe, A cousin, Colonel Boyne, of whom it is enough to 
say, the first ten years of his life passed beside his mother's 
point apron; the second at a private tutors, with seven 
daughters, all of whom entertained hopes of the youthful 
pupil; the third series in a stay-at-home regiment, whose 
cornets and captains were of too delicate material to brave the 
balls and bullets of ^' outrageous fortune ; " and the last few 
years at Paris, a slave to the slender ankle and superlative 
suppers of an opera-dancer. Her reform, in a convent, and 
the necessity of raising his rents, brought the colonel to Eng- 
land. Soon after his arrival, that patent axletree of action, 
the not knowing what to do with himself, domesticated him 
during some weeks of the shooting season at Sillery Hons^, 
where, not being a sportsman, all the benefit he derived ffom 
September was having his morning's sleep disturbed, and see-> 
ing partridges that would have made the most exquisite Of 
sauteSy drenched with an infantine-looking pap called bread 
sauce. 

His attention, among the red-cheeked, red-handed, and large- 
eared race, that formed the olive plantation around his cousin'tii 
table, was drawn to his namesake, Francis Boyne Sillery, by 
one day missing from his dressing-table a large portion of the 
most exquisite scent^ with which he endeavoured to counteract 



BOMANCE AND BBALITT. 87 

ihe atmo^here of goose and gunpowder that filled Sillerf 
Hoase. 

Mischief in a large family^ like murder in the newspapersi 
is sure to come out It was soon discovered that Master 
Francis^ having his delicate nerves disturbed by the odour ex- 
haled from Messrs. Day and Martin's blacking, had poured 
the esprit de vaniUe over the pumps with which he attended a 
neighbouring dancing-school. 

Great was the indignation excited. With the fear of a lost 
legacy before their eyes, his mother burnt the shoes — his 
father took the horsewhip — when Colonel Boyne interfered^ 
with a eulogium on the naturally fine taste of the boy, and a 
petition to adopt a youth whose predilections were so pro- 
mising. 

A week afterwards^ the Colonel left for London, and with 
him Francis — the grief for whose departure was such as is 
generally felt by mothers on the marriage of their daughters, 
or fathers at the loss of supernumerary sons. Colonel Boyne 
took a house in Duchess Street, and a pretty housekeeper -— 
walked St. James's and Bond Streets — kept both wig and 
whisker in a state of dark-brown preservation — and wore 
Hoby's boots to the last Francis had too much of the para- 
site in his nature ever to loose his original hold ; and after a 
few years of dread, touching a lady and her daughter who 
lived opposite, and spent an unjustifiable part of their time at 
the window — and some occasional terrors of the housekeeper, 
his cousin died, leaving him all he had, and not a little disap- 
pointment A few hundreds a-year, and a few more at the 
banker's* were all that remained of the wasted property of the 
indulged and the indolent 

But youth, even of the most provident species, rarely 
desponds. Mr. Boyne Sillery had enough to quiet his tailor 
and his perfumer— and he lived on, in hopea of an heiress. 
In the meantime — as Wordsworth says, 

" Each man has some object of punuit, 
To which he sedulously devotes himself,"^ 

being too prudent for gambling, too poor for la gourmandise, 
too idle for any employment demanding time, too deficient for 
any requiring talent — he took to flirting, partly to keep his 
hand in for the destined heiress he was to fascinate, and partly 
as a present amusement He spoke in a low tone of voice — 

D 3 



SB ROMAROB ANB RBAUTT. 

a gfcat thing, aooordfaig <|o iShakespene, in love ftttaa:; 
-was pale enough for sentiment — made a study of ^pattK^ 
speeches — and was apt Bt a quatarfMO. iDid iie gixne fak srm 
to A damsel^ whose white sbpperhccame ▼JBihle-4Ni the crimiDiK 
carpeted staircase, it was 

"HerfliirrrMt, 

Tliat falls like.snow on eaUh, as^aCt ■aod.jBUte." 

If he hesitated a moment, it was to fill up die paiHetwidi 

'* Oh, what heart so wise. 
Could, iiiibe«ilderod,iMtt time MrtBbleMfVW ?** 

Did the fair 6ame -wear flowers in lier dazk bair^ lie talked 
of 

" Iiinei,.iad> as maJdoM mac. 
In the deep midnight of their hair.*' 

If the aang, faeipiaiMd hf {whispgring iihat >het mcbe 

"'Bore hia toul «1ong 
CNcrJbe ailner wataca Qi<mmt tm^** 

Dearly did he love alhtle zc!ligifni8 eontrofetBy; forfteii the 
diBpute«coidd 'he wmmd up with 

** Thou, for my sake, at Allah's ffarinfl^ 
!kad I «t4wiy god'a for thine." 

This propensity had Vou^t on him on ift>snrd nickname. Jl 
young lady, whose designs on another he had thwarted for a 
whole evening fay a course of ill-timed compliments — and 
the prosperitj of a oompKment^ even more than of a jest, , 

*' Muatlie i' the ear (iebini.TiiikoJ»ena it," 

— called iiim Onpid Qnotem ; :and die ndindoas is JBcmoryV 
mast adhesive plaster. 

It was some half dozen evenings lor so (tieian fixD%- *tea8 
quite tired-^'hut the post fdeasam had degenemted inteihe 
present 'weaciflome, that sore 'pvopheey of the future od i oBs ■ 
when, on the <fi£th evening, asbe'was leaaiBg •niter dier dteirat 
the Opera, and^ either in die way ef idteness or«i|ieniiieitt^ 
his speeches were more dun uauaUy sendmeiital ; — by way 
of diversion, Emtly began questioning ; and *^ Who is in that 
box? Do you know that peison in the piti" tuxaod the 
enemy most scientifically. 

Next to Baying sweet things^ Me. SiUery ieved •aayongvomr'; 
jiidge^ theiefove, if he was mot entertainiai;. 

A headache indnoed Lady JJieia to latee-hetee the fopejte. 



ROHAinjB Arm reality. $9 

mss half over. While ivadtiDg in the crush-room^ Mrs. Fer- 
gusBon and her daughters stopped to exchange those Ihtle non- 
entities of speech called civilities. 

'* Quite an attachcy'* said Miss Fergusson^ in an audible 
sneer^ as she turned from Emily and Mr. Boyne Sillery. 

That ni^ fimiiy aaaditited very aerioiniy on the pro- 
piiety of xeproMlg .iHNj«>in«n of whidi she was tired. It is 
carious to ohoerve hovr rsoon >ife percare tiie nvpropriety of 
departed plearaxes. Bepenimce is m one-*£Beed Jasms, eva: 
looking to the past, fihe tlioi^ht how wrong it was to isad 
flna yooBg jmin — howiBfaamefol to trifle with the fedings «f 
another — and how despicahle -was ihechaxmoter of a coquette, 
fihe xemend)ei£d something Tery like an appoiBtment— •aoi, 
dutt was too haith.a ienn— she had nnguardedly mentioiMd 
the probability of their taking a hmnge in Kensington Gar" 
dkns. Thither shedetBmined not to go, and lesolred in her 
own mind to avoid iiitwe qnadiiUes, &c. fihe went to sleep, 
lolled by ihat hettof jnental apia!lBa-^-««a:good mohtlion. 



CHAPTER X. 



CoHcctinif toyi. 



M okiMrMBtratfacr pAUtet by the ««ep."^Miiseir. 

""Vfell," Bid If r. Browne with tlitiiBPiiitl pie— mtiywwwi toteteiMedoipur, 
" that U what I call pleasant"— -TAe DiBoumed. 

Thebb needed very Utile -diplomacy to penniade Lady AUeta 
4» exchange the study of natuiil Jiittory in Kensington Gav- 
4ienB for its pursuit in Oflowell and James's^ wheze bnieelelB 
made of beetles, and brodches of bntterflies^ are 4is good as a 
•eoone of entomology. A gay . drive soon brought them to .that 
e m poi imu of diina and cbronometeiB — amall,>as if meant to 
chime to fury revels — of embossed vases^ enaaselled like the 
girdle of Iris, and in which every glass drawer is a shrine 

** Where the genii have bid 
Vie* je««Ucd cup of their king Jamsbid/' 

Tnily, the black sea of Piccadilly, in spite of mtid and Mac- 
adam, is, from four to •five o'clock in the season, one of those 
sights ^hose only dement is its want of novelty. 

D 4 



40 BOMANCE AND BEALITY, 

The carriage, entering at Stanhope Gate, first wound ite 
way through a small but brilliant crowd — vehicles, from 
which many a face glanced fair 



*' As the maidf 



Who blushed behind the gallery's silken shadet ," 

in Mokanna's gathering from Georgia and Circassian and drawn 
by horses whose skins were soft as the silks and satins of their 
owners — steeds like the one which owes its immortality to its 
Macedonian victor, curbed by the slight rein and yet slighter 
touch of some patrician-looking rider, whose very appearance 
must be a consolation to those melancholy mortals who prose 
over the degeneracy of the human race — cabriolets guided 
apparently as the young prince was waited on in the palace of 
the White Cat, by hands only, or rather gloves^ varying from 
delicate primrose to pale blue. 

Then the scene itself — the sweep of light verdure, the fine 
old trees which in Kensington Gardens formed the background 
of the distance, the light plantation of flowering shrubs on one 
side,*the fine statue of Adiilles, looking down like a dark giant 
disdainfully on the slight race beneath ; the slender and ele- 
gant arches through which the chariot wheels rolled as if in 
triumph ; the opening of the Green Park, ended by the noble 
old Abbey^ hallowed by all of historic association ; the crowded 
street, where varieties approximated and extremes met; the 
substantial coach, with its more substantial coachman, seeming 
as if they bore the whole weight of the family honours ; the 
chariots, one, perhaps, with its crimson blind waving and giv. 
ing a glimpse of the light plume^ or yet lighter blonde, close 
beside another whose olive-green outside and one horse told 
that the dark-vested gentleman, seated in the very middle, as 
if just ready to get out, is bound on matters of life and death, 
i. 6. is an apothecary. Then the heavy stages >— the omni- 
bus, which so closely resembles a caravan of wild beasts — 
and, last descent of misery and degradation, the hackney- 
coaches, to which one can only apply what Rochefoucault says 
of marriages — - " they may be convenient, but never agree- 
able." 

Of the pedestrians — as in telling a gentleman faults in t|ie 
mistress he married that morning — the least said, the soonest 
mended. Ko woman looks well walking in the street.: she 
either elbows her way in all the disagreeableness of indepen- 



BOKANOB AN0 RBAIiITT* 41 

dence^ or else Muffles along as if ashamed of what ahe is dding ; 
her bonnet has always been met by some unlucky wind which 
has destroyed half its shape^ and all its set : if fine weather, 
her shoes are covered with dust, and if dirty, the petticoat is 
defyingly dragged through the mud, or, still nrare defjringly 
lifted on one side to show the Uack leather boot, and draggled 
in deepest darkness on the other. No female, at least none 
with any female pretensions, should ever attempt to walk, ex* 
cept on a carpet, a turf, or a terrace. As for the men, one 
bsif look as if they were running on an errand or from an 
arrest, or else were creeping to commit suicide. 

So much for the pavement. Then the shops on either 
side, can human industry or ingenuity go farther? Ah, 
human felicity ! to have at once so many wants suggested 
and supplied ! Wretched Grecian daughters ! miserable 
Roman matrons ! to whom shopping was an unknown plea- 
sure^ what did, what could employ them ? Harm, no doubt; 
for 

** Satan finds lome mitcbief ftUl 
For idle hands to do.** 

But, without that grand resource, how they got through the 
four-and-twenty hours, like the man with the iron mask^ 
remains a myrtery. 

At Howell's, Emily was aroused from the contemplation 
of a bracelet formed of bees* wings united by lady -birds — 
by seeing Lady St Leon, a large, good-natured person — one 
of those who take up a chariot or a sofa to themselves — one 
of those fortunate beings who have never had a cross but a 
diamond one in the world— one who« as a chUd, was amusing 
enough to be papa's pet, and pretty enough to be mamma's* 
She fell in love at sixteen with the very person she ought,—- 
the heir of the estate which adjoined her father's ; she was 
wedded in a month, had a fine large family, none of whom 
were ever ill ; had sons, with an uncle to adopt every one 
but the eldest, and daughters predestined to be married, and 
who fulfilled their destinies as soon as possible. She never 
contradicted her husband, who never contradicted her ; and 
they had gone on to fifty, equally fat and fortunate together. 
No wonder her ladyship's good humour was enough for her- 
self — and other people. 

While discussing with the old lady the effects of an. east 



4A iMKHfros jais> nt^Mtav, 

^isnd, and^tbeiriTal ■meritB of li^ofiee and ienren loaenges^ 
«dio should «iie mee examiniiig the >«enfeimeDtB >aad tesls hat 
Mr. Boyoerfiillery ; and whoae convenation flbouM she oirer- 
lietr bnt that paBsmg between him iand m yoong gvnpdniiiin» 
^ho itoffi bestowing on irimiiis idkneas and Im xompiukf P 

'^'Pray," said Captain :Sinielair, '^irfao is tkat pretty gitl 
qfliOBe peace of mind you hav« 'been anniyiathig the last 
flight or two f " 

^^In ^good truth, I hardly know — a Miss Arundel^-^i 
woodtnymph, the daughter of either -a conntry sqnive or « 
clergyman — eqiupped, I suppose, by a ^mortgage <m eitiier 
the equii«*s com-<field6, or the parson's glebe land— *«ent with 
hsk face 'for her fortune .to see what esn be done 'daring a 
London sencm in tjie "way of 'Cupsd and conquest/' 

^' I am at a Iobb," said his companion, " to tnndersftuii 
your demotion." 

'^ It was « mixture of lassitude and ezperanem, '^canied 
into execution by a little Christian charity : she appeared en- 
tirely neglected — and your nobodies are so very grateful ! 
But I find the fatigue too much : moreover, one should never 
let pleasure inte rfe re with bssiness. Last n^ht, at the Opera, 
one of those crushes in^ch bewSder the uninitiated, did 
wonders for me with a jretty (by courte^) little Orienta], 
wiioee fbity thousand pOonds have lately been suggesting 
tbemsdves in the i^pe of Anew system of-finanee/' 

'* And what orienttd lare "can tempt yon to.riMc ynur -oom* 
«[Aexion in the 'city ?** 

*' Oh, a removed one : Miss OouHmm.*" 

lionisa ^mma Anastasia Ooulbum had fewer drawbacks 
ifaan most heiresses. Her father was :one of those aborigines 
whose -early bistory was, like most eariy histories, invoiveid in 
Gonstderal^ obscurity. '^ Nothing in -ISe became him like 
the leaving it ;" for he left one fair daughter and 'forty 
thousand pounds to benefit posterity. A sentimental friend- 
lihip formed at school with a damsel some years her senior, 
whose calculating talents TiSt. Hume bimself might envy, in- 
duced her, on 'her friends marriage, to settle with her in 
fiarley Street ; and ihis friend having neither brother, nor 
brother-in-law, the fair Louisa Emma j^mained, rather to 
her own surprise, unappropriated at foor-and-twenty. As to 
diaraet^istics, -she had. none ; and, to nse^a simile to describe 



f, 'she fws like tthat Irttk Tdhinie '* The 'Goiden Lyre/' 
^d&DBe odiy <merit 'WM bolng prhrted in g(dden 'letters. 

« RWh, rifly/' said iPfr. Boyne «fflery, « what ratiotnll 
liieii icooid wish for a <inore pattern -wife ? I am now going 
"to Kensington C^ardens to meet her^ Where^ lyy the by^ I siso 
expect Mks AFondel— one nval qwen is often nsefol wift 
anothorJ*' 

''Well/' said Captain Sinclair, "1 think I shotfld %e 
amused by a soene between ^onr fiylph and your gnome : my 
•ci^riokt waits at 'the comer ; shall I 'drive yon >" 

^^ Agreed/' yeifmned Mr. SUlery, 'pausing a moment to 
mflke eboiee of two aeak, one a ioiieeKng Cupid— -and to 
<ide(sde whether it was an apple or 'a heart which he held in 
bis hand, wonid have piizsled an anatomist or a naturalist'—- 
'mi&a. ike motto d vous : the ether, an equally earpulent 
<Oopid chained, ihe inscription " at Toor feet:" " I dlways 
consider/' oiiaenFed omr ^cdsting C8¥rilier, '^^blBets ilfae 
little god'a beat arti&ry : fte "perfinned paper is a personal 
complinent, and jcfor 4ut conespOBdent dlways applies '6td 
-seal to heraelf : like the 'knights of cAd, I lotk to my arms/' 

A prolonged gaae oa 'ibe mirror oppoeite» a satislactory 
smile, and «iir two adventotenB Itft the shop— Hke ^hnrTo^ 
intent on « <go]den conquest. Emi^ lip was a 'little bitten, 
and her colour not a little ihet^ened, as Ae emerged ^ftom 
the «9Cpfanse of Lady St. Leon-s •ermine. What a pity it is 
-to tdirow «way a gawd res d hitkin 1 • 



•CHAPTSR XL 

** ¥ctaatkj|befiit« of a wlMte«ex.v^Fon. 

** Lool^ on thn pifitiir«»4uul«a tllk."— .Sbakubmbc. 

" I beg to deQj tiieJionouable gendnnan's aaaertion." 

Debates : Morning Chroniele. 

The •pleasantest, indeed fce 'Oiily pleasant parties at liieir 
bonse, were the 'smali dinners, in which Mr. Belawarr ex- 
celled.: it was «aid he rather piqned himself npon ^em. 
Among the many cHstinguished in mind, body, arid estate, 
whose conotenanees were most frequently Tcflected in the 
covers to the dishes (most unprepoaressingmirrors they are). 



44r AOMANGB AKD RBALITY. 

was A Mr. Morland^ a self-acting philosopher, t. e, one whose 
philosophy was exerted for his own benefit — that philosophy 
we are so apt only to exert for others. He was a widower — 
had eschewed politics — never gave advice^ bat often assist- 
ance — read much, but wrote not at all — bought a few pic^ 
tures — had the perfection of a cook — loved conversation; 
and a little judicious listening had made Miss Arundel a first- 
rate favourite. 

Considering how much the ears are cultivated with all the 
useless varieties of ^^ lute^ sackbut, and psaltery^" it is wonder- 
ful their first great quality should be so neglected ; it shows 
how much common sense is overlooked in our present style 
of education. Now, considering that it is the first step to 
general popularity — (that general popularity, to be turned, 
like a patriot's, to particular account) — considering that it is 
the great general principle of conciliation towards £ast Indian 
uncles and independent aunts, it shows how much real utility 
is forgotten, when the science of listening is not made a pro- 
minent branch of instruction. So many act on the mistaken 
principle, that mere hearing is listening — the eyes, believe 
me, listen even better than the ears — there ought to be a 
professor of listening. We recommend this to the attention 
of the London University, or the new King's College ; both 
professing to improve the system of education. Under the 
head of listening, is to be included the arts of opportune 
questionings and judicious negatives — those n^;atives which, 
like certain votes, become, after a time, affirmatives. 

Mr. Morland, — '^So you were at Lady Mandeville's ball 
last night ? The primeval curse is relaxed in favour of you 
young ladies. How very happy you are»! " 

Emily rather differed in opinion ; however, instead of con- 
tradicting, she only questioned. *' I should really like to know 
in what my superlative felicity consists." 

Mr. Morland, — " You need not lay such a stress on the 
monosyllable my : it is the lot of your generation ; you are 
joung, and youth every hour gives that new pleasure for 
which the Persian monarch offered a reward; you are pretty" 
— Emily smiled — "all young ladies are so now-a-days'*— 
the smile shadowed somewhat — " you have ail the luxury of 
idleness, which, as the French cooks say of i^ potage, is the 
foundation of every thing else." 



L 



B0MA2Y0E AND BBAUTY. 45 

Emily* — '^ I am sure I have not had a momeiit'B ttmesinoe 
I came to town — 70U cannot think how basy I have been." 

Mr. MorkoML — ''Those little elegant nothings — those 
rainbow-tinted bead-workings of the passing hours^ which link 
the.four-and-twenty coursers of the day in chains light as that 
slend^ native of Malta round your neck. rU jest review 
a day for you : Your slumber, haunted by some last night's 
whisper ' fairy sound/ is broken by the chiming of the little 
French clock, which, by waking you ta the music of some 
fayourite waltz, adds the midnight pleasures of memory to 
the morning pleasures of hope. The imprisoned ringlets are 
emancipated ; ' fresh as the oread' from the forest fountun/ 
you. descend — you breathe the incense of the chocolate — not 
more I hope — and grow conversational and confidential over 
the green tea, which, with a fragrance beyond all the violets 
of April, rises to your lip, ^ giving and taking odours.' A 
thousand little interesting discussions arise — the colour of the 
Comte de S.'s moustache — the captivation of Colonel F.'a 
curls: there are partners to be compared — friends to be 
pitied — flirtations to be noted — perhaps some most silvery 
^eech of peculiar import to be analysed. 

''After breakfast, there are the golden plumes of your 
canary to be smoothed — the purple opening of your hyacinths 
to be watched — Aat sweet new waltz to be tried on the harp 
— or Mr. Bayly, that laureate of the butterflies, has some new 
song. Then there are flowers to be painted on velvet — the 
new romance to be read — or some invention of noveL em- 
bellishment to be discussed with your Mile. Jacinthe, Hya- 
dnthe, or whatever poetic name may euphoniously designate 
your Parisian priestess of the mirror. 

" Luncheon and loungers come in togedier •— a little news 
and a little nonsense — and then you wonder at its being so late. 
The carriage and the cachemere are in waiting — you have 
l)een roost fortunate in the arrangement of your hat — never 
did flowers wave more naturally or plumes faU more gracefully. 
Your milliner has just solicited your attention to some triumph 
of genius— 'you want a new dssp to your bracdet-— 

* Visions or glory, spare my aching sight ! ' 

Complexion and constitution are dike revived by a drive in 
the park — a^ white glove rests on the carriage- window — and 



48 BOM A NOB AND REALIT7. 

between the purgatory of the schodi-room^ and the partdiie of 
an eligible offer : 

* The horizon's fair deceit, 
Where earth and heaven but Beem, alas ! to meet.* 

I do not feel my spirits equal to dwelling on the wretchedness 
of an unappropriated debutante, that last stage of maiden 
misery ; but suppose our aspirant safely settled in some park 
in the country, or some square in town — Hymen's bark fairly 
launched — but 

* Are the roses still fresh by the bright Bendemeer ? * 

A woman nev^r thoroughly knows her dependence till she is 
married. I pass also the jealousies^ the quarrels^ the dis- 
gusts^ that make the Catholic questions and corn-bills of 
married life — and only dwell on one particular : some irresis- 
tible hat, some adorable cap, some exquisite robe, has rather 
elongated your milliner's list of inevitables — I always think 
the husband's answer greatly resembles the judge's response to 
the criminal, who urged he must live, — ^ I do not see the 
necessity.' Is not this just the reply for a husband when the 
fair defaulter urges she must dress ? How will he ejaculate, 
' I do not see the necessity.' Truly, when my milliner sends 
in her annual account of enormities, like Corneille's Curiatius, 
' fai pitiS de moi-mSme.' " 

No debate ever ending in conviction, it is of little conse- 
quence that here the conversation was interrupted by that rise 
of feminine stocks which usually takes place during the second 
glass of claret 



CHAPTER XII. 



** I am the most unlucky person in the world." — Common EjiclamaHfm* 
" People always marry their opposites." — General Remark. 

" Coaches all full," said a little bustling waiter, who popped 
about like a needle through a seam. '^ No horses to be had, — 
all at the races, — very bad day, sir, — very bad indeed ! " 

"Confound the wet!" somewhat hastily ejaculated Mr. 
Lorraine, resuming his station at the window, which looked 



HOMANOB AND REALITY. i9 

intO'E narrow little street^ now almost Venetian with a canal 
in the middle. The rain came down in torrents^ — not a 
creature was passing ; he had not even the comfort of seeing 
a few people drenched through : somehody was dead in the 
shop opposite^ so that was shut up : he turned to the room^ 
— there was not a glass to enliven its dark dingy lilac walls ; 
the chairs were with those hlack shining sliding seats, in con> 
tempt of all comfort ; the fire-place was filled with shavings ; 
and a china shepherd and shepherdess^ clothed in '^ a green 
and yeUow melancholy^" were the penates of the mantel- 
piece. How stimulating to be thrown on one*s own resources! 
-— * unfortunately^ they are like 

*' Spirits from the vasty deep. 
Bat will tber come when yoa do call to them ? " 

No resource but that of swearing came to Edward's help ; 
and he paced the little room^ most unpatriotically consigning 
the climate of his native land^ the races^ the horses, the inn^ 
and himself^ to the devil. At last he went in search of the 
landlord^ whom he found standing dismally at the door^ ap- 
parently engaged in counting the rain drops. 

''Are you sure no horses are to be procured? — how un- 
lucky I" 

^' All my lucky sir/' said the disconsolate looking master of 
the Spread Eagle; '4t is just like me^ — my best horses 
knocked up at the races^ — they might have been as lame as 
they pleased next week; but I am so unlucky — I hav'n't 
fifty pounds in the world ; but if I had ten in the Bank of Eng- 
landy there would be a national bankruptcy^ on purpose that 
I might lose it ; and if I were to turn undertaker^ nobody 
would die, that I mightn't have the burying of them: it's 
just my luck always." 

Edward's sympathy was interrupted by the roll of wheels. 
A phaeton drove up to the door, and in its owner he recog- 
nised his young friend Lord Morton ; and a few minutes suf- 
ficed to persuade him to take his seat, and accept an invitation 
to Lauriston Park. It never rains but it pours, and a pouring 
shower is always a clearing one ; so it proved, and a beautiful 
evening was darkening into still more beautiful night, as they 
entered Lauriston Park. 

Certainly our English parks are noble places ; and a most 



^ 



OO mOHAVOB AWD BEALITT. 

4ive(spectfiil feeling do we entertain -towards the nablenMit 
who seHs his deer and plcmghs up his land. Whj ^oidd he 
be so much richer or wiser than his grandfathers ? Befone 
th^m swept acres upon acres of green grass — a deep sea of 
Terdnre ; here some stately oak, whose size vouched for its 
age— -4in oak, the most glorious of trees,— glorious in its own 
summer sisrength of huge hranches and luxuriant foliage, — 
glorious in all its old associations, in its connexion with lihat 
wild, fierce religion, when the Druids made it a temple,-— 
and thrice glorious in its association with the waves and winds 
it is its future destiny to master, and in the 'knowledge thfit 
the nohle race have borne, and will hear, die ^ory of S^t^and 
round the world. It may sound like the after-dinner patri>- 
otism of the Freemasons' Tavern ; bat sovdy the heart doe& 
heat somewhat high beneath the shadow of an old oak. 

Beside Ihese were numerous ashes ; the light and the grace- 
ful, the weeing cypress of England, through whose dight 
boughs the sunshine falls like rain^ beloved of the bee, and 
beneath which the violet grows best. I scarcely ever saw an 
ash whose roots were not covered with these treasurers of the 
Spring's perfume. Far as the eye could reach stretched away 
young plantations; and if Art had refined upon Nature, 
clothed the hill side with young plants, shut out a level flat, 
or opened a luxuriant vista, she had done It wi& leeiled face, 
and unsandalled foot. 

Lord Morton's news and Lorraine's novelties were inter- 
rupted by the dashing forward of a carriage, over whose 
horses the coachman had evidently lost all control. Foxtu- 
nately, the road was narrow ; and with too little risk to enaftile 
them to display much heroism, our gentlemen secured the 
reins, and aided the ladies to alight. !Prom its depths emei^ged 
the black velvet hat and white feathers, and finally the whde 
of the Countess of Lauriston, followed by her daughter. After 
a due portion of time employed in exclamations, sympathies, 
and inquiries, how they came to meet was explained as satisfiie- 
torily as the end of an old novel, when every thing is cleared 
up, and every body killed, after havmg first repented, or 
married. 

Lord Lauriston was laid up with the gout : prevented from 
attending the county ball, he still remembered his popularity, 
sod ^^duly sent his daughter and his wife;" all thought of 



ROMANUe AND SSAXaTT. SI 



going was mow at an end : ^oiRever^ ihe parpoae "was 
eomfadetely aMswereii^ — an overturn in the seirioe «f their 
esontiy was ecpnvakeat to haLf-»-doaen ervDings of hard ptfpo- 
iar work ; and^ too imioli wkrwaed to reenter the caumge^ «r 
even try the phaeton^ they agreed to walk htomcy and thi% too^ 
ii tlie best of iiiBinoviB. 

Lady Lauriafeon delighted to lee her smk, whoae aboeiioe at 
tUs ftariod was to he £sar«d ; for dectioneering dinings and 
visithigs are tweaome*— and the 3raang man objected to trouble ; 
while his sioa-appeasBBce woald have wasted a waiid of 
''nods^ and becks, and wreathed smiles:" as it was, his 
mother toak his arm with deltghted comf laoeney. 

Nor was Lady Adelaide less amiahle. She was ^ad^ on 
any terms, to esospe from a ball which she called the pui^gl^ 
tory «f fH-onadals ; and besides, the handsane and graeeM 
liatiaine was no had addition to a family party ; whik Ed- 
ward thought to himself, he had never seen any thing ao 
ioveiy. The ckoak. Used with limine, was drawn m moat 
«9EqQi8ito diapery round her heaatiful figme; the night air 
hnd abeady begun to reiax ibe long ringlets which suited ao 
toeU widi the high white forehead, and a face whose loveliness 
was of that hai^ty style to whi^ honn^ was familiar, and 
«oiiqiie8t as SMMh a necessity as a deone. 

There was something, too, p ieiu te s que in the scene : they 
had now entered the durnbberies, whose Imcury of UooMmi 
was indeed a contrast to tlie dark ibrests where he had lately 
a^n rnedj — as mneh a contrast as the stat^ heavty at Ids 
side was to the pretty laughing peasants of Norway. His 
tBangination was excited ; and as yet, wfth Edward, imaghm- 
tion was more -dura one half lore. 

They reached the house ; -«id what with Morton's vetarn, 
Lorraine 8 wit, and Adehdde's gratified vanity, the sapf«r 
passed with a degvee of gaiety Tery rare in a house whose 
atmosphere might have vied wHh Leila's snow oonrt in Tha- 
iaba lor coldness and quiet. 

Lord Lauriston was one of tliose mistakes whiidi oooEietiBaeB 
Ml out b et ' wssM niftur« and £srtune, — natme meant him for a 
fniner, fortane made him a peer* In society he 'was a none»- 
titf ; he neitlier tattoed nor Sstened — and it is a poflitrve dnty 
to do one or the other ; in his own honae he vesanUed one of 
the dd fanfly pieuinay hnag op jR^dmsr, smdaoc tense; 

E 2 



b2 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 

bat in his fann no Ciesar rebuked his genius. Heaven*! 
what attention he bestowed on the growth of his grey pease ! 
how eloquent he could be on the merits of Swedish turnips I 
and a new drills or a patent thrashing machine, deprived him 
of sleep for a week. 

In marriage^ as in chemistry^ opposites have often an< at*- 
traction. His lady was as different as your matrimonial 
affinities usually are ; society was her element, and London 
ber " city of the soul." Her house and her parties occupied 
the first years of her marriage, in endeavours to embellish the 
one, and refine the other ; but of late the business of life 
had grown serious ; she had been employed in marrying off 
her daughters. Her systems of sentiment might have vied 
with her lord's systems of husbandry ; hitherto they had been 
eminently successful. Her first daughter had come out during 
the reign of useful employments; and Lady Susan plaited 
straw, and constructed silk shoes, till Mr. AmundeviUe, pos- 
sessor of some thirty thousand a-year, thought he could not 
form a more prudent choice, and made her mistress of his 
saving-bank and himself, — and mistress indeed was «he c€ 
both. A day of dash and daring came next ; and Anastasia 
rode the most spirited hunter, drove her curricle, told amusii^ 
stories, drew caricatures, and laughed even louder than she 
talked. Lord Shafton married her : he was so delicate, he 
said, or it was said for him^ that he needed protection. Sen^ 
timent succeeded ; and Laura leant over the harp, and sat by 
moonlight in a window-seat, sighed when her flowers faded, 
and talked of Byron and Italy. Sir Eustace St. Clair mide 
her an offer, while her dark blue eyes were filled with tears at 
some exquisite lines he had written in her albtmn. 

Lady Adelaide only remained, and an undeniable beailty ; 
her mother did indeed expect this match to crown all the 
others. Her style was, however, to be wholly diff^^nt^like 
that of a French tragedy, classical, cold, and correct, ^-^ in- 
difference, languor, and quietude now united to form a 6eiEitt 
ideal of elegance. 

Of Lord Morton little can be said ; he was rather good- 
looking, and' as good-natured as a very selfish person can be ; 
and not more in the way than those always are who depend 
entirely upon others for their amusement. 

Such was the family where Edward Lorraine promised to 



ROMANOB AND REALITY. 65 

Stay for a fortnight — a very dangerous period ; long enough 
to fall in love, scarcdy long enough to get tired. Lady Lau- 
mton was perfectly satisfied with the proceedings ; she was 
aware of the advantage of the sufiVage of one whose authority 
in taste was held to be despotic ; she calculated on his good 
report preceding Adelaide in town; and she felt too much 
confidence in her daughter's principles to he at all alarmed 
about her heart. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

Duties with wants, and facts witli reelings jar» 
Deceiving and deceived — what fools we are I 
The hope is granted, and the wish content, 
Alas t but only for our punishment. 

Had Lady Lauriston been aware of Mr. Lorraine*s certainty 
of succeeding to the Etheringhame estates and honours, her 
plans would have assumed a more appropriating form. Invalid 
in body, still more so in mind, the present earl was sinking to 
the grave, not less surely because the disease was more mental 
than physical -—not less surely because he was young, for youth 
gave its own mortal keenness to the inward wound. It was 
ourious that, while father and mother were cut out in the most 
common-place shapes of social automata, both sons possessed 
a. romance of feeling which would greatly have alarmed their 
rational parents. But no moral perceptions are so blunt as 
those of the selfish ; theirs is the worst of near-sightedness — 
that of the heart. 

Lord and Lady Etheringhame were blind to the faults, even 
as they were to the good qualities of their children, simply 
because to neither had they an answering key in themselves ; 
we cannot calculate on the motions of a world, of whose very 
existence we dream not. They had a certain standard, not so 
much of right and wrong as of propriety, and took it for 
granted, from this standard no child of theirs conld depart. 

Algernon the elder brother's character was one peculiarly 
likely to be mistaken by people of ^is sort : his melancholy 
passed for gravity, his timidity for pride, and were therefore 
heUd right proper qualities ; while his fondness for reading, 

v 3 



54 ROMANCH ANP SSAUflTT. 

}u& habits of abstractioa^ paased feir close si«dy, wMeh made 
hia mother call him suck a steady youiag maa ; while his 
father^ who had some vague notixM» of the Beeessity of great 
men studying, looked forward, to the triumi^s of the future 
statesman. He had heea edueated, from hsa delicate health, 
entirdy at home; aad his tirtor, — who had only in his hie 
moved from his college to the castlie, and who had lived entirely 
among hooks — hooks which teach us at once so raiieh and so 
little of men — could see nothing hut good in the pupil, whose 
eagerness to learn exceeded even his eagerness to teach, and 
who rarely went out without a book in his pocket. 

The gloomy seclusion in which they lived — his health, 
which rendered those field sports that must have thrown him 
among young companions unattractive — all fostered the dream- 
ing habits of his mind. He would pass hours imder the shade 
of one old favourite cedar, whose vast boughs required a storm 
to move them, and through whose thick foliage the sunbeams 
never pierced; or whale eve&inga would' paaa aw^ay while he 
paced the chestnut avenue, ancient as those days when the 
earls of Etheringhame wore hek and spiur, and rode beneaifa 
those trees with five hundsed armed, vassals in their train. 
There he dreamed of Efe*— those dreams which so unfit the 
visionary for action,, which make the real iMrld so distastefd} 
when measuzed by that within. 

Algernon was a poet in aM but expiession : that deep* itrve 
of beaaty — that susceptibility to external impressiotns — that 
fancy which, like the face we love, invests. aE thtngs it looks 
on with a grace not their owB'—that iattnse ^eriiiig which 
makes, so much its own pain and pleasmre — aU these were faisr 
it were well had expression been added also— if he had been 
a. poet ! Feelings whsch bow led upoot his ewm heart,, would 
tbea have found a diannel, and in theidr fiow have made a bond 
between him and hia fellew-men ; ihe serrow that pasts in 
music from the lip often dies to its owa singiiig, and the ilt- 
staraed love of its song goes on its way, soothed by the com- 
rades it has called up;, vanity and ayn^patiiy. The poet dks 
not of the broken heart he sings ; it is the passtonate es- 
tbusiast, the lonely viaioaary, who makes of his own hopes, 
feelings^, and thoughts the pyre on which himsetf will be con- 
soiaed.. The eld proverb, apfdied to fire and water, may, with 
e^oal truth, be applied to the imagiualMA — it is a good 
vant, but a bad master. 



ROMANOV AUD BBAUTY. 56 

Algarnon was just nineteen when a wanoer fiimale was 

imp^jratively ordered ; and a few weeks saw Algernon and his 
tutor settled in a villa near Naples — the one happy in the 
novelty^ loveliness, and associationB of Italy — the other de- 
lighted with their, vicinity to a. convent rich in emiotts old 
manuscripts^ and ta which he had obtained free access. 

It was one of those prions evenings which crowded the 
whole wealth of summer into one single sunseti when Alger- 
nan was loitering through the aisles of a vaat church, which 
seemed, like the faith it served, imperishable. The west was 
shut out,, but the whole buildiug was filkd with a ridi piuple 
haze — die marble figures on the monumenta steod out with a 
distinctness like real existence, but apart from our own. To 
me statues never bear aught of human resemblance — •! eannot 
think of them aa tb« likeness of man or woman— ^colourless, 
shadowy, they seem the creati(»i of a speU; their spiritual 
beauty is of another world — and well did the Grecian of old, 
whose faith was one of power and necessity, not of afiectioii, 
make has statues deities ; the cold, the severely beautiful, we 
can offer them woxdiip, but never love. It was, however, 
neither statue nor picture that so xivetted Algernon's attention, 
but a female kneeling at the shrine of the Vixgin in most 
ahsorbmg and earnest prayer. 

Perhaps the most striking^ aa well as the most picturesque 
diange in costume, is the veil universally wocn in Italy ; and 
but that the present day does not pique itsdf on its remanee, 
it were matter of marvel haw a woman could ever be induced 
to abandon an article of dress so fiill of poetical and graceful 
association. A veiled lady either is, or ought to be^ enough 
to turn the head of any cavalier under fi.ve-and«-twenty« 

It was, however, admiration, not curiosity, the kneeling 
female excited; for her veil had fallen back, and her fac^ 
only shadowed by a profusion of k»ose biack ringlets;, was fully 
seen. It waa perfect: the high noble forehead—*- the lai^ 
melancholy eyes — the delicately chiselled oval of the cheek 
— the small red mouth,, belonged to tlie highest and mosit 
superb order of beauty ; a sadness stole over its expression 
of devotional fervour — she suddenly buried her face in her 
hands i when she raised her head again,, the long dark eye^ 
lashes were glittering with tears* She rose, and Algernon 
followed her, more &om an impulse than an intention ; tinp 

£ 4 



56 BOMANGS AND BEAUTY. 

Stopped and unlocked a small door — it belonged to the con- 
vent garden adjoining — and there entering^ disappeared. 

But Algernon had had ample time to fall desperately in lo've. 
He was now at an age when the heart asks for some more real 
object than the fairy phantoms of its dreams: passions chase 
fancies ; and the time was now come when the imaginatioit 
would exert its faculty rather to exag^rate than to create. 
He thought over the sadness of that angel face, as if he were 
predestined to soothe it — a thousand scenes in which ih^y^ 
were to meet glanced over him — till he found himself lea&>> 
ing back in the darkest- recess of a box at the Opera^ feeling 
rather than listening to the delicious music^ which floated 
through the dim atmosphere^ so well sidted to the reyerie of 
the lover. 

How much more is that vague tone of poetry, to be found 
in almost all^ awakened by the obscurity of the foreign 
theatres ! — in ours^ the lights^ the dresses, &c, are too 
familiar things^ and prevent the audience from being carried 
away by their feelings, — as they are when music and poetry 
are aided by obscurity like mystery, and silence deep as thought. 
A murmur of applause^ and a burst of song thrilling in its 
sweetness, aroused Algernon, and, leaning over the front, he 
saw — her dark hair gathered with three bands of costly 
diamonds in front, and a starry tiara behind — her crirosoa 
robe shining with gold — her dazzlingly white arms raised in 
eloquent expostulation — her voice filling the air with its: 
melo.dy — in the Medea of the stage he saw the devotee of 
the Virgin. 

Pass we over the first steps of attachment — so delicious to 
tread, but so little pleasant to retrace, either for ourselves or 
others — till another evening of purple sunset saw, in that 
church where they had first met, Algernon kneeling by the 
side of the beautiful Francises, while a priest pronounced the 
marriage blessing — a pale, aged man, to whose wan lips 
seemed rather to belong the prayer for a burial than aught 
that had to do with life or enjoyment. 

Truly does passion live but in the present Algernon 
knew his marriage was not legal ; but her he loved was now 
his by a sacred vow — and when the future came, he might 
be entirely his own master : the Janus of Love's year may 
have two faees, but they look only on each other. The worst 



ROMANOB AND BBAUTT. 5T 

of' & mind so oonstitiited is^ that its feelings cannot last^ least 
of all its love ; it measores all things by its expectations — 
and expectations have that sort of ideal beauty no reality can 
equal : moreover^ in the moral as in the physical worlds the 
'Violent is never the lasting — the tree forced into imnatnral 
Inxxirianoe of blossom bears them and dies. Francisca^ beautiful 
but weak^ without power to comprehend, ot intellect to take 
•ptopt with her lover^ somewhat accelerated the redaction ; and 
Algcamon now saw the full extent of the sacrifice he had made, 
and the mortifications that were to come^ since love had no 
longer strength to bear him through them. 
' If there be one part of life on which the curse spoken at 
£den rests in double darkness — if there be one part of life 
on which is heaped the gathered wretchedness of years, it is 
ibe time when guilty love has burnt itself out, and the heart 
gees crowd around those vain regrets, that deep remorse, 
whose voices are never heard but in the silence of indifierence. 
Who ever repented or regretted during the reign of that sweet 
madness when one beloved object was more, ay a thousand 
times more, than the world forgotten for its sake ? But when 
the silver cord of afi^ction is loosened, and the golden bowl 
of intoxicating passion broken — when that change which 
passes over all earth's loveliest has passed, too, over the heart 
-^idien that st^ which was once our sweetest music falls on 
llie ear a fear, not a hope — when we know that we love no 
more as once we loved — when memory broods on the past, 
which yields but a terrible repentance, and hope turns sicken- 
ing from a future, which is her grave — if there be a part of 
life where misery and weariness contend together, till the 
agony is greater than we can bear, this is the time. 

> Francisca saw the change, and in a few weeks Algernon 
was almost startled by the change in her also ; but hers was 
an external change — the bright cheek had lost its colour and 
outline, and she was wasted, even to emaciation. He wa» 
often absent from their villa, wandering, in all the restless- 
ness of discontent, in the wild environs of Vesuvius ; and on 
every return did he observe more alteration, when remorse 
urged to kindness, and he reproached himself bitterly for 
leaving her so much to solitude. Under this influence he re- 
trailed suddenly and unexpectedly one day, and sought Fran* 
cisca in a fit of repentip^ fondness ; a faint moan made him 



^8 B«Bft4Lll«B AND BMAULVW, 

«at6r tine loom, and theie^ on the bate veugh paveraenty knelt 
Francises. A coarse dzeas of saokel»tb strang^y eonttasted 
with her delicate shape — drops of blood were on the floor — 
and her eilight hand yet held the scourge : a shndc told her 
leeognition of Algernon, mid, she fell senseless on the ground. 

In her state, of bodUiy. weakness, the least sudden emotion 
was enough t» bring on a. crisis — and before night she was 
in a brain fever ; from her ravingR and a lew questions he 
learnt the cause. She had marked his growing coldness, and, 
with the wild superstition of the ardent and the weak, had 
held it as a judgment for loving a heretic; the belief that 
some fearful judgment was hanging over both grew upon her 
daily ; and by fasts, r^id and severe penance,, she strove to 
avert the penalty, and obtain pai?don. Body atid mind alike 
sank und^ this; andf she died in a lesiful paroxysm ef 
tenrev, without one sign: of reeognition, in Algernon's aim& 
He returned to England too late ta see his father living ; and 
die first ohjeet he met in the eld. ehestnot avenue weve the 
iilfldE horses, the desk plumea of the hearse, which wea» heut* 
mg Lord Ethemghame t» the vault of his ancestors. 

Algernon thenceforlii^ lived in the da^poat seclusion : one 
only olgect yet had an httereat for him — his yoiai^ brother ; 
perhaps the very londiness of his afiection made it the deeper. 
In many points of character Edwavd resaoohled his brother ; 
hut he had an enofgy which the other had nst t— a buoyancy 
of ^int, to which diffianlty was. a delist. As he advanced 
in Hfe, many an effbrt did he make to* rouse Lord £thertng* 
hame from his lethargy, hut in vain, Girief, after all, is hhe 
smoking in a damp country — what wns at first a neeessitjy 
becomes afterwarda an indlilgeiiae.. 



BOHAMOa ANA BBAI<KVy» S§ 



CHAPTER XIV. 

** Wm yoQ come and spend a kmg daj* with me ? ** 

** Delightful and intellectoal society." — F^ae Conatrdt, 

** To all and sinffular in this full meeting; 
Ladies and gallants, Fhorttus sends you greeting ; 
From his- more migb^ sons, whose c<MifideDce 
Is placed in lofty rhyme and humble sense, 
Eren to fait little mfatits of the time 
Who write new songs, and trust in tune and rhyme." 

1>RTDBI. 

** Look yoQ, Mend, it is nothing ter me whether yoa heHeve it or not: what I 

fajf is. tnw." — 1dm for Juove. 

Of all places^ Loudon is the best for an ineognita acquaint* 
anee ; cards may be exchanged to all eternity without a 
meetings apd the various circles revolve like planets in their 
different systems^ utterly rnigonscinus of the meana and modes 
of each other's existence. A fnend^ whom Emily bad 
earnestly, though unsuccessfullyy endeavoured to see, thanki 
to a headache of Lady Alidads, Ibund them at home. Thia 
was a Mrs. Smithson^ who had formerly been Emily's gover- 
ness; and our heroine was still young enough for tha at- 
traction of friendship, to recall with rapture her first readiaga 
of Matilde and the Corsair, and to remember with delight her 
first essay as confidarUe* Miss Hughes belDg in love at the 
time, had oidy left Arundel Hall to become the wife of Mr. 
Smithson ; a gentleman whose station and salary now author- 
ised his taking a house and a wife, and, at forty-five, insti- 
tuting a new search after happiness. 

Mrs.. Smithson entered the roooa» and received Emily 'a 
welcome and embrace,, evidently a. little disorganised by the 
latter; not but that ^he wa& very glad to see her former 
pupil, but it is very trying to have the drapery of one's shawl 
destroyed. A few moments, and they were conversing with 
true feminine fluency. Emily had to mention the curate's 
maniage, the death of the apothecary, and to say how well 
both unde and aunt were. Mrs. Smithson had to state that 
she had three children — to wonder Emily had growa so 
much — and each had to rejoice over meeting with the other. 
Besides, there was a most interesting subject t» be discussed: 
Mra. Smithson had enchanted the world with a novel — not a. 



--n 



bO nOMANOE AND BEALITT. 

person less than a baronet figured in its pages — the heroine 
had a most authentic milliner — it was rumoured that Lady 
Holdernesse was the Marchioness of L. ; and^ altogether^ it 
had had the most circulating success. Moreover^ she had 
something to say about her husband^ who had written a 
treatise on bats and beetles. 

Emily was at that happy age which takes so much on. 
trust, and her praise was quite elaborate in its enthusiasm. 
What a charm there must be in praise, when it consoles for 
all the miseries and mortifications of literature ! The fair 
and fashionable author now mentioned the object of her visit, 
which was to induce her youi:>g friend to spend a long day 
with her, to which her young friend readily assented. *^ I 
shall be delighted — I will come early — you will excuse my 
dining in a morning dress — and we shall have such a delight^ 
ful chat." 

Mrs. Smithson's face perceptibly lengthened at the words 
" morning dress." *' MTiy, my sweet girl, Monday is my 
little conversazione ; my literary pursuits require literary con- 
nexions — only a very small circle, but all talented people : 
however, you will look well in any thing." 

But before the Aspasia of Marylebone departed, it was 
settled that Emily's maid should be in Harley Street to attend 
to the necessary change of costume; and, this important 
arrangement decided, Mrs. Smithson's green pelisse and blue 
bonnet departed — blue and green, like the title of an old 
novel, ** paired, but not matched." By the by, how much 
bad taste is shown in the selection of colours ! Out upon the 
folly of modern liberty^ which has abolished sumptuary laws, 
and left us to all the horrors of our own inventions ! Liberty 
of conscience is bad enough — the liberty of the press is still 
worse — but worst of all is liberty of taste in dress to common 
people. 

Monday and two o'clock found Emily in Harley Street, 
rather sooner than she was expected, as was evident from that 
silken rustle which marks a female retreat. A discreet visitor 
on such occasions advances straight to the window or the glass r 
Emily did the latter ; and five minutes of contemplation ascer- 
tained the fact that her capote would endure a slight tendency 
to the left. She then took a seat on the hard, or, as they say 
of hounds, the hide-bound sofa — the five minutes lengthened 



ROMANCE AND BBAMTY. 6l 

into twenty, and she sought for amusement at a most literary, 
looking table. Alas! she had read the novels — for treatises 
she had no taste— and two German volumes, and three Latin^ 
ti^ether with a scientific journal, gave her a cold chill. While 
thus employed, a red-faced, loud-voiced servant girl threw 
open the door, and howled, '' If yon please, ma'am. Master 
AdolphuB has thrown the Library of Entertaining Knowledge 
at Master Alfred's head, because he tore the Catechism of 
Gonchology ; " but before Miss Arundel could express her 
regret at such misapplication of knowledge, the girl had 
vanished in all the dismay of a mistake. 
^ i At last Mrs. Smithson appeared. *' My dear Emily, you 
have w»ted — I forgot to tell you that I devote the early 
part' of the day to the dear children— I never allow my 
literary and domestic duties to interfere: you cannot com- 
mence the important business of education too soon, and I am 
bat just emerged from the study." 

This was a little at variance both with the seryanlfs appear- 
anee and her own laboured toilette, whose want of neatness 
was the result of hurry and bad taste, not of after-disorgani- 
sation. It is amazing how oppressive is the cleverness of 
aome people, as if it were quite a duty in you to be clever 
too*-^or, as I once heard a little child say, '* Oh, mamma, 
X always speak to Mrs. S. in such dictionary words !" 

'' l^owly and sadly" did the morning pass. Alas ! for the 
victim of friendship, whom sentiment or silliness seduces into 
passing a long day ! The upright sitting on the repulsive sofa 
-*«4lie mental exhaustion in searching after topics of conver- 
sation, which, like the breeze in Byron's description of a calm^ 
'feome not" — the gossip that, out of sheer desperation, 
4lat4cens into scandal ; if ever friends or feelings are sacrificed 
under temptation too strong to be resisted, it is in the conver- 
sational pauses of a long day ; and worst of all, a long day 
between people who have scarcely an idea or an acquaintance 
in common, for the one to be exchanged, or the other abused 
-A^eommnnication or condemnation equally out of the ques- 
tion. Mrs. Smithson secretly pitied herself for wasting her 
•eoltoquial powers on that social non- entity, a young lady; 
and Miss Arundel was somewhat bewildered by the march of 
ber ibrmer friend's intellect. Divers of those elegant har- 
monieB, wiuch make musical the flight of time in London, 
verified the old rhyme, that 



62 ROMANCE ANI> REALITT. 

*' Oome what ram. 
Time and the tide wear through the roughest da}-." 

TJie muffin-boy announoed three o'clock— » the pei-hoj 
ebnking his ^empty pewter was cyraptoaaitic of ibar — &e 
behnan toJling the knell of ^e pott aniionneed fiv« — and, jec 
length, a heavy hard-hearted rap proelasmed tibe retom of 
Mr. Sraithson ; a gniff voiee was heard in tiie passa^ — b 
ponderous step on the stairs — the door and his boots cMked, 
and in came the attthor of ^e treatise an bats and beetlee, 
fioUowed by a blue<-coa;ted, nankeen-trouBei'ed young laas, 
whose countenance and cark united thact hsfppy miatture oT 
carmine and din-ooal whidi censtttule ike ApoUo of a Comp- 
ton Street counter. Mr. Smi&soii was equally cufien mad 
Mdemii-looking, with a mouth made anly to swiear, and a hanur 
to Boowl — a tyrant in a small way—* one wiio would be ai^ 
trary aibout a hash, and ohatinafee respec ting an oyster — «Re of 
those tempers which, like a domestic east wixid, ^spates 
neither man nor beast," fram 4iie imhsppy fdotnum that he 
cursed, to the miludcy dog tlMH he ktdbed. 

A minute specimen of faaman>ty,^ in a liviery like a feakvs 
lover's, of ^ green and yeHow anelaBcholy," amionnoed dinner. 
Mr. Smithson stalked up to £mily, Mr. Pedcins simpered up 
the hostess, and they entered a dismal^ooking parlour, wh^ae 
brick«red walls and ditto curtains were acantily lighted by a 
single lamp, thou^ it was of the last new paKeott— to ^i^ich 
a dim fire, in its first stage of iahat wealEnesB, gave raaall 



Mr. SmithsEMi, who, as aaemher of a pnhiic office, thought 
diat church and state ought to be ^pported — whidi siqtport 
he conceived to consist in stiict ac&evence to certaia' fonns— 
xoutteied somethisg which sannded much more Hhe a gffviri 
than a grace, and diaoer coranienoed. 

At the top was a ood's shovUers and head, whose iatdU 
lectual facukies were rather over mueh developed ; and at the 
bottom was soap called mulligatawny — some inddfiaite mix* 
ture of curry-powder and ducks' feet, the first spooalul of 
whidi called from its master a look of dmnder and iightakig 
up the table. To this succeeded a ooaple of aoost cadavepeas 
fowls, a huge hauach of mutton, raw and red eaough even for 
an Abyssmian, flanked by rissoles and oysto-pntdes, whidi hsd 
evidenay, like Tom Toug^, seen ^a deal of sarme:'' Abate 



ROMAROE AND REALITT. 63- 

were followed by some sort of nameless pnddhig—- and so 
much for the luxury of a family dinner^ which is eaoqgh ta- 
BQake one Heg next time to be treated as a stranger. 

Oonyeraation there was none — Mr^ Smilhsmi kindly spanng 
the longs of his friends^ at the exfiense of his own. Firat^ the 
fire was swern at — then, the dranght from the door -^ then, 
the poor little footboy was eneoaraged by the pleasant intei- 
ligetiee that he was the stnpidest hlodchead in the world. 
Mr. Perkins sat preserving his siknoe and his simper ; and to 
the lady of the house it was OTidentiy quite matter of habit — 
a sort of accompaniment she would almost have missed. 

The truth is^ Mr. Smithson had just married some twenty 
years too late — with his habits, like his featnrea, quite set, 
and both in a han^ mould. Young lady! looking out for 
an establishment — meditating on the delights of a house of 
your own — two maids and a man, over wbon you are aet in 
absolute authority — do any thing rather than marry a con-- 
firmed bachelor — venture on ime who has been snccessfnl 
with seven suoeeeding wives, with ten small children reaijly 
made to ofder — walk off with some taU yosih, who eonsidem 
a wife and a razor definitive signs of his growth and his 
sense; but shun the estabUshment^ a bachelor who has hung 
a pendulnm between temptation and pundenee tiU the age oT 
ferty-4ve — hot of aH sstjects^ age is the one on which it ia 
most invidioos to descant. 

The doth was removed, and sudden jasnaMtiDn £Iied the 
passage : 

'* At onco there rose so wild a yell 
WitUn that daric «nd wunxw dell ; " 
&c. &c. &c. 

and in came Master Adolphusand Master Alfred in full cry^ 
having disputed by the way which was to go first — also a 
baby, eloquent as infancy usual is, and, like most youths 
orators, more easily heard tiian understood. The boys quar- 
tered themselves on the unfortunate strangers ; and Mrs. 
Smithson took the infant, winch Etnily duly declared was the 
sweetest little creature she had ever seen. On gmng upstairs, 
Bmily found Mile. Hyaeintbe ahivering — for^ with the usnai 
hthumanlty of friends, iikere was no fire ; and it was one of 
those wet, miseraUe evenings, gratis copies distributed by 
November throng the year. 



64 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 

Suicide and antipathy to fires in a bed-room seem to be 
among the national characteristics. Perhaps the same moral 
cause may originate both. We leave this question to the 
Westminster Review. Between grumbling and garnishing^ 
discontent and decoration^ Emily was some time before she 
descended to the drawing-room, which was half full or more 
on her entrance. She took a seat with a most deferential air 
— for she was a little awestruck by the intellectual society In 
which she now found herself — and Mrs. Smithson, equally 
eager to conciliate a reviewer^ who stood on her right, and a 
poet, who stood on her left, had quite forgotten the very 
existence of her sweet young friend. 

With curiosity much excited, but wholly utigratified, Emily 
looked eagerly round for a familiar face, but in vain ; at last^ 
a lady, who had been watching her for some time, said : 

" Will you promise not to suspect me of an intention to 
steal your pearl chain, if I offer my services as catalogue to 
this exhibition of walking pictures ? " 

'* I will, on the contrary, be grateful with all the gratitude 
of ignorance — there must be so many people here I should 
80 like to know something about." 

" I see," rejoined her companion, " that you are a stranger, 
and have no credentials in the shape of ^ such a sweet poem ' 
— ' such a delightful tale.' No one has introduced you as 
that young lady whose extraordinary talents have delighted all 
the world. I suspect that, like myself, you are here on suf- 
ferance." 

'^ Mrs. Smithson is a very old friend." 

''And my husband has written a pamphlet on the com 
laws. As for myself, I neither read nor write ; but I know 
something of most, of the authors here, and their works. 
Knowledge is much like dust — it sticks to one, one does not 
know how." 

Emily thanked Mrs. Sullivan (for such was her name), and 
drew closer to her side, with that sense of loneliness which is 
never felt so strongly as in a crowd. For some time she lis- 
tened to every word she could catch, till at length the dis- 
agreeable conviction was forced upon her, that clever people 
talked very much as others did. Why, she actually heard 
two or three speaking of the weather. Now, to think of a 
genius only saying, '^ What a cold day we have had ! " 



BQMANOX: AND RBALITY* 65 

. '' Whence do you eome ? " asked Mrs. SuUiyan, of a young 
man who looked at least intelligent. 

<< I have been spending the day at Hampstead, and beau- 
tiful it was : the fog, which, as Wordsworth says of sleep, 

* CoTered the city like a garment/ 

left the heath clear, and the sky blue ; and there was sunshine 
enough to keep me in spirits for the rest of the week." 

'^A most Cockney expedition, truly !" 

'* My dear Mrs. Sulliyan, why will you indulge in common- 
place contumely ? Believe me, it is only those 

* la crowded cities pent ' 

ifirho fully enjoy the free air above their heads, an'& the green 
grass beneath their feet: to them, as to the lately recoyesed 
sick man, 

* Eacli opening breath is paradise.' 

How often have I closed my book in weariness, or flung down 
the pen in vexation of spirit, and have gone forth into the 
open air, at flrst thoughtfaUy and heavily ; but as the rows of 
houses give way to hedges, streets to fields crowded with 
daisies — 

* The Danae of flowers* 
With gold heaped in her lap,' 

and I catch the shadows of two or three old trees, my heart 
and steps grow lighter, and I proceed on my way rejoicing. 
1 forget the dull realities of experience — experience, that 
more than philosophy ' can clip an angeFs wings ; ' I forget 
that all ' mine earlier hopes ' are now set down 

* *MId the dull catinogue of common things ; ' 

and I return with a handful of wild flowers, or a branch 
covered with acorns (the most graceful wreath that ever Oread 
wore), and imbued with poetry enough to resist the dtdl thick 
atmosphere of town for full four-and-twenty hours; — and 
then think how beautiful the environs of London really are !" 

*' Yes, putting white stuccoed villas, verandas, and pic-nic 
parties, out of the question." 

*' Putting nothing at all out of the question : it is a very 
morbid or very a&cted taste which turns away from sught 
of human comfort or human enjoyment*" 



66 Bt>SfA^OB AW1» BBAXiirr* 

''The tfther evening/* oontinued Mrs.SnUiTaD^ ^^I heard 
you quotings 

' There It a pleasure in the pathless woods.* *' 

*'As if," rejoined the young poet, *'one were always 
obliged to be of the same opinion ! However, so far I am 
ready to admits that the enjoyment of a mid and a lonely 
scene is of a higher and more imaginative quality than that 
of merely beautiful cultivation ; and^ I must add, I do not at 
all agree with Marmontel, who said, that whenever he saw a 
beautiful scene he longed for some one, to whom he could say^ 
* How beautiful ! * " — 

" Which," ii)terrupted Mrs. Sullivan, " being translated into 
plain £ngli&h, means that vanity and imagination were at 
vayianoe ; and a thousand fine things that he might* have 
said about the prospect with such effect, if he had been lis- 
tened to, were now being wasted on himself/' 

^' To again quote the oracles of my high-priest, Words- 
worthy there is nothing like 

* The harvest of a quiet eye. 
That broods and slee]^ on tts own lieart* 

What ^truths divine' crowd every page of Wordsworth's 
writings ! I sometimes wish to be a modern Alexander, that 
I might have Mount Athos carved mto^ not my own statue, 
hut hia." 

^' Nay/' exclaimed Mrs. SuUiyan^ '' spare me ' lectures on 
poetry/ I am worse than even Wordsworth's flitclu He 
saysj 

* The very bacon showed its feeling. 
Swinging from die smoky ceiling.* 

Now, I am free to confess the very bacon has more feeling 
than I have : so dissipate your lakeism by telling yonder 
traveller I want to hear some of his adventures. What 
variety of talent," said Mrs. Sullivan^ as he turned awaj, 
" does that young man possess ! He has Y esprit comme un 
diable, and a sense of the beautiful comme un ange. I cannot 
characterise his poetry better than in his own words : 

' What is it but a heaireolr Iveath 
Along an eartlily lyre.* 

As die young traveller Mrs. Sullivan had curaraoned crossed 
the roora^ he was intercepted by a lady^ whose very gracidfus 



BOMANGE AND BEAUTY. 67 

noiie on him was the essence of conciliation ; it seemed^ how- 
ever, like finglish sunshine, too precious to he long enjoyed. 
SoBie other '* gentle tassel ** was to he lured with all the skill 
of oomfilunentary falconry^ and with one more smile, and a 
parting head of necessity and regret^ the traveller approached 
wi^ the >' self«hetraying air" of the flattered. 

<^My southern voyage^" said he^ after the first greetings 
wittk Mrs. Sullivan were over, '^ i& enough for a season's repu- 
telfton. Mrs. Harcourt has just been expressing her admira- 
tian jof that spirit of romantic enterprise so much wanting in 
young men of the present day, has asked me to her fancy 
hall^ and held forth the temptation of the heauties of her room 
on the strength of my traversing ' river wild and forest oUL' 
Mjrs. Haroourt takes an mtellectual degree heyond the common 
<eotteetor of crowds — she desires that every second individual 
in hers should he ' noticeable persons ;* her young ladies are 
beauties or heiresses ; her gentlemen geniuses, authors, or tra- 
vellers. I have been at her house, though she has forgottei^L 
sae. I was then only a ypung man— not ^the young man 
wteo spent the auwmer in the Pyrenees, and had brought home 
the guitar of a ^ikaiiiah princess.' I saw Sir Hudson liowe 
-standing on the same rug with one of Buonaparte's old gene- 
rals ; one of our Tory members, to whom innovaition is the 
'word of fear,' who considers anarchy and annihilation as 
s^naoBymous, shrinking in the doorway from the carbonari 
atoMMipheae -of General PepL I saw a most orthodox-looking 
bishop taking the paleness of horror from the sight of Mr. 
Owen. A man just oome from Babylon was talking to one 
newly airived from Moscow, There were two critics, one 
historian, h^-a«doxen poets, a gentleman with a beard like a 
Turk, a real Persian, and three Greeks. A propos des Grefit, 
•—a dxoU adventure once befell this fair extractor from the 
Library of Entertaining Knowledge. The Greek stocks and 
fevQT metre, at their highest, when a cargo from Missolonghi 
of turbaned and mustachioed gentry arrived, and cast anchor 
in the liver. Mrs. HaiKHMU^t's ball was the following night — 
•die threw herself into her carriage --rdrove as if the speed 
of thought were in her hoives as well as herself «^ took a 
boat — ascended the ve^'s side —r- was introduced — inter- 
preted — and invited the patriots for the ensuing evening, — 
they delighted with the hospitality of England, and she no 

F 2 



48^^ KOMANCE AND REALITY. 

less at having forestalled the market^ and secured such novel- 
ties for her supper-table. Compliments and classics equally 
exhausted, Mrs. Harcourt gave her last injunction — ^ P»y> 
come just as you are, those crimson caps are so characteristic 
— and not later than ten.' She was on the point of leanring 
the ship, when an officer advanced and opposed her depar- 
ture, and with that frank politeness which, as the newspapers 
^ay, distinguishes the British sailor, observed, 'D—n it, 
ina'am, it's no go.' The lady stared; but a single question 
elicited the fatal truth — the vessel was under quarantine, and 
once on board there was no quitting it All that the cap- 
tain could do was to grumble, and say he supposed she most 
have his cabin ; and there this candiidate for the honour' of 
the Athenians was left to reflect on her ball next evaiing, and 
the chance of catching the plague, — for cholera was not tlien 
invented to fright the isle." 

All around laughed, as people always laugh at misforftanes, 
«. e. with all their heart. 

" I understand," observed Mrs. Sullivan, " that the Adelphi 
intends converting itself into an amphitheatre^ and treating 
the spectators, after the fashion of the Roman conquerors, to 
a show of wild beasts. Why do you not recommend theasi to 
giveabull.fight.?" 

'^ Such an animated account of one as I have just been 
reading in the Talba, where a young Moorish prince van- 
quishes, single-handed, in the arena, a black and ferodoug 
buU .' I have some thoughts of turning auth<»r myself, on 
purpose to dramatise one of the most interesting stories- 1 
liave read. How pretty Mrs. Yates would look as Inez: de 
Castro ! Think of the splendid scene of the bull-fight, its 
chivalric and romantic associations ! " 

** I see but one difficulty — who is to take the bull by the 
horns ? '* 

*' Oh, somebody would be found to run ' the glorious risk; 
I despair of nothing now-a-days." 

'^ In such a mood men credit miracles," said Mrs. Sullivan. 

'^ I," replied die traveller, *^ am just come from witnessing 
one. Do you remember how your friend S. ■ . ' s words 
inrere like the iHar's steps in Romeo and Juliet ? He says : 

/ How oft to>night 
H*Te my old feet rtumhtod/ 



BOMAKOB AND REAUTT. 69 

and if he did get out six words^ seven were unintelligiUe* 
He now speaks as fluently and as una£fectediy as myself. I 
cannot say moTe." 

" What do you mean ? " 

'^ Simpfy that 8 ' ^ in utter despair at heing thus dis* 
ahkd from enlightening his audience^ betook himself to Mr. 
Jones, who has undeniably demonstrated that he possesses the 
gift of tongues*" 

^* I should like to see S : he will be so gloriously 

theatricaL" 

. ^< You will be disappointed in this charitable expectation, 
tfiones has Tanquished ail his violent distortions^ and replaced 
tbi^ by the calm style and efPeetive delivery of the gen- 
tleman. ■ His' aim, and, I must add, his accomplishment, is to 
teach the art of speaking with ease and fluency." 

'* Does he instruct ladies ? " 

" I hope not, 

* That were but sharpening the dart. 
Too apt before to kill.' ** 

Emily's whdie attention was now given to a lady speakii^ 
near her,— -the first few Sjentences were lost, but she caught 
the following :— 

^^When 1 say your gratitude ought to be excited by 
my vanity, I divide the functions of vanity into two influ- 
ences; the one is, when it is passive, I only feed upon 
the memories it brings ; the other is, when it is active, and 
prompts me to exert myself for your entertunment ; audit 
is - while thus acting for your amusement that it calls on you 
to be grateful, if not gratified." 

^' B«jt who goes into society, — at least those who have any 
pretensions," said a young man, clever-looking, and with an 
animated manner, which gave additional attraction to a pointed 
and brilliant style of conversation ;~"^' who goes into society 
withoat ' a marriage robe,' and, like that worn of yore, bril- 
liant, embroidered, and concealing the real figure ? ^ 

* We do IWe 
Amid a world of glittering faiiehoods.' ** 

*' You seem to consider it," returned the lady, *^ expedient 
for every one termed, by right or courtesy, distinguished, to 
play truant to themselves, avoiding all external show of the 
thoughts or the feelings by which such distinction may have 

F S 



70 B0V.i3rOB Aim BEAIiITT* 

been acquired: as if the earnestness of gqnios were less 
endurable than tJ&e heartleasiiess of the world ; miiy, as if the 
polished chain mail of the latter were the only gu'b fit to be 
worn by the former." 

'^ Exactly my idea. I hold that we are die knights of 
CGBTersation^ and ought to go into its aarena armed at all 
points, for a haifsb and violent career." 

'^ I do not see that we are at all called upon to pay so costly 
a compliment to society, as ta assume a character diametribally 
opposed to our real one, — to utter sentiments we secretly di»* 
believe, — and to be as angry wiith our better natilne for burst- 
ing from restraint, as at oiher times with our own inferior 
nature for refn»ng to submit to it. I think wisdom may 
wear motley ; and truth, unlike man, be born hmghing. Genius 
ought every where to be true to itself, and to its origin, the 
Divine Mind ; to its home, the undying spirit ; to its power, 
that of being a blessing; to its reward, that of being re- 
membered." 

" The speaker to whom you have been listening with such 
attention is Mi«s Amesbury ; to use a very fine phrase ft>om 
seme magazine, ^a brilliant star in our iHriUiant galaxy of 
female writers/ I characterise her conversation by a fine line 
fhwn Marlow, 

' A frosty night, when heaven is lined with stars.' 

I recall a thousand such beautiful expressions. I remember - 
her ccMnparing society ^ to a honey-comb, sweet bat Im^ow.' 
Again, she calk friendship's memory ' the fame of the heart/ 
Her last work is my favourite. The efaaracter in the second 
tale called Egeiia is meant for Mrs. Hemans — a most ex- 
quisite sketch, written with all the delicacy of femimiiBe Utet, 
and all the warmth of feminine feeling. It is a beautiful 
answer to that false reproach, tJiat one woman cannot praise 
another. 

'' Mijss Afhesbury is especially happy in the use of ^notatinns 
— and an apt quotation is like a lamp which flings its light 
over the whole sentence. I cannot help thinking, though, in 
her first story (the History of a Modem Corinne) she has 
faUea into the common and pistnresque error, of making her 
women of ^^iuspeculiaHy susoei^tible of love — a fact I greatly 
donbt. Every body knows that love is made up of vanity and. 



BOKANGB AND BiULUTY, 71 

idleness. Now^ a svcoessfttl literary career gratifies the vanityy 
while it gives employment. Juwe is not wanted as flattery^ 
nor as occupation — and is therefore cut off from its two 
strong-holds. Besides, the excitement of a literary career is 
so 'great^ that most sentiments seem tame by its side. Homage 
you have from the many, — praise is familiar to your ear; 
and your lover's complimeut seems cold when weighed againal 
that of your reyiewer. Besides> a lover is chiefly valued for 
the consequence he gives ; he loses one great charm when you 
have it without him. If I wanted to inspire an intense devoted 
attachment, I would scarce seek it from genius : it gives you 
but a divided heart. Love bears no rival near the throne — 
and fame is as ^ mighty autocrat as he.' ** 

^^But do you see the gentleman she has just addressed, 
perhaps with a hope to conciliate a cntic : — vain hope ! when 
the critic is made out of the remains of a disappointed poet, 
who finds it easier to tell people what they should read^ than 
to produce what they will read. One would think that an 
unsuccessful volume was like a degree in the school of review* 
ing. One unread work makes the judge bitter enough ; but 
a second failure^ and he is quite desperate in his damnation. 
I do believe one half of the injustice — the severity of 'the 
ungentle craft * originates in its own want of success ; they 
cannot forgive the popularity which has passed them over, to 
settle on some other ; and they come to judgment on a favourite 
author, with a previous fund of bitterness — like an angry 
person^ venting Uieir rage not on the right offender^ but on 
whoso chances to be within their reach." 

" The principal remark that I have made on London society 
is, its tone of utter indifference. No one seems to care for 
another." 

There was a truth to £mily in this speech that made her 
turn to the speaker. He was good-looking^ and singularly 
talL 

" That is the author of a most chivalric history of Mary 
Qaeoi of Scots. The enthusiasm of a young man about 
beauty and misfortune is as good in taste as it is in feeling. 
He is a Scotchman, certainly not 

* From pride and from prejudice free ; * 

for I verily believe that he looks upon the rest of the world as 

p 4f 



7S ROMANCE AND REALtTT. 

^ ft set of niggers/ — an inferior race^ on this side the Tweed. 
We English are much more liheral in that respect ; we hav\e 
always been ready to ofibr homage^ 

' IVhen we saw by the streamers that shot so bright. 
That spirits were riding the northern light.' 

I remember his saying to an English author, ^ it is to Edin- 
bargh you must look for your literary fame/ The best answer 
would hare been the Highland proverb, 

* 'TIs a far cry to Lochow.' 

It is Singular how long national hostility lasts, and how many 
shapes it will take ! That a prejudice still exists between the 
Scotch and the English is no credit to either. Were X to 
allot each their shares of illiberality, I should say, there, are 
six of the one and half-a-dozen of the other ; and as I am one 
who utterly despairs of improving the human race, I have no 
doubt it will coptinue." 

" Who is that gentleman/' exclaimed Emily, " whose eye 
I have just caught, so full of mirth and malice ? " 

" That is the Philip de Comines of King Oberon, the 
Froissart of Fairyland — a re-union of the most opposite 
qualities — a zealous antiquary, yet with a vein of exquisite 
poetry, side by side with one of quaint humour. Do let me 
tell you a most original simile of his : he compares fried egg? 
to gigantic daisies. The oddity of the likeness is only to be 
equalled by its truth. And to give you one touch of poetry : 
speaking of his return across a common, one winter night, he 
made use of the following (I think) singularly fine phrase : 

* The silence of the snows.' 

^' The person next to him is the writer of some entertaining 
and graphic travels in the East. Travelling is as much a 
passion as ambition or love. He ascribes his first desire of 
seeing Palestine to hearing his mother (who read exquisitely) 
read the Old Testament aloud. His imagination was haunted 
by the Dead Sea, or the lilies of Sharon : when be slept, he 
dreamed but of the cedars of Lebanon ; and as a boy, he used 
to sit by the sea-side, and weep with his passionate longing to 
visit the East. Thither he travelled as soon as his will was 
master of his conduct. 

'^ But do turn to one of my great favourites — that is 
Allan Malcolm. Does he not look as if he had just stepped 



BOUANOE AND BBALITT. 7^ 

«crot» the bordtr, with the breath of the heath and the broom 
fresh about him ? There is an honesty in his nature which 
keeps him unspotted from the world — the literary world, 
with its many plague spots of envyings, jealousies, hatred, 
malice, and all uncharitableness. The face so sweet 
in its matron beauty is that of 'his bonnie Jeane' beside. 
I like to meet him sometimes: it is good for one's moral 
censtitutLon to know there are* such things as kindliness 
and integrity to be found in the world. A countryman is at 
this moment beside him— <*a stanch border minstrel, who 
would any day uphold the thistle to be a more poetical plant 
than the laurel. I own myself I think it would be more 
diaracteristic. I suspect the northern reviewer was thinking 
as much of the Fitful Fancies of the poet in his own person 
as of those in his works, when he said ' that his ideas stood 
stiff and strong, as quills upon the fretful porcupine/ A 
little speech I heard him make will give you a clearer idea of 
him than a long description. We were talking of dancing, 
when he said, ' I loathe the woman who dances, and despise 
Ihe man.'" 

''And I liked his poetry so much!" exclaimed £mily, in 
the most reproachful of tones. 

Miss Arundel's whole attention was now attracted by a 
jfemale in a Quaker dress — the quiet dark silk dress ^— the. 
hair simply parted on the forehead — the small close cap-— 
the placid and subdued expression of the face, were all in 
such strong contrast to the crimsons, yellows, and blues^ 
around. The general character of the large, soft, dark eyea 
seemed sweetness; but they were now lighted up with an 
expression of intelligent observation — that clear, animated,, 
and comprehensive glance, which shows it analyses what it 
observes. You looked at her with something of the sensa- 
tion with which, while travelling along a dusty road, the 
eye fixes on some green field, where the hour flings its 
sunshine, and the tree its shadow, as if its fresh, pure 
beauty was a thing apart from the soil and tumult of the 
highway. 

" You see," said Mrs. Sullivan, '' one who, in a brief in- 
terview, gave me more the idea of a poet than most of our 
modern votaries of the lute. I was so struck with any one 
coming up to London, filled but with historic associations^ 



74 KOMANOE AICD RBALITT. 

looking upon the Tower as hallowed hy the memory of 
Lady Jane Grey^ and of WestminBter Abbey is (to use the 
American Halleck's noble expression) a ' Mecca of the miad^' 
with England's great and glorious names ins^bed on the 
consecrated walls. She is as creative in her imaginary poeBM> 
as she is touching and true in her simpler ones." 

A slight morement^ and a few exclamations^ drew off their 
attention to the little supper table. A gentlonan had^ instead 
of placing his fork in a sandwidb, inserted it into a lady's 
hand. The injury was not much ; but the qimintness of the 
excuse was what amused the bystanders. 

'* I beg pardon^'' said the ofl^der, with the most imruffled 
composure of countenance; ''but I mistook the hand for 
white bait." 

'' A fitting compliment for one whose mind is the most 
singular mixture of pun^ poetry^ conceits^ nmpMcity, that 
ever mingled the mime and the minstrel. But I hold that 
he Is rather the cause of mirth in others than merry himself. 
He is pale, silent, serious ; and I never heard an instance of 
laughter recorded against him. In his most comic vein, the 
idea of death seems ever present. His favourite imagery is 
death's heads^ coffins, skeletons: even his merriest ballads 
turn upon the death of their subject. His faculty of perver- 
sion outdoes any temper in the world. One of the oddest 
applications of a quotation was in a preface^ where^ speaking 
of his own sketches^ he says, ' Like the tape-tied curtains of 
the poet, I was never meant to draw.' With this is mingled 
a gift of the most touching poetry. I doubt whether the 
whole of < our British poets,' drawn up in battle array, could 
send forth specimens more calculated to touch even a 
critical Coriolanus than some of his short and beautiful - 



j> 



pieces. 

" There is something," said Emily^ '^ that interests me in 
die face of that gentleman. \Vho is he ? " 

" One of the very few persons of whom I have a pleasure 
in speaking — an author, yet free from envy— -a critic, yet 
-free from malice. Charles Townsend said of old, ^to tax and 
to please, any more than to love and be wise, is not given to 
man ; ' and to prefer and yet please, is a difficult task for an 
editor. Perhaps it is because liberal and kindly feelings are 
to be found in the object of your inquiry. It is a pleasant 



BOicAKCH jam bhality. 75 

thing to miter his house. It is as well to aee domedtie hap- 
piness now and then, in oirder to be able to talk about it as a. 
wonder. Congenial in tastes^ united in poisaits^ he is for- 
tanate in a wife^ who is pretty cnong^ to be silly^ and yet 
derer enough to be phdn^ and kind and good enongh to- be 
either/' 

At this moment, a lady came np and spc^ to Mss^fioUivan^ 
with that warm kindKnen of manner, whieh^ tike k)ve^ air, or 
sunshine, must win its way everywhere. 

" That is the very person we were speaking of, and the 
most charming and fittest of writers §at yooth^-'-^at least to 
them have her last works been chiefly addroBscd; bat the 
oldest might go back to the dnronicies of her sdM)oi.room for 
the mere pleasure of being yoong agun. It is quite wonderful 
to me, in such a cross-grained, faaidening, and harsh i^orld as 
ours^ where she Can hsre contrived to keep so much of open, 
fresh, and kindly feeling. Bhe is ^wry- national, and I am sore 
you have read her beautiful Irish stories. I think it is she 
who says, that Englishmen do not know how to midce lone.. 
True enough I An En^ishman seems to think he is conn 
ferring a favour, which the lady cannot too higUy estimate, 
by the mere act of falling in love with; her ; but if any could 
inspire him with the amiaUe nccomplishnient of love-making, 
it would be one of her own Irish coquettes >*-^ a creatnre of 
rainbow lightning." 

^^ They are very reaL Does she draw from herself ? " 

'* Perhaps from the pleasures of memory ; for she is now 
half of one of those happy couplea which make one understand 
a phrase somewhat difficult to compreheod, foam so sddom 
witnessing it — domestic felicity." 

^^Nay," exclaimed Emily, laughing, '^are you not an 
Englishwoman — a native of that happy island so celebrated 
for its > . 

* Dear delights of hetrth and faofflae ? ' '* 

4 
I 

'' I nevertheless think that the blessings of matrimony, like 
those of poverty, belong rather to philosophy than reality. 
Let us see — ^not one woman in fifty marries the man she likes-— 
and though it may be safest — why I could nevej: understand — 
it is not pkasantest to begin with a little aversion. Let us just go 
through a day in married life. First, an early breakfast — ^for the- 



76 ROHAKOB AND BEAUCT, 

husband is obliged to go out On th^ miseries of exdj risings 
like those of the country, I need not dwell : they aie too irdi 
known. He reads the newspaper, and bolts his roll — she 
takes care that Miss Laura does not dirty her frock, and that 
Master Henry does not eat too much ; he goes to his office or 
counting-house — she to market — for remember I am speaking 
of a good wife — some pounds of beef or mutton are to be 
ordered at the butcher's, . the baker has charged an extra loaf, 
and the greengrocer has to be paid four shillings and two- 
pence. On her return home, there is the housemaid to be 
scolded for not scouring the front bed-room— -and the cook's 
conduct requires animadversion for yesterday's underdone veaL 
Perhaps, in the course of the morning, Mrs. Smith calls with 
an account of Mrs. Johnson's elegant new pelisse ; and wheii 
Mons. le Mari returns to dinner, he suffers the full weight of 
the discontent one woman's new dress neva: fails to inspire in 
another. Evening comes, and a matrimonial Ute^t'tite is pro- 
verbial-— ' what can I have to say to my wife, whom I see 
everyday?* Well, he reads some pamphlet or sleeps — she 
brings out the huge work-basket doomed to contain and repair 
the devastations of seven small children— -she has given up 
her maiden accomplishments-— and of course, a married 
woman has no time for music or reading. Perhaps, by way of 
agreeable conversation, she may say, ' My dear, I want some 
money : ' 

* Oh, tound of fear, 
Unpleuing to a married ear I * 

on which he wakes, and goes to bed. She follows ; and Mrs. 
I.'s pelisse is the foundation of that piece of exquisite eloquence, a 
curtain lecture. Now, who can deny that this is a faithful and 
exact picture of diree hundred out of the three hundred and 
sixty-five days that constitute a year of married life." 

'^ You are a oonnubial Cassandra," said Emily. 

" Yes ; and, like that ill-fated prototype of all who tell dis- 
agreeeble trutha, I shall get no lady, at least no young or un- 
married one, to believe me. But I must now thank you 
for listening. Our carriage is announced ; and Mr. Sullivan, 
when his horses are concerned, is like time and tide — he stays 
for no man— .nor woman neither." 

A heavy, plain man took the lady away, very much as if she 
bad been a parcel; and Emily could well believe he had 



ROMANCE AK1> BBAI.1TT. 77 

written pamphlets on the currency and the corn.laws. He 
looked like a personification of the dryness of the one, and the 
dulness of the other. 

Mrs. Smithson had hy this time pretty well distrihated her 
stock of conciliation and coartesy, and now recollected the 
existence of h&e sweet young fHend. Divers introductions 
took place ; and Emily heard a great deal of conversation, of 
which conceit was the canvass, while flattery laid on the 
colours. Dry hiscuits and drier sandwiches were handed 
round ; and about twelve^ fimiiy found herself in her own room, 
very tired, very dissatisfied, and very hungry. She had seen 
many who had long heen the throned idols of her imagination^ 
and her disappointment much resembled that of the princely 
lover of Cinderella, who, on questioning his porters if they had 
seen a robed and radiant beauty pass^ learnt diat their un- 
charmed eyes had only beheld a little dirty girl. She had 
fallen into the common error of supposing that the author 
must personify his works, and that his conversation must be 
copy and compeer of his writings. 

We forget that those writings are the productions of the 
-mind's highest mood, when thoughts rise up in their perfect 
heauty, like the stars on the night; when. feelings, untefnpted 
and unchecked, are the true, the good, and the pure ; "when 
vanity is sublimed into fame — that earthly hereafter — which 
In taking the semblance of eternity, catches somewhat of its 
glory too; when imagination peoples its solitude with the 
great and the lovely, like those spiritual essences which obey 
but a midnight spell ; when, if memory bring sorrow, it is 
softened and refined, or if hope speak of a future, it is one 
exalted and redeemed; when the enjoyment of creation is 
within him, and the consciousness of power is delight. In 
such hours are those pages written which will pass sea and 
land, winged with praise and pleasure — over which eye* will 
glisten and hearts beat, when the hand that wrote is moul^* 
dered in the grave^ and the head that conceived but a 
whitened skull. 

Now society is a market-place, not a temple : there is the 
hargain to be made — the business to be followed; novelty 
curiosity, amusement, lull all of the strong passions to sleep, 
and, in their place, a thousand petty emotions fatirry about, 
making up in noise what they want in importance. The 



78 MOiKAKCB AND BEAUT7. 

sodety sad sdiCiidk of an aiakhor's life realise tlie old fabk of 
Cmton and Folktx, wlio had an earthly and heavenly life be* 
tween them. In society, ail his more earthly natore prepon* 
derates ; his mind, heweyar diffete»t its stature and faahion 
may he, must wear the same dreas as its neighbours. 

There is nothing people aie so much ashamed of as truth. 
It is a common observation, that thoa^ whose writings are most 
melancholy are often most lively in conversation. They are 
ashamed of their real nature ; and it is a curious fact, but one 
which all experience owns, that people :do not desire so much 
to iq)pear better, as to-appear di£PereBt from what they really 
are. A part is to be played in eompaay^ and most desire that 
part to be an attractive oae ; but nodiing is more mistaicen 
than tibe means. A siioeae wish to please is sure to be suc- 
cessful : bat instead of wiahftag to pleaae, we rather desire to 
display. The eye. is rastlens to wateh its opportunity-— the 
lip feveriidi with some treaauved phrase ; we grow jealous from 
competition, and envious wilh apprehenaion ; w^e think of our* 
selves tiU we forget those very others foor whose applause we are 
striving ; disappointDient cornea, as it often does, to even well- 
founded hopes — then how muc^ mme so to exaggerated ex^ 
pecstation ? merttfieation sueeseds, and vanity covers^ all as a 
garment, but a poiaooed eoie, like the centaurs^ envenoming and 
inflaming every wound. 

Conv«nataon 'is forced •or. langitid, insipid or ill-natured; 
and a odebrated author may retire^ leaving his charaater be- 
hind, but taking with him the eoiofortable conviction that his 
mind has played false to its powezs ; that he has despised the 
flattenei; but le^d the flattery—- at once ungrateful and exp 
noting; that he has praised hiniaelf^*-the worst of praise is 
that given ,in Ix^es of return ; and that he carries away with 
him a warkUiness aiid selflabness^ .which, like the coming of 
*ihe sandy waves of the desert^ will» sooner or later, dry up and 
destroy all the fi»ir gardens and the fresh springs in the iEgypt 
of Ms imagination. 

We talk of the encouragement now given to talents^— sof 
genius -m the most universal passport to society. This may 
be good fnr the individual, but not so for Uterature. The 
anxious struf^le^^the loneiUness of neglect— ^ the consciousness 
of merit-*^ the reaowcea which open to a mind flung back upon 
itself — wiUde more to stimulate exertion than praise or even 



ROSfJUrCS AVD UEAhtXV, 79 

pMfit. The -Attteied uid followed avIboTx sees loo soon ihe 
wortiileasiMis and boUovaesflof the prize for which he oonteiuk. 
That desire, which is fame in solitude, and vanity in society, 
is like gazing at the stars with the naked eye, and through a 
telescope. In the latter, we see only a small bright pointy 
whose nstme is analysed, and whose distsnce as measured ; — 
in the former, we go forth into the sileat miduigbt, and oar 
'wrbde soul is filled with the mystery and beauty of those glo* 
rions and unattainable worlds. In a little time, imagination — 
thai Tivifying and nedeeming prineipte in our nature-^will be 
left only to the young. Look on all the great writers of the 
fM»sent day ; are they not liviag instaBces of 4iie truth of this 
aawrtion ? After sli, literary life grows too like the actual one. 
Ilfamons merge in realities •«*- imagination gives place to 
memory — one grows witty instead of romantie; and poetry 
ends in prose, ail the world orer. 



CHAPTER XV. 

We taonet plan, execute ; will it be T«in ? 
Or will (iie ftiture be the past again ? 

Truz/T, a little kve-making is a very pleasant thing, and Lady 
Adelaide found that it gieatly enlivened the dulness of Lauriston 
House. Society does much towards forming a coquette, but 
heat the lexedit was all Nature's own. Every one, they say, 
iuM a geniua.for something, and here was hers ; and it was not 
mere talent, it was genius. Gifted with- no discernment into 
character, g^ierally speaking, her tact was unerring when her 
favourite propenaity was called into play. She saw at a glanOe 
into^ the recesses of U^e heart she wicdied to subdue^--intmtivefy 
she ent^eed into its tastes— ^md nothing could be more perfect 
than her assumption of the aeoning best calculated to Attract. 
To her this was more than ordinarily easy ; she had no original 
feelings of her own to alter or subdue, luit took, like a picture, 
her expcesaion from the light in which, she was placed. All 
49he desired was admiration: like the green and blue bottles in 
tlie ohemist*8- shopy die kept her lovers for show, not use ; 
<«, like the miser's gokl^ the misre pleasure of possession was 
aU she desiiied. The idea that some returnmigbt be expected 



80 BOilANOB AND RBAMTT. 

for the affection lavisbed upon her> tiever entered her head ; 
end it may be doubted whethw she wa» more gratified by her 
maid's flattery or by her lover's. As to her marriage, that she 
took for granted must happen— >bat she left all its nrrange* 
ments to her mother. 

Many a mother might have feared one so haadsome> so faoh 
cinating^ as £dward Lorraine; but she entertained no alarm 
about her daughter's hearty viho could not well lose what «be 
never had. He lost his, however ; and when, at ^e fortnight^s 
end, he went on to Etheringhame Castle, besides revets,- hopes. 
&c., he carried with him a secret wonder that he had made no 
formal declaration of rapture or despair, heaven or hell de* 
pending on one little iMiihosyUable. Once he drew .bridle 
beneath the old oak where they tto^^ped the carriage ; bat a 
moment of not very satisfactory meditatioii ittminded him that 
to ride back with a proposal was somewhat pi«inatiire, a» 
though the impression was strong on his mind that tlie lady 
was very sensible to his merits, yet it was difficult to decide on 
what grounds this Impression rested. 

It was this indecision that constltated the science of Adelaide's 
skill ; hers was a mixed government of fear and hope — a look 
was to say every thing, which, on being interpreted^ might 
mean nothing. Like a politic minister, her care was — not ta 
commit herself; she left all to the infagination, but not till 
that imagination was properly excited : the signs of her pre- 
ference, like the oracles of old, were always susceptible of two 
interpretations; and a rejected suitor would scarcely^ have 
known whether to curse her falsehood or his own vanity. But 
this was a finale shfe ever avoided : an offer, like the rock oif 
adamant in Sinbad's voyages, finishes the attraction by de* 
fitroying the vessel; and, like the Roman conqueror, she 
desired living captives to lead in her triumph — an ovation' of 
j)etits soins, graceful flatteries, anxious looks, pretty anger, 
judicious pique, and vague hopes. 

£dward Lorraine rode on, fully convinced that Uue was the 
loveliest colour in the world*^it trimmed the lace cometU^ so 
becoming to a slight invalid, which Adelaide wore at breakfaat. 
A headache is a delicate compliment to a departhig lover ; and 
Edward consoled himself by the future preference he was to 
^tain over every London rival. Her preference ! of what did 
he not feel capable to win it !**-what would he not do before- 



BOUAKOB AND BKAUTY. 81 

they again met !—* conquer Greece^ and lay the crown at her 
' feet— > become prime minister^ and place at her disposal the 
whole list of penaions and places-*- start forth another Byron^ 
and make her immortal in his love ; at least, he felt fully 
equal to them all^ and his horse -was spurred to a full gallop in 
the mere energy of intention. Ah ! love and youth are 
delightful things, before the one is chilled, and the other 
darkened by those after-days, each of which brings with it 
sossDB dull or sad lesson I — when we learn, that, though dis- 
appointment is misery, fruition is but weariness ; and that 
happiness is like the statue of Isis, whose veil no mortal ever 
raised. 

It was late in the evening before he found himself seated in 
his brother*s favourite apartment in £theringhame Castle — 
one of those ddicious evenings when winter lingers round the 
hearth, but spring looks laughing in at the window — and the 
room where they sat was especially suited to such a night. It 
was very large, and the Uack oak wainscoting was set in every 
variety of carvings, where- the arms of the family were repeated 
in every size. Time had darkened, rather than destroyed, the 
colours of the painted ceiling : the subject was Aurora leading 
out the horses of the Sun, while the Hours scattered flowers 
around ; the whole encircled by the once bright clouds, whose, 
moming tints had long disappeared, but the figures were still 
distinct ; and the eye gazed till they seemed rather some fan- 
tastic creation of its own than merely paindng. A huge black 
screen, worked in gold, hid the door ; and the fantastic gilded 
Chinese people that covered it, with their strange pagodas^— 
their round heads like little gold balls, yet with an odd human 
likeness — the foreign palm-trees — the uncouth boats,— 
seemed like cancotures of humanity called up by some en- 
chanter^ and left there in • a fit of mingled mirth and spleen. 
Placed in Gothic arches of carved oak, thousands of books 
were ranged around — many whose < ponderous size and rich 
silver dasps told of past centuries ; and between, placed on 
altar-like stands of variegated marble, were bronze busts of 
those whose minds had made them gods among their kind. 

Two peculiarly large windows, whose purple curtains were 
<as yet undrawn, opened upon the lawn ; one was in shade, for 
an .acacia tree grew so close that its boughs touched the g^ase, 
And every note swept by the wind from' its leaves was audible*. 

o 



;|^!$ ROVANOB AND BBALITT* 

Th« l«vn was only separated fvom tbe pa]4c by a ligbl tr«a> 
TnU ; witl the beds of rainbow-touehed fLcrwen, tlie ciumps of 
blmtsoniiiig shrubs^ tiie profusion of early t^OBes^ mete tnddenly 
merged in the unbroken verdure^ and the cAfad^w of old and 
stately trees farther on^ and seen more distinctly than usual at 
80 late an hour^ from the clear background of the cloudless 
vpe8t> now like an unbroken lake of amber. There was but a 
single lamp burning, and that was so placed that its light 
chiefly fell on a recess^ so large that it was Hke a room of itself, 
and furnished in most opposite taste to the Mbrary. 

A skilfal painter had covered the walls with an Italian Ifuid- 
scape : the light fell from the dome almost as upon reality, so 
actual was the bend of the cypresses, and so green the ivy, ^at 
half covered the broken columns in the distance. la the 
middle was an ottoman, on which ky an ebony lute, inlaid witir 
pearl flowars, and a cast of the loireiiest hand that ever win* 
dered in music ov^r its strings. Three pictures hung on the 
wall : the fiftt was of a most radiant beauty* the hair gathered 
up under a kind of emerald glory, quite away from the &ce, 
whose perfect outline was thus Mly given to view. The 
fln^ throat and neck were^ bare, but the satia bodiee was hkced 
with jeweb, and a superb bracelet was on the arm, which was 
raised with a gesture of connnand, suiting well with the 
brilliant style of her triumphant beauty. In the second, the 
hair, unbound, fell loose in a profusion of Idack ringkts, ahftost 
coneealing the simple white drapery of ikte iSgure; the ex- 
pression was wholly ehanged — a sweet but tremulous smile 
parted the lips — and the downcast eyes wore the dreaming 
looks of passionate thoughts, which feed but on themselves. In 
the third, a large white v^eil passed over the head ; llie hair was 
simply pnted on a brow whose paleness was ghasliy^^^iihe 
featuves were thin to emaoiation, the mouth wan and £dlen ^ 
while the colour of the closed eyes was only indicated by IJIe 
long black lashes which lay upon the white and sunken cheek. 
Beneath was written, " Franoroa ^, taken after death." 

There was beauty, there was grandiear in the room ; it spoie 
both of mind and of weallli ; but the only part which had a 
look of eomfoft was ^at made %right by the cbeeifol blaze t>f 
the fire : a little table, on which stood two deeantem, appiarendy 
filled ftam liie two urns by JSove's throne-^ftnr one was dark, 
and the ollKr btig^t ; a iMuBbet of oranges, «bd another o€ 



KOKANOB AND liBALITT. 83 

walnnts^ were set iu the middle ; and in an arm-chfdr on each 
side leant Lord £dieringhame and his brother^ too earnest iu 
their conversation to mark an ol^ect beyond each other's face* 

Edward Lorraine* — '' 1 will orge my arguments against this 
wasteful sechision no longer on your own account ; you may 
n^lect your talents and your toilette — leave your cj^acities 
and your curls equally uncultivated — forget your manners and 
your mirror— ^ leave your coat to your tailor, and your neck- 
cloth to fate -—on your own account I urge you no longer ; but 
I will urge you on that of others. With your wealthy your 
hereditary influence, yoiur rank, how many paths of utility lie 
open before yon ! Your many advantages ought to be more 
tibaa an Egyptian bondage to stimulate you to exertion. Why, 
tile very busts around reproach you : k)ok on the three oj^iesite 
—was the debt of gratituiie, which men are now paying, by 
imitation and honourabk moition, to these, won by indolent 
seclusion ?" 

A sickly smile passed oyer Etberinghame's fine but wan 
£ntttres, as he said, ^ You axe happy, really, Edward, in the 
encouragement of your illustrations-*^ Bacon, Milton, and Syd- 
ney : the first i^venUued into public life but to show his in« 
sufficiency to withstand its tempitadons ; the seeond dxagged 
en old age in fear, poverty, and obscurity ; the third peEished 
on a sGi^ld." 

Edward Lorreane.-r*'* I must. give up my first: Bacon ie 
one of ^e most humyiating examples of man's subsewienoe to 
cinmmstances : he Hved in an eea of bribery and frsmd ; and 
he whose mind was so far in advance of hisi ag0, wafi» alas ! in 
his actions but its copy. M«^ must be aacribedl to his early 
Aloeatlon among corrupt and tifise-oserviag courtsegrs^-Hkhe evil 
with which we are familiar seems aource an cfvil : but even Iqb 
example has a sort of hope in its vmrning to these wb» hope 
ihit best of their aatwpe. How little would a«y. public man 
steop new to such a. degradation ! Bui MiUw and Sydney i 
look at the glorieua oU age 6S the one^ when iua. tho«ights,i like 
the ravens of llie proj^iet^ bceu^t him heavenly £Dod, and he 
worked m pride and* power at the noble l^i^y he bequeathed; 
to faia native tongue. Look at the glarious.death of the odier 
sealing with his blood those principles of equity andlibecty 
whose spirit has sinoof walked so» loightily- i^ead^ tfaough even 
now bat in its iBlanoy ! Never tdlme but that these had m 

o 2 



84 ROKANCE AND REALITY. 

prophet's sympathy with centuries to come : I do belieTe that 
the power of making the future their present is one of the 
first gifts with which Providence endows a great man/' 

Ijord JStheringhame, — '* But, even supposing I had the 
power^ which I have not, and the inclination, which I have 
still less, of mixing in the feverish and hurried strife called the 
world, of what import is an individual? — I see thousands and 
thousands rushing to every goal to which human desires can 
tend — and what matters it if one individual loiter on the way ? 
I see, too, thousands and thousands daily swept off, and their 
places filled up, leaving not a memory to say that they have 
been — and again I ask, of what import is an individual? " 

Edward Lorraine, — ^' Of none, if this living multitude were 
as the sands on the shore, where none is greater or less than 
the other ; but when we see that one makes the destinies of 
many, and the tremendous influence a single mind often ex- 
ercises, it behoves every man to try what his powers are for 
the general good. It is the e£Port of a single mind that has 
worked greatest changes. What are the events that, during 
the last five hundred years, have altered the whole face of 
things — changed the most our moral position ? Let me 
enumerate some of the most striking. The discovery of 
America, of gunpowder, of printing, — the Reformation, the 
magnet, — all these were severally the work of an individual, 
and in each case a lonely, humble^ unaided individual 
Algernon, all these are stimulating examples. Instead of 
asking of what import is an individual, let us rather ask, what 
is there an individual may not do P" 

Lord Ethertnghame, — *'And to what have all these dis- 
coveries tended ? I see you glance round the room and smile. 
We have luxuries, I grant, of which our forefathers never 
dreamed ; but are we better or happier ? It is true, where 
a foriher earl stepped upon rushes, I step upon a carpet ; but 
comfort is a very conventional term ; and what we have never 
had, at least we do not miss. We do not kill each other quite 
so much^ but we cheat each other more : mortifications are 
more frequent than wants : and it does appear to me, that, in 
this change of rude into civilised life^ ire only exchange bodily 
evils for mental ones.'* 

Edward Lorraine, --^^^ But success in one effort inclines us 
to hope for success in another : the same powers which hare 



ROMAlfCB AND REALITY. 85 

80 well remedied the ills of the physical world, may, when so 
applied, equally remedy those of the moral world. Hitheito, 
it seems to me, we have attended more to the means than to 
the end — we have accumulated rather than enjoyed. All the 
energies of the mind were devoted to necessity ; but our house 
is now built and furnished, our grounds cultivated, ourselves 
clothed : our natural condition thus ameliorated, now is the 
time to enjoy our artificial one. We have provided for our 
comforts ; let us now attend to our happiness ; — let each man 
sedulously nurture those faculties of pleasure which exist both 
for himself and others. It is the mental world that now re- 
quires discovery and cultivation. And has not much been done 
even in this ? How much has reason softened religious per- 
secution and intolerance ! Every day do not we become more 
and more convinced of the crime and cruelty of war ? How 
little is the exercise of arbitrary authority endured ! How much 
more precious is the life of man held ! How much more do 
we acknowledge how intimately the good of others it connected 
with our own ! How is the value of education confessed i 
Only look on the vast multitude who are at this moment being 
early imbued with right principles, accustomed to 8elf-oontn>l, 
and fed with useful knowledge. Look at the youthful schools 
filled with quiet, contented, and industrious children, now ac- 
quiring those first notions of right and wrong — those good and 
regular habits, which will influence all their after-life. Open 
the silver clasps of yon huge chronicle, and you will see it 
is not 80 long since human beings were burnt for a mere 
abstract opinion — not so long since the sword was appealed to 
in the court of justice, to decide on right and wrong, and its 
success held as God's own decision — not so long since a man 
looked forward to the battle as the only arena of his struggle 
for fame and fortune, when education was locked up like a 
prisoner, and often like a state-prisoner, uselessly and vainly, 
in a monastery, and knowledge, like fixed air, too confined to 
be wholesome. Are not all these things changed for the 
better? and, encouraged by the past. Reason herself turns 
into hope. Algernon, 1 am young, and as yet undistinguished ; 
but I am not thoughtless. I look forward to future years of 
honourable and useful exertion, for which early youth is not 
the season. We require some experience of our own, before 
we benefit by that of others ; but my path is ever before me, 

o 3 



B6 KOMANOB and niSAIilTY. 

and it is my entire conyiction of its excellence that makes me 
wish my brother to share it with me." 

Algernon gazed for a moment on the expression which' 
fighted up the beautiful face of his brother^ whom he loved as 
iho^e love who have but one channel for the gathered waters 
of their affection ; but his sympathy was as that of a mother 
who hears her eldest boy dwell on schemes in which she has 
no part beyond the interest that she takes in all that is his. 

Lord Etheringhame. — ''You will succeed, Edward. Your 
energy will carry you over some obstacles — your enthusiasm 
will blind you to others ; but I, who have neidier spirits for 
the stn^gle, nor desire for the triumph, what have I to do at 
CHympus ? Edward, there are some sent into the world but 
as a sign and sorrow, whose oansciou^ess of early death is ever 
with them — who dirink from efforts on which the grave must 
80 soon dose -^ who ask of books but to pass, not employ time 
— whose languid frame shrinks from exertion that would shake 
yet quicker firom the glass the few lingering sands — who look 
back to their youthful feelings, not with regret for th^ fresh- 
ness, bit awe at their intensity. Sudh a one am I. I have 
lived too much in too few years. Feelings and passions have 
been to my mind like the wind that fans the flame into a 
brighter, cleaver light, only to exhaust the material of the bla2e. 
The oil whidi should have fed the altar for years has been 
burnt out in a single iUuminalion. I went into the world ; 
and what were the fruits of my experience ? That I Was too 
weak to resist temptation; and, in yielding^ I entailed on 
myself suffering even beyond the sin. I found that passioB 
which had seemed too mighty for resistance, died of itself, and 
in spite of all my then efforts to keep it alive. I found that 
affection could pass away, even without a cause. I stood 
beside the tomb of the young and beautiful, and felt it had 
been opened by me, and that by no wilful crime, but by a 
change of feeling, over which I had no control. My first 
welcome, as I rode into our avenue, was waved by the black 
plumes of my father's hearse. I have ever held it as an omen. 
The fever is in my veins, and the death-damps on my brow. 
Do not, Edward, talk to me of active life." 

Lorraine locked on the Earl. The daa^ chestnut of his 
faalr was mixed with white, the fine outline of his features 
was sunk, and the whole expression was so spiritless, so sad, 
that though Edward, with all the soothing tenderness of 



ROMANeR AND RBALITT. 87 

affeetiony did not beliere his health impaired to the extent of 
danger^ yet coiidd not help owning to himself^ how little was 
he fitted to he one of the gladiators in social or political life. 

Truly the history of most Htcs may he soon comprehended 
under three heads — our foUies^ our faults, and our misfortunes. 
And this, after all^ was the sommary of Lord Etheringhame's. 
His loye was a faulty its termination a misfortune^ and cer- 
tainly his persisting in its regret was a folly. But there is 
nothing so easy as to he wise for others ; a species of prodi- 
gaMty, hy the hy — ^for such wisdom is wholly wasted. 



CHAPTER XVI. 



** He has been the ruin of his oeuntxy." — Jiilontnig Pott. 

** Epgland owes everything to her patriot minister." — Morning Herald. 

We now return to London and Miss Arundel again. 

One evening, which^ as usual, ^* had dragged its slow length 
along," on her and her hostess's return home, they were met 
with a request to ad^oum to Mr. Delawair's library; and 
there Lady Alicia grew almost animated with the pleasure of 
seeing her hrother. 

'^ Nothing at ail has happened since you left us^" said his 
sister. 

<^ Nothing!" returned Edward Lorraine. '^ You mean 
every thing. Why, at this very moment I see your sleeves 
have assumed a different form. I left you in ringlets, and 
your hair is now braided. I have heard already that our 
richest duke has put a finish to the pleasures of h^)e ; that 
seven new beauties have come out; that a new avatar of 
Mrs. Siddons has appeared at Covent Gaiden^ in the shape of 
her niece Fanny Kemhle ; and thatwe have refused to emandpate 
the Jewsj lest it should convert them — mmSl their conversion being 
a sign of the end of the world, it is a consummation devoutly 
to he deprecated.'' 

'< Oh, I have heard all this a hundred times: one hears 
things till one forgets them. But what have you been doing 
with yourself?" 

'^Lording over the three dements; — fire-king with my 
hearth blatis^ with pine boughs**- water-king, with the lightest 

o 4 



S8 ROMANCE AND RBALITX'. 

of boats on the roughest of nvers— ^nd earth-king, with tiie 
valleys Hying before me, thanks to the prettiest of choc<date- 
coloured coursers — and am now come back to enlighten 
my club and enchant my partners with my adventures in 
Norway." 

" Judicious, at least," observed Mr. Delawarr. '' Nothing 
like laying tlie scene of one's adventures in a distant land. I 
only hope you will have no rival Norseman to encounter. One 
great reason why our old travellers are so much more delightful 
dian our modern ones is, that they needed not to verify their 
facts; and I am afraid plain truth is like a plain face^— not 
very attractive." 

" Nay, this is pre-supposing my Sir John Mandevilleism. 
I do not mean to be forgotten beside my adventures — I 
mean less to astonish than to interest. I shall tell any fair 
auditor not of the dark forest itself, but what ray feelings were 
in the said forest." 

*' I dare say," said Lady Alicia, ** you were very dulL" 

*' I shall be ignorant of that feeling at least for the next six 
weeks, during which period I intend to be your visitor." 

Edward did just glance towards where they were sitting ; 
yet £mily could scarce help taking his speech as a personal 
compliment. Like poetry, gallantry must be bom with you— 
an indescribable fascination, which, like tlie boundaries of wit 
and humour, may never be defined — seen rather than heard, 
and felt rather than understood. 

" How very handsome Mr. Lorraine is ! " said £mily to 
her pillow. Alas ! the danger and decisiveness of a first im- 
pression. 

"Wlien Mr. Delawarr, who was last at the breakfast^taUe, 
entered next morning, Edward rose, and threw down a paper 
he held amid a heap of others, and said, laughingly, " I have 
been deliberating, at the immineni danger of my coffee, which, 
thanks to my meditation, is as cold as Queen Elizabeth, and 
walks as fancy free — at least from any fancy of mine — I have 
been debating, whether in emulation of the patriots of Rome, 
I should not arise and stab you to the heart with one of these 
knives— yonder columns having informed me that England, 
' that precious stone set in a silver sea,' is on the brink of 
destruction, and that you are the political Thakba of her 
peace and plenty ; or to speak in less embroidered language. 



ttOMANOK AND BEAUTY. 89^ 

that the present romistry are tlie destruction of the oountry, 
and that you are worst among the bad. I hare shudder^ at 
the excess of your guilt. Luckily^ farther to ascertain the 
extent of your enormity, I took up another newspaper ; and 
now I am only anxious to make my homages acceptable to the 
deliverer of his country, and express my admiration of the 
patriotic minister in sufficiently earnest terms." 
*' I answer with Rosalind," said Mr« Delawarr-— 

*' * Which will you have— me or your pearl again'? 
Neither of cither — I reject both twain .' 

I am afraid I am neither quite worthy of the praise, nor, I 
trust, deserving of the censure; — and now some chocolate for 
consolation and change ; for to tell you the truth, iudifi^rence 
is as fabulous as invidnerability. There is no moral Styx ; 
and in politics as in every thing else, censure is more bitter 
than praise is sweet" * 

*' Thanks to my lately acquired bad habit of early rising," 
observed Edward — ^' the which philosophers and physicians 
praise, because they know nothing about it — I have been for 
the last hour studying leading articles, advertisements, &c., 
till, I am possessed of mat^iel enough for three weekly papei-s. 
Really people should put their names to advertisements, or at 
least allow them to be whispered about. There is an inge- 
nuity, an originality, which makes one lament over so much 
imappreciated genius. I began one paragraph: it deplored 
the evils brought on the country by the passing of the Catholic 
bill — observed that the king's silence about it in his speech 
at the opening of Parliament sufficiently indicated his opinion 
that Ireland was plunged into the deepest affliction. The de- 
preciation of her produce was next insisted upon; and I 
itend this exordium led to the information that Messrs: 
Standish and Co. had been enabled, from the depressed state 
of the market, to lay in a large stock of Irish linen at unheard- 
of low prices. — My next is one of quite antiquarian research. It 
begins with an allusion to Lady Fanshaw's Memoirs, when 
-Uairt Street, St. Olave, was a fashionable part of London^- is 
philosophical with reference to the many changes of fashion — 
that capricious divinity, as it poetically entitles her — and 
dfinishes by rejoicing to see Leicester Square recovering much 
of its former splendour, when princes were its inhabitants, and 
noblemen were its wayfarers ; and this we are informed is in 



"90 ROHANOB AND RXAIiITT. 

consequence of the crowds of carriages which assemhle dailjF 
to inspect Newton's tremendous bargains ofGros deNapIoi 
and French ginghams. And here is the worst of all^ ' the 
Music of the Mazurka, as danced by the Duke of Devonshire' 
^-shades of Paul and Vestris, welcome your illustrious com-* 
petitor, ^as danced by the Dute of Devonshire T " 

'* I think," replied Mr. Delawarr, ^* the Duke might fairly 
bring his action for libel." 

*'What! place his refined exdusiveness^ as the Duke of 
Wellington did his chivalrous sense of honour, for the judg- 
ment of twelve tallow-chandlers ! Let them ask for redress H 
the jury were their peers; but what sympathy could Mr. 
Higgins, the snufi-iuerchant^ have with the exquisite dismay 
of the ^ouse of Cavendish at this exhibition of their head as a 
ballet master ; or Mr. Wiggins^ the butcher, know what was the 
Prince of Waterloo, the conqueroc of Buonaparte's estimate of 
fame? 

* How can we reason but from wb«t we know V 

and what could the retail individuals that constitute a jury know 
of these ^ fine fancies and high estimates ? ' " 

^" They were very respectable men, Edward/' observed Mr. 
Delawarr, with a decorous accent of reproof. 

'* Am I in the slightest degree detracting from their preten- 
sions to our great national characteristic ? A respectable man 
passes six days behind his counter, and the seventh in a one- 
horse chaise — imagines that his own and his country's consti- 
tution equally depend on roast-beef— pays his debts regularly, 
and gives away half-pence in charity. What can such*' 

" Hush ! Really, Mr. Lorraine, these are very dangerous 
sentiments for a youAg man to express/' 

** Oh, you laugh ; but what sympathy could these estimable 
individuals have with ideal honour and wounded feeling ? " 

'* On the one great principle, * every thing has its price ; ' 
damages are the chevaux de firiae of our law." 

" Well, well — ^but to turn from politics to literature : heie I 
again lament over unappreciated genius. The unknown Chat- 
tertons of the columns display a flight of invention, a degree of 
talent, which often puts to shame the work whose merits they 
insinuate rather than announce. How.completely to the calibre rf 
the many— 

* For gentle dulnen ever lores a joke*— 



ROICANOE AND REALtTT. Ql 

it the following:—' Our town was alftrmed last night by llie 
intelligence that Satan had arrived by the mail-^coach.' Luci- 
fer's arrival was alarming enough. Fortunately^ it turned out 
to be only the harmless^ nay, even meretorious hero of Mr. 
Montgomery's poem^ who came with all sorts of moral refleo- 
tions^ instead of temptations" 

*' I was iBomewhat surprised," replied Mr. Delawarr, '* to see 
my own name in one of the keys that now seem to fdlow a 
work as r^nlarly as its title-page to precede it. Of course, I 
read this setting forth of my thoughts, words, and actions ; and 
was rather dismayed to find how little I knew of myself." 

'< It is certainly in the destiny of some individuals to be the 
idols of llie circulating library. The Duchess of Devonshire, 
of whom I heard Lafayette say, when he showed me her 
picture, that her loveliness was the most lovely of his remem- 
brances— > was the fortune of seven novels to my own reading 
knowledge. I cannot enumerate the many of which Lord 
Byron was hero, under the names of Lord Harold, Lord Larai, 
Count Monthermer, &c. His throne was then fiUed by a 
w<mian ; and Lady Jersey has furnished the leading feature of 
thirty volumes. Bnimmel ^as figured on the stage three 
times (but he is quite an historical personage) ; and Lord 
and Lady j^lenborough were sulijects for two sets of three 
volumes. We have been enlightened with divers slight sketches 
of others ; but those I have named have hitherto been princi^ 
pals in the field of fiction.*' 

^' I often wonder at many that are omitted. Now^ Lord 
Petersdam I should have thought the idSal of a modem hero : 
Lady Dacre, dramatist, poet, could they not have made a female 
Byron out of her > Can you, Edward, account for omissions 
like these.?" 

^^ Only on the principle, that there is a destiny in these 
things : but I do think a novelist will soon be as necessary 
a part of a modem establishment as the minstrel was in former 
times. The same feeKng which in the olden days gave a 
verse to a ballad now gives a column to the Morning Post ; 
only that the ball has taken place of the tournament, and 
white ^oves are worn instead of steel gauntlets." 

" I have heard my a«nt say," observed Emily, '* that 
Surr's Winter in London hastened the Duchess of Devon- 
shire's death. She died of a broken heart." 

'* A most interesting fact to your aunt, who is, I believe ^ 



92 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 

most inveterate novel -reader ; but one I rather doubt : people 
are not so easily written out of their lives — except by pre- 
scriptions." 

*' Most of the broken-heart cases I hear, put me in mind^" 
rejoined Edward, *' of our old friend Mrs. Lowe's story. A 
maiden lady of forty called on her one day on one of those 
sentimental errands to which maiden ladies of her age seem 
peculiarly addicted ; and^ after a deep sigh or two^ said, < I 
wished much, madam, to see ypu, for you were the death of 
my unfortunate aunt.' Somewhat surprised at this sudden 
charge of murder, Mrs. Lowe naturally inquired into parti- 
culars. ^ Your husband was engaged to my poor aunt : he 
deserted her for you, and she died of a broken heart.' ^ At 
what age ? ' inquired her unconscious rival. ^ My poor aunt 
was fifty-two when she died.* * At least,' said Mrs. hovre, 
' she took some time to consider of it.' For my part, I think 
hearts are very much like glasses — if they do not break with 
the first ring, they usually last a considerable time." 

" What a charming old lady she was I " resumed Mr* 
Delawarr ; ^' she had of age so little but its experience, and had 
lost of youth BO little but its frivolity. I was once much 
delighted with an answer I heard her give to a young gentle- 
man, whose silly irreverence of speech on sacred subjects 
richly deserved the rebuke it drew. < Really, Mrs. Lowe, 
you have quite a masculine mind.' < No, sir,' returned she^ 
* say a firm one.' " 

" I can assure you. Miss Arundel," said Edward, *' if you 
were to see her, you would quite anticipate the days of close 
caps," &c. 

Emily smiled ; but, somehow or other, she had never 
thought of her roses and ringlets with more satisfaction than 
just now. 

Some authors, in discussing love's divers places of vantage 
ground, are eloquent in praise of a dinner-table — others 
eulogise supper : for my part I lean to the breakfast, — the 
complexion and the feelings are alike fresh — the cares, busi- 
ness, and sorrows of the day, have not yet merged in prudence 
and fatigue — the imaginativeness of the morning dream is 
yet floating on the mind -^ the courtesies of coffee and cho- 
colate are more familiar than those of soup and fish. As they 
say in education, nothing like an early commencement — our 



HOUANOR AND lUBAUTT. 9^ 

first impresBioDs are alwajrs most vivid, and the aimplieity of 
the morning gives an idea of nature piquant from probable 
contrast. Perhaps one's rule of three for action might run 
thus : be nafve at break&st^ briUiant at dinner, but romantic 
at supper. The visions prepared for midnight should always 
be a little exalted : but if only one meal be at your choice, 
prefer the breakfast. Cenest que le premier pae qtii eadiey 
is as true of sentiments as saints. 



CHAPTER XVIL 

, All have opinioni, whererore may not I ? 
I'll give a judgment— or at least rll try. 

'*^ As idle as ever," said Mr. Lushington, by way of a part- 
ing pleasantry. ^' In my time young men did not spend the 
morning on the sofa, reading trashy novels $ they — " but the 
merits of our grandfathers were lost in the cough and heavy 
step with which the elderly gentleman descended the stairs, 
on his way to some other domicile, where he might vent 
anotlier portion of his discontent Certainly the breath of 
Mr. Lu8hington*s life was an east wind. 

It is quite wonderful what privileges are accorded to single 
gentlemen of a certain age and a certain fortune, — these are 
the people who may be rude with more than impunity, even 
Beward. Whether the old ladies, either for themselves or 
their daughters, hope it is not quite too late for these said single 
gentlemen to marry, — whether the masculine part of the 
creation with that attention to business, their great moral duty, 
calculate on pecuniajry futurities, either in th(» shape of legacy 
or loan, we know not ; but assuredly the magna charta of 
social life accords much to this privil^^ed class. 

Mr. Lushington was one of the number. As a child, he 
cried over his pap, his washing, and dressing, and himself to 
sleep — for the mere sake, as his nurse asserted, of plaguing 
her : at school, though neither tyrant nor tell-tale, he was 
hated, — for his comrades always found his opinion opposite 
to theirs, a shadow thrown over their hopes, and a sneer affixed 
to their pleasures. At a very early age he went to India ; 



94t UOMAVGK AMD BBAI«ITY. 

lired for yean in a remote statioD^ where he was equally 
decided and disliked ; and finally came home to adjust the 
holanoe of comfort between, a hundred thousand pounds and a> 
Hver oomplamt. He made morning calls^ for the express 
purpose of telling the ladies of the house how ill they looked 
after the fatigues of the night before^ and dwelt emphatically 
on the evils of late hours and ruined complexions ; he dined 
out to insinuate the badness of the dinner^ and take an oppo« 
site side in politics to his host, — he was not the least particu- 
lar as to principles^ always supposing them to be contradictory ; 

— and he went to balls to ask young damsels who had no 
partners why they did not dance^ and to make a third in every 
tStC'd'tete that seemed interesting. In shorty he was a modem 
incarnation of an Egyptian plague^ sent as a judgment into 
society ; but then lie was single, lund single men may marry ; 

— but then he had a hundred thousand pounds and he must 
die and leave them behind him. Vain hopes ! He had too 
krge a stock of tormenting to confine it to any one indiTidual> 
even though that individual were his wife ; and as to iris 
money, wiien he did die* which he was a long time about, he 
left one of those wills which realise the classic fable of the 
golden apple thrown by the goddess of discord — for his heir 
not only spent the whole property in chancery, but some 
thousands of his own. 

What a ^ty there is not some mental calomel ! for Mr. 
LnshiDgton's equanimity was in a bilious fever with BdwanL 
Lorraine's appearance of Ivacnrioas enjoyment-— thrown upon 
a sofk, like a crimson doud for colour and softness, with 
j«Bt enough of air from the hmrels and acacias of the square 
garden to fiing back the blind, scented as it passed with the 
rich fiowers of the balcony, while through the rooms floated 
that soft twilight which oortains can make even of noon. 
They were filled with gmeeftd trifles for the fancy, — and a: 
few noble pictures, an alabuter statue or two, a few exqui- 
sitely carved marble wscs, to excite the imagination ; while 
the vista ended in a eonservalory, mitere the rose — a sommer- 
qneen — - held her rainbow coart of jonquils, tulips, and the 
thoasand-flkmered and leaved geranium, hut still supreme 
herself in beauty and sweetness. 

Emily was seated at a harp, trying some new ballads ; so 
theKBWas jtut nmsie enoo^ to haunt the ear with tweet. 



90MAMCB AND RBAJUITY* . 9^ 

aaunds, but not to distract the atlentioii ; wlyle an occasionil 
verse of gentle expression awoke, .ever and anon^ some 
pleasant or touching memory. 

. The ground^ the table near Edward, were covered with 
novels enough to have realised even Gray's idea of paradise. 
How unlucky some people are ? Gray was just bom an age 
too soon. How would he have luxuriated in the present day ! 
Andrews' or Hookham's counter would have been ^ the crystal 
bar " which led to his. garden of JQden^ and the marble-covered 
tomes the Houries of his solitude. 

^' Well/' said Mr« Morlaad^ who had entered as Mr. Liiih* 
ington departed, " are you in ancient or o^dern tunes, aiding 
some, heroine and her ring^ts to escape from her prison ia a 
mouldering castle, where her only companioiis are gheats ; or 
braving^ for love of her dark eyes, some ferocious banditti, 
whose muskets and moustaches are equally long ; or are you 
in ecstasies with some ^weet child of sim{^city, whose hait 
curls intuitively, and to whom the harp nid piano, French 
and Italian, are accomplishments that come by nature ; or are 
you in those days of prudence and propriety, when the £ttr 
lady lost her^ lover l^ waltaing, and the matrimonial qaairel 
was rendered desjperate by the disobedsent wife going to a, 
masquerade to which her huaband feUowed ker in the disguise 
of a domino ? " 

. ^' Nay," returned Edward ; '^ I though yon wese te too 
modem a person to even rememiwy the avatar of Newnum. 
and Co." 

'^One does not easily liwget the impressions of our yoath; 
and mine passed in a reign of female outhorahip. I have been 
convinced of the juttioe and expedienoy of the Salic law ever 
sinoe* Mrs. Rohinaon, Mr& Smith, and Mr&. Raddiffis ruled die- 
Eurc^e, Asia, and Africa of the novel->Writang w«rld -^ Ame* 
rioa wao not then disoorered. Mr& Robinson ix)ok «entime»t, . 
and was eloquent on l^e uHsfortanes of genius : by genius 
vi9» meant a young man who was very poor and very hand^ 
somO), and who complained to the naoon Sar a wwjfefciwte / also, . 
a beautiful young lady, whose afi^tkMiB we always pkced 
contrary to the decreet of some cruel parent, and who had a 
noble contempt for money. Mrs. Smith toolt philosophy^ was 
Uberal and enlightened iii her views, expatiated on how badly 
aqdety was constiittted, and, as « ptoof^ fact beioines-*-* sweets 



\)$ aOMANCB AND UEAIATY. 



fOKjudiees ; bat in proportion as they lose their jfoun- 
dMy tighten their hold : for though a man may give 
Kis opinion he holds to his prejudice as a drowning wretch 
has lost his boat grasps his oar. Habit holds ovor the 
mind more than a despotic power ; and hence I understand 
how it is possible for people to be blind to the great changes 
w<oi4dng around them. It is half curious^ half ludicrous, to 
hemr persons — ay, and critics too — talk of a novel as a pleasant 
hour 8 amusement^ and exhort the author gravely to turn his 
talents to higher account^ wholly uncbnsciousof the truths that 
the novel is now the very highest effort — the popular vehicle 
f^r thought, feeling, and observation — the one used by our 
iirst-rate writers* Who^ that reflects at all, can deny, that the 
novel is the literary Aaron s rod that is rapidly swallowing all 
the rest. It has supplied the place of the drama— it has 
ixierged in its pages pamphlets^ essays^ and satires. Have we 
a theory — it is developed by means of a character ; an opinion 
-^it is set forth in dialogue ; and satire is personified in a 
chapter^ not a scene. Poetry has survived somewhat longer, 
but is rapidly following the fate of its fellows. Descriptions, 
similes, pathos are to be found in the prose page ; and rhythm 
is becoming more and more an incumbrance rather than a 
recommendation. I do beUere, in a little time, lyrical will foe 
tfaie only form of poetry retained. Now, query, are we gamers 
c* losers ?" 

Mr, Morland, — '^ Gainen, certainly. It matters little what 
fM*m talent takes, provided it is a popular one. But, even now, 
a new spirit, in the shape of a new writer, is rising ; and the 
.author of Pelham has again enlarged the boundaries, and poured 
fresh lif^ into the novel. Many clever works have appeared 
within the last few years ; font none sufficiently vigorous or 
sufficiently original to create their own taste, or give their tone 
to the time ; and this is what this author is doing and will do. 
Feiham took up a ground quite untouched. There had 
been fashionable novek, and of real life, so called ; but they 
wanted either knowledge, or talent to give that knowledge 
likeness. Bttt the author ^ Pelham was the first who said, 
such and (Mich bcinga exist— such and such principles are now 
acted upon — and out of such wiU I constitute my hero. 
IKTotlifng proves the life thrown into the picture so much as 
the offence it gave — so many respectable individuals to<^ the 
lero's coxcombry as a personal affront." 



BOUANCE AND BEAUTY. 99 

Edward Lorraine. — " I think these ^orks go rery far to 
support our theory of the novel— -that it is like the Romi^n 
«mpire^ sweeping ail under its dominion. Pelham is the light 
satire of Horace — Paul ClifiBsrd the severer page of Juvenal 
-—the Disowned has the romantic and touching heauty of 
poetry — while Devereux is ralher the product of the philo- 
sopher and the metaphysician/' 

Mr, Morland.-^^^ I should judge — though it seems almost 
a paradox to say so of one whose pages are mostly so witty 
and so wordly — that the original frame of his mind was 
imaginative even to romance, and that his mood would savour 
more of melancholy than mirth. Poetry has a large part in 
his composition: look at his young painter. Could any 
writer hut one who has had such dreams himself have ima- 
gined a dream of fame so eo^ossing ? There is something to 
me inexpressibly touching in that young artist's history : he 
is poor, low-born, with neither grace of person nor of manner ; 
he is not even successful in his pursuit ; he is the victim^ not 
the priest of his altar ! yet how we enter into his hopes ! how 
convinced we feel of his power ! and the author^s great skill is 
shown in making his enthusiasm a pledge for his genius. 
No one could draw such a character who had not, at some 
time or other, numbered fame and futurity among his own 
visions. Again, I know no one who has painted love so 
poetically — and poetry is love's truth; he has painted its 
highest nature, removed from the commonplaces of life, hut 
ready for its cares — a hidden spring, whose presence is only 
indicated by the freshness of the verdure around ; and the 
more spiritualised, self-devoted, and entire, in proportion as it 
is kept apart from the dividing and corrupting effect of the 
-world. The love he depicts is especially that of the naturally 
melancholy and passionate, who exalt and refine their feelings 
even to themselves." 

Ediward Lorraine, — ''1 am not sure, whether even the 
^ttiest — the most seemingly gay passages, do not rather 
favour your view ; the satire is that of sarcasm, as if BodeQr 
had forced knowledge upon him, and the knowledge was 
liitter, and the very keenness of the perception gave point to 
the expression; indeed, in most of his observations, I ha?e 
beien struck with their truth even before their wit." 

Mr^ Morland^'*^^^ 1 know.no writer who has united 9» 

H 2 



100 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 

much philosophy with so much imagination ; hence his views 
will have such effect on his time. He uses his power to make 
us feel — chiefly to make us think ; it is the consequences he 
draws from his creations which force reflection to succeed to 
Interest. Read his pages dispassionately, after the first vivid 
efiect of the story is departed, and you will be surprised to 
observe the vast mass of moral investigation and truth which 
they contain. His very poetry is full of this spirit ; witness 
a simile, exquisite for its turn and thought — 

' Autumn, wbicb, like ambition, gilds ere it wltbers.* " 






Is he handsome ? " asked Emily. 

Nay," returned Lorraine, *^do not ask me. I always 
consider one of my own sex as a nonentity or a rival : in the 
first quality he excites my indifference — in the second, my 
hatred. I dislike that any one should attract a woman's 
attention enough for her to ask any questions about him." 

A woman always, whether she shows it or not, takes a 
general assertion to herself, not from vanity, but from the 
intense individuality of her nature ; and Emily found some- 
thing satisfactory even in having no answer to her question. 

Mr, Morland,-'^*' But what induces you to have so many 
books open at once ? '* 

Edward Lorraine. — ^'Because I have a Plutarchian taste, 
and love parallels. Nothing delights me more than to turn 
from a subject in one author, to see how diflerently it is 
treated in another ; for no two agree even about the same 
thing." 

Mr, Morland, — "Because no one sees things exactly as 
they are, but as varied and modified by their own method of 
viewing. Bid a botanist and a poet describe a rose-tree — the 
one will dwell upon its roots, fibres, petals, &c., and his 
abstract view will be of its medicinal properties ; the poet will 
dwell upon its beauty, and associate it with the ideas of love 
and summer, or catch somewhat of melancholy from its futurity 
of fading — no fear of want of variety. But in what book 
had you taken refuge from Mr. Lushington ? " 

Edward Lorraine. — *^ In a favourite — the second part of 
Vivian Grey. I think it one of the most singular 1 have read. 
Its. chief characteristic is the most uncurbed imagination^ 
3ut his humour is grotesque caricature, and his satire peiton- 



ROMANCE AND REALITY, 101 

ality ; he strikes me as being naturally iU-natured ; and cir- 
tumstances have thrown in his way people and things, which 
he seems to think it a pity to lose, but which it is against the 
bent of his talents to use ; he should have been born a 6erm)ln> 
What a fine and most original novel might be written which 
took for its materiel the mystics and metaphysics of our 
neighbours, wrought up with a tone of the supernatural, yet 
bringing all to bear on our actual and passing existence !" 

Mr. Morland, — *' Yes, but Mr. D'Israeli must be banished 
first. I should say he is one whose greatest misfortune is that 
he was bom in London, and in the congregating habits of 
the present day. His is a mind that requires to be thrown 
upon and within its own resources. To go back to the 
days of the Spectator, and illustrate my meaning by an alle- 
gory : — tlie two female figures that now wait to guide 
Hercules through the world are Philosophy and Vanity, and 
according as one or other is his guide^ he is benefited or in- 
jured : he who goes conducted by Philosophy, goes to think 
of others, and is benefited — he who is led by Vanity into 
society, goes to think of himself, and is injured." 

Edward 2/orratnc.—^' How philosophical we should be — 
^hat moral truths we should discover, could we forget our- 
selves, and lose our identity in our examination ! " 

Mr, Morland. — ''Not so neither; ourselves must still be 
our rule for others : philosophy, like charity, begins at home ; 
but also, like charity, I should wish it to extend, and become 
the more beneficial the more it expands. But apropos to 
benevolence, and ' all that sort of thing,' is this one of your 
favourite authors ? " taking up a volume of Tremaine. 

Edward Lorraine, — ''No, I consider Mr. Warde- most 
happy in his common-places ; he flings himself on the current, 
and there he floats. His popularity shows the force of habit ; 
and we like his copy-book morality on the same principle that 
Eton boys are said to like mutton — because we are used to it. 
There is always a certain capital of opinion to which men 
^eem it proper to subscribe — our education from the first 
cultivates credulity — we are taught to agree, not to examine, 
and our judgment is formed long before our comprehension. 
We must either have property of our own, or else credit ; and 
all experience shows the leaning most have towards the latter. 
Hence it is that so much is taken for granted. Mr. Warde 

H 3 



102 ROtfANCK ANB HEAUTT. 

hts shi^wn great tact In embodyiDg tbofie generalities in his 
pages ; and we are little disposed to deny bds traths^ we have 
heard them so often. Add to this a most elegant st^le^ an 
appropriation of popular and passing events, and have we not 
the secret of Mr, Warde's success ? " 

" I must^'' returned Mr. Morland, rising, '' hid yon good- 
hy ; we have heen quite clever enough for one morning — I 
shall really not have an idea left. Well, opinions of one's 
own are very pleasant : I am always inclined to apply to my 
judgment the proverh which the Spaniard applies to his 
home — 

* My home, niy home ! though thon'rt but small. 
Thou art to me the fiaeorial.' ** 

Always he as witty as you can with your parting bow — - 
your last speech is the one remembered. 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

''Spirit of lore ! soon thy rose-plumes wear 
'Tne weight and the sully of canker and case ; 
Falsehood is round thee— Hope leads thee on. 
Till erery hue from thy pinion is gone ; 
But one bright momentds all thine own. 
The one ere thy visible presence is known. 
When, like the wind of the south, thy power. 
Sunning the heavens, sweetening the flower. 
Is felt, but not seen, thou art soft and calm 
As the sleep of a cbild-'the dewfall of balm. 
Fear has not darkened thee — Hope has made 
The blossom expand, it but opens to fade. 
Nothing is known of those wearing fears 
Which will shadow the IfUfat of thy after-years. 
Then thou art bliss :— > but osce throw by 
The veil which shrouds thy divinity, 
stand ooafeaaed, and tby quiet is fled ; 
Wild flashes of rapture may come instead. 
But pain will be with them. What may restore 
The gentle happiness kjiown befiore ? " 

The ImproviscUrice. 

Tbbbe was a considerable change in the tone of Emily's 
epm^^* Pleasures were not considered quite so insipid — 
nor was our young lady quite so philosophical as she had 
been ; she owned^ that now town was full it was very delight- 
ful ; and mentioned casually, in a postscript, that Mr. Lorraine 
was a great acquisition to their circle. 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. lOS 

No one can deny Lady Charlotte Bttry*s anertion, that no 
well-regulated young female will ever indulge in a species of 
smnsement so improper as flirtation ; bat it must be admitted^ 
that having a pleasant partner is preferable ta not daaeingy 
and that a Httle persiflage, a little raillery^ a littte flattery, ^ 
far to make a partner pleasant. We are afraid these tfaiee 
parts only want a fourth — sentiment — to make np what is 
called flirtation^ — at least, the Misses Fergusson pronounced 
diat Miss Arundel flirted shamefully with Mr. Lorraine. Tfaia 
was said one eyening when, after having waltaed-^ animated 
at once by pleasure and a desire to please — with the grace of 
a Greek nymph (or, at least, our idea of one) snd the car of a 
nightingale (we take it for granted that a nightingaie's ear for 
time must be excpiisite) — she sat down with Edward on a 
vacant window-seat. 

''Love," thought Lady MandeviUe to herself, ''is said lo 
spring from beauty. I am rather incliBXid to reverse the 
genealogy. I * pique myself upon my penetration, and will 
never trust it again, if my young friend is not improving her 
complexion, and losing her heart somewhat ispidly ;— well, I 
think her to-night a most lovely creature.'' 

Lady Mandeville remembered how difierent she looked seated 
by Lady Alicia at her first ball ; but to-night 

The heart's delight did, like a mdianC lamp, 
Ught the sweet temple of her (ace. 

She was placed so that her delicately cut featiu-es were seen in 
porofile ; the head a little thrown back, a little turned away -^-^ 
lliat hidf withdrawing attitude ao graceful and so feminiAo ; 
the month half opened, as if listening with &uch unconscious 
in tenseness that the breath was rather inhaled than drawn — 
its least sound suppressed ; the beautiful erimson of excitement 
glowed on the cheek, that rich passionate colour it can know 
but once — a thousand blushes gathered into one aurora ; her 
eyes wece entirely veiled by the long lashes, not from intention, 
but impulse, intnitivdy aware of his every glance, — she 
herself knew not that to look into bu faoe was impossible- 
Ah ! there is no look so suspicious as a downcast one. 

Emily was now in the happiest period of love — perhaps its 
only happy one; she felt a keener sense of &a^yui&[i%y a 
Measure in triflies, a reliance on the present ; her step was 
more buoyant, her laugh more glad ; she felt a desire to be 

H 4 



tM- WHiJLNCB AND REALITY. 



liifii 1^ di mmmmI, and her nature seemed all gaiety but for 

^ |j»irc*i fird steps are upon the rose^" says the proverb— 
"^ils «e««id fittds tfie thorn." Like the maiden of the fairy 
Hile^ vn destroy our spell when we open it to examine in what 
dwracters it is written. In its ignorance is its happiness; 
iImi* is none of the anxiety that is the fever of hope— no 
tot8> lor there is no calculation — no selfishness^ for it asks 
ftr nothing — no disappointment^ for nothing is expected : it 
is like the deep quiet enjoyment of basking in the bright sun- 
«lune> without thinking of either how the glad warmth will 
ripen our fruits and flowers^ or how the dark clouds in the 
dhtaiice forebode a storm. 

I doubt whether this morning twilight of the affections has 
the same extent of duration and influence in man that it has 
in woman ; the necessity of exertion for attainment has been 
early inculcated upon him — he knows, that if he would win, 
he must woo— and his imagination acts chiefly as a stimulus. 
But a woman's is of a more passive kind ; she has no motive 
for analysing feelings whose future rests not with h^self : 
more imaginative from early sedentary habits, she is content 
to dream on, and some chance reveals to herself the secret she 
would never have learnt from self-investigation. Imbued with 
all the timidity, exalted by all the romance of a first attach- 
ment, never did a girl yet calculate on making what is called 
a conquest of the man she loves. A conquest is the resource 
of weariness— the consolation of disappointment~*a second 
world of vanity and ambition, sighed for like Alexander's, but 
not till we have wasted and destroyed the heart'^ first sweet 
world of early love. 

Let Lord Byron say what he will of bread and butter, giii- 
hood is a beautiful season, and its love — its warm, unealcu»> 
lating, devoted love — so exaggerating in its 8impUcity*-^8o 
keen from its freshness — is the very poetry of attachment : 
after.years have nothing like it. To know that the love which 
once seemed eternal can have an end^ destroys its immortality ; 
and, thus brought to a level with the beginnings and endings 
—-die chances and changes of life's common-place employments 
and pleasures — and, alas! from the sublime to the ridiculous 
there is but a step — our divinity turns out an idol— -we are 
grown too wise, too worldly, for our former faith— and we 



' BOUANCE AND BEAUTY. 105 

lau^ at what we wept before : such laughter is mgre bitter — 
a thousand times more bitter — than tears. 

£Unily was in the very first of the golden age of unconscious 
enjoyment— -a period which endures longer in unrequited love 
than any other ; the observance and display of another's feel« 
ings do not then assist to enlighten us on our own. 

Lorraine's imagination was entirely engrossed by Adelaide 
Lorimer. He had first seen her in a situation a little out of 
the common routine of introduction ; she was quite beautiful 
enough to make a divinity of— and her grace and refinement 
were admirable in the way of contrast to the prettiness and 
simplicity of which he had just been thoroughly tired in 
Norway. Now it is an admitted fact in moral — or, we should 
saj, sentimental — philosophy, that one attachment precludes 
another — and that to be sensible of the attractions of one lady, 
is to be blind to those of the resL Edward thought Miiss 
Arundel " a great acquisition to their circlej" and a very pretty 
sweet creature ; but he never even thought of falling in love 
with her, and certainly she did not think of it either. Thus 
matters stood at present — very sufficient to give a shadowy 
softness to her eyes, and brilliancy to her blush. And yet the 
eamdlia Japonic<M (those delicate white flowers, which seemed 
as if oarved in ivory by some sculptor whose inspiration has 
been love till all that is beautiful is to him something sacred), 
iad the geraniums in the window behind, could have witnessed 
that their conversation had been carried on in a tone of exclu- 
sive gaiety, and that the only arrows flung round were those 
of laughing sarcasm. 

Strangers and friends had been alike passed in gay review 
-^ strangers, for their dress and manners ; and friends^-our 
friends always share the worst — to dress and manners added 
tempers, opinions, and habits— their whole internal and ex- 
ternal economy. It is a wise law of nature, that we only hear 
at second-hand what is said of us, when, at least, we can com- 
fdrt ourselves with disbelief. His Satanic m^^esty did net 
know how to tempt Job ; instead of making him hear hia friends 
talk to him— though that was bad enough •*-« he should have 
made him hear them talk of him ; and if that did not drive 
him out of all patience, I know not what would. 
■ ^' Nothing," at length observed £mily» '^ strikes me so much 
as the little appearance of enjoyment there is in any present 



106 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 

—7- our faces^ like our Bummers^ want sunshine ; my uncle would 
quote Froissart^ who says of our ancestors^ ' the Engiish^ after 
^eir faahiouy s^amtuent nwuU tristementS Look at the quad*- 
riUe opposite — it boasts not a single smile; I am inclined to 
aak^ with some foreigner, ' Are these people enjoying them- 
selves ? ' '' 

*'We must first make," replied Edward, **due allowance 
for climate and constitution — we must make another for 
fashion : we live In an age of re-action ; the style of loud talk* 
ing, laughing, or what was termed dashing, lies in the tomb of 
the Duchess of Gordon. We are in the other extreme — and 
I answer your question by another : Do you mean to afiront 
me, by supposing I could eigoy myself ? What pitiable igno- 
rance of pleasure, on my part, does the question insinuate !" 

"I am, then, to imagine, that the highest style of fashion is, 
like that of ancient art, the beauty of repose ? You account 
for the indifference of the gentlemen— how do you account 
for the gravity of the young ladies ? ** 

'' You speak as if you considered a ball a matter of pleasure, 
not business ! Do you imagine a girl goes through her first 
season in London, with the view of amusing herself ? Heavens ! 
die has no time to waste in any such foUy. The 6r8t cam- 
paign is conquest and hope— the second, conquest and fear — 
the third, conquest and despair. A ball-room is merely -» 
' Arithmetic and the use of figures taught here/ A young 
kdy in a quadrille might answer, like a merchant in his coimt- 
ing-house, ' I am too busy to laugh — I am making my cal- 
culations.' " 

<' La nation boutiquiere,*' laughed Emily. 

'^ Ah, good ! " exclaimed Lorraine. '' Do look how sedu- 
lottsly those two young ladies have made room for that thin^ 
bilious-looking, elderiy gentleman, to hear more conveniently 
Matibran's last song." 

'^ He sat by me at dinner the other day. Do you know, I 
am quite interested in him — I pity his situation so much ! 
The conversation took what you would call a most English 
atiain, about domestic feUcity ; and he spoke in a tone of such 
strong personal feeling of the cruel opposition of circumstance to 
affection ! I have arranged his little romance in my own mind. 
Has he not for years * dragged at each remove the lengthened 
^dudn' of an early and vain attachment — too poor to marry ? " 



f> 



ROMANCE AND BEALITT. 107 

^'Nothing like the coukur de rose of tibe imagination — I 
wish it could he condensed into curtains for my dressing-room* 
This gentleman^ who has so excited your sympathy as too poor 
to marry^ has only ahout ten thousand a-year ; hut^ as he onee 
ohserred^ wives and servants are so expensive now-a-days^ dley 
require almost as much as one's-sdf." 

*^ Who is that gentleman who has just entered^ with such an 
air of captivating condescension ? He always gives me the 
idea of having stepped out of the Spectator — one of the 
Cleontes and Orlandos of other days, whose very bow anni* 
hilate^ one's peace of mind. I have a vision of him, wi^ 
lace ruffles, and his mistress's portrait on his snuff-box -— 
keeping a portf<^o of bUk^ dotix and talldng of the last sweet 
creature that died for him^ with a ' Well^ it was really tm» 
creel !'*• 

'^ Tou are right — Mr. danricarde is horn too late ; the re- 
pntatiMi of a conqueror, whedier of hearts or kingdoms^ is now 
philosophically demonstrated to^he wortidess. . Utility is fast 
annihilating the empire d the sigh or the sword : a hero is 
pronounced to be dangerous, or^ woise^ useless — and Alexan- 
ders and Richebeus are equally out of keeping with our time. 
Mr. Claniicarde's theory of sentiment is rather original : he 
says h^ quite agrees with Montesquieu's doctrine of the influ- 
ence of climate ; he tBerefore argues that this external efl^ 
must be counteracted by an intenhd one, and takes up an. 
attachment as the best resource against the fogs, rains^ and 
snows of our idand. He changes his mistresses widi the- 
weather : in sunshine, by way of contrast, he demotes himself 
to some languid beauty — in gloom to some piquant coquette. 
I rallied him the other day on his homage this June to the lively 
and witty Miss Fortescue. ' Yes^ summer is setting in with 
its usual severity,' replied he — ' one must have a resource.' " 

''He is a practical reproach to our barometer," rejoined 
Smily: ^' bat do you not tiliink the inconvenience of such rainy 
seasons is more than compensated by the pleasure of grumbting 
atthem.>" 

'* Our national sa^y-valve : a Frendiman throws his dis- 
content into an epigram, and is happy — an Englishman vents 
fail on the weather, and is satisfied. Heaven help our minister 
through a fine summer ! it would inevitably cost him his place; 
for our English grumhling is equally distribtited between the- 



^y^ ROMJiKCB AND REALITY. 

t^ i^t 4MhI mIiucs» and the case would be desperate when 

^'^ X^ MM t^ Misses M'Leod dressed beautifully to-night'' 
"-^ VTt ^tt^ Ah» Miss Arundel^ what a duty it is in a 
•n^l^in^ t^ ditts well i Alas, that a duty so important should 
^^^ 1,^ Mgkcted I Dress ought to be part of female education ; 
Wr t^ to colouring, her taste for drapery, should be culti- 
t^l^ by interne study. Let her approach the mirror as she 
^(^nkl her harp or her grammar, aware that she has a task 
M«N(« her> whose fulfilment, not whose fulfilling, is matter of 
^mty% Abo^e all, let her eschew the impertinence of inven- 
lioik ; kt her leave genius to her milliner. In schools, there 
ait the drawing, French, and dancing days ; there should also 
be dressing days. From sandal to ringlet should undergo 
strict investigation ; and a prize should be given to the best 
dressed. We should not then have our eyesight affronted by 
yellows and pinks, greens and blues; mingled together; w^ 
should be spared the rigidity of form too often attendant on a 
new dress ; and no longer behold shawls hung on shoulders as 
if they were two pegs in a passage." 

*^ A frivolous employment you find, truly, for our sex I " 
'^ A frivolous employment ! This comes of well-sounding 
morality shining in a sentence. Frivolous in an education 
devoted to attraction ! No sonata will do so much execution 
as your aerial crSpe over delicate satin; and your cadences 
never produce half the effect of your curls." 

'' But consider the time your system would require." 
" But consider the time really and truly given to the toilette. 
My system would require but half — for it would be judiclr 
ously employed." 

'* You gentlemen have strange notions on these subjects; you 
have some visionary fancy of a heroine all white musUn and 
eimplicity, whose ringlets never come out of curl, and who 
puts a few natural flowers, which make a point of not fadings 
tn her hair.'' 

*' I have a particular antipathy to white muslin ; and I think 
natural flowers like natural pleasures— -their beauty is soon 
past. No; I prefer a noble confidence in your milliner, 
using your own taste only in selection ; and ako that confi- 
4ential intercourse between yourself and your clothes as if you 
were accustomed to each other. Do not take up your boa as 



BOMAKCX AND REALITT. 309 

ff It wete the rope with which you meant to hang yourself; 
nor ¥rrap your shawl round you as if it were your shroud* 
But you, Miys Arundel, understand well what I mean." 

There was a very graceful erophans on the ffou ; hut £mily 
teertainly hlushed deeper than the occasion required. For the 
£rst time, Lady Alicia was petitioned to keep the carriage 
waiting half an hour for '*one more waltz ;" and '^ Oh^ such 
a deligfitful hall^ sir ! " was Emily's. account to Mr. Delawarr 
the next morning at breakfast. 

If, as a pretty little French woman once ohserved, a yottng; 
lady's delight in a ball is not always raiscnnable, at least she 
alwltys has quelque raUon. 

I own that life is very wearisome — ^that we are most miser- 
tible creatures— that we go on through disappointments, cares^ 
and sorrows, enough for a dozen of poems; still, it has • 
pleasant passages — for example, when one is young, pretty, 
and a little in love. What a pity that we cannot remain at 
fifteen and five and twenty ! Or, second thoughts are best — 
I dare say then we should sink under the ennui of enjoyment, 
or be obliged to commit suicide in self-defence. 

It is a fact, as melancholy for the historian as it is true, that 
though balls are very important events in a young lady's career, 
there is exceedingly little to be said about them : — they are 
pkttsures all on the same pattern, — the history of one is the 
history of all. You dress with a square glass before you, and 
a long glass behind you ; your hair trusts to its own brown or 
black attractions, either curled or braided, — or you put on a 
wreath, a bunch of flowers, or a pearl bandaau / your dress 
is gauze, crape, lace, or mustin, either white^ V^Tok, Uue, or 
yellow; you shower, like Aprils an odorous rain on your 
handkerchief; you put on your shawl^and step into the car" 
nage ; you stop in some street or squaire ; your footman raps 
as long as he can ; you are some time going up stairs ; yo« 
hear your name, or something like it, leading the way before- 
you. As many drawing-rooms are thrown open as the house 
will allow,— -they are lighted with lamps or wax lights, there 
is a certain quantity of china, and a certain number of exotics ; 
also a gay-looking crowd, from which the hostess emerges, and 
declares she is very glad to see you. You pass cm ; you sit a 
little while on a sofa ; a tall or a short gentleman asks you to 
dance,—- to this you reply, that you will be very happy ; you 



110 IIQICANCB AND REAIilTT^ 

Ukt His aim and walk to the quadxille or waltz ; a suooecNnoii 
^UP partners. Then comes supper: you h»Ye a small piece of 
A»wl, and a thin slice ef ham, perhaps some jelly^ or a few 
jltrnpes,-— a glass of white wine^ or jMMscfte mJofromaine, Tour 
partners have asked you if yon here been to the Opera; in 
reeum you question Ihem if they ha^e been to the Park. 
P^riiaps a remark is hazarded on Miss Fanny Kemble. If you 
ai« a step moire intimate^ a few disparaging obaervations are 
made on the entertainment and the guests. Some cavalier 
hands you down stairs ; you re-doak and re-enter the carriage 
with the comfortable reflection, that as you have been seen at 
Mrs. So-and-so's ball^ Mrs. Such-a-one may ask you to hers, 

Now, is not this a true page in the annals of dancing ? A 
little sentiment in the case jalters the whole aflSiir. £mily's 
clay of philosophical reflection in a hall-room was either past or 
to come. There are many odd ^ngs in ^society ; but its 
Anmsements are the oddest of all. Take any crowded party 
you will, and I doubt if there are ten pensons in the room who 
are really pleased. To do as others do^ is the mania of the 
day. I will tell yon a story. 

Once upon a time a lady died much regretted ; for she was 
as kind-hearted an individual as ever gBTe birth-day preaents 
in her life, or left legacies at hes death. When diey heard 
the intelligence, the whole of a married daughter's family weie 
in great distress, — the mother cried bitterly, so did her two 
eldest daughters, as fitting and proper to do. The yoimgest 
child of all, a Mttle ct eatuie who could not in the least recollect 
its grandmother, ne^rertheless retixed into a corner^ and threw 
its pinafore over its face. '^ Foor dear feding little creature ! ** 
aaid the nurse^ ''don't you cry too." '^ I'm not crying^'' 
iieplied the child ; <' I only pretend." 

Regret and enjayment aie much the same ; people are like 
4he child^ — they only pretend. 



RQMANCB AND 3UB4XmP« 111 



CHAPTER XIX. 

** I trust I may be pennittod to ha,y an opinloii of my ow.** 

Cotmnonpiace in Domestic Dialogue. 

" He who Judges of other days by the feelings of his own, Is like one who would 
adapt a Polar dress to the climate of the Tropics." 

JaMEs's Httfry nf Chivalry. 

'^ Were you entertained at the play last night?" said Lady 
Mandeville, who, apart from the other callers, had formed a 
little circle of Emily, Lorraine, and Mr. Morland. 

Edward Lorraine. — "Allow me to answer for you ; Miss 
Arundel was delighted, for she was superlatively miserable — - 
and the pleasure of a tragedy is to be measured by its sorrow.** 

Emily, — "I never saw a tragedy before, and, to use one of 
Mr. Lorraine's own expressions, novelty is the secret of enjoy- 
ment; and I liked Miss Fanny Kemble so much." 

JS£r» Morland, — *"* Excepting as matter of pedigree, our an- 
cestors are exceedingly in the way : we go to see a young, rising;, 
inexperienced girl, and we keep talking about Mrs. Siddons. I 
think it just a debatable point, whether Miss Kemble be most 
indebted to the attraction flung over her by memories of other 
days, or injured by the comparison." 

Emily, — ^^I cannot offer an \)pinion, but I must express my 
delight ; there is something in her voice that fills my eyes with 
fears, even before I know the sense ; and her face is to my taste 
beautiful, — the finely arched and expressive brow, and the dark^ 
passionate eyes, — what a world of thought and feeling lie in 
their shadowy depths ! She gave to me, at least, an interest in 
Juliet I never felt before." 

Lady MandeviUe, — ''I agree with you in not placing Juliet 
among my favourite creations of Shakespeare ; her love is too 
sudden, too openly avowed — it is merely taking a fancy to the 
first handsome young man she sees ; even to her lover she has 
to say, 

* If thou thinkest I am too quickly won.* 



Now, among all Shakespeare's heroines, give me Viola. J have 
always formed a beautiful vision of the lonely and enthusiastic 
Italian, auising a wild dream of the noble duke, whose per- 
fectioiiB had been the subject of their fireside talk — 

* I fam lieatd agr QtfMr ^aine Mm V 



}|£ ROMANCE AND REALITY. 

cherishing the vision of her girlhood in silence and hopelessness: 
Viola seems to me the very poetry of love. Satisfactory as is 
the ending of Twelfth Night, I always feel a fanciful anxiety 
for the fate of her who is henceforth to be 

' Orsino's mistress, and his fancy's queen.* 

I have a great idea of a lover having some trouble, — it is the 
effort we make to attain an object that teaches us its value." 

Edward Lorraine. — "I think you judge Juliet unfairly, 
because you judge her by rules to which she is not amenable — 
by those of our present time. You forget how differently love 
affairs are now arranged to what they were in the time of the 
fair Veronese. It was an age when love lived, as Byron says, 
more in the eyes than the heart. A kind wind blew back a veil, 
and showed a rose-touched cheek ; or a dark eye flashed over & 
blind — this was enough to make an enamoured youth desperate. 
The lady herself just glanced over her lattice, and a stately atep, 
or a well-mounted steed^ henceforth haunted her dreams. The 
only communication between lovers was the handing the holy 
water in the cathedral, a guitar softly touched at night, or per- 
haps the rare occurrence of meeting at a festival. In all the old 
novelists and poets, love at first sight is a common event, because 
it was such in actual life. Our modern eauness of manners and 
freedom of intercourse develope the same feeling though in a 
different manner, — we no longer lose our hearts so suddenly, 
because there is no necessity for such haste; we talk of answer, 
ing tastes, our ancestors thought of answering eyes,-— we re« 
quire a certain number of quadrilles, and a certain quantity of 
conversation, before the young pair can be supposed to form an 
attachment; but allow me to say, I do not see why it is so much 
more rational to talk than to look oneself into love. No : judge 
Juliet according to the manners of a time of masks, veils, sere- 
nades, and seclusion, and you will find the picture worked out 
in colours as delicate as they are natural." 

The defence of one woman is a man's best flattery to the 
whole sex, even as the abuse of them in general as but a bad 
compliment to any individual. 

Lady MandeviUe. — ^'I cannot but think the cotninonp}ao& 
and sweeping satire he bestows on us a great fault in die clever 
and original author of Sydenham. However, I hold it but as 
the ingenious vanity of a youag man: had he praised people 



ROMANCE AND BEALITT. lH 

would only have said^ 'very interesting, but so romantic;' but 
ne censures, and the remark is, 'he must know a great deal to 
know so much eviL' Perhaps this is the cause why the judg- 
ments of the young are generally so severe, — censure has to 
them somewhat the seeming of experience; and in reason as in 
% fashion, we doubly affect what we have not." 

Mr, Morland, — ''It puts me in mind of a little speech of 
his to a lady who reproached him for praising her young 
friend's style of wreath and ringlet, when he knew it was not 
becoming — 'Could you suspect me of speaking the truth to a 
youaglady?'" 

Lady J^and!evtlfe.-«^"Now the knowledge of our sex that 
speedi supposed. Nothing is so disparaging as vanity. It 
seems, like the Tartar, to suppose it acquires the qualities of the 
individual it destroys/' 

Edward Lorraine, — "To return to our theatricals; I was 
delighted with Miss Kemble a Portia; her rich melancholy voice 
gives such e£fect to poetry. I missed her when she was not on 
the stage, in spite of the absorbing interest of that most calum* 
niated and ill-used person, the Jew." 

EmUff, — "A most amiable person you have diosen fcnr your 
olyect of interest." 

Edward Lorraine. — " I do think him so ill used : his riches 
matter o£ mingled envy and reproach— himsd[f insulted, ->--his 
daughter, to whom, at least, he softens into affection — other- 
wise so chilled and checked — deserts, nay, robs him,-~I am 
sure he has most sufficient cause of resentment against ^ these 
Christians ; ' only I cannot forgive his craven conduct in the 
last scene: had I been Shylock, I would have exacted my pe- 
nalty at its utmost peril,-* my life should have cheaply bought 
, Antonio's." 

Mr, Morland, — "That would have been carrying revenge 
sufliciently far." 

Edward Lorraine, — "Truly, I hold revenge to be a moral 
duty. To permit ourselves to be ihjured with impunity, is to 
give an encouragement to evil, which may afterwards turn' 
against others as well as ourselves. Some one says, revenge is 
such a luxury, the gods keep it to themselves; -v^hen they do 
permit us to participate in the enjoyment, by placing it in our 
power> it is dbwnright ingratitude not to partak<6.* 
.. • ■ • ' • z •' 



tt. 



114 RQUAJfOi AXiD RKALITY. 

Lddp MandevUk. — '^A mo»t amiable and peaceful doc- 
trine 1 " 

Mr, Morland, — '' 1, for one^ do not wish those days to return^ 
when a man's forefathers left him a feud by way of inheritance^ 
or a quarrel as a legacy." 

Edward Lorraine^' — '^ Well, well, we can still have a suit in 
chancery ; and I do not see but that, when 

' Your lawyeri are met, a terrible show/ 

die redress will be about as destructive to both sides as when 
you faced your opponent at the head of your armed retainers;* 
though^ for myself, I am free to confess, I never ride up the 
arenue where I first catch sight of the towers of £theriBghame 
without regret for the days whea our banner floated over Ave 
hundred horseman, and die crested helmets on the wallweBe 
not, as now, a vain show for the antiquary/' 

Lady MandeiaiUe,'^' YeB-^^yoa have- cause to re^gret those 
days, when, as a younger brother, you would have been put 
into a monastery or a dungeon! You must confess that oar 
modern days of elufas, cabriolets, and comfort, is somewhat more 
advanced towards perfection." 

Edward Larraine,^^" Why comlbrt is a very compomtive 
term : it is true, I prefer the crimson carpet under my feet to 
die rushes with whkh my ancestors would have strewed my 
floor ; but if I had never seen the oaipet» I coold not have 
missed it ••-•as Clbbsr, in his beaatilul poem of the Blind Boj, 
says— • 

* I do noC feel 
The want 1 do not knov.'** 

Mr. Moriand*-^" The hope of improvement is a quality at 
once so strong and so excellent in the human mind, that I, for 
cue, disapprove of any sophism— or, if you will, ailment—* 
that tends to repress it. It is certain that nothing ever pro- 
duces either the evil or the good prognosticated ; drcumstanoes 
always ocour which no one codd have foreseen, and which 
always both alter and ameliorate. Our stgie is a little eelf-im* 
portant — w was ita predecessor — so will be its follower : it is 
a cmtQiia iut, but tbe went and the best is always said and 
thoui^t of the relating time. For my part, I neither think 
that o«r pieMiKl day ia all but pcrfrctinnj nor do I quite hold 
with those who only put my gwdener a hdief into di£Eeient 
wovds, ^diatkenung and good loeds will rain the kingdonu*'* 



ROMAKdE AXB REAUTV* XI $ 

Lady MandeviUe. — ^'^One of the maniu of the present day,' 
which especially excites my spleen, is the locomotive nge whidi 
seems to possess all ranks — that necessity of agoing oat of town 
in the summer — people, for example, in the mitcldle dasses, who 
have a comfortahle and well-fumiahed hoaae — to live in some 
small cottage or miserahle lodgings^ the chief of whose recom- 
mendation seems to be, that they are either damp or windy ; 
they give up regular habits and comforts, an innovation on the 
letst of which would have occasioned a fortnight's gnimbling 
at any other time ; hut now 'the lady's health required change 
of air/ or ' it would do the children so mt^h good."* 

Edward Lorraine, — '^You have forgotten the genteel sound 
of 'we passed the summer at Worthing,' or 'the autumn at 
Hastings.' 

Mr, Morland, — ^'Nothing appears to me so absurd asplacing 
our happiness in the opinion others entertain of our enjoyments^ 
not in our own settse of them. The fear of being thought 
^Igar, is the mond hydrophobia of the day ; onr weaknesses 
eest us a thousand times more regret and shame than our 
fatdts." 

Lady MaiideoUie, — '* Ah^ if we could but keep a Uttie for our 
own use of the wisdom we so liberally bestow on others ! 
Nothing can be more entire than my conviction of tiM truth 
•f what we have been saying — but I wish you good morning, 
for I must tease — I vnean persuade — Lord Mandevilie to go 
to Lady Falcondale's fete — not that I have myself the least 
wish to go, — but every body wiD be there." 

'' I wonder," said Lorraine, as she departed^ *' whether any 
thing can be more mnsleal than Lady MandeviUe's laugh. 
What a risk it is to kugh ! Laughter may be generally daised 
under three heads^ — forced, silly, or vulgar ; but hers is the 
most sweet, real^ ^piritaeRe sound possible — it so appreciates 
the wit, which it Increases as it catches — it spealm of spirits 
so fresh, so youthM 1 I think Weld i& the ti^aveller who says- 
he loved to sit of an evening in the shade where he coold hear 
the laughter of the Indian women — that it had on him dbe 
e^ot of music : I say the same of Lady Mindevtlle's." 

Mr. Morkmd.-^' The authorof AittlCliiMk is the IfcrsI who 
has made open war, and tomed his ridieaie- agahisl the somibre 
Mlowers of Loid Byton ; but I thkik he goea too far in the 
«l6te aAiiMioe he suppoiei between gml qrfrilSH^i^'geMHu 

I 2 



Il6 ROMANCE AND BEALITY* 

The favourite topic of our philosophers is the weakness^ that 
of the poets the sorrows of human nature — its fears also^ an^ 
its crimes. These are not very enlivening subjects^ and yet 
they are universally chosen ; and for one great reason-^ in some 
or other of their shapes they come home to every one's experL- 
ence. It is very true that Homer s general tone is exciting^ 
warlike^ and glad^ like the sound of a trumpet ; still his most 
popular passages are those touched with sorrow and affection : 
the parting of Hector and Andromache is uppermost in the 
minds of the great body of his readers ; and the grief of Priam 
touches the many much more than the godlike attributes of 
Achilles. I believe genius to be acute feeling gifted with the 
power of expression^ and with that keen observation which early 
leads to reflection; and few can feel much of, or think much oo, 
the various lessons of life, and not say, in the sorrowful language 
of the Psalmist, ^ My soul is heavy within me.' But as the onoe 
beautifully-moulded figures, that pass through the various casts 
taken in plaster of Paris, till scarce a trace remains of their 
original symmetry and grace in the base copies hawked about 
the streets — so an idea, or a feeling, once true and beatttiful» 
becomes garbled and absurd by passing through the hands of 
awkward imitators* I have not the slightest intention of taking 
up the defence of ^ young gentlemen who make frowns in the 
glass;' in truth, their laments and regrets axe about as just as 
those of an old gentleman of my acquaintance, blessed-^-^I 
believe that is the proper phrase — with a more than ordinary 
portion of children and grandchildren, but who kept dying off, 
and being buried in the family vault, to the great sorrow of the 
grandfather, who, equally vexed and indignant, complained, 
'there will not be a bit of room for me in my own vault.'" 

Edward Lorraine. — '<A hard case, truly, to outlive one's 
very grave ; though, to me at least, there is something very 
revolting in our system of burial — something very contrary to 
the essentially cheerful spirit of our religion. I can conceive 
no scene more chilling and more revolting than a London 
bnrylng.ground ; haste, oblivion, selfishness are its outward 
signs. I love not this desire to loose tlie ties between the 
living and the dead ; the sorrowful affection which lingers over 
the departed is too 8acred> too purifying a feeling, to be thus 
hurriedly put aside. With all that is false and affected about 
la Chaise^ the fteling which founded it, and which it stiU 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 117' 

keeps alive^ is a good one; for no solitary moment passed in 
thoughtfulness beside the deceased was ever yet without its 
price to the survivor." 

Mr. Morland. — *' They say that every age has its ruling 
vice — I think impatience is that of our present — we live in 
such a hurry that we have not time to be sorry." 

Edward Lorraine. — ** And we shall have no time to be 
charitable — we have to attend the Ladies' Bazaar; we are 
destined to fall victims to-day to smiles^ pincushions, and com- 
passion: to my certain knowledge, Miss Arundel^ the other 
mornings despatched a whole regiment of dolls." 

Moore says^ 

" Lightly falls the foot of Time, 
WEicb only treads on flowers.'* 

Pleasantly did the day pass to Emily— one gets so soon accus- 
tomed to the society of a beloved object. Habit is a second 
nature, and what was at first pleasiire is next necessity. Words^ 
sueh nothings in themselves— trifles, so unimportant— walks, 
where there is nothing to see-— amusements, where there is 
nothing to do — how delightful they become under some 
oircttmstances ! Well^ it would not do to be always in love ; 
as a travelling merchant observed to his wife, who had indulged 
somewhat too liberally, for nearly a whole week, in the fasci- 
nating fluid called ^< mountain dew," — *' What ! to-day again? 
-<«^tbis won't do every day— you wouldn't be an angel, would 
you'?" 

Though we difler in the gentleman's estimate of angelic 
nature, we will apply his words, and say to the enamoured-— 
" This won't do every day — you wouldn't be an angel, would 
you?" 



I S 



IIB ' ROMANCE AND REALITY* 



CHAPTER XX. 



"** I taw the guardian Cupid of our town 
Dressed iu a mercantile, staid suit of brown ; 
A wig lie wore— a slate was on his Icnee, 
On which he cast up sums indnatriously ; 
Complexion, morning-, hair, like midoiglit daric — 
Balance, good county interest and a parlc ; 
Stnga like an angel — dances like a grace — 
Chances from Grosvenor Square to Connaught Place. 
But while with this arithmeac amused. 
His bow and arrows lay behind unused." — Milton. 

" We must not be too exquisite — 
We lire by admiration.**— Wordsworth. 



<( 



I wisH^" said Lady Mandeville, as she and Emily met on a 
crowded staircase, ^' you wocdd let me recommend my 09ijg^r 
to you." 

*^ A gentleman most devoted," observed her husband, *' to 
the science. Aware that appearance is every thing in this 
world, he holds it little less than a sin to neglect it. Meeting 
him stepping like a feather, or as light as one of his own curls, 
I stopped to ask Signer Julio Rosettini why he bad not been 
in attendance during the last fortnight ; and knowing how dear 
fame is to genius, I assured him I had scarcely known Lady 
Mandeville to be herself. That ' I was too good^' and that 
'my^ perceptions of the beautiful were exquisite,' were his no 
less flattering rejoinders. He then proceeded to inform me that 
a porter had first run against him with a square trunk, and 
then knocked him down for being in the way. ' You know, 
milor, your countrymen of the canaille are very independent 
— of course my face was cut, and even the humblest of Beauty s 
slaves would not enter her presence disfigured.' There's a 
professor of pommade divine for you ! '' 

Emily laughed and said^ *' Indeed, I shall expect to have 'a 
Cupid ambushed in each curl' under the skilful hands of Signor 
Julio. I will try his power to-morrow." 

Now, it is a very debateable point in my mind, whether any 
woman ever thanks another for recommending either coiffeur^ 
modiste, or any of those modem artisans of the graces — it is 
a tacit reflection on her previous appearance. But Emily was 
far too new to think of that impertinent independence — a taste 
of her own ; she therefore received the advice with juvenile 



ROMANCE AKB REALITT. 119 

thankfulness. Moreover, she recollected having heard Lorraine 
admire the classic perfection of Lady Mandeville's head. 
Motives are like harlequins — there is always a second dress 
beneath their first. 

The next nighty her glance at the glass was certainly a very 
satisfactory one ; and^ in all that pleasant consciousness which 
attends a new dress^ she entered the drawing-room. Here a 
slight disappointment awaited her — Lorraine had gone to an- 
other party^ and was only to join them at Mrs, Grantham's. 
Emily turned away from the fire-place^ though there was a 
mirror over it^ and sat down in a large arm-chair^ and picked, 
leaf by leaf, the beautiful rosebuds which she had that very 
afternoon chosen with such care from the crimson multitude of 
their companions. ^ 

It is a very different thing to be first seen, without com- 
petitor except your own shadow, to being but one in a crowd 
—-your head, and perhaps one arm, only visible — the first 
glossiness of the ringlet, and Ihe first freshness of the white 
tulle, departed for ever. These are heavy disappointments at 
nineteen, and even a little later. Her eyes grew large and 
dark witii the tears that, in a moment after, were checked — 
shame put down sorrow, but not tiQ the lashes glistened with 
momentary brightness. But in youth, happiness deferred turns 
into hope. ** I won't dance, and III sit near the door," 
thought £miiy. 

A sort of fatality attends resolutions — they are so very 
rarely kept. For the first time, whether it was from having 
been accustomed to see her dance lately. Lady Alicia bethought 
her Miss Arundel would like a partner. She also caught the 
particularly low bend of a Mr. Granville, atid instantly intro*- 
ducing him to Emily, sunk back in her cbair with an appear 
ance of heroic exertion. 

Mr. Granville was at present on sufi«rance in society-^ 
working his slow way, and trying to be useful and agreeable, 
in order that he might reach the proud pre-eminence of being 
neither. Who he was, was rather debateable ground — what 
he had, was more easily answered : he came out on the strength 
of his uncle's will. Some persons skate into society— ^others 
slide. Mr. Crranville belonged to the latter class. He had an 
otto-of-rose smile, a low voice, large white hands, and a large 
white handkerchief. You could not be rude to him, for he 

I 4. 



IM nOUA^iOS AND BEALITT. 

IMk it M t personal compliment. To a gentleman's opinion 
W ^fcrred— owlth a lady's he agreed; while his own idea of 
ewv^natioQ was a series of commonplace questions^ which 
Mtmed only asked that he might be of the same opinion as 
your answer. To sum up — he danced indefatigably^ «nd 
complained of the heat. The linked sweetness of the quadrille 
was indeed long drawn out ; but^ bad as this was^ worse re* 
mained behind. The dance ended, and he introduced a friend 
«— as if such a roan had any business with a friend ! 

Mr. Marechal had written a small volume of poems, and 
conceived he had a character to support — somewhat needles^ 
to support what so few knew he had assumed. During the 
first part of the quadrille, he was absent — during the last^ 
eloquent. He asked Emily if she did not dote upon Byron^ 
and idolise Italy : he candidly confessed that he only existed 
by moonlight. ^^ Of course, you understand that by existence 
I mean the awakening of the higher ficunilties of the soul.*' 
He remarked, that dancing was a remnant of ancient barbarism 
-—talked a little of the time wasted in such unintellectual 
pursuits-^ dwelt on the heartlessness of society — and finished 
with a practical proof of his assertion, by handing Emily to a 
seat between too old ladies, whose nodding plumes soon closed 
over her like a hearse. 

They say parties are so very delightful : I have my doubts 
— and doubts, like facts, are stubborn things. I put the 
chaperones out of the question — we will suppose the few sa- 
crificed for the good of the many — and we know martyrdom 
has its pride and pleasure — and pass on to the yowig, for 
whose enjoyment these parties are ostensibly given. The age 
where the mere delight of dancing with a grown-up person 
suffices unto itself, is soon past. The ball assumes its nomi. 
native case, and requires an object ; and flirtation — the adopted 
child of enimi-— relieves the more serious business of ma- 
trimonial speculation. The worst of this pretty sort of half- 
and-half indolent excitement is, that it unidealises the heart—* 
to a woman especially. And love is either annihilated by the 
deadly weight of calculation, or evaporates in the light fumes 
of vanity. A few years of feverish hopes, a few more of 
envious fears, and the complexion is faded, and the game over« 
How much of endeavour and of disappointment, of rivalry and 
mortification, have been crowded into a few brief years ! 



BOUANCB AMB BBALITT, 121 

• The dififezenoe between a woman's career and a man's is 
ibis ; if a man has not had all the ipiccess in life his '^ young 
ambition dreamed/' be has usually canred out some sort of 
path ; if^ for example^ he is not^ as he intended^ lord chan- 
f elior, he has probably a very pretty practice on the circuit, 
and has a respectable share in the hmgings and transporta- 
tions* It is the reverse with wom&). She who aimed at a 
coronet may sometimes end with a curate ; but she is equally 
likely to end, lik^ Christabelle, in nothing — that social non* 
cinUty^ &n old mala. 

AsnoDg the higher classes, the Lady Mary or Lady Sophia of 
the family become as very heir-looms at the country-seat as the 
}ieary arm-chairs worked by their great-aunts, only not half so 
picturesque. In the middle <dass of life, they keep their 
hp:other*s house till Jie marries ; then they quand with his 
wife> whose influence, in that class at least, amounts to absolute 
monarchy ; then they reside in a small private family, where 
they enact the part of Lris at Thetis' wedding — find out that 
it is very dull, and wander from boarding-house to boarding- 
hou^ei carrying the events of one to tlie inventions of another, 
till they are about as much dreaded and disliked as the visits 
of the tax-gatherer ; in short, they are a sort of moral excise. 

I knew an old lady — the very beau idial of black satin and 
blonde, whose dignity was aelf-resi>ect, and whose courtesy 
was one half kindness — who used to say on any shght instance 
of carelessness or extravagance on the part of her grand- 
daughters, ''You don't consider what it requires to make a 
woman fit to be married." One feels rather inclined to reverse 
her phrase, and say, '^ You don't consider what it requires to 
make a woman fit to be an old maid." 

Feeling is very much in the way of philosophy ; and Emily 
was much more employed in thinking how completely the 
laige plumes and larger sleeves of her neighbours concealed 
her, than in speculations on the dancers. To add to her mis- 
fortunes, Mr. Marechal occupied the small vista hitherto al- 
lowed to terminate in her prpfile, with an attitude. Sitting 
opposite a pier-glass has its disadvantages; however, when 
things come to the worst, they mend. 

'.' Mr. Marechal," said one of the ladies, '^ will you fetch 
my cloak — I feel it cold." 

I was just going," replied the languid lyrist, " to make 



(C 



19^ iMKAWm AV19 KEALirr. I 

you the very tane reqneit; for I mfBsr gready from the 
dnaght of your feathers/; 

To be rude is as good as being cleyer. The ^easore of 
repeating Mr. Marecbal's reply quite oonsoled the lady for 
fetching her own dotk ; and she moved ofF^ to Emily's gieat 
satisfaction^ which satisfactioa had, howerer, to stand the test 
of another very dull half hoar. Long before any less interested 
glance could hare discovered his entrance^ her eye rested on 
Lorraine. " O how superior he looks to ev^y one else ! " was 
her first thought. The next moment cheek and eye brightened 
with i^easure — for he crossed the room^ engaged her for the 
next danoe^ and took his place by her side. 

Alas ! we give our own colouring to the actions of othos. 
Edward acted upon a mere kindly impulse. He saw Miss 
Arundel sitting by herself^ and looking with a weariness 
worthy of a watch-tower. There was as much pity as pre^ 
fcronce in his choice : but the one is a much more flattering 
reason to aseign than the other €an we wonder that at nine- 
teen £mily drew the pleasanter conclusion ? With spirits and 
smiles equaHy bright^ she took the wreath that night from her 
hair. Too excited for sleep^ with all diat g^ad re6tle8sneBs> 
which^ if not happiness, is as like it as any thing we know-— ^ 
that very night she sat down and wrote a long letter to her 
underf Its tone was not quite so philosophical as.it had been 
about ^e heartless insipicMty of a London season. 



CHAPTER XXL 

We should be grateful to that iaiiy queen, 
Sweet Fancjr ; she who makes dreams tangible, 
And gires the oater world wherein we live 
Light from the inner one, where feelings dwell, 
And poetry, and colours beautiful. 
Shedding a charm upon our dailv life. 
And keeping yet some childhood in the heart. 

** I WAS quite alarmed yesterday while dining with Mr. Mor- 
land, to find him, Miss Arandel^ so great an admirer of yours. 
I entreat/' said Lorraine, '' that you will not destroy my beau 
ideal of sixty and singlehood." 

" Vain feans ! " replied Emily, laughing. " A lover may 



gite Up bis miiitieifi, but< noC a ]kliUo8q>ber his system. le 
would be bad taste in liim to manry agaia ; and sucdi an ax^^ 
ment would with him be decisive. €raod taiCe is his leiigioa, 
his mofality, hia standard, and hia test. I remember Mr* 
Delawarr was telling a story of a most shocking murder that 
d man had committed — beating his wiie^s bnuns out with a 
hammer. ^Bad tsate/ said Mr. Morisnd ; ' tery bad taste ! ' 
At first I thou^t he alluded to the murder ; but I after* 
wards found it was the mode in which the murder waa com- 
mitted." 

Edward Lorraine, — " Allowing for a little feminine ex- 
aggeration, you 4ire not far wrong. Mr. Morhmd carries his 
prind]^ to its extent ; but in his hands it is an excellent 
rule of action. To avoid the ridiculous, and pursue the 
beautiful, would be equally his rule for the statesman and 
the upholsterer. Coosistency of action, attention to results, 
and also to present benefit on the one side, and harmmiy of 
oelonr and graceful eflfect on the other, he urges arise from 
the same principle under different drBumstanoes -« Tiz. good 
taste ! His house and his conduct, his dress and his language, 
are equally perfeot. He lives a short distance out of London* 
*■ I must have,' I have often heard him say, 'quiet; ' so I 
avoid living in a street — ^ I look upon my fine old trees -* 
my growdi of summer flowers, liuka between myself and 
nature. I grow too worldly, and I freshen my imaginatioa 
with my roses. I grow disputatious and discontented among 
volumes of feverish study, vain S8pirings,*and useless in&rm- 
ation ; I open one of my windows^ and in so doing shake a 
shower of blossoms from the ckmatts. I step out into the 
sunshine, and feel rcgoiced to think there is a bright side stUl 
in the world. I Hve near town, far I am yet unwilling die 
age should leave me far behind it. I have old friends with 
whom I talk of the past, and young ones with whom I talk 
of the present. In youth one only grows romantic in solitude ; 
bnt in old age one grows selfish. I have no interests to jar 
against those of others; society, therefore, calls forth my 
more kindly feelings. I have a noble fortune ; and, what is 
more, 1 know the value of it, both as it regards myself and 
others. I have an * excellent library of my own, and a sub* 
scription to a circulating one — ^ an admirable cook — and a 
cellar where the sunshine of many a summer is treasured. I 



1S4 RaMAitoK J 

hawuDdi experience, and a little phtlaaaphj. t own A* 
'nnitj v( mniy a fonner anxious pursuit ; but am equrilf 
md; to own I did not see tbe vanity of it at the time. I 
•■> BOW well content to be spectator of the world's great alag* 
with kindneta — 107 still remaining link with its pretetrt 
■clora,' Confeai, MiM Anindel, this is all in very good taste;" 
Jftn ArvndtL — "I trust 700 are not hoping for an a:pi- 
iDMt in expecting me to deny it ; and I must add, I baTo 
aeen few persons in London whom I liked so much, periiapi 
because his kind manner puts me so much in mind of my 

" But I have interrupted you. What wert the leaves yon 
were so carefully turning i " and Edwaid took up a numbn- 
of Martin's Illustrations of Milton. 

'■■ I ueTer," said Emily, " have my idea of a palace realised 
but in these pictures — the balU of porphyry throogh which 
Prince Ahmed was led to the throne of his faiiy queen ■— or 
those of a thoniand pillan of black marble, where the joaag- 
king s^ an enchanted statue." 

Edvard Lorraint. — "I should like to be the caar, if it. 
wtae only to give some millions of my baibariaoi employment 
in erecting a palsce after Martin's design. It wonld be for 
their benefit. The monarch ntuit be noble as his dwelling ; 
and ray ideas would be exalted ss my roof, and my aelioiu 
iniitate the beauty. and regularity of my piUars." 

Mi*i Arundel. — "Do not you think hii landscapes havft- 
the same munificent spirit of poetry in them as hie arohitec-' 
tnre f Look at tliese trees, each one a temple — these rooks 
jet warm with the lightning flsBfa, which has just rent a fsar- 
M chaim. I know not why, hut I never see a stream of his 
p«tnting but I recall those lines of Coleridge's : 

the days of the caUphs, Zobeide wmiU 
paint the palace of pictures she wagered 
lid." 

, — " What «n illuttrator be would be of 

His pencil would be like the wuid of 

•t lamp itself could not call up a more 

i would. Think of those magnificent 



BOXAMCK AND BKAXJTY, 125 

windows^ of which even a king had not gems enough in hid 
tveasary to finish only one ; or what would he not image of 
the enchanted garden itself, where the grapes were ruhies> 
the flowers of pearl, and the mysterious shrine where burnt 
the* mystic lamp. I would asaemfale them in a picture-* 
gallery, where once a year I would ask my friends to a ban» 
^ueti sacred to the memory of M. de CaiUaud." 

Mi98 ArundeL --* *' And drink his health in Shiras wine." 
JSdward Larrmne, — ^^ I would do as he has done — mix 
it with some of his native champagne. I think the extent 
of our obligations to that most perfect of translators has neyer 
been £elt. Compare his with the versions that have since 
crnne^^ — 

* Sad dream, as when the spirit of youth 
Beturos asaiu in sleep, and leads us back 
In mournful mockery o'er the shining track * 

of the enchanted world of genii, sultans, and princesses. The 
reason is, they give us the literal story, and foolishly pique 
themselves on the accuracy of their translation, and their 
knowledge of Arabic. Caillaud, on the contrary, did as 
Shakespeare did, who, out of the stupid novels of Cynthio^ 
extraeted a Romeo and Juliet. He modelled his raw materiel, 
and told- the story with his own espeoial grace, in addition to 
what is a nationid gift to his countrymen, fart de center. By 
the by, I think it among the great honours to French litera- 
ture, that one of its most original branches, fairy tales, is 
peculiarly its own. I believe the Children in the Wood, 
M^ittington and his Cat, and Little Red Ridlnghood, are 
those only, of all our popular tales, which have an £nglish 
fttigin* Now, the first rather belong to our simple and beau* 
tiiiil ballad school ; the next, a Utilitavian might have writtoi 
as a good encouraging lesson of poverty rising into wealth -— 
a tale in the very ^irit of la nation houtiguiirej and as for 
Little Red Ridlnghood, the terror, the only fe^ng it is cal- 
oakted to produce^ is beneath the capacity of any critic past 
ive years of age* 

'* But look at the imagination, the vivacity, of the others: 
yfie read them in diildhood for the poetry of their wonders, 
and in more advanced life for their wit; for they are the 
Horaces of fairy land. The French have the very perfection 
of' short stoipiee in their literature -^ little touches' like tlie 



125 BtOMAHeS AKD BEALtTT. 

flight of a shining arrow. I remember one that began : ' Theie 
Was once a king smd qneen, very silty people^ but who loved 
eaeh other as mach as if tliey had been wiser, perhaps more/ 
Tiien, again^ speaking of some fairy portent : * They could 
BOt at all understand it — therefore took it for granted it waa 
something very terrible or very fine ;' or, again, * The qaeen 
was for ever in an ill hnmour, but liad the best heart in the 
woiM/ We English have no word that translates that of 
persiflage/ and for this reason, a nation only wants words for 
the tiliingB it knows — and -of this we have no understanding. 
An eiLquisite distinction I once heard made between wit and 
humour, appears to me admirably to apply to that of the 
French and English — that humour differs from wit in being 
more nearly allied with pathos. Thus it is with us islanders 
— we can be merry^ but not lively ; and mirth brings its 
own reaction. Lord Byron wrote quite as an Englishman 
when be said 

* Laughter 
Leares u& so doubly uddeneU sborUy of tar.' " 

EmUy Anmdel. — " How w^l I remember sitting under a 
favourite old chestnut tree, with a huge folio of tales ftUed 
with pictures — kings and queens, always with their crowns' 
on their heads --^ and fairies, with large hoops, and wings on 
their shoulders ! " 

Edward Lorraine, — " Talking of wings — with what 
magnificent plumes does Martin invest his angels, as if tinged 
by eva-y ray of sunshine tbiey caught in their descent tio the 
earth ; and their size, tqp, gives such an idea of power ! " 

Emily Arundei.^^'^ But to go back to supposing subjects -for 
his pictures. What do you say to the midnight fete in tbe 
gardens of Schensyrafbade, when the caliph vinted his<beaiiifi<^ 
fid favourite ? Think of the hundred black shnres, with their 
tordies of scented wax •'^ the guards with their gorgeous 
turbans and flittering scimitars — the lighted gidleriee of the 
palace — the gardens with their thousand lamps— ^' the sparks 
ling fountains — and the lake, one gigantic mirror of the 
whole festival." 

Edward Lorraine. -^'' As oidy ii^edor to my own suirject ; 
every one has his favourite hero ; and mine, the only gentle^ 
man Rome ever possesaed^ Is LuaiHus. I hme a very dii* 
^■espectful feding lewards year gieat hmq who i^qued them^ 



•elves on wearing an old elodc, and who reaortsd to jteeling 
turnips as an elegant employment for their leisure hours. 
Lucidhis conquered ; and» after energy and exertioB, sou^t 
refinement and repose. He cnltiTated his thoughts instead of 
his radishes ; and he studied that 'union of hixury and |4ulo« 
sophy^ which is the excelknce of refinement. My picture is 
< LucuHus at supper/ ** 

Emily ArundeL — ^' Kay» I cannot admit the superiority of 
your sulirject." 

Edward LorraiinB, — " Because you have not considered it. 
J, suppose him at supper that night when he gave that superb 
leply^ dictated in the ndblest spirit of seif-appneciatioD, ' Lu- 
ddius sups with Lucullus to«n^ht I ' Conqueror of Ana 1 
Tiekor of Milhridates ! yon were worthy of your glory ! Firsts 
imagine a nohk hall, of that fine blue which the waUs of 
Portici yet preserve, supported by Corinthian pillars of the 
purest Parian mavble ; scatter round a few pieces of exquisite 
sculpture — a Venus, of beauty as ideal as its dream — a 
nymph, only less lovdy '— an ApoUo, the personification of 
the genius whidi ifarst imagined, and then bodied foorth hie 
Uccneas •— a few busts^ eadi one a history of the imnKHrtal 
mmd — and in the distance a hi^ portal unfislds, whence 
are issuing slaves, in aU the gorgeous variety ef Eastern 
costume, appvoadiing a table bri^t widi purpk grapes — 
die ruby dierries, his own present of peace to Italy-*— fiasfes 
of wine^ Hke im^irisoned sunbeaas, whether touched with the 
golden light of noon, or the. crimson hues of .sunset — > gobkts 
of crystal, vases of goid and silver, or the finely-f((»mad 
Strosoan ; and above, a silver iampy like an eartUy moon.. 
There are two windows -^ in the one a vkiet*coloaced cnr« 
taia, waved back by die wind, juat disoovers a gieup of 
Ionian girls; their black hair wreathed with flowers, and 
holding lutes, whose sweet chorus is making musical the air 
of a strange land with the songs of their own. The other 
viadow has the rich Italian evening only shut out by the 
IwTOwant bnndbea ef a nyitle ; and beyond ia a gjwfe €lf 
eypieas^ a small and a winding river •— * 



ratcnMinitt 



Which the qre watcuM in iU wangling.' 

Stilted on the tricliniiiDi. in die-mite is a middle-«gM man, 
wiih«hiQ^«DdBoUefawv; die - fins a9iiliBe4koae^ lo petal- 



128 BOMANCE AHJO SEAUTT. 

cian, as if thar eagle had set his own seal on his warlike 
race ; an expression of almost melancholy sweetness in his 
mouUi^ but of decision in the large meditative blue eye : on 
one side a written scroll, bearing the name of Plato, has just 
dropped from his hand ; and on the other a beautiful youth 
kneels to announce to him, ' that LucuUus sups with LucuUus 
to-night.' Mr. Morland has a vacant niche in his breakfast- 
room : I really must call his attention to this." 

'^ You could never do so better than to-day/' said that 
identical gentleman, entering the little drawing-room where 
they were seated. 

. '^ I have just been persuading Delawarr to leave politics, 
parchments, places, and plans, for my acacias, now in full 
bloom, and some of my most aromatic Burgundy. Lady 
Alicia, like a good wife, has consented to accompany him ; 
and I am come to insist on you young people following the 
example of your elders ; and, moreover, I have a little girl of 
mine with whom I wish Miss Arundel to be delighted. You 
are to set off at once, toUette de matin : you know ladies 
never dress but for each other ; and that pretty green silk will 
be just in keeping with my shrubbery. Now, I only allow 
you five minutes to place your bonnet just the least in the 
world on the left side. You must trust to genius, not to study» 
to-day." And, in spite of the thousand-and-one delays that 
always intervene before a party of pleasure sets off, ten minutes 
had not elapsed before the whole party were on the road. 

It had been settled that Lorraine was to drive Emily in his 
phaeton. It is true the sun was foil in her eyes, the wind 
high, and the dust, which is just mpd in high spirits, flew 
round them in clouds ; but Emily found her ride delightfuL 
Is it not Wordsworth, who, in his quality of philosopher and 
poet 8a3rs, . 

«* It U the benrt doM misnity thli life. 
Making a truth and beautj of iti own ? " 

About the beauty we entirely agree with him -— touching 
the truth, we are not quite so certain : but poets often mistakey 
and philosophers still oftener. £2mily's own feelings ooloored 
all with themselves. Generally speaking, she rather wanted 
animation : what are called high spirits are quite as much 
habitual as eonsdtationaL Living with people much older 
^^^oi herself «-*- an aant never much, pot out of her way by waj 



ROVANCtE AND BEAIiITV. > 1^9 

iMng — and an uncle, whose stately courtesy of the old school 
^as tinctured by a native timidity which age itself never en- 
tirely conquers — she had not been accustomed to give way to 
those impulses of a moment's gaiety which break forth in gay 
laugh and bounding step. Or is diere a prophetic spirit in 
the human mind^ which makes those of the keenest feelings 
often appear cold ; an intuitive^ though unowned fear^ repress* 
ing sensations of such deep and intense power ^ They can- 
sot feel only a little ; and they shrink, though with an uncon- 
scious dread^ from feeling too much. 

But to-day £miiy's gaiety took its tone from the bright 
sunshine. Both herself and Edward in that gay mood which 
makes its own enjoyment^ and enjoys every thing : they were 
soon on the beautifiil common leading to Roehampton^ where 
villas, which seem, like Beatrice's idea of King Pedro for a 
husband, made pnly for holydays — ~ the luxuriant meadows, 
varying, as the passing clouds turn them, from bright glitter- 
ing to the richest and darkest green — here shrubberies, whose 
flowering shrubs overhung the road, scenting the air with a 
moment's fragrance as they passed ^ then> again, the dose* 
cut hawthorn hedge, like' a green knoll, from which some 
unshorn branch occasionally rose, covered with a few late 
blossoms of May. 

A turn in the road brought them to the group of fine old 
^hns which overshadowed Mr. Morland*s gate. Out they 
sprung from the carriage — gaily laughing at the^idea of wel-* 
coming the master to his own house — and Edward acted as 
guide through the serpentine walk that led to the library 
The boughs met overhead — every step brought down a 
shower of coloured and fragrant leaves — till they stopped on 
the lawn. Genoa's princely merchants never f^dghted vessel 
with velvet of softer texture or richer green. Suddenly a 
sweet voice, singing, like a bird, for the pleasure of singings 
came from the room; and, putting back a branch covered 
with a thousand of the little crimson Ayrshire roses, they 
stepped through the window, and saw a girl, apparomtly about 
thirteen, engaged, with, all the earnestness with which child-. 
hood follows its pursuits, in placing flowers in divers vases. 
It was evident no small share of taste and industry was ben 
stowed on the task ; their entrance, however, interrupted the 
pr<igres8 of spme scarlet geranium towards some myrtle — the 



ISO mnaaioB josb kb-alit^. 

duld started — aod her fiiat inteBtloa of a npid flight was 
eridentiy only checked by ustondL poiifteBess — or, rather, that 
inhercDt kindnes, out of whadi oahifialioB afiterwards extracts 
the most graoefbl coorlesy. Shyness ia too much a mere in- 
poise in very early yontk to he lasting ; and leaerve was lost 
in iSbe dismay of die iateUlgenee that Iter father was retnmiBg 
h^ore she had finished the decoration of his room, widi which 
she meant to soriMise hins. NotlriBg Ifte a little trouble iar 
the beginning of aeqnahitamee — aasiatance was leadiiy of- 
fered^ and as readily accepted — and all the yases wene in 
their phtoes, and Helen not a little dehghted with her new 
friends, when the rest of the party made their appearance. 

Dinner had been ogdc f e d at once; and hut^eon {that cmA 
deslmctian of oar best fedings, as the Ettiidc Sh^erd caHs 
it,) havaag been' omitted, there was ssffident hanger to do 
jofltioe to a banqnet the most seined in its pet^Bdion. Not 
that hanger does a cook jaatioe. ^ I do not like people that 
are hoBgry," says Ude; ^'hmgry people eat anything: I 
wonid hare my dhdies create of thcaaselDes an appetite ; I 
da not wish them to be wanted tiii they are tasted, and ^n 
te eat is a compliment." 

Birt it was on the dessert Mr. Moriand piqued himselC It 
was served in the room Helen had been so anmoos to onia- 
BMDt. The ddicate caioiir of ibe fmt — - the f r agrant spirit 
of the Burgundy — te iey eoolaesa ef the daret — were not 
destroyed by an atmosphere aheady heavy with soap and fish, 
and heated by two cauises of culinary tnnmph : no ! the air, 
poffe and clear, vras only imbued widi the sweetness of &e 
^rawberry, or the breath of the roaea fix>m the window—* 
while the garden beyosul re min d ed yoa haw fresh was the 
hah which heaped die silver hasfcets. 

it is tnss enough for a proveHh, that the pieasantest parties 
axe those of which the least can be toU. To make a recital 
entertaining, there UMSt be a httle touch of the ridsenfem — 
a few sparkles of satine— the cxceHenoeof a saaeasm fies, 
hke a cimeter, in its keenness ; — and they enjoyed dte asselvea 
too much to be witty — ** la mmee tmmt le psimvn;" and 
hence it is that, even when good-natved people do say a 
dever thing, it raady tdls -^ and all toniay were in a good 
hnmoar. 

Perhaps tkat which had the most delighted the viattini was 



BOUANOE AND BaSAIrlTy. ISl 

their host's dan^ter — f«r Helen was one of the very sweetest 
creatmes that ever blushed o^ smiled : tliere was a refinement 
in her simplicity — an infection in her gaiety — a something 
touching in her alFectienaite manners^ tint drew their fascinadon 
all from the same source — they w^e all so perfectly natural. 
She appeared much younger than idle was — for Helen was in 
reality fifteen ; hut both the aunt wiHh whom she resided^ and 
h«r father, were old-fashioned enough to wish her childhood to 
he as long as possible. The mind may be cultivated, the 
manners formed, and the girl ha^re acquired the poli^ of the 
woman; but how much of buoyant spirits must have been 
quelled — how much of enjoymmt lost in the acquisition ! 

Childhood is not often a happy season — it is too much forced 
and controlled, and nature too much exiled from the fairest 
•spot in all her domain ; but it can be a glad and guileless time 
— and Helen's had been a very happy childhood. 

But the dark or bright day finds its end in night, and again 
the phaeton retraced the morning's road. Every tree and field 
were now silvered with the soft moonlight — there was a repose 
around which even the voice seemed toe rudely to break. They 
were both silent — but did Emily find the evening's silence less 
delightful or less dangerous ? 

'^ jSow infinitdy,' said Lorraifie at last, ^' I prefer a night 
like this -^ a sky broken by a thousand cLouds— »to one entiiely 
flfiudlesa i The dear sky is too iforcible a contrast to ouraelvea 
— it is too brighty too ealm for sympathy widi our troubled 
state — I ahnost dislike the pei^ect v^ose in which I can have 
no part — while tbe shadows thsit to»i%ht gather round the 
uoooa seem to have a feUow feeling with our dieckered exists 
eace." 

Emily made b» Mswer— a sudden weight had fallen on her 
spirits— her eyes wese full of uabtddien tears — a voice seemed 
to arise withiA her, imd to say, *' To-Bi|^-— even to-night — 
you stand on the threshold of your fate : happiness is only 
tumiiig one last and lonely look before it leaves you lor ever." 

People talk — and wisely, too — of the folly of presentiments ; 
but let the thoughts spesJc their secret, will they assert their 
disbelief? Our nature has many mysteries — the moral and 
physical world are strangely allied ; the weight on the air pre- 
sages the hurricane — the darimess on the heaven the tempest 
—why may not destiny have its signs, and the heart its portents, 

K 2 



132 BOMANOE ANP BEAUTY. 

and the nameless sadness that oppresses the spirits forbode the 
coming sorrow ? But Emily only thought of hers as a weak- 
ness — she strove to shake it off. The lamps now grew bril- 
liant — the houses gathered into streets — while imagination^ 
as usual, took flight before realities — and they arrived at home^ 
gaily discussing the chances of to-morrow's ball. Once in her 
own room, fatigue and sentiment were terribly at variance — 
and sleep is a true pleasure, if one bad not to get up in the 
morning. Do not tell me of the happiness of life, when every 
day begins with a struggle and a sacrifice. To get up in the 
morning, both in the enjoyment it resigns and the resolution it 
requires, is an act of heroism. 



CHAPTER XXII. 

** Come like shadows, so depart." — Macbeth. 
" How shall I yield you fit entertainment ? "—Coleridge. 
" A hemisphere of stars." — Bybon, or the Morning Fast. 
" These written troubles of the hraln.**— Macbeth. 

It had been settled, that the next evening, on their way ta 
Mrs. Dorrick's, they should look in for an hour at the Athe- 
nseum, it being one of those Wednesdays when gentlemen in- 
vite ladies, to shew how admirably they can do without them, 
on the same principle that a well-supplied, though beleaguered 
city courts the presence of spies, and displays its strength and 
resources till surrounding enemies are fain to raise the siege 
from very hopelessness of success. Clubs are just a modifica- 
tion of monasteries — places of refuge from female attentions ; 
and, as in former days, the finest architecture, the best situa- 
tion, the most elaborate cuisine^ the most refined cellar, are 
devoted to their use. The principal modem improvements are 
th omission of fasting and penance, and the substitution of 
magazines for missals. 

" Whoso enters here leaves hope behind," 

should be the Wednesdays' motto. The deep crimson of the 
walls is alone enough to annihilate a thousand of the rose- 
coloured visions which haunted last night's quadrille. All a 



BOMANCE AND REALITY. ISS 

young lady should pray for, is a severe lingering fit of illness, 
to impress upon her debating lover a just feminine valuation ; 

— fevers and agues are the best stepping-stones to the hymeneid 
altar. 

Well : our party entered, walked and looked round, — and 
•expressed their admiration or their censure, the former greatly 
preponderating; for the ladies feel they are only there on 
sufferance, which makes politeness a necessity. From the place 
they turned to the people ; and when criticism is in a crowds 
it is of a motley kind, and certainly not " too discreet ; ** for 
what but something ridiculous can be said about those we do 
not know, — and this lady with her weak wan face, and its 
multitude of heavy ringlets, like the Dead Sea between two 
weeping willows, — that gentleman with the wilful whiskers 
encroaching like the sands over the yellow desert of his cheek, 

— or that youth with the shining black head, as polished as 
his boots, audibly proclaiming Warren's best, — soon exhausted 
the stock of similes, if not of sneers ; besides, the attention 
was attracted to individuals. 

" Who is that ? " said Emily, as a gentleman, with one of 
l3ie most sparkling and keen glances in the world — which she 
was quite pretty enough to attract for a moment — passed by. 

'' One of our first poets," replied Lorraine. '' I must tell 
you a very happy compliment paid him the other day by one 
who was speaking of his powers of sentiment and sarcasm : 
'When one reads your lyrics, the exclamation is amour I (ah, 
Moore !) : but after your satires, it is Timour (T. Moore) the 
Tartar.' As for himself, he is the Venus thrown in society ; his 
conversation carries you along with the ease and grace of skait- 
ing; he tells a story as if M. Caillaud had left him his mantle, 
or as if in him were realised the classic tale of the bees that 
settled round the mouth of Sophocles, leaving their honey be- 
hind them. In listening to him I perfectly understand the 
feeling which made Napoleon interrupt some unhappy elon- 
gator of narrative with 'Allons ! Denon, contez nous celaJ He 
is our English Denon." 

" Look at that serious-seeming personage, who walks from 
one end of the room as if he meant to commit suicide at the 
other." 

" That is one of our patrician diseurs, or r Sither faiseurs, of 
tons motSj — one who says good things, not as if he had any 

K 3 



134 BOMANCB AND REALITY. 

# 

pleasure or yanitj in saying them^ but ra;ther, in ;the very 
spirit of our nation^ as if he had a stock oo hand he was de- 
sirous to dispose of to the best advantage. Many of his ideas 
are very original : talking of the picturesque the other day, 
he said, — ^ So common is it, indeed, that every body travels 
to talk about it ; when I travel, my carriage shall only have a 
skylight.' He has an odd habit, or rather afiectation, of 
muttering to himself what he intends afterwards to say ; for 
example, ^ "Woman, — yes, very pretty, — but too much 
colour ; I must ask who she is*' ^ Wine, — I see there a 
man I must ask to take wine with roe-— great-bore ; ' and then 
follows, ^ ShaU I have the honour, pleasure,' or whatever 
form the great question of wine may take. Lord E., who 
knew his habit, resolved one day to set up an opposition mut. 
tering, and forthwith commenced, * Wine, — yes, wine ; I 
see there a man I would not take wine with if he asked me/ 
But do you see that gentleman seated by the fire-place ? — 
he is one who has excited your most enthusiastic admiration." 
Emily turned, and saw a face that nmeted her whole at- 
tention : melancholy and intellectual, it was of the noblest 
order, and the expression seemed to impart something of its 
own thoughtfulness to the beholder. The shape of the head, 
the outline of the face, had more the power and decision of 
the Roman, than the flowing softness of the Greek ; in a bust 
it would have been almost stem, but for the benevolence of 
the mouth. It was as if two natures contended together, -— 
the one, proud, spiritual, severe, the expression of the head,. 
— the other, sad, tender, and sensitive, the expression of the 
heart. There was melancholy, as if the imagination dwelt 
upon the feelings, deepening their tenderness, and refining 
their sorrow, and yet intellectual withal, as if the thought and 
the feeling sprang up together : perhaps the most striking 
effect was their change from their natural look of abstracticHi 
to that of observation, — the one was the glance of the poet, 
the other of the falcon. He is one of our most distinguished 
authors, in whose novels it is difficult to say whether philo- 
sophy, wit, or poetry, most abound — the appreciation of 
whose excellence has been as prompt as it has been just ; yet 
never was one less likely to find enjoyment in the course of 
literary success, — a course in which the meanness of the ob- 
stacles, the baseness of the opponents, the petty means of even* 



BQUAVOE AND SfiALITY. 135 

the most entire tnumph^ must revolt tiie conqueror at his own 
victory ; truly do they say, faiae ia for the dead. 

" 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view." 

Fcom dhildfaood we hear some few great names to wHicn 
mind has given an immortaJity : they ai?e caUed the hene- 
faefec»rs of their kind — their words are familiar to our li^ — 
our early thoughts tal^ their tone, qux first menial pleasures 
are deri'ied, £com their pages — we admire, and then we imi- 
tate — we think how glonoiis it is to let the spirit thus go 
£arth, winning a throne in men's hearts, sending, our thoi^hts, 
like the ships of Tyre laden with rich merchiftidifie, over the 
«cean of human ejnaiion, aind 1»inging hack a stili rich^ cargo 
of praise and goodwilL Thus was it with the great men of 
oid, and so shall it he with us. We forget that Time, the 
Sanctifier, has been with them ; thaX no present interests jar 
against theirs; and that around them is the cahn and the 
solemBity of the gxave; and we forget the ordeal through 
which they have passed to the temple. But look at any ex- 
isting lita»ry life — and we will speak only of the most sue- 
eessiful — and who shall say that the h^tiest head is not 
covered with dust and ashes ? The first work is eminently 
successful, and the Eros of success has ever its Anteros of 
envy. Every unfortunate candidate thinks thait the more for- 
tunate stand between him and the siuishine of public favour. 
Thai, bow many are there who know no path to notoriety so 
easy as that which by attacking the already appreciated makes 
their very reputation a means, as well as a motive, for its 
injury. Then conies the struggle : this one is to be con- 
ciliated, the other intimidated; flattery becomes matter of 
exchange, and vanity self-defence ; pradfie grows worthless in 
proportion as we know whence and wherefore it is given, and 
censure m<n:e bitter from the utter meanness of the censor. 
Again, the personal tone taken is revolting to a degree, the 
absurd and the malicious axe blended, and some kind friend is 
always at hmd to repeat. What must this be to all, and still 
more to one whose refined and reserved habits are so utterly 
at variance with .the personality, the curiosity, the base party 
spirit ef literature ? WeU, whUe recalling the vain hope, the 
unworthy attack, the departed glory, may Memory exclaim 
with the Peri, — 

F 4 




136 ROMANCE AND BEAUTY. 

" Poor race of man, said tfae pityins Spirit, 
Dearly ye pay for your primal fall ; 
Some flowers of Eden ye still inherit, 
But the trail of the serpent is over them all." 

None of this, however, passed through Emily's mind. Those 
who have no part in the conflict see with ike imagination : 
they hehold the crimson banner, hear the stately trumpet, and 
think not of the dust of {he march, or the agony of the battle ; 
and Emily gazed on the individual before her with that intense 
exaltation and enthusiasm which is literature's best triumph. 

But her attention was now attracted to the lady who took 
his arm. Ah ! poets and painters have truth for the founda- 
tion of their dreams, — she, at least, looked the incarnation of 
her husband's genius. 'Her style of beauty was such as might 
have suited the days of chivalry — made for worship more 
than love — one whose affection was a triumph even more than 
a gift. Her mouth, which was like chiseled coral, had many 
smiles, and most of scorn ; and its speech had as much of 
sarcasm as of sweetness. Her step, her height — the proud 
sweep of a neck which was like the swan's for snow and grace 
•— were such as make the artificial distinctions of society seem 
the inherent aristocracy of nature ; you felt she was never 
meant to breathe aught but ^* the air of palaces " — you never 
thought of calling her pretty. 

Who is it that says the character of a woman is decided by 
the cast of her features ? All sweeping assertions are erro- 
neous. In this instance, the style of manner was opposed to 
the style of the features. At the first glance, the imagination 
likened her to those beautiful queens who followed in the 
triumph they disdained of the Roman conqueror — as one to 
whom society was a pageant, in which she must take and yet 
scorn her part ; but this imxiression passed with the first tone 
of the lute upon her lips — her sweet and song-like voice. 
Her exquisite laugh, like the sound of a shell which, instead of 
the night wind, is filled with the morning sunshine and bursts 
into music — the fascination of such feminine kindliness — 
wit so airy, yet so keen, whose acid was not that of vinegar, 
dissolving all the pearls of gentler feelings, but the acid of 
champagne, whose pearls dance on the surface and melt into 
blending sweetness — Ah ! one moment's pause — I have re- 
nounced poetry, of which, sweet lady, you were to me the 
embodied spirit. I know flattery ^s impertinent, and praise is 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 137 

-vain — yet I cannot pass the shrine of my early faith^ and not 
at least fling a flower on it in passing : I never yet beheld being 
so lovely — and I never shall again; I never witnessed feel- 
ings so generous, so unspotted by the world : and my words 
seem unworthy, and imperfect, when I say of her heart, as 
some early Spanish poet said of his mistress's face — 

" That it has looked ia Paradise, and caught 
Its early beauty." 

" Look," said Lorraine — " do you wish to see the very 
vainest man in England ? " 

'^ A bold assertion," added Mr. Morland, '' but a true one ; 
for yonder gentleman is morally, mentally, personally, and 
politically vain." 

Emily turned towards him — there was nothing conspicuous 
about him but the buttons of his coat ; many and bright were 
they, with some hieroglyphic sign impressed upon them. 

'^ One of our first poets, he has 

' Narrowed his mind, 
And to parties given up what was meant for mankind.' 

And I take parties in their most varied sense — from the small 
flatteries of the evening party to the coarser acclamation of the 
club where he takes the chair — from the literary party, who 
make him an idol, to the political, who make him their tool." 
" I have been lately," said Mr. Morland, " hearing the de- 
tail of his sitting for his picture : first, he was sketched in a 
Vandyke dress — then in a Spanish costume — he had some 
thoughts of a turban — when a friend observed, that, for the 
credit of the age he had immortalised, he ought to be ap- 
parelled after its fashion. He tried on forty-seven waistcoats, 
and at last decided on a cloak. One day the artistes attention 
was attracted by a little china jar which he held in his hand ; 
the poet was more than usually restless ; at last, after an 
earnest gaze on the sketch, and then on the mirror, he said, 
* My dear young friend, intense study has done the work of 
years, and many a midnight vigil has paled the fresh colours 
of youth. You are painting for posterity. 

* One would not, sure, look shocking when one's dead ' — 

and, uncovering the little pot of rouge, he arranged his com* 
plexion to his liking." • 



138 BOMANCE AND REALITY. 

^< At all events, that gentleman's self-estifnate is a pleasant 
one who believes that ev^ man looks yp to, and that every 
woman is in love with him." 

^^ I excuse, however, a great deal in hira — 

* If* ft) his lot gome female errors fall. 
Read but his odes, and you '11 forget them all.' " 

There was something singularly picturesque in the next 
person that passed — tall, dark, with diat flashing and hawk- 
like glance which generally accompanies a mouth whose ex- 
pression was that of sarcasm, hut whose satire, though bitter 
enough, seemed rather to spring from the love of amusement 
than from malice. 

** That is Lord , the author of two of our very popular 

novels, of which the last is my especial favourite. ^ Yes and 
No ' is a lively etching of modem society — fine in the out- 
line, and animated in colouring ; the characters may or n»y 
not be portraits, but they are realities. Nothing is more diffi- 
cult than to paint from nature — nothing so pleasant when 
achieved. To sketch real life requires a most peculiar talent, 
and that Lord possesses.'* 

^' I met with a paragraph in some journal the other day, 
which made a crime of his taking an active part in literature 
instead of politics — writing, instead of talking ; — as if there 
, weiie not speakers enow in the House to debate till doomsday. 
And as to the practical utility, may I be permitted ,to venture 
my opinion, that moral is at least as useful as political satire ? " 

" Who is yonder gentleman ? " asked Emily, attracted by 
that air of anticipative consciousness which says, " all ejes are 
upon me, or ought to be." 

'^ The writer of some poems we were studying in one of 
the Annuals," replied Lorraine. *^You remember the one 
which appears with its author's name in capitals at the be- 
ginning, and ends with stating its claim to one merit at any 
rate — 

* Some praise, at least — one act of sense may claim — 
He wrote these verses, but concealed his name : * 

— the name, nevertheless, being the first thing we saw." 

" Ah," said Mr. Morland, ^' I have quite a little history to 
give you — a romance of fashionable life — by which I mean 
the romance of effect, not feeling. Colonel Clarendon com- 
menced his search after reputation by a journey in the East 



BOMAKCE AK1> R£AUTY. 139 

and astoniBhed all Paris (the dty he selected for his tUbut in 
celebdty) by eloquent details of the delights of dweUing in 
goatskin tests^ and galloping through the desert. Xe# mer- 
veillettses were somewhat startled at the taste whic^ pronounced 
sheep's milk and dates the perfection of luxury, hut every fair 
head in the Chassee de Saint Antin was oon]q>letely turned. 
To a gentleman of this habit of mind^ «ne ffrande pa9si(m w^as 
indispensable, and he laid his heart and homage at the fairy- 
like feet of Madame de St. Leu. 

'' But your yery vain lover is a little fatiguing for every- 
day wear, and the lady pomitted herself a slight preference in 
favour of the Baron von Schmaaberstoffy an Hungarian noble- 
man, whose furred pelisse, and silver spurs had produced quite 
a sensation. Indignant at what he termed her treachery, the 
Hungarian went to his friend and told him alL Colond 
Clarendon rushed to the presence of his faithless mistress^ and 
overwhelmed himself with de^air and her with reproaches. 
' Are you a man,' said the lady, with an air between ii\)ured 
innocence and conscious dignity, ^ that you tell me of this 
. outrage before you have avenged it ? — unless you are the 
basest coward that ever trifled with the feelings, or insulted 
the honour of a woman, the affiront you have offered me will 
be washed out in Baron von Sehmanherstoff's Uood. If you 
are a gentleman, I leave my cause in your hands.' The 
Colonel bowed, left the room, and sent his challenge. Next 
morning they met in the Bois de Bomlevards : the friends em- 
braced, and then fought. 

'- But what gave such effect to this duel were the uncom- 
mon weapons used by the combatants — broadswords. Colonel 
Clarendon slightly wounded the Baron, who fell — people did 
say, according to agreement. He threw himsdf by the body 
of his Pylades — called himself his murderer — vowed never 
again to see the perfidious woman who had caused the quarrel 
— did not tear his hair, frar he rather piqued himself on his 
curls, but he dishevelled them. He had tiie Baron carried to 
his lodgings, and never for a fortnight left his room. 

" When ^ les deuoe amis ' appeared in public together, all 
Paris rang wit^ their romantic attachment, and the Colonel 
found that his friendship made him as much the fashion as 
his travels. The renown reached even to the northern country 
where his father's seat is situated. Nothing for a week •f 



' -V KOMANCE AND REALITY. 

iv wwjv 'kc^ il^^ipii^ in the country than it does in town — waf 
>VN^K^\i V(' ^ll i\)ilcaiel Clarendon's duel, and his devotion tt 
^«v tXM^^ 1^ who was then staying there^ heard at least fifty 
W^Mji^iiM^ <M'' his despair. But I must finish my history^ ai 
ijtki^^ i^ ;i^ ^poung poet whose writings J heard you admiring 
X^i^i^ttl^ ^- the tall slight one — what I rather think you 
iiiV^ c«U interesting.looking." 

^•^ Mn Lillian/' observed Mr. Morland^ " is one of the 
9j^Q«t brilliant supporters of paradox I ever met. His conver- 
iM^^ka) only requires to be a little more in earnest to be per- 
IWUy delighthil. His views are original^ his illustrations 
VAOSI happy, and an epigrammatic style sets off his speech — 
«» novel writers say of some dvess in which the heroine ap- 
|iMT8 — to ' the best advantage/ But — and, do you know I 
think it rather a good feeling in humanity — that is to say, in 
myself — we like and require truth — always supposing and 
allowing that the said truth interferes neither with our in- 
terests nor our inclinations." 

'^ I agree with you, that an opinion increases in interest, 
as well as weight, by its supporter appearing to mean what he 
«ays. But few brilliant talkers are sufficiently > aware of the 
advantage of seeming in earnest." 

" He struck me as an instance of the usual effect produced 
by society — with its Janus fuceof success and disappointment, 
of flattery and of falsehood— on a young and clever man. He 
fiets out with believing too much — he ends with believing too 
little. Human nature was at first an imagination, and after- 
wards a theory — both equally false. Ridicule may be the 
test of truth, but it is not its result." 

'^ Nevertheless, sarcasm is the royal road to the bar. Is 
there any thing now-a-days to which a man may not sneer his 
-way ? But, for Pity, and Miss Arundel's sake, let us return 
to his poetry. It is that rare thing ' a happy marriage,' be- 
tween persiflage and sentiment. He tells an ancient legend to 
perfection. It is a minstrd in masquerade — the romance of 
the olden time couched with modem taste — and his wit keen 
with present allusions. But, really, it is scarcely worth while 
to be witty, when we remember how stupid people are. One 
would often think that a joke was as hard to be taken as an 
affront. The elder brother of this very gentleman had been 
■spending some days at a house in the coimtry : on the morning 



BOMANCE AND BEAXiITT. 141 

of departure a lady asked him, * Pray, are you the clever 
Mr. Lillian ? ' * I never answer flattering questions,' was his 
reply — or, perhaps, the reply of his brother, the ^ clever 
Mr. Lillian,' for him, for he himself told me the story." 
*^ Who is that youth to the left, in an attitude ? " 
'< One who always reminds me of the French actor's reply 
to the manager, who asked what parts he was fit for — ' MaU 
tou8* Such is Mr. Vincent's self-estimate. They say happi- 
ness is only the finer word for self-satisfaction — if so, Mr. 
Vincent is a happy man. He has embodied a general system 
of depreciatives, out of which he extracts most ' strange con- 
tents.' I never yet heard him allow merit to man, woman or 
child ; he speaks only in the subjunctive mood, governed by 
an if or a but. Talk to him of a witty person, and he finds 
out at once, 

* That flippancjr to wit is near allied. 

And thin partitions do their bounds divide.* 

If serious, he asks — 

* Shall grave and formal pass for vise. 
When men the solemn owl despise ? ' 

Nay, one day, when, half out of want • of something to say^. 
half out of politeness, and — if you wiU let me divide his mo- 
tives, as the school-boy, in bis translation of Cssar, did ancient 
Gaul, which, he said, was quartered into three halves — half 
out of really thinking it, I praised the beauty of a little girl 
playing in ^e room, Mr. Vincent immediately drew so gloomy 
a picture of the casualties to which beauty is subject, that I 
am not sure whether he did not talk both mother and child 
into the smaU-pox." 

At this moment our little group made an involuntary 
pause, to listen to the conversation of a lady close beside 
them. 

*' My story will illustrate my positive assertion. As a child, 
she was just the Mr. Nobody of the family — that is, the one 
who does all the mischief done in the house < — at least, bears 
all the blame of it, which is much the same in its consequences. 
One day, a friend took her to task, as.it is called. * Now, do 
you not see what a wicked little girl you are? Why do you 
not pray to God every morning to make you a better child ? * 
* And so I do,' sobbed the poor little thing, ' but he only 
makes me worserer and worsererJ " 



142 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 

At this moment the speaker turned round, and shewed a 
face so beautiful, that had poetry never existed before, it must 
have been invented in describing such loveliness. The black 
hair was bound with classical simplicity round a small and 
finely- shaped head ; the face was something between Grecian 
and Spanish — the intellect of the one, the passion of the 
other ; the exquisite features were like those of a statue, but a 
statue like that which Pygmalion called by love into life ; the 
brow was magnificent — fit fov Madame de Stael, had her 
mind looked its power and its grace. 

" That is our English Corinne/' said Mr. Moriand — 
•' one to whom genius and beauty are birthrights. Poetry, 
prose, wit, pathos, are the gifted slaves of her lamp. You 
were reading one of her exquisite volumes this morning." 

'' I was," said Edward, " and dreaming of the authw ; and 
now I only say to her what Wordsworth said of Yarrow — 

' And thou, who didst appear so fair 
To young imagination, 
Didst rival, in the sight of dmr. 
Her delicate creation.* " 

A throng of small *^ noticeabLes " now passed by — poets 
who have written two.songs, and live upon their credit — wits 
who once said, or^ peradventure, repeated a clever thing, and 
have made it last. But it was later than our party had in- 
tended to remain—- or, whatever of attraction the crowd might 
yet retain was to tbera of no avaiL 

As they were leaving the room, Lady Mandeville entered. 
She glanced round, and said to Lorraine — ^' Considering, 
gentlemen, you had only yourselves to study, it must be owned 
you have shewn no indiscreet carelessoeas to your own comfort 
4md convenience.'' 

" We want something," said Lorraine, " to console us for 
your absence." 

" Nay, nay — it is to shew us how well you can do without 
us,'* replied Lady Mandeville. " I daily expect, in these 
times of reform and retrenchment^ that a bill will be brought 
into the House for the suppression of the female sex, as an 
expensive and useless superfluity." 



ROmJMCE AMD RBJiLITT. 14S 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

** A change came o'er the ipirit of ny dream.'* ~. Bym>k. 

Now, though ^^ do not b^eve much of the ancient beUe 
aUiance fo^npreen Cii|>id and tiie Graces yet remains — though 
we do not believe thnt the milliner accelerates die match], and 
that the colour of a capote may be the colour of our fate, or the 
turn of a cnri iSbe turn of our fortune ; having a theory of our 
own^ that such things ceme by chance, and go by destiny ; yet 
we can perifectly understand a young lady's drapery being 
influenced by her feelings, and that Hope may cast her cot^eur 
4e rose over the mirror — that study of the fan- conqueror. 
Emily lingered and lingered for a longer time at the glass than 
either Mrs. Radcliffe or Mrs. Hannah More would have ap« 
proved of, — one for the sake of romance^ the other for Ihat 
of morafity. 

It is still a disputed point among authors, whether it be 
best or not to describe their heroine ; I must own I lean to the 
descriptive mysdf ; I like to have the lady placed bodily be- 
fore me — I like to know whether the eyes with whose tears 
I am to sympathise arc of the true blue of patriotiim, or of 
the deep black of poetry. I can call up the image more dis- 
linctly, when I know if her cheek is Hbe 

" The lady lily, paler than the moon ; " 

or like 

" The red rose, fragrant with the breath of June." 

Judging of ocbera by rayadf, aoid quoting the Spectator fiir 
my authority, let me, as some old author saya, '* piaaa ny 
hBdia with words." 

Parted m the middle iiite two rich braids^ the daik faoit 
divided so as to do full justice to the oval ef iht face; and 
eangfal «a iti afabora waie idle fint shade of tibe crape hat, 
whose yellow was delicate as the eaitiest pvimioae-^that fainA 
floft yelbw, go trying, yet so heooming ; a cokrar to be avoided 
eqt»lly by the bright and tke sallow, making the bright eeem 
coarse, and the sallow sickly — but exquisite on that dear pahs 
skin where the rose visits, but dwdk not, and the blush passes 
with lis fed&nga k betrajH^ 



U4 



ROaCANCE AND REALITY. 



N«4 one in a thousand knows how to put on a honnet : they 
«rt ^t on one side like a disagreeable recollection ; or bolt up- 
v%lit> as if they wanted to realise Shakespeare's worst of puns, 
-— "* and she, like France, was at war with her hair (heir)." 
No such Yery great degree of genius can be displayed in the 
lesl of the toilet. The dress has been chosen. — it fits you a 
rtmr — it has simply to he put on with mathematical accuracy : 
httt the bonnet is the triumph of taste, — you must exert your 
intellect, — your destiny is in your own hands. 

Emily was successful : brought a little forward on the face,. 
its shade was the coquetry of timidity ; and the dark eyes were 
more piquiant from the slight difficulty of meeting them. Her 
dress was the deepest Parma violet, — so beautiful a colour in 
itself, — so picturesque in its associations, — the crimson of 
war and the purple of royalty blended in one : it opened at 
the throat, whose whiteness was, if possible, softened by that 
most aerial of inyentions, a blonde ruff; finish the costume 
with gloves, whose tint was of the same delicate hue as the 
hat ; put the feet into slippers fit for Cinderella, if she had 
worn black satin instead of glass, — and you have an exact idea 
of the figure which two glasses were now reflecting. An open 
window gave cause for a shiver — and that was excuse for the 
boa, too graceful for even June to banish. With a secret con* 
sciousness that she was dressed in the very colour which Lor- 
raine had, a week before, said was his favorite, she ran down, 
to the drawing-room, and, approaching a stand of flowers, 
paused for a moment on the choice of scarlet geraniums, helio- 
tropes, lilies, &c. when Edward came from the other room. 

" Nay, Miss Arundel, the blossoms before you are too so- 
phisticated, — their life has been for a whole morning artificial t 
unwilling to delegate the choice, I drove this morning to Col- 
ville's, — allow me to offer you my selection ; " and he gave 
her two of the freshest of moss-rosebuds, — those very loveliest 
of infant flowers. 

Lorraine might have been struck with the deepness of her 
blush, — he only noticed the beauty of it. 

" Do you know," said he, laughingly, ^' if you blush your 
thanks so prettily, I must apply to you the compliment paid 
the Italian poet, 

* Tutti sei pensleri sono de' rose.' " 

Lady Alicia now came in, and, while waiting for Mr, De- 



ROMANCE AND REALIT7. 145 

lawarr, they could not do less than admire each other. People 
are often very generous in giving what is of no value : is it 
on this principle that one lady is usually so profuse in her ad> 
miration of the dress of another ? Truly, that afternoon they 
ought to have enjoyed themselves : it was a hright^ hecoming 
day^ — one of those fairy gifts with which summer now and 
then surprises ns. Their progress had all the exhilaration of 
rapidity : four horses with 

*' Bit of foam, and hoof of speed ; " 

and a carriage, light as if meant -more for air than earth, com- 
bine the opposite pleasures of indolence and motion. Nothing 
could be gayer than the scene through which they passed : it 
had only one fault — they were used to it. 

Soon the sound of music, and an atmosphere heavy with the 
odour of the most aromatic plants, announced their arrival at 
9jady Walsingham's villa, where Ambition was giving a fHe 
to Pleasure, as Fashion's prime minister. 

Lady Walsingham was rich — even in London ; she had 
Tank, but she had not always had it. Her first husband was 
a horror, but he had money ; her second was a fool, but he 
had a title ; and thus possessed of riches and rank, she only 
w^anted fashion. The r^-union to-day was political as that of 
the Field of the Cloth of Gold ; splendour was at once to con* 
ciliate and to dazzle ; not ^n orange-tree but had a purposes- 
net an acacia but was charged, not only with its flowers, but 
*' with Ulysses* fate." Notoriety is bom of novelty ; and e^. 
«rtion and imagination were alike exhausted to give character 
to the/^^e. Grecian temples were surrounded by hawthorn 
hedges, — Turkish tents stood in the shade of the oaks, — 
and one Chinese pagoda was dexterously entwined with honey- 
suckle ; there were conservatories filled with the rarest plants, 
and avenues with ladies walking about as if in a picture ; ices 
were served in the grotto; and servants in the Oriental costume 
handed almond-cakes. 

On the turf-sweep before the house — her head heavy with 
feathers, her ears with diamonds, and her heart with anxiety 
— stood the hostess. Every nation has it characteristic — and 
an Englishwoman's is standing, distributing her smiled, as if, 
as some one has observed, she had bought them, like her rouge, 
wholesale. 



148 BOMANOE AND REALITY. 

himself, but found his lungs too delicate — how his mother had 
been afraid of a consumption. Many a passer-by thought 
Miss Arundel was listening to some subject of most touching 
interest ; his Lordship was only detailing the benefit he derived 
one wet day from his caoutchouc cloak. The truth is. Lord 
Merton was, simply, naturally and intensely selfish ; he was 
himself *' the ocean of his thoughts ;" he never considered the 
comfort of other people, because he never looked at it as dis- 
tinct from his own ; and the most romantic devotion, the most 
self-denying love, would have seemed, if he were the object of 
it, as quite in the common course of things. 

This is a common character, which age alone developes 
into deformity. Youth, like charity, covers a multitude of 
sins; but Heaven help the wife, children, servants, and all 
other pieces of domestic property, when such a man is fifty, 
and has the gout ! 

It is an ill wind that blows nobody any good — and Lady 
Walsingham was made happy by the sincerity and warmth 
ivith which Lord Merton assured her he was delighted with 
her entertainment, and especially charmed with the jugglers 
and minstrels. 

Emily now pleaded fatigue, and seeing Lady Alicia seated 
on a most rural-looking bench, with an awning of blue silk, 
she took a place beside her : but Lord Merton was too well 
pleased with his companion to part ; and, somewhat uncere- 
moniously appropriating a shawl which hung near, spreading 
it, lest the grass should be damp, he seated himself at their 
feet — a plan which succeeded beyond his expectations, for 
he thus secured two listeners. Emily assumed an air of atten- 
tion, but her thoughts were far away. She looked on the 
flowers which Lorraine had given her a few hours since — 
they were drooping already ; and was this the day from which 
she had expected so much pleasure ? What a stupid thing a 
fete was ! What a waste of time and expense ! So much bad 
taste too I Lucky is it for a hostess her verdict does not de- 
pend on young ladies, unless she could call a parliament of 
love, and arrange all its little affairs in her own favour. And 
yet all this was not so much discontent as disguise. Who 
does not shrink from love's first avowal ? and how much so, 
when that avowal is to be made in secret, in silence, and in. 
vain ? Her temples beat with that acute pain which makes 
every sound a torture; her sight was as composed as hej 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 149 

thoughts ; and she hreathed with difficulty ; to speak ahnost 
choked her. She thought not of weeping ; yet a world of tears 
was now at her heart. 

^' Oh^ join us ! " said Lady MandeviUe, as a flourish of 
trumpets announced that the refreshment-room was thrown 
open. 

Adelaide and Lorraine came up at the same moment; Lord 
Merton sprang from his seat with, all the agility of expect- 
ation ; and in a few moments they were seated at one of the 
tahles^ in a tent whose scarlet and. gold were worthy of Tippoo 
Saib^ and whose size emulated that given by the fairy to her 
princely lover. How mistaken is the phrase^ " e\&rj delicacy 
of the season " — they mean out of season. Grapes are ripe 
at the same time as strawberries^ and peaches come in with 
the crocuses. A breakfast d la fourchette is the '' chartered 
libertine " of gastronomy — one eats ice, another soup^ and a 
pdte d la financier rivals its neighbour pine-apple. 

'^ What with their tents, turbans^ coflee, and fountains, all 
signs du meiUeur go4t, I think the Turks a most refined 
people," said Lady Mandeville. " If it ever be my sorrowful 
destiny to enact the Ephesijon, I shall set off for Constan- 
tinople — try the effect of mes beatix yeux on the Sublime 
Porte, and make a futurity of cachemeres and rose-water." 

*^ Ah ! " exclaimed Lorraine, " the Turks know bow to 
manage you ladies — 

* There rolls the sea, and yonder yawns the sack.* ** 



'* Is that your idea of gallantry ? " said Mr. Delawarr. 

^' It is its excess, I grant," interrupted Lorraine ; " but I 
must say, I think the Turk invests his homage to woman with 
that mystery, that solitude, that setting apart from life's daily 
and common use, which constitutes so much of poetry. His 
beautiful Circassian or Georgian mistress is a thing too sacred 
for common eyes. I quite enter into the feeling which shuns 
a profane eye resting on the face we love. What a charm 
must be in the veil our hand only is privileged to raise I His 
wealth, his taste, are lavished on his haram. He makes the 
shrine worthy of the idol. Her delicate step falls on the vel- 
vet carpet — her sweet mouth inhales an atmosphere of per« 
fume — the chain of pearls, the fragrant attar, the crimson 
ruby, are heaped on the fair favourite, who wears them only* 

L 5 



150 BOMANCE AND BEALITY. 

for him. Liberality is an imposing term for indifference. 
We regard tiie treasure we value ; and I should expect my 
jealousy to be taken as a proof of my devotion." 

'' Then/' said Lady MandeviUe, " you intend making love 
with a bunch of keys in one hand, and a dagger in <^e other." 

^' Alas ! I live in an age when Bedlam is considered a fitting 
temple of romance. I must content mysrif with an abstract 
admiration of Turkish seclusion." 

" Romance ! All nonsense ! " said Lord Merton, reaching 
across Emily for another slice of pine. 

" On the contrary," replied Lorraine, '* I think romance 
can never take a very high tone but in times of great civilisa- 
tion. Romance is moie matter of feeling than of passion; 
and if violent passions belong to a barbarous^ strong feelfngs 
belong to a civilised state. Exemption from great bodily ex- 
ertion is favouraUe to habits of thought. The refinement oB 
our tastes^ of course, is communicated to our sentiments ; and 
we exaggerate, subtilise, and spiritualise — the three chief in- 
gredients of romance." 

'^ I believe," said Lady Manderilie, '^ that we abuse the age 
we live in, on the same principle that we take liberties with 
our friends. The poor present time, how it is eahimniated ! 
degenerate, immoral, irreligious, are its. best epithets ; and we 
talk of the good old time till we really believe it existed." 

" Even," observed Mr. Delawarr, '' as we eulogise the peaoe 
and innocence of a country life ; for the peaoe of the parish, 
apply to the rector on the tithe day — for its innocence, to the 
justice of the pea<».*' 

'' But do you not think," asked Lorraine, *' that these ideal 
excellencies have ttieir origin in our nature's better part? The 
first step either to goodness or happiness is to believe in their 



existence." 



*' We shall lose the fireworks if we ait talking here," said 
Lord Merton. 

Even Lady Alicia was startled out of her passiveness by 
this announcemei)t ; and the wh(^e party hurried towards the 
piece of water, by whose side the exhibition was to t$ke place. 
Lord Merton still kept his place at Emily's side, and narrated 
to her divers of his juvenile feats -mth gunpowder; and he was 
one, as we have said, to whom not talking was listening. 

It was a magnificent display of the most magnificent of ele- 



B.9UANCE AND RSALIT7. 151 

inente : the rocket swept tbroti^ the air like a spirit^ and the 
skies seemed to realise the old saying, and rained gdd and 
silver; while tlie wati^ below spread like aa immense rainwr, 
till alMve and b^w gleamed with light. But Emily's eyes 
wandered from the soene before hor; and every fiigiti^ gla^e 
«itly brought back j&edii conviction of Edward's interest in the 
beaotifiil fftce wliose smiles were exclusively enough giv«i to 
himself to have made oae far less perfect very faseinating. 

Adelaade was too quick-sighted not to perceive that Miss 
Arundel^ when she &8t saw her taticing to Lorraine, wore a 
▼ery diflferent air from Miss Arundel listening to Merton ; 
and a rival was the sauce Robert, which Vould have made her 
not eat, but flirt with her grandfather. 

However, there is always one solace to misery^ as there is 
ene diaiwbadc to pleaauiey — ihej mui^ ail have an end, and 
«D had Lady Wakingham's fste^ The caorriage drove off, but 
tile place opposite Emiiy was vacant ; Lorraine had accepted 
a seat in Lord Morton's oahcioiet. Mias Anradel was not the 
only listener, for which her hrotlier was diat day indebted to 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

" It is a fearful thing 
To loTB as 1 love thee ; to feel the world, 
The beautifttl, the bright, joy-givdmg world, 
A blank without thee. « « » 
He is the star, round which my tlioughts revolre 
Like satellites. My father ! can it be, 
That thine, the unceasing love of many years. 
Doth not so fill my heart.as this etrange guest ? " 

The Jncesiress. 

What an odd thiii^. experieace is ! — now taming over so 
xapidly the bo^ of life^ now writing so mudii on a single 
leaf. We he«r ef the head feuxning grey in* a single ni^it, — 
the same cluoige passes over the heart Afiection is the tyrant 
of a woman, and only bids hex to the banquet tosospend a cut* 
ting swoni over her head, which a word, a look may call down 
to indict the wound that strikes iai the death, or heals, but 
wdth a ficar. Could we fling back the veil which nature and 
society alike draw over her feelings, how much of sorrow — 
unsuspected because unexpressed — would be found!-— how 

L 4 



15S BOMAirCE AND B£A£iITT. 

many a young and beating heart would show diappointment 
graven on the inmost core I — what a history of vain hopes^ 
gentle endeavoura., anxieties^ and mortifications^ laid bare! 
There is one phrase continually occurring in conversation^ — 
" O, a woman never marries title man to whom she was first 
attached." How often — how lightly is this said ! — how 
little thought given to the world of suffering it involves I 
Checked by circumstance — abandoned from necessity, the 
early attachment may depart with the early enthusiasm which 
youth brings, but leaves not ; still the dream was sweety and 
its waking bitter. But £mily was not one to whom such 
vision could be 

*' Sweet, not lasting. 
The perfume and suppliance; of a moment." ' 

Nature had given her the keenest sensibility ; and the solitude 
in which much of her life had hitherto been passed had left 
free scope for the imagination to spiritualise and exalt. Living 
entirely with her uncle and aunt, she had insensibly caught 
the quiet manners of these, much advanced in life^->-the young 
are great imitators. Unaccustomed to witness strong bursts 
of feeling, she never thought of giving outwardly way to her 
own ; thus^ hers, unrelieved and unexhausted by display, 
grew stronger from concealment. She had mixed little with 
those of her own age, — hence she was reserved ; and the con- 
fidante and the confession weaken love, by mixing up with it 
somewhat of vanity, and taking from its mystery* £mily's 
idea of love was of the most romantic and exalted kind. 
Whether borrowed from the Duchess of Cleves, and the other 
old novels with which the library abound, where love is a 
species of idolatry; or from the pages of modem poetry, where 
all that is spiritual and beautiful is thrown around its nature ; 
— all made love to her a species of religion. 

She had arrived in London with no very accurate notion of 
what she had to expect ; but it was to be something very de- 
lightful. Accustomed to be made much of — aware of her 
own pretensions, she had come prepared for entertainment and 
homage; but she had found neither; — and though rich, 
pretty, and high-bom, she was at nineteen very near being 
philosophical, and pronouncing the pleasures of the world to 
be vanity and vexation of spirit. 

Lorraine's arrival had changed all this. At a glance he 



BOBCANCE AND BBALITY. 15S 

saw how weary a time the young friend of his sister must be 
parsing I and mere good nature only would have prompted his 
attention to the stranger — to say nothing of ^at stranger 
being an elegant and interesting girl. 

£mily now had a partner^ who decided the fact of hev 
fairy-hke dancing — whose authority was sufficient for admira- 
tion — whos^ attention settled the worthiness of the object on 
which it was bestowed : she owed him much more than him- 
self. Again, the mornings passed away so pleasantly, when 
there was some one to whom she could talk about last night ; 
and it was much more agreeable to sing to Edward than to 
herself. He loved music; he liked the grace, the wit of 
female society : he was very handsome; and there was nothing 
improbable in supposing he had a heart to lose, and, moreover, 
he might lose it. Not that £mily had given one thought to 
such chance, — Love is the least calculating of all dreamers,-^ 
she had been very happy, and such shrink intuitively fromr 
asking why. Mortification had forced the conviction upon 
her ; and who ever saw the one they love devoted to another^ 
and found not the fatal truth written on their heart, — and for. 
.ever ? Many and bitter were the tears Emily shed that night 
over two withered Toses : she wept for vain hopes, for regret, 
but for shame more than all. Shame is the worst pang of 
imrequited affection. Heavens ! to be forced to ask ourselves 
what right we had to love. 

One of our most celebrated authors (a lady, by the ques- 
tion,) once asked, how is it that women in the utmost depths 
of grief never forget to curl their hair ? — Vanity was the cause 
assigned ; but I say, shame. We shrink from shewing out* 
ward sign of sorrow, if that sorrow be in aught connected 
with the feehngs ; and the reason of this must be sought in 
some theory of innate ideas not yet discovered. 

Emily the next morning appeared with the usual grape-like 
curls, and her cheek no paler than fatigue might authorise. 

** * Ah, the day of my destiny's over,* " 

said Lorraine ; " and, a fair exchange being no robbery, I 
quote the next line a little varied, 

' The star of my fate is on high.* 

Listen to the importance of yesterday :—' Yesterday Lady 
Walsingham's splendid villa was thrown open to the fashionable 



154 ROMAFTCE AND RBALITT. 

worMy wbjeh crowded to enjoy all that taste eoald invent^ 
or Inxvry supply, — break&st was laid for two hundr^/ 
Thete lies the spell ; pines and ehampagne who can resist, — 
even though through the medium of Lady Walsingham? 
How tlred^ how fat her poor ladyship looked ! like Mont 
Kane, she was covered widi the crimson of eTening." 

" Nay, now, Edward," said Mr. Delawarr, " you were 
there yourself." 

" Yes; and am I not just acting up to oar great social 
principle — go first, and grumble afterwards? Besides,' the 
JIke was given not to pleasure, but to pretension — and pre^ 
tension is a sort of general election, depending on universal 
suffirage, and subject to eanvaanng and criticism. Bom a 
milkmaid, meant for a farmer « wife, why are Lady Walfflng- 
ham's nature and fate at variance ? Those red ann» diould 
liave been celebrated fbr their skill in bacon, and her cheeses 
Attled ibe country round. How comfortable ^he wouki have 
looked in her crimson shawl — how lespectaUe in her flowered 
print ! What can she have to do with Piench kid? — her 
gkives are her martyrs. That countenance shining through 
Monde — those elephanthie ears, wlrose giranMe <ii diamonds . 
is the size of a chandelier in half the drawing-iuoms of gente^ 
lesidences for small families or a single gentleman — what 
part can she have in liie airy empire of caprice, the Parthian. 
arrow-guarded world of fashion ? Why does not die live in 
the country, roast whole oxen on her wedding-day, keep open 
house at an election^ shake her acquaintance haurtily by the 
band, and drive in a coaeh-and-fonr with outriders every 
Sunday to church? Her idea of taste (the ocean whence 
Fashion springs) is like tbe pupiVs idea of Helen, to whom 
ApeHes said, * Not being able to make her beautifti), you have 
made her splendid.' " 

" Strange," said Mr. Delawarr, ^' ikie influence of opinion ! 
We know people to be fools — indiridoally we should disdain 
their judgment ; yet, taken in a mass, no sacrifice seems too 
great to secure their suffri^e. The desire of notoriety, and 
the love of fame, difibr but little ; yet one is the meanest, the 
other the noblest feeling in our nature : the one looks to the 
present, and is a mixture of the selfish and the common-place 
— the other dwells upon the future, toad ia the generoucf and 
Hie exalted." 



ROMANCE AVD REALITY. 155 

" Lady Walsingham's is a very beautifiil place," obaerved 
Emily, from the mere desire of saying somediing. It is 
cnrions, that when we feel in ourselves the most incUned to 
silence, we almost always fency it is absolutely necessary we 
should tsdk. 

'' It is indeed/' replied Lorraine ; '' I know no places that 
so realise my ideas of luxury as these villas — so near our 
crowded, hot, dusty, noisy metropolis ; yet so green, so cool, 
so quiet, and so filled with flowers. I didike Richmond itself 
exceedingly ; just a place to visit on Sunday —^ with its bill 
covered with people, evidently labouring, not against its height, 
but their own good dinner. The curse of the steam-boat is 
upon the lovely river ; but some of the villas, imbedded in 
their own old trees — surrounded by turf the fairy queen 
mi^t tread' — girdled with every variety of flowery shrab — 
I do not quite say I could sp«id itie whole day there, but T 
could have a hixurious breakfast — one ought to indulge m 
natural tastes of a morning. Alas ! with what regret do I 
see the brick-dust generation in which we live, so prolific in 
squares, "crescents, places, rows, streets, — tail, stiff houses, 
widi red curtains and white bUnds f If this city aystem of 
colonisation goes on, our children wiH advertise a green tree, 
Uke an elephant, as '- this most wonderM produo^n of na- 
ture ; ' and the meaning of green grass will only be to be 
found in ilie dictionary." 

'^ What a valuable art will landscape painting be in those 
days ! A view from nature will, both for beauty and rarity, 
be the chefd^cBuvre of an artist." 

" I must own, landscapes are not my favourite style of art : 
it is the feeling, more liian the seeing, of die country in which 
I delight; the warm, soft air — the many musical noises — 
the wandering through the lights and shadows of the thick 
trees, rather than looking on any given point of view." 

" I do agree with you — I hate a fine prospect by profes- 
sion — one that you are expected to admirc>« and say fine things 
about; but in landscapes I like and dislike what I do iu 
Wordsworth's poetry : I admire its mountain range of distant 
hill and troubled sky — or the lonely spot of inland shade, linked 
with human thought and human interest; but I detest its 
smdl pieces of rurality, its sheep and its cows. In painting^ 
as in poetry, I like to be somewhat carried out of my every- 



156 ROMANCE AND HEALITY. 

day existence. For example, I give my utmost praise — or, 
I should rather say^ my homage — to the Ode on Immortality, 
Tintern Abbey, &c. ; but my taste revolts from Goody Blake 
and Harry Gill. Now, Hofland's pictures are great favourites 
of mine : there is not only the lovely scene — the moon re- 
flected in her softest mirror, the wave — but something or 
other that calls up the poetry of memory in the gazer ; the 
battlements of some old castle, whose only banner is now of 
ivy — or a fallen temple, whose divinity has departed, but 
whose beauty remains, and whose ' fine electric chain ' is one 
of a thousand associations." 

'^ While on the subject of pictures, I heard the other day-— 
we cannot vouch, as the newspapers say, for the truth of the 
report — that Lady Walsingham has had her picture and her 
husband's taken in a style at once allegorical and domestic. 
His lordship is holding a cage of doves, to which she is 
throwing roses: I understand her ladyship particularly re- 
quested the cage might be richly gilt." 

'^ As it is the great principle of political economy to tax 
luxuries, why are not reports taxed ? Are they not the chief 
luxuries of society ? Of all my senses, I thank Heaven that of 
hearing is limited ; the dative case is very well — hearing what 
is said to me ; but preserve me from the ablative case — hearing 
what is said a&ou^ me !'' 

" Would Lady Walsingham enjoy hearing to-day what is 
said of \ier fete yesterday ? " 

Ah ! " exclaimed Emily, " how unkind, how unjust this 



is!" 
« 



You remember the old proverb, ' a fair exchange is no 
robbery/ or the anecdote of Piron, who said that the only 
speeches necessary on admission to ihe French Academy were 
for the received to say, ' Grand merci, messieurs ; ' and for 
the "receivers to reply, ^ U rCy a pas de quou Most hosts and 
guests might exchange these courtesies; and the ^ Grand 
Tnerci' of vanity might be answered by the ^ // n'y a pas de 
quoi * of ostentation. We speak ill of our neighbours, not 
from ill-nature, but idleness ; satire is only the cayenne of 
conversation : people have so few subjects for talking about 
in common with their friends but their friends ; and it is ut-. 
terly impossible to dress them as Fontenelle did his asparagus^ 
UnUe en huile," 



ROMANCE AND REAIiITY. 157 

<^ One reason wby Mr. Heathcote^ who dines here to-day, is 
called so entertaining is^ that^ like the conquerors of old^ he 
gives no quarter." 

" I regret my absence^" said ISorraine ; " but I have pro- 
mised to go and congratulate Lady Lauriston on her leaving 
the oaks of her park for the acacias of her villa. Still I la- 
ment Mr. Heathcote: he knows all the worlds and has an 
anecdote for and an epigram upon every body. He kills witli 
diamond arrows : his voice is so low^ his smile so bland^ his 
whole manner so gentle, that you are barely aware of the con. 
centrated acid and bitter of his speech. I call him cream of 
tartar. I am sure you will be so much amused." 

Emily felt no such certainty ; she felt as if she could never 
be amused again. She wandered into the drawing-room 
Alone ; she tried her harp — it was out of tune ; her new 
songs — they were not pretty ; she took up a new novel — it 
was so dull ! She went into the front room — it was too 
sunny; into the back — it was too dark. The sound of Lor- 
raine's cabriolet attracted her to the window; the fear of 
being seen kept her away. At length it drove off; she held 
her breath to listen to its latest sound : another nearer carriage 
drowned the roll of the distant wheels, and she felt as if even 
this small pleasure were denied. Strange, how any strong 
feeling refers all things to itself! — we exalt by dint of exag- 
geration. Not a creature was in the spacious and beautiful 
rooms : she almost started to see some four or five whole length 
reflections of herself : the solitude made them painful ; and, 
catching up a book, she threw herself into an arm-chair, 
which, at least, had the advantage of being far from any glass. 

There is a certain satisfaction in the appearance of employ- 
ment, and £mily opened her book ; but she could not read — 
her thoughts were far away. Mortification had added divers 
prose notes to the poetry of the last few weeks. Her first im- 
pulse was to deny her feelings even to herself — her second to 
laugh bitterly at such vain deceit. Then she recalled words, 
looks, whose softness had misled ; — alas ! a slight investiga- 
tion served to shew how much their colouring had been given 
by lierself ; and, as a last resource, she began to magnify the 
merit of Edward Lorraine. 

Our being attached to a hero almost makes a heroine ; and 
excellence is an excellent excuse for admiration. Yes, he 



158 BOKANOE AND REALITY. 

was worthy of devotion, fluch as the heart pays, and once only, to 
the itiol it has itielf set up ; but it was to be deep, silent, and 
unsuspected. And Adel^de — she would love her ! How kind, 
how true> were the next moment's wishes for their happiness ! 

What a pity it is that onr naost pare and most beautifiil , 
feelings should spring fiom false impressions ! What generous 
adf-aacrifice -— what a world of gentle affection, were ndw 
called forth in Emily by a moment's phantasy^ whose life de^ 
pended on that frailest of frail things — a coquette's vanity I 

How untrue, to say youth is the happiest season of our 
life i it is filled with vexations^ for almost all its ideas are 
false ones ; they muat be set rights and often how harshly ! 
Its hopes are actual briefs : how often mnat they be taught 
doubt by disappointment ! And then its keen feelii^, laying 
themselves so bate to the beak of the vultnie experience 1 
Youth is a season that has no repose. 

They spent &e next fortnight at Kichmond — and a very 
miserable fortni^t it was ; for Lady Laanaton's villa was at 
Twickenham^ and whether on the river or the road, the ar- 
rangement was always the same •— Adelaide was the care of 
Lomine. Emily soon foimd her fancy for cultivating the 
friendship of her fair rlvd was a fancy indeed. Lady Adelaide 
had been brought up in a proper sense of the danger of con- 
fidence : young friends, as her mother used to observe, are 
ei&er useless or miscfaievous ; and Adelaide duly considered 
her young friends as non-entities or rivals. 

If, however, the siater was as cold as politeness, the brother 
was being animated very rapidly into something like warmth. 
Now an only son, it was his duty to marry : moreover, he 
thought a married man more cemfoEtable than a single one : 
many little liberties weie taken with a single, never taken with 
a married man : it was purchasing an exemption from young 
ladies at once. Finally, he thon^ Emily was in love vrith 
him : she always took liis arm in walking, and they were sure 
to sit by each other at dinner. He forgot Emily bad no 
ohoice. Pre-occnpied and absent. Lord Merton never came into 
Emily 6 head ; excepting their intervisiting, both families were 
living rather retired, so there was no third person to say *' Ah, 
what a conquest you have made ! " This phrase, which so 
often opens the eyes to what does not exist, gave here no in- 
timation of actual mischief. 



JUmAVCB ANJD BEALITT. * 15^ 

Yet our four lovers were all on the brink of discoEd. Lor-^ 
raiDe was be^iung to thiiik bis divinity not ^uite so divines- 
delays are dangetoua — and neitho: bis vanity nor bis senti- 
ment was satisfied at the little prepress he bad made. Adelaide 
was tiring of flirtation^ which had only held so long a reign 
&om the death of a relation having forced them into moat un- 
vnlling retirement. It was very tiresome of aunts to die^ if 
they were to he considered relations. 

The second season thus broken up. Lady Lauriston was 
daily impressing om her beauty's mind the necessity of a 
'^ further-looking hope " and an establishment. Emily waa 
sad, weary, and seemed iU : all said late ho«u:s vere too much 
for her — a good sdgn, thought her calculating lover^ in a wife; 
and every morning;, between the paragraphs of .the Momiog 
Herald, Lfird Merton weighed the advantages and disadvan*^ 
tages of wedded life. 

Miss Arundel bad never been properly brought out as an 
heiress ; and amazing animation was added to the attachment^ 
when^ one evenings Lady Lauriston detailed to her dear Alfred 
much excellent advice^ and the information that Emily washer 
uncle's adopted child, and, as such, certain of a noble fortune^ 
to say nothing of hopes^ from her aiint^ whose property her in- 
defatigable ladyship had ascertained was at her own disposaL 

The next morning, her for once very obedient son rode back 
with Lorraine. Want of something else to say^ and a very shady 
lane, disposed bim to confidence ; and be forthwith began a 
panegyric on himself, and on the good fortune of Miss Arundel, 
stating, he was now on his road to offer himself and bis debts 
to her acceptance. Lorraine was surprised. I have heard it 
said^ that no man ever believes a woman can fall in love wi^ 
his friend : I would add^ she certainly falls marvellously in bis 
opinion if she does — and Edward's first thoughts were of Lord 
Merton's divers imperfections. Never had he seemed more 
selfish or more silly : " but, to be sure, the fool has a title ; '* 
and he amused himself with recalling all the usual common- 
places on the vanity and ambition of woman, while Merton 
poured into his ear the whole stream of his self-satisfaction. 

They arrived ; one said he idiould prolong his ride for an 
hour or two — the other went into the drawing-room. Emily 
was seated in a window ; but there was room for two, and her 
unsuspected, lover took his place. Mechanically she shut the 



igp ROMANCE A WD REALITY. 

was vitfa * feding of ttonemwit she hurried her preparations ; 
^id Y£t wben the momisg ef departxune came^ it seemed 
scarcely possible it could have come so soon. 

No time passes so rapidly as that of painful expectancy, — 
BO hour arrives 490 soon as the one ire dread. It was a morn- 
ing of Jidy rain — l^e dreariest ef any, periMtpaf from con- 
trast - we took for sunshine in «unnner — or hecaaee it washes 
away so «iany«weet towers and bright leaves. Who, for 
example, can watc^i a tree covered with roses Mown into full 
beauty, and not regret, even to pain, the ravage, of a heavy 
shinv^r on its branches — the growth of its year scattered and 
destroyed in a morning ? But every n^ in the garden might 
hsve been destroyed before Emily had pitied them ; — the 
eyvs that are filled with tears look inwards. Physical miseries 
greatly add to the discomfort of mental ones. Madame de 
GenHs lepresents otie of her lovers as deploring the loss of his 
mistress and Ms feather-bed in a breath ; and certainly early 
rising increases llie pang of sqyantioB, — tlie raw, damp air, 
the heada^ing feel of lingering drowdness, the cold coffee, 
the trarry of i^eepy servants ; the science of human happi- 
ness — and all is science now-a-days — is greatly in arrear, or 
we should fix the middle of liie day for farewells. Regrets, 
hopes, good wi^es, &c. mingled together, — all t^retted her 
departure. Mr. Delawarr handed her to ^e carriage ; she 
leant forward, and caught Lorraine's parting bow ; the iron 
ggie swnng to loudly and heavily, — Hke tihat of Dante, it 
irfiat OH hope. 



tmO OF VBB F1S8T VQItXIOlU 



ROKANCB AND REAIilTY l6S 



TOLUHE THE SECOIGD. 



CHAPTER I. 

" Tboie fint aAttioni, 
'Which, be they what they may, 
Ave yet the fbuntain light of all onr day." 

*'T1mu^ nolliiBg can bring back the hour, 
AVe will grieve not—- rather find 
Strength rn what remains behind ; 
I la the primal sympathy, 
"Which, having been, must ever be — 
In the soothing tho^sfats that spdng 
Out of human suffering — 
In the faith'that looks through death." 

WoJUMWOJtlH. 

Of all passions^ love is the most engrossing and the most 
superstitious. How often has a leaf^ a star, a hreath of wind, 
been held as an omen ! It draws all things into somewhat of 
relation to itself: it is despotic, and jealous of all authority 
but its own : it bars the heart against the entrance of other 
feelings^ and deems wandering thoughts its traitors. This 
empire^ and even more than this, did it hold over Emily ; yet 
for a moment its authority was lost, while old feelings an4 
former affections came thronging in its place, as she caught 
the last red sunshine on the church windows, and saw the old 
avenue of lime trees, and the shady road, which wound through 
meadows where the hay was doubly sweet in the cool evening 
air. Familiar faces looked eagerly at the carriage as it drove 
rapidly by — it was soon in the avenue. Emily saw her uncle 
hurry down the steps — in another moment she was in his 
anns — a sense of security and sympathy came over her — 
tears^ long restrained, burst forth ; but the luxury of the 
moment's passionate weeping was interrupted by her aunt's 
eager and talkative welcome. 

" We are so glad to see you — thought you were never 
coming home — tea is ready — thought you would like tea 
after your journey — but have something for supper, too — 
you must want something more substantial than tea." 

M 2 



\i^ KOMANCK AND BEAI/ITY. 

st V au*Wu$ how inseparable eating and kindness are ivitb 
vw^uc ^v^iN Mr. Arandel stopped a moment in the hall t6 
.vs4i vitW the carriage, and Emily followed her aunt into the 

^* l>ou*t you think him altered, my dear ? " — Emily looked 
v^uittr unconscious of her meaning — "your poor, dear uncle— 
sadly broken ; but he would not let you be sent for, I have 
had all the nursing ; but he was resolved you should enjoy 
yourself. You will find us^ very dull after London." 

Emily sprang out of the room — her uncle stood in the hall — • 
the light of the open door fell full upon him. Pale, emaciated, 
speaking with evident difficulty, he looked, to use that com- 
mon but expressive phrase, the picture of death. Her very 
first thought was, I must not let him see how shocked I am. 

With one strong effort, she rejoined her aunt — even Mrs. 
Arundel was startled by her paleness. '^ Come, come^ child," 
said she, forcing her to drink a glass of wine, '' I can't have 
you to nurse too. I dare say your uncle will soon be better : 
he has missed you so — I couldn't go walking and reading; 
about with him as you used to do. He will get into good 
humour now. I think he fancies a great deal of his illness ; 
but you see he has been moped. Notwithstanding all I could 
say, he would not hear hurrying you home." 

He now came into the room, and drew his seat by Emily. 
He talked so rejoicingly of her return, so gaily of her London 
campaign : but the cheerfulness was an effort, and the silence 
into which they gradually sank was a relief to the party, ex- 
cept Mrs. Arundel. 

Affection exaggerates its own offences; and in her per- 
petual self-reproaches for her absence, Emily never remem- 
bered that she could not really consider herself to blame for 
what she could neither foresee nor prevent ; all that she dwelt 
upon was, that she had been, as her aunt expressed it, away 
and enjoying herself, while her dear, her kind uncle, had been 
ill and solitary. How vividly did she picture to herself his 
lonely walks, the unbroken solitude of his study ! — no one to 
read aloud his favourite passages, or replace his scattered 
books ! She gave a furtive glance at the chess-table — the 
little ivory men seemed not to have been moved since their 
last game. She was in a fair way of persuading herself that 
all his altered looks were to be ascribed to her absence. 



ROMANCE AND BEALITY. l65 

What eager resolutioDS did she make of leaving him' no 
nlore ! How attentive she would he — how watch his every 
glance ! She would prevail on him to walk — he must get 
better with all her care. How youth makes its wishes hopes^ 
and its hopes certainties ! She only looked on his pale face 
to read recovery. She now broke silence as suddenly as she 
had sank into it. Convinced that he required amusement, 
^e exerted herself to the utmost to afford it ; but her spirits 
fell to see how completely the exertion of listening seemed to 
exhaust him ; and when he urged her to go to bed early^ on 
the plea that she must be tired with her journey^ she perceived 
too plainly it was to prevent her observation of his extreme 
weakness. 

Emily went to bed^ and cried herself to sleep ; but she 
woke early. It is like waking in a new world, the waking in 
the morning — any morning, after an entire change of place : 
it seems almost impossible we can be quite awake. Slowly 
she looked at the large old-fashioned bed, with its flowered 
curtains — she recognised the huge mantel-piece, where the 
four seasons were carved in wood — she knew her own 
dressing-table, with its mirror set in silver ; a weight hung 
on her mind — she felt a reluctance to waken thoroughly. 
Suddenly she recalled last night — her uncle's evident illness 
flashed upon her memory — and she sprang as hastily from 
her pillow as if his recovery depended on her rising. 

It was scarcely six o'clock, but she dressed ; and, stepping 
softly by her uncle's door — for all in his room was pro- 
foundly quiet — she bent her steps towards the garden ; and, 
with that natural feeling of interest towards what is our own, 
«die turned towards the part which, marked by a hedge of the 
wild rose, had always been called hers. It was at some little 
distance : in younger days, it had been given as a reward and 
inducement for exercise — for Emily in winter preferred her 
-own little niche by the fireside, or in summer a seat by her 
favourite window, where she had only to put out her hand and 
bring back a rose, to all the running and walking that ever 
improved constitution or complexion ; and though Mr. Arundel 
Was never able to imbue her with a very decided taste for 
weeding, watering, &c., still, the garden, connected as it was 
with his kindness and approval, became a sufficient motive for 
exertion ; and- our fair gardener bestowed a degree of pains 

M 3 



1^ ROKANGE AND REALITIT. 

pltoe, it w«s hannted with one of those evil memories which 
€img like a corse. 

Two ytmng men were travelling this road^ hound by that 
«ariT friendship which is one of the strongest of human ties ; 
llieone going down to marry the sister of his friend^ — the 
<)(Ker to witness his>. happiness. They stopped for a night at 
^ little inn in the town ; they supped in the most exuberant 
$Mfils — that contagious mirth which to see is to share ; they 
iMid their jest on the waiter and for the landlady ; they pledged 
ib^ landlord in the best china bowl^ which they said had never 
K«ld such punch before — the green parlour rang with their 
laughter: suddenly their voices were heard in loud debate^ 
'•^'^en the tones were lower^ but harsher; this was succeeded 
by entire silence. They separated for the nighty each to their 
several rooms ; but the bowl of punch was left almost un- 
touched. Next morning their rooms were both empty^ though 
in each was their traveUing bag and portmanteau, and the 
purse of the darker one, containing some guineas, was left on 
the dressing-table. Their places had been taken in the mail 
which passed that morning ; but they were no where to be 
found. At length, half scared out of his very small senses, a 
boy came running to the inn, with intelligence that a gentle- 
man was lying murdered in the beech.tree field : all hurried 
to the spot, where they found the younger of the two stretched 
on the ground — a pistol, which had been dischai^ed, in his 
hand. The cause of his death was soon ascertained — he had 
been shot directly through the heart : at a little distance they 
found another pistol, discharged also, and the track of steps 
through the long grass to the high road, where all trace was 
lost. In the trunk of a beech, opposite to the deceased, a 
buUet was found, evidently the one from his pistol. No doubt 
remained that a duel had been fought ; and letters were found 
on the body, which shewed that the young men were the only 
sons of two distinguished families in the adjacent county. The 
one who was to have been married had fallen ; of the survivor 
no tidings were ever heard, and the cause of their quarrel re- 
mained, like his fate, in impenetrable obscurity. 

Enough of murder, and mystery, which always seems to 
double the crime it hides, was in this brief and tragic story to 
jay upon the beautiful but fatal field the memory of blood. 



BOMANCE AND REALITY. iGQ 

The country people always avoided the place ; and some chance 
liaving deposited the seeds of a crimson polyanthus, which had 
taken to the soil and flourished, universal was the belief that 
the blood had coloured the primroses ; and the rich growth of 
the flowers ^erved to add to the legendary horrors of one of 
the most lovely spots in the world. 

The history attached to it could not but recur to £mily as 
she passed^ ^nd her heart sank within her — ^not with fear, 
but at the thought, how much of misery there was in the 
world; and why should she be spared amid such general 
allotment ? Often had she imagined the wretchedness which 
60 suddenly overwhelmed two families — the despair of t^at 
young bride ; but never came they so vividly before her as 
now. Fear and sorrow are the sources of sympathy ; the 
^misfortunes of others come home to those who are anticipating 
their own. She quickened her steps to gain the next field — 
a green sunny slope leading directly to the vicarage, which 
was also covered with sunshine : a blessing rested upon it ; 
it was close by the church — one of Norman architecture — 
whose square tower was entirely hidden by the luxuriant 
growth of ivy. The church was visible, but not the church- 
yard, so that the eye rested on the sign of futh and hope, 
without the melancholy shew of humauf suflSering and death 
which surrounded it. The scene looked so cheerful ! — the 
small white house overgrown with jessamine, more rich, how- 
ever, in green than in bloom, the leaves overshadowing the 
flowers, the more delicate for their rarity ; the garden, whose 
gay-coloured beds were now distinct ; the quiet of the Sun- 
day morning, only broken by the musical murmuring of the 
trees, — all was cheerfulness ; and with one of those sudden 
changes outward impulses so mysteriously produce, Emily 
stepped lightly into the little garden. The old man was 
seated by the window, which opened to the ground, reading, 
and she was at his side before he raised his eyes. 

'' My dear ^mUy, this is kind." 

" Say selfish, rather,*' almost sobbed his visitor, for the 
tone of his voice recalled her uncle, and with that came the 
full tide of recollection and remorse. Mr. Morton also re- 
membered — what had been forgotten in the first pleasure of 
seeing his young favourite — all he had purposed of comfott. 
-He took her hand, and kindly led her into the breakfast- 



170 BOMANCfi • AND REALITT. 

Tooa ; be opened Che BiUe, and pointed to one passage — 
^ Tbe Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away ; blessed her 
tlie name of the Lord I " Emily read tbe passage like a 
death-warmnt, and burst into passionate reproaches for having 
left her vnde. , 

Mr. Morton had been overroled, not convinced, by the 
tenderness whidi had kept her in ignoraBoe, to be expiated 
by such bitter after-snfiering. He knew Emily, and he f^ 
it would have been more real kindness to hsve recalled her — 
it mattered not from what : any thing of pleasure sacrificed 
would have been a censo^tioo. He did not attempt to give 
her false hopes — ^he said httle of the ignorance which had 
kept ^er away — ^but he dwelt on what she had still to do — 
the affectioiiate care which her mcle was yet able to enjoy 
and appreciate. . ** Yoa roust not snffisr Mt. Anindel to be 
mfusti by himself : that sunny tezzaoe was jut made for «a 
invalid, and your arm wifl often tempt him to a walk. My 
sweet Emily^ lestraint on your own feelings is the bestprof^ 
of iove to yomr uncle." 

Few more words passed, aoid Emily tamed homewards. 
Hope is the prophet of youth — ^young eyes will always look 
forwards. Mr. Morton had ^oken of exercise and attention 
-—they might work miracles : the bright, beautiful summer — 
rardy its inftnence must be genial \ She looSced with so much 
reliance on tbe thousand indications of existence around her— 
the m^nnBiir of the distant village^ — all its varying sounds;, 
ite voices, its steps — aU Uent into that one low musical 
echo which is, nevertheless, soch certain sign of haman neigh- 
bourhood. Every bough had its bird — every blossom its bee 
-—the long grass was filled with myriads of insects. Amid so 
mneh of life, how difficult to believe in death ! One loss 
teaches us to expect another, but EmOy was unfamiliar with 
the reidities of death : these was no vacant place in the smali 
circle of her afifections — she had never yet lost a friend. 

Both Mr. and Mrs. Arundel were in the breakfast-room^ 
and her aunt's shrill, dry voice was very audible. '^ Well, 
there is' no advising some people to their good : Mrs. Clarke 
tdd me, she knew three persons cured of exactly your com- 
plaint, by taking a raw eg^ before breakfast.'* 

'' The remedy, my dear, was worse than the disease," said 
Mr. Arundel, turning away with an inward bathing from the 



R01IAir<m AND RSAUTT. IJl 



yellow liqmd^ whkb^ ever shiee Jtfrs. Claifce'a call, hid 
duly preaested every norAxng. 

'' Men are so ebstinaile $ bat I iiuU beat it up in your 
tea — I caa't have tlie egg wasted : or^ dKfe*s Sauly— I date 
say it's very good for her." 

£iBily*s pfcferenee of coflfee^ beweyer^ lemdered this little 
plan lor her good of ik> avail ; so Mia. ATaadel^ after a ms- 
ning fire of muttered icnmrka oit ame people's obstiiiacy, and 
odier people's not knowing wiuit was good for thena, ended 
by eating the egg hetaelf. indeed, as ahe afterwards ata w fg d 
to her friend Mrs. Clarice, *' she wanted sarengthening^aiaaaa 
nmch as any of them/' la tmlh, poor Mr. Arundel had 
sufiered a complete tnanyrdom of leincdiea : gEaiiod*ivy tea, 
hartdiem jelly, rhnborb biseoHs, Sit, were only a few of iiat 
many infallibles that had nearly drivea the comphnsant apo* 
thecary ont of his snnilcB, and Mr. Arundel ottt of his aenses. 

Though it was Sunday, Mra. AnBidd had always some 
honsehold arrangements to nnhe; and for the next half 
hour — excepting that twice eaery iStdmg m the room had t» be 
raored to look for her keys, wl]^«h dl the while were in her 
own pocket — Emily and her uncle were left to the annter* 
mpted enjoyment of oonversation, whose exprcwaon was afte* 
tion^ and whoae material was confidence. Ah ! how pfeaaant 
it is to talk when it would be impoBsible la say whether 
speaking or listening is the greatest pleasure. StiH, Mi. 
Amndel saw, and saw widi legAt, tibat Emily retamed not 
home the same as die went The nanative of the young 
carries its beaier along by its own buoyancy— >by the (^adncss 
which is contagious ; but Emily's redtal was in the spirit of 
another i^— there lay a fond of bittenKss at her hear^ 
which vented itsdif in sarcasm ; she spoke lacve tndy, laaare 
coldly of pkasuaes than suited her fiew yesas—euiely, it was 
too soon ibr her to speak of their yeisatian. and vanity. 

But the bastle and hurry which always preceded Mrs. 
Aranddi's going to chorch— fbr whiA she was always too 
late — ^pnt an end to their coorerstttion, and they horned 
across the fields — her aunt only interrupting her aecovnt of 
how tiresome it was that Mr. Arundel would take nothing 
that did him any good, and of what a deal of ''tnmble she 
had had with him, by incessant inquiries if Emily oould hear 
the beU, which, near as diey were to the chorch. no one 



^i« VmtHM lud lain down some time. Mrs. AnwAel 
w4M^M«^i ill t^ parioor with the medical and leg^ ladies — 
>;k' toir tt(H«% tlief for luadieoii — wiiile Emily stole softly to 
)W4- utkde^ foom. TiMugh the light fell full on his £ioe^ he 
vkAii at$l<^p— a edm, beautiful^ renovating sleep — end £inily 
Mat d»wa \ff die bedside. The ]awe which bends oy«r the 
skewing ia> save in its aovrow, like tibe love which bends over 
lb« d«ad*— 60 deep, so solemn ! Suddenly he 4^ened his eyes^ 
but without any ^ing of the starting vetuxn to consciousness 
wi^ whidi people generally awake — perhaps her apjpearance 
harmoniaed with his dream. Without sp^ikiag;, but with a 
Isok of extreme fondness^ he took her hand^ and stiU holding 
it, slept again. 

Emily lielt the dasp tighten and tight^i, till the rigidity 
was almost punfid : she had drawn Ihe cortaina, lest the sun, 
now come vaund to that aide of the house, should shine too 
powerfully ; a starange awe stole ovor her in the gloom ; she 
could scarody, in its present posiition^ discern her unde's face, 
and she fear^ to xaawe^ The gissp grew tighter^ but the 
hand that held hets colder ; his breathing had all along been 
low, but now it was inandibku Gently ^ bent her £m» over 
his; unintentionally — ^for she dreaded to awaken hira^ — ho* 
lips toudied his ; there was no breath to be either heard or 
felt, and the mouth was like ice. With a sudden, a desperate 
effort, she' freed her hand, from which her uncle's instantly 
dropped on the bedside, with a noise, shght indeed, but, to 
her ears, like thunder; she flnng open the curtains — again 
the light came foil into the room — ^and looked on a face which 
both diese who have not, and t^ose who have before seen, 
alike know to be the £ace of death. 



CHAPTER If. 

« And the preaenm of death ww ia Ow home, aad the OuOmn of Ihe g»re mted 
upoa it." 

^ Ym had far better, Emily, go to bed, and take a little hot 
wine and water — Ihe muse can sit u^. What," in a lower 
tone, " is she here for ? " 

" I cannot — indeed I eannol,'' was the aaawer. 



'^ Weil, you always were obstinate ; " and Mrs. Arundel 
took her own advice, viz. the hot wine and water, and the 
gmng to bed, leaving Emily to that aad and solemn watch the 
living keep by the dead.' 

A we^ had bow elapaed ; and let even the most indifiennt 
— dboae linked to the dead ^ no ties of love or kindred ; — lay 
what flRieh a week ia. The darkened windows — the empty 
itaams, whose very fuffaitore looks unfamiliar in the dam, ex- 
doded li^it — ^e stealthy steps, the whispering voices — 
faces with a stiange, heeaase necessary, gravity-:-«nid, whether 
it be those bowed down with real affliction, or those whose only 
ffaehiig can be the general awe of death, all differing from their 
osdiBary selvea. And, with <Hie of life's most usual, yet most 
painful contrasta—* while the persons are so much changed, 
yet the things lemain the same. The f«vowcite chair, never 
to be filled again by its laic occupier — the vacant place at 
tiri>le — a pictare^ perhaps now with more of life than its 
original — the thonasBid trifle that reeall some taste or habit 
— and ail thmae tibingB so much more deeply felt when no 
long fflneas haa ahseady thrown eveikls out of their usual circle, 
sdfeady hrokm in upon all Mi accustomed ways. When he 
who is now departed was ammigst us but yesterday — when 
there has been, as it were,, b«t a step from the fireside to the 
deathbed «— > a surprise and a shock add to the sorrow which 
takes us so mtawares. And then the common events that fiU 
up the day in domestic lif&~4he provision for the living made in 
the pnBsence ofihedead; in one room a dinner, in the other a 
eoffis — - that atrange mixture of ordinary ooeurreace and un- 
usoaL aitoatioii. And yet 'las well : — make that week the 
l^oomiest we can <— exdude the glad daylight — silence the 
hBunam voice and step — yet how seon« amid the af ter-hunry 
and selfiahBess of life, will that brief space of mourning be 
for go tteii J Hiere is wisdom in even the exaggeration of 
grief — there is little cause to fear we should feel too much. 

It waa neady one o'doek when Emily began her solilary 
watch; and as &e last sound died along the passage^ hat 
heart died within her too. Who shall aoeouot for the cold« 
caeeping seaiatioa that, in the depth of the night, steals over 
uai^ Who ii there dust hie not felt that vague, but strong 
tnvoE, wAnch induces us — to use a childish, but expressive 
phraae -«— to hide ««r head pnder the bedclothes, as if them 



176 ROMANCE AK'D BBALITT. 

was some appearance which to look for was to see ? — when 
we ourselves could give no definite cause for our fear, which 
our reason at the very moment tells us is folly, and tells us so 
in vain. 

Even grief gave way before this sensation in £mily. She 
had said to herself that she would pray by the dead — take a 
long, last gaze on features so dear ; and now she was riveted 
to her chair by a creeping terror, perhaps worse for having no* 
ostensible cause. The arm-chair where she sat seemed a pro« 
tection ; what did, what could she dread in moving from it ? 
She knew not, but she did dread. Her sight seemed to fail 
her as she looked round the vast dim room : the old painted 
ceiling appeared a mass of moving and hideous faces — die 
huge faded red curtains had, as it were, some unnatural mo* 
tion, as if some appalling shape were behind — and the coffin-^ 
the unclosed coffin-— left unclosed at her earnest prayer*—^ 
her limbs refused to bear her towards it, and her three hours' 
vigil passed in mute terror rather than affliction. Suddenly a 
shadow fell before her — and not if life had depended on its 
suppression, could £mily have checked the scream that rose to 
her lips : it was only the nurse, who, her own sleep over, waft 
to share the few hours that yet remained. The relief of a 
human face — the sound of a human voice — £mily felt abso- 
lutely grateful for the old woman's company. It was oppres- 
sively hot, and the nurse, drawing back the heavy curtains, 
opened one of the windows. Though the shutters still re- 
mained closed, a gleam of daylight came warm and crimson 
through each chink and crevice — " and it has been light some 
time," thought Emily; and shame and regret, at having 
wasted in fear and folly hours so sacred, so precious, smote 
upon her inmost heart. Seated in an arm-chair, with her back 
to the light, her companion was soon again sleeping; and* 
Emily, kneding beside the coffin, looked for the last time on 
her uncle. 

Deep as may be the regret, though the lost be the dearest, 
iiay, the only tie that binds to earth, never did the most pas* 
sionate grief give way to its emotion in the presence of the 
dead. Awe is stronger than sorrow : there is a calm, which, 
Ihoi^h we do not share, we dare not disturb: the chill of the 
grave is around them and us. — I have heard of the beauty of 
the dead : it existed in none tbat I have seen. The nn- 



BOMAN€B AND REALIT7. 177 

natural blue tinge which predominates in the skin and lips ; 
the eyes closed, but so. evidently not in sleep — in rigidity^ 
not repose ; the set features^ stern almost to reproof; the con- 
traction, the drawn shrunk look about the nose and mouth ; 
the ghastly thin hands, — Life^ the animator^ the beautifier— » 
the marvel, is not^ how thou couldst depart, but how ever thou 
£ou]dst animate this strange and fearful tenement. Is there 
one who has not at some time or other bent down — with that 
terrible mingling of affection and loathing impulse, each 
equally natural, each equally beyond our control — bent down 
to kiss the face of the dead ? and who can ever forget the in- 
definable horror of that touch ? — the coldness of snow, the 
hardness of marble felt in the depth of winter, are nothing to 
the chill which runs through the veins from the cold hard 
cheek, which yields no more to our touch : icy and immovable, 
it seems to repulse the caress in which it no longer has part. 

Emily strove to pray ; but her thoughts wandered in spite 
of every effort. Prayers for the dead we know are in vain ; 
■and prayere for ourselves seem so selfish. The first period is 
one of such mental confusion — fear, awe, grief, blending and 
confounding each other ; we. are, as it were, stunned by a great 
blow. Prayers and tears come afterwards. 

She was roused from her reverie by words whose sense she 
eom{»%hended not, but mechanically she obeyed the nurse, who 
led her. into the adjoining room. It was her imcle's dressing 
closet, and his clothes were all scattered about.* There is no 
wretchedness like the sight of these ordinary and common ob- 
jects — that these frail, worthless garments should thus out- 
last their wearer ! But the noise in the next room became 
distinct — heavy steps, suppressed but unfamihar — a clink as 
of workman's tools — and then the harsh grating sounds: 
they were screwing down the coffin. She threw herself on her 
knees ; she buried her head in the cushions of the chair in 
vain ; her sense of hearing was acute to agony ; every blow 
struck upon her heart ; but the stillness that followed wag even 
worse, ^e rushed into the next room : it was empty — the 
^soffin was gone ! The sound of wheels, unnoti<$d till now, 
echoed from the paved court-yard — the windows only looked 
towards the garden ; but the voices of . strangers, from whose 
very thought she shrank, prevented her stirring. Slowly *one 
coach after another drove off; she held her breath to catch the 



179 nexAwm Aim beautt. 

ksl wmnS. of tlie wheels. AM in a few iniiiiBteB wis afeneey. 
Hke tibat of the grave to which they weie joNiriwying. 

Simlj suddenly remembered that one of the windem co»^ 
xnanded a torn in the road. She opened it just in time ia ace 
the last Wack coach wind slowly thnmgh the boof^s^ bo ^reea^ 
90 sunny: that^ too^ past — and Smily smk badc^ as if ibr 
cmiTiction had but just readied her, that her unde was iadeeA 
dead ! 



CHAPTER III. 

'* He seem'd 
To common lodkers-on like one who dteaa^A 
Of iflHencM in groves £\yuan. Ato, well-a-eUjr ! 
Why should our young Endymion pine away ?" 

*' Tlw fttelM day pns'd hy ; uid tban there cme 

Another and another."— Mabcian Colonna. 

• 

^^Db yoa know this Lord Etheringhane^ af wh«B I hear 
such romantic histoiies .^ " said Adelaide Merton to her 
brother. 

" Not I. There's derilidi good shooting i& his woods ; 
bat thry cay be won't let a evestmse come near faia grouaida -— 
he eaa't b^ to sec any body. 

'' How very interestmg { " 

^' A great fiwL •• 

*' It is a noUe fikc&" 

'^ He ia not aoarried, Adelaide." 

^^ Do you know," said the ladiy, reuung her hone doseir to 
her brother X with whom^ fawte de nmua, aha was riding, 
*^ I have taken a strange wfaim* into my head ? Now^ Alfred, 
do let us GOKtrime ai intradnetioB to &is iMst unsocii^iie 
gentkaaaii. I am dying of emmm ads »y unde's^ and it would 
be quite an adnrentnre." 

*' You are raighfy ckmr — dways were, in managing yocw 
own mattera — not so atnpid aa you. think me. What do you 
want widi Lecd Etherifighftnie } " 

'^ Want widi hiaa ! Noihing but (be pieaaure of dmng 
what nobody die oouki — . gainiBg ateittanoe into tlus in* 
kaap&lable castib' 



9> 



XOMiMKeE AND IWAUTV. 179 

^^ne shooting/' again muttered Lord Merton ; '^and if I 
knew Lord Etheringhame, he might ask me to shoot over his 
grounds." 

Campbell talks of the magic of a name — ye8> if the name 
he partridges. 

*' Well^ Adelaide ;. hut how do you mean to contrive it ? '* 

"The very elements conspire for me," repfied Adelaide^ 
pointing to two or three raindrops on her habit. " We are 
now in the only permitted road of the Park ; but young 
people are very thoughtless. These fine old trees, a good 
point of view, tempt us to diverge — we take this road/' turn- 
ing her horse into one closely shaded by beech : " this, after 
a few more turns, brings us to a kind of pavilion. By thsyt 
time — I do like showery weather — yonder black doud wifl 
oblige us with its contents. You inast on my taking shelter 
in the pavilion : there we find Lord Etherin^ame. We are 
distressed beyond measure at the intrusion — so surprised at 
finding him there. Talk of my delicate health : your ro- 
mantic gentlemen have a great idea of ddHcacy. Leave die rest 
tome." 

** Be sure you turn the conversation on shooting." 

But the rain, which now began to fall in good earnest, some- 
what hurried their proceedings. A smart gallop brought 
them to ihe pavilion. A gallop always puts people in a good 
humour ; and Merton helped his sister to dismount more 
amiably than she expected. 

They entered ; and, sure enough, there was Lord Ethering- 
hame. The intelligence of that purveyor of ringlets and re- 
ports, her maid, was true, that here he usually spent his 
mornings. Apologies, and assurances that apologies were need- 
less — exclamations at &e weather, filled up the first ten 
minutes. 

The surprise was something of a shock ; but people may 
be frightened into their wits as well as out of them ; and the 
necessity for exertion usually brings with it the power — and 
teally Lord Etheringhame succeeded wonderfully well. Con- 
versation became quite animated ; the besuty of the scenery 
led to' painting; painting to poetry. It was singular how 
1^65. they agreed. It was very true Adelaide had read little 
more than the tide-page of the works they talked about ; but 
'where a person is predetermined to acquiesce comparative 



180 BOMANOE AND REALIT7. 

criticism is particularly easy. Perhaps his constitutional 
timidity had done more towards hanishing Etheriii^hame 
from society than his melancholy ; perhaps that shame attend- 
ant on change of opinion, however justifiahle^ (we hate to 
contradict ourselves^ it is so ryde^) also supported the claims 
of a seclusion which had long heen somewhat wearisome: 
but here time had not been given him for thick-coming 
fancies — and he found himself talking^ nay, laughing, with a 
very lovely creature, and secretly asking himself, where was 
the embarrassment of it ? 

But neither showers nor any other means of human felicity, 
ever last. The clouds broke away, and the sun shone most 
provokingly in at the windows — a fact instantly stated by 
Lord Merton, who was getting very tired of a conversation 
which as yet had not turned on his sort of game. 

Adelaide was too scientific to prolong her stay: she had 
made her impression, and never had she looked more lovely. 
The slight, finely turned shape was seen to advantage in the 
close habit; its dark colour was in good contrast to a cheek 
flushed into the purest and most brilliant crimson by exercise ; 
while her bright hair, relaxed by the rain, hung down in that 
half-curled state, perhaps its most becoming. A lingering 
hope of the covies gave unusal animation to her brother's 
manner, when he hoped their acquaintance was only begun: 
here Adelaide interposed: 

*' Mamma would be so delighted to offer her thanks. I 
am such a spoiled child, that every thing is of consequence. 
You do not know what an important thing a cold of mine is. 
But really we are such quiet people, I am afraid to ask you 
where there is so little inducement, unless " — and here she 
laughed one of those sweet frank laughs of childish reliance — 

unless you come to see ourselves." 

Wh&t could a gentleman say but yes — '^such quiet people," 

only ourselves ? ** Why, a refusal would be downright rude : 
nothing like putting a person under an obligation of doing 
what they wish. Our recluse said, '^ He must do himself the 
honour of inquiring if Lady Adelaide had taken cold.'' 

Off they rode, and left a blank behind. Etheringhajne 
took up a book, and thought how much pleasanter it was to 
talk than to read. He walked out — looked at his watch — 
wondered it was not later — wished dinner were ready ; m 



{( 



c< 



BOMANCE AND BEALITIT. 181 

shorty was in that most uncomfortable situation — of a young 
gentleman who has nothing to do : went to bed^ and spent a 
restless night. 

'' Very well managed/' said Adelaide, as they rode that 
morning away from the pajrilion. 

*' I am sure," rejoined Merton^ *' I would not have gone in 
but for your promise about the shooting. Not a word did 
you say, though : — you won't find it so easy to take me in 
again." 

*' Wait a little, my good brother^ and when those manors 
are at my feet, you shall shoot over them till you have killed 
partridges enow for a pyramid." 

A single *' humph " — much tjhe same sort of reply as the 
swine made to the lady in love with him — was the ftatemal 
answer ; and they proceeded homewards. 

With all the pleasant consciousness of meritorious endeavour 
and successful pursuit, did Adelaide hasten to her mother's 
dressing-room^ which only that very morning had been the 
scene of most ungracious recrimination, — the daughter com- 
plaining bitterly of a summer of life's most important, i. e. 
most marriageable time, being wasted in a neighbourhood 
whose only resemblance to heaven was, that there was neither 
marrying nor giving in marriage, — there was not so much as 
a widower in the county. Certainly, her uncle Mr. Stanmore's 
residence, where they were upon a visit, had but a poor per- 
spective for a young lady with speculation in her eyes. The 
mother, in return, eloquent on the folly of flirtation, and the 
involvement of debt — said Edward Lorraine might have been 
secured — and the parties had separated in sullen silence. 

Lady Lauriston was therefore proportionably surprised to 
see the young lady re-enter, all smiles, eagerness, and apolo* 
gies. Her adventures n^ere soon recounted — plans formed — 
and assistance promised. Lord Etheringhame's noble descent 
and nobler fortune rose in vivid perspective. 

The next morning Lady Adelaide was surprised by her visitor 
at her harp. The open window and the figure were quite a 
picture — and Algernon had an eye for the picturesque. The 
Countess, however, only allowed time for effect, and entered. 
Conversation was soon pleasantly and easily begun. Nothing 
like feminine facilities for discourse; and with little talent 
and less information, -r- but with a tact, which, commenced 



1S2 ROUANCB AVn RKAE^tTT. 

by interest and sharpened by nse^ stood in lieu of both, *— 
Lady Lauriston was a woman witii whom it would be as 
wearisome to talk as it would be to perambulate long a straigbt 
grarel walk and neady arranged flowers ; bttt the first approach 
was easy — nay^ even inviting. Lady Adelaide was wbat tibe 
IVench term spiritueUe — one of those epithets which^ like 
tbeir bij&uferie and ^owmnirs, are so neatly turned. Both 
saw at a glance that die common topics of ^ day would 
have reduced Algernon to silence ; — he could take no part 
where he was so profonndly ignorant. Each, therefore^ aided 
tbe other in grading 4^ didogiie to general sul)je<^ of taste^ 
blent with a little tone of sentiment. 

Imperceptibly the rnormug slipped away. Mr. Stanmore 
came in. Lady Lauriston confessed the early hours they 
kept. Dinner was just ready^ and Lord £theiinghame staid; 
and after^ whelk the gentlemen were left to their wine tSte-d" 
tite-^ for Merton was from home — the unde uneoasciously 
forwarded all their |4aRs. A plain, good man, wiiose kandiieBB 
was the only obstacle to bis dir«wdness, and who^ if sometimes 
wrong in his judgment^ was only so from leaning to the favour* 
alble side^ Mr. Stanmore was rejoiced to see his nei^boar^ 
though but £ofr a day^ leav^e a sechision winicii very much iiuli- 
tated against the ideas of one whose utility was of the moBt 
active deseription. A man of less warmth ii heart migfat have 
been too indifferent — one of move veftnement too delicate — 
to touch -on Lord Etheringhame'g habits. A kindly intentioB 
is often the best eloquence ; and whether the prosperity of «n 
argument, like that of a jest, lies in llie ear of him who bean, 
certainly Mr. Stanmore had not his arguments so fiequenliy 
followed by conviction. But the lepoae of our lecluse had 
lately been bn^en in upon by divers and vexatious complaiBtB. 
Grievances to be redressed^ ifeases td be renewed, and a £ew 
plain facts of the mismaauigeaieBt and even nrisooadnct of 
those around him, stated by an eye-witness, brought forcihiy 
forward the evil of his indolent solitude. Hitherto he had 
consoled himself by that most misdbievons of axioms •— It 
burts no one but myself. He was now <^)liged to acknowledge 
that it injured others also ; «-* and when Mr. Stanmons pro- 
posed a ride round a part of tlie esUte now in sad and waate^ 
M, disorder, it met with ready acquiescence from iiis guest 

The evening passed delightfully. Adelaide soo*^ found that 



BOMAZfCS Am JIBAUTY. 1^ 

talking of his Ixbther was & great source of pride and jdeasiare 
te AlgenxNa^ in whom she forthwith expressed great interesty 
bnt of the maai sobdaed and i|iiiet kind. The avowal that a 
gentkman is a young man wiwm erery one must admire^ nerer 
inplies any very pecoliaa: admiration on the part of the apei&er ; 
stilly the acquaintance was a bond of nnicm between them^ 
The chaiacter that Addaide was now supporting was one «f 
onbcoken spirits and natmal viYadty*, with an under-tone of 
dfeep feding wh^h as yet had never been called forth. The 
hbeliness was on die priadple of contrast — the feehng on ihat 
of sympathy. For a love affair, a mixture of the two is perfect. 
heje JB at once the best temptation Jfor a heianit, and the best 
oaoe for a misanthrope. 

Ail tlie efvening he thought her most faseinatiog ; but when, 
on his departure, both Mr. Stammore and Lady Lauriston 
pressed the renewal of his visit, she looked towards him widta 
sweety sudden glance oC hope -— «nd then dropped her eyes with 
such an exquisite misitare of eagerness and embarrassment, he 
felt she was quite irresistible. Yanity is love's viiier, and 
offien more pvweitfol than hk master. 

LcMrd Bthmn^ame rode home slowly and nmsingly. A 
tiMuaaBd delieioua aonalaoBs qukbenod the heating of his 
pulses; — a beautilul ftoe floated before him — a deheate 
voice sounded, fsRy-like; in- his ear ; all of imaginatien wideh 
had lam dormant spmnguip agani -*~like eohmrs in a paisting 
bnught from some dusty comer into a clear, brig^ light* 

We iaSk of the f<^ of drenn-^^ tike waking aad the vain 
— ^ we fliioidd rather envy tibeir happiness : — aHdyse their 
materials — foresee their end -~ and what xemaina? Vani;^ 
tmd vexatioD of spint. 

Miaxh it wooM havo added m Lord Etheringhame's ei^y- 
ment, could he have knowii that his feelinga were being calear 
lated upon by a beautxtful coquotte and a matdumaking motibv ; 
that it was his castle that was more matter of conquest than 
faimsdif ; and that his fionily diamonds were hra &ic mistisss's 
only idea of domestic felicity ! 

CNi, Life ! — the wearisome^ the- vexatiooa-^ whose piea- 
sures are dther placed beyond our reach, or within it when 
we- no longer desire thorn — when youtk toils for the ridie% 
age may possess bat not enjoy; -—iiilese we tnist to iryeaadL 
ship, cne !%ht word- may destroy ; or to ioi^ that dies even 

N 4 



184 ROMAKCE AND BBAI/IT? 

of itself; — where we talk of glory, philosophical, literary^ 
military, political — die, or, what is much more, live fo^ it — 
and this coveted possession dwells in the consent' of men of 
whom no two agree ahout it First, let us taJce it in its philo- 
sophical point of view : the philosopher turns from his food by 
day, his sleep by night, to leave a theory of truth to the 
world, which tfa^ next age discovers to be a falsehood. 
Ptolemy perhaps bestowed as much thought on, and had as 
much pride in his solar system as Galileo. — ; Then in its lite* 
rary, and truly this example is particularly encouraging : the 
poet feeds the fever in his veins — works, himself up to the 
belief of imaginary sorrows, till they are even as his own — »• 
writes, polishes^ publishes — appeals first to a generous and 
discriminating public, then discovers that posterity is much 
more generous, and discriminating also — and bequeaths hi^ 
works to its judgment. Of the hundred volumes entitled '^ The 
British Poets," are there one dozen names '^ familiar as house- 
hold words" (that true glory of the poet) among them? -<*« 
Come we next to the military: the conqueror Alexander, in 
the ddnger and hurry of a night attack, when the flash of the 
sword and the glitter of the spear were the chief lights of the 
dark wave, dashed fearlessly on, encouraging himself with the 
thought, ^' This do I for your applause, oh Athenians ! " It 
would be very pleasant to the warrior, could he hear the 
Athenians of our age call him a madman and a butcher ! -^^ 
The politician — oh, Job! the devil should have made you 
prime minister — set the Tories to impeach your religion, the 
Whigs your patriotism — placed a couple of Sunday news- 
papers before you — he certainly would have succeeded in 
making you curse and swear too ; and then posterity — it will 
just be a mooted point for future historians, whether you were 
the saviour, the betrayer, or the tyrant of your country, those 
being the three choice epitaphs kept for the especial use of 
patriots in power. 

Or — to descend to the ordinary ranks and routine of life — 
we furnish a house, that our friends may cry out on our ex- 
travagance or bad taste; — we give dinners, that our guests 
may hereafter find fault with oux cook or our cellar ; — we 
give parties, that three parts of the company may rail at their 
stupidity; — we dress, that our acquaintance may revenge 
themselves on our silks, by finding fault with our appearance ; 



ROMANCE AND BBAI.IT7. 185 

— we marry ; if well, it was interest — if badly, it was in- 
sanity ; — we die, and even that is our own fault ; if we had 
but done so and so, or gone to Dr. such a one, the accident 
would not have happened. A man accepts a bill for his friend, 
who pays it — the obligation is held trifling. '^ Wliat's in a 
name ? *' He fails — you have to pay it, and every one crie» 
out against your folly. Oh, Life! what enables us to sur- 
mount your obstacles — to endure your disappointments — to^ 
believe your promises — but your illusions ? 

There is a pretty German story of a blind man, who, even 
under such a misfortune, was happy — happy in a wife whom 
he passionately loved : her voice was sweet and low, and he 
gave her credit for that beauty which (he had been a painter) 
was the object of his idolatry. A physician came, and, curing- 
the disease, restored the husband to light, which he chiefly 
valued, as it would enable him to gaze on the lovely features* 
of his wife. He looks, and sees a face hideous in ugliness ! 
He is restored to sight, but his happiness is over. Is not this 
our own histo^? Our cruel physician is Experience. 

Lord Etheringhame, however, was enjoying himself. No* 
illusions are so perfect as those of love — none, therefore, so 
pleasant. Like most imaginative people, Algernon was very 
susceptible to beauty. Perhaps it is with that attribute they 
so profusely endow their creations, and it comes to them with 
the charm of familiarity. And also, like most indolent people, . 
he easily yielded to any impression : his character may be 
summed up by saying, he would have made an exquisite- 
woman. 

In the course of a few weeks the surprise excited i^ his 
household was raised to its height ; for the housekeeper had 
orders to prepare a luncheon for a party coming to see the 
casde. The day arrived, and with it Lady Lanriston and her 
daughter. Enough had been heard of its history, to know 
that the study would be rather awkward as a show-room in 
company ; but a tete-a-t^e is so confldential. With a little 
of mamma's assistance, Adelaide contrived to separate from 
the others, enter the room alone, and Lord Etheringhame was- 
obliged to follow. '^ Constancy till death" is a common 
motto on glass seals — very proper substance for such an in- 
scription ; and before the picture of his late love, Algernon 
oflered his vows to the new. Sympathy and confidence open. 



186 BOMAMOB AND BSALITT. 

tbe heart wondi^ully ; aad AddbMe left that room the future 
CoButess of £th«ringha!iie. 

Lady Lauristmi was astonished and affected^ after the most 
appvored fashion. Mr. Staumore was reaily surprised; and 
having some idea that it was a man's duty to marry^ (he had 
had two wives himself,) was very ready with hk rejoicings 
and congratuktieiitfj which Lady Lauriston diverted most in- 
geniously from the k>vef^ whose nerves she still con»dered in 
a most delicate state. 

One disagreeahie part of the business remained for Algernon^ 
which was to write to his hredier. Chaage of opinion is like 
waltzing —- very much the fashion^ and very proper ; hut the 
English have so many ridiisuloius prejudices^ that they reaUy do 
both as if they were dung scHnething very wrong. 

It is to be doubted whether Lord Etheringhame^ after 
dtetroying some dozen sdbeets of paper, and pens the pioduce 
of a whole flock of geese, would not almost sooner h«ve re- 
iMMtnced his beautiful bride, than have had his letter to write 

— only that the former alternative was now the greater lamiUe 
of the two. 

" After aB/' said the nnwiUiBg writer^ ^^ I am only doii^ 
what Edward himself advised. I wish I had jiot been quite 
so positive when he was last here." 

All who hate letter-writing, particularly on dwagreeable sub* 

jeets, can sympaditae with Lord Etheringhame. It is very 

pleasant to fioUvw one^s indinatioiiis ; but^ unfortunately, we 

cannot follow ibem aiL They are like the teeda sown by 

Cadmus ; they spring up, get in each other's way, and fight. 

The letter wiia at length written and despatdied; — tben^ as 
usual^ came the af ter-thonghts of a thousand things left unsaid^ 
or that Bii^it fiave been said so much better. Algernon 
started up ; — man and hone woe hurried after the epiacie ; 

— but time^ ticie^ and poet, wait fior so one; — it was off by 
llie nuuL 

Well, an obstiitate temper is very disagreeable, partxculariy 
in a wife ; a passionate one very shocking in a child ; but, for 
one's own paitionlar oorafort, Heaven help the possessor of an 
iireaolnte one ! IHs day of hesitation — its nij^ of repent- 
ance — liie mischief it does — the miseries it feels i — its pro* 
prieter may w«ll exclaim^ '< Nobody can t^ what I suffisr bat 
myself!" 



BOMAVCE AND BEAUTY. 187 



CHAPTER IV. 

**Thus death reigns In all the portions of our time. The autumn, with its fruits 
provide* disordcm for ua, and the winter's eold tuma them iato sharp di 



and the spring brings flowers to strew our hearse, aad the auuuner ^ives greea 
turf and brambles to bind upon our graves.** 
** Y4>u can go no whither, but you tceed upon a dead naa's boaes.** 

Jebeut Taylor. 

In all the slowness of sorroW, ia all the wearineas of monotony^ 
had the last few months worn away : £imly recoTered ffem 
regretting her uncle only to £nd how much she laissed himu 
It is a wretched thing to pasg one's life amcmg those utterly 
incapable of appreciating us ; upon whom our sense or eur 
sentiment^ our wit or our afi^ion, are equally Chrown aw«y : 
pe(^le who make some unreal and distorted picture «f us — 
say it is our likeness, and act accordingly. 

After the first grief, or rather fright, of Mr. Arundel's death, 
and when broad hems and deep cri^e-falls had heea sufficieaUy 
discussed to have induced an uninitiated person to believe that 
people really died to oblige others to wear bombasin. Mis. 
Arundel went back to her ordinary avocations — small savii^ 
and domestic infections. To her the putting out of an extra 
candle, or detecting an unibrftuiate housemaid letting a swee^ 
heart into the kitchen, were positive enjoyments. Intended 
by nature for a housekeeper, it was her misfortune^ not her 
fault, that she was the mistress. She was one of those whoj 
having no internal, are entirely thrown upon external re- 
sources : th^y must be amused and empJayed by the eye or 
the ear, and that in a small way. Sue never read — news was 
her only idea of conversation. As she often observed, " she 
had no notion of talking about what neither conoerned hersdf 
nor her nesghbours." Without being vulgar in her manners*--- 
that, early and accustomed habits forbade — she was vulgar in 
her mind. She had always some small, mean nootive to ascribe 
to every action, and invariably judged the worst and took the 
most unfavourable view of whatever debateable subject caiae 
befoie her. Like most siHy people, she was sel^sh ; and the 
constant iear of being over-reached, sometimes gave a degree «f 
shrewdness to her apprehensions. Your weak animals are 
almost always cunning ; and when any event, however impro- 
bable^ justified suspicions, perhaps %uite unjustifiable in the 



!..>(y tt^UANOfi AND REALITY. 

\^tcw^v ^^il^^ ^f^^^ ^'^ ^^^ small triumph — that ovation of the 
liiai^ ittiwKl : to borrow again one of her own favourite expres- 
aaiHks* ^* Well, well, I don't set up for being so over clever ; 
i 'va iKttie of your bookish people : but, thank Heaven, I have 
^li^ly of cammon sense" — as if common sense were occa- 
sioned by the mere absence of higher qualities ! 

The secret of Mrs. Arundel's character was, that she was 
a very vain woman, and had never had her vanity gratified. 
As an only child, she had enjoyed every indulgence but 
flattery. Her father and mother had been, after the fashion 
of their day, rather literary : the lady piqued herself upon 
writing such* clever letters ; and the gentleman had main- 
tained a correspondence with the Gentleman's Magazine, 
touching the reign to which two brass candlesticks in the 
parish church belonged ; which important and interesting dis- 
cussion arrived at every thing but a conclusion. 

Her deficiency in, and disinclination to, all kinds of literary 
pursuits — the utter impossibility of making the young idea 
shoot in any direction at all, occasioned such accomplished 
parents to undervalue^ if possible, Mrs. Arundel's understand- 
ing. In short, as her mother justly observed, in a very- 
clever letter to Mrs. Denbigh, her corresponding friend, " she 
was just fit to be married." Ana married she was, thanks to 
the affinities of landed property ! 

To prettiness— even with her most becoming cap, or her 
most indulgent mirror, she could make no pretension. Her 
ambition had hitherto been confined to being the best of 
wives, — so she scolded the servants — opened no book but her 
book of receipts — ^made soup without meat— decocted cow- 
slips, parsneps, currants, and gooseberries, which, if not good 
wine, were very tolerable vinegar — bought bargains, for which 
no possible use could afterwards be found — worried her hus- 
band with petty economy, and yet contrived to combine all 
this with a very handsome share of personal expense ; and as 
to her accounts, they would have puzzled the calculating boy 
himself. 

While Mr. Arundel lived, the innate respectability of his 
character communicated itself in a degree to hers. Naturally 
of quiet and retired habits, the seclusion of his library, at 
first a refuge, soon became a necessity. At home he had no 
society ; his wife's conversation was made up of small com- 



ROMANCE AMD BEAUTY. 189 

plaints^ or smaller gossip; his health was too delicate^ his 
tastes too refined^ for the run of county sports and county 
• dinners — he was therefore thrown much upon his own re- 
sources^ and his hooks hecame^ what Cicero emphatically calls, 
them^ his friends and companions. But though they em- 
ployed, they did not ahsorh ; and he early saw the propriety 
of a check on many domestic theories^ equally destructive of 
credit and ■ comfort ; and little manceuvres to avoid his dis- 
approbation, or conceal from his knowledge^ were the grand 
employment of his lady's most abstruse faculties ; so that if 
£mily missed his society^ Mrs. Arundel still more missed his 
authority. 

•The delightful feeling of opposition — obstinacy is the he- 
roism of little minds — ^was past ; she had^ however, found a 
great resource in the society of a Mrs. Clarke. That perfect 
knowledge of our neighbours — which, in spite of the selfish- 
ness ascribed to hiunan nature, is always so much more inte- 
resting than our own-~only to be obtained by personal in- 
spection, from which Mrs. Arundel was, in her present early 
stage of widowhood, debarred, was supplied by this invaluable 
friend, with all the poetry of memory. 

Pleasant was the sound of Mrs. Clarke's dogs deposited in 
the hall — a whole host of circumstantial details, inferences, 
and deductions, waited thereupon ; or when the Doctor could 
be induced to stir out of an evening by the overpowering 
temptation of '^ my dear, poor Mrs. Arundel is all alone : it 
would be but kind if we stepped in to see how she is." 

^^ All alone, indeed ! Hasn't she got her niece ? " 

^^ Ah ! that puts me in mind that Miss Emily was saying 
you owed her her revenge at chess." 

" Did you tell cook to put by the leg of the turkey, to be 
deviled for my supper ? " 

^' Talking of supper, poor Mrs. Arundel would keep a 
pheasant, sent yesterday, for our supper to-night. I can 
assure you she quite relied on our coming ; and, to tell you 
the truth, I did not refuse. I am always glad when you go 
to the Hall — that old Port wine of poor dear Mr. Arundel's 
is quite a medicine to you." 

'* Well, as you say, poor thing ! she is very lonely — I 
don't care if we do go ; though Miss Emily is not much, com- 
pany, except, to play chess.' 



»» 



190 BMTAlVeE AitD KEAIjITT. 

Erefring after evening was thus passed away — ^poor £mity 
lied to the chess-board witb aa adversary Vfho seemed to lode 
^opon lier as a macliine to more the pieces, with whidi lie 
eocdd he eross when beaten ; while the two ladies discussed 
sueh circumstantial evideRee as the day had collected^ and 
communicated their Tarlons fancies ftmnded on the said facta. 
Csa It he wondeivd at that Emily's thonghts would wander 
ftwn scenes fike these ? Thoughts rarely wander wHhout an 
fliject ; and that object once found, iSeiej fix there with afl 
&e intensity which any diing of sentiment acquires in soli- 
tude or idleness. 

Absence is a trial whose result is often fatal to lore ; but 
there are two sorts of absence. I wwdd not advise a lofcr to 
stake his fortune or his feeHngt on the faith of the mistresa 
whose absence is one of flattery, amusement, and dmt Tariety 
of obfects so destructive to the predominance of one — at least 
not to trust an incipient attachment to such an ordesd ; but 
he may safely trust absence which is passed in londiness^ 
where the heart, thrown upon itsdf, finds its resource m ^bat 
most imaginative faculty — ^memory. The merits of that lover 
must be small indeed, whom a few lonely widks, the mind 
filled with those dreaminig^ thoughts which haunt the favourite 
path in the shrubbery, or under the old trees of the avenue ; 
a few evenings passed singing those songs he once heard ; or 
during a chain of those romantic plans which occupy the 
thoughts while the fingers aare busy with lacework or satin- 
stitch needlework — why^ a love dream has no greater as- 
sistant ; — again I say, a lover must have few merits indeed, 
whom a few such mornings and evenings do not r£use into a 
standard of perfection; and t31, from linking how happy 
one might be with hon, it seems next to an impossibzfity to 
be happy without him. 

Every giil has a natural fancy for enacting the heroine — 
and^ genera&y speaking, a very harmless fancy it is, affeer ail. 
Certainly, the image of Lorraine was very often present to 
Snnfy. Occupation she had none but what she made fet 
hewelf— objects of aflbction, none; and her uncle's death 
gave a shade of sadness to her sentiments, the best calculated 
for jBakHig them indefible ; whSe the worst of her present 
wmde of lifb — espeeiiAy to one so imaginative, and whose 
feelings^ though so timid, were so keen— was, that it paissed 



is indolent mekncfeoly, too likely t» become fattbilinl. One 
consequence of her recent loss was, thst any Feturn of gagy 
spirits seemed — as it ever seenw at first to grief — sacrilege to 
the meiiiory of tile dead; wbereaa the remembraiiee of Lor- 
ratne was so unallied to hope, tkat the sadness o£ Iter lo^e was 
m#it companion for the sasrow of her alfeetion. 

A long mekncfaoly winter poaied aw«y^ and Emily looked 
qBBlbe pale, and dun enough to jvstify her aunt's freqoent and 
pleasant predictions, that ^ke was either in a cansmiption or m 
love; bodi winch were dnly ascrMied to her Lon4o& visic Mm. 
Arundel reconthiended warm milk from the eow ; and Mrs. 
Clorke tnmed in her mind the advontegea of anotber lover. 

Mrs. Anmd^'s Incleai plan came to solhiiig. Jfinily was 
*' as ohstitMite as her poor devr unole," and eenld never be per- 
snaded or coaxed to sioe oa a vow cold noming — not for all 
the* beoefita «C the miliky waiy. Mrs. Clarke's sentzmentai 
system bad ita consequences^ 

it was one of dioae bright soft mondngs, 



« 



Like angel visits, t&ir and far between,* 



when spring and soniMne tahe Fehsuary by smpvise — when 
one £nnt tings* of gteen is sees on the aonlhem skb of the 
hedge — when every iittie gnrden has its few goMen crocnses, 
and the shruhhcry is os ei rnn witb thonsondB of snow-drops — 
the fair ahght flower which so looka^ ita name — that £mily 
was passing tdinnigh the httfe wood,, whose obi trees and huge 
brancheB in winter garve wassoith^ as ia. sumoKr they gave shade* 
The dear Une shy peering thsongh the booghn — the snn- 
shine iciected £ran the sii^ry stems of the hic<d)-~an ocear- 
sional green olid lanoel, whose sine wns the only UMsk of xts age 
-«— the warn air, — aU. seenbed tos bid m dieerfiii inneweii to 
winter ; and £mily loitered on her homeward path, lost in 
visicflMry cKatioimy whidi pesh^s tsofc an nnesnacioDS bright- 
ness from the ^ad inflnences <tf sua and air — when bar 
reverie was broken in upon by & stimnge step ami voice* ^ The 
pleasure I feel at seeing: Miss^ Annwiel again wffl perhaps 
prove my excuse lar thus tRspoasing on: her saditary vae^btat^ 
tionsw" A ^imsose kid glove pnt aade the fanmches, a breath 
9i perfnme ova? mtiiea flsur9 came upon ike air, and a very 
g a odi l ooking cavalier stepped forwaed; thonglv ^hat with 
pre-occupationy. H»pfsoe, and: aetwil ibvjsetlulnesSr st was some 



192 m>MANCE AND REALITY. 

minutes before sbe recalled the identity of the stranger with 
that of Mr. Boyne SiUery. 

Now this recognition was any thing but pleasant. In the 
first place^ he had broken in upon the pleasures of hope— his 
interruption had destroyed a most fair and fairy castle; 
secondly, he was connected with any thing but the pleasui«B 
of memory. The conversation at Howell and James's rose to 
her mind — the knowledge of which, however, was not suffi- 
ciently flattering for her to display it; a civil answer was 
therefore necessary, though, it must be owned, the civility was 
chilling enough. ^ 

Mr. Boyne SiUery was, however, not to . be deterred^— • 
though his companion was not inclined to talk, he. was. He 
enlarged on the beauty of the country, ventured to hint that 
his fair companion looked somewhat paler than in London, 
apropos to which he recounted some deaths, marriages, and 
fashions^ which had taken place since her departure ; when, 
suddenly, Emily thanked him for his escort, muttered some- 
thing about her aunt's not being at home, and disappeared 
through the little gate of the shrubbery. 

With what eyes of shame does a young lady look back to a 
flirtation of which she was heartily tired I That evening she 
lingered somewhat longer than usual in her own apartment, 
despite of divers summonings down stairs, when, what was 
her surprise, on entering the room, to see her aunt, Mrs.Ciarke, 
and Mr. Boyne Sillery, seated, in apparently high good-humovr, 
round the tea-table. Mrs. Clarke immediately bustled up, 
and left room for Emily between herself and the gentleman, 
whom she introduced as her brother ; and, taking it for granted 
that the young people must make themselves agreeable to each 
other, forthwith diirected her conversation entirely to Mrs. 
Arundel. 

The young people, however, were not quite so agreenble as 
one of the party, at least, could have wished. Emily's celd^ 
ness was neither to be animated by news nor softened by 
flattery : since Mrs. Danvers's ball, her taste had been suffi- 
ciently cultivated to see through the pretensions of aflectation : 
moreover, she was past the season of innooent entire belief ; 
and the thought would cross her mind, that the heiress of 
Arundel Hall was a more important person in Mr. Boyne 
SiUery's eyes than Lady Alicia's pretty proUgie* 



ROMAXCB AND REALITY. 193 

s The evening passed heavily^ and Emily extinguished her 
candle that night in the conTiction that an equal extinguisher 
had heen put on Mr. Boyne Sillery's hopes^ and, she could 
not help adding, his sister's too, from ^hose fertile hrain she 
conceived that the plan of capture^ or, at least, the informa- 
tion of the heiress, had emanated. She was not far wrong 
there* 

Mrs. Clarke was one whose whole life had heen a practical 
illustration of the doctrines of utility. The eldest daughter of 
a large family, with neither fortune, nor face meant to be one. 
Miss Sillery could not, at thirty, recollect a single opportunity 
which she had ever had of escaping the care of her mother's 
keys and her younger sisters. She had heen saving and sensi- 
ble to no purpose — in vain had the maternal side of the house 
eulogised her prudence, or the paternal her cookery — the 
house she was to manage with such perfection was not yet 
hers. However, as some Arabic poet says, 

** The driest desert has its spring ; '* 

or, as our own language less elegantly expresses it, 

** Luck knocks once at every man's door ; " 

and the knock at Miss .Sillery's door, and the spring in her 
desert, came in the shape of the Rev. Dr. Clarke ; of whom 
little can be said, except that he was a lucky clergyman with 
two livings, who had the appetite of a glutton with the dain- 
tiness of a gourmet, and who had once, in a fit of delight at 
a haunch of venison done to a turn, narrowly escaped marry- 
ing the cook, when he fortunately remembered it would spoil 
her for her situation. 

Distantly related to the Scenes, he paused there for a 
night on a journey — ^he hated sleeping at inns, the beds were 
so often damp ; and they received him with that glad respect 
which poor relations pay to their rich ones. At dinner he 
was very much struck with the gravy to the wild ducks ; a 
college pudding forced from him an inquiry : both were made 
by Miss Sillery. Some potted larks next morning completed 
the business: he finished the jar, and made her an offer, 
which was received with all the thankfulness due to unex- 
peeted benefits. 

Henry VIII. rewarded the compounder of a pudding which 
pleased his palate by the gift of a monastery ; Dr. Clarke did 



X9^ BOMANCE ASD RBAUTY. 

nore*—he gave himself. To say the truth, the moiriage had 
turned oat as well as marriages eomraonly do r she was for- 
tunate in having a house to raam^, and he in hasring a wife 
to scold ; and certainly their dinners wese as near perfect 
felicity as earthly enjoyments usually are. 

Now it so happened that Francis was Mrs. Clarke's favou- 
rite : whether from having seen the least of him, or from the 
greai difference between them — two common causes of liking 
— or beeanse die felt some sort of TaniCy in her near relation- 
ship to so very fine a gentleman, are points too enrious to be 
decided by any but a metaphysician. However, having his 
interest at heart, and some idea that his forinne must aad 
ought to be made by marriage, die had acnt the invitadon 
and intelligence which led to Emily's meeting so i&teDcsting a 
companion in her morning's walk. 

To be sure, the tite-dUetB to which Mrs. Clarke « good ma«- 
nagement had that evening consigned iJiem had been rather a 
silent one ; still, as it never entered the elder lady's head that 
such a nice young man could fail to be a very Cssar of the 
affections — to come, see, and conquer — she only remarked, as 
they walked home, '^ a poor stupid thing — but never mind, 
Frank, she'll make the better wife;" and forthwith she com- 
menced enumerating a series of divers alteniitiesB and refor- 
mations (now-a-days, we believe, the one word is synonymous 
with the other), which were to take place when her brother 
was master of Arundel Hall. 

There never was woman yet who had »ot some oatlet for 
disinterested aflectioD,. Mrs. Claike was as weckily in a small 
way as a country lady could be, and possessed as mmch s^ 
fishness as. ever asoral essay asct^d to a fashionable <me ; and 
yet her desire for her brodier's success was as entirely dictated 
hy sincere and uneaiculating attaehmcnt to him as ever was 
that of heroine of romasee who prays for her lover s happiness 
with her rivaL 

Mr. Boyne Sillery did not interrupt her : a plan^ in which, 
as ByroB says, 

% The images ofthingf 
Were dimlj struggling into light/* 

now floated before him, but in which it was samcddng too 
premature to expect her co-operation-— iadeed, her abioiate 
^nnion was to be feared* 



ROMANCE ANfi K^ASJVTS'. 195 

The next day a severe cold confined her to the house^ with 
irhich piece of information he was duly dei^fNttehcd to the 
Hall : apparently, he found bis visit pleasant^ for he only re- 
appeared at dinner-time, and then not till the Doctor had 
^nished his first slice of mutton. The Doctor never waited — 
the warmth of a joint, like ^u* warmth of a poet's first idea, 
was too precious to he lost. ' This system of never waiting 
was equaJly good for his constitution and his temper ; so that 
Mr. Sillery's late entrance only produced pity, and a recom- 
mendation for a hot plate, as the gravy was getting quite cold. 

He was sent again the next day, to ask Mrs. and Miss 
Arundel to dinner. But £mily's excuse could not be gain- 
sayed — she had that morning received news of the death of 
Lady Alicia D^warr. At all times this would have been a 
shock — hut now, how forcibly did it recall her uncle ! Two 
deaths in a few short months ! — the grave became familiar 
only to seem more terrible. 

Lady Alicia's summons was awfully sudden. She had re- 
turned from the opera, seemingly in perfect health : as she 
crossed the hall, Mr. Delawarr was entmng his library ; he 
stopped a mom^t, and fastened on her beautiful arm an ex- 
quisite cameo. To Delawarr his wife was a species of idol> 
on idiioh be ddighted to lavish offerings : perhaps her calm, 
placid temper suited best with his feverish and ambitious life; 
wiiat to another would have been insipidity was to him re- 
pose. As usual, on entering the drawing-room die sank into 
^n arm-chair, when, missing her shawl, which she had dn^ped 
while holding out her hand for the bracdet, she desired her 
maid to fetch it, as she was cold. On the attendant's return, 
whid) was ddayed hy s(»ne trifling aecidcMt, she was sur- 
prised to see that her lad3p's head had fallen on one side, and 
one hand had dropped nearly to the groand, her weight 
supported only by ^e arm of the chair : she hurried forward; 
and the first loc4c on the faCe was enough — it was deadly 
pale, and the features set, as if by some sudden osntraetion. 

Assistanee was soon procured — hat in vain ; and Mr. De- 
lawarr, who had himself lieeB the firstr to enter, and had car- 
ried her to the sofa in her dressing-room, heard the physician 
pTDBounoe that to be death, whaie there had been no thought 
of even danger. There i^e lay-— so quiet, and looking so 
beautiful — for, to a face whose outline waa perfect as a statue, 

o 2 



196 ROMANCE AND BEALITY. 

the repose of utter stillness rather added to than diminished 
its heauty — the rich hair ornamented with gold flowers — the 
diamond necklace^ catching the various colours of the room, 
and casting them on the neck — the slender fingers^ so cold^so 
stiff^ but glistening with gems: — the crimson dress^ whose con- 
trast now seemed so unnatural to the skin, which had tl^e 
cold whiteness of marble ; and, as if every mockery of life 
were to be assembled round the dead^ a large glass opposite 
reflected her whole face and figure — ^while a canary, to which 
she had lately taken a fancy, awakened by the light and noise, 
iilled the room with his loud and cheerful song. The bird 
efiected what no entreaties could eflect : Mr. Delawarr started 
from the ground, where he was kneeling beside the body, as 
if insensible to the presence of every one, and hurried to his 
library. He locked the door, and no one that night ventured 
to disturb him. 

To say that Emily felt very passionate grief would be un- 
true ; but her heart was softened by her own recent loss, 
though her regret was scarcely powerful enough to prevent 
the thought, that with Lady Alicia was lost the only link 
between herself and Lorraine. But the hopelessness of her 
attachment gave it a species of Elevation ; and love, driven 
from one place of refuge to another, only made an altar of the 
last. 

There was something odd that day about Mrs. Arundel 
which very much puzzled Mrs. Clarke — surely her friend had 
put on a little rouge ; and hair, on whose curl evident paius 
had been bestowed, took off much of the precision of the 
widow's cap ; moreover, there was a flutter in her manner — 
a little girlish laugh — less interest than usual was taken in 
the news of the village — no allusion was made to poor dear 
Air. Arundel — and there was that fidgety mysterious air which 
seems to say, there is a secret longing to be told. There were 
two reasons why it was not told — flrs(, Mr^. Arundel was not 
quite sure whether she really had a secret to tell ; and, se- 
condly, what with hoarseness, headach, and water-gruel^ Mrs. 
Olarlw was not in the best possible condition for cross ques- 
tioning. 

Well, a fortnight passed by, during which that lady did not 
see Mrs. Arundel, when her principles received a shock by 
the astounding news that Miss Barr, the glass of fashion, the 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 197 

milliner of the adjacent town^ had sent to the Hall two caps 

— not widow's caps^ hut^ as the young person^ who called on 
her way home^ said^ '^ such light tasty things ;" and a servant 
ivho had heen there with a message brought back word that 
one of these *' light tasty things " was actually on Mrs. Arun- 
del's head. 

Now, Mrs. Clarke was one of those to whom caps and 
crape were the very morality of mourning — she was not the 
only one, by the by, with whom propriety stands for prin- 
ciple, — and this deviation of her friend at first excited sur- 
prise, then softened into sorrow, and finally roused into anger 

— which anger, under the name of opinion, she forthwith set 
out to vent on the ofiender, after having bestowed a portion of 
it on her husband, who encountering her, cold, cloak, and all, 
had raised her indignation by not being so much astonished 
as herself, and calmly replying, 

'^ Well, my dear, this said cap — I dare-say she is setting it 
at your brother." 

If there be two things in the world — to use a common do- 
mestic expression — enough to provoke a saint, it is, first to 
have your husband not enter into your feelings — (your feel- 
ings sound so much better than your temper) — and, in the 
second place, laughing at them. Now, Dr. Clarke's not re- 
garding a widow's conduct in leaving off her cap as absolutely 
immoral, was not very tenable ground, for men are not sup- 
posed to know much about such matters ; but this allusion to 
Boyne was a very respectable outlet for resentment. 

*' Her brother, indeed, to marry such an old woman ! She 
was very much deceived if there were not younger ones who 
would be glad to get him ; and really she did not think Dr. 
Ckrke was at all justified in speaking so lightly of Mrs. 
Arundel-— she could not bear such ill-natured insinuations." 

Amid a shower of similar sentences, the Doctor escaped, 
and his lady proceeded on her way. 

People in general little know how much they are indebted 
to those matrimonial discussions. Many a storm has fallen 
softly on the offender's head, from a* part having been pre- 
viously expended on a husband or wife, — it is so convenient 
to have somebody at hand to be angry with ; — and whether 
it was the quarrel with her husband, or the walk, that did 
Mrs. Clarke good^ she certainly arrived at the Hall in a 
* o 3 




198 RO VANCE AND BBALITV. 

lietter humour than conld have been expected. She was met 
at the door by Emily^ whose slight confusion at encountering 
her was immediately interpreted mysteriously and favotirably; 
and when the young lady evidently hesitated as she said, " I 
have left my aunt and Mr. Sillery in the breakfast-room/*^ 
Mrs. Clarke was very near congratulating her future sister^ 
who, however^ disappeared too rapidly. 

She found Mrs. Arundel in a lace cap^ and a dress — blacky 
it is true^ but black silk ! Had she bade fau-eweli to her 
senses, decency, and bombasin together? All diose delicate 
inquiries were, however, postponed by the presence of her 
brother ; bat, as we say poetically, " her thoughts were too 
great for nttenmoe ;" conversation langnished ; and but for 
discussing the merits of some MaGk«-eurrant jam, which had 
been sent for, as Mrs* Ciarfce seemed hoarse, it would have 
sunk into silence. 

The visit was short and embarrassed ^ and she was scarcely 
out of the house, before severe animadversions were poured 
forth, on Mrs. Amnders most improper dress^ to Mr. Boyne 
Sillery, her companion home. 

^' Why, you see, my dear sister, it is quite unnecessary lor 
a lady to lament one husband who is meditating taking 
another." 

'' Stuff !— you are just as silly as the doctor : I should like 
to see who would put sudi nonsense into her head." 

'^ I am glad you would like to see die individual — ^fbr, my 
dear Elizabeth, he is now walking vdth you." 

'* Why, you have never been so aUly as to advise her to 
marry ? " 

^^ Indeed I have most strongly advised it" 

" Good Lord ! don't you know that her fortune is all at 
her own disposal, and would certainly go to Miss Emily at 
her death?" 

'^ I do not see any reason why I dionld be so careful of 
Miss Emily's interests : I fredy confess I prefer my own." 

'^ Don't you see they are all one ? Mrs. Arundel's pro- 
perty wUl be a very pretty windfall when you have been 
married a few years — not but that Emily has a handsome 
fortune — still, I don't see any necessity for being so disin- 
terested: and pray, who has the foolish woman taken into 
her head?" 



JBOaiANGE AND RRAXITY. 199 



^^ Her choice will^ I flatter myself, at least please you, as I 
myself am the fortunate roan/' 

'' I do heg yon will not he so provoking — I am not in a 
humour for a joke/* 

^^ Joke, my dear sister ?— marriage is a very serious piece 
of husiness." 

'^ You don't mean to say that you are going to marry Mrs. 
Arundel ? '* 

'^ Indeed I dot. Now, to fspeak plainly — as I ought to do 
to a woman of sense like yourself — I am in debt over head 
and ears. Desperate diseases require desperate remedies. 
Miss Arundel has some silly fancy of her own : I ren^raiber 
she and Lord Merton flirted desperately. Bendes, to te& 
you the truth, in town I rather slighted her: women are 
d — t-hI imforgivijag. I like the aunt quite as well as I do 
the niece ; her fortune is at her own disposal, and your bro- 
ther may as well henefit by it as another — ^i siudl Doake her 
an excellent husband." 

Surpisise is the only power that works miracles new-a-days; 
it fairly silenced Mrs. Clarke for full flre minutes. Vexation 
at what she dkought her brother's throwing himself away— 
■Mfftification beforehand at her husband — for Dr. Clarke 
had a Iwe for ponderous and orthodox jokes, whose edge had 
worn 0^ by long use — anger at Emily, whom she amfiidered 
&e cause of all this — wonder at Mrs. Arundel — ^together with 
a gradual awakening to the pecomary advantages of the match 
— all crossed and jostled her mind at once. At last she 
gasped out — " Are you sure Mrs. Arundel will have you?" 

'^ 1 suppose so. I made her an offer this monuiig, which 
Ae accepted." 

True enough : for the kst fortnight he had been a con- 
stant visitor at the Kail ; and Emily, who natBrally supposed 
she was the object of his attraction, gave his visits only one 
tfaou^t, and that was, how to avcnd liiem. Lady Alicia's 
death had^ even vacxe than usoai, thrown her among her own 
reflections : once or twice, to be sure, her maid had snd, 
^'Lord, miss, you see if your aunt does not run away with 
your beau ! " 

■ A young man, in die country, is always disposed of, whe- 
ther with or without his eonsent ; and Emily considered it 
quite in the common eourae -of things that Mr. Sillery should 

o 4 



•200 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 

be set down to her account ; and as for the remark about her 
aunt, she held it to be an impertinence which it would b^ 
wrong to encourage by even listening to such an absurdity. 

One morning, however, entering the breakfast-room rather 
suddenly, to her surprise she saw her aunt and Mr. Silleiy 
seated, her hand in his, while he was speaking with great 
earnestness. Retreat she could not, without being perceived 
— and she stood one moment in all the embarrassment of inde- 
cision ; when Mr. Sillery, who had seen her enter, rose — and, 
before she could speak, led her forward, and with the utmost 
coolness entreated her to plead for hiin, *' Yes, dear Miss 
Arundel, join your persuasions with mine — ^implore our kind 
friend to make me the happiest of men." 

This was really too good ; and Emily hurried from the 
room. At the door she encountered Mrs. Clarke; and the 
late» conversation proved that the gentleman needed no elo- 
quence but his own. 

The next meeting between Emily and her aunt was awkward 
enough, ^mily could not but feel how little respect had been 
shown to her uncle's memory. Of course, she saw through 
and despised Mr. Sillery's mercenary motives; but equally 
saw that remonstrance would be vain. Mrs. Arundel, Hke 
most people who have done a silly thing, was rather ashamed 
to confess it, and yet glad to have it come' out — we judge of 
others by ourselves — and had screwed her courage up for 
taunts and reproaches ; and when Emily indulged in neither, 
but only quietly and distantly alluded to the subject, she £elt 
rather grateful to her than otherwise. 

At the vicarage — for Dr. Clarke's parish lay close enough to 
be always disputing with its neighbour about boundaries and 
paupers — at the vicarage the disclosure was made. After 
dinner, the Doctor was in high good humour at what "he 
called his penetration — joked Mr. Boyne Sillery-* was, or 
at least did his best to be, witty about widows — and reidly 
did remember a prodigious number of jests, respectable at 
least for their antiquity. Mrs. Clarke comforted herself by 
the moral reflection of, ^^ Money is every thing in this world," 
and giving vent to her spleen by an occasional sneer ; while 
Mr. Sillery bore it all with a tolerably good grace, and medi- 
tated how soon he should be able to manage a separation. 

In a few days the news was whispered through the village. 



BOMJINCE AND REALITY. 201 

Nothing circulates so rapidly as a secret. One made one re- 
mark, and another made another; — some said, ''how shame* 
ful J " — others, " how silly ! " — but the sum total of all 
their remarks seemed to be the old proverb, '' No fool like an 
old one ! " 



CHAPTER V. 

" Who loves, ravea — 'fw youth's frenzy — hut the cure 
Is Intterer still ; as charm by chann unwinds 
Which robed our idols, and we see, too sure, 
Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's 
Ideal shape of such ; ^et still it binds 
The fatal spell, and still it draws us on." 

Byron. 

We shall find her such an acquisition to our circle. 

Common Country Expression. 

It is said, when things come to the worst, they mend. 
General assertions, like general truths, are not always appli- 
cable to individual cai^s; and though Fortime's wheel is 
generally on the turn, sometimes when it gets into the mud, 
it sticks there. However, the present case is confirmatory ot 
the good old rule ; for Emily's situation was on the point ot 
being greatly altered, by one of those slight circumstances 
which are the small hinges on which the ponderous gates of 
futurity turn. 

The entrance to Fontbill — that truly cloud-capt palace, so 
fantastic and so transitory — wi^ by two stupendous doors, 
which seemed to defy the strength of giants. A black dwarf 
came, and opened them at a touch : the mighty doors re- 
volved on some small spring. These portals are the seemingly 
insuperable difficulties and obstacles of life, and the dwarf is 
the small and insignificant circumstance which enables us to 
pass through them. 

A severe shower in the park, which wetted Frank Mande- 
ville to the skin, gave him cold, and in a few weeks reduced 
the beautifid and delicate child to a skeleton. Half the doc- 
tors in London were summoned; Lady Mandeville never 
stirred from his bedside ; when one of them said, '^ The child 
is being petted to'death; — let him try his native air, run 
about, and don't let him eat till he is hungry." 



20S ROMANCE AND KBALITV. 

His advice was followed. NorviUe AWiey, vninlutbited 
i^nce Ae first y«ar of her mamage, was ordered to be pre- 
pared. Windows were opened, foes lighted, reoina dusted, 
ifce avenues cleared, the shruhbery weeded, with ail the celerity 
of the rich and the wilful. Ah ! money is the true Aladdin's 
lamp ; and I have often thought the Bank of England is the 
mysterious roc's egg, whose movements are forbidden to 
mortal eye. 

The village and the bells were alike set in motion ; — the 
butcher and the baker talked of the patriotism of noblemen 
who resided on their estates, and went up to solicit orders ; — 
Mrs. Clarke wondered whether her ladyship would visit in the 
country ; — Mrs. Arundel simpered, and fainted " she dare- 
sayed some time hence they would be delightful ndghbours ; *' 
— Emily said that Lady Mandeville, whom she had seen in 
' London, was a very lovdy woman, and thought no more about 
her — except, one day, when she heard a carriage drive into 
the court, to be out of the way — and once, when she caught 
sight of a strange shawl, to turn into another path ; for she 
had gradually sunk into that sickly and depressed state of 
spirits which dreads change, and nervously shrinks from the 
sight of a stranger; — when, one morning, her padi was 
fairly beset by two fairy-like children, and Lady Mandevilfe 
stepping forward, said, laughingly, ^' My prisoner, by aH the 
articles -of war; I shall -not let you go without ransom." 
Escape was now impossible. They took the remainder of the 
walk together ; and, her first embarrassment past, Emily was 
surprised, when they reached the little shrubbery, gate, to find 
the morning had passed so quickly. 

The next day brought her the following note from Lady 
Mandeville : — 

'^ In begging you, my dear Miss Arundel, to come to-day 
and dine with Lord Mandeville and myself, I only hold out, 
as your inducement, that a good action is its own reward. 
Hospitality is the virtue of the country ; — do give roe an 
opportunity of practising it. To be the third in a matrimo- 
nial tete-A'tite is, I confess, rather an alarming prospect ; but 
we promise not to quarrel, and to make a great deal of yourself. 

" So do oblige yours truly, 

'^EujEN Mani>eville.'* 



BOMAKCE ANP REAUT7. SOS 

Lady MAndeville^ even in London^ where only to remember 
any body is an effort, had always liked Emily ; and in the 
country, which her ladyship thoaght might be healthy, but 
that was all that could be said for it — mch a companion 
would be inestimable ; and^ to do her justice, she had other 
and kinder motiyes. A week's residence had ^ven her 
sufficient knowledge of the statistics of the county to pity 
Emily's situation very sincerely. She foresaw all the di»* 
agreeables of ber foolish aunt's still more foolish marriage, to 
one especially who was so friendless and whose beauty and 
fortune seemed to be so singularly without their usuid ad- 
vantages. 

Lady Mandeville was, like most affectionate tempers, hasty 
in her attachments. The person to whom she could be kind 
was always the person she liked, and was, moreover, the most 
perfect person possible. Perhaps there was a little authority 
in her ai^ction -^ certainly it was a very creative faculty ; 
and long before Emily came, her new friend had sketched out 
for her a most promising futurity — a brilliant marriage, &c. 
Sec &c. ; nay, had communicated a portion to her husband, 
who, as usual, smiled, and said^ '* Very wdl, my dear ; we 
shall see.*' 

Whatever the future might be, the present was most de- 
HghtfU. It had been so long since Emily had spoken to any 
We capable of even comprehending a single idea, much less of 
entering into a single feeling, that conversation was like a new 
sense of existence. 

How irksome, how wearying, to be doomed always to the 
society of those who are like people speaking different lan- 
guages! It resembles travelling through the East, with a few 
phrases of lingua franca — just enough for the ordinary pur- 
poses of life — enow of words to communicate a want, but not 
to communicate a thought ! Then, agairr, ^ough it be sweet 
to sit in the dim twilight, singing the melancholy song whose 
words are the expression of our inmost soul, till we could 
weep as the echo of our own music^ still it is also very pleasant 
to have our singing sometimes listened to. At all events, it 
was much more agreeable to hear Lord Mandeville say, *' We 
must have that song again — it is one of my great favourites," 
than Mrs. Arunders constant exclamation, ** Well, I am so 
sick of that piano !" 



^04 KOMANCE AND REALITY. 

One day led to another, till Emily passed the greater part of 
her time at the Abbey. Her spirits regained something of 
their naturally buoyant tone^ and she no longer believed that 
«very body was sent into the world to be miserable. Not that 
Lorraine was forgotten. Often did she think, " Of what avail 
is it to be loved or admired? — he knows nothing of it;" and 
often^ after some gay prediction of Lady Mandeville's^ of the 
sensation she was to produce next season, she would weep^ in 
the loneliness of her own chamber, over one rememhrance, 
which distance, absence, and hopelessness seemed only to 
render more dear. 

'' Is it possible," she often asked herself, " that I am the 
same person who, last spring, fancied a visit to London the 
summit of earthly enjoyment ? I remember how my heart 
beat while reading Mr. Delawarr's letter : what did I hope 
for ? what did I expect } — no one positive object. But how 
litde it took then to give me pleasure ! — how many things I 
then took pleasure in, that are now, some indifferent, many 
absolutely distasteful ! I no longer read with the enjoyment I 
did : instead of identifying myself with the creations of the 
writer, I pause over particular passages — I apply the sorrows 
they depict to my own feelings ; and torn from their lighter 
and gayer pages — they mock me with too strong a contrast. 
I do not feel so kind as I did. I wonder how others can be 
gratified with things that seem to me positively disagr^aUe. 
I ought to like people more than I do. Alas ! I look forward 
to next year and London with disgust. I would give the 
world to remain quiet and unmolested — to make my own life 
like a silent shadow — and to think my own thoughts. I wish 
for nothing — I expect nothing." 

Emily had yet to learn, that indifference is but another of 
the illusions of youth : there is a period in our life before we 
know that enjoyment is a necessity — that, if the sweet cup of 
pleasure palls, the desire for it fades too — that employments 
deepen into duties — and that, while we smile, ay, and sigh 
too, over the many vain dreams we have coloured, and the 
many vain hopes we have cherished — a period of re-action, 
whose lassitude we have all felt : — this influence was now upon 
Emily. She was young for such a feeling — and youth made 
the knowledge more bitter. 

'' I do not think," said a welcome though unexpected visi- 



BOaiANCE AND BEAIilTY. 205 

tOT^ in the shape of Mr. Morland^ '^ that Miss Arundel's roses 
are so blooming in the conntry as they were in town. Pray^ 
young lady^ what have you done with your allegiance to the 
house of Lancaster ? " 

*' What ! ** exdaimed Lady Mandeyille, *' Mr. Morland 
among the rural philosophers, who talk of health as if it grew 
upon the hawthorns ? " 

^' ^y dear Ellen^" said her husband^ who ^ad his full share 
of love for the divers species of slaughterings 

** Whether in earth, in sea, in air," 

that make up the rustic code of gentlemanlike tastes, '' I do 
wonder what you see in London to^like.*' 

" Every thing. I love perfumes : will you tell me the fra- 
grant shower from my crystal flask of bouquet de rot is not 
equal to vyour rose^ from which I inhale some half-dozen in- 
sects, and retain some dozen thorns ? I love music : is not 
the delicate flut&>like voice of Sontag equal at least to the rooks 
which scream by day, and the owls which hoot by night ? Is 
not Howel and James's shop filled with all that human art can 
invent, or human taste display — bijouterie touched with pre- 
sent sentiment, or radiant with future triumph ? Or your 
milliner's^ where vanity is awakened but to be gratified, and 
every feminine feeling is called into action ? Are not those 
objects of more interest than a field with three trees and a 
cow ? And then for society — heaven defend me from locali- 
ties, your, highways and byways of conversation; where a 
squire, with a cast-iron and crimson countenance^ details the 
covey of fourteen^ out of which he killed five ; or his lady, 
with the cotton velvet gown — her dinner-dress ever since she 
married — recounts the trouble she has with her servants, or 
remarks that it is a great shame — indeed^ a sign of the ruin 
to which every thing is hastening — that all the farmers* 
daughters come to church in silk gowns ; a thing which the 
Queen wiU not allow in the housemaids of Windsor Castle. 
Then the drives, where you see no carriage but your own — 
the walks, where you leave on every hedge a fragment of your 
dress. Deeply do I sympathise with the French Countess, 
who (doomed to the society of three maiden aunts, two uncles 
— one of the farming, the other of the shooting species — and 
a horde of undistinguishable cousins) said, when advised, to 



206 nOMASiOE AVB SEAUTT. 



&(h for her amusement^ or knit for her employment^ 'Alas * 
I have no taste for innocent pleasures.' " 

'^ I do think/' returned Mr. Morhindy *^ that the country 
owes much of its merit to heing unknown. The philosopher 
speaks of its happiness, the poet of its besmties^ on the very 
reverse prindide to Pope's : they should alter this line^ and 
say, 

They best can paint them \rho have known them least.' 

Still, the country is very pleasant sometimes. I do not feel 
at all discontented just now," glancing first round the break- 
fast-table, and then to the scene without, which was quite 
lovely enough to fix the glance that it caught. 

Spring and Mornii^ are ladies that owe half their charms 
to theii^ portrait-pauaters. What are they in truth ? One, a 
mixture of snow that oovers the fair earth, or thaws that turn 
it into, mud — keen east winds, with their attendant imps, 
cougha and colds — sunshine, which just lo<^s enough in at 
the window to put out the fire, and then leaves you to feel 
the want of both. As for the other, what is it but damp 
grass, and an atmosphere of fog — ^o enjoy which, your early 
lisiRg makes you sick and tired the rest of the day ? These 
are the harsh and sallow realitieg of the red -lipped and coral*- 
cbeeked divinities of the picture. 

After all, the loveliness of Spring and Morning is like that 
of youth — the hea&ty of promise; beauty, perhaps, the most 
precioQB to the souL Campbell exquisitely says, 

" *n8 dif tance lends enchantment to the Tieir : " 

and let the heart he thankful from its inmost depths for that 
imaginative and self-existent faculty which firat lends enchant- 
ment to the distance. 

Spring, however, now and then gives us a beautiful day — 
to show, if she does make a promise, she has a stock of sun- 
ahine on hand wherewith to keep iL Such a day was now 
shining on Norville Abbey. The gray mist, which imparts 
such indescribable beauty to an JElngli^ laodsa^, was now 
illuminated with the morning light, and hung round the tur- 
rets a bright transparent mass of vapour, which you seemed 
to expect would every moment clear away, like those which, in 
the valley of St. John, opened and gave to view the enchauted 



ROMANCE AMD BEAUTY. 207 

«a8tle. They never did dear away — still it was somethiiig to 
have expected. • 

One side of the building was completely covered with ivy : 
it was like a gtgantie bower; and the nnmeroas wiodoWB 
where the branches had been pruned, seemed like vistas cut in 
the luxuriant foliage. The rest of the walk were stained and 
gray, carved with all varieties of ornaoient ; flowers cut in the 
stone, the cross at every angle, the winged heada repiesenting 
the chernbim — niches, where male and female saints stood in 
divers attitudes of prayer — and arched lattices, whose smaU 
glittering panes seemed too thankful for a sunbeam not to re- 
flect it to the utmost. The imagination must have been cold, 
and the, memory vacant indeed, which gaxed unezcited on the 
venerable pile. 

Religion was nevermore pictaresque than in the ancient 
monastery. History, poetry, romance, have afike made it the 
shrine for their cre«tkni& The colour thrown over i^s remem- 
brances is like the rich and purple hues the stained ghisa of the 
painted window flings on the monuments beneath. 

The situation, too, was one of great natural beauty. At 
the back was a smooth tur^ unbroken save by two gigantic 
oedars, stately as their native Lebanon, and shadowy as the 
winters they had braved. This Sloped down to a large lake, 
where die image of the abbey lay as in a mirror — every 
turret, every i^rch, dim, softeDed, but distinct : beyond were 
fields covered with the luxuriant and nkdi-lookiBg green g£ 
the young com — for the park had not been preserved — till 
the varied outlines of unduktiug hedge, groups of old elms, 
distant meadows, and the verdant hills, weie lost in tike blue 
sky. 

The view from the breakfast-room was of an utterly dif- 
ferent and confined character. The thick growth of the fine 
old trees, and the undipped shrubs, shut out all but the small 
portion of shrubbery, which was like one bright and blooming 
spot in a wilderness. The whidows opened upon a broad 
terrace, against whose stone balustrade a few pots of early 
flowers were placed— noi very rare, for the hothouse had been 
neglected; still there were some rose-trees, putting forth buds 
at least, some myrtles, some deep purple hyaciitthal The 
steps led down into the garden, whose beds were rich in white 
and crimson daisies, hepatieas, and violeti^ whose breath per- 



208 BOMANCE AND BEAUTY. 

fumed the whole place. The turf was of that rich datls 
emerald which promises softness fit for the chariot of the fairy 
queen ; and, spreading his magnificent plumage in the' sun- 
shine, which brought out a thousand new colours, a peacock 
stood gazing round, either for admiration, or with an Alexan- 
der Selkirk-looking feeling, which said, ^' I am monarch c$ 
all I survey." 

^'I must say," observed Lord Mandeville, opening the 
window till the room seemed filled with fragrance and sun- 
shine, '^ a street sacred to Macadam's dyiftsty of mud, and 
the blinds, brick, and smoke of our opposite neighbours, are 
not quite equal to a scene like this." 

** On to the combat, say your wont ; 
And foul fall him who flinches first ! " 

replied Lady Mandeville. " The exception proves the rule ; 
but there is such an argument in your favour, that for once I 
wiU give up the dispute — but mind, it is not to be considered 
a precedent." 

So saying, she stepped upon the terraae to meet a beautiful 
boy, who came, glowing and out of breath, to ask for bread 
for the peacock. In sober seriousness, there is more poetry 
than truth in the sweet poem of Allan Cunningham — the 
Town and Country Child : witness the cheerful voices of the 
rosy faces to be met with in the smallest street and closest 
alley in London ; but if an artist had wished for a model for 
the children so beautifully painted by the poet, Frank Man-- 
deville — two- months ago pale and languid, and now Frank 
Mandeville bright-eyed and cheerful — might fairly have sat 
for both likenesses. 



CHAPTER VI. 

1 

** The schoolmaster is abroad.*'— BttoucnAM. 

** Now, be sure you learn your lesson, you tiresome child." 

Juvenile Library, 

** Thank goodness, 1 am not a child," said Lady Mandeville, 
turning over a collection of those juvenile tomes, which are 
to make the rising generation so much wiser than their grand* 



• BOUANCIS A^D RJBALIXY. 209 

fathers or grandmothers— catechisms of conchology^ geology, 
mathematical questions for infants, geography^ astronomy ; 
'' the child may be 'father to the man;' but the said father 
must have had some trouble with his offspring." 

*^I often wonder/' replied Lord Mandeville^ ''how I ever 
learnt to read ; and to this day I sympathise with the child 
in the song, who says^ 

* The rule of three doth puzzle me. 
And practice drives me mad.' " 

. " I cannot but think/* rejoined Mr. Morland, '' our present 
mode of education has too much of the forcing system in it. 
The forward child grows into the dogmatic youth, and it takea 
ten years of disappointment and mortification to undo the 
wdjrk of twenty. Nothing leads to such a false idea of self- 
Importance as display. I dislike those railroads to informa^ 
tion, because the labour of acquiring knowledge is even more 
valuable than the knowledge acquired. It is a great misfor- 
tune to children to be made of too m\ich consequence." 

"It seems to me," observed Lady Mandevilley " that we 
over-educate the memory, while the temper and the feelings 
are neglected, forgetting that the future will be governed 
much more by the affections than by the understanding. I 
would, both for his own happiness and that of thgse connected 
with him, -a thousand times rather see Frank affectionate and 
generous, than like a little dictionary at my side for memory 
and correctness." 

" Never tell me," said Lord Mandeville, " but that a child 
must be the better for reading anecdotes of generosity, kind- 
liness, and self-devotion. It would give me more pleasure to 
have Frank's enthusiasm excited by such acts, than to hear 
him name every Roman emperor from Augustus to Constan- 



tine." 



" I feel convinced that one of Miss Edgeworth's stories for 
children is worth all the questions and answers that ever made 
history easy, or geography light." 

" Do you remember,'' said Emily, " a little story called 
the Rival Crusoes ? I cannot describe the effect it took on 
frank as I was reading it to him : but, if I may venture a 
remark among you higher authorities, it seems to roe it gave 
him a more touching lesson against overbearing temper, and o£ 



SIO ROMANCE AND REALITT 

affectionate forgiveness^ than all the advice ii'. tiie wi^ld could 
have done." 

^'Her aunt;** said Mr. Morland^ ''has die care of my 
Helen. My only injunctions were— educate her as little, and 
keep her a child as long as possihte." 

'^ And she is one of the sweetest girls I ever saw, because 
one of the most natural — ^loving birds, flowers, and fairy tales, 
with a taste at once so simple and so refined ; and, to make 
my confession, I do mot like her the less for being a most 
lovely creature.*' 

" I wonder," exclaimed Emily, *^ whether she still wears 
her hair in those beautiful natural ringlets ? — they always put 
me in mind of that exquisite simile applied to EUen Glanviile^ 
^ her curls seemetl as if they had taken the sunbeasos pri-> 
soners.'* When I last saw her she was very eloquent 'in 
praise of a certain tortoise-shell comb. Turning up die hair 
is the great step to womanhood in a girl's life." 

^^What admirable theories of education," observed Lord 
Mandeville, " one might erect ; only who would ever have the 
patience to execute them ? Our only consolation is, that, do 
what we will, circumstances will do still more." 

'' Yet those circumstances may, and ought to he modified r 
but a truce to our present discussioa — for here oome the 
letters." 

O for some German philosopher^ with the perseveraaoe of 
the African travellers, who seem to make a point of conscience 
to die on their travels, not, though, till the said travels m pro- 
perly interred in quartos — with their perseverance, and the 
imagination of a poet to examine into die doctrine of sympathies ! 
And to begin wi^ letters, in what consiste the mysterious attrac- 
tion no one will deny they possess } Why, when we neither 
expect, hope, nor even wish for «ne, and yet when they are 
brought, who does not feel disappointed to find there are none 
for them? and why, when opening the epistie would set the 
question at rest, do we persevere in looking at the direcdon, die 
seal, the shape, as if from them alone we eonld guess the con.. 
lients ? What a love of mystery and of vague expectance there 
is in the human heart ! 

In the mean time, Emily sat picking to pieces a rosebud, 
i^cm the first deep crimson leaf to the delicate pink inside. 
Oh ! that organ of destrnetiveness ! She had gathered it only 

* PeUiam. 



BOUANOB AltH BEALITT. 211 

ftB hour ^o-«a single lolitaiy floiver, where tbe shrubbery 
had run into too iuxuriant a Tegetatiou for much bloom — the 
very Una of roses among the green leaves, 

" Making a sunshine in the ^ady place ; " 

and now she nvas destroying it. 

Suddenly Lord Mandeviile, who had been lost in the columns 
of the Times, exclaimed, ^^ Why, the Lauristons' villa at 
Twickenham is for sale. What can have induced them to part 
with it?" 

'^ The Morning Post explains the mystery. Do let me read 
you the announcement of Lady Adelaide Merton's marriage.*' 

A flush passed over Emily's face, bright as the red leaves 
she had be«i scattering round, and then left her cheek even 
whiter than the hand on which it leimt 

'' I am surprised — I really ihought it was to have been a 
match betwee& her and Mr. Lorraine : but, lo and behold ! she 
has married his elder brother. Lord fitheringhame. But diis 
marriage of her last daughter accounts for the sale of the villa. 
No one knew better than Lady Lanriston the advantage of a 
distance from town, to which a young cavalier could drive 
down in an hour — dine en ybmttt?— spend an erening with 
all the amusement but none of the restraint of a Loiidon party ; 
and dien the windows opened upon the lawn, and a warm 
evening often tempted a young couple to step out — and then 
moonlight, and that beautiful acacia walk, were terribly sen- 
timental. That pretty garden has witnessed more than one 
o&st; h9lt 

Othello's eocopaitton*! gone.* 

Wliat will Lady Lauriston do without a daughter to maarry ? 
She really must advertise for one." 

^' I should have been very sorry had Lorraine married Lady 
Adelaide Merton," said Mr. Morland ; " yet I always felt his 
admiration was 

* The peifame «iid supplianoe of a:mioute.* 

He is too imaginative not to be attracted by beauty ; but he 
has a depth of feeling, a poetry of thought — no mere coquette 
T^fHild ever satisfy." 

'' I do not know any one who better realises my idea of a. 

p 2 



212 ROMANCE AND RBALITY. 

preux chevalier than Mr. Lorraine/ replied Lady Mandeville. 
^' He is so very handsome, to h^n with ; and there is a lo^ 
mantic tone about him^ which^ to its original merits of fijoe 
taste and elevated feelings^ adds also that of being very un« 
common." 

" I never yet knew a woman who did not admire him>" 
said Mr. Morland ; ^^and I ascribe it greatly to a certain 
earnestness and energy in his character You all universally 
like the qualities in which you yourselves are deficient : the 
more you indulge in that not exactly deceit^ which^ in its best 
sense^ belongs to your sex, the more you appreciate and dis- 
tinguish that which is true in the character of man. More* 
over^ Edward has a devotion of manner^ which, every female 
takes as a compliment to herself ; and a spirit of romantic en- 
terprise, enough to turn your heads and hearts^ like the love- 
charms of the Irish story-tellers.'* 

*' Why ! " exclaimed Lord Mandeville, ^< you must have seen 
a great deal of him. How, Miss Arundel^ did you ever with- 
stand his fascinations ? " 

Most probably Emily did not hear this question ; for she 
was in the act of opening the window, to widk on the terrace. 
Lady Mandeville alone caught sight of her face, coloured with 
the brightest carnation. What betraying things blushes are I 
Like sealing wax in the juvenile riddle, a blush " burns to keep 
A secret." 

She turned into the most shadowy walk — one whose thick 
laurels shut out all but the green winding path below. She 
wished for no companion to break in upon her thoughts. We 
use the phrase, ^' too confused for happiness ; " but I doubt 
whether that confusion be not our nearest approach to it in 
this hfe. 

Involuntarily her light step quickened; and the buoyant 
pace with which she reached the end of the walk was in unison 
with the rapid flight fancy was taking over the future. Hope 
like an angel, had arisen in her heart ; and every flower of the 
summer sprang up beneath its feet. Youth is the French 
count, who takes the Yorick of Sterne for that of Shakspeare : 
it combines better than it calculates — its wishes are prophecies 
of their own fulfilment. 

To meet Lorraine again, with all the advantages she really 
possessed^ and with Lady Mandeville to set those advantages 



KOMAlfCE AND REALITV. 213 

in a proper light — to have him not insensible to them — to be 
enabled to showthe perfect disinterestedness of her attachment^ 
from his brother's marriage-^ all these happy conclusions were^ 
in her mind, the work of a moment. We build our castles on 
the golden sand ; — the material is too rich to be durable. 

From that day a visible change passed over Emily. She 
played with the children as usual ; but now it was as if she 
entered herself into the enjoyment she gave them. Still, she 
was sometimes abstracted and thoughtful ; but now^ instead of 
a look of weariness and dejection, she started from her fit of 
absence with a beautiful flush of confusion and pleasure ; and 
the subject of the next spring, from which she had hitherto 
shrunk^ was now entered into with all the eagerness of antici- 
pation. 

" How much Miss Arundel is improved ! " said Lord Man- 
deville. ^' I do not know whether our coming here has done 
Frank or herself most good." 

Lady MandeviUe only smiled. 



CHAPTER VII. 

Marriage and hanging go by destiny. -~ Old Proverb. 

Every street in London was Macadamizing — every shop was 
selling bargains ; — the pale pink, blue, and primrose ribands were 
making one effort for final sale, before the purples and crimsons 
of winter set in. Women in black gowns^ and drab-coloured 
shawls hung upon their shoulders as if they were pegs in a 
passage — men in coats something between a great-coat and a 
frock — strings of hackney-coaches which moved not — stages 
which drove along with an empty, rattling sound — and carts 
laden with huge stones, now filled Piccadilly. All the windows, 
that is to say all of any pretensions^ had their shutters closed, 
excepting here and there an open parlour one^ where the old 
woman left in care of the house sat for her amusement 

Every thing bespoke the season of one of those migratory 
disorders, which, at certain periods, depopulate London. Still, 
one mansion, which the time ought to have unpeopled, was 
evidentlv inhabited: and in one of its rooms — small, but 

p 3 




5il4 VOKANCE AND RBALITT. 

luxurious enough fSor a sultana in the Arabian Nigbts^ or & 
young gentleman of the present day — were seated two persons 
in earnest conversation. 

After a time^ one of them — it was Mr« Delawarr — rose and 
left the room, saying, ^' I own the truth of your remaHcs-— it 
makes good the <>bservation that a bystander sees more of the 
game than those who are playing ; — and now let me remind 
you of the assistance you can rendi&r me ! that will be a move 
powerful motive than all I eould urge of your own ambition 
and advancement." 

Lorraine rose^ and paced the room in an excited and anxiovs 
mood : he felt coHficious of his own great powers, and of the 
many advantages he possessed for bringing them into aetiou. 
But pleasures are always most delightful when we look baiick 
upon, or forward to th^ : and he felt an indolent reluctance 
to turn from tjie voice of the charmer — charm she never so 
wisely — and assume those endurif^ habits of industry and 
energy which are as much required as even talent in an 
Englishman's public career. He only wanted the influence of 
a more powerful motive than the theoretic conviction of the 
excellence of such exertion ; but the necessity was even now 
on its road. 

Noon and the post arrived together ; and they brought that 
letter which had given Lord ^theringhaioe such trouble in its 
composition, announcing his engagement with Lady Adelaide 
Merton. Lorraine was as completeiy taken by surprise as 
it was weH possible for a gentleman to be. His brother's mar- 
riage had long ceased to enter into his calculations ; but if it 
were possible for any hiunan being to be without one grain of 
selfishttess in his composition, Edward Lorraine was that 
being ; and his- first vague a^conishiAent over^ h» next fie^ng 
was to rejoice over an event so certain to restore his brother's 
mind to a more healthy tone — to recaD hua to his place in 
society ; and never was a letter more frank or iJ^tionate in 
its congratulations than the one he forthwith despatched to the 
Earl. He could not but feel carious to know how the eoaquest 
had been managed, and perhaps diought any other match 
would have been as good. Still, a young man is rarely very 
severe on the faults of a very beautiful girl ; and, moreover^ it 
was a flatteiing unction to lay to his soul, tfeat he, rather than 
the lady^ had been the first to withdraw from theiv flirtation. 



ROMANCE ^ND REAIjITY. 215 

He then wei\t to communicate the afikir to Mr. Delawarr^ 
^hose equanimity being unsuppoirted by affection, was macb 
the most disturbed by the occurrence. His judgment^ un-i 
biassed by any brotherly partiality^ drew no flattering coib- 
elusions for Lord Etheringhame's future, either as a brilliant 
or as a useful career — 

" Unstable as water, tho6 ahalt not excel ; " 

and he foresaw Lord Etheringhame would juati be a puppet 
in the hands of his very lovely wife- These reflections he 
•4eemed it unnecessary to conanaunicate^ and fimshed the dia- 
logue by exclaiming, ^' Weli, Edward, I only wish you had 
married her yourself," In this wish^ however, hia auditor did 
not quite eoirdially join. 

Lord Etheringhame had many fi^ounine points in his 
character ; this his very letter evinced. Part of its most im- 
portant information was in the postscript, via. that Mr. Maynard 
had died suddenly ; his physician said by his cook — the jury 
by the visitation of God. The borov^ he had represented 
ivas now vacant : it was his lordship's, and the teat was 
offered to Edward^ and accepted. The grief into which Lady 
Alicia's death plunged Mr. Delawarr, made Lorraine's presence 
and assistance invaluable to one who had quiie enough of 
business to justify hia saying, '^ He had not a uKWD^fit's time 
to himself ; "—an assertion more pleasant thaa we are ready to 
admit. No thorocighly occupied man was ever yet very 
miserable. 

March arrived, and with it the period fixed for themarrii^, 
which had been ddayed, and was now to be private, on account 
of the recent loss. Lady Lauriston and her daughter had 
•^pent a quiet fortnight in London : people cannot be manried 
without a clergyman — the milliner and the jeweller are equally 
indispensable. They returned to SCanbury Park, whose ownej 
maae his niece a present of a set of pearis and a cookery book; 
And at last the day came when the jeeremony was to be per- 
formed in the chapel of Etheringhame Castle. 

From a delay on the road, almost imposnbfe in these days 
— but rapid oriving does sometimes accomptish impossibilities 
Edward only arrived that very morning in time to accompany 
4us brother, who walked up and down the hall, sipping his 

p 4f 



2l6 ROUANOE AND RBALITY. 

coffee at intervals^ and having very much the air of a soldier 
who would retreat if he cojild. 

Any great change is like cold water in winter — one shrinks 
from the first plunge; and a lover may he excused who 
shivers a little at the transmigration into a hushand. It is a 
different case with the lady — she has always been brought up 
with the idea of being married — moreover, she must be very 
much taken up with her blonde — and, to conclude, a woman 
gains her liberty, but a man loses his. 

£dward was the only one of the party sufficiently unoccupied 
to appreciate the propriety and the picturesque of the scene. 
Lord Lauriston, watching his lady in evident trepidation lest 
his conduct should not meet her approbation — Lord Merton> 
obviously tired of the forms, but subsiding into patience as he 
met bis mother's eye — Mr. Stanbury, with a face full of con* 
gratulations and a mouth full of jokes, all equally checked by 
Lady Lauriston's glance — she, all dignified quiet, only touched 
by a most maternal sadness at parting with her daughter*— 
and the daughter herself, nothing could be more perfect, 
whether in dress or demeanour. 

After much hesitation, and consideration of the will yet un- 
written, the property at his own disposal, Lady Lauriston con^. 
sented that Adelaide should be married with her head uncovered. 
^* No girl," said Mr. Stanbury, " in his time ever wore one of 
those frightful huge bonnets ;" and it was finally arranged that 
his niece should not. A dress of the most delicate white silk, 
made open so as to display the coUerette beneath, so favourable 
to the display of her exquisitely turned neck — the small ruff 
that encircled her slender throat, which rose white and grace- 
ful as the swan's — the beautiful hair, which descended in light 
ringlets like a summer shower, every drop filled with sui^shine, 
whose profusion was restrained^ not concealed, by the wreath 
of orange flowers ; — and the blonde veil that fell to her feet. 

She entered clinging timidly to her father's arm, and knelt 
in an attitude perfectly inimitable before the altar, while, from 
one of the painted windows of the little chapel, the most ex.. 
quisite rose tint fell over her figure ; it was as if her own rich 
blush had coloured the atmosphere around. Her voice, through- 
out the whole response, was quite inaudible — just a whisper 
— fairy music ; and, after the ceremony, she l^ant on her 
husband's arm with an air so different ftx>m that with which she 



ROMANCE AND REAUTT. 217 

had leant on her father's — she cinng to the one^ while she 
seemed to shrink from the other — gradually^ however, drawing 
towards him, as if for support. When the rest crowded round 
with their congratulations, Edward felt greatly inclined to laugh 
86 he offered his : their eyes met, and he was convinced the hride 
smothered a smile too ; hut whether the smile was mirth or 
triumph, would have heen a difficult question to decide. 

We must not forget the bridemaids, who were selected with 
as much judgment as the rest : young, pretty, well calculated 
to set off the scene, but slight and -brunettes, they were 
admirably calculated also to set off the height and fairness of 
liady Adelaide. 

The breakfast was as stupid as such breakfasts usually are: 
The 'bride is all timidity — the parents sorry, of course, to lose 
their sweet child — and the bridegroom is a nonentity. Lady 
Etheringhame changed her dress, and looked almost lovelier 
still in her travelling costume. She was now overwhelmed 
with affliction. Lady Lauriston implored Algernon to watch 
over the happiness of the dearest of her children. Adelaide 
was almost borne to the carriage — her mother retired to her 
own room, overcome with her feelings — and Edward thought 
it very ungrateful that the audience did not rise and clap the 
performance. 



CHAPTER VIIL 



** Blessings be with them and eternal praise. 
Who gave us nobler loves and nobler cares ; 
The poets, who on earth have made us heirs 
Of truth and pure delight by heaTenly lays." — Wordsworth. 

Emily's time was now passing most pleasantly : she had been 
solitary enough during winter to give society that advantage of 
contrast which does so much towards teaching the full value 
of any thing ; she had just enough of annoyance from her 
aunt to make \sx feel thankful that she was not more exposed 
to it. She became attached to Lady Mandeville, with all the 
enjoyment and warmth of youthful affection — that age when 
we are so happy in loving those around us. Many sources of 



^IB HOMANOE AND BJBAIflTIT. 

enjoyiBeot were laid opea; and tbe future seemed as pjfO- 
inistngas those futures always are which w^ make for ourselves. 

Lady Mandeville was one of those women for the description 
ci whom the word ^' faseioating" seems expressly made. She 
had seen a great deal of society^ and she talked of it delights 
fully ; she had that keen sense of ridicule so inseparable fr^^n 
perceptions at onee acute and refined ; and^ like most of those 
accustomed to every species of amusement^ she easily wearied 
of it, and hence novelty became indispensable ; and from this 
arose much of her fondness f<Nr society, and quickness in per- 
ceiving every variety of character. A new acquaintance vnis 
like a new book — and, as in the case of the book^ it must be 
confessed she ofben arrived very quickly at the end. 

Emily's very reserve — the necessity there was t& divine the 
feelings she herself rarely expressed — made her, of all others^ 
the most seciiie in retaining the friendship she had inspired. 
There was always some^ing to imagine about her — and 
imagination is as useful in keeping affection alive as the eastern 
monarch's fairy ring was in keepmg alive his conscience. More- 
over^ £«ily's very friendlessness gave Lady Mandeville a 
pleasurable feeling of protection*— we like those we can oblige 
-»and she felt as the writer c^ a feiiry tale,, while laying down 
plans for her future destiny. 

'' Pray, have you agreed to group for a picture ? " said Mr 
Morland^ who, with Lord Mandeville, entered the room just 
as £mily read the last line of the Lady of the Lake : and it 
was a question De Uooge might have asked ; for one of those 
breaks of sunshine, so like reality in his pictures, came from 
the half-opened glass door^ and fell full on the large old crimson 
arm-chair, where Lady Mandeville was seated with a little 
work-table before her, at which she was threading those 
brilliant and diminutive beads which would make fitting chain 
armour for the fairy king and his knights. The rest of the 
apartment was filled with that soft green light where the noon 
excluded by Venetian blinds, <nr the still softer shadow <»f 
creeping plants : and here on the south side of the honse, a 
vine had been trained, which, luxuriant and unpruned, 
seemed better calculated for foliage than for ifmit : a green 
basket-stand, filled with pots of eariy roses, stood between 
the windows — and so near, that their crimson reflected on 
the face of the young boy who was asleep on the carpet : not 



M^UAmCE AND ItBAUTT. 21$ 

SO the elder one, who sat at Emily's feet, his cheek glowing 
with the excitement of the nairative, and his large blue eyes 
almost double their usual size with eager attention. 

*^ I have always thought/' said Lord Mandeville — *^and 
Frank seems to think with me — that no poet ever carried you 
so completely along with him as Sir Walter Scott : he is the 
poet^ of all others^ iosade to be read aloud. What is die reason 
I like to read Lord Byron to myself, but like Scott to be read 
to me ?" 

'' Because," said Mr. Morland, " the one is the poet of re- 
flection, the other of action* Byron's pages are like the glasses 
which reflect oursdves — Scott's are like those magic mirrors 
which give forth other and distant scenes, and odber sad 
passing shapes; but tlds is a sweeping remaTk — and both 
poets often interchange their cbaracfeedsties. ScoAfe will excite 
pepsive and lingering thought — aoad Byroa, as in ihe Corsair 
and Lara, carry us along by the mere interest of the story." 

'<! tkiiik/' observed £mily, ''in the Lay of tibe Last 
Minstrel there is one of the most exquisite tooches of naliind 
feding I ever met with. Sir WiUisnn JMonmie nndosea the 
tomb of Michael Scott, while the monk, his early friend, stands 
by ; when the body is uncovered, the monk turns away his 
face — 

* Far he aright net abide the right to see 
Of the maa he had loved so brotherly.' '* * 

(^ I ceraember," retwrned Lady Mandeville, '' aaother in« 
stance^ where a single thonght h^s produced the effect,, oa me 
at least, of a whole poem of images : it is frooa Byron. The 
'Prisoner of Chillon is speaking of the younger brother who lies 
buried at his side : he says, 

* For he was beautiful as diay, 

When 4a^ was beautiful tame.' ** 

*' And, while we are remembering, let me recall another 
passage from Scott that has always especially delighted me,** 
observed Lord MandeviUe. " The Minstrel is relating to the 
captive chieftain the batfle in whieh his clan l^ave been worsted : 
he softens the defeat by ascribing it all to his absence, and 
sinks the ftight in the exclamation, 

* I fiad this reoaavh previoai% made in the Katioaal Portrmit Gallery; and I am 

filad 10 observe the opinion confirmed by such authoritv as the author of those 
l}iographical sketehes. 



^0 BOMANCE'AND BEAUTY. 

* Oh, where was Roderic then ? ~ 
One blast upon his bugle horn 
Were worth a thousand men.' " 

"Of all questions," remarked Lady Mandeville, " I dislike 
being asked, ' which is your favourite poet ? ' Authors, who 
appeal to the feelings are those of whom our opinions must 
inevitably vary most : I judge according to my mood." 

" Another odious fashion of conversation is that of com- 
parison : I look upon them as if 

* Their souls were each a star, and dwelt apart.* " 

- '* Are you an admirer of Wordsworth ? " ' 

" Yes -^ he is the most poetical of philosophers. Strange,' 
that a man can be so great a poet, and yet deficient in what 
are poetry's two grand requisites^ — imagination and passion. 
He describes what he has seen^ and beautifully, because he 
is impressed with the beauty before his eyes. He creates 
nothing : I cannot recall one fine simile. He has often ex- 
pressions of touching feeling — he is often melancholy, often 
tender -— > but with more of sympathy than energy ; and for 
simplicity he often mistakes both vulgarity and silliness. He 
never filLs the atmosphere around with music, ' lapping us in 
Elysium,' like Moore : he never makes his readers fairly for- 
get their very identity, in the intense interest of the narrative, 
like Scott : he never startles us with the depth of our secret 
thoughts — he never brings to our remembrance all that our 
own existence has had of poetry or passion — the earnestness 
of early hope, the bitterness of after-disappointment — like 
Byron. But he sits by the fireside or wanders through the 
fields, and calls from their daily affections and sympathies 
foundations whereon to erect a scheme of the widest benevo- 
lence. He looks forth on the beautiful scenery amid which 
he has dwelt, and links with it a thousand ties of the human 
loveliness of thought : I would say, his excellence is the moral 
sublime." * 

" The common people of England," observed Lord Mande- 
ville, " seem to me to have less feeling, taste, or whatever we 
please to call it, for poetry, than almost any other country. 
Look at the common songs of the Scotch — verse ' familiar 
as household words ' — what touches of exquisite feeling -^ 
what natural yet delicate thoughts ! Look at those of the Irish 
peasantry — what fine and original imagery is to be met with ! 



BOtfANOE AKB BBAIilTY. 221 

But the run of English ballads are as vulgar in expression as 
they are coarse or common in idea. No nation takes a higher 
poetical rank than our own — how, therefore, do you account 
for this ? " 

" I am not one of those," returned Mr. Morland, *^ who 
deem it necessary to give a reason for every thing ; and of all 
hypotheses^ those which account for the various workings of 
the imagination are to me especially unsatisfactory. That a 
peculiar temperament is required for poetry, no one will deny; 
but what produces that temperament ? — scenery and circum- 
stances certainly do not. I, for one, am content to leave the 
question with the longitude and the philosopher's stone. 

'^ The poetical habits of a people do not lead to their pro. 
ducing great poets, else those among the Italians of the pre- 
sent day would be the first in the world. Their country is 
unrivalled in its loveliness — all their old associations are of 
the refined and elevated order — their taste for music is as 
exquisite as their taste for painting. Objects of beauty are 
constantly before them, for the picture or statue gallery is open 
tO; all — their churches are the noblest monuments of human 
power — the common wants of hfe are easily supplied — and 
then their indolent summer habits are so favourable to the train 
of imaginary creations. I have seen an Italian peasant, seated^ 
perhaps, by one of the ruined fountains, half ivy, half water 
— or beneath an old tree, through which the moonlight was 
falling like rain — and he has sung some one of those divine 
airs whose popularity has verily floated on the wings of the 
wind. Gradually his voice has died away, and he has sat 
silent and absorbed, as if wholly given up to the quiet enjoy- 
ment of the soft summer night. Ought not that man to have 
been a poet ? " , 

" The feeling, for poetry is not the powier, and I firmly be- 
lieve its source lies not without, but within." 

'* Nothing struck me so much as the extreme beauty of 
the women. To take one instance out of many — look at the 
young peasants who plait the Leghorn straw : brought up 
from infancy to that mo8( feminine employment, which re- 
quires the utmost delicacy of touch, their hands and arms are 
as white as those of the heroines of romance always are ; the 
outline of their face is perfect — the finely formed nose, the 
iyoiy. teeth, the high, intellectual forehead — and such eye- 



322 ROXANCfi AKB REALITY. 

brows — to say nothing of Aeir large dark eyes, either of a 
de^ purple blue, or a radiant black ; and then their hair. s6 
profase, so exquisitely dressed, put up into those rich mas9ei 
of shade, and falling into one or two large ringlets that Bere- 
nice might have envied* I have often seen one of tht^se girls, 
with her classically-tamed head, l^ending over her work, who 
might have served as a model for ' a nymph, a na^ad, or a 
grace. 

*' Do you remember,** said Lady Mandeville, " the first 
f^e after our arrival ? Oh, Bmily, it was matter for severe 
study ! Their exquisite coquetry -^each peasant had her 
lover, who was treated with that perfection of ' beautiful 
disdain' which does so much in a love affiiir. And then 
tibeir dress — the fine plaited chemisette dose round the throat 

— the long gold ear-rings, those indispensables of their toilette 

— Ilie foiack velvet boddioe, showing the figure to such ad- 
vantage, laced widi gdd and coloored silks — Uie full petti- 
coat — the apron trimmed with gay ribands ; all put on so 
neady, and with such a fine taste for harmony of colouring. 
I always diink national oostttmes inrented foe the eicpress ad- 
vantage of travelers." 

** I must own," repKed Mr. Morland, ^ €he j^easures of 
travelling seem to me quite ideaL I dislike having the 
routine of my existence disarranged — I dislike early rising ->- 
I dislike bad dinners — I dread damp beds — I like new 
books — I like society — 1 respect my cook, and love my 
arm-chair ; so I will travel through Italy in a chapter — and 
am not quite sure but these engravings are move pioturesque 
than the originals." 

**And I," replied Lady Mandeville, "delight ia its diffi- 
culties : a bad dinner is a novelty, and a little danger is a«i 
enjoyment for whidi I am thankful. There are two readings 
of content — and mine would be, monotony." 

'* Blessed be that amiable arrangement of fate, which gives 
sudi variety of tastes \ I knew a lady who made a pet ot^ 
dove — I knew another whose passion was for grasshoppers, 
111 tell you a story, at which I laughed at first, and after- 
wards philosophised upon. You ktiow the frightful goitres 
which 80 disfigure the inhabitants of the Valais ; but they 
themselves consider them to be personal advantages of no 
amall attraction. In my yowth I was a little touched with 



nOMANCS ANB RfiAUTV. 223 

tfaoee Ts^ant habits you haTC been advocatiDg ; aad one da^r 
I found myself in a small mountain chapel^ where a Swiss 
pastor was encouiaging content among his congregation, by 
dwelling on the many kveiiing circumstanoes of huniamty — 
the sickness or the senow which brought the happiness of the 
wealthy to a level wiih that of the pocor. Taking it ifor 
granted I was as ignorant of his language as he was of mine, 
he looked upon my appearance as qvite a case in point : ' Ob- 
serve this young stranger — rich^ free to do his own pkasuie, 
healthy ; but, to counterbalance these advantages, Providence 
has denied him a goUreJ 



9 it 



CHAPTER IX. 

** Nobody dies but somiebofdK'*s glad -of it.**— Three Cotaraet and a Detsert. 

Wk diler from our aniseBtorB in an&y things — in none more 
than in cases of aentiiaent. Fvrmerty, it was your suscep- 
tible schiool-gir}, ^your nowi-readkig miss" — now^ women 
only gx>ow Tomtnttc after forty« Yovr young beauty caleulates 
the dianoes of her Osedsn nose, her fine eyes, and her ex- 
quisite complexion — yonr young hdress dwells on ihe daims 
of her rent-roll, or the probabilities of her fimded property : 
it is their mothers who inn away — their aunts who marry 
haadssne young tneh without a shilling. Well, the prudence 
<^ ycsith is very like adfishness, and the romance of age very 
like foUy. 

Mrs. Arundel was «n*ived at the f lunantie age ; and fimUy, 
on her return fram a fortnight's stay at NorviHe, was some- 
what surprised to hear«froBi her own lips that her marriage 
with Mr. Boyije SiUery was to take place immediately. So 
soon ! and was Ihis all? A few months, and her usde*s 
memory seemed to have utterly passed away. Alas i oblivion 
is our moral deaidi, and forgetfiaineBs is ^e second grave which 
doses over the dead. In the same spirit with which a drown- 
ing man catdies at -a straw, £«ily helped that pexhaps Mrs. 
Clarke might be induced to listen to arguvnems aga.%st such 
indecorous haste, and that her influence might prevaii on the 
impatient gentleman and yielding lady to let the twelve 



S24 ROUANOE AND REALITY. 

months pass — and then^ thought Emily, '^ I shall be glad it 
is no worse." 

This hope was not a very promising one ; for she could 
scarcely flatter herself that her opinion would have much 
weight: she well knew Mrs. Clarke entertained a very mediocre 
estimate of her understanding ; she had never asked her for a 
receipt^ nor offered her a pattern, — those alphas and om^as 
with her female accomplishments. But^ however deficient in 
these sciences of the spoon and the scissors^ there was a sweets 
ness^ a gentleness about Emily which it was impossible to dis- 
like ; Mrs. Clarke, therefore, always spoke of her only pity- 
ingly. " Miss Arundel might have been made a great deal 
of, but she had been so badly brought up." 

The morning was raw and comfortless, as if Winter, just 
awakened from his sleep by an east wind, had started up in 
that unamiable mood which is the mood of most when un- 
timely disturbed in their slumbers ; and March^ which, the 
day before, had seemed softening into April, was again chilled 
into January. Emily's health and habits were equally deli- 
cate ; and a wet, cold walk was to her sufBciently distasteful, 
without the visit at the end : however, she summoned her re* 
solution and her cloak, and set forth. She walked up the neatest 
of gravel walks, edged by box, where there was not a leaf out 
of place, and a turf whose silken smoothness seemed uncon- 
scious of a tread ; as Mrs. Clarke justly observed, '^ It was 
such a comfort to have no children to run over it." She 
paused on the cleanest of steps; a lad in pepper-and-salt 
livery opened the door ; and she entered the hall and an at- 
mosphere of most savoury soup, where she seemed likely to 
remain — for the boy stood debating between his right hand 
and his left, evidently quite undecided whether he was to show 
her to the drawing or dining-room. This mental debate was, 
however, decided by the appearance of his mistress, who had 
just taken a peep to see who her visitor i^as, — her morning 
costume rendering such a precaution very necessary. 

*' Bless me. Miss Emily, who would have thought of seeing 
you in the rain ? Do come in. Doctor, go on with your soup, 
my dear — it will do you no good if you let it get cold. Do 
take off that wet cloak — are your feet damp ? Don't mind 
the Doctor — he is only an old married man — and there is 
no fire in the drawing-room/' 



, ROMANCE AND RBAIiITY. 225 

With a shiver at the thought of the cold hlue hest-room^ 
always in papers and hrown holland^ Emily took the offered 
seat by the fire, almost glad she was wet^ as it delayed her ex- 
planation. But time has a most feminine faculty of opposi- 
tion '—• always hurries if we hesitate — and the Doctor finished 
his- soup^ and went out to hear the complaint of a man who 
applied to the justice because his wife insisted on giving him 
mint tea for breakfast. Mrs. Clarke arrived at the end of her 
apologies for being caught buch a figure — but she had been 
sabusy the whole morning pickling walnuts; and Emily^ 
finding speak she must, in a few words explained the object 
of her visit, and entreated Mrs. Clarke to use her influence in 
persuading her aunt to delay the marriage. 

/^ Delay is all I ask — she is her own mistress — and if 
she can reconcile to herself the prudence and propriety of such 
a step, let her marry, and I am sure I hope she will be happy; 
bat do implore her, for the sake of my uncle's memory — for 
her own sake, not to use such disreputable haste. If there is 
no iaffection -^ and there can be none — let there be some de^ 
cency 6bserved." 

Consternation and surprise had kept Mrs. Clarke silent ; but 
at last she burst into a series of ejaculations — '^ Going to be 
martied, and her husband not dead seven months l^-Disgrace- 
ful I I thought what would come of leaving off her caps. And 
so you saw the white silk bonnet she means to be married in ? 
~A fine price she has paid for it, I dare say. She never con- 
sulted me ; but she is very much mistaken if she thinks Dr. 
Clarke will countenance such proceedings — he shall not marry 
them." 

^^ If you did but know how grateful I shall be if you can 
but prevail ! " 

" Ah ! Miss Emily, it is all your fault. If you had but 
married him yourself — I am sure I thought you would, when 
I asked him down — I had planned it all, I do assure you ; 
you would have made such a nice couple." 

Emily felt any thing but inclined to thank her for this ar^ 
raj^ement ; however, in spite of Mrs. Opie, it is not always 
proper to say all one thinks ; so she only observed^ " You 
must not blame me — it was my misfortune, not my fault." 

'' True, true. Poor dear ! it was too bad of your aunt to 
take Francis from you, and so I shall tell her. Going to be 



S26 BOHANOB AND REAUTY. 

maxned, indeed^ and a uddow only seren raoDtfas ! I wonder 
what will become of all her niee new moarning ! What shame* 
ful waste ! " 

Before they pwrted^ it was settled that Mtb^ Clarke ahcmld 
call <Hi Mrs« Amndel^ and join her persuasions to tho^se of 
Emily; Mr. Boyne Sillery had, excepting one short risit, 
been away for the last fortnight ; and dnrii^ his absence, she 
might probably be m^ore open to conviction. 

Emily rettimed home, and passed perhaps one of the naoct 
wretched days of her li£e. Great nrisfortones have at least 
their dignity to support them ; but the many and smell miseries 
of life, how they do gdl and wear away, the spirit ! The con- 
trast with the elegance and cheerfuhiese of Nonrille Abbey, and 
the TivBcity and kindness of Lady MandJeviUe, compared with 
the coldness, the talk-at-yon style of convcrsatioa in which her 
annt^s dislike found its narrow and acrid channel, was too umxh 
to be home. Strange, that one whose opinion we neither re- 
spect nor admit should yet hare power to wound!-— not 
stiamger, though, than that it diould hare power to please. 
One may live to be indifferent to everything but opinion* We 
may ngeot friendship which ha» often' deceived us ; renounce 
love, whose belief, once found false, leaTes us atheistS' of the 
heart : we may torn fiom pkasurea wfaidi have palled — from 
employments which have become weaiieoms;. but the opinion 
of our kind, whether fot good oar for evil, still retains its hold; 
that once broken, every social and mcnal tie is broken too — the 
prisoner' then may go to his solitary ceil — the andiorite to his 
hermitage— t^ last link with life and society is rent in twain. 

Emily was pained, more than she would have admitted, by 
the various! signs of dmas and deeonitiim scattered* around ; 
but the worst was as yet unseen. Passing along the gallery, 
there was one door open— ^ one doer which she never saw 
without a 8budder^-*<»Be deor which she had never entered*— 
the one through which her uncle's coffin had been earned. 

" No, no — impossible ! " exdatmed sfae^ud. With an 
effort she entered the apartment, and saw that her glance 
through the open door was right. A great empty room, it had 
been so convenient for Mr&< Axundel's dresses^ which were all 
laid out in different directions : a large glass, evidently used 
in trying liiem on, stood in the middle ; and on the very bed 
where her uncle had died was spread out a crimson silk pelisse^ 
and, on the pillow above, a blonde cap and flowers. 



Emily's indignation was at first the uppermost, the only- 
feeling. She hurried from the place; but her own chamber 
once gained^ anger only gave bitterness to grief, ^e re- 
proached herself for having forgotten her sorrow ; every 
lifter thought that had crossed her mind — every hope in 
which she had indulged, seemed like a crime ; and her aunt's 
unfeeling levity was forgotten in her own melancholy remem- 
. -ranoes. All was, however, recalled by a messi^ from Mrs. 
Clarke, who requested she would join her in the drawing- 
room. 

Sick at heart, her eyes red with crying, Emily obeyed the 
summons, and heard the voices of both ladies considerably 
louder than should be permitted to any debate which is not to 
end in blows. 

The first words she cav^ht, on her entrance, were, ^^ FU 
tell you what, ma'am, if you will make such an old fool of 
yourself. Dr. Clarfce shall have no hand in it ; he Mron't marry 
you." 

*' Dr. Clarke may wait till I ask him ; and I tell you, once 
for all, I win not be dietated to by any body; — clever as you 
think yourself, you shall not manage me. An6. pray. Miss 
Emily, what brings you here ? ** 

" A wish, madam, to at least endeavour to save you from 
ta.king a step so inconsistent with the respect you owe my 
imde's memory. Surely Mr. Sillery can w«it till " 

" Yes," interrupted Mrs-. Clarke, '* he can wait very well. 
He is not so old as to make a f&N months so preezous." 

Emily saw su6h an argument wb» not a very convincing 
one; and approaching Mrs. Arundel, uiged, in the most con- 
ciliating tone, every consideration that was likely to either 
touch or soften her. " I only ask a few months of respect to 
the opinioii' of the world — to the memory of the dead. You 
say' you find Ihem- solitary : I will not leave home again — 
nothing of attention on my part shall be wanting for your 
eorafort ; and if Mr. Silfery visits here, he shall meet at least 
with civility from me." 

'* And if you can take bim from your siHy old aunt, you 
have my full consent,** cried Mrs* Clarke. 

This was too much ; and snatching her hand from Emily, 
Mrs." Arundel said, ** Settie it all your own way ; " and left 
the room, which shook with the door she slammed after her. 

Q 2 



5^8 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 

" Sbe*ll repent it. Miss Emily ; never mind, she'll repent 
it ; *' and with this consolatory prediction, Mrs. Clarke al9Q. 
departed. ' 

£inily ^w no more of her aunt that evening. She was told. 
Mrs. Arundel was engaged with a gentleman. Who it was, her 
niece could easily guess ; and, mortified and harassed, she rer^ 
tired early to her room. Her maid's face was evidently full of: 
news, but Emily was in no. mood to listen; and the girl was 
dismissed, as discontented as the possessor of untold informa-^ 
tion could well be. 

Early the next morning she was awakened by the noise of 
wheels in the court-yard; Surprise at such an unusual soundL 
made her unclose the window a little to discover whence it 
proceeded ; and she was just in time to see Mr. Bpyne SiUery 
hand her aunt into a carriage, jump in himself, when it drove 
off with a rapidity which scarcely allowed her to observe that 
a large imperial was on the top, and her aunt's servant, with a. 
huge bandbox, on the dickey. 

Emily rang her bell. It was answered by the housemaid,^ 
with a great white satin bow, by way of favour, in her cap. 

" "What carriage was that ? " 

'^ Lord, miss ! don't you know that mistress ia gone to be 
married this morning ? " 

"Married! Where?" 

*• Lord love you, miss ! we did think you were to be bride^ 
maid, till mistress told us not to call you." 

" But where is Mrs. Arundel gone ? " 

This the girl did not know. 

Emily soon learned that Mr. Boyne SiUery's late absence 
was in the way of business. He had been residing at the 

little town of C , and there her infatuated aunt was to be 

married, A lady's-maid from town, recommended by Mr. Sil- 
lery, had been her only confidante, as she was now her only 
companion, 

Emily wandered up and down the house disconsolately* 
How large, how empty, how miserable, every thing looked ! 
She thought of writing to Mr.Delawarr, who had been named 
as her guardian, to Norville Abbey; but her head swam round 
— she could not see the paper before her. The noise from 
the servants' hall was rendered more acutely painful by her 
headach ; for her aunt, partly with a view of annoying bet 



BOVANGE AND REALITY. 229 

niece^ whom she disliked — as we always dislike those we have 
used ill — had left orders for a general regale. Most of the 
estahlishment were new. Mr. Arundel had pensioned off his 
fbw more ancient domestics ; and his wife was not one whose 
service was a heritage. There was hence little to restrain 
their mirth or their intemperance. Loud hursts of laughter 
funded through the hall. Emily rose to ring the bell, but 
sank down quite insensible. 

Something she remembered of partial revival^ of motion in a 
carriage^ of being conveyed to bed ; but it was not till after 
.some hours of stupor that she revived sufficiently .to recognise 
her French bed at Norville Abbey, and Lady Mandeville bending 
anxiously over her pillow. 

Ill news travel fast ; and Mrs. Arundel's marriage was like 
the sun in the child's riddle, for it went " round each house, 
and round each house, and looked in at every window." Nor- 
ville Abbey was soon enlightened, like the rest; and Lady 
Mandeville immediately set off to rescue her young friend 
from " the soli tudex which comes when the bride is gone forth." 
She had been more amiised with the accounts of Mrs. Arundel's 
wedding than £mily might have quite liked; but her favourite's 
illness put mirth to flight. All Liidy Mandeville's kindness and 
affection were called forth ; and £mily might have said with 
another invalid, '^ It is worth while to be ill, to be so petted 
and nursed." 



CHAPTER X. 

" At Zara's gate stops Zara'g mate ; in him shall I discover 
The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth with tears, and was my lover ? " 

Lock HART. 

The first great principle of our religious, moral, civil, and 
literary institutions, is a dinner. A church is built, a railroad 
opened, the accounts of a vestry inspected, a revolution occurs, 
a subscription is made, a death is to be celebrated, a friend to 
be supported — all alike by a dinner. Our heathen brethren 
are to be converted — we dine for their salvation; our musical, 
theatrical, and literary brethren are to be relieved — we dine 
for their benefit ; for the some-half-dozenth time the French 

Q S 



2S0 ROJKAIVCE AND REAI.ITV. 

patriots alter their government -*-*we dine for the 'Oonser^tMrn 
of their charter ; Mr. Pitt dies — his memory is preserved by 
fish and soup ; laws govern the kingdom^ and a yoaag gentks> 
inan qualifies himself to become their minister by a course of 
meals in the Temple Hall ; and what are cabinet councils to 
cabinet dinners ? ^^ere the Duke of Wellington once trusted 
his aide'de-'Campj he now relies on his butler^ and the decisions 
of his cook are as important as the movements of his army. 

In social life, to owe such a one a dinner is the -most im- 
perntive of obligations — gambling deiKs always excepted. An 
£ngli^man talks of the Magna Charta and roast-beef in a 
breath; his own oonatitntioii and that of his country are indis- 
solubly united. As a great orator once observed, '^ The security 
of your laws, the sanctity of ymir chiurh, the bond of society, 
the cement of your religious, political, and moxal obligations, 
nay, the actual existoice of y«ar country — its vital interests 
depend, gentlemen, on its dkiaers." (I ^ole from memory, 
and may be mistaken as to the fbrm, tet I am sure I have 
given the spirit «f the speech.) 

It was to attend ««e of these aationtl institations — a din- 
ner on the opening of a leanal — that -Lovd Maadeville set 
forth, with a rooixthful of patriotism and public spirit; and 
Lady Mandeville, and Gmily, stiil laaguid widi recent illness, 
were left tSte^-tSie.. 

Night' came ; and the wind and rain, which beat against 
the window, only added the advantage of contrast, to the cur- 
tained, carpeted, and lighted boudoir ; and every gust served 
as an excuse for shrinking still farther into the warm crimson 
cushions of the arm-chairs they had drawn almost into the 
fire. They had no new books ; Emily was still too weak for 
work or music; and it was just the most confidential and con- 
versational evening in the world. 

Confidence is made up of confession and remembrances; 
we all love to talk of the days of our youth ; and, almost be- 
fore she was aware. Lady Mandeville was engaged in a sort of 
autobiography of herself. It would do, she said, as well as 
reading aloud, to send her patient to sleep. 

*' I am going to enact the heroine of a narrative, though 
sadly deficient in all the necessary requisites. Save one, I 
have never had a misfortune happen to me — I have never 
been in such extremes of poverty that I have been obliged to 



JROMANOi: AND REALITY. 291 

fell even tbe luhf eross hung round my neck by my myiHtii- 
one mother — or the locket which contained two braids iiif 
hair^ one raven black, the other golden, Ihe first love^iledge 
ef my unfortunate parents — I have never had a fever, during 
which my lover watched every look of my benevolent phy- 
«ician — I have never been given over, and then, after a pro*- 
found aleep, recovered— my hair has always come easily out 
of curl — I never played the harp — and have always been 
more inclined to kugh than to cry. My father, -Lord Elmore, 
lived in a laige old-faahioned house, and in a large old- 
fashiosed aaanner. By large, I mean Uberal : he was only less 
indulgent to his seven children than my mother, who I believe 
Bever said ^ no ' in aU her life. It was not the system of in^ 
dulgenee practised by Dandie Binm^mt's ' gude wife/ who 
gave ' the bairns their ain way, because, puir things, she had 
naithiog else to gi'e them/ But my mother, I suppose, 
thought, as she gave every thing else, she might as wcil give 
diat too. 

'' I paas over the dynasty of white froclis and blue sashes. 
Sometimes I learnt my lossons, sometimes I did not; hot 
leally Ihat which was no matter of necessity often became 
matter of indination ; and I arrived at the dignity of fourteen, 
and my sister s conJidaiUe. Ah, the interest I took in her 
anxieties ! the sympathy I gave to her sorrows ! it was almost 
eqiud to having a lover of my own. 

" It was a provokingly happy union — both families equally 
anxious it should take place: only, my father insisted that 
Isabel should be eighteoi before the marriage ; and they did 
manage to arrange some little jealousies and . quarrels, which 
agreeably diversified the delay. The year of probation passecly 
and my sister married. Even now, I remember how I nussed 
her. I cried the first three nights I curled my hair by juy- 
selfl However, September came, and with it my second 
brother ; and his companion for the shooting season was the 
young, handsome, and lively Henry O'Byrne, descended from 
kings whose crown was old eno];^h to have been made of the 
gold of Ophir. I — who considered a lover as the natural 
consequence of being fifteen, and indeed was rather surprised 
I had not one already, and vrho held half-a-dozen blushes 
proof of the state of my feelings — lost my heart with all the 
ease imaginable; and Henry made love to me, because, I verily 

Q 4 



SS2 ROMANCE AND RBAIiITT. 

believe^ he considered it a proper compliment^ which every 
lady under fifty expected. A declaration of love was to iiM 
tantamount to an offer — though^ to tell you the plain truths 
I very much doubt whether it was meant to be so taken by 
my Milesian lover. My father — I really do not know how 
he could venture on such a liberty — one day actually said he 
wished I would not walk quite so much on the terrace by 
moonlight with Mr. O'Byme ; — child as I was, he did not 
like it. *' Child as I was ! ' This was adding insult to injury. 
I threw myself at his feet in the most approved manner -m. 
implored him not to sacrifice the happiness of his child to 
ambition — talked of a cottage and content — of blighted hopes 
and an early grave. I am not qiute sure whether my father 
laughed or swore ; I rather think he did both. However^ he 
sent for my mother to try and convince me : instead, she en- 
deavoured to comfort me by dwelling on the imprudence of 
poverty^ and the miseries of an injudicious attachment ; till^ 
overcome with the picture of the privations I should have to 
«ndure, and the difficulties I should have to encounter, she 
fairly wept over the hardships of my imaginary future. 

" Dinner came ; but O'Byme's place was vacant. My large 
tears dropped into my soup — my chicken went away un- 
touched — I refused even my favourite apricot jelly. 

'^ The evening, however^ brought consolation, in the shape 
of a real, actual love-letter, sent through that most orthodox 
channel — my maid. I could not help reading it aloud to her. 
* The barbarity of my father/ — ' eternal constancy,' — how 
well these phrases looked on bath-post ! 

>^ Ah, my dear Emily, to you is closed one of the sweetest 
sources of youthful felicity. You have no father with a pro- 
verbially flinty heart, — no guardian to lock you up ! It is 
impossible for you to have an unfortunate attachment ; and — 
young, rich, pretty — I think you can hardly console yourself 
with even an unrequited one. How ill-used I did think my- 
self ! — what consequence it gave me in my own eyes ! Three 
weeks passed away, — I caught two sore throats by leaning 
out of an open window, watching the moon shine on the ter- 
race where we used to walk. I threatened my mother with a 
consumption. I sat up at night reading and re-reading his 
letter, and gazing on a little profile which I had drawn with 
a black-lead pencil, and called his — - Heaven knows there was 
no fear it would be recognised ! 



ROKANGE AND BGAJLITY. 233 

'^ Three weeks passed/ when, taking up the paper^ and turn- 
ing -^ as a woman always does — to the births, deaths^ and 
marriages^* what should I see but — ' Married^ on Thursday 
lasty at Gretna, Henry O'Byme, of Killdaren Castle, in Con- 
naught, to £liza^ only daughter and heiress of Jonathan 
6inipkin/ The paper dropped from my hand. I knew my 
jed-haired rival well — she had dined at our house with old 
Lady Driscol, who patronised her, and had there met my faith- 
less lover. Alas 1 I had been weighed in the balance with a 
hundred thousand pounds— -and found wanting! How 
wretched I resolved on being ! X braided the hair I no longer 
took delight in curling ; I neglected my dress — that is to say, 
I only wore white muslin ; and my kind mother, who had 
been as angry with me as her gentle nature was capable of 
beings could now be as angry as she pleased with him. Her 
surprise at the infidelity was even greater than mine, and her 
sympathy was great in proportion. I talked of the perfidy of 
men, and said I should never marry. 

'' Six months went by, and, to tell you the truth, I was 
getting very tired of my despair, when one day a young man, 
^ cousin with whom in my white-frock days I had been a 
great pet, came to stay in, our house. He seemed touched 
with my melancholy — I confided my sorrows from con- 
fidence — he proceeded to consolation. 

" I do not know how it was, I thought my ringlets did not 
merit neglect — that a girlish fancy was but a foolish thing. 
Itord Mandeville agreed with me ; my father laughecl at me, 
and said I ought to be consistent, that no heroine ever fell in 
love with the consent of her family ; but my mother said, 
^ Poor dear child^ do not tease her.' 

^^ Well, my sister was married at eighteen — so was I, and 
the spoiling system has still continued. I know there is such 
a word as a contradiction in the dictionary, but my knowledge 
is all theory. I have a husband camme il n*y en a point, to 
.whom I have made a wife camme Uyen a pen, I. have two 
a£ the prettiest children in the world — (don't answer, Emily 
— that smile is quite flattering enough) ; and 1 sometimes 
think whether, like the ancient king, it would not be prudent 
4o make an ofiering to destiny, and throw my set of emeralds 
into the lake." 

Emily could not but deprecate the emeralds being destined 



234 SOJKAVOE AND BSALIT¥. 

to any such preventive service ; and Lady MandeviUe soon 
aftenrards left her to meditate over her narrative, one pfaiaae 
of which certainly dwelt on her mind. '< Young, 71011, pretty 
—-it is quite impossible for you to have an unfortunate 
attachanent ! '' 

The more imaginative love is, the more superstitious it 
must he : the belief of omens being past — that desire of die 
unattainable so inherent in our nature, and whic^ shows itself 
in BO many shapes — now, as far as r^ards prophecy, it Ukes 
another form, and calk itself .presentiment ; and Bmiiy lay 
awake much longer than was good for her complexion, build- 
ing that aerial architecture called chdteanx en Espagne^ on the 
slight foundation of a single sentence. 

I do not think imagination an indulgence at all to be pei^ 
mitted in our present state of society : very well for poets and 
punters — it is their business, the thing of all others not to be 
negleeted ; but in the common construction of charaet^v and 
circumstances it is an illusion quite at variance with the reali- 
ties on which we are to act, and among whidi we are to live. 
In a young man it unfits him for the rough career of Ufe, as 
much as stepping within the castle's enchanted boundary un- 
fitted Sir Launcelot for his encounter with the giant. The 
sword of action hangs idly in the unnerved hand. We will 
suppose he possesses talent and feeling— without them he 
could not possess imagination; — he starts on his forward 
path, where, as in about ninety-nine oases out of a hundred, 
he has to n^ke his own way. Conscious of his abilities, he 
will overrate, periiaps, not themselves, but 'their influence. 
He will read the novel, 'till he becomes to himself the very 
hero of its pages. In history, he wiU dwell only *' on marvels 
wrought by single hand," till be deems they say, ^' Go and 
do thou likewise/' Every thing is seen through an exag- 
gerated medium. He prepares himself for great difficulties, 
which he is to vanquish--— gigantic obslaeies, which he is to 
overcome. Instead of these, he is surrounded by small im- 
pediments, which seem below his ideal dignity to encounter. 
His most favourite acquirements are useless, because none of 
them have been called into action by his own peculiar circum- 
stances ; and he repioaches Fortune, where he should accuse 
Fiction. 

Few books have been more dangerous to a yvmig man of 



V BttlMIfCB AND B/BMOTY. 385 

this tqnperaiaent, in midclle life, than ViTkai Giev. No 
vomaiioe is so hazardoiu as that of real iife : the adventiures 
«eem so powible^ yet ao ^xcitmg. Tfaene is acmetfaiBg so 
pkasant in the inaflbery of -mere mind: the vensatility of 
manner^ the quick ,eye of the hero to the weakness of otheis, 
appear so completely in the power alao of the reader ; his 
vanity adds force to his imag^Jiation^ and our youth riaes 
from the perusal convinced of the hardship of his particular 
situation, shut out from the diplomatic and political oaieer^ for 
which his nowunemployed and undenwlued talentsao eminently 
qualify him ; and the chanees tare, that the earlier half of his 
life is filled with disappointment and hitterness. 

A woman may ind^ge thia facuky iwith mofe impunity, 
hecause hers is genetally a pasnve, not an active fieehng, .and 
principally confined to the afiections ; all ihe risk of bean- 
idealiaiog a lover too mwdi, is, ^amt of sorer finding one, or 
heing disappointed when finnd. 

Eidward Lorraine had more matedials for a hero than many 
of his compeers ; still, his most admiring fdends wovld hawi 
been rather at a Lass :to lecognise him under die tmits with 
which he was invested by JSmily Anindel. Alas ! the heart 
worships in its idol the attdlxites which itself has first created. 
IlluaioDs MK the magic of real life, and the forfeit of future 
pain is paid for preBoit pkaanve. 



CflAPTBE XI. 



*' On n'auroit gudre de plaisir, si Ton ae se flattait jamais." — Rogbbfoucauld. 
*' Behold, tb«y speak with tiieir mouths, and swords are in their lips.**— Psehn lis. 

The end of a journey is its pleasantest part So thought 
Lord Mandeville, as the postilions gave their whips an extra 
crack, in order to drive up the avenue in style. They had 
the credit of their horses as much at heart as their own. 
To-night,, however, whipmanship was somewhat wasted ; — a 
small, heavy rain had made the road so soft,' that the ringing 
wheel and clattering hoof were inaudible. This was a great 
mortification to the postboys^ to whom noise^ if not speed, was 
at least speed's best pari. 



'236 ROMANOB AND RRALITT. 

'* How late they are, and how stupid we are \" said Lady 
Mandeville, glancing reproachfully first at Mr. Morland, w<ho^ 
having taken what he called a most constitutional walk^ was 
now in a large/ arm-chair sleeping off the effects of heath 
and hedge^ — and then at Emily, who. was sedulously em^ 
ployed in working a large red cross on the flag destined fbr 
Frank's favourite toy — a miniature frigate. 

'' Do you know," added she, '^ what is the great torment 
•of the idle ? To see others industrious." 

'^ I must say," replied Emily, smiling, ^' considering 
Lord MandeviUe has been absent but two days, your impa- • 
tience for his return is very flattering." 

There was something in this speech that made the hearer 
laugh outright — • one of those provoking laughs which shows 
it has touched some train of thought you know nothing about. 
I cannot agree with those romantic philosophers who hoid 
ignorance to be bliss at any time ; but ignorance, when your 
listener laughs at what you say, without why or wherefore^ is 
enough to enrage a saint. By the by, considering what an 
irascible race they were, the reputation of the saints for 
patience has been very easily acquired. 

The truth is, another visitor was expected with her hiis- 
-band. Lady MandeviUe had erected a little romance in her 
own mind, of which Emily was already the heroine, and the 
anticipated guest was to be the hero. She had calculated 
probabilities, dwelt on the chances of association, the idle- 
ness of the country, the necessity of an attachment to give 
interest to the ride, and novelty to the walk ; besides, she had 
recalled not one suspicious blush only, but many. The femi- 
nine part in the drama was therefore cast. 

Now for the gentleman. Many a heart is caught in the 
rebound. The brilliant coquette, who had led captivity captive, 
-could have inflicted no deeper wound than a little wholesome 
mortification ; — a little preference from another would be 
-especially flattering. Then the pretensions of her protSgh 
were any thing but undervalued. Emily certainly was never 
seen to greater advantage than just at present. The sweetness 
of feeling, rather than of temper, was a charm of all others to 
be appreciated in the domestic life they were now leading. 
«Unrepres8ed by her natural timidity, her mental stores deve- 
loped themselves in a small circle where they only met with 



BOMANCB AKD RBALITT« 23? 

encouragement. There was an extreme fascination to one 
palled with the brilliancy^ and tired of the uniformity of 
society, in the freshness^ the simplicity^ so touched with, 
romance, that made the poetry of £mily's charu:ter. More- 
aver Lady Mandeville took a personal interest in her favourite. 
The merit we are the first to discover^ almost seems as if it 
were our own^ and that^ like a newly found country, it was to 
bear the name of the first finder. 

A bustle was now heard in the hall ; the door was thrown 
open ; Mr. Morland ^ lost his nap, and Emily her needle, in 
the surprise of Lord Mandeville's entrance with Mr. Lorraine* 
Timidity does as much towards concealing^ as resolution does 
towards repressing, emotion. Lady Mandeville was the only 
one of the party who observed that Emily's usual blush 
deepened with twofold crimson — that her hand trembled as 
she eagerly resumed her Work, to the great danger of the 
symmetry necessary to be observed in the red cross of 
St. George. 

It is worth while to leave home, if it were only to enjoy being 
of so much consequence on your return. Lord Mandeville 
arrived with all the interest of absence and news. A Russian 
prince, whose carriage was lined with sable, and whose vehicle 
and self bad been seized at the custom-house^ he having re- 
fused to quit his shelter, on the plea of dreading the irre- 
gularity of our atmosphere ; — the breaking off of Mr. De- 
lorme's marriage on which the gentleman had observed, that 
it was very impertinent in Miss Lumleigh to offer him such 
polite attentions, knowing that her father was going out of 
parliament, and diat he Mr. Delorme, only married on patriotic 
principles, to strengthen his party ; — two other marriages ; 
one in consequence of smiles feminine, the other in conse- 
quence of frowns masculine — curious, that hope and fear 
should lead to such similar results ; — the inferences of half-a- 
dozen separations ; details of divers dinners, balls, and break- 
fasts ; — a little gold Napoleon set as a brooch — Oh, con- 
queror of Europe ! to think of thy pedestal being a pin ! — * 
a bracelet of an Indian snake fastened by a locust ; — and 
three new novels. These passed away the evening; and it 
must be owned Lord Mandeville well deserved his greeting. 

Lady Mandeville's face, like that of Cooper s Water-witch, 
wore its most ^* malign smile,*' when she next morning per- 



^8S BOMANCE Ain> REALITT. 

reived diat her predestined loYers were walking on the Ittipn 
together ; and that^ when Emily entered the breakfaB^room, 
her curls were just enoegh relaxed \rf the adr to droop their 
gracefulest The soft sunny rihgiet^ just cboppiiig into a 
succession of light rings, is rerj becomii^ ; and^ nioreoTer, 
she had a colour one shade more delicate liuii a moat Inxtiriant 
rose she had gathered for Mr. Morland ; one of whdse dogmas 
was^ that the freshness of the morning should oommiuiicate 
itself to our feelings. *' Our early tastes are onr unsophisti- 
cated ones. Give me^ therefwe^ flowers in the morning, aod 
perfumes at night" 

*' Your garden is beaQtrAil/' said Lomine^ as . he inten- 
tionally took his place by Emily's side. 

*^ The flowers in it are very common ; bst we have been 
80 long away," 

" Tour tone of apology is unnecessary ; the commonest 
flowers are the most beautiftil. Take the three I can most 
readily think of — the rose, the violet, the daisy — the field- 
daisy^ remember; and^ as the blacking advertiaements say^ 
' Warren against all the world,' — where will you find their 
equals?" 

^^ They possess," replied Mr. Morland, <^ the two greatest 
of charms — the association of memory and of ima^gination : 
they are the flowers that our childhood has loved, and our 
poets have sung. Flowers have much to be grateful for." 

" Our poets all seem to have been peculiarly alive to thetr 
l^eauty ; and huntan love and hnman sorrow 

' Hare written every leaf with thoughtful tears.' " 

^' I am going," said Mr. Morland, '^ to midce a bold as- 
sertion — that, with all his feeing for natmral beauties, 
Wordsworth has none for flowers : he strings quaint conceits 
together about them. What does he call the daisy ? " 

" A little Cyclops with oner eye," answered £mily. 

'^ And the shield of a fairy, ^c. Look at Burn's poem to 
the daisy I There are no pretty odd epithets in that ; but a 
natural gush of feeling, hallowing for ever the object which 
called it forth." 

Edward Lorraine. — ^* Who cares for the exotics, whose 
attractions are of the hothouse and the gardener ? Their ruby 
leaves are writ with no gentle thoughts ; they are essentially of 



BOUMIOE AND RSAUTT. S59 

tbe drawing-room, and have do more sentiment about them 
than the Serre cups and saucers to which they are companions^ 
Now there's the rose — ' spring's sweetest book * — why a 
whole world of blushes are oa its leaves. Then, again, the 
lily ; whether it be 

* The lady Ulf, tairee than the mooa/. 

or 

' The naiad-like lily or the vale, 
'Whom youth makes «o Tair, and passioB so pale.* '* 

Mr, Morkmd. — " Or 

* The lily, a delicate lady. 
Who sat under her green parasol.* " 

Emily. — " My favourite flowers are violets — 

* Those early flowers^ o'er which the Spring has leant, 
TIU they have caught their cotovr from her eyes^ 
Thar sweetness from her breath.' " 

Edward JLorroine. — " Whether it iS' that your gardener 
has not been here^ with his ' cmd curtailments/ like Mr. Hume, 
— but how very luxuriant is the growdi of this myrtle ! it is 

' Green as hope, before It grf eres 
O'er the lost and broicen-hearted — 
AH with which its youth has parted/ " 

Lady Mandemlle; — " Apropos to myrtle ; is there any truth 
in the report that Lord Merton is about' to marry Misa 
Dacre ? " 

Here Emily coloured the least in the world. A woman haa 
^ways a kind of sentimental consciousness about any one wh<^ 
has e^er made lave to her. I often think she pities the man 
she refuses, more perhaps than his case quite requires. Well, 
it ought to be a comfcnrt that a person is not so unhappy a» 
we suppose. 

Edward Lorraine. — '^ He told me that his mind waft 
divided between Miss Dacre and Miss Manvers." 

Lady MafukviHe, — '^ His mind divided ! Verily that is 
making two- bite» of a cherry. What are the rival chama ci 
tlieae rival heiresses ? " 

Edward Lorraine, — " They are as equidly balanced as 
those in the ancient apologue. I will only be malicious by 
inference. I believe, were such acta of faith permitted. 
Lady Lauriston would recommend him to marry both.*' 

Lord Mandeville now interrupted the converBatiofiy by in- 



240 ROMANCE AND KEALITY. 

vitiDg Lorraine to walk round with him and see his im- 
provements — a tax regularly levied on every new-comer by- 
all country gentlemen. From the park to the pigsty, all nrnst 
be duly appreciated ; for, by some process or other, the pro« 
prietor amalgamates their merits with his own. The walk, 
however, this morning, was something more than an inventory 
of ditches and drains. Mandeville was theoretic in his future 
views— ^ which is very good, in talk at least; and, besides, 
there was not too much to see. The estate which came with 
the title was small ; and though he himself would gladly have 
settled at the Abbey, and extended the boundary of its do- 
mains, and devoted the rest of his days to building and planting, 
com laws and the country, yet to this there was a very ad- 
verse influence. 

We all know, either from experience or observation, that 
Janus would be a very appropriate marriage deity; inasmuch 
9S he has two faces, which look opposite ways. Lady Man- 
deville was, as I have said, compounded of all the elements of 
society : its love of excitement — its necessity of variety — its- 
natural gift of language — its grace inherent and its grace 
acquired — its vivacity and its vanity. She liked talking — 
she looked very pretty when she talked ; she liked strangers — 
every stranger was a new idea ; and her mind was of that 
order which requires collision to bring out its sparkles. She 
read as an amusement, rather than as a resource — and, more- 
over, thought the information almost thrown away which was 
not communicated. 

Again, she was accustomed to look at things on their ri- 
diculous in preference to their sentimental side. She loved 
her husband most entirely ; but she thought it a great deal 
pleasanter to spend the morning, while he was away, in gay 
visits or a drive round the ring, than to sit with a work-basket 
in a large lonely saloon, with the pictures of their ancestors 
looking as if they had indeed lost all sympathy with the living. 
Besides, a call, in an adjacent street, on one whose milliner is not 
the same, and whose friends are similar to your own — thus 
giving ample room for praise and its reverse — such a call is 
quite anpther thing from that in the country, which involves, 
first, a journey through wilds that '* seem to lengthen as you 
go; " and secondly, a luncheon, which it is your duty to eat. 
Alas ! when, in tbds world, are ibe agreeable and the necessary 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 241 

united ! Then your neighbour is a person whom you see twice 
a-year — you have not a taste or opinion in common -— - the 
uews of the one is no news to the other — conversation is a 
frcyzen ocean^ and 

** You speak. 
Only to break 
The silence of that sea." * * 

Now these were not mornings to Lady Mj^ndeville's taste. 
As for the dinners^ she had only one comfort, that of abusing 
them after; — and unspeakable consolation, by the by, in most 
cases ! I cannot see why a taste for the country should be 
held so very indispensable a requisite for excellence; but 
really people talk of it as if it were a virtue, and as if an 
opposite opinion was, to say the least of it, very immoral. 

Lady Mandeville's was essentially a town nature. She was 
born to what she was fit for ; she was originally meant to be 
ornamental, rather than useful. In short, she exactly resem- 
bled a plume of ostrich feathers, or a blond dress ; now these 
are best worn in the metropolis. The inference from all this 
is, that though Lord Mandeville often talked of settling at his 
country-seat, he never actually settled. 

The walk was ended, for the domains were not very exten- 
sive^ and the gentlemen returned home. They afterwards rode 
out; and Emily fel^very happy in the mere consciousness 
that the cavalier at her bridle-rein was Edward Lorraine. 

That vague, self-relying, uncalculating happiness, how de- 
licious it is — that which we never know but once, and which 
can have but one object ! Emily quite forgot how wretched she 
had been. She recalled not the once agony of his presence — 
the despondency in his absence. She never looked at him ; 
she scarce spoke, but she heard his voice, and she saw his 
shadow fall by her side. 

Curious, that of the past our memory retains so little of 
■what is peculiarly its own. The book we have read, the sight 
we have seen, the speech we have heard, — these are the things 
to which it recurs, and that rise up within it. We remem- 
ber but what can be put to present use. It is very extraor- 
dinary how little we recollect of hopes, fears, motives, and all 
the shadowy tribe of feelings ; or indeed, how little we think 
over the past at all. Memory is that mirror wherein a man 
*• beholdeth himself, and goeth his way, and straightway for- 

R 



Si2 BOMA^qB AND VLEALITY, 

g«tteth what rnaDner of man he was." We. are neproached 
with forgettiag others : we for^t ouiiselves a thousand times 
more. We remember what we bear^ see^ and read, often 
accurately : not so with what we felt — that is faint and ui|^ 
certain in its record. Memory is the least egotistical of all 
our faculties. 



CHAPTER XII. 

" 'Tta he ! 
What doth he here V "—Byron. 



(( 



What ! loitering still, Emily ? " said Lady Mandeville, yrhdn 
on entering the breakfast-«roiom, she fouad her and EdWfWd 
Lwraine employed, apparently, in looking o^ver .some scattered 
drawings — in reality in talking. Emily, happy without think- 
ing it at all necessary toanalyse, and so destroy her h^piness; 
and Edward, if not exactly thinking, yet feeling, it a very 
pleasant thing to have a most absorbed listener, who was net 
the le^s agreeable for being youjftg and pretty. He was eng^ed 
in turning the leaves, occasionally re&rrijag to his compaaouMai* 
Edward possessed one great fascination in discourse. He had 
the air of truly, valuing the opinion he asked. 

** Nous jBe nous aimions pas, mail notre Indiffereace 
Avait bien les syroptdmes de ramour/' 

thought Lady Mandeville. '* I must disturb the study of one 
hranch of the fine arts for the sake of another. You must 
leave the picture for the mirror — be moat devout in the sacri- 
fice you offer to the Graces to-day." 

. " What conquest, *' replied Emily, smiling, '* do you medi- 
tate for me ? " 

" What conquest ? What a young-lady question ! None :. 
this is an affair of glory, not of sentiment. Mr. Lara Treyyl- 
lian dines here to-day« You snust dress for his suffrage, not 
his heart. Most persons are bom with a genius for some one 
thing: Mr. Lara Trevyllian is born with a genius for two; — 
he piques himself on his knowlec^e of gastronomy, and his 
knowledge of women." 

Edward Lorraine. — " I should be more inclined to defer to 
his knowledge of the science than of the sex." 

Lady Mandeville. — *' Ah, now — to use an expression of iis 
own — ' you men never will allow any merit to each other.' " 



' ' ROMANCE AND BBALITV. ■ S43 

Edward Lorraine*-^^^ It wm not with a view to detract 
from hh powers of feminine analysation that I spoke ; but 
because I think that either man's or woman's character stand 
in a relative position to each other^ like the covered statue of 
Isis, whose veil mortal hand hath not raised. We nevelr see 
each other but through the false mediums of passion^ or afiee- 
tion, or indiffisrence — all three equally bad for obsewation." 

Lady MandattUe. — " I differ from you ; but truly, I cannot 
sacrifice myself to my opinions. It is too late in the day to 
dispute; for haste and perfection no toilette ever yet united/' 

Edward Lorraine. — " Unhappy is he who relies on female 
friendship ! You sacrifice my argument to a curl. Weil 
might the old poet say : 

• Oh, take, if you wooW measnre forth the worth of vroman's mind, 
A scale made of the spider's web, and- weights.oaade of the wiQd.' " 

The party was very emails and the fire very large; there- 
fore the^ half hour before dinner was not so dull as it is gener- 
ally said to be. By the by, that half hour has alwayaseemed to 
me to be peculiarly ill treated. Some eviUditposed person has 
called it stupid. An invidious epithet is alwa]^ remembered 
and reapplied : and that one half hour will go to its grave with 
its appellation of stupid ; no exceptions made in its fiavour'-^ 
no pleasant reminiseenees, not even a single flirtation, farou^t, 
like a solitary witness, to give it a good character. Alas ; a 
cruel and striking epithet is 

** One fatal renranbraiice, one shadow that throws 
Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our wo«3." 

Now, really the half hour to-day was radier agreeable ; we 
should have said '^ very,'* of any other of thrforty-eight Lord 
Mandeville and Mr. Morland were deoidii^, to their mutual 
satisfaction, that a neighbouring gentleman^ on whom they 
had been calling that morning to suggest an improvement in 
an adjacent road^ was certainly the most singular mixture ' of 
silliness and stolidity they had ever encountered. Now these 
qualities do not often go together— --the frivolity of the one in- 
terfering with the heaviness of the other : stupidity is the mas- 
culine of silliness, fittt the Rev. Dr. Clarke had at once vague 
and stubborn ideas respecting his owp^gnity and his own in- 
terests.; the one he supported by dkdain, llie other by selfish- 
ness ; and in b^is own mind identified both with church and 
■tate. The little boy, who, in the hurry of a game of marbles, 

B 2 



S4l4 BOMANCE AND RKALITY. ' 

forgot to take off his ragged cap to him, he foresaw would come 
to the gallows; and the farmer^ whom hard necessity forced 
to delay the payment of his tithes^ he denounced as committing 
sacrilege^ and as nothing better than an atheisL Surely the 
time passed in expatiating on the reverend Doctor's faults was 
rather profitably passed than otherwise. 

Edward Lorraine and Emily were a little oat of the circle 
carrying on one of those conversations, "low- voiced and sweet," 
whose nothings have often a charm which defies the writer, 
but which the reader's memory may perchance supply. Lady 
Mandeville and Mr. Lara Trevyllian were seated together on 
the sofa. He had just arrived from London, and was detail- 
ing its novelties with a novelty essentially his own. 

The days of description (personal and panegyrical) are pass- 
ing rapidly away. No one now ushers in a new character by 
dwelling on *' his large blue eyes, beaming with benevolence/' 
or with ^^ raven curls on a brow of marble whiteness." All 
that is necessary is to state that Mr. Trevyllian had l*air hten 
distinguS; which means, that he was slight, pale, well dressed, 
and that his manners united much grace with more nonchalance. 

The essence of Mr. TrevyUian s existence belonged to a 
highly polished state of society. His habits, tastes, opinions, 
feelings, were all artificial, and in this consisted his most 
striking peculiarity ; for it was singular how a character, which 
was so much an acquired one, could yet be so original. He 
possessed great knowledge, both that acquired from books — 
for he had read largely, — and that acquired from observation- 
for he had seen much of society. His reasoning, rather than 
his imaginative faculties were developed. He soon exhausted 
pleasure, and then reasoned upon it : he soon exhausted it, 
because he wanted that colouring enthusiasm wliicli creates 
more than half of what it enjoys ; and he reasoned upon it, be- 
cause his activity of mind, not having been employed on fancies, 
remained entire for realities. 

His perception of the ridiculous was as keen as it was in- 
vestigating. He set forth absurdity, cause and effect ; and the 
absurdity grew doubly absurd from having its motive placed 
by its side. He possessed self-appreciation rather than vanity; 
he was two suspicious to be vain. Vanity seeks for, and be- 
lieves in, praise ; he would certainly have doubted the motive 
or the sincerity of the praise he was o£^red -*- and disbelief 
takes refuge in disdain. 



ROMANCE AND HEALITT. 245 

It may be questioned whether he was generally popular*. 
There were two reasons against it : first, he was not always 
iinderstood — and whatever people in general do not under- 
stand, they are always prepared to dislike ; the incomprehen- 
sible is always the obnoxious. Secondly, he often and openly 
expressed his contempt of the selfishness, meanness, and little- 
ness, that enter so largely into the composition of the present; 
now, a general compliment is utterly thrown away, but a 
general afiront every one individualises. Yet no person could 
be more delightful in conversation : it was amusement, to 
whose service various powers paid tribute ; there was observa- 
tion, thought, mirth, and invention. Mr. Trevyllian was 
witty, though certainly not what is so often called a wit: he 
made no puns — he gave no nicknames — and was not parti- 
larly ill-natured. 

' One sweeping censure, in passing, on our now-a-days style 
of conversation. Its Scylla of sarcasm, its Charybdis of insin- 
cerity, which, one or other, bid fair to engulf its all of origin- 
ality or interest. Ridicule is suspended, like the sword of 
Damocies, in every drawing-room — but, unlike that sword, is 
over every head ; hence every one goes into society with the 
armour of indifference, or the mantle of deceit. None say 
either what they think or what they feel. We are the Chinese 
of conversation ; and, day by day, the circle grows less and 
less. A flippant, vapid discourse, personal in all its bearings, 
in which " who peppers the highest is surest to please," and 
from which all intellectual subjects are carefully excluded — 
who shall deny, that if dialogues of the living were now to be 
written, such would be the chief matSriel ? 

Books, works of art, the noble statue, the glorious picture, 
how rarely are any of these the subjects of conversation ? Few 
venture to speak on any topic that really interests them, for 
fear they should be led away by the warmth of speaking, and, 
by saying more than they intended, lay themselves open to the 
sarcasm which lies, like an Indian in ambush, ready to spring 
forth the moment the victim is off his guard. Take one in- 
stance among many. Beyond the general coarse and false 
compliment which it is held necessary to address with a popu- 
lar author, and which is repaid by an affected and absurd in- 
difference, what vein of conversation is afterwards started ? 
Assuredly something which interests neither : the mind of the 

R 3 



24(> I^QIfANCE AND ABAUTY: 

one teoeives no impression— that of the other puts forth no 
powers. The natural face may be a thousand times more at« 
tractive^ still a mask must be worn. No one has courage to' 
be himself. We look upon others, and our eyes reflect back 
their images. It is the same with the mind. Even thus in 
society do we mirror the likeness of others. All originality 
being destroyed^ our natural craving for variety asks some 
stimulant, and we are obliged to relieve the insipidity by bit- 
ters and acids. Who would dare to be eloquent in the face 
of a sneer ? or who express a sentiment which would instantly 
be turned to shame and laughter ? Ridicule is the dry-rot of 
society. 

But to return to Mr. Trevyllian. Though more original^ 
it is not to be supposed he was more natural than people in 
general. On the contrary, his character was essentially arti- 
ficial — the work of man's hands — one that belonged to 
society and education. His manners and opinions were equally 
polished. His reading had been extensive — so had his ob- 
servation; but both his reading and his observation had a 
worldly cast. As to feeling, he had as much as most have^ 
perhaps more — though generally people have more than they 
get credit for ; but he had no sentiment. Sentiment, by the 
by, is one of those ill-used words which, from being often 
misemployed, .require a definition when properly applied. 
Sentiment is the poetry of feeling. Feeling weeps over the 
grave of the beloved — sentiment weeps, and plants the early 
flower and the green tree, to weep too. The truth is, Mr. 
Trevyllian was deficient in one faculty— that of the imagina* 
tion. 

" A prhnroM by the riTer*8 brim « ' 

A yellow primrose was to bira» 
But it was nothing more." 

He would have said^ " Why, what should it be but a simple 
and pretty flower ? " Now, an imaginative individual finds 
out likenesses to human thoughts, connects its soon perishing 
with the speedy decay of hopes that open when the heart has 
a spring like the year ; or some loved face has left on it :he 
memory of its smile, and hence its green birth is '^ a divinely 
haunted place." 

The same lights and shadows which imagination flings over 
the primrose, it flings also over every other reality in life ; 



BOMAKGB Aia> RBilXlTV. 247 

4aaA it may be d«ubtod whether these were not '' hidden nrj^ 
teries " to Mr. Trevyllian. He was luxurious in his habits^ 
and fastidious in bis tastes, upon principle. He held that 
enjoyment was a duty owed to yourself. It may be ques- 
tioned whether making pleasure a duty will add either to its 
flavour or its longevity. However, he was an alchemist of 
happiness, and considered a delight an experiment. 

Mr. Trevyllian affected la gaetronomie : he studied it as a 
science ; thus vanity assisted luxury — for what professor of 
any science but has the pride of art } Nothing could be more 
eloquent than his disdain — unless it were his pity for the 
vneultivated palates that rejoiced in tender beefsteaks — mouths 
that champed at raw celery like horses at a bit-— people who 
sinply boiled their pease, and ate apples and pears, or, as he 
sweepingly phrased it, '* other crude vegetables." 

Dinner arrived, and with it soup, salmon^ and silence. A 
person who talks at the commencement of the course must 
eitiier iiav« no feelings of his own, or no regard for those of 
ef&mrs. At length light observations leaped up on the sunny 
tsdes of the Prewsh wines^ and the more solid remark might 
be supposed to come with the sherry, bringing with it some- 
thing of the gnrvityotf' its^ native ^mni ; wh^ the wisdom 
floated in with the Mad0if% whidii, having been twice round 
itae werM, must have acquired some experience by the way* 
Conversatkm commeaoed bf Lady MandeviHe's refusing some 
lanpreys^ — a dish, en patftmty greatly zesembting stewed 
adders. 

Mr^ Trefn/Uian^'^'' Whal'l a negative.^ Ah, you ladies 
terribly neglect the sources of happiness! But you have so 
many within yourselves, that you may well slight some o£ 
tbeseto which bwr unfortunate sex is obliged to have recourse." 

Ladff Mandevitte, — '^ What ! still retaining your Utopian 
vistons of female felicity ? To talk of our happiness ! — oim, 
liie iU-uffed and oppressed ! You rennnd me of the ancient 
tyrant, who^ seeing bis alares sink under the weight of their 
afaaina, said ' Do look at the indolent reposeof those peo]^e ! ' " 

Mr, TrevyUiam, — ^* Yo» take white sance. Miss Anmdel.^ 
I was sure you would. That preference of white sauce to 
ih mmn ik a singolar pioof of female inforionty." 

JiMrd MamdeviMei, — " Inferiority ! I OnM^ht, Mr. TrevyL 

R 4f 



948 ROMANCE AND BEAUTIT, 

liiii» you had been a devout believer in the perfection of the 
filler world," 

Mr, TrevyUian. — '^ And so I am. I quite agree with tW 
eastern sage who said^ ' the rose was made from what was left 
of woman at the creation.' I do not conceive that their ex* 
cellence is much impaired by this neglect of mental cultiva* 
Uon." 

Lady MandeviUe* — ^' Nay, n6w, you do not rank gastro^ 
nomy among the sciences bom ' of the immortal mind ? ' " 

Mr. Trevyllian. — *^ Indeed I do^ and as one of the higfaeat 
and most influentiaL There are three things the wise miia 
sedulously cultivates — his intellect^ his affections^ and hia 
pleasures. Who will deny how much it brightens the intel- 
lect ? When does the mind put forth its powers ? when are 
the stores of memory unlocked P when does wit ' flash from 
fluent lips ? * — when but after a good dinner ? Who will 
deny its influence on the affections ? Half our friends aie- 
bom of turbots and truflles. What is modern attachment but 
an exhalation from a soup or a salmi ? And as to its plea«> 
sure, I appeal to each one's experience •— only that the truth 
of experience is so difficult to attain. It is one of those sin- 
gular prejudices with which human nature delights to contra- 
dict itself, that while we readily admit the enjoyment given 
by the fair objects which delight our sense of seeing — the 
fragrant odours which delight our sense of smelling — we 
should deny that given by the exquisite flavours which delight 
our sense of tasting." 

Mr. Morland, — '^ The rights of the mouth are as little 
understood as those of the people. There is a great deal of 
natural incapacity in the world." 

Edward Lorraine, — " There still remains In us so much 
of the heavy clay of which we were originally compounded. 
We are ourselves the stumbling-blocks in the way of our 
happiness. Place a common individual^ by common, I mean, 
with the common share of stupidity, custom, and discontent 
— place him in the garden of £den, and he woidd not find it 
out unless he were told, and when told, he would not be- 
lieve it." 

Lord MandeviUe, — *' We soon live past the age of appre* 
ciation ; and on common minds first impressions are indelible^ 
because they are not the result of reflection, but of habit." 



BOMANOB AND BBALITT. 249^ 

Mr. Morland. — ^' It is very diflScult to persuade people to- 
be happy in any fashion bat their own. We run after novelty 
in little things — we shrink from it in great. We make the 
yoke of circumstance a thousand times heavier^ by so unwill- 
ingly accommodating ourselves to the ineyitable.'* 

Mr. Trevyllian. — ^'*' Herein, Lady Mandeville^ is the supe- 
riority of your sex so manifest. Women bend to circumstances- 
so easily and so gracefully." 

Lady MandemUe. — " Because we are so early taught ta 
yield to strong necessity. They who are never accustomed to> 
have a will of their own^ rarely think of opposition : 

* We do ODDtent oanelret with diicontent.* '* 

Mr. Trevyllian. — " Discontent for what ? — because, how- 
ever harsh or rough may be the ways of life, the fairest and 
smoothest are reserved for you. Ours is the fever of politics^ 
the we«iness of business, the bitterness of contention : while^ 
to you is left the quiet of home, where you rule, or the gaiety 
of amusement, wlure you conquer.*' 

Lady Mandemlle. — ^^ This is truly a roan's logic, ^ making 
the worse appear the better reason.' " 

Mr. Trevyllian. — *' Then look at the fund of good spiritB' 
yon possess. Take, for example, a wet day, sue!) as this has been- 
Debarred from the air and exercise, we have wandered from 
room to room in gloomy silence or in sad discourse— our 
health and our vivacity equally impaired ; while you were as 
buoyant in step, as bright in eye, and as gay in words, as if 
the sun had been shining. Nay, I even heard you lai:^h — 
laugh during an east wind ! — let no woman talk of her evil 
fate after that" 

Lady Mandemlle, — ^' I may be silenced, but am not con- 
vinced. Power, wealth, and love, are not these the great en- 
joyments in life, and have you not retained these to yourselves ^' 
The power you have arrogated — the wealth you have en-- 
grossed — and of love you have only left us its constancy and 
its sorrow." 

Mr. Trevyllian. — '* Too many charges at once. I will 
reply to the last first ; indeed, that will be an answer to all — 
for through love our power is at your feet, and our wealth is 
in your hands. As for constancy, it is the veriest falsehood- 



S50 n^nAsma and oaAniTYn 

poet or novelist ever invested, either to heighten a SBntimeut 
or turn a phrase, when he ascribed it as the especial merit of 
your seau We are a thousand times more constant A woman, 
has so many things that divide her heart with her lover. Alas ! 
the diamonds we give are o«r rivals — they take up the thoughts 
we want to ^ngross. Then the horror 'to think how soon the 
BlSecdoa inspired by oneself is merged in that inspired by your 
chililren ! The husband dies — the wife piously submits to the 
Divine will— Providence supports her wonderfully through it — 
her child dies of the measles or hooping-cough — and the 
mother goes to Hastings and dies toe." 

Lord MandeviUe, — *^ What is the reason that many die of 
the loss of a beloved object before marriage, but never after ? 
The lover cannot survive the mistress, nor the mistress the 
lover : but the husband or the wife survive each other to a 
good old age." 

Mr, Trevyllian. — " Curiosity is its own suicide ; and what* 
is love but curiosity ? Marriage enables us to make proof of 
the happiness which was but an idea before. With love, 
knowledge is destruction ; and' as for the individuals, who can 
^tpect them to die of a disease that is extinct ? ** 

Edward Lorraine, — " No sin in love is so great as incon- 
stancy, because it unidealises it. The crime of sacrilege is not 
in the mere thefc of the gi^den images from the high places — 
it is in afterwards applying liiem to base and common use$. 
Love and fkidi both require die ideal to make them holy." 

Ladf MandhfiUe (wMtperin^ Edward). — ** We never un- 
derstand the fhll heinousness of a crime unless we commit it." 

Mr. TrevfflliaTi. — '' There io" something abstrrd' in- vowing 
coBstaney in ]o^<e. itove* depends on impnlses and iai|>ression8 : 
now, over neither of these have we any control. The only 
security is^ dia« we* boos exhsust our impwfees, and' grow^ cal- 
lous to* impnesROMB ; and the aittitollment hasr lilen become a- 
habit, whose chaiao wte, of ail o&ers, the most difficult to- 
break." 

E^ard Lorrmne. — 

" And custom lie upon you with a weight 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life." 

Mr. Trevpllian. — *' Some avthor or other well' defines love 
to be ^ an egotism in two persons ; ' and I recollect three lines 
Tiriiich contain the whole essence of love-making : 



' O moi que j'adove, 
O toi qui m 'adore, 
O nous que nott» nooi oAoroM 1 * " 

Mr. Morland. — '^ In this exaltation of constancy there 
is something of that self-deception which attends all our 
imaginings of every specicjB of virtue. We make them so 
beautifully perfect, to serve, as an excuse for not attaining 
thereunto. ^ Perfection was not made for man.' " 

Mr. TrevyUian. — '' Only that truth is like the philosopher's 
stone^ a thing not to be discovered, it were curious to observe 
faow practice and theory accord. The omnipotence and unity 
of first love are usually and eloquently insisted upon. No 
person pleads guilty to more than a second, and that only under 
peculiar circumstances. Now, I hold that love-affairs in the 
human heart are like the heads of the hydra ; cut one off, 
another springs up in its place. First would come passing at- 
tractions — innumerable ; then such as a second interview have 
made matter of memory — these would task the calculating boy 
himself; next, such as further, though slight, intercourse has 
deepened into a tinge of sentiment — these would require slate 
and pencil to cast up. Again, such as wore the nam« of friend- 
ship — these might be reckoned for as the French actress said^ 
upon being asked if she could enumerate her adi^rers : Aise- 
ment; qui ne sait compter jusqu*au mille? Encore^ attach- 
ments thwarted^ by circumstance, or such as died the natural, 
death of absence — these would be not a few ; to say nothing 
of some half-dozen grand passions.'' 

Lady Mandeville, — " Now, in spite of your knowledge of 
our sex — a knowledge, as I once heard you say, founded on 
much study, and more experience — I think you are con- 
founding vanity and love." 

Mr. TrevyUian, .^- ^* I own I see little difference between 
them." 

Lady Mandeville. — '' On the contrary, I hold that vanity 
is to Jove what opium is to the constitution, — exciting, but 
destroying." 

Edward Lorraine, — '' I must own I allow to this ^ religion 
of the heart ' a more exalted creed than you. seem inclined to 
do. Love is of all others the principle in our nature which 
calls forth ' its higher and its better part/ Look at the dis- 
interestedness of love, the sacrifices it even delights in making ! 



252 ROUANOB AVD BEAIiITT, 

Think how lightly are all worldly advantages held when 
thrown into the balance with affection." 
Lady MandeviUe, — 

" FuiBqu'il a peint Didon, 
VirgUe avait aim€." 

Mr, Trevyllian. — " Pardon : Mr. Lorraine is under the- 
influence of hope, not memory : he paints the passion he 
expects to inspire.** 

Mr, Morland. — " What an interesting subject for conver- 
sation are these varieties of la belle passion / Sentiment meets^ 
with a deal of sympathy." 

Lady Mandeville. — " As far as words go." 

Mr. Trevyllian. — " Does sympathy often go much 
further ? " 

Mr, Morland, — *' Look at the daily papers : to what 
eloquence do they attain when an affair of the heart becomes 
an affair of the police ! " 

Mr, Trevyllian, — " My way hither lay through the county 
town, where I stopped to take * mine ease at mine inn,' of which 
I soon grew tired enough. One does many rash things from 
idleness. The assizes were being held, and I demolished a 
fragment of out great enemy, Time, in cpurt The case being 
tried was what is called, par distinction, an interesting case. 
A man, in the desperation of a refusal (common people take 
those things strangely to heart), had stabbed the obdurate fair 
one with his knife. She was herself the prosecutrix. The 
counsel denounced the crime : he should have denounced the 
criminal's taste. As the evidence proceeded, one thing was 
in his favour — that, after stabbing the woman, he ran and 
fetched the doctor : ' a manifest proof,' as the judge observed^ 
* of his good heart.* Well, the jury could not agree, and 
accordingly were shut up to their dinnerless discussion — a 
method of proceeding, by the by, enoi:^h to produce afiection- 
ate unanimity between the rival queens themselves. When — 

* Hark ! there are murmurs In the crowded hall ! 
A sound— a voice— a shriek — a fearful call ! * ' 

The prisoner had hurried verdict and catastrophe — he had 
stabbed himself. Heavens ! the sympathy he excited ! * Such 
strong feelings ' — ' ruin of his happiness ' — 'blighted affec- 
tions ' — in short, there was not a man in the court who 
would not have asked him to dinner, nor a woman who would 
not have married him." 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. S53 

Edward Lorraine. — 

" An equal sympathy they both confesBed." 

L<2dy Mandevilk, — '' An equal sympathy do you call it ? 
Come, Emily, we must teach them to value us higher — we 
must leave them, that ' distance may lend enchantment to the 
view.' *' 



CHAPTER XIII. 

" Alas ! what differs more than man from man V 
And whence that difference ? — whence but from himself? 

« « « « • 

" There is a bondage that is worse to bear 
Than his who breathes, by roof, and floor, and wall 
Pent in, — a tyrant's solitary thrall : 

'Tishis who 

muatbear • 

His fetters in his soul." Wordsworth. 

A DAY when the south wind brought with it sunshine and 
showers — when one half hour down came the glistening rain 
so quickly, that the sun had not time to hide his face — and 
the next, the blue sky had its azure deepened by the relief of 
the broken white clouds ; while the garden was flooded with 
golden light — at the point of every leaf hung a clear bright 
Toin-drop — and the turf shone like an emerald with the 
moisture. The air was soft and warm, and fraught with that 
peculiar sweetness which tells that the serynga (our English 
orange-flower) has expanded, and that the lilacs are in full 
blossom. 

Edward Lorraine was seated at an open window: when 
4he soft warm rain came dowii^ it beat the other way, and 
the eye followed it driving through the sunshine, like a fairy 
shower of diamond or amber, till it seemed to melt on the 
gre^n and distant hills into a mist, silvery but indistinct. 

Mr. Morland was amusing himself with the County Chro- 
nicle, and Edward was absorbed in his book : Lady Mandeville 
4Uid Emily were seated^ at a small work-table. Lady Man- 
deville> who had not been in the room ten minutes, was very 
industrious ; but it must be owned that Emily's eye wandered 
more than once to the opposite window : Edward was so very 
intent on the page before him- At length he closed the 



954 ROMANGE 'A2fJ) REALITY* 

volume — leant as if meditating on its cootents, for a feT7 
minutes — and then rose and approached the work-tahle. 

Edward Lorraine. — " I am so fascinated with what I 
have heen reading, that I am under the absolute necessity of 
talking about it : 

' Happiness was born a twin.' " 

Lady Mandeville,- — '^ And we are to enjoy your happiness 
without knowing in what it consists : disinterested sympathy^ 
at least." 

Edward /^rrflinc— "Have you read the tale I have just 
finished, Di Vasari?" 

lAidy Mandemlle. — ^*Oh, we can enter into your enjoy- 
ment Emily and I read it about a week>ago; — read it 
during one half the day^ and talked of it during the other." 

Edward Lorraine. — "The story itself is one 6f intense 
interest — one of passion and poetry. Hut even this has less 
attraction for me than the strong peculiarities of the man's 
spirit. X knew him, and can so well imagine the strength 
and bitterness of his mind when some of the passages were 
written." 

Emily* — *' You say you knew the author. What was he 
like?" 

Edward Lorraine* — "That is to say, was he handsome ? 
Yes, in a peculiar and un-English style. He bad high> 
sharp, and somewhat Jewish features, dark eye, clear, keen, 
and penetrating with something almost ferocious in their 
expression : 

* And in his eye the gladiator spoke.* 

If I beliered in traBsmigntion, I ehoiild haire said that in his 
former stage of existenoe he had been a Bengal tiger ; and 
somewhat of its likeness still liogersd in his &ee." 

Emily, — "Did y<m know muefa of him ?" 

Edward Lorraine* — "I never saw M r. Tiwmpson — ^(J 
wish, in order to intoestyou, he had had a more character- 
istic name) — but oQee. I bad read in flie very Magazine 
which contains Di Vasari, viz. Biaekwood'a, a -tale oafled tiie 
Life of Charles Edwards — it struck ne so mnefa^ that I grew 
carions about the audior. I met him soon aftenratds at a 
supper." 

Lady MandemUe.—^CoxAA he talk .^ " . 



ROBIANCE AND B.EALITS'. £55 

Edward Lorraine. — ^^Wonderfully! Singular opinions 
singularly maintained ! A flow of wi^rds^ very feiicitous^ and 
yet such as no one else would have used. Not so much a 
love of^ as a positive necessity for^ contradiction seemed a 
part of his mind : add to tliis^ extensive and out-of-the«way 
readings and a ready memory — and if your imagination be very 
vivid^ you will form some £aint notion of his discourse." 

Lady Mandemlle. — "1 should like to jw^ for myself. 
You must introduce him/' 

Edward Lorraine. — " Your command makes the impossifaSe 
easy ; but this is very impossible indeed. The subject of our 
discourse is dead. He died^ as I have since heard^ of a 
harassed mind^ and a worn-out constitution. His history is 
one of the many brief and bitter pages in human life. A 
spirit superior to its stadon — talents of that imaginative kind^ 
which 80 constant^ exaggenale their influence -—« tastes poeti- 
cal in their luxury — aspirations the most undefined and 
aspiring; gird all these in by narrow cinsumstaQces, and a 
lower class in life^— you will then .faaiFe. the whole of his daxk 
and discontented existence." 

Mr. Mariand (laying down the County Ofaf«nidle). — " I 
know few states tibkat more excite «iir sympathy in theory than 
this contest of * low want and lofty wfll.' But unless we 
could pre-arrange existence, how are we to alter it } Nature 
and Fortune have long been at variance. A 'workman uses 
for each task those tools most appropriate to ihe work. Not 
so with Life : in at least seven cases out of nine, people aie 
placed by fortune to fulfil a destiny for ^bich they are emi- 
nently unfitted by nature. But go on ^ith your detail." 

Edward Lorraine. — *' I am not aware -of his birth, parent- 
age, or education ; but, when quite a lad, he left home, after 
the old fashion of adventurers, and went to 'IBouth America. 
There he stayed some twelve or thirteen years. I am afraid 
that his exp^ition to find £1 Dorado was as bootless as ^r 
Walter Raleigh's. Home he returned, and committed that 
worst imprudence, an imprudent marriage. Imprudence in 
this world is punished even more rapidly than crime ; uid I 
believe his folly was its own punishnieat. He became a 
reporter to a new^aper, published some aihmirable t^s in 
Blackwood's Magazine, and wrote for divers other periodicals* 
Night after night he attended the gallery of the House of 



"Sfid ROMANCE AND REALITT. 

Commons^ recording what any merdless orator might choose to 
declaim. Or else, grinding down the last colours of his mind 
for an ^ article in time* — till mind and body both gave way^ 
and he died, I hare heard, at about five-and-thirty, leaving 
behind him some of the most original tales in our language, 
scattered through different publications. Not a dozen person^ 
remember his name ; and pages fuU of passion and beauty are 
Numbering in productions, which, however, influential in their 
day, hot one person in a thousand binds, nor one in ten 
thousand reads when bound. Genius should offer up ite 
morning and evening sacrifice to luck." 

Mr, Marland. — ''When we consider how many authors, 
and popular ones> whether living or dead, now crowd our 
shelves and memories, we ought rather to rejoice when a 
writer^ be his merit what it may, is forgotten. We have no 
patriotism towards posterity ; and the selfish amusement of 
the prefsent always has and always will outweigh the important 
interests of the future^ — or else a law would long ago have 
passed, for every century to consign the production of its prede- 
cessor to the flames. Readers would benefit by the originality 
this wbuld' produce ; and writers would no longer have to 
complain that their predecessors had taken all their best ideas : 

' Pareant qui ante nos nostra dixerunt.* " 

Edward Lorraine. — '* Where shall we find a literary Curtius, 
to leap, volumes and all^ a voluntary offering into this gulf of 
oblivion ? " 

Lady MandeviUe, — *'This is so like a man's scheme, — 
always expecting others to be more disinterested than himself ! " 

Edward Lorraine, — *'This tale, by the by, of Di Vasari, 
is written in a style in which our literature is less fertile than 
in its other branches." 

Lady MandevUle. — ''One at this moment occurs to me, 
and one quite out of my ordinary course. You and Emily^ 
and even Mr. Morland, are decidedly ' romanticists.' I must 
own I prefer a gayer and lighter species of reading. Of pictures 
I like portraits — of books I like novels — novels of modem 
life, times, and manners : even if very bad, they amuse. I am 
not sure if laughing at them be not as pleasant as laughing 
with them." 

Edward Lorraine. — " But what is the tale ?*' 

Lady Mandeville.^^^' Do not be impatient Cannot yoa 



SbVANOE AUTf REALITY*. 257 

that this dwelling on mj opposite tastes riiows how very 
^dnairable the story must be which could carry me so completely 
out of them ? I insist upon telling you how I came to read 
it. Mandeville had dined out: Emily, most unkindly, had not 
a prescience of my loneliness^' and stayed at the HalL I got 
tired^ very tired of myself. At last I saw a little volume lying 
on the tabled — took it up in that worst of moods for an author — 
ftiute de mtetio?^—- opened it carelessly — read a few pages^ and 
grew so interested, that I let the fire quite^ the lamp nearly^ 
dut ; and when Henry came home, I am not sure whether I 
did not take him for one of his ancestors stepped down from a 
picture-frame. Moreover, I could" not' sleep till I had finished 
it There is the very book." 

Edward Lorraine. — **^ My old favourite Inesilla. How well 
I remember reading it ! It was in the summer, as. I walked 
to and fro in an avenue, over which the elm boughs met; and 
below, large, old, unpruhed laurels grew almost over the walk. 
It took a wonderful hold on me. I believe, for weeks after, I 
looked vdth suspicious eyes on every pleasant-apoken eldexly 
gentleman who addressed me." 

Lady Mandeville, — '^ Do you remember the effect produced 
by the black hollyhock, hanging gloomily over the sepulchral 
white marble vase >" 

Emily. — '^ I like Inesilla hetaekf so much.*' 

Edward Lorraine. — ^' It is the oi^ly beautiful English tale 
I know in which the supernatural agency is well managed. Our 
common ghosts are essentially vulgar." 

Lady^MaiidefmUe. — '^Sent on. errands to reveal a murder 
or a money deposit "- ... 

Edward Lorraine, — " Here the spiritual agency is so terri- 
ble and so solemn. Every day, and every hour, we are trench- 
ing upon the mighty and mysterious empire of the unknown 5 
the shadows of old superstition flit dimmer and more dim 
before her eyes. Wfe lay ghosts, not with holy word and cru- 
cifix, but with Abemethy. and Dr. Hibbert But let us grow 
as actual as we will — let ii% admit nothing but facts, and not 
these till they have l^eii first denied — still vague, ay vain, 
beliefs will spring up in; our hearts— midnight, despite all 
reasoning, will be ^haunted with 'a shadow and a thought' 
So long as the souL knows this is not her own home, she will 
have visitings from another^ and there will be that in our 



thovghts of whfeh we cas give no accoii]it--^ft fear and ho^^ 
iviiicb W9 soraetimes will deny, and ithieb will sever bo vaoT9 
than a dream. It is this fine aaad mystical sense which InisdllA. 
snceeeds so well ia exciting. Then the human interest is ad* 
imrably kept wj^ One superstition is awakened through our 
afiection. 

Emily, -«- 1 << ^ink it opens so, heautifuUy : the feeling of 
hi^piness — sunny, confiding happiness — contrasts power&Uy 
with the after desolation/' 

Edward Lorraine. 7— ^'Altogether, I know no tale of stranger 
and wilder beauty." 

The day wore on, and, when evening came, the party w«Kr 
arranged to Lady Mandeville's satisfaction as regarded her 
guests : whether it was so very debgfatful to heradf^ may reason- 
ably be questioned. An elderly neighbour had had the cruelty 
to come out without hia wife, his constaot partner a£ casds ; 
and Mr. Morrison was one who would as soon have thougjlifc 
of going without his dinner as without hia rubber. This 
rubber had therefore to be made up by the Muidevilles them- 
selves and Mr. Morland. Miss Arundel and Lorraine were at 
the other extremity of the room, by the piano, — an occasional 
song serving as the excuse for what was a titO'dr-tSte in all hvik 
the embarrassment. Certainly that evening Edward was a litti^ 
in love — to be sure he had nothing elee to do. 

Now the lettevs arrived at NorviUe Abbey in the evening : 
a great misfortune thia-^-for, on an average, there is not one 
pleasant letter out of ten, and it is raiaerable to pass the night 
ruminating on the other nine. One really wants the spirits of 
the morning to support the coming in of the post. There was 
one letter unlversatiy disagreeable — it came from Mr. Delawarr, 
and entreated Lorraine's instant return to London. Regrets 
came flattering enough to the fortunate or unfortunate receiver 
of the epistle; even £mily ventured to say she was 'Wery sorry ,"^ 
but it was in such a low voice that no one heard it. " You 
must come and see us again," said Lord Mandeville, ^^ unless we 
are in town before you can escape." 

Early the next morning the wheels of a departing carriage 
rolled off, unnoticed, as its occupier supposed, by all. One ear^ 
however, beard every sound ; and either a very gentle hand or 
a very light wind, slightly stirred a curtain. Poor Emily 1 she 
only caught sight of the pbstilioB. Why^ with all our desp 



and wMttersMe s^mpathiee witlbloire^ aze we inclined to langil 
at half ito dkwppointmenta ? 



CHAPTER XIV. 

*' Happiness 
Is the g«7 to-morrow of tbo mind 
That never comes.** 



<6 



I cava my most cordial ap|Mrobatioii>" said Lord Mandeville : 

I think £inily Arundel is a very sweet creature — a little too 
yiaioaary/' 

'^ Nay^ it is that," xepUed his wife, '^ which makes her so 
interesting : she is just a heroine for a romaace in five volumes ; 
and I shall never forgive ber^ if something a httle out of the 
GommoD run of, brought out oae season and married the next, 
without an interesting embarraasmeBt, does not happen to 
her.'' 

• '^ My dear £lkn^ beware how you encourage this tendency 
in your pretty jm^^«-^ to invent a life rather than Hve: 
wirh aU your penetration^ I think you are hardly aware of the 
strength and intensity of Miss ArunM's charaeter. At 
fifteen, her poetry of feeling (you see I do my best to please 
you with a phrase) would just give piquancy and freshness 
to her entry into life ; but at twenty, it is grown into a decided 
mental feature — and nothing would surprise me less than to 
see her throw herself away on a worthless fortune-hunter, 
under some mistaken fancy of ajBPection and disinterestedness." 

" No fear of that ; I have a match for her in perspective — 
one that I am much mistaken if both she and you would not 
highly apfH'ove." 

'*• And I am much mistaken if she has not some floating 
fancy of her own." 

'^ But suppose we both agree in our choice ? " 

" Well, suppose what you please, only be cautious how you 
act upon your suppositions/' 

^* In the meantime, I have your consent to ask her to ao- 
company us to Italy ? " 

*' A very cordial yes to that." 

Emily gladly accepted the offer. But for Lady Mande* 
ville's friendship^ her position was at this moment very awkward : 

8 2 



S60 nOMANOE AND REAI«XTT. 

to live alone at the Hall would have been too independent*— a 
residence with her aunt was put out of the question by her 
marriage — and Lady Alicia's death prevented her deriving 
that advantage from Mr. Delawarr being appointed her guardian, 
which, perhaps, her uncle had anticipated. To be sure, an 
heiress is never at a loss for friends ; but the very thought of 
strangers made Emily cling more closely to Lady MandeviUe's 
protection. Her ladyship was very tired of Norville Abbey, 
and a little female diplomacy had been exerted for some time, 
to convince her husband that — whether put on those unfailing 
albumen ts, health or spirits — a little change was indispensable, 
as Hortense says of her drawing-room's Sevres china, and or- 
molu, " C'est plus qu utile, cest nScessaire" 

After many demurs — turnip-fields and coveys, the ash 
coppice and pheasants, put into the balance against '' Raphaelt, 
Correggiosy and stuff" — it was finally agreed they should travel 
for the next season, on condition that the following one was to 
see them quietly settled in the Abbey again, taking care of the 
county interest during that seventh year of such importance to 
our constitution, where the phoenix parliament dissolves into 
its original elements, again to be collected and re-vivified by 
the process called purity of election. 

Like most fair tactitians. Lady Mandeville, contented with 
present advantages, left the future to take care of itself: besides, 
after a year on the continent, Norville Abbey would offer con- 
trast enough to be quite delightful. 

Arrangements were soon commenced and soon ended. 
Emily took leave of Mrs. Clarke, who gave her divers small 
commissions, and many ingenious hints how the custom- 
house officers might be evaded. The Doctor recommended 
her to learn to make milk coffee, a thing never met with good 
in England — and, as he justly observed, she might marry a 
man who was fond of it. 

"And I can sny, from experience," added his wife, "there 
is nothing like siloing to things yourself." 

Her last visit was to Mr. Morton : the old had died around 
him, the young were departing, and regret deepened into 
anxiety as he bade her farewell. 

*^ Come back, my child, as kind, as affectionate, and with 
h'bpes only less visionary because realised in their happiness : 
be humble, be thankful, and, my child, may God bless and keep 
you !" 



BOHANCE AND REALITT'. 26l 

' It was the last evening of all, and that £mily gave to her 
saddest farewell — to her home. 3he retraced the walks of 
her childhood ; the shruhhery^ with its luxuriant growth of 
Toses, now in the full beauty of summer ; the fruit-garden, 
'Hvhere every tree and walk had a remembrance — those iron 
links of affection. The wind was high, and at every step a 
shower of fragrant and coloured leaves fell over her like rain : 
lier fancy asked of her feelings^ Do they weep to bid^ne fare- 
weB? 

Nothing exaggerates self-importance like solitude; and 
perhaps because we have it not, then more than ever do we 
feel the want of sympathy : hopes, thoughts, these link them- 
selves with external objects ; and it is the expression of that 
haunting desire of association, those vine-like emotions of the 
human heart which fasten on whatever is near, that give an 
interest like truth to the poet's fiction, who says that the 
moumftd waters and the drooping trees murmur with his 
murmors, and sorrow with his sorrows. 

It was now the shadowy softness of twilight— that one 
English hour whose indistinct beauty has a vague charm which 
may compensate for all the sunshine that ever made glorious 
the vale of Damascus ; and as she emerged from the yew-tree 
walk, the waving wind and the dim light gave the figures cut 
in their branches almost the appearance of reality^ and their 
shadows flung huge semblances of humanity far before them : 
a less excited frame of mind than Emily's might well have 
invested them with the idea of something actual and ominous. 
It was a relief to reach the broad open turf before the house. 
The room into which she meant to go fronted full west. The 
sun had set some time, and his purple pageantry, like that of 
a forgotten monarchy had departed ; but one or two rich clouds, 
like faithful hearts, retaining the memory of his gifts to the 
last, floated still on the air. The middle window of the oriel 
before her^ just caught and reflected back the crimson light 
(ind colour. The ground below looked bright and warm 
compared with the shade around. 

One of those fancies which will, despite of reason, link some 
peculiar olject and feeling together, now crossed Emily's mind : 
she took a little branch of geranium — it was all leaves^ for 
whose lingering fragrance she had gathered it — and planted it 

8 5 



in the most lE^elteied spot^ by the steps : '^ If it floiiriah^ I 
shall flourish ; if it perish^ so shall I." 

The window was open, and die entered the lootn. How 
dreary it looked ! The carpet was talcen up, die chairs ranged 
in formal order round the wall, the fire-irons removed^ and the 
grate so bright and so cold ; the curtains were down, all the 
litde ornaments put away, no flowers in tiie stands, and the 
pictures covered up : from want of sufficient material, the face 
of her uncle's portrait was still visible : she thought it looked 
upon her sadly and kindly, forgetting that such was his habitual 
expression. A movement in the passage roused her ; hastily 
she sprang down the steps, and in an instant was hidden in 
the ^ick foli|ge of the path which led to the village, where 
she was to meet Lady MandeviUe and the children. 

Little did she know the terrors she had left behind her. 
The foot in the passage was that of the old gardener, who, 
now residing in the house with his wife and daughter, had 
been sent by the said female authorities to close the shutters 
against datnp^ thieve8> and other evening annoyances. He 
just caught sight of £mily — the white dress was enough ; 
and, without pausing on the incongruity of a ghost in a large 
straw bonnet^ he rushed back to the kitchen : those spiritual 
Eecurities, candles and company, enabled him to return ; there 
was no trace of any earthly thing ; the supernatural conclusion 
was isoon drawn, the room pronounced to be hannted, an4 
henceforth only to be entered in couples. 

A gho8t-«tory is an avalanche, increasing in horror as it 
goes ; and, like an avalanche, one often brkigs on another. It 
was remembered, that Emily was the last of a house which 
had for years and years been connected with every tradition in 
the county : the .grandfathers of the parii^ could recollect 
when the old hall had rung with the cheerful song and shout 
of a gallant band of relatives, all bearing the name of Arundel, 
and when the echoes of the morning, were awakened by baying 
hounds and the ringing horns of the young hunters : but one 
grave had been filled after another — one name after another 
crowded the funeral tablets of the chiiirch : and the once 
flourishing race had dwindled down to one slight girl. 

OmenSi predictions, and legends now multiplied^around every 
fireside; one, in particular^, was revived. The lands of the 
Arundel estate had belonged to a monastery; but when the 



eiosier bowed deywn before King Henry's anger, tbese domain 
were asragned to ose of bib fayoiuite followers, Sir John 
Arundel. Bnt the abbess, descended from an old Norman 
family^ and inheriting all the spirit of her race^ resigned not 
so ea^y tbe «way for wMch youth^ beauty, and the world 
had been sacrificed. She refused admittance to the messen- 
gers ; defied &e autherf ty which attethpted to dispossess her ; 
and pursued her usual course of rule and faith^ as if neither 
had been gainsayed. 

'^ As bold a Neville as ever buckled on spar or sword ! ^le 
deinies my right, and appeals to the pope," said the haughty 
monarch, throwing down her scroll. "Read ye ever su<^ a 
bead-roll of curses ? Come, Sir John Arundel, they say you 
fear neither man nor devil; let's see if you fear woman? Clear 
roe out this convent, and keep its candlestidcs for your pains." 

The knight needed no second command : he ordered a band 
of his stanchest followers to horse — men who had fought by 
•his side in Flanders, and there learnt more iteverence for Sir 
Captain than Sir Priest. They stayed a short while in the hostel 
of the village ; for mine host's Canary smacked, as die jesting 
soldiers said, of a monkish neighbourhood. When Sir John 
mounted again, be somewhat regretted the delay ; for the night 
was falling — and, besides, it gave time for the daring prioresa 
to hear of his coming, and perhaps prepare, however ^itlessly 
to oppose it. 

As he rode tip the liill, he saw fights gleaming from the 
oonventy and a sound of music #oated upon the air. To his 
great surprise, the gates were ail unbarred. Not a creature was 
visible : all were evidently assemMed in the chapel^ whence 
ismied both the light and music. ^ 

The doors of the c^apd were unfastened, though closed. 
In diey went; but even Sir John and his reckless soldiers 
paused a moment on l^e threshold, and two or three even 
doffed their sted caps. Chanting — though, it must be owned, 
«ome of them raster tremulously — their choral hymn, the 
auns, closely veiled, kndt on •each side, — but for their sweet 
voices, like figures carved, r«ther tlian Hfe. The prioress alone 
was unveiled, and standing on the step^ of the altar, which, 
added to her long flowing garments, gave hcnr the appearance of 
almost |>refMm«tut«l lieighfe. in one hand, even as her fore* 
fatlters had giMp«d the sw«rd, not less b^dly did i^e hM, a 

8 4 



864 nOMANOB AND REAI^ITT* 

» 

torch; in the other, even as they had held their shield, she held 
the cross. For a moment even Sir John Arundel quailed befove 
the dark eye that met his own so fearlessly. She saw her 
advantage and seized it. At a glance^ her nuns ceased their 
hymn, and a deep sileuce succeeded the voice of singing, and 
the clanging steps of armed men. 

• " Not for pity, nor even for time, cruel and grasping man I 
do I now speak ; " and her clear distinct voice sounded unna^ 
turally loud, from the echoes of the arched roof and hollow 
tombs. ''Turn the golden vessels sacred to thy God to pur^ 
poses of vain riot and thankless feasting, even as did the 
Babylonian monarch ;•— take the fair lands, from whose growth 
the pilgrim has been fed and the poor relieved — take them, as 
the unrighteous king of Israel took the vineyard of his nei^h- 
hour, by force; — but take also the curse that clings to die 
ungodly. I curse the father who shall possess — the race who 
are to inherit. Thy young men shall be cut off by the«word; 
and sickness, worse than an armed man, shall take thy maidena . 
in the bower. In the name of the faith thou hast deserted-— 
the God thou hast outraged — the curse shall be on thy race, 
till it be extinguished, even as this light." • 

She dashed down the torch she held, descended from the 
altar-steps, and left the chapel before any of her opponents were 
sufficiently recovered from their dismay to stop or molest her 
passage. All the nuns were either not so fortunate or a» 
resolute. Certain it is, that one of them, and a namesake too. 
Bertha de Neville, a few weeks after, married this very Sir 
John ArundeL The legend went on to state, that the nuptial 
merriment was disturbed by the sudden appearance of a pale 
spectral figure, who entered, as it contrived to depart from, the 
banquet-hall, unobserved, and denounced the most awful curses 
on Mdegrootn and bride. A similar appearance was said to 
have attended the christening of their first child. 

Years passed away ; and the story of the White Prioress was* 
one of those which belong of right to aU ancient families. A 
ghost only pays an old house a proper attention by an occasional 
visit. And now that Arundel Hall was, for the time at least, 
deserted — and Emily was the last of her race, just, too, on the 
eve of her departure for foreign parts, togeliier with the appa*. 
rition seen by the gardener — such an opportunity for aught oC 
ittperstitious record mig^t never occur again. Traditio^i, 



BOMANOB AND R£AUTir« 2d5 

omens^ appearances, prophecies^ came thick and threefold; tiU^ 
what widi inventions and remembrances, not a grandfather or 
grandmother, not an nnde or aunt of her race, had erer^ by 
common report^ remained quiet in dieir graves. 
i Early as it W(i8 next morning, not a cottage«door but sent 
forth its inhabitants to take a farewdl look at Miss Emily. 
Many a little sunburnt fSftce ran beside the carriage, and many 
a little hand, which had since sunrise been busily employed 
in selecting her favourite flowers^ threw nosegays in at the 
window. Emily eagerly caught them, and her eyes filled with 
tears^ as^ at a turning in the road which hid the village, she 
tiirew herself back on the seat. How many years of youth 
and of iiappiness — how many ties of those small Idndnessea, 
stronger than steel to bind — how many memories of early 
afibction, was she leaving behind ! 

At that moment the beautifid answer of the Shunamite 
woman seemed to her the very morality of happiness and cer- 
tainty of content — ^'I dwell a^long mine own people." How 
many familiar faces^ rejoicing in our joy, sorrowing with our 
sorrow — how many cares, pleasant from habit — sickness, 
whose suffering gave a tenderer character to love— mirth^ the 
mhth of the cheerful hearth or the daily meal — mirth, like 
home-made bread, sweeter from its very homeliness — the sleep^ 
sound from exercise — the waking buoyant with health and 
the consciousness of necessary toil — the friends to whom our 
childhood was a delight, because it recalled their own! '^I 
dwell among mine own people : " a whole life of domestic 
duty, and the happiness which springs from that fulfilment 
which is of affection^ are in those words. 

Emily might have revolved all this in her own exaggerated 
feelings^ till she had convinced herself that it was her duty to 
have stayed in her native village and solitary home, but for 
Lady Mandeville, who^ though very willing to make all due 
allowance for her young companion's depressed spirits during 
the first ten miles, was not prepared to extend the said allow- 
ance to twenty. 

Our sympathy is never very deep unless founded on our own 
feelings; we pity, but do not enter into the grief we have never 
koQiwn : and if her Ladyship had expressed her thoughts aloud, 
they would have taken pretty much this form ; *' I really caamit 
me 80 much to regret in an empty house, a village where there 
is not a creature to speak to^ some old trees and dirty children." 



ftelttciifW) bowefcr, acts llie IftdyVmaid to onr tfaou^ts ; 
J they Mxe -wtAed, dresoed, onried^ rouged, and perfumed^ 
Mbte they are presented to the pobtic ; so that an tmexpresae^ 
idea might often say to the spoken one, wh«t die Afirican 
-ff^tDtm taid to the European kdy, after snrveyii^ the sweep 
of her huge bonnet and the extent of her sknt, ^'Oh, tell me, 
white ivomaoy if this is all you ! " It is amazing how much 
a thought expands and refines by being put into apeech: I 
j^Duld think it ooidd hardly know itself. 

We have ah-eady recorded Lady MaadeviDe's thoi^ts ; 
hut die spoke as fidlows : •*- " When at Rome^ Emily^ you 
iMMt get a set of cameos. Yon are among the few persons I 
could permit to wear ihem. It quale affects ny feelings to 
see them strung round some shorty thick throat of an heiress 
to some alderman who died of ap<^lexy ; ckaped round an 
arm as red as if the innt of a whole wiivter had settled in the 
elbow ; or stuck among bristling curis, as if to caricature, by 
oentrast, the short, siUy, simpering face below. * The intelli- 
gible forma «of ancient poets ' — ' die fair humanities of old 
K^igion ' — ibe power^ the beaoty, and the migerty, 

* That had their hacrati in flale or piny mouatdn. 
Or forest bj Aow atrena or pebbly spring: ' 

it is enough to bring them back to our unworthy earth in the 
shape of furies, to see their images put to such base use. 
None but a classical countenance should Tenture on cameos/' 

^' I am," replied Emily — personal adornment is the true 
spell that would almost wake the dead — "so very fond of 
emeralds : there is something so spiritual in their pure green 
light, and one associates with them the romantic fiction of 
mysterious virtue being in their ' myotic stone/ *' 

'^ My sweetest Emily," returned Lady Mandeville, a little 
alarmed, " never be picturesque or poetical at your toilette ; — 
in matters of grave import, never allow vain and foolish 
fancies to interfere ; never sit at your looking-glass as if you 
were sitting for a picture ; — indulge in no vagrant creations 
of your own. What Pope said of fate is still truer of fashion — 

* Wbaterer it, is right' ** 

" But suppose any piremHiig £uhion is to me peculiarly 
•Bbecomtng ? " 

It will be leu unbeoomii^ than 4singulaRty. A fieculiur 



te 



styky especially if that style suit you, will make a ivliole Toom 
your enemies : independence is an affront to your acquunt- 
ance. Of all defesences^ be most implicit in that you pay to 
opinion/' 

*^ How little liberty^ even in the affiur of a ringlet, does a 
woman possess ! " 

^< Liberty and power/' said Lord Mandeyilie, who, aUter 
riding the first stage on horseback, now enteited the cttrriage^ 
^' are, in the hands oi women, what they axe in theliaDdsof a 
mob — always misused. Ah ! the Salic law is the true code, 
whether in morals or monarchies." 

'^ He cannot forgive," said his wife, ^^ the turnip-fields and 
the three coveys which he has left behind. But I will not 
have your 'murderous propensities interfere wiih Emily's well- 
doing. While we are travelling, the mirror of the Graces may 
remain partially covered ; but on our return, it must be un- 
veiled in its own peculiar tempk, Paris. Be asaiduous in 
your studies for a few weeks, ami you may lay in a stock of 
good principles for life." 

*^ Nothing," said Lord MandevUle, '' can be more 'perfect 
than a Frenchwoman when she is finished. From the Cia*- 
derella.like sli|>per to the glove delicate as the hand it covers 
— the shawl, whose drapery a sculptor might envy — the 
perfumes — the fan, so gracefully carried — llie bijouterie, 
which none employ with such effect -— all is in such exquisite 
keeping. I always admire their management of their bonnet. 
A young Frenchwoman will come in, the said bonnet pat on 
as if a morning had been devoted to its becoming position t 
she will take it off, and not a curl will be displaced — put it 
on .again with aU apparent carelessness, but as gracefully as 



ever/' 



(f 



Remember,'* said Lady MaxideviHe, ^' the previous study. 
I recollect, when we were last in Paris, I expressed to that 
pretty Mde. de St. £lve the very same admtratioa. Tndy it 
was ^ the carelessness, y«t the most studied to kill.' W^e were at 
that time quite confidentiaL ^ You see^/ said she, ^ the tesnlt 
of my morning/ " 

<< It is a pity," relied her husband^ ^^ but « fair exchange 
could be effected — that the finglishwoman oocdd give hint 
general neatness, and the Frenchwoman her partioalac tas«e.'^ 

V Ah/' observed Lad,y MandwiUci, '^bnt tlie aatrepg* of A 



868 BOMAirOE AND BBALITY. 

^sdiDg lies in its concentration. The Englishwoman diflTuses 
over a whole day what the French reserves for a few hours. 
Effect there is the summing up. In great, as in little things, 
the French are a nation of actors — life is to them a great 
melodrame. Irememher some verses written hy one of their 
gena eCespHt et de sociStS, an hour hefore his deaths in which 
he calls on the Loves and Graces to surround his couch, that 
he may die with the murmur • of their kisses in his ears I This 
is something more than ^adjusting the mantle hefore they falL* 
It is also taking care that the trimmings are not tumbled/' 

Mile after mile flew rapidly ; and soon came upon the 
traveller's ear that deep murmur, Uke the roar of the mighty 
ocean, which, even at such a distance, tells us that we ap- 
proach London. Gradually the hedges and flelds give W£(y 
before long rows of houses ; and a few single domiciles, with 
plats of turf cut into patterns, and bunches of daisies dusty 
and dry as if just dropped from the wreath of a figurante, are 
what the orientals call so pleasant and rural, so convenient for 
stages and Sunday. Soon one straight line succeeds another ; 
and we know the wilderness of streets is begun, which, in 
another century, will end heaven knows where. 

The entrance to London by the great north road, is the 
one by which I would bring a stranger. First the road wind- 
ing through the fertile country, rich in old trees and bright 
green fields, and here and there a substantial brick house, well 
closed in with wall and hedge ; — a few miles farther^ the 
dislocating town of Brentford, driven through at the risk of 
the joints of your frame and the springs of your carriage, 
which George IL pronounced so beautiful — it was '^ so like 
Yermany." So much for taste, and the doctrine of associa- 
tion. Those fit gates for a summer palace, the light and airy 
arches which lead to Sion House, passed also^ the country 
begins to take an air of town — houses and gardens are 
smaller — single blessedness rarer ^- turnpikes more frequent 
— and terraces, places, and crescents, are many in number ; — 
then the town of Kensington, small and mean^ looking a cen- 
tury behind its neighbourhood. 

The road now becomes a noble and a wide one. On foot, 
and by daylight, the brick walls on either side are dreary 
enough ; but at night they only give depth to the shadow, 
and the eye catches the lighted windows and the stately roofs 



BOMANOE AND BBAtJT7« fUBQ 

of the houses they enclose. To my own individiial taste^ these 
itfe the most delightful of dwellings, close upon the park for 
drives^ dose upon the streets for dinners, enclosed, large, and 
to themselves, having as much of rural felicity within their 
walls as I at least desire ; that is to say, there are some fine 
old trees, lilacs and lahumums in full hlossom, sweeps of 
turf, like green carpet, and plenty of delicate roses, &c. A 
conservatory is the aristocracy of flowers. 

Just where the road is the widest they met the mails, the 
gallant horses sweeping along 

*' As if the ipeed of thought were In their limbs,** 

and every step accompanied hy a shower of fiery sparkles. 
The lamps that glance and are lost — the cheerful ringing of 
the horn — the thought that must rise, of how much of human 
joy and sorrow every one of those swift coaches is bearing on 
to its destination : — newspapers that detail and decide on aU 
the affairs of Europe ^letters in all their infinite variety, love, 
confidence, business — the demand of the dun, the excuse of 
the debtor — delicate bath and coarse foolscap — the patrician 
coat-of-arms, and the particularly plebeian wafer — the senti- 
mental motto and graceful symbol, side by side with the red 
patch stamped with a thimble : but any one of these thoughts 
will be more than enough to fill the brief moment which the 
all but animated machine takes in passing. How different 
from the days when *^ the coach," one, and one only, was eight 
days coming from York, and its passengers laid in a store of 
provisions which, in our rapid days, would supply them half 
way to America ! 

** London, my country, city of the soul I" exclaimed Lady 
Mandeville, as she caught %ight of the brilliantly lighted arches 
of Hyde Park Corner, and the noble sweep of the illuminated 
Park in the distance, while Piccadilly spread before them in 
the darkness like an avenue of lamps. " I have heard that a 
thorough-bred cockney is one of the most contented animals 
in the world : I, for one, to use a favourite modem expression, 
can quite ^ enter into his feelings. ' " 

" Do you remember, '* replied her husband, ' Lorraine*8 
quotation to St. James's Street ? — 

* For days, for months, devotedly 

Vve lingered by tby sti * 
The only place I coveted 



l*ve lingered by tby side, 

[>nlv pli 
Mti all the world so wide.* * 



* Kennedy. 



And tfMNiglk I like the country, as an Bnglithmaa and a patriot 
ov^t to do, I own I feel tbe fascination of tlie flagstonesi" 

'^Emily^ I aecnse yon of want of sympathy with your 
fHends — I declare yoii are asleep : yon will make a bad tra- 
veller ; heweirer, I shall rely upon yottr amendment." 

Emily was not asleep, hut she waa oppressed hy that sense 
of nothingness with which the native of a great town is too 
familiar to he ahle to judge of its eflbct on a stranger. She 
hod been accustomed to live where everr face was a familiar 
one — where every one's afifairs had, at least, the interest of 
neighbourhood — and where a stranger had all the excitement 
of novelty. Here all was new and cold i the imiBensity wa& 
too great to fix on a place of rest — the horry^ the confusion 
o£ the streets bewildered her. She felt^ not only that she was 
nobody, hut that nobody cared for her — a very idisagveeable 
convietiioik at which to arrive, hut one very natural in London. 

That journey is dreary which does not end ait home ;. and I 
do^ not know whether to despise for his selfishness^ or to pity 
for his situation, the individual who said, that he had ever 
found 

" Life*! warmMt weIcom« at an inn.*' 

It was paying himself and his friends a compliment. 



CHAPTER XV. 

'* A most delightful person ! I laid 'yes : * 
To such a question bow could I say less ? 
And yet I thought, half pedant and half fop, 
If tbb you praise, where wiii sulogium stop ? ** 

The day after their arrival^ the Mandevilles being engaged to 
a family dinner^ where they could not well take a stranger^ 
Emily accepted the invitation of a Mrs. Trefusis, with whom, 
to use the lady's own expression, she was ^'a prodigious 
favourite." And to Mrs. Trefusis' accordingly she went, and 
was received with that kind of manner which says, " You see 
I mean to make a great deal of you, so be very much obliged.'^ 
At dinner Miss Arundel was placed next a gentleman ; her 
hostess having previously whispered^ '^ I think you will have 
a treat." 



When a person, s&js^ '^ Were yon. aot ddiiglHed with buj 
^ead Mr. A^ B, C, orD ?-«*I placed you next him at dinner^ 
as I was tare his witwonkL not be thzown awaj upon you" — > 
the ^' you" dwelt on. in the most eerapliinestary tone — is U. 
possible to answer in the negative F Not even in the palace 
of truth itself. You caanot be ungrateful — y«a will not be 
undeaervini;— and you leply^ ^ Mr. -is a most ddightful 
persoB.'* Your affibrmaiiYe is received and registered^ and yoa 
have the comfort, perhaps^ of healing yoar opinion quoted, aA 
thinking him so superior-^ while you redly consider the gen-* 
tleman little better than a personified yawn, 

Emily was not yet impertifient or independent enough ta> 
have opinions of her own, or die might have differed from her 
hostess's estimate of Mr. Macneil. Mrs. Trefusis valued con* 
versation much as diildren do sweetmeats — not by the quality 
but the quantity : a great talker was with her a good talker-— 
silence and stupidity synonymous terms — and *' I bate people 
who don't talk,*' the- wlMe and nutrale of her social creed. It 
was ssid she accepted her husband because he did not ever 
allow her to slip in an affirmative. An open carris^e and a 
sudden shower drove her one day into desperation and Lady 
Alicia's ; unexpected pleasures are always most prized ; and 
half an hour's lively conversation with Miss Arundel, rescuing 
her from the double dulness of heavy rain and Lady Alici», 
excited a degree of gratitude which constituted Emily a favoi^ 
rite for a fortnight at least. She had as yet had no pppor^ 
tunity of acknowledgment, and she now expressed her par- 
tiality by placing her next Mr. Macneil at dinner. 

In every man's nature some one leading principle is developed 
— in Macneil this was self-satisfactkm. It was not vanity-^ 
that seeks for golden opinions from all ranks ol men ; it was 
not conceit — for that canvasses, though move covertly, £or 
admiration ; but Macneil was vain en roi — ^^he took homage as 
a right divine — and whetlier in love or law, learning or liters^ 
ture, classics or quadrilles, there existed for ham a happy con- 
viction that he was the perfection of each. At college he 
used to drink porter of a morning while reading for his degree^ 
to express, as he said, the exuberance of his genius (query, is 
genius, then, incompsrtiUewith exaoiination and a university ?) 
He married for the' pleasure of stating how very much his va§t 
was in' love with him. Great part of his reputation rested ou 



S7^ BOICANCB Am mUUTT. 

always choosing the subject his auditor was most likely to. know 
nothing about. To young gentlemen he talked of loveT-*>to 
young ladies^ of learning ; and we always think, what we do 
not comprehend must be something very fine : for example, lie 
dilated to Emily on the music of Homer^s versification, and 
die accuracy of Blackstone's deductions. 

As they went up stairs, Mrs. Trefusis whispered, " Did 
you ever meet so entertaining a man ? he never stopped talkii^ 
once all dinner." He had, certainly, scxne natural advantagjes 
as a wit : he was thin, bilious-looking, and really was vejsy 
ill-natured — and half the speeches that have a run in 80ciety> 
only require malice to think them, and courage to utter theip. 
Still, it is difficult to affix any definite character to Mr. Ma€- 
neil. He had neither that sound learning which industry may 
acquire, nor that good sense which is unacquirable ; and as for 
wit, he had only depreciation ; he was just the nU admirari 
brought into action. 

On arriving in the drawing-room, Emily gladly sought 
refuge in a window-seat; her hearing faculty was literally 
exhausted ; she felt, like Clarence, 

" A dreadful noise of waters in her ear:** 

Luckily, it was a period when none are expected to talk, and 
few to listen. Is it not Pelham who wonders what becomea 
of servants when they are not wanted ; — whether, like the 
tones of an instrument, they exist but when called for ? About 
servants we will not decide ; but that some such interregnum 
certainly occurs in female existence on rising from table, no 
one can doubt who ever noted the sound of the dining and the 
silence of the drawii^-room. 

Women must be very intimate to talk to each other after 
dinner. The excitement of confidence alone supplies the 
excitement ^of coquetry ; . and, with that peculiar excellence 
which characterises all our social arrangements, people who 
meet at dinner are usually strangers to each other. 

Very young people soon get acquainted; but then they 
must be very young. Few general subjects have much feminine 
attraction ; women are not easily carried, not exactly out of 
themselves (for selfishness is no part of the characteristic I 
would describe), but out of their circle of either interests, 
vanities^ or affections. A woman's individuality is too strong 



ROMANOB AND RSAI4W« 2f3 

to take much part in those ahstract ideas which enter largely 
Into masculine discussion. Ask a woman for an opinion of a 
'iook — her criticism will refer quite as much to the author as 
to hla work. ^ But^ while on the subject of this '^ silent hour," 
what an unanswerable answer it is to those who calumniate ,the 
sex as possessing the preponderance of loquacity ! Men do 
talk much more than women. What woman ever stood and 
talked seven' hours at or about a schoolmaster, as has been 
dene? MHiat woman ever goes to charities, to vestries, &c. 
fDr the mere sake, it seems to me, of speaking ? But '^ if lions 
were painters" is as true now as in the days of ^sop. Goethe 
«iid of talking, what Cowper said of domestic felicity, that it 
was 

" The only blisi that bad lurvived the fall." 

Mrs. Trefusis was quite of this opinion. The present quiet 
was as dreadful to her as to a patriot. She moved from place 
to place, from person to person. To one lady she spoke, of 
her children — hinted that the measles were very much about 
*-*and mentioned an infallible remedy for the toothache. 
The blonde of one lady threw her into raptures — the ber^ of 
another. She endeavoured to animate one of her more juvenile 
friends by mentioning a conquest she had made the evening 
before, which conquest Mrs. Trefusis made herself for die 
necessities' of the moment. All in vain, the drawing-room 
seemed, as some one says of the mountain-tops, '^ dedicated to 
immortal silence." 

An able general is never without a resource, and Mrs. 
Trefusis opened the piano ; and the could-nots and would-nots, 
and colds and hoarsenesses, made for a few moments a very 
respectable dialogue, which ended with Emily's sitting down 
to the instrument; and Emily did sing most exquisitely. 
She had that clear, bird-like voice which' is divided between 
sadness and sweetness, whose pathos of mere found fills the 
heart with that vague melancholy which defies analysis ; and 
her articulation was as perfect as her expression. Some one 
said of her singing, that it was the music of the nightingale, 
gifted with human words and human feeliiigs. 

. A shadow fell on the book from which she was singing; 
and at the close she turned round to receive the painful polite- 
ness of Mr. Macneil Heaven help me from the soi'dtMrU 
flattery of those who compliment as if it were a duty, not a 



274 BOMANOfl ANB REALITY* 

pleasure, who make a speech as if they expected you to make 
ft curtsy at the conclusion ; and while giving you what -they' 
politely inform you is your due, yet nevertheless expect yoa 
to he grateful for it. Mr. Macneil was one of this class — a 
Columhus of compliments^ who held that your merits were 
new discoveries of his own, and you were to he surprised as 
well as pleased. 

But individual excellence was too unworthy a theme long to 
engross Mr. Macneil; and from Miss Arundel's singing, he 
proceeded to singing in general, which, he ohserved, was a 
very pretty amusement — asked if she had heard Lalande-—* 
avowed that, for his part, Italian music vras all he thought 
worth listening to — which, considering Emily had just finished 
an English hallad, was a delicate compliment indeed; and 
walked off, nothing douhtfhl of hers, in all the fiilness of self- 
satisfaction. ) 

A Miss Martin was now entreated to favour the company. 
She was an heiress, therefore a heauty, and in hoth these 
qualities considered she ought to be simple and timid. The 
first of these was effected by a crop curled in the neck it 
fen/ant ; and the second by being twice as long as any body 
else in crossing a room — tliere were so many little hesitations ; 
by looking down sedulously (old Mr. Lushington once said 
to her, '* I hope you find the carpet entertaining!"); by a 
litde nervous laugh, and such interesting ignorance. Her 
mother, moreover, was always saying, ^^ Really, my sweet 
Matilda is so timid, it is quite terrible." 

Three armies might have been brought to combat with half 
the encouragement it took to bring the timid Matilda to the 
harp. One gentleman was entreated to stand before, another 
beliind — ta say nothing of the side couples— as the fair 
musician could not bear to be looked at whUe she played dear 
mamma's favourite air. '^ Dear mamma '' was an enormous 
edifice of white satin an'd diamonds, which one laments over^ 
as one does over a misapplied peerage, that ever some people 
should possess them. 

It is very provoking to have all one's associations, whether 
from history or fairy land, destroyed. A countess cmght to 
be young and beautiful — a duchess stately and splendid^— 
your earl gallant and graceful-*- your baron one touch more 
martial, as if he had five hundred beUed vassals waiting at 



bis call ; and ak for diamonds^ they ought to he kept as sacred 
as a Gkrinan's thirty-six quarterings, to which nothing ignoble 
might approach. Happy Were the beauties of Henry or 
Richard, when fur^ jewels, satins^ were especial to their order, 
and the harsh, dull, dry laws themselyes arrayed their defentiC 
and terrors against the i&eaner herd, who but imitate to destroy, 
and copy to profane. 

Mrs. Martin seemed as if just glittering from a diamond 
sliower-batb, or rather, as if, when interred (we cannot call it 
dressed) in her satin and blonde, her attendant had caught up 
her jewel box, and thrown its contents at random o^er her. 
In truth, it was just such a barley-sugar temple look as well 
suited the daughter of a sugar baker. Her father had been a 
millionaire. 

It is the fashion in the present day, from the peer to the 
prince, to affect the private gentlemam. Good, if they mean 
in the end to abolish all hereditary distinctions ; but wrong, if 
they mean still to preserve those '' noble memories of their 
ancestors." We do now too much undervalue the influence of 
the imagination, which so tnuch exalts the outward shew by 
which it is caught. We forget there is no sense so diflicult 
to awaken as common sense. Kiiigs risked their crowns when 
they left off wearing them ; thrones were lost before, to some 
bold rival who fought his way sword in hand ; but Charles was 
the first monarch dethroned by opinion. The belief in the 
right divine, or " that divinity which doth hedge a king," dis- 
appeared with their gold crown and sceptre. 

"You are not going yet, Charles?" said the hostess to h^r 
handsome nephew. ** It is so early. Whither are you going ? " 

** To bed. I am sitting for my picture, and must sleep for 
a complexion." 

•• And you, Mrs. Lorraine.?"* 

'^ Oh, I have f3ve other parties to go to." 

'' Well," said Mrs. Trefusis— a little vexed that hers was 
bt^aking u'p so soon ; and philosophy, ill-nature, and truth, are 
the three black graces, bom of disappointment — '^ I always 
f(tei inclined to address you inveterate pariy-goers, with tho 
ttian'R speech at his wife's funeral: ^Ah, why, my dearest 
neighbours, make a trouble of a pleasure ? ' " 

'She was not far wrong. Perhaps pleasure is, like virtue, but 
a ttame. Still, pfeasure might be a little pleasanter ! for surely 



T 2 



276 ROMANCE AND BBAK.IT7. 

there can be no great enjoymient in stepping from canii^ to 
drawing-room, and from drawing-room to carriage — tarmngt 
friends into acquaintance from the mere fact of meetingMhem 
so seldom^ and annihilating conversation — for the fldwers-o£' 
wit must indeed be forced ones that spring up in five minutas*' 
However^ there is many a wise saw to justify these modem 
instances. Sages bid us look to the future — and we go *lo- 
parties to-day for the sake of tb-niorrow saying we were there.' 
The imaginative gods of the Grecians are dethroned — the wax** 
like deities of the Scandinavians felted no longer; but we hatve^ 
set up a new set of idols in their place^ and we call theoL 
Appearances. 



CHAPTER XVI. 

** Fall many sbapei that shadows were." - - 

Coleridge. 

** These forms of beauty have not been to me 
As is a landscape in a blind man's eye ; 
But oft in lonely rooms, and mid the din 
Of crowds and cities, I hare owed to them. 
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet. 
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart, 
And passing even unto my purer mind 
With tranquil restoration.*'^ 

Wordsworth. 

It is not of much use making up your mind very positively^ 
for it is a thousand chances whether you ever do exactly wha^t 
you intended. The MandeviUes had resolved to pass through 
London as quickly as possible; but once there, unavoidable bum- 
ness prolonged their stay. This, to Emily at least, was very 
delightful — for the morning following her dining with Mn, 
Trefusis, Edward Lorraine came to breakfast One great 
peculiarity in a woman's attachment is its entire concentration 
in the present. Whatever she was engaged in, if Edward Wis 
present, was the most delightful thing in the world. And, 
moreover, it was very satisfactory to hear him reiterate his in- 
^tention of joining them in Italy. Besides, this wildernese of 
brick was still all novelty and amusement to one who knew so 
little of it. 

Among the many universal propensities in human natuce, 
the love of sight-seeing is about as universal as* any. Now, 



ROMANGB AND REALITY. S77 

ng^t-seeing gratifies us in different ways. Firsts there is the 
jpleasure of novelty; secondly^ either that of admiration or fault- 
&tiding— -the latter a very animated eigoyment London 
gainst the world for spectacles ; and yet it is a curious fact 
that those who live amongst sights are those who go the least to 
see them. A genuine Londoner is the most incurious animal in 
naiture. Divide your acquaintance into two parts ; the one set 
will never have seen Westminster Abbey— the other will be 
equally ignorant of St. Paul's. That which is always within 
our reach is always the last thing we take ; and the chances are^ 
that' what we can do every day, we never do at all. 

Emily^ who came up with all the curiosity of the country, 
would have liked to have seen much more than she did ; but 
young ladies are like the pieces of looking-glass let into chif- 
fonniers and doorways — only meant to reflect the actions of 
others. 

** Very well,*' said Lady Maudeville, in answer, one day, to 
a wish she was expressing ; " when we are at Rome we will 
study architecture — there you may explore the Colosseum; 
but to go on a course of ^amusing and instructive rambles' 
through London ! — pray leave that to the good little books you 
read in your childhood." 

Emily was silenced. One evening, however, Mr. Morland, 
who was one of the governors of the British Institution, pro- 
posed their going to see the gallery lighted up. Lady Mande- 
viUe agreed; and Emily was all smiles — a little brightened, 
perhaps, because Lorraine was to join their party. 
' The effect on entrance is very striking : a crowd, where the 
majority are females, with gay -coloured dresses, and their heads 
unbonneted, always gives the idea of festival: figures animated 
'With motion, and faces with expression, are in such strong con- 
trast to the beautiful but moveless creations on the wall. At 
first all is pleasant confusion — all catches, and nothing fixes 
the eye — and the exclamation is as general as the gaze; but, 
as in all other cases, general admiration soon became individual 
— and Emily was very ready to pause in delight before Lor- 
raine's favourite pictures. Whether their selection might have 
pleased Mr. Morland, who was a connoisseur, admits of a 
question — for the taste of the young is very much matter of 
feeling. 

'^ Is not this little picture a proof of the truth of my assertion 

T S 



278 BOHAKCB AMD ]IBA|41>Y« 

the Other mornings that a glance ont of s^ window wat enough 
to annihilate a cavalier s peace of mind for a twelvemonth ? '' 

It was *' a lovely female face of seventeen" — the beauty of 
a coquette rather than that of a heroine-*— a coquette, though^ of 
nature's making. She leant on the casement, some gathered 
flowers in her hand, speaking well for ^e simple and natural 
taste that loved them ; the face downcast, and pensive; the long 
lash resting almost on the cheeky with the inward look of its 
dreaming mood. 

There is something very suspicioui in its present serious- 
ness. It is to be doubted whether the lover (there is a lover 
unquestionably in the case) will not have the softened affection 
of to-day visited on his (i^ad in the double caprice of to- 
morrow. 

"*A Dutch Girl, by Newton.'* Calumniated people!'* 
exclaimed Lorraine; *'and yet calumniated they deserve to be; 
instead of quarrelling among themselves^ what patriotic phrase- 
olc^y is best suited to a newspaper, they ought to be voting the 
'Golden Fleece' to Mr. Newton, for thus redeeming their share 
of female fascination.'' 

The next was a "Florentine Girl, by Howard ;"« — a dark 
and passionate beauty of the South — large black eyes, that 
turned all they touched 'into poetry— ^flowing luxuriant ringlets, 
that were confined but with jewels, and knew no ruder air 
than that of palaces ' — 'With a lute, whose gentle science 
answered the chivalric songs of the brave and high-born. 

*' These two portraits seem to me," observed Lorraine, '^ to 
realise two sweet extremes of womanhood. Under the first I 
would write Wordsworth's lines — 

* A countenanoe in which did meet 
Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 
A creature not too bright or good 
For human nature's daily fooidi^ 
For transient sorrows, simple wiles. 
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.' 

'' Under the fkir Florentine I would Inscribe Byron's lines ; 
hers being 

''The high Dana's brow, more melancholy— 
Soft as her climate, sunny as her skies. 
Heart on her lips, apd soul within her e;es.' ** 

« I have here taken what, I trust, will not exceed an author's allowed poetical 
license. The British Gallery is only lighted up during the nxbibition of the old 
masters. My excuse is, that I could think of something to say about the modems,. 
wMie I had nothing to remark touchiov tht aacieiit*. 



ROMANOE AND BBAUrr. 279 

''Oh, do took at this picture ! " exclaimed £mily. 

The pretty moral of one of M. Bouilly's pretty tales — that 
*' Ce quon poseede <JUmbie le prix quand on a le bonheur de le 
partager" — ^ia especially true of delight Both drew near to 
admire. It was a small, antique-looking room, such as is to 
he found in many an old English mansion — its Gothic archi- 
tecture lightened hy modem luxury. In a richly-carved arm- 
chair^ and as richly wrought in its hrocad^ coveijng^ sat a beau- 
tiful and evidently English girl: her aristocratic loveliness was 
of the most pure and lofty kind — her dress 

" Such as bespoke a lady in the land," 

and one also of show and ceremony; — the soft white satin rohe^ 
in its fashion about a century back^ was looped with jewels ; 
«nd the hair, lovely in itself, spared not the adornment of gems; 
< — flowers stood beside, in an alabaster vase— exotics^ that say^ 
''our growth has been precious." A lute leant against the 
ebon stand; but the face of the lady wore the expression of deep 
and touching sorrow. 

"The Bridemaid, by Parris;" — she who has that day lost 
the companion of her childhood— -who looks on her lute to 
•'remember the songs they sang together — who turns from the 
flowers which were the last they gathered*— and who sits alone 
in her solitary apartment, to think that that morning has broken 
one of affection's nearest and dearest ties — the love between two 
sisters — which can never again be what it has been, in un- 
reserved confidence and entire companionship. The beholder 
turned away^ as if it were unkind to "leave her to her sorrow." 
Portraits seem singularly beautiful by lamp-light — the softness 
gives them an air of so much reality. ' Landscapes are better 
by day — they require sunshine to bring out their own sunny 
greens. 

Mr. Morland now took them across the room, to look at some 
works of a favourite artist. 

" If there be any thing," said Mr. Morland, "in the doctrine 
of sympathies, Mr. Webster must have been the very worst 
child that ever figured in those stories of wilful urchins, whose 
bad ways are held up as a warning in the story-books that de- 
lighted our youth. He is the Sir Thomas Lawrence of naughty 
children. Look at this 'Shooting a Prisoner.' Can any thing 
exceed the mirthful, mischievous, or — let me use a nurse's 

T 4 



280 ROMANOS ASJ> BEALITT. 

common phrase -* audacious expression of the boys' faces^ unless 
it be the half-inclitied-to-laugh, the half-resolving-to-cry face 
of the girl, who sees the little cannon pointed at her poor doll?' 
— Here is another picture which ought to be engraved for the 
benefit of the national schools. A young culprit has been^ 
caught in the fact of robbing an orchard, and brought back to, 
his master, who stands over him with an iron face of angry 
authority; — the very apples^ as if anxious to bear witness 
against him^ are tumbling from his satchel. But — oh the 
moral of example, the efficacy of fear! — only observe the utter, 
dismay, the excess of dread, on the face of a younger boy, who 
is seated on a form, with a fool's-cap on. He looks the very 
epitome of fright: I do not think he could eat one of those 
apples, if it were given him." 

'*! should think," said Lorraine, " the juvenile models, re- 
quired ' to sit equally picturesque and patient, must be very 
troublesome.'' 

^'A curious dilemma," replied Mr. Morland, '^ has j ust occurred 
to me. I called one morning at Collins's, then painting his ex- 
quisite picture of the 'Young Crab-catchers.' £very one must 
recollect the round-faced sturdy child in the front. I need not 
say it was taken from life. For the first sitting or two, the 
little urchin behaved with most exemplary patience. At length, 
his awe of strangers having vanished, and the dignity which 
he evidently attached to his position having lost its attraction 
with its novelty, he became weary and restless. Still, the good- 
natured artist cotitrived to keep him in tolerable content ; and, 
with a view of exciting his interest, endeavoured to make him 
understand that the boy on the canvass was hhnself, and asked 
him, 'Now, shan't you like to be put in this pretty picture?* 
To the painter's no small dismay, the child, on this question, 
set up one of those bursts of crying, the extremity of whose 
sorrow is only to be equalled by its vociferation, and at length 
sobbed out, 'If you put me in the picture, how shall I get out, 
to go home to my mother ? ' 

" ^liat a pity I " exclaimed Edward, '' that one forgets 
one's childish thoughts ; their originality would produce such 
an effect, properly managed ! It is curious to observe that by 
far the most useM part of our knowledge is acquired uncon- 
sciously. We remember learning to read and write ; but we 
do not remember how we learned to talk, to distinguish 



BOHANOB AND BEAUTY. • S81 

colours, &c. The first thought that a child wilfully conceals 
is an epoch* — one of life's most important -— and yet who 
can recall it ? " 

'^ Of all false assertions/' answered Mr. Morland^ ''that ever 
went into the world under the hanner of a great name and the 
mail-armour of a well-turned phrase^ Locke's comparison of 
the mind to a hlank sheet of paper appears to me among the 
ibost \^ntrue/' 

'' Memory is a much stranger faculty^'' added £dwardj 
'' than hope. Hope I can understand ; I can divide its mix- 
ture of desire and fear ; . I know when I wish for any thing — 
and hope is the expectation of wishing. But memory is un- 
fathomahle and indefinite. Why do we so often forget what 
we the most desire to remember ? and why^ without any vo- 
lition of our own^ do we suddenly recall things, people, places, 
we know not why or wherefore ? Sometimes that very remem- 
brance will haunt us like a ghost, and quite as causelessly, 
which at another time is a blank. Alas for love ! whose very 
existence depends on a faculty over which we have so little 
control." 

'' It is a curious fact," replied Mr. Morland, " that those 
events which are of the greatest consequence are not the best 
remembered; the stirring and important acts of our manhood 
do not rise on the mind half so vividly as the simple and 
comparatively uninteresting occurrences of childhood. And 
another observation is, that we never remember any thing 
accurately, I should rather say exactly, as it happened." 

" For my part," exclaimed JSdward, " I am often tempted to 
liken our mental world to a shadow flung on water from some 
other world — broken, wavering and of uncertain brightness." 

''Well, well, as they said to the lover of the beautiful 
Indian queen, when he was turned into a dog, ' yoxa misfor- 
tune is irreparable, so have patience.' In this world we must 
live for the present at least ; but I own I think it is made up 
of odds and endsi" 

" * Quand on n*a pas ce qn'on aime, ' 
II faut aimer ce qu'on a/ " 

said Edward ; " a doctrine of practical philosophy which I 
hope Miss Arundel has been practising. I doubt the polite 
disclaimer of weariness which she has smiled, and is about to 
say." 



9SS «KOHANaB AND BSALZTY. 

He was quite wrong ; Emily would have listened to him 
with delight, even if he had spoken Sanscrit. When have 
the words of a loved one dropped other than honey ? 

'* That woman's heart is not mine^" said a modern philo- 
sopher ; " she yawned while I demonstrated to her the 48th 
problem in Euclid/' This^ we own, was expecting a great 
deal ; but not more than love has a right to do. You do not 
love if there i^ not some nameless fascination in the lightest 
act. Wliat would be ab^rd, ridiculous, nay disagreeable^ in 
another^ has in the beloved a fairy spell. Love*s is the true 
alchemy^ turning what it touches to gold. The most remark^ 
«ble instance of its devotion I remember was in a village 
clerk. During the life of his first wife he regularly dined 
every Sunday at the Squire's ; she died, and be married again. 
After that, he always, on the Sunday, in spite of the united 
attractions of beef, ale, and pudding, dined at home — ^' Uia 
wife," he said, '* was so lonely." 

Now, I do call the giving up a good dinner^ week after 
Week, an act, of very romantic affection. This, however, is 
digressing ; and we return to our party. Mr. Morland was 
pointing Emily's attention to two portraits — one of his 
nephew, a Mr. Cecil Spenser, the other of his daughter. 

^' I expect you. Miss Arundel," said he, '' to take a great 
interest in my family penates. You have my full consent to 
fall in love with my nephew, if you wiH admire my daughter." 

^^ To tell you the truths I like her most," replied Emily ; 
" I do so very much prefer portraits of my own sex. We 
really look best in pictures." 

^' That is because an artificial state is natural to you ; but 
do you like them } Young M^Clise is such a favourite artist 
of mine." 

^' I never saw^" said Lorraine, *^ anything so like as this is 
.to CecU Spenser : it has cHAight him just as he used to sit in 
the dub window, as if it had been the Castle of Indolence. 
We called him le beau fainiant,*' 

'' Cecil's indolence is the result of circumstance, not nature ; 

so I have hopes of him. All he wants is motive. I wish, on 

the continent^ where he now is, he may have an unhappy 

attachioent, or be taken prisoner by the Algerines. It would 

.4o him all the good in the world.'* 

Helen Morland's picture was placed in the best light. The 



BOBfANOB AVB BVALITV* S8S 

yMing painter had done his loTeliest. It wai that of a child ; 
her eyes, Aill of poetry and of lights gazing upwards on a star> 
which seemed mirrored in their depths with that earnest anil 
melancholy expression so touching in childhood -^ perhapa 
because our own heart gives a tone of prophecy to its sadness* 
The hair hung in dark^ clustering ringlets^ parted on a fore-» 
head, 

" So like the moonlight, fair and melancholy." 

^' Do you not observe in this picture a likeness to Miss 
Arundel } " said Lorraine. 

" Nay," replied Emily, '^ do not at <mce put a stop to the 
admiration I was goi^ to express. What I was about to say 
of the portrait^ I muft now say of the painting, with which I 
am enchanted." 

" And you think very rightly," returned Mr. Morland ; 
<^ M'Clise is an exquisite painter : he has a fine perception 
of the beautiful, a*nd a natural delicacy of feeling, which al- 
ways communicates itself to the taste. I could wish him* to 
illustrate the poetry of actual lif^ — the grace, the beauty, 
which is seen so often — and with just one touch of the ima» 
ginative given it, from passing through the colouring of his 
own mind." 

^^ I was very much struck," said Edward, " when Spenser 
was sitting to him, to mark his dovotion to his art. Enthu-^ 
siasm is the royal road to success. Now, call it fame, vanity 
'•**-what you will-— how strange and how strong is the feeling 
which urges on the painter or the author 1 We, who are 
neither, ought to marvel less at the works produced than at 
the efforts made. Their youth given to hopes, or rather fears 
'^ now brightening and now darkening, on equally sUght 
grounds — ^ 

* it, br«atb <;«n nwr kh^m, a$ a broath bas inade : ' 

hours of ceaseless exertion in solitude, of feverish solicitude in 
society ; doomed to censure^ which is always in earnest, and 
to praise, which is not Alas ! we talk of their vanity ; we 
forget that, in doling forth the careless eouMnendation, or a& 
toareless sneer, we. are bestowing but the passing thought of a 
moment to that which has been the work of an existence. 
Truly genius, like virtue, ought to be its own reward ; but 
it cannot Bitter though the toil^ and vain the hope, humaat 
.exertioi must still look to hunitti approbation." 



384 H0MAN08 ANB BEALITY. 

'^ Artists^" obBerved Mr. Morland, '^ are generally an en - 
thusiastic^ unworldly race ; jealous of praise^ as the enthu. 
siastic almost always are; and exaggerating trifles^ as the 
unworldly always do. But society is no school for the artist \, 
the colours of his mind, like those of his pictures, lose their 
brilliancy by being exposed to the open air. Sir Joshua Rey- 
nolds said ^ a painter should sew up his mouth ' — a rather 
inconvenient proof of devotion to his art. But it is with 
painting as with every thing else — first*rate excellence is al- 
ways a solitary one." 

*^ It is curious," replied Lorraine, '^ to remark the incite- 
ment of obstacles. Under what difficulties almost all our 
great painters and poets have laboured ! " 

*' I have," returned Mr. Morland, " a favourite theory of 
my own, that early encouragement is bad for any of the ima- 
ginative pursuits. No — place difficulties before them; let 
the impediments be many in number. If the true spirit be 
in 'the possessor, he will overcome them all. Genius is the 
Hannibal of the mind. The Alps, which to the common 
observer seemed insurmountable, served only to immortalise 
his passage. The imagination is to work with its own re- 
sources ^ the more it is thrown on them, the better. Making 
as it were a mental Simplon, is only opening a road to infe- 
rior artists and common-place poets." 

'^ West is a great instance in your favour. Do you recall 
a most delightful incident in his early life ? He was, as you 
know, a member of the Society of Friends — their doctrines 
forbid any cultivation of the fine arts. When his extraordi- 
nary talent developed itself, a meeting of their society was held 
to debate on the propriety of its exercise — and their judg- 
ment was, that so evident a gift of Heaven ought not to be 
selected. Young West left the assembly with dieir blessing 
and sanction." 

*' Whsit a beautiful story ! " exclaimed EmUy. 

'^ It has only one fault," answered Mr. Morland, '^ that^ 
like many other beautiful stories, it is not true. I questioned 
one of his nearest relatives about this very circumstance^ 
whidi he declared not to be a fact." 

It was now getting late, and Mr. Morlmd summoned them 
'«> depart ; for he was a constitutionalist in the best sense of 
the word. Tt was his own oonstitutioii to which he attended* 



BOMANCE AND REALITY*. 2^5 



CHAPTER XVII. 

** Oh, so vulgar I — such a se( of horrors I 

Very common tsftretiion. 

** But passing rich." — Goldsiuth. 

It was just the end of July, and one of those tremendously 
hot weeks^ which, once in a summer, remind our island that 
heat is as good for grumhling as cold. It passed as weeks do 
when all is hurry, confusion, and packing — when there are a 
thousand things to do, and another thousand left undone. It 
is amazing how long such a week seems — events lengthen the 
time they numher : it is the daily and quiet round of usual 
occupation that passes away so quickly ; it is the ordinary 
week which exclaims, " Good gracious ! it is Saturday again.*' 

The human heart is something like a watch ; and £mily*s 
advanced not a little in its usual pace, when, one morning, 
Lady Mandeville, on her return from a drive, said, '' I have 
been accepting an invitation, in spite of all bur good resoiuj- 
tions against that unnecessary waste of time -^ visiting. I 
often think, one makes resolutions to have the pleasure of 
breaking them ; but this is really an urgent case : if we do 
not see the new Countess of £theringhame this season^ it ad- 
mits^ I think, of a question whether we shall next.* I met 
her this morning, and she asked us in the name of charity. 
London is so empty, she is fearful of taking cold." 

" I have heard that Lord Etheringhame was a man of the 
most recluse habits — what magic has turned him into the 
most dissipated ?** 

" * The power of grace, the magic of a name.* 

His beautiful wife knows no rule but her own will, and no 
will but her own. Lord Etheringhame is the very jnan to be 
governed : his temper is discontented -— he calls it sensitive; 
his habits self-indulged — he calls them refined; he has lite- 
rary tastes — he calls them talents ; he is indolent to an excess 
— he calls it delicacy of feeling, which unfits him for the 
world. He married with some romantic notion of domestic 
bliss, congenial tastes, moonlight walks, &c Lady Ethering- 
hame's reading of connubial felicity was difierent : first, the 
old Castle was abandoned for Park Lane-*-the moonlight walk 



^86 AOMAHOfi AND nuAhrrt. 

for a midnight ball — and for congenial tastes, universal ad- 
, miration. All this was very disagreeable to allow, but still 
more disagreeable to resist ; and Lord Etheringhame is a 
cipher in his own house : the cipher gives value to the other, 
figures, still it is a cipher after all." 

" Well, Lord Etheringhame has all the milk of human 
. kindness — to say nothing of the water/* remarked Lord Man- 
deville ; ^^ but I do wish he was just master of some honey, 
suckle villa, and bit brother in his place ; though Lorraine's 
career will not be the less distinguished 'because, he has to 
make it for himself." 

Evening came, and with it the assemblage of Lady Ether- 
inghame's few friends : few as there were, there were quite 
enow to draw from every one the exclamation of, " I could 
not have believed there were so many people in town." The 
Oountest came forward to meet them, looking more beautiful 
than ever. But it was not now that Emily envied her beauty; 
«— no philosopher like a girl in love, to feel, for the time 
being, utter indifi^rence to all possible pomp and garniture. 

Emily looked round the rooms, though, with sufficient 
anxiety : often did a sudden flush on the cheek involuntarily 
avow the deception of the eye ; and more than once did the 
ear become quidc, as it does when hope lends its charm to the 
listener : but it was in vain — * and her spirits took a tone of 
^spondency she would fain have entirely ascribed to fatigue ; 
— when Adelaide approached. Now, the fair Countess had a 
little femimne pique to vent, and a woman's unkindly feelings 
•are very unldnd indeed ; and that spirit of universal appro- 
priation which belongs to insatiable vanity brok^ out in tiie 
following speech, aimed at Miss Arundel, though addressed to 
Lady Mandeville. " I dare say you expected to meet an old 
favourite of yours — by the by, he is almost always here — 
Lorraine ; but, though I used the strong persuasion of your 
ladyship and his old friend Miss Arundel being expected, 
some rural whim seized him, and go he would for a few days 
from town." The Countess cast one look, and, in the deeper 
paleness of Emily's ch6ek, saw that her shaft had entered, and 
passed smilingly on. Another moment, and she was receiving 
as much pleasure as could be put into words from the flatteries 
unsparingly offered by the young Count Alfred de Merivale. 

Once Emily was again startled into the belief of Lorraine's 



&OMANCE Am) BEALITT. 38? 

presence ; a second and nearer glance shewed her mistake — it 
was his brother^ whose likeness was as strong in feature as it 
was opposite in expression. The government of the mind is 
absolute^ but nothing in its whole dominion does it modify as 
it does the face. 

They left early, yet the evening had seemed interminable ; 
iind considering that Emily was niched between an inlaid table^ 
on which stood a shepherd in a yeUow jacket ofi^ring a China 

— Chinese I mean — rose to a shepherdess in green and pink 

— and a tea-pot, all exquisite Dresden specimens — and an 
old lady, of whose shawl and shoulders Emily had the full 
benefit, while her neighbour discussed with an elderly gentle- 
man the vices and follies of the rising generation ; and consi- 
dering also, that such conversation was more edifying than 
^amusing, it is not so very wonderful that Emily found the 
evening somewhat dull. On their return home, however, she 
was greatly consoled by Lady Mandeville's reading aloud a 
billet from Edward Lorraine, regretting that unexpected busi- 

* ness, which he had to transact for his brother, obliged him to 
go down to Etheringhame Castle; and expressing his hope 
and expectation that in a few months he shtHild meet them on 
the Continent. 

The next morning she had to see Mr. Delawarr as her 
guardian ; some forms were necessary to go through ; and ac- 
<sordin^y to his residence she and Lady Mandeville drove — 
rather before their appointment. They had to wait a short 
period in the drawing-room. What a cold, uninhabited look 
now reigned through the magnificent aparuuents! There 
were no fiowers — none of those ornamental trifles scattered 
round, which speak so much of pretty and feminine tastes — 
no graceful disorder — chairs, sofas, tables, all stood in their 
exact places. '' I should never have thought,*' observed Lady 
Mandeville, '* of missing Lady Alicia, unless I had come here." 

The hurried track of the multitude soon effaces all trace of 
death ; but here the past seemed preserved in the present. All 
was splendid, but all was silent ; and a thousand monuments 
had not so forcibly brought back the dead, as did the loneliness 
oj her once crowded rooms. Neither sat down, and neither 
spoke, but walked about the apartment with soft a^d subdued 
steps, as if in the very presence of the dead, before whom the 
common acts of life seem mockery. It was a rdief to both to be 



*288 BOMANOE AND Ii£ALITT. 

told Mr. Delawlurr waited in the library : they afterwards leamt 
. he had never entered the drawing-room since his wife's death. 

Nothing could be kinder or pipre affectionate than he wis 
to Emily ; stilly there was an obvious change in himself. His 
general manner was colder^ and more abrupt ; he hurried, the 
interview — he entered on no light or common topics of con- 
versation — and at once avowed that his time was precioiiB^ 
and, almost before the door closed on his visitors^ had eame»dy 
resumed the business in which he was engaged on their entrance. 
" A statesman should have no feelings^ no interests^ no plea- 
sures, but in the service of his country. Such/' said Lady 
MandeviUe, '^ is the definition I once heard of a patriot. Mr. 
Delawarr bids fair to be that most inestimable but unattractive 
personage." 

Every preparation was now made: one day more and they 
were at Dover, and the next they embarked on board the steam- 
packet. Water has long owned man's power, and now '^ bodi- 
less air works as his servant," — a dominion frail, perilous, 
subject to chance and change, as all human power must be, 
but still a mighty and glorious influence to exercise aver what 
would seem to be least subservient to man's authority, — the 
elements. Yet a steam-boat is the last place in the world ibr 
'these reflections : the ridiculous is the reality of the subHme, 
and its deck is a farce without spectators. 

Lady Mandeville always lay down the moment she got on 
board ship ; but Emily, who did not suffer at all, sat in the 
open travelling carriage, and indulged whatever of sentiment 
she or Lord Mandeville might feel at parting with the white 
cliffs of Albion. Their attention was, however, too much taken 
up with their fellow-passengers: a whiskered, cloaked, and 
cigared youth, with every thing military about him but the 
air : — a female in a dark silk^ and plaid cloak, her face elo- 
quent of bandboxes and business — an English milliner going 
over for patterns, which, with a little additional trimming, 
would be the glory of her future show-room. 

But their chief attention was attracted by a family group. 
The father, a little fat man, with that aur of small importance 
which says, " I 'm well to do in the world — I Ve made my money 
myself — I don't care if I do spend some — it 's a poor heart 
what never rejoices." The mother was crimson in counten- 
ance and pelisse, and her ample dimensions spoke yean of 



ROILANOE A2n> REALITY. 289 

.^peacfe and plenteoqsneM. Every thing about her was, as she 

inittld have said^ of the best ; and careful attention was she 

giving to the safety of a huge hamper that had been deposited 

. ittn deck. Two daughters followed, who looked as if they had 

•Jast stepped out of ihe Royal Lady's Magazine — that is, the 

-prevailing fashion exaggerated into caricature. Their bonnets 

twere like Dominie Samson's ejaculation^ ** prodigious ! " — 

. their sleeves enormous — their waists had evidently undergone 

43ie torture of the thumb-screw — indeed they were even 

(Smaller — and their skirts had " ample verge and space enough" 

V ta^idmit of a doubt whether the latitude of their iigure did not 

.considerably exceed the longitude. Two small, mean-looking 

•young men followed, whose appearance quite set the question 

at rest, that nature never intended the whole human race to be 

.gentlemen. ' BlQe-coated, brass-buttoned, there was nothing to 

.i^emark in the appearance of either, excepting that, though the 

ffaeeof the one bore every indication of robust health, his head 

bad been recently shaved, as if for a fever, which unlucky dis- 

^dosure was made by a rope coming in awkward contact with 

bashat. 

The wind was fair ; and Lord Mandeville having gone to 
. the head of the vessel, where he was engaged in conversation^ 
Emily was left to watch the shore of France, to which they 
were rapidly approaching, when her meditations were inter- 
. rupted by a coarse but good-humoured voice saying, " I wish, 
miss, you would find me a comer on them there nice soft 
•cushions -^ my old bones aches with them benches." Emily, 
with that best poHteness of youth which shews attention to 
age^ immediately made room in the carriage for the petitioner, 
who turned out to be her of the crimson pelisse. *^ Monstrous 
pleasant seat,!' said the visitor, expanding across one side of 
the carriage. Emily bowed in silence; but the vulgar are 
always the communicative, and her companion was soon deep 
in all their family history. '* That 's my husband, Mr. H. : 
our name is Higgs, but I calls him Mi". H. for shortness, 
^aste makes want, you know — we should not be here plea- 
. suring if we had ever wasted. And those are my sons : the 
eldest is a great traveller — I dai'e-say you have heatd of him 
,-*- Lord bless you ! there isn't a hill in Europe, to say nothing 
of that at Greenwich, that he hasn't been up : you see he's a 
stout little feUow. . Look, miss, at this box — it is made of 

u 



'9Q0 ttOUANOC: AND JIBAlilTT. 

the lathBT of Vesuvius, which he brought €rom Motit Blanc : he 
lias been up to the very top of it, miss. 1 keep it for 6(Ht6»- 
ionegJ* 

So saying, she offered Emily some of the peppermint-drops 
it contained : these were civilly dedined, and the box good- 
naturedly admired, whicheoxxMur^^ — though. Heaven knows^ 
there was not much need — the old lady to ^oeeed. '^ We 
idways travel in the aumnaer for improveiQent -*- both Mr. IL 
^Oid I think a deal of larnuig : the boys have both been to 
grammar schools, and their two brothers are at the Londoa 
Universary — only tihink^ txm&, of our city having a univecsiyry 
w^ Lord, Lord, but we do live in clever times." 

Mrs. H. paused for a mooaent, as if ovecvhehned with tine 
glories of the Loodoii Univeraity ; aiMl coAversatiion waa ne* 
xiewed by fimuly's inquires " what psvtof ^ ConliBe&i ikej 
intended visiting ? " . 

'^ Oi^ we are going to Italy — I want to see what 's at the 
-end of it ; besides, the girls mean to buy such a quanttfcy of 
pearls at Rome. We intend givuag a fancy hfttt this winter-^ 
we have got a good house of our own in Fitzroy Square — we 
iCan aSbrd to let the young ones see a littk pleMure." 

^ May I ask^" said £mily,'^ what is Mr. Higgs'a pn^essian ?" 

'^ Indeed ! '' exclaimed his olEended spouae, '^ he's not one of 
.yvnir professing sort -*^ he never says what he doesn't mean«— 
his word 's as good as his bond dirough St Mary Within, any 
day — professiojia, indeed ! what has he ever ^^/tofyaaed to you h" 
Smily took hex most condliating tone, and, as unwilling dud- 
lists aay, the explanation was quite satisfactory. ^' Bless your 
«my soul ! hip business you mean. You are just like my girh 
— - 1 often tells them to run for the dictionary : to see the 
bleanx:^ of odication 1 Our childer are a deal moce knowing 
than our^lves. But Mr. H.'s business -^ though I say it that 
^dtouldn't, there isn't a more thriving soap-boiler in the ward. 
Mr. H. wanted to go to Moscow for our summer ^oirer (Mos- 
cow's the sea-port which sends us our tallow) — but I said^ 
/Lord, Mr. H.,' says I, 'what signifies making a toil of a plea- 
«ire ? 

«' You are," said Emily, « quite a family party," 

'* I never lete Mr. H. leave me and the girls behind — no, 
4hare and share alike, says I — your wife has as good a right 
^ go as yourself. I ofi«i telk him a bit of my mind in the 



ROMANCIi: AND KCUk&lTY. SQl 

old song — you know what it says for we woraeh — that when 
Adam was created, 

* We wasn't took out of liis feet, sir, 

That we might be trampled upon ; 
Baft we WAS took out or the «idet sir. 

His equals and partners to be : 
Sojou never need go for to think, sir. 

That yo« are ttie top of the tree;' " 

'* Well," replied Bmily, " I wish y<m mucli pleasure in 
Italy." 

'" Ab, TOMB, it was my son there that put it in our noddles 
to go to Italy first. Do you see that his head's shaved } — its 
all along of his taste fm* tlie ^e arts. We've got his bust at 
home, and his hair was cut off to have his head and its bumps 
iaken : they «Dvered it all over with paste just like a pudding. 
Lord ! his white faoe does look so queer in the front drawing- 
room — it 's put on a raaihle pHlar, just in the middle window- 
but, dear^ I thoug|it the people outnde would like to see the 
gjnat trareller." 

Jiut all ODUiwrssilion was put an end to by ihe Calais pier, 
and all was now ithe bustle and confusion of landing ; but, 
«PQD whiie in the very act of seeing wilh her own eyes to the 
«afety of the portnantean which contained her huEfband's flannel 
w&istooals, Mrs. Higgs tozned round to Emily to say, ^ We 
shall ht moBsbKms glad to see you in Fitxroy Square." What 
is the popniaiaty of a patriot oonrpinred to that of a listener ? 

At Calais ibey landed and spent the night — Emily, at least, 
pasaod it half wwake : she was too yomtg, and had led too un- 
Taried a life, inot 'to £eel in its utmost extent the excitemerlt 
of arnhral in a itmmffi country, a strange language, another 
<d]iae, a coBsplete ohaRige of daily haibits — it was opening a 
«ew leaf in the bode of hie. 



CHAPTER J^VIII. 



** I am a great friend to travelling : it enlarges the mind, suggests new ideas, 
removes pr^udices, and sharpens the appetite." — Narrative qf a Journey frmn 
Hampstead to Hendon, 

We travel for many acquirements — heillh, information, 
amusement, notoriety, &c. &c. The advantages 'of each of 
.these acquisitions have been eloquendy set forth from the days 
of Ulysses^ who travelled to seek his native Jand^ to those of 

u 2 



29^ BOMANCE AND REALITY. 

the members of the club who travel to seek anything else. 
But one of its enjoyments has never received its full share of 
credit — albeit the staple of them all — we mean the good ap- 
petite it invariably produces. What are the periods on which 
the traveller dwells with the most satisfaction — the events he 
recalls with the most dramatic effect — the incidents which at 
once arrest the attention of his hearers ? Why — '' That de- 
licious breakfast in the Swiss valley. We had travelled some 
miles before eight o'clock^ when we stopped at one of the 
chalets ; we had coffee of our own ; the peasant girl put the 
whitest of cloths on a little table in the open window, from the 
vine of which we picked the finest bunches of grapes ever seen — 
the dew was yet on the fruit. They gave us some such eggs^ 
cream like a custard^ and a Neufchatel cheese ; some brown^ 
but such sweet bread ; — we never enjoyed a meal so much.** 
Or else it is — 'f Do you remember that night when we stopped 
at the little village at the foot of the Apennines — cold^ wet, 
hungry, and quarrelsome ? In less than ten minutes our dark- 
eyed hostess had such a blazing wood fire on the hearth : — by 
the by, what a delicious odour the young green pine-branches 
give in burning ! Half an hour saw us seated at a round table 
drawn close to the fire, with the very best of tempers and ap- 
petites. We had prevailed on the pretty Ninetta to forget in 
our favour the national predHeetion for oil and garlic. Our 
turkey was broiled, as our chestnuts were roasted, by the wood 
ashes ; and a flask of such fine wine — the vineyard whence it 
came must have been summer's especial favourite." 

I know a traveller who carried these pleasures of memory to 
the utmost. Instead of a journal or a diary, he kept a regular 
entry of the bills of fare at the different inns. Our travellers 
passed hastily through France, talked about Rousseau, and read 
Childe Harold on the banks of the Lake of Genevk. Emily 
was enchanted with the costume of the peasantry ; and Lady 
Mandeville admitted it would be pretty in a fancy ball, but 
cautioned her against acquiring a taste for the picturesque in 
dress. 

For the Swiss girls to produce a good effect, they must be 
seen at a distance. The small waist, the slender ancle, and 
diminutive feet, are missed sadly in the proportions, somewhat 
ponderous for our ideas of grace, which these mountain nymphs 
possess. Your pictures of costume are rather corrected than 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. QQS 

correct. People and places are usually flattered in tbeir por- 
traits. One great reason why we believe so devoutly in the 
l;>eauty of Italy is^ that we chiefly know it from plates. I re- 
member seeing an architectural view : on one side stood a 
noble old house^ the spire and roof of a churchy a mass of fine- 
looking buildings, a distant view of a colonnade, and a broad 
open space with an equestrian statue. I did not at first believe 
that it co;uld be Charing Cross whose effect was so imposing ; 
and it was not till Northumberland House and St. Martinis 
Church were identified, that my confession was fairly extorted^ 
of how little justice one does to the beauty of London. 

The Simplon, Napoleon's magnificent monument^ was next 
passed. They stopped at the most memorable places, and at 
last arrived at Rome, where a princess vacated her palace for 
their accommodation and so many louis-d'or a-month. Rome, 
once the mistress, is now the caravanseray of the world. Two 
Italian Counts made Emily an offer ; and so would a Russian 
Prince, only he employed a French Marquis to translate his 
sentiments, who translated so well that he made them his own ; 
a negative, therefore, served a double purpose. 

Their principal visitor was a young Englishman, a cousin 
of Lady Mandeville's, who, having nothing else to do with his 
time, kindly bestowed much of it on them. With her lady- 
ship he was not very popular when any one more interesting 
was by ; she said he was indolent, and wanted sentiment. 
"With Lord Mandeville he was a great favourite ; and, though 
his lordship did not pique himself upon it, he was no bad 
judge of character. 

Cecil Spenser had the usual qualities of most young men, 
. and one or two which they have not : he had every advantage 
in life, except the advantage of something to want. But ex- 
perience was just beginning to be useful. The small exertions 
into which the chances of travelling had forced him had been 
good, because they interrupted his habits, and shewed him 
that such interruptions could be pleasant. The comparison of 
other countries with his own startled him into reflection ; and 
. reflection to a mind like his was never yet without its results. 
He began, for the first time in his life, to think of a future 
career, and to feel how selfish and unworthy a part was that 
of mere indolent indulgence. • 

In his present frame of temper. Lord Mandeville was an in- 

u 3< 



^Qb BOMANOE AND BJBALIT7. 

heart entirely engrossed by one^ is the last to suspect it can 
be the object of preference to another. Vanity^ the great 
enhghtener on such subjects, is here lost in a more powerful 
feeling. She never thought of Mr. Spenser in any other char- 
acter than as a pleasant acquaintance. Moreover^ he was the 
nephew of Mr. Morland^ with whom Lorraine was a favourite. 

Love is most ingenious in its associations. Events are like 
the child's play, ** Here we go round by the rule of contrary;** 
— and Miss Arundel's indifference was the great charm vnth 
her over-flattered countryman. Rich and highly connected, 
Cecil had been so much accustomed to have love made to him^ 
that it was an agreeable novelty to have to make it. 

Lady MandeviUe, who had as much penetration as her 
husband had judgment, saw at once how matters stood. Clearly 
perceiving Emily's indifference, she contented herself with a 
sort of armed neutrality, general carelessness, and occasional 
sarcasm. 

There are many gentlemen who never drink any but sample 
wines, and never go beyond their first order to a wine-mer- 
chant. This would be a very excellent plan to pursue in love 
afihirs ; for the beginning is their best part — its only fault 
is, that it is impossible. In the pleasant little comedy of 
Charles the Second, the Page complains to Rochester of the 
many miseries his passion entails upon him. " Your own 
fault," says the lively Earl ; " I told you to skim over the 
surface like a swallow — you have gone bounce in like a 
goose." Authors now-a-days are held responsible for all the 
sentiments of their various characters, no matter how much 
they difl^r. I therefore give Mr. Howand Paine great credit 
for the above philosophical remark. 

Winter was now setting in, and the bright charcoal burnt 
on the hearths of the larger rooms was as comfortable as it 
was cheerful — even *' the glad sun of Italy" is not the worse 
for a little occasional aid. 

Lord Mandevilie and Cecil were one morning pacing the 
large saloon, whose walls, inlaid with a many-coloured mosaic 
of marble, and floor of white stone, were sufficiently chiUy to 
make the fire very acceptable. To this end Cecil's attention 
was frequently attracted. In a large black oak arm-chair, 
whose back and sides were heavy with rich and quaint carv- 
ing, her small feet supported on a scarlet cusldon, which 



ROir'ANCfi AND , BEJUCiIT^Y. 297 

brought out in strong contrast the little Uaek-s&tin sUppers, 
sat Emily Arundel. On one side, a hand which looked mo- 
delled in ivory^ with one tinge of the rose^ was nearly hidden 
in the profusion of long auburn ringlets — that rich auburn 
brown — lighted with sunshine from the head it sustained. 
From the other side^ the clustering hair had fallen back, and 
left distinctly to view the delicate outline of the face — the 
cheek, with that earliest pink of the almond-blossom, too fair 
to be so frail — and the long, dark lash, which, though it hid» 
yet gave eloquent sign of the eye beneath, for it wore the 
diamond glisten of tears ; -— and the Hudio of no artist, even 
in that city of painters, could have shewn a more graceful, 
yet more simple attitude than the one with which she now 
bent in absorbed attention over the book on her knee. She 
reached the last page, but still, quite lost in the interest of the 
story, she never moved, till the book falling to the ground, 
Cecil took the opportunity of picking it up ; and, addressing 
her, remarked, " Your book has been very fortunate in rivetting 
your attention/' 

''It is such a beautiful story.'* 

" Why, Emily," said Lord MandeviUe, '< you have been 
crying over it." 

He opened the volume ; — it was Margaret Lindsay. 

'^ You need not blush so deeply about it ; for I own I 
think it one of the most touching stories I ever read. I 
wonder very much, that in these days, when literature circu- 
lates as generally as money, an edition of Margaret Lindsay 
has not been printed for circulation among the lower dasaes. 
An appetite for reading is ei^rly cultivated; but the necessity 
of proper and wholesome food has not been even yet suffi** 
ciently considered. Knowledge is the sine qud nan / but it is 
forgotten that moral is, to say the least, as useful as historical 
or scientific knowledge." 

'< May I," replied S^tenser, *^ hazard an opinion, or rather 
an impression — that I doubt the great advantage of the luo- 
graphics of eminent men, who have arisen by their own 
efforts, being sedulously held up as examples to the lower 
classes. If great talents really exist, these very instances 
prove that example was not necessary to call them into action ; 
and if they do not, the apparent ease and the high success 
which attended those objects of their emulation^ are calculated 



^8 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 

rainier to cause delusive hopes than a beneficial effect. Our 
seK-estimate is always a faise one, and our hopes ever pro- 
phesy our wishes. It seems to me a dangerous thing to dwell 
fio much on those who have * achieved greatness.* We see 
bow they scaled the mountain, and immediately give ourselves 
^credit for being able to go and do likewise. We forget that a 
great m^n does not leave behind him his genius, but its traces. 
Now^ there is no disappointment so bitter as that whose cause 
is in ourselves." 

*^ I entirely agree with you. In our march of mind we 
have been somewhat hasty; — we have borne too little in 
remembrance the Scripture truth, which all experience has 
confirmed, that the tree of knowledge ' was the knowledge of 
good and evil.' The beajttiful order of the physical can 
never be extended to the moral world. In diffusing know- 
ledge, theire are two dangers against which we should endea- 
vour to guard — that it be not turned to a wrong use, or made 
subservient to mere display* The last is the worst; — dis- 
content is the shadow of display, and display is the charac- 
teristic of our age. Take one pf its humblest instances. Our 
young people go to flieir divers amusements, not for the pur- 
pose of enjoyment, but of display ; they require not enter- 
tainment, but compliment." 

'^ Do let me tell you an instance^ just to illustrate your 
theory. A little girl was asked ' why her fine new doll was 
quite throWB aside — always kept in some dark comer : did 
]i«t sbe like it?' ^MydoU?' said the little creature^ 'I 
hate my doU ; she is better dressed than myself.' " 

'^ A ease in point. We all hate our dolls, because they are 
better dressed than ourselves. The worst of display is, that^ 
like other misfortunes, it never comes single. Satiety and 
morttfieation are the extremes of vanity, and both are equally 
attended by envy^ hatred, malice, and aU unehaiitableness. 
If the human mind were like a pond, and could be filled at 
once, knowledge, like the water, would be its own balance ; 
but as it must be done gradually, it ought to be done carefully 
— not one part filled to overfiowing, while a second is left 
dry, or a third to stagnate." 

*^But surely you would not confine knowledge to the 
higher classes ? " 

" Certainly not. Knowledge, when only the possessiou of 



ROMANCE AND BEALITT. 29^ 

a few, has almost always been tamed to iniquitous purposes. 
Take^ for example, many of those chemical discoveries which 
now add so much to our amusement and comfort : it is not to^ 
be doubted that divers of these were known of old, and used 
as engines of fraud and deceptiye power. The pursuer of 
science was formerly as eager to coneeal, as he is now de- 
sirous of blazoning his discoveries. No : I would circulate- 
information as widely as possible ; but it should be rather 
practical than theoreticaL There 9r^ many hooks which we do- 
not wish children to read till their j udgment is matured. The 
ignorant are as children. I would with them use similar 
caution." 

'' Does it not appear to you that this fashion of universal 
education arises out of the fallacious system of universal 
equality > We give rather out of our abundance than our 
discretion, too httle r^embering that, if knowledge is power, 
it is what aH cannot tell how to manage. Apollo would have 
been wise if, before he trusted his son with the reins of hi» 
chariot, he had given him a few lessons in driving." 

"True,"^ replied Lord MindeviBe. $^Now, the steps I 
would take in giving the lower classes education would be^. 
first, to furnish them with religious, and secondly with prac- 
tical, information. From region, and that only, can they 
learn the inherent nature of good and evil. In the sorrows 
that have afflicted, in the judgments that have be^adlen, the 
highest and mightiest, they will learn the only true lesson of 
equality — the conviction that our destinies are not in our 
own hands ; they will see that no situation in life is without 
its share of suffering ; — and this perpetual r^erence to a 
higher power ought equaUy to teach the rich humility, and 
the poor devotion. Secondly, I lean rather to giving prac^ 
tical than scientific knowledge. I would distribute books on 
farming, gardening, and a cheap^ simple cookery would be a 
valuable present: for works of mere amusement, travels 
plainly written, especially such as, in dte wants and miseries 
of other countries, teach us to value the comforts and advan- 
tages of our own ; — tales, of which Margaret Lindsay is the 
very model — piety, submission, and active exertion, placed in 
the most beautiful and afi^ting light." 

" Since I have thought at all on the subject, it has seemed 
to me that aught of amusement for the poor is most selfishly 



SOO I^OUANCE ANO REALITY. 

neglected : ' merrie England ' is certainly a misnomer. We 
hayef^tes, balls, plays, &c. for the middle and higher classes, 
but nothing of the kind for the lower : even fairs — the last 
remains of ancient festivals — are being rapidly put down. 
Pleasure is^ in one class^ a satiety — in another, a want." 

'^ Your expression of selfish neglect is a true one. Mudi 
may be said against the excesses of fairs ; still, I think they 
might have been restrained, instead of suppressed. One great 
source of amusement — one peculiarly adapted to those who 
must be attracted by the eye — is too much forgotten : I mean 
dramatic representations, adapted to the lower classes, and 
supported by the higher. They might, in the country espe- 
ciallyy be made a means of equal entertainment and improve* 



ment." 



'^ lb is now the custom with many writers to represent the 
former state of the people of England asr one of unmitigated 
oppression. ' The land groaning beneath the tyranny of its 
ieudal lords^' is a favourite figure of speech ; and I doubt not 
in many instances, justified. Great power is almost always a 
great evil. Now, the advantage of experience is, that it teaches 
to separate the bad from the good ; and we have too much 
lost sight of the latter ; for kindly feeling and strong attach- 
ment must have been generated in the simple fact of amuse- 
ment being in common. The vassals or tenants collected in 
the hall for Christmas masking and mumming — the peasant 
gathering that May-day called out upon the green, drew to- 
gether ranks whose distance, in our day, occasions forgetfulness 
on one side^ and discontent on the other. The presence of 
^superiors is at once a check and an encouragement. Look to 
ihe French for a proof that festivity and inebriety are not in- 
separable." 

^* Alas ! my dear Spenser, how much easier it is to plan 
than to perform ! Here are we framing schemes of national 
improvement, at some hundred miles distant from our country. 
However, I Lay ^ the flattering unction to my soul ' that my 
present will be my last absence from home." 

Lady Mandeville now entered the room from a drive ; and 
flinging down her furred mantle, and drawing an arm-chair to 
the hearth, prepared to narrate the news of the morning. " As 
usual, Mde. de Cayleure is the gazette extraordinary of her 
acquaintance : she is a living instance of the doctrine of attrao- 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 301 

tion — all species of news seem to go naturally to her as to^ 
their centre." 

• " I do wonder, Ellen, what pleasure you can take in that 
woman's company. A conversation such as hers^ always ^ sea* 
soned with personal talk,* must necessarily be ill-natured. A 
discourse that turns entirely on persons, not things, will only 
admit praise as a novelty or a discovery. General praise is an 
insipidity ; and faults, foibles, and ridicules, are brought for- 
ward, if it were only fOr the sake of variety." 

'' Nay, now, I am sure Mde. de Cayleure is very good- 
natured." 

^' Lively when she is amused, and obliging when not put 
out of her way : but good-natured I utterly deny. Good- 
nature is one of our calamniated phrases — calumniated be- 
cause misapplied." 

'* You know I never contradict one of your definitions. I 
am too well aware that I have no chance in an argument,. 
Mandeville, with you." 

This was a satisfactory termination to the dialogue. 

Cecil Spenser left the room for his morning ride, his reflec* 
tions divided between Lord Mandeville's words and Miss 
Arundel's looks. The first person he met was Mr. Trevor — 
a young man who, having a great stock of idleness on hand^ 
was always most happy to bestow some of it on his friends. 

*' Ah, Spenser," said he, ^' I have been the whole day look- 
ing for you ; you have left all the trouble of our excursion on 
my hands. However, I have prepared every thing ; — so, to- 
morrow we start for Naples." 

To own the truth, Cecil had utterly forgotten all about his 
engagement; and never was memory more disagreeably re- 
freshed. His first thought was the pleasantness of breaking 
his promise; — his second was the necessity of fulfilling it. The 
pleasant and the necessary are two distinct things. He knew 
that to Mr. Trevor a companion was an absolute want; and he 
also knew that companion he had offered to be. As to excuse 
for now refusing, he had not even the shadow of one; so, wilii 
not a little discontent, he'went that evening to the MandevilleS, 
where it somewhat reconciled him to hear that they also in- 
tended visiting Naples almost immediately. 

Emily looked very pretty, and bade him good bye in a sweet 
low voice ; and Cecil devoted part of that night to wondering 



S02 BOMANCE AND REALITY. 

what effect his absence would have on her. But I very much 
doubt whether the knowledge of her perfect indifi^rence would 
have been any consolation ; — and entirdy indifferent she was. 
Her memory reverted — her imagination referred^ only to 
Edward Lorraine. 

A woman's love is essentially lonely and spiritual in iU 
nature — feeding on fancy, rather than hope — or like that 
fairy flower of the £a8t^ which floats in, and lives upon, the 
air. Her attachment is the heathenism of the heart : she l^s 
herself created the glory and beauty with which the idol of her 
altar stands invested. Had Emily known Cecil Spenser befoce 
she knew Edward Lorraine, in all probability she would have 
fallen in love with him. However, our affections are the last 
things we can give away : for this best reason — they are gone 
before we are aware. First impressions are very ineffaceable 
'things. 



CHAPTER XX- 



**' Sa femme ne manquera pas d'adresse pour 1e faire revenir de sa premiere r%- 
selunoii, et l^bl^er 2 nu« sa velonte want qu*il «Vn doitte. Ua UA triomplie 
est le chBf-d'flearre d'une fenme." — Lex Sj/mpatbiesi <w, fArteteJugerpar 
les Traits du Visage det Canvenantxs en Amour rt en AmHii. 

The loom was panelled with Italian landscape — the vineyard 
hung its trellised wxeath as it does in pictores and plays — a 
river. 

Like a i»ixf tUog, 
Which the eye watches in its wandenng, 

wound through one department ; a temple^ whose graceful arch, 
4md one or two eokuns yet entire, told how beautiful the shrine 
. must have been ere its pillars were broken and its divinity de- 
parted, occupied « second; while a fair city, its spires sunny 
in the distance, gave variety to another ; a scroll of oak leaves, 
in gold, marked the divisions — and another oaken wreath 
fastened back the blue satin folds of the windows, which opened 
upon a ooDservatory filled with the rarest exotics — and a small 
marble fountain in the midst showered its musical and diamond 
rain over the rich cactuses around — those gems of the world 
of flowers, as if their native soil had dyed their leaves with 
the glorious colours which wait impatiently for daylight in its 



ftOMAMCE AND REALITT, 308 

nines : one^ more than all^ seemed the very flower of a fairy 
tale — a huge green snake^ with a head of flame — a serpent 
king, with its crown of rubies — its red hues cdoared like 
Are the water below. 

Around the room was scattered all that makes luxury for- 
gotten in taste : the little French dock^ where a golden Cupid 
sat swinging, and the lapse of time is only told by music-^the 
beautiftil Annuiis, those Assyrians of literature, ^' gleaming in 
purple and gold," and opened at some lo^y scene or lovelier 
face — the cut-crystal glass, with one rose bending over the ' 
Bide — the alabaster vases carved as in snow — glittering toys, 
and china coloured with the rainbow, and diminutive enough 
to be Oberon's offering to his fairy queen — »a fan, whose soft ' 
pink feathers cast their own delicate shade on the face reflected 
in the miniature mirror set in ttheir centre ^^ a large cashmere 
shawl, with its border of roses, thrown carelessly on a chair-— 
a crimson cushion, where lay sleeping a Blenheim dog, almost 
small enough to have passed through the loyal ring in tha( 
most fairy tale of the White Cat: — all bespoke a lady's room, i. 
Looking the very being for the atmosphere of palaces, sat its 
beautiful mistress by the small breakfast-tabie, and with a smile 
that did not always of a morning grace her exquisite ftce — 
and yet she was only tHe-d^t^ wbh her husband — which 
smile, however, would have been easily understood by any one 
v^o had heard the conversation between Lady Launston and 
her daughter the night before. It ended with, '* as if Algernon 
could refuse me any thing. His biother^s influence greater 
than mine ! You shall see, mamma. He wants so much to 
go back to that stupid old castle, that one word of our leaving 
town, and I may make my own conditions." 

" Be cautious, my dear love ! Men do not like w be inter- 
fered with, even by a wife, in p<dities ! " 

^' Politics ! as if it were to me other than malter of aflto- 
tion. It is all for the sake of our dear Alfred." 

" Ah, Adelaide, what talents you have ! " 

Our principal actions are the result of our smaHest motivw. 
Kow Lady Etheringhame had divers minute iBfluenoes of di»- 
like towards Lorraine. First, he had not been sufficiently 
miserable at her marriage with another ; secondly, he had not 
courted her since ; and third, last, and worst, she saw that 
Edward thoroughly appreciated the motives and manoeuvres of 



306 nOKAKCE AND RfiALITf. 

'* We are arranging cnir return to the Castle : may we hope- 
to number you among our visitors? " 

Algernon — O the pleasantness of self-deception ! — imme^ 
diately hoping that this was a tacit renunciation of her project, 
added his entreaties — Lorraine accepted. Alas! be took th9 
borough so much for granted, that he never even thought about 
it ; and the conversation for the next half hour turn^ on in- 
different topics. Just as he was departing. Lady £tbering-. 
hame said : — 

<' We are not quite (Unntevested in hoping yeu will come to 
Etheringhante : we want yoa to help us to canvass. Algernon 
has promised to do all he can to bring in my brother for Avoiw 
dale.? 

Edward turned to Lord Ethering^me^ and read in his 
overpowering confusion confirmation. To hold our surprises 
in perfect subjection is- one of the first lessons of society ; and ' 
he now, with those helpful auxiliaries, pride and anger, coH'^. 
trolled his to perfection. 

'' So Lord Merton is to be o«r fiimily. representative!", 
(though society controls the exprcasiim of surprise, it gives full 
licence to that of contempt.) *^ I really must call on Lady 
Lauriston to congratulate her on the attainment of her objeol«> 
Many failures only increase the satisfaction of final success." 

Lady Etfaerin^ame glanced at Loirraine, half in anger, half 
in defiance, as die relied : — ^ 

'' Nay, Merton must thank me. It would have been herd if 
Algernon had denied my first request,'' tumiikg to her husband 
vrith such a very sweet smile. 

Edward now rose from his seat, but ponsed for a moment^. 
so that he- completely fronted his brother. Perhaps never face 
was more completely made to express energetic disdain than 
his own : the inely moulded brow, slightly but sternly knit-: — 
the mouth, so scornful in its curve ^- the dark eyes filled. with 
that flashing and overpowering light which is from the kindled 
thought and feeing within — the pale cheek, which we so 
imconsciously associate with the idea of intellect, — all gave 
full force to his parting words. 

** While congratulating, I must not forget to congratulate 
you, Algernon, on thus carrying your principles into action. 
I know how deeply you are impressed with the responsibility 
^f him who possesses the power of sending the representatives 



ROMANCE AND BEALITY. SOT- 

of his country to Parliament. Lord Merton is equally cal- 
culated to understand and support its interests, whether we^ 
consider his hahits or his talents. 1 congratulate you on your 
clever and higb-principled representative;" — and Lorraine 
left the roonij in the comfortable conviction of having crowded 
as much annoyance as could be well comprised in a patting* 
speech : and considering that, only the day before. Lord' 
Etheringhame had expressed his wonder to Edward, whether 
Merton was most fool or brute, and intimated bo little disgust 
af his dissipation, so unredeemed by aught of refinement — his 
selfishness, so undisguised by even' the thin veil of common ■ 
courtesy — his utter want of information — his stupidity — 
and also that, in the* course of conversation, with that flattery* 
by which a weak mind seeks to ingratiate itseKJ he had^ hee» 
most theoretically eloquent upon the principles and taten4» 
requisite in a member of the house, to which is intrasted the 
destinies of the country ; and all which, at the time, heineaat 
his brother should apply to himself. Considering' all this, it- 
may be imagined that Lotd Etheringhame^^ reflections vr&» 
more true thdn agreeable. We was roused from bis reverw^ 
by Adelaide exclaiming : — ' • 

'^ 1 am sure yoxr have had no trouble about the inatteF, 
&ouH any thing have- been more satisfactorily arranged?** 

Algernon did not agree with her in his own mind : never** - 
theless, he said nothing. It was less troublesome to think: 
than to speak ; and his indolent indulgence was now more- 
than a habit. 

Ordering his horses in an hoar to he at Mr. Ddawan'l 
^or, Edward walked thither, too excited for solitsde, and 
impatient for a fistener to whenl he couid express his indigna- 
tion, and who would join in h^ eontempt. lie knew Mertim s 
ignorance, but he also knew his vwnfty ; he would be sur^ to 
speak ; he asked^ no better revenge than a reply — and arrayed 
in his own mind a whole battalion of arguments, and a Hght^- 
armed troop of sneers* " Nothing is more imaginative thaitt 
anger," thought he, as, arriving' at Mr. Deljiwarr's bouse, l» 
laughed to himself at the ideal eloquence in which he had 
been indulging. A carriage was at the door ; and as he 
crossed the hall, he saw — and though they say seeing is be* 
lieving, it was an evidence he felt inclined to doubt — Mr. 



806 ROMANCE AND RBAUTT. 

Rainscourt coming from the library^ and also bowed out in 
the mo»t cordial' manner by Mr. Delawarr himself. 

Mr. Rainscourt, the head of the party most decidedly op* 
posed to his, with wbom on catholic questions^ com bills^ free 
trade, reform — those divers points in the debatable land of 
our British constitution — he had not an opinion in common; 
political enemies (and no enmity is so bitter as a political one) 
from their youth upwards^ between whom there had been war 
'^ even to the knife/' — who had fought a duel (and even that 
bad failed to reconcile them) ; what was there in common to 
them now ? 

Surprises are like misfortunes or herrings -^ they rarely 
come single. Edward entered the library ; and even Mr. 
Rainscourt's appearance was forgotten, in the relief of an 
attentive listener to an angry detail of his disappointments 
The interest Mr. Delawarr took in his words was evident 
enough to have satisfied the most fastidious : stilly though the 
dark brow was sedulously knit* and the pale lip compressed^ 
Lorraine thought he read a passing gleam of exultation — an 
expression which^ though instantly subdued^ betrayed that 
Mr. Delawarr was pleased^ not vexed, by the occurrence. The 
narrative ended by Edward's sayings " My vexation for ndy 
brother is a thousand times greater than my vexation for 
myself. If he had acted on the belief, that 

* Sparta has many a worthier son than me,* 

I should myself have been the first to approve his conduct; 
But to see Merton, whom he both dislikes and despises, in my 
place — and that merely from irresolute indolence — makes the 
loss of my seat in the House nothings when compared with 
the loss of my confidence in my brother." 

^' A very small loss indeed, it being only what you ought 
never to have had. Eiheringhame has the misfortune to be 
a beautiful talker ; he dreams of glorious impossibilities^ and 
gets them forth in elegant language; but, weak and self* 
indulged, he has neither the energy which resolves, nor the 
industry which acts. He is about as useful as one of the 
handsome pictures of his ancestorsy among whom I moat de- 
voutly wish he were at this moment. Luckily^ his very in- 
dolence is, at this crisis, almost equivalent to his active sup- 
port. I can' insure you a seat ; and as for Merton, he may 



BOMANCE AKD REALITY. Cy'^ 



) 



be easily gained over. He is a fool, therefore obstinate; lu: 
Kiut, and therefore manageable." 

'' Give me bat the luxury of answering to one of his prolix, 
contradictory speeches, and 

* ff there's a hole in a' your coats, 
I rede you, tent it/ — • 

I only ask the rwenge of a reply." • 

, f^ For all that, he roust be on our side : enmities are like 
ftiendships — useless encumbrances; individual feelings have 
nothing to do with general prooeediifgs. I do not know what 
pnvate life was given us for, except to get in the way of our 
public one. But I forget you are yet in ignorance of the step 
I hftve decided on taking diis morning." 

Mr. Delawarr drew his chair nearer, and began his narra- 
tion. It had been a fine study for either actor or painter to 
have watched those two faces during the progress of that de« 
ittil. The outline of Mr. Ddawarr's countenance was hand- 
some, though now thin even to harshness ; the forehead was 
hs^) but narrow ; lip and cheek were equally pale ; and it is 
in the varieties of colour that lies the expression of the feel- 
ings^ in which species of expression it was entirely wanting : its 
character was ei^d, severe, and possessing an energy that was 
o£ the mind alone. The large clear grey eyes seemed rather 
to* penetrate into you, than to have any decided meaning 
themselves ; they caught your thought, but expressed not 
their own. It was a schooled, worldly, set countenance ; one 
from which, without being at aU aged, youth had utterly de- 
parted. Early years seemed not to have left a single trace. 
Truly of such a one might it be said — 

' " The mother that him bare, 

If she had been in presence there. 
Would not have Icnown her child." 

The face, on the contrary^ opposite to him, was bright with 
all the colours and emotions of youth. The fair wide fore- 
head was a throne spread by the imagination for intellect; 
the clear dark eyes flashed with every passing idea — the 
thoughts and the feelings spoke together. The sweetness of 
the smile softened, but relaxed not, the decision of the mouth. 
.* At first the countenance of his young companion was 
eloquent of the workings pf tlie mind within. Surprise, in- 
credulity, indignation, disdain, rapidly succeeded each other. 

X 3 



310 . noHAycr, anj> rkalh'T. 

Saddenly, by a strong efibrt^ the listener seemed to repress 
his feelings^ and force hib thoughts within ; and it must haye 
been a close observer who saw any thing beyond an air of 
quiet attention. Something might have been traced of scorn 
touched with sorrow^ but even that carefully subdued. 

Mr. Delawarr finished his narrative by saying, " And now, 
Edward, is your time for action : you will dine with me to- 
day, and be introduced to Mr. Rainscourt as the futiire mem- 
ber for H ." 

Lorraine rose from hit seat, and with that stodiously calm 
manner which strong emotion so often assumes^ where the 
cool word masks the warm feeling, and simply and quietly de- 
clined the invitation. Nothing makes a person so irritable as 
the consciousness qf wrong. 

'^ Just as vacillating as your brother," exclaimed Mr. De- 
lawarr, pettishly. *' What am I to understand by this silly 
refusal ? — what political romance may it please Mr. Lorraine 
to be now enacting ? " 

'' One he learned from yourself, and one grounded on all 
your own previous life." 

^< My dear £dward, a minister is but Jove, and Fate is 
mightier than he. I did not create circumstanees, therefoi^ 
cannot control them ; and to what I cannot alter,. I must 
yield. I can excuse the impetuosity of youth, which imagines 
to will is to do : so a truce to fine sentiments — ke^ them fcr 
the hustings — look to realities, and dine to-iday with me. 
JQvery thing changes aboi|t us, and we most not be behind- 
hand with the age/' 

Here he was interrupted by Edward : 

" If I had not looked up to you, honoured you, held you as 
the proof how all that is noble in theory could be made admir- 
able in action, I could listen more patiently ; but can it be 
Mr. Delawarr whom I hear say, that consistency is a preju- 
dice and conduct to be ruled by convenience ? Opinions may 
change with the circumstances on which they were founded, 
but principles never. Either your whole past life has been a 
lie, or else your present conduct. The high and warm feelings 
your youth, matured by the convictions of manhood — all 
that a whole life has held to be right — cannot, surely, in the 
experience of a few days, be utterly wrong. By your present 
change you declare, during so many years I have been either 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 311 

.4 fool or a hypocrite. By this abandonment of your old opi- 
. xiioDSj vfhkt security is there for the stability of your new ? 
False to your party . — still falser to yourself — on what does 
your future rely ? Convenience is the only bond between 
you aad your new friends — conyenience^ that most mutable 
of rules^ varying with all the changes of passion or of interest. 
Apostate . to your creedy deserter from your party, traitor to^ 
yourself — again I say, look to your future. Principle cannot 
suppOTt you — that you have pronounced to be but prejudice ; 
your taleuts — you have admitted their inadequacy to meet 
the times ; your character — you have turned upon yourself. 
X>dawarr, shall the history of that country, whose past has 
iiistructed, and whose future has inspired — shall it have no 
hig^her name for you than the slave and victim of ex- 
pediency ? " 

Th^ colour that for a moment had stained the sallow cheek 
of the hearer passed in an instant: brow and lip had been 
carefully moulded to a sneer — and a short bitter laugh pre- 
faced Mr. Delawarr s answer. " Truly, my dear Edward, 
this display of eloquenoe is quite needless ; we are aware of 
your capabilities. Do not be too exorbitant, but tell me at 
once, what do you want besides the borough ? " 

Lorraine had left the roonsu His feeiings were infinitely 
bitter. Mr. Delawarr had been his political idol ; and of all 
excellencies we hate to lose those founded on the imagination. 
. '^ A glory had vanished from the earth,^' as glories can vani^ 
only in youth. The good faith of Mr. Delawarr had made 
respectable in his eyes even the very points on which they 
differed. And now all human nature was lowered in the con- 
duct of one individual. None are so disinterested as the 
thoughtless and absorbed. Edward lost all consideration of 
himself, while dwelling on his brother's weakness and Mr. 
' Delawarr's recantation. But — and we note this as a proof 
of a well-constituted mind — though he almost doubted the 
existence of truth in this world, he never doubted its ex- 
cellence. 

Mr. Delawarr, it must be confessed, took the matter much 
more coolly. Habits are the petrifactions of the feelings, and 
his habits were those of business. A resblution is never 
shaken by a conviction. He had wilfully blinded himself to 
the subtle spirit of self-aggrandisement which urged his con- 

X 4 



31.2 ROMANCE AND BEAUTY. 

duct. He saw the need of instant action^ and took refage iit 
that common resoarce of the destitute, a well-sounding phrase. 
At such an important crisis he had no time to weigh niee 
scruples or fantastical definitions- of honour. Conscienee 
always acts on the conciliatory system. Mr. Delawarr wa» 
vexed at losing a young man of his talents ; but, when vex- 
ation softens not to sentiment^ it hardens into anger. Besides, 
it was one of those cases in which it is a personal satisfactioii 
to be angry. Muttering something to himself of '^ higb- 
flown notions and ingratitude," he sat down to answer a letter. 

£dward's horses were at the door : he hastily ordered his 
servant home, threw himself on his horse, and never drew 
bridle till he found himself on the wild but beautiful comimm 
of Barnes^ which, at five^ seems to have left London fifty 
miles behind. Nothing like a gallop on a beautiful Arabian 
in all desperate cases. If you have been refused by an heiresa, 
when a Jew has advanced ten thousands pounds on the specnw 
lation — if you have been jilted by a beauty^ after daneing 
with her for a week — if you have been thrown out by & 
petition to the House, after your election has cost your last 
acre — and then deliberate between a pistol and a gallop^ I 
advise the latter. 

Lorraine had ridden off a large portion of his irritation, but 
not all his regret. He threw the reins on the neck of the beau- 
tiful and panting creature^ that had sped on as if by some 
instinct of his will, and rode slowly over the solitary heath. 
He was in that mood of all others when the mind fastens 
most readily on some chance object for it^ train of thoughts, 
when strong internal excitement gladly vents itself on any out- 
ward impulse. He bad unconsciously paused on a slight 
ascent^ on whose side stood the remains of a small but ancient 
well : its square walls were in ruins, and a few large but 
broken stones^ some jagged and bare^ others with little tufts of 
grass or a single yellow wild flower springing from them, — 
all spoke neglect and decay. The clear spring itself dripped 
over one fragment with a low murmur^ whose monotony had 
all the sweetness of custom. The ear heard it, till it listened 
for the sound like a familiar thing. The well was filled with 
weeds^ and the water wandered away^ wasting its little current 
over too large a space, but still marked by a growth of 
br^hter and fresher green. ^' And thus it is/' thought Ed- 



BOMANOB AND REAJLITY. SIS' 

ward, ^* with all the works of men : whether for heauty or 
uaefulness, how soon they perish! One generation builds^ 
that another may neglect or destroy. We talk of the* future 
-^ we look to it — we act for it. The future comes — - our- 
sfdTes are foi^tten — our works are rums." 

The sound of the bubbling water grew more distinct^ as the 
ear became accustomed to its music : it reminded him of one 
very like it in £theringhame Park. Both might have made the 
ddight of either antiquary or poet. It wanted nothing to com* 
plete the likeness but the large old beech^ under whose shadow 
he and his brother had pass^ so many mornings. 

But it was a bad time for the recollections of boyhood. 
Lox^aine's life had hitherto been one of enjoyment : it was as 
if fate had, in one day's disappointments^ avenged the serenity 
of years. His brother, whom he had loved with the excus- 
ing» relying affection of a woman, had sacrificed his interest 
and betrayed his confidence, in the indolent irresolution of 
selfishness : the attachment of a life had been given up to 
avoid trouble. Then, the friend to whom he looked up — - 
the model in whose steps he proposed to follow — whom he 
thad admired with all the enthusiastic admiration of youth — 
this friend had degraded himself in his eyes for ever, denied 
hig opinions, falsified his principles, and in a few hours placed 
the future in direct opposition to all that the past had held 
high or honourable. If is hard, very hard, for the heart to 
part with, at one struggle, those it has most loved and re« 
T«9:enced. A mist rose to Lorraine's eyes, only to be dissi- 
pated by another gallop. 

Some twenty years after, it might be questioned whether he 
wmild have fdt much. With r^ard to Lord £theringhame, 
Edward made no allowance for domestic necessities. I re- 
member once reading a somewhat unnecessary volume, in 
^hich a gentleman (single, I am sure,) remonstrated on the 
exclusion of females from power. He might have spared 
himself the trouble ! Few women but have some lover, hus- 
band, brother, or son, over whom they contrive to exert a 
very fair portion of authority. 

As to Mr. Ddawarr, another twenty years* would have 
taught his youthful opponent that political opinions are, like 
most others, subject to change. A century or two ago, the 
best blood in the kingdom was spent in defence of the right 



;SI4 .KOUANCE ASD BBAUTT. 

divine of kings — ^ and it was called heroic conduct ; now it 
is to be shed in defence of the rights of the people — and 
diat is very heroic conduct too. I wonder what will be heroic 
oondnct a century hence. Again: the Swiss guards of 
Louis XVI. were cut to pieces fighting under orders — every 
one talioed of their brayery and their devotion ; the Swiss 
guards of Charks X. have done precisely the same thing, and 
liieir own ■ country talks of hanging the survivors. Ireland^ 
last y«ar, was to be paradise, if that Peri, emancipation^ was 
but sent there; now it is a wretched, degraded, oppressed 
country, unless the Union be dissolved ! What ever will it 
be die year after ? So much fdr any certainty of right in 
this world ! 



CHAPTER XXI. 

* As our life ii very sbort, bo it is Tery mIsenMe. • ♦ 

** How few men In tha woild are 'prosperoos 1 yfhat m Infinite number of slaves 
And beggsM's, of persecuted and oppressed people, fill all corners of the earth with 
grosas, and heaven itself with weeping prayers and sad remembraooes ! * * 

-*• Our days sore foM of sorvow asd anguish, dishonoured and made aahappy witj^ 
many sins, amazed with fears, full of cares, divided with curiosities and contra- 
dictory interests, made airy and impertment with varieties, abused with igno- 
rance and prodigiUnis etrivs, made ridiculous with a thousand weaknesses, worn 
away with labours, laden with diseases, daily vexed with dangers and tempta- 
tions, aol ia Jmre vttfa miaery." 

Jeremy Taylor. 

JosTiQE has nearer been done to the merits of a wet day in 
flummer — one of those days of wind and rain which ftils the 
air with fragrance, for every full-blown flower has its sweet 
life fhidy craved out ; when there is a good excuse for a 
fire -^ a Are being one of those luxuries for which, in Engiaad, 
we always expeot a reason ; when it is cold Plough to make 
warmdi pleasant, yet without freezing one side while the 
^other is burning. It was just such a day as this when Lox^ 
raine went to take a farewell dinner with Mr. Morland. Alter- 
nate showers of rain-drops or rose-leaves had been blown in 
gusts against the windows- all the morning ; but now the 
curtains were drawn, a warm red blaze came from the bright' 
fire, and a softer and dearer light from the lamp, whose pure 
pale transparency is so prettily and fandfuily compared by an 
American writer* to a gigantic pearl illuminated. A maho- 

* Maale. 



.ROlIANOe JLSD BMAtawt, 315 

I 

^gany table, like a dark minor, was drawn dose to the fire-^Mr. 
-MorlJaid had an old-faafaioned predilection feu* its pelished sur- 
face ; OR it stood three or four rich cut-glass decanters, ^' breath- 
ing of the sweet Smith," and a dark slender bottle, common 
enough in shape, bat rontid which lingered the fragrance of 
burgundy. Two large arm-chairs were drawn on each side the 
fire-place, in whidi sat Mr. Morland and. his guest. 

Mr. Morland. — ^ After aU, I do not so much regret ike 
delay this occasions in your entrance into public life — you 
are still too young. 

Edward Lorraine. •— ^ Axe you not now speaking rather 
after the fashion of comtnon pnjudioe ? I am young, it is 
true ; but I have ontlived the pleasures of youth. I " 

Mr. Morland. — *' But not its feelings. You are still ci«- 
duioiis of good — still endiusiastic of imposffllmlities ; you 
]KlieTe that the wodd may be set right — nay, that you are 
<one of those predestined to -assiifit in so doing." 

EdoDord Loarrmne. — ^' I wiU not deny that I do think 
thene is great room for improvement, and that very likely I 
am deceived in nay own self-cstimate — a oommon mistake, 
even with the most experienced ; still, I am not prepared to 
admit, that a cattse «an be ■njnxied by die devotion and in- 
dnatry given to it by eiren the hnmblest individual." 

Mr. Morland. — '^ I was thinking mofeof yourself. Have 
you not felt Mr. Dekwarr a eoaidiict very severely ? ** 
. Edward Lorraine. — ^' 1 have : I put my own personal in- 
terests quite oat of the question ; but I cannot forgive a man 
that I so respected and admired, for being the one to show 
me that my respect and my admiration weie given to an acted 
part — not the real character." 

Mr. Morland. — '^ Your own are ray best argamentB. 
Truly, you seem well piepared for the disappointment, the 
falsehood, which will meet you at every lurn of your fntnre 
career. Mr. Delawarr has taken a step imperative to bis own 
interests, and for which most convincing reasons may be as- 
aigned. I never knew any debatable point not maintained on 
both sides by unanswerable arguments ; and yet you are 
angry thaf he has not thrown every advantage aside to emaet 
your beau-ideal of patriotic excellence. 

Edward Lorraine. — " At this rate, then, your own in- 
terests only are to describe your circle of action ? " 



316 BOUANCB AND BBALITT. 

Mr. Morland, — " Not exactly ; they must be a little- 
rounded at the extiemities^ where they come in contact ynik 
those of others/' 

Edward Lorraine, — '^ Then you would have had me act 
in direct opposition to all I have been accustomed to regard aa 
good and admirable, and accepted Mr. Delawarr's offers } " 

Mr, Morland, — ^' Not exactly ; the young man who acta 
in early life contrary to his feelings^ will^ in after years, act 
contrary to his principles of right. I only wish you to draw 
from it a moral of instability — to see the necessity^ if you, 
mean to carry your theories into action^ of arming yourself 
with the indi^rence of experience." 

Edward Lorraine. — '' We should^ then, never act, if we 
were so indiflferent to the result" 

Mr. Morland. — '^ And all the better for yourself if you 
never enter the gladiatorial , arena of public life : you will 
sacrifice time^ healthy and talents ; you will be paragraphed-^ 
probably pelted ; you will die of an inflammation^ or a con- 
sumption ; and leave it a debatable point to historians, what 
was the extent of the injury you did your country." 

Edward Lorraine. -*- *' Nothing b so fortunate for man- 
kind as its diversity of opinion : if we all thought alike -t> 
with you, for example-— there would at once be an end ta all 
mutual assistance and improvement" 

Mr. Morland. — *' Do not be alarmed ; there are plenty of 
icsdess spirits who will always be happy to take upon them. 
all the affiiirs of the world. Atlas was only an ingenious 
allegory." 

Edward Lorraine.'-^ ** This infinite variety in men's minds 
— the innate superiority of some^ the equally innate inferiority 
of others — has always seemed to me the great argument 
against the system of universal equality. There is no natural 
Agrarian law. Distinctions^ from that universally admitted 
daim of a child to the acquisitions of a parent^ become here*- 
ditary ; they must first have been personal." 

Mr, Morland. — ^* Of all the vain theories that philosophers 
ever set afloat is that of equality— especially mental. One 
man spends years in thoughtful study, and Columbus sets 
forth and discovers America ; another man passes the same 
period, and then the learned doctor sends an elaborate essay to 
a society, stating that the last ten years of his life have been 



ROMANCE ANI> REAI«IXY. 31? 

•devoted to a laborious comparison of geese and turkeys^ which 
has produced in his mind the conviction that the goose is a 
calumniated bird, the turkey being infinitely more stupid." * 

Edward Lorraine, — " A complete caricature on ornitholo- 
gical research ; but do you know^ I have often thought the 
pursuits of science the most satisfactory of all to the pursuer. 
The scientific man is better able to measure his progress 
than the literary man^ and is less liable to the fluctuations of 
opinion." 

Mr. Morland, — ** Generally peaking^ though they are even 
a more irritable race. The subject on which we centre our 
whole attention acq[uire8 an undue importance. Devotion to 
one single object necessarily narrows the mind. The in- 
difference of others is matter of angry surprise; and the 
benefactor of mankind would often fain become its tyrant. 
We are violent in propqrtion to our self-exaggeration." 

Edward Lorraine, — *' After all, philosophy consists in 
making allowances^ and they, by the by, are made from 
affection and feeling, never from reason/* 

Mr, Morland, — *' As if we ever exercised our reason on 
oar own accoimt." 

-Edward Lorraine. — " Oh, yes, a little — sometimes when 
too late." 

Mr, Morland. -— ^* The phrases ' literary seclusion ' — 
'the charms of books and solitude ' — what poetical licences 
they are ! The fine arts, like Mother Carey's chickens, ap- 
pear in stormy weather. Look, for example, at the artists of 
Italy's most ^ted epoch — they kept a sword by their pallet, 
painted in light armour, and dressed their own dinners lest 
they should be poisoned." 

Edward Lorraine. — *' At present we avoid warfare — 'the 
good swords rust ; ' but we are not more peaceably disposed 
than our ancestors-— look at the gauntlet to be run by a suc- 
cessful author. Ingenuity is racked for abuse, and language 
for its expression : every body takes his success as a personal 
affi*ont. I think the late invention of steel pens quite cha« 
racteristic of the age." 

Mr. Morland. — ^' I am most entertained at the egotism of 
our modern school, of periodical literature especially. Now^ 
egotism may be divided into two classes ; that of our feelings^ 

* Foreign Literaiy Guette* 



518 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 

which may come home to some one or other of its readers, 
all feelings are general; and that of action, which cannot 
interest, as actions are not general, hot individual. One editor 
politely informs his readers how much he eats, another how 
much he drinks, a third is eloquent on the merits of his coffee; 
and here is a little penny puhlication, whose conductor occupies 
two pages out of four, in stating that he dips a pearl pen into 
a silver inkstand, and writes in a saftin dressing-gown." 

Edward Lorraine. — '^ Blackwood laid the first foundations 
of the eating and drinking school. The novelty of the plan 
could only be equalled by the humour of the execution. But 
in literature people ought not to he ftQt^wed to follow a fashiea. 
A new idea is no sooner started,. now-a-days, than it is run* 
even to death.' I think the good old Eliaahethan ptm ei 
monopolies should he revived in fiivowr of literature. An 
eminent author, in our time, is a species of mental Alexander; 
he erects a vast empire, out of which fifty small powers parcel 
little kingdoms and minor principalities.'* 

Mr. Morland, — " Your notion of an author's property in 
bis own works is similar in spirit to the old' French marquise 
i;i Marmontel, who prefers a husband to a lover, because ' I ' 
could then go with my contract in my hand and give nn hon 
soufflet to any one who endeavoured to take him from me.' ^ 
' Edward Lorraine. — " How full of wit, point, and, what 
is best expressed by a phrase of their own, such exquisite 
toumure, some of the short French stories possess ! Hook is,. 
I think, the only English author who possesses their analym 
of action — that bird's-eye view of motive, and the neat keen 
style whose every second sentence is an epigram : he is Roehe^ 
foucault illustrated ; and he unites, too, with his vein of satire, 
the more creative powers, the decpeir tones of feeling, that 
mark our English writers.** 

Mr, Morland. — "I give him^ credit for one very original 
merit. Do you remember Charles Summerford's letter in 
Maxwell? — it is the only love-letter I ever read without 
-diinking it absurd. It is equally passionate and natural." 

Edward Lorraine. — '' What is the reason, that in repeat- 
mg the expressions of lovers they always seem exi^gerated, 
Aough, perhaps, W6 have used the same expressions ourselves?' 
•*— surely memory ought to recall their truth." 

Mr. Morland. — ^' And so it wchild, if those expressions 



ROMANCE A^n» REALITY. 31^ 

were still used to or by ourselves. They only appear to be 
exaggerated from being put in the third persoo. It is curious- 
how much people take for granted in these affairs of the 
heart." 

Edward Lorraine. — " Nothing, in matters of sentiment, 
seems too difficult for credit." 

Mr. Morland. — " We easily believe in the feelings our* 
selves inspire ; but^ instead of a reason, I will tell you a story, 
I had a housekeeper who had two lovers — one the favomed^. 
to whom she was engaged. After a while she learnt he had a 
wife and two children at Paisley ; this led to a diamissaL She 
went into hysterics, and spoilt my soup for a week, at the end 
of which she consoled herself with the other. Just as she was. 
on the point of marriage, it came oitt that the wife and two 
children was an invention of tlie intended^ to drive bis raoze- 
successful rival from the field. She made exceUent gravies^ 
afnd, as I took an interest in her fate^ I remonstrated on the 
folly of marrying a man who had acted so basely — < but yon 
see, sir — if you please — it was all fbt love of me,' — and she 
actually did marry him." 

Edward Lorraine. — "I am thoroughly coiivniced a little 
extravagance rather recommends & kyver to his mistresi^ All 
women are naturally romantic. PerhapK the even tenor of 
their lives makes them .peculiarly enjoy excitement. One 
unaccountable action would do more for you than all the 
flattery that the court of Lbuis the Fourteenth ever embo^ed 
in a phrase." 

Mr. Motrkmd, — ^ You aie theoretic^ niy young- friend ^ 
rely upon it, that no general rule ever held good in love." 

Edvoard Lorraine, - — '^ No general rule ever held good in 
amy thing. Imagination is to love what gas is to the balloon 
— that which raises it from earth." 

Mr. Morhnd. — '^ And we know the usual fate of sucb 
aerial adventures — a fall to earth, which, if it does not unfit 
US) at least disinclines us fh)m . any more such ' skyey enter- 
prises.' And what, after all, are our greatest efforts in life 
hot ascents in a balloon ? — and then descents, which either 
leave us in the dust — a ludicrous spectacle to the bystander ; 
or else, by good luck, we have broken a limb, and accident 
becomes terrible, so that we ar^ pitied, instead of laughed at. 
Not much difference between the two." 



SZO ROMANCE AND REALITY. 

Edward Lorraine. — " Is there nothing in being loved — 
nothing in being admired — nothing in those benefits whic^ 
one individual may confer on his whole race ? " 

Mr, Morland, — " Love is followed by disappointment, 
admiration by mortification, and obligation by ingratitude.'' 

Edward Lorraine, — " What, then, are those watchwords 
of the heart -— patriotism and philanthropy — mere soundk 
signifying nothing ? " 

Mr. Morland. '^ ", Just so, when reduced to practice. I 
do not say with Sir Robert Walpole, that every man has his 
price ; but I do say, tliat every man has his motive. One 
man wants money, the next power, the third title ; a fourth 
desires place for its distinction, a fifth for its influence; a 
sixth desires popul^ applause ; a seventh piques himself upon 
his eloquence, and will display it ; an eighth upon his judg<i> 
ment, to which he will have you defer ; a ninlii is governed 
by his wife ; a tenth adopts the opinions of his club ; the 
eleventh those of a favourite author ; the twelfth acts upon 
some old prejudice which he calls a principle. There are a 
round dozen of motives for you. Now, you do not call any 
of these patriotism ? " 

Edward Lorraine. — ^^One would think you were a believer 
in the old. classical fable of the golden, the silver, the brazen, 
and the iron ages ; and that we were living in the harsh and 
heavy days of the last." 

Mr. Morland. — ^' I believe one half, which is quite enough 
to believe of any thing. I deny that the silver and golden 
ages ever existed ; but allow the actual existence of the brass 
and the iron." 

Edward Lorraine* — ^^ I desire to be loved — passionately, 
entirely, and lastingly loved. I desire active, high, and 
honourable distinction. If I thought as you think, I should 
at once enter La Trappe ; or, like the Caliph Vathek, build a 
palace for the five senses." 

Mr, Morland. — '^ And find discontent and weariness ili 
either. I see you, Edward, young, ardent, and heroic, full of 
genius and ambition ; and I see in you just another sacrifice 
to that terrible necessity which men call Destiny. One by 
one your generous beliefs will sharpen into incredulity — your 
warm feelings turn to, poison, or to a void; their empire 
divided between bitterness and exhaustioxu Where is the 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 321 

good you exalted? — a scoff even to yourself; where is the 
love that you trusted? — like the reed on which you leant, it 
has entered into your side, and even if the wound cease to 
bleed, it is only because it has hardened into a scar ; where is 
the praise you desired? — gone to another, or if still yours, 
^xna know its emptiness and its falsehood. You loathe others ; 
hut you look within yourself, and see their counterpart. All 
do not think this, because many do not think at all ; but all 
feel it, though they do not analyse their feelings." 

It 'Was now late: slowly, and somewhat sadly, Edward 
Yose, and bade his friend good night — he said it somewhat 
more affectionately than usuaL He knew him to be an old 
and a disappointed man, and he deemed rightly, that to argue 
with such a mood was to pain, not to convince. Yet, as he 
lode home, more than once the reins dropped on his horse's 
neck, and he thought mournfully, ^^are such things sooth?'' 
I know not. I own I think they are. I have this very 
moment laid down the most eloquent, the most beautiful 
avowal of belief in a happier and better doctrine. Let me 
quote the very words. 

'^ No : man must either believe in the perfectibility of his 
species, or virtue and the love of others are but a heated and 
objectless enthusiasm. * ♦ * To the man who finds it 
possible to entertain this hope, how different an aspect the 
world wears ! Casting his glance forward, how wondrous a 
light rests upon the future ! the farther he extends his vision, 
the. brighter the light. Animated by a hope more sublime 
than wishes bounded to earth ever before inspired, he feels* 
armed with the courage to oppose surrounding prejudice, and 
the warfu'e of hostile customs. No sectarian advantage, no 
petty benefit, is before him ; he sees but the regeneration of 
mankind. It is with this object thst he links his ambition — « 
that he unites his efibrts and his name ! From the disease, 
and the famine, and the toil around, his spirit bursts into pro- 
phecy, and dwells among futtire ages ; even if in error, he luxu- 
riates through life in the largest benevolence, and dies — if a 
visionary — the visionary of the grandest dream,"* 

Alas! I do not — I cannot think wilhthe writer.' My 
own experience — my whole observation forbid it The "worst 

* Convdrsations with an Ambitious Student in ill health. New liiKfiOthly Magar 
sine. 



322 BOJCANCE AND RBAUTr. 

sufferings of human nature are those which no law can reaieh-«^ 
no form of government control. What code can soothe the 
luirning pain of disease, or roiue its knguar P Wbat code ean 
iJleviate the bittenaiess of deaths dry the tears of jthe mottmer^ 
and force the grave to give up the bved and the lost ? What 
form of laws can control the affections, those busy ministers of 
sorrows? Can they console them when oareqoited^^ alter them 
when misplaced — or recall them when departed for evo* ? Alas I 
they are of no avaiL Can the law l^vmi tb^ cttiti^g edge of 
ridicule, or soften the hitter wprds of unkindness ? Can the 
law give us grace, wit,. beauty, or prevent our foling their 
want, or envying their mare fiortunate possesaors ? All ihe 
law can do^ is to give us hand iM'ead^ which we must earn witii 
pur toilj and then steep wixh our tears. Yet more, the law- 
can guard our life — life I that posseasion whidi, of all Others, 
man values the least ; hot it can f^ve nothing that endeaiv, or 
exalts it — nothing that confers on it either a value or a 
charnu The first records of our y«ung world were Uiose of 
tears and Uood ; its last records will be those of tears and 
blood also. I hear of the progress of civilisation, and I manrel 
how it can be called hi^piness. We discovered America, and 
tiiiat word is now sjnonynous with a l^rave, «nHf htened, and 
free nation ; but to zaake way for that prospcarity^ a whole people 
have perished from ihe £ace of the earth. Our ships have 
:gDne through the silent seas, and a new continent rose beft>re 
their prows in fertility and beauty. We have emptied on tt 
our prisons — and the untroddai wood eehoes to thte oath and 
the axe of the convict 

Or, to come home again. The wealth of the world, ita 
power, its intelligence, pours into lioodon. We havt^ the en*, 
joymenta of riches and of nund-^our M/enats and fine arte 
take every day sc«ne step to perfection % bat none of these are 
happiness. Weakh, that mighty sowree of heart-burnings, 
who shall distribute it ? To take fr«m industry is to give a- 
premium to idleness. And fei bow hard, that <Mie man shouM 
possess millions, while to another a penny is a wtekome ^fc ! 
How are we to help this ? ^' Is it my £Hilt," the rich man 
may say, '^ that I, or my father, or v»y grandfather, have been 
more prudent or more fortunate than you or yours ? If you 
take that which is mine to-day, where is your security but that 
auother may take it from you again to-morrow ?" And yet 



ROltANOB JLXD 'BCAUTir. 923 

-poverty — how bitter it is ! first its disgrace^ and then its 
want. I never^ even in an advertisement praying for that 
charity which is too often denied^ read the words /^ who have 
known better days/' without a synipiithy even to pain. And 
yet what statute can guard against extravagance^ improvidence^ 
or idleness ? And even this jiroperty — the hinge on which 
all our sodal institutions tum^ for whose sake we both make 
and break laws — ^ does that give happiness ? Ask the sick^ 
the sacL or the dyings though 'dieir home be the palace^ and 
their clothing the purple. 

Then we have intellectual enjoyments^ the works of genius^ 
Ihoae of the fine arts. There was Mr. Canning, the eloquent 
•and the patriotic* died> not tbree years ago, of a fevered mind 
fuid « woTBHOttt body — worn out by tiie acoi^ the obstacle^ 
ihe Yoin excitement, the exhausting exertion. Genius — 
^as Byson, whose life was divided batwe^ disappointment 
4ind resentinenty was he happy ? What is Genius but an altar 
flrichly wiought in fine gold, and piaoed in the most sacred 
and glorious part of the marble temple ? but there ihe living 
t?icitim is ofiered in sacrifiice; and the wreath of flowers left 
to wither. The fine arts, they which add «o >much to the 
^adornment of their time — it is a 8ad«page in life in whioh 
•ibeir ankiak are written. How few among. the statues which 
atand in ^aae and power^ till they seem ihe incarnation of 
the diviner part of our nature -— how few among the pictures 
"which shed ; their d»Ban-like ;beauly on nnr walk — how few 
of. these but are the fruit of lives passed ia teil« in want, in 
the beart-^buming of hope whose fulfilment cranes not, and 'Of 
ioszes that sat away . the "Kery soul J Look at .Ihe imany diseases 
to -which skill is of no avsH •^~ look at the many crimes, .and 
•CKimes committed^ too, by the educated, who have been trained 
&ojn, their youth upwardbs in good. Or look only wldiin your 
own heart, and see there the germ of every sin joid every sor- 
row ; — and then tell me of the ;|)firfeGtibility ior the happsuess 
•of thumanity. In another world, *^the wicked inay cease from 
trouhUng, and the weary he at rest ;" but not ia a world like 
'Oisur8--^^1he weak^ the ening, and the fallen. We forget we 
are living under a curse ; and who can leeall that curse saw 
the 'Gad who pronounoed it ? 



Y 2 



d24 BOMANOE AND BEALITY. 



CHAPTER XXII. 

I . ■ 

*' Ah, whence yon glare 
That fires the arch of heaven ? — that dark red smoke 
Blotting the silver moon ? " 

« • « « « 

" And what wera earth and stars. 
If to the human mind's Imaginings 
Silence and solitude were vacancy ? " — Shelley. 

There is something sublime in being out of humour with the - 
whole world. Discontent against an individual is called anger ; 
that against the many, misanthropy. There is a great deal bf 
poetry in an epithet. Lorraine indulged in the latter mood of. 
mind for a week. His brother called — he was denied : & 
&rst conciliating note from Mr. Delawarr was unanswered ^^^ 
the second met a cold but bitter reply. Both grew angry^ and 
public dispute ended in private dissension. 

It is a curious fact, how violent people get upon political 
questions, particularly if they are such as do not concern them. 
A sedate-looking gentleman, who lives in Finsbury Square 
perhaps, and whose money is in the funds, raves about the 
com laws : another, in a black coat, forgets to make his Sun- 
day sermon, in the composition of a speech at a meeting for 
the abdition of West India slavery. But from the affairs of 
our next-door neighbour, to those of church and state, we take 

an intense interest in those of others. S^ ^,when he came from 

Brussels, at the time of the revolution, was asked what it wias 
like. " Like ? " said he, " why, like a vestry meeting." We 
talk of vanity, discontent, patriotism ; but the real first cause 
of the passion for politics is the love of talking, inherent in 
masculine nature. 

In the mean time, Edward found that love and politics had 
been adverse influences on his destiny. His brother's most 
unlooked-for n^arriage altered all his prospects as regarded his 
succession to the Eth^inghame title and estates : his di£ferenee 
with Mr, Delawarr closed the principal avenue of his political 
career. His future path in life must be cleared by himself. 

The energy with which he set about the task shewed he 
was equal to it. He had inherited a handsome property from 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 325 

his mother. True, he had heen extravagant, but not irre- 
trievably 80. He looked into his affairs. Two years of reso. 
lute economy^ and his property was free. In two years there 
would be a general election. Two years of travel and study 
would equally benefit his fortune and his mind ; both would 
be strengthened to meet the demands of public life. 

There are epochs of change in every one's career ; and it is 
in meeting these changes that a man shows his energies. Lor- 
raine's plan was promptly laid down, and its execution was as 
prompt as its design. His affairs were investigated with that 
resolute industry which so soon finishes the business it begins. 
The sale of part of his property cleared the rest A large 
portion of his income was put aside to accumulate. Horses, 
pJLCfiores, wines, Mjouterie, German meerschaum, and Turkish 
hookahs, were alike brought to the hammer. His solicitor re- 
monstrated on the loss ih such a sale. 

f^ Don't you see," replied his client, laughing, ^' I am 
selling my habits with them ?" 

Satisfied with the present, full of anticipation for the 
fliituie, Edward took his seat on the mail — the best convey- 
ance in the world for good spirits. It was a bright dear night, 
with a fresh, and buoyant wind. Alas J for the safety of two 
xespectable linen-drapers, and the partner of a great tea- 
house, inside — for Lorraine drove the first forty miles. 

" What a pity he should be a gentleman — such a waste ! '* 
observed the coachman, when he resigned the reins. 

.Spain was the country he had decided. upon visiting — 
Spain, as a poet regularly begins, 

** Land of the vine and the olive/* 

It is. curious how much of its romantic character a country 
owes to strangers ; perhaps because they know least about it. 
Bdwiard's motive for visiting it was, simply, that he had never 
been there before. Leaving vines, olives, the white walls of 
Cadiz, and the dark eyes of its ladies, to be recorded in his 
diary, if he kept one, he travelled perfectly alone — sometimes 
on foot, sometimes on horseback — through a considerable part 
of tlie country bordering on the sea-coast ; when, finding the 
residence of a Spanish nobleman, to whom he had letters of 
intxoduction, marked on his route, he paused at a little village 
to make inquiry of his. way. 

Y 3 



3S6 nOHAXCH AMD REALITY. 

The yiUagv was psettj enough for a scene in a plaj. It 
was litevaEj. hidden in a grove» or thicket ratlier, of orai^i-' 
tives, at that most beautiful season of ^eir year, wJien (m» 
-branch is bbwed down with its weight of goiden fruit --« mi 
another the oran^ is still of a bright green ; while the more 
shaded boughs are yet in the first luxuriance of their pe^' 
culiarly odoriferous and delicate flowers — perhaps one of the 
s(^test and most beautiful whites in nature. T^ic were but 
a few cottages, each of them covered ynth a luxuriant vine^ 
whose glossy iiperduxe reflected back every ray of the setting sua. 

It was a saint's day^ and the peasants were all. eat of doovs*. 
There were two or three groups of dancers, and the rest were 
either gathered in a ring round them^ er scattered on the geaaa 
beneath a £ew ksge old ohestnut-trees^ tha^ nnst have acen^ 
many suoh generatioBa The peasants tfaeBoselveB were^ aa a. 
painter would have said, excellent accessoideB tor the aeene : 
the women wexs,. many of them^ pretty ; and their profuse 
black hair^ bound up with that simplidty-, whidx- k the pciv 
fection o£ good taste.. 

Uniformity in. eoetoBiff. is very pictaiesqiie. To name a. 
familiar instance' :—-kew well a.f^ily of sisters dressed alike - 
always looks I fiacdi sqMBate indcvidttal nnuy be bad; still, aa* 
a whole^ the eflfect is aseddtable. We do not seem suiBdwitiy 
aware of the beauty of umfomity, or ske it is inteifered with 
by our personal vanity. The trathi is^ that general taste ia 
always good ; because, before it becomes general^ it has been 
compared and oorredsd: but as for iBdividutdtaste;, tlae less 
we have of it the better. 

The arrival of a stranger produced the eflect it always does 
where such an occurrence is rare. Novelty is pleasure^ and 
pleasure puts people infturagoed hunKivr. Ail were ready to 
crowd round wilii some little oSte oi assistance; and when- it 
was discoviexed that he spoke Spanish^ 'their dsMght knew- no ^ 
bounds^ 

Feeble take a traveller's nnderstonding their language ae a 
personal oompliment. £dward; besides, was very faandsenie 
— a letter of reoommendation all ^ world over*; and he poa«> 
sessed that faseEnation of manner, the secret of whose &ary' 
gift i8> ready adnpta4aon of itsciif to otfaenk 

Both himself and his horse' fiared exceedingly we]l» One- 
?ave him green figs^ another oranges : the grapes wove yet 



ROWANCe ANB REALITY. SS7 

scarcely ripe ; hat a little boy, who seemed just to hxre 
stepped out of ft pktare by Murillo^ cHmbed the roof of his 
Cither's cottage, and brought from the southern side a sunny*' 
foeking btmefa, wiucb would not have disgraced Aladdin's 
garden of rabies. 

Hospitality is the virtue of an uBciTiKsed state, because it 
is then a usefitl one. It !a a wise moral dispensation, that 
those viartues are most prevs^t whidi are most wanted. A 
man asks another to dine with him in London, and spends on 
the said dinner just twice as much as he can afiPord; while the 
edds are, that fafs visitor will be dxscontented with his recep- 
tion, envious of his host, and consde himself next day by 
abusing entertainer and entertainment. A man wanders 
through a desert -^ is half starved — falls in with an Arab 
tent, whose owner gives him some goat's milk and dates — he 
'comes home, and raves about the hospitidity of the desert. 
The difiereuce in this r in the one case the dinner was needed^ 
and in the other it was not. We must want a thing before 
we can value it. Hospitality is, therefore, the virtue of un* 
crvflised, as benevolence should be that of civilised life. 

The crowd which had surrounded the traveller gradualTy 
dispersed, and Lorraine was left alsiost alone with a very fine- 
looking old man, whose free gait bespoke a life of active 
exertion ; and a deep scar on one cheek, evidently a sabre- 
wound, indicated diat it had been of a military nature. 

Edward's attention was at first rivetted on two dancers 
engaged in their graceful national dance, the bolero. What 
a blessing to a people is a climate that enconrages out-of-doot 
amusement ! The man was dressed in a brown jacket, with- 
out collar, and a crimson sash ; a smaH cloak, managed with 
the grace of custom, hung on one shoulder, and on his feet 
he wore the hempen sandals ; and, perhaps, from its classic 
association, a sandid is good, as far as pictorial edbct is con- 
cerned. With a profusion of coal-black hair, a very daiic 
skin, and a bold, but fine, outline of feature, the youth was a 
good specimen of the Spanish peasant. 

But his companion was* beautiful. A rich, flushed colour 
—large black eyes— ^ teeth that shone from their brilliant 
whiteness — a slender shape — and most minute feet, in such 
little shoes of Cordova leather — a silver chain round her 
neck, to which hung a medal of the Madonna — a dark-.brows 

Y 4 



S28 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 

bodice and short skirt, relieved by a lacing of scarlet riband 
— long black hair^ bound in one large plait round the head^. 
and fastened by a silver bodkin. Such were the picturesque ' 
couple who were now performing the evolutions of theiv i 
dramatic dance^ with that exquisite ear for time which maktft 
the gracefulness of dancing. 

At the conclusion^ Edward turned to his companion, with 
some remark on the beauty and air of happiness that per- 
vaded the scene. ' " Your lovely little valley looks as if even 
a rough wind had never disturbed its tranquillity.*' 

*^ And yet I remember when for every cottage there stood 
a smoking heap of ashes; and that little stream" — pointiug 
to a bright brook that ran^ touched with the lingering day- 
light^ like a line of amber — '' that little stream ran red as the 
blood which coloured it. Look at the trees, Senhor — they'll 
witness to the truth of what I am saying." 

Lorraine looked, and saw, in spite of the^ luxuriant foli^e^ 
indelible marks of the ravages of fire. The trunks were 
scorched^ and the bark destroyed^ in many places ; and here 
and there stood leafless branches, black and charred; — one 
immense but lifeless bough was directly over their heads. 

'^ Quiet as our valley seems now^" said the once fierce 
Guerilla, '' I can remember being lighted home by the blaze o£ 
our whole village. It was midnight when I came down the 
hill ; yet, by the firelight, I could see every tree for milea 
round. I could even distinguish the faces of the officers, who, 
at the head of the French troopers, were across the plaiu 
yonder. It had been well for them if the light had not been 
quite so strong." 

^' Your friends — your relatives — had you any } " asked 
his hearer^ hesitatingly. 

'* Two orphan children ; Minora — she that has just bceu 
dancing — and her brother. She was then but a little crea- 
ture, yet so thoughtful^ it was as if her dead mother watched 
and helped her. I never feared to leave Pedro, then a baby, 
with her. I came home, and saw my cottage, perhaps from 
being fired the last, burning the bri^test of all. Well, the 
Virgin does work miracles for her servants. I ran down the 
steep, shouting my children's names from sheer misery — 
when I heard a low, little sweet voice whisper, ' Father.' I 
saw my pretty Minora, and her brother holding . her hand. 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 329 

both frightened out of their senses, but safe and well. At 
the first alarm they had run out, and found safety in an old 
hollow oak«tree, which they had^ in play, called their house« 
They little thought what a home it would be to them. . From 
that hour I took my knife and my musket. Six months 
afterwards, there was not a Frenchman in the province." 

*^ M^at did you do with the children ? " 

'^ Ah, Senhor, there 's a secret. Why, in the wood you will 
have to pass to-night there 's a cave — muleteers will some- 
times bring across the line more than custom-house officers 
think of — and that cave was a safe hiding-place. Well, the 
good turn it did in concealing those children may balance its 
other accounts. I took them there — stole to them with pro- 
visions whenever I could : they never lived half so well before. 
You see my Minora*s eyes are pretty bright ; but for half a 
year they never saw sunshine." 

It was much later than Edward had supposed ; but still the 
extreme beauty of the evening induced him to pursue hia 
-journey. He mounted again, and departed, with a thousand 
good wishes and directions as to the right path. He offered 
no reward for the kindly treatment he had received ; but the 
two* children, whose hearts he had won by a little notice, and 
who now, with all the earnest gratitude of childhood, insisted 
on showing the best path through the grove — the children 
came back, radiant with surprise and pleasure at the parting 
gift of the English traveller. 

It is wortli while to travel, if it be only to enjoy the ex- 
citement of some entirely new species of natural beauty. 
Late as it was, Edward reined up his horse to gaze around 
him^ The plain where he was riding was one immense 
thicket of the gum cistus, whose frul white leaves, just veined 
with the faintest pink, fell in showers at the least movement 
of the passer-by. What a prodigality of blossom ! — for the 
gum cistus, bom and withered in an hour, is the most 
ephemeral of flowers. Behind was a range of mountains, 
composed mostly of huge masses of granite ; and the small 
sparkles on its surface glittered in the moon, which shone 
directly against them. Before him was a dense shade — the 
wood through which he had to pass ; and over all was a sky 
«o clear, as to be rather light than colour. 

The thickets gradually gave way to an open space, where 



33^ ROMANCE AND REAUTT 



VOLUME THE THIRD. ' 



CHAPTER I. 

** Her silent face is saintly pale. 
And sadness shades it like a veil ; 
A consecrated nun she seems, 
"Whose waking thoughts are deep as dreams." 

Wilson. 
* But the delicate chain 
Of thought, once tangled, never cleared again.** 

MOOBB. 

Courtesy and curiosity are very often at variance. With a 
hurried apology, Lorraine had been shown into a large, 
gloomy-looking apartment^ where he was left to his own 
thoughts and a small lamp. The moon, now at its full, shone 
directly into the room, shedding a sad and softened lights, 
which somewhat concealed the ravages of time, or what seemed 
the work of that even worse spoiler — man. The floor had 
been paved with alternate squares of different- coloured mar- 
bles : it had been dilapidated in many places, and the vacancies 
filled with common stone. The panels of the wall were of 
various and beautiful woods inlaid in fanciful patterns, while 
the cornices and divisions were of marble carved exquisitely, 
and the ceiling had been painted to resemble a summer sky. . 
There was now scarcely a space uninjured : the cornices were 
broken away ; the panels had initial letters and uncouth faces '. 
rudely cut upon them ; and on one side there was a number r 
of small round holes, such as would be produced by a shower '''■ 
of shot, and a few larger ones that indicated bullets. The ' 
roof was smoked and scorched ; and two pictures hung at one 
end, or rather their frames — for a black and smouldered 
canvass showed that fire had destroyed the work of the painter. 
Still, there were signs of human habitation, and some of 
female ingenuity. At the upper window, a fine old vine had 
been carefully trained both inside and out, till it served the 



ROMANCE AND BEALITT. S3S 

purpose of a curtain. Near it was a high-backed chair^ 
covered with embroidered silk^ whose rich bright colours 
showed it had but lately left the skilful hand of its worker. 
The floor beneath was spread with matting of the fragrant 
grass of the country : beside stood a small table of inlaid 
woodj and a cushion was at the feet^ also worked with em- 
broidered flowers. Against the wall were hung two or three 
crayon drawings : , the moonlight showed the upper one to be a 
Madonna and Child — the others were hidden by the shadow 
of the vine-leaves^ which fell directly upon them. A erucifix, 
made of black oak^a few shelves^ which seemed crowded 
with books — a case^ which appeared^ from its shape, to con- 
tain a lute or guitar — and two or three small chairs^ of the 
same dark wood^ stood near; but the rest of the room was 
utterly unfurnished. 

The destruction wrought by time never oppresses the spirits 
as does that wrought by man. The fallen temple — the 
mouldering tower^ grey with moss, and stained with rain^ — 
seem but to have submitted to the inevitable doom of all ; and 
the ruin time has made^ time also hallows. But the devastated 
home and perished household — man's sorrow following £Euit 
upon man's guilt — tells too near a tale of suffering. The 
destruction in the one case is gradual and far removed from 
us — in the other, it may be sudden and fall even on our own 
home. War, even in the distant battle of a foreign land, is 
terrible and sorrowful enough ; but what is the agony of 
bloodshed in the far warfare to that poured at our own doors, 
and quenching the flre of our own hearth ! 

Edward paced the room mournfully : he gazed on the slight 
remains of taste which had turned wealth to beauty. But 
the most touching part of all^ was to mark the effort that had 
been made to restore something of comfort and appearance. 
He thought of the beautiful face he had seen for a moment— 
it looked very young to have known much of suffering. The 
^oor of the room opened, and the negro appeared, bringing in 
supper ; and the little table was soon spread. There w^ a 
flask of light wine, a melon, some bread, and fried fish. And 
with all the volubility of his race, Cssar explained, that the 
ladies sent their excuses, and that to-morrow they hoped to 
make him personally welcome. 

A solitary supper is soon * despatched. The negro then 



S34t . BOMANCE ANP REAIiIXV. 

flbowfd Loxraine ix) his sleeping-room^ almost deafening Jiim 
mth apologi^B. It is a good sign when servants take th^ 
oredit of their master's house so much to heart. An immense 
jroom, and a gigantic bed with dark green haoging^^ were 
f^my enough for either ghosts or banditti, to whichever 
lerxor the traveller might roost incline. But a bright woo^ 
fise drew at legist xound itself a cheerful circle^ within which 
Xtorraine found he was to sleep* The floor had been kid 
^ith 'heath and goat skins^ and on them more comfortable 
bedding than, a traveller ought ever to consider necessary. 
The huige green bed was evidently too old and mouldy for use. 

Considering that it was near one^ and that he had ridden 
.«ome thirty miles, Edward might be excused for sleeping 
«oundly^ even^ aa the newspapers say> '' under circumstances 
of the greatest excitement." He was awakened by the glad 
•lig^t of the morning sun pouring full into his chamber^ and 
showing the past luxury and present desolation by which he 
was Burrounded. The fioor^ the wainscoting^ were of ma- 
ihoganj — the walls were hung with the finest tapestry — and 
ithfire weie occasional spaces in which large mirrors had been 
set: but the mahogany was rough and discoloured^ the 
tapestry rent and faded^ and the mirrors either wholly gone, 
4md their places filled by matting, or by fragments smashed 
4md shivared in every direction. The floor near the window 
was stained as if by heavy and long-continued rain ; and the 
H^asement was now repaired by different kinds of coarse glass^ 
■and the •one or two larger openings by slips of wood. 

The view from the window was, splendid. On one side, a 
«deBfie wood of oak and cork .trees spread its impenetrable but 
beautiful bwrrier ; «on the other, an undulating country showed 
*eveiy variety of vineyard, heath, and grove : the vines emerald 
in their .green — the orange-groves, whose flowers, mingled 
with the wild thyme on the heath, scented the dew, whicb 
arose like a doudof incense, silvery and fragrant. Gradually 
the miat cleared away, the distant mountains came out in full 
and hold relief, and the winding river grew golden in the 
aunshine. 

' Edward was leaning from the casement, when Cssar made 

Jhis appeaianoe with information that Donna Margaretta waited 

breakfast. He followed the old man into the room where he 

-had been the night before, and seated in the arm-chair was 



noUAJfCti AND BSAI^IW. S3B 

idie lady whom his young companion addaessed «« lier motfier. 
With the first word she «poke, her guest Tecognised that pe- 
culiar insdar accent which none but a nati'vv of England «yer 
acquires. We rarely pay much attention to what neither <xm- 
eems nor interests us ; and Edward had forgotten that Don 
ijuan had mamed an Englishwoman. She was a sliglit, girl- 
ish-looking creature^ with fair hair nearly concealed by the 
Teil which was drawn round her head like a hood^ but which 
In its simplicity rather added to her very youthful face — 
there was somethings of ithe graoe of diildhood with which «he 
bade a countryman welcome *' under any cirovmstances,*' 
fiiUghtly glancing at the dilapidated room : — '^ Circumstances 
^ which a nadve of your fortunaHe land cannot^ and therefore 
will not^ I hope^ judge/' said a low sweet Toioe^ an good but 
foreign EngUsh. 

Lorraine turned to the speaker^ and recognised his last 
night's companion. Their eyes met for a moment : in hers 
there was a singular mixture of timidity and decision^ of 
appeal and yet dignity. She blushed deeply^ but mom^itarily, 
and her features instantly settled into an expression, calm^ 
almost cold ; as ff any betrayal of emotion were utterly at 
Tariance with long habits of self-control. 

Edward had seen beauty often, and seen it with every pos- 
^Ue aid ; but never had he seen beauty so perfect^ yet so 
utterly devoid of extraneous assistance. She wore a loose 
black stuff dress, up to the throat, and the folds simply 
^thered by a girdle round the waist ; yet a more symmetrical 
figure never gave grace to silken robe. The swan-like neck 
nobly supported the finely shaped head, round which the 
hair was bound in the simplest mancier. The features were 
of the first order : the high forehead, the oval <rf liie face, the 
short, curved Kp, gave the idea of a Grecian gem ; and the 
elear pale olive, unbroken by colour — a melancholy, almost 
severe expression of thought, produced also the effbct of the 
more spiritual and inteUectual beauty of a statue rather than a 
picture. The eyes were peculiarly large, beautiful in form 
and colour ; of that rare deep, soft black ; thot^ghtful rather 
than animated ; quiet, downcast, more than expressive ; but it 
ivas not difficult to imagine, that, when their midnight depths 
were kindled, it would be the flashing of the lightning. There 
was something sad in seeing youth such a contrast to itself—- 
a face whose beauty only was young. 



J386 BOMANCE AND REALITY. 

With a bright cbangefiil colour, a mouth whose smiles were 
in unison with the Inright clear blue eyes, the mother ali&'dst 
«eemed younger than the daughter. Donna Margaretta's dress 
though it was black, showed more of personal adornment 
The material was a rich silk. The ends of the veil, drawn 
over her head, were ; embroidered with silver ; she had long 
gold ear-rings ; to a rich and large gold chain was suspended 
a cross set with precious stones ; and over the arm of her 
£hair hung a rosary of agate beads. Another contrast was, 
diat, though Beatrice's little hands were as exquisitely shaped 
as her mother's, they had not the same delicate white which 
^ows the hand has known no ruder contact than a silken 
thread, a lute-string, or a flower. Moreover, the contrast be-^ 
tween her throat and face showed that Beatrice was somewhat 
sunburnt ; while her mother s cheek was fair as one 

*' No wind has swept — no. sun has kis&'d.*' ) 

They drew routd the breakfast-table, which was as neat as 
if it had been prepared in England. There was chocolate^ 
new milk, honeycomb with its liquid amber droppings fra- 
grant of a thousand flowers, a small loaf, and a little basket of 
green figs. Lorraine observed, that while the rest of the meal 
was serve^ on the common earthenware of the country. Donna 
Margaretta's cup was of exquisitely painted cl^na, and placed 
on a small silver stand wrought in filagree. 

The meal passed cheerfully, even gaily. If Beatrice was 
silent, and seemingly anxious, her mother appeared to be even 
in high spirits. Delighted to see a countryman of her own, 
she asked a thousand questions. The sound of an English 
voice and English words carried her back to her childhood ; 
^nd the birds and flowers she had then loved now rose upper- 
most in her recollections. She often alluded to her husband 
— said he would soon be home — and repeatedly dwelt on 
the pleasure it would give him to see an Englishman. 

Breakfast was scarcely finished before she rose* and asked 
Edward to accompany her to her garden. *' It is just like an 
English one." 

*^ It is very hot, dear mother — had you not better stay in 
the house ? " 

*' There, now — when my garden is so cool. You will go. 



JBOMANCB AND BEAIilTr. 337 

"will you not ? " sani'^ej .with an air of pretty-/ childish en* 
treaty to Edward. ^' We.won^t take you, Beittrioe." 

Beatrice rose^ and^ calling the old black servant, spoke to 
him in a low voice in Spani^- " Cesar will direct you — 
and you will take care of my mother," she said ■ to Lorraine, 
with rather more earnestness of manner than seemed neces- 
sary. 

■ The old negro led the way, and, with a most ostentatious 
care, cleared the path, which wound very Hke a labyrinth, till 
it opened on. a small space no one could have found without a 
guide. Entirely surrounded by ilex and oak-trees, it was like 
an island of sunshine; the soft thick grass only broken by 
plots of many-coloured flowers. In the midst of each was a 
wooden stand, on which was a straw bee-hive — every one 
of those Cortez of the insect world were out upon their golden 
search, and the murmur of their wings was like an echo to 
the faUing fountain in the midst. The basin had once been 
carved hke a lotus leaf; the edges were now rough and 
broken, but the water fell clear and sweet as ever. 
. His companion deUghtedly pointed out the flowers and the 
bees ; and, whether it was the contagion of her gladness, the 
open air, or the sunshine, his spirits awoke from th&depression 
of his morning melancholy. Her peculiarly' sweet laugh rose 
like music ; and he graduaily^began to draw a paralliel between 
^e mother and the daughter. In spite of thie interest excited 
by Beatrice, the conclusion was in favour of the parent ^' The 
one," thought he to himself, ^Ms gloomy and desponding — 
rash, too— > think of last night's adventure. Donna Mar- 
garetta, on the contrary, reconciles herself to the alteration of 
her fortunes by a gentle contentedness, engaging her mind ' 
and centering her wishes on healthful employment and inno- 
cent amusements, in the best spirit of feminine philosophy." 

He walked round the garden with her, till they came to 
an immense ilex tree- at ohd end. It had its lower branches 
fashioned iuto a sort of bower, and a rude lattice-work sup- 
ported the growth of several luxuriaofit creeping plants. There 
were two or .three seats covered with matting ; and on one of 
these, at the foot of the ilex. Donna Margaretta took her 
place. ^' It is not so pretty as our English gardens — have 
you a garden at home ? " Edward was obliged to confess 
his inattention hitherto to horticultural pursuits. '*I was 

z 



Banch kappier ia EngkncL — noun, dmVyoa tdl Beattise^ finr 
she takes his part — ^ but Doa Benriquez is. very unkind Id 
loave me as he does. I have not seen himv such a long- while." 

CoDfidenfitali oomBnuircatioitB aoe nsuiUiy embarrassing; 
and Sdwazd begam to tlnak, '^What shall I aajK His 
eoifipanicm did not gire him much time to consider, be^we she 
continued — '^1 have very little to remind me of £ngland; 
hat I have some of its flowers -~ I like ^em better tboui all 
the others : " and^ putting a> dxooping bough aside^ ^le shovned 
some daisiesy of which, she gathesed a few*. At first she- 
seemed as if about tor give them to ham, when suddenly hear 
eyes filled with tears, and she paasionalBly exdaimed^ '^ N4it 
tfaeae.-^- I cannot give a;w8y thesei They are English flow«» 
•** yon will get plenty in your <ywn oonntry ; yatt will. go< 
back there -— I diall see England no mosei" 

Edwani, both snipiised. and touched^ endeavonredi to soodie 
her; she did not appear even to hear whali he said.. She let 
die flowers drop, and>. clasping her knees with joined lumda, 
rocked backwondB ami- fbrwarda, half singing, half repeating^ 
the words, ^'no- moie;" while tfae< teais- &1I like ai child'a 
down her face^ without aiii effbstron her part tO' stop, thenu 
GfaduaJiy the sounds, became iaanticulate, ^ heavy g^tteiuig 
hnh Bested on the diedk^ ber head made a natural, pillew of 
the' IIsk' tmnk; and Lorraine saiv evidently that she was 
sleeping. To wididraw as quietly as possible seemed his beat 
pllm ; when the entrance of Beatrice indnoed hint to hesitate^. 

Signing to him. finr silenoe, she bent over her mother foD a 
motiaenty drew a bnmcfa' closer to exclude the sun &om her 
fkce ; and, with a step so light that er^i to Lonradne*s ear it 
was inaudible^ she le£ki tiie arbour, beckoning him to- follow. 
*' I fiftsred thi%" sad she, hen dnk eyes Ailing widi teaie^ 
whose softness was- but momentary, so instantly, were they 
checked. ^' My poor motiier ! -—God- forbid yon should ever 
know what she has suffered ! — Think what must have been 
the wretchedness that has left her a child in mind." 

The truth flashed on Bdward. Desolate th€n,,ind0ed> was 
the situation of the young creature before him. It is very 
difficult to express sympathy to. one -who evidently shiinka 
from such expression* They walked on in silence till- tfaey 
eame towhne the negro was at work. 

£ cannot leave my. mother; when she* wakee^ she wonid 



ct 



hr so- rianned to fiii«|: herself alone^ and her sleep is as tnan 
rfenft as it » unceEtaii* : biali the country toumI i& well wortJk 
a stranger a attentam, and Casar is an exseUent guide as to 
l a nds *. The ^ietmscpie i must leatre to* yoamti£» I tikaHSL 
hBOpe at dinner to ifeeas yen say that omr valley is as* beautifiii 
9»y¥v anrseWea* think it. 

' Bdnvard asked a few topogsaphieal qucstiaiis^ and set forth 
withmit die old man, who seemed infindiOsly- te' prefec finishiag 
Ms attendance on his easnadem. 

The finest prospect waoM have heen thrown aeway em. ear 
young trapveller; aiii he wished waa aolsttide and his own 
thoughts. A nook was soon fyvaad ^ he diotw himsslf on the 
soft grass beneath a large myrtle-tree, and pondered oves the 
events of die last ft»iir-andhtweBi^ houn ; at the sano time, 
afber an approved EngUdh farinosy piddng off the leaves ftom 
every bongh within his veadi. Okie reflection made hias stiip 
ar poor brascb very qniddy — it was the dieught that^ nodsr 
all cdscumstsnoesj ho oug^ not to remaia at Booc tteniicpiea's 
house.. Stiii;^ hi» family weis* efidendy so^ situated tilat a 
^end might he of use. What could luHre induoed Bealrict 
to assume a disgiiise' so* foreign' to utet seomcd hes* fSeeUngB 
and manners ? If he could find oat the dafficidtyy m^ht he 
not oififer assistance? fieaolats: and deserted as botb she- and 
her unfortunate mother appeared to be^ every kind and good 
sentiment prompted an eflbrt to serve diem. The. resulJC of 
his deMberatinnr was, to stay a litde v^ils^ at all evonto. He 
might coBvinoe diem, of his sineere wish) to render any aid in 
his power. Advice alone-' to one so friendless as Bealidae 
mi|^ be ii»f ahiaUe. 9o piddag die last ka£ of myftia he 
conld reacli,. ho determined^ to renndiK Inoiination never 
wants an ^usuae -« and^. i£ one won^t doy dsere* are a dosen 
others sooU' £onnd. 



CHAPTBH IL 

" EUe gtoit belle, et de plus la seure hgrltiftre ! • • *' 

6e fht BUT cela qua je-ftimaiile .pt^t.6A axon dUbUiMnmBL** 

Higtoire dc Flrur eCEpine. 

lam the cairis which fbnn; a ohild's plaything: palace, our 
plsaiwes 9st nioelj) bolaaoedr oao« voaa dia odioK. The pleB»> 

z 2 



340 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 

sure of change is opposed by that of habit | and if we love 
best that to which we are accustomed^ we like best that whidi 
is new. Enjoyment is measured by the character of the indi- 
vidual. Lord MandeviUe was sorry to le%ve Rome^ becauM 
he had grown used to it. Lady MandeviUe was delighted to 
leave it^ because she had grown tired of it. Emily^ actuated 
by that restlessness of hope which peculiarly belongs to hope 
that is solely imaginative^ was rather relieved by, than pleased 
with, change. The map of her world was coloured by her 
affections, and it had but two divisions^ — absence and pre- 
sence. She knew that Edward Lorraine was on the Continent; 
and she allowed her mind to dwell on the vague^ vain fancy 
of meeting him. 

It was winter, with a promise of spring, when they arrived 
at Naples. A few days saw them settled in a villa on the 
sea-coast^ at some distance from the city. Emily, who loved 
Bowers with all the passion of the poetry that haunted them, 
gathered with delight the clustering roses which formed a 
miniature wood near the house, and wore the beauty of June 
in the days of February. Lord MandeviUe reproached het 
with being run away with by noyelty, and said contrast gave 
them a double charm in England. " The blossom is a thou- 
sand times fairer when we have seen the leaf £aU and the 
bough bare." 

Still, the situation of their vUla was most lovely ; it was 
quite secluded, in a little vale filled with orange trees, now 
putting forth the soft green of their leaves, and the delicate' 
white tracery of their coming buds. The grove was varied 
by a plantation of rose trees, a few pinasters, and a multitude 
of winding paths. It was evident that nature had been left 
for years to her. own vagrant luxuriance. A colonnade ran 
completely round the villa, which on one side only was open 
to the sea, whose sounds were never sUent, and whose waves 
were never stiU. A space, Ughtly shadowed by a few scat- 
tered orange-trees, sloped towards a terrace, which looked 
directly down upon the shore. The eye might wander over 
the blue expanse, broken by the skimming saUs, which dis- 
tance and sunshine turn to snow^ Uke the white wings of the 
sea-birds, till sky and sea seem to meet, false aUke in their 
seeming faimeiss and seeming union; — the sails, in refaUty, 
being but coarse and discoloinwd canvass^ and tile distance 



ROMANCE AMD REALITY. 341 

between sea and sky still immeasurable. On tlie left^ the 
DTdters stretched far away — on the right, a slight bend in the 
coast was the boundary of the view. Thickly covered with 
pine and dwarf oaks to the very summit, the shore arose to a 
great height, and shut out the city of Naples. On the top 
shone the white walls of the convent of St. Valerie ; and on a 
fair evening, when the wind set towards the villa, the vesper 
hymns came in faint music over the sea. 

The time which passes pleasantly passes lightly ; days are 
remembered by their cares more than by their content; and 
the few succeeding weeks wrote their events as men, says the 
Arabic proverb, do benefits — on water. Lord Mandeville 
was daily more desirous of returning to England, and resolved 
to be there by March at the latest. Lady Mandeville began 
to calculate on the effect her prot^Se, Miss Arundel, was 
to produce — and the result in her mind was a very brilliant 
one. To do her talents justice, Emily had improved very much 
since her residence under her care. Though too timid and 
too sensitive in her temper ever to obtain entire self-command^ 
she had acquired more self-possession -— a portion of which is 
indispensaUy necessary to gracefulness of manner. Encou- 
raged and called forth, her natural powers began to be more 
evident in conversation; and her accomplishments, her ex- 
quisite dancing, and her touching voice, were no longer painful 
both to herself and her friends, from ihe excess of fear which 
attended their exercise. A little praise is good for a very shy 
temper — it teaches it to rely on the kindness of others. 
And last, not least, she was grown very much handsomer ; the 
classic perfection of her profile, the symmetry of her figure, 
were more beautiful in their perfect development. 

Some preparation for their return to England engaged Lord 
Mandeville for two or three days at Naples; and the day 
after his departure the rest took an excursion to one of the 
ruins in the neighbourhood. This excursion had been long 
talked of ; it was made in -the name of the children — an 
excuse common on such occasions, phildish gaiety is very 
contagious, and sunshine and open air very exhilarating ; and 
the whole party arrived at their destination in that humour 
to be pleased, which is the best half of pleasure. Naturally 
lively. Lady MandeviUe's vivacity was the most charming 
thing in the world. The two boys their only cavaliers, they 

z 3 



'$4Sl B01IAK<»J AX3 REAurr. 

• 

wandered aft>0ut in seardi *of a picturesque spot ftn- dieir di»nig« 
Toom. Mudb «f the troubie we give oursdws ig ^ite un. 
necessary — it»»tters very tittle where a good appetite finds 
its dinner. However, trouble is, like -virtue, its own reward. 
At last, at &e insligaition of a likle peasant, whose &een dark 
eyes belied liim mudi if lie were tnot a very imp of misdiief, 
they fixed on dieir banquefdng-place. A lovely spot it was ; 
a hanging ground, just on the very ed^e of a wood, whose 
dark shadow seemed as if ift had never been broken. Below 
them spread a fair and fertiie eoimtry — ^neyards putting 
forth &eir first shoots, and oli've plantations wliose light grey 
leaves shone like morning frost-work ; while the dim blue line 
of the sea <:lo8ed lihe view. The side of their hill was very 
varied and uneven ; bift the side of their vest was deeded by 
the welling of a little «pring, which bubbled up a sudden vein 
of ffllver from the earth, and wandered on liloe -a child singing 
l!he same sweet song. The <place was covered with moss, 
whose bright green was speckled with purple, <»rimson, gold, 
minute particles of colour, lil^e ^m elfia carpet embvoidered by 
Titania and her xfairy coort The ^ornid rose en «ach side 
like a wall, but hung with natural tapestry — -ihe creeping 
plants which in the ^uth take such graceful and wveathing 
ibrms in their foliage. 

On a space a little below lay the ruins they had been seek- 
ing. Vivid nn»t harve been the dmagination that could there 
have traced the <tem<ple which, in fornker dayc, paid homage 
to the beau^nl goddess, by being beautiful like herself. Two 
columns alone Temained — ieniaa in their graoe and lightness. 
A few ^fragments 4f£ l&e wall lay scattered about, but some 
chance wind had sown them with bidets, and every trace, 
whether of ardhiteotnre or decay, was hidden hy the broad 
leaves, or the thousands of deep-blue flowers, whose sweetneas 
was abroad on the atmosfAiere. 

Francis and <his ^brother were especially happy : tl^y helped^ 
«or -ralher retarded, the spieading their dinner — every diah 
was to he ornamented with the wild flowers they had gathered ; 
and they ran about, if not with all the utility, with all the 
cderity of goblin pages. I do not think childhood the hap« 
piest period of Imr life ; but its sense of happiness is pecu^ 
iiarly keen. Other days have move means and appliances of 
pleasure ; but then their relish is not so exquisite. It all^ 



BOMANOE AND «BA£«ITC 343 

liowever, comes to the same in the longnruu. Tlie dbild lias 
to learn the multiplication-table-— the man has to practise ic 

'^ I am liappy,'' «aid Lady Mandeville, ^^ to find I have 
not lost all taste for those pleasi^ies -called simple and natural^ 
as all out-of-door pleasures are denooKknated." 

*' Even in Bngland, idiose climate you deprecate^ in that 
spirit of anndable opposttion 'which I oaoe heard you call the 
Jcey-arch of oonrversation/' (replied Emiily^ '' I always loved 
being out in the open air. I have a feeling <if companionship 
with our old trees ; and nay thoughts take, as it were, fr«er 
ftnd more tangible shapes, I alwi^s used to go 4»ui think in 
the shrubbery/* 

'^ Dream, you mean.*' 

At this moment their iittle guide began 40 sixig one of those 
popidar airs which the Italian peasantry execute with such 
singular taste. They listened as the sweet voice died away, 
and l^n was repeated by an echo £rom the r«ck. A rush of 
hurried steps broke izpon the song — the branches oraahed 
oveiiiead — t^e party caught a glimpse of some half-doaen 
dark figux^s^ Jn another moment^ Emily felt a cloak £«ng 
ever her head ; and, blinded andsilenoed, was lifted seemingly 
in some one's arms. In whose grasp she was nothing. Again 
«he felt herself raised : she was placed on a horse — her com- 
panion sprang up behind — and off they galloped, with a veLo- 
<:ity which 'effectually bewildered her senses. She could only 
^U^nguish the sounds «f other horses' steps besides their own. 

At length, almost fainting with thmr speed, she was aroused 
l>y the suddennee of their halL She was lifted from the 
liorse, carried a short distance, the deak partly loosened, and 
her hand drawn within a powenfol arm, that half..guided, 
lialf-supported her up a kng, steep flight of st^s. A door 
creaked on its hinges — the grasp upon her was relaxed — a 
atrange Toice said, in tumble, though fiordgn, accents, 
^ Ladies — &om the^days of chivalry to the present, no woman 
was ever seriously angry at the homaf^, however rude, excited 
by ber own charms : they pardon the offence diemselves caused. 
Pray use your own pleasure, of which I am the slave." 

The door shut heavily on hinges whose mst grated as it 
'Closed. 

*' Do throw that great ckak aside^ and tell me what yoa 

E 4 



344 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 

think of our adventure," said Lady Mandeville, who seeoied 
divided between alarm and laughter. 

Emily collected her scattered faculties^ and looked round 
with all the terror and none of the mirth of her companiosu. 
They were in a spacious room^ whose days of splendour had 
long since passed away. The walls had once been stuccoed 
with perhaps beautiful paintings^ — damp had effaced all» ex- 
cept patches where blues^ reds, and greens, had mingled into 
one dim and discoloured stain. All trace of what the floor 
had been, was lost in one uniform darkness. The windows 
were fastened with strong iron lattices, and so completelji 
overgrown with ivy, that not one gleam of daylight pierced 
through the thick leaves. 

Evident preparation had, however, been made for their 
arrival. At one end of the room was spread a square car- 
pet, and on it stood a table, on which were placed two most 
sacrilegious-looking wax-tapers : it is to be feared some poor 
sinner stayed longer in purgatory from the abduction of his 
offering. These threw their light on three large old chairs^ 
covered with tapestry, which seemed long to have been the 
home of the moth — and also showed an open door, leading 
into another apartment. This Lady Mandeville prepared to 
explore. It was fitted up as a bed-room. On a dressing-table 
stood two more wax-tapers, but unlighted, a lazge looking- 
glass, and a most varied assortment of perfumes and fragrant 
oils. The two grated windows were here also covered with 
ivy ; but the view was very confined. 

Lady Mandeville approached the table, and opening one of 
the bottles of sweet essences, said, ^' I see our bandit chief 
is prepared for fainting and hysterics." 

How can you laugh } Hark ! Did you not hear a step }" 
Yes, I heard my own. My dear Emily, do not be more 
frightened than is absolutely necessary. A heavy ransom i& 
the worst that can befall us. According to the usual course 
of human affairs, we shall pay dearly for our amusement." 

'* I wish we had staid at the villa. . What will Lord Man- 
deville say } " H 

« Wonder what induced us to leave England." 

" Oh, if we were but in England now !" 

*^ All our misfortunes originate in my acting against my 
principles. What business had I with simple and innocent 



t< 



ti 



ROUANOB AND REALITY. 3^. 

pleasures— your dinings on the grass — your picturesque 
situations — your fresh water from the fountain ? Mandeville 
may just blame himself: he was always talking of rural 
enjoyment^ till I thought there must be something in it." 

<^ But what shall we do ? " 

'^ The best we can. Try this lemon perfume." 

Lady Mandeyille was more alarmed than she would allow : 
stilly the excitement of the adventure kept up her spirits*. 
Moreover^ she had been so accustomed to have every event 
happen according to her own will, that the possibility of the 
reverse was one of those misfortunes which we expect to hap- 
pen to every one but ourselves. 

The evening closed in. At last the rusty hinges of the 
door announced an arrival^ and an old woman appeared bear- 
ing various kinds of food. She spread the table^ and pre« 
sently returned with two flasks of wine. She looked good- 
natured^ and seemed civil ; but the various attempts of Lady 
IVIandeville to engage her in conversation were fruitless, as 
neither understood what the other said. 

The supper was laid^ and for three. The old woman left 
the room ; and a few moments after^ a cavalier made his 
appearance. Nothing could be more picturesque than his 
entrance. A large doak enveloped his tall figure — the heroes 
of the Cobourg might have studied its folds ; a profusion of 
feathers waved from his slouched hat ; and his black whiskers 
and mustaches finished the effect. He flung the cloak most 
melo-dramatically over his left arm — took off the plumed hat^ 
whose white feathers swept the floor — shewed a pair of silver- 
nounted pistols^ and a dark-blue doublet laced with crimson 
and gold^ and a worked falling collar. Wallack himself could 
not have dressed the bandit better. He was tall— handsome> 
in* the style of the sublime and sallow — and advanced to 
the table with an ease whose only fault was^ that it was too 
elaborate. 

" I cannot but regret, ladies, that your first visit to the 
castle of my ancestors should be less voluntary than I could 
wish ; but, alas ! beauty has much to answer for.*' 

" The courtesy of your manner," said Lady Mandeville, 
cautiously suppressing some sudden emotion of surprise, 
" belies that of your conduct* What can your motive be, if 
you welcome us as guests ? If we accept your hospitality, we 
claim your protection." 



34() BOKASUSB AtifD BOSAIiITS^ 



/* I irOttld die io give you pleasiuae — I live but in your 
si^it.** 

'^ Again let me aflk you your nioti¥e for this outrage ; or 
rather^ let me entieat you to name our ransom, and gWe 
UB the means of communicating with our friends/' 

'* Ransom ! name it net to me. Love, not ;g«Id, has led 
me on. Beautiful mistvess -of nry heart, behold your slave ! " 
And he dropped on one knee before Emily^ who clung, hal^ 
fainting with surprise and fear, to Lady Mandeville. << I 
hiwe loved you <for years ; in England, when an exile from my 
native country, I -wonsfaipped at a distance. I veturned to 
Naples; but my heart was away in yonr cold island — our 
Southern beauties were iowely in vain — when, one day, I saw 
you on the strado. Alas ! even then none but a lover might 
have hoped, l knew the pride of the English — <how little 
my noble name or my fervent passion <wottld avail with the 
haugjhty islanders, your friends. Love made me desperate. 
I assembled my vassals ; and now sue at your feet for pardon." 

Emily was speechless with dismay, when her iromantic 
lover turned to Lady Mande^Ile. 

*' May I implore your inteEGessieii } Tell her that all she 
waves of entreaty now, riiall be ijspaid in ladoration after our 
marriage.*' 

^8urely," said Lady MandeviUe, retainiug her self-pos- 
session, though with difficulty, ^^ if you have been in England, 
you must know that Miss Arundel, as a minor, k tdependeut 
•fm the will iof ^her guardian." 

^ Ah, 'his pleasure wiU tfbllow hers. I h«ve (planned every 
thing. To-morrow morning my confessor will be here ; he 
will unite us : and when her guardian. Lord MandendUe^ re- 
turns, 1 shall implove your medialdon. A '£bw days will 
arrange all our aflPairs." . 

^< I woidd rather 4ie ! " exclaimed Emily, roused into mo- 
mentary energy. 

^' Ah, you young ladies do atot always die when you talk 
about it. To^monrow will see you Countess di FrianchettinL" 

'^ Such a maniage,". said Lady Mandeville, *^ would be a 
Ibrce. Bemember the inevitable punishment.'' 

" Which it wffl then be the intereat of my bride to avert. 
What rational objection can the lady urge ? I afo her lank 
— to be mistress of my heart and my rcaslile." 



JIOMANGE AND KBAUTY. 347 

Lady Mand*yil]e glanced round the dilapidated md empty 
room. The Count saw the look. 

" Yes, our ndble house has lost its ancient splendour. This 
has been the century of revolutions ; and our family have not 
escaped. Should Miss Arundel prefer the security o£ her o(wn 
more fortunate island^ I am willing^ for her sake, >to make it 
my country. Alas ! our Italy is ^ unforfcttnate as ^e is 
beautiful ; — not hers the soil in which patriotiam flourishes." 

*^ The 'Count Erianchettini is a patriot^ then ? How does 
the violence practised "upon us accord with his ideas of 
liberty ? " 

'^ Love, Signora, owns no. rule. But^ a thouBand pardons 
•^ in the lover I forget the host. Permit me to hand you to 
the aupper-table.'^ 

Decision is easy where there is no choice. Faint and 
bewildered, Emily took her seat^ drawings like a child^ dose 
to Lady Mandeville, who was at once alarmed and amused. 

'' I can recommend this macaroni^ for it is my favourite 
dish: I am very national. You will not take any? Ah, 
young ladies are, or ou^t to be, light eaters. Your ladydup 
will, I trust, set your fisir companion an example." 

The Count at least did honour .to the macazoni he «eoom» 
mended^ contriving, nevertheless, to talk incessantly. fie 
turned the conversation on England — named divers of their 
friends — asked if one was dead, and another married — and 
hoped Emily was as fond as ever of the opera. "* 

" We seem to have so many mutual acquaintances,'* re* 
marked Lady Mandeville, 'carelessly, *' I wonder we "happen 
never to have met 'before." 

The Count gave her a keen glance ; but hers was a well- 
CMchicated countenance; — even in ordinary intercourse she 
would have been as fXivtfAi ashamed of an unguarded expression 
of face as -of language ; and aiow it was under most careful 
restraint. 

'^ Afa^ your ladyship's cicde was too gay for me. I was a 
misanthropic exile, who shrank from society. The object that 
might have induced me to join it 1 had not then -beheld — I 
only saw Miss Arundel j^ust before she left town. Mv sentence 
of banidiment was revoked ; but Naples had lost its charms 
when I saw the idol of my soul^ and resolved she diouM be 



mine." 



848 BOUANCE AND REALITY. 



Take my advice — restore us to our fiiends^ and our 
gratitude " 

*' Signora, I have lived in the vforld^ and prefer certainty 
to expectation. I will now retire; — late hours must not 
injure tl^ roses I expect my bride to wear to-morrow. I go 
to guard your slumbers." 

So sayings he folded kis cloak around him^ and departed — 
to say the truths a little disappointed. Emily's state of breath- 
less terror had disconcerted one of his plans. He had relied 
on producing something of an impression ; — plumes, pistols, 
cloak, mustaches, passion, and an attitude, he had calculated 
were irresistible ; but not a glance, except of fear, had been 
turned towards him. However, the game was in his own 
hands, and he cared little whether he roughed or smoothed it. 

*^ Why, Emily ! " exclaimed Lady Mandeville, unable, eveu 
under such circumstances, to suppress her laughter, do you not 
remember this hero of our < Romance of the Castle ? ' " 

Emily shook her head. 

*' Only dear, that Count Frianchettini, the lover and the 
patriot, is Signor Giulio, our old hair-dresser. I recognised 
him instantly. Oh, he must know enough of English people 
to be aware that this plan is ridiculous. What a hero for a 
melodrame ! I will advise him to-morrow to come out at 
Covent Garden, and offer to patronise his benefit." 

The old woman's entrance, to clear away the supper, broke 
off their dialogue. She pointed to their bed-room, made every 
offer of service by signs, and at length departed. They heard 
heavy bolts drawn on the outside of their door. 

<< What shall we do ! " exclaimed Emily^ bursting into 
tears. 

" Why, I cannot advise your marriage, which absurd pro- 
ject I do not believe our romantic professeur will dare carry 
into execution. Only try to suppress all appearance of terror ; 
— fear is his best encouragement ; for fear, he clearly sees, is 
all he has to expect. Rely upon it he has been reading 
romances in England, and thought a picturesque chief of 
banditti would turn any young lady's head. So polite a 
co^eur will Surely never send one of our ears as a token for 
our ransom. Why. it would go to his heart to cut off a 
favourite curl." 

** How dreary the room looks ! — the dark floor — the 



ROMANCE AND REALtTT. 349 

discoloured walls — the huge shadows, which seem to move 
as I gaze ! " 

*' The very place for ghosts and midnight murder. You 
must certainly re-furnish them — but quite in the antique 
«tyle — when you are Countess di Frianchettini." 

'^ How can you jest at the bare possibility of such a mis- 
fortune ? " 

" What is the use of crying ? Thank God the children 
were left behind — they will give the alarm. I have arranged 
all the scene of to-morrow in my own mind. You will be 
dragged to the altar ; — you will faint^ of course ; this 
occasions a delay — a sudden noise is heard — a party of 
soldiers rush in — a little fighting, and we are safe. It is so 
very unromantic to be rescued by one's husband : it would be 
such an opportunity for a lover. What do you say to 
Edward Lorraine — he would be a fitting hero for such an 
adventure ? " 

Emily blushed^ but made no answer. Indeed^ she was 
seized at that moment with a desire to explore their prison. 
The survey was soon finished. The first room contained 
nothing but the table and three large chairs : the other^ whose 
only entrance was the door which led from the outer apart- 
ment^ had two mattresses and the dressing-table; and the 
windows were only covered with a slight gratings which 
yielded to a touch. Lady Mandeville tore away some of the 
ivy, and looked out. There was water below — for the stars 
were reflected with the tremulous brightness which mirrors 
them in the wave ; and a dark outline^ as if of a steep and 
wooded bank, arose opposite. 

'^ If the worst comes to the worst, we can but throw our- 
selves into the river : which would you like best — to be shot, 
stabbed, or drowned ? " 

Emily shuddered ; and, to own the truth, as the cold night- 
air chilled them to the very heart, Lady Mandeville's spirits 
sank very considerably. Danger she could laugh at — for she 
could not force herself to believe it could menace Aer — but 
personal inconvenience made itself felt; and she trembled 
with cold, while Emily shook with fear. It was a pleasant 
prospect of passing the night, especially a night that looked 
to such a morning. They sat down on one of the mattresses 
-— tired, but afraid to sleep ^~ and very thankful that they 



9S0 MOKANOE AND REAIiITT. 

bad been half suffi^ted by tfaeir cloaks, which had been< nsesd 
to blindfold them — at least they now served to wrap them up» 
Small evii» ma^ the worst part of gvsat ones : it is so much 
aonsr to endure 'miBfoetiine tiian to- bear an inconvenience. 
Captain Franklin, half frozen on the Arctic shores, would not 
grumble one tithe, so much, as an. elderly gendeman sitting in 
a draught. 



CHAPTER IIL 



** Bat our herotM might be nipposed^ goon began to feel dltsgtiBfled.witli.thi» 
obscure calebrit3r, aad to look out ton opportunities of aocomplishing a more 
extended&nie;'*' — Stokmh&m. 

GmmmB has many misfortunes to encounter;, but the worst 
that can befall it, is when it happens to be universal* When' 
a. whole world' is before it from which to choose, it is ra^er 
difficult to'deoide; This had been; the case with Giulio Castelli. 
Has mother wae » dancer at the Neapolitan Opera ; his father 
-^bul; truly that waft aa honour which^ like the crown of 
Belgium^, no one seemed very ready to accept The first ten 
years o£ his« life wezie passed in' enacting interesting orphans 
er Cupids; but, alas ! he grew out of the theatrical costume 
»id the' age of Lov»; His mamma died;, his uncle adopted 
him^ and insisted on bringing hhn* up in an honest way -— 
wiiich' meanfi, cheating his customesa for macaroni as mucii as 
poBsible. 

Young Giulio soon made nlacaroni as well as his unde, aid 
then felt he hadta soul superior to his situation. He settled 
his accounts summarily— that is to say^ he took as many 
ducats as he could find, and joined a company of strolling 
6omedian8*> If his. musieal talents had equalled his others,, 
his ibrtune had been' made ; but he had a voice and ear that 
might hav« been} Englishk He was next ralet to an Eng^lah 
nobleman^ who lived in his carriage-: he was cook to m car- 
dinal> on the profits o£ whose kitchen he travelled for a while 
at has own expense. He went to Paris as an- artist, who took 
fiksnesses in nne-colomed} wax; and was successful to a de- 
grae as: hain^resseis im London, He soon was what seemed 
wealthyr to aai iftiliam. Am he gnew rioh> he gxew senti- 



»eMAI9CB AND laMAJATX^ 351 

mental — tfaou^t of gsa§e» aad sunshine «- hi» fifsli love — 
and his old uncie;. 

He returned to Naples — found Seiia£n» had married — 
grown fat^ and. had had seven. children*< Hie- unde was dead^ 
and had left his property to a. convent to' say masses that hia 
nephew might turn from his evil waya. €^ulio felt idle and 
stupid — gamhled and lost his last pistole — had recourse to 
his wits and his old opinion^ that it was a person's own fault if 
he was poor while others were siich. 

There was some philosophy in this ; but^ like most other 
doctrines when reduced to practice^ it was carried too far. His 
principles endangered his person; and the futurity of the 
galleys was a disagreeable perspective. 

One day Lady Mandeville and Emily drove into Naples. 
The gaily embroidered curtains of their vehicle blew aside^ 
and the twa ladies^ mufflied in fur mantles,, were distinctly 
visible. 

It is curious how little we speculate on what may be the 
impression we produce on others — unless,, indeed; vanity 
comes into play, and then there iis no bound to the speculation. 
Still, the general feeling is uttec indifierence. Take an ex- 
ample from London, life. Some, fair dame ^^ in silkr attire " 
folds her cloak, round her — if very cold half buries her face 
in her boa — and drives the ususJ* morning round, without 
one thought given to the crowd through which she passes ; — 
and yet how many different sensations have followed the track 
of that carriage ! admiration, envy,, even hate. Some youth 
has loitered on his busy way to take another gaze at a being 
whose beauty and grace are of another order than his working^ 
world. Some young pedestrian of her own sex has cast a 
glance of envy at the bonnet of which a glimpse is just caught 
through the window ; and, as envy is ever connected with re- 
pining^ turns regretfully to pursue a walk rendered dista&tefui 
by comparison. Then hate — that hate with which the 
miserably poor look on others' enjoying, what he sees, but 
shares not, and pursues the toil that binds him to the soil^ 
fiercely and. bitterly saying, '^ Why have I no) part in. the geod 
things of earth }** Still leas did Lady Mandeviile and Emily, 
as they drove threughi the streets of Naple%. dneary. as is the 
aapect of a SDuthem^ metropolis in the winter, -^ still leaa did 



352 ROMANCE AND BEAUTY. 

-they think of the hopes^ the enterprise, and ^e daring, their 
appearance excited in the hreaat of one individual. 

Giulio had for some time past been connected with some 
gentlemen who quite differed with Solomon about the advan- 
tages of a dry morsel and quietness, rather preferring Words- 
worth's view of the case — 

" The good old rule 
SuflBceth them, the simple plan — 
That they should take who have the power. 
And they should keep who can '* 

There was an old castle by a small river, only a short dis- 
tance from the Mandevilles — the haunt of some half dozen 
of his more immediate associates — that seemed the very place 
for an exploit lil^e the one he meditated. His residence in 
England had taught him the language ; and one or two little 
adventures had given him a high idea of English predilections 
for foreigners ; he therefore came to the conclusion, that if 
Miss Arundel was a girl of any heart, it never could resist a 
picturesque banditti chieftain — Salvator Rosa and the Surrey 
Theatre blended in one. His plan was skilfully laid^ and 
daringly executed. The impression he was to produce was 
the only erroneous part of his calculations. 

It was now a little past midnight. " My dear Emily," said 
Lady Mandeville, " if there were but a castle clock to toll the 
hour !" 

" If Lord Mandeville returns home to-night, as we expected, 
surely he will be able to trace us." 

" It is upon his efforts I rely. O Heaven ! what is that ?" 
as something fell heavily in at the window. 

It was the extreme stillness that exaggerated the noise ; for, 
when they picked up the cause, it was an arrow, evidently just 
cut, and a strip of narrow paper folded tightly round. It 
contained these words, written in pencil :— 

'' If you can manage to lower a string from the window your 
escape is certain. 

" An Englishman." 

Lady Mandeville sprang to the window. She had already 
cleared away enough ivy to enable her to see out. It was too 
dark to distinguish any object definitely : the shadow of the 
old casde lay black on the river, and the outline of the opposite 
bank was only marked by deeper obscurity. 



ROMANCE AND IIEAUT7. 353 

^ How shall we manage ?*' 

Emily, whose distinguishing quality was not presence of 
itoind, only looked eagerly at her companion. 

'*We cannot he worse off — we may he hetter. I am 
sonry^ my dear girl^ even to propose such a sacrifice ; hut give 
me that pretty apron we thought so picturesque and peasant- 
like this morning, and help me to tear it into strips." 

Emily took off her hlue silk apron^ whose red trimming was 
a flattering likeness of a Neapolitan costume. It was soon torn 
up^ and knotted tc^ether. 

'^ It is so light that the wind will hlow it hack. What shall 
we do to steady it ? An arm of these huge chairs would he 
▼ery convenient; hut to break them is beyond my strength. 
But I have an idea." 

So sayings Lady Mandeville turned to the toilette, and mer- 
cilessly tied up in her handkerchief the various brushes^ comhs^ 
oils^ pomade, and rouge, with which the table was profusely 
covered. Their weight was sufficient, and the string was 
lowered from the window. 

They heard a splash in the water, and the next moment 
the string was apparently taken hold of : again it felt slack, 
and they drew it up, with some light weight attached to it 
They saw a coil pf rope, and another little scroll. It was a 
leaf from a pocket-book, written in pencil -— by the feel, not 
by sight — and contained these words : 

'' To the rope is fastened a iqiecies of ladder. Can you 
deaw it up, and secure it sufficiently to allow my ascent ? If 
you can — by way of signal, darken your lights for a mo- 
ment" 

With some difficulty they deciphered the scrawl, and in- 
stantly proceeded to carry its advice into execution. 

Lady Mandeville's. buoyant spirits, those nurses of ready 
wit, suggested, as she herself said, laughingly, *' as many re- 
sources as a romance." They drew up the ladder, and secured 
it by attaching the rope to the three heavy arm-chairs. 

" Our deliverer will, at all events, not look his character if 
he outweighs these huge masses of architecture rather than 
furniture." 

The signal was given by shrouding the lights. One mi- 
nute's surprise, and a dark shadow appeared at the window. 

A A 



Sfi4 mmAnem Mom ubmuty, 

A strong grasp forced aside the inxn staiwliioM — a tallal^ht 
figure ipsang into the roan* 

'^ Mr. Spenser I the i«ry her» fov. aft adventiise !" exelahiMii 
Lady Msadeville, 

^' Mies ArnndeL !" es«kuDed tike caiiraiier, Ms eye nalmraliy 
fixed oUf its ehie£ atijiset of. intfiieat. 

'^We nuifit. wait to^ finish: our aateniahmenty" said Lady 
MaDdevilk;. 

'^ Indeed^" returjMdi Cecily *' tana ia precioiis. Have you. 
cotirage to descend a ladder of rope ? I ibmk I can. guarantee 
jwm safety." 

Pauaing: one mmaaent tb aecnie the chaira BMie fimly^ 
Sfouer again a^nwebed. the caaastot. 

'^ My young companion^" rejoined Lady Manderilley. '^ shall 
ga-firsl; — my nv^iaa an the moor aerviaeHible of the two." 

Emily troahlad ta andt a degna that Cecil aappwted her 
with difficulty to the haat, whore tlie ladder terminated^, aaad 
w«» kept firm by aame stian^r. However^ the convietieK 
on his mind was^ that nothing could he noie gncefol than 
timidity in a wanaa.. Lac^ MandeviUe lailowci; and three 
minutea was ike utmasfi time: that dapaed faefoBa their Mttk: 
boat waa floating dJMm the stream. 

The stricteat silaite waa pmaervad. At fengtii the afar a n ya 
aeid^ in rery patoia-aoanding Itaitaa^ '*- We can: «ae mm oam 



now." 



'^ Haw did you came a» oppartBnri|r ta mi^ reacur?" 
" Iwill give yoat," relnviKfL Ccs^ '< aaveeiikaL jwfe at p»- 
sent. We mast row for oar Uvea,, aa they aa^. 09 the Thamca 
when they are rowing for ' the cup and the kiver.' " 

The li^ ^f af the oara abne hmkaa* dIeailaMa. Lady 
Mandeville waa more anxiaos new the danger waa aswr ; and. 
Emily waa tear mudi exhanated to a|M^ : hesidie^ 10 tett the 
truths disappeinlaaaiit^ however anwawm ahle ik. may aeem, 
was the uppermost feeUi^ in heirmind» When she aaw a 
young cavaiier spring into ike loam, she imiiaediakd.y aiadeap 
her mifid that it was Lorraine^ A young lady'ahMrar is always 
present to her imagination ; aod^ of covnw^ exaggrratiBg in 
her own mind both the difficulty and honour of the adveattuna, 
she felt as if Edward had heen actually defraaded« U not the 
raest unreasonable — that woidd be saying too nofifa — a gid 
in love is certainly the most unreasoning of human beings. 



BOMANCB ANB BBALITT. 355 

The tide of the narrow stream was widi them ; Ceeil and 
his comrade rowed vigorously ; and all danger of parsmt was 
rapidly deereasing. But that each of the party were too much 
occupied for external obaervation, the eye might have dwelt 
ddi^edly on the still beamty arooad. The deep river, where 
the oar dipped, but plashed not — the gloomy outlines of the 
steep honks, whose odd trees seemed gigmtic — the dark sky 
o^eriiead, where two or three small but tadght stars shone their 
oaly lights m far and so s|»ritaal — the g^m of the tapers, 
whicb, feom the stream's nmniitg ia a straigbl line, was still 
vTiiMe inom the casement of due eld eastle> though now 
dioBinished to a small bright point -^ die eliscuiie which they 
wcse penetrating — for^, from the incieaBiag height of its 
bMi}»> the riv«r gresw darker aad daricer — all made one of 
these exciting aeenm where tke imaginatioii, hlce. s hmdscape- 
painter, colours from nature, only idcalisiag a little. A bend 
in the river shut out the castle light : the boatmen paused on 
their oars. 

** All path by die river ends h&fe on their side ; and we 
are now as sale as ilsh ia tiie se* when there's nobody tso 
ca/txk then," sand the same oeorse ¥Oftee m before. 

CecS now commenced his Bfarrattve, wltieh waa seen toid. 
Attraeted by the extreme beauty of th6 wild and littie.known 
southern' part of Naples, he had been wandlerii^ there* for 
sone weeks — so he said; to* whseh may be added, he was 
making- up his mind whether Mies Arundel would thmk him 
a weleome vkiter at the vilhu We alwsys hefdtate where die 
feelings are concerned — and he loitered away a whole day of 
uaeertainty when only witlds a couple* of hours' ride from 
their house. Thi«, he stated, waa occasioned by die great 
beanty of die place and its environs. 

About sunset, he was leaning on the lenMuns of an old wall, 
which had onee probaUy surrounded a Soman encampment, 
and noiw sowed' as a line of demarcation between twe vilkges, 
ae jealous of eaeh other's dokns as near neigHbonrs usually 
are. While^ he was deliberaidng whedler he should ride over 
to die Mandevilles or not, a man, a strwnger — though by this 
tine he was weU aequujnted with mosf of die pedants — 
came up and spoke to him. This- i» not so iiiiperti!nent in an 
Italian as it is in an Baglishman — or it is not thought so, 
whi<^ amounts to the same thing. Cecil, therefore, civilly 

A A 2 



S56 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 

leplied to his question^ which was one almost as general as the 
weather, viz. die time. Still the man lingered, and at last 
said, '^ The Signor Inglesi does not seem a cavalier that would 
leave his own countrywomen in trouble without helping them." 

" Why, that must very much depend on the nature of the 
distress." 

No Englishman was ever yet so young, or so adventurous^ 
as not to give one first thought to the imposition which he 
always expects — and for which he is, notwithstanding, never 
prepared. To make the shortest of the story, as mysteries are 
of no use now-a-days — from long habit, every reader always 
foreseeing their end — this man was one of Giulio's con^-» 
panions. Francisco had assisted in the abduction of Lady 
Mandeville and Miss Arundel, and was now on his way to 
fetch a priest, already gained over by the enterprising professor 
of curls and carbines. But 

" Envy will merit, like its shade, pursue ; " 

and genius, though it cannot communicate itself, can com- 
municate its example. Francisco saw his companion after he 
had assumed the picturesque costume which was to annihilate 
the young Englishwoman's peace of mind. In the fulness of 
his glory he folded his cloak round him, suffered the white 
plumes to droop over his curls, polished and perfumed with 
the most fragrant oils, and, turning from his mirror to his^ 
friend, said, '^ I think my chance is a very tolerable one : in- 
stead of running away with the lady, I might have left it to 
her own good taste to have run away with me." 

Giulio was not the first '' talented individual " whose vanity 
has been, primarily, an inconvenience to others, and then to 
himself. Called hastily away for a moment, Francisco tried 
on the cloak and plumed hat his comrade had left on a bench 
beside : he folded his arms, and walked to the glass — " I am 
sure I look quite as well as he does." To this conviction suo<- 
ceeded the doubt, why should Giulio marry the beautiful and 
rich English girl? But Frandsco had no invention — he 
could devise no expedient by which he could step into the 
other's place. A thousand old grudges rose up in his monory 
—the reward lost its value in his eyes — and he arrived at the 
sure conclusion of the envious, that if, he, could not make, he 
could mar. The last finisK'W^s given to his displeasure by 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 357 

being sent for the priest while his companions sat down to 
supper. Off he set in one of the worst possible humours, and 
•escaggerated to the utmost what he termed his comrade's luck. 

Now, the difference between good and bad intentions is 
this : — that good intentions are so very satisfactory in them- 
selves, that it really seems a work of supererogation to carry 
them into execution ; whereas evil ones have a restlessness 
that can only be satisfied by action — and, to the shame of 
fate be it said, very many facilities always offer for their being 
effected. 

Francisco was considering Giulio's good fortune, as if it 
had been taken away from himself, when he caught sight of 
Mr. Spenser. A thousand plans floated in most various inge- 
nuity through his brain, which finally settled into one. With- 
out knowing who his countrywomen were, Cecil naturally 
entered most eagerly into any plan for their deliverance. 'His 
first proposition, to ride post to Naples, was overruled by 
Francisco, for the ostensible reason, that it would be too late 
next day before they could reach the castle : the private rea- 
ison was, that though he wished to disappoint Giulio, he did 
not wish to betray his companions — whose futurity, if sur- 
prised, would inevitably be the galleys. There is honour 
among thieves, though it does admit of divers interpretations. 

The very adventurousness of the plan he suggested ac- 
corded well with Cecil's temper. The only difficulty his 
companion considered great, was, how to establish a com* 
munication. Luckily Spenser, among the resources with 
which he had attempted to kill Time, had once had a whim of 
shooting him. His archery dress of green, and the silver 
^arrow — which he did not win from looking at the lady, who 
held the prize, instead of at the mark — occurred to hi 
memory; and we have seen how successful his scheme of 
sending an arrow as a messenger proved. They made free 
with a boat belonging to" one of the peasants — formed a rude 
but safe ladder of rope — and dropped down the stream, 
which Francisco knew so well as to make the darkness of no 
consequence, but as an advantage. 

The light in the window indicated the room.- Cecil entered, 
and saw, to his astonishment, old acquaintances. We cannot 
guard against dangers we do not suspect ; and the escape of 
his prisoners formed no part of Giulio's calculations. 

A A 3 



S58 BOMANO£ AND BBALITY. 

In die mean time, the whole party praeeeded in safety 
<lown the river. ^^We must land here/' said FraAcisooy 
pausing. ^^ I will fasten the boat to the roots of the old; 
chestnut, and half an hour s walk will bring you to the villa." 
So saying, he strock a light, and, firing a torch made of the 
green pine-wood, led the way. 

Shivering with the cold night^air on 4;he water, both ladies 
found the good effects of exercise; and Lady MandeviUe, 
while she followed the dark figure of their guide, bearing the 
pine-splinter, whose deep red glare threw a momentary bright- 
neas over the heavy boughs smd dusky path, felt all that ex<site- 
ment of spirits natund to one who had an innate taste for 
adventure, but from which her whole life had been eatlrely 
removed. 

Poor Emily felt only fatigue ; and while she accepted 
Mr. Spenser's assistance with all the gratitude of uttear exhaii9&- 
tion, said faindy, '^ I will rejoice over our esci^ to-morrow." 
And Cecil ^ — though he observed that the little feet, seen ^s- 
tinctly as they trod in the bright drcle made by the tereh, 
took faint and uncertain steps, «id that the hand placed on his 
arm obviously shewed it dung in sheer heJiilessness — - some- 
what forgot, in the pleasant task of assastanoe^ his paty lor her 
sufferings. 

In the meantime, the servants, who had returaed to the 
villa, had, of course, thrown the whole household info oon- 
fusion. A messenger was immediately despatched to Lord 
Mandeville, whom, from his master s having left NayJes, he 
managed to miss on the road. However, he ooBtl^rtad. Ian- 
self by giving very particular accounts of how his mistress had 
been barbarously murdered by banditti; and the good city 
talked incessantly of the murder, till set right next day by thie 
greater marvel of the escape. 

An accident to one of his carriage-wheda delayed Laid 
Mandeville, who did not sorrive at home till just before day- 
break. To his no. small surprise, lights, voices, &c. weie ia- 
dicative of any thing but '^ tired nature's sweet vestoivr ; " and 
yet, when he drove up to the door^ no one seemed willing to 
admit him. His arrival produced one gener^ outcry — then 
silence — then whispering. " Are they all gone mad ? " He 
had an opportunity of answering his own fuestioB, for the 
door was at last opened ; and really the scene of o^oihmmk he 
witnessed might have justified a reply in the affirmative. 



AOMANGfi AND BKAIilTT. 359 

All the flerramts woe ootiected togethen. Thst l^erc is 
safety in numbers^ always holds good with the lower classes 
in QMSA *oi itluavaB 4>r ghosts. They had, oWionsly^ none of 
ihem lieen ui died — att lodoed footish and frightened — anfl 
some two or three had been evidently lia^ng recourse io 
i^orituftl efMMH)]«6K)n. The nune iiad left lier cwn regions^ 
iiEkd the yoixngeit duld was ade^ on her knee. 

The onomeBt -Lord Mandeviife entered^ ail set xip some 
<eeiveral ejacuktion, of which *^Oh, iBfy iady ! " — ^^'^ainrdered!" 
&c. was the burden. The eldest boy, pale with late hoiDB, 
«nd worjied «p with libe horrible luncratiTes which every one 
had been contributing, sprang into hoA ffttiier's arms, and 
«Dbbedj te the utter exclusion of ail iq^edh. 

'' Will nobody .hold their tongue ? — - cme of you tell me 
what has happened. Where is Lady Mandeviile ? ** 

^' Miudered 1 " said a doaon voices at once. 

^' Not so bad .as that, qv&be,'^ saad a voice, and in «ame 
Lady Mandeviile herself, to the still gveotter alarm of ihe 
idomeslic^, who took it for gmnted it was then: mistress's 
ghost aome to tdl their mistroBs's murder, 

'' My poor Uttle Fraak," as the «hild made hat ^me spring 
to the ground from his fathers Arms, sod nushed with a scream 
of delight to iiis mother. 

" Dearest Ellen, what does all lilns mean? " 

" That, thank Heaven, I am safe at home," and, catching 
her husbands arm. Lady Mandeviile, for tiie first time, 
laughed hysterically. 

A iew words fjom Mr. fipenaer did a great ideal towards 
explaining much in a little time ; and in ^e minutes the 
cttifusion had subaided sufficiently to allow the party to fe- 
ocdlect they wore very faungry : in half an hour they wei*e 
seated round a supper-table, in ^all the deligbtfiil eagerness <ft 
eating and talking. Lady Mandeviile narrated the scene of 
the bandit hair-dresser's declaration, while her auditors were 
divided between amusement and indignation — Lord Mande- 
viile ibeing moat .ammed, and Mr. 'Spenser most indignant. 

The next -day, procndng 4i aiifficient escort, they rode to 
the old oaatk, ^vidiich at firat appeared but a mass of min ; 
however, they &rced an entmiioe, bat discovered only traces 
of its laAe oocupifirB, not themscdves. In one of the lower 
looms were aome aremains of food, and in liie upper the 

A A 4 



860 ROMANCE AND RBAMTT. 

three arm-chairs ; a bottle of perfumed oil also lay broken on 
the floor. 

'^Another loss, in addition to what was bestowed on the 
river last night : pity there are now no water-nymphs to profit 
by the benefaction." 

They returned home, where they found the butier in great 
distress. Signer Francisco had taken advantage of last night's 
confusion to decamp, not only with the ducats that had been 
liberally bestowed on him, but also with two pieces of valuable 
plate. ' 

'' Truly, Mr. Spenser," said Lady Mandeville, '^ your 
friends are of a questionable character." 

*^Now, after such an adventure," rejoined Cecil, ^'it is 
your duty to be romantic ; instead of that, how worldly is 
your last speech ! first you use my friends, then you abuse 
them. For my own part, I shall always feel grateful to 
Francisco," he looked at Emily, ^^ though he did walk ofi^ 
with your silver spoons." 

'^ Do you know," said Lord Mandeville, " I cannot help 
pitying the bandit coiffeur — his design was as brilliant as the 
mock diamonds tiiat decorated the hand he offered. They say 
ladies always forgive the sins which their own charms caused ; 
now, own the truth, Emily, are you not flattered by this 
homage d vos beaux yeux ? " 

"Nay," replied Emily, "don't you think it was rather les 
beaux yeux de ma casette ? I trembled for my pearl necklace, 
not for my heart." 

^' Now, out upon you, Frank, to suppose Emily could be 
flattered in any such way. But I have noticed in all you 
gentiemen the same esprit de corps. It matters not who offers 
it, a woman must be supposed to be gratified by your selection. 
Take the ' meanest of your ranks ' — 

** Vain, mean, and 8illy, 
Low-bom, ugly, old," 

and he will make an offer to the Venus di Medicis, could she 
step from her pedestal into dazzling life. And what is worse, 
half his fellow-men would say, ' well it was a compliment.' " 

" I merely made an individual application of a general rule. 
All women love flattery — ergo. Miss Arundel liked it." 

Now, mercy. Heaven, upon our ill-used race!" replied 



ec 



BOMANCE AND REALITY. SGl 

Lady Mandeville ; '^ the force of flattery is^ I am convinced, 
very much overrated. People would far sooner suppose you 
silly than themselves^ and take for granted the compliment 
they have paid must he received. For my part, how much 
of my vanity has been mere endurance ! I confess myself 
much of the Macedonian's opinion, — ^ I would wish for the 
prize in the chariot race, if kings were my competitors.' You 
all know tlie anecdote of the dustman who requested permis- 
sion to light his pipe at the Duchess of Devonshire's eyes. 
Now, I should have been more displeased with the dustman's 
venturing to know whether I had eyes or not, than pleased 
with the compliment." 

**^ Miss Arundel, I beg your pardon," said Lord Mandeville, 
laughing ; *' I will never ask whether any abduction flatters 
you, unless run away with by the Sublime Porte." 

It is worth while to have an adventure, were it only for the 
sake of talking about it afterwards. ' 



CHAPTER IV. 

" Alas 1 for earthly joy, and hope, and love, 

Thus stricken down, even in their holiest hour I 
What deep, heart-wringing anguish must they proyc 

Who live to weep the blasted tree and flower ! 
O, woe, deep woe to earthly love's fond trust ! " 

Mrs. Embury. 

" Thou wert of those whose venr morn 
Gives some dark hint of nignt, 
And in thine eye too soon was bom 
A sad and soften'd light." 

T. K. Hervey. 

If ever Circumstance, that " unspiritaal god '* of Byron, took 
it into his head to put Wordsworth's theory of '^ how divine a 
thing a woman may be made," into practice, it was in the case of 
Beatrice de los Zoridos. Her early childhood had been passed 
among the wild mountains of her native province — whither 
Don Henriquez had conveyed his family : one attack had been 
beaten off from his luxurious home in the valley ; that cost 
him dear enough. — another might be fatal. Besides, the 
security of the mountains to those he loved most would send 
him forth an unfettered warrior against his country's enemies. 



562 BOttUNOE ANID AlLAIdTT. 

But what took LMrraiae tliree weeks io learn, ma^ be t<dd in 
.three minutels. 

Maigaretta ForteBcue was the very sweetest hisQe sylph "fliat 
ever was spoiled by being a beauty and an only chikL The 
last of one of our ii4>blest Norman familiesy who, -horn ps»- 
fessing the Cadiolic faith^ lived muc:^ to ihewMlveB — a whole 
hoii6eh(dd seemed made but for her pleasuce. The first 
su^icion that even a wish could exist eontcary ito her owa, 
was when she fell in love with the hondaoBie and statdy 
Spaniard Don Henri<|uez de Jos Zonidos^ who had made iheir 
house his home during his visit to Eagland. The high harth, 
splendid fortune, and answering creed of her lover, overcame 
even the objection to his being a foreigner. 

Margaretta was married ; her ^rents aceompanaed iier 
abroad ; and for four years more her life was Hke a Isdry tale. 
Its first sorrow was the death of her father. From her great 
.to her small scale Fate repeats her revolutioas. FamiUes, jb 
well as nations, would seem to have their epochs of calamity. 
Thus it proved with the Zoridos. The sunny cycle of their 
years was past, and the shadows fell the darker for their former 
brightness. 

The French invaded Spain, and their path was as that of 
some terrible disease, sweeping to death and desolation all 
before it. Pon Henri<]uez*s house was attacked one night ; 
the French were beaten off for a lame, but Bot without much 
bloodshed. A chance ball laid Mrs. Fortescue a corpse at her 
daughter's side. Beatrice was wounded, though but slightly, 
in her very arms ; and when daylight dawned on the anxious 
household, to one half of them it dawned in vain. Zoridos 
saw that no time must be lost : the enemy would soon be down 
upon them in overwhelming numbers. A summer-house near, 
which had been fired, served as a funerad pile — ^^any thing nther 
than leave «ven the dead to the barbBidty of tiie imnuler. 
fienriquez himself was obliged to force his wife fien the 4xidy 
of ber motheo:. A few neoessaries were hastily ^»Uected~£(n: 
vahiahles they had ]id.ther thought iiar tome. Zoridos |xlaeed 
the insensible Margaretta befitwe him on his hosae, and rode 
ofl^ without daring to look back on ijiie happy home ihey were 
deserting for ever. Beatrice s nnrse f oUotwed , with her husband 
and the child. In better days^ a daogfater «f the nurse had 
married a y€HUiig iBoum^aineer, whose remffte aolt^;e owed 



'every oomfort to tiieir onaster's £ur iBngluh Ivide. There 
tJiey resolLved to seek far shabeo;. A iem AuyB masw them in^ 
at leasts safety. But iSoiadoB iras not the jnan to Temain inkc- 
tive and secuie at a time when it was lo nBpeFati«e>on every 
Spaniard whd wore a sivord ?fcD nae it. jEiiB plans -were soon 
formed — jhis wife's frantie enftreatiBB were in vain — and he 
descended into the fkin at ihe head of a gaDavt hand of 
gliexiilas* 

Soon after his.de^iaxtiirey it beeanie evBdeait^ not only to the 
Borse, but to everj indtvidual in the cottage^ l^t the lady's 
Bolnd had veoeived a shoek, not her health. For days togetiier 
she did not know them — spoke only in £nglish — addressed 
her nurse, Marcela, as her mother — and pilayed with the little 
Beatrice as if die were iieiBelf « ehUd, and were de%fated widi 
such a living plaything. 

The &st interval he could snatch, Don HenriqiieB hastened 
to the cottage. .His wi£e did :BOt knew him^ afanink :away in 
pitiable terror fiom dte wnaaa that he woie^ 'aaid, as if ail late 
events had passed from her manoiy^ only «emed to kaowTthat 
^ was spoken to when addressed as Mass Fortescne — by 
which same Ae snvandBly called sheDself. That ni^t the 
dark and lonely rooks, where he wandered Ba hears, wave tlie 
«iily wkneeaes of Zcridos' agfmy. Hie next day he was art 
ihe IBiritii^ ^amp. A week's inteaded halt fperadttia^ such an 
absence, he ptBerafled <oii an fiegli^ sargeon to accompany him 
to the nMnintains. His afaniDn was only tiam decaave. Qniet 
and kindness might amettevate, hut never reatore. The oniy 
cbanoe he held cnxt was;,^aEt wdien circuDOstances enabled them 
to retem to their hoonse, familiior sfieneB,4md accmtomed daress, 
might awj^en a^me teuoh of memory — thongh nothing could 
ever recaU .the whdb mind. 

To anch a blow as Ms, ^deeth had l)een ^nerciful. Similar 
tastes, similar puisnitB, had bouBd Zorides to his yeung JSnglish 
wife— —his mind had been ociseitomed to see itself minsored in 
hers, only with a sefiar chadenv.. fie liad been used to that 
greateat «if mental pieaaureS'*— to hanne his diioagbfes often 
4ivined — .always entored hatOb And Bsm^—iihe inteU^eDt 
aind aecooqiliBfaed wesnan was a weidc^ aad «ven worse, a mezry 
«^ild. The afihctiyttQato wofe looked iaa her Inishand's faee as 
in ikM of a otMs^gJBor, from wbom she slnrank with £ear« The 
pait wdtiii no mamoia^, the sfatoae with ao liope. 



^64f BOHAMGB Al^D BEAUTY. 

The bitterest cup has its one drop of honey ; and the fediog 
of reciprocal affection was roused in Zoridos by the almost 
frantic delight of his infant girl at seeing him again ; she 
<clung to him — hid her little face in his bosom — sat still and 
silent, with that singular sympathy which children often show ^ 
to the grief of their elders-— and only when overpowered with 
sleep could she be removed from his knee. 

Months passed on. The imfortunate Margaretta was taught 
to consider Zoridos as her husband, and Beatrice as her childy 
and gradually to feel for them the affection of habit. But 
her mind seemed to have gone back to her childhood : all her 
TecoUections, her amusements, her sorrows, and her joys^ 
belonged to that period. And once when Zoridos brought 
home for Beatrice a large doll he had obtained from the family 
of an English officer, her mother seized it with a scream of 
delight, and made dressing it a favourite employment. 

Months grew into years before they dared return to their 
•home ; and it was not till after the battle of the Pyrenees that 
Henriques and his family again took possession of their 
mansion. No trace was left of either its beauty or luxury. 
His embarrassed affairs quite precluded Don Henriquez's plan 
of taking his wife and daughter to England. A few rooms 
were made habitable ; and Zoridos gave his time and attention 
to the education of his child, which, from the extreme solitude 
in which they lived, devolved entirely upon himself. 

Time passed widiout much to record till Beatrice reached 
her sixteenth year, when the system of oppression and" extor- 
tion enforced in his native province called imperatively on Don 
Henriquez to take his place in the Cortez. A few weeks of 
bold remonstrance ended with the imprlsonn^teut of the most 
obnoxious members, and a heavy fine on their property. 

At sixteen Beatrice found herself in a large desolate house, 
with scarce resources enough for mere subsistence, her father 
in an unknown prison, her mother imbecile, and herself without 
friend or adviser. Zoridos had always foreseen that his 
daughter's position must be one of difficulty, and he had 
endeavoured to prepare for what he could not avert. The 
free spirit of the mountain girl had been sedulously encon* 
raged ; she had early learnt to think, and to know the value of 
self-exertion. To privation and hardship she was accustomed* 
She had read much ; and if one work was food to the natural 



BOMANOE AND UEALITY. 365 

poetry of her imagination^ and the romance nursed in her 
solitary life, — another taught her to reflect upon her feelings, 
and by the example of others' actions to invest^ate her own. 
She was now to learn a practical lesson — lessons which, after 
all, if they do but fall on tolerable ground, are the only ones 
that bear real fruit. 

One day, Minora^ the daughter of the old guerilla who had 
served with her father^ came up with the intelligence that a 
detachment of soldiers, galloping up, had detailed their business^ 
while pausing for wine and directions in the village. It was 
to levy the fine, and search for suspected persons — in other 
words, to pillage the house. Beatrice locked at her mother^ 
who was busy sorting coloured silks for her daughter's em- 
broidery. Who could tell the consequences of another alarm, 
where the first had been so fatal? Her resolution was in- 
stantly taken. A few weeks since, with the view of supplying^ 
Donna Margaretta with a constant amusement, Beatrice had 
fixed on an open space in the thicket for a garden, and had 
there collected bees and flowers, and framed a little arbour. 
The way to it was very intricate, and the place entirely con- 
cealed. If she could but prevail on tier mother to remain 
there, her security would be almost certain. Hastily placing 
a little fruit in a basket, and catching up a large doak, she 
proposed their going to eat their grapes in Donna Margaretta's 
garden. 

'^ She will never stay there," said the old man. 

Beatrice started — a sudden tliought flashed across her mind 
— she turned pale and hesitated ; at that moment the foremost 
of the soldiers appeared on the distant hill ; she rushed out of 
the room, and returned with a small phial and a wine^flask 
which she placed in the basket. 

"Leave those," said she to Pedro and her nurse, who- 
were clearing away a littlei remnant of plate ; ^^ to miss the 
oljects of their search would alone provoke more scrutiny. 
Follow me at once." 

The garden was reached before the soldiers rode up to the 
house. The . wind blew from that direction, and brought 
with it the sound; of their voices and laughter. The misery of 
such sounds was counterbalanced by die certainty that the 
same wind would waft their own voices, or rather Donna 
Margaretta's, voice away from the hooBe. Still Beatrice, who 



S66 RewANcs Axm rbalitt.' 

knew the extreme restlessness of her parent's disorder^ f^H 
<:enTiiieed sfte sbouM never be able to prevail' on her to lemain 
quiet. To* be dUeoTered by the solidiers wimld be deatli and 
insult us their worst fovms. The ^ole province haMi been 
fiUed with tales of their lecklete brotality toiwarda - those 
suspected by the government. One course nenuiiiiied — h was 
ons' siie tremUed tJo> pniotue. She had brought a litde phial 
witii her — it contained lannianunu It had been used by her 
fadier, whsofreqiicBtly> soflbred from » woand he had received. 
She had o&en dropped it for him. But she knew it was 
poison »— she couki not foresee what its efiEects might be upon 
her notdier in her statey if she w«te to give her too much. 
Her bfood froae in her veins at the thought. Bonna Mar- 
garetta grew every^ moment more restless and angry at not 
heihg ailowed to retani to the home. £f prevented by force^ 
the screams she- sometimes utixred in her paroxysms of rage 
vcre fearfinl^ and most inevzttdily be kesBrd. Besides^ there 
W4H' the chaaoc' of hcv evadiiig their vigilance, and she wonld 
thcD fty, like an aiErowv to the thveaiened dcngen 
*^ I mwt try llic only hi^e I liave^ — God help me I" 
Bealriee went to the fonntasn, and in the- .wine and water 
mixedia portion of lamlaniHnL- r her raatfaer seeing the' glass, 
asked for itcs^erly, and cEiained the whcls contents* All her 
eSEoaHa; were now to be exerted to keep her unfortnnttte parent 
•amused. With a strong effort she mastered her agitation — 
she helped her to gatker Aoiraes— ^she. raaAe ihem inito wreaths 
fibr her hair — ^she pointed o«t hev ioMge in the- fintntam, and 
Maagasetta laugised with delight. After a whik she com- 
plained of Wng ibtigued. Beatriee tbot^fat, with an agony of 
apptsfasnsion^ of &e sleep that was cpnddy ooraing over her. 
In a few moments more, Donna Mai^retta was in a profound 
shonber. 

The twO'ServanH^ iftiemomemtdieirsnstrest was quiet, seized 
the oppGvtuBityto^fepart: Mazcelstoseek ar netghbovringTiIIage^ 
whither two of the domestics had gone to attend) the festival 
of St, Franeii9> and warn them against an abrupt retnm : 
Pedzo to their own viUage, to leam^ if possihle^ what was 
ISoelyr to be the sta^ of the soldiers. JSvening was coming on 
fast, and not a. moment was to be lost, Beatrice conld hardly 
force herself to tell them not to retam if the least peril was in 
the attempt. They depovted with the utmost caution— scarce 



a.Buatle among tbe leases told her sbs was atone. The next 
tW9i hourft pasBfid in listaning to ever^v noise — the waving of a 
boHgbiniadrheii heart beat audibly — <a in watching the placid 
aleep' of hex swthei. 

Thelaat smalLnd dondnoinonBd in theflbuiBlBin disappeanni 
— distant o1a»ieets were lost in ohscuiaty — tiie sdiadowa seeswd 
aa thej do aseni; at nightihfl> almost snbstaixitial — teee- aifaev 
tree disappasred — the fenatuni aad the neaten shmba laofced 
like fantaatie figmea; she fancied she oonid see them move. 
Even. tbtee:becaiiier invisible;- and thedadcnesa was so entive, 
thalt^ to^ use the eonanon bnA expMssure phoraset, she ooidd: nod 
see her hand. Sr^ voices aame frona the hmise;, in aiaging 
and shouts. It was evident they intended to pass the ni^st 
there^ and woe eflMnunoig itS' eMdier pact in nevetey* The 
hepetshe had: hithagto* enturtaiwA af their dspartmce waa at an 
asdk. 

To spend the ni^it: in. the open mt waa noflhsng to the 
BMnntain-hpei giri^ She caept ciase to her mother — &e 
mosa and heapedrmp* kaws we» soft, aad dvy — she leant 
ovcrhai^ aad Mt hea warm hreadt ao; hev cbetk.p afae tbent 
knelt beside^ and pratyedl eaoMstly in the- llngliab tangoe^ 
There was aiqiexatitiany pedia^>. m- this — bat afiectaaob ia 
aapentilMna. 

At length* the sounda from, the kNmfie eeaaad^ — atrange, dbe 
HUflsed them;. ^ utter siknce and the dadcneaa wese so 
fearful ia theiz stilbMss ! A. rin^ star — ai tone fmaa ai 
familiar voioe— she would have bleaaed. How long the time 
seemed ! Aa the ni^t cb^enad, all her effotta agaiant sleep 
were unavailing.: woie ahe dared noA. Amid such utter 
darknefls^ the diancea were» that if she isfb hex mother^s side,, 
she might not agida iind her piaoe^ Skep did ofreroame her 
— that feveaish^ biKiken> sfia^^ whicji tenewa^ hk some- fantastic 
maonei!^ the, £urs of oar waking.. Evoa thia waa diaftorbedb. 
Was it a eomdi in hem dseam^ m some aiitwd. noisey. that 
made her a^t «p in. aU that vague gaspmg tmaor ndiich; 
£(dlow8 when. abrufKfely jsouaed ? All was. still, fear & moasunt ; 
and then, a flash, ea father flood of lightning gIfflEed away the 
darknesS"— the fisuntaia for an iastant was like a basin o£ fire 
— every tree^ ay, every bough, leaf, and flower, were as disr- 
tiaet as by d^ : one second OMse, and the duinder diode the 
very |^u(i(L 



S6B romance and BBAI.XTY. 

Beatrice perceived that it was one of those awful stontis 
which gather on the lofty mountains^ and hut leaTe their 
mighty cradles to pour destruction on the vales beWw. 
Flash succeeded flashy peal folloived peal^ mixed with the 
crashing branches, and a wind which was like a hurricane in 
voice and might. Suddenly the thunder itself was lost in the 
tremendous fall of an old oak^ which^ struck by the lightnings 
reeled^ like an overthrown giant^ to the earth. It sank directly 
before the spot which sheltered the fugitives; some of its 
boughs swept against those of the ilex over their Heads; a 
shower of leaves fell upon Beatrice^ and with the next flash 
she could see nothing but the huge branches which blocked 
them in. 

But even the terror that another bolt might strike the very 
tree over them^ was lost in a' still more agonising dread. HoDir 
could her mother sleep through a tumult like this ? Beatrice 
touched her hands — they felt like marble ; she bent over her 
mouthy but the arm prevented her touching the lips ; and the 
attitude in which she lay equally hindered her ftom feeling if 
her heart beat ; but the upper part of the face was 4i8 cold^ 
she thought, as death. ^^ Great God! I have killed- my 
mother." She bent to raise her in her arms — she might thus 
ascertain if her heart beat ; again she paused and wrung her 
hands in the agony of indecision. She had heard^ that those 
whom noise could not wake were easily roused* by being 
moved. If she, to satisfy her own fears, were to wake her 
mother ! Beatrice trembled even to touch her hand. 

The storm had npw spent its fury^ and was succeeded by a 
heavy shower. Fortunately, the thick shelter of the leaves 
protected them : and the rain that fell through though sufficient 
to drench her own light garments, would do little injury to the 
thick doak which enveloped her mother. It was too violent to 
last; but a long and dreary interval had yet to pass before day* 
breaks — haunted^ too, by the fear of her mother's death, which 
had now completely taken possession of poor Beatrice. At last 
a faint break appeared in the sky ; it widened, oljects became 
faintly outUned on the air — shadowy, indistinct^ and sometimes 
seeming as if about to darken again ; a slight red hue suddenly 
shone on the trunk of the ilex, and light came rapidly tiirough 
the branches. Beatrice only watched it as it fell on her mother ; 
her face was now visible — it wore tiie placid look of a sleeping 



tc 



•R031ANCE AND REALITY. S69 

child; again she felt her warm hreath upon her cheek. For 
the first time that night, Beatrice wept, and in the blessing of 
such tears forgot for a moment the dangers which yet sur- 
rounded them. 

She now perceived that they were quite hemmed in by the 
fallen tree — she could see nothing beyond its boughs. Those 
boughs were soon to prove their safety. About two hours 
after daybreak, she heard sounds from the house, voices calling, 
and the note of a trumpet. She listened anxiously, when, to 
her dismay, the sounds approached. She distiDguished steps, 
then voices — both alike strange. They were the two officers 
of the detachment, loitering away time till their men were 
ready. 

The inhabitants were off like pigeons," said one. 
I wonder if they had any concealed treasure — I wish we 
had caught them on that account," was the reply. 

^^ Small signs of that," observed the first speaker; ^'besides, 
the war, we know, ruined Don Henriquez." 

''They say his wife was beautiful: I should like to have seen 
her. I owe the Hidalgo an old grudge. Well, if he gets out 
of his dungeon — to do which he must be an angel for wings, 
or a saint for miracles — he won't find much at home." 

Again the trumpet sounded; it seemed to be a signal, for 
the speakers hurried ofi^ and Beatrice at last heard the tramp- 
ling of the horses gradually lost in the distance. She waited 
yet a little while, and then, her mother still appearing to sleep 
soundly, she thought she might leave her for a few minutes. 

With some difficulty she forced her way through the boughs. 
What devastation had a night effected ! flowers torn up by 
the roots — huge branches broken off as if they had been but 
leaves, and two or three trees utterly blown down — showed 
how the little garden had been laid open to its late unwelcome 
visitors. With a rapid, yet cautious step, she proceeded to 
the house. Not a human being was near, and she entered. 
What utter, what wanton destruction had been practised I The 
furniture lay in broken fragments — every portable article had 
been carried away — the walls defaced, and in one or two 
places burnt. There seemed to have been an intention of 
firing th^ house. What she felt most bitterly yet remained. 
There hung the blackened frames of her father and her 
mother's portraits, but the pictures had been consumed. 

B B 



570 BOMANOE AND &B4.LITT. 

But Beatrice knew it was^iio time to indulge in lamentaliaiis* 
In the kitchen yet smouldered the. remains of the fixe, and thia 
she soon kindled to a flame^ and nourished it with wood wkich 
was scattered about. A step on the threshold made her stact 
up in terror : it was only Pedro* A few words explained their 
mutual situation. He had been unable to return^ but had 
watched the soldiers depart, and had come from the village 
with provision and offers of assistance. Both went to the 
arbour ; and while with hisAxeand the assistance of a villager 
he opened a path through the boughs, Beatrice entered to 
watch the slumber she now most thankfully desired to break. 
She bathed the face of the sleeper with some essence, xaised 
her in her arms, and called upon her name. As if to reward 
her for her last night's forbearaaee. Donna Matgazetta atirred 
with the first movement, and opened her eyes. Still, ehe wa& 
evidently oppressed by sleep, though cold and shivering. Pedro 
and his companion carried her to the .house — a couch waa 
formed by the fireside — and Beatrice never ;]eft her till 
thoroughly warmed «nd awakened. It was evident that she, 
at least, had sustained no injury. 

Beatrice rushed into the aoct veom to throw lierself on her 
knees in thanksgivings Fatigue, distress, lots, were allahsorhed 
in one oveipowering feeling of gratitude. But the reaction 
wofi too strong : her nurse now arrived ; and when Beatrioe 
threw her arms round her neck to welcome her, for .the first 
line in her life she fainted. 

The young Spaniard had now to commence a eomne of «mall 
daily ea:ertioQs, the most tryii^ of all to one whose habits 
hitherto had been thoae of ionginative idleness — xnomings 
pasfied over a fiAvouTite volume, evenings over her lute, only 
interrupted hy attention to her naother, of which affection 4Dade 
a delight. Now the common comfort^ even the necessaries of 
life, were suddenly taken from them. Their vahiables had 
mostly been carried off; and rent and servioe were guUe 
optional with the peasantry. Long habit, and the remembranoe 
of protection, still more diat of kindness, met their reward in 
all possible assistance from the village. The little plate that, 
from its concealment, had escaped, was sold at once* The 
produce was sufficient for the present ; and Beatrice resolved, 
by the smallness of the demands on the tenants of her father;, 
to leave as little encouragement «s possible to the avarice that 



BOMANGE AND RBAUTT. S7l 

jnight tempt them to fleiase aach an epportaoity Cor ending 
their Hidalgo's claim. 

%he dismissed all the domestics except the nurse and her 
husband^ and an old negro, who^ 'bced from infancy in their 
teryioe, had not an idea beyond* She took every thing under 
her own direction. A small past only of the house was 
Attempted to be made habitable — a small part only of the 
^rdfln to be cultii^ated, and that soon became an important 
iHraneh of their domestic economy. Their honey and grapes, 
drom ihe care bestowed on each, found a market at the town, 
which was a lew lei^es distant. They were equally fortunate 
in their wine ; and the lamentations of Pedzo and Maroela aver 
the downfall of their master's house, mixed with a few hints 
of its degradation, were lost in the silent conviction of Ibe real 
*€omfort attendant on these .-new plans. 

With two •especial diffiocihies Beatrice had to oontend. The 
fifBt was, to induce old sesrvantsto believe that a young mistress 
could know better than themaelves.: and this was an obstacle 
nothing but a temper as sweet as it was ^rm could have over- 
come. The other was, to .reeoGDcile Docma Margacetta to the 
loss of accustomed luxuries. Like a duld^ ahe attached the 
idea of punishment to privation. T^e loss of the «inibroidered 
cover to her chair, and the beautiful cup for her chooolate, and 
the wearing a coarse dress, were subjects of bitter lamentation. 
This was the more fieinful to .the daughter, from her feeling 
4hat these trifles m&e all the pleasures her parent was capable 
of enjoying. 

The firat great disorder of the house somewhat reduced, 
^Beatrice devoted every leisure moment ^o her embroidery ; and 
was well repaid for h^ trouble by ^ scream of delight with 
which her mother saw her chair covered with silk worked with 
the brightest coloured flowers. One improvement succeeded 
another: the floor, was spread with matting — the vine,. sacri- 
flcing its fruit to its leaves^ aemred for a curtain — the walls were 
adorned with some of her drawings^ — her mother's flower- 
garden was restored — ^and many months of comparative com- 
fort elapsed. The work she had begun for her mother, by its 
continuance became also a source of revenue. Pedro improved 
as a salesman ; and divers omameutal additions made Donna 
Margaretta very happy. 

Still, the uncertainty of her father's fate kept Beatrice in a 

BB 2 



372 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 

State of anxious wretchedness. One morning she had wandered 
farther into the wood than was now her wont — for she had 
but little time by day for solitary reflection — when she was 
startled by a figure cautiously stealing out from the thick brush- 
wood : a moment more^ and she was in her father's arms. But 
the happiness of their meeting was soon broken in upon by the 
precariousness of their situation. Don Henriquez was now 
flying from a dungeon, which he had escaped with a price set 
upon his head. '^ Surely, dearest father^" exclaimed Beatrice, 
*' you would be safe in your own house ; secluded in some of 
the uninhabited rooms, your wants could be so easily supplied. 
I would be so prudent, so careful — and your old servants, you 
cannot doubt their fidelity ? ** 

*^ But I doubt their prudence. A single suspicious circum- 
stance — a single careless word, reaching the village, would 
bring inevitable ruin on us all. Your poor mother and your- 
self are at present unmolested — God keep you so ! Besides, 
the lives of too many are now linked with mine for me to run 
any avoidable risk. I have been here since yesterday — I 
have lingered about our old haunts in hopes of meeting you, 
and depart to-morrow with daybreak." 

*^ And you have been here for hours, and I knew it not ? " 

** This is no time for my little mountaineer to weep. Are 
you likely to be missed ? " 

The certainty that, even now, her presence was wanted at 
home — the impossibility of evading their notice for some hours 
to come — all rushed upon Beatrice's mind. 

*'What shall I — can I do? To stay with you now will 
inevitably occasion a search — Alas! my dearest father, you 
do not know what an important person your Beatrice is at home. 
You dare not trust even Marcela ? " 

** Impossible — you know her chattering habits — she could 
not keep a secret if she tried." 

The truth of this Beatrice had not now to learn. 

" To-night, then, my father — you know the old oak, which 
you used to call our study — I will be there by eleven o'clock 
— I cannot come by day without exciting wonder.'' ' 

'^ Alone, and at night? — impossible." 

'^ The very loneliness makes our security. There is moon- 
light enough to shew my way — there is nothing to fear, my 
own dear father .' " 



ROMANOB AND RBALITT. 373 

^' And^ Beatrice^ endeavour to bring some food. I must 
rely on you for supper." 

A hasty farewell^ whose sorrow was lost in its fear^ and 
Beatrice ran home in time to be scolded by Marcela for keeping 
dinner waiting. An old servant dearly loves a little authority 
-7— and as for the matter of that^ who does not ? 

The day seemed as if it never would end ; and as the evening 
closed her anxiety became intolerable. Donna Margaretta^ 
always unwilling to go to bed^ was even more wakeful than 
usuaL Then Marcela fancied that her child looked pale^ and 
began to accuse her late sitting up as the cause. At last she 
was alone> and every thing buried in the most profound quiet; 
With a beating heart, but a quiet hand, she took the little 
basket of wine and provision. How thankful did she feel that 
their stores were all in her keeping ! 

Once out of the house^ she darted like a deer to the wood. 
The new moon gave just light enough to shew the way to one 
who knew it well ; and Beatrice was with her father almost 
before she had thought of the dangers around them. Eagerly 
she displayed .the contents of her basket : there was some dried 
meat, hard-boiled eggs, a small loaf, and a piece of honey- 
comb ; also some olives, and two or three cakes of chocolate. 
Beatrice felt heart-sick to see the famished voracity with which 
her father ate — it was the first time he had tasted food for 
three days. 

Each had much to tell ^- the child, a tale of patient and 
affectionate exertion, every word of which was rewarded by a 
blessing or caress. The parent had to record a strict im-* 
prisonment, and a hazardous escape, aided by a party with 
whom he was now linked. 

Don Henriquez had sought Naples in the first instance : a 
knot of exiles had there laid a daring plan for revolution, which^ 
in their country's liberty, involved their own restoration. 
Zoridos* talents and activity pointed him out as a fit agent. 
He returned to Spain, and was now on his way to join and 
take command of an insurrection, whose success was to be the 
touchstone of their countrymen. 

The night passed rapidly — the morning star shewed the 
necessity of parting — a few minutes more, and the smugglers 
with whom Zoridos was to travel would arrive. With the 
acute hearing of anxiety, each fancied they could discern in the 

B B 3 



S^4f ROM'AMOB AN^D BISJklilTT. 

dsBtamce the tramp cf the mules : styi Beatrice clung -ptsfiion- 
ately to her father. '^ Beatrice^" said he after » momeot's i«^ 
Beetion, " yoQ have latety shewn a readiness of espedient, and 
a. resolntioii which even I coold not have expected £rom. you. 
Ton may safely he trusted. This padcet contains important 
intelligence to those to whose sacred cause I stand pledged. 
The efibrt about to he made may fail^ and these pikers be lost. 
If in the course of two mondis you hear nothing farther of me^ 
convey them, if possible, to Naples, but by a safe channeL 
As an inducement, if one be needed, the man to whose care it 
iff addressed will know my fate, if known to any one on eardu" 

Beatrice took the packet with a. mute gesture of obedience, 
but words choked her while parting again widi her father^ and 
for a service so fiill of danger. But the sound of the mules 
was now close upon them. '* Go — go — ^they must not see 
you. God bless you, my best beloved, my excellent ^hild!'' 

A farewell, which had yet a thousand things to say, passed 
in a moment. Beatrice gave one long, last look — i^tetioa 
lent her speed — she ran swiftly dtrough the forest — >and, unu 
seen and unheard, gained her own room. 

The next two months passed in the restlesanesB o£ feverish 
expectation ; but day after day, week after week, and no 
tidings of Don Henriqnez. The packet now haunted Beatrice : 
its own importance' — the hope of learning somewhat of her 
father — the danger of their situation, whose resources every 
hour wae lessening — the conviction that she had not a caeature 
on whom she could rely — for, besides Pedro's natural stupidity^ 
he was ignorant of the Italian langnage ; and to trust him 
with the pass- word taught by her father, might risk the safety 
of many, — all tended to increase the distress which, surrounded 
her. Her deliberations ended in resolving to be herself the 
bearer. She might leave her mother to Maroela's care ^^ a 
pilgrimage would account for her absence in the village — and 
a masculine disguise seemed, indeed, her only protection 
against the worst difficulties of her route. Pedro's illness 
prevented the execution of this project ; and Lorraine's appear- 
ance suggested another. An Englishman would run no risk. 
Could he take, or transmit the packet for her ? 



BOMANCBAND BBALITV. 375 



CHAPTER V. 

" * Is lore foolish, then ?* said Lord Bolingbroke. 

" * Can you doubt it ? ' answered HAmilton. * It nakes a man thiidc more of 
another than himself. I know not a greater proof of foliy.' " 

Deveretu. 

BEUEHtoNG^ as I do^ that falling in love goes by destiny^ and 
thatj of aU affairs^ those of die heart are those for which there 
ifr the least accountings I hare always thiMtght, that to give 
reasons fot* its happenings is throwing the said reas(Hxs away — 
a waste much to be deprecated in an age where reasons are in 
such great request. It is not heauty that inspires love^^sdll 
less is it mind. It is not situation ^-^-people who were indif- 
ferent in a moonlight walk^ have taken a fit of sentiment in 
Piccadilly. It is not early association^ — indeed, the chanoes 
^re rather against the Paul aaud Virginia style* It is not dress 
— -oonqaests ha^e been made in enrlrpapers. Ih short — to 
he mydwlogical in my condnsion-— >the quiver of Cupid hangs 
at the. girdle of Fate togedier widi her f^indle and scissors. 

Beatrice had; even in her short and active life, perhaps 
dreamed cf a lov9r. What Spanish giris whose lute was 
familiar with all the romantic regions oi her own romantic 
lands but must havee had some sadli dream haiiDt her twilight ? 
And for the matter of that^ what girls Spanish or English^ has 
not ? But Beatrice was too unworldly to dream of conquest — 
too proud to fisar for her heart — and too mudi accustomed to 
idealise a lover amid the Paladins of olden times to associate the 
young Englishman with other ideas than a claim to ho^italitys 
and a vague hope of assistance. She was now to turn over a 
new leaf in the bocik of life^^to learn wimum's most important 
lesson ——that of love. 

Not one person in a thousand is capable of a real passion — 
that intense and overwliehning feelings before which all others 
sink intO' nothingness^ It asks for head and heart — now 
many are deficient in both. Idleness and vanity causes in 
nine cases out of tens that state of excitement which is called 
being in love. I have heard some even talk of their disappoint* 
ments, as if such a word could be used in the pluraL To be 
<aro8sed in loves forsooth — why, sach a heart could bear as 
many crosses as a laspbeiry tart. 

BB 4 



376 BOMAirCB AND REALITY. 

But Beatrice loved with all the vividness of unwasted and 
unworn feelings and with all the confidence of youth. Proud, 
earnest, and enthusiastic, passion was touched with aU the 
poetry of her own nature. Her lover was the idol, invested 
by her ardent imagination with all humanity's <^ highest attri- 
butes." Undegraded by the ideas of flirtation, vanity, interest, 
or establishment, her love was as simple as it was beautiful. 
Her life had passed in soUtude, but it had been the solitude of 
both refinement and exertion. She was unworldly, but. not 
untaught. She had read extensively and variously. Much of 
her reading had been of a kind unusual to either her sex or 
age ; but she had loved to talk with her father on the subjects 
which engaged him; and the investigations which were to 
analyse the state of mankind, and the theories which were to 
ameliorate it, became to her matters of attraction, because they 
were also those of affection. 

Natural scenery has no influence on the character till asso- 
ciated with human feelings: the poet repays his inspiration 
by the interest he flings round the otrjects which inspired it. 
Beatrice had early learnt this association of nature, with 
humanity. She was as well acquainted with the £nglish 
literature and language as with her own ; and the melancholy 
and reflective character of its poetry suited well a young 
spirit early broken by sorrow, and left, moreover, to entire 
loneliness. The danger of a youth so spent was, that the 
mind would become too ideal — that mornings, passed with 
some favourite volume for the dropping fountain, or beneath 
the shadowy ilex, .would induce habits of romantic dreaming,^ 
utterly at variance with the stern necessities of life. 

But Beatrice had been forced into a wholesome course of 
active exertion. Obliged to think and to act for herself — to 
have others dependent on her efforts — ^^to know that each day 
brought its employment, her mind strengthened with its 
discipline. The duties that excited also invigorated. The 
keen feeling, the deUcate taste, were accustomed to subjection, 
and romance refined, without weakening. 

Love is the Columbus of our moral world, and opens, at 
some period or other, a new hemisphere to our view. For 
the first time in his life Lorraine loved — deeply and entirely ; 
for the first time he had met one in whose favour his feeling, 
his imagination, and his judgment, equally decided. He 



BOMANCB AND BEALITY. 377 

wondered^ with all the depreciating spirit of a lover^ that he 
had eveK thought any woman tolerable before. 

Lorraine's own talents were too brilliant for him- to underrate 
those of another ; and the charm was as delightful as it was 
new^ to see his thoughts understood^ his views reflected in a 
mind^ whose powers, though softened, were scarce inferior to 
his own. Her conversation, when she did speak, had a pecu- 
liar fascination : it was evident she was not in the habit of 
talking. There was an eagerness, a freshness, about her 
speech, as if the rush of feeling and idea forced their expression 
rather for their own relief than for the impression of their 
hearer. Its singularity was, in truth,' its entire absence of 
display — she spoke, as she listened, for pleasure ; and a great 
mass of information, with a naturally keen perception and 
excitaMe imagination, were heightened by the originsdity given 
by her solitary life. It was delightful to have so much to 
communicate, and yet to be so well understood. Then the 
contrast between the two gave that variety which attracts with- 
out assimilating. 

Beatrice was grave; silent, except when much interested; re- 
served, save when under the influence of some strong feeling ; 
with manners whose refinement was that of inherently pure taste 
and much mental cultivation, touched, too, with the native 
grace inseparable from the very beautiful : self-possessed, 
from self-reliance, and with a stately bearing, which — call 
it prejudice, or pride or dignity — spoke the consciousness of 
of high descent, and an unquestioned superiority. The pride 
of birth is a noble feeling. 

Lorraine on the contrary, was animated — more likely to be 
amused than excited^ with a general expression of indifference 
not easily roused to interest. His manners had that fine 
poUsh only to be given by society, and that of the best. His 
thoughts and feelings were kept in the background — not from 
native reserve, but from fear of raillery — that suspicion of our 
hearers which is one of the first lessons taught in the world. 
His habits were luxurious — hers were simple ; he was witty 
and sarcastic — she scarcely understood the meaning of ridi- 
cule; his rules of action were many — as those rules must be 
on which the judgments of others are to operate— hers were 
only those of right and wrong. A whole life spent in 
society inevitably refers its action to the general opinion. 
Beatrice, as yet, looked not beyond the action itself. 



Disys, weBk9 pvaed. auMff, anal: Sdward Inhered m ^km 
neighbourhood. Mtatehtr ^^ most msrses^. tfaoi^^: her child' 
might maRy an emperor; and, as aw emperor wmb not at 
Jumd, the young, rich^ and handsome Eng^hman was a ytxy: 
good safastitute. Widi. Donna Masgaietta) he was an nn* 
bounded favounfee: she' mm just a. child— .and. gentle and 
genuine kindness never* fails to wan the love of chdidfeii, 
Beatriee knew; hi8< footstep at a distance' that might have defied 
even the acute listener of die fairy tale ; snd yet, with ev>eii 
such long forewarning, would blusJi crimson deep on his 
entrance. Lorraine would loiteiv and ask How one more of bcr 
native ballads ; and then' think, how could it he late, when he 
seemed but just to luure arrfred? 

Young, loving, and beiloved*~howt rauoh. of' fai^piness ra«y 
be summed up in a few brii^woids !' — Mk great nonnense,- I 
grant ; and at this conviction most lovem arrive in a. very fevr 
nmndis. But if it vronld sometimes.- save much sorrow; it 
would alsor destroy great ^oyment, could we think at: the 
time as we do afterwards. Yet there is a period la the lives 
of most, wfaen the heart, open its leaves^ bke a ftower, to all 
the geBdeinflaeacssr; — when one beloved step is sweet in ita 
fsE beyond all music, and the light, of one- beloved fsoetisdear 
as diat of heaven ;*-— when. the tbong^ts aie turned tb peetry> 
and- afairy charm is ibanxww ow<er life's most oidinary occur-, 
xences; Mvpe, that gendest astrologev, foroteffing a future 
die hemdf'haa' created ;> — when, die present is enured by. 
glad yet softened spiiita^ buoyant, dion^ too tender for mirth* 
Who shall say that is a selfish feeling vfldch looks in anodier's 
eyes to read its own happinesB^ and holds anodier^s welfare 
more precious than ita awn ? What path in aftemtime will 
ever be so pieasant aa that ooe walk which delayed^ on its- 
way, and yet ended, so smata ?. What disoourae of die wise, tiie 
witty, the eloquent,., will ever have the fasoinatioD o£ a few 
simple, even infuitile woods*— or of the. still, hat. dclidous 
silenee which tiiey. broke .^ Why does love affect childish 
expressions of endeaEmeni^ but because- it has aU dte* truth 
and earnestness of cldldhood.^ And- the simplicity of its 
language seems die proof of its sincerity. Or is it that, being 
unworl^y its^, it delists to retreat upon these unworldly 
days? 

Go through life, and see if the quiet Ikf^t of die stars, the 
-^''ssionate song of the poet, the haoated beauty of flawecs, will 



BOM AN0E Mm) BBJkI«mr. 379" 

€Ter again come home to the heart as they did in that eari^r 
aad only time. 

Now, let DO one say that I am trying to make young-peopkr 
romantic. While I acknowledge that the gardens of Ii»a 
eocisty I heg leave also to state- that they lie in a desert — 
appear hut for a moment — and then ▼€mii^ in their heauty for 
eTer. £very fafaie has its moral ; and that of love is disap* 
pointment, weariness, or disgnst. Yonng people would avoid 
falling in love, if — as- some story^-book observes — young' 
peof^ would but consider. When Cromwell sent bis ambas- 
sador- to Spain, under circumstances whteh somewhat en*- 
dangezed his head^ he encouraged him by stating, " That if 
his head fell, that of every Spaniard in his dominions should 
fall too." '^ A thousand thanks," returned the diplomatist ; 
^' but among aU these heads there may not be one to fit me." 

What he said of heads may also be sasd of experienoew^ 
thenr is a large stock on 1u»m1: but somehow^ or other, 
nobody's eaopeiisnce ever smts us esEcept our own. hofm- 
rardy keeps its secret: it did not in the case before us* 
Bea^ioe was ignorant of her feelings : with ne rival to en*- 
lighten, no vanity to insinuate — with the most romantic of 
ideal, bdiefs on ih» subject^ love never enteied her head with 
ifi£Bvenoe to herself. She was happy without analysing the 
cause ; nay^ her very happiness blinded her^ Accustomed to 
think of love as- it is depicted in poetry, — poetry which so 
dwells on its sorrow, its faitfaleasnesB^ its despair,-*- she reoog^ 
nised no traoe of love in the buoyant feeling which now tot 
her touched all things with its own gladness; 

Lerratne was more enlightened. Whether it be fromj 
knowing that he has to woo as well as wim a man rarely loiie» 
uneonseionsly. Besides^ he had all die knowledge of society^ 
much of ofaservntion^ something too of xemembrance. A 
VFoman's heart is like a precious gem, too delicate to bear more 
t&n one engraving. The rule does not hold good witii the 
other sex : indeed, I doubt whether it be not an advantage for 
a lover to be able to contrast the finn* qualities of one capable 
of inspiring a deep and devated attachment widi the falsehood: 
or the folly he has known before.- However^ as they say, to- 
justify political revolutions, it was impossible such a state of 
things could last : and one afternoon the little fountain had 
lis own silvery muaie broken by those sweetest human sounds 



380 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 

— a lover s passionate pleading, and his mistress's whispered 
reply. There is an established phrase for the description of 
such occasions. " The conversation of lovers being always 
uninteresting to a third person we shall omit its detail.*' 

Contrary to the fashion of the present day, I have a great 
respect for the precedents left by our grandfathers and grand- 
mothers ; I shall therefore follow their example of omission. 
Insipidity, though, is not the real cause of such dialogues 
being left to die on the air, and fade from the memory. The 
truth is, to those in the same situation all description seema 
cold^ tame and passionless ; while to those who have never 
known or outlived such time, it appears overwrought, excessive^ 
and absurd. 

That evening Beatrice narrated the whole history of her 
past life. Her love she had avowed; but her hand must 
depend on the delivery of the packet, and on her father. 

^ I feel an internal conviction that he lives ; and he must 
not come to a desolate and deserted home^ and find that his 
child has forgotten him for a stranger. Take the packet to 
Naples, make every inquiry : if my father live, we may be so 
happy in your beautiful £ngland." 

*^But why not go with me? Why delay, nay, risk, our 
happiness? Young, isolated, as you are, surely, my sweet 
Beatrice, your father would rejoice in your content and safety." 

'^ The God to whose care his last words resigned me, has 
been my guide through dangers and difficulties. I am still 
secure in such reliance. You know not my love for my father, 
when you bid me separate my destiny from, his — to think 
not of his wishes — and to *be happy, while he perhaps is 
wretched and suffering. I will at least endeavour to learn his 
will ; and, dearest Lorraine" — the colour flushed her cheek, like 
a rose, at these words — <^the sweetest song I have sung was 
the saddest, and it spoke of a broken vow and a broken heart. 
I would fain put the love you tell me is so true to the test. Is 
there such change in a few weeks that you dread to try ? " 

The dispute ended as disputes usually do when a lady is really 
in earnest in the will she express^ to her lover. Lorraine took 
charge of the packet — was intrusted with the pass. word — 
and prepared to take his departure reluctantly enough, but still 
with much of excitement and interest in his expedition. 

From the eloquent descriptions of the daughter, he had im» 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 381 

bibed no little admiration of the father. It must be owned^ 
that Beatrice's character of him was rather his beau-ideal than 
himself. Don Henriquez was a brave and honourable man, 
with a degree of information rare among his countrymen ; but 
he was not at all the person to he placed in uncommon circum- 
stances. He had seen enough of England to have caught im- 
pressions^ rather than convictions, of the advantages of a free 
people ; and a good constitution seemed equally necessary to 
the nation and the individual. But his ideas of liberty were 
more picturesque than practical. He dwelt on the rights of 
the people, without considering whether that people were in a 
state to enforce, or even receive them. He declain^ed on 
tyranny like an ancient, on information like a modem. He 
forgot that, for change to be useful, it must he gradual ; and 
while enlarging on the enlightened intellect of the present time, 
he overlooked the fact, that our ancestors could not have been 
altogether so very wrong, or that society could not have gone 
on at all. 

He had a vivid imagination — and this threw a charm, rather 
than a light, around the subjects it investigated. He was one 
of those who feel instead of think, and therefore invest their 
theories with a reality incomprehensible to a calm observer. 
Hence, it seemed wonderful that what was so tangible to him- 
self was not equally so to others ; and from being surprised 
that our opinions are not understood, is an easy step towards 
being angry. 

His views were narrow, because they were impassioned. 
Moreover, he had a natural flow of eloquence — a gift which 
deceives no one more than its possessor: there is a difficulty in 
believing that what is so very easy to say is not equally easy 
to do. Like many orators, he did not take into consideration, 
that a good argument is not always a good reason ; and that, 
unfortunately for the peace of society, and fortunately for de- 
baters, there never was yet a contested point without excellent 
ai'guments on both sides of the question. 

Don Henriquez was, besides, a vain, and therefore a restless 
man. The earlier part of his life had been spent in a career, 
for which, above all others, he was suited — that of a bold and 
active Guerilla chief: but the quiet and loneliness of the suc- 
ceeding peace was perfectly intolerable. He talked in the most 
beautiful manner of devoting himself to the education of his 



8^ BOMANOE AND REALITY. 

daild ; biit unfortimately Beatrice was too young to coraprebend 
the extent of the sacrifice. Having only his own opinion by 
which to estimate hi« talents, no marvel it was an exaggeraltk 
one. 

Don Henriquez would have been a happy man in England: 
he weiuld have taken the chair at public dhmers^ and said the 
most touching things about alleviating the distresses of our 
fellow-creatures: he would have delayed as much as possifafe 
the business of county meetings, by shewing how much better 
it might be done: he would have given dinners to politioianfi, 
and called it supporting his party— -and dinners to a few sue- 
cessfulaathors, and called itoicouraging genius: he would ha^e 
been in the opposition, and made eorae eloquent speeches on 
retrenchment andaefbrm, and the newspapeiB next. day w^uld 
have complimented the henourable membefr for Codcermouth 
on his brilliant and patriotic display : he would have died, ma* 
tSriel for a well-rounded paragraph in the obituary^ without 
having retarded or advanced one single circumstance ia tlK 
great chain of events. jBuit, alas! for the indsmauafpement of 
£ftte — he was quite out of his .pkrae in the<^oriez of Spain:. he 
dilated on religietua toleEatioti to those in whose ears it sounded 
like blasphemy — on the bleBsiug of knowledge, to those with 
whom intellect and anacdiy were synonymous — and on the 
nghte of the people, to Hidalgofi, wlu) were preux thevaUerein 
loyalty to their king* 

Zoridos soon became an object of suspicion to the government,. 
Besides, like meat brilliant talkers, he generally said more'&an 
ke meant ; and, not being in the habit of very doaely analydi^ 
his thoughts, his expresaions of ten admitted of two construo- 
tions. His eloquence ended in his arrest. 

A happy man was Don Henriquez during the first week o£ 
his confinenaent. JQxecrable tynumy — infamous oppression 
— incarcerated patriot — victim in the .glorious cause of libertj 
-—was enough to console any one. Henriquez was also a lucl^ 
man ; for, just as his situation iost ita novdty, and he began 
to think suffering in the cause of his country rather tiresome^ 
if it lasted too long, — a feUow*oaptive opened to him a plan 
of escape, on condition of his joining some patriots in an in- 
surrection. 

Don Hehriquezls bravery was well known ; and, as is often 
^le oase with new acquisitions, his talents were over.eBtimated» 



RQUANCE AND RBAliITY. 383 

4 

fie vta» &rst Bent Ao Naples to learn what assistanee might he 
«K^oted fnom the Carbonari there* A great many signs were 
agreed upon — a great deal of talking took place — and 2ondo6 
returned, as we have.related, to organise a revolt in the moun- 
tains* 

His situation 'Was certainly bad when he met his daughter in 
the Tvood : for, exaggerating his importance^ he also magnified 
i>is danger, and took such pains to avoid suspicion, that he 
ereated it. So carefully had he shunned the villages^ that he 
misaed one of his stations ; and by the time he arrived near his 
own house^ there really was some danger in approaching it. 
Besides, a oonspirator's is a mdo*dramatic charmcter, «nd he 
was desirous of givii^ due eS^X to his pait. 

The phiioaophy of atoms has aome. truth in it. What ex- 
ceedingly small motives make the graat whole of a fine.a^on 1 
Henriquea loved his child dearj^ ; faoet, with : the tme selfishness 
of did^lay, he forgot her Auxietf , in hiadesiie to impress upon 
bar the fidl impoztanee of his position* A natural fediing for 
her lonely and neglected ^Mmdilioa, and ihe thmight (rf <a hsnie 
that aeeroed very happy now he was banished ifeora it, both 
oon^iced to make hk interview in the wrood a <««y sorrowfid 
pasting. UtthappinesB with him >aliuj» inmeated itaelf in ji £Be 
phrase, which is a great consolation. Wie.ahm^ bear a digni- 
fied mis£{Nrtttne best. 

The speech he made after ^up^Msr .to the-sranggbsrs, uader 
idiose 'Caaort he was to travel, would thave fasoughtdown thvae 
rounds of applause in any meeting -ever yet held at the Ciown 
and Anchoc It began iwith his principles, .pnNaeeded with hk 
feolings, and wound jup with his •suffering. 

^* Yes, gendemen, my house is in ruias ; my liomdbss wife 
— rof deserted child-^-kaow not ndiere to lay their heads. I 
aman«xileirom my native Jmid^ the awosd of the executioner 
waits for the hlood of ^tbe victim of oppression ; but I ^adasn 
the fetters of the tjount, and defy hk power. I liire or die 
for the cause of my country." . 

The muleteers were greatly struck — first, faecause we 
usually think ihat very fine which we do not quite imder- 
stand J secondly, they were rather gratefiil to a graileman 
who exerted himself so much for their entertainment; and 
tairdly, the king and the customhouse offieers, lifaesty and 
French brandy duty-&iee, were, somdaow or other^ entirely 
associated in their minds. 



384 ROMANCE AND REALITV. 

It is a singular thing, that it never occurred to Don Hen- 
riquez that his misfortunes were very much of his own seeking : 
if he had not gone to the mountain ^(Liberty is a mountain- 
nymph — is she not?)^ the mountain would never have come 
to him. He had been under no necessity of becoming a 
member of the Cortez^ and still less of talking when he got 
there. Neither did that very obvious truth suggest itself, iJbat 
if his plans for illuminating and ameliorating the human race 
were so excellent, he might first have tried a portion of them 
on his own estate — reformed his own house, before he tried to 
reform the world. 

It will readily be supposed that Lorraine took a different view 
of the case, and, after two or three lingering days, prepared to 
set forth in search of his intended and injured father-in-law. 
Farewell — it is a sorrowfiil word enough at all times, never 
yet pronounced with indifference even by the indifferent : what 
then is its pain to those who love — to those whose eternity is 
the present P It is so very hard to exchange certainty for 
hope — to renounce to-day, in expectation of to-morrow. But 
that Beatrice had from the earliest period been accustomed to 
think of others' claims, not her own, she never could have 
resigned the lover who stood beside her for her distant father. 

The dew shone like frost-work, as the sun touched the 
silvery leaves of the olive — every step left its trace on the 
grass, as Beatrice trod the little wood-path which led to the road 
her lover must pass. One moment she paused — it was so 
early, and a blush of feminine timidity rather than pride gave 
the colour of the morning to her cheek, as she thought — '^ If 
I should be first." But Edward was at the old coik-tree 
before her. What could any lovers in the present day say, 
that has not been said before.^ — trees, rivers^ sun and moon^ 
have alike been called upon to register the vow they witnessed. 
These parted as all part ; many a gentle promise, which 
rather satisfies itself than its hearer — many a lingering look 
— many a loitering step — and at last one sudden effort ex- 
pected by neither^ and aU is over. Beatrice gasped for breath, 
as the trees hid Lorraine from her sight ; there were two or 
three hurrying steps, as if they forced their speed ; a rustting 
of the boughs, and all was still — even the beating of her 
heart. It was as if the whole world had lost the life whicli 
animated it, during the long;, the melancholy day which fol- 



R0MA2«Cfi AND REALITY. 385 

lowed. In partings those who go know not half the sufilring of 
those who stay. In the one case^ occupation strengthens, and 
novelty engages the mind. Lorraine^s journey necessarily, at 
times, diverted his attention. Sunshine and exercise are 
equally good for the spirits ; hesides, at night, fatigue made 
him sleep ; however, he dreamt ahout Beatrice a good deal, 
and, like Caliban, wished to dream more. She, on the con- 
trary, was left to utter and unamused loneliness, and to small 
daily duties, distasteful from interrupting those dreaming moods 
in which strong feeling loves to indulge. Well, I do not know 
how it may be in the next world, but most assuredly that sex 
denominated by poets the softer, and by philosophers the 
weaker part of creation^ have the worst of it in this. 



CHAPTER VI. 

'* I do not often talk much.*'-. fimyy 177/. 

" ^liz. "^^p y® ^^ ***® ****** ^^y ' ' 

why weep ye by the tide ? 
ril find ye anither luve, 
And ye lall be his bride.*' — Scots Song. 



^^ The ancients referred melancholy to the mind, the moderns 
make it matter of digestion — to either case my plan applies," 
said Lady Mandeville. " I am melancholy, or, in plain prose, 
have a headach, to-day ; therefore I propose putting in exe- 
cution our long-talked-of visit to the convent of St. Valerie : 
if of the mind, contemplation will be of service** if of the 
nerves, a ride will be equally beneficial." 

" ' How charming is divine philosophy ! 

Not harsh and crabbed* as dull fools suppose,' " 

replied Mr. Spenser. 

" Ypu are improving," returned Lady Mandevilk. " I 
dare say by the time your cousin, Helen Morland^ is able to 
appreciate compliments, you will be able to pay them in ^ good 
set terms.' " 

How very unpleasant a few words can contrive to be ! It 
was very disagreeable to be reminded of his cousin. Though 
Mr. Morland was the last man in the world to have acted on 
such a wish, Cecil was aware of bis uncle's desire to see hit 

00 



386 SOMANCE AND &EAJLITY. 

jGaTOforite nephew and his daughter united. Now, for his 
Tery life could he picture Helen but as he last saw her-^a 
rerj pretty child, whose canary was an important object. It 
was also very disagreeable to perceive that Lady Mandeville 
was not in his interests^ aware as he was of her influence oirer 
Jlmily. For, what with a little absence — an absence passed 
in solitude and exaggeration -*«-and a little o{^osition^ enough 
io excite, but not enough to deter — an adventure romantic 
enough to make falling in lav« almost matter of necessity — « 
with all these together^ young Spemser had progresaidi con- 
skierably in his attaichment. 

' Emily was Tery pretty^ with a quiet gentleness that left 
much to the imagination, and also a sweetness which was a 
good beginning for it to work upon. Besides, though attached 
to Lorraine with all the depth and earnestness of first love — 
which, after all, is the only one that has those high ideal 
qualities ascribed to love — she could not be always ^' sadly 
thinking" of him. She thought of him whenever she saw 
any thing beautiful in art or nature ~^love links itself with the 
lovely : she thought of him when she sang the songs he had 
liked, or that she thought he would like : when they spoke of 
affection before her, it ever recalled her ow» : she turned the 
page of tiie poet as the mirror^ which gave back her feelings : 
in short, she thought of him when she was sick, suUen, or 
sorry. Still, there were times when the natural gladness of 
youth burst into mirthfulness, and 

** Her brow belied her, if ber heart wa« sad." 

At sudi times Cec3 was quite sure he was in love. Con- 
stancy is made up of a series of small inconstancies, which 
never come to any thing; and the heart takes credit for its 
loyalty, because in the long-run it ends where it began. I 
doubt whether the most devoted fidelity would bear strict ex- 
aminati<)in as to the shdrt reposes even the most entire fealty 
permits itself. 

Lady MaodeviUe, if not the keeper of Bmily's conscience^ 
took some care of her constancy. She had quite made up her 
mind, that a marriage between Miss Arundel and Mr. Lorraine 
was the most eligiUe thing in the world iai both parties; and 
when a mind is once made up, it is very tiresome to haye fo 
wato^ke it No wonder JSdward had hitherto escaped heart- 



BOUANCS AND REALmT. S87 

wliole. She even exaggerated the taste whose delicacy wai 
lefined almost to fastidtoasness ; but that very taste would be 
in favour of the great improvement which had taken place in 
£rally. Lady MandeviUe did fuU justice to it, and a little 
more — for it was her own work. Like most persons whose 
vivid imagination applies itself to actual things^ instead of 
abstract creations^ she gave a reality to her schemes that seemed 
to make failure an impossibility; and having once settled that 
Emily would be very happy with Lorraine^ it was an absolute 
impossibility to allow her to be happy with any one eke. 

Lorraine was a great favourite — Spenser was not. Tht 
indolence wbrich Cecil had rather permitted than indulged -~ 
for. Heaven knows, it was no indulgence at all — bad at first 
prevented his offering that homage to which she was accustomed ; 
knd now, when he did offer h, it was marked, suspected. His 
admiration of Emily incerfered with her arrangement ; and 
the very circumstance of Lord MandeviQe's encouraging him 
was any thing but an advantage: a woinaa must be an angel 
to endure being worsted in domestic tactics. Net that Lady 
Mandeville enacted the part of confidsnt — 

** Cato's a proper person to intnut a love-tale with ;" 

besides, Emily's feelings were quite deep enough for silence. 
But Lorraine's memory was kept alive by slight recurrences to 
his opinions, and frequent alhisions to the chances of meeting 
him. However, bright sunshine and a rapid drive did a great 
deal for the good-hnmour or splcits, whichever you like to 
consider it, of the party on- their way to St. Valerie. 

All convents built in what we call the dark ages, show 
singular good taste in the selection of their various Mtuations ; 
if there was a fine view to be had, their site usually com^ 
manded it. 

The convent of St. Valerie was on the very summit of a 
small hifi, whose abruptness added to its height. A thick 
copsewood of dwarf oaks, intermixed with one 09;^ two slender 
chestnuts, covered the side even to the sea, from which it was 
separated by a narrow slip of snrooth sand, over which, in a 
calm day, the small waves broke in scattered foam, something 
like the swelling of the unquiet human heart. The other side 
of' the hill, whether from nature, or art of days so long past 
as to seem nature now, was much less steeps and^ if more 

cc 2 



888 ROMANOE AND REALITY. 

luxuriantly^ was less thickly wooded^ and with trees of larger 
size and more varied sorts. Through these wound a very 
tcderahle road. 

The convent was a white huilding^ with a chapel of great 
antiquity^ and gardens of much heauty. The last notes of the 
anthem were dying into tremulous silence as they entered, and 
a long black train of dark and veiled figures were gliding 
through an opposite portal^ whose massive doors closed heavily^ 
almost hopelessly^ on them. At the upper end^ raised by a 
single step from the other pavement^ stood a statue of the 
Virgin— one of those exquisite conceptions to which an artist 
has given the beauty of genius developed by thelabour of a Hfe — 
one of those forms, which the modeller may frame, and then die» 

Sculpture never s^ems to me like the representation of human, 
life: its forms — pale, pure^ and cold — have the shape^ not the 
likeness of our nature. I always personify a spirit as a statue* 
Paintings, however idealised as to beauty^ still give tjie bright 
eye, the rosy cheek, the glossy hair^ we see daily. Portraits 
are but the mirrors of lovely countenances. Sculpture is th& 
incarnation of beings whose state seems higher, because calmer, 
than our own. The divinities of Greece owed half their 
divinity to the noble repose with which their sculptors invested 
them. The characteristic of the picture is passion — that of 
the statue power. 

From the chapel the party proceeded across the court to the 
garden, except Emily. Like all persons whose feelings are 
awakened through the imagination, Emily was peculiarly sus- 
ceptible of outward impressions. She lingered in the chapel^ 
watching the cold gray light — for the windows fronting the 
north let in daylight, but not sunshine — the white floor only 
marked by inscriptions whose worn letters told that the living 
trod over the dead — the white walls, where the carved tablets 
were also sacred to the memory of the departed. The extreme 
silence oppressed her with a sense rather of sadness than of 
calm. She looked on the tombs, and thought how they had 
been wept over. She held her breath, to be more deeply con- 
scious of the stillness; and the beating of her heart seemed to 
remind her how little part she had in such quiet. 

Some slight chance usually wvets the attention: it did so no-w 
On one of the tablets were inscribed various names of -an 
apparently large family, the dates of the different deaths 



ROMANOB AND REAIiITY. 389 

singularly near to each other. Emily felt as if her own solitary 
situation had never weighed upon her thoughts till now. 
" Many are kind to me, hut none care for me" Youth^ with 
its affection an impulse and a delight^ judges others by itself, 
and exaggerates its claims. 

Strange it is that people (unless in the way of ostentation) 
never value the blessings they possess. But if life has a 
happiness over which the primeval curse has passed and harmed 
not^ it is the early and long- enduring affection of blood and 
habit. The passion which concentrates its strength and beauty 
upon one^ is a rich and terrible stake, the end whereof is death ; 
— the living light of existence is burnt out in an hour — and 
what remains? The dust and tlie darkness. But the love 
which is born in childhood — an instinct deepening into a 
principle — retains to the end something of the freshness be- 
longing to the hour of its birth: the amusement partaken — the 
trifling quarrel made up — the sorrows shared tc^ether — the 
punishment in which all were involved — the plans for the 
future^ so fairy-tale4ike and so false, in which all indulged: so 
true it is that love's slightest links are its strongest ! 

There is something inexpressibly touching in the story of 
Ishmael, the youth who was sent into the wilderness of life 
with his bow and his arrow, ''his hand against every man, and 
every man's hand against him." Even in our crowded, busy, 
and social world, on how many is this doom pronounced! 
What love makes allowances like household love? — what takes 
an interest in small sorrows and small successes like household 
love? God forgive those (and I would not even say forgive, 
were not Divine mercy illimitable,) who turn the household 
a] tar to a place of strife ! Domestic dissension is the sacrilege 
of the heart. 

Emily looked on the death-stone, and thought only of her 
uncle — he who had been to her as a father — a father in early 
kindness — in allowance for failings — in anxiety for her future 
— delight in her present — to whose affection she owed grati- 
tude a thousand times beyond that due for ''the bitter boon, 
our birth." Gratitude, forsooth! — it ought rather to ask 
forgiveness. She remembered how her childhood had grown 
up into youth, how happily! — recalled her first leaving home 
— then it was that she turned a new leaf in the book of life. 
She thought over her disappointment at firsts her after brief 

CO 3 



992 -ROMANCE AND REALITY. 

up; but Mr. Simcoe said it would be just like the Coarse-hair, 
or Courser, or some such name^ and spouted some poetry — 
whicb^ after the sad accident^ Mr. Higgs and I learnt by hearty 
as a warning to our young friends. But^ somehow^ we never^ 
though we took a world of pains^ could remember more than 
the first two or three lines — for we are too old to begin our 
schooling over again, and we were neither of us any great 
shakes at book learning — but two lines will do for an example 
— a nod's as good as a wink to a blind horse." So saying, Mrs. 
Higgs repeated the following lines in a most Sunday-school 
tone: — 

" Ay, let the Tild vindg Thistle e*er the deck» 
So that them arms cling closer round my neck : 
The deepest murmur of this mouth shall be. 
No sigh for safeness, but a prayer for thee." 

Here Mrs. Higgs's voice sank into ^^ tears and forgetfulness." 
*'It isn't. Miss, so much want of memory, as that I am over- 
taken by my feelings. But, Miss, before I go on with my story, 
you musn't think nothing of the arms round the neck, because 
that was only in poetry — you may be pretty sure I should 
never have allowed no young man whatsumever to take such a 
liberty with my daughter. I just name this, because, if I did 
not explain, it might be bad for poor Carry's next chance." 

£mily instantly assured the confiding but careful mother^ 
that she entertained no doubts of Miss Caroline Higgs*s perfect 
propriety of conduct ; and Mrs. Higgs resumed her narrative. 

" Well, into the boat tliey got. Mr. Simcoe was quite a 
sailor. I remember he told us he had been on seven -and- 
twenty parties of pleasure to Richmond. They did look so 
niee — ray daughter had on her best green silk and a white 
lace veil (real thread) thrown over her head. Mr. S. had a 
large straw hat, and striped jacket and trowsers, and bis shirt 
fastened at the throat by a brooch with Carry's hair, for he 
was always quite above wearing a neckcloth. Dear, dear, they 
went away singing, 

* Oh, come to me as soon as daylight sits ; * 

and well. Miss — the boat overset. Mr. Simcoe (poor Ben- 
jamin — as we have called him since — he never could abide 
it during his lifetime) was drowned ; and my daughter was 
brought home wet to the skin, and all the colour gone out of 
her green silk — quite spoilt." 



ItOMANCE AND BEAI^ITr. 393 

' Here Mrs. Higgs paused for a moment, and drew out a 
huge red pocket-handkerchief^ with which her face was for 
some minutes confounded. £mily^ really shocked, remained 
jiilent, till her companion, who found talking very efficacious 
for her complaints, went on again. 

" Besides all her sorrow, Carry had caught cold ; for she 
had been in the water, only had got picked up by a boat that 
was passing, and she was very ill : so^ as I said before, she has 
been the cause of our staying in these here foreign parts. The 
jdoctors said the climate was so mild. I am sure we should 
have been a deal warmer in our own parlour, with a good coal 
fire, and carpets and curtains. Here, all you can get is a 
little charcoal in a box — for all the world like a warming- 
pan, without a handle, and with holes in the top. We've had 
no Christmas pudding — the boys have been left at school ^- 
and people may talk what they please about sunshine and 
Italy : my say is, that a winter in Rome is no joke." 

£mily duly sympathised with her; but, remembering the 
laughing she had witnessed, could not resist asking, '^ If Miss 
Higgs had got over her disappointment ? " 

" O Lord, yes ! it was five months agone. You know a 
new nail always drives out an old one. Carry got another 
lover : he didn't, however, turn out very well, for he hadn't 
sixpence; and, of course, our eldest daughter couldn't have 
nothing to say to nim. But it served to divert her from the 
thoughts of her grief; and we can look out for a proper hus- 
Jiiand when we get home ; and that's one great reason why I 
wants to get back to the Square. Carry isn't so young as 
you'd think: but, bless me, she'd cut my tongue out if she 
thought I was talking about her age. You won't say nothing 
about it, will you ? " 

Emily vowed all imaginable discretion. Mrs. Higgs, who 
had not enchanted with her discourse any listener's ear so long 
for many a day, felt, as she herself expressed it, the very 
cockles of her heart warm towards her pretty and patient 
listener. 

" I hope, my dear, I shall see you in Fitzroy Square : I 
won't make small beer of you, I can tell you. We'll get up 
a bit of a dance for you, for we know lots of nice young 



men." 



A cold shiver ran over Emily at the very idea of Mrs. 



;994 BOXANOIB AND ILEAUTY. 

Higgs's *' nice young men." Her son at that moment cftme 
iip^ by way of a spedmeiL. *' By Jove, mother, we thoogltt 
we bad lost you ! rather a large loss that would have been." 
Seeing that the cause of her lingering was, howeyer, a lady, 
and one who was both pretty and youngs Mr. Robert fiiggs, 
who was an admirer^ or^ to use his own fayourite phrase, 
^' always the humble servant of the ladies," thought, to anploy 
another of his little peculiarities of speech, "his company 
would be as good as his place;" and, with that quiet, com- 
fortable conviction of his own merits, which sets a man most 
and soonest at ease, he coolly addressed Miss Arniidel: -— 
^' Quite, as our great bard says^ 

* Like patience oa a tombstone shivering with sorrow.* 

Beautiful lines those of Byron. Don't you admire him, 
ma'am ? " 

Mr. R. Higgs considered poetry an infallible topic with 
young ladies. Emily, however, did not feel that the com-teous 
attention which his mother's ^e made in her eyes indispen- 
sable, at all necessary to be extended to her very forward son. 

Mr. Higgs only thought — " Poor thing, dare say she never 
heard of Byron — knows nothing of poetry — I've been too 
deep for her;" and forthwith commenced on a lighter subrfect. 

" So, this is a nunnery. I wonder, ma'am, how you'd like 
to be a nun ! — shut up — not allowed to see one of our per- 
jured sex — I suspect you'd be a litlfe dull ! " 

At this moment Mr. Spenser entered. I am sent. Miss 
Arundel, in search of you." 

Emily took his arm with a readiness which enchanted Cecil, 
and left the chapel, bowing civilly to Mrs, Higgs, who, accus- 
tomed to her daughter's eternal flirtations, thought she might 
hold her peace as soon as a young man came, and had from 
her son's entrance been silent. 

" A very plain and vulgar young woman that," said Mr. 
Robert ; " but you always are picking up such horrid people." 

" Lord, I thought her such a very pretty-spoken young 
kdy!" 

*' Well, I don't ; and you know I am a bit of a judge. 
But, come, let's join my sister?, and be jogging home. I 
feel very peckish — I made but a poor breakfast." 

Dear, dear, we shall have no dinners worth eating tiH we 



te 



BOMANCE AKB KBAiaTY, 395 

get to England. I quite long for our good Sunday smell of a 
piece of roast-beef and a Yorkshire pudding." 

The feelings says some writer^ whidi turns in absence to 
our natiye country, is one of Ae finest in our nature. True ; 
but it takes many forms. One exile sighs after the fair 
meadows of England, and another after its mutton. 



CHAPTER VII. 



" You would say aomething tiiat is gad— Speak !" 

« • • • 

" I'll come by Naple8."--v5BAK£SPEA.RX. 

BtTT we must again return to tSpain, where a new subject of 
anxiety diverted Beatrice's attention — her mother's illness. 
She had soon not a moment she oould call her own. Poor 
Donna Margaretta's situation was the more pitiable^ as she 
both suffered and complained like a diild. The remedies her 
case required it was next to impossible to indnce her to take. 
One day she would be in the strong and angry excitement of 
fever, the next in die fretful despondency of ague. Now she 
would, even with tears, ask for the wine imd food most hurtfol, 
and then turn with loathing froA her needful nourishment. 
With some difficulty, by appealing to his humanity, an old 
medical practitioner, from the nearest town, was prevailed on 
to visit them ; thus doing for pity what he had refused to do 
for interest. 

" My good child," said the old man, after seeing his patient, 
" I might have staid at home ; the ^oor lady is far beyond all 
human assistance — a little care and a littie kindness is all 
she will want on this side the grave — just let her do what 
she likes." 

It was late, and he hurried to mount his mule, but not till 
— for his heart was touched by hp desolate and deserted 
condition — not till he had told Beatrice he would always he 
glad to render her any service. WTiether Donna Margaretta 
connected any vague idea with the stranger, or whether it was 
the mere instinct of weakness, it is impossible to tell, but 
from that day a strange terror of death fell upon her ; she 
could not bear to be left for a moment — sl^e would wake in 



^9^ HOVANCB AND REALITY. 

the night and implore Beatrice piteously to save her. This 
impression was^ however, as transitory as it was violent As 
she grew weaker, she grew calmer and more affectionate. She 
would lean her head for hoars on Beatrice's shoulder, only 
now and then applying to her some childish and endearing 
epithets. She was soon too much reduced to leave her hed ; 
they used to raise her head with pillows, and Beatrice would 
sit heside, her arm round her neck ; and her poor mother 
seemed, like a child, happy in heing soothed and caressed. 
There is mercy in affliction; Donna Margaietta's memory 
could only have awakened to sorrow, and she died without a 
pang or a struggle, so quietly, that Beatrice, in whose embrace 
she lay, thought it was sleep. Wishing to wake her at her 
usual hour for refreshment, she kissed her — the chill of the 
lips made her shudder — she leant over them for a minute — 
the breath had passed away for ever. 

Donna Margaretta's death was a blessing, but Beatrice 
could not think so at the time ; her few objects for affection 
had made that affection proportionably intense. She had lost 
the only being she could serve — the only one to whom her 
care and kindness were of value — and we all know how they 
endear the objects on which they are bestowed •— the whole 
business of her life was gone. 

Perhaps the worst pang of death is the burial. One touch 
of human weakness mingled with the young Spaniard's sor- 
row. She was proud — very proud of her high and noble 
birth. A hundred chiefs of her blood slept in the chapel of 
San Francisco. But since the confiscation of her father's pro- 
perty^ the house adjoining it in the town, besides being a day's 
journey distant, was turned into a military depoL She had 
no choice — her mother's tomb must be the green grass of the 
village burying-*place. With added sorrow she had her in- 
terred there by torch-light — herself sole mourner. It was a 
relief to be unwitnessed* The two peasants who had assisted 
returned to tlie village — old Pedro and the negro, one of 
whom still retained his torch, attended Beatrice home — she 
fdlowed the light mechanically. The agony with whidi she 
had watched the body laid in the earth — - that fearful shudder 
which follows the falling of the mould on the coffin — the 
pressing down of the grass sods, as if the dead were conscious 
of their weight and soil — all this had subsided into stupor. 



BOUANOE AND BBAUTV. 397 

She felt that strange dishelief in its reality that always suc- 
ceeds violent grief. 

Weak creatures that we are, for the body to overcome the 
mind as it does ! Beatrice slept that night long and soundly 
— the bitterness of sorrow^ affection, and anxiety sank beneath 
fatigue. The awakening after such sleep is one of the most 
dreadful moments in life. A consciousness of something 
terrible is upon even the first sensation — a vague idea of the 
truth comes Jike the remembrance of a dream ; involuntarily 
the eyes close, as if to shut it out — the head sinks back on the 
pillow, as if to see whether another dream would not be a 
happier'one. A gleam of light, a waving curtain, rouses the 
sleeper ; the truth, the whole terrible truth, flashes out — and 
we start up as if we never could dream again. 

In losing her mother^ Beatrice lost her great employment--^ 
to provide her with small indulgences, and such amusements 
as she could enjoy, had been a sweet and constant study. The 
homely associations of life are its tenderest. No tears were 
more bitter than those Beatrice shed over the beautiful purple 
grapes which she had so carefully dried for her parent. One 
consolation she had -« a little English Bible became the chief 
companion of her lonely hours. 

Don Henriquez had much of that indifibrence to religion too 
often termed liberality The bigoted beliefs of his native creed 
were the last he ever thought of impressing. Their country- 
house stood entirely by itself, and the few priests who passed 
that way belonged to mendicant orders. Beatrice, with the 
generosity inherent in her nature, readily filled their scrips ; 
and the friars were not very anxious about the principles of 
one whose actions were so truly Catholic. But it was impos- 
sible for a girl who lived in the solitude of nature, and who 
had been early tried by sorrow, not to be religious. 

There are some works of God which most especially seem 
the work of his hands, and some ills of humanity which seem 
most of all to ask aid from above. The mighty gathering of 
the storms on her native mountains — the thunder that shook 
the earth — and the lightning that in an hour laid bare the 
depths of the forest which had stood still and shadowy for 
years — the starry silence of the summer nights — the mystery 
of the large and bright planets, filled the young heart that was 
lifted up by their beauty with deep and solemn thoughts. Again^ 



39^ BOMANOX AHD BBALITT. 

}ier desoUte aitufttiQa— *tfae dangers beyond her ability to 
foresee or to avoids made her at once feel her nothingness and 
her need of protection. The boly page^ read at first for its 
heaiLty, waa somi leaorted to for its power. Beatrice dwelt on 
die gentle proisises made to the afflieted, and, the words of en- 
couragement spoken to liie sirapfe, till hope rose strong within 
her^ and grew to be that ciear and steady light '^ which hideth 
not its face hi the time of troi^e." Beatrice was a genuine 
Christian, if entire trust, deephnmility, and earnest conviction, 
could make one. Trae^ the Bible was almost the only re^ 
ligious book she had ever read, hut she had indeed read it with 
all her heart. 

She was leanigig over ibt sacred volume one night, when a 
dark shadow fell i^on tiie ycry lines she was rea^ng. Beatrice 
looked up and sew a man standing before her ; llie huge som- 
h«r& overshadowed his £see, bat the fight of the krap shone on 
a large and gUktering katfe in his girdle* She started from her 
seat ; bat mastering her fear in a moment, she stood, and, 
calmly facing tiie stianger^ iofuiied hss errand. The man 
laughed. 

" Yoor laihev need not be ashamed of yoa ; bat if you bad 
been frightened, it would have been at nodiing." 
, '' My father ! " exdaiitied Boitrioe ; <' is he salb ? '' 

" Safe enon^ if he will but iaeep quiet ; but I bring tf 
note from him, and yoa had better read that than question me. 
I am not over-safe in these quarters myself. I have kept faith 
with him -^noiadthat when yoa s^ your fattier.** 

Laying a soiled and crompfed &«ter on the tsUe, the smi^ee 
turned to depart.. 

'' Is there nothing you wiil have — nodiing I can do to 
fihow my gratilude ? " 

^^ I doubly" said the maa^ ^^ whether your celkr be worth 
my risking a captnie for its contents." 

'' At least," ezdairaed Beatrice, ^' take this ; ** and she 
poured the contenta of her purse into his hand. 

" Four — ^yf% — ab: gold pieces \ " replied he^ hesitatingly 
1 — '^ I have been paid." 

<^ Take them as a gifit, and GM bless yon for the happiness 
vou have brought me." 

^' A free gift I — many thanks to yon, lady." 

Asligbtsoond— itw^sbntthewliidinlhevifle-brancheff-* 



TiOSlASCE AND B.BAIAt't. $99 

startied the man : he laid his hand on bis knifes and darted 
through the casement ; in less than a minute all was as silent 
as before. £agerly Beatrice opened the letter — it was frota 
her father, and ran thus : — 

" My beloved child, — Tlte iron hand of despotism has 
quenched the last spark of liberty ; hunted down like a wild 
beast, I am watching an opportunity to fly my degraded and 
enslaved country. Some far and foreign land must henceforth 
be the home of the unfortunate exile. Will my Beatrice 
soothe and share her parent's ill-starred lot ? I am hastening 
to Naples — you know the address on the packet. I shall be 
at Senhor Pachetti*s— join me there, if possible, with your poor 
mother. I know this will require equal presence of mind and 
exertion — surely I may expect both in a daughter of mine ? 
Come with all the speed you can ; I doubt not to be there be- 
fore you, and shall be impatient in the happiness of the father 
to forget the wrongs of the patriot. God keep you, my sweet 
child. 

^^ Your affectionate father, 

'' HflNRIQUEZ DE LOS ZoRIDOS. 

^ Burn this letter instantly.'* 

' Beatrice kissed the wcreHL, and held ii eirer tbe lamp — it 
was too wet with hear tears to hum rapidly. " Your poor 
mother ! " — and must their firs* meeting^ be embittered by 
words of death f^ But she was too young to dwell only on the 
sorrow ; her heart beat hurriedly and joyfully^ as she thought 
that her father and Lorraine must inevitably meet Her first 
impulse was to make every effort to reaeh Naples, but calmer 
deliberatioQ induced her to renounoe this pkii. Love increases 
a woman's timidity— the nsore she thought of Edward, the 
more did shie shrink from so long and Ts&protected a joamey. 
It cost her a sleepless nj^ght ; buit she resolved 012 staying in 
Spain till she eidier saw or heard from him — he and Don 
Henriquea, when they met, would decide on what course it 
might be best to pursue. 

We waste a great deal of thought As is usual in aM cases 
of long deliberation^^ she did precisdy the reverse of what shs 
intended. The following afternoon she was wandeiii^ ronnd 
what had been her motber's garden— aU her life's sweetest 
associations were there-— when she saw a peasant approaching 



400 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 

Alvarez was the soldier who had so attracted Lorraine's atten*- 
*tion the first evening he rode into the village^ and during his 
stay he had found a home heneath his roof; Alvarez^ too, had 
served under her father: a visi^ from him was^ therefore, 
nothing uncommon ; but to-dav there was an appearance of 
haste and anxiety that augured any thing but good. Yet he 
hesitated ; and a basket of pomegranates he brought from his 
little Minora, was evidently the ostensible^ not the real cause 
of his coming. 

'^ The Senhora must find the old house very lonely.*' 

'^ Lonely and sad enough, indeed, my good Alvarez.*'' 

^' Is she not afraid, now that the nights are so long and 
dark — has nothing occurred to alarm the Senhora lately ? " 

'^ We have nothing to lose — we leave fear to the rich — 
besides, I am a soldier's daughter; do you allow Minora to 
tremble at either robbers or ghosts ? ** 

*' But, lady, have you seen no one about the house whose 
appearance was calculated to excite suspicion ? " 

" I have seen no one to excite dread," . Replied Beatrice, 
with a slight accent on the last word. 

" Pardon, lady, but was there a stranger about your h<^se 
last night ? " 

Beatrice started— -had her father's messenger been seen? 
to-day it could be of no avail, and distrust might bring on the 
very danger she would fain avoid. 

^^ There was, Alvarez ; from you I need not hide that he 
came from my father." 

*' My brave captain ! — is he safe ? " 

*' Safe, but now watching for an opportunity for flight.*' 

" Now, the saints help us^ not' in this neighbourhood.^ " 

*' Far away, but where, even I know not.*' 

" I will tell you all, Senhora. Pedro rushed in last night 
to the cottage where they sell wine, in a fright at some dark 
figure he had seen hovering about. I had my own thoughts, 
and, by old stories of his early cowardice, raised a laugh, and 
hoped the dark figure was forgotten. But there were others 
iiesides ourselves — two strangers, whose business here has 
puzzled us all ; they left this rooming ; and from what they 
said at parting, the old house will be filled with soldiers be- 
fore midnight. The idea is abroad that Don Henriquez has 
sought shelter here.*' 

" Thank God it is not so/' gasped his daughter. 



BOMANCE AND BEALITT. 401 

** Are there any papers of importance ? " 

'' None — none." 

*' Then, lady, collect any yaluables you can hastily, and 
prepare for a retreat with me. Your arrest was spoken of — 
and you know rough measures are used when a secret is in the 
case." 

The thoughts of torture, imprisonment, separation from all 
she loved, made Beatrice's heart die within her — almost help- 
lessly she clung to the old man's arm. She loved, and to her 
life now was valuable. 

'' Nay, nay, my poor girl, »you must not want the courage 
you had as a child. I have a plan. You have heard me tell 
of the cave where Minora and her brother were concealed : it 
is a good hiding-place yet. Meet me in an hour by the three 
flexes in the wood, and I will answer for your security." 

'^ But my nurse and Pedro " 

*' Do not, like you, incur danger. Don Henriquez would 
confide in his daughter, but not in servants whose characters 
for gossip the whole neighbourhood can swear to — leave them 
in ignorance : a secret brings its own risk, and their safety is 
insured by their anxiety. An hour hence at the three ilexes." 

Alvarez went off williout waiting for an answer. It is the 
luxury of parting, to wander round places haunted by our 
childish steps and hallowed by our childish thoughts, and to 
loiter beneath the old trees where we have not always stood 
alone. But this was no luxury for Beatrice. She caught a 
handful of late rose-leaves, and hid them in the folds of her 
dress — she turned one last look on the fountain — she could 
not have looked again for the world. 

On returning to the house, her nurse asking her the simple 
<)uestion of what she was to do with the pomegranates, smote 
on her heart with a new and bitter feeling of deception. 
Hastily she collected together the few articles pf value left : a 
chain of gold, a little ruby cross, her English Bible, and the 
unbroken sum of pistoles she had collected for her former 
journey. Fortunately, she met none of its other inmates aa 
she left the house — she must have betrayed her purpose. 

It was at least three miles to the ilexes ; but she proceeded 
with a light fleet step, and gained the appointed place. It 
was too late to retire unperceived, when she caught sight of 
the white veil of a female. 



40d ROVANCB ANB BEAXiPTT. 

Her anxiety was but for a moment — the girl turned, and 
there was all the encouragement of youth, health, and good 
spirits, in the bright black eyes of Minora. 

"^ My father thought my absence would be less marked 
tlian his — so, if you will, Senhora, I am to be your guide to 
the poor old cave. Garcia and I were very happy there.'* 

A narrow, almost imperceptible path led them through the 
thickest of the wood. Two or three times they had to creep 
under boughs which, but for the ease with which they garre 
way, would seem never to have admitted a passage befose;. 
Suddenly the trees were broken by some masses of gray rock^ 
round which dwarf myrtles grew in great profusion. 

Here Minora stopped, and took from her basket a little 
lamp made of horn. Striking fire from some flints laid ready, 
she lighted the lamp ; and giving Beatrice the basket, bade 
her follow her. Lifting up a heavy and luxuriant branch of 
the myrtle, she showed what seemed the rough bare rock be- 
neath^ and asking her companion to hold the lamp adso, wid& 
both hands she raised a large skating stone -<— it showed a 
passage, into which Beatrice entered with some difficulty, to«^ 
gether with her companion. 

• Minora first carefiilly replaced the myrtle-bnmdi, then the 
stone, and taking the basket, bade Beatrice proceed along the 
passage, which was too narrow to admit of more than one at 
a time. This soon terminated in an open space, from which, 
branched off several small paths. Minora now took the lead. 
<^ You will observe," said she, holdiag the lamp to the ground, 
<f that the passage we take has a slight redness in the sand--^ 
the others lead to nothing." 

A ahoit while brought them to the care itself. By the 
lamp was dimly visible their own figures, and what seemed 
the immense depths of surrounding darkness. There was a 
sound, as if of falling waiter. Minora first turned to a pile of 
wood, and, with Beatrice's aid, a very brilliant fire soon illu- 
minated the cavern. It looked more comfortaUie than pic- 
turesque : the walls and roof were blackened with smoke >— 
the floor was of a light dry 8and~->at one end was a huge 
ardb, down which water kept constantly trickling, and "beneath 
was a deep well, by the side of which was a ledge of rock, 
%heze any person might walk ••^ beyond it was quite dark. 

" There is a passage, but it terminates in a pbce of water. 



and die rock aoon cmues so low that there is. no getting 
beyond it; and though the smugglers do come here sti|], 
this is not now their tioae— -and you are as safe here as in the 
£TCQrial." 

Miscra heaped fresh fael on the &te, and showed where 
some heath and dried goat-skins formed a very respectable 
bed; while her conrpanioa. sighed to remember that she herself 
bad oBce resorted to a similar expedient. Next die lighlied 
tome half-a-dozen fir-wood splintos — .excdlent torches^ for 
ifflfiose support some rude wooden stands had been inserted in 
the waUa — and pointed out in a recess a most ample supply. • 

" Be sure you keep a good fire ; and as I may do you more 
barm than good by staying, I leave you to take what food you 
please from the basket. There's some honey^ as clear as my 
o«m sixnher beads. The good Madonna ke^ you^ Senhora ! " 
aad, al^tionatdy kiaBing Beatrice's haiid6> the kind peasaut 
departed. 

. Beatiice paeed up and down . her dreary oave, ewry mo^ 
ment starting from her. revexie, as the sound of the faliing 
water startled her like a strange step. With a strong efibrt 
she calmed herself, and, dra^ri^ one of the wooden seats to 
the fire^ opened the litde volume^ and read till all vain terrors 
Imd departed, and ev^i ber natural anxiety was soothed into 
l^lient and sweet reliance on Him who sufiereth not a sparrow 
to fi^ to the ground unheeded* 

She had a little French watch, — Lorraine's only gif]^ 
He had said, laugbinglyy to her the last ev^ing they spent 
togedi», '' You shall have this to count the hours of my ab- 
sence." He did not think bow sweet a companion it would be; 
Tune^ which we have no meana of reckoning, is so dreadfully 
long. How. often, that night, did Beatrice refer, with a warm 
feeling of society, to the little glittering face over which th^ 
bours weee passing ! The weariest time of all seemed the 
morning after she rose. It was impossible to &x her att^^tiou 
on any thing, while every ^loment expecting some inteliigence 
from without. At last she heard footsteps^ and Minora came 
running before her father. 

^^ Ah, Senhora, we have been so anxious about yon ! If it 
had been possible, I would have returned and spent the nigbit 
with you ; for we said, to a stranger our good cave will setm 



404 BOMANGE AND RBALITY* 

a little dreary. How did you sleep ? See — we have farouf^t 
you some breakfast I have some chocolate to-day." 

'' Many thanks for your intended breakfast; but^ truly, your 
yesterday's supply was sufficient. If I .had expected visitors^ 
I could have feasted them in my cavern. But my nurse and 
Pedro?" 

^^ Are well, and in our cottage. As I expected, the soldiers 
came down^ and " — here Alvarez made the usual pause of 
narrators who have something unpleasant to tell. It usually 
happens that people by breaking, as they call it, their bad news 
gradually, contrive to add suspense to our other miseries. 

*^ What has happened?" said Beatrice, gasping for breath. 

'^ The fine old house, lady, it has been burned to the 
ground." 

Beatrice struggled for a moment ; but it was in vain. She 
hid her face in her hands, and wept bitterly. Strange, dfte 
afi^ction which clings to inanimate objects — objects which 
cannot even know our love ! But it is not return that con* 
Btitutes the strength of an attachment 

** They questioned your nurse," said Alvarez, " till her 
poor head was even more bewildered than usual ; but it was 
soon very evident she knew nothing of the matter. Pedto 
knew even less ; and at last the officer let them go. ' He 
Would not have,' he said, ^ the poor old creatures injured in any 
way.' They were sent off to the village, and then the house 
was fired." 

'^ I am glad," sighed Beatrice, '^ my father did not see it" 

^' And now, Senhora, what is to be done about yourself? I 
have seen enough of you to know it is far best to tell you the 
truth. In about a week this cavern will be no refuge for you : 
its old occupants will be here. You will not be safe an hour 
in my cotts^." 

" If," exclaimed Beatrice, *^ I could but get to the aea- 
ehore, and embark for Naples ! " 

** Have you friends you could trust there ? You are very 
young, and" 

" I should find my father there." 

*' Very well — very good indeed. We may get to the 
coast; but to cross the wide sea, we know not whither, is a 
dreary look-out Now, Senhora, you and Minora are of a 
height ; her clothes will suit you, and you must pass as my 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 405 

daughter for two days. I will go and see you on hoard my- 
self. The neighbours trouble their heads very little about my 
outward joumeyings. We will be off to-morrow." 

*^ The kindness you have shown me will, I hope, never be 
needed by your own child. Nothing can be better than your 
plan. I will not speak to you of trouble : I take your assist- 
ance as frankly as it is offered." 

*^ You will have but a rough journey." 

^' Oh, never fear me ! I am mountain-bred." 

'^We will return home as fast as we can. Minora; you 
must come back with what the Donna Beatrice can best wear 
on her journey — no fine colours — the dark-feathered bird 
flies safest The saints keep you, Senhora ! Will you be 
ready to start by daybreak to-morrow ? " 

" One word, good Alvarez. You see " — producing her 
purse — ** I am well provided for a journey." 

" A good companion on travel ; and, to tell you the truths 
Senhora, the one we most wanted." 

Again Beatrice was left to her loneliness, broken, however, 
by Minora's afternoon visit. It is an ill wind that blows 
nobody good. The young peasant left the cave, happy in the 
possession of a rosary of cut coral beads, whidi, after much 
blushing, smiling, and refusing, she had at length been forced 
to accept. She was also depositary of the golden chain, the pro- 
duce of whose sale was to be devoted to the nurse's support. 

That night was even longer than its predecessor. Antici- 
jMition is a bad sleeping draught. Moreover, the fear of being 
too late made Beatrice continually start from her anxious 
slumber. Long before the time she was up and dressed. 
Her new apparel consisted of a dark blue boddice and skirt, 
trimmed with a narrow red braid; a white linen veil, and 
large cloak of black serge, with a capacious hood; stockings of 
dark blue cloth — hempen sandals. A string of large black 
oaken beads completed her dress. Minora, with a true fellow- 
feeling, had placed her own little mirror at the bottom of the 
basket; and, it must be owned, Beatrice did take a rather 
satisfactory glance. Even in the very worst of situations, no 
woman is quite insensible to her personal attractions, or would 
willingly look worse than she can help. Small attentions, too, 
are essentially womanly. 

Beatrice hurried her own breakfast, that there might be no 

' DD 3 



(406 JSiQXAJfCS AND RBAUTY. 

•delay on her part, but prepared some of the eboeokte for 
Alvare«, who was punctual to his time. '^ Why, I could 
almost take you ior Minora/' said the old man, on his ear 
trance. '' What! breakfast — and the chocolate made ? Well, 
you know the old proverb, ' Meat and drink never hindered 
journey.' Very good it ia too — though I had breakfasted — 
for, with your leave, Senhora, we did not give you credit for 
being half so ready.** 

A soft gray tinge, half mist, half light, pale as it was, 
dazzled Beatrice's eyes when die emerged from the cave. 
Two mules were in waiting : she sprang lightly upon the one 
intended for her. At first cautiously — from the broken path — 
and afterwards at a bride pace, they commenced their journey. 
Beatrice's own embarrassment was its only difEcuky. Accus- 
tomed to live in such unbroken solitude, the sight of the many 
strangers they met ahnost bewildered her. The light conver- 
sation in which Alvarez at times joined was like the language 
of another world. She fancied every person looked eapedalfy 
^ her. How odd it is, that any secret or anxiety of which 
we are onrselveB awace^ we immediatdLy think every one e\sfo 
«ufpects i 

They arrived about noon at the sea-port, and alighted at a 
small inn, where Alvarez left her, with a rough charge, not to 
be staring about, under the care of a good-humoured but most 
talkative landlady. He had^ at every place where they stopped, 
been as cross to his supposed daughter as a crabbed old gen- 
tleman could be, which served to account for her shyness, and 
for which he always b^ged pardon as soon as they w«re oat 
of hearing. She waited a half hour of in tolerable, anxiety, 
when Alvarez returned. ^' Come, girl — I have found out 
your aunt — iihere, don't be looking behind — and draw your 
teil over your face. How slow you are !" 

" Well, weU," said the landlady, " he ought to take care of 
his dau^ter — she is pretty enough ; but no* good will come 
of his being so cross." 

• " We are very fortunate, Senhora," said Alvarei, as soon 
as they were in the street ; " there is a felucca on the point 
of sailing to Naples — I have secured a passage, but we must 
pot lose a minute." 

They had scarcely time to get on board. Dizzy with the 
aotkn. of the water, confused with the noise, terrified to think 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 407 

«he would be alone in a few minutes, — much as she wished 
to spar^ his anxiety, Beatrice could hardly force out her fare* 
well thanks to Alvarez. Mechanically she watched him as he 
descended to the boat — heavUy the sound of the oars smote 
upon her ear — she looked eagerly round, but every face was 
strange and careless : how bitterly did she feel that she was 
alone ! 

" I guess how it is,'' said the captain of tlie ship, whose 
kind and even sweet voice contrasted strongly with his rough 
appearance ; ^^ you are not the first who has found a canvass 
-sail safer than a silken bed. Poor child ! you look very young 
for care or hardship. Well, you are secure enough here : if 
we cannot make you comfortable^ at least we will try. In half 
an hour you will have a snug little cabin to yourself." 

Beatrice had early learnt the useful lesson of conforming to 
circumstances : she thanked the captain cheerfully^ and readily 
took a seat on some pUed baskets. ^^ Give me the child to 
holdj" exclaimed our young Spaniard to a poor woman, whose 
increasing faintness made her terribly conscious of her in^ 
ability and her charge. The poor creature murmured a few 
words, gave up the infant, and let her head sink on a coil of 
ropes. When the captain came to say that her cabin wa^ 
ready, her first request was that her unfortunate companion 
might be conveyed thither also ; and for some hours she most 
)dndly and. soothingly enacted the part of nurse to the child. 
Luckily for her, it was a good little sleepy thing. Over-r 
fatigue and exhaustion were evidently the mother's causes of 
illness. Alvarez, even in the bri^f space of time he had been 
absent^ had stocked a sea-chest with many little comforts and 
necessaries. She took some wine and a piece of biscuit, and 
with some difficulty induced the invalid to swallow them, 
who, after slumbering for about an hour, awoke much revived. 
With a degree of gratitude almost painful to receive, she soon 
joined Beatrice in doing due honour to some eggs and coSPee^ 
which the latter, who had already made friends with a boy, 
who, too young for much work, was yet proud of showing his 
usefulness, had boiled. 

A good. action always meets its reward — so says the copy- 
book : in this instance it said the truth — for Beatrice found 
her companion invaluable. She was the widow of a saQor, 
leturning hoipe to her friends at Naples. Active, and well 

D D 4 



408 ROMANCE AND BEAMTT. 

^nown to the sailors^ she enabled the young and timid Toyagei^ 
to remain almost entirely secluded in her cabin^ which sh^ 
never left save for a little air in the evening. 

It would have done those good who talk of common feelingd 
as evil and coarse to mark the little attentions^ the delicate 
kindliness^ with which the sailors cleared a path for her steps, 
or made a seat of planks and sails for the young Spanish exiled 
Alvarez had told her history truly. He judged rightly, be- 
cause he judged others by the better part of his own nature. 
Yet it was a weary and sad voyage. Beatrice had never lived 
in luxury, but she had in refinement — the refinement of 
nature, solitude, and intellectual pursuits. She had dwelt in 
stately rooms, whose torn tapestries and shattered furniture 
were associated with noble and stirring memories ; her lute; 
a few books, and gentle cares for her mother, had filled up her 
time. Her eyes had dwelt on the stately forest and the dark 
mountain ; her step was accustomed to the silver dew and the 
fragrant heath. She had been used to familiar faces, and had 
hitherto reckoned time but by the falling leaf or the opening 
flower. Now her room was a wretched cabin, the size of a 
closet, and that, too, rudely formed of boards. The incessant 
noise, the loud voices, the savour of the pitch, which seemed 
to be part of every thing she touched — the strange faces, the 
faiBt sick feeling that perpetually stole over her, made her in - 
deed pine for the wings of the dove that nestled in the trees 
of her native woods. 

If it were not for romance, reality would be unbearable ; 
nevertheless, they are very different things. Beatrice had often 
thought, with a passionate longing, of the eternal ocean, the 
mighty mirror of the stars and the sunshine of heaven — she 
had listened to the autumn wind sweeping the depths of the 
dark woods, and marvelled if its sound resembled the stormy 
murmur of the waves : but, now that she was at sea, most de<- 
voutly did she pray to be on shore, and wept with very delight 
when they saw land. 

I doubt whether any minor on his travels, sleeping in his 
carriage on deck, secure of being awakened by his valet at the 
proper moment for being in ecstasies with the lovely bay of 
Naples, ever approached its shore with greater indifference as 
to the prospect than Beatrice. She was much too agitated ta 
observe it, and watched the crowd on the quay with mingled 



AOMANCE ANB BEALITY. 409 

terror and anxiety. The idea that Lorraine might he among 
them was uppermost in her mind. A vague hope of her 
lover's presence is always floating in a woman's mind ; and 
though Beatrice said she hoped to meet her father, she thought 
she might perhaps meet Edward too. 

Her companion had promised to he her guide to Signor 
Fachetti's, who^ she was somewhat surprised to learn, was a 
gold-heater on the Strada. Still, with the natural feeling of 
one who has lived in seclusion, it seemed impossihle hut that 
a crowd so immense must contain those she sought. With 
hrief but earnest thanks she quitted the felucca^ and her last 
few coins were left with the sailors of the boat. Clinging to> 
rather than leaning on, the arm of the woman with her^ 
Beatrice's head swam with the confusion of meeting so many 
eyes. With what envy did she see her companion rush into 
the arms of an old man! — "ilmio padre" exclaimed she, 
and gave him the child. Some hasty words passed between 
them, and in a few moments they were traversing a narrow 
street which led to the Strada, and soon stopped at a small^ 
mean-looking shop. 

Taking leave of her kind companions, who seemed very 
reluctant to go in, Beatrice entered alone. A harsh voice, in 
an unfamiliar language, demanded her business. How strange 
does another tongue sound in our ears ! Though perfectly 
acquainted with Italian, the question was thrice repeated 
before she comprehended its meaning. Glancing hurriedly 
around, to ascertain if they were alone, she approached the 
thin, miserable-looking being whose figure began to emerge 
from the surrounding darkness ; she leant forward, and, in a 
whisper, pronounced the pass-word taught by her father. The 
old man hastily pulled down his spectacles from their sinecure 
office on his forehead, and looked at her with an expression of 
most angry amazement. '* Now, the good St. Januarius help 
me ! but it is my opinion that all the world are gone mad. 
Women and mischief, women and mischief— -when were they 
ever separate ? " 

^^ I shall trouble you but little," said Beatrice, her pride 
and her presence of mind rising together : ^' I am the daughter 
of Don Henriquez de los Zoridos : my father is here, I be-* 
lieve, and it is at his bidding that I have come." 

" Don Henriquez here ! — no, indeed : evil was the hour 



410 BOMANCB AKD lUBAXiITT. 

that ever I listened to any of his wild schemes ! Why, the 
insurrection he went to head, and which was to change the 
whole face of affairs in Spain, was Hown away like a swarm 
4s£ musquitos. Zoridos has, I dare say, heen killed — I have 
heard nothing of him — I know nothing about him." 

" A fortnight/' said Beatrice, ^' has not ehtpsed since I 
heard firom my father : he appointed to meet me here, as at 
the house of one who knew his secrets and held his property." 

^ Property ! " said the man hastily^ and with a more civil 
manner — '^ I never denied it — I am a safe person to trust 
So the Don has escaped ? I hope he s by this time sick of 
conspiracies. One wax taper, two wax tapers, to the good 
Saint Januarius, to set me £ree of these luckless Carbonari ! 
No good comes of change. How has the world gone on so 
long, if every thing needs altering now ? But you, Senhora^ 
what do you want vdth me ?" 

" Protection in a strange city till my father s arrival — or 
till I can hear from my friends. Fear not that Don Henriqiiez 
will spare his reword." 

'' Well, if this is not too bad !" 

But what the new speaker, a woman, thought too bad, was 
not destined to be .expressed at this moment; for, Signor 
Pachetti hastily dragging his most unwilling companion into 
some room behind, their words were qiiite inaudible. In a few 
minutes they reappeared. Sigaor Pachetti introduced the female 
as his wife, who desired the Donna to walk in<— in a tone 
whidi sounded as if she had said, walk out. 

The evening had now closed in, and a little earthenware 
lamp dimly lighted a small close room, where a table was laid^ 
apparently for supper. Her hostess pushed forwards^ a chair, 
and, after examining the contents of a closet, sat down also. 
The husband, who had employed the interval in closing the 
shop, re-entered, and likewise drew a chair to the table. A 
hungry-looking hag brought in a dish of fried fish ; and supper 
began in the most profound silence, only broken by Signor 
Pachetti*s occasionally oifering to help his guest, which he did 
in a hesitating voice, and every word accompanied by a depre- 
cating glance at his wife, who returned it with one of those 
dark frowns which are the black clouds that foretell a domestic 
tempest. 

Beatrice now found herself in that most painful sitoadon 



ROUANCE AND REALITY. 411 

an unwelcome visitor — knowing* that she was an intruder, 
yet utterly unable to help herself. Supper was scarcely over, 
when her hostess rose — '^1 suppose the stranger sleeps here 
-— you can come this way." So saying, she lighted another 
lamp, and showed her unfortunate guest to a room, the dirt 
and misery of whose appearance was as new to her as it was 
wretched. Without a word, she set down the lamp, and 
filammed the door — the very eloquence of anger to the vulgar. 
Disappointment too great to bear— vexation at the timidity 
which had prevented her asking about Lorradne — anger at 
her reception — dismay at her situation, overcame all her reso- 
lution, and it was long before she even struggled with her 
passion of tears. The absurdity would have lightened the 
insult, could she have suspected that her hostess was jealous, 
not inhospitable. Jealousy ought to be tragic, to save it from 
being ridiculous. 



CHAPTER VIIL 

*f T<Hi*re very- weicouie." •> Skauhpbabb.. 

*' Yet the charmed spell 
Which sumraons man to high discovery 
Is ever vocal in the outward world, 
Though they aloae may hear it who have beuts 
Responsive to its tone. The gale of spring. 
Breathing sweet balm over the western waters, 
Called forth that gifted old adventurer 
To seek the perfumes of spice-laden winds 
Far in the Indian isles." 
Cambridge Prize Poem : the North-west Passage. G. S. Venajeiles. 

** Don't you, Mandeville, take an especial interest in your 
young plantations, and say to yourself, *How ftiuch more 
taste I have in the disposition of oak, elm, and beech, than my 
ancestors had I ' '* 

"To what does this allusion, whose truth I confess, tend?"* 
gaid her husband, smiling. 

^' Why, I want you to sympathise with me in my rejoicing 
over Emily's improvement ; you know I set it all down to my 
own judicious advice and exquisite example.** 

*' You need not put on a deprecating look ; I am not going 
to find a single fault. Emily is wonderfully improved — she 



41^ R0S!A19CE AND REAliIX?. 

has lost all that was painful^ and retained all that was pleasing 
in her timidity ; and to her own natural graces she has added 
divers acquired ones^ for which I do confess she is greatly in- 
debted to you ; and then she is so very much prettier than I 
ever gave her credit for being.*' 

" That is," said Lady MandeviUe, " because now you always 
see her dressed to advantage." 

" Nay, Ellen, you will not tell me that a pretty gown makes 
a pretty woman." 

" It does a great deal towards it ; but you gentlemen always 
run away with some vague idea of white-musUn and cottage- 
bonnet simplicity, which you call dress — which in reality ought 
to be numbered among the fine arts, and requires both natural 
and cultivated taste. Now, Emily had the one, but wanted 
the other. During her first season she was left to her own 
inventions — the heaviest of misfortunes to a young damseL 
Lady Alicia was just * ivorie neatly fashioned ;' and Emily 
came up to town a domestic darling and rural beauty. Her 
self-estimate was at once true and false — ^true, as regarded the 
really pretty face she did possess ; false, as regarded the efiect 
to be produced by the said face. She was not so much vain, 
as convinced of her own importance, from having been all her 
life the principal object in her own circle ; finding herself 
suddenly of little consequence, she shrank back into all her 
natural timidity, and left London vnth a great stock of morti- 
fication, a little sentiment, and having acquired more knowledge 
than wisdom." 

'* Wisdom," observed Lord Mandeville, ''is only knowledge 
well applied." 

'* My pretty protSg^e was very little likely to turn hers to 
much account. Remember how we found her — living in the 
most entire seclusion, cherishing grief like a duty, nursing all 
sorts of fancies ' vain and void,' neglecting herself, indulging 
in the most morbid sensibility, and having every probability of 
wasting the best days of her life in sickly seclusion, and either 
dying of a consumption, or, when she came to the romantic 
age in woman — I mean between forty and fifty — marrying 
some fortune-hunter who could talk sentiment, or resembled 
her first love. iVou* avons changS tout cela, A beauty and 
an heiress — coming out under my auspices J think of the 
effect Emily Arundel will produce next season." 



BOMANOE AND BEAUTY* 415 

** Why not marry her at once to Cecil Spenser ?" said Lord 
MandeviJIe, abruptly* 

There is a most characteristic difference in the way a man 
and a woman take to introduce a desired topic : the one, like a 
knight^ claps spurs to his steed, and rides straight into the field ; 
the other, like an Indian, fights behind cover, and watches her 
opportunity ; the knight often misses the enemy, the Indian 
never. Lord Mandeville was more abrupt than ingenious. 

*' I marry £mily to Mr. Spenser ! " said the lady, virith ft 
most meek air of utter inability ; ^' really I do think she may 
be allowed a choice of her own« I cannot take her feelings, 
as well as her ringlets, under my charge. You give me credit 
for authority which I not only do not possess, but should be 
sorry to acquire." 

" Well, Ellen, you must have your own way : but this I 
must say, Emily Arundel is a girl of whose strong feelings I 
think even your penetration is scarcely aware." 

*^ Truly I am one very likely to encourage romance in any 
young lady ! Did you ever know me to patronise moonlight 
walks, or talk even forgivingly of cottages and roses } and have 
I not a natural antipathy to honeysuckle } "§ 

** * And raillery takes the field for reason : ' 

it is vain to argue with a woman : just like walking in London 
on a rainy day, for every step forward, you slide back two at 
least ; and even as the mud slips from under you, so does her 
mind. I wish, Ellen, you were a little more reasonable." 

*^ You should have thought of that before you married me ; 
but now your misfortune is irreparable, 

* Till gentle Death sh^l come and aet you free/ 

And there is the carriage ; so now for our drive — I want to 
make some purchases in La Strada." 

How very satisfactory those discussions must be, where each 
party retains their own opinion ! Presentiments — those clouds^ 
indicative of change, which pass over the mind — what are 
they ? They come, and they come not. Who shall deny but 
that some events ''cast their shadows before;'* while others, 
and those, too, the great ones of our life, come suddenly and 
without sign : 

'* As ships that have gone down at sea 
When heaven was all tranqidlUty ?*' 



414 BOUANCE AND BCAUTV. 

Surely some presentiment ougbt to have informed both Emily 
and Lady Mandeville of the event that day tvas to bring forth«^ 
It came not ; and they set off for the gay shops of La Strada, 
as if only a few yards of riband had depended on that morning. 
They were all in the very act of returning to the carriage, wbea 
who should emerge from a small^ mean-looking jeweller's shop 
but Edward Lorraine ! Emily saw him first — how soon we 
recognise the object uppermost in the mind f — she did not, 
however, even attempt to speak — her cheek grew pale — her 
heart seemed to stop beating — she almost felt as if she wished 
him not to recognise them : the next minute they all met, and 
Lady Mandeville was the first to exclaim, 

^' Mr. Lorraine ! now what chance brought you here P*' 

'' A most fortunate one," replied Edward ; and mutual and 
cordial greetings took place, — though there was something 
very satisfactory to Cecil Spenser in Emily s silence, and cold 
and distant bow. There are a great many false things in this 
woildy but none are so false tis appearainoes. 

" Of eouTBe you will accompany us home^" said Lord Man- 
deville. 

" I suppose you are just anived." 

" I arrived yesterday." 

Inquiries of that small kind with which conversation after 
absence always commences among friends, occupied the way 
to the carriage. Lorraine was installed in the vacant place^ 
die other two gentlemen following on horseback. Lady Man- 
deville was in the best of all possible humours — she was 
really glad to see Edward on his own, and delighted to see 
him on Emily's account. In short, to use the favourite news- 
paper phrase for all eases of escape^ whether from fire, water^ 
or mailcoachmen (we mean their driving)^ his appearance 
was " quite providential." She was only anxious about Miss 
Arundel's looks — they were irreproachable. The pretty 
little mouth, all unconsciously, had broken into '^ dimples 
and smiles," the eyes darkened and danced in their own de- 
light, and their colour was like that of the young rose when it 
puts back its green hood from its cheek, crimson with the first 
kisses of the morning. A little judicious encouragement 
soon led her to take part in the conversation, — and the drive 
seemed ended almost before it had begun. Edward could not 
help pausing on the steps of the hall, to express his admira- 



ROMANCE AMD REAUTY.- 415 

tioD of the great improvement in Emily. '- What a lovely 
ereature she is grown ! " Lady Mandeville gave him the very 
sweetest of smiles. 

Their early dinner was ready ; and some of the party, at 
least, were very happy. Lord Mandeville partially forgot the 
interests of his young friend in the charm of Edward's con* 
vexsation. Cecil was the only one who was in the *^ winter 
of discontent;'' but it was very bard to be placed himself 
between a French countess — young, pretty, and exacting the 
amount of such demaods in full — and a Miss Arabin, an 
English heiress, whose designs upon him had grown from 
amusing to alarming. He had not even the consolation of 
sitting opposite to Emily ; she was on the other side, between 
the Countess* husband — a man whom nothing abstracted 
from the glorH>us sdeace to whidi, as he said, he had for 
years devoted every faculty of his body and his mind, viz.. 
eating. To ei\joy bis dinner first, and afterwards to reflect or. 
that enjoyment, comprised the whole of his estimate of table 
duties: as for talking, it was sometimes matter of necessity, 
but never of pleasure. It was said he only married in order 
to have a wife to talk for him ; and if any one asked him how 
he did, his constant reply was, mais demandez a ma femme. 
There was no hope, therefore, of his distnusting Emily's at- 
tention from the handsome Lorraine on the other side. How 
is human happiness ever to be arranged, when the same cause 
produces such different effects? Emily's satisfaction waa 
utterly irreconcilable with Cecirs. In the position of the table 
she could imjagine no change for the better. Poor Cecil re- 
signed himself in despair to die gaiety of the Countess, and 
the sentiment of the heiress. He turned from the bright 
black eyes of the one to the soft blue eyes of the other, and he 
escaped from a smile only to be lost in a sigh. Miss Arabia 
looked at him, la beUa Comtesse laughed at him. Please to 
remember there are two ways of laughing at a person ; and 
Madame de St. Ligne had often had the pvetty French madri- 
gal applied to her : 

*' EUe a trds bien cette gorie d'albatre, 
Ce doux parler, et ces beaux yeux ; 
Mais, en em>t, ce petit ris tolAtre 
C'est & mon gre ce qui lui sied le mieux." 

To be laughed at with eyes full of compliment, and a 
mouth whose teeth were little seed-pearls, ought to have been 



416 ROtfANCB AND REAUTT. 

rather pleasant ; but Cecil was not in a humour to he pleiued. 
Miss Arabin^ seeing he was graver than his wont^ looked as 
sad as she conveniently could — gravity and sensibility beings 
with her^ synonymous. She talked of withered flowers and 
blighted feelings — of the worthlessness of fortune when 
weighed in the scale of affection — and of the litde real hap- 
piness there is in this world ^; till Cecil took refuge from them 
both^ by being suddenly most deeply interested in a discus- 
sion carrying on opposite to him, about the facilities of going 
by steam to Timbuctoo. The consequence was^ that Miss 
Arabin said he was such a coxcomb, and Mde. de St. Ligne 
that he was si bite, 

"To me," remarked Lord Mandeville, ** there is some- 
tiling very melancholy in the many valuable lives which have 
been sacrificed during the course of African discovery. But 
I believe that travelling is as much a passion as love, poetry, 
or ambition. What of less force than a passion could, in 
the first instance, induce men to ^tl their thoughts on under- 
takings whose difficulties and dangers were at once so obvious 
and so many ? What but a passion (and the energy of pas- 
sion is wonderfol) could support them through toil, hardship, 
and suffering — all in the very face of death — and for what? 
But true it is, that of any great exertion in which the mind 
has part, the best reward is in the exertion itself." 

** I do not know any thing," observed Mr« Brande, *' that 
has more moved my sympathy than Bruce's position on his 
return home. After all he had suffered, and, still more, all he 
had overcome, to find, when he arrived in -his own country, 
having performed one of the most extraordinary undertakings 
that was ever accomplished by a single individual, — to find, 
I say, on his return, that he was a by-word and a mockery ; 
his honourable feelings as a gentleman insulted by disbelief of 
his assertions ; and his own high sense of difficulties dared 
and overcome, laid in the dust by sneer and ridicule, which 
must have entered into his very soul, and left their own litde- 
ness behind." 

*' Or," returned Lord Mandeville, *^ what do you say to 
Columbus returning laden with irons from his own discovered 
world, which, to this very day, does not even bear his name ? " 

" Why, I say," exclaimed Cecil, " that I do not see the 
advantage of taking much trouble about any thing." 



ROMANCE AND BEALITT. 417 

^'I cannot agree 'with you," said Edward. ^^The im- 
agination makes the delight of the exertion which itself sup- 
ports. The feeling with which Columhus saw the gleam of 
that white- winged hird which avouched that land was near — 
the hreath of leaves and spices, sweet airs whose sweetness 
was of the ' earth, earthy' — the dim outline of the shore he- 
coming gradually distinct, as the night-shade broke away from 
•the face of morning and a new world, — I do think that such 
a feeling might he weighed in the balance with thousands of 
disgusts and disappointments, and find them wanting, and not 
pressing down the scale." 

" I believe," observed Lady Mandeville, ** that our greatest 
enjoyments go into the smallest space : they are like essences 
— the richer the more they are concentrated. One drop of 
the attar condenses a whole valley of roses." 

'* But, sir," said Mr. Brande — who, being a traveller him- 
self, considered that their injuries were personal ones — ^' look 
at the long years of obloquy and wrong, of taunts and doubts, 
which embittered Bruce's return home." 

" I can only repeat, — think of his feelings when he stood 
by the three mystic and sacred fountains, and saw the morn- 
ing sun shine on their deep waters, and could say to himself, 
' I alone, and unaided, have done what kings, at the head of 
banded armies, tried to do and failed. I am the Alexander of 
the Nile.^ I say of these fountains, what Scott says of a 
martial company, 

* 'Twere worth ten years of peaceful life. 
One glance at their array.' 

'' Besides, do you hold as nothing his own consciousness of 
right ? " 

" Why, sir," replied Mr. Brande, " truth is a good thing—* 
a very good thing — bat one likes to have it believed ; and a 
traveller has a right to his honours, as a labourer to his hire." 

" Ah ! " said -^ Lady Mandeville, *^ I see how it is. Mr. 
Brande would Hke his Travels to Timbuctoo to go through 
some dozen editions — to enlist the whole alphabet after his 
name, as fellow of this society, and fellow of the other — 
honorary member of half the continental institutes — some 
score of silver and gold medals laid in red morocco cases on 
nis table — his name to be affixed to some red or yellow flower 
never heard of but in a book, nor seen but in a print — or to 

E B 



-418 tSOMANOE .'AND ttEA&ITV. 

have mne ro<^k.fifaxktene(l as .en iriond inihonour oi him — 
ako, tDthave.hifi piotme 'taken and<eagreved." 

^'Add^to theie, my /lady,/' ic^iied ihe tsaveller, lau^mig, 
'^ the pri^l^>Df teUingimy .own ^stories 4ifter tdinHcr inuani- 
.tradiated." 

'< I. thank yaa,"«id Lonaine^ ^'fartesinfaicinginytfavDUBhe 
•theory, .which maintuxwlthat <a love lof itaihing 'is the gveot 
Jeatuie of the present time. <Steam is XLOtiholf so nnuih.itB 
xharacteriatic as-apeeohifyiog." 

'^ Our <monqpoly 'Of itaUdng/' ohaeiwBd iLady Mandosffle, 
*^ is heing transferred to you gentlemen. J aaw ^some iRngliah 
ffiewspapers the other 'day^ rand I imust «ay^ JLondon jast now 
oeems visited with .^e plague 'jof toogues. Wby, theie^is'aizr 
^end Mt.^lawaiXytevery levelling — ^poortunhoppy Wednesday 
not now excepted — gate up aodrspflrics At thenote^of tenniifes 
an hour, or, I should rathor juiy,itenihoiQS a mile, to ju^e by 
the little progress he jnabea. IWih^ did any of »is tewer sspy a 
quarter so .much .? " 

^^The supply/' replied Loid Mandevdile, ^rin this eaaev 
does not cieate the ikekaand. What WDaum eonld «ver find 
listeners twilling to go such IsngthB? " 

'^ There, xkow I " 'exclaimed JMEde. «de I^igne, " ifant -speeidi 
is just (your helle aUianee^fff pergf^age and poUtenefls j half of 
vffhat iiog 'cmtrss Miglais call witty flpeeches, toe «nJy omdBu 
Who bat an £)ngbdliima]i (wvmld haive thoi^t of teDkig a 
woman she would not be listei^ed to ? " 

'' Perhaps a Turk," replied liord Mandeville. 

^^•Ah, you see you are forced to 'seek a fikeness to yourself 
among iMghamMis," /letamed ilbe ihdy. 

" Do you regret or rejoice at the prospect of returning to 
Enghmd ? '^ asked hoaaiDe of fimily, 

^' I count .the days. I have been apprised — delij^ted— * 
with a great deal ^at I haw ^een; fadt I qmte pine toiiekold 
the old haU, and beAtSiome again." 

<' Ah, ErailyJ " exdoinied Lady Mandeizdk, ^790 me in- 
tegoeely English. I believe, in ymat heart, yon t&ink the mins 
ao called of "Sir JcSka Arvndelje ^flia^el, which oaid ruins con- 
sist -of a broken wall amd iamae aeattexed bricks, aie more pio* 
tureaque than all the Aiomlded^gtenfileR, half morUe and batf 
acaiuhizs, to be fouBd ia Itaiy^ jmd I am pesanaded one great 
xeason why yau want to he «t home agBin»i8 to see if your 
'^ttle-tree is grown taller thaa yourself.'' 



mmAmm and reai«ity. 440 

** Ij 'for 0Be/'^8ftid Edward, '^ cympatbise in Miss Arundel's 
leminkcenees. I do -not go quite the length of the modem 
philesof^her^ who asserts that our nature is not -wholly so- 
phisticated 80 long «6 we iietadn 'Our juvenile -predilection in 
fayour of apple-dumpling'; but I do thiiik >that the aifection 
Which dlings to ike home of our childhood ~-^ the early love 
which lingers round the flowers we have sown, the shrubs we 
have planted — is, 'tiiough a €imple, a sweet and purifying in- 
fluence on *the character. I cannot help thinking, that the 
drooping bough, the 'SEdry^llke rose, 4end something of their 
€>wn grace to one qi^ho has 'loved ihem and made them her 
companions." 

<rNow/''<!Jacukted Lady MandeviUe, *' I earpect ito hear, 
as a finish, that 'you 'have i^en 'in love^itfa mome \mountain 
nymph, "Who 'has found your heart weak and large *enough to 
eontain ^herself, orook, 'flodc, fiiropltohy -and -alL" 

'^ I^kad'guihy," said Edward, ^^ to^noauab pastoialiaste.^' 

<^ A gentleman's idea of simplicity always amuses tme," 
latunied <Lady Utendeville. " H have»notiung to say against 
Mature — and I have no doubt a lady 'made l^ her would 
be a ^vefy ' charming penon ; but ^hete is ^unsopbisticated 
nature to 'be ^fonnd? Where ^is itfae baam^, however rustic 
or rmal ahe ^niay 'be, withoat 'same (touoh t>f art? And if 
iHrtnre is<to be modelled, let it be >by refinement, graee, and 
edueation. Again I aay, 3 bmgh at .your idea of simplicity. It 
always 'puts ^me in <mind of the 'heroines in novels, from -Sir 
Walter Scott^s (Dj[ Vernon 'downwards, in < order to give an 
ideaof iieauty unspoiled (by art, the 'heroine^ hat fiills off, and 
her 'hair 'fillls down, 'While ^idie (looks -lovely in dishevelled ring- 
lets. 'Now, they quite 'forget two things-: first, <that though 
the hat may eome olF, nt is *by no ^meane a necessary eonse- 
quencetlmt the hair Should come down too*; and, secondly, 
if^it did, the ^dameel would only -loi^ an untidy fright. And 
your notions' of >«implici^ in*real lifeare just as consistent." 

'^ <Bo ytm notthitik," asked ^Mde-de Ligne, ^^ that ^re are 
iBome '£acee which a simple style -suits ? " 

-^^ Agreed," >re]Eilied 'Lady Mandeville*; ^' but I hope you call 
auch style .only 

* The carelessness yet the most studied to Mil.' " 

'' How beautiful," said Mr. Brande, '^ is the simplicity of 
the ancient statues !'*' 

BB 2 



420 ROMANOB ANB BEAX^ITT. 

^' Yet they would have been," retorted Lady Mandeville, 
'' just as natural in an uneasy or an ungraceful attitude ; but 
the sculptor had the good taste to select the attitude most 
pleasing, the folds of drapery the most harmonious." 

" Lady Mandeville only contends," said Edward, " that 
Nature should make, not a sacrifice, but an offering to the 
Graces." 

'' Few things have struck me more since my arrival in 
Italy,'' said Mr. Brande, '' than the little real love my country^ 
men have for the fine arts ; they may affect ^ a taste,' but ' they 
have it not.' I should have wondered still more at this want, 
had I not felt it in myself. I have seen others hurrying, and 
I have hurried, from collection to collection, from gallery to 
gallery, with nothing but the fear of the future before my 
eyes — that future which, when we return home, makes it an 
imperative necessity to say we have seen such things. We 
rise up early in the morning, and late take rest — ^we crowd time 
and memory, for the sake of one pleasant remark, ' Well, I 
do declare it is quite wonderful that you could manage to see 
so much in so short a time ! ' " 

Our English taste for the fine arts," said Lord Mandeville, 
may be classed under two heads — ostentatious and domestic. 
Our nobility and gentry buy fine pictures and statues as they 
do fine furniture, to put in fine rooms. They are indications 
of wealth — articles of luxury — bought far more with refer, 
ence to what others will think, than to what we ourselves will 
feel. A gentleman fills his gallery with paintings, and his 
sideboard with plate, on the same principle. Then, as to ob- 
jects of art that attain the greatest popularity among us — 
which are they ? Portraits of ourselves, our wives> children, 
brothers, uncles, nephews, nieces, and cousins. We like 
paintings of horses, bulls, dogs, &c. ; or we like small scenes 
from common life — children, especially if they are naughty — 
and a set of breakfast or tea-things are irresistible. In sculp- 
ture, who will deny our preference for busts, or our passion 
for monuments ? What are the casts which enjoy most plaster- 
of- Paris popularity? Napoleon in his cocked hat — the Duke 
of Wellington — Tam-o'Shanter and Souter Johnny — though, 
even these yielded in attraction to china Madame Vestris or 
Liston as brooh)>girls." 

" The prettiest casts that ever found favour in our island 






BOMANOIS AND REALITY. 421 

ejes" added Lorraine^ *' were the reading and writing Cupids. 
People bought them out of compliment to their own little 
chubby cherubs. ^ Pretty dears ! ' I once heard a woman 
say — ' bless their nice little fat arms ! ' " 

*^ Look at the enthusiasm/' rejoined Mr. Brande^ '^ about 
the works of art at Rome. The story of the barber — I have 
forgotten the artist's name — who flung himself at the car- 
dinal's feet^ and implored him to take away his life^ but not 
the picture which had been painted beneath his roof. — is a 
simple fact. The very postilions rein up their horses^ and 
point out to strangers^ with a gesture of pride^ the first 
glimpse of St. Peter's. It would be long enough before one 
of Mr. Newman's post-boys stopped on Highgate Hill to point 
out the cupola of St. Paul's." 

" And yet," said Lorraine, " we are not without some sort 
of attachment to it — I do think we attach an idea of respect- 
ability to St. Paul's." 

" Perhaps," returned Lady Mandeville, " from its vicinity 
to the Bank — to say nothing of its utility to set watches by." 

'' Our insular imagination is the exact reverse," observed 
Lord Mandeville, '^ of the Italians': theirs delights in outward 
impressions — ours dwells on internal impressions ; theirs is 
the imagination of the ideas — ours of the feelings; they 
create a world — we exaggerate the influences of the one in 
which we live. Whether in painting or in poetry, we are 
egotists — ' we like what we can bring home to ourselves. 
Byron is our poet of passion — because it is passion we have 
felt, or fancied we have felt or could feel. Wordsworth is our 
poet of philosophy — .because we all think we have practised, 
or could practise, his philosophy. The groundwork of the 
imagination of the Italians is fancy — that of the English is 
sentiment." 

" It is curious to observe," said Mr. Brande, '^ the varieties 
of national character. The laws of the universe " 

" Nay," exclaimed Lady Mandeville, " pray keep a discus- 
sion on the laws of the universe till we are in England — it 
will accord with the reigning whim. While reforming and 
settling as we are now doing, to arrange for the whole world 
will be a small matter. But such a weighty business is too 
much for this land of sunshine and rose — I move we do ad- 
journ the meeting." 

E s 3 



41^ BOXAXfOa Mlfl>* RBAUW- 

'^ It is sea: M. porilege of min6>" said Loxcaine,. ^' to bring 
my adventures to ^ur feet, ' I hwve r«ally been sufficiently, 
romanlic h/belf- for recital. Mby I find audience ^ mee^ 
though few?" Lady MendeiRille aad £mily weiie standing, 
side by sidb -^ both smiled^ aequieseeooe. " The balcony of 
the fountain^ is die very plaee whereinr to>enact- a scene iram. 
Boccado/' 



CHAFITBR IX. 

" Alas ! the heart o'eracts its part:; itB>anitth,, 
Like light, will all too often take its birth 
mnddarhWBSB aad denay. fiteas smiles that pre», 
Like the gay crowd rounds are not happiness — 
For Peace broods quiet' on herdev«-lnEe vriiiBB— '- 
And this false gaiety a radiance flings, 
Daz2ling, but hiding not. And some wfrodMrelt 
Upon her meteor tauity, aadoess fUt ^r , 

Ita very brilliance spoke the fevered breast — 
Thus glitter not'the watl»r» when at reet," — 'L. E. L. 

Wffo that had lotted ont that tno^ as the young cavaliey com. 
ntenced his nanation, but would have thought, '^ what a fairy- 
like picture of beauty and enjoyment!" The balcony was 
filled with youi^ orange-^rees^ wearing the first, white pro- 
ini8e» of coming spring, whose rich periinae blended with the 
violets heaped fadiow. A little fountain fiung up its sparry 
rain, which l^en fdl on the leaves, around, and there lay 
glistening. Gtsore and. garden we» wrapped in Uiat rich 
purple atmoi^heie when day has oaoj^t the first shadow of 
night — its softness, but not its i^eiHn. There was a glorious 
sunset on the other side of the hoajBe^ but the sky. opposite 
was oJear and pale, and only edged towards the west by two 
or tlisee wandering clouds, whose fiosight of colour softened 
from crimson to the faintest sose. A lasge window ojiened 
into the room, whose painted wails looked in. the dim light as 
if life were in their giactfdl fonsa* A small statue of Hebe 
was i^aoed on tile balcony,, and against that Emily leant, so 
vexr that tii& hues of her omn cheek were reflected on the 
marUe- 

Lorraine had resolved^ if possible, to interest Lady Man- 
deville in the beautiful but isolated Spanish, girl. He had 



BOMilWNCE AND RBATTjITY. 48S 

lii^i too much in society not' to be 8olicitoii& about its opinibn; 
and was somewhat over-anxious that Beatrice should at' once 
take that place which would meet beth her deserts and< his 
wishes* The difibrenoe that there is between a woman'fr Ibve 
and a man'd!' His- passion may- Iead*him^ in the first* instanae, 
to act* in* opposition to 'opinion' — Init^its influence is- only sus- 
pended ; and' soon a' sne^ or » censure wounds his pride 'and 
wei^enshis love: A woman's- hearty on- the contrary^ reposes 
more on itself-; andia'Aiult found' in llle object of her attach*- 
ment i9 resented' as* an injury r she is' angered; not altered. 

Briefly_, as briefly as lover could* well speak of his-mistress^ 
Edw«rd< recounted his engs^ement with Beatrice d& los Zb«- 
lidos; and- never; certainly^ was- narrative l6s» interrupted! 
Lady Mandeville dtired not> even look at Emily ;- and when 
under the absolute' necessity * of saying* somethings the- very 
iaculty of speech' seemed^ to desert hen It Iboked so odd' not 
to reply to Bdwatrd with all the kindness he had' alright to ex- 
pect; w^ile it would be so'cniel to Xhnily to congratulkte him 
with' any degree of warmthi To herutter astDnishment^ Bmily 
actually was tlie first to speak. ''' Nky, Mr; liorraihe, you 
ought to canvass me ;* do-- you not know ihap ail* liie gracious 
oountenance Lady Mandeville can extend is- mine* by pledge 
and promise ^' I do not know whether I will allow her to 
gmat the light of her favour to> any rival next season^ — more 
espedally to* one so* dbngerous txr- thvundividedleffbot I mean 
to produce^ as this beautiful and interestingp unknown." 

Edward made some deprBeatoiy reply ; and) fiady Man- 
deville recovered breath andpresence of mindtogeth^. 

*' Positively/' exclaimed' Mfedame de-Ligne^ "t wiU adhiit 
no more of these divided* councils — I am tired of monsieur 
votre mari^ because he is tired of'me. Miv Spenser ltx)ks sad, 
and Ml*. Brande stupid ; Miss Arabinls in> an attitude which 
there is no one to adtnire^ excepting my husband; who is 
asleep* The saloon- is- lighted'; and I heard' some visitors' come 
in as I left it." 

fiady Mbndeville rose, and drew Emily's ann within her 
own ; ^e< felt it tremble^ and press her& convulsively. It was 
but a moment; the Countess caught Emily's hand) and said^ 
" Come with me, ma mignonne : I have a fancy to-night de 
faire des tableaua: vivans, and your services will be inva- 
ruable.'*' 

E E 4 



424 BOMANOB AND BEALITY. 

'^ I shall bring more willingness than ability/' replied £milf ; 
" but I will promise to do my best." 

The whole party^ excepting the two, adjourned to the sa- 
loon, which showed sign of the Countess's preparations by a 
large picture-frame, before which was hung a curtain. In a 
very brief space the curtain was drawn aside, and showed 
what seemed a tent. The subject of the picture was Roxe- 
lana receiving a present of the Sultan from a young Greek 
girl. The Countess personified the brilliant coquette to per- 
fection. Half enveloped in a splendid cashmere — the letter 
of the Sultan flung beneath one very pretty foot, which a 
furred and scarlet slipper, " bien plus Arabe quen Arabie," 
showed to perfection — a very white arm hung over a pillow 
of the sofa and round it — the other little hand was clasping 
an additional chain of gems, which were not so bright as the 
eyes that were fixed upon them in smiling and sparkling at- 
tention. As the Countess herself said^ her personification of 
Roxelana was a triumph of the fine arts. Fortunately, the 
spectators could not look at one without seeing the other, or 
Mde. de Ligne would scarcely have been satisfied with the 
effect produced by her young companion. 

Emily had on a long loose white dress, closed round the 
throat, with a narrow band of gold, and gathered round the 
waist with another band of gold, only broader. Her arms, 
enveloped in the large sleeves, were crossed, after the eastern 
fashion of homage, and she knelt a little in the background at 
the one end of the sofa. A crimson turban, worn low on the 
forehead, entirely concealed her hair ; and the profile of her 
face was turned towards the audience. It was impossible to 
give a more exquisite representation of a young Greek girl^ 
parted from the home of her childhood and her affections. 
With all the beauty, but none of the brilliancy of youth — 
the perfect outline of face — the marble-pale cheek, on which 
rested the long dark eyelash, curled and glistening with unshed 
tears — the rich relief of the crimson turban, which made the 
face look even more colourless — the white slender throat — 
the finely curved mouth, whose deep red seemed that of fever, 
and wearing 

" The sweetness of a smile, 
But not Its gaiety ; " — 

the subdued and drooping attitude — nothing could more 



ROMANCE AND BBAUT7. 425 

curately depict the '' delicate Ionian " pining for her own free 
and mountain village. 

The curtain fell^ and in a few moments the fair pictures 
stepped into life. The Countess^ to whom activity was enjoy- 
ment, and who imagined if people were quiet they must he 
dull, proposed proverbs. The one they selected for illustra- 
tion was" chemins divers — m^e b4t*' — "divers roads^and the 
same end." The Countess and £mily were two sisters, each 
of whom afiects an attachment to the cavalier she cares not for, 
to pique the one she prefers. Madame de Ligne, who always 
considered choice as her privilege, had a fancy for being sen- 
timental; the livelier sister was, therefore, left in Emily's 
hands. Lorraine and Spenser were to enact the lovers ; and 
the one or two subordinate parts were soon filled up by the 
rest of the company. 

Both Madame de Ligne and Edward acted admirably. 
Spenser was out of humour, and took his Englishman's privi- 
lege of showing it : but Emily was the charm of the piece. 
Her vivacity appeared as graceful as it was buoyant ; her gay 
spirit seemed the musical overflowings of youth and happiness; 
her eye and cheek brightened together ; and her sweet glad 
laugh was as catching as yawning. It is utterly impossible 
to say more. The little piece was shortened by Madame de 
Ligne, who, having always looked upon Emily as a pretty 
painting, had only expected her to make a good side-scene 
and was more surprised than pleased by a display that cast 
herself quite into the background. 

"Indeed, Ellen," said Lord Mandeville, earnestly, *^our 
little Emily is ' overacting her part. I grant that Lorraine 
must be struck with her improvement ; but, indeed, there is 
too much display for attraction." 

"You are quite mistaken; but take no notice now," was 
the reply. " Is it possible,'* thought Lady Mandeville, '^ that 
I have all along been mistaken, and that Emily is really indif- 
ferent to Lorraine ? Has she hitherto been withheld from ex- 
pressing her real opinion from deference to mine, and from 
supposing him to be my favourite ?*' 

This idea was only started to be rejected. A thousand 
slight but strong circumstances rose to her memory. 

" I do believe she had a preference for him ! but, alas ! 
anxttfiement is wonderfully in the way of constancy. Emily is 



406 mOMAHCB AMJI BSAXUDS. 

8- yerf sweet creiiture^ but it raquixes: strength, of mitid far 
strength of attachment." 

Hi>w little do even* our- most indmatd* fiiends: know of as ! 
Tliere ib an excitements ftboutrmtense tnteery wliicfa is itn supi- 
port^: light' su€^lng9 spring- to the lips. in woids^ and tD*t^e 
e^e» in tears ;- but there id » pride in: doeg passion wliicli 
gnard^^ it» feelings from even' the shadow of » siirinise.. 'Tis 
strange' the strength wHioh rainglea with our weakness^, that 
e^Fenin lile sufibring which sends* the toavtoitho eya- — not to 
be- shed, bat there to Iie> in all its- bmiing and. saltneai — 
which swelli^ in the throat but tO' bof fbrced down again; like 
nauseous medicine'; even in' this deep and) deadly suffhiiitg, 
vanity finds a trophy of power* ov«r whidr to esult. It* is 
somewhat that speak» of ment^ command;, to think* how little 
the careless and the curious deem of the agoay> which, like^ a 
oonqueror; is reigning in* miibei^ and desolation' within. 

^^'Leaving* Naples early to-morrow," eKclalmed Lord' Mlnrr- 
d^tUe, **and retttming'to-Spaih'?*'' 

''Yes/' replied Bdward, ''and that mustr plead my.* exonse 
&r hurrying away to-nightt"' 

"'Well, r suppose/' retumedr hiff host, " rnnist take no 
noteof ' youz'd^arture-; 

* Fonwell I wot unwelconie he 
'\raiose glAnoe is-fistMl<on those tlmt d^at* <" 

''And, considering what I leaw behind," said Edward; 
smiling, and looking towards the bright and gay-looking 
groups whiclL were; flitting, through ^ the saloon,, " I ought to 
dfigart. with, tibe.two following lines, 

*- And ntt a star tovt dUtttcf too bright 
On him which takes. such ximeless flight.' *' 

" T pity you' so» yery^ much fop lanning« us^" said; BSnily, 
witil a sweet' glkd' laugh ;- fim-she and! Me. Spenser had been 
standing near enougtt to 'bear all dieoanveraation*. 

" r hBvea'fkvoup tO'aak'of you^ MlmdeTille," said Lomine^ 
dhnving' him a liido'aBidOj while* he- proceeded to: recommend 
Don ^enriquez to his proteetiofi and assistance^, dhould' he 
ani^p*e in Naples* befbre they lefit: 

" I am so* surprised/" said Spanaei^ abmptiy> "that Mr. 
Lorraine' should be> leaving' Naples so immediatelj^" 

«Nfay," retumedJ Bnaily, "Spain is- a. ^ery intazeaCii^ 



country^ and it ww cfaly urgent iMttinew tfaatr ^nnight him: ta 
Naples.'" 

^^IshouM Hke't(><kno«rwkariirwa^f' nnl S^paimi^ quite 
tmcoDsbious tiiat he was thinking' iddud. 

<^ Never reproacfir our sex wttb curimily/* vepBsd Exubp; 
^ see how^ curious jove wee jowmsHEL B heg loam tir tell ^im^ 
it is sometidhg^ romantic aaidf very nvf8tsiiou»; and that, ta 
our femiTiine credrtr beiirknowir^, I am. aimr»«6 tfae aecnt^ 
and' do not intend teUing'it." 

'^ Really,'^ said Misa Arallm,. vetting spireii. in. snilfta — ila 
common veil^ by the By — ^' I cannot aUewyoHV-M^saAinind^ 
to stand there fi&ting the whole etenuig," tbcy had sot been 
tsdkiiig fire miimtes^ ^ with Mr. Spenser. An JBng^iahnuna 
is such a rarity heie^ that he ought ta* h«' puhfie pM^sty.** 

Mr. Specner wished' the ftdi iiitrader at ttoe de\iil> ait leatrt; 
JSmily felt IJiankfal to her ; lor BdWanI ao diot noaent a^ 
proached to say good night The pulses of Ittv hcact wsm 
fike the chords of an instrument Strang to their hig^Mit pitch. 
She bade him farewell with equal kindnass and' gaialrfi^ aad 
tamed away to waltss' widi one of ifaehr o^r vinrtOML Stedid 
not see him leave die room, hut she heani the doov ckse after 
him ; that slight noise feli like a deast ipigbn upon has eHi; 
At first she listened withtent widentsnding what her paHnor 
was saying. Again l^e pridie 0t coneaaliBcnt came to her aa* 
sistance, and her gay voiee and laugh tmuKtJM^ i<ady M aada t i Bf; 
She looked eamestLy at Emily — th« baght eye, tihe fluahed 
colour, the unusual vivadty, hcttpsyed more ^an it concealed^ 

*' I was wrong" thought she, *' xn* suppoaiiig she fait Mttle^ 
because she controlled rt — she haa aM)re selfi^cammaad dMa 
I gave her credit fbr. The desire a# hading s diaappoinlmeiit 
is one great step towarda eonqvermg k allagether. My paat 
must be to observe her as Btde a» p o oo i M e; 1 abiraya didi, and 
always shall, doubt the advairtn^es of coBBolatiaB^ Theae's 
now a prospect for Cecil Spenser — naany a heart ia caught m 
{be reboundl*' 

At last the evening came to a close. Madaaat de Ligne 
was glad of it ; for it had In-ought the dnagneeaMte coovictioarv 
that Emily had produced more efiect dian htwmM l Spenser 
was ^ad of it ; for he was not quite satiBfied with ftGss Am^ 
dei's gaiety. Lord Mandeviile was glad oi it ; for his cttTi»- 
sity was waiting to be gratified — and eaiionty, lika a poa^ 



4S8 ROMAirOB AND BEALITY. 

man^ dislikes to be kept waiting. Miss Arabin was glad of 
it ; ifor it would be some comfort to vent upon her maid the 
rage excited by Spenser's indifference. Lady Mandeville was 
equally rejoiced to see her guests depart; for she was both 
anxious and weary ; and as she was under the necessity of 
telling her husband how completely mistaken she had been^ the 
sooner it was told the better. So much for the enjoyment of 
such a pleasant party^ composed of such delightful people ! 

" £mily, love," said Lady Mandeville, '^ you have exerted 
yourself so much this evening, that you must be tired — there 
now, go at once, like a good child, to bed." 

Emily took the lamp : it was a relief, that Lady Mande- 
ville evidently had no intention of being either consoling or 
confidential. She longed, yet dreaded, to be by herself — 
she felt as if another minute, and the throbbing head and 
beating heart could be subdued no longer. She left the room 
quiet and smiling. 

^' Thank God ! " exclaimed she, as she found herself in her 
own chamber, *' I am alone." 

The proof that keen feelings are incompatible with happi- 
ness is shown in the fact, that the young commit suicide, the 
old never. The old have outlived that mental world we so 
misname in calling it a world of enjoyment; — they have out- 
lived the feverish dreams which waste those keen hopes — the 
pelicans of the hearty feeding on the life-blood of their parent; 
— they have now no part in the excitement of success, 
whether in its desire or disappointment. Delicate food, the 
card-table, money, are the delights of old age ; and do we, 
then, become content in proportion as our contentment be- 
comes of '^ the earth, earthy ? " Are the feelings that redeem, 
the aspirations that dignify our nature, only like the ancient ' 
tyrant's machine of torture, which, under the semblance of 
beauty, stabbed the bosom which clung to it ? Who is there 
that has not, at some period or other, paused, as it were, upon 
existence, to look to the past with sorrow, the present with 
^eariness^ the future with loathing ? and when has such pause 
been made but in youth ? 

The difference between past grief and past joy is this — 
that if the grief recurred again to-day, we should feel it as 
bitterly as ever ; but if the joy returned, we should no longer 
have the same delight in it. 



V 



BOMANOE AND BEAI^ITT. 429 

There are many paths to lead to this (as the little matri- 
monial maps call it) rock of disappointment. Emily had 
trodden but one — it was short and bitter enough — diat of 
unrequited affection. Early solitude had increased the power 
of imagination — early indulgence had weakened her morale 
as much as delicate health had relaxed her physical energy. 
Love^ to a girl who has lived secluded from the world, is a 
very different thing from love to a girl wha has lived in so« 
ciety : sentiment wiU be the Scylla of the one, as vanity will 
be ^e Charybdis of the other. 

The keen feeling, the high-toned romance of Emily's 
character, had she been more accustomed to the harsh reali- 
ties of life, or been placed in circumstances where exertion 
was a necessity, would have been sweet and kindly guards 
against the selfishness contracted in the wcfrld : but left to be 
that character's sole mat&rid^ there was no strength to meet 
sorrow, no reality to ballast romance. A chain of small but 
unfortunate events had brought her into continual contact 
with Lorraine. Daily intercourse first gave attachment all 
the force of habit ; — loneliness next gave all the refining 
exaggeration of utterly unemployed fancy ; — and love had 
become to Emily an imaginary world, where thoughts, hopes, 
feelings, were all gathered and confided. The wreck was 
total — as total as that ever is which trusts its all to one 
argosy. The great happiness-secret, after all, is division. 
How dare we, in this vain, fleeting world, concentrate our 
whole freight of interest in one frail bark ? 

The night was oppressively hot -— perhaps the weight at 
her own heart added to the oppression. She drew to the open 
window, purple with the night-shadows, made dimly distinct 
by here and there a distant star ; the gulf beneath blended in 
the darkness, till but one atmosphere seemed both above and 
below, sometimes illumined by flashes of phosphoric light — • 
meteors that might have suited sea or sky, and, broken by 
two or three ridges of foam, seen in obscurity, like lines of 
snow. Her first burst of passionate grief was over, and the 
relief it gave was over too ; — the hysteric rush of long-sup- 
pressed tears is enjoyment, compared to the hopeless despon- 
dency which succeeds. Emily looked down on the calm deep 
waters, and wished that she were sleeping beneath them. 
For her the wide world was a desolation ; — she felt but the 



450 mmavcE s&nd msMjeiY, 

misery of lovmg in vain^ snd the diianie whirii hei^tens aach 
misery. 

Perhaps^ %am an 'inmtte desire xf£ justificafion, 'sorrow id- 
ways exaggerates itself. Memory is qiiite one'df 9ob« friends; 
and* the past is -erer -ready to 'throw its ta&ded darkness 'on the 
present. TSvery cause she had 'for regret rose upon %er vmnd. 
She diougfht upon 'her utterly isolated ftituaiton ; — tde ties of 
blood, or df "that early affection, -which supfjlies -flieir places 
were to her %ut names. 'She '.had no daim* of kindred, or even 
of habit> on any living creature — no one in-ifae cworld whom 
iHie could say really loved 'her, or to 'v^oose love she had a 
fi^t. True, liadyMandeviHe 'had been kind, very kind — 
but iihe had so manyoffaers to love-;iand>Bihily,'somew^hat 
forgetful Of ftie Teal iffifectionever shown to.hera^, thought 
but of the Utter want of sympathy between •flieir eharacters^ 
and shraiikfrom the imaginary jncture'tif ifaat gay temper end 
sparkling wit 'being turned again^ 'herself. And the next 
year was to be passed in all -the ^gaiety (^London ! Bhe-was 
tiien to join in crowds — 'dll *the 'hurry, dll the exertion df 
jileasure ! To be subject to 'meetmg 'Edward Lorraine, and 

perhaps ^his •;^bnt, even to here^lf, «^he did not finish the 

sentence. -''"Quiet, quiet," excliimdl ihe;*''it is all I ask — 
not to be seen — not to ^ spdken 4o. "Wodld to -God I were 
with the orily human being *that Bver loved me — in the 
grave!'" 

The remenfbrance'df her uncle 'again ^brought the 'tears to 
her eyes ; her face was bidden 'in her 'hands; slowly the large 
drops ^i^ through -her blender fingers. Xife knows: such tears 
bilt once. 

At *thiB *moraeitt 'the tones ijf music 'came upon the^wind •; 
set first 'faints as if the coft notes ^had 'not yet 'travelled the air, 
but soon richly distinct in its sw^ll and its softness. Emily 
had often *b^fiyre listened to that 'midnight hymn. By moon, 
li^ht, the white wills and - green xypresses were easily seen ; — 
to-night, *thB dark outline of *the iittie hill was rather fancied 
ttian visible. The sound * was a,, sweet and fiEimilifEr one to 
Emily; 'but in 'her present state of excited Reeling, it came 
like -a voice 'from ^heaven, fffwas «s 'if a sign had showed 
her a place of Test. She 'thought on ^he dim light — the 
monumental repose — the silence of the smiU chapel — the 
still, shadowy garden -J the veiled «gures fihathaveexchanged 



hope £or :repoae, amd offer ^to ithsir GM ithat 'heurt of wlach 
&e world iBmiiwbrtby. The Oast lecbs) died over die tnatens,; 
and Bnxity'svesoliition was Aak»n. 

lEaxly tioe ncost moming, diie faitt^ mcst -at 3)reak£aiit, .aU 
eqiiippsd for on excmsiDn io Gtuint Oi^ini's feasqukite viUa. 
Hhey were becoming impatiein for Bmily 6 apptaorance, when 
ameamge t««B ifielvvered, isaking iwr'exoUBes fiarmot jodniiig 
dienij under 'tlie £raziiiiiiie:and iaeqoBDt rplea of .a Solent ihaad* 
ach. 

Lord andiLady llfande^alfe exshanged i^taauies. '^^iEiad you 
not better, Blten/^nud he^ drawing dier into the recess tflfithe 
window, ^' go to inar ? " 

*' I idihidc not. 'Bdtween oursehreB, solitude is the ibest 
vemedy ^or her headadh. .fttie is «t poresent too onneh xntder 
the inftnsiTee of TeoBist dMoppoiiltment'tD jcontrol herifeelingB;; 

— to tbotfsy 'ibeia jwHI be to -confide iliein — and a ^ooBdaat 
is the worst 'tbmg in nhe ^world. Yani^ will^ after :a ttittW 
time^ come into 'play:; and ^he gzxef idiBtdsxjoiieealedifiihiilf 
subduefi." 

*' Nam, iBy desr Efien, omxftns that you 'do mt-know ^hat 
to Boy. ¥ou h«ve/4f not 'dinbtly, yet indirectly, kept . alive 
the romantic fancy of Miss Amindel for Loaraine. ¥oil 
thought of ithe match as ^nitabie, rtill it almost seemed ^certain. 
You weve neither ^ptepanred for ithedisappoiirtmeiit, mot, I fsar, 
for the keenneNBS^wtth'whiidi thst tdisappoiutment will be feltJ' 

*^ Hieve, 'now, do -not make rout rUie ease wovse ^thaii it 
really is. (Change df 'scene, iond -a m&w lover^ are in&Jltble 
specifics, tflways (supposing theve k no dharacster for oonstanoy 
to be supported*: if I witness <1^e ^violent sorrow of to-day, I 
impose upon tCHmorrow 'die necessity :of being < sorry itko. 
Our burry — a wish not 4d> disturb her, vr she has thehead- 
ach, so early — aie <valid «xcwrse fc^ not seeing her ^tfak 
morning. If there is depression, let us not seem to notice it; 

— let us speak as usual of Lorraine. New objects, new 
amusements, will occupy her mind ; and unhappiness, equally 
unsuspected and unspoken, will die of its own nonentity." 

y Well, Ellen, I suppose one woman knows best what the 
feelings of another woman are ; but I do think you might 
reason with her." 

*^ Reason on an affair of the heart ! " 

Their conversation was now interrupted by the rest of the 



4*32 ROMANCE AND BEALIT7 

party becoming impatient to depart. Leaving a kind mes* 
sage for £mily, Lady Mandeville stepped into the carriage, 
with spirits more depressed than she would willingly have 
admitted. Perhaps, had she seen Emily that morning, Miss 
Arundel's whole destiny might have been altered. But Life's 
great circumstances turn on its small ones. Could we see 
into the causes of all important events, we should often find 
that some small and insignificant trifle has been^ as it were^ 
their fate. 

If any thing could have increased the bitterness of £mily's 
feelings^ it was Lady Mandeville's leaving the house that 
morning without approaching her : she seemed so neglected^ 
so friendless. She knew that the effect of yesterday's dis- 
covery was no secret to Lady Mandeville ; and yet, for a few 
hours' careless amusement^ she could leave her without one 
word of kindness or comfort. Emily's last^ perhaps her most 
painful tears^ were shed as she heard the carriages drive from 
the door. She was mistaken in accusing Lady Mandeville of 
unkindness ; but both were wrong in their judgments. Emily's 
was unjust^ as a judgment formed under one overruling feel- 
ing always is ; and Lady Mandeville erred in applying a 
general rule to a particular case. 

Which is it most difficult to judge for — others or ourselves? 
The judgment given in ignorance^ or that biassed by passion — 
which is best ? Alas^ for human sagacity I and that which is 
to depend on it — human conduct ! Look back on all the past 
occurrences of our lives ; — who are there that, on reflection, 
would not act diametrically opposite to what they formerly 
acted on impulse ? No one would do the same thing twice 
over. Experience teaches^ it is true ; but she never teaches 
in time. Each event brings its lesson^ and the lesson is re- 
membered ; but the same event never occurs again. 



BOMANCE ANP BEALITT. 433 



[CHAPTER X. 

" She shrank away from earth and solitude 
To the sole refuge for the heart's worst pain • 
Life had no ties — she turned her unto Heaven. 

** Raised where the pine and hill o'eriook the sea. 
Stands thy lone convent, fair St. Valerie : 
It has an air of sadness, as just meet 
For the wrung heart to find its best retreat." 

Xj« £. xjt 

You know I always told you how it would be. 

Cofnmon-place qf Domestic Conversation. 

It was a small room, lined with wainscoting of the black oak, 
richly carved with that imagery — half fantastic, half religious 
— which marked the works of our industrious and imaginative 
forefathers. The height was quite disproportioned to the 
size ; for the eye could with difficulty trace the rich colouring 
and fine outline of a group of angels, painted by some artist 
who had left a work, though not a name, behind. The 
window was large ; but what with the branch of a huge cork- 
tree that passed across, and the heavy folds of the purple cur- 
tains — a purple almost black — the light was nearly excluded. 

On one side of the room was a large coffer, whose carving 
was worn smooth and shining with time ; and on the other 
was a cumbrous book-case, filled with large and silver-clasped 
tomes. The only other articles of furniture were a small 
table, and a heavy, high-backed chair, covered with black 
serge. On the table lay an illuminated missal and a silver 
crucifix. The Abbess herself was seated in the chair — pale, 
abstracted, and with features whose expression, in repose at 
least, was severe. 

The door opened ; a bright gleam of sunshine shot into the 
xoom, but darkened instantly as the porteress admitted the 
visitor. The Abbess rose not from her seat, but motioned 
with her hand to the stool beside her. 

" A stranger and a foreigner," said she, turning a gaze 
rather earnest than curious on her evidently embarrassed 
^est. ^' What dost thou seek from the servant of the 
Madonna ? " 

A moment's siknce intervened, which was broken by the 
stranger's kneeling beside her. 

1 come for refuge." The voice, though broken, was 

p p 



(( 



4!i94 noiCAiiisB jm» naAnm. 

sweet ; and the Italian correct^ though with the accent of a 
foreign land. 

'' Our Lady never yet denied' her protection to the unhappy," 
replied the Abbess, who saw at once that the rank of her sup- 
pliant placed her amoiig those to whom, assistance is most 
readily accorded ; at the same time, caution might be requisite. 
" Your voice is sod, but oncere. Let me look upon your face." 

Another moment of hesitfttion, when a tremulous hand 
removed the bonnet and veil from a countenance whose mo- 
mentary blui^ Bobaded into marble paleness. With the ready 
recollection of one who sees but few objects for remembrance, 
tibe Abbess Bccoignued; the joimg Snglishw^aman irha had so 
lately visited hev oonvent. 

'' I toM yoH q£ ^- mmxty of fao^ — have my wotdii so 
floon proved dieir tooth? What does a staBUger— -wdioee 
home ift afar — whoar failiL ia not aff our ^th — want o£ Qor 
Lady de^ Cbbsi?'" 

Emily ciaaped her hands paeaonately. ** Frtirr ralmi. n 
refoge &mBL a wide and weaty wondd. In wJifldi mf poetioa i& 
hat soKnm, Home, I have-Mone; — >kiBdred> mfine aiein the 
gsave ; — no living oresturewiU: cne for m^ aolitnde. I aekbiit 
a. brief sojovun, t» torn my thmigklB to Heai«n> and to dia.*' 

'^ We have here mat for the weary— peace for the bcuiaed 
and bDofaea hewt p hot ^mnr beilef is that of your- heseticid 
island r yon most hove friende wba wffl oppoae yenr intent." 

" FneaAs ! I bave no frienda>; aft ka^, none whose ease 
extends beysond eanrtas^ 1 canmit azgue on points of fisath ; 
hat our God is tiie same Bind me hy what vow you please. 
I am mch — I am nBdapendeiit; Witt you shelter me^ aave 
me from a troubled and evil world } " 

'^ Ibvmm a* we against Osr Lady^ cEd I not seek- tO' s«ve the 
soul she sends me. Gome; dangfater; faencefordi we have but 
eoe ahxine and osie home." 

Every individual has same pecidiar iMte^ That of tiie 
superior of the Convnit of la Madre- dl^U IMmi was for 
anlfaoniy. An eidy child, her sway in the parental house bad 
bten absolute,. — that over the Count Cimarozso^ her hustaand, 
even more so. His death — some ten years befow, in> C9ai«- 
karrassed cbcumstanom, leavii^ hex very aBnch at tke* mercy 
of a distant relative, who inhecitsd title and estate, and had, 
m«reover,r a ladywmler of his own — tmied the hau^ty 



Conntaw's. views, to s^ oloisterw Her owa* resda&te densft o£ 
adbpafloemenV aided by t&e family intcaceBt^. sooa placed* hen ati 
tiiehead of her oonventi.. Without, rivjd or opposition, ilnui;^ 
be doubted whether the Sister- Gaesildat was. not a much 
happier peraoB thaa the GounteBS^ Cimarosso*.' 

To increase the iwealthandl powec o£ her convent, was the 
great object of her existence. The richt£ng^i6h. convert was 
indesd' a prize.- To gi^xa her agitation, ai religious, impulse — 
impiesft hen imagination with some solemn. sLtual — were the 
first steps to be taken. That day Emily was kept la a state of 
pomrmifial' excitementL The Abbess* asked' her. no- questions ; 
JHit spoke; beautifully and touchingly on tiie calm of av soid 
devoted to Heaven^ and on the mmr^ perils^ and soraoiWr of 
fifb. She- bade hen kneeL at, ben side (huing^ the aac^ce! of the 
dafi. The deep^ aeiemn tones, of the oi^n^ mingled with 
wmmt youiig; vQicea^ filled the ohape]^ 

Smilji^ was nam ia that moodto» whisht au^tof sBcrifice is 
rdief; and wheni — her head almost, dizz}^ with, pneidoua 
agkation>. a fiame. trraiulous with eaertioo, her senses* ov^ei*- 
fttwened widi- music and the faint pesfume.--^ the: Jthbtss bade 
hcD kaee^ and necood^ with a ikow and a. aign^. hes* reselve at 
thfr ahac^ the £evemah and eausitad gid was a maohine in* hes 
haadfek. She knelt, tiiAugh sug^onfcsd by the arm of the Abbess^ 
wdiioh ^e? yet gjoasgedL; a hLack lobe was- thxowm OKcei hsi: 
ifann — ft bhurk veil ovev hes head ; the nuna asowded iiound 
te graet their sistes;. and.Bmily, as the Abbess herself hung 
the* rosary and cnucifis. round hes neck^ heaid. hec deacj^, mttLo" 
dionsy bull determined tones^ blesa her by the new name of 
Sistev Agatha-. 

Pale> fainit^ th^ led ben to a. ceQ: appointed to. her use* 
Tkat night, i/b. wae widiin- itie conivent thatr £milf heard, the 
^es^er hymik. 

€li Lady MandlsviUfe's isettirn*^ her finst inipiry wa& after 
MiflB^ Aniiidel ; and great was her surprise oa heaiuag that she 
was absent, and had been' absent aO. d&^ 

" Btet therefsi a note^ m.^ lady/' said one of the servanta. 

It contained these few words : — 

'^ I httvie tuimed fiiom & world which has^ £»zms rwt attnac- 
taona^ and many wrrows* The calm of ai nlig^ous li&i is 
snnsfy fittest for her who haa no tie^ and no^home.. Fox^iw 
my dear kind fdead ; bttt what an I t& you B «*-]9QU> haT^ 

F p 2 



4S6 ROMANCE AND REALIT7. 

a husband^ children^ friends — you are bappy. I entreat yoa^ 
as a last favour, make no effort to disturb my retreat I could 
not — indeed I could not — go to England with you. I pine 
for quiet. Farewell — God bless you?" 

The paper dropped from Lady Mandeville's hand. 

^^ Good God ! — what can be done ? We cannot suffer her 
to stay in the convent ! " 

Lord Mandeville took up the note, and read it through 
twice^ with an^ expression of as much grief, but less surprise 
than his wife. 

'^ To-night nothing can be done — you must see her to- 
morrow. £llen, she is too sweet, too good, too kind^ to be 
allowed to sacrifice herself thus." 

Early next morning was Lady Mandeville at the gate of the 
convent of Our Lady degli Dolori. Admittance to the Abbess 
was easily obtained — that to Emily was matter of more diffi- 
culty. The rules of the Order — her own desire of seclusion^ 
were alike urged. But Lady Mandeville was not to be denied. 
The marble paleness of her face more visible from the straight 
piece of black serge across the forehead ; her figure entirely 
concealed by the loose dark robe — she scarcely knew Emily 
on her entrance. Prayers, remonstrances, nay, reproaches, 
were alike in vain. The Abbess had not misodculated the 
effect of the yesterday's ceremony — she knew it was not bind- 
ings but its influence as a religious obligation was enthralling 
to a degree. Weak in body, suffering under the reaction of 
excitement, with a vague but strong sense of a solemn vow, 
the desire of rest, the shame of retracting — all conspired to 
keep firm Emily's resolve. Angry at length — though angry in 
the very spirit of affection — Lady Mandeville rose to depart ; 
then, and not till then, did Emily seem to rouse from her 
stupor. A thousand acts of kindness rushed at once upon her 
mind — she threw herself on her friend's neck, and in' a 
scarcely audible voice called down every blessing from Heaven 
upon her and hers. Still she said farewell ; and when Lildy 
Mandeville returned to her carriage, she shed the bitterest 
tears she had ever known. 

Gentle, affectionate, full of those small courtesies so en- 
dearing in daily life, generally silent, but such an appreciating 
listener^ so unworldly, so young, and so lovely — Emily 
attached those with whom she lived^ more than even them- 



ROMANCE AND BEAIiITY. 437 

selves suspected. You passed her over among many — you 
loved her among few. The interest sbe excited was that of 
protection. Accustomed always to see her yield her opinion 
or her inclination^ Lady Mandeville never suspected Miss 
Arundel of taking any decided step. But she forgot that 
when the very gentle do nerve themselves for action^ it is 
under some strong and sudden impulse^ and they then act 
usually in opposition to the whole of their previous bearing. 
Opposition is too new not to be carried into obstinacy. It 
has cost them so much to form a resolution^ that they 
adhere to it with all the pertinacity felt for an imcommon and 
valuable acquisition. 

A thousand times did Lady Mandeville reproach herself 
for feeding Emily's attachment. It is a dangerous amuse- 
ment, getting up a little romance in real life — playing private 
theatricals with the feelings of others. '^ But who could 
foresee his going to Spain^ and having his head turned by the 
black eyes of a pretty conspirator ? I shall detest the name 
of patriot as long as I live. What business have they with 
daughters ?" One of the most disagreeable parts of what 
was disagreeable altogether^ was having to tell her husband of 
the non-success of her morning's expostulation. Not a shadow 
of blame could be thrown upon him^ thereby cutting off one 
great source of consolation. Fortunately^ it was equal matter 
of regret to both. 

After listening patiently to divers plans for forcing the fair 
recluse from her retirement^ 

'^ Time will he our best aid ; we can do nothing now ; 
leave her^" said Lord MandevUle^ ^' to get tired of her mono, 
tonous seclusion — to feel how much she has sacrificed. She 
cannot take the veil for a year — next Spring we will visit 
Naples again^ and I trust our foolish little £mily will have 
grown happier and wiser." 

Where there is no choice, there must be submission. 
They had been very intimate with the English Ambassador's 
family, and to their care and interest tliey committed Miss 
Arundel for the present. Lady Mandeville's last act was to 
write a long, kind^ and earnest letter to Emily^ and the next 
day they sailed for England. 

The letter never reached the address; and again Emily's 
heart died within her with the feeling of neglect and frietid^ 

p p S 



99B jtoBJoum joo} UBiujBca^ 

kmieBS. 'QirciiiDsanGOs 'clDie annmd an (with iaj^iam. ITlie 
Jknibaisador mas niddenly areoBlled^ land «he was Jeft ':wilhinit 
a ereeture tin Ki^lee to feel inieieBt in her t&te. The Abhen 
WBS not 'One to negloct such >an ^pportanity. She >Baw ihat 
Bmily mws adbf lattiing omder r&e iinfiuence*<af strong, (hrft 
teniponuy 'Aelkag, i^Dld iudnts^ old fiselingB^ "would he "viident 
invtheir reaction—- the ^nseasnt 'was teverj thing. 

Thiee me^x after .the departme of the MandewilleB^ all 
Naples .flodced toiwitness -the ipzofeasion -of a young iBn^ish- 
wmnan^ a'dispfauatidn having heen obtained for'tfae nmtiale. 
The hive (of aigh^aseing ds .liie'nhaimcten^ticfdf humanity — 
and a sight that involves aught of human aonrow'or jmmwmi 
snfilnring isactfanuaand idmes mace papular than ^any display 
of human ingenuity or human genius. Biisworks ihat aweep 
file 'skies^ (with .a rope-dancer that deseends (through them like a 
i^irit^ to rhoot^ Ibear no ^omparisan as a spectade to that 'of a 
man fhangedJ Jlmd ihe most eloquent {preacher that «ver onade 
die truth df iialigion come home to ^the heart, would see >1bb 
eongr^ation turn ^aside to iwitness the immolation- of youths 
hope, and thi^pinesB, in the living saorifixse of <£he cloister. 

It wns a elandless iday*^— lOne* of thoie whan Hronshine wnips 
the «irth asvwith a^airaent^-and Ae .clear ^air ifariiigsiout«ivaEQr 
olject in the .bright and (defined outline.-; e^^ry oiear iimwe In 
the 'bay vwas a>irat and ^apesiding diamond, .while &0ae in tbe 
distance formed one broad sweep of unbroken light ^The 
inhabitants imost ^acmiBtDmBd to the aifey looked .back «od its 
fairy beauty with delight. The green tof ^ eonnlny''— -^gnaa 
and tree — laas lof rthat aoft fnesh werduare so shoFt-lived in a 
warm dimate ; but im yet mot a rhue twas ' tarnished, not a -leaf 
Allien. The .aumay stmosphere -was .like wine— the