LETTER XXVII. Frederick to Emily Douglas.

This, my dearest Emily, is the last letter which you will receive from Frederick in London; and though time speeds on rapid wing in this focus of attraction, I reckon the days with impatience till the heath-clad tops of our dear mountains break upon my view. To travel, and see new men and manners, would be too delightful, if mother and sisters were with me, but, unfashionable as the confession may be, I own to the weakness of loving mine enough to[2] make me wish to be always near them. In a few days we are to set out, and Arthur starts for France, when we turn our faces towards Glenalta. I fear that my uncle is not gaining ground; there is a consultation every day, but it seems to me as if many of these great doctors make up in mannerism of one sort or other what they want in penetration. One assumes a rough tone, and thinks it for his advantage to act the brute, in order to assure his patients that he is an honest man. Another looks as smooth as satin, and prescribes such numerous and expensive remedies, that none but a nabob could afford to be cured. A third experiments upon

all the vegetables and minerals in the modern Pharmacopœia, and “thrice slays the slain,” before he stumbles by accident on the disease. If I am to be killed by Esculapian skill, I would rather receive my quietus from a sober practitioner in the country, who had never heard of arsenic, digitalis, or the prussic acid, than be torn piece-meal by a triad of London physicians, who, ten to one, know as little of the case as of the constitution submitted to them,[3] and ceremoniously agree to put one out of the world with the profoundest adherence to etiquette. I cannot help thinking the business altogether a solemn farce, which I long to see brought to a conclusion, and as I am growing every day more and more attached to this near and dear relation, I look anxiously for his removal, from what appears to me, a pick-pocket confederacy. The dread with which my uncle’s manner at first inspired me, is gradually wearing away. With Phil. and me he is charming, full of information, classical taste, and literary criticism. He has a fund of humour also,

which gives variety to his powers of pleasing; and when bodily pain does not weigh upon his spirits, he is a delightful companion, whose society will add considerably to the pleasures of our winter fire-side. But his frown is as awful as his smile is beaming, and would have petrified me long ago, if I had ever encountered his brow in the act of concentrating its forces upon me, as it does when aunt Howard and Louisa appear in his presence. The whole horizon of his forehead is then hung thickly in clouds, a[4] morose expression marks his countenance, and a sullen silence indicates displeasure, as far as the rules of common civility will permit. With Arthur he is less unconstrained than with me; but I hope that ere we quit London, there will be no difference in his feelings towards us. The kind partiality with which he treats your Frederick is easily accounted for, and arises not from any comparison between the individuals in question, or I could not be his favourite. I should write with more satisfaction than I feel at present, if I were not so soon to see you; but

the slowness of my pen makes me impatient, when I reflect on the glibness of tongue with which I hope in less than a fortnight to pour out all my news vivâ voce, for your amusement. Besides, when once the novelty of the thing is over, there is a tiresome monotony in the routine of a London life.

I have met with very few who deserve to be recorded for any qualifications that distinguish individuals from each other. A certain number of airs, and affectations, mixed with accomplishments and French flounces, in proportions a[5] little varying, but producing generally the same result, may serve as a recipe by which to compound the modern belle; and for the beau, a mixture somewhat different, without being in the least more solid, will suffice as universally as the former; but Arthur procured me an invitation the other day to a dinner party, which being unlike its predecessors, I must particularize, reserving the names of the dramatis personæ, till we meet, lest my letter should miss stays, and its writer be prosecuted for a libel.

This dinner was given by a literary amateur, to several authors and authoresses, who furnish our running account of novels, essays, disquisitions reviews, articles, fugitive poems, squibs, and bon mots. And in the evening we had a numerous accession of both sexes, who were brought together as professedly bookish people, and therefore fit audience for the writers who, I suppose, were expected to be speakers also. I know, that I for one, went fully possessed with the idea, that at least I should hear a great quantity of discourse, however I might chance to think of its quality; and, moreover, I was rejoicing[6] for two entire days at the prospect that lay before me: but disappointment was the portion of every novice, who, like myself, looked for “a feast of reason and a flow of soul.” Of all the dull uninteresting meetings of which I ever happened to be a member, I willingly vote the palm of pre-eminence to that at Sir Marmaduke Liston’s. However, as knowledge is always valuable, I stand indebted to that assembly for one piece of information, which, till

now, I have taken upon hearsay evidence.

It was in Lady Liston’s drawing room that I first saw that gorgon, yclept “Blue-stocking,” which we used to think was like other spectres, the offspring of a distempered imagination. I can assure you that such things are, and, if I was heartily disgusted with the authors at dinner, I was no less heartily nauseated by the Blues at tea. The former only reminded me of rival tradesmen, who forgot a part of their craft, namely, adulation of their patron, in the absorbing energy of their hatred towards each other. As to conversation, we had none, for every man seemed afraid to utter a sentence,[7] lest his neighbour should slip it into a book, and thus defraud the real owner. A few nods, shrugs, and hahs, which might be interpreted ad libitum, occupied the place of language, and constituted nearly the whole intercourse of mind which was not directed to the matter of fish, flesh, and fowls. On these, indeed, and their individual merits, our wittenagemot were eloquent “with all alliteration’s artful aid;” and they also proved themselves nothing loath to

exercise whatever critical acumen any of them possessed on Sir Marmaduke’s wines which were discussed from humble port to imperial tokay, with glistening eyes, glazed noses, and expanding vests. Yet you may tell Mr. Oliphant that we had not even allusion to a feast of the ancients, not a word of old Falernian, nor a single glimmering of classic lore, though in the fields of Horace one would imagine that the company might have expatiated on neutral ground without danger of petty larceny on any side. One prodigious person, who seemed like “Behemoth, biggest born,” and who quaffed accordingly, particularly[8] diverted me: he sat next to a tall thin phantom who looked of Pharoah’s lean kine, and wore a little black cap on his skull, which appeared as if “moulded on a porringer,” This shadowy form was, I was told, a metaphysician, and certainly he gave me the idea of having come into the world for the express purpose of illustrating the extension of tenuity. He drank nothing but toast and water, and consequently had the advantage of preserving such store of faculties

as he brought to the entertainment, in all their clearness, when his neighbours were “veiled in mist;” but either the measure was so small, or the nature of his wares prevented them from being pilfered. Whatever the reason, so it was, that he seemed to enjoy all the ease of a sinecure in guarding his mental property from depredation. He, and his ample companion, threw glances at each other of mutual contempt every now and then, and from time to time, as opportunity presented itself, kept up at intervals a meagre snarl, altogether divested of wit or point, till the big man, who, of a class that it might be presumed

[9]

became so top heavy, that I saw his head gently let down, as if by a pully and tackle, on the shoulder of the metaphysician, who not inclined to enact the prop to a fallen foe, disengaged himself so abruptly from this mountain of the muses (for Behemoth is a poet), that the chair on which he sat, having glided away, the latter came down on the floor plump, like a full sack that had broken from the crane. My gravity was not proof against this downfall of Parnassus, and I made my way up stairs as quickly as I could, only lagging behind a sufficient length of time for the water-drinking philosopher to be lodged before me. Oh ye gods, what an exhibition did I open upon! the only similitude which I can find at hand for the drawing-room that presented itself, was a glass of some highly bottled liquid, in which a froth of white muslin occupied the upper, and a sediment of black cloth its lower extremity. Not a sound was to be heard as I entered the room; but I soon perceived that the et ceteras of coffee, tea, cakes,[10] and bread and butter, were not at all more indifferent

in the superior, than soups, meats, and wine had been in the inferior regions of this intellectual festum. It quite astonished me to see the quantity of all these appurtenances of the soireé, that almost immediately vanished, “leaving not a wreck behind.” During the consumption of these mere creatures of the entertainment, certain solemn sentences were fired at intervals, after the manner of minute guns, each succeeded by a deadly pause.

The gentlemen below stairs sat a long time, but I was resolved to see out the evening, ere I passed judgment on a party of the literati. At length the authors ascended, and, had I been a young lady, I should have felt most unwilling

but the habits of the trade triumphed over the occasional excess which Sir Marmaduke’s hospitality had caused his guests to commit, and so profoundly discreet was this book-making assembly, that while, on the one hand, not a syllable that betrayed either taste or genius escaped,[11] and laid them open to plagiarism, I must do justice to the equal taciturnity which they observed upon every subject less immediately connected with the direct views of their calling; insomuch, that, for the greater number, they withstood the most pedantic efforts, on the side of the blues, to draw them out, and—with the exception of some tedious verbiage pronounced, ex cathedrâ, by the man in the black cap, who, perceiving the advantage which his abstemiousness gave him over the rest, grew loquacious and collected a circle of ladies around him—One might have imagined that rumination was the object of the meeting, and that the members of this tiresome confraternity had come together principally for the purpose of feeding first, and then chewing the cud on the subjects of their next lucubrations.

I never was so weary of the “human face divine,” as on the memorable occasion which I have mentioned, and gladly banished all recollection of a party, over which the goddess of dulness had especially presided—in the most leaden slumber that I have experienced since my arrival in the British capital.

[12]

I shall part from Arthur with such sorrow as a brother’s love might feel. He must positively be a changeling in his mother’s house, so entirely does he differ from his family. Yet in Louisa there are, as our country taylor would say, “the makings” of something good, had she received a decent education. But empty heads and flinty hearts are quite the thing; and if nature throw away her labours, and, forgetting the class on which she is operating, lavish fine faculties and gentle affections on one of your exquisites, whether male or female, these, like troublesome excrescences, must be amputated; and a better hand at performing such a species of excision cannot exist than that of my aunt. Her influence is enough to eradicate the deepest sensibilities, and cut to the quick the most promising intellect. She cannot bear me, because my uncle takes kind notice of me, and it is time that we should part; for a day in Grosvenor Square seems to me as if passed in purgatory; though Arthur is there.

With true loves, adieu, and believe me

Your affectionate

Frederick.

[13]

LETTER XXVIII. Arthur Howard to Frederick Douglas.

Paris.

My dear Fred.

Your letter, announcing safe return to the “happy valley,” found me on the very eve of my departure to Dover. Need I say how welcome it was?—Yes, you did indeed describe your feelings to one who could participate in every sensation, and feel every beat of your heart, as the well known land marks, the termini that bound your glen of enchantment, rose smiling in the western beam, above the misty fleece which had rolled over their summits from the sea. I saw the first faggot blaze on the peak of Lisfarne; I heard the first joyous announcement of Tom Collins, the eager bark of Gelert, Eva, and Bran, the din of voices, the pattering[14] of bare feet across every path-way in the bog; in short, what incident, however trifling, was a stranger to my breast that prepared for the final folding in your mother’s arms?

How different my journey and my arrival at its termination! I could have joined several gay parties, proceeding in the same route which I was about to tread; but I was not in a humour for such company as they offered, and so I preferred commencing my travels solus, Lewis being only an appendage who permits me to be more alone than I should be without him, by taking all the minor cares that belong to chemin faisant off my shoulders.

My mother and Louisa were to leave town on the day after I set out, and are by this time at Selby—would that I could say enjoying the quiet of that beautiful place; but the former, poor soul, is not happy any where, and my sister, alas, though she feels little pleasure in the scenes which she has left behind, cannot be expected to derive much from those which in providing food, and giving time for meditation, bring no peace to a bosom at war within itself. Louisa, I predict,[15] will be an altered character, but the work will be slow, and experience many interruptions. I see, however, some very promising circumstances on which to build my hopes. Adelaide’s marriage is already acting as a salutary beacon; and I have extorted a faithful promise from Louisa that she will no longer give encouragement to Lord G. Villiers, whose attentions, if they ended in a serious address, would be directed by the same base motives which brought Crayton and Adelaide together. Thus one great point is gained, but every step which I achieve with Louisa, throws me farther back in my mother’s

regard; so the task is like that of Sisyphus, and very disheartening.

On reaching this place, I received letters from Falkland, and one from my brother-in-law, entreating my interference with my uncle for a loan. This I must peremptorily refuse, and cordially do I wish that the latter had returned home a poor man, that such of his family, as are inclined to love him, might indulge the feeling without suspicion of its purity; and that such as would prey upon his very vitals, without[16] regard to any thing but the most sordid self-interest, should be kept from persecuting and injuring his fine mind, by increasing the measure of its distrust. He is not fond of me, but I love him because he has good taste enough to distinguish you. Say every thing kind and respectful to him for me, which you do not think him likely to reject, and with tender loves to the rest of the dear group, I am, dearest Frederick, in haste,

Your affectionate,

A. Howard.

[17]

LETTER XXIX. Mrs. Douglas to Mrs. E. Sandford.

You would have reason, my Elizabeth, to complain of my silence, were your heart less alive than it is to the interesting occupations which have devolved upon your friends of the valley; and though I am blessed with such coadjutors as few can boast, there is employment for us all in our several departments.

My dear brother’s health declines so slowly, that the progress of disease is scarcely perceptible, and deceives all the young group, as well as the sanguine Oliphant; but I feel that Edward Otway and I are prophets but too true when we agree in prognosticating a termination to all his sufferings, whether of mind or body, that belong to this world, and that too at no great distance[18] of time. He has been so wearied out by medicines, that he now resolves on trying the effects of a system in which nature and affection shall be chief instruments. I submit to his views in the full belief that a winter’s repose is necessary to his existence, and as my solicitude is increased by the responsibility which we encounter in permitting this dear invalid to remain so far removed from what is called “the best advice,” you may suppose how continually my thoughts are employed about him.

I had been prepared by Edward Otway’s letters, while he remained in London, for finding my brother’s character deeply interesting; but I had no notion in what degree, and my heart still lingers with him in the moments of our necessary separation. He is a theme so engrossing, that I could dilate much more upon it than the limits which I have prescribed to myself will allow; but all that I have not time to write, you shall one day hear, for I lay up every word that he utters, not only because of the intrinsic value which I attach to his sentiments and opinions, but they derive a sacredness from his present[19] situation (hovering as the bright spirit now is upon the confines of eternity), which keeps me almost breathless in his company, lest I should lose a syllable that falls from his lips. You already know what a mine we have discovered, of the richest treasure, under that scaly armour, in which he had fortified himself against the anticipated assaults of such sordid principles as he was accustomed to see govern the conduct of those men with whom early habit had associated

him. Imagine then the happiness of seeing all this rough coating drop off, and present the sweetest, most confiding nature to our view.

You and I have often watched the unfolding of that beautiful zoophyte, the sea anemone, when, after having been left exposed, by the retreat of the waves from its rocky asylum, to the chilling influence of a northern blast, it expanded its delicate fibres to the soft returning tide; and from a shrunk and shapeless thing, opened into a star of glowing and transparent brilliancy. Just in such manner has the noble mind of our precious invalid been blighted by[20] the pitiless storms which rage along the coasts of avarice and self-interest. In such manner also has he unlocked his soul in this little sheltered bay, to the gentle flow of affection. How thankful do I feel for the blessing of being permitted to see this hour, and bear a part in the scene which Glenalta now exhibits!