Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 14
CHAPTER XIV.
"Will you come and spend a long day with me?"
Penalties of Friendship.
"Delightful and intellectual society."—False Concords.
"To all and singular in this full meeting,
Ladies and gallants, Phoebus sends you greeting;
From his more mighty sons, whose confidence
Is placed in lofty rhyme and humble sense,
Even to his little infants of the time
Who write new songs, and trust in tune and rhyme."
Dryden.
"Look you, friend, it is nothing to me whether you believe it or not; what I say is true."—Love for Love.
Of all places, London is the best for an incognita acquaintance; cards may be exchanged to all eternity without a meeting, and the various circles revolve like planets in their different systems, utterly unconscious of the means and modes of each other's existence. A friend, whom Emily had earnestly, though unsuccessfully, endeavoured to see, thanks to a headach of Lady Alicia's, found them at home. This was a Mrs. Smithson, who had formerly been Emily's governess; and our heroine was still young enough for the attraction of friendship, to recall with rapture her first readings of Matilde and the Corsair, and to remember with delight her first essay as confidante. Miss Hughes being in love at the time, had only left Arundel Hall to become the wife of Mr. Smithson; a gentleman whose station and salary now authorised his taking a house and a wife, and, at forty-five, instituting a new search after happiness.
Mrs. Smithson entered the room, and received Emily's welcome and embrace evidently a little disorganised by the latter; not but that she was 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 marriage, the death of the apothecary, and to say how well both uncle and aunt were. Mrs. Smithson had to state that she had three children—to wonder Emily had grown so much—and each had to rejoice over meeting with the other. Besides, there was a most interesting subject to be discussed: Mrs. Smithson had enchanted the world with a novel—not a 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 young 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 delightful chat."
Mrs. Smithson's face perceptibly lengthened at the words "morning dress." "Why, my sweet girl, Monday is my little conversazione; my literary pursuits require literary connexions—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: Emily did the latter; and five minutes of contemplation ascertained 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 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, together 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 you please, ma'am, Master Adolphus has thrown the Library of Entertaining Knowledge at Master Alfred's head, because he tore the Catechism of Conchology;" but before Miss Arundel could express her regret at such misapplication of knowledge, the girl had vanished in all the dismay of a mistake.
At last Mrs. Smithson appeared. "My dear Emily, you have waited—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 commence the important business of education too soon, and I am but just emerged from the study."
This was a little at variance both with the servant's appearance and her own laboured toilette, whose want of neatness was the result of hurry and bad taste, not of after-disorganisation. It is amazing how oppressive is the cleverness of some 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, I always speak to Mrs. S. in such dictionary words!"
"Slowly 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—the mental exhaustion in searching after topics of conversation, which, like the breeze in Byron's description of a calm, "come not"—the gossip that, out of sheer desperation, darkens into scandal; if ever friends or feelings are sacrificed under temptation too strong to be resisted, it is in the conversational 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—communication or condemnation equally out of the question. Mrs. Smithson secretly pitied herself for wasting her colloquial powers on that social non-entity, a young lady; and Miss Arundel was somewhat bewildered by the march of her former friend's intellect. Divers of those elegant harmonies, which make musical the flight of time in London, verified the old rhyme, that
"Come what may,
Time and the tide wear through the roughest day."
The muffin-boy announced three o'clock—the pot-boy clanking his empty pewter was symptomatic of four—the bellman tolling the knell of the post announced five—and, at length, a heavy hard-hearted rap proclaimed the return of Mr. Smithson; a gruff voice was heard in the passage—a ponderous step on the stairs—the door and his boots creaked, and in came the author of the treatise on bats and beetles, followed by a blue-coated, nankeen-trousered young man, whose countenance and curls united that happy mixture of carmine and charcoal which constitute the Apollo of a Compton Street counter. Mr. Smithson was equally sullen and solemn-looking, with a mouth made only to swear, and a brow to scowl—a tyrant in a small way—one who would be arbitrary about a hash, and obstinate respecting an oyster—one of those tempers which, like a domestic east wind, "spares neither man nor beast," from the unhappy footman that he cursed, to the unlucky dog that he kicked.
A minute specimen of humanity, in a livery like a jealous lover's, of "green and yellow melancholy," announced dinner. Mr. Smithson stalked up to Emily, Mr. Perkins simpered up the hostess, and they entered a dismal-looking parlour, whose brick-red walls and ditto curtains were scantily lighted by a single lamp, though it was of the last new patent—to which a dim fire, in its first stage of infant weakness, gave small assistance.
Mr. Smithson, who, as member of a public office, thought that church and state ought to be supported—which support he conceived to consist in strict adherence to certain forms—muttered something which sounded much more like a growl than a grace, and dinner commenced.
At the top was a cod's shoulders and head, whose intellectual faculties were rather over much developed; and at the bottom was soup called mulligatawny—some indefinite mixture of curry-powder and ducks' feet, the first spoonful of which called from its master a look of thunder and lightning up the table. To this succeeded a couple of most cadaverous fowls, a huge haunch of mutton, raw and red enough even for an Abyssinian, flanked by rissoles and oyster patties, which had evidently, like Tom Tough, seen "a deal of service:" these were followed by some sort of nameless pudding—and so much for the luxury of a family dinner, which is enough to make one beg next time to be treated as a stranger.
Conversation there was none—Mr. Smithson kindly sparing the lungs of his friends, at the expense of his own. First, the fire was sworn at—then, the draught from the door—then, the poor little footboy was encouraged by the pleasant intelligence that he was the stupidest blockhead in the world. Mr. Perkins sat preserving his silence and his simper; and to the lady of the house it was evidently 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 features, quite set, and both in a harsh mould. Young lady! looking out for an establishment—meditating on the delights of a house of your own—two maids and a man, over whom you are set in absolute authority—do any thing rather than marry a confirmed bachelor—venture on one who has been successful with seven succeeding wives, with ten small children ready made to order—walk off with some tall youth, who considers a wife and a razor definitive signs of his growth and his sense; but shun the establishment of a bachelor who has hung a pendulum between temptation and prudence till the age ofbut of all subjects, age is the one on which it is most invidious to descant.
The cloth was removed, and sudden commotion filled the passage:
"At once there rose so wild a yell
Within that dark and narrow dell;"
&c.&c.&c.
and in came Master Adolphus and Master Alfred in full cry, having disputed by the way which was to go first—also a baby, eloquent as infancy usually is, and, like most youthful orators, more easily heard than understood. The boys quartered themselves on the unfortunate strangers; and Mrs. Smithson took the infant, which Emily duly declared was the sweetest little creature she had ever seen. On going upstairs, Emily found Mlle. Hyacinthe shivering—for, with the usual inhumanity of friends, there was no fire; and it was one of those wet, miserable evenings, gratis copies distributed by November through the year.
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 ungratified, 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 so 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 sufferance."
"Mrs. Smithson is a very old friend."
"And my husband has written a pamphlet on the corn-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 listened to every word she could catch, till at length the disagreeable 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!"
"Whence do you come?" asked Mrs. Sullivan, of a young man who looked at least intelligent.
"I have been spending the day at Hampstead, and beautiful it was: the fog, which, as Wordsworth says of sleep,
'Covered 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. Sullivan, why will you indulge in common-place contumely? Believe me, it is only those
'In crowded cities pent'
who fully enjoy the free air above their heads, and the green grass beneath their feet: to them, as to the lately recovered sick man,
'Each 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 first thoughtfully and heavily; but as the rows of houses give way to hedges, streets to fields crowded with daisies—
'The Danaë 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. I forget the dull realities of experience—experience, that more than philosophy 'can clip an angel's wings;' I forget that all 'mine earlier hopes' are now set down
'Mid the dull catalogue 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 dull 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 affected taste which turns away from aught of human comfort or human enjoyment."
"The other evening," continued Mrs. Sullivan, "I heard you quoting,
'There is 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 admit, that the enjoyment of a wild 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," interrupted Mrs. Sullivan, "being translated into plain English, means that vanity and imagination were at variance; and a thousand fine things that he might have said about the prospect with such effect, if he had been listened to, were now being wasted on himself."
"To again quote the oracles of my high-priest, Wordsworth, there is nothing like
'The harvest of a quiet eye,
That broods and sleeps on its own heart.'
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 into, not my own statue, but his."
"Nay," exclaimed Mrs. Sullivan, "spare me 'lectures on poetry.' I am worse than even Wordsworth's flitch. He says,
'The very bacon showed its feeling.
Swinging from the smoky ceiling.'
'What is it but a heavenly breath
Along an earthly lyre.' "
As the young traveller Mrs. Sullivan had summoned crossed the room, he was intercepted by a lady, whose very gracious smile on him was the essence of conciliation; it seemed, however, like English sunshine, too precious to be long enjoyed. Some other "gentle tassel " was to be lured with all the skill of complimentary falconry, and with one more smile, and a parting bend of necessity and regret, the traveller approached with the "self-betraying air" of the flattered.
"My southern voyage," said he, after the first greetings with Mrs. Sullivan were over, "is enough for a season's reputation. Mrs. Harcourt has just been expressing her admiration of that spirit of romantic enterprise so much wanting in young men of the present day, has asked me to her fancy ball, and held forth the temptation of the beauties of her room on the strength of my traversing 'river wild and forest old.' Mrs. Harcourt takes an intellectual degree beyond the common collector of crowds—she desires that every second individual in hers should be 'noticeable persons;' her young ladies are beauties or heiresses; her gentlemen geniuses, authors, or travellers. I have been at her house, though she has forgotten me. I was then only a young man—not 'the young man who spent the summer in the Pyrenees, and had brought home the guitar of a Spanish princess.' I saw Sir Hudson Lowe standing on the same rug with one of Buonaparte's old generals; one of our Tory members, to whom innovation is the 'word of fear,' who considers anarchy and annihilation as synonymous, shrinking in the doorway from the carbonari atmosphere of General Pepi. I saw a most orthodox-looking bishop taking the paleness of horror from the sight of Mr. Owen. A man just come from Babylon was talking to one newly arrived from Moscow. There were two critics, one historian, half-a-dozen poets, a gentleman with a beard like a Turk, a real Persian, and three Greeks. A propos des Grecs,—a droll adventure once befell this fair extractor from the Library of Entertaining Knowledge. The Greek stocks and fever were at their highest, when a cargo from Missolonghi of turbaned and mustachioed gentry arrived, and cast anchor in the river. Mrs. Harcourt's ball was the following night—she threw herself into her carriage—drove as if the speed of thought were in her horses as well as herself—took a boat—ascended the vessel's side—was introduced—interpreted—and invited the patriots for the ensuing evening,—they delighted with the hospitality of England, and she no 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—'Pray, come just as you are, those crimson caps are so characteristic—and not later than ten.' She was on the point of leaving the ship, when an officer advanced and opposed her departure, and with that frank politeness which, as the newspapers say, distinguishes the British sailor, observed, 'Dn it, ma'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 captain could do was to grumble, and say he supposed she must have his cabin; and there this candidate for the honour of the Athenians was left to reflect on her ball next evening, and the chance of catching the plague,—for cholera was not then invented to fright the isle."
All around laughed, as people always laugh at misfortunes, i.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 them to give a bull-fight?"
"Such an animated account of one as I have just been reading in the Talba, where a young Moorish prince vanquishes, single-handed, in the arena, a black and ferocious bull! I have some thoughts of turning author myself, on purpose to dramatise one of the most interesting stories I have 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 the traveller, "am just come from witnessing one. Do you remember how your friend S's words were like the friar's steps in Romeo and Juliet? He says:
'How oft to-night
Have my old feet stumbled;'
and if he did get out six words, seven were unintelligible. He now speaks as fluently and as unaffectedly as myself. I cannot say more."
"What do you mean?"
"Simply that S, in utter despair at being thus disabled 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. Jones has vanquished all his violent distortions, and replaced them by the calm style and effective delivery of the gentleman. 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 whole attention was now given to a lady speaking near her,—the first few sentences were lost, but she caught the following:—
"When I say your gratitude ought to be excited by my vanity, I divide the functions of vanity into two influences; 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 entertainment; and it is while thus acting for your amusement that it calls on you to be grateful, if not gratified."
"But 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 without 'a marriage robe,' and, like that worn of yore, brilliant, embroidered, and concealing the real figure?
'We do live
Amid a world of glittering falsehoods.'
"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 been acquired: as if the earnestness of genius were less endurable than the heartlessness of the world; nay, as if the polished chain mail of the latter were the only garb fit to be worn by the former."
"Exactly my idea. I hold that we are the knights of conversation, and ought to go into its arena armed at all points, for a harsh and violent career."
"I do not see that we are at all called upon to pay so costly a compliment to society, as to assume a character diametrically opposed to our real one,—to utter sentiments we secretly disbelieve,—and to be as angry with our better nature for bursting from restraint, as at other times with our own inferior nature for refusing to submit to it. I think wisdom may wear motley; and truth, unlike man, be born laughing. 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 remembered."
"The speaker to whom you have been listening with such attention is Miss Amesbury; to use a very fine phrase from some magazine, 'a brilliant star in our brilliant galaxy of female writers.' I characterise her conversation by a fine line from Marlow,
'A frosty night, when heaven is lined with stars.'
I recall a thousand such beautiful expressions. I remember her comparing society 'to a honey-comb, sweet but hollow.' Again, she calls friendship's memory 'the fame of the heart.' Her last work is my favourite. The character in the second tale called Egeria is meant for Mrs. Hemans—a most exquisite sketch, written with all the delicacy of feminine tact, and all the warmth of feminine feeling. It is a beautiful answer to that false reproach, that one woman cannot praise another.
"Miss Amesbury is especially happy in the use of quotations—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 Modern Corinne) she has fallen into the common and picturesque error, of making her women of genius peculiarly susceptible of love—a fact I greatly doubt. Every body knows that love is made up of vanity and idleness. Now, a successful literary career gratifies the vanity, while it gives employment. Love 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 compliment seems cold when weighed against that of your reviewer. 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 critic:—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 reviewing. 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 their 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 Emily 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 Queen 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 'a set of niggers,'—an inferior race, on this side the Tweed. We English are much more liberal in that respect; we have always been ready to offer homage,
'When 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 Edinburgh you must look for your literary fame.' The best answer would have 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 I 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 continue."
"Who is that gentleman," exclaimed Emily, "whose eye I have just caught, so full of mirth and malice? "
"That is the Philip de Commines 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 eggs 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 he 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 across the border, 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 constitution 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 characteristic. 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 the man.' "
"And I liked his poetry so much!" exclaimed Emily, in the most reproachful of tones.
Miss Arundel's whole attention was now attracted by a female 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 eyes 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 sensation 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 interview, 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, looking upon the Tower as hallowed by the memory of Lady Jane Grey, and of Westminster Abbey as (to use the American Halleck's noble expression) a 'Mecca of the mind,' with England's great and glorious names inscribed on the consecrated walls. She is as creative in her imaginary poems, as she is touching and true in her simpler ones."
A slight movement, and a few exclamations, drew off their attention to the little supper table. A gentleman had, instead of placing his fork in a sandwich, inserted it into a lady's hand. The injury was not much; but the quaintness of the excuse was what amused the bystanders.
"I beg pardon," said the offender, with the most unruffled 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, simplicity, 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 perversion 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 pieces."
"There is something," said Emily, "that interests me in the face of that gentleman. Who 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 thing to enter his house. It is as well to see domestic happiness now and then, in order to be able to talk about it as a wonder. Congenial in tastes, united in pursuits, he is fortunate in a wife, who is pretty enough to be silly, and yet clever enough to be plain, and kind and good enough to be either."
At this moment, a lady came up and spoke to Mrs. Sullivan, with that warm kindliness of manner, which, like love, 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 for youth,—at least to them have her last works been chiefly addressed; but the oldest might go back to the chronicles of her school-room for the mere pleasure of being young again. It is quite wonderful to me, in such a cross-grained, hardening, and harsh world as ours, where she can have contrived to keep so much of open, fresh, and kindly feeling. She is very national, and I am sure you have read her beautiful Irish stories. I think it is she who says, that Englishmen do not know how to make love. True enough! An Englishman seems to think he is conferring a favour, which the lady cannot too highly estimate, by the mere act of falling in love with her; but if any could inspire him with the amiable accomplishment of love-making, it would be one of her own Irish coquettes—a creature 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 couples which make one understand a phrase somewhat difficult to comprehend, from so seldom 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 hearth and home?'"
"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 never understand—it is not pleasantest to begin with a little aversion. Let us just go through a day in married life. First, an early breakfast—for the husband is obliged to go out. On the miseries of early rising, like those of the country, I need not dwell: they are too well 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 when Mons. le Mari returns to dinner, he suffers the full weight of the discontent one woman's new dress never fails to inspire in another. Evening comes, and a matrimonial tête-à-tête is proverbial—'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, sound of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!'
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 three hundred out of the three hundred and sixty-five days that constitute a year of married life."
"You are a connubial Cassandra," said Emily.
"Yes; and, like that ill-fated prototype of all who tell disagreeeble truths, I shall get no lady, at least no young or unmarried 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 had been a parcel; and Emily could well believe he had 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 by this time pretty well distributed her stock of conciliation and courtesy, and now recollected the existence of her sweet young friend. 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 biscuits and drier sandwiches were handed round; and about twelve, Emily found herself in her own room, very tired, very dissatisfied, and very hungry. She had seen many who had long been 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 that their uncharmed 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 beauty, like the stars on the night; when feelings, untempted 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 eyes will glisten and hearts beat, when the hand that wrote is mouldered in the grave, and the head that conceived but a whitened skull.
Now society is a market-place, not a temple: there is the bargain 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 hurry about, making up in noise what they want in importance. The society and solitude of an author's life realise the old fable of Castor and Pollux, who had an earthly and heavenly life between them. In society, all his more earthly nature preponderates; his mind, however different its stature and fashion may be, must wear the same dress as its neighbours.
There is nothing people are so much ashamed of as truth. It is a common observation, that those 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 appear better, as to appear different from what they really are. A part is to be played in company, and most desire that part to be an attractive one; but nothing is more mistaken than the means. A sincere wish to please is sure to be successful: but instead of wishing to please, we rather desire to display. The eye is restless to watch its opportunity—the lip feverish with some treasured phrase; we grow jealous from competition, and envious with apprehension; we think of ourselves till we forget those very others for whose applause we are striving; disappointment comes, as it often does, to even well-founded hopes—then how much more so to exaggerated expectation? mortification succeeds, and vanity covers all as a garment, but a poisoned one, like the centaur's, envenoming and inflaming every wound.
Conversation is forced or languid, insipid or ill-natured; and a celebrated author may retire, leaving his character behind, but taking with him the comfortable conviction that his mind has played false to its powers; that he has despised the flatterer, but loved the flattery—at once ungrateful and exacting; that he has praised himself—the worst of praise is that given in hopes of return; and that he carries away with him a worldliness and selfishness, which, like the coming of the sandy waves of the desert, will, sooner or later, dry up and destroy all the fair gardens and the fresh springs in the Egypt of his imagination.
We talk of the encouragement now given to talents—of genius as the most universal passport to society. This may be good for the individual, but not so for literature. The anxious struggle—the loneliness of neglect—the consciousness of merit—the resources which open to a mind flung back upon itself—will do more to stimulate exertion than praise or even profit. The flattered and followed author sees too soon the worthlessness and hollowness of the prize for which he contends. 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 point, whose nature is analysed, and whose distance is measured;—in the former, we go forth into the silent midnight, and our whole soul is filled with the mystery and beauty of those glorious and unattainable worlds. In a little time, imagination—that vivifying and redeeming principle in our nature—will be left only to the young. Look on all the great writers of the present day; are they not living instances of the truth of this assertion? After all, literary life grows too like the actual one. Illusions merge in realities—imagination gives place to memory—one grows witty instead of romantic; and poetry ends in prose, all the world over.