It was a wild and gloomy dream: to think upon it now,My very blood is chill'd with fear; and o'er my aching browCold clammy drops are stealing down, I tremble like a childWho listens to a story of the wonderful and wild!And well a stouter heart than mine might quake with dread, I ween;—But who hath ever gazed, like me, on such a fearful scene!
It was a wild and gloomy dream: to think upon it now,My very blood is chill'd with fear; and o'er my aching browCold clammy drops are stealing down, I tremble like a childWho listens to a story of the wonderful and wild!And well a stouter heart than mine might quake with dread, I ween;—But who hath ever gazed, like me, on such a fearful scene!
Sleep dropp'd upon my wearied eyes, and down I sank to rest;But no refreshing slumbers upon my senses press'd;Ten thousand lights before my eyes were dancing,—blue and red;Ten thousand hollow voices cried—I knew not what they said.My brain wheel'd round—faint grew my limbs—I cried and scream'd in vain;It seem'd as though some cursed imp had bound me with his chain!My tongue clave to the parched roof,—a raging thirst was mine,As I had drunk for months and months, nought else but saltest brine;Thirst such as parched pilgrims feel who range the desert wide,Or those who lie 'neath scorching skies upon a calmed tide.My temples throbb'd as they would burst; and, raging through my brain,The boiling blood rush'd furiously with sound like a hurricane!I rav'd and foam'd; my eyeballs strain'd, as though the nerves would burst,As by my side appear'd a form—a demon form accurst!And suddenly another came—another and yet more,All clad in dark habiliments;—a dozen—ay, a score!On me they leer'd with savage joy, and seized me, every one,And round and round about me went.—Oh! how my senses spun!I thought the leader of that band of sprites must surely beThe Evil One, and I his prey. I vainly strove to flee:I tried to pray,—my tongue was dumb;—then down upon the groundI sank, and felt my every limb with fiery fetters bound.I know not now, how long I lay; my senses all were gone,And I with those infernal ones was left alone, alone.At length I started with affright, and felt, or seemed to feel,The blasts of hot sulphureous air across my forehead steal.A horrid thought, as on we mov'd, upon my senses burst,That they were bearing me away unto the place accurst.Oh! language vainly strives to paint the horrors of that ride!Two demons at my head and feet, and two on either side.The stars above were bloody red—each one seem'd doubly bright,And spectral faces glar'd in mine, with looks of grim delight.Still slowly, slowly on we mov'd, that ghastly troop and I:I questioned, where?—a fiendish laugh was only their reply.On, onward I was borne. At last they stay'd, and in my faceA hideous visage peer'd on me with horrible grimace:Then down they threw me (still unbound) upon a bed of stone,And one by one they vanished, and I was left alone!
Sleep dropp'd upon my wearied eyes, and down I sank to rest;But no refreshing slumbers upon my senses press'd;Ten thousand lights before my eyes were dancing,—blue and red;Ten thousand hollow voices cried—I knew not what they said.My brain wheel'd round—faint grew my limbs—I cried and scream'd in vain;It seem'd as though some cursed imp had bound me with his chain!My tongue clave to the parched roof,—a raging thirst was mine,As I had drunk for months and months, nought else but saltest brine;Thirst such as parched pilgrims feel who range the desert wide,Or those who lie 'neath scorching skies upon a calmed tide.My temples throbb'd as they would burst; and, raging through my brain,The boiling blood rush'd furiously with sound like a hurricane!I rav'd and foam'd; my eyeballs strain'd, as though the nerves would burst,As by my side appear'd a form—a demon form accurst!And suddenly another came—another and yet more,All clad in dark habiliments;—a dozen—ay, a score!On me they leer'd with savage joy, and seized me, every one,And round and round about me went.—Oh! how my senses spun!I thought the leader of that band of sprites must surely beThe Evil One, and I his prey. I vainly strove to flee:I tried to pray,—my tongue was dumb;—then down upon the groundI sank, and felt my every limb with fiery fetters bound.I know not now, how long I lay; my senses all were gone,And I with those infernal ones was left alone, alone.At length I started with affright, and felt, or seemed to feel,The blasts of hot sulphureous air across my forehead steal.A horrid thought, as on we mov'd, upon my senses burst,That they were bearing me away unto the place accurst.Oh! language vainly strives to paint the horrors of that ride!Two demons at my head and feet, and two on either side.The stars above were bloody red—each one seem'd doubly bright,And spectral faces glar'd in mine, with looks of grim delight.Still slowly, slowly on we mov'd, that ghastly troop and I:I questioned, where?—a fiendish laugh was only their reply.On, onward I was borne. At last they stay'd, and in my faceA hideous visage peer'd on me with horrible grimace:Then down they threw me (still unbound) upon a bed of stone,And one by one they vanished, and I was left alone!
How long I lay, I may not say. At length I saw a formBeside me, and upon his brow there seem'd a gathering storm."Where am I?" loud I scream'd, and paus'd. Again I rav'd, and cried,"And who art thou, thou evil one! who standest at my side?What spectre art thou?" "Come," said he, "young feller, hold your peace;You're on the stretcher now, and I'm the'spectorof police!"
How long I lay, I may not say. At length I saw a formBeside me, and upon his brow there seem'd a gathering storm."Where am I?" loud I scream'd, and paus'd. Again I rav'd, and cried,"And who art thou, thou evil one! who standest at my side?What spectre art thou?" "Come," said he, "young feller, hold your peace;You're on the stretcher now, and I'm the'spectorof police!"
OR,ENGAGING A COMPANY.
A Dramatic Sketch.
Scene—The Manager's Room. The Manager discovered.
Manager.—Well! my theatre is built at last, and I have now only to think about opening it. My walls are so dry that they cannot throw a damp upon my prospects. My stage is all ready for starting; and every one, I am happy to say, seems inclined to take the box-seat. Everything now must go as smooth as a railroad. I have always heard that a manager must lead a devil of a life; but I am in hopes I shall be an exception to the rule, and that management to me will be a delightful pastime.
Fitz-Growl(without).—But I must see him.
Manager.—Who the deuce can this be?
(Enter a Servant.)
Servant.—If you please, sir, here's a person wants to speak to you.
Manager.—I'm busy about the opening of the theatre; tell him you can't get near me.
Servant.—But he says he's an author, sir, and has called about his piece.
Manager.—His piece! why, these authors let me have no peace at all.
Servant.—He would come up, sir, though I told him you wouldn't suffer any one behind the scenes.
Manager.—And particularly an author; for he makes people suffer enough before them.
Servant.—Here he is, sir; he would force his way up.
(Exit Servant. Enter Fitz-Growl.)
Manager.—My servant says you would force your way up.
Fitz-Growl.—And isn't it natural an author should wish to do so?
Manager.—Well; but, sir, it is not usual in theatres for the manager to see any one.
Fitz-Growl.—Not usual to see any one! It must be a very poor look-out.
Manager.—Well, sir, as you are here, may I ask your business?
Fitz-Growl.—Why, being anxious for the success of your theatre, I sent you three of my pieces to begin with. Now, sir, I've had no answer.
Manager.—My dear sir, we cannot answer everybody. Theatres never answer in these times. However, your pieces shall be looked out. You can believe in my assurance.
Fitz-Growl.—Certainly; a manager ought to have assurance enough for anything. But I tell you, sir, if you want to succeed, you must open with my piece.
Manager.—What is the nature of it?
Fitz-Growl.—Nature! The beauty of my piece is, that there's no nature at all in it; it's beautifully unnatural.
Manager.—Indeed! I hope there is some spirit in the dialogue?
Fitz-Growl.—Some spirit, sir! there is a ghost in it.
Manager.—A ghost, my dear sir! that won't do for my theatre; my audience would have too much sense for a thing of that kind.
Fitz-Growl.—Then you'll never do any good, sir; but, may I ask what sort of pieces you intend producing?
Manager.—Variety and novelty, sir, will be my aim.
Fitz-Growl.—Novelty! then my piece is the very thing. I sink the whole stage.
Manager.—Thank you; but I'd rather leave the task of sinking the stage to others; my aim shall be to raise it.
Fitz-Growl.—My dear sir, you know nothing of effect; if you could only cover the stage with people, and then let them all down at once, it would be terrific!
Manager.—My dear sir, I don't want to cover my stage with people, and then let them down; I'd sooner hold my performers up than see them let down.
Fitz-Growl.—That's very fine talking; but you must get the money, and I can assure you mine are the only pieces to do it.
Manager.—Indeed, sir; then I'm too generous to my fellow-managers to think of monopolising the only author whose pieces will draw.
(Enter Servant.)
Servant.—A gentleman named Scowl is below.
Manager.—Oh! the gentleman I was to see respecting an engagement. Beg him to walk up. (Exit Servant.)
Fitz-Growl.—Ah! he's an old friend of mine. He plays the devil in all my pieces.
Manager.—Plays the devil, does he?
Fitz-Growl.—My best friend, sir; he has made the character I allude to his own.
Manager.—It is to be hoped, for his sake, that the character you allude to will not return the compliment.
(Enter Scowl.)
Fitz-Growl.—Ah! my dear Scowl, how are you?
Scowl.—So, so; I swallowed a quantity of the smoke last night in your new piece.
Manager.—Did the audience swallow it too?
Scowl.—Sir?
Manager.—I beg your pardon, sir; I believe you wish to lead the business at my theatre?
Fitz-Growl.—He's the very man for it.
Manager.—What is your line, sir?
Scowl.—Why, I don't mind the heavy business; but I prefer the demons, or the singing scoundrels.
Manager.—But I don't think I shall do that sort of thing.
Scowl.—More fool you. If you want your theatre to pay, you must stick to the melodrama: the people are sure to come if you can only frighten them away.
Fitz-Growl.—Yes, I find it so with my pieces; they draw the same people over and over again, because they are forced to come several times before they can venture to sit them out.
Manager.—But I sha'n't aim at that.
Scowl.—More fool you. But if I can be of any service to you in the combat way,—I can fight with a sword in each hand, a dagger in my mouth, and a bayonet in my eye. What do you think of that?
Manager.—Astonishing!
Scowl.—My friend Mr. Fitz-Growl has written me an excellent new part.
Manager.—What's that about?
Fitz-Growl.—Oh! nothing particular. I write down a few horrors, make a list of the murders, and my friend Scowl knows what to be up to.
Manager.—Really, gentlemen, I don't see that we can come to terms.
Fitz-Growl.—Don't see!—what! you don't want my pieces?
Scowl.—Nor my acting?
Manager.—Neither, gentlemen, I thank you.
Fitz-Growl.—Then I'll go home and write a melodrama, called the "Doomed Manager," and you shall be the hero.
Manager.—Thank you.
Scowl.—And I'll play the part.
Manager.—What! you represent me? That's too cruel. But I must wish you good morning.
Scowl.—Farewell! remember me!
Fitz-Growl.—And me too. I say, sir, remember me!
(Exeunt Scowl and Fitz-Growl with melodramatic eye-rollings.)
Manager.—Well, I hope all the applications won't be like this, or I shall never get a company.
(Enter a Bill-sticker.)
Manager.—Well, my good fellow, who are you?
Bill-sticker.—Why, I'm one of your best friends; I'm the bill-sticker. Nobody sticks up for you like I do.
Manager.—Well, but what do you want?
Bill-sticker.—Why, sir, I'm sorry to say that as fast as I put your bills up, somebody else comes and pulls them down.
Manager.—How is that?
Bill-sticker.—I don't know, sir. It's werry ungentlemanly, whoever does it. The fact is, sir, your bills meet with as much opposition as bills in Parliament; and I'm sure I don't know why, unless it is that they are what we call money-bills.
Manager.—Perhaps they are too large, and occupy too much space: you know the printing is very large, the type is bold, and the capitals are immense.
Bill-sticker.—That's it, sir. It's the immense capital; it's such a novelty in theatres that they're all afraid of it. Shall I pull down their bills, sir?
Manager.—Certainly not. I will never sanction those whom I employ in unworthily attempting to hurt the interests of others. My theatre is for the amusement of all, and the employment of many; but the injury of none.
Bill-sticker.—Oh! if that's your motto, everybody ought to stick up for you; and I'm sure I will for one.
Manager.—Thank you, friend, for the promise of your influence.
Bill-sticker.—And it's no mean influence, either; for, though only one poor fellow, I carry more bills in a day than the House of Commons carries in a whole session.
(Exit Bill-sticker.)
Manager.—Well! management does not seem so smooth, after all: one meets with vexations now and then, I fear. Oh! who comes now?
(Enter Queershanks.)
Manager.—Your pleasure, sir?
Queershanks.—My name is Queershanks. You have built a theatre, have you not?
Manager.—I have, sir.
Queershanks.—Very good: then you will want a model.
Manager.—A model after it is built?
Queershanks.—Certainly: but not a model of a theatre; a model of a man.
Manager.—What for, sir?
Queershanks.—Why, sir, you will want occasionally to give representations of statues. I am an excellent hand at it.
Manager.—But, sir, my theatre is dedicated to Apollo.
Queershanks.—The very thing, sir: I have stood as the model of the Apollo Belvedere to the cleverest artists.
Manager.—They must have been clever artists to make an Apollo Belvedere with you for their model; but I cannot entertain your engagement in that shape.
Queershanks.—Not engage me in that shape! My shape is unexceptionable. Only look at this muscle. Here's muscle for Hercules, sir! Feel it, sir; will you be so good?
Manager.—I see it.
Queershanks.—No,—but feel it.
Manager.—Quite unnecessary, sir. I don't think what you could do would suit our audience.
Queershanks.—Do you mean to say, sir, I should do you no good? Look at this muscle, sir. Would not muscle like that make a tremendous hit? (Striking him.)
Manager.—Sir, I'm quite satisfied.
Queershanks.—Satisfied, sir! so you ought to be: I've got the nose of Mars, sir.
Manager.—My dear sir, what is it to the public if you've got Mars' nose and Pa's chin.
Queershanks.—I mean the classical Mars,—not my mother, you silly fellow. Then I've got the eye of a Cyclop, and the whiskers of Virginius. As yours is to be a classical theatre, will you give me a trial?
Manager.—What can you do?
Queershanks.—I'm very good in the ancient statues, only I've made them modern to suit the time. You know the "African alarmed by thunder?"
Manager.—Yes: a fine subject.
Queershanks.—I've modernised it into the "Black footman frightened by an omnibus:" this is it. (Music; he does it.)
Manager.—Very good! What else have you? Can you give me "Ajax defying the lightning?"
Queershanks.—I have modernised it into the "Little boy defying the beadle." (Music; he does it.)
Manager.—Capital! Have you any more?
Queershanks.—One more. You've seen the "Dying Gladiator?" I think my "Prize-fighter unable to come up to time" beats it all to nothing. (Music; he does it.)
Queershanks.—That's something like sculpture, isn't it?
Manager.—Yes; but it won't do in my theatre.
Queershanks.—Won't do, sir! what do you mean?
Manager.—Why, I think the audience I wish to attract will like something better than dumb show. Good morning!
Queershanks.—I'm gone, sir; but remember you've lost me. I tell you, sir, that my statues would have made your season; but I leave you, sir, with contempt (striking an attitude). Do you know that, sir? It's the celebrated statue of Napoleon turning with contempt from the shores of Elba, which, as you know, he left because he wanted moreelbowroom. (Exit Queershanks with an attitude.)
Manager.—Well; each person that applies for an engagement seems to think he is the man to make my fortune for me, and gets quite angry that I won't let him have an opportunity of doing so; but I begin to see I must think for myself.
(Enter Servant.)
Servant.—A lady and two children wish to see you, sir.
Manager.—Show them in. (Exit Servant.) Some new candidates, I suppose: here they come. Ladies! they are the first that have done me the honour to apply to me.
(Enter Mrs. Fiddler, Miss F. and Master F.)
Manager.—Your pleasure, madam?
Mrs. F.—My name is Fiddler, sir; did you ever hear of me? I've got a friend, a supernumerary at Astley's who has great influence in the theatrical world; he promised to speak to you; has he done so?
Manager.—Really, madam, I do not remember to have had an interview with any such person.
Mrs. F.—Indeed! that's strange: but I suppose you've heard of the clever Fiddlers?
Manager.—You mean Paganini, perhaps, and De Beriot?
Mrs. F.—No, indeed, I don't; I mean my clever children here, Master and Miss Fiddler.
Manager.—Indeed, madam; I'm happy to make their acquaintance.
Mrs. F.—And so you ought to be, sir. Come here, Julietta: this young lady, sir, has gotsucha voice! It goes upon the highC'sas safe as an East-Indiaman. I want you to engage her.
Manager.—I should like to hear her sing, before I thought of engaging her; she might fail.
Mrs. F.—And if she did, sir,—if the public were so unjust,—how great would be the consolation to you to know that you partially repaired the injury by paying the dear child a salary!
Manager.—I am afraid, madam, I could not proceed on that plan.
Mrs. F.—You will excuse my saying, sir, that you have strange notions of liberality; but you shall hear her sing. Come, my dear, let's have theBaccy-role; it's beautiful in your mouth, my dear.
Manager.—(Aside.) Baccy-role, indeed! (Aloud.) Let's hear you, my dear.
(Miss F. looks stupid and does not sing a note. Mrs. F. moving her hands and arms, sing for her very badly, a bit of the Barcarole from Musaniello.)
Mrs. F.—You see, sir, that's what the dear child means; though she can't do it before you, she is so nervous. But all that will wear off when she gets before the audience.
Manager.—It's to be hoped so, but what can the young gentleman do?
Mrs. F.—What can he do! anything—he's a dancer; his pirouettes are tremendous: only look here! (She turns him round and round till he falls down giddy.) See! he spins like a top; in fact he'll soon be the top of his profession.
Manager.—Why, bless the boy! you don't call that dancing, do you?
Mrs. F.—Of course: the dear boy has over-exerted himself, that's all; but he'll soon come round.
Manager.—Why, he has come round too much; but I can't engage him.
Mrs. F.—Then, sir, let me tell you, you'll never do.
(Exeunt Mrs. F. Master F. and Miss F.)
Manager.—Why, that's what everybody tells me. Here, Tom! don't let me be annoyed by any one else. I find there's no small difficulty in exercising one's own discretion in these matters. I may do much to improve the race both of authors and actors, if I think and judge for myself; but to render my efforts of any avail, the public must do so too. And when will they begin to do it?
(Curtain falls.)
The character of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu is about as little known to the generality of readers as the source of the Nile, or the precise position of the North Pole. She has taken her place in public estimation as a forward, witty, voluptuous woman of fashion, who flirted, if she did not intrigue, with Pope; who was initiated into all the mysteries of a Turkish harem, and who chronicled those mysteries with no very delicate hand:—who affected friendships, lampooned her associates, and wrote verses ofsingle-entendre; who married rashly, loved unwisely, and led a life of ultra-friendship and long unexplained divorce. Such is Lady Mary Wortley Montagu supposed to be! so prone is biography to perpetuate the fleeting scandals of the day, to distort mystery or obscurity into indecorum or baseness, and to darken and discolour the stream of time with the filth that is vulgarly and maliciously thrown into it at its source. The period appears to have arrived at which Lady Mary's character has obtained the power of purifying itself. With many faults, constitutional as well as acquired, there can be no doubt that she was a lady of surpassing powers of mind, of extreme wit, an easy command of her own as well as of the learned languages, a surprising knowledge of the world even in her youth, a vivid poetical imagination, a heart full of foibles, but fuller of love for herowncircle, and that of her friends; and, above all, an abundance of common sense, which regulated her affections, her actions, her reflections, and her style, so as to render her the most accomplished lady of her own, or of the subsequent age. We do not think we can do justice to this fascinating creature in a better way than by lounging through the three volumes which Lord Wharncliffe's ancestral love, literary ability, and elegant taste, have given to the world. We may gossip with this work as we might with her who originated it, stroll with her in her favourite gardens, listen to her verses, catch her agreeable anecdotes, receive her valuable observations on human nature, as though she were actually before us in her splendid andeternalnightgown, or in her Turkish dress, (so sweet in Lord Harrington's charming miniature) or in her domino at Venice, or in her lute-string, or in her English court-dress. Our gossip,however,—save as to the remarks we may, to use the phrase of the dramatist, utter aside to that vast pit, the public,—will very much resemble that between Macbeth and the armed head, at which the witches give their admonitory caution. That caution will not be lost upon us—for it will nearly be,—
"Hearherspeak, and say thou nought."
The introduction to this interesting work is from the editor, and it is written with a Walpole felicity in its points, though we would rather have had it more continuous than anecdotical. Our purpose we have professed to be, to gossip with Lady Mary, and we therefore shall make but two extracts from the introduction,—the one because it isperhapsleaning to the unfeeling; the other, because it is indisputably the truth of feeling. Madame de Sevigné did not deserve the phrase which we have marked in italics in the following passage, and indeed Lady Mary, in one of her letters, announces herself as a successful rival of this very agreeable French letter-writer,—an announcement which ought to have cautioned an editor against depreciating the powers of one whom the edited had chosen to select as a rival.
"The modern world will smile, but should however beware of too hastily despising works that charmed Lady Mary Wortley in her youth, and were courageously defended by Madame de Sevigné even when hers was past, and they began to be sliding out of fashion. She, it seems, thought with theold womanjust now mentioned, that they had a tendency to elevate the mind, and to instil honourable and generous sentiments. At any rate they must have fostered application and perseverance, by accustoming their readers to what the French termdes ouvrages de longue haleine. After resolutely mastering Clelia, nobody could pretend to quail at the aspect of Mezeray, or even at that of Holinshed's Chronicle printed in black letter. Clarendon, Burnet, and Rapin, had not yet issued into daylight."
With the foregoing extract (and all critics should get rid of their bile as quickly as they can) all that is unpleasant is at rest. Let us give the following feeling, beautiful anecdote.
"The name of another young friend will excite more attention—Mrs. Anne Wortley.Mrs.Anne has a most mature sound to our modern ears; but, in the phraseology of those days,Miss, which had hardly yet ceased to be a term of reproach, still denoted childishness, flippancy, or some other contemptible quality, and was rarely applied to young ladies of a respectable class. In Steele's Guardian, the youngest of Nestor Ironside's wards, aged fifteen, is Mrs. Mary Lizard. Nay, Lady Bute herself could remember having been styled Mrs. Wortley, when a child, by two or three elderly visitors, as tenacious of their ancient modes of speech as of other old fashions. Mrs. Anne, then, was the second daughter of Mr. Sidney[20]Wortley Montagu, and the favourite sister of his son Edward. She died in the bloom of youth, unmarried. Lady Mary, in common with others who had known her, represented her as eminently pretty and agreeable; andher brother so cherished her memory, that, in after times, his little girl knew it to be the highest mark of his favour, when, pointing at herself, he said to her mother, "Don't you think she grows like my poor sister Anne?"
Lady Mary had Lord Byron's fate. She wrote a journal of her life; she became the historian of her own genius, her youthful love, and her young trials. It chanced to be her fate, that the one into whose hands her manuscript fell, considered it her duty (wisely and affectionately, or not, is immaterial for our purposes) to doom it to be a work of destruction. It is hard for genius that it cannot find an executor who regards the future in preference to the present; who cannot absolve himself from immediate ties, living incumbrances, pressing prejudices, conceived personalities,—to yield immortality its due!—who, in fact, in the blindness of temporary fears and temporary associations, classes that which he holds, erringly as that of the age,—which should be, and in its spirit was destined to be, "for all time." We have mentioned two immortal names; and before we pass into the three volumes, we cannot help endeavouring to connect them in the minds of our readers, as they are by their spirit connected in ours. Lord Byron was a moody, fiery, brooding child,—full of passion, obstinacy, and irregularity, in his teens;—Lady Mary was a single-thinking, classical, daring, inspired girl long under one-and-twenty. Lord Byron at a plunge formed his own spreading circles on the glittering still-life lake of fashionable society: Lady Mary with her beauty and her genius effected the same result by the same impetuosity. Lady Mary made, as it would appear, a cold unsatisfactory marriage, but, it must be admitted, with one possessed of a patience untainted by genius:—Lord Byron iced himself into the connubial state, but shuddered at its coldness. The press, and the poets, and the prosers united with serene ferocity against both. Both, alas! were
"Souls made of fire and children of the sun,With whom revenge was virtue!"
"Souls made of fire and children of the sun,With whom revenge was virtue!"
Their revenge was mutual-minded. Misunderstood, calumniated, they quitted the land which was not worthy of them. Genius-borne, they both passed to the east; and to them we owe the most sensible,—the most passioned,—the most voluptuous,—and the most inspired pictures of "the land of the citron and myrtle," that have ever waked the wish and melted the heart of us southron readers. A mysterious divorcement from the marital partner marked the absence—the long last absence—of each! Mind-banished,—person-expatriated,—they vented upon their country that revenge of which injured genius can alone be capable. And looking at the calumnies upon the one, and the female animosities towards the other,—regarding the banishment of mental beauty and magic power in both,—we cannot better convey to our readers the revenge which genius gave, and must ever give, than by making a common cause of the two, and explaining it in the inimitable lines of the one.
"And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that nowI shrink from what is suffered; let him speakWho hath beheld decline upon my brow,Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weakBut in this page a record will I seek.Not in the air shall these my words disperse,Tho' I be ashes; a far hour shall wreakThe deep prophetic fullness of this verse,And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse.That curse shall beforgiveness!"—
"And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that nowI shrink from what is suffered; let him speakWho hath beheld decline upon my brow,Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weakBut in this page a record will I seek.
Not in the air shall these my words disperse,Tho' I be ashes; a far hour shall wreakThe deep prophetic fullness of this verse,And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse.That curse shall beforgiveness!"—
This is indeed the inspiration of forgiveness. We feel an awe after reading this humane and lofty imprecation, which calls for a pause. There is the same feeling upon us from which we cannot escape, as that to which we are subject when we wander under the arched roof and sculptured aisles,—in the breathing, breathless, cathedral silence,—in the awful stone repose,—in the contemplation of
"The uplifted palms, the silent marble lips!"
The similarity between the genius of Byron and that of Lady Mary, and their fates,—except as to the death and duration of life of the two, (the one dying at the age of thirty-seven, and the other at the age of seventy-three,—a sad and strange reverse figures!)—are singularly interesting and affecting. The one,—sexually to distinguish them,—wasRousseauwith a heart,—the otherDe Staëlwith one.—But we grow serious, critical, and minute. We are not certain that we are not growing anatomical. We shall therefore enter upon ourconversazionewith our charming, high-born, easy caftan,—Minerva,—Lady Mary Wortley Montagu!
We pass silently over her biography, and at once commence with the unmarriedLady Mary Pierrepontand the married Montagu! What can be livelier than the following York picture. It isHogarthian!—and let it not be forgotten that the lady was only twenty, and unwedded.
"TO MRS. WORTLEY."
1710.
"I return you a thousand thanks, my dear, for so agreeable an entertainment as your letter in our cold climate, where the sun appears unwillingly—Wit is as wonderfully pleasing as a sun-shiny day; and, to speak poetically, Phœbus is very sparing of all his favours. I fancied your letter an emblem of yourself: in some parts I found the softness of your voice, and in others the vivacity of your eyes: you are to expect no return but humble and hearty thanks, yet I can't forbear entertaining you with our York lovers. (Strange monsters you'll think, love being as much forced up here as melons.) In the first form of these creatures, is even Mr. Vanbrug. Heaven, no doubt, compassionating our dulness, has inspired him with a passion that make us all ready to die with laughing: 'tis credibly reported that he is endeavouring at the honourable state of matrimony, and vows to lead a sinful life no more. Whether pure holiness inspires the mind, or dotage turns his brain, is hard to find. 'Tis certain he keeps Monday and Thursday market (assemblyday) constantly; and for those that don't regard worldly muck, there's extraordinary good choice indeed. I believe last Monday there were two hundred pieces of woman's flesh (fat and lean): but you know Van's taste was always odd: his inclination to ruins has given him a fancy for Mrs. Yarborough: he sighs and ogles so, that it would do your heart good to see him; and she is not a little pleased in so small a proportion of men amongst such a number of women, that a whole man should fall to her share. My dear, adieu, My service to Mr. Congreve.
"M. P."
There is a charming poem by Lady Mary, which is singularly supported by her letters. It certainly acknowledges a love of pleasure which is not "quite correct;" but it is so unaffected,—so melodious,—so heartfelt,—so confiding,—that we could read it, and read it, "for ever and a day!"
"THE LOVER: A BALLAD.
"TO MR. CONGREVE.
"At length, by so much importunity press'd,Take, Congreve, at once the inside of my breast.This stupid indiff'rence so often you blame,Is not owing to nature, to fear, or to shame:I am not as cold as a virgin in lead,Nor are Sunday's sermons so strong in my head:I know but too well how time flies along,That we live but few years, and yet fewer are young.But I hate to be cheated, and never will buyLong years of repentance for moments of joy.Oh! was there a man (but where shall I findGood sense and good nature so equally join'd?)Would value his pleasure, contribute to mine;Not meanly would boast, nor lewdly design;Not over severe, yet not stupidly vain,For I would have the power, though not give the pain.No pedant, yet learned; no rake-helly gay,Or laughing, because he has nothing to say;To all my whole sex obliging and free,Yet never be fond of any but me;In public preserve the decorum that's just,And shew in his eyes he is true to his trust!Then rarely approach, and respectfully bow,But not fulsomely pert, nor yet foppishly low.But when the long hours of public are past,And we meet with champaign and a chicken at last,May every fond pleasure that moment endear;Be banish'd afar both discretion and fear!Forgetting or scorning the airs of the crowd,He may cease to be formal, and I to be proud,Till lost in the joy, we confess that we live,And he may be rude, and yet I may forgive.And that my delight may be solidly fix'd,Let the friend and the lover be handsomely mix'd;In whose tender bosom my soul may confide,Whose kindness can soothe me, whose counsel can guide.From such a dear lover as hero I describe,No danger should fright me, no millions should bribe;But till this astonishing creature I know,As I long have liv'd chaste, I will keep myself so.I never will share with the wanton coquette,Or be caught by a vain affectation of wit.The toasters and songsters may try all their art,But never shall enter the pass of my heart.I loathe the lewd rake, the dress'd fopling despise:Before such pursuers the nice virgin flies;And as Ovid has sweetly in parable told,We harden like trees, and like rivers grow cold."
"At length, by so much importunity press'd,Take, Congreve, at once the inside of my breast.This stupid indiff'rence so often you blame,Is not owing to nature, to fear, or to shame:I am not as cold as a virgin in lead,Nor are Sunday's sermons so strong in my head:I know but too well how time flies along,That we live but few years, and yet fewer are young.
But I hate to be cheated, and never will buyLong years of repentance for moments of joy.Oh! was there a man (but where shall I findGood sense and good nature so equally join'd?)Would value his pleasure, contribute to mine;Not meanly would boast, nor lewdly design;Not over severe, yet not stupidly vain,For I would have the power, though not give the pain.
No pedant, yet learned; no rake-helly gay,Or laughing, because he has nothing to say;To all my whole sex obliging and free,Yet never be fond of any but me;In public preserve the decorum that's just,And shew in his eyes he is true to his trust!Then rarely approach, and respectfully bow,But not fulsomely pert, nor yet foppishly low.
But when the long hours of public are past,And we meet with champaign and a chicken at last,May every fond pleasure that moment endear;Be banish'd afar both discretion and fear!Forgetting or scorning the airs of the crowd,He may cease to be formal, and I to be proud,Till lost in the joy, we confess that we live,And he may be rude, and yet I may forgive.
And that my delight may be solidly fix'd,Let the friend and the lover be handsomely mix'd;In whose tender bosom my soul may confide,Whose kindness can soothe me, whose counsel can guide.From such a dear lover as hero I describe,No danger should fright me, no millions should bribe;But till this astonishing creature I know,As I long have liv'd chaste, I will keep myself so.
I never will share with the wanton coquette,Or be caught by a vain affectation of wit.The toasters and songsters may try all their art,But never shall enter the pass of my heart.I loathe the lewd rake, the dress'd fopling despise:Before such pursuers the nice virgin flies;And as Ovid has sweetly in parable told,We harden like trees, and like rivers grow cold."
This delightful epistle to Congreve appears to have been written at the time she resided at Twickenham,—lured there by the quiet and loveliness of that classic spot, and the fascination of Pope's society. The following letter would seem to confirm the sincerity of these racy verses;—and the presence of "Doctor Swift and Johnny Gay," —ballad-writing too,—must have had some influence over the pen of the poetess.
"TO THE COUNTESS OF MAR.
"Twickenham, 17—.
"Dear Sister,—I was very glad to hear from you, though there was something in your letters very monstrous and shocking. I wonder with what conscience you can talk to me of your being an old woman; I beg I may hear no more on't. For my part I pretend to be as young as ever, and really am as young as needs to be, to all intents and purposes. I attribute all this to your living so long at Chatton, and fancy a week at Paris will correct such wild imaginations, and set things in a better light. My cure for lowness of spirits is not drinking nasty water, but galloping all day,and a moderate glass of champaign at night in good company; and I believe this regimen, closely followed, is one of the most wholesome that can be prescribed, and may save one a world of filthy doses, and more filthy doctor's fees at the year's end. I rode to Twickenham last night, and, after so long a stay in town, am not sorry to find myself in my garden; our neighbourhood is something improved by the removal of some old maids, and the arrival of some fine gentlemen, amongst whom are Lord Middleton and Sir J. Gifford, who are, perhaps, your acquaintances: they live with their aunt, Lady Westmoreland, and we endeavour to make the country agreeable to one another.
"Doctor Swift and Johnny Gay are at Pope's, and their conjunction has produced a ballad,[21]which, if nobody else has sent you, I will, being never better pleased than when I am endeavouring to amuse my dear sister, and ever yours,
"M. W. M."
What a picture we have of Mrs. Lowther! How theMallis revived with its strollers of fashion and beauty!
"I am yet in this wicked town, but purpose to leave it as soon as the parliament rises. Mrs. Murray and all her satellites have so seldom fallen in my way, I can say little about them. Your old friend Mrs. Lowther is still fair and young,and in pale pink every night in the parks."
To the name of Mrs. Lowther is appended the following note,—and we do not know that we ever remember an anecdote,in years, better set off.
"Mrs. Lowther was a respectable woman, single, and, as it appears by the text, not willing to own herself middle-aged. Another lady happened to be sitting at breakfast with her when an awkward country lad, new in her service, brought word that 'there was one as begged to speak to her.'—'What is his name?'—'Don't know.'—'What sort of person? a gentleman?'—'Can't say rightly.'—'Go and ask him his business.'—The fellow returned grinning. 'Why, madam, he says as how—he says he is—'—'Well, what does he say, fool?'—'He says he is one as dies for your ladyship.'—'Dies forme! exclaimed the lady, the more incensed from seeing her friend inclined to laugh as well as her footman,—'was there ever such a piece of insolence! Turn him out of my house this minute. And hark ye, shut the door in his face.' The clown obeyed; but going to work more roughly than John Bull will ever admit of, produced a scuffle that disturbed the neighbours and called in the constable. At last the audacious lover, driven to explain himself, proved nothing worse than an honest tradesman, a dyer, whom her ladyship often employed to refresh her old gowns."
Can the followingtrifleof whipt fashion and satire be surpassed even by the pointed and light pleasantries of Walpole?
"Cavendish-square, 1727.
"My Lady Stafford[22]set out towards France this morning, and has carried half the pleasures of my life along with her; I am more stupid than I can describe, and am as full of moral reflections as either Cambray or Pascal. I think of nothing but the nothingness of the good things of this world, the transitoriness of its joys, the pungency of its sorrows, and many discoveries that have been made these three thousand years, and committed to print ever since the first erecting of presses. I advise you, as the best thing you can do that day, let it happen as it will, to visit Lady Stafford: she has the goodness to carry with her a true-born Englishwoman, who is neither good nor bad, nor capable of being either; Lady Phil Prat by name, of the Hamilton family, and who will be glad of your acquaintance, and you can never be sorry for hers.[23]
"Peace or war, cross or pile, makes all the conversation; this town never was fuller, and, God be praised, some peoplebrillein it whobrilledtwenty years ago. My cousin Buller is of that number, who is just what she was in all respects when she inhabited Bond-street. The sprouts of this age are such green withered things, 'tis a great comfort to us grown up people: I except my own daughter, who is to be the ornament of the ensuing court. I beg you will exact from Lady Stafford a particular of her perfections, which would sound suspected from my hand; at the same time I must do justice to a little twig belonging to my sister Gower. Miss Jenny is like the Duchess of Queensberry both in face and spirit.A proposof family affairs: I had almost forgot our dear and amiable cousin Lady Denbigh, who has blazed out all this winter; she has brought with her from Paris cart-loads of riband, surprising fashion, and of a complexion of the last edition, which naturally attracts all the she and he fools in London; and accordingly she is surrounded with a little court of both, and keeps a Sunday assembly to shew she has learned to play at cards on that day. Lady Frances Fielding[24]is really the prettiest woman in town, and has sense enough to make one's heart ache to see her surroundedwith such fools as her relations are. The man in England that gives the greatest pleasure, and the greatest pain, is a youth of royal blood, with all his grandmother's beauty, wit and good qualities. In short, he is Nell Gwin in person, with the sex altered, and occasions such fracas amongst the ladies of gallantry that it passes description. You'll stare to hear of her Grace of Cleveland at the head of them.[25]If I was poetical I would tell you—