"The god of love, enrag'd to seeThe nymph despise his flame,At dice and cards misspend her nights,And slight a nobler game;"For the neglect of offers pastAnd pride in days of yore,He kindles up a fire at last,That burns her at threescore."A polish'd wile is smoothly spreadWhere whilome wrinkles lay;And, glowing with an artful red,She ogles at the play."Along the Mall she softly sails,In white and silver drest;Her neck expos'd to Eastern gales,And jewels on her breast."Her children banish'd, age forgot,Lord Sidney is her care;And, what is a much happier lot,Has hopes to be herheir.
"The god of love, enrag'd to seeThe nymph despise his flame,At dice and cards misspend her nights,And slight a nobler game;
"For the neglect of offers pastAnd pride in days of yore,He kindles up a fire at last,That burns her at threescore.
"A polish'd wile is smoothly spreadWhere whilome wrinkles lay;And, glowing with an artful red,She ogles at the play.
"Along the Mall she softly sails,In white and silver drest;Her neck expos'd to Eastern gales,And jewels on her breast.
"Her children banish'd, age forgot,Lord Sidney is her care;And, what is a much happier lot,Has hopes to be herheir.
"This is all true history, though it is doggerel rhyme: in good earnest she has turned Lady D—— and family out of doors to make room for him, and there he lies like leaf-gold upon a pill; there never was so violent and so indiscreet a passion. Lady Stafford says nothing was ever like it, since Phædra and Hippolitus.—'Lord ha' mercy upon us! See what we may all come to!'
"M. W. M."
Again—the following words are as colours taken from the pallet of a Sir Joshua:
"Cavendish-square, 1727.
"I cannot deny, but that I was very well diverted on the Coronation day. I saw the procession much at my ease, in a house which I filled with my own company, and then got into Westminster-hall without trouble, where it was very entertaining to observe the variety of airs that all meant the same thing. The business of every walker there was to conceal vanity and gain admiration. For these purposes some languished and others strutted; but a visible satisfaction was diffused over every countenance, as soon as the coronet was clapped on the head. But she that drew the greatest number of eyes, was indisputably Lady Orkney. She exposed behind a mixture of fat and wrinkles; and before, a very considerable protuberance which preceded her. Add to this, the inimitable roll of her eyes, and her grey hairs, which by good fortune stood directly upright, and 'tis impossibleto imagine a more delightful spectacle. She had embellished all this with considerable magnificence, which made her look as big again as usual; and I should have thought her one of the largest things of God's making if my Lady St. J**n had not displayed all her charms in honour of the day. The poor Duchess of M***secrept along with a dozen of black snakes playing round her face, and my Lady P***nd (who is fallen away since her dismission from court) represented very finely an Egyptian mummy embroidered over with hieroglyphics."
Lady Mary read, and of course loved, the writings of Fielding. He was related to her. She had in her service a Fanny at the time she read Joseph Andrews, and thus she writes of her:
"TO THE COUNTESS OF BUTE.
"Venice, Oct. 1, N. S. 1748.
"My dear Child,— have at length received the box, with the books enclosed, for which I give you many thanks, as they amused me very much. I gave a very ridiculous proof of it, fitter indeed for my grand-daughter than myself. I returned from a party on horseback: and after having rode twenty miles, part of it by moonshine, it was ten at night when I found the box arrived. I could not deny myself the pleasure of opening it; and falling upon Fielding's works, was fool enough to sit up all night reading. I think Joseph Andrews better than his Foundling. I believe I was the more struck with it, having at present a Fanny in my own house, not only by the name, which happens to be the same, but the extraordinary beauty, joined with an understanding yet more extraordinary at her age, which is but few months past sixteen: she is in the post of my chambermaid. I fancy you will tax my discretion for taking a servant thus qualified; but my woman, who is also my housekeeper, was always teizing me with her having too much work, and complaining of ill health, which determined me to take her a deputy; and when I was at Louvere, where I drank the waters, one of the most considerable merchants there pressed me to take this daughter of his: her mother has an uncommon good character, and the girl has had a better education than is usual for those of her rank; she writes a good hand, and has been brought up to keep accounts, which she does to great perfection; and had herself such a violent desire to serve me, that I was persuaded to take her: I do not yet repent it from any part of her behaviour. But there has been no peace in the family ever since she came into it; I might say the parish, all the women in it having declared open war with her, and the men endeavouring all treaties of a different sort: my own woman puts herself at the head of the first party, and her spleen is increased by having no reason for it. The young creature is never stirring from my apartment, always at her needle, and never complaining of any thing. You will laugh at this tedious account of my domestics (if you have patience to read it over), but I have few other subjects to talk of."
Nothing can be livelier or happier than the following agreeable outbreak at Lady J. Wharton lavishing herself away upon one unworthy her.
"Lady J. Wharton is to be married to Mr. Holt, which I am sorry for;—to see a young woman that I really think one of the agreeablest girls upon earth so vilely misplaced—but where are people matched!—I suppose we shall all come right in Heaven; as in a country dance, the hands are strangely given and taken, while they are in motion, at last all meet their partners when the jig is done."
The observations on Richardson are a little too harsh,— but the sobbing over his works is a compliment which no criticism could dry up.
"This Richardson is a strange fellow. I heartily despise him, and eagerly read him, nay, sob over his works, in a most scandalous manner. The two first tomes of Clarissa touched me, as being very resembling to my maiden days; and I find in the pictures of Sir Thomas Grandison and his lady, what I have heard of my mother, and seen of my father."
Time having made us wiser thanthe Wortley, it is amusing to see her guessing at and confounding authors and their works.
"TO THE COUNTESS OF BUTE.
"Louvere, June 23, 1754.
"My dear Child,—I have promised you some remarks on all the books I have received. I believe you would easily forgive my not keeping my word; however, I shall go on. The Rambler is certainly a strong misnomer; he always plods in the beaten road of his predecessors, following the Spectator (with the same pace a pack-horse would do a hunter) in the style that is proper to lengthen a paper. These writers may, perhaps, be of service to the public, which is saying a great deal in their favour. There are numbers of both sexes who never read anything but such productions, and cannot spare time, from doing nothing, to go through a sixpenny pamphlet. Such gentle readers may be improved by a moral hint, which, though repeated over and over, from generation to generation, they never heard in their lives. I should be glad to know the name of this laborious author. H. Fielding has given a true picture of himself and his first wife, in the characters of Mr. and Mrs. Booth, some compliments to his own figure excepted; and, I am persuaded, several of the incidents he mentions are real matters of fact. I wonder he does not perceive Tom Jones and Mr. Booth are sorry scoundrels. All this sort of books have the same fault, which I cannot easily pardon, being very mischievous. They place a merit in extravagant passions, and encourage young people to hope for impossible events, to draw them out of the misery they choose to plunge themselves into, expecting legacies from unknown relations, and generous benefactors to distressed virtue, as much out of nature as fairy treasures. Fielding has really a fund of true humour, and was to be pitied at his first entrance into the world, having no choice, as he said himself, but to be a hackney writer, or a hackney coachman. His genius deserved a better fate: but I cannot help blaming that continued indiscretion, to give it the softest name, that has run through his life, and I am afraid still remains. I guessed R. Random to be his, though without his name. I cannot think Ferdinand Fathom wrote by the same hand, it is every way so much below it. Sally Fielding has mended her style in her last volume of David Simple, which conveys a useful moral, though she does not seem to have intended it: I mean, shews the ill consequences of not providing against casual losses, which happen to almost everybody.Mrs. Orgueil's character is well drawn, and is frequently to be met with. The Art of Tormenting, the Female Quixote, and Sir C. Goodville, are all sale work. I suppose they proceed from her pen, and I heartily pity her, constrained by her circumstances to seek her bread by a method, I do not doubt, she despises. Tell me who is that accomplished countess she celebrates. I left no such person in London; nor can I imagine who is meant by the English Sappho mentioned in Betsy Thoughtless, whose adventures, and those of Jemmy Jessamy, gave me some amusement. I was better entertained by the valet, who very fairly represents how you are bought and sold by your servants. I am now so accustomed to another manner of treatment, it would be difficult to me to suffer them: his adventures have the uncommon merit of ending in a surprising manner. The general want of invention which reigns among our writers inclines me to think it is not the natural growth of our island, which has not sun enough to warm the imagination. The press is loaded by the servile flock of imitators. Lord Bolingbroke would have quoted Horace in this place. Since I was born, no original has appeared excepting Congreve, and Fielding, who would, I believe, have approached nearer to his excellencies, if not forced, by necessity, to publish without correction, and throw many productions into the world, he would have thrown into the fire, if meat could have been got without money, or money without scribbling. The greatest virtue, justice, and the most distinguishing prerogative of mankind, writing, when duly executed, do honour to human nature; but, when degenerated into trades, are the most contemptible ways of getting bread. I am sorry not to see any more of Peregrine Pickle's performances; I wish you would tell me his name!"
An ancestor of Lord Moira was capable of making a nice distinction:
"I cannot believe Sir John's advancement is owing to his merit, tho' he certainly deserves such a distinction; but I am persuaded the present disposers of such dignitys are neither more clear-sighted, or more disinterested than their predecessors. Even since I knew the world, Irish patents have been hung out to sale, like the laced and embroidered coats in Monmouth-street, and bought up by the same sort of people; I mean those who had rather wear shabby finery than no finery at all; though I don't suppose this was Sir John's case. Thatgood creature, (as the country saying is,) has not a bit of pride about him. I dare swear he purchased his title for the same reason he used to purchase pictures in Italy; not because he wanted to buy, but because somebody or other wanted to sell. He hardly ever opened his mouth but to say 'What you please, sir;'—'Your humble servant;' or some gentle expression to the same effect. It is scarce credible that with this unlimited complaisance he should draw a blow upon himself; yet it so happened that one of his own countrymen was brute enough to strike him. As it was done before many witnesses, Lord Mansel heard of it; and thinking that if poor Sir John took no notice of it, he would suffer daily insults of the same kind, out of pure good nature resolved to spirit him up, at least to some shew of resentment, intending to make up the matter afterwards in as honourable a manner as he could for the poor patient. He represented to him very warmly that no gentlemancould take a box on the ear. Sir John answered with great calmness, 'I know that, but this was not a box on the ear, it was only a slap o' the face.'"
The following is a smart sketch—perhaps a little too piquant:
"Next to the great ball, what makes the most noise is the marriage of an old maid, who lives in this street, without a portion, to a man of 7,000l.per annum, and they say 40,000l.in ready money. Her equipage and liveries outshine any body's in town. He has presented her with 3,000l.in jewels; and never was man more smitten with these charms that had lain invisible for these forty years; but, with all his glory, never bride had fewer enviers, the dear beast of a man is so filthy, frightful, odious, and detestable. I would turn away such a footman for fear of spoiling my dinner, while he waited at table. They were married on Friday, and came to churchen paradeon Sunday. I happened to sit in the pew with them, and had the honour of seeing Mrs. Bride fall fast asleep in the middle of the sermon, and snore very comfortably; which made several women in the church think the bridegroom not quite so ugly as they did before. Envious people say 'twas all counterfeited to please him, but I believe that to be scandal; for I dare swear, nothing but downright necessity could make her miss one word of the sermon. He professes to have married her for her devotion, patience, meekness, and other Christian virtues he observed in her: his first wife (who has left no children) being very handsome, and so good-natured as to have ventured her own salvation to secure his. He has married this lady to have a companion in that paradise where his first has given him a title. I believe I have given you too much of this couple; but they are not to be comprehended in few words.
"My dear Mrs. Hewet, remember me and believe that nothing can put you out of my head."
The noble dukes of the present day, and the learned members of the faculty, are by no means of so sportive a turn as they were in the goodly times of Mrs. Hewet. We confess we should like to have to get up some fine morning to be in St. James's Park in time to see some such elegant struggle between the Duke of Devonshire and Sir Henry Halford as the following:
"There is another story that I had from a hand I dare depend upon. The Duke of Grafton and Dr. Garth ran a foot-match in the Mall of 200 yards, and the latter, to his immortal glory, beat."
With a strong turn for building herself, Lady Mary makes some sensible remarks on its folly in others.
"Building is the general weakness of old people; I have had a twitch of it myself, though certainly it is the highest absurdity, and as sure a proof of dotage as pink-coloured ribands, or even matrimony. Nay, perhaps, there is more to be said in defence of the last; I mean in a childless old man; he may prefer a boy born in his own house, though he knows it is not his own, to disrespectful or worthless nephews or nieces. But there is no excuse for beginning an edifice he can never inhabit, or probably see finished. The Duchess of Marlborough used to ridicule the vanity of it, by saying one might always live upon other people's follies: yet you see she built the most ridiculoushouse I ever saw, since it really is not habitable, from the excessive damps; so true it is, the things that we would do, those do we not, and the things we would not do, those do we daily. I feel in myself a proof of this assertion, being much against my will at Venice, though I own it is the only great town where I can properly reside, yet here I find so many vexations, that, in spite of all my philosophy, and (what is more powerful,) my phlegm, I am oftner out of humour than among my plants and poultry in the country. I cannot help being concerned at the success of iniquitous schemes, and grieve for oppressed merit. You, who see these things every day, think me as unreasonable, in making them matter of complaint, as if I seriously lamented the change of seasons. You should consider I have lived almost a hermit ten years, and the world is as new to me as to a country girl transported from Wales to Coventry. I know I ought to think my lot very good, that can boast of some sincere friends among strangers."
But we must put an end to this agreeable conference,—though we think, that if we could for ever listen to such vivid gossip, we should never grow old. We had intended to have treated of the romantic intimacy, and subsequent determined hatred, that existed between Lady Mary and Pope; but our limits warn us that we must not indulge in a lengthy discussion of the subject. She, it is clear, was flattered by his wit and his mental beauty. In him real passion took root. His advances she appears to have repulsed, and he was thus suddenly driven to the galling contemplation of his own person, and he at once from the adoring poet became the "Deformed Transformed" into hate itself. Byron never forgave an allusion to his lameness. The separation of Mr. Wortley from his accomplished wife still remains unexplained; but it is clear that kindly and respectful feelings were preserved unblemished between them; and there is a delicate tenderness in each towards the other in the veriest trifles, which shows how feeble a thing is absence over sincere affections. We are rather surprised that no letters from Lady Mary to her grand-daughter Lady Jane, (one of the daughters of the Countess of Bute,) have not straggled into print. How beautifully must she have written to children, and particularly to such a child as Lady Jane appears to have been! The letters, however, we fear are lost.
If we might be permitted to adopt a new manner of life, and to pitch our tent in whatever part of his Majesty's dominions we pleased,—we have no hesitation in saying that we should lose no time in directingthose people, however respectable they may be, who inhabit Strawberry Hill, toget out! We should then send down by the Twickenham carrier complete sets of the works of Pope, Swift, Johnny Gay, and the dear Arbuthnot,—of the Letters of Horace Walpole, of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, Pepys' Memoirs, Evelyn's Memoirs, Shakspeare, and some other works of trifling interest,—begging they may be placed inthatlittle library with the stained glass. We should then Ourselves go down!—have a comfortable annuity from government, and a moderate handful of servants from the neighbourhood; and there we would pass away our life, "from morn to noon,—from noon to dewy eve,—a summer's day!" This plan has something in it so modest and reasonable, that we cannot help thinking it will attract the attention of the existing ministry, and in the end be realized!
And have we lost thee!—has the monarch grimTo his dull court borne off the child of whim!And art thou gone,Oldboy?[26]thou brave and goodProtector[27]of theChildren in the Wood?Then has theWorld'sgreatEcho[28]died away;Out of his time th'Apprentice[29]could not stay:TheSquib's[30]gone off, extinguish'd ev'ry spark,And Momus mourns his region left so dark.How oft, exulting, have we view'd theMoor[31]For Christian captives open Freedom's door;We've stared to hear theValet's[32]ready fib,And shudder'd when theCobbler[33]strapp'd his rib.How, when Barbadoes' merry bells did ring,We've smiled to see theeTrudge[34]and hear thee sing;ThyBen[35]andDory[36]were of right true blue,ThySheva[37]warm'd us to respect aJew.ToFeign well[38]thou indeed couldst make pretence,Thy brilliant eye was all intelligence;In thee we lost the flow'r ofCity youths,[39]And now noLenitive[40]our sorrow soothes.We care not whether tithes be paid or left,Since of ourAcres[41]we have been bereft;We dread Spring Rice's yearly fiscal bore,But grieveThy Budget[42]can be heard no more.Great Garrick's pet,—an ancient fav'rite's son,—Upon the stage thy public course was run,Tho', in thy youth, a painter; and, as man,Thou didst draw houses in aCaravan[43].And well thou couldst support aStorm[44], but GoutLife'slittle farthing rushlight[45]has blown out:Thou'rt gone, and from all further ills art screen'd,For thou didst followConscience, not the Fiend[46].Mourn'd in public and private, thou wouldst not come back;"Be quiet! I know it"[47]—thou 'rt happier, Jack!J.S.
And have we lost thee!—has the monarch grimTo his dull court borne off the child of whim!And art thou gone,Oldboy?[26]thou brave and goodProtector[27]of theChildren in the Wood?
Then has theWorld'sgreatEcho[28]died away;Out of his time th'Apprentice[29]could not stay:TheSquib's[30]gone off, extinguish'd ev'ry spark,And Momus mourns his region left so dark.
How oft, exulting, have we view'd theMoor[31]For Christian captives open Freedom's door;We've stared to hear theValet's[32]ready fib,And shudder'd when theCobbler[33]strapp'd his rib.
How, when Barbadoes' merry bells did ring,We've smiled to see theeTrudge[34]and hear thee sing;ThyBen[35]andDory[36]were of right true blue,ThySheva[37]warm'd us to respect aJew.
ToFeign well[38]thou indeed couldst make pretence,Thy brilliant eye was all intelligence;In thee we lost the flow'r ofCity youths,[39]And now noLenitive[40]our sorrow soothes.
We care not whether tithes be paid or left,Since of ourAcres[41]we have been bereft;We dread Spring Rice's yearly fiscal bore,But grieveThy Budget[42]can be heard no more.
Great Garrick's pet,—an ancient fav'rite's son,—Upon the stage thy public course was run,Tho', in thy youth, a painter; and, as man,Thou didst draw houses in aCaravan[43].
And well thou couldst support aStorm[44], but GoutLife'slittle farthing rushlight[45]has blown out:Thou'rt gone, and from all further ills art screen'd,For thou didst followConscience, not the Fiend[46].
Mourn'd in public and private, thou wouldst not come back;"Be quiet! I know it"[47]—thou 'rt happier, Jack!J.S.
[As we might reasonably be expected to account for the possession of the following document, we beg to state that it was put into our hands by an unknown gentleman, who slipped unseen into oursanctum, clothed in a whity-brown suit, half-boots, and blue cotton stockings. The gentleman apologized for the negligence of his attire, by stating that he was in "reduced" circumstances. His employers, he said, had hit upon an ingenious mode of reimbursing themselves for the losses they sustained by trading under the market price,—which was simply paying their workmen one half of their wages, and owing them the other. On our inquiring with great sympathy, whether he was not desirous to get the last-mentioned moiety, he replied with real feeling, that he wished he might. He then begged the loan of a small pinch of snuff, sighed deeply, and withdrew.—Ed. B. M.]
Messrs. Four, Two, and One, many years resident on the Surrey side of the river Thames, beg most respectfully to announce to the play-going public, that in consequence of the increasing demand for all sorts of low-priced theatrical articles, they have at length succeeded in securing and entering upon those large, commodious, and formerly well-known high-priced premises situate in Drury-lane and Covent-garden; and having by this arrangement prevented the possibility of competition, they are determined to do business in future upon the Surrey-side system only. To prove the sincerity of their intentions, Four, Two, and One take this opportunity of making known to the directors of theatrical establishments, that they have a number of hints ready cut and dried, upon the necessity of a general reduction of the salaries of the principalEnglishartistes, which will be found singularly useful to managers taking a Continental trip for the purpose of securingForeigntalent for the London market.
F. T. and O. also recommend their celebrated elastic, self-acting, portable, Anglo-Parisian pen, skilfully contrived to fit all hands, and which enables the writer, after six lessons upon the Hamiltonian system, to translate any French piece intoSurrey-side English; thereby superseding the necessity of employing and paying any author or adapter who thinks it worth his while to embarrass himself with the study of reading, writing, or any other abstruse or outlandish knowledge whatsoever.
F. T. and O. cannot conclude without returning their most sincere and heartfelt thanks to the nobility, gentry, and friends of the drama generally, by whom their endeavours have been so eminently patronized. In particular, they should consider themselves guilty of the grossest ingratitude, did they omit this occasion of acknowledging their infinite obligations to the proprietors of the Patent establishments, who (by their active zeal, and indefatigable industry in the great cause of general reduction,) have placed Four, Two, and One, in their present premises, and have thereby enforced and illustrated this incontrovertible fact,—that Sheridan, Harris, and Colman were mere humbugs and imposters compared with F. T. and O.; and, that during their long and high-priced professional career, they did nothing to obtain or preserve the protection of a candid and enlightened public.
BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.
Abbess.Who is knocking for admissionAt the convent's outer gate?Is it possible a ladyCan be wandering so late?Let me see her through the lattice,And herstorylet me hear;—Oh! your most obedient, madam;May I ask what brings you here?Duchess.You will very much applaud me,When you hear what I have done;I've been naughty,—I'm a penitent,and want to be a nun.I've been treated most unfairly,Though 'tis said I am most fair;I am rich, ma'am, and a duchess,And my name's La Vallière.Abbess.Get along, you naughty woman,You'll contaminate us all;When you touch'd the gate, I wonderThat the convent did not fall!Stop! I think you mention'd money,—That is—penitence, I mean:Let her in,—I'mtooindulgent;—Pray how are the king and queen?Duchess.Lady Abbess, you delight me,—Oh! had Louis been as kind!But he used me ungenteely,To my fondness deaf and blind.Oh! methinks that now I view him,With his feathers in his hat!—Hem!—beg pardon—I'm aware, ma'am,That I mustn't speak ofthat.Abbess.Not by no means, madam, never;No—you mustn't eventhink;(Put your feet upon the fender,And here's something warm to drink:Is it strong enough?—pray stir it:)What on earthcouldmake you goFrom a palace to a convent?Come,—I'm curious to know?Duchess.Can you wonder, Lady Abbess?—At the change I should rejoice,—I of vanities was weary,And a convent was my choice.I have had a troubled conscience,And court manners did condemn,Ever since I saw King LouisMaking eyes at MadamM.Abbess.Oh! I think I comprehend you:But take care what you're about;Though 'tis easy to getinhere,'Tan't so easy to getout:You'll for beads resign your jewels,And your robes for garments plain;Ere you cut the world, remember'Tis not cut and come again!Duchess.I am willing in a cloisterThat my days and nights should pass;—(This is very nice indeed, ma'am;If you please, another glass)—As for courtiers, I'll hereafterLay the odious topic by;Oh! their crooked ways enough areFor to turn a nun awry!Abbess.Very proper: to the sisters'Twould be wrong to chatter thus;Now and then, when snug and cosey,'Twill do very well forus.It is strange how tittle-tattleAll about the convent spreads,When the barber from the villageComes to shave the sisters' heads.Duchess.Do you really mean to tell meI must lose my raven locks?Then I'll tie 'em up with ribbon,And I'll keep 'em in my box:Oh! how Louis used to praise 'em!Hem!—I think I'll go to bed.—Not another drop, I thank you,—It would get into my head.Abbess.Benedicite! my daughter,You'll be soon used to the place;Though at meals our only duchess,Youwill have to say your grace:And when none can interrupt us,You of courtly scenes shall tell,When I bring a drop of comfortFrom my cellar to my cell!
Abbess.Who is knocking for admissionAt the convent's outer gate?Is it possible a ladyCan be wandering so late?Let me see her through the lattice,And herstorylet me hear;—Oh! your most obedient, madam;May I ask what brings you here?
Duchess.You will very much applaud me,When you hear what I have done;I've been naughty,—I'm a penitent,and want to be a nun.I've been treated most unfairly,Though 'tis said I am most fair;I am rich, ma'am, and a duchess,And my name's La Vallière.
Abbess.Get along, you naughty woman,You'll contaminate us all;When you touch'd the gate, I wonderThat the convent did not fall!Stop! I think you mention'd money,—That is—penitence, I mean:Let her in,—I'mtooindulgent;—Pray how are the king and queen?
Duchess.Lady Abbess, you delight me,—Oh! had Louis been as kind!But he used me ungenteely,To my fondness deaf and blind.Oh! methinks that now I view him,With his feathers in his hat!—Hem!—beg pardon—I'm aware, ma'am,That I mustn't speak ofthat.
Abbess.Not by no means, madam, never;No—you mustn't eventhink;(Put your feet upon the fender,And here's something warm to drink:Is it strong enough?—pray stir it:)What on earthcouldmake you goFrom a palace to a convent?Come,—I'm curious to know?
Duchess.Can you wonder, Lady Abbess?—At the change I should rejoice,—I of vanities was weary,And a convent was my choice.I have had a troubled conscience,And court manners did condemn,Ever since I saw King LouisMaking eyes at MadamM.
Abbess.Oh! I think I comprehend you:But take care what you're about;Though 'tis easy to getinhere,'Tan't so easy to getout:You'll for beads resign your jewels,And your robes for garments plain;Ere you cut the world, remember'Tis not cut and come again!
Duchess.I am willing in a cloisterThat my days and nights should pass;—(This is very nice indeed, ma'am;If you please, another glass)—As for courtiers, I'll hereafterLay the odious topic by;Oh! their crooked ways enough areFor to turn a nun awry!
Abbess.Very proper: to the sisters'Twould be wrong to chatter thus;Now and then, when snug and cosey,'Twill do very well forus.It is strange how tittle-tattleAll about the convent spreads,When the barber from the villageComes to shave the sisters' heads.
Duchess.Do you really mean to tell meI must lose my raven locks?Then I'll tie 'em up with ribbon,And I'll keep 'em in my box:Oh! how Louis used to praise 'em!Hem!—I think I'll go to bed.—Not another drop, I thank you,—It would get into my head.
Abbess.Benedicite! my daughter,You'll be soon used to the place;Though at meals our only duchess,Youwill have to say your grace:And when none can interrupt us,You of courtly scenes shall tell,When I bring a drop of comfortFrom my cellar to my cell!
A TRANSCRIPT. BY CHARLES WHITEHEAD.
The doctor tells me I must take no wine. Pshaw! It is not that which mounts into my brain; and sometimes—but I must not wander—wine is the best corrector of these fancies. One bottle more of sober claret, and I shall be able to finish before midnight the brief sketch of my life which I promised Travers long ago.
It were worse than useless to set down any particulars of my boyhood. An only son is usually a spoiled one, and that which is so easy and delightful a task to most parents was by no means difficult or unpleasant to mine; and yet, to do myself justice, I believe I was not more conceited, insolent, selfish, and rapacious than others are during those days of innocence, as they are called,—those days of innocence which form the germ of that noble and disinterested creature, man.
At the age of three-and-twenty I succeeded to my father's estate. It was to divert a sense of loneliness which beset me, that I plunged into—as they term it, but the phrase is a wrong one—that I ventured upon the course of folly and dissipation into which so many young men of fortune like myself hurry themselves, or are led, or are driven. But why recount these scenes of pleasure—so called, or miscalled—whose reaction is utter weariness, satiety, and disgust?
I was at the theatre one night, when the friend who accompanied me directed my attention to a very lovely girl, who, with her mother and a party of friends, occupied the next box. She was, certainly, the loveliest creature my eyes had ever lighted upon; with a sylph-like form, (that is the usual phrase, I believe,) wanting perhaps that complete roundness of limb which is considered essential to perfect beauty in a woman—but she was barely sixteen—and yet suggesting, too, the idea of consummate symmetry. Her face—but who can describe beauty? who even can paint it? Let any man look at the finest attempts to achieve this impossibility by the old masters, and then let him compare them with the faces he has seen, and may see every day. Heavens! what inanities! Can a man paint a soul upon canvass? And yet the artist talks of his "expression."
I watched her closely during the performance,—indeed, I had no power to withdraw my gaze from her; and once or twice her eyes met mine, and I thought I could perceive she was not altogether displeased at my attention. Her confusion betrayed that to me, and in one short hour I was a lost man.
When the play was over, I framed a miserable excuse, which I thought at the time a most ingenious one, to my friend for not accompanying him home to supper, as I had promised; and hastening after my unknown and her mother, who had left the box, was just in time to see them enter a coach. I contrived to keep pace with it, and saw it deposit its beautiful freight at a house in a small private street near Portman Square.
I could laugh—unaccustomed as I am even to private laughing now-a-days—when I think, as I do sometimes, on those days of sentiment. It were as futile to attempt to renew that sentiment after thirty, as to strive to recal those days, and to bid them stand in next year's calendar. The green wood is out of the tree by that time;and the trunk becomes hard, and gnarled, and stubborn. Now is the time to enjoy life. At five-and-thirty the blood and the brain act in concert, and the heart beats not one pulse the quicker, while they do their spiriting—not gently always.—To return.
I went home that night altogether an altered man, and rose next morning from a sleepless bed, absorbed with the one idea which had worked so miraculous a change within me. All that day, almost without intermission, did I pace up and down the street in the hope of seeing her; but in vain. Not once did she approach the window; and I did not deem it prudent to question one of the servants who came out of the house several times during the day. I betook myself, therefore, towards evening to a green-grocer's shop in the neighbourhood; and the purchase of some fruit gave me a privilege to indulge in a little chat with the good old woman who conducted the business. I affected to be chiefly solicitous respecting the elderly lady, whom I had seen by chance, and believed to be a friend of my father, but whose name I could not, for the life of me, remember. The old woman smiled at my shallow artifice, but proceeded to inform me that the elderly lady was the widow of an officer who had been killed in the Peninsular War, leaving an only daughter, at that period an infant. I begged pardon—the name? did she know the daughter's name?
"Oh yes! it was Isabella Denham."
It was an era in my life, the first sound of that name. I thanked my kind informant, and withdrew.
I need not tell how unremittingly, and for how many weeks, I paced up and down that street, with various success; how regularly I attended the church she frequented; and how at length I obtained an introduction to the family.
I found Isabella Denham more captivating than the accumulated fancies and self-willed convictions of months had pictured her to me. It is no unusual result in such cases; but whether it be that the object transcends the imagination, or that the imagination subserves the object, I know not. It was so, however; for feeling upon these occasions takes the place of reason, which is an impertinence.
Let me be just. I think, had I loved Isabella Denham less, I should equally have admired her. She had a mind and a heart; she was accomplished; she was beautiful, gentle, and good; and she loved me. Yes, she loved me. I believed it then, and I am certain of it now. How I loved her, she never knew: that was for Time to show, and he has shown it.
I offered her my hand in due time, and was accepted. How I despised the sneers and banter of some of my friends who could not conceive the idea of a marriage with fortune on one side, and none on the other, and yet were endeavouring at the same time to effect an engagement of a similar nature in their own favour! How I disregarded the gratuitous advice of sundry of my officious relatives, who thought that all love had died when their own gave up the ghost, and who sometimes prophesied truly because they were always prognosticating evil!
We were at length married; and the close of the fourth year saw no diminution of our happiness. We were domestic enough without seclusion, and went into as much company as sufficed to makeus feel that home was the happiest place after all. One circumstance had contributed to augment my felicity,—the birth of a son, which took place about a year after our marriage.
I know not what some people mean, who tell you that when a man becomes married, love subsides into affection, and friendship takes the place of passion. It was not so with me. I loved the wife as much as I had adored the mistress. To make her happy was myself to be so; and to have made her so, I would have laid down my life. Some, indeed, hinted that I indulged her too much—that I let her have her own way in everything. And why not? Did I marry to make my wife the creature, or the slave, of some system of management, rule of action, or principle of conduct? phrases which I abhor. No—no; be they as wise as they will, I was right. I am convinced of it.Thatwas not the cause. We were happy.
It was by the merest chance that I one day encountered Hastings in the street—my friend Hastings. We had been companions at Eton, and at college our intimacy had grown into friendship. Were I now asked for what particular quality of mind or heart I had chosen Hastings for a friend, I should find some difficulty in answering the question. He was what is termed "a good-natured fellow;" there was nothing gross or offensive in his gaiety, and he was always the same. His feelings never led him to make a fool of himself which is much to say of a young man. They might be called goodplatedfeelings, which answered the purpose well enough, and sometimes passed for more costly articles. It is much, after all, to possess a friend between whom and yourself you can drew comparisons favourable to the latter, and who is perfectly content that you should do so.
He dined with me on the next day. His powers of conversation were certainly much improved since we had last talked together. He could turn the most superficial reading to admirable account; and so minute was his observation, and so faithfully and graphically could he describe manners, and the surface motives of men, that it almost appeared like a profound knowledge of mankind. Isabella was pleased with his society; and after she had retired to the drawing-room, my friend expatiated somewhat at large upon her beauty and elegance, and, above all, upon the good sense which characterised her. I need hardly say that I also was delighted with him, and when we shook hands for the night, I could have hugged the man for his glowing eulogy. I almost loved every one who admired her. I was too weak—too weak.
He visited us often, for his time was altogether his own. He was living upon expectancy, and accordingly had more leisure than money. At various periods I pressed him to make my purse his own, and he did so. I had, indeed, more money at my disposal than I cared for, or knew what to do with; and at that time I thought, when I served a friend, that I had found the best employment of it. It is strange,—and yet perhaps it is not by any means strange,—how men alter in this particular as they grow older. The heart-strings and the purse-strings are not so easily drawn then.
Well, I was his banker, and felt myself sufficiently repaid by his society. About this time, also, I was greatly occupied in business of a somewhat troublesome nature, to conclude which it was necessarythat I should visit my estate. My probable term of absence was to be about six weeks. The fashionable season was in its meridian, and I could not be cruel enough to ask Isabella to accompany me. She had latterly taken more pleasure in parties, and balls, and concerts than heretofore. Perhaps I had kept her too close; we were too domestic. After all, it was not the way of the world. I thought so, and Hastings agreed with me;—I would see it reformed altogether when I return.
In the mean while I begged Hastings to look in now and then, and see that she was not lonely and out of spirits. It was natural to expect that my first absence from her would cause her to feel so. He promised to do as I requested, and I set off into the country, where I was detained more than two months; and at length, finding myself released from an irksome attendance on very unpleasant business, I took post-horses, and with all the ardour of a lover returned to London.
I returned to London.—
I remember the minutest particulars of that scene so well! Not a tittle of it has escaped my memory—not a word, not a syllable! It will never depart from my mind—from my soul!
When the porter opened the door, I hastened through the hall, and sprang up stairs into the drawing-room. She was not there; but my little boy, hearing my well-known footstep, came from the adjoining room and ran towards me. I caught him in my arms, and gave him a thousand kisses.
"Well, my dear little fellow, and where is mamma?"
"Not here—not here," said the boy, looking around; "but I'm so glad you've come back!"
Isabella was gone out, doubtless. I rang the bell. I did not observe Mrs. Martin, the housekeeper, enter the room,—I was still caressing the child.
"Ha! Mrs. Martin—But what's the matter? You look ill.—Where is Mrs. Saville?"
The woman spoke not, but trembled violently, and turned very pale. I motioned her to take a seat. She did so.
"My dear madam, you alarm me," said I. "Is anything wrong—your mistress——"
Tears were streaming down the woman's face, as she arose suddenly, and with her hands clasped before her she came towards me.
"Oh, sir! bear it like a man," she cried, weeping bitterly;—"do bear it like a man, sir! That I should live to tell you this!—I, who have carried you in these arms, and have prayed a thousand times for your happiness when I should be dead and gone!"
She paused. Perhaps my face revealed the sickness of heart which at that moment overcame me. I could not rise from my seat; I could not lift the child from my knee, as he lay upon my bosom with his head pressed against my heart.
"Merciful Heaven!—Isabella is ill—she is dying!—at once, at once tell me——"
"No, no," said the woman bitterly, "she is not ill or dying. Mr. Saville, I durst not tell you my suspicions before you left town—I durst not, sir. For mercy's sake compose yourself! My mistress left this house last Tuesday night with Mr. Hastings."
That horrible shriek still rings in my ears. I remember thrusting the child from me, and clasping my head with my hands; and then I was smitten down—struck to the earth—worse than dead—oh, how much worse than dead!
It was a long, long, hideous dream that succeeded, full of woe, and lamentations, and weeping, and curses, and despair. But I awoke at last from that dream. Where was I? It was a very narrow, but lofty room; the walls were whitewashed, and there was one small window about twelve feet from the door. I was seated on a low truckle-bed; and as I turned my eyes from the light of the window, they fell upon my hands, which were laid before me. Around my wrists there were deep marks, as though they had been tied together with cords; and when I moved, a sharp pain went round me, like a girdle. But the rope had been loosened, and was no longer about me. A man entered the room.
"How do you feel yourself now?" said he, laying his hand upon my shoulder.
I looked up. Methought I recognised the voice, and the face was almost familiar to me, and repulsively so.
"I am well—very well," I answered. "Where am I?"
The man said nothing, but silently left the room, presently returning with a gentleman, of whom, as of the man, I had an indistinct remembrance.
"You will be better soon, sir," said this person kindly, as he felt my pulse; and he turned towards the man, and spoke to him in an undertone. "Let him be kept very quiet," was all I heard, and he retired shortly after.
Yes:—I had been mad—raving mad—for two years, and was now slowly struggling back into consciousness. Feeble glimmerings of the past came upon me at first, and then farther half-revelations were extended to me; until at lengththe cause, dimly and remotely, but gradually nearer and more near, stood before me like a curse. It is well for me that I did not then relapse into madness; but I wrestled with it, I overcame it, and in a month was taken away in my own physician's carriage, and brought back home. Home?—that had been destroyed.
My friend, Dr. Herbert, was, and is, the best fellow breathing. He devoted for some weeks nearly the whole of his time to me. He endeavoured to draw my mind away from the one subject, which might, he thought, if entertained, once more overthrow my reason. He was mistaken. The very endeavour to discard that memory, as often as it recurred, would soon have distracted me. I encouraged it, therefore, and was strengthened by it;—my mind throve upon it,—it was a comfort to me.
The many slight indications of an attachment—of a passion—betweenherand this man Hastings,—and they must have been but slight indications,—were presented to me now grossly and palpably. I could see them all,—they stung me;—and I would curse my fool's nature that was blind, or would not see and provide against the consequence. And why did I curse my easy nature? Could I have borne to live a wretched turnkey, a miserable listener at key-holes, a dealer out of "punishment, the drudgery of devils?" Did I marry to suspect virtue, or to control vice? Neither; and I was glad that,when they did wrong me, they permitted me to know it. These thoughts never affected my brain;—there was no fear of that. I thought no longer from the brain;—these thoughts were in my heart, and never moved thence.
One evening, as I was ascending the stairs, I overheard the child inquiring of one of the servants "who that white-haired gentleman was, and why he lived in the house?" I had hitherto refused to see the child; but I now rang the bell, and ordered the housekeeper, who constantly waited upon me, to bring him to me.
He was much grown since I had last seen him, and was a fine boy. He did not know me, and was at first fearful of approaching me; but I induced him to sit upon my knee, and, putting his hair from the forehead, asked him if he would not give me a kiss. As he lifted his face, and looked up at me—that look! his very mother was gazing through those eyes! A sudden faintness possessed me. I lifted the child gently from my knee, and motioned the housekeeper to take him from my sight. I did not see him again.
But there was comfort still:—Hastings was in London,—I was certain of it.
And so he was. One night, about a fortnight after my return to town from Paris, where I was told he had been seen, and where I had sought him in vain, I was proceeding home, baffled in my endeavours to discover him in some of his old haunts, which I had ascertained after many and fruitless inquiries. I was walking rapidly down a miserable street in the vicinity of Clare Market, when a squalid wretch, issuing from a public-house, came in contact with me. I think no human being in the world would have recognised him but myself. Hideously changed as he was, I knew him instantly. The half-shriek that burst from him as he recoiled from me showed that he had recognised me also. The struggle was a short one,—I had omitted to put my pistols in my pocket on that evening. With what a savage triumph, when I had dashed him on the pavement, did I stamp upon the prostrate carcass of the groaning wretch! But my joy was brief; for I was suddenly seized by three or four men, who held me firmly by the arms. I could not get at him. Heedless of my ravings, they assisted the miscreant to rise, who, casting one glance of terror towards me, darted down an alley, and was lost to me for ever. He had escaped me.
How I reached home I know not. Herbert, who visited me next morning, forbade me to rise from my bed. He said my brain was unsettled, and I believe it was. But I was well again in a month.
The one idea pervaded my whole being when I arose from my bed. My rencontre with Hastings had whetted my appetite for revenge so keenly, that no reason, no thought, no feeling could control me. He was evidently in a state of the most abject beggary and want. That conviction did not disarm me; it rendered me only the more determined and inflexible.
I went forth one evening, and with much difficulty discovered the public-house from which I had seen him emerge onthatnight. From the landlord I obtained every particular I required to know. Hastings had, it seemed, changed his name;—it was now Harris. He resided in one small room on the first floor of a house in a filthy court hard by; that is, if he had not left the neighbourhood, for the man had not seen him for a month past.
It was well. I drank two glasses of brandy, for it was a cold night, and proceeded towards my destination. I found it easily. There was a light in the window, and, from the reflection of a man's figure on the wall, I judged he was at home. The house-door was open, and I entered the narrow passage. At that moment I trembled, and for an instant could not proceed. No: it was not that which made me tremble; I knew, and was prepared for, what I had to do. It was the other,—it was that face which I feared I could not bear to behold.
This was, as I have said, the weakness of a moment. I mounted the stairs, and burst into the room suddenly. A man and a woman were seated at a small fire, who arose abruptly on my entrance. It was not Harris and—his wife.
"Where is the man—Hastings?" I exclaimed, addressing the old couple.
As I uttered these words, a loud shriek proceeded from a bed behind me, and a female dropt upon the floor. I knew that voice,—I knew it well;—but it did not move me.
"Mrs. Harris is ill," said the old woman; "permit us to pass you, sir;—it is one of the fits to which she is subject."
I allowed the woman to step by me, who, raising the lifeless form beside her, drew it into an adjoining room.
"What do you want, sir? what is your business here?" inquired the man.
I placed one hand into my coat-pocket and grasped a pistol, and with the other seized the man by the collar.
"Where is Harris?" said I. "You had best tell me; you are a dead man else. He is hid somewhere—he is below, in the house—where is he?"
"He is there," gasped the man; and he pointed towards the bed, upon which a body was lying, covered with a linen cloth.
I sank upon a chair. Hastings had indeed escaped me, and for ever. I was left alone, for the man had hurried from the room. I cannot describe the agony of feeling which I underwent during the next half-hour. I took the light, and, walking to the bed, drew the linen cloth from the face of the corpse.
How awful! how mysterious is the power of death! The man who had insulted, who had wronged, who had betrayed me,—whose ingratitude—of all crimes the vilest and the basest—had inverted my very soul,—this man lay before me cold, serene, tranquil, miserable, callously insensible,—and yet I had no power to curse him. There was no serenity, no tranquillity upon the face, when I gazed upon it more closely. The brow was corrugated, the cheeks collapsed, and the eyelids sunken; and there was the soul's torture, as it left a tortured body impressed upon the face. Enough to have mitigated a more implacable hatred than mine!
I left the room, and walked down stairs. As I proceeded along the passage, the man whom I had before seen came out of a lower room, and opened the door for me. I was about to depart, when he caught me gently but firmly by the arm.
"Oh, sir!" said he earnestly, "do not leave the house without seeing Mrs. Harris. She has relapsed into another fit; but when she comes to herself, it will be a comfort to her to see a friend of her husband. You knew him, sir, when living; and for his sake, perhaps—"the man paused for a moment, and continued,—"you have a benevolent heart, sir,—I am sure you have,—and if you knew all, even though he may have wronged you——"
It was an unseasonable time for an appeal of this nature. The passions that had been forced back upon my heart had yet scarce begun to subside, but I spoke calmly.
"You will tell her Mr. Saville has been here;" and I was going.
"Mr. Saville!" repeated the man. "Oh, sir, we have heard that name mentioned frequently of late. You will come again, or send, perhaps;—will you not, sir?"
"She will know where to find me, should she wish to see me, which I think is hardly probable;" and with a cold "good-night" I left him.
I called upon Herbert on my way home, and told him all that had taken place. He was surprised and shocked.
"Saville," said he, after a long pause, during which he had been absorbed in reflection, "this cursed affair is destroying you. I am a plain man. You may shake your head, and tell me coolly and calmly that you have ceased to feel the injury which all the while is preying upon you. It is that calmness which I fear most; it will kill you, or worse than that,—you understand me. You must pursue this matter no farther. The man is dead, and your wife —— Well," he resumed, "I beg your pardon; I was wrong to call her by that name. May I speak plainly?"
"You may."
"She is evidently in a state of want—of destitution. This must not be. You must allow her—settle upon her—enough to rescue her from poverty and its temptations. She must not starve;—I see you could not bear that. And you must forget her. It will not do to see a young man like yourself sacrificed, self-sacrificed, to the villany of a scoundrel. I will say no more, Saville. Vice has too much homage paid to her when an honourable man is made her victim."
Herbert was right—he was always so. No, no;—she must not starve. That were indeed a miserable triumph to me. I went to my solicitor on the next morning, and a deed was made out, settling a competence upon her, and I sent with it as much money as she could require for immediate exigencies. And I was resolved that I would forget her. The worst was past, and time and occupation would do much, and I would think this misery down. But the worst was not yet past.
I was informed, one morning, that a woman in the hall desired to speak with me. Concluding that she was one of the many persons who are accustomed to wait upon the wealthy with petitions, I ordered the servant to admit her. A woman meanly dressed, and whose countenance was concealed, moved towards me, and sinking upon her knees, with her palms pressed together and raised towards me, looked up into my face. Madness in me, and misery and famine in her, must have wrought more strongly, if that were possible, than they had done, could I have failed to recognise that face instantly. Her lips moved,—she would have spoken, but she had no power to speak,—and with a deep and heavy groan she fell upon the floor before me. I rang the bell violently. A servant entered the room.
"Send Mrs. Martin to me instantly. Mrs. Martin," said I, as the woman hastened into the room, "let Dr. Herbert be sent for immediately. You must take care of her. See that she wants nothing."
"Gracious God! it is my mistress!" said the woman, as she raised her head upon her knee. "You will let her remain in the house, Mr. Saville?—in one of the upper rooms?"
"In her own room, Mrs. Martin.—I commit her to you. When she recovers, we can make other arrangements."
It is out of the power of fortune or of fate to excite such feelings within me now as pressed upon my heart for some days after this scene. I thank God for it. Human strength or weakness could not again endure so dreadful a conflict of brute passion and of human feeling. That piteous face raised to mine would not depart from me. That she should kneel,—that she should have been degraded abjectly to crouch before me for forgiveness, for pardon, for the vilest pity,—and that I should know and feel that the base expiation was the poorest recompense—oh! I cannot pursue this farther.
Some days after this,—it was on a Sunday forenoon,— Mrs. Martin entered the room. She took a seat opposite to me.
"I am come to speak with you, Mr. Saville," she said.
"Well, madam, proceed."
"Mrs. Saville, my mistress, sir, is dying."
I spoke not for some minutes, although I was not altogether unprepared for a communication of this nature.
"You will take the child to her, madam; she will wish to see him."
"Oh, sir, she has seen him every day since she came here, and he is with her now. You will not be offended, sir, if I tell you that she has seen him many times within the last two years. Yes, sir, when you were——"
"Mad, madam!—speak plainly!—Iwasmad."
"She came, sir, to me, and fell at my feet, imploring to see the child, and I could not refuse her. I could not bear that my mistress should kneel to me, and not be permitted to behold her own son;" and here the woman wept bitterly.
"It is very well," said I, after a pause; "I do not blame you. It is better, perhaps, that it should have been so."
"Could I prevail upon you, sir?" she continued, wiping her eyes; "might I be so bold as to hope——"
I anticipated the woman's thoughts.
"She has expressed no wish that I should see her, Mrs. Martin."
"She does not mention your name even to me," said she; "but she must not die without seeing you;—shemustnot, Mr. Saville."
My nature at times was changed from what it had been since I was released from the mad-house. I cast a glance at the woman, which she understood and feared.
"Mention not this subject again, madam, and leave me. I would be alone."
I was disturbed by what the housekeeper had told me. She was dying. It was well. I wished her to die. I felt that until she was dead, my heart could not be brought to forgive her.
I walked out, and bent my steps towards the lodging which Hastings had formerly occupied. I found the woman of the house at home, and, with a calmness which I have since marvelled at, I drew from her all the particulars of their sojourn at her house. They had beenliving with her about ten months before the death of Hastings, who, she understood, had been entirely deserted by his relations, but why she knew not. About a month previous to the decease of Hastings, he came home one night, saying that he had been waylaid by a ruffian and much injured, and he had never risen from his bed again.
I ventured to ask "if Mr. Harris and his wife lived happily together?"
The woman shook her head. "There was a strange mystery about them," said she, "which I never could rightly make out. She was ever gentle and obedient; but still there was something unlike a wife, I used to think, whenever she addressed him. And he, sir,—poor man! we should not speak ill of the dead,—but when he came home—from the gaming-house, we often thought—how he used to strike and beat her, telling her to go to her Mr. Saville! He was jealous of you, sir, I suppose, but I am certain without cause; for she was an angel, sir, if ever angel was born upon this earth.—But you are ill, sir. What is the matter?"
"Nothing, nothing," said I, rising suddenly; "I am better now;" and pressing my purse upon the woman, I rushed from the house.
God of justice! how dreadful is thy vengeance, and how thou oft-times makest the sinner work out his own punishment! I thought not of the wife at first,—I thought of Isabella Denham. My heart dwelt upon her once more as I had first beheld her at the theatre,—the young, the lovely, the innocent being of former days. I remembered when but to see her for a moment at the window was happiness unspeakable,—when even the pressure of her hand in mine was a blessing and a delight to me. And to think that this creature, who had lain in my bosom, who had been tended, watched, almost served, with a degree of love akin to idolatry,—who had never seen one glance of unkindness from me, who had heard no tone from my lips save of affection—too often of foolish weakness;—to think that this creature should have become the slave, the drudge,—the spurned and beaten drudge of a brutal miscreant,—the thought was too horrible!
I had scarcely entered my own house when Mrs. Martin sought me.
"For mercy's sake, sir!" she said in agitation, "come and take your last leave of my mistress. She is dying, and has prayed to see you once more."
I followed her in silence. I met Herbert at the door of the room. "I am glad you are come," said he. He was in tears.
"I am too weak, Herbert; am I not?"
He pressed my hand,—"No, no,"—and he left me.
I entered the room, and sat down by her side. She spoke not for some minutes.
"I wished to see you once more, Mr. Saville," she said at length in a low tone, and without raising her eyes to my face, "to implore, not your pardon, for that I dare not expect; but that you will not curse my memory when I am gone. You would not, Edward,"—and she tremblingly touched my hand as it lay upon the bed,—"if you knew all, or if I could tell you all."
I answered something, but I know not what.
"I have been guilty," she resumed, "but I did not meditate guilt. Heaven is my witness that I speak the truth. I was betrayed;—and the rest was fear, and frenzy, and despair!"
I could conceive that now—I could believe it:— I did believe it,—and I was human. I took both her hands in mine: "Look at me, Isabella! look in my face!"
She did so, but with hesitation, and as she did so she started.—"Nay, we are both altered: but other miseries might have done this. I forgive you from my heart and from my soul. As we first met, so shall we now part. All shall be forgotten,—all is forgiven. God bless you!"
Those words had killed her. Her eyes dwelt upon me for one moment with their first sweetness in them;—a sigh,—and earth alone remained!