As some deputed angel, from the spheresOf empyrean day, with nectar dewed,Through firmamental wildernesses steers,To starless tracts of black infinitude—
As some deputed angel, from the spheresOf empyrean day, with nectar dewed,Through firmamental wildernesses steers,To starless tracts of black infinitude—
As some deputed angel, from the spheres
Of empyrean day, with nectar dewed,
Through firmamental wildernesses steers,
To starless tracts of black infinitude—
Here the chalk failed me, and just at the critical moment for my simile had also failed me, nor could I have ever gotten beyond infinitude. I got to the street door, however, and without fear of being overheard; to such an altitude of tone had words arisen between husband and wife, who were now contesting a most delicate point—which of them had beaten the other last.
'I know,' cried Jerry, 'that I gave the last blow.'
'Then take the first now,' cried his wife, as I shut the door.
Anticipating the probability that I should have occasion for Jerry's services again, I marked the number of the house, and then hastened along the street. It was swarming and humming like a hive of bees, and I felt as if I could never escape alive out of it. Here a carriage almost ran over me; there a waggoner's whip almost blinded me. Now a sweep brushed against me. 'Beauty!' cried a man like a monkey, and chucked my chin, while a fellow with a trunk shoved me aside.
I now turned into a street called Bond Street, where a long procession of carriages was passing. I remarked that the coachmen (they could not be gentlemen, I am sure) appeared to stand in great estimation; for the ladies of one carriage used to nod most familiarly to the driver of another. Indeed, I had often heard it said, that ladies and coachmen are sometimes particularly intimate; but till now I could never believe it.
The shops next attracted my attention, and I stopped to look at some of them. You cannot conceive any thing more charming: Turkish turbans, Indian shawls, pearls, diamonds, fans, feathers, laces; all shewn for nothing at the windows. I had but one guinea remaining!
At length feeling tired and hungry, and my feet being quite foundered, I determined to lose no farther time in taking lodgings. Perceiving 'Apartments to let,' written on a door, I rapped, and a servant girl opened it.
'Pray,' said I to her, 'are your northern apartments uninhabited?'
She replied that there were two rooms on the second floor disengaged, and comfortably furnished.
'I do not want them comfortable,' said I; 'but are they furnished with tapestry and old pictures? That is the point.'
'There is only master's face over the chimney,' said she.
'Do the doors creek on their hinges?' asked I.
'That they don't,' said she, 'for I oiled 'em all only yesterday.'
'Then you shewed a depraved taste,' cried I. 'At least, are the apartments haunted?'
'Lauk, no!' said she, half shutting the door.
'Well then, my good girl, tell me candidly whether your mistress is like the landladies one reads of. Is she a fat, bustling little woman, who would treat me to tea, cakes, and plenty of gossip, and at the end of a week, say to me, "out, hussy, tramp this moment;" or is she a pale, placid matron, worn to a thread-paper, and whose story is interwoven with mine?'
'Deuce take your impudence!' cried she, slapping the door in my face.
I tried other houses with no better success; and even when I merely asked for common lodgings, without stipulating for spectres or tapestry, the people would not accommodate me, unless I could procure some recommendation besides my own.
As I had no friend to give me a character, it became necessary to make a friend; so I began to look about for a fit subject. Passing a shop where eggs and butter were sold, and lodgings to be let, I perceived a pretty woman sitting behind the counter, and a fine infant playing upon it. I thought that all this bore an auspicious appearance; so I tottered into the shop, and placing myself opposite to the woman, I gazed at her with an engaging and gentle intelligence. She demanded my business.
'Interesting creature!' whispered I, pressing her hand as it rested on the counter. 'O may that little rosy fatling——'
Unfortunately there was an egg in the hand that I took, which I crushed by the compression, and the yolk came oozing between her fingers.
'Reptile!' cried she, as she threw the fragments in my face.
'Savage!' cried I, as I ran out of the shop, and wiped off the eggy dishonours.
At length I reached an immense edifice, which appeared to me the castle of some brow-knitting baron. Ponderous columns supported it, and statues stood in the niches. The portal lay open. I glided into the hall. As I looked anxiously around, I beheld a cavalier descending a flight of steps. He paused, muttered some words, laid his hand upon his heart, dropped it, shook his head, and proceeded.
I felt instantly interested in his fate; and as he came nearer, perceived, that surely never lighted on this orb, which he hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. His form was tall, his face oval, and his nose aquiline. Seducing sweetness dwelled in his smile, and as he pleased, his expressive eyes could sparkle with rapture, or beam with sensibility. Once more he paused, frowned, and waving his arm, exclaimed, with an elegant energy of enunciation!
'To watch the minutes of this night, that if again this apparition come, he may approve our eyes, and speak to it!'
That moment a pang, poignant, but delicious, transfixed my bosom. Too well I felt and confessed it the dart of love. In sooth, too well I knew that my heart was lost to me for ever. Silly maiden! But fate had decreed it.
I rushed forward, and sank at the feet of the stranger.
'Pity and protect a destitute orphan!' cried I. 'Here, in this hospitable castle, I may hope for repose and protection. Oh, Signor, conduct me to your respected mother, the Baroness, and let me pour into her ear my simple and pathetic tale.'
'O ho! simple and pathetic!' cried he. 'Come, my dear, let me hear it.'
I seated myself on the steps, and told him my whole story. During the recital, the noble youth betrayed extreme sensibility. Sometimes he turned his head aside to conceal his emotion; and sometimes stifled a hysterical laugh of agony.
When I had ended, he begged to know whether I was quite certain that I had ten thousand pounds in my power. I replied, that as Wilkinson's daughter, I certainly had; but that the property must devolve to some one else, as soon as I should be proved a nobleman's daughter.
He then made still more accurate inquiries about it; and after having satisfied himself:
'Beshrew my heart!' exclaimed he; 'but I will avenge your injuries; and ere long you shall be proclaimed and acknowledged the Lady Cherubina De Willoughby. Meantime, as it will be prudent for you to lie concealed from the search of your enemies, hear the project which I have formed. I lodge at present in Drury-lane, an obscure street; and as one apartment in the house is unoccupied, you can hire it, and remain there, a beautiful recluse, till fortune and my poor efforts shall rescue from oppression the most enchanting of her sex.'
He spoke, and seizing my hand, carried it to his lips.
'What!' cried I, 'do you not live in this castle, and are you not its noble heir?'
'This is no castle,' said he, 'but Covent Garden Theatre.'
'And you?' asked I with anxiety.
'Am an actor,' answered he.
'And your name?'
'Is Abraham Grundy.'
'Then, Mr. Abraham Grundy,' said I, 'allow me to have the satisfaction of wishing you a very good evening.'
'Stay!' cried he, detaining me, 'and you shall know the whole truth. My birth is illustrious, and my real name Lord Altamont Mortimer Montmorenci. But like you, I am enveloped in a cloud of mysteries, and compelled to the temporary resource of acting. Hereafter I will acquaint you with the most secret particulars of my life; but at present, you must trust to my good faith, and accept of my protection.'
'Generous Montmorenci!' exclaimed I, giving him my hand, which he pressed upon his heart.
'Now,' said he, 'you must pass at these lodgings as my near relation, or they will not admit you.'
At first, I hesitated at deviating from veracity; but soon consented, on recollecting, that though heroines begin with praising truth, necessity makes them end with being the greatest story-tellers in the world. Nay, Clarissa Harlowe, when she had a choice, often preferred falsehood to fact.
During our walk to the lodgings, Montmorenci instructed me how to play my part, and on our arrival, introduced me to the landlady, who was about fifty, and who looked as if the goddess of fasting had bespoken her for a hand-maid.
With an amiable effrontery, and a fine easy flow of falsehood, he told her, as we had concerted, that I was his second cousin, and an orphan; my name Miss Donald (Amanda's assumed name), and that I had come to Town for the purpose of procuring by his interest, an appointment at the Theatre.
The landlady said she would move heaven and earth, and her own bed, for so good a gentleman; and then consented to give me her sleeping-room on the ground-floor, at some trifle or other,—I forget what. I have also the use of a parlour adjoining it. There is, however, nothing mysterious in these chambers, but a dark closet belonging to the parlour, whither I may fly for refuge, when pursued by my persecutors.
Thus, my friend, the plot of my history begins to take a more interesting shape, and a fairer order of misfortune smiles upon me. Trust me, there is a taste in distress as well as in millinery. Far be from me the loss of eyes or limbs, such publicity as the pillory affords, or the grossness of a jail-fever. I would be sacrificed to the lawless, not to the laws, dungeoned in the holy Inquisition, not clapped into Bridewell, recorded in a novel, not in the Newgate Calender. Were I inelegantly unhappy, I should be wretched indeed.
Yes, my Biddy, sensations hitherto unknown now heave my white bosom, vary the carnation of my cheeks, and irradiate my azure eyes. I sigh, gaze on vacancy, start from a reverie; now bite, now moisten my coral lip, and pace my chamber with unequal steps. Too sure I am deeply, distractedly in love, and Altamont Mortimer Montmorenci is the first of men.
Adieu.
The landlady, his lordship, and another lodger, are accustomed to dine in common; and his lordship easily persuaded me to join the party. Accordingly, just as I had finished my last letter, dinner was announced, so having braided my tresses, I tripped up stairs, and glided into the room. You must know I have practised tripping, gliding, flitting, and tottering, with great success. Of these, tottering ranks first, as it is the approved movement of heroic distress.
'I wonder where our mad poet can be?' said the hostess; and as she spoke, an uncouth figure entered, muttering in emphatic accents,
'The hounds around bound on the sounding ground.'
He started on seeing me, and when introduced by his lordship, as Mr. Higginson, his fellow lodger, and a celebrated poet, he made an unfathomable bow, rubbed his hands, and reddened to the roots of his hair.
This personage is tall, gaunt, and muscular; with a cadaverous countenance, and black hair in strings on his forehead. I find him one of those men who spend their lives in learning how the Greeks and Romans lived; how they spoke, dressed, ate; what were their coins and houses, &c.; but neglect acquainting themselves with the manners and customs of their own times. Montmorenci tells me that his brain is affected by excessive study; but that his manners are harmless.
At dinner, Montmorenci looked all, said all, did all, which conscious nobility, united with ardent attachment, could inspire in a form unrivalled, and a face unexcelled. I perceived that the landlady regarded him with eyes of tender attention, and languishing allurement, but in vain. I was his magnet and his Cynosure.
As to Higginson, he did not utter a word during dinner, except asking for a bit oflambkin; but he preserved a perpetuity of gravity in his face, and stared at me, the whole time, with a stupid and reverential fixedness. When I spoke, he stopped in whatever attitude he happened to be; whether with a glass at his mouth, or a fork half lifted to it.
After dinner, I proposed that each of us should relate the history of our lives; an useful custom established by heroines, who seldom fail of finding their account in it; as they are almost always sure to discover, by such means, either a grandmother or a murder. Thus too, the confession of a monk, the prattle of an old woman, a diamond cross on a child's neck, or a parchment, are the certain forerunners of virtue vindicated, vice punished, rights restored, and matrimony made easy.
The landlady was asked to begin.
'I have nothing to tell of myself,' said she, 'but that my mother left me this house, and desired me to look out for a good husband, Mr. Grundy; and I am not as old as I look; for I have had my griefs, as well as other folks, and every tear adds a year, as they say; and 'pon my veracity, Mr. Grundy, I was but thirty-two last month. And my bitterest enemies never impeached my character, that is what they did'nt, nor could'nt; they dare'nt to my face. I am a perfect snowdrop for purity. Who presumes to go for to say that a lord left me an annuity or the like? Who, I ask? But I got a prize in the lottery. So this is all I can think to tell of myself; and, Mr. Grundy, your health, and a good wife to you, Sir.'
After this eloquent piece of biography, we requested of Higginson to recount his adventures; and he read a short sketch, which was to have accompanied a volume of poems, had not the booksellers refused to publish them. I copy it for you.
MEMOIRS OF JAMES HIGGINSONBY HIMSELF:'Of the lives of poets, collected from posthumous record, and oral tradition, as little is known with certainty, much must be left to conjecture. He therefore, who presents his own memoirs to the public, may surely merit the reasonable applause of all, whose minds are emancipated from the petulance of envy, the fastidiousness of hypercriticism, and the exacerbation of party.'I was born in the year 1771, at 24, Swallow Street; and should the curious reader wish to examine the mansion, he has every thing to hope from the alert urbanity of its present landlord, and the civil obsequiousness of his notable lady. He who gives civility, gives what costs him little, while remuneration may be multiplied in an indefinite ratio.'My parents were reputable tobacconists, and kept me behind the counter, to negociate the titillating dust, and the tranquillizing quid. Of genius the first spark which I elicited, was reading a ballad in the shop, while the woman who sold it to me was stealing a canister of snuff. This specimen of mental abstraction (a quality which I still preserve), shewed that I would never make a good tradesman; but it also shewed, that I would make an excellent scholar. A tutor was accordingly appointed for me; and during a triennial course of study, I had passed from the insipidity of the incipienthic,hæc,hoc, to the music of a Virgil, and the thunder of a Demosthenes.'Debarred by my secluded life from copying the polished converse of high society, I have at least endeavoured to avoid the vulgar phraseology of low; and to discuss the very weather with a sententious association of polysyllabical ratiocination.'With illustrations of my juvenile character, recollection but ill supplies me. That I have always disliked the diurnal ceremony of ablution, and a hasty succession of linen, is a truth which he who has a sensitive texture of skin will easily credit; which he who will not credit, may, if he pleases, deny; and may, if he can, controvert. But I assert the fact, and I expect to be believed, because I assert it. Life, among its quiet blessings, can boast of few things more comfortable than indifference to dress.'To honey with my bread, and to apple-sauce with my goose, I have ever felt a romantic attachment, resulting from the classical allusions which they inspire. That man is little to be envied, whose honey would not remind him of the Hyblean honey, and whose apple-sauce would not suggest to him the golden apple.'But notwithstanding my cupidity for such dainties, I have that happy adaptation of taste which can banquet, with delight, upon hesternal offals; can nibble ignominious radishes, or masticate superannuated mutton.'My first series of teeth I cut at the customary time, and the second succeeded them with sufficient punctuality. This fact I had from my mother.'My first poetical attempt was an epitaph on the death of my tutor, and it was produced at the precocious age of ten.EPITAPHHere lies the body of John Tomkins, who Departed this life, aged fifty-two; After a long and painful illness, that He bore with Christian fortitude, though fat. He died lamented deeply by this poem, And all who had the happiness to know him.'This composition my father did not long survive; and my mother, to the management of the business feeling quite unequal, relinquished it altogether, and retired with the respectable accumulation of a thousand pounds.'I still pursued my studies, and from time to time accommodated confectionaries and band-boxes with printed sheets, which the world might have read, had it pleased, and might have been pleased with, had it read. For some years past, however, the booksellers have declined to publish my productions at all. Envious enemies poison their minds against me, and persuade them that my brain is disordered. For, like Rousseau, I am the victim of implacable foes; but my genius, like an arch, becomes stronger the more it is opprest.'On a pretty little maid of my mother's, I made my next poetical effort, which I present to the reader.TO DOROTHY PULVERTAFTIf Black-sea, White-sea, Red-sea ranOne tide of ink to Ispahan;If all the geese in Lincoln fens,Produc'd spontaneous, well-made pens;If Holland old or Holland new,One wond'rous sheet of paper grew;Could I, by stenographic power,Write twenty libraries an hour;And should I sing but half the graceOf half a freckle on thy face;Each syllable I wrote, should reachFrom Inverness to Bognor's beach;Each hairstroke be a river Rhine,Each verse an equinoctial line.'Of the girl, an immediate dismission ensued; but for what reason, let the sedulous researches of future biographers decide.'At length, having resolved on writing a volume of Eclogues, I undertook an excursion into the country to learn pastoral manners, and write in comfort, far from my tailor. An amputated loaf, and a contracted Theocritus, constituted my companions. Not a cloud blotted the blue concave, not a breeze superinduced undulation over the verdant tresses of the trees.'In vain I questioned the youths and maidens about their Damons and Delias; their Dryads and Hamadryads; their Amabœan contentions and their amorous incantations. When I talked of Pan, they asked me if it was a pan of milk; when I requested to see the pastoral pipe, they shewed me a pipe of tobacco; when I spoke of satyrs with horns, they bade me go to the husbands; and when I spoke of fawns with cloven heel, they bade me go to the Devil. While charmed with a thatched and shaded cottage, its slimy pond or smoking dunghill disgusted me; and when I recumbed on a bank of cowslips and primroses, my features were transpierced by wasps and ants and nettles. I fell asleep under sunshine, and awoke under a torrent of rain. Dripping and disconsolate, I returned to my mother, drank some whey; and since that misadventurous perambulation have never ruralized again. To him who subjects himself to a recurrence of disaster, the praise of boldness may possibly be accorded, but the praise of prudence must certainly be denied.'A satirical eclogue, however, was the fruit of this expedition. It is called Antique Amours, and is designed to shew, that passions which are adapted to one time of life, appear ridiculous in another. The reader shall have it.ANTIQUE AMOURAN ECLOGUE'Tis eve. The sun his ardent axle coolsIn ocean. Dripping geese shake off the pools.An elm men's shadows measure; red and dun,The shattered leaves are rustling as they run;While an aged bachelor and ancient maid,Sit amorous under an old oak decayed.He (for blue vapours damp the scanty grass)Strews fodder underneath the hoary lass;Then thus,—O matchless piece of season'd clay,'Tis Autumn, all things shrivel and decay.Yet as in withered Autumn, charms we see,Say, faded maiden, may we not in thee?What tho' thy cheek have furrows? ne'er deplore;For wrinkles are the dimples of threescore:Tho' from those azure lips the crimson flies,It fondly circles round those roseate eyes;And while thy nostrils snuff the fingered grain,The tinct thy locks have lost, thy lips obtain.Come then, age urges, hours have winged feet,Ah! press the wedding ere the winding sheet.To clasp that waist compact in stiffened fold,Of woof purpureal, flowered with radiant gold;Then, after stately kisses, to repairThat architectural edifice of hair,These, these are blessings.—O my grey delight,O venerable nymph, O painted blight,Give me to taste of these. By Heaven above,I tremble less with palsy than with love;And tho' my husky murmurs creak uncouth,My words flow unobstructed by a tooth.Come then, age urges, hours have winged feet,Ah! press the wedding ere the winding sheet.Come, thou wilt ne'er provoke crimconic law,Nor lie, maternal, on the pale-eyed straw.Come, and in formal frolic intertwine,The braided silver of thy hair with mine.Then sing some bibulous and reeling glee,And drink crusht juices of the grape with me.Sing, for the wine no water shall dilute;'Tis drinking water makes the fishes mute.Come then, age urges, hours have winged feet;Ah! press the wedding, ere the winding sheet.So spoke the slim and elderly remainsOf once a youth. A staff his frame sustains;And aids his aching limbs, from knee to heel,Thin as the spectre of a famished eel.Sharpening the blunted glances of her eyes,The virgin a decrepid simper tries,Then stretches rigid smiles, which shew him plain,Her passion, and the teeth that still remain.Innocent pair! But now the rain begins,So both knot kerchiefs underneath their chins.And homeward haste. Such loves the Poet wrote,In the patch'd poverty of half a coat;Then diadem'd with quills his brow sublime,Magnanimously mad in mighty rhime.'With my venerable parent, I now pass a harmless life. As we have no society, we have no scandal; ourselves, therefore, we make our favourite topic, and ourselves we are unwilling to dispraise.'Whether the public will admire my works, as well as my mother does, far be from me to determine. If they cannot boast of wit and judgment, to the praise of truth and modesty they may at least lay claim. To be unassuming in an age of impudence, and veracious in an age of mendacity, is to combat with a sword of glass against a sword of steel; the transparency of the one may be more beautiful than the opacity of the other; yet let it be recollected, that the transparency is accompanied with brittleness, and the opacity with consolidation.'
MEMOIRS OF JAMES HIGGINSON
BY HIMSELF:
'Of the lives of poets, collected from posthumous record, and oral tradition, as little is known with certainty, much must be left to conjecture. He therefore, who presents his own memoirs to the public, may surely merit the reasonable applause of all, whose minds are emancipated from the petulance of envy, the fastidiousness of hypercriticism, and the exacerbation of party.
'I was born in the year 1771, at 24, Swallow Street; and should the curious reader wish to examine the mansion, he has every thing to hope from the alert urbanity of its present landlord, and the civil obsequiousness of his notable lady. He who gives civility, gives what costs him little, while remuneration may be multiplied in an indefinite ratio.
'My parents were reputable tobacconists, and kept me behind the counter, to negociate the titillating dust, and the tranquillizing quid. Of genius the first spark which I elicited, was reading a ballad in the shop, while the woman who sold it to me was stealing a canister of snuff. This specimen of mental abstraction (a quality which I still preserve), shewed that I would never make a good tradesman; but it also shewed, that I would make an excellent scholar. A tutor was accordingly appointed for me; and during a triennial course of study, I had passed from the insipidity of the incipienthic,hæc,hoc, to the music of a Virgil, and the thunder of a Demosthenes.
'Debarred by my secluded life from copying the polished converse of high society, I have at least endeavoured to avoid the vulgar phraseology of low; and to discuss the very weather with a sententious association of polysyllabical ratiocination.
'With illustrations of my juvenile character, recollection but ill supplies me. That I have always disliked the diurnal ceremony of ablution, and a hasty succession of linen, is a truth which he who has a sensitive texture of skin will easily credit; which he who will not credit, may, if he pleases, deny; and may, if he can, controvert. But I assert the fact, and I expect to be believed, because I assert it. Life, among its quiet blessings, can boast of few things more comfortable than indifference to dress.
'To honey with my bread, and to apple-sauce with my goose, I have ever felt a romantic attachment, resulting from the classical allusions which they inspire. That man is little to be envied, whose honey would not remind him of the Hyblean honey, and whose apple-sauce would not suggest to him the golden apple.
'But notwithstanding my cupidity for such dainties, I have that happy adaptation of taste which can banquet, with delight, upon hesternal offals; can nibble ignominious radishes, or masticate superannuated mutton.
'My first series of teeth I cut at the customary time, and the second succeeded them with sufficient punctuality. This fact I had from my mother.
'My first poetical attempt was an epitaph on the death of my tutor, and it was produced at the precocious age of ten.
EPITAPHHere lies the body of John Tomkins, who Departed this life, aged fifty-two; After a long and painful illness, that He bore with Christian fortitude, though fat. He died lamented deeply by this poem, And all who had the happiness to know him.
EPITAPH
Here lies the body of John Tomkins, who Departed this life, aged fifty-two; After a long and painful illness, that He bore with Christian fortitude, though fat. He died lamented deeply by this poem, And all who had the happiness to know him.
'This composition my father did not long survive; and my mother, to the management of the business feeling quite unequal, relinquished it altogether, and retired with the respectable accumulation of a thousand pounds.
'I still pursued my studies, and from time to time accommodated confectionaries and band-boxes with printed sheets, which the world might have read, had it pleased, and might have been pleased with, had it read. For some years past, however, the booksellers have declined to publish my productions at all. Envious enemies poison their minds against me, and persuade them that my brain is disordered. For, like Rousseau, I am the victim of implacable foes; but my genius, like an arch, becomes stronger the more it is opprest.
'On a pretty little maid of my mother's, I made my next poetical effort, which I present to the reader.
TO DOROTHY PULVERTAFTIf Black-sea, White-sea, Red-sea ranOne tide of ink to Ispahan;If all the geese in Lincoln fens,Produc'd spontaneous, well-made pens;If Holland old or Holland new,One wond'rous sheet of paper grew;Could I, by stenographic power,Write twenty libraries an hour;And should I sing but half the graceOf half a freckle on thy face;Each syllable I wrote, should reachFrom Inverness to Bognor's beach;Each hairstroke be a river Rhine,Each verse an equinoctial line.
TO DOROTHY PULVERTAFT
If Black-sea, White-sea, Red-sea ranOne tide of ink to Ispahan;If all the geese in Lincoln fens,Produc'd spontaneous, well-made pens;If Holland old or Holland new,One wond'rous sheet of paper grew;Could I, by stenographic power,Write twenty libraries an hour;And should I sing but half the graceOf half a freckle on thy face;Each syllable I wrote, should reachFrom Inverness to Bognor's beach;Each hairstroke be a river Rhine,Each verse an equinoctial line.
If Black-sea, White-sea, Red-sea ranOne tide of ink to Ispahan;If all the geese in Lincoln fens,Produc'd spontaneous, well-made pens;If Holland old or Holland new,One wond'rous sheet of paper grew;Could I, by stenographic power,Write twenty libraries an hour;And should I sing but half the graceOf half a freckle on thy face;Each syllable I wrote, should reachFrom Inverness to Bognor's beach;Each hairstroke be a river Rhine,Each verse an equinoctial line.
If Black-sea, White-sea, Red-sea ran
One tide of ink to Ispahan;
If all the geese in Lincoln fens,
Produc'd spontaneous, well-made pens;
If Holland old or Holland new,
One wond'rous sheet of paper grew;
Could I, by stenographic power,
Write twenty libraries an hour;
And should I sing but half the grace
Of half a freckle on thy face;
Each syllable I wrote, should reach
From Inverness to Bognor's beach;
Each hairstroke be a river Rhine,
Each verse an equinoctial line.
'Of the girl, an immediate dismission ensued; but for what reason, let the sedulous researches of future biographers decide.
'At length, having resolved on writing a volume of Eclogues, I undertook an excursion into the country to learn pastoral manners, and write in comfort, far from my tailor. An amputated loaf, and a contracted Theocritus, constituted my companions. Not a cloud blotted the blue concave, not a breeze superinduced undulation over the verdant tresses of the trees.
'In vain I questioned the youths and maidens about their Damons and Delias; their Dryads and Hamadryads; their Amabœan contentions and their amorous incantations. When I talked of Pan, they asked me if it was a pan of milk; when I requested to see the pastoral pipe, they shewed me a pipe of tobacco; when I spoke of satyrs with horns, they bade me go to the husbands; and when I spoke of fawns with cloven heel, they bade me go to the Devil. While charmed with a thatched and shaded cottage, its slimy pond or smoking dunghill disgusted me; and when I recumbed on a bank of cowslips and primroses, my features were transpierced by wasps and ants and nettles. I fell asleep under sunshine, and awoke under a torrent of rain. Dripping and disconsolate, I returned to my mother, drank some whey; and since that misadventurous perambulation have never ruralized again. To him who subjects himself to a recurrence of disaster, the praise of boldness may possibly be accorded, but the praise of prudence must certainly be denied.
'A satirical eclogue, however, was the fruit of this expedition. It is called Antique Amours, and is designed to shew, that passions which are adapted to one time of life, appear ridiculous in another. The reader shall have it.
ANTIQUE AMOUR
AN ECLOGUE
'Tis eve. The sun his ardent axle coolsIn ocean. Dripping geese shake off the pools.An elm men's shadows measure; red and dun,The shattered leaves are rustling as they run;While an aged bachelor and ancient maid,Sit amorous under an old oak decayed.He (for blue vapours damp the scanty grass)Strews fodder underneath the hoary lass;Then thus,—O matchless piece of season'd clay,'Tis Autumn, all things shrivel and decay.Yet as in withered Autumn, charms we see,Say, faded maiden, may we not in thee?What tho' thy cheek have furrows? ne'er deplore;For wrinkles are the dimples of threescore:Tho' from those azure lips the crimson flies,It fondly circles round those roseate eyes;And while thy nostrils snuff the fingered grain,The tinct thy locks have lost, thy lips obtain.Come then, age urges, hours have winged feet,Ah! press the wedding ere the winding sheet.To clasp that waist compact in stiffened fold,Of woof purpureal, flowered with radiant gold;Then, after stately kisses, to repairThat architectural edifice of hair,These, these are blessings.—O my grey delight,O venerable nymph, O painted blight,Give me to taste of these. By Heaven above,I tremble less with palsy than with love;And tho' my husky murmurs creak uncouth,My words flow unobstructed by a tooth.Come then, age urges, hours have winged feet,Ah! press the wedding ere the winding sheet.Come, thou wilt ne'er provoke crimconic law,Nor lie, maternal, on the pale-eyed straw.Come, and in formal frolic intertwine,The braided silver of thy hair with mine.Then sing some bibulous and reeling glee,And drink crusht juices of the grape with me.Sing, for the wine no water shall dilute;'Tis drinking water makes the fishes mute.Come then, age urges, hours have winged feet;Ah! press the wedding, ere the winding sheet.So spoke the slim and elderly remainsOf once a youth. A staff his frame sustains;And aids his aching limbs, from knee to heel,Thin as the spectre of a famished eel.Sharpening the blunted glances of her eyes,The virgin a decrepid simper tries,Then stretches rigid smiles, which shew him plain,Her passion, and the teeth that still remain.Innocent pair! But now the rain begins,So both knot kerchiefs underneath their chins.And homeward haste. Such loves the Poet wrote,In the patch'd poverty of half a coat;Then diadem'd with quills his brow sublime,Magnanimously mad in mighty rhime.
'Tis eve. The sun his ardent axle coolsIn ocean. Dripping geese shake off the pools.An elm men's shadows measure; red and dun,The shattered leaves are rustling as they run;While an aged bachelor and ancient maid,Sit amorous under an old oak decayed.He (for blue vapours damp the scanty grass)Strews fodder underneath the hoary lass;Then thus,—O matchless piece of season'd clay,'Tis Autumn, all things shrivel and decay.Yet as in withered Autumn, charms we see,Say, faded maiden, may we not in thee?What tho' thy cheek have furrows? ne'er deplore;For wrinkles are the dimples of threescore:Tho' from those azure lips the crimson flies,It fondly circles round those roseate eyes;And while thy nostrils snuff the fingered grain,The tinct thy locks have lost, thy lips obtain.Come then, age urges, hours have winged feet,Ah! press the wedding ere the winding sheet.To clasp that waist compact in stiffened fold,Of woof purpureal, flowered with radiant gold;Then, after stately kisses, to repairThat architectural edifice of hair,These, these are blessings.—O my grey delight,O venerable nymph, O painted blight,Give me to taste of these. By Heaven above,I tremble less with palsy than with love;And tho' my husky murmurs creak uncouth,My words flow unobstructed by a tooth.Come then, age urges, hours have winged feet,Ah! press the wedding ere the winding sheet.Come, thou wilt ne'er provoke crimconic law,Nor lie, maternal, on the pale-eyed straw.Come, and in formal frolic intertwine,The braided silver of thy hair with mine.Then sing some bibulous and reeling glee,And drink crusht juices of the grape with me.Sing, for the wine no water shall dilute;'Tis drinking water makes the fishes mute.Come then, age urges, hours have winged feet;Ah! press the wedding, ere the winding sheet.So spoke the slim and elderly remainsOf once a youth. A staff his frame sustains;And aids his aching limbs, from knee to heel,Thin as the spectre of a famished eel.Sharpening the blunted glances of her eyes,The virgin a decrepid simper tries,Then stretches rigid smiles, which shew him plain,Her passion, and the teeth that still remain.Innocent pair! But now the rain begins,So both knot kerchiefs underneath their chins.And homeward haste. Such loves the Poet wrote,In the patch'd poverty of half a coat;Then diadem'd with quills his brow sublime,Magnanimously mad in mighty rhime.
'Tis eve. The sun his ardent axle cools
In ocean. Dripping geese shake off the pools.
An elm men's shadows measure; red and dun,
The shattered leaves are rustling as they run;
While an aged bachelor and ancient maid,
Sit amorous under an old oak decayed.
He (for blue vapours damp the scanty grass)
Strews fodder underneath the hoary lass;
Then thus,—O matchless piece of season'd clay,
'Tis Autumn, all things shrivel and decay.
Yet as in withered Autumn, charms we see,
Say, faded maiden, may we not in thee?
What tho' thy cheek have furrows? ne'er deplore;
For wrinkles are the dimples of threescore:
Tho' from those azure lips the crimson flies,
It fondly circles round those roseate eyes;
And while thy nostrils snuff the fingered grain,
The tinct thy locks have lost, thy lips obtain.
Come then, age urges, hours have winged feet,
Ah! press the wedding ere the winding sheet.
To clasp that waist compact in stiffened fold,
Of woof purpureal, flowered with radiant gold;
Then, after stately kisses, to repair
That architectural edifice of hair,
These, these are blessings.—O my grey delight,
O venerable nymph, O painted blight,
Give me to taste of these. By Heaven above,
I tremble less with palsy than with love;
And tho' my husky murmurs creak uncouth,
My words flow unobstructed by a tooth.
Come then, age urges, hours have winged feet,
Ah! press the wedding ere the winding sheet.
Come, thou wilt ne'er provoke crimconic law,
Nor lie, maternal, on the pale-eyed straw.
Come, and in formal frolic intertwine,
The braided silver of thy hair with mine.
Then sing some bibulous and reeling glee,
And drink crusht juices of the grape with me.
Sing, for the wine no water shall dilute;
'Tis drinking water makes the fishes mute.
Come then, age urges, hours have winged feet;
Ah! press the wedding, ere the winding sheet.
So spoke the slim and elderly remains
Of once a youth. A staff his frame sustains;
And aids his aching limbs, from knee to heel,
Thin as the spectre of a famished eel.
Sharpening the blunted glances of her eyes,
The virgin a decrepid simper tries,
Then stretches rigid smiles, which shew him plain,
Her passion, and the teeth that still remain.
Innocent pair! But now the rain begins,
So both knot kerchiefs underneath their chins.
And homeward haste. Such loves the Poet wrote,
In the patch'd poverty of half a coat;
Then diadem'd with quills his brow sublime,
Magnanimously mad in mighty rhime.
'With my venerable parent, I now pass a harmless life. As we have no society, we have no scandal; ourselves, therefore, we make our favourite topic, and ourselves we are unwilling to dispraise.
'Whether the public will admire my works, as well as my mother does, far be from me to determine. If they cannot boast of wit and judgment, to the praise of truth and modesty they may at least lay claim. To be unassuming in an age of impudence, and veracious in an age of mendacity, is to combat with a sword of glass against a sword of steel; the transparency of the one may be more beautiful than the opacity of the other; yet let it be recollected, that the transparency is accompanied with brittleness, and the opacity with consolidation.'
I listened with much compassion to this written evidence of a perverted intellect. O my friend, what a frightful disorder is madness!
My turn came next, and I repeated the fictitious tale that Montmorenci had taught me. He confirmed it; and on being asked to relate his own life, gave us, with great taste, such a natural narrative of a man living on his wits, that any one who knew not his noble origin must have believed it.
Soon afterwards, he retired to dress for the theatre; and when he returned, I beheld a perfect hero. He was habited in an Italian costume; his hair hung in ringlets, and mustachios embellished his lip.
He then departed in a coach, and as soon as he had left us:
'I declare,' said the landlady to me, 'I do not like your cousin's style of beauty at all; particularly his pencilled eyebrows and curled locks, they look so womanish.'
'What!' said I, 'not admire Hesperian, Hyacinthine, clustering curls? Surely you would not have a hero with overhanging brows and lank hair? These are worn by none but the villains and assassins.'
I perceived poor Higginson colouring, and twisting his fingers; and I then recollected that his brows and hair have precisely the faults which I reprobated.
'Dear, dear, dear!' muttered he, and made a precipitate retreat from the room.
I retired soon after; and I now hasten to throw myself on my bed, dream of love and Montmorenci, and wake unrefreshed, from short and distracted slumbers.
Adieu.
This morning, soon after breakfast, I heard a gentle knocking at my door, and, to my great astonishment, a figure, cased in shining armour, entered. Oh! ye conscious blushes, it was my Montmorenci! A plume of white feathers nodded on his helmet, and neither spear nor shield were wanting.
'I come,' cried he, bending on one knee, and pressing my hand to his lips, 'I come in the ancient armour of my family, to perform my promise of recounting to you the melancholy memoirs of my life.'
'My lord,' said I, 'rise and be seated. Cherubina knows how to appreciate the honour that Montmorenci confers.'
He bowed; and having laid by his spear, shield, and helmet, he placed himself beside me on the sofa, and began his heart-rending history.
'All was dark. The hurricane howled, the hail rattled, and the thunder rolled. Nature was convulsed, and the traveller inconvenienced.
'In the province of Languedoc stood the Gothic Castle of Montmorenci. Before it ran the Garonne, and behind it rose the Pyrenees, whose summits exhibiting awful forms, seen and lost again, as the partial vapours rolled along, were sometimes barren, and gleamed through the blue tinge of air, and sometimes frowned with forests of gloomy fir, that swept downward to their base.
'My lads, are your carbines charged, and your daggers sharpened?' whispered Rinaldo, with his plume of black feathers, to the banditti, in their long cloaks.
'If they an't,' said Bernardo, 'by St. Jago, we might load our carbines with the hail, and sharpen our daggers against this confounded north-wind.'
'The wind is east-south-east,' said Ugo.
'At this moment the bell of Montmorenci Castle tolled one. The sound vibrated through the long corridors, the spiral staircases, the suites of tapestried apartments, and the ears of the personage who has the honour to address you. Much alarmed, I started from my couch, which was of exquisite workmanship; the coverlet of flowered gold, and the canopy of white velvet painted over with jonquils and butterflies, by Michael Angelo. But conceive my horror when I beheld my chamber filled with banditti!
'Snatching my sword, I flew to a corner, where my coat of mail lay heapt. The bravos rushed upon me; but I fought and dressed, and dressed and fought, till I had perfectly completed my unpleasing toilette.
'I then stood alone, firm, dignified, collected, and only fifteen years of age.
Alack! there lies more peril in thine eye,Than twenty of their swords.—
Alack! there lies more peril in thine eye,Than twenty of their swords.—
Alack! there lies more peril in thine eye,
Than twenty of their swords.—
'To describe the horror of the contest that followed, were beyond the pen of an Anacreon. In short, I fought till my silver skin was laced with my golden blood; while the bullets flew round me, thick as hail,
And whistled as they went for want of thought.
And whistled as they went for want of thought.
And whistled as they went for want of thought.
'At length my sword broke, so I set sail for England.
'As I first touched foot on her chalky beach; Hail! exclaimed I, happy land, thrice hail! Take to thy fostering bosom the destitute Montmorenci—Montmorenci, once the first and richest of the Gallic nobility—Montmorenci, whom wretches drove from his hereditary territories, for loyalty to his monarch, and opposition to the atrocities of exterminators and revolutionists.
'Nine days and nights I wandered through the country, the rivulet my beverage, and the berry my repast: the turf my couch, and the sky my canopy.'
'Ah!' interrupted I, 'how much you must have missed the canopy of white velvet painted over with jonquils and butterflies!'
'Extremely,' said he, 'for during sixteen long years, I had not a roof over my head.—I was an itinerant beggar!
'One summer's day, the cattle lay panting under the broad umbrage; the sun had burst into an immoderate fit of splendour, and the struggling brook chided the matted grass for obstructing it. I sat under a hedge, and began eating wild strawberries; when lo! a form, flexile as the flame ascending from a censer, and undulating with the sighs of a dying vestal, flitted inaudible by me, nor crushed the daisies as it trod. What a divinity! she was fresh as the Anadyomene of Apelles, and beautiful as the Gnidus of Praxitiles, or the Helen of Zeuxis. Her eyes dipt in Heaven's own hue.'——
'Sir,' said I, 'you need not mind her eyes: I dare say they were blue enough. But pray who was this immortal doll of your's?'
'Who!' cried he. 'Why who but—shall I speak it? Who but—theLady Cherubina De Willoughby!!!'
'I!'
'You!'
'Ah! Montmorenci!'
'Ah! Cherubina! I followed you with cautious steps,' continued he, 'till I traced you into your—you had a garden, had you not?'
'Yes.'
'Into your garden. I thought ten thousand flowerets would have leapt from their beds to offer you a nosegay. But the age of gallantry is past, that of merchants, placemen, and fortune-hunters has succeeded, and the glory of Cupid is extinguished for ever!
'You disappeared, I uttered incoherent sentences, and next morning resumed my station at a corner of the garden.'
'At which corner?' asked I.
'Why really,' said he, 'I cannot explain; for the place was then new to me, and the ground was covered with snow.'
'With snow!' cried I. 'Why I thought you were eating wild strawberries only the day before.'
'I!' said he. 'Sure you mistake.'
'I declare most solemnly you told me so,' cried I.
'Why then,' said he, 'curse me if I did.'
'Sir,' said I. 'I must remark that your manners——'
'Bless me!' cried he, 'yes, I did say so, sure enough, and I did eat wild strawberries too; but they werepreservedwild strawberries. I had got a small crock of them from an oyster woman, who was opening oysters in a meadow, for a hysterical butcher; and her knife having snapt in two, I lent her my sword; so, out of gratitude, she made me a present of the preserves. By the bye, they were mouldy.
'One morning, as I sat at the side of the road, asking alms, some provincial players passed by me. I accosted them, and offered my services. In short, they took me with them; I performed, was applauded; and at length my fame reached London, where I have now been acting some years, with much success; anxious as I am, to realize a little money, that I may return, in disguise, to my native country, and petition Napoleon to restore my forfeited estates.
'Such, fair lady, such is my round, unvarnished tale.
'But wherefore,' cried he, starting from his seat; 'wherefore talk of the past? Oh! let me tell you of the present and of the future. Oh! let me tell you, how dearly, how devotedly I love you!'
'Love me!' cried I, giving such a start as the nature of the case required. 'My lord, this is so—really now so——'
'Pardon this abrupt avowal of my unhappy passion,' said he, flinging himself at my feet. 'Fain would I have let concealment, like a worm in the bud, feed on my damask cheek; but, oh! who could resist the maddening sight of so much beauty?'
I remained silent, and with the elegant embarrassment of modesty, cast my blue eyes to the ground. I never looked so lovely.
'But I go!' cried he, springing on his feet. 'I fly from you for ever! No more shall Cherubina be persecuted with my hopeless love. But Cherubina, the hills and the vallies shall echo, and the songsters of the grove shall articulate Cherubina. I will shake the leaves of the forest with my sighs, and make the stream so briny with my tears, that the turbot shall swim into it, and the sea-weed grow upon its banks!'
'Ah, do not!' said I, with a look of unutterable anguish.
'I will!' exclaimed he, pacing the chamber with long strides, and slapping his heart, 'and I call all the stars of respectability to witness the vow. Then, Lady Cherubina,' continued he, stopping short before me; 'then, when maddened and emaciated, I shall pillow my haggard head on a hard rock, and lulled by the hurricanes of Heaven, shall sink into the sleep of the grave.'——
'Dear Montmorenci!' said I, quite overcome, 'live for my sake—as you value my—friendship,—live.'
'Friendship!' echoed he. 'Oh! Cherubina, Oh! my soul's precious treasure, say not that icy word. Say hatred, disgust, horror; any thing but friendship.'
'What shall I say?' cried I, ineffably affected, 'or what shall I do?'
'What you please,' muttered he, looking wild and pressing his forehead. 'My brain is on fire. Hark! chains are clanking—The furies are whipping me with their serpents—What smiling cherub arrests yon bloody hand? Ha! 'tis Cherubina. And now she frowns at me—she darts at me—she pierces my heart with an arrow of ice!'
He threw himself on the floor, groaned grievously, and tore his hair. I was horror-struck.
'I declare,' said I, 'I would say any thing on earth to relieve you;—only tell me what.'
'Angel of light!' exclaimed he, springing upon his feet, and beaming on me a smile that might liquefy marble. 'Have I then hope? Dare I say it? Dare I pronounce the divine words, she loves me?'
'I am thine and thou art mine!' murmured I, while the room swam before me.
He took both my hands in his own, pressed them to his forehead and lips, and leaned his burning cheek upon them.
'My sight is confused,' said he, 'my breathing is opprest; I hear nothing, my veins swell, a palpitation seizes my heart, and I scarcely know where I am, or whether I exist!'
Then softly encircling my waist with his arm, he pressed me to his heart. With what modesty I tried to extricate myself from his embrace; yet with what willing weakness I trembled on his bosom. It was Cherubina's hand that fell on his shoulder, it was Cherubina's tress that played on his cheek, it was Cherubina's sigh that breathed on his lip.
'Moment of a pure and exquisite emotion!' cried he. 'In the life of man you are known but once; yet once known, can you ever be forgotten? Now to die would be to die most blest!'
Suddenly he caught me under the chin, and kissed me. I struggled from him, and sprang to the other end of the room, while my neck and face were suffused with a glow of indignation.
'Really,' said I, panting with passion, 'this is so unprovoked, so presuming.'
He cast himself at my feet, execrated his folly, and swore that he had merely fulfilled an etiquette indispensible among lovers in his own country.
''Tis not usual here, my lord,' said I; 'and I have no notion of submitting to any freedom that is not sanctioned by the precedent of those exalted models whom I have the honour to imitate.
'I fancy, my lord, you will find, that, as far as a kiss on the hand, or an arm round the waist, they have no particular objection. But a salute on the lip is considered inaccurate. My lord, on condition that you never repeat the liberty, here is my hand.'
He snatched it with ardor, and strained it to his throbbing bosom.
'And now,' cried he, 'make my happiness complete, by making this hand mine for ever.'
On a sudden an air of dignified grandeur involved my form. My mind, for the first time, was called upon to reveal its full force. It felt the solemnity of the appeal, and triumphed in its conscious ability.
'What!' cried I, 'knowest thou not the fatal, the inscrutable, the mysterious destiny, which must ever prevent our union?'
'Speak, I conjure you,' cried he, 'or I expire on the spot.'
'Alas!' exclaimed I, 'can'st thou suppose the poor orphan Cherubina so destitute of principle and of pride, as to intrude herself unknown, unowned, unfriended; mysterious in her birth, and degraded in her situation, on the ancient and illustrious House of Montmorenci?
'Here then I most solemnly vow, never to wed, till the horrible mystery which hangs over my birth be developed.'
You know, Biddy, that a heroine ought always to snatch at an opportunity of making a fatal vow. When things are going on too smooth, and interest drooping, a fatal vow does wonders. I remember reading in some romance, of a lady, who having vowed never to divulge a certain secret, kept it twenty years; and with such inviolability, that she lived to see it the death of all her children, several of her friends, and a fine old aunt.
As soon as I had made this fatal vow, his lordship fell into the most afflicting agonies and attitudes.
'Oh!' cried he, 'to be by your side, to see you, touch you, talk to you, love you, adore you, and yet find you lost to me for ever. Oh! 'tis too much, too much.'
'The milliner is here, Miss,' said the maid, tapping at the door.
'Bid her call again,' said I.
'Beloved of my soul!' murmured his lordship.
'Ma'am,' interrupted the maid, opening the door, 'she cannot call again, as she must go from this to Kensington.'
'Then let her come in,' said I, and she entered with a charming assortment of bonnets and dresses.
'We will finish the scene another time,' whispered I to his lordship.
His lordship swore that he would drop dead that instant.
The milliner declared that she had brought me the newest patterns.
'On my honour,' said I to his lordship, 'you shall finish this scene to-morrow morning, if you wish it.'
'You may go and be—— Heigho!' said he, suddenly checking himself. What he was about to say, I know not; something mysterious, I should think, by the knitting of his brows. However, he snatched his spear, shield, and helmet, made a low bow, laid his hand on his heart, and stalked out of the chamber. Interesting youth!
I then ran in debt for some millinery, drank hartshorn, and chafed my temples.
I think I was right about the kiss. I confess I am not one of those girls who try to attract men through the medium of the touch; and who thus excite passion at the expence of respect. Lips are better employed in sentiment, than in kissing. Indeed, had I not been fortified by the precedent of other heroines, I should have felt, and I fear, did actually feel, even the classical embrace of Montmorenci too great a freedom. But remember I am still in my noviciate. After a little practice, I shall probably think it rather a pleasure to be strained, and prest, and folded to the heart. Yet of this I am certain, that I shall never attain sufficient hardihood to ravish a kiss from a man's mouth; as the divine Heloise did; who once ran at St. Preux, and astonished him with the most balmy and remarkable kiss upon record. Poor fellow! he was never the same after it.
I must say too, that Montmorenci did not shew much judgment in urging me to marry him, before I had undergone adventures for four volumes. Because, though the heroic etiquette allowed me to fall in love at first sight, and confess it at second sight, yet it would not authorize me to marry myself off quite so smoothly. A heroine is never to be got without agony and adventure. Even the ground must be lacerated, before it will bring forth fruits, and often we cannot reach the lovely violet, till we have torn our hands with brambles.
I did not see his lordship again until dinner time; and we had almost finished our repast, before the poet made his appearance and his bow. His bow was as usual, but his appearance was strangely changed. His hair stood in stiff ringlets on his forehead, and he had pruned his bushy eyebrows, till hardly one bristle remained; while a pair of white gloves, small enough for myself, were forced upon his hands. He glanced at us with a conscious eye, and hurried to his seat at table.
'Ovid's Metamorphoses, by Jupiter!' exclaimed Montmorenci. 'Why, Higginson, how shameful for the mice to have nibbled your eyebrows, while Apollo Belvidere was curling your hair!'
The poet blushed, and ate with great assiduity.
'My dear fellow,' continued his lordship, 'we can dispense with those milk-white gloves during dinner. Tell me, are they mamma's, dear mamma's?'
'I will tell my mother of you!' cried the poet, half rising from his chair.
Now his mother is an old bed-ridden lady in one of the garrets. I then interfered in his behalf, and peace was restored.
After dinner, I took an opportunity, when the landlady had left the room, to request ten pounds from his lordship, for the purpose of paying the milliner. Never was regret so finely pictured in a face as in his, while he swore that he had not a penny upon earth. Indeed so graceful was his lamentation, so interesting his penury, that though the poet stole out of the room for ten pounds, which he slipped into my hand, I preferred the refusal of the one to the donation of the other.
Yes, this amiable young nobleman increases in my estimation every moment. Never can you catch him out of a picturesque position. He would exhaust in an hour all the attitudes of all the statues; when he talks tenderness, his eyes glow with a moist fire, and he always brings in his heart with peculiar happiness. Then too, his oaths are at once well conceived and elegantly expressed. Thunderbolts and the fixed stars are ever at his elbow, and no man can sink himself to perdition with so fine a grace.
But I could write of him, talk of him, think of him, hour after hour, minute after minute; even now, while the shadows of night are blackening the blushes of the rose, till dawn shall stain with her ruddy fire, the snows of the naked Apennine; till the dusky streams shall be pierced with darts of light, and the sun shall quaff his dewy beverage from the cup of the tulip, and the chalice of the lily. That is pretty painting.
Adieu.
'It is my lady, O it is my love!' exclaimed Lord Altamont Mortimer Montmorenci, as he flew, like a winged mercury, into my apartment this morning. A loud rap at the door checked his eloquence, and spoiled a most promising posture.
'Is Miss Wilkinson within?' said a voice in the hall.
'No such person lives here,' replied the maid, who was accustomed to hear me called Miss Donald.
'But there does, and on the ground-floor too, and I will find her out, I warrant,' cried the same voice.
My door was then thrown open, and who should waddle into the room, but fat Wilkinson!
My first feeling (could you believe it) was of gladness at seeing him; nor had I presence of mind enough, either to repulse his embrace, or utter a piercing shriek. Happily my recollection soon returned, and I flung him from me.
'Cherry,' said he, 'dear Cherry, what have I done to you, that you should use me thus? Was there ever a wish of your heart that I left ungratified? And now to desert me in my old age! Only come home with me, my child, only come home with me, and I will forgive you all.'
'Wilkinson,' said I, 'this interview must be short, pointed, and decisive. As to calling yourself my father, that is a stale trick, and will not pass; and as to personating (what I perceive you aspire to) the grand villain of my plot, your corpulency, pardon me, puts that out of the question for ever. I should be just as happy to employ you as any other man I know, but excuse me if I say, that you rather overrate your talents and qualifications. Have you the gaunt ferocity of famine in your countenance? Can you darken the midnight of a scowl? Have you the quivering lip and the Schedoniac contour? And while the lower part of your face is hidden in black drapery, can your eyes glare from under the edge of a cowl? In a word, are you a picturesque villain, full of plot, and horror, and magnificent wickedness? Ah, no, Sir, you are only a sleek, good-humoured, chuckle-headed gentleman. Continue then what nature made you; return to your plough, mow, reap, fatten your pigs and the parson; but never again attempt to get yourself thrust into the pages of a romance.'
Disappointment and dismay forced more meaning into his features than I thought them possessed of. The fact is, he had never imagined that my notions of what villains ought to be were so refined; and that I have formed my taste in these matters upon the purest models.
As a last effort of despair, the silly man flung himself on his knees before me, and grasping my hands, looked up in my face, with such an imploring wretchedness of expression, while the tears rolled silently down his cheeks, that I confess I was a little moved; and for the moment fancied him sincere.
'Now goodness bless thee,' said he, at length, 'goodness bless thee, for those sweet tears of thine, my daughter!'
'Tears!' cried I, quite shocked.
'Yes, darling,' said he, 'and now with this kiss of peace and love, we will blot out all the past.'
I shrieked, started from my seat, and rushed into the expanding arms of Montmorenci.
'And pray, Sir,' cried Wilkinson, advancing fiercely, 'who are you?'
'A lodger in this house, Sir,' answered his lordship, 'and your best friend, as I trust you will acknowledge hereafter. I became acquainted with this lady at the table of our hostess, and learned from her, that she had left your house in disgust. Yesterday morning, on entering her apartment, to make my respects, I found an old gentleman there, one Doctor Merrick, whom I recognized as a wretch of infamous character; tried twice for shoplifting, and once for having swindled the Spanish ambassador out of a golden snuff-box. I, though an humble individual, yet being well acquainted with this young lady's high respectability, presumed to warn her against such a dangerous companion; when I found, to my great concern, that she had already promised him her hand in marriage.'
Wilkinson groaned: I stared.
'On being apprised of his character,' continued Montmorenci, 'the young lady was willing enough to drop the connection, but unfortunately, the ruffian had previously procured a written promise of marriage from her, which he now refuses to surrender; and at the moment you came, I was consulting with your daughter what was best to be done.'
'Lead me to him!' cried Wilkinson, 'lead me to the villain this instant, and I will shew you what is best to be done!'
'I have appointed an interview with him, about this time,' said his lordship, 'and as your feelings might probably prompt you to too much warmth, perhaps you had better not accompany me; but should I fail in persuading him to deliver up the fatal paper, you shall then see him yourself.'
'You are a fine fellow!' cried the farmer, shaking his hand, 'and have bound me to you for ever.'
'I will hasten to him now,' said his lordship, and casting a significant glance at me, departed; leaving me quite astonished, both at his story, and his motive for fabricating it. It was, however, my business to support the deception.
Wilkinson then told me that he discovered my place of residence in London, from the discharged Butler, who, it seems, is not your son, but your lover; and to whom you have shewn all my letters. He went to Wilkinson, and made the disclosure for forty guineas. Sordid wretch! and Wilkinson says that he wants to marry you, merely for the sake of your annuity. Biddy, Biddy! had you known as much of the world as I do now, a fortune hunter would not have imposed upon you.
As to your shewing him my letters, I cannot well blame you for a breach of trust, which has answered the purpose of involving my life in a more complicated labyrinth of entanglements.
But to return. In the midst of our conversation, the maid brought me a note. It was from Montmorenci, and as follows: