LETTER XLVI. From Arthur Howard to the Reader.

My dear Reader,

If you have travelled thus far with me, you and I are kind friends; and I am, in duty bound, to do my best for your gratification. I told you, long ago, my motives for raking and rummaging through sundry trunks where papers were deposited, for the letters which I have picked out of an immense heap, and strung together—shall I venture to say for your amusement? That I was fired with the hope of affording you some entertainment is certain; but people often fail when they are most anxious to succeed; and the size of my manuscript begins to frighten me.

On returning to Glenalta, in the peaceful shades of which the idea first occurred to me of addressing you, I found, as you may imagine, much difficulty in collecting my materials, and making choice from amongst them, to say nothing of arranging and transcribing; but this trouble, and much more, I would willingly take for any one who has liked me sufficiently to accompany my steps during a period of nearly four years. If I resolve, then, on tying up the numerous packets which still lie piled on the table before me; and returning them to their several caskets to be forwarded to their rightful owners, it is not that I am tired of working for you, but I am afraid of fatiguing you, and losing your society, which has hitherto afforded me so much pleasure, that I would not for any consideration lose my hold on your regard, which our good fellowship during so long a journey may lead me to hope that I possess.

Actuated by these friendly feelings, it occurs to me that I will tell you the rest of the story myself, not, believe me, from the vain-glorious motive of desiring to push myself into an undue degree of notice, nor of securing that which attaches to the last speaker, but for the following reasons: First, my dear good friend, we are all alive and merry, I mean we who have written all the mounds of paper through which you have waded so patiently; and therefore you cannot expect a regular end of what is still going on; nor can I keep my book open any longer, lest you might suppose it endless, and throw it aside. Secondly, some of our party came to be involved in writing of another kind, and in the necessity of encountering law business, with which I could not think of wearying you, and thus had less time for the employment of their pens upon more interesting subjects. Again, other individuals of our society became gradually so devoted to each other’s conversation, that with grief of heart I saw myself in danger of losing the best contributors to my scheme. And you know if people will not separate for the accommodation of a compiler, adieu to letter-writing. In short, I grew very uneasy and after suffering those pangs which authors only understand, I determined on throwing up my correspondence, taking the matter at once into my own hands, and relieving your curiosity respecting people and things which I have been the means of introducing to your acquaintance.

You are able, no doubt, to anticipate a great deal, but that is no reason why I should not tell you all I know. And first you shall have such information as I can give you respecting Madame de Lisle, who has been rather abruptly introduced to your acquaintance in a letter from Emily Douglas. The letter to which Miss Douglas refers, for the history of Madame de Lisle, has been unfortunately lost; and you must therefore be contented with such particulars as I have collected since I had the pleasure of an introduction to her acquaintance. Mr. Otway one day saw her so violently agitated by Stanley’s occasional mention of a person who is a friend of his, and whose name is Alured, that he resolved at once on removing his doubts relating to her parentage. Alured was a family name in the pedigree to which he believed her to belong, and he was right. He went alone to visit her, and soon discovered that she was indeed Lady Laura Penshurst, the only surviving daughter of the proud and pompous Earl of Alton, whose sister he had loved in early life, before the “thick coming” honours of her house had tacked a title to her name. This disclosure once made, Lady Laura took Mr. Otway at once into her confidence, and told him that her mother, whose memory she adores, died a few months ago in the south of France, having survived Lord Alton, to whom no mortal could be attached, but three years. Her brother succeeded to the title and estates, and enjoyed them but a very short time, when he too was swept off the mortal stage, and they descended to an infant who is the present Lord Alton. Disgusted with the world in which she no longer possessed an object of affection, Lady Laura determined on remaining abroad, assuming a name and style which should protect her from curiosity, and ending her days where her mother’s remains were deposited.

Of our good friend, George Bentley, I have news which will probably surprise you not a little. He often talked, during our rambles in Switzerland, of taking up his abode in the midst of the romantic scenery which had excited our admiration. His declarations were received as the mere effusions of the moment, and we never believed him in earnest until he seriously declared his determination to carry his project into effect, and took decisive measures for the purpose. He went to Ireland, made arrangements of his property, by which he provided for three or four relations, who are all of his family that remain; settled an annual bounty on the parish poor, annuities on the old retainers, left Mount Prospect to be let by Mr. Oliphant, returned to Piémont, and was, ere long, established in a cottage near Angrogna.

General Douglas, his sister, and Mr. Otway, exerted all their skill in rhetoric to dissuade George from deserting his native country. They represented most forcibly that inversion of mind by which people, neglecting the good that lies within their grasp, bend all their energies to distant objects. They endeavoured to convince him that so much remained to be done at home, that it was criminal to quit the post in which heaven had placed him, and yielding to a spirit of adventure, instead of being governed by the sober desire of usefulness, prefer the notoriety of this romantic scheme, to the less shewy, but more valuable purpose of being a kind landlord, and a resident gentleman in his native land.

Bentley’s principal fault is obstinacy, which he sometimes mistakes for firmness. He had determined, and was ready with more fluency of words, than depth of argument, to answer the reasoning of his friends. “He thought that a call should not be resisted. He considered the remarkable chain of events which had brought him into the Vallies of Piémont, as a providential appointment, a cord that drew him invisibly forward to his true destiny.” In vain was it urged in reply, that such arguments would legitimatize every absurd dereliction of duty, every wild vagary of adventure; and were fantasies like these permitted to carry conviction to the understanding, a country might be drained of all its inhabitants who were capable of exerting beneficial influence within its circuit, and the population be committed to anarchy and want.

Bentley remained fixed as a rock, and perhaps, secretly gloried in the double character of martyr and missionary, since he now encountered what he technically denominated “persecution.” To the Vallies he would go, and perhaps the real motive may never be fully revealed to his own mind, though we lookers on could not help perceiving very clearly, that the devoted and mutual attachment of Falkland and Emily Douglas, had been the true pivot on which his purposes turned. Love, in its common acceptation, never found a place in Bentley’s breast. He never knew what it was to be impelled either by ungovernable passion, which hurries some to ruin and abasement; nor was his heart formed to those all-powerful, but delicate sympathies, which though fine as threads of gossamer, yet irresistibly entangle the affections, and produce entire dependence for happiness on the reciprocal devotion of a beloved object. No, Bentley had seen that men and women usually marry. He had therefore contemplated marriage for himself. He saw children in most families, and without loving them, he supposed that he should one day be a father, as well as husband; but the utmost which his mind had ever accomplished in reducing these wide abstractions and “loose generalities,” to any practical bearing on his individual lot, was summed up in the following hypothesis. “If I should ever think of engaging myself to any woman, and resigning my present freedom, become a married man, I must endeavour to select a suitable companion; money is a sordid motive, though it is a necessary adjunct; beauty is a fading flower, yet the eye is fascinated by its charms; intellect is inspiring, but it often leads to vanity; religion is essential, but how do we know it to be sincere. If I were to think of marrying, I wish that it might be to Emily Douglas; but would she marry me?” These ifs and ands, had been so often laid before the imagination of George Bentley, that they became as habitual as breakfast, dinner, and sleep, probably occupying at stated intervals that period of coma, which intervenes between a full meal and a sound slumber, till by daily recurrence of Emily’s image, he had marked her insensibly for his own, and that too, without the slightest degree of personal presumption either respecting his powers of pleasing, or her feelings towards him. When, therefore, his eyes were first opened to the truth that Emily loved, and was beloved by another, he woke, as from a dream. He was astounded, puzzled. He felt unsettled, set adrift, or, perhaps like an owl when it is suddenly brought into the sun’s light from the tranquil shade of its ivied tower. At last, however, his mental optics accommodated themselves to a new focus. He was no longer confused, and his eyes were no longer dim. He then began to examine himself, and was obliged to make the inward confession, that no one had injured him. He was not in love. He had never given any one reason to suppose that he felt more than friendship, and all the Douglas family treated him with unvarying kindness and affection which had never passed that sober limit; but things are not so easily settled with pride.

Bentley’s had in reality nothing to do in the matter, for his had not received offence, yet by some extraordinary fancy, he did appear to take umbrage at the attachment, which was evident; and he did so perhaps, because he did not at first perceive it, and at the critical time of its becoming manifest to his senses, the expedition to the Vallies, opened a new vista to his mind, and gave an unexpected bias to his resolutions.

Frederick and I were hammering at something not far removed from this statement, when Mr. Otway came into the room, and in five minutes drew up the case as I have recorded it.

As time rolled on, the delightful mother of Emily Douglas, was called upon to approve a union which cannot fail of happiness. Emily and Charles Falkland are formed for each other. Virtue and talents lend all their influence to lay a solid foundation, while the lighter graces which belong to manners and accomplishments, give a finish to the charm that binds them to each other. Simplicity is a decided characteristic of both; and when the day arrived which General Douglas begged to hasten, in order that he might bestow a blessing with ten thousand pounds, which he presented to his niece there was no idle parade of dress and equipage. Not a single preparation which had display for its object, or vanity for its motive, marked this nuptial scene. It was the only marriage, except her sister’s, at which Louisa Howard had ever assisted, and what a contrast did it not present to the gorgeous folly of poor Adelaide’s hymeneals? A short tour to Geneva, Lausanne and Vevay, separated the Falklands but a little time from Turin, to which place they returned, and the dying couch of a beloved uncle was attended with all the tenderness which true affection can alone inspire. He lingered till winter had clothed the Alps in a fresh mantle of snow, and breathed his last in the arms of Frederick. Some months of repose were necessary to the shattered health of Mrs. Douglas, and she preferred remaining in Switzerland till the following spring, when the whole party arrived in safety at Marsden.

Though Emily’s marriage afforded a pretext for selling off the English property according to the letter of General Douglas’ will, his sister considered that to delay its sale was more in agreement with the spirit of his intentions, and she had consequently no hesitation in determining that Frederick should try the experiment of remaining in Hampshire for some time, while her son, implicitly relying on the counsels of his mother, acquiesced with alacrity in whatever she thought right. Marsden became the abode of whatever most exalts human nature, and the Douglas family possess the art of rendering virtue and knowledge attractive in such a degree, that their anxiety is to avoid, not to court acquaintance with the great. Their society is universally sought after, and none can exceed it.

Emily and her husband, as the avant couriers of Mrs. Douglas, accompanied Mr. Otway to Ireland, and have purchased Mount Prospect, to which they have given its ancient Irish appellation of Cairndruid, and which they are altering and beautifying, for their future home, when the family of Glenalta shall return to their dearly-loved abode.

Mr. Oliphant, who is a perfect pattern of what every clergyman ought to be, and aided in his pious labours by an excellent sister, lives but to do good and make his parishioners happy. When he saw the circle of those friends, so justly valued, once more in their accustomed places, his glistening eye and uplifted hands seemed to say with old Simeon, “Let thy servant now depart in peace.”

The Sandfords, Stanleys, Mrs. Fitzroy, and various other agreeable people have had happy meetings at Marsden; and I will venture a prophecy, that Frederick, who longs to regain his native shores, will one day prevail upon the elegant Julia Sandford to bear him company thither. If strongly tempted, too, to lay a wager, though I do not consider bets to be the most convincing arguments, I might be persuaded to risk a few pounds upon the probability of two other matches, viz. one between Charlotte Douglas and Algernon Stanhope, and the other between an elder brother of Stanley’s and Louisa Howard. As to my own loves, if I have any, my dear Reader, you cannot expect me to divulge them: “Sink or swim, I carry my secrets with me,” which was the sagacious resolve of Mrs. Faulkner, wife to the celebrated George, of editorial memory, who asked her, on her death-bed, whether or not she had been a faithful sposa.

You will be glad to hear that Lawrence cleans the gravel walks still at Glenalta, and is never weary of recounting stories to his young mistress when she walks in the shrubbery, of all that had happened in her absence, Lisfarne looks glad once more, and the Beacon Hill is burned to brown from all the fires that have spread their glow over the beautiful bay which it overlooks.

Aunt Douglas shall close my narrative: she is the centre round which all these numerous rays converge, and the nearer they advance to her, the more nearly do they approach each other. How can human beings unite sincerely in loving the same object, and be at enmity amongst themselves? It is impossible. A year’s probation has so assured this self-denying mother that Marsden can never rival Glenalta in the hearts of her children, that a treaty is now on foot for disposing of a place which possesses no associations with past time to endear it to their memory. Frederick remains to complete the contract, and has hopes of bringing old Mr. Bolton with him to pay a visit in the Emerald Isle, which he has never seen, while it has fallen to my happy lot to attend the homeward bound group, Louisa making one of the party, and behold such joy as language fails me to describe. The roads were lined with happy faces, and welcome resounded from every mouth. Each step of the way produced increasing interest, till, in that verandah where I first met her sweet smile, I saw Glenalta’s guardian angel folded in the arms of her daughter.

Now, gentle reader, remember that it is not many years since I was one of that heartless multitude who laugh at all that they either do not comprehend, or that violates the rules which tyrant fashion imposes on her worshippers. I am, therefore, prepared for a shower of those epithets which I should once have liberally bestowed upon a book compounded of such materials as I have employed in mine. “Puerile”—“moral”—“prosy”—“dull,” are sounds familiar to my ear; and if they should be applied to me by those who still belong to the fraternity which I have quitted, I trust for ever, I must submit, yet not without reminding them, that I held out no false colours. I warned them of what was coming, and desired to be thrown aside at once by all who opened my pages, in expectation of finding a Novel full of striking events, or numerous incidents. I have been occupied in representing domestic life, and giving peeps into real character, not in furnishing scenes for the poet or the painter. But, though I am fully prepared both for yawners and revilers, I dare to cherish a hope, that some of those whose suffrage would repay me for a world of contumely, may find amusement as well as truth in my sketches. Amongst the fair sex I ought to be kindly received, for my anxious desire has been to assert their claims; and by endeavouring to exorcise the demon of Blueism, restore them to their just inheritance.

In order to this recovery of female birthright, I have attempted to illustrate in the memoirs of the Douglas family, that compatibility so frequently denied between the highest intellectual attainment, and the sweetest humility of heart I have tried to convince all who are not wilfully blind, that we have still under other names, our Lady Jane Greys, and Margaret Ropers, and that they can be as lovely and as feminine at the present moment, as in the age when those bright examples of excellence adorned society with their graces, virtues, and talents, though living under the tyranny of arbitrary government, while ours is the boasted æra of freedom, and “the march of mind.” Whatever be my fate, I must now bid you farewell. Even the kindest friends must part. Adieu, then, my dear reader. May you and I shake hands in affectionate brotherhood wherever we meet. If you were always of opinion that religion and virtue are indispensable to happiness; and that the most agreeable people in the world may also be the best; you have an advantage over me in never having strayed from the truth; but inasmuch as I have erred, I am desirous to proclaim my recantation, and returning to the nick-named Glenalta, lay down the follies of my youth, and sign myself a sincere and penitent convert.

Arthur Howard.

THE END.

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