Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 17
CHAPTER XVII.
All have opinions, wherefore may not I?
I'll give a judgment—or at least I'll try.
"As idle as ever," said Mr. Lushington, by way of a parting pleasantry. "in my time young men did not spend the morning on the sofa, reading trashy novels; they—" but the merits of our grandfathers were lost in the cough and heavy step with which the elderly gentleman descended the stairs, on his way to some other domicile, where he might vent another portion of his discontent. Certainly the breath of Mr. Lushington's life was an east wind.
It is quite wonderful what privileges are accorded to single gentlemen of a certain age and a certain fortune,—these are the people who may be rude with more than impunity, even reward. Whether the old ladies, either for themselves or their daughters, hope it is not quite too late for these said single gentlemen to marry,—whether the masculine part of the creation with that attention to business, their great moral duty, calculate on pecuniary futurities, either in the shape of legacy or loan, we know not; but assuredly the magna charta of social life accords much to this privileged class.
Mr. Lushington was one of the number. As a child, he cried over his pap, his washing, and dressing, and himself to sleep—for the mere sake, as his nurse asserted, of plaguing her: at school, though neither tyrant nor tell-tale, he was hated,—for his comrades always found his opinion opposite to theirs, a shadow thrown over their hopes, and a sneer affixed to their pleasures. At a very early age he went to India; lived for years in a remote station, where he was equally decided and disliked; and finally came home to adjust the balance of comfort between a hundred thousand pounds and a liver complaint. He made morning calls, for the express purpose of telling the ladies of the house how ill they looked after the fatigues of the night before, and dwelt emphatically on the evils of late hours and ruined complexions; he dined out to insinuate the badness of the dinner, and take an opposite side in politics to his host,—he was not the least particular as to principles, always supposing them to be contradictory;—and he went to balls to ask young damsels who had no partners why they did not dance, and to make a third in every tête-à-tête that seemed interesting. In short, he was a modern incarnation of an Egyptian plague, sent as a judgment into society; but then he was single, and single men may marry;—but then he had a hundred thousand pounds and he must die and leave them behind him. Vain hopes! He had too large a stock of tormenting to confine it to any one individual, even though that individual were his wife; and as to his money, when he did die, which he was a long time about, he left one of those wills which realise the classic fable of the golden apple thrown by the goddess of discord—for his heir not only spent the whole property in chancery, but some thousands of his own.
What a pity there is not some mental calomel! for Mr. Lushington's equanimity was in a bilious fever with Edward Lorraine's appearance of luxurious enjoyment. Thrown upon a sofa, like a crimson cloud for colour and softness, with just enough of air from the laurels and acacias of the square garden to fling back the blind, scented as it passed with the rich flowers of the balcony,—while through the rooms floated that soft twilight which curtains can make even of noon. They were filled with graceful trifles for the fancy,—and a few noble pictures, an alabaster statue or two, a few exquisitely carved marble vases, to excite the imagination; while the vista ended in a conservatory, where the rose—a summer queen—held her rainbow court of jonquils, tulips, and the thousand-flowered and leaved geranium, but still supreme herself in beauty and sweetness.
Emily was seated at a harp, trying some new ballads; so there was just music enough to haunt the ear with sweet sounds, but not to distract the attention; while an occasional verse of gentle expression awoke, ever and anon, some pleasant or touching memory.
The ground, the table near Edward, were covered with novels enough to have realised even Gray's idea of Paradise. How unlucky some people are? Gray was just born an age too soon. How would he have luxuriated in the present day! Andrews' or Hookham's counter would have been "the crystal bar" which led to his garden of Eden, and the marble-covered tomes the Houries of his solitude.
"Well," said Mr. Morland, who had entered as Mr. Lushington departed, "are you in ancient or modern times, aiding some heroine and her ringlets to escape from her prison in a mouldering castle, where her only companions are ghosts; or braving, for love of her dark eyes, some ferocious banditti, whose muskets and moustaches are equally long; or are you in ecstasies with some sweet child of simplicity, whose hair curls intuitively, and to whom the harp and piano, French and Italian, are accomplishments that come by nature; or are you in those days of prudence and propriety, when the fair lady lost her lover by waltzing, and the matrimonial quarrel was rendered desperate by the disobedient wife going to a masquerade, to which her husband followed her in the disguise of a domino?"
"Nay," returned Edward; "I thought you were far too modern a person to even remember the avatar of Newman and Co."
"One does not easily forget the impressions of our youth; and mine passed in a reign of female authorship. I have been convinced of the justice and expediency of the Salic law ever since. Mrs. Robinson, Mrs. Smith, and Mrs. Radcliffe ruled the Europe, Asia, and Africa of the novel-writing world—America was not then discovered. Mrs. Robinson took sentiment, and was eloquent on the misfortunes of genius: by genius was meant a young man who was very poor and very handsome, and who complained to the moon for a confidante; also, a beautiful young lady, whose affections were always placed contrary to the decrees of some cruel parent, and who had a noble contempt for money. Mrs. Smith took philosophy, was liberal and enlightened in her views, expatiated on how badly society was constituted, and, as a proof, her heroines—sweet innocent creatures—were continually being run away with against their will; and her hero had some fine-fangled theories, which always prevented his getting on in the world, till some distant relation left him heir to his wealth, or some rich heiress married him. Mrs. Radcliffe took terror, which, by the by, she never excited in me—I believe I did not read her romances when young enough. I always felt comfortable in the conviction that all the mysteries would be explained, if I did but go on. Schedoni, in all her works, is the only attempt at a character, and he is a fine Rembrandt; but her heroes, who wander about on a fine evening, playing on the flute, carry insipidity to its extremity; and as for the heroines, I grew so tired of their undeviating sweetness, that I hoped at last some of the dangers they encountered would fairly put an end to their terrors, troubles, and existence together."
Edward Lorraine.—"It is curious that the occasional pieces of poetry announced in the title-page, and interspersed through the volumes, should be so wretched; and yet her descriptions are touched with the finest poetical colouring;—her Italian woods and sunsets are really beautiful pictures."
Mr. Morland.—"Simply because, with fine poetical taste, she was not a poet; the spirit was not strong enough within to break through the set forms and conventional phrases which were then vouchers of the Muse's Almack's."
Edward Lorraine.—"Like the veins of a mine, the materials of fiction are soon worked out. To your three continents of sentiment, philosophy, and terror, what succeeded?"
Mr. Morland.—"A school of common sense and real life. Miss Edgeworth only wanted imagination to have secured her the very highest place in novel-writing. Humour gave animation to her pages—feeling never. Her remarks are always sensible; but we feel somewhat selfish in making them our code—and her heroines are so prudent, that we quite long for them to commit some little indiscretion. She is an English and dramatic Rochefoucault, developing her axioms by actions; and with, moreover, a point of attack before her. French morality and French sentiment were the alpha and omega of her literary warfare."
Edward Lorraine.—"Surely Miss Burney's heroines get into scrapes enough to satisfy you. To tell you the truth—I hope there is not even a picture of an aunt or grandmother near—I never liked Miss Burney. Her pages are a succession of caricatures—her lovely Miss Anvilles and angelic Miss Beverleys pretty wax dolls—and her Lord Orvilles and Mortimer Delvilles just captivating court-suits. Camilla is the only character with any interest; and even that is lost in her preference of that most prudent young gentleman, Edgar Mandlebert. I never forgive a girl bad taste in her lover. What must she be, when even her idéal of excellence is mean?"
Mr. Morland.—"I prefer Miss Austen's; they are the truest pictures of country life, whose little schemes, hopes, scandals, &c. are detected with a woman's tact, and told with a woman's vivacity."
Edward Lorraine.—"Yes, they are amusing to a degree; but her pen is like a pair of skates—it glides over the surface; you seek in vain for any deep insight into human thought or human feeling. Pride and Prejudice is her best work; but I cannot forgive Elizabeth for her independence, which, in a woman, is impertinence; and Mr. Darcie is just a stiff family portrait, come down from its frame to be condescending.*[1] What you said of Miss Edgeworth appears to me to be the great characteristic of the writers of that time—an utter want of imagination, and of that deep feeling born of it and nursed by it. Various and entertaining personages passed over the stage; but none of them wore that window in their hearts it is the part of a philosopher or poet to discover."
Mr. Morland.—"Who was it that used to thank the gods—first, that he was born a man—and secondly, either a Grecian or a Roman—I have forgotten which—and no great matter either. Now, I am thankful that I am born in the same age with Sir Walter Scott. It is quite exhilarating to think that life has had so much enjoyment as I owe to him: he is the Columbus that has discovered our America of literature. Think not only of his works themselves, but of their effects. How much he has destroyed and discovered! How much mental gold he has distributed! What a new spirit he has created! He is the Hercules who has cleared off the dragons and giants, and the Prometheus who has bequeathed a legacy of living fire."
Edward Lorraine.—"When opinions have lost the support of the grounds on which they were originally formed, they become prejudices; but in proportion as they lose their foundation, they tighten their hold; for though a man may give up his opinion, he holds to his prejudice as a drowning wretch who has lost his boat grasps his oar. Habit holds over the mind more than a despotic power; and hence I understand how it is possible for people to be blind to the great changes working around them. It is half curious, half ludicrous, to hear persons—ay, and critics too—talk of a novel as a pleasant hour's amusement, and exhort the author gravely to turn his talents to higher account, wholly unconscious of the truth, that the novel is now the very highest effort—the popular vehicle for thought, feeling, and observation—the one used by our first-rate writers. Who, that reflects at all, can deny, that the novel is the literary Aaron's rod that is rapidly swallowing all the rest. It has supplied the place of the drama—it has merged in its pages pamphlets, essays, and satires. Have we a theory—it is developed by means of a character; an opinion—it is set forth in dialogue; and satire is personified in a chapter, not a scene. Poetry has survived somewhat longer, but is rapidly following the fate of its fellows. Descriptions, similes, pathos are to be found in the prose page; and rhythm is becoming more and more an incumbrance rather than a recommendation. I do believe, in a little time, lyrical will be the only form of poetry retained. Now, query, are we gainers or losers?"
Mr. Morland.—"Gainers, certainly. It matters little what form talent takes, provided it is a popular one. But, even now, a new spirit, in the shape of a new writer, is rising; and the author of Pelham has again enlarged the boundaries, and poured fresh life into the novel. Many clever works have appeared within the last few years; but none sufficiently vigorous or sufficiently original to create their own taste, or give their tone to the time; and this is what this author is doing and will do. Pelham took up a ground quite untouched. There had been fashionable novels, and of real life, so called; but they wanted either knowledge, or talent to give that knowledge likeness. But the author of Pelham was the first who said, such and such beings exist—such and such principles are now acted upon—and out of such will I constitute my hero. Nothing proves the life thrown into the picture so much as the offence it gave—so many respectable individuals took the hero's coxcombry as a personal affront."
Edward Lorraine.—"I think these works go very far to support our theory of the novel—that it is like the Roman empire, sweeping all under its dominion. Pelham is the light satire of Horace—Paul Clifford the severer page of Juvenal—the Disowned has the romantic and touching beauty of poetry—while Devereux is rather the product of the philosopher and the metaphysician."
Mr. Morland.—"I should judge—though it seems almost a paradox to say so of one whose pages are mostly so witty and so worldly— that the original frame of his mind was imaginative even to romance, and that his mood would savour more of melancholy than mirth. Poetry has a large part in his composition: look at his young painter. Could any writer but one who has had such dreams himself have imagined a dream of fame so engrossing? There is something to me inexpressibly touching in that young artist's history: he is poor, low-born, with neither grace of person nor of manner; he is not even successful in his pursuit; he is the victim, not the priest of his altar; yet how we enter into his hopes! how convinced we feel of his power! and the author's great skill is shown in making his enthusiasm a pledge for his genius. No one could draw such a character who had not, at some time or other, numbered fame and futurity among his own visions. Again, I know no one who has painted love so poetically—and poetry is love's truth; he has painted its highest nature, removed from the commonplaces of life, but ready for its cares—a hidden spring, whose presence is only indicated by the freshness of the verdure around; and the more spiritualised, self-devoted, and entire, in proportion as it is kept apart from the dividing and corrupting effect of the world. The love he depicts is especially that of the naturally melancholy and passionate, who exalt and refine their feelings even to themselves."
Edward Lorraine.—"I am not sure whether even the wittiest—the most seemingly gay passages, do not rather favour your view; the satire is that of sarcasm, as if society had forced knowledge upon him, and the knowledge was bitter, and the very keenness of the perception gave point to the expression; indeed, in most of his observations, I have been struck with their truth even before their wit."
Mr. Morland.—" I know no writer who has united so much philosophy with so much imagination; hence his views will have such effect on his time. He uses his power to make us feel—chiefly to make us think; it is the consequences he draws from his creations which force reflection to succeed to interest. Read his pages dispassionately, after the first vivid effect of the story is departed, and you will be surprised to observe the vast mass of moral investigation and truth which they contain. His very poetry is full of this spirit; witness a simile, exquisite for its turn and thought—
'Autumn, which, like ambition, gilds ere it withers.'"
"Is he handsome?" asked Emily.
"Nay," returned Lorraine, "do not ask me. I always consider one of my own sex as a nonentity or a rival: in the first quality he excites my indifference—in the second, my hatred. I dislike that any one should attract a woman's attention enough for her to ask any questions about him."
A woman always, whether she shows it or not, takes a general assertion to herself, not from vanity, but from the intense individuality of her nature; and Emily found something satisfactory even in having no answer to her question.
Mr. Morland.—"But what induces you to have so many books open at once?"
Edward Lorraine.—"Because I have a Plutarchian taste, and love parallels. Nothing delights me more than to turn from a subject in one author, to see how differently it is treated in another; for no two agree even about the same thing."
Mr. Morland.—"Because no one sees things exactly as they are, but as varied and modified by their own method of viewing. Bid a botanist and a poet describe a rose-tree—the one will dwell upon its roots, fibres, petals, &c., and his abstract view will be of its medicinal properties; the poet will dwell upon its beauty, and associate it with the ideas of love and summer, or catch somewhat of melancholy from its futurity of fading—no fear of want of variety. But in what book had you taken refuge from Mr. Lushington?"
Edward Lorraine.—"in a favourite—the second part of Vivian Grey. I think it one of the most singular I have read. Its chief characteristic is the most uncurbed imagination. But his humour is grotesque caricature, and his satire personality; he strikes me as being naturally ill-natured; and circumstances have thrown in his way people and things, which he seems to think it a pity to lose, but which it is against the bent of his talents to use; he should have been born a German. What a fine and most original novel might be written which took for its matériel the mystics and metaphysics of our neighbours, wrought up with a tone of the supernatural, yet bringing all to bear on our actual and passing existence!"
Mr. Morland.—"Yes, but Mr. D'Israeli must be banished first. I should say he is one whose greatest misfortune is that he was born in London, and in the congregating habits of the present day. His is a mind that requires to be thrown upon and within its own resources. To go back to the days of the Spectator, and illustrate my meaning by an allegory:—the two female figures that now wait to guide Hercules through the world are Philosophy and Vanity, and, according as one or other is his guide, he is benefited or injured: he who goes conducted by Philosophy, goes to think of others, and is benefited—he who is led by Vanity into society, goes to think of himself, and is injured."
Edward Lorraine.—"How philosophical we should be—what moral truths we should discover, could we forget ourselves, and lose our identity in our examination!"
Mr. Morland.—"Not so neither; ourselves must still be our rule for others: philosophy, like charity, begins at home; but also, like charity, I should wish it to extend, and become the more beneficial the more it expands. But à propos to benevolence, and 'all that sort of thing,' is this one of your favourite authors?" taking up a volume of Tremaine.
Edward Lorraine.—"No, I consider Mr. Warde most happy in his common-places; he flings himself on the current, and there he floats. His popularity shows the force of habit; and we like his copy-book morality on the same principle that Eton boys are said to like mutton—because we are used to it. There is always a certain capital of opinion to which men deem it proper to subscribe—our education from the first cultivates credulity—we are taught to agree, not to examine, and our judgment is formed long before our comprehension. We must either have property of our own, or else credit; and all experience shows the leaning most have towards the latter. Hence it is that so much is taken for granted. Mr. Warde has shown great tact in embodying those generalities in his pages; and we are little disposed to deny his truths, we have heard them so often. Add to this a most elegant style, an appropriation of popular and passing events, and have we not the secret of Mr. Warde's success?"
"I must," returned Mr. Morland, rising, "bid you good-by; we have been quite clever enough for one morning—I shall really not have an idea left. Well, opinions of one's own are very pleasant: I am always inclined to apply to my judgment the proverb which the Spaniard applies to his home—
'My home, my home! though thou'rt but small,
Thou art to me the Escurial.'"
Always be as witty as you can with your parting bow—your last speech is the one remembered.
- ↑ * I had not read Persuasion when the above was written. Persuasion, in my very humble opinion, is one of the most touching and beautiful tales in our language.