PR 3991 PI L32 Copy 1 LADY CHEVELEY; OR, ^HE^OMAN OF HONOUR A NEW VERSION OF CHEVELEY, THE MAN OF HONOUR. Impia;, nam quid potuere raajus. ' lit) pi® sponaos potuere duro Perdere ferro. Hor. Car.' iii. 11, 30. PHILADELPHIA CAREY &»H A R T . 1839. U LADY CHEVELEY; THE WOMAN OF HONOUR A NEW VERSION OF CHEVELEY, THE MAN OF HONOUR. Impise, nam quid potuere majus? Impiae sponsos potuere duro Perdere ferro. Hor. Car. iii. 11, 30. PHILADELPHIA: CAREY' & HART 1839. 3#i Mn* ov •-* ••• Philadelphia: T K. «r P. G. COLLINS, Printers, Ko. 1 Lodge Alley. LADY CHEVELEY; THE WOMAN OF HONOUR PREFACE As outrage has been committed on the taste and good feeUng of society, and one which it becomes all who revere the hohest of our ties, and respect the sanctity of our homes, to expose and to resent. If we look upon the work in question as a mere fiction, its immoral tendency, its false and hollow sentiment, coarse and flip- pant attempts at wit, and its illiterate compo- sition, make it an insult to the public taste. VI PREFACE. If we see in it, a coward ambush from which slander can safely aim its poisoned darts — a means through which the great and good can be insulted with impunity — a cloak for the grossest personalities and basest defama- tion, then is it an outrage to every feeling of honour and of decency. Let those whose base and envious hearts triumph in the success [id est, the sale) of this inhuman attack, remember that tales of slander ever find a ready mart; and surely something of that curse which clings to the price of blood must attach itself to those vile gains, for which a wife would fain have sold a husband's fame, " that jewel worth whole hecatombs of lives" — his honour! yet the bargain is incomplete, although the price be paid. The gem she had pledged herself to barter, is beyond her reach. The name PREFACE. Vll she has assailed, is but the more revered! Clothed in the proudest panoply of Innocence, him she would have destroyed, walks forth unharmed; and every shaft that she has aimed, rebounds upon herself. Never was defeat more debasing than hers; never was triumph more exalting than his ! and yet it is the melancholy triumph of the hero gazing on a field of victory, stained with the blood of his earliest friends; for what bitter memo- ries, what blighted hopes, await even the victor in a strife like this! Of the literary merits, or rather demerits of this " libel, in three vols, post octavo," it is needless to speak ; but we must confess, that while the author bewails, in language which sets the laws of grammar at defiance, that women are excluded from the arenas of philosophy, science and politics, her many Vlll PREFACE. blunders, her incorrect and mis-spelt French, call forcibly to our minds the pompous Mon- sieur Jourdain in the " Bourgeois Gentil- homme,^^ who, after passing in review with his maitre cle Philosophie " La Logique^^ " La Physique'' and " la Morale,'' at last hum- bly exclaims '' ^pprenez moi I'orthographe." A sensible example ! and one our author would do well to follow; for, though it is easy to lay the faults we speak of, to a defenceless prin- ter, it must be apparent to the world, that it is much more probable they should have originated in a self-satisfied lady-scribbler, hurried on by malice, than in a well-qualified printer, who would certainly, had he been authorised to do so, have corrected the errors he must have discovered. But these are venial faults, compared to the bad taste and bad feeling traceable PREFACE. IX throughout the work. Who is not disgusted at the exaggerated and thaumastic descrip- tion of " the wondrously beautiful'' Lady de Chfford with " her epigrammatic nose?" and the vile daubs (caricatured out of all possibility of resemblance) of De Clifford, Herbert, and their mother. Who is not wearied with the vulgar flippancy of Fanny, the ponderosity of Cheveley, the stupidity of Saville? Who does not feel outraged by the love passages in Italy, between the "man of honor" and another's wife? Who does not feel insulted by a scene where Lady de Clifford, the ''wilty and the ivise/^ encou- rages her sister in grossly mimicking her husband's mother, in presence of their con- temptible lovers, who mistake buffoonery for wit? Who does not share Lord de Clifford's just indignation, and admire the only good PREFACE. and vraisemUant speech in the book, his Anathema on Mimioe and on Mimicry ? En passant we must observe, as a curious fact, that while no pains have been spared to dis- tort the character of De CHfTord, out of all semblance of humanity, he, all monstrous as he appears, is yet a less revolting conception than Cheveley himself— the man of honour! who loves another's wife, yet does not fly the temptation — the soul of truth, who shudders at an equivocation of Julia's, yet meanly flat- ters the husband's foibles for the wife's fair sake, whose life is "falsehood put in action," and whose mawkish philosophy and stilted sentiment, are far more offensive than De Clifford's brief anathemas. / With regard to their frequent recurrence, much as we disapprove of the too prevalent practice of swearing, we must own that the PREFACE. XI martyr-like airs, and flimsy hypocrisy of Julia — the vulgar impertinence of Fanny, and the intolerable boring of Cheveley, are, to use an old adage, " enough to make a parson swear." We cannot quite understand how the mis- used wife of a stingy husband becomes pos- sessed of all the Mecldin and point lace, the diamond doves, "the costly chains," "the rare kerchiefs" and "rarer cashm.eres," in which she figures. There is one parting counsel we must bestow on Cheveley himself, called forth by his ponderously limping rhymes, of the "nursery" order. Ah! why will those unrivalled in one branch of hterature, still pant for fame in another? Why, Oh Cheveley! having mastered the art of prosing, why attempt the lighter graces of poetry? London, April 3, 1839. LADY CHEVELEY; THE WOMAN OF HONOUR, CANTO I. IS ihis the land to which all nations turn, A moral lesson from our homes to learn ? Is this the hopsted island, where the wife, In holy beauty leads her spotless life ! Where woman keeps her angel watch beside The bed of poverty, or couch of pride ! 14 Like the lone sunbeam, cheering as it glides, Through grated cells, where misery resides ; Or like the flower, the welcome flower that springs, To soothe and cheer our lonely wanderings ! Where, should wild passions lead man's heart astray. She, weeping, wins him back to virtue's way. Where, round the hearth-stones of our homes arise, Virtues all ripe to blossom in the skies ! Where world-stained wand'rers find the gentle friend, Prompt to forgive and ready to defend ! Where, shrinking from vain scenes that yield no rest, Man seeks the shelter of one faithful breast ! 15 Where from the false and fickle world he turns To one whose love with ceaseless ardor burns ! One who would shelter though all earth should blame, And teach his children yet to bless his name ! Is this the land where woman's heart is true ? Daughters of England, blush! for upon you Shall fall some share of her undying shame, AVhose Hsehood would defile a husband's fame ! Yes, while ye smile upon that venomed page, A lasting blot upon a maudlin age, Smile while the traitor wife, the fire-side spy. Weaves the base slander, and the specious lie. 16 And makes the object of her loathsome mirlh, A son's fond pride in her who gave him birth; Mocking that mother, loved with all the zeal, Such hearts as hers can wake, and his can feel, Oh! while a wife wilh malricidal dart Would strike a husband through his mother's heart: Then, if you spurn her not, wilh one acclaim, You share her matchless sin, her deathless shame! And you, ye husbands ! shall we call on you, The many guilty! and the faultless few ! Who, whether envy prompt, or folly plead, Smile, as this tale of sacrilege you read, 17 In hopes to find that mighty one brought low ! In hopes to batten on another's woe; Or, at the best, caught in a specious snare Of pity for the feeble and the fair ! Be wise betimes, for retribution glides. When least expected, to our fire-sides. True, those illiterate pages* may bespeak The mind untaught, and pitifully weak. * Witness the gross errors in English grammar, the incor- rect and mis-spelt French — perhaps in some few cases mis- prints; but if one tithe be errors of the press, never did prin- ter's devil so well deserve his name. 2 .'o r^or♦ f 18 And a mistaken chivalry of heart Bid man uphold an erring woman's part She may be fair ! what halo would you fling Around a painted reptile with a sting ? Its hues are bright— 'tis weak"! its venomed dart May yet prove fatal to a trusting heart ! Oh ! when a reptile's hue its sting endears, Then shed these mawkish and degrading tears ! But mark ! you smile, while nobler bosoms bleed A wife betrays, and you applaud the deed 1 You laugh to see another's home defiled, A mother brand the father of her child — 19 You see not through the vista of long years The daughter's burning blush and scalding tears— You know not how such blasting falsehoods bow Young beauty's form, and sickly o'er her brow ! How, when she seeks her injured father's side. And gazes with a fond and filial pride On him, whose well-won fame is known where'er Genius is recognised and truth is fair ! Oh, then you know not how her cheek will burn. Should watchful envy to this record turn; How she will weep o'er her unhappy fate, Forced to condemn her whom she cannot hate ! 20 Ponder on this, ye sentimental swains ! Less fit for cities than Arcadian plains ; And when a bosom-serpent stings your breast, With maudlin sonnets, lull yourselves to rest, While round your household gods base reptiles rise, Then talk of tears in feeble woman's eyes ! While to the bitter world you see betrayed Each confidence in trusting fondness made. So garbled that you scarce discern, in sooth, 'Mid gulfs of falsehood, one faint speck of truth. Oh ! when you find in her who bears your name. The cold remorseless sland'rer of your fame. 21 Then if you grieve, grieve silent and alone, Nor seek the sympathy you have not shown !■ Remember that you smiled, a wife to find — Unblushing own the adultery of the mind,* Who dipped her brush in gall to paint her lord, Then paused to own another was adored, That other — heir of everlasting shame ! — The Sawney Cheveley, ponderously tame ! * What sophistry can disguise the fact, that had Lady de Clifford indeed entertained the feelings described towards Che- veley — though if pure in conduct, she would have been stained v.'ith the adultery of the mind? 22 Reraember when she dared her page defile With Cheveley's prosing love and dastard wile, And closed the scene, as though all shame to brave. Sporting with Cheveley o'er her husband's grave ! * You scarcely shuddered at the sick'ning view ; 'Twas very bad — but what was that to you ? Yet truth is truth, that deadly web was wrought Out of the venom of a woman's thought ; t * See the last mawkish scene of this immoral work. t Every circumstance corroborates this important fact. 23 She had not loved — no dastard dared to claim One sigh of hers, who bore so proud a name ; . She was all hate — but well she knew how best To wound so sensitive, so proud a breast ; She knew her lord would rather rest his head Where the red earth-worm shares the lowly bed, Than deem her even in one thought defiled, His wife — the mother of his infant child ! All fiction, then, this tale of love appears — All fiction Julia's smiles, and Cheveley's tears ; But listen now to an unvarnished tale, I . Whose strength is truth, a strength that must prevail. 24 There is an antique hall, whose patriarch trees Bow their proud heads beneath the summer breeze, Like aged warriors, courteous to the fair. They brave the storm, yet woo the balmy air. It is an English home, with emerald glades, And 'graceful deer reposing in the shades ; Old Time sits brooding 'neath its hoary walls, Yet welcomes modern graces to its halls ; And blushing fruits from every clime are there. And flowers from every land enrich the air ; 25 And boundless wealth has wrought what taste has planned, And Art and Nature there go hand in hand ! And from the world retired, in this fair home, One early widowed watched her orphan's bloom, The beau ideal of an English dame, Ere o'er our island France's mildew came ; Her heart was humble, yet a modest pride Her pure and gentle nature dignified ; Her children all her care, her home her boast, They know this best— they who have wronged hei most — 26 How beautiful a mother's deathless love ! How pure the pra5'er her fondness wafts above ! What sleepless nights, if childhood's cheek grow pale, What terrors seem to hover in the gale ! With hand how patient, yet how gently kind. She sows and reaps the harvest of the mind ! How meekly trains the children of her love To seek betimes the orphan's sire above ! And never 'neath a mother's anxious care Bloomed flowers more promising, or fruit more fair. They grew in grace and beauty, and became An added glory to their ancient name. 27 One had dark eyes, and cheeks with vigils pale, — A hero he ! — but not of this our tale ; In Fame's proud temple he has won a home, And Slander breathes in vain — his wreath will bloom ! But he of whom we sing was tall and fair. With a proud brow, and the rich golden hair, The radiant treasure Nature showers down* On those foredoomed to wear Fame's golden crown ; * If we turn to the pictures of the poets of the past and present day, we shall find the greater number with fair, golden, or chestnut hair. 28 And oh ! how often Beauty takes a pride In deckhig those by Genius dignified ! And he had large and melancholy >eyes, That seemed to win their azure from the skies, And fairest features, and a lip whose smile Would baleful Envy of her sting beguile ! A graceful form, a hand all fit to twine Immortal flowers round young Dian's shrine, Yet practised still to curb the fiery steed, And win in every manly strife the meed. And well his heart responded to that form, Proud, sensitive, yet in affection warm ; 29 And Genius' fatal boons to him belong, The soul of feeling, and the gift of song. . Well might that mother glory to behold The fairest blossoms of his mind unfold, And smile, when at her feet he laid the meed, The early wreath, by classic Cam decreed. If faults he had, those faults they sprang, in sooth, From daring genius and from gen'rous youth ; — A gifted boy ! — earth echoed with his fame. And sages knew and reverenced his name ! Alas ! the fate of genius, " doomed to trust. To fling a halo round a thing of dust;" 30 To clothe its bright creations with a form No truth can dignify, no love can warm ; Such was his fate, he loved as genius loves, No kindred flame his soulless idol moves : She smiled upon his fortune and his fame. She felt the magic influence of a name. Of gentle birth, yet by dependence bowed, She burned to smile defiance on the crowd Of those who long had taught her to endure All bitter trials that await the poor. By sorrow to De Clifford's heart endeared. The more the world oppress'd, the more that heart reverVJ ; 31 He, yet with boyhood's generous impulse warm, She rich in womanhood's well-ripened charm. And she was fair, her beauty of that kind Where animation counterfeits a mind ! A mocking smile, but then that sniile displayed The softest dimples Nature's hand has made ! Too much an Amazon to win my choice, — But then she had so musical a voice ! Yes! she was fair— beauty had done her part, She wanted but one trifle more— a heart! He, her young lover, before whom she. shone With the reflected lustre of his own ; 32 He, blinded, maddened, shrinking from the voice Of her, whose wisdom disapproved the choice ; He won, he bore her his proud home to share, — Oh, that himself should place a serpent there ! LADY CHEVELEY. CANTO 11. AH, who would seek the flattering veil to raise, And on the heart's deformity to gaze ! Who would not start 'neath beauty's mask to find. The heart of falsehood — the perverted mind ? 3 34 Alas ! our hearts, the only touchstones prove, Too oft revealing that 'tis dross we love ! And now there sits upon De Clifford's cheek, That woe, the lip is all too proud to speak ! And cold estrangement winds her icy spell, Around the gen'rous heart that loved so well; And was the idol, of that clay, whence spring The reptile tribe that blacken while they sting ? Yes, her insatiate vanity of heart. E'en of the love she scorn'd would spare no part ! Nor brook to find that on a mother's breast, The brow of disappointed love could rest. 35 All early ties, her cruel scoff became, Naught sacred to her heart in friendship's name ;* And to that heart a sweeter joy would prove, The world's base fiatt'ry, than the husband's love ! Nay more, to her perverted mind, the fame That should have been her boast, her curse became, And envy sate within her secret thought, And wove the snare, in which herself is caught. * See the base and puerile attack, on those valued and valuable friends of De Clifford, those highly-gifted writers and estimable men, who figure in Cheveley's pages as Messrs, Fonnoir and Fuzboz. 36 And holiest ties De Clifford's bosom claim, And lovely children lisp a Father's name. With subtle skill the dastard clue she found Through each affection of the heart to wound ; While lips, that should be oracles of truth. With ready lies defiled the ear of youth ! And calmly still she sought with treacherous art. To check the fondness of his children's heart. Ah me ! how cold, how cheerless is the home. Where young affections wither in their bloom ; AVhere no kind voice is heard in grief to cheer, No eye is seen to shed the pitying tear ! 37 From his cold hearth stone then De CUfford turned, To where the lamp of Fame immortal burned! And in communion with the mighty dead, Forgot the halcyon of the heart had fled ! Applauding senates listened to his voice, And Freedom smiled, and bade her sons rejoice ! Vindictive Julia ! didst thou writhe to find The blast that wreck'd his peace, had spared his mind ! That spite of all thy bitter hate could do The Muses welcomed one who fied from you ; Still in a mother's love a balm be found, To soothe the anguish of a cureless wound ; Ah! well she knew that anxious mother's voice Had warned De Clifford from his fatal choice ; And fiercest vengeance panted for the liour, "When Fate should give her victims to her power. Slie knew that mother's lieart no pang could prove, Like that which wrung the object of her love ! She knew that son could writhe beneath no dart, Like that which struck him through a mother's heart! And she was one whose very hatred smiled, Whose guile could wear the archness of a child ! 39 And hers the treacherous power which none escape ! Buffoon'ry's boast, the talent of the ape !* Long had she sought her husband's heart to wound, And writhed to see each harmless shaft rebound ! At length her heartless mimickry she tries. On one she knew all sacred in his eyes ! Even she was awed, for from his very heart Came sternly forth the solemn words, "we part!" And that proud spirit which had slept so long, Was roused to vengeance by a mother's wrong ! * See Cheveley's absurd eulogy on mimickry, and Lord de Clifford's just condemnation of the base and treacherous practice. 40 With ashes strewn, and soiled with secret tears, Who envies now the wreath young Genius wears ? Alas ! the crown, in public proudly worn, Conceals the cypress bud, the galling thorn ! A lonely man, and seldom seen to smile. Pride hid the worm that gnawed his heart the while. In his lone home no roseate blossom smiled — He could not part the mother and the child ! For his, the noble breast that might not bear, E'en of one so false, the wild despair ! And still he deemed that if her heart could prove One human feeling, 'twas maternal love ! 1 41 And vainly now his spirit sought relief In glory's temple, from domestic grief. One evening to his lonely home he bore A wreath, like that immortal Shakspeare wore ! And o'er his soKtude the echo came, Of shouts of triumph, mingled with his name ! And we may deem, his eyes were full of tears — How cold the triumph which no loved one shares ! Too proud to mourn, he sought his mind t'engage Willi the cold woes of a fictitious page ; He turns the leaves — ah! has a viper stung! His cheek grows pale, his noble brow is wrung ! L 42 Oh, monstrous! see, the mother of his child, With blackest slander has his name defiled ! And o'er his noble heart a sickness came, Not for his own, but for her deathless shame. The coarse allusion, the indecent jest. The falsehood half revealed and half supprest, And vilest calumnies profusely poured On the fond mother whom his heart adored. His sacred anguish is no theme for song — But heaven is merciful and truth is strong ! He still could trace upon that mother's cheek The holy sympathy no words can speak ! i Still is his spotless name to Britain dear ! And friendship still his wounded heart can cheer ! But his were trials which no muse may sing, To spare the viper, while he felt the sting ! To know the sanctity of home defiled ! To blush for her, the mother of his child ! In silent pride his cruel wrongs to bear, To know that words could crush — and yet to spare jj And feel that pride compelled him to return The loud-tongued slander with a silent scorn ! Oh you ! who, safe in ambush, aimed the dart Of coward malice at a husband's heart ! I 44 Presuming on your tale of deathless shame To stamp Religion's venerated name ; Who, while you coined the base and hollow tale, Before whose grossness virtue's cheek grows pale, With hand all reeking from the dastard deed. Have dared allusions to a Saviour's creed ! No shaft from virtue's bow can reach thee now ! Thou of the granite heart ! the brazen brow ! But still my muse her warning song shall weave. Lest Envy triumph— lest the weak believe ! LofC. 45 \ Yes, when his warm and gen'rous hand supplied The wedding portion of a peasant-bride,* - The deed so worthy of his noble name Was made the base of such a tale of shame ; — Like charnel lights, that from corruption shine, It glares from Cheveley's page — 'twould sully mine ! Witli vengeance glutted — traitress ! canst thou rest ! f No, fled for aye, the halcyon of the breast ! Already thine in solitude to nurse Th' insatiate vulture of the heart, remorse ! * See the overdrawn and improbable story of Mary Lee, which it is needless to contradict, since it so often contradicts itself. 46 See, from thy waning charms base flatterers fly ! Read ! read ! thy shame in each averted eye. Behold th' inevitable hour is come ! "When woman's scene of happiness is home ! Crushed 'neath the mount of curses, thou hast piled ! Weep for the home thy falsehood has defiled ! Yet list! the muse shall teach thee where to find The only solace of the guilty mind ! Glad tidings greet the trembling heirs of Sin ; Ah, who has said, ' Compel them to come in !' It- 47 i Oh, seek, thou false one! through long after years, To wash this stain in penitential tears ! . Then to thy husband's feet ; if there forgiven, May pitying angels plead for thee in Heaven ! THE END. ^ STfiiv Axm zzmsRzssTZNe books. Carey Sf Hart have lately published Mr. Lander's New Work, PERICLES AND ASPASIA. 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