> 
 
 : ^
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 OF ILLINOIS 
 
 LZ36r 
 1831 
 
 v.l
 
 ROMANCE 
 
 AND 
 
 REALITY 
 
 L. E. L. 
 
 >-l c>\ 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 THE IMPROVISATRICE," " THE VENETIAN BRACELET," 
 
 &c. &c. &c. 
 
 Thus have I begun ; 
 And 'tis my hope to end successfully. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 HENRY COLBURN AND RICHARD BENTLEY, 
 
 NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 
 
 1831.
 
 LONDON: 
 
 J. MOYES, CASTLE STREET, LEICESTER SQUARE.
 
 82 3 
 1831 
 
 v. I 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Rousseau says, nobody reads prefaces. I 
 suspect there is more truth in the asser- 
 tion than one is quite willing to admit ; 
 for a preface is a species of literary 
 luxury, where an author, like a lover, 
 is privileged to be egotistical ; and really 
 it is very pleasant to dwell upon our 
 own thoughts, hopes, fears, and feelings. 
 But all this is laying a very " flattering 
 unction to our souls ; " for who really 
 enters into our thoughts, cares for our 
 hopes, allows for our fears, or sympathises 
 with our feelings ? The gratitude and 
 the modesty of an author are equally 
 thrown away. Our readers only open 
 our pages for amusement : if they find it, 
 well and good — if not, our most eloquent 
 pleading will not make them read on. 
 The term " courteous reader" is as much
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 a misnomer as any of the grandiloquent 
 titles of the Great Mogul, Emperor of 
 the World — which means a league round 
 Delhi. 
 
 Prefaces want reform quite as much 
 as Parliament : so I beg to retrench the 
 gratitude, modesty, &c. usual on such 
 occasions. Piron used to observe, that 
 the introductory speeches made when a 
 member was elected to the French In- 
 stitute, were quite superfluous, and that 
 the new Academician needed only to say, 
 " Messieurs, grand merci ;" while the Di- 
 recteur should answer, " // ilij a pas de 
 quoi." I am sure that when the author 
 begins his " grand merci" to the public, 
 that public may very well reply, " // riy 
 a pas de quoi"
 
 NOTE. 
 
 Misfortunes will happen in the best-regulated fa- 
 milies ; and, in despite of the world of pains bestowed 
 on the correction of the following pages, one mistake 
 occurs, and for which I cannot have the consolation 
 of blaming any one but myself. It would be a great 
 comfort if I could conscientiously put it as an erra- 
 tum ; but it is, as the young lady once thought her 
 lover, " mine and mine only." Lord Etheringhame 
 is called at first Reginald, and afterwards Algernon. 
 The truth is, I could not decide what to call 
 him, and altered his appellation some dozen times. 
 This mistake, however, occurs no where but in the 
 early scenes of the first volume, and will, I trust, be 
 pardoned. Only a modern author can know the 
 plague of names. I have read the Peerage through 
 twice, and actually became interested in the divi- 
 sions of the House, to see if there was " a pretty 
 name" in either majority or minority. But for the 
 great care of " the readers" connected with the 
 press through which these pages have passed, both 
 heroine and hero would have undergone that pecu- 
 liarly English reproach of " being called out of their
 
 NOTE. 
 
 name" in almost every chapter. I do not go quite 
 so far as the lively American writer, who, in the 
 amusing tale of the " CacoetLes Scribendi," en- 
 courages her whole family to write, by the assurance 
 that " the printers would find them grammar and 
 spelling;" but I do gratefully confess my obliga- 
 tions have been many to mine. The long sen- 
 tences made short, the obscure made plain, the 
 favourite words that would, like " Monsieur Tonson, 
 come again," the duplicate quotations, — for the 
 amendment of all these, I beg to make at once my 
 acknowledgments and my thanks.
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " It was an ancient venerable hall." — Crabbe. 
 
 " This is she, 
 Our consecrated Emily." — Wordsworth. 
 
 Such a room as must be at least a century's 
 remove from London, large, white, and wain- 
 scoted ; six narrow windows, red curtains most 
 ample in their dimensions, an Indian screen, a 
 present in which expectation had found " ample 
 space and verge enough" to erect theories of 
 their cousin the nabob's rich legacies, ending, 
 however, as many such expectations do, in a 
 foolish marriage and a large family ; a dry- 
 rubbed floor, only to have been stepped in the 
 days of hoops and handings ; and some dozen 
 of large chairs covered with elaborate tracery, 
 each chair cover the business of a life spent 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY 
 
 in satin-stitch. On the walls were divers whole- 
 length portraits, most pastoral-looking grand- 
 mammas, when a broad green sash, a small 
 straw hat, whose size the very babies of our 
 time would disdain, a nosegay somewhat larger 
 than life, a lamb tied with pink riband, con- 
 cocted a shepherdess just stepped out of an 
 eclogue into a picture. Grandpapas by their 
 side, one hand, or rather three fingers, in the 
 bosom of each flowered waistcoat, the small 
 three-cornered hat under each arm ; two sedate- 
 looking personages in gowns and wigs, and 
 one — the fine gentleman of the family — in a 
 cream-coloured coat, extending a rose for the 
 benefit of the company in general. Over the 
 chimney-piece was a glass, in a most intricate 
 frame of cut crystal within the gilt one, which 
 gave you the advantage of seeing your face in 
 square, round, oblong, triangular, or all shapes 
 but its natural one. On each side the fire- 
 place was an arm chair ; and in them sat, first, 
 Mr. Arundel, reading the county newspaper 
 as if he had been solving a problem ; and, 
 secondly, his lady dozing very comfortably over 
 her knitting ; while the centre of the rug was 
 occupied by two white cats, — one worked in 
 worsted, and surrounded by a wreath of roses
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 3 
 
 — the other asleep, with a blue riband round 
 her neck ; and all as still and quiet as the 
 Princess Nonchalante — who, during her lover's 
 most earnest supplication, only begged he would 
 not hurry himself — could have wished. 
 
 The quiet was not very lasting, for the fire 
 was stirred somewhat suddenly, the chairs 
 pushed aside somewhat hastily, the cat dis- 
 turbed, but without any visible notice from 
 either reader or sleeper. " My aunt asleep — 
 my uncle as bad !" exclaimed Emily Arundel, 
 emerging from the corner where she had been 
 indulging in one of those moods which may be 
 called melancholy or sullen, out of temper or 
 out of spirits, accordingly as they are spoken 
 of in the first or second person ; and Emily was 
 young, pretty, and spoilt enough to consider 
 herself privileged to indulge in any or all of 
 them. 
 
 The course of life is like the child's game 
 
 — u here we go round by the rule of contrary " 
 — and youth, above all others, is the season of 
 united opposites, with all its freshness and 
 buoyancy. At no period of our existence is de- 
 pression of the spirits more common or more 
 painful. As we advance in life our duties be- 
 come defined ; we act more from necessity and
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITV 
 
 less from impulse; custom takes the place of 
 energy, and feelings, no longer powerfully ex- 
 cited, are proportionally quiet in reaction. But 
 youth, balancing itself upon hope, is for ever 
 in extremes ; its expectations are continually 
 aroused only to be baffled ; and disappointment, 
 like a summer shower, is violent in proportion 
 to its brevity. 
 
 Young she was — but nineteen, that plea- 
 santest of ages, just past the blushing, bridling, 
 bewildering coming out, when a courtesy and a 
 compliment are equally embarrassing; when 
 one half the evening is spent in thinking what 
 to do and say, and the other half in repenting 
 what has been said and done. Pretty she was 
 — very pretty: a profusion of dark, dancing 
 ringlets, that caught the sun-beams and then 
 kept them prisoners ; beautiful dark-gray eyes 
 with large black pupils, very mirrors of her 
 meaning; that long curled eye-lash, which gives 
 a softness nothing else can give ; features small, 
 but Grecian in their regularity ; a slight deli- 
 cate figure, an ankle fit for a fairy, a hand fit 
 for a duchess, — no marvel Emily was the 
 reigning beauty of the county. Sprung from 
 one of its oldest families, its heiress too, the 
 idol of her uncle and aunt, who had brought
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 her up from infancy; accustomed to be made 
 much of, that most captivating kind of flattery, 
 — it may be pardoned if her own estimate was 
 a very pleasant one. Indeed, with the ex- 
 ception of young gentlemen she had refused, 
 and young ladies she had rivalled, Emily was 
 universally liked : kind, enthusiastic, warm, and 
 affectionate, her good qualities were of a popu- 
 lar kind; and her faults — a temper too hasty, a 
 vanity too cultivated— were kept pretty well in 
 the background by the interest or affection, 
 by the politeness or kindness, of her usual 
 circle. To conclude, she was very much like 
 other young ladies, excepting that she had 
 neither lover nor confidante : a little romance, 
 a little pride, and not a little good taste, had 
 prevented the first, so that the last was not 
 altogether indispensable. 
 
 Her father had been the youngest brother, 
 and, like many other younger brothers, both 
 unnecessary and imprudent ; a captain in a 
 dragoon regiment, who spent his allowance on 
 his person, and his pay on his horse. He was 
 the last man in the world who ought to have 
 fallen in love, excepting with an heiress, yet he 
 married suddenly and secretly the pretty and 
 portionless Emily Delawarr, and wrote home
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 to ask pardon and cash. The former was with- 
 held on account of the latter, till his elder 
 brother's unexceptionable marriage with Miss 
 Belgrave, and her estate, gave him an interest 
 in the family which he forthwith exerted in 
 favour of Captain Arundel. But a few short 
 years, and the young officer died in battle, and 
 his widow only survived to place their orphan 
 girl in Mr. and Mrs. Arundel's care, to whom 
 Emily had ever been even as their own. 
 
 Mr. Arundel was a favourable specimen of 
 the old school, when courtesy, though stately, 
 was kind, and, though elaborate, yet of costly 
 materiel; a well-read, though not a literary 
 man — every body did not write in his day — 
 generous to excess; and if proud, his conscious- 
 ness of gentlemanlike descent was but shewn 
 in his strictness of gentlemanlike feelings. The 
 last of a very old family, an indolent, perhaps 
 an over-sensitive temper — often closely allied 
 — had kept him a quiet dweller on his own 
 lands; and though, from increasing expenses 
 without increasing funds, many an old manor 
 and ancient wood had developed those aerial 
 propensities which modern times have shewn to 
 be inherent in their nature, and had made them- 
 selves wings and flown away, yet enough re-
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 7 
 
 mained for dignity, and more than enough for 
 comfort : and in a county where people had 
 large families, Emily was an heiress of con- 
 siderable pretension. 
 
 His lady was one of those thousand-and-one 
 women who wore dark silk dresses and lace 
 caps — who, after a fashion of their own, have 
 made most exemplary wives ; that is to say, 
 they took to duties instead of accomplishments, 
 and gave up music when they married — who 
 spent the mornings in the housekeeper's room, 
 and the evenings at the tea-table, waiting for 
 the guests who came not — who rose after the 
 first glass of wine — whose bills and calls were 
 paid punctually, and whose dinners were a credit 
 to them. In addition to this, she always knit- 
 ted Mr. A.'s worsted stockings with her own 
 hands, was good-natured, had a whole book of 
 receipts, and loved her husband and niece as 
 parts of herself. 
 
 Few families practised more punctuality and 
 propriety, and perhaps in few could more hap- 
 piness, or rather content, be found. Occasion- 
 ally, Mr. Arundel's temper might be ruffled by 
 pheasants and poachers, and his wife's by some 
 ill-dressed dish ; but then there were the quar- 
 ter sessions to talk of, and other and faultless
 
 8 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 dinners to redeem aught of failure in the last. 
 Sometimes Emily might think it was rather 
 dull, and lay down the Morning Post with a 
 sigh, or close her novel with a hope ; but in 
 general her spirits were buoyant as her steps, 
 and the darling of the household was also its 
 life and delight. But to-night, the third rainy 
 evening of three rainy days, every flower in the 
 divers china bowls, cups, vases, was withered ; 
 the harp was out of tune with the damp ; and 
 Emily betook herself to the leafy labyrinth of a 
 muslin flounce, la belle alliance of uselessness 
 and industry.
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITV. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 -And haunted to our very age 
 
 With the vain shadow of the past." — Mazeppa. 
 
 " Who knocks so late, 
 
 And knocks so loud at our convent gate ?" — Scott. 
 
 But one rosebud and half a leaf of the flounce 
 were finished, when it was hastily restored to 
 the work-box, the ringlets involuntarily smooth- 
 ed back, both uncle and aunt awakened, for a 
 carriage had driven rapidly into the court; a 
 loud ring at the gates, and a loud barking of 
 the dogs, had announced an arrival. In less 
 than two minutes Mr. Delawarr had entered 
 the room, and been installed in a seat near the 
 fire ; Mrs. Arundel had vanished; and her hus- 
 band had called up his best manner, his kindest, 
 to welcome one who, though an old friend, had 
 been mostly recalled to his memory by the 
 newspaper. The visitor was as gracefully as 
 briefly rather accounting than apologising for 
 his sudden intrusion, by saying that an acci- 
 b 2
 
 10 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 dent to his carriage had made him late, and 
 turned him from the direct road ; and that, 
 though a sportsman no longer, he could not be 
 so near without coming to see if his old in- 
 structor in the game laws had quite forgotten 
 the feats of other days. Now this was both 
 vrai and vraisemblable enough ; for, to do Mr. 
 Delawarr justice, if there had been mention 
 made of the declining health of the member 
 for Avonsford, and of his friend's influence in 
 that town, at whose entrance stood the ancient 
 family house, it only gave inclination a motive, 
 or rather an excuse for indulgence. 
 
 Very different was the impression produced 
 on all the party. Mr. Arundel could not con- 
 ceal his surprise, or rather emotion, to see in 
 the pale, mind- worn brow — the elegant but in- 
 dolent movements of the man of forty, so little 
 trace remaining of the bright-eyed and bright- 
 haired, the lively and impetuous favourite of 
 nineteen ; still less in the worldly, half-studied, 
 half-sarcastic tone of his conversation, did any 
 thing recall the romance, the early enthusiasm, 
 which once rendered the interest he inspired 
 one of anxiety. But Mr. Arundel forgot that 
 the most sparkling wines soonest lose that 
 sparkle. The impetuosity of youth becomes
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. H 
 
 energy in manhood, and Mr. Delawarr's stormy- 
 political career was one to call forth every 
 talent : circumstances form the character, but, 
 like petrifying waters, they harden while they 
 form. 
 
 To Mrs. Arundel he was the same as any 
 other guest — one who was to eat, drink, and 
 sleep in her house ; all her hopes, fears, " an 
 undistinguishable throng," rested with her cook 
 and housemaid. 
 
 Emily had at first shrunk back, in that in- 
 tuitive awe which all little people at least must 
 have experienced — the feeling which fixes the 
 eye and chains the lip, on finding ourselves 
 for the first time in the presence of some great 
 man, hitherto to us as an historical portrait, 
 one whose thoughts are of the destinies of na- 
 tions, whose part seems in the annals of Eng- 
 land, and not in its society. If such there be, 
 who can come in contact with a being like this 
 without drawing the breath more quickly and 
 quietly, they have only less excitability than 
 we have ; and for them taut pis or taut mieux, 
 according to that golden rule of judgment, as 
 it turns out. This, however, wore off; the 
 attention of a superior is too flattering to our 
 vanity not to call it forth, and , Emily soon
 
 12 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 found herself talking, smiling, and singing her 
 very best : not that Mr. Delawarr was, gene- 
 rally speaking, at all like the knights of old, 
 voids aux dames. Married metaphorically to 
 his place in the ministry, and actually to the 
 daughter of Lord Etheringhame ; too worldly 
 to be interested, too busy to be amused ; young 
 ladies were very much to him what inhabitants 
 in a borough without votes are — non-entities in 
 creation. But sentiment, like salt, is so uni- 
 versal an ingredient in our composition, that 
 even Mr. Delawarr, years and years ago, had 
 looked at a rainbow to dream of a cheek, had 
 gathered violets with the dew on them, and 
 thought them less bright than the eyes to 
 which they were offerings, had rhymed to one 
 beloved name, and had felt one fair cousin to 
 be the fairest of created things. That cousin 
 was Emily's mother, and her great likeness 
 to her called up a host of early fancies and feel- 
 ings, over which he scarcely knew whether to 
 sigh or smile. He might smile to think how 
 the lover had wasted his time, and yet sigh to 
 think how pleasantly it had been wasted. But 
 Mr. Delawarr knew well, 
 
 " 'Tis folly to dream of a bower of green, 
 When there is not a leaf on the tree ;"
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 13 
 
 and, turning from the past to the present, a little 
 judicious appreciation of his host's claret and 
 conversation obtained, before they parted for the 
 night, more than a hint that Mr. Arundel's influ- 
 ence in the borough was at the disposal of the 
 man who so well understood his country's true 
 interests. Still, Emily was not forgotten ; and 
 the next morning she looked so like her mother 
 while pouring the cream into his coffee, that 
 the invitation he gave her to visit Lady Alicia 
 in London was as sincere as it was cordially 
 expressed. And when they gathered, with old- 
 fashioned courtesy, on the stone steps of the 
 ancient hall, to give their parting greeting, as 
 the carriage drove off with true English haste, 
 never did man leave his character more safely 
 behind him. Mr. Arundel went to read a 
 pamphlet on the corn laws with double-distilled 
 admiration, after his own conviction had been 
 strengthened by that of one of his majesty's 
 ministers ; Emily went to her favourite lime- 
 walk, to wonder what Lady Alicia was like, to 
 dream of the delights of a " London season," 
 to admire Mr. Delawarr's manner, — in short, 
 he need only not have been a politician (the 
 very name was a stumbling-block to a young 
 lady's romance), and he would have been erect-
 
 14 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 ed into a hero fit for a modern novel, a destiny 
 not exactly what he anticipated. Mrs. Arun- 
 del was as thoroughly satisfied as either, per- 
 haps more so, for she was satisfied with her- 
 self — a supper, sleeping, and breakfast, got 
 through without a blunder; so to her house- 
 keeper she went " in her glory."
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 15 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " Two springs I saw." — Moore. 
 
 " Good night — how can such night be good ?" — Shelley. 
 
 " Night, oh, not night : where are its comrades twain — 
 silence and sleep ?" — L. E. L. 
 
 Snow-dropped, crocused,and violeted Spring, 
 in the country, was beginning to consider about 
 making her will, and leaving her legacies of 
 full-blown flowers and green fruit to Summer, 
 when a letter from town arrived, franked by 
 Montague Delawarr, M.P., saying, that as the 
 spring was now commencing in town, perhaps 
 Miss Arundel would remember a hope she 
 once gave, and comply with the request con- 
 tained in the note which the said Mr. Delawarr 
 had the honour of enclosing. 
 
 The note expressed the usual number of fears, 
 honours, and pleasures, which usually accom- 
 pany invitations ; was written in a hand of 
 even more than usually elegant unintelligible 
 expansiveness j was on pale sea-green paper,
 
 16 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 sealed with lilac wax ; and came from Lady 
 Alicia. Now this was a most disinterested act ; 
 for the member had recovered, and taken that 
 step of all others which insures existence, pur- 
 chased a life annuity; and it is a well-known 
 fact in physiology, that annuitants and old 
 women never die. But Mr. Delawarr had 
 taken an interest in his young relative ; he 
 knew his house was one of the most elegant, 
 his wife one of the best-dressed women in Lon- 
 don, and that she never spent an evening at 
 home, — could he do more for Emily than open 
 such a vista of fetes and fashions to her futurity? 
 If any of the party at Arundel House hesitated 
 about the invitation's affirmative, it was her- 
 self. Her aunt had a great notion of giving 
 young people as much pleasure as possible, 
 for they would have no time for it after they 
 were married ; and her uncle, kind and affec- 
 tionate, only thought of his favourite's enjoy- 
 ment, perhaps her advantage. Like many men 
 of quiet manners, and still quieter habits, his 
 imagination was active in the extreme, and had 
 been but little put out of its way by either 
 worldly exertions or disappointments. Thus, be- 
 fore his first egg was finished, Emily had re- 
 fused three baronets, looked coldly on a viscount,
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 17 
 
 had two earls at her feet; and, if the object of 
 this reverie had not destroyed her own good 
 fortune by speaking, she was in a fair way of 
 becoming a duchess. 
 
 But, though to Emily London was as much 
 an El Dorado as novels and novelty could make 
 it ; yet if her first exclamation was delight, her 
 second was, " But, my dear uncle, you will 
 miss me so;" and a long array of solitary walks 
 and lonely rides rose almost reproachfully to 
 her mind. This, however, the uncle would not 
 admit ; and youth, if not selfish, is at least 
 thoughtless ; so a few minutes saw Emily bound- 
 ing up stairs, with spirits even lighter than her 
 steps, to answer the important billet, which she 
 had already conned over till she could have 
 repeated it from the " Dear Miss Arundel" at 
 the beginning, to the " Alicia C. F. G. Delawarr" 
 of the signature. Many a sheet of paper was 
 thrown aside in various stages, from two to ten 
 lines — twice was the ink changed, and twenty 
 times the pen, before a note worthy of either 
 writer or reader could be effected : but time 
 and the post wait for no man, and necessity 
 was in this case, as in most others, the mother 
 of invention. 
 
 The next week passed, as such weeks always
 
 18 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 do, in doing nothing, because so much is to be 
 done — in packing and unpacking, till the Laby- 
 rinth of Crete was nothing to that of trunks ; in 
 farewell calls, in lingering walks, in careful 
 commendations to the gardener of divers pet 
 roses, carnations, &c. ; and more than three 
 parts of the time at her uncle's side, who every 
 now and then began giving good advice, which 
 always ended in affectionate wishes. 
 
 The morning of her departure arrived — cold, 
 rainy, miserable, but very much in unison with 
 Emily's feelings. A great change in life is like 
 a cold bath in winter — we all hesitate at the first 
 plunge. Affection is more matter of habit than 
 sentiment, more so than we like to admit ; and 
 she was leaving both habits and affections be- 
 hind. There were the servants gathered in 
 the hall, with proper farewell faces ; her aunt, 
 hitherto busy in seeing the carriage duly 
 crammed with sandwiches and sweetmeats, 
 having nothing more to do, began to weep. A 
 white handkerchief is a signal of distress al- 
 ways answered ; and when Mr. Arundel took 
 his place beside his niece, he had nothing but 
 the vague and usual consolation of " Love, pray 
 don't cry so," to offer for the first stage. 
 
 But the day and Emily's face cleared up at
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 19 
 
 last ; her uncle was still with her, the post- 
 boys drove with exhilarating rapidity, and 
 night found them seated by a cheerful fire, 
 with a good supper and better appetite. The 
 morning came again, and Mr. Arundel was now 
 to leave his niece. 
 
 " O pleasure ! you're indeed a pleasant thing ;" 
 
 and our heroine was setting off in pursuit of 
 it, as miserable as any young lady need be. 
 The last sight of the panels of the old yellow 
 coach was the signal for another burst of tears, 
 which extended to three stages to-day, and 
 perhaps would have reached to a fourth, had 
 she not been roused to anger by her maid's 
 laughter, whose gravity, though most exem- 
 plary in the outset, now gave way to the mirth 
 excited by the rapidity with which a pon- 
 derous-looking person, outside a stage-coach, 
 had lost hat, umbrella, and bundle, while the 
 vehicle rolled rapidly over them. There is 
 something very amusing in the misfortunes of 
 others. However, — to borrow an established 
 phrase from those worthy little volumes, en- 
 titled, the Clergyman's, Officer's, and Mer- 
 chant's Widows, when the disconsolate relict is 
 recalled from weeping over the dear departed,
 
 20 ROMANCE AND REALITY". 
 
 by the paramount necessity of getting one of 
 her fourteen children into the Blue-coat School, 
 — " the exertion did her good;" and she was 
 soon sufficiently amused to regret when the 
 darkness shut out all view save the post-boy. 
 
 Adventures never happen now-a-days ; there 
 are neither knights nor highwaymen; no lonely 
 heaths, with gibbets for finger-posts ; no hope of 
 even a dangerous rut, or a steep hill ; romance 
 and roads are alike macadamised ; no young 
 ladies are either run away with, or run over; — 
 and Emily arrived in inglorious safety among 
 the argand lamps and rosewood tables in Mr. 
 Delawarr's drawing-room — was properly wel- 
 comed — introduced — took a hasty dinner, for 
 her host was hurrying to the House, and her 
 hostess to the Opera — was supposed to be very 
 much fatigued — installed into a very pretty 
 little boudoir — and found herself in a seat by 
 the fire, tired enough for an arm-chair, but 
 much too excited for her pillow ; and she leaned 
 back in that most soothing state of indolence, 
 fireside's fantasies — while her uncle's wig, Lady 
 Alicia's black velvet hat, Mr. Delawarr's kind- 
 ness, &c. &c. floated down the (< river of her 
 thoughts." But the three hours before, of, and 
 after midnight in a fashionable square, are not
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 21 
 
 very favourable to a reverie, when the ear has 
 only been accustomed to the quiet midnights 
 of the country — where the quiet is rather echoed 
 than broken by the wind wandering among 
 boughs of the oak and beach, and whose every 
 leaf is a note of viewless and mysterious music. 
 But in London, where from door to door " leaps 
 the live thunder ;" the distant roll of wheels, 
 the nearer dash of carriages, the human voices 
 mingling, as if Babel were still building — these 
 soon awakened Emily's attention — even the fire 
 had less attraction than the window ; and below 
 was a scene, whose only fault is, we are so 
 used to it. 
 
 In the middle of the square was the garden, 
 whose sweep of turf was silvered with moon- 
 light ; around were the dark shining laurels, 
 and all the pale varieties of colour that flower 
 and shrub wear at such a time, and girdled 
 in by the line of large clear lamps, the spirits 
 of the place. At least every second house was 
 lighted up, and that most visible, the corner 
 one, was illuminated like a palace with the 
 rich stream of radiance that flowed through 
 the crimson blinds ; ever and anon a burst of 
 music rose upon the air, and was lost again 
 in a fresh arrival of carriages ; then the car-
 
 22 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 riages themselves, with their small bright lights 
 flitting over the shadowy foot passengers, — - 
 the whole square was left to the care of the 
 gas and the watchman, before Emily remem- 
 bered that she had next day to do justice to 
 her country roses.
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 23 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " Past twelve o'clock, and a cloudy morning." 
 
 The Watchman. 
 " Her elegant and accomplished ladyship." 
 
 Morning Post. 
 
 Emily just rose an hour too soon the next 
 morning — morning, that breaker of spells and 
 sleep. There was the garden dingy and dusty, 
 the green trees with a yellow fever, and the 
 flowering shrubs drooping as if they had been 
 crossed in love of the fresh air. The milkman 
 was, jailor-like, going his clanking rounds ; and, 
 instead of gay equipages waiting for the grace- 
 ful figures that passed over the steps lightly 
 as their blonde, — now stood a pail, a mop, and a 
 slipshod domestic, whose arms, at least, said 
 much for the carnations of London. Around, 
 like the rival houses of York and Lancaster, 
 some white, some red, stood mansions whose 
 nobility was certainly not of outward show, and 
 setting forth every variety of architecture save
 
 24 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 its own peculiar beauty, uniformity; and win- 
 dows on which " the dust of ages " had gathered, 
 and even that only dimly seen through smoke 
 and fog — those advantages of early rising in 
 London. The sun, the nurserymaids, and chil- 
 dren, had all come out before Emily was sum- 
 moned to the breakfast-table, where a French 
 soubrette — who made, as only her nation can do, 
 a pretty face out of nothing, with an apron 
 whose pockets were placed a Venvie, and a cap 
 put on a fair e mourir — was pouring out coffee 
 for the very fair, very languid, and very lady- 
 like Lady Alicia, who, enveloped in a large 
 shawl, was almost lost in that and the pillowed 
 arm-chair. 
 
 Few women, indeed, think, but most feel; 
 now Lady Alicia did neither : nature had made 
 her weak and indolent, and she had never been 
 placed in circumstances either to create or call 
 forth character. As an infant she had the 
 richest of worked robes, and the finest of lace 
 caps ; the nurse was in due time succeeded by 
 the nursery governess, whose situation was soon 
 filled by the most accomplished person the 
 united efforts of fourteen countesses could dis- 
 cover. Pianos, harps, colour-boxes, collars, 
 French, Italian, &c. &c. duly filled the school-
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 25 
 
 room : but for music Lady Alicia had no ear, 
 for dancing no liking, for drawing no taste ; and 
 French and Italian were, it must be owned, 
 somewhat unnecessary to one who considered 
 her own language an unnecessary fatigue. At 
 eighteen she came out, beautiful she certainly 
 was; highly accomplished — for Lady F., her 
 mother's intimate friend, had several times con- 
 fidentially mentioned the names of her mas- 
 ters ; while Lady C. had expressed her appro- 
 bation of the reserved dignity which led the 
 daughter of one of our oldest families to shun 
 that display which might gratify her vanity, 
 but wounded her pride. 
 
 All was prepared for a ducal coronet at 
 least; when the very day after her presentation, 
 her father went out of town, and the ministry 
 together; and three long useless years were 
 wasted in the stately seclusion of Etheringhame 
 Castle ; where the mornings in summer were 
 spent at a small table by the window, and in 
 winter by the fire, putting in practice the only 
 accomplishment that remained — like a ghost of 
 the past — cutting out figures and landscapes in 
 white paper, whose cold, colourless regularity 
 were too much in sympathy with herself for her 
 not to excel in the art. The middle of the day 
 vol. i. c
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 was devoted to a drive, if fair, — if wet, to won- 
 dering whether it would clear. Dressing came 
 next, — a mere mechanical adjustment of cer- 
 tain rich silks and handsome jewels, where 
 vanity was as much out of the question, as if 
 its own peculiar domain had not been a look- 
 ing-glass : with no one to attract, and, still 
 dearer hope, no one to surpass, cui bono ? for, 
 after all, vanity is like those chemical essences 
 whose only existence is when called into being 
 by the action of some opposite influence. 
 
 During dinner the Earl lamented the inevit- 
 able ruin to which the country was hastening ; 
 and, after grace had been said, the Countess 
 agreed with him, moreover observing, that dress 
 alone was destroying the distinction of ranks, 
 and that at church silks were commoner than 
 stuffs. Here the conversation ceased, and they 
 returned to the drawing-room ; the Countess 
 to sleep — Lady Alicia to cut out more paper 
 landscapes. 
 
 Twice a-year there was a great dinner, 
 to which she was regularly handed down by 
 the old Marquess of Snowdon, who duly im- 
 pressed upon her mind how very cold it was ; 
 and, in truth, he looked like an embodied 
 shiver.
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 27 
 
 At one and twenty an important change took 
 place. Lady Alicia was summoned from a little 
 paper poodle, on whose white curls she had been 
 bestowing peculiar pains, by the drawing-room 
 doors being thrown open with even more than 
 their usual solemnity, and she was informed, 
 by his own man, that his lordship requested her 
 presence in the library : the surprise was suffi- 
 ciently great to make her cut off her little dog's 
 tail. 
 
 The ex-minister was too important a person 
 to be kept waiting, at least in his own family ; 
 what he now wanted in quantity of authority, 
 he made up in quality. She descended into 
 the large Gothic room dedicated to the learning 
 of past ages, and the dignity of the present; a 
 large round table stood in the middle, covered 
 with political pamphlets, cut open, at least, 
 most carefully, and a newspaper lying on a 
 folio volume of Bolingbroke's. In a large arm- 
 chair, with the Peerage in one hand, and an 
 open letter in the other, whose seal, though 
 broken, still shewed the crimson glory of the 
 coat of arms, sat Lord Etheringhame ; and on 
 the other side, in a chair equally erect, and in 
 her person still more so, was the lady mother. 
 What circumstance could have occasioned such
 
 28 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 a change in the castle's domestic economy — a 
 matrimonial tete-a-tete at such unusual hours, 
 and in such an unusual place? What but a 
 circumstance that has authorised many extra- 
 ordinary proceedings — an offer of marriage. 
 Lady Alicia took the seat assigned her by a 
 wave of his lordship's hand. 
 
 " The consequence of our family," said her 
 father. 
 
 " The advantages of such a union," observed 
 the mother. 
 
 " The solitude to which my philosophical 
 and literary pursuits — " here the retired states- 
 man paused. 
 
 " Well aware of the excellent principles in- 
 stilled into your mind," exclaimed mamma. 
 
 " Connected with some of the first people in 
 the kingdom," ejaculated papa. 
 
 " Fastidious as my daughter must be," and 
 Lady Etheringhame drew up a la giraffe. 
 
 " So desirable a political connexion," and 
 his lordship looked at his daughter and his 
 pamphlets. 
 
 u I shall be freed from the weight of so 
 much maternal anxiety;" but her ladyship was 
 stopped in her parental display by the positive 
 declaration of —
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 29 
 
 u And now, Alicia, shall I write an answer 
 as affirmative as suits the dignity of our 
 house?" 
 
 Alicia said nothing and looked less. 
 
 " We will spare her confusion," said the 
 Countess. 
 
 " You may retire/' said the Earl. 
 
 Lady Alicia was as much bewildered as it 
 was in her nature to be ; but she made up her 
 mind to ask her mother what they wanted with 
 her in the library, and seated herself to cut out 
 another little poodle. 
 
 The dinner-bell rang, and Lady Etheringhame 
 entered. 
 
 " Alicia, my love, wear your turquoise set 
 to-day : of course, I should wish you to appear 
 to advantage on Mr. Delawarr's first visit." 
 
 It was as if all the astonishment of her life 
 was to be crowded into one day ; for on retiring 
 to her toilette, her handmaiden, the very re- 
 verse of her mistress, extremes meet (vide 
 Lara and Jaqueline), by dint of compliments 
 and insinuations, succeeded at length in draw- 
 ing from her something like a question ; and 
 with all her father's eloquence and mother's 
 anxiety, Alicia only now began to suspect a 
 husband in the case, and that the library audi-
 
 30 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 ence and the turquoises referred to Mr. Dela- 
 ware 
 
 Delawarr Hall was the nearest seat to Ether- 
 inghame Castle, and the families had for years 
 run through every possible variety of opposition 
 and alliance. Between the present proprietors 
 there had existed rather civility than cordiality. 
 Lord Etheringhame's opinions were as here- 
 ditary as his halls j innovation was moral rebel- 
 lion ; the change of a fashion, a symptom of de- 
 generacy ; he would as soon have destroyed his 
 pedigree as his pigtail ; and looked on every 
 new patent, whether for a peerage or a pie-dish, 
 as another step to ruin ; in short, he held just 
 the reverse of the poet's opinion — with him, 
 not whatever is, but whatever had been, was 
 right. 
 
 Sir Walter, on the contrary, was a man of plans 
 and projects : he refurnished his house, and 
 talked of the march of intellect; cut down a 
 plantation of old oaks in search of a lead mine ; 
 put in French windows instead of Gothic, on 
 which his mother died of cold, or grief; mar- 
 ried his first wife for fancy, and talked of sen- 
 timent ; his second for money, and talked of 
 liberality, and deprecated vain pride of birth ; 
 he lost money by taking shares in a canal,
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 31 
 
 which to have made profitable must have cut 
 just across his own park; subscribed to a book 
 society, and was eloquent about encouraging 
 genius; had a newly invented stove in his hall ; 
 and novelty to him was what antiquity was to 
 the other — each, like charity, covered a multi- 
 tude of sins. But, above all, Sir Walter's great 
 pride was his son, who, already far beyond his 
 competitors, gave assurance of the distinguished 
 career he ran in after-life. Two things were 
 at this period necessary for Montague Dela- 
 warr, — to get married, and returned for the 
 county. 
 
 The Baronet's dressing-room had a view of 
 the castle. No wonder that Lady Alicia sug- 
 gested herself to his mind. Montague was now 
 in the country ; and if St. Valentine could aid 
 St. Stephen, why married he intended to be, 
 some time or other; so the letter of proposal 
 was written, and the result had been as favour- 
 able as they could wish. 
 
 Seven o'clock came, and with it Sir Walter 
 and his son. The dinner-bell to-day was indeed 
 to be " the tocsin of the heart." With something 
 more like emotion than she had ever felt in her 
 life before, Lady Alicia Lorraine made her 
 appearance, and a very fair appearance it was ;
 
 32 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 both figure and face were fine, her dress ele- 
 gant, and the turquoises so becoming, that when 
 Montague took his seat by her at table, he 
 began to think the wife herself was something 
 in the matrimonial contract about to be made. 
 The delusion, by a little maternal arrangement, 
 hints of timidity, &c, lasted very respectably 
 till after the wedding, when, with as little blush- 
 ing and as much blonde as possible, the name 
 of Lorraine was changed for that of Delawarr. 
 They were the happiest couple spoken of. Sir 
 Walter had presented his late wife's emeralds, 
 and his son had them reset ; the bride's beauty 
 quite inspired Sir Thomas Lawrence; and 
 Mr. Delawarr was returned for the county. 
 
 In the midst of a brilliant public career, he 
 had little time to discover whether his house- 
 hold divinity was very like those of old — a 
 statue. Lady Alicia was good-natured — that 
 good nature which is composed of a soft smile, 
 a low voice, indulgence of every kind — self 
 among the number: for the rest, if her mind 
 had a feature, it was indolence; and her cash- 
 mere, character, and carriage, were alike irre- 
 proachable. 
 
 Such was the lady with whom Emily had 
 to encounter the dangers of a tete-a-tete. It
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 33 
 
 passed off better than she hoped. Lady Alicia 
 liked to be amused, and her young companion 
 was soon encouraged to be amusing. Their 
 arrangements were speedily made ; they were 
 to dine with Lady Etheringhame ; his lordship's 
 magnificent funeral had filled a column in the 
 paper three years before ; the dowager took to 
 study her health, and lived in town to be near 
 her physicians — and with a little illness and a 
 great deal of complaint, managed to live on. 
 The morning was to be devoted to milliners, 
 shopping, &c. ; both went to prepare for the 
 drive ; Lady Alicia convinced that Miss Arun- 
 del was a very charming girl, and Miss Arundel 
 wondering if fairy tales were true, and whe- 
 ther her hostess was a snow woman animated 
 by a spell. 
 
 c2
 
 34 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " The bondage of certain ribands and gloves." 
 
 * * * * 
 
 " Your gown is a most rare fashion, i' faith." 
 
 # « * * 
 
 " These pelican daughters." — Shakespeare. 
 
 Shopping, true feminine felicity ! how rapidly 
 it passed the morning away — how in a few short 
 hours were Emily's ideas expanded ! Here she 
 blushed for her sleeves, there for her flounces : 
 how common seemed the memory of her red- 
 rose wreath beside her newly acquired taste for 
 golden oats ! The bonnets that were tried on, 
 the silks that were unfolded, the ribands that 
 were chosen, — till she went home happy in a 
 hat, whose dimensions far exceeded the shields 
 of any of her forefathers, and having chosen a 
 ball dress, on whose composition, the milliner 
 assured her, genius had exhausted itself. 
 
 Lady Etheringhame being now a constitu- 
 tionalist, dined rather early : and Emily, her 
 head like a kaleidescope, full of colours, with 
 not a little disdain, put on the blue silk she
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 35 
 
 had thought bleu celeste, at least in the country. 
 What a march does a woman's intellect, i. e. 
 taste, take in the streets of London ! 
 
 Exactly at five they were at the dowager's 
 door — exactly five minutes after, they were 
 seated in her dining-room ; and Emily began 
 to consider whether she or the wine-coolers 
 were most chilled — whether Lady Ethering- 
 hame's black satin or herself were stiflfest— and 
 whether she weighed her words as she did her 
 food in the little pair of scales by her side. They 
 adjourned to the drawing-room, and sat u like 
 figures ranged upon a dial-plate." The French 
 clock on the mantel-piece ticked audibly — Lady 
 Alicia dozed — their hostess detailed symptoms 
 and remedies, and eulogised mustard-seed, — 
 while Emily sat like a good child, playing pro- 
 priety, and looking the listener at least. Ten 
 o'clock came at last, and with it the carriage. 
 
 " I am afraid, mamma, you are so tired," 
 said the daughter. 
 
 a 
 
 " How much we give to thoughts and things our tone, 
 And judge of others' feelings by our own !" 
 
 " I hope Miss Arundel will do me the 
 honour of accompanying you on your next 
 visit?"
 
 36 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 A stately bend from the elder — a low " many 
 thanks" — a good night — and the visit was over. 
 
 " Is it possible," thought Emily, " a visit in 
 London could be so dull ?" 
 
 The next morning was more amusing — visitor 
 after visitor came in ; for Lady Alicia, like most 
 indolent people, preferred any one else's com- 
 pany to her own, — all could entertain her 
 better than she could entertain herself. An 
 elderly gentleman had gone off with a cough, 
 and a lady of no particular age with a pro- 
 phecy. 
 
 " Well, take my word for it, those girls will 
 never marry ; marriage is like money — seem to 
 want it, and you never get it." 
 
 The Cassandra was scarcely departed, when 
 the objects of her oracle appeared — Mrs. Fer- 
 gusson and her two daughters. Nothing could 
 be more correct than the externals of these 
 young ladies — large curls, large sleeves, still 
 larger bonnets, words like the poet's idea of 
 adieu, or the advice to make good children — " to 
 be seen, not heard," — and faces indicative of 
 elegant indifference. 
 
 Mr. Fergusson had made his fortune, and 
 Mrs. F. now meant to make her way in the 
 world ; her society was to be refined and exalted ;
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 37 
 
 she resolved on getting people to her house, 
 and going to people's houses, whose names as 
 yet were all she knew of them ; and by dint of 
 patience, perseverance, and pushing, she had 
 to a great degree succeeded. Is not Locke the 
 great philosopher who says, the strokes of the 
 pickaxe build the pyramid? But these social 
 contracts were subservient to one great end — 
 domestic economy. Mrs. Fergusson had a 
 family of six daughters ; and to get these well 
 married was the hope and aim of her existence, 
 " the ocean to the river" of her thoughts. By 
 day she laid plans, by night dreamed they had 
 succeeded. To this point tended dresses, dances, 
 dinners; for this she drove in the park — for this 
 waited out the ballet at the opera — for this 
 Mr. St. Leger found his favourite pate de cceur 
 des tourtereMes perfect at her table ; for this Mr. 
 Herbert, twice a week during last April, was 
 asked to a family dinner — un dine sans f aeons 
 est une perjidie, though in a different sense to 
 what the poet des plateaux intended ; for this, on 
 Mr. Hoggart, a Scotchman — who wore a blue 
 coat, which he always began to button when 
 economy was talked of — did mamma impress, 
 what a treasure her Elizabeth was, and how 
 well she supplied her place at home. [By the
 
 38 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 by, what an odious thing is a blue coat with 
 brass buttons, shining as if to stare you out of 
 countenance, and reflecting in every button a 
 concave composition, which you recognise as a 
 caricature of yourself. No lady should dance 
 with a man who wears a blue coat and brass 
 buttons.] For Mr. Rosedale did Laura wear ves- 
 tal white, when every one else was a la Zamiel, 
 and a cottage bonnet — a cottage ornee, to be 
 sure — when every other head was in a hat. 
 
 Still, two seasons, besides watering places, 
 had passed away fruitlessly; and the Misses 
 Fergussons, of whom two only had yet passed 
 the Rubicon of balls, operas, &c. coming out, 
 were still the fair but unappropriated adjectives 
 of the noun-matrimonial husband; still it was 
 something to be " ready, aye ready/' — the fa- 
 mily motto. Of them nothing more can be 
 said, than that Laura was pretty, and enacted 
 the beauty ; Elizabeth was plain, and therefore 
 was to be sensible : the one sat at her harp, the 
 other at her work-box. 
 
 Now, Mrs. Fergusson thought a visit to 
 Lady Alicia a sad waste of time : there were 
 no sons, no brothers, at least as bad as none — 
 for the Earl was in the country, the younger 
 abroad; still she was too little established in
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. t>9 
 
 society for neglect. So, collecting a few facts 
 and fancies, putting on her most fatigued face, 
 she began talking, while the daughters sat 
 such complete personifications of indifference, 
 that Mrs. Granville might very well have ad- 
 dressed her ode to either of them. 
 
 " Mrs. De Lisle's rooms were so crowded 
 last night — very brilliant. Still, alas !" — (here 
 Mrs. Fergusson looked philosophical) — " the 
 weariness of pleasure ; but these dear girls were 
 in such requisition, it was nearly day before we 
 left. Conceive my fatigue." 
 
 " Why, then," said her hearer, very quietly, 
 " did you not leave before?" 
 
 u Ah, Lady Alicia, how little do you under- 
 stand the feelings of a mother ! Could I break 
 in upon their young pleasures ? Besides" — and 
 here her voice sank to a whisper — " I do own 
 my weakness ; yet what maternal heart but 
 must be gratified by such admiration as was 
 excited by my sweet Laura ? It is dangerous 
 to a young head ; but she is so simple, so un- 
 pretending." 
 
 '.' Very true," said her ladyship. 
 
 Now came one of those audible pauses, the 
 tickings of the death-watch of English con- 
 versation. This was broken by Mrs. Fergusson's
 
 40 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 asking a question. How many are asked for 
 want of something to say ! The questions of 
 curiosity are few to those of politeness. 
 
 u Pray, when do you expect your brother, 
 Mr. Lorraine, in England V 9 
 
 " Ah, Edward ! Delawarr told me he was 
 coming at last. He is to stay with us." 
 
 Mrs. Fergusson now, for the first time, look- 
 ed at Emily, who, occupied in considering whe- 
 ther the Misses Fergusson were deaf or dumb, 
 or both, was quite unconscious of the scrutiny. 
 
 A marriage and a death concluded the visit. 
 
 " Well!" ejaculated Mrs. Fergusson, as soon 
 as the carriage gave security to that flow of 
 soul, entitled confidential conversation, M to 
 think of the luck of some people — there will 
 this Miss Arundel be living in the house with 
 the Hon. Edward Lorraine." 
 
 No one knew better than this lady the 
 dangers or advantages of propinquity. 
 
 " I hate that odious dark hair, and ringlets 
 too, so affected ; but she is not pretty," said 
 Miss Laura. 
 
 " There is nothing in her," said Miss Eliza- 
 beth, who piqued herself on discrimination of 
 character.
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 41 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 " I love a devious path that winds askance, 
 And hate to keep one object still in view ; 
 The flowers are fragrant that we find by chance — 
 And in both life and nature I would rather 
 Have those I meet than those I come to gather." 
 
 The Brunswick. 
 " Ah, 'tis a pleasure that none can tell, 
 To feel you're the wild wave's master." 
 
 " Impossible! If his highness would but 
 consider" 
 
 " I never considered in my life, and am not 
 going to begin now. I cross the river, if you 
 please, before yon black cloud. " 
 
 " We must put back — we cannot allow a 
 stranger to perish." 
 
 '* Gentlemen of the sail, I can assure you it 
 is not my destiny to be drowned ; fulfil your 
 agreement, or forfeit your dollars." 
 
 One of the most pertinacious of the boatmen 
 now began to mutter something about a family 
 at once large and small. 
 
 u I can endure no more : when a man be-
 
 42 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 gins to talk of his wife and family, I consider 
 his designs on my purse and time to be quite 
 desperate. Descendants of the sea-kings ! I 
 am sure I shall not drown ; and if you do, I 
 promise to increase your donation, till your 
 widows may erect a church and belfry to ring 
 a rejoicing peal over your memory ; and thus I 
 end the dispute." 
 
 So saying, the young Englishman rose from 
 the deck, where he had lain wrapped in his 
 cloak and his thoughts — and putting the sul- 
 len steersman aside, took the helm into his 
 own hands. A few moments saw the little 
 vessel gallantly scudding through the waters, 
 dashing before her a shower of foam like sud- 
 den snow — and leaving behind a silver track, 
 like a shining serpent, called by some strange 
 spell from its emerald palace, and yet bright 
 with the mysterious light of its birthplace. 
 The river, now like an allied army, swollen 
 with the gathered rains of many weeks, was 
 darkened on one side by an ancient forest, 
 black as night and death, and seeming almost 
 as eternal. It was swept, but not bowed, by a 
 mighty wind, now loud as mountain thunder, 
 and now low with that peculiar whisper which 
 haunts the leaf of the pine — such as might have
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 43 
 
 suited the oracles of old — an articulate though 
 unknown language, — and ever and anon rushing 
 from its depths till the slight bark was hidden 
 by the driven waters ; while overhead hung 
 one dense mass of cloud — a gathered storm, 
 heavy as the woods it overshadowed. The banks 
 on the other side were as those of another world ; 
 there arose rocks covered with coloured lichens, 
 or bare and shewing the rainbow-stained gra- 
 nite, and between them small open spaces of 
 long soft grass, filled with yellow flowers; and 
 here and there slight shrubs yielding to the 
 wind, and one or two stately trees which de- 
 fied it. Still, the tempest was evidently rolling 
 away in the distance ; a few large drops of rain 
 seemed to be the melting of the light which 
 was now breaking through its cloudy barrier; 
 already the moon, like the little bark beneath, 
 was visible amid surrounding darkness, and at 
 last illuminated, encouragingly, the deck and 
 its youthful master, whose noble and romantic 
 style of beauty suited well a scene like this. 
 
 The excitement of the moment had given 
 even more than its ordinary paleness to his 
 cheek, while its character of determination re- 
 deemed, what was almost a fault, the feminine 
 delicacy of his mouth ; the moonlight above
 
 44 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 was not more spiritual than the depths of his 
 large blue eyes ; and the rain that had washed 
 his hair only gave even more glossiness to the 
 light auburn waves that shadowed a forehead 
 whose flowing line was that of genius and of 
 grace : it was a face and figure to which the 
 mind gave power, and whose slight and delicate 
 proportions had been effeminate but for the 
 strength which is of the spirit. 
 
 Successful daring makes its own way; and 
 when the dangerous bend of the river was passed, 
 and the wind had gradually wailed itself to rest 
 like a passionate child, his boatmen were as 
 elated as if the triumph had been their own. 
 They reached the landing-place, ruled by an 
 old oak, beneath whose shade the sea-kings 
 must have stood : the crew went on to the 
 little village, whose houses were already those 
 of promise ; while Edward loitered after, languid 
 with the luxury of exertion, and the softness of 
 the now lulled and lovely night. The moon was 
 yet very young — that clear diamond crescent 
 which looks as if undimmed by the sorrows, or 
 unsullied by the crimes, which will fill even the 
 brief period of her reign over earth : but there 
 was ample light to shew his way across a vast 
 field, where every step he took filled the air
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 45 
 
 with fragrance, — for the ground was covered 
 with those fairy flowers, the lilies of the valley — 
 their ivory bells bowed the slight stalks by 
 thousands, and their snow was like frost-work 
 — as if winter had given her only loveliness to 
 summer. 
 
 As he approached the village, the wild cherry- 
 trees surrounded it like an orchard, the boughs 
 covered with crimson profusion, and the cot- 
 tage where he stopped was crowned with 
 flowers ; for here the turf-sods, which form 
 the roof, are the nursery of numberless blossom- 
 ing plants, all fair, and most of them fragrant. 
 The door opened, a bright hearth was glowing 
 with its wood fire of the odoriferous young 
 pine-branches ; and the hostess was quite pretty 
 enough to make the short scarlet petticoat, and 
 red handkerchief which gathered up her pro- 
 fusion of light tresses, seem the most becoming 
 of costumes. 
 
 The game had the perfection of wild-heath 
 flavour; and the rich peach brandy was most 
 exhilarating to the wet and weary. After sup- 
 per they gathered round the hearth. Many a 
 tale was told of wood and water spirit, with all 
 the eloquent earnestness of belief. The na- 
 tional song Gaule Norge was sung, as people
 
 46 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 always sing national songs after dinner — with 
 all their heart, and as much voice as they have 
 left; and Edward Lorraine went to bed, when 
 nothing was wanting but an audience, to have 
 made him declaim most eloquently on the ex- 
 cellence of unsophisticated pleasure. 
 
 The next day he rose early to join in the chase 
 of an elk, an animal rarely seen even in that 
 remote part. The band of hunters were young 
 and bold, and there was just enough of danger 
 for excitement. Many a deep valley and dark 
 ravine did they pass, when a loud shout told that 
 their prey was at hand. Fronting them, on a 
 barren and steep height, stood the stately crea- 
 ture, his size thrown out in bold relief by the 
 clear blue sky behind : he tossed his proud 
 antlers defyingly, as if he were conscious of the 
 approaching enemy — when suddenly he turned, 
 and dashed down the opposite side. Their 
 game was now secure; gradually they nar- 
 rowed their circle, till they quite hemmed in the 
 little dell where it had taken refuge. Their 
 noiseless steps might have defied even an Indian 
 ear, and a few scattered trees concealed them. 
 The stag was lying amid the grass; his horns, 
 in forcing a passage through the woods, had 
 borne away their spoil ; and a creeping plant,
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 47 
 
 with large green leaves and small bright blue 
 flowers, had wound round them, as if the victim 
 were bound with wreaths for sacrifice. Another 
 moment, and the hunters rushed forward ; five 
 spears were in its side at once. Awakened 
 more than injured, the elk sprung up. One 
 incautious youth was thrown on the ground 
 in a moment, while it made for the thicket 
 where Edward was hid. 
 
 He had meant to have witnessed rather than 
 have joined in the attack ; but the danger was 
 imminent — his life was on a chance — the shot 
 rang from his pistol — and the next moment he 
 felt the large dark eye of the dying animal fix on 
 his, and it lay in the death agony at his feet, 
 for the bullet had entered its forehead. His 
 comrades gathered round, received the reward 
 he had promised, and prepared for supper in 
 the woods, while Edward stood gazing on the 
 gallant stag. 
 
 It was fifteen years since one of the kind had 
 been seen in the district. A few hours and a 
 few dollars finished his brief reion in the woods : 
 
 O 7 
 
 and Lorraine thought a little sadly on the bold 
 and the lonely which had fallen to gratify his 
 curiosity. 
 
 Your moralising is, after all, but a zest to
 
 48 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 pleasure ; and his remorse was more than mi- 
 tigated by the applause bestowed on his ad- 
 dress and presence of mind, — till the horns of 
 the elk came to be viewed with very self-satis- 
 factory feelings. Active pleasures, however, 
 had their day; and Edward soon began to 
 prefer wandering amid the mighty forests, till 
 he half believed in the spirits of which they 
 were the home ; or he would lie for hours em- 
 bedded in some little nook of wild flowers, amid 
 the rocks that looked down on the river — a 
 wild soaring bird the sole interruption to his 
 solitude. But one cannot practise poetry for 
 ever; and he soon found he was declining ra- 
 pidly from the golden age of innocent pleasure 
 to the silver one of insipidity. So one fine 
 morning saw him bribing his driver, and urging 
 the pretty little brown horses of the country to 
 their utmost speed, on his way to England. 
 The sea-port was gained — the wind as favour- 
 able as if that had been bribed too — and in a 
 fortnight he was at Hull, quite as pleased to 
 return to his native land as he had been to 
 leave it. 
 
 This journey to Norway may be considered 
 the specimen brick of Edward Lorraine's life 
 and character; for the season before, he had been
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 49 
 
 le Prince cheri of the Park and Pall Mall — his 
 dressing-room was one mirror — his sofas pink 
 satin — his taste was as perfect in beauty as it 
 was in perfume — his box at the Opera exhaled 
 every evening a varying atmosphere j it was 
 not the night of Medea or Otello, but that of 
 the heliotrope or the esprit des violettes ; — he 
 talked of building a rival Regent Street with 
 his invitation cards — and actually took a cot- 
 tage " all of lilies and roses" at Richmond, as 
 fitting warehouse for his pink and blue notes, 
 " sweets to the sweet," — and drove even Mr. 
 Delavvarr out of his patience and politeness, by 
 asking who was prime minister. 
 
 But, alas, for the vanity of human enjoy- 
 ment ! we grow weary of even our own perfec- 
 tion. About July, fashion took a shade of 
 philosophy — friends became weary, we mean 
 wearisome — pleasures stale — pursuits unpro- 
 fitable — and Lorraine decided on change; he 
 was resolved to be natural, nay, a little pic- 
 turesque ; all that remained was the how, when, 
 and where. He thought of the lakes — but 
 they are given up to new-married couples, poets, 
 and painters ; next, of the Highlands — but 
 a steam-boat had profaned Loch Lomond, and 
 pic-nics Ben Nevis : of Greece he had already 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 had a campaign, in which he had been robbed 
 of every thing, from his slippers to his ci- 
 meter — and had returned home, leaving be- 
 hind his classical enthusiasm, and bringing back 
 with him an ague. He took up the Gazetteer 
 in desperation for a Sortes, and laid it down 
 delighted and decided : next day he set off for 
 Norway. 
 
 In his mind the imagination was as yet the 
 most prominent feature ; it made him impe- 
 tuous — for the unknown is ever coloured by 
 the most attractive hues ; it made him versa- 
 tile — for those very hues, from their falsehood, 
 are fleeting, and pass easily from one object 
 to another; it made him melancholy — for the 
 imagination, which lives on excitement, most 
 powerfully exaggerates the reaction ; but, like 
 a fairy gift, it threw its own nameless charm 
 over all he did — and a touch, as it were, of 
 poetry, spiritualised all the common-places of 
 life. His was a character full of great and glo- 
 rious elements, but dangerous ; so alive to ex- 
 ternal impressions, so full of self-deceit — for 
 what deceives us as we deceive ourselves ? To 
 w r hat might not some dazzling dream of honour 
 or of love lead ? It was one that required to be 
 subdued by time, checked by obstacles, and
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 51 
 
 softened by sorrow ; afterwards to be acted 
 upon by some high and sufficient motive to 
 call its energies into action — and then, of such 
 stuff nature makes her noblest and best. As yet 
 his life had, like that of the cuckoo, known 
 
 " No sorrow in its song, 
 No winter in its year." 
 
 His beauty had charmed even his stately lady- 
 mother into softness; and he was the only being 
 now on earth whom his brother loved. Young, 
 noble, rich, gifted with that indefinable grace 
 which, like the fascination of the serpent, 
 draws all within its circle, but not for such 
 fatal purpose — with a temper almost womanly 
 in its affectionate sweetness — with those bold 
 buoyant spirits that make their own eagle- 
 wings, — what did Edward de Lorraine want 
 in this world but a few difficulties and a little 
 misfortune ?
 
 52 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 " Un bal ! il fallait de grandes toilettes." 
 
 Mimoires sur Josephine. 
 
 11 Midnight revels — on their mirth and dance intent, 
 At once with joy and fear her heart rebounds." 
 
 Milton. 
 
 The boudoir was a very pretty boudoir; the 
 curtains at the window were rich rose colour, 
 the paper a pale pink, and the fire-place 
 like the altar of hope — one sparkling blaze. 
 On the mantel-piece two alabaster figures 
 supported each a little lamp, whose flame was 
 tinted by the stained flowers ; some china orna- 
 ments, purple and gold, and a vase filled with 
 double violets, were reflected in the mirror. On 
 the one side was a stand of moss roses, on the 
 other a dressing-table, and a glass a la Psyche, 
 over whose surface the wax tapers flung a soft 
 light, worthy of any complexion, even had it 
 rivalled the caliph Vathek's pages, whose skins 
 " were fair as the enamel of Frangistan." In
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 53 
 
 short, it was one of those becoming rooms 
 which would put even a grace in additional 
 good humour. — By the by, what a barbarous, 
 what an uncharitable act it is, of some people 
 to furnish their rooms as they do, against all 
 laws of humanity as well as taste ! We have 
 actually seen rooms fitted up with sea-green, 
 and an indigo-coloured paper : what complexion 
 could stand it ? The most proper of becoming 
 blushes would be utterly wasted, and perhaps 
 at the most critical moment. Mrs. Fergusson 
 never would let her daughters visit at Lady 
 Carysfort's, on account of the unabated crim- 
 son of her walls and furniture: as she justly 
 observed, the dancers looked like ghosts. For 
 ourselves, when we furnish our rooms, we have 
 decided on a delicate pink paper ; it lights up 
 well, and is such a relief to the foreground of 
 whites, reds, and blue. The hangings, &c, 
 certainly of French rose: windows are favourite 
 seats ; and who knows how much may be ef- 
 fected in a tete-a-tete, by the crimson shade of 
 the curtain flitting over a fair cheek a propos? 
 But we are patriotic people, and write treatises 
 for the Society of Useful Knowledge. 
 
 Emily Arundel stood by the dressing-table. 
 The last curl of her dark hair had received its
 
 54* ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 last braid of pearls ; the professor of papillotes 
 had decided, and she quite agreed with him, 
 that a la Calypso best suited with her Grecian 
 style of feature. The white satin slip, over 
 which floated the cloud-like gauze, suited well 
 with the extreme delicacy of her figure; and 
 the little snow-slipper would not have dis- 
 graced the silver-footed Thetis, or Cinderella 
 herself. The bouquet de rois shed its last tears 
 on the cambric parsemts de lis — and Emily 
 turned from her glass with that beau ideal of 
 all reflections, " I am looking my very best!" 
 
 " Really, Emily, you are very pretty," said 
 Lady Alicia, when she entered the drawing- 
 room. Emily quite agreed with her. 
 
 The carriage soon whirled them to Lady 
 Mandeville's ; a proper length of time elapsed 
 before they penetrated the blockade of coaches; 
 a most scientific rap announced their arrival, 
 and Emily's heart went quicker than the 
 knocker. The old song says, 
 
 " My heart with love is beating — " 
 
 of pleasure, should be added. But soon admira- 
 tion was the only active faculty. The noble 
 staircase was lined with the rarest greenhouse 
 plants ; she might have gone through a whole
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 55 
 
 course of botany before they arrived at the 
 drawing-room, — for two quadrilles and three 
 waltzes were played while they stood on the 
 stairs. As they entered, an opening in the 
 figure of the dance gave a transient view of 
 nearly the whole length of the apartments. It 
 was a brilliant coup (Tail: mirrors, like the 
 child's nursery-song, " up to the ceiling, and 
 down to the ground/' reflected an almost end- 
 less crowd — the graceful figures " in shining 
 draperies enfolded," the gay wreaths round the 
 heads of the young, the white waves of feathers 
 on their seniors — the silver light from the moon- 
 like lamps flashed back from bright gems and 
 brighter eyes ; the rich decorations — alabaster 
 vases, their delicate tracery like the frost-work 
 of winter filled with the flowers of summer — the 
 sweep of the purple curtains — the gold mould- 
 ings, and a few beautiful pictures — while all 
 terminated in a splendidly illuminated con- 
 servatory. 
 
 Emily had plenty of time to " sate herself 
 with gazing," — for Lady Alicia quietly seated 
 herself on a sofa, and seemed to trust to fate 
 about finding either hostess, or partner for her 
 protegee, who at last began to think the mere 
 spectator of pleasure ought to be a philosopher.
 
 56 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 We have heard of the solitude of the wide ocean, 
 of the sandy desert, of the pathless forest; but, 
 for a real, thorough, and entire knowledge, far 
 beyond Zimmerman's, of the pleasures of soli- 
 tude, commend us to a young damsel doomed to 
 a sofa and female society, while quadrille after 
 quadrille is formed in her sight, and the waltzes 
 go round, like stars with whose motions we 
 have nothing to do. 
 
 The crowd was now beginning rapidly to 
 disperse : true, there was more space for the 
 pas seul; but fatigue had quenched its spirit — 
 curls shewed symptoms of straightness — the 
 bouquets had lost their freshness, and so had 
 many a cheek. At this moment Lady Mande- 
 ville came up ; and a shade, the least in the 
 world, on the brow of her young visitor shewed 
 a discontent which, in her heart, she thought 
 such a chaperone as Lady Alicia might well 
 justify. Never was kindness more gracious in 
 its courtesy than her's. " Captain St. Leger, 
 Miss Arundel;" and the next minute Emily 
 prepared smile and step : one at least was 
 thrown away; her partner, strong in the con- 
 sciousness of coat, curls, and commission, 
 the best of their kind, deemed it risking 
 the peace of the female world unnecessarily
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 57 
 
 to add other dangers to those so irresistible. 
 During le Pantalon he arranged his neckcloth ; 
 VEte, drew his fingers through his curls ; la 
 Poule, he asked if she had been that morning 
 in the Park ; during la Pastorelle prepared for 
 his pas seul ; and during la Finale, recovered 
 the trouble of dancing, gave his arm, and, as 
 the carriage was announced, handed her into 
 it. " A ball is not always the comble de bon- 
 heur" to papas, says the author of the Dis- 
 owned ; " nor to their daughters either," could 
 have added Emily Arundel. 
 
 d2
 
 58 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 " And music too — dear music, which can touch 
 Beyond all else the soul that loves it much." 
 
 Moore. 
 
 "Your destiny is in her hands," ay, utterly : 
 the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Know- 
 ledge does not depend more on its encyclopedia, 
 Mr. Brougham — the new tragedy on Macready 
 — the balance of Europe on the Duke — none 
 of these are so utterly dependent as a young 
 lady on her chaperone. She may be a beauty — 
 but the Medicean herself would require an- 
 nouncing as Venus : we all see with other 
 people's eyes, especially in matters of taste. 
 She may be rich — but an heiress, like a joint- 
 stock company, requires to be properly adver- 
 tised. She may be witty — but bon-mots require 
 to be repeated rather than heard for a reputa- 
 tion ; and who is to do this but a chaperone ? 
 That being of delicate insinuations, of confi- 
 dential whispers, of research in elder brothers, 
 of exclusiveness in younger ones — she of praises
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 59 
 
 and partners for her own protegee, of interrup- 
 tions, ifs, and buts, for others. But, as Ude 
 says of a forcemeat ball, " il faut un genie 
 pour cela," and to that Lady Alicia made no 
 pretensions. 
 
 Evening after evening Emily stepped into 
 the carriage with all the slowness of discon- 
 tent, and flung off robe and wreath on her 
 return with all the pettishness of disappoint- 
 ment. In the mean time her uncle was quite 
 edified by her letters : she spoke with such 
 regret of the country, with its simple and inno- 
 cent pleasures, how different to the weariness 
 which attended London dissipation; she was 
 eloquent on the waste of time, the heartless- 
 ness of its pursuits; she anticipated with so 
 much delight her return to the friends of her 
 youth, that they scarcely knew whether to be 
 most enchanted with her affection or her sense. 
 What a foundation mortified vanity is for phi- 
 losophy ! 
 
 The Opera was the only place where she 
 had experienced unmixed gratification : from 
 her first glance at its magnificent outline — its 
 sea of white waving plumes, with many a bright 
 eye and jewelled arm shining like its meteors, 
 its beautiful faces, seen in all the advantage of
 
 60 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 full dress — full dress, which, like Flc-rimel's 
 magic girdle, is the true test of beauty — to 
 the moment when she lingered to catch the 
 last swell of the superb orchestra — she was 
 " under the wand of the enchanter." Emily- 
 possessed what, like songs and sonnets, must 
 be born with you, — a musical ear; that sixth 
 sense, in search of which you may subscribe to 
 the Ancient Music and the Philharmonic, you 
 may go to every concert — you may go into 
 ecstasies, and encore every song — you may 
 prefer Italian singing, talk learnedly of tone 
 and touch, all in vain — a musical ear is no 
 more to be acquired than Lady H.'s beauty or 
 Mrs. T.'s grace. 
 
 " What a pity," said old Lord E., a man 
 whom a peerage spoilt for a professor, whose 
 heart had performed Cowley's ballad for the 
 whole succession of prima donnas, — " what a 
 pity you have not seen Pasta — a Greek statue 
 stepped from its pedestal, and animated by the 
 Promethean fire of genius! Why is not such 
 personified poetry immortal ? My feeling of 
 regret for my grandchildren half destroys my 
 enjoyment of the present; it is the feeling of 
 a patriot, Miss Arundel. Every other species 
 of talent carries with it its eternity; we enjoy
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 61 
 
 the work of the poet, the painter, the sculptor, 
 only as thousands will do after us ; but the 
 actor — his memory is with his generation, and 
 that passes away. What a slight idea even I, who 
 speak as a last year's eye-witness, can give of 
 her magnificent Semiramide, defying even fate 
 — of the deep passionate love, ever the ill- 
 requited, expressed in her Medea; her dark 
 hair bound in its classical simplicity round her 
 fine head, her queen-like step — Miss Arundel, 
 I am very sorry for you ;" and he stopped in 
 one of those deep pauses of emotion, when the 
 feeling is too great for words. 
 
 At this moment Sontag burst upon the ear 
 with one of those iEolian sweeps of music so 
 peculiarly her own : " Can any thing be more 
 exquisite?" exclaimed Emily. 
 
 " Granted," returned Lord E. ; " musical 
 talent is at its perfection in her — the finest 
 natural organ modulated by first-rate science; 
 but where is the mind of Pasta? It is folly 
 to compare beings so opposite : like the child, 
 when asked which he preferred, some grapes 
 or a nectarine, I answer, ' both/ The one is 
 the woman of genius — the other a most lovely 
 creature, with the finest of voices." 
 
 " How beautiful she is !" rejoined Emily,
 
 62 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 adhering with true feminine pertinacity to her 
 opinion, though very willing to choose new 
 ground for her argument. 
 
 " First of all, allow me to observe, 1 hate to 
 hear one woman praise another's beauty ; they 
 do it with such a covenanting air of self-sacri- 
 fice, such vain-glorious setting forth of — l There, 
 you see I am not the least envious/ Secondly, 
 I beg to differ from you : I remember anxiety 
 was wound up to its highest of expectation when 
 the fair songstress first appeared : she advanced 
 to the front of the stage — her white arms in that 
 half-crossed, half-clasped attitude, which so de- 
 precatingly expresses female timidity — a burst 
 of applause went round in compliment to those 
 superlatively snowy hands and arms ; next, she 
 made a step forward, and in so doing displayed 
 a foot, small enough for the slipper which the 
 stork so maliciously dropped to waken the 
 Egyptian king from his reverie — and a second 
 round of applause announced due appreciation 
 of that aerial foot ; finally, the eyes were raised, 
 and the face turned to the audience, but the 
 face was received in deep silence : that first 
 opinion was the true one. But wait till the 
 next scene, and we shall agree — for our admi- 
 ration of Malibran is mutual. "
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. ()3 
 
 " My first impression of her," said Emily, 
 " was very striking; it was at an evening con- 
 cert, which, like many others — when some three- 
 drawing -roomed lady enacts patroness, and 
 throws open her house for the sake of tickets, 
 strangers, and a paragraph — was rather dimly 
 lighted. Malibran was seated in an open win- 
 dow, round which some creeping plant hung in 
 profuse luxuriance ; the back-ground was a sky 
 of the deepest blue and clearest moonlight — so 
 that her figure was thrown out in strong relief. 
 Her hair was just bound round her head, with 
 a blue wreath quite at the back, as in some of 
 the antique figures of the nymphs, who seem 
 to have wreathed the flowers they had gathered. 
 She was pale, and her large dark eyes filled 
 with that lustrous gaze of absorbed attention 
 only given to music. I thought, what a lovely 
 picture she would have made ! " 
 
 But here a song commenced ; and the silence 
 enforced by a schoolmistress was not stricter 
 than that Lord E. held it a duty to observe 
 during singing. 
 
 By the by, both in print and parlance, how 
 much nonsense is set forth touching (e the 
 English having no soul for music ! " The love 
 of music, like a continent, may be divided into
 
 64 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 two parts ; first, that scientific appreciation 
 which depends on natural organisation and 
 highly cultivated taste; and, secondly, that 
 love of sweet sounds, for the sake of the asso- 
 ciations linked with them, and the feelings they 
 waken from the depths of memory : the latter 
 is a higher love than the former, and in the first 
 only are we English deficient. The man who 
 stands listening to even a barrel-organ, because 
 it repeats the tones " he loved from the lips of 
 his nurse" — or who follows a common ballad- 
 singer, because her song is familiar in its sweet- 
 ness, or linked with touching words, or hallowed 
 by the remembrance of some other and dearest 
 voice — surely that man has a thousand times 
 more " soul for music" than he who raves about 
 execution, chromatic runs, semi-tones, 8cc. We 
 would liken music to Aladdin's lamp — worthless 
 in itself, not so for the spirits which obey its 
 call. We love it for the buried hopes, the 
 garnered memories, the tender feelings, it can 
 summon with a touch.
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 65 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Very good sort of people. — Common, Conversation. 
 
 A little innocent flirtation. — Ibid. 
 
 " Enamoured of mine own conceit." — Lord Stirling. 
 
 A fancy ball ! Pray where is the fancy ? — Rational Question. 
 
 Is it not Rochefoucault who says, " there are 
 many who would never have fallen in love, had 
 they not first heard it talked about ? " What 
 he says of love may extend to a great variety of 
 other propensities. How many gastronomes, 
 with mouths never meant but for mutton and 
 mashed potatoes, dilate learnedly on the merits 
 of salmis and sautes — but far less as matter of 
 taste than flavour ! How many a red-cheeked 
 and red-jacketed squire exchanges the early 
 hours of the field for the late hours of the House, 
 from that universal ambition called example! 
 And what but that powerful argument, " why, 
 every body gives them," ever made Mrs. Danvers 
 give parties? Without one of the ordinary in-
 
 66 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 ducements which light up the saloon, and cover 
 the supper-table with spun-sugar temples; — 
 she had no son, for whom an heiress was to be 
 drawn from her '* bright peculiar sphere " in 
 the mazes of a mazurka — no daughters, making 
 waltzes and window-seats so desirable ; not so 
 much as a niece, or even a disposable second 
 cousin ; — without one grain of esprit de societe, 
 or one atom of desire for its success; — the 
 Morning Post might have eulogised for ever the 
 stars that made her drawing-room " a perfect 
 constellation of rank, beauty, and fashion," — 
 and before Mrs. Dan vers had read one half of 
 the paragraph, she would have forgotten the 
 other. She had a good-natured husband, a 
 large fortune, and a noble house in an unex- 
 ceptionable street; and in giving parties, she 
 only fulfilled the destiny attached to such pos- 
 sessions. 
 
 Their year was the most uniform of Time's 
 quietest current. In February they came up to 
 town, for three reasons : they had a family house, 
 to which the family had come up for a century 
 past, — and they were none of those new-light 
 people who so disrespectfully differ from their 
 grandfathers and grandmothers; secondly, all 
 their neighbours came to town,*— for their neigh-
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 67 
 
 bourhood was too aristocratic not to be mi- 
 gratory ; and, thirdly, Mr. Danvers represented 
 a borough which was very prolific in petitions, 
 road-bills, &c. In town they remained till 
 near August, when Mr. Danvers went to Scot- 
 land to shoot grouse ; and Mrs. Danvers con- 
 soled herself, during his absence, at their seat 
 by wondering how much the children of her 
 parish-school and shrubs had shot up while she 
 was away, and by superintending the house- 
 keeper's room — where, with almost a dash of 
 sentiment, she saw to her husband's grouse 
 being potted, and a whole array of white jars 
 filled with pickles as acid as Mr. Roger's temper 
 and tongue, and with preserves as sweet as 
 Sir Walter Scott's letter of thanks — (by the by, 
 they say he keeps a set lithographed) — for the 
 first copy of some young poet's first effusion. 
 Partridges and Mr. Danvers re-appeared in 
 September. He shot before Christmas, and 
 hunted after; while the rest of the time was 
 disposed of by dinners and drowsiness in the 
 afternoon ; but, we must add, with every morn- 
 ing given to kind and useful employment, — 
 for their tenants might have changed landlord 
 and lady some dozen times, and yet have 
 changed for the worse.
 
 68 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 But to return to May and its multitudes. 
 Mrs. Danvers was in a black velvet dress, mu- 
 tually pertinacious in their adherence to each 
 other — and diamonds, which only required 
 new setting to have made her the envy of half 
 her acquaintance, three parts of whom were 
 already crowding her superb rooms. Emily 
 first went through a languid quadrille, with a 
 partner whose whole attention was given to his 
 vis-a-vis, and then resumed her seat by Lady 
 Alicia, melancholy and meditative, when her 
 attention was attracted by that most musical 
 inquiry of, " Who is that pretty dark-eyed girl ? 
 — a very wood-nymph beside that frozen water- 
 spirit Lady Alicia Delawarr ! " The reply was 
 inaudible; but a moment afterwards Mrs. 
 Danvers presented Mr. Boyne Sillery. " Miss 
 Arundel for the next quadrille. " 
 
 With such an introduction, what partner but 
 would have been graciously received ? Perhaps, 
 had not Emily's judgment been a little blinded 
 by the diamond-dust which vanity flings in the 
 eyes, Mr. Boyne Sillery might not have appear- 
 ed such a very nice young man. He was pre- 
 cisely of an order she had too much good taste to 
 admire — he was, to use the expression a French 
 critic applied to Moore's poetry, trop parfume ;
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 69 
 
 there was an occasional glisten on his curls, that 
 savoured too much of a professor and Vhuile 
 aux millejieurs ; his tailor was evidently a person 
 of great consideration in his eyes — that was 
 but gratitude ; and his chance mention of ac- 
 quaintance was too carefully correct — that air 
 of the Court Guide which so much betrays the 
 parvenu or debutant. But Emily was in no 
 mood to be critical. During the quadrille they 
 progressed as rapidly as an American settle- 
 ment. He gave her his arm to the supper- 
 room : grapes, pine -apple, jelly, and pretty 
 speeches, blended amicably together. After- 
 wards their engagement was extended to a 
 waltz. They talked of the Corsair — the exqui- 
 site picture of Parris's Bridemaid in the British 
 Gallery — and ended with Italy and moonlight; 
 when she was shawled, cloaked, and handed 
 to the carriage with a most exquisite air of 
 anxiety — but not till her partner had learned 
 the number of Lady Alicia's Opera-box, and 
 that they were going the following evening to 
 Mrs. William Carson's fancy ball. 
 
 Alas ! for the weakness and vanity of the 
 female sex. Mile. Hyacinthine quite marvelled 
 at her young lady's animation, as she unbound 
 the wreath of lilies from her hair, and received
 
 70 ROMANCE AND REALITY- 
 
 a caution about to-morrow's costume : such an 
 injunction had not passed Emily's lips for weeks. 
 
 Even in this world of wonders, there are two 
 subjects of our especial marvel; — how people 
 can be so silly as to give fancy balls ; and, still 
 more, how people can be so silly as to go to 
 them. With a due proportion of the coldness 
 of our insular atmosphere entering like a damp 
 sea-breeze into our composition, we English are 
 the worst people in the world to assume cha- 
 racters not our own — we adapt and adopt most 
 miserably — and a fancy ball is just a caricature 
 of a volume of costumes, only the figures are 
 somewhat stifTer and not so well executed. 
 
 Emily was that evening, by the aid of shin- 
 ing spangles and silver gauze, an embroidered 
 sylph ; and in attempting to be especially airy 
 and graceful, was, of course, constrained and 
 awkward. However, Mr. Boyne Sillery assured 
 her she looked like the emanation of a moon- 
 lit cloud ; and she could not do less than 
 admire the old English costume, by which she 
 meant the slashed doublet and lace ruff of her 
 companion. On they went, through the most 
 ill-assorted groups. Young ladies whom a 
 pretty ankle had seduced into Switzerland, but 
 who now walked about as if struck by sudden
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 71 
 
 shame at their short blue silk skirts. Sultanas 
 radiant in their mothers' diamonds, which they 
 seemed terribly afraid of losing ; and beauties 
 in the style of Charles the Second, wholly en- 
 grossed by the relaxation of their ringlets. 
 
 But if the ladies were bad, the cavaliers were 
 worse. Was there a youth with a bright En- 
 glish colour, and a small nose with an elevated 
 termination, " he stuck a turban on his brow, 
 and called himself Abdallah." Was there a 
 iC delicate atomy" of minute dimensions and 
 pale complexion, he forthwith strutted a hardy 
 Highlander. But our very pages would grow 
 weary were we to enumerate the solemn Ro- 
 chesters, the heavy Buckinghams, contrasted 
 by Spaniards all slip, slide, and smile — and 
 officers with nothing warlike about them but 
 their regimentals. The very drawing-rooms 
 partook of the general discomfort : one was 
 fitted up as a Turkish tent, where, a propos des 
 Turcs, the visitors drank champagne and punch ; 
 while a scene in Lapland, terribly true as to 
 chilliness, was filled with ecarte players and 
 most rheumatic draughts. The master of the 
 house wandered about, looking as if he longed 
 to ask his way ; and the mistress, who was 
 queen of some country — whether African or
 
 72 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 Asiatic it would have been difficult from her 
 dress to decide — curtsied and complimented, 
 till she seemed equally weary of her dignity, 
 draperies, and guests. 
 
 To Emily the scene was new — and novelty 
 is the best half of pleasure. Mr. Boyne Sillery 
 was too attentive not to be agreeable. Atten- 
 tion is always pleasant in an acquaintance till 
 we tire of them. Moreover, he was very en- 
 tertaining, talked much of every body, and well 
 of none ; and ill nature is to conversation what 
 oil is to the lamp — the only thing that keeps 
 it alive. Besides, there were two or three 
 whispers, whose sweetness was good, at least 
 in the way of contrast. 
 
 Mr. Boyne Sillery was seventh, eighth, or 
 ninth, among a score of divers-sized children 
 — in a large family, like a long sum, it is diffi- 
 cult to remember the exact number, His father 
 was the possessor of some half-dozen ancestors, 
 a manor, and landed property worth about 
 twelve hundred a-year. He married the daugh- 
 ter of a neighbour whose purse and pedigree 
 were on a par with his own — the heiress of 
 two maiden aunts, one of whom left her a set 
 of garnets, three lockets, and the miniature of 
 an officer; the other a book of receipts, and
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 73 
 
 three thousand pounds, which, together with 
 what her father gave, was properly settled on 
 the younger scions of the house of Sillery. 
 
 Had Mr. S. studied Mai thus more, and mul- 
 tiplication less, it would have greatly added to 
 the dignity and comfort of his household. As 
 it was, he had to give up his hunters, and look 
 after his preserves. His wife took to nursing 
 and cotton velvet — and every fiftieth cousin was 
 propitiated with pheasants and partridges, to 
 keep up a hope at least of future interest with 
 the three black graces, " law, physic, and di- 
 vinity;" nay, even a merchant, who lived in 
 Leatherlug Lane, was duly conciliated at Mi- 
 chaelmas by a goose, and at Christmas by a 
 turkey ; the more patrician presents being ad- 
 dressed due west. 
 
 " There is a tide in the affairs of men;" and 
 the tide on which Francis Boyne Sillery's for- 
 tune floated was of esprit de vanille. A cousin, 
 Colonel Boyne, of whom it is enough to say, 
 the first ten years of his life passed beside his 
 mother's point apron ; the second at a private 
 tutor's, with seven daughters, all of whom en- 
 tertained hopes of the youthful pupil ; the third 
 series in a stay-at-home regiment, whose cornets 
 and captains were of too delicate material to 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 74 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 brave the balls and bullets of '/ outrageous for- 
 tune ;" and the last few years at Paris, a slave 
 to the slender ankle and superlative suppers of 
 an Opera-dancer. Her reform, in a convent, 
 and the necessity of raising his rents, brought 
 the Colonel to England. Soon after his arrival, 
 that patent axletree of action, the not knowing 
 what to do with himself, domesticated him 
 during some weeks of the shooting season at 
 Sillery House, where, not being a sportsman, 
 all the benefit he derived from September was 
 having his morning's sleep disturbed, and see- 
 ing partridges that would have made the most 
 exquisite of sautes, drenched with an infantine- 
 looking pap called bread sauce. 
 
 His attention, among the red-cheeked, red- 
 handed, and large-eared race, that formed the 
 olive plantation around his cousin's table, was 
 drawn to his namesake, Francis Boyne Sillery, 
 by one day missing from his dressing-table a 
 large portion of the most exquisite scent, with 
 which he endeavoured to counteract the at- 
 mosphere of goose and gunpowder that filled 
 Sillery House. 
 
 Mischief in a large family, like murder in the 
 newspapers, is sure to come out. It was soon 
 discovered that Master Francis, having his deli-
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 75 
 
 cate nerves disturbed by the odour exhaled from 
 Messrs. Day and Martin's blacking, had poured 
 the esprit de vanille over the pumps with which 
 he attended a neighbouring dancing-school. 
 
 Great was the indignation excited. With 
 the fear of a lost legacy before their eyes, his 
 mother burnt the shoes — his father took the 
 horsewhip — when Colonel Boyne interfered, 
 with a eulogium on the naturally fine taste of 
 the boy, and a petition to adopt a youth whose 
 predilections were so promising. 
 
 A week afterwards, the Colonel left for London, 
 and with him Francis — the grief for whose de- 
 parture was such as is generally felt by mothers 
 on the marriage of their daughters, or fathers at 
 the loss of supernumerary sons. Colonel Boyne 
 took a house in Duchess Street, and a pretty 
 housekeeper — walked St. James's and Bond 
 Streets — kept both wig and whisker in a state 
 of dark-biown preservation — and wore Hoby's 
 boots to the last. Francis had too much of 
 the parasite in his nature ever to loose his ori- 
 ginal hold ; and after a few years of dread, 
 touching a lady and her daughter who lived 
 opposite, and spent an unjustifiable part of 
 their time at the window — and some occa- 
 sional terrors of the housekeeper, his cousin
 
 76 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 died, leaving him all he had, and not a little 
 disappointment. A few hundreds a-year, and 
 a few more at the banker's, were all that re- 
 mained of the wasted property of the indulged 
 and the indolent. 
 
 But youth, even of the most provident species, 
 rarely desponds. Mr. Boyne Sillery had enough 
 to quiet his tailor and his perfumer — and he 
 lived on, in the hopes of an heiress. In the 
 mean time — as Wordsworth says, 
 
 " Each man has some object of pursuit, 
 
 To which he sedulously devotes himself/' — 
 
 being too prudent for gambling, too poor for 
 la gourmandise, too idle for any employment 
 demanding time, too deficient for any requiring 
 talent — he took to flirting, partly to keep his 
 hand in for the destined heiress he was to fasci- 
 nate, and partly as a present amusement. He 
 spoke in a low tone of voice — a great thing, ac- 
 cording to Shakespeare, in love affairs ; he was 
 pale enough for sentiment — made a study of 
 pretty speeches — and was apt at a quotation. 
 Did he give his arm to a damsel, whose white 
 slipper became visible on the crimson-carpeted 
 staircase, it was 
 
 " Her fairy foot, 
 That falls like snow on earth, as soft and mute."
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 77 
 
 If he hesitated a moment, it was to fill up the 
 pause with 
 
 44 Oh, what heart so wise, 
 
 Could, unbewildered, meet those matchless eyes ?" 
 
 Did the fair dame wear flowers in her dark 
 hair, he talked of 
 
 u Lilies, such as maidens wear 
 
 In the deep midnight of their hair." 
 
 If she sang, he praised by whispering that her 
 voice 
 
 " Bore his soul along 
 Over the silver waters of sweet song." 
 
 Dearly did he love a little religious contro- 
 versy ; for then the dispute could be wound up 
 with 
 
 " Thou, for my sake, at Allah's shrine, 
 And I at any god's for thine." 
 
 This propensity had brought on him an absurd 
 nickname. A young lady, whose designs on 
 another he had thwarted for a whole evening 
 by a course of ill-timed compliments — and the 
 prosperity of a compliment, even more than of a 
 jest, 
 
 " Must lie i' the ear of him who hears it," 
 
 — called him Cupid Quotem ; and the ridiculous 
 is memory's most adhesive plaster.
 
 78 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 It was some half dozen evenings or so before 
 Emily was quite tired — but the past pleasant 
 had degenerated into the present wearisome, 
 that sure prophecy of the future odious — when, 
 on the fifth evening, as he was leaning over her 
 chair at the Opera, and, either in the way of 
 idleness or experiment, his speeches were more 
 than usually sentimental ; — by way of diversion, 
 Emily began questioning ; and " Who is in that 
 box? Do you know that person in the pit?" 
 turned the enemy most scientifically. 
 
 Next to saying sweet things, Mr. Sillery 
 loved saying sour; judge, therefore, if he was 
 not entertaining. 
 
 A headach induced Lady Alicia to leave be- 
 fore the opera was half over. While waiting 
 in the crush-room, Mrs. Fergusson and her 
 daughters stopped to exchange those little non- 
 entities of speech called civilities. 
 
 " Quite an attache" said Miss Fergusson, in 
 an audible sneer, as she turned from Emily 
 and Mr. Boyne Sillery. 
 
 That night Emily meditated very seriously 
 on the propriety of repressing attentions of which 
 she was tired. It is curious to observe how 
 soon we perceive the impropriety of departed 
 pleasures. Repentance is a one-faced Janus,
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 79 
 
 ever looking to the past. She thought how- 
 wrong it was to lead on a young man — how 
 shameful to trifle with the feelings of an- 
 other — and how despicable was the cha- 
 racter of a coquette. She remembered some- 
 thing very like an appointment — no, that was 
 too harsh a term — she had unguardedly men- 
 tioned the probability of their taking a lounge 
 in Kensington Gardens. Thither she deter- 
 mined not to go, and resolved in her own mind 
 to avoid future quadrilles, &c. She went to 
 sleep, lulled by that best of mental opiates — a 
 good resolution.
 
 80 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " Collecting toys, 
 
 As children gather pebbles by the deep." 
 
 Milton. 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Brown, with that ironical pleasantry com- 
 mon to intense despair, " that is what I call pleasant." 
 
 The Disotvned. 
 
 There needed very little diplomacy to per- 
 suade Lady Alicia to exchange the study of 
 natural history in Kensington Gardens for its 
 pursuit in Howell and James's, where bracelets 
 made of beetles, and brooches of butterflies, are 
 as good as a course of entomology. A gay drive 
 soon brought them to that emporium of china 
 and chronometers — small, as if meant to chime 
 to fairy revels — of embossed vases, enamelled 
 like the girdle of Iris, and in which every glass 
 drawer is a shrine 
 
 " Where the genii have hid 
 
 The jewelled cup of their king Jamshid." 
 
 Truly, the black sea of Piccadilly, in spite of 
 mud and Macadam, is, from four to five o'clock
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 81 
 
 in the season, one of those sights whose only 
 demerit is its want of novelty. 
 
 The carriage, entering at Stanhope Gate, 
 first wound its way through a small but bril- 
 liant crowd — vehicles, from which many a face 
 glanced fair 
 
 " As the maids 
 
 Who blushed behind the gallery's silken shades," 
 
 in Mokanna's gathering from Georgia and Cir- 
 cassia, and drawn by horses whose skins were 
 soft as the silks and satins of their owners — 
 steeds like the one which owes its immor- 
 tality to its Macedonian victor, curbed by 
 the slight rein and yet slighter touch of some 
 patrician-looking rider, whose very appearance 
 must be a consolation to those melancholy 
 mortals who prose over the degeneracy of the 
 human race — cabriolets guided apparently as 
 the young prince was waited on in the palace 
 of the White Cat, by hands only, or rather 
 gloves, varying from delicate primrose to pale 
 blue. 
 
 Then the scene itself — the sweep of light 
 verdure, the fine old trees which in Kensington 
 Gardens formed the background of the dis- 
 tance, the light plantation of flowering shrubs 
 on one side, the fine statue of Achilles, looking 
 e2
 
 82 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 down like a dark giant disdainfully on the slight 
 race beneath ; the slender and elegant arches 
 through which the chariot wheels rolled as if 
 in triumph ; the opening of the Green Park, 
 ended by the noble old Abbey, hallowed by 
 all of historic association ; the crowded street, 
 where varieties approximated and extremes 
 met; the substantial coach, with its more 
 substantial coachman, seeming as if they bore 
 the whole weight of the family honours ; the 
 chariots, one, perhaps, with its crimson blind 
 waving and giving a glimpse of the light 
 plume, or yet lighter blonde, close beside 
 another whose olive-green outside and one 
 horse told that the dark-vested gentleman, 
 seated in the very middle, as if just ready to 
 get out, is bound on matters of life and death, 
 i. e. is an apothecary. Then the heavy stages 
 — the omnibus, which so closely resembles a 
 caravan of wild beasts — and, last descent of 
 misery and degradation, the hackney-coaches, 
 to which one can only apply what Rochefoucault 
 says of marriages — " they may be convenient, 
 but never agreeable. " 
 
 Of the pedestrians — as in telling a gentle- 
 man faults in the mistress he married that 
 morning — the least said, the soonest mended.
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 83 
 
 No woman looks well walking in the street : 
 she either elbows her way in all the disagree- 
 ableness of independence, or else shuffles along 
 as if ashamed of what she is doing ; her bonnet 
 has always been met by some unlucky wind 
 which has destroyed half its shape, and all 
 its set : if fine weather, her shoes are covered 
 with dust, and if dirty, the petticoat is defyingly 
 dragged through the mud, or, still more defy- 
 ingly, lifted on one side to shew the black 
 leather boot, and draggled in deepest darkness 
 on the other. No female, at least none with 
 any female pretensions, should ever attempt to 
 walk, except on a carpet, a turf, or a terrace. 
 As for the men, one half look as if they were 
 running on an errand or from an arrest, or else 
 were creeping to commit suicide. 
 
 So much for the pavement. Then the shops 
 on either side, can human industry or ingenuity 
 go farther ? Ah, human felicity ! to have at 
 once so many wants suggested and supplied ! 
 Wretched Grecian daughters ! miserable Roman 
 matrons ! to whom shopping was an unknown 
 pleasure, what did, what could employ them ? 
 Harm, no doubt; for 
 
 " Satan finds some mischief still 
 For idle hands to do."
 
 84 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 But, without that grand resource, how they got 
 through the four-and-twenty hours, like the 
 man with the iron mask, remains a mystery. 
 
 At Howell's Emily was aroused from the con- 
 templation of a bracelet formed of bees' wings 
 united by lady-birds — by seeing Lady St. Leon, 
 a large, good-natured person — one of those 
 who take up a chariot or a sofa to themselves — 
 one of those fortunate beings who have never 
 had a cross but a diamond one in the world — 
 one who, as a child, was amusing enough to be 
 papa's pet, and pretty enough to be mamma's. 
 She fell in love at sixteen with the very person 
 she ought, — the heir of the estate which ad- 
 joined her father's ; she was wedded in a month, 
 had a fine large family, none of whom were ever 
 ill; had sons, with an uncle to adopt every one 
 but the eldest, and daughters predestined to be 
 married, and who fulfilled their destinies as 
 soon as possible. She never contradicted her 
 husband, who never contradicted her ; and they 
 had gone on to fifty, equally fat and fortu- 
 nate together. No wonder her ladyship's good 
 humour was enough for herself — and other 
 people. 
 
 While discussing with the old lady the effects 
 of an east wind, and the rival merits of liquorice
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 85 
 
 and lemon lozenges, who should she see exa- 
 mining the sentiments and seals but Mr. Boyne 
 Sillery ; and whose conversation should she 
 overhear but that passing between him and a 
 young guardsman, who was bestowing on him 
 his idleness and his company? 
 
 " Pray," said Captain Sinclair, " who is 
 that pretty girl whose peace of mind you have 
 been annihilating the last night or two?" 
 
 " In good truth, I hardly know — a Miss 
 Arundel — a wood-nymph, the daughter of either 
 a country squire or a clergyman — equipped, I 
 suppose, by a mortgage on either the squire's 
 corn-fields or the parson's glebe land — sent 
 with her face for her fortune to see what can 
 be done during a London season in the way of 
 Cupid and conquest." 
 
 " I am at a loss," said his companion, " to 
 understand your devotion." 
 
 •' It was a mixture of lassitude and experi- 
 ment, carried into execution by a little Chris- 
 tian charity : she appeared entirely neglected — 
 and your nobodies are so very grateful ! But 
 I find the fatigue too much : moreover, one 
 should never let pleasure interfere with busi- 
 ness. Last night, at the Opera, one of those 
 crushes which bewilder the uninitiated, did
 
 86 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 wonders for me with a pretty (by courtesy) 
 little Oriental, whose forty thousand pounds 
 have lately been suggesting themselves in the 
 shape of a new system of finance. " 
 
 " And what oriental lure can tempt you to 
 risk your complexion in the city?" 
 
 " Oh, a removed one : Miss Goulburn." 
 Louisa Emma Anastasia Goulburn had fewer 
 drawbacks than most heiresses. Her father was 
 one of those aborigines whose early history was, 
 like most early histories, involved in consider- 
 able obscurity. " Nothing in life became him 
 like the leaving it ;" for he left one fair daughter 
 and forty thousand pounds to benefit posterity. 
 A sentimental friendship formed at school with 
 a damsel some years her senior, whose calcu- 
 lating talents Mr. Hume himself might envy, 
 induced her, on her friend's marriage, to settle 
 with her in Harley Street ; and this friend 
 having neither brother nor brother-in-law, the 
 fair Louisa Emma remained, rather to her 
 own surprise, unappropriated at four-and- 
 twenty. As to characteristics, she had none; 
 and, to use a simile to describe her, she was 
 like that little volume " The Golden Lyre," 
 whose only merit was being printed in golden 
 letters*
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 87 
 
 " Rich, silly," said Mr. Boyne Sillery, 
 ft what rational man could wish for a more 
 pattern wife ? I am now going to Kensington 
 Gardens to meet her, where, by the by, I also 
 expect Miss Arundel — one rival queen is often 
 useful with another." 
 
 " Well," said Captain Sinclair, " I think I 
 should be amused by a scene between your 
 sylph and your gnome : my cabriolet waits at 
 the corner — shall I drive you ?" 
 
 " Agreed," rejoined Mr. Sillery, pausing a 
 moment to make choice of two seals, one a 
 kneeling Cupid — and to decide whether it was 
 an apple or a heart which he held in his hand, 
 would have puzzled an anatomist or a natu- 
 ralist — with the motto a vous : — the other, an 
 equally corpulent Cupid chained, the inscription 
 " at your feet." " I always consider," observed 
 our calculating cavalier, " billets the little god's 
 best artillery : the perfumed paper is a personal 
 compliment, and your fair correspondent always 
 applies the seal to herself: like the knights of 
 old, I look to my arms." 
 
 A prolonged gaze on the mirror opposite, a 
 satisfactory smile, and our two adventurers left 
 the shop — like Pizarro, intent on a golden 
 conquest. Emily's lip was a little bitten, and
 
 88 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 her colour not a little heightened, as she 
 emerged from the expanse of Lady St. Leon's 
 ermine. What a pity it is to throw away a 
 good resolution !
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 89 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 " Yet mark the fate of a whole sex." — Pope. 
 
 " Look on this picture, and on this." — Shakespeare. 
 
 " I beg to deny the honourable gentleman's assertion." 
 
 Debates : Morning Chronicle. 
 
 The pleasantest, indeed the only pleasant par- 
 ties, at their house, were the small dinners, in 
 which Mr. Delawarr excelled : it was said he 
 rather piqued himself upon them. Among the 
 many distinguished in mind, body, and estate, 
 whose countenances were most frequently re- 
 flected in the covers to the dishes (most unpre- 
 possessing mirrors they are), was a Mr. Mor- 
 land, a self-acting philosopher, i. e. one whose 
 philosophy was exerted for his own benefit — 
 that philosophy we are so apt only to exert for 
 others. He was a widower — had eschewed 
 politics — never gave advice, but often assist- 
 ance — read much, but wrote not at all — bought 
 a few pictures — had the perfection of a cook
 
 90 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 — loved conversation; and a little judicious 
 listening had made Miss Arundel a first-rate 
 favourite. 
 
 Considering how much the ears are cultivated 
 with all the useless varieties of " lute, sackbut, 
 and psaltery/' it is wonderful their first great 
 quality should be so neglected ; it shews how 
 much common sense is overlooked in our present 
 style of education. Now, considering that it 
 is the first step to general popularity — (that 
 general popularity, to be turned, like a patriot's, 
 to particular account) — considering that it is the 
 great general principle of conciliation towards 
 East Indian uncles and independent aunts, it 
 shews how much real utility is forgotten, when 
 the science of listening is not made a prominent 
 branch of instruction. So many act on the 
 mistaken principle, that mere hearing is listen- 
 ing — the eyes, believe me, listen even better 
 than the ears — there ought to be a professor 
 of listening. We recommend this to the atten- 
 lion of the London University, or the new King's 
 College ; both professing to improve the system 
 of education. Under the head of listening, is 
 to be included the arts of opportune question- 
 ings and judicious negatives — those negatives
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITV. 91 
 
 which, like certain votes, become, after a time, 
 affirmatives. 
 
 Mr. Morland. — " So you were at Lady Man- 
 deville's ball last night? The primeval curse is 
 relaxed in favour of you young ladies. How 
 very happy you are !" 
 
 Emily rather differed in opinion : however, 
 instead of contradicting, she only questioned. 
 " I should really like to know in what my 
 superlative felicity consists." 
 
 Mr. Morland. — " You need not lay such a 
 stress on the monosyllable my : it is the lot of 
 your generation ; you are young, and youth 
 every hour gives that new pleasure for which 
 the Persian monarch offered a reward ; you are 
 pretty" — Emily smiled — " all young ladies 
 are so now-a-days" — the smile shadowed some- 
 what — "you have all the luxury of idleness, 
 which, as the French cooks say of le potage, is 
 the foundation of every thing else." 
 
 Emily. — " I am sure I have not had a mo- 
 ment's time since I came to town — you cannot 
 think how busy I have been." 
 
 Mr. Morland. — "Those little elegant no- 
 things — those raiubow-tinted bead-workings of 
 the passing hours, which link the four-and-
 
 92 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 twenty coursers of the day in chains light as 
 that slender native of Malta round your neck. 
 I'll just review a day for you: Your slumber, 
 haunted by some last night's whisper ' fairy 
 sound/ is broken by the chiming of the little 
 French clock, which, by waking you to the 
 music of some favourite waltz, adds the mid- 
 night pleasures of memory to the morning 
 pleasures of hope. The imprisoned ringlets are 
 emancipated ; ' fresh as the oread from the 
 forest fountain,' you descend — you breathe the 
 incense of the chocolate — not more, I hope — 
 and grow conversational and confidential over 
 the green tea, which, with a fragrance beyond all 
 the violets of April, rises to your lip, ' giving 
 and taking odours.' A thousand little interesting 
 discussions arise — the colour of the Comte de 
 S.'s moustache — the captivation of Colonel F.'s 
 curls : there are partners to be compared — 
 friends to be pitied — flirtations to be noted — 
 perhaps some most silvery speech of peculiar 
 import to be analysed. 
 
 " After breakfast, there are the golden plumes 
 of your canary to be smoothed — the purple 
 opening of your hyacinths to be watched — 
 that sweet new waltz to be tried on the harp
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 93 
 
 — or Mr. Bayly, that laureate of the butterflies, 
 has some new song. Then there are flowers to 
 be painted on velvet — the new romance to be 
 read — or some invention of novel embellish- 
 ment to be discussed with your Mile. Jacinthe, 
 Hyacinthe, or whatever poetic name may eu- 
 phoniously designate your Parisian priestess of 
 the mirror. 
 
 " Luncheon and loungers come in together 
 — a little news and a little nonsense — and then 
 you wonder at its being so late. The carriage 
 and the cachemere are in waiting — you have 
 been most fortunate in the arrangement of your 
 hat — never did flowers wave more naturally, 
 or plumes fall more gracefully. Your milliner 
 has just solicited your attention to some triumph 
 of genius — you want a new clasp to your 
 bracelet — 
 
 c Visions of glory, spare my aching sight !' 
 
 Complexion and constitution are alike revived 
 by a drive in the Park- — a white glove rests on 
 the carriage-window — and some ' gallant gray' 
 or chestnut Arabian is curbed into curvets and 
 foam by its whispering master. 
 
 " I will allow you to dream away the dinner-
 
 94 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 hour — what young lady would plead guilty to 
 an appetite? Then comes that hour of anxious 
 happiness — that given to the political economy 
 of the toilette. I rather pique myself on my 
 eloquence ; but ' language, oh, how faint and 
 weak !' to give an idea of the contending claims 
 of tulle, crape, &c. &c. We will imagine its 
 deliberations ended in decision. Your hair falls 
 in curls like a sudden shower of sunshine, or 
 your dark tresses are gathered up with pearls. 
 You emerge, like a lady lily, delicate in white 
 — or the youngest of the roses has lent its 
 colour to your crape; your satin slipper rivals 
 the silver-footed Thetis of old ; and in a few 
 minutes you are among the other gay creatures 
 1 of the element' born of Collinet's music; and 
 among the many claimants for your hand one is 
 the fortunate youth. Midnight passes — and 
 I leave you to your pillow, 
 
 * Gentle dreams, and slumbers light.' 
 
 " So much for your past — now for your future. 
 The season is nearly at an end — the captured 
 coronet has crowned your campaign — parch- 
 ments are taking the place of pasteboard ; you
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 95 
 
 are bewildered in blushes and blonde— diamonds 
 and satin supersede your maiden pearls and 
 gauze — another fortnight, and you are being 
 hurried over the continent with all the rapidity 
 of four horses and felicity, or else giving a 
 month to myrtles, moonlight, and matrimony. 
 Of your consequent happiness I need not speak : 
 'tis true your duties take a higher character — 
 you have a husband to manage — a visiting-list 
 to decide — perhaps have the mighty duties of 
 patroness to balls, charities, concerts, and Sun- 
 day schools to perform. But I have finished : 
 — the advantages of a house and carriage of 
 your own, the necessity of marriage, I trust 
 you are too well an educated young lady not 
 fully to understand.'' 
 
 " Now, out upon you, Miss Arundel !" said 
 Lady Mandeville — a lady, both beauty and bel 
 esprit j who sat near her, " to encourage, by smile 
 and silence, so false a painter of our destiny. 
 Do you not see the veiled selfishness of such 
 sophistry? Our said happiness is but the ex- 
 cuse of our exclusion. Whenever I hear a man 
 talking of the advantages of our ill-used sex, 
 I look upon it as the prelude to some new act 
 of authority."
 
 96 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 Mr. Delawarr. — " Ah ! you resemble those 
 political economists who, if they see a para- 
 graph in the paper one day rejoicing over the 
 country's prosperity, examine its columns the 
 next to see what new tax is to be sug- 
 gested." 
 
 Lady Ma?ideville.-—" On grounds of utility 
 I object to such a false impression being made 
 on Miss Arundel's mind ; it is her destiny to be 
 miserable, and I were no true friend did I not 
 act the part of a friend, and impress upon her 
 the disagreeable necessity." 
 
 Mr. Morland. — " Then you would join in 
 the prayer of the Indian heroine, in the Prairie, 
 ' Let not my child be a girl, for very sorrowful 
 is the lot of woman ? ' " 
 
 Lady Mandeville. — " Most devoutly. Allow 
 me to revise Mr. Morland's picture, and, for 
 Jeanne qui rit, give the far truer likeness of 
 Jeanne qui pleure. I will pass over the days 
 of pap and petting, red shoes and blue sash, as 
 being that only period when any thing of equality 
 subsists between the sexes ; and pass on to the 
 time when all girls are awkward, and most of 
 them ugly — days of back-boards and collars, 
 red elbows, French, Italian, musical and calis-
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 97 
 
 thenic exercises. Talk of education ! What 
 course of Eton and Oxford equals the mental 
 fatigues of an accomplished young lady ? There 
 is the piano, the harp — the hands and feet 
 equally to be studied — one to be made perfect 
 in its touch, the other in its tread ; then, per- 
 haps, she has some little voice, which is to be 
 shaken into a fine one — French and Italian are 
 indispensable — geography, grammar, histories 
 ancient and modern ; there are drawings, in 
 crayons and colours — tables to be painted, and 
 also screens — a little knowledge of botany and 
 her catechism, and you have done your best 
 towards giving your daughter that greatest of 
 blessings, as the Edinburgh and Westminster 
 Reviews call it, a solid education. It is true, 
 as soon as the great purpose of feminine ex- 
 istence, marriage, is accomplished, the labour 
 and expense of years will be utterly forgotten 
 and wasted ; but you have not the less done 
 your duty. Emerged from the dull school- 
 room, the young lady comes out : period of 
 heart-burnings and balls — of precaution and 
 pretension — of the too attractive younger bro- 
 ther — of the too necessary elder one — time of 
 love and lectures — the Mount Ararat between 
 VOL. 1. f
 
 98 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 the purgatory of the school-room, and the para- 
 dise of an eligible offer : 
 
 * The horizon's fair deceit, 
 Where earth and heaven but seem, alas ! to meet.' 
 
 I do not feel my spirits equal to dwelling on 
 the wretchedness of an unappropriated debut- 
 ante, that last stage of maiden misery ; but 
 suppose our aspirant safely settled in some 
 park in the country, or some square in town — 
 Hymen's bark fairly launched — but 
 
 ' Are the roses still fresh by the bright Bendemeer V 
 
 A woman never thoroughly knows her depend- 
 ence till she is married. I pass also the jea- 
 lousies, the quarrels, the disgusts, that make 
 the catholic questions and corn-bills of married 
 life — and only dwell on one in particular : some 
 irresistible hat, some adorable cap, some exqui- 
 site robe, has rather elongated your milliner's 
 list of inevitables — I always think the husband's 
 answer greatly resembles the judge's response 
 to the criminal, who urged he must live, — ' I do 
 not see the necessity.' Is not this just the 
 reply for a husband when the fair defaulter 
 urges she must dress? How will he ejaculate, 
 ' I do not see the necessity.' Truly, when my
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 99 
 
 milliner sends in her annual account of enor- 
 mities, like Corneille's Curiatius, ( fai pitie de 
 moi-meme.' " 
 
 ~No debate ever ending in conviction, it is of 
 little consequence that here the conversation 
 was interrupted by that rise of feminine stocks 
 which usually takes place during the second 
 glass of claret.
 
 100 
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " I am the most unlucky person in the world." 
 
 Common Exclamation. 
 
 " People always marry their opposites." 
 
 General Remark. 
 
 " Coaches all full/' said a little bustling 
 waiter, who popped about like a needle through 
 a seam. " No horses to be had, — all at the 
 races, — very bad day, sir, — very bad indeed ! " 
 
 u Confound the wet ! " somewhat hastily 
 ejaculated Mr. Lorraine, resuming his station 
 at the window, which looked into a narrow 
 little street, now almost Venetian with a canal 
 in the middle. The rain came down in tor- 
 rents, — not a creature was passing; he had 
 not even the comfort of seeing a few people 
 drenched through : somebody was dead in the 
 shop opposite, so that was shut up : he turned 
 to the room, — there was not a glass to enliven 
 its dark dingy lilac walls ; the chairs were with 
 those black shining sliding seats, in contempt 
 of all comfort; the fire-place was filled with
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 101 
 
 shavings ; and a china shepherd and shep- 
 herdess, clothed in u a green and yellow me- 
 lancholy," were the penates of the mantel-piece. 
 How stimulating: to be thrown on one's own re- 
 sources ! — unfortunately, they are like 
 
 " Spirits from the vasty deep. 
 But will they come when you do call to them ? '* 
 
 No resource but that of swearing came 
 to Edward's help; and he paced the little 
 room, most unpatriotically consigning the cli- 
 mate of his native land, the races, the horses 
 the inn, and himself, to the devil. At last, 
 he went in search of the landlord, whom he 
 found standing dismally at the door, apparently 
 engaged in counting the rain drops. 
 
 " Are you sure no horses are to be procured ? 
 
 — how unlucky ! " 
 
 " All my luck, sir/' said the disconsolate- 
 looking master of the Spread Eagle ; " it is 
 just like me, — my best horses knocked up at 
 the races, — they might have been as lame as 
 they pleased next week ; but I am so unlucky 
 
 — I hav'n't fifty pounds in the world ; but if I 
 had ten in the Bank of England, there would 
 be a national bankruptcy, on purpose that I 
 might lose it ; and if 1 were to turn undertaker,
 
 102 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 nobody would die, that I might'n't have the 
 burying of them : it's just my luck always." 
 
 Edward's sympathy was interrupted by the 
 roll of wheels. A phaeton drove up to the 
 door, and in its owner he recognised his young 
 friend Lord Morton ; and a few minutes sufficed 
 to persuade him to take his seat, and accept an 
 invitation to Lauriston Park. It never rains 
 but it pours, and a pouring shower is always a 
 clearing one ; so it proved, and a beautiful 
 evening was darkening into still more beautiful 
 night, as they entered Lauriston Park. 
 
 Certainly our English parks are noble places ; 
 and a most disrespectful feeling do we enter- 
 tain towards the nobleman who sells his deer 
 and ploughs up his land. Why should he be 
 so much richer or wiser than his grandfathers? 
 Before them swept acres upon acres of green 
 grass — a deep sea of verdure ; here some stately 
 oak, whose size vouched for its age — an oak, 
 the most glorious of trees, — glorious in its own 
 summer strength of huge branches and luxuriant 
 foliage, — glorious in all its old associations, in 
 its connexion with that wild, fierce religion, 
 when the Druids made it a temple, — and 
 thrice glorious in its association with the waves 
 and winds it is its future destiny to master,
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 103 
 
 and in the knowledge that the noble race have 
 borne, and will bear, the glory of England round 
 the world. It may sound like the after-dinner 
 patriotism of the Freemasons' Tavern ; but 
 surely the heart does beat somewhat high 
 beneath the shadow of an old oak. 
 
 Beside these were numerous ashes ; the light 
 and the graceful, the weeping cypress of Eng- 
 land, through whose slight boughs the sunshine 
 falls like rain, beloved of the bee, and beneath 
 which the violet grows best. I scarcely ever 
 saw an ash whose roots were not covered with 
 these treasurers of the Spring's perfume. Far 
 as the eye could reach stretched away young 
 plantations ; and if Art had refined upon 
 Nature, clothed the hill side with young plants, 
 shut out a level flat, or opened a luxuriant vista, 
 she had done it with veiled face, and unsan- 
 dalled foot. 
 
 Lord Morton's news, and Lorraine's novel- 
 ties, were interrupted by the dashing forward 
 of a carriage, over whose horses the coachman 
 had evidently lost all control. Fortunately, 
 the road was narrow; and with too little risk 
 to enable them to display much heroism, our 
 gentlemen secured the reins, and aided the ladies 
 to alight. From its depths emerged the black
 
 104 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 velvet hat and white feathers, and finally the 
 whole of the Countess of Lauriston, followed 
 by her daughter. After a due portion of time 
 employed in exclamations, sympathies, and in- 
 quiries, how they came to meet was explained 
 as satisfactorily as the end of an old novel, when 
 every thing is cleared up, and every body killed, 
 after having first repented, or married. 
 
 Lord Lauriston was laid up with the gout : 
 prevented from attending the county ball, he 
 still remembered his popularity, and " duly 
 sent his daughter and his wife ;" all thought of 
 going was now at an end : however, the purpose 
 was more completely answered, — an overturn in 
 the service of their country was equivalent to 
 half-a-dozen evenings of hard popular work ; 
 and, too much alarmed to re-enter the carriage, 
 or even try the phaeton, they agreed to walk 
 home, and this, too, in the best of humours. 
 
 Lady Lauriston delighted to see her son, 
 whose absence at this period was to be feared ; 
 for electioneering dinings and visitings are tire- 
 some — and the young man objected to trouble ; 
 while his non-appearance would have wasted a 
 world of " nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles :" 
 as it was, his mother took his arm with de- 
 lighted complacency.
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 105 
 
 Nor was Lady Adelaide less amiable. She 
 was glad, on any terms, to escape from a 
 ball which she called the purgatory of provin- 
 cials ; and besides, the handsome and graceful 
 Lorraine was no bad addition to a family party ; 
 while Edward thought to himself, he had never 
 seen any thing so lovely. The cloak, lined with 
 ermine, was drawn in most exquisite drapery 
 round her beautiful figure ; the night air had 
 already begun to relax the long ringlets which 
 suited so well with the high white forehead, 
 and a face whose loveliness was of that haughty 
 style to which homage was familiar, and con- 
 quest as much a necessity as a desire. 
 
 There was something, too, picturesque in the 
 scene : they had now entered the shrubberies, 
 whose luxury of blossom was indeed a con- 
 trast to the dark forests where he had lately 
 sojourned, — as much a contrast as the stately 
 beauty at his side was to the pretty laughing 
 peasants of Norway. His imagination was ex- 
 cited; and as yet, with Edward, imagination 
 was more than one half love. 
 
 They reached the house ; and what with 
 Morton's return, Lorraine's wit, and Adelaide's 
 gratified vanity, the supper passed with a de- 
 gree of gaiety very rare in a house whose atmo- 
 f2
 
 106 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 sphere might have vied with Leila's snow court 
 in Thalaba for coldness and quiet. 
 
 Lord Lauriston was one of those mistakes 
 which sometimes fall out between nature and 
 fortune, — nature meant him for a farmer, for- 
 tune made him a peer. In society he was a 
 nonentity ; he neither talked nor listened — and 
 it is a positive duty to do one or the other; in 
 his own house he resembled one of the old family 
 pictures, hung up for show, and not for use ; 
 but in his farm no Csesar rebuked his genius. 
 Heavens! what attention he bestowed on the 
 growth of his gray pease ! how eloquent he 
 could be on the merits of Swedish turnips ! and 
 a new drill, or a patent thrashing machine, de- 
 prived him of sleep for a week. 
 
 In marriage, as in chemistry, opposites have 
 often an attraction. His lady was as different 
 as your matrimonial affinities usually are; so- 
 ciety was her element, and London her " city 
 of the soul." Her house and her parties occu- 
 pied the first years of her marriage, in endea- 
 vours to embellish the one, and refine the other ; 
 but of late the business of life had grown 
 serious; she had been employed in marrying off 
 her daughters. Her systems of sentiment might 
 have vied with her lord's systems of husbandry \
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 107 
 
 hitherto they had been eminently successful. 
 Her first daughter had come out during the 
 reign of useful employments; and Lady Susan 
 plaited straw, and constructed silk shoes, till 
 Mr. Amundeville, possessor of some thirty thou- 
 sand a-year, thought he could not form a more 
 prudent choice, and made her mistress of his 
 saving-bank and himself, — and mistress indeed 
 was she of both. A day of dash and daring- 
 came next ; and Anastasia rode the most spirited 
 hunter, drove her curricle, told amusing stories, 
 drew caricatures, and laughed even louder than 
 she talked. Lord Shafton married her: he was 
 so delicate, he said, or it was said for him, that 
 he needed protection. Sentiment succeeded ; 
 and Laura leant over the harp, and sat by 
 moonlight iu a window-seat, siohed when her 
 flowers faded, and talked of Byron and Italy. 
 Sir Eustace St. Clair made her an offer while 
 her dark blue eyes were filled with tears at 
 some exquisite lines he had written in her 
 album. 
 
 Lady Adelaide only remained, and an unde- 
 niable beauty ; her mother did indeed expect 
 this match to crown all the others. Her style 
 was, however, to be wholly different, like that 
 of a French tragedy, classical, cold, and correct,
 
 108 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 — indifference, languor, and quietude now united 
 to form a beau ideal of elegance. 
 
 Of Lord Morton little can be said ; he was 
 rather good-looking, and as good-natured as a 
 very selfish person can be; and not more in the 
 way than those always are who depend entirely 
 upon others for their amusement. 
 
 Such was the family where Edward Lorraine 
 promised to stay for a fortnight — a very dan- 
 gerous period ; long enough to fall in love, 
 scarcely long enough to get tired. Lady Lau- 
 riston was perfectly satisfied with the proceed- 
 ings ; she was aware of the advantage of the 
 suffrage of one whose authority in taste was 
 held to be despotic ; she calculated on his good 
 report preceding Adelaide in town ; and she felt 
 too much confidence in her daughter's princi- 
 ples to be at all alarmed about her heart.
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 109 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Duties with wants, and facts with feelings jar, 
 Deceiving and deceived — what fools we are ! 
 The hope is granted, and the wish content, 
 Alas ! but only for our punishment. 
 
 Had Lady Lauriston been aware of Mr. Lor- 
 raine's certainty of succeeding to the Ethering- 
 hame estates and honours, her plans would 
 have assumed a more appropriating form. In- 
 valid in body, still more so in mind, the present 
 Earl was sinking to the grave, not less surely 
 because the disease was more mental than phy- 
 sical — not less surely because he was young, 
 for youth gave its own mortal keenness to the 
 inward wound. It was curious that, while 
 father and mother were cut out in the most 
 common-place shapes of social automata, both 
 sons possessed a romance of feeling which would 
 greatly have alarmed their rational parents. 
 But no moral perceptions are so blunt as those 
 of the selfish ; theirs is the worst of near-sight- 
 edness — that of the heart.
 
 HO ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 Lord and Lady Etheringhame were blind to 
 the faults, even as they were to the good qua- 
 lities of their children, simply because to neither 
 had they an answering key in themselves : we 
 cannot calculate on the motions of a world, of 
 whose very existence we dream not. They had 
 a certain standard, not so much of right and 
 wrong as of propriety, and took it for granted 
 from this standard no child of theirs could 
 depart. 
 
 Reginald the elder brother's character was 
 one peculiarly likely to be mistaken by people 
 of this sort : his melancholy passed for gravity, 
 his timidity for pride, and were therefore held 
 right proper qualities ; while his fondness for 
 reading, his habits of abstraction, passed for 
 close study, which made his mother call him 
 such a steady young man ; while his father, who 
 had some vague notions of the necessity of 
 great men studying, looked forward to the tri- 
 umphs of the future statesman. He had been 
 educated, from his delicate health, entirely at 
 home ; and his tutor, — who had only in his life 
 moved from his college to the castle, and who 
 had lived entirely among books — books which 
 teach us at once so much and so little of 
 men, — could see nothing but good in the pupil,
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY- HI 
 
 whose eagerness to learn exceeded even his 
 eagerness to teach, and who rarely went out 
 without a book in his pocket. 
 
 The gloomy seclusion in which they lived — 
 his health, which rendered those field sports 
 that must have thrown him among young com- 
 panions unattractive — all fostered the dreaming 
 habits of his mind. He would pass hours under 
 the shade of one old favourite cedar, whose vast 
 boughs required a storm to move them, and 
 through whose thick foliage the sunbeams never 
 pierced ; or whole evenings would pass away 
 while he paced the chestnut avenue, ancient 
 as those days when the earls of Etheringhame 
 wore belt and spur, and rode beneath those 
 trees with five hundred armed vassals in their 
 train. There he dreamed of life — those dreams 
 which so unfit the visionary for action, which 
 make the real world so distasteful when mea- 
 sured by that within. 
 
 Reginald was a poet in all but expression : 
 that deep love of beauty — that susceptibility 
 to external impressions — that fancy which, like 
 the face we love, invests all things it looks on 
 with a grace not their own — that intense feel- 
 ing which makes so much its own pain and 
 pleasure — all these were his: it were well had
 
 112 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 expression been added also — if he had been a 
 poet? Feelings which now fed upon his own 
 heart, would then have found a channel, and 
 in their flow have made a bond between him 
 and his fellow-men; the sorrow that parts in 
 music from the lip often dies to its own sing- 
 ing, and the ill-starred love of its song goes 
 on its way, soothed by the comrades it has 
 called up, vanity and sympathy. The poet 
 dies not of the broken heart he sings ; it is the 
 passionate enthusiast, the lonely visionary, who 
 makes of his own hopes, feelings, and thoughts, 
 the pyre on which himself will be consumed. 
 The old proverb, applied to fire and water, 
 may, with equal truth, be applied to the ima- 
 gination — it is a good servant, but a bad 
 master. 
 
 Reginald was just nineteen when a warmer 
 climate was imperatively ordered ; and a few 
 weeks saw Reginald and his tutor settled in a 
 villa near Naples — the one happy in the no- 
 velty, loveliness, and associations of Italy — the 
 other delighted with their vicinity to a convent 
 rich in curious old manuscripts, and to which 
 he had obtained free access. 
 
 It was one of those glorious evenings which 
 crowded the whole wealth of summer into one
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. H3 
 
 single sun-set, when Reginald was loitering 
 through the aisles of a vast church, which 
 seemed, like the faith it served, imperishable. 
 The west was shut out, but the whole building 
 was filled with a rich purple haze — the marble 
 figures on the monuments stood out with a dis- 
 tinctness like real existence, but apart from our 
 own. To me statues never bear aught of human 
 resemblance — I cannot think of them as the 
 likeness of man or woman — colourless, sha- 
 dowy, they seem the creation of a spell ; their 
 spiritual beauty is of another world — and well 
 did the Grecian of old, whose faith was one of 
 power and necessity, not of affection, make his 
 statues deities : the cold, the severely beauti- 
 ful, we can offer them worship, but never love. 
 It was, however, neither statue nor picture that 
 so rivetted Reginald's attention, but a female 
 kneeling at the shrine of the Virgin in most 
 absorbing and earnest prayer. 
 
 Perhaps the most striking, as well as the 
 most picturesque change in costume, is the 
 veil universally worn in Italy ; and but that 
 the present day does not pique itself on its 
 romance, it were matter of marvel how a woman 
 could ever be induced to abandon an article of 
 dress so full of poetical and graceful associa-
 
 114 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 tion. A veiled lady either is, or ought to be, 
 enough to turn the head of any cavalier under 
 five-and-twenty. 
 
 It was, however, admiration, not curiosity, 
 the kneeling female excited ; for her veil had 
 fallen back, and her face, only shadowed by a 
 profusion of loose black ringlets, was fully seen. 
 It was perfect: the high noble forehead — the 
 large melancholy eyes — the delicately chiselled 
 oval of the cheek — the small red mouth, be- 
 longed to the highest and most superb order of 
 beauty; a sadness stole over its expression of 
 devotional fervour — she suddenly buried her 
 face in her hands : when she raised her head 
 again, the long dark eyelashes were glittering 
 with tears. She rose, and Reginald followed 
 her, more from an impulse than an intention ; 
 she stopped and unlocked a small door — it be- 
 longed to the convent garden adjoining — and 
 there entering, disapjDeared. 
 
 But Reginald had had ample time to fall 
 desperately in love. He was now at an age 
 when the heart asks for some more real object 
 than the fairy phantoms of its dreams : passions 
 chase fancies; and the time was now come when 
 the imagination would exert its faculty rather 
 to exaggerate than to create. He thought over
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 115 
 
 the sadness of that angel face, as if he were 
 predestined to soothe it — a thousand scenes 
 in which they were to meet glanced over him 
 — till he found himself leaning back in the 
 darkest recess of a box at the Opera, feeling 
 rather than listening to the delicious music, 
 which floated through the dim atmosphere, so 
 well suited to the reverie of the lover. 
 
 How much more is that vague tone of poetry, 
 to be found in almost all, awakened by the ob- 
 scurity of the foreign theatres! — in ours, the 
 lights, the dresses, &c. are too familiar things, 
 and prevent the audience from being carried 
 away by their feelings, — as they are when music 
 and poetry are aided by obscurity like mystery, 
 and silence deep as thought. A murmur of 
 applause, and a burst of song thrilling in its 
 sweetness, aroused Reginald, and, leaning over 
 the front, he saw — her dark hair gathered with 
 three bands of costly diamonds in front, and 
 a starry tiara behind — her crimson robe shin- 
 ing with gold — her dazzlingly white arms raised 
 in eloquent expostulation — her voice filling the 
 air with its melody — in the Medea of the stage 
 he saw the devotee of the Virgin. 
 
 Pass we over the first steps of attachment — 
 so delicious to tread, but so little pleasant to
 
 116 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 retrace, either for ourselves or others — till ano- 
 ther evening of purple sunset saw, in that church 
 where they had first met, Reginald kneeling by 
 the side of the beautiful Francisca, while a priest 
 pronounced the marriage blessing — a pale, aged 
 man, to whose wan lips seemed rather to belong 
 the prayer for a burial than aught that had to 
 do with life or enjoyment. 
 
 Truly does passion live but in the present. 
 Reginald knew his marriage was not legal ; but 
 her he loved was now his by a sacred vow — 
 and when the future came, he might be entirely 
 his own master : the Janus of Love's year may 
 have two faces, but they look only on each 
 other. The worst of a mind so constituted is, 
 that its feelings cannot last, least of all its love; 
 it measures all things by its expectations — 
 and expectations have that sort of ideal beauty 
 no reality can equal : moreover, in the moral as 
 in the physical world, the violent is never the 
 lasting — the tree forced into unnatural luxu- 
 riance of blossom bears them and dies. Fran- 
 cisca, beautiful but weak, without power to 
 comprehend, or intellect to take part with her 
 lover, somewhat accelerated the re-action ; and 
 Reginald now saw the full extent of the sacri- 
 fice he had made, and the mortifications that
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 117 
 
 were to come, since love had no longer strength 
 to bear him through them. 
 
 If there be one part of life on which the 
 curse spoken at Eden rests in double darkness 
 — if there be one part of life on which is heaped 
 the gathered wretchedness of years, it is the 
 time when guilty love has burnt itself out, and 
 the heart sees crowd around those vain regrets, 
 that deep remorse, whose voices are never heard 
 but in the silence of indifference. Who ever 
 repented or regretted during the reign of that 
 sweet madness when one beloved object was 
 more, ay a thousand times more, than the 
 world forgotten for its sake ? But when the 
 silver cord of affection is loosened, and the 
 golden bowl of intoxicating passion broken — 
 when that change which passes over all earth's 
 loveliest has passed, too, over the heart — when 
 that step which was once our sweetest music 
 falls on the ear a fear, not a hope — when we 
 know that we love no more as once we loved — 
 when memory broods on the past, which yields 
 but a terrible repentance, and hope turns sick- 
 ening from a future, which is her grave — if 
 there be a part of life where misery and weari- 
 ness contend together till the agony is greater 
 than we can bear, this is the time.
 
 118 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 Francisca saw the change, and in a few weeks 
 Reginald was almost startled by the change in 
 her also; but hers was an external change — 
 the bright cheek had lost its colour and out- 
 line, and she was wasted, even to emaciation. 
 He was often absent from their villa, wander- 
 ing, in all the restlessness of discontent, in 
 the wild environs of Vesuvius; and on every 
 return did he observe more alteration, when 
 remorse urged to kindness, and he reproached 
 himself bitterly for leaving her so much to 
 solitude. Under this influence he returned 
 suddenly and unexpectedly one day, and sought 
 Francisca in a fit of repenting fondness ; a faint 
 moan made him enter the room, and there, on 
 the bare rough pavement, knelt Francisca. A 
 coarse dress of sackcloth strangely contrasted 
 with her delicate shape — drops of blood were 
 on the floor — and her slight hand yet held the 
 scourge : a shriek told her recognition of Regi- 
 nald, and she fell senseless on the ground. 
 
 In her state of bodily weakness, the least sud- 
 den emotion was enough to bring on a crisis — 
 and before night she was in a brain fever ; from 
 her ravings and a few questions he learnt the 
 cause. She had marked his growing coldness, 
 and, with the wild superstition of the ardent
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. H9 
 
 and the weak, had held it as a judgment for 
 loving a heretic; the belief that some fearful 
 judgment was hanging over both grew upon her 
 daily ; and by fasts, rigid and severe penance, 
 she strove to avert the penalty, and obtain 
 pardon. Body and mind alike sank under this; 
 and she died in a fearful paroxysm of terror, 
 without one si<m of recognition, in Reginald's 
 arms. He returned to England too late to see 
 his father living; and the first object he met 
 in the old chestnut avenue were the black 
 horses, the dark plumes of the hearse, which 
 were bearing Lord Etheringhame to the vault 
 of his ancestors. 
 
 Reginald thenceforth lived in the deepest 
 seclusion: one only object yet had an interest 
 for him — his young brother; perhaps the very 
 loneliness of his affection made it the deeper. 
 In many points of character Edward resembled 
 his brother ; but he had an energy which the 
 other had not — a buoyancy of spirit, to which 
 difficulty was a delight. As he advanced in 
 life, many an effort did he make to rouse Lord 
 Etheringhame from his lethargy, but in vain. 
 Grief, after all, is like smoking in a damp 
 country — what was at first a necessity becomes 
 afterwards an indulgence.
 
 120 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 " Will you come and spend a long day with me ?" 
 
 Penalties of Friendship. 
 
 " Delightful and intellectual society." — False Concords. 
 
 " To all and singular in this full meeting, 
 
 Ladies and gallants, Phoebus sends you greeting ; 
 
 From his more mighty sons, whose confidence 
 
 Is placed in lofty rhyme and humble sense, 
 
 Even to his little infants of the time 
 
 Who write new songs, and trust in tune and rhyme." 
 
 Dryden. 
 " Look you, friend, it is nothing to me whether you believe 
 it or not ; what I say is true." — Love for Love. 
 
 Of all places, London is the best for an incognita 
 acquaintance ; cards may be exchanged to all 
 eternity without a meeting, and the various 
 circles revolve like planets in their different 
 systems, utterly unconscious of the means and 
 modes of each other's existence. A friend, whom 
 Emily had earnestly, though unsuccessfully, 
 endeavoured to see, thanks to a headach of 
 Lady Alicia's, found them at home. This was
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 121 
 
 a Mrs. Smithson, who had formerly been Emily's 
 governess ; and our heroine was still young 
 enough for the attraction of friendship, to recall 
 with rapture her first readings of Matilde and 
 the Corsair, and to remember with delight her 
 first essay as confidante. Miss Hughes being 
 in love at the time, had only left Arundel Hall 
 to become the wife of Mr. Smithson; a gentle- 
 man whose station and salary now authorised 
 his taking a house and a wife, and, at forty- 
 five, instituting a new search after happiness. 
 
 Mrs. Smithson entered the room, and re- 
 ceived Emily's welcome and embrace evidently 
 a little disorganised by the latter; not but 
 that she was very glad to see her former pupil, 
 but it is very trying to have the drapery of 
 one's shawl destroyed. A few moments; and 
 they were conversing with true feminine fluency. 
 Emily had to mention the curate's marriage, 
 the death of the apothecary, and to say how 
 well both uncle and aunt were. Mrs. Smith- 
 son had to state that she had three children — 
 to wonder Emily had grown so much — and each 
 had to rejoice over meeting with the other. 
 Besides, there was a most interesting subject 
 to be discussed : Mrs. Smithson had enchanted 
 the world with a novel — not a person less than 
 
 VOL. I. g
 
 122 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 a baronet figured in its pages — the heroine had 
 a most authentic milliner — it was rumoured 
 that Lady Holdernesse was the Marchioness 
 of L. ; and, altogether, it had had the most 
 circulating success. Moreover, she had some- 
 thing to say about her husband, who had 
 written a treatise on bats and beetles. 
 
 Emily was at that happy age which takes 
 so much on trust : and her praise was quite 
 elaborate in its enthusiasm. What a charm 
 there must be in praise, when it consoles for 
 all the miseries and mortifications of literature ! 
 The fair and fashionable author now mentioned 
 the object of her visit, which was to induce her 
 young friend to spend a long day with her, to 
 which her young friend readily assented. " I 
 shall be delighted — I will come early — you will 
 excuse my dining in a morning dress — and we 
 shall have such a delightful chat." 
 
 Mrs. Smithson's face perceptibly lengthened 
 at the words "■ morning dress." u Why, my 
 sweet girl, Monday is my little conversazione; 
 my literary pursuits require literary connexions 
 — only a very small circle, but all talented 
 people : however, you will look well in any 
 thing." 
 
 But before the Aspasia of Marylcbone de-
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 123 
 
 parted, it was settled that Emily's maid should 
 be in Harley Street to attend to the necessary 
 change of costume; and, this important arrange- 
 ment decided, Mrs. Smithson's green pelisse 
 and blue bonnet departed — blue and green, like 
 the title of an old novel, " paired, but not 
 matched." By the by, how much bad taste 
 is shewn in the selection of colours ! Out upon 
 the folly of modern liberty, which has abolished 
 sumptuary laws, and left us to all the horrors 
 of our own inventions ! Liberty of conscience 
 is bad enough — the liberty of the press is still 
 worse — but worst of all is liberty of taste in 
 dress to common people. 
 
 Monday and two o'clock found Emily in 
 Harley Street, rather sooner than she was ex- 
 pected, as was evident from that silken rustle 
 which marks a female retreat. A discreet visitor 
 on such occasions advances straight to the 
 window or the glass : Emily did the latter ; 
 and five minutes of contemplation ascertained 
 the fact that her capote would endure a slight 
 tendency to the left. She then took a seat on 
 the hard, or, as they say of hounds, the hide- 
 bound sofa — the five minutes lengthened into 
 twenty, and she sought for amusement at a 
 most literary-looking table. Alas ! she had read
 
 124 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 the novels — for treatises she had no taste — and 
 two German volumes, and three Latin, together 
 with a scientific journal, gave her a cold chill. 
 While thus employed, a red-faced, loud-voiced 
 servant girl threw open the door, and howled, 
 " If you please, ma'am, Master Adolphus has 
 thrown the Library of Entertaining Knowledge 
 at Master Alfred's head, because he tore the 
 Catechism of Conchology ;" but before Miss 
 Arundel could express her regret at such mis- 
 application of knowledge, the girl had vanished 
 in all the dismay of a mistake. 
 
 At last Mrs. Smithson appeared. " My dear 
 Emily, you have waited — I forgot to tell you 
 that I devote the early part of the day to the 
 dear children — I never allow my literary and 
 domestic duties to interfere : you cannot com- 
 mence the important business of education too 
 soon, and I am but just emerged from the 
 study." 
 
 This was a little at variance both with the 
 servant's appearance and her own laboured 
 toilette, whose want of neatness was the result 
 of hurry and bad taste, not of after-disorgani- 
 sation. It is amazing how oppressive is the 
 cleverness of some people, as if it were quite a 
 duty in you to be clever too — or, as I once
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 125 
 
 heard a little child say, " Oh, mamma, I always 
 speak to Mrs. S. in such dictionary words !" 
 
 " Slowly and sadly" did the morning pass. 
 Alas ! for the victim of friendship, whom sen- 
 timent or silliness seduces into passing a long 
 day ! The upright sitting on the repulsive sofa 
 — the mental exhaustion in searching after 
 topics of conversation, which, like the breeze 
 in Byron's description of a calm, "come not" — 
 the gossip that, out of sheer desperation, dark- 
 ens into scandal ; if ever friends or feelings are 
 sacrificed under temptation too strong to be 
 resisted, it is in the conversational pauses of a 
 long day ; and worst of all, a long day between 
 people who have scarcely an idea or an acquaint- 
 ance in common, for the one to be exchanged, 
 or the other abused — communication or con- 
 demnation equally out of the question. Mrs. 
 Smithson secretly pitied herself for wasting her 
 colloquial powers on that social non-entity, a 
 young lady ; and Miss Arundel was somewhat 
 bewildered by the march of her former friend's 
 intellect. Divers of those elegant harmonies, 
 which make musical the flight of time in Lon- 
 don, verified the old rhyme, that 
 
 " Come what may, 
 Time and the tide wear through the roughest day."
 
 126 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 The muffin-boy announced three o'clock — 
 the pot-boy clanking his empty pewter was 
 symptomatic of four — the belman tolling the 
 knell of the post announced five — and, at 
 length, a heavy hard-hearted rap proclaimed 
 the return of Mr. Stnithson ; a gruff voice was 
 heard in the passage — a ponderous step on the 
 stairs — the door and his boots creaked, and in 
 came the author of the treatise on bats and 
 beetles, followed by a blue-coated, nankeen- 
 trousered young man, whose countenance and 
 curls united that happy mixture of carmine 
 and charcoal which constitute the Apollo of a 
 Compton Street counter. Mr. Smithson was 
 equally sullen and solemn-looking, with a mouth 
 made only to swear, and a brow to scowl — 
 a tyrant in a small way — one who would 
 be arbitrary about a hash, and obstinate re- 
 specting an oyster — one of those tempers which, 
 like a domestic east wind, " spares neither 
 man nor beast/' from the unhappy footman 
 that he cursed, to the unlucky dog that he 
 kicked. 
 
 A minute specimen of humanity, in a livery 
 like a jealous lover's, of " green and yellow 
 melancholy," announced dinner. Mr. Smith- 
 son stalked up to Emily, Mr. Perkins simpered
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 127 
 
 up the hostess, and they entered a dismal- 
 looking parlour, whose brick-red walls and ditto 
 curtains were scantily lighted by a single lamp, 
 though it was of the last new patent — to which 
 a dim fire, in its first stage of infant weakness, 
 gave small assistance. 
 
 Mr. Smithson, who, as member of a public 
 office, thought that church and state ought to 
 be supported — which support he conceived to 
 consist in strict adherence to certain forms — 
 muttered something which sounded much more 
 like a growl than a grace, and dinner com- 
 menced. 
 
 At the top was a cod's shoulders and head, 
 whose intellectual faculties were rather over 
 much developed ; and at the bottom was soup 
 called mulligatawny — some indefinite mixture 
 of curry-powder and ducks' feet, the first spoon- 
 ful of which called from its master a look of 
 thunder and lightning up the table. To this 
 succeeded a couple of most cadaverous fowls, 
 a huge haunch of mutton, raw and red enough 
 even for an Abyssinian, flanked by rissoles and 
 oyster patties, which had evidently, like Tom 
 Tough, seen " a deal of service:" these were 
 followed by some sort of nameless pudding — 
 and so much for the luxury of a family dinner,
 
 128 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 which is enough to make one beg next time to 
 be treated as a stranger. 
 
 Conversation there was none — Mr. Smithson 
 kindly sparing the lungs of his friends, at the 
 expense of his own. First, the fire was sworn 
 at — then, the draught from the door — then, 
 the poor little footboy was encouraged by the 
 pleasant intelligence that he was the stupidest 
 blockhead in the world. Mr. Perkins sat pre- 
 serving his silence and his simper ; and to the 
 lady of the house it was evidently quite matter 
 of habit — a sort of accompaniment she would 
 almost have missed. 
 
 The truth is, Mr. Smithson had just married 
 some twenty years too late — with his habits, 
 like his features, quite set, and both in a harsh 
 mould. Young Lady! looking out for an esta- 
 blishment — meditating on the delights of a 
 house of your own — two maids and a man, 
 over whom you are set in absolute authority — 
 do any thing rather than marry a confirmed 
 bachelor — venture on one who has been suc- 
 cessful with seven succeeding wives, with ten 
 small children ready made to order — walk off 
 with some tall youth, who considers a wife and 
 a razor definitive signs of his growth and his 
 sense; but shun the establishment of a bachelor
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 129 
 
 who has hung a pendulum between temptation 
 
 and prudence till the age of but of all 
 
 subjects, age is the one on which it is most 
 invidious to descant. 
 
 The cloth was removed, and sudden commo- 
 tion filled the passage : 
 
 " At once there rose so wild a yell 
 Within that dark and narrow dell ;" 
 &c. &c. &c. 
 
 and in came Master Adolphus and Master 
 Alfred in full cry, having disputed by the way 
 which was to go first — also a baby, eloquent as 
 infancy usually is, and, like most youthful 
 orators, more easily heard than understood. 
 The boys quartered themselves on the unfor- 
 tunate strangers ; and Mrs. Smithson took the 
 infant, which Emily duly declared was the 
 sweetest little creature she had ever seen. On 
 going up stairs, Emily found Mile. Hyacinthe 
 shivering — for, with the usual inhumanity of 
 friends, there was no fire; and it was one of 
 those wet, miserable evenings, gratis copies dis- 
 tributed by November through the year. 
 
 Suicide and antipathy to fires in a bed-room 
 
 seem to be among the national characteristics. 
 
 Perhaps the same moral cause may originate 
 
 both. We leave this question to the West- 
 
 g2
 
 130 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 minster Review. Between grumbling and gar- 
 nishing, discontent and decoration, Emily was 
 some time before she descended to the drawing- 
 room, which was half- full or more on her 
 entrance. She took a seat with a most defe- 
 rential air — for she was a little awestruck by 
 the intellectual society in which she now found 
 herself — and Mrs. Smithson, equally eager to 
 conciliate a reviewer, who stood on her right, 
 and a poet, who stood on her left, had quite 
 forgotten the very existence of her sweet young 
 friend. 
 
 With curiosity much excited, but wholly un- 
 gratified, Emily looked eagerly round for a 
 familiar face, but in vain ; at last, a lady, who 
 had been watching her for some time, said : 
 
 u Will you promise not to suspect me of an 
 intention to steal your pearl chain, if I offer 
 my services as catalogue to this exhibition of 
 walking pictures?" 
 
 " I will, on the contrary, be grateful with 
 all the gratitude of ignorance — there must be 
 so many people here I should so like to know 
 something about." 
 
 " I see," rejoined her companion, " that you 
 are a stranger, and have no credentials in the 
 shape of ' such a sweet poem' — ' such a delight-
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 133 
 
 more than philosophy ' can clip an angel's 
 wings ;' I forget that all ' mine earlier hopes' 
 are now set down 
 
 ' Mid the dull catalogue of common things ; ' 
 
 and I return with a handful of wild flowers, or 
 a branch covered with acorns (the most graceful 
 wreath that ever Oread wore), and imbued 
 with poetry enough to resist the dull thick 
 atmosphere of town for full four-and-twenty 
 hours ; — and then think how beautiful the 
 environs of London really are !" 
 
 " Yes, putting white stuccoed villas, ve- 
 randas, and pic-nic parties, out of the ques- 
 tion." 
 
 " Putting nothing at all out of the question : 
 it is a very morbid or very affected taste which 
 turns away from aught of human comfort or 
 human enjoyment." 
 
 " The other evening," continued Mrs. Sulli- 
 van, " I heard you quoting, 
 
 ' There is a pleasure in the pathless woods.* " 
 
 " As if," rejoined the young poet, " one were 
 always obliged to be of the same opinion ! 
 However, so far I am ready to admit, that the 
 enjoyment of a wild and a lonely scene is of
 
 134 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 a higher and more imaginative quality than 
 that of merely beautiful cultivation ; and I 
 must add, I do not at all agree with Mar- 
 montel, who said, that whenever he saw a 
 beautiful scene he longed for some one to 
 whom he could say, ' How beautiful !'" — 
 
 " Which/' interrupted Mrs. Sullivan, " being 
 translated into plain English, means that vanity 
 and imagination were at variance ; and a thou- 
 sand fine things that he might have said about 
 the prospect with such effect, if he had been 
 listened to, were now being wasted on himself." 
 
 " To again quote the oracles of my high- 
 priest, Wordsworth, there is nothing like 
 
 ' The harvest of a quiet eye, 
 That broods and sleeps on its own heart.' 
 
 What ' truths divine' crowd every page of 
 Wordsworth's writings ! I sometimes wish to 
 be a modern Alexander, that I might have 
 Mount Athos carved into, not my own statue 
 but his." 
 
 u Nay," exclaimed Mrs. Sullivan, " spare 
 me ' lectures on poetry.' I am worse than 
 even Wordsworth's flitch. He says, 
 
 1 The very bacon shewed its feeling, 
 Swinging from the smoky ceiling.'
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 135 
 
 Now, I am free to confess the very bacon has 
 more feeling than I have: so dissipate your 
 Jakeism by telling yonder traveller I want to 
 hear some of his adventures. What variety of 
 talent/' said Mrs. Sullivan, as he turned away, 
 " does that young man possess ! He has V esprit 
 comme un diable, and a sense of the beautiful 
 comme un ange. I cannot characterise his 
 poetry better than in his own words: 
 
 c What is it but a heavenly breath 
 Along an earthly lyre.' " 
 
 As the young traveller Mrs. Sullivan had 
 summoned crossed the room, he was intercepted 
 by a lady, whose very gracious smile on him 
 was the essence of conciliation ; it seemed, 
 however, like English sunshine, too precious to 
 be long enjoyed. Some other " gentle tassel " 
 was to be lured with all the skill of compli- 
 mentary falconry, and with one more smile, 
 and a parting bend of necessity and regret, 
 the traveller approached with the " self-be- 
 traying air" of the flattered. 
 
 " My southern voyage," said he, after the 
 first greetings with Mrs. Sullivan were over, 
 u is enough for a season's reputation. Mrs. 
 Harcourt has just been expressing her admi-
 
 136 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 ration of that spirit of romantic enterprise so 
 much wanting in young men of the present 
 day, has asked me to her fancy ball, and held 
 forth the temptation of the beauties of her 
 room on the strength of my traversing ' river 
 wild and forest old.' Mrs. Harcourt takes an in- 
 tellectual degree beyond the common collector 
 of crowds — she desires that every second indi- 
 dual in hers should be % noticeable persons;' 
 her young ladies are beauties or heiresses ; her 
 gentlemen geniuses, authors, or travellers. I 
 have been at her house, though she has forgot- 
 ten me. I was then only a young man — not 
 ' the young man who spent the summer in the 
 Pyrenees, and had brought home the guitar 
 of a Spanish princess.' I saw Sir Hudson 
 Lowe standing on the same rug with one of 
 Buonaparte's old generals ; one of our Tory 
 members, to whom innovation is the ' word of 
 fear,' who considers anarchy and annihilation 
 as synonymous, shrinking in the doorway from 
 the carbonari atmosphere of General Pepi. I 
 saw a most orthodox-looking bishop taking the 
 paleness of horror from the sight of Mr. Owen. 
 A man just come from Babylon was talking 
 to one newly arrived from Moscow. There 
 were two critics, one historian, half-a-dozen
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 137 
 
 poets, a gentleman with a beard like a Turk, 
 a real Persian, and three Greeks. A propos 
 des Grecs, — a droll adventure once befell this 
 fair extractor from the Library of Entertaining 
 Knowledge. The Greek stocks and fever were 
 at their highest, when a cargo from Missolonghi 
 of turbaned and mustachioed gentry arrived, 
 and cast anchor in the river. Mrs. Har- 
 court's ball was the following night — she threw 
 herself into her carriage — drove as if the speed 
 of thought were in her horses as well as herself 
 — took a boat — ascended the vessel's side — was 
 introduced — interpreted — and invited the pa- 
 triots for the ensuing evening, — they delighted 
 with the hospitality of England, and she no less 
 at having forestalled the market, and secured 
 such novelties for her supper-table. Compli- 
 ments and classics equally exhausted, Mrs. 
 Harcourt gave her last injunction — * Pray, 
 come just as you are, those crimson caps are so 
 characteristic — and not later than ten.' She 
 was on the point of leaving the ship, when an 
 officer advanced and opposed her departure, 
 and with that frank politeness which, as the 
 newspapers say, distinguishes the British sailor, 
 observed, e D — n it, ma'am, it's no go.' The 
 lady stared ; but a single question elicited the
 
 138 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 fatal truth — the vessel was under quarantine, 
 and once on board there was no quitting it, 
 All that the captain could do was to grumble, 
 and say he supposed she must have his cabin ; 
 and there this candidate for the honour of the 
 Athenians was left to reflect on her ball next 
 evening, and the chance of catching the 
 plague, — for cholera was not then invented to 
 fright the isle." 
 
 All around laughed, as people always laugh 
 at misfortunes, i. e. with all their heart. 
 
 " I understand," observed Mrs. Sullivan, 
 " that the Adelphi intends converting itself into 
 an amphitheatre, and treating the spectators, 
 after the fashion of the Roman conquerors, to 
 a show of wild beasts. Why do you not re- 
 commend them to give a bull fight ?" 
 
 'f Such an animated account of one as I have 
 just been reading in the Talba, where a young 
 Moorish prince vanquishes, single-handed, in 
 the arena, a black and ferocious bull ! I have 
 some thoughts of turning author myself, on 
 purpose to dramatise one of the most interest- 
 ing stories I have read. How pretty Mrs. 
 Yates would look as Inez de Castro ! Think 
 of the splendid scene of the bull fight, its 
 chivalric and romantic associations !"
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 139 
 
 " I see but one difficulty — who is to take 
 the bull by the horns?" 
 
 " Oh, somebody would be found to run ' the 
 glorious risk.' I despair of nothing nowa- 
 days." 
 
 " In such a mood men credit miracles," 
 said Mrs. Sullivan. 
 
 " I," replied the traveller, " am just come 
 from witnessing one. Do you remember how 
 
 your friend S 's words were like the friar's 
 
 steps in Romeo and Juliet? He says : 
 
 6 How oft to-night 
 Have my old feet stumbled ;' 
 
 and if he did get out six words, seven were un- 
 intelligible. He now speaks as fluently and as 
 unaffectedly as myself. I cannot say more." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" 
 
 " Simply that S , in utter despair at 
 
 being thus disabled from enlightening his 
 audience, betook himself to Mr. Jones, who 
 has undeniably demonstrated that he possesses 
 the gift of tongues." 
 
 " I should like to see S : he will be so 
 
 gloriously theatrical." 
 
 *' You will be disappointed in this charitable 
 expectation. Jones has vanquished all his
 
 140 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 violent distortions, and replaced them by the 
 calm style and effective delivery of the gentle- 
 man. His aim, and, I must add, his accom- 
 plishment, is to teach the art of speaking with 
 ease and fluency." 
 
 u . Does he instruct ladies V 
 
 " I hope not, 
 
 ' That were but sharpening the dart, 
 Too apt before to kill.' " 
 
 Emily's whole attention was now given to a 
 lady speaking near her, — the first few sentences 
 were lost, but she caught the following : — 
 
 " When I say your gratitude ought to be ex- 
 cited by my vanity, I divide the functions of 
 vanity into two influences ; the one is, when it 
 is passive, I only feed upon the memories it 
 brings; the other is, when it is active, and 
 prompts me to exert myself for your entertain- 
 ment; and it is while thus acting for your 
 amusement that it calls on you to be grateful, 
 if not gratified." 
 
 u But who goes into society, — at least those 
 who have any pretensions, '? said a young man, 
 clever-looking, and with an animated manner, 
 which gave additional attraction to a pointed 
 and brilliant style of conversation ; — " who
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 131 
 
 ful tale.' No one has introduced you as that 
 young lady whose extraordinary talents have 
 delighted all the world. I suspect that, like 
 myself, you are here on sufferance. " 
 
 " Mrs. Smithson is a very old friend." 
 
 ?* And my husband has written a pamphlet 
 on the corn-laws. As for myself, I neither read 
 nor write ; but I know something of most of 
 the authors here, and their works. Knowledge 
 is much like dust — it sticks to one, one does 
 not know how." 
 
 Emily thanked Mrs. Sullivan (for such was her 
 name), and drew closer to her side, with that 
 sense of loneliness which is never felt so strongly 
 as in a crowd. For some time she listened to 
 every word she could catch, till at length the 
 disagreeable conviction was forced upon her, that 
 clever people talked very much as others did. 
 Why, she actually heard two or three speaking 
 of the weather. Now, to think of a genius only 
 saying, " What a cold day we have had!" 
 
 " Whence do you come ? " asked Mrs. Sul- 
 livan, of a young man who looked at least in- 
 telligent. 
 
 " I have been spending the day at Hamp- 
 stead, and beautiful it was : the fog, which, as 
 Wordsworth says of sleep,
 
 132 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 ' Covered the city like a garment,' 
 
 left the heath clear, and the sky blue ; and there 
 was sunshine enough to keep me in spirits for 
 the rest of the week." 
 
 " A most Cockney expedition, truly!" 
 " My dear Mrs. Sullivan, why will you in- 
 dulge in common-place contumely ? Believe 
 me, it is only those 
 
 1 In crowded cities pent' 
 
 who fully enjoy the free air above their heads, 
 and the green grass beneath their feet: to them, 
 as to the lately recovered sick man, 
 
 1 Each opening breath is paradise.' 
 
 How often have I closed my book in weariness, 
 or flung down the pen in vexation of spirit, and 
 have gone forth into the open air, at first 
 thoughtfully and heavily ; but as the rows of 
 houses give way to hedges, streets to fields 
 crowded with daisies — 
 
 ' The Danae of flowers, 
 With gold heaped in her lap,' 
 
 and I catch the shadows of two or three old 
 trees, my heart and steps grow lighter, and I 
 proceed on my way rejoicing. I forget the 
 dull realities of experience — experience, that
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 141 
 
 goes into society without * a marriage robe/ 
 and, like that worn of yore, brilliant, embroi- 
 dered, and concealing the real figure? 
 
 ' We do live 
 Amid a world of glittering falsehoods.' 
 
 " You seem to consider it," returned the lady, 
 ii expedient for every one termed, by right or 
 courtesy, distinguished, to play truant to them- 
 selves, avoiding all external shew of the thoughts 
 or the feelings by which such distinction may 
 have been acquired : as if the earnestness of 
 genius were less endurable than the heartless- 
 ness of the world ; nay, as if the polished chain 
 mail of the latter were the only garb fit to be 
 worn by the former." 
 
 " Exactly my idea. I hold that we are the 
 knights of conversation, and ought to go into 
 its arena armed at all points, for a harsh and 
 violent career. " 
 
 " I do not see that we are at all called upon 
 to pay so costly a compliment to society, as to 
 assume a character diametrically opposed to our 
 real one, — to utter sentiments we secretly dis- 
 believe, — and to be as angry with our better 
 nature for bursting from restraint, as at other 
 times with our own inferior nature for refusing
 
 142 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 to submit to it. I think wisdom may wear 
 motley ; and truth, unlike man, be born laugh- 
 ing. Genius ought every where to be true to 
 itself, and to its origin, the Divine Mind ; to its 
 home, the undying spirit; to its power, that of 
 being a blessing; to its reward, that of being 
 remembered." 
 
 *' The speaker to whom you have been listen- 
 ing with such attention is Miss Amesbury ; to 
 use a very fine phrase from some magazine, ' a 
 brilliant star in our brilliant galaxy of female 
 writers.' I characterise her conversation by a 
 fine line from Marlow, 
 
 1 A frosty night, when heaven is lined with stars.' 
 
 I recall a thousand such beautiful expressions. 
 I remember her comparing society ' to a honey- 
 comb, sweet but hollow.' Again, she calls 
 friendship's memory ' the fame of the heart.' 
 Her last work is my favourite. The character 
 in the second tale called Egeria is meant for 
 Mrs.Hemans — a most exquisite sketch, written 
 with all the delicacy of feminine tact, and all 
 the warmth of feminine feeling. It is a beauti- 
 ful answer to that false reproach, that one 
 woman cannot praise another. 
 
 " Miss Amesbury is especially happy in the
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 143 
 
 use of quotations — and an apt quotation is like 
 a lamp which flings its light over the whole 
 sentence. I cannot help thinking, though, in 
 her first story (the History of a Modern Corinne) 
 she has fallen into the common and pictu- 
 resque error, of making her woman of genius 
 peculiarly susceptible of love — a fact I greatly 
 doubt. Every body knows that love is made 
 up of vanity and idleness. Now, a successful 
 literary career gratifies the vanity, while it gives 
 employment. Love is not wanted as flattery, 
 nor as occupation — and is therefore cut off 
 from its two strong-holds. Besides, the ex- 
 citement of a literary career is so great, that 
 most sentiments seem tame by its side. Homage 
 you have from the many, — praise is familiar to 
 your ear; and your lover's compliment seems 
 cold when weighed against that of your reviewer. 
 Besides, a lover is chiefly valued for the conse- 
 quence he gives ; he loses one great charm 
 when you have it without him. If I wanted to 
 inspire an intense devoted attachment, I would 
 scarce seek it from genius : it gives you but a 
 divided heart. Love bears no rival near the 
 throne — and fame is as ( mighty autocrat as 
 he."'
 
 144 ROMANCE AND REALITY.. 
 
 " But do you see the gentleman she has just 
 addressed, perhaps with a hope to conciliate a 
 critic: — vain hope! when the critic is made 
 out of the remains of a disappointed poet, who 
 finds it easier to tell people what they should 
 read, than to produce what they will read. 
 One would think that an unsuccessful volume 
 was like a degree in the school of reviewing. 
 One unread work makes the judge bitter 
 enough; but a second failure, and he is quite 
 desperate in his damnation. I do believe one 
 half of the injustice — the severity of ' the un- 
 gentle craft' originates in its own want of 
 success ; they cannot forgive the popularity 
 which has passed them over, to settle on some 
 other ; and they come to judgment on a favourite 
 author, with a previous fund of bitterness — like 
 an angry person, venting their age not on the 
 right offender, but on whoso chances to be 
 within their reach." 
 
 " The principal remark that I have made on 
 London society is, its tone of utter indifference. 
 No one seems to care for another." 
 
 There was a truth to Emily in this speech 
 that made her turn to the speaker. He was 
 good-looking, and singularly tall.
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 145 
 
 " That is the author of a most chivalric 
 history of Mary Queen of Scots. The enthu- 
 siasm of a young man about beauty and mis- 
 fortune is as good in taste as it is in feeling. 
 He is a Scotchman, certainly not 
 
 i From pride and from prejudice free;' 
 
 for I verily believe that he looks upon the rest 
 of the world as ' a set of niggers,' — an inferior 
 race, on this side the Tweed. We English are 
 much more liberal in that respect; we have 
 always been ready to offer homage, 
 
 ' When we saw by the streamers that shot so bright, 
 That spirits were riding the northern light.' 
 
 I remember his saying to an English author, 
 ' It is to Edinburgh you must look for your 
 literary fame.' The best answer would have 
 been the Highland proverb, 
 
 ' 'Tis a far cry to Lochow.' 
 
 It is singular how long national hostility lasts, 
 and how many shapes it will take ! That a pre- 
 judice still exists between the Scotch and the 
 English, is no credit to either. Were I to allot 
 each their shares of illiberality, I should say, 
 there are six of the one and half-a-dozen of the 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 146 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 other ; and as I am one who utterly despair 
 of improving the human race, I have no doubt 
 it will continue." 
 
 " Who is that gentleman," exclaimed Emily, 
 " whose eye I have just caught, so full of 
 mirth and malice?" 
 
 " That is the Philip de Commines of King 
 Oberon, the Froissart of Fairyland — a re-union 
 of the most opposite qualities — a zealous anti- 
 quary, yet with a vein of exquisite poetry, side 
 by side with one of quaint humour. Do let 
 me tell you a most original simile of his : he 
 compares fried eggs to gigantic daisies. The 
 oddity of the likeness is only to be equalled by 
 its truth. And to give you one touch of poetry : 
 speaking of his return across a common, one 
 winter night, he made use of the following 
 (I think) singularly fine phrase : 
 
 * The silence of the snows.' 
 
 " The person next to him is the writer of 
 some entertaining and graphic travels in the 
 East. Travelling is as much a passion as am- 
 bition or love. He ascribes his first desire of 
 seeing Palestine to hearing his mother (who 
 read exquisitely) read the Old Testament aloud.
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 147 
 
 His imagination was haunted by the Dead Sea, 
 or the lilies of Sharon : when he slept, he 
 dreamed but of the cedars of Lebanon ; and as 
 a boy, he used to sit by the sea-side, and weep 
 with his passionate longing to visit the East. 
 Thither he travelled as soon as his will was 
 master of his conduct. 
 
 " But do turn to one of my great favourites — 
 that is Allan Malcolm. Does he not look as if 
 he had just stepped across the border, with the 
 breath of the heath and the broom fresh about 
 him ? There is an honesty in his nature 
 which keeps him unspotted from the world 
 — the literary world, with its many plague- 
 spots of envyings, jealousies, hatred, malice, 
 and all uncharitableness. The face so sweet 
 in its matron beauty is that of ' his bonnie 
 Jeane ' beside. I like to meet him sometimes : 
 it is good for one's moral constitution to know 
 there are such things as kindliness and integrity 
 to be found in the world. A countryman is 
 at this moment beside him — a stanch border 
 minstrel, who would any day uphold the thistle 
 to be a more poetical plant than the laurel. I 
 own myself I think it would be more charac- 
 teristic. I suspect the northern reviewer was
 
 148 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 thinking as much of the Fitful Fancies of the 
 poet in his own person as of those in his works, 
 when he said ' that his ideas stood stiff and 
 strong, as quills upon the fretful porcupine/ 
 A little speech I heard him make will give you 
 a clearer idea of him than a long description. 
 We were talking of dancing, when he said, ' I 
 loathe the woman who dances, and despise the 
 man.'" 
 
 u And I liked his poetry so much !" ex- 
 claimed Emily, in the most reproachful of 
 tones. 
 
 Miss Arundel's whole attention was now at- 
 tracted by a female in a Quaker dress — the 
 quiet dark silk dress — the hair simply parted 
 on the forehead — the small close cap — the 
 placid and subdued expression of the face, were 
 all in such strong contrast to the crimsons, 
 yellows, and blues, around. The general cha- 
 racter of the large, soft, dark eyes, seemed 
 sweetness ; but they were now lighted up with 
 an expression of intelligent observation — that 
 clear, animated, and comprehensive glance, 
 which shews it analyses what it observes. You 
 looked at her with something of the sensation 
 with which, while travelling along a dusty road,
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 149 
 
 the eye fixes on some green field, where the 
 hour flings its sunshine, and the tree its shadow, 
 as if its fresh, pure beauty, was a thing apart 
 from the soil and tumult of the highway. 
 
 " You see," said Mrs. Sullivan, " one who, 
 in a brief interview, gave me more the idea 
 of a poet than most of our modern votaries of 
 the lute. I was so struck with any one coming 
 up to London, filled but with historic asso- 
 ciations, looking upon the Tower as hallowed 
 by the memory of Lady Jane Grey, and of 
 Westminster Abbey as (to use the American 
 Halleck's noble expression) a * Mecca of the 
 mind,' with England's great and glorious names 
 inscribed on the consecrated walls. She is as 
 creative in her imaginary poems, as she is 
 touching and true in her simpler ones." 
 
 A slight movement, and a few exclamations, 
 drew off their attention to the little supper 
 table. A gentleman had, instead of placing his 
 fork in a sandwich, inserted it into a lady's 
 hand. The injury was not much ; but the 
 quaintness of the excuse was what amused 
 the bystanders. 
 
 " I beg pardon," said the offender, with the 
 most unruffled composure of countenance; " but 
 I mistook the hand for white bait."
 
 150 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 " A fitting compliment for one whose mind 
 is the most singular mixture of pun, poetry, 
 conceits, simplicity, that ever mingled the 
 mime and the minstrel. But I hold that he 
 is rather the cause of mirth in others than 
 merry himself. He is pale, silent, serious ; 
 and I never heard an instance of laughter re- 
 corded against him. In his most comic vein, 
 the idea of death seems ever present. His 
 favourite imagery is death's heads, coffins, 
 skeletons : even his merriest ballads turn upon 
 the death of their subject. His faculty of 
 perversion outdoes any temper in the world. 
 One of the oddest applications of a quotation 
 was in a preface, where, speaking of his own 
 sketches, he says, ' Like the tape-tied curtains 
 of the poet, I was never meant to draw.' With 
 this is mingled a gift of the most touching 
 poetry. I doubt whether the whole of ' our 
 British poets/ drawn up in battle array, could 
 send forth specimens more calculated to touch 
 even a critical Coriolanus than some of his 
 short and beautiful pieces." 
 
 " There is something," said Emily, " that 
 interests me in the face of that gentleman. 
 Who is he V 
 
 " One of the very few persons of whom I
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 151 
 
 have a pleasure in speaking — an author, yet 
 free from envy — a critic, yet free from malice. 
 Charles Townsend said of old, ' to tax and to 
 please, any more than to love and be wise, is 
 not given to man ;' and to prefer and yet please, 
 is a difficult task for an editor. Perhaps it is 
 because liberal and kindly feelings are to be 
 found in the object of your inquiry. It is a 
 pleasant thing to enter his house. It is as 
 well to see domestic happiness now and then, 
 in order to be able to talk about it as a wonder. 
 Congenial in tastes, united in pursuits, he is 
 fortunate in a wife, who is pretty enough to 
 be silly, and yet clever enough to be plain, 
 and kind and good enough to be either." 
 
 At this moment, a lady came up and spoke 
 to Mrs. Sullivan, with that warm kindliness of 
 manner, which, like love, air, or sunshine, must 
 win its way every where. 
 
 " That is the very person we were speaking 
 of, and the most charming and fittest of writers 
 for youth, — at least to them have her last works 
 been chiefly addressed ; but the oldest might go 
 back to the chronicles of her school-room for 
 the mere pleasure of being young again. It is 
 quite wonderful to me, in such a cross-grained, 
 hardening, and harsh world as ours, where she
 
 152 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 can have contrived to keep so much of open, 
 fresh, and kindly feeling. She is very national, 
 and I am sure you have read her beautiful 
 Irish stories. I think it is she who says, that 
 Englishmen do not know how to make love. 
 True enough ! An Englishman seems to think 
 he is conferring a favour, which the lady cannot 
 too highly estimate, by the mere act of falling in 
 love with her ; but if any could inspire him 
 with the amiable accomplishment of love- 
 making, it would be one of her own Irish 
 coquettes — a creature of rainbow lightning." 
 
 " They are very real. Does she draw from 
 herself?" 
 
 " Perhaps from the pleasures of memory ; 
 for she is now half of one of those happy couples 
 which make one understand a phrase somewhat 
 difficult to comprehend, from so seldom wit- 
 nessing it — domestic felicity." 
 
 " Nay," exclaimed Emily, laughing, " are 
 you not an Englishwoman — a native of that 
 happy island so celebrated for its 
 
 ' Dear delights of hearth and home T " 
 
 " I nevertheless think that the blessings of 
 matrimony, like those of poverty, belong rather 
 to philosophy than reality. Let us see — not
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 153 
 
 one woman in fifty marries the man she likes — 
 and though it may be safest — why I could never 
 understand — it is not pleasantest to begin with 
 a little aversion. Let us just go through a day 
 in married life. First, an early breakfast — for 
 the husband is obliged to go out. On the 
 miseries of early rising, like those of the coun- 
 try, I need not dwell : they are too well known. 
 He reads the newspaper, and bolts his roll — 
 she takes care that Miss Laura does not dirty 
 her frock, and that Master Henry does not eat 
 too much ; he goes to his office or counting- 
 house — she to market — for remember I am 
 speaking of a good wife — some pounds of beef 
 or mutton are to be ordered at the butcher's, 
 the baker has charged an extra loaf, and the 
 greengrocer has to be paid four shillings and 
 twopence. On her return home, there is the 
 housemaid to be scolded for not scouring the 
 front bed-room — and the cook's conduct requires 
 animadversion for yesterday's underdone veaL 
 Perhaps, in the course of the morning, Mrs. 
 Smith calls with an account of Mrs. Johnson's 
 elegant new pelisse; and when Mons. le Mari 
 returns to dinner, he suffers the full weight of 
 the discontent one woman's new dress never 
 fails to inspire in another. Evening comes, and 
 h2
 
 154 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 a matrimonial tete-a-tete is proverbial — ' what 
 can I have to say to my wife, whom I see every 
 day ? ' Well, he reads some pamphlet or sleeps — 
 she brings out the huge work-basket, doomed 
 to contain and repair the devastations of seven 
 small children — she has given up her maiden 
 accomplishments — and, of course, a married 
 woman has no time for music or reading. 
 Perhaps, by way of agreeable conversation, she 
 may say, ' My dear, I want some money :' 
 
 " Oh, sound of fear, 
 Unpleasing to a married ear !" 
 
 on which he wakes, and goes to bed. She 
 follows ; and Mrs. I.'s pelisse is the foundation 
 of that piece of exquisite eloquence, a curtain 
 lecture. Now, who can deny that this is a 
 faithful and exact picture of three hundred out 
 of the three hundred and sixty-five days that 
 constitute a year of married life." 
 
 " You are a connubial Cassandra," said 
 Emily. 
 
 " Yes ; and like that ill-fated prototype of 
 all who tell disagreeable truths, I shall get no 
 lady, at least no young or unmarried one, to 
 believe me. But I must now thank you for 
 listening. Our carriage is announced ; and 
 Mr. Sullivan, when his horses are concerned,
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 155 
 
 is like time and tide — he stays for no man — 
 nor woman neither.' ' 
 
 A heavy, plain man took the lady away, 
 very much as if she had been a parcel ; and 
 Emily could well believe he had written pam- 
 phlets on the currency and the corn-laws. He 
 looked like a personification of the dryness of 
 the one, and the dulness of the other. 
 
 Mrs. Smithson had by this time pretty well 
 distributed her stock of conciliation and cour- 
 tesy, and now recollected the existence of her 
 sweet young friend. Divers introductions took 
 place ; and Emily heard a great deal of con- 
 versation, of which conceit was the canvass, 
 while Flattery laid on the colours. Dry biscuits 
 and drier sandwiches were handed round ; and 
 about twelve, Emily found herself in her own 
 room, very tired, very dissatisfied, and very 
 hungry. She had seen many who had long 
 been the throned idols of her imagination, and 
 her disappointment much resembled that of the 
 princely lover of Cinderella, who, on question- 
 ing his porters if they had seen a robed and 
 radiant beauty pass, learnt that their uncharmed 
 eyes had only beheld a little dirty girl. She 
 had fallen into the common error of supposing 
 that the author must personify his works, and
 
 156 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 that his conversation must be copy and com- 
 peer of his writings. 
 
 We forget that those writings are the pro- 
 ductions of the mind's highest mood, when 
 thoughts rise up in their perfect beauty, like 
 the stars on the night ; when feelings, un- 
 tempted and unchecked, are the true, the good, 
 and the pure ; when vanity is sublimed into 
 fame — that earthly hereafter — which, in taking 
 the semblance of eternity, catches somewhat of 
 its glory too ; when imagination peoples its 
 solitude with the great and the lovely, like 
 those spiritual essences which obey but a mid- 
 night spell ; when, if memory bring sorrow, it 
 is softened and refined, or if hope speak of a 
 future, it is one exalted and redeemed ; when 
 the enjoyment of creation is within him, and 
 the consciousness of power is delight. In such 
 hours are those pages written which will pass 
 sea and land, winged with praise and plea- 
 sure — over which eyes will glisten and hearts 
 beat, when the hand that wrote is mouldered in 
 the grave, and the head that conceived but a 
 whitened skull. 
 
 Now society is a market-place, not a temple : 
 there is the bargain to be made — the business 
 to be followed ; novelty, curiosity, amusement,
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 157 
 
 lull all of the strong passions to sleep, and, in 
 their place, a thousand petty emotions hurry 
 about, making up in noise what they want in 
 importance. The society and solitude of an 
 author's life realise the old fable of Castor and 
 Pollux, who had an earthly and heavenly life 
 between them. In society, all his more earthly 
 nature preponderates ; his mind, however dif- 
 ferent its stature and fashion may be, must 
 wear the same dress as its neighbours. 
 
 There is nothing people are so much ashamed 
 of as truth. It is a common observation, that 
 those whose writings are most melancholy are 
 often most lively in conversation. They are 
 ashamed of their real nature ; and it is a curious 
 fact, but one which all experience owns, that 
 people do not desire so much to appear better, 
 as to appear different from what they really are. 
 A part is to be played in company, and most 
 desire that part to be an attractive one; but 
 nothing is more mistaken than the means. A 
 sincere wish to please is sure to be successful ; 
 but instead of wishing to please, we rather de- 
 sire to display. The eye is restless to watch its 
 opportunity — the lip feverish with some trea- 
 sured phrase; we grow jealous from competition, 
 and envious with apprehension ; we think of our-
 
 158 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 selves till we forget those very others for whose 
 applause we are striving ; disappointment comes, 
 as it often does, to even well-founded hopes — 
 then how much more so to exaggerated ex- 
 pectation? mortification succeeds, and vanity 
 covers all as a garment, but a poisoned one, 
 like the centaur's, envenoming and inflaming 
 every wound. 
 
 Conversation is forced or languid, insipid or 
 ill-natured ; and a celebrated author may retire, 
 leaving his character behind, but taking with 
 him the comfortable conviction that his mind 
 has played false to its powers ; that he has de- 
 spised the flatterer, but loved the flattery — at 
 once ungrateful and exacting ; that he has 
 praised himself — the worst of praise is that 
 given in hopes of return ; and that he carries 
 away with him a worldliness and selfishness, 
 which, like the coming of the sandy waves of the 
 desert, will, sooner or later, dry up and destroy 
 all the fair gardens and the fresh springs in the 
 Egypt of his imagination. 
 
 We talk of the encouragement now given to 
 talents — of genius as the most universal pass- 
 port to society. This may be good for the indi- 
 vidual, but not so for literature. The anxious 
 struggle — the loneliness of neglect — the con-
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 159 
 
 sciousness of merit — the resources which open 
 to a mind flung back upon itself — will do 
 more to stimulate exertion than praise or even 
 profit. The flattered and followed author sees 
 too soon the worthlessness and hollowness of 
 the prize for which he contends. That desire, 
 which is fame in solitude, and vanity in society, 
 is like gazing at the stars with the naked eye, 
 and through a telescope. In the latter, we see 
 only a small bright point, whose nature is ana- 
 lysed, and whose distance is measured ; — in 
 the former, we go forth into the silent midnight, 
 and our whole soul is filled with the mystery 
 and beauty of those glorious and unattainable 
 worlds. In a little time, imagination — that 
 vivifying and redeeming principle in our nature 
 — will be left only to the young. Look on all 
 the great writers of the present day ; — are they 
 not living instances of the truth of this assertion ? 
 After all, literary life grows too like the actual 
 one. Illusions merge in realities — imagination 
 gives place to memory — one grows witty instead 
 of romantic ; and poetry ends in prose, all the 
 world over.
 
 160 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 We hope, plan, execute ; will it be vain ? 
 Or will the future be the past again ? 
 
 Truly, a little love-making is a very pleasant 
 thing, and Lady Adelaide found that it greatly 
 enlivened the dulness of Lauriston House. 
 Society does much towards forming a coquette, 
 but here the credit was all Nature's own. 
 Every one, they say, has a genius for some- 
 thing, and here was hers ; and it was not mere 
 talent — it was genius. Gifted with no discern- 
 ment into character, generally speaking, her 
 tact was unerring when her favourite propen- 
 sity was called into play. She saw at a glance 
 into the recesses of the heart she wished to 
 subdue — intuitively she entered into its tastes 
 — and nothing could be more perfect than her 
 assumption of the seeming best calculated to 
 attract. To her this was more than ordinarily 
 easy ; she had no original feelings of her own 
 to alter or subdue, but took, like a picture,
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 161 
 
 her expression from the light in which she was 
 placed. All she desired was admiration : like 
 the green and blue bottles in the chemist's 
 shop, she kept her lovers for shew, not use; 
 or, like the miser's gold, the mere pleasure of 
 possession was all she desired. The idea that 
 some return might be expected for the affec- 
 tion lavished upon her, never entered her head ; 
 and it may be doubted whether she was more 
 gratified by her maid's flattery or by her 
 lover's. As to her marriage, that she took 
 for granted must happen — but she left all its 
 arrangements to her mother. 
 
 Many a mother might have feared one so 
 handsome, so fascinating, as Edward Lorraine ; 
 but she entertained no alarm about her daugh- 
 ter's heart, who could not well lose what she 
 never had. He lost his, however; and when, 
 at the fortnight's end, he went on to Ethering- 
 hame Castle, besides regrets, hopes, &c, he 
 carried with him a secret wonder that he had 
 made no formal declaration of rapture or de- 
 spair, heaven or hell depending on one little 
 monosyllable. Once he drew bridle beneath 
 the old oak where they stopped the carriage ; 
 but a moment of not very satisfactory medita- 
 tion reminded him, that to ride back with a
 
 162 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 proposal was somewhat premature, as, though 
 the impression was strong on his mind that 
 the lady was very sensible to his merits, yet 
 it was difficult to decide on what grounds this 
 impression rested. 
 
 It was this indecision that constituted the 
 science of Adelaide's skill ; hers was a mixed 
 government of fear and hope — a look was to 
 say every thing, which, on being interpreted, 
 might mean nothing. Like a politic minister, 
 her care was — not to commit herself; she left 
 all to the imagination, but not till that ima- 
 gination was properly excited : the signs of 
 her preference, like the oracles of old, were 
 always susceptible of two interpretations ; and 
 a rejected suitor would scarcely have known 
 whether to curse her falsehood or his own 
 vanity. But this was a finale she ever avoided : 
 an offer, like the rock of adamant in Sinbad's 
 voyages, finishes the attraction by destroying 
 the vessel ; and, like the Roman conqueror, she 
 desired living captives to lead in her triumph 
 — an ovation of pet its soins, graceful flatteries, 
 anxious looks, pretty anger, judicious pique, 
 and vague hopes. 
 
 Edward Lorraine rode on, fully convinced 
 that blue was the loveliest colour in the world
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 163 
 
 — it trimmed the lace cornette, so becoming to a 
 slight invalid, which Adelaide wore at breakfast. 
 A headach is a delicate compliment to a depart- 
 ing lover ; and Edward consoled himself by the 
 future preference he was to obtain over every 
 London rival. Her preference ! of what did he 
 not feel capable to win it! — what would he 
 not do before they again met ! — conquer Greece, 
 and lay the crown at her feet — become prime 
 minister, and place at her disposal the whole 
 list of pensions and places — start forth another 
 Byron, and make her immortal in his love ; at 
 least, he felt fully equal to them all, and his 
 horse was spurred to a full gallop in the mere 
 energy of intention. Ah ! love and youth are 
 delightful things, before the one is chilled, and 
 the other darkened by those after-days, each of 
 which brings with it some dull or sad lesson ! 
 — when we learn, that, though disappointment 
 is misery, fruition is but weariness ; and that 
 happiness is like the statue of Isis, whose veil 
 no mortal ever raised. 
 
 It was late in the evening before he found 
 himself seated in his brother's favourite apart- 
 ment in Etheringhame Castle — one of those 
 delicious evenings when winter lingers round 
 the hearth, but spring looks laughing in at
 
 164 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 the window — and the room where they sat 
 was especially suited to such a night. It was 
 very large, and the black oak wainscoting was 
 set in every variety of carvings, where the 
 arms of the family were repeated in every size. 
 Time had darkened, rather than destroyed, the 
 colours of the painted ceiling : the subject was 
 Aurora leading out the horses of the Sun, while 
 the Hours scattered flowers around ; the whole 
 encircled by the once bright clouds, whose 
 morning tints had long disappeared, but the 
 figures were still distinct; and the eye gazed 
 till they seemed rather some fantastic creation 
 of its own than merely painting. A huge black 
 screen, worked in gold, hid the door ; and the 
 fantastic gilded Chinese people that covered it, 
 with their strange pagodas — their round heads 
 like little gold balls, yet with an odd human 
 likeness — the foreign palm-trees — the uncouth 
 boats, — seemed like caricatures of humanity 
 called up by some enchanter, and left there 
 in a fit of mingled mirth and spleen. Placed 
 in Gothic arches of carved oak, thousands of 
 books were ranged around — many whose pon- 
 derous size and rich silver clasps told of past 
 centuries; and between, placed on altar-like 
 stands of variegated marble, were bronze busts of
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 165 
 
 those whose minds had made them gods among 
 their kind. 
 
 Two peculiarly large windows, whose purple 
 curtains were as yet undrawn, opened upon 
 the lawn ; one was in shade, for an acacia tree 
 grew so close that its boughs touched the 
 glass, and every note swept by the wind from 
 its leaves was audible. The lawn was only 
 separated from the park by a light iron rail ; 
 and the beds of rainbow-touched flowers, the 
 clumps of blossoming shrubs, the profusion of 
 early roses, were suddenly merged in the un- 
 broken verdure, and the shadow of old and 
 stately trees farther on, and seen more dis- 
 tinctly than usual at so late an hour, from 
 the clear background of the cloudless west, 
 now like an unbroken lake of amber. There 
 was but a single lamp burning, and that was 
 so placed that its light chiefly fell on a re- 
 cess, so large that it was like a room of itself, 
 and furnished in most opposite taste to the 
 library. 
 
 A skilful painter had covered the walls with 
 an Italian landscape : the light fell from the 
 dome almost as upon reality, so actual was 
 the bend of the cypresses, and so green the 
 ivy, that half covered the broken columns in
 
 166 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 the distance. In the middle was an ottoman, 
 on which lay an ebony lute, inlaid with pearl 
 flowers, and a cast of the loveliest hand that 
 ever wandered in music over its strings. Three 
 pictures hung on the wall : the first was of a 
 most radiant beauty, the hair gathered up under 
 a kind of emerald glory, quite away from the 
 face, whose perfect outline was thus fully given 
 to view. The fine throat and neck were bare, 
 but the satin bodice was laced with jewels, 
 and a superb bracelet was on the arm, which 
 was raised with a gesture of command, suiting 
 well with the brilliant style of her triumphant 
 beauty. In the second, the hair, unbound, fell 
 loose in a profusion of black ringlets, almost 
 concealing the simple white drapery of the 
 figure: the expression was wholly changed — 
 a sweet but tremulous smile parted the lips — 
 and the downcast eyes wore the dreaming 
 looks of passionate thoughts, which feed but 
 on themselves. In the third, a large white 
 veil passed over the head ; the hair was simply 
 parted on a brow whose paleness was ghastly — 
 the features were thin to emaciation, the mouth 
 wan and fallen; while the colour of the closed 
 eyes was only indicated by the long black 
 lashes which lay upon the white and sunken
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 167' 
 
 cheek. Beneath was written, " Francisca 
 , taken after death." 
 
 There was beauty, there was grandeur in the 
 room ; it spoke both of mind and of wealth ; 
 but the only part which had a look of comfort 
 was that made bright by the cheerful blaze of 
 the fire: a little table, on which stood two 
 decanters, apparently filled from the two urns 
 by Jove's throne — for one was dark, and the 
 other bright ; a basket of oranges, and another 
 of walnuts, were set in the middle ; and in an 
 arm-chair on each side leant Lord Ethering- 
 hame and his brother, too earnest in their con- 
 versation to mark an object beyond each other's 
 face. 
 
 Edward Lorraine. — " I will urge my argu- 
 ments against this wasteful seclusion no longer 
 on your own account ; you may neglect your 
 talents and your toilette — leave your capacities 
 and your curls equally uncultivated — forget your 
 manners and your mirror — leave your coat to 
 your tailor, and your neckcloth to fate — on 
 your own account I urge you no longer; but 
 I will urge you on that of others. With your 
 wealth, your hereditary influence, your rank, 
 how many paths of utility lie open before you ! 
 Your many advantages ought to be more than
 
 1(58 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 an Egyptian bondage to stimulate you to exer- 
 tion. Why, the very busts around reproach 
 you: look on the three opposite: — was the 
 debt of gratitude, which men are now paying, 
 by imitation and honourable mention, to these, 
 won by indolent seclusion ?" 
 
 A sickly smile passed over Etheringhame's 
 fine but wan features, as he said, " You are 
 happy, really, Edward, in the encouragement 
 of your illustrations — Bacon, Milton, and Syd- 
 ney : the first adventured into public life but 
 to shew his insufficiency to withstand its tempta- 
 tions ; the second dragged on old age in fear, 
 poverty, and obscurity; the third perished on 
 a scaffold. " 
 
 Edward Lorraine. — " I must give up my 
 first : Bacon is one of the most humiliating 
 examples of man's subservience to circum- 
 stances : he lived in an era of bribery and 
 fraud ; and he whose mind was so far in ad- 
 vance of his age, was, alas ! in his actions but 
 its copy. Much must be ascribed to his early 
 education among corrupt and time-serving 
 courtiers — the evil with which we are familiar 
 seems scarce an evil : but even his example 
 has a sort of hope in its warning to those 
 who hope the best of their nature. How little
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 169 
 
 would any public man stoop now to such a 
 degradation ! But Milton and Sydney ! look 
 at the glorious old age of the one, when his 
 thoughts, like the ravens of the prophet, 
 brought him heavenly food, and he worked 
 in pride and power at the noble legacy he 
 bequeathed to his native tongue. Look at 
 the glorious death of the other, sealing with 
 his blood those principles of equity and liberty, 
 whose spirit has since walked so mightily 
 abroad, though even now but in its infancy ! 
 Never tell me but that these had a prophet's 
 sympathy with centuries to come : I do believe 
 that the power of making the future their 
 present is one of the first gifts with which 
 Providence endows a great man." 
 
 Lord Ether in ghame. — " But, even supposing 
 I had the power, which I have not, and the 
 inclination, which I have still less, of mixing 
 in the feverish and hurried strife called the 
 world, of what import is an individual? — I 
 see thousands and thousands rushing to every 
 goal to which human desires can tend — and 
 what matters it if one individual loiter on the 
 way ? I see, too, thousands and thousands daily 
 swept off, and their places filled up, leaving 
 not a memory to say that they have been — 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 170 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 and again I ask, of what import is an indi- 
 vidual?" 
 
 Edward Lorraine. — " Of none, if this living 
 multitude were as the sands on the shore, 
 where none is greater or less than the other ; 
 but when we see that one makes the destinies 
 of many, and the tremendous influence a single 
 mind often exercises, it behoves every man to 
 try what his powers are for the general good. 
 It is the effort of a single mind that has 
 worked greatest changes. What are the events 
 that, during the last five hundred years, have 
 altered the whole face of things — changed the 
 most our moral position ? Let me enumerate 
 some of the most striking. The discovery of 
 America, of gunpowder, of printing, — the Re- 
 formation, the magnet, — all these were seve- 
 rally the work of an individual, and in each 
 case a lonely, humble, unaided individual. 
 Reginald, all these are stimulating examples. 
 Instead of asking of what import is an indi- 
 vidual, let us rather ask, what is there an indi- 
 vidual may not do ?" 
 
 Lord Etheringhame. — " And to what have 
 all these discoveries tended ? I see you glance 
 round the room and smile. We have luxuries, I 
 grant, of which our forefathers never dreamed ;
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 171 
 
 but are we better or happier? It is true, where 
 a former earl stepped upon rushes, I step upon 
 a carpet; but comfort is a very conventional 
 term; and what we have never had, at least 
 we do not miss. We do not kill each other 
 quite so much, but we cheat each other more ; 
 mortifications are more frequent than wants ; 
 and it does appear to me, that, in this change 
 of rude into civilised life, we only exchange 
 bodily evils for mental ones." 
 
 Edward Lorraine. — " But success in one 
 effort inclines us to hope for success in another : 
 the same powers which have so well remedied 
 the ills of the physical world, may, when so 
 applied, equally remedy those of the moral 
 world. Hitherto, it seems to me, we have 
 attended more to the means than to the end 
 — we have accumulated rather than enjoyed. 
 All the energies of the mind were devoted 
 to necessity; but our house is now built and 
 furnished, our grounds cultivated, ourselves 
 clothed : our natural condition thus amelio- 
 rated, now is the time to enjoy our artificial 
 one. We have provided for our comforts; let 
 us now attend to our happiness ; — let each man 
 sedulously nurture those faculties of pleasure 
 which exist both for himself and others. It is
 
 172 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 the mental world that now requires discovery 
 and cultivation. And has not much been done 
 even in this ? How much has reason softened 
 religious persecution and intolerance ! Every- 
 day do not we become more and more convinced 
 of the crime and cruelty of war? How little 
 is the exercise of arbitrary authority endured ! 
 How much more precious is the life of man 
 held ! How much more do we acknowledge 
 how intimately the good of others is connected 
 with our own! How is the value of education 
 confessed ! Only look on the vast multitude 
 who are at this moment being early imbued 
 with right principles, accustomed to self-con- 
 trol, and fed with useful knowledge. Look at 
 the youthful schools, filled with quiet, con- 
 tented, and industrious children, now acquiring 
 those first notions of right and wrong — those 
 good and regular habits, which will influence 
 all their after-life. Open the silver clasps of 
 yon huge chronicle, and you will see it is not 
 so long since human beings were burnt for a 
 mere abstract opinion — not so long since the 
 sword was appealed to in the court of justice, 
 to decide on right and wrong, and its success 
 held as God's own decision — not so long since 
 a man looked forward to the battle as the only
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 173 
 
 arena of his struggle for fame and fortune, 
 when education was locked up like a prisoner, 
 and often like a state-prisoner, uselessly and 
 vainly, in a monastery, and knowledge, like 
 fixed air, too confined to be wholesome. Are 
 not all these things changed for the better ? and, 
 encouraged by the past, Reason herself turns 
 into hope. Reginald, I am young, and as yet 
 undistinguished; but I am not thoughtless. I 
 look forward to future years of honourable and 
 useful exertion, for which early youth is not the 
 season. We require some experience of our 
 own, before we benefit by that of others ; but 
 my path is ever before me, and it is my entire 
 conviction of its excellence that makes me wish 
 my brother to share it with me." 
 
 Reginald gazed for a moment on the expres- 
 sion which lighted up the beautiful face of his 
 brother, whom he loved as those love who have 
 but one channel for the gathered waters of their 
 affection ; but his sympathy was as that of a 
 mother who hears her eldest boy dwell on 
 schemes in which she has no part beyond the 
 interest that she takes in all that is his. 
 
 Lord Etheringhame. — "You will succeed, 
 Edward. Your energy will carry you over some 
 obstacles — your enthusiasm will blind you to
 
 174 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 others ; but I, who have neither spirits for the 
 
 struggle, nor desire for the triumph, what have I 
 
 to do at Olympus ? Edward, there are some sent 
 
 into the world but as a sign and sorrow, whose 
 
 consciousness of early death is ever with them — 
 
 who shrink from efforts on which the grave must 
 
 so soon close — who ask of books but to pass, 
 
 not employ time — whose languid frame shrinks 
 
 from exertion that would shake yet quicker 
 
 from the glass the few lingering sands — who 
 
 look back to their youthful feelings, not with 
 
 regret for their freshness, but awe at their in- 
 to ' 
 
 tensity. Such a one am I. I have lived too much 
 in too few years. Feelings and passions have 
 been to my mind like the wind that fans the flame 
 into a brighter, clearer light, only to exhaust 
 the material of the blaze. The oil which should 
 have fed the altar for years has been burnt out 
 in a single illumination. I went into the world; 
 and what were the fruits of my experience? 
 That I was too weak to resist temptation ; and, 
 in yielding, I entailed on myself suffering even 
 beyond the sin. I found that passion which 
 had seemed too mighty for resistance, died of 
 itself, and in spite of all my then efforts to 
 keep it alive. I found that affection could pass 
 away, even without a cause. I stood beside
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 175 
 
 the tomb of the young and beautiful, and felt 
 it had been opened by me, and that by no 
 wilful crime, but by a change of feeling, over 
 which I had no control. My first welcome, as 
 I rode into our avenue, was waved by the black 
 plumes of my father's hearse. I have ever held 
 it as an omen. The fever is in my veins, and 
 the death-damps on my brow. Do not, Edward, 
 talk to me of active life." 
 
 Lorraine looked on the Earl. The dark chest- 
 nut of his hair was mixed with white, the fine 
 outline of his features was sunk, and the whole 
 expression was so spiritless, so sad, that though 
 Edward, with all the soothing tenderness of 
 affection, did not believe his health impaired to 
 the extent of danger, yet could not help owning 
 to himself, how little was he fitted to be one 
 of the gladiators in social or political life. 
 
 Truly the history of most lives may be soon 
 comprehended under three heads — our follies, 
 our faults, and our misfortunes. And this, after 
 all, was the summary of Lord Etheringhame's. 
 His love was a fault, its termination a misfor- 
 tune, and certainly his persisting in its regret 
 was a folly. But there is nothing so easy as to 
 be wise for others ; a species of prodigality, by 
 the by — for such wisdom is wholly wasted.
 
 176 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 " He has been the ruin of his country/' — Morning Post. 
 
 " England owes every thing to her patriot minister." 
 
 Morning Herald. 
 
 We now return to London and Miss Arundel 
 again. 
 
 One evening, which, as usual, u had dragged 
 its slow length along/' on her and her hostess's 
 return home, they were met with a request to 
 adjourn to Mr. Delawarr's library; and there 
 Lady Alicia grew almost animated with the 
 pleasure of seeing her brother. 
 
 " Nothing at all has happened since you left 
 us," said his sister. 
 
 " Nothing !" returned Edward Lorraine. 
 " You mean every thing. Why, at this very 
 moment I see your sleeves have assumed a dif- 
 ferent form. I left you in ringlets, and your 
 hair is now braided. I have heard already that 
 our richest duke has put a finish to the plea- 
 sures of hope ; that seven new beauties have
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 177 
 
 come out; that a new avatar of Mrs. Siddons 
 has appeared at Covent Garden, in the shape 
 of her niece Fanny Kemble ; and that we have 
 refused to emancipate the Jews, lest it should 
 convert them — and their conversion being a 
 sign of the end of the world, it is a consumma- 
 tion devoutly to be deprecated." 
 
 u Oh, I have heard all this a hundred times : 
 one hears things till one forgets them. But 
 what have you been doing with yourself?" 
 
 '* Lording over the three elements ; — fire-king 
 with my hearth blazing with pine boughs — 
 water-king, with the lightest of boats on the 
 roughest of rivers — and earth-king, with the 
 valleys flying before me, thanks to the prettiest 
 of chocolate-coloured coursers, — and am now 
 come back to enlighten my club and enchant 
 my partners with my adventures in Norway." 
 
 "Judicious, at least," observed Mr. Delawarr. 
 " Nothing like laying the scene of one's adven- 
 tures in a distant land. I only hope you will 
 have no rival Norseman to encounter. One great 
 reason why our old travellers are so much more 
 delightful than our modern ones is, that they 
 needed not to verify their facts ; and I am afraid 
 plain truth is like a plain face — not very at- 
 tractive." 
 
 i2
 
 ]78 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 u Nay, this is pre-supposing my Sir John 
 Mandevilleism. I do not mean to be forgotten 
 beside my adventures — I mean less to astonish 
 than to interest. I shall tell any fair auditor 
 not of the dark forest itself, but what my feel- 
 ings were in the said forest." 
 
 u I dare say," said Lady Alicia, " you were 
 very dull." 
 
 u I shall be ignorant of that feeling at least 
 for the next six weeks, during which period I 
 intend to be your visitor." 
 
 Edward did just glance towards where they 
 were sitting; yet Emily could scarce help taking 
 his speech as a personal compliment. Like 
 poetry, gallantry must be born with you — an 
 indescribable fascination, which, like the bound- 
 aries of wit and humour, may never be defined 
 — seen rather than heard, and felt rather than 
 understood. 
 
 " How very handsome Mr. Lorraine is !" said 
 Emily to her pillow. Alas ! the danger and 
 decisiveness of a first impression. 
 
 When Mr. Delawarr, who was last at the 
 breakfast-table, entered next morning, Edward 
 rose, and threw down a paper he held amid a 
 heap of others, and said, laughingly, " I have 
 been deliberating, at the imminent danger of
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 179 
 
 ray coffee, which, thanks to ray meditation, is 
 as cold as Queen Elizabeth, and walks as fancy 
 free — at least from any fancy of mine, — I have 
 been debating, whether, in emulation of the 
 patriots of Rome, I should not arise and stab 
 you to the heart with one of these knives — 
 yonder columns having informed me that Eng- 
 land, ' that precious stone set in a silver sea,' 
 is on the brink of destruction, and that you are 
 the political Thalaba of her peace and plenty ; 
 or, to speak in less embroidered language, that 
 the present ministry are the destruction of the 
 country, and that you are worst among the bad. 
 I have shuddered at the excess of your guilt. 
 Luckily, farther to ascertain the extent of your 
 enormity, I took up another newspaper; and 
 now I am only anxious to make my homages 
 acceptable to the deliverer of his country, and 
 express my admiration of the patriotic minister 
 in sufficiently earnest terms." 
 
 " I answer with Rosalind," said Mr. Dela- 
 warr — 
 
 " ' Which will you have — me or your pearl again ? 
 Neither of either — I reject both twain.' 
 
 I am afraid I am neither quite worthy of the 
 praise, nor, I trust, deserving of the censure ; —
 
 180 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 and now some chocolate for consolation and 
 change ; for, to tell you the truth, indifference 
 is as fabulous as invulnerability. There is no 
 moral Styx ; and in politics as in every thing 
 else, censure is more bitter than praise is 
 sweet." 
 
 u Thanks to my lately acquired bad habit 
 of early rising," observed Edward, — " the 
 which philosophers and physicians praise, be- 
 cause they know nothing about it — I have 
 been for the last hour studying leading articles, 
 advertisements, &c, till I am possessed of ma- 
 teriel enough for three weekly papers. Really 
 people should put their names to advertise- 
 ments, or at least allow them to be whispered 
 about. There is an ingenuity, an originality, 
 which makes one lament over so much un- 
 appreciated genius. I began one paragraph : 
 it deplored the evils brought on the country 
 by the passing of the Catholic bill — observed 
 that the King's silence about it in his speech 
 at the opening of Parliament sufficiently indi- 
 cated his opinion, that Ireland was plunged 
 into the deepest affliction. The depreciation of 
 her produce was next insisted upon ; and I 
 found this exordium led to the information that 
 Messrs. Standish and Co. had been enabled,
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 181 
 
 from the depressed state of the market, to lay 
 in a large stock of Irish linen at unheard-of 
 low prices. — My next is one of quite antiquarian 
 research. It begins with an allusion to Lady Fan- 
 shaw's Memoirs, when Hart Street, St. Olave, 
 was a fashionable part of London — is philoso- 
 phical with reference to the many changes of 
 fashion — that capricious divinity, as it poeti- 
 cally entitles her — and finishes by rejoicing to 
 see Leicester Square recovering much of its 
 former splendour, when princes were its inha- 
 bitants, and noblemen were its wayfarers ; and 
 this we are informed is in consequence of the 
 crowds of carriages which assemble daily to 
 inspect Newton's tremendous bargains of Gros 
 de Naples and French ginghams. And here is 
 the worst of all, ' the music of the Mazurka, as 
 danced by the Duke of Devonshire' — shades 
 of Paul and Vestris, welcome your illustrious 
 competitor, ' as danced by the Duke of De- 
 vonshire ! ' " 
 
 " I think," replied Mr. Delawarr, " the Duke 
 might fairly bring his action for libel." 
 
 " What ! place his refined exclusiveness, as 
 the Duke of Wellington did his chivalrous 
 sense of honour, for the judgment of twelve 
 tallow-chandlers ! Let them ask for redress if
 
 182 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 the jury were their peers; but what sympathy- 
 could Mr. Higgins, the snuff-merchant, have 
 with the exquisite dismay of the house of Ca- 
 vendish at this exhibition of their head as a 
 ballet master; or Mr. Wiggins, the butcher, 
 know what was the Prince of Waterloo, the 
 conqueror of Buonaparte's estimate of fame? 
 
 ' How can we reason but from what we know ?* 
 
 and what could the retail individuals that con- 
 stitute a jury know of these * fine fancies and 
 high estimates? ' " 
 
 " They were very respectable men, Edward," 
 observed Mr. Delawarr, with a decorous accent 
 of reproof. 
 
 " Am I in the slightest degree detracting 
 from their pretensions to our great national 
 characteristic ? A respectable man passes six 
 days behind his counter, and the seventh in a 
 one-horse chaise — imagines that his own and 
 his country's constitution equally depend on 
 roast -beef — pays his debts regularly, and 
 gives away halfpence in charity. What can 
 such" 
 
 u Hush ! Really, Mr. Lorraine, these are 
 very dangerous sentiments for a young man 
 to express."
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 183 
 
 u Oh, you laugh; but what sympathy could 
 these estimable individuals have with ideal 
 honour and wounded feeling ?" 
 
 il On the one great principle, ' every thing 
 has its price ;' damages are the chevaux de frise 
 of our law." 
 
 " Well, well — but to turn from politics to 
 literature : here I again lament over unappre- 
 ciated genius. The unknown Chattertons of 
 the columns display a flight of invention, a 
 degree of talent, which often puts to shame the 
 work whose merits they insinuate rather than 
 announce. How completely to the calibre of 
 the many — 
 
 4 For gentle dulness ever loves a joke' — 
 
 is the following : — ' Our town was alarmed last 
 night by the intelligence that Satan had arrived 
 by the mail-coach/ Lucifer's arrival was alarm- 
 ing enough. Fortunately, it turned out to be 
 only the harmless, nay even meritorious hero of 
 Mr. Montgomery's poem, who came with all 
 sorts of moral reflections, instead of tempta- 
 tions." 
 
 " I was somewhat surprised," replied Mr. 
 Delawarr, " to see my own name in one of the 
 keys that now seem to follow a work as regu-
 
 184 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 larly as its title-page to precede it. Of course, 
 I read this setting forth of my thoughts, words, 
 and actions ; and was rather dismayed to find 
 how little I knew of myself." 
 
 u It is certainly in the destiny of some indi- 
 viduals to be the idols of the circulating library. 
 The Duchess of Devonshire, of whom I heard 
 Lafayette say, when he shewed me her picture, 
 that her loveliness was the most lovely of his 
 remembrances — was the fortune of seven novels 
 to my own reading knowledge. I cannot enu- 
 merate the many of which Lord Byron was 
 hero, under the names of Lord Harold, Lord 
 Lara, Count Monthermer, &c. His throne was 
 then filled by a woman ; and Lady Jersey has 
 furnished the leading feature of thirty volumes. 
 Brummel has figured on the stage three times 
 (but he is quite an historical personage) ; and 
 Lord and Lady Ellenborough were subjects for 
 two sets of three volumes. We have been en- 
 lightened with divers slight sketches of others ; 
 but those I have named have hitherto been 
 principals in the field of fiction." 
 
 " I often wonder at many that are omitted. 
 Now, Lord Petersham I should have thought 
 the ideal of a modern hero : Lady Dacre, dra- 
 matist, poet, could they not have made a
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 185 
 
 female Byron out of her? Can you, Edward, 
 account for omissions like these ?" 
 
 " Only on the principle, that there is a des- 
 tiny in these things ; but I do think a novelist 
 will soon be as necessary a part of a modern 
 establishment as the minstrel was in former 
 times. The same feeling, which in the olden 
 days gave a verse to a ballad, now gives a co- 
 lumn to the Morning Post; only that the ball 
 has taken place of the tournament, and white 
 gloves are worn instead of steel gauntlets." 
 
 " I have heard my aunt say/' observed 
 Emily, " that Surr's Winter in London hast- 
 ened the Duchess of Devonshire's death. She 
 died of a broken heart." 
 
 " A most interesting fact to your aunt, who 
 is, I believe, a most inveterate novel-reader ; 
 but one I rather doubt : people are not so 
 easily written out of their lives — except by pre- 
 scriptions." 
 
 " Most of the broken-heart cases I hear, put 
 me in mind," rejoined Edward, " of our old 
 friend Mrs. Lowe's story. A maiden lady of 
 forty called on her one day on one of those 
 sentimental errands to which maiden ladies of 
 her age seem peculiarly addicted ; and, after a 
 deep sigh or two, said, ' I wished much, madam,
 
 186 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 to see you, for you were the death of my un- 
 fortunate aunt.' Somewhat surprised at this 
 sudden charge of murder, Mrs. Lowe naturally 
 inquired into particulars. ' Your husband was 
 engaged to my poor aunt : he deserted her for 
 you, and she died of a broken heart.' ' At 
 what age ?' inquired her unconscious rival. ' My 
 poor aunt was fifty-two when she died.' ' At 
 least,' said Mrs. Lowe, ' she took some time to 
 consider of it.' For my part, I think hearts 
 are very much like glasses — if they do not break 
 with the first ring, they usually last a consider- 
 able time." 
 
 " What a charming old lady she was!" re- 
 sumed Mr. Delawarr ; u she had of age so 
 little but its experience, and had lost of youth 
 so little but its frivolity. I was once much de- 
 lighted with an answer I heard her give to a 
 young gentleman, whose silly irreverence of 
 speech on sacred subjects richly deserved the 
 rebuke it drew. ' Really, Mrs. Lowe, you have 
 quite a masculine mind.' ' No, sir,' returned 
 she, ' say a firm one.' " 
 
 " I can assure you, Miss Arundel," said 
 Edward, " if you were to see her, you would 
 quite anticipate the days of close caps, &c." 
 
 Emily smiled ; but, somehow or other, she
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 187 
 
 had never thought of her roses and ringlets 
 with more satisfaction than just now. 
 
 Some authors, in discussing love's divers 
 places of vantage ground, are eloquent in 
 praise of a dinner-table — others eulogise sup- 
 per: for my part, I lean to the breakfast, — the 
 complexion and the feelings are alike fresh — 
 the cares, business, and sorrows of the day, 
 have not yet merged in prudence and fatigue — 
 the imaginativeness of the morning dream is 
 yet floating on the mind — the courtesies of 
 coffee and chocolate are more familiar than 
 those of soup and fish. As they say in edu- 
 cation, nothing like an early commencement — 
 our first impressions are always most vivid, 
 and the simplicity of the morning gives an idea 
 of nature piquant from probable contrast. Per- 
 haps one's rule of three for action might run 
 thus : be naive at breakfast, brilliant at dinner, 
 but romantic at supper. The visions prepared 
 for midnight should always be a little exalted: 
 but if only one meal be at your choice, prefer 
 the breakfast. Ce n'est que le premier pas qui 
 coute, is as true of sentiments as saints.
 
 188 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 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 ac- 
 corded 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
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 189 
 
 to marry, — whether the masculine part of the 
 creation, with that attention to business, their 
 great moral duty, calculate on pecuniary futu- 
 rities, 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
 
 190 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 his host, — he was not the least particular as to 
 principles, always supposing them to be con- 
 tradictory ; — 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 ttte-a-ttte 
 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 torment- 
 ing 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 calo- 
 mel ! for Mr. Lushington's equanimity was in 
 a bilious fever with Edward Lorraine's appear- 
 ance of luxurious enjoyment. Thrown upon a 
 sofa, like a crimson cloud for colour and soft- 
 ness, — with just enough of air from the laurels 
 and acacias of the square garden to fling back
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 191 
 
 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 ex- 
 quisitely carved marble vases, to excite the 
 imagination ; while the vista ended in a con- 
 servatory, 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.
 
 102 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Morland, who had en- 
 tered 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 mustaches 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 accom- 
 plishments 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
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 193 
 
 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 con- 
 tempt for money. Mrs. Smith took philosophy, 
 was liberal and enlightened in her views, ex- 
 patiated 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 comfort- 
 able in the conviction that all the mysteries 
 would be explained, if I did but go on. Sche- 
 doni, 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, 
 vol. 1. K
 
 194 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 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 en- 
 countered 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 vo- 
 lumes, 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
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 195 
 
 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, develop- 
 ing her axioms by actions ; and with, more- 
 over, a point of attack before her. French 
 morality and French sentiment were the alpha 
 and omega of her literary warfare/' 
 
 Ediuard 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 An- 
 villes 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 ideal of ex- 
 cellence is mean ? " 
 
 Mr. Morland. — "I prefer Miss Austen's : 
 they are the truest pictures of country life, 
 whose little schemes, hopes, scandals, &c. are
 
 196 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 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 hu- 
 man feeling. Pride and Prejudice is her best 
 work ; but I cannot forgive Elizabeth for her 
 independence, which, in a woman, is imper- 
 tinence; and Mr. Darcie is just a stiff family 
 portrait, come down from its frame to be con- 
 descending.* 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 per- 
 sonages passed over the stage; but none of 
 them wore that window in their hearts it is 
 the part of the philosopher or poet to discover." 
 
 Mr. Morland. — tf 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 
 
 * 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.
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 197 
 
 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 under- 
 stand 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 plea- 
 sant hour's amusement, and exhort the author 
 gravely to turn his talents to higher account, 
 wholly unconscious of the truth, that the novel
 
 198 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 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. De- 
 scriptions, similes, pathos, are to be found in 
 the prose page ; and rhythm is becoming more 
 and more an encumbrance rather than a recom- 
 mendation. 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, pro- 
 vided 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
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 199 
 
 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 know- 
 ledge 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 —
 
 200 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 that the original frame of his mind was imagina- 
 tive 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 some- 
 thing 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 shewn 
 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 
 hig-hest nature, removed from the common- 
 places 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 pro- 
 portion as it is kept apart from the dividing 
 and corrupting effect of the world. The love
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 201 
 
 he depicts is especially that of the naturally 
 melancholy and passionate, who exalt and re- 
 fine 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 ima- 
 gination ; 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 con- 
 sequences 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 — 
 
 i Autumn, which, like ambition, gilds ere it withers.' " 
 
 k2
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 14 Is he handsome?" asked Emily. 
 
 " Nay," returned Lorraine, " do not ask me. 
 I always consider one of my own sex as a non- 
 entity 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 shews 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
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 203 
 
 abstract view will be of its medicinal proper- 
 ties ; 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 cha- 
 racteristic 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 materiel 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 exist- 
 ence !" 
 
 Mr. Morland. — "Yes, but Mr. D 'Israeli must 
 be banished first. I should say he is one whose
 
 204 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 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 re- 
 sources. To go back to the days of the Spec- 
 tator, and illustrate my meaning by an alle- 
 gory: — 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 in- 
 jured: 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 dis- 
 cover, 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 be- 
 come the more beneficial the more it expands. 
 But a propos to benevolence, and ' all that sort 
 of thing,' is this one of your favourite authors?" 
 taking up a volume of Tremaine.
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 205 
 
 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 shews the force of habit ; and we 
 like his copy-book morality on the same prin- 
 ciple 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 ex- 
 perience shews the leaning most have towards 
 the latter. Hence it is that so much is taken 
 for granted. Mr. Warde has shewn great tact 
 in embodying these 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
 
 Q06 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 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 re- 
 membered.
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 207 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 " Spirit of Love ! soon thy rose-plumes wear 
 The weight and the sully of canker and care ; 
 Falsehood is round thee — Hope leads thee on, 
 Till every hue from thy pinion is gone ; 
 But one bright moment is all thine own, 
 The one ere thy visible presence is known. 
 When, like the wind of the south, thy power, 
 Sunning the heavens, sweetening the flower, 
 Is felt, but not seen, thou art soft and calm 
 As the sleep of a child — the dewfall of balm. 
 Fear has not darkened thee — Hope has made 
 The blossom expand, it but opens to fade. 
 Nothing is known of those wearing fears 
 Which will shadow the light of thy after-years. 
 Then thou art bliss : — but once throw by 
 The veil which shrouds thy divinity, 
 Stand confessed, and thy quiet is fled ; 
 Wild flashes of rapture may come instead, 
 But pain will be with them. What may restore 
 The gentle happiness known before ? " 
 
 The Improvisatrice. 
 
 There was a considerable change in the tone 
 of Emily's epistles. Pleasures were not con-
 
 208 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 sidered quite so insipid — nor was our young 
 lady quite so philosophical as she had been ; 
 she owned, that now town was full it was very 
 delightful ; and mentioned casually, in a post- 
 script, that Mr. Lorraine was a great acqui- 
 sition to their circle. 
 
 No one can deny Lady Charlotte Bury's 
 assertion, that no well-regulated young female 
 will ever indulge in a species of amusement so 
 improper as flirtation ; but it must be admitted, 
 that having a pleasant partner is preferable to 
 not dancing, and that a little persiflage, a little 
 raillery, a little flattery, go far to make a partner 
 pleasant. We are afraid these three parts only 
 want a fourth — sentiment — to make up what 
 is called flirtation, — at least, the Misses Fer- 
 gusson pronounced that Miss Arundel flirted 
 shamefully with Mr. Lorraine. This was 
 said one evening when, after having waltzed 
 — animated at once by pleasure and a desire 
 to please — with the grace of a Greek nymph 
 (or, at least, our idea of one) and the ear of a 
 nightingale (we take it for granted that a night- 
 ingale's ear for time must be exquisite) — she 
 sat down with Edward on a vacant window- 
 seat. 
 
 u Love," thought Lady Mandeville to herself,
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 209 
 
 " is said to spring from beauty. I am rather 
 inclined to reverse the genealogy. I pique 
 myself upon my penetration, and will never 
 trust it again, if my young friend is not im- 
 proving her complexion, and losing her heart 
 somewhat rapidly; — well, I think her to-night 
 a most lovely creature." 
 
 Lady Mandeville remembered how different 
 she looked seated by Lady Alicia at her first 
 ball ; but to-night 
 
 The heart's delight did, like a radiant lamp, 
 Light the sweet temple of her face. 
 
 She was placed so that her delicately cut features 
 were seen in profile; the head a little thrown 
 back, a little turned away — that half with- 
 drawing attitude so graceful and so feminine ; 
 the mouth half opened, as if listening with such 
 unconscious intenseness that the breath was 
 rather inhaled than drawn — its least sound sup- 
 pressed ; the beautiful crimson of excitement 
 glowed on the cheek, that rich passionate 
 colour it can know but once — a thousand 
 blushes gathered into one aurora; her eyes 
 were entirely veiled by the long lashes, not from 
 intention, but impulse, intuitively aw r are of his 
 every glance, — she herself knew not that to
 
 210 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 look into his face was impossible. Ah ! there 
 is no look so suspicious as a downcast one. 
 
 Emily was now in the happiest period of 
 love — perhaps its only happy one ; she felt a 
 keener sense of enjoyment, a pleasure in trifles, 
 a reliance on the present; her step was more 
 buoyant, her laugh more glad ; she felt a desire 
 to be kind to all around, and her nature seemed 
 all gaiety but for its sweetness. 
 
 " Love's first steps are upon the rose, ,, says 
 the proverb — ** its second finds the thorn." 
 Like the maiden of the fairy tale, we destroy 
 our spell when we open it to examine in what 
 characters it is written. In its ignorance is 
 its happiness; there is none of the anxiety that 
 is the fever of hope — no fears, for there is no 
 calculation — no selfishness, for it asks for no- 
 thing — no disappointment, for nothing is ex- 
 pected : it is like the deep quiet enjoyment of 
 basking in the bright sunshine, without think- 
 ing of either how the glad warmth will ripen 
 our fruits and flowers, or how the dark clouds 
 in the distance forebode a storm. 
 
 I doubt whether this morning twilight of the 
 affections has the same extent of duration and 
 influence in man that it has in woman; the 
 necessity of exertion for attainment has been
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 211 
 
 early inculcated upon him — he knows, that if 
 he would win, he must woo — and his ima- 
 gination acts chiefly as a stimulus. But a 
 woman's is of a more passive kind ; she has 
 no motive for analysing feelings whose future 
 rests not with herself: more imaginative from 
 early sedentary habits, she is content to dream 
 on, and some chance reveals to herself the 
 secret she would never have learnt from self- 
 investigation. Imbued with all the timidity, 
 exalted by all the romance of a first attach- 
 ment, never did a girl yet calculate on making 
 what is called a conquest of the man she loves. 
 A conquest is the resource of weariness — the 
 consolation of disappointment — a second world 
 of vanity and ambition, sighed for like Alex- 
 ander's, but not till we have wasted and de- 
 stroyed the heart's first sweet world of early 
 love. 
 
 Let Lord Byron say what he will of bread 
 and butter, girlhood is a beautiful season, and 
 its love — its warm, uncalculating, devoted love 
 — so exaggerating in its simplicity — so keen 
 from its freshness — is the very poetry of at- 
 tachment : after- years have nothing like it. 
 To know that the love which once seemed 
 eternal can have an end, destroys its immor-
 
 <g\% ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 tality ; and, thus brought to a level with the 
 beginnings and endings — the chances and 
 changes of life's common-place employments 
 and pleasures — and, alas! from the sublime 
 to the ridiculous there is but a step — our 
 divinity turns out an idol — we are grown too 
 wise, too worldly, for our former faith — and 
 we laugh at what we wept before : such laughter 
 is more bitter — a thousand times more bitter — 
 than tears. 
 
 Emily was in the very first of the golden 
 age of unconscious enjoyment — a period which 
 endures longer in unrequited love than any 
 other; the observance and display of another's 
 feelings do not then assist to enlighten us on 
 our own. 
 
 Lorraine's imagination was entirely engrossed 
 by Adelaide Lorimer. He had first seen her in 
 a situation a little out of the common routine 
 of introduction ; she was quite beautiful enough 
 to make a divinity of — and her grace and re- 
 finement were admirable in the way of contrast 
 to the prettiness and simplicity of which he had 
 just been thoroughly tired in Norway. Now 
 it is an admitted fact in moral — or, we should 
 say, sentimental — philosophy, that one attach- 
 ment precludes another — and that to be sensible
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 213 
 
 of the attractions of one lady, is to be blind to 
 those of the rest. Edward thought Miss Arun- 
 del " a great acquisition to their circle," and a 
 very pretty sweet creature; but he never even 
 thought of falling in love with her, and cer- 
 tainly she did not think of it either. Thus, 
 matters stood at present — very sufficient to 
 give a shadowy softness to her eyes, and bril- 
 liancy to her blush. And yet the camellia 
 japonicas (those delicate white flowers, which 
 seemed as if carved in ivory by some sculptor 
 whose inspiration has been love till all that is 
 beautiful is to him something sacred), and the 
 geraniums in the window behind, could have 
 witnessed that their conversation had been 
 carried on in a tone of exclusive gaiety, and 
 that the only arrows flung round were those of 
 laughing sarcasm. 
 
 Strangers and friends had been alike passed 
 in gay review — strangers, for their dress and 
 manners; and friends — our friends always share 
 the worst — to dress and manners added tem- 
 pers, opinions, and habits — their whole inter- 
 nal and external economy. It is a wise law 
 of nature, that we only hear at second-hand 
 what is said of us, when, at least, we can 
 comfort ourselves with disbelief. His Satanic
 
 214 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 majesty did not know how to tempt Job ; in- 
 stead of making him hear his friends talk to 
 him — though that was bad enough — he should 
 have made him hear them talk of h\m; and if 
 that did not drive him out of all patience, I 
 know not what would. " 
 
 " Nothing/' at length observed Emily, 
 " strikes me so much as the little appearance 
 of enjoyment there is in any present — our 
 faces, like our summers, want sunshine; my 
 uncle would quote Froissart, who says of our 
 ancestors, ' the English, after their fashion, 
 s'amusent moult tristement.' Look at the quad- 
 rille opposite — it boasts not a single smile; 
 I am inclined to ask, with some foreigner, 
 ' Are these people enjoying themselves?'" 
 
 " We must first make," replied Edward, 
 " due allowance for climate and constitution — 
 we must make another for fashion : we live in 
 an age of re-action ; the style of loud talking, 
 laughing, or what was termed dashing, lies in 
 the tomb of the Duchess of Gordon. We are 
 in the other extreme — and I answer your ques- 
 tion by another : Do you mean to affront me, 
 by supposing I could enjoy myself? What 
 pitiable ignorance of pleasure, on my part, does 
 the question insinuate !"
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITV. 215 
 
 " I am, then, to imagine, that the highest 
 style of fashion is, like that of ancient art, the 
 beauty of repose ? You account for the indif- 
 ference of the gentlemen — how do you account 
 for the gravity of the young ladies V 
 
 " You speak as if you considered a ball 
 matter of pleasure, not business ! Do you 
 imagine a girl goes through her first season 
 in London with the view of amusing herself? 
 Heavens ! she has no time to waste in any 
 such folly. The first campaign is conquest 
 and hope — the second, conquest and fear — 
 the third, conquest and despair. A ball-room 
 is merely — ' Arithmetic and the use of figures 
 taught here.' A young lady in a quadrille 
 might answer, like a merchant in his counting- 
 house, ' I am too busy to laugh — I am making 
 my calculations/ " 
 
 " La nation boutiquiere," laughed Emily. 
 
 " Ah, good ! " exclaimed Lorraine. " Do 
 look how sedulously those two young ladies 
 have made room for that thin, bilious-looking, 
 elderly gentleman, to hear more conveniently 
 Malibran's last song." 
 
 " He sat by me at dinner the other day. 
 Do you know, I am quite interested in him — 
 I pity his situation so much ! The conversation
 
 01(j ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 took what you would call a most English strain, 
 about domestic felicity ; and he spoke in a tone 
 of such strong personal feeling of the cruel 
 opposition of circumstance to affection ! I have 
 arranged his little romance in my own mind. 
 Has he not for years c dragged at each remove 
 the lengthened chain' of an early and vain 
 attachment — too poor to marry?" 
 
 " Nothing like the couleur de rose of the 
 imagination — I wish it could be condensed 
 into curtains for my dressing-room. This gen- 
 tleman, who has so excited your sympathy as 
 too poor to marry, has only about ten thousand 
 a-year; but, as he once observed, wives and 
 servants are so expensive now-a-days, they 
 require almost as much as one's self." 
 
 "Who is that gentleman who has just entered, 
 with such an air of captivating condescension? 
 He always gives me the idea of having stepped 
 out of the Spectator — one of the Cleontes and 
 Orlandos of other days, whose very bow anni- 
 hilated one's peace of mind. I have a vision 
 of him, with lace ruffles, and his mistress's 
 portrait on his snuff-box — keeping a portfolio 
 of billets doux, and talking of the last sweet 
 creature that died for him, with a ' Well, it 
 was really too cruel!'"
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 217 
 
 u You are right — Mr. Clanricarde is born 
 too late ; the reputation of a conqueror, whether 
 of hearts or kingdoms, is now philosophically 
 demonstrated to be worthless. Utility is fast 
 annihilating the empire of the sigh or the 
 sword : a hero is pronounced to be danger- 
 ous, or, worse, useless — and Alexanders and 
 Richelieus are equally out of keeping with 
 our time. Mr. Clanricarde's theory of senti- 
 ment is rather original : he says he quite agrees 
 with Montesquieu's doctrine of the influence of 
 climate ; he therefore argues that this external 
 effect must be counteracted by an internal one, 
 and takes up an attachment as the best resource 
 against the fogs, rains, and snows of our island. 
 He changes his mistresses with the weather: 
 in sunshine, by way of contrast, he devotes 
 himself to some languid beauty — in gloom, to 
 some piquante coquette. I rallied him the 
 other day on his homage this June to the lively 
 and witty Miss Fortescue. ' Yes, summer is 
 setting in with its usual severity,' replied he — 
 1 one must have a resource.' " 
 
 " He is a practical reproach to our baro- 
 meter," rejoined Emily : " but do you not 
 think the inconvenience of such rainy seasons 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 218 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 is more than compensated by the pleasure of 
 grumbling at them?" 
 
 " Our national safety-valve : a Frenchman 
 throws his discontent into an epigram, and is 
 happy — an Englishman vents his on the 
 weather, and is satisfied. Heaven help our 
 minister through a fine summer! it would in- 
 evitably cost him his place ; for our English 
 grumbling is equally distributed between the 
 weather and politics, and the case would be 
 desperate when confined to the last." 
 
 " Are not the Misses M'Leod dressed beauti- 
 fully to-night ?" 
 
 ft We agree. Ah, Miss Arundel, what a 
 duty it is in a woman to dress well ! Alas, 
 that a duty so important should ever be neg- 
 lected ! Dress ought to be part of female edu- 
 cation ; her eye for colouring, her taste for 
 drapery, should be cultivated by intense study. 
 Let her approach the mirror as she would her 
 harp or her grammar, aware that she has a 
 task before her, whose fulfilment, not whose 
 fulfilling, is matter of vanity. Above all, let 
 her eschew the impertinence of invention ; let 
 her leave genius to her milliner. In schools, 
 there are the drawing, French, and dancing
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 219 
 
 days; there should also be dressing days. 
 From sandal to ringlet should undergo strict in- 
 vestigation ; and a prize should be given to the 
 best dressed. We should not then have our eye- 
 sight affronted by yellows and pinks, greens and 
 blues, mingled together; we should be spared 
 the rigidity of form too often attendant on a 
 new dress ; and no longer behold shawls hung 
 on shoulders as if they were two pegs in a 
 passage. " 
 
 " A frivolous employment you find, truly, for 
 our sex ! " 
 
 tl A frivolous employment ! This comes of 
 well-sounding morality shining in a sentence. 
 Frivolous in an education devoted to attraction ! 
 No sonata will do so much execution as your 
 aerial crepe over delicate satin ; and your 
 cadences never produce half the effect of your 
 curls." 
 
 " But consider the time your system would 
 require." 
 
 " But consider the time really and truly given 
 to the toilette. My system would require but 
 half — for it would be judiciously employed." 
 
 " You gentlemen have strange notions on 
 these subjects; you have some visionary fancy
 
 220 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 of a heroine all white muslin and simplicity, 
 whose ringlets never come out of curl, and who 
 puts a few natural flowers, which make a point 
 of not fading, in her hair." 
 
 " I have a particular antipathy to white 
 muslin ; and I think natural flowers like na- 
 tural pleasures — their beauty is soon past. No ; 
 I prefer a noble confidence in your milliner, 
 using your own taste only in selection; and 
 also that confidential intercourse between your- 
 self and your clothes as if you were accustomed 
 to each other. Do not take up your boa as 
 if it were the rope with which you meant to 
 hang yourself; nor wrap your shawl round you 
 as if it were your shroud. But you, Miss 
 Arundel, understand well what I mean." 
 
 There was a very graceful emphasis on the 
 you; but Emily certainly blushed deeper than 
 the occasion required. For the first time, 
 Lady Alicia was petitioned to keep the carriage 
 waiting half an hour for " one more waltz;" 
 and " Oh, such a delightful ball, sir ! " was 
 Emily's account to Mr. Delawarr the next 
 morning at breakfast. 
 
 If, as a pretty little French woman once 
 observed, a young lady's delight in a ball is
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 221 
 
 not always raisonnable, at least she always has 
 r/uelque raison. 
 
 I own that life is very wearisome — that we 
 are most miserable creatures — that we go on 
 through disappointments, cares, and sorrows, 
 enough for a dozen of poems ; still, it has 
 pleasant passages — for example, when one is 
 young, pretty, and a little in love. What a 
 pity that we cannot remain at fifteen and five 
 and twenty ! Or, second thoughts are best — I 
 dare-say then we should sink under the ennui 
 of enjoyment, or be obliged to commit suicide 
 in self-defence. 
 
 It is a fact, as melancholy for the historian 
 as it is true, that though balls are very im- 
 portant events in a young lady's career, there 
 is exceedingly little to be said about them : — 
 they are pleasures all on the same pattern, — 
 the history of one is the history of all. You 
 dress with a square glass before you, and a long 
 glass behind you ; your hair trusts to its own 
 brown or black attractions, either curled or 
 braided, — or you put on a wreath, a bunch 
 of flowers, or a pearl bandeau ; your dress is 
 gauze, crape, lace, or muslin, either white, 
 pink, blue, or yellow; you shower, like April, 
 an odorous rain on your handkerchief; you
 
 222 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 put on your shawl, and step into the car- 
 riage ; you stop in some street or square ; your 
 footman raps as long as he can ; you are some 
 time going up stairs ; you hear your name, or 
 something like it, leading the way before you. 
 As many drawing-rooms are thrown open as 
 the house will allow, — they are lighted with 
 lamps or wax lights; there is a certain quan- 
 tity of china, and a certain number of exotics ; 
 also a gay-looking crowd, from which the hostess 
 emerges, and declares she is very glad to see 
 you. You pass on ; you sit a little while on a 
 sofa ; a tall or a short gentleman asks you to 
 dance, — to this you reply, that you will be 
 very happy ; you take his arm and walk to the 
 quadrille or waltz ; a succession of partners. 
 Then comes supper : you have a small piece of 
 fowl, and a thin slice of ham, perhaps some 
 jelly or a few grapes, — a glass of white wine, 
 or ponche a la romaine. Your partners have 
 asked you if you have been to the Opera ; in 
 return, you question them if they have been to 
 the Park. Perhaps a remark is hazarded on 
 Miss Fanny Kemble. If you are a step more 
 intimate, a few disparaging observations are 
 made on the entertainment and the guests. 
 Some cavalier hands you down stairs ; you re-
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. £23 
 
 cloak and re-enter the carriage, with the com- 
 fortable reflection, that as you have been seen 
 at Mrs. So-and-so's ball, Mrs. Such-a-one may 
 ask you to hers. 
 
 Now, is not this a true page in the annals of 
 dancing ? A little sentiment in the case alters 
 the whole affair. Emily's day of philosophical 
 reflection in a ball-room was either past or to 
 come. There are many odd things in society ; 
 but its amusements are the oddest of all. Take 
 any crowded party you will, and I doubt if 
 there are ten persons in the room who are really 
 pleased. To do as others do, is the mania of 
 the day. I will tell you a story. 
 
 Once upon a time a lady died much re- 
 gretted ; for she was as kind-hearted an indi- 
 vidual as ever gave birth-day presents in her life, 
 or left legacies at her death. When they heard 
 the intelligence, the whole of a married daugh- 
 ter's family were in great distress, — the mother 
 cried bitterly, so did her two eldest daughters, 
 as fitting and proper to do. The youngest 
 child of all, a little creature who could not in 
 the least recollect its grandmother, nevertheless 
 retired into a corner, and threw its pinafore over 
 its face. " Poor dear feeling little creature ! " 
 said the nurse, " don't you cry too." '■' I'm
 
 224 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 not crying/' replied the child ; " I only pre- 
 tend." 
 
 Regret and enjoyment are much the same; 
 people are like the child, — they only pre- 
 tend.
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. £25 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 " I trust I may be permitted to have an opinion of my own." 
 Commonplace in Domestic Dialogue* 
 
 " He who judges of other days by the feelings of his own, is 
 like one who would adapt a Polar dress to the climate of 
 
 ^ * James's History of Chivalry. 
 
 " Were you entertained at the play last 
 night?" said Lady Mandeville, who, apart from 
 the other callers, had formed a little circle of 
 Emily, Lorraine, and Mr. Morland. 
 
 Edward Lorraine. — (e Allow me to answer 
 for you ; Miss Arundel was delighted, for she 
 was superlatively miserable — and the pleasure 
 of a tragedy is to be measured by its sorrow." 
 
 Emily. — "I never saw a tragedy before, 
 and, to use one of Mr. Lorraine's own expres- 
 sions, novelty is the secret of enjoyment; and I 
 liked Miss Fanny Kemble so much/' 
 
 Mr. Morland. — " Excepting as matter of 
 pedigree, our ancestors are exceedingly in the 
 l2
 
 226 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 way : we go to see a young, rising, inexpe- 
 rienced girl, and we keep talking about Mrs. 
 Siddons. I think it just a debatable point, 
 whether Miss Kemble be most indebted to the 
 attraction flung over her by memories of other 
 days, or injured by the comparison." 
 
 Emily. — " I cannot offer an opinion, but I 
 must express my delight ; there is something 
 in her voice that fills my eyes with tears, even 
 before I know the sense ; and her face is to 
 my taste beautiful, — the finely arched and ex- 
 pressive brow, and the dark, passionate eyes, — 
 what a world of thought and feeling lie in their 
 shadowy depths ! She gave to me, at least, an 
 interest in Juliet I never felt before." 
 
 Lady Mandeville. — " I agree with you in not 
 placing Juliet among my favourite creations of 
 Shakespeare; her love is too sudden, too openly 
 avowed — it is merely taking a fancy to the first 
 handsome young man she sees; even to her 
 lover she has to say, 
 
 ' If thou thinkest I am too quickly won.' 
 
 Now, among all Shakespeare's heroines, give 
 me Viola. I have always formed a beautiful 
 vision of the lonely and enthusiastic Italian, 
 nursing a wild dream of the noble duke, whose
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 227 
 
 perfections had been the subject of their fire- 
 side talk — 
 
 ' I have heard my father name him ' — 
 
 cherishing the vision of her girlhood in silence 
 and hopelessness. Viola seems to me the very 
 poetry of love. Satisfactory as is the ending 
 of Twelfth Night, I always feel a fanciful 
 anxiety for the fate of her who is henceforth to 
 be 
 
 ' Orsino's mistress, and his fancy's queen.' 
 
 I have a great idea of a lover having some 
 trouble, — it is the effort we make to attain an 
 object that teaches us its value." 
 
 Edward Lorraine. — u I think you judge 
 Juliet unfairly, because you judge her by rules 
 to which she is not amenable — by those of our 
 present time. You forget how differently love 
 affairs are now arranged to w r hat they were 
 in the time of the fairVerone.se. It was an age 
 when love lived, as Byron says, more in the 
 eyes than the heart. A kind wind blew back a 
 veil, and shewed a rose-touched cheek; or a 
 dark eye flashed over a blind — this was enough 
 to make an enamoured youth desperate. The 
 lady herself just glanced over her lattice, and 
 a stately step, or a well-mounted steed, hence-
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 forth haunted her dreams. The only commu- 
 nication between lovers was the handing the 
 holy water in the cathedral, a guitar softly 
 touched at night, or perhaps the rare occur- 
 rence of meeting at a festival. In all the old 
 novelists and poets, love at first sight is a com- 
 mon event, because it was such in actual life. 
 Our modern easiness of manners, and freedom 
 of intercourse, develope the same feeling, though 
 in a different manner, — we no longer lose our 
 hearts so suddenly, because there is no neces- 
 sity for such haste ; we talk of answering 
 tastes, our ancestors thought of answering eyes, 
 — we require a certain number of quadrilles, 
 and a certain quantity of conversation, before 
 the young pair can be supposed to form an 
 attachment ; but allow me to say, I do not see 
 why it is so much more rational to talk than 
 to look oneself into love. No: judge Juliet 
 according to the manners of a time of masks, 
 veils, serenades, and seclusion, and you will 
 find the picture worked out in colours as deli- 
 cate as they are natural.'' 
 
 The defence of one woman is a man's best 
 flattery to the whole sex, even as the abuse of 
 them in general is but a bad compliment to any 
 individual.
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 229 
 
 Lady Mandeville. — " I cannot but think the 
 commonplace and sweeping satire he bestows 
 on us a great fault in the clever and original 
 author of Sydenham. However, I hold it but 
 as the ingenious vanity of a young man : had 
 he praised, people would only have said, ' very 
 interesting, but so romantic ;' but he censures, 
 and the remark is, ' he must know a great deal 
 to know so much evil.' Perhaps this is the 
 cause why the judgments of the young are 
 generally so severe, — censure has to them some- 
 what the seeming of experience ; and in reason 
 as in fashion, we doubly affect what we have 
 not." 
 
 Mr. Morland. — " It puts me in mind of a 
 little speech of his to a lady who reproached 
 him for praising her young friend's style of 
 wreath and ringlet, when he knew it was not 
 becoming — ■ Could you suspect me of speak- 
 ing the truth to a young lady V " 
 
 Lady Mandeville. — li Now, the knowledge 
 of our sex that speech supposed ! Nothing is 
 so disparaging as vanity ! It seems, like the 
 Tartar, to suppose it acquires the qualities of 
 the individual it destroys." 
 
 Edward Lorraine. — " To return to our the- 
 atricals ; I was delighted with Miss Kemble's
 
 230 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 Portia; her rich melancholy voice gives such 
 effect to poetry. I missed her when she was 
 not on the stage, in spite of the absorbing in- 
 terest of that most calumniated and ill-used 
 person, the Jew." 
 
 Emily. — <{ A most amiable person you have 
 chosen for your object of interest. " 
 
 Edward Lorraine. — u I do think him so ill 
 used : his riches matter of mingled envy and 
 reproach — himself insulted, — his daughter, to 
 whom, at least, he softens into affection — other- 
 wise so chilled and checked — deserts, nay, 
 robs him, — I am sure he has most sufficient 
 cause of resentment against ' these Christians ; ' 
 only I cannot forgive his craven conduct in the 
 last scene : had I been Shylock, I would have 
 exacted my penalty at its utmost peril, — my 
 life should have cheaply bought Antonio's." 
 
 Mr. Morland. — " That would have been 
 carrying revenge sufficiently far." 
 
 Edioard Lorraine. — " Truly, I hold revenge 
 to be a moral duty. To permit ourselves to be 
 injured with impunity, is to give an encourage- 
 ment to evil, which may afterwards turn against 
 others as well as ourselves. Some one says, 
 revenge is such a luxury, the gods keep it to 
 themselves; when they do permit us to parti-
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 231 
 
 cipate in the enjoyment, by placing it in our 
 power, it is downright ingratitude not to par- 
 take." 
 
 Lady Mandeville. — "A most amiable and 
 peaceful doctrine ! " 
 
 Mr. Morland. — " I, for one, do not wish 
 those days to return, when a man's forefathers 
 left him a feud by way of inheritance, or a 
 quarrel as a legacy." 
 
 Edward Lorraine. — " Well, well, we can still 
 have a suit in chancery; and I do not see but 
 that, when 
 
 f Your lawyers are met, a terrible shew,' 
 
 the redress will be about as destructive to both 
 sides as when you faced your opponent at the 
 head of your armed retainers; though, for my- 
 self, I am free to confess, I never ride up the 
 avenue where I first catch sight of the towers 
 of Etheringhame without regret for the days 
 when our banner floated over five hundred 
 horsemen, and the crested helmets on the wall 
 were not, as now, a vain shew for the anti- 
 quary." 
 
 Lady Mandeville. — " Yes — you have cause 
 to regret those days, when, as a younger brother, 
 you would have been put into a monastery or
 
 232 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 a dungeon ! You must confess that our modern 
 days of clubs, cabriolets, and comfort, is some- 
 what more advanced towards perfection." 
 
 Edward Lorraine. — " Why, comfort is a 
 very comparative term : it is true, I prefer the 
 crimson carpet under my feet to the rushes with 
 which my ancestors would have strewed my 
 floor ; but if I had never seen the carpet, I 
 could not have missed it — as Cibber, in his 
 beautiful poem of the Blind Boy, says — 
 
 ' I do not feel 
 The want I do not know.' " 
 
 Mr. Morland. — " The hope of improvement 
 is a quality at once so strong and so excellent 
 in the human mind, that I, for one, disapprove of 
 any sophism — or, if you will, argument — that 
 tends to repress it. It is certain that nothing 
 ever produces either the evil or the good prog- 
 nosticated ; circumstances always occur which 
 no one could have foreseen, and which always 
 both alter and ameliorate. Our age is a little 
 self-important — so was its predecessor — so will 
 be its follower : it is a curious fact, but the 
 worst and the best is always said and thought 
 of the existing time. For my part, I neither 
 think that our present day is all but perfec-
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 tion, nor do I quite hold with those who only- 
 put my gardener's belief into different words, 
 ' that learning and good roads will ruin the 
 kingdom. '" 
 
 Lady Mandeville. — " One of the manias of 
 the present day, which especially excites my 
 spleen, is the locomotive rage which seems 
 to possess all ranks — that necessity of going 
 out of town in the summer — people, for ex- 
 ample, in the middle classes, who have a 
 comfortable and well-furnished house — to live 
 in some small cottage or miserable lodgings, 
 the chief of whose recommendation seems to 
 be, that they are either damp or windy; they 
 give up regular habits and comforts, an inno- 
 vation on the least of which would have occa- 
 sioned a fortnight's grumbling at any other 
 time ; but now, ' the lady's health required 
 change of air,' or ' it would do the children 
 so much good/" 
 
 Edivard Lorraine. — " You have forgotten the 
 genteel sound of ' we passed the summer at 
 Worthing,' or ' the autumn at Hastings.' " 
 
 Mr. Morland. — " Nothing appears to me so 
 absurd as placing our happiness in the opinion 
 others entertain of our enjoyments, not in our 
 own sense of them. The fear of being thought
 
 234 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 vulgar, is the moral hydrophobia of the day ; 
 our weaknesses cost us a thousand times more 
 regret and shame than our faults." 
 
 Lady Mandeville. — ■ " Ah, if we could but 
 keep a little for our own use of the wisdom we 
 so liberally bestow on others ! Nothing can be 
 more entire than my conviction of the truth of 
 what we have been saying — but I wish you 
 good morning, for I must tease — I mean per- 
 suade — Lord Mandeville to go to Lady Falcon- 
 dale's fete — not that I have myself the least 
 wish to go, — but every body will be there." 
 
 " I wonder," said Lorraine, as she departed, 
 " whether any thing can be more musical than 
 Lady Mandeville's laugh. What a risk it is 
 to laugh ! Laughter may be generally classed 
 under three heads, — forced, silly, or vulgar j but 
 hers is the most sweet, real, spirituelle sound 
 possible — it so appreciates the wit, which it 
 increases as it catches — it speaks of spirits so 
 fresh, so youthful ! I think Weld is the tra- 
 veller who says he loved to sit of an evening 
 in the shade where he could hear the laughter 
 of the Indian women — that it had on him the 
 effect of music : I say the same of Lady Man- 
 deville's." 
 
 Mr. Morland.—" The author of Paul Clifford
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 235 
 
 is the first who has made open war, and turn- 
 ed his ridicule against the sombre followers 
 of Lord Byron ; but I think he goes too far in 
 the close alliance he supposes between good 
 spirits and genius. The favourite topic of our 
 philosophers is the weakness, that of the poets 
 the sorrows of human nature — its fears also, 
 and its crimes. These are not very enlivening 
 subjects, and yet they are universally chosen; 
 and for one great reason — in some or other of 
 their shapes they come home to every one's ex- 
 perience. It is very true that Homer's general 
 tone is exciting, warlike, and glad, like the 
 sound of a trumpet; still, his most popular 
 passages are those touched with sorrow and 
 affection : the parting of Hector and Andro- 
 mache is uppermost in the minds of the great 
 body of his readers; and the grief of Priam 
 touches the many much more than the godlike 
 attributes of Achilles. I believe genius to be 
 acute feeling gifted with the power of expres- 
 sion, and with that keen observation which 
 early leads to reflection ; and few can feel much 
 of, or think much on, the various lessons of 
 life, and not say, in the sorrowful language of 
 the Psalmist, ' My soul is heavy within me.' 
 But as the once beautifully-moulded figures,
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 that pass through the various casts taken in 
 plaster of Paris, till scarce a trace remains of 
 their original symmetry and grace in the base 
 copies hawked about the streets — so an idea, 
 or a feeling, once true and beautiful, becomes 
 garbled and absurd by passing through the 
 hands of awkward imitators. I have not the 
 slightest intention of taking up the defence of 
 ' young gentlemen who make frowns in the 
 glass ;' in truth, their laments and regrets are 
 about as just as those of an old gentleman 
 of my acquaintance, blessed — I believe that is 
 the proper phrase — with a more than ordinary 
 portion of children and grandchildren, but who 
 kept dying off, and being buried in the family 
 vault, to the great sorrow of the grandfather, 
 who, equally vexed and indignant, complained, 
 ' there will not be a bit of room for me in my 
 own vault.' " 
 
 Edivard Lorraine. — " A hard case, truly, to 
 outlive one's very grave ; though, to me at 
 least, there is something very revolting in our 
 system of burial — something very contrary to 
 the essentially cheerful spirit of our religion. 
 I can conceive no scene more chilling and 
 more revolting than a London burying-ground ; 
 haste, oblivion, selfishness, are its outward
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 237 
 
 signs. I love not this desire to loose the ties 
 between the living and the dead ; the sorrow- 
 ful affection which lingers over the departed is 
 too sacred, too purifying a feeling, to be thus 
 hurriedly put aside. With all that is false 
 and affected about Pere la Chaise, the feelino- 
 which founded it, and which it still keeps alive, 
 is a good one ; for no solitary moment passed 
 in thoughtfulness beside the deceased was ever 
 yet without its price to the survivor." 
 
 Mr. Morland. — " They say that every age 
 has its ruling vice — I think impatience is that 
 of our present — we live in such a hurry that 
 we have not time to be sorry." 
 
 Edward Lorraine. — " And we shall have no 
 time to be charitable — we have to attend the 
 Ladies' Bazaar; we are destined to fall vic- 
 tims to-day to smiles, pincushions, and com- 
 passion : to my certain knowledge, Miss Arun- 
 del, the other morning, despatched a whole 
 regiment of dolls." 
 
 Moore says, 
 
 Lightly falls the foot of Time, 
 Which only treads on flowers. 
 
 Pleasantly did the day pass to Emily — one 
 gets so soon accustomed to the society of a
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 beloved object. Habit is a second nature, and 
 what was at first pleasure is next necessity. 
 Words, such nothings in themselves — trifles, 
 so unimportant — walks, where there is nothing 
 to see — amusements, where there is nothing to 
 do — how delightful they become under some 
 circumstances ! Well, it would not do to be 
 always in love; as a travelling merchant ob- 
 served to his wife, who had indulged some- 
 what too liberally, for nearly a whole week, in 
 the fascinating fluid called " mountain dew," — 
 " What ! to-day, again ? — this won't do every 
 day — you wouldn't be an angel, would you?" 
 Though we differ in the gentleman's estimate 
 of angelic nature, we will apply his words, and 
 say to the enamoured — " This won't do every 
 day — you wouldn't be an angel, would you?"
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 239 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 I saw the guardian Cupid of our town 
 Dressed in a mercantile, staid suit of brown ; 
 A wig he wore — a slate was on his knee, 
 On which he cast up sums industriously ; 
 Complexion, morning — hair, like midnight dark — 
 Balance, good county interest and a park ; 
 Sings like an angel — dances like a grace — 
 Chances from Grosvenor Square to Connaught Place. 
 But while with this arithmetic amused, 
 His bow and arrows lay behind unused. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 " We must not be too exquisite — 
 We live by admiration." 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 " I wish," said Lady Mandeville, as she and 
 Emily met on a crowded staircase, ■* you would 
 let me recommend my coiffeur to you." 
 
 " A gentleman most devoted," observed her 
 husband, n to the science. Aware that appear- 
 ance is every thing in this world, he holds it 
 little less than a sin to neglect it. Meeting 
 him stepping like a feather, or as light as one 
 of his own curls, I stopped to ask Signor Julio
 
 240 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 Rosettini why he had not been in attendance 
 during the last fortnight; and knowing how 
 dear fame is to genius, I assured him I had 
 scarcely known Lady Mandeville to be herself. 
 That ' I was too good/ and that ' my percep- 
 tions of the beautiful were exquisite,' were his 
 no less flattering rejoinders. He then proceeded 
 to inform me that a porter had first ran against 
 him with a square trunk, and then knocked 
 him down for being in the way. ' You know, 
 milor, your countrymen of the canaille are very 
 independent — of course my face was cut, and 
 even the humblest of Beauty's slaves would not 
 enter her presence disfigured.' There's a pro- 
 fessor of pommade divine for you !' " 
 
 Emily laughed, and said, " Indeed, I shall 
 expect to have i a Cupid ambushed in each 
 curl' under the skilful hands of Signor Julio. 
 I will try his power to-morrow." 
 
 Now, it is a very debateable point in my 
 mind, whether any woman ever thanks another 
 for recommending either coiffeur, modiste, or any 
 of those modern artisans of the graces — it is 
 a tacit reflection on her previous appearance. 
 But Emily was far too new to think of that 
 impertinent independence — a taste of her own ; 
 she therefore received the advice with juvenile
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 241 
 
 thankfulness. Moreover, she recollected having: 
 heard Lorraine admire the classic perfection of 
 Lady Mandeville's head. Motives are like har- 
 lequins — there is always a second dress beneath 
 their first. 
 
 The next night, her glance at the glass was 
 certainly a very satisfactory one ; and, in all 
 that pleasant consciousness which attends a 
 new dress, she entered the drawing-room. Here 
 a slight disappointment awaited her — Lorraine 
 had gone to another party, and was only to 
 join them at Mrs. Grantham's. Emily turned 
 away from the fire-place, though there was a 
 mirror over it, and sat down in a large arm- 
 chair, and picked, leaf by leaf, the beautiful 
 rosebuds which she had that very afternoon 
 chosen with such care from the crimson multi- 
 tude of their companions. 
 
 It is a very different thing to be first seen, 
 without competitor except your own shadow, to 
 being but one in a crowd — your head, and per- 
 haps one arm, only visible — the first glossiness 
 of the ringlet, and the first freshness of the white 
 tulle, departed for ever. These are heavy dis- 
 appointments at nineteen, and even a little later. 
 Her eyes grew large and dark with the tears 
 that, in a moment after, were checked — shame 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 242 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 put down sorrow, but not till the lashes glis- 
 tened with momentary brightness. But in 
 youth, happiness deferred turns into hope. " I 
 won't dance, and I'll sit near the door," thought 
 Emily. 
 
 A sort of fatality attends resolutions — they 
 are so very rarely kept. For the first time, 
 whether it was from having been accustomed 
 to see her dance lately, Lady Alicia bethought 
 her Miss Arundel would like a partner. She 
 also caught the particularly low bend of a 
 Mr. Granville, and, instantly introducing him 
 to Emily, sunk back in her chair with an ap- 
 pearance of heroic exertion. 
 
 Mr. Granville was at present on sufferance 
 in society — working his slow way, and trying 
 to be useful and agreeable, in order that he 
 might reach the proud pre-eminence of being 
 neither. Who he was, was rather debateable 
 ground — what he had, was more easily an- 
 swered : he came out on the strength of his 
 uncle's will. Some persons skate into society 
 — others slide. Mr. Granville belonged to the 
 latter class. He had an otto-of-rose smile, a 
 low voice, large white hands, and a large white 
 handkerchief. You could not be rude to him, 
 for he took it as a personal compliment. To
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 243 
 
 a gentleman's opinion he deferred — with a 
 lady's he agreed : while his own idea of con- 
 versation was a series of commonplace ques- 
 tions, which seemed only asked that he might 
 be of the same opinion as your answer. To 
 sum up — he danced indefatigably, and com- 
 plained of the heat. The linked sweetness of 
 the quadrille was indeed long drawn out; but, 
 bad as this was, worse remained behind. The 
 dance ended, and he introduced a friend — as 
 if such a man had any business with a friend ! 
 
 Mr. Marechal had written a small volume of 
 poems, and conceived he had a character to 
 support — somewhat needless to support what 
 so few knew he had assumed. During the 
 first part of the quadrille, he was absent — 
 during the last, eloquent. He asked Emily if 
 she did not dote upon Byron, and idolise Italy : 
 he candidly confessed that he only existed by 
 moonlight. " Of course, you understand that 
 by existence I mean the awakening of the 
 higher faculties of the soul." He remarked, that 
 dancing was a remnant of ancient barbarism — 
 talked a little of the time wasted in such unin- 
 tellectual pursuits — dwelt on the heartlessness 
 of society — and finished with a practical proof 
 of his assertion, by handing Emily to a seat
 
 244 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 between two old ladies, whose nodding plumes 
 soon closed over her like a hearse. 
 
 They say parties are so very delightful : I 
 have my doubts — and doubts, like facts, are 
 stubborn things. I put the chaperones out of 
 the question — we will suppose the few sacri- 
 ficed for the good of the many — and we know 
 martyrdom has its pride and pleasure — and 
 pass on to the young, for whose enjoyment 
 these parties are ostensibly given. The age 
 where the mere delight of dancing with a 
 grown-up person suffices unto itself, is soon 
 past. The ball assumes its nominative case, 
 and requires an object ; and flirtation — the 
 adopted child of ennui — relieves the more 
 serious business of matrimonial speculation. 
 The worst of this pretty sort of half-and-half 
 indolent excitement is, that it unidealises the 
 heart — to a woman especially. And love is 
 either annihilated by the deadly weight of cal- 
 culation, or evaporates in the light fumes of 
 vanity. A few years of feverish hopes, a few 
 more of envious fears, and the complexion is 
 faded, and the game over. How much of en- 
 deavour and of disappointment, of rivalry and 
 mortification, have been crowded into a few 
 brief years !
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 245 
 
 The difference between a woman's career and 
 a man's is this : if a man has not had all the 
 success in life his " young ambition dreamed," 
 he has usually carved out some sort of path : 
 if, for example, he is not, as he intended, Lord 
 Chancellor, he has probably a very pretty prac- 
 tice on the circuit, and has a respectable share 
 in the hangings and transportations. It is the 
 reverse with women. She who aimed at a coro- 
 net may sometimes end with a curate; but 
 she is equally likely to end, like Christabelle, 
 in nothing — that social nonentity, an old maid. 
 
 Among the higher classes, the Lady Mary or 
 Lady Sophia of the family become as very 
 heir-looms at the country-seat as the heavy 
 arm-chairs worked by their great-aunts, only 
 not half so picturesque. In the middle class 
 of life, they keep their brother's house till he 
 marries ; then they quarrel with his wife, whose 
 influence, in that class at least, amounts 
 to absolute monarchy ; then they reside in a 
 small private family, where they enact the part 
 of Iris at Thetis' wedding — find out that it is 
 very dull, and wander from boarding-house to 
 boarding-house, carrying the events of one to 
 the inventions of another, till they are about 
 as much dreaded and disliked as the visits of
 
 246 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 the tax-gatherer : in short, they are a sort of 
 moral excise. 
 
 I knew an old lady — the very beau ideal of 
 black satin and blonde, whose dignity was 
 self-respect, and whose courtesy was one half 
 kindness — who used to say on any slight in- 
 stance of carelessness or extravagance on the 
 part of her granddaughters, " You don't con- 
 sider what it requires to make a woman fit to 
 be married/' One feels rather inclined to re- 
 verse her phrase, and say, " You don't con- 
 sider what it requires to make a woman fit to be 
 an old maid." 
 
 Feeling is very much in the way of phi- 
 losophy ; and Emily was much more employed 
 in thinking how completely the large plumes 
 and larger sleeves of her neighbours concealed 
 her, than in speculations on the dancers. To 
 add to her misfortunes, Mr. Marechal occupied 
 the small vista hitherto allowed to terminate 
 in her profile, with an attitude. Sitting oppo- 
 site a pier-glass has its disadvantages : however, 
 when things come to the worst, they mend. 
 
 " Mr. Marechal," said one of the ladies, 
 " will you fetch my cloak — I feel it cold." 
 
 " I was just going," replied the languid 
 lyrist, " to make you the very same request ;
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 247 
 
 for I suffer greatly from the draught of your 
 feathers." 
 
 To be rude is as good as being clever. The 
 pleasure of repeating Mr. MarechaPs reply quite 
 consoled the lady for fetching her own cloak > 
 and she moved off, to Emily's great satisfaction, 
 which satisfaction had, however, to stand the 
 test of another very dull half hour. Long 
 before any less interested glance could have 
 discovered his entrance, her eye rested on 
 Lorraine. " O how superior he looks to 
 every one else!" was her first thought. The 
 next moment cheek and eye brightened with 
 pleasure — for he crossed the room, engaged her 
 for the next dance, and took his place by her 
 side. 
 
 Alas ! we give our own colouring to the 
 actions of others. Edward acted upon a mere 
 kindly impulse. He saw Miss Arundel sitting 
 by herself, and looking with a weariness worthy 
 of a watch-tower. There was as much pity as 
 preference in his choice: but the one is a much 
 more flattering reason to assign than the other. 
 Can we wonder that at nineteen Emily drew 
 the pleasanter conclusion ? With spirits and 
 smiles equally bright, she took the w 7 reath that 
 night from her hair. Too excited for sleep,
 
 248 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 with all that glad restlessness, which, if not 
 happiness, is as like it as any thing we know — 
 that very night she sat down and wrote a long 
 letter to her uncle. Its tone was not quite so 
 philosophical as it had been about the heartless 
 insipidity of a London season.
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY 249 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 We should be grateful to that fairy queen, 
 Sweet Fancy ; she who makes dreams tangible, 
 And gives the outer world wherein we live 
 Light from the inner one, where feelings dwell, 
 And poetry, and colours beautiful, 
 Shedding a charm upon our daily life, 
 And keeping yet some childhood in the heart. 
 
 u I was quite alarmed yesterday while dining 
 with Mr. Morland, to find him, Miss Arundel, 
 so great an admirer of yours. I entreat," said 
 Lorraine, " that you will not destroy ray beau 
 ideal of sixty and singlehood." 
 
 " Vain fears !" replied Emily, laughing. " A 
 lover may give up his mistress, but not a phi- 
 losopher his system. It would be bad taste in 
 him to marry again ; and such an argument 
 would with him be decisive. Good taste is his 
 religion, his morality, his standard, and his 
 test. I remember Mr. Delawarr was telling a 
 story of a most shocking murder that a man 
 had committed — beating his wife's brains out 
 m2
 
 250 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 with a hammer. * Bad taste/ said Mr. Mor- 
 land ; ' very bad taste !' At first I thought he 
 alluded to the murder ; but I afterwards found 
 it was the mode in which the murder was com- 
 mitted." 
 
 Edward Lorraine. — " Allowing for a little 
 feminine exaggeration, you are not far wrong. 
 Mr. Morland carries his principle to its extent ; 
 but in his hands it is an excellent rule of action. 
 To avoid the ridiculous, and pursue the beautiful, 
 would be equally his rule for the statesman and 
 the upholsterer. Consistency of action, atten- 
 tion to results, and also to present benefit on 
 the one side, and harmony of colour and grace- 
 ful effect on the other, he urges arise from the 
 same principle under different circumstances — 
 viz. good taste ! His house and his conduct, his 
 dress and his language, are equally perfect. 
 He lives a short distance out of London. ' I 
 must have/ I have often heard him say, i quiet / 
 so I avoid living in a street — I look upon my 
 fine old trees — my growth of summer flowers, 
 links between myself and nature. I grow too 
 worldly, and I freshen my imagination with my 
 roses. I grow disputatious and discontented 
 among volumes of feverish study, vain aspirings, 
 and useless information ; I open one of my
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 251 
 
 windows, and in so doing shake a shower of 
 blossoms from the clematis. I step out into the 
 sunshine, and feel rejoiced to think there is a 
 bright side still in the world. I live near town, 
 for I am yet unwilling the age should leave me 
 far behind it. I have old friends with whom I 
 talk of the past, and young ones with whom I 
 talk of the present. In youth one only grows 
 romantic in solitude ; but in old age one grows 
 selfish. I have no interests to jar against those 
 of others; society, therefore, calls forth my 
 more kindly feelings. I have a noble fortune ; 
 and, what is more, I know the value of it, both 
 as it regards myself and others. I have an ex- 
 cellent library of my own, and a subscription to 
 a circulating one — an admirable cook — and a 
 cellar where the sunshine of many a summer is 
 treasured. I have much experience, and a little 
 philosophy. I own the vanity of many a former 
 anxious pursuit ; but am equally ready to own 
 I did not see the vanity of it at the time. I am 
 now well content to be spectator of the world's 
 great stage with kindness — my still remaining 
 link with its present actors.' Confess, Miss 
 Arundel, this is all in very good taste." 
 
 Miss Arundel. — u I trust you are not hoping 
 for an argument in expecting me to deny it;
 
 252 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 and I must add, I have seen few persons in 
 London whom I liked so much, perhaps because 
 his kind manner puts me so much in mind of 
 my uncle." 
 
 " But I have interrupted you. What were 
 the leaves you were so carefully turning?" and 
 Edward took up a number of Martin's Illustra- 
 tions of Milton. 
 
 u I never," said Emily, " have my idea of a 
 palace realised but in these pictures — the halls 
 of porphyry through which Prince Ahmed was 
 led to the throne of his fairy queen — or those of 
 a thousand pillars of black marble, where the 
 young king sat an enchanted statue." 
 
 Edward Lorraine. — tl I should like to be the 
 Czar, if it were only to give some millions of 
 my barbarians employment in erecting a palace 
 after Martin's design. It would be for their 
 benefit. The monarch must be noble as his 
 dwelling ; and my ideas would be exalted as 
 my roof, and my actions imitate the beauty and 
 regularity of my pillars." 
 
 Miss Arundel. — " Do not you think his 
 landscapes have the same magnificent spirit 
 of poetry in them as his architecture ? Look 
 at these trees, each one a temple — these rocks, 
 yet warm with the lightning flash, which has
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 253 
 
 just rent a fearful chasm. I know not why, 
 but I never see a stream of his painting but I 
 recall those lines of Coleridge's : 
 
 4 Where Alph, the sacred river, ran, 
 Down to a sunless sea.' 
 
 If he had lived in the days of the Caliphs, 
 Zobeide would have chosen him to paint the 
 palace of pictures she wagered with Haroun 
 Alraschid." 
 
 Edward Lorraine. — " What an illustrator he 
 would be of the Arabian Nights ! His pencil 
 would be like the wand of their own genii ; the 
 lamp itself could not call up a more gorgeous 
 hall than he would. Think of those mag- 
 nificent windows, of which even a king had 
 not gems enough in his treasury to finish only- 
 one ; or what would he not image of the en- 
 chanted garden itself, where the grapes were 
 rubies, the flowers of pearl, and the mysterious 
 shrine where burnt the mystic lamp. I would 
 assemble them in a picture-gallery, where once 
 a year I would ask my friends to a banquet, 
 sacred to the memory of M. de Caillaud." 
 
 Miss Arundel. — " And drink his health in 
 Shiraz wine." 
 
 Edward Lorraine. — " I would do as he has
 
 254 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 done — mix it with some of his native Cham- 
 pagne. I think the extent of our obligations 
 to that most perfect of translators has never 
 been felt. Compare his with the versions that 
 have since come — 
 
 ' Sad dreams, as when the spirit of youth 
 Returns again in sleep, and leads us back 
 In mournful mockery o'er the shining track' 
 
 of the enchanted world of genii, sultans, and 
 princesses. The reason is, they give us the 
 literal story, and foolishly pique themselves on 
 the accuracy of their translation, and their 
 knowledge of Arabic. Caillaud, on the con- 
 trary, did as Shakespeare did, who, out of the 
 stupid novels of Cynthio, extracted a Romeo 
 and Juliet. He modelled his rawM/me/, and 
 told the story with his own especial grace, in 
 addition to what is a national gift to his coun- 
 trymen, Vart de conter. By the by, I think it 
 among the great honours to French literature, 
 that one of its most original branches, fairy 
 tales, is peculiarly its own. I believe the Chil- 
 dren in the Wood, Whittington and his Cat, 
 and Little Red Ridinghood, are those only, of 
 all our popular tales, which have an English 
 origin. Now, the first rather belongs to our
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. Q55 
 
 simple and beautiful ballad school; the next, 
 a Utilitarian might have written as a good en- 
 couraging lesson of poverty rising into wealth — 
 a tale in the very spirit of la nation boutiquihe ; 
 and as for Little Red Ridinghood, the terror, 
 the only feeling it is calculated to produce, is 
 beneath the capacity of any critic past five years 
 of age. 
 
 (t But look at the imagination, the vivacity, 
 of the others : we read them in childhood for the 
 poetry of their wonders, and in more advanced 
 life for their wit ; for they are the Horaces of 
 fairy land. The French have the very perfec- 
 tion of short stories in their literature — little 
 touches like the flight of a shining arrow. I 
 remember one that began : * There was once a 
 king and queen, very silly people, but who loved 
 each other as much as if they had been wiser, 
 perhaps more.' Then, again, speaking of some 
 fairy portent : i They could not at all under- 
 stand it — therefore took it for granted it was 
 something very terrible or very fine ;' or, again, 
 * The queen was for ever in an ill humour, but 
 had the best heart in the world/ We English 
 have no word that translates that of persiflage ; 
 and for this reason, a nation only wants words 
 for the things it knows — and of this we have no
 
 256 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 understanding. An exquisite distinction I once 
 heard made between wit and humour, appears 
 to me admirably to apply to that of the French 
 and English — that humour differs from wit in 
 being more nearly allied with pathos. Thus it 
 is with us Islanders — we can be merry, but not 
 lively; and mirth brings its own reaction. 
 Lord Byron wrote quite as an Englishman 
 when he said 
 
 ' Laughter 
 Leaves us so doubly saddened shortly after.'" 
 
 Emily Arundel. — " How well I remember 
 sitting under a favourite old chestnut-tree, with 
 a huge folio of tales filled with pictures — kings 
 and queens, always with their crowns on their 
 heads — and fairies, with large hoops, and wings 
 on their shoulders !" 
 
 Edward Lorraine. — "Talking of wings — 
 with what magnificent plumes does Martin in- 
 vest his angels, as if tinged by every ray of 
 sunshine they caught in their descent to the 
 earth ; and their size, too, gives such an idea 
 of power !" 
 
 Emily Arundel. — " But to go back to sup- 
 posing subjects for his pictures. What do you 
 say to the midnight fete in the gardens of 
 Scherzyrabade, when the Caliph visited his
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 257 
 
 beautiful favourite ? Think of the hundred 
 black slaves, with their torches of scented 
 wax — the guards with their gorgeous turbans 
 and glittering cimeters — the lighted galleries 
 of the palace — the gardens with their thousand 
 lamps — the sparkling fountains — and the lake, 
 one gigantic mirror of the whole festival. " 
 
 Edward Lorraine. — " As only inferior to my 
 own subject : every one has his favourite hero; 
 and mine, the only gentleman Rome ever pos- 
 sessed, is Lucullus. I have a very disrespectful 
 feeling towards your great men who piqued 
 themselves on wearing an old cloak, and who 
 resorted to peeling turnips as an elegant em- 
 ployment for their leisure hours. Lucullus con- 
 quered ; and, after energy and exertion, sought 
 refinement and repose. He cultivated his 
 thoughts instead of his radishes; and he 
 studied that union of luxury and philosophy, 
 which is the excellence of refinement. My 
 picture is ' Lucullus at supper.'" 
 
 Emily Arundel. — " Nay, I cannot admit the 
 superiority of your subject." 
 
 Edward Lorraine. — " Because you have not 
 considered it. I suppose him at supper that 
 night when he gave that superb reply, dic- 
 tated in the noblest spirit of self-appreciation,
 
 258 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 1 Lucullus sups with Lucullus to-night !' Con- 
 queror of Asia ! victor of Mithridates ! you 
 were worthy of your glory ! First, imagine a 
 noble hall, of that fine blue which the walls 
 of Portici yet preserve, supported by Co- 
 rinthian pillars of the purest Parian marble ; 
 scatter round a few pieces of exquisite sculp- 
 ture — a Venus, of beauty as ideal as its dream 
 — a nymph, only less lovely — an Apollo, 
 the personification of the genius which first 
 imagined, and then bodied forth his likeness — 
 a few busts, each one a history of the immortal 
 mind — and in the distance a huge portal unfolds, 
 whence are issuing slaves, in all the gorgeous 
 variety of Eastern costume, approaching a table 
 bright with purple grapes — the ruby cherries, 
 his own present of peace to Italy — flasks of 
 wine, like imprisoned sunbeams, whether touch- 
 ed with the golden light of noon, or the crimson 
 hues of sunset — goblets of crystal, vases of gold 
 and silver, or the finely-formed Etruscan ; and 
 above, a silver lamp, like an earthly moon. 
 There are two windows — in the one a violet- 
 coloured curtain, waved back by the wind, just 
 discovers a group of Ionian girls ; their black 
 hair wreathed with flowers, and holding lutes, 
 whose sweet chorus is making musical the air
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 259 
 
 of a strange land with the songs of their own. 
 The other window has the rich Italian evening 
 only shut out by the luxuriant branches of a 
 myrtle ; and beyond is a grove of cypress, a 
 small and a winding river — 
 
 A fairy thing, 
 Which the eye watches in its wandering. 
 
 Seated on the triclinium in the midst is a middle- 
 aged man, with a high and noble brow ; the 
 fine aquiline nose, so patrician, as if their eagle 
 had set his own seal on his warlike race ; an 
 expression of almost melancholy sweetness in 
 his mouth, but of decision in the large medita- 
 tive blue eye : on one side a written scroll, 
 bearing the name of Plato, has just dropped 
 from his hand ; and on the other, a beautiful 
 youth kneels to announce to him, l that Lucul- 
 lus sups with Lucullus to-night.' Mr. Morland 
 has a vacant niche in his breakfast-room : I 
 really must call his attention to this." 
 
 " You could never do so better than to-day," 
 said that identical gentleman, entering the little 
 drawing-room where they were seated. 
 
 " I have just been persuading Delawarr to 
 leave politics, parchments, places, and plans, 
 for my acacias, now in full bloom, and some of 
 my most aromatic Burgundy. Lady Alicia,
 
 260 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 like a good wife, has consented to accompany 
 him ; and I am come to insist on you young 
 people following the example of your elders ; 
 and, moreover, I have a little girl of mine with 
 whom I wish Miss Arundel to be delighted. 
 You are to set off at once, toilette de matin : 
 you know ladies never dress but for each other ; 
 and that pretty green silk will be just in keep- 
 ing with my shrubbery. Now, I only allow 
 you five minutes to place your bonnet just the 
 least in the world on the left side. You must 
 trust to genius, not to study, to-day." And, in 
 spite of the thousand-and-one delays that always 
 intervene before a party of pleasure sets off', 
 ten minutes had not elapsed before the whole 
 party were on the road. 
 
 It had been settled that Lorraine was to 
 drive Emily in his phaeton. It is true the sun 
 was full in her eyes, the wind high, and the 
 dust, which is just mud in high spirits, flew 
 round them in clouds; but Emily found her 
 ride delightful. Is it not Wordsworth, who, 
 in his quality of philosopher and poet, says, 
 
 " It is the heart does magnify this life, 
 Making a truth and beauty of its own ?" 
 
 About the beauty we entirely agree with him
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 261 
 
 — touching the truth, we are not quite so certain : 
 but poets often mistake, and philosophers still 
 oftener. Emily's own feelings coloured all with 
 themselves. Generally speaking, she rather 
 wanted animation : what are called high spirits 
 are quite as much habitual as constitutional. 
 Living with people much older than herself — 
 an aunt never much put out of her way by any 
 thing — and an uncle, whose stately courtesy 
 of the old school was tinctured by a native 
 timidity which age itself never entirely conquers 
 — she had not been accustomed to give w r ay 
 to those impulses of a moment's gaiety which 
 break forth in gay laugh and bounding step. 
 Or is there a prophetic spirit in the human 
 mind, which makes those of the keenest feel- 
 ings often appear cold ; an intuitive, though 
 unowned, fear, repressing sensations of such 
 deep and intense power ? They cannot feel only 
 a little; and they shrink, though with an un- 
 conscious dread, from feeling too much. 
 
 But to-day Emily's gaiety took its tone 
 from the bright sunshine. Both herself and 
 Edward in that gay mood which makes its 
 own enjoyment, and enjoys everything: they 
 were soon on the beautiful common leading to 
 Roehampton, where villas, which seem, like
 
 262 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 Beatrice's idea of King Pedro for a husband, 
 made only for holydays — the luxuriant mea- 
 dows, varying, as the passing clouds turn them, 
 from bright glittering to the richest and dark- 
 est green — here shrubberies, whose flowering 
 shrubs overhung the road, scentino-the air with 
 a moment's fragrance as they passed — then, 
 again, the close-cut hawthorn hedge, like a 
 green knoll, from which some unshorn branch 
 occasionally rose, covered with a few late blos- 
 soms of May. 
 
 A turn in the road brought them to the 
 group of fine old elms which overshadowed 
 Mr. Morland's gate. Out they sprung from 
 the carriage — gaily laughing at the idea of 
 welcoming the master to his own house — and 
 Edward acted as guide through the serpentine 
 walk that led to the library. The boughs 
 met overhead — every step brought down a 
 shower of coloured and fragrant leaves — till 
 they stopped on the lawn. Genoa's princely 
 merchants never freighted vessel with velvet 
 of softer texture or richer green. Suddenly a 
 sweet voice, singing, like a bird, for the pleasure 
 of singing, came from the room; and, putting 
 back a branch covered with a thousand of the 
 little crimson Ayrshire roses, they stepped
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 263 
 
 through the window, and saw a girl, appa- 
 rently about thirteen, engaged, with all the 
 earnestness with which childhood follows its 
 pursuits, in placing flowers in divers vases. 
 It was evident no small share of taste and 
 industry was bestowed on the task ; their en- 
 trance, however, interrupted the progress of 
 some scarlet geranium towards some myrtle — 
 the child started — and her first intention of 
 a rapid flight was evidently only checked by 
 natural politeness — or, rather, that inherent 
 kindness, out of which cultivation afterwards 
 extracts the most graceful courtesy. Shyness 
 is too much a mere impulse in very early youth 
 to be lasting ; and reserve was lost in the dis- 
 may of the intelligence that her father was re- 
 turning before she had finished the decoration 
 of his room, with which she meant to surprise 
 him. Nothing like a little trouble for the be- 
 ginning of acquaintance — assistance was readily 
 offered, and as readily accepted — and all the 
 vases were in their places, and Helen not a little 
 delighted with her new friends; when the rest 
 of the party made their appearance. 
 
 Dinner had been ordered at once; and 
 luncheon (that cruel destruction of our best 
 feelings, as the Ettrick Shepherd calls it,)
 
 264 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 having been omitted, there was sufficient hunger 
 to do justice to a banquet the most refined in 
 its perfection. Not that hunger does a cook 
 justice. " I do not like people that are hungry," 
 says Ude ; " hungry people eat any thing: I 
 would have my dishes create of themselves an 
 appetite ; I do not wish them to be wanted till 
 they are tasted, and then to eat is a compli- 
 ment. " 
 
 But it was on the dessert Mr. Morland 
 piqued himself. It was served in the room 
 Helen had been so anxious to ornament. The 
 delicate colour of the fruit — the fragrant spirit 
 of the Burgundy — the icy coolness of the claret 
 — were not destroyed by an atmosphere already 
 heavy with soup and fish, and heated by two 
 courses of culinary triumph : no ! the air, pure 
 and clear, was only imbued with the sweetness 
 of the strawberry, or the breath of the roses 
 from the window — while the garden beyond 
 reminded you how fresh was the fruit which 
 heaped the silver baskets. 
 
 It is true enough for a proverb, that the 
 pleasantest parties are those of which the least 
 can be told. To make a recital entertaining, 
 there must be a little touch of the ridiculous — 
 a few sparkles of satire — the excellence of a
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 265 
 
 sarcasm lies, like a cimeter, in its keenness ; — 
 and they enjoyed themselves too much to be 
 witty — '* la sauce vaut le poisson;" and hence 
 it is that, even when good-natured people do 
 say a clever thing, it rarely tells — and all to- 
 day were in a good humour. 
 
 Perhaps that which had the most delighted 
 the visitors was their host's daughter — for 
 Helen was one of the very sweetest creatures 
 that ever blushed or smiled : there was a re- 
 finement in her simplicity — an infection in 
 her gaiety — a something touching in her affec- 
 tionate manners, that drew their fascination all 
 from the same source — they were all so per- 
 fectly natural. She appeared much younger 
 than she was — for Helen was in reality fifteen ; 
 but both the aunt with whom she resided, and 
 her father, were old-fashioned enough to wish 
 her childhood to be as long as possible. The 
 mind may be cultivated, the manners formed, 
 and the girl have acquired the polish of the 
 woman ; but how much of buoyant spirits must 
 have been quelled — how much of enjoyment 
 lost in the acquisition ! 
 
 Childhood is not often a happy season — it is 
 too much forced and controlled, and nature too 
 much exiled from the fairest spot in all her do- 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 266 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 main ; but it can be a glad and guileless time — 
 and Helen's had been a very happy childhood. 
 
 But the dark or bright day finds its end in 
 night, and again the phaeton retraced the morn- 
 ing's road. Every tree and field were now sil- 
 vered with the soft moonlight — there was a 
 repose around which even the voice seemed too 
 rudely to break. They were both silent — but 
 did Emily find the evening's silence less de- 
 lightful or less dangerous? 
 
 " How infinitely," said Lorraine at last, " I 
 prefer a night like this — a sky broken by a 
 thousand clouds — to one entirely cloudless! 
 The clear sky is too forcible a contrast to our- 
 selves — it is too bright, too calm for sympathy 
 with our troubled state — I almost dislike the 
 perfect repose in which I can have no part — 
 while the shadows that to-night gather round 
 the moon seem to have a fellow-feeling with 
 our checkered existence." 
 
 Emily made no answer — a sudden weight 
 had fallen on her spirits — her eyes were full 
 of unbidden tears — a voice seemed to arise 
 within her, and to say, " To-night — even to- 
 night — you stand on the threshold of your 
 fate : happiness is only turning one last and 
 lonely look before it leaves you for ever."
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 267 
 
 People talk — and wisely, too — of the folly 
 of presentiments ; but let the thoughts speak 
 their secret, will they assert their disbelief? 
 Our nature has many mysteries — the moral 
 and physical world are strangely allied ; the 
 weight on the air presages the hurricane — 
 the darkness on the heaven the tempest — why 
 may not destiny have its signs, and the heart 
 its portents, and the nameless sadness that 
 oppresses the spirits forebode the coming sor- 
 row? But Emily only thought of hers as a 
 weakness — she strove to shake it off. The 
 lamps now grew brilliant — the houses gathered 
 into streets — while imagination, as usual, took 
 flight before realities — and they arrived at home, 
 gaily discussing the chances of to-morrow's 
 ball. Once in her own room, fatigue and sen- 
 timent were terribly at variance — and sleep 
 is a true pleasure, if one had not to get up in 
 the morning. Do not tell me of the happiness 
 of life, when every day begins with a struggle 
 and a sacrifice. To get up in the morning, both 
 in the enjoyment it resigns and the resolution 
 it requires, is an act of heroism.
 
 268 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 " Come like shadows, so depart." — Macbeth. 
 " How shall I yield you fit entertainment ?" — Coleridge. 
 " A hemisphere of stars." — Byron, or the Morning Post. 
 " These written troubles of the brain."— Macbeth. 
 
 It had been settled, that the next evening, 
 on their way to Mrs. Dorrick's, they should 
 look in for an hour at the Athenaeum, it being 
 one of those Wednesdays when gentlemen in- 
 vite ladies, to shew how admirably they can do 
 without them, on the same principle that a well- 
 supplied, though beleaguered city courts the 
 presence of spies, and displays its strength and 
 resources till surrounding enemies are fain to 
 raise the siege from very hopelessness of success. 
 Clubs are just a modification of monasteries — 
 places of refuge from female attentions; and, as 
 in former days, the finest architecture, the best 
 situation, the most elaborate cuisine, the most 
 refined cellar, are devoted to their use. The prin- 
 cipal modern improvements are the omission of
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 269 
 
 fasting and penance, and the substitution of 
 magazines for missals. 
 
 " Whoso enters here leaves hope behind," 
 
 should be the Wednesdays' motto. The deep 
 crimson of the walls is alone enough to annihi- 
 late a thousand of the rose-coloured visions 
 which haunted last night's quadrille. All a 
 young lady should pray for, is a severe lingering 
 fit of illness, to impress upon her debating lover 
 a just feminine valuation ; — fevers and agues are 
 the best stepping-stones to the hymeneal altar. 
 Well; our party entered, walked, and looked 
 round, — and expressed their admiration or their 
 censure, the former greatly preponderating ; for 
 the ladies feel they are only there on sufferance, 
 which makes politeness a necessity. From 
 the place they turned to the people ; and 
 when criticism is in a crowd, it is of a mot- 
 ley kind, and certainly not " too discreet;" 
 for what but something ridiculous can be said 
 about those we do not know, — and this lady 
 with her weak wan face, and its multitude of 
 heavy ringlets, like the Dead Sea between two 
 weeping willows, — that gentleman with the 
 wilful whiskers encroaching like the sands over 
 the yellow desert of his cheek, — or that youth
 
 270 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 with the shining black head, as polished as his 
 boots, audibly proclaiming Warren's best, — soon 
 exhausted the stock of similes, if not of sneers ; 
 besides, the attention was attracted to indivi- 
 duals. 
 
 " Who is that?" said Emily, as a gentleman, 
 with one of the most sparkling and keen glances 
 in the world — which she was quite pretty enough 
 to attract for a moment — passed by. 
 
 " One of our first poets," replied Lorraine. 
 u I must tell you a very happy compliment 
 paid him the other day by one who was speak- 
 ing of his powers of sentiment and sarcasm : 
 * When one reads your lyrics, the exclamation 
 is amour! (ah, Moore !); but after your satires, 
 it is Timour (T. Moore) the Tartar.' As for 
 himself, he is the Venus throw in society ; his 
 conversation carries you along with the ease 
 and grace of skaiting ; he tells a story as if 
 M. Caillaud had left him his mantle, or as if 
 in hirn were realised the classic tale of the bees 
 that settled round the mouth of Sophocles, 
 leaving their honey behind them. In listening 
 to him I perfectly understand the feeling which 
 made Napoleon interrupt some unhappy elon- 
 gator of narrative with ■ Allons ! Denon, contez 
 nous cela.' He is our English Denon."
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 271 
 
 u Look at that serious-seeming personage, 
 who walks from one end of the room as if he 
 meant to commit suicide at the other." 
 
 u That is one of our patrician diseurs, or rather 
 faiseurs, of bons mots, — one who says good 
 things, not as if he had any pleasure or vanity 
 in saying them, but rather, in the very spirit of 
 our nation, as if he had a stock on hand he 
 was desirous to dispose of to the best advan- 
 tage. Many of his ideas are very original : 
 talking of the picturesque the other day, he 
 said, — ' So common is it, indeed, that every 
 body travels to talk about it; when I travel, 
 my carriage shall only have a skylight/ He 
 has an odd habit, or rather affectation, of 
 muttering to himself what he intends afterwards 
 to say; for example, ' Woman, — -yes, very 
 pretty, — but too much colour; I must ask 
 who she is.' ' Wine, — I see there a man I 
 must ask to take wine with me — great bore;' 
 and then follows, ' Shall I have the honour, 
 pleasure,' or whatever form the great question 
 of wine may take. Lord E., who knew his 
 habit, resolved one day to set up an opposition 
 muttering, and forthwith commenced, • Wine, 
 — yes, wine; I see there a man I would not 
 take wine with if he asked me.' But do you
 
 272 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 see that gentleman seated by the fire-place? 
 — he is one who has excited your most enthu- 
 siastic admiration." 
 
 Emily turned, and saw a face that riveted 
 her whole attention : melancholy and intellec- 
 tual, it was of the noblest order, and the ex- 
 pression seemed to impart something of its own 
 thoughtfulness to the beholder. The shape of 
 the head, the outline of the face, had more the 
 power and decision of the Roman, than the 
 flowing softness of the Greek ; in a bust it would 
 have been almost stern, but for the benevolence 
 of the mouth. It was as if two natures con- 
 tended together, • — the one, proud, spiritual, 
 severe, the expression of the head, — the other, 
 sad, tender, and sensitive, the expression of the 
 heart. There was melancholy, as if the ima- 
 gination dwelt upon the feelings, deepening 
 their tenderness, and refining their sorrow, and 
 yet intellectual withal, as if the thought and 
 the feeling sprang up together : perhaps the 
 most striking effect was their change from their 
 natural look of abstraction to that of observa- 
 tion, — the one was the glance of the poet, the 
 other of the falcon. He is one of our most dis- 
 tinguished authors, in whose novels it is difficult 
 to say whether philosophy, wit, or poetry, most
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 273 
 
 abound — the appreciation of whose excellence 
 has been as prompt as it has been just; yet 
 never was one less likely to find enjoyment in 
 the course of literary success, — a course in 
 which the meanness of the obstacles, the base- 
 ness of the opponents, the petty means of even 
 the most entire triumph, must revolt the con- 
 queror at his own victory ; truly do they say, 
 fame is for the dead* 
 
 " *Tis distance lends enchantment to the view." 
 
 From childhood we hear some few great names 
 to which mind has given an immortality l they 
 are called the benefactors of their kind— their 
 words are familiar to our lips — our early thoughts 
 take their tone, our first mental pleasures are 
 derived, from their pages — we admire, and then 
 we imitate — we think how glorious it is to let the 
 spirit thus go forth, winning a throne in men's 
 hearts, sending our thoughts, like the ships of 
 Tyre laden with rich merchandise, over the 
 ocean of human opinion, and bringing back a 
 still richer cargo of praise and goodwill. Thus 
 was it with the great men of old, and so shall 
 it be with us. We forget that Time, the Sanc- 
 tifier, has been with them ; that no present in- 
 terests jar against theirs; and that around them 
 n2
 
 274 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 is the calm and the solemnity of the grave ; 
 and we forget the ordeal through which they have 
 passed to the temple. But look at any existing 
 literary life — and we will speak only of the most 
 successful — and who shall say that the loftiest 
 head is not covered with dust and ashes? The 
 first work is eminently successful, and the Eros 
 of success has ever its Anteros of envy. Every 
 unfortunate candidate thinks that the more for- 
 tunate stand between him and the sunshine of 
 public favour. Then, how many are there who 
 know no path to notoriety so easy as that which 
 by attacking the already appreciated makes 
 their very reputation a means, as well as a mo- 
 tive, for its injury. Then comes the struggle : 
 this one is to be conciliated, the other intimi- 
 dated ; flattery becomes matter of exchange, 
 and vanity self-defence ; praise grows worth- 
 less in proportion as we know whence and 
 wherefore it is given, and censure more bitter 
 from the utter meanness of the censor. Again, 
 the personal tone taken is revolting to a degree, 
 the absurd and the malicious are blended, and 
 some kind friend is always at hand to repeat. 
 What must this be to all, and still more to one 
 whose refined and reserved habits are so utterly 
 at variance with the personality, the curiosity,
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 275 
 
 the base party spirit of literature? Well, while 
 recalling the vain hope, the unworthy attack, 
 the departed glory, may Memory exclaim with 
 the Peri, 
 
 " Poor race of man, said the pitying Spirit, 
 Dearly ye pay for your primal fall ; 
 Some flowers of Eden ye still inherit, 
 But the trail of the serpent is over them all." 
 
 None of this, however, passed through Emily's 
 mind. Those who have no part in the conflict 
 see with the imagination : they behold the crim- 
 son banner, hear the stately trumpet, and think 
 not of the dust of the march, or the agony of 
 the battle ; and Emily gazed on the individual 
 before her with that intense exaltation and en- 
 thusiasm which is literature's best triumph. 
 
 But her attention was now attracted to the 
 lady who took his arm. Ah ! poets and painters 
 have truth for the foundation of their dreams, 
 — she, at least, looked the incarnation of her 
 husband's genius. Her style of beauty was 
 such as might have suited the days of chivalry 
 — made for worship more than love — one whose 
 affection was a triumph even more than a gift. 
 Her mouth, which was like chiseled coral, 
 had many smiles, and most of scorn; and its 
 speech had as much of sarcasm as of sweet-
 
 276 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 ness. Her step, her height — the proud sweep 
 of a neck which was like the swan's for snow 
 and grace — were such as make the artificial 
 distinctions of society seem the inherent aris- 
 tocracy of nature ; you felt she was never meant 
 to breathe aught but " the air of palaces" — you 
 never thought of calling her pretty. 
 
 Who is it that says the character of a woman 
 is decided by the cast of her features? All 
 sweeping assertions are erroneous. In this in- 
 stance, the style of manner was opposed to the 
 style of the features. At the first glance, the 
 imagination likened her to those beautiful queens 
 who followed in the triumph they disdained of 
 the Roman conqueror — as one to whom so- 
 ciety was as a pageant, in which she must take 
 and yet scorn her part; but this impression 
 passed with the first tone of the lute upon her 
 lips — her sweet and song-like voice. Her ex- 
 quisite laugh, like the sound of a shell which, 
 instead of the night wind, is filled with the 
 morning sunshine and bursts into music — the 
 fascination of such feminine kindliness — wit so 
 airy, yet so keen, whose acid was not that of 
 vinegar, dissolving all the pearls of gentler feel- 
 ings, but the acid of champagne, whose pearls 
 dance on the surface and melt into blending
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 277 
 
 sweetness Ah ! one moment's pause — I have 
 
 renounced poetry, of which, sweet lady, you 
 were to me the embodied spirit. I know flat- 
 tery is impertinent, and praise is vain — yet I 
 cannot pass the shrine of my early faith, and 
 not at least fling a flower on it in passing: I 
 never yet beheld being so lovely — and I never 
 shall again ; I never witnessed feelings so gene- 
 rous, so unspotted by the world ; and my words 
 seem unworthy and imperfect, when I say of 
 her heart, as some early Spanish poet said of 
 his mistress's face — 
 
 " That it has looked in Paradise, and caught 
 Its early beauty." 
 
 " Look," said Lorraine — " do you wish to 
 see the very vainest man in England V 
 
 " A bold assertion/' added Mr. Morland, 
 " but a true one; for yonder gentleman is 
 morally, mentally, personally, and politically 
 vain." 
 
 Emily turned towards him — there was no- 
 thing conspicuous about him but the buttons 
 of his coat ; many and bright were they, with 
 some hieroglyphic sign impressed upon them. 
 
 " One of our first poets, he has 
 
 ' Narrowed his mind, 
 And to parties given up what was meant for mankind.'
 
 278 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 And I take parties in their most varied sense- — 
 from the small flatteries of the evening party to 
 the coarser acclamation of the club where he 
 takes the chair — from the literary party, who 
 make him an idol, to the political, who make 
 him their tool." 
 
 " I have been lately," said Mr. Morland, 
 t€ hearing the detail of his sitting for his pic- 
 ture : first, he was sketched in a Vandyke 
 dress — then in a Spanish costume — he had 
 some thoughts of a turban — when a friend 
 observed, that, for the credit of the age he had 
 immortalised, he ought to be apparelled after 
 its fashion. He tried on forty-seven waistcoats, 
 and at last decided on a cloak. One day the 
 artist's attention was attracted by a little china 
 jar which he held in his hand; the poet was 
 more than usually restless; at last, after an 
 earnest gaze on the sketch, and then on the 
 mirror, he said, ' My dear young friend, intense 
 study has done the work of years, and many a 
 midnight vigil has paled the fresh colours of 
 youth. You are painting for posterity — 
 
 ' One would not, sure, look shocking when one's dead' — 
 
 and, uncovering the little pot of rouge, he 
 arranged his complexion to his liking/'
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 279 
 
 " At all events, that gentleman's self-esti- 
 mate is a pleasant one who believes that every 
 man looks up to, and that every woman is in 
 love with him." 
 
 " I excuse, however, a great deal in him — 
 
 ' If to his lot some female errors fall, 
 Read but his odes, and you '11 forget them all.' " 
 
 There was something singularly picturesque 
 in the next person that passed — tall, dark, with 
 that flashing and hawk-like glance which gene- 
 rally accompanies a mouth whose expression 
 was that of sarcasm, but whose satire, though 
 bitter enough, seemed rather to spring from 
 the love of amusement than from malice. 
 
 " That is Lord , the author of two of 
 
 our very popular novels, of which the last is my 
 especial favourite. ' Yes and No' is a lively 
 etching of modern society — fine in the outline, 
 and animated in colouring ; the characters may 
 or may not be portraits, but they are realities. 
 Nothing is more difficult than to paint from 
 nature — nothing so pleasant when achieved. 
 To sketch real life requires a most peculiar 
 talent, and that Lord possesses." 
 
 " I met with a paragraph in some journal the 
 other day, which made a crime of his taking
 
 280 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 an active part in literature instead of politics- 
 writing, instead of talking; — as if there were 
 not speakers enow in the House to debate 
 till doomsday. And as to the practical uti- 
 lity, may I be permitted to venture my opinion, 
 that moral is at least as useful as political 
 satire?" 
 
 " Who is yonder gentleman ?" asked Emily, 
 attracted by that air of anticipative conscious- 
 ness which says, ' all eyes are upon me, or 
 ought to be.' 
 
 " The writer of some poems we were study- 
 ing in one of the Annuals," replied Lorraine. 
 " You remember the one which appears with 
 its author's name in capitals at the beginning, 
 and ends with stating its claim to one merit 
 at any rate — 
 
 4 Some praise, at least — one act of sense may claim — 
 He wrote these verses, but concealed his name :' 
 
 — the name, nevertheless, being the first thing 
 we saw." 
 
 " Ah," said Mr. Morland, " I have quite 
 a little history to give you — a romance of 
 fashionable life — by which I mean the romance 
 of effect, not feeling. Colonel Clarendon com- 
 menced his search after reputation by a journey
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 281 
 
 in the East, and astonished all Paris (the city 
 he selected for his debut in celebrity) by elo- 
 quent details of the delights of dwelling in 
 goatskin tents, and galloping through the de- 
 sert. Les merveilleuses were somewhat startled 
 at the taste which pronounced sheep's milk and 
 dates the perfection of luxury, but every fair 
 head in the Chassee de Saint Antin was com- 
 pletely turned. To a gentleman of this habit 
 of mind, une grande passion was indispensable, 
 and he laid his heart and homage at the fairy- 
 like feet of Madame de St. Leu. 
 
 " But your very vain lover is a little 
 fatiguing for every-day wear, and the lady per- 
 mitted herself a slight preference in favour of 
 the Baron von Schmanherstoff, an Hungarian 
 nobleman, whose furred pelisse and silver spurs 
 had produced quite a sensation. Indignant at 
 what he termed her treachery, the Hungarian 
 went to his friend and told him all. Colonel 
 Clarendon rushed to the presence of his faith- 
 less mistress, and overwhelmed himself with 
 despair and her with reproaches. ' Are you 
 a man,' said the lady, with an air between 
 injured innocence and conscious dignity, ' that 
 you tell me of this outrage before you have 
 avenged it? — unless you are the basest coward
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 that ever trifled with the feelings, or insulted 
 the honour of a woman, the affront you have 
 offered me will be washed out in Baron von 
 SchmanherstofPs blood. If you are a gentle- 
 man, I leave my cause in your hands.' The 
 Colonel bowed, left the room, and sent his 
 challenge. Next morning they met in the Boh 
 des Boulevards: the friends embraced, and then 
 fought. 
 
 " But what gave such effect to this duel were 
 the uncommon weapons used by the combat- 
 ants — broadswords. Colonel Clarendon slightly 
 wounded the Baron, who fell — people did say, 
 according to agreement. He threw himself by 
 the body of his Pylades — called himself his 
 murderer — vowed never again to see the per- 
 fidious woman who had caused the quarrel — 
 did not tear his hair, for he rather piqued him- 
 self on his curls, but he dishevelled them. He 
 had the Baron carried to his lodgings, and 
 never for a fortnight left his room. 
 
 " When ' les deux amis ' appeared in public 
 together, all Paris rang with their romantic 
 attachment, and the Colonel found that his 
 friendship made him as much the fashion as 
 his travels. The renown reached even to the 
 northern county where his father's seat is
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 283 
 
 situated. Nothing for a week — news lasts 
 longer in the country than it does in town — 
 was talked of but Colonel Clarendon's duel, 
 and his devotion to his friend. I, who was 
 then staying there, heard at least fifty versions 
 of his despair. But I must finish my history, 
 as there is a young poet whose writings I heard 
 you admiring yesterday — the tall slight one — 
 what I rather think you would call interesting- 
 looking." 
 
 " Mr. Lillian," observed Mr. Morland, " is 
 one of the most brilliant supporters of paradox 
 I ever met. His conversation only requires to 
 be a little more in earnest to be perfectly de- 
 lightful. His views are original, his illustra- 
 tions most happy, and an epigrammatic style 
 sets off his speech — as novel writers say of 
 some dress in which the heroine appears — to 
 1 the best advantage/ But — and, do you know, 
 I think it rather a good feeling in humanity — 
 that is to say, in myself — we like and require 
 truth — always supposing and allowing that the 
 said truth interferes neither with our interests 
 nor our inclinations." 
 
 " I agree with you, that an opinion increases 
 in interest, as well as weight, by its supporter 
 appearing to mean what he says. But few
 
 284 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 brilliant talkers are sufficiently aware of the 
 advantage of seeming in earnest." 
 
 " He struck me as an instance of the usual 
 effect produced by society — with its Janus face 
 of success and disappointment, of flattery and 
 of falsehood — on a young and clever man. He 
 sets out with believing too much — he ends 
 with believing too little. Human nature was 
 at first an imagination, and afterwards a theory 
 — both equally false. Ridicule may be the test 
 of truth, but it is not its result." 
 
 " Nevertheless, sarcasm is the royal road of 
 the bar. Is there any thing now-a-days to 
 which a man may not sneer his way? But, 
 for Pity and Miss Arundel's sake, let us 
 return to his poetry. It is that rare thing, 
 ' a happy marriage' between persiflage and 
 sentiment. He tells an ancient legend to per- 
 fection. It is a minstrel in masquerade — the 
 romance of the olden time touched with modern 
 taste — and his wit keen with present allusions. 
 But, really, it is scarcely worth while to be 
 witty, when we remember how stupid people 
 are. One would often think that a joke was 
 as hard to be taken as an affront. The elder 
 brother of this very gentleman had been spend- 
 ing some days at a house in the country : on the
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 285 
 
 morning of departure a lady asked him, ' Pray, 
 are you the clever Mr. Lillian?' ' I never 
 answer flattering questions/ was his reply — or, 
 perhaps, the reply of his brother, the ' clever 
 Mr. Lillian/ for him, for he himself told me 
 the story. " 
 
 " Who is that youth to the left, in an atti- 
 tude?" 
 
 " One who always reminds me of the French 
 actor's reply to the manager, who asked what 
 parts he was fit for — ' Mais tons.' Such is 
 Mr. Vincent's self-estimate. They say happi- 
 ness is only the finer word for self-satisfaction 
 — if so, Mr. Vincent is a happy man. He has 
 embodied a general system of depreciatives, out 
 of which he extracts most ' strange contents.' 
 I never yet heard him allow merit to man, 
 woman, or child ; he speaks only in the sub- 
 junctive mood, governed by an if or a but. 
 Talk to him of a witty person, and he finds 
 out at once, 
 
 ' That flippancy to wit is near allied, 
 And thin partitions do their bounds divide.' 
 
 If serious, he asks — 
 
 ' Shall grave and formal pass for wise, 
 When men the solemn owl despise ?'
 
 286 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 Nay, one day, when, half out of want of some- 
 thing to say, half out of politeness, and — if 
 you will let me divide his motives, as the 
 school-boy, in his translation of Caesar, did 
 ancient Gaul, which, he said, was quartered 
 into three halves — half out of really thinking 
 it, I praised the beauty of a little girl playing 
 in the room, Mr. Vincent immediately drew so 
 gloomy a picture of the casualties to which 
 beauty is subject, that I am not sure whether 
 he did not talk both mother and child into the 
 small-pox." 
 
 At this moment our little group made an 
 involuntary pause, to listen to the conversation 
 of a lady close beside them. 
 
 " My story will illustrate my positive asser- 
 tion. As a child, she was just the Mr. No- 
 body of the family — that is, the one who does 
 all the mischief done in the house — at least, 
 bears all the blame of it, which is much the 
 same in its consequences. One day, a friend 
 took her to task, as it is called. ' Now, do 
 you not see what a wicked little girl you are ? 
 Why do not you pray to God every morning 
 to make you a better child V * And so I do/ 
 sobbed the poor little thing, i but he only 
 makes me worserer and worserer.'"
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 287 
 
 At this moment the speaker turned round, 
 and shewed a face so beautiful, that had poetry 
 never existed before, it must have been invented 
 in describing such loveliness. The black hair 
 was bound with classical simplicity round a 
 small and finely-shaped head ; the face was 
 something between Grecian and Spanish — the 
 intellect of the one, the passion of the other ; 
 the exquisite features were like those of a 
 statue, but a statue like that which Pygmalion 
 called by love into life ; the brow was magni- 
 ficent — fit for Madame de Stael, had her mind 
 looked its power and its grace. 
 
 " That is our English Corinne," said Mr. 
 Morland — " one to whom genius and beauty 
 are birthrights. Poetry, prose, wit, pathos, are 
 the gifted slaves of her lamp. You were reading 
 one of her exquisite volumes this morning. " 
 
 " I was," said Edward, " and dreaming of 
 the author; and now I only say to her what 
 Wordsworth said of Yarrow — 
 
 4 And thou, who didst appear so fair 
 To young imagination, 
 Didst rival, in the sight of day, 
 Her delicate creation/ " 
 
 A throng of small " noticeables " now passed 
 by — poets who have written two songs, and live
 
 288 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 upon their credit — wits who once said, or, per- 
 adventure, repeated, a clever thing, and have 
 made it last. But it was later than our party 
 had intended to remain — or, whatever of attrac- 
 tion the crowd might yet retain was to them of 
 no avail. 
 
 As they were leaving the room, Lady Mande- 
 ville entered. She glanced round, and said to 
 Lorraine — " Considering, gentlemen, you had 
 only yourselves to study, it must be owned 
 you have shewn no indiscreet carelessness to 
 your own comfort and convenience. " 
 
 " We want something/' said Lorraine, u to 
 console us for your absence." 
 
 " Nay, nay — it is to shew us how well you 
 can do without us," replied Lady Mandeville. 
 " I daily expect, in these times of reform and 
 retrenchment, that a bill will be brought into 
 the House for the suppression of the female 
 sex, as an expensive and useless superfluity. 5 *
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 289 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 " A change came o'er the spirit of my dream." 
 
 Byron. 
 
 Now, though we do not believe much of the 
 ancient belle alliance between Cupid and the 
 Graces yet remains — though we do not believe 
 that the milliner accelerates the match, and 
 that the colour of a capote may be the colour of 
 our fate, or the turn of a curl the turn of our 
 fortune ; having a theory of our own, that such 
 things come by chance, and go by destiny ; yet 
 we can perfectly understand a young lady's 
 drapery being influenced by her feelings, and 
 that Hope may cast her couleur de rose over 
 the mirror — that study of the fair conqueror. 
 Emily lingered and lingered for a longer time 
 at the glass than either Mrs. Radcliffe or Mrs. 
 Hannah More would have approved of, — one 
 for the sake of romance, the other for that of 
 morality. 
 
 It is still a disputed point among authors, 
 vol. i. o
 
 290 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 whether it be best or not to describe their 
 heroine : I must own I lean to the descriptive 
 myself; I like to have the lady placed bodily 
 before me — I like to know whether the eyes 
 with whose tears I am to sympathise are of the 
 true blue of patriotism, or of the deep black 
 of poetry. I can call up the image more dis- 
 tinctly, when I know if her cheek is like 
 
 " The lady lily, paler than the moon ;" 
 
 or like 
 
 " The red rose, fragrant with the breath of June." 
 
 Judging of others by myself, and quoting the 
 Spectator for my authority, let me, as some 
 old author says, " paint my ladie with words." 
 Parted in the middle into two rich braids, 
 the dark hair divided so as to do full justice to 
 the oval of the face, and caught on its auburn 
 wave the first shade of the crape hat, whose 
 yellow was delicate as the earliest primrose — 
 that faint soft yellow, so trying, yet so be- 
 coming ; a colour to be avoided equally by the 
 bright and the sallow, making the bright seem 
 coarse, and the sallow sickly — but exquisite on 
 that clear pale skin where the rose visits, but 
 dwells not, and the blush passes with the feel- 
 ings it betrays.
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 291 
 
 Not one in a thousand knows how to put on 
 a bonnet: they set it on one side like a dis- 
 agreeable recollection ; or bolt upright, as if 
 they wanted to realise Shakespeare's worst of 
 puns, — " and she, like France, was at war with 
 her hair (heir)." No such very great degree 
 of genius can be displayed in the rest of the 
 toilette. The dress has been chosen — it fits 
 you a ravir — it has simply to be put on with 
 mathematical accuracy ; but the bonnet is the 
 triumph of taste, — you must exert your intel- 
 lect, — your destiny is in your own hands. 
 
 Emily was successful : brought a little for- 
 ward on the face, its shade was the coquetry 
 of timidity; and the dark eyes were more 
 piquant from the slight difficulty of meeting 
 them. Her dress was the deepest Parma violet, 
 — so beautiful a colour in itself, — so pictu- 
 resque in its associations, — the crimson of war 
 and the purple of royalty blended in one : it 
 opened at the throat, whose whiteness was, if 
 possible, softened by that most aerial of inven- 
 tions, a blonde ruff: finish the costume with 
 gloves, whose tint was of the same delicate hue 
 as the hat; put the feet into slippers fit for 
 Cinderella, if she had worn black satin instead 
 of glass, — and you have an exact idea of the
 
 292 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 figure which two glasses were now reflecting. 
 An open window gave cause for a shiver — and 
 that was excuse for the boa, too graceful for 
 even June to banish. With a secret conscious- 
 ness that she was dressed in the very colour 
 which Lorraine had, a week before, said was 
 his favourite, she ran down to the drawing- 
 room, and, approaching a stand of flowers, 
 paused for a moment on the choice of scarlet 
 geraniums, heliotropes, lilies, &c. when Edward 
 came from the other room. 
 
 " Nay, Miss Arundel, the blossoms before you 
 are too sophisticated, — their life has been for a 
 whole morning artificial : unwilling to delegate 
 the choice, I drove this morning to Colville's, — 
 allow me to offer you my selection;" and he 
 gave her two of the freshest of moss-rosebuds, 
 — those very loveliest of infant flowers. 
 
 Lorraine might have been struck with the 
 deepness of her blush, — he only noticed the 
 beauty of it. 
 
 " Do you know," said he, laughingly, u if 
 you blush your thanks so prettily, I must apply 
 to you the compliment paid the Italian poet, 
 
 1 Tutti sei pensieri sono de' rose.' " 
 
 Lady Alicia now came in, and, while waiting
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 203 
 
 for Mr. Delawarr, they could not do less than 
 admire each other. People are often very 
 generous in giving what is of no value : is it on 
 this principle that one lady is usually so pro- 
 fuse in her admiration of the dress of another? 
 Truly, that afternoon they ought to have en- 
 joyed themselves: it was a bright, becoming 
 day, — one of those fairy gifts with which sum- 
 mer now and then surprises us. Their progress 
 had all the exhilaration of rapidity : four horses 
 with 
 
 " Bit of foam, and hoof of speed ;** 
 
 and a carriage, light as if meant more for air 
 than earth, combine the opposite pleasures of 
 indolence and motion. Nothing could be gayer 
 than the scene through which they passed : it 
 had only one fault — they were used to it. 
 
 Soon the sound of music, and an atmosphere 
 heavy with the odour of the most aromatic 
 plants, announced their arrival at Lady Wal- 
 singham's villa, where Ambition was giving a 
 fete to Pleasure, as Fashion's prime minister. 
 
 Lady Walsingham was rich — even in Lon- 
 don ; she had rank, but she had not always had 
 it. Her first husband was a horror, but he had 
 money; her second was a fool, but he had a 
 title ; — and thus possessed of riches and rank,
 
 294 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 she only wanted fashion. The re-union to-day 
 was political as that of the Field of the Cloth 
 of Gold; splendour was at once to conciliate 
 and to dazzle ; not an orange-tree but had a 
 purpose, — not an acacia but was charged, 
 not only with its flowers, but " with Ulysses' 
 fate." Notoriety is born of novelty ; and ex- 
 ertion and imagination were alike exhausted to 
 give character to the fete. Grecian temples 
 were surrounded by hawthorn hedges, — 
 Turkish tents stood in the shade of the oaks, — 
 and one Chinese pagoda was dexterously en- 
 twined with honeysuckle ; there were conserva- 
 tories filled with the rarest plants, and avenues 
 with ladies walking about as if in a picture ; 
 ices were served in the grotto; and servants in 
 the Oriental costume handed almond-cakes. 
 
 On the turf-sweep before the house — her head 
 heavy with feathers, her ears with diamonds, 
 and her heart with anxiety— stood the hostess. 
 Every nation has its characteristic — and an 
 Englishwoman's is standing, distributing her 
 smiles, as if, as some one has observed, she had 
 bought them, like her rouge, wholesale. 
 
 " This do I for your applause, O Athenians !" 
 Thus did the conqueror of the world apostro- 
 phise the inhabitants of a city, who, if they
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 295 
 
 took any thought about his drowning, would 
 rather have preferred it. And thus did that 
 hope of to-morrow — which, why it should be 
 glory in one case, and folly in another, I ne- 
 ver could properly understand — support the 
 Countess. 
 
 " Very pretty indeed," ejaculated Mr. St. 
 John ; u quite in character, — just like a scene 
 in a play." 
 
 u Take me away," lisped the pretty and 
 mignonne Mrs. De Grey, " lest I grow like what 
 I do look upon, — I feel the reflection of her 
 ladyship's full pink upon my own face ! " 
 
 f All of luxury except its refinement," was 
 the encomium of Lord Alfred Vernon. 
 
 " C'est que Madame a tte, cornme Cicerone, 
 consulter V oracle, qui lui a dit de suivre la nature, 
 et elle Va suivie, son naturel" whispered the 
 young Comte de Merivale, who brought to 
 England little besides a contempt for it. 
 
 Emily, however, had not this morning one 
 critical qualification ; no discontent for a com- 
 mencement — no jarring interest for a continua- 
 tion ; she looked on her roses, and their perfume 
 seemed to have a power like the white ones of 
 Alnaschar, to charm away all suffering; she 
 was leaning on Lorraine's arm — and who shall
 
 296 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 deny the intense happiness of the mere pre- 
 sence of one we love? — not those who have 
 felt it. 
 
 " So/' said Mr. St. John, " after canvassing 
 enough for two counties — a correspondence 
 worthy of the days of Richardson — our Coun- 
 tess has prevailed on Lady Lauriston to allow the 
 beauty to grace her fete." 
 
 " What !" exclaimed Edward ; " Lady Ade- 
 laide here ? " 
 
 " Yes ; in the very next walk, — I have just 
 paid my homage. " 
 
 " Old friends of mine, — shall we go and 
 speak?" — and Lorraine turned towards the 
 next walk with an earnestness which made 
 Emily bow, not speak, her assent. 
 
 They soon reached the trellice-work of roses 
 beneath whose arch Adelaide and her brother 
 were standing. A face of the most surpassing 
 beauty lighted into smiles as Lorraine ap- 
 proached, — a few inquiries were made, — they 
 moved on together, — the walk became nar- 
 rower, — and in five minutes more, Emily found 
 herself transferred to Lord Merton's care, and 
 Lady Adelaide and Lorraine following. She had 
 not even the satisfaction of watching her com- 
 panions. Engrossed in their own conversation,
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 297 
 
 they lingered behind, — a gay laugh at first 
 gave sign of their presence, but that soon sub- 
 sided to a low whisper, which implies such in- 
 terest in discourse : — 
 
 " Speak low, if you speak love." 
 
 Once she turned back; — Edward's eyes were 
 fixed with most eloquent earnestness on the 
 exquisite face of his companion, — the rich co- 
 lour of excitement had banished his usual pale- 
 ness. Emily felt it almost a relief to look to- 
 wards Adelaide ; but the expression was not 
 
 " The soft betraying air 
 That women loved and flattered love to wear :" 
 
 there was consciousness, but it was that of 
 beauty — and brilliancy, but it was that of 
 triumph. 
 
 In the meantime, Emily was progressing 
 most rapidly in Lord Merton's favour. He 
 had not always been the eldest son — a steeple 
 chase had put one brother out of the way, 
 and a duel another. He was shy from habit, 
 and talkative from nature : the last quality 
 made him wish for a listener, and the first 
 to be obliged to one. Talking uninterruptedly 
 was a luxury he had not yet enjoyed enough 
 o2
 
 298 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 for indifference. Abroad, he had hitherto been 
 one of those juveniles to whom no calculation 
 forbids contradiction, and no interest necessi- 
 tates attention. At home, his mother never 
 ceased talking, neither did his sisters ; and 
 silence in a woman had become to him her 
 perfection. For above an hour, with a feeling 
 of most enviable content, he had been detailing 
 to Emily how his beautiful chestnut mare, 
 Zephyr, had caught, suffered from, and been 
 cured of her last cold. At first he expected 
 to be interrupted — then looked to see if she 
 yawned — but neither of these conversational 
 contingencies occurring, and Emily giving a 
 proper quantity of acquiescing bows, he yielded 
 himself up to the full enjoyment of so delight- 
 ful a companion. 
 
 In one part of the grounds were stationed 
 some jugglers — these suggested a full account 
 of how, when he was at college, he had taken 
 some lessons of one, till he was nearly as expert 
 in catching the balls as his master. The Prague 
 minstrels, stationed in a young plantation of 
 firs, gave another occasion of discourse, how he 
 had once attempted the French horn himself, 
 but found his lungs too delicate — how his 
 mother had been afraid of a consumption.
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 299 
 
 Many a passer-by thought Miss Arundel was 
 listening to some subject of most touching in- 
 terest : his Lordship was only detailing the be- 
 nefit he derived one wet day from his caoutchouc 
 cloak. The truth is, Lord Merton was, simply, 
 naturally and intensely selfish ; he was himself 
 " the ocean of his thoughts;" he never con- 
 sidered the comfort of other people, because he 
 never looked at it as distinct from his own ; 
 and the most romantic devotion, the most self- 
 denying love, would have seemed, if he were 
 the object of it, as quite in the common course 
 of things. 
 
 This is a common character, which age alone 
 developes into deformity. Youth, like charity, 
 covers a multitude of sins ; but Heaven help the 
 wife, children, servants, and all other pieces of 
 domestic property, when such a man is fifty, 
 and has the gout ! 
 
 It is an ill wind that blows nobody any good 
 — and Lady Walsingham was made happy by the 
 sincerity and warmth with which Lord Merton 
 assured her he was delighted with her enter- 
 tainment, and especially charmed with the 
 jugglers and minstrels. 
 
 Emily now pleaded fatigue, and seeing Lady 
 Alicia seated on a most rural-looking bench,
 
 300 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 with an awning of blue silk, she took a place 
 beside her : but Lord Merton was too well 
 pleased with his companion to part ; and, 
 somewhat unceremoniously appropriating a 
 shawl which hung near, spreading it, lest the 
 grass should be damp, he seated himself at 
 their feet — a plan which succeeded beyond his 
 expectations, for he thus secured two listeners. 
 Emily assumed an air of attention, but her 
 thoughts were far away. She looked on the 
 flowers which Lorraine had given her a few hours 
 since — they were drooping already; and was 
 this the day from which she had expected so 
 much pleasure ? What a stupid thing a fete 
 was ! What a waste of time and expense ! So 
 much bad taste too ! Lucky is it for a hostess 
 her verdict does not depend on young ladies, 
 unless she could call a parliament of love, and 
 arrange all its little affairs in her own favour. 
 And yet all this was not so much discontent as 
 disguise. Who does not shrink from love's first 
 avowal ? and how much so, when that avowal is 
 to be made in secret, in silence, and in vain ? 
 Her temples beat with that acute pain which 
 makes every sound a torture ; her sight was as 
 confused as her thoughts ; and she breathed 
 with difficulty : to speak almost choked her.
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 301 
 
 She thought not of weeping; yet a world of 
 tears was now at her heart. 
 
 " Oh, join us I" said Lady Mandeville, as a 
 flourish of trumpets announced that the refresh- 
 ment-room was thrown open. 
 
 Adelaide and Lorraine came up at the same 
 moment; Lord Merton sprang from his seat 
 with all the agility of expectation ; and in a 
 few moments they were seated at one of the 
 tables, in a tent whose scarlet and gold were 
 worthy of Tippoo Saib, and whose size emulated 
 that given by the fairy to her princely lover. 
 How mistaken is the phrase, " every delicacy of 
 the season" — they mean out of season. Grapes 
 are ripe at the same time as strawberries, and 
 peaches come in with the crocuses. A break- 
 fast a lafourchette is the " chartered libertine'' 
 of gastronomy — one eats ice, another soup, and 
 a pate a la financier rivals its neighbour pine- 
 apple. 
 
 " What with their tents, turbans, coffee, and 
 fountains, all signs du meilleur gout, I think 
 the Turks a most refined people," said Lady 
 Mandeville. " If it ever be my sorrowful des- 
 tiny to enact the Ephesian, I shall set off for 
 Constantinople — try the effect of mes beaux
 
 302 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 yeux on the Sublime Porte, and make a futurity 
 of cachemeres and rose-water." 
 
 " Ah !" exclaimed Lorraine, " the Turks 
 know how to manage you ladies — 
 
 1 There rolls the sea, and yonder yawns the sack.' " 
 
 " Is that your idea of gallantry V said Mr. 
 Delawarr. 
 
 " It is its excess, I grant," interrupted Lor- 
 raine; u but I must say, I think the Turk invests 
 his homage to woman with that mystery, that 
 solitude, that setting apart from life's daily and 
 common use, which constitutes so much of 
 poetry. His beautiful Circassian or Georgian 
 mistress is a thing too sacred for common eyes. 
 I quite enter into the feeling which shuns a 
 profane eye resting on the face we love. What 
 a charm must be in the veil our hand only is 
 privileged to raise ! His wealth, his taste, are 
 lavished on his haram. He makes the shrine 
 worthy of the idol. Her delicate step falls on 
 the velvet carpet — her sweet mouth inhales an 
 atmosphere of perfume — the chain of pearls, 
 the fragrant attar, the crimson ruby, are heaped 
 on the fair favourite, who wears them only for 
 him. Liberality is an imposing term for indif-
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 ference. We guard the treasure we value ; and 
 I should expect my jealousy to be taken as a 
 proof of my devotion." 
 
 u Then," said Lady Mandeville, u you in- 
 tend making love with a bunch of keys in one 
 hand, and a dagger in the other." 
 
 " Alas ! I live in an age when Bedlam is 
 considered fitting temple of romance. I must 
 content myself with an abstract admiration of 
 Turkish seclusion." 
 
 M Romance ! All nonsense," said Lord Mer- 
 ton, reaching across Emily for another slice of 
 pine. 
 
 " On the contrary," replied Lorraine, M I 
 think romance can never take a very high tone 
 but in times of great civilisation. Romance is 
 more matter of feeling than of passion ; and if 
 violent passions belong to a barbarous, strong 
 feelings belong to a civilised state. Exemption 
 from great bodily exertion is favourable to habits 
 of thought. The refinement of our tastes, of 
 course, is communicated to our sentiments ; and 
 we exaggerate, subtilise, and spiritualise — the 
 three chief ingredients of romance." 
 
 " I believe," said Lady Mandeville, " that 
 we abuse the age we live in, on the same prin- 
 ciple that we take liberties with our friends.
 
 304 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 The poor present time, how it is calumniated ! 
 degenerate, immoral, irreligious, are its best 
 epithets ; and we talk of the good old time till 
 we really believe it existed." 
 
 u Even," observed Mr. Delawarr, " as we 
 eulogise the peace and innocence of a country- 
 life ; for the peace of the parish, apply to the 
 rector on the tithe day — for its innocence, to 
 the justice of the peace." 
 
 " But do you not think," asked Lorraine, 
 a that these ideal excellencies have their origin 
 in our nature's better part? The first step 
 either to goodness or happiness is to believe in 
 their existence." 
 
 " We shall lose the fireworks if we sit talking 
 here," said Lord Merton. 
 
 Even Lady Alicia was startled out of her 
 passiveness by this announcement ; and the 
 whole party hurried towards the piece of water, 
 by whose side the exhibition was to take place. 
 Lord Merton still kept his place at Emily's 
 side, and narrated to her divers of his juvenile 
 feats with gunpowder ; and he was one, as we 
 have said, to whom not talking was listening. 
 
 It was a magnificent display of the most mag- 
 nificent of elements : the rocket swept through 
 the air like a spirit, and the skies seemed to
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 305 
 
 realise the old saying, and rained gold and 
 silver j while the water below spread like an 
 immense mirror, till above and below gleamed 
 with light. But Emily's eyes wandered from 
 the scene before her; and every fugitive glance 
 only brought back fresh conviction of Edward's 
 interest in the beautiful face whose smiles were 
 exclusively enough given to himself, to have 
 made one far less perfect very fascinating. 
 
 Adelaide was too quick-sighted not to per- 
 ceive that Miss Arundel, when she first saw her 
 talking to Lorraine, wore a very different air from 
 Miss Arundel listening to Merton ; and a rival 
 was the sauce Robert, which would have made 
 her not eat, but flirt with her grandfather. 
 
 However, there is always one solace to misery, 
 as there is one drawback to pleasure, — they 
 must all have an end, and so had Lady Wal- 
 singbam's fete. The carriage drove off, but 
 the place opposite Emily was vacant ; Lorraine 
 had accepted a seat in Lord Merton's cabriolet. 
 Miss Arundel was not the only listener, for 
 which her brother was that day indebted to 
 Adelaide.
 
 306 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 " It is a fearful thing 
 To love as I love thee ; to feel the world, 
 The beautiful, the bright, joy-giving world, 
 A blank without thee. * * * 
 He is the star, round which my thoughts revolve 
 Like satellites. My father ! can it be, 
 That thine, the unceasing love of many years. 
 Doth not so fill my heart as this strange guest ? " 
 
 The Ancestress. 
 
 What an odd thing experience is! — now turn- 
 ing over so rapidly the book of life, now 
 writing so much on a single leaf. We hear of 
 the head turning grey in a single night, — the 
 same change passes over the heart. Affection 
 is the tyrant of a woman, and only bids her to 
 the banquet to suspend a cutting sword over 
 her head, which a word, a look may call down 
 to inflict the wound that strikes to the death, 
 or heals, but with a scar. Could we fling back 
 the veil which nature and society alike draw 
 over her feelings, how much of sorrow — unsus- 
 pected because unexpressed — would be found!
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 307 
 
 — how many a young and beating heart would 
 show disappointment graven on the inmost 
 core! — what a history of vain hopes, gentle 
 endeavours, anxieties, and mortifications, laid 
 bare ! There is one phrase continually occur- 
 ring in conversation, — " O, a woman never 
 marries the man to whom she was first at- 
 tached. " How often — how lightly is this said ! 
 — how little thought given to the world of suf- 
 fering it involves ! Checked by circumstance 
 — abandoned from necessity, the early attach- 
 ment may depart with the early enthusiasm 
 which youth brings, but leaves not ; still the 
 dream was sweet, and its waking bitter. But 
 Emily was not one to whom such vision would 
 be 
 
 " Sweet, not lasting, 
 The perfume and suppliance of a moment." 
 
 Nature had given her the keenest sensibility ; 
 and the solitude in which much of her life had 
 hitherto been passed had left free scope for the 
 imagination to spiritualise and exalt. Living 
 entirely with her uncle and aunt, she had in- 
 sensibly caught the quiet manners of these, 
 much advanced in life, — the young are great 
 imitators. Unaccustomed to witness strong 
 bursts of feeling, she never thought of giving
 
 308 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 outwardly way to her own; thus, hers, un- 
 relieved and unexhausted by display, grew 
 stronger from concealment. She had mixed 
 little with those of her own age, — hence she 
 was reserved ; and the confidante and the con- 
 fession weaken love, by mixing up with it some- 
 what of vanity, and taking from its mystery. 
 Emily's idea of love was of the most romantic 
 and exalted kind. Whether borrowed from the 
 Duchess of Cleves, and the other old novels 
 with which the library abound, where love is a 
 species of idolatry ; or from the pages of modern 
 poetry, where all that is spiritual and beautiful 
 is thrown around its nature; — all made love to 
 her a species of religion. 
 
 She had arrived in London with no very ac- 
 curate notion of what she had to expect ; but it 
 was to be something very delightful. Accus- 
 tomed to be made much of — aware of her own 
 pretensions, she had come prepared for enter- 
 tainment and homage; but she had found 
 neither; — and though rich, pretty, and high- 
 born, she was at nineteen very near being phi- 
 losophical, and pronouncing the pleasures of the 
 world to be vanity and vexation of spirit. 
 
 Lorraine's arrival had changed all this. At 
 a glance he saw how weary a time the young
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 309 
 
 friend of his sister must be passing; and mere 
 good nature only would have prompted his at- 
 tention to the stranger — to say nothing of that 
 stranger being an elegant and interesting girl. 
 
 Emily now had a partner, who decided the 
 fact of her fairy-like dancing — whose authority 
 was sufficient for admiration — whose attention 
 settled the worthiness of the object on which it 
 was bestowed : she owed him much more than 
 himself. Again, the mornings passed away so 
 pleasantly, when there was some one to whom 
 she could talk about last night; and it was 
 much more agreeable to sing to Edward than 
 to herself. He loved music ; he liked the 
 grace, the wit of female society ; he was very 
 handsome ; and there was nothing improbable 
 in supposing he had a heart to lose, and, more- 
 over, he might lose it. Not that Emily had 
 given one thought to such chance, — Love is 
 the least calculating of all dreamers, — she had 
 been very happy, and such shrink intuitively 
 from asking why. Mortification had forced 
 the conviction upon her ; and who ever saw the 
 one they love devoted to another, and found 
 not the fatal truth written on their heart, — and 
 for ever ? Many and bitter were the tears Emily 
 shed that night over two withered roses : she
 
 310 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 wept for vain hopes, for regret, but for shame 
 more than all. Shame is the worst pang of 
 unrequited affection. Heavens! to be forced to 
 ask ourselves what right we had to love. 
 
 One of our most celebrated authors (a lady, 
 by the question,) once asked, how is it that 
 women in the utmost depths of grief never 
 forget to curl their hair ? — Vanity was the cause 
 assigned ; but I say, shame. We shrink from 
 shewing outward sign of sorrow, if that sorrow 
 be in aught connected with the feelings ; and 
 the reason of this must be sought in some theory 
 of innate ideas not yet discovered. 
 
 Emily the next morning appeared with the 
 usual grape-like curls, and her cheek no paler 
 than fatigue might authorise. 
 
 " ' Ah, the day of my destiny's over,' " 
 
 said Lorraine; u and, a fair exchange being no 
 robbery, I quote the next line a little varied, 
 
 ' The star of my fate is on high/ 
 
 Listen to the importance of yesterday : — ' Yes- 
 terday Lady Walsingham's splendid villa was 
 thrown open to the fashionable world, which 
 crowded to enjoy all that taste could invent, or 
 luxury supply, — breakfast was laid for two hun-
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 31 1 
 
 dred.' There lies the spell ; pines and cham- 
 pagne who can resist, — even though through 
 the medium of Lady Walsingham ? How tired, 
 how fat her poor ladyship looked ! like Mont 
 Blanc, she was covered with the crimson of 
 evening." 
 
 " Nay, now, Edward," said Mr. Delaw T arr, 
 " you were there yourself." 
 
 " Yes ; and am I not just acting up to our 
 great social principle — go first, and grumble 
 afterwards ? Besides, the fete was given not 
 to pleasure, but to pretension — and pretension 
 is a sort of general election, depending on uni- 
 versal suffrage, and subject to canvassing and 
 criticism. Born a milkmaid, meant for a farm- 
 er's wife, why are Lady Walsingham's nature 
 and fate at variance ? Those red arms should 
 have been celebrated for their skill in bacon, 
 and her cheeses noted the country round. How 
 comfortable she would have looked in her crim- 
 son shawl — how respectable in her flowered 
 print ! What can she have to do with French 
 kid ? — her gloves are her martyrs. That coun- 
 tenance shining through blonde — those ele- 
 phantine ears, whose girandole of diamonds is 
 the size of a chandelier in half the drawing- 
 rooms of genteel residences for small families
 
 312 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 or a single gentleman — what part can she 
 have in the airy empire of caprice, the Parthian- 
 arrow-guarded world of fashion ? Why does 
 not she live in the country, roast whole oxen 
 on her wedding-day, keep open house at an 
 election, shake her acquaintance heartily by 
 the hand, and drive in a coach-and-four with 
 outriders every Sunday to church ? Her idea of 
 taste (the ocean whence Fashion springs) is like 
 the pupil's idea of Helen, to whom Apelles said, 
 ' Not being able to make her beautiful, you 
 have made her splendid.'" 
 
 " Strange," said Mr. Delawarr, " the influ- 
 ence of opinion ! We know people to be fools — 
 individually we should disdain their judgment ; 
 yet, taken in a mass, no sacrifice seems too 
 great to secure their suffrage. The desire of 
 notoriety, and the love of fame, differ but 
 little ; yet one is the meanest, the other the 
 noblest feeling in our nature : the one looks to 
 the present, and is a mixture of the selfish and 
 the common-place — the other dwells upon the 
 future, and is the generous and the exalted." 
 
 " Lady Walsingham's is a very beautiful 
 place," observed Emily, from the mere desire 
 of saying something. It is curious, that when 
 we feel in ourselves the most inclined to silence,
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 313 
 
 we almost always fancy it is absolutely neces- 
 sary we should talk. 
 
 " It is indeed," replied Lorraine ; " I know 
 no places that so realise my ideas of luxury 
 as these villas — so near our crowded, hot, 
 dusty, noisy metropolis ; yet so green, so cool, 
 so quiet, and so filled with flowers. I dislike 
 Richmond itself exceedingly ; just a place to 
 visit on Sunday — with its hill covered with 
 people, evidently labouring, not against its 
 height, but their own good dinner. The 
 curse of the steam-boat is upon the lovely 
 river; but some of the villas, imbedded in 
 their own old trees — surrounded by turf the 
 fairy queen might tread — girdled with every 
 variety of flowery shrub — I do not quite say 
 I could spend the whole day there, but I could 
 have a luxurious breakfast — one ought to in- 
 dulge in natural tastes of a morning. Alas ! 
 with what regret do I see the brick-dust gene- 
 ration in which we live, so prolific in squares, 
 crescents, places, rows, streets, — tall, stiff 
 houses, with red curtains and white blinds ! 
 If this city system of colonisation goes on, 
 our children will advertise a green tree, like 
 an elephant, as ' this most wonderful produc- 
 tion of nature;' and the meaning of green 
 vol. i. p
 
 314 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 grass will only be to be found in the diction- 
 ary." 
 
 " What a valuable art will landscape paint- 
 ing be in those days ! A view from nature will, 
 both for beauty and rarity, be the chef-d'auvre 
 of an artist." 
 
 " I must own, landscapes are not my favourite 
 style of art : it is the feeling, more than the 
 seeing, of the country in which I delight ; the 
 warm, soft air — the many musical noises — the 
 wandering; through the lights and shadows of 
 the thick trees, rather than looking on any 
 given point of view." 
 
 ?* I do agree with you — I hate a fine prospect 
 by profession — one that you are expected to 
 admire, and say fine things about ; but in land- 
 scapes I like and dislike what I do in Words- 
 worth's poetry : I admire its mountain range 
 of distant hill and troubled sky — or the lonely 
 spot of inland shade, linked with human thought 
 and human interest; but I detest its small pieces 
 of rurality, its sheep and its cows. In painting, 
 as in poetry, I like to be somewhat carried out 
 of my every-day existence. For example, I give 
 my utmost praise — or, I should rather say, my 
 homage — to the Ode on Immortality, Tintern 
 Abbey, &c. ; but my taste revolts from Goody
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 315 
 
 Blake and Harry Gill. Now, Hofland's pic- 
 tures are great favourites of mine : there is not 
 only the lovely scene — the moon reflected in 
 her softest mirror, the wave — but something 
 or other that calls up the poetry of memory in 
 the gazer ; the battlements of some old castle, 
 whose only banner is now of ivy — or a fallen 
 temple, whose divinity has departed, but whose 
 beauty remains, and whose 'fine electric chain' 
 is one of a thousand associations." 
 
 " While on the subject of pictures, I heard 
 the other day — we cannot vouch, as the news- 
 papers say, for the truth of the report — that 
 Lady Walsingham has had her picture and her 
 husband's taken in a style at once allegorical 
 and domestic. His lordship is holding a cage 
 of doves, to which she is throwing roses : I 
 understand her ladyship particularly requested 
 the cage might be richly gilt." 
 
 " As it is the great principle of political 
 economy to tax luxuries, why are not reports 
 taxed? Are they not the chief luxuries of 
 society? Of all my senses, I thank Heaven 
 that of hearing is limited : the dative case is 
 very well — hearing what is said to me; but 
 preserve me from the ablative case — hearing 
 what is said about me."
 
 316 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 " Would Lady Walsingham enjoy hearing 
 to-day what is said of her fete yesterday V 
 
 " Ah !" exclaimed Emily, " how unkind — 
 how unjust this is !" 
 
 " You remember the old proverb, ' a fair ex- 
 change is no robbery' — or the anecdote of 
 Piron, who said that the only speeches neces- 
 sary on admission to the French Academy were 
 for the received to say, ' Grand merely mes- 
 sieurs;' and for the receivers to reply, ' II iCy 
 a pas de quoi. y Most hosts and guests might 
 exchange these courtesies: and the ' Grand 
 merci' of vanity might be answered by the ' II 
 riy a pas de quoV of ostentation. We speak 
 ill of our neighbours, not from ill-nature, but 
 idleness ; satire is only the cayenne of con- 
 versation : people have so few subjects for 
 talking about in common with their friends 
 but their friends — and it is utterly impossible 
 to dress them as Fontenelle did his asparagus, 
 toute en hnile." 
 
 " One reason why Mr. Heathcote who dines 
 here to-day is called so entertaining, is, that, like 
 the conquerors of old, he gives no quarter." 
 
 " I regret my absence," said Lorraine ; " but 
 I have promised to go and congratulate Lady 
 Lauriston on her leaving the oaks of her park
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 317 
 
 for the acacias of her villa. Still I lament Mr. 
 Heathcote : he knows all the world, and has an 
 anecdote for and an epigram upon every body. 
 He kills with diamond arrows : his voice is so 
 low, his smile so bland, his whole manner so 
 gentle, that you are barely aware of the con- 
 centrated acid and bitter of his speech. I call 
 him cream of tartar. I am sure you will be so 
 much amused." 
 
 Emily felt no such certainty — she felt as if 
 she could never be amused again. She wander- 
 ed into the drawing-room alone : she tried her 
 harp — it was out of tune; her new songs — 
 they were not pretty ; she took up a new novel 
 — it was so dull ! She went into the front 
 room — it was too sunny; into the back — it 
 was too dark. The sound of Lorraine's cabriolet 
 attracted her to the window ; the fear of being 
 seen kept her away. At length it drove off; 
 she held her breath to listen to its latest sound : 
 another nearer carriage drowned the roll of the 
 distant wheels, and she felt as if even this 
 small pleasure were denied. Strange, how any 
 strong feeling refers all things to itself! — we 
 exalt by dint of exaggeration. Not a creature 
 was in the spacious and beautiful rooms : she 
 almost started to see some four or five whole-
 
 318 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 length reflections of herself : the solitude made 
 them painful; and, catching up a book, she 
 threw herself into an arm-chair, which, at least, 
 had the advantage of being far from any glass. 
 
 There is a certain satisfaction in the appear- 
 ance of employment, and Emily opened her 
 book; but she could not read — her thoughts 
 were far away. Mortification had added divers 
 prose notes to the poetry of the last few weeks. 
 Her first impulse was to deny her feelings even 
 to herself — her second to laugh bitterly at such 
 vain deceit. Then she recalled words, looks, 
 whose softness had misled;- — alas! a slight 
 investigation served to shew how much their 
 colouring had been given by herself: and, as 
 a last resource, she began to magnify the merit 
 of Edward Lorraine. 
 
 Our being attached to a hero almost makes 
 a heroine ; and excellence is an excellent excuse 
 for admiration. Yes, he was worthy of devo- 
 tion, such as the heart pays, and once only, to 
 the idol it has itself set up ; but it was to be 
 deep, silent, and unsuspected. And Adelaide — 
 she would love her ! How kind, how true, were 
 the next moment's wishes for their happiness ! 
 
 What a pity it is that our most pure and 
 most beautiful feelings should spring from false
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 319 
 
 impressions ! What generous self-sacrifice — 
 what a world of gentle affection, were now 
 called forth in Emily by a moment's phantasy, 
 whose life depended on that frailest of frail 
 things, a coquette's vanity ! 
 
 How untrue, to say youth is the happiest 
 season of our life : it is filled with vexations, 
 for almost all its ideas are false ones ; they 
 must be set right — and often how harshly! 
 Its hopes are actual beliefs : how often must 
 they be taught doubt by disappointment ! And 
 then its keen feelings, laying themselves so bare 
 to the beak of the vulture experience ! Youth 
 is a season that has no repose. 
 
 They spent the next fortnight at Richmond — 
 and a very miserable fortnight it was ; for Lady 
 Lauriston's villa was at Twickenham, and 
 whether on the river or the road, the arrange- 
 ment was always the same — Adelaide was the 
 care of Lorraine. Emily soon found her fancy 
 for cultivating the friendship of her fair rival 
 was a fancy indeed. Lady Adelaide had been 
 brought up in a proper sense of the danger of 
 confidence : young friends, as her mother used 
 to observe, are either useless or mischievous; 
 and Adelaide duly considered her young friends 
 as non-entities or rivals.
 
 320 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 If, however, the sister was as cold as polite- 
 ness, the brother was being animated very 
 rapidly into something like warmth. Now an 
 only son, it was his duty to marry : moreover, 
 he thought a married man more comfortable than 
 a single one : many little liberties were taken 
 with a single, never taken with a married man : 
 it was purchasing an exemption from young 
 ladies at once. Finally, he thought Emily was 
 in love with him : she always took his arm in 
 walking, and they were sure to sit by each 
 other at dinner. He forgot Emily had no 
 choice. Pre-occupied and absent, Lord Merton 
 never came into Emily's head : excepting their 
 intervisiting, both families were living rather 
 retired, — so there was no third person to say, 
 "Ah, what a conquest you have made I" This 
 phrase, which so often opens the eyes to what 
 does not exist, gave here no intimation of actual 
 mischief. 
 
 Yet our four lovers were all on the brink of 
 discord. Lorraine was beginning to think his 
 divinity not quite so divine — delays are dan- 
 gerous — and neither his vanity nor his senti- 
 ment was satisfied at the little progress he 
 had made. Adelaide was tiring of flirtation, 
 which had only held so long a reign from the
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 321 
 
 death of a relation having forced them into 
 most unwilling retirement. It was very tire- 
 some of aunts to die, if they were to be con- 
 sidered relations. 
 
 The second season thus broken up, Lady 
 Lauriston was daily impressing on her beauty's 
 mind the necessity of a " further-looking hope" 
 and an establishment. Emily was sad, weary, 
 and seemed ill: all said late hours were too 
 much for her — a good sign, thought her cal- 
 culating lover, in a wife ; and every morning, 
 between the paragraphs of the Morning Herald, 
 Lord Merton weighed the advantages and dis- 
 advantages of wedded life. 
 
 Miss Arundel had never been properly brought 
 out as an heiress ; and amazing animation was 
 added to the attachment, when, one evening, 
 Lady Lauriston detailed to her dear Alfred 
 much excellent advice, and the information 
 that Emily was her uncle's adopted child, and, 
 as such, certain of a noble fortune, — to say 
 nothing of hopes from her aunt, whose property 
 her indefatigable ladyship had ascertained was 
 at her own disposal. 
 
 The next morning, her for once very obe- 
 dient son rode back with Lorraine. Want of 
 something else to say, and a very shady lane,
 
 322 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 disposed him to confidence ; and he forthwith 
 began a panegyric on himself, and on the good 
 fortune of Miss Arundel, stating, he was now 
 on his road to offer himself and his debts to 
 her acceptance. Lorraine was surprised. I 
 have heard it said, that no man ever believes 
 a woman can fall in love with his friend : I 
 would add, she certainly falls marvellously in 
 his opinion if she does — and Edward's first 
 thoughts were of Lord Merton's divers imper- 
 fections. Never had he seemed more selfish or 
 more silly : " but, to be sure, the fool has a 
 title;" and he amused himself with recalling 
 all the usual common-places on the vanity and 
 ambition of woman, while Merton poured into 
 his ear the whole stream of his self-satisfaction. 
 They arrived : one said he should prolong 
 his ride for an hour or two — the other went 
 into the drawing-room. Emily was seated in 
 a window; but there was room for two, and 
 her unsuspected lover took his place. Mecha- 
 nically she shut the book, assumed an attitude 
 of attention, and prepared a few yeses. Lord 
 Merton began by mentioning the good qualities 
 he required in a wife, and thence took occasion 
 to apply them all to Emily ; but his introduc- 
 tion had been so long, that she, who knew no
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 323 
 
 earthly reason why she should be interested 
 in the various excellences of the future Lady 
 Merton, allowed her thoughts to wander, and 
 was only roused from her reverie by her hand 
 being taken — a little rapture being deemed 
 necessary at her consent — so her silence had 
 been interpreted — and kissed with as much 
 devoteclness as Merton could shew any one but 
 himself. Surprised and angry, she rose from 
 her seat, and exclaimed, " I really do not un- 
 derstand " — a sentence Lord Merton did not 
 give her time to finish ; for, ascribing her re- 
 treat to embarrassment, he was most desirous 
 of sustaining her under the weight of obliga- 
 tion, lest her gratitude should be quite fatiguing. 
 Slowly the conviction broke upon him that she 
 had not heard what he had been saying. 
 
 " Am I to understand, madam, that you have 
 not listened to what I was mentioning: ? " 
 
 Now really sorry and confused, Emily plead- 
 ed headach, — said she could not account for 
 her absence of mind, — made a thousand ex- 
 cuses, — entreated him to mention what he had 
 been saying again, a glimmering idea having 
 crossed her mind of a charity fair, about which 
 he had been affecting much interest; and re- 
 ferring his thanks to his supposing she had pro-
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY 
 
 niised her assistance, and with floating visions of 
 guitars, butterflies, and boots made into pin- 
 cushions, now prepared to listen in good earnest. 
 
 With the concentrated anger of fourteen pa- 
 triots at a list of sinecures in which they have 
 no part, or a dozen professors who find they 
 cannot get pupils — nor fees without, Lord 
 Merton steadied his voice, almost inarticulate 
 from rage, sufficiently to answer, — 
 
 " Yes, Miss Arundel, I will repeat ; but, re- 
 member, repetition is not renewal. I offered 
 you the title of Lady Merton, — I am sorry for 
 you, — good morning;" and Lord Merton left 
 the room, thoroughly convinced of Emily's vain 
 regrets, and with quite an elation of spirit from 
 thinking his dignity had been properly sup- 
 ported, and the offender punished by his not 
 repeating the offer. 
 
 Emily sat in the window, sometimes pondering 
 on objects without, and then on those within, 
 when Lorraine's entrance interrupted a very pro- 
 found meditation on the strange contrarieties of 
 love affairs in this world. 
 
 u Has Merton been here this morning?" 
 
 Emily's blush seemed sufficient answer ; and 
 Lorraine began a laughing succession of ques- 
 tions, congratulations, &c.
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 325 
 
 Now this was really too bad, — for him to 
 suppose she could think of another, and to take 
 her acceptance as a matter of course, — and 
 such another, too, as Lord Merton : mortifica- 
 tion lent a helping hand to vexation. 
 
 Lorraine was Merton's friend. Pray, was 
 it that which gave such pleasant piquancy to 
 Emily's bitter and contemptuous denial of all 
 wish for Merton's hand or heart ? Certainly 
 he had not remembered till then, what a pity 
 that such a sweet creature should be so utterly 
 thrown away. The human heart is like Pan- 
 dora's box — only it is hatred, not hope, that lies 
 curled up at the bottom. It is well we are 
 little in the habit of analysing our common and 
 passing sensations, — we should be horror-struck 
 at our own quantity of hate. 
 
 The next day brought a letter from Mr. 
 Arundel, — for the first time he urged his niece's 
 return. 
 
 Y I miss," said the letter, " your light step, 
 and your dear smile, more and more every hour. 
 You have many days of life before you, — I but 
 a few. I can spare you no longer, dearest 
 Emily. You are not happy, — none of your 
 letters breathe the buoyant spirit of your age. 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 326 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 The last of a house whose branches have dropt 
 off one by one, — whose records are filled with 
 those who died in their youth, — child of a 
 brother in whom I once cherished all the active 
 hopes I never indulged for myself, judge how 
 precious you are in my sight. I must have 
 you in my own care again, — I must have my 
 child home." 
 
 Long and bitterly did Emily weep over this 
 letter, — she started with horror from herself. 
 Was it possible that she could feel the faintest 
 wish for delay ? She recalled the many happy 
 hours she had passed among the old trees, or 
 reading aloud to her uncle some book whose 
 delight was too great to keep to herself, — she 
 thought of favourite walks ; but in the midst of 
 all these recollections she found herself holding 
 her breath to catch a distant sound of Lor- 
 raine's step, or a tone of his voice ; and her 
 heart sank cold and dead, when she remem- 
 bered that in a few days she should listen for 
 them in vain. It was with a feeling of atonement 
 she hurried her preparations; and yet when the 
 morning of departure came, it seemed scarcely 
 possible it could have come so soon. 
 
 No time passes so rapidly as that of painful
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 327 
 
 expectancy, — no hour arrives so soon as the 
 one we dread. It was a morning of July rain 
 — the dreariest of any, perhaps from con- 
 trast; we look for sunshine in summer — or be- 
 cause it washes away so many sweet flowers 
 and bright leaves. Who, for example, can 
 watch a tree covered with roses blown into full 
 beauty, and not regret, even to pain, the ravage 
 of a heavy shower on its branches — the growth of 
 its year scattered and destroyed in a morning ? 
 But every rose in the garden might have been 
 destroyed before Emily had pitied them; — the 
 eyes that are filled with tears look inwards. 
 Physical miseries greatly add to the discomfort 
 of mental ones. Madame de Genlis represents 
 one of her lovers as deploring the loss of his 
 mistress and his feather-bed in a breath; and 
 certainly early rising increases the pang of sepa- 
 ration, — the raw, damp air, the headaching 
 feel of lingering drowsiness, the cold coffee, the 
 hurry of sleepy servants : the science of human 
 happiness — and all is science now-a-days — is 
 greatly in arrear, or we should fix the middle of 
 the day for farewells. Regrets, hopes, good 
 wishes, &c. mingled together, — all regretted 
 her departure. Mr. Delawarr handed her to the
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. 
 
 carriage; she leant forward, and caught Lor- 
 raine's parting bow; the iron gate swung to 
 loudly and heavily, — like that of Dante, it shut 
 on hope. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 J. MOVES, CASTLE STREET, LEICESTER SQUARE.