Tales and Novels Volume IX Part 3

CHAPTER V.

People like myself, of lively imagination, may have often felt that change of place suddenly extinguishes, or gives a new direction to, the ardour of their enthusiasm. Such persons may, therefore, naturally suspect, that, as "my steps retired from Cam's smooth margin," my enthusiasm for my learned rabbi might gradually fade away; and that, on my arrival in London, I should forget my desire to become acquainted with the accomplished Spanish Jew. But it must be observed that, with my mother's warmth of imagination, I also had, I will not say, I inherited, some of my father's "_intensity of will_,"--some of that firmness of adhesion to a preconceived notion or purpose, which in a good cause is called resolution, in a bad cause obstinacy; and which is either a curse or a blessing to the possessor, according to the degree or habit of exercising the reasoning faculty with which he may be endowed.

On my arrival in London, a variety of petty unforeseen obstacles occurred to prevent my accomplis.h.i.+ng my visit to the Spanish Jew. New and never-ending demands upon my time arose, both in and out of my own family, so that there seemed a necessity for my spending every hour of the day and night in a manner wholly independent of my will. There seemed to be some fatality that set at nought all my previous plans and calculations. Every morning for a week after my arrival, I regularly put my letter of introduction to Mr. Montenero into my pocket, resolving that I would that day find him out, and pay my visit; but after walking all the morning, to bear and to forbear various engagements, to execute promised commissions, and to fulfil innumerable duties, I regularly came home as I went out, with my letter in my pocket, and with the sad conviction that it was utterly impossible to deliver it that day. These obstacles, and this contrariety of external circ.u.mstances, instead of bending my will, or making me give up my intention, fixed it more firmly in my mind, and strengthened my determination. Nor was I the least shaken from the settled purpose of my soul, by the perversity with which every one in our house opposed or contemned that purpose. One morning, when I had my letter and my hat in my hand, I met my father, who after looking at the direction of the letter, and hearing that I was going on a visit to a Spanish Jew, asked what business upon earth I could have with a Jew--cursed the whole race--rejoiced that he had five-and-twenty years ago voted against their naturalization in England, and ended as he began, by wondering what in the name of Heaven could make me sc.r.a.pe acquaintance with such fellows. When, in reply, I mentioned my friend, Mr. Israel Lyons, and the high character he had drawn of Mr. Montenero, my father laughed, saying that he would answer for it my friend Israel was not an Israelite without guile; for that was a description of Israelite he had never yet seen, and he had seen a confounded deal of the world. He decided that my accomplished Spanish Jew would prove an adventurer, and he advised me, a young man, heir to a good English fortune, to keep out of his foreign clutches: in short, he stuck to the advice he gave me, and only wished I would stick to the promise I gave him, when I was ten years old, to have _no dealings with the Jews_.

It was in vain that I endeavoured to give my explanation of the word _dealings_. My father's temper, naturally positive, had, I observed, become, as he advanced in years, much more dogmatic and intolerant. I avoided contradicting his a.s.sertions; but I determined to pursue my own course in a matter where there could be nothing really wrong or improper. That morning, however, I must, I perceived, as in duty bound, sacrifice to my father; he took me under the arm, and carried me away to introduce me to some commonplace member of parliament, who, as he a.s.sured me, was a much fitter and more profitable acquaintance for me than any member of the synagogue could possibly be.

The next morning, when, firm to my purpose, I was sallying forth, my mother, with a face of tender expostulation and alarm, stopped me, and entreated me to listen to her. My mother, whose health had always been delicate, had within these three last years fallen into what is called a very nervous state, and this, with her natural timidity and sensibility, inclined her now to a variety of superst.i.tious feelings--to a belief in _presentiments_ and presages, omens and dreams, added to her original belief in sympathies and antipathies. Some of these her peculiarities of opinion and feeling had perhaps, at first, only been a.s.sumed, or yielded to in her season of youth and beauty, to interest her admirers and to distinguish herself in society; but as age advanced, they had been confirmed by habit and weakness, so that what in the beginning might have been affectation, was in the end reality. She was alarmed, she said, by the series of strange coincidences which, from my earliest childhood, had occurred, seeming to connect my fate, in some extraordinary manner, with these Jews. She recalled all the circ.u.mstances of my illness when I was a child: she confessed that she had retained a sort of antipathy to the idea of a Jew--a weakness it might be--but she had had dreams and _presentiments_, and my fortune had been told her while I was at Cambridge; and some evil, she had been a.s.sured, hung over me within the five ensuing years--some evil connected with a Jew: in short, she did not absolutely believe in such prophecies, but still it was extraordinary that the first thing my mind should be intent upon, in coming to town, should be a Spanish Jew, and she earnestly wished that I would avoid rather than seek the connexion.

Knowing my mother's turn for the romantic, I had antic.i.p.ated her delight at the idea of making acquaintance with a n.o.ble-minded travelled Spaniard; but unluckily her imagination had galloped off in a contrary direction to mine, and now my only chance was to make her hear reason, and a very bad chance I knew this to be. I endeavoured to combat her _presentiment_, and to explain whatever appeared extraordinary in my love and hatred of the Jews, by recalling the slight and natural circ.u.mstances at school and the university, which had changed my early prejudice; and I laboured to show that no natural antipathy could have existed, since it had been completely conquered by humanity and reason; so that now I had formed what might rather appear a natural sympathy with the race of Israel. I laboured these points in vain. When I urged the literary advantages I had reaped from my friends.h.i.+p with Mr. Israel Lyons, she besought me not to talk of friends.h.i.+p with persons of that sort. I had now awakened another train of a.s.sociations, all unfavourable to my views. My mother _wondered_--for both she and my father were great _wonderers_, as are all, whether high or low, who have lived only with one set of people--my mother wondered that, instead of seeking acquaintance in the city with old Jews and persons of whom n.o.body had ever heard, I could not find companions of my own age and rank in life: for instance, my schoolfellow and friend, Lord Mowbray, who was now in town, just returned from abroad, a fine young officer, "much admired here by the ladies, I can a.s.sure you, Harrington," added my mother.

This, as I had opportunity of seeing, was perfectly true; four, nearly five years had made a great apparent change in Mowbray for the better; his manners were formed; his air that of a man of fas.h.i.+on--a military man of fas.h.i.+on. He had served a campaign abroad, had been at the siege of Gibraltar, had much to say, and could say it well. We all know what astonis.h.i.+ng metamorphoses are sometimes wrought even on the most hopeless subjects, by seeing something of the world, by serving a campaign or two. How many a light, empty sh.e.l.l of a young man comes home full, if not of sense, at least of something bearing the semblance of sense! How many a heavy lout, a dull son of earth, returns enlivened into a conversable being, who can tell at least of what it has seen, heard, and felt, if not understood; and who for years, perhaps for ever afterwards, by the help of telling of other countries, may pa.s.s in his own for a man of solid judgment! Such being the advantages to be derived by these means, even in the most desperate cases, we may imagine the great improvement produced in a young man of Lord Mowbray's abilities, and with his ambition both to please and to s.h.i.+ne. In youth, and by youth, improvement in appearance and manner is easily mistaken for improvement in mind and principle. All that I had disliked in the schoolboy--the tyrannical disposition--the cruel temper--the insolent tone--had disappeared, and in their place I saw the deportment which distinguished a gentleman. Whatever remained of party spirit, so different from the wrangling, overbearing, mischievous party spirit of the boy, was in the man and the officer so happily blended with love of the service, and with _l'esprit de corps_, that it seemed to add a fresh grace, animation, and frankness to his manner. The evil spirit of persecution was dislodged from his soul, or laid asleep within him, and in its place appeared the conciliating spirit of politeness. He showed a desire to cultivate my friends.h.i.+p, which still more prepossessed me in his favour.

Mowbray happened to call upon me soon after the conversation I had with my mother about the Spanish Jew. I had not been dissuaded from my purpose by her representations; but I had determined to pay my visit without saying any thing more about the matter, and to form my own judgment of the man. A new difficulty, however, occurred: my letter of introduction had disappeared. I searched my pockets, my portfolios, my letter-case, every conceivable place, but it was not to be found.

Mowbray obligingly a.s.sisted me in this search; but after emptying half a dozen times over portfolios, pockets, and desks, I was ashamed to give him more trouble, and I gave up the letter as lost. When Mowbray heard that this letter, about which I was so anxious, was an introduction to a Jewish gentleman, he could not forbear rallying me a little, but in a very agreeable tone, upon the constancy of my Israelitish taste, and the perfect continuance of my ident.i.ty.

"I left you, Harrington, and I find you, after four years' absence, intent upon a Jew; boy and man you are one and the same; and in your case, 'tis well that the boy and man should an individual make; but for my part, I am glad to change my ident.i.ty, like all other mortals, once in seven years; and I hope you think I have changed for the better."

It was impossible to think otherwise, especially at that moment. In a frank, open-hearted manner, he talked of his former tyrannical nature, and blamed himself for our schoolboy quarrel. I was charmed with him, and the more so, when he entered so warmly or so politely into my present distress, and sympathized with my madness of the moment. He suggested all that was possible to be done to supply the loss of the letter. Could not I get another in its stead? The same friend who gave me one letter of introduction could write another. No; Mr. Israel Lyons had left Cambridge, and I knew not where to direct to him. Could not I present myself to Mr. Montenero without a letter? That might be rather an awkward proceeding, but I was not to be stopped by any nice observances, now that I had set my mind upon the matter. Unluckily, however, I could by no means recollect the exact address of Mr.

Montenero. I was puzzled among half a dozen different streets and numbers: Mowbray offered to walk with me, and we went to each of these streets, and to all the variety of numbers I suggested, but in vain; no Mr. Montenero was to be found. At last, tired and disappointed, as I was returning home, Mowbray said he thought he could console me for the loss of my chance of seeing my Spanish Jew, by introducing me to the most celebrated Jew that ever appeared in England. Then turning into a street near one of the play-houses, he knocked at the door of a house where Macklin the actor lodged. Lord Mowbray was well acquainted with him, and I was delighted to have an opportunity of seeing this celebrated man. He was at this time past the meridian of ordinary life, but he was in the zenith of his extraordinary course, and in the full splendour and vigour of his powers.

"Here," said Mowbray, presenting me to Macklin, "is a young gentleman, who is ambitious of being acquainted with the most celebrated Jew that ever appeared in England. Allow me to introduce him to the real, original Jew of Venice:

'This is the Jew That Shakspeare drew!'

Whose lines are those, Harrington? do you know?"

"_Yours_, I suppose."

"Mine! you do me much honour: no, they are Mr. Pope's. Then you don't know the anecdote?

"Mr. Pope, in the decline of life, was persuaded by Bolingbroke to go once more to the play-house, to see Mr. Macklin in the character of Shylock. According to the custom of the time, Pope was seated among the critics in the pit. He was so much struck and transported with admiration, that in the middle of the play, he started up, and repeated that distich.

"Now, was not I right when I told you, Harrington, that I would introduce you to the most celebrated Jew in all England, in all Christendom, in the whole civilized world?"

No one better than Mowbray knew the tone of enthusiastic theatric admiration in which the heroes of the stage like, or are supposed to like, to be addressed. Macklin, who was not asy to please, was pleased.

The _lines_, or as Quin insisted upon their being called, the _cordage_ of his face relaxed. He raised, turned, and settled his wig, in sign of satisfaction; then with a complacent smile gave me a little nod, and suffered Lord Mowbray to draw him out by degrees into a repet.i.tion of the history of his first attempt to play the character of Shylock. A play altered from Shakespeare's, and called "The Jew of Venice," had been for some time in vogue. In this play, the Jew had been represented, by the actors of the part, as a ludicrous and contemptible, rather than a detestable character; and when Macklin, recurring to Shakespeare's original Shylock, proposed, in the revived Merchant of Venice, to play the part in a serious style, he was scoffed at by the whole company of his brother actors, and it was with the utmost difficulty he could screw the manager's courage to the sticking-place, and prevail upon him to hazard the attempt. Take the account in Macklin's own words. [Footnote: Vide Macklin's Life.]

"When the long expected night at last arrived, the house was crowded from top to bottom, with the first company in town. The two front rows of the pit, as usual, were full of critics. I eyed them," said Macklin, "I eyed them, sir, through the slit in the curtain, and was glad to see them there; as I wished, in such a cause, to be tried by a _special jury_. When I made my appearance in the green-room, dressed for the part, with my red hat on my head, my piqued beard, my loose black gown, and with a confidence which I had never before a.s.sumed, the performers all stared at one another, and evidently with a stare of disappointment.

Well, sir, hitherto all was right, till the last bell rung; then, I confess, my heart began to beat a little: however, I mustered up all the courage I could, and recommending my cause to Providence, threw myself boldly on the stage, and was received by one of the loudest thunders of applause I ever before experienced. The opening scenes being rather tame and level, I could not expect much applause; but I found myself listened to: I could hear distinctly in the pit, the words '_Very well--very well indeed! this man seems to know what he is about_.' These encomiums warmed me, but did not overset me. I knew where I should have the pull, which was in the third act, and accordingly at this period I threw out all my fire; and as the contrasted pa.s.sions of joy for the merchant's losses, and grief for the elopement of Jessica, open a fine field for an actor's powers, I had the good fortune to please beyond my most sanguine expectations. The whole house was in an uproar of applause; and I was obliged to pause between the speeches to give it vent, so as to be heard. The _trial scene_ wound up the fulness of my reputation. Here I was well listened to, and here I made such a silent yet forcible impression on my audience, that I retired from this great attempt most perfectly satisfied. On my return to the green-room, after the play was over, it was crowded with n.o.bility and critics, who all complimented me in the warmest and most unbounded manner; and the situation I felt myself in, I must confess, was one of the most flattering and intoxicating of my whole life. No money, no t.i.tle, could purchase what I felt. By G--, sir, though I was not worth fifty pounds in the world at that time, yet let me tell you, I was _Charles the Great_ for that night."

The emphasis and enthusiasm with which Macklin spoke, pleased me--enthusiastic people are always well pleased with enthusiasm. My curiosity too was strongly excited to see him play Shylock. I returned home full of the Jew of Venice; but, nevertheless, not forgetting my Spanish Jew.--At last, my mother could no longer bear to see me perplex and vex myself in my fruitless search for the letter, and confessed that while we were talking the preceding day, finding that no arguments or persuasions of hers had had any effect, she had determined on what she called a pious fraud: so, while I was in the room--before my face--while I was walking up and down, holding forth in praise of my Jewish friend whom I did know, and my Jewish friend whom I did not know, she had taken up Mr. Israel Lyons' letter of introduction to Mr. Montenero, and had thrown it into the fire.

I was very much provoked; but to my mother, and a mother who was so fond of me, what could I say? After all, I confessed there was a good deal of fancy in the case on my side as well as on hers. I endeavoured to forget my disappointment. My imagination turned again to Shylock and Macklin; and, to please me, my mother promised to make a large party to go with me to see the Merchant of Venice the next night that Macklin should act; but, unfortunately, Macklin had just now quarrelled with the manager, and till this could be made up, there was no chance of his condescending to perform.

Meantime my mother having, as she thought, fairly got rid of the Jews, and Mowbray having, as he said, cured me of my present fit of Jewish insanity, desired to introduce me to his mother and sister. They had now just come to town from the Priory--Brantefield Priory, an ancient family-seat, where, much to her daughter's discomfiture, Lady de Brantefield usually resided eight months of the year, because there she felt her dignity more safe from contact, and herself of more indisputable and unrivalled consequence, than in the midst of the jostling pretensions and modern innovations of the metropolis. At the Priory every thing attested, recorded, and flattered her pride of ancient and ill.u.s.trious descent. In my childhood I had once been with my mother at the Priory, and I still retained a lively recollection of the antique wonders of the place. Foremost in my memory came an old picture, called "Sir Josseline going to the Holy Land," where Sir Josseline de Mowbray stood, in complete armour, pointing to a horrid figure of a prostrate Jew, on whose naked back an executioner, with uplifted whip, was prepared to inflict stripes for some shocking crime.--This picture had been painted in times when the proportions of the human figure were little attended to, and when foreshortening was not at all understood: this added to the horrible effect, for the executioner's arm and scourge were of tremendous size; Sir Josseline stood miraculously tall, and the Jew, crouching, supplicating, sprawling, was the most distorted squalid figure, eyes ever beheld, or imagination could conceive.

After having once beheld it, I could never bear to look upon it again, nor did I ever afterwards enter the tapestry chamber:--but there were some other of the antique rooms in which I delighted, and divers pieces of old furniture which I reverenced. There was an ancient bed, with scolloped tester, and tarnished quilt, in which Queen Elizabeth had slept; and a huge embroidered pincus.h.i.+on done by no hands, as you may guess, but those of the unfortunate Mary, Queen of Scots, who, during her captivity, certainly worked harder than ever queen worked before or since.

Then there was an old, worm-eaten chair, in which John of Gaunt had sat; and I remember that while Lady de Brantefield expressed her just indignation against the worms, for having dared to attack this precious relique, I, kneeling to the chair, admired the curious fretwork, the dusty honeycombs, which these invisible little workmen had excavated.

But John of Gaunt's chair was nothing to King John's table. There was a little black oak table, too, with broken legs, which was invaluable--for, as Lady de Brantefield confidently affirmed, King John of France, and the Black Prince, had sat and supped at it. I marvelled much in silence--for I had been sharply reproved for some observation I had unwittingly made on the littleness and crookedness of a dark, corner-chimneyed nook shown us for the banqueting-room; and I had fallen into complete disgrace for having called the winding staircases, leading to the turret-chambers, _back stairs._

Of Lady de Brantefield, the _touch-me-not_ mistress of the mansion, I had retained a sublime, but not a beautiful idea--I now felt a desire to see her again, to verify my old notion.

Of Lady Anne Mowbray, who at the time I had been at the Priory, was a little child, some years younger than myself, I could recollect nothing, except that she wore a pink sash, of which she was very vain, and that she had been ushered into the drawing-room after dinner by Mrs. Fowler, at the sight of whom my inmost soul had recoiled. I remember, indeed, pitying her little ladys.h.i.+p for being under such dominion, and longing to ask her whether Fowler had told her the story of Simon the Jew. But I could never commune with Lady Anne; for either she was up in the nursery, or Fowler was at her back in the drawing-room, or little Lady Anne was sitting upright on her stool at her mother's feet, whom I did not care to approach, and in whose presence I seldom ventured to speak--consequently my curiosity on this point had, from that hour, slumbered within me; but it now wakened, upon my mother's proposing to present me to Lady Anne, and the pleasure of asking and the hope of obtaining an answer to my long-meditated question, was the chief gratification I promised myself from the renewal of our acquaintance with her ladys.h.i.+p.

CHAPTER VI.

My recollection of Lady de Brantefield proved wonderfully correct; she gave me back the image I had in my mind--a stiff, haughty-looking picture of a faded old beauty. Adhering religiously to the fas.h.i.+on of the times when she had been wors.h.i.+pped, she made it a point to wear the old head-dress exactly. She was in black, in a hoop of vast circ.u.mference, and she looked and moved as if her being Countess de Brantefield in her own right, and concentring in her person five baronies, ought to be for ever present to the memory of all mankind, as it was to her own.

My mother presented me to her ladys.h.i.+p. The ceremony of introduction between a young gentleman and an old lady of those times, performed on his part with a low bow and look of profound deference, on hers, with back stepping-curtsy and bridled head, was very different from the nodding, bobbing trick of the present day. As soon as the _finale_ of Lady de Brantefield's sentence, touching honour, happiness, and family connexion, would permit, I receded, and turned from the mother to the daughter, little Lady Anne Mowbray, a light fantastic figure, bedecked with "daisies pied," covered with a profusion of tiny French flowers, whose invisible wire stalks kept in perpetual motion as she turned her pretty head from side to side. Smiling, sighing, t.i.ttering, flirting with the officers round her, Lady Anne appeared, and seemed as if she delighted in appearing, as perfect a contrast as possible to her august and formidable mother. The daughter had seen the ill effect of the mother's haughty demeanour, and, mistaking reverse of wrong for right, had given reserve and dignity to the winds. Taught by the happy example of Colonel Topham, who preceded me, I learned that the low bow would have been here quite out of place. The sliding bow was for Lady Anne, and the way was to dash into nonsense with her directly, and full into the midst of nonsense I dashed. Though her ladys.h.i.+p's perfect accessibility seemed to promise prompt reply to any question that could be asked; yet the single one about which I felt any curiosity, I could not contrive to introduce during the first three hours I was in her ladys.h.i.+p's company. There was such a quant.i.ty of preliminary nonsense to get through, and so many previous questions to be disposed of: for example, I was first to decide which of three colours I preferred, all of them p.r.o.nounced to be the _prettiest_ in, the universe, _boue de Paris, oeil de l'empereur_, and a _suppressed sigh_.

At that moment, Lady Anne wore the _suppressed sigh_, but I did not know it--I mistook it for _boue de Paris_--conceive my ignorance! No two things in nature, not a horse-chestnut and a chestnut-horse, could be more different.

Conceive my confusion! and Colonels Topham and Beauclerk standing by.

But I recovered myself in public opinion, by admiring the slipper on her ladys.h.i.+p's little foot. Now I showed my taste, for this slipper had but the night before arrived express from Paris, and it was called a _venez-y voir_; and how a slipper, with a heel so high, and a quarter so low, could be kept on the foot, or how the fair could walk in it, I could not conceive, except by the special care of her guardian sylph.

After the _venez-y voir_ had fixed all eyes as desired, the lady turning alternately to Colonels Topham and Beauclerk, with rapid gestures of ecstasy, exclaimed, "The _pouf!_ the _pouf!_ Oh! on Wednesday I shall have the _pouf_!"

Now what manner of thing a _pouf!_ might be, I had not the slightest conception. "It requireth," said Bacon, "great cunning for a man in discourse to seem to know that which he knoweth not." Warned by _boue de Paris_ and the _suppressed sigh_, this time I found safety in silence. I listened, and learned, first that _un pouf_ was the most charming thing in the creation; next, that n.o.body upon earth could be seen in Paris without one; that one was coming from Mademoiselle Berlin, per favour of Miss Wilkes, for Lady Anne Mowbray, and that it would be on her head on Wednesday; and Colonel Topham swore there would be no resisting her ladys.h.i.+p in the _pouf_, she would look so killing.

"So killing," was the colonel's last.

I now thought that I had Lady Anne's ear to myself; but she ran on to something else, and I was forced to follow as she skimmed over fields of nonsense. At last she did stop to take breath, and I did get in my one question: to which her ladys.h.i.+p replied, "Poor Fowler frighten me? Lord!

No. Like her? oh! yes--dote upon Fowler! didn't you?--No, you hated her, I remember. Well, but I a.s.sure you she's the best creature in the world; I could always make her do just what I pleased. Positively, I must make you make it up with her, if I can remember it, when she comes up to town--she is to come up for my birthday. Mamma, you know, generally leaves her at the Priory, to take care of all the old trumpery, and show the place--you know it's a _show place_. But I tell Colonel Topham, when I've a place of my own, I positively will have it modern, and all the furniture in the very newest style. I'm so sick of old reliques!

Natural, you know, when _I have been having_ a surfeit all my life of old beds and chairs, and John of Gaunt and the Black Prince. But the Black Prince, I remember, was always a vast favourite of yours. Well, but poor Fowler, you must like her, too--I a.s.sure you she always speaks with tenderness of you; she is really the best old soul! for she's growing oldish, but so faithful, and so sincere too. Only flatters mamma sometimes so, I can hardly help laughing in her face; but then you know mamma, and old ladies, when they come to that pa.s.s, must be flattered to keep them up--'tis but charitable--really right. Poor Fowler's daughter is to be my maid."

"I did not know Fowler had a daughter, and a daughter grown up."

"Nancy Fowler! not know! Oh! yes, quite grown up, fit to be married--only a year younger than I am. And there's our old apothecary in the country has taken such a fancy to her! But he's too old and _wiggy_--but it would make a sort of lady of her, and her mother will have it so--but she sha'n't--I've no notion of compulsion. Nancy shall be my maid, for she is quite out of the common style; can copy verses for one--I've no time, you know--and draws patterns in a minute. I declare I don't know which I love best--Fowler or Nancy--poor old Fowler, I think. Do you know she says I'm so like the print of the Queen of France. It never struck me; but I'll go and ask Topham."

I perceived that Fowler, wiser grown, had learned how much more secure the reign of flattery is, than the reign of terror. She was now, as I found, supreme in the favour of both her young and old lady. The specimen I have given of Lady Anne Mowbray's conversation, or rather of Lady Anne's mode of talking, will, I fancy, be amply sufficient to satiate all curiosity concerning her ladys.h.i.+p's understanding and character. She had, indeed, like most of the young ladies her companions--"no character at all."

Female conversation in general was, at this time, very different from what it is in our happier days. A few bright stars had risen, and shone, and been admired; but the useful light had not diffused itself. Miss Talbot's and Miss Carter's learning and piety, Mrs. Montague's genius, Mrs. Vesey's elegance, and Mrs. Boscawen's [Footnote: See Bas-Bleu.]

"polished ease," had brought female literature into fas.h.i.+on in certain favoured circles; but it had not, as it has now, become general in almost every rank of life. Young ladies had, it is true, got beyond the Spectator and the Guardian: Richardson's novels had done much towards opening a larger field of discussion. One of Miss Burney's excellent novels had appeared, and had made an era in London conversation; but still it was rather venturing out of the safe course for a young lady to talk of books, even of novels; it was not, as it is now, expected that she should know what is going on in the literary world. The Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews, and varieties of literary and scientific journals, had not

"Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way."

Before there was a regular demand and an established market, there were certain hawkers and pedlars of literature, fetchers and carriers of bays, and at every turn copies of impromptus, charades, and lines by the honourable Miss C----, and the honourable Mrs. D----, were put into my hands by young ladies, begging for praise, which it was seldom in my power conscientiously to bestow. I early had a foreboding--one of my mother's _presentiments_--that I should come to disgrace with Lady Anne Mowbray about some of these cursed sc.r.a.ps of poetry. Her ladys.h.i.+p had one--shall I say?--_peculiarity_. She could not bear that any one should differ from her in matters of taste; and though she regularly disclaimed being a reading lady, she was most a.s.sured of what she was most ignorant. With the a.s.sistance of Fowler's flattery, together with that of all the hangers-on at Brantefield Priory, her temper had been rendered incapable of bearing contradiction. But this defect was not immediately apparent: on the contrary, Lady Anne was generally thought a pleasant, good-humoured creature, and most people wondered that the daughter could be so different from the mother. Lady de Brantefield was universally known to be positive and prejudiced. Her prejudices were all old-fas.h.i.+oned, and ran directly counter to the habits of her acquaintance. Lady Anne's, on the contrary, were all in favour of the present fas.h.i.+on, whatever it might be, and ran smoothly with the popular stream. The violence of her temper could, therefore, scarcely be suspected, till something opposed the current: a small obstacle would then do the business--would raise the stream suddenly to a surprising height, and would produce a tremendous noise. It was my ill fortune one unlucky day to cross Lady Anne Mowbray's humour, and to oppose her opinion. It was about a trifle; but trifles, indeed, made, with her, the sum of human things. She came one morning, as it was her custom, to loiter away her time at my mother's till the proper hour for going out to visit. For five minutes she sat at some fas.h.i.+onable kind of work--_wafer work_, I think it was called, a work which has been long since consigned to the mice; then her ladys.h.i.+p yawned, and exclaiming, "Oh, those lines of Lord Chesterfield's, which Colonel Topham gave me; I'll copy them into my alb.u.m. Where's my _alb.u.m_?--Mrs. Harrington, I lent it to you. Oh! here it is. Mr. Harrington, you will finish copying this for me." So I was set down to the _alb.u.m_ to copy--_Advice to a Lady in Autumn_.

"a.s.ses' milk, half a pint, take at seven, or before."

My mother, who saw that I did not relish the a.s.ses' milk, put in a word for me.

"My dear Lady Anne, it is not worth while to write these lines in your _alb.u.m_, for they were in print long ago, in every lady's old memorandum-book, and in Dodsley's Collection, I believe."

"But still that was quite a different thing," Lady Anne said, "from having them in her _alb.u.m_; so Mr. Harrington must be so very good." I did not understand the particular use of copying in my illegible hand what could be so much better read in print; but it was all-sufficient that her ladys.h.i.+p chose it. When I had copied the verses I must, Lady Anne said, read the lines, and admire them. But I had read them twenty times before, and I could not say that they were as fresh the twentieth reading as at the first. Lord Mowbray came in, and she ran to her brother:--"Mowbray! can any thing in nature be prettier than these verses of Lord Chesterfield? Mowbray, you, who are a judge, listen to these two lines:

'The dews of the evening moat carefully shun, Those tears of the sky for the loss of the sun.'