CHAPTER I.
WHEREIN THE HISTORY MAKES GREAT PROGRESS AND IS MARKED BY ONE IMPORTANTEVENT IN HUMAN LIFE.
SPINOZA is said to have loved, above all other amusements, to put fliesinto a spider's web; and the struggles of the imprisoned insects werewont to bear, in the eyes of this grave philosopher, so facetious andhilarious an appearance, that he would stand and laugh thereat until thetears "coursed one another down his innocent nose." Now it so happenedthat Spinoza, despite the general (and, in my most meek opinion, thejust) condemnation of his theoretical tenets,* was, in character andin nature, according to the voices of all who knew him, an exceedinglykind, humane, and benevolent biped; and it doth, therefore, seem alittle strange unto us grave, sober members of the unphilosophical Many,that the struggles and terrors of these little winged creatures shouldstrike the good subtleist in a point of view so irresistibly ludicrousand delightful. But, for my part, I believe that that most imaginativeand wild speculator beheld in the entangled flies nothing more than aliving simile--an animated illustration--of his own beloved visionof Necessity; and that he is no more to be considered cruel for thecomplacency with which he gazed upon those agonized types of hissystem than is Lucan for dwelling with a poet's pleasure upon the manyingenious ways with which that Grand Inquisitor of Verse has contrivedto vary the simple operation of dying. To the bard, the butcheredsoldier was only an epic ornament; to the philosopher, the murdered flywas only a metaphysical illustration. For, without being a fatalist, ora disciple of Baruch de Spinoza, I must confess that I cannot conceivea greater resemblance to our human and earthly state than the penalpredicament of the devoted flies. Suddenly do we find ourselves plungedinto that Vast Web,--the World; and even as the insect, when he firstundergoeth a similar accident of necessity, standeth amazed andstill, and only by little and little awakeneth to a full sense of hissituation; so also at the first abashed and confounded, we remain on themesh we are urged upon, ignorant, as yet, of the toils around us,and the sly, dark, immitigable foe that lieth in yonder nook, alreadyfeasting her imagination upon our destruction. Presently we revive, westir, we flutter; and Fate, that foe--the old arch-spider, that hathno moderation in her maw--now fixeth one of her many eyes upon us, andgiveth us a partial glimpse of her laidly and grim aspect. We pause inmute terror; we gaze upon the ugly spectre, so imperfectly beheld; thenet ceases to tremble, and the wily enemy draws gently back into hernook. Now we begin to breathe again; we sound the strange footing onwhich we tread; we move tenderly along it, and again the grisly monsteradvances on us; again we pause; the foe retires not, but remains still,and surveyeth us; we see every step is accompanied with danger; we lookround and above in despair; suddenly we feel within us a new impulse anda new power! we feel a vague sympathy with _that_ unknown region whichspreads beyond this great net,--_that limitless beyond_ hath a mysticaffinity with a part of our own frame; we unconsciously extend ourwings (for the soul to us is as the wings to the fly!); we attempt torise,--to soar above this perilous snare, from which we are unable tocrawl. The old spider watcheth us in self-hugging quiet, and, lookingup to our native air, we think,--now shall we escape thee. Out on it!We rise not a hair's breadth: we have the _wings_, it is true, but the_feet_ are fettered. We strive desperately again: the whole web vibrateswith the effort; it will break beneath our strength. Not a jot of it!we cease; we are more entangled than ever! wings, feet, frame, the foulslime is over all! where shall we turn? every line of the web leads tothe one den,--we know not,--we care not,--we grow blind, confused, lost.The eyes of our hideous foe gloat upon us; she whetteth her insatiatemaw; she leapeth towards us; she fixeth her fangs upon us; and so endethmy parallel!
* One ought, however, to be very cautious before one condemns aphilosopher. The master's opinions are generally pure: it is theconclusions and corollaries of his disciples that "draw the honey forththat drives men mad." Schlegel seems to have studied Spinoza _de fonte_,and vindicates him very earnestly from the charges brought againsthim,--atheism, etc.--ED.
But what has this to do with my tale? Ay, Reader, that is thy question;and I will answer it by one of mine. When thou hearest a man moralizeand preach of Fate, art thou not sure that he is going to tell thee ofsome one of his peculiar misfortunes? Sorrow loves a parable as much asmirth loves a jest. And thus already and from afar, I prepare thee, atthe commencement of this, the third of these portions into which thehistory of my various and wild life will be divided, for that event withwhich I purpose that the said portion shall be concluded.
It is now three months after my entire recovery from my wounds, and Iam married to Isora!--married,--yes, but _privately_ married, and theceremony is as yet closely concealed. I will explain.
The moment Isora's anxiety for me led her across the threshold of myhouse it became necessary for her honour that our wedding should takeplace immediately on my recovery: so far I was decided on the measure;now for the method. During my illness, I received a long and mostaffectionate letter from Aubrey, who was then at Devereux Court: _so_affectionate was the heart-breathing spirit of that letter, so steepedin all our old household remembrances and boyish feelings, that coupledas it was with a certain gloom when he spoke of himself and of worldlysins and trials, it brought tears to my eyes whenever I recurred toit; and many and many a time afterwards, when I thought his affectionsseemed estranged from me, I did recur to it to convince myself that Iwas mistaken. Shortly afterwards I received also a brief epistle frommy uncle; it was as kind as usual, and it mentioned Aubrey's return toDevereux Court. "That unhappy boy," said Sir William, "is more than everdevoted to his religious duties; nor do I believe that any priest-riddenpoor devil in the dark ages ever made such use of the scourge and thepenance."
Now, I have before stated that my uncle would, I knew, be averse tomy intended marriage; and on hearing that Aubrey was then with him, Iresolved, in replying to his letter, to entreat the former to soundSir William on the subject I had most at heart, and ascertain the exactnature and extent of the opposition I should have to encounter in thestep I was resolved to take. By the same post I wrote to the good oldknight in as artful a strain as I was able, dwelling at some length uponmy passion, upon the high birth, as well as the numerous good qualitiesof the object, but mentioning not her name; and I added everythingthat I thought likely to enlist my uncle's kind and warm feelings on mybehalf. These letters produced the following ones:--
FROM SIR WILLIAM DEVEREUX.
'Sdeath, nephew Morton,--but I won't scold thee, though thou deservestit. Let me see, thou art now scarce twenty, and thou talkest ofmarriage, which is the exclusive business of middle age, as familiarlyas "girls of thirteen do of puppy-dogs." Marry!--go hang thyself rather.Marriage, my dear boy, is at the best a treacherous proceeding; and afriend--a true friend--will never counsel another to adopt it rashly.Look you: I have had experience in these matters; and, I think, themoment a woman is wedded some terrible revolution happens in her system;all her former good qualities vanish, _hey presto_! like eggs out of aconjuror's box; 'tis true they appear on t' other side of the box, theside turned to other people, but for the poor husband they are goneforever. Ods fish, Morton, go to! I tell thee again that I have hadexperience in these matters which thou never hast had, clever as thouthinkest thyself. If now it were a good marriage thou wert aboutto make; if thou wert going to wed power, and money, and places atcourt,--why, something might be said for thee. As it is, there is noexcuse--none. And I am astonished how a boy of thy sense could think ofsuch nonsense. Birth, Morton, what the devil does that signify so longas it is birth in another country? A foreign damsel, and a Spanish girl,too, above all others! 'Sdeath, man, as if there was not quicksilverenough in the English women for you, you must make a mercurialexportation from Spain, must you! Why, Morton, Morton, the ladies inthat country are proverbial. I tremble at the very thought of it. But asfor my consent, I never will give it,--never; and though I threaten theenot with disinheritance and such like, yet I do ask something in returnfor the great affection I have a
lways borne thee; and I make no doubtthat thou wilt readily oblige me in such a trifle as giving up a mereSpanish donna. So think of her no more. If thou wantest to make love,there are ladies in plenty whom thou needest not to marry. And formy part, I thought that thou wert all in all with the Lady Hasselton:Heaven bless her pretty face! Now don't think I want to scold thee; anddon't think thine old uncle harsh,--God knows he is not,--but my dear,dear boy, this is quite out of the question, and thou must let me hearno more about it. The gout cripples me so that I must leave off. Everthine old uncle,
WILLIAM DEVEREUX.
P. S. Upon consideration, I think, my dear boy, that thou must wantmoney, and thou art ever too sparing. Messrs. Child, or my goldsmithsin Aldersgate, have my orders to pay to thy hand's-writing whatever thoumayst desire; and I do hope that thou wilt now want nothing to makethee merry withal. Why dost thou not write a comedy? is it not the modestill?
LETTER FROM AUBREY DEVEREUX.
I have sounded my uncle, dearest Morton, according to your wishes; and Igrieve to say that I have found him inexorable. He was very much hurt byyour letter to him, and declared he should write to you forthwithupon the subject. I represented to him all that you have said upon thevirtues of your intended bride; and I also insisted upon your clearjudgment and strong sense upon most points being a sufficient suretyfor your prudence upon this. But you know the libertine opinions andthe depreciating judgment of women entertained by my poor uncle; and hewould, I believe, have been less displeased with the heinous crime of anillicit connection than the amiable weakness of an imprudent marriage--Imight say of any marriage--until it was time to provide heirs to theestate.
Here Aubrey, in the most affectionate and earnest manner, broke off, topoint out to me the extreme danger to my interests that it would be todisoblige my uncle; who, despite his general kindness, would, upona disagreement on so tender a matter as his sore point, and his mostcherished hobby, consider my disobedience as a personal affront. He alsorecalled to me all that my uncle had felt and done for me; and insisted,at all events, upon the absolute duty of my delaying, even thoughI should not break off, the intended measure. Upon these points heenlarged much and eloquently; and this part of his letter certainly leftno cheering or comfortable impression upon my mind.
Now my good uncle knew as much of love as L. Mummius did of the finearts,* and it was impossible to persuade him that if one wanted toindulge the tender passion, one woman would not do exactly as well asanother, provided she were equally pretty. I knew therefore that he wasincapable, on the one hand, of understanding my love for Isora, or, onthe other, of acknowledging her claims upon me. I had not, of course,mentioned to him the generous imprudence which, on the news of my wound,had brought Isora to my house: for if I had done so, my uncle, with theeye of a courtier of Charles II., would only have seen the advantage tobe derived from the impropriety, not the gratitude due to the devotion;neither had I mentioned this circumstance to Aubrey,--it seemed to metoo delicate for any written communication; and therefore, in his adviceto delay my marriage, he was unaware of the necessity which rendered theadvice unavailing. Now then was I in this dilemma, either to marry, andthat _instanter_, and so, seemingly, with the most hasty and the mostinsolent decorum, incense, wound, and in his interpretation of the act,contemn one whom I loved as I loved my uncle; or, to delay the marriage,to separate Isora, and to leave my future wife to the malignantconsequences that would necessarily be drawn from a sojourn of weeksin my house. This fact there was no chance of concealing; servantshave more tongues than Argus had eyes, and my youthful extravagance hadfilled my whole house with those pests of society. The latter measurewas impossible, the former was most painful. Was there no thirdway?--there was that of a private marriage. This obviated not everyevil; but it removed many: it satisfied my impatient love; it placedIsora under a sure protection; it secured and established her honourthe moment the ceremony should be declared; and it avoided the seemingingratitude and indelicacy of disobeying my uncle, without an effortof patience to appease him. I should have time and occasion then, Ithought, for soothing and persuading him, and ultimately winning thatconsent which I firmly trusted I should sooner or later extract from hiskindness of heart.
* A Roman consul, who, removing the most celebrated remains of Grecianantiquity to Rome, assured the persons charged with conveying them that,if they injured any, they should make others to replace them.
That some objections existed to this mediatory plan was true enough:those objections related to Isora rather than to myself, and she was thefirst, on my hinting at the proposal, to overcome its difficulties. Theleading feature in Isora's character was generosity; and, in truth, Iknow not a quality more dangerous either to man or woman. Herself wasinvariably the last human being whom she seemed to consider; and nosooner did she ascertain what measure was the most prudent for me toadopt, than it immediately became that upon which she insisted. Wouldit have been possible for me, man of pleasure and of the world as I wasthought to be,--no, my good uncle, though it went to my heart to woundthee so secretly, it would _not_ have been possible for me, even if Ihad not coined my whole nature into love, even if Isora had not beento me what one smile of Isora's really was,--it would not have beenpossible to have sacrificed so noble and so divine a heart, and mademyself, in that sacrifice, a wretch forever. No, my good uncle. I couldnot have made that surrender to thy reason, much less to thy prejudices.But if I have not done great injustice to the knight's character, Idoubt whether the youngest reader will not forgive him for a want ofsympathy with one feeling, when they consider how susceptible thatcharming old man was to all others.
And herewith I could discourse most excellent wisdom upon thatmysterious passion of love. I could show, by tracing its causes, and itsinseparable connection with the imagination, that it is only incertain states of society, as well as in certain periods of life, thatlove--real, pure, high love--can be born. Yea, I could prove, to thenicety of a very problem, that, in the court of Charles II., it wouldhave been as impossible for such a feeling to find root, as it would befor myrtle trees to effloresce from a Duvillier periwig. And we arenot to expect a man, however tender and affectionate he may be, tosympathize with that sentiment in another, which, from the accidents ofbirth and position, nothing short of a miracle could have ever producedin himself.
We were married then in private by a Catholic priest. St. John, and oneold lady who had been my father's godmother--for I wished for a femaleassistant in the ceremony, and this old lady could tell no secrets,for, being excessively deaf, nobody ever talked to her, and indeed shescarcely ever went abroad--were the sole witnesses. I took a small housein the immediate neighbourhood of London; it was surrounded on all sideswith a high wall which defied alike curiosity and attack. This was,indeed, the sole reason which had induced me to prefer it to many moregaudy or more graceful dwellings. But within I had furnished it withevery luxury that wealth, the most lavish and unsparing, could procure.Thither, under an assumed name, I brought my bride, and there was thegreater part of my time spent. The people I had placed in the housebelieved I was a rich merchant, and this accounted for my frequentabsences (absences which Prudence rendered necessary), for the wealthwhich I lavished, and for the precautions of bolt, bar, and wall, whichthey imagined the result of commercial caution.
Oh the intoxication of that sweet Elysium, that Tadmor in life'sdesert,--the possession of the one whom we have first loved! It is as ifpoetry, and music, and light, and the fresh breath of flowers, were allblended into one being, and from that being rose our existence! It iscontent made rapture,--nothing to wish for, yet everything to feel! Wasthat air the air which I had breathed hitherto? that earth the earthwhich I had hitherto beheld? No, my heart dwelt in a new world, andall these motley and restless senses were melted into one sense,--deep,silent, fathomless delight!
Well, too much of this species of love is not fit for a worldly tale,and I will turn, for the reader's relief, to worldly affections. Frommy first reunion with Isora, I had
avoided all the former objects andacquaintances in which my time had been so charmingly employed. Tarletonwas the first to suffer by my new pursuit. "What has altered you?" saidhe; "you drink not, neither do you play. The women say you are grownduller than a Norfolk parson, and neither the Puppet Show nor the WaterTheatre, the Spring Gardens nor the Ring, Wills's nor the Kit Cat, theMulberry Garden nor the New Exchange, witness any longer your homage anddevotion. What has come over you?--speak!"
"Apathy!"
"Ah! I understand,--you are tired of these things; pish, man!--go downinto the country, the green fields will revive thee, and send thee backto London a new man! One would indeed find the town intolerably dull,if the country were not, happily, a thousand times duller: go to thecountry, Count, or I shall drop your friendship."
"Drop it!" said I, yawning, and Tarleton took pet, and did as I desiredhim. Now I had got rid of my friend as easily as I had found him,--amatter that would not have been so readily accomplished had not Mr.Tarleton owed me certain moneys, concerning which, from the moment hehad "dropped my friendship," good breeding effectually prevented hissaying a single syllable to me ever after. There is no knowing theblessings of money until one has learned to manage it properly!
So much, then, for the friend; now for the mistress. Lady Hasselton had,as Tarleton hinted before, resolved to play me a trick of spite; thereasons of our rupture really were, as I had stated to Tarleton, themighty effects of little things. She lived in a sea of trifles, andshe was desperately angry if her lover was not always sailing apleasure-boat in the same ocean. Now this was expecting too much fromme, and, after twisting our silken strings of attachment into all mannerof fantastic forms, we fell fairly out one evening and broke the littleligatures in two. No sooner had I quarrelled with Tarleton than LadyHasselton received him in my place, and a week afterwards I was favouredwith an anonymous letter, informing me of the violent passion which acertain _dame de la cour_ had conceived for me, and requesting me tomeet her at an appointed place. I looked twice over the letter, anddiscovered in one corner of it two _g's_ peculiar to the caligraphy ofLady Hasselton, though the rest of the letter (bad spelling excepted)was pretty decently disguised. Mr. Fielding was with me at the time."What disturbs you?" said he, adjusting his knee-buckles.
"Read it!" said I, handing him the letter.
"Body of me, you are a lucky dog!" cried the beau. "You will hastenthither on the wings of love."
"Not a whit of it," said I; "I suspect that it comes from a rich oldwidow whom I hate mortally."
"A rich old widow!" repeated Mr. Fielding, to whose eyes there wassomething very piquant in a jointure, and who thought consequently thatthere were few virginal flowers equal to a widow's weeds. "A rich oldwidow: you are right, Count, you are right. Don't go, don't think ofit. I cannot abide those depraved creatures. Widow, indeed,--quite anaffront to your gallantry."
"Very true," said I. "Suppose you supply my place?"
"I'd sooner be shot first," said Mr. Fielding, taking his departure, andbegging me for the letter to wrap some sugar plums in.
Need I add, that Mr. Fielding repaired to the place of assignation,where he received, in the shape of a hearty drubbing, the kind favoursintended for me? The story was now left for me to tell, not for the LadyHasselton; and that makes all the difference in the manner a story istold,--_me_ narrante, it is de _te_ fabula narratur; _te_ narrante, andit is de _me_ fabula, etc. Poor Lady Hasselton! to be laughed at, andhave Tarleton for a lover!
I have gone back somewhat in the progress of my history in order to makethe above honourable mention of my friend and my mistress, thinkingit due to their own merits, and thinking it may also be instructive toyoung gentlemen who have not yet seen the world to testify the exactnature and the probable duration of all the loves and friendships theyare likely to find in that Great Monmouth Street of glittering and ofdamaged affections! I now resume the order of narration.
I wrote to Aubrey, thanking him for his intercession, but concealing,till we met, the measure I had adopted. I wrote also to my uncle,assuring him that I would take an early opportunity of hastening toDevereux Court, and conversing with him on the subject of his letter.And after an interval of some weeks, I received the two followinganswers from my correspondents; the latter arrived several days afterthe former:--
FROM AUBREY DEVEREUX.
I am glad to understand from your letter, unexplanatory as it is, thatyou have followed my advice. I will shortly write to you more at large;at present I am on the eve of my departure for the North of England, andhave merely time to assure you of my affection.
AUBREY DEVEREUX.
P. S. Gerald is in London; have you seen him? Oh, this world! thisworld! how it clings to us, despite our education, our wishes, ourconscience, our knowledge of the Dread Hereafter!
LETTER FROM SIR WILLIAM DEVEREUX.
MY DEAR NEPHEW,--Thank thee for thy letter, and the new plays thousentest me down, and that droll new paper, the "Spectator:" it is apretty shallow thing enough,--though it is not so racy as Rochester orlittle Sid would have made it; but I thank thee for it, because it showsthou wast not angry with thine old uncle for opposing thee on thy lovewhimsies (in which most young men are dreadfully obstinate), since thoudidst provide so kindly for his amusement. Well, but, Morton, I hopethou hast got that crotchet clear out of thy mind, and prithee now_don't_ talk of it when thou comest down to see me. I hate conversationson marriage more than a boy does flogging,--ods fish, I do. So you musthumour me on that point!
Aubrey has left me again, and I am quite alone,--not that I was muchbetter off when he was here, for he was wont, of late, to shun my poorroom like a "lazar house," and when I spoke to his mother about it, shemuttered something about "example" and "corrupting." 'Sdeath, Morton, isyour old uncle, who loves all living things, down to poor Ponto the dog,the sort of man whose example corrupts youth? As for thy mother, shegrows more solitary every day; and I don't know how it is, but I am notso fond of strange faces as I used to be. 'Tis a new thing for me tobe avoided and alone. Why, I remember even little Sid, who had as muchvenom as most men, once said it was impossible to--Fie now--see if I wasnot going to preach a sermon from a text in favour of myself! But come,Morton, come, I long for your face again: it is not so soft as Aubrey's,nor so regular as Gerald's; but it is twice as kind as either. Come,before it is too late: I feel myself going; and, to tell thee a secret,the doctors tell me I may not last many months longer. Come, and laughonce more at the old knight's stories. Come, and show him that there isstill some one not too good to love him. Come, and I will tell thee afamous thing of old Rowley, which I am too ill and too sad to tell theenow.
WM. DEVEREUX.
Need I say that, upon receiving this letter, I resolved, without anydelay, to set out for Devereux Court? I summoned Desmarais to me; heanswered not my call: he was from home,--an unfrequent occurrence withthe necessitarian valet. I waited his return, which was not forsome hours, in order to give him sundry orders for my departure. Theexquisite Desmarais hemmed thrice,--"Will Monsieur be so very kind asto excuse my accompanying him?" said he, with his usual air and tone ofobsequious respect.
"And why?" The valet explained. A relation of his was in England onlyfor a few days: the philosopher was most anxious to enjoy his society, apleasure which fate might not again allow him.
Though I had grown accustomed to the man's services, and did not liketo lose him even for a time, yet I could not refuse his request; andI therefore ordered another of my servants to supply his place. Thischange, however, determined me to adopt a plan which I had beforemeditated; namely, the conveying of my own person to Devereux Court onhorseback, and sending my servant with my luggage in my post-chaise.The equestrian mode of travelling is, indeed to this day, the one mostpleasing to me; and the reader will find me pursuing it many yearsafterwards, and to the same spot.
I might as well observe here that I had never intrusted Desmarais--no,nor one of my own servants--with the secret of my marriage with, or myvi
sits to, Isora. I am a very fastidious person on those matters; andof all confidants, even in the most trifling affairs, I do most eschewthose by whom we have the miserable honour of being served.
In order, then, to avoid having my horse brought me to Isora's house byany of these menial spies, I took the steed which I had selected for myjourney, and rode to Isora's with the intention of spending the eveningthere, and thence commencing my excursion with the morning light.