LETTER IX.

CHARLES FALKLAND TO ARTHUR HOWARD.

My dear Howard, _Rome_.

You are, indeed, a _prince_ of letter writers, and the delight which you have afforded me is inexpressible. Two of your admirable journals reached me at Pisa, and the last treasure I have received since I came here in company with--whom do you think? Why, actually, Mr. Richard Oliphant, young Stanhope, and I are dwelling under the same roof, and enthusiastically employed in exploring the wonders both within and without this enchanting city. Stanhope has given Mr. Otway a detailed account of our meeting, in consequence of a letter from Lisfarne, after your arrival at Glenalta; and I will therefore not take up your time, nor my own, in repetition, but proceed to say how greatly pleased I am with my new acquaintances. Their grand object was Rome, and I determined to quit Pisa much sooner than was my original design, that I might enjoy such excellent society. Here then we are together, and, should no unforeseen circumstances prevent the completion of our arrangements, I think it likely that we shall not separate hastily, but visit Florence, and Naples, see Pæstum, go to Venice, and pass the winter at Paris in company with each other. If _you_ join us there what a coterie shall we form. I feel now as if I were in the midst of the Douglas group. I can see the very countenances, and already make my selections, _even_ in that society where all are so much to my taste, that it seems at first view difficult to _prefer_, without doing injustice. From Stanhope I receive the most satisfactory answers to every question which your _volume_ suggests; and, oh! what happiness it is to know that in any favoured spot of earth such purity and peace are to be found as bless that little valley of Glenalta with their presence. In any situation the contemplation of such a family would possess charms for me beyond the power of any other pleasure to excite; but if it required to be heightened through contrast, surely that contrast is to be met with on the Continent! Yes, to a sober mind, there is something horrible in the metamorphosis produced in the minds of some with whom you and I are acquainted. Letters are so frequently opened at the foreign post-offices, and so often lost, that I shall be prudent, and not send names out to the winds; however, you will have no difficulty in recognizing F---- and L---- by their initials; and, though you are _still_ a wild sort of being yourself, you will be sorry to hear that they are immersed in every thing at Paris which they used to withstand so vigorously at Cambridge. We ranked them there amongst the _élite_, for genius, good taste, and polished habits. Alas! how are the mighty fallen? The facilitie afforded in Paris to the commission of every vice, are, perhaps hardly greater than those which London offers to tempt unwary youth; but there is all the difference in the world between the _manner_ of doing the thing in the two capitals. Notwithstanding the daily intercourse between England and France, there is _still_ such a body of national virtue and good feeling unshaken in the former country, that the most profligate can hardly sin with absolute impunity, and vice is scarcely bold enough to throw off the veil which, however flimsy, still protects some purer eyes from beholding corruption in all its deformity. Have you ever felt, when you lingered at a ball till day-light, and the bright beams of a newly risen sun shone with open freshness on the expiring lamps, the pale faces, and the tinsel finery of the last night's pageant; a sort of undefined sensation of shame at being thus caught by the truth-telling hour of waking seriousness, in the midst of a scene so unsuited to the time? If you have, I may avail myself of the similitude to describe the difference which I feel between England and the Continent. I say Continent at large, for the great towns are alike in this; ours is a daylight dance, while here is the nightly revel. With us the clear sunshine of opinion, if it cannot prevent excess, at least exhibits its faded form and haggard countenance, pronouncing on their ugliness, and inducing their concealment. Cross the channel, and a new order of things presents itself. _Decorum_ is busy indeed, but it is to deceive, and while the fascination of gaiety and ease presents an opiate to circumspection, the good taste which borrows an external clothing of propriety in which to dress the votaries of pleasure, finishes the delusion, and many young men are not aware of the counterfeit till they are fast bound in the spell like Telemachus in the island of Calypso. The French language too, now so universal, is a potent ingredient in the intoxicating cup. It acts as a _mask_, and since I left England, I have met with numbers of my countrymen, aye, and countrywomen also, who say things at Paris in the idiom of another tongue, which could never find utterance in their own, though no infringement of decency in _conduct_ would be tolerated publicly in good society abroad. All this renders foreign travelling a very insidious poison, and happy are those who can enjoy the benefits derivable from extensive acquaintance with men and manners, without risk of confounding the boundaries which separate vice from virtue. In short, no man is _safe_, upon whom the grand tour produces other effect than to send him back with increased thankfulness to the British Isles, as (waving adieu to the shores he has quitted) he borrows the words of the poet to say, "these are my visits;" and, turning to the white cliffs of Albion, finishes the line with "but thou art my home." It would be stupid, however, as well as ungrateful to deny the witchery, by way of securing either one's self, or one's friends against its allurements. This device, which my worthy guardian, I believe, in the honesty of his heart employed as a bastion of strength to fortify my weakness, will never, in any case, survive the first shot that experience levels against it. It is in vain to call the Syren's song discord, to say that nectar is but extract of wormwood, and Ambrosia but a mess of Spartan pottage. The first sound, and the first taste, disabuse the ignorant, adding the stimulus of surprise to what was but too attractive without it. No, let us fairly acknowledge the magic, and then try our best to repel its influence. You know that I shall keep all my _scenery_, whether moral or physical, for fireside talk, _perhaps_ at Glenalta, and not so much as a moon-beam on the Coliseum will you have in the way of description, already exhausted by abler limners than I am; but I cannot avoid adding my testimony to the charms of foreign society. It is not that it is wiser or better; it is not that you have better cheer, or one half so good accommodation as at home. No, the whole necromancy exits in one monosyllable--ease. In England ease is _practised_; in France it springs naturally from every one with whom you converse. In England people are _remembering_ to forget themselves; in France they do _really_ forget themselves, and in this simple circumstance resides the whole secret of being _at ease_. In England people _run_ to shew you how freely they can _walk_, never considering that _ease_, that grand desideratum, is as much banished by over exertion to be gay, as by the torpor of _mauvaise honte_. In France there is neither a _jerking_ activity, nor a leaden stupor, but people convey the idea, while you are in their company, of being pleased, interested, and animated, by the subject of conversation. There is no _acted_ egotism, no effort at making display; and the effect of an evening passed in a Parisian society is that of gaiety without fatigue. You have, perhaps, not heard a single sentence that you desire to treasure; but there has been no _strain_ upon your animal spirits. You have spoken naturally what really presented itself to be said, instead of _fishing_ for a theme, and having to recollect at every turn whether you were going to speak to a man or a woman. In fine, conversation, however trifling, flows on the Continent, while with us it resembles _pints_ of water, _chucked_ one after another into a pump. You work the handle, and up comes your pint, but there is no more till you make a new deposit, and a fresh exertion. It is unnecessary to add that I speak of _mixed_ society, and of its _average_ state in the two countries. Come to the sincere intercourse of mind and heart, when the affectations of fashion are in _abeyance_, or I should more justly say where they have never existed, and who would go to any climate of the earth from that in which our happy stars have placed us, to enjoy "the feast of reason and the flow of soul!" Ireland and Scotland, remember, are always included in this preference. But we do not understand _society_, even imitating the French, as we prove, alas, that we can do continually, in their _faults_, while we cannot throw off our whalebone and buckram. In France there is much less of _gossip_ than in England; the King, the Court, the national prosperity, or distress, the political relations of Europe, philosophy, sentiment, all find their way broken down to a convenient circulable medium into company. You hear many false positions in each several department, but you have likewise a great deal of good sense and discrimination; and at all events you have _common property_ in the subjects which are treated in a French circle, as if they really _interested_ the assembly. Perhaps at the moment of reading this passage of my letter, you recollect what _pops_ into my memory in the moment of writing it; I mean a paragraph upon which you and I commented together, in one of the letters of Madame du Deffand, where she describes to Horace Walpole the "_grand succes_" of a _soirée_ at her house, from the introduction of some paltry New-year or Easter gifts. There is no inconsistency here. Whether it be the army, the navy, the funds, Cuvier's last work, La Place's talents, the Jardin des Plantes, the fashionable actor or musician; the last song, epigram, bon-mot cap, bonnet or pin-cushion; the thing is talked of with animation, and apparent _interest_; and it is the want of this that renders common place society in England so insufferably dull, as often to suggest the idea that the several members who compose it prepare for meeting, by committing to memory a set of vapidly disjointed questions, and answers; a very catechism of inanity upon the least amusing topics which it is possible to select, and invariably such as no stranger can participate in from the strict _confinement_ of their locality. Here, men, women, old, young, handsome or ugly; all who can speak the language, take a part according to their several measures of ability in the general conversation. All look happy, and, from being at perfect ease themselves, possess the power of imparting this indispensable charm, this _essential essence_ of society, to every one with whom they hold companionship. Why cannot we seize upon this talent, and convert it to our own use, grateful as we must ever feel for its enlivening influence? Our deficiencies in colloquial power have long been matter of observation; and it is a trite remark, that the English cannot converse; but as it is admitted that every ingredient requisite for conversation of the most brilliant kind is to be found in our island, it would seem that we only want the method of _combining_, in which our neighbours excel. Your charming circle in Ireland have caught the happy art, and vainly should we look around for many such specimens as Glenalta exhibits of its perfection; but why cannot we all go into company determined to trade freely upon our capitals, be they large or small, avoiding on the one hand that _broad-cast_ sincerity which I am afraid I must call selfishness, that refuses to take interest in any concern which does not come home to the narrow enclosure of individual loss and gain, pain, or pleasure; and on the other, that conventional adoption of trifles incapable of amusing in any community, except a paradise of fools, with which we are in the habit of performing the _mechanism_ of society, fatiguing our friends, and doing penance ourselves?

Stanhope is a very fine young man, full of fire and enterprize, yet gentle and rational. He has a great deal of taste, and is very fond of the classics. We are going presently, armed with a pocket Horace, to visit Soracte, accompanied by Oliphant, who is exactly the sort of man to whose care Mr. Otway may fearlessly confide his charge. He has very good manners, plain, and unassuming, and possesses that fortunate mixture of sobriety and cheerfulness, which peculiarity befits the character of a tutor, securing at once the double tribute of respect and affection.

How I long for your next letter, which will tell me of your expedition to Killarney, and, oh that I could transport myself into the midst of you!

Before I close my letter, I must express the joy of a _true_ friend, at finding that you are so happy with your relations. Dear Arthur, I _knew_ that your mind would undergo a revolution. It is only in _progress_ at present, but I anticipate more decision in all your views of people and things. You have too much sense, and your feelings are too fine, to admit of your being hood-winked. You must not drop into the crowd and suffer yourself to be borne upon its tide, without the slightest sympathy in the folly, and, shall I add, the _vulgarity_ that surround you. Yes, do not start, and suppose that I have lost my senses. I repeat the word; there is infinite _vulgarity_ in mere fashion. Something very poor and mean, in never daring to think for oneself, and in sacrificing every inclination and faculty to the tyranny of arbitrary control; but you will speedily rise into the consequence of a rational creature. You will take your station amongst intellectual beings, and, giving reins to the _real_ bent of your character, find that fulness of mind, which absolutely excludes _ennui_. I cannot express how much I am interested by the conversations which you have given me. A volume of description would not have conveyed a _tithe_ of what you have imparted in the way of information, by bringing me thus into the midst of the circle. I see the whole mental _map_ before me, and though it would be unreasonable to think that you can have time for such details in future, I cannot set you entirely free; but would fain hope that, coupled with the "incidents" which are all that you _promise_, henceforward I may still find a few of those graphic touches which make me present in that unrivalled group with whom your good fortune has _bound you up_.

To Mr. Otway I feel that I may desire to be presented with gratitude for the pleasure of which he has thought me worthy, in an introduction to my agreeable _colleagues_; but how shall I contrive to make my bow at Glenalta? If you _can_ find a happy moment in which to say with a good grace, "_Charles Falkland, Mrs. Douglas_," you will be more than ever the cherished friend of,

Your affectionate, C. F----.

P. S. Whenever you visit the city of the Seven Hills, be sure and come hither provided with "Rome in the nineteenth Century." It is a tribute which I for one, most willingly pay, to declare this work of a female pen to be by a thousand degrees the best _vade mecum_ with which you can furnish yourself.