LETTER XXXVI.

FROM EMILY DOUGLAS TO MISS SANDFORD.

My dearest Julia,

This will, probably, be my last letter from Marsden, unless any unfavourable change in my dear uncle’s health should alter the present arrangements for our departure. We are to go by Brighton and Dieppe, instead of by the route first proposed; and you may expect to hear from me as frequently as possible, though I shall never persecute you with my _travels as travels_: for I do believe there is nothing left in France or Italy, which has not been _served up_ in every practicable variety of form, to meet each different character of taste; but I trust to your affection for finding interest in every stage of our journey, though the map of it be so familiar to your memory as to deprive me of all hope to amuse you by descriptions of scenery or costumes. Since I wrote last, I have seen much that was new to _me_, without going abroad; and, though I should be very ungrateful not to acknowledge thankfully the great kindness with which we have been received in Hampshire, I cannot permit _even_ gratitude to blind me, and confound distinctions which I never desire to see melted into an undistinguishable mass of uniform colouring. My dear Julia, I sometimes stare with such amazement at the things that present themselves, as to fear that my eye-lids may be overstrained, and lose the power of closing; but, instead of egotizing on the effects produced upon my mind, I will beg you to accompany me to three or four splendid mansions in our neighbourhood, where you shall judge for yourself. About a week ago, Mr. Otway, Frederick, Charlotte, and I, took a delightful ride through the New Forest, to pay our respects to Mrs. Hannaper, a _Begum_ of this country, who commands several hundred votes, and who is, therefore, a grand bone of contention in this terrible electioneering struggle. She has a beautiful niece, Miss Ormsby, who is dressed all over in the colours of that party which her aunt espouses; and is so full of _stripes_ that she might be supposed to have made her gown and shawl out of the flag of a ship belonging to the United States. This young lady assists Mrs. Hannaper in canvassing for her favourite candidate, to whom it is said that she is to be married; and I have heard many gentlemen complain of being attacked with such perseverance, as to find great difficulty in retreating from the united influence of beauty and supplication. As we rode along, several groups of riotous, drunken men, in smock frocks, bearing bunches of buff and blue ribbons in their hats, interrupted our progress, and startled our horses, by tumultuary shouts which rent the air with cries “Sir Christopher Cromie, and Mrs. Hannaper for ever!” As we approached to Lyndhurst, the vociferation increased, and we were just consulting whether it would not be prudent to turn about, when a crowd came rushing down the road, which branched off at right angles with that by which we were journeying forward; and we found ourselves immediately surrounded by three or four hundred people, who had taken Mrs. Hannaper’s horses from the carriage in which she and her niece were sitting, and insisted on drawing them home themselves, to testify their attachment to the cause which she patronizes. Mrs. Hannaper is apparently from sixty to sixty-five, with a face and form neither rough nor unpleasing; but a cloth habit, tight beaver hat, over a Brutus wig, a coloured silk handkerchief tied round her throat, and a collar rising almost to her cheek bones, gave so masculine an air as completely to deceive me, while the interposition of some drooping branches of an ash tree concealed the lower part of her dress from my view. She stood up in her barouchette, waved her hat to the multitude, huzzaed, and acted so like a man upon the occasion, that when I came near enough to see a petticoat, I blushed for the honour of my sex. Her niece held a parasol over her head, and seemed less inclined to make these outrageous demonstrations than her aunt; but she held a sort of banner in the left hand with Sir Christopher’s name worked in gold letters, and her hat was ornamented with a great cockade of his colours. The carriage stopped when we appeared, and Mrs. Hannaper covering her head sat down, and desiring Mr. Otway, whom she had previously seen, to present my brother, sister, and me, very politely requested us to breakfast on the following day, when she meant, as she told us, to turn out a bagged fox; and her “Liliputians”--the name by which she distinguished a favourite pack of some tiny breed, with the technical appellation of which I am unacquainted. “Come early,” added she, “Sir Christopher, and a few friends, will be at Parham, where I shall be happy to see you.” I was beginning to say why we could not accept her kind invitation, when, in the same moment, I read “do let us go” in Frederick’s eye, and a glance from Mr. Otway’s, in which was legibly written, “it is something _new_, do not refuse.” I suppose that I mismanaged my excuse, for Mrs. Hannaper, nothing daunted, replied, “oh really you _must_ come, I never take refusals.” Mr. Otway told her that _some_ of the party would certainly attend her; and the intoxicated _leaders_ becoming impatient of so long a parley, threw up a cloud of hats into the air, with a deafening uproar, and the ladies were whirled along to our no small contentment, for our steeds threatened, by the noise, to become ungovernable. When we had resumed our peaceful track, we interchanged, as you may believe, some remarks upon the extraordinary vision that had just crossed our path. Mr. Otway was excessively amused by Charlotte’s asking whether Mrs. Hannaper, and her niece, were _Blue-stockings_. “No, I dare say not,” answered our friend. “Why do _you_ suppose them to be so?” “Oh,” replied Charlotte, “I have no reason, further than that from the masculine air of these ladies, I conclude that they must be disliked extremely by the other sex, and perhaps considered _intruders_ sufficiently to be called _Blues_.” An explanation ensued, and we learned that, though it is an inexcusable offence for a woman to fancy that she possesses any understanding, or is capable of any mental acquirement, notwithstanding that Heaven may have bestowed upon her the brightest abilities, it is perfectly admissible, under certain circumstances, to be a female _Nimrod_--to hunt and course, dress like a mail coachman, drive a curricle at full speed, ride like a Bedouin Arab, and be in at the death. Nay, Mr. Otway assured us, that Mrs. Hannaper is generally ornamented by the Fox’s brush in returning from the chase, and that she cries talliho with peculiar gusto! “But then,” added he, “she is a woman of immense fortune; and, however people might laugh at inferior folk, so many gentlemen are aspiring to the hand of this Diana, that a thousand knights would take the field to resent the slightest indignity offered to the goddess of their adoration.” No language can paint my astonishment to learn that this old lady went out hunting; to hear her huzzaing, and to see her manly costume, had been wonder enough for one day; _but_ to fancy it possible, that a _veteran_ belle of Mrs. Hannaper’s age, could dream of marriage, or, like queen Elizabeth, permit herself, in _this_ age of the world, to be surrounded by people _daring_ to talk of love to a _woman of sixty_, was something beyond my comprehension or credulity. For the first time in my life I thought, dearest Mr. Otway ill-natured, and, slackening my pace, fell back with Charlotte, allowing him, and Frederick, to take the lead--shall I own my weakness? I felt so humbled for my sex, that low spirits took possession of me; a melancholy dialogue succeeded, and a hearty fit of tears relieved the oppression which manners so novel had occasioned. My sister, and I, entreated that we might not be forced to attend the morning party; so Frederick went alone, and came back thoroughly disgusted with all that he saw. A gay party met at a breakfast _à la fourchette_, where the ladies, he told us, played their parts most vigorously at ham, dried fish, and all sorts of substantial fare, not disdaining to wash it down with a glass of champagne.

“To horse, to horse,” was the next order of the day, and the ladies, dressed in uniform, rode in the most sportsman-like manner, clearing gates, banks, and ditches. I cannot dwell upon the disgraceful theme. Alas! is learning decried? Are women ridiculed for improving their minds, and gaining useful knowledge, while such a surrender of every characteristic that distinguishes the feminine from the masculine gender, is tolerated and encouraged? I feel a _nausea_ when I hear the name of Hannaper; but I have not done with her yet. In a day or two after our meeting, she came to see us, having duly ascertained that my uncle would not give his interest to either party at the approaching election; and certainly nothing can be more appropriate than the name by which she is called in the country. “_Jack Hannaper_,” exactly prepares one for the abrupt masculine unceremonious _assault_ which she makes on the people at whose houses she visits. Mamma’s gentle and retiring manner, the gravity of her dress, and total absence of interest in the gossip of the neighbourhood, induced the Dame of Parham Hall, to address herself chiefly to my uncle, whom she overpowered with her volubility. After having talked of her dogs which have got the distemper, of a horse which she had shot, _perhaps_ with her own hand, because it had the glanders, she proceeded, and with all the technicality of the hustings, proclaimed the state of the poll, her intention of appearing on a favourite charger at the head of her _plumpers_, and giving a _coup de grace_ to the enemy. Perceiving, it may be, from the languid appearance of my dear uncle, that he was fatigued by this farrago of nonsense, Mrs. Hannaper suddenly turned to me, and said, “Oh, but my dear Miss Douglas, you really had a great loss in not coming to Parham the other day. We had very good fun I assure you, and I dare say you will be glad to hear that your brother was much admired. He rides particularly well, and no centaur ever sat a horse more firmly. Upon my word he is a very handsome fine young fellow, and I have no doubt will make a figure yet. I shall be always happy to see him at Parham Hall.” Frederick’s praises would go far to put me in good humour with any medium through which they met my ear; but these fell upon it in sounds so coarse, and unaccustomed, that I felt they were a sort of profanation, and wished that my brother had never joined the unrefined society of this _unfeminine female_. My cheeks glowed, but not with pleasure. It was a fevered flush. I longed for Mrs. Hannaper’s departure, and did not know how to answer her; but she did not leave me many seconds in a state of embarrassment on Frederick’s account. All minor vexation was presently merged in the shame which I felt on my _own_, when this “she wolf with unrelenting fangs,” seized my arm, and, starting with real or affected recollection, exclaimed, “Well, but only fancy my omitting to tell you before, that Sir Archibald Johnson is thinking of you for his son, who makes no kind of objection, and if your fortune can liberate the estate from some thousands of embarrassment, it will be quite a nice hit. Lady Johnson of Norbury Park will not sound badly. The settlements and _pin money_ will be liberal I dare say, and any assistance which my work-people in London can give, I shall be vastly happy, I assure you, to offer. You know that you need not have much at present: a few things made by the first hands will do, till you go to town yourself, and choose your own jewels, and select your own favourite colours. I am sure that Sir Archibald will be anxious to hasten matters, for I know at this moment, that a sum of ten thousand is called in by Mr. Fletcher, who is going to marry one of his girls famously to that madcap, Colonel Anstruther, who will be as rich as a jew bye and bye. To be sure he is a sad _roué_ at present, but either he will sow his wild oats or run a muck. If the latter, he will shoot himself, or end his days in the Fleet; but people must not look forward; if we did, what a dull sort of thing you know it would be. I doat on the little Scotch song, which says ‘the present moment is our ain, the next we never saw;’ how pretty!”

By this time I was burning indeed: shame, indignation, and surprise, were so strongly excited, that, like contrary forces, they had the effect of paralyzing all movement. I sat like a fool, totally unable to speak; and how long I should have been doomed to listen to a strain so uncouth, the more humiliating, because uttered in the presence of mamma and my uncle, I know not, if Mr. Bolton had not been announced in this crisis, when Mrs. Hannaper jumped up, called her niece, who had been talking to Charlotte in the music-room adjoining, and, hastily nodding to me, shook my hand with an air of _intelligence_, saying, “I hate old Bolton, so must take fresh ground; well, we will talk over matters when next we meet, and _perhaps_ the neighbourhood may be enlivened by more than _one_ wedding ere long.” Miss Ormsby laughed so loud as this sally burst upon her ear, that I was absolutely confounded. “Good morrow” being hurried over, the same opening of the door served to usher in the old gentleman, to whose _rescue_ I had been once before indebted, and to float away the most intolerable specimen of inelegance and indelicacy that I ever met with in the form of woman. The dear little Mr. Bolton was received with rapture. He seemed like a guardian spirit, and I believe that he saw how truly he was welcome to me, as in the most good-humoured and playful manner possible, he said, “Oh, do you know I have had a great escape. Mrs. Hannaper looked as if she could have eaten me up; and only that your hall is so spacious, I question whether I could have avoided a _bite_ at least. Miss Douglas, I take it into my head that this amazonian _chieftainess_ is not a greater favourite of yours than she is of mine.” I confessed that she would not be my _model_, and Mr. Bolton continued, “But you and I shall have ample revenge, if I may depend on a little bit of _backstairs_ intelligence which has reached me through my own man.

“Now, you must not set me down as an old gossip because I tell you so, and suppose that I am always employed in running to and fro, to pick up scandal; but really poetic justice requires that such a creature as Mrs. Hannaper should receive _some_ check, and be reminded of her age, before she is called to her great account. So far therefore, from thinking myself ill-natured at _chuckling_ in the anticipation of a disappointment, which I have good reason to believe is suspended by a hair over her head, I am bound as a Christian to rejoice in any thing that may awaken her to a sense of her folly, and drive her to more serious thoughts than those which possess her idle brain.”

Much as I dislike Mrs. Hannaper, there was something so repugnant to my feelings of humanity in suffering a fellow-creature to encounter any ill, which timely notice might prevent, that I expostulated with Mr. Bolton, and implored him to apprize the old lady of his apprehensions, that so the catastrophe, however it might threaten, should be averted. Mr. Bolton was silent for a moment, while he fixed his eyes intently upon me, then catching my hand affectionately, he pressed it like a friend of the “olden time,” and with a tear starting to his eye, said, “God bless you child! my heart opens to the voice of nature, and it has taken me by surprise to-day, for her’s is a language which I seldom hear.” Oh, Julia, when such a commonplace sentiment as that which I had expressed, in wishing to spare a fellow-creature pain, had power to astonish by its novelty, and delight for its moral virtue, what a comment is furnished by such an anecdote as this upon modern society. If this be the world (and people are the same I suppose, whether rolling through the streets of London, or over the roads in Hampshire), defend me from its attractions. I feel like the country mouse longing for my grey peas and peaceful Glenalta; but the lovely Alps will refresh my eyes with images of God’s creation, and I shall soon bid farewell to these disgusting scenes of artificial life.

Mr. Bolton, after the little episode which I have described, returned to the merry mood, and rubbing his hands in an ecstacy, said, “No, no, depend upon it I will be ‘mute as a coach-horse.’ You shall none of you know a word of the under-plot which is weaving. I will not be a tell-tale. Let all things take their course.”

This dear little man is the soul of pleasantry, and seems to have an excellent heart, though bound up in a quaint outside. He is _very_ English, and has a _snug_ facetiousness of manner irresistibly diverting. I hope that I may be fortunate enough to meet him often in this neighbourhood, for he has both tact and feeling; and while his uncommon drollery amuses, his keen observation protects. He seems to delight in young people, and to understand _us_. My uncle enjoys his company, and they had a great deal of conversation, after which he took his leave, entreating that we should not fail to meet him at Lady Campion’s, to whose house we were invited for the following morning, to a trial of skill in archery. The time for these revels is not yet come; but as several families are prevented this year, I am told, from being in town, through one cause or other, they are doing the best they can to keep up the ball of pleasure, and _rehearse_ for a more full and fashionable season. Mr. Bolton was _my_ allurement, and the hope of seeing him, emboldened me to go under the wing of Mr. Otway, accompanied by Charlotte and Frederick.

Lady Campion and her daughters are come home within the last month, from Italy. They are a lovely group. Mother and daughters beautiful, and dressed in the same way, like sisters, it was not easy to distinguish the parent from the offspring. I do not like this. Surely the most tender love may subsist without this confusion of relationships. In the deep attachment which binds my heart to the precious author of my being, how sorry I should be even for a moment, to forget that she is my _mother_. But though not yet twenty, I feel as if I were fourscore, when I look around me. Nothing could be prettier than the little lawn on which we marshalled to see the archers. The graceful figures, the skill with which they managed the bow, the beauty of the fair competitors, clad in a livery of “Lincoln green,” the exquisite flowers which perfumed the amphitheatre of their sports, altogether charmed Charlotte and me. We were asked to join the lists, but as we could truly plead ignorance of the art, we gladly dropped back upon a fringe of the finest rhododendrons I ever beheld, lined by a bank of arbutus, to witness the combat. There were from forty to fifty spectators, amongst whom were only two, besides Mr. Bolton, whom I ever desire to see again. These were a Mrs. and Miss Fraser, Scotch people, a mother and daughter, very unlike our pretty hostess, who, to my amazement, I found was a rival candidate for the prize with her _children_; and, alas, _can_ you believe it! is jealous of a Lord Thornborough’s attentions to the elder of them. This young and vapid peer was of our party; the most finnikin object that you can imagine. He had called one day at Marsden, so that I did not see him for the _first_ time at Lady Campion’s; and when he visited my uncle, Fanny, whose _fresh naïveté_ supplies a constant source of amusement to us, said, “Well, if in one of my walks I met Lord Thornborough and his friend Mr. Freeman (a young man of fashion who has accompanied him to this country), I am sure that I could not help offering them my assistance were there any difficulty to be got over; for certainly those young men could not help themselves over a hedge, ditch, or stile.”

I _must_ give you a sketch of this London pair. They have both such heads for size, from the abundance of curled hair and whiskers that disfigure them, that if their bodies were concealed you would expect to see giants, judging by the proportion of limb that would suit such prodigious _capitals_. On the contrary, however, they are both rather diminutive than tall; their hands are not larger than a young lady’s, and as white as alabaster. Add to this appearance, rings, pins, chains, &c., and judge whether Fanny was very wide of the mark, when, with the rosy glow of sixteen, “redolent of life and spring,” her humanity would prompt the offer of her aid to creatures so pale, so thin, so cadaverous, that Mr. Bolton very truly said, that “they looked like weavers just out of an hospital.” But I have not done. How _can_ I believe the things that I hear? Two pink spots, which alone distinguished Lord Thornborough’s face from that of a corpse, and which I thought indicated consumption, are, Mr. Bolton declares, positively rouge! I blush as I write the word! But to return to the archery.--The gentlemen were not so successful as the ladies: Miss Campion sped her arrow right through the centre of the target, and claimed a victory, which her mother, who came within half an inch of the bull’s eye, refused to admit, demanding to be queen herself, and awarding only the second prize to her daughter. An altercation ensued, and the angry looks, the unkind taunts which I witnessed, live still in my memory.

Matters grew so serious, that Mr. Otway proposed lots: Lady Campion drew the longest, and darting a look of fire at her rival, was crowned by Lord Thornborough, whom she in turn _voted_ to be winner in the teeth of justice and truth; and, after having reciprocally distinguished him by a wreath of Fame, caught him by the hand, and triumphantly led the way towards a fine Grecian temple in the grounds, where a magnificent collation was prepared, and where the _pseudo_ king and queen occupied a throne of scarlet and gold, decorated with laurels; while the rightful monarchs had not even the satisfaction of _mingling_ their complaints, as the _real_ hero was a sweet young midshipman, son to Mrs. Fraser, who laughed heartily at being _choused_, as he said, out of his conquest, and who seemed of much too noble a stamp to kneel at the feet of a haughty _regina_, who, though herself mortified, treated him with _sovereign_ contempt.

While we were seated at a table covered with refreshments, one of the Misses Campion asked me, so suddenly, the ridiculous question, “Have you been out yet?” that though I have heard that it is the _technical_ phrase for being presented in the world, the more familiar meaning occurred to my mind, and, like an idiot, I answered, that I should think a walk round the grounds very pleasant. A loud and rude burst of laughter drew the attention of the company upon me, and would have overwhelmed me with confusion, if Mr. Bolton, who was sitting between me and my tormentor, had not, with the celerity of an arrow, upset a flask of Champagne into the lap of the fair follower of Diana, which produced such a prompt metamorphosis, as “turned the green one red” in an instant, and the laugh against her from me. The thing was done so adroitly, that it appeared accidental, and as no one was more busy than the _perpetrator_ in offering the most gallant commiseration, I never knew till two days after that I was thus indebted in a third instance to my faithful knight.

We adjourned presently to a music-room, where harp and piano-forte, with all “means and appliances to boot,” challenged competition in a new form; and here another sad scene was exhibited. A charming Italian duet was asked for by Lord Thornborough, and Miss Campion, who was in the habit of singing the second, was called very authoritively by her mother to take her part: she was also to accompany on the piano-forte. With a cheerful alacrity which delighted me, as evincing, I thought, a sweet forgiving temper, she took her seat at the instrument; but the harmony was soon disturbed, for she had no sooner _landed_ her mother in a solo recitative, which the latter was singing to admiration, than, jumping up, overturning the music-desk, and rushing towards a window, she exclaimed, “Look at the eagle!” The company followed; and a crow, which had crossed the house, and was picking up worms in the lawn, was the only winged animal that presented itself to view. Peals of unmeaning laughter succeeded. Lady Campion was outrageous, and could scarcely preserve an appearance of decency; but as I felt how very irritating her daughter _intended_ to be, I begged Mrs. and Miss Fraser to come and make a little party at her side. We entreated her to excuse Miss Campion’s mistake, and to indulge us with a repetition of the delightful air in which she had been interrupted.

After much disquietude, matters were arranged once more, and the solo was achieved; but in the midst of the concluding movement, which was very brilliant, and calculated to make a striking impression in the winding up, Miss Campion uttered a piercing shriek, the effect of which was ludicrous in the extreme, mingling as it did with the full harmony, and vociferated, “a bee, a bee!” and a bee there certainly _was_, crawling up the leg of the piano-forte, so weak and so drowsy after the cold weather, that the last of its _intentions_, poor thing, seemed to be to inflict the slightest injury on any one. Frederick put the obnoxious insect out of the window, but Lady Campion was now inexorable: she lost all control over looks and manner, which seemed to affect every one, except the person to whom they were directed; and, quite shocked by the scene, I requested that we might take our departure, which we did without delay, leaving such a domestic _broil_ as I had then witnessed for the first time, to cool as it might.

Lord Thornborough handed me to the carriage, and with an unfeeling “Hah! hah! hah!” said, Miss Douglas, “you have come in for a thunder-storm to-day. Her ladyship was rather sublime; don’t you think so?” I was too much disgusted to reply, and, contenting myself with a passing bow, was happy to find myself on the high road to Marsden.

Am I sure that my senses do not deceive me, and that such things are? Is the sacred relationship of parent and child _out of fashion_? And is it possible, that while a daughter forgets the respect due to a mother, mothers have forgotten to respect themselves? I am not surprised now, when I hear Mr. Otway and Mr. Bolton speak of the present _times_, and compare them with the period immediately preceding the Revolution in France. I heard them agree a day or two ago in drawing the parallel with mournful fidelity, and finding in the frightful demoralization of continental manners, which is making, they said, rapid progress in these countries, but too certain a prognostic of the fate that will follow, if the tide be not arrested, of which there seems but little hope.

If I had staid at home I should never have known these things; and however one may detest, I do not feel that we can become familiar with what is wrong, without being the worse for it.

In two days after Lady Campion’s _popping-jay_, we were forced by my uncle to attend an evening party at Lady Neville’s. It is not more than two months since she has lost a beautiful and accomplished daughter, who died of decline. If _my_ beloved mother had hung over the dying couch of a child, would _she_----but I must curb myself, and _relate_ facts, not _comment_ upon them, or I shall never have done. Till ten o’clock at night we did not go to Neville Court, though the cards particularly notified “an early party;” and when we reached that splendid mansion, we found an immense assemblage of the _beau monde_, greater than it was possible to suppose could be mustered at such a distance from London which is the focus of all fashionable rays, a few of which only are scattered and refracted by various accidents in certain individual families, as cracks in a glass will disturb the transmission of the sun’s beams. _Here_ was another _lie direct_, for the cards also informed us, that the party was to be a “_small_” one. Why this perversion of language? I cannot fathom it. If some lurking remnant of compunctious feeling crossed the heart of Lady Neville; and in the words “small” and “early” she discovered a slight palliation of the offence against decency (for I will not profane the sweet idea of maternal love by using its language in _such_ company), which she had determined on committing, I should perceive the reason of the strange deception of which I am speaking, but all was gaiety and glitter. Lady Neville and her daughters sparkled with diamonds arranged upon a sort of gossamer drapery, so light, so graceful, so artificially adjusted, fashionable and becoming, that mourning was the last sentiment which such paraphernalia could excite or indicate. Their dress told lies as well as their cards.

The house at Neville Court is superb, and as I wandered from room to room with the amiable Frasers and my own Charlotte, I felt the luxury of kindred sentiment in a _new world_, and gave free course to thoughts that were little in unison with the passing scene. I fancied this magnificent ball-room, with its chandeliers, its lustres, and chalked floor, two short months ago, _perhaps_, the theatre of _another_ sort of assembly. I marked the spot where, in imagination, I could descry the lonely tressels supporting their sad and youthful burthen----that opening flower untimely torn from its stalk, and snatched from the warm hopes of unfolding spring. I beheld the mutes, and saw the tables spread with funeral fare; the “cold baked meats” of death; the sable hangings; the hirelings of office, marshalling their dismal train, at least with _features screwed_ to the occasion, and _voices_ subdued to whisper. With the most painful feelings I asked within myself, “must we fly from the fondest ties of nature, to seek for sorrow in ‘those chambers of imagery supplied from the undertaker’s mercenary taste;’ and fail to find it enshrined within the breast of a mother or a sister?” My cheek _curdled_, and my breathing became oppressed, while these melancholy phantoms glided past my mental vision, and like spectres mingled in the dance. The brilliant ball-room seemed to me no other than Holbein’s “dance of Death;” and when I was roused from my reverie by, “Miss Douglas, will you _daunce_?” let slip, as if from the mouth of one just dropping asleep, whose muscles had become too flaccid to retain the words within its lips any longer, I started as if I had been shot by one of Lady Campion’s arrows, and turned round upon--Mr. Johnson. Though I delight in dancing, there was too much lead at my heart to allow of merriment in my feet at this moment; and I therefore instinctively declined, and for a time got rid of the consummate puppyism of this disagreeable young man.

To my utter astonishment I was asked to join in the next quadrille by Lord Thornborough, whose politeness I should not have supposed from any thing else I had witnessed, could have induced the remembrance of a country lass, and a stranger (though the latter is the highest claim to attention in my dear Ireland), amidst such dazzling beauty and attraction as solicited his regards. You see I did him injustice, and am ready to make the _amende honorable_; but as I had refused Mr. Johnson, I could not dance with any one else, and though I did not regret this circumstance from any admiration of _milord_, I confess to having found it difficult to sit still, when the gloomy contemplations with which the evening commenced, began to yield to the inspiring influence of lively music. I had, however, the great pleasure of seeing Charlotte enjoying a gratification which was denied to me; and, would you believe it, she had scarcely begun to move, when a crowd was collected to see her dance. Her figure is so like what one imagines of a Sylph, and her ear is so perfect, that to admire her performance in a quadrille, would appear nothing more than the necessary routine of cause and effect, if I had not believed the group by which we were surrounded quite too artificial in its construction to leave a corner for nature to slide in at. However, so it was, that I heard several of the gentlemen express their approbation in terms more energetic than I should have thought such indolent looking people likely to employ on any occasion, _even_ of the moment; and dear unconscious Charlotte seemed for a time _Reine de la fête_.

“Yes,” said Mr. Bolton, who came to sit by me for a little while, “_there_ is the triumph of truth and native grace over all the contrivances of fashion. There is your sister, who has never seen London or Paris, bearing away the palm from all those painted dolls who are swinging their persons round the room.”

Quadrilles ended, how shall I express my feelings at seeing Lady Campion and Lord Thornborough get up to waltz! Timanthes, a painter of ancient times, drew a veil over the face of a father whose grief he felt unequal to pourtray. I must borrow his device, and let a curtain fall over an exhibition which I wish obliterated from my memory. I found a few lines by Frederick, which he wrote in London, after returning from a ball, part of the concluding stanza of which shall finish my descant upon this distasteful theme:

“But there is something in a waltz which wears Off all the lovely bloom of virgin grace, When round Belinda’s form a stranger dares Fling the unhallowed arm in bold embrace, And rudely gazes on her beauteous face.”

The dancing wanted that _gaieté du cœur_ which alone renders it an agreeable and animating amusement. The ladies glided like silver eels, and the gentlemen groped about the room as if their eyes were shut, so that absolutely, if a stranger had been introduced, who never saw a modern ball-room before, he might have been excused for imagining that the dancers were playing blind man’s buff, and afraid of knocking their heads against the panels, if they moved their bodies without the utmost circumspection. In short, a child of nature would wonder why people should take the trouble of submitting their feet to a sort of _rhythm_ just enough to shackle their freedom, and prevent the luxury of perfect inanition. Well, thought I to myself, this society is _fashionable_. These men and women move in what is called the first circle. The former will, many of them, become our Members of Parliament; senators, by whose collective wisdom we are to be directed. These asses in human form, the most idle, ignorant, effeminate animals possible to conceive, are to be husbands, fathers, landlords, masters! It is a melancholy prospect, and in looking to my own sex, on thoughts of which my mind from infancy has dwelt with pride and pleasure, as the sweet depository of religion, morals, fond affections, taste and talents softened down to social converse, and illuminating the domestic sphere, oh, what a contrast meets my eye! what will these creatures be when all that art can do to whiten the poor sepulchre shall fail, and wrinkles insurmountable _will_ raise their fearful lines of circumvalation round the once bright orbs? when rouge itself, the last faithful handmaid of departing beauty, no longer sticks to the haggard cheek, no longer lights up the extinguished eye; when the ethereal form of finished symmetry is either swelled to the mountain size of those round matrons who in vain would try to grasp the pedal harp which shuns the corpulent embrace, or dwindled to the bony frame which only serves for draperies to be hung upon? What will be the fate of these hapless wrecks of vanished youth, when even cards, the ultimate resource of age, the last strong hold of veteran nothingness, shall cease to charm? Oh, my Julia, how will these miserable beings tremble, as the grave yawns beneath their feet! Eternity awaits all these butterflies, whether male or female; and I shudder, as imagination presents the grisly group of coxcombs, and of belles, stripped of their paint and patches, wigs, and waltzes, and standing to receive the final sentence at an Almighty tribunal.

I was interrupted in my _sermon_ by a call to the library. It was to meet our new chaplain, for whom my uncle promised to provide, when he procured the appointment of Mr. Oliphant to the parish of Glenalta; and what words can describe our joy at finding in this young man, no other than your neighbour and intimate friend, Alfred Stanley. A person with whom we all feel so well acquainted, and have such reason, through your dear aunt’s eloquent sketches of his character, to admire and value without having ever seen him till now.

Mamma, you know of old, loves to play us a little trick sometimes; and in the present instance I find that all the Checkley family have been in league with her to surprise us. Judge then of our astonishment at receiving your packet by Mr. Stanley, whose groom returns to-morrow into Derbyshire, and shall take this _volume_ to you.

A few days now will see us _en route_. I cannot hope to send you more than a _line_ till I reach Paris.

Adieu, my dearest Julia; I would that we had done with towns, and were safely arrived in that beautiful region where the mighty “Alps have reared a throne” worthy of those skies which gild their everlasting snows with refulgent glory.

A thousand loves attend you all.

Ever your affectionate,

EMILY DOUGLAS.