LETTER XXXI.

MISS DOUGLAS TO MISS SANDFORD.

Dearest Julia,

Here is my last letter from Glenalta, but as I promised to _stake the course_ for you from hence to Turin, you may expect short notices at least from every resting place, and thus be enabled, as you affectionately wish, to enter into all the feelings of your friends, as they proceed in a journey which would be such unmixed happiness in prospect, were we not leaving sorrowful hearts behind, and taking with us a beloved relation whose fading form presents continual comment on the vanity of human joys.

I look upon my dear uncle’s expressive countenance, and sometimes fix my thoughts so intently on the world of spirits, while I contemplate the mild intelligence of that deep-sunk eye, that I lose all idea of an earthly travel, and could fancy that he is setting out upon a heaven-ward pilgrimage, in which it is graciously permitted us to be the companions of his way.

In some sort surely, this reverie is not the work of mere imagination; for that he is not long for this world I begin to believe. That he is destined for communion with the just made perfect in another, I cannot doubt.

He has an angel to pilot his progress, and in all things he obeys that voice which calls upon him to follow in the only path that leads to a life of immortal blessedness. Mamma is for ever employed in reading to, and conversing with him; and it is impossible to conceive any thing more interesting than the dialogues to which I am sometimes a listener.

We are to go to Marsden before we set out on our tour. My uncle wishes to see the place which he calls _home_--a word which fills me with melancholy when he pronounces it. Alas! I fear that Marsden will not be long a home to him; but some repose will be required before he proceeds on his journey. I think that we are to sail from Southampton, and travel through Normandy to Paris, which my uncle insists on our seeing before we take up our abode at Turin. My mind is at present in such a state of agitation, that I scarcely know how to define the emotions which are in continual conflict, at one moment presenting nothing but images of grief, and in the next exhibiting bright hope and trust, with all the airy train of “pleasures yet untried.” If I could take Glenalta, and all the dear _Penates_ that I must leave behind; but if, and if, would lead us into labyrinths which I must not enter, or perhaps I might feel not satisfied with dislodging this little valley, but increasing in my demands, might pray that the kingdom of Kerry, _perhaps_ the whole of Ireland might accompany me; and improved as are the powers of accommodation by the magical working of steam, I question the capacity of any packet, on any construction, to transport the hundredth part of those objects which my troublesome affections would have ever present, were such things possible.

Fairies are out of date, and we must be resigned. Worthy Mr. Bentley takes the approaching departure of my uncle so much to heart, that I shall not be surprised if Mount Prospect, like Birnam Wood, should put itself in march, and come to Turin instead of Dunsinane. Mrs. Fitzroy used to be very entertaining in her attacks on our good friend Mr. Bentley, and asked him one day, when he had said something that provoked her, what could possess him to give such a name to his place; adding, “I assure you, Mr. Bentley, that _sort_ of name is quite generic; it marks a class so decidedly that I could not be mistaken in peopling a Mount Prospect, a Bettyville, or O’Sullivan’s Lodge, with exactly appropriate inhabitants, and such as I do not imagine that you would like to acknowledge for your relations.”

Our neighbour comically replied, “Madam, if what you say be true, a name is of more importance than I thought, and I feel less inclined than ever to part with that which has the power of conjuring up to your view my grandfather, honest Roger Bentley, who named the farm which I inhabit Mount Prospect. No, Madam, fond as I am of my ancestors, though they were neither possessed of rank or fortune, I should be ashamed, if, instead of being sheltered by a solid _lump_ of a house fit for our climate, I was perched upon the top of a hill in some fine Italian edifice, spread out with corridors, supported on piazzas, and looking as if it had been blown, by contrary winds, like a tropical bird, into our bogs by accident. Your Tivolis, Valambrosas, and Rialtas are capital absurdities, Madam; and I should blush were I obliged by filial respect to defend them; but, thank God, _my_ parents were plain worthy people, who built a snug square house, and called it Mount Prospect.”

Mrs. Fitzroy told him that the wings, colonnades, and transalpine nomenclature, were as ridiculous in her eyes as in his, “but,” added she, “I find you very ready to inveigh against one class of follies, while you are all clemency towards others; and as to the names of your country seats in Ireland, they are quite a reproach to you as a nation. If I hear that I am going to visit at _Oakpark_, I am certain that I shall see a desert moor, with a few ten-year old elms, thinly scattered, and paled in with hurdles, to prevent the sheep from barking them. If I am to call at _Hazlewood_, I am equally sure to find no wood at all, or at most an old hawthorn bush in solitary abstraction. _Hollybrook_ has, I am convinced, neither brook nor holly near it. _Rockview_ has, probably, not a stone larger than an orange to be seen within its precincts; and so on of a thousand other misnomers that I could enumerate.”

I remember that Mr. Bentley was _rising_ in choler, as he felt _lowered_ from not being ready at reply; but dear Domine flew to the rescue, and seeing the commotion of our worthy friend, he brought him off with a sort of triumph, by assuring Mrs. Fitzroy that oaks _had_ stood where now there are only the ghosts of these forest kings; that rocks _had_ been where now the quarryman’s pick-axe has left a level plain; that brooks, which meandered once, are now dry; and that our names are often remnants of our former, not indications of our present pride. I forget how the conversation ended, but it amused me at the time that it happened, and slipped out of my recollection, till having written Mount Prospect, that name revived the remembrance of a combat which diverted us.

I shall pity George Bentley, when he loses so many friends with whom he is accustomed to pass a part of almost every day, but he will bear it better than Frederick would do in the same situation. How wonderfully the good and evil of life are balanced! Sensibility increases every pleasure, but as certainly augments every pain. George seems always to enjoy a sort of calm tranquillity, which generally defends him from any species of excitement. Is he happier than those of more sensitive structure? perhaps about the same. He gains on the one side what he loses on the other. He is an excellent young man, but he wants light and shade, that is, he wants variety. Characters, like countries, may be too little diversified, and in the midst of the highest cultivation, I should sigh for the sweet glens, and bowery labyrinths that lie in retreat, and offer their refreshing charms to those alone who love to seek their deep recesses. We hear from Arthur frequently, and I grieve to tell you that his letters bring us sad accounts of the Craytons. Mr. Otway, I believe, has made an effort to obtain some money from my uncle, but with what success I know not; however I greatly fear that no moderate sum would be of more than temporary use, for Lord C. is a determined gambler, and poor Adelaide has plunged into every sort of extravagance without supplies adequate to sustain it. Dear Arthur’s anxiety is corroding his spring time of life; and my poor aunt, I am told, is not lightening his uneasiness. These are gloomy subjects, and I will release my dearest Julia from their melancholy influence.--Adieu dear friend,

Your affectionate,

EMILY DOUGLAS.