Part 12
We had intended to send the foregoing loose remarks to press, in order to request as many of our schoolfellows in the upper division as are willing to become subscribers to leave their names with Mr. Williams, at whose house the library will be established. But as we were preparing to send off the manuscript, an old gentleman, for whom we have a great respect, called in, and looked over our shoulder. He then took a chair, and observed to us: “This will never do!” He took off his spectacles, wiped them, put them on again, and repeated: “This will never do!
“I, sir, was an Etonian in the year 17--, and, being a bit of a speculator in those days, had a mind to do what you are now dreaming of doing. I addressed myself forthwith to various friends, all of them distinguished for rank, or talent, or influence, among their companions. I began with Sir Roger Gandy, expatiated on the sad want of books which many experienced, and asked whether he did not think a public library would be a very fine thing? ‘A circulating one,’ he said; ‘oh yes, very!’--and he yawned. There was taste!
“The next to whom I made application was Tom Luny, the fat son of a fat merchant on Ludgate Hill. Poor Tom! He died last week, by-the-by, of a surfeit. Well, sir, I harangued him for some time upon the advantages of my scheme, to which he gave his cordial assent. Finally I observed that, of course, it would not be very expensive. ‘Expensive!’ he said; ‘oh yes, very!’--and he walked off. There was liberality!
“Next I besieged Will Wingham. I made my approaches as before, with great caution, and at last summoned the garrison to surrender. ‘Books!’ he exclaimed, ‘I haven’t one but a Greek Grammar, with all syntax out.’ ‘And do you think,’ I resumed, ‘that an Etonian can do well without them?’ ‘Do well!’ he said; ‘oh yes, very!’--and he laughed. There was a wish for improvement!
“Now, my good Peregrine,” continued the old gentleman, putting his feet up upon the hobs of my fire, and looking very argumentative, “what do you say to all this?”
The old gentleman is
Laudator temporis acti Se puero.
He left the room piqued, when we hurt his prejudices by replying, “Nothing, sir, but that the Etonians of 1821 are not, we will hope, the Etonians of 17--.”
THE MISTAKE; OR, SIXES AND SEVENS.
“Be particular to observe that the name on the door is----.” _Morning Chronicle_, April 1821.
It is a point which has often been advanced and contested by the learned, that the world grows worse as it grows older; arguments have been advanced, and treatises written, in support of Horace’s opinion--
Ætas parentum pejor avis tulit Nos nequiores, mox daturos Progeniem vitiosiorem.
The supporters of this idea rest their sentence upon various grounds: they mention the frequency of crim. con. cases, the increase of the poor-rate, the licentiousness of the press, the celebrity of _rouge et noir_.
There is, however, one circumstance corroborative of their judgment, to which we think the public opinion has not yet been sufficiently called. We mean the indisputable fact that persons of all descriptions are growing ashamed of their own names. We remember that when we were dragged in our childhood to walk with our nurse, we were accustomed to beguile our sense of weariness and disgust by studying the names, which, in their neat brass plates, decorated the doors by which we passed. Now the case is altered. We have observed elsewhere that the tradesmen have removed their signs; it is equally true that the gentlemen have removed their names. The simple numerical distinction, which is now alone emblazoned upon the doors of our dwellings, but ill replaces that more gratifying custom, which, in a literal sense, held up great names for our emulation, and made the streets of the metropolis a muster-roll of examples for our conduct.
But a very serious inconvenience is also occasioned by this departure from ancient observances. How is the visitor from the country to discover the patron of his fortunes, the friend of his bosom, or the mistress of his heart, if, in lieu of the above-mentioned edifying brass plates, his eye glances upon the unsatisfactory information contained in 1, 2, or 3? In some cases even this assistance is denied to him, and he wanders upon his dark and comfortless voyage, like an ancient mariner deprived of the assistance of the stars.
Our poor friend, Mr. Nichol Loaming, has treated us with a long and eloquent dissertation upon this symptom of degeneracy; and certainly, if the advice _experto crede_ be of any weight, Mr. Nichol’s testimony ought to induce all persons to hang out upon the exterior of their residences some more convincing enunciation of their name and calling than it is at present the fashion to produce.
Nichol came up to town with letters of introduction to several friends of his family, whom it was his first duty and wish to discover. But his first adventure so dispirited him, that, after having spent two mornings at an hotel, he set out upon his homeward voyage, and left the metropolis an unexplored region.
He purposed to make his first visit to Sir William Knowell, and, having with some difficulty discovered the street to which he had been directed, he proceeded to investigate the doors, in order to find out the object of his search. The doors presented nothing but a blank! He made inquiries, was directed to a house, heard that Sir William was at home, was shown into an empty room, and waited for some time with patience.
The furniture of the house rather surprised him. It was handsomer than he had expected to find it; and on the table were the _Morning Chronicle_ and the _Edinburgh Review_, although Sir William was a violent Tory. At length the door opened, and a gentleman made his appearance. Nichol asked, in a studied speech, whether he had the honour to address Sir William Knowell? The gentleman replied that he believed there had been a little mistake, but that he was an intimate friend of Sir W. Knowell’s, and expected him in the course of a few minutes. Nichol resumed his seat, although he did not quite perceive what mistake had taken place. He was unfortunately urged by his evil genius to attempt conversation.
He observed that Sir W. Knowell had a delightful house, and inquired whether the neighbourhood was pleasant. “His next neighbour,” said the stranger, with a most incomprehensible smile, “is Sir William Morley.” Nichol shook his head; was surprised to hear Sir William kept such company--had heard strange stories of Sir W. Morley--hoped there was no foundation--indeed had received no good report of the family! “The mother rather weak in the head--to say the truth under confinement; the sister a professed coquette--went off to Gretna last week with a Scotch officer; Sir William himself a gambler by habit, a drunkard by inclination--at present in the King’s Bench, without the possibility of an adjustment----”
Here he was stopped by the entrance of an elderly lady leaning on the arm of an interesting girl of sixteen or seventeen. Upon looking up, Nichol perceived the gentleman he had been addressing rather embarrassed; and “hoped that he had not said anything which could give offence.” “Not in the least,” replied the stranger; “I am more amused by an account of the foibles of Sir W. Morley than any one else can be; and of this I will immediately convince you. Sir William Knowell resides at No. Six--you have stepped by mistake into No. Seven. Before you leave it, allow me to introduce you to Lady Morley--who is rather weak in the head, and, to say the truth, under confinement; to Miss Ellen Morley, a professed coquette, who went off to Gretna last week with a half-pay officer; finally”--(with a very low bow)--“to Sir William Morley himself, a gambler by habit, and a drunkard by inclination--who is at present in the King’s Bench, without the possibility of an adjustment!”
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
“Hâc in re scilicet unâ Multum dissimiles.” HOR.
In a visit which we paid some time ago to our worthy contributor, Morris Gowan, we became acquainted with two characters; upon whom, as they afford a perfect counterpart to Messrs. “Rhyme and Reason,” recorded in a former paper, we have bestowed the names of Sense and Sensibility.
The Misses Lowrie, of whom we are about to give our readers an account, are both young, both handsome, both amiable: Nature made the outline of their characters the same, but Education has varied the colouring. Their mother died almost before they were able to profit by her example or instruction. Emily, the eldest of the sisters, was brought up under the immediate care of her father. He was a man of strong and temperate judgment, obliging to his neighbours, and affectionate to his children; but certainly rather calculated to educate a son than a daughter. Emily profited abundantly by his assistance, as far as moral duties or literary accomplishments were concerned; but for all the lesser _agrémens_ of society, she had nothing to depend upon but the suggestions of a kind heart and a quiet temper. Matilda, on the contrary, spent her childhood in England, at the house of a relation, who, having imbibed her notions of propriety at a fashionable boarding-school, and made a love-match very early in life, was but ill-prepared to regulate a warm disposition and check a natural tendency to romance. The consequence has been such as might have been expected. Matilda pities the distressed, and Emily relieves them; Matilda has more of the love of the neighbourhood, although Emily is more entitled to its gratitude; Matilda is very agreeable, while Emily is very useful; and two or three old ladies, who talk scandal over their tea, and murder grammar and reputations together, consider Matilda a practised heroine, and laugh at Emily as an inveterate Blue.
The incident which first introduced us to them afforded us a tolerable specimen of their different qualities. While on a long pedestrian excursion with Morris, we met the two ladies returning from their walk; and, as our companion had already the privileges of an intimate acquaintance, we became their companions. An accurate observer of human manners knows well how decisively character is marked by trifles, and how wide is the distinction which is frequently made by circumstances apparently the most insignificant.
In spite, therefore, of the similarity of age and person which existed between the two sisters, the first glance at their dress and manner, the first tones of their voice, were sufficient to distinguish the one from the other. It was whimsical enough to observe how every object which attracted our attention exhibited their respective peculiarities in a new and entertaining light. Sense entered into a learned discussion on the nature of a plant, while Sensibility talked enchantingly of the fading of its flower. From Matilda we had a rapturous eulogium upon the surrounding scenery; from Emily we derived much information relative to the state of its cultivation. When we listened to the one, we seemed to be reading a novel, but a clever and an interesting novel; when we turned to the other, we found only real life, but real life in its most pleasant and engaging form.
Suddenly one of those rapid storms, which so frequently disturb for a time the tranquillity of the finest weather, appeared to be gathering over our heads. Dark clouds were driven impetuously over the clear sky, and the refreshing coolness of the atmosphere was changed to a close and overpowering heat. Matilda looked up in admiration--Emily in alarm; Sensibility was thinking of a landscape--Sense of a wet pelisse. “This would make a fine sketch,” said the first. “We had better make haste,” said the second. The tempest continued to grow gloomier above us: we passed a ruined hut, which had been long deserted by its inhabitants. “Suppose we take refuge here for the evening,” said Morris. “It would be very romantic,” said Sensibility. “It would be very disagreeable,” said Sense. “How it would astonish my father!” said the heroine. “How it would alarm him!” said her sister.
As yet we had only observed distant prognostics of the tumult of the elements which was about to take place. Now, however, the collected fury of the storm burst at once upon us. A long and bright flash of lightning, together with a continued roll of thunder, accompanied one of the heaviest rains that we have ever experienced. “We shall have an adventure!” cried Matilda. “We shall be very late,” observed Emily. “I wish we were a hundred miles off,” said the one hyperbolically. “I wish we were at home,” replied the other soberly. “Alas! we shall never get home to-night,” sighed Sensibility pathetically. “Possibly,” returned Sense dryly. The fact was that the eldest of the sisters was quite calm, although she was aware of all the inconveniences of their situation; and the youngest was terribly frightened, although she began quoting poetry. There was another and a brighter flash, another and a louder peal: Sense quickened her steps--Sensibility fainted.
With some difficulty, and not without the aid of a conveyance from a neighbouring farmer, we brought our companions in safety to their father’s door. We were of course received with an invitation to remain under shelter till the weather should clear up; and of course we felt no reluctance to accept the offer. The house was very neatly furnished, principally by the care of the two young ladies; but here again the diversity of their manners showed itself very plainly. The useful was produced by the labour of Emily; the ornamental was the fruit of the leisure hours of Matilda. The skill of the former was visible in the sofa-covers and the curtains, but the latter had decorated the card-racks and painted the roses on the hand-screens. The neat little bookcases, too, which contained their respective libraries, suggested a similar remark. In that of the eldest we observed our native English worthies--Milton, Shakespeare, Dryden, and Pope; on the shelves of her sister reclined the more effeminate Italians--Tasso, Ariosto, Metastasio, and Petrarch. It was a delightful thing to see two amiable beings with tastes so widely different, yet with hearts so closely united.
It is not to be wondered at that we paid a longer visit than we had originally intended. The conversation turned, at one time, upon the late revolutions. Matilda was a terrible Radical, and spoke most enthusiastically of tyranny and patriotism, the righteous cause, and the Holy Alliance: Emily, however, declined to join in commiseration or invective, and pleaded ignorance in excuse for her indifference. We fancy she was apprehensive of blundering against a stranger’s political prejudices. However that may be, Matilda sighed and talked, and Emily smiled and held her tongue. We believe the silence was the most judicious; but we are sure the loquacity was the most interesting.
We took up the newspaper. There was an account of a young man who had gone out alone to the rescue of a vessel in distress. The design had been utterly hopeless, and he had lost his life in the attempt. His fate struck our fair friends in very different lights. “He ought to have had a better fortune,” murmured Matilda. “Or more prudence,” added Emily. “He must have been a hero,” said the first. “Or a madman,” rejoined the second.
The storm now died away in the distance, and a tranquil evening approached. We set out on our return. The old gentleman, with his daughters, accompanied us a small part of the way. The scene around us was beautiful; the birds and the cattle seemed to be rejoicing in the return of the sunshine, and every herb and leaf had derived a brighter tint from the rain-drops with which it was spangled. As we lingered for a few moments by the side of a beautiful piece of water, the mellowed sound of a flute was conveyed to us over its clear surface. The instrument was delightfully played: at such an hour, on such a spot, and with such companions, we could have listened to it for ever. “That is George Mervyn,” said Morris to us. “How very clever he is!” exclaimed Matilda. “How very imprudent,” replied Emily. “He will catch all the hearts in the place!” said Sensibility, with a sigh. “He will catch nothing but a cold!” said Sense, with a shiver. We were reminded that our companions were running the same risk, and we parted from them reluctantly.
After this introduction we had many opportunities of seeing them; we became every day more pleased with the acquaintance, and looked forward with regret to the day on which we were finally to leave so enchanting a neighbourhood. The preceding night it was discovered that the cottage of Mr. Lowrie was on fire. The destructive element was soon checked, and the alarm quieted; but it produced a circumstance which illustrated, in a very affecting manner, the observations we have been making. As the family were greatly beloved by all who knew them, every one used the most affectionate exertions in their behalf. When the father had been brought safely from the house, several hastened to the relief of the daughters. They were dressed, and were descending the stairs. The eldest, who had behaved with great presence of mind, was supporting her sister, who trembled with agitation. “Take care of this box,” said Emily: it contained her father’s title-deeds. “For Heaven’s sake preserve this locket!” sobbed Matilda; it was a miniature of her mother!
We have left, but not forgotten you, beautiful creatures! Often, when we are sitting in solitude, with a pen behind our ear and a proof before our eyes, you come, hand in hand, to our imagination! Some, indeed, enjoin us to prefer esteem to fascination--to write sonnets to Sensibility, and to look for a wife in Sense. These are the suggestions of age; perhaps of prudence. We are young, and may be allowed to shake our heads as we listen!
MR. LOZELL’S ESSAY ON WEATHERCOCKS.
“Round he spun.”--BYRON.
We have a great respect for a Weathercock! There is something about it so springy, so sprightly, and, at the same time, so complying and so accommodating, that we are not ashamed to confess that we have long taken it for our model. It changes sides perpetually, yet always preserves one unvaried elevation; it is always in motion, yet always remains the same. We could look at a Weathercock for hours!
To us, however, it has another charm, independent of its intrinsic good qualities. Its name, not less than its character, recalls to our recollection a family which is entitled, in the highest degree, to our esteem; of which we should never cease to think, even if our memory were not daily sharpened by the little remembrancer, which is at once their namesake, their crest, and their model.
The family of the Weathercocks is one of considerable antiquity. The first of the name, whom we find distinguishing himself in any extraordinary degree, is Sir Anthony Weathercock of Fetherly, Staffordshire; who changed his party seven times during the unfortunate dissensions between the houses of York and Lancaster. And this he contrived to do with so much tact, that he was a considerable gainer by his six first defections. By his seventh he certainly sustained a trifling loss--he lost his head!
It is a well-known observation, that the descendants of surpassingly great men are often either blockheads or idiots. The present instance certainly affords us an exemplification of the truth of the remark. The successor of this genuine Weathercock was a poor weak fellow, who had no more idea of turning to the rightabout, without compulsion, than he had of breakfasting without beef. Upon his refusing to deliver up the castle of Nounhame to the celebrated Warwick, he was besieged, compelled to surrender, and immediately hung up upon the gates of the fort, to learn to behave like his forefathers.
The religious prosecutions which followed the union of the White and Red Roses afforded fresh opportunity for the manifestation of the merits of the Weathercocks. Theirs was almost the only family of any note in England which did not lose one or other of its members from the indiscriminate fury of superstition. The head of the house appears to have embraced as many religions, and more wives, than Henry himself; and a younger branch is said to have been, within a week, a serving-man in the train of Gardiner and a clerk in the household of Cranmer. But we are forgetting that we and our friends live in 1821, and that we shall weary the patience of our reader by tracing those dry historical facts _ab ovo_.
The Weathercock family, or rather that branch of it with which we are at present concerned, resides on a large and productive estate in Leicestershire. We have spent much time with them, and have had several opportunities of studying their peculiar merits. Their mansion affords a perfect college for mutability; everything is kept in readiness to be destroyed or refitted, removed or replaced, at a minute’s warning. It is quite delightful to see how new fashions of furniture come in and go out; how the faces of the servants are continually altered; how the hour of meals, the regulation of the parterres--in short, the whole system of domestic economy is always subjected to some new ephemeral arrangement, which must soon give way to another equally new and equally ephemeral. To us, we say, this is delightful. But one seldom finds two tastes alike. Many pronounce the Weathercocks to be quite crazed; and many decide that “they are mighty good kind of people, but have very odd whimsies!”
The disposition for change, which is inherent in the family, has produced very strange effects upon their place of residence. The house was originally a good stout old-fashioned house, remarkable for nothing but the antiquity of its pictures and the size of its dining-hall. But its name and character have shifted considerably since it came into the possession of my worthy friends. It has been alternately a Hall, an Abbey, a Castle, and a Lodge; nay, during the life of the late Sir Adonis Weathercock, it became, for a few months, a Cottage. The proprietor, however, in this instance, gave up his design before it had affected anything beyond the windows. The mansion bears more permanent marks of its other metamorphoses. On one side it has the square turrets and battlements of the feudal system; on another, the flowery-pointed arch of a Gothic cathedral. One of the owners of the place thought proper to sink a moat round his habitation; but he afterwards filled it up, and converted it into a circular gravel walk. Another had a fancy for erecting some solid Doric pillars; he, doubtless, much improved their appearance, by placing upon them a beautiful Chinese veranda. Similar observations are suggested by an inspection of the interior of the building. You may almost read a history of two or three centuries in the reliques of their manners which are scattered in every apartment. War has been carried on with tolerably equal success between Lely’s portraits, Gainsborough’s landscapes, and Bunbury’s caricatures. A cast of a Hercules looks somewhat angrily upon a mandarin, who is his next neighbour; and a timorous Venus maintains her post with great obstinacy, although her divine presence is invaded by the scaly folds of an enormous dragon. There are bronzes and Cupids, oaken tables and mahogany tables, drab papering and crimson papering, high mantelpieces and low mantelpieces, Dresden china and French china; everything is superb, everything incongruous, everything unfinished.