BOOK III.
CHAPTER I.
WHEREIN THE HISTORY MAKES GREAT PROGRESS AND IS MARKED BY ONE IMPORTANT
EVENT IN HUMAN LIFE.
SPINOZA is said to have loved, above all other amusements, to put flies
into a spider's web; and the struggles of the imprisoned insects were
wont to bear, in the eyes of this grave philosopher, so facetious and
hilarious an appearance, that he would stand and laugh thereat until the
tears "coursed one another down his innocent nose." Now it so happened
that Spinoza, despite the general (and, in my most meek opinion, the
just) condemnation of his theoretical tenets,* was, in character and in
nature, according to the voices of all who knew him, an exceedingly
kind, humane, and benevolent biped; and it doth, therefore, seem a
little strange unto us grave, sober members of the unphilosophical Many,
that the struggles and terrors of these little winged creatures should
strike the good subtleist in a point of view so irresistibly ludicrous
and delightful. But, for my part, I believe that that most imaginative
and wild speculator beheld in the entangled flies nothing more than a
living simile--an animated illustration--of his own beloved vision of
Necessity; and that he is no more to be considered cruel for the
complacency with which he gazed upon those agonized types of his system
than is Lucan for dwelling with a poet's pleasure upon the many
ingenious ways with which that Grand Inquisitor of Verse has contrived
to vary the simple operation of dying. To the bard, the butchered
soldier was only an epic ornament; to the philosopher, the murdered fly
was only a metaphysical illustration. For, without being a fatalist, or
a disciple of Baruch de Spinoza, I must confess that I cannot conceive a
greater resemblance to our human and earthly state than the penal
predicament of the devoted flies. Suddenly do we find ourselves plunged
into that Vast Web,--the World; and even as the insect, when he first
undergoeth a similar accident of necessity, standeth amazed and still,
and only by little and little awakeneth to a full sense of his
situation; so also at the first abashed and confounded, we remain on the
mesh we are urged upon, ignorant, as yet, of the toils around us, and
the sly, dark, immitigable foe that lieth in yonder nook, already
feasting her imagination upon our destruction. Presently we revive, we
stir, we flutter; and Fate, that foe--the old arch-spider, that hath no
moderation in her maw--now fixeth one of her many eyes upon us, and
giveth us a partial glimpse of her laidly and grim aspect. We pause in
mute terror; we gaze upon the ugly spectre, so imperfectly beheld; the
net ceases to tremble, and the wily enemy draws gently back into her
nook. Now we begin to breathe again; we sound the strange footing on
which we tread; we move tenderly along it, and again the grisly monster
advances on us; again we pause; the foe retires not, but remains still,
and surveyeth us; we see every step is accompanied with danger; we look
round and above in despair; suddenly we feel within us a new impulse and
a new power! we feel a vague sympathy with /that/ unknown region which
spreads beyond this great net,--/that limitless beyond/ hath a mystic
affinity with a part of our own frame; we unconsciously extend our wings
(for the soul to us is as the wings to the fly!); we attempt to
rise,--to soar above this perilous snare, from which we are unable to
crawl. The old spider watcheth us in self-hugging quiet, and, looking
up 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
vibrates with 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 foul slime is over all! where shall we turn? every line of the web
leads to the 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 insatiate maw; she leapeth towards us; she fixeth her fangs upon us;
and so endeth my parallel!
* One ought, however, to be very cautious before one condemns a
philosopher. The master's opinions are generally pure: it is the
conclusions and corollaries of his disciples that "draw the honey forth
that drives men mad." Schlegel seems to have studied Spinoza /de
fonte/, and vindicates him very earnestly from the charges brought
against him,--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 moralize
and preach of Fate, art thou not sure that he is going to tell thee of
some one of his peculiar misfortunes? Sorrow loves a parable as much as
mirth loves a jest. And thus already and from afar, I prepare thee, at
the commencement of this, the third of these portions into which the
history of my various and wild life will be divided, for that event with
which I purpose that the said portion shall be concluded.
It is now three months after my entire recovery from my wounds, and I am
married to Isora!--married,--yes, but /privately/ married, and the
ceremony is as yet closely concealed. I will explain.
The moment Isora's anxiety for me led her across the threshold of my
house it became necessary for her honour that our wedding should take
place immediately on my recovery: so far I was decided on the measure;
now for the method. During my illness, I received a long and most
affectionate letter from Aubrey, who was then at Devereux Court: /so/
affectionate was the heart-breathing spirit of that letter, so steeped
in all our old household remembrances and boyish feelings, that coupled
as it was with a certain gloom when he spoke of himself and of worldly
sins and trials, it brought tears to my eyes whenever I recurred to it;
and many and many a time afterwards, when I thought his affections
seemed estranged from me, I did recur to it to convince myself that I
was mistaken. Shortly afterwards I received also a brief epistle from
my uncle; it was as kind as usual, and it mentioned Aubrey's return to
Devereux Court. "That unhappy boy," said Sir William, "is more than
ever devoted to his religious duties; nor do I believe that any
priest-ridden poor devil in the dark ages ever made such use of the
scourge and the penance."
Now, I have before stated that my uncle would, I knew, be averse to my
intended marriage; and on hearing that Aubrey was then with him, I
resolved, in replying to his letter, to entreat the former to sound Sir
William on the subject I had most at heart, and ascertain the exact
nature and extent of the opposition I should have to encounter in the
step I was resolved to take. By the same post I wrote to the good old
knight in as artful a strain as I was able, dwelling at some length upon
my passion, upon the high birth, as well as the numerous good qualities
of the object, but mentioning not her name; and I added everything that
I thought likely to enlist my uncle's kind and warm feelings on my
behalf. These letters produced the following ones:--
FROM SIR WILLIAM DEVEREUX.
'Sdeath, nephew Morton,--but I won't scold thee, though thou deservest
it. Let me see, thou art now scarce twenty, and thou talkest of
marriage, which is the exclusive business of middle age, as familiarly
as "girls of thirteen do of puppy-dogs." Marry!--go hang thyself
rather. Marriage, my dear boy, is at the best a treacherous proceeding;
and a friend--a true friend--will never counsel another to adopt it
rashly. Look you: I have had experience in these matters; and, I think,
the moment a woman is wedded some terrible revolution happens in her
system; all her former good qualities vanish, /hey presto/! like eggs
out of a conjuror's box; 'tis true they appear on t' other side of the
box, the side turned to other people, but for the poor husband they are
gone forever. Ods fish, Morton, go to! I tell thee again that I have
had experience in these matters which thou never hast had, clever as
thou thinkest thyself. If now it were a good marriage thou wert about
to make; if thou wert going to wed power, and money, and places at
court,--why, something might be said for thee. As it is, there is no
excuse--none. And I am astonished how a boy of thy sense could think of
such nonsense. Birth, Morton, what the devil does that signify so long
as it is birth in another country? A foreign damsel, and a Spanish
girl, too, above all others! 'Sdeath, man, as if there was not
quicksilver enough in the English women for you, you must make a
mercurial exportation from Spain, must you! Why, Morton, Morton, the
ladies in that country are proverbial. I tremble at the very thought of
it. But as for my consent, I never will give it,--never; and though I
threaten thee not with disinheritance and such like, yet I do ask
something in return for the great affection I have always borne thee;
and I make no doubt that thou wilt readily oblige me in such a trifle as
giving up a mere Spanish 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 for my 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; and don'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 hear no more about it. The gout cripples me so that I must
leave off. Ever thine old uncle,
WILLIAM DEVEREUX.
P. S. Upon consideration, I think, my dear boy, that thou must want
money, and thou art ever too sparing. Messrs. Child, or my goldsmiths
in Aldersgate, have my orders to pay to thy hand's-writing whatever thou
mayst desire; and I do hope that thou wilt now want nothing to make thee
merry withal. Why dost thou not write a comedy? is it not the mode
still?
LETTER FROM AUBREY DEVEREUX.
I have sounded my uncle, dearest Morton, according to your wishes; and I
grieve to say that I have found him inexorable. He was very much hurt
by your letter to him, and declared he should write to you forthwith
upon the subject. I represented to him all that you have said upon the
virtues of your intended bride; and I also insisted upon your clear
judgment and strong sense upon most points being a sufficient surety for
your prudence upon this. But you know the libertine opinions and the
depreciating judgment of women entertained by my poor uncle; and he
would, I believe, have been less displeased with the heinous crime of an
illicit connection than the amiable weakness of an imprudent marriage--I
might say of any marriage--until it was time to provide heirs to the
estate.
Here Aubrey, in the most affectionate and earnest manner, broke off, to
point out to me the extreme danger to my interests that it would be to
disoblige my uncle; who, despite his general kindness, would, upon a
disagreement on so tender a matter as his sore point, and his most
cherished hobby, consider my disobedience as a personal affront. He
also recalled 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
though I should not break off, the intended measure. Upon these points
he enlarged much and eloquently; and this part of his letter certainly
left no cheering or comfortable impression upon my mind.
Now my good uncle knew as much of love as L. Mummius did of the fine
arts,* and it was impossible to persuade him that if one wanted to
indulge the tender passion, one woman would not do exactly as well as
another, provided she were equally pretty. I knew therefore that he was
incapable, on the one hand, of understanding my love for Isora, or, on
the 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 the
eye of a courtier of Charles II., would only have seen the advantage to
be derived from the impropriety, not the gratitude due to the devotion;
neither had I mentioned this circumstance to Aubrey,--it seemed to me
too delicate for any written communication; and therefore, in his advice
to delay my marriage, he was unaware of the necessity which rendered the
advice unavailing. Now then was I in this dilemma, either to marry, and
that /instanter/, and so, seemingly, with the most hasty and the most
insolent 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 malignant
consequences that would necessarily be drawn from a sojourn of weeks in
my house. This fact there was no chance of concealing; servants have
more tongues than Argus had eyes, and my youthful extravagance had
filled my whole house with those pests of society. The latter measure
was impossible, the former was most painful. Was there no third
way?--there was that of a private marriage. This obviated not every
evil; but it removed many: it satisfied my impatient love; it placed
Isora under a sure protection; it secured and established her honour the
moment the ceremony should be declared; and it avoided the seeming
ingratitude and indelicacy of disobeying my uncle, without an effort of
patience to appease him. I should have time and occasion then, I
thought, for soothing and persuading him, and ultimately winning that
consent which I firmly trusted I should sooner or later extract from his
kindness of heart.
* A Roman consul, who, removing the most celebrated remains of Grecian
antiquity 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 the
first, on my hinting at the proposal, to overcome its difficulties. The
leading feature in Isora's character was generosity; and, in truth, I
know not a quality more dangerous either to man or woman. Herself was
invariably the last human being whom she seemed to consider; and no
sooner did she ascertain what measure was the most prudent for me to
adopt, than it immediately became that upon which she insisted. Would
it have been possible for me, man of pleasure and of the world as I was
thought to be,--no, my good uncle, though it went to my heart to wound
thee so secretly, it would /not/ have been possible for me, even if I
had not coined my whole nature into love, even if Isora had not been to
me what one smile of Isora's really was,--it would not have been
possible to have sacrificed so noble and so divine a heart, and made
myself, in that sacrifice, a wretch forever. No, my good uncle. I
could not 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, I doubt whether the youngest reader will not forgive him for
a want of sympathy with one feeling, when they consider how susceptible
that charming old man was to all others.
And herewith I could discourse most excellent wisdom upon that
mysterious passion of love. I could show, by tracing its causes, and
its inseparable connection with the imagination, that it is only in
certain states of society, as well as in certain periods of life, that
love--real, pure, high love--can be born. Yea, I could prove, to the
nicety of a very problem, that, in the court of Charles II., it would
have been as impossible for such a feeling to find root, as it would be
for myrtle trees to effloresce from a Duvillier periwig. And we are not
to expect a man, however tender and affectionate he may be, to
sympathize with that sentiment in another, which, from the accidents of
birth and position, nothing short of a miracle could have ever produced
in himself.
We were married then in private by a Catholic priest. St. John, and one
old lady who had been my father's godmother--for I wished for a female
assistant in the ceremony, and this old lady could tell no secrets, for,
being excessively deaf, nobody ever talked to her, and indeed she
scarcely ever went abroad--were the sole witnesses. I took a small
house in the immediate neighbourhood of London; it was surrounded on all
sides with a high wall which defied alike curiosity and attack. This
was, indeed, the sole reason which had induced me to prefer it to many
more gaudy or more graceful dwellings. But within I had furnished it
with every luxury that wealth, the most lavish and unsparing, could
procure. Thither, under an assumed name, I brought my bride, and there
was the greater part of my time spent. The people I had placed in the
house believed I was a rich merchant, and this accounted for my frequent
absences (absences which Prudence rendered necessary), for the wealth
which I lavished, and for the precautions of bolt, bar, and wall, which
they imagined the result of commercial caution.
Oh the intoxication of that sweet Elysium, that Tadmor in life's
desert,--the possession of the one whom we have first loved! It is as
if poetry, and music, and light, and the fresh breath of flowers, were
all blended into one being, and from that being rose our existence! It
is content made rapture,--nothing to wish for, yet everything to feel!
Was that air the air which I had breathed hitherto? that earth the earth
which I had hitherto beheld? No, my heart dwelt in a new world, and all
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. From
my first reunion with Isora, I had avoided all the former objects and
acquaintances in which my time had been so charmingly employed.
Tarleton was the first to suffer by my new pursuit. "What has altered
you?" said he; "you drink not, neither do you play. The women say you
are grown duller than a Norfolk parson, and neither the Puppet Show nor
the Water Theatre, the Spring Gardens nor the Ring, Wills's nor the Kit
Cat, the Mulberry Garden nor the New Exchange, witness any longer your
homage and devotion. What has come over you?--speak!"
"Apathy!"
"Ah! I understand,--you are tired of these things; pish, man!--go down
into the country, the green fields will revive thee, and send thee back
to London a new man! One would indeed find the town intolerably dull,
if the country were not, happily, a thousand times duller: go to the
country, Count, or I shall drop your friendship."
"Drop it!" said I, yawning, and Tarleton took pet, and did as I desired
him. Now I had got rid of my friend as easily as I had found him,--a
matter that would not have been so readily accomplished had not Mr.
Tarleton owed me certain moneys, concerning which, from the moment he
had "dropped my friendship," good breeding effectually prevented his
saying a single syllable to me ever after. There is no knowing the
blessings 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;
the reasons of our rupture really were, as I had stated to Tarleton, the
mighty effects of little things. She lived in a sea of trifles, and she
was desperately angry if her lover was not always sailing a
pleasure-boat in the same ocean. Now this was expecting too much from
me, and, after twisting our silken strings of attachment into all manner
of fantastic forms, we fell fairly out one evening and broke the little
ligatures in two. No sooner had I quarrelled with Tarleton than Lady
Hasselton received him in my place, and a week afterwards I was favoured
with an anonymous letter, informing me of the violent passion which a
certain /dame de la cour/ had conceived for me, and requesting me to
meet her at an appointed place. I looked twice over the letter, and
discovered in one corner of it two /g's/ peculiar to the caligraphy of
Lady 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 hasten
thither on the wings of love."
"Not a whit of it," said I; "I suspect that it comes from a rich old
widow whom I hate mortally."
"A rich old widow!" repeated Mr. Fielding, to whose eyes there was
something very piquant in a jointure, and who thought consequently that
there were few virginal flowers equal to a widow's weeds. "A rich old
widow: you are right, Count, you are right. Don't go, don't think of
it. I cannot abide those depraved creatures. Widow, indeed,--quite an
affront to your gallantry."
"Very true," said I. "Suppose you supply my place?"
"I'd sooner be shot first," said Mr. Fielding, taking his departure, and
begging 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 favours
intended for me? The story was now left for me to tell, not for the
Lady Hasselton; and that makes all the difference in the manner a story
is told,--/me/ narrante, it is de /te/ fabula narratur; /te/ narrante,
and it is de /me/ fabula, etc. Poor Lady Hasselton! to be laughed at,
and have Tarleton for a lover!
I have gone back somewhat in the progress of my history in order to make
the above honourable mention of my friend and my mistress, thinking it
due to their own merits, and thinking it may also be instructive to
young gentlemen who have not yet seen the world to testify the exact
nature and the probable duration of all the loves and friendships they
are likely to find in that Great Monmouth Street of glittering and of
damaged 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 to
Devereux Court, and conversing with him on the subject of his letter.
And after an interval of some weeks, I received the two following
answers from my correspondents; the latter arrived several days after
the former:--
FROM AUBREY DEVEREUX.
I am glad to understand from your letter, unexplanatory as it is, that
you 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, and
have merely time to assure you of my affection.
AUBREY DEVEREUX.
P. S. Gerald is in London; have you seen him? Oh, this world! this
world! how it clings to us, despite our education, our wishes, our
conscience, our knowledge of the Dread Hereafter!
LETTER FROM SIR WILLIAM DEVEREUX.
MY DEAR NEPHEW,--Thank thee for thy letter, and the new plays thou
sentest me down, and that droll new paper, the "Spectator:" it is a
pretty shallow thing enough,--though it is not so racy as Rochester or
little Sid would have made it; but I thank thee for it, because it shows
thou wast not angry with thine old uncle for opposing thee on thy love
whimsies (in which most young men are dreadfully obstinate), since thou
didst provide so kindly for his amusement. Well, but, Morton, I hope
thou 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
conversations on marriage more than a boy does flogging,--ods fish, I
do. So you must humour me on that point!
Aubrey has left me again, and I am quite alone,--not that I was much
better off when he was here, for he was wont, of late, to shun my poor
room like a "lazar house," and when I spoke to his mother about it, she
muttered something about "example" and "corrupting." 'Sdeath, Morton,
is your 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,
she grows more solitary every day; and I don't know how it is, but I am
not so fond of strange faces as I used to be. 'Tis a new thing for me
to be avoided and alone. Why, I remember even little Sid, who had as
much venom as most men, once said it was impossible to--Fie now--see if
I was not 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 laugh once more at the old knight's stories. Come, and show him
that there is still some one not too good to love him. Come, and I will
tell thee a famous thing of old Rowley, which I am too ill and too sad
to tell thee now.
WM. DEVEREUX.
Need I say that, upon receiving this letter, I resolved, without any
delay, to set out for Devereux Court? I summoned Desmarais to me; he
answered not my call: he was from home,--an unfrequent occurrence with
the necessitarian valet. I waited his return, which was not for some
hours, in order to give him sundry orders for my departure. The
exquisite Desmarais hemmed thrice,--"Will Monsieur be so very kind as to
excuse my accompanying him?" said he, with his usual air and tone of
obsequious respect.
"And why?" The valet explained. A relation of his was in England only
for a few days: the philosopher was most anxious to enjoy his society, a
pleasure which fate might not again allow him.
Though I had grown accustomed to the man's services, and did not like to
lose him even for a time, yet I could not refuse his request; and I
therefore ordered another of my servants to supply his place. This
change, however, determined me to adopt a plan which I had before
meditated; namely, the conveying of my own person to Devereux Court on
horseback, and sending my servant with my luggage in my post-chaise.
The equestrian mode of travelling is, indeed to this day, the one most
pleasing to me; and the reader will find me pursuing it many years
afterwards, 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 my
visits to, Isora. I am a very fastidious person on those matters; and
of all confidants, even in the most trifling affairs, I do most eschew
those by whom we have the miserable honour of being served.
In order, then, to avoid having my horse brought me to Isora's house by
any of these menial spies, I took the steed which I had selected for my
journey, and rode to Isora's with the intention of spending the evening
there, and thence commencing my excursion with the morning light.
