Gambar halaman
PDF
ePub

"Indeed, I do think so seriously, and I'll tell you why. People of good principle, from being unaccustomed to grappling with temptation, through the very fact of their keeping out of its way, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, are the more likely to be beaten by it than those who have earned their experience of the world by knocking about it a little. The former are so unaccustomed to danger, that they do not know, when they do chance to get into the midst of it, in what peril they really stand. The novelty of the situation makes the baits, which the tempter gradually and skilfully throws out to them, seem so tremendously charming, that they become enervated with delight; and principle, accordingly, grows weak within them. No! People who go in for high principle must not dream of playing with edged tools, under the mistaken idea that they can go just as far as they like, and stop when they like. They must keep quite out of the fray, and at a distance from it. Once they happen to get well into it, the Lord help them! I would back a hardened roué against a man of principle, any day, for get ting safely out of a love entanglement. That is to say, supposing, always, that your man of principle is a man of impulse and warmth of heart, and with feelings like those of other men. There are some 'people of principle,' who have not the heart of a hen, nor the passion of a dormouse, and then go away and take immense credit for being steady, and so forth, and not as other men are.' D-n them, for a set of canting hypocrites!"

"Oh, my dear Sir Roger!" what are you saying?"

"I beg your pardon, my dear sister-in-law! I had forgotten myself in my warmth."

"I think," said the Major, "there is a great deal of truth in what my brother says. It is undeniable that all people are not constituted alike;

and those who are the most susceptible ought to be the most watchful."

[ocr errors]

But, according to your theory, Sir Roger, there ought to be no such things as nice little innocent flirtations; and I, who have lived with a regiment for many a year, can tell you that such things can be very nice, and at the same time very innocent."

"Oh, you quite misunderstand me, my dear sister-in-law. I have not a word to say against flirtations in public, when everybody is by. It is only your private flirtations which I am afraid of--especially when they are carried on under the garb of friendships-the more sober and demure, the more dangerous. Still waters run deep, you know."

"Well, we must let you judge for yourself in the case of which we have been speaking. Neither the Major nor myself have observed anything between Minnie and Mr. Fitzgerald further than that frank familiarity which existed between them from the first moment of our rencontre at Cairo."

"And you mean to tell me that you and the Major, just before, and just after your engagement to each other, had eyes for any but your Own two selves! Go to (as Shakespere's people would say).”

"My dear Sir Roger, you begin to frighten me. You will make me think that I have been unwittingly abetting a dangerous flirtation, of which I never dreamt of the existence. But as my friend, Mrs. Seymour, arrives to-morrow, and Mr. Fitzgerald the day after, it will not be long ere you have an opportunity of judging for yourself."

We have got to describe Pont-yPraed. It was a charming abode. It was quite a pity that it wasas some people would express it

thrown away upon a bachelor baronet. The house was Eliza bethan, and, like many houses built at the same period, was in the shape

of that Sovereign's initial-an E, having on either side a large advancing wing, and in the centre a smaller one, consisting of a portico, under which carriages drove on arrival, and above which was a delightful boudoir with mullioned and latticed windows on its three faces. The house was built of brick, now dark with age, save here and there it was dappled with lichen. Each window, with its latticed sashes, was enframed and mullioned with grey stone, and there were tall brick chimneys ornamented with endless variations of the zig-zag, the spiral, and the diamond. Within, all was old oak, rich and fanciful carving, and embossed leather or tapestry hangings. In the centre of the house was a hall, lit from the roof by a skylight. From it sprung a handsome oaken staircase, leading to a gallery around the hall above, from which the different sleeping apartments were entered. At the end of the first landing of the staircase was a beautiful effect-an idea of more modern days. A pair of large doors, panelled with plate glass, led into a sort of entresol corridor-a broad long room, hung on either side with old family portraits. This room ran right and left for the whole length of the house. Opposite to the folding doors was another pair, likewise of glass, leading out to a narrow garden, beyond which, in line with the glass doors, so as to seem a continuation of the interior staircase, rose a flight of stone steps, apparently interminable, and bordered at alternate intervals with vases containing brilliant masses of blossom, and with small marble statues. Behind the house rose steeply the hill at the base of which it stood. At the summit of the flight of steps was a flat space, a kind of natural amphitheatre, bounded by rocks some sixty feet high, crowned with a wild tangle of brushwood, which sent some of its dishevelled locks trailing over the brick and down

the lichen-covered sides of this Titanic wall.

This was a perfect sun-trap; and the floor, so to speak, of the amphitheatre, was carpeted with flowers, massed richly and effectively, with all the art which an excellent gardener could bring to bear upon his work. From this spot, there was a magnificent view of the surrounding country, with the house down below, and beyond it the park and its rocky river for a foreground. This delightful garden being above the level of the house itself was not visible from the windows; but to make up for this loss, the slope up which the stone steps ascended was divided into a succession of terraces, with brilliant parterres at every stage. From one of the side windows, a quaint little bridge-like gallery of wood, covered in above, and about half-way up its sides, like the bridge at Lucerne, led to one of these levels. This was a private way which a former Lady Gooderich had made so as to be able to reach the gardens from her own sanctum. This sanctum was now turned into a spare bedroom; and the room above the porch was now used as a boudoir by the ladies of the family—two maiden sisters of the Baronet's, now absent from Pont-y-Praed, but expected soon to join the party there in honour of the bride. Next to the sanctum of the old Lady Gooderich was her sleeping apartment, which had been closed for many a long year; for the grandmother of the present owner had died there under circumstances which made the room a particularly sad one. She had been engaged for several years to Sir Gwynne Gooderich, but the union had been prevented by the perpetuation of a family feud between her father and his. At last the bann was removed - they married; but in giving birth to her first-born son, died. The Baronet was so distracted with grief that his intellect was impaired, and, happily, death

she

shortly removed him also, and placed him beside her whom he had loved so long and so faithfully. The baby boy was brought up with tender care with a married aunt, and grew up to become the father of Sir Roger, the Major, and their two sisters.

We have already observed that the former boudoir of the ladies of Pont-y-Praed had been converted into a spare bedroom. Such had also been the fate of the dressing

room of the baronets of yore. Only the ill-starred bedchamber, which lay between them, was closed. Sir Roger had a pet "glory hole" of his own on the ground floor, with a sleeping room and bath closet opening out of it.

Our object for describing so circumstantially the position of the suite above stairs, occupied by some of his predecessors, will be seen in an ensuing chapter.

(To be continued.)

THE LEAF AND THE STEM.

A CHILD played with a summer leaf,
Green was the leaf and bright;
Ne'er had he known a pang of grief,
His merry heart thrill'd light.

An old man gazed on a wither'd stem,
The leaf's life all was gone;

'Twas Autumn's ghastly diadem—
A tear-drop fell thereon.

Spring passed away: the child grew old,
His pleasant scenes had fled;
The Winter's breath had left him cold,
Now sleeps he with the dead.

The old man can no more be found,
A heap of dust is there;
Concealed beneath a grassy mound,
Where is life's light-say where?

Ah! where art thou, my merry boy?
And thou, my sombre man?
Childhood's shrill laugh of love and joy?
Say, Wisdom, if you can!

Where is the emerald leaf of spring?
Shrivell'd on Autumn's breast,

Death's mother! 'Tis a fearful thing

That youth on age must rest.

T. J. OUSELEY.

THE BOYHOOD OF CHARLES LAMB.
PART I.

THERE is one picture of Charles
Lamb and his sister, which, though
rudely painted, has a significant and
almost affecting interest. The two
old-fashioned figures are grouped to-
gether: Lamb seated, his sister
standing, her hand resting on the
back of his chair. Both heads are dis-
proportionately large for the figures,
and those who did not know for
whom the picture was intended
could hardly resist smiling at the
grotesque frilled cap and curls-the
housekeeper-like attitude of the fe-
male figure. But to any one familiar
with the story of Charles and Mary
Lamb, these primitive portraits will
have an almost painful interest; and
in these two faces, now composed
to the conventional earnestness of
the sitter, will find an inexpressible
sweetness and goodness, combined
with a sense of patience, of strained,
long enduring suffering; of quiet
simplicity, which imparts dignity to
the mob-cap and mean shawl; to
the ill-cut coat and spare small-
clothes. This union of quaintness,
simplicity, misery, and affection,
made up, indeed, the sum of their
lives-the old fashion of the gar-
ments standing for an antique wit,
and "New-Testament plainess," that
has not been, for two centuries at
least, surpassed: the union of brother
and sister, one that for self-sacrifice
and devotion is equally unrivalled;
while the sorrow is of a shape that
would have furnished Marlow with
the most awful and hideous of do-
mestic tragedies. A mother slaugh-
tered in a paroxysm of madness, a
father's life attempted-the insanity
recurring, impending, with a fearful
regularity-and one fine-strung, sen-
sitive nature taking the whole bur-
den on itself-fighting a desperate
battle for hope, subsistence, and life

itself-with the one end of soothing with the kindliest deception, warding off the fatal recurrence with incessant toil labouring, earning, cultivating reading and wit, to that one holy end; yet all the time having to do battle with the private weaknesses of his own highly-strung and imperfectly - balanced mind. This struggle, carried on gallantly, and well nigh successfully, to the end, furnishes a picture of human tragedy the like of which has not been heard of. Such a one almost deserves the title of "hero;" and when it is told that he was the truest of friends, the most entertaining acquaintance, the wittiest and fancifullest of writers, the mate and equal of great intellects, the airiest and gayest of letterwriters, and yet all this while had a domestic sword of Damocles hung over his head at home; when, moreover, his life was bound up with that of all the leading writers and wits of his time, the picture becomes one of extraordinary unique interest. Tragic horror and the most agreeable comedy were never so mysteriously compounded, and the mixture has the strangest interest, and even fascination, in the world. But it is as the study of a noble character, not without weaknesses, that the life of Charles Lamb will be found of extraordinary interest. But there is yet another view. In every one's life, even in that of the most ordinary natures, there is a series of impressions, belonging to infancy, childhood, manhood; to school-days, love, books, which to many are almost impalpable, and to men may seem trivial, but which, when recovered by the hand of a master, becomes poetical. They are then recognised as common property, and according as the art with which they

are presented is more exquisite, are more precious, they form part of the public stock of harmless pleasure. Lamb is thus a signal benefactor, and in giving us his own impressions, has but given us back part of our own, or something nearly akin to our own. A life of Lamb that would fully bring out all these elementsthe tragic, the comic side, and their more generally human elementswould not trench upon what has been done by Sir Thomas N. Talfourd long ago, and more recently by Barry Cornwall. All that has been done has been a little too shadowy. Both were personal friends, and for many reasons wrote under restraint. The former, indeed, confesses that he did little more than present the letters of Lamb, united by a thread of comment, though this is far too modest a description of what is almost a classical book. But the effect left, after reading the "Life and Letters," and "Final Memorials," which goes back over the same ground, is naturally confusing. Mr. Proctor's book is very short, and more in the nature of an essay, but has the merit of being an account by one who was a dear and intimate friend of Lamb's. But the truth is, Lamb will be found to be his own best biographer.

[ocr errors]

The pleasant gardens of the Temple, whose quiet and solitude owed half their charm to the sudden and piquant change from the din and population of Fleet-street, have often been celebrated by poets and contemplative essayists. The old-fashioned courts, straggling passages, cheerful, "liberal-looking squares, ancient halls, bright grass, and gay flowers, even now affect the stranger with a curious surprise and satisfaction, which no other town sight can afford him. "Indeed, it is the most elegant spot in the Metropolis." But the old, almost monastic air of retreat has passed away. Stiff, massive buildings rise awkardly in confined spaces. Many a heavy load on

66

--

the earth the grass has given place to gravel. There is an open publicity. The sapient "trouble tombs" and restorers have been at work. Above all, the quiet retirement of the terrace overhanging the river, where the lawyers could walk of a summer's evening-the Thames being then to the gardens as a private stream-has gone for ever, the great public thoroughfare on the Embankment interposing below. Swept thus, north and south, by two great roads, its old, dreamy privacy is a thing of the past; and Lamb's description of the Temple in his time has an additional value, in marking the prodigious transformation always going on in London.

Charles Lamb was born and passed the first seven years of his life in the Temple. His earliest recollections. were of this quiet sanctuary, the tranquil solitude, the gray old buildings, and the awful benchers-the dignitaries of the place taking their promenade on the terrace by the river-" their air and dress asserted the parade." He recalled Coventry, the square-faced, massive bencher, whose tread was elephantine, and growl the terror of children; Daines Barrington, who wished the gardener to poison the sparrows; the meagre Twopenny, and Wharry, with the singular gait, of three steps and a jump regularly succeeding; Mingay, with the iron hook for a hand; and Baron Maseres, who still wore the costume of George the Second's day. The little Elia gazed wistfully at these great beings, who, their hands behind them, solemnly patrolled their terrace.

Among them, however, was Mr. Samuel Salt, who for him had most interest, as being his father's patron. These figures suit excellently with the old-fashioned background. Salt was a grave, gentle being, of absent habits, and possessing little law, though he had the reputation of knowledge. He was a stately and benevolent man, with a fine face and

« SebelumnyaLanjutkan »