Of Lady Tilney's character a hasty outline has been attempted in the preceding chapter; falling short, however, as it is confessed every attempt must do, to delineate all its varied features. Something, however, may have been gathered, by viewing her in the midst of the group assembled in her boudoir; and the portraiture will be rendered still more distinct, as the character of her associates are further developed.

Of Lady Tilney herself it may be said, that that real or pretended contempt of rank which she affected to entertain, arose from the circumstances of her own parentage, which, on her mother's side at least, was not noble; to the same cause, also, may perhaps be attributed her anxious irritability, ill concealed under a forced gaiety, lest the respect and homage which she considered to be her due, should not be paid her. There was a restlessness in her assumed tranquillity, wholly unlike the easy natural languor of her friend Lady Ellersby, to which she would gladly have attained, and which it was always the object of her ambition to imitate; but she never reached that perfectibility of insouciance, which marks a superiority of birth and station.

Notwithstanding the part which she consequently was obliged to play, there was still a good deal of nature in her composition; much more than in that of the person whose demeanour she envied;—and had not her character been influenced by a life of dissipation, she seemed designed to have passed through existence diffusing usefulness and cheerfulness around her. Much might be said in extenuation of Lady Tilney's faults and follies, courted and caressed as she was; as indeed there is ever much indulgence to be extended to all who, in situations of power and of temptation (however many their foibles) remain free from positive vice. The voice of censure should be guarded therefore in its condemnation; remembering that the inability to do wrong, or the want of allurement to yield to it, are often the sole preservatives against similar errors.

In commenting upon such characters as Lady Tilney's, it is not for the purpose therefore of attaching blame to the defects of the individual, so much as to point out the dangers attendant on their peculiar stations, and to shew how far even noble natures are liable to be debased by constant exposure to a baneful influence. Were not this the object of a writer, idle and contemptible indeed would be the pen, which could waste its powers in tracing the vanities and follies of a race which always has existed in some shape or other, and possibly will always continue to do so.

There is an indulgence of spleen, a silly gossiping espionage, which delights in prying into the faults of others, without any motive but that of the gratification of its own mean nature—but there is an investigation into the habits and manners of the actors in the scene of fashionable folly, which, by dispelling the illusion, may preserve others from being heedlessly drawn into the vortex of so dangerous a career. A sermon would not, could not, descend from its sacred dignity, to effect this—a philosophical or moral discourse, would have as little chance of working such an end;—but a narrative of actual occurrences may perhaps give warning of a peril, which is the greater because it bears outwardly, and on a cursory view, no appearance of future evil; for to the young, and indeed to all, there is a charm, and a very great charm too, in being something superior, something that others are not, or cannot be. No one acquainted with human nature will ever contradict this. The question of vital importance to be asked is—In what ought this distinction to consist? and what will really give it? Certainly not a life of dissipation, in which the affectation of new modes and manners constitute the business of existence; certainly not the sacrifice of moral and religious duty, to a courting of frivolous homage and the pursuit of an empty Éclat.

These, however, it is to be feared, are more generally the spurious objects of ambition with persons in fashionable life, than the solid advantages, and lasting fame, which their situations afford them the means of securing. And if it is thus with the world of fashion in general, how much more was it the case in the circle in which Lady Tilney reigned! Herself and her friends had no thought that tended to any specific moral purpose, in the strict sense of the word. The duties that were performed, were such only in a negative sense; they went to church, they lived with their husbands; some of them, but not all, had escaped scandal; they were fond mothers, at least in the eye of their world; they were alive to their offsprings' interests, at least their worldly interests; and beyond this, it is to be feared, neither for them, or for themselves, did their views extend.

Here may be closed the catalogue of their moral possessions. Of their outward shew of manner and courtesy, where so much in a soi-disant empire of ton might be expected, perhaps, there was still less to praise: a brusquerie of address took place of polished breeding, where intimacy permitted any address at all; and where none was allowable, an insolent carelessness marked the behaviour, instead of that polite courtesy which is ever the distinguishing mark of really good manners.

Lady Tilney, had she not stood on the 'vantage ground of ton, might have been called vulgar: the loud and incessant talking, the abrupt and supercilious glance and motion, had it not been backed by title and an assumed superiority, would have been designated by a very different name from that under which her manners passed current; and even as it was, they sometimes received a reproof which, however affectedly scorned, was deeply felt. An instance of this occurred on the occasion of her receiving the homage of a distinguished foreigner; when, in the intoxication of the moment's vanity, Lady Tilney forgot the respect due to one of exalted station, rudely turning her back, and brushing past him in the dance, a disregard of etiquette which he whose manners are all elegance and condescension, would never in his station have shewn to the meanest of his subjects, and whose sense of delicacy and propriety is so acute, that wherever female manners are concerned, none could better know how to condemn whatever derogated in the slightest degree from them.

It was to the displeasure incurred by this circumstance, and to the loss of favour which all who have ever lived in its sunshine cannot fail to lament when withdrawn, that allusion was made, in speaking of Lady Tilney's contempt of sovereigns and courts. Here was to be found one bad effect of a system which, while false in every sense, arrogated to itself perfection in all.

There was no immorality to rebuke in this instance of Lady Tilney's conduct; but it proceeded from a source, which if not in her, in others at least, might be productive of serious consequences; namely, from a contempt of established rules and received opinions; and if, in the midst of this arrogance there was a redeeming spirit of occasional kindness,—a smile which took the heart captive for the moment, and gave promise of better things,—it only caused a regret that the good which was there should be thus choaked by the noxious weeds of vanity.

Some of Lady Tilney's companions in ton had not, like her, escaped the breath of slander; one or more were supposed to have listened, at least, to that corruptive voice of gallantry, which withers the bloom and freshness of a married woman's reputation; whose error is remembered long after its cause has passed away—let it have been real or imaginary;—in either case the effect on a woman's character is the same. It is in vain that in a certain sphere there exists a tacit agreement to pass by, and gloss over such defamatory tales; the persons coming under their degrading mark have a seal set upon them, which, in spite of themselves, and maugre the usage of their world, is nevertheless destructive of peace; and it requires little penetration to see beneath the forced smiles which are put on with the adornments of the toilette, the gnawing worm that preys upon the heart.

The fatal effects of such errors attach only to those guilty of them; the feeling inspired for their situation would be one of pure commiseration; but, alas! the influence of example is contagious, and whatever is felt for the individual who thus errs, the sentence of condemnation must go forth against the crime. In regard to the other members who formed Lady Tilney's intimate circle, the Countess Tenderden, Princesse de la Grange, Lady de Chere, and Lady Boileau, for instance, there was equal matter for remark, varying with the character of each. The first of these, possessing nothing decided in her composition, had been, from the commencement, a follower in the track of others, and it was owing to this laziness of disposition that she became the ready and obedient slave of fashionable command, as well as from her early initiation into the secrets of ton, rather than from any other cause, that she held the place she did in Lady Tilney's estimation.

Lady Tenderden's unsatisfactory and frivolous existence had thus been passed without any decided plan, except that of being generally impertinent, and of courting personal admiration; which, when it is paid to beauty alone, ceases with the first cessation of youth: the consciousness of which fact added no genuine sweetness to the smile of Lady Tenderden; but left her, although in the possession of most of the outward circumstances which could grace existence, with a fading person and a dissatisfied mind.

Princesse de la Grange was a star in the midst of this false galaxy of ton, in as much as a strict regard to married duty, and a preservation of moral and religious principle, gave to her character a superior brightness; but whether from the taint of the poisonous air she breathed, or from a defect of strength of mind, or from the situation she filled, or from all these circumstances combined, the Princesse de la Grange did not escape entirely the pollution of folly, and she too delighted in the vanity of being exclusive.

In the love of being distinguished above her compeers, Lady de Chere, however, far excelled; attaining a perfection which her exceedingly clever and powerful understanding, together with the management of her conduct, and an appearance of general decorum, enabled her to preserve. Nor were her moral qualities alone conducive to her success: she had besides the advantage of being able to set her face like a flint (which indeed it resembled physically), and she deemed all emotion or all expression of natural feeling (even that of bodily kind) to be a weakness unworthy of a woman of fashion. Lady de Chere was once known on an occasion of personal suffering, when a few tears actually escaped her, to have exclaimed to her attendant: "You are the first person in the world who have ever seen me guilty of such weakness." Nay, she even carried this perfection of induration so far, as to boast of having cut her own mother.

In this last instance of the perfectibility of ton, Lady Boileau yielded not the palm—she had remained a good many more years than she had bargained for, unmarried—she had studied under a mother, whose lessons eventually were but too well rewarded in kind. This mother, however, had loved her; and with much and unremitting labour, had effected for her an alliance of title—of wealth. What more could either of them with their views desire?

Lady Marchmont had established her daughter greatly, and the daughter had accepted the marriage upon certain calculations: such as being her own mistress, independent of her husband, or her mother; who knew too well de quel bois elle se chauffoit, for Lady Boileau to like her surveillance. Lady Boileau had then made no scruple of swearing to love, honour, and obey him whom she loved not, held cheap, and determined to resist. But these words, and too many more, bear a totally different signification, it is well known, in the language of ton, from what they do in their common acceptation.

One of the first steps of Lady Boileau after her marriage, was to gain admission into the circle of Lady Tilney on a footing of intimacy; for although she had been on visiting terms with her, yet she was aware that the mere interchange of cards did not constitute her the friend or protÉgÉ of Lady Tilney, to which distinction she aspired. There were one or two circumstances, however, which rendered the attainment of this object rather difficult. In the first place, Lady Boileau had a mother whom it would require more decided measures to detach from her than, as it has been seen, Lady Tilney chose to countenance. The general tenour of her conduct, too, was a thing yet unproved, and it was, therefore, still unascertained how far she might be true to their esprit du corps, and be worthy of admission into this circle. Lady Boileau was considered, notwithstanding these impediments, to be a person of promise, and she was accordingly admitted, with the tacit understanding, however, that she was not to push Lady Marchmont indiscreetly on the scene; where her wit and plain speaking might break forth in corruscations too potent for the tendre demi-jour, or rather darkness, in which the proceedings of the ton par excellence were invariably to be veiled.

There was, however, one person whose name has not yet figured in the catalogue, but whose character of mixed good and evil, would require a powerful pencil to delineate; for the many amalgamating tints which united and harmonised its opposing lights and shades were any thing but an easy task to give—divested of these, the portrait would become caricature. How often does marriage, especially in early life, give a colour to the future conduct of women. Had Lady Hamlet Vernon married differently, she was possessed of qualities which would have rendered her estimable as well as amiable; and was mistress of talents which, if properly directed and matured, would have rendered her a being distinguished above her sex. But this was not so; she had married for situation, and soon found the burthen she had imposed upon herself far outweighed the advantages she had contemplated in the step she had taken. Unhappiness was the first natural result; and in the absence of religious principle, young, beauteous, and fascinating, she soon found in the universal admiration paid her, a delusive balm to alleviate the society of a husband considerably older than herself, and who had married her from the pride of calling a person so admired his own. Under these circumstances, Lady Hamlet Vernon could not remain without the stigma of slander attaching to her.

The early demise, however, of Lord Hamlet Vernon liberated her from the hazard of her situation, and at five-and-twenty she found herself again free. Titled, and with great wealth at her command, she was too clever for the empty votaries of folly, but too clever also to be entirely set aside by them. She was, at the same time, too much sujettÉ À caution to be admitted on terms of unguarded intimacy amongst those in her own sphere who were observers of religious and moral conduct, and who happily form the aggregate of distinguished society in England. Left without choice, therefore, as to who should be her associates, Lady Hamlet Vernon was drawn into a society where the errors of her early conduct were, by the contagion of example, sure to be confirmed, and the remainder of any good principles that she might have possessed, in danger of being subverted; for it was not the least evil arising out of the system of the society alluded to, that the persons composing it were under a compact of exclusion of all who differed from them in habit and opinions; and, thus deprived of the power of comparison, their own conduct wanted that useful touchstone of its rectitude.

We are all alive to impressions daily made upon us; and if a life of carelessness and dissipation is not to be checked by an occasional example of what is truly excellent and worthy in character, the moral perception between right and wrong of its mistaken votaries will soon be blunted, till at last both their ears and eyes are closed to all remonstrance. The riper in years, therefore, were sure to have their false estimate of life confirmed; they could not return on their steps, even if they wished it; while the young and the inconsiderate were taught to believe, that those who had so long followed in that destructive but glittering career, were the only objects worthy of imitation, and in their turn became hardened actors in the scene. Although the characters hitherto produced as slaves to this system have been of the weaker sex alone, still let it not be imagined that they were its only victims, or that they alone played their part in upholding it.

If possible, the men of the society were many of them as frivolous, and more vicious; and, though here and there might be found a character that, from family connection or ignorance of the tendency of the society, mingled in its contamination without infection, or making a wreck of principle, yet, far from these solitary instances detracting from the general truth of what has been said, it will be found that such persons, the moment they became aware of the lurking evil, broke from it abruptly; though perhaps, saving themselves with difficulty from the entanglement.

In the members, however, which swelled the list of the male part of this circle, few indeed were there who ever made an effort to withdraw from it. Vice and folly, in manners and in dress—male coquetry—ineffable impertinence—ignorance—detraction of virtue which might have resisted, or talents which eclipsed them—insipidity in mind, and effeminacy in person—devotion to luxury,—these, and more than these, if such could be catalogued, of the immoralities and follies of man, were all to be found here, in degree and kind, revolving in their different orbits—and fulfilling their allotted parts in the system, till their existence closed. What though wit might sometimes play around their board, or the quick repartee enliven the monotonous circle of the evening—what though talent might be allowed, for a brief season, to expatiate on higher topics, and the deep discourse of great human learning might be suffered to dwell at intervals on subjects more intellectual—yet what profited this to those who listened or to those who spoke?—The moment's amusement, the indulgence of mere curiosity, the establishing of some political tenet or philosophical dogma, were alone the objects looked to. Talents, when found in this society, were in fact directed to none but worldly views; and the feeling which should have guided their possessors to acknowledge the bounty of the Author who bestowed them, and a faithful employment of his gifts, was not only wanting, but the sacred religion of that very Author was too frequently made an exercise for them—a subject of their scorn or cavil.

Though untitled, yet of noble family, there was one, who figured first as most licentious and unprincipled among the devotees of ton. He was handsome, winning, specious; but he concealed under this attractive exterior a heart of the blackest dye; no sense of right or wrong checked its impulses. All to him was lawful that was attainable. Pleasure was his object; and he had sailed down the short voyage of his life unchecked by any of those reverses, unscared by any of those feelings of shame or compunction, which would have operated on a weaker mind; and if, for a moment, some enormity of conduct made the more timid—they could not be called the more virtuous—of his associates recoil, the hardened face, the laugh of carelessness, the ready excuse, soon dissipated these transient feelings of shame; and patronized, courted, upheld, in that true esprit de corps which bound each member of the society to protect the other, his youthful career had been run from excess to excess.

Although a person whose weight and influence in themselves were not great, yet he formed from his habits and opinions, and the talents which (though perverted) he really possessed, one of those ties in a fabric, which being multiplied, keep the whole body compact; and, having once obtained a footing in Lady Tilney's circle, it followed, as a matter of course, that he should be employed in that remodelling of her society, which it has been seen Lady Tilney was so anxious to effect, and his name therefore was not forgotten in the list, concerning which she intended to consult Prince Luttermanne.

It is well for human nature, that many characters such as have been just described are not often found; it certainly had no compeer in the circle in which it moved. And though the folly of dress—the waste of time—the uselessness of life—indulgence in the excess of luxury, are errors and faults that cannot be too strongly held up to animadversion, yet they are, by comparison, of a venial kind. Their effects, however, ultimately do not prove such; for degradation of intellect must follow a course of indolence, and an obtuseness of conscience must be the consequence of long-neglected duties. Let it not be supposed, therefore, that because Lord Boileau, Lord Baskerville, Lord Marchmont, or Lord Tonnerre, were younger and less matured in a vicious course than another, that therefore their conduct was less deserving of moral censure—the seed that is sown in spring time will grow up to the harvest, and it must be reaped accordingly. The pursuits of a careless life of pleasure, the gaming-table, the society of opera dancers, the intrigues of ton, are not preparations for the maintenance of family consequence and wealth, still less for the fulfilment of the duties of married life, the protection of a wife's conduct, or the education of their offspring. Yet these, it is to be feared, were the sole objects of Lord Boileau, of his companions, and of many others.

Besides these, however, there were characters intended to be included in Lady Tilney's arrangements of a far different complexion, and the very reverse of their inexistence—there were noble politicians, whose lives were passed in any thing but inactivity; there were titled wits, whose places were any thing but sinecures; poets, whose lays found frequent subjects in the galaxy of beauty that surrounded them; and painters, whose talents and winning flatteries constituted their patent of nobility. The admission of all the latter personages was a decided evidence of Lady Tilney's supremacy; for, with few exceptions, she alone considered that to be surrounded by talents was essential to high station, since with the generality of her coterie, the idea of mingling intellect in their pleasures, was rather to destroy than heighten them.

Lady Tilney, however, in the end prevailed, and no society of ton was in future considered complete without those appendages. But even Lady Tilney's command of the suffrage of talents was not always absolute; and once, it is said, a man of holy profession, whose celebrity in his calling had led the London world in crowds to be his auditors, though thrice bidden to the shrine of fashion, declined, with steady consistency, to form one of a circle whose conduct in life it was his duty to reprove.

It is not to be supposed that the list of cavaliers is yet full with the names of the persons just alluded to; there were many others too insignificant to bear designation—and enough of portraits. Catalogues of these can only be interesting to a few curious collectors, and are very unsatisfactory to the generality of persons. It is living with the actors on the shifting scene, which can alone, for any length of time, engage the attention, or be productive of any just understanding of the character. To note down their actions as they occur, and to develope the system by which their lives are regulated, will be the easiest, as well as the most profitable task; for although there may be something which at first appears unnatural, and scarcely to be recognised as truth, in the idea that there exists a regular and defined system in lives, which at a hasty glance seem spent in the careless manner of the persons represented, nevertheless it is so—and there is a depth in their folly, which requires to be sounded,—there is a mischief in their apparent carelessness, which it is wise to detect—there is a principle of latent evil under this seeming incipiency of conduct, which requires to be unfolded, and shewn in its true colours.