LETTER XXVI.

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Mr. Otway to Mrs. Douglas.

Dearest Friend,

My former letters have been faithful transcripts from the book of our lives, and Frederick has filled up all interstices, but before I proceed to the main purpose which induces me to write to-day, I must indulge myself, and not displease you, by saying a few words of this dear youth, whom I have hitherto only mentioned incidentally, because I wished to see how he would bear the whirl of a London scene, and comport himself in some situations as trying as they were novel to him, ere I trumpeted his praise. You know how I abhor flattery, and will therefore give me credit for believing what I express of admiration for your son, who really astonishes me. Though introduced for the first time to what is called, certainly not par excellence, the Great World, he is neither awkward nor confused. The easy polish of true refinement which he learned at home, in the bosom of that loved retreat where all the best affections of his noble and manly heart are centered, frank him into a metropolitan drawing-room, as fearlessly as into your's at Glenalta; and his manners exhibit the happiest combination of boldness, in which there is no mixture of presumption, and modesty without mauvaise honte. With all the freshness of curiosity, and the candour of one who disdains subterfuge, he flies about collecting information—gratifying his good taste, and honestly confessing his previous ignorance of a thousand objects which have ceased to stimulate, if they ever did so, the vapid group by which we are environed. The courage with which Frederick dares to express his own thoughts, instead of borrowing the hacknied reverberation of opinions often adopted without discrimination, and rendered current by an idle multitude, who, contented to follow a fashionable leader, never exert a faculty for themselves, has something in it that commands attention, and I continually hear the inquiry of "who is he?" succeed the avowal of some sentiment on his part at variance with the modish creed.

If the novelty of Frederick's remarks occasionally excite a smile, it is evidently always accompanied with a desire to know more of him. Even those who would not, for any consideration, imitate his example, involuntarily respect the power of his valorous intrepidity; and that which in a vulgar man would be denominated mere boorishness, assuming a very different character when associated with native elegance and good breeding, the automaton throng are forced to admit the superiority which they dare not copy, and venerate the independence to which they cannot aspire. I assure you also, that he is an object of great admiration amongst the young ladies, one of whom having heard, I suppose, that he was an Irishman, sweetly lisped a few evenings ago, in half articulated accents, "le bel sauvage!" Tell Fanny that this anecdote is genuine, which she may be at first inclined to doubt; and tell her likewise that many a pretty head is half turned round to see that Frederick lingers near the harp or piano-forte, though he does come from that

"Land of bogs,
With ditches fenced—a Heaven fat with fogs."

This information will not surprise his sisters, who have frequently experienced his dexterity in turning over the leaves of a music book; and for his dear mother's particular gratification I must add, that I know not when I have been more delighted with my young friend since we left home together, than when any appeal to his free will has elicited the declaration of his entire dependence on the wishes of a parent. There is something affectingly beautiful in the generous openness, the amiable devotion, with which this fine young man, just arrived at the period of life so trying to the silly pride that struggles against the semblance of authority, refers to your wishes and opinion, upon every occasion when he is called upon to enter into projects for future amusement; and this not in the low tone and creeping attitude of fear or bashfulness, but with the erect air of honest strength, that glories in the fond submission, where love and duty bid it yield. His uncle's discriminating eye has already marked these things without a prompter's aid; and every little instance which indicates character, is registered with evident pleasure in favour of Frederick, by the acute discernment of my poor friend, on whom it is now time to say that I have prevailed, in concert with Dr. Pancras, a very worthy man, who accompanied him from India, in quality of attending physician, to give up all thoughts of going to Marsden for the present. He is totally unfit to undertake a house and establishment of his own, at this time, and will require a long exemption from care of every kind. His bodily frame is debilitated to a great degree, and his mind calls for every strengthener, too, that can be administered to invigorate its tone. His character is deeply interesting, and his situation mental, as well as corporeal, extremely critical. The moral atmosphere in which he is to be placed during the next six months appears, if possible, more important to his future happiness than the climate in which he is to breathe is of consequence to his health; and no part of the globe furnishes such a union of all that he stands in need of as Glenalta; I have therefore urged his passing the winter in our valley. Till this morning I could not obtain an answer, but at length he promises to try an experiment, not, however, binding himself to any definite period of sojournment amongst us. When truth and delicacy preside at the helm, there is no danger of steering a wrong course. It is the manoeuvrer only who requires a pilot; your guileless nature needs no hints for regulating your conduct towards this interesting invalid, and it is only to make you in some measure acquainted with, not to guide you in the management of his peculiarities, that I dwell upon the description of them. You knew nothing of your brother before he went to India, and we have all lost sight of him for many years; I cannot therefore attempt to pursue, in any concatenated series, the circumstances which have made him what he is. I can only trace effects, and judge from the data furnished by these to my observations of what the causes may have been. Since we have been together, a thousand trifling occurrences have assisted me in developing a character which must be unrolled with as much nicety as is required to spread open the PompeÏan manuscripts. The slightest accident would prove fatal in either case, and one rude touch would so effectually destroy the delicate fabric of one and the other, as to render fruitless any after attempt at deciphering the contents. I was engaged in studying whatever had arisen naturally to my view, when I one day, as usual, went to visit him directly after breakfast; he was not in the room when I entered, and I found a volume of Shakspeare open on the table, at which he had been reading. The book was turned on its face, in the play of Macbeth, and a pencil lay upon the outside, which had been probably employed the moment before my entrance in marking with extra-ordinary emphasis the following passage:—

"I have lived long enough: my way of life
Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf:
And that which should accompany old age,
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends
I must not look to have; but, in their stead,
Curses, not loud, but deep, mouth-honour, breath,
Which the poor heart would fain deny, but dare not."

I instantly replaced the volume, and mused when I left my poor friend on the singularity of this little incident; for it is actually a fact that, in rising to something like an abstract of his character the night before, as I lay awake, and contemplated the several traits which fell under my remark, these very lines were cast up by memory to pourtray the man.

Now, philosophers tell us, that when we arrive at the same result by the opposite processes of synthesis and analysis, we have good ground to believe in the correctness of an argument. If so, your brother's picture is delineated; for these affecting words addressed to Seyton by the unhappy Thane, whether taken as a text from which to deduce, or a conclusion at which you arrive by a previous train of induction, equally "land" the observer in that morbid melancholy which has marked Douglas for her own. His mind is of the finest material, bearing impress of the race from which he springs. Had he lived at home, and had his affections been cultivated in those relations which supply successional crops as it were to feed the heart, when the first indigenous growth has died away, he would have been a very different man, whether happier or not we cannot tell. But loosened by distance, and then dissevered by death from those early bonds of instinct which "plays the volunteer within us," he formed no new connections to keep in exercise his best feelings, which having lost the objects prepared for them by nature, were scattered to the winds till they became annihilated in diffusion. What a mistake it is to fancy that a man acquires love for his species in proportion to his becoming indifferent towards individuals? Yet this is a common error. No, true philanthropy shines on the circumference from a glowing centre, and the fond domestic affections are those which send out most commonly the sweetest charities to mankind.

Douglas is not a misanthrope, but he has met with many disappointments, as all men must do who form their early acquaintances—friendships I will not call them—amongst the multitude who are only bound together by the casual ties of pleasure and convenience. The temporary purpose gained, or the transient gratification satisfied, no memory remains of favour conferred, no gratitude survives for benefits received. While youth continues we waste our resources, because they are liberally replenished, and in the abundance and variety of the springs from whence they flow, we cannot anticipate a season of dearth; but the cisterns, however bounteously supplied, will become dry at last, and even drops will, in the end, seem precious of that which we lavished before with thoughtless prodigality. Your brother, however, is too just to hate his fellow-creatures because he has neglected to render himself an object of their love; but, though he does not actually set his mind in array against them, he is too proud to acknowledge dependence, and his temper is not sufficiently under controul to prevent him from involuntarily revenging on society the insulation which he has imposed on himself, by avoiding rather than courting communion with the world, for an intercourse with the best and wisest of which he is peculiarly gifted. It would seem as if he had laid down a law for himself to be severe and repellent, which the natural kindness of his character renders impossible, and the most that he can achieve is an air of uncertainty bordering on caprice, which strangers ascribe to bad health. I suspect that during the halcyon days of youth, religion which, in India, has been cruelly neglected, made no part of his concern, but a mind of such height and depth as his can never continue careless on the subject of its immortal interests; and, if my observations be correct, he is at this moment suffering those transition pangs incident to the awakened conviction of having been wrong, and desiring to be right, which are rendered more than commonly poignant in his instance by that scrupulous conscientiousness which suggests the inquiry whether his motive in searching after truth may not partly arise from a belief that he feels "the silver cords" beginning to give way and threaten dissolution.

You will not think me tedious in thus endeavouring to give you a clue to the character of one who is formed in no ordinary mould, and for whom I anticipate all the happiness which he is capable of enjoying at Glenalta. You will have no difficulty to contend with, no plot to sustain. Oh! my dear Caroline, it is worth coming into a sophisticated scene like this, to behold, in all its loveliness, the beauty of a single heart. The moral like the physical circumstances which surround us daily, are not half appreciated, because that they want contrast. We are ungrateful and forget our blessings. I shall have much to tell you, which I do not like to write. Dear Arthur would furnish materials for another sheet, but I must not lengthen this letter, already so voluminous. Frederick's love, with mine, to the Trias Harmonica, and Mr. Oliphant. Adieu, dearest friend.

Yours ever and sincerely,
E. Otway.


END OF VOL. II.

PRINTED BY J. B. NICHOLS, 25, PARLIAMENT-STREET.

Transcriber's note

Spelling and punctuation have been preserved as printed in the original publication.





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