Coelebs In Search of a Wife Part 4

The flimsy metre of our day seems to add fresh value to his sinewy verse. We have no happier master of poetic numbers; none who better knew

To build the lofty rhyme.

The condensed vigor, so indispensable to blank verse, the skillful variation of the pause, the masterly structure of the period, and all the occult mysteries of the art, can, perhaps, be best learned from Akenside. If he could have conveyed to Thomson his melody and rhyme, and Thomson would have paid him back in perspicuity and transparency of meaning, how might they have enriched each other!"

"I confess," said I, "in reading Akenside, I have now and then found the same pa.s.sage at once enchanting and unintelligible. As it happens to many frequenters of the opera, the music always transports, but the words are not always understood." I then desired my friend to gratify us with the first book of the Pleasures of Imagination.

Sir John is a pa.s.sionate lover of poetry, in which he has a fine taste.

He read it with much spirit and feeling, especially these truly cla.s.sical lines,

_Mind, Mind_ alone, bear witness earth and heaven, The living fountains in itself contains Of beauteous and sublime: here hand in hand Sit paramount the graces; here enthroned Celestial Venus, with divinest airs Invites the soul to never-fading joy.

"The reputation of this exquisite pa.s.sage," said he, laying down the book, "is established by the consenting suffrage of all men of taste, though by the critical countenance you are beginning to put on, you look as if you had a mind to attack it."

"So far from it," said I, "that I know nothing more splendid in the whole ma.s.s of our poetry. And I feel almost guilty of high treason against the majesty of the sublimer Muses, in the remark I am going to hazard, on the celebrated lines which follow. The poet's object, through this and the two following pages, is to establish the infinite superiority of mind over unconscious matter, even in its fairest forms.

The idea is as just as the execution is beautiful; so also is his supreme elevation of intellect, over

Greatness of bulk, or symmetry of parts.

Nothing again can be finer, than his subsequent preference of

The powers of genius and design,

over even the stupendous range

Of planets, suns, and adamantine spheres.

He proceeds to ransack the stores of the mental and the moral world, as he had done the world of matter, and with a pen dipped in Hippocrene, opposes to the latter,

The charms of virtuous friendship, etc.

The candid blush Of him who strives with fortune to be just.

All the mild majesty of private life.

The graceful tear that streams from others' woes.

"Why, Charles," said Sir John, "I am glad to find you the enthusiastic eulogist of the pa.s.sage of which I suspected you were about to be the saucy censurer."

"Censure," replied I, "is perhaps too strong a term for any part especially the most admired part of this fine poem. I need not repeat the lines on which I was going to risk a slight observation; they live in the mind and memory of every lover of the Muses."

"I will read the next pa.s.sage, however," said Sir John, "that I may be better able to controvert your criticism:

Look then abroad through nature to the range Of planets, suns, and adamantine spheres, Wheeling unshaken through the void immense, And speak, oh man! does the capacious scene With half that kindling majesty dilate Thy strong conception, as when Brutus rose Refulgent from the stroke of Caesar's fate Amid the crowd of patriots, and his arm Aloft extending, like eternal Jove When guilt brings down the thunder, call'd aloud On Tully's name, and shook his crimson steel, And bade the father of his country hail; For lo! the tyrant prostrate in the dust, And Rome again is free?

"What a grand and powerful pa.s.sage!" said Sir John.

"I acknowledge it," said I, "but is it as just as it is grand? _Le vrai est le seul beau._ Is it a fair and direct opposition between mind and matter? The poet could not have expressed the image more n.o.bly, but might he not, out of the abundant treasures of his opulent mind have chosen it with more felicity? Is an act of murder, even of an usurper, as happily contrasted with the organization of matter, as the other beautiful instances I named, and which he goes on to select? The superiority of mental beauty is the point he is establishing, and his elaborate preparation leads you to expect all his other instances to be drawn from pure mental excellence. His other exemplifications are general, this is particular. They are a cla.s.s, this is only a variety. I question if Milton, who was at least as ardent a champion for liberty, and as much of a party-man as Akenside, would have used this ill.u.s.tration. Milton, though he often insinuates a political stroke in his great poem, always, I think, generalizes. Whatever had been his principles, or at whatever period he had written, I question, when he wanted to describe the overthrow of authority by the rebel angels, if he would have ill.u.s.trated it by Cromwell's seizing the mace, or the decapitation of Charles. Much less, if he would have selected those two instances as the triumph of mind over matter."

"But," said Sir John, "you forget that Akenside professedly adopts the language of Cicero in his second Philippic." He then read the note beginning with, Caesare interfecto, etc.

"True," said I; "I am not arguing the matter as a point of fact, but as a point of just application. I pa.s.s over the comparison of Brutus with Jove, which by the way would have become Tully better than Akenside, but which Tully would have perhaps thought too bold. Cicero adorns his oration with this magnificent description. He relates it as an event, the other uses it as an ill.u.s.tration of that to which I humbly conceive it does not exactly apply. The orator paints the violent death of a hero; the poet adopts the description of the violent death, or rather of the stroke which caused it, to ill.u.s.trate the perfection of intellectual grandeur. After all, it is as much a party question as a poetical one. A question on which the critic will be apt to be guided in his decision by his politics rather than by his taste. The splendor of the pa.s.sage, however, will inevitably dazzle the feeling reader, till it produce the common effect of excessive brightness, that of somewhat blinding the beholder."

CHAPTER IX.

While we were thus pleasantly engaged, the servant announced Mrs.

Fentham; and a fashionable looking woman, about the middle of life, rather youthfully dressed, and not far from handsome, made her appearance. Instead of breaking forth into the usual modish jargon, she politely entered into the subject in which she found us engaged; envied Lady Belfield the happiness of elegant quiet, which she herself might have been equally enjoying at her own house, and professed herself a warm admirer of poetry. She would probably have professed an equal fondness for metaphysics, geometry, military tactics, or the Arabic language, if she had happened to have found us employed in the study of either.

From poetry the transition to painting was easy and natural. Mrs.

Fentham possessed all the phraseology of connoisseurship, and asked me if I was fond of pictures. I professed the delight I took in them in strong, that is in true terms. She politely said that Mr. Fentham had a very tolerable collection of the best masters, and particularly a t.i.tian, which she would be happy to have the honor of showing me next morning. I bowed my thankful a.s.sent; she appointed the hour, and soon after, looking at her watch, said she was afraid she must leave the delights of such a select and interesting society for a far less agreeable party.

When she was gone, I expressed my obligations to her politeness, and antic.i.p.ated the pleasure I should have in seeing her pictures. "She is much more anxious that you should see her _Originals_," said Lady Belfield smiling; "the kindness is not _quite_ disinterested; take care of your heart." Sir John, rather gravely, said, "It is with reluctance that I ever say any thing to the prejudice of any body that I receive in my house; but as the son of my valued friend, I think it fair to tell you that this vigilant matron keeps a keen look out after all young men of fortune. This is not the first time that the t.i.tian has been made the bait to catch a promising acquaintance. Indeed it is now grown so stale, that had you not been a new man, she would hardly have risked it. If you had happened not to like painting, some book would have been offered you. The return of a book naturally brings on a visit. But all these devices have not yet answered. The damsels still remain, like Shakspeare's plaintive maid, 'in single blessedness.' They do not, however, like her, spend gloomy nights

Chaunting cold hymns to the pale, lifeless moon,

but in singing sprightlier roundelays to livelier auditors."

I punctually attended the invitation, effectually shielded from danger by the friendly intimation, and a still more infallible aegis, the charge of my father never to embark in any engagement till I had made my visit to Mr. Stanley. My veneration for his memory operated as a complete defence.

I saw and admired the pictures. The pictures brought on an invitation to dinner. I found Mrs. Fentham to be in her conversation, a sensible, correct, knowing woman. Her daughters were elegant in their figures, well instructed in the usual accomplishments, well-bred, and apparently well tempered. Mr. Fentham was a man of business, and of the world. He had a great income from a place under government, out of which the expenses of his family permitted him to save nothing. Private fortune he had little or none. His employment engaged him almost entirely, so that he interfered but little with domestic affairs. A general air of elegance, almost amounting to magnificence, pervaded the whole establishment.

I at first saw but little to excite any suspicion of the artificial character of the lady of the house. The first gleam of light which let in the truth was the expressions most frequent in Mrs. Fentham's mouth--"What will the world say?" "What will people think?" "How will such a thing appear?" "Will it have a good look?" "The world is of opinion." "Won't such a thing be censured?" On a little acquaintance I discovered that human applause was the motive of all she said, and reputation her great object in all she did. Opinion was the idol to which she sacrificed. Decorum was the inspirer of her duties, and praise the reward of them. The standard of the world was the standard by which she weighed actions. She had no higher principle of conduct. She adopted the forms of religion, because she saw that, carried to a certain degree, they rather produced credit than censure. While her husband adjusted his accounts on the Sunday morning, she regularly carried her daughters to church, except a head-ache had been caught at the Sat.u.r.day's opera; and as regularly exhibited herself and them afterward in Hyde-Park. As she said it was Mr. Fentham's leisure day, she complimented him with always having a great dinner on Sundays, but alleged her piety as a reason for not having cards in the evening at home, though she had no scruple to make one at a private party at a friend's house; soberly conditioning, however, that there should not be more than _three tables_; the right or wrong, the decorum or impropriety, the gayety or gravity always being made specifically to depend on the number of tables.

She was, in general, extremely severe against women who had lost their reputation; though she had no hesitation in visiting a few of the most dishonorable, if they were of high rank or belonged to a certain set.

In that case, she excused herself by saying, "That as fashionable people continued to countenance them, it was not for her to be scrupulous; one must sail with the stream; I can't set my face against the world." But if an unhappy girl had been drawn aside, or one who had not rank to bear her out had erred, that altered the case, and she then expressed the most virtuous indignation. When modesty happened to be in repute, not the necks of Queen Elizabeth and her courtly virgins were more entrenched in ruffs and shrouded in tuckers, than those of Mrs. Fentham and her daughters; but when _display_ became the order of the day, the Grecian Venus was scarcely more unconscious of a vail.

With a very good understanding she never allowed herself one original thought, or one spontaneous action. Her ideas, her language, and her conduct were entirely regulated by the ideas, language, and conduct of those who stood well in the world. Vanity in her was a steady, inward, but powerfully pervading principle. It did not evaporate in levity or indiscretion, but was the hidden, though forcible spring of her whole course of action. She had all the gratification which vanity affords in secret, and all the credit which its prudent operation procures in public. She was apparently guilty of no excess of any kind. She had a sober scale of creditable vices, and never allowed herself to exceed a few stated degrees in any of them. She reprobated gaming, but could not exist without cards. Masquerades she censured as highly extravagant and dangerous, but when given by ladies of high quality, at their own houses, she thought them an elegant and proper amus.e.m.e.nt. Though she sometimes went to the play, she did not care for what pa.s.sed on the stage, for she confessed the chief pleasure the theatre afforded was to reckon up when she came home, how many d.u.c.h.esses and countesses had bowed to her across the house.

A complete despot at home, her arbitrariness is so vailed by correctness of manner, and studied good breeding, that she obtains the credit of great mildness and moderation. She is said not to love her daughters, who come too near her in age, and go too much beyond her in beauty to be forgiven; yet like a consummate politician, she is ever laboring for their advancement. She has generally several schemes in hand, and always one scheme under another, the under-plot ready to be brought forward if the princ.i.p.al one fails. Though she encourages pretenders, yet she is afraid to accept of a tolerable proposal, lest a better should present itself; but if the loftier hope fails, she then contrives to lure back the inferior offer. She can balance to a nicety, in the calculation of chances, the advantages or disadvantages of a higher possibility against a lower probability.

Though she neither wants reading nor taste, her mind is never sufficiently disengaged to make her an agreeable companion. Her head is always at work conjecturing the event of every fresh ball and every new acquaintance. She can not even

Take her tea without a stratagem.

She set out in life with a very slender acquaintance, and clung for a while to one or two damaged peeresses, who were not received by women of their own rank. But I am told it was curious to see with what adroitness she could extricate herself from a disreputable acquaintance, when a more honorable one stepped in to fill the niche. She made her way rapidly, by insinuating to one person of note how intimate she was with another, and to both what handsome things each said of the other. By constant attentions, petty offices, and measured flattery, she has got footing into almost every house of distinction. Her decorum is invariable. She boasts that she was never guilty of the indecency of violent pa.s.sion. Poor woman! she fancies there is no violent pa.s.sion but that of anger. Little does she think that ambition, vanity, the hunger of applause, a rage for being universally known, are all violent pa.s.sion, however modified by discretion or varnished by art. She suffers too all that "vexation of spirit" which treads on the heels of "vanity."

Disappointment and jealousy poison the days devoted to pleasure. The party does not answer. The wrong people never stay away, and the right ones never come. The guest for whom the fete is made is sure to fail.

Her party is thin, while that of her compet.i.tor overflows; or there is a plenty of dowagers and a paucity of young men. When the costly and elaborate supper is on the table excuses arrive; even if the supper is crowded, the daughters remain upon hands. How strikingly does she exemplify the strong expression of--"laboring in the fire for very vanity"--"of giving her money for that which is not bread, and her labor for that which satisfieth not!"

After spending the day at Mrs. Fentham's, I went to sup with my friends in Cavendish-square. Lady Belfield was impatient for my history of the dinner. But Sir John said, laughing, "You shall not say a word, Charles--I can tell how it was as exactly as if I had been there.

Charlotte, who has the best voice, was brought out to sing, but was placed a little behind, as her person is not quite perfect; Maria, who is the most picturesque figure, was put _to att.i.tudinize_ at the harp, arrayed in the costume, and a.s.suming the fascinating graces of Marmion's Lady Heron:

Fair was her rounded arm, as o'er The strings her fingers flow.

"Then, Charles, was the moment of peril! then, according to your favorite Milton's most incongruous image,