CHAPTER II,

“ Monstr? evenerunt mihi, Introit in eedes ater alienus canis, Anguis per impluvium decidit de tegulis, Gallina cecinit !”—TERENT,?
wirn his constitutional strength of mind, and conformably with his acquired theories, Maltravers continued to struggle against the latest and strongest passion of his life. It might be seen in the paleness of his brow, and that nameless expression 3 of suffering which betrays itself in the lines about the mouth, that his health was affected by the conflict within him; and many a sudden fit of absence and abstraction, many an impatient sigh, followed by a forced and unnatural gaiety, told the observant
1 Prodigies have occurred ; a strange black dog came into the house; a snake a: glidca pont the tiles, ron the court 5 the hen crowed.
rie that he was the prey of a sorrow he was too proud to ~ He compelled himself, however, to take, or to affect, an interest in the singular phenomena of the social state around him, phenomena that, in a happier or serener mood, would indeed have suggested no ordinary food for conjecture and meditation, The state of wisible transition is the state of nearly all the enlightened communities in Europe. pronounced as in that country which may be called the Heart of European Civilization. There, all to which the spirit of society attaches itself appears broken, vague, and half. developed—the Antique in ruins, and the New not formed. ‘only country in which the Constructive principle has not kept The Has Been is blotted out—the To Be is as the shadow of a far land in a mighty and perturbed~
But nowhere is it so
It is, perhaps, the
pace with the Destructive.
Maltravers, who for several years had not examined the progress of modern literature, looked with mingled feelings of surprise, distaste, and occasional and most reluctant admiration, on the various works which the successors of Voltaire and
- Rousseau have produced, and are pleased to call the offspring of Truth united to Romance.
Profoundly versed in the mechanism and elements of those masterpieces of Germany and England, from which the French have borrowed so largely while pretending to be original, Mal- travers was shocked to see the monsters which these Frankensteins had created from the relics and the offal of the holiest sepulchres, The head of a giant on the limbs of a dwarf—incongruous members jumbled together—parts fair and beautiful—the whole a hideous distortion !
“It may be possible,” said he to De Montaigne, “that these works are admired and extolled ; but how they can be vindicated by the examples of Shakspeare and Goethe, or even of Byron,
who redeemed poor and melodramatic conceptions with a manly vigour of execution, an energy and completeness of purpose that Dryden himself never surpassed, is to me utterly inconceivable.”
? The reader will remember that these remarks were written long before the lax
French Revolution, and when the dynasty of Louis Philippe was generally considered
e
ane F, aes
ALICE; OR, THE MYSTERIES.
“Tallow that there is a strange mixture of fustian and maudlin in all these things,” answered De Montaigne; “ but they are but — the windfalls of trees that may bear rich fruit in due season;
meanwhile, any new school is better than eternal imitations cf the old. As for critical vindications of the works themselves, the age that produces the phenomena is never the age to classify
and analyse them. We have had a deluge, and now new creatures
spring from the new soil.” “ An excellent simile: they come forth from slime and mud-—
fetid and crawling—unformed and monstrous. I grant excep- tions; and even in the New School, as it is called, I can admire
the real genius—the vital and creative power of Victor Hugo. But oh, that a nation which has known a Corneille should ever spawn forth a * * * *! And with these rickety and drivelling abortions—all having followers and adulators—your Public can still bear to be told that they have improved wonderfully on the day when they gave laws and models to the literature of Europe ; —they can bear to hear * * * * * proclaimed a sublime genius
jn the same circles which sneer down Voltaire!”
Voltaire is out of fashion in France, but Rousseau still main- tains his influence, and boasts his imitators. Rousseau was the worse man of the two; perhaps he was also the more dangerous
_ writer. But his reputation is more durable, and sinks deeper into
the heart of his nation; and the danger of his unstable and capficious doctrines has passedaway. In Voltaire we behold the fate of all writers purely destructive ; their uses cease with the evils they denounce. But Rousseau sought to construct as well as to destroy ; and though nothing could well be more absurd than his constructions, still man loves to look back and see even delusive images—castles in the air—reared above the waste where cities have been. Rather than leave even a burial-ground to solitude, we populate it with ghosts. :
By degrees, however, as he mastered all the features of the French literature, Maltravers became more tolerant of the present defects, and more hopeful of the future results. He saw in one respect, that that literature carried with it its own ultimate redemption.
Its general characteristic—contradistinguished from the litera- Q
Rye S, ipie est
242
- ture of the old French classic school—is to take the ear? for its study: to bring the passions and feelings into action, and let the Within have its record and history as well as the Without. In all this our contemplative analyst began to allow that the French were not far wrong when they contended that Shakspeare made the fountain of their inspiration—a fountain which the majority of our later English Fictionists have neglected. It is not bya story woven of interesting incidents, relieved by delineations of the externals and surface of character, humorous phraseology, and. every-day ethics, that Fiction achieves its grandest ends,
In the French literature, thus characterised, there is much false morality, much depraved sentiment, and much hollow rant, But still it carries within it the germ of an excellence, which, sooner or later, must in the progress of national genius, arrive at its full development. Meanwhile, it is a consolation to know, that nothing really immoral is ever permanently popular, or ever,
therefore, long deleterious ; what is dangerous in a work of genius — cures itself in a few years. We can now read Werter, and
instruct our hearts by its exposition of weakness and passion—
our taste by its exquisite and unrivalled simplicity of construction ©
and detail, without any fear that we shall shoot ourselves in top- boots! We can feel ourselves elevated by the noble: sentiments of Zhe Robbers, and our penetration sharpened as to the _ wholesale immorality of conventional cant and hypocrisy, without any danger of turning banditti, and becoming cutthroats from the love of virtue. Providence, that has made the genius of the few in all times and countries the guide and prophet of the many, and appointed Literature as the sublime agent of Civilisation, of Opinion, and of Law, has endowed the elements it employs with a divine power of self-purification. The stream settles of itself by rest and time; the impure particles fly off, or are neutralised by the healthful. It is only fools that call the works of a master- spirit immoral. There does not exist in the literature of the world, one poplar book that is immoral two centuries after it is pro-
duced. For, in the heart of nations, the False does not live so
long ; and the True is the Ethical to the end of time. © From the literary, Maltravers turned to the political state of France his curious and thoughtful eye. He was struck by the
——
2 resemblance which this MIOnE 56 civilised, so thoroughly _ European—bears in one respect to the despotisms of the East: _ the convulsions of the capital decide the fate of the country ; a Paris is the tyrant of France. He saw in this inflammable con- ‘: centration of power, which must ever be pregnant with great _ evils, one of the causes why the revolutions of that powerful and _ polished people are so incomplete and unsatisfactory—why, like Cardinal Fleury, system after system, and Government after Government,
* * “floruit sine fructu,
Defloruit sine luctu.” +
__ Maltravers regarded it as a singular instance of perverse ratio- cination, that, unwarned by experience, the French should still _ persist in perpetuating this political vice ; that all their policy should still be the policy of Contiationion=3 principle which secures _ the momentary strength but ever ends in the abrupt destruction - of States. It is, in fact, the perilous tonic, which seems to brace the system; but drives the blood to the head—thus come apoplexy and madness. By centralisation the provinces are weakened, it _is true; but weak to assist as well as to oppose a Government— weak to withstand a mob. Nowhere, nowadays, is a mob so powerful as in Paris : the political history of Paris is the history _ of mobs. Centralisation is an excellent quackery for a despot who _ desires power to last only his own life, and who has but a life- interest in the State; but to true liberty and permanent order centralisation is a deadly poison. The more the provinces govern their own affairs, the more we find everything, even to roads and post-horses, are left to the people; the more the Municipal Spirit pervades every vein of the vast body, the more certain may we be that reform and change must come from universal opinion, _ which is slow, and constructs ere it destroys—not from public _clamour, which is sudden, and not only pulls down the edifice but sells the bricks! Another peculiarity in the French Constitution struck and _ perplexed Maltravers. This people so pervaded by the re- publican sentiment—this people, who had sacrificed so much for Freedom—this people, who, in the name of Freedom, had
-} Flourished peeous fruit, and was destroyed without regret.
Q2
perpetrated so much crime with Robe glory with Napoleon—this people were, as.a people, contented to be utteriy excluded from all power and voice in the State! Out of thirty-three millions of subjects, less than two hundred thousand electors! Where was there ever an oligarchy equal tae this? What a strange infatuation, to demolish an aristocracy ane yet to exclude a people! What an anomaly in political archi- tecture, to build an inverted pyramid! Where was the safety- valve of governments—where the natural vents of excitement in a population so inflammable? The people itself were left a
mob:. no stake in the State—no action in its affairs-—no legisla- —
tive interest in its security.
On the other hand, it was singular to see how—the aristocracy of birth broken down—the aristocracy of letters had arisen. A Peerage, half composed of journalists, philosophers, and authors! This was the deau-idéal of Algernon Sydney’s Aristocratic Re- public; of the Helvetian vision of what ought to be the dis- pensation of public distinctions ; yet was it, after all,-a desirable aristocracy? Did society gain ?—did literature lose? Was the priesthood of Genius made more sacred and more pure by these worldly decorations and hollow titles ?—or was aristocracy itself thus rendered a more disinterested, a more powerful, or a more sagacious element in the administration of law, or the elevation of opinion? These questions, not lightly to be answered, could not fail to arouse the speculation and curiosity of a man who had been familiar with the closet and the forum ; and, in propor- tion as he found his interest excited in these problems to be solved by a foreign nation, did the thoughtful Englishman feel the old instinct—which binds the citizen to the fatkerland— begin to stir once more earnestly and vividly within him.
“You, yourself individually, are passing like us,” -said De Montaigne one day to Maltravers, “through a state of transition. You have for ever left the Ideal, and you are carrying your cargo _ of experience over to the practical. When you reach that haven, you will have completed the development of your forces,”
“You mistake me—I am but a spectator.”
“Yes; but you desire to go behind the scenes, And he who
1 Has not all this proved prophetic 2
spierre, and achieved somuch
With Madame de Ventadour and the De Montaignes, Ma\-— travers passed the chief part of his time. They knew how to appreciate his nobler, and to love his gentler attributes and _ qualities; they united in a warm interest for his future fate ; they ~ combated his Philosophy of Inaction; and they felt that it was _ because he was not happy that he was not wise. Experience
was to him what ignorance had been to Alice. His faculties were B chilled and dormant. As affection to those who are unskilled in
a things, so is affection to those who despair of allthings. The —
mind of Maltravers was a world without a sun! ~ ve
CHAPTER. Hi. 6¢ Coelebs, quid agam ?” }—HOoRAT.
IN a room at Fenton’s Hotel sat Lord Vargrave and Caroline _ Lady Doltimore—two months after the marriage of the latter. - “Doltimore has positively fixed, then, to go abroad on your return from Cornwall?” “Positively—to Paris. You can join us at Christmas, I j trust 2” -- “T have no doubt of it; and before then I hope that I shalt 3 have arranged certain Sable matters, which at present harass 7 ‘and absorb me even more than my private affairs.”
You have managed to obtain terms with Mr. Douce, and to
delay the repayment of your debt to him ?”
“Ves, I hope s0, till I touch Miss Cameron’s income ; which will be mine, I trust, by the time she is eighteen.” “You mean the forfeit money of 30,000/.?” “ Not I—I mean what I said!” Can you really imagine she will still accept your hand?”
; 1 What shall I do, a bacheler
r «
“With your aid, I do imagine it! Hear me. You must take
Evelyn with you to Paris. I have no doubt but that she will be delighted to accompany you; nay, I have paved the way so far. For, of course, as a friend of the family, and guardian to Evelyn, I have maintained a correspondence with Lady Vargrave. She informs me that Evelyn has been unwell and low-spirited ;
that she fears Brook-Green is dull for her, &c. I wrote, in reply, to say, that the more my ward saw of the world, prior to her accession, when of age, to the position she would occupy in it, the more she would fulfil my late uncle’s wishes with respect to
her education and so forth. I added, that as you were going ~
to Paris—and as you loved her so much—there could not be a better opportunity for her entrance into life, under the most favourable auspices. Lady Vargrave’s answer to this letter arrived this morning: she will consent to such an arrangement should you propose it.”
“But what good will result to yourself in this project 2—at Paris you will be sure of rivals, and ”
“Caroline,” interrupted Lord Vargrave, “I know very well what you would say: I also know all the danger I must incur. - But it is a choice of evils, and I choose the least. You see that while she is at Brook-Green, and under the eye of that sly old curate, I can effect nothing with her. There, she is entirely removed from my influence; not so abroad; not so under your roof. Listen to me still further. In this country, and especially in the seclusion and shelter of Brook-Green, I have no scope for
Cn Ee ep we ela a ee ee
“—
any of those means which I shall be compelled to resort to, in a
~ failure of all else.” “What can you intend ?” said Caroline, with a slight shudder. “TJ don’t know what I intend yet. But this, at least, I can tell you—that Miss Cameron’s fortune I must and will have. I am a desperate man; and I can play a desperate game, if need be.” “ And do you think that J will aid, will abet ?”
“Hush, not so loud! Yes, Caroline, you will, and you must
aid and abet me in any project I may form.” “Must! Lord Vargrave?”
“Ay!” said rae! with a smile, and sinking his voice into =
a whisper,—“ ay! you are in my power |”
~
‘ r aun Je Se s
«Traitor !-you cannot dare! you cannot mean——” : “I mean nothing more than to remind you of the ties that | exist between us—ties which ought to render us the firmest and
most confidential of friends. Come, Caroline, recollect all the benefit must not lie on one side ; I have obtained for you rank and wealth ; Ihave procured you a husband—you must help me to a wife!”
Caroline sank back, and covered her face with her hands.
“TY allow,” continued Vargrave coldly—“I allow that your
beauty and talent were sufficient of themselves to charm a wiser.
man than Doltimore; but had I not suppressed jealousy—sacri- ficed love—had I dropped a hint to your liege lord—nay, had I not fed his lap-dog vanity by all the cream and sugar of flatter- ing falsehoods—you would be Caroline Merton still!”
“Oh! would that I were! Oh! that I were anything but your
tool—your victim! Fool that I was! wretch that Iam! Iam
rightly punished !” “Forgive me—forgive me, dearest,” said Vargrave, soothingly ; “T was to blame, forgive me: but you irritated, you maddened
, me, by your seeming indifference to my prosperity, my fate. I tell you again and again, pride of my soul, I tell you, that you
are the only being I love! and if you will allow me, if you will rise superior, as I once fondly hoped, to all the cant and pre- judice of convention and education—the only woman I could ever respect, as well as love. Oh, hereafter, when you see me at that height to which I feel that I am born to climb, let me think that to your generosity, your affection, your zeal, I owed the ascent ; at present I am on the precipice—without your hand I fall for ever. My own fortune is gone—the miserable forfeit due to me, if Evelyn continues to reject my suit, when she has arrived at the age of eighteen, is deeply mortgaged. I am engaged in vast and daring schemes, in which I may either rise to the highest station or lose that which I now hold. In either case, how necessary to me is wealth: in the one instance, to maintain my advancement ; in the other, to redeem my fall.”
“ But did you not tell me,” said Caroline, “that Evelyn proposed and promised to place her fortune at your disposal, even while rejecting your hand ?”
gate Ue neta aig! wea sce PVNE eee gn aa
48 ALICE; OR, THE
Pao NG es, SONA OME os On at Petey ehl sas Dey bess 4 a
Denes Tes v7 s MYSTERIE
“ Absurd mockery !” exclaimed Vargave ; “ the foolish boast of a girl—an impulse liable to every caprice. Can you suppose that when she launches into the extravagance natural to her age, and necessary to her position, she will not find a thousand demands upon her rent-roll not dreamt of now? a thousand vanities and baubles that will soon erase my poor and hollow claim from her recollection? Can you suppose that, if she marry another, her husband will ever consent to a child’s romance? And even were all this possible, were it possible that girls were not extravagant, and that husbands had no common sense, is it for me, Lord Vargrave, to be a mendicant upon reluctant bounty ? a poor cousin—a pensioned led-captain ? Heaven knows I have as little _ false pride as-any man, but still this is a degradation I cannot stoop to. Besides, Caroline, I am no miser, no Harpagon: I do not want wealth for wealth’s sake, but for the advantages it bestows—respect, honour, position; and these I get as the husband of the great heiress. Should I get them as her depend- ant? No: for more than six years I have built my schemes and shaped my conduct according to one assured and definite object ; and that object I shall not now, at the eleventh hour, let slip from my hands. Enough of this: you will pass Brook- Green in returning from Cornwall—you will take Evelyn with you to Paris—leave the rest to me. Fear no folly, no violence, | from my plans, whatever they may be: I work in the dark. Nor do I despair that Evelyn will love, that Evelyn will voluntarily accept me yet: my disposition is sanguine; I look to the bright side of things ;—do the same !”
Here their conference was interrupted by Lord Doltimore, who lounged carelessly into the room, with his hat on one side. “Ah Vargrave, how are you? You will not forget the letters of - introduction? Where are you going, Caroline?”
“Only to my own room, to put on my bonnet: the carriage will be here in a few minutes.” And Caroline escaped.
“So you go to Cornwall to-morrow, Doltimore ?”
S Yes—cursed bore! but Lady Elizabeth insists on seeing us, and I don’t object toa week’s good shooting, The old lady, too, has something to leave, and Caroline had no dowry: not that I care for it; but still marriage is expensive.”
4 .
« By the by, you will want the five thousand pounds you lent Pore. 5 “ Why, whenever it is convenient.”
“Say no more—it shall be seen to. Doltimore, I am very — anxious that Lady Doltimore’s début at Paris should be brilliant:
everything depends on falling into the right set. For myself, I
and an idle man like you, it might be different.” “Qh, you will be very useful to us when we return to London.
dare say there will be some sharp work the first week or two- after the recess.”
ee ee Ries
that when-I am in the cabinet, a cértain friend of mine shall be
an earl. Adieu.”
3 “ Good-bye, my dear Vargrave, good-bye—and, I say,—I say, don’t distress yourself about that trifle—a few months hence, 4 it will suit me just as well.” J
3 “Thanks—I will just look into my accounts, and use you ©
without ceremony. Well—I dare say we shall meet at Paris. Oh, I forgot—I observe that you have renewed your intimacy
place to oblige you——still, as you are no longer a gargo but perhaps I shall offend you?”
3 “Not at all. What is there against Legard ?”
3 “ Nothing in the world—but he is a bit of a boaster. I dare say his ancestor was a Gascon—poor fellow !—and he affects to say that you can’t choose a coat, or buy a horse, without his approval
and advice—that he can turn you round his finger. Now this — hurts your consequence in the world—you don’t get credit for your own excellent sense and taste. Take my advice, avoid
é- _ these young hangers-on of fashion — these club-room lions.
Having no importance of their own, they steal the importance of
their friends. Verbum sap.” “ You are very right—Legard zs a coxcomb; and now I see
why he talked of joining us at Paris; “Don’t let him do any such thing !—he will be telling the
Frenchmen that her ladyship is in love with him—ha! ha!”
ne el eae Pah te aaa ITE
don’t care about fashion, and never did; but if I were married, Meanwhile, you know, you have my proxy in the Lords. I
“Very likely ; and depend on one thing, my dear Doltimore, ‘
' with Legard. Now, he is a very good fellow, and I gave him that —
~
=
“Well, good-bye, once more.” And Vargrave closed the
— door. “Legard go to Paris—not if Evelyn goes there!” muttered
Lumley. “Besides, I want no partner in the little that one
can screw out of this blockhead.”