Such was the one song you heard every where.
Now the mode—a better one I willingly own it—is “Young Englandism.” Not that superb folly of white neckcloth and vest, that swears by Disraeli and the “Morning Post,” but that healthier stamp, whose steps of travel have turned eastward, towards the land of old-world wonders, and who, instead of enervating mind and body at Ems or Baden, seek higher and nobler sources of pleasure among the cities and tombs of ancient Egypt. Lord Lindsay, for instance, what a creditable specimen is he of his age and class! and Warburton’s book, the “Crescent and the Cross,” how redeeming is such a production among the mass of frivolity and flippancy the magazines teem with! These are the men who, returning to England more intensely national than they left it, cannot be reproached with ignorance in this preference of their native land above every other. Their nationality, not built up of the leaders of the daily newspapers, is a conviction resulting from reflection and comparison.
They are proud of England; not alone as the most powerful of nations, but as that where personal integrity and truth are held in highest repute—where character and reputation stand far above genius—and where, whatever the eminence of a gifted man, he cannot stand above his fellows, save on the condition that he is not inferior in more sterling qualities. The young man setting out to travel can scarcely be sustained by a better feeling than his strong nationality. He who sets a high store by the character of his country will be slow to do aught that will disgrace it. Of course I speak of nationality in its true sense; not the affectation of John Bullism in dress, manner, and bearing—not the insolent assumption of superiority to the French and Germans, that some very young men deem English; but, a deep conviction that, as the requirements of England are higher in all that regards fidelity to his word, consistency of conduct, and more honourable employment of time and talents than prevail abroad, he should be guardedly careful not to surrender these convictions to all the seductions of foreign life and manners.
I do not believe our country is superior to any foreign land in any one particular so strikingly as in the capabilities and habits of our higher orders. Such a class as the titled order of Great Britain, taking them collectively, never existed elsewhere.
A German, with any thing like independence, lives a life of tobacco-smoking and snipe-shooting. An Italian, is content to eke out life with a café and a theatre—lemonade and a “liaison” are enough for him. The government of foreign states, in shutting out the men of rank and fortune from political influence, have taken the very shortest road to their degradation. What is to become of a man who has a Bureaucracy for a government and Popery for a religion?
But what is the tumult in the little court-yard beneath my window? Ha! an English equipage! How neatly elegant that low-hung phaeton! and how superb in figure and style that pair of powerful dark-brown thoroughbreds!—for so it is easy to see they are, even to the smart groom, who stands so still before the pole, with each hand upon the bars of the bits. All smack of London. There is an air of almost simplicity in the whole turn-out, because it is in such perfect keeping. And here come its owners. What a pretty foot!—I might almost say, and ankle, too! How gracefully she draws her shawl around her! What! my friend Sir Gordon himself? So, this is Mdlle. Howard! I wish I could see her face. She will not turn this way. And now they are gone. How distinctive is the proud tramp of their feet above the shuffling shamble of the posters!
So, it is only a “piccolo giro” they are gone to make along the lake, and come back again, to dinner. I thought I heard him say my name to his valet, as he stepped into the carriage. Who knocks at the door? I was right; Sir Gordon has sent to invite me to dine at six o’clock. Shall I go? Why should I think of it? I am sick, low, weak, heart and body. Nay, it is better to refuse.
Well, I have written my apology, not without a kind of secret regret, for somehow I have a longing—a strange wish, once more, to feel the pleasant excitement of even so much of society; but, like the hero of the Peau de Chagrin, I dread to indulge a wish, for it may lead me more rapidly down to my doom. I actually tremble lest a love of life, that all-absorbing desire to live, should lie in wait for me yet. I have heard that it ever accompanies the last stage of my malady. It is better, then, to guard against whatever might suggest it. Pleasure could not—friendship, solicitude, kindness might do so.