LETTER XIII.
Brighton, Feb. 19th, 1827.
Dear Julia,
‘To make the best of my time,’ (as the practical English say,) before I left town yesterday I visited three theatres in succession. In the first piece I saw, the principal person was an Irish servant. According to all I have been able to learn from plays and novels, these Irish must be an odd people,—of a fresh originality very unlike the English. Irish beggars are very common in the streets of London, where they are easily recognized by their Gascon-like manner and dialect. A modern author remarks with equal drollery and truth: “The English beggar whines out the same monotonous words in a drawling tone, ‘Give a poor man a halfpenny, Give a poor man a halfpenny.’—What an orator is his Irish colleague! ‘O your honour, give us a penny, only one blessed penny, your honour’s honour, and God’s blessing be upon your children, and your children’s children! Give us only one little penny, and may Heaven grant you a long life, and a quiet death, and a blessed resurrection!’” Who can withstand entreaties so humorously moving?
In the next theatre we were regaled with a pantomime, in which was a quadrille of birds, and another of tea-things; after which the tea-pot, milk-jug, and cup, executed a ‘pas de trois,’ while spoons, knives, and forks danced around them as ‘figurantes.’ The birds were ‘à s’y méprendre,’ and I recommend something of the same kind, with parrots which might speak too, to be arranged for the S—— Court theatre by Mephistophiles. A clever account of it would be a still further novelty, and a tea-kettle and accompaniments would be very suitable additions to the society.
I saw the Indian jugglers for the third time. They exhibited something quite new. Instead of balls, they threw up and caught short burning torches. This produces a curious sort of fire-work, a continuous developement of burning figures,—wheels, serpents, triangles, stars, flowers, &c., as if in a kaleidescope. The immovable steadiness and accuracy of these people never misses.
The fantastic absurdities of the pantomimes probably affected my imagination in the night, which I dosed away between London and Brighton; for I had the strangest visions in my carriage. At first I was mounted on my beautiful gray, whom for once I could not manage: he constantly resisted my will; and when at last I mastered him, shook his head with such fury, that it broke from his neck and flew to a distance of twenty paces, while I plunged down a precipice on the headless body.—I was next sitting on a bench in my park, and watching the devastations made by a frightful hurricane, which tore up the old trees far and near, and threw them together like faggots.—At last I quarrelled with you, dear Julia, and in despair went for a soldier. I forgot you (which is possible only in sleep,) and found myself in my new sphere, once more young and brilliant, full of fresh spirit, and not less full of wanton pride. It was the day of battle. The thunder of the cannon rolled magnificently; noble martial music accompanied it, and animated our spirits; while, with the prerogative of a dream, we sat quietly breakfasting on a ‘pâté aux truffes et champagne,’ in the midst of a fire of musketry. A spent cannon-ball now came ‘en ricochet’ towards us; and before I could spring aside, carried off the head of my comrade, who was sitting on the ground by my side, and both my legs, so that I fell groaning with pain and horror. When I recovered my senses, the storm was roaring around me, and the sea howled in my ears. I thought myself on the voyage, when, behold my carriage stopped at the door of the inn on the Marine Parade at Brighton! To-morrow perhaps I shall dream out the rest. But are the waking fancies of life much less confused? Castles in the air, for good and for evil;—nothing but castles in the air. Some stand for minutes, some for years, some for tens[48] of years; but they all fall at last, and palace, just as easily as a miserable hut, a grave or a dungeon. But you are ever by, my Julia, either sharing the palace, adorning the hut, weeping over the grave, or consoling me in bonds. At this moment I am floating midway, without any determinate abode: I am, however, all the more ethereal and light-hearted for that; but, I must confess, with a very sleepy ‘physique,’ for it is three in the morning: and so I kiss your hand, and bid you good-night. But I beg you to look in your dream-book what these adventures of mine portend.
You know my favourite superstition, which I set too high a value upon to have it torn from me by chaffy reasonings. As, for instance, when an ‘esprit fort’ shrugs up his shoulder, (if he does not venture to turn up his nose in my face,) or a well-anointed priest says, “It is extraordinary to see how inconsistently many men refuse to believe in religion, (by which parsons always mean their Church and its ordinances,) and yet give way to the utmost credulity in the greatest absurdities.” “But, reverend Sir,” I ask in reply, “in what then do these absurdities consist?” “Why, the belief in sympathies, in dreams, in the influence of the stars, and so on.” “But, most respected Sir, I see no inconsistency in the matter. Every reflecting man must confess that there are a number of mysterious powers in nature,—influences, and attractions, both of our earth, and of the system to which it belongs, of which many that formerly passed for fables have been discovered; others that as yet we do but suspect or divine, and cannot ascertain. It is therefore by no means contrary to reason to make one’s own hypothesis concerning them, and to believe in these more or less. I do not, therefore, contest your miracles, nor your symbols;—I contest only certain other things, which many of you teach, and which are equally incomprehensible to the understanding and repugnant to the heart: for instance, a God more passionate and partial than the frailest man; infinite torments appointed by infinite love, for finite sins; arbitrarily-predestined forgiveness or damnation,—and so on. Such things can be possible only when two and two shall make five, and no superstition can approach the insanity of such a belief.”
February 22nd.
I am just returned from a grand Almack’s fancy ball, where everybody was either in some fantastic outlandish dress, or in uniform,—a ‘mélange’ which does not seem to me in very good taste, nor very respectful to the latter. You may imagine that my friend the Highland chieftain did not fail to appear in his national costume. It is really very handsome; in the highest degree rich, picturesque, and manly: the only thing that does not please me is the shoes with the large buckles. The sword is just in the form of one of our student’s rapiers; and besides that, there is a dagger, pistols, and cartouche-box. The arms are set with precious stones; and an eagle’s feather, the badge of a chieftain, adorns the cap.