Just as Hamilton had finished his narrative, they heard, in the adjoining room, Maria eagerly addressing her friend Charlotte: “Do not flatter my hope, my dear Charlotte, but is my William alive?” “Alive? he is, and has never been hurt.” Hamilton, regardless of his dear Maria’s situation, rushed into her apartment, and in a fond embrace, enjoyed the delight with which she received him, as if recovered from the dead: her father and uncle were soon informed of the actual circumstances of the encounter, and with the sincerest pleasure, learned that both Hamilton and Hamden were alive, and in no danger.
Hamden was brought to Brighton in a litter, and gradually recovered. During his convalescence, our hero and Maria thought it would be unwise to explain to him the footing on which they were, and the time arrived for leaving Brighton before any eclaircissement took place.
CHAPTER XVII.
Being returned to London, our hero chiefly devoted himself to literary pursuits, and especially to the work which he had engaged to execute. As he had now advanced considerably in reputation, many applied to him for his judgment concerning literary works, and on other subjects. Female authors brought him their novels and dissertations, and some of them appeared willing to submit to any terms he chose to prescribe, provided Hamilton would give a favourable review of the productions of their brain. They cared little what their other works might be, if their literary works underwent a favourable investigation. In reviewing the publications of men, Hamilton was very fair and impartial. But the effusions of female pens he generally regarded with an eye of indulgence; and, indeed, a critic must be very austere, who, when an agreeable young woman brings her intellectual offspring for his inspection, will very severely scrutinize every part. Observations may be common-place, but a kiss of the fair deliverer’s sweet lips, might convince even Aristarchus himself, that actions in which there is little novelty, may still be very pleasing. Perhaps there may be a small forgetfulness in such matters as nominatives and verbs, relatives and antecedents; whom where a pedantic grammarian might require who, or it may be spelling somewhat different from the formal stiffness of Dr. Johnson, or some little inadvertencies in the way of geography, chronology, or history, such as that the Earl of Essex commanded an expedition against Calais in Henry Vth’s wars; Algernon Sidney lived in the time of Queen Elizabeth; or that Admiral Hawke defeated the Spanish armada at La Hogue; or any little trifling mistake of that kind. The sweet smile of harmony and good humour will atone for a false concord. Our hero, in his criticisms upon the productions of ladies, shewed, that with him at least, the age of chivalry was not gone.
It was now the month of December, when one morning Hamilton was told a young woman wanted to speak to him. “I have seen her before,” said the servant; “I remember her shop-woman to Miss Edging the milliner.” “Oh, I suppose she must want you, Charlotte?” “Very probably,” said Charlotte; “I expect a cap home.” “No, miss, the cap will not be ready till to-morrow morning; it is my master she wants.” Our hero accordingly attended in the drawing-room, and saw a very pretty little girl about twenty, who somewhat flurried, and blushing, begged pardon for the great liberty she had taken; “but when business is slack,” she said, “during summer, I have been doing a little in the novel line; and Mr. Nincompoop, who keeps the eminent press for that kind of larning, and who is a most capital judge, has been pleased to think very well of it, and now it is published. But they tell me that it is of great consequence to have it well spoken of in the Reviews. Having, therefore, the honour of serving your mother and sister, and having, I believe, given them satisfaction, particularly in bonnets (for Miss Hamilton is very partial to my bonnets); I have even had the honour of lacing cravats for you, sir: therefore, sir, I thought you would excuse my freedom in begging a merciful criticism. I am a young beginner, sir, and I hope you will make allowances.” “He must be a very insensible critic,” said our hero, “that could see so very sweet a girl, and be disposed to severity.” “Oh, sir, you gentlemen do flatter so:” and now our hero, pulling a table before them, requested Miss Lacecap to sit down upon the sofa, that they might with the more convenience look over the work together. On the sofa accordingly did our author and our critic sit. Miss pulled out two volumes, one of which our author opening, read the title page, which was as follows: “The Maze, of Marvels: or, the Loves of Carolino and Athalia.” “Very pretty soft names your hero and your heroine.” “I am happy to have your approbation, sir. I have an abstract of the plot written, sir.” Accordingly she produced a paper. “I have to observe, sir, that what put the plot in my head first, was reading a book called Ovid, I believe Dryden is the author, where there was a very pretty affecting story, called, ‘Pyramid and Thisby.’ I dare say you know the story?” “Yes, I recollect something of it.” “Now, sir, I think a great deal in a story is a pretty name.”
“Story—Carolino and Athalia often see one another at a windore, and being both extraordinary handsome, they fall in love with each other; but their parents being rival shopkeepers, is not friends, and so they are against the lovers, and they are obliged to whisper secretly through a crany in the wall of the back-yard. Accordingly they lament that they cannot be oftener together and nearer, and agree to have an assignation in a church-yard, when the neighbours should be in bed.” “A church-yard!” said our hero; “is not that a melancholy scene for a meeting of lovers?” “Oh, no. In the story-book Pyramid meets with Thisby in a church-yard, near a great lord’s tomb, for it seems lords did not then bury in the church. To be understood, I suppose, the church-yard to be near town, at Mary-le-bone, for instance; so off they set out to meet. Athalia gets first to the place.” “Do not you think that makes Carolino very ungallant?” “Oh no, sir. You see Carolino is her first love, and she has been to boarding school, and reads novels and love-stories, and is therefore the more coming. Thisby, in the story, gets to the church-yard before Pyramid; it is as it were more a novelty to her.” “A most excellent comment upon Ovid’s Thisbe,” said our hero. “Yes Sir,” said the young lady, simpering; “that same Ovid knew our sect.” By this time, in the progress of criticism, our Longinus’s hand happened to have doubled the fair Sappho’s neck, with its course directed onwards, and his lips had reviewed hers in a kiss. When after an “a fie, sir,” in which the smiling eyes did not correspond with the chiding tongue, she went on; “Athalia is flustrated, on finding Carolino not there; but in a few minutes he comes, a little afraid at being in the dark alone in so dismal a place, and whistling ‘Lango Lee,’ to keep himself in courage.” “Do you think that a natural circumstance?” “Oh, yes, I once knew an instance myself: A gentleman belonging to the guards (but interrupting the instance)——the bravest man in the world might be afraid of apparitions.” “Certainly, no hero that was to meet with so lovely a girl as you, in a sweet solitary retirement, could be under the influence of fear.” “No, sir, Carolino and Athalia are not afraid after they do meet; then they have something else to think of. But we will go on with the story if you please, sir.” “Carolino and Athalia meet at the gate of the Mary-le-bone burying-ground, by the light of the moon, and they embrace one another with the warmest affection, and reciprocate the sweet strains of love; when a watchman, almost at their ears, calls past twelve o’clock.” Here the author observed, “I did not know, sir, how to bring in a lion, because them kind of beastesses are not to be found in the fields; but only at Exeter Change, and the Tower.” “Why, my fair friend, you observe probability much better than many of your sister novelists, and perhaps a watchman might occur to your fancy as a more probable intruder into such a tender scene than a lion.” “Oh yes, sir, but let us go on.” “The lovers, to escape the questions of the watchman, cross the New Road into the fields near the Jews Harp. For several months the fond lovers have interviews, but ah the cruelty of destiny! poor Athalia finds a change in her shape, which a cruel and unfeeling world is so malignant as to censure. She is likely to be a mother without being a wife.” “Poor Athalia!” said the critic; “but one comfort to her is, her case is not singular.” “Alas! no,” said the author; and here she sighed, and was in some little agitation; but our hero either not noticing, or not appearing to notice her, proceeded, and read in the synopsis “a pathetic letter of Athalia to Carolino, on discovering her condition.” Hamilton turned to the place, and read as follows:
“My beloved Carolino,
How shall I communicate to you the fatal secret; alas! I am betrayed. I will not reproach you. I am betrayed into mistake by the soft sensibility of too tender a heart. I cannot reproach you; I can only blame myself, and a worthless and malignant world. Ah! why (as the king of German moralists observes so strongly) should that be reckoned dishonourable in event which proceeds from no malevolent intention? Why should the indulgence of the sweetest of affections be reckoned a crime? Why should it be deemed shameful to obey the impulses of nature? Ah! when shall the corruptions of society suffer actions to be estimated according to the divine sentiments of the “Virgin of the sun,” even after the title ceased to be applicable. When, like Clara and Lindor, shall we look on such incidents as innocent and even laudable. I need not say, shall we look, but shall a worthless and wicked world look upon such occurrences in the right point of view. Oh! sentiment, thou source of every thing that is great, and noble, and refined, how are thy rights violated! It was only last night, just as I had returned from meeting him that is so dear to my soul, my mother, I found, had discovered the sacred secret of my heart: alas, to be a secret no longer, for to her it was not long confined. These human monsters, these foes to all fine sentiment, these repressors of all delicate feeling!” “Who can these be,” said our hero. “Oh, sir,” said the author, “do not you know who it means. I thought that one of the best parts of my descriptions: but you will see as you go along.” Our hero still not discovering, she said in a half whisper, “I mean, sir, the parish officers, but I did not know how far they could with propriety be mentioned in a pathetic scene. Perhaps you would object to their introduction after interviews of sentimental love and tenderness.” “Their introduction,” said our hero, “frequently takes place after scenes of sentimental love: but let us go on with the letter. And they say that these brutes in human shape, are endeavouring to get hold of my charming Carolino, because he has felt the delicacy of refined sentiment for his Athalia,—because we have loved beyond vulgar rules. Oh, my Carolino, elude their search, and when safe beyond their jurisdiction, inform your doating Athalia.”
From the letter he returned to the story: “Carolino betakes himself to sea, and according to the song, ‘Syrens in every port he finds;’ but being a brave fellow, and becoming an able seaman, rises in his profession; in a year or two is made a captain, and takes a Spanish prize; his share of which is about two hundred thousand pounds. He purchases a fine estate, and is made a lord. In all this time he forgets sentiment and poor Athalia; but she adheres to sentiment and elevation of mind. She incurs great distress, advertises in the newspapers for the protection of a man of honour and sentiment: finds one in a worthy gentleman who benignantly undertakes the causes of distressed fellow-creatures, persecuted by the rigidity of the law. From this protector, she passes to one of his clients, who is extricated from the danger by which he is threatened, and afterwards accompanies a friend of his on his travels. Returning after a great variety of adventures, she still solicits and obtains patronage; and while under her succession of guardians, she cherishes her exalted sentiments, and preserves her mind constant to her first lover.” “In short,” says our hero, “Athalia appears to be like a ship, which having one captain, has a great number of lieutenants, that in turns super-intend the quarter-gallery in his absence.” “I hope, however, the captain comes on board at last.” “Oh, yes sir, I bring it all right before the end.” “She comes home; finds her boy, who, as the great Rousseau directs, had been sent to the Foundling, a fine youth of eighteen, enlisted in the guards; but totally ignorant of his parents. She makes herself known, and promises in a few days to inform him who was his father. The very next evening he rescues a gentleman from robbers. The gentleman takes him to his house, and behold, it is discovered that he is his own father Carolino, now earl of Muscadello, Baron Bobadilio. Finding his Athalia is still alive, he instantaneously repents, and has a tender interview, in which she acknowledges all her mistakes, at least as many of them as she can remember. The earl finds that her heart and sentiment had been uniformly true to him, recovers all his former love, marries her, and procures an act for the legitimation of his son, who is thenceforth my Lord Bobadilio: is first a great rake, but after continuing three years in that capacity, falls in love with Lady Bella Rosebud, marries her, and becomes instantly eminent for virtue and religion. The earl and countess of Muscadello, my lord and my lady Bobadilio, vie with each other in holiness, wisdom, and goodness. Carolino and his Athalia, when they behold the children of their beloved Bobadilio sporting before them, contemplate with delight the Mazes of Marvels, and see sentiment triumphant, and bless the happy night when they first met at Mary-le-bone burying ground, and crossed into the fields between the Jews-harp and old Mother Red-cap’s.” “Now for the moral. It is in the last sentence, sir; that is the right place you know, sir, for the moral.” “So your sister novelists seem to think, and with many of them it is certainly the only place.”
“Hence we may learn that the highest perfection of human nature is sentimental refinement; that endowed with this gift, though youth may fall into those mistakes[3] from which humanity can never be free, and to which sentimental susceptibility is peculiarly exposed from its exquisite fineness, yet the heart will regain its purity and elevation, and after the rectification of venial mistakes, resplendant brilliancy of character will ensue. Cultivate then, my dear young friends, above all excellencies, sentimental refinement.”