You may remember how much I used to admire Miss Talbot. I saw her frequently last summer, when she looked so pretty, and was so kind to me, that I became quite enthusiastic in her praise; and should have been very foolish about her, if mamma had not damped my energy, by saying one day, "dearest Emily, do not take so much for granted: wait to know Miss Talbot better before you give her all your heart." I felt that there must be good reason for this reproof, or I should not have received it. I paused, and ceasing to inflate my mind with my own exaggerations, mistaking them for realities, I did wait to know Miss Talbot better, and one look, though unaccompanied by a word, darted at her father, who asked for a particular song which she did not choose to sing, levelled the whole edifice of my admiration to the dust. The same song which she had refused to a parent's request, she volunteered when Mr. Mortimer Fitzallan came into the room, saying, in her sweetest accents, and with her winning smile, "I will now sing your favourite." To return after a digression, which contains my apology for not attempting to give you exact portraits of our guests, I will proceed to say, that as far as I am acquainted with them, I like Mr. Annesley better than Mr. Russell, and both pleased me, though not in the same manner. The former is more gentle and reflecting than his friend, the latter full of music and of merriment; but one is not always merry, and if not, Mr. Russell's animal spirits fatigue. Then, as to music, I think that he likes it less for its own sake, than as a subject on which to be eloquent. Mr. Annesley says less, but does more than the other, in the way of those little polite attentions which mark a wish to please; and he looks so sincere, that one feels always ready to believe whatever he utters, while the wandering eye of his companion would indicate that his thoughts are every where, or no where, though his tongue be employed in giving to them the liveliest expression. Mr. Annesley's animation arises out of the occasion, while Mr. Russell is ever intent on seeking opportunity to exhibit his. In conversing with the one, you find your spirits refreshed by the natural alternation of stimulus and repose. In talking to the other, you are made to feel that a certain measure of excitement is to be run out; after which, you must lie by to recruit, ere you commence anew. They are both polished, and have received all the advantages of modern education, and thus ends my story of them.
Mamma will write to dear Mrs. Sandford, when she can tell her of the general's movements. Have you ever remarked how many people tack an emphatic the to any admiral, general, colonel, dean, or archdeacon, accidentally appended to their family, just as if there were no other of each class in the world beside their own? Adieu, dearest Julia: our united loves to all at Checkley.
Believe me, ever your
Affectionate friend,
Emily Douglas.
LETTER XXV.
Frederick Douglas to his Mother.
Beloved Mother,
Our dear Phil. insisted on writing the first letter from London, and as this point was settled before we left Glenalta, you have not charged me with neglect; forgetful I can never be. You all live continually in my thoughts; I fancy how you are all employed during every part of the day, and never see any thing that delights or surprises me, without wishing that my mother and sisters were to enjoy whatever is worthy of their admiration. This is to me a scene of wonder, and I have a great deal of trouble in suppressing too true an exhibition of my rusticity, and curbing my astonishment at things so common, that no one here could comprehend my ignorance of them. London is a world full of interest to a novice like myself, and while the charm of novelty lasts, and curiosity is kept alive, I shall find as much happiness as I can feel away from you; but the people with whom I meet at my aunt Howard's, though I am told that they are of the first circle, have little merit, I must confess, in my eyes. I ought however, to begin with the hosts, before I describe the company. My aunt is as unlike you, as Louisa is different from Emily, Charlotte, or Fanny. The former is so rouged, so dressed, and made up, that a natural emotion, if any such live within her breast, has no power to reach the surface. Every feature seems fixed, as though she were a cast, and not a real human form of flesh and blood. Her manners are so cold, and her eye so disdainful, that had I come to Grosvenor-square alone, one glance would have been enough to settle my resolves not to encounter a second; but she treats Arthur, her only son, and certainly a favourite, as frigidly as she behaves to me; and with her daughter, there is a perpetual sparring kept up, which to my unaccustomed ear is perfectly dreadful, though at the same time, she is evidently vain of Louisa's beauty and accomplishments. To Mr. Otway she is civil, and towards my poor uncle, officious to excess, without being able to look kind. My cousin is very handsome, and if she had been your child, would, I believe, have been very amiable, for she is good-natured, in spite of every effort to make her the contrary; and her love for Arthur is genuine, I believe, though of a species very new to me. Her person is encumbered with ornaments, and her mind with fashion. Her understanding is excellent, and will break its bounds, and start forth through all the London fogs that would obscure its light; but it is only in accidental scintillations that Louisa's brightness discovers itself, and then, sarcasm is generally the medium through which it shines; nothing can exceed the stupid inanity of such conversation as I hear at my aunt's, where people only are ever discussed. It is one eternal round of dress, public places, and gossip. Every body is said to be out of town, yet the streets are full. Nobody is ever in London at this season, yet the Howards live in a crowd of society, and would be very angry with any body who ventured to affirm that their acquaintance is not first-rate. Mr. Otway reconciles many apparent incongruities through his explanations, when we reach our lodgings at night, and I am already bidding fair to part with the nick-name which Louisa has bestowed upon me of the "novice of Saint Patrick." My Mentor tells me, that London is in fact, at this moment, full of people who are ashamed of not being at their country seats, the watering places, or on the continent; and are detained here malgrè for want of money to go elsewhere, or pay off the bills which continue daily to increase, while they remain in town, shying each other. It is true that the people do not imprison themselves: they meet in the streets, in the shops, in the park, at the theatres; but there seems to be a conventional agreement to tell lies, which are permitted, like base metal, to circulate in the place of sterling coin, though known to be counterfeit by all who use it as a medium of exchange. There is a sort of sinister honesty in this compact, as deception is avoided in the universality of the fraud. One family is detained by Dr.——, who will not suffer his patient to undertake as yet a journey to Leamington. Another is just going to France. A third waits for a carriage which has been promised by the coachmaker, but is not quite finished, and so on. Not a word of truth in any of the stories. A country bumpkin, however, benefits by all this charlatanerie, and finds food for eyes, ears, and reflection, at a time when the metropolis ought to be according to the rules of haut ton, a perfect desert.
The friendship of Arthur sets me at ease. Were it not for him, I should sneak into a corner I suppose, and not dare to utter a word for fear of committing some Hibernicism, and bring the eyes of Europe upon me; but, supported by my faithful Achates, I am bold, and you would perhaps be astonished to see me doing the agreeable at my aunt's evening parties. I assure you that I make my way surprisingly, and am beginning to feel rather triumphant. Louisa put me through a sort of ordeal which was unpleasant enough for three or four days; but Arthur gave me a few hints behind the scenes which enabled me to come off victorious, and now like a freshman at school, who has boxed himself into character, I am let alone, and actually applied to, for my opinions upon "Shakspeare, taste, and the musical glasses." Some contrivance is necessary, however, to slide out of a group when it happens that a cross subject is started; but in general, I find myself au fait, for a grain of intellect, like a grain of gold will hammer out into surface enough to cover a prodigious field of "worshipful society;" and if you are quick in picking up names, admiring the right music, the fashionable singer, the favourite novel, and the newest of every thing, you need not draw unmercifully on your brains, nor put your eyes in danger of Opthalmia, by poring over the midnight lamp. I fancy Emily and Charlotte, with inquiring eyes, pressing forward together, to ask Frederick whether his soul has not been entranced by the finished performance of our London belles on the harp and piano-forte.