"Now, my dear child, I have one more request to make of you concerning these letters; that is, will you give me leave to destroy them? They will never be an honor to you; if you seek for praise, you must endeavour to procure it in a less equivocal shape than this. Here you are told in so many words almost, that your knowledge is most extensive and profound; that your taste is pure and perfect; that your strength of mind is superior to the rest of your sex; in short, that you possess every virtue and every excellence that can be attributed to a human being. Can you believe that Miss Henderson is silly enough to entertain such an opinion of you; and if she be not sincere, what can be her motive, but merely to indulge her own foolish inclination to talk or to write? I dare say that, if the fact could be ascertained, you would find that she has used the same kind of language to many others with whom she has corresponded; for her style seems to be that of a practised letter writer, who scribbles for her own gratification."
Clara saw that there was truth and justice in these observations, and though she felt a considerable degree of reluctance, she could not refuse her mother's request; and the letters in all their fulness and interest and with all their fine compliments, were committed to what newspaper editors call the devouring element.
CHAPTER IX.
"Full many a lady
I have eyed with best regard."
Shakspeare.
The sea-side is an excellent place for those who have nothing to do, and none but those can duly and rightly appreciate its advantages. To saunter about on the beach and listen to the roaring of the waters, and watch the tide rising or falling—to hear the rushing rattling of the pebbles that are rolled on the beach with every successive wave—to see the distant sail, now dark beneath a passing cloud, and then bright again as a leaf of silver from the light of the sun—to watch the sea-birds in their reeling, wheeling, staggering flight—to mark the little dabs of sea-weed in their grotesque variety, and to measure the progress of the tide by their disappearance on encroaching waves, or to measure how much the waters have receded, by observing how this, that, and the other weed are drier and farther from the reach of the wave—to notice the pretty wonder, and see the waving ringlets and fluttering bonnets of the little ones who are brought to breathe health and animation on the coast—to watch the sentimental looks of the solitary wanderer who comes there to breathe poetry—to see the flushed indications of a swelling heart in the looks of those who seem to hear in the sound of the rushing waters a voice from beloved and distant ones; these, and ten thousand other pretty occupations, banish from the mind all feeling of indolence, and make it fancy itself employed. And surely it is quite as well employed in seeing and feeling poetry as in reading it. To speak after the figurative and flowery style of Rebecca Henderson's pa, we might say that nature is all poetry, groves are her sonnets, gardens her madrigals, mountains her pindarics, and seas her epics. In walking by the sea-side, there is no thought of loss of time; for the sea being an emblem of eternity, banishes all thought of time from the mind. Thus wandered there, day after day, our young friend, Clara Rivolta.
Not the less interesting to us is this young lady, because in the simplicity and youngness of her experience, she has suffered herself to be carried away by the foolish and vain flatterings of an idle-minded, busy-tongued young woman, on whose mind knowledge has produced only its coarsest and grossest effects. To the sea-side did Clara betake herself the morning after the discovery of her foolish, sentimental correspondence with Miss Henderson. Many and painful were the efforts which she made to endeavour to think more soberly of herself, and to bring her thoughts and feelings to that steadiness and firmness which she could not but perceive and respect in her mother. It was not easy, it was not pleasant, to rouse herself from that delicious dream of self-complacency into which she had been lulled. We do not like to wake from a pleasant dream, even though we know it to be but a dream. Clara was also helping to deceive herself. She was indulging herself in the thought that she was far less censorious than she used to be, for she thought more favorably and judged more candidly of Mr. Tippetson than when she first saw him. But she forgot that a little of that candor and a little of that justice might perhaps be owing to the decided and flattering homage which that sweet-scented gentleman had paid her. No one can think very contemptibly of those who dexterously flatter; and there is a species of flattery which is very dexterous, which does not express itself in the bare words of common-place compliment or gross adulation, but which speaks in looks, tones, actions, and attentions. Mr. Tippetson had learned this art in perfection, and no wonder; for he had studied no other, and had found an interest and a pleasure in this. He had been despised and tolerated by a great number of persons and families. At first sight, all who came near him despised him, but upon better acquaintance they thought better of him; and as he had no feeling but for himself, he could when necessity required make himself very agreeable to most with whom he conversed. His art was to affect an almost exclusive interest for the person whom he addressed or conversed with. By this he had rendered himself so very agreeable to Sir Gilbert Sampson, then to Miss Sampson, now Countess of Trimmerstone, that many observers thought at one time that he would have carried off the heiress; and very likely he would, had it not been for the title which was in the Martindale connexion. Even after the marriage of the young lady above-named, her lord and master was almost jealous of Tippetson, but when he became better acquainted with him he thought better of him. There was this also in the style of the young gentleman, that he never affected any superiority, but always spoke, if of himself at all, in terms of great humility and diffidence. It is indeed rather flattering and agreeable to us, when seeing one who at a little distance appears full of himself, very proud and conceited and contemptuous, we find when we come nearer to him, that he thinks very humbly of himself, and that he is towards us all respect, deference, and attention. The homage of those who seem constitutionally constructed to pay homage to every body affects and delights us not, but the homage of those who seem to expect homage is truly delightful. By this kind of art, Mr. Henry Augustus Tippetson rendered himself tolerable in spite of his foppery and exquisite affectations.
We have introduced this gentleman again, because he is about to introduce himself; and though we would willingly let our characters speak for themselves, as we have said in the preceding volume, we cannot always trust them, for we know that they are all more or less hypocritical, and would put the best side outwards. Besides, there is wanting in narrative or written dialogue the countenance or expression, which the actor in a drama gives to the character. There may be much individuality in the characters of Shakspeare's dramas, but we question whether there be not somewhat less than most persons imagine. With all the individuality, however, that may be supposed to belong to them, we have very little doubt but that to different minds the names of Hamlet, Macbeth, Shylock, &c. present an almost infinite variety of moral portrait; and there is great truth in the common language and philosophy in the common phraseology, of "Kean's Richard," "Garrick's Richard," "Kemble's Coriolanus." "Kean's Richard" and "Garrick's Richard" were no doubt different persons. Our characters, therefore, cannot speak definitely enough, if they only speak for themselves. But Mr. Henry Augustus Tippetson is coming.