CHAPTER LII.
Illi mors gravis incubat Qui notus nimis omnibus Ignotus moritus sibi.--Seneca.
Nous serons par nos lois les juges des ouvrages.--Les Femmes Savantes.
Vincent called on me the next day. "I have news for you," said he,"though somewhat of a lugubrious nature. Lugete Veneres Cupidinesque.You remember the Duchesse de Perpignan!"
"I should think so," was my answer.
"Well then," pursued Vincent, "she is no more. Her death was worthyof her life. She was to give a brilliant entertainment to all theforeigners at Paris: the day before it took place a dreadful eruptionbroke over her complexion. She sent for the doctors in despair. 'Cure meagainst to-morrow,' she said, 'and name your own reward.' 'Madame, it isimpossible to do so with safety to your health.' 'Au diable! with yourhealth,' said the duchesse, 'what is health to an eruption?' The doctorstook the hint; an external application was used--the duchesse woke inthe morning as beautiful as ever--the entertainment took place--shewas the Armida of the scene. Supper was announced. She took the armof the--ambassador, and moved through the crowd amidst the audibleadmiration of all. She stopped for a moment at the door; all eyes wereupon her. A fearful and ghastly convulsion passed over her countenance,her lips trembled, she fell on the ground with the most terriblecontortions of face and frame. They carried her to bed. She remained forsome days insensible; when she recovered, she asked for a looking-glass.Her whole face was drawn on one side, not a wreck of beauty wasleft;--that night she poisoned herself!"
I cannot express how shocked I was at this information. Much as I hadcause to be disgusted with the conduct of that unhappy woman, I couldfind in my mind no feeling but commiseration and horror at her death;and it was with great difficulty that Vincent persuaded me to accept aninvitation to Lady Roseville's for the evening, to meet Glanville andhimself.
However, I cheered up as the night came on; and though my mind was stillhaunted with the tale of the morning, it was neither in a musing nor amelancholy mood that I entered the drawing-room at Lady Roseville's--"Soruns the world away."
Glanville was there in his "customary mourning," and looking remarkablyhandsome.
"Pelham," he said, when he joined me, "do you remember at Lady--'s onenight, I said I would introduce you to my sister? I had no opportunitythen, for we left the house before she returned from the refreshmentroom. May I do so now?"
I need not say what was my answer. I followed Glanville into the nextroom; and to my inexpressible astonishment and delight, discovered inhis sister the beautiful, the never-forgotten stranger I had seen atCheltenham.
For once in my life I was embarrassed--my bow would have shamed a majorin the line, and my stuttered and irrelevant address, an alderman in thepresence of His Majesty. However, a few moments sufficed to recover me,and I strained every nerve to be as agreeable and seduisant as possible.
After I had conversed with Miss Glanville for some time, Lady Rosevillejoined us. Stately and Juno-like as was that charming personage ingeneral, she relaxed into a softness of manner to Miss Glanville, thatquite won my heart. She drew her to a part of the room, where avery animated and chiefly literary conversation was going on--and I,resolving to make the best of my time, followed them, and once morefound myself seated beside Miss Glanville. Lady Roseville was on theother side of my beautiful companion; and I observed that, whenever shetook her eyes from Miss Glanville, they always rested upon her brother,who, in the midst of the disputation and the disputants, sat silent,gloomy, and absorbed.
The conversation turned upon Scott's novels; thence on novels ingeneral; and finally on the particular one of Anastasius.
"It is a thousand pities" said Vincent, "that the scene of that novel isso far removed from us. Could the humour, the persons, the knowledgeof character, and of the world, come home to us, in a national, notan exotic garb, it would be a more popular, as it is certainly a moregifted work, than even the exquisite novel of Gil Blas. But it is agreat misfortune for Hope that--
"'To learning he narrowed his mind, And gave up to the East what wasmeant for mankind.'
"One often loses, in admiration at the knowledge of peculiar costume,the deference one would have paid to the masterly grasp of universalcharacter."
"It must require," said Lady Roseville, "an extraordinary combination ofmental powers to produce a perfect novel."
"One so extraordinary," answered Vincent, "that, though we have oneperfect epic poem, and several which pretend to perfection, we have notone perfect novel in the world. Gil Blas approaches more to perfectionthan any other (owing to the defect I have just mentioned inAnastasius); but it must be confessed that there is a want of dignity,of moral rectitude, and of what I may term moral beauty, throughout thewhole book. If an author could combine the various excellencies of Scottand Le Sage, with a greater and more metaphysical knowledge of moralsthan either, we might expect from him the perfection we have not yetdiscovered since the days of Apuleius."
"Speaking of morals," said Lady Roseville, "do you not think everynovel should have its distinct but, and inculcate, throughout, some onepeculiar moral, such as many of Marmontel's and Miss Edgeworth's?"
"No!" answered Vincent, "every good novel has one great end--the same inall--viz. the increasing our knowledge of the heart. It is thus that anovel writer must be a philosopher. Whoever succeeds in shewing us moreaccurately the nature of ourselves and species, has done science, and,consequently, virtue, the most important benefit; for every truth isa moral. This great and universal end, I am led to imagine, is rathercrippled than extended by the rigorous attention to the one isolatedmoral you mention.
"Thus Dryden, in his Essay on the Progress of Satire, very rightlyprefers Horace to Juvenal, so far as instruction is concerned; becausethe miscellaneous satires of the former are directed against everyvice--the more confined ones of the latter (for the most part) onlyagainst one. All mankind is the field the novelist should cultivate--alltruth, the moral he should strive to bring home. It is in occasionaldialogue, in desultory maxims, in deductions from events, in analysis ofcharacter, that he should benefit and instruct. It is not enough--and Iwish a certain novelist who has lately arisen would remember this--itis not enough for a writer to have a good heart, amiable sympathies,and what are termed high feelings, in order to shape out a moral, eithertrue in itself, or beneficial in its inculcation. Before he touches histale, he should be thoroughly acquainted with the intricate science ofmorals, and the metaphysical, as well as the more open, operations ofthe mind. If his knowledge is not deep and clear, his love of the goodmay only lead him into error; and he may pass off the prejudices of asusceptible heart for the precepts of virtue. Would to God that peoplewould think it necessary to be instructed before they attempt toinstruct. 'Dire simplement que la vertu est vertu parce qu'elle estbonne en son fonds, et le vice tout au contraire, ce n'est pas les faireconnoitre.' For me, if I was to write a novel, I would first make myselfan acute, active, and vigilant observer of men and manners. Secondly, Iwould, after having thus noted effects by action in the world, trace thecauses by books, and meditation in my closet. It is then, and not tillthen, that I would study the lighter graces of style and decoration; norwould I give the rein to invention, till I was convinced that it wouldcreate neither monsters of men nor falsities of truth. For my vehiclesof instruction or amusement, I would have people as they are--neitherworse nor better--and the moral they should convey, should be ratherthrough jest or irony, than gravity and seriousness. There never wasan imperfection corrected by portraying perfection; and if levity orridicule be said so easily to allure to sin, I do not see why theyshould not be used in defence of virtue. Of this we may be sure, that aslaughter is a distinct indication of the human race, so there never wasa brute mind or a savage heart that loved to indulge in it." [Note: ThePhilosopher of Malmesbury express a very different opinion of the originof laughter, and, for my part, I think his doctrine, in great measure,though not altogether--true.--See Hobbes on Human Nature, and the answerto him in Campb
ell's Rhetoric.]
Vincent ceased.
"Thank you, my lord," said Lady Roseville, as she took Miss Glanville'sarm and moved from the table. "For once you have condescended to giveus your own sense, and not other people's; you have scarce made a singlequotation."
"Accept," answered Vincent, rising--
"'Accept a miracle instead of wit.'"
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