Circumstances respecting the late Charles Montford, esq

Chap. I

X HAVE sometimes smiled at men, who, in the midst of sorrow for the loss of those they loved, have : seemed to find the greatest consolation in describing their merits, and dwelling upon their virtues, their talents, and their accomplishments. Grief I have supposed to be sedate and retiring, indisposed to communication, and, above all things, incapable of exertion, I ridiculed the woes of Lord Lyttleton, whose poem on the death of his wife, though I could not deny its power over the heart of the reader, did not in my opinion proceed from that of the author. I am now undeceived by severe experience. I acknowledge, with humble gratitude to the Giver of all good, that when the first violence of grief is past, a state of comparative tranquillity succeeds, in which the highest

pleasure

X 0 pleasure is to expatiate at large upon the character of the friend we shall see no more; to dwell with minute exactness upon the various occurrences of his life, to suppose situations in which, had he been still alive, he would have acted in this or in that manner, and to linger with inexhaustible garrulity upon the last melancholy scene, when he closed his eyes in death. The world seems to me a cheerless and dreary waste, in which all the joys that once danced before me in such gay succession, are shrunk and blasted ; yet thus cold and desolate, I feel some relief in describing my friend as he was, and sometimes, as I enumerate upon paper his many virtues, I seem to snatch him for a moment from the grave. Thus employed, as I have sustained a double loss, I shall receive in some small measure a double consolation. The part of his history which now fixes my attention, is inseparably connected with that of her whom I loved as a sister; they were born for each other, and for each other they died.

I first knew Charles Montford at Cambridge. There were points in his character, which peculiarly attracted my admiration — a lively susceptibility, corrected by a most distinguishing simplicity, and an union, still more uncommon, of

pleasing pleasing gentleness; with the most manly frankness— still more uncommon! Independance of character, when it becomes so evident as to draw notice, is often accompanied with a ferocity, which, if it is not so disgusting as hypocrisy, is infinitely more troublesome and oppressive. Such men deceive themselves — they are proud of the lofty independance, the generous frankness of their natures, yet, perhaps, if they were not rude and impertinent, they would be hypocritical and mean. In Montford, a total want of disguise and reserve, an incapacity, as it were, to conceal any wish, or thought, or principle, where the secrets of friendship were not concerned, were so tempered with a softness and playfulness of disposition, that he could speak most harshly, if his words alone were considered, withoilt giving the least offence. These traits of character were embellished and set off by that indescribable grace, which is only found in early life, and which exemplified in Montford more than any man I ever saw, what the most elegant of all poets means, when he speaks of the purple light of youth.

It may be supposed from this description, that Montford was caressed by a numerous acquaintance, that he was sought for as a necessary part of

every

^ s

every society, that he was surrounded by friends. He was not however generally liked at the university; the easy gaiety with which he gained the victory in many a well-fought dispute, roused the enmity of the graver sort, who could not endure the defeat of long-treasured learning and laboured knowledge, from a man who was not furnished with similar weapons. While he was present, they could scarely avoid joining in the laugh against themselves, but in his absence they sneered at him as superficial and frivolous. Others, who found him fond of pleasures, but requiring in these pleasures a delicacy they did not understand, accused him of affectation, while some brought against him a heavier charge, which every look, word, and gesture, disproved, and called him insincere. While he felt within himself numerous and inexhaustible resources, he little regarded the title of superficial, while he gratified the elegant refinement of his nature, he despised the cry of the vulgar, but he was roused to some degree of vexation by the glaring injustice of the last accusation; feeling that most of his misfortunes in life, had arisen from the excess of that virtue in which he was said to be deficient.

I must confess, however, though in reality he was eminently free from this vice, that his conduct i duct was sometimes attended with its effects, and though I .can write of him only to praise him,' I would not wish him in this respect to become the object of imitation. By his too great solicitude to please, he frequently raised expectations, which it was impossible for him to gratify, and many were induced to rank themselves amongst his friends, whom in fact he never esteemed. Another cause of this reproach, was the inequality of his temper — no man on earth was so subject to variations in his spirits — when these were high, when his soul was in its elevation, in its holiday, every object around him seemed clothed with ten thousand beauties. The barren heath was enamelled with flowers, the withered tree flolirished in luxuriant vegetation, stagnant water became a running brook, every bird was a nightingale— whoever he met, he accosted with the ardent benevolence which burnt so vividly within him — he professed his eagerness to serve, and he professed no more than he felt — he made no promises for the future, but at the time he spoke, no sacrifices of his own convenience would have been too great. Two or three hours afterwards, perhaps, those he had thus caressed, found him unsociable and distant. I would not justify, or even excuse an uncertainty of character, which is poorly compensated even by the brilliancy of genius ; but

let

m i6

let me remind the censurers of my friend, that if he was sometimes cold, he was never morose ; that in his gayer moments he had professed to them no lasting attachment, or called them his friends, that if he had treated them with affection, he would have treated all the world in the same manner. Had they wished his services, they should have accepted them when he made the offer — they would then have been gainers — if they missed the opportunity, they should have condemned themselves as well as him who presented it. Did they not display an ignorance of human nature? had they known it better, they would surely have been less severe upon a man, who, whatever might be their disappointment, suffered more than themselves, in the depression of the spirits, the sinking of the heart, in that horrible state, when the present is intolerable, and the future hopeless. If at such a time Montford shewed no affection for others, how gladly would he have fled from himself. That he was capable of a lasting attachment, I have witnessed in a long unaltered friendship, if his bitterest enemy will follow me through a few pages, he will acknowledge the same truth.

In figure, Montford was something above the middle size, slender, well made, and extremely

active ;

il

active. His countenance, varying perpetually ac- ' cording to the changes of his mind, faithful to its director, never entirely lost its native sweetness. There was a mild lustre in his eye, as far removed from fierceness as from indolence. His complexion was pale, but with no appearance of ill health. His features were not perfectly regular, but this circumstance did not diminish the attractions of his countenance. The tones of his voice were manly and pleasing, singularly adapted to every species of eloquence. He was the natural son of Mr. R., a gentleman of large estate in the west of England. He was always treated by his fa* ther with the greatest affection, and it was not untill within a few years, when a legitimate offsprings the fruit of a late marriage, were growing towards maturity, that he found his home in any respect uncomfortable. Mr. R. perceiving this alteration, settled upon him a handsome annuity, and my friend thus supplied, entered himself at the University, intending to pay his father a visit once a year. They had never the least quarrel. The greatest affection continued between them, and as things were so well understood, there was no cfauger of its interruption.

■<*^ A short time after I first saw Montford, I

^ became so much attached to him, that I was anx- % ious ious to Introduce him to my relations. By this means I was in hopes of preserving his sodety during the vacation. My nearest surviving relation was an uncle, who lived in Essex, about fifty miles from Cambridge, and who by unaltered kindness and tenderness, had endeavoured to supply the place of my parents, whom I lost in very early life. He was an excellent man, full of strong affections, which he lavished on all whom his good judgment pointed out as worthy of them. He had prejudices, alas I fatal prejudices. Yet perhaps he would have relinquished them, had he lived long enough to see the necessity of such a sacrifice. The antiquity of his family was his favorite boast; the preservation of his race, unsullied by the mixture of what he called plebeian blood, his dearest object. I have reasoned with him upon the absurdity of pushing his ideas upon this subject to any length, and pointed out to him instances, in which they have effected the complete misery of families. His constant answer was, that in the present state of the country, it was more than ever necessary to maintain them in their full extent^ as the only antidotes against that vulgar pride,, which is the general concomitant of overflowing commerce. As for your extreme cases, he would say, they must be left to be provided for in an ^'^

extraordinary extraordinary manner, but they cannot rationally find a place in arguing upon the subject. Would to God he had lived to put this maxim into execution ! His wife — ^but why should I speak of her? I could fill pages in her praise; but her heavy afflictions will sanctify her in the, eyes of the reader, and I should appear to do her violence, in displaying her virtues to the world. jBut surely without offence, I may expatiate upon those of the dead, and pay that tribute to the daughter, which the mother would refuse. Yes I Louisa, I will shew thee as thou wast, and never purely will a brighter example appear of sensibility and firmness, of affection and honor. Ah I why was not such a mind gifted with a frame capable pf sustaining its virtuous and heroic struggles,

Louisa Harley was just of that size which gives a woman sometimes the appellation of liandsome, sometimes that of beautiful, according to the dress she may happen to wear. No one would say, her appearance was insignificant, still less that it was masculine or bold. But though at first sight you might have doubted how to describe her, after a few minutes conversation with her, you would not have hesitated to call her beautiful, rather than handsome. The gentleness of her man, p^r and the softness of her voice, removed from you

at at once all idea of the heroine. Her complexion was singularly delicate, not of that sort which creates a suspicion of the use of art, but perpetually varying with blushes. When we were children, it was my constant reproach, in all our little quarrels, that she could not speak without blushing. I might have been equally severe when she was eighteen, the time I am now alluding to, but I was no longer a school-boy, and my taste was changed. Her eyes did not quite deserve the title of blue, but her long eye-lashes gave them a soft and silken cast, particularly fascinating, and their water was strikingly clear. Her features were so regular, that the world would have stiled her beautiful, whatever had been her countenance. This I shall not describe, it was the faithful index of her mind, which will sufficiently appear as I proceed.

In the Easter of 98, I wrote to my uncle to say I should bring my friend with me to pass the vacation at his house, and not doubting of a welcome, we almost overtook my letter. Mr. and Mrs. Harley received us with the greatest cordiality, and Louisa, who always thought of me as her brother, flew into my arms. Montford was melted almost to tears by this display of unaffected feeling, and, whem fearing she had been guilty of

some some indecorum, she turned from me with confusion, and with one of her characteristic blushes, to receive him with all due ceremony, he bowed to her as if he was paying his adorations to some superior being. With few opportunities of enjoying female society, he had seen no woman like Louisa— I shall be laughed at for ascribing so much to a bow, yet it surely spoke surprise, admiration, a feeling perhaps softer than, admiration. There was something added from the spirit of gallantry, that spirit, which finds its source in delicacy and honor^ and throws such a charm, not the less valuable because indescribable, into the intercourse of the sexes. .

After some time we retired to prepare ourselves for dinner. Returning into the parlour, I overtook my fair cousin on the staircase. " Well, " Louisa, and what do you think of my friend?" " why, really, he is not ill-looking." At that moment Montford's door opened, and he appeared just above us upon the landing — Louisa, tapping me on the shoulder, cried, " ah traitor!" and ran as fast as she could down the stairs. Montford joined me — " never before was there such a charming " creature in the world," said he. " You have seen " too little both of her and the world," I replied, *' to be able to judge." " She can have no equal, by

" heaven !"

*< heaven !" said he. We were then at the parlour door — on opening it, he said, " I fear I alarmed you, Miss Harley" — '' no, no," she returned, " you *^ but interrupted a tete-a-tete, but indeed the ^* place was a little too public," looking archly at me. I recollect these circumstances, trifling as they are, as if they were of yesterday, let the reader pardon me if I am too minute in relating them. At dinner, Montford was in high spirits, and I saw with indescribable pleasure, that the family rejoiced in their new acquaintance. In the private intercourse of life there is not, perhaps, a higher gratification, than to form an intimacy between strangers whom we respect and love. The neW/ friendship becomes a pledge and security for the old. It is a link which seemed wanting to complete the chain— this added, all is complete, firm and durable — as far as human power alone is concerned, indissoluble. Why was it attended in this instance with consequences so fatal? Why was a feeling so pure, apparently so little partaking of the frailty of our nature, converted into the most insupportable of evils. Alas! what would I say? It is for him who cannot err, to act, for erring man to submit and adore.

After dinner, my uncle began to talk of the improvements he was making uppn his estate.

Agricylture

Agriculture was a subject, which Montford had studied. He hinted some experiments which had been made with success by his father, at his instigation. My uncle was delighted. The bottle went round with uncommon expedition, and had not a message from the ladies proposed a walk rather earlier than usual, we should soon have been unable to understand it. Montford and I rose, leaving my uncle to take his evening nap — We were scarcely out of the room when he

^- called me back — " Come here George — that friend

" of yours is a fine fellow, a very fine fellow," said

_ he, *'* on my life I never thought so well of you

i *' before — such a friend is as great an ornament as

* .*' an advantage to you — hold him fast, my boy, to , " your old age — well, go and take your walk, I am *' sure it will be a pleasant one — I could almost -*' forsake my arm chair and accompany you, but " habits, old habits, are too strong." I went up to him, and giving him a hearty shake by the hand, followed my friend. I never knew Montford more entertaining than during this walk. Whether it is, as Sir Harry Wildair tells us, *' that burgundy makes a man talk like an angel," or that he was inspired by the charming tranquillity of the evening, or what is most probable, by the beauty of Louisa, who walked by his side, he pursued whatever subject occurred, with such a combination of wit,

B sense, sense, and feeling, as to astonish me, who had often acknowledged his conversational powers. My aunt, who was leaning upon my arm, whispered now^ and then her admiration. Louisa's eyes sparkled more than ever, if it was not the glow of exercise suffused over her lovely face, that gave them their new lustre. We almost forgot Mn Harley, and it was not till after the usual time of tea, that we returned to him. He received us however with the greatest good humour. The rest of the evening was past in cards, and other amusements, almost as pleasantly as the first part of it. The next morning Montford and I rode out. He discovered ten thousand beauties in the different prospects I pointed out to him, which had never struck me before. The day after I persuaded Louisa to accompany us, and she was more surprised than I had been, to find how little she knew of the country where she had spent the greatest part of her life. Thus passed our time, and almost the only vexation, a vexation of which the whole party partook, was caused by the arrival of any visitor.

One morning Montford did not appear at breakfast, I looked for him in his room, but he was not to be found. Mr. Harley, whose serenity of temper w^as now and then disturbed by the gout, and who had suffered a restless flight from

its its attacks, was angry. " Yes," said he, ^' these " are your modern manners — you receive a fel- " low into your house, he goes out and comes " in just when he pleases — he disregards the " usual hours of the family, and this he calls " ease. By Jupiter, if he were any other man " than Charles Montford, he should have no " breakfast at all." Montford, however, did not arrive. Louisa was discomposed. She was hurt at the displeasure of her father, which, however slight, interrupted most painfully to her gentle and affectionate mind, the harmony in which we had been living. At length Charles entered the room — " A thousand pardons 1" cried he, " I " fear I am beyond the proper hour." Mr. Harley looked at his watch — " Ah Mr. Harley, continued he, " a silent reproof is the most hor- '> ribleof all, but you shall hear my adventure, *' and then I am sure you will forgive me." My uncle stretched out his hand to him — " What a " poor wretch this gout makes a man," said he. The reconciliation was complete. The blood mounted into the cheeks of Louisa, and she was obliged to bend closely over the table to conceal a transient tear. " I was returning from my ^^ walk," said Montford, *' when I met one of *' your labourers going to his work — his mein at *' some distance, struck me. There appeared in

B5 "him

** him a grace, visible even in his method of " walking, which resembled in no respect that " of a poor peasant. As I approached nearer, *' I thought I perceived a peculiar dignity in '' his countenance — Lavater would find here, " thought I, a patient sorrow, an acute sense " of suffering, with a lofty pride, a gene- " rous magnanimity, capable of bearing the " most severe — when I came up to him, I " could not help bidding him good morning " and boAving to him — he took off his hat— I " was in a romantic mood, and his broad and " ample forehead bespoke in my eyes, extent of " capacity." " He has seen the count," said Louisa. " The count!" replied Montford, staring, " What do you mean?" '' Not a " ghost," returned Louisa, " but did you speak ** to him ?" " Yes," said Montford, laughing, " and entered into conversation with him. I " found him a foreigner, and can now guess hy " the rank you have given him, something of " his history." " Louisa shall give it you at "" full length," said my uncle, " after breakfast. " You will then see the necessity of maintaining . " in its extent, that high born pride which <^ makes a man ashamed of sinking under ad- " versity — you will see how closely this is con- '* nected in the count de Liancourt with that of

'' birth.

" birth. He looks back upon a long line of 11- " lustrious ancestry, and finds unspeakable plea- " sure in the thought, that even in the hardest '' circumstances, he has not degraded those from *' whom he is sprung. He is not so rich as they " were ; he has not the same number of depen- " dants and followers ; but he has the same " unsullied honor, and this still makes his rela- " tionship dear." After breakfast, which Montford sufficiently shewed was tedious to him, he reminded Louisa of the task she was to undertake; this might have been performed in a few minutes, but from the frequent interruptions of the auditor, it occupied more than an hour.

The count de Liancourt was an emigrant noble of France, he had adhered to the fortunes of his sovereign, long after they became hopeless, and by his intrepid language and conduct, had been the object of the fear and hatred of the ruling powers. He was fortunate enough however, to make his escape in the beginning of the reign of Robespierre. On his arrival in this country, he had been supported, in common with many others in a similar situation, by the subscriptions so liberally made for this purpose ; but his proud and lofty mind could ill bear a state of dependance upon the bounty of the affluent, and

he

9 0 he determined to earn by labour that subsistance, which he could not endure as a gift. With this view he made diligent inquiries in the counties bordering upon Middlesex, for he was then in London, and having informed himself of the character of Mr. Harley, applied to him, as the person under whom he wished to put his project into execution. My uncle was happy in being able to serve a man of such a character, and hoping that the bare intention of working, would be sufficient to satisfy honor, received him, nominally he imagined, amongst his labourers. The count de Liancourt however, had not so satisfied himself His imperious and searching soul suffered no self-delusion. He laboured with the lowest peasant, and never shrunk from the task. He steadily refused every invitation from the hall, declaring with a smile, that he had seen enough in his own country of the confusion of ranks and situations. The sole difference between him and the rest of the workmen, was in his not appearing with them at the end of the week to receive his wao-es : what he had earned was sent to his cottage This my uncle insisted upon.

The only circumstance that seemed materially to oppress the spirits of the count, was his uncertainty with regard to the fate of his

wife.

wife. Had he supposed, that the rage of the tyrant who then governed France, would have been directed against women, nothing would have induced him to leave her ; but hoping that she might follow him at her leisure, he took the only means of escape in his power, in flying alone. From that time to the period of which I am writing, he had heard nothing of her — all his inquiries had been unsuccessful. Thus w^re these unfortunate persons torn from each other- — it was in the ardour of early affection — they were both young, and had not been long married.

Montford found singular pleasure in visiting his new acquaintance. I seldom accompanied him, for though the count had taken ^o personal dislike to me, but on the contrary always treated me with the greatest politeness, I perceived he did not wish to put himself on a footing of familiarity with me. This I attributed to some delicate reflection on my near relationship with Mr. Harley, and I did not dare to intrude.

It would not be difficult to describe the figure and countenance of the count de Liancourt— the outlines are strongly marked, and not to be mistaken, u

taken, but I have seen a portrait by Sir Joshua Reynolds, which represents him with singular accuracy — if there is a difference, I would say, that the count has somewhat of a gayer air — it is generally known, I believe, under the denomination of the banished lord, and to it I refer the reader.

At length the day arrived when Montford and myself were obliged to return to Cambridge for the term. After a pressing invitation from Mr, Harley to spend a part of the next summer with him, and having accepted it with more warmth if possible than it was given, we set out. My friend, who had shewn sufficiently without the help of words, how deeply he was impressed with the remembrance of the pleasant fortnight he had passed, began, when we were scarcely seated in the carriage, to describe it in all its minutiae. " As for your cousin Harley,'* said he, " on my life you are the most fortunate " fellow in the universe. — Well— you'll let me " come and see you sometimes — perhaps as I *' grow old I shall not envy you." " Envy " me ! no, no — but what are you thinking of ? " I am not going to marry my cousin." " Not " marry her ! why she loves you, that is plain, " and what blessing can equal the affection of

" a woman

«' a woman like her I" "Pshaw! Pshaw! Charles, ** you would not have me marry my sister, for "so I have always considered Louisa. — Ah " Charles, if it was not for that frightful bar " in your escutcheon — but my uncle must have *^ a clear pedigree." Montford laughed. " No, " no," said he, " my ambition soars not so high, " I will observe her from a distance, I will ad- " mire her — ^but love, love, Harley, is too costly " a passion for us poor sons of chance." Her^e we were silent a few minutes — Alas I how far was I from reflecting on the ruin to which I wad contributing.

I had not been long at Cambridge before I was congratulated by many, on the great improvement in the spirits of my friend. He was no longer subject to those sudden and extreme variations, which made it uncertain, when he entered into society, whether he would amuse or sadden it. He was now always cheerful, sometimes rising into his former elevations, but never sinking into his former depressions. I was not slow in attributing this fortunate change to its real cause. Montford, on his return from school, had passed two years with his father. Amongst those who live at a o-reat distance from the ca-

o

pital and great cities, the progress of knowledge ledge is slow and heavy. Prejudices are seldom attacked, and therefore increase rather than diminish. Real merit, perhaps seldom seen, is not understood — We must not be surprised, therefore, that Montford was received in his father's neighbourhood with far less consideration than he deserved. He soon perceived that his company was endured, rather than solicited, and that he owed even the cold civilities he met with, to bis father's situation in life. A natural son could not be admitted into society upon a footing with others — this was to infringe the sacred laws of wedlock, to set a wretched example to the poor, to encourage vice in all ranks — the danger was pressing — the politician at the coffee-house utteired his decree, the old lady at the card-table enforced its execution. It may easily be conceived, how much a man of Montford' s disposition would feel the misery of such an entrance into the world. He was severely disappointed, and lamented, as he has often told me, with indescribable anguish, that the period which is the object of all the ardent prayers of other men, should be thus cheerless for him. Even his home became intolerable. An imperious woman and her family treated him with harshness, and from the description he has given me of his situation for a year, I think he would scarcely have survived a