Modern society; or The march of intellect, the conclusion of Modern accomplishments

Front matter

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Preface

moment of the day. and every day of the year, we know that something is amiss within ; and though it may continue gravely and solemnly ticking the hours, no one will take heed to its admonitions. The superstructure of Christian conduct cannot be justly appreciated without exhibiting the inward machinery of the mind by which external actions are directed or controlled, and therefore the authoress has, with reverence, attempted to portray those thoughts and principles which render the pleasures, the hopes, and the emotions of Christians entirely different from others whose apparent circumstances are exactly similar, and with whom they may be unavoidably thrown into habits of continual association.

That fictitious narrative is a proper mode of instruction, is demonstrated to every Christian by the highest of all examples. Some excellent persons, however, who admit the usefulness of little tracts and histories representing in proper colours vice, infidelity, and superstition, among the lower orders, inconsistently object to similar delineations as respects the higher ; yet the success of such writings in the one department seems to encourage the hope of usefulness by corresponding exertions in the other.

Mrs. Hannah More remarks, in her novel of Coelebs, " how little justice has been done to the clerical character in those popular works of imagination which are intended to exhibit a picture of living manners. So many fair opportunities have

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thus been lost of advancing the interests of religion, by personifying her amiable graces in the character of her ministers." The authoress feels encouraged to attempt this interesting task, from a grateful consciousness that she has enjoyed more than ordinary occasions for appreciating the enlightened devotion, the active benevolence, the disinterested labours, the learning, the consistency, and the zeal of those who are in heart, as well as by profession, the servants of God. At the same time, on no one occasion, in any of her past or present pages, has she drawn the portrait of an individual, and no circumstances can ever induce her to do so. Every reader of a fiction would cast the characters differently; and it is to be hoped that all have known some whom Lady Olivia Neville^s imaginary virtues might fairly represent. Three originals for this sketch have been confidently named, any of whom do honour to the success with which female excellence has been represented, though the fancied resemblance in every case is only such as all Christians must exhibit to each other. There are many lively girls like Eleanor, without her faults, and many gentlemen as prosing as Sir Colin, to whom, while the authoress has never seen them, some resemblance may easily be imagined '' to give the airy nothings place and name." It is requested that every young lady will believe she was intended for Matilda, — that every gentleman will discover that he is portrayed in Sir Alfred, or Mr. Grant, and that each will feel assured, in whatever quarter of the United Kingdom he re-

PREFACE. Vll

sides, that Dr. Murray is certainly intended for the clergyman of his own parish —

" This is a likeness may all men declare, And I have seen him, but I know not where."

With respect to the white poodle, Blanco, he is not meant for any poodle in particular, but as a fair representation of drawing-room dogs in general, with all their faults and good qualities, seeing that they occupy a place of distinction in society now, which entitles them to prominent notice in any work professing to take cognizance of the more important actors in fashionable life.

Having formerly delineated the progress of education, it is now proposed to trace its results on the character, temper, and morals ; but each volume may be read, either in connection, or as a separate story. The original intention was, not to carry the same narrative on, but many readers objected to the want of a regular denouement in the previous work, where, according to established etiquette, virtue ought to be rewarded, and vice brought to condign punishment. This is very appropriately termed " poetical justice,'* because we observe no such results in actual life. It may be well, however, to exhibit the triumph of virtue in scenes of fancy, where the characters cease to exist with the closing page ; but it should be remembered, that while the universal desire for final equity seems to be implanted in the human breast by Him who now promises, and will one day execute it, — this world is not the place of retribution. Temporal

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happiness is granted irrespectively of merit, and frequently those who seem most deserving of success, receive the smallest share of worldly prosperity from the hands of that Great Benefactor, who knows its real worthlessness. The favoured children of our Merciful Father are not the most pampered and indulged now ; but that in which they differ from others is the inward feeling with which the inevitable afflictions of life are borne. — As we frequently see the more precious exotics in a garden first planted and cherished in darkness, that they may attain a higher and a nobler growth ; so the Christian is often reared in the gloom of adversity, and watered with tears, while we likewise see that winter's stormy blast is necessary to the stability of the oak.

MODERN SOCIETY:

OR,

THE MARCH OF INTELLECT.

Chapter I

Sorrows like show'rs descend, and as the heart For them prepares, they good or ill impart. Some on the mind, as on the ocean rain. Fall and disturb, but soon are lost again — Some, as to fertile lands, a boon bestow. And seeds that else had perish'd live and grow. Some fall on barren soil, and thence proceed The idle blossom and the noxious weed.

Crabbe.

It has been mentioned as an ancient Jewish tradition, though not recorded in Scripture, that, among other tests, to which the Queen of Sheba put the wisdom of Solomon during her visit at Jerusalem, she held up, at some distance, two large groups of flowers, the one real and the other artificial, desiring him to discriminate between them. Unable at once to do so, and resolved nevertheless not to be baffled, the monarch instantly commanded a window to be opened, at which a multitude of bees flew in, and settled on the natural flowers, after which there could no longer be any difficulty in pronouncing a correct judgment. It cannot be doubted that the loveliest blossoms of spring may be so imitated by art that in form and colour they shall seem equalled, or perhaps excelled, and the eye transiently glancing at both, may be most attracted by greater brilliancy in the one, though the freshness and fragrance of nature must, on nearer acquaintance, prove their own superiority, and add a charm to the creation of an Almighty hand which all the ingenuity of man could never confer. Equally similar in external appearance were the two heroines of our story, Eleanor Fitz-Patrick and Matilda Howard. In all that could give grace and beauty to^their earliest girlhood they were alike ; but, while Eleanor was embellished with every outward attraction which art or ingenuity can add to the gifts of nature, she wanted that inward spirit which can be only supplied by Almighty power, and which gives life and permanence to all that is precious in the heart. Both the cousins were fitted to bloom amidst the sunshine of life's gay morning, enlivening every scene on which they entered ; but the brightness and beauty of merely human excellence, like Eleanor's, must fade amidst the storms of earthly sorrow and temptation, while the grace and the sweetness derived, like Matilda's, from an eternal source, may indeed be bowed down and blighted for a time, but cannot long remain obscured, and are never entirely lost, being of that " nature" which ^' dies and lives again/' and which, whether in sunshine or shadow, is under a wise unerring cultivation for an endless and glorious existence.

On the death of Ljidy Olivia Neville, to whom they w^ere both alike indebted for that tender affection which had constituted the happiness of their childhood, and for that judicious kindness which had watched over them in subsequent years, the two cousins mourned over the

THE MARCH OF INTELLECT. O

abject of their earliest attachment, who had shown them all the endearing and devoted interest of a mother, and each in her separate home wept bitter tears for the days that were past, when every thought of their hearts had been dear to her who could now hear them no more. Few had ever occasion to weep for a friend more deservedly beloved; and so essential had her friendship become to both her nieces, that it seemed to their young minds scarcely possible that death could indeed cause a final separation. That voice, now silent in the grave, had been the first to impress on their thoughts the fleeting nature of every earthly tie, and taught them to reflect, that, as soon might we anticipate day without night, or an ocean of perpetual calm, as, that this changing scene shall continue to smile on us as brightly as it beams on the early dawn of existence ; but no reverse had yet brought them so acutely to feel that mournful truth until the last solemn event which set its seal to all that they had been taught.

"When the melancholy news reached Barnard Castle, Eleanor was overpowered with amazement and grief. She delivered herself up to a tempest of uncontrollable emotion, which soon exhausted itself, and she conjured up the remembrance of every tiling that could add bitterness to sorrow. Her feelings were on most occasions like the ripple of a summer breeze on the surface of the stream, or like breath on a miiTor, which flits rapidly away, leaving it as cold and as bright as before. But Eleanor now mourned, for a time, with almost frantic grief — she admired in herself every excess of sensibility, and amidst tears and hysterics, she spoke as if the very sunshine of life was set for ever, and the only remaining comfort that could cheer her would be to live all her remaining days as if Lady Olivia Neville vs^ere the witness of every thought and action.

Sir Richard Fitz-Patrick proposed that they should hasten immediately to Edinburgh as he wished to show the last mark of respect and attachment to the memory of one, whom he, along with every one who had known her, felt desirous to consecrate in their most sacred and respectful remembrance; and to this suggestion the young heiress readily acceded, glad to find any refuge from her own depressing thoughts, and from the mournful inactivity of grief.

To a casual observer, this earliest burst of heart-breaking sorrow on the part of Eleanor Fitz-Patrick would have appeared to call for greater sympathy and more anxious solicitude than the deep unobtrusive grief of Matilda Howard, who wept silently and profoundly, though she fortified her mind against the inroads of immoderate afiliction, by incessant, fervent prayer, and struggled against the excess of that grief which she felt conscious could only end with her life. Some minds have a wider grasp of sorrow than others, and hers was one which felt intensely and suflfered long. There are depths in our thoughts and in our feelings, which we ourselves can only fathom when trying events lay open the inner recesses of our own hearts ; and in this day of anguish and distress, Matilda seemed as if she had never known before what it was to think or to suffer : but still she could now place all her happiness implicitly in the hands of that Gracious Being whom she supremely loved, in humble trust that hereafter His unerring designs would be revealed ; and thus she felt that to a Christian, in the utmost sorrows of life, one comfort inalienably belongs.

THE MARCH OF INTELLECT. O

Amidst the intensity and anguish of her feelings, Matilda shrunk from the notice of every one except her parents, to whom she revealed without reserve all the passing emotions of her heart, and in return she received such consolation and sjnnpathy as they could for the time suggest; though long before her grief was alleviated, they each thought that it might have been almost entirely subdued; and Lady Howard, whose heart had become, by constant intercourse with the world, as hard as a well-beaten highway, having one day surprised her daughter in tears, thought it necessary to remonstrate.

" My dear girl," said she, "we have all suffered a great misfortune, which it would be most unnatural not to deplore ; but if the sorrows of life are felt so very acutely, your spirits will be depressed beyond all remedy, at the very commencement of existence. Our bodily health may be restored after severe injury, but our spirits once thoroughly broken, can never be revived ; therefore you must really save up some cheerfulness to stand the wear and tear of future years, and for my sake and your father's let me entreat that you will exert some fortitude."

" There can be no use in cherishing and cultivating grief," observed Sir Francis. " I would have willingly cut off my right hand to preserve Lady Olivia's life, and no one can lament her death more sincerely; but still it is vain to think of it, and we must learn to turn our minds away from inevitable misfortunes. My receipt for banishing melancholy thoughts is, to take a good hard gallop on horseback, or to smoke a double portion of cigars — but any thing is better than to sit down and make sorrow a welcome companion."

Matilda ventured to reply, that she found it a better restorative to encourage reflection than to stifle it, but she promised that nothing should be wanting on her own part to attain peaceful and Christian resignation, while she looked forward with ardent hope to the arrival of Eleanor Fitz-Patrick, when she might have the additional comfort of finding sympathy from one who mourned like herself. Her frank and affectionate heart was incapable of reserve with those she loved, and in her present hour of sorrow she would rather have spoken to a statue than smothered her grief within her own breast, — what then could exceed the longing desire with which she anticipated that moment when, with the companion and friend of her childhood, they should mingle their tears together, and wear out their sorrow by talking of it.

Before the stunning effect of surprise and grief had been sufficiently alleviated on Matilda's mind to admit of her shedding any tears, those of Eleanor had been entirely dried up. The long journey from Inverness -shire, — the daily change of air and scene — the exhilarating effect of rapid motion — and the thousand future plans and prospects which flitted gaily through the magiclantern of her fertile imagination, prevented the young heiress from dwelling very intently on the past, and when she reached her destination, she felt but transiently affected by the solemn event which had brought her there.

Matilda flew into the arms of her cousin when they met, and burst into a flood of tears. Confident that she was at last with one who could enter into the utmost excess of her feelings, and who would look back with her on every endearing remembrance of the past, she now wept unrestrainedly in all the intensity of natural emotion. Heedless of all but the sacredness of her own sorrow, and forgetful of every thing relating to Eleanor, except the unbounded confidence of their once happychildhood, she felt soothed by the undoubted certainty of mutual sympathy and affection, while she struggled to regain her composure, and to say all that the first impulse of her feelings directed. A tear glistened in the eye of Miss Fitz-Patrick, at the sight of her cousin's speechless distress, and she returned her embrace with considerable warmth. Their first interview might have almost satisfied the feelings of Matilda, for it was short and affectionate ; but, when longer and more frequent intercourse occurred, she became sensible that a degree of restraint and embarrassment was but too obvious in the manner of Eleanor, and she could not remain blind to the coldness of her expressions, and to her absence of mind, which recalled to unavoidable remembrance, that she was now with the brilliantly endowed heiress of Barnard Castle.

"^ I am excessively nervous of late, and might have been sure that our meeting would be too much for me," said Eleanor one day, assuming a melancholy tone, in answer to some of Matilda's reminiscences. *' I wonder that you are able to speak of our affliction at all, as, for my own part, the most distant allusion to it overpowers me, and I must entreat that, till we have somewhat recovered this dreadful event, you will never say any thing at all about it to agitate me."

*^ But, Eleanor, we have such consolations, that it seems ungrateful not to reflect on the goodness of Providence in sending them, for truly in the midst of judgment He remembered mercy ; and our beloved aunt's death, in peace of mind and body, seemed almost like a translation into glory. Surely you would like to hear the message she left for you, dear Eleanor, and all she said on that day, for it was so like herself, kind and consoling."

" Not now ! — I have told you already that it must be at some future time^ when I can bear agitation better," replied the young heiress, hastily. " Miss Marabout very truly remarked, that I am prodigiously altered within the last ten days since we have been here, and she earnestly entreats me to avoid all emotion ; for she observes, what every one must see, that I have only too much sensibility. We should endeavour, Matilda, not to water the road of life with our tears more than can be helped, for there is both sunshine and shadow to be found there, and my object shall be to linger always in the first, and to avoid the other entirely when I can ; but you will probably do exactly the reverse ?"

" No I indeed I shall not," replied Matilda ; " it is my desire to receive every event of life precisely as it is intended. We have instructions, both how to be merry and how to be sad ; so the time may come when I shall be cheerful again, but not now, Eleanor, not yet."

" We are very differently circumstanced," observed the heiress, in a tone of importance. " Many affairs must necessarily occupy my thoughts during the short time we remain in town, which take me off from dwelling incessantly on the subject of our regret. You have no conception what a multitude of things have to be settled before we leave Edinburgh. I must bespeak a new poney carriage, as my present one is an ugly colour, and hung too low ; — then every nursery-garden in the neighbourhood has to be ransacked for new plants to decorate my American garden, which was in a blaze of glory this summer. After that, I must select a waggon load of new books to replenish the library, for at present

THE MARCH OF INIELLECT. 9

it is all so ancient, that one might suppose it to be the ghost of the one at Alexandria. You have no idea what ruin is brought upon me by all my friends having become authors now ; and I find it quite an effort of memory to send for their books, and to lay them on the table conspicuously, whenever the ' accomplished writer' comes to Barnard Castle. I pointed out yesterday to papa, as a great natural curiosity, a gentleman who is supposed never to have published ! and he would scarcely believe it possible. My most difficult task, however, has been to find an Italian confectioner, as our French cook, newly imported from Paris, is quite a cordon bleu, and expects to have an artiste under him."

Matilda felt amazed at the grave look of dignity with which all this was uttered ; and she could not but remember a time, not long past, when her lively cousin would have been the first to ridicule, and even to burlesque, such an outbreak of ostentation from any one else. Her immediate impulse was, forgetful of every restraint, to speak with the frank, good-humoured gaiety of former days, and to rally Eleanor on her sudden assumption of magnificence ; but an indefinable barrier was arising between herself and the companion of her childhood, which she could scarcely comprehend. That mere wealth should cause such a disparity as to forbid the unrestrained exercise of all their former confidence, was what her young and ardent mind had never anticipated. Matilda felt herself free and unfettered by obligation— she had no object to gain from her cousin, nor would she have hesitated to show such deference as was due to Miss Fitz-Patrick's superiority of station ; but to find herself, as she now did on many occasions, unaccountably treated like an humble friend — a sort oisouffredouleur, who must study her cousin's humours, and implicitly follow her lead in conversation, filled her with surprise, and with a degree of indignation, which was foreign to the natural gentleness of her disposition. Matilda Howard's spirit was not proud, but it was independent ; and the longer she associated with Eleanor, the more difficult she felt it to preserve herself from subservience, and at the same time to maintain that Christian meekness which was her duty in the sight of God. If Eleanor asked her to drive out, or to visit a shop, her tone was that of a superior dictating to a protegee ; and every day she seemed more hurried for time, and more anxious to escape all confidential intercourse, which Matilda could scarcely regret, as not only was Eleanor's extraordinary vivacity unsuitable to her own feelings, but she was hurt on account of Lady Olivia, to see how soon and how entirely the sacred remembrance of her virtues and affection was extinguished from the memory of one who owed so much to both ; and her good taste, as well as her partiality for Eleanor, were irresistibly hurt by the vulgar-minded ostentation and glaring selfishness of her whole conversation and conduct.

" Matilda, why do you never wear rings ?" asked Eleanor one day, looking at her beautifully formed hands, while she plied the needle with busy activity. " I should require some additional fingers to wear all mine upon ; and this turquoise hoop cost me as much yesterday as would be the whole annual income of some young ladies. It appears quite undressed to be without any ; and really, Matilda, with that industrious, painstaking look, you might pass for a sempstress who does plain work at eighteenpence a-day."

^' It would be necessary for me to turn an honest penny, in some way or other, before I become curious

THE MARCH OF INTELLECT. H

in rings and bijouterie/' replied Matilda, smiling. " You know perfectly, Eleanor, that I can scarcely keep myself in shoe-strings and hair pins ; so if ever I put on a ring it must be taken down from the bedcurtains."

'' Very true. Now, I do think, that old quiz, Lady Barnard, treated you shockingly !" replied Eleanor ; " it is, in my opinion, a complete case of swindling, when rich old people receive very excessive attentions from any one, and slip out of the world leaving them nothing. I protest it ought to be actionable I"

" But my dear Eleanor, you quite mistake me"

*' Yes I yes I I know all that you expect me to believe ; disinterested kindness, pure charity, and so forth ; but, Matilda, I know the world. What pleasure could there be to you in reading several hours a- day to that peevish old woman, and giving up every sort of engagement to sit with her in the evenings ? People may act as they please ; but I must think and speak as I please ; for the motive to exertion is always as plain to me as if it were inscribed in legible characters on the face of it, and nothing diverts me more than to see how people can deceive themselves and others."

" You might as easily suspect right intentions as wrong ones, Eleanor, and it would be a much more agreeable occupation. I often think of a man mentioned in the Spectator, who had a deformed and a handsome leg, so he always judged whether people were inclined to take the favourable view of others or not, by watching which their eye most readily fixed upon ; and we should endeavour to be among those who contemplate the presentable leg."

^' A propos, Lady Susan Danvers dined with us yesterday ; and her frightful large red arms were so covered with glittering bracelets, that they reminded me of the raw flesh which Sinbad the Sailor threw into the Yalley of Diamonds. I could look at nothing else."

'* You will allow, then^ that it is better to be deficient in ornaments than to be overloaded with them. Some of our nouveaux riches exhibit so much jewellery now, that they look like Queens of the Sandwich Islands, or Roman Catholic images from abroad."

'' ' Do you mean any thing personal !' as one gentleman said to another, who was kicking him down stairs," exclaimed Eleanor, laughing. " That hard hit was evidently levelled at my splendid gold ear-rings."

^' No, indeed ! you know me better than to suppose it possible ; but I had entirely overlooked them, and you used to coincide in my antipathy to much carving and gilding in our dress and decoration, Eleanor, in which, perhaps, we still agree ; but, however that may be, I shall not feel entitled to animadvert very severely on you, unless your hair is curled with bank notes, or I see you hung in chains of gold all day, like the city magistrates.*'

" Matilda ! I never observe you dressed for dinner without a smile, for you still wear the same perpetual necklace that we had in the schoolroom. Do you live and sleep with it on ?"

" I like every thing that reminds me of old times, and of the friend who gave it," replied Matilda, fixing her large, deep, speaking eyes on Eleanor. " She never leaves my thoughts, and every thing connected with her is dear to my heart. The very ground she trod on has an additional charm for me ; and I walked all over the garden at Ashgrove yesterday, Eleanor, tracing impressions of the stick with which she supported herself, last time we walked there together. I sat in her favourite seat. I recalled how she looked, and what she said, and I tried to realize the idea of that blessed country where she now is eternally happy. Oh, how sweet and how sad our lovely garden looked. It seemed as if the rose-trees should not have bloomed so gaily, and as if the bright carnations were ungrateful, to be sending up their fragrance, when the hand that had reared them was no more ; and the laughing, joyous sunshine which sparkled and glittered on all around, showed no sympathy with my own mournful feelings. I remembered that the last words of comfort and affection have been spoken from those lips which are now closed for ever, and I seemed yet to watch the last glance of tender interest which gleamed upon me from her dying eyes. The truest friend we have ever known, Eleanor, employed her latest hour in praying for us."

Matilda paused a moment in profound emotion. Her voice was harmony itself, and it deepened into a tone of intense sensibility while she spoke. The rich full notes of a flute could not have died away more softly on the ear. She faltered, and became silent ; but after pausing a moment, and watching in vain for a look of answering sympathy in the bright cold eye of her cousin, she gently endeavoured to vary the subject, though she could not at once dismiss it.

" Aunt Barbara is at Ashgrove still, but so altered, you scarcely could have recognised her. I burst into tears when we met, more affected by the change on her than even by the sorrow that afflicts myself. May her consolation be from above, for no earthly friend can afford her any, and she says, that in the whole range of future events, there is not a single circumstance which could give her one gleam of pleasure. That must certainly be wrong, because a true Christian cannot know such a word as despair ; but I could not leave her for several hours, nor get the remembrance of her miserable countenance a moment out of my head since."

" Pshaw, Matilda !" said Eleanor contemptuously ; *' Barbara's very sorrows formerly were always absurd and frivolous. I remember, as a child, seeing her often in tears ; and, being then young and tender hearted, I used to watch her with commiseration, summing up, in my own mind, all the causes of grief that she probably endured — her solitary existence; her brother's sudden death ; the evident indifference of every one towards herself; the approach of old age and infirmity; the scanty pittance she had to subsist upon, and the awful consideration of a future state. These were all grand, legitimate subjects of agitation ; but whenever I wasted any good sympathy upon her, and investigated beyond my own imagination into the origin of her distress, it turned out to be some petty affront which she had fancied. Mamma had given another person the precedence of her to dinner, or I had occupied the chair she usually sat in, or had picked up the book she was reading, or papa did not take wine with her. In short, it was never a real, impressive distress that touched her feelings."