Duty and Inclination

Title Pages

EDITED BY

AUTHOR OF "THE IMPROVISATRICE,"

"ETHEL CHURCHILL," ETC.

Thought contending with thought; Reason and the affections at variance with each other."

LONDON:

HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER,

GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.

1838.

PRINTED BY RICHARD AND JOHN E. TAYLOR, RED LION COURT, FLEET STREET.

An Editor’s task is something of an agricultural process—the garden of literature lies before him, and there he has to introduce some new shrub or flower.

Dahlias were unknown in England till within the last few years, when they were brought over, we believe, by the late Queen Charlotte. We can well imagine the interest which the gardener to whose care they were intrusted would take in the stranger root, and with what mingled pride and pleasure he would see the rich leaves expand, and the autumn bright with beauty unknown before. A similar interest belongs to the literary flower; nature has done her part, and the gardener and the editor have alike; to watch the unfolding, and then to draw attention to the fulfilled promise.

The novel which it is my pleasant task thus to introduce belongs to a class peculiarly English. From the days of the romances of chivalry down to those of Miss Austin, our writers have delighted in painting the actual,—our fictions have been so many mirrors of men and manners—idealised as all things must be, reproduced by the agencies of the memory and of the imagination. Richardson was the first inventor of the domestic novel. He asked of poetry only its pathos, not the gorgeous richness of the drama—the earliest shape always taken by fiction. He began that delineation of middle life which is a peculiar feature in our literature, perhaps because the English middle classes have more independence, consequently more character, than those of any other country. We know no delineations more perfect than those of the whole Selby family: the only pendant to that most perfect old lady Mrs. Selby, is the equally exquisite Mrs. Bethune Baliol of Sir Walter Scott. The Scotch and the English portrait, high-bred, kind-hearted, with their lady-like niceties and peculiarities, are each admirable, charming as individuals, and historical as the representatives of a class.

Among the numerous followers in a path particularly calculated for feminine observation, namely, that of domestic life, occur the names of Miss Edgeworth and Miss Austin: each might be considered the type of her national genius, as far as such could be embodied in a woman.

Miss Edgeworth has all the humour so especially Irish. There is one touch in Castle Rackrent perfectly inimitable—it is the simple surprise expressed by the narrator concerning the departure of the last baronet's widow; she has been ill-used, almost imprisoned, by her husband, yet the only comment is the wonder that she could be in such a hurry to leave Ireland. The story of Vivian might be pointed out as a model of its style—the inevitable presides over it from first to last. The great object of Miss Edgeworth's writings is to point out the influence of character over circumstance. Weak, irresolute, the die of Vivian's fate is cast from the beginning, while the stern lesson deepens in interest to the last. Humour is the great characteristic of Miss Edgeworth's writings; but it makes good the assertion, that humour is as nearly allied to tears as to laughter.

Miss Austin's mind is of another class. The thoughtful analysis, the passionate, and the pathetic are not the elements with which she works; but for an actual, living, breathing representation of English country-life her pictures are unequalled. I do not know whether this may be the most strongly felt by one who has chiefly resided in London, but I never paid a visit in the country without fancying I was living a chapter in some one of Miss Austin’s novels.

The work which I have now the pleasure of introducing, is of the familiar and living class whose progress I have thus slightly endeavoured to sketch. It contains a

"Living lay, Familiar matter of to-day; The natural loss and pain That has been, and may be again."

"Duty and Inclination" are too often at war with each other in this world of trial and of trouble. To show how the very contest works together for ultimate good, how the character is strengthened and elevated by the contest, has been our author's object.

Hopes that deceive, yet leave behind A better state within the mind; The meek and yet exalted mood Of strong, yet tender, fortitude—

Such is the material wrought up in the following pages; such is the course here traced of "Duty and Inclination." It cannot fail to excite the sympathies of the young, while it must equally satisfy the judgment of the old. Among the characters, I shall only permit myself to draw attention to those of the heroines, forming a singularly sweet and original picture: the tender calm at the close is what we might fancy a twilight would be by Claude Lorraine.—May I conclude with Wordsworth’s noble lines?

Dreams, books, are each a world, and books we know Are a substantial world, both pure and good; Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow."

L. E. L.

London, July, 1838.

Chapter 1

CHAPTER I.

The fountain's fall, the river's flow, The woody valleys, warm and low; The windy summit, wild and high, Roughly rushing on the sky! Oh, may I with myself agree, And never covet what I see; Content me with an humble shade, My passions tamed, my wishes laid." Dyer.

OW pleasant is the calm which reigns when the storm has ceased! The wind no longer roars in fearful gusts; the waters, which rushed along with rapid course, flow gently; all becomes serene and hushed in quiet. The beauty of the scene, the freshening cool of the evening air, the tranquillity which seemed to pervade all nature, diffused a momentary balm over the mind of General De Brooke, as he strolled around his beautifully diversified pleasure-grounds, and beheld the wild magnificence of the surrounding scenery. Those dark impending clouds, gathered by the recent storm, softly dispersing, fleeted away in æther. Every shadowy mist concentrating, passed over the hills, opening a bright perspective, and affording to the eye objects as various as they were lovely,—the picturesque vale, where the Avon, bordered by the pensive willow, spread its bounteous influence and fertilized the meadows; the hills forming an amphitheatre around, some tufted with hanging wood even to their summits, appearing the more luxuriant as contrasted with the barrenness of others. An undulating path led from cliff to cliff, till, obscured by the forest's interwoven branches, and then again appearing, it could be traced to the distant mountain, whose top, broad and towering, mingled in the blue expanse.

This rich assemblage, though to the General no longer wearing the charm of novelty, could not fail of exciting his admiration, to which was added a sentiment of attachment; for even a hill, a stream, wood, or lawn, nature's inanimate but charming objects, become the more endeared to us from a frequency of beholding them. When, turning with reluctance from this beautiful landscape, his eyes rested upon his mansion, he sighed; thoughts the most painful crowded upon and agitated him, as he stood contemplating the elegant structure. The persecutions, losses, and disappointments he had sustained arose in terrible array before him; whilst his misery was aggravated by the reflection, that every sanguine hope he had once indulged in of aggrandisement for himself, and consequently for his rising family, was completely baffled. Endued with the best and kindest feelings that ever graced humanity, he was yet acutely aware that the misfortunes he lamented had not fatality solely for their origin, but existed chiefly in his own errors of judgment,—his deficiency in a sound, solid, and reflective understanding. Of great impetuosity of feelings, he never could command their first impulse; but when the ebullition of them had subsided, he sunk into the calmness of resignation; for in addition to the consciousness of blessings still reserved to him under the joint relation of husband and father, he could support misfortune with the most Christian fortitude. To yield himself to vain repinings for past afflictions, he justly considered, would only render those of the present more acute, and ener his mind at a time when courage and firmness were requisite to enable him to adopt a plan such as might rescue his family, not only from present but from future difficulties. After deliberating awhile, he found that the exhausted state of his finances was by no means adequate to his present expenditure; necessity therefore, from which there can be no appeal, determined him to quit his little paradise, that enchanting spot where the highest cultivation intermingled its fanciful decorations with the wild simplicity of unadorned nature.

No longer affluent, it was become necessary to subdue those feelings of regret, naturally excited by the display of taste and beauty everywhere visible, and which indeed might well cause him to waver in the decision to which his fallen fortunes had given rise.

"It is inevitable! The Villa must be parted with!" De Brooke at last ejaculated. "It must fall into the possession of others!" And where was he to go? where should he seek a residence? The wide world was open to him: he had a family,-his provision for them, alas, how scanty! As for himself, he could bear every deprivation; but his wife, his children, those dear and precious partners of every sad vicissitude, of every painful de , they must be his companions in some humble abode, in some remote obscurity; for it was in virtuous privacy only that he could hope to find a shelter from an ill-judging and calumnious world.

With such ideas he might have been soothed, had his reflections dwelt with less uneasiness on his daughters, Oriana and Rosilia. He could not without extreme pain think of immuring in the depth of solitude those lovely girls, in the blooming season of youth, endowed with accomplishments such as he conceived could not fail to gain them the suffrage and esteem of those circles suited to the elevation of their birth. Into such a sphere it was no longer in his power to introduce them; and on this account it was that General De Brooke so deeply felt the sacrifice his cruel fortunes imposed. For their mother, his faithful partner alike in prosperity as in adversity, she, he was assured, would willingly fly with him even to the earth's remotest corner: her mind, strong yet pliant, could adapt itself to every situation. In all the emergencies of his varied life never had he seen her change; being devoid of that feminine weakness which still clings to the world, reluctant to forego its flattering sweets. He felt persuaded that the courage of his valued wife would still support her, and render her to himself as well as to his children an example and solace.

Such were the meditations of De Brooke, when his paternal sight was gratified by the appearance of his daughters. They had just returned from their evening's walk. He met them with cheerfulness, and giving an arm to each they continued their ramble. The endearing smiles and sweet welcome with which he had been greeted imparted peace to his lacerated bosom; and whilst his soul expanded with the sense of moral obligation and submission to the Divine will, he breathed forth the dictates of parental fondness to his children, in advice for their welfare through the chequered scenes of mortal existence, verifying by his own experience the precariousness of all earthly things.

He then proceeded to tell, or rather to confirm to them what they had before learnt, that his reduced income was insufficient for the many accumulated expenses of the villa, and that it was only adequate to a pleasant retirement, where they might exist free from the gaze of a prying world, in leaving which, he endeavoured to persuade them, they had nothing to regret,

The world's infectious; few bring back at eve, Immaculate, the manners of the morn."

Such (in the words of him who had of late become his favourite author) he felt assured was the case. Oriana was nineteen; her sister had scarcely attained her seventeenth year. Enriched with sense beyond their years, their confiding parent had ever made them the companions of his sorrows. They in return revered his virtues, and loved him with the truest filial piety. The misfortunes he had met with gave him an additional claim to their tenderness; and with the most lively sincerity they hastened to relieve him from a world which had robbed their invaluable parent of his peace; with sanguine earnestness expressing themselves convinced he would regain both health and happiness when established in the shade of some tranquil solitude. These amiable girls had never yet experienced a total seclusion, and were consequently unprepared for the isolation which awaited them; and as in the hour of youth every change presents a pleasing variety, so in the anticipation of the future it never occurred to them how great was the sacrifice they were on the point of making, and how difficult it is to reconcile a passive existence with the lively feelings of their age; for then it is that the allurements of life enchant the imagi

and in proportion as the mind pants for such enjoyments, a dearth is felt, rendering common things around wearisome and insipid.

Charmed by the sweet converse of his girls, the General had no inclination to terminate his walk; and as they proceeded through the outer gate of his extensive park, they perceived Captain Douglas dismounting from his horse. The hospitality of the General ever induced him to give his visitors a welcome reception, and the apology of Douglas for his intrusion at so unseasonable an hour, having caught a view of the party at a distance, was readily admitted.

The moon had spread her pale majestic light, and but faintly tinged the luxuriant vale beneath,—the rushing sound of streams, forming their way through the broken cavities and interstices of the hills,—the soft breeze,—the fragrant exhalations of the eglantine, embracing the stately elm, which cast partially around its solemn shade,—gave to the scene a species of enchantment. The night’s glorious orb heightened every object into the perfection of beauty; and as its silver beams rested upon the finer form of Rosilia, the sylphid charms of Oriana passed unnoticed.

Douglas felt enraptured, emotions the most powerful took possession of him; his eye intently gazed upon her, who, from the first moment he had beheld, her, had awakened feelings which to stifle was impossible. Oriana being still engaged in conversation with her father, Douglas occasionally, in accents scarcely audible, addressed Rosilia; the sorrows of her beloved parent, still fresh upon her thoughts, gave pensiveness to her countenance and sanctity to her manners. With her light and summer garb, sometimes encompassing her delicate form and sometimes floating in the night’s soft breeze, together with the airy grace investing her, she seemed like a being just descended upon the earth, prepared to soar again in aerial flights.

To awe the soul of Douglas, to check his bold presumption, his too great volatility, was difficult; but this Rosilia then for the first time undesignedly effected. The insinuations his remarks were intended to convey seemed not by her replies to be understood, and his complimentary speeches passed from her ear as unmeaning nothings.

From ever having been much favoured by the sex, Douglas had acquired a habit of approaching them with adulation, which, though disregarded by a few, he had found to be successful with the many, and he was consequently unprepared to encounter the timid modesty of Rosilia. Warm and impetuous, captivated by her attractions, his en fancy fed on hopes, and painted the realization of them in colours the most glowing: such were the sentiments that either gave an eloquence the most animated to his observations, or caused his half-finished speeches to die away in accents scarcely coherent. Unconscious of being the magnet which thus enchained his faculties, Rosilia often conceived him to possess an extraordinary inconsistency, being at a loss to discover the design or inference of his conversations.

He mentioned having lately returned from the East, spoke of its luxuries and enjoyments; after which, his thoughts recurring to London, he largely expatiated on the fascinations of its pleasures, adding that unfortunately he had passed much of his time there, more than he ought to have done; unavoidable circumstances having in some degree induced it, and finding it difficult to resist the variety of amusements that gay city afforded.

The seriousness his countenance assumed during this short detail, in which he seemed to lament his early errors, caused Rosilia innocently to imagine he laboured under a painful sense of contrition; and as such an idea was deeply calculated to awaken her sensibility, she felt for him a concern and interest his gallantries and pointed assiduities had before proved insufficient to excite. Inexpe as she was artless, she scarcely understood the meaning of the word pleasure, as so frequently applied by Douglas, Did it comprehend vice, or even error? It was a term to her vague and undefined. If indeed it was meant to express the opposition to virtue, viewed in such a light, it is true, he attached an idea to it which made her tremble.

Mindful of his daughters, the General warned them of the lateness of the hour. They soon reached the Villa, and Douglas felt the necessity of departing. Still an irresistible impulse detained him: he remained transfixed to the spot; but at last collecting his scattered reason, he stepped forward, politely bowed and withdrew.

Volume 2 - Title Pages

EDITED BY

AUTHOR OF "THE IMPROVISATRICE,"

"ETHEL CHURCHILL," ETC.

Thought contending with thought; Reason and the affections at variance with each other."

LONDON:

HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER,

GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.

1838.

PRINTED BY RICHARD AND JOHN E. TAYLOR, RED LION COURT, FLEET STREET.

Title Pages

EDITED BY

AUTHOR OF "THE IMPROVISATRICE,"

"ETHEL CHURCHILL," ETC.

"Thought contending with thought; Reason and the affections at variance with each other."

LONDON:

HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER,

GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.

1838.

PRINTED BY RICHARD AND JOHN E. TAYLOR, RED LION COURT, FLEET STREET.

Chapter 2

CHAPTER II.

Methinks I see, as thrown from her high sphere, The glorious fragments of a soul immortal, With rubbish mix'd and glittering in the dust." Young.

Captain Douglas was the younger son of a noble Scottish family, and his elder brother, Lord Deloraine, was his only surviving relation. Cast early on the world, he was left to embark on the wide ocean of life, and to seek his fortune, with no other guide but his passions, at a time when they were calculated to gain a complete ascendancy over him; and every propensity, whether of good or evil tendency, alike met with unrestrained indulgence. The higher qualities of candour, warmth of heart, and generosity, were eminently possessed by Douglas; seeming as if inherent in him, as if he could not act in opposition to them,—proceeding not from any notions he entertained of moral rectitude.

Douglas also possessed a high sense of honour; perhaps nothing could have prevailed on him to violate that integrity which he conceived due from one human being to another: nor did this proceed from any principle of morality, but from those laws he had established to himself of civil order. Always swayed by the strong and ardent feelings of his heart, by duty never, he was rash, arrogant, and intemperate; nevertheless his perceptions were keen, his discriminations just. Viewed in such a light, he was as a noble structure left to ruin and desolation; for that time which might have been devoted to useful acquirements and honourable pursuits, was squandered away on the idle and the dissipated, amongst those fashionable profligates whose rank and fortune render the contagion of their example the more dangerous, in proportion to the splendour of the pomp and affluence surrounding them. As the companion of such associates, Douglas was early introduced to scenes of gaiety, too consonant to his taste, and where his fascinating address and brilliant exterior never failed to gain him a welcome reception.

Thus passed his youth, wasting in luxury; till suddenly called to reflection by the insufficiency of his means to cope with the frequent calls upon his purse, rendered necessary by the expensive pleasures of the society in which he had enrolled himself.

According to the custom of Scottish laws, his father, the late Lord Deloraine, had devised almost the whole of his immense revenue to support the title of his eldest son; leaving Douglas only a confined annuity, but what he deemed a handsome competency if aided by a lucrative yet honourable profession. His intentions however, such as he might have formed relative to the future career of his youngest son, had been unfortunately interrupted by his decease; and Douglas was of a character too lofty and aspiring, humbly to seek resources from a brother whose disposition to avarice was but too well known to him. He preferred rather to launch himself at once upon the world, and seek in it his future destiny,—whether prosperous or otherwise, time would best determine. Contrary to his interests, however, his scanty portion was soon exhausted by those habits of extravagance he had acquired, and which to support without fortune was impossible. To languish in privacy he could not.

Thus situated, he turned his thoughts towards a military life, as the most suited to favour his inclinations. Three-and-twenty was somewhat late, he conceived, to begin a professional career; but having no alternative, through the interests of his friends he procured an ensigncy in a regiment then under orders for India.

After a voyage affording but little variety to dispel ennui, he found himself in a foreign clime, where, to reconcile himself to his irremediable lot, he sought diversion in every shape; but, notwithstanding, an inward repining prevailed, to embitter the present, at best but a life of luxurious indolence, causing him to sigh for home, for the deprivation of which and his accustomed pleasures nothing could compensate; the dazzling charms of European women, the loss of those circles where wit and fashion reigned, and where his jocund hilarity contributed to delight, as also to inspire the same feeling in others.

Thus he was assiduous to dissipate time; which, as it still stole away, far from reconciling him, contributed only to excite his further aversion from that enervating soil, upon which his untoward destiny had thrown him. Daily more discontented, he resolved at length to quit a species of banishment so uncongenial to him, and applied for leave of absence, which he obtained, though only for the limited space of eighteen months: nevertheless he gladly availed himself of it, hoping some fortunate occurrence might intervene in that short period to prevent the necessity of returning. He accordingly, after an absence of five years, repaired to England, resorted to the Capital, renewed his intimacy with former companions, and entered a second time upon those wild irregularities, for which his temporary privations had but given him a keener zest.

Making with some friends an excursion to Bath, he there accidentally became introduced to General De Brooke and his amiable family. Deeply smitten with his youngest daughter, and yielding himself a willing victim to his passion, in order to have frequent occasions of seeing and conversing with the object who thus enslaved him, he fixed his abode in the neighbourhood; existence seeming tolerable only in proportion as the means were granted him for indulging in the presence of her whose image perpetually haunted him. Her radiant beauty wore to him an additional charm, heightened as it was by an association of mental graces he could not distinctly define, but which seemed in their effect matchless.

The general life of Douglas, his gay and unconcerned manners, led some to imagine he was unused to reflection; but such casual observers were mistaken. Possessing by nature a masculine energy, he was formed to think, and enter into the utmost refinements of intellect; his mind, improperly directed, had pursued a different bias; but he had never, even in his most jovial hours, thought lightly of virtue; the contemplation of it awed him, such indeed as it was painted in romance; in real life, where was the unsullied ray to be met with? Not in his own sex; and with Hamlet, he had been often inclined to exclaim, "Frailty, thy name is Woman!" That he had at last discovered one of a pure and simple innocence he had felt conscious during his last evening's promenade at the villa of Mount Zephyr; and as he rode gently home, sentiments new and powerful soothed whilst they repressed his transports. "What a lovely girl!" he breathed in secret; "what a heavenly meekness is blended with the eloquent expression of her countenance! to win her affections, to call her mine, what a bliss!"

A sense of unworthiness slightly intruded to check, for a moment only, his presumption; gay and sanguine hope, with all its exhilarating train of images, quickly crowded upon his fancy. Life with him seemed one boundless theatre of delight, and to enjoy was his unvaried maxim. Under the dominion of such false persuasions he passed the night, and when the morning dawned, the result of his meditations determined him not to protract the avowal of his sentiments. To declare them openly, indeed, was very far from his intentions; his deficiency of fortune, though his vanity led him to believe it might not sway Rosilia, yet he had knowledge of the world enough to be aware, might very differently influence her parents; and dreading nothing so much as a formal rejection by them, he resolved to make Rosilia alone the arbiter of his fate.

The greater part of his leave of absence had already expired; in a few short months the order would be received obliging him to rejoin his regiment: but not as the first did he picture to himself his second voyage; dreams of delight flashed over his elated fancy; Rosilia, his lovely bride, his enchanting companion, to soothe her timid fears when the vessel tossed upon the watery abyss, to feel sensible of her having sacrificed for him every other affection, and relinquished her native land to place upon himself her sole dependence, and look to him alone for protection. Thus was he engaged in tracing the happy future, when his servant entering put a note into his hand, which upon reading he found to contain an invitation from Sir Charles and Lady Valpée to a rural fête they purposed giving at their country seat, in order to celebrate the coming of age of their only son, Frederic. There cannot be a doubt, thought he, that the De Brookes will be there; the intimacy of the families renders it certain: a glow of rapture flushed his cheek, when, seizing his pen, he expressed compliance with the obliging favour. Nothing could have happened more propitious; fate seemed to favour his wishes. Warmed by the vehemence of his feelings, and counting every moment lost when not forwarding his views, he ordered his horse, that he might instantly ride to the Villa and hear from the De Brookes themselves their intention of gracing the birth-day with their presence.

Ushered into the room where Mrs.De Brooke and her daughters were employed in their morning avocations, he placed himself in a seat adjoining the work table, opposite to Rosilia, who, as he drew near, felt fearful lest her bashful emotion might be evident; but fortunately a remark from Mrs. De Brooke calling her attention, left her time to recover: but when he again addressed her she was still confused; she fancied that his manners wanted more of softness, more of respect; she liked not to be made conspicuous; and his attentions were so obvious, his regards so impassioned, his air so confident, no one ever excited more her natural timidity; but while she wished to fly his presence a consciousness of pleasure induced her stay. This embarrassment, so painful to herself yet so interesting to her admirer, was relieved by the entrance of her father, who cordially shook Douglas by the hand as he approached to meet him. Among the many visit who frequented the Villa, none was held in higher estimation by the General than Douglas; his cheerful ease and pleasantry, the intelligence which animated his remarks, his knowledge of the worlds dispelled that inclination to seriousness which the General had gradually imbibed from the daily contemplation of his misfortunes. The discourse turned upon politics; but to Douglas, though he entered into the discussion with appropriate argument, and gave his opinions freely, the subject was at that moment the most indifferent, Rosilia and the birth-day gala claiming the first place in his thoughts. Every moment he was on the point of abruptly breaking off the conversation; and when the first pause ensued he expressed to Rosilia his hopes of seeing her at Sir Charles and Lady Valpée's fête on the following Thursday.

"We have received an invitation," she replied, "but have declined accepting it."

The eyes of Douglas, before brilliant and penetrating, instantly betrayed disappointment and regret. "Declined?", said he, in accents of impatience; "do you really intend not going?"

Upon Rosilia confirming what she had before said, endeavouring to conceal his chagrin, he added reproachfully, "You must indeed have much forbearance to refuse a festivity so novel, and which I doubt not will be attended with great splendour on such an occasion as this, in honour of the son and heir coming of age."

Having recovered the usual placidity of her demeanour, Rosilia spoke to him with a gentle confidence; and, as natural to youth, she much lamented the pleasure denied her. With looks of eloquent simplicity she could not help expressing her mortification, and that to one who seemed so well disposed to sympathize in her feelings; and upon his again urging her to tell him the cause which militated against her going, with artless hesitation she replied, it did not meet the approbation of her parents. Upon which Douglas, turning to Mrs. De Brooke, pressed her in terms of the warmest solicitude to change her resolution; but finding that every persuasion failed, and that the General was alike inexorable, he felt the necessity of desisting, when the door opened, and, to his inexpressible delight, the charming Lady Valpée herself was announced. She advanced with a gracious air, and with that benevolence which ever beamed on her open countenance, she took each extended hand of the lovely sisters, at the same time saying, "My dear girls, why, how is this? I can admit of no excuse, I can't indeed; Mrs. De Brooke, General, it is my intention to run away with your sweet treasures on Thursday, unless you promise me to revoke your note of this mornings and come with them to my rural fête. I shall indeed be most happy to see you."