CHAPTER XXVII.
LADY MARCHMONT TO SIR JASPER MEREDITH.
Mind, dangerous and glorious gift!
Too much thy native heaven has left
Its nature in thee, for thy light
To be content with earthly home.
It hath another, and its sight
Will too much to that other roam;
And heavenly light, and earthly clay,
But ill bear with alternate sway:
Till jarring elements create
The evil which they sought to shun,
And deeper feel their mortal state
In struggling for a higher one.
There is no rest for the proud mind,
Conscious of its high powers confined;
Vain dreams and feverish hopes arise,
It is itself its sacrifice.
Is it not Le Sage, my dearest uncle, who says, "to judge by their own account, the people of England are the most unhappy people under the sun—with religion, liberty, and property; also, three meals a-day?" He was not far wrong, for nothing strikes me more forcibly than the universal tendency to grumble: conversation and complaint are synonymous terms. Our weather and our government are equally bad—at least every one says that they are.
I was at the dinner yesterday, which, you know, has long been the subject of my anticipation—the one at Lady Oxford's, where I was to meet Pope, Swift, Gay; in short, all the wit in the world. We had a delightful day: the dinner—and though it is difficult to appreciate an enjoyment into which you cannot, for the very life of you, enter—still I begin to think that a good dinner is, at least, the stepping-stone to masculine felicity. The cook is one of the three Fates. Lady Oxford is a very good hostess. Without being clever enough to put people on their guard, she understands talent, which none can do without some of their own; and has a peculiar tact for putting a person's amour propre at rest by putting it in the best light. She knows how to ask questions judiciously: and it is a first requisite to make people feel it is easy to answer you; and, also, that their answer reflects credit on themselves.
You see that I am studying my part as future dame de château. I hope, in time, to make my house the most brilliant in London; but I do not agree with Lord Marchmont in thinking that wealth is the only thing requisite. Wealth is to luxury what marble is to the palace—it must be there, as the first material; but taste, and taste only, can direct its after-use. The light arch, and the graceful column, owe their exquisite proportion to the skill with which they are modelled.
But I am wandering away from the assertion that I was about to make; namely, that, with all the appliances of cheerfulness, with all the means of wit, the chief portion of the "table-talk" turned upon individual and general grievances. Each person was the most injured individual under the sun. Swift was, however, the one that most excited my sympathy. There is a stern melancholy in his dark features, inherent and engrossing, which rivets the attention. The brow is black and overhanging, and the eyes gloomy while in a state of repose; but, when they kindle, it is like living fire, with a sort of strange animal fierceness in them. His laugh is suppressed and bitter; and I shall not easily forget the sarcasm of his smile as he told us of the Prince of Orange's harangue to the mob at Portsmouth: "We are come," said he, "for your good—for all your goods." "A universal principle," added Swift, "of all governments; but, like most other truths, only told by mistake." His manner is abrupt, and yet I could fancy it very kind sometimes; and he is more eloquent than I ever before heard in general society. Nothing could be more gloomy than the picture he drew of his residence in Ireland. It is that worst of solitudes, an intellectual one: above all things, the mind requires interchange. The heart may, perhaps, shut itself up in itself, as the motto on a pretty French seal that I have, says,—
"Avec les souvenirs et les esperances
L'on se passe de bonheur;"
There was one contrast in Swift with his fellow wits: they grew gayer as the dinner progressed, he did not. At first, his conversation was very lively—a sort of fierce vivacity, like a bird or beast of prey dashing at its game. He gave a very amusing account of his journey from Ireland; how he was not only stopped at the "Three Crosses," by a shrew of a landlady, but scolded into the bargain. His revenge was most characteristic. "Most people," said he to the landlord, "are content or discontent with paying their bill. I do more: I leave you, as a legacy, an invaluable piece of advice," pointing to some lines that he had written, with a diamond ring, on the window pane,—
"There are three crosses to your door,
Hang up your wife, and there'll be four."
As the evening closed in, I was struck with the gloom which seemed to fall upon him. His face lost its intellectual animation—it was almost stupid; and I never before saw blank despondency so expressed in human eye. Even now I try to shake off the painful impression. But I must leave the remainder of the dinner till to-morrow, trusting that you will not say,
"Un diner rechauffé ne valut jamais rien."
We are going to play loo at Mrs. Howard's; but, alas! though he is the fashion, I am quite inaccessible to the fascinations of Pam. Good by till to-morrow.
Your affectionate
Henrietta.