# Ethel Churchill/Chapter 29

CHAPTER XXIX.
LADY MARCHMONT TO SIR JASPER MEREDITH.
COURTIERS.
Not in a close and bounded atmosphere Does life put forth its noblest and its best; 'Tis from the mountain's top that we look forth, And see how small the world is at our feet. There the free winds sweep with unfettered wing; There the sun rises first, and flings the last, The purple glories of the summer eve; There does the eagle build his mighty nest; And there the snow stains not its purity. When we descend the vapour gathers round, And the path narrows: small and worthless things Obstruct our way; and, in ourselves, we feel The strong compulsion of their influence.
We grow like those with whom we daily blend: To yield is to resemble.
Ah, my dearest uncle! now I find the truth of what you used to tell me. I once thought ​that you drew human nature in too dark colours; I now begin to think that is wholly impossible. Here we are flattering and hating, envying and caressing, duping and slandering, complimenting and ridiculing, each other. I really doubt whether there be such a thing as a heart in the world: perhaps, after all, it is only an elegant superfluity kept for the use of poets. Certainly we have no use for it here.
In consequence of the recent death of the king, we preserve a decorous appearance of dulness; but black is very becoming to a fair skin, and public mourning never yet interfered with private gaiety. I hear that his present majesty complains that he is no better off as king than he was as prince; the queen commanding to retain Mrs. Howard as dame de ses pensées. She is right; it is only positive qualities that are dangerous, and Mrs. Howard is made up of negations: not, I dare say, that she ever said a good downright "no" in her life. But you must make her acquaintance personally. Fancy a tall and fine figure in a green taffety dress, set off with rose-coloured ​ribands, both colours well suited to her fair hair and skin; a white muslin apron, trimmed with delicate lace; ruffles of the same material, showing to much advantage a white and rounded arm: a chip hat, with flowers, is placed quite at the back of the light hair, which leaves the white and broad forehead exposed. By the by, talking of her fair hair, I must tell you an anecdote of the use to which it was once applied. When she and her husband were staying at Hanover, they asked some people to dinner, and Mrs. Howard was obliged to cut off her luxuriant tresses and sell them to pay for the said dinner! What a beginning! and, alas, what an excuse for any faults in her afterlife! Think of all the wretchedness included in the single word poverty. Truly Shakspeare says,—
——"Want will perjure The ne'er stain'd vestal."
But to proceed with my description: her features are regular, and the eyes a soft blue; and she is singularly young-looking. Mrs. Howard is the very person to look young to ​the last. What fades the cheek, and marks the brow with lines, but the keen feeling and the passionate sorrow? and of these she is incapable. The only expression of her face is repose; and, I must add, a sweet and gentle repose. An attachment to her would be just an agreeable and easy habit.
My dear uncle must let me borrow one of his own phrases. Mrs. Howard is just the type of a social system, whose morality is expediency, and whose religion is good breeding. In such a close and enervating atmosphere, it is scarcely possible for a generous sympathy, or a warm emotion, to exist. Courtiers and wits crowd round the royal idol, flinging one a compliment, and another an epigram, all ready to be snatched up again; the first to be used to any who may succeed, and the second to be turned against herself: all were alike actuated by selfishness on the smallest scale.
Still, I must say, the life of a maid of honour is no sinecure. Lady Harvey was giving me the description of a day. First, ​there is the getting up early, which I, who should not know seven o'clock in the morning if I were to see it, think a most dreadful way of beginning the day. Then comes the imperative necessity of eating smoked Westphalian ham for breakfast: this is on the principle that imitation is the most delicate flattery. Then to horse—life and limb risked on hired hacks, and over hedge and ditch: the neck in comparative, the complexion in certain, danger. Home, then, they come in the middle of the day; blushing, not "celestial rosy red," but a good positive scarlet, with the heat; and also with a crimson mark on the forehead, from the pressure of the hat. Then they have to dress in a hurry, put on pleine toilette and smiles for the princess's circle, where they stand, simper, and catch cold, till dinner. So much for attendance at court.
In the mean time, Mrs. Howard has found leisure for divers other adorateurs. Lord Bathurst even excited the royal jealousy; for the prince intimated to the lady, that all supplies would be cut off, to use a national figure ​of speech, if any flatteries were held too charming, save his own. This threat, his royal highness thought was the most effective he could use. We always judge of others by ourselves; and his idea of Cupid's quiver is a rouleau. I heard a droll story of his courtship, in earlier days, of the beautiful Mrs. Campbell, when maid of honour. After sitting in silence for some time, he drew out his purse and began to count his money. The lady pushed his elbow, and down rolled the glittering coin. They say that he has not yet forgiven her—not for the breach of etiquette, but for the risk that the poor dear guineas ran from the crevices on the floor. Lord Bathurst does not appear to me to be a very dangerous rival. I always long to quote two lines from Gay's "Fables:"
"Shall grave and formal pass for wise, When men the solemn owl despise?"
Lord Peterborough, the romantic, the chivalric, was another of her adorateurs,—he who is enough to make one believe in the doctrine ​of transmigration; for no soul but that of Lord Herbert of Cherbury could possibly inhabit his body.
Lady Mary Wortley Montague, who knows every thing about everybody, has greatly diverted me with the Great Cyrus style of their correspondence. I remember hearing you read—ah, dear uncle, how pleasant were those winter evenings!—of some plant that exists floating on the air, never deigning to touch our meaner earth. The grands sentimens of these epistles have a similar kind of existence. One compliment is so very original, that I must quote it. He says,
"The chief attribute of the devil is, tormenting. Who could look upon you, and give you that title? Who can feel what I do, and give you any other? But, most certainly, I have more to lay to the charge of my fair one than can be objected to Satan or Beelzebub. We believe that they have only a mind to torment because they are tormented,—they, at least, are our companions in suffering; but my white devil partakes of none of my torments."
​ He concludes by exclaiming,—
"Forgive me if I threaten you: take this for a proof, as well as punishment. If you can prove inhuman, you shall have reproaches from Moscow, China, or the barbarous quarters of Tartary."
How he was to carry this "last bold threat" into execution, I know not. However, do not be too sorry for him: he has consoled his misery in the smiles of Mrs. Robinson. Perhaps he may urge with Mrs. Howard, that she had such influence over him that he even followed her advice. In one of her answers she recommends a little inconstancy, and says,
"Successful love is very unlike heaven, because you may have success one hour, and lose it the next. Heaven is unchangeable. Who can say so of love? In love there are as many heavens as there are women; so that if a man be so unhappy as to lose one heaven, he need but look for another, instead of throwing himself headlong into hell."
Some of our fine gentlemen about town would say that this is what his lordship has ​actually done; or, what is much the same, he is married: for they do say that there is a secret marriage between him and the fair Anastasia. I passed her in his berlin the other day, and just caught a glimpse of very pretty features, with an interesting and sad expression. I believe that she is his wife, because I always believe for the best. This I do for the sake of originality—one likes to do differently to every body else.
I must conclude with a characteristic ejaculation of Lord Portmore—a sort of plaster cast, in bread and milk, of Lord Harvey, who has quite a sect. Lord Portmore is about to build a house. A very fine situation was proposed to him, where he might have a noble view of the ocean; but he started back, with an attitude of terror Betterton might envy, when Hamlet meets his father's ghost, and cried out,—"Oh, Christ! the sea looks so fierce that it frights me!"
And now good night. If they do nothing else, my long letters ought to put you to sleep. Once for all, I make no apologies for their ​egotism or their incoherency. The first you will take as a thing of course. Writing to you is thinking on paper; and as to the second, things here happen too fast for me to sort them. You must take my events as I do the ribands from my box—I snatch the first that comes to hand, from not having a moment to choose between them. I fear, however, that I cannot have left you an atom of patience; but still bear with, and love
Your affectionate
Henrietta.