# Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 32

CHAPTER VIII.
"Blessings be with them and eternal praise,
Who gave us nobler loves and nobler cares;
The poets, who on earth have made us heirs
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays." Wordsworth.
Emily's time was now passing most pleasantly: she had been solitary enough during winter to give society that advantage of contrast which does so much towards teaching the full value of any thing; she had just enough of annoyance from her aunt to make her feel thankful that she was not more exposed to it. She became attached to Lady Mandeville, with all the enjoyment and warmth of youthful affection—that age when we are so happy in loving those around us. Many sources of enjoyment were laid open; and the future seemed as promising as those futures always are which we make for ourselves.
​ Lady Mandeville was one of those women for the description of whom the word "fascinating" seems expressly made. She had seen a great deal of society, and she talked of it delightfully; she had that keen sense of ridicule so inseparable from perceptions at once acute and refined; and, like most of those accustomed to every species of amusement, she easily wearied of it, and hence novelty became indispensable; and from this arose much of her fondness for society, and quickness in perceiving every variety of character. A new acquaintance was like a new book—and, as in the case of the book, it must be confessed she often arrived very quickly at the end.
Emily's very reserve—the necessity there was to divine the feelings she herself rarely expressed—made her, of all others, the most secure in retaining the friendship she had inspired. There was always something to imagine about her—and imagination is as useful in keeping affection alive as the eastern monarch's fairy ring was in keeping alive his conscience. Moreover, Emily's very friendlessness gave Lady Mandeville a pleasurable feeling of protection—we like those we can oblige—and she felt as the ​writer of a fairy tale, while laying down plans for her future destiny.
"Pray, have you agreed to group for a picture?" said Mr. Morland, who, with Lord Mandeville, entered the room just as Emily read the last line of the Lady of the Lake; and it was a question De Hooge might have asked; for one of those breaks of sunshine, so like reality in his pictures, came from the half-opened glass door, and fell full on the large old crimson arm-chair, where Lady Mandeville was seated with a little work-table before her, at which she was threading those brilliant and diminutive beads which would make fitting chain armour for the fairy king and his knights. The rest of the apartment was filled with that soft green light where the noon is excluded by Venetian blinds, or the still softer shadow of creeping plants: and here, on the south side of the house, a vine had been trained, which, luxuriant and unpruned, seemed better calculated for foliage than for fruit: a green basket-stand, filled with pots of early roses, stood between the windows—and so near, that their crimson reflected on the face of the young boy who was asleep on the carpet: not so the elder one, who sat at Emily's feet, his cheek ​glowing with the excitement of the narrative, and his large blue eyes almost double their usual size with eager attention.
"I have always thought," said Lord Mandeville—"and Frank seems to think with me—that no poet ever carried you so completely along with him as Sir Walter Scott: he is the poet, of all others, made to be read aloud. What is the reason I like to read Lord Byron to myself, but like Scott to be read to me?"
"Because," said Mr. Morland, "the one is the poet of reflection, the other of action. Byron's pages are like the glasses which reflect ourselves—Scott's are like those magic mirrors which give forth other and distant scenes, and other and passing shapes; but this is a sweeping remark—and both poets often interchange their characteristics. Scott will excite pensive and lingering thought—and Byron, as in the Corsair and Lara, carry us along by the mere interest of the story."
"I think," observed Emily, "In the Lay of the Last Minstrel there is one of the most exquisite touches of natural feeling I ever met with. Sir William Deloraine uncloses the tomb of Michael Scott, while the monk, his early ​friend, stands by; when the body is uncovered, the monk turns away his face—
'For he might not abide the sight to see
Of the man he had loved so brotherly.'" *
"I remember," returned Lady Mandeville, "another instance, where a single thought has produced the effect, on me at least, of a whole poem of images: it is from Byron. The Prisoner of Chillon is speaking of the younger brother who lies buried at his side: he says,
'For he was beautiful as day, When day was beautiful to me.'"
"And, while we are remembering, let me recall another passage from Scott that has always especially delighted me," observed Lord Mandeville. "The Minstrel is relating to the captive chieftain the battle in which his clan have been worsted: he softens the defeat by ascribing it all to his absence, and sinks the flight in the exclamation,
'Oh, where was Roderic then?— One blast upon his bugle horn
Were worth a thousand men.'"
"Of all questions," remarked Lady Mandeville, "I dislike being asked, 'which is your favourite poet?' Authors who appeal to the feelings are those of whom our opinions must inevitably vary most: I judge according to my mood."
"Another odious fashion of conversation is that of comparison: I look upon them as if
'Their souls were each a star, and dwelt apart.'"
"Are you an admirer of Wordsworth?"
"Yes—he is the most poetical of philosophers. Strange, that a man can be so great a poet, and yet deficient in what are poetry's two grand requisites,—imagination and passion. He describes what he has seen, and beautifully, because he is impressed with the beauty before his eyes. He creates nothing: I cannot recall one fine simile. He has often expressions of touching feeling—he is often melancholy, often tender—but with more of sympathy than energy; and for simplicity he often mistakes both vulgarity and silliness. He never fills the atmosphere around with music, 'lapping us in Elysium,' like Moore: he never makes his readers fairly forget their very identity, in the intense interest of the narrative, like Scott: he never ​startles us with the depth of our secret thoughts—he never brings to our remembrance all that our own existence has had of poetry or passion—the earnestness of early hope, the bitterness of after-disappointment—like Byron. But he sits by the fireside or wanders through the fields, and calls from their daily affections and sympathies foundations whereon to erect a scheme of the widest benevolence. He looks forth on the beautiful scenery amid which he has dwelt, and links with it a thousand ties of the human loveliness of thought: I would say, his excellence is the moral sublime."
"The common people of England," observed Lord Mandeville, "seem to me to have less feeling, taste, or whatever we please to call it, for poetry, than almost any other country. Look at the common songs of the Scotch—verse "familiar as household words"—what touches of exquisite feeling—what natural yet delicate thoughts! Look at those of the Irish peasantry—what fine and original imagery is to be met with! But the run of English ballads are as vulgar in expression as they are coarse or common in idea. No nation takes a higher poetical rank than our own—how, therefore, do you account for this?"
​ "I am not one of those," returned Mr. Morland, "who deem it necessary to give a reason for every thing; and of all hypotheses, those which account for the various workings of the imagination are to me especially unsatisfactory. That a peculiar temperament is required for poetry, no one will deny; but what produces that temperament?—scenery and circumstances certainly do not. I, for one, am content to leave the question with the longitude and the philosopher's stone."
"The poetical habits of a people do not lead to their producing great poets, else those among the Italians of the present day would be the first in the world. Their country is unrivalled in its loveliness—all their old associations are of the refined and elevated order—their taste for music is as exquisite as their taste for painting. Objects of beauty are constantly before them, for the picture or statue gallery is open to all—their churches are the noblest monuments of human power—the common wants of life are easily supplied—and then their indolent summer habits are so favourable to the train of imaginary creations. I have seen an Italian peasant, seated, perhaps, by one of the ruined fountains, half ivy, half water—or ​beneath an old tree, through which the moonlight was falling like rain—and he has sung some one of those divine airs whose popularity has verily floated on the wings of the wind. Gradually his voice has died away, and he has sat silent and absorbed, as if wholly given up to the quiet enjoyment of the soft summer night. Ought not that man to have been a poet?"
"The feeling for poetry is not the power, and I firmly believe its source lies not without, but within."
"Nothing struck me so much as the extreme beauty of the women. To take one instance out of many—look at the young peasants who plait the Leghorn straw: brought up from infancy to that most feminine employment, which requires the utmost delicacy of touch, their hands and arms are as white as those of the heroines of romance always are; the outline of their face is perfect—the finely formed nose, the ivory teeth, the high, intellectual forehead—and such eye-brow's—to say nothing of their large dark eyes, either of a deep purple blue, or a radiant black; and then their hair, so profuse, so exquisitely dressed, put up into those rich masses of shade, and falling into one or two large ringlets that Berenice might have envied. ​I have often seen one of those girls, with her classically-turned head, bending over her work, who might have served as a model for 'a nymph, a naïad, or a grace.'"
"Do you remember," said Lady Mandeville, "the first fête after our arrival? Oh, Emily, it was matter for severe study! Their exquisite coquetry—each peasant had her lover, who was treated with that perfection of 'beautiful disdain' which does so much in a love affair. And then their dress—the fine plaited chemisette close round the throat—the long gold ear-rings, those indispensables of their toilette—the black velvet boddice, showing the figure to such advantage, laced with gold and coloured silks—the full petticoat—the apron trimmed with gay ribands; all put on so neatly, and with such a fine taste for harmony of colouring. I always think national costumes invented for the express advantage of travellers."
"I must own," replied Mr. Morland, "the pleasures of travelling seem to me quite ideal. I dislike having the routine of my existence disarranged—I dislike early rising—I dislike bad dinners—I dread damp beds—I like new books—I like society—I respect my cook, and love my arm-chair; so I will travel through ​Italy in a chapter—and am not quite sure but these engravings are more picturesque than the originals."
"And I," replied Lady Mandeville, "delight in its difficulties: a bad dinner is a novelty, and a little danger is an enjoyment for which I am thankful. There are two readings of content—and mine would be, monotony."
"Blessed be that amiable arrangement of fate, which gives such variety of tastes! I knew a lady who made a pet of a dove—I knew another whose passion was for grasshoppers. I'll tell you a story, at which I laughed at first, and afterwards philosophised upon. You know the frightful goîtres which so disfigure the inhabitants of the Valais; but they themselves consider them to be personal advantages of no small attraction. In my youth I was a little touched with those vagrant habits you have been advocating; and one day I found myself in a small mountain chapel, where a Swiss pastor was encouraging content among his congregation, by dwelling on the many levelling circumstances of humanity—the sickness or the sorrow which brought the happiness of the wealthy to a level with that of the poor. Taking it for granted I was as ignorant of his ​language as he was of mine, he looked upon my appearance as quite a case in point: 'Observe this young stranger—rich, free to do his own pleasure, healthy; but, to counterbalance these advantages, Providence has denied him a goître' "