University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
Pure Azure.

Mr. Lee, after troubling himself exceedingly in
concocting and maturing a plan to bring about a
speedy union between his daughter and nephew, at
length in despair hit upon the best in the world,
which was to let matters take their own course, and
leave the event to Providence. Had he persevered
in this, it had been all the better; but I profess to
have heard a vast many people talk of trusting to
Providence, who still would be meddling and putting
in their oar, and spoiling every thing. However,
it is necessary to the happiness of mankind, that they
should fancy themselves the spiders that weave the
web, instead of the flies that are caught in it.

In the meantime, Lucia and Highfield were much
together. Lucia liked him extremely; she liked
his good humour, his vivacity, his spirit, and his
generous forgetfulness of himself; she even thought
him rather handsome, and quite a sensible young
man. But her ideas of men had been formed from
the declamations of the azure club, with which she
had been intimately associated for the last few years.
It was here that she learned to consider words of

much more consequence than actions, talents than
temper, enthusiasm than common sense, and an utter
incapacity for usefulness as the best test of genius.
She was often struck with the manly sense and
unpretending beauty of Highfield's sentiments; but
then they were expressed with such a nakedness,
such a poverty of words, such a natural simplicity,
that all the azures pronounced him a very common-place
sort of a person, that would never set the
world crying about nothing, or be himself miserable
without cause.

“For my part,” said Goshawk, “I like sublimity,
obscurity, grandeur, mistiness—I hate a
speech, or a passage, that I can comprehend at the
first glance. Give me, to grope in the whirlwind;
mount into the depths of the multitudinous ocean—
dive into the evanescent fleecy clouds, that gallop
on the midnight sunbeams, that sparkle in yon star-spangled
attic story—and grapple with the chaos of
the mind.” And he sank on the sofa, overpowered
with his emotions.

“And I,” exclaimed Miss Appleby, holding a
smelling bottle to his inspired nose, “I delight to
fling—” here she flourished a pinch of snuff she
held between her thumb and finger right into the
expanded nostrils of the great Puddingham, who
began to sneeze like ten tom-cats; “I delight to
toss back the curtains of night and darkness—to
climb those unfathomable abysses where lurk the treasures
of inspired thought, glittering like the eternal

snows of the inaccessible Andes. I love to rise on
the wings of the moonbeam—sink under the weight
of the zephyr—and lose myself in the impenetrable
brightness of transcendant genius, giving to the
winds their whistle, the waves their roar, the stars
their brightness, and the sun its fires.”

“And I,” cried little Mrs. Coates, “as Sir Richard
Gammon used to say, prefer those soul-infusing
alligators, that stir the mountain spirit up to
the dromedary of fever heat—”

“The dromedary of fever heat!” said Roth,—
“what sort of a dromedary is that?”

Lucia whispered Mrs. Coates, who replied in some
agitation,

“I mean allegory and thermometer. How could
I make such a mistake? But I was carried away
by the intensity of my feelings. I like—”

Each one of the party was now so anxious to tell
what they liked, that there was no one but Highfield
to listen. Even Lucia mingled her tuneful
nonsense with the incomprehensible olio. There was
not one of these good people that would not have made
a decent figure in life, in their proper sphere, as indeed
all persons do, had they only been content
to keep within it, and talk common sense on ordinary
occasions, refraining from affecting enthusiasm
when there was nothing to excite it. A pause
at length ensuing, Miss Appleby turned suddenly
to Highfield, and asked him,

“O Mr. Highfield, I hope you admire those
beautiful historical romances, and romantic histories,
that come out every day now-a-days? What
a charming thing it is to read novels, and study
history at the same time!”

“Why in truth, madam,” said Highfield, “I don't
pretend to criticism, and hardly ever read reviews,
when I can find any thing else to read.”

“Not read reviews!”

“Not read the Edinburgh!” cried Mr. Roth,
who never uttered an opinion that he did not get
from that renowned Scottish oracle.

“Not read the Quarterly!” exclaimed Puddingham,
who was a believer in the infalliability of the
English oracle.

“Not read the Westminster!” screamed Miss
Overend, who worshipped at that shrine.

“Nor the Liquorary Gazette!” quoth little Mrs.
Coates.

“Well then, let us hear your opinion, sir,” at
length said Puddingham, with a supercilious air,
implying that it was not worth hearing.

“Such as it is, you are welcome to it. I confess
I do not agree with those who believe that a knowledge
of history may be obtained by studying romances.
The very name of romance presupposes
fiction; and how is the reader, unless already critically
versed in history, to distinguish between what
is fact and what is fiction? The probability is, that
he will jumble them together, and thus lose all perception

of what is history, and what romance. He
may come in time to mistake one for the other, and
confound a Waverly novel with Hume, or the Tales
of my Landlord with Plutarch's Lives.”

“Ah! that Plutarch's Lives is a delightful romance,”
exclaimed Mrs. Coates.

“Romance!” said Highfield; “my dear madam,
I am afraid you are already in the state of
doubt I hinted at. Plutarch's Lives compose one
of the best authenticated memorials of history—
every word is true.”

“Well,” cried Mrs. Coates, “did ever any
body hear of such an imposition! Every thing
is so perfectly natural, I took it for a historical
romance. I am resolved never to read another word
of it.”

“Many besides yourself, madam,” said Highfield,
smiling, “have lost their relish for truth, by a habit
of reading little else than the daily succession of
half-truth, half-fiction productions, perpetually issuing
from the press. I think I could give a receipt,
which would enable any person of ordinary intellect
to concoct one of these at least twice a year, without
any extraordinary exertion.”

“Oh let us hear it by all means,” said Puddingham,
superciliously.

“Allons,” said the other. “Take a smattering
of history; a little knowledge of old costumes and
phraseology; a little superstition, consisting of a

belief in clouds, dreams, and omens; a very little
invention, just enough to disguise the truth of history;
a very little vein of a story, with very little
connection; a mighty hero, and a very little heroine.
With these, compound a couple of volumes of actions
without motive, and motives with or without action;
adventures that have no agency in producing the
catastrophe, and a catastrophe without any connection
with the adventures. Put all these in a book,
cement them together, with plenty of high-sounding
declamations, and get a certificate from an English
review, or newspaper, and you have a romance, of
which more copies will be sold in a fortnight, than
of the best history in the world in a year.”

“By the by,” said Miss Appleby, “have you
read Moore's Life of Byron, and heard that Murray,
the great London bookseller, has purchased
the copy-right of his minor poems, for three thousand
seven hundred guineas?”

“What a proof of the prodigious superiority of
his genius!” cried Miss Overend. “I have read
that Milton sold his Paradise Lost for twelve
pounds.”

“What a noble testimony to the wonderful developement
of mind!” cried Puddingham. “But I
believe, Mr. Highfield, you don't believe in the vast
improvement of the age?” added he, in his usual
pompous vein.

“Not much,” replied the other; “I think the
age of Milton was quite as learned and wise as the

present. If Milton were now living, an obscure
author, or obnoxious politician, I doubt whether
Murray would give him twelve pounds for his Paradise
Lost, at a venture, unless indeed he could
secure a favourable review.”

“What a divine misanthrope was Lord Byron?”
exclaimed Miss Appleby; “how I should glory in
being loved by a man that hated all the rest of the
world!”

“My dear madam,” said Highfield, “wouldn't
you be afraid he might kill you with kindness?”

“I wouldn't care to die such a glorious death.”

“And so uncommon too. You would be immortalized,
if only on account of its rarity.”

“Oh, he was a jewel of a man! Such an inspired
contempt for his fellow-creatures! Don't you think
this a certain sign of his superiority over the rest
of the world?”

“And don't you think his utter disregard of the
customs and prejudices of society a proof of his lofty
genius?” added Miss Overend.

“Why no, I can't say I do. But I have no disposition
to find fault with the dead—it is against an
old maxim I learned at college.”

“It is much easier to give an opinion than to support
it,” said the sententious Puddingham. “Pray
give us your reasons, Mr. Highfield.”

“I had rather not,” said he; “I am somewhat tired
of his Lordship, and heartily wish his cruel biographers

would let his memory rest in peace.” But
they all insisted.

“Well then, since I can't get off with honour, I
must not disgrace myself before this good company.
In the first place, I don't believe his Lordship despised
the world, whose applause and admiration
he was continually seeking. His contempt was sheer
affectation. But if he had really despised it, I
should have a worse opinion of him.”

“As how, my good sir?” said Puddingham.

“Because I consider misanthropy a proof of either
weakness or wickedness. One may become justly
indifferent to this world, but to hate it seems to me
only a proof that a man is bad himself, and wants an
excuse for indulging his wicked propensities, by
robbing his fellow-creatures of all claim to the exercise
of justice and benevolence. He is like the pirate,
who throws away his allegiance, only that he
may make war on all the world. To divest mankind
of all the virtues, as does the misanthrope, is to
free ourselves virtually from all moral obligations
towards them.”

Here the great Puddingham took an emphatic
pinch of snuff; and after sneezing violently, said,
“Go on, sir; go on.”

“Neither do I believe that a disregard to the
common maxims of life, is proof of a superior
mind. Men of great genius, indeed, very often pay
little attention to mere fashions, and fashionable opinions,
because these have nothing to do with the settled

principles of religion or morality. But so far
as respects my own reading, or experience, I never
met with a man of very extraordinary powers of
mind, who despised or disregarded those ordinary
maxims of life, which are essential to the very existence
of society; much less have I met one of this
class who prostituted his genius to the injury of morals
and religion, or devoted himself exclusively to
low, grovelling, mischievous attempts to weaken
their influence on mankind. I have never found such
men, for ever wallowing in the mire of sensuality, or
indulging a malicious misanthropy, by sarcasms and
reasonings against social ties and duties. Shall I
go on?” said Highfield, after a pause.

“Oh, by all means,” said Puddingham, condescendingly.

“The world of fashion has been pleased to place
Lord Byron by the side, if not on a level, with the great
names of ancient and modern literature; and whatever
may be my own opinion, I am to estimate him
by that standard—if I please. But I don't please
to do so. He will not bear a comparison with any
of these. A great genius always devotes himself to
great subjects; or if he sometimes condescends to
trifle, it is only by way of a little relaxation. We
do not find Homer, Virgil, Dante, Tasso, Milton,
and others of the great `heirs of immortality,' attempting
to reach the highest summit of fame
through the dirty, winding paths of ribaldry and
sensuality—converting their muse into a pander to

vice, or tilting against society and morals, and,
both by example and precept, inciting to the
violation of the highest duties of man to man, and
man to woman. Their genius was nobly exercised
in celebrating the glories of their country—the triumphs
of their religion—the renown of virtuous heroes—and
the beauties of fortitude, disinterestedness,
magnanimity, justice, and patriotism. We never find
the highest gift of Heaven, coupled with the lowest
propensities to profligacy and vice. It is only your
second or third rate men, who are found pleading
an exemption from the duties and obligations of morality,
on the score of their superior genius. To
my taste, Lord Byron is, besides all this, infinitely
below the first rank of poets, in sublimity, invention,
pathos, and especially in the power of expressing
his ideas and feelings with that happy force and
richness, combined with that clearness and simplicity,
for which they are so pre-eminently distinguished.
There is, to my mind, more genius in Milton's
Comus, than in all his Lordship's poetry put together.
As a dramatic writer, he cannot compare
with—I put Shakspeare, Otway, Corneille, Racine,
and Voltaire, out of the question—but with Beaumont
and Fletcher, Southern, Dryden, and a dozen
others. Childe Harold, though containing many
passages of great beauty, is without plot or invention—the
mere unpurposed wanderings of a splenetic
misanthrope, kindled into occasional wrath, or enthusiasm,
by the sight of things at the road side,
and apparently incapable of any other inspiration
but what is derived from sensible objects. The
Corsair, The Giaour, and Don Juan, are nothing
more than the abstracted, contemplative Childe Harold,
carrying his feelings and principles into practical
application. The Childe merely thinks as a
profligate—the others act the character; the two
first in heroics, the latter in doggrel and buffoonery.
They are the same person, in a different mask—and
that person seems to be Lord Byron himself. As a
satirist, he is far behind Dryden, Pope, and even
Churchill; and as a writer of quaint doggrel, he
is inferior to Peter Pindar, in humour, waggishness,
and satirical drollery. And now, after uttering
this shocking blasphemy, I humbly take my
leave.” So saying, he seized his hat, and retreated
with great precipitation.

This was the longest speech our hero ever uttered;
and if he should take it into his head to make
such another in the course of this history, he must
get one of the reporters to congress to record it, for
I demur to undertake the task in future. Never
man met with so little applause for attempting to enlighten
people against their will, as did our friend
Highfield on this occasion. The whole coterie, Lucia
among the rest, was scandalized at this atrocious
criticism, and separated in confusion. Mr. Fitzgiles
Goshawk escorted Lucia home, and discoursed
as seldom man in his senses, talking to a woman in
hers, ever discoursed before.

He spoke of being sick of the world; disgusted
with the heartlessness of mankind; depressed and
worn out with the intensity of his feelings, and devoured
by a secret grief, which must never be known
until he had gained a refuge from care and sorrow,
in the quiet grave. All this he uttered in language
I confess myself inadequate to record; and with an
affectation that must have been apparent to any one
but an inexperienced girl. On going away he gave
into Lucia's hand a paper, accompanied by a look
that went straight to her heart. She retired to her
chamber, and unfolding it with trembling hands,
found the following exquisite effusion:

How delightful, thought Lucia, wiping her eyes;
how delightful it must be to be unhappy, without
knowing exactly why! To be able to gather the
honey of sweet melancholy, from the flowers, the
fruits, the smiles, and the beauties of nature! To
weep, where vulgar souls would sport and laugh!
To complain without reason; and to banquet on the
lonely musings of a heart overfraught with the exquisite
sensibilities of genius! And she sighed over
the fate of this interesting man, who was thus pining
away, under some secret grief. She put the inspired
morceau into her bosom; and that day, at least,
the genius of Goshawk triumphed over the good
sense, the manliness, and the wholesome, healthful
vivacity of Highfield.

I feel I ought, in justice, to apologize for my heroine,
who had sense enough from nature to have
detected the mawkish folly, incomprehensible nonsense,
and silly affectation of this poetical grief of
Mr. Fitzgiles Goshawk. All I can say in her defence
is, that she had been brought up in the midst
of the azure coterie, all the members of which, were
considerably older than herself; had been every day
accustomed to hear them praise Mr. Goshawk, and
to hear Mr. Goshawk's poetry. She had grown up

in habitual veneration for them all; and even the notorious
blunders of her aunt, were hallowed, by
coming from the sister of her mother. Those who
know the spell, which wrong precepts and early bad
examples wind about the finest understanding, and
how slowly and with what labour it emancipates itself,
will, I hope, excuse my heroine. Such as she is, I
shall endeavour to exhibit her, hoping, that time and
experience will yet make her what she was intended
to be by nature.