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My Compliments to the weather. I wonder what it⁴⁰ would be at. snow and sunshine: but however let me forget it I’ve sat down for the purpose of calling up spirits from the vasty deep⁴¹ and holding half an hour’s converse with them. Hush! there’s a knock at the gates of thought and Memory ushers in the visitors. The visitors! There’s only one a tall gentleman of with a presence, in a blue surtout & jane⁴² trowsers “how do do Sir? I’m glad to see you, take a seat – very uncommon weather this sir! how do you stand the changes?” The Gentleman instead of answering slowly divests his neck & chin of the folds of a large black silk handkerchief deposits the light cane he carried, in a corner and assumesing a seat with deliberate state & bending his light-brown beetling eye-brows over his lighter blue menacing eyes looks fixedly at me – “Scarcely civil sir what’s your name?” “John of the Highlands”⁴³ answers the Gentleman in a voice whose depth of base makes the furniture vibrate “John of the Highlands – you called me and I am come, now what’s your business –” Your servant Mr Sneachie says Saunderson” says I “beg your pardon for not recognizing you at once – but really you’ve grown so exceedingly mild-looking and unsatur-nine since I saw you last, and you do look so sweet-tempered hows Mrs Saunderson and how are the old people & the dear little hope of all the Saundersons – “Pretty well thank ye – I’ll take a little snuff if ye have any – my box is empty – ” So saying Mr Saunderson held out his empty gold mull which I speedily filled with black rappee⁴⁴ the conversation then proceeded – “What news is stirring in your parts?” I asked “Nothing special” was the answer “Only March has left the Angrians madder than ever” “What they’re fighting still are they?” Fighting! aye! and every man amongst them has sworn by his hilts⁴⁵ that he’ll continue fighting while he has two rags left stitched together upon his back.” “In that case I should think peace would soon be restored” said I Mr Saunderson winked – “a very sensible remark said he “Mr Wellesley Senr. made me the fellow to it last time I saw him” – “The sinews of war not particularly strong in the East?”⁴⁶ I continued Mr S—n winked again, and asked for a pot of porter – I sent for the beverage to the Robin Hood across the way – & when it was brought Mr Saunderson after blowing off the froth – took a deep draught to the health of “the brave and shirtless!” I added in a low voice “to the vermined & victorious!” he heard me & remarked with a grave nod of approbation “very jocose” After soaking⁴⁷ a little while each in silence Mr Saunderson spoke again –⁴⁸

Mr Saunderson did not speak again – he departed like the fantastic creation of a dream. I was called to hear a lesson & when I returned to my desk again, I found the mood which had suggested that allegorical whim was irrevocably gone – A fortnight has elapsed since I wrote the above – this is my first half-hour’s leisure since then and now once more on a dull Saturday afternoon, I sit down to try to summon round me the dim shadows, not of coming events, but of incidents long departed of feelings, of pleasures, whose exquisite relish I sometimes fear it will never be my lot again to taste – How few would believe that from sources purely imaginary such happiness could be derived. Pen cannot pourtray the deep interest of the scenes, of the continued trains of events, I have witnessed in that little room with the low narrow bed & bare whitewashed walls – twenty miles away – What a treasure is thought! What a privilege is reverie – I am thankful that I have the power of solacing myself with the dream of creations whose reality I shall never behold – May I never lose that power – may I never feel it growing weaker – If I should how little pleasure will life afford me – its lapses of shade are so wide so gloomy Its gleams of sunshine so limited & dim!⁴⁹

Remembrance yields up many a fragment of past twilight hours – spent in that little unfurnished room – There have I sat on the low bed-stead my eyes fixed on the window, through which appeared no other landscape than a monotonous stretch of moorland, a grey church tower, rising from the centre of a church-yard so filled with graves, that the rank – weed and coarse grass scarce had room to shoot up between the monuments. Over these hangs in the eye of memory a sky of such grey clouds as often veil the chill close of an October day & low on the horizon appear glances at intervals through the rack⁵⁰ the orb of a lurid & haloed moon. Such was the picture that threw its reflection upon my eye but communicated no impression to my heart – The mind knew but did not feel its existence – It was away It had launched on a distant voyage – haply it was nearing the shores of some far & unknown Island under whose cliffs no bark had ever before cast anchor In other words a long tale was perhaps then evolving itself in my mind, the history of an ancient & aristocratic family – The legendary records of its origin, not preserved in writing – but delivered from the lips of old retainers, floating in tradition up & down the woods & vales of the Earldom, or Dukedom or Barony. The [? feeling] of old oak avenues planted by the ancestors of three hundred years ago, of halls neglected by the present descendants of Galleries peopled with silent pictures, no longer loved & valued for none now live who remember the substance of those shadows – Then with a parting glance at the family – church, with a thought reverting to the wide deep vault underneath its pavement, my dream shifted to some distant city, some huge imperial metropolis – where the descendants of the last nobleman the young lords and ladies, shine in gay circles of patricians – Dazzled with the brilliancy of courts, haply with the ambition of senates, Sons & Daughters have almost forgotten the groves where they were born & grew – as I saw them stately & handsome, gliding through those saloons⁵¹ where many other well-known forms crossed my sight, where there were faces looking up, eyes smiling & lips moving in audible speech, that I knew better almost than my brother & sisters, yet whose voices had never woke an echo in this world whose eyes had never gazed upon the day-light, what glorious associations crowded upon me, what excitement heated my face & made me clasp my hands in ecstasy – I too forgot the ancient country seat I forgot the great woods with their lonely glades peopled only by deer – I thought no more of the Gothic Chapel under whose floor mouldered the bones of a hundred barons – What then to me were the ballads of the Grand-mothers the tales of the grey-headed old men of that remote village on the Annesley Estate – I looked at Lady Amelia the eldest Daughter standing by a wide lofty window descending by marble steps on to a sunshiny lawn amidst a flush of rose-trees in bloom, a lady of handsome features & full growth, just now she is exquisitely beautiful though that extreme brightness which excitement & happiness are bestowing will soon pass away. I see the sweep of her light summer dress – the fall & waving of her curled hair on her neck, the unaccustomed glow of her complexion & shine of her smiling eyes I see them now – she is looking round at that ring of patricians, she is hearing her brother tell over the names & titles of many that are become the darlings of fame, the monarchs of mind – She has been introduced to some, as they pass they speak to her. I hear them speak as well as she does, I see distinctly their figures – and though alone, I experience all the feelings of one admitted for the first time into a grand circle of classic beings – recognizing by tone, gesture and aspect hundreds whom I never saw before, but whom I have heard of and read of many a time, and is not this enjoyment? I am not accustomed to such magnificence as surrounds me, to the gleam of such large mirrors, to the beauty of marble figures, to such soft eastern foreign carpets, to such long wide rooms to lofty gilded ceilings. I know nothing of people of rank & distinction, yet there they are before me in throngs, in crowds, they come, they go, they speak, they beckon & that not like airy phantoms but as noblemen & ladies of flesh & blood. there is an aim in all – I know the house. I know the square it stands in, I passed through it this day I ascended the steps leading to the vestibule I saw the porter at the door, I went along hall & gallery till I reached this saloon. Is it not enjoyment to gaze around upon those changeful countenances; to mark the varied features of those high-born & celebrated guests, some gay & youthful some proud cold & middle-aged, a few bent & venerable here & there a head throwing the rest into shade, a bright perfect face, with eyes & bloom & divine expression whose realization thrills the heart to its core – There is one just now, crossing – a lady I will not write her name just now though I know it – no history is connected with her identity, she is not one of the transcendently fair & inaccessibly sacred beings – whose fates are interwoven with the highest of the high – beings I am not alluding to in this general picture, far from home I cannot write of them except in total solitude I scarce dare speak think of them. This nameless & casual visitant has crossed the drawing-room & is standing close by Lady Amelia, she is looking up & speaking to her – I wish I could trace the picture, so vivid, so obvious at this moment – She is a native of the East I never saw a more richer per specimen of an Angrian Lady with all the characteristics of her country-women in such perfection – She is rather tall, under sized, plumply & well & roundly formed, with plump neck & shoulders as white as drift snow, profuse tresses in coulour almost red but fine as silk & lying in soft curls upon her cheeks & round her forehead the sweetness of the features thus shaded is inexpressible, the beautiful little mouth, the oval chin & fine animated eyes, the frank cheerful look, the clear skin with its pure healthy bloom – The dress of light blue satin beautifully contrasting with her hair & complexion – the pearls circling her round white wrist, the movements of her figure not marked by the inceding grace of the West, but unstudied prompt & natural, her laugh always ready – the sound of her voice, her rapid rather abrupt, but sweet & clear utterance, possessing a charm of its own, very different from the rich, low subdued melody that flows from the lips of Senegambia’s daughters⁵² – The quick glances of her eye indicating a warm & excitable temperament the mingled expression of good nature & pride, spirit & kind-heartedness predominating in every feature all these are as clearly before me as Ann’s⁵³ quiet face image, sitting at her lessons on the opposite side of the table –

Jane Moore,⁵⁴ that is her name has long been celebrated as a beauty all over the province of Arundel, amongst whose green swells of pasture, her father’s handsome new mansion, lies with all its pleasant grounds & young plantations, on this warm spring – day opening their delicate foliage as rapidly as the forests of Kentucky⁵⁵ – John Mc George Armstrong Moore Esqr is a rising man, one of those whose fortunes were made on the night Angria was declared a kingdom he is a mercantile man moreover & has a huge warehouse down at Doverham, & a vessel or two lying in the Docks, built by himself & christened the lady Jane after his fair daughter – She is no petted only child, Moore like a true Angrian has given to the State some half dozen of stout youths and an equal number of fair maid well grown girls, most of whom, now grave professional men & dignified young matrons, are married into the first families of the province & each established in a hall of their own amongst the prairies.⁵⁶ But Jane is the youngest, the prettiest, the rose of the whole bouquet, she has been the most highly educated, & by nature she was one of those whose minds manners appearance must tend to elevate them wherever they go Jane has ambition enough about her to scorn any offer that does not comprise a coronet and it must be an Angrian Coronet too and there must be wealth & Estates & a noble mansion & servants & carriages & all the other means & appliances a dashing beauty may be supposed to require to set her off. I am afraid Jane Moore with notwithstanding her natural quickness & high education has none of the deep refined romance of the west – I am afraid she scarcely knows what it means, she is as matter of fact as any manufacturer of Edwardston, & likes as well to receive her penny’s-worth for her penny – With undisguised frankness she acknowledges that this world would be nothing without a flash & glitter⁵⁷ now & then, if Jane does any thing well she eminently likes to be told so – She delights in society – not for worlds would she live alone, she has no idea even of playing a tune, or singing a melancholy stanza to herself by twilight Now & then Once or twice she has by some chance found herself alone in the evening about dusk in some the large parlour at Kirkham Wood & she has gone to the window & looked out at the garden clustered over with dewy buds, & at the lawn carpeted with mossy grass verdure & at the carriage walk sweeping winding down to the gate & beyond that at the wide & sweeping swell of grazing country all green, all opening with a smile to the moon light beaming from the sky upon it – And as Jane looked some unaccustomed feeling did seem to swell in her heart, but if you had asked her why her eyes glistened so, she would not have answered “the moonlight is so lovely” but “Angria is such a glorious land!” Then as Miss Moore turned from the window & looked round on the deserted room with the restless firelight flickering over its walls & making the pictures seem to stir in their frames as she rose & threw herself into her father’s arm-chair & ther sat in silence listening for his tread, perhaps she might fall into abstracted reverie & begin to recall former days, to remember her eldest sister who died when she was a child, to think of the funeral – day – of the cold rigid & lengthened corpse laid in its coffin on the hall-table, of the servants pressing round to gaze on Miss Harriet for the last time of the kiss that she herself was bidden to give the corpse, of the feeling tha which then for the first time first gushed into her childish & volatile heart that Harriet had left her them for ever. She recollects the contrast that struck upon her mind of her dead & of her living sister, the tall girl of sixteen eighteen who had left school, who was privileged always to be in the drawing-room, when Mr & Mrs Kirkwall & Sir Frederic & Lady Fala came to pay their annual visit, who had her own dressing-room with her toilette table & her dressing case who used so kindly to come into the nursery sometimes after dinner & bring them all down into the parlour where she play would sing for them & play marches & waltzes on the piano – very lovely and a little awful did she then seem to the eye of Jane her superior stature, her handsome dress, her gold watch & chain – her powers of drawing & playing & reading French & Italian books, all tended to make her seem invest her with the character of a being of a superior order. With these reminiscences comes one of a rumour Jane used to hear whispered by the house-maid to the nurse that her sister was to be married to Mr Charles Kirkwall – & therewith steps in Charles’ image, a tall young man, who in those days was no unfrequent visitor at the hall, he always attended Miss Moore in her walks & rides, often from the nursery window has Jane seen them both mounted on horseback & dashing down the avenue. she remembers her sister’s figure as she bent over the neck of her beautiful mare Jessy, her long curls & veil & her purple habit streaming in the wind⁵⁸ & she remembers Charles too, his keen features & penetrating eye – always watching her sister Miss Moore. then from those forms of Life, from Harriet’s mild & pleasing face as it was in health, never very blooming but lighted with hazel soft grey eyes of sweetest lustre, Jane’s memory turns to the white, shrunk sightless corpse. She starts & a tear falls on her silk frock. ask her what she’s crying for, because I’m so low-spirited with being alone”, she will answer. Such is not Jane Moore’s element, the inspiration of Twilight, solitude melancholy musing is alien from her hear nature Step into this great public assembly room full of Angrian Grandees, a public ball is given in remembrance celebration of the third anniversary of Independence⁵⁹ What light! what flashing of jewels! & wearing of scarlet scarfs & plumes! what a tumultuous swell of melody! it is from a single instrument & the air is one of melody triumph, It proceeds from that recess you cannot see the grand – piano for the ring of illustrissima⁶⁰ crowding round it, Listen! a voice electrically sweet & thrilling in its tones – Angria’s glorious Song of Triump Victory “Sound the Loud Timbrel!”⁶¹ Come nearer, lift up your eyes & look at the songstress You know her, plumed, robed in vermillion, with glowing cheek & large blue eye eloquently telling what feelings the gales of Angria breathe into her daughters – Jane Moore that feeling will not last it will die away into oblivion as the echos of those chords die away into silence & t that expression too will leave your eye that flush your cheek, & you will look round & greet with a careless laugh the first word of flattery uttered by that Dandy at your elbow – yet your spirit can take a high tone it can respond to an heroic call You are not all selfish vanity; all empty show You are a handsome, generous, clever; flashy, proud, overbearing woman.