Old Friends, Epistolary Parody | Page 7

has made us friends with twins of
literary and artistic genius, with a very highly- cultured Fellow of
Lothian, with a Son of Vulcan, with a bevy of fair but rather

indistinguishable damsels, like a group of agreeable-looking girls at a
dance. But they are too busy with their partners to be friendly. We
admire them, but they are unconcerned with us. In Mr. Black's large
family the Whaup seems most congenial to some strangers; the name of
one of Mr. Payn's friendly lads is Legion, and Miss Broughton's dogs,
with THEIR friend Sara, and Mrs. Moberley, welcome the casual
visitor with hospitable care. Among the kindly children of a later
generation one may number a sailor man with a wooden leg; a
Highland gentleman, who, though landless, bears a king's name; an
Irish chevalier who was out in the '45; a Zulu chief who plied the axe
well; a private named Mulvaney in Her Majesty's Indian army; an
elderly sportsman of agile imagination or unparalleled experience in
remote adventure. {1} All these a person who had once encountered
them would recognise, perhaps, when he was fortunate enough to find
himself in their company.
There are children, too, of a dead author, an author seldom lauded by
critics, who, possibly, have as many living friends as any modern
characters can claim. A very large company of Christian people are
fond of Lord Welter, Charles Ravenshoe, Flora and Gus, Lady Ascot,
the boy who played fives with a brass button, and a dozen others of
Henry Kingsley's men, women, and children, whom we have laughed
with often, and very nearly cried with. For Henry Kingsley had humour,
and his children are dear to us; while which of Charles Kingsley's far
more famous offspring would be welcome-- unless it were Salvation
Yeo--if we met them all in the Paradise of Fiction?
It is not very safe, in literature as in life, to speak well of our friends or
of their families. Other readers, other people, have theirs, whom we
may not care much for, whom we may even chance never to have met.
In the following Letters from Old Friends (mainly reprinted from the
"St. James's Gazette"), a few of the writers may, to some who glance at
the sketches, be unfamiliar. When Dugald Dalgetty's epistle on his duel
with Aramis was written, a man of letters proposed to write a reply
from Aramis in a certain journal. But his Editor had never heard of any
of the gentlemen concerned in that affair of honour; had never heard of
Dugald, of Athos, Porthos, Aramis, nor D'Artagnan. He had not been
introduced to them. This little book will be fortunate far beyond its
deserts if it tempts a few readers to extend the circle of their visionary

acquaintances, of friends who, like Brahma, know not birth, nor decay,
"sleep, waking, nor trance."
A theme more delicate and intimate than that of our Friends in fiction
awaits a more passionate writer than the present parodist. Our LOVES
in fiction are probably numerous, and our choice depends on age and
temperament. In romance, if not in life, we can be in love with a
number of ladies at once. It is probable that Beatrix Esmond has not
fewer knights than Marie Antoinette or Mary Stuart. These ladies have
been the marks of scandal. Unkind things are said of all three, but our
hearts do not believe the evil reports. Sir Walter Scott refused to write a
life of Mary Stuart because his opinion was not on the popular side, nor
on the side of his feelings. The reasoning and judicial faculties may be
convinced that Beatrix was "other than a guid ane," but reason does not
touch the affections; we see her with the eyes of Harry Esmond, and,
like him, "remember a paragon." With similar lack of logic we believe
that Mrs. Wenham really had one of her headaches, and that Becky was
guiltless on a notorious occasion. Bad or not so bad, what lady would
we so gladly meet as Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, whose kindness was so
great that she even condescended to be amusing to her own husband?
For a more serious and life-long affection there are few heroines so
satisfactory as Sophia Western and Amelia Booth (nee Harris). Never
before nor since did a man's ideal put on flesh and blood--out of poetry,
that is,--and apart from the ladies of Shakspeare. Fielding's women
have a manly honour, tolerance, greatness, in addition to their
tenderness and kindness. Literature has not their peers, and life has
never had many to compare with them. They are not "superior" like
Romola, nor flighty and destitute of taste like Maggie Tulliver; among
Fielding's crowd of fribbles and sots and oafs they carry that pure moly
of the Lady