Christie Johnstone | Page 4

written three years ago, and one or two topics in it are
not treated exactly as they would be if written by the same hand to-day.
But if the author had retouched those pages with his colors of 1853, he
would (he thinks) have destroyed the only merit they have, viz., that of
containing genuine contemporaneous verdicts upon a cant that was
flourishing like a peony, and a truth that was struggling for bare life, in
the year of truth 1850.
He prefers to deal fairly with the public, and, with this explanation and
apology, to lay at its feet a faulty but genuine piece of work.
CHAPTER I.
VISCOUNT IPSDEN, aged twenty-five, income eighteen thousand
pounds per year, constitution equine, was unhappy! This might surprise
some people; but there are certain blessings, the non-possession of
which makes more people discontented than their possession renders
happy.
Foremost among these are "Wealth and Rank." Were I to add "Beauty"
to the list, such men and women as go by fact, not by conjecture, would
hardly contradict me.
The fortunate man is he who, born poor, or nobody, works gradually up
to wealth and consideration, and, having got them, dies before he finds

they were not worth so much trouble.
Lord Ipsden started with nothing to win; and naturally lived for
amusement. Now nothing is so sure to cease to please as pleasure--to
amuse, as amusement. Unfortunately for himself he could not at this
period of his life warm to politics; so, having exhausted his London
clique, he rolled through the cities of Europe in his carriage, and
cruised its shores in his yacht. But he was not happy!
He was a man of taste, and sipped the arts and other knowledge, as he
sauntered Europe round.
But he was not happy.
"What shall I do?" said _l'ennuye'._
"Distinguish yourself," said one.
"How?"
No immediate answer.
"Take a prima donna over," said another.
Well, the man took a prima donna over, which scolded its maid from
the Alps to Dover in the lingua Toscana without the _bocca Romana,_
and sang in London without applause; because what goes down at La
Scala does not generally go down at Il Teatro della Regina, Haymarket.
So then my lord strolled into Russia; there he drove a pair of horses,
one of whom put his head down and did the work; the other pranced
and capricoled alongside, all unconscious of the trace. He seemed
happier than his working brother; but the biped whose career
corresponded with this playful animal's was not happy!
At length an event occurred that promised to play an adagio upon Lord
Ipsden 's mind. He fell in love with Lady Barbara Sinclair; and he had
no sooner done this than he felt, as we are all apt to do on similar
occasions, how wise a thing he had done!

Besides a lovely person, Lady Barbara Sinclair had a character that he
saw would make him; and, in fact, Lady Barbara Sinclair was, to an
inexperienced eye, the exact opposite of Lord Ipsden.
Her mental impulse was as plethoric as his was languid.
She was as enthusiastic as he was cool.
She took a warm interest in everything. She believed that government
is a science, and one that goes with _copia verborum._
She believed that, in England, government is administered, not by a set
of men whose salaries range from eighty to five hundred pounds a year,
and whose names are never heard, but by the First Lord of the Treasury,
and other great men.
Hence she inferred, that it matters very much to all of us in whose hand
is the rudder of that state vessel which goes down the wind of public
opinion, without veering a point, let who will be at the helm.
She also cared very much who was the new bishop. Religion--if not
religion, theology--would be affected thereby.
She was enthusiastic about poets; imagined their verse to be some sort
of clew to their characters, and so on.
She had other theories, which will be indicated by and by; at present it
is enough to say that her mind was young, healthy, somewhat original,
full of fire and faith, and empty of experience.
Lord Ipsden loved her! it was easy to love her.
First, there was not, in the whole range of her mind and body, one grain
of affectation of any sort.
She was always, in point of fact, under the influence of some male
mind or other, generally some writer. What young woman is not, more
or less, a mirror? But she never imitated or affected; she was always
herself, by whomsoever colored.

Then she was beautiful and eloquent; much too high-bred to put a
restraint upon her natural manner, she was often more _naive,_ and
even brusk, than