AN AMERICAN SKETCH.
“Here! there’s reading for you,” said Miss Willsie, throwing upon the
family table a little roll of papers. “They tell me there’s something of
the kind stirring among yourselves. If there’s one thing I cannot put up
with, it’s to see a parcel of young folk setting up to read lessons to
the world!”
“Not Agnes!” cried Marian eagerly; “only wait till it comes out. I know
so well, Miss Willsie, how you will like her book.”
“No such thing,” said Miss Willsie indignantly. “I would just like to
know--twenty years old, and never out of her mother’s charge a week at a
time--I would just like any person to tell me what Agnes Atheling can
have to say to the like of me!”
“Indeed, nothing at all,” said Agnes, blushing and laughing; “but it is
different with Mr Endicott. Now nobody must speak a word. Here it is.”
“No! let me away first,” cried Miss Willsie in terror. She was rather
abrupt in her exits and entrances. This time she disappeared
instantaneously, shaking her hand at some imaginary culprit, and had
closed the gate behind her with a swing, before Agnes was able to begin
the series of “Letters from England” which were to immortalise the name
of Mr Foggo S. Endicott. The New World biographist began with his
voyage, and all the “emotions awakened in his breast” by finding himself
at sea; and immediately thereafter followed a special chapter, headed
“Killiecrankie Lodge.”
“How delightful,” wrote the traveller, “so many thousand miles from
home, so far away from those who love us, to meet with the sympathy and
communion of kindred blood! To this home of the domestic affections I am
glad at once to introduce my readers, as a beautiful example of that Old
England felicity, which is, I grieve to say, so sadly outbalanced by
oppression and tyranny and crime! This beautiful suburban retreat is the
home of my respected relatives, Mr F. and his maiden sister Miss
Wilhelmina F. Here they live with old books, old furniture, and old
pictures around them, with old plate upon their table, old servants in
waiting, and an old cat coiled up in comfort upon their cosy hearth! A
graceful air of antiquity pervades everything. The inkstand from which I
write belonged to a great-grandfather; the footstool under my feet was
worked by an old lady of the days of the lovely Queen Mary; and I cannot
define the date of the china in that carved cabinet: all this, which
would be out of place in one of the splendid palaces of our buzy
citizens, is here in perfect harmony with the character of the inmates.
It is such a house as naturally belongs to an old country, an old
family, and an old and secluded pair.
“My uncle is an epitome of all that is worthy in man. Like most
remarkable Scotsmen, he takes snuff; and to perceive his penetration and
wise sagacity, one has only to look at the noble head which he carries
with a hereditary loftiness. His sister is a noble old lady, and
entirely devoted to him. In fact, they are all the world to each other;
and the confidence with which the brother confides all his cares and
sorrows to the faithful bosom of his sister, is a truly touching sight;
while Miss Wilhelmina F., on her part, seldom makes an observation
without winding up by a reference to ‘my brother.’ It is a long time
since I have found anywhere so fresh and delightful an object of study
as the different characteristics of this united pair. It is beautiful to
watch the natural traits unfolding themselves. One has almost as much
pleasure in the investigation as one has in studying the developments of
childhood; and my admirable relatives are as delightfully unconscious of
their own distinguishing qualities as even children could be.
“Their house is a beautiful little suburban villa, far from the noise
and din of the great city. Here they spend their beautiful old age in
hospitality and beneficence; beggars (for there are always beggars in
England) come to the door every morning with patriarchal familiarity,
and receive their dole through an opening in the door, like the ancient
buttery-hatch; every morning, upon the garden paths crumbs are strewed
for the robins and the sparrows, and the birds come hopping fearlessly
about the old lady’s feet, trusting in her gracious nature. All the
borders are filled with wallflowers, the favourite plant of Miss
Wilhelmina, and they seemed to me to send up a sweeter fragrance when
she watered them with her delicate little engine, or pruned them with
her own hand; for everything, animate and inanimate, seems to know that
she is good.
“To complete this delightful picture, there is just that shade of
solicitude and anxiety wanting to make it perfect. They have a nephew,
this excellent couple, over whom they watch with the characteristic
jealousy of age watching youth. While my admirable uncle eats his egg at
breakfast, he talks of Harry; while aunt Wilhelmina pours out the tea
from her magnificent old silver teapot, she makes apologies and excuses
for him. They will make him their heir, I do not doubt, for he is a
handsome and prepossessing youth; and however this may be to _my_
injury, I joyfully waive my claim; for the sight of their tender
affection and beautiful solicitude is a greater boon to a student of
mankind like myself than all their old hereditary hoards or patrimonial
acres; and so I say, Good fortune to Harry, and let all my readers say
Amen!”
We are afraid to say how difficult Agnes found it to accomplish this
reading in peace; but in spite of Marian’s laughter and Mrs Atheling’s
indignant interruptions, Agnes herself was slightly impressed by these
fine sentiments and pretty sentences. She laid down the paper with an
air of extreme perplexity, and could scarcely be tempted to smile.
“Perhaps that is how Mr Endicott sees things,” said Agnes; “perhaps he
has so fine a mind--perhaps--Now, I am sure, mamma, if you had not known
Miss Willsie, you would have thought it very pretty. I know you would.”
“Do not speak to me, child,” cried Mrs Atheling energetically. “Pretty!
why, he is coming here to-night!”
And Marian clapped her hands. “Mamma will be in the next one!” cried
Marian; “and he will find out that Agnes is a great author, and that we
are all so anxious about Charlie. Oh, I hope he will send us a copy.
What fun it would be to read about papa and his newspaper, and what
everybody was doing at home here in Bellevue!”
“It would be very impertinent,” said Mrs Atheling, reddening with anger;
“and if anything of the kind should happen, I will never forgive Mr
Foggo. You will take care to speak as little as possible to him, Marian;
he is not a safe person. Pretty! Does he think he has a right to come
into respectable houses and make his pretty pictures? You must be very
much upon your guard, girls. I forbid you to be friendly with such a
person as _that_!”
“But perhaps”--said Agnes.
“Perhaps--nonsense,” cried Mamma indignantly; “he must not come in here,
that I am resolved. Go and tell Susan we will sit in the best room
to-night.”
But Agnes meditated the matter anxiously--perhaps, though she did not
say it--perhaps to be a great literary personage, it was necessary to
“find good in everything,” after the newest fashion, like Mr Endicott.
Agnes was much puzzled, and somewhat discouraged, on her own account.
She did not think it possible she could ever come to such a sublime and
elevated view of ordinary things; she felt herself a woeful way behind
Mr Endicott, and with a little eagerness looked forward to his visit.
Would he justify himself--what would he say?