I hope this will find you under the tree in my garden, with Sophy Ruxton
near you, and my mother and Sophy and Pakenham, who will run and call my
aunts, for whom Honora will set chairs; and Lovell will, I hope, be at
home too; so I picture you to myself all happily assembled, and you have
had a good night, and all is right, and Honora has placed my Aunt Mary
with her back to the light--AND Maria is very like Mr. Fitzherbert, who
always tells his friends at home what _they_ are doing, instead of what
he is doing, which is what they want to know.
Yesterday we dined--for the last time, alas! this season--with excellent
Benjamin Delessert. The red book which you will receive with this letter
was among the many other pretty books lying on the table before dinner,
and I was so much delighted with it, and wished so much that Pakenham
was looking at it with me, that dear François Delessert procured a copy
of _Les Animaux savants_ for me the next morning. We never saw Les Cerfs
at Tivoli, but we saw a woman walk down a rope in the midst of the
fireworks, and I could not help shutting my eyes. As I was looking at
the picture of the stag rope-dancer in this book, and talking of the
wonderful intelligence and feeling of animals, an old lady who was
beside me told me that some Spanish horses she had seen were uncommonly
proud-spirited, always resenting an insult more than an injury. One of
these, who had been used to be much caressed by his master, saw him in a
field one day talking to a friend, and came up, according to his custom,
to be caressed. The horse put his head in between the master and his
friend, to whom he was talking; the master, eager in conversation, gave
him a box on the ear; the horse withdrew his head instantly, took it for
an affront, and never more would he permit his master to caress or mount
him again.
The little _dessert_ directed for Pakenham [Footnote: Her youngest
brother.] was picked out for him from a dish of bonbons at the last
dessert at Benjamin's. It is impossible to tell you all the little
exquisite instances of kindness and attention we have received from this
excellent family. The respect, affection, and admiration with which, _à
propos_ to everything great and small, they remember my father and
mother, is most touching and gratifying.
Yesterday morning we had been talking of Mrs. Hofland's _Son of a
Genius_, which is very well translated under the name of _Ludovico._ I
told Madame Gautier the history of Mrs. Hofland, and then went to look
for the lines which she wrote on my father's birthday. Madame Gautier
followed me into this cabinet to read them. I then showed to her Sophy's
lines, which I love so much.
Sophy! I see your colour rising; but trust to me! I will never do you
any harm.
Madame Gautier was exceedingly touched with them. She pointed to the
line,
Those days are past which never can return,
and said in English, "This is the day on which we all used to celebrate
my dear mother's birthday, but I never _keep_ days now, except that,
according to our Swiss custom, we carry flowers early in the morning to
the grave. She and my father are buried in this garden, in a place you
have not seen; I have been there at six o'clock this morning. You will
not wonder, then, my dear friend, at my being touched by your sister
Sophy's verses. I wish to know her; I am sure I shall love her. Is she
most like Fanny or Harriet?" This led to a conversation on the
difference between our different sisters and brothers; and Madame
Gautier, in a most eloquent manner, described the character of each of
her brothers, ending with speaking of Benjamin. "Men have often two
kinds of consideration in society; one derived from their public
conduct, the other enjoyed in their private capacity. My brother
Benjamin has equal influence in both. We all look up to him; we all
apply to him as to our guardian friend. Besides the advantage of having
such a friend, it gives us a pleasure which no money can purchase--the
pleasure of feeling the mind elevated by looking up to a character we
perfectly esteem, and that repose which results from perfect
confidence."
I find always, when I come to the end of my paper, that I have not told
you several entertaining things I had treasured up for you. I had a
history of a man and woman from Cochin China, which must now be squeezed
almost to death. Just before the French Revolution a French military man
went out to India, was wrecked, and with two or three companions made
his way, LORD knows how, to Cochin China. It happened that the King of
Cochin China was at war, and was glad of some hints from the French
officer, who was encouraged to settle in Cochin China, married a Cochin
Chinese lady, rose to power and credit, became a mandarin of the first
class, and within the last month has arrived in France with his
daughter. When his relations offered to embrace her, she drew back with
horror. She is completely Chinese, and her idea of happiness is to sit
still and do nothing, not even to blow her nose. I hope she will not
half change her views and opinions while she is in France, or she would
become wholly unhappy on her return to China. Her father is on his word
of honour to return in two years.
I send by Lord Carrington a cutting of cactus, for my mother, from this
garden: it is carefully packed, and will, I think, grow in the
greenhouse.
_To_ MRS. RUXTON.