_From the same to the same._
"Nothing new from Horace." Why, my dear Lucy, what could put it into
your head that I wanted novelties from him? I only ask for his thrice,
and thrice told tale of faith and love. I only want to know that he
is cheerful and well. Did his last epistle resemble the letter which
Mrs. Platman gave by mistake to her forty scholars to copy, and which
had been composed on the subject of death, for the special purpose of
supplying one of the girls with suitable language on the death of her
grandfather, a man of ninety? But I am petulant, forgive me, Lucy.
The incessant rain without, and the dearth of amusement within, had
led me to hope you would have sympathetically felt that I wanted a
cordial. I am disappointed, and I have yet to learn where to find your
grand and infallible nostrum, _patience_: nay, what is more, I am
disposed to think at this moment, that it resembles many other quack
medicines, and promises more than it can perform. All constitutions
are not alike, and I believe this specific, would do me more harm than
good, from the _quantity_ I should be forced to take in the experiment:
so you must be contented with me, and recollect, that a fire may burn
cheerfully and usefully, although from time to time a coal bounces out,
and startles you; you have only to move from the annoyance a moment,
the transient danger passes, and you may return again in safety to the
snug warm corner you had left. I was much disposed last Sunday to
say with Miss Trotter, "that fifty fair-weather Sundays were scarcely
an equivalent for two rainy ones." Ours was dreary: the poor baronet
was out of spirit, and remarked twice at dinner, that we did not need
so large a table for _four_ people. He might have added, nor half the
dishes for _three_, for he ate nothing. My harp and Handel's music, did
something, but I could not sing hymns and psalms forever. We therefore
each took up a book. Lady Maclairn soon after entered from her visit
to her sister. "How is Miss Flint?" asked Mrs. Allen, raising her meek
eyes from her bible. "Much better," answered her ladyship, in a low
key. "She would have dined below to-day, but she was afraid of catching
cold." "I should hope that _shame_ had its share in this discretion,"
said Sir Murdock with vivacity.--"I am certain it had," replied she,
with mildness, "and not only shame, but repentance."--There is no
resisting this woman, Lucy! In saying these few words, she disarmed
me, and I refrained from saying what would have hurt her, and done
the offender no good. But, for the hundreth time, I will not say
she is _undefinable!_ no, but she is _unfathomable!_ After tea, she
surprised me by her unwonted gaiety and spirit in conversation; she
drew me into arguments and debates with an address nearly equal to your
father's, and, between ourselves, seemed to have his art of angling to
perfection; for when she found the poor fish flouncing with fatigue,
she gently set it free, and restored it to the clear stream. Malcolm,
like a dutiful son, was with us at supper; and a dessert of politics,
and about manuring sterile land, sent us to bed cheerful, if not gay.
I passed yesterday at the Abbey. Our commissions were arrived from
Durham; and no one was permitted "to see the fashions" till Miss Cowley
arrived. She had taken the whim of decorating two puppets, instead
of one; and she was paid cent. per cent. for her money. The same
robes, the same bonnets, cloaks, sashes, shoes, &c. "And so elegant!"
exclaimed Mary. "How kind! how considerate is our sister!"--"Not
exactly so," replied I, "for I forgot to consult Miss Heartley's taste
in regard to the ribbands for her hat, and her milliner has sent blue;
but as she is herself _the emblem of_ constancy, she may prefer your
favourite colour, Mary: and in that case, what is to be done? You
must wear the _true blue_." "Just as she pleases," cried she from the
looking glass, before which she was fitting her lawful prize; "only I
doubt, whether Mr. Malcolm will not prefer the _true blue_, and I can
do without it." The gratified uncle smiled on her, and said, "I believe
you, my love." Alice preferred her own colour, and each disappeared
with their fashions and finery.
I have engaged to meet Mary's friends on Sunday; Mr. Greenwood, her
godfather, and a doctor Douglas, who annually celebrate her birth-day
at Mrs. Wilson's table. She will be seventeen on that day. On my
leaving her, she fondly kissed my cheek, and whispered, "Does my sister
wish me to be dressed on Sunday like her happy _protégée_?"--"Always
as _my sister_ ought to appear," answered I, with emotion: "and as
she will be enabled to appear; for the rest, she is to direct her
own toilet." "Then I think on my birth-day, it will be proper to
wear"----"the lilac," cried I gaily, retreating, having exceeded my
promised hour of returning home.
On reaching the hall, I instantly entered the dining-parlour, in
order to make my peace with my friends; but instead of them, I found
Miss Flint and the Reverend Mr. Snughead _tête-à-tête_. I slightly
curtseyed, and said I was glad to see her below stairs; and was
retiring with all possible speed, when Sir Murdock, with his wife and
Mrs. Allen, entered from my apartment. The "truant" was welcomed; and
supper served up immediately. Malcolm, with head erect, and glowing
face, joined us; and our repast was coldly and ceremoniously finished.
The servants were no sooner withdrawn, than Mr. Snughead pressed Miss
Lucretia to drink a glass of Mountain wine. "He was afraid she lived
too low."--"He was sorry to see her so out of spirits." The restrained
tears gushed from her eyes. Yes, Lucy, _genuine salt tears_ came from
the eyes of this _Flint_! The miracle I can attest; and you may believe
it with the same faith which you give to Moses's striking the rock,
and causing the water to flow. I am the veriest fool in nature; for I
found, like the obdurate Jews, that my heart softened: and indeed, what
must have been the conflict within, before these signs of grace could
appear?
"I am astonished," observed Mr. Snughead, looking round him with an
air which he thought dignified, and which I pronounced insolent, "I
am grieved, my dear Madam, to see you give so much importance to a
circumstance of so little consequence to your character and station!
I always foresaw what would be the result of your generosity in
interfering in Miss Howard's concerns: all your _real_ friends were of
my opinion."--He looked at Lady Maclairn.--"I know you are quick in
feeling, and warm in your temper, and that on perceiving your goodness
slighted, you must be unhappy."--Malcolm left the room. "Pursue your
good intentions," continued he, "allow this niece a trifle for her
support, and leave her to those friends whom she so unhappily prefers
to your protection and prudence. She has been taught to hate you from
her cradle."--"I know it, I know it well!" said she sobbing; "but I am
sorry I struck her; it was wrong; and although she provoked me, I ought
not to have done so. Indeed, Miss Cowley, if you knew all, you would
pity, as well as blame me. But I see how it is; my forgetfulness of
myself has confirmed in your mind all that my enemies have said to my
prejudice. Mary has her revenge, and the Heartleys their triumph!"--"I
am sorry, Madam," said I, "to be called upon in a question of this
kind; but qualified as I am to support the innocent, it behoves me to
endeavour at least to rectify your opinions. Miss Howard, whatever
were her discontents under this roof, kept them from her friends at
the Abbey. She never has directly, nor indirectly, discovered them to
me since I have been here. She is at this hour more concerned by the
discovery of your harsh treatment, than for the loss of your favour.
She speaks of you with respect, nay more, with tenderness and sorrow.
She dwells with eagerness on the concessions which you generously
made; and attributes your warmth of resentment, to your misconception
of the supposed offence. Mrs. Heartley supports her, Madam, in this
moderation, and labours to convince Mr. Flint that he has taken up this
matter too painfully. Mary Howard cannot balance many favours with one
offence. She is affectionate, placable, and unoffending; her heart
is too pure for malice or ill-will; and her principles are too solid
to permit her to slander you. To Mrs. Heartley's lessons and example
she is principally indebted for these excellencies;--to nature, for
a temper unrivalled in meekness."--"You appear," observed the puppy
at my left hand, and on whom I had turned my back, "to be as able an
advocate for Mrs. Heartley, as for Miss Howard. May I _presume_ to
ask you, how long you have known this all-accomplished Lady, to whom
Miss Mary is obliged for her sentiments of love and veneration for her
aunt?"--"Mrs. Heartley wants no advocate," replied I, darting upon
him my contemptuous eyes. "It is sufficient for me to know her; and
were other evidences of the excellencies of her character necessary, I
should find them in the solicitude of my guardian, Counsellor Steadman,
to recommend me to her favour and notice. He has known _Mrs. Heartley_
from a girl; and if you are still curious, Sir, in regard to a person
whom you appear to wish to know, I refer you to _Mr. Steadman_. He
will probably satisfy you, that Captain Flint has been _singularly
fortunate in his amours_; and that Mrs. Heartley is a kept mistress of
as _singular_ a kind. Are you satisfied, Sir? or shall I give you any
further indications of Mrs. Heartley's _singularities_?"--"Oh, by all
means!" cried he, affecting an aukward laugh; "you are an excellent
encomiast."--"I can be no otherwise with such a subject for praise,"
retorted I; "but what I most admire in Mrs. Heartley's character, is
her contempt of _malice_, and her compassion for _ignorance_: with me,
this is the test, not only of her understanding, but of the purity
of her life. With a steady hand, Lucy, I took my taper, and calmly
wishing the company a good night, retired; the confounded Mr. Snughead,
receiving my last look as he stood erect to let me pass. He observed,
when I was departed, that for so _very young_ a lady, I had a _very_
decided spirit; and to say the truth, added he, rising and turning to
the baronet, I am sorry I called out so much of Miss Cowley's warmth,
on a subject of so little concern to me. Sir Murdock coldly bowed. Miss
Cowley must remember, continued he, my having declared that I knew
nothing of Mrs. Heartley but from common report. I am surprised, that
a lady of her quickness, could not see the _motives_ for my conduct
there, and also to night.--So should I be, returned the baronet, if she
did not, for they were pretty obvious; and Miss Cowley is not often
dull in her observations, nor slow in her conclusions. The servant
announced the parson's horse, who recommending to Miss Flint to think
no more of _such nonsense_, retreated."
I will spare you the trouble of writing me an essay on anger. I know
all you would say on such a topic, but it would be out of season; for
I was not angry, Lucy: I am _never_ angry, but where I could like, and
love, were it necessary. You must demonstrate some specific remedy
for antipathies, before I can be benefited by the lecture you will
be prompted to send me. Now, collect all the antipathies in nature,
and they will not amount to that which this reptile Mr. Snughead has
produced in Rachel Cowley's mind. Perhaps I was too warm; but what is
to be done with antipathies? I have no talent at a fainting fit; I
cannot scream, and look terrified when I want only the strength of a
man, in order to grasp a despicable foe. Nature, nature, my Lucy, is
my divinity! to her do I owe my aversion of the Snugheads' race; and
when they do fall in my way, what is to be done? I cannot crush them,
as many do a poor harmless spider; but I would probe them to the quick,
without flinching. Some vices I can pity, but a spirit of defamation
is my abhorrence; and an unworthy minister of a religion to which I
am attached, as my supreme good, is my antipathy. So I beg you will
recollect yours to a toad, and pardon your
Rachel Cowley.
P.S. I admire Seneca; but what was his age when he turned philosopher?
In the name of good sense I implore you to ask your father how long a
term he gives to infancy. I am now an infant of twenty years and twelve
days, and I am a better philosopher than Seneca. Is it not astonishing
that your father does not yet know Rachel Cowley! I pray every day
for him, and with patient hope, trust he will one day repent of his
_cruelty_, and see with his own clear-sighted understanding, instead of
the borrowed light of a squint-eyed worldly prudence.