Mrs. _Holmes_ to Miss _Harrington_.
_Belleview._
ALTHOUGH my attachment to _Belleview_ is not so romantick as
your airy pen has described it, I think its quiet and amusements
infinitely preferable to the bustle and parade with which you are
surrounded.
THE improvements made here by my late husband (who inherited the virtues
of his parents, who still protect me, and endeavour to console the
anguish of his loss by the most tender affection) have rendered the
charms of _Belleview_ superior in my estimation to every gilded scene of
the gay world.
IT is almost vanity to pretend to give you a description of the beauty
of the prospect—the grandeur of the river that rolls through the meadow
in front of the house, or any eulogium of rural elegance, because these
scenes are common to most places in the country. Nature is everywhere
liberal in dispersing her beauties and her variety—and I pity those who
look round and declare they see neither.
A GREAT proportion of our happiness depends on our own choice—it offers
itself to our taste, but it is the heart that gives it relish—what at
one time, for instance, we think to be humour, is at another disgustful
or insipid—so, unless we carry our appetite with us to the treat, we
shall vainly wish to make ourselves happy, “were I in a desert,” says
Sterne, “I would find wherewith in it to call forth my affections—If I
could do no better, I would fasten them on some sweet myrtle, or seek
some melancholy cypress to connect myself to—I would court their shade
and greet them kindly for their protection—If their leaves withered, I
would teach myself to mourn, and when they rejoiced, I would rejoice
along with them.”
I BELIEVE you could hardly find the way to the summer house, where we
have enjoyed many happy hours together, and which you used to call “_The
Temple_ of _Apollo_.” It is now more elegantly furnished than it
formerly was, and is enriched with a considerable addition to the
library and musick.
IN front of the avenue that leads to this place, is a figure of Content,
pointing with one hand to the Temple, and with the other to an
invitation, executed in such an antique style, that you would think it
done either by the ancient inhabitants of the country, or by the hand of
a Fairy—she is very particular in the characters she invites, but those
whom she invites she heartily welcomes.
=Rural Inscription.=
Come ye who loath the horrid crest,
Who hate the fiery front of Mars;
Who scorn the mean, the sordid breast—
Who fly Ambition’s guilty cares:
Ye who are blest with peaceful souls,
Rest Here: Enjoy the pleasures round:
Here Fairies quaffe their acorn bowls,
And lightly print the mazy ground.
Thrice welcome to this humble scene—
(To ye alone such scenes belong)
Peace smiles upon the fragrant green,
And Here the Woodland sisters throng,
And fair Contentment’s pleasing train.
Whilst in the Heav’n the stars advance,
With many a maid and many a swain,
Lead up the jocund, rural dance.
Thrice welcome to our calm retreat,
Where innocency oft hath strove
With violet blue, and woodbine sweet,
To form the votive wreath to love:
O! pardon then, our cautious pride—
(Caution, a virtue rare, I ween)
For evils with the great abide,
Which dwell not in our sylvan scene.
THESE are the scenes to which I have chosen to retreat; contented with
the suffrage of the virtuous and the good, and inattentive to the
contemptuous sneer of the giddy and the futile, for even _these_ have
the vanity to look with pity on those who voluntarily remove from
whatever agrees with _their_ ideas of pleasure. He who has no conception
of the beauties of the mind, will contemn a person aukward or
illfavoured; and one whose store of enjoyment is drawn from affluence
and abundance, will be astonished at the conduct of him who finds cause
to rejoice, though surrounded with inconvenience and penury. Hence we
judge of the happiness of others by the standard of our own conduct and
prejudices.
FROM this misjudging race I retire, without a sigh to mingle in their
amusements, nor yet disgusted at whatever is thought of sufficient
consequence to engage their pursuits. I fly from the tumult of the
town—from scenes of boisterous pleasures and riot, to those of quietness
and peace, “where every breeze breathes health, and every sound is the
echo of tranquillity.”—On this subject I give my sentiments to you with
freedom, from a conviction that I bear the world no spleen; at the same
time with a degree of deference to the judgement of others, from a
conviction that I may be a little prejudiced.