[These are two volumes of tales and sketches from the pens of Lord and
Lady Nugent, whose literary recreations have not unfrequently graced the
fair pages of our Annuals. They are ushered in by a few pleasant words
"by way of advertisement," describing in four pages the delights of his
Lordship's rural retirement at Lilies, in Buckinghamshire; and this
portion of the work is so inviting that we quote it.]
If you would place yourself just midway between the three seas which
form the boundaries of southern England, you shall find yourself on a
small knoll, covered with antique elm, walnut, and sycamore trees, which
rises out of a vale famous in all time for the natural fertility of its
soil, and the moral virtues of its people. On this knoll, fitly called
by our ancestors "the Heart of South Britain," stood, distant about
half a mile from each other, two monasteries, known by the flowery
appellatives of Lilies and Roses; not unaptly setting forth a promise of
all that can recommend itself as fair and sweet unto the gentler senses.
These edifices have, for many centuries, been no more; but, on the site
of the first mentioned of the two, standeth a small mansion, of Tudor
architecture, bearing still its ancient name. Of the monastery little
memorial, beyond the name, remains; save only that under a small
enclosed space, erewhile its cemetery, now a wilderness of flowers, the
bones of the monks repose. Two lines of artificial slope to the westward
mark the boundaries of the pleasaunce, where they took their recreation,
and cultivated their lentils and fruits; and a range of thickly-walled
cellar still retains the same destination and office as when it
furnished to those holy men their more generous materials of refection.
What more shall be said of the mansion, or of the domain, full seventy
statute acres, which surrounds it?--of the herds and flocks content to
thrive in silence on the richness of its fields, and thrive they do in
wondrous measure of prosperity? Nothing.--Nor much of that more gamesome
troop of idle steeds, though pleasant to their master's eve, who, on its
green expanse, frisk and gambol out a sportive colthood, or graze and
hobble through a tranquil old age, with the active and laborious honours
of a public life past, but not forgotten. Little shall be said of that
smooth and narrow pool, scarce visible among the rising shrubs which
belt in and shroud the grounds from the incurious wayfarer; or of such
carp and tench as, having escaped the treacherous toils of the nightly
plunderer, gasp and tumble on its surface, delighting to display their
golden pride in the mid-day sun, before the gaze of lawful possession.
Nor shall the casual reader be led carelessly and wearily to note the
many sweet memorials of private friendship, records of the living and
the dead, which, standing forth from amid the lightsome glades and leafy
shadows around, make the place sacred to many a strong affection.
Romantic the scenery without is not, and for spacious halls and gorgeous
canopies the eye may search in vain within. But for the warm cheer of
the little oak library,--for the quaint carvings, the tracery of other
times, which abound therein,--for the awful note of the blood-hound,
baying upon his midnight chain,--and the pleasing melancholy of the
hooting owl from his hereditary chamber in the roof,--and for the
tunefulness of the cooing wood-quests, and the morning rooks which
bustle and caw, and of the high winds that pipe and roar, daily and
nightly, through the boughs,--and for the deep glossy verdure of the
pastures stretching forth to the brave distant hills which fence the
vale,--to those, who in such things take delight, Lilies hath still
its charms.
From the fireside of the afore-mentioned little oak library the
following legends proceed.
[Few of the pieces fall under the denomination of "Legends," if we
except "the Feast of alle Deuiles, an ancient ballad;" "the Costly
Dague;" "the Ladye's Counselloure;" and "the Dole of Tichborne;" which
are in the quaint olden style. Throughout the other papers there is a
pleasant spice of dry humour and knowledge of character, intermixed
with a few touches of pathos, and a nice perception of the finest
affections: now, with these various characteristics, the legends must
prove attractive and amusing. We have only space to quote briefly from
one of the most desultory of the papers--an ingenious one, on "Solecisms
in Language."]
"Is it your _pleasure_," now and then asks a dentist, "is it your
_pleasure_ to have your tooth out to-day?"
"I do not care a pin," is a very ordinary figure of speech, but of
doubtful propriety; for one's indifference, it appears to me, must very
much depend on the position of the pin. In the cushion of one's chair,
for instance, it is absolutely disagreeable, and what one should care
very much about.
The word "poor" is an epithet in very common misuse. It is often brought
into play, especially in its plaintive sense, in situations, where, poor
thing, it scarcely knows itself, and where there is not the slightest
provocation to account for the use of it. It is degraded to the
condition of a mere expletive; and, where there is a real good call for
it, how often is it thrust upon the wrong person, the one who, were he
consulted, would disclaim all compassion.
"_Poor_ Mr. ----, only think of him, _poor_ fellow! How very
odd! I believe he was not in joke. He told me a distant connection of
his, of another name, whom he never knew till after he heard that the
thing happened, who had been transported to New South Wales a matter of
sixteen years ago, is to be hanged to-morrow, by way of a secondary
punishment, for coming back from transportation."
The audience were profuse in their repetition of the epithet--generous
to excess in the free gift of it to Mr. ----. They did not happen to
consider it applicable to him who, for an unlawful love of native
country, was to undergo a violent and disgraceful death.
This, to be sure, might be attributed to the feeling that so many good
regular people have, that it is highly blameable to pity any man who
suffers capitally for a breach of the law; that it would be, in some
sort, to question the justice of the laws themselves. And the ten or
a dozen honest souls that formed the company were probably so good
themselves as to be justly scandalized at the notion of holding so much
communion with guilt, as to sympathize with it in its sufferings. But
I believe, after all, it was rather a flow of idiom than an effort of
principle.
Mr. Small, a farmer, well to do in ----shire, fell ill of an acute and
dangerous disorder. (By the by, every one was anxious to know if "poor"
Mrs. Small's husband was better.) He died,--Mrs. Small was, of course,
in decent affliction. But the word of pity was always transferred from
the principal sufferer to her, till he was beyond suffering. Then first
it was bestowed on the "poor" corpse, which every one came to visit, and
flattered as looking "pleasant."
Mrs. Small herself, in the first letter of her widowhood, addressed to
an intimate female friend, did not make a more judicious application of
the favourite epithet. To this friend it was her habit to write once
a quarter. We insert three passages; one extracted from each of these
quarterly epistles, which followed in due succession after her sad
bereavement:--
"Dear Nelly,--My brother-in-law has given the direction of the funeral
to a good economical undertaker, by name Peebles. I have not seen him,
and am not like; for he is in too large a way to attend himself, and he
sends his man for orders, and to see all done handsome, but cheap.
"_Poor_ Mr. Peebles's man came here last night, and the funeral
will be to-morrow. I am in much trouble, as might be expected. My
_poor_ new black bonnet is not come home, and keeps me fretting;
but _poor_ Peebles's man says I shan't be disappointed, even if he
has to go for it himself. _Poor_ Peebles's man! he is up early and
down late, to see all right. He was in my room this morning before I was
out of bed, that all might be decent, &c. &c. &c. Yours to command, dear
Nelly, MARY SMALL."
"Dear Nelly,--It is now three months and better since that _poor_
coffin was put under ground, and I declare I feel quite queer and
lonesome without it. But business goes on quite well and brisk. _Poor
kind_ Peebles's man! he is off and on; almost always about the house,
doing some kind job or other. He is a very decent body; but, I don't
know how it is, I'm not to say comfortable. There's a sad noise with
my sister's family. You know I never _could_ bear children. My late
husband, that's gone, was the only one of the family that could.
I am sure I don't know what I could do without _poor dear_ Peebles's
man. Yours to command, dear Nelly, MARY SMALL.
"Dear Nelly,--_Poor dear kind_ Peebles's man has never left here;
he's my right hand, and he is a very decent body indeed. It is now six
_good_ months since that _poor_ funeral took place. I find I
am not fit to live alone: I was married this morning to _poor_
Peebles's man. Your sincere friend, dear Nelly, MARY MERRIMATE.
"P.S. Excuse my change of name."
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