_From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._
July the 1st.
“To journalise, to send the whole and full length pictures of the
Serges,” such are my Lucy’s commands. “To be faithful in detailing
the conversation of Mrs. Serge,” _Voilà_ Mary, who adds, that “a new
language is so delightful when from her dear Miss Cowley’s mouth or
pen!” Next comes Mr. Hardcastle: your father, Lucy, can bribe, can
cajole. True to his sex, he still knows the direct road to a woman’s
heart. But it may be that you, who are on some points an obstinate
unbeliever, may demand _proofs_ of his _savoir faire_ with your
simple-hearted Rachel. I will transcribe his little and _well-sealed_
note for your conviction. “My dear _child_, I send you a model, by
which you are in future to make up your letters for Heathcot. The
gentleman, who brought me the dispatches from Lisbon which I now
forward to you, has filled my heart with joy and hope. _Your brother
Horace_ was the subject of his conversation for an hour; and we must
love him, my child, for he is beloved wherever he is known. When my
kind visitor quitted me, I proceeded to examine the parcel he had left;
which, from its rotundity, I judged to be a Portugal onion. It remains
for you to investigate the truth of my supposition; for on examination,
I found only the first “_peeling_” was destined for _Heathcot_. You
will therefore be graciously disposed to indemnify us for the unequal
partition of Horace’s gift; and send us the _shreds_, _trimmings_,
and even the _pack-thread_ which you will glean from the respectable
society of Mr. Serge’s family. I love my girl in her sportive humour;
and never think of her without losing a portion of my own!”
With my heart on my lips, and the Portugal onion in my bosom, can you
blame me if I should transgress your law of charity, Lucy? I will be as
good as I can; but thus tempted to folly, if I sin thank my betrayer,
and do not chide me.
Yesterday we were all prepared for our guests’ appearance at the dining
hour. I kept my station at the dressing-room window, being too happy to
be good company below stairs. Suppose you place yourselves by my side.
But no: that idea would have spoiled me for an observer of all beyond
the walls of the room whereas I was on the _alert_. First then, drew up
a handsome plain coach, with nothing beyond Mr. Serge’s modest cypher
on its highly finished pannels: it was drawn by four beautiful bright
bay horses, driven by two postillions in plain dark green livery
jackets. This equipage was followed by an elegant and low phaeton; the
horses making the set, as I presume, being exactly like the others.
Two out-riders, well mounted, completed the cavalcade. So much for the
_Taylor_’s first approach, which wanted only glare and ostentation to
rival a _Nabob_’s. Mr. Serge slowly and cautiously alighted, “round
as the shield of my fathers.” (Sir Murdoch sees not my profanation
of Ossian’s sublimity). He was soberly dressed in a complete suit of
dark brown broad-cloth, a _wig_--(you know my veneration for wigs,)
which, had it been properly distributed, would have supplied crops for
a regiment of spruce journeymen, and brainless coxcombs. A large silk
handkerchief tied loosely round his neck; plain and homely features,
with a healthy cheek and treble chin. In defiance of all given rules,
Mr. Serge’s leg and foot are admirably neat and well formed; and
though neither decorated with silk stockings nor fashionable buckles,
more than rivals _Mr. Snughead_’s.
His greetings with the baronet were unconstrained and hasty; for he
instantly advanced to the phaeton, in which rode the poor Caroline
the picture of youth subdued by sickness; and nearly exhausted by
fatigue and weak spirits. She called upon me for compassion, and I
forgot your orders, whilst contemplating her languid countenance. The
father, unmindful of all but her, was preparing to assist her, when
Malcolm saying something to her, took her in his arms and carried her
into the drawing-room, Mr. Serge following him. Next appeared Mrs.
Serge in a light green habit; her fair and round face heightened to
the milk-maid’s hue by the closeness of the carriage: a profusion of
ringlets, well filled with brown powder, but which had maliciously
quitted the station assigned it, and then lodged on all the _prominent_
parts of Mrs. Serge’s person, leaving the golden locks deprived of
their glossy brightness, though not their colour: an embroidered
waistcoat, lappelled, and more open at the bosom than even fashion
of late has sanctioned: this deficiency was supplied by lace and
cambrick; gold earrings and necklace, a riding hat and feathers; and
in a hand, garnished with rings, and as white as snow, she carried a
parasol. Her voice loud; her utterance flippant, and her salutation
familiar and loquacious. Next, lightly sprang from the carriage the
beautiful Leonora, the youngest daughter, her dark brown locks hanging
in disorder over the face of a wood nymph; large and intelligent
dark eyes, and a cheek vying in colour with the autumnal peach: the
lightness of a sylph and the grace of fashionable ease. The loud laugh
which reached me from Mrs. Serge did not prevent me seeing _Miss
Lydia_ emerge from her concealment. She very deliberately gave to Sir
Murdoch a little black terrier to hold, and with a piece of cake in
her hand, as deliberately secured her footing on terra-firma; but she
was slip-shod, and caution was necessary. In size she comes very near
to her mother, and she would be as pretty, were she not too pale. The
golden locks are with Miss Lydia softened down to flaxen-coloured,
which, with very light blue eyes, give an expression of heaviness to
her countenance, perfectly conformable to her fat, and square person.
Next and last came a smart abigail, and Miss Lydia hastily seizing her
arm, followed the steps of Sir Murdoch and the ladies into the house.
I remained in my apartment, till summoned by Malcolm to his mother.
I learned, that Miss Serge had nearly fainted before she reached the
drawing-room, that she had retired to her own room, but was recovered.
My introduction to the strangers followed, and I took my seat. The
dustiness of the roads, and apologies for Mrs. Serge’s being in such
a “pickle,” succeeded to the compliments of my entrance; “but as
_Villet_ was busy about Caroline, she was compelled to _haccept_ of her
ladyship’s _hindulgence_, and remain as she was: but I think, child,”
added she, turning to Miss Nora, “you might make yourself a little
more tidy; I dare say Miss Cowley would lend you _a comb_.” My offers
of service were prevented by the young lady’s saying pertly, that she
trusted also to Lady Maclairn’s good-nature for an excuse, not knowing
the secret of being _tiddy_, without an entire change of dress. The
broad stare at me from time to time, the weary, careless attention to
what was addressed to herself, at once spoke the _girl of fashion_. I
took out my netting box, and the young lady, after curiously examining
some books on a side table, withdrew into the bow window and read. Do
you wish me to speak as loud and fast as Mrs. Serge? recollect that I
have her dialect to acquire, and that I have not a speaking trumpet at
command, but I will do my best. To the detail of her daughter’s long
illness, who had taken all “_mander_ of shings,” and tried a _hocean_
of physic, succeeded “_hold_” stories of her father and mother, in
which her filial tenderness unaffectedly appeared, and to which Lady
Maclairn gave a lively interest by adding her testimony to their worth.
“My dear mother had an excellent constitution, and the best spirits in
the world,” observed Mrs. Serge: “even _ater_ she was a _vidow_, she
could tire out two or three partners in a night’s dancing; but, dear
soul! she trusted too much to her strength, and refusing to change her
clothes after being wet to the skin in a _water frolic_, she never held
up her head.” Tears fell copiously from Mrs. Serge’s eyes in this
part of the conversation, but in a few minutes the cloud gave place
to a hearty laugh, on recollecting Mr. Flamall’s cheating her with a
painted “vindow at the castle at _Vindsor_, so _naturally done_ that
no soul alive would have taken it for a painted _vone_.” Questions and
wonderments succeeded, that so handsome a man had not made his _fortin_
by marrying; she was sure it had been his own fault. Lady Maclairn soon
changed this topic by asking her how she liked Bath. “Why on the whole
_wery vell_,” replied she, “but it is not to be compared with _Lunnun_:
the rooms are certainly _wery_ grand, but it is _halways_ the same
thing. I like to see a play, or Sadler’s Wells much better; and as for
the Criscent, and the Circus, in some _vinds_, you would think yourself
in Y----th Downs in a _northheaster_; but one see _swarms_ of fine
folks come from the hupper part of the town, to bask in the sun on the
South Parade, where we had our lodgings.” Willing to hear the sound
of the beauty’s voice, and as willing to spare the further distension
of her rosebud mouth, I asked her whether the season for Bath had been
full. “Much as usual,” replied she; “there were many people of rank
and fashion, but we had few opportunities of meeting with them. Good
society depends on a proper introduction.” She threw on her mother
a glance, which I could not misunderstand. “As for _hintroduction_,
Nora,” observed the good Mrs. Serge, “I found that _wery_ heasy; you
have only to shew your purse, and you may have a card party when you
please. I could have been acquainted with several ladies of quality,
if I would have played the new fashioned way at loo, but,” continued
she, addressing herself to Lady Maclairn, “I was soon sick of _pam_
when he was in _good company_, as they call themselves. I was not
cunning enough for your Lady Gudgeons; nor you, child, for her saucy
daughters.” Miss Nora had not time to reply to her share of the last
observation. The mother continued--“Who do you think I saw at Bath,
finer than our princesses? But you will never guess! Don’t you remember
the pretty little girl who used to sing to you at my aunt Prissy’s? I
mean the Knacker’s daughter. She is now the wife of a very rich man,
and is quite the fashion. I took an opportunity of reminding her of
old friends and former times; she drew up, forsooth! and _wery_ coldly
observed that I had a _wery_ good memory! She had been so long in the
world, that she had forgotten me, till I announced my name. I detest
pride, my lady, so I was resolved to be even with her. ‘Dear me!’
said I, ‘I wonder how people can forget early friends. I have often
thought of you and the scrape you got into, by breaking three or four
“quarrels” in Mrs. Doughty’s parlour window. My dear mother often used
to laugh at the fright you were in, when she pacified the old lady, by
paying the damage you had done, and saving you from being put in the
cellar.’ She looked,” added the speaker, laughing heartily, “as though
she would have preferred Mrs. Doughty’s cellar to my conversation. But
I have no notion of a little prosperity turning one’s head, ’tis a poor
return to make for God’s goodness.”
Miss Nora, during this discourse, had relapsed into silence, and was
endeavouring to find amusement by poring over some music books she had
taken up. “You play, no doubt,” observed I; “and I have a harp, and a
good piano-forte in my apartment.” She smiled bewitchingly. “A _little_
on both these instruments,” answered she, “but I am out of practice,
for I am no Orpheus, and cannot give to stocks and stones the power of
feeling the charms of music.” A summons to the dining-room prevented
my reply. We there found the gentlemen and Miss Lydia, who, “_malgré
elle_,” soon completed the family party. “How is Miss Serge?” asked
Lady Maclairn, in a tone of tenderness so peculiarly her endowment; “I
hope she has slept, otherwise I should not be able to pardon myself for
not being with her.” “Poor thing!” replied the father, “she was better
with me, for she is so flurried, and so fearful of being troublesome
here, that it has made her very poorly indeed.” “We will soon make
her well, my good sir,” replied the baronet, “if she has no malady
more serious than this: my Harriet will soon convince her that she
is at home.” “Thank ye, Sir Murdoch,” answered the agitated father.
“I have no doubts on the subject, and I told my dear girl I was sure
you were not of the number of those who think a sick guest a burden.
God forbid it should be so! for such must needs have hard hearts! But
Willet tells us,” continued he, addressing his daughter Lydia, “that
your sister was frightened, and disturbed last night: why did you not
call me up? You know it is what I desire you to do always, when she
does not settle.” “Lord, papa!” replied Miss Lydia, “it was nothing
but a drunken man in the next chamber who was _obstroperous_. I told
her twenty times that our door was bolted. He might have _fit_ with
the other _feller_ till sunrise, they would not have kept me from
sleeping if Caroline had been quiet.” “Mr. Serge has fully accounted
for your sister’s indisposition to-day,” observed Lady Maclairn
mildly; “you have good health, my dear young lady, and do not know how
soon the weak are fluttered; but a night of undisturbed repose will
remedy, I trust, this little alarm.” Poor Lydia blushed, but did not
answer. “I expect to establish my credit as a Lady Bountiful, before
you leave me,” continued Lady Maclairn, with assumed cheerfulness,
turning to Mrs. Serge; “I have not forgotten your aunt Priscilla’s
recipes, which saved me from a decline, nor the kindness with which
she administered them: it would be to me a blessing to imitate her in
her tender cares.” Mr. Serge crossed his knife and fork, and fixed his
tearful eyes on Lady Maclairn’s face, whilst his lady cordially thanked
her, and added, “But you must try also to persuade my husband to think
his girl not so bad as he fancies, for he not only _damp_ her spirits
but ours.” “So he _do_ mamma,” said Miss Lydia, breaking through the
stupid vacuity of her countenance with a vivacity that surprised me.
“Caroline can’t be so veak as papa _think_, or she could not have
gone so much in the phaeton, when she knew I hated to ride ‘stuffed’
up in the coach.” “Hold your tongue, child!” said the father gravely;
“you know the phaeton was ordered for your sister’s _use_, not your
_whims_.” She was silenced and looked sullen. Pitying the poor girl at
my side, who had shown unequivocal marks of _feeling_, as well as of
_impatience_, I proposed to her to withdraw into my apartment, and Miss
Leonora followed me with alacrity. She immediately went to the harp,
and with a touch convinced me that she was no mean proficient on the
instrument, any more than in singing, though she pleaded being out of
practice, since she had left her school. Sir Murdoch, attracted by our
voices from the garden, craved admittance for himself and Mr. Serge,
pleading that the other ladies had left him to visit the invalid. Mr.
Serge with much apparent curiosity examined the room and me by turns;
and at length he said, “Pray, young lady, what is the name of the
boarding-school where you were trained?” I replied that I had never
been in any school, having had the good fortune of living with a lady
who instructed me herself. “There is nothing like it,” said he, nodding
his head sagaciously. “_My Caroline_ was educated at home by a good
aunt, and though she cannot draw, nor play, as you and Nora do, yet
she is a very sensible and good young woman, and I think you will like
her.” I told him, I had postponed my own gratification, lest my visit
should be troublesome, till she had somewhat recovered from the effects
of her journey. “Ah, poor thing!” said he with emotion, “there is the
rub! she is too good for this world! But you will say, when you know
her, that you never saw a more patient sufferer!”
In a word, it appears to me, that poor Mr. Serge can talk of nothing
but his daughter: that his lady can do any thing better than command
her tongue: that Miss Lydia is an automaton, useful to fetch and carry;
and that the beauty is neither in her element here, nor contented any
where. So much for my first four-and-twenty hours knowledge of this
illustrious family.
Good Night!