_From the same to the same._
I suppose I shall have no intelligence of our friends at Hartley-pool,
more direct than what Mary sends me from Heathcot. Malcolm is not in
spirits, he confesses that he never had a more difficult lesson to
practise, than the one at present assigned him, which is to amuse
Mr. Serge at Tarefield, instead of guarding the Hesperian fruit at
Heartley-pool. He told me this morning with a very solemn countenance,
that he heard Alice’s beauty had gained her the first post of honour,
and that she was much admired. I laughed him out of his folly; but
it may not be amiss for Mary to give Alice a hint not to look _too
handsome_ at Heartley-pool.
Miss Serge’s increased indisposition has prevented my visiting her
till this morning; Doctor Douglass was consulted, and he has happily
succeeded in relieving the pain she suffered. On congratulating
her mother, she replied, “to be sure, it is a comfort to see her
_heasy_: but, dear me! the thing is to see it last.” And with this
observation she seemed to have dismissed the subject of her daughter’s
indisposition, and she talked only of the _lakes_, and her surprise
that she had lived so many years in the world without having heard of
them till within a few months.
The fond father, in the mean time, now looks up to the doctor with
the most sanguine hopes; and is as completely domesticated here as if
he had been born at the Hall. Malcolm is the delight of his eyes, and
Mr. and Mrs. Wilson are, in his own words, “extraordinary people.”
We contrive by their aid to amuse him many hours in the day; and the
good baronet has not been interrupted in his pursuits: he appears to
enjoy the enlargement of the circle, particularly in the evening. Last
night, after supper, Mr. Serge could talk of nothing but his day’s
amusement. He had been with his friends and guides to see Wereland
Place, a farm in speculation, as you know, for Malcolm. “It is very
odd,” observed he, “that when I lived in London and kept tight to the
_board_, as I may say, I used to think of the pleasure, I should enjoy
in the country; but when there, I was always weary of walking about
before sunset. Now I think this was because I had nothing to do but
to walk about, and that it was idleness, not the country, of which I
was tired. Pray how old is Mr. Wilson?” Malcolm thought he was turned
of fifty. “Surprising!” observed Mr. Serge; “what a colour, and what
activity! There is nothing like the life of a farmer! I have given Mr.
Wilson a hint to-day that I should like to purchase something in this
neighbourhood. I should not cavil at any price, that would fix me upon
you, my young friend, as an apprentice in the farming business. I see
clearly that in order to enjoy the country, a man must have country
business on his hands: you would, I dare say, help a young beginner
to know oats from barley.” He shook Malcolm’s hand with cordiality,
and added in a low voice something at which he laughed heartily, and
which produced a crimson blush in Malcolm’s face. “How would Mrs. Serge
and the young ladies like to give up the fashionable world, for the
business of the dairy and the retirement of the country?” asked he.
“Dear me!” answered Mrs. Serge, “I _ham_ so used to Mr. Serge’s _vays_
that he know I only laugh at his _vims_. I am sure he is tired to death
at Putney, if he stay with us a week at a time! He would make a fine
hand of it, to live in this part of the world, where _vone_ do not see
a soul by the week together!” “Are there any noblemen’s seats near you,
Mr. Maclairn?” asked Miss Leonora, checking her mother’s loquacity.
“Not many,” was the answer. “So much the better,” replied Mr. Serge, “I
never courted their custom nor their acquaintance: let every man keep
his station and place, and ‘cut his coat according to his cloth,’ in
more ways than one. I am a man who love proper subordination, though
I hate slavery. An army is badly disciplined, in my mind, when the
commanding officers are ‘hail fellow well met’ with the privates; and
when I see a lord or a duke quit his rank, I understand how matters
are going on. I have not lived in the world for nothing.” “Well but,
papa,” said the lively Miss Nora, seizing in a moment her father’s
allusion, “I suppose there is no sin in a private soldier’s rising
in his regiment if he can do so honourably.” “Certainly not, child,”
answered Mr. Serge. “Why then do you persist in refusing the borough
offered you, and being knighted? Your family might be the better for
good connections, sir, and yourself more useful, than in your present
private station.” “You talk, Nora, like a girl,” answered the placid
father; “but all the world knows, child, though it has not yet reached
you, that the borough and the title, might have been purchased by any
man as well as your father; I neither liked the price, nor the duty;
and I trust, those who had the bargain, will like it better than I did
mine for clothing the army,” added he, turning to Sir Murdoch. “It
requires a better head than I have,” pursued he, “to make contracts
with the present managers. I give you my word they understand very
well how to make a good bargain for the public purse; and I found
their _shears_ cut closer than _mine_, notwithstanding my experience
in the use of them. However, it is all well: I am quit, with knowing
I never spoiled a poor fellow’s clothing of a year, for the sake of
cabbaging a shilling’s worth of the stuff.” He laughed heartily at
this specimen of his wit, and enjoyed ours with delight. These Serges,
Lucy: amuse me, they exhibit to me characters, which, if not singular
in themselves, are new to me. My standard for human nature, and human
conduct, requires some medium: as it stood at Heathcot, it was too much
elevated for the multitude; and in my respect for virtue, you have
often reproached me, for wanting pity for folly. I am persuaded that
you would at present be satisfied with me. I am neither tempted to
laugh, nor to yawn, when Mrs. Serge, in all the simplicity of kindness,
pities my _dull life_, and promises me to exact from Sir Murdoch and
Lady Maclairn a positive engagement to send me to her in the winter
months. “Though Putney is not St. James’s-street,” adds she, “I so
manage, that it is always next door to any public amusements I like:
and as Leonora will expect to see Lunnun next winter, as a young woman,
you may be sure of my not being a ‘_house dove_.’ To say the truth,”
continued she, “I think people gain nothing by giving up the pleasures
of youth, supposing always they are innocent. Who would believe Lady
Maclairn, for example, was not much more than three years older than I;
and when I try to recall her beauty and cheerful temper to my memory as
they struck me when I first knew her, I can hardly believe she is the
Harriet Flamall every body was in love with. To be sure youth _have_
its hour, but cheerfulness will last to all seasons, if people do not
starve it out by indolence. However,” added she, “poor Harriet _have_
had trials I never had; and between ourselves, I have heard my aunt
Priscilla say, that she was early in life doomed to sorrow, from the
death of a young man she loved.” We have had many such conversations
as these in our walks; for I devote my mornings to Lady Maclairn’s
service. Mrs. Serge is delighted with Mrs. Wilson, and no less pleased
with my friends at the cottages, to whom she has been liberal in her
donations. But with all my labours I can perceive that she is heartily
tired of being at Tarefield; and yesterday she consulted me very
gravely on the propriety of requesting that Caroline might remain at
the Hall during her excursion to the lakes. “I have no doubt,” added
she with alacrity and contentment, “of Mr. Serge’s preferring to stay
with Caroline. Lydia shall remain also, to amuse her; and Mr. Maclairn
will not refuse to squire us. The coach will just hold us, and we shall
have a charming _frolic_!” For a moment I felt angry, but the innocence
of heart, which is the companion of this weak head, softened me. I
with all gentleness, therefore, hinted at the appearance of unkindness
and indifference which the proposal of itself would convey to the mind
of her daughter; and withal asserted, that I knew Mr. Maclairn had
engagements, which would prevent his leaving Tarefield for any time.
“That is unlucky,” replied she; “and since matters do not favour our
scheme it may be as well to say nothing about it. I should have liked
to give you _a frolic_; I am sure you have not too much pleasure here;
but trust to me for next winter: you shall see Lunnun, if it cost me a
journey for myself to fetch you. I have not forgot my young days yet,
nor what young folks like.” I could not be angry, Lucy. I _answered_
her _intention_, and thanked her for her kindness, telling her also
very civilly, that I had been frequently months at a time in London
during the winter, but that I had never regretted the absence of London
amusements at Tarefield. She lifted up her hands and eyes, and said I
amazed her. I quitted her during her surprise, saying I was going to
sit with Miss Serge an hour.
_In continuation._--I am just returned from visiting the poor declining
Caroline. She is a modest unaffected young woman, and resembles her
youngest sister. I think her features are still more regular than
hers, and her large black eyes more expressive, from the languor of
sickness that softens down their jetty lustre. I fancy too she is
naturally fairer than Leonora, at least her paleness indicates a
clearer complexion. She is extremely defective in her shape: I do not
recollect having seen a person more crooked; and I cannot help thinking
the dreadful spasms in her stomach have originated in the distortion
of her shape, and from the compression it is doomed to suffer. She
was in her easy chair, and the emblem of neatness: the room in exact
order, and at her hand a book. I congratulated her on her exemption
from pain, and told her that our favourite, Doctor Douglass, was in
danger of being spoiled by our gratitude for having relieved her. She
meekly bowed, and, thanking me, spoke of Lady Maclairn’s kindness,
and the fatigue she had so unfortunately introduced. “I was entirely
governed by my wishes to oblige my parents,” added she, “in hazarding
a journey; being convinced that I can expect no benefit to accrue
to me from leaving Putney. But it amuses my family, and diverts my
dear father’s thoughts from an event which he considers with too much
tenderness and grief. I am pleased by Doctor Douglass’s frankness,”
continued she; “he honestly owns, that he sees no advantage for me in
travelling; and he has contrived to convince my friends that I cannot
be better than _at home_. They do not understand him; _but I do_, Miss
Cowley.” You will suppose my reply. “You read sometimes, I see,” said
I, taking up the volume on the table: it was the Economy of Human Life.
“My little library contains some authors who will not disgrace yours.
I will bring the catalogue.” “Your recommendation of one will suffice,”
answered she, pensively smiling, “for I am not able to read much. My
father reads frequently to me; and if you will favour me with any
periodical work I shall be obliged to you; he is fond of works of that
sort.” I promised to send the “Mirror” to her room, she not having read
it; and I quitted her in a proper frame of mind to visit Miss Flint.
She appears to me to be considerably mended in her health, and she was
more cheerful than I have seen her for a long time. I always thought
solitude a good remedy for those who could not enjoy society, or rather
who spoiled it. She was chatty, and of course I was not ill humoured.
She asked me many questions relative to our guests; and particularly
whether the “table was abundant and handsome.” “I hope it is so,” added
she; “for I was explicit with Harriet on that point. Her friends’
entertainment I shall consider as my concern; under this roof it ought
to be so.” “I only wish you could contrive to share in your hospitality
below stairs,” observed I, “I am certain it might be effected without
pain to you, or trouble to the servants, more than one five minutes
would accomplish.” She shook her head, and said she was fearful of
breaking into the regimen which the doctor had prescribed, and from
which she trusted for some relief; and that since Mrs. Allen had so
kindly devoted her time to her, she had all the comfort her situation
needed. “However,” added she, “I should be vexed if these good people
fancied I shunned them from pride; and I think I am equal to receiving
them as tea-visitors; will you propose it to them, when you think the
gentlemen will be absent.” “Let it be this evening then,” replied I
with gaiety: “you will find that company will not lessen your hopes
from an abstemious diet.” She consented, and I left her to announce my
commission.
_In continuation.--Wednesday morning._ We assembled yesterday in Miss
Flint’s stale apartment: even the poor Caroline was of the party. The
first _coup d’œil_ convinced me that Miss Flint had not quite done with
this vain world: all was in state; and the heiress of Tarefield, in
a fine muslin wrapping gown trimmed with lace, received us with much
ceremony, but with no want of kindness. Lady Maclairn officiated at
the tea-table; and Mrs. Serge, whose attention had been much engaged
with the various decorations of the room, now suddenly surveying the
ponderous _silver_ tea-board and tea-kettle, _wondered_, according to
custom, that her ladyship did not exchange that heavy old fashioned
plate for what was tasty and “_helegant_.” Miss Flint, with a spice
of her ancient asperity, observed, that it had been long in the Flint
family, and she preferred it to more modern. “I beg your pardon,”
replied the unconscious offender, “I did not know it belonged to
you, madam; but I cannot unsay what I have said. I know some folks
think old-fashioned plate honourable to themselves, as it proves
their family’s opulence; but for my part, it is not my notion that
honour depend upon any such things. I lately sold a silver bowl which
held three gallons, that had been my great-grandfather’s. You Lady
Maclairn,” added she, laughing, “being of the Hatchway family: you
will, perhaps, blame me; for it was an _onourable_ bowl, as I can
affirm. It was a present from the ship’s _howners_, for his fighting
with a privateer and sinking her: the whole story was engraved on the
_rim_, with the names of the ‘_howners_,’ and of the ship my great
grandfather saved from the enemy.” “I certainly should have preserved
it,” replied Lady Maclairn, “as an evidence so honourable to the
captain’s bravery, and his employers’ gratitude.” “Dear me!” answered
she, “who trouble themselves with things of this sort after they are
past away a little while! It was quite useless to me, so I exchanged
it for a “_hapron_” and some egg-cups, with other trifles.” The saucy
Leonora laughed immoderately. “You ought to say, my dear madam, an
_epargne_.” Without a muscle of my face being moved, “I beg your
pardon,” said I, “but as the word is a French one, a stranger to the
language may excuse the liberty of being corrected in the pronouncing
it. _Epargner_, means to save, or to spare, and this elegant ornament
for a table is not misnamed; for it is commonly filled with trifles
which cost but little to the donor of a feast.” “Thank you, my dear
Miss Cowley,” said she, with perfect good humour, “you have taught me
what I did not know before; and if Nora had employed her knowledge
of the French tongue as well, she would not have disgraced her
_heducation_, by laughing at her mother.” Leonora blushed, and answered
that she had called it an _epargne_ constantly in her hearing, but
thought she might be deemed _impertinent_ to carry her “_critique_”
farther. “Rather say, child,” replied the good-natured mother, “that
you did not wish me to understand _heparner_ was _to save_, lest, like
your Lady Gudgeon, I should grudge you clean gloves, and fill, as she
_do_, my _heparner_ with wax oranges and apples.” It was now her turn
to laugh, and we gave no offence by joining in her mirth. A rubber of
“_Vhisk_” completed the evening; and Miss Flint, graciously thanking
her for her company, saw us depart without any signs of being fatigued
by her exertions.
Next Tuesday we are to go to Durham to pass the day. Mrs. Serge has
wisely given up the project of seeing the lakes; and as something must
be done to please her, Lady Maclairn has promised to accompany her in
this jaunt. If you are not grateful, so much the worse; for not only
_time_, but labour is lost to