A Letter dated in October, and addressed to Miss Hardcastle, is
fortunately recovered, and the thread of the narrative, which I found
was broken, is by that means preserved. Trusting that my readers are by
this time satisfied that Miss Cowley can tell her own story; and are
convinced that no labours of mine could better tell it, I cheerfully
resume my humble office of copyist.
LETTER XI.
_From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._
I send you, my dear Lucy, with my thanks to Counsellor Steadman for his
letter, one which I have received from Mr. Flamall. You will find that I
have an enormous account to settle with him on the score of _gratitude_;
for the kindhearted gentleman, not having yet smoothed the way for my
_sweetheart’s_ appearance, has sent a double portion of _sweetmeats_,
and withal, many compliments on my _sweet_ and gentle temper, which, it
appears, fame has celebrated in the island of Jamaica. I would divide
with you this tribute of praise, were it not the first my unparallelled
gentleness and patience ever received; but I will be generous
notwithstanding: and as we have here as many preserved limes, &c. as
would satisfy the cravings of half the boardingschool misses in London,
I have desired all mine may be sent to Heathcot: you will dispose of
them in due measure to your neighbours. My friends and neighbours
returned to the Abbey last night. To-morrow I shall pass the day at Mrs.
Heartley’s, when I shall give her the counsellor’s letter. I do most
seriously assure you, that my late indisposition has disappeared. Your
accounts from Italy were the specifics for the worst part of it; and
without detracting from the good effects of the new curricle, I must
attribute my cure to your prescription. Lady Maclairn’s anxiety has not
been less than yours, my dear Lucy, on the subject of medical advice;
but I knew the medicine I wanted—it was not in the apothecary’s shop.
The curricle is, however, still in favour, for it amuses Sir Murdock,
and he is proud of being charioteer. You cannot imagine with what
tenderness and attention I am treated by Lady Maclairn. I cannot help
loving her; but I wish also to reverence her. It hurts me to see her
sink herself and her talents, in order to soothe and keep quiet a woman
who might be taught to respect her. She never offends or disappoints me
but when I see her forget Lady Maclairn, and act the part of a mere
cringing dependent. I find she has by dint of coaxing and tears,
obtained permission for Mary to go with us to the Abbey to-morrow, in
order to see her uncle. Mrs. Warner, Miss Flint’s favourite servant,
communicated these glad tidings to Mrs. Allen, and concluded by saying,
“Aye, they will never understand my lady’s temper. Miss Howard should
have gone without asking leave, and Lady Maclairn should have commended
her for taking it for granted she had a right to go to see the captain.
Miss Flint is not the better for being indulged in her temper. I do my
duty; she knows I am faithful, but she knows also that I will not be her
slave. It often vexes me to see Miss Howard so much afraid of her! Why
not say from the very first, ‘I will go and see my uncle, Madam.’
Instead of this, there are pleadings and tears, which have gained after
all, only leave to stay a few minutes with the captain. As to Lady
Maclairn, there is something to say. The golden-calf will have its
worshippers still; so she must bend the knee: but poor Mary has no such
hopes, and she is a simpleton not to shew more spirit.”—This woman is
well-intentioned to Miss Howard, and, I believe, contributes to her
comforts; for she asked Mrs. Allen to lend her Evelina to read to Mary
whilst she worked. She usually sits with her in a little parlour
appropriated to Warner: Miss Flint preferring being alone in her _lair_.
I shall not finish this letter till I have seen my friends at the farm,
having to write to Mr. Steadman.
_Saturday Evening, Nine O’clock._
Not chusing to part with the serenity I have brought home with me, I
have left my friends in the parlour in order to finish the day happily
with you. Perhaps there was also a little discretion at the bottom of
this intention when first suggested. I wished to avoid Mary’s first
greeting from her aunt, whose orders she had disobeyed; but on inquiry,
the lady had retired for the night before we reached the hall. Miss
Flint’s sleeping draught is sometimes potent, I suspect; and Mrs. Patty,
our maid, never fails to say on these sudden drowsy fits, “Ah, poor
lady, she is much to be pitied! for there is nothing like the sleep God
sends.” Leaving, however, Miss Lucretia to enjoy any repose she can
purchase, I will prepare for mine by an hour’s chit-chat with my Lucy.
We sallied forth this morning for our visit to the Abbey. Never did
summer bequeath to her boisterous brother October a more delicious one!
Mary was of the party; but she was not in spirits. Jonathan, Miss
Flint’s footman, followed our steps. I had my project in my head; for I
had determined that this exertion of Miss Flint’s power should not pass
unnoticed. We had not proceeded more than half our road to the Abbey,
before we were met by the captain and the Heartleys. Mary’s philosophy
forsook her on perceiving them. “How unpardonable I am,” said she, “now
I have no pretence for going farther with you! I must return with the
servant.” You may conclude that this observation was conveyed to the
captain’s ear. He coloured, and with some quickness in his manner turned
to the servant, saying, “You need go no farther. I shall take care of
Miss Howard.” The man bowed, and retreating, seemed yet to hesitate.
“Inform your lady, Sir,” added the captain with dignity, “that my niece
passes the day with me and her _friends_, and that I shall call on her
soon.” Jonathan, with a lower bow, quickened his pace.
“Indeed! indeed!” cried Mary, “I must not disobey orders, my aunt will
be disobliged!”—“I will be answerable for that,” replied the captain
with gravity; “but in your attention to your _aunt_, Mary, do not forget
your _uncle_, nor what is due to yourself.” It was some time before this
little cloud passed; but it was dissipated by the time we reached the
farm, and Mary’s welcome from Mrs. Wilson apparently banished Miss Flint
and her _orders_ from her thoughts.
I do not remember mentioning to you the noble apartments which Mrs.
Heartley occupies in the Abbey. But her taste has given to them an
appearance of comfort, light, and cheerfulness, which in my opinion more
than supplies the absence of the magnificence, which gave the finish to
dark and richly carved wainscoting and bow windows, half glazed with
painted glass. A good selection of books, in handsome glass-cases, gay
chintz furniture, and an excellent musical instrument, assuredly suited
better the assembled party, and are much more congenial with the love of
neatness and order of the present inmates of the house. But should it
happen that any of the departed spirits of the “Ingram” race still hover
near the spot of their glory, they must, if they be placable,
acknowledge, that although cumbrous greatness is fallen, hospitality
still retains her empire in the house; and that those vices which ruined
themselves and half the county, are buried in the fallen fabric of
Gothic ignorance and superstition. After dinner we had music, which at
least vied with the lute and virginal of former times. The Heartleys, I
find, are all gifted with a taste for harmony. The mother is an
excellent performer on the harpsichord; and her daughter shews that
skill in the science so necessary in the teacher, to produce a pupil
like Alice. Mary was pressed for a song. “I have forgotten all I know
for want of practice,” said she with a suppressed sigh. “I will sing
with you, my love,” replied Mrs. Heartley, “and we shall manage very
well.” She was encouraged, and timidly sung the little ballad of
Prior’s, “In vain you tell your panting lover,” with taste and
expression. “Bravo, my sweet Mary,” observed Mrs. Heartley with a smile,
“you have not forgotten that song at least. You would recover in a month
all you have lost.” Elated by this commendation, she turned towards me,
and with eagerness observed, that Henry Heartley had taught her not only
to sing that song, but to admire the poetry and composition; “for,”
added she, “Henry was an Orpheus, even in his cradle! I have heard Mrs.
Heartley say, that she used to quiet him when a baby, by playing upon
the piano-forte. How happy we used to be when he was here!” Mrs.
Wilson’s calling her away prevented Mary from proceeding on a subject
which seemed to have placed her heart on her lips.
I forgot not to deliver the counsellor’s letter to his old favourite;
Mrs. Heartley ran it over with apparent satisfaction, and give it me to
peruse. “I will thank him myself,” said she, “for this proof of his
remembrance; I needed none of his candour and justice. He knew me before
I was a wife, he knew me as one, and he _knows_ that Heartley’s widow
lives to honour his memory, and to perpetuate his virtues in his
children.” She pressed my hand with emotion, and smiling through the
tears which escaped her, observed that she was yet selfish and weak.
I will not say that we became noisy after tea, but it is certain that we
were childishly gay. The delighted Mrs. Wilson, followed by the young
people, made the circuit of her domains. The dairy, the cheese-chamber,
the poultry-yard were explored, and poor Malcolm was left a while in
captivity in the pig-stye, for his daring crime of attempting to give
Alice a green gown. By means of that secret intelligence at which you so
wickedly laugh, Mrs. Wilson and myself were old friends in half an hour.
She found out that Miss Cowley was not a fine lady; and Miss Cowley
discovered that the farmer’s wife was worth all the fine ladies that
have ever swarmed as butterflies of the hour. She brought to my mind the
very image of the good woman before Rhadamanthus, and I doubt not but
she could as satisfactorily demand his passport; for though she has not
a daughter to produce as a notable housewife, yet she has made as many
cheeses as her counterpart, and will trace as numerous a progeny to
bless her memory.
She seconded my motion for the family to walk home with us, and it was
agreed to, with certain limitations as to the time and extent of our
demands; which were forgotten by each in their turn.
At length we set out on our return home; a cloudless sky, and a
full-orbed moon not only favoured us, but there was a serenity in the
air which is seldom found in so advanced a season, and which seemed to
favour the still lingering leaf as it trembled on its parent stem. There
is something in a calm autumnal evening which so resembles the closing
in of a well-spent life, that it naturally leads the mind to
contemplation, nay, to a _pensiveness_, though not melancholy, which
“loves not noisy folly.” Our gay spirits yielded to the influence of the
objects around us. We sauntered, rather than walked, and insensibly the
party separated, and our chat was broken into several divisions. Mrs.
Heartley and myself, with the captain, had even lost sight of our
company, which had advanced before us. Mr. Flint with enthusiasm
supported the opinion of a plurality of worlds; and I sung a verse of
Addison’s sublime hymn.—“The spacious firmament on high.” My companions
partook with me in the pious fervour of the poet; and we moved so
slowly, that had not the sound of an horse’s feet accelerated our steps,
the traveller might have thought us statues, or ghosts. An angle in the
road was in our path, and on turning it, Mr. Snughead appeared. He paid
his compliments to me with a familiarity which even startled me. “This
is fortunate!” cried he, stopping his horse and endeavouring to
dismount, “now my incredulity is corrected! for will you credit me, when
I tell you that in listening to the seraphic strains you sung, I said,
“Can any mortal mixture of earth’s mould
Breathe such divine inchanting ravishment?”
But I am convinced, and you must sing again.” I instantly concluded that
Mr. Snughead had not dined _en famille_: retreating therefore from his
impatient horse, I observed with good humour, that it did not appear
that his horse had heard of the convention—“no song, no supper,” and was
not disposed to loiter on his road. “I am already too late,” added I,
“but at your next visit at the hall, I will sing.” This prudence on my
part was rewarded; he recollected himself, bowed to the captain, and
wishing me good night, spurred his horse.
Poor Miss Howard on losing sight of her uncle, felt all her terrors
return. “What would her aunt say to her? and what was she to say to her
aunt? She would not believe her.” Mrs. Allen engaged to stand as
witness; and Malcolm encouraged her by saying, “My mother will plead
your cause, never fear.” But I verily believe the poor girl felt it, as
a respite from violence when Warner told her that Miss Flint was asleep.
Mrs. Allen sends her blessing, and your Rachel Cowley remains your
affectionate Sister and Friend.
LETTER XII.
_Rachel Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._
You will, my dear Lucy, when you have read this letter, commend me for
my caution. “I am well, and all here are well, thank God for it!” Do not
however fancy that I have not had an escape, although the curricle has
not been overset, nor have I had a cold and sore throat in consequence
of my night walk.
In my last I mentioned that poor Mary had suffered from being out so
late; but that her aunt wisely recollecting that Sunday was the
captain’s visiting day, graciously admitted Mrs. Allen’s evidence in
favour of the poor culprit; and that our Sabbath was a day of peace as
well as rest. I heard nothing of colds or rheums that day.—On Monday,
Mary was kept hard at work upon the odious carpet. I rode out with Sir
Murdock in the morning of the following day, and on our return found
your dear letter. All was peace, in consequence, in your Rachel’s bosom.
But at dinner no counterfeiting could conceal from me the disorder which
Lady Maclairn took such pains to hide. It is incredible to conceive,
what a command of features this woman has acquired! But I detest her
when she dares not speak with frankness. There is a tremulous play of
the muscles round her mouth, and a slowness in her utterance that mark
the struggle within. On enquiring for Miss Flint and Mary, who did not
appear, we were told that Miss Flint had a most oppressive nervous
head-ach, and that Miss Howard had gotten a sore throat.—On Wednesday,
both the invalids were worse; for the aunt was uneasy on Mary’s account
who was feverish. “Sir Murdock was, however, to be amused.” He might
fancy it would turn to a putrid sore throat and be alarmed. It is a
pity, thought I, whilst Lady Maclairn made all these excuses for
imposition, that nature had not given you a different complexion! I was
certain, Lucy, that there was some mystery in this business. Warner kept
close, and Mrs. Patty said that Miss Howard kept her bed. I do not love
mischief; therefore, to amuse my good baronet, who appeared somewhat
discomfited by the sudden change in the weather, and his lady’s frequent
desertion of him in order to attend the sick, I engaged him to settle us
in our winter quarters, and to make shelves for the books lately sent me
from town. Two days incessant rain were thus passed; and we learned that
the valetudinarians were recovering.—On Sunday, Mrs. Allen and myself
went to church in the morning; and I was requested to say to Captain
Flint, that Mary had been indisposed with a _cold_. “He will find her
altered,” added her ladyship with one of her unlucky blushes; “she has
been very ill.” I asked her whether there had been any appearance of
danger in the case. “No,” replied she, “but her aunt has been much
distressed on her account. They mean to dine below to-day, lest the
captain should be uneasy.”
I delivered my commission with the same precaution it was given me, and
whilst I was satisfying Mary’s friends on the subject, Mr. Snughead
passed me with a supercilious bow, without taking off his hat. On
entering the parlour we found it heated by a large fire; it was really
suffocating. Miss Flint, huddled up in wrappers, had taken possession of
the great chair on one side of it. Mary, with a face as pale as death,
in a close morning cap, a muslin cravat, and a shawl closely pinned up,
had her appointed station on the other side. Her cheek glowed however on
seeing us; but she appeared fluttered and weak. Our congratulations
followed, whilst the captain looking with much seriousness at her, said,
“My dear child, why was I not informed of your being ill?”—“It was only
a cold, Sir,” answered Mary with a faint blush. “And a cold she has to
thank you for,” said the sister. “Night walks in October do not suit
Mary. It is well it was no worse, I expected only a putrid fever.” The
servants, for we are old fashioned people on a Sunday, had by this time
covered the table; and a smoaking sirloin graced the bottom of it. Mary
rose from her seat in visible disorder, oppressed, as I thought, by the
heat of the room, and the savoury steams of the dinner; but as she
tottered to the door, she burst into hysterical sobbings, and Malcolm
and myself prevented her falling, for she fainted in our arms. Malcolm
placed her in a chair in the vestibule. All was hurry and alarm. Whilst
others were searching for remedies, and her uncle was supporting her
head, I hazarded to open the door into the garden, observing that the
air was mild, and would restore her. It evidently was useful, for she
gave signs of returning consciousness, but again relapsed. “Take off
that cravat,” said I, “and let her have more air.” I opened the sash,
which was nearer to her than the door. Whilst giving this direction, the
captain obeyed. Judge of our sensations! Her throat was black and
bruised by a violent grasp, and her bosom lacerated by what appeared to
be the strokes of a cane or horse-whip. “God of Heaven and of earth!”
groaned out the captain, “what means all this? To what am I doomed!”—“My
dear captain,” said the almost breathless Lady Maclairn, who now
approached with some remedy, “have patience, all shall be explained.
Your sister has been to blame; she is sensible of it: she bitterly
repents of her violence: she has suffered, severely suffered for it; all
will still be well, only have patience.” He heeded her not, but with a
look of horror and apparent calmness, he surveyed for some moments the
marks of the outrage which had been committed; then wrapping the shawl
round the still insensible girl, he attempted to raise her in his arms;
but they refused the office. Miss Flint now ventured to open the door,
to order the servants to be summoned, and to carry Mary upstairs, loudly
reprehending us for exposing her to the air. “Shame to thy sex, begone!”
cried the captain with fury. “Urge me not, thou barbarian! But art thou
not here to exult over thy victim?” He again drew off the shawl. “This
is Howard’s child, Lucretia!” continued he, “this is thy sister’s
orphan!” A heavy sigh from Mary drew his attention again; he attempted
to raise her; but his limbs trembled to that degree, that he was forced
to desist. The prompt, the ever-succouring Allen gave Malcolm a sign. He
took Mary in his arms, and carried her to my room, followed by Mrs.
Allen. The captain was on the point of doing so likewise, when Miss
Lucretia darting towards him, and catching his coat, exclaimed, “You
_shall_ hear me! She provoked me.”—No language can convey to you, Lucy,
the expression with which he replied. “Yes! I doubt it not! So did her
hapless virtuous mother! so did her noble-minded father!” He paused, and
raising his eyes to Heaven, moved his lips as though in silent
ejaculation. “No,” said he in a solemn tone of voice, “I will not curse
her! But,” added he, “_God_, Lucretia, will call you to answer for this
deed!” “Hear me! only hear me!” screamed she. “I only punished her
_insolence_. I will justify myself!”—“Never canst thou do _that_,”
replied he, “where humanity resides.” He broke from her and turned into
the garden. A violent fit succeeded to Miss Flint’s efforts; the
servants with difficulty conveyed her, in her struggles, to her
apartment, from whence even I heard her screams. On entering my room, I
found Miss Howard laid on the bed, and much recovered though weeping.
“What confusion! what mischief have I occasioned!” said she addressing
me. “Who was it, my dear Miss Cowley, who took off my things? Was it not
my uncle? How unfortunate that I could not get up stairs!”—“Say not so,”
observed the soothing Mrs. Allen, “but rather, my clear child, be
thankful to Providence who has thus seasonably checked your aunt’s
violence; such a temper required it.” Mr. Flint entered the room, no
longer was his face gloomy, and his eyes sparkling with rage. He was
pale and languid, and sitting down by his niece, he shed tears like an
infant. “The coach is preparing,” said he at length, “can you make the
effort my child? I leave not this accursed house without you.”—“I am
much better, I am able to go any where with you,” replied the poor girl;
“but my dear, dear uncle! leave not my aunt in displeasure; indeed she
is very sorry for what has passed, indeed I had entirely forgiven
her.”—“Name her not,” answered the captain with emotion; “go to your
parents’ grave; see her work _there_! Remember the protection she
promised you! But I will be just,” continued he, suppressing his rising
passions, “to my credulity, to my easy faith, you must attribute these
scourges. But who,” continued he, turning to us, “could have conceived
that any hand could have inflicted such cruelty on a creature like
_this_, and that hand a sister’s! But we will depart, my child, to that
home where your bruises will be healed, and I shall be justly reproved
for the pride and ambition which caused them. Your asylum is secure, and
you will have bread and peace.”
My hitherto restrained tears now flowed abundantly: it was well for me
they did, for the throbbing in my temples was excruciating. I attempted
to speak; but I could only say with extreme emotion, “Dismiss your fears
for her, her happiness shall be my care.” A look was the thanks I
received. The coach drew up, and Malcolm entered the room. Whilst Mrs.
Allen prepared Mary, he said in a whisper, “I leave my father to you.
Miss Flint is in strong convulsions, the doctor is sent for, and my
mother is dreadfully alarmed.” He carried Mary to the carriage, and
accompanied her and the captain to the Abbey.
Mrs. Allen went to assist Lady Maclairn, and I to perform a duty which
was become pressing, for I had not seen Sir Murdock from the first
signal of alarm. I recollected this circumstance with a sensation of
terror undefinable at this moment; and quickening my steps, met a
servant whom I believe I frightened by my eagerness, for in reply to my
question, he said, with some hesitation of manner, that he had seen Sir
Murdock go into the garden, and, if I pleased, he would go with me to
look for him. I saw the conclusion he had drawn, and therefore, with
collected ease, replied that I should soon meet him.
For sometime, however, the object of my search eluded me; at last I
perceived him sitting in a nook so concealed, that it serves the
gardener for his rollers, &c. He resembled a statue rather than a living
creature; and was so lost in thought, that he neither heard my steps nor
saw me when I stood before him. He was speaking, however, and I heard
him say, “Are there no remedies? Is she dead? Will not Heaven spare her?
Destruction must have monsters for its work!”—I took his hand and he
started. “I come to seek you,” said I, in a cheerful tone; “Miss Howard
is recovered, and gone home with her uncle. I want you to give me some
coffee.” He looked at me.—“Angel of peace!” said he, in a low voice,
“art thou still near me?”—I again spoke. “Your daughter, your adopted
daughter, my dear Sir Murdock, is near you,” observed I, “but you do not
heed her. It is cold here, and she begs you to enter the house.” I
gently took him by the arm; he again started as from a dream.—“My dear
Miss Cowley,” said he, rising, “is it you that I see here!”—I repeated
my entreaties, and he instantly took the way to the house and inquired
whether Miss Howard had seen his wife before she left the hall. “Lady
Maclairn has been with Miss Flint,” replied I, “who is ill; but we shall
all rejoice at the events of this day when more composed. Mary Howard
shall never want the protection of her aunt.”—“Your purpose is worthy of
you, Miss Cowley,” replied the baronet, with collected dignity and
energy, “and in your intentions of goodness, as these relate to this
injured girl, your path is not only easy but pleasant. But what can you
do or say for Sir Murdock Maclairn and his wife, under whose ostensible
roof innocence has been oppressed and ill-used? My supposed infirmity of
mind,—would to God it were only supposition!—may screen me from ignominy
with the charitable. But can generosity or candour find an apology for
my wife? Will it not be said, and with truth, that she was a daily
witness of the improper treatment which Miss Howard received from her
aunt? Will it not be said, that she knew of the outrage committed
recently; and that, in order to spare the offender, she concealed it
from the poor suffering girl’s friends? Will censure stop here? Oh, no!
it will be alledged that lady Maclairn encouraged this woman in her
cruelty!”—“The most confirmed rancour would refuse to credit such a tale
of Lady Maclairn, if told,” answered I, with seriousness. “There is not
a menial in her family would not refute it, and bear witness to her
gentleness and humanity. Every one has seen her unremitting attentions
to Miss Howard’s comfort, and her endeavours to render her aunt kinder
to her. She trusted that Mary’s assiduities would, in time, soften down
the asperities of Miss Flint’s temper. She knew that her interference
would be liable to misconstructions; and though she has suffered but
little less than Miss Howard, since her residence here, yet she has not
dared to oppose her remaining, lest it should be thought that she feared
her influence might be unfriendly to her son’s interest. I have seen
Lady Maclairn’s difficulties from the first hour of my being here,”
continued I, “I have seen her miserable on this poor girl’s account; and
I am certain she was a stranger to the treatment she has lately
undergone.”—“You plead to a partial hearer,” answered he, deeply
sighing; “I know that to my Harriot a scene of such violence would have
been death. But is it not incomprehensible to you how such a mind as
her’s should have retained for this woman an affection so determined and
so constant? Why does she persist in living with her? Why subject
herself to mortifications and degradations to please her caprice?”—“Lady
Maclairn is human;” replied I, with a smile, “she is a mother, and a
tender mother; and she may, with justice, expect that her son Philip
will be benefited by these sacrifices of her care. Besides these
motives, there are others more exalted, which prompt her zeal. What
would this woman have been? What would she be without Lady Maclairn? To
whom is she indebted for the little humanity which she does shew?”—The
baronet appeared silently to acquiesce in my sentiments; but I found he
was again withdrawn into his own mind. I, however, found it not
difficult to rouse him; for on my observing that poor Lady Maclairn
would be anxious for his safety in so chilling an air, he quickened his
steps. His wife was indeed anxious! She burst into tears on seeing him,
and the interesting Sir Murdock seemed to have no care but that of
soothing her distress. “You must listen to Miss Cowley, my Harriot,”
said he, “she will teach you to rejoice at the captive’s
deliverance.”—“I could and should rejoice,” answered she, “that poor
Mary is freed from the hardest of all servitudes, did I not see Lucretia
so struck with a sense of her fault and disgrace as to be in danger of
her life. She is an unhappy woman,” added she, with emotion, “and I
cannot help pitying her.” No reply was made. Mrs. Allen now entered with
the coffee, and I found by her report, that in getting Miss Flint to her
room, the servants, unable to hold her in her struggles, had let her
slip from their arms, and she had hurt her knee very much; she was,
however, asleep; the doctor had seen her, and the servants had got a
respite. Mary was composed and much better. I retired to my room, and
continued to solace my mind by viewing this day of Mary’s emancipation
as a happy event. I really considered the horse-whipping part of the
business with the stoical indifference of a mail-coach driver, when I
contrasted it with the good effects it was likely to produce. In a week
Mary may forget the discipline, and all will be well; but I sincerely
wish it may lead Miss Flint to consider whether it might not turn to
good account to scourge _herself_. Moderate flagellation would neither
hurt her temper of body or mind.—But lest you should be induced to think
unfavourably of my tender mercies, I shall conclude this letter; and you
will, I trust, give the kiss of peace to your