The day on which they left their farm was a melancholy day to this
unfortunate family. Mr. Frankland’s father and grandfather had been
tenants, and excellent tenants, to the Folingsby family: all of them had
occupied, and not only occupied, but highly improved, this farm. All
the neighbours were struck with compassion, and cried shame upon Mr.
Folingsby! But Mr. Folingsby was at Ascot, and did not hear them. He was
on the race ground, betting hundreds upon a favourite horse, whilst this
old man and his family were slowly passing in their covered cart down
the lane which led from their farm, taking a last farewell of the fields
they had cultivated, and the harvest they had sown, but which they were
never to reap.
Hannah, the servant-girl, who had reproached herself so bitterly for
leaving the bucket of ashes near the hay-rick, was extremely active in
assisting her poor master. Upon this occasion she seemed to be endowed
with double strength; and a degree of cleverness and presence of mind,
of which she had never shown any symptoms in her former life: but
gratitude awakened all her faculties.
Before she came to this family, she had lived some years with a farmer
who, as she now recollected, had a small farm, with a snug cottage upon
it, which was to be this very year out of lease. Without saying a word
of her intentions, she got up early one morning, walked fifteen miles
to her old master’s, and offered to pay out of her wages, which she
had laid by for six or seven years, the year’s rent of this farm
before-hand, if the farmer would let it to Mr. Frankland. The farmer
would not take the girl’s money, for he said he wanted no security from
Mr. Frankland, or his son George: they bore the best of characters, he
observed, and no people in Monmouthshire could understand the management
of land better. He willingly agreed to let him the farm; but it
contained only a few acres, and the house was so small that it could
scarcely lodge above three people.
Here old Frankland and his eldest son, George, settled. James went to
Monmouth, where he became shopman to Mr. Cleghorn, a haberdasher, who
took him in preference to three other young men, who applied on the same
day. “Shall I tell you the reason why I fixed upon you, James?” said Mr.
Cleghorn. “It was not whim; I had my reasons.”
“I suppose,” said James, “you thought I had been honestly and well
brought up; as, I believe, in former times, sir, you knew something of
my mother.”
“Yes, sir; and in former times I knew something of yourself. You may
forget, but I do not, that, when you were a child, not more than nine
years old, {Footnote: This circumstance is a fact.} you came to this
shop to pay a bill of your mother’s: the bill was cast up a pound too
little: you found out the mistake, and paid me the money. I dare say you
are as good an accountant, and as honest a fellow, still. I have just
been terribly tricked by a lad to whom I trusted foolishly; but this
will not make me suspicious towards you, because I know how you have
been brought up; and that is the best security a man can have.”
Thus, even in childhood, the foundation of a good character may be
laid; and thus children inherit the good name of their parents. A rich
inheritance! of which they cannot be deprived by the utmost malice of
fortune.
The good characters of Fanny and Patty Frankland were well known in the
neighbourhood; and when they could no longer afford to live at home,
they found no difficulty in getting places. On the contrary, several of
the best families in Monmouth were anxious to engage them. Fanny went to
live with Mrs. Hungerford, a lady of an ancient family, who was proud,
but not insolent, and generous, but not what is commonly called
affable. She had several children, and she hired Fanny Frankland for the
particular purpose of attending them.
“Pray let me see that you exactly obey my orders, young woman, with
respect to my children,” said Mrs. Hungerford, “and you shall have no
reason to complain of the manner in which you are treated in this house.
It is my wish to make every body happy in it, from the highest to the
lowest. You have, I understand, received an education above your present
station in life; and I hope and trust that you will deserve the high
opinion I am, from that circumstance, inclined to form of you.”
Fanny was rather intimidated by the haughtiness of Mrs. Hungerford’s
manner; yet she felt a steady though modest confidence in herself, which
was not displeasing to her mistress.
About this time Patty also went into service. Her mistress was a Mrs.
Crumpe, a very old rich lady, who was often sick and peevish, and who
confessed that she required an uncommonly good-humoured person to
wait upon her. She lived a few miles from Monmouth, where she had many
relations; but on account of her great age and infirmities, she led an
extremely retired life.
Frank was now the only person in the family who was not settled in
the world. He determined to apply to a Mr. Barlow, an attorney of an
excellent character. He had been much pleased with the candour and
generosity Frank showed in a quarrel with the Bettesworths; and he had
promised to befriend him, if ever it should be in his power. It happened
that, at this time, Mr. Barlow was in want of a clerk; and as he knew
Frank’s abilities, and had reason to feel confidence in his integrity,
he determined to employ him in his office. Frank had once a prejudice
against attorneys: he thought that they could not be honest men; but he
was convinced of his mistake when he became acquainted with Mr. Barlow.
This gentleman never practised any mean pettyfogging arts; on the
contrary, he always dissuaded those who consulted him from commencing
vexatious suits. Instead of fomenting quarrels, it was his pleasure and
pride to bring about reconciliations. It was said of Mr. Barlow that
he had lost more suits out of the court, and fewer in them, than any
attorney of his standing in England. His reputation was now so great
that he was consulted more as a lawyer than as an attorney. With such a
master, Frank had a prospect of being extremely happy; and he determined
that nothing should be wanting, on his part, to ensure Mr. Barlow’s
esteem and regard.
James Frankland, in the mean time, went on happily with Mr. Cleghorn,
the haberdasher; whose customers all agreed that his shop had never
been so well attended as since this young man had been his foreman. His
accounts were kept in the most exact manner; and his bills were made out
with unrivalled neatness and expedition. His attendance on the shop
was so constant that his master began to fear it might hurt his health;
especially as he had never, till of late, been used to so confined a
life.
“You should go abroad, James, these fine evenings,” said Mr. Cleghorn.
“Take a walk in the country now and then, in the fresh air. Don’t think
I want to nail you always to the counter. Come, this is as fine an
evening as you can wish: take your hat, and away; I’ll mind the shop
myself, till you come back. He must be a hard master, indeed, that does
not know when he is well served; and that never will be my case, I hope.
Good servants make good masters, and good masters good servants. Not
that I mean to call you, Mr. James, a servant; that was only a slip of
the tongue; and no matter for the tongue, where the heart means well, as
mine does towards you.”
Towards all the world Mr. Cleghorn was not disposed to be indulgent: he
was not a selfish man; but he had a high idea of subordination in life.
Having risen himself by slow degrees, he thought that every man in trade
should have what he called “the rough as well as the smooth.” He saw
that his new foreman bore the rough well; and therefore he was now
inclined to give him some of the smooth.
James, who was extremely fond of his brother Frank, called upon him and
took him to Mrs. Hungerford’s, to ask Fanny to accompany them in this
walk. They had seldom seen her since they had quitted their father’s
house and lived in Monmouth; and they were disappointed when they were
told, by Mrs. Hungerford’s footman, that Fanny was not at home; she was
gone to walk out with the children. The man did not know which road
they went, so they had no hopes of meeting her; and they took their way
through one of the shady lanes near Monmouth. It was late before they
thought of returning; for, after several weeks’ confinement in close
houses, the fresh air, green fields, and sweet-smelling wild flowers in
the hedges, were delightful novelties. “Those who see these things every
day,” said James, “scarcely notice them; I remember I did not when I
lived at our farm. So things, as my father used to say, are made equal
to people in this world. We, who are hard at work in a close room all
day long, have more relish for an evening walk, a hundred to one, than
those who saunter about from morning till night.”
The philosophic reflections of James were interrupted by the merry
voices of a troop of children, who were getting over a stile into the
lane, where he and Frank were walking. The children had huge nosegays of
honeysuckles, dog-roses, and blue-bells, in their little hands; and they
gave their flowers to a young woman who attended them, begging she would
hold them whilst they got over the stile. James and Frank went to offer
their services to help the children; and then they saw that the young
woman, who held the flowers, was their sister Fanny.
“Our own Fanny!” said Frank. “How lucky this is! It seems almost a year
since I saw you. We have been all the way to Mrs. Hungerford’s to look
for you, and have been forced to take half our walk without you; but the
other half will make amends. I’ve a hundred things to say to you: which
is your way home? Take the longest way, I entreat you. Here is my arm.
What a delightful fine evening it is! But what’s the matter?”
“It is a very fine evening,” said Fanny, hesitating a little; “and I
hope to-morrow will be as fine. I’ll ask my mistress to let me walk out
with you to-morrow; but this evening I cannot stay with you, because
I have the children under my care; and I have promised her that I will
never walk with any one when they are with me.”
“But your own brother,” said Frank, a little angry at this refusal.
“I promised I would not walk with any one; and surely you are somebody:
so good night; good bye,” replied Fanny, endeavouring to turn off his
displeasure with a laugh.
“But what harm, I say, can I do the children, by walking with you?”
cried Frank, catching hold of her gown.
“I don’t know; but I know what the orders of my mistress are; and you
know, dear Frank, that whilst I live with her, I am bound to obey them.”
“Oh, Frank, she must obey them,” said James.
Frank loosened his hold of Fanny’s gown immediately. “You are right,
dear Fanny,” said he; “you are right, and I was wrong: so good night;
good bye. Only remember to ask leave to walk with us to-morrow evening;
for I have had a letter from father and brother George, and I want to
show it you. Wait five minutes, and I can read it to you now, Fanny.”
Fanny, though she was anxious to hear her father’s letter, would not
wait, but hurried away with the children that were under her care;
saying she must keep her promise to her mistress exactly. Frank followed
her, and put the letter into her hands. “You are a dear good girl, and
deserve all the fine things father says of you in this letter. Take it,
child: your mistress does not forbid you receiving a letter from your
father, I suppose. I shall wish her hanged, if she does not let you walk
with us to-morrow,” whispered he.
The children frequently interrupted Fanny, as she was reading her
father’s letter. “Pray pull that high dog-rose for me, Fanny,” said
one. “Pray hold me up to that large honeysuckle,” said another. “And do,
Fanny,” said the youngest boy, “let us go home by the common, that I may
see the glowworms. Mamma said I might; and whilst we are looking for the
glowworms, you can sit on a stone, or a bank, and read your letter in
peace.”
Fanny, who was always very ready to indulge the children in any thing
which her mistress had not forbidden, agreed to this proposal; and when
they came to the common, little Gustavus, for that was the name of the
eldest boy, found a charming seat for her; and she sat down to read her
letter whilst the children ran to hunt for glowworms.
Fanny read her father’s letter over three times; and yet few people,
except those who have the happiness to love a father as well, and to
have a father as deserving to be loved, would think it at all worth
reading even once.
“MY DEAR BOYS AND GIRLS,
“It is a strange thing to me to be without you; but, with me or from me,
I am sure you are doing well; and that is a great comfort; ay, the best
a father can have, especially at my age. I am heartily glad to hear
that my Frank has, by his own deserts, got so good a place with that
excellent man, Mr. Barlow. He does not hate attorneys now, I am sure.
Indeed, it is my belief, he could not hate any body for half an hour
together, if he were to do his worst. Thank God, none of my children
have been brought up to be revengeful or envious; and they are not
fighting with one another, as I hear the poor Bettesworths now all are
for the fortune. ‘Better is a dinner of herbs, where love is, than a
stalled ox, and hatred therewith.’ I need not have troubled myself
to write this text to any of you; but old men will be talkative. My
rheumatism, however, prevents me from being as talkative as I could
wish. It has been rather severe or so, owing to the great cold I caught
the day that I was obliged to wait so long at squire Folingsby’s in my
wet clothes. But I hope soon to be stirring again, and to be able to
take share of the work about our little farm, with your dear brother
George. Poor fellow! he has so much to do, and does so much, that I fear
he will overwork himself. He is at this present time out in the little
field, opposite my window, digging up the docks, which are very hard to
conquer; he has made a brave large heap of them, but I wish to my heart
he would not toil so desperately.
“I desire, my dear James and Frank, you will not confine yourselves
too much in your shop and at your desk: this is all I have to dread for
either of you. Give my love and blessing to my sweet girls. If Fanny was
not as prudent as she is pretty, I should be in fear for her; hearing as
I do, that Mrs. Hungerford keeps so much fine company. A waiting-maid in
such a house is in a dangerous place: but my Fanny, I am sure, will
ever keep in mind her mother’s precepts and example. I am told that Mrs.
Crumpe, Patty’s mistress, is (owing, I suppose, to her great age and
infirmities) difficult in her humour; but my Patty has so even and
pleasant a temper that I defy any one living, that knows her, not to
love her. My hand is now quite tired of writing, this being penned with
my left, as my right arm is not yet free from rheumatism: I have
not James with me to write. God bless and preserve you all, my dear
children. With such comforts, I can have nothing to complain of in
this world. This I know, I would not exchange any one of you for all my
neighbour Bettesworth’s fine fortune. Write soon to
“Your affectionate father,
“B. Frankland.”
“Look! look at the glowworms!” cried the children, gathering round
Fanny, just as she had finished reading her letter. There were
prodigious numbers of them on this common; and they shone over the whole
ground, in clusters, or singly, like little stars.
Whilst the children were looking with admiration and delight at this
spectacle, their attention was suddenly diverted from the glowworms by
the sound of a French-horn. They looked round and perceived that it came
from the balcony of a house, which was but a few yards distant from the
spot where they were standing.
“Oh! let us go nearer to the balcony!” said the children, “that we may
hear the music better.” A violin, and a clarinet, at this moment began
to play.
“Oh! let us go nearer!” said the children, drawing Fanny with all their
little force towards the balcony.
“My dears, it is growing late,” said she, “and we must make haste home.
There is a crowd of company, you see, at the door and at the windows of
that house; and if we go near to it, some of them will certainly speak
to you, and that, you know, your mamma would not like.”
The children paused and looked at one another, as if inclined to submit;
but, at this moment, a kettle-drum was heard, and little Gustavus could
not resist his curiosity to hear and see more of this instrument: he
broke loose from Fanny’s hands, and escaped to the house, exclaiming, “I
must and will hear it, and see it too!”
Fanny was obliged to pursue him into the midst of the crowd: he made his
way up to a young gentleman in regimentals, who took him up in his arms,
saying, “By Jove, a fine little fellow! A soldier, every inch of him! By
Jove, he shall see the drum, and beat it too; let us see who dares say
to the contrary.”
As the gallant ensign spoke, he carried Gustavus up a flight of stairs
that led to the balcony. Fanny in great anxiety called after him to beg
that he would not detain the child, who was trusted to her care: her
mistress, she said, would be extremely displeased with her, if she
disobeyed her orders.
She was here interrupted in her remonstrance by the shrill voice of
a female, who stood on the same stair with the ensign, and whom,
notwithstanding the great alteration in her dress, Fanny recognized to
be Sally Bettesworth. Jilting Jessy stood beside her.
“Fanny Frankland, I protest! What a pother she keeps about nothing,”
cried Saucy Sally. “Know your betters, and keep your distance, young
woman. Who cares whether your mistress is displeased or not? She can’t
turn us away, can she, pray? She can’t call ensign Bloomington to
account, can she, hey?”
An insolent laugh closed this speech; a laugh in which several of the
crowd joined: but some gentlemen were interested by Fanny’s beautiful
and modest countenance, as she looked up to the balcony, and, with tears
in her eyes, entreated to be heard. “Oh, for shame, Bloomington! Give
her back the boy. It is not fair that she should lose her place,” cried
they.
Bloomington would have yielded; but Saucy Sally stood before him crying
in a threatening tone, “I’ll never speak to you again, I promise you,
Bloomington, if you give up. A fine thing indeed for a man and a
soldier to give up to a woman and a servant-girl! and an impertinent
servant-girl! Who cares for her or her place either?”
“I do! I do!” exclaimed little Gustavus, springing from the ensign’s
arms. “I care for her! She is not an impertinent girl; and I’ll give
up seeing the kettle-drum, and go home with her directly, with all my
heart.”
In vain Sally attempted to withhold him; the boy ran down the stairs to
Fanny, and marched off with her in all the conscious pride of a hero,
whose generosity has fairly vanquished his passions. Little Gustavus was
indeed a truly generous child: the first thing he did, when he got home,
was to tell his mother all that had passed this evening. Mrs. Hungerford
was delighted with her son, and said to him, “I cannot, I am sure,
reward you better, my dear, than by rewarding this good young woman. The
fidelity with which she has fulfilled my orders, in all that regards
my children, places her, in my opinion, above the rank in which she was
born. Henceforward she shall hold in my house a station to which her
habits of truth, gentleness, and good sense, entitle her.”
From this time forward, Fanny, by Mrs. Hungerford’s desire, was always
present when the children took their lessons from their several masters.
Mrs. Hungerford advised her to apply herself to learn all those things
which were necessary for a governess to young ladies. “When you speak,
your language in general is good, and correct; and no pains shall be
wanting, on my part,” said this haughty but benevolent lady, “to form
your manners, and to develop your talents. This I partly owe you for
your care of my children; and I am happy to reward my son Gustavus in a
manner which I am certain will be most agreeable to him.”
“And, mamma,” said the little boy, “may she walk out sometimes with her
brothers? for I do believe she loves them as well as I love my sisters.”
Mrs. Hungerford permitted Fanny to walk out for an hour, every morning,
during the time that her children were with their dancing-master; and at
this hour sometimes her brother James, and sometimes her brother Frank,
could be spared; and they had many pleasant walks together. What a
happiness it was to them to have been thus bred up, from their earliest
years, in friendship with one another! This friendship was now the
sweetest pleasure of their lives.
Poor Patty! She regretted that she could not join in these pleasant
meetings; but, alas! she was so useful, so agreeable, and so necessary
to her infirm mistress, that she could never be spared from home.
“Where’s Patty? why does not Patty do this?” were Mrs. Crumpe’s constant
questions whenever she was absent. Patty had all the business of the
house upon her hands, because nobody could do any thing so well as
Patty. Mrs. Crumpe found that no one could dress her but Patty; nobody
could make her bed, so that she could sleep on it, but Patty; no one
could make jelly, or broth, or whey, that she could taste, but Patty;
no one could roast, or boil, or bake, but Patty. Of course, all these
things must be done by nobody else. The ironing of Mrs. Crumpe’s caps,
which had exquisitely nice plaited borders, at last fell to Patty’s
share; because once, when the laundry-maid was sick, she plaited one
so charmingly, that her lady would never afterwards wear any but of
her plaiting. Now Mrs. Crumpe changed her cap, or rather had her cap
changed, three times a day; and never wore the same cap twice.
The labours of washing, ironing, plaiting, roasting, boiling, baking,
making jelly, broth, and whey, were not sufficient: Mrs. Crumpe took it
into her head that she could eat no butter but of Patty’s churning. But,
what was worse than all, not a night passed without Patty’s being called
up to see “what could be the matter with the dog that was barking, or
the cat that was mewing?” And when she was just sinking to sleep again,
at daybreak, her lady, in whose room she slept, would call out, “Patty!
Patty! There’s a dreadful noise in the chicken-yard.”
“Oh, ma’am, it is only the cocks crowing.”
“Well, do step out, and hinder them from crowing at this terrible rate.”
“But, ma’am, I cannot hinder them indeed.”
“Oh yes, you could, if you were up. Get up and whip ‘em, child. Whip
‘em all round, or I shall not sleep a wink more this night.” {Footnote:
Taken from life.}
How little poor Patty slept, her lady never considered: not that she
was in reality an ill-natured woman, but sickness inclined her to be
peevish; and she had so long been used to be humoured and waited upon by
relations and servants, who expected she would leave them rich legacies,
that she considered herself as a sort of golden idol, to whom all that
approached should and would bow as low as she pleased. Perceiving that
almost all around her were interested, she became completely selfish.
She was from morning till night, from night till morning, nay, from
year’s end to year’s end, so much in the habit of seeing others employed
for her, that she absolutely considered this to be the natural and
necessary course of things; and she quite forgot to think of the
comfort, or even of the well-being, of those creatures who were “born
for her use, and live but to oblige her.”
From time to time she was so far awakened to feeling, by Patty’s
exertions and good-humour, that she would say, to quiet her own
conscience, “Well! well! I’ll make it all up to her in my will! I’ll
make it all up to her in my will!”
She took it for granted that Patty, like the rest of her dependents,
was governed entirely by mercenary considerations; and she was persuaded
that the hopes of this legacy would secure Patty her slave for life. In
this she was mistaken.
One morning Patty came into her room with a face full of sorrow; a face
so unlike her usual countenance, that even her mistress, unaccustomed as
she was to attend to the feelings of others, could not help noticing the
change.
“Well! What’s the matter, child?” said she.
“Oh! sad news, madam!” said Patty, turning aside to hide her tears.
“But what’s the matter, child, I say? Can’t you speak, whatever it is,
hey? What, have you burnt my best cap in the ironing, hey? Is that it?”
“Oh! worse, worse, ma’am!”
“Worse! What can be worse?”
“My brother, ma’am, my brother George, is ill, very ill of a fever; and
they don’t think he’ll live! Here is my father’s letter, ma’am!”
“Lord! how can I read it without spectacles? and why should I read it,
when you’ve told me all that’s in it? How the child cries!” continued
Mrs. Crumpe, raising herself a little on her pillow, and looking at
Patty with a sort of astonished curiosity. “Heigho! But I can’t stay in
bed this way till dinnertime. Get me my cap, child, and dry your eyes;
for crying won’t do your brother any good.”
Patty dried her eyes. “No, crying will not do him any good,” said she,
“but------”
“But where is my cap? I don’t see it on the dressing-table.”
“No, ma’am: Martha will bring it in a minute or two: she is plaiting
it.”
“I will not have it plaited by Martha. Go and do it yourself.”
“But, ma’am,” said Patty, who, to her mistress’s surprise, stood still,
notwithstanding she heard this order, “I hope you will be so good as
to give me leave to go to my poor brother to-day. All the rest of my
brothers and sisters are with him, and he wants to see me; and they have
sent a horse for me.”
“No matter what they have sent, you sha’n’t go; I can’t spare you. If
you choose to serve me, serve me. If you choose to serve your brother,
serve your brother, and leave me.”
“Then, madam,” said Patty, “I must leave you; for I cannot but choose to
serve my brother at such a time as this, if I can serve him; which God
grant I mayn’t be too late to do!”
“What! You will leave me! Leave me contrary to my orders! Take notice,
then: these doors you shall never enter again, if you leave me now,”
cried Mrs. Crumpe, who, by this unexpected opposition to her orders, was
actually worked up to a state unlike her usual peevishness. She started
up in her bed, and growing quite red in the face, cried, “Leave me now,
and you leave me for ever. Remember that! Remember that!”
“Then, madam, I must leave you for ever,” said Patty, moving towards the
door. “I wish you your health and happiness, and am sorry to break so
short.”
“The girl’s an idiot!” cried Mrs. Crumpe. “After this you cannot expect
that I should remember you in my will.”
“No, indeed, madam; I expect no such thing,” said Patty. (Her hand was
on the lock of the door as she spoke.)
“Then,” said Mrs. Crumpe, “perhaps you will think it worth your while to
stay with me, when I tell you I have not forgot you in my will? Consider
that, child, before you turn the handle of the door. Consider that; and
don’t disoblige me for ever.”
“Oh, madam, consider my poor brother. I am sorry to disoblige you for
ever; but I can consider nothing but my poor brother,” said Patty. The
lock of the door turned quickly in her hand.
“Why! Is your brother rich? What upon earth do you expect from this
brother, that can make it worth your while to behave to me in this
strange way?” said Mrs. Crumpe.
Patty was silent with astonishment for a few moments, and then answered,
“I expect nothing from him, madam; he is as poor as myself; but that
does not make me love him the less.”
Before Mrs. Crumpe could understand this last speech, Patty had left
the room. Her mistress sat up in her bed, in the same attitude, for some
minutes after she was gone, looking fixedly at the place where Patty had
stood: she could scarcely recover from her surprise; and a multitude of
painful thoughts crowded upon her mind.
“If I were dying, and poor, who would come to me? Not a relation I have
in the world would come near me! Not a creature on earth loves me as
this poor girl loves her brother, who is as poor as herself.”
Here her reflections were interrupted by hearing the galloping of
Patty’s horse, as it passed by the windows. Mrs. Crumpe tried to compose
herself again to sleep, but she could not; and in half an hour’s time
she rang the bell violently, took her purse out of her pocket, counted
out twenty bright guineas, and desired that a horse should be saddled
immediately, and that her steward should gallop after Patty, and offer
her that _whole sum in hand_, if she would return. “Begin with one
guinea, and bid on till you come up to her price,” said Mrs. Crumpe.
“Have her back again I will, if it were only to convince myself that she
is to be had for money as well as other people.”
The steward, as he counted the gold in his hand, thought it was a great
sum to throw away for such a whim: he had never seen his lady take
the whim of giving away ready money before; but it was in vain to
remonstrate; she was peremptory, and he obeyed.
In two hours’ time he returned, and Mrs. Crumpe saw her gold again with
extreme astonishment. The steward said he could not prevail upon
Patty even to look at the guineas. Mrs. Crumpe now flew into a violent
passion, in which none of our readers will probably sympathize: we shall
therefore forbear to describe it.