CHAP. III.

LETTER XXXV.

“In this house I first met my Harriet. Her attractions were of a kind to engage my attention; for, like myself, she appeared to be the child of sorrow; and it was not difficult to discover that she was of a different order of beings from those who were with her. Her meek and pensive form, her tenderness to her infant, her courteous and unaffected manners when chance threw me in her way, soon produced their effects, and I insensibly forgot my usual train of thoughts in watching the hour for her appearing in our little garden with her nursling. She became interested for a man who, at this period, was again the prey of grief. I had intelligence of the death of my friend Wallace, who fell as honourably as he had lived. Her pity, her gentle soothings, drew from my overcharged bosom the whole tale of my woes. She wept, Miss Cowley; and told me that she also had known the pangs of severed love and blasted hope. Thus were our hearts cemented!

“For a time our union was opposed by her brother. I was poor; and in avowing my poverty Mr. Flamall perceived that I was proud. Miss Flint employed her influence in favour of Harriet’s wishes; and on giving up my solicitations at the war office, our marriage took place without further opposition. My wife mentioned to me a promise she had made to Miss Flint, in consequence of her good offices with Mr. Flamall; and expatiating on her sister’s, (as she styled her daughter in law,) fondness for her infant brother, she timidly proposed to me the plan of residing with Miss Flint at Tarefield Hall. I saw the mother in this arrangement; and I admitted the plea. Harriet was pleased, and Miss Flint was contented. On arriving here I found that every attention had been paid for securing my domestic comforts. Apartments were prepared for our exclusive use; and to do justice to Miss Flint, her conduct was at this period both discreet and generous. But my character was determined. I had found tranquillity: I had gained a heart on which to repose: my wife was my asylum from care; but I had no relish for joy: society was distasteful to me, and the common amusements of life were irksome and fatiguing. My Harriet, the kind and guardian angel that heaven had bestowed on me, convinced me that we were formed for each other. My tastes were hers, my comforts hers, and retirement was necessary to her happiness. I saw with contentment Miss Flint’s increasing attachment to the little Philip: she was continually engaged in the nursery with him; and there appeared a perfectly good understanding established in our family. But this season of tranquillity was not permitted to be permanent. The birth of Malcolm, an event which had opened once more my mind to the sensations of joy, was marked for a source of petty discontents, and officious intrusions. Mr. Flamall’s visits to the Hall became more frequent, and his stay longer. Lucretia, as my gentle Harriet told me with a languid smile, was jealous of the little stranger, and feared that she should love him. For a time this passed, but abstracted as I was in myself, and disposed as I had always been, to reserve with Mr. Flamall, I discovered that his presence was the signal for Harriet’s depressed spirits and Miss Flint’s peevishness. Struck from time to time by the insolent authority he held in the family, and the power he exercised over a woman impatient of the slightest contradiction from others, I was led to conclusions which could alone solve the difficulty; and I foresaw that the time was not remote when Miss Flint would have a tyrant legally authorized to be the despot at Tarefield. I mentioned my opinion to my wife; she acknowledged that she believed Lucretia loved her brother, but that she still loved her independence better; and the struggle, added she, has been for so long a time so equally maintained, that I think her temper and his own have gained nothing in the contest. He has, however, succeeded in gaining her confidence, by his zeal and knowledge in her business, and his partiality for her darling boy has confirmed in her a respect for his talents.

“Satisfied at length, that my temper would not conform to Mr. Flamall’s growing influence, I determined on my measures of prudence; and mentioned to my wife my wish of residing in France, and particularly at Nismes, on account of the air, and from motives of economy. She cheerfully acceded to the proposal, and from that time became my pupil in the language of the country, rapidly recovering her school knowledge of it, and with improvement. But when my intention was declared to Miss Flint, my wife had to sustain a difficult part: prayers, reproaches, sullenness, and tears were employed to divert her from her compliance with my wishes and plan. She was firm, and steadily urged, that my health and spirits were objects which she could not, nor would not attempt to impede. Mr. Flamall was summoned from town, to assist in subduing Harriet’s resolution. She referred him to me, and with all that poor and contemptible cunning which he calls address, he began his attack. He wondered what could have led me to the design of quitting a situation so convenient to my finances, and so congenial to my love of retirement. I answered with my usual reserve, that I had maturely deliberated on my plan, and should adhere to it. ‘You have been teased into it,’ answered he, ‘by Harriet’s silly complaints of the temper of Miss Flint. I think she has been wrong, for she has known her long enough not to mind the submissions she exacts from every one in her way.’ ‘Lady Maclairn has been hitherto silent with me on this point,’ answered I; ‘but I thank you for having given me an additional motive for leaving Tarefield. My wife shall not submit to the caprice or tyranny of any one whilst I can prevent her degradation.’ He coloured. ‘I perceive none in her conduct,’ replied he, ‘that is not enforced by her duty, as the mother of a child who has no father at hand to protect him. If she complies with the inequalities of this woman’s temper, she will be well paid for her trouble; and I do not see how she can reconcile herself to her duty to her son Philip, by sacrificing his future expectations for an uncertain experiment. If she leave Philip with Miss Flint, her weak fondness will be his ruin; if she remove him, it is ten to one but that in a few months his place in her heart will be filled up by a new favourite; and she will hate him with the same fervour with which she at present conceives that his society is requisite to the preservation of her life.’ ‘He must take his chance, in this predicament,’ replied I; ‘and of two evils his mother will chuse the least. He will be rendered virtuous, I trust, by our cares, and he will escape the humiliating conditions annexed to dependence and expectations. I have no doubt of his mother’s choice, nor will Miss Flint’s fortune tempt her to leave her child to another’s care.’ He made no reply, and we parted. From this ineffectual trial of his eloquence, Mr. Flamall seemed convinced that I was not to be managed: he spoke no more on the subject. I had in the mean time, as I believed, silenced many of Miss Flint’s fears. I had engaged to return in three years on a visit to Tarefield; and soothed her with the prospect of Philip’s improvement, promising to be his tutor. She seemed to consider our departure as inevitable; and to experience the necessity of submitting with a good grace to a privation which she could not prevent. The first week in October was fixed for our leaving Tarefield; and September was given to our necessary preparations, and Lucretia’s consolation.”

Sir Murdoch paused for some moments: at length resuming his narrative, he said, “I am not quite certain, that what I have further to say is strictly conformable with my own notions of honour, or with that justice which is prescribed by our religion. My mind is prejudiced; my suspicions rest on conjectural ground; and you must listen to what follows with caution and candour. Believe, if it be possible, that my infirmity of mind has raised up the hideous spectre I am about to present to your eyes, and call it by any name but Flamall’s”—He spoke with emotion, and wiped the faint dew from his forehead. “One evening in the early part of September,” continued Sir Murdoch, “we were summoned from the avenue by the servant, who said that supper was served, and Mr. Flamall waiting for our return. I had, in conformity with Harriet’s wishes, given more of my time than usual to Miss Flint, who had appeared sensible of my consideration. She pressed me to sup with her, and with good nature added, ‘you will find your favourite ragout, which I ordered expressly for you.’ I made no objections; and we entered the dining-room. Flamall was sitting at the spread table, reading a newspaper. ‘I thought,’ said he, throwing it aside, ‘that I was doomed to sup solus; all has been waiting here these twenty minutes, and must now be cold.’ ‘Whose fault was that?’ replied Miss Flint, taking her station. ‘If you had not given your orders, the cook would have waited for mine.’ ‘I was half famished,’ answered he, ‘and a hungry man is not observant of ceremony.’ During this observation he helped himself to the ragout of mushrooms, which stood at his hand, and with the eagerness of a keen appetite tasted them; when abruptly retiring to the side-board he regorged what he had taken, rinsed his mouth several times, and then swore, that one dish at least was hot enough for the devil himself. Knowing his aversion to spice, and particularly to Cayenne pepper, I was not disposed to condemn the cook, or to reject the mushrooms on his evidence; I therefore exchanged dishes with him, and helped myself to the reprobated mushrooms, and finding them seasoned to my palate, I ate some. He observed me, and remarked that he was astonished to see me relish so infernal a cookery. ‘They are rather overdone,’ said I, crossing my knife and fork, and asking for beer; ‘but I have not yet done with them.’ The awkwardness of the servant, or my haste, so managed the business, that the glass of beer fell, inundated my plate, and was shivered in a number of pieces among the mushrooms. Flamall cursed the servant; and my wife said she was glad of the disappointment I had received; for that she had been told, that in the great number of mushrooms apparently alike, there was only one sort wholesome. Order, however, was restored, and the spirit of contradiction gave place to more cheerful conversation.

“In the night I was suddenly seized with a violent pain and a severe nausea, which was somewhat relieved by warm water; languor and stupefaction succeeded to this effort of nature, and when the physician saw me, he pronounced my life doubtful, and called the malady a putrid fever. I was tempted to declare my opinion of the disease for I had heard his; but my wife was at my pillow. I soon became unconscious of my condition; memory closed its records.

“I will not attempt to describe to you, the sensations which assailed me, when I first recollected my wife. A sense of my own danger and of her protection were at once so blended that I could not for a moment support her absence. I was still persuaded that I had been poisoned; but my imagination had given a new form to Flamall. I thought it was a fiend invisible to all eyes but mine, and who watched to destroy my wife and child. His voice was for ever ringing in my ears—‘They die if you discover me!’ But let me quit a subject which unmans me, and afflicts you. Well might I have said, ‘my kinsfolks have failed, and my familiar friends have forgotten me; they that dwell in mine house, and my maids, count me a stranger. I called my servant, and he gave me no answer.’ One being only filled up this void, and that was my Harriet! Soothed by her gentleness, supported by her presence, my apartment was my world; and the horrors which had encompassed me gave place to passive quietness and transient pleasure, for my son Malcolm amused me. My recovery was slow and gradual; but in proportion as my reason gained strength, and my health was renewed, I experienced the painful sense of a mind conscious of its lost energies; and I considered myself as a subject for unfeeling curiosity, rather than for respect or usefulness. I shuddered with dread at the thoughts of being seen, and for a time, no persuasion could allure me into the garden. When, at length, I had in some degree recovered from this despondency, I listened with more docility to my wife’s tender entreaties, and by degrees the garden became the boundary of my voluntary prison. Mr. Flamall’s proposal of placing you here produced another change in my mind, for it roused in me a sense of injuries, and a resentment which bespoke a mind once more alive to its original character. I will leave England, said I to Malcolm, with an energy which astonished him. I will have no concerns with Mr. Flamall. His very name is abhorrent to my ears. He is a villain! I checked myself; and Malcolm, to my surprise, said with calmness, ‘I have long known him as one. But if Maclairn can prevent the mischief he is now meditating, will he not exert his prerogative? My father is made for the agent of Providence in the cause of the oppressed.’ He proceeded to inform me of the circumstances relative to you, which had reached him by means of a young friend. The result of this conversation you know. I was resolved to receive you, to guard you from a less eligible situation, and in a word to shelter innocence, as securely as I could, from the machinations of a man, who I have reason to believe to be as cruel as he is artful and designing. Deprived as you are, my dear young lady,” continued the worthy creature, “of those pleasures which youth demands, and of the society of your early friends, yet, believe me, you are not without a guardian here: my arm, were it necessary, should protect you; and in a just cause, it would yet be found a Maclairn’s.” His dark blue eyes were again fixed on my face, but with what expression!—“Not even my Harriet’s claims,” added he, “would restrain my vengeance, were my Matilda’s image insulted.”

“I neither fear Mr. Flamall’s power, nor have I submitted to his authority,” replied I, “in choosing to withdraw from my friend Mr. Hardcastle’s house.” My heart was on my lips, Lucy, and I briefly related to him my motives. “But,” continued I, “little did I expect to find a parent in any abode appointed by such a miscreant as Flamall. I joyfully accept of the endearing title you offer: call me your child, your daughter: your affection shall be returned in acts of duty and reverence.” “And when you forsake us,” said he, relapsing into pensiveness, “what are we to do?” “To rejoice in my happiness,” answered I, “to solace your declining years with your Malcolm’s children and mine; to live an evidence of that truth which promises peace to the virtuous man, both here and hereafter.”—“It is her blessed spirit which speaks,” said he.—“I will not permit you, my dear father,” answered I, “to indulge in this enthusiasm; let us call a new subject.” “I will obey you,” replied he, “after one question. Tell me, has it not been a matter of surprise to you, as well as of curiosity, to see my wife so much influenced and attached to Miss Flint?” “Yes,” replied I with firmness; “but your story has solved the enigma; Lady Maclairn knows that her brother has been, and may be still dear to this woman, and the sister’s humanity wishes to repair the mischief which the brother’s infidelity has made.” He looked pleased. “It may be so,” observed he, “for I know her principles.” His wife at this instant entered, and with assumed gaiety I told her, that I had been making my confession to Sir Murdoch, in return for his adopting me as a daughter. She smiled, and answered that she hoped I was also disposed to receive her as a mother. I gave her my hand, but added, “Will you be indulgent? Will you, like my father, permit me to love the man whom my heart and my understanding have prefered? On no other condition will I promise to be your dutiful daughter.” “Receive the blessing on any terms, my dear Harriet,” said the baronet, pressing our hands in his; “she has already shed peace into my bosom, and hope and comfort into yours.” Lady Maclairn made no other reply, than that of hiding her face in my bosom, and weeping.

Again, Lucy, do I repeat for the thousandth time, that all is not genuine in this woman’s conduct. There is a something which pervades and obstructs the display of those feelings which nature has bestowed on her, as intended blessings to herself and others, and with which she appears perpetually to struggle. At one moment her heart seems to be on her very lips with me; at another, she is silent, and as though intimidated by my presence. Sometimes I fancy my frankness is obtrusive, and my manners too unceremonious. I become more attentive, and she appears serious and more pensive, and anxiously inquires whether I am displeased with her. My answer dissipates the apprehension; cheerfulness returns, till some unguarded expression, some casual incident, again impedes my access to her heart. I think, Lucy, that she would not be a sufferer were she to trust me: I am certain that my compassion is now the most active of my feelings. She imagines, perhaps, that I think her a sharer in her brother’s plots and contrivances; but she is mistaken, for I know that she has detested him from the hour he proposed sending her husband to a mad-house; and I am assured, that she has not the most remote suspicion of his having in any way been accessary to Sir Murdoch’s illness; for she has more than once told me, that his complaint came on as gradually as it has disappeared, and originated in the catastrophe of his cousin’s death. I must finish this subject. Mrs. Allen assures you that Miss Cowley is well, and that her nightly dreams are not disturbed by scarlet fevers.

Heaven bless you, and all I love at Heathcot!

Rachel Cowley.

LETTER XXXVI.

From the same to the same.

As you are become reasonable, Lucy, I will tell you that Doctor Douglas is still of opinion, that I am better in the house than I should be by another buffeting from the north wind, to which he principally ascribes my late indisposition. My saline draughts, however, have now given place to orange jelly, which, as it pleases the pet, Mrs. Allen makes according to her recipe. She left me this morning to replenish her store, and Mrs. Warner’s little parlour being convenient for the purpose, the cookery was done there; the kind hearted Mrs. Warner aiding and assisting. “I wish,” said she, “I could persuade my lady to exchange her taste for rum and water, for this pleasant and refreshing jelly; I am sure it would be better for her: she is in a constant fever; and what with her poor leg, and her fretting, she is hourly sinking.” Mrs. Allen expressed her concern. “You would indeed pity her,” replied Warner, “if you knew all: she is, at times, the most miserable creature in the world; and between ourselves, I think she is losing her senses. That was a warning voice, Mrs. Allen, that reached her from the poor captain, the last time he was in this house, or I am much mistaken. I have heard that Miss Flint was very unkind to her sister, Mrs. Howard, and the captain roused her sleeping conscience. I have lived with her nine years, and I can safely say that she is a changed woman in less than nine weeks. She has of late taken it into her head to send me to bed before her, and I hear her for hours after walking about her room. Within the last fortnight she has been writing all day, and rummaging in her cabinet for letters, which she burns by dozens: then again, her temper madam, is now quite altered; for I do assure you she is as patient as a lamb! and if you could but see her knee, you would never forget it. I am sure it makes me tremble to see how she suffers.” “Why do you not persuade her to have more able advice than her apothecary’s?” observed Mrs. Allen. “Bless you, my dear madam!” replied she, “Lady Maclairn has almost on her bended knees begged her to consult Doctor Douglas, with whom she is so pleased; but she will not consent. She says, ‘Do not urge me; you know, Harriet, that no doctor can cure me. I must bear with patience this visitation of the Almighty,’ and then she weeps for hours.”

You know Mrs Allen, and you will not be surprised to hear that she has seen the miserable invalid this morning; whom she found much more changed than even Warner’s report had led her to expect. To-morrow I am to dine with the Heartleys: my doctor is the promoter of this enlargement, and will be here to see me properly equipped for the coach. I mean to be docile, for I expected this morning that Mrs. Patty, our maid, would have laid violent hands on me, for daring to cross the hall without clogs and my shawl. Be cheerful, my Lucy. I have to write to our Horace: and remember when you write from Heathcot, the words of the poet: “Where ignorance is bliss ’tis folly to be wise.” Not a word of my dreadful scarlet fever, He might fancy fiction were truth, and that your Rachel Cowley had really been in danger of death, and of thus cheating him of a wife to rule.

Your’s, as truly as his,

R. Cowley.

P. S. The unavoidable delay of my friend’s dispatches permits me to add to the bulk of my letter. Leaving to the lovers of the pathetic and sublime at the abbey to describe my “secret interesting languor,” and “fascinating” pale face, I shall simply tell you, that what with a hearty dinner on Mrs. Wilson’s boiled fowls, and as hearty a welcome, they sent me home with a different complexion, and as blythe as a bird.

On entering the parlour, we found Lady Maclairn alone; and for once counterfeiting failed, for her eyes were swoln with weeping. Sir Murdoch with tender alarm asked, “What had happened to distress her.” “Wherefore do you ask that question, sir?” demanded Malcolm, with emotion. “Is it not always from one and the same cause that my mother stands indebted for her trials of patience?” “If you mean poor Lucretia,” answered she with mildness, “you wrong her, at least on this occasion, for I have scarcely seen her to-day: she was engaged in writing. But what will you say, when I tell you that I have to thank Miss Cowley for my red eyes?” She smiled affectionately on me, and added that I had left the new play of the Stranger in her way, “and if such be Kotsebue’s influence on the passions,” observed she, “in a foreign garb, what must be the effect he produces in his own language! I have been deeply interested in the piece.” “I lose my patience continually,” replied I, “when I think of the hours of comfort and amusement you give up to the silly resentment of an unreasonable woman. Why do you not cease being a stranger to your neighbours? Mrs. Heartley is formed for your friend.” “I am never so happy, as at home,” replied she, interrupting me. “I have my blessings under this roof, habit has endeared it to me; and at present, Heaven be praised! it is my own fault if I be not happy.” She fondly leaned on her husband’s shoulder as she said this. Malcolm placing himself in the vacant space on the other side on the sofa, observed, with seriousness, that contentment, at least, was in her reach; for that Mr. Wilson had secured the refusal of the Wereland Farm; and could either purchase the estate, or have it on a long lease. “I am rejoiced to hear you are likely to succeed,” replied she, “for from your description of its beauties it must be an enviable spot.” “To me it would be a paradise under any description,” replied the son, “could I promise myself to see you and my father inmates with me there. A cottage with mud walls and independence is all I wish.” “You are right, my dear Malcolm,” answered she, with dignity. “But do not imagine your mother is a slave beneath this roof. You give to the little vexations of my life, much more importance than I do. Poor Lucretia may, it is true, sometimes appear to you capricious and imposing, and thus disturb the serenity you wish me; but I am weak whenever this happens, for I know she loves me; and whilst she lives I shall never have a wish to quit Tarefield.” “Would to God, then, she were dead!” said Malcolm. “You would be more charitable,” answered she, mildly, “did you better understand her present condition.” “Perhaps I might,” replied he, “and wish her reformation, could I believe the Ethiopian could change his skin.” “There needs no miracle to effect a reformation of our tempers, Malcolm,” said she gravely; “the attempt is arduous, the path is difficult which leads to repentance; but it is not inaccessible; and if you knew the present difficulties of this poor woman, labouring under sickness and dejection of mind, you would not wish that the only friend she has on earth should quit her.” Malcolm was silenced; and if such be the motives of Lady Maclairn’s conduct I ought to be silenced.

At supper Mrs. Allen joined us; she had prevailed on the invalid to call in Doctor Douglass, who to-morrow is to meet her former physician, a Doctor Tufton. Her account of Miss Flint softened the good Baronet; but I perceived that Malcolm’s prejudices were unconquered. Mrs. Allen tells me this woman is dreadfully ill; and suffers excruciating pain from the tumour on her knee. Like Malcolm my hour of conversion is not yet arrived; and if pain and sickness are necessary to her salvation, why should I grieve? Yet one does not like to hear of remedies that are worse than horse-whipping. Good night, my dear girl! Allen is weary, and I am on my good behaviour still; for Douglass is offended by my late hours; and swears he will write to Mr. Hardcastle and prevent your letters, “tempting me to evil.” Tell Mary every one here loves her, and that her sister boasts of her. You will add whatever will content you to the name of

Rachel Cowley.

The reader is now to be informed that Miss Cowley’s pen was for more than a month suspended by a visit which Miss Hardcastle and Miss Howard made at the Abbey. The termination of Miss Cowley’s minority, as settled by law, put her into possession of her grandmother’s fortune; and counsellor Steadman was induced, partly with a view to that business, and partly to consult his fair client in respect to a letter written by Mr. Flamall on the subject of his nephew’s secret marriage, to pay her a short visit. The young ladies were therefore conducted by him to Mr. Wilson’s; and their escort home was the counsellor’s friend, whose house at Bishop’s Auckland was his abode during his stay.

It appears that Mr. Flamall acknowledged that the restrictive clauses in Mr. Cowley’s will relative to his daughter’s marrying M. Philip Flint were rendered null and void by the impossibility of her acceding to the conditions; but he insisted on his right to the exercise of his office not only as this related to the management of her property, but also to her choice of a husband. With many law arguments he proved that Miss Cowley could not marry without his consent till she had attained her twenty-fifth year, without incurring the disability declared in her father’s will for her unconditional possession of his property. “You, Sir,” continues he, “will, as a professional man, see, that, were I more disposed than I am to forego a trust committed to me by a friend whom I still revere, the law would oblige me to do my duty. Were it not so, believe me I would cheerfully relinquish an office which neither suits my health nor gratifies my feelings. I am not ignorant of Miss Cowley’s unjust suspicions of my honour, nor of the prejudicies she has infused into the minds of her friends. My conduct shall be a full refutation of the charges she has brought against me; charges which originated from the disappointment of her romantic views; and from too implicit a confidence in those to whose care she had been incautiously trusted.” He next entered into the detail of his nephew’s ingratitude, &c. but as the reader is prepared for this subject and, it may be, disposed in favour of youthful indiscretion, rather than to sympathise in Mr. Flamal’s mortifications, I shall pass over this part of the letter, which concludes with mentioning his intention of conducting the two young Cowleys to England in the following spring, in order to place them in a more suitable situation, than with their mother, at Mr. Dalrymple’s.

Miss Cowley’s friends still adhered to their first opinion, and Mr. Flamall was suffered to remain in his post without other marks of distrust than such as the counsellor’s vigilance and the attention of Miss Cowley’s friend, Mr. Oliver Flint, gave to his mode of conduct. But Mr. Flamall wanted not for acuteness; and, foiled in his ambition, he thought it prudent to secure a safe retreat. Fortunately for himself, as well as for Miss Cowley’s interest, he found for once, that “honesty was the best policy:” that by employing his talents and his diligence for the benefit of the estates he might succeed in gaining a good report, and the continuance of an employment which was advantageous and respectable.

Sir Murdoch during this term of jubilee, as it might be called at Tarefield, found other faces to admire as well as Miss Cowley’s. His contentment rose to cheerfulness, and in the enjoyment of a society whose attention and solicitude were given to please and amuse him, he so entirely gained the advantage over his habits of retirement and his dejection of mind, that in Miss Cowley’s words, “she had ceased to love him, for he had the nerves and activity of a fox-hunter.” Miss Flint’s declining health and spirits were the two ostensible apologies for Lady Maclairn’s taking no part in these hours of cheerfulness and social ease. She succeeded in her request that Miss Hardcastle would divide her time between the Abbey and the Hall; and Lucy, with a candour and gentleness so peculiarly her own, was not only charmed with her, but with unceasing labour endeavoured to remove from her friend the prejudices she entertained to her disadvantage. Mrs. Allen, ever on the side of charity, took up Miss Hardcastle’s arguments; and Miss Cowley, with her natural frankness, acknowledged that her being Mr. Flamall’s sister might have biassed her judgment. Some steps were taken to produce a reconciliation between the captain and Miss Flint: these were made without his knowledge, for Miss Flint refused to see her niece; and Lady Maclairn judged it improper to urge her request; as it appeared the subject distressed her, and increased her melancholy.

The departure of the young ladies in the beginning of June, again leaves me to my allotted task; and my readers to the gratification of their curiosity.

LETTER XXXVII.

From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle.

Be comforted, my dear girl. We are trying at the Abbey to forget you, and to be contented with every-day blessings. Mr. Hardcastle and Mr. Sedley are now enjoying their holidays. And I hope that Mary’s April face is exchanged for one which their kind greetings will render cheerful. As you may both of you have some compunction hanging about you, for having disturbed the tranquillity of Tarefield, I will inform you, that fortune, liking Sir Murdoch’s holiday face better than that of Malvolio, which, in the days of my folly, I wickedly gave him, has by one of those freaks so common in her administration, produced a letter, which has dissipated the gloom your absence caused, and he has been laughing with me at the contents. Here followeth a copy for your edification.

LETTER XXXVIII.

To Lady Maclairn, from Mrs. Serge.

Putney, June the 9th.

“My dear cousin.”

This letter will surprise you I dare say; and, it may be, puzzle you, unless you remember your giddy Lydia Hatchway; but old love with me is not forgot, though so many years have passed since we last met. However, I doubt not but as Mrs. Serge, you will still acknowledge your former friend; and trusting to this hope, I sat down to inform you of my intentions to renew the hintercourse so long interrupted by various hevents. The bad state of health of my eldest girl have, for a long time, been a great affliction to Mr. Serge as well as myself. We have tried Bath, and consulted several doctors without gaining any advantage. We are now advised by a very clever young man, whom my Jerry meets frequently at his horacle’s, a Counsellor Steadman’s, to trust to her youth and change of air; and it is determined that this summer shall be given to journeying. Thank God, my Jerry is a hindependent man, having given up business, with a very heasy fortune, so we have no cares about hexpences; but we have been for a time quite undetermined in regard to the road we should take. I was for the tower of Norfolk; but I have been out-voted. My daughter Nora, who has just left her school in —— square, talkes much of the beauties of Vales, and have bought a set of prints to shew us; but I am not willing to leave England, and with a sick person it vould be very improper to go to a place vhere the people do not understand English; so Vales is out of the question. But Nora talks much, at present, of some lakes in your part of the world, which it seems, are wisited by every person of taste; and although I never heard of them before, I am much inclined to indulge her with a sight of them, as I can, at the same time, gratify my wish of seeing your ladyship. My husband highly approve of this plan; but fear that you will not relish so many hintruders, even for a night or two; but I tell him I am certain you will welcome us as hold friends if you can make it convenient to lodge us. We shall travell slow, on account of Caroline and our horses; and rest with you a day or two. You may expect to see us, bag and baggage, about the end of this month; but I shall hope to hear from you before we finally determine on our journey, and in case our wisit suit you, will give you notice of our happroach before you see us. With compliments to Sir Murdoch and Mr. Maclairn,

I remain Your affectionate cousin and friend,

Lydia Serge.

P.S. We shall bring a maid with us. Counsellor Steadman assure my Jerry that you will not find it difficult to provide for our horses. We shall have six with us, besides the servants’, that run hout: my husband is only afraid, that you will think we are taking a freedom that may give not only trouble but offence; but I laugh at his scruples; for you well know, I expect no ceremony, nor practice none with those I love.

I have really, my dear Lucy, exerted my utmost skill, in copying Mrs. Serge’s epistle verbatim; but I was never more convinced of the truth contained in the wise man’s observation, “Train up a child in the way he should go,” says the son of Sirach, “and when he is old he will not depart from it.” My fingers and talents have been so long cramped by my first spelling book, that I much doubt whether I have done justice to Mrs. Serge’s orthography; but when she arrives I will study her vocabulary, in order to prove to Mary that she has still to learn a language which she may need without losing sight of British land. With streaming eyes, for laughter has its tears, I “himplored” Lady Maclairn to “hadmit” these guests. She did more than smile; for laughing in her turn, she asked Sir Murdoch whether he was disposed to indulge his daughter with the opportunity of acquiring a language, which, with my gaiety, and its novelty, would render me irresistible. He answered cheerfully that he had only one fear; and that was, lest such an addition to her cares should be fatiguing to herself, and, it might be, unpleasant to Miss Flint. “I have no apprehensions,” replied she mildly: “as to Lucretia’s consent,” her features reassuming their usual pensiveness, and that suspicion succeeding, which it has been yours and Mrs. Allen’s labour to convince me proceeds from timidity and delicate nerves; “I have no doubts of my sister Lucretia’s perfect acquiescence,” added she; “and I confess it would gratify me to acquit myself of a part of that debt of gratitude which I owe to this lady’s aunt, who by her attentions and tender care of me, probably, saved my life: her father and mother also were extremely kind to me when I was with them, and, as was supposed, far gone in a decline.” “Then lose no time, my Harriet,” answered the baronet, “in acquainting her, that we shall receive them as friends; and that we will do all we can do for the accommodation of friends.” She looked pleased, but hesitated. “I have yet one point to settle before I determine,” observed she. “Mr. Serge is a plain honest man; but he is little acquainted with the usages of the world. His wife, I presume, has not gained much improvement of mind since I knew her: although in a prosperous situation of fortune, we may, I think, conclude that her society has not been select. You will find these people quite remote from yourself; they will be troublesome to you, and if my cousin Lydia likes Tarefield, she may delay her visit to the lakes rather longer than you will relish: I am certain they will not amuse you.” Sir Murdoch eagerly set aside this objection. All is now en train for Mrs. Serge’s reception; for Lady Maclairn has sent off her answer, and cordial acceptance of the visit; and preparations are now making for their arrival.

In continuation.—For once, at least, in my life I will do justice to Lady Maclairn’s address. She has been to consult me on the means her fertile genius has adopted to trick Sir Murdoch into another apartment. Our plot has succeeded, and we are now busy in making such arrangements for him, as will, it is hoped, soon reconcile him to the loss of his detestable grated windows, and which will tend to obliterate from his mind the saddening ideas associated with his prison. This apartment is now to be destined to the strangers’ use, and they will have but one staircase to explore to their several rooms. I have also been prepared to form my estimate of the pleasure I may expect from our visitors. She spoke of Mrs. Serge’s parents. Captain Hatchway was the master of a ship, and his family resided at Y—m—th. His sister, Mrs. Priscilla Hatchway, had been the early friend of Lady Maclairn’s mother, and was her first cousin. “I have not seen Mrs. Serge, for many years,” added her ladyship. “She was then a thoughtless, giddy girl, but perfectly innocent and good natured. When she lost her good father, I have reason to believe she had little whereon to depend for her future maintenance: her mother had no talents for economy, and her daughter’s union with Mr. Serge was a circumstance of great utility to her, as well as of security to her lively and pretty daughter. Mr. Serge was rich when he married, and since that time has been very fortunate, by an accession of wealth which he little expected. He is a worthy honest man; and as she says, a hexcellent husband, though more than twenty years her senior; but you may imagine that neither his education nor his pursuits in life can have any similarity with Sir Mordoch’s. He has been ‘Mr. Serge the rich taylor’ till within these three or four years, when I heard that he had dropped this designation, for ‘Mr. Serge the contractor;’ now, it appears, he is ‘Mr. Serge the gentleman;’ and it is only to be feared, that his lady will find more difficulty in sustaining this part, than any which she has hitherto performed. She will have gained little, if the simplicity of her character has been infringed by her commerce with fashion and luxury; for her spirits, when I knew her, were extremely volatile.” I was left: the workmen summoning her ladyship, who is at present very busy in Sir Murdoch’s deserted prison. New hangings, new windows, &c. are to change its aspect. Sir Murdoch, either discomfited by seeing the alterations which have taken place in his fortress, or vexed that his wife has converted her dressing-room to his convenience, has been with me in his turn; and with some signs of spleen, he observed, that Harriet would have matters settled in her own way; for she never regarded what was due to herself. “I could have done very well without my apartment for a week,” added he, “and without dispossessing her of a room she likes; and I suppose these good people will not stay longer than a few days; for I think they will soon be tired of us.” “I hope not,” answered I, “for I expect much amusement from them.” “A few hours will lessen your enjoyment,” replied he gravely, “of any amusement which makes no appeal to your taste and understanding: you will not find in novelty an equivalent for ignorance and vulgarity. As for the husband of our cousin, I am prepared to find in him one of those characters which more peculiarly disgust me; for unless he has more modesty and common sense than the generality of that class of men who are elevated by wealth to stations which neither their birth nor attainments in knowledge can make easy to them, he will soon weary me. I understand he has already dropped the taylor for the contractor; and, without doubt, fancies himself qualified to rank with any of his superiors.” I saw that the blood royal of Malcolm King of Scotland, or at least of the Highlanders, was not exhausted by flowing through the veins of Sir Murdoch and his progenitors for so many centuries. It mounted to his face; and I should have smiled saucily, had I not recollected the pure reservoir it filled in the baronet’s bosom. I can pardon this childish vanity, Lucy, when I see it qualified by an honest pride; and if by a consciousness of the eminence of our ancestors, in the annals of time, which blazon forth their glory and virtue, we be emulated to follow in the same track, it is well. But in Sir Murdoch I regard with lenity even a little pride of heart for the shadow of greatness; any thing which gives to him self-consequence, and self-confidence is useful to him, as tending to repress the painful recollection of those hours, when by his malady, he was levelled lower than the dust; and under which the boasted prerogatives of man, and all the adventitious circumstances of his place in this world, are sunk in darkness! A little vanity will not hurt my patient; and it is the pleasure of my life here, to see that I can make him laugh at my follies, and forget his own infirmities. Farewell!

Yours, faithfully,

Rachel Cowley.

P. S. The Heartleys, with their beaux left us yesterday. Poor Malcolm wishes the Serges had taken the unknown route to “Vales.” “But man is born to trouble.” He could not leave his father to the burden of Mr. Serge. Heaven preserve you! We are well; and the domestic arrangements necessary for our expected visitors have been useful to Lady Maclairn—She thinks less.

LETTER XXXIX.

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!

LETTER XL.

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

Your

Rachel Cowley.

LETTER XLII.

From the same to the same.

Our good doctor will have a more rich and costly offering from the grateful Mr. Serge, than any that ostentation or superstition ever gave to Esculapius, or to any saint in the Roman calendar, if he can manage to keep his patient as many years as he has done hours from the cruel invader, pain. Yet I am angry with Douglass’s honesty; he tells me that this poor girl cannot live long; and that even the medicine we fancy so efficacious, will soon lose its benign effect. “She knows her condition,” added he with sympathy, “and has only the wish of seeing her father more reconciled to the thoughts of losing her; but we must let him enjoy the present, and trust for the future to that Being who will support him.”

The day before yesterday, Miss Leonora and myself went to Bishop’s Auckland for an airing. The dapper Mr. William Willet, Mr. Serge’s servant, attended us: and I, very successfully, conducted the whisky to Mrs. Crofts’ door. The good old lady received us with great kindness; and after making a few purchases, her daughter attended us to the circulating library, the principal object with Miss Nora. We found this shop was in the same street with Susan Crofts’, and its rival for smartness. My companion, who had languished for books at the Hall, instantly proceeded to make an ample selection. Scores were produced that had been read—a score at least put aside for her use; and I thought our business finished here, when Miss Leonora accidentally took up a new novel which “she had been dying to see for a month;” but the third volume was in circulation: it was hourly expected, however, and the shopman would send it with the fourth and last. This civility would not do. The young lady could not wait: she would purchase the work rather than not have it: she should be quite miserable not to take it home with her, her curiosity having been excited by seeing it within her reach. “Has any of your neighbours this book, Mr. Type?” asked Miss Crofts; “perhaps, by sending, you might get the volume for the young lady.” “He would endeavour: a gentleman at the Mitre had hired it the preceding day, and perhaps he had done with it.” He alertly stepped to the door to cross to the inn, when, as quickly returning to make way for the envied possessor of the third volume, he began to urge his request, and the young lady’s wishes for the complete set of the work. A graceful compliance followed from a very handsome man of about thirty; and who, addressing me, very gallantly declared that “he was inexpressibly flattered in contributing in the smallest degree to Miss Cowley’s wishes and pleasure.” Miss Cowley, who saw no necessity for incurring an obligation where the obliger had so manifest an advantage over her, in regard to his knowledge of her name, only coldly bowed, and said that not having any peculiar interest to gratify by his politeness, she would refer him to her young friend for those thanks due for his indulgence of her curiosity. “I am indeed, sir,” said Miss Serge, “extremely obliged to you; but I shall not long detain the work, for I read very quick. To-morrow evening they will be returned, or the next morning at furthest.” He bowed, and we left the shop, ordering the books to Susan Crofts’. In our way I asked Susan the name of this civil gentleman who had been so ready to contribute to “Miss Cowley’s” happiness. “He was a stranger, lately come to Bishop’s Aukland. He lodged at the Mitre Inn, she believed, for she had seen him there several times within a day or two, and she thought him a very handsome man.” “I think he has a very good person,” replied I. “He thinks so himself, I am certain,” observed Miss Nora, “by the elaborate pains he takes to display it.” I made no answer, for I perceived that gratitude had not banished the young lady’s displeasure, in having been overlooked for the gentleman’s “Miss Cowley.” Mrs. Crofts in our absence had sent for my frost-bitten friends from their school, and had set out her cake and wine, whilst Willet was stowing the cargo of books in the vehicle, and waiting with it at the door. My greetings with the children detained me some little time: I did not perceive even that my companion had quitted the parlour till I rose to depart; but concluded, when I did miss her, that she was in the shop. I was mistaken, she was not there; but approaching the door, expecting to find her by the carriage, I saw her coming from Mr. Type’s with hasty steps. On expressing my surprise at her absence, she told me that she had fortunately discovered, in taking out her purse to pay Miss Crofts, that she had left her pocketbook on the bookseller’s counter, “and judging it the securest method, I went for it myself,” added she; “luckily I found it, exactly as I supposed, concealed by the books I had rejected. Only think! That coxcomb was still in the shop. How fortunate that he did not see it!” I smiled, for I saw through this little coquetry. “It would not have been pleasant to me, I do assure you,” pursued she, “to have seen it in his hands; for one does not write one’s thoughts for every eye. Neither do I believe it would have pleased Mr. Malcolm to have seen this beau at the Hall on the pretence of giving you your strayed goods.”—“I do not see the drift of your inference,” replied I; “for what concern could Mr. Maclairn have had in a business so exclusively yours? However, I am glad you have recovered your book, and spared the gentleman the trouble of a visit to the Hall.”—“We might, notwithstanding, have made such a visit a diversion for ourselves,” answered she with gaiety; “for, to speak the truth, I think your lover would not be the worse for a little jealousy. He is too secure; and wants the hopes and anxieties of la belle passion to rouse him: You really are as dull as though brother and sister. I cannot conceive how you contrive to keep up your cheerfulness at Tarefield: what with your prudent lover, and the sober routine at the Hall, I think you as much to be pitied as I am.” “Much the same,” answered I, laughing; “for my calamities are as imaginary as your own. I love the country, and the retirement at the Hall; and I am attached to its inmates. I am so completely Malcolm Maclairn’s sister that I am his chief confident, and he reads his love letters to me. He will soon, I trust, be married to a very amiable, deserving young lady, to whom he has been attached several years: she resides with her mother in this neighboured; but she is at present from home.” “Good heavens!” exclaimed Miss Nora with a pretty theatrical air, “you make me envy this Phillis! With such a swain as Mr. Maclairn, and with a mind suitable to her situation in life, and the society in which she will probably pass all her days, how happy is her condition when compared with mine!” “Miss Heartley,” replied I, “has been educated by a mother who has prepared her to act properly in every society and situation in life. Mrs. Heartley has lived in the world, and is a superior woman.” “My lot, then,” said she, “is misery to this young lady’s!” She spoke with emotion. “Do not answer me,” continued she, “till you have reflected on my reasons for discontent. With an education which has taught me to blush at ignorance, and to be offended by vulgarity; accustomed to enjoy with girls of fashion, rank, and fortune, the advantages and the hopes which have resulted from my situation with them; I am now doomed to live in a society, in which I am hourly exposed to give offence and to be offended. Be ingenuous, my dear Miss Cowley! Tell me, do you think that seven years and more passed in one of the first schools in town, can have rendered me a fit inmate for my father’s house, or a suitable companion for my mother’s acquaintance? I read in your countenance that my appeal has reached your heart. Can you be surprised that I am disgusted and repining in parties composed of shopkeepers and their wives, masters of ships, and genteel people who, in my mother’s dialect, live “right up,” viz. on their little fortune, and who, fancying they are gentry, because they have no longer the drudgery of opening a shop and standing behind its counter, affect airs truly ridiculous, and even sickening to me. It was entirely owing to Caroline’s influence with my father that we came hither, instead of being dragged down to Y—m—th with a party of my mother’s “hold” friends, Mr. Crimp the coal merchant and his family; and it was not without some difficulty that we prevailed on my mother to give up the tower of Norfolk which these her hold friends had proposed. But I would have died sooner than have submitted! I have met with mortifications at Bath, which will prevent my having the folly of ever being seen again in a place of public resort without proper introduction! This was a fear I never experienced at school, when looking forwards to my freedom from its confinement. Miss Serge, the contracter’s daughter, was there on a level with the first girls in the house; nor was there one pupil in it whose masters were more liberally paid, for my mother chose I should make them presents every vacation; and she was equally attentive to secure me favour with the governess and teachers. Amongst the girls to whom I was particularly attached were the two Miss Gudgeons. Their father Sir Ambrose was dead; and their mother, Lady Gudgeon, lived too gay a life to think much of their comforts or wants. Almira Gudgeon confided to me her discontents and difficulties; and in return she shared my purse. It grieved me to leave her at school during the holidays; and on my mentioning to my father and mother those neglected girls, they invited them to Putney the following vacation. Lady Gudgeon made no objection; and from that time my friends always accompanied me home. Last midsummer they were removed from school, and sent down to their mother’s house in Berkshire. From this place I received poor Almira’s melancholy letters: though then turned of seventeen, she lived immured at the Dale with no other company than that of her sister, an old nurse, and the gardener’s family. The winter approached, and I had the pleasure of hearing that my beloved Almira and her sister would be brought out at Bath, as soon as the Birth Day was over. Lady Gudgeon having been with them for a week, and finding Clara in danger of growing too fat, had engaged to introduce her with her sister, on condition that she left off suppers and took more exercise. You may judge of the joy I felt on gaining my mother’s promise of taking me to Bath; and the still greater satisfaction I had on finding that Lydia was included in the family party, instead of being left with me at Mrs. S——’s, as preparatory to reconciling her to the confinement and instruction she was thought to want. I had foreseen the ridicule I must have braved; and with a heart exulting at this escape, and palpitating with expected pleasure, and the hope of meeting my friends, we reached Bath, and settled ourselves on the South Parade.

“In a few days after our arrival Lady Gudgeon’s name appeared on the list of new comers, and my joy was complete. Her ladyship’s condescension enchanted my mother; and kind hearted as she is, the Miss Gudgeons constantly received from her hands tickets for the play, and their mother found a carriage at her command. During the space of three weeks, or a month, we constantly made one party. I saw my mother nightly paying for her lessons at Lady Gudgeon’s vingt-et-une table; but of what importance was a little money to my father? Yet he appeared every day to like the Gudgeons less and less; and at length forbad my mother’s playing cards at the Rooms with her ladyship, or going to her parties at home. On some occasions it is in vain to reason with my father. My mother submitted, and I was told that my young friends were silly, giddy girls, who did me no good. I perfectly understood that my father had judged with precision on Clara Gudgeon’s character; for I knew she was deceitful and selfish, and she had shown herself to me in her true colours from the first ball in which I had been noticed for my dancing. I also was no stranger to her malice from the time her favourite Captain Fairly became attentive and polite to me. Caroline’s increasing illness at this juncture prevented our amusements, and gave an ostensible reason for my mother’s declining Lady Gudgeon’s invitations. At length Caroline was better; and my mother joined a family party, who lodged at the next house, and with whom my father was become very sociable. As I had been engaged to dance with Captain Fairly at this ball, I was not willing to be disappointed; and knowing that I should meet the Miss Gudgeons, I meant to join them, when at the Rooms. My mother had already placed herself at a card-table with her new acquaintance when Lady Gudgeon entered the room. Following the example of the young lady, my companion, I kept close by my mother’s side, waiting for Captain Fairly’s summons. ‘How is this, my dear Mrs. Serge?’ cried Lady Gudgeon, advancing towards her with a smile; ‘you here! and a deserter! But you will find your place, when your rubber is up.’—‘I thank your ladyship,’ replied my unembarrassed mother, ‘but, to tell you the truth, I do not like your game so well as vhist, for I do not so well understand it.’ A stifled titter from the surrounding groupe followed this speech. ‘As you please, Mrs. Serge,’ answered her ladyship, moving on without deigning to notice me, or the smile of contempt from those she passed. She took her post, opened the cards, and sent for her daughters. They had, I presume, their instructions; for in passing me they did not see me, and in repassing me I was saluted with a broad stare and a giggle, which I had seen too often practised not to comprehend. I was prepared for the neglect I met with in the dance. The Miss Gudgeons neither spoke nor deigned to turn hands with me, and whilst their heads were adorned with feathers and turbands of my giving, their looks of scorn cut me to the soul. Captain Fairly saw my distress, and their rudeness; and said something to Clara on her carelessness in the dance. With an insolent laugh she asked him whether his credit was out with his old taylor, that he so diligently courted a new one. This was too much for me to bear, and I gave up dancing for the remainder of the evening. But my mortifications were not yet finished. After having heard my mother announce that arts were trumps, seen her mark her onours, and win the rubber, although she had the curse of Scotland every time in her and, the party broke up, and the lady proposed going into the ball room to give her daughter a caution to dance no more. On entering it I was astonished to see my good father quietly standing, with his two thumbs hooked under each arm, and enjoying the sight of the dancers. He expressed his surprise at finding me idle, and said he had come on purpose to see me dance, having left Caroline purely. Fairly urged me to go down the dance then commencing, and encouraged by him, I was determined to show my spirit. In our way we encountered Miss Clara Gudgeon. ‘By your leave, fair lady,’ cried my father, bustling through the groupe. ‘Bless me!’ said Miss Clara, ‘is it you Mr. Serge? Are you come to see fashions?’—‘Even so,’ replied he, ‘but if you are of my mind you will think those at Putney as good as any here, and, for ought I can see, you footed it away in my parlour with ten couple as merrily as you do here. But where is Almira? I hope she has her Putney holiday face; for yours seems as clouded as when your six weeks’ gambols finished with us.’ ‘I really cannot direct you, sir,’ answered she, retreating; ‘but if you cannot see her, she will undoubtedly soon perceive you.’ A loud laugh, and a disdainful toss of her head accompanied this speech; but my father, not conceiving that her intention could be uncivil, went on searching for Almira, till I told him that they had been offended by my mother’s not joining her ladyship’s party. He only nodded, and said it was all very well. From this time the Gudgeons were strangers to us; and because Captain Fairly chose to be civil they cut him. He laughed at their impertinence; but I had no pleasure at Bath after this, as you may imagine.”