LETTER V.

_From the same to the same._

Without entering into your comments on the power of bribery when in such hands as mine, I will content myself with my influence over an affection which can be just to friendship and yet faithful to duty. I appeal to your understanding, Lucy; has there been one wish to render your good offices hurtful to your father, or pernicious to Horace and myself, yet offered to ensnare you? I have a right to hear of his welfare; and by detailing the little occurrences which mark our respective existences, you are doing no harm. Your conditions are accepted with joy, as the means of producing comfort to my _brother_. You shall have my day-journals, and night-journals, if you will; my very dreams shall be sent you. Ah! would to Heaven you could give me Horace’s!

To begin, however, with your “_method_.” My first night’s repose at Tarefield was disturbed by Mary Howard’s image and my own fretfulness. The dawn of day presented to my sight Solomon, in his judgment-seat, who grinned upon me with an aspect not less savage than that of the two viragoes who held the sprawling boy between them; for, sooth to say, no one could have traced the mother’s features, or the clemency of the judge in the mass of worsted employed; and I believe the face of the lions that decorated the ascent to the throne, was the common one for the whole multitude of countenances that filled the room. Weary of looking at this odious tapestry, I arose, and explored my way into the garden. Here, indeed, I found the sweet perfumes of nature and the god of day; but for the rest let the poet speak—

“Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother, And half the platform just reflects the other; The suffering eye inverted Nature sees, Trees cut as statues, statues cut as trees.”

This being too much in the style of the tapestry in the bed-chamber, soon tired me; and seeing the servants about, I sauntered into the avenue. Here the horse-chesnut trees, in all their pride, attracted my attention for a few minutes; but I was soon allured towards an object still more inviting. Mary was before me, walking with the light-foot of a Dryad, and your not inactive friend bounded after her. Exercise and surprise heightened the vermillion in her cheek, and with a sweet and graceful modesty she saluted me with the usual compliments. I gave the reins to my heart, and it was not idle. She said I was very good; that indeed it would greatly enhance to her the pleasure of walking in a morning if she were _permitted_ to attend me, but her aunt frequently wanted her services. She would, however, endeavour to gain an hour sometimes, for the honour of walking with me. A certain trepidation and looking on all sides marked some fear; and I was on the point of encouraging more confidence, when we saw the baronet approaching us. He was wrapped up in an old plaid morning gown, his head enveloped in a black silk cap, and his attention was engaged by clearing a tattered silk sash from the interposing brambles. He started on seeing me, and would, I believe, have retracted had not my voice detained him. On accosting him his poor sallow face was in confusion, and with a forced smile he asked me whether he had not frightened me, glancing his eyes to his uncouth habiliments. I took his arm, and rattled over some account of my having frightened Miss Howard. He became easy and cheerful, and told me that Mary and he had very often an assignation to keep in the avenue at too early an hour for the business of the toilet. The turret clock sounded eight, and Mary left us. You may suppose she became the subject of our conversation. “She is,” said he, “as faultless in mind as in person; my wife says she is the image of her mother’s pure and now beatified soul; but that she is also like her father, not only in her person, but in a firmness of character which her mother wanted. Her parents were unfortunate,” continued he, with his usual depression of voice and head when afflicted. “She is in the hands of an aunt who hated them; a woman naturally harsh and violent. We cannot controul her power, without danger to ourselves; but we suffer deeply from being the witnesses of this poor girl’s mortifications. My wife, Miss Cowley, is a mother; her son Philip is Miss Flint’s favourite; she has called him _her heir_ from her cradle, and she has exacted in return from his mother, a submission which has annihilated even the wish of being independent. She is gentle, humane, and unambitious, but she is—a slave——! These domestic grievances will not long escape your observation. I am passive; for my Harriet wishes me not to interfere. I only dread lest you should despise us.” “Be assured, Sir Murdock,” answered I with seriousness, “that this fear is groundless; I am more disposed to pity than to blame. As a stranger I remarked Miss Flint’s ungracious and petulant manner, and I honestly confess I pitied _her_. She might yet be corrected; a little wholesome contradiction is all that is necessary.” “You have only to try an easier experiment,” replied he, smiling, “and you will succeed by only engaging to marry her idol.” “Were I but privileged,” answered I, “you should see her perfectly tamed by my employing nothing more than her own arts of tormenting. I doubt not but in the first instance _her idol_, as you call her young brother, secured his power in this way.”

“Indeed you are mistaken,” said he, “Philip Flint was ever mindful of his own honour, though grateful for an affection, unbounded in its liberality to him.”

Lady Maclairn’s appearance prevented more. She came to summons us to breakfast, and with the utmost frankness told me that she had been to pay her respects to Mrs. Allen, who was very busy with her band-boxes, and had ordered a breakfast and a maid-servant into her apartment. She conducted me, whilst chatting, to the “Old Wing,” in which Miss Flint more particularly holds her state; and we found her richly decorated, and waiting for us at a tea-board most splendidly set out. Sir Murdock had mechanically, I suspect, followed our steps, and entered the room with us. Miss Lucretia’s face flushed a deeper dye. “Good God, Sir Murdock!” exclaimed she, “you are enough to frighten one in _that trim_.” “Did I frighten you?” asked he in a plaintive tone, and with a look which would have softened any Flint but the one before him. He was retreating. “I will have no infringement of our treaty of amity,” cried I gaily, and gently placing him on the sofa beside me. “It is my turn to frighten you to-morrow morning, by shewing myself in my wrapping gown and night-cap. We have nothing to do with ceremony and constraint: let those have it who fancy they are never dressed without white-fingered gloves.” I glanced my saucy eyes on Miss Flint’s starched muslins; she perceived the application, but I was _en train_; and affecting to be hungry, I took a roll and divided it between my silent neighbour and myself; and finding Lady Maclairn was to preside at the silver tea-board, I impatiently begged a cup of chocolate. Then, with well-counterfeited recollection, I said, “But where is Miss Howard? she is better entitled to her breakfast than I am, for she was walking before me.” “Mary does not breakfast with me,” replied Miss Flint, “she has it in her own room.” “I am glad I have so good a precedent to produce for my humour,” answered I, “though it deprives me of present pleasure; I also usually breakfast in my own room, for I regard an hour in the morning as the most precious in the day. But as a stranger,” added I, smiling, “may I presume to ask when, and at what hour, I may hope to see this beautiful creature? Does she dine also in her own room?” This question was answered with much haughtiness. “As a stranger, Miss Cowley,” said she gravely, “it may _surprise_ you, to find so near a relation of mine under restrictions which I deem proper. Mary knows my views; these extend no farther than to make her useful, and to qualify her for the station in life which the imprudent conduct of her parents has destined her to fill. She must be humble. Besides,” continued she, relaxing into more civility, “your praises of her beauty quite alarm me, and would turn her silly head. She is young, and vain and silly enough to think herself a very pretty girl.” “Why, my dear Madam,” asked I, laughing at the extreme gravity of this remark, “how in the name of common sense, can Miss Howard think otherwise of a face and a person so exquisitely formed, and so consonant to every idea she can have of beauty and grace?” “Oh, as to that point,” answered she with a toss of her head, “she will soon discover, if her pride do not stand in her way, that beauty is all fancy, and the face she worships may not be thought worth a second look by another.” “I grant,” answered I, “the justness of your observation in a general way: I know that our ideas of beauty are in many instances local, and depend on taste; I will do more, I will grant, that in many parts of the habitable globe Miss Howard’s personal charms might be regarded as _deformities_: but as she is in a country which secures her from any competition with flat-nosed, long-eared, and black-skinned beauties, I do not see how you can prevent her knowing that she is peculiarly endowed with those external advantages, to which her situation and the acknowledged taste and opinion of those around her, have given the power of attraction and the tribute of admiration.” “You may say what you will,” replied Miss Lucretia, with an asperity of tone in unison with her harsh features; “but I wish from my soul this poor girl had no beauty. We have had enough of that perishable commodity in our family! Besides,” added she, softening her voice, “you appear to have overlooked a lesson which every handsome girl ought to know. I have heard many _sensible men_, Miss Cowley, observe, that the best sauce for the relish of beauty, is the _ignorance_ which the possessor has of its power to call forth admiration, or to attract notice and favour.” “I should have told ‘your sensible men,’” replied I, “that I well knew the taste for ‘Moliere’s Agnes’ was not yet worn out. Ignorance is more friendly to the sensualist than to the moralist; and I always suspect those who wish to see a young woman unconscious of her own advantages. It is also, in my opinion, illiberal, and unjust to conclude that a woman is vain because she is handsome. A weak understanding has, in numberless instances, given to even ugly and deformed women a conceit of themselves, which is as pitiable as it is ridiculous; and we see them daily exhibiting faces and persons with the most entire persuasion of their being attractive, which excite only disgust and ill-natured animadversions. No, no, Madam,” continued I, “beauty does not of necessity make a woman a fool; a plain understanding and a very little experience will teach her to appreciate it justly; but she will, and she ought to bring it into that account of gratitude she owes to her Maker; for it is a good gift, inasmuch as it renders us pleasing in the eyes of our fellow-creatures, and conciliates that affection which would otherwise be languid and careless.”

The baronet had not apparently given his attention to one word of this conversation, for though his eyes were fixed on me, he seemed totally absorbed in his own reflexions. “You have not listened to this debate, my dear Sir Murdock,” observed his wife, pressing his passive hand, “otherwise I would call upon you as umpire between the contending parties.” “You are mistaken,” answered he smiling, “I have not lost a syllable of what has passed, and my decision is ready. No adventitious advantages will engender conceit or vanity in a mind that has solidity, and that rests upon those principles which alone can bestow _real excellence_ and produce _permanent esteem_. But I am curious to know by what means Miss Cowley has acquired the wisdom to estimate so justly an advantage which it must be confessed, with her face and at her age, one would not have expected.”—“I will convince you,” replied I with gravity, “that if I am not vain, it is because I am proud. I was educated by a woman, who, to good sense, joined every virtue that adorns the female character.” Her example, as much as her precepts, contributed to form me: and such was her influence, that to resemble Mrs. Hardcastle was the purpose of my life, even before I was qualified to judge of her merit, or to measure the ascent I had to gain in my approaches to her perfections. Mrs. Hardcastle was a handsome woman; but she was neither vain nor affected. Yet I will confess, I wished to be as handsome as Mrs. Hardcastle, who was indeed a beautiful woman; for I particularly noticed the consideration her elegant person produced before strangers. But a lesson, which I still remember, checked, it may be, the vanity of the girl. I was, when about twelve or thirteen years old, one morning alone with my mother, as I called Mrs. Hardcastle, when our reading was interrupted by the visit of a neighbouring gentleman, who had however been some months on a tour. No sooner had he received the frank and easy welcome of Mrs. Hardcastle, than he examined me; and with the most elaborate praise spoke of my improvement, growth, and _extraordinary beauty_. During these commendations, which, although they made me blush, did not offend me, my maternal friend was good humouredly caressing his dog, which was a very ugly cur. “You have not lost your enthusiasm for beauty I perceive,” observed she smiling. “But what is become of your pretty Italian grey-hound? and how happens it that her post is filled up by this miserable looking animal?” “I would not give that dog,” replied he, “for an hundred Italian grey-hounds, each more beautiful than Fidêle. She was not worth the keeping, except as a plaything to my little nephew: but this dog has qualities which are inestimable.” Mrs. Hardcastle laughed, and turning towards me said, with that sweetness which so distinguished her, “You see, my dear girl, the _worth of beauty_ when unfriended by _useful talents_: remember poor Fidêle, and take heed to be something better than a plaything for a _school-boy_.” I did not forget this lesson, and it was the more useful to me, from finding, in the gentleman’s subsequent visits, that whether it was a piece of old china, a tulip, or a young lady’s eyes or complection, he was equally liberal of his praise, and employed much the same language. I was therefore offended by his encomiums; and I am become so proud and fastidious on this point, that I always think the compliments paid to my person, include a sarcasm on my understanding.

“All this argues nothing against my opinion,” said the inflexible virgin. “With your understanding, beauty may not be a dangerous gift, but in ninety and nine instances out of a hundred it is so, and leads the possessor into danger.” “So you may say of health, of spirits, of intellectual endowments, nay, even of life itself,” replied I; “for each in its turn is abused by the folly and passions of a mind unchecked, and uncultivated. But our neglect of a blessing does not lessen the value of the gift; and for my part, were I in your place, I would recommend to Miss Howard, in the enumeration of those mercies she owes to her Maker, _gratitude_ for a form and a face which open to her every bosom in which humanity resides.”—“You ought to be very pious indeed,” replied she, with an air of pique, “for most assuredly there is no comparison between your beauty and Mary’s. She has a pretty baby-face”——“For charity’s sake stop there,” cried I, “I am contented with my face at present, but I do not know what your comparison may produce. I think it too good a one to be mended by cold cream or Spanish wool; and I know it is too honest a one for a deceitful heart. As a good title page I am thankful for it, and I will take heed that the work within shall not disgrace it, when read by the eye of truth.”

What, my Lucy, could occasion the deep blush which suffused Lady Maclairn’s countenance when I said this, merely with a view to finish a conversation I was weary of, and which detained me from going to Mrs. Allen? I had risen from my seat whilst speaking, and saw a tear escape from her eye. Would a mind unacquainted with guilt have felt so random a dart? I know what will be your answer. However, it was evident I had touched a sensitive plant; and my retreat was necessary. I reminded the baronet of his promise to assist me in arranging our books, without any diminution of my gaiety. “Do with me what you please,” replied he, “so that I am not in your way: but shall I not surprise Mrs. Allen by my appearance?” He glanced his eyes to his tattered gown, “We will run the hazard,” said I, passing my arm through his, “for it is ten to one but she is in her night-cap, and chiding my idleness.” He smiled. “Lucy, I would you could see this man’s countenance when thus lightened up! Surely, never did Heaven more graciously decorate the face of woe! It is with an expression, which not only awakens compassion, but which also produces reverence.”

As I had foreseen, Mrs. Allen had made our task light. It was well she had; for to say the truth, the baronet was so entirely engaged by Humphrey Clinker as to forget his office altogether. Lady Maclairn soon after found Mrs. Allen and myself busily engaged in our work. She with alacrity assisted us, and, with a look of sweet and composed tranquillity directed to her husband, she said, in a half whisper, “Are you aware, my dear Miss Cowley, that I am incurring a debt which I can never pay? Heaven, who appears to have commissioned you to heal the broken-in-spirit, can alone recompense you. But you will know more of the being you will save; and you will understand that my gratitude must need language, for I have not words that can express my feelings.” She pressed my hand with fervour. “What will you say,” continued she, “when I tell you that he has been inquiring after his turning-wheel, and talking to me of renewing an employment in which he formerly delighted! You are the spring of his activity; he means to make you a reading-desk. Are not these blessed indications of his amendment?” I found no difficulty, Lucy, in translating Lady Maclairn’s language or expression while she was thus speaking. She loves her husband. _Time_, your grand specific, will settle my opinions as they relate to this lady; in the meanwhile, I cannot well account for her secret in making me like and dislike her by turns. Sometimes she appears the most artless and ingenuous of her sex; her conversation becomes animated, and her thoughts flow with a frankness as unpremeditated as your giddy Rachel’s. The next hour I see her, she is silent and ceremonious, conceding to all that is done, tremblingly alive to all that is said. To-day she offended me at dinner. Miss Flint sharply reprimanded her niece, for not being in the room before the last bell rang. The innocent creature mildly said, she had been in the garden with Sir Murdock, who had detained her. Why was Lady Maclairn silent? Ought she not to have checked Miss Flint in the display of an ill humour, for which the cause was so trifling? I wish to see more of a decided protection in her manner to this poor girl. Her civility does not content me, and I sometimes fancy there is a _servility_ in her observances, that marks a little mind.

I have well earned my promised recompence. I shall expect a long detail of Horace’s adventures by sea and land: if you fail, farewell to your gossiping historian,

RACHEL COWLEY.

CHAP VI.