MANNERS:
A NOVEL.
Ingenium par materiæ.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR BALDWIN, CRADOCK, AND JOY,
PATERNOSTER ROW.
1817.
MANNERS.
CHAPTER I.
To live on little with a cheerful heart—
(A doctrine sage, but truly none of mine)
Let's talk, my friends,——
In the retired village of Deane, in Yorkshire, lived for many years one of those unfortunate females ycleped an old maid; a title which generally exposes the possessor to every species of contempt, however inoffensive, or even worthy, the individual may be, thus unluckily designated.
Mrs. Martin, the lady alluded to, was certainly one of those more "sinned against than sinning;" for malice itself could not accuse her of one uncharitable thought, word, or action: and even her enemies, if enemies she had, must have acknowledged, that "Poor Mrs. Martin had a good heart," however inferior she might be in understanding to those, who affected to despise her unassuming merits. She was one of those worthy good people, who never did a wicked thing, and never said a wise one; and who, therefore, are seldom mentioned without some epithet of contemptuous pity by those, who at least wish to be considered of an entirely opposite character. She lived in a contented mediocrity, "aboon distress below envy," humble, and good natured, with a most happy temperament, both moral and physical; in friendship with all the world, and devoutly believing all the world in friendship with her, and indeed in that respect at least her judgment did not err; for few people were more generally beloved than "Poor Mrs. Martin." She always had a ready laugh for the awkward jests of her neighbours, and to the distressed she as willingly gave her equally ready tear.—Her income was extremely limited, yet she still contrived to spare a mite to those still poorer than herself, and to her trifling donations she added such cordially interested enquiries, and such well intentioned advice, that her mercy was indeed "twice blest."—To her other good qualities she joined that of being a most excellent manager. All the village acknowledged, that "Poor Mrs. Martin's sweetmeats, and poor Mrs. Martin's bacon, were the best in the place;" nor were there many seasons so unproductive in her little garden, as to deprive her of the pride and pleasure of bestowing a bottle of currant wine, or a pot of raspberry jam, on her more opulent though less thrifty neighbour.—Her house, which was in the middle of the village, was only distinguished from those around it by its superior neatness: a court, about the dimensions of a modern dinner table, which she facetiously termed her pleasure ground, divided it from the principal, indeed the only street, and was separated from it by a few white rails;—a little walk curiously paved in different coloured stones was the approach to the hall door, and the grass on each side was ornamented by a circular bed bordered with reversed oyster shells, and containing each a few rose trees. The house boasted of one window corresponding to each flower bed on the ground floor; and of three above stairs, the centre one of which, being Mrs. Martin's own bed room, was ornamented with an old fender painted green, which served as a balcony to support three flourishing geraniums, and a stock July flower, that "wasted its sweetness on the desert air" out of a broken tea pot, which had been carefully treasured by this thrifty housewife as a substitute for a flower pot. The hall door, which always stood open in fine weather, was decorated with a clean but useless brass knocker, and a conspicuous rush mat; whilst the narrow passage, to which it led, presented, as its sole furniture, a huge clock, on which Mrs. Martin's only attendant Peggy often boasted no spider was ever known to rest, and whose gigantic case filled the whole space from wall to wall. The left hand window, whose dark brown shutters were carefully bolted back on the outside, illuminated a kitchen, where cheerful cleanliness amply compensated for want of size;—opposite to it was the only parlour, of the same proportions, and of equal neatness; a small Pembroke table, that, with change of furniture, served the purpose of dinner, breakfast, or card table; white dimity curtains, and a blind that was for any thing rather than use, as it was never closed; half a dozen chairs, that once had exhibited resplendent ornaments of lilies and roses, painted in all the colours of the rainbow, but whose honours had long since faded under the powerful and unremitting exertions of Peggy's scrubbing brush; a corner cupboard, the top shelf of which with difficulty contained a well polished japanned tea tray, where a rosy Celadon, in a brilliant scarlet coat, sighed most romantically at the feet of Lavinia in a plume of feathers; and the best cups and saucers, ranged in regular order, filled the ranks below;—a book shelf, which, besides containing a Bible, Sir Charles Grandison, a few volumes of the Spectator, and occasionally a well thumbed novel from Mr. Salter's circulating library, was also the repository for various stray articles, such as the tea caddy, Mrs. Martin's knitting, and receipt book, transcribed by her niece Lucy; and lastly, a barbarous copy of Bunbury's beautiful print of Jenny Grey, the highly prized, and only production of Lucy's needle, while attending Miss Slater's genteel "academy for young ladies," composed the furniture of this little room.
But its chief ornament, and Mrs. Martin's greatest pride (next to Lucy herself), was a glass door, that opened into her demesne: a plot of ground, containing about an acre and a half, which was kitchen garden, flower garden, and orchard, all in one. This glass door had been a present of young Mr. Mordaunt's, in whose company Mrs. Martin had often undesignedly lamented, that the sole entrance to her garden was through the scullery, and, on her return from her only visit to London, about two years before this narration commences, she had been most agreeably surprised by the improvement in question.—Various and manifold were the speculations, to which this little piece of good natured gallantry had given rise in the simple mind of Mrs. Martin.—"Indeed, indeed, she never thought of his doing such a thing! so generous! so kind! and then his manner was always so obliging and polite; it could not certainly be for herself that he took the trouble of ordering the glass door; and she remembered very well, when he called after their return from London, that he said he was very glad to see a town life had agreed so well with Lucy, though Mrs. Crosbie had very good naturedly said, she thought she didn't look half so well as before she went. To be sure, she never saw him talk much to Lucy, but then she was so shy!"—Mrs. Martin had been standing for some minutes at this same glass door, one fine evening in July, indulging in a similar reverie, when it was suddenly interrupted by the abrupt entrance of Lucy, who, with as much concern in her countenance as her vacant unmeaning features could express, exclaimed—"La! Aunt, he won't come to-night after all!"—"Not come, child!"
And now, what with the disposal of the bonnets, the arrangement of the chairs, and the repetition of observations on the weather, and inquiries after the health of each individual present, the time was fully occupied, till the arrival of Peggy, with a bright copper tea kettle in one hand, and a well buttered, smoking hot Sally Lunn in the other, put an end to the confusion of tongues, and assembled the party in temporary silence round the tea table.—But Mrs. Martin's natural loquacity, added to her incessant desire to be civil, soon induced her to interrupt the momentary calm, and, while she spread her snow white pocket handkerchief on her knees, as a preparation for her attack on the Sally Lunn, she addressed her neighbour, the attorney, with—"Well, Mr. Crosbie, what did you think of our sermon last evening; it was a delightful one, wasn't it?"—"Yes, a very good, plain sermon, Mrs. Martin; but, with all deference to your better judgment, Mrs. Martin, I think your friend Mr. Temple doesn't show as much learning in the pulpit as he might do."—"Learning!" quoth his amicable spouse, "I never can believe that man is a learned man; I could make as good a sermon myself."—"Non constat, my love," replied Mr. Crosbie; "though I often think you would have done very well for a parson, you are so fond of always having the last word." Probably the gentle Mrs. Crosbie would have given the company a specimen of her talents for lecturing, had she not acquired a habit of never attending to what her husband said: she had therefore, fortunately, no doubt, during his speech, profited by the opportunity of overhearing Mrs. Martin's and Mrs. Lucas's discussion, respecting the appearance at church the evening before of the party from Webberly House, consisting of Mrs. Sullivan and her two elder daughters, the Miss Webberlys.—"I declare, I wasn't sure they were come down yet," said Mrs. Martin, "till I saw their two great footmen bring their prayer books into church, and their cushions; Mrs. Sullivan looks quite plump and well."—"Yes, indeed, she looks remarkably well;" answered the assenting Mrs. Lucas.—"Well!" retorted Mrs. Crosbie—"I think she is going into a dropsy; her face is for all the world like a Cheshire cheese."—"It certainly does look as if it was a little swelled," replied the complacent Mrs. Lucas—"Dear me," rejoined Mr. Lucas, "I must certainly call at Webberly House, and inquire after the health of the family; I thought they never left town till August: perhaps they are come down for change of air."—"And Lucy and I must pay our respects to them too, they are always so very polite."—"They are never very civil, I take it," said Mrs. Crosbie; "I believe, in my heart, they would never come near their country neighbours, but to show off their town airs on them."—"Well, for my part," observed Mr. Crosbie, "with due deference be it spoken, I think town airs should be laid by for town people, kept in usum jus habentis, for those who understand 'em."—"That's what you never could do, my dear," replied the lady.—Mrs. Lucas, as usual, slipping in an assenting nod to every successive observation from each person, while she as unremittingly attended to the tea and cake. "Well, I'm sure, at all events," said her daughter Nancy, "they are very genteel: what a lovely green bonnet the little Miss Webberly had on!—she's the eldest, I believe."—"I'm sure, if the bonnet was lovely, the face under it wasn't; the two together are for all the world like a full blown daffodil in its green case."
Notwithstanding Mrs. Crosbie had thus taken occasion to express her dislike of the family in general, she was not less ready than the rest of the little circle to pay her annual visit at Webberly House; and, as all were anxious to wait on the ladies in question, either from motives of civility, or interest, or curiosity, it was speedily settled, that the party should adjourn thither on the following morning. All particulars of their dress, their conveyance, &c., being finally arranged, the four seniors of Mrs. Martin's visitors sat down to penny whist, while she seated herself at the corner of the card table, ready to cut in, snuff candles, or make civil observations between the deals.
Lucy, and Nancy Lucas, strolled into the garden, ostensibly to pull currants, but, in reality, to talk over Mr. Brown, the apothecary's apprentice, and Mr. Slater's hopeful son and heir, whose professed admiration of Miss Lucas had lately been eclipsed by a flash of military ardour, that had induced him to enter into the Yorkshire militia. At length Mrs. Martin's fears of the damp grass and evening dew induced the two eternal friends to return to the parlour, where the fortunate attainment of an odd trick, by finishing the rubber, broke up the little party, who dispersed with much the same bustle with which they had entered. While Mrs. Martin pursued her retreating visitors as far as the white pales, with renewed offers of a glass of currant wine, hopes and fears relative to the company catching cold, and assurances that she and Lucy would certainly be ready before eleven o'clock for Mr. Lucas, with a profusion of thanks for his offer of calling for them in his gig.
CHAPTER II.
About eleven next day, a crazy machine, in the days of our grandfathers called a noddy, appeared at Mrs. Martin's door. In it was seated Mr. Lucas in his best black suit and flaxen wig, with his gold-headed cane between his knees, his hands being sufficiently occupied in reining an ill-trimmed carthorse, every movement of whose powerful hind leg threatened destruction to the awkward vehicle. The good humoured Lucy soon skipped in, and seated herself as bodkin; but to mount Mrs. Martin was a task of greater difficulty, as the gig was of considerable altitude, and the horse,
On the scanty lawn was pitched a marquée; at the foot of it was a pond filled with gold and silver fishes, over which was suspended a Chinese bridge, leading to a grotto and hermitage, at a small distance from the house.—Mr. Lucas, resigning the reins to Lucy, alighted to give notice of the arrival of the party. After a few minutes delay, hasty footsteps were heard in the hall, and a couple of house-maids scudded across, bearing dust-pans and brushes, and running down one of the side passages, called out in no very gentle voice, "William! Edward! here's company!" "Company!" yawned out William, while he stretched his arms to their utmost length, and, as he stopped to look at his fine watch, which, as well as his master's, had numerous seals with French mottos, declared "Pon honour, it isn't one o'clock;" and wondered "what could bring those country-folk at that time o'day!"—then, settling his cravat with one hand, and pulling up his gallowses with the other, leisurely walked to the porch, where, with a gesture between leering and bowing, he most incoherently answered the question of "At home, or not at home;" and without giving himself the trouble of thinking which was actually the case, ushered the visitors into the drawing-room, leaving the business of negotiating their audience to the lady's maid.
The beaming sun displayed the unsubsided dust and motes the house-maids had so lately raised, and the village party were nearly stifled with the effluvia of countless hot-house plants, whose united scent was too strong to be called perfume: their entrance was impeded by stools, cushions, tabourets, squabs, ottomans, fauteuils, sofas, screens, bookstands, flower-stands, and tables of all sorts and sizes. An unguarded push endangered the china furniture of a writing-table, and a painted velvet cushion laid Mr. Crosbie prostrate on the floor. Mr. Lucas, perceiving the difficulties of the navigation, very quietly seated himself behind the door, but not in peace—for he was nearly stunned by the chatter and contentions of a paroquet and a macaw, joined to the shrill song of some indefatigable canaries hung on the outside of the opposite window, which scarcely outvied the yelping of a lap-dog, that Mrs. Martin's centre of gravity had discomfited, when she seated herself in one of the fauteuils. Meantime, Lucy and Nancy, with considerable expertness, gratified themselves with examining the furniture, a task which would probably have occupied them for a week, as the incongruous mixture seemed to resemble the emptying of an upholsterer's room, a china manufactory, and a print-shop. The curtains, five to a window, were hung for all seasons of the year at once, and consisted of rich cloth, scarlet moreen, brilliant chintz, delicate silk, and white muslin, to serve as blinds, fringed with gold. The sofa and chair tribe (for to designate them would require a nomenclature as accurate and extensive as Lavoisier's chemical one,) were covered with every shade of colour, every variety of texture, and were in form Grecian, Chinese, Roman, Egyptian, Parisian, Gothic, and Turkish. The astonished visitors remained in the silence of perplexity for nearly a quarter of an hour, but it was then broken by Mrs. Crosbie exclaiming, with her usual acrimony—"Well, I'm sure, if I was Mrs. Sullivan, and was forced to go to a pawnbroker's for my settee and chair-frames, I would at least make my covers all of a piece!—What folks will do to make up a show!—I'm sure those musty old chests an't a whit better than what's in my grandmother's garret; and I gave my little William the other day, for a play-thing, a china image as like that white woman and child as two peas."—"Though to be sure all these are very fine," said Mrs. Martin, "Sir Henry Seymour's is the house for me; three drawing-rooms with not a pin difference; and up stairs always six bed-rooms of a pattern—then Mrs. Galton is so neat! not a cobweb to be seen in the house.—Bless me, Lucy! your cheek is all dirty, and your gloves such a figure!"—"Why, don't you see," interrupted Mrs. Crosbie, "that the china is brimfull of dust! such slattern folks, pshaw!"—To all which Mrs. Lucas returned her usual assenting, "He—hem!" Mr. Lucas, in time recovering from his first dismay, rose from "The place of his unrest," and, with Mr. Crosbie, proceeded to examine the contents of a mongrel article between a cabinet and a table, on which were thrown rather than placed a variety of curiosities; such as, a stuffed hog-in-armour, a case of tropical birds, flying-fish, sharks' jaws, a petrified lobster, edible swallows' nests, and Chinese balls; with numerous mineral specimens neatly labelled, zeolite, mica, volcanic glass, tourmaline, &c. "Multum in parvo," said Mr. Crosbie, with a smirk at his own latinity; "Young Mr. Webberly must be vastly learned," replied Mr. Lucas, "I should like to talk to him about the plants of the West Indies, and the practice of physic in those parts, for all the planters are obliged to attend to the health of the poor negroes for their own profit, if they don't do it for humanity's sake." Here the good man was electrified by a violent ringing of bells, followed by the sound of a sharp female voice, running through all the notes of the gamut in a scolding tone, of which the visitors could only hear detached sentences, such as, "I insist upon it, you never let them in again—how could you say we were at home? Can I never drive into your silly pate, that we are never at home to a hired post chaise, or to any open carriage, except a curricle and two out-riders, or a landaulet and four?"—"It wasn't me, Miss, it was William; I always attend to your directions ma'am—I denied you the other day to your own uncle and aunt, because they came in a buggy."—"Uncle, Sir! I have no uncle.—Well, I give orders at the porter's lodge to-morrow—Go and ask Miss Wildenheim to receive them; and if she won't, say we are all out; I tell you once for all, I never will be disturbed at my morning studies till four o'clock, and then not except by people of condition." Soon after this tirade, a light foot crossing the hall prepared the confounded party for the entrance of the Iris of this angry Juno. But when Miss Wildenheim opened the door, her elegantly affable curtsy and benignant smile dispersed the gathering frowns on the visages of the disappointed groupe.
This young lady's politeness proceeded from the workings of a kind heart guided
To hide her emotion she rose to ring the bell, apparently for the purpose of ordering a luncheon, which it was the etiquette of the neighbourhood to present to every morning visitor. The greater part of the family were, at that moment, at breakfast, and therefore the summons was not quickly obeyed; but at length a tray was brought in, glittering in all the luxury of china, plate, and glass, and loaded with cold meat, fruit, and a variety of confectionary, at the names or contents of which Mrs. Martin's utmost knowledge of cookery could not enable her to guess. However as she did not consider ignorance in this instance as bliss, she immediately commenced her acquaintance with them; and the whole party, having done ample justice to the repast, prepared to depart; and it was settled that as steps could not easily be procured, the arrangement of the vehicles should be changed, Miss Lucas resigning her place in the post chaise to Mrs. Martin.
Miss Wildenheim had scarcely made her farewell curtsy at the door, when as the carriages drove off Mrs. Martin exclaimed, "What a sweet young lady Miss Wildenheim is." "Oh!" said Mrs. Crosbie, "those French misses have always honey on their lips." "I wonder how she happens to speak such good English, for her eyes, complexion, and accent are quite foreign," observed her spouse. "And I hope you'll add, her manner too," returned the lady: "I was quite ashamed of her when she first came to Webberly House, she used to have so many antics with her hands; now she is something like; but though we have improved her, still her countenance has never the exact same look three minutes together; and if you say a civil thing to her, she grows as red as if you had slapped her in the face." "Mr. Temple told me," said Mrs. Martin, "that she grieved more after Mr. Sullivan, when he died last January, than all the rest of the family put together. He told me one day, poor man, that she was the daughter of a German baron." "Ah, Mrs. Martin," interrupted Mr. Crosbie, laughing, "I'm afraid there was a mistake of gender and case there; a Baronness perhaps she might be daughter to, as an action might lie against me for defamation, I won't say by whom." "You are both wrong," said his wife, "for Mrs. Sullivan's maid informed me, (and she knows but every thing) that Miss Wildenheim was Mr. Sullivan's natural daughter by a German Princess (God forgive him), when he was a general in the Austrian service. I dare say she is a papist, for he was a papist, and they are all papists in foreign parts." "Papist or not," replied Mrs. Martin, "I'm sure she practises the Christian virtue of humility; I wish Miss Webberly would take example by her, and learn to be civil." "I never saw any thing like the airs of the whole family," rejoined Mrs. Crosbie, bursting with passion. "I'll take care to affront them, the very first time they put their noses in Deane." Here Mr. Crosbie took the alarm, for he recollected certain deeds and conveyances, young Webberly had spoken to him about, and therefore said, "Indeed, my dear, we have no right to be offended; it's only the way of the house: didn't you hear the footman tell Miss Webberly he had refused to let in her own uncle, and after all, she didn't object to us, but only to the gig and postchaise." After some bitter observations, followed by silent reflection, Mrs. Crosbie apparently acceded to her husband's argument, and consented to acquit the Webberlys on the flaw his ingenuity had discovered in the indictment she had made out against them.
In the humble society of Deane even she had inferiors, in whose eyes her consequence was raised by her annual visits at Webberly House; and who never guessed that the rudeness she practised to them, was a mere transfer of that she submitted to receive from the insolent caprice of these satellites of fashion.
From whence does the strange infatuation arise, that makes so many people in all ranks of society suppose, they are honoured by the acquaintance of that immediately above them, when their intercourse is so frequently only an interchange of insult and servility? Do they suppose, that when the scale of their consequence is kicked down on one side, it rises proportionally on the other?
The comments of the travellers on the Webberly family continued for the remainder of the drive; and perhaps had the objects of their animadversions heard their remarks, they might have felt, that the proud privilege of being impertinent scarcely compensated for the severity of the criticism its exertion called forth.
At length the party separated—Mrs. Crosbie to show a new edition of fine airs to the wondering Mrs. Slater—the other ladies to discuss their excursion again and again, over "cups which cheer, but not inebriate."
CHAPTER III.
And something previous even to taste—'tis sense.
The family at Webberly House was the only one in the neighbourhood of Deane, which lived in a style of ostentatious expense; its members vainly endeavouring to purchase respect by extravagance, and to transfer the ideas and hours of the beau monde to a place totally unfit for their reception. The only families within a distance often miles of their residence were—Sir Henry Seymour's, at Deane Hall—Squire Thornbull's, at Hunting Field, and Mr. Temple's, at the parsonage of Deane; all of whom lived in the most quiet manner. Beyond this distance, however, the country was more thickly inhabited, and the town of York, in the race and assize week, presented sufficient attractions to make a drive of thirty miles no impediment to the Webberlys visiting it at those times, though its allurements were not great enough to tempt their immediate neighbours from their homes. Mrs. Sullivan had purchased Webberly House, two years previous to the commencement of this narration, on the faith of an advertisement nearly as deceptious as the famous one of a celebrated auctioneer, that procured the sale of an estate on the strength of a "hanging-wood," which proved to be a gibbet on an adjoining common.
Webberly House—formerly called Simson's Folly—had been purposely tricked up for sale by a prodigal heir, when obliged to dispose of his paternal estate to discharge the debts his extravagance had incurred. As a second dupe was not easily to be found, Mrs. Sullivan now vainly endeavoured to part with it, as neither she nor her children could reconcile themselves to living in so retired a part of the country.
Mrs. Sullivan was the only child of an extremely rich hosier in Cheapside, who perhaps had saved more money than he had made, and fully instructed his daughter in all the arts of frugality, limiting her knowledge of all other arts and sciences to considerable manual dexterity in making "a pudding and a shirt," which he considered the ultimatum of female education. When Miss Leatherly was thus, according to long established opinion, qualified for matrimony, her large fortune brought her in reward a West Indian planter as a husband, from whom she acquired those habits of ostentatious arrogance, which, united to her early imbibed parsimony, formed the principal traits of her character. By this marriage Mrs. Sullivan had one son and two daughters; and, fifteen years after the birth of the former, became a widow, with a large jointure, as well as all her father's riches, at her own disposal. She received the addresses of many fortune hunters, but finally gave the preference to a handsome, good natured, dissipated Irishman, whose name she now bore. Mr. Sullivan at the period of his marriage was past the prime of life; he had long served in the Austrian armies, (for being a Catholic he was incapacitated from holding any high rank in those of his native sovereign, and therefore preferred following another standard), but his military career procuring him little except scars and honours, he gladly availed himself of the wealthy widow's evident partiality, and at first thought himself most fortunate in becoming the possessor of so large a fortune; yet soon found he had dearly purchased the affluence which inflicted on him, not only the disgusting illiberal vulgarity of his wife, but the petulant rudeness and self-sufficiency of her children. His only consolation was a daughter Mrs. Sullivan had presented him with, in the first year of their marriage, and his happiness as a father, made him in some degree forget his miseries as a husband. His heart was completely wrapped up in the charming little Caroline, and bitterly did he repent on her account, that his former prodigality had obliged him to yield to his elder brother's desire of cutting off the entail of the family estate; which must otherwise have descended to her, being settled on the females, as well as males of their ancient house. Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan associated but little together; as she was never happy except when she accompanied her elder daughters to the most fashionable watering places; whilst he, remaining at home, devoted most of his time to the little Caroline. But here, unfortunately, in the attempt to banish the uneasy feelings of his mind, he by degrees formed a habit of indulging in the pleasures of the bottle, in a greater degree than strict propriety permits. About three months before his death, the little domestic comfort he had enjoyed was exchanged for the most complete disquietude, as at that time the jealousy of his wife was roused by his introducing Miss Wildenheim into his family as his ward.—Notwithstanding his most solemn assurances, that this young lady was the daughter of a German baron, who had not only long been his commanding officer but his most zealous friend, Mrs. Sullivan constantly asserted she was his natural child. Such a paternity was in her eyes an almost unpardonable crime; for, considering her inferiority of rank and sex, she was still more unreasonable than Henry the Eighth, who made it high treason for those he sought as partners to his throne not to confess all the errors they had been guilty of in a state of celibacy. Perhaps nothing but the stipend received for Adelaide's maintenance could have reconciled Mrs. Sullivan to her residence at Webberly House, for she was too avaricious not to submit to a great deal for three hundred a year.
When Miss Wildenheim first appeared in Mr. Sullivan's family she was in the deepest mourning for a parent, who his wife felt convinced was her mother. It must be confessed, the affection Mr. Sullivan showed Adelaide, and his distracted state of mind from the period of her arrival, gave a very plausible colour to his wife's suspicions. He avoided the society of his family, and giving himself up to his habit of drinking, it in a short time proved fatal; for returning late one night from squire Thornbull's in a state of intoxication, he was killed at his own gate by falling off his horse. Miss Wildenheim's consequent affliction, and dangerous illness, left no doubt in Mrs. Sullivan's mind, as to the justice of her surmises. Enraged by this apparent confirmation of her imagined wrongs, and urged by the envious hatred the Miss Webberlys showed of Adelaide's superior charms, she determined no longer to retain under her roof an object on these accounts so obnoxious; and, as a flattering unction to her soul, persuaded herself, that a girl with ten thousand pounds fortune could never be at any great loss for a home. But at length her darling passion, covetousness, prevailed over her resentment; as she recollected, that should the brother of her late husband ever hear of her treating in such a manner a girl Mr. Sullivan had left under her protection, and in whose fate (from whatever motive) he had shown so deep an interest, her unkindness might be construed into disrespect to his memory, and as such be resented with the warmth of family pride and affection, so natural to the Irish character; and perhaps prompt the offended brother to revenge the affront, by leaving his estate to a distant cousin, who had been dreaded by her husband as a rival to Caroline. These and other pecuniary considerations finally induced Mrs. Sullivan to accept the guardianship of Miss Wildenheim in conjunction with a Mr. Austin, who was trustee to her fortune, and was said to be an old and faithful friend of her father.
However Mrs. Sullivan had failed in the character of a wife, she had always been weakly indulgent as a mother, and was easily led by her children into every expensive folly. Her son's command of money had made him, on his first entrance into life, a very desirable acquaintance to some needy young men of fashion, who, in return for the pecuniary accommodation he afforded them, did him the favour to turn his head and corrupt his morals. As he became daily more ambitious to emulate his new associates in all their
Mrs. Sullivan reversed the order of nature, and followed the path her children traced for her, supposing them to be better instructed in such things than herself; for she knew they had received a superabundance of the means, and, poor woman! she had not sense to perceive they had missed the ends of education. In encouraging her children in the pursuit of fashionable follies, Mrs. Sullivan but followed the general example of wealthy parents, whom we so frequently behold acting like the worshippers of Moloch in elder days, making their sons and their daughters pass through the fires of dissipation, in the chance of drawing them forth from the ordeal with greater external brightness; but the scorching flames too often wither to the root the shoots of honour, benevolence, and truth.
In nothing was Mrs. Sullivan's lamentable imitation of her children's follies more perceptible, than in her conversation, which was a mixture of Cheapside vulgarisms and Newmarket cant, with here and there a stray ornament from her daughters' vocabularies of sentimental and scientifical jargon; the whole misapplied and mispronounced, in a manner that would have done honour to Mrs. Malaprop herself!
Miss Webberly's person was much in the predicament Solomon laments in his song for his sister; but she had in compensation an addendum which the Jewish fair had not, in the shape of a protuberance on the left shoulder, which however she always endeavoured to balance by applying to the right the judicious stuffing of Madame Huber's stays; and her deformity was only perceptible by some slight traces in her countenance, in which there was nothing else remarkable, except a pair of little black eyes, rather pert than sparkling. Conscious that she could not shine as a beauty, she resolved on being a "bel esprit," for which she was nearly as ill qualified by nature; and, reversing the fable of Achilles habiting himself in female attire, she put on an armour she could not carry, and grasped at weapons she was unable to wield. And as she sought knowledge "with all her seeking," not to promote her own happiness, but to subtract from that of others, by mortifying their self-love, in the anticipated triumphs of her own, her preposterous vanity led her to deform her mind as much by art with misplaced and uncouth excrescences of pedantry, as her person was by the unlucky addition it had received from nature: but while she sought to conceal the one with the most anxious care, she laboured as incessantly to display the other; thus resembling the infatuated being, who first held up for the worship of his fellow mortal a disgusting reptile, or a worthless weed.
Miss Cecilia Webberly was in face and figure entitled to the appellation of a fine bouncing girl, if for that a mass of flesh and blood exquisitely coloured could suffice; but though to lilies and roses of the most perfect hues were superadded fine blue eyes and beautiful flaxen hair, her countenance was neither good-natured nor gay, but indicative of the most supercilious self-conceit. She had enjoyed what are usually termed the advantages of a London boarding school, and through their influence had acquired sufficient French to read the tales of Marmontel, by a strange misnomer called "Contes moraux," and to which, for the benefit of the rising generation, we would humbly advise prefixing a syllable in any future edition. From these tales she learned to be sentimental, and fancied herself in turn the heroine of "Le mari Sylph," "L'heureux Divorce," &c.
Moreover, the fair Cecilia had here been taught to move her ponderous fingers with considerable swiftness over the keys of a piano forte, and to exercise her powerful lungs in Vauxhall songs.
In this seminary she was unfortunately inoculated with a virus, that totally diseased a heart nature had intended for better purposes—namely, an aching desire after fashionable life, which led her to caricature those airs of ton which she had not tact to imitate. The eye that is always turned upwards must be blinded by the brightness of a sphere it is not fashioned to; and Cecilia Webberly was so dazzled by the accounts she read in the daily prints, and La Belle Assemblée, of "great lords and ladies dressed out on gay days," that she looked on the inhabitants of Bloomsbury Square with sovereign contempt, her mother and sister inclusive, who notwithstanding encouraged and emulated her flights, flattering themselves that her eccentricities would carry her, and them as her attendants, into regions of splendour, though in truth they were only thus brought forth to the "garish eye of day," to be exposed to the contempt and ridicule her folly excited.
A few days after the expedition of Mrs. Martin and her friends to Webberly House, as she was standing one fine morning at her parlour window, Mrs. Sullivan's dashing equipage drove past, and her involuntary exclamation at the sudden, and to her unpractised eyes, terrifying stop of the four horses, which were a second before at their utmost speed, was changed into an expression of pleasure, when she saw Miss Wildenheim alone alight at Mr. Slater's shop, and the showy carriage from which she descended drive away ere the door was well closed; for Mrs. Sullivan and her daughters never condescended to enter the shop, as it was in token of pre-eminence called in the village of Deane. The great Frederick has wisely remarked, that "custom guides fools in place of reason;" and they had sapiently agreed amongst themselves, that "no lady of fashion was ever seen in a shop out of Bond Street;" but as for many reasons they were always anxious to prevail on Miss Wildenheim to execute their commissions, they took care not to inform her of the solecism in etiquette they had thus discovered, lest her timid and scrupulous attention to propriety should overcome her good nature, and deprive them of the benefit of her taste and judgment. The place of sale these ladies thus contemned, was a rustic pantheon-physitechnicon, where were to be had—food for the mind, at least for those who were content to "prey on garbage," and countless articles for the ladies' use. Part of the counter was covered with stationery of all descriptions, school books, last speeches, and ballads, besides a few miscellaneous articles in the reading way, such as Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, the Seven Champions of Christendom, and the Methodistical Magazine, relating how Mr. Goodman "put on by faith," not "the armour of the Lord," but a pair of "leathern conveniences," vulgarly called breeches. The remainder of the counter showed, through glass panes, plated and pinchbeck tiaras for farmers' daughters, and every species of low-priced disfigurement for the person, in the shape of necklace or ear-ring, with a variety of other articles of equal utility. The drawers, on one side of the counter, contained groceries of all kinds; those on the other, a no less various assortment of haberdashery and millinery, the latter, when unsaleable, being altered from year to year to "the newest London fashion." The shop also displayed a considerable store of hardware and crockery, from the unglazed brown pan to the gold edged tea cup and painted sailor's pig—lastly, boasting of a delectable circulating library, which presented volumes that, like
The contents of the shop were scarcely less various than the occupations of its master and his family. In part of the second floor, Miss Slater held her "Academy for young ladies." In the other her sister performed the office of mantua and corset maker. Their father was upholsterer, undertaker, and barber, and by consequence politician to the parish. His gratuitous office of quidnunc had perhaps gained him more wealth and patronage than all his others collectively, as in it he had never made any direct attack on the purses of his neighbours, but by reading the newspapers and gazette every market day free of cost, he assembled all the farmers of the vicinity in his shop, who generally discovered something amongst its various contents they felt an imperious necessity to purchase, thus successfully following the plan of the ingenious advertiser of——A pair of globes for nothing!!!——with an atlas, price five guineas.
On the above mentioned occasions Mr. Slater was furiously loyal, in a flaming red waistcoat, which scarcely rivalled his rubicund face.—When he first became the village orator, he had endeavoured, from motives of interest, to persuade others he felt more than he really did; and, as is commonly the case with those who exaggerate but are not hypocritical, he ended in feeling more than he got credit for.—In the proceedings of the English government he now really thought, that "whatever is is right."—And perhaps it is to be regretted, that in his class this belief is not more general.—Illiterate politicians are scarcely less dangerous than self-constituted physicians—It requires men of skill to medicate for the body physical or political.—Quacks in either injure in proportion to their ignorance and consequent audacity; it may often be better to let a disease alone, in the constitution of the state or individual, than to run the risk of aggravating it by the nostrums of the venders of concealed poisons.
Mr. Slater's window was always adorned with a bulletin of the news of the day, of his own writing! and this singular composition set at defiance all rules of grammar and orthography; but he had none of the pride of authorship, and unfeignedly thanked the village schoolmaster for his emendations, though perhaps it might sometimes be said, that the correction was the worst of the two.
The good man also amused himself with what he called "mapping" and "drawing." The few unoccupied spaces in his shop walls were stuck over with representations of the Thalaba of modern history in a variety of woful plights; and he had made more changes in the face of Europe than that archconjurer himself—for, to elucidate the Duke of Wellington's campaigns, he exhibited a map with Portugal at the wrong side of Spain[3]! not failing to take similar liberties in his representations of actions of various kinds.
It may be supposed, that a shop so filled, and a master thus accomplished, would be unremittingly attended.—In truth, "The Shop" was seldom empty; and what with haranguing, bargaining, and the ceaseless creaking of the pack-thread on its ever revolving roller, with interludes of breaking sugar, and chopping ham, the noise on market days was so deafening, that the tower of Babel might serve as an emblem, but that there only one faculty was confounded, whilst here three of the five senses were assailed at once.
At the moment of Miss Wildenheim's entrance, however, a comparative "silence reigned within the walls,"—as in the shop were only Mrs. Temple (wife of the rector) and her youngest son and daughter, the one teazing her for a Robinson Crusoe, the other coaxing for a doll; but at the sight of their "dear dote Miss Wildenheim" the little petitioners forgot their requests, and throwing their arms about her neck, to the no small damage of the muslin frill, that contrasted its snowy whiteness with the sable hue of her other garments, made her cheek glow with their kisses, whilst their friendly mother not less cordially shook her hand.
After a little social chat, Miss Wildenheim proceeded to fulfil the object of her visit to the shop, namely, to choose a novel for Miss Cecilia Webberly.—"What are you looking for there, my dear, with so much perseverance? any thing will do for her," said Mrs. Temple.—"Here's the Delicate Distress—The Innocent Seduction."—"I fear, from their titles, they would serve to aid her in her search after romance; don't you think that would be a pity?—I was looking for Patronage, or Almeria."—The peculiar tone, half foreign, half pathetic, in which Adelaide said the word pity, joined to the ludicrous but just parallel she had in sober sadness unconsciously drawn for Cecilia Webberly, struck with so comic an effect on Mrs. Temple's risible nerves, that she burst out into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. Adelaide opened her eye-lids to their utmost expansion, and cast the beautiful orbs they had concealed on Mrs. Temple's face, with a look of mingled surprise and inquiry.—"I only thought, my dear girl, (laying her hand on Miss Wildenheim's arm), it was a sin you should waste your morality and your pit-tie in so useless a manner: believe me, Miss Edgeworth's wit and sense would be lost on a girl too stupid to comprehend the one, and too silly to profit by the other: if Miss Cecilia Webberly were only a fool, I might encourage your laudable endeavours, but——" "Hush, hush, my dear Mrs. Temple, here are strangers;" and turning round Mrs. Temple discovered Sir Henry Seymour's carriage at the door. It was a vehicle as old fashioned as the owner, "the good Sir Henry," and formed a striking contrast to the showy cortège of the Webberly family. It was drawn in a steady quiet trot, by four heavy steeds as gray as their driver, who, seated on a hammer-cloth adorned with fringes as numerous as those on the petticoat of a modern belle, carefully avoided the sharp turns and charioteering skill of the Four-in-hand Club. Sir Henry Seymour's carriage contained only his sister-in-law, Mrs. Galton, who was addressed by Mrs. Temple with all the intimacy of friendship, and answered a variety of inquiries concerning Miss Seymour, which were made with real interest.
After giving Mrs. Temple an invitation to join a dinner party at the hall on the following Thursday, Mrs. Galton whispered, "I suspect; that elegant girl in mourning is the interesting foreigner whose unexpected appearance at Webberly House last November excited so much gossip."—"Yes, she is."—"Then pray introduce me; we have never met, though I called on her the last time I visited Mrs. Sullivan." This request was soon complied with; and the ceremony being over, Mrs. Galton politely appealed to Adelaide's taste, regarding the colours of some silks she was choosing to work a trimming for her niece's first gown, which, on her ensuing birth-day, was to mark her approach to womanhood; for in Sir Henry Seymour's family the difference in dress between sixteen and forty-five was preserved: Selina had not yet laid aside her white frock, nor was Mrs. Galton in her own person anxious to antedate the period of second childhood. Mrs. Martin and Lucy, accompanied by Mrs. Lucas, now walked in to pay their compliments to the ladies they had seen enter, and were as usual received by Mrs. Galton with the utmost civility; and as she knew that a visit to Deane Hall was an event and a distinction in the annals of village history, she included them in her invitation for Thursday, which was delightfully accepted by them. Mrs. Sullivan's carriage having now returned for Miss Wildenheim, she took her leave. And Mr. Mordaunt, having executed some business the worthy baronet had intrusted him with, entered the shop, and reminded Mrs. Galton, that if they did not hasten home, Sir Henry would