IF I may judge by the servants, carriages, &c. which I see, Mr. Merton and his son both live in a style of princely magnificence.
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There is something, I think, not very far removed from ostentation in the manner of Mr. Merton; he loves to talk of thousands and tens of thousands, in the indifferent careless way with which another would speak of pence. Persons who have risen to importance by their own means, often fall into this failing. I have frequently remarked it among some of our wealthy planters. I must proceed with my history when an opportunity offers, therefore you will have a packet of mutilated scraps.
IN CONTINUATION
THE first day was passed by my uncle in inquiries concerning the Fairfield estate, its situation, its produce, and other topics on which he thought I was conversant. I felt the kindness of his intention, and gave him all the information which I thought might entertain him: insensibly I lost the timidity of my manner, and became unrestrained and at ease. I am naturally of a communicative, and, I hope, of a cheerful temper; I felt that I could gain nothing by silence and seeming stupidity. I knew that my first appearance could not have been very prepossessing, and by gently sliding into my natural character, I should show my new relatives what they might expect; and, I confess, to be thought favourably of by them (ah! why should I deny it? by Augustus in particular) is a wish very near my heart. Mr. Merton, all politesse and attention, seemed much pleased by my remarks. Mrs. Merton affected to take no interest or share in the conversation, but played, by turns, with her little boy, about three years of age, and her pug dog: it would be difficult to say which was the greatest pet, if the partiality of grand-papa did not obviously turn the scale on the side of the child, who would really be a most lovely creature if mamma did not so entirely spoil him. All this is to be understood in parenthesis. Augustus said little: he seemed distrait and embarrassed in his manner, yet he occasionally roused himself; and more than once, when I bore honest testimony to the virtues of my father, which a reference to his estates, and their management, naturally produced from me, he seemed affected by my manner, and looked at me with an expression of solicitude which made my heart flutter, and my cheeks glow.
IN CONTINUATION
I CAN see that there is not a being in creation for whom Mrs. Merton had a stronger portion of contempt, than for myself: if her husband is of her disposition, how dreadful would be a state of dependence on such a pair! And yet, if Augustus Merton
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refuses her offered hand, such must be the situation of your poor Olivia!—Perhaps this city lady, whose ideas are all centred in self, and in money, as the grand minister to all her capricious indulgences—perhaps this lady might have no objection to become the protectress of a poor girl of colour , or to receive an acquisition of fortune at the same time; and for this reason she may be acting politically, by trying to infect Augustus with a portion of that distaste and antipathy which she invariably evinces towards me; thinking that she may thus induce him to forego his claim to me and to my fortune—but a generous mind would not thus be warped—Mrs. Merton foils herself. The very means she employs to humble and mortify me, excites the attention and the respectful consideration of Augustus. This inactive lady cannot leave her bed very soon of a morning. I had some time waited a summons to breakfast, when at last I ventured down stairs; Dido having assured me that Mr. Augustus’s man had dressed his master more than two hours: however, there was no sign of breakfast below, and I returned to my own room, and wrote the foregoing page before the bell had sounded; but, in returning to my apartment, the door of a room being a-jar, my eyes caught the figure of Augustus Merton. His arms were folded, his head almost rested on his breast, and he looked the very image of melancholy despondence.—Alas! was /, then, the cause of these sorrowful reflections? was he meditating on the sacrifice he was so soon required to make?—A sacrifice, perhaps, of the cherished affections of his heart—a sacrifice of his happiness!—Oh, Mrs. Milbanke, how fraught with misery is the idea!
IN CONTINUATION
IN an elegant morning dishabille , 1 Mrs. Merton reclined on an ottoman: she just made the morning salutation as I entered, and then relapsed again into the intent and important study (as it appeared) of “Bell’s Belle Assembly, or Gallery of Fashion :” 2 a modern periodical publication, where the ladies have coloured specimens of the costume and habits in which they are to array themselves every month. Mr. Merton was reading the newspapers, but he laid them down on seeing me; advanced—took my hand—made particular inquiries after my health—drew a shair
for me—and placed himself next me. The urn steamed before her, but the fashionable fair did not notice it, till gently reminded by Mr. Merton with,—“Shall I assist you in putting some water in the tea-pot, Mrs. Merton?”
“Oh, by all means,” said she, yawning, “and make the tea also; for it is a terrible bore!”
“I see you are engaged in an interesting study,” said Mr. Merton; “you ladies employ every opportunity in rendering yourselves, if possible, more irresistible than you were formed by nature!” And the old gentleman very accommodatingly took the tea-chest in his hand.
“You must suffer me to do this, sir,” said I; “I like the office; it is one which I have been accustomed to; and you see I am perfectly disengaged.”
“I yield it with pleasure into abler hands,” said Mr. Merton, bowing gallantly as he resigned it to me.
Augustus now came in, and paid his compliments in a cheerful, unconstrained manner. “So soon put in employ. Miss Fairfield?” said he.
“Oh yes, the lady is of an active turn I find,” said Mrs. Merton, still meditating on the coloured print which she held in her hand.
A servant now entered with a large plate of boiled rice. Mrs. Merton half raised her head, saying—“Set it there,” pointing towards the part of the table where I sat.
“What is this?” asked Mr. Merton.
“Oh, I thought that Miss Fairfield—I understood that people of your—I thought that you almost lived upon rice,” said Mrs. Merton, “and so I ordered some to be got,—for my own part, I never tasted it in my life, I believe!”
Mrs. Milbanke, this was evidently meant to mortify your Olivia; it was blending her with the poor negro slaves of the West Indies! It was meant to show her, that, in Mrs. Merton’s idea, there was no distinction between us—you will believe that I could not be wounded at being classed with my brethren!
Augustus coloured, and looked indignantly towards Mrs. Merton: his father tried to palliate, by saying, if I would give him leave, he would help himself to a little of it; while I, perfectly unabashed, and mistress of myself, pretended to take the mischievous officiousness, or impertinence (which you will), of Mrs. Merton in a literal sense; and, turning towards her, said,—“I thank you for studying my palate, but I assure you there is no occasion; I eat just as you do, I believe: and though, in Jamaica, our poor slaves (jny brothers and sisters, smiling) are kept upon rice
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as their chief food, yet they would be glad to exchange it for a little of your nice wheaten bread here;” taking a piece of baked bread in my hand.
The lady looked rather awkward, I thought, but she was doubly diligent in the study of the fashions; while Augustus offered me the butter, and my father’s smile played round his mouth.
I am confident, that at this moment his countenance expressed approbation of your Olivia. Presently, little George came running into the room, and, without noticing the opened arms of his grandfather, he ran to his mother— “Oh. Mamma! mamma! look at poor George’s face—that nasty black woman has been kissing me, and dirtying my face all over!”
“Hush, hush!” said Mrs. Merton, pretending to silence the child on my account, while the pleased expression of her countenance could not be misconstrued.
“No, I don’t mean her” said George pointing at me, “but one much, much dirtier—so very dirty, you can’t think, mamma!— Nasty woman, to dirty my face!”
“You must go to your room, George, if you do not hold your tongue directly!”
“Pray do not check him, Mrs. Merton,” said I; “there is something bewitchingly charming in infantine simplicity 7 .—How artless is this little fellow! his lips utter the sentiments of his heart—and those alone!—My love, you will soon lose that beautiful character of your mind, ingenuousness; for it is a sad and melancholy truth, that as we grow older, we grow acquainted with dissimulation.”
“It is too true, indeed!” said Mr. Merton.
Augustus sighed deeply.
“Come hither, my little fellow,” said I, “and I promise I will not kiss you!”
“Why, I should not so much mind \fyou were to kiss me,” said he; “for your lips are red, and besides, your face is not so very, very dirty.”
“Go to Miss Fairfield, George,” said Augustus.
“With all my heart, uncle!” said he.
I took him on my lap, and holding his hand in mine, I saij,— “You see the difference in our hands?”
“Yes, I do, indeed,” said he, shaking his head. “Mine looks clean and yours looks not so very dirty.”
“I am glad it does not look so very dirty,” said I; “but you will be surprised when I tell you that mine is quite as clean as your
78 ANONYMOUS
own, and that the black woman’s below, is as clean as either of them.”
“Oh now, what nonsense you are telling me!” said he, lifting up both his hands in astonishment.
“No,” returned I, “it is very good sense: do you know who made you?”
“My grand-papa said God,” answered he.
“Oh, if you mean that, he is very backward in his catechism ,” said Mrs. Merton: “I am sure I could not pretend to teach it to him.”
“So I should imagine, if you think Miss Fairfield put the first question of it to him,” said Augustus, rather sarcastically.
“The same God that made you made me,” continued I—“the poor black woman —the whole world—and every creature in it! A great part of this world is peopled by creatures with skins as black as Dido’s, and as yellow as mine. God chose it should be so, and we cannot make our skins white, any more than you can make yours black.”
“Oh! But I can make mine black if I choose it,” said he, “by rubbing myself with coals.”
“And so can I make mine white by rubbing myself with chalk,” said I; “but both the coal and the chalk would be soon rubbed off again.”
“And won’t yours and hers rub off?” said he.
“Try,” said I, giving him the corner of my handkerchief; and to work the little fellow went with all his might.
“George, you are very rude and troublesome to Miss Fairfield,” said Mr. Merton.
“Not in the least,” said I; “it is right that he should prove the truth of what I have been telling him, he will then believe me another time.”
“Yes, that I shall,” said he, sighing and resigning his employment, as if it had wearied him.
“What do you sigh for, George?” asked Augustus.
“I could wish,” said he, looking at me, “that God had made you white, ma’am, because you are so very good-natured; but I will kiss you, if you like.”
“Thank you for the wish, my dear child, and for the favour conferred upon me,” said I, pressing his cherub lips to mine. “I am not a little proud of this as I consider it a conquest over prejudice!”
“ Your arguments are irresistible, you find, Miss Fairfield, ’ said my uncle, smiling.
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' “Prejudices imbibed in the nursery are frequently attached to the being of ripened years,” said Augustus; “and to eradicate them as they appear, is a labour well worth the endeavour of the judicious preceptor.”
“Suppose I proceed a little further, said I, for at present I have gained but half a victory.—So you still dislike my poor Dido, George?”
“She is very dirty,” said he, again shaking his head; but colouring, he said, “I mean very black”
“She is a poor negro , you know,” said Mrs. Merton, in a most sneering and contemptuous tone.
“But she is the most faithful of creatures, George,” said I, not deigning to answer his mother, “and I love her dearly!”
“Do you love her dearly?” said he, looking up in my face, with a very scrutinizing expression. “Only think grand-papa, only think uncle, Miss Fairfield says she loves the blackamoor dearly!”
“I dare say she has reason to estimate her,” said Mr. Merton.
“Indeed I have, sir, as your grandson shall hear:—She was born upon my papa’s estate,” said I, addressing my attentive little hearer; “her father and her mother were slaves, or, as you would call them, servants to him.”
“But these black slaves are no better than horses over there,” said George, interrupting me; “for I heard the coachman telling one of the grooms so, in the servants’ hall, last night.”
“You should not go into the servants’ hall, George,” said his grandfather.
“I only went to ask about your black mare, sir,” said the little fellow “you know you told me yourself that she was lame!”
There was no resisting this sweet and simple apology.
“Well, do not interrupt Miss Fairfield, when she is so good as to talk to you,” said Mr. Merton, smiling significantly at Augustus; for Mrs. Merton now appeared to think the conversation as great a bore as making tea, and, walking to the further part of the room, she was patting her pug dog, and humming a tune at the same time.
“Those black slaves are, by some cruel masters, obliged to work like horses,” said I; “but God Almighty created them men, equal with their masters, if they had the same advantages, and^the same blessings of education.”
“But what right have their naughty masters got to make them slave like horses? for I’m sure they can’t like it— I shouldn’t like to work like mamma’s coach-horses, and stand shivering for hours in the wet and cold, as they do.”
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“There will be no end of this conversation, if we come to the right and the wrong” said I.
“It is beginning to wear an interesting form, I think,” said Mr. Merton. “George, we shall have your sentiments on the abolition presently.”
“Miss Fairfield’s ratherl ” said Mrs. Merton.
“Mine will, I hope, be immediately understood; the feelings of humanity, the principles of my religion, would lead me, as a Christian, I trust, to pray for the extermination of this disgraceful traffic, while kindred claims (for such I must term them) would likewise impel me to be anxious for the emancipation of my more immediate brethren!”
“Born, as you were, in the West Indies, your father a planter, I should have imagined that you would have entertained quite the contrary side of the question,” said Mrs. Merton, who now thought she had found a subject on which to attack me.
I slightly answered, “You did not know my father, madam!”
But I could not pursue my story with George; something swelled at my throat and I was obliged to leave the room, though little George took my promised vindication of Dido upon trust, and running after me said—“Miss Fairfield, if you are going to Dido, let me go with you.”
I fear I shall tire you, my friend, by this prolix narration, but I was willing to give you a complete surfeit of Mrs. Merton, even though I may frequently be under the necessity of repeating the dose.
IN CONTINUATION
HOW many pages have I written without having mentioned the dear Honeywoods; but they have not been forgotten; their kindness and sympathetic attention will often force the unbidden tear to roll over my cheek, when I am retired to my own apartment, and to rumination. Mrs. Honeywood promised to write to me, and I impatiently wait the fulfillment of it;—but, alas! my fearfully foreboding heart tells me that we shall never meet again in this world! And thus may I be said to have lost my two only friends!—for, ah! what a wide expanse of ocean now lies between Mrs. Milbanke and her ever affectionate
OLIVIA FAIRFIELD!
IN CONTINUATION
ARE my letters to be constantly filled with sarcastic observations on Mrs. Merton? I must speak of what I see, and while she
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is my exclusive female companion, I fear I shall have but too many opportunities of noticing the—what shall I call it—give her behaviour a name, dearest Mrs. Milbanke—I would not willingly be too harsh; I ought not be so, for I suspect that the respectful attention which Augustus pays me, is from his witnessing the uniform negligence or insolence of this woman.—I mark the deep flush which crimsons his countenance, when a new instance of either kind falls under his notice, and the dexterity with which he contrives to evince his disapprobation without being personal to his sister, and the generous consideration which bids him respect my feelings—whilst his even-handed father goes on smoothly, looking to the right and the left by turns, now complimenting and now smiling, temporizing and glossing over, and never swerving from the rule which he has laid down for his conduct. And yet I think, that could I dive to the bottom of his complaisant heart, I should discover that I ranked pretty high in his favour. I walk with him arm in arm over the beautiful downs near this place; a favour which I shrewdly suspect Mrs. Merton never conferred upon him; for with regard to the use which she has made of them during the few days I have been here, a casual observer might have been led to inquire, whether she had any legs; for she certainly seems to derive no manner of assistance from them !—You taught me activity, both mental and bodily, my beloved friend; and nothing more frequently excited my surprise, and I may add, disgust, than the languid affectation and supine manners of some of our West Indians; but I never saw any one of them who could in the least compare with Mrs. Merton, who seems to have attained the very height of inaction. In our walks we are sometimes joined by Augustus, and to give you my reason for imputing his general conduct to his dislike of Mrs. Merton’s behaviour to me, he is then thoughtfully silent, and leaves his father to keep up the ball of conversation without interruption on his part.— Ah, my dear madam! my heart flutters while I make this observation even to myself—a thoughtful, an abstracted companion, to one of my open—my communicative turn of mind—no confidence, no reciprocal interchange of opinions and sentiments!— What a blank!—what a chasm does existence appear, taken in this view!—It is in the mercy of my heavenly Father that I look*for support through the trials which await me, and how thankful'am I to my dear Father for implanting , and to you for nourishing, in my mind a strong sense of a superintending Providence. If I was at this moment destitute of religion, I should be the most pitiable of human beings; for, indeed, my dearest friend, there are so
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many conflicting emotions in this poor bosom—I am transplanted into a scene so perfectly new—Mrs. Merton’s manners are so different from any person’s with whom the petted Olivia ever associated—and then, the short period which is allotted me by my father’s will, ere I am to change my situation—with no friend into whose ear I can pour the presaging fears with which, at times, my heart is fraught—the delicacy of my situation—the seeming impossibility of my learning the real sentiments of Augustus—if, I say, it was not for my firm faith in God, how could I support myself? And, amidst every unpleasantry by which I am surrounded, it is an inexpressible source of satisfaction, to be in a country where the rites of religion are duly and properly performed. Our great distance from a place of worship, when at the Fairfield estate, was, you know, frequently lamented by us all. In England the “sound of the church-going bell” 1 will always reach the ear on the morning of the Sabbath, and I trust that your Olivia shall never be unmindful of the pious summons.
IN CONTINUATION
YOU have frequently remarked, that I walk in a manner peculiar to myself. You have termed it majestic and graceful; I have been fearful that it carried something of a proud expression: but I believe it is very difficult to alter the natural gait, and I am too much above the common size, with regard to height, to walk like the generality of my sex. There must surely, however, be something very particular in my air; for I find I am an object of general curiousity, and many a gentleman follows to repass me, and to be mortified at his folly when he has caught a view of my mulatto countenance. I laugh at this, and tell Mr. Merton to observe them, while he most gallantly, retains all the fine things that he hears (or fancies he hears) on my shape and person, and very injudiciously has retailed them before his daughter-in-law, whose form being any thing but elegant or graceful, you may conceive that the old gentleman soon found out that he had been “all in the wrong;” especially, when, after hearing a remark of the kind, Mrs. Merton turned round with great nonchalance to me, saying,—
“Pray, Miss Fairfield, did you ever learn to tread the stage?”
“I am now learning, madam,” returned I (but without any pet
tishness of manner, if I know myself), “to tread on the great stage of the world, and, I fear, I shall find it very difficult to play my part as I could wish.”
“It is the peculiar province of real merit, to be diffident of its powers,” said Augustus.—
“Even while its superiority is acknowledged by an admiring multitude,” said his father.
“A tragedy-queen would suit you vastly, I should think, said
Mrs. Merton, pursing up her lip.
“I should prefer comedy, both in real and artificial scenes,”
said I.
“But you have nothing comic about you,” rejoined she.
‘“Except temper and inclination,” said I. “I bless God, that till I had the misfortune of losing my dear parent, I was always one of the ‘laughter-loving crew.’”
“How mistaken have I been in your character!”
“So I think,” said Augustus, drily.
I never know when to lay down my pen, when addressing my earliest friend, but I must break off, as it is high time to attend to the toilette; for tonight I am going to the ball with Mrs. Merton, and Dido is almost out of patience with her “Missee.”
IN CONTINUATION
YOU will expect an account of the first English ball which I have ever seen, and I will not tell you that I thought it an unpleasant one, for my partner was Augustus Merton. I never saw him so agreeable, so animated, or so attentive before; he gave me confidence in myself, his gaiety inspired mine, and, I believe, I danced with more than my usual spirit. I wore a black sarsnet, made in the mode, of course, and had no ornaments but a large string of corals round my neck. I could observe that I was an object of pretty general curiosity, as I entered the room. In such a place as this, the wealth of the Mertons makes them generally known. My colour, you know, renders me remarkable, and, no doubt, the Clifton world are well acquainted with the particulars of my father’s will, and, seeing me leaning on the arm of Augustus, gave it general publicity; for Mrs. Merton, on stepping from the carriage, seized the arm of the old gentleman, and I was, consequently, thrown upon the protection of his son. But Augustus came forwards with the utmost promptitude; and this readiness on his part, gave me resolution to acquit myself in as unconstrained a manner as I could have wished. I could even listen, with much entertain
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ment, to the remarks which escaped him from time to time, and became, in my turn, communicative.
Surely, my dearest Mrs. Milbanke, it is the fashion to be very affected, or very rude: there seems, in the generality of the people that I see here, to be no medium between these extremes. Some of the ladies, so mincing, so simpering, so lisping, and others so bold, so loud, so confident; all the shame-facedness of the sex, which was once thought a charm by the wisest of men, seems entirely exploded: and the men—also believe me—they walked up in pairs, hanging one on another’s arm, and, with a stare of effrontery, eyed your Olivia, as if they had been admitted purposely to see the untamed savage at a shilling a piece! While Augustus, was engaged in conversation at a little distance, I heard one of these animals say to another—
“Come, let’s have a stare at Gusty’s black princess!”
And with the greatest sangfroid they slouched (for it could not be called walking) up to me; one of them placed his glass most leisurely to his eye, then shrugging his shoulders, as he looked, he said—
“Pauvre diablel how I pity him!—a hundred thousand wouldn’t be enough for the cursed sacrifice!— Allons Alex. Let’s ‘keep moving.’ I’ve had enough—no more—I thank you—quite satisfied, ’pon honour.”
Then, touching the shoulder of Mrs. Merton, he said,—
“Ah, ma bella Merton, is this you?—What! you sport a native to-night, I find.”
“I do, en verite,” said she, smiling, and appearing thoroughly to understand his knowing wink.
“In native elegance unrivalled!” said a gentleman, who stood at his elbow, and had, some minutes before, been attentively surveying me. “More grace, more expression, more characteristic dignity, I never yet beheld in one female figure!”
Mrs. Milbanke, you will not accuse me of any foolish vanity in retailing these hyperbolical compliments on myself.
“Monkland is ever in the sublime,” said my quizzing beau. “Dear Monkland, now do fall desperately in love with this sable goddess, and strive to wrest the palm of victory from the enviable Augustus Merton!”
“No,” said he, “I love Merton too well to envy him his happiness; but I will get introduced to Miss Fairfield immediately, for I must know if she is really what her countenance bespeaks.”
“Exactly, believe me!” said Mrs. Merton.
Mr. Monkland, however, did not, or would not, hear; he was
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instantly introduced to me by Augustus. Perhaps I was flattered by having overheard his favourable opinion of me; we entered into conversation, and I found him a pleasant though an eccentric and visionary being; he made sarcastic observations on every body he saw, and seemed to wield his talent for satire with no light hand. I was introduced to several more of both sexes whose names I have forgotten, for common characters passing indiscriminately, leave no impression on the mind or the memory; but as I was standing in the dance; I was somewhat surprised to see Mrs. Merton led to the top of it by a gentleman, who footing it off with her at the moment when my eyes caught them, so forcible was the contrast, that I could scarcely refrain from laughter—Indeed I have a great taste for the ridiculous, and here I am likely to have it improved,—improved is a bad word for such a taste my dear governess will say, but she has been used to see the spontaneous effusions of her pupil’s mind—so it shall pass. I have described the person of Mrs. Merton to you before, she is certainly not formed with the “light fantastic toe,” 1 but languishes, or rather glides, down a dance in the most careless and indifferent manner you can imagine. Her partner appeared to have nearly reached his grand climacteric, 2 yet he had taken wonderful pains in trying to put himself back at least thirty years, by powdering and pomatuming his grey hairs, making his whiskers as large and as well shaped as possible, half closing his light green eyes, to give them an insinuating expression, though that expression was lost in the inflamed circles which surrounded their orbits; his nice cravat was well stuffed round his throat, his cloaths were of the most fashionable and jemmy make, and the well turned leg was still an object of admiration, as it had been through many a revolving season, to its owner! His determined activity, his strict attention to the figure of the dance, to the step, to his partner; the smile which was always to be seen on his countenance, so self-satisfied, so conscious of unimpaired powers of attraction.
the agility which he evidently laboured to exert, and his thin figure, were all in such direct opposition to the little fat form and composed manner of Mrs. Merton, that I carelessly turned round to the lady who stood the next couple to me, and said— “Pray, ma’am, can you tell me the name of the gentleman now going down the dance?” “He is my brother, ma’am, Colonel Singleton”—the flippant answer of the lady arrested my attention.—Surely the Colonel and Miss Singleton must have been twin children! I never saw such proximity of character and manner as in this brother and sister: they must never marry, but grow young (for old they can never be) together. Miss Singleton’s labours must be as arduous as her brother’s, though her face looks at last, more weather-beaten than does the gallant colonel’s. Her natural complexion is not far removed from your Olivia’s, and I thought a white satin was a bad choice for a robe; and pitied her poor shrivelled and thin neck, which, with some of her brother’s wadding, would have looked to more advantage, than adorned by her superb necklace of diamonds. Feathers of the ostrich were mounted in several directions from her head, while her bared ears, and elbows, and back, and bosom, gave to her whole contour, so freezing and so forlorn an appearance, while her volatility, and frisky and girlish airs, made her person so very conspicuous, that I could not help surveying her with the utmost curiosity, as a species of animal which had never before fallen under my notice. She was dancing with a boy , who aped the man, as much as his partner threw herself back into the girl : and the pleased attention with which she listened to all he said; the air of maiden consciousness which she adopted, while he held her minikin 1 fan and she whispered into the youthful Adonis’s ear; the tap which the said fan now gave him on the cheek—oh, Mrs. Milbanke, you could not have forgotten a scene so ridiculous! And then the captivating colonel holding his ungloved and white hand (so as to exhibit a ring of sparkling brilliants) at the side of his face, while Mrs. Merton spoke, as if to draw the attention of the company to something with which they must not be acquainted, and then holding his handkerchief to be perfumed from Mrs. Merton’s otto of roses! 2 —You cannot wonder at my thinking of the line in the
song, “Sure such a pair were never seen !” 1 You will say I am very light-hearted to descant so largely on such frivolous subjects— and I should call myself so if I were sure that no splenetic feelings aided my pen; but I am disappointed in England: I expected to meet with sensible, liberal, well informed and rational people, and I have not found them; I see a compound of folly and dissimulation — but hold! let me not be harsh or hasty in my judgement, a ball-room is not the place to meet with the persons I expected, neither must I look for them within the circle of Mrs. Merton’s friends. I can see that Augustus has an utter distaste to the general frivolity which reigns in these places; I suspect he will prefer my plan of a country life and retirement: but nothing has yet been said on the subject, and time steals on. Ah, my dearest friend! shall I ever more enjoy that placid happiness, that calm tranquility, which surrounded me at the Fairfield plantation? Heaven alone can tell—But in all situations, in all places, I am still, and ever shall be,
Your own affectionate and grateful OLIVIA FAIRFIELD.
IN CONTINUATION
I HAVE not been able to write; my mind has been in too great a tumult to put pen to paper, and the time I usually employed in writing, my ever dear friend, has been spent in walking to and fro my apartment, with restless step and a perturbed heart!
The morning after I last wrote, I received a formal message from my uncle, and, according to the summons, attended him in the room, which is appropriated to his morning avocations; he rose at my entrance, met me at the door, and, with his usual formal politeness, handed me to a seat.—
“Pardon the liberty I have taken, my dear Miss Fairfield, in requesting the favour of your company; but I wished to have your approbation with regard to settlements, &c. previous to giving my lawyer necessary instructions—Augustus refers entirely to us, to make arrangements as we think proper!”
I felt uncomfortably as Mr. Merton spoke—I could not answer him.
“Your late father’s will,” continued he—
I started from my seat—“Full well I know its contents!” cried I—“Oh, Mr. Merton, I cannot, I must not refuse your son the fatal interdiction of my father!—a vow—an irrevocable vow, forbids me! But, sir, your son is not so bound, he has still the exercise of his reason, he is a free agent—surely then a fear of hurting my feelings (for I cannot for a moment imagine Mr. Augustus Merton to be actuated by mercenary views) will not lead him to barter his liberty and his happiness, and to unite himself to a woman who is not the object of his affection!”
I believe I appeared much agitated; and that I expressed myself with great warmth and energy!
Mr. Merton looked in silence for a moment, but with extreme surprise evidently depicted on his countenance, and then said,—
“My dear young lady, if my son is so unfortunate as to be beheld by you with disapprobation, I sincerely pity him; but am sure he will readily forego all claim to your hand, rather than you should unite yourself where you cannot love!”
Ah, Mrs. Milbanke! had Mr. Merton understood the language of the looks, my emotion at this moment, my burning blushes, would have proclaimed another tale! I cast down my eyes to the ground in conscious confusion, they dared not meet his, but Mr. Merton proceeded—
“You may have seen another object prior to your introduction to Augustus, who may have gained an interest in your heart, Miss Fairfield—if so, I pity my poor boy!”
“No, indeed, sir, that is not the case!” said I, with eager warmth.—
“Then my interesting friend,” said my uncle, taking my hand, “if it be not so, I greatly pity you—a state of nominal dependence (for such I trust would be the case if George Merton were your protector) would still be a severe trial to one, who has been educated as you have been.—Your father’s will was singular, very singular; I make no doubt that he acted from consideration: but yet it has always struck me as not being the kind of will, which most men in his situation would have made—Well, let it pass, we cannot alter it, we must even act by its authority; and I repeat my fear, that a state of wardship would he rather disagreeable to a lady of your liberal notions?”
“Servitude, slavery, in its worst form, would be preferable,” said I, “to finding myself the wife of a man by whom I was not beloved!”
“My dear niece”—
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“My dear sir, I know what you are going to say—You would say (though you might word it in softer terms), how can you expect to be the selected object of the affections of Augustus Merton, when he never knew you till within a few days? Ah, sir!
I too well know the impossibility of the thing to expect it I am aware of my own person—I know that I am little less than a disgusting object to an Englishman—I know that your son (supposing for a moment that he could get over his own prejudices as to colour) would have to encounter all the sarcastic innuendoes and jeering remarks of his companions; it would be said with confidence, and with truth, that he had sold himself for money; he would feel that he had done so; he would never look at me without seeing the witness of the sacrifice. I should be neglected and despised!”
“My beloved Miss Fairfield, you are voluntarily raising up bugbears to disturb your happiness; the chimeras of your own imagination affright you, and hurt your peace of mind!”
“Alas! My dear sir, it is but too true, that every feeling of my soul is wounded in my present situation—Oh, my dearest father, my misjudging father, you could not foresee the humiliating state in which you placed your child!—Suing for the hand of a man, to whom she is an object of indifference, if not aversion!”
“Again let me entreat you to calm your emotions, my dear young lady, and to see things in a different point of view.”
“I see them as they are, sir,” said I, shaking my head.
“Not so, believe me,—through a prejudiced medium you now look—I am confident that my son admires and esteems you—I am sure that he will devote his life to the study of your happiness, and that you will never have reason to repent the choice which your good father has made for you.”
Ah, dearest friend, esteemed Mrs. Milbanke! how could I say to Mr. Merton all with which my full heart was bursting? But if Augustus had entertained a common regard, even an esteem, for your Olivia, would he have deputed his father to have entered into this conversation, which he seems to have avoided with the most scrupulous care? In a few days, am I to unite my fate with that of a man, who has never said that it is his wish, that it should be so! As well might my fortune only have crossed the ocean, the nonynal wife might still have remained in Jamaica—And, oh that she'was still there—oh that Mrs. Milbanke, with kind counsel and friendly advice, was yet near her OLIVIA FAIRFIELD!
90 ANONYMOUS
IN CONTINUATION
INDEED, my dear madam, I know not what to do; the reserve of Augustus increases rather than diminishes, I think, as time moves on—Good heavens! my dearest friend, how can I resolve to give him my hand, if he still retains this constrained manner?— A depression seems to hang on his spirits, melancholy clouds his brow. I think he strives to conceal this from his father and from me-, but I cannot be blinded: and yet he is so interesting, his manners are so gentle, even his look of melancholy carries with it to me an air so touching, that I think to sooth his sorrows, to meliorate his afflictions, would constitute my happiness!
Do not despise me for my weakness my dear friend—to no other would I acknowledge it—and why not? Is it then a crime to love the man who is to become my husband?—Alas! it is lowering to the pride of my sex to love where I am not beloved again.
IN CONTINUATION
AUGUSTUS referred to his father all matters of settlement; I referred them to him also: so the old gentleman is prime agent in this business. I believe he understands these affairs better than the affairs of the heart. But I cannot be easy, dearest Mrs. Milbanke; I must come to an explanation with Augustus—and he seems to avoid a tete-a-tete with me, at least I fancy so.
Diamonds and pearls have been brought to me for inspection, these are not the precious gems I covet; the pearl of my husband’s heart would be preferred by me to all the jewels of the east!— Mrs. Merton’s sarcastic remarks on the gravity and the absence of Augustus, are made in my hearing, and in order to mortify and to wound me; but no remarks of hers can now have the power to add to the poignancy of my feelings.—The agitation of my mind mocks description—I have no power to retreat—and yet to advance with such a cheerless perspective in view—how can I have courage?
IN CONTINUATION
A WEEK has elapsed since I had last the resolution of addressing my beloved friend. At length, then, I have ventured beyond the limits usually prescribed to my sex. I have sought an interview with Augustus Merton. Indeed, my dearest Mrs. Milbanke, # reason seemed to totter on her throne, while I imagined myself in danger of becoming the wife of a man, to whom I was an object of aversion. But why should I weary you with a tedious recapitu
THE WOMAN OF COLOUR 91
lation of fears and feelings, which, knowing the sanguine temper of your poor girl, you have long ere now imagined."?
I tried to argue myself into something like courage, when I formed the desperate resolution of asking to. speak to Augustus alone; but it all forsook me when he entered the room, and the trembling abashed woman stood before him. He saw, and seemed to sympathize in, my confusion; he gently took my hand, and, leading me to a seat, placed his own near it, and seemed to wait for me to speak, with a respectful, though by no means a composed air.
“Mr. Merton,” said I, at length breaking a silence painful to both, “you know the respective situations in which we are placed by the will of my ever-to-be-regretted parent?”
He bowed his head in token of assent; a word would have emboldened me, but this forbidding silence struck like a damp upon my heart. I had lost all command of myself—I rose, and, clasping my hands together in a beseeching attitude, I stood before him, saying,—
“It is not too late for you to recede. Oh, Mr. Merton, think how much misery will be spared to us, if you refuse the proffered terms. You have the power of doing so. A tame acquiescence to the will of my father, will secure to you the enjoyment of his fortune, certainly; but can it secure your happiness, if it is to unite you to an object, for whom you feel no regard. Do not fear to mortify me by such a rejection; I have the common failings of my sex, but I am fully acquainted with the numerous disadvantages under which, as a stranger, and a mulatto West Indian, I labour here. The good qualities which I possess (I hope I have some, or barren indeed would have been the soil which experienced the hand of the skilful labourer for many successive years),—I say the good qualities, which I may possess, are not to be discerned in my countenance. The very short time, which, by the unfortunate tenour of my father’s will, is to elapse before this matter is decided, will preclude your coming to a knowledge of my temper and disposition. Indeed, indeed, I shall not be offended, I will bless you for saying, that you cannot accept my fortune on the terms with which it is offered you, if such terms are to be the shipwreck of your happiness!” a
I paused,—Augustus looked earnestly in my face, he heaved a deep sigh.
“You surprise and painfully astonish me, my dearest Miss Fairfield!” said he; “is it possible that you can for a moment suppose, that I feel no regard for you? Are you so insensible to
92 ANONYMOUS
your own numerous and unrivalled virtues and perfections? Heaven is my witness, that I am warmly, sincerely interested for your happiness! and that the thought of your being, for one moment, a dependant on my mercenary brother, and his weak and envious wife, would give me the cruellest uneasiness! But as this is the alternative to which you reduce yourself, if you are resolved on refusing my hand,”—
“I resolve to refuse your hand?” cried I, scarcely knowing what I said, “Oh, Mr. Merton how can you—If, indeed”—
Alas! I found out that I was betraying myself, by the eager gaze of Augustus; he held my hand in his, as he said,—
“Ingenuous, interesting Miss Fairfield! it is, at this moment, that I feel my utter unworthiness of this precious treasure.—Oh! may you never repent your goodness!”
Well! I have repeated enough of this tete-a-tete , to show, my dear friend, that we came to an ecclaircissement. And yet I am neither satisfied with myself nor with Augustus. I fancy that I must have appeared forward, and perhaps, have now obtained from his principles and his pity, what he must have ever denied from a stronger feeling. I am again at my old stumbling-block you will say; and I begin to suspect, that these womanish fears will be the very bane of my happiness!
I have, at last, received a letter from Mrs. Honeywood: it is written, like herself;—but, alas! it contains sad accounts of her health, though the spirit of piety and resignation which pervades it, would leave me nothing to regret in her being removed from this painful world, except the loss of her friendship to myself, and the overthrow of her son’s happiness, for his mother is the acting impulse of his life. Her physicians have ordered her from London to the sea; a “forlorn hope,” she terms it; and thus I shall lose the chance of ever meeting her again. I had agreed to Mr. Merton’s proposition of going to London on my marriage the more readily, as I had hoped to behold this dear friend once more. But it is not to be. The fleet sails to-morrow; I must, therefore, make up my large packet.
Adieu, my dearest Mrs. Milbanke! Continue to pray for one who must always pray for, and love you,
OLIVIA FAIRFIELD.
THE WOMAN OF COLOUR 93
PACKET THE SECOND
London, —
My dear Mrs. Milbanke,
THE hasty lines which I wrote you on the morning that I quitted Clifton,* and which you received with my packet, will ere this have informed you, that your Olivia had become the wife of her cousin! In that moment of confusion, I had no time for particulars, and the hurry and bustle which has ensued, has scarcely afforded me leisure for an hour of calm reflection. Yet, believe me, my beloved friend, I am happy; and the attention and indulgence of my husband exceeds my highest expectations.—And yet, I had formed high expectations of the character of Augustus Merton (Fairfield he is now become). If I can be instrumental to his happiness, I shall have reason to bless my father for my happy lot.
“And why that if, Olivia?” methinks I hear you inquire.
Ah, madam! I doubt myself; I doubt my own abilities; I sometimes fear,—I think,—I fancy a thousand things, when I hear the deep sigh of my Augustus, when, I observe the pensive cast of his features. You will laugh at me,—you will, perhaps, do more—you will chide me for giving way to these fears, which now I know to be foolish, if not criminal. But what will you say of your Olivia, your pupil, when you hear that she is become the victim of superstition also, of nameless terrors, of—alas! she knows not what;— but she has been used to recount all her weaknesses to her friend, and she shall have the recital!
It was settled by Mr. Merton, that our nuptials were to take place at Clifton, and that from the church door, we were to set off for London. The old gentleman stood in the place of my father; Mrs. Merton did not particularly wish to be my attendant, and her presence could give me neither confidence nor comfort; so at breakfast I took leave of her, and she promised to follow us to town, with Mr. Merton and the retinue, in less than a week.
A neat and new post-chaise drove me to the church door, accompanied by my uncle; Augustus was there in readiness to hand me out. The morning had been fine, but as I entered the church, I felt the most sultry and overpowering heat that I^ver experienced. The clergyman was ready,—we approached' the altar! I leant on the arm of Mr. Merton, but I felt resolute and collected. I was obeying the will of my father. I was acting in con
sonance with the impulse of my own heart. I believed the man to whom I was about to be united was worthy of my fondest regard, and I secretly besought the blessing of Heaven!
The ceremony began. I did not cast my eyes towards Augustus, till the priest was in the act of joining our hands, and had put to us the questions, and we had repeated the answers after him.— At the moment when I felt the hand of Augustus, a flash of vivid lightning came from the window over the altar; it was followed by a loud and tremendous peal of thunder. A cold sweat seemed to moisten the hand of Augustus,—it trembled in mine. I looked towards him, an icy paleness overspread his features—he leaned against the rails of the altar—his brow was rumpled—his hair stood erect!—a deep sigh issued from his bosom!—Yes, my friend it is too true,—for it pierced into the inmost recesses of the heart of his wife\ The irrevocable vow was, indeed, passed; it seemed, as if the Almighty had condescended to ratify it,—it seemed—a thousand superstitious fears stole over my soul! Augustus’s disorder had infected me, and it was some time ere I could recover my former tone of mind. The remembrance will never be erased from it,—it was something so awful, so singular.—Oh, Mrs. Milbanke, how terror-stricken must I then have stood, if I had borne about with me the weight of any unacknowledged crime, at the moment when I had united my fate with that of my unsuspecting husband!
But, I will turn over a new leaf and get to a new subject; for, if this be half as frightful to you as it has been to me, you will long since have wished me to drop it.
IN CONTINUATION
I HAVE been rattled over this vast metropolis, and have seen sights and spectacles without number. There is something very striking in this wondrous pile of novelty. I have partaken of every species of amusement with much satisfaction; for I have been accompanied by Augustus, and his kindness and indulgence, in showing “this native ” (as Mrs. Merton would say) all the places and the curiosities, which he has so often been fatigued with, has given me a pretty good idea of his patience, while his readiness in answering all the questions of my inquisitive mind, has exhibited manifest proofs of his good-nature. So you find, I have had a “double debt to pay ;” 1 and whilst visiting
the London lions 1 ,1 have been finding out the amiable qualities of my husband!
Mr. Merton’s house, in which we are at present inmates, is fitted up in a style which proves the wealth of its owner. He is fond of showing off his own consequence; and the credit and high reputation of the London merchant, is his never-ending theme,— and a theme which cannot weary, while I behold, as I do in this city, their boundless liberality in providing for the distresses of their necessitous fellow-citizens!
Oh, Mrs. Milbanke, England is, sure, the favoured isle, where benevolence has taken up her abode! Here she dwells, here she smiles, while, towards my native island, she turns her “far surveying,” 2 her compassionate eye. She descries the sufferings of the poor negro, and promises benign assistance.—Yes! the cause of Afric’s injured sons is heard in England; and soon shall the slave be free!
But think not that my visits have been wholly confined to places of public amusement and diversion; I have visited places of public worship also. I have been delighted and instructed, while hearing the words of inspiration explained by the lips of eloquence, combined with great ability and piety. And I have seen Westminster Abbey, with that enthusiastic awe which must ever strike a feeling mind on beholding this vast mausoleum of valour, genius, and worth!—While I read the inscriptions of heroes, and the epitaphs of poets, I could not help exclaiming, “Oh transitory state of human things!” 3 I could not help reflecting on the noth
ingness of those, who were once the greatest on the earth. But, as the benefit of example is undisputed, it is right that their memories should be preserved by something more lasting than the evanescent praise of others, which is frequently carried on the fleeting breath of popular applause. Posthumous honour is coveted by all, and yet there cannot be a more uncertain distinction; we see it frequently refused to those, who, during their lives, were overwhelmed with praise. The son of genius and misfortune perishes unnoticed and unhonoured; his remains moulder at the side of one whom idleness and illiberality alone distinguished in life, but whose rich coffers, have, at his death, purchased for him the name of every virtue, which, surrounded by trophies of fame, are engraven on a monumental inscription of brass'. How, then, can we covet these uncertain and indiscriminating distinctions ?
Mr. George Merton is just what I had depicted him; fond of his own consequence, and anxious to increase it, by any unwearied application to the business of getting money; yet partial to the indulgencies of the table, and tenacious of his opinion. There appears none of that sympathy of disposition and sentiment between him and his wife which we look for in the connubial state. He seems gratified at beholding her pretty face, set off by every expensive adornment, at the head of his sumptuous entertainments, dispensing the luxuries of the feast to their various guests; and she seems perfectly indifferent who is at the bottom of the table, provided it is filled with a large party. Her fondness for the admiration and the attention of the other sex, is very apparent; and she is weak enough to be flattered with the silly compliments of the vainest and most shallow coxcombs. There is no reciprocity between the two brothers; they are coolly polite towards each other: but the confidence, which is usually and naturally induced from their relative affinity, is, from a total disparity of character, entirely done away.
My Augustus is, I can perceive, by no means fond of a London life; it is not at all consonant to my taste; and the sooner we can
{The Meditations of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius Antonius. A New Translation from the Greek Original; with a life notes, &c. By R. Graves). Addi. tionally, Olivia’s thoughts contrast with those of another literary black woman—Phillis Wheatley’s “To The Rev. Dr. Thomas Amory, On Reading his Sermons On Daily Devotion, In Which That Duty Is Recommended And Assisted” (1773): “And when this transitory state is o’er, / When kingdoms fall, and fleeting Fame’s no more, / May Amory triumph in immortal fame, / A nobler title and superior name!”
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leave it, the better I shall be pleased. Perhaps the people have tainted my opinion of the place, for I am fatigued by the formal stiffness of Mr. Merton; I am sick of the affectation and vanity of Mrs. Merton, and disgusted at her selfish and mercenary husband. I long to be free from the restraints, and the dissimulation, which the common rules of good breeding impose in my behaviour towards them. My mind seems hampered, and I think I shall breathe more freely in the pure air, and amongst the sylvan scenes of the country. The plodding track of cent, per cent, and addition on addition, never suited the taste of Augustus; and, leaving his brother to accumulate thousands upon thousands, he is content to live on the fortune which my father’s will bequeathed to him with his wife. The wise father, and the plodding brother, may laugh, but they cannot persuade him, that a “man’s life consisteth in the abundance of the things which he possesseth,” when the Word of God, and his own heart, both teach him the contrary. 1
Yet, though I talk with pleased anticipation of the country, mistake me not, dearest Mrs. Milbanke; I by no means wish for perfect seclusion. I am not so vain as to imagine, that my society could form the exclusive happiness of my husband. No! I would fly as far from the extreme of solitude on the one hand, as from unrestrained dissipation on the other. Dissipation enervates the mind; it unfits it for every rational and domestic enjoyment; it deadens the feelings; in the vortex of pleasure, the heart is often corrupted, and the principles are sacrificed:—many very amiable characters have been ruined by the prevalence of fashionable example, the fear of being thought singular, and the dread of ridicule. “Who is sufficient for these things?” 2 not your doubting Olivia! and, therefore she would
“Quit the world where strong temptations try,
And, since ’tis hard to combat, learn to fly” 3
Seclusion sours the temper, selfish and illiberal notions are insensibly cherished; the manners lose their polish; the warm
affections of the heart no longer expand in a full tide of benevolence, but return to their source, and freeze before the “genial current ” 1 of social intercourse.
I have got a fine Utopian scheme of domestic happiness in my head, and the country must be the birth-place of it. The conversation of my husband, a contemplation of the beauties of nature, the society of rational and well-informed friends; books, music, drawing; the power of being useful to my fellow creatures,—to my poorer neighbours;— the exercise of religious duties,—and the grateful heart, pouring out its thanks to the Almighty bestower of such felicity! Say, dear madam, is such a plan likely to be realized by your OLIVIA FAIRFIELD?
IN CONTINUATION
London.
Dido, notwithstanding her admiration of the sights with which this justly famed city abounds, is not at all displeased at hearing that we do not intend to live here; and that we shall soon have a house and an establishment of our own; and that too in the country.
“Ah, my dear Missee,” says she, “we shall be there again, as if we were at the dear Fairfield plantation, only that Dido won’t see the dear little creatures of her own colour running about:—but no matter, God Almighty provides for his own, and it be very, very hard, if poor Dido cannot find some little babies and their mammies to care after, and to doctor , 2 and to feed with goodee things, from her goodee Missee, go where she will!”
“Yes, that would be hard, indeed, Dido.”
“Besides, Dido be greater there,” said she, drawing up her head, with that air of pride which seems in some sort natural to her character, especially when she feels a sense of injury— “Besides Dido be great there, and housekeeper to her dear dearest lady, to Massa Fairfield’s daughter: although here she be
“blacky,” and “wowsky,” and “squabby,” and “guashy ,” 1 and all because she has a skin not quite so white, God Almighty help them all—me don’t mind that though, do we, my dear Missee? But Mrs. Merton’s maid treats me, as if me was her slave; and Dido was never slave but to her dear own Missee, and she was proud of that!”
But you know the honest heart of my faithful girl! Augustus treats her with that good-humoured kindness and freedom which is the sure way to win it; and she declares her new beautiful Massa is fit to bear the name of Fairfield, and to be the husband of the dearest Missee in the world.
[In the journal of Olivia, there is at this place a break of some weeks, which the editor laments; as her object in collecting the manuscript has been to portray the character and the sentiments of the Woman of Colour; and hence she has purposely excluded the letters of the other characters in this work: but as, by introducing two of them here, she will be filling a chasm, and letting the reader a little behind the scenes, she makes no apology for their insertion.]
LETTER THE FIRST.
MRS. GEORGE MERTON TO MISS DANBY.
Clifton.
You will laugh at me, and well you might, had I no other motive than the apparent one, for doing my duty here; and being so pretty behaved with my papa-in-law, in order to chaperon this coppercoloured girl, that is sent over as the wife of the romantic Augustus—No! There are wheels within wheels, believe me, Almenia? I have planned, and shall in time accomplish, a most noble scheme of revenge—I shall teach this Mr. Augustus, that
“Hell has no fury like a woman scorn’d ;” 1
and that the thought of revenge, glorious revenge, can give a new impulse to her soul—can stimulate her character, and urge it beyond ordinary bounds! Happily, my husband’s ruling passion, a desire of unbounded wealth, will come to my aid; and he will go hand in hand with me, without guessing at the secret motive by which I am actuated. There must be much dme, and patience, ere the master-stroke can be struck; this once effected, you shall felicitate me on the accomplishment of my designs, and acknowledge that the pains I have taken deserved a splendid victory!—Pains? Yes, Almenia! for I have departed from my character—my wrongs have roused me to exertion, and you find I can even write a whole side of my paper. You ask for a description of this outlandish creature—She is very tall (I never could bear a tall woman), and holds herself erect; no easy lounge in her air; her eyes are, I believe, good, but black eyes are, in my opinion, so frightful;—her teeth, they say, are white, but any teeth would look white, I believe, when contrasted by such a skin! As to her manners, they are abominably disgusting; she is full of sentiment, and religion, and all that—and talks and expatiates, and is so firm and so decided—at the same moment that she would have it appear that she is all feeling and tenderness—such a compound! She has read a good deal I fancy; these bookish ladies are insufferable bores! But daddy Merton is all upon the complimentary order with her, and has made sixty thousand bows for her sixty thousand pounds!—I do not think I could hold out the probationary month if I dissembled; but by showing how much I am disgusted with Miss Blacky , I draw out sensitive Augustus, and put him on his metal; as I slight, he is doubly diligent—he will compassionate this “interesting mulatto”—he will marry her to rescue her from the “tyrannic fangs” of Mrs. George Merton! And I will— what will I not do? I have now raised your curiosity I know, for you were always one of Eve’s genuine daughters—My dear friend, you may remain a long time on the tenter-hooks of expectation. So fare you well. Adieu!
LETITIA MERTON.
LETTER THE SECOND.
AUGUSTUS MERTON TO LIONEL MONKLAND,
Clifton.
UNWILLING as I was to accompany my father to this place, and averse in bestowing any portion of my thoughts towards that clause in my uncle’s will which referred to myself, I yet at this moment behold things in a very different light; and though the barbed arrow of misfortune still rankles at my breast, and can never more be extracted, yet I am more interested for Olivia Fairfield, than I ever thought again to have been for any human being.
“’Tis not a set of features or complexion.
The tincture of a skin, that I admire .” 1
No, my friend, it is not; for I will confess to you, that the moment when my eyes were first cast on the person of my cousin, I started back with a momentary feeling nearly allied to disgust; for I beheld a skin approaching to the hue of a negro’s, in the woman whom my father introduced to me as my intended wife! I that had been used to contemplate a countenance, and a transparent skin of ivory, where Suckling’s expression of “even her body thought” might have aptly originated . 2 I that— ah! why pursue the reflection?—that such things were, I too well know; else why this weight of sorrow which has so long oppressed my weary frame? A very few hours served to convince me, that whatever might have been the transient impression made by the colour of Olivia, her mind and form were cast in no common mould. She has a noble and a dignified soul, which speaks in her words and actions; her person is raised above the standard of her sex, as much as her understanding and capacity. In her energy, her strength of expression, in the animation of her brilliantly black eye, there is something peculiarly interesting. At one moment, I feel for her situation and pity her,—a stranger in a strange country, where she is more likely to receive contumely than consideration; at the next, I see in her a superior being; and again I
behold the child of humanity, the citizen of the world, with a heart teeming with benevolence and mercy towards every living creature!—She is accomplished and elegant; but her accomplishments are not the superficial acquirements of the day,—they are the result of application and genius in unison; her elegance is not the studied attitude of a modern belle, but the spontaneous emotion of a graceful mind: while in her conversation there is combined, with sound judgement and reflection, a naif simplicity, and a characteristic turn of expression, which at once pleases and entrances the observer. The decision and promptitude with which she delivers her opinions, though accompanied by an air of modest timidity, prove that she has a spirit which will never suffer her to yield her principles or her sentiments, where her conscience tells her she is right: and that, though trampled upon, she will yet retain her native dignity of character!
You will think me raving, my friend; and so I am nearly, when I think that it is I alone who must rescue her from a state of miserable dependence. It is on me that her future happiness depends: on me, who, like a shipwrecked mariner, have seen my heart’s only treasure snatched from my longing arms, and am become a bankrupt in all I coveted on earth!—In what a cruel predicament am I placed by my uncle’s will—yet can I refuse Olivia, and see her eating the bitter bread of sorrow and dependence under my brother and his wife.—Oh, Monkland! I have seen the “tender mercies ” 1 of this woman! I have seen her cruel, her unfeeling treatment of a meek and unoffending angel! I know her equal to any species of tyranny, to any plot of low malice and contrivance: she is envious of all virtue and merit, because she possesses neither herself!—She has no heart, no mind! And shall the only child of my mother’s brother, shall the polished, the amiable Olivia Fairfield be reduced to such a situation?—Better had she perished on the ocean, better had the tempestuous billows overwhelmed her, ere she set her foot on this inhospitable shore! Yet, what have I to offer her? Will a widowed heart, blighted hopes, and settled melancholy, will these be fit offerings for the rich prize of her affections and her love? Can I with these hope to secure her happiness?
How if I was to disclose to her the state of my heart—how if I was to divulge to her that secret which is known alone to you and to the grave?—I know the result of such a disclosure,—the gen
erous Olivia would scorn to receive from my compassion what I could not grant from my love; her soul is too noble to bestow a thought upon selfish considerations, and she would not hesitate in preferring a dependence upon my brother, to laying an embargo on my principles, in which she would fancy my heart had no share. Yet, Heaven is my witness, inasmuch as I trust I am a lover of goodness and virtue, my heart, my soul is interested for this charming maid! My heart does not beat with the rapture of passion,—my soul is not overcome by soft emotions at her approach as heretofore.—Again am I giving way to useless retrospections. In hearing Miss Fairfield, in witnessing the chaste dignity of her manners, and the action which characterizes and enforces her expressions, I receive undissembled satisfaction; but sensible of our peculiar situation, whilst I could hang on every word she utters in company, and in her absence delight to recall them to my memory with the appropriate expression by which they were accompanied; yet, strange as it may appear, I fly from a tete-a-tete overcome by a weak fear almost unaccountable to myself. How can I assail her with professions of love, whilst conscious that my heart can never more feel that passion? How can I ask her to acknowledge herself interested for me, when I know that the silent tomb covers all for which I would have lived? and yet, how can I meet my wife, my affianced wife, and not enter into such conversation? My friend, you will pity me—to you, and to you alone, are my struggles and my sorrows known; with jow I shall be acquitted of mercenary views, even though I should become the husband of Olivia—you will know that the same spirit, which once taught me to refuse a wealthy bride and to oppose my father’s direct command, would have supported me in this instance also, if a stronger motive had not influenced me on the other side.— Farewel! Whatever may be my fate, to you I shall always lay open my heart, conscious of your friendship and fidelity towards AUGUSTUS MERTON.
*
*4
104 ANONYMOUS
PACKET THE THIRD OLIVIA FAIRFIELD TO MRS. MILBANKE
New Park, Devonshire.
AS I heard of no ship sailing for Jamaica, I have let my pen lie idle on my standish, my dearest madam, for the last three weeks, whilst I have been arranging my household, and making myself quite at home. In this, as in every thing, Mr. Fairfield has acted with the greatest indulgence. Your Olivia has only to breathe a wish, and it is accomplished; so that, in fact, I have nothing left to wish for.
This house is situated in a romantic part of Devonshire, near a bold and noble shore; the hills and dales are beautifully picturesque, and the diversity of wood, and lawn, and down, is very striking. It is a highly cultivated country, and a populous neighbourhood; and while the little town of ****, about three miles distant, supplies our table with excellent fish, it promises also to supply us with society from its summer visitants; as I understand it is a place of genteel resort in the season. The house is not too large to be comfortable; it is calculated for sociability, more than for show and gives you an idea of a contented habitation, which some of the lofty villas of Nabobs, in the neighbourhood, cannot impress on the mind with all their grandeur.
Dido is delighted; it is like the “dear Fairfield estate,” and she has entered into all the mysteries of housekeeping, and bears about the insignia of her office, in the bunch of keys at her side, and the important expression of her face. Already she has made acquaintances with some of the peasants in the vicinity, and she bids fair to rival her mistress in the favour of the little rustics. Never did a warmer heart glow in a human bosom, than in that of this faithful creature; She considers herself as the sister of the whole human race, and loves them with a relative affection.
As yet, I have seen none of my visiting neighbours, except the clergyman of the parish; I both saw and heard him at church: and if I may form an opinion of the man, from his discourse and delivery in the pulpit, I promise myself profit and pleasure from his acquaintance; his subject was well chosen, and well handled,—his manner was devout and impressive!
' IN CONTINUATION
MR. FAIRFIELD seems to enjoy himself in the country, as much as your Olivia; never did I witness a more sensible alteration, than that which took place in him, when we had fairly
THE WOMAN OF COLOUR 105
turned our backs upon London. The insipid routine of a town life, where a man has no regular avocation, and is too far plunged into the ceremonials of the world to spend his time as he chooses, must surely be very irksome. Fairfield is of a contemplative and studious disposition; he has too much refinement and Christian benevolence in his composition to make, what is termed, a country ’squire; but he has sentiment, and a taste for the beauties of nature, to render him a rural though not a modern philosopher.
I was reading a paper this morning in one of your excellent periodical works, viz. the Tatler, when the following paragraph struck me as being applicable to my Augustus, that I will not apologize to you for transcribing it:—
“With great respect to country sports, I may say, this gentleman could pass his time agreeably, if there were not a hare, or a fox, in his county. That calm and elegant satisfaction, which the vulgar call melancholy, is the true proper delight of men of knowledge and virtue. What we take for diversion, which is a kind of forgetting ourselves, is but a mean way of entertainment, in comparison of that, which is considering, knowing, and enjoying ourselves. The pleasures of ordinary people are in their passions; but the seat of this delight is in the reason and understanding. Such a frame of mind raises that sweet enthusiasm, which warms the imagination at the sight of every work of nature, and turns all round you into picture and landscape.”— Tatler, No. 89. * 1
Mr. Fairfield has patience with me in all my wild strolls, and sees a beautiful view of the sea, a disjointed rock, or a lofty tree, with an enthusiasm which equals mine. He is also interested and entertained with the simple and untutored urchins of the cottages; and I daily perceive, with renewed delight, that our sentiments, our opinions, and our principles coalesce. I am thankful to Heaven, for my happy, thrice happy lot; and humbly pray, that my Augustus’s happiness may be as perfect as my own. I sometimes fancy that there has been a time, when his spirits and his gaiety must have been greater than they are at present; for I observe, the bright flashes of pleasantry, the sudden corruscations of his wit, the “scintillations of a playful mind,” 2 while they sometimes gild his conversation, with a ray, bright and dazzling as meridian day,
are instantaneously obscured, as if by a sudden recollection; and an uncontrollable feeling of sorrow imperiously absorbs every trait of hilarity. But these transitions are unfrequent, though, in general, the even tenour of his demeanor exhibits more the temper of patient resignation, than of undissembled happiness.
You will smile at my nice definitions; but be assured, that whilst he is as worthy of the best affections of my heart, as he is at present, I will not quarrel with my husband, because his cup of felicity does not overflow. Nay, such is the interest that he now excites in my bosom from imagining him to have felt the shaft of undeserved misfortune, that I am sure I love him the better for it. And if I have a wish ungratified, it is the possession of his entire confidence, not for the gratification of a low and unworthy feminine curiosity; but that I might offer him all the consolation and comfort in my power.
Adieu, for the present, my dearest madam!—to you, without reserve, I unfold all the feelings of my heart; I cannot blush to acknowledge its soft emotions; when awakened by so deserving an object. I can never forget, that when addressing you, I am writing to my most valued and tried friend!
OLIVIA FAIRFIELD.
IN CONTINUATION
New Park.
LAST week was devoted almost exclusively to the receiving and paying of visits; I am not sorry that I now find myself a little more my own mistress; perhaps I shall discover many of my neighbours to be very estimable characters on a further acquaintance; but a succession of visitors, where all are equally strangers and the mistress of the house is expected to find conversation, and to make herself agreeable, where too (as in my case) she knows that she is viewed with no common curiosity, is not only fatiguing, but awkward. Augustus endeavoured to ease me of the burden, however, and succeeded in no small degree. He has wonderful facility in general conversation, and can adapt himself to the capacities and tastes of any, whom he condescends to entertain, except they should be of that class, which we used to call, the genteel vulgar, meaning those important shallow-pated beings, who have but one * recommendation, viz. money!— We saw enough of these in the West Indies, where riches are speedily amassed,—and that disgraceful traffic, which hardens the heart, and deadens the feelings, while it fills the purse, was eagerly prosecuted by such characters!
THE WOMAN OF COLOUR 107
But I digress from my subject, and should not find an excuse for such a desultory way of writing as I have fallen into of late, with any other than my own Mrs. Milbanke! I must not indulge in caricaturing; and yet you will, perhaps, think I am doing so, if I merely describe things as they appear to me. Is it, that I see through a magnifying glass to discover defects?—Heaven preserve me from such an unchristian-like vision!
Within two miles of us, situated on a fine eminence, which overhangs the sea, and overlooks the beautiful little bay of ****, stands the Pagoda, the newly-raised edifice of Sir Marmaduke Ingot. Every order of architecture has been blended in this structure; and Augustus not unapdy remarked the other morning as we viewed it at a little distance, that it wanted but the bells which usually decorate the Chinese buildings, from whence its name is derived, to obtain another which would be as appropriate, viz. the temple of folly\ The eastern nabob seemed to have harnessed his fleetest Arabian coursers to his chariot, when he came to pay his compliments to us; he really cut an appearance quite magnifique, as his gay equipage and dashy attendants drove through the park;—we knew there could be only one family so dazzling in this neighbourhood, and were therefore prepared for the guests, who made their entree.
My lady is a masculine woman; very hard-favoured, and of a forbidding countenance; her voice is nervous (I do not mean nervously weak , but nervously strong), her utterance clear, and her conversation vastly above the common level of her sex; so much so, that I understand she is the general terror of the females in the vicinity, as she usually engrosses a great portion of the conversation, and will make herself heard, if not understood. But Sir Marmaduke, having acquired a very considerable fortune at Bengal, and liking to keep a hospitable and showy table, and to have his house filled with company; of course Lady Ingot gets a few attentive hearers of both sexes; and the good dinners, the turtle, and the curries at the Pagoda, obtain for her ladyship general sufferance, if not general favour. It was a very sultry morning, but Lady Ingot was wrapped in a most superb oriental shawl, while a fine lace veil descended almost to the ground, in some measure softening the asperity of her features by its partial shade. Sir Marmaduke’s countenance is neither interesting nor disgusting; his cheeks anf distended by a perpetual smile, and the powder on his head, seems to * be laid on with no sparing hand, to cover the depredations of time. Mr. Ingot, a youth of about fifteen years of age, entered with his parents; he also was wrapped in a shawl, and his delicate fingers were warmed in a muff of the finest ermine, almost as large as
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himself (for he is very effeminate and diminutive in his person). His head was adorned by a hat, turned up before, with a gold button and loop, and ornamented by a plume of feathers; he is really a pretty looking stripling, if he was not made so mere a monkey of, and dressed in such a non-descript manner.
After the first compliments, her ladyship began, and, with facility of expression, and great choice of words, felicitated herself on the pleasure she anticipated in my acquaintance; assured me, that she very rarely met with any thing like polished or cultivated society in the uncivilized part of the world, in which Sir Marmaduke had fixed the Pagoda. The situation had some advantages,—that of air, for instance, which she allowed might be salubrious to those whose corporeal frames were formed to come in contact with it.—“But, my dear exotic,” continued she, “my tender sensitive sapling Frederic, is nearly annihilated by its keenness. I assure you, Mrs. Fairfield, it requires all my maternal vigilance and precaution to guard him from the eastern, blast, which beats against us!”
“And yet, ma’am, the young gentleman looks well.”
“Hectic, mere hectic! pull off your shawl, and lay down your muff, my love,—recline a little on the sofa; Mrs. Fairfield will have the goodness to excuse you.”
I bowed acquiescence, and her ladyship proceeded:—
“Again I must repeat the pleasing anticipations in which I fondly indulge myself, Mrs. Fairfield, on forming a confidential intercourse with you.—Alas! I have wofully felt myself thrown out of my level in this abstracted country.”
“The country is a hilly one, assuredly, Lady Ingot,” said Sir Marmaduke, who heard only what she had last said, and answered literally; and then resumed a conversation into which he had drawn Augustus, respecting a project which he had in contemplation of turning the turnpike road to put it to a greater distance from the Pagoda, as the mail-coach can now be seen as it passes, from the salle a manger windows; and some days, the guard s horn can be distinctly heard, when the wind is in the south.
“We have but few southern breezes, have we, mamma?” said Mr. Ingot, lisping, as he lay recumbent.
“I mean to get an act of Parliament,” said Sir Marmaduke, “if I cannot do it in any other way. In India we manage matters more * concisely; for there , we men in power have the law vested in our hands.”
“A summary mode of proceeding, if justice be faithfully and impartially administered, has its advantages no doubt,” answered
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Augustus; “but in the case you are mentioning, I should imagine you will easily gain the consent of Parliament, Sir Marmaduke, as I conclude that it can be easily proved, that the alteration in question will be a convenience to you, without inconveniencing the public.
“Oh, not a jot, sir,” replied the knight; “the objections that are started, are merely childish, and I can easily discern from whence they originate:—the opposing and unsuccessful candidate for the borough of ***** as he could not oust me out of my seat in Parliament, thinks proper to exert all his interest, to get a protest against me. But let him try his utmost, I shall not mind a few more thousands in this contest!”
“What may be his plea?” said Augustus.
“Oh, that by turning the road, I shall make it two miles further for the mail-coach, and more on the ascent; and that the post master at ***, will be obliged to sit up half an hour later, and burn half an inch more of his farthing rushligM ”
“Upon my honour, papa, you make me quite laugh,” drawled out, Mr. Ingot,— “talking of the half-inch of candle!”
“This is an inconvenience to the public , surely,” said Augustus.
“By no means, sir,—by no means, my good sir,” said Sir Marmaduke, with warmth .—“All the innkeepers, from *** to **** are to a man on my side; and you will acknowledge them to be part of the public,—for are they not publicans?”
“Sir Marmaduke, how often have I told you that I cannot bear a pun,” said lady Ingot.
“You told him so the last time he said it, ma’am,” cried young Hopeful.
“I will allow them to be a part of the public, certainly,” said Augustus, “but I fear a very interested part; and that it is their interest to be paid for two more miles in a stage is obvious.”
The knight’s answer escaped me,—not so his reddened countenance. Lady Ingot seemed to think her husband did not shine ; and therefore she called off my attention to herself.
“Believe me, Mrs. Fairfield, there is scarcely a female besides yourself in this neighbourhood, who has ever set her foot out of England. Conceive what narrow minded, prejudiced beings they must be? Not an idea but what was planted in them at their births and has been handed down by mothers and grandmothers y^and great-grandmothers, through countless generations!”
“It proves,” said I, “that those ideas are worthy retaining? and I confess, I think our mothers and grandmothers were sensible beings. I rather lean towards old customs, and old notions, and can trace one of my ideas as far back as the Old Testament, where
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a lady of some note, being asked, whether she would be spoken of to the king or the captain of the boat, answered, with true feminine modesty—‘I dwell amongst my own people!’ It has always struck me as a most beautiful reply. Retirement seems the peculiar and appropriate station of our sex; and, the enlargement of the mind, and the conquest of prejudice, is not always achieved, perhaps, by visiting foreign climes!”
“You speak like a perfect English woman,” said Lady Ingot; “I see you have already imbibed our air.”
“I thank your ladyship for the compliment,” said I: “I do consider myself as more than half an English woman, and, it has always been my ardent wish to prove myself worthy of the title\”
“Oh, you interesting enthusiast” said Lady Ingot; “with that action, that expression of countenance, so perfectly extraneous, and talking of belonging to this yea nay clime, where the plants indigenous to the soil, almost to a woman, sit with their hands before them, bolt upright and neither verging to the right nor to the left,—look as if they had creaked necks, and cramped joints .”
“I have remarked a very different deportment,” said I, “and seem to have hitherto seen only those who diverge to the contrary extreme,—neither stiffened joints, nor limbs have prevented them from reclining and lounging with an air of ease, which I thought quite ‘the rage.’”
“Oh! there are some who have imitated us East Indians ,” said Lady Ingot, wrapping her shawl round her coarse limbs, in the style of drapery, and gradually inclining more towards the back of the chair on which she sat ,—“we have had an opportunity of seeing the graceful languishment of Circassian loveliness, unrivalled for voluptuous and attractive elegance; and these degenerate imitators of that luxurious ease, which they have never felt , are the greatest treat to us, who see the distorted barbarism of the likeness!”
My dear Mrs. Milbanke, you have had a long specimen of the Ingots during their first visit. You have gained by it (if no entertainment) a perfect insight into their characters; therefore, I will not tell you what I think of them.
Augustus calls me to the evening walk. Adieu.
IN CONTINUATION * New Park.
MRS. HONEYWOOD is no more!—I have just read the account of her death in the papers. I was preparing to write you
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a long letter—but, alas! I cannot. I have been recalling to my grateful memory the numberless proofs of kindness, and of maternal consideration, which I received from this regretted friend during our long voyage. She was an excellent woman, and prepared for death. But was her son prepared to lose her? Poor Honeywood! my heart bleeds for him. I know the acuteness of his present feelings, for I witnessed the strength of his affection, and I could only compare it to that which I felt for my father: but I received the benign consolations of my beloved Mrs. Milbanke!
Augustus saw my emotion, at reading the death of this worthy woman,—he kissed off the tear from my cheek, and lamented, that he did not know the address of Honeywood:—“For did I,” said he, “I would avail myself of the title of your husband, and invite him to a dwelling, where he would find comfort personified in my Olivia?”
I pressed his hand with grateful emotion.
IN CONTINUATION
New Park
THE long list of our daily-increasing acquaintance must be omitted; the characters will develop themselves, as many of them came forwards at a grand dinner of the nabob knight’s, which we partook of yesterday; we wish to be on good terms with all our neighbours: and Augustus or myself have no partiality for what is called a feast, yet, being long-invited guests (or rather, I believe, this said feast being prepared on our account), we went. I need not describe my dress, you know I have one plain unornamented style. Augustus approves it, and of course I do not depart from it; but Dido bids me “be sure tell Mrs. Milbanke that I wore my new diamonds in my hair, which looked very pretty and charming .” Oriental magnificence was in full blaze at the Pagoda. Expect not a description of its splendour from the poor pen of your Olivia; she must refer you to fabled palaces of the genii, and to the gay castles of fairy princes, and other eastern knights.The party was a large one. Colonel and Miss Singleton were the only persons, except the inhabitants of the mansion, whose faces I recognized in the group; and with the most gallant air on the part of the colonel, and the most girlish vitaeity on that of his sister, they both ran, rather than walked, up to pay their compliments. At the same moment that the hand of Augustus was seized by a lady, who, fixing her bold dark eyes full in his face, congratulated him on his marriage, and expressed her delight at this unexpected meeting. The colour faded in the countenance of my
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Augustus I thought his lips quivered—he certainly looked confused and embarrassed—he let his hand remain in hers, without appearing to know that he did so—and the zvould-be interesting colonel putting his hand to the side of his face, and grinning till he showed rather more than he intended (viz. besides all his white teeth, two vacancies on either side), whispered,—
“The mutual pleasure evinced by a certain party , is evident enough, to call forth a disagreeable emotion on your part, if aught disagreeable could lurk under a form so tender!”
I had not time to answer this complimentary whisper, had I been prepared; for my tender form was at this minute presented by Augustus to Miss Danby, and I bent my flexible joints to her in a courtesy. Assuredly, there was much constraint and embarrassment in Mr. Fairfield’s manner, even whilst he made this introduction; but with the assured ease of a girl used to the world, the lady stared at me with an expression of unbridled curiosity, which made my cheeks glow.—What was the cause of Augustus’s confusion? My dear Mrs. Milbanke, I asked myself this question. The humbled and mortified Olivia could answer it only thus (for neither the manners nor person of Miss Danby could ever have been interesting to Augustus; of this I was well aware): My husband is, then, ashamed of me—he is ashamed of my person —he dreads my being seen by any of his former acquaintances as his wife ;—I must then be still disgusting in his eyes—he yet has not courage to face the “world’s dread laugh!” 1 These bitter reflections passed in my mind, as I observed that Augustus escaped from the rude survey which Miss Danby seemed to be taking of my person, as though he could not stand the scrutiny.—I hope it was only for a moment that I suffered these thoughts to ruffle my tranquility!—Augustus, too, soon recovered himself; and Miss Danby offering him her hand with great nonchalance (on seeing the nabob take mine, to lead me into the dining-room), he gallantly lifted it to his lips as he took it.
“We used to be famous flirts, you know,” said Miss Danby. “Even so, believe me, Mrs. Fairfield;” said she, nodding familiarly at me across the table.
“And we mean to resume our old habits, of course,” said Augustus laughing.
“And will not you retaliate?” said Colonel Singleton, who,
seated at my right hand, threw his most agreeable smile into his face as he asked the question.
“I don’t know how far it would be proper,” said I.
“Would ladies of the present century always stop to consider of propriety before they venture on this retaliation , I think we should soon find a material improvement in manners as well as morals,” said a grave-looking elderly gentleman, who sat towards the bottom of the table. “But you ladies do not give yourselves time for reflection.” And as he said this, he turned his head towards Miss Singleton, who, arrayed in pink muslin, and adorned with pearls looked as gay and airy, as her very gay and very airy dress could make her.
“As to giving ourselves time, you ought to know that it is not at our own command said she. “I protest to you, that, for my own part, from year’s end to year’s end, I have not a day which I can call my own.”
“Oh happy you!” said Miss Danby; “What an enviable being!” and she, apparently spoke from her heart.
“Nay, do you really think so?” said Miss Singleton, simpering with conscious pleasure. “To be sure, society has imperious claims upon persons in a certain sphere; and I have a very large circle of acquaintance, which is continually expanding.”
“The expansion of a circle: that is not badly expressed,” said Lady Ingot, in a half-whisper, to Augustus.
“And a magic circle too!” said a young ensign, who sat on one side of the speaker.
“The colonel has also a great many friends,” continued Miss Singleton.
“A charming, elegant man! I am sure, ma’am, he must have friends wherever he is seen!” said an elderly and highly-rouged widow, who seemed to be particularly attentive to Colonel Singleton.
“A vast acquaintance my brother has, ma’am—and people who live in the world have such various claims upon them; what with dinner parties, routs, concerts, plays, balls, and suppers, at Bath in the winter, London in the spring, and at the fashionable watering-places in rotation during the summer, I have not a moment, that I can call my own, of the twenty-four hours.*My brother and myself seldom retire till three or four in the morning, as we can find no other period than an hour before we court repose, to talk over the adventures of the preceding day, and settle a plan of engagements for the next.”
“Does this mode of life never weary?” asked the grave looking
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gentleman.
“We must never allow that pleasure can weary,” said Miss Danby, with gaiety. “It would be a contradiction in terms.—But pray, Mr. Fairfield, do tell me, how is my friend Mrs. George Merton? Speaking of pleasure reminds me of her—she used to be a dear dissipated creature, you know.”
“She is just as you remember her,” said Fairfield; but again his features underwent an alteration. Miss Danby fixed her keenlyscrutinizing eyes on his face, and said,
“Pray, Mr. Fairfield, what is become of Miss Forrester?”
Here seemed the very climax of Augustus’s embarrassment. Indeed, my dearest friend, I saw him start; his face was convulsed; the most deadly expression of anguish overspread his features. I was just going to put a glass of wine to my lips; I had bowed to Colonel Singleton, in return to his drinking my health; but the tremulous movement of my hand obliged me to set the glass again on the table; and, without knowing what I was doing, I sought for my smelling-bottle, and, had I not checked the first impulsive movement of my soul, I should have handed it across the table to my husband,—and should, most probably, have drawn on myself, if not on him also, the ridicule of the whole company. Miss Danby does not appear to want penetration, however destitute she may be of feeling; I am sure that she saw my emotion, and that the disorder of Augustus did not pass unobserved, for she followed up the question with—
“Poor Angelina! I should really like to know where she is. There was something vastly good about her; and though I used to laugh at her, yet I loved, her.—Pray, do you not know where she is Mr. Fairfield?”
“She is in heavenV ’ sighed out Augustus in a tone of voice scarcely audible, and, at the same moment, letting his fork fall on the plate he hastily averted his head from Miss Danby, and filling a bumper of wine, he eagerly swallowed it. Even Miss Danby seemed intimidated from asking him any more questions.
Lady Ingot turning towards, me—said, “A very mal-a-propos question that of Miss Danby’s— perfectly English! ‘How is she ,’ and ‘where is she’; expecting verse after verse, like Chevy Chace. 1 Mr. Fairfield has very consisely given her the denouement in four words: for my own part, I always hold it as a matter of conscience not to make inquiries after absent friends , lest I should wound the feelings of those to whom I am addressing myself. People are so
very soon married, or dead, or buried, and gone Heaven knows where, that I think it quite a solecism on good-breeding; but in India we discriminate with great nicety on every point of sentiment and manners, and, instead of making our conversation assume the features of a Moore’s almanac, 1 or a monthly obituary, raise the lively idea, and point the brilliant repartee!”
That I heard this ridiculous speech is certain, because I am able to retail it; but, my beloved friend, you would have pitied your poor Olivia, had you beheld her at this moment, as much as she did her agitated Augustus; evidently Miss Danby had struck the chord which jarred through his frame!—This Miss Forrester, then—this Angelina—she was the object of my husband’s warmest affections—
I am sure she was—his sighs—his melancholy abstractions—they are all— all for Angelina—and—I was going to say, that I almost envied the shade of Angelina—But I will try to be more rational.
When the gentlemen joined us in the drawing-room, Augustus was in high spirits, or appeared to be so; they were either affected, or produced by his having taken more than his usual quantity of wine. He seated himself next Miss Danby; she laughed, and chatted, and unceasingly rattled; talked of her poor Mrs. George Merton, in a pitying contemptuous tone, which intimated, that though she was her dear friend, she had a most hearty contempt for her. She asked, how long Mr. George Merton meant to plod on at the cent, per cent.; wondered why Augustus had thought fit to quarrel with the world, and leave it in dudgeon, when he was so formed for its enjoyment!
“I have not quarrelled with it, believe me,” said Augustus; “I am, just now, better pleased with it, than I have been all my life before: I live according to my notions of happiness! (and he looked with an expression of grateful satisfaction towards your Olivia): and can I call myself out of the world, when I have, at this moment, the pleasure of sitting next to one of its gayest belles?”
“Oh nonsense, agreeable flatterer! nonsense!” said Miss Danby. “I am merely a bird of passage. Lady Ingot was obliging enough to give me an invitation to the Pagoda, and, entre nous, I thought I wanted a little bracing for the winter’s campaign, and my father having been overwhelmed by the host of faro, 2 it was a
- *—
1 Francis Moore’s Almanac (or ‘Old Moore’s Almanac’) was first pub - -*
fished in 1700 and was a best seller throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.
2 Faro was a popular card game (in which the players lay wagers on the top card of the dealer’s pack).
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scheme of economics for me to come here, rather than to be in hired lodgings at Weymouth, or dear delightful Brighton—But don’t blab for your life.—I do assure you that I felt quite charmed to find that you were in the vicinity, and mean to be vastly intimate with Mrs. Fairfield. I feel a very great predilection for her already.—Upon my honour she is not near so dark as I expected to find her, and for one of that sort of people, she is really very well looking!”
“She is one of that sort of people whose mind is revealed in the countenance,” said Augustus, warmly,—“and hers is the seat of every virtueV
I wonder I did not get up to clasp his hand in mine; and you will wonder, Mrs. Milbanke, how I could overhear this conversation, without standing confessed a curious listener: but, in fact, I appeared, at this time, to be attending to a most florid description which Miss Singleton was giving of the plumage of a fine bird of Paradise, which had been entirely spoilt by her feather-man, to whom she had sent it to be dressed.
During the whole of the day, I had observed that the elderly gentleman whom I have previously mentioned, had been very little regarded by the major part of the company, and that by the master and mistress of the mansion, he had been wholly overlooked; while Mr. Ingot had amused himself with making faces in derision at his back, and pointing out the unfashionable cut of his coat, and his silver buckles, to any one who would attend to him. A very interesting looking young clergyman tried in vain, by looks and mild persuasions, to deter him, but finding that he was wholly unsuccessful, he seemed in despair to give up the point, and to redouble his own respectful attentions to the old gentleman. Curiosity impelled me to inquire of her ladyship the names of these two gentlemen.
“Do you mean that antiquity?” asked she; “a relative of Sir Marmaduke’s, I believe. His benevolence leads him to make the Pagoda almost a public receptacle. But as to collateral and genealogical descent, my dear Mrs. Fairfield, you will credit me that I never trouble myself about it; he may or may not be related: but I think his head is truly Grecian, and if it had the genuine rust, it would be invaluable. As it is, I like very well to see it at the table; it is of a good cast, a classical subject certainly.”
“It bespeaks goodness as much as any countenance I ever saw,” said I.
“I suspect you are a physiognomist,” said her ladyship; “I
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confess that I am no Lavateriarv. 1 my notions on the point of facereading are deduced from the genuine Roman and Grecian antiques (of which I have some curious specimens in my cabinet of medals). As to the sublime and beautiful , and as to the grotesque and singular , I look at those for subjects of entertainment and laughter in this study.”
“But there is a countenance,” said I, “which, having neither a Roman nor Grecian, grotesque nor singular cast, is yet so interesting a one, that I cannot help asking your ladyship his name also?”
“His name!” repeated she, turning up her lips rather contemptuously, “he is a poor student of Salamanca, or, to speak, in a more common-place manner, he is an Oxford scholar, of the name of Waller, who is here in the capacity of tutor to Mr. Ingot; though, Heaven knows what he teaches him, for I cannot find out that Frederic is improved by his instructions. His manners I fashion myself Mrs. Fairfield— that essential part of education, I told Sir Marmaduke, I must have the sole management of. I have read in some obsolete author, “Train up a child in the way he should go;” 1 2 —now I could never bear to see the heir of Sir Marmaduke Ingot, stiffened and braced, to look as if he had been pulled out at a wire-drawer’s. Ease and elegance are, in my opinion, terms nearly synonymous; hence I have made a point of letting him lounge, and loll, and curvet, in every interesting and careless attitude, from his cradle to the present period. Observe my Frederic as he now lies serpenting on the carpet, Mrs. Fairfield—his form is symmetry itself—no ungraceful curve, no angular asperities of attitude—there reclines the true harmony of proportion!”
At that moment the young gentleman threw out one polished limb (commonly called a leg), as the old gentleman was coming near the part of the room where he lay; I saw the movement, and by an involuntary impulse sprang forwards, and, catching him by the arm, prevented him from falling.
“You are very good, madam,” said he, “thus to prop an old man, from the mischievous tricks of an urchin.”
Mr. Waller (the tutor) took the hand of Mr. Ingot, “Pray rise, sir,” said he; “I am ashamed to see that you tried to throw -your
uncle on the carpet, and that you suffered a lady to assist him, while you continued in this lazy and disgraceful posture!”
“Uncle, indeed!” repeated he; “how often must you be told that her ladyship cannot bear that word, Waller? I assure you, sir, she will tell you it is the quintessence of vulgarity to use any of those appellations in good company!”
“I am not to be intimidated from speaking my sentiments, sir,” said Mr. Waller; “and if the age and character of that venerable gentleman is no check on your impertinent behaviour towards him, I was in hopes that his relative claim might compel you to adopt a more decent mode of conduct!”
Mr. Ingot made a polite bow, smiled in Mr. Waller’s face, and then reeled off to her ladyship, practicing the last new step; with great action he continued to whisper into her ear: she reddened and looked angrily towards poor Waller, who did not notice her I fancy; and the hopeful heir of the Ingots then fell back on the sofa, and amused himself with playing with the brilliant pendant which hung at her ladyship’s ear. Mr. Bellfield (for so is the old gentleman called), turning towards.me, said—
“You have here, madam, a pretty fair sample of an only child !— Poor fellow! I pity him —but I doubly pity his misguided parents—what a store of unhappiness are they not laying up for themselves?”
I had nothing to urge in extenuation of so much folly, ostentation, and self-conceit, as the Ingots had displayed, but I contrived to change the subject, and found Mr. Bellfield a very sensible and entertaining old man, somewhat cynical in his opinions, and quaint in his expressions; his manners are not modeled from the present times, but they take their tone, from his principles, which are fixed and firm, and can stand against any modern innovations and refinements.
You will think I never mean to throw my pen aside. I must for the present wave the introduction of any new characters, to talk of myself, and of my dearer self, my husband. Augustus returned home dispirited and abstracted; I avoided inquiries; for, alas! I knew that Miss Danby had recalled those thoughts which oppressed him. Unsuspicious of my being acquainted with this, he yet felt it necessary to account for his alteration of manner, and complained of a head-ache. In my turn I dissembled, and feigned sleep, when the heart-piercing sighs of my husband kept me waking at his side, during the greater part of the night; my tears flowed in silence: and thus was I an unknown participator in his sorrows. Oh, Mrs. Milbanke, how happy, how blest would
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be the lot of your Olivia, if her Augustus would but repose his cares in her faithful bosom! I would console him, I would listen to him while he talks of her whom he has lost for ever! I would throw off the weakness of my sex, I would patiently listen to his animated description of her beauties and her virtues, and I would daily strive to be more like the object of his sorrowing heart! but while he retains to himself this secret suffering, while he denies me the blessed privilege of sharing and soothing his sorrows, I feel that I am not half his wife—I am the partner of his bed—but not of his heart! There is so much to admire in the character of my Augustus, every day discovers so much amiability, such benevolence, such commiseration for the sufferings of others, that my regard increases with every added hour; and his dead, his lamented Angelina, could not, I am sure, have loved him with a more fervent affection. Adieu, dearest madam, I am always your own affectionate child—your own
OLIVIA FAIRFIELD!
IN CONTINUATION
WHEN we returned from church this morning, I found Miss Danby seated with her netting, and seeming to be very busily engaged at it, as if she had quite forgotten that six days of the week were sufficient to employ so frivolously, without trespassing on a sacred commandment.—Lady Ingot was playing at “Colonella” with Mr. Ingot, who languidly caught the shuttlecock as he reclined on a sofa, letting his mother stoop for it when he missed, which happened more than nine times out of ten. I started at seeing the party assembled in the breakfast room, and more, at seeing how they were severally engaged—for Augustus and myself had walked to church, which is not above a quarter of a mile distant, and had entered the house by a private door.—
“And where, in God’s name, have you been these two hours?” asked Lady Ingot. “We found the mansion depopulated, we walked in at the hall door, made our way here, and have been unmolested by any human being!”
“Not a male in the house,
Not as much as a mouse?” 1 *
said Miss Danby.
“That is pretty true, I believe,” said Augustus. “My Olivia is not content with being good herself, she makes others so likewise, and all our male servants go to church on a Sunday: we leave one female at home, to see that the house is not run away with,—if some of our good neighbours (smiling) do not perform that kind office for us!”
“To church! and have you, in reality, been at church?” asked Lady Ingot: “I had forgotten that it was Sunday!”
“If Mr. Bellfield and Waller had not reminded you of it, mamma, by coming in their very best suits to breakfast—don’t you recollect”—said Mr. Ingot— “I am sure the old gentleman’s square-toe’d shoes were polished as highly as his silver buckles; and I believe the well powdered locks ofWaller did not escape the ken of Miss Danby, for I watched her eyeing him most intently during the dejeune .”
“What spirits you are in mon cher Frederic!” said Lady Ingot; “you will exhaust yourself.”
“His spirits run away with him,” said Miss Danby, “the idea of my eyeing Waller is ridiculous enough, to be sure!”
“Nay, if you come to that, I have been eyeing him in church ,” said I, “and am not ashamed to confess it; there is something vastly prepossessing in the countenance of that young man; and his attention to the respectable Mr. Bellfield, and their mutual devotion, is a very pleasing sight. Piety, true fervid piety, is a delightful contemplation!”
Lady Ingot writhed herself into a new Circassian attitude, and putting as much softness as she could into her voice, said,—
“Pray, were you not very cold? I never set my foot in that church but once, and then I was absolutely starved to death. I told Sir Marmaduke it was hazarding the very existence of our tender one there (looking at her son), if he ever let him enter it, unless he could portion off a large space for our separate use, and have it well stuffed and carpeted, and a chimney built, and a good register stove put in; but it seems there are great difficulties, in the way to all improvements in country parishes:—what with their rectors, parsons, their graziers and yeomanry, who talk of ‘my pew,’ and ‘mine,’ with as much tenacity, as if one wanted to deprive them of any thing worth retaining. Sir Marmaduke has had so many things of consequence to attend to since we came to the Pagoda, that he has not had leisure to settle a plan for a little sequestration (as I term it); for his family’s accommodation at church; and for my own part, I do not much trouble about it. My
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own religion, is the religion of nature! / can put up my aspirations, while walking in the fields or driving on the road, just as devoutly as if I was kneeling on the moist and humid pavement of some time-worn, superstitious structure, and catching a sudden death at the very moment I was praying to be delivered from it, for nothing short of a miracle could preserve me!”
“The breaths of the greasy farmers is what I chiefly dread in these mixed meetings ,” said Miss Danby.
“But you used not to dread the infinitely more contagious atmosphere of a crowded assembly and rout,” said Augustus.
Miss Danby coloured through her rouge at this well-timed rebuke, and in some haste began to unscrew her netting machine from the table.
“And what may you call this?” asked Augustus playfully.
“Now you know very well, Mr. Fairfield, that it is a vice.”
“Oh, I don’t approve the name at all,—never bring it here again of a Sunday, I entreat you, Miss Danby. These vicious pursuits must not be introduced into a quiet and pastoral country.”
“I do verily believe that you are become a methodist,” said Miss Danby; “you are so sarcastic too in your manner that I shall begin to be afraid of you,—and shall begin to hate you almost as bad as my friend, poor Mrs. George, does!”
“Oh, do not say so,” said Fairfield; “let me not live to be the object of your hatred, fair Almenia!”
IN CONTINUATION
I DO not know why I have dwelt on the Ingots, except that, as they are to me a new species of animal, I feel my own curiosity, as well as pity, excited in analyzing them, and imagine that you will feel similar emotions. But today we will turn to a nobler and a more delightful inspection. The rectory would be frequently haunted by Mrs. Milbanke were she with her Olivia; (oh, that were\) Mr. Lumley is just the clergyman which my heart depicted him. I fancy he has known great trials and struggles in bustling through life, and endeavouring to bring up a large family in respectability;—and a conscientious clergyman is, of all characters, the one which is least calculated to do this; for as much as may be, he wishes to disengage his mind from all secular puqfuits (“we cannot serve God and mammon”), 1 yet this is w"holly impossible, where few friends, and a scanty income, are the only
reward for a life spent in the most noble of all causes. Mr. Lumley s long residence, and zealous administration of the duties of his office, as curate of this large and scattered parish, at length moved the heart of a man of some consequence in this neighbourhood, into whose patronage the living fell on the death of a rector, to whom Mr. Lumley had been, (during a long period of twenty years) curate;—and who had never entered his parish except to give his flock an annual shearing and sermon!
The living was presented to Mr. Lumley, who was truly worthy to be so preferred, which is deducible from the general satisfaction exhibited by his parishioners. Easy in his circumstances, with the means of forwarding his family in the world, the good man seems to be completely happy. You would admire his whole family, Mrs. Milbanke; the father, sensible, cheerful in conversation, eloquent in the cause nearest his heart, and making it the rule of his life;—the mother, unaffected and warm-hearted, ready to apply the balm of consolation, and the drop of sympathy, to every mourner within her reach;—the girls, frank, open-hearted, and innocent;—the boys, hanging and catching his sentiments to give the tone to their own!
Caroline Lumley is a sweet girl of seventeen; her beauty does not consist so much in feature, as expression: there is a native simplicity in her manner, which I have never seen equalled—and much mistaken if the eyes ofWaller have not told a tale, which hers have understood. I have asked her assistance in forwarding a little plan for establishing a School of Industry in the village; this brings her more frequently to me, than I should otherwise,—her fear of intrusion withholding her from coming unbidden. She has frequently been my companion in my morning’s ramble; and she is so sweetly grateful for my notice, that your Olivia could almost fancy herself a superior, instead of an inferior being, notwithstanding her colourl But, thank God, I am loved not feared by this child of nature,—my behaviour surprises and charms her, as being contrasted with the foolish hauteur of other strangers who have settled here, particularly the Ingots. Mrs. Lumley called on Lady Ingot, on her first coming to the Pagoda,—Sir Marmaduke returned it; and in an affectedly affable manner, which proved his mushroom pride and self-sufficiency, he invited Mr. Lumley to dine with him, excusing himself from including the females of the family, by saying,—
“Lady Ingot had a great many claims upon her in society. She was a highly-bred woman; it was necessary to draw the line of separation somewhere. She was sorry to refuse the pleasure of
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receiving Mrs. Lumley at the Pagoda; but if she did, Mrs. Notary and Mrs. Bolus might expect the same honour to be extended to them likewise;—thus the very canaille 1 would be included in her ladyship’s list of visitants, and her life would be subject to an eternal impost, from the levies of an inferior scale of beings!”
Mrs. Lumley has nothing of sarcasm in her manner, but she laughingly repeated this speech, saying,—“Verbatim, as it came from the courtly Sir Marmaduke; believe me, Mrs. Fairfield, though we all suspect that it was the florid composition of her ladyship, for it came off in rather too studied a manner to be extempore. I courtesied, and was not much mortified at coming below the prescribed standard; and the good man there, in his own placid tone, thanked the Knight for the honour of his invitation,—but said, he was well aware that the hours and the society at the Pagoda would ill coalesce with his humdrum mode of life and obsolete ideas, and therefore desired to be excused likewise! —This refusal on his part seemed to be vastly well taken, and Sir Marmaduke is on the best of all possible terms with us. He always bows and smiles, inquires cordially after my health, asks after my little family, then how many children I have, and the age of the youngest, when he meets me;—passes the children one day, and makes an apology for forgetting them on the next, and when he, mounted on his dashy phaeton, meets me trudging along the lanes, he invariably stops to express his fear of my getting an illness by encountering so much dirt.”
IN CONTINUATION
THE amiable simplicity and good-humoured frankness of the Lumleys, are well contrasted by the assuming pride and false consequence of the Ingots, in the little trait which I gave you yesterday.—Ah, my dear Mrs. Milbanke! if the little great would but behold themselves as they are viewed by those from whom they have departed under covert of Sir Marmaduke’s “ separating line,” they would surely learn to despise themselves; but those beings who court popularity are beset with a train of parasites, of Danbys and of Singletons, who flatter, who compliment, and who laugh at them in a breath!
Even Augustus,—even your Olivia, who prides herself or* her ingenuousness of character, even we are silent; and we would keep on a neighbourly footing at the Pagoda, we must not always
1 The masses of people, rabble, riffraff.
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express our real sentiments. And yet we purposely left the crowded haunts of the city, to escape from all the ceremonials of fashion and the tax which the arbitrary customs of the world has imposed so heavily upon reason and common sense. Yet they have followed us into retirement, and, unless we would really turn hermits, and entirely seclude ourselves from society, we must be content to pay the common levy;— for, to form a truly unvitiated and primeval neighbourhood of undisturbed truth, simplicity, and innocence, we must revert to the golden age, and to the rapt reveries of enthusiastic poets. Happy is it, when, with no overstrained fastidiousness, we can consent to take the world as we find it, when we endeavour to mend where it lies in our power, and firmly resolve not to make it worse by our own example. If I was to brace myself up, and with affected authority take upon me to correct the follies which I observe at the Pagoda, I should most assuredly draw down a great deal of odium on myself, and, to the other failings of her ladyship, add those of rancour and malice to her nearest neighbours.
We have heard nothing of Honeywood, or to what spot he has bent his course, in pursuit of consolation. I fear he thinks himself forgotten by your Olivia. Yet surely, he could not have appreciated her character so unjustly; rather should I suspect that he fears to obtrude on my happiness, with his grief. Yet that Power who has bestowed on me a happiness, for which I cannot be sufficiently grateful has also taught me to “feel another’s woe.” 1
Adieu, my dearest friend! My heart always turns to you with a sentiment of reverential affection, which I feel but cannot express.
OLIVIA FAIRFIELD.
IN CONTINUATION
IN the plenitude of happiness, we sometimes grow childishly fastidious, and are easily put out of humour. I feel ashamed to own, that this has just been my own case: but all my weaknesses shall be confessed to my beloved Mrs. Milbanke.
I have received a letter from Mrs. Merton; she is coming to pay me a visit. You know, my dear friend, that I do not love her. I confess, that I felt a pain at my heart, wholly unaccountable even
to myself, as I read the intelligence. It seemed as if she were coming to disturb my halcyon felicity; it seemed,—I know not what. But you may suppose that I do not exaggerate my feelings when I tell you, that Augustus observing me, said, in a voice of affectionate inquiry,—
“No ill news, my love, I trust!”
This brought me to some sense of my weakness to call it by no harsher name. I had nothing to allege in my excuse. Indeed, I had not words to answer him, so I put the letter into his hands.— In his turn, Augustus seemed to receive a damp from the promised visit.
“Do as you like, my Olivia,” said he, returning me the letter.
“We shall see Mrs. Merton, of course,” said I: “you know we have no engagements.”
“It is, of course,” said he, “for you to forget that she invariably made you the object of her affront and insult. But your unparalleled sweetness and forbearance is what I must ever remember!”
“Oh, I am so vulnerable to praise from jwu,” said I, “that I must receive Mrs. Merton’s visit for even were I sure of experiencing similar treatment from her, I should now be doubly supported from the proud consciousness of your esteem!”
“No, my generous girl,” said he, “her rudeness must never be repeated! I have now a husband’s claim, and I will see that none injures my wife with impunity!—Yet hear me, whilst I conjure you, that from no false pride and punctilious delicacy towards me, you receive the visit of my brother’s wife! God knows, that I have no relative—no affection for her of any kind. She has been my—Do not put a tax on your own feelings, to avoid wounding mine, my Olivia,” said he, recollecting himself after pausing abruptly, and heaving a bitter sigh;—“for I protest that was she not the wife of my brother, I would never behold her more!”
“But as your brother’s wife,” said I, smiling.
“My Olivia will always have it her own way, and that way is always right,” said he. “You must extend the invitation to my nephew, your little favourite.”
“Most assuredly I will!”
And so ended this conversation; though I freely confess, that a gloom comes over my mind, which I cannot get rid of, wljen I think of entertaining Mrs. Merton as my guest. I do not fear her, Mrs. Milbanke; she cannot have power to harm me, blest as I am with my husband’s protecting love. I do not hate her; for I trust I have attained that rule of Christian forbearance, which teaches us
126 ANONYMOUS
to “pray for those who despitefully use us.” 1 But I shall feel awkward and constrained, while performing the rites of hospitality, and apparently extending the hand of friendship, where I cannot respect or esteem.
Dido is as much out of sorts as her mistress; she does not like the idea of the tonish (or rather townish ) Abigail, and the monkey footman, who treated her with so much sangfroid , at Clifton and in London. “But here,” she says, “thanks to my good lady,—Dido be Missee below stairs, and treated by all as if me was as good as another, for all me be poor negro wench!”
Ah, my good Dido, perhaps both your “good lady,” and yourself, may find the difference of entertaining, and being entertained! Yet Dido is determined that nothing shall be wanting on her part, towards receiving our guest stylishly, and she has been in a prodigious bustle ever since I made her acquainted with the contents of my letter.
Augustus bids me make up my packet for Jamaica, as he can get it conveyed to Bristol by a gentleman now setting out. May every earthly blessing attend you, my ever dear friend!—so will always pray your affectionate
OLIVIA FAIRFIELD.
END OF VOLUME THE FIRST