LETTER XXXIX
Captain RISBY to the Honourable GEORGE
Barford Abbey.
Will all the thanks,—all the gratitude,—the parents blessings,—their infinity of joy, be contain'd in one poor sheet?—No:—Was I to repeat half,—only half of what they send, you, I might write on for ever.—One says you shall be their son;—another, their brother;—a third, that you are a man most favour'd of heaven—but all agree, as a reward for your virtues you are impower'd to heal afflictions—in short, they want to make me think you can make black white—But enough for the vanity of one man.
I dread your coming to the Abbey.—We that are here already, shall only, then, appear like pismires:—but let me caution my friend not to think his head will touch the clouds.
What man can bear to be twice disinherited?—Mr. Morgan's estate, which the other day I was solely to possess, is now to devolve on the Honourable George Molesworth.—But mark me:—As I have been disinherited for you,—you as certainly will be disinherited for Lord Darcey.
See what a man of consequence I am.—Does Captain Risby say this?—Does Captain Risby say that?—Does Captain Risby think well of it?
Expect, George, to behold me push'd into perferment against my will;—all great people say so, you know;—expect to behold me preside as governor of this castle.—Let me enjoy it then,—let me plume myself beneath the sun-beam.
If to witness the honours with I am surrounded, is insufficient to fill your expanded heart;—if it looks out for a warmer gratification; you shall see, you shall hear, the exulting parents?—you shall see Mr. Morgan revers'd;—Mr. Watson restor'd to more than sight—the steward and his family worthy every honour they receive from this honourable house.
I hear my shadow.—Strange, indeed! to hear shadows;—but more so to hear them swear.—Ha! ha! ha!—Ha! ha! ha!—I cannot speak to it for laughing.—Coming, Sir!—coming, Mr. Morgan!—Now is he cursing me in every corner of the house;—I suppose dinner is on the table.
This moment return'd from regaling myself with the happy family:—I mean Sir James and Lady Powis, with their joyful inmates.—Mr. and Mrs. Powis are set out for London.—As an addition to their felicity, Lady Powis had a letter from her grand-daughter the instant they were stepping into the chaise.
For one hour I am at your command:—take, then, the particulars which I was incapable of giving you by John.—
I was sitting in the library-window, talking to Mr. Watson; the Ladies, Sir James, and Mr. Morgan, in the dressing-room, when I saw John riding down the great road a full gallop.—At first I thought Lord Darcey had been dead; then, again, consider'd his faithful servant would not have come post with the news:—however, I had not patience to go through the house, but lifting up a sash, jump'd out before he could reach the stable yard.—Without speaking, I enquired of his face what tidings; and was answer'd by a broad grin. I had nothing to fear from his message.
Well, John, said I, running up to him,—how is your Lord? how is Mr. Molesworth?—
Better, I thank God, Sir;—better, I thank God! With that he turned his horse, and was riding across the lawn.—
Zounds, John, where are you going?—where are you going?
Follow me, Sir;—follow me (setting up a brisk trot). If you kill me, I dare not deliver letter or message before we are at a distance from the Abbey.
I thought him mad, but kept on by the side of his horse 'till we came to the gate of a meadow, where he dismounted.
Now, Sir,' said he, with a look that bespoke his consequence,—have patience, whilst I tie up my horse.
Patience, John! (and I swore at him) I am out of all patience.
With that he condescended to deliver your letters.—I rambled with surprise at the contents, and fell against a hedge.—John, who by this time had fasten'd his steed, came up to me just as I recover'd my legs;—and speaking close to my ear,—'Twas John Warren, Sir, was the man who found out the Lady; 'twas I was the man, Sir.
I shook him heartily by the hand, but for my soul could not utter a syllable.—I hope you are not ill, Sir, said the poor fellow, thinking me seiz'd speechless.—
No, John;—no, reply'd I; it is only excess of pleasure.—You are a welcome messenger:—you have made your fortune, John Warren, and please your honour, has made his dear Lord happy;—that is more pleasurable to him than all the riches in the world.
You are an honest, good creature, John.
Ay, Captain; but was it not very sensible to remember the young Lady's hand-writing?—Would a powder-headed monkey have had the forecast?
Oh very sensible, John;—very sensible, indeed!—Now go the Abbey;—ask for my servant;—say you was sent by Mr. Molesworth to enquire for the family; but do not mention you have seen me:—I shall return by a different way.
John mounted immediately, and I walk'd full speed towards the house. I found Mr. Morgan taking long strides up and down the dining-parlour, puffing, blowing, and turning his wig on every side.
Where have you been, Captain? I have sent to seek you.—Lord Darcey's servant is without;—come to enquire how things are here.—I would not let them send his message up;—but I have been out myself to ask for his Lordship.
Well, Sir, and what says the servant?
Says!—Faith I hardly know what he says—something about hopes of him:—to be plain, I should think it better if hope was out of the question.—If he and all of us were dead—But see John yourself; I will send him to you.
As he was just without the door, I drew him back,—and turn'd the key.—
Come hither, Sir;—Come hither, Mr. Morgan:—I have something of importance to communicate.
D——n ye, Captain, what's the matter now? (staring.)—I'll hear no more bad news:—upon my soul, I'll run out of it (attempting to open the door).
Hold, Sir; why this impatience?—Miss Powis lives!—Will you run from me now?—Miss Powis lives!—With that he sent forth a horrid noise;—something betwixt howling and screaming.—It reach'd the dressing-room, as well it might:—had the wind sat that way, I question if the village would not have been alarm'd.—Down ran Sir James and Mr. Powis into the library;—out jump'd Mr. Morgan.—I held up my hand for him to retreat:—he disregarding the caution, I follow'd.—Sir James was inquiring of a servant whence the noise had proceeded.
It was I, said Mr. Morgan, rubbing his sides, and expressing the agitation of joy by dumb shew;—it was I, beating one of my damn'd dogs for running up stairs.
If that is all, said Mr. Powis,—let us return to my mother and wife, who are much hurried.—Away we went together, and the affair of the dog pass'd very well on the Ladies.
I sat musing for some moments how to introduce the event my heart labour'd to give up.—Every sigh that escap'd,—every sorrowful look that was interchang'd, I now plac'd to my own account, because in my power to reverse the scene.
Addressing myself to Mr. Powis, I ask'd if he knew Lord Darcey's servant was below.—He shook his head;—No, he answer'd.—Then it is all over, Risby, I suppose in a low voice?—I hardly wish for his own sake he may recover:—for ours, it would be selfish.
He was not worse, I reply'd:—there was hope,—great hope he would do well.
Blessings attend him! cried Mrs. Powis.—tears starting afresh to her swoln eyes;—then you really think, Mr. Risby, he may recover?
If he does, Madam, return'd! he is flatter'd into life.—Flatter'd! said Mr. Powis eagerly;—how flatter'd?
Why, continued I, he has been told some persons are sav'd from the wreck.
Up they all started, surrounding me on every side:—there seem'd but one voice, yet each ask'd if I credited the report.
I said I did.—
Down they dropp'd on their knees, praying with uplifted hands their dear,—dear child may be of the number.—Though nothing could equal the solemnity of this scene, I could scarce command my countenance, when I saw Mr. Morgan standing in the midst of the circle, his hat held up before his face, and a cane under his arm.
As they rose from their knees,—I gave them all the consolation I thought at that moment they were capable of sustaining;—and assur'd them no vigilance would be wanting to come at particulars.—I was ask'd, if there was any letter from Mr. Molesworth?—When answer'd in the affirmative,—the next question was, if it related to what I had just disclos'd?—I equivocated in my reply, and withdrew to write the few unconnected lines sent by John.
After he was dispatch'd, I return'd immediately to the hopeing,—fearing family.—Mr. Watson was sitting amidst them:—he seem'd like a Being of purity presiding over hearts going to be rewarded for resignation to the Divine will.
He heard me as I enter'd: he rose from his seat as I came near him, and pressing one of my hands between both his, whisper'd, I have seen Mr. Morgan.—Then raising his voice, You are the messenger of joy, Mr. Risby;—complete the happiness you have begun:—all present, pointing round, are prepar'd to receive it.
Here drops my pen.—I must not attempt this scene:—a Shakespeare would have wrote it in tears.
How infinite,—how dazzling the beauty of holiness!—Affliction seems to have threaten'd this amiable family, only to encrease their love,—their reverence,—their admiration of Divine Omnipotence.—Blessings may appear, as a certain great man remarks, under the shape of pain, losses, and disappointments;—but let us have patience, and we shall see them in their own proper figures.
If rewards even in this world attend the virtuous, who would be depraved?—Could the loose, the abandon'd, look in on this happy mansion, how would their sensual appetites be pall'd!—How would they hate,—how detest the vanity,—the folly that leads to vice!—If pleasure is their pursuit, here they might see it speaking at mouth and eyes:—pleasures that fleet not away;—pleasures that are carried beyond the grave.
What a family is this to take a wife from!—Lord Darcey's happiness is insur'd:—in my conscience, there will not be such another couple in England.
Preparations are making to welcome the lovely successor of this ancient house;—preparations to rejoice those whose satisfactions are scanty,—to clothe the naked,—to feed the hungry,—to let the stately roof echo with songs and mirth from a croud of chearful, honest, old tenants.
I often hear Mrs. Jenkings crying out in extasy,—My angel!—my sweet angel!—As to the old gentleman and Edmund, they actually cannot refrain from tears, when Miss Powis's name is mention'd.—Sir James and her Ladyship are never easy without these good folks.—It has ever been an observation of mine, that at an unexpected fortunate event, we are fond of having people about us who feel on the same passion.
Mr. Morgan is quite his own man again:—he has been regaling himself with a fine hunt, whilst I attended Sir James and my Lady in an airing round the park.—After dinner we were acquainted with all his losses and crosses in the dog and horse way.—He had not seen Filley rubb'd down this fortnight:—the huntsman had lost three of his best hounds:—two spaniels were lame;—and one of his running horses glander'd.—He concluded with swearing, as things turn'd out, he did not matter it much;—but had it happen'd three weeks since; he should have drove all his servants to the devil.—Enough of Mr. Morgan.—Adieu, Molesworth!—Forget not my congratulations to your noble, happy, friend.
RISBY.