I have been much gratified by Mr. White’s acquaintance, short as was our interview. His open, intelligent countenance, and an ease of manner which princes might envy, make a strong impression at first sight. Why is it that some among the Society of Friends possess an ease of manner, hardly ever met in the first approaches of those in the great world who are most anxious to acquire it? I believe it may partly arise from your never being trammelled by all those forms with which our children are embarrassed, and which may have an effect on the manners like back-boards, collars, and braces on the body. I wish we may see Mr. White here, for it is like seeing a person in a dream, to receive a short visit in the bustle and hurry of a London hotel.
You do me too much honour in supposing me well dressed. I am rather negligently than carefully; I mean negligent, as opposed to fashionable and studied, but not to neat or fresh; and as I think there cannot be too little seen of my present changed appearance, I always wear a veil and shawl when I can, partly, perhaps, from pride, but partly from modesty, having observed how much pains are thrown away by my cotemporaries to make their exposures tolerable, ‘et pour réparer des années les outrages irréparables.’ I am, besides, of an indolent disposition on many subjects, and dress is one. I hate shopping, dislike conferences with milliners and dressmakers, fidget while anything is trying on, and give no credit to the pert Miss who always assures me the most expensive of her caps is exactly the one which becomes me the best.
TO THE SAME.
Aug. 29, 1816.
In whatever disposition of mind I may be when I receive your letters, their effect on me is the same:—
‘Round an holy calm diffusing,
Love of peace, and lonely musing;’
and none tend more to elevate and ameliorate my heart than those in which you describe the passage of any of your beloved circle from this world to a better. You and yours live in a peaceable atmosphere of family affections, of well-directed energies, and of pure religious sentiments, which seems so fit a preparation for a superior existence, that the loss of one of your friends seems more like a sad and tender separation than that total and frightful disruption which in other cases fills the mind with awe and terror. The loss of your admirable niece must be deeply felt by those who knew her; and the frequent instances in which we see parents survive their children, turns the balance of happiness greatly in favour of the childless. But perhaps I ought not to say this. It is ungrateful to that Providence which has blessed you and me with deserving and hopeful families, and, upon a second thought, I even believe it is untrue.