E. Delves.
LETTER XLV.
Miss Delves to the same.
Barford Abbey
Surely I must smell of venison,—roast beef, and plumb-puddings.—Yes, I smell of the Old English hospitality.—You, Madam, have no tenants to regale so;—are safe from such troubles on my account.—Will you believe me, Madam, I had rather see their honest old faces than go to the finest opera ever exhibited.—What think you of a hundred-and-seven chearful farmers sitting at long tables spread with every thing the season can afford;—two hogsheads of wine at their elbows;—the servants waiting on them with assiduous respect:—Their songs still echo in my ears.
I thought the roof would have come down, when Lord and Lady Darcey made their appearance.—Some sung one tune,—some another;—some paid extempore congratulations;—others that had not a genius, made use of ballads compos'd on the marriage of the King and Queen.—One poor old soul cried to the Butler, because he could neither sing or repeat a verse.—Seeing his distress, I went to him, and repeated a few lines applicable to the occasion, which he caught in a moment, and tun'd away with the best of them.
Lord and Lady Hampstead are so delighted with the honest rustics, that they declare every Christmas their tenants shall be regal'd at Hallum Grove.
What can one feel equal to the satisfaction which arises on looking out in the park?—Three hundred poor are there feasting under a shed erected for the purpose;—cloath'd by Sir James and Lady Powis;—so clean,—so warm,—so comfortable, that to see them at this moment, one would suppose they had never tasted of poverty.