My recommendations were too powerful to be overlooked by Mr. Serge. We we were intimate friends in an hour; and it has been a source both of satisfaction and curiosity to me, to profit from the frankness and openness of a mind so uncommon. I have seen that the encroachments of age and natural infirmities may find a barrier, without the aid of philosophy, and that in a cheerful piety a man may find a safe refuge from the cold apathy and querulous temper of near fourscore years, without other aid than his Bible, and a good heart.
Our conversations are long, though desultory. He frequently, however, talks of his past sorrows and troubles. Speaking of his daughter, Mrs. Fairly, he observed, “that from the time she married, she resembled a poor unfledged bird, who had been ensnared within sight of the nest, and the wing which had cherished her.” “Poor thing,” added he, “she told me once that her husband had taught her to love me.” I spoke of his satisfaction in regard to Mr. Willet, with whom Mr. Maclairn was so pleased. “Yes,” replied he, “thank God, Lydia is the wife of an honest man. I do not wish him to be such a gentleman as Fairly. Plain cloth suits me, Mr. Montrose: I have worn no other, since I was born; except the trimmings are, like Malcolm’s, of pure gold, they are not ornamental in my opinion: tinsel may decorate a fool, and set off a knave, whilst it lasts; but it will be for a very little time. Mark what I tell you; Fairly will die in in a gaol; and his wife, late Mrs. Dangle, will want bread, and pity into the bargain. But I forgive them; it is my duty; and like all my Master’s burthens, easy; for what should I gain by being unforgiving?
The other day he with much jocularity asked me whether the witnessing so much of conjugal felicity had not put matrimony into my head? I replied, that, on the contrary, it would probably stamp me a batchelor for life. “How so,” asked he, “Why,” answered I, “I see that in this lottery of life, there are some capital prizes; but I am too poor to hazard any part of my fund of present happiness, lest I spend my money for a blank, and I am become too ambitious to be contented with a petty prize.” He laughed, warning me, that I might change my mind. “For such things do happen,” continued he; “at your age I was in no hurry to marry, yet when turned of forty, I married, without consulting my register, or my reason. My good aunt who lived with me, perceived, I suppose, that I was thinking of changing my condition, and she was much pleased; recommending perpetually to my notice, a very worthy young woman of her acquaintance; but I know not how it fell out, after seeing two or three times my poor, artless, good humoured Lydia, I was not easy in my mind; and thought my aunt’s favourite, Miss Welldon, looked of a fretful temper, and was of too ceremonious a turn for me, though she was comely, and only six and thirty, which certainly was a more suitable age for mine, and I might have been comfortable with her. I soon found that Lydia was too young a wife for me,” continued he, thoughtfully, “but I loved her, and I well knew what kindness would do with her. She was contented, and all was peace with us, till she was perverted by bad company. Whenever, you marry, Mr. Montrose, take care to know what company the lady keeps; much depends on that; and avoid a disproportion in years: there is hazard in trusting too much, in some cases.”
He is very curious in his questions relative to my two pupils, who are his favourites. “It is all in good time yet,” observed he, “but we must be careful not to neglect our blessings. My grandson, Jerry, is a fine boy, and little William very active and promising. Their mother is an excellent nurse, and Mrs. Maclairn was quite surprised at seeing her a notable housewife. She has been favoured, Mr. Montrose. There is a curate and his wife near them, that are invaluable to these young people; and I will take care that their goodness shall not be lost. But poor Lydia must not be trusted with my boys too long. Happily she promises to be a “fruitful vine.” So the nursing will be transferred. I mean to give my children a good education, Mr. Montrose. It shall not be my fault, if they lack knowledge. I cannot reproach myself with having wilfully neglected my duty; but with a more enlarged knowledge I might have performed it better, and shunned many errors in conduct. I have, of late, been of opinion, that I had, in common with other men better instructed, a capacity that might have been improved by learning; and I will tell you the reason for this seeming presumption,” added he, suddenly stopping and facing me; “it is this: that, although I cannot talk, nor argue like you, and our friends within, yet I very often comprehend the drift of your discourse, and am entertained by your debates.” Before I could make any answer to this observation, Mr. Hardcastle called him, and reminded him of the dampness of the evening, adding, that he was waited for at the loo-table. He nodded in sign of obedience, and said to me, “you may think I am vain, but I must tell you, that I perceive what has brought pam into favour here; I see all the kindness of their good hearts! It is well for me that I know that my debts of gratitude will be discharged in full by One who is able to pay them.” He entered the house, and with bustling cheerfulness claimed his privilege of sitting next Mrs. Hardcastle.
Should these touches of my pencil be judged injurious to a portrait already so faithfully delineated by a more skillful hand, I have only to request the censurer to place the mistake, and others as glaring, to my account, and to separate them from the labours of a copyist, whose sole merit is confined to a diligent and honest purpose; and whose simplicity of heart has, in the presence of the unlearned Mr. Serge, a hundred times pronounced, that learning would not have added one line to his stature.
“An honest man’s the noblest work of God.”
It is now more than three years since my manuscript has been in my writing desk. Already has time shadowed off a portion of those vivid colours, with which my picture of Farefield Hall then glared. The death of Lady Maclairn this spring, has saddened every heart; whilst, from her dying lessons and calm resignation, have resulted a consolation which all have found useful. Sir Murdoch yielded to Mrs. Hardcastle’s entreaties, to join her in London soon after this melancholy event. Again has she been to him the “angel of peace,” and, with renewed health and spirits, he accompanied the family to Heathcot in June.
It is at Heathcot, according to Sir Murdoch’s opinion, that Mrs. Hardcastle must be seen, in order to be justly viewed. I think as he does; for it is here, and here only, that the vivacity and brilliancy of her mind, appear to yield to the satisfactions of her heart. She is always amiable; but at Heathcot she is more placid, more affectionate, and, to use her own words, “never from home.”
I conceived, that this was the season for renewing my petition relative to her and Mr. Hardcastle’s letters. I could not succeed. She saw that I was disappointed. “Be comforted,” said she smiling; “I will, if you please, formally announce to the public, what will satisfy half your readers, as well as the best written love letters extant. I can assert, that Horace Hardcastle is still obstinate in error; and that he yet worships the idol formed by his own hand; an acquaintance with its defects, serves only to augment his attachment, for he pretends to find, even in these, grounds for his faith and motives for his love.”
“But do you not see?” observed I, “how much my moral must lose in its moral design, by the omission of such letters as yours and Mr. Hardcastle’s? A passion built on so noble a basis!”——She interrupted me. “Enough has appeared,” said she, “to justify my preference and affection for my husband. My principle of conduct is at the service of my sex. The young cannot adopt a better. The moment they know, that every approach to vice and libertinism is contagious, they will shun them, however decorated; and when they know, that by marrying a fool, their own gold will be mingled with an alloy which must sink its value and obscure its brightness, they will be safe, and preserve a heart worthy of a good husband.”