There is one soothing circumstance, however, attendant on death: we do not miss ourselves when we are dead; not so much even as we do a shirt-button when we are alive!
[2] Afterwards Lord Churston.
[3] H. W. Statham, since dead.
XLIV.
Mrs. Rickards was a pretty creature, her husband was plain, her daughter was plainer, but when one looked at them, in the magic of the moment, they all looked alike,—happy and good. One forgot that beauty existed elsewhere, save as an art.
They were of course constant guests at the hall. Miss Rickards herself painted, baked, and glazed every window in Stowlangtoft Church.
The Rev. Mr. Mozley, well-known as belonging to the Tractarian reformation, was an intimate friend of the Rickards and Wilsons. He was one of three or four who wrote the leaders for the Times. His account of the duty, told only in confidence to private friends, was that he and his colleagues attended at the office every night at twelve o’clock, one day excepted; and that a committee was there, at the same hour, to discuss the subjects of the articles for the day following, and to determine the line to be taken. Then a subject thus selected was handed to each of the writers who were in waiting, in separate rooms.
On one occasion when Mr. Mozley was staying at the hall, a Times commissioner was present at the dinner. He was the bearer of introductions to the various landowners; his mission was to obtain information on subjects connected with the land. He was not what one calls refined, and he spoke with great freedom on the affairs of the journal, not knowing that Mr. Mozley was connected with the Times, but who was greatly amused at this gentleman’s pretended knowledge about the most secret details of the paper.
I was myself of the party, and, knowing the situation, was equally amused, with the rest of the company.