My dears all unite in most affectionate loves to you and yours with my Elizabeth's
Attached friend,
Caroline Douglas.
Mr. Oliphant returns from his northern trip next week.
LETTER V. Arthur Howard to Charles Falkland.
My dear Falkland,
Here comes the day for sealing my promised packet, which you will find to contain the last week's register of matters and things as time glides on at Glenalta.—Well; shall I begin by giving you this day's impression, or travel, like a crab, backwards, in order to get forward? As the latter will be in the Irish style, and also conformable to my promise, I suppose that I must give it the preference. To return then—I made up my budget on Wednesday night, went to bed, tossed about rather feverishly for an hour or two, partly from this plaguy cough, which was, I conclude, excited by my journey, and partly, no doubt, from the irritation of my temper. Sleep, however, that "sweet restorer," as our poet so beautifully calls it, came ere long to my aid, and my eyes were closed until they opened at once upon Lewis, and the most brilliant sunshine I ever beheld!
"Lewis, I will get up before the family are stirring—I want to look about me, and see something of this place before breakfast." "Lord, sir," replied my squire, "the people of this house I believe live without sleep, at least if I may judge by what I have seen as yet. I was up myself at half past six, and the young ladies were coming then from the sea when I went down stairs. They are off upon some other prank now, for I saw two of them on donkies, and Mr. Frederick is, I know not where, but certainly not in his room, for the door and windows of it are wide open."
I jumped up, and at eight o'clock sallied forth in quest of adventures. The Glen, in which my aunt's dwelling is situated, is most assuredly quite lovely; and this time of the year is so charming in itself, that it is provoking that all things here should not be in harmony. Just conceive a set of Blue Stockings in a scene fit for nothing but love-music and romance,—faith it is mortifying; not that I am near so angry as I was when I last wrote. No; they are all very prudent, I must own; but the accursed thing is there, and only waiting for an opportunity to overwhelm me;—but to my diary.
I had not gone ten yards from the hall door, along a winding pathway that leads through a wood to the sea, when, fascinated by the beauty of every thing around me, I thought that I would run back for my sketch-book, and try if I could not at least take notes of the view near the house, particularly as I shall leave it so soon, before I joined the family party. Just as I regained my own room, I met pretty Fan, looking like a rose-bud. "Fred. and I have been searching every where for you, Arthur, to give you your little dose of milk warm from the cow, which I am determined shall cure your cough, and make you as fat as my Flora." So saying, off she skipped, desiring me to wait for her return, and in a few seconds she came back in the character of Hebe, bearing a goblet of high-frothed milk instead of nectar, not for Jupiter, but your humble servant. Never having been paid such an attention in all my life before, I felt rather at a nonplus. Not a line from Scott, Byron, or any of our British bards!—no, not even the "Thought upon new milk," at which you and I have laughed in the Rolliad, came to my relief. Not intimate enough to be thus served by a princess of the castle, without returning some acknowledgment, and nothing either chivalric or poetical starting to my rescue, I was completely at fault, and looked, perhaps for the first time, something like Simon Pure. Fanny, however, did not seem to observe any thing but the main point of whether the draught were honestly dregged to the very bottom.—"Drink it all; the conserve of roses, I dare say, will reward the last gulp,—there, that is a dear boy—it will do you good;" and away flitted my nymph of the mountain, saying, as she sped along, that she would come and walk with me in a moment. Scarcely had I lost sight of her, before she was back again; and all animation, with youth, health, and good humour, she ran up to me and said—"Old Lawrence does not treat me so formally as you do; he does not look surprised when I offer him a glass of milk; but smiles kindly, with a 'bless you, missy,' as my reward."
"What," answered I, "have you been meting out your favors this morning to a set of pensioners, amongst whom I have the honour to be classed? If that be the case, my gratitude might be taken from the general tribute, and hardly missed."—"Oh, then, I see how it is," replied my little coz, "you are offended at me for having taken care of a helpless old man in company with a smart and fashionable young one; but you will not be angry when I tell you, that this dear old soul is the precious mother's foster-father." "And pray, my amiable Fan, what is the meaning of foster-father, for in my life I never happened to hear of such a relation."—"Well, you astonish me, Arthur; I find that you have a great deal to learn. Old Lawrence, or Lorry, as you will soon be taught to call him, was husband to mamma's nurse. Nanny is dead, and much did we grieve for her; but it is a great consolation for her loss, that we are enabled to make her excellent and aged partner so happy and comfortable as he is at Glenalta. Remember, too, that the blessed sun does not shine less brightly upon you, dear Arthur, because it warms our poor old man: and when you think of this, you will never grudge him a share of Drimindhu's milk."