However, I must do her the justice to say that her children never occasioned the least trouble or disturbance, for not once did they appear, nor did we ever hear them mentioned; so that, but for previous information, I should not have had the slightest suspicion that Mrs. Wall was a mother.
I am sure it would be superfluous to tell you how infinitely a conduct so tender, so maternal, raised her in my esteem and regard.
Dr. Wall was so drolly troublesome to me during the rest of the time we stayed, that I hardly knew whether to be [amused] or angry, — and so I was something between both; — a very agreeable mixture, you will allow. But he romped most furiously [and forcibly], and made so many attempts to be rather too facetious, that I was fain to struggle most furiously to free myself from him; yet there was such a comic queerness in his manner all the time, that, as I succeeded in keeping off caresses, I could not but be mightily diverted with him. The girls, Betsy and Beckey were upon the high gig all the time, for they enjoyed seeing me thus whisked about of all things. When, at last, we took leave, he said he “should often think of Miss Fanny, — there was something so comical in her! [he should never forget her while he lived.]”
We went in a coach and four, in the same manner as before. Harry Davis came to the door as we left the house. I believe he was watching for our coming out. He kept us talking as long as he could, and then — off we went, extremely well pleased and satisfied with our expedition.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
July.
My visit to Westwood, which was to have taken place last week, was postponed, for reasons and by accidents which I shall not trouble you with relating; for all the little in and out circumstances of these sort of affairs have so little interest or importance to recommend them, that it is not one time in a thousand they are worth mentioning. But on Tuesday evening I had a note from Nancy, who was there, to tell me that Sir Herbert Packington would call upon me in his chaise the next morning, if it would be agreeable to me to accompany him to Westwood, to stay a few days. I graciously assented, and accordingly, at about one o’clock the Baronet arrived.
As you have the satisfaction of knowing him, I must deny myself the pleasure of describing his person, which otherwise I should think well worth description for its excellent ugliness. He is, however, very good-natured, extremely civil, and uncommonly hospitable.
Our journey proved very yea and nayish. Beckey longed vastly to accompany us; and I, for my part, extremely longed that she should; but what argufied that? We might as well not have longed at all for the good it did us; but Beckey is a sweet open-hearted girl, and totally free from pride. She owns all her wishes with the utmost sincerity, which, by the way, very few people condescend to do; they always choose to be thought to despise whatever they cannot attain.
Well! to return to Sir Herbert and my fair self, — why, perhaps you will be glad to hear our conversation; for we had a tête à tête of full two hours long; and in that time much might be said. I have known many a good thing hit upon in a quarter of the time. I can’t pretend to give you all the particulars; but for the heads of the discourse, they were as follow, viz.; — the Weather, — the Hay, — and Dr. Dodd.
Now, you will allow that, to make these three subjects last two hours, must require no small art of expatiating; and I hope you will honour us accordingly.
Now, the reasons why I do not give you further particulars are, as follow: viz.; Imprimis, — as to the Weather, I have now forgot clean and clear, whether it was good or bad.
Secundo, — as to the Hay; it has been so often spoilt, that the subject is melancholy, and I am afraid it should give you the vapours.
Thirdly, — as to Dr. Dodd; the poor man is dead, and I would have his name rest with his ashes.
All these circumstances considered, the journey drops; — and you behold me safely arrived at Westwood. Here again my descriptive talents are rendered useless; for you have forestalled a most excellent account. What is to be done in this affair of urgency? Must that venerable Castle, its antique towers, its formidable turrets, its noble wood, its —
“windows, that exclude the light,
And passages that lead to nothing,” —
must they all, all pass unnoticed? Why, Sukey, I protest to you I have not had so good a subject since I left you; — and now I might as well have none! Indeed, for the future, I must beg leave to visit places, with which you are wholly unacquainted; for here my genius is perpetually curbed, my fancy nipped in the bud; and the whole train of my descriptive powers cast away, like a ship upon a desert island! Very like a ship, indeed, — a marvellous good simile! and, as to the desert island, why, to be sure, Worcester is somewhat inhabited. But what of that?— ’tis a marvellous good simile, because the less like, the more marvellous.
So, you see, I have made it out as clear as the sun at noon-day. But, now I think of it, a string of similes will rather better suit the taste of Mrs. Esther than yours; therefore, I shall set about a flowery epistle to her by the first convenient opportunity this side of Christmas, and, in the meantime, I must descend to plain, vulgar matter of fact, from which I have, I know not how, — nor will you easily find why, that long digressed.
I was very much pleased with the house and situation at Westwood; with the house, for its antiquity and singularity of style, and with the situation, for its retirement and prospects. Lady Packington received me most graciously, and she shewed me the utmost civility and attention during my stay. I think her a rather fine woman of her age, and sensible and notable; but she is parading and tolerably uncultivated as to books, and letters, and such little branches of learning She is also so immoderately fond of her Mansion, that she will scarce suffer any body to pass a fly, if it is upon one of the windows or tables, without remarking how well it stands, or how beautiful it looks. But I find she did not become mistress of this great house early in life, which accounts for that pride of possession, that time and early use might have diminished; but which her late arrival at makes her [still] feel in all its juvenile force and vivacity.
Miss Packington and Miss Dolly are both good sort of girls; but have nothing extraordinary, and, consequently, I can by no means presume to press your further acquaintance with them.
But the most agreeable circumstance of my visit remains to be told, namely, that Miss W — was at Westwood the two first days of my residence there. Now, as you know nothing of her but from Richard’s imitations, I shall take the liberty to enlarge upon her person, character and behaviour.
She is short, thick-set, fat, clumsy, clunch, and heavy. But her face is very handsome; she has pretty blue eyes, and a most brilliant complexion, with a colour the finest that can be [seen.] She is very good-natured, and is not quite a natural, that is, not an absolute idiot; but she is the verriest booby I ever knew. She cannot speak, without making some blunder. She is so bothered in every speech, that she is eternally contradicting herself; she seldom speaks, without exciting mirth, yet seldom discovering the cause, she always joins in the effect, and laughs as simply as she makes others do artfully; and at the same time that her ignorance invites pity, her happiness renders it [unnecessary]. She was, indeed, the very quintessence of sport during the visit; every body laughs at her with little or no ceremony; but nobody affronts her; she takes all in good part; and, if you do but tell her she is not the subject of your mirth, she is thoroughly satisfied, and laughs on herself, without further enquiry. At dinner time she was the general butt. Sir Herbert piques himself upon shewing her off, and makes ridiculous comments upon everything she says; Lady Packington sneers, and exposes her to the strongest ridicule; the young ladies titter unmercifully; even Nancy’s smiles border upon the full grin; — and, for my part, I laughed most heartily; yet was nobody more merry than herself. I would fain give you a specimen of the conversation that you might laugh too; but, unless I could paint her, and shew you, at the same time, the extreme vacancy of her countenance, and give you some idea of the drone of her voice and of her unmeaning
manner, — I could hope for no success at all equal to my wishes, or to the subject.
When dinner was over, Lady Packington took me a long walk, to shew me the park, plantations, and various improvements which Sir Herbert has lately made; and they were extremely well worth seeing; at which I rejoiced the more, because I found it extremely necessary to say so, and that warmly and repeatedly. No praise was too high, nor could scarce any be sufficient, to gratify her ladyship’s extreme greediness upon this subject. She then shewed me the spot, upon which there was formerly a chapel belonging to a nunnery; some fragments of ruins are still left, and ancient coins are frequently found when the workmen are digging. The Westwood House, she told me, was originally a monastary.
My curiosity was a good deal excited to know further more satisfactory particulars of this place, and I asked abundance of questions; for I found her very ready to figure in the information way. To my first enquiry, if she knew when the house was built, she said it was begun in the time of the Romans, and Saxons: no difference to be sure, which! But, when I came to more close quarters, she told me they had accounts of it so far back as Henry the First. This was a sad falling-off, after naming the Romans; but afterwards she added: “and indeed, I believe we have so late as Richard the First.” Very ingenious! was it not? to come forward in her dates four reigns, and all the time believe she was going back! From this intelligence, so accurate and satisfactory, I could not but regret that she did not communicate her materials to some able historian. After tea, the rest of the evening was given to music: the performance of the Miss Packingtons exactly tallied with the expectations your account of them had given me.
At supper, Miss W. was requested to sing; she declined it for some time, saying, “I don’t sing at all well; you’ll only think I’m a squalling; for I don’t know any thing of the music; so sometimes I’m in the tune, and sometimes I’m out of it; but I never know which. And so its the same with my brother; for he sings just as I do; we both squall after a sort; but it isn’t very well.” We all, however, pressed her very much, and Sir Herbert in particular; “Come, Lillies and Roses? (that is the name he gives her) “come, give us Guardian Angels; come, tune your pipe; now! quick!”
“Ay; come, Miss W.,” cried Lady Packington, “give us a fine Italian air; I suppose, Miss Fanny, you are very fond of Italian Music?”
“Lord! My Lady,” cried Miss W., “I really don’t know the music at all; I’m sure I shall only frighten you.”
“O we know you don’t,” returned she; “but never mind; only let us hear your voice.”
“Come, Lillies and Roses,” said Sir Herbert; “don’t be too long; begin at once,” chucking her under the chin.
“Ay, do! Miss W.,” said Miss Packington, “or else you’ll make us expect too much.”
“Do you know no pretty new song?” said her Ladyship.
“No, My Lady, I know hardly any songs; — that is to be sure, — I dare say I know above a hundred; but I don’t know the music of ‘em.”
“Well! any thing, — just what you please,” cried Lady Packington; “only don’t make us wait; for that is not very well worth while.”
“Why, then, if you please, My Lady,” said she, “I’ll sing, ‘Before the urchin well could go’; — only I can’t sing it very well; so I tell you that before hand.”
“Is that, by way of something new, Miss W?”
Regardless of this question, the poor girl began; and never before did I hear any thing half so ludicrous. She has not even a natural good voice to excuse her miserable performance; on the contrary, it is a croak, a squeak, and Nature has been as little her friend as Art has been her assistant.
For some time I sat in an agony, almost killing myself by restraining my laughter; but finding that nobody else took the same trouble, by degrees I began to excuse it myself, and very soon after took the general liberty which example gave me, and laughed without controul or disguise. She could not get on three words at a time, on account of the confusion; for she caught the laugh, and stopped to join in it; and then like a noodle, the moment she recovered her own countenance, with the utmost solemnity she again began the song.
Nothing affected her in the manner any other person would have been affected; for the merriment she excited, only served, occasionally to interrupt her; but she never thought of stopping it by ceasing to sing, — the only way in her power. Nay; Sir Herbert, though the most desirous to hear her, took such methods to render her ridiculous, as must have most cruelly affronted any other character in the world. He burst out laughing in her face, patted her cheeks, slapped her shoulders, chucked her under the chin, and exclaimed, “Bravà, Lillies and Roses!” perpetually. But it was all one to her; for, whenever she could conquer her own foolish tittering, she made up a face of stupid composure, and with the utmost indifference began her song again. Sir Herbert determined to spare no pains to expose her, finding how well she took all he had hitherto offered, at length took up a large spoon, and fairly entered it down her bosom, where the opening of her handkerchief left a most inviting vacancy. I expected that this stroke would have raised some spirit; but she continued her song with the same gravity, only, and with the utmost deliberation taking the spoon out, and putting it into its place [upon the table]! The interruptions, however, in spite of her own tranquillity, were so frequent, that, as she always began again upon any stop of her own, she could get no further than the two first lines, and the case now appearing desperate with regard to this song, Sir Herbert desired her to begin another.
“Come, Lillies and Roses, now try ‘Guardian Angels.’”
“Ay, do, Miss W — ,” said Lady Packington, “and never mind the girls, — don’t stop for their laughing.”
“No more I would, my Lady,” said she, “only that I can’t help it, — for they make me laugh too.”
‘Guardian Angels’ was then begun, — but so long was it in performing that we all retired the moment it was sung: and really I was glad of a little relaxation from laughter; though I did not obtain it immediately, for as Miss W — slept in the next room to ours, she undressed herself in company with us, and she was so entertaining the whole time she stayed, without having the least design or knowledge of being so, that when I went to bed I was quite weak and exhausted.
Thursday morning she came to sit with me, till Lady Packington was ready for breakfast.... She then gave me a very circumstantial account of her life and employments, and told me all her affairs with as much openness and unreserve, as if she had known me many years. I will recollect what I can of her relations; and, when you read what she says, you must suppose it spoke in a very slow and slovenly voice....
As Richard teaches singing at the school which her father keeps at Hartlebury, the conversation began by my enquiring, if they did not make very merry when Richard was among them?
“Why, yes; he’s merry enough sometimes; only he mustn’t be so with our young gentlemen: but he makes fun enough with my brother; sometimes they two’ll laugh like any thing, — but it’s mostly at my expence, but the thing is, I don’t much mind ‘em, for it’s all one to me; for if I were to mind it, they do it as bad again.”
“Well! but I hope you laugh, too?”
“Yes; I laugh enough, too, sometimes; but then, when I do, my brother says I’m just like a jackass in fits; besides, I mustn’t laugh much when my papa’s at home, because, if I do, he says, ‘ Come, let’s have no more noise; it’s all levity;’ — But I talk enough for all that; for Mr. Smith and Mr. Giles say they can hear me at their house; I talk so loud, — and that’s as far off as half a mile, — almost, I believe. But I’ve enough to do sometimes, because of our young gentlemen; for I’ve no time to myself; I’m always doing some odd job or another; yet you’d think I do nothing, — and no more I do; only papa says I’ve a mind to make a fuss about it; but I never get up till past nine o’clock. Lady Packington would be finely angry, if she knew it; for she’d say it was all a whim; but I never tell her about it; but I’m as tired a
s any thing before night.”
[The continuation of this conversation (with a break, however) was found pasted down in the MS. It runs: — ]
“... him as I helped first is ready to begin again, and so then I get none at all; for if I was to put myself a bit by, they’d think I took the best; so I only eat a bit of bread and cheese.”
“Well, that’s very hard upon you: I wonder you don’t make them wait a little?”
“Why, there’s nothing I love so well as bread and cheese — I prefer it to meat a great deal. Sometimes I’m as dirty as can be, — and I hardly know how, for I do nothing: but one day a gentleman came to our house, he’s one of my cousins, so he said to me, very gravely, says he, do pray get me a wash hands bason and a towel.” —
[Some hint that Miss W. should herself make use of the basin and towel appears to have been given.]
I enquired of her whether she ever danced when Richard was at her father’s at Hartlebury?
“Why,” said she, “I used sometimes, when a new young gentleman came, and when Richard Burney had no partner to dance with him — I like dancing of all things — only I don’t dance at all myself — not well, I don’t; for I’m always a falling down, and Lady Packington makes such game of me for it you can’t think. But I’ve left off dancing now, for one of our young gentlemen affronted me.”
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 499