II. FROM LADY CLITHEROE TO MARY CHURCHILL.
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ear Saint, I'm still at High-Hurst Park.The house is fill'd with folks of mark.Honoria suits a good estateMuch better than I hoped. How fateLoads her with happiness and pride!And such a loving lord, beside!But between us, Sweet, everythingHas limits, and to build a wingTo this old house, when Courtholm standsEmpty upon his Berkshire lands,And all that Honor might be nearPapa, was buying love too dear.With twenty others, there are twoGuests here, whose names will startle you:Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Graham!I thought he stay'd away for shame.He and his wife were ask'd, you know,And would not come, four years ago.You recollect Miss Smythe found outWho she had been, and all aboutHer people at the Powder-mill;And how the fine Aunt tried to instil_Haut ton_, and how, at last poor JaneHad got so shy and _gauche_ that, whenThe Dockyard gentry came to sup,She always had to be lock'd up;And some one wrote to us and saidHer mother was a kitchen-maid.Dear Mary, you'll be charm'd to knowIt _must_ be all a fib. But, oh,She _is_ the oddest little PetOn which my eyes were ever set!She's so _outree_ and naturalThat, when she first arrived, we allWonder'd, as when a robin comesIn through the window to eat crumbsAt breakfast with us. She has sense,Humility, and confidence;And, save in dressing just a thoughtGayer in colours than she ought,(To-day she looks a cross betweenGipsy and Fairy, red and green,)She always happens to do well.And yet one never quite can tellWhat she _might_ do or utter next.Lord Clitheroe is much perplex'd.Her husband, every now and then,Looks nervous; all the other menAre charm'd. Yet she has neither grace,Nor one good feature in her face.Her eyes, indeed, flame in her head,Like very altar-fires to Fred,Whose steps she follows everywhereLike a tame duck, to the despairOf Colonel Holmes, who does his partTo break her funny little heart.Honor's enchanted. 'Tis her viewThat people, if they're good and true,And treated well, and let alone,Will kindly take to what's their own,And always be original,Like children. Honor's just like allThe rest of us! But, thinking so,'Tis well she miss'd Lord Clitheroe,Who hates originality,Though he puts up with it in me.Poor Mrs. Graham has never beenTo the Opera! You should have seenThe innocent way she told the EarlShe thought Plays sinful when a girl,And now she never had a chance!Frederick's complacent smile and glanceTowards her, show'd me, past a doubt,Honoria had been quite cut out.'Tis very strange; for Mrs. Graham,Though Frederick's fancy none can blame,Seems the last woman you'd have thought_Her_ lover would have ever sought.She never reads, I find, nor goesAnywhere; so that I supposeShe got at all she ever knewBy growing up, as kittens do.Talking of kittens, by-the-bye,You have more influence than IWith dear Honoria. Get her, Dear,To be a little more severeWith those sweet Children. They've the runOf all the place. When school was done,Maud burst in, while the Earl was there,With 'Oh, Mama, do be a bear!'Do you know, Dear, this odd wife of FredAdores his old Love in his stead!She _is_ so nice, yet, I should say,Not quite the thing for every day.Wonders are wearying! Felix goesNext Sunday with her to the Close,And you will judge.Honoria asksAll Wiltshire Belles here; Felix basksLike Puss in fire-shine, when the roomIs thus aflame with female bloom.But then she smiles when most would pout;And so his lawless loves go outWith the last brocade. 'Tis not the same,I fear, with Mrs. Frederick Graham.Honoria should not have her here,--And this you might just hint, my Dear,--For Felix says he never sawSuch proof of what he holds for law,That 'beauty is love which can be seen.'Whatever he by this may mean,Were it not dreadful if he fellIn love with her on principle!
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