The time was now arrived for Brigland Abbey to become the scene of festivity and hospitality. Under the direction and with the permission of old Mr. Martindale, the young tenant-at-will assembled at his splendid residence a set of people called his friends; but why they were called his friends is difficult to say, unless they were so designated for want of some other comprehensive name. Two of the party certainly were his friends; and well would it have been for him, had he availed himself more of their friendship, and been ruled by their advice. We allude to his father and mother, Lord and Lady Martindale.

It is with great pleasure that we introduce to our readers a pair so truly respectable and honorable in every point of view. High rank certainly displays to great advantage those qualities which it is unable to give. Common-place minds do very well in common-place situations. It is sad indeed if they whose time is fully occupied by the duties of their station, and whose employments are marked out for them, should widely or grossly deviate from propriety: they have, comparatively speaking, but little room or time for folly. But they who have the direction of all their time, the choice of all their pursuits, need great steadiness of mind, and a strong sense of propriety to avoid follies and extravagance. They who have nothing to do have much to think of, and they need to be vigilant; and when their conduct is indeed proper and good, then high rank and the leisure which wealth bestows appear to great advantage.

Thus honorable and reputable was the conduct of Lord and Lady Martindale. His lordship’s estate was not very large for his rank, yet quite large enough for him to make a fool of himself had he been so inclined:—he was wealthy enough to be his own coachman had he been so disposed, or to benefit the country by playing at cards and dice at Newmarket in order to improve the breed of horses:—he might have immortalized himself on the canisters of a snuff-shop, or by the cut of a coat:—he might have run away with his neighbour’s wife, or have insulted and neglected his own:—he might have spent more money upon his dogs than upon his children:—he might have sought for distinction through the medium of cookery, and have become so excessively refined as to ask if Captain Cook had not in one of his voyages seen a nation of cannibals who ate roast beef and drank port wine: and by many other fooleries, equally reputable, he might have tempted the multitude to ask what lords were made for.

In like manner her ladyship might have done her part towards the dilapidation of their property. She might have spent a year’s income in a single entertainment:—she might have sent her jewels to the pawnbroker’s to pay her gambling-debts:—she might have forgotten the names and number of her children:—she might have been so superbly ignorant as not to know whether the kitchen was at the top of the house or at the bottom:—she might have played as many mad pranks as others in high life have done; but she coveted not that species of notoriety which arises from violating the principles of decorum and common sense.

The life of this truly respectable couple was not however indebted for its respectability merely to the absence of vice and folly. They cultivated positive as well as negative virtues. When they went into the country, it was for some better purpose than to be stared at; and when they resided in town, they did not convert their house into a place of public amusement. The tenants in the country knew of their landlord’s presence there because they saw him not only in the field, but in their houses; and he saw that his steward neither oppressed the tenants, nor defrauded his master; and the poor people in the cottages saw him, and the labourers too could tell him their grievances, if they had any. Lady Martindale was also actively benevolent,—not merely giving away a periodical lot of advertised blankets, or a few bushels of coals to such as would take the trouble to fetch them; but she knew to whom her benevolence was directed, and considered rather what the poor had need to receive than what might best suit her to bestow. There was the same activity of benevolence when they were in town; and it was regulated there also by the same principle of propriety, not of convenience or fashion.

There was, however, in Lord Martindale one fault, and that in his son was almost a virtue, in consequence of its accompaniments—he had a great share of pride. He never spoke to or conversed with any of his inferiors, but that his style always proclaimed him a man of rank and consequence. We much doubt if, in the days when angels visited the sons of men, these heavenly visitants behaved with much more stately reserve than did Lord Martindale in his walks and visits of benevolence; or whether they showed so great a sense of their superior nature as he did of his superior rank. In this respect Lady Martindale had the advantage of his lordship. Nobody could help noticing her very graceful and dignified deportment; but the most humble never felt humiliation in her presence.

It was a pity that so excellent a couple were not more fortunate in their eldest son; but it was happy for them that they were not quite so much aware of the contrast as some of their neighbours were. It is not for us to propound theories of education, nor do we know of any one system which has been infallible in its application and universal in its success. We can only state the fact that Lord and Lady Martindale did not neglect the moral education of their children, nor did they carry discipline so far as to render re-action a necessary consequence. They were not low in their tastes, or headstrong in will; but their eldest son followed a line of action almost diametrically opposite to theirs. We do not represent, or at least we have not designed to represent, the character of Philip Martindale as being inveterately and unexceptionably vicious: we do not regard him as a monster of iniquity, but, according to the candid interpretation of Mr. Denver, he was rather a gay young man; and being unfortunately acquainted with some irregular companions, he had been occasionally led into follies. But, to proceed in the candid strain, he had not a decidedly bad heart; for he was not gratuitously vicious, and he was not altogether insensible to the emotions and feelings of humanity. Yet notwithstanding all our disposition to candour, we must acknowledge that the temper, tastes, and conduct of the Hon. Philip Martindale did occasionally lead him into mortifications and sorrows.

We are not expected to enter so minutely and copiously into the description of the characters of the other guests at Brigland Abbey, as we have into the characters of Lord and Lady Martindale. Of Sir Andrew Featherstone and his lady and daughters we have already spoken. Our readers too are not altogether unacquainted with Sir Gilbert Sampson and his daughter Celestina. Sir Gilbert and Lord Martindale were very good friends; and Sir Gilbert was astonished that Lord Martindale should not be more sensible of his son’s follies, and Lord Martindale could hardly think it possible that a man of Sir Gilbert’s good understanding could tolerate such ridiculous affectations in his daughter.

In addition to these guests at the Abbey, there were also present the Dowager Lady Woodstock and her four daughters, Anne, Sarah, Jane, and Mary. Lady Woodstock was the widow of a baronet, whose services in the navy the country had repaid with little more than a title; but we would not say a word in censure of such economical remunerations, nor, on the other hand, would be very censorious, if the recompense had assumed the more solid form of a noble pension. We have read, and have in our political feelings profited by reading, the fable of the old man, his son, and his ass, and we know how difficult it is to please every body. We know that if the government does not reward its servants liberally, they will be very angry; and we know that if it does reward them liberally, others will be very angry. But let that pass. It is, however, a fact, that Lady Woodstock and her four daughters lived at Hollywick Priory in very good style, considering the limited means which they possessed. They were also very highly respected, and very much talked about as being persons of very superior minds and most amiable dispositions. They had cultivated their understandings; and indeed the pursuit and enjoyment of literature was the only occupation in which they could engage. They had no house in town, nor had they the means of splendid hospitality in the country. But what is most to our present purpose, they were one and all great favorites with old John Martindale. Lady Woodstock was a woman of great delicacy of feeling, and was most scrupulously adverse to any thing like exhibiting her daughters, or as it were carrying them to market. It was only in consequence of the very earnest and almost angry importunity of the old gentleman that she would consent to share the festivities of Brigland Abbey. And when that paragraph appeared in a morning paper, announcing the approaching nuptials of the Hon. Philip Martindale and Miss Sampson; and when she knew that Sir Gilbert and his daughter were to be of the party, her reluctance abated. For though Lady Woodstock would have despised the use, and dreaded the repute, of stratagem to dispose of her daughters, she would not have been sorry to have them or any of them well settled.

As to the report that old Mr. Martindale himself had any design of offering his hand to the widow, the lady herself had not the slightest suspicion of the existence of such design, or even of the circulation of any such report. Lady Woodstock was a person of good sense and extensive information; but, happily, free from every species of pedantry; totally unpretending and unartificial. She had pursued knowledge as the means of an agreeable occupation, and not as a medium of display or exhibition. She had read much, and had reflected more; so that her conversation was not the idle echo of others’ thoughts, but the result of her own mind’s movements and observation. Under such direction and tuition, her daughters had grown up to womanhood.

The young ladies were not distinguished for any great share of personal beauty, nor were they remarkable for any deficiency in that respect. They were not romantic, nor were they deficient in sensibility. They could talk well, but did not utter oracles or speak essays. They were not merely acquainted with books but with what books taught. They were also well aware that the knowledge which they possessed was in all probability possessed by others; and that many with whom they might converse were far better informed than themselves. They did not set up for literary ladies on the strength of having read Locke’s Essay, or being acquainted with a few Italian poets. In fact, they had read to good purpose, and had thought to good purpose too. The worst of the matter was, there were four of them; and they were so nearly alike in moral and mental qualities, and so much together, and in such perfect confidence with each other, that there was not opportunity and distinctness enough for any one of the four to make an impression, and preserve or strengthen it. For if, by chance, any susceptible youth, who might be desirous of choosing a wife for her moral and mental qualities, should be seated next to or opposite to Miss Woodstock, and should by hearing very sensible and unaffected language fall from her lips, or by observing in her smiles or more serious looks an indication of excellent moral feeling, find that his heart was almost captivated; probably on the following morning chance might place him near another sister with whose taste he might be fascinated, and whose most agreeable manners would make him almost regret that he had already lost so much of his heart; and while he might be balancing in his mind on which of the two his affection should rest, a farther acquaintance with the family would still farther unsettle and embarrass his judgment; and he would at length conclude that, as it was impossible to be in love with four, he could not really be in love with any; and the result would be general commendation and respect; and the four young ladies would be left to enjoy their reputation of being the most agreeable, unaffected young women living.

Visiting in the country is what must be done; but there is some difficulty in managing it well, and making it perfectly agreeable. The entertainer must be entertaining, or the entertained will not be entertained; and the entertained must endeavour to entertain themselves, or their entertainer cannot entertain them. The Hon. Philip Martindale was not the most dexterous hand at this kind of employment. In fact, he felt himself not altogether master of his own house; and the good people who were there seemed rather to be visiting the house than its occupier. They did very well at dinner-time. Then there was amusement for all, adapted to the meanest capacities. There was also in the mornings for the gentlemen the pleasure of shooting; or, more properly and accurately speaking, the pleasure of looking for something to shoot at: for as Philip Martindale was not very popular at Brigland, the poachers made a merit of plundering him with peculiar diligence. It also happened that the gentlemen who were at the Abbey were none of them very keen sportsmen. Sir Gilbert Sampson carried a gun, and occasionally discharged it; sometimes successfully, and sometimes unsuccessfully; and, in the latter case, Sir Andrew Featherstone laughed at him, and said it was a sad waste of shot, for powder alone would make noise enough to frighten the birds: and then he would ask Philip Martindale if small shot were not very useful to clean bottles withal.

As for old John Martindale, he was so perverse and obstinate that he would scarcely ever join the party at the Abbey till dinner-time; and then he would complain of late hours, and sit till midnight or later grumbling at the foolish fashion of turning night into day. Several mornings were wet, very wet: there was no getting out of doors, and the Abbey was very ill-furnished with playthings. The young ladies could draw. The Miss Featherstones were adepts especially in architectural drawing. They sketched the interior of the principal apartments in the Abbey; and talked very learnedly of Palladio and Vitruvius, and Sir Christopher Wren and Mr. Nash, and others. They thought that Waterloo Place was not equal to the Parthenon, and St. Paul’s Cathedral was not equal to St. Peter’s. They talked about the building in which they were then sitting, demonstrated that it was the most beautiful and best proportioned building in the world, and then proceeded to show how much more beautiful it might be made. As the party had nothing else to do, they were very happy in listening to the architectural lectures of the Miss Featherstones.

There were more wet mornings than one; and as the Miss Featherstones had succeeded so well once in lecturing on architecture, they repeated the experiment. It was rather wearying, but it was better than nothing. On the morning of which we speak, old John Martindale was present. Contrary to his usual practice, the old gentleman made his appearance soon after breakfast, to congratulate them, as he said, on a fine wet morning. It appeared as if his object was to see what the party would do to amuse themselves and one another. The Miss Featherstones had recourse to their portfolio of plans and drawings, and sections, and elevations; and these they spread out on the table, in order to excite admiration, and to prompt discussion. Old Mr. Martindale was so perverse that he would not take any notice of the display; and the rest of the company had already, on a previous occasion, said all that they had to say. Isabella, the youngest of the Miss Featherstones, prided herself on her very superior wisdom, and therefore was very much disconcerted that any one should slightingly regard her favorite study; and especially was she disturbed that Mr. Martindale, who clearly had so great a taste or fancy for that pursuit, should behold unmoved, and without the least affectation of interest, a splendid display of architectural drawings, and give no heed to the very philosophical remarks which, in her wisdom, she was making on the various styles of building. Determining, therefore, to compel the attention which she could not attract, she addressed herself directly to the old gentleman, asking his opinion of a design which she had drawn for the improvement of Hovenden Lodge. The answer which the old gentleman gave was so very uncourteous, that we almost blush to repeat it. Looking very sarcastically at the inquirer, he said:

“Hovenden Lodge, madam, is not yet quite spoiled by the improvements; but if you take a little more pains, I think you may make it one of the most ridiculous buildings in the kingdom.”

In justice to Mr. Martindale, we are bound to state that he would not have made such an observation to every one; but he knew Miss Isabella, and was sure that no very serious effects would follow from any severity of remark which he might make. And the result was as he had anticipated: for the young lady was not a whit abashed, but the rather encouraged to proceed, and to reply according to the spirit of the old gentleman’s remark.

“I think I shall endeavour to persuade papa to build a gothic front to Hovenden Lodge, in imitation of Brigland Abbey; and then, Mr. Martindale, I suppose you will acknowledge that it is really improved.”

“And then, Miss Isabella, I will pull down the front of Brigland Abbey, and supply its place by an exact imitation of the present front of Hovenden Lodge; and then it will be a difficult matter to decide which is the greatest blockhead, Sir Andrew Featherstone or old John Martindale.”

“Upon my word, Mr. Martindale, you are very polite,” replied Isabella, almost angry at being outdone in the way of banter.

“No such thing, madam, I am not polite. I am not fond of nonsense;” and then, in order to soften in some degree the apparent ruggedness of his manner, he added: “But if you have a taste for architecture, I shall be very happy to show you some engravings and drawings which I brought with me from Italy. You shall come down to my cottage to-morrow morning, and you will find some pictures worth looking at.”

“When were you in Italy, sir? I never heard of it.”

“Perhaps not. I was there twenty years before you were born.” Mr. Martindale then turned away from the table, and looking out at window, declared that there was no occasion for any one to stay within on account of the weather; and, by way of setting an example to the rest of the party, he directly walked out alone. Isabella was pleased at the promise of poring over some architectural drawings, and most especially delighted with an opportunity which seemed to be promised of talking about Italy. It was a place which she had never visited, but she was proud of an acquaintance with its poetry and topography.

Since the peace of 1815, such myriads of people have visited France, that Paris has become as vulgar as Margate. It is most earnestly to be desired that the plebeian part of the community will not pollute with their presence, or profane with their prate, the classic plains, groves, temples, and cities of Italy. The establishment of steam-packets threatens the encroachment; and then the resource of the fashionable must be Constantinople; from whence, perhaps, they ultimately may be driven onwards to Ispahan and Delhi. The East India Company will not let them go to Canton.

The rest of the party gradually dispersed, most industriously and diligently bent on seeking some amusement wherewith to while away the weary hours which must be got rid of by some means or other before dinner. Let not the reader lightly regard this fact; for it is one of the greatest difficulties in the life of some persons at some periods of the year. There are to be found in this world not a few who are abundantly able and willing to reward with great liberality the genius who should be fortunate enough to discover or invent an infallible method of rendering it pleasant or tolerable to wait for dinner in the country.