and that you should be free from them, in order to put his to the proof.
I come now to the principal subject of your letter; you know that on the receipt of our friend’s, I flew to you immediately; it was a matter of importance. But at present, if you knew in what difficulties that short absence has involved me, and how many things I have to do at once, you would be sensible how impossible it is for me to leave my house again, without exposing myself to fresh inconveniencies, and putting myself under a necessity of passing the winter here again, which is neither for your interest or mine. Is it not better to deprive ourselves of the pleasure of a hasty interview of two or three days, that we may be together for six months. I imagine likewise that it would not be improper for me to have a little particular and private conversation with our philosopher: partly to found his inclinations and confirm his mind; partly to give him some useful advice with regard to the conduct he should observe towards your husband, and even towards you; for I do not suppose that you can talk to him with freedom on that subject, and I can perceive, even from your letter, that he has need of council. We have been so long used to govern him, that we are in conscience responsible for his behaviour; and till he has regained the free use of his reason, we must supply the deficiency. For my own part, it is a charge I shall always undertake with pleasure; for he has paid such deference to my advice as I shall never forget, and since my husband is no more, there is not a man in the world whom I esteem and love so much as himself. I have likewise reserved for him the pleasure of doing me some little services here. I have a great many papers in confusion, which he will help me to regulate, and I have some troublesome affairs in hand in which I shall have occasion for his diligence and understanding. As to the rest, I do not propose to detain him above five or six days at most, and perhaps I may send him to you the next day. For I have too much vanity to wait till he is seized with impatience to return, and I have too much discernment to be deceived in that case.
Do not fail therefore as soon as he is recovered, to send him to me; that is, to let him come, or I shall give over all raillery. You know very well that if I laugh whilst I cry, and yet am not the less in affliction, so I laugh likewise at the same time that I scold, and yet am not the less in a passion. If you are discreet, and do things with a good grace, I promise you that I will send him back to you with a pretty little present, which will give you pleasure, and a great deal of pleasure; but if you suffer me to languish with impatience, I assure you that you shall have nothing.
P.S. A propos; tell me, does our seaman smoak? does he swear? does he drink brandy? Does he wear a great cutlass? has he the look of a Buccaneer? O how I long to see what sort of an air a man has who comes from the Antipodes!
Letter CXXVIII. Clara to Eloisa.
Here, take back your slave, my dear cousin. He has been mine for these eight days past, and he bears his chains with so good a grace, that he seems formed for captivity. Return me thanks that I did not keep him still eight days longer; for without offence to you, if I had kept him till he began to grow tired of me, I should not have sent him back so soon. I therefore detained him without any scruple; but I was so scrupulous however, that I durst not let him lodge in my house. I have sometimes perceived in myself that haughtiness of soul, which disdains servile ceremonies, and which is so confident with virtue. In this instance however, I have been more reserved than usual, without knowing why: and all that I know for certain is, that I am more disposed to censure, than to applaud my reserve.
But can you guess what induced our friend to stay here so patiently?
First, he had the pleasure of my company, and I presume that circumstance alone was sufficient to make him patient. Then he saved me a great deal of confusion, and was of service to me in my business; a friend is never tired of such offices. A third reason which you have probably conjectured, though you pretend not to know it, is that he talked to me about you; and if we subtract the time employed in this conversation from the whole time which he has passed here, you will find that there is very little remaining to be placed to my account.
But what an odd whim, to leave you, in order to have the pleasure of talking of you! Not so odd as may be imagined. He is under constraint in your company; he must be continually upon his guard; the least indiscretion would become a crime, and in those dangerous moments, minds endued with sentiments of honour, never fail to recollect their duty; but when we are remote from the object of our affections, we may indulge ourselves with feasting our imaginations. If we stifle an idea when it becomes criminal, why should we reproach ourselves for having entertained it when it was not so? Can the pleasing recollection of innocent pleasures, ever be a crime? This, I imagine, is a way of reasoning, which you will not acquiesce in, but which nevertheless may be admitted. He began, as I may say, to run over the whole course of his former affections. The days of his youth passed over a second time in our conversation. He renewed all his confidence in me; he recalled the happy time, in which he was permitted to love you; he painted to my imagination, all the charms of an innocent passion----Without doubt, he embellished them!
He said little of his present condition with regard to you, and what he mentioned rather denoted respect and admiration, than love; so that I have the pleasure to think that he will return, much more confident as to the nature of his affections, than when he came hither. Not but that, when you are the subject, one may perceive at the bottom of that susceptible mind, a certain tenderness, which friendship alone, though not less affecting, still expresses in a different manner; but I have long observed that it is impossible to see you, or to think of you with indifference; and if to that general affection which the sight of you inspires, we add the more tender impression which an indelible recollection must have left upon his mind, we shall find that it is difficult and almost impossible that, with the most rigid virtue, he should be otherwise than he is. I have fully interrogated him, carefully observed him, and watched him narrowly; I have examined him with the utmost attention. I cannot read his inmost thoughts, nor do I believe them more intelligible to himself: but I can answer, at least, that he is struck with a sense of his duty and of yours, and that the idea of Eloisa abandoned and contemptible, would be more horrible than his own annihilation. My dear cousin, I have but one piece of advice to give you, and I desire you to attend to it; avoid any detail concerning what is passed, and I will take upon me to answer for the future.
With regard to the restitution which you mentioned, you must think no more of it. After having exhausted all the reasons I could suggest, I intreated him, pressed him, conjured him, but in vain. I pouted, I even kissed him, I took hold of both his hands, and would have fallen on my knees to him if he would have suffered me; but he would not so much as hear me. He carried the obstinacy of his humour so far, as to swear that he would sooner consent never to see you again, than part with your picture. At last, in a fit of passion, he made me feel it.
It was next his heart. There, said he, with a sigh which almost stopped his breath, there is the picture, the only comfort I have left, and of which nevertheless you would deprive me; be assured that it shall never be torn from me, but at the expense of my life. Believe me, Eloisa, we had better be discreet, and suffer him to keep the picture. Afterall, where is the importance? His obstinacy will be his punishment.
After he had thoroughly unburthened and eased his mind, he appeared so composed that I ventured to talk to him about his situation. I found that neither time nor reason had made any alteration in his system, and that he confined his whole ambition to the passing his life in the service of Lord B----. I could not but approve such honourable intentions, so consistent with his character, and so becoming that gratitude, which is due to such unexhausted kindness. He told me that you were of the same opinion; but that Mr. Wolmar was silent. A sudden thought strikes me. From your husband’s singular conduct, and other symptoms, I suspect that he has some secret design upon our friend, which he does not disclose. Let us leave him to himself, and trust to his discretion. The manner in which he behaves, sufficiently proves that, if my conjecture is right, he meditates nothing but what will be for the advantage of the person, about whom he has taken such uncommon pains.
You gave a very just description of his figure and of his manners, which proves that you have observed him more attentively than I should have imagined. But don’t you find that his continued anxieties have rendered his countenance more expressive than it used to be?
Notwithstanding the account you gave me, I was afraid to find him tinctured with that affected politeness, those apish manners which people seldom fail to contract at Paris, and which, in the round of trifles which employ an indolent day, are vainly displayed under different modes. Whether it be that some minds are not susceptible of this polish, or whether the sea air entirely effaced it, I could not discover in him the least marks of affectation; and all the zeal he expressed for me, seemed to flow entirely from the dictates of his heart. He talked to me about my poor husband; but instead of comforting me, he chose to join with me in bewailing him, and never once attempted to make any fine speeches on the subject. He caressed my daughter, but instead of admiring her as I do, he reproached me with her failings, and, like you, complained that I spoiled her; he entered into my concerns with great zeal, and was seldom of my opinion in any respect. Moreover, the wind might have blown my eyes out, before he would have thought of drawing a curtain; I might have been fatigued to death in going from one room to another, before he would have had gallantry enough to have stretched out his hand, covered with the skirt of his coat, to support me: my fan lay upon the ground yesterday for more than a second, and he did not fly from the bottom of the room, as if he was going to snatch it out of the fire. In the morning, before he came to visit me, he never once sent to inquire how I did. When we are walking together, he does not affect to have his hat nailed upon his head, to shew that he knows the pink of the mode.
[52] At table, I frequently asked him for his snuff-box, which he always gave me in his hand, and never presented it upon a plate, like a _fine gentleman_; or rather like a footman. He did not fail to drink my health twice at least at dinner, and I will lay a wager that if he stays with us this winter, we shall see him sit round the fire with us, and warm himself like an old cit. You laugh, cousin; but shew me one of our gallants newly arrived from Paris, who preserves the same manly deportment. As to the rest, I think you must allow that our philosopher is altered for the worse in one respect, which is, that he takes rather more notice of people who speak to him, which he cannot do but to your prejudice; nevertheless, I hope that I shall be able to reconcile him to Madam Belon. For my part, I think him altered for the better, because he is more serious than ever. My dear, take great care of him till my arrival. He is just the man I could wish to have the pleasure of plaguing all day long.
Admire my discretion; I have taken no notice yet of the present I send you, and which is an earnest of another to come. But you have received it before you opened my letter, and you know how much, and with what reason I idolize it; you, whose avarice is so anxious about this present, you must acknowledge that I have performed more than I promised. Ah! the dear little creature! While you are reading this, she is already in your arms; she is happier than her mother; but in two months time I shall be happier than she, for I shall be more sensible of my felicity. Alas! dear cousin, do not you possess me wholly already? Where you and my daughter are, what part of me is wanting? There she is, the dear little infant; take her as your own; I give her up; I put her into your hands: I consign all maternal authority over to you; correct my failings; take that charge upon yourself, of which I acquitted myself so little to your liking: henceforward be as a mother to her, who is one day to be your daughter-in-law, and to render her dearer to me still, make another Eloisa of her if possible. She is like you in the face already; as to her temper, I guess that she will be grave and thoughtful; when you have corrected those little caprices which I have been accused of encouraging you will find that my daughter will give herself the airs of my cousin; but she will be happier than Eloisa in having less tears to shed, and less struggles to encounter. Do you know that she can’t be any longer without her little M----, and that it is partly for that reason I send her back? I had a conversation with her yesterday, which made our friends ready to die with laughing. First, she leaves me without the least regret, I, who am her humble servant all day long, and can deny her nothing she asks for; and you, of whom she is afraid, and who answer her, _No_, twenty times a day; you, by way of excellence, are her little mamma, whom she visits with pleasure, and whose denials she likes better than all my fine presents: when I told her that I was going to send her to you, she was transported as you may imagine; but to perplex her, I told her that you, in return was to send me little M---- in her stead, and that was not agreeable to her.
She was quite at a non-plus, and asked what I would do with him. I told her that I would take him to myself: she began to pout. Harriot, said I, won’t you give up your little M---- to me? No, said she, somewhat coldly. No? But if I won’t give him up neither, who shall settle it between us? Mamma, my little mamma shall settle it. Then I shall have the preference, for you know she will do whatever I desire.
Oh, but mamma will do nothing but what’s right! And do you think I should desire what’s wrong? The sly little jade began to smile. But after all, I continued, for what reason should she refuse to give me little M----? Because he is not fit for you. And why is he not fit for me? Another arch smile as full of meaning as the former. Tell me honestly, is it not because you think me too old for him? No, mamma, but he is too young for you...This from a child but seven years old...I amused myself with piquing her still farther. My dear Henriette, said I, assuming a serious air, I assure you that he is not fit for you neither. Why so? she cried, as if she had been suddenly alarmed.
Because he is too giddy for you. Oh, mamma, is that all? I will make him wise. But if unfortunately he should make you foolish? Then, mamma, I should be like you. Like me, impertinence? Yes, mamma, you are saying all day that you are foolishly fond of me. Well then, I will be foolishly fond of him, that’s all.
I know you don’t approve of this pretty prattle, and that you will soon know how to check it. Neither will I justify it, though I own it delights me; but I only mention it to convince you, that my daughter is already in love with her little M----, and that if he is two years younger than her, she is not unworthy of that authority, which she may claim by right of seniority. I perceive likewise, by opposing your example and my own to that of your poor mother’s, that where the woman governs, the house is not the worse managed. Farewell, my dear friend; farewell, my constant companion! The time is approaching, and the vintage shall not be gathered without me.
Letter CXXIX. To Lord B----.
What pleasures, too late enjoy’d, (alas, enjoy’d too late) have I tasted these three weeks past! How delightful to pass one day in the bosom of calm friendship, secure from the tempests of impetuous passion! What a pleasing and affecting scene, my Lord, is a plain and well-regulated family, where order, peace, and innocence reign throughout; where, without pomp or retinue, everything is assembled, which can contribute to the real felicity of mankind! The country, the retirement, the season, the vast body of water which opens to my view, the wild prospect of the mountains, everything conspires to recall to my mind the delightful island of Tinian. I flatter myself that the earnest prayers, which I there so often repeated, are now accomplished. I live here agreeably to my taste, and enjoy society suitable to my liking. I only want the company of two persons to compleat my happiness, and I hope to see them here soon.
In the mean time, till you and Mrs. Orbe come to perfect those charming and innocent pleasures, which I begin to relish here, I will endeavour, by way of detail, to give you an idea of that domestic economy, which proclaims the happiness of the master and mistress, and communicates their felicity to every one under their roof. I hope that my reflections may one day be of use to you, with respect to the project you have in view, and this hope encourages me to pursue them.
I need not give you a description of Clarens house. You know it. You can tell how delightful it is, what interesting recollections it presents to my mind; you can judge how dear it must be to me, both on account of the present scenes it exhibits, and of those which it recalls to my mind. Mrs. Wolmar, with good reason, prefers this abode to that of Etange, a superb and magnificent castle, but old, inconvenient, and gloomy, its situation being far inferior to the country round Clarens.
Since Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar have fixed their residence here, they have converted to use every thing which served only for ornament: it is no longer a house for shew, but for convenience. They have shut up a long sweep of rooms, to alter the inconvenient situation of the doors; they have cut off some over-sized rooms, that the apartments might be better distributed. Instead of rich and antique furniture, they have substituted what is neat and convenient. Every thing here is pleasant and agreeable; every thing breathes an air of plenty and propriety, without any appearance of pomp and luxury. There is not a single room, in which you do not immediately recollect that you are in the country, but in which, nevertheless, you will find all the conveniences you meet with in town. The same alterations are observable without doors.
The yard has been enlarged at the expense of the coach-houses. Instead of an old tattered billiard-table, they have made a fine press, and the spot which used to be filled with screaming peacocks, which they have parted with, is converted into a dairy. The kitchen-garden was too small for the kitchen; they have made another out of a flower garden, but so convenient and so well laid out, that the spot, thus transformed, looks more agreeable to the eye than before. Instead of the mournful yews which covered the wall, they have planted good fruit-trees. In the room of the useless Indian _black-berry_, fine young mulberry-trees now begin to shade the yard, and they have planted two rows of walnut-trees quite to the road, in the place of some old linden trees which bordered the avenue. They have throughout substituted the useful in the room of the agreeable, and yet the agreeable has gained by the alteration. For my own part, at least, I think that the noise of the yard, the crowing of the cocks, the lowing of the cattle, the harness of the carts, the rural repasts, the return of the husband-men, and all the train of rustic economy, give the house a more rural, more lively, animated and gay appearance, than it had in its former state of mournful dignity.
Their estate is not out upon lease, but they are their own farmers, and the cultivation of it employs a great deal of their time, and makes a great part both of their pleasure and profit. The manor of Etange is nothing but meadow, pasture and wood: but the produce of Clarens consists of vineyards, which are considerable objects, and in which, the difference of culture produces more sensible effects than in corn; which is a farther reason why, in point of economy, they should prefer the latter as a place of residence. Nevertheless, they generally go to Etange every year at harvest time, and Mr. Wolmar visits it frequently. It is a maxim with them, to cultivate their lands to the utmost they will produce, not for the sake of extraordinary profit, but as a means of employing more hands. Mr.
Wolmar maintains that the produce of the earth is in proportion to the number of hands employed; the better it is tilled, the more it yields; and the surplus of its produce furnishes the means of cultivating it still farther; the more it is stocked with men and cattle, the greater abundance it yields for their support. No one can tell, says he, where this continual and reciprocal increase of produce and of labour may end. On the contrary, land neglected loses its fertility; the less men a country produces, the less provisions it furnishes. The scarcity of inhabitants is the reason why it is insufficient to maintain the few it has, and in every country which tends to depopulation, the people will sooner or later die of famine.
Therefore having a great deal of land, which they cultivate with the utmost industry, they require, besides the servants in the yard, a great number of day labourers, which procures them the pleasure of maintaining a great number of people without any inconvenience to themselves. In the choice of their labourers, they always prefer neighbours and those of the same place, to strangers and foreigners.
Though by this means they may sometimes be losers in not choosing the most robust, yet this loss is soon made up by the affection which this preference inspires in those whom they chuse, by the advantage likewise of having them always about them, and of being able to depend on them at all times, though they keep them in pay but part of the year.
They always make two prices with these labourers. One is a strict payment of right, the current price of the country, which they engage to pay them when they hire them. The other, which is more liberal, is a payment of generosity; it is bestowed only as they are found to deserve it, and it seldom happens that they do not earn the surplus: for Mr. Wolmar is just and strict, and never suffers institutions of grace and favour to degenerate into custom and abuse. Over these labourers there are overseers, who watch and encourage them. These overseers work along with the rest; and are interested in their labour, by a little augmentation which is made to their wages, for every advantage that is reaped from their industry. Besides, Mr.
Wolmar visits them almost every day himself, sometimes often in a day, and his wife loves to take these walks with him. In times of extraordinary business, Eloisa every week bestows some little gratifications to such of the labourers, or other servants, as, in the judgment of their master, shall have been most industrious for eight days past. All these means of promoting emulation, though seemingly expensive, when used with justice and discretion, insensibly make people laborious and diligent, and in the end bring in more than is disbursed; but as they turn to no profit, but by time and perseverance, few people know any thing of them, or are willing to make use of them.
But the most effectual method of all, which is peculiar to Mrs.
Wolmar, and which they who are bent on economy seldom think of, is that of gaining the hearts of those good people, by making them the objects of her affection. She does not think it sufficient to reward their industry, by giving them money, but she thinks herself bound to do farther services to those who have contributed to hers. Labourers, domestics, all who serve her, if it be but for a day, become her children; she takes part in their pleasures, their cares, and their fortune; she inquires into their affairs, and makes their interests her own; she engages in a thousand concerns for them, she gives them her advice, she composes their differences, and does not shew the affability of her disposition in smooth and fruitless speeches, but in real services, and continual acts of benevolence. They, on their parts, leave everything to serve her, on the least motion. They fly when she speaks to them; her look alone animates their zeal; in her presence they are contented; in her absence they talk of her, and are eager to be employed. Her charms, and her manner of conversing do a great deal, but her gentleness and her virtues do more. Ah! my Lord, what a powerful and adorable empire is that of benevolent beauty!
With respect to their personal attendants, they have within doors eight servants, three women and five men, without reckoning the baron’s valet de chambre, or the servants in the out-houses. It seldom happens that people, who have but few domestics, are ill served; but, from the uncommon zeal of these servants, one would conclude that each thought himself charged with the business of the other seven, and from the harmony among them, one would imagine that the whole business was done by one man. You never see them in the out-houses idle and unemployed, or playing in the court-yard, but always about some useful employment; they help in the yard, in the cellar, and in the kitchen; The gardener has nobody under him but them, and what is most agreeable, you see them do all this chearfully and with pleasure.
They take them young, in order to form them to their minds. They do not follow the maxim here, which prevails at Paris and London, of choosing domestics ready formed, that is to say, compleat rascals, runners of quality, who in every family they go through, catch the failings both of master and man, and make a trade of serving every body, without being attached to any one. There can be neither honesty, fidelity, or zeal among such fellows, and this collection of rabble serves to ruin the masters and corrupt the children in all wealthy families. Here, the choice of domestics is considered as an article of importance. They do not regard them merely as mercenaries, from whom they only require a stipulated service, but as members of a family, which, should they be ill chosen, might be ruined by that means. The first thing they require of them is to be honest, the next is to love their master, and the third to serve him to his liking; but where a master is reasonable, and servant intelligent, the third is the consequence of the two first. Therefore they do not take them from town, but from the country. This is the first place they live in, and it will assuredly be the last if they are good for any thing. They take them out of some numerous family overstocked with children, whose parents come to offer them of their own accord. They chuse them young, well made, healthy, and of a pleasant countenance. Mr. Wolmar interrogates and examines them, and then presents them to his wife. If they prove agreeable to both, they are received at first upon trial, afterwards they are admitted among the number of servants, or more properly the children of the family, and they employ some days in teaching their duty with a great deal of care and patience. The service is so simple, so equal and uniform, the master and mistress are so little subject to whims and caprice, and the servants so soon conceive an affection for them, that their business is soon learned.
Their condition is agreeable; they find conveniences which they had not at home; but they are not suffered to be enervated by idleness, the parent of all vice. They do not allow them to become gentlemen, and to grow proud in their service. They continue to work as they did with their own family; in fact, they do but change their father and mother, and get more wealthy parents. They do not therefore hold their old rustic employments in contempt. Whenever they leave this place, there is not one of them who had not rather turn peasant, than take any other employment. In short, I never saw a family, where every one acquits himself so well in his service, and thinks so little of the trouble of servitude.
Thus by training up their servants themselves, in this discreet manner, they guard against the objection which is so very trifling, and so frequently made, viz. “I shall only bring them up for the service of others.” Train them properly, one might answer, and they will never serve any one else. If in bringing them up, you solely regard your own benefit, they have a right to consult their own interest in quitting you; but if you seem to consider their advantage, they will remain constantly attached to you. It is the intention alone which constitutes the obligation, and he who is indirectly benefited by an act of kindness, wherein I meant to serve my self only, owes me no obligation whatever.
As a double preventive against this inconvenience, Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar take another method, which appears to me extremely prudent. At the first establishment of their houshold, they calculated what number of servants their fortune would allow them to keep, and they found it to amount to fifteen or sixteen; in order to be better served they made a reduction of half that number; so that with less retinue, their service is more exactly attended. To be more effectually served still, they have made it the interest of their servants to continue with them a long time. When a domestic first enters into their service, he receives the common wages; but those wages are augmented every year by a twentieth part: so that at the end of twenty years, they will be more than doubled, and the charge of keeping these servants will be nearly the same, in proportion to the master’s circumstances. But there is no need of being a deep algebraist to discover that the expense of this augmentation is more in appearance than reality, that there will be but few to whom double wages will be paid, and that if they were paid to all the servants, yet the benefit of having been well served for twenty years past, would more than compensate the extraordinary expense. You perceive, my Lord, that this is a certain expedient of making servants grow continually more and more careful, and of attaching them to you, by attaching yourself to them. There is not only prudence, but justice in such a provision. Is it reasonable that a new-comer, who has no affection for you, and who is perhaps an unworthy object, should receive the same salary, at his first entrance into the family, as an old servant, whose zeal and fidelity have been tried in a long course of services, and who besides, being grown in years, draws near the time when he will be incapable of providing for himself? The latter reason, however, must not be brought into the account, and you may easily imagine that such a benevolent master and mistress do not fail to discharge that duty, which many, who are devoid of charity, fulfill out of ostentation; and you may suppose that they do not abandon those whose infirmities or old age render them incapable of service.
I can give you a very striking instance of their attention to this duty. The Baron D’Etange being desirous to recompense the long services of his valet de chambre, by procuring him an honourable retreat, had the interest to obtain for him the L.S.E.E. an easy and lucrative post. Eloisa has just now received a most affecting letter from this old servant, in which he intreats her to get him excused from accepting this employment. “I am in years, says he, I have lost all my family; I have no relations but my master and his family; all my hope is to end my days quietly in the house where I have passed the greatest part, of them. Often, dear madam, as I have held you in my arms when but an infant, I prayed to heaven that I might one day hold your little ones in the same manner. My prayers have been heard; do not deny me the happiness of seeing them grow and prosper like you. I who have been accustomed to a quiet family, where shall I find such another place of rest in my old age? Be so kind to write to the Baron in my behalf. If he is dissatisfied with me, let him turn me off, and give me no employment; but if I have served him faithfully for these forty years past, let him allow me to end my days in his service and yours; he cannot reward me better.” It is needless to enquire whether Eloisa wrote to the Baron or not. I perceive that she would be as unwilling to part with this good man, as he would be to leave her. Am I wrong, my Lord, when I compare a master and mistress, thus beloved, to good parents, and their servants to obedient children? You find that they consider themselves in this light.
There is not a single instance in this family of a servant’s giving warning. It is even very seldom that they are threatened with a dismission. A menace of this kind alarms them in proportion as their service is pleasant and agreeable. The best subjects are always the soonest alarmed, and there is never any occasion to come to extremities but with such as are not worth regretting. They have likewise a rule in this respect. When Mr. Wolmar says, I discharge you, they may then implore Mrs. Wolmar to intercede for them, and through her intercession may be restored; but if she gives them warning, it is irrevocable, and they have no favour to expect. This agreement between them is very well calculated both to moderate the extreme confidence which her gentleness might beget in them, and the violent apprehensions they might conceive from his inflexibility. Such a warning nevertheless is excessively dreaded from a just and dispassionate master; for besides that they are not certain of obtaining favour, and that the same person is never pardoned twice, they forfeit the right which they acquire from their long service, by having had warning given, and when they are restored, they begin a new service as it were. This prevents the old servants from growing insolent, and makes them more circumspect, in proportion as they have more to lose.
The three maid-servants are, the chamber-maid, the governess, and the cook. The latter is a country girl, very proper and well qualified for the place, whom Mrs. Wolmar has instructed in cookery: for in this country, which is as yet in some measure in a state of simplicity, young ladies learn to do that business themselves, that when they keep house, they may be able to direct their servants; and consequently are