Evening at Home 70
Fan._ In London, sir; but they died when I was very young, and I went
to my grandmother’s in Surrey.
_Land._ Was she your father’s mother? You will excuse my questions. I do
not ask from idle curiosity.
_Fan._ She was, sir; and had been long a widow.
_Land._ Do you know what her maiden name was?
_Fan._ It was Borrowdale, sir.
_Land._ Borrowdale!—And pray, whither were you going when the
unfortunate accident happened?
_Fan._ To Kendal in Westmoreland, sir, near which my grandmother was
born.
_Land._ Ah! ‘tis the very same—every circumstance corresponds! My dear
Fanny (_taking her hand_), you have found a relation when you little
thought of it. I am your kinsman. My mother was a Borrowdale, of
Westmoreland, and half-sister to your grandmother. I have heard of all
your parentage; and I remember the death of your poor father, who was a
very honest ingenious artist: and of your mother soon after, of a broken
heart. I could never discover what family they left, nor what was become
of my kinswoman. But I rejoice I have found you out in this
extraordinary manner. You must come and live with me. My wife and
daughters will be very glad to receive one whose conduct has done her so
much credit.
_Fan._ I am much obliged to you, sir, for your kindness; but I am too
mean a person to live as a relation in a family like yours.
_Land._ O no! you will not find us of that sort who despise worthy
people for being low in the world; and your language and actions show
that you have been well brought up.
_Fan._ My poor grandmother, sir, was so kind as to give me all the
education in her power; and if I have not somewhat benefited by her
example and instructions, it must have been my own fault.
_Land._ You speak very well, and I feel more attached to you, the more I
hear you.—Well, you must prepare to come home with me. I will take care
to make proper acknowledgments to the good people here who have been so
kind to you.
_Bet._ My dear Fanny, I am heartily glad of your good fortune, but we
shall all be sorry to part with you.
_Fan._ I am sure, my dear friend and mistress, I shall be sorry too. You
received me when I had no other friend in the world, and you treated me
like your own child. I can never forget what I owe you.
_Enter_ John, _and his eldest son_ Thomas.
_John._ Is your honour here?
_Land._ Yes, John; and I have found something worth coming for.
_John._ What is that, sir?
_Land._ A relation, John. This young woman whom you have so kindly
entertained, is my kinswoman.
_John._ What—our Fanny?
_Thomas._ Fanny!
_Land._ Yes, indeed. And, after thanking you for your kindness to her
and her poor grandmother, I mean to take her home for a companion to my
wife and daughters.
_John._ This is wonderful news, indeed! Well, Fanny, I am very glad you
have got such a home to go to—you are worthy of it—but we shall miss you
much here.
_Bet._ So I have been telling her.
_Thom._ (_aside to_ Fanny). What, will you leave us, Fanny? Must we
part?
_Fan._ (_aside to him_). What can I do, Thomas?
_Land._ There seems some unwillingness to part, I see, on more sides
than one.
_Bet._ Indeed, sir, I believe there is. We have lived very happily
together.
_Thom._ (_aside to Fanny_). I see we must part with you, but I
hope—Surely you won’t quite forget us?
_Fan._ (_to him_). You distress me, Thomas. Forget you! O no!
_Land._ Come, I see there is something between the young folks that
ought to be spoken about plainly. Do you explain it, Betty.
_Bet._ Why, your honour knows, we could not tell that Fanny was your
relation. So, as my son Thomas and she seemed to take a liking to one
another, and she was such a clever girl, we did not object to their
thinking about making a match of it, as soon as he should be settled in
a farm.
_John._ But that must be over now.
_Thom._ Why so, father?
_John._ Why; you can’t think of his honour’s kinswoman.
_Land._ Come, Fanny, do you decide this affair.
_Fan._ Sir, Thomas offered me his service when he thought me a poor
friendless girl, and I might think myself favoured by his notice. He
gained my good will, which no change of circumstances can make me
withdraw. It is my determination to join my lot with his, be it what it
may.
_Thom._ My dearest Fanny!
[_Taking her hand._
_Land._ You act nobly, my dear girl, and make me proud of my relation.
You shall have my free consent, and something handsome into the bargain.
_Bet._ Heaven bless your honour! I know it would have been a
heartbreaking to my poor boy to have parted with her. Dear Fanny!
[_Kisses her._
_Land._ I have a farm just now vacant. Thomas shall take it, and Fanny’s
portion shall stock it for him.
_Thom._ I humbly thank your honour.
_John._ I thank you too, sir, for us all.
_Fan._ Sir, since you have been so indulgent in this matter, give me
leave to request you to be satisfied with my paying my duty to the
ladies, without going to live in a way so different from what I have
been used to, and must live in hereafter. I think I can be nowhere
better than with my friends and future parents here.
_Land._ Your request, Fanny, has so much propriety and good sense in it,
that I cannot refuse it. However, you must suffer us to improve our
acquaintance. I assure you it will give me particular pleasure.
_Fan._ Sir, you will always command my most grateful obedience.
_Land._ Well—let Thomas bring you to my house this afternoon, and I will
introduce you to your relations, and we will talk over matters.
Farewell, my dear! Nay, I must have a kiss.
_Fan._ I will wait on you, sir.
[_Exit Landlord._
_Bet._ My dear Fanny—daughter I may now call you—you cannot think how
much I feel obliged to you.
_Thom._ But who is so much obliged as I am?
_Fan._ Do you not all deserve everything from me?
_John._ Well, who could have thought when I went to help up the wagon,
that it would have brought so much good luck to us?
_Bet._ A good deed is never lost they say.
_Fan._ It shall be the business of my life to prove that this has not
been lost.
ON EMBLEMS.
“Pray, papa,” said Cecilia, “what is an _emblem_? I have met with the
word in my lesson to-day, and I do not quite understand it.”
“An emblem, my dear,” replied he, “is a visible image of an invisible
thing.”
_Cecilia._ A visible image of—I can hardly comprehend—
_Pa._ Well, I will explain it more at length. There are certain notions
that we form in our minds without the help of our eyes or any of our
senses. Thus, Virtue, Vice, Honour, Disgrace, Time, Death, and the like,
are not sensible objects, but ideas of the understanding.
_Cec._ Yes—We cannot feel them or see them, but we can think about them.
_Pa._ True. Now it sometimes happens that we wish to represent one of
these in a visible form; that is, to offer something to the sight that
shall raise a similar notion in the minds of the beholders. In order to
do this, we must take some action or circumstance belonging to it,
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