This eBook was produced by David Widger
Envy will be a science when it learns the use of the microscope.
When leaves fall and flowers fade, great people are found in theircountry-seats. Look!—that is Montfort Court,—a place of regalmagnificence, so far as extent of pile and amplitude of domain couldsatisfy the pride of ownership, or inspire the visitor with the respectdue to wealth and power. An artist could have made nothing of it. TheSumptuous everywhere; the Picturesque nowhere. The house was built inthe reign of George I., when first commenced that horror of thebeautiful, as something in bad taste, which, agreeably to our naturallove of progress, progressively advanced through the reigns of succeedingGeorges. An enormous fafade, in dull brown brick; two wings and acentre, with double flights of steps to the hall-door from thecarriagesweep. No trees allowed to grow too near the house; in front, astately flat with stone balustrades. But wherever the eye turned, therewas nothing to be seen but park, miles upon miles of park; not acornfield in sight, not a roof-tree, not a spire, only those /latasilentia/,—still widths of turf, and, somewhat thinly scattered andafar, those groves of giant trees. The whole prospect so vast and somonotonous that it never tempted you to take a walk. No close-neighbouring poetic thicket into which to plunge, uncertain whither youwould emerge; no devious stream to follow. The very deer, fat and heavy,seemed bored by pastures it would take them a week to traverse. Peopleof moderate wishes and modest fortunes never envied Montfort Court: theyadmired it; they were proud to say they had seen it. But never did theysay—
"Oh, that for me some home like this would smile!"
Not so, very, very great people!—they rather coveted than admired.Those oak trees so large, yet so undecayed; that park, eighteen miles atleast in circumference; that solid palace which, without inconvenience,could entertain and stow away a king and his whole court; in short, allthat evidence of a princely territory and a weighty rent-roll madeEnglish dukes respectfully envious, and foreign potentates gratifyinglyjealous.
But turn from the front. Open the gate in that stone balustrade. Comesouthward to the garden side of the house. Lady Montfort's flower-garden. Yes; not so dull!—flowers, even autumnal flowers, enliven anysward. Still, on so large a scale, and so little relief; so littlemystery about those broad gravel-walks; not a winding alley anywhere.Oh, for a vulgar summer-house; for some alcove, all honeysuckle and ivy!But the dahlias are splendid! Very true; only, dahlias, at the best, aresuch uninteresting prosy things. What poet ever wrote upon a dahlia!Surely Lady Montfort might have introduced a little more taste here,shown a little more fancy! Lady Montfort! I should like to see mylord's face if Lady Montfort took any such liberty. But there is LadyMontfort walking slowly along that broad, broad, broad gravel-walk; thosesplendid dahlias, on either side, in their set parterres. There shewalks, in full evidence from all those sixty remorseless windows on thegarden front, each window exactly like the other. There she walks,looking wistfully to the far end ('t is a long way off), where, happily,there is a wicket that carries a persevering pedestrian out of sight ofthe sixty windows into shady walks, towards the banks of that immensepiece of water, two miles from the house. My lord has not returned fromhis moor in Scotland; my lady is alone. No company in the house: it islike saying, "No acquaintance in a city." But the retinue is full.Though she di