# Ethel Churchill/Chapter 41

CHAPTER VI.
GAIETIES AND ABSURDITIES.
LADY MARCHMONT TO SIR JASPER MEREDITH.
What Shakspeare said of lovers, might apply To all the world—"'Tis well they do not see The pretty follies that themselves commit." Could we but turn upon ourselves the eyes With which we look on others, life would pass In one perpetual blush and smile. The smile, how bitter!—for 'tis scorn's worst task To scorn ourselves; and yet we could not choose But mock our actions, all we say or do, If we but saw them as we others see.  Life's best repose is blindness to itself.
My dearest Uncle,—So, at last, I have met poor Ethel's rival; and, as is always the case when one forms an idea to one's self, she is as different as possible from what I anticipated. Pale, and delicate almost to ​prettiness, she is timid to a painful degree; and very much in love with her husband.
Mr. Courtenaye's embarrassment, on meeting me, was too much to conceal. Ethel was plainly in his thoughts; and, if it be any consolation to her, he looks very much altered and depressed. I suppose the family estate must have been heavily burdened; and, between pride and poverty, love quitted the field, banished, if not subdued. I have seen him once or twice since, either in low or highly excited spirits. I have not met Mrs. Courtenaye again; for, twice that I called, she was too ill to see me, and she appears in public but little, owing to her health.
We go next week on a visit to Cliveden, so that I am not likely to see any thing more of them for some time; and yet I cannot help being interested in her. On my return, my first visit shall be to her.
Lady Orkney's history, to whose house we are going, is a curious one. As Miss Elizabeth Villiers, by her charms she pierced the cuirass that enveloped the well-disciplined heart of ​William III. But the conquest over his affection was not half so extraordinary as the conquest over his economy: he actually conferred upon her all the private estates in Ireland of his father-in-law, King James, worth some five-and-twenty thousand a-year. This magnificent donation had, however, a most curious drawback. Out of the proceeds were to be paid two annuities; one to Lady Susan Bellasye, and one to Mrs. Godfrey, both mistresses to the former monarch. It seems to me a most practical piece of sarcasm. However, parliament interfered, and an act passed, resuming all grants since the Revolution. Her royal and careful lover nevertheless found some other substantial method of shewing his favour; for the lady was very rich when she married Lord George Hamilton, afterwards created Earl of Orkney.
I must say, that, at the coronation, there was little vestige left as possible "of the charms that pleased a king." "She looked," Lady Mary Wortley said, "like an Egyptian mummy, wrought with hieroglyphics of gold." Lady ​Orkney has the reputation of being very clever: I do not see much proof in a letter that she wrote to Mrs. Howard, on the occasion of the late fête at Clifden. It began thus:—"Madam, I give you this trouble out of the anguish of my mind." This anguish consists in some stools being placed instead of chairs, and Lord Grantham's directing that there should be two table-clothes instead of one; "which innovation," as she pathetically observes, "turned all the servants' heads." Moreover, "they kept back the dinner too long for her majesty after it was dished, and it was set before the fire." She winds up by saying,—"I thought I had turned my mind in a philosophical way of having done with the world; but I find I have deceived myself." Poor Lady Orkney! it is just what we all do. However, I confess, the fête appeared to me most splendid; and the royal guests as much pleased as the rest of the company.
The last jeu d'ésprit circulating among us, is "A Characteristic Catalogue of Pictures." Characteristic enough some of them certainly ​are! for Mr. Onslow has contributed "A Flower-Piece;" and, if ever man talked poppies and tulips, it is our worthy and flowery speaker. "A Head Unfinished" is by Lord Townshend, of whom his colleague said, "that his brains wanted nothing but ballast!" Mr. Booth obliges us with "A Mist." He ought to be able to paint it most accurately, for he always seems in one.
Next week we go to Lord Burlington, a nobleman to whose taste for building the world is indebted for one of its chief pleasures; namely, that of finding fault. Two noble friends dined with him in his new house in Piccadilly, and next day circulated the following epigram:—
"Possessed of one great hall for state,
Without a room to sleep or eat;
How well you build, let flattery tell,
And all the world, how ill you dwell."
We, however, are going to the villa at Chiswick, of which Dr. Arbuthnot says, that "it is fitted up with a cold in every corner, and a consumption by way of perspective." ​Lord Harvey's remark is, that "it is too small to live in, and too large to hang to one's watch!"
I must leave off abruptly, for I hear the carriage announced; and Lord Marchmont as much objects to being kept waiting as if his time were of the least value.
Ever your most affectionate child,
Henrietta.