June 10.—
I do really think my good
mother grows so fond of Mr. Faulkland,
that if he goes on at this rate, he will
get the start even of Sir George in her affections—
'Mr. Faulkland said so and so;
Mr. Faulkland is of opinion; and I am
sure you will allow Mr. Faulkland to be
a good judge of such and such things.'
To say the truth, the man improves
upon you every hour you know him.
And yet I have discovered in him some of
those little (and they are but little)alloys
to his many good qualities, which Sir
George at first told me of. The interest
I may one day have in him makes me a
closer observer than I should otherwise
be. There is that sly turn to ridicule
which my brother mentioned; yet, to do
him justice, he never employs it, but
where it is deserved; and then too with
so much vivacity and good humour, that
one cannot be angry with him.
We had a good deal of company at
dinner with us to-day; amongst the rest,
young Sayers, who is just returned from
his travels, as he calls it. You remember
he went away a good humoured, inoffensive,
quiet fool; he has brought no one
ingredient of that character back with
him, but the last; for such a stiff, conceited,
overbearing, talkative, impertinent
coxcomb does not now exist. His mother,
who, poor woman, you know originally
made a simpleton of the boy, contributes
now all in her power to finish the fop;
and she carries him about with her everywhere
for a shew. (?) We were assembled
in the drawing room before dinner: in
burst (for it was not a common entry)
Master Sayers, and his mama, the cub
handing in the old lady.—so stiff, and so
aukward, and so ungraceful, and so very
unlike Mr. Faulkland, that I pitied the
poor thing, who thought that everybody
would admire him as much as his mother
did. After he had been presented to the
ladies (for it was the first time we had
seen him since he came home) he took a
turn or two about the room, to exhibit
his person: then, applying himself to a
picture which hung over the door (a fine
landscape of Claude Lorrain, which Mr.
Faulkland himself had brought over and
given to Sir George) he asked my brother,
in a tone scarce articulate, whether we
had any
painters in England? My mother,
who by chance heard him, and by greater
chance understood him, answered, before
Sir George had time,
Painters, Sir! yes,
sure, and some very good ones too: why,
you cannot have forgot
that; it is not
much above a year since you went abroad
(for you must know he had been recalled
upon the death of an uncle, who had left
him his estate). I observed Mr. Faulkland
constrained a very sly laugh, on account
both of the
manner of my mother's taking
his question, and her innocently undesigned
reprimand. Sayers pretended not
to hear her, but looking through his
fingers, as if to throw the picture into
perspective, that is a pretty good piece,
said he, for a copy. Oh! cry'd his mother,
there is no pleasing
you—people who have
been
abroad are such connoisseurs in painting.
—No body making any immediate
answer, Mr. Faulkland stepped up to Mr.
Sayers, and with such a roguish humility
in his countenance, that you would have
sworn he was a very ignoramus, said,
'Are you of opinion, Sir, that that picture
is nothing but a copy?' Nothing more,
take my word for it, Sir: When
I was at
Rome, there was a Dutchman there, who
made it his business to take copies
of
copies, which he dispersed, and had people
to sell for him in different parts, at
pretty good prices; and they did mighty
well; for very few people
know a picture,
and I'll answer for it there are not many
masters of eminence, but what have a
hundred originals palmed upon them
more than every they painted in their lives.
Mr. Faulkland then proceeded to ask
him abundance of questions, which any
one, who did not know him well, would
have thought he proposed for no other
end but a desire of information: and the
poor coxcomb Sayers plumed himself
upon displaying so much travelled knowlege,
to a wondering ignorant Englishman,
who had never been out of his own
country. The company were divided
into little chatting parties, as is usual
when people are whiling away an half hour
before dinner. Mrs. Sayers, my mother,
and I, were sitting together on a couch,
near enough to hear the conversation that
passed between the two gentlemen, at
least as much as was not sunk in the affected,
half-pronounced sentences of Mr.
Sayers. His mother, to whom he was
the principal object of attention in the
company, seemed mightily pleased at the
opportunity her son had, from the inquisitiveness
of Mr. Faulkland (whom she
did not know) of showing his taste in the
polite arts, and often looked about to observe
if any body else attended to them.
My mother, dear literal woman! (as I often
call her to you) took every thing seriously,
and whispered to me, how pretty that
is, Sidney! how condescending in Mr.
Faulkland! you see he does not make a
parade of his
own knowlege in these
matters, but is pleased to reap the benefit
of other people's. I, who saw the latent
roguery, could hardly contain myself. Indeed
I was amazed at Mr. Faulkland'
grave inquisitive face, and was very glad
my mother did not find him out.
Sayers, elated with having shone so conspicuously
(for he observed that both my
mother and I attended to his discourse)
proceeded to shew away with an immensity
of vanity and frothy chat, beginning
every new piece of history with
'When I was at Rome, or, when I was
at Paris'.—At last, unluckily for him,
speaking of an incident (which made a
good deal of noise, and happened at the
first-mentioned place) in which two English
gentlemen had been concerned, he
said it was about eleven months ago, just
before he left Rome. My mother, who
had heard Mr. Faulkland relate the same
story, but with some very different circumstances,
immediately said, Mr. Faulkland,
have I not heard you speak of that?
You were at Rome yourself when the affair
happened; and if I be not mistaken, it was
through your interest with the cardinal
of—that the business was made up.
If a spectre had appeared to poor Sayers,
he could not have looked more aghast.
He dropped his visage half-way down
his breast, and, for the first time, speaking
very plain, and very loud too, with a
stare of astonishment, Have you been at
Rome, Sir? I was there for a little time,
Sir, answered Mr. Faulkland, with real
modesty; for he pitied the mortified buzzard;
and I know the story was represented
as you have told it; the circumstances
differed in a few particulars, but the facts
were nearly as you have related them.
How obligingly did he reconcile the
out-of-countenance Sayers to himself
and to the company? Were you long
abroad, pray Sir? said the coxcomb:
About five years, Sir, answered Mr.
Faulkland; but I perceive, by the conversation
I have had the honour of holding
with you to-day, that many accurate
and curious observations escaped me,
which you made in a much shorter space
of time; for the communication of which
I think myself extremely obliged to you.
Whether the poor soul thought him serious
(as my mother did) I cannot tell; he
made him a bow, however, for the compliment;
but was so lowered, that he did
not say a word more of Rome or Paris
for the rest of the day: and in this we had
a double advantage; for as he had nothing
else to talk of, his mouth was
effectually stopped, except when Mr.
Faulkland, out of compassion, asked him
(as he often did) such questions as he
thought he could answer, without exposing
his ignorance: for he was contented
to have enjoyed it in their tête-à-tête, and was far from wishing the company
to be witnesses of it.
I think such a bagatelle may give you
some idea of this man's turn. I told it
to Sir George; he laughed heartily, and
said it was so like him! My brother
loves even his faults, though he will
not allow me to call them by that name.
