The title of Lord Mulgrave's clever novel is sufficiently explained by the hero, Lord Castleton, a man of high refinement, marrying an unsophisticated, uneducated peasant girl. The scenes and incidents of her introduction into the fashionable world are replete with humour, yet true to the life. Thus, how naturally are her new Ladyship's embarrassments told:—

"There were some points on which she would even have endeavoured to extract knowledge from the servants; but dreading, from her former habits, nothing so much as too great a familiarity in this respect, Castleton had made it one of his first desires to her, that she would confine her communications with them, to asking for what she wanted. To this, as to every other desire of his, she yielded, as far as she could, implicit obedience; but it was often a great exertion on her part to do so. Of her own maid she had felt from the first a considerable awe; and to such a degree did this continue, that she could not conceive any fatigue from labour equal to the burthen of her assistance. Being naturally of a disposition both active and obliging, it was quite new to her to have any thing done for her which she could do for herself. For some time she had as great a horror of touching a bell-rope, as others have in touching the string of a shower-bath; and when services were obtruded on her by the domestics as a matter of course, she had much difficulty in checking the exuberance of her gratitude.

"At home, Big Betsey, mentioned before as the maid of all work, never considered as any part of her multitudinous duties the waiting on Miss Lucy, who she not only said 'mought moind herself,' but sometimes called to her, almost authoritatively, 'to lend a hauping haund.' It was, probably, in consequence of the habit thus engendered, that Lady Castleton was one day caught 'lending a helping hand' to an over-loaded under laundry-maid, who had been sent by her superior with a wicker-bound snowy freight of her Ladyship's own superfine linen. But of all the irksome feelings caused by Lucy's new position, there was none from which she suffered more, than waiting to be waited on. And it was hinted in the hall, that when my Lord was not in the room, my Lady got up to help herself to what she wanted from the sideboard!! And it was whispered in the female conclave of the housekeeper's room, that her Lady-ship seemed even to like to—lace her own stays!!"

Again, after Lady Castleton receiving a visit from a ton-ish family, his Lordship asks:—

And did they make many inquiries of you? ask many questions?"

"Oh, such a many!"

"So many, dearest love, you mean to say."

"Well, so I do, thank you; and then the mamma asked me, as she had never seen me before, if I had not been much abroad; and I said, never at all till I married; and then she said, 'What! had I been to Paris since?' and I find she meant foreign parts by abroad. And she told me that we ought to go to London soon; that the season was advanced, and that the Pasta would come out soon this spring. What is the Pasta—a plant?"

"A plant! no, love. Pasta is a singer's name, you could not be expected to know that; but I hope you didn't say any thing to show them your ignorance?"

"Oh, no; you told me, whenever I was completely puzzled, that silence was best; so I said nothing. Pasta's the name of a singer, then! Oh, that accounts, for a moment after she the mamma said, that her daughter Arabella sang delightfully, and asked me if I would sing with her; so I said no, I'd much rather listen. That was right, warn't it? You see I knew you'd ask me all about it, so I recollected it for you. Arabella then asked me if I would accompany her? so I said, Wherever she liked,—where did she want to go? But, I suppose, she altered her mind, for she sat down to the grand instrument you had brought here for me to begin my lessons upon; and then she sang such an extraordinary song—all coming from her throat. And the sister asked me if I understood German? and I answered, No, nor French neither."

"That was an unnecessary addition, my love."

"Well, so it was. Then the youngest sister explained to me, that it was a song a Swiss peasant girl sang whilst she was milking her cow; and I said that must be very difficult, to sing while milking a cow. And then the mamma asked how I knew; and I said I had tried very often."

"How could you, dear Lucy, volunteer such an avowal?"

"I thought you would be afraid of that; but it all did very well, for the mother said I was so amusing, had so much natural wit, and they all tried to persuade me I had said something clever."

"Well, go on—and what then?"

"And then the lady took me aside, and began saying so much in praise of you; and when she once got me on that subject, I was ready and glib enough, I warrant you. But somehow, though I then found it so much easier to speak, I find it more difficult to recollect exactly what I said. Is not that strange? And then she said that my happiness would excite so much envy in the great world; that you had been admired, courted, nay, even loved by rich, noble, clever ladies. Why was all this? and how could you ever think to leave all these, to seek out from her quiet home your poor little Lucy?"

"Oh, that's a story of by-gone days. These were follies of my youth, which I thought I had lived to repent.

"'Nor knew, till seated by thy side, My heart in all save hope the same.'"

"Why, save hope, my dear Lord? What may you not only hope, but trust, from my constant devotion?"

"I did not mean to tie myself precisely to every word I uttered. It was only a quotation."

"And what is a quotation?"

"A quotation is the vehicle in which imagination posts forward, when she only hires her Pegasus from memory. Or sometimes it is only a quit-rent, which the intellectual cultivator, who farms an idea, pays to the original proprietor; or rather,"—(seeing that he was not making the matter more intelligible by his explanation,)—"or rather, it is when we convey our own thoughts by the means of the more perfect expressions of some favourite author."

"But then, surely you need not be driven to borrow, whose own words always sound to me like a book. As for poor me, I wish I could talk in quotations for ever; then I need not fear to make these mistakes, which, as it is, I am afraid I am always like to do."

(A scene at the Opera is richer still: the performance Semiramide:)

"Lady Gayland took the opportunity of inquiring of Lady Castleton, 'how the opera had amused her?' There was that unmistakable air of real interest in Lady Gayland's manner, whenever she addressed Lucy, which made her always reply in a tone of confidence, different from that which she felt towards any other member of the society in which she moved.

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The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 19, No. 546, May 12, 1832

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