It was on an evening in the earliest flush of returning
spring that Lord Ulswater, with his beautiful bride,
entered his magnificent domains. It had been
his wish and order, in consequence of his brother’s
untimely death, that no public rejoicings should be
made on his marriage: but the good old steward
could not persuade himself entirely to enforce obedience
to the first order of his new master; and as the carriage
drove into the park-gates, crowds on crowds were assembled
to welcome and to gaze.
No sooner had they caught a glimpse of their young
lord, whose affability and handsome person had endeared
him to all who remembered his early days, and of the
half-blushing, half-smiling countenance beside him,
than their enthusiasm could be no longer restrained.
The whole scene rang with shouts of joy; and through
an air filled with blessings, and amidst an avenue
of happy faces, the bridal pair arrived at their home.
“Ah! Clarence (for so I must still call
you),” said Flora, her beautiful eyes streaming
with delicious tears, “let us never leave these
kind hearts; let us live amongst them, and strive to
repay and deserve the blessings which they shower
upon us! Is not Benevolence, dearest, better
than Ambition?”
“Can it not rather, my own Flora, be Ambition
itself?”
So rest you, merry gentlemen.—Monsieur
Thomas.
The Author has now only to take his leave of the less
important characters whom he has assembled together;
and then, all due courtesy to his numerous guests
being performed, to retire himself to repose.
First, then, for Mr. Morris Brown: In the second
year of Lord Ulswater’s marriage, the worthy
broker paid Mrs. Minden’s nephew a visit, in
which he persuaded that gentleman to accept, “as
presents,” two admirable fire screens, the property
of the late Lady Waddilove: the same may be now
seen in the housekeeper’s room at Borodaile Park
by any person willing to satisfy his curiosity and—the
housekeeper. Of all further particulars respecting
Mr. Morris Brown, history is silent.
In the obituary for 1792, we find the following paragraph:
“Died at his house in Putney, aged seventy-three,
Sir Nicholas Copperas, Knt., a gentleman well known
on the Exchange for his facetious humour. Several
of his bons-mots are still recorded in the Common
Council. When residing many years ago in the
suburbs of London, this worthy gentleman was accustomed
to go from his own house to the Exchange in a coach
called ‘the Swallow,’ that passed his door
just at breakfast-time; upon which occasion he was
wont wittily to observe to his accomplished spouse,
’And now, Mrs. Copperas, having swallowed in
the roll, I will e’en roll in the Swallow!’
His whole property is left to Adolphus Copperas,
Esq., banker.”
And in the next year we discover,—
“Died, on Wednesday last, at her jointure house,
Putney, in her sixty-eighth year, the amiable and
elegant Lady Copperas, relict of the late Sir Nicholas,
Knt.”
