Cynthia's correspondence went on pretty briskly with her London
cousins, according to the usual rate of correspondence in those
days. Indeed, Mrs. Gibson was occasionally inclined to complain of
the frequency of Helen Kirkpatrick's letters; for before the penny
post came in, the recipient had to pay the postage of letters; and
eleven-pence-halfpenny three times a week came, according to Mrs.
Gibson's mode of reckoning when annoyed, to a sum "between three
and four shillings." But these complaints were only for the family;
they saw the wrong side of the tapestry. Hollingford in general,
Miss Brownings in particular, heard of "dear Helen's enthusiastic
friendship for Cynthia," and of "the real pleasure it was to receive
such constant news--relays of news indeed--from London. It was almost
as good as living there!"
"A great deal better I should think," said Miss Browning with some
severity. For she had got many of her notions of the metropolis
from the British Essayists, where town is so often represented as
the centre of dissipation, corrupting country wives and squires'
daughters, and unfitting them for all their duties by the constant
whirl of its not always innocent pleasures. London was a sort of
moral pitch, which few could touch and not be defiled. Miss Browning
had been on the watch for the signs of deterioration in Cynthia's
character ever since her return home. But, except in a greater number
of pretty and becoming articles of dress, there was no great change
for the worse to be perceived. Cynthia had been "in the world," had
"beheld the glare and glitter and dazzling display of London," yet
had come back to Hollingford as ready as ever to place a chair for
Miss Browning, or to gather flowers for a nosegay for Miss Phoebe,
or to mend her own clothes. But all this was set down to the merits
of Cynthia, not to the credit of London-town.
"As far as I can judge of London," said Miss Browning, sententiously
continuing her tirade against the place, "it's no better than a
pickpocket and a robber dressed up in the spoils of honest folk. I
should like to know where my Lord Hollingford was bred, and Mr. Roger
Hamley. Your good husband lent me that report of the meeting, Mrs.
Gibson, where so much was said about them both, and he was as proud
of their praises as if he had been akin to them, and Phoebe read
it aloud to me, for the print was too small for my eyes; she was a
good deal perplexed with all the new names of places, but I said
she had better skip them all, for we had never heard of them before
and probably should never hear of them again, but she read out the
fine things they said of my lord, and Mr. Roger, and I put it to
you, where were they born and bred? Why, within eight miles of
Hollingford; it might have been Molly there or me; it's all a chance;
and then they go and talk about the pleasures of intellectual society
in London, and the distinguished people up there that it is such an
advantage to know, and all the time I know it's only shops and the
play that's the real attraction. But that's neither here nor there.
We all put our best foot foremost, and if we have a reason to give
that looks sensible we speak it out like men, and never say anything
about the silliness we are hugging to our hearts. But I ask you
again, where does this fine society come from, and these wise men,
and these distinguished travellers? Why, out of country parishes like
this! London picks 'em all up, and decks herself with them, and then
calls out loud to the folks she's robbed, and says, 'Come and see
how fine I am.' Fine, indeed! I've no patience with London: Cynthia
is much better out of it; and I'm not sure, if I were you, Mrs.
Gibson, if I wouldn't stop up those London letters: they'll only be
unsettling her."