every lady
in the country had her still-room, and her medicine chest, her pills,
powders, potions, for all the village round.

My Lady Warrington took charge of the consciences and the digestions of
her husband's tenants and family. She had the faith and health of the
servants'-hall in keeping. Heaven can tell whether she knew how to
doctor them rightly: but, was it pill or doctrine, she administered one
or the other with equal belief in her own authority, and her disciples
swallowed both obediently. She believed herself to be one of the most
virtuous, self-denying, wise, learned women in the world; and, dinning
this opinion perpetually into the ears of all round about her, succeeded
in bringing not few persons to join in her persuasion.

At Sir Miles's dinner there was so fine a sideboard of plate, and such
a number of men in livery, that it required some presenter: of mind
to perceive that the beer was of the smallest which the butler brought
round in the splendid tankard, and that there was but one joint of
mutton on the grand silver dish. When Sir Miles called the King's
health, and smacked his jolly lips over his wine, he eyed it and the
company as if the liquor was ambrosia. He asked Harry Warrington whether
they had port like that in Virginia? He said that was nothing to the
wine Harry should taste in Norfolk. He praised the wine so, that Harry
almost believed that it was good, and winked into his own glass, trying
to see some of the merits which his uncle perceived in the ruby nectar.

Just as we see in many a well-regulated family of this present century,
the Warringtons had their two paragons. Of the two grown daughters, the
one was the greatest beauty, the other the greatest genius and angel of
any young lady then alive, as Lady Warrington told Harry. The eldest,
the Beauty, was engaged to dear Tom Claypool, the fond mother informed
her cousin Harry in confidence. But the second daughter, the Genius and
Angel, was for ever set upon our young friend to improve his wits and
morals. She sang to him at the harpsichord--rather out of tune for
an angel, Harry thought; she was ready with advice, instruction,
conversation--with almost too much instruction and advice, thought
Harry, who would have far preferred the society of the little cousin
who reminded him of Fanny Mountain at home. But the last-mentioned young
maiden after dinner retired to her nursery commonly. Beauty went off
on her own avocations; mamma had