The three days previous to my leaving London were passed with Sir John
and Lady Belfield. Knowing I was on the wing for Hampshire, they
promised to make their long intended visit to Stanley Grove during my
stay there.
On the first of these days we were agreeably surprised at the appearance
of Dr. Barlow, an old friend of Sir John, and the excellent rector of
Mr. Stanley's parish. Being obliged to come to town on urgent business
for a couple of days, he was charged to assure me of the cordial welcome
which awaited me at the Grove. I was glad to make this early
acquaintance with this highly respectable divine. I made a thousand
inquiries about his neighbors, and expressed my impatience to know more
of a family in whose characters I already felt a more than common
interest.
"Sir," said he, "if you set me talking of Mr. Stanley, you must abide by
the consequences of your indiscretion, and bear with the loquacity of
which that subject never fails to make me guilty. He is a greater
blessing to me as a friend, and to my parish as an example and a
benefactor than I can describe." I assured him that he could not be too
minute in speaking of a man whom I had been early taught to admire, by
that exact judge of merit, my late father.
"Mr. Stanley," said the worthy doctor, "is about six-and-forty, his
admirable wife is about six or seven years younger. He passed the early
part of his life in London, in the best society. His commerce with the
world was, to a mind like his, all pure gain; for he brought away from
it all the good it had to give, without exchanging for it one particle
of his own integrity. He acquired the air, manners, and sentiments of a
gentleman, without any sacrifice of his sincerity. Indeed, he may be
said to have turned his knowledge of the world to a religious account,
for it has enabled him to recommend religion to those who do not like it
well enough to forgive, for its sake, the least awkwardness of gesture,
or inelegance of manner.
"When I became acquainted with the family," continued he, "I told Mrs.
Stanley that I was afraid her husband hurt religion in one sense as much
as he recommended it in another; for that some men who would forgive him
his piety for the sake of his agreeableness, would be led to dislike
religion more than ever in other men in whom the jewel was not so well
set. 'We should like your religious men well enough,' will they say, 'if
they all resembled Stanley.' Whereas the truth is, they do not so much
_like_ Mr. Stanley's religion, as _bear_ with it for the pleasure which
his other qualities afford them. She assured me that this was not
altogether the case, for that his other qualities having pioneered his
way, and hewed down the prejudices which the reputation of piety
naturally raises, his endeavors to be useful to them were much
facilitated, and he not only kept the ground he had gained, but was
often able to turn this influence over his friends to a better account
than they had intended. He converted their admiration of him into arms
against their own errors.
"He possesses in perfection," continued Dr. Barlow, "that sure criterion
of abilities, a great power over the minds of his acquaintance, and has
in a high degree that rare talent, the art of conciliation without the
aid of flattery. I have seen more men brought over to his opinion by a
management derived from his knowledge of mankind, and by a principle
which forbade his ever using this knowledge but for good purposes, than
I ever observed in any other instance; and this without the slightest
deviation from his scrupulous probity.
"He is master of one great advantage in conversation, that of not only
knowing _what_ to say that may be useful, but exactly _when_ to say it;
in knowing when to press a point, and when to forbear; in his sparing
the self-love of a vain man, whom he wishes to reclaim, by contriving to
make him feel himself wrong without making him appear ridiculous. The
former he knows is easily pardoned, the latter never. He has studied the
human heart long enough to know that to wound pride is not the way to
cure, but to inflame it; and that exasperating self-conceit will never
subdue it. He seldom, I believe, goes into company without an earnest
desire to be useful to some one in it; but if circumstances are adverse;
if the _mollia tempora fandi_ does not present itself; he knows he
should lose more than they would gain, by trying to make the occasion
when he does not find it. And I have often heard him say, that when he
can not benefit others, or be benefited by them, he endeavors to benefit
himself by the disappointment, which does his own mind as much good by
humbling him with the sense of his own uselessness, as the subject he
wished to have introduced, might have done them.
"The death of his only son, about six years ago, who had just entered
his eighth year, is the only interruption his family has had to a
felicity so unbroken, that I told Mr. Stanley some such calamity was
necessary to convince him that he was not to be put off with so poor a
portion as this world has to give. I added that I should have been
tempted to doubt his being in the favor of God, if he had totally
escaped chastisement. A circumstance which to many parents would have
greatly aggravated the blow, rather lightened it to him. The boy, had he
lived to be of age, was to have had a large independent fortune from a
distant relation, which will now go to a remote branch, unless there
should be another son. 'This wealth,' said he to me, 'might have proved
the boy's snare, and this independence his destruction. He who does all
things well has afflicted the parents, but he has saved the child.' The
loss of an only son, however, sat heavy on his heart, but it was the
means of enabling him to glorify God by his submission, I should rather
say, by his acquiescence. Submission is only yielding to what we can not
help. Acquiescence is a more sublime kind of resignation. It is a
conviction that the divine will is holy, just, and good. He once said to
me, 'We were too fond of the mercy, but not sufficiently grateful for
it. We loved him so passionately that we might have forgotten who
bestowed him. To preserve us from this temptation, God in great mercy
withdrew him. Let us turn our eyes from the one blessing we have lost,
to the countless mercies which are continued to us, and especially to
the hand which confers them; to the hand which, if we continue to
murmur, may strip us of our remaining blessings.'
"I can not," continued Dr. Barlow, "make a higher eulogium of Mrs.
Stanley than to say, that she is every way worthy of the husband whose
happiness she makes. They have a large family of lovely daughters of all
ages. Lucilla, the eldest, is near nineteen; you would think me too
poetical were I to say she adorns every virtue with every grace; and yet
I should only speak the simple truth. Ph[oe]be, who is just turned
fifteen, has not less vivacity and sweetness than her sister, but, from
her extreme naivete and warmheartedness, she has somewhat less
discretion; and her father says, that her education has afforded him,
not less pleasure, but more trouble, for the branches shot so fast as to
call for more pruning."
Before I had time to thank the good doctor for his interesting little
narrative, a loud rap announced company. It was Lady Bab Lawless. With
her usual versatility she plunged at once into every subject with every
body. She talked to Lady Belfield of the news and her nursery, of poetry
with Sir John, of politics with me, and religion with Dr. Barlow. She
talked well upon most of these points, and not ill upon any of them; for
she had the talent of embellishing subjects of which she knew but
little, and a kind of conjectural sagacity and rash dexterity, which
prevented her from appearing ignorant, even when she knew nothing. She
thought that a full confidence in her own powers was the sure way to
raise them in the estimation of others, and it generally succeeded.
Turning suddenly to Lady Belfield, she said, "Pray my dear, look at my
flowers." "They are beautiful roses, indeed," said Lady Belfield, "and
as exquisitely exact as if they were artificial." "Which in truth they
are," replied Lady Bab. "Your mistake is a high compliment to them, but
not higher than they deserve. Look especially at these roses in my cap.
You positively shall go and get some at the same place." "Indeed," said
Lady Belfield, "I am thinking of laying aside flowers, though my
children are hardly old enough to take them." "What affectation!"
replied Lady Bab, "why you are not above two or three and thirty; I am
almost as old again, and yet I don't think of giving up flowers to my
children, or my grandchildren, who will be soon wanting them. Indeed, I
only now wear _white_ roses." I discovered by this, that white roses
made the same approximation to sobriety in dress, that three tables made
to it in cards. "Seriously, though," continued Lady Bab, "you must and
shall go and buy some of Fanny's flowers. I need only tell you, it will
be the greatest charity you ever did, and then I know you won't rest
till you have been. A beautiful girl maintains her dying mother by
making and selling flowers. Here is her direction," throwing a card on
the table. "Oh no, this is not it. I have forgot the name, but it is
within two doors of your hair-dresser, in what d'ye call the lane, just
out of Oxford-street. It is a poor miserable hole, but her roses are as
bright as if they grew in the gardens of Armida." She now rung the bell
violently, saying she had overstaid her time, though she had not been in
the house ten minutes.
Next morning I attended Lady Belfield to the exhibition. In driving home
through one of the narrow passages near Oxford-street, I observed that
we were in the street where the poor flower-maker lived. Lady Belfield
directed her footman to inquire for the house. We went into it, and in a
small but clean room, up three pair of stairs, we found a very pretty
and very genteel young girl at work on her gay manufacture. The young
woman presented her elegant performances with an air of uncommon grace
and modesty.
She was the more interesting, because the delicacy of her appearance
seemed to proceed from ill health, and a tear stood in her eye while she
exhibited her works. "You do not seem well, my dear," said Lady
Belfield, with a kindness which was natural to her. "I never care about
my own health, madam," replied she, "but I fear my dear mother is
dying." She stopped, and the tears which she had endeavored to restrain
now flowed plentifully down her cheeks. "Where is your mother, child?"
said Lady Belfield. "In the next room, madam." "Let us see her," said
her ladyship, "if it won't too much disturb her." So saying, she led the
way, and I followed her.
We found the sick woman lying on a little poor, but clean, bed, pale and
emaciated, but she did not seem so near her end as Fanny's affection had
made her apprehend. After some kind expressions of concern, Lady
Belfield inquired into their circumstances, which she found were
deplorable. "But for that dear girl, madam, I should have perished with
want," said the good woman; "since our misfortunes I have had nothing to
support me but what she earns by making these flowers. She has ruined
her own health, by sitting up the greatest part of the night to procure
me necessaries, while she herself lives on a crust."
I was so affected with this scene, that I drew Lady Belfield into the
next room; "if we can not preserve the mother, at least let us save the
daughter from destruction," said I; "you may command my purse." "I was
thinking of the same thing," she replied. "Pray, my good girl, what sort
of education have you had?" "O, madam," said she, "one much too high for
my situation. But my parents, intending to qualify me for a governess,
as the safest way of providing for me, have had me taught every thing
necessary for that employment. I have had the best masters, and I hope I
have not misemployed my time." "How comes it then," said I, "that you
were not placed out in some family?" "What, sir! and leave my dear
mother helpless and forlorn? I had rather live only on my tea and dry
bread, which indeed I have done for many months, and supply her little
wants, than enjoy all the luxuries in the world at a distance from her."
"What were your misfortunes occasioned by?" said I, while Lady Belfield
was talking with the mother. "One trouble followed another, sir," said
she, "but what most completely ruined us, and sent my father to prison,
and brought a paralytic stroke on my mother; was his being arrested for
a debt of seven hundred pounds. This sum, which he had promised to pay,
was long due to him for laces, and to my mother for millinery and fancy
dresses, from a lady who has not paid it to this moment, and my father
is dead, and my mother dying! This sum would have saved them both!"
She was turning away to conceal the excess of her grief, when a
venerable clergyman entered the room. It was the rector of the parish,
who came frequently to administer spiritual consolation to the poor
woman. Lady Belfield knew him slightly, and highly respected his
character. She took him aside, and questioned him as to the disposition
and conduct of these people, especially the young woman. His testimony
was highly satisfactory. The girl, he said, had not only had an
excellent education, but her understanding and principles were equally
good. He added, that he reckoned her beauty among her misfortunes. It
made good people afraid to take her into the house, and exposed her to
danger from those of the opposite description.
I put my purse into Lady Belfield's hands, declining to make any present
myself, lest, after the remark he had just made, I should incur the
suspicions of the worthy clergyman.
We promised to call again the next day, and took our leave, but not
till we had possessed ourselves of as many flowers as she could spare. I
begged that we might stop and send some medical assistance to the sick
woman, for though it was evident that all relief was hopeless, yet it
would be a comfort to the affectionate girl's heart to know that nothing
was omitted which might restore her mother.