Among the visitors at Stanley Grove, there was a family of ladies, who,
though not particularly brilliant, were singularly engaging from their
modesty, gentleness, and good sense. One day when they had just left us,
Mr. Stanley obliged me with the following little relation: Mrs. Stanley
and Lucilla only being present.
"Lady Aston has been a widow almost seven years. On the death of Sir
George, she retired into this neighborhood with her daughters, the
eldest of whom is about the age of Lucilla. She herself had had a pious
but a very narrow education. Her excessive grief for the loss of her
husband augmented her natural love of retirement which she cultivated,
not to the purpose of improvement, but to the indulgence of melancholy.
Soon after she settled here, we heard how much good she did, and in how
exemplary a manner she lived, before we saw her. She was not very easy
of access even to us; and after we had made our way to her, we were the
only visitors she admitted for a long time. We soon learned to admire
her deadness to the world, and her unaffected humility. Our esteem for
her increased with our closer intercourse, which however enabled us also
to observe some considerable mistakes in her judgment, especially in the
mode in which she was training up her daughters. These errors we
regretted, and with all possible tenderness ventured to point out to
her. The girls were the prettiest demure little nuns you ever saw, mute
and timid, cheerless and inactive, but kind, good, and gentle.
"Their pious mother, who was naturally of a fearful and doubting mind,
had had this pensive turn increased by several early domestic losses,
which, even previous to Sir George's death, had contributed to fix
something of a too tender and hopeless melancholy on her whole
character. There are two refuges for the afflicted; two diametrically
opposite ways of getting out of sorrow--religion and the world. Lady
Aston had wisely chosen the former. But her scrupulous spirit had made
the narrow way narrower than religion required. She read the Scriptures
diligently, and she prayed over them devoutly; but she had no judicious
friend to direct her in these important studies. As your Mrs. Ranby
attended only to the doctrines, and our friend Lady Belfield trusted
indefinitely to the promises, so poor Lady Aston's broken spirit was too
exclusively carried to dwell on the threatenings; together with the
rigid performance of those duties which she earnestly hoped might enable
her to escape them. This round of duty, of watchfulness, and prayer, she
invariably performed with almost the sanctity of an apostle, but with a
little too much of the scrupulosity of an ascetic. While too many were
rejoicing with unfounded confidence in those animating passages of
Scripture, which the whole tenor of their lives demonstrates not to
belong to them, she trembled at those denunciations which she could not
fairly apply to herself. And the promises from which she might have
derived reasonable consolation, she overlooked as designed for others.
"Her piety, though sincere, was a little tinctured with superstition. If
any petty strictness was omitted, she tormented herself with causeless
remorse. If any little rule was broken, she repaired the failure with
treble diligence the following day; and labored to retrieve her
perplexed accounts with the comfortless anxiety of a person who is
working out a heavy debt. I endeavored to convince her, that an inferior
duty which clashed with one of a higher order, might be safely postponed
at least, if not omitted.
"A diary has been found useful to many pious Christians, as a record of
their sins, and of their mercies. But this poor lady spent so much time
in weighing the offenses of one day against those of another, that
before the scruple was settled, the time for action was past. She
brought herself into so much perplexity by reading over this journal of
her infirmities, that her difficulties were augmented by the very means
she had employed to remove them; and her conscience was disturbed by the
method she had taken to quiet it. This plan, however, though distressing
to a troubled mind, is wholesome to one of a contrary cast.
"_My_ family, as you have seen, are rather exact in the distribution of
their time, but we do not distress ourselves at interruptions which are
unavoidable: but _her_ arrangements were carried on with a rigor which
made her consider the smallest deviation as a sin that required severe
repentance. Her alms were expiations, her self-denials penances.
"She was rather a disciple of the mortified Baptist, than of the merciful
Redeemer. Her devotions were sincere but discouraging. They consisted
much in contrition, but little in praise; much in sorrow for sin, but
little in hope of its pardon. She did not sufficiently cast her care and
confidence on the great propitiation. She firmly believed all that her
Saviour had done and suffered, but she had not the comfort of
practically appropriating the sacrifice. While she was painfully working
out her salvation with fear and trembling, she indulged the most
unfounded apprehensions of the divine displeasure. At Aston Hall the
Almighty was literally feared, but he was not glorified. It was the
obedience of a slave, and not the reverential affection of a child.
"When I saw her denying herself and her daughters the most innocent
enjoyments, and suspecting sin in the most lawful indulgences, I took
the liberty to tell her how little acceptable uncommanded austerities
and arbitrary impositions were to the God of mercies. I observed to her
that the world, that human life, that our own sins and weaknesses, found
us daily and hourly occasions of exercising patience and self-denial;
that life is not entirely made up of great evils or heavy trials, but
that the perpetual recurrence of petty evils and small trials is the
ordinary and appointed exercise of the Christian graces. To bear with
the failings of those about us, with their infirmities, their bad
judgment, their ill-breeding, their perverse tempers; to endure neglect
where we feel we have deserved attention, and ingratitude where we
expected thanks; to bear with the company of disagreeable people, whom
Providence has placed in our way, and whom he has perhaps provided on
purpose for the trial of our virtue: these are the best exercises; and
the better because not chosen by ourselves. To bear with vexations in
business, with disappointments in our expectations, with interruptions
of our retirement, with folly, intrusion, disturbance, in short, with
whatever opposes our will, and contradicts our humor; this habitual
acquiescence appears to be more of the essence of self-denial than any
little rigors or inflictions of our own imposing. These constant,
inevitable, but inferior evils, properly improved, furnish a good moral
discipline, and might well in the days of ignorance have superseded
pilgrimage and penance. It has this advantage too over the other, that
it sweetens the temper and promotes humility, while the former gives
rigidness instead of strength, and inflexibility instead of firmness."
"I have often thought," said I, when Mr. Stanley made a pause, "that we
are apt to mistake our vocation by looking out of the way for occasions
to exercise great and rare virtues, and by stepping over those ordinary
ones which lie directly in the road before us. When we read, we fancy we
could be martyrs, and when we come to act, we can not even bear a
provoking word."
Miss Stanley looked pleased at my remark, and in a modest tone observed
that "in no one instance did we deceive ourselves more than in fancying
we could do great things well, which we were never likely to be called
to do at all; while, if we were honest, we could not avoid owning how
negligently we performed our own little appointed duties, and how
sedulously we avoided the petty inconveniences which these duties
involved."
"By kindness," resumed Mr. Stanley, "we gradually gained Lady Aston's
confidence, and of that confidence we have availed ourselves to give
something of a new face to the family. Her daughters, good as they were
dutiful, by living in a solitude unenlivened by books, and unvaried by
improving company, had acquired a manner rather resembling fearfulness
than delicacy. Religious they were, but they had contracted gloomy views
of religion. They considered it as something that must be endured in
order to avoid punishment, rather than as a principle of peace, and
trust, and comfort; as a task to be gone through, rather than as a
privilege to be enjoyed. They were tempted to consider the Almighty as a
hard master, whom however they were resolved to serve, rather than as a
gracious father who was not only loving, but LOVE in the abstract. Their
mother was afraid to encourage a cheerful look, lest it might lead to
levity, or a sprightly thought, for fear it might have a wrong tendency.
She forgot, or rather she did not know, that young women were not formed
for contemplative life. She forgot that in all our plans and operations
we should still bear in mind that there are two worlds. As it is the
fault of too many to leave the _next_ out of their calculation, it was
the error of Lady Aston, in forming the minds of her children, to leave
out _this_. She justly considered heaven as their great aim and end; but
neglected to qualify them for the present temporal life, on the due use
and employment of which so obviously depends the happiness of that which
is eternal.
"Her charities were very extensive, but of these charities her sweet
daughters were not made the active dispensers, because an old servant,
who governed not only the family but her lady also, chose that office
herself. Thus the bounty being made to flow in partial channels, the
woman's relations and favorites almost entirely engrossing it, it did
little comparative good.
"With fair understandings the Miss Astons had acquired very little
knowledge: their mother's scrupulous mind found something dangerous in
every author who did not professedly write on religious subjects. If
there were one exceptionable page in a book, otherwise valuable, instead
of suppressing the page, she suppressed the book. And indeed, my dear
Charles, grieved am I to think how few authors of the more entertaining
kind we _can_ consider as perfectly pure, and put without caution,
restriction, or mutilation, into the hands of our daughters. I am,
however, of opinion, that as they will not always have their parents for
tasters, and as they will everywhere, even in the most select libraries,
meet with these mixed works, in which, though there is much to admire,
yet there is something to expunge, it is the safest way to accustom them
early to hear read the most unexceptionable parts of these books.
"Read them yourself to them without any air of mystery; tell them that
what you omit is not worth reading, and then the omissions will not
excite but stifle curiosity. The books to which I allude are those where
the principle is sound and the tendency blameless, and where the few
faults consist rather in coarseness than in corruption.
"But to return; she fancied that these inexperienced creatures, who had
never tried the world, and whose young imaginations had perhaps painted
it in all the brilliant colors with which erring fancy gilds the scenes
it has never beheld, and the pleasure it has never tried, could
renounce it as completely as herself, who had exhausted what it has to
give, and was weary of it. She thought they could live contentedly in
their closets, without considering that she had neglected to furnish
their minds with that knowledge which may make the closet a place of
enjoyment, by supplying the intervals of devotional with entertaining
reading.
"We carried Lucilla and Ph[oe]be to visit them; I believe she was a
little afraid of their gay countenances. I talked to her of the
necessity of literature to inform her daughters, and of pleasures to
enliven them. The term pleasure alarmed her still more than that of
literature. 'What pleasures were allowed to religious people? She would
make her daughters as happy as she dared without offending her Maker.' I
quoted the devout but liberal Hooker, who exhorts us not to regard the
Almighty as a captious sophist, but as a merciful Father.
"During this conversation we were sitting under the fine spreading oak
on my lawn, in front of that rich bank of flowers which you so much
admire. It was a lovely evening in the end of June, the setting sun was
all mild radiance, the sky all azure, the air all fragrance. The birds
were in full song. The children, sitting on the grass before us, were
weaving chaplets of wild flowers.
It looked like nature in the world's first spring.
"My heart was touched with joy and gratitude. 'Look, madam,' said I, 'at
the bountiful provision which a beneficent Father makes, not only for
the necessities, but for the pleasures of his children;
----not content
With every food of life to nourish man,
He makes all nature beauty to his eye,
And music to his ear.
"'These flowers are of so little apparent use, that it might be thought
profuseness in any economy short of that which is divine, to gratify us
at once with such forms, and such hues, and such fragrance. It is a
gratification not necessary, yet exquisite, which lies somewhere between
the pleasure of sense and intellect, and in a measure partakes of both.
It elevates while it exhilarates, and lifts the soul from the gift to
the Giver. God has not left his goodness to be _inferred_ from abstract
speculation, from the conclusions of reason, from deduction and
argument: we not only collect it from observation, but have palpable
evidences of his bounty, we feel it with our senses. Were God a hard
master, might he not withhold these superfluities of goodness? Do you
think he makes such rich provision for us, that we should shut our eyes
and close our ears to them? Does he present such gifts with one hand,
and hold in the other a stern interdict of 'touch not, taste not, handle
not?' And can you believe he is less munificent in the economy of grace,
than in that of nature? Do you imagine that he provides such abundant
supplies for our appetites and senses here, without providing more
substantial pleasures for our future enjoyment? Is not what we see a
prelude to what we hope for, a pledge of what we may expect? A specimen
of larger, higher, richer bounty, an encouraging cluster from the land
of promise? If from his works we turn to his word, we shall find the
same inexhaustible goodness exercised to still nobler purposes. Must we
not hope then, even by analogy, that he has in store blessings exalted
in their nature, and eternal in their duration, for all those who love
and serve him in the gospel of his Son?'
"We now got on fast. She was delighted with my wife, and grew less and
less afraid of my girls. I believe, however, that we should have made a
quicker progress in gaining her confidence if we had looked less happy.
I suggested to her to endeavor to raise the tone of her daughters'
piety, to make their habits less monastic, their tempers more cheerful,
their virtues more active; to render their lives more useful, by making
them the immediate instruments of her charity; to take them out of
themselves, and teach them to compare their fictitious distresses with
real substantial misery, and to make them feel grateful for the power
and the privilege of relieving it.
"As Dr. Barlow has two parishes which join, and we had pre-occupied the
ground in our own, I advised them to found a school in the next, for the
instruction of the young, and a friendly society for the aged of their
own sex. We prevailed on them to be themselves not the nominal but the
active patronesses; to take the measure of all the wants and all the
merit of their immediate neighborhood; to do every thing under the
advice and superintendence of Dr. Barlow, and to make him their 'guide,
philosopher, and friend.' By adopting this plan, they now see the
poverty of which they only used to hear, and know personally the
dependants whom they protect.
"Dr. Barlow took infinite pains to correct Lady Aston's views of
religion. 'Let your notions of God,' said he, 'be founded, not on your
own gloomy apprehensions, and visionary imaginations, but on what is
revealed in his word, else the very intenseness of your feelings, the
very sincerity of your devotion, may betray you into enthusiasm, into
error, into superstition, into despair. Spiritual notions which are not
grounded on scriptural truth, and directed and guarded by a close
adherence to it, mislead tender hearts and warm imaginations. But while
you rest on the sure unperverted foundation of the word of God, and pray
for his Spirit to assist you in the use of his word, you will have
little cause to dread that you shall fear him too much, or serve him too
well. I earnestly exhort you,' continued he, 'not to take the measure of
your spiritual state from circumstances which have nothing to do with
it. Be not dismayed at an incidental depression which may depend on the
state of your health, or your spirits, or your affairs. Look not for
sensible communications. Do not consider rapturous feelings as any
criterion of the favor of your Maker, nor the absence of them as any
indication of his displeasure. An increasing desire to know him more,
and serve him better; an increasing desire to do, and to suffer his
whole will; a growing resignation to his providential dispensations is a
much surer, a much more unequivocal test.'
"I next," continued Mr. Stanley, "carried our worthy curate, Mr.
Jackson, to visit her, and proposed that she should engage him to spend
a few hours every week with the young ladies. I recommended that after
he had read with them a portion of Scripture, of which he would give
them a sound and plain exposition, he should convince them he had not
the worse taste for being religious, by reading with them some books of
general instruction, history, travels, and polite literature. This would
imbue their minds with useful knowledge, form their taste, and fill up
profitably and pleasantly that time which now lay heavy on their hands;
and, without intrenching on any of their duties, would qualify them to
discharge them more cheerfully.
"I next suggested that they should study gardening; and that they should
put themselves under the tuition of Lucilla, who is become the little
Repton of the valley. To add to the interest, I requested that a fresh
piece of ground might be given them, that they might not only exercise
their taste, but be animated with seeing the complete effect of their
own exertions, as a creation of their own would be likely to afford them
more amusement than improving on the labors of another.
"I had soon the gratification of seeing my little Carmelites, who used
when they walked in the garden to look as if they came to dig a daily
portion of their own graves, now enjoying it, embellishing it, and
delighted by watching its progress; and their excellent mother, who,
like Spenser's Despair, used to look 'as if she never dined,' now
enjoying the company of her select friends. The mother is become almost
cheerful, and the daughters almost gay. Their dormant faculties are
awakened. Time is no longer a burden, but a blessing: the day is too
short for their duties, which are performed with alacrity since they
have been converted into pleasures. You will believe I did not hazard
all these terrible innovations as rapidly as I recount them, but
gradually, as they were able to bear it.
"This happy change in themselves has had the happiest consequences.
Their friends had conceived the strongest prejudices against religion,
from the gloomy garb in which they had seen it arrayed at Aston Hall.
The uncle who was also the guardian, had threatened to remove the girls
before they were quite moped to death; the young baronet was actually
forbidden to come home at the holidays; but now the uncle is quite
reconciled to them, and almost to _religion_. He has resumed his
fondness for the daughters; and their brother, a fine youth at
Cambridge, is happy in spending his vacations with his family, to whom
he is become tenderly attached. He has had his own principles and
character much raised by the conversation and example of Dr. Barlow, who
contrives to be at Aston Hall as much as possible when Sir George is
there. He is daily expected to make his mother a visit, when I shall
recommend him to your particular notice and acquaintance."
Lucilla blushing, said, she thought her father had too exclusively
recommended the _brother_ to my friendship; she would venture to say the
_sisters_ were equally worthy of my regard, adding, in an affectionate
tone, "they are every thing that is amiable and kind. The more you know
them, sir, the more you will admire them; for their good qualities are
kept back by the best quality of all, their modesty." This candid and
liberal praise did not sink the fair eulogist herself in my esteem.