One morning, Sir John coming in from his ride, gayly called out to me,
as I was reading, "Oh Charles, such a piece of news! The Miss Flams are
converted. They have put on tuckers. They were at church twice on
Sunday. Blair's Sermons are sent for, and _you_ are the reformer." This
ludicrous address reminded Mr. Stanley that Mr. Flam had told him we
were all in disgrace for not having called on the ladies, and it was
proposed to repair this neglect.
"Now take notice," said Sir John, "if you do not see a new character
assumed. Thinking Charles to be a fine man of the town, the modish
racket, which indeed is their natural state, was played off, but it did
not answer. As they probably, by this time, suspect your character to be
somewhat between the Strephon and the Hermit, we shall now, in return,
see something between the wood-nymph and the nun, and I shall not wonder
if the extravagantly modish Miss Bell
"Is now Pastora by a fountain's side."
Though I would not attribute the change to the cause assigned by Sir
John, yet I confess we found, when we made our visit, no small
revolution in Miss Bell Flam. The part of the Arcadian nymph, the
reading lady, the lover of retirement, the sentimental admirer of
domestic life, the censurer of thoughtless dissipation, was each acted
in succession, but so skillfully touched that the shades of each melted
in the other without any of those violent transitions which a less
experienced actress would have exhibited: Sir John slyly, yet with
affected gravity, assisting her to sustain this newly adapted character,
which, however, he was sure would last no longer than the visit.
When we returned home, we met the Miss Stanleys in the garden and joined
them. "Don't you admire," said Sir John, "the versatility of Miss Bell's
genius? You, Charles, are not the first man on whom an assumed fondness
for rural delights has been practiced. A friend of mine was drawn in to
marry, rather suddenly, a thorough-paced town-bred lady, by her repeated
declarations of her passionate fondness for the country, and the rapture
she expressed when rural scenery was the subject. All she knew of the
country was, that she had now and then been on a party of pleasure at
Richmond, in the fine summer months; a great dinner at the Star and
Garter, gay company, a bright day, lovely scenery, a dance on the green,
a partner to her taste, French horns on the water, altogether
constituted a feeling of pleasure from which she had really persuaded
herself that she was fond of the country. But when all these
concomitants were withdrawn, when she had lost the gay partner, the
dance, the horns, the flattery, and the frolic, and nothing was left but
her books, her own dull mansion, her domestic employments, and the sober
society of her husband, the pastoral vision vanished. She discovered, or
rather _he_ discovered, but too late, that the country had not only no
charms for her, but that it was a scene of constant ennui and vapid
dullness. She languished for the pleasures she had quitted, and he for
the comforts he had lost. Opposite inclinations led to opposite
pursuits; difference of taste however, needed not to have led to a
total disunion, had there been on the part of the lady such a degree of
attachment as might have induced a spirit of accommodation, or such a
fund of principle as might have taught her the necessity of making those
sacrifices which affection, had it existed, would have rendered
pleasant, or duty would have made light, had she been early taught
self-government."
Lucilla, smiling, said, "she hoped Sir John had a little over-charged
the picture." He defended himself by declaring, "he drew from the life,
and that from his long observations he could present us with a whole
gallery of such portraits." He left me to continue my walk with the two
Miss Stanleys.
The more I conversed with Lucilla, the more I saw that good breeding in
her was only the outward expression of humility, and not an art employed
for the purpose of enabling her to do without it. We continued to
converse on the subject of Miss Flam's fondness for the gay world. This
introduced a natural expression of my admiration of Miss Stanley's
choice of pleasures and pursuits so different from those of most other
women of her age.
With the most graceful modesty she said, "Nothing humbles me more than
compliments; for when I compare what I hear with what I feel, I find the
picture of myself drawn by a flattering friend so utterly unlike the
original in my own heart, that I am more sunk by my own consciousness of
the want of resemblance, than elated that another has not discovered it.
It makes me feel like an imposter. If I contradict this favorable
opinion, I am afraid of being accused of affectation; and if I silently
swallow it, I am contributing to the deceit of passing for what I am
not." This ingenious mode of disclaiming flattery only raised her in my
esteem, and the more, as I told her such humble renunciation of praise
could only proceed from that inward principle of genuine piety and
devout feeling which made so amiable a part of her character.
"How little," said she, "is the human heart known except to him who made
it! While a fellow creature may admire our apparent devotion, he who
appears to be its object, witnesses the wandering of the heart, which
seems to be lifted up to him. He sees it roving to the ends of the
earth, busied about any thing rather than himself, running after trifles
which would not only dishonor Christian, but would disgrace a child. As
to my very virtues, if I dare apply such a word to myself, they
sometimes lose their character by not keeping their proper place. They
become sins by infringing on higher duties. If I mean to perform an act
of devotion, some crude plan of charity forces itself on my mind, and
what with trying to drive out one, and to establish the other, I rise
dissatisfied and unimproved, and resting my sole hope, not on the duty I
have been performing, but on the mercy I have been offending."
I assured her with all the simplicity of truth, and all the sincerity of
affection, that this confession only served to raise my opinion of the
piety she disclaimed; that such deep consciousness of imperfection, so
quick a discernment of the slightest deviation, and such constant
vigilance to prevent it, were the truest indications of an humble
spirit; and that those who thus carefully guarded themselves against
small errors, were in little danger of being betrayed into great ones.
She replied, smiling, that "she should not be so angry with vanity, if
it would be contented to keep its proper place among its vices; but her
quarrel with it was, that it would mix itself among our virtues, and
rob us of their reward."
"Vanity, indeed," replied I, "differs from the other vices in this;
_they_ commonly are only opposite to the one contrary virtue, while this
vice has a kind of ubiquity, is on the watch to intrude everywhere, and
weakens all the virtues which it can not destroy. I believe vanity was
the harpy of the ancient poets, which, they tell us, tainted whatever it
touched."
"Self-deception is so easy," replied Miss Stanley, "that I am even
afraid of highly extolling any good quality, lest I should sit down
satisfied with having borne any testimony in its favor, and so rest
contented with the praise instead of the practise. Commending a right
thing is a cheap substitute for doing it, with which we are too apt to
satisfy ourselves."
"There is no mark," I replied, "which more clearly distinguishes that
humility which has the love of God for its principle, from its
counterfeit--a false and superficial politeness--than that while this
last flatters, in order to extort in return more praise than its due,
humility, like the divine principle from which it springs, seeketh not
even its own."
In answer to some further remark of mine, with an air of infinite
modesty, she said, "I have been betrayed, sir, into saying too much. It
will, I trust, however, have the good effect of preventing you from
thinking better of me than I deserve. In general, I hold it indiscreet
to speak of the state of one's mind. I have been taught this piece of
prudence by my own indiscretion. I once lamented to a lady the fault of
which we have now been speaking, and observed how difficult it was to
keep the heart right. She so little understood the nature of this inward
corruption, that she told in confidence to two or three friends, that
they were all much mistaken in Miss Stanley, for though her character
stood so fair with all the world, she had secretly confessed to her that
she was a great sinner."
I could not forbear repeating though she had chid me for it before, how
much I had been struck with several instances of her indifference to the
work, and her superiority to its pleasures. "Do you know," continued
she, smiling, "that you are more my enemy than the lady of whom I have
been speaking? She only defamed my principles, but you are corrupting
them. The world, I believe, is not so much a place as a nature. It is
possible to be religious in a court, and worldly in a monastery. I find
that the thoughts may be engaged too anxiously about so petty a concern
as a little family arrangement; that the mind may be drawn off from
better pursuits, and engrossed by things too trivial to name, as much as
by objects more apparently wrong. The country is certainly favorable to
religion, but it would be hard on the millions who are doomed to live in
towns if it were exclusively favorable. Nor must we lay more stress on
the accidental circumstance than it deserves. Nay, I almost doubt if it
is not too pleasant to be quite safe. An enjoyment which assumes a sober
shape may deceive us by making us believe we are practicing a duty when
we are only gratifying a taste."
"But do you not think," said I, "that there may be merit in the taste
itself? May not a succession of acts, forming a habit, and that habit a
good one, induce so sound a way of thinking that it may become difficult
to distinguish the duty from the taste, and to separate the principle
from the choice? This I really believe to be the case in minds finely
wrought and vigilantly watched."
I observed that however delightful the country might be a great part of
the year, yet there were a few winter months when I feared it might be
dull, though not in the degree Sir John's Richmond lady found it.
With a smile of compassion at my want of taste, she said, "she perceived
I was no gardener. To me," added she, "the winter has charms of its own.
If I were not afraid of the light habit of introducing Providence on an
occasion not sufficiently important, I would say that he seems to reward
those who love the country well enough to live in it the whole year, by
making the greater part of the winter the busy season for gardening
operations. If I happen to be in town a few days only, every sun that
shines, every shower that falls, every breeze that blows, seems wasted,
because I do not see their effects upon my plants."
"But surely," said I, "the winter at least suspends your enjoyment.
There is little pleasure in contemplating vegetation in its torpid
state, in surveying
The naked shoots, barren as lances,
as Cowper describes the winter-shrubbery."
"The pleasure is in the preparation," replied she. "When all appears
dead and torpid to you idle spectators, all is secretly at work; nature
is busy in preparing her treasures under ground, and art has a hand in
the process. When the blossoms of summer are delighting you mere
amateurs, then it is that we professional people," added she, laughing,
"are really idle. The silent operations of the winter now produce
themselves--the canvas of nature is covered--the great Artist has laid
on his colors--then we petty agents lay down our implements, and enjoy
our leisure in contemplating _his_ work."
I had never known her so communicative; but my pleased attention,
instead of drawing her on, led her to check herself. Ph[oe]be, who had
been busily employed in trimming a flaunting yellow Azalia, now turned
to me and said: "Why it is only the Christmas-month that our labors are
suspended, and then we have so much pleasure that we want no business;
such in-door festivities and diversions that that dull month is with us
the gayest in the year." So saying, she called Lucilla to assist her in
tying up the branch of an orange-tree which the wind had broken.
I was going to offer my services when Mrs. Stanley joined us, before I
could obtain an answer to my question about these Christmas diversions.
A stranger, who had seen me pursuing Mrs. Stanley in her walks, might
have supposed not the daughter, but the mother, was the object of my
attachment. But with Mrs. Stanley I could always talk of Lucilla, with
Lucilla I durst not often talk of herself.
The fond mother and I stood looking with delight on the fair gardeners.
When I had admired their alacrity in these innocent pursuits, their
fondness for retirement, and their cheerful delight in its pleasures,
Mrs. Stanley replied: "Yes, Lucilla is half a nun. She likes the rule,
but not the vow. Poor thing! her conscience is so tender that she
oftener requires encouragement than restraint. While she was making this
plantation, she felt herself so absorbed by it that she came to me one
day and said that her gardening work so fascinated her that she found
whole hours passed unperceived, and she began to be uneasy by observing
that all cares and all duties were suspended while she was disposing
beds of carnations, or knots of anemones. Even when she tore herself
away, and returned to her employments, her flowers still pursued her,
and the improvement of her mind gave way to the cultivation of her
geraniums.
"'I am afraid,' said the poor girl, 'that I must really give it up.' I
would not hear of this. I would not suffer her to deny herself so pure a
pleasure. She then suggested the expedient of limiting her time, and
hanging up her watch in the conservatory to keep her within her
prescribed bounds. She is so observant of this restriction, that when
her allotted time is expired, she forces herself to leave off even in
the midst of the most interesting operation. By this limitation a treble
end is answered. Her time is saved, self-denial is exercised, and the
interest which would languish by protracting the work is kept in fresh
vigor."
I told Mrs. Stanley that I had observed her watch hanging in a
citron-tree the day I came, but little thought it had a moral meaning.
She said it had never been left there since I had been in the house, for
fear of causing interrogatories. Here Mrs. Stanley left me to my
meditations.
It is wisely ordered that all mortal enjoyments should have some alloy.
I never tasted a pleasure since I had been at the Grove, I never
witnessed a grace, I never heard related an excellence of Lucilla,
without a sigh that my beloved parents did not share my happiness. "How
would they," said I, "delight in her delicacy, rejoice in her piety,
love her benevolence, her humility, her usefulness! O how do children
feel who wound the peace of _living_ parents by an unworthy choice, when
not a little of my comfort springs from the certainty that the departed
would rejoice in mine! Even from their blessed abode, my grateful heart
seems to hear them say, 'This is the creature we would have chosen for
thee! This is the creature with whom we shall rejoice with thee through
all eternity!'"
Yet such was my inconsistency, that charmed as I was that so young and
lovely a woman could be so cheaply pleased, and delighted with that
simplicity of taste which made her resemble my favorite heroine of
Milton in her amusements, as well as in her domestic pursuits; yet I
longed to know what these Christmas diversions, so slightly hinted at,
could be, diversions which could reconcile these girls to their absence
not only from their green-house, but from London. I could hardly fear
indeed to find at Stanley Grove what the newspapers pertly call _Private
Theatricals_. Still I suspected it might be some gay dissipation not
quite suited to their general character, nor congenial to their usual
amusements. My mother's favorite rule of _consistency_ strongly forced
itself on my mind, though I tried to repel the suggestion as unjust and
ungenerous.
Of what meannesses will not love be guilty: it drove me to have recourse
to my friend Mrs. Comfit to dissipate my doubts. From her I learned that
that cold and comfortless season was mitigated at Stanley Grove by
several feasts for the poor of different classes and ages. "Then, sir,"
continued she, "if you could see the blazing fires, and the abundant
provisions! The roasting, and the boiling, and the baking! The house is
all alive! On those days the drawers and shelves of Miss Lucilla's
store-room are completely emptied. 'Tis the most delightful bustle, sir,
to see our young ladies tying on the good women's warm cloaks, fitting
their caps and aprons, and sending home blankets to the infirm who can
not come themselves. The very little ones kneeling down on the ground to
try on the poor girls' shoes--even little Miss Celia, and she is so
tender--to fit them exactly and not hurt them! Last feast-day, not
finding a pair small enough for a poor little girl, she privately
slipped off her own and put on the child. It was some time before it was
discovered that she herself was without shoes. We are all alive, sir.
Parlor, and hall, and kitchen, all is in motion! Books, and business,
and walks, and gardening, all are forgot for these few happy days."
How I hated myself for my suspicion! And how I loved the charming
creatures who could find in these humble but exhilarating duties an
equivalent for the pleasures of the metropolis! "Surely," said I to
myself, "my mother would call _this_ consistency, when the amusements of
a religious family smack of the same flavor with its business and its
duties." My heart was more than easy; it was dilated, while I
congratulated myself in the thought that there _were_ young ladies to be
found who could spend a winter not only unrepiningly but cheerfully and
delightedly in the country.
I am aware that were I to repeat my conversations with Lucilla, I should
subject myself to ridicule by recording such cold and spiritless
discourse on my own part. But I had not yet declared my attachment. I
made it a point of duty not to violate my engagement with Mr. Stanley. I
was not addressing declarations, but studying the character of her on
whom the happiness of my life was to depend. I had resolved not to show
my attachment by any overt act. I confined the expression of my
affection to that _series of small, quiet attentions_, which an accurate
judge of the human heart has pronounced to be the surest avenue to a
delicate mind. I had, in the mean time, the inexpressible felicity to
observe a constant union of feeling, as well as a general consonance of
opinion between us. Every sentiment seemed a reciprocation of sympathy,
and every look, of intelligence. This unstudied correspondence enchanted
me the more as I had always considered that a conformity of tastes was
nearly as necessary to conjugal happiness as a conformity of principles.