_Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._
December the 29th.
I Shall leave to Alice's descriptive powers Mrs. Wilson's triumph on
Christmas-day. With all her mild and sympathizing qualities she would
nevertheless have been an object of terror, had a poor Hindoo heard
her tale of the slaughtered poultry, and her secret of making them
fat and fair. Such is opinion, Lucy! But leaving this disquisition to
wiser heads than my own, and honestly confessing myself implicated
in the crime of conniving at the shedding of innocent blood, I will
proceed to inform you that I am deserted for a _plum-cake_, which will
not be eaten till Twelfth-day at Durham, and which Mrs. Heartley and
her train annually assist _to cut up_. I am, however, proof against
all discontents. The Bay of Biscay continues open notwithstanding a
Dutchman with skaits might go from hence to you in a strait line, in
an hour or two. The weather has been celestial here during the frost.
It gives to me aerial lightness, and I defy the intense coldness of
the atmosphere. Wisely, however, reflecting that I had not the sylph's
wing, I attired myself in my habit yesterday morning, and with my
snow-shoes and India-shawl, I scudded away to the village, in order
to see dame Dobs's fire-side. A bright sun, and the wind at my heels,
sent me forward with a blithsome heart. I found her hearth blazing,
and the good old woman so cottoned up with _Mary's_ comforts, that
even the rheumatism is kept in check. She was quite amazed how I could
"brave such deadly cold weather; and yet I looked like _a full-blown
rose_, and so cheerful! But that did not amaze her, for in warming
other people's hearts my own would always be gay." On leaving her
cottage the whim took me to visit some friends of _my own_; and cheered
by a few benedictions, and as many welcomes, I resolved to return
home, by taking the circuit of the mill. Now, knowing that the finest
description of a frost-piece that the most poetical imagination ever
composed, would not please Mary, at least so well as one of my long
stories, I will spare myself the disgrace of being censured as the
dullest of mortals in this art; and the shame of feeling, that this
is probably one reason for my yawning over descriptive subjects,
except with a crayon at my fingers' ends. But we have all our several
gifts; _holding forth_ is, unquestionably, mine, and I will begin my
story by an exordium for Mary's edification. My text is drawn from
my recollection of one of Quarles's emblems. You may, if your less
retentive memory need it, still borrow the book from Deborah; and
with the pictures recall the days when the restless Rachel stood for
hours quietly listening to her expounding histories of them. One of
these ingenious devices, if I be not mistaken, exhibits a youth borne
on the wing of Hope, Fancy, and Desire, to an elevation remote from
his safe abode. Careless of the approaching storm he still advances
in his heedless career, till nature, exhausted, prompts him to pause.
He does so, and with terror and amasement beholds the blackened sky,
and hears the threatening thunder roll over his defenceless head. Now
for the application. Thus did your heedless friend press on, although
the friendly sun, from time to time warned her, by his retiring
brightness, that he had something else to do besides gladdening her
path. At length I took the alarm, and on looking towards his late
refulgent road, saw him covered with a black curtain, which, from
time to time, he put aside, to see whether the heedless wanderer had
wisdom and was seeking a refuge. I had the _wisdom_ to speed as fast
as I could to the miller's house, which was the nearest; but, like my
emblem, I had not learned to know, that sailing with a fair wind, and
an adverse one, made some difference in the course of the ship. I had
now a north-easter in my teeth; and as if in return for my temerity,
he rattled with his rude blast a shower of hailstones about my ears,
which, though they did not subdue my courage, greatly discomfited me.
The gracious luminary once more peeped through his veil and smiled on
me. I had gained the last field between me and my retreat when I took
advantage of the hedge in order to adjust my shawl more about my face,
which smarted with the keen blasts, and to recover my panting breath
for renewed buffettings. At this providential moment I heard a child,
concealed from my view by some hurdles, crying most lamentably, and
repeatedly saying, "Get up, Johnny! pray get up! let us go home! I will
go without you!" I removed the hurdle, and perceived the mourner in
the hollow path. He was a stout boy of about nine years old, and was
endeavouring to raise from the ground one of about seven, who appeared
insensible. The danger was apparent; I flew to the children. "Where is
your home?" asked I. "At the mill," answered the shivering boy. "Pray
wake brother Johnny, he does not mind me; and my granny will scold me
if leave him, because I took him out without leave." Unmindful of this
petition, with the sturdy boy's help, I wrapped the torpid child in my
shawl, which, as you know, is of the largest size, and I hastened to
the house, with the offending and terrified culprit. He complained that
he was weary and must rest; whilst I, with an air of authority, dragged
him on till I became nearly exhausted myself, though remote from his
danger; for I did not even feel it was cold, so great was my terror
respecting the poor child I had left behind me, and the dread of seeing
the one with me refuse to advance; for he hung back from time to time,
saying that I hurt him, that he would sit down a while, and bade me go
on without him.
From this terrible dilemma I was relieved by meeting with a servant
of the house, who was looking for the vagrants. He called to another,
and I was soon relieved from my burden, who had conquered me, and had
composedly laid down on the ground. I followed the person who bore the
child in his arms to the house, and the other man went forwards to the
succour of the poor abandoned boy.
A neat and genteel-looking woman met us in the yard, whom, from her
terror and grief, I supposed to be their mother. I tried to allay
her fears, but finding that was not possible, contented myself with
supplying her duty. She carried the boy to the kitchen fire, and,
weeping bitterly, began to chafe his hands. My authoritative voice was
at length heard, and in spite of his outcries he was put to bed in the
blankets. Happily the village farrier was present, and supported me
in my opinion. He said he had read some published cases of the Humane
Society, and that he would answer for the other child if they would
trust to him. The child appeared, and my shawl having been useful, he
was judged to be in no danger by the doctor, who began his operations
by rubbing him with snow. The children being considered as safe, I was
next thought of. With many excuses the young woman led me through a
large brick-floored parlour to a neat staircase, which conducted us
to a very pretty snug room, in which was quietly seated an old lady
knitting; and who had, as it appeared, escaped the general horror of
the family in the kitchen, by being somewhat deaf and lame. She looked
surprised by my intrusion, but instantly enquired whether the children
were returned. The daughter, with more self-command than I expected,
replied in the affirmative, adding that I had been so good as to lead
them home. Her face betrayed, however, in part, the disaster, and I
assured the grandmother that the danger was past and both children
doing well. Her thanks for my services were followed by her "being
certain I wanted some refreshment." She was not mistaken, for I was
faint with hunger. Her little dinner was just ready, and she thought
something warm and comfortable better for me than wine. I was entirely
of the same opinion. Susan was dispatched to hasten matters below
stairs; whilst with officious zeal I was placed in her own white dimity
easy chair, and the hearth was replenished with fuel. The neatness
of the apartment, the order which presided at the dining-table, the
delicacy of my napkin, and the china in which was served a boiled fowl
with vegetables and bacon, and a bread-pudding, excited in my mind a
curiosity to know something more of my courteous hosts, concluding
that these relics of former opulence did not belong to the miller's
lady. I had no sooner obeyed the calls of my famished stomach, than
I thought of my friends at the hall, and dispatched a note to Mrs.
Allen, informing her simply, that, finding the air too sharp for me,
I had stopped at the mill till the coach came for me. I added a verbal
commission to the note, and desired that the person who was to carry
it, might be cautioned to say nothing of the cause of my delay. The
old lady heard more of this message than I intended. She turned pale,
and with much emotion said, she was sure the truth had been kept from
her: she would see her children, and if they could not come to her she
would be carried to them. A more particular detail of the disaster
followed; and her daughter assured her both her boys were in a fine
perspiration, and the apothecary had no doubt but they would be fit to
truant again on the morrow. The grandmother still looked incredulous.
"My dear Madam," observed I, "you see their mother composed, and
satisfied that the children are doing well: why should you now doubt
of their safety?"--"Poor creature," replied she, "she has with myself
to thank God's providence and you, for their preservation. She would
have lost her senses had they perished, though she is not their mother;
but these poor babes have no parents, nor any friends to love them
but ourselves." She wept. "However," added she, "their aunt is father
and mother to them." Susan mentioned as a sort of apology for her
carelessness, that the eldest boy had persuaded Johnny to leave the
mill-chamber where they were playing, to go and slide with some boys of
the parish. It appeared that he enjoyed for some time his pastime with
these children; but Johnny cried, and complained of the cold, and his
chilblains, and said he would go home. Frank, his brother, soothed him
from time to time, bidding him sit down on his coat, which the vigorous
boy gave him. The hailstones sent the boys to their cottages which
were at hand, and the truants began their walk, till Johnny would
rest, saying he was sleepy, and would "stay a bit where he was."--"You
know the sequel," added the grateful Susan addressing her mother, "and
what we owe to this young lady."--"Would it be credited," observed the
good woman, with visible thankfulness to Heaven, "that a creature so
delicate and seemingly feeble, should have been the chosen instrument
of a work of such mercy! But he who destined her for the work, will
recompense her! Thousands more equal to the trial of strength would
have turned aside!"--"I cannot think so," returned I. "Ah, my dear
young lady!" answered she mournfully, "I have lived to see that what
was every one's business was no one's business. Their poor grandfather
might have been saved, had there been one with a heart like yours,
amongst fifty, who saw him sink." To divert her from the silence which
ensued, I praised her abode, observing that I could not have supposed
the house so commodious from the road. "Why, in fact," replied she,
"this wing can hardly be said to belong to the miller's house. It is
quite separate, except by the back stairs you came up. In summer we
enter by the garden, which is our own, we have our little kitchen and
parlour below stairs, and four chambers. This wing was built for her
own use, by the friend who left us the estate, and is not included
in the lease of the farm. I also kept it for my own use. But my good
tenants," added she, "not contented with having us for their next door
neighbours a part of every summer, persuaded us to pass our Christmas
holidays here; and what with the severe cold, and the rheumatism in
my hip, they are likely to have me on their own hands some time; for
Susan must mind her business, and the boys will be safer at school than
here; for Frank is the copy of his dear father, always in harm's way,
with the spirit of a lion, and the heart of a dove!" She wiped her eyes
again, and knitted with astonishing quickness. "What business does your
daughter follow?" asked I. "She was a milliner and mantua-maker; had
a shop at Bishops-Auckland; clear-starched and mended lace; nothing
came amiss to her hand; for she was industry itself, and the best
of daughters."--"You have been fortunate," observed I, smiling, "in
keeping to yourself this comfort: she is a very pretty woman."--"She
was pretty at twenty," answered she, "but more than fifteen years may
be added to that reckoning; and the troubles we have had have greatly
changed her. She had once in her cheeks a colour like a rose; but
like yours, my dear young lady, it could not stand all attacks. But
you are not so pale as you were an hour since; I hope you feel warm.
How you contrived to keep yourself from perishing is astonishing. I
wonder how you kept your feet, or had courage to face such an air."
She stirred the cheerful fire, and begged me to draw my chair closer
to it. I smilingly told her that she gave me credit for more courage
than I had, for that on sallying out I had turned my back on the enemy,
forgetting that he would not turn his on me on my return home. But
he shall not intimidate me, added I; "for I will come again and see
you, in spite even of hail storms. She looked pleased, and said the
sight of me would do her good as long as she lived.'You look healthy,'
observed I.--'Pretty well for my years,' replied she,'but within sight
of four-score one must expect infirmities. Thank God, I have not
outlived my memory, and that reminds me of him, who from the hour I
was an infant at my mother's breast, has watched over me, and whose
arm of mercy will support me to my grave. Here is another instance
of his loving kindness to those who lean on him!'--She renewed her
tears. Susan now entered to say that the carriage was in sight, and I
instantly took my leave of the good woman, whose spirits did not appear
quite composed enough to receive more guests; and as I perceived Mrs.
Allen and Sir Murdock in the coach, I tripped down stairs to them. My
ruddy face and gay air, somewhat surprised them; for notwithstanding
my prohibition and the fidelity of my messenger, the story had
reached them; the farrier having related his share of the miracle
in the stables at the hall whilst doctoring his patients there. The
frost-bitten Miss Cowley was received with greetings and endearments
which might have warmed her had she been congealed; and during the
first enthusiasm of humanity, no one thought of chiding her for her
folly in leaving a warm covert for a freezing walk. But, alas! who is
perfect? Mrs. Allen, _even our Mrs. Allen is mortal_. Before night her
philanthropy cooled. My colour offended her: I was, (she insisted it
should be so,) _feverish_: and she gave the most solid reasons in the
world for the partinacity of her opinion: 'it was _impossible_ I should
be otherwise.' As my stiff joints and aching head were rather too
stubborn evidences in her favour; and, being moreover too sleepy for a
debate, I passively suffered her to make me up like a bale of flannel;
and drinking with docility a treacle posset, to her great contentment
I fell asleep; when, lo and behold! the fever had disappeared, and I
had lost eight hours of my existence; for not a dream had found access
to my fancy in all those dormant hours. The dear and too tender Allen
is now only anxious for my _complexion_. Peeling lips are however
within her diploma: and with a face more crimsoned than my own, she
has now brought me some lip-salve. Who can help loving her? I am
sometimes afraid I shall love her too much. She wishes me not to write
any longer. The second dose of treacle posset is preparing, and my
flannels are at the fire. I never felt more comfortable in my life; but
no matter, she is gratified. Good night. The frost could not find the
heart of your R. Cowley; that was in another latitude secure from its
influence."
Dec. 30th.
P.S. I would not seal my letter last night, lest I should have
boasted too soon of my triumph over the northern blasts; but this
morning finding even my complexion not the worse for its malice, I no
longer hesitate to say, that Eolus resembles his stern-faced sister
_Adversity_, only oppose each in their own way: _he_ may be fearlessly
encountered, and _she_ softened down to a friendly aspect. Activity
and firmness are the only guards against both. With this armour within
and without, we shall neither shrink from the storm of the elements,
nor faint at the visitation of the angel who is sent to purify our
hearts with an efficacy not less salutary than that agent of mercy,
which directs the whirlwinds in their desolating career to sweep away
plagues, pestilence, and death, from the air we breathe. I have just
now made my dear Mrs. Allen look grave. I had forgotten my wrappers
this morning, in crossing the passage to Lady Maclairn's apartment. She
appealed to Lady Maclairn, and again, it was "_impossible_" my blood
could be in a state to resist cold. I had just finished my last moral
inference, and I could not at once be made to tremble at the tempered
breeze of a covered passage. I argued in favour of my own theory; she
maintained that I had more confidence in my strength than was prudent.
"Alas!" replied I, "how many wretches, more feeble than myself, bide
the pelting of the pitiless storm!"
"Poor naked wretches, with houseless heads and unfed sides who protects
them from cold, my dear friend?" "Who indeed!" replied she, with the
glow of pity we have so often remarked, "who but that Being whose
providential care is with _many_ a subject of speculation, with some _a
doubt_, and with multitudes neither remembered nor acknowledged."
Do you know I begin to suspect that Mrs. Allen has taken an unfair
advantage of me; for seeing since the arrival of the Lisbon packet that
my charity is enlarged to "good will to all men," she fancies it admits
of no limitation, and that Miss Flint stands a chance of coming in for
a share. She has therefore trepanned me into her room so often of late
under some pretence or other, that my harp is nearly stationary in her
apartment; and if I am to credit Mrs. Allen, it has something of the
powers of David's, and from time to time lulls into temporary repose
a spirit not less perturbed than poor Saul's. I am not yet an entire
convert to Mrs. Allen's creed in favour of repenting sinners, although
I can pity them. I cannot exactly think with her, that they deserve our
peculiar commiseration and tenderness, still adhering to the maxim of,
"as you sow, so must you reap." But I am becoming more placable, and
more worthy of you; and I am going to read to Miss Flint an hour or
two; for to tell you the truth, I do relent when I behold her writhing
with pain. The total loss of the limb she hurt, would be nothing to the
exquisite pain she suffers in the means used for its cure. Mary will
think this a penalty sufficiently severe for the discipline she gave
to her niece, and I may as well confess, that I am of the same opinion.
Heaven bless you, and remember in your prayers your
Rachel Cowley.