Miss Taylor was really responsible for the formation of the Stowel
Reading Society, but Eliza Jamieson was her staunch supporter. Eliza
drew the line at poetry and metaphysics, "Neither of which," she said,
"I consider an exact science."
Miss Taylor said: "But it is not a scientific course that I propose; it
is English literature in its fullest sense. I do think that Stowel is
getting behind the rest of the world in its knowledge of the best
literature, and I am sure that if a Reading Society were founded The
Uncle would be pleased to choose books and send them to us from London."
To no one, perhaps, is the specializing definite article felt to be
more appropriate than to Sir John. It seems to distinguish him from
ordinary human beings; and it is felt to be indicative of a
considerable amount of good taste and good feeling on the part of the
Taylors to drop the General's title when conversing with their intimate
friends, and to refer to him merely as "The Uncle." When we call upon
the Taylors we always ask how The Uncle is.
Eliza Jamieson became the Society's secretary and treasurer in one, and
she it was who in her neat hand transcribed the letter, which all had
helped to compose, to ask The Uncle what works in English literature it
would be advisable for the Reading Society to get. His reply was read
aloud at one of the first meetings, and each eulogized it in turn as
being "courtly," "gentlemanly," "manly," and "concise." It could not
but be felt, however, that as a guide to a choice of literature the
letter was disappointing:--
"DEAR MADAM" (it ran),
"I much regret that I am unable to help you in any way about your
books. I read very little myself, except the newspapers, though I
occasionally take a dip into one of my old favourites by Charles Lever.
I think a cookery-book is the most useful reading for a young lady, and
she would be best employed studying that, and not filling her head with
nonsense. This is the advice of a very old fellow, who remembers many
charming girls years ago who knew nothing about advanced culture...."
It was a distinct salve to the Society's feelings to note that the
letter was written on paper stamped with the address of a military
club, and instead of copying it, and making an entry of it in the
minutes of the Reading Society, it was pasted into the notebook, as it
was thought the autograph and the crest were "interesting."
Since the foundation of the Reading Society there has followed a period
during which the young ladies of Stowel have written essays, and have
met in each other's drawing-rooms to read poetry aloud, to their own
individual satisfaction and to the torture of other ears.
Mrs. Fielden did not join the Society, her plea being that poetry is
merely prose with the stops in the wrong places, and therefore very
fatiguing to read, and very obscure in its meaning. But Eliza has worn
us out with books of reference, and we have become so learned and so
full of culture that it is impossible to say where it will all end. My
own library has been ransacked for books--I think it is the fact of my
having a library that has made our house a sort of centre for the
Reading Society. We criticize freely all contemporary literature, and
base our preference for any book upon its "vigorous Saxon style."
Eliza has written two reviews for the local newspaper, pointing out
some mistakes in grammar in one of the greatest novels of the day, and
this naturally makes us feel very proud of Eliza. Those of us who
plead for an easy flowing style consider that she has an almost
hypersensitive ear for errors in the use of the English accidence. A
split infinitive has heretofore hardly arrested our attention; now we
shudder at its use: while the misuse of the word to "aggravate," which
up to the present we believed in all simplicity to mean to "annoy,"
causes the gravest offence when employed in the wrong sense. Books
from the circulating library have been known to be treated almost like
proof-sheets, and corrections are jotted down in pencil on the margin
of the leaves. Even the notes which ladies send to each other are
subject to revision at the hands of the recipient. Ordinary
conversation is now hardly known in Stowel, and tea-parties take the
form of discussions. The spring weather is so warm that I generally
have my long chair taken on to the lawn in the afternoons, and tea is
sometimes brought out there when the meetings of the Reading Society
are over. But tea, and even pound-cake, are thrown away upon young
ladies who partake of it absently, and to whom all things material and
mundane--these words are often used--must now be offered with a feeling
of apology.
Major Jacobs rode over to see me this afternoon, and we had not long
enjoyed the repose of deckchairs and cigarettes under the medlar-tree,
and the songs of birds which have begun nesting very early this year,
and the quiet rumbling of heavy wagons that pass sometimes in the
highroad beyond the garden, when the Reading Society in a body joined
us from the house, and I heard my sister give directions for tea to be
brought out on to the lawn. The other day I heard Palestrina tell a
friend of hers that she nearly always contrived to have some one to
tea, or to sit with Hugo in the afternoon, and my sister's satisfaction
increases in direct proportion to the number of people who come.
We had hardly finished tea when Frances Taylor said suddenly, yet with
the manner of one who has risen to make a speech on a platform, "Was
Coleridge a genius or a crank?"
Eliza, assuming the deep frown of learning which is quite common
amongst us nowadays, was upon her in a moment, and said emphatically,
"How would you define a genius?" The Socratic habit of asking for a
definition is one that is always adopted during our discussions, and it
is generally demanded in the tone of voice in which one says "check"
when playing chess. Frances Taylor was quite ready for Eliza, and
said, "Genius, I think, is like some star----"
"Analogy is not argument!" Eliza pounced upon her in the voice that
said, "I take your pawn."
It will be noticed, I fear, that in Stowel we are not altogether
original in our arguments--many of them can be traced, alas! to the
"Encyclopaedia Britannica," and they are not often the outcome of
original thought.
Frances Taylor's king was once more in check, and she became a little
nervous and irritable. "I do not think we need go into definitions,"
she said; but Eliza had gone indoors to "look it up." She returned
presently with a dictionary, walking across the lawn towards us with
its pages held close to her near-sighted eyes. "A genius," she began,
and then she glanced disparagingly at the title of the book, and said,
"according to Webster, that is--but I do not know if we ought to accept
him as a final authority--is explained as being 'a peculiar structure
of mind which is given by Nature to an individual which qualifies him
for a particular employment; a strength of mind, uncommon powers of
intellect, particularly the power of invention.' A crank," she went
on, "in its modern meaning, seems hardly to have been known to the
writer of this dictionary; the word is rendered literally, as meaning
'a bend or turn.'"
"Then I submit," said Miss Taylor, "that Coleridge was a genius."
Miss Tracey said in a very sprightly manner--she often astonished us by
showing a subtle turn of mind, and a graceful aptitude for epigram
which, it was believed, could only have found its proper field in those
salons which are now, alas! things of the past--"Let us write him down
a genius _and_ a crank! The two"--she advanced her daring view
bravely--"the two are often allied." She had a volume of Coleridge on
her bookshelves, and prided herself upon her appreciation--unusual in a
woman--of the "Ancient Mariner."
"A genius in italics, and a crank followed by a mark of interrogation!"
said Eliza in a brilliant fashion; and Miss Taylor, not to be beaten in
a matter of intellect, said at once, "Did Bacon write Shakespeare's
plays?"
Mrs. Gallup and Mr. Lee were quoted extensively.
Miss Taylor could only suggest, with a good deal of quiet dignity, that
she could write to The Uncle and find out who is right. This of course
closes the controversy for the present.
George Jamieson, who goes to town every day, gains advanced views from
the magazines which he reads during his dinner-hour in the City, and he
is a great assistance to the Reading Society. I contribute the use of
my library, and I have heard the members of the Reading Society say
that "women are the true leaders of the present movement, and already
their influence is being felt by the male mind."
George brought with him the current number of the Nineteenth Century
when he came home last Friday, instead of Pearson's or the Strand, and
already there are whispers of a Magazine Club in Stowel. Miss Frances
Taylor received nothing but books on her last birthday, and Palestrina
told me a pathetic little story of how Gracie Jamieson went without a
pair of shoes to buy a copy of Browning. Perhaps the climax of culture
and learning was felt only to have been reached when Eliza introduced
the expression "Hypothesis of Purpose" into an ordinary conversation at
the conclusion of one of the meetings of the Reading Society.
After this, as Palestrina remarked, it was quite refreshing to hear
that the curate's wife had got a new baby. It was born on Sunday, and
the anxious father spent his days bicycling wildly to and fro between
his own house and the church, hopelessly confusing his reading of the
service, and then flying back to inquire about his wife's health. Led
by him we prayed successively for fine weather and for rain, while the
Sunday-school teachers' meeting was announced for 2 a.m. on the
following Saturday, and the Coal Club notices were inextricably
confused with the banns of marriage. After each service the distracted
little man would leap on his bicycle again, and, scattering the
departing congregation with his bicycle bell, he was off down the hill
to his house. His perturbation was nothing compared with the confusion
at home, where, so far as I could make out, the bewildered household
did nothing but run up and down stairs, and madly offer each other cups
of tea.
My sister's kind heart suggested that we should have Peggy, the eldest
child, to stay with us until her mother should be better. Is it
necessary to mention the fact that Palestrina is fat and very pretty,
and that she spoils me dreadfully? Do I want a book, I generally find
that Palestrina has written for it, almost before I had realized that
life was a wilderness without it. I have never known her out of
temper, nor anything else but placid and serene. And she has a low,
gurgling laugh, and a certain way of saying, "Oh, that will be very
nice!" to any proposal that one makes, which one must admit makes her a
very charming and a very easy person to live with. She is fond of
children, and she announced to Peggy with a beaming smile this morning
that she had a new little brother.
Peggy went on quietly with her breakfast for some time without making
any remark; then she gave a little sigh, and said: "Mamma thought she
had enough children already, but I suppose God thought otherwise."
Peggy has been in low spirits all day, and closely following some line
of reasoning of her own she has flatly refused to say her prayers at
bedtime.
Mrs. Fielden rode over to see us this morning, in her dark habit and
the neat boots which she loves to tap with her riding-crop. She came
into the dim hall like the embodiment of Spring or of Life, and sat
down in her oddly-shaped habit as though she were at home and in no
hurry to go off anywhere else. This gives a feeling of repose to a
sick man. One knew that she would probably stop to luncheon, and that
one would not have to say to her half a dozen times in the morning,
"Please don't go."
Presently Margaret Jamieson, who had been doing the whole work of the
curate's household during the late trying time, came with the baby in
her arms to show him to Palestrina. Her manner had a charming air of
matronliness about it, and she threw back the fretted silk of the veil
that covered the face of the little creature in her arms with an air of
pride that was rather pretty to see. But Eliza, who had raced over to
our house in the usual Jamieson headlong fashion, to say something to
us on the subject of textual criticism, looked severely at the infant
through her glasses, and remarked that she had no sympathy whatever
with that sort of thing. Margaret hugged the baby closer to her, and
Mettie, who had pattered over to see us with her cousin Eliza, remarked
that children and their upbringing were doubtless among the great risks
of matrimony.
"I am sure," said Eliza, "when one sees how happy Kate is with James,
it makes one feel that marriage is not so very great a risk after all."
That there should be an element of sarcasm in this remark did not even
suggest itself to Eliza.
"We should all be thankful," piped forth Mettie, who is always ready to
talk, "that it has turned out so well. Kate's courage and independence
of mind seem exactly suited to Mr. Ward. But that is what I think
about us all at Belmont; our characteristics are so different that any
gentleman coming amongst us might find something to attract him in one,
if not in the others. Margaret is our home-bird, and Eliza is so
cultured, and Kate----"
The two Miss Jamiesons were looking very uncomfortable, and Margaret
said, "O Mettie, dear!" while Mrs. Fielden made an excuse for walking
over to the piano. There was a piece of music open upon it. "Do sing
it," she said to Palestrina.
THE GAY TOM-TIT.
"A tom-tit lived in a tip-top tree,
And a mad little, bad little bird was he.
He'd bachelor tastes, but then--oh dear!
He'd a gay little way with the girls, I fear!
"Now, a Jenny wren lived on a branch below,
And it's plain she was vain as ladies go,
For she pinched her waist and she rouged a bit.
With a sigh for the eye of that gay tom-tit.
She sighed, 'Oh my!'
She sighed, 'Ah me!'
While the tom-tit sat on his tip-top tree-tree-tree.
And she piped her eye
A bit-bit-bit
For the love of that gay tom-tit-tit-tit.
"She saw that her rouge did not attract,
So she tried to decide how next to act:
She donned a stiff collar and fancy shirt,
And she wore, what is more, a divided skirt.
Then she bought cigarettes and a big latch-key,
And she said, 'He'll be bound to notice me!'
But she found her plan did not work one bit,
For he sneered, as I feared, did that gay tom-tit.
He sneered, 'Oh my!'
He sneered, 'Oh lor!
What on earth has she done that for-for-for?'
And he winked his eye
A bit-bit-bit,
That giddy and gay tom-tit-tit-tit.
"'Alas! no more,' said the poor young wren,
'Will I ape the shape of heartless men!'
So she flung cigarettes and big latch-key
With a flop from the top of the great green tree.
And she wouldn't use rouge or pinch her waist,
But she dressed to the best of a simple taste;
Then she learned to cook and sew and knit--
'What a pearl of a girl!' said the gay tom-tit.
Said he, 'Good day!'
Said she, 'How do?'
They were very soon friends, these two-two-two.
And I'm bound to say
In a bit-bit-bit
She married that gay tom-tit-tit-tit."
Thus sang Palestrina.
"Ethically considered, my dear Palestrina," said Eliza, "that song is
distinctly unmoral."
"Don't let us consider it ethically," said Palestrina tranquilly; and
she went over and sat in the corner of the sofa with several pillows at
her back.
"Ethically considered," repeated Eliza, "that song, if one pursues its
teaching to a logical conclusion, can only mean that all female social
development is impossible, and that the whole reason for a woman's
existence is that she may gratify man."
"They are really not worth it," murmured Mrs. Fielden, who was in a
frivolous mood.
"And mark you," said Eliza, in quite the best of the Reading Society
manner: "it does not suggest that that gratification may be inspired
either by our beauty or by our intellect; indeed, it proves that such
powers are worthless to inspire it. It postulates the
hypothesis"--Eliza is really splendid--"that man is a brute whose
appreciation can only be secured by ministering to his desire for food
and suitable clothing, and that woman's whole business is to render
this creature complacent."
"Don't you think things are much pleasanter when people _are_
complacent?" said my sister easily.
Eliza fixed her with strong, dark eyes. "Were I describing you in a
book," she said--one feels as though Eliza will write a book, probably
a clever one, some day--"I should describe you as a typical woman, and
therefore a pudding. A dear, tepid pudding, with a pink sauce over it.
Very sweet, no doubt, but squashy--decidedly squashy. Some day," said
Eliza triumphantly, "you will be squashed into mere pulp, and you will
not like that."
This did not seem to be a likely end for Palestrina. Eliza continued:
"Who will deny that men are selfish?"
"But they are also useful," said Mrs. Fielden in an ingenuous way.
"They open doors for one, don't you know, and give one the front row
when there is anything to be seen, even when one wears a big hat; and
they see one into one's carriage--oh! and lots of other useful little
things of that sort."
"Admitted," said Eliza, "that women have certain privileges--have they
any Rights?"
Mrs. Fielden admitted that they had not. "But," she said, "I don't
really think that that is important. The men whom one knows are always
nice to one, and I don't think it matters much what the others are."
"Rank individualism," said Eliza. And she said it without a moment's
hesitation, which gave us a very high opinion indeed of her powers of
speech. "It is the fashion to say that each woman has only one man to
manage, and she must be a very stupid woman if she cannot manage him;
but there are thousands of women who, being weaker morally and
physically than their particular man, can do nothing with him, and it
is not fair to leave their wrongs unredressed because you are
comfortable and happy."
"Still, you know," said Mrs. Fielden thoughtfully, "one cannot help
wishing that they could get what they want without involving us in the
question. You see, if they got their rights we should probably get
ours too, and then I'm afraid we should lose our privileges."
"You are like the man," said I, "who could do quite well without the
necessaries of life, but he could not do without its luxuries."
"What a nice man it must have been who said that!" exclaimed Mrs.
Fielden. "It would be quite easy to do without meat on one's table,
but it would be impossible to dine without flowers and dessert."
It must be admitted that Eliza had the last word in the argument after
all.
"Just so," she said; "and all life shows just this--that a woman has,
with her usual perverseness, chosen a diet of flowers and dessert with
intervals of starvation, instead of wholesome meat and pudding."