London.
Instead of a few months, it was full two years before Mr. Byerley and
his daughters set out on their promised journey to the continent. Mr.
Fletcher’s plans had been changed from time to time, so as to delay the
arrival of his family at Tours; and Mr. Byerley was too fond of his home
to be persuaded to leave it till the last minute, though every body saw
how necessary some change of plan with respect to his daughters was
becoming. To this he was not himself totally blind, though he was
scarcely sufficiently aware of the danger in which Anna stood of losing
all energy of character, all vigour of body as well as of mind, through
an unbounded indulgence of the imagination. Mary was generally thought
very romantic; but the few, the very few, who knew her well, never
applied the term to her. No weak, no romantic person was ever capable of
the silent, perpetual self-denial which Mary practised. No romantic
person was ever so entirely devoted as Mary to the welfare of every body
about her. It is true she did not make much use of the common rules of
common people for judging of herself, still less of others: perhaps she
overlooked these inferior rules too much. She thought and she felt on a
large scale; and when she had laid hold of a good principle, she made it
serve small as well as great occasions, in a way that little minds would
have found it difficult to comprehend. Nobody doubted that on great
occasions Mary would act nobly; but they supposed her unfit for the
purposes of common life: they supposed her
“too bright and good
For human nature’s daily food.”
They were quite mistaken, as they would soon have found by living in the
same house with her. They would have seen how capable she was of
forbearance in trifles, of patience under daily trials, of the careful
performance of irksome duties. Her mind was matured so far beyond her
years, that a stranger who knew her age and not her circumstances, would
have accused her of an affectation of womanishness. It was because she
thought and felt like a woman, however, and not because she wished to be
thought one, that her manner was that of a woman. It was peculiar,
certainly; unlike that of any other girl of her age, which was a
disadvantage in some respects; but there was nothing in it which a
kind-hearted person would find fault with; it would rather please him.
Knowing, as Mary did, that it was probable that their seclusion from
female society had left them ignorant of many of the important
proprieties of life, she was particularly watchful to obtain all the
light she could on a subject of such great practical consequence; and
her incessant observation and anxious desire proved excellent teachers.
The very nicest sense of propriety grew out of the discipline she
imposed on herself, and was now operating rapidly on the faulty external
habits of her early years, and from the desire of doing right—a much
better motive than the desire of being pleasing—Mary was becoming
elegant and lady-like in her dress and appearance. And how went life
with Anna all this time? Alas! very differently. She was delicate in
health, and weak in spirits: all the instruction, all the discipline
which had so remarkably improved her sister, seemed to fall short of its
due effect on her. It taught her what was right, and gave her a
tormenting, impotent wish to do it; but to do it, she seemed to have no
power; and therefore the wish was tormenting. Her time was ill-employed,
she could not tell how or why; for she was very sorry for it, and was
always ready to own she was wrong, and profuse in her promises that she
would mend; but no amendment followed. She presented the singular
phenomenon of a strong understanding, which seemed of no use to any
body; of a clear knowledge of what was right, which did not prevent her
doing wrong; of a lively sympathy for other people’s feelings, which did
not prevent her irritating and wounding them perpetually; of a temper
gentle and amiable on the whole, but liable to sudden and unaccountable
disturbance. It is needless to say that she was not happy, and that she
did much to prevent her sister being so. Her father had many an anxious
hour on her account, though he still hoped, that as she was so young,
she would conquer the irresolution which seemed the origin of all her
faults. He did not sufficiently remember that, owing to the peculiarity
of their situation, time had done more than remained to be done in
deciding the cast of character of his children. He did not enquire
sufficiently into the cause of the irresolution of will, which, if he
had so enquired, he would not have been so sanguine in the hope of
curing: it proceeded from a premature and excessive exercise of the
imagination. Whether Anna would, like Mary, prove herself great on great
occasions, nobody could decide; but it was evident to every body that
she was not great on small occasions. She met with much allowance on
account of her health; but more than one who made this just allowance,
felt convinced that her delicacy of health was as much the effect as the
cause of her faulty state of mind.
Nurse Rickham was perhaps as good a judge of her case, as many a one
whose education and intercourse with the superior classes of society
might seem to qualify for a more accurate observation and judgment.
“I am glad, sir,” said she one day to Mr. Byerley, “that you are going
to take the young ladies out to see the world a little, though I am sure
I shall count the weeks till they come back again.”
“Thank you, nurse. I hope they will enjoy themselves; but I shall count
the months as anxiously as you. I am not fond of wandering, and I am
afraid I shall miss the quiet I have been accustomed to.”
“But you will have the satisfaction, I hope, sir, of seeing that it does
the young ladies good to travel, Miss Anna especially. I am sorry to say
so, sir; but it makes my heart ache to see her so different from what
she used to be.”
He shook his head, and nurse went on:
“Miss Mary sings about the house like a nightingale, for all she is full
of care sometimes, as I know; but Miss Anna, who used to be as
high-spirited as a child need be, is so downcast now, that no one would
think her to be the same.”
“What strikes you as the reason, nurse?”
“She seems to me to think too much: I don’t pretend to know how much she
studies from books, and no doubt you look to that, sir; but she seems to
me to be always thinking and thinking; and ’tis that hurts her health, I
do believe, more than any thing else. When she comes to our farm, I
don’t expect or wish that she should play with the children as she did
when she was a child herself; but I don’t like to see her stand for
hours together, looking up at the tree tops as if she was watching the
rooks, when it comes out at last that she never saw one of them, nor
thought about them at all.”
“If any thing came of all this reverie, I should be less uneasy about
it; but while she becomes more unfit for common life, I do not perceive
that her understanding improves like her sister’s. It is time something
was done, nurse; and I hope the experiment has not been delayed too
long.”
A month was to be spent in London, previous to their leaving England. It
was now the gay season in town: the exhibitions were all open: and as
the girls had lived in almost entire seclusion, their father wished to
embrace the present opportunity of gratifying that love of the fine arts
with which he had taken pains to inspire them. They could both draw
well, having been well taught and long-practised; but they had never
seen any picture-gallery, but one. There was a fine collection at Audley
Castle, and there Mary had gazed and studied till she knew every picture
by heart, and had copied all the best into her mind, and some few into
her portfolio. She had an earnest desire to see other works of her
favourite masters, and to become acquainted with the productions of many
whom she yet knew only by name. The time too appeared at hand, when they
should hear such music as their hearts told them of by anticipation, but
as their ears had never heard. The most ancient edifice they had ever
seen was the market-cross of A——, which bore date 1521. No; not the most
ancient, for Mary had once been in a cathedral, when she was only four
or five years old. She remembered dimly the chill grandeur of the
aisles, and the music of the choir, as it swelled from the soft
breathings of a single voice, to the pealing harmony which rang again
from the roof. She remembered enough to make her long intensely, and to
communicate to her sister an equal impatience to see Westminster Abbey.
Mr. Byerley had many political connexions in London, but they were not
persons with whom he wished to form more than an acquaintance; and as it
was necessary that they should hold their time at their own disposal, he
refused several invitations to take up an abode at the houses of
friends, and requested Signor Elvi to engage lodgings in a favourable
situation. He was very happy to receive such a commission, and on the
evening when they were expected, awaited their arrival in the
apartments, which he was resolved they should not enter without meeting
with a welcome.
A doubt had been started, whether or not the girls should take their
maid Susan with them. It seemed probable that in France she would be an
incumbrance more than a help; but their father dreaded the effects of
their inexperience in the ways of travelling, in the little
circumstances of a journey in which he could not help them, and on which
its comfort and pleasure so much depended. It was resolved, at last,
that she should accompany them to London, and then proceed or not, as
might appear desirable at the end of a month. On the appointed morning,
therefore, Susan having looked into her young mistresses’ drawers, to
see that the packing, which was managed in their own very original
style, was complete, and that nothing needful was left behind, appeared
in her new straw bonnet and shawl, ready to mount the box when the
carriage drove up to the door. It was hard to say who looked the most
grave and sad—Mr. Byerley, who was whirled away in opposition to his
inclinations if not to his will; or Nurse Rickham and the remaining
servant, who were left behind, to comfort one another as they best
might.
The travelling party reached their lodgings in town in time for a late
dinner;—their pretty, convenient apartments, looking out upon such a
scene of organized bustle as the girls had formed no idea of. When they
had been welcomed by Signor Elvi, and had in turn welcomed him to
dinner, when they had followed their civil-spoken hostess to their
apartment, and been introduced to all its advantages of prospect, air,
quiet, &c. and when they had dismissed fish and fowl, the question
arose, what was to be done next? Mary replied, by taking down from the
mantel-piece the notes which had awaited them from Mr. B——, the
professor of music, and Mr. D——, the drawing-master, who appointed
certain days and hours for giving the desired lessons. Mr. B—— was to
come the next morning; so Mary lost no time in trying whether the
instrument provided by Signor Elvi was in tune. It satisfied her
perfectly, and she was then ready to accompany the party in a drive
round Regent’s Park. It was not the hour for seeing the throng of
company with which it is crowded at an earlier period of a fine spring
day; but the splendour of the buildings afforded quite enough interest
for the first visit. The wonders of the Colosseum, the Diorama, and the
Zoological Gardens, were reserved for another day; and before it grew
dark, the party were glad to return to tea and to bed. They set down
Signor Elvi at his lodgings, having agreed upon the time which should be
devoted to their lessons with him.
At breakfast the next morning, the girls heard with consternation, that
their father was going out immediately on business, and would be absent
for some hours.
“But, papa, Mr. B—— is coming at eleven o’clock, to give me my music
lesson.”
“Well, my dear, what of that? you do not think I can assist your music,
do you?”
“And Mrs. Boyer, and the Nicholsons, will most likely call this
morning,” said Anna; “and you know we are quite strangers to them.”
“They will not be strangers when they have been here five minutes; and
if they were, I do not know what you should be afraid of, or how I could
be of any use to you.”
So saying, and knowing that his daughters might reasonably remonstrate
further, he pushed away his cup and saucer, nodded, and left them.
“What are we to do? How very awkward!” exclaimed Mary. “Let us keep
together, Anna: stay in the room when Mr. B—— comes.”
“Certainly, unless there should be company in the back drawing-room.
Happily, we shall both draw; so it will not signify so much if papa
should be out when Mr. D—— comes.”
It happened, as usual, that Anna forgot her promise. The clock struck
eleven, and Mr. B—— made his appearance when Mary was alone. She was
afraid of him at first sight, for he was so stiffened, so be-collared
and be-curled, as to be unlike any body she had ever seen. She thought
it would be foolish to ring for her sister, though she had now little
hope of seeing her in the course of the lesson. She therefore explained
that her father had been obliged to go out early, and volunteered all
the necessary information about her musical studies thus far. She did
not play her best, when called upon, and was, at first, deterred by her
master’s pompous manner, from asking many things which she wished to
know. By degrees, however, her habitual interest in her music overcame
her uncomfortable feelings, and she played her part of a duet with so
much spirit, that Mr. B——’s formality gradually gave way, and he began
to speak less like an oracle, and to tap his snuffbox less incessantly.
When the lesson was about half over, Mary heard a rapping at the door,
and the admittance of company into the back drawing-room. She supposed
that Anna had received them; and when Mr. B—— had made his three bows in
acknowledgment of her single curtsey, she ran up stairs for her gloves,
that she might join her sister and their guests. To her surprise, she
found Anna sitting at the foot of the bed, with a book in her hand.
“Why, Anna, don’t you know there is somebody in the drawing-room?”
“Yes, I am going directly,” said Anna, rising, and showing that her gown
was unfastened; “I am only going to change my gown, and I will come
directly.”
Mary rang for Susan, and entreating her sister to follow with all speed,
ran down to apologize to Mr. and Mrs. Nicholson for her father’s absence
and her own delay. They staid long, but Anna came not; and the arrival
of the drawing-master sent them away without having seen her. When again
hunted up, she was found preparing her drawing-board, which ought to
have been ready before.
“This will never do,” thought Mary: “I must ask papa not to go out again
at this time of day.”
Anna woke up at the sight of her master’s beautiful portfolio, and
appeared to have enjoyed her lesson so much, that Mary had not the heart
to reproach her for her desertion in the morning. She forgot it herself
when the carriage came to the door, and their father stepped in after
them to take them to the Abbey.
There they remained for hours. They wandered silently through the
intricacies of the side chapels, and retired from the crowd of visitors
into the solemn stillness of Henry the Seventh’s chapel. There was no
motion but the waving of the ancient banners of the knights; no sound
but the softest melody of the organ; no sunshine but the one gleam which
fell athwart the deep arch from the high windows. The partial gloom, the
grandeur, the silence, thrilled the very souls of the strangers, and
hushed their voices. After they had gone the round of the edifice, and
spent a long hour in the Poets’ Corner, they, with one consent, returned
to the chapel, that they might bear away with them the impression they
most wished to preserve.
“Where next, my dears?” said Mr. Byerley, as they emerged into the warm
sunshine.
“Is not this enough for to-day?” said Mary: “I am afraid we should enjoy
nothing after it.”
“Oh! let us get away from shops and people,” said Anna, looking as if
she were going to cry: “I cannot bear them to-day.”
“No work of art will do after what we have seen,” said their father;
“but you shall see what will refresh instead of disgusting you.”
He gave orders for a drive over Hampstead Heath; and the freshness and
natural beauty which they found there, softened without impairing the
impressions which they had previously received.
They were alone in the evening; and after tea they sat down quietly to
talk. Mary would have wished to practise, and Anna to read; but their
father looked round him with a sigh, as if regretting his own study.
Mary therefore gave him a description of her music-lesson and of Mr.
B——, entreating him to be at home the next time her master should come.
“That is as it may happen, Mary: I will take you to-morrow where you
will learn what I was about this morning, and then you will not be sorry
that I left you to take care of each other.”
“I cannot let you suppose that we did that,” said Anna, blushing: “I
left Mary to manage every thing; but I will be more ready to-morrow.”
“Will you?” said her father: “how often have you promised this, Anna?
and have you ever kept your promise? You are not aware how you deceive
yourself.”
“You have not told us,” said Mary, after a painful pause, “where you are
going to take us to-morrow.”
“You have never heard good public speaking——”
“O yes, papa! we heard you speak at Hertford, about reform in
parliament.”
“You call that good public speaking, do you?” said Mr. Byerley,
laughing: “you will find your notions a little exalted by what you will
hear to-morrow. The meeting is to be at Freemasons’ Hall; and B——, and
W——, and P——, will speak; and the subject is——”
“Not politics, I do hope,” said Anna.
“The subject is political, but it involves much besides politics, or I
should not think of taking you there, my little hater of politics. It
cannot be said of us, Anna, ‘like father like child:’ you will feel
differently, when you grow older and wiser.”
“If she does not,” said Mary, laughing, “she and I shall lay all the
blame on you. But I doubt whether we shall ever think, as you wish we
should, that it is necessary or desirable for a woman to care about what
seems to be no concern of hers.”
“I have not adopted the right method, I believe, to interest you in what
interests me so much,” said Mr. Byerley: “I dare say you are quite tired
of hearing of public meetings, and petitions, and of reform in
parliament, at the very name of which I observe you sigh. I see you
never look at a newspaper, except to discover notices of new music or
books; but this is all because you do not know the importance of the
subjects you despise.”
“But,” said Anna, “I thought every body disliked female politicians. I
remember your looking very much disgusted when you heard how the
Blakeleys bestirred themselves in Mr. Harmer’s election; how Mrs.
Blakeley helped to canvass for him; and how her daughters dropped a
laurel crown by a red ribbon on his head, when he was chaired. They
stood on a scaffolding, you know, where every body in the marketplace
could see them; and I remember your saying, that if your daughters had
done it, you should have wished the scaffolding to fall in with them
before the member’s chair came round.”
“True, Anna, I remember saying so; and my feeling is much the same now,
though I would not express it so extravagantly. I know few things more
disgusting, than to see women pushing forwards in matters where they
have no business, and inflaming themselves with party spirit. But all
this has nothing to do with such an interest in the welfare of your
country and your race as I wish to awaken in you. I think, Mary, you
liked the chapter of the ‘Wealth of Nations,’ which you read to me
lately.”
“On Bounties, and Restraints on Importation; yes, I liked it
particularly, and mean to read more, if I may.”
“Well, that very question of Free Trade is one of the most important
that our politicians are busy about now.”
“But what have _we_ to do with it?” persisted Anna.
“As much as any body who cares for the condition of the labouring
classes, to say nothing of the state of all the farmers and merchants in
the kingdom. Is it not worth knowing why they are sometimes prosperous,
and sometimes distressed? Would not you like to be able to know whether
their prospects will probably improve or grow worse?”
“Is this learned by studying the question of Free Trade?”
“It cannot be learned by other means, at any rate.”
“But is it not better to help the poor people about us, than to learn
what is likely to happen to poor people in general?” asked Anna.
“It certainly would be, if we could not do both; but I am firmly
convinced that benevolent persons, women as well as men, may do more
good by giving their poorer neighbours right notions about their own
interests, than even by bestowing money or clothes. Do you remember the
account Mr. Bland gave us of the _turn out_ at Manchester?”
“Yes; I shall never forget it.”
“Well, however much good was done by the benevolent persons who gave
soup and blankets to the starving weavers, Mr. Bland did more good than
all the other people together, by proving to those who struck for wages
that they were hastening their own ruin. His wife helped him very much
by her influence among the weavers’ wives; and she could not have done
this if she had known nothing of the _politics_ of the case. We hear too
of the occasional destruction of machinery in the manufacturing
districts; and this mischief will not cease till the people are taught
that they injure their own interests by such violence. Why should not
ladies help to teach this as well as other truths? and how should they
teach it, unless they understand the matter well themselves?”
“Is there any thing about that in the ‘Wealth of Nations,’ papa?”
“Yes; and you shall read it. There are other political subjects, on
which there is no occasion to bid you feel an interest.”
Anna looked at Mary in unbelief.
“Nobody is more indignant at slavery than you are, Anna.”
Anna’s colour rose at the mention of slavery.
“But that has nothing to do with parliamentary reform, and those
tiresome subjects, papa.”
“More than you are aware of, my dear; or than I can explain at present:
but however closely connected with the interests of religion and
humanity, it is still a political subject, as you will learn to-morrow;
for the object of the meeting I am to take you to, is to petition for
the abolition of colonial slavery. Perhaps, when there, you may wish
that you knew something of the history and present state of the
question, which would enable you to enter into much which will now be
lost upon you.”
“Will you, can you tell us about it now?” said both the girls, eagerly.
Mr. Byerley began from the point to which he knew their study of history
had led them, and gave them a clear account of the struggles, successes,
and reverses, which the great slavery question had passed through up to
the present day. For the first time, Anna felt an interest about
philanthropists and statesmen, of whose names she had long been weary,
while she knew nothing of them beyond their names. She was unwilling to
go to bed when ten o’clock struck.
“Why, I thought bed had been better than politics, at any time,” said
her father.
“It depends upon what the politics are,” said Anna, laughing: “I should
have been asleep over the corn laws an hour ago.”
“We will try some night,” said her father.
“Let it be in the ‘Wealth of Nations,’ then,” said Mary.
“Or in a more entertaining book still,” added her father: “you like
books of travels, Anna.”
Anna stared.
“They will give us excellent information on the corn question;
particularly one about a family of back settlers in America, and another
about the Japan islands.”
Anna was obliged to carry away this riddle unsolved: she determined to
look into Johnson’s Dictionary for the word _politics_ on the first
opportunity.