Profitable Pleasure.
Signor Elvi breakfasted with Mr. Byerley the next morning, as the girls
were to receive their Italian lesson before they attended the meeting.
They understood the grammar of the language well, and had read many good
Italian authors. Their purpose in learning of Signor Elvi was to improve
their pronunciation, and to accustom themselves to converse in his
language. He brought with him a volume of Alfieri, thinking that nothing
could afford a better preparation for the speeches they were going to
hear. There was no opportunity for Anna to fall into a reverie. Each of
the three took a character of a tragedy, and the dialogue was kept up
briskly, ‘libertà, libertà,’ being still the theme. When Mr. Byerley
looked up from his newspaper, he was amused to see the eagerness of
each—his friend declaiming with all his natural volubility, and his
pupils, scarcely able to keep up with him, yet catching the spirit of
the sentiment, and charmed with the grandeur of the expression. They
were taken by surprise when the carriage drove to the door, and they
found it was half-past ten o’clock. While they hastened to put on their
bonnets, their father remarked to his friend, that they seemed to have
enjoyed their lesson.
“Ah, yes! and I also; for they have a mind and soul for what they do. It
is as great a pleasure to me to teach such as they, as it is a toil with
some others of my pupils. There will be no need to take strong coffee
before sitting down with your daughters.”
“Strong coffee!”
“Yes; you will wonder, perhaps, but you have no idea how great is the
drudgery to a teacher, how trying it is to his nerves, to teach those
who have no mind, or who will not use it; who are for ever careless
about necessary rules, and whom there is no chance of leading on beyond
the rules. I have now one pupil, I might say several, but I will
instance one, who writes exercises, month after month, and makes as many
gross mistakes now as at first; and all my efforts to make her think and
observe are in vain; and so we shall go on till she thinks herself too
old to be taught, or fancies she has learned enough because she is grown
up, and all this time she will never read Alfieri.”
“I was afraid you might find such a kind of pupil in Anna.”
“No; Miss Anna is sometimes absent, but she is so from the fulness, not
from the emptiness of her mind. Not that I would excuse the habit, for
it is very fatal to improvement at her age.”
“Show her that you think so; have no mercy on her if she does not attend
to you as she ought.”
“I will try,” said the Signor, laughing, “how severe I can be, if there
should be reason for complaint.”
The scene of the meeting was one of great animation. The place was
nearly full when our party arrived, and the assemblage was gayer and
more various than any the girls had ever seen. There were parties of
fashionably dressed ladies, seated beside families of friends in their
neat white shawls and drab bonnets. Members of parliament, country
gentlemen, and city merchants, met on the hustings, and shook hands, and
consulted, and handed papers about, and looked full of business and
cheerfulness. Mr. Byerley longed to be among them; and his daughters
remarked, as soon as they entered, how well he seemed to be known there.
He introduced his daughters to the family of one of his friends, who
made room for them on their bench, and requested Mr. Byerley to leave
them under their care, as they knew he was wanted on the hustings. The
girls found so much to observe, that they could scarcely keep up a
conversation with their new acquaintances, and had almost forgotten the
object of the meeting in the bustle of the preparation. They watched
their father’s progress through the crowd, as he turned to one, made a
sign to another, was heartily welcomed by a third, and was held by the
button by a fourth.
“Your father will speak, I suppose,” said Miss R—— to Mary.
“I believe not; at least, I heard nothing of his having such an
intention.”
“Oh! he certainly will. Look! Mr. B—— is putting one of the resolutions
into his hand.”
“Is that Mr. B——?” exclaimed Mary, starting from her seat. “Anna, that
is Mr. B—— that papa is talking to.”
“Hush! you must sit down,” said Miss R——, laughing: “you must come and
see us some day, and we will introduce you to him, if you wish it.”
“Wish it!” thought Mary: “to hear him speak once in public and once in
private, will give us enough to think about till we go to France. I do
believe papa will speak,” she continued aloud: “he is sitting down among
the speakers, to the left of the chair.”
“Certainly,” replied Miss R——: “my father says, that none of the movers
of this meeting have been more active than Mr. Byerley.”
At length the speakers in posse made room for the noble chairman, and
installed him in the usual form; and the business of the day began. For
the first half hour, every thing went on much as Anna and Mary had been
enabled to anticipate, from their having once attended a public meeting.
The chairman began with common-places, and the first speakers were not
yet warmed, and had the fear of the audience before their eyes: they
stopped for words now and then, and said nothing which had not often
been said before; but every good sentiment they uttered, was well
received by the audience, and a glow of feeling began to spread through
the place, and to prepare the way for the mighty movers of the heart who
were to follow. When Mr. B—— rose, Mary forgot to observe, as she had
intended, the features and lines of his countenance, and the peculiarity
of the little action he used: the harshness of his voice even was soon
forgotten, and her whole soul was at the mercy of his deep and varied
thoughts, and his vivid, passionate, burning words. If slavery had
before appeared to her the most crying abomination which subsists on the
earth, she now felt astonished that the earth remained with such an
abomination upon it; she felt at one moment ashamed, at the next proud
of her race, according as she heard of the crimes of slave-holders, or
of the virtuous efforts of our philanthropists at home. She felt, for
the first time in her life, the noble excitement of sharing with a
multitude in successive and strong emotions—emotions which are not
appropriate to the public services of religion, but which are not
therefore inconsistent with their spirit. She was sorry when Mr. B——
gave place to a speaker of a totally different stamp; but the soft,
persuasive eloquence of the next friend of the slave who spoke, soon
engrossed her again. She was so intent on his words, that she gave no
heed when her arm was twice touched by the lady who sat next her; when,
at the third hint, she turned, she was shocked to see that Anna was
sobbing and trembling violently, and that every body near was observing
her. The place was so full, that it was nearly impossible for any one to
get out; and besides, she was unwilling, in the extreme, to break up the
party who had kindly taken her and her sister under their protection.
There was no overpowering heat, and she knew Anna well enough to be
assured that this was only a paroxysm which she had herself excited, or
which she might at least have checked. She ventured therefore on
speaking very decidedly to her, though in a voice which could not be
overheard. She told her that she could not think of disturbing Mrs. R——
and her family; gave her the vinaigrette she carried, and advised her to
control her feelings, and fix her attention on the speaker as soon as
she could, while she would sit so as to screen her from observation as
much as possible. Anna thought all this very bad treatment of such
delicate feelings as hers; but her indignation helped to restore her,
which was the object most to be desired. Her sobs soon ceased; and if
not ashamed at having been so full of herself, and so troublesome to
others, she at least was quiet for the rest of the time.
Mr. Byerley spoke, briefly and plainly. He stated a few facts, and
explained his own sentiments on the resolution he held, and then made
way for those whom he believed more worthy of the attention of the
meeting. There was nothing to be ashamed of in the part he took, and
little to be proud of besides the propriety of his feelings, and the
modesty which led him to be satisfied with being useful behind the
scenes, rather than brilliant on the stage.
Mary had for some time been annoyed by the disturbance of persons going
out—why so soon she could not conceive—when her own party rose also.
Miss R—— tapped her on the shoulder, and laughingly asked if she could
listen for a moment. Mary turned.
“Your father will be detained till the meeting is over; but if you will
go out with us, my brother will see you into your carriage, which must
have been waiting some time. You must be quite faint with weariness and
hunger.”
“No, indeed,” said Mary and Anna; “we cannot go till it is over, thank
you. We shall not mind sitting here till papa comes.”
“Do you know what o’clock it is? It is just five.”
“Is it possible! But we do not mind that: we had rather stay, thank
you.”
So with many acknowledgments to Mrs. R—— for her protection, they
persisted in remaining by themselves. They looked round for Signor Elvi,
but he too was gone. It was not long, however, before the vote of thanks
to the chairman was passed, and the meeting broke up. Their father came
to give them each an arm, took them to the carriage, nodding to this
side and that as he went, and hastened them home, being sure, as he
said, that they must be quite exhausted. No such thing. They found, when
dinner was before them, that they were very hungry; but they never
ceased talking of what they had heard, and were sanguine as to the
success of a petition which had been prepared and advocated by such wise
heads and warm hearts.
After dinner, Mary looked at her piano, remembering that much practice
was required in preparation for her next lesson. It was with some dismay
that she heard from her father that he had made an engagement for them
for the evening. What a bustling life was theirs just now! The carriage
was to be at the door at nine. The girls met to dress while their father
rested on the sofa, and Mary afterwards practised till it was time to
go.
“We shall not stay long,” said Mr. Byerley, as he led his daughters up
the staircase at Mr. Nicholson’s, where he met a larger company than he
expected: “an hour will be as much as we shall wish for.”
So thought his daughters, who had not much inclination to enter a crowd
of strangers. They found it pleasanter, however, than they expected.
Mrs. Nicholson introduced them to some young ladies who were looking
over fine prints, and who seemed to understand drawing. There was some
good music; and, what was still better, Signor Elvi was there. He soon
made his way to them, and entertained them, as usual, with his lively
and refined conversation. Anna overheard him tell Mrs. Nicholson that
Mary sang and played very well, and she hoped that an opportunity would
offer for her sister’s talents being called out. Anna had as little
vanity on her own account as most girls; but she was very proud of Mary.
This was rather an annoyance to Mary, who would have been better pleased
if Anna had taken less pains to tell how well her sister could play and
sing, and more to contribute to her daily comfort. In due time, Mrs.
Nicholson approached with a request that Mary would take her seat at the
piano. Mary gently but decidedly declined. “But why? But why?” exclaimed
her sister and her friend. Mary gave her reasons; viz. that she had not
been accustomed to sing in so large a company, and that the attempt
would give no pleasure to any body. She would, with pleasure, sing to
Mrs. Nicholson as long as she pleased, in a more private way; but begged
to be excused this night. Mrs. Nicholson was politely sorry; Anna
muttered, “Provoking!” the Signor whispered “Right, quite right.”
Their engagements seemed still to multiply as the number of their
acquaintance increased. Exhibitions in the morning, concerts in the
evening, a day at Richmond and Hampton Court; a dinner-party here, an
evening-party there, were fixed; and they returned home with their heads
in a whirl.
“Light your candles, my dears; and to rest as soon as possible,” said
Mr. Byerley, holding up his watch, whose hands pointed to midnight.
“Nay, papa, just five minutes,” said Mary, drawing a chair beside him.
“I like to call back old thoughts before we say good-night. If I left
you with my head full of all we have seen and heard, I could not sleep.”
“Our present way of life will do you no harm while you preserve this
feeling,” replied her father. “But tell me, are you not surprised at my
making so many engagements for you?”
“Not so much as other people,” said Anna; “because we know that it is
for our good, and not to gratify your own taste. Mrs. Nicholson looked
quite surprised at your making every thing so easy about Richmond; but I
told her that it was because we had never seen it.”
“It certainly is not the pleasantest thing in the world to me to hurry
from one engagement to another, so that I cannot call an hour my own;
nor would it be pleasant to you, for any length of time. But our stay in
London is short; and I wish to show you, wherever you go, the different
kinds of life that people lead, that you may be able, in case of losing
my guidance, to make a wise choice, which you could scarcely do if you
knew of no other method of employing your days than that to which you
have been accustomed, and which would no longer be suitable to your
altered circumstances. In case of my death, you would live in rather a
gay circle in London; and my object is to show you how your best
occupations may be reconciled with the gratifications of taste, while
they are wholly incompatible with mere dissipation.”
“I think,” said Mary, “that the pleasures of to-day, of the morning
especially, may and ought to give a new spring to our best feelings and
wishes.”
“And yesterday’s too,” added Anna. “I have felt like a different person
since I saw Westminster Abbey.”
“I hope you will find the same influence from the natural beauties of
Richmond, and the delights of the Dulwich gallery; ever remembering that
moderation is especially necessary in pleasures of taste. If you went so
often from one of these places to the other as to leave no interval for
the serious business of life, there would soon be an end alike of
enjoyment and improvement. It is because I trust these pleasures will
furnish you with serious occupation, that I offer them to you. If I
thought they would afford you merely subjects for talk, and reverie, and
drawing, I would carry you away from them all to-morrow.”
“Thought and feeling—deep study—purified tastes: these ought to be
ministered to by innocent pleasures,” said Mary, thoughtfully.
“No pleasures can be innocent which do not thus minister,” observed her
father; “and I trust, my dears, that you will so rouse your faculties,
as to make the most of your present opportunities.” Here he addressed
Anna particularly. “Observe keenly, and lay yourself open to the full
relish of every beautiful object which is presented to you; and refer it
perpetually to your best ideas and feelings. So, in some far distant
place or time, in the midst of the sea, or after the lapse of years,
alone among strangers, or on a sick bed, the bright and beautiful
objects which are now new to you, will come, like familiar friends, to
cheer you, and help your gratitude for the blessings which have strewed
your path of life.”
After a pause, Mary asked if it could be supposed that many persons
cultivated their tastes with such an object as this.
“I trust that many do,” was the reply; “but we must not suppose that the
greater number who spend their lives in flitting from pleasure to
pleasure, have any genuine taste to cultivate. The influence of all
objects depends mainly upon the sort of mind which is exposed to it; and
there may be as wide a difference in the innocence of purpose of two
persons who enter the Dulwich gallery at the same moment, as between the
state of mind of the Christian who enters a church to worship, and the
wretch who goes to scoff. The one may carry away from this sanctuary of
taste, a mind softened and refreshed; while the other is burdened with
an additional account of time wasted, and levity encouraged. And now,
whether these thoughts be old or new to you, they are such as you may
carry into private. So good-night, and quiet rest to you.”
While Anna listened to her father it was ever her full intention to
adopt the principles to the truth of which she assented; but her power
over her own thoughts was too far gone to be easily regained. Instead of
keenly observing the new objects which were placed before her, she was
commonly lost in dreams which might just as well have been dreamed at
A——. The advantages which she knew she could only enjoy for a few weeks
were neglected, through the same pernicious habit. She sat for hours
with her pencil in her hand, and her drawing-board before her, without
putting in a stroke; and she commonly spent the hour when Signor Elvi
was with them in pondering his fate, while he himself was enjoying the
facility with which he could impress her sister’s more healthful mind.
She carried away from every new scene feeble impressions, old ideas, and
useless or morbid feelings; and when the last day of their stay in
London had arrived, she might have seen, if she had been disposed to
observe, that her father looked at her with grief in his countenance;
and that when Signor Elvi returned her mournful farewell, there was more
of compassion than respect in his words and manner. Dead as she was to
external things, she could not but feel that she was and must be
regarded a useless thing.
Mary had arranged with her father the plan for their voyage and abode
abroad: Mary had received and dismissed their various masters: Mary had
made their acknowledgments to their many kind friends who had noticed
and assisted them. As to their musical accomplishments, every body knew
that no comparison could be drawn; but Mary’s portfolio was that to
which the drawing-master referred Mr. Byerley with pride and
satisfaction; and with her did their foreign friend converse, in his own
language, upon the subjects nearest his heart. This was too mortifying
to be borne with patience; and in the midst of all her other business,
Mary was obliged to try to soothe her sister’s pettish temper, and to
conceal its infirmities, if possible, from her father. To do this
entirely was, however, impossible.
“I know how much you are engaged,” said he, on the morning when they
were to depart; “but I have omitted one thing which must be done, though
I cannot do it myself. Which of you will write a letter of business for
me?”
“Oh! the woman of business, to be sure,” said Anna, waving her hand at
Mary. “When you have a letter of a different sort—to Signor Elvi for
instance—to be written, let me do it; but I defer to Mary in matters of
business.”
“If Mary undertake the task of writing to my bailiff, she shall have the
pleasure of writing to my friend.”
“She will not thank you for it, sir.”
“She will, and Signor Elvi too. He knows what precious qualities are
necessary to constitute what you call a woman of business; and that such
qualities make the most faithful and the tenderest friend.”
Anna looked contemptuous.
“I should be pleased with your humility in deferring to your sister, if
I did not see that you despise the qualities you disclaim. I hope you
will meet with such experience as shall make you wiser and more
amiable.”
“My dear sir, I am in no wise inclined to quarrel with Mary for her
superior cleverness. She is quite welcome to it. I am content with my
lot—
‘The world forgetting, by the world forgot.’
Yes; I have no particular desire to be remembered by your bailiff or
your lawyer, even for writing about leases as well as if I had been a
very Nerissa—a lawyer’s clerk.”
“If you go on forgetting as you have done latterly, you will soon be
forgotten, to your heart’s content. You will be forgotten when Elvi sits
by his wife’s side, and tells his children of his faithful English
friends. You will be forgotten when your father stretches out his hand
from his death-bed to give his last blessing—or remembered in such a
manner that you will pray to be forgotten.”
“O papa!” cried Mary, imploringly. Anna burst into tears.
“You would ask for forgiveness, I see,” said her father, laying his hand
on her shoulder. “Your sister forgives you, as she is in the hourly
habit of doing; and so do I. Do not be in too great a hurry to forgive
yourself.”
Anna was in despair as he left the room; but before he returned, she had
apparently lost all remembrance of his rebuke and of its cause.