conceived of being exhibited as public spectacles had fixed in them such
a fear of being seen by any stranger, that the sound of a voice with
which they were not acquainted at the outside of the paling, or the
trampling of feet, would set them all a running behind the bushes to
hide themselves, like so many timorous partridges in a mew, hurrying
behind sheaves of corn for shelter; they even found a convenience in
their size, which, though it rendered them unwilling to be seen, enabled
them so easily to find places for concealment.
By degrees the ladies brought them to consent to see their head
servants, and some of the best people in the parish; desiring that to
render it more agreeable to their visitors, they would entertain them
with fruit and wine; advising them to assist their neighbours in plain
work; thus to endear themselves to them, and procure more frequent
visits, which as they chose to confine themselves within so narrow a
compass, and enjoyed but precarious health, their benefactresses thought
a necessary amusement. These recommendations, and the incidents
wherewith their former lives had furnished them to amuse their company,
and which they now could relate with pleasure, from the happy sense that
all mortifications were past, rendered their conversation much courted
among that rank of people.
It occurred to me that their dislike to being seen by numbers must
prevent their attendance on public worship, but my cousin informed me
that was thus avoided. There was in the church an old gallery, which
from disuse was grown out of repair; this the ladies caused to be
mended, and the front of it so heightened, that these little folks when
in it could not be seen; the tall ones contrived by stooping when they
were there not to appear of any extraordinary height. To this they were
conveyed in the ladies' coach and set down close to covered stairs,
which led up to the gallery.
This subject employed our conversation till we approached the hall; the
ladies then, after insisting that we should not think of going from
thence that day, all left us expect Mrs Maynard. It may seem strange
that I was not sorry for their departure; but, in truth, I was so filled
with astonishment at characters so new, and so curious to know by what
steps women thus qualified both by nature and fortune to have the world
almost at command, were brought thus to seclude themselves from it, and
make as it were a new one for themselves constituted on such very
different principles from that I had hitherto lived in, that I longed to
be alone with my cousin, in hopes I might from her receive some account
of this wonder. I soon made my curiosity known, and beseeched her to
gratify it.
'I see no good reason,' said she, 'why I should not comply with your
request, as my friends are above wishing to conceal any part of their
lives, though themselves are never the subject of their own
conversation. If they have had any follies they do not desire to hide
them; they have not pride enough to be hurt with candid criticisms, and
have too much innocence to fear any very severe censure. But as we did
not all reach this paradise at the same time, I shall begin with the
first inhabitants of, and indeed the founders of this society, Miss
Mancel and Mrs Morgan, who from their childhood have been so connected
that I could not, if I would, disunite them in my relation; and it would
be almost a sin to endeavour to separate them even in idea.'
We sat down in an arbour, whose shade invited us to seek there a defence
against the sun, which was then in its meridian, and shone with uncommon
heat. The woodbines, the roses, the jessamines, the pinks and above all,
the minionette with which it was surrounded, made the air one general
perfume; every breeze came loaded with fragrance, stealing and giving
odour. A rivulet ran bubbling by the side of the arbour, whose gentle
murmurs soothed the mind into composure, and seemed to hush us to
attention, when Mrs Maynard thus began to shew her readiness to comply
with my request.
THE
HISTORY
OF
Miss MANCEL
AND
Mrs MORGAN
You may perhaps think I am presuming on your patience when I lead you
into a nursery, or a boarding school; but the life of Louisa Mancel was
so early chequered with that various fate which gives this world the
motley appearance of joy and sorrow, pain and pleasure, that it is not
in my power to pass over the events of her infancy. I shall, however,
spare you all that is possible, and recommend her to your notice only
when she attracted the observation of Mr Hintman. This gentleman hearing
that a person who rented some land of him was come to London, and lodged
at one of those public houses which by the landlord is called an inn, at
the outskirts of London, on the Surrey side; and having some occasion to
speak to him, he went thither. The people of the house called the man Mr
Hintman enquired for, who immediately came downstairs, wiping tears from
his eyes; the continuance of which he could hardly restrain. Mr Hintman
asking the reason of those appearances of sorrow, the good-natured old
man told him, his visit had called him from a scene which had shocked
him excessively. 'The first day I came here' said he, 'I was induced by
the frequent groans which issued from the next chamber, to enquire who
lodged there; I learnt, it was a gentlewoman, who arrived the day
before, and was immediately taken so ill that they apprehended her life
in danger; and, about two hours ago, the maid of the house ran into my
room, begging me to come to her assistance, for the gentlewoman was in
such strong fits, she was not able to hold her. I obeyed the summons,
and found the poor woman in fits indeed; but what appeared to me the
last agonies of a life which, near exhausted, lavishes away its small
remains in strong convulsions.
'By her bedside stood the most beautiful child I ever beheld, in
appearance about ten years of age, crying as if its little heart would
break; not with the rage of an infant, but with the settled grief of a
person mature both in years and affliction. I asked her if the poor
dying woman was her mother; she told me, no--she was only her aunt; but
to her the same as a mother; and she did not know any one else that
would take care of her.
'After a time the poor woman's convulsions left her; she just recovered
sense enough to embrace the lovely girl, and cried out, Oh! my dear
child, what will become of you! a friendless, helpless infant; and
seeing me at her bedside, she lifted up her hands in a suppliant
posture; and with eyes that petitioned in stronger terms than words
could express, Oh! Sir, said she, though you are a stranger to me, yet I
see you are not so to humanity; take pity on this forlorn child; her
amiable disposition will repay you in this world, and the great Father
of us all will reward you in the next, for your compassion on a wretched
friendless girl! But why do I call her friendless? Her innocence has the
best of friends in heaven; the Almighty is a parent she is not left to
seek for; he is never absent;--Oh! blessed Lord! cried she, with a
degree of ecstasy and confidence which most sensibly affected us all, to
thy care I resign her; thy tender mercies are over all thy works, and
thou, who carest for the smallest part of thy creation, will not deny
her thy protection. Oh! Lord defend her innocence! Let her obtain a
place in thy kingdom after death; and for all the rest I submit to thy
providence; nor presumptuously pretend to dictate to supreme wisdom.
Thou art a gracious father and the afflictions thou sendest are.... Here
her voice failed her; but by her gestures we could perceive the
continued praying, and, having before taken the child in her arms the
little angel continued there for fear of disturbing her. By looks
sometimes turned towards the poor infant, and sometimes with her hand on
her own heart, and then her eyes lifted up as it were to heaven, we saw
she mixed prayers for the little mourner, with intercessions for
herself, till sense and motion seemed to fail her; she then fell into a
convulsion, and expired.
'The little girl perceived she was dead; and became almost as senseless
as the lump of clay which had so lately been her only friend. We had but
just taken her from the body, sir, when you came; and this was the
occasion of the emotions you observed in me.'
'The cause was indeed sufficient,' replied Mr Hintman, 'but I am glad
your sorrow proceeded from nothing more immediately concerning yourself.
Misery will strike its arrows into a humane heart; but the wounds it
makes are not so lasting, as those which are impressed by passions that
are more relative to ourselves.' 'Oh! sir,' said the old man, 'you
cannot form an adequate idea of the effect this scene must have on every
spectator, except you had seen the child! surely nature never formed so
lovely a little creature!' He continued his praises of Louisa, till at
length he excited Mr Hintman's curiosity; who expressing a desire of
seeing this miracle, he was carried up into the good man's room, to
which they had removed her. She, who had cried most bitterly before the
fatal stroke arrived, was now so oppressed, as not to be able to shed a
tear. They had put her on the bed, where she lay sighing with a heart
ready to break; her eyes fixed on one point, she neither saw nor heard.
Though her countenance expressed unutterable woe, yet she looked so
extremely beautiful, that Mr Hintman, highly as his expectation had
been raised, was struck with surprise. He allowed he never saw any thing
so lovely; and the charms of which her melancholy might deprive her,
were more than compensated in his imagination by so strong a proof of
extreme sensibility, at an age when few children perceive half the
dreadful consequences of such a misfortune.
He advised that she should be blooded, to prevent any ill effects from
so severe a shock; for as she felt it as strongly as one of a more
mature age, the same precautions should be used. In this he was obeyed;
and it gave her such relief that she burst into a flood of tears; a
change which appeared so salutary, that Mr Hintman would not immediately
interrupt her. But his curiosity did not suffer him long to forbear
asking her name, and many other particulars; several of which she could
not answer; all the account she was able to give of herself was, that
her name was Mancel, that the person for whom she grieved was her aunt;
but had had the sole care of her from her earliest remembrance. This
aunt, she said, had often told her she had a father and mother living;
but when she enquired why she never saw or heard from them she could get
no satisfactory answer, but was put off with being told they were not in
England; and that she should know when she grew older.
This person had bred her up with the utmost tenderness, and employed the
most assiduous care in her education; which was the principal object of
her attention. They had lived in a neat cottage in the most retired part
of Surrey from Miss Mancel's earliest remembrance, till her aunt, after
having been some time in a bad state of health, fell into a galloping
consumption. As soon as she apprehended the danger with which her life
was threatened, she prepared every thing for her removal to London; but
as she did not expect ever to return, this took more time than the
quickness of her decay could well allow. The hasty approach of her
dissolution affected her extremely on the account of her little niece,
and she often expressed her concern in terms intelligible to her who was
the occasion of it, who gathered from the expressions which fell from
her aunt, that the motive for the journey was to find out some of Miss
Mancel's relations, to whom she might deliver her before death had put
a period to her own life; and where she might safely remain till the
return of her parents into England.
In this resolution she discharged the only servant she kept, delivered
up her house to her landlord, and after having settled all her pecuniary
affairs, she set out on her journey with her little charge; but grew so
ill on the road that she desired to be set down at the first inn; and
her illness increased so fast she had no thought of removing; nor was
she able to make any very exact enquiries after the persons of whom she
came in search.
This account was interrupted with many tears, which served to render it
more affecting, and Mr Hintman, as much touched as the good old man who
was the occasion of his having heard it, agreed with him that it would
be proper to examine into the effects of which the deceased was then
possessed; and to see if they could find any paper which would in a
degree clear up the mysterious part of this affair.
This was accordingly performed; but as to the latter intention without
any success; for after all the examination they could make, they
remained as much in the dark as ever.
They found in her trunk rather more money than was requisite to bury her
in a manner becoming her rank; to defray the expenses of her sickness;
and to reward those that had attended her.
The old man expressed a willingness to take the child. He said it was a
legacy left him by one who had conceived some confidence in his
humanity, and he could not in conscience disappoint an opinion which did
him honour; though, having children of his own, he did not pretend to
breed her up in the genteel manner to which she seemed by birth
entitled.
Mr Hintman replied, that he should have great reason to reproach himself
if with the ample fortune he enjoyed, and having no children or family
to partake of it, he should suffer another to take that charge, to whom
it could not be so convenient; he therefore would immediately receive
her as his child; and see her educated in all accomplishments proper for
a young person of fashion and fortune; as he should be able to supply
all deficiency, if necessary, in the latter particular.
The old man was very glad to have the child better established than with
him; though he had for some hours looked with so much pleasure on her as
his adopted daughter, that no consideration, but the prospect of her
greater advantage, could have reconciled him to parting with her.
In pursuance of the resolution Mr Hintman had taken, he carried Miss
Mancel to a French boarding school which he had heard commended; very
prudently judging that his house was not a proper place for education,
having there no one fit to take care of a young person.
Louisa was so oppressed by the forlornness of her situation that she
felt none of that reluctance to going amongst strangers, so usual with
children of her age. All the world was equally unknown to her, therefore
she was indifferent where she was carried, only she rather wished not to
have been taken from the good old man whose venerable aspect, and
compassionate behaviour, had in some degree attached her to him; but she
felt the generosity of Mr Hintman's declared intentions; and, young as
she was, had too much delicacy to appear ungrateful by shewing an
unwillingness to accompany him. Mademoiselle d'Avaux, the mistress of
the school, was pleased with the appearance of her young scholar, whose
tears had ceased for some time; and her face bore no disfiguring signs
of sorrow; the dejection which overspread it giving charms equal to
those of which it robbed it.
Mr Hintman desired Mademoiselle d'Avaux to take the trouble of providing
Miss Mancel with all things requisite, and to put her in proper
mourning; those minute feminine details being things of which he was too
ignorant to acquit himself well; and gave strict charge that her mind
should be cultivated with the greatest care, and no accomplishment
omitted which she was capable of acquiring.
What contributed much towards gratifying this wish of Mr Hintman's was
Mademoiselle d'Avaux's house being so full, that there was no room for
Louisa, but a share of the apartment which Miss Melvyn had hitherto
enjoyed alone, and of which she could not willingly have admitted any
one to partake but the lovely child who was presented to her for this
purpose. Her beautiful form prejudiced everyone in her favour; but the
distress and sorrow which were impressed on her countenance, at an age
generally too volatile and thoughtless to be deeply affected, could not
fail of exciting a tender sensibility in the heart of a person of Miss
Melvyn's disposition.
This young lady was of a very peculiar turn of mind. She had been the
darling daughter of Sir Charles and Lady Melvyn, whose attachment to her
had appeared equal; but, in the former, it was rather the result of
habit and compliance with Lady Melvyn's behaviour than a deep-rooted
affection, of which his heart was not very susceptible; while Lady
Melvyn's arose from that entire fondness which maternal love and the
most distinguishing reason could excite in the warmest and tenderest of
hearts.
Sir Charles was an easy-tempered, weak man who gave no proof of good
sense but the secret deference he had to his wife's judgement, whose
very superior understanding was on nothing so assiduously employed as in
giving consequence to the man with whom she was united, by the desire of
her parents, contrary to her inclination. Their authority had been
necessary to reduce her to compliance, not from any particular dislike
to Sir Charles, who had deservedly the reputation of sobriety and great
good nature and whose person was remarkably fine; but Lady Melvyn
perceived the weakness of his understanding and, ignorant of the
strength of her own, was unwilling to enter into life without a guide
whose judgement was equal to the desire he might naturally be supposed
to have to direct her right, through all the various paths in which she
might be obliged to walk; an assistance she had always expected from a
husband; and thought even a necessary part of that character. She was
besides sensible of the difficulty of performing a promise so solemnly
made, as that of honour and obedience to one who, though she knew not
half her own excellence, she must be sensible was her inferior.
These reasons had deterred Lady Melvyn from marrying Sir Charles, but
when she could no longer avoid it without violating her duty to her
parents, she resolved to supply the apparent deficiencies in her
husband's understanding by a most respectful deference to his opinions,
thus conferring distinction on him whom she wished everyone to esteem
and honour; for as there was no affectation in this part of her conduct,
any more than in the rest of her behaviour, all were convinced that the
man who was respected by a woman of an understanding so superior to most
of her own sex, and the greatest part of the other, must have great
merit, though they could not perceive wherein it consisted.
In company Lady Melvyn always endeavoured to turn the conversation on
such subjects as she know were best suited to Sir Charles's capacity,
more desirous that he should appear to advantage than to display her own
talents. She contrived to make all her actions appear the result of his
choice, and whatever he did by her instigation seemed even to himself to
have been his own thought. As their way of life was in every
circumstance consonant to reason, religion, and every virtue which could
render them useful and respectable to others, Sir Charles acquired a
character in the neighbourhood which Lady Melvyn thought a sufficient
reward for the endeavours she used to secure it to him; and, for that
purpose, fixed her abode entirely in the country, where his conduct
might give him the respect which would not be so easily obtained in a
gayer scene, where talents are in higher estimation than virtue.
Sir Charles and Lady Melvyn had no other child than the daughter I have
mentioned, whose education was her mother's great care; and she had the
pleasure of seeing in her an uncommon capacity, with every virtue the
fondest parent could wish; and which indeed she had by inheritance; but
her mother's humility made them appear to her as a peculiar gift of
providence to her daughter.
Lady Melvyn soon began to instil all the principles of true religion
into her daughter's infant mind; and, by her judicious instructions,
gave her knowledge far superior to her years; which was indeed the most
delightful task of this fond parent; for her daughter's uncommon
docility and quick parts, continually stimulated by her tenderness for
the best of mothers, made her improve even beyond Lady Melvyn's
expectation.
In this happy situation Miss Melvyn continued till near the end of her
fourteenth year, when she had the misfortune to lose this excellent
parent, nor was she the only sufferer by Lady Melvyn's death; every poor
person within her knowledge lost a benefactress; all who knew her, an
excellent example; and, some, the best of friends; but her extraordinary
merit was but imperfectly known till after her decease; for she had made
Sir Charles appear so much the principal person, and director of all
their affairs; that till the change in his conduct proved how great her
influence had been, she had only shared the approbation, which,
afterwards, became all her own.
Human nature cannot feel a deeper affliction than now overwhelmed Miss
Melvyn; wherein Sir Charles bore as great a share, as the easiness of
his nature was capable of; but his heart was not susceptible, either of
strong or lasting impressions. He walked in the path Lady Melvyn had
traced out for him; and suffered his daughter to imitate her mother in
benevolent duties; and she had profited too much by the excellent
pattern, whereby she had endeavoured to regulate her actions, not to
acquit herself far beyond what could have been expected at her years.
Miss Melvyn was not long indulged in the only consolation her grief
could receive--that of being permitted to aim at an imitation of her
mother--for Sir Charles had not been a widower quite a year when he
married a young lady in the neighbourhood who had designed him this
honour from the hour of Lady Melvyn's death; and to procure better
opportunity for affecting her purpose had pretended a most affectionate
compassion for Miss Melvyn's deep affliction; she visited her
continually; and appeared so tenderly attached to her that Miss Melvyn,
who had neither experience nor any guile in her own heart to inspire her
with suspicions of an attempt to deceive her, made that return of
affection which she thought gratitude required; nor was she at all
disturbed when she found she was soon to look on this lady in another
light than that in which she had hitherto seen her; it was easy for her
to respect one whom she before loved; and she had been taught so true a
veneration for her father, that she felt no averseness to obey
whomsoever he thought proper to give a title to her duty.
Miss Melvyn had but very little time to congratulate herself on having
acquired for a mother a friend in whose conversation she hoped to enjoy
great satisfaction and to feel the tenderness of an intimate changed
into the fondness of a parent. She behaved to her with the same perfect
respect, and all the humility of obedience, as if nature had placed her
in that parental relation; fearing, if she gave way to the familiarity
which had subsisted between them when they were on an equality, it might
appear like a failure in the reverence due to her new situation.
But this behaviour, amiable as it was, could not make the new Lady
Melvyn change the plan she had formed for her future conduct. She had
not been married above a month before she began to intimate to Sir
Charles that Miss Melvyn's education had been very imperfect; that a
young lady of her rank ought to be highly accomplished; but that after
she had been so long indulged by her parents, if a step-mother were to
pretend to direct her it might not only exasperate Miss Melvyn but
prejudice the world against herself; as people are too apt to determine
against persons in that relation, without examining the merits of the
cause; and though, she said, she was little concerned about the opinion
of the world in comparison with her tender regard for any one that
belonged to him; yet she was much influenced by the other reasons she
had alleged for not appearing to dictate to Miss Melvyn, being very
desirous of keeping on affectionate terms with her; and she was already
much mortified at perceiving that young lady had imbibed too many of the
vulgar prejudices against a step-mother; though, for her part, she had
endeavoured to behave with submission to her daughter, instead of
pretending to assume any authority. The consequence and conclusion of
all these insinuations was, that 'it would be advisable to send Miss
Melvyn to a boarding school.'