“So you see,” said he, laughing triumphantly, “we literary people _are_
the practical ones, after all!”
“Mrs. Ringwood must be much obliged to you,” said I, “for so promptly
carrying out her wishes.”
“Yes,” said he, drumming on his hat; “but I own I don’t see that I ought
to be expected to do everything in my office and out of it too. A man, or
even a woman, who fills the housekeeping purse, ought not to be liable to
every other branch of bother.”
I thought with him, but only observed, that where there was one clever
head in the family, the others might accustom themselves, unconsciously,
to depend too much on it.
“I believe you are right,” said he, stroking the important member in
question with a thoughtful air as he spoke. “I spoilt Emma myself in the
first instance—instead of remonstrating when I should have done so, about
one little matter and another. The consequence is—— No matter; but we
shall _never_ get straight now—never, never! I utterly despair of it.”
“Ah, you are too sensible to do that! To make the best of untoward
circumstances, even if they result from our own fault, is not only more
prudent, but more noble, than to sit down in Ugolino-like despair.”
“‘Ugolino-like’ is the light in that sentence!” said he. “Excuse me, but
you know I make a business of these things, and often have to insert them
in heavy articles. That phrase will fix your saying in my memory, and I
will endeavour to act upon it too—without which I know you won’t care a
half-penny for my remembering, or even quoting it. Ah, Mrs. Cheerlove,
you owe the world something from your pen. Why not try?” in a tone
intended to be very insinuating.
“There are plenty in the field already,” said I.
“Plenty, such as they _are_,” responded he. “Plenty—and too many! Oh, if
you knew the curiosities of literature that I hand over to my subeditor!
Now, I’ll read you a _morçeau_ I received this morning. I think I might
_defy_ you to make anything like it. The subject is the fancy bazaar our
ladies are going to hold at Willington:—
“‘Come to Willington bazaar!
Enter, neighbours, near and far.
Pure delightsome harmony
Welcomes all friends cheerily;
Crops of pretty useful things,
Philanthropy to market brings;
Sympathy with ardour buys,
What industrial zeal supplies!’
Do you think you could have done that? No, I’m sure you couldn’t!”
And, in excellent humour with himself and with me, he took leave, waving
his hand towards the book-case as he went, and saying:—
“An elegant sufficiency! content,
Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books,
Progressive virtue, and approving heaven!”
* * * * *
Guido Sorelli beautifully says, “I learn the depth to which I have sunk,
from the length of chain let down to updraw me.” Without inquiring into
his wisdom in publishing his “Confessions,” (written for the public,
apparently, and _not_ for Silvio Pellico), they certainly have, as he
says, a tendency to bring the reader to “a saddening contemplation of his
own heart.” This sensitive Italian was converted by the Bible, which he,
in the first instance, read for an hour daily, and completely perused in
three months; never opening it without first praying for humility. Nor
did he ever commence his daily seven hours’ task of translating “Paradise
Lost,” without imploring divine assistance; and the last four years of
his ten years’ labour of love, “bore the impress,” he tells us, “of
a happiness almost beatific.” Such are the silent, satisfying rewards
which high and virtuous art bestows on her children, wholly independent
of fame or emulation. Like the exquisite _fanatico per la musica_, in La
Motte Fouquè’s “Violina,” they “carry on their labour as a sweet secret,
hardly knowing at the time whether they shall ever feel inclined to
make it known.” The “last infirmity of noble minds,” is their seeking
the confirmatory sentence of some master-spirit, whom the voice of the
world, and their own cordial acknowledgment, place far above themselves.
All beyond this opens the door to rivalry and uneasiness. Once know that
you do a thing well, and the calm pleasure needs not to be augmented by
everybody’s owning it.
* * * * *
If a botanist ranges over an entire meadow, and find one or two new
specimens, he thinks his labour not in vain. And if I find one or two
noteworthy passages in a book, I am glad I have read it. Here, now, is
the life of Pollok. What true soul of art has not experienced, at some
period of its existence, the depression and despondency, the suspicion of
its own self-delusion, thus expressed by the young Scottish poet?—
“The ideas,” he says, “which I had collected at pleasure, and which
I reckoned peculiarly my own, were dropping away one after another.
Fancy was returning from her flight—memory giving up her trust; what
was vigorous becoming weak, and what was cheerful and active, dull
and indolent.” And yet he was at this time on the brink of writing an
immortal poem! One December night, sitting alone in his lodgings in great
desolation of mind, he, to turn his thoughts from himself, took up the
first book within reach, which happened to be Hartley’s “Oratory.” He
opened on Lord Byron’s “Darkness,” and had not read far when he thought
he could write something to the purpose on the subject of the general
resurrection. After revolving his ideas a little, he struck off about a
thousand lines—the now well-known passage, beginning,—
“In ’customed glory bright!”
Soon afterwards he wrote to his brother, that “he had lately been
soaring in the pure ether of eternity, and linking his thoughts to the
Everlasting Throne!” “And I knew,” says his brother, “that he had now
found a subject to write on.” “May the eternal and infinite Spirit,”
wrote this sympathizing brother in return, “inform your soul with an
immortal argument, and enable you to conduct it to your own happiness in
time, and blessedness in eternity; and to His praise, honour, and glory
for ever!”
Soon after this, Robert returned to his father’s humble dwelling, at
Moorhouse, where he continued his poem, but without any definite plan.
“One night, sitting alone in an old room, and letting his mind wander
backward and forward over things at large, in a moment, as if by an
immediate inspiration, the idea of the poem struck him; and the plan of
it, as it now stands, stretched out before him, so that at one glance he
saw through it from end to end like an avenue. He never felt, he said, as
he did then; and he shook from head to foot.”
* * * * *
How soon September has come! The roses are now nearly all over; but
the ram’s-head border I had cut in the grass-plat last spring is gay
with fuchsias, verbenas, geraniums, and balsams. Miss Burt, who has no
garden of her own, comes now and then to expend, as she says, some of
her superfluous energies, in raking and hoeing my garden, while I sit
near her in a light wicker chair, and watch her proceedings. She became
tired of her cockatoo about a month after her return, and made a present
of it to Mrs. Grove. The cockatoo thus shared the fate of a certain fine
cucumber, which I remember being passed from house to house one autumn,
till at length somebody was found who liked it.
Mrs. Pevensey’s gardener’s boy brought me a delicate little griskin this
morning, to show me that, though out of sight, I am not out of mind. I am
reading a curious little tale Mrs. Pevensey lent me, called “Agathonia,”
about the Colossus of Rhodes. The style is inflated rather than grand,
which makes the incidents appear less grand than inflated; but yet, I am
struck with the story, which, picturesquely enough, opens thus:—
Three weather-worn brigantines, belonging to Ben Shedad the Jew, are
anchored in the harbour of Rhodes, to carry off a hundred brazen statues,
the masterpieces of Lysippus and Chares, as well as the renowned
Colossus, whose remains have for nine centuries encumbered the arsenal.
The bastions are crowded with victorious Saracens—not a Rhodian is
to be seen among them; the island has been conquered and humiliated,
its temples razed, its churches defiled, its vineyards rooted up, its
population maltreated, and, to conclude, its works of art sold to the
Jews.
As Ben-Shedad and his crew are proceeding to the spot where the prostrate
Colossus lies embedded in sand and rushes, one of the Jews attempts to
propitiate Velid, son of the emir of Rhodes, by kissing the hem of his
garment. The young man shrinks from him in disgust, and, turning to his
friend Al Maimoun, asks whether artizans might not have been found on
the island who might have removed the statue without its being polluted
by the touch of an accursed race. Al Maimoun replies, that certainly the
camp of the faithful might have supplied workmen; and Velid rejoins, that
were he not compelled to respect the contract, his soldiers should pitch
the Hebrews into the harbour.
Meantime, the attention of the Saracen bystanders, who have been
deriding and cursing the Jews, is diverted towards another party slowly
approaching the Colossus, consisting of an Ascalonian soldier of the
emir’s, three Rhodians, and a tall, grizzled Numidian, who bear a
closely-curtained litter, which is accompanied by two veiled females.
One of the women stoops with age, but the other is slender and graceful
as a young roe. The crowd divides before them; and, when they reach the
fallen Colossus, the Rhodians pause, and, the litter-curtains being drawn
back, disclose the venerable grey head of an old man, spiritual as an
apostle, mild as a sage, who gazes long on the Colossus, lit up by the
setting sun, and then sinks back and weeps.
All this is very vivid and touching.
* * * * *
A vague, but terrible report has reached me,—I fervently hope it may not
be true,—that a dreadful accident has happened to the Pevenseys somewhere
abroad. Phillis heard it of the baker. I am on thorns, while waiting for
more particulars. This October has set in wet; the rain has fallen fast
all the morning, and I cannot send out for the donkey-chair, nor spare
Phillis to go out and make inquiries; nor is a creature likely to call.
Miss Secker has just been here. She says the report came from the Stone
House. Mr. Pevensey had written some hurried orders to the steward,
saying Mrs. Pevensey, in crossing the _Mer de Glace_, had fallen through
a _crevasse_, and, with difficulty, had been drawn up with ropes, alive,
but nearly dashed to pieces. Oh, melancholy news! the mother of so large
a family! so kind a neighbour! so admirable a wife! so charitable and
exemplary in the various relations of life! What a loss she will be,
should she not recover! Meanwhile, what responsibility devolves upon poor
Arbell, her sole nurse! It is enough to put a grey head on her young
shoulders.
* * * * *
This morning, I could not rest till I was off in the donkey-chair to call
on Mrs. Prout, and inquire whether she had heard anything from Emily.
The post had just come in; I found them in tears over Arbell’s letter,
inclosed to them by Emily. It was written at her mother’s bedside, in the
little parsonage of a Swiss _pasteur_.
Poor mamma, she wrote, was taken out more dead than alive. The guides,
who were all goodness, made a kind of litter for her with their poles
and ropes, and threw their jackets over it. But when papa lifted her on
it, she thrilled all over, like a little bird that had fallen out of its
nest; and Arbell turned her head away, for it made her feel quite sick.
So then, as the litter shook her so much, they only took her at first to
the nearest _châlet_, where there was a very kind _bergere_, and where
they laid her on the heaps of hay for the cows; and a guide ran off to
the inn for an English doctor, whose name they happened to have seen on
the travellers’ book.
Meanwhile, poor mamma lay quite still; but her face was very cold. And
once, when Arbell softly wiped the damp off it, and kissed her white
lips, she whispered, “Good girl—dear Arbell!” so that she was ready to
burst into tears, but knew she must not. And when the guide came back,
he said the English doctor had gone up Mont Blanc; and Arbell could not
help thinking, how stupid and wicked it was of him, to be running after
such nonsense when he had better have been minding his own business.
However, he brought back mamma’s maid, Kent, and a famous mountain
doctor, who ordered a sheep to be killed, and mamma to be immediately
wrapped in its skin, which they did. And, directly afterwards, a most
benevolent-looking _pasteur_ (such another as Oberlin must have been!)
came in, with a face of kind concern; and, after a few words with papa,
it was arranged that the guides should carry mamma, who seemed in a
stupor, to the _pasteur’s_ house, which was close at hand, and much
quieter than the inn. So they did so; Arbell holding her vinaigrette
to mamma’s nose all the way, though she could not be quite sure it was
of any use. When they got there, such a neat old housekeeper came out,
quite a Louise Schepler; for the _pasteur_, like Oberlin, was a widower.
But he had no children, which was all the better, because the house was
all the quieter. So they took dear mamma into the best bed-room, where
everything was very poor and scanty, but very clean; and just then, the
English doctor arrived, who had only gone a little way up the mountain
after all, and, strange to say! had turned back under an unaccountable
impression that he was wanted. And he said, as mamma was in the skin,
she might as well remain in it, though it was queer practice; and then he
gave her a very strong restorative from the _pasteur’s_ medicine-chest,
which made her open her eyes and look slowly round, without turning her
head; and then he said “You’ll do, my dear madam, now;” and nodded and
smiled, and went off talking to papa quite cheerfully. But, oh! he was
quite mistaken; for, as soon as the effect of the restorative subsided,
mamma felt herself rapidly sinking, and told papa she knew she was going
to die. Then poor papa, who had returned quite hopeful, lost all his
courage again, and cried bitterly; and called the _pasteur_, who came in,
and knelt down, and offered, oh! such a heavenly prayer! Even Kent, who
understood not one word of it, said the very _tone_ was prayer. He began
“_Seigneur!_”—and then made a great stop—and then began again, “Seigneur!
Holy and just are all thy ways! Who shall not magnify thee, O God most
holy?” And then went on. Arbell’s head was too confused for her to retain
it in her memory, but it sank into her heart, and seemed to carry her up
to heaven, quite away from all earthly, vexing cares. And when they rose
from their knees, dear mamma was asleep, and slept for hours! Meanwhile,
papa got some very strong jelly from the inn, and when she woke, he or
Kent gave her a spoonful of it from time to time, which she seemed to
like; for, when she wanted more, she opened her lips without speaking;
and Arbell or Kent watched her lips all night long, taking it by turns
to sleep a little on the ground. Poor papa got a little rest in the
easy-chair in the parlour. The doctor—Dr. Thorpe—had come very early in
the morning, and twice more in the course of the day, and was excessively
kind, though at first he had seemed rather _brusque_. He said all the
travellers, inn-people, and guides were deeply interested in mamma, and
prayers were being offered up. (Poor Arbell’s writing was here smeared
with tears). An English lady had sent Arbell a little text-book, which
was a great comfort to her, and so were many hymns she remembered; but
she had her little diamond Bible in her pocket already; there were
parts in it that she thought she should never be able to read hereafter
without their bringing to mind that little whitewashed room, with table,
chairs, and drawers painted sea-green, and cold, uncarpeted floor. She
was going to bed that night—papa insisted on it; but at four o’clock Kent
would change places with her; the _pasteur_ was going to sleep in the
easy-chair. She would soon write to dear Miss Prout again.
Thus ended poor Arbell’s letter. What depths of new experience had she
sounded in a few hours! I could not help thinking of those beautiful
words of the prophet Hosea, “Come, let us return unto the Lord; for He
hath torn, and He will heal us; He hath smitten, and He will bind us up.”
I felt an impression that it would be so in this instance.
The Pevenseys had been what people might call a _moderately_ religious
family; but without much devotional feeling apparent among them. Mrs.
Pevensey was a churchwoman; her husband had been brought up among
dissenters; Mademoiselle Foularde was a Roman Catholic; and each had such
a well-bred respect for what they deemed the prejudices of one another,
that I had sometimes feared it tended to a little indifferentism in
practice. But what right had I to judge of others? To their own Master
they would stand or fall.
“Motives are all, in Heaven’s impartial eye,
But ’tis not ours to doubt and give the lie;
Let each give credit to his neighbour’s share,
But analyse his own with utmost care.”[4]
How many afflicting thoughts must have passed through poor Mrs.
Pevensey’s mind, as she silently lay, hour after hour, sewn up in her
sheep-skin! I thought she must have needed _more_ than the fortitude of a
Roman matron; _nothing_ could have given her composure commensurate with
her need of it, under such circumstances, but the submission and faith of
a Christian. This trial, so afflictive at the time, might yet hereafter
be reverted to as the crowning mercy of her life, by having led her to
more complete subjection to the will of her heavenly Father.
* * * * *
Margaret Prout came in this morning, looking so pleased that I concluded
she had fresh and better news of Mrs. Pevensey. But no—she had only a
letter from Harry, and a note from Emily. I begged she would read me
Emily’s first, which she did. Emily said that immediately on hearing of
what had happened, Mrs. Pevensey’s maiden sister,—who goes among the
young people by the name of Aunt Catherine,—packed up bag and baggage,
got a passport and bills of exchange, and started off with a courier
for the scene of affliction. What a comfort she will be to them all!
Many would have shilly-shallied, and written to ask whether they were
wanted, and looked about for an escort, and awaited a quiet sea for
crossing, and nobody knows what, till the real day of need had passed.
That is not Aunt Catherine’s way. “What thou doest, do quickly,” has,
throughout her life, been to her a precept of Divine obligation. She
does not do things hurriedly—all in a scramble, so as to be twitted with
“most haste, worse speed,” by people less energetic than herself; but
she does them _at once_; consequently, she does them efficiently; while
her ardour, uncooled, supports her through the undertaking, and makes
her insensible of half the difficulty. I always regard this as a very
fine element in her character. Aunt Kate does not look twice at a pill
before she takes it; nor lose the post for want of finishing a letter
in good time; nor send a cheque to be cashed at the county-bank after
office-hours. She is never likely to be short of postage-stamps, or of
money for current expenses, or to leave small debts unpaid, or small
obligations uncancelled, and then to content herself with saying, “Oh,
I forgot that!” There is no one on whom I should more surely rely for
knowing, in a common-sense, unprofessional way, not only what remedy to
take for any illness, or what measures to resort to in case of a burn,
scald, or fractured limb, but what antidote to administer for any poison
accidentally taken—whether hot brandy-and-water for prussic acid, milk
for vitriol, or an emetic for opium, followed by draughts of vinegar
and water—thus preparing the way for the doctor she had lost no time in
summoning, but who might not be able instantly to answer her summons.
Such a maiden sister as this in a large family household is invaluable.
Nor does Miss Pevensey deteriorate the price set on her sterling
qualities by acerbity, or bluff or snappish manners. On the contrary,
she is cordial and easily contented—always ready to take, without saying
anything to anybody, the least-envied seat in a carriage, or at table,
or in church, willing to sleep in the room with the chimney that smokes,
and to have the windows open or the doors shut, to suit her companions;
though, of course, she has her preferences. And all this without the
least servility—which, indeed, would be strangely purposeless, for she is
in independent circumstances.
She is a small, thin woman, not in the least pretty; but excessively neat
in her apparel, and quite the gentlewoman; with a cheerful, sprightly
manner, so that most people like her. She is not single because no one
ever asked her to marry. She has grey eyes, an aquiline nose, thin lips,
and wavy brown hair, banded under an airy little cap. You would seldom
wish to have a dress off the same piece with her cheap, thin silks; but
they are always fresh, and well made, and you see directly that they suit
her exactly, and that what you are wearing would not suit her at all. I
have not seen much of her, but what I have seen, I have liked.
Harry’s letter was capital. He had been with the Whitgraves to Hampton
Court, and after seeing the pictures, the maze, &c., they had dined on
the grass in Bushy Park. It had freshened him up for a week. And Mr.
Whitgrave had gone with him to the National Gallery, and told him what
to admire, _and why_. And Mrs. and Miss Welsh had accompanied him to the
British Museum, where they had spent a whole afternoon over the Assyrian
Marbles.
“Only think,” he wrote, “of our looking at the very Bel and Nebo
mentioned in the prophecies of Isaiah! ‘Bel boweth down, Nebo stoopeth,’
&c.,[5]—which they _did_, when they were taken from their pedestals by
the victorious enemy. Do you know, that when Babylon was taken by the
Persians, these two images were carried before the conquerors? Only think
of their finding their way to the British Museum! There is old Nebo, with
folded hands, and with an inscription on the hem of his garment, telling
us (now we can read the cuneiform letters) that he was carved and erected
by a sculptor of Nimroud, in the days of Semiramis, Queen of Assyria. As
I gazed on it, I could not help thinking, ‘Truly, _this_ is poetry, and
history too!’ It now turns out that the famous Semiramis was not the wife
of Ninus, but of King Pul, mentioned in the Old Testament; and that she
did not live, as has been commonly supposed, two thousand years before
the Christian era, but only eight hundred: which brings the date within
a hundred years of that given by Herodotus, so long called ‘the father
of lies,’ by people who would not, or could not, examine for themselves,
but whose veracity is being more and more established every day by the
researches of the learned. Of course, as a good deal of his information
was picked up from hearsay, he was liable to occasional errors, like
other people; but he seems to have been a careful, painstaking man, who
went from place to place to collect information on the spot wherever he
could; which was certainly a good deal more creditable way of gathering
materials for a history, than that of many modern writers, who merely
collect a few books around them in their study, and write out, day by
day, what has been written in pretty nearly the same words many times
before.”
I thought this passage of Harry’s letter to Emily (who had inclosed it to
Margaret) so interesting, that I asked and obtained permission to copy
it. How good a thing it is when brothers and sisters write in this free,
communicative way to one another! not merely pouring out their feelings,
but taking the trouble to express thoughts, and thereby brightening and
polishing the best properties of their minds by collision. The present
Dean of Carlisle says, that he has known young men at college wholly
restrained from vice, simply by the hallowed and blessed influence of
their sisters.[6]
* * * * *
Arbell has again been heard from. Aunt Catherine had safely arrived, and
they were all so glad to see her! Also an eminent English surgeon, who
had been telegraphed for, and who accidentally, or rather providentially,
crossed in the same steamer, and, seeing the name of “Miss Pevensey”
on her carpet-bag, immediately introduced himself to her, and took
care of her all the rest of the way. This was an immense advantage to
Miss Pevensey, who speaks very indifferent French, and who, without
a courier, could not have got on at all: besides, he prevented her
thoughts from dwelling on one painful subject all the way, and told her
several instances of remarkable recoveries, which greatly cheered her.
He, on his part, was glad to get some idea of what sort of people they
were who had sent for him, and became interested in Miss Pevensey’s
account of her sister-in-law’s character and responsibilities. When
they arrived at the _pasteur’s_, Arbell said she was so glad to see
her aunt, that she could not help the tears running down her face. Sir
Benjamin pronounced dear mamma to be going on quite favourably; indeed,
he thought her progress, as far as it went, almost miraculous; and said
it showed that mountain-practice was not altogether to be despised. They
were going to begin their homeward journey by very easy stages, as soon
as an invalid litter could be constructed according to Sir Benjamin’s
directions, which would shake dear mamma as little as possible. They
could not think how they could ever be sufficiently grateful for M.
Peyranet’s goodness—the only way in which papa thought he could show a
sense of it was, by giving largely to his poor.
* * * * *
The harriers and stag-hounds are out this fine November morning; and I
see hunters in green coats and red winding down the steep chalky sides
of the hill; while men, boys, dogs, and cattle all seem animated by the
spirit of the chase—the cows and horses galloping round the meadows in
search of some outlet from their confinement. Certainly, the distant horn
does sound enlivening. For the poor hare there is no hope of mercy; but
the stag has been so often turned out, that I hardly think he can believe
himself in much danger. There he goes! I was cockney enough to mistake
him at first for a donkey! How gracefully he cleared the gate! Off he
goes, at a rocking-horse sort of pace. He will give them a good run yet.
The trees are now as many-hued as Joseph’s coat of divers colours—orange,
golden, lemon colour, every shade of green, brown, and mulberry, some
cherry red; but few trees, except the walnuts, are quite leafless. The
pigs, with eager snouts, are grubbing for acorns around the oaks,—off
they trot, except one, to a new locality; he is too busy to note them,
till suddenly looking up, it seems to strike him, “_Can_ they be doing
better than I am?” and off he posts for his share of the spoils.
How much one may see from a window! I can descry long wavy sheets of
gossamer, glittering with dew, shimmering in the air—the most exquisite
texture conceivable, fit for the wedding-veil of the fairy-queen!
The walnut-trees have been threshed; the wild-geese have flown home;
the swallows flew off on the 21st of September. Many garden-flowers
yet linger; but wild-flowers are reduced to a pitiful array, chiefly
comprising daisies, yarrow, ragwort, and furze. Bright days are becoming
fewer and fewer; but we had a fine Fifth of November, and I saw a rustic
Guy Fawkes set down in the middle of the road by a party of merry lads,
that they might scramble over a gate and race after a squirrel. The
skylark and thrush have not yet quite forsaken us, but our principal
songster is the robin, who pipes away most merrily.
In one of Mary Russell Mitford’s fairy-like notes to me, written within
three weeks of her death, she says, “I am sometimes wheeled from my
fire-side to the window; and, about a month ago, a red-breast came to
that window and tapped. Of course, we answered the appeal by fixing a
little tray outside the window-sill, and keeping it well supplied with
bread crumbs; and now he not only comes himself, but has introduced his
kinsfolk and friends. Think how great a pleasure!”
* * * * *
No news of the Pevenseys’ return; but they must be slowly nearing home,
unless any fresh causes of delay have occurred. Winter is stealing
imperceptibly upon us; November has slipped away, and December has
arrived, almost without the change being felt.
We speak of the merry month of May, and why not of the merry month of
December? Well, there is an answer to that question; but, before I give
it, I will consider what may be said on the bright side. True it is, that
many of nature’s processes are now veiled from human sight; but not less
true is it that they are secretly progressing. The seed-corn is garnered
in the earth; the earth itself in many spots is sweetening; the leafless
trees are preparing to burst into verdure next spring; and, had we power
to observe what is going on in their secret vessels, how much should
we find to delight and surprise us! what multitudes of contrivances of
which we have no knowledge, and even too delicate and complex to be
comprehended! Meanwhile, many of the trees, when unlopped, have forms
so beautiful as to present a delicate tracery, reminding one of black
lace (though that is a miserable comparison), when seen in the distance
against the clear, grey sky. There is little to do in the field; but the
flail resounds noisily within the barn; and the horses and cattle enjoy
the comfortable warmth of the straw-yard. Then, within-doors, how snug
and sociable is the fire-side! How the solitary enjoy the book, and the
domestic party the long talks they had no leisure for in the summer!
Christmas is coming; and is not that season proverbially merry, save
where there is some sad domestic bereavement or affliction? How gay the
shops are! with winter fabrics, and warm furs, and brilliant ribbons;
with jolly sirloins, plump poultry, heaps of golden oranges, rosy apples,
and all kinds of winter fruit! How gladly we think that the young folks
will soon come home for the holidays! “I call to mind,” says the genial
Southey,
“The schoolboy days, when, in the falling leaves
I saw, with eager hope, the pleasant sign
Of coming Christmas; when at morn I took
My wooden calendar, and counting up
Once more its often-told account, smoothed off
Each day, with more delight, the daily notch.”
Dearly do schoolboys love a hard winter, because it brings sliding, and
skating, and snowballing in its train. Is not December, then, a merry
month? Well, there is a reverse to the picture. In the first place, we
poor, creaky invalids feel his cold touch in every joint, and at every
shortening breath drawn from our wheezing chests, and very early in the
month get shut up by the peremptory doctor; unless, indeed, we are too
poor to be laid aside from the active toil that wins daily bread. Let the
invalid with every comfort around her, think of those who have neither
warm fires, nor warm clothing, nor warm bedding, nor warm food. See their
sad, pinched faces, shrinking forms, chilblained hands, and ill-protected
feet; think of their desolate dwellings, where the rain drips through the
roof, where the broken pane is stuffed with rags, and where, for many
hours daily, no fire burns on the hearth; and then refuse them sympathy
and aid if you are not of the same flesh and blood, children of the
same Creator! Oh, the time is drawing near when we may indeed warm our
own hearts by warming the bodies of others! by putting shoes with warm
stockings on bare feet, thick tweed on shoulders, and flannel on chests,
coals in the grate, and wholesome, nourishing food on the table! Here is
our encouragement—“And thou shalt be blessed; for they cannot recompense
thee, but thou shalt be recompensed at the resurrection of the just.”
As I look up from my writing on this 4th of December, I see a blue,
cloudless sky shining above steep, chalky hills that are clothed with
the short, sweet turf loved by sheep, below which are green meadows,
cut with dykes, to drain them during the winter; leafless hedges and
scattered clumps of trees, principally oaks, still clad in a good many
yellow leaves. The tiled roofs of many scattered cottages in the lanes
are now visible, that cannot be seen in the summer: all looks bright and
cheerful. Such is hardly a scene to remind one of the real severity of
winter:—
“When all abroad the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian’s nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
When nightly sings the staring owl,
‘Tu-whit! tu-whoo!’ a dismal note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.”
For my part, I like hearing the owl; perhaps because Shakspere has linked
it with immortal verse. Dismal it is, I suppose—something like the
forlorn cry of a belated traveller for assistance: its association with
darkness and horror makes more vivid the contrast of the light twinkling
through the casement, the crab-apples roasting and sputtering as they are
popped, scalding hot, into the wassail-bowl, and Mrs. Joan’s assurance
to the hospitable host that she has had “quite enough,” and has quite
emptied her mug, to verity which, she turns it topsy-turvy—top-side
t’other way.
* * * * *
Down comes the rain!—and enters Miss Burt with dripping umbrella, and
dress hooked in festoons above her ancles, to tell me the Pevenseys
reach home to-day. She is full of the news, and has carried it on to the
Seckers.
What a cheerless, wretched afternoon! Rain, rain, go to Spain! What
matter? Home is home, be it ever so homely,—and the Stone House is
anything but that, I am told—for I have never been within it. Mrs.
Pevensey’s first call was during my illness. How fresh and blooming she
looked! I had heard of her numerous family, but not of her personal
appearance—she did not visit any one I then knew, and I was unprepared
for her sweet face and charming manners. She seemed to enter like a
stream of sunshine, or like Una into the dark cottage of Abbessa. How
kind, how good she was!—she thought she could never do enough for me.
And now she is ill herself—crippled, shattered perhaps for life, though
comparatively restored; as motionless, I am told, as a figure on an
altar-tomb. Sad, sad!
But she is not in pain, and her mind is as cheerful and alert as ever;
and the little girls will hang over her with warm kisses; and the baby,
whom she cannot take in her arms, will leap and crow, and be held to
her; and the faithful family servants will receive her in a flutter of
sympathy, and hover about her with tender concern.
——I feel very lonely to-night. How quickly the day closed in! and how
cheerless the rain sounds against the window-panes! The fire lights up
with fitful gleams the picture on the opposite wall, and the footstool
worked by Eugenia.
I remember, when we first went to Nutfield, Eugenia and I sallied out,
one bright morning, with a basket, trowel, and old kitchen knife, to take
up some of the pretty purple heath on the common for our flower-borders.
We had not counted the cost. Snap went the thin old knife! Then we tugged
and tugged at the tough stems with our hands, to the great injury of
our gloves, and plunged at the roots with the trowel. But there seemed
no end to those fibres and their ramifications underground—they spread
interlaced and interwove in every direction:—and so, I think, must Mrs.
Pevensey’s social affections:—while I am like a flower in a pot.
* * * * *
Here is Christmas close at hand, and Emily Prout is looking forward to
the speedy arrival of the holidays. Harry is expected to-morrow. He will
return to a humble, but happy home,—all the better able to value it for
having been away from his family for some months.
_I_ have no prospect of any other than a lonely, and perhaps a dull
Christmas; and I am shut up, I fear me, for the winter. I cannot walk;
the donkey-chair is unsafe for me, now that the weather is so cold; and I
cannot afford a close carriage. But I will endeavour to raise my thoughts
from things terrestrial to things celestial—from Christmas feasting to
Him whose birthday feast it is:—
“Not more than others I deserve,
Yet God hath given me more.”
Phillis has been very contrary lately. She is completely out of humour;
does everything badly, and resents the least word of reproof. Instead of
her waiting at table, it is _I_ who _wait_, while she does not answer the
bell. If coals are wanted, it is so long before she brings them, that the
fire is nearly out; then she comes in, throws on half a scuttle-full,
which, of course, extinguishes it completely; and, to finish all, upsets
the remainder on the carpet. Then she goes off in a towering rage, comes
back with dust-pan and brush, repairs the damage to the carpet in a very
slovenly way, and then fetches an armful of chips and paper, which make
a great blaze for a few minutes, and soon burn completely out. Is it not
singular that persons will sometimes appear to forget how to do a thing
that they have done, and done properly, for years?
This morning, though I was suffering from neuralgia, and a drizzling rain
was falling, she scoured my bed-room all over, and set the windows wide
open, whereby everything in the room is as damp and limp as possible. On
my telling her that I would rather have had the cleaning deferred till a
drier day, especially when I was suffering from a cold, she replied that
Friday was the day for doing it, and she would do it on a Friday, or not
at all. On my rejoining—“Nay, is that a question for mistress or maid to
settle?” she replied, she never knew such a mistress; nothing she could
do gave satisfaction; and, as she saw it was no use trying to please me,
she hoped I should suit myself with another servant by that day month;
and then went off, banging the door after her, yet leaving it ajar.
I felt resentment. I knew I had been a kind mistress to her; had studied
her comforts, allowed her many indulgences, and overlooked many faults;
and this was the way I was repaid! I felt it very hard. True, I had given
her much trouble during my long and painful illness; but she had been
engaged on purpose to assist in nursing me through it, and undertake the
whole general work of the little house; had said, again and again, the
work was nothing, and, in fact, was always sitting down to needle-work
at five o’clock in the afternoon.
I was aggrieved: I thought, if she would go, she might: if there were
no attachment on one side, why need there be any on the other? And as
to getting another servant, why I _could_ but have a tiresome one, and
Phillis was that already.
In writing all this down I perceive some bad logic, but I felt very
forlorn and depressed. When she came in to lay the cloth for dinner, she
said not a word, nor did I; but her face declared war. The dinner could
hardly have been worse cooked.
After dinner Mrs. Prout called. She seemed sorry to see me not looking
well, and made such kind inquiries that a tear rolled down my cheek, and
I told her all my trouble. She was very indignant at Phillis’s conduct,
which she called abominable; and she said she would look out for a
better servant for me—a woman who could behave like that was not worth
her wages. I softened a little, and said she was not always so bad, of
course; and when I had been so very ill, was really very attentive to me.
Mrs. Prout said yes, she remembered poor Mr. Prout saying I had a rough
sort of creature to wait up me, but that she seemed kind-hearted.
“And, after all,” said she, “when we consider how little training such
women get before they go into service, and what indistinct notions they
have of their relative duties, we must make great excuses for them.”
“O yes,” said I, “we must; and, perhaps, I have been too exacting.”
“Well, it is possible you may have been a little so without intending
it,” said she. “We are all so apt to see things only from our own point
of view, and not to make sufficient allowances for others. Still, I don’t
see how you can go on comfortably together, since she makes no allowances
for _you_.”
“Not unless she _would_ make allowances,” said I, doubtfully.
“Do you wish her to stay?”
“Why, yes, if she would go on comfortably; for I can’t bear strange
faces, and we shall never find any one who is perfect.”
“Then, shall I say a few words to her, when she lets me out?”
“My dear friend,” said I, “I shall be _very_ much obliged to you!”
So the kind little woman arose, after telling me that Mrs. Pevensey had
reached home, and had borne the journey better than had been expected;
and that Emily was to come home on Saturday. And after she had taken
leave of me, I could hear her quiet voice for some time in the passage.
I could also hear an indistinct grumble, grumble, grumble, from Phillis,
and wondered what bad case she was making out against me. Then I heard
Mrs. Prout’s quiet voice again; but the only words that reached me were,
“You really should not;” and, “You really should.”
Then the door closed after her, and I heard a tremendous cleaning of
fire-irons going on in the kitchen, and quantities of coals shovelled up,
and quantities of water pumped up; after which ensued a lull. I lay back
on the sofa, and stayed my troubled mind with; “O Lord! undertake for
me!”
Just as it was getting quite dusk, I was startled from a little nap by
a smart ring at the back-door. A distant grumbling of voices ensued;
and as some suspicious-looking tramps had lately been hanging about the
neighbourhood, I became nervous, and rang the bell, to desire Phillis not
to parley with any people of the kind, but to shut and bolt the door. She
answered the bell, looking very glum.
“Who is that, Phillis?”
“Some one as has come after _my_ situation. I should’t ha’ thought
there’d been such a hurry!”
“Why, you yourself gave warning; and you have never said a word since of
being sorry for it, and wishing to stay.”
“You’ve never given me time!”
“To settle the matter at once—_do_ you wish to say so now?”
“Why, dear me, how can one settle a question like that in a minute?”
“Send the person in.”
“Then you _do_ want me to go?”
“Phillis, have _you_ ever said you wanted to stay?”
“Why, you knows as well as I do, that I can’t abear change.”
“There are other things, though, you must bear, Phillis, if you can’t
bear that. Let a family be large or little, it can never be a happy one
where the great law of obedience is broken, and where the mistress is
obliged to follow the lead of the servant. I do not mean to follow that
course; and, therefore, if you wish to remain here, you must obey _me_.”
“Why, don’t I?”
“Certainly you don’t.”
“Then you want to see this gal?”
“Of course, it is the least I can do, since Mrs. Prout, no doubt, has
been kind enough to send her down.”
Phillis put the corner of her apron to her eye.
“Then ’tis you wants to change, not I,” said she, in a stifled voice;
“for I’m very well content to rub on as I am.”
I took no notice. The next minute, she showed a tall young person into
the room, who stood close to the door.
“You may go, Phillis.”
Phillis shut the door, and went.
“Good evening; will you come a little nearer?” said I.
The stranger obeyed, and I suddenly became frightened; for the stride and
awkward gait convinced me it was a man in woman’s clothes. Thoughts of
robbery and murder rushed through my head as the figure advanced towards
me; but just then, the fire, which had been burning dimly, sent up a
bright tongue of flame, which lighted up the room, and shone on a face
that I thought was not altogether unknown to me.
“Where do you come from?” said I.
“Little Coram Street, London, ma’am,” in a voice of studied softness.
“Hum! then I fear a country place won’t suit you.”
“O yes, it will, ma’am! I likes the country best.”
“I am afraid you are not used to hard work. Did you ever scour a room?”
“I can work harder than people think, ma’am.”
“Well, but, _did_ you ever?”
“O ma’am, there’s _nothing_ I mind setting my hand to.”
“Or clean a saucepan?”
“Surely, ma’am, every servant can do that!”
“Who will recommend you?”
“Mrs. Prout knows me very well, ma’am.”
“And so does Mrs. Cheerlove!” said I, laughing. “Oh, Harry! you impostor!
I found you out directly!”
“Did you though?” said he, bursting into a fit of laughter, and throwing
his disguises right and left, till he stood before me in his original
dress. “Phillis didn’t; and a good fright I’ve given her. Served her
right, too! Listeners never hear any good of themselves, Mrs. Phillis,”
added he, as she put her head a little way into the room.
“Why, I thought I heard a man’s voice, and it gave me quite a turn,”
said she, advancing in a hesitating way towards us; “and so I did,—for,
whoever would have thought of its being _you_, Master Prout!”
“_You_ didn’t, it’s certain,” said he, rolling his things up into a
bundle, “or you wouldn’t have tried to set me against the place!—so there
I have you! Recollect, I’m a lawyer, and can take advantage of you at any
time.”
She was, for once, without one word to say.
“Yes, yes,” added he, “I’ve had a grudge against you this long while
for calling me _Master_ Prout, when all the world knows I’ve been _Mr._
Prout ever so long. One would think I took my meals in the nursery.
So, mind you, Phillis, if ever you are uncivil to your mistress again,
or ever more call me _master_, I’ll show you I _am_ your master, in
one way or another. And, as for your not having answered the bell when
Mrs. Cheerlove wanted you, because you were making a cap, why, sooner
than keep her waiting for that, I’d have worn a brown-paper cap like a
carpenter. So now go and make the kettle boil—very boiling, indeed, for
I’m come to drink tea with Mrs. Cheerlove; and we Londoners don’t admire
tea made with lukewarm water, I assure you.”
Off she went, with “Well, I’m sure!” on her lips, but with by no means a
displeased look on her face; and I could not help thinking, “Some people
may steal a horse, while others dare not look over a hedge. She has taken
a good deal more from ‘Master Prout’ than she would from Mrs. Cheerlove.”
* * * * *
The Stone House, December 27.
When will wonders cease! I can hardly believe I am awake and in my
senses,—yet so it is:—yes, here I am, spending the Christmas holidays
with the Pevenseys:—
“And nothing meets my eye but sights of bliss.”
They had only been at home a few days when Arbell came in, all smiles,
to ask how I was, and to say that her mamma had thought a great deal
about me; and that it had occurred to her that as _I_ was an invalid, and
_she_ was an invalid, we should suit one another much better than if our
positions were more dissimilar; and that though we were not equal to a
merry Christmas, she did not see why we might not have a pleasant one. So
she had resolved on my occupying a certain bow-windowed blue room, with
dressing-room attached, during the holidays, and I should keep my own
hours, and choose my own companions, and dine early, and see as much or
as little of the family as I liked. She would not take no for an answer,
and she would send the close carriage for me the very next day.
Well, as she would not take “No,” for an answer, what _could_ I say but
“Yes?” and “very much obliged,” too. It put me quite in a flutter, but a
flutter of pleasurable excitement; for I have come to think the Pevenseys
one of the most interesting families in the whole world. It was very
satisfactory to think that my wardrobe was in fine order; that my best
caps, handkerchiefs, &c., were all beautifully got up, and ready for
immediate packing; that my new black silk dress had not even been worn;
and that I had got rid of the neuralgia just long enough not to be afraid
even of changing my bed.
I am sure the real danger will be in returning to my own house! I have
always considered it sufficiently snug; but the walls are so thin,
compared with these; and there are many chinks and fissures we are
obliged to stop up by ingenious contrivances, similar to what sailors
effect by means of _shakings_. Whereas here, if you want to open a
window, you may, indeed, do so with ease; but if you want it shut, it
really _will_ shut, without admitting a current of air strong enough to
blow out a candle! or making a noise like the roaring of a lion, through
some undetected orifice, as mine occasionally does at home, when least
expected or wished. I determined Phillis should enjoy herself in my
absence, and therefore permitted her to invite her widowed sister with
her small baby, to stay with her till my return, which she took very
pleasantly.
And here I am, in the snuggest of dressing-rooms, on the first floor of
the Stone House, overlooking a charming Italian garden, something in the
Haddon Hall style, that is beautiful even in winter, with bright masses
of evergreens forming backgrounds to its “storied urns and animated
busts.” And this dressing-room opens into a delightful bed-room, and also
into a warm, thickly carpeted gallery, into which, also, open three other
spare bed-rooms, one of which is at present occupied by Miss Pevensey,
another by Arbell; chiefly, I believe, that I may not fancy myself
lonely, as a door at the end of the gallery shuts off this wing from the
rest of the house.
Lonely!—in a house with eight children and sixteen servants! A likely
thing! Here, however, I may be as solitary, if I like, as a nun in her
cell; but as it is now ascertained that I enjoy the family ways, I am
continually having little visits from one and another. Firstly, Mrs.
Kent peeps in before I am up, to see whether the under-housemaid has
lighted my fire, and to inquire how I have slept; and to ask whether
I will have tea, coffee, or chocolate, in bed or out of it. Then, the
aforesaid housemaid (Mary, her name is) helps me to dress, as nicely as
Mrs. Kent could do. Then I step into the dressing-room, where I find
a clear fire, and breakfast for one awaiting me; chocolate and rusks,
may-be, or milk-coffee and French roll; or tea, toast, and a new-laid
egg. After this I commence my little prayer-service and Bible-reading, as
at home, while a prayer-bell, in some far-off quarter, which they tell me
is much too cold for me, summons the household to prayers.
Immediately after this, the three little ones steal in from the nursery,
saying,—“Will oo like to—to—hear our texts?” Of course I say “Yes;” and
then one little creature says, “God is love;” and another reverently
repeats, “Little children, love one another;” and another, “Live
peaceably with all men.” They learn something fresh every day. Then
Arbell comes in, and we have long, delightful talks, till Mrs. Pevensey,
who sleeps late, is ready to hear her read a portion of Scripture: I
think they talk it over a good deal together afterwards. Meanwhile,
cheerful “Aunt Kate” looks in on me; brings me _The Times_, or “Pinelli’s
Etchings,” or something by the Etching Club, or Dickens’ last number, or
anything she thinks I shall like; makes up the fire, and has a cheerful
chat; but she does not stay long.
After this, I see no one till the one o’clock dinner, except Rosaline
and Flora, who are happy to give me as much of their company as they
may, till called off for their walk. At one, we all assemble to a very
bountiful meal, presided over by Miss Pevensey and Arbell, who, I am
happy to see, already carves neatly and quickly. Then they generally
carry me off to the conservatory, music-room, or library, the weather
not inviting the delicate to indulge even in carriage exercise. Towards
dusk, comes the grand treat of all: Miss Pevensey, Arbell, and I, repair
to Mrs. Pevensey’s dressing-room, where we find her lying like a statue,
perfectly still and colourless, but with her active mind ready to enter
on any subject, gay, or grave, that may be started. These conversations
are truly enjoyable. They insist on my occupying a couch opposite
Mrs. Pevensey’s; Miss Pevensey establishes herself between us, in her
brother’s easy-chair, and Arbell sits on a cushion at her mother’s feet.
By the uncertain light of the fire, we harmoniously discuss all sorts of
subjects, in a style not quite equal to that of “_Friends in Council_,”
but that suits our requirements equally well.
The Swiss tour affords inexhaustible subjects of interest and
entertainment. Sometimes Arbell tells what profound astonishment her
tooth-brush excited among the country girls; at other times, they speak
of the wonders of Mont Blanc, and Monte Rosa; and describe their arrival
at the hospice of the Great St. Bernard—the hospitable reception of
the good monks—their cheerful chat round the fire after supper—their
attendance at morning prayers, before dawn, in the chapel—and afterwards
witnessing the substantial breakfast given to the peasants who had
received a night’s shelter, before they descended the pass.