better be a housemaid at once, instead of a lady with nothing to do."
"Nurse, I should see no objection to be a housemaid at all, only that
I am learning so many things that wouldn't suit a housemaid; but
without being a housemaid there are many pleasanter things to do than
to sit in that stupid sort of way. I like the room when all Papa's
books and papers are about, and when he is scribbling away so busy,
and when Mamma has got her microscope out looking at seaweeds or
curiosities. I have a chance then myself. I don't like ladies who say
nothing but 'Pretty little dear, what a nice colour she has,' just to
please Mamma."
What Nurse in England could be expected to enter into so philosophical
an investigation of the habits of society?
Hermione's did nothing but assure her it was time to be off, and she
only hoped she would sit still and talk prettily, and never trouble
her head whether it was stupid or not.
When Hermione got into the drawing room and saw the company seated as
she had described to her Nurse, she felt very much disposed to laugh
again, but made an effort and composed herself. Still her face was
beaming with mirth and fun, and when some ladies said "What a happy
looking little girl," they were quite sincere. That sort of face too
worked wonders, and her Mamma's friends liked her much and talked
pleasantly to her, and she was pleased and happy and quite forgot the
ball of worsted, as well as the ladies' white kid gloves. A young lady
however who had her arm round Hermione's waist and was playing with
her, suddenly felt the round protuberance in her pocket. "Ah you
little rogue, what have you here?" "Its a secret," cried Hermione. "I
think I can unravel your mysterious secret, little girl, you are a
favourite with the housekeeper," added she, whispering in Hermione's
ear, "and she has just given you an orange."
"You are a very bad guesser of secrets," whispered Hermione in
return. "It's no such thing!"--"Then it's an apple." "No, nor an
apple."--"Then it's a peach, and your new frock will be spoilt." "No
it isn't a peach either, and it's a secret." The young lady loved fun,
and a playful struggle ensued between her and Hermione; in the course
of which the large grey worsted ball and its long ravelled tail were
drawn from the little pocket.
Hermione had now to tell the history of the ball, which she did
naturally and honestly, but when she added, quite seriously, that she
intended, when they had done talking to her, to go behind her Mamma's
chair and finish winding it up, you may guess how they laughed.
"Come here, my little dear, and let me look at you," cried an elderly
lady in spectacles, putting out her hand and laying hold of
Hermione's. "Why what an industrious little soul you must be! a
perfect pattern! There now! you may go behind my chair and finish your
ball of worsted; nobody wants to talk to you any longer."
This old lady was rather crabbed, and had not quite believed Hermione
sincere, so she did this to try her, and expected to see her pout and
refuse. To her surprize, Hermione only said "Oh thank you, ma'am,"
with a quite smiling face, and going behind the chair, sat down on the
floor to her worsted. For a few moments the old lady kept thinking "It
won't last long: she'll soon be glad of an excuse to come out:" but no
such thing happened; and just what Hermione expected did happen. The
ladies fell to talking among themselves, and in a very short time the
presence of the little girl was quite forgotten, even by the old lady,
who was handed out to dinner, without once remembering whom she had
left behind her chair.
Hermione stayed in the room till her task was over, and then rushed up
stairs to the nursery, and stopping at the door, half opened it and
rolled the great grey worsted ball so cleverly in, that it hit the old
Nurse's foot as she sat (once more rocking the baby) over the fire.
"Goodness, bless me! what ever is that?" Then, spying a laughing face
at the door, "Oh dear heart, it's you I declare, Miss Hermione! will
you never leave off waking the baby? I thought a great black dog was
laying hold of my foot."
"Nurse," said Hermione, "your baby is always and always going to
sleep; why doesn't he go, and then I could have a bit of fun? You
don't know where I finished winding the worsted ball!"
"Why goodness me, Miss Hermione, where?"
"Down in the drawing-room among all the fine ladies; so good night!"
and off she ran to avoid further explanation. A few words with her
Governess; a sober time of evening prayer; and the happy child laid
her head on her pillow, and needed no Fairy wand to lull her to sleep.
She had been some time with her Governess in the morning before her
Mamma coming to her there, heard a loud discussion going on within.
The voices, however, were those of good-humour. "Hermione," said her
Mother, "I am come to say that your Governess told me yesterday you
had been so very good for a long time over all that you have had to
do, that I have arranged for your having a holiday and a treat to-day,
and several of your young friends are coming to see you. Among them is
Aurora, the granddaughter of the old lady in spectacles, who, just
before she was going away at night, recollected you, and began to look
for you behind her chair."
"Oh what a goose, Mamma!" "No, not a goose, my dear--only an oddity,
but a very kind one too--for she desired me to find out whether you
really did roll up the whole of the ravelled worsted last night; and
_if_ you really persevered till it was finished, I have something to
give you from her, but not otherwise. How was it?" "Oh, it's finished,
Mamma; ask Nurse; for when I rolled it against her foot last night,
she took it for a great black dog." "Well then, I suppose this is
yours, Hermione; but, I must say, I never knew a gold thimble earned
so easily." Yes, dear little readers, it was a pretty gold thimble,
and round the bottom of it there was a rim of white enamel, and on the
enamel were gold letters.
"L'industrie ajoute à la beauté."
"Mamma," said Hermione, looking at it in delight, as she found it
exactly fitted her finger, "it's lovely; but, do you know, I think the
old lady ought to have given it to her granddaughter, Aurora, with
such a motto." "My dear, she has had it, she told me, some months in
her pocket secretly, for the purpose you mention, but she cannot ever
satisfy herself that Aurora has got the spirit of real industry in
her, and to bribe her to _earn_ the thimble is not her object, so you
see it has accidentally fallen to your share."
And as she said this, Hermione's mother turned round to leave the
room; but before she had reached the door, her little girl stopped
her--"Mamma, do turn back."
"What is the matter, Hermione?"
"I've something I want to say to you."
"I am all attention, my dear, particularly as your face looks so
unusually grave."
"Why, you and my Governess are always calling me _good_ for doing my
lessons well, and now you are rewarding me for being _good_ and all
that, and I don't see that I am good at all."
"Upon my word this is a very serious matter, Hermione; who or what has
put this into your head?"
"I read in a serious book lately, that nobody could be good without
practising self-denial; and that, to be really good, one must either
do something that one does _not_ like, or give up something that one
_does_; so that I am quite sure I cannot be good and deserve a reward
when I do French and music and drawing and work well, because I am so
very fond of doing every thing I do do, that every thing is a pleasure
to me. And there is no struggle to do what is tiresome and no other
wish to give up. The only time when I have to try to be good at all,
is when I have to leave off one thing and go to another. That is
always a little disagreeable at first, but unfortunately the
disagreeableness goes off in a very few minutes, and I like the new
employment as well as the last. This is what I was talking about to my
Governess when you came, and she laughed so loud I felt quite vexed."
"My dear Hermione," said her Mamma, "you have quite misapplied what
you have read in the book. Self-denial is always required of us, when
we feel inclined to do any thing that is wrong, but it does not apply
to any aptitude you may have for enjoying the occupations I require of
you. That is only a piece of good fortune for you; for to many little
girls, doing lessons is a very great act of self-denial, as they want
to be doing something else. But now, as you are so lucky in liking
every thing you do, you must practise your self-denial in some other
way."
"How, Mamma?"
"In not being vexed when your Governess laughs, and in not being in a
passion with the cat next time he unravels your stocking."
Hermione blushed. "Oh, Mamma, I understand the difference now."
"But this is not all, Hermione."
"Well, Mamma?"
"Why, as you are so fortunate as to be always happy when employed, and
as therefore there is no _goodness_ strictly speaking, in your doing
your business so cheerfully and well, you must do this, you must spend
some portion of time every day in making your energy of use to other
people, and then you will be doing active good if not practising
self-denial."
"Oh, Mamma, what a nice idea! Perhaps you will give me some needlework
to do for the poor women you give money to; and, besides, just now I
can do something actively useful and still a little really
disagreeable,--really it is, Mamma,--what makes you laugh?"
"Your resolution to do something you don't like. What is it,
Hermione?"
"To knit up again the stocking the cat pulled out. I quite dislike the
idea."
"Then set to work by all means, Hermione. You will at least have the
comfort of 'beginning by a little aversion;' but I warn you
beforehand, not to set your heart upon the disagreeableness lasting
very long, and if you find yourself shortly, as happy as ever over the
stocking, do not be puzzled and vexed any more, but thank God as I do,
that, so far at least, you are spared one of the troubles of life. The
trouble of an indolent, discontented mind."
An affectionate embrace was exchanged between Mother and Daughter; and
the latter, with the assistance of her Governess, recommenced the
unlucky grey stocking, and was working assiduously at it when her
young friends arrived.
It was a curious sight to the Fairies to see two of their
god-daughters together, as they now did. But the conviction was forced
upon them, that, for the present at least, Hermione had the balance of
happiness in her favour. Whatever their amusements were,--whether
looking over curiosities, playing with dolls, or any of the numerous
games invented for the entertainment of the young, Hermione's whole
heart and attention were in the matter, and she was as much engrossed
as over learning at other times, and quite happy. With poor Aurora it
was not so; the childishness of the play every now and then annoyed
her; there was no food for her vanity, in playing with children; they
cared nothing about her beauty; the gayest and most good-natured face
has always the most charms for them, and this did not suit Aurora at
all, and ever and anon her thoughts wandered, and her wishes too.
For ever straining into the future!
"I cannot make out your Fairy gift at all, Ambrosia," said Euphrosyne,
"and I begin to suspect you have not given her one."
"We are all growing philosophical, I perceive," said Ambrosia,
smiling. "Who could think you would have guessed that my happy child
has had no Fairy gift at all. But she has, I assure you. What do you
say to the Philosopher's Stone? It is quite clear that me has got
something which TURNS EVERY THING SHE TOUCHES INTO GOLD."
* * * * *
What _is_ the Philosopher's Stone? I hear my little readers exclaim.
There is no such thing, my dears, nor ever was; but the chymists in
old times, who were very ignorant, and yet knew that many wonderful
things had been done by the mixture of minerals and metals, and the
curious effects some had upon others, guessed that yet more wonderful
things might be found out by searching, and they got into their heads
that it might be possible to find, or make, a stone that would have
the power of turning every thing it touched into gold. In the same
manner, the doctors of those times fancied there might be such a thing
made as a draught that would turn old people into young ones again.
This was called "The Elixir of Life." But I do assure you these old
fellows never did discover either a Philosopher's Stone, or an Elixir
of Life.
So this was only a joke of Ambrosia's.
Now to go on and finish my story. It was ten years more before the
Fairies revisited their Godchildren in the lower world, and this time
they were to decide who had given the best Fairy gift.
And I dare say you expect me to give you as long an account of their
visits to the young ladies of twenty, as I did of their peeps at the
little girls of ten. But I really do not think it worth while. I would
do so indeed in a minute if there were anything quite fresh and new to
describe. But on the faith of a story-teller I assure you, it would be
"the old story over again," only on an enlarged scale.
Did you ever look at any interesting object first with your natural
eyes, and then through a microscope or magnifying glass? If so, you
will remember that through the magnifying glass you saw the same thing
again, only much bigger.
In the same manner the ten years acted as a sort of magnifying glass
over Aurora, Julia, and Hermione. Everything was the same, but
increased in size and made clearer and plainer.
Aurora's triumphant joy as she entered the ball-room as a beauty, was
much greater certainly than her pleasure at her Mamma's dinner party.
But the weariness and anxiety afterwards were increased also. She was
still getting away from our friend Time present, and forecasting into
some future delight. "The good time _coming_, Boys," was her, as well
as many other people's bugbear. She never could feel that (with God's
blessing) _the good time_ is always _come_.
The only time she ever thoroughly enjoyed was the moment of being
excessively admired. But judge for yourselves how long that can last.
Could you sit and look at a pretty picture for an hour together? No, I
know you could not. You cannot think how short a time it takes to say
"Dear me, what a beautiful girl!" and then, perhaps, up comes somebody
who addresses the admiring gazer on the subject of Lord John Russel's
last speech, and the "beautiful girl," so all important in her own
eyes, is as entirely forgotten as if she had never been seen. And
then, to let you into another secret, Aurora was by no means a very
entertaining companion: nobody _can_ be, with their heads full of
themselves: and she had often the mortification, even in that scene of
her triumph, a ball-room, of feeing her admirers drop off, to amuse
themselves with other people; less handsome perhaps, but more
interesting than herself.
And so the Fairies, having accompanied her through a day of Triumphs,
mixed with mortifications, followed by languors, unsettled by hopes of
future joy, clouded with anxieties that all but spoilt those
hopes:--came one and all to the conclusion that Aurora could not be
considered as a model of human happiness.
Nor could they say much more for Julia. Perhaps, indeed, there is more
equanimity in the pleasures of a very rich person, than in those of a
very beautiful one: but, oh dear, they are of such a mean sort! Still,
there is a good deal of impertinent comfort in money I do admit. Life
rolls on, upon such well oiled hinges! The rich say, "Do this," to
people around them; and the people, "do it." But the Fairies had no
sympathy with such an _unnatural_ fault as the pride of wealth. They
saw Julia reclining in one of those "lumbering things" they so much
despised: and driving round the "dirty town" they so much disliked:
and along a park a great deal too smoky for their taste: and they
could not understand the haughty glance of self-satisfaction with
which she looked out upon the walking crowds she passed, or the
affected graciousness with which she smiled upon the few whom she
condescended to recognize as acquaintances. They thought her very
naughty and very absurd for being conceited about such matters. They
followed her to her Milliner's too, and there I assure you they had
nearly betrayed their presence by the uncontrollable fits of laughter
they fell into when she was trying on, or talking about, bonnets, head
dresses, gowns, &c. with the affected Frenchwoman who showed them off.
Julia cared for nothing because it was pretty or tasteful, but chose
every thing by its costliness and magnificence. Of course the milliner
assured her that every thing she took a fancy to from its rarity, was
becoming; and then, oh dear! how the Fairies were amused! for poor
Julia looked downright ugly in some of the things she selected, and
still went away as self satisfied as ever, on the old grounds that the
costume was so expensive that none of her acquaintance could get one
like it. This was still her chief comfort! Euphrosyne actually shook
her fist at her as she was going away, and she had the toothache for
the rest of the day, and was extremely cross to her husband in
consequence. For, by the way, Julia had married--and married a
nobleman--a man somewhat older than herself; but he and she had had a
sort of mutual conviction that riches and rank go very well together,
and so they married; and suited very well in this respect, that as
their heads were full of other things they neither claimed nor
required from each other a great amount of affection.
Still, was Julia happy? The Fairies shook their heads. She had
gardens, hot-houses, magnificent collections of curiosities, treasures
that might have softened and opened her heart, if she had made a right
use of them. But riches have a very hardening tendency, and she never
struggled against it.
Then, too, she could get every thing she wanted so easily, that she
cared very little about anything. Life becomes very stale when your
hands are full and you have nothing to ask for.
Her greatest pleasure was to create astonishment and envy among her
associates: but, besides the naughtiness of the feeling, this is a
triumph of very short duration; for most people, when they cannot get
at what they envy, amuse themselves with something else; and then,
what a mortification to see them do this!
"Besides," said the Fairies, "we must follow her into her solitude, to
see if she is happy."
Ah! there, lying back once more in the easy chair, in a dress which--
"China's gayest art had dyed,"
do you think that self-satisfied, but still uncheerful looking face
tells of happiness?
No! She too, like Aurora, was unoccupied, and forecasting into
futurity for the "good time coming," which so many spend their lives
in craving after and expecting, but which the proud, the selfish and
the idle never reach to.
The Fairies turned from her sorrowful and angry.
* * * * *
In the outskirts of a forest, just where its intricacy had broken away
into picturesque openings, leaving visible some strange old trees with
knotted trunks and mysteriously twisted branches, sat a young girl
sketching. She was intently engaged, but as her eyes were ever and
anon raised from her paper to the opening glade, and one of the old
trees, the Fairies had no difficulty in recognizing their protégée,
Hermione. The laughing face of childhood had become sobered and
refined by sentiment and strength, but contentment and even enjoyment
beamed in her eyes as she thoughtfully and earnestly pursued her
beautiful art. The little beings who hovered around her in that sweet
spot, almost forgot they were not in Fairy land; the air was so full
of sweet odours from ferns and mosses, and the many other delicious
scents you find so constantly in woods.
Besides which, it amused the good souls to watch Hermione's skilful
hand tracing the scene before her; and they felt an admiring delight
when they saw the old tree of the forest reappear on the paper, with
all the shadows and lights the sun just then threw upon it, and they
wondered not a little at the skill with which she gave distance and
perspective to the glade beyond. They felt, too, that though the
drawing they saw rising under the sketcher's hand was not made
powerful by brilliant effects or striking contrasts, it was
nevertheless overflowing with the truth and sentiment of nature. It
was the impression of the scene itself, viewed through the poetry of
the artist's mind; and as the delicate creatures who hung over the
picture, looked at it, they almost longed for it, slight as it was,
that they might carry it away, and hang it up in their fairy palace as
a faithful representation of one of the loveliest spots of earth, the
outskirts of an ancient English forest.
It is impossible to say how long they might not have staid watching
Hermione, but that after a time the sketch was finished, and the young
lady after writing beneath it Schiller's well known line in
Wallenstein, arose. "Das ist das Loos des Schönen auf der Erde."[1]
[1] "Such is the lot of the beautiful upon earth."
The poor tree was marked for felling! Ambrosia was almost affected to
tears, once more. The scene was so beautiful, and the allusion so
touching, and there seemed to her such a charm over her God-daughter
Hermione; she was herself so glad, too, to feel sure that success had
crowned her gift, that, altogether, her Fairy heart grew quite soft.
"You may do as you like about observing Hermione further," cried she.
"But, for my part, I am now satisfied. She is enjoying life to the
uttermost; all its beauties of sight and sound; its outward
loveliness; its inward mysteries. She will never marry but from love,
and one whose heart can sympathise with hers. Ah, Ianthe, what more
has life to give? You will say, she is not beautiful; perhaps not for
a marble statue; but the grace of poetical feeling is in her every
look and action. Ah, she will walk by the side of manhood, turning
even the hard realities of life into beauty by that living well-spring
of sweet thoughts and fancies that I see beaming from her eyes. Look
at her now, Ianthe, and confess that surely that countenance breathes
more beauty than chiselled features can give." And certainly, whether
some mesmeric influence from her enthusiastic Fairy Godmother was
working on Hermione's brain, or whether her own quotation upon the
doomed tree had stirred up other poetical recollections, I know not;
but as she was retracing her steps homewards, she repeated to herself
softly but with much pathos, Coleridge's lines:[2]
"O lady, we receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does nature live:
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud!
And would we aught behold, of higher worth,
Than that inanimate cold world allowed
To the poor loveless ever anxious crowd,
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
Enveloping the earth--
And from the soul itself must there be sent
A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element!"
[2] Coleridge's "Dejection: an Ode."
And, turning through the little handgate at the extremity of the wood,
she pursued the train of thought with heightened colour in her
cheeks--
"I may not hope from outward forms to win
The passion and the life, whose fountains are within."
And thus Hermione reached her home, her countenance lighted up by the
pleasure of success, and the sweet and healthy musings of her solitary
walk.
She entered the library of a beautiful country house by the low window
that opened on to the lawn, and found her mother reading.
"I cannot tell you how lovely the day is, Mamma, every thing is so
fresh, and the shadows and lights are so good! I have immortalized our
poor old friend the oak, before they cut him down," added she,
smiling, as she placed the drawing in her mother's hands. "I wish the
forest belonged to some one who had not this cruel taste for turning
knotted oak trees into fancy work-tables. It is as bad as what Charles
Lamb said of the firs, 'which look so romantic alive, and die into
desks.'--Die into desks!" repeated Hermione musingly, as she seated
herself on the sofa, and took up a book that was before her on the
table; mechanically removing her bonnet from her head, and laying it
down by her side as she spoke.