_From the same to the same._
You are sorry, you say, that the Serges have left Tarefield so soon;
and that also my sweet Mary regrets the loss of the best part of my
romance, the recovery of Miss Serge’s health, and the happiness of the
whole family, by the forgiveness of the imprudent Leonora. But I cannot
gratify Mary. Heaven in its own time will render to Caroline Serge the
meed of suffering virtue. Miss Leonora must first forgive herself,
before her father’s pardon can be a blessing to her; and if she is
ever entitled to his forgiveness, it must be attained by the road of
self-reproach and repentance. I can only wish her well through the
rugged path, and pray that she may not stumble nor faint in it.
You may think me relapsing into hardness of heart. I cannot help it. My
affection for the worthy will have its ascendancy. But I send you the
substance of a conversation between me and Miss Serge, which will at
once account for my uncharitable sentiments in mentioning the fugitive
bride.
Willing to be of some use in the general bustle preparatory to our
friends’ departure, and to which was added the more than common
indisposition of Miss Flint, who has not yet recovered from the
consequences of Miss Nora’s unceremonious departure, I offered my
services to Caroline, who, as being the least exacting, I thought in
danger of being the most forgotten. She was quietly and meekly sitting
in her easy chair, and alone. She received me with satisfaction. I
began to net. The conversation soon turned on her sister, her hopes of
meeting her, and effecting an entire reconciliation, and forgiveness of
her marriage. “I have only one fear to harass my spirits,” added she,
“and my efforts to check my impatience augments this fear. I know that
my life depends on my being placid; and I may render myself useless
to Leonora from my anxiety to serve her.” I praised her goodness. “It
is my duty only that I can perform,” answered she; “and even in my
attempts and hopes, as these relate to my sister, I am governed by a
still superior principle of action. I well know what my dear father’s
sorrow will be, when I am removed. He will need comfort, and Leonora
has only to use her understanding, and to employ her cares assiduously
to be the consoler he will want in the first access of his sorrow: his
God and his own piety will then be his consolation, I trust.” “And I
most fervently hope,” replied I, “that your youth and your patience
will effect your restoration to health. You will live, I trust, to be
a comfort and a blessing to your good father, and all your family. You
may reasonably hope to enjoy many years of comfortable existence in
this world, before you are recalled to the heaven for which you are so
richly prepared.” My warm and earnest manner surprised her, I believe;
for her eyes swam in tears, and she blushed. “I am indebted to a good
and pious aunt, who brought me up,” replied she, “for the patience and
the peace of mind I have enjoyed under a course of trial, which my
youth little expected three years since. How often have I blessed this
relation for her lessons, and for an example that has supported me, and
which will I hope, still support me to the end.”--She checked herself,
and then proceeded.
“This aunt,” continued she, “might with propriety be called my father’s
best friend. Left an orphan, and without the means of life, she
received him when a mere boy; and supported him as her child. On the
death of her husband, who left her rich, she placed my father at the
head of the business, and although not more than forty, rejected for
his sake several overtures of marriage. She superintended his family;
and in the prosperity and tranquillity of my father’s life, he was
in danger of forgetting, that, ‘man was not born to be alone.’ He
was advancing to the season of old batchelorship, when he married my
mother; who is full twenty years younger than himself: she was very
pretty, and good-natured: my aunt, as she has told me, feared, on
hearing of the marriage, that my father’s good genius had forsaken
him; but although a mere household drudge, she had understanding to
discover that a man of my father’s age, with an affluent fortune, and a
thriving industry, was not likely when in love to be ‘_controuled by
advice_.’ The good humour and docility of the young wife soon gained
her good will, and her frank confession, that she knew nothing of
family management, and was unequal to the direction of one so numerous
as my father’s, induced Mrs. Massey, my aunt, to give up her plan of
living in the country. She retained her post of usefulness; and my
mother, delighted by the amusements within her reach, and contented
with the idleness of an indulged child, saw with gratitude, rather
than jealousy, her authority delegated into the hands of one who never
interfered with her pleasures or wishes.”
“I was the first born child, and the first serious vexation, that
my aunt experienced from my father’s marriage. She had hoped to see
my mother a nurse; but she was disappointed. I was sent into the
_country_; even so far as _Bow_; and two years nursing there returned
me to St. Martin’s Lane, half stupified with Godfrey’s cordial, and
ricketty in every joint. Unfortunately my mother, attributing my bad
health and feebleness to natural weakness, rather than to improper
management, pursued the same line of conduct with my sister Lydia, who
was born a more vigorous child; but willing to make some concessions,
she placed her at _East Ham_, a little further distant from London, and
on Epping Forest. Country nursing would, it is probable, have kept its
ground in my mother’s good opinion, from the proof Lydia gave of its
utility, had it not been for an accident, which happened to my mother,
in returning home from visiting her. She was in company with my father,
and they were both robbed by a highwayman, who, not contented with
their watches and purses, was brutal, and so terrified my mother, that
she was in danger of her life, and the consequence was, her losing a
male child by a premature birth. Leonora, at my father’s request, was
reared by a wet nurse at home; and my mother found the nursery in the
attic no interruption to her amusements. About this period, fortune
augmented my father’s abundance: he gained the twenty thousand pound
prize in the state lottery; but this accession of wealth made little
alteration in our modes of life. My mother preferred a _job_ coach to
any other, and observed that she had a country house in every good
inn within an airing from town. Her early habits of life, and her
remoteness from the fashionable world and its follies, had happily
secured to her a relish for enjoyments, which, though more common,
were less ruinous. She was contented in her own sphere of action, and
uncontrouled by my father, who viewing every proof of her kindness and
liberality to others through the medium of his own active benevolence,
was indulgent to the defects of my mother’s mode of being useful. But
a death, or a birth, in any family within her knowledge or reach, was
the signal for her to desert her own. A stranger might at times have
mistaken, in the night, our house for the abode of an accoucheur. Alert
and vigilant, my mother obeyed the first summons; and with exultation
would detail to my aunt the steps she had trodden, or the road she
had passed, in the cares of providing for a funeral, or getting a
wet nurse for an infant. I really believe she has answered at the
font for more children than she can recollect by their baptismal or
sirnames, and has gone more miles to trace the qualifications of a
cook-maid for her friends, than a judge goes on his circuit. In a word,
all was _pleasure_ to my dear mother, that was bustle, hurry, and an
exertion of her constant flow of animal spirits. I fear I have spoken
too unguardedly of my mother’s little foibles,” continued Caroline
with a modest blush, “for believe me, she has many excellent traits
in her character; and even in her mistakes, the goodness of her heart
prevails. But I have been led into this confidence in you, Miss Cowley,
from the peculiar state of my thoughts as these relate to my sister’s
unfortunate marriage. I once or twice saw the man to whom she has so
unguardedly committed her own happiness, and the tranquillity of her
father. I was not pleased with him; for I perceived that he was a
designing man, and had already secured by his attentions my mother’s
good opinion. I now dread his influence as her _son_. The genuine
virtue and simplicity of my father’s mind, with his indulgence and
liberality of temper, will be feeble barriers to oppose to this Captain
Fairly’s seductions, should it be his pleasure to lead my mother into
the snares of dissipation and fashionable life. I have observed, even
from the hour the Miss Gudgeons first accompanied Leonora to Putney,
the facility with which my mother adopted new ideas of her importance,
and new notions in regard to our modes of living. At the last visit
which these girls paid us, she offended one of my father’s most ancient
and respectable friends, by omitting to invite his wife and daughter,
because he was a sadler. Her short residence and acquaintance with
Lady Gudgeon, at Bath, though fortunately terminated, was not without
its bad effects, and I have been concerned to see, from time to time,
since our return to Putney, my dear mother assuming with her neighbours
more of Lady Gudgeon’s manners than they liked; but her cheerfulness
and frankness of temper soon conciliated them, and banished from her
mind her ‘genteel society.’ My father will be made wretched,” continued
the amiable creature, “should this Fairly gain an ascendancy in the
family; for I am convinced he is a worthless man, and void of every
principle.”--She was agitated, and I saw that she with pain suppressed
something. “My mother has been much gratified,” pursued she, “by my
employing my good offices in Leonora’s behalf: that is some comfort to
me, and it is wrong to anticipate evil. Leonora is now his wife, and I
will only think of her future security, not of her present condition.”
She again paused.----“I was reading this morning,” continued she,
“the story of the Homespun family, from ‘the Mirror:’ you will not be
surprised, my dear Miss Cowley, after my little detail, that I could
not help being struck with the analogy I found between this family
and our own. All our mistakes have, as it appears to me, originated
from the want of education; I mean of that education requisite to
the safety of the individual: one suitable to their rank and place
in life. Had my dear father not been raised to such an unexpected
accession of wealth, all had been well. My mother’s activity would
have been confined to the duties of his station, and the care of her
children. Our present dangers would not have found a place in the
abode of competence and contentment: nor would my father’s unambitious
mind and simplicity of character, have been an object of censure or of
ridicule.” I will spare my pen the task of recording my reply to this
appeal. You know my wisdom, and if, like Solomon’s “it be vanity and
vexation of spirit,” it served one good purpose, for it led us into a
less serious conversation on the subject of female education and female
attainments. So leaving to your sagacity to fish out as you can my
profound observations, I will send you Caroline Serge’s opinions upon
these important topics.
“I am no advocate for ignorance,” said she, in reply to an observation
I had made; “but I am persuaded that the same mode of education cannot
be adapted with safety or utility to every girl; and granting all the
advantages which you have enumerated as resulting from a cultivated
understanding and refined taste, I must still be of opinion, that
we should be instructed with a view to the sphere in which we are
destined to move, and to the duties to which we are more peculiarly
appointed. It is not my father’s wealth or connections that could
render Leonora happy under the parental roof. Too much refinement for
our plain manners has made her discontented and ungrateful; and she
will, I fear, be unhappy for life, and a constant source of misery
to her parents. Lydia on the other hand,”--She cast down her eyes,
and with some hesitation, added,--“may be _their disgrace_; for she
has been _too much_ neglected. I have many times blessed God, Miss
Cowley, for the instructions of my youth: they were such as suited my
situation; and they have made me useful to my family, besides having
enforced that patience and resignation to the will of God, which my
trials have needed, and which the most brilliant attainments might have
failed in producing. I have, you see, not considered in this view, the
education of a young person, who, like yourself, has been judiciously
and well instructed; but that tuition which so often appears to me to
neglect, not only what is useful, but what principally constitutes
the only object worth attending to; for unless moral discipline goes
along with the enlargement of the understanding, and the cultivation
of taste, these are nothing; and indeed are often, _more pernicious
than ignorance_. It is true,” added she, smiling, “that my aunt
Massey’s lessons were not calculated to render me either polite or
accomplished; but there is nothing in household wisdom to pervert the
mind, or mislead the imagination. I should have liked to read more
than I did; but she was of opinion that I read enough for a girl; and
with some vanity, boasted of my arithmetic, when Leonora’s talents
were mentioned. My bad health, and the confinement to which it has
subjected me, have made me fond of reading, and it is with satisfaction
that I have seen my father also find amusement from books. He would,
I am persuaded, to please me,” added she, smiling, “have undertaken
to learn Hebrew; but I was contented with his choice of books, and we
have confined ourselves to those we understand. Be not surprised, my
dear Miss Cowley, that I thus plead in favour of unadorned goodness,
and plain sense,” continued she. “My father has shown me, that virtue
needs not the polish of the world, nor the acquirements of the schools,
to make its way to the esteem and reverence of those within the reach
of its attractive powers. You have witnessed my father’s goodness to
his children; and believe me, when I tell you, that his whole life and
conversation has been exactly similar to the ‘Israelites, in whom there
was no guile.’ God will comfort and support him when I am removed! But
I know, too well for my tranquillity, what he will suffer when I _am_
removed, and that thought prevents my being what I ought to be.” She
checked herself, and wiping away a falling tear, proceeded: “I have not
finished my little history,” said she smiling, “but I shall tire you;
yet it is necessary in order for me to bring forward my conclusions,
and to leave with you my confirmed opinion on the subject we have been
engaged in.” You will supply my answer, Lucy.
“My aunt, in the mean time,” continued Caroline, “trained me up to
be, as she said, her ‘right hand,’ and she frequently adverted to her
age and infirmities as another and powerful motive, which led her to
keep me so much in the domestic way. I was reminded continually of
my father’s comforts: of the disorder and confusion of such a family
as ours, if left without a manager; and hints were from time to time
dropped, that my mother had no turn for family affairs, though a good
parent, and a good woman. Lydia’s indulgences grieved her; but she
had too much on her hands, for hourly contests; and my mother was
satisfied, that in her day-school she learned enough for her years, and
that the kitchen was no worse for her play hours, than any other place.
Nora was the idol we all worshipped: she was lively and attractive
beyond even the attractive age of infancy: she was the pride of our
hearts, and the delight of my father’s eyes! Even Mrs. Massey was
unable to resist her fascinating vivacity and sweetness of temper; and
young as I was, I have remarked the pleasure which beamed from her
own comely face, on being told, that the little Leonora was “her very
image.” I had just attained my fifteenth year, when we lost this good
aunt. A will made in my father’s favour whilst he was yet a bachelor,
put him in possession of her whole property, which I have been told
amounted to near thirty thousand pounds.
I have, however, reason for believing that Mrs. Massey had frequently
thought of altering the form of her donation; and securing to us her
fortune after my father’s death: for I remember well hearing her many
times say, that my mother was not fit for business, and might be left
a young widow. From these remarks she would hastily turn, and descant
on the advantages of habits of economy and order; recounting to me the
management by which she had seconded her husband’s industry, and with
what comfort they lived to see their little beginnings of one thousand
pounds accumulate, and their business daily flourishing. “However,
child,” she would add, “your father is in a much more extensive line of
business than his uncle ever was; and as his family is a very different
one from mine, it behoves him to live at more expence; but that is no
reason for being extravagant or careless; and you must never relax in
your duty.” It may be necessary to tell you that my father’s household
was larger than is common with people in his class. He carried on an
extensive commerce in the wholesale line of his trade, and manufactured
his own cloth, in a house of business at or near Wakefield in
Yorkshire. In consequence of these engagements, we had in the family
several young men as assistants and clerks, who dined at our table,
and it was a liberal one. My father had purchased the house at Putney
before the melancholy event of my aunt’s death, meaning to make it the
residence of my mother and his daughters: and in his first depression
of spirits for a loss which no accession of fortune could lessen, he
declared his intention of quitting business, and living there himself.
For a time, however, he found in me, _another Mrs. Massey_, to use his
own partial words of praise; for assisted by an old domestic of my
aunt’s training, I superintended the house in St. Martin’s lane, and my
dear father still found it his abode of comfort. Leonora was at this
period at her school, Lydia, but I need not recapitulate to you her
defects! I mentioned to my father my fears for her; and without any
opposition on my mother’s part, she was permitted to bear me company
in St. Martin’s-lane. But I was too young for a duenna, and too feeble
in health, for endless contests; and warned by the good old woman who
directed in the kitchen, that Lydia was too often wanting to have pens
mended in the counting house, I gave up a charge for which I was so
little qualified. It is nearly three years since my complaint became
formidable. Mr. Tomkins, my father’s associate in business, married;
and I was no longer necessary in St. Martin’s-lane. Country air was
prescribed, and my father, in order to watch over my health, gave
up his commercial concerns and his enjoyment. In every interval of
ease, I have endeavoured to win Lydia to some useful application of
her hours; but neither my appeals to her reason, nor even her vanity,
have been attended with success. Nora’s contempt of her has not been
unobserved, however; and she has returned this, by fostering in her
heart a resentment, which no time will soften; whilst she manifests
to me a good will and affection unbounded, but as they are checked by
her habits of idleness, and predilection for company, in which she
finds herself without restraint. Thus, my dear Miss Cowley, have I
vainly endeavoured to be useful to my sisters. Alas! I have found
that my arguments are no more understood by beauty, accomplishments,
and a _finished_ education, than by vulgar ignorance, and rudeness.
Too much refinement on the one hand, and too little on the other,
having defeated my purpose of seeing them what I desire; the children,
and the happy children, of a parent beyond all praise, for purity of
heart, and the humble and genuine graces of Christianity. And let me
ask you,” added she, with animation, “whether in a world like this, and
for the accommodation of creatures like ourselves, it is not wisdom,
to prefer the lowly but snug cottage, to the sumptuous palace, under
every consideration which our reason may suggest in the choice. If
the gorgeous structure wants a solid _foundation_, and the cottage
a _fence_, I should still seek my safety under the low mud walls,
believing that the higher the edifice is, the greater is the hazard.”
Mrs. Serge’s entrance prevented my reply; and finding she had some
directions to give to the servant who followed her, relative to
Caroline’s clothes, I withdrew. What a loss will this amiable girl
be to her family! It is to be lamented, that heaven recalls her from
a world, in which she would be an example that good sense is worth
something, and more to be coveted than “gold, even than pure gold.”
I did not take leave of her without tears. She has promised to write to
me if her health permit her.
I forgot to inform you of our parting scene below stairs, and shall
preface it, by telling you, that Malcolm now ranks with me amongst my
_worthies_. Never talk to me of your Scipio’s, your Titus’s, and such
“heathenish folks,” as Deborah used to call them in her indignation,
on hearing that they worshipped images, whilst I can produce a mere
village swain true to love; and who expects the object of his flame
every hour to return, and recompense him for a month of sighs and
absence, yet calmly and heroically prepares to devote those hours of
joy to the comfort and assistance of the dejected Mr. Serge on the
road. The poor man, with a heavy heart, mentioned, that they should
find the way much longer to Putney on returning, than when in search
of their kind friends. “You have shewn us,” added he, “that we have
relations, and we shall go home with heavy hearts, counting the miles
which separate us; but I shall never forget Tarefield, nor like Putney
again.” “We part as relations and friends,” answered the worthy
baronet, taking his hand, “as such we have participated in your recent
vexation, my good Mr. Serge; and we are only to be contented by your
promising us another, and a longer visit next summer. Tell Leonora
I shall not forgive her, ’till I see her in her late nest; and her
husband shall pay us for her late desertion, by remaining with us, till
we are weary of him and her.”
“Thank ye! thank ye!” was uttered by a voice which could not proceed,
and which touched me to the very soul. “They wait for us,” observed
Mrs. Serge, “we must part.” Malcolm took Caroline’s hand, and asked her
whether she had courage to try the phaeton for a mile or two “when you
are weary,” added he, smiling, “I will be contented with your father.”
The poor man’s features swelled with his emotions. “The Lord be
merciful to me!” cried he, “but I verily believe you mean to take care
of _us_ on the road.” “Undoubtedly,” answered Malcolm, “and in return I
shall expect you will take care of me at Putney for a week.” “God will
bless you, young man,” answered Mr. Serge, in an under-toned voice, and
with great solemnity. “This is not the first journey of humanity that
will be placed to your account, nor will it be forgotten, that no duty,
beyond that of _good will_, has led you to the performance of this
second act of charity.” Malcolm coloured, and hastened his steps. I am
convinced that Mr. Serge alluded to his following his father to town,
when for me, he left his home in a condition of weakness, which the
son’s tenderness saw and compassionated: I have no doubt of Counsellor
Steadman’s having mentioned to Mr. Serge, the filial conduct of a young
man who so completely won his good opinion, whilst he was with us.
The baronet, thinking it a good opportunity of paying off something
from the score of “favours received,” persuaded me to take an airing
with him after our guests were departed. We drove to Bishop’s-Auckland;
for since Miss Leonora has made us acquainted with Mr. Type’s library,
Sir Murdoch reads novels with the avidity and interest of a miss in
her teens. Something in Miss Type’s manner excited my curiosity. On
inquiring whether all the volumes had been returned which had been
placed to Miss Serge’s account, she replied with a smile in the
affirmative, adding, that she hoped the young lady would in her turn
find the things she had sent with the books as exact. An explanation
followed, and I found that Miss Nora had judged it expedient to use my
name instead of her own, in her contrivance to secure for her journey a
change of linen, and the girl with some confusion of face told me that,
she thought the gentleman at the Mitre had been my lover from what he
had said.
So now leaving my dear Mary to consider at her leisure of the
marvellous and manifold talents necessary to effect the emancipation
of a young lady of sixteen or seventeen, from the galling yoke of
parental prudence, and the insipid security of a parental roof, I
shall conclude this letter; sincerely congratulating her on the little
acquaintance she has with cunning, ingratitude, and a courage which
sets at defiance, even a life of misery, for the gratification of
having for an hour, “her _own mind_.” Not doubting, but Mrs. Fairly
will soon conclude the lesson, by publishing the succeeding volume,
under the title of “The too late Repentance.” Heaven preserve you, my
dear girls, and believe me sincerely your’s,