About twenty years ago, there lived near the pretty town of Launceston,
in Cornwall, an elderly maiden lady named La Vellette. She was of French
origin, and had emigrated to England about the commencement of the first
French Revolution. She was remarkable for the simplicity of her manner,
and the amiability of her character. Exhibiting but little of that
vivacity which usually characterizes her fair countrywomen, she
nevertheless displayed a subdued cheerfulness, which, while it did not
stimulate mirth, never tended to arrest a merry laugh or an innocent
joke. In person she was small, and her features, though marked by age,
and saddened by care, still bore the lingering traces of beauty. Her
neat, retired, and snug little cottage, which, in summer, used to peep
forth beneath a forest of honeysuckle and ivy, and her prim and
Quaker-like simplicity of dress, were in happy harmony with her
disposition. Living in my youthful days within a few yards of her
residence, I was frequently invited with my playmates to visit her
garden. Gradually I became an especial favorite; and I used to feel so
much at home in her company, that I needed no invitation to pay her
frequent visits. She seemed to take a high degree of interest in my
amusements, and that of my companions; and when any conflicts arose from
the mysteries of a game at marbles, or from the strategy in
hide-and-seek, she would be the first to heal up the difficulty, and
restore amicability. Another valuable trait, which, boy as I was, I
could not help observing, was the unwavering resignation which she
always exhibited; while on the other hand, I was remarkable for my
impatience, and a somewhat irritable disposition. And when, as often I
did, I laid my complaints before her, when I grieved about the loss of a
favorite top, or the death of a favorite pigeon, I was always met with
her sympathy, and gently chid for my discontentment. Soothing me with
her mild but sorrowful smile, she would draw me to her bosom, and strive
to show me the folly of grieving for an unavoidable loss, and the duty
of submitting manfully to misfortune.
To her neighbors her early history was involved in some degree of
obscurity. They knew she was a French _emigré_, that many years ago a
favorite sister had died, and that she had been deprived of her parents
at an early age. They had heard it rumored that she had suffered from
severe misfortunes—that her connections had been people of rank, and
while they all knew she enjoyed a competence, some conjectured she was
even wealthy. Other stories of a romantic character were sometimes
circulated, but unsupported by any degree of certainty.
My esteem for her grew with my growth, and I have reason to believe that
it was reciprocated; but as I advanced in years, my visits became less
frequent, from unavoidable circumstances. At length the period arrived
when I was called upon to leave home for a situation in a foreign land,
and as I had often felt a strong desire to become acquainted with her
history, I called upon her on the day previous to my departure to take
my farewell, and to see if I could have my curiosity gratified. After I
had expressed this wish with all the delicacy my confusion enabled me,
and had excused the request by intimating the possibility that we might
never meet again, she consented to leave me a brief account after her
death. And that event, she added, is not far hence. Something tells me
that my pulse will soon cease to beat, and my heart to throb. I have
long waited for Heaven’s messenger; I have long panted for that land
“where the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at
rest.” She then gave me a few words of advice, she pressed her lips upon
my cheek, placed a small parcel, containing a gold watch and ring, into
my hand, and then, in a broken voice, bade me farewell.
Her anticipation of death was speedily realized. I was told that, about
eleven months after my departure, while reading her Bible in an
arm-chair, she suddenly and silently vanished, like one of heaven’s
stars, into the other world. Among her papers was a packet directed to
me, in which was the following brief sketch of her early life.
I was born in the year 1770, at the village of St. Marc, near Lyons, in
France. I was the youngest of three children, having had a brother and
sister. My parents were connected with families of rank, and, though
well-off, were not wealthy. My mother was a woman of delicate
constitution, and of a most amiable disposition. She looked upon her
husband as the beau-ideal of perfection, and with a mother’s partiality,
she thought her children were paragons of beauty. My father was
certainly a kind, handsome, and an intellectual-looking man. In after
life I had opportunities for observing many families, and I do not
remember any father who was fonder of his home, more devoted to his
wife, or more affectionate to his children. Many years have passed, and
many strange scenes have racked my mind, since I last saw his dear face;
yet the recollection of his features are still as fresh upon my memory
as if I had seen him to-day. He loved study and his books; and, though
an aristocrat by birth, and a gentleman by fortune, he was a sincere
friend of the people, and an enemy to the profligacy and oppression of
the court. He was not, that I am aware of, a believer in the
republicanism then advocated. He thought France was then unfit for a
democratic government. He maintained that all institutions, to be
permanent, must be gradual in their growth. The strong and stately oak,
flourishing through centuries, slowly acquired its vigor and dimension;
the animalculæ springing into life, in a moment of time, becomes as
suddenly extinguished. “What my country needs,” said he, “is not a
universal suffrage, but freer institutions; not a republic, but
opportunities and experience to fit her for it.” He no less decried the
irreligious doctrines by which liberal opinions were then so frequently
accompanied. “France,” he would say, in his clear, manly voice, “will
never be really free until she is religious. The reign of virtue and
order must always accompany the reign of freedom. Without these
requisites she may conquer, but only to be defeated; she may establish a
republic, but it will be only a despotism in disguise.”
These opinions did not seem to please many of his auditors, and he would
frequently leave a political club with feelings of grief and despair. He
saw no hope for his country so long as her shackles remained—and he
mistrusted the wisdom of the reforms which the people desired to
introduce.
My sister was about two years older than myself. She was fairer and
prettier than I was, and bore a strong resemblance to my mother. She had
light hair, large, clear blue eyes, and a tall and graceful figure.
My brother was five years my senior. He was in every respect, but in
affection, unlike the rest of us. At an early age, I remember, he
exhibited marks of a powerful frame, with an active, bold, and
enthusiastic disposition. His mind, naturally good, was improved by an
excellent education; and though carefully watched over by an attentive
father, he could not prevent him from imbibing very extravagant notions
about government, and very loose opinions upon religion.
The limits to which I purpose to confine myself, precludes the
possibility of mentioning any of the incidents connected with my
childhood. I shall therefore pass them by, and in the following pages,
merely allude to those events which may be of interest, and I hope of
profit.
Suitors made their appearance as my sister and myself approached
womanhood. For some time I did not discover any one who attracted my
attention. Having every comfort I desired, and parents upon whom I
doated, I was in no hurry to divide my affection. But we are told that
every woman must, sooner or later, fall in love—and my experience
formed no exception. At a party given by a neighbor, I was introduced to
a young man, who struck my attention, and who in a short time won my
heart. His name was Alfred Pomiville. He was admitted on all hands to be
very prepossessing; and I thought he was a model of manly beauty. My
parents had formed the humane and sensible resolution of allowing their
children the disposal of their own affections, reserving, of course, the
right of approving or disapproving of their choice. When, therefore, my
father became acquainted with my partiality for Alfred, he did not
accuse me of disobedience, but endeavored to study his disposition and
to ascertain his character. Measuring his feelings by mine own, I
thought the more closely Alfred was studied the more he would be
admired. I was therefore surprised when I found my father forming a
somewhat undecided opinion of him, and entreating me to be cautious
before I gave away a woman’s dearest treasure—her heart. I promised
obedience to his advice; but with the characteristic weakness of most of
our sex, when our affections are engaged, I speedily forgot my promise,
and went on confiding and loving. In the course of a few months I
observed with much pleasure that he gradually rose in my father’s
estimation; with my mother he was from the first a favorite; and my
brother and sister both considered him agreeable. To me he was kind and
affectionate in the highest degree; he studied my smallest wish, and
seemed devoted to my happiness. Within a year after our acquaintance he
was recognized by my parents as my future husband, and then I saw naught
but smiles and sunshine before me; then I thought, in the weakness of my
heart, I had attained the summit of human happiness, and could defy
misfortune.
* * * * *
As time flew on, the dark clouds of the Revolution advanced. It was now
evident to every observing eye that a fearful storm was at hand. The
most hair-brained courtier, strutting through the balconies of
Versailles, heard the distant rumblings of the coming thunder and stood
aghast. Even the political agitators trembled for a moment at the
prospect they had created. My father therefore became more anxious, more
active, and less at home. At length the storm burst. The indignant voice
of fifteen millions could no longer be controled. Then followed that
unparalleled era of romance and crime, of heroism and pusillanimity.
Then commenced the first of a series, not yet completed, of modern
popular reaction against political oppression. We had, ere this, removed
to Paris, and we saw what has been called the commencement of the
Revolution. But I must pass over the dreadful scenes which subsequently
passed before our eyes. They have now long enjoyed an unenviable
notoriety, forming alike a warning to the oppressed and their
oppressors. Strange to say, after a little while, we were able to hear
the awful events around us with comparative composure, so easy does our
nature become accustomed to circumstances. No doubt this was in a great
measure owing to the confidence we entertained of the safety of our
family. My brother was one of the popular favorites, and so seemed
Alfred. My father, though conservative in his republicanism, and an
uncompromising opponent of infidelity, was admired by all who held his
opinions, and respected by those who differed with him. Our relatives,
most of whom were aristocrats in sentiments as in rank, had ere this
emigrated to Germany.
The Revolution gathered force as it rolled along, and my father’s
disappointment increased as he observed the acts which accompanied its
progress. We now felt it was unsafe for him to remain, and at our
earnest wish, he appointed an old domestic to take care of his property,
and consented to leave France with us for England. Alfred accompanied us
to Paris, and my parents agreed that we should be immediately united,
and that he should then accompany us in our exile. A priest, an old
acquaintance, who had sought for shelter under our roof from the popular
excitement, was appointed to perform the marriage ceremony. The gloom
which had lately hung heavily upon me now disappeared. I was confident
of a speedy release from further trouble and looked forward to our
future residence in England with much anxiety.
The morning of the day fixed for my bridal at length arrived. I remember
I slept very little on the preceding night. When I arose the day seemed
delightfully fine, which I looked upon as a favorable omen. Habited in a
plain white dress, I descended to our little parlor, where Alfred and
all the family, except my father, were assembled at breakfast. The
latter, I was told, was absent on business relative to our departure.
The ceremony was not to take place until one, and we highly amused
ourselves during the intermediate time, in projecting future schemes,
and building pretty castles in the air. My sister drew a very charming
picture of our English residence—Alfred gave us amusing and extravagant
descriptions of the English—and I endeavored to estimate how much I
should enjoy the English scenery, its picturesque cottages, its snug
little gardens, and the luxury of peace and safety. And then Alfred drew
me by his side, and whispered compliments in my ear, and assured me that
stores of happiness awaited us. Thus pleasantly the time flew on until
the clock struck one, when the priest reminded us that the hour for our
wedding had arrived. At that moment a knock was heard at the door, which
Annette declared was our father’s. The missal was then opened, and my
sister placed the chairs in order. Then my heart began to palpitate, and
a nervousness come over me which young ladies, I presume, are accustomed
to experience upon such occasions. As I was advancing with Alfred toward
the priest, I happened to turn my eyes to the window fronting the
street, where I saw my dear father in the executioner’s cart, on its way
to the guillotine!
To describe the feelings which I experienced when this dreadful sight
presented itself, would be impossible. Nearly forty years have passed
since then, during which I have witnessed many never-to-be-forgotten
scenes, and experienced many uncommon trials, yet that moment stands out
in greater prominence than any other event of my life, and even now my
hand trembles and my eyes become dim as the recollection of it returns
to my memory.
Upon recovering from the insensibility which the shock produced, I was
met with another catastrophe, no less appalling than its
predecessor—the death of my mother! It seems she also had observed my
father on his way to execution, and the sudden fright operating upon a
diseased heart, produced a sudden and fatal attack. Thus the hour which
I fancied was to make me happy became the commencement of a series of
misfortunes; the day which was to have rescued us from danger carried my
father to the scaffold and fitted my mother for the grave! Truly says an
old French proverb—“_L’homme propose, et Dieu dispose._”
My marriage was of course postponed. So soon as we were able we made
preparations for the burial of our deceased parents. On the day after
that duty was accomplished, tidings reached us that our estates were
confiscated, adding poverty to orphanage. Collecting our little stock of
money and jewels, we nevertheless determined to leave France for
England. It was agreed, for it was necessary, to make our escape by
different routes, so as to avoid notice and lessen the possibility of
detection. It was also agreed that we should meet at a friend’s house in
London. Accompanied by my sister, we reached Toulon, which was then in
the hands of the royalists, where we found an English ship which carried
us safely to England.
But my troubles did not end here. My sister was naturally of a weak
constitution, and the fatigues of our journey, and the excitement
consequent upon our losses, had greatly increased her debility, so that
upon our arrival in London I found it necessary to place her under
medical treatment. The family where we agreed to rendezvous were
royalists, and they had left for Germany, to join the invading army
against France. We were therefore in a strange country, with an
imperfect knowledge of its language, friendless and almost moneyless.
Oh! how different was our condition to that which we a few weeks
previous had anticipated! Some time, however, elapsed before I allowed
these circumstances to depress me. My nerves seemed to strengthen with
the increase of my difficulties—a faculty, which I think, is peculiar
to our sex, and which, alas! they are often called upon to exercise. I
also buoyed myself up with the hope of the speedy arrival of my brother
and Alfred, and I used every means by which they might become acquainted
with our address. At last my little resources were almost exhausted, my
poor sister still lingered unimproved, and I had received no news of
their arrival, nor intelligence of their whereabouts. I had tried, but
in vain, to obtain employment, and I almost began to despair of any
relief but death. The doctor told me that medicine was of no use to my
sister, and recommended nutritious diet, which I had not the means of
procuring. He, and the people with whom we boarded, also importuned me
for money, and payment of what I owed deprived me of all I possessed. We
therefore felt it necessary to remove to a small, ill-ventilated room,
in the outskirts of the city. After this my poor sister became worse.
The want of proper food, of pure air, and medical advice, aggravated her
disease. I fortunately, after very great exertion, obtained employment
in making fancy collars, which by hard labor enabled me to earn about
one shilling a day. Deducting half of that sum for rent, we had only
three shillings per week to board with. With this I used to purchase
oatmeal, and we converted it into what the Scotch call porridge. Annette
seemed at first to like it, but her partiality for it speedily changed,
and the only food she subsequently cared for, which my means enabled me
to procure, was milk and toast. Her illness was also aggravated by the
disorderly persons who boarded in the house, and when I entreated the
landlord to command silence, he roughly told me I was welcome to leave
if I felt uncomfortable. She was now so weak that removal would have
extinguished the faint spark of life which remained, and I was therefore
compelled to submit to this annoyance. One or two of our fellow-lodgers
did take compassion on our condition, and showed us a little kindness.
An old woman, named Grassett, the wife of a pensioner, sometimes visited
our room, and gave us a cup of nice tea, or would wait on my sister
while I worked at my collars, or endeavored to snatch a little sleep. We
had also occasional visits from a pious French priest, who, though he
could not alleviate our sufferings, often cheered us with his sympathy.
My sister lingered on for about ten months, sometimes worse and
sometimes better. On the evening of a day in the month of December she
seemed livelier than I had seen her for a long time before, which
afforded me a hope of her ultimate recovery. She sat up in her bed, and
with her sweet voice endeavored to convince me that there were happy
days in store for us, and of the strong probability of the speedy
arrival of Alfred and our brother. And then she would kiss my care-worn
cheeks, and smilingly assure me that I had lost none of my beauty. I
assumed an assent to all she said, because I knew it would afford her
pleasure.
While conversing in this manner, the postman arrived and handed me a
letter. Pointing to the address which was in French, and to the writing
which resembled my brother’s, she exultingly declared it was his, and
playfully demanded that I should never more doubt her predictions. For a
moment I fancied it was his, and the bearer of good news, but the first
words, “Dear Miss,” dashed away all these expectations. I however
endeavored to hide my emotion, because I was intently watched and
incessantly questioned about its contents. As I read on, the particulars
of my brother’s adventures became gradually unfolded—at last the finale
was reached, he had been arrested within a few miles of the frontier,
and then met with the fate of his father. So wrote the friend who
obtained a few hurried words from him previous to his execution, and who
promised him to communicate this intelligence to us. But strange to say,
when I reached this dreadful part of the letter, my stupefied brain felt
my sister’s arms suddenly clasped around my neck, heard her sob, as she
kissed me, “poor dear Emma,” and then remain silent. In a few minutes I
felt somewhat restored, I ventured a glance upon her face, and she
seemed to be asleep. I removed her arms, and as I gently tried to awake
her, the awful truth revealed itself that she, too, had departed.
Whether it was produced by reading my brother’s fate upon my
countenance, or by any physical infirmity, is to me a mystery.
Some hours must have elapsed before I returned to consciousness. I awoke
as from some horrible dream, but the dreadful reality quickly returned.
And as I heard the thunder roaring and the rain pouring without, and
observed the gloom within, the fatal letter on the door, and my dead
sister by my side, I became reckless with despair. Grief refused to pay
her tribute to misfortune, my heart seemed to harden, my head seemed to
burn. I fancied Heaven and earth had conspired to injure me.
A raging fever followed, accompanied with delirium, and I was told, that
as I lay under its influence I would call upon my parents, my sister and
my brother, and entreat them to send for me. At other times I upbraided
Alfred for his absence, and then expressed a confidence in his arrival,
and framed excuses for his delay. Anon I would promise to be good to
him, to wait upon and watch over him, to make him happy and deserve his
love.
At the moment the first gleam of reason returned, I observed persons
carrying my sister’s corpse from the room, in a coffin composed of a few
rough boards, which seemed to be clumsily nailed together. I recognized
their object at once, and entreated that I might be allowed to give her
one last kiss before they consigned her to the grave. With a little
grumbling they removed the lid, and as I pressed my lips upon her cheek
I truly envied her condition. I then asked for a ringlet of her hair,
but I was told that they had all been cut off and sold to a hair-dresser
to meet the expenses of her funeral. A choking sensation now seized me,
I fell back and buried my face in the bed-clothes, and my dead sister
was removed.
In a little while I felt somewhat relieved. My eyes—those safety-valves
to a sorrow-stricken heart—became suffused with tears for the first
time since my illness. I also now experienced that a some thing was
wanting; my conscience troubled me, but I could not tell why or
wherefore. I also startled myself by conjecturing that my misfortunes
were intended for some wise purpose, and that that purpose had some
reference to myself. I reviewed my past life, but I could not then
remember any act of mine which deserved punishment; indeed, I felt a
degree of complacency, because I fancied I was so much better than many
whom I remembered, and had done my duty as a daughter, a sister, and as
a friend. But the feelings which produced these inquiries wore off with
my recovery; it was reserved for a future period to make a deeper
impression.
Some of the people of the house extended a rough kind of sympathy to me,
and Mrs. Grassett continued a constant attendant. One day she mentioned
the death of the kind old French priest who used to visit us, and added
that an English clergyman, who visited the poor in the neighborhood, had
made inquiries and expressed a desire to see me. I may here mention that
my father descended from a Huguenot family, and though they felt
themselves obliged to conceal their opinions after the edict of Nantes,
yet they continued to disseminate them privately among their household.
I felt, therefore, little compunction in accepting this gentleman’s
offer, particularly at that moment, when I very much needed some one
with whom I could converse. On the day after I consented to see him he
called upon me. His name was Bonner. In appearance he was about fifty,
with a pale, expressive and benevolent face. He spoke French fluently,
and alluded to my recent loss with much delicacy and feeling. Although I
was then unable to comprehend all he said upon religion, I soon felt at
home with his manner, and desired him to visit me as often as possible.
As soon as I regained a little strength, he recommended me to seek the
situation of governess, and offered me a letter of introduction to a
family with whom he had a slight acquaintance, who, he believed, were in
want of one. I gladly accepted his offer. The name of the family was
Curtis. The father had been a soap and candle manufacturer, but had
amassed wealth by successful speculations. He was little more than forty
in age—he had a stout figure, a long, narrow face, a hooked nose,
sharp, deep-set eyes, and a broad mouth. His wife was a daughter of a
man of family, who had become poor by extravagance, and who silenced his
unmarried creditors (so Mr. Curtis once told me) by presenting them with
his daughters. This occasioned him to remark, in a moment of anger, that
he had purchased his wife for six hundred pounds. She had been educated
as a lady—that is, she could speak French slightly, dance, sing, play
on the piano, and read novels. Her daughters were three in number. The
eldest, Jemima, when I first came, was sixteen; the second, Dorothea,
was fourteen; and the third, Angelica, about twelve. I think they bore a
greater resemblance to their father than to their mother. I will not
particularize their features, because I fear I might betray ill-feeling,
which I fear has already exhibited itself. I will merely observe, that
though not prepossessing, they were not ugly. They had very great
dislike to poverty, and much reverence for wealth and rank.
These young ladies, Mr. Curtis informed me, (for Mrs. C. rarely troubled
herself about such matters,) were to be educated in music and drawing,
French and Italian, from ten to four each day, and during the remainder
I would be expected to occupy myself in writing for him, or in
needle-work for the family. For these duties, if performed in a
satisfactory manner, I should receive at the end of the year ten pounds.
I thought the salary was rather small, and I feared the labor would be
too laborious, but I dared not refuse to accept the offer, because I
doubted my ability to obtain a better situation, and I dreaded a renewal
of the privations I had undergone. I therefore consented to enter upon
these duties on the following morning.
When I arrived Mr. Curtis called me apart, and observed that he had
heard the French were generally familiar and gay in their manner, but he
would warn me that any familiarity, or the slightest appearance of
freedom toward his daughters, would be met with my immediate dismissal
and forfeiture of salary. I must confess, that when I heard this
injunction, a remembrance of my family mantled my cheeks with a blush of
pride, and it was with difficulty that I could suppress a flood of tears
which were gushing to my eyes when I conjectured the shock my poor
mother would have felt had she been a listener. I assured him, however,
that I hoped never to give them cause to complain of my rudeness or
discourtesy.
With this promise I was directed to my bed-room, which was a garret, on
the back part of the house.
It was with no little nervousness that I commenced my duties on the
following morning. On entering the class-room, I found the young ladies
at their lessons. They slightly returned my bow, and seemed to regard me
with a good deal of curiosity. At last I summoned courage to inquire the
branches they were studying, and the progress they had made, which
request they complied with after a little whispering and delay. I then
laid before them the system I purposed to pursue, to which they nodded
an approval.
As I anticipated, I found my duties were laborious and not very
agreeable. The young ladies seemed to think a governess ought not only
to teach but to do. If they found a branch of arithmetic difficult, an
explanation was insufficient, I was also expected to solve its problems.
If a picture which they were copying ceased to be attractive, I had to
complete it, and then it was exhibited to visitors as a specimen of
their ability. In their music lessons I could rarely prevail upon them
to follow my directions, when, I regret to say, I would exhibit a little
annoyance, and then they would leave the piano, and lodge a complaint
with their father.
I remember upon one occasion I was very anxious that Jemima should learn
a very pretty French ballad, which had been taught me by my mother. I
was, moreover, desirous that if she sang it at all, she should sing it
well. I took great pains in teaching, but she seemed very indifferent
about learning it. When I urged her to practice it, she became
impatient, and flung the song into the fire. As it was a copy made by my
sister, I could not help weeping when I saw it enveloped in flames. At
this moment Mr. Curtis entered the room in company with two ladies.
Jemima immediately gave him an incorrect account of the cause of my
tears, and he refused to hear my explanation, and expressed his
impatience in seeing a governess giving herself such airs about a
valueless piece of music. His companions nodded an assent to his
remarks, and sympathized with Miss Curtis for the annoyance, they were
sure, I occasioned her. Perhaps I was really a little irritable at
times, when I fancied they endeavored to displease me; but on the whole,
I am sure, I was too easy and obliging, and I thought my heart would
have broken, when I heard them speak so disparagingly of me.
I may also mention another little reminiscence of my musical experience.
Mr. Curtis frequently gave dinner-parties to gentlemen exclusively. On
one occasion, while sitting over their wine, one of the company
expressed a desire to hear Miss Curtis on the piano. This wish was
acquiesced in by the others—and they accordingly entered the
drawing-room to have it gratified. She played a pot-pourri of national
airs. After the music had ceased, a Scotch gentleman, who was somewhat
beyond the verge of sobriety, asserted that one of the airs—the Blue
Bells of Scotland—had been incorrectly played. Mr. Curtis overheard the
remark, and he replied that if that was the case, the fault was
mine—and he ordered that I should be immediately sent for. You may
suppose I was very much astonished when I entered the room, and found it
filled with strange faces, and that I was much more frightened when I
heard Mr. Curtis, addressing me in a loud voice, demanding to know if I
expected to be kept and paid for incorrectly teaching music to his
daughters? Upon receiving a somewhat indistinct explanation, I
tremblingly endeavored—holding on to a back of a chair for support—to
convince him that the alterations complained of were variations, and
that the fault, if any, was the composer’s, not mine. Some of the
gentlemen seemed to feel for my situation, and endeavored to defend me;
but this exasperated him the more, and, with a very violent expression,
he ordered me to leave the room.
I ran back to my little garret, stupefied and affrighted. I believed I
was the most unfortunate being in the world. I looked out upon the
stars, which were now peeping through the heavens, and imploringly asked
if my troubles were never to cease?
On the following morning I communicated to Mr. Curtis my desire to
leave, and he replied that I might do so whenever I paid him the money
he had advanced me to purchase some articles of clothing. Our agreement
was, he said, that I should be paid provided I gave satisfaction; but as
I had not done so, I was not entitled to any remuneration. I had no
means for repaying him, I had no one to give me advice or render me
assistance, and therefore I felt myself compelled to remain. The
clergyman, Mr. Bonner, who recommended the situation to me, had left
London for another part of England.
Upon accepting it, I agreed to do any writing which Mr. Curtis might
require, but I by no means anticipated the quantity which he daily laid
before me. In the evenings it was necessary to take the documents he
gave me to copy to my chamber, where I would work without intermission
until my task was completed, or until drowsiness and fatigue compelled
me to rest. Often during these occasions, about the hour of midnight,
the letters would swim before my eyes; the glare of my candle became
unbearable, and I would feel a knocking sensation at the back of my
head. At these moments my imagination was more active, and my
sensibility more acute. When I heard the sound of music, of mirth and
merriment in the rooms below, past scenes would present themselves in
painful distinctness; the merry days of childhood, my happy home, and my
kind companions. My dear mother would return and give me that look of
mingled love and sympathy which a mother only can bestow. My father and
brother would stand by my side, and whisper a word of encouragement, and
promise happier days. My sister would come back, in her sick dress, and
repeat her last words, “Poor, dear Emma!” And then the thought of Alfred
would renew conflicting hopes and fears. At one moment I would fancy he
was dead, and then convince myself he was alive, and conjecture a
favorable cause for his non-arrival. And so I would go on, hoping and
fearing, thinking and dreaming, until my candle had sunk into the
socket, or my aching head made further labor impossible.
It was necessary that I should get up at an early hour every morning,
because, in addition to the writing which I was unable to finish on the
previous evening, I had to dress the young ladies’ hair—a more
difficult undertaking than it is now. After this Mr. Curtis required me
to button-up his gaiters, because his stoutness prevented him from doing
it himself, and he said I did it better than any of the servants. If I
had completed my writing, he would give me a nod of approbation, and
sometimes promise the payment of my salary, for the period he had
formerly refused it. This would give me encouragement, and make me labor
cheerfully, for it held out the hope of leaving.
Heavy as my duties were, I should have felt them much lighter if my diet
had been more nutritious, and my opportunities for out-door exercise
more frequent. With the exception of my visits to church on Sundays, I
could rarely obtain more than two half-hours for walking through the
week. My stomach gradually became so weak, on account of these
disadvantages, that I was frequently unable to taste the food laid
before me. My meals were sent to my room. The butter I had for breakfast
and tea was purchased by Mr. Curtis from one of his tenants, and was
called “pot-butter.” It smelt so disagreeable, that I was forced to ask
the girl to remove it from my table. I also enjoyed the privilege of the
tea-leaves which came direct from the parlor, and after a time, I was
indulged with fresh tea on Sundays. I considered this a great favor,
because the servants had to drink milk and water. My bread was
home-made, and I used to find it dark in color, and difficult of
digestion. At dinner I enjoyed a joint, cold or hashed, which came from
the parlor on the preceding day, and what I left was then sent to the
kitchen.
The close of the first year at length arrived. I repeated to Mr. Curtis
my wish to leave, because my failing health was unequal to my duties. He
stared at me with apparent wonder, and then declared his astonishment at
my ingratitude, and his surprise at my complaint. He endeavored to
assure me that I ought to feel highly indebted to him for the shelter he
had afforded me; and that my labors, for a governess, were unusually
light. By way of closing the conversation, he again hinted, that if I
did leave, I could not expect any salary; and when I ventured to ask the
reason, he frowningly alluded to our relative position, and censured my
presumption in asking him for an explanation.
I was conscious that I was undeserving such treatment, but my
defenseless condition rendered resistance impossible, and I was obliged
to remain another year. When I communicated this intention to Mr.
Curtis, he gave me, to my surprise, half of the amount due me, and
promised the remainder when my agreement terminated.
My duties continued unaltered, my health gradually grew worse, and in a
few months, I was laid upon a bed of sickness. The family wanted to send
me to the hospital, but the doctor assured them I was unable to bear the
removal. He attributed my illness to over-exertion, and a want of
out-door exercise. I had become pale and emaciated. A look of premature
old age had spread itself over my countenance. My head seemed stupefied,
melancholy forebodings were constantly troubling me, and I was
frequently subjected to fits of crying. I had lost all appetite for
food, and all love for life. Like Natalie, I longed “for the grave and
nothing more.”
A great change had come over me since my former illness. The loneliness
of my situation, and the recollection of my losses, had frequently drawn
my attention to matters beyond the grave. I gradually felt the necessity
of studying as well as reading my Bible; and I began to look forward to
the Sabbath more as a day for religious instruction than as a day of
rest. As the subject of religion became nearer and dearer to me, I
experienced a feeling of confidence and resignation which I had never
felt before. I became less irritable when misfortune assailed me, and
looked upon it as intended for some wise purpose. During my present
sickness, I felt very much the need of a clergyman, but for some
unaccountable reason, Mr. Curtis refused to allow one to be sent for,
and threatened my removal to a hospital if I mentioned my wish to the
physician.
The doctor was kind and skillful. By his attention, and the diet he
recommended, I was declared convalescent after the lapse of nine weeks.
But when I had recovered I did not regain my former strength, and was
unable to go through with my former duties. The family speedily saw
this, and Mr. Curtis then informed me that my services were no longer
required. He presented me with an account, in which I was credited with
nine pounds for salary, on which he requested me to write a receipt.
After handing it to him he returned me another, in which I was charged
fourteen pounds for board, etc., during my illness. That, he remarked,
extinguished the amount due me, and left a balance of five pounds in his
favor, which, out of kindness, he did not intend to charge.
This disappointment very much surprised me. My physician refused to make
any charge for his attendance, and I never expected, as my illness was
produced in Mr. Curtis’s service, that he would be less liberal. I was,
therefore, once more thrust upon a strange world, weak, moneyless and
friendless.
After I left his house, I wended my way to my former residence, for I
had no where else to go to. Upon arriving I was told that my old room
was occupied, and I was sent to one adjoining it. I felt very lonely
that day. The scenes around forcibly brought back the recollection of my
dead sister, and recalled my subsequent disappointments and my cheerless
prospects. I did not know what to do, or where to go. But there was not
wanting, amid this despondence, a degree of confidence in the
superintendence of a Higher Power, which I formerly did not enjoy.
About nine in the evening Mrs. Grassett entered my room, and expressed
her delight at my return. She said she would have called before, had she
not been engaged in waiting upon a sick stranger, who occupied my former
room, and who she did not think would live much longer. When I inquired
about him, she replied that he was a foreigner, with an unpronounceable
name, and desired that I should visit him with her, as I might be able
to converse with him in his native tongue. After a moment’s
consideration I consented to do so. I found the room greatly altered.
The walls were actually black with dust, the plaster on the ceiling
seemed on the point of falling off, the window was covered with cobwebs,
and the bed-linen seemed very much in need of washing.
We found the patient asleep, his face buried in his pillow. A moment or
two afterward he awoke, and asked, first in French and then in broken
English, for a little water. I turned to observe his features, and
notwithstanding his hollow cheeks, his distended eye-balls, and his
disheveled hair, I recognized my long expected Alfred. My surprise was
so great that I sprang forward, threw my arms around his neck, and
alternately laughed and wept for joy.
He was suffering from typhus fever, and had been confined to his bed for
eleven days. I gathered from him subsequently, that the last time he saw
my brother was when we parted in Paris—that he did not hear of his
death until some months after it occurred—that he had been compelled to
remain in France some time after we left—that he had been in London for
two or three months before I saw him, but he was unable to find me—that
by some accident he had lost the money he brought with him to England,
and was driven by necessity to seek for shelter in the place where I
found him. I asked for some further information, not from mere
curiosity, but from the interest I took in every thing which concerned
him. He chided me for doing so, because it implied a want of confidence,
and the fear of exhibiting that was sufficient to stop all further
inquiries on my part.
The moment my surprise abated I commenced to wait upon him. I had three
shillings and some odd pence in my pocket, which I placed into Mrs.
Grassett’s hands, to purchase what necessaries she could with it for our
patient. I now forgot all the trials which a few minutes ago weighed so
heavily upon me; and with a lighter heart than I had felt for a long
time before, I endeavored to put the room in order, and to add to his
comfort.
Within a few days my little sum was exhausted. I then obtained fifteen
shillings from a pawnbroker for a gold case in which my mother’s
miniature had been set. This supported us for nearly ten days, and
before the expiration of that time I succeeded, after much exertion, in
obtaining collar work. I labored upon this principally during the
moments Alfred slept, and earned from five to six shillings per week.
With the exercise of economy, and the sale of the remaining trinkets
which belonged to me and my sister, I was able to succeed pretty well,
and to support Alfred somewhat comfortably.
Nearly six weeks elapsed before he recovered. His sickness made him a
little irritable, and sometimes my inexperience made me displease him.
My anxiety to please him sometimes confused me, and he would censure me
for my stupidity.
For nearly four weeks Mrs. Grassett and myself would wait upon him in
turns of twelve hours each. His sickness required unremitting attention,
but I can truly say my labor about him was indeed a labor of love. The
hope of sparing him one pang made the longest day seem short; and the
hope that his life might be spared gave an unqualified pleasure to my
exertions. Oh! how often during dark nights, when all eyes but mine were
closed in sleep, have I watched his features, to seek for traces of
returning health, as if my life depended upon his. Every expression of
pain he exhibited had a sympathetic influence upon myself; every
appearance of revival upon his looks spread a corresponding change upon
mine own. And when gentle slumber had crept over him, I would kneel by
his side, and in a subdued voice pour forth a supplication to Heaven,
that his life might be spared. I felt as if he was the last and only
link which bound me to earth.
Whenever an opportunity offered, I drew his attention to religion.
Sometimes he would listen to me with attention, and at others he begged
me to be silent on account of his debility.
Occasionally I tried to amuse him by singing some of our old French
ballads, when the evening was too far advanced for my collar work. At
other times I read interesting works, from a neighboring circulating
library.
At length he became better, and we were to be married so soon as he
could leave his room. Then hope once more drew back the curtains of
despair. The future brightened again. During his sickness he seemed
dearer to me than he ever was before. I felt as if he was now my own, to
love and cherish, to live for, and, if need, to die for.
As his strength increased he agitated himself in conjecturing how he
could obtain a livelihood; but I endeavored to convince him of my
ability to earn a very comfortable maintenance for us both.
On the second day after he left his room, and three days previous to
that fixed for our marriage, a letter reached him from Bonn, enclosing
some money, and communicating the death of his uncle, who had bequeathed
to him all his property. The receipt of this news gave us much joy. I
looked upon it as an unequivocal guaranty that my troubles were ended.
It may have been selfish in me, but I confess I felt a little
disappointment when he informed me that this communication necessitated
a further delay of our marriage until his return from Germany. I fancied
that as we had been separated so long we should not be parted again so
quickly, but he strove to convince me that his immediate absence was
necessary, and I at last cheerfully assented. He left on the day which
had been fixed for our wedding, and it was agreed he should return on
the following month.
Within a few days after his departure I again fell sick, arising,
perhaps, from my late exertions and insufficient rest. It was
accompanied with the same loss of appetite, nervous fits of crying,
lowness of spirits, and occasional attacks of delirium, which I had
formerly suffered from. My sane moments, however, were enlivened by
pleasing anticipations of Alfred’s return; and I even felt grateful he
was ignorant of my sickness, because I believed it would spare him much
pain and anxiety. I did not recover so soon as I expected. My physician
did not seem to understand my complaint so well as his predecessor.
Four weeks had now elapsed since Alfred departed, and I heard no news of
his return. Three or four days more elapsed without intelligence, and I
became alarmed. At length a letter arrived, addressed to me in his
hand—and my heart throbbed with joy. I felt so delighted, that I
committed, what some will call a piece of extravagance, that is, I
kissed the address, because I was convinced it was his writing. I then
hurriedly broke the seal and began to read the contents. The first
paragraph informed me that he had taken possession of his uncle’s
property, and that it was more valuable than he had supposed, and was, I
fancied, conveyed in cooler language than I expected. The next paragraph
had reference to matters of little importance, but as I read on, another
communication rose up, which made the blood freeze in my veins, and
seemed to suspend the beating of my heart. It told me that now our
relative conditions were greatly changed—that he feared our
dispositions were incompatible—that our marriage was impossible. As I
read on with a brain throbbing and burning, with a bosom struggling
between doubt and despair, I observed an invitation to reside with him,
and a promise to give me a settlement if I subsequently desired a
separation. I think one more paragraph concluded the letter, but I could
read no further. I alternately laughed and cried. I declared it was all
a vile forgery, and then something told me all was true. I declared it
was a dream, but anon the dread reality stared me in the face. At last
every thing seemed to disappear. For many a long day reason deserted me.
* * * * *
About two years after, I felt as if I had awakened from a sleep, and I
found myself in a very respectably furnished room, with an elderly lady,
who was apparently watching me. I had a somewhat confused remembrance of
both her and the room, though I could not divine her name, nor remember
how I had become acquainted with her. She also appeared as much
surprised as myself, from the earnest and dubious look she directed
toward me. She arose from her chair, and introduced herself as Mrs.
Burnett, I hardly knew what to say, or what inquiry to make. After a
moment, I ventured to ask if I was not staying in her house—to what
circumstance I was indebted for that favor, and whether I had not been
suffering from insanity?—for that dreadful truth gradually came to my
mind. Perceiving that I was restored to reason, she answered all my
inquiries, and communicated much more than I anticipated. She informed
me how that my father’s old and faithful steward had by some means
prevented the confiscation of his property from being executed—how that
he had, a few months after my departure, disposed of it, and escaped to
London with the proceeds, for the purpose of handing it to me. How that
he used great exertions, after his arrival, to find me, and in the midst
of them fell sick and died. Before his decease, he lodged the money in
the hands of her husband, who was a banker, together with every
information he could give which might lead to my discovery. That Mr.
Burnett had renewed his efforts, but after several months he abandoned
them as useless. That shortly after he was appointed to be one of the
inspectors of a metropolitan lunatic asylum, and at one of his visits
there, he found an inmate bearing my name. Upon making inquiries from
the keeper, and at the house where I had boarded, (where he examined
some books and papers which belonged to me,) he satisfied himself that I
was the person whom he and the steward had sought for; and as he heard a
favorable character of me, he removed me to his house, in the hope of
affording better treatment than I was likely to receive in the asylum.
You may suppose this explanation very much surprised me; but the
unexpected recovery of the proceeds of my father’s property did not
produce much gratification. I was not sorry I now possessed a
competence, though I did not feel glad. I felt very grateful to my
deliverers, and to Him by whom my life had been spared; but it was
accompanied with a recklessness and indifference about my future
prospects. My disposition also seemed to have changed into a settled
sadness, which has never since altogether left me.
My kind friends wished me to remain with them, but, with many thanks, I
declined their invitation. I wanted to leave London, and upon that
determination I came to Cornwall, and occupied the little cottage where
we became acquainted.
* * * * *
Many years have passed since these trials happened; and as the sweetest
perfumes are derived from the bitterest drugs, so these dark clouds have
produced many bright and sunny days. True, they are associated with
painful reminiscences, but they have been followed with incalculable
advantages. Amid their severest strokes I can now recognize the hand of
a just but benevolent Father. If in my subsequent career I could bear
disappointment without discontent, and misfortune without repining; if I
could feel resignation suppressing impatience, and contentment
controlling ambition, I owe it to the struggles which I have endeavored
to describe. It is in the rugged vale of tribulation that the path to
human happiness is found.
* * * * *