I am not prone to weeping as our sex
Commonly are; the want of which vain dew
Perchance shall dry your pities; but I have
That honourable grief lodg'd here, which burns
Worse than tears drown.
SHAKSPEARE.
It is curious to note how differently persons known to each other, and,
it may be, endeared by the ties of relationship, or the still stronger
ones of friendship, are occupied at some precise moment, although
separated but by a little distance, and for a brief space of time. Life
is one great kaleidoscope, where it is difficult to look upon the same
picture twice; so varied are its positions, and so numerous its
contrasts, according to the will of those who move and govern its
machinery. While the hand of the Buccaneer was dyed in blood, his child
was sleeping calmly on her pillow;--Sir Robert Cecil pondering over the
events of the day, and drawing conclusions as to the future, from which
even hope was excluded;--Sir Willmott Burrell exulting in what he deemed
the master-stroke of his genius;--and Constance Cecil, the fountain of
whose tears was dried up, permitted Lady Frances Cromwell to sit up with
her, while she assorted various letters, papers, and other matters, of
real or imaginary value, of which she was possessed. Within that chamber
one would have thought that Death was the expected bridegroom, so sadly
and so solemnly did the bride of the morrow move and speak. She had
ceased to discourse of the approaching change, and conversed with her
friend only at intervals, upon topics of a trifling nature; but in such
a tone, and with such a manner, as betrayed the aching heart; seldom
waiting for, or hearing a reply, and sighing heavily, as every sentence
obtained utterance. Her companion fell into her mood, with a kindness
and gentleness hardly to be expected from one so light and mirthful.
"I am sure," she observed, "I have deeper cause for grief than you,
Constantia; my father is so obstinate about Mr. Rich. He treats his
family as he does the acts of his parliament, and tries to make use of
both for the good of the country."
Constantia smiled a smile of bitterness; Lady Frances little knew the
arrow, the poisoned arrow, that rankled in her bosom.
"Oh, I see you are preserving Mrs. Hutchinson's letters. How my sister
Claypole esteems that woman! Do you think she really loves her husband
as much as she says?"
"I am sure of it," was Constantia's reply, "because he is worthy of such
love. I received one letter from her, lately; she knew that I was to
be--to change my name--and kindly (for the virtuous are always kind)
wrote to me on the subject; read over these passages."
Lady Frances was about to read them aloud, but Constantia prevented her.
"I have read it over and over, dearest, though wherefore I hardly know;
my lot is cast in a way so different from that she imagines. The
precepts are for the promotion of happiness, which I can never expect to
enjoy--never to be cited as an example of connubial excellence. I shall
leave no record that people in after years will point at, and say,
Behold, how lovingly they lived together! But read it, Frances, read it:
to you it may prove salutary, for you will be happy in your union, and
with one whom you can love."
The Lady Frances took the letter with a trembling hand, and read as
follows:--
"Richmond, 1657, the 2d day of June.
"Your letter, which I had the happiness to receive some time
since, my dear young friend, notwithstanding its melancholy
theme, afforded me real satisfaction. It is true that your loving
mother has been removed; but blessed is the knowledge which
instructs you that she and all her excellences came from God, and
have now but been taken back to their own most perfect source;
that you are parted for a moment, to meet again for eternity! Her
soul conversed so much with God while it was here, that it
rejoices to be now freed from interruption in that hallowed
exercise. Her virtues were recorded in heaven's annals, and can
never perish: by them she yet teaches us, and all those to whose
knowledge they shall arrive. 'Tis only her fetters that have been
removed; her infirmities, her sorrows that are dead never to
revive again--nor would we have them: we may mourn for ourselves
that we walk so tardily in her steps, that we need her guidance
and assistance on the way. And yet, dearest Constance, but that
the veil of tearful mortality is before our eyes, we should see
her, even in heaven, holding forth the bright lamp of virtuous
example and precept, to light us through the dark world we must
for a few years tread.
"But I have heard tidings lately, and from the Lady Claypole too,
of which, methinks, to your mother's friend, you have been over
chary. Ah! maidens care not to prate of their love affairs to
matrons. Silly things! they would go their own course, and think
for themselves! without knowing how to go, or what to think! The
besetting sin of youth is--presumption: but it is not your sin,
my gentle girl; it was some species of modesty withheld your
pen--yet I heard it. My husband, albeit not a very frequent guest
at Whitehall, pays his respects there sometimes, mainly out of
his duty and regard to the Lady Claypole; for he is no scorner of
our sex, and holds it a privilege to converse with wise and holy
women. She informed him, and not as a matter of secrecy, that you
would soon be wedded to Sir Willmott Burrell; and, although we
know him not, we readily believe that he is a good and honest
gentleman, commanding our esteem, because beloved of you--the
which, I pray you, advise him of--and say we hope he will number
us among his friends. I never doubted your wisdom, Constantia,
and those cannot wed well who do not wed wisely. By wisely, I do
not mean that longing after foolish gain and worldly
aggrandisement, which vain women, alas! covet more than the
enjoyment of their lives and the salvation of their souls. I
would have a woman seek for her husband one whom she can love
with an ardent, but not idolatrous passion; capable of being a
firm, consistent friend; who has sufficient knowledge and virtue
to sit in council within her bosom, and direct her in all things.
Having found such, the wife should desire and strive to be as a
very faithful mirror, reflecting truly, however dimly, his own
virtues. I have been long wedded, and, thank God, most happily
so. We have become as a proverb among our friends; and matrons,
when they bless their daughters at the altar, wish them to be as
happy as Lucy Hutchinson. Had your blessed mother lived, my
advice might have been almost impertinent; but now, I am sure you
will not take it ill of a most true friend to speak a little
counsel: my words may be but as dew-drops, yet there is a spirit
within you that can convert them into pearls. But counsel ought
to be preceded by prayer--and I have prayed--Will you take ill
the supplication? I know you will not.
"I am also sure that you will not consider unacceptable the
prayer I am about to transcribe in this my letter. It was written
by my dear husband, some time after the exceeding goodness of God
made us one; and we feel much comfort and encouragement in
repeating it each morn and eve, ere the cares and turmoils of the
day are come, or when they have departed. May it have a like
influence on you, my sweet friend! May your destiny be as mine!
"'O Lord, divine uniter of true hearts! Grant to thy servants
an increase of that blessed gift of grace which is wrought into
the soul by thy regenerating Spirit, that so the whole creature
may be resigned unto thy will, human love be subservient to
that which is heavenly, and all its thoughts, hopes, and
actions be directed to thy glory, with whom is its source, and
from whom its blessing cometh: Two pray unto thee as one, one
in heart, one in interest, one for time, one for eternity. So
may it ever be, O Lord! our Maker and our guide, our protector
and our friend. We bless and thank thee for the comfort we have
found in each other, for the worldly prosperity to which
virtue, trustfulness, and faith in thy care have conducted us;
for the mutual esteem, confidence, and affection that sway and
direct our frail natures, but, above all, for the sure and
certain knowledge that when our mortal shall have put on
immortality, we shall be one--undivided, inseparable, and
eternal.'
"'Tis brief, Constantia, but long supplications too often lose in
spirit that which the heart cannot make up in words. Prayer
should be the concentrated essence of Humility, perfumed by Hope,
and elevated by Faith; but you know all this as well as I. I
would not presume to instruct, or give you advice upon any point,
save this most blessed or most miserable one (to a mind like
yours it can have no medium)--marriage! Many young females are
beguiled by evil counsel, and thus commence in a careless or
obstinate course, which leads them into the thorny path of
discontent, and consequent wretchedness. And, first of all, do
not fancy that petty tyrannies become a bride. It is the habit of
the bridegroom to yield to such like; but, trust me, he loves you
not the better for weak fantasies, unless he be a fool; and I pen
no lines for fools, or fools' mates. I have no sympathy with a
woman weak or wicked enough to wed a fool. In the honeymoon,
then, study your husband's temper; for the best of men--and women
too--carry (it may be unconsciously) a mask during the days of
courtship, which, if not taken off, wears off, and you must
strive to know him as he really is; remembering that though
lovers may be angels, husbands are only mortals. Looking within
at the imperfection of our own nature, we learn to make allowance
for the faults they may possess.
"For my own part, my only wonder has been how a man, like Colonel
Hutchinson, could so kindly pity my infirmities, and correct them
after such a fashion that his blame has ever sounded sweeter in
my ears than the praise of the whole world besides. He has looked
upon my errors with an indulgent eye, and not suffered them to
detract from his esteem and love for me, while it has been his
tender care to erase all those blots which made me appear less
worthy the respect he every where pays me.
"One thing, although I hardly need recall it to a mind like
yours, is, above all else, necessary to be remembered--that a
maiden has only her own honour in keeping, but a wife has her
husband's as well as her own. It was a fine saying that of the
ancient Roman: 'The wife of Caesar must not be suspected.'
Suspicion is too often, as the plague-spot, the intimater of a
disease, which may either break out, or be suppressed by care or
circumstances; but still the intimation has gone forth. Reserve
is the becoming garment for the wedded wife--that sweet reserve
springing from holy love, which the chastened eye, the moderated
smile, the elevated carriage--all betoken;--a something which a
pure heart alone can teach, and that a sullied woman never can
assume. Study the accomplishments your husband loves with
continued assiduity: he may delight in seeing the beauties of his
estate miniatured by your pencil, or the foliage of a favourite
tree doomed to perpetual spring on your obedient canvass; or,
peradventure, delight more in the soft touching of your lute or
harpsichord: whatever it may be, study to do it quickly, and
cultivate your taste unto his pleasure. I say, do it quickly, in
the early days of marriage, because habit is a most tyrannical
master. Then, when your affections and your customs tend to the
same end, and are, moreover, guided by the all-powerful hand of
duty, and under the especial control of godliness, I have little
doubt that you will make all that a wife should be.
"I would fain counsel you on the custom of a neat and becoming
attire; but I have observed that you ever habit yourself, from an
innate consciousness of what is just and becoming in your
station, and that not from any caring for occasion or love of
display. A tall and stately figure, like yours, becomes well the
rich satins of France, and the still richer velvets of Genoa; yet
I prefer to see a British woman adorned by the artisans of her
own land, and I have lately seen some articles of such
manufacture of most rare beauty. As to your jewels, consider your
husband's desire; if he care for them, deck yourself with much
attention, and wear those that please him best. Your mother's
diamonds were of the finest water, as befitted her rank, and I am
sure you will never carry counterfeits, whether of gems or of
gold. I have heard of those who affect the vanity of great
expenditure at small cost, and I hold them in contempt; for every
thing about a woman should emblem her own heart, and be pure,
even as she is pure. Simplicity in dress is ever in harmony with
beauty, and never out of place; yet are there state times when it
is expected that the high-born carry bravery, as the horses bear
high and waving plumes--to make the pageant grand; and though his
Highness, at first, deemed it expedient to lessen such
extravagance, yet my dear husband assures me that his children
lack nothing worthy the state of princes.
"But all these matters must be left to the discretion of your
judgment, which, if well-tempered, will direct them in a fitting
manner; always remembering, the most seemingly insignificant
point that contributes the smallest atom to domestic happiness is
worthy the attention of a truly wise and peace-loving female. It
is better not to be concerned about trifles; but some men, and
men not of particularly small minds either, are very anxious as
to things which appear of no moment: in that case, the best way
is to humour them, and then, by introducing some strong motive,
wile them on to better: this must be done skilfully, or it will
fail of success. A woman's first desire should be her husband's
goodness; her next, his greatness. Matrimony is a bondage, but
one that carries with it the protection which is as necessary to
a woman as the air she breathes; with a tender husband, after a
little time, she will find the chains so overgrown by affection,
which is the woodbine of the moral garden, that, instead of being
enslaved, behold, she finds peace, love, and safety within the
charmed circle.
"I commenced a letter, my sweet friend, yet, I fear me, have
written an homily; but forgive it, Constance, and take it as it
is intended.
"I hear the Lady Frances is with you. I pray you call me to her
remembrance. She is a lively but honourable lady, and I should be
glad that Mr. Rich found favour in the sight of her father; for I
do believe her heart has been fixed, at least more fixed upon him
than upon any other, for some time. We have been passing a few
days in this dear spot--the nest, I may well call it, of our
affections. My husband, in the days of his bachelorhood, had been
cautioned to take heed of Richmond, as a place so fatal to love,
that never any disengaged young person went thither who returned
again free; and I wonder not at it, for there is a sober and most
happy beauty in its very aspect, that tranquillises and composes
the thoughts to gentleness and affection. We have visited our old
music-master, at whose house we both boarded for the practice of
the lute! He was so pleased to find I still studied! observing
that many married ladies relinquished it soon; and he praised my
husband's execution on the viol in no small degree.
"Adieu, my dear young friend. We crave earnestly to be kindly
thought of by him whom your soul 'delighteth to honour!' May the
blessing of the Lord dwell within your house, and sanctify all
things for your good! Such is the prayer of your true and loving
friend,
"LUCY HUTCHINSON.
"My husband, who is indeed a most kind counsellor in all things,
says that I ought to tender any assistance I can offer, seeing
that I am near London, and you may require sundry habits
befitting a bridal; if so, command my services as fully as you do
my affections."
Lady Frances placed the letter on Constantia's writing-table, and for
some time offered no observation on its contents.
"Is not she a beautiful model for a married woman?" inquired Constantia.
"It was very good of her to remember a giddy pate like me," replied
Frances; "and I do confess that she is one of my perfections, though in
general I hate your pattern-women, where every thing is fitted and
fitting--women of plaster and parchment--to cut one's character by; who
are to be spoken of, not to; who can make no excuse for people's
failings, because they think they are themselves exempt from fault; who
study devout looks, and leer at their lovers from under their
hoods--hole-and-corner flirts, yet held up as pattern-women, bless the
term! to innocent and laughter-loving maidens like myself, who having no
evil to conceal, speak openly, and love not the conventicle."
"But Mrs. Hutchinson is none of these," interrupted Constance. "She is
pure in heart--in word--in look. She really has nothing to conceal; she
is all purity and grace, and with her husband shared for years the
friendship of the illustrious Selden and Archbishop Usher."
"Well, I am willing to admit all this," retorted Frances, eager to catch
at any thing to divert her friend's melancholy. "But, for all that, I
never could feel easy in the society of your very wise people; it is not
pleasant to know that those you are speaking to regard you as a fool,
though they may be too well-bred to tell you so. And now I remember a
story about Selden that always amused me much. When he was appointed
among the lay members to sit in the Assembly of Divines at Westminster,
one of the ministers, with all the outward show of self-sufficient
ignorance, declared that the sea could not be at any very great distance
from Jerusalem; that as fish was frequently carried from the first to
the last place, the interval did not probably exceed thirty miles! and
having concocted this opinion, he gave it forth, as it had been one of
the laws of the Medes and Persians, which altereth not! Well, the Synod
were about to adopt this inference, when Selden quietly observed, that
in all likelihood it was 'salt fish!' Was not that excellent?"
"Yet his wit, in my estimation, was his least good quality. Methinks the
Commonwealth has reason to be most proud of two such men as John Selden
and Archbishop Usher."
"But the glory has departed from Israel," was Frances' reply, "for they
are gathered to their fathers."
"The sun may be shorn of its beams," said Constantia, with something of
her former energy of manner, "but it is still a sun. Cromwell is the
Protector of England!"
That was the rallying point of Lady Frances' feelings, and she embraced
her friend with increased affection.
"I love you more than all," said the kind girl, "for your appreciation
of my father; I only hope that posterity may do him equal justice. But
why, I ask again, dear Constance, have you not permitted me to speak to
him about this wedding? You reap sorrow, and not joy, of the contract.
Well, well," she continued, perfectly understanding Constantia's mute
appeal for silence, "I will say no more, for I ought to be satisfied
with the privilege of being thus enabled to disturb the solitude you
consider so sweet."
"How lessened," exclaimed Constance, "I must appear in the eyes of all
good and wise people! How they will jeer at the lofty Mistress Cecil
selling herself--for--they know not what!"
"Lessened!" repeated Frances; "on the contrary. You certainly do
sacrifice yourself to fulfil this contract; but that deserves praise.
Besides, Burrell is a man whom many admire."
"There, talk not of it, Frances--talk not of it: henceforth, the world
and I are two--I mix no more in it, nor with it."
"Now, out upon you for a most silly lady!" retorted Lady Frances. "It
may be my fate, despite the affection I bear _poor_ Rich (I like the
linking of these words), to wed some other man--one who will please my
father and benefit the state. Is not the misery of being chained to a
thing you loathe and detest sufficient cause for trouble, without
emulating bats and owls! No, no; if I must be ironed, I will cover my
fetters with flowers--they shall be perfumed, and tricked, and trimmed.
I shall see you gay at court, dear Constance. Besides, if you are to be
married, you must not twine willow with your bridal roses--that will
never do."
There was no smile upon Constantia's lips at her friend's kind and
continued efforts to remove the weight that pressed upon her heart.
"This is the last night that I can dare trust myself to speak of Walter.
Frances," she said, after a long pause, "I have no fears for his
personal safety, because I know with whom he left this house: but, one
thing I would say; and if, my dearest, kindest friend, I have not prated
to you of my sorrows--joys, alas! I have not to communicate--it is
because I must not. With all the childish feeling of a girl you have a
woman's heart, true and susceptible, as ever beat in woman's bosom. I
know you have thought me cold and reserved; an iceberg, where nothing
else was ice:--true, I am chilled by circumstances, not by nature. I am
sure you can remember when my step was as light, and my voice as happy,
though not as mirthful, as your own: but the lightness and the
mirthfulness have passed:--only, Frances, when the world dyes my name in
its own evil colour, I pray you say----" She paused as if in great
perplexity.
"Say what? Surely all the world can say is, that you did what thousands
of devoted girls have done before you--married to fulfil a contract,"
observed Lady Frances, who well knew that some deadly poison rankled in
her heart, and almost overturned her reason.
"True, true," repeated Constance--"I had forgotten; for I am, as you may
see, bewildered by my misery. But one thing, dear Frances, you can
surely do:--take this poor trinket--it perplexed you once--and if ever
you should meet the Cavalier who parted lately in such company, give it
him back. That simple girl, poor Barbara, found it to-day within the
Fairy Ring, and brought it me:--it is the only memento I had of him,"
she continued, placing it in Lady Frances' hand--"the only one--there,
put it away. And now, dear Frances, since you will companion me through
this last night of liberty, go, fetch your lute, and sing me all the
songs we learned together; or talk in your own sweet way of those we
knew, esteemed, or jested at."
"When I do sing, or when I talk, you do not listen," replied the
youngest of Cromwell's daughters, taking down her lute and striking a
few wild chords: "your ears are open but their sense is shut."
"Forgive me; but, even if it is so, your music and your voice is a most
soothing accompaniment to much bitterness; it is a pretty fable, that of
the nightingale resting her bosom on a thorn, while warbling her finest
notes."
"It proves to me that the nightingale who does so is a most foolish
bird," retorted Frances, rallying, "inasmuch as she might select roses,
instead of thorns, and they are both soft and fragrant."
"And fading," added Constance: "you perceive I heard you."
"Your heart, my dear friend," replied Lady Frances, "only echoes one
tone, and that is a melodious melancholy. Shall I sing you 'Withers'
Shepherd's Resolution,'--my father's rhyming 'Major-general,' who lorded
it so sturdily over the county of Surrey? For my own part, I like the
spirit of the man, particularly as it comes forth in the third verse."
And with subdued sportiveness she sung:--
"Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well deservings knowne,
Make me quite forget mine owne?
"Be she with that goodness blest
Which may merit name of best;
If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be?
"Great or good, or kind or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve.
"If she slight me when I wooe,
I can scorne and let her goe,
If she be not fit for me,
What care I for whom she be?"
"Do you not admire it, Constantia?" she said.
"Admire what?"
"Why, the conceit of the song."
"I fear I did not heed it. I was thinking of--of--something else."
"Shall I sing it again?"
"Not to-night, dearest: and yet you may; methinks it is the last night I
shall ever listen to minstrelsy--not but that there is philosophy in
music, for it teaches us to forget care; it is to the ear what perfume
is to the smell. How exquisite is music! the only earthly joy of which
we are assured we shall taste in heaven. Play on."
Lady Frances again sung the lay, but with less spirit than before, for
she felt it was unheeded by her friend, and she laid the lute silently
on the ground when she had finished.
"Do you know," said Constance, after a time, "I pity your waiting lady,
who was married to Jerry White, as you call him, so unceremoniously."
"Pity her!" repeated Lady Frances, with as disdainful a toss of her
head, as if she had always formed a part of the aristocracy. "Pity her!
methinks the maid was well off to obtain the man who aspired to her
mistress."
"But she loved him not," observed Constantia, in a sad voice.
"Poor Jerry!" laughed Lady Frances, "how could she love him; the
Commonwealth jester; wanting only cap, bells, and a hobby-horse, to be
fool, _par excellence_, of the British dominions? And yet he is no fool
either; more knave than fool, though my father caught him at last."
"It was a severe jest," said Constantia.
"Why, it was--but verily I believe my father thought there was danger of
having two fools at his court, instead of one. It was after this
fashion. Jerry presumed a good deal upon the encouragement his Highness
had given him--for the Protector loves a jest as well as any, when there
is nobody by to repeat it to the grave ones: and his chaplain, Jerry
White, chimed in with his humour, and was well-timed in his conceits;
and this so pleased my good father, that he suffered him much in private
about his person. So he fell, or pretended to fall, desperately in love
with my giddy self. It was just at the time, too, when Charles Stuart
made his overtures of marriage, that so caught my mother's fancy; and my
imagination was marvellously moved by two such strings to my bow--a
prince and a preacher--a rogue and a fool:--only think of it,
Constantia! However, Jerry grew much too tender, and I began to think
seriously I was going too far; so I told my sister Mary, and I am sure
she told my father; for, as I was passing through a private anteroom at
Whitehall, his reverence was there in ambush, and commenced his usual
jargon of love and dove, faithfulness and fidelity, gentleness and
gentility, and at last fell upon his knees, while I, half laughing, and
half wondering how his rhapsody would end, as end it must--Well, there!
fancy Jerry's countenance, clasped hands, and bended knees! and I
pulling my hood (I had just returned from a walk) over my face to
conceal my merriment, trying to disengage my hand from the creature's
claws--when, I really don't know how, but there stood my father before
me, with a half smile on his lip, and his usual severity of aspect.
"'My chaplain at prayers! you are mighty devout, methinks,' he said, in
his coldest voice. Jerry stammered, and stumbled, and entangled his leg
in arising with the point of my father's sword; and then my father's
choler rose, and he stormed out, 'The meaning, sir, the meaning of this
idolatrous mummery? what would ye of my daughter, the Lady Frances
Cromwell?' And Jerry, like all men, though he could get into a scrape,
had not much tact at getting out; so he looked to me for assistance--and
I gave it. 'He is enamoured, please your Highness,' said I, with more
wit than grace, 'of Mistress Mabel, my chief lady.' Then, having got the
clue, Jerry went on without hesitation: 'And I was praying my Lady
Frances that she would interfere, and prevent Mistress Mabel from
exercising so much severity towards her faithful servant.' 'What ho!'
said his Highness, 'without there!--who waits?' One of the pages entered
on the instant. 'Send hither,' he commanded, 'Mistress Mabel, and also
that holy man of the Episcopal faith, who now tarrieth within the
house.' Jerry looked confounded, and I trembled from head to foot.
Mabel, with her silly face, entered almost at the moment. 'And pray,
Mistress Mabel,' said my father, 'what have you to say against my
chaplain? or why should you not be married forthwith to this chosen
vessel, Jeremiah White?' And Mabel, equally astonished, blushed and
courtesied, and courtesied and blushed. Then my father, flinging off his
hat and mailed gloves, ordered the Episcopalian to perform the ceremony
on the instant, adding, he would take the place of father, and I that of
bridesmaid. It was like a dream to us all! I never shall forget it--and
Jerry never can; it was most wonderfully comic--Only imagine it,
Constance!"
Lady Frances had been so carried away by her mirthful imagining, that
she had little heeded her mournful friend; nor was it till her last
sentence--"Only imagine it, Constance!"--that she looked fully upon her.
"Hush!" murmured Constantia in a hollow tone; "hush!" she repeated.
"Merciful Heaven! what is it?" inquired Frances, terrified at her
earnestness.
"Hush!" again said Constantia: adding, "Do you not hear?"
"Hear? I hear nothing but the tolling of the midnight bell--'Tis twelve
o'clock."
"It is," said Constantia, in a voice trembling with intense suffering;
"it is twelve o'clock---- My wedding-day is indeed come!"