He said nothing, only smiled. I made bold to pursue:--"What was she
like?"
Again he was silent, at least for a Minute; and then, in quite a changed
Tone, with somewhat hurried in it, cried,--
"Like the fresh Sweetbriar and early May!
Like the fresh, cool, pure Air of opening Day . . .
Like the gay Lark, sprung from the glittering Dew . . .
An Angel! yet . . . a very Woman too!"
And, kicking back his Chair, he got up, and began to walk hastily about
the Chamber, as fearlessly as he always does when he is thinking of
something else, I springing up to move one or two Chairs out of his Way.
Hearing some high Voices in the Offices, he presently observed, "A
contentious Woman is like a continuall Dropping. _Shakspeare_ spoke well
when he said that a sweet, low Voice is an excellent Thing in Woman. I
wish you good Women would recollect that one Avenue of my Senses being
stopt, makes me keener to any Impression on the others. Where Strife is,
there is Confusion and every evil Work. Why should not we dwell in
Peace, in this quiet little Nest, instead of rendering our Home liker to
a Cage of unclean Birds?"
_Bunhill Fields, London, Oct. 1666_.
People have phansied Appearances of Armies in the Air, flaming Swords,
Fields of Battle, and other Images; and, truly, the Evening before we
left _Chalfont_, methought I beheld the Glories of the ancient City
_Ctesiphon_ in the Sunset Clouds, with gilded Battlements, conspicuous
far--Turrets, and Terraces, and glittering Spires. The light-armed
_Parthians_ pouring through the Gates, in Coats of Mail, and military
Pride. In the far Perspective of the open Plain, two ancient Rivers, the
one winding, t'other straight, losing themselves in the glowing Distance,
among the Tents of the ten lost Tribes. Such are One's Dreams at Sunset.
And, when I cast down my dazed Eyes on the shaded Landskip, all looked in
Comparison, so black and bleak, that methought how dull and dreary this
lower World must have appeared to _Moses_ when he descended from _Horeb_,
and to our Saviour, when he came down from the _Mount of
Transfiguration_, and to St. _Paul_, when he dropt from the seventh
Heaven.
What a Click, Click, the Bricklayers make with their Trowels, thus
bringing me down from my Altitudes! Sure, we hardly knew how well off we
were at _Chalfont_, till we came back to this unlucky Capital, looking as
desolate as _Jerusalem_, when the City was ruinated and the People
captivated. Weeds in the Streets--smouldering Piles--blackened,
tottering Walls--and inexhaustible Heaps of vile Rubbish. Even with
closed Windows, everything gets covered with a Coating of fine Dust.
Cousin _Jack_ Yesterday picked up a half-burnt Acceptance for twenty
thousand Pounds. There is a fine Time coming for Builders and
Architects--_Anne's_ Lover among the Rest. The Way she picked him up was
notable. Returning to Town, she falls to her old Practices of daily
Prayer, and visiting the Poor. At Church she sits over against a
good-looking young Man, recovered from the Plague, whose near Approach to
Death's Door had made him more godly in his Walk than the general of his
Age and Condition. He notes her beautiful Face--marks not her deformed
Shape; and, because that, by Reason of the late Distresses, the
Calamities of the Poor have been met by unusuall Charities of the upper
Classes, he, on his Errands of Mercy among the Rest, presently falls in
with her at a poor sick Man's House, and marvels when the limping
Stranger turns about and discovers the beautiful Votaress. After one or
two chance Meetings, respectfully accosts her--_Anne_ draws back--he
finds a mutuall Friend--the Acquaintance progresses; and at length, by
Way of first Introduction to my Father, he steps in to ask him (preamble
supposed) to give him his eldest Daughter. Then what a Storm ensues!
Father's Objections do not transpire, no one being by but Mother, who is
unlikely to soften Matters. But, so soon as _John Herring_ shuts the
Door behind him, and walks off quickly, _Anne_ is called down, and I
follow, neither bidden nor hindered. Thereupon, Father, with a red
Heat-spot on his Cheek, asks _Anne_ what she knows of this young Man.
Her answer, "Nothing but good." "How came she to know him at all?" . . .
Silent; then makes Answer, "Has seen him at Mrs. _French's_ and
elsewhere." "Where else?" "Why, at Church, and other Places." Mother
here puts in, "What other Places?" . . . "Sure what can it signify,"
_Anne_ asks, turning short round upon her; "and especially to you, who
would be glad to get quit of me on any Terms?"
"_Anne, Anne_!" interrupts Father, "does this Concern of ours for you
look like it? You know you are saying what is uncivil and untrue."
"Well," resumes _Anne_, her breath coming quick, "but what's the
Objection to _John Herring_?"
"_John_? is he _John_ with you already?" cries Mother. "Then you must
know more of him than you say."
"Sure, Mother," cries _Anne_, bursting into Tears, "you are enough to
overcome the Patience of _Job_. I know nothing of the young Man, but
that he is pious, and steady, and well read, and a good Son of reputable
Parents, as well to do in the World as ourselves; and that he likes me,
whom few like, and offers me a quiet, happy Home."
"How fast some People can talk when they like," observes Mother; at which
Allusion to _Anne's_ Impediment, I dart at her a Look of Wrath; but _Nan_
only continues weeping.
"Come hither, Child," interposes Father, holding his Hand towards her;
"and you, good _Betty_, leave us awhile to talk over this without
Interruption." At which, Mother, taking him literally, sweeps up her
Work, and quits the Room. "The Address of this young Man," says Father,
"has taken me wholly by Surprise, and your Encouragement of it has
incontestably had somewhat of clandestine in it; notwithstanding which, I
have, and can have, nothing in View, dear _Nan_, but your Well-being. As
to his Calling, I take no Exceptions at it, even though, like
_Caementarius_, he should say, I am a Bricklayer, and have got my Living
by my Labour--"
"A Master-builder, not a Bricklayer," interposes _Anne_.
Father stopt for a Moment; then resumed. "You talk of his offering you a
quiet Home: why should you be dissatisfied with your own, where, in the
Main, we are all very happy together? In these evil Times, 'tis
something considerable to have, as it were, a little Chamber on the Wall,
where your Candle is lighted by the Lord, your Table spread by him, your
Bed made by him in your Health and Sickness, and where he stands behind
the Door, ready to come in and sup with you. All this you will leave for
One you know not. How bitterly may you hereafter look back on your
present Lot! You know, I have the Apostle's Word for it, that, if I give
you in Marriage, I may do well; but, if I give you not, I shall do
better. The unmarried Woman careth for the Things of the Lord, that she
may be holy in Body and Spirit, and attend upon him without Distraction.
Thus was it with the five wise Maidens, who kept their Lamps ready
trimmed until the Coming of their Lord. I wish we only knew of five that
were foolish. Time would fail me to tell you of all the godly Women,
both of the elder and later Time, who have led single Lives without
Superstition, and without Hypocrisy. Howbeit, you may marry if you will;
but you will be wiser if you abide as you are, after my Judgment. Let me
not to the Marriage of true Minds oppose Impediment; but, in your own
Case--"
"Father," interrupts _Anne_, "you know I am ill at speaking; but permit
me to say, you are now talking wide of the Mark. Without going back to
the Beginning of the World, or all through the _Romish Calendar_, I will
content me with the more recent Instance of yourself, who have thrice
preferred Marriage, with all its concomitant Evils, to the single State
you laud so highly. Is it any Reason we should not dwell in a House,
because St. _Jerome_ lived in a Cave? The godly Women of whom you speak
might neither have had so promising a Home offered to them, nor so ill a
Home to quit."
"What call you an ill Home?" says Father, his Brow darkening.
"I call that an ill Home," returns _Anne_, stoutly, "where there is
neither Union nor Sympathy--at least, for my Share,--where there are no
Duties of which I can well acquit myself, and where those I have made for
myself, and find suitable to my Capacity and Strength, are contemned,
let, and hindered,--where my Mother-Church, my Mother's Church, is
reviled--my Mother's Family despised,--where the few Friends I have made
are never asked, while every Attention I pay them is grudged,--where, for
keeping all my hard Usage from my Father's Hearing, all the Reward I get
is his thinking I have no hard Usage to bear--"
"Hold, ungrateful Girl!" says Father; "I've heard enough, and too much.
Tis Time wasted to reason with a Woman. I do believe there never yet was
one who would not start aside like a broken Bow, or pierce the Side like
a snapt Reed, at the very Moment most Dependance was placed in her. Let
her Husband humour her to the Top of her Bent,--she takes French Leave of
him, departs to her own Kindred, and makes Affection for her Childhood's
Home the Pretext for defying the Laws of God and Man. Let her Father
cherish her, pity her, bear with her, and shelter her from even the
Knowledge of the Evils of the World without,--her Ingratitude will keep
Pace with her Ignorance, and she will forsake him for the Sweetheart of a
Week. You think Marriage the supreme Bliss: a good many don't find it
so. Lively Passions soon burn out; and then come disappointed
Expectancies, vain Repinings, fretful Complainings, wrathful Rejoinings.
You fly from Collision with jarring Minds: what Security have you for
more Forbearance among your new Connexions? Alas! you will carry your
Temper with you--you will carry your bodily Infirmities with you;--your
little Stock of Experience, Reason, and Patience will be exhausted before
the Year is out, and at the End, perhaps, you will--die--"
"As well die," cries _Anne_, bursting into Tears, "as live to hear such a
Rebuke as this." And so, passionately wringing her Hands, runs out of
the Room.
"Follow after her, _Deb_," cries Father; "she is beside herself. Unhappy
me! tried every Way! An _Oedipus_ with no _Antigone_!"
And, rising from his Seat, he began to pace up and down, while I ran up
to _Nan_. But scarce had I reached the Stair-head, when we both heard a
heavy Fall in the Chamber below. We cried, "Sure, that is Father!" and
ran down quicker than we had run up. He was just rising as we entered,
his Foot having caught in a long Coil of Gold Lace, which _Anne_, in her
disorderly Exit, had unwittingly dragged after her. I saw at a Glance he
was annoyed rather than hurt; but _Nan_, without a Moment's Pause, darts
into his Arms, in a Passion of Pity and Repentance, crying, "Oh, Father,
Father, forgive me! oh, Father!"
"Tis all of a Piece, _Nan_," he replies; "alternate hot and cold; every
Thing for Passion, nothing for Reason. Now all for me; a Minute ago, I
might go to the Wall for _John Herring_."
"No, never, Father!" cries _Anne_; "never, dear Father--"
"Dark are the Ways of God," continues he, unheeding her; "not only
annulling his first best Gift of Light to me, and leaving me a Prey to
daily Contempt, Abuse, and Wrong, but mangling my tenderest, most
apprehensive Feelings--"
_Anne_ again breaks in with, "Oh! Father, Father!"
"Dark, dark, for ever dark!" he went on; "but just are the Ways of God to
Man. Who shall say, 'What doest Thou?'"
"Father, I promise you," says _Anne_, "that I will never more think of
_John Herring_."
"Foolish Girl!" he replies sadly; "as ready now to promise too Much, as
resolute just now to hear Nothing. How can you promise never to think of
him? I never asked it of you."
"At least I can promise not to speak of him," says _Anne_.
"Therein you will do wisely," rejoins Father. "My Consent having been
asked is an Admission that I have a Right to give or withhold it; and, as
I have already told _John Herring_, I shall certainly not grant it before
you are of Age. Perhaps by that Time you may be your own Mistress,
without even such an ill Home as I, while I live, can afford you."
"No more of that," says _Anne_, interrupting him; and a Kiss sealed the
Compact.
All this Time, Mother and _Mary_ were, providentially, out of the Way.
Mother had gone off in a Huff, and _Mary_ was busied in making some
marbled Veal.
The rest of the Day was dull enough: violent Emotions are commonly
succeeded by flat Stagnations. _Anne_, however, seemed kept up by some
Energy from within, and looked a little flushed. At Bed-time she got the
start of me, as usuall; and, on entering our Chamber, I found her quite
undrest, sitting at the Table, not reading of her _Bible_, but with her
Head resting on it. I should have taken her to be asleep, but for the
quick Pulsation of some Nerve or Muscle at the back of the Neck,
somewhere under the right Ear. She looks up, commences rubbing her Eyes,
and says, "My Eyes are full of Sand, I think. I will give you my new
Crown-piece, _Deb_, if you will read me to sleep without another Word."
So I say, "A Bargain," though without meaning to take the Crown; and she
jumps into Bed in a Minute, and I begin at the Sermon on the Mount, and
keep on and on, in more and more of a Monotone; but every Time I lookt
up, I saw her Eyes wide open, agaze at the top of the Bed; and so I go on
and on, like a Bee humming over a Flower, till she shuts her Eyes; but,
at last, when I think her off, having just got to _Matthew_, eleven,
twenty-eight, she fetches a deep sigh, and says, "I wish I could hear Him
saying so to me . . . 'Come, _Anne_, unto me, and I will give you Rest.'
But, in fact, He does so as emphatically in addressing all the weary and
heavy-laden, as if I heard Him articulating, 'Come, _Anne_, come!'"