‘Grateful Science still adoresHer Henry’s holy shade.’
‘Grateful Science still adoresHer Henry’s holy shade.’
What is a holy shade, Edmund?”
“It is a poetical expression, my dear, meaning that we of the present day are grateful to the founder, Henry the Sixth, who was a religious, and probably a learned man, although very unfortunate as a king.”
“Oh,” cried Ellen, “I remember all about him; he was deposed by Edward the Fourth,whose two sons were afterwards murdered in the Tower by their wicked uncle, Richard the Third.”
“I rememberthat,” said Matilda, timidly, yet with that kind of pleasure which indicated a sense of approaching her superior in knowledge, and being sensible that this was the only kind of superiority worth possessing.
Scarcely, however, had she spoken, when Charles, throwing himself into a theatrical attitude, exclaimed—“Ay! but do you remember the man that looked likehim—to this same Henry, ‘Who drew Priam’s curtains in the dead of night, and would have told him half his Troy was burnt?’”
“No, indeed,” said both the girls, staring.
Charles burst into a loud laugh at their innocent surprise at his violent gesticulation and grimace.
“I know what you mean,” said Ellen, rather poutingly; “yes, I know it very well, though I don’t choose to talk about things of that kind, because I have always been told that none but ignorant and foolish people did so.”
“But I entreat you,” said Charles, “to tell me what you think I mean, for I am sure you surprise me now as much as I did you.”
“Why, I suppose Henry’s holy shademeans spirit, and it was that which drew Priam’s curtains in the dead of night, (or which he thought did,) though it was probably only the housemaid.”
Again Charles burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, exclaiming—“Housemaid! admirable! upon my word, Ellen, you have found a personage in the old king’s establishment Homer never thought of.”
“I never read Homer,” said Ellen, simply.
“No, child, you need not tell us that,” continued Charles, most provokingly continuing to laugh, until poor Ellen was completely disconcerted, and looked in the face of Edmund with such an appealing air, that he assumed a look of much more serious remonstrance than was usual as he thus addressed his brother—“You may laugh as long as you please, sir, but your whole conduct in this affair has shown so much less knowledge, as well as good sense, than Ellen herself has displayed, that really I should not wonder if a moment’s recollection made you cry as heartily as you now laugh.”
“Indeed!” said Charles, suddenly stopping.
“Yes,indeed! In the first place, there can be surely no doubt but you and I have read a great deal more than the girls, and could at any time puzzle and distress themby various quotations; but when they make inquiries to increase their own stock of knowledge, it is our duty, and ought to be our pleasure, to give them information, not confusion, which you evidently intended to do; besides, it is rude, almost inhuman, to oppress any person, even by the possession of that which is in itself praiseworthy; and as the end of all conversation is, or ought to be, improvement, a person who in any manner checks the spirit of inquiry and free discussion, hinders that end. We all know that English history is all that Ellen has dipped into, and in the little she presumed to utter on the subject, she was perfectly correct; whereas you, in your exhibition of more reading, made a palpable error, since Homer names maids repeatedly as belonging to the palace, and we cannot doubt their being employed as our housemaids are, since their offices are often particularized.”
“A mighty piece of work, truly,” said Charles, “for just quoting two lines of Shakspeare!”
“No, no, Charles, ’tis not for the quotation, but the manner, and you cannot but see yourself how erroneous an idea was taken up in consequence; how often does papa say people can never be too plain and simple, too downright and unequivocal, in theirexplanations to children, otherwise they plant words rather than ideas in their minds, and create a confusion which it may take many a year of after-thought to unravel?”
“I was very foolish,” said Charles, looking at Ellen with the air of one that wondered how it had been possible to give pain to that little gentle heart, which sought only to bestow pleasure on all around it. He was about to speak, but before he had time, his fond sister had read his heart, and throwing her arms around his neck, she exclaimed—“I know you meant nothing, dear Charles; no, I know you didn’t; only you are so fond of being funny.”
The eyes of Charles did indeed now twinkle with a tear; and Matilda, who was quick to discern, and acute in all her feelings, was much affected. When they retired, she revolved all the conversation in her mind; she saw clearly that virtue and knowledge were the only passports to happiness; and the remembrance of her mother’s desire to teach her various things, which she had either shunned from idleness, or rejected with insolence and ill-humour, rose to her mind; and the unhappy indulgence of her father appeared to her in far different colours to what she had ever beheld it. She became frequently disturbed, and full of painfulreflection; yet she evidently took much pains in attaining knowledge of the task assigned her, and in conquering those risings of temper which were become inherent in her mind. Notwithstanding her frequent fits of abstraction, in which it was evident some great grief was uppermost in her mind, yet, as her nature led her to be communicative, and she was never subject to be sullen, the family did not press her to reveal her trouble, thinking that at the proper time she would repose confidence in them; and accordingly, as she sat one day alone with Mrs. Harewood, the following conversation took place between them.
MATILDA, after a long silence, in which she was endeavouring, but in vain, to arrange her ideas and calm the incessant beating of her heart, said, timidly and abruptly, with her eyes fixed on the carpet—“Do you think, ma’am, that if Ellen had ever been very,verynaughty and saucy toyou, who are so good toher, that you could ever really in your heart forgive her?”
“I certainly should consider it my dutyto punish her for her disobedience, by withholding my usual expressions of love and my general indulgences from her; but I should undoubtedly forgive her, because, in the first place, God has commanded me to forgive all trespasses, and in the second, my heart would be drawn naturally towards my own child.”
“But surely, dear Mrs. Harewood, it is worse for anownchild to behave ill to a parent than any other person?”
“Undoubtedly, my dear, for it unites the crime of ingratitude to that of disobedience; besides, it is cruel and unnatural to be guilty of insolence and hard-heartedness towards the hand which has reared and fostered us all our lives—which has loved us in despite of our faults—watched over our infancy—instructed our childhood—nursed us in sickness, and prayed for us before we could pray for ourselves.”
“My mamma has done all this for me a thousand times,” cried Matilda, bursting into tears of bitter contrition, which, for some time, Mrs. Harewood suffered to flow unrestrained; at length she checked herself, but it was only to vent her sorrow by self-accusation—“Oh, ma’am! you cannot think how very ill I have behaved to my dear, dear mother—I have been saucy to her, andbad to every body about me; many a time have I vexed her on purpose; and when she scolded me, I was so pert and disobedient—you can form no idea how bad I was. If she spoke ever so gently to me, I used to tell my papa she had been scolding me, and then he would blame her and justify me; and many a time I have heard deep sighs, that seemed to come from the very bottom of her heart, and the tears would stand in her sweet eyes as she looked at me. Oh, wicked, wicked child that I was, to grieve such a good mamma! and now we are parted such a long, long way, and I cannot beg her pardon—I cannot show her that I am trying to be good; perhaps she may die, as poor papa did, and I shall never,neversee her more.”
The agonies of the repentant girl, as this afflictive thought came over her mind, arose to desperation; and Mrs. Harewood, who felt much for her, endeavoured to bestow some comfort upon her; but poor Matilda, who was ever violent, even in her better feelings, could not, for a long time, listen to the kind voice of her consoler—she could only repeat her own faults, recapitulate all the crimes she had been guilty of, and display, in all their native hideousness, such traits of ill-humour, petulance, ungovernablefury, outrageous passion, and vile revenge, as are the natural offspring of the human heart, when its bad propensities are matured by indulgence, particularly in those warm countries, where the mind partakes the nature of the soil, and slavery in one race of beings gives power to all the bad passions of another.
At length the storm of anguish so far gave way, that Mrs. Harewood was able to command her attention, and she seized this precious season of penitence and humility to imprint the leading truths of Christianity, and those plain and invaluable doctrines which are deducible from them, and evident to the capacity of any sensible child, without leading from the more immediate object of her anxiety; as Mrs. Harewood very justly concluded, that if she saw her error as a child, and could be brought to conquer her faults as such, it would include every virtue to be expected at her time of life, and would lay the foundation of all those which we estimate in the female character.
“Oh,” cried Matilda, sobbing, “if I could kneel at her feet, if I could humble myself lower than the lowest negro to my dear mamma, and once hear her say she forgave me, I could be comforted; but I do not like to be comforted without this; I amangry at myself, and I ought to be angry.”
“But, my dear little girl,” replied Mrs. Harewood, “though you cannot thus humble yourself in your body, yet you are conscious that you are humbled in your mind, and that your penitence will render you guarded for the time to come; and let it be your consolation to know, though your mother is absent, the ears of your heavenly Father are ever open to your sorrows; and that, if you lament your sins to him, he will assuredly accept your repentance, and dispose the heart of your dear mother to accept it also. I sincerely pity you, not as heretofore, for your folly, but for your sorrow; and in order to enable you to comprehend what I mean by repenting before God, I will compose you a short prayer, which will both express your feelings, and remind you of your duty towards yourself and your mother.”
Matilda received this act of kindness from her good friend with real gratitude; and when she had committed it to memory, and adopted it in addressing Almighty God, she found her spirits revive, with the hope that she should one day prove worthy of that kind parent, whom, when she lived with her, she was too apt to slight and disobey.As her judgment became more enlightened, she saw more clearly into the errors of her past education, and became perfectly aware that the love of her too-indulgent father had been productive of innumerable pains, as well as faults. She found herself much more happy now than she had ever been in her life; yet she had never so few indulgences—she had no slaves to wait on her, no little black children to execute her commands and submit to her temper; she was not coaxed to the dainties of a luxurious table, nor had costly clothes spread before her to court her choice, nor any foolish friend to repeat all she said, as if she were a prodigy of wit and talent; and all these things, she well remembered, were accorded to her as a kind of inheritance in Barbadoes; but, along with them, she remembered having violent passions, in which she committed excesses, for which she afterwards felt keen remorse, because she saw how they wounded her mother, and shamed even her doting father—ill-humour and low spirits, that rendered every thing irksome to her, and many pains and fevers, from which she was now entirely free; and she found, in the conversation, books, and instructions of her young friends, amusement to which nothing she had enjoyed before would bearcomparison; for what in life is so delightful as knowledge, except the sense of having performed some particular benefit to our fellow-creatures?
IT will be readily supposed that, with the hopes now entertained of Matilda’s conduct, Mrs. Harewood did not hesitate to provide the governess we have spoken of, and accordingly Miss Campbell was soon established in the family.
She found Matilda rapid in her ideas, persevering in her pursuits, but prone to resentment on every trifling occasion, and still subject to finding herself cause for repentance. On these occasions Miss Campbell conducted herself with composure and dignity, as if she considered a petulant child below the notice of a sensible woman: by this means the pride of the culprit was humbled; she was taught to retread her first steps, and perceive that she was an insignificant being, obliged to the suffrage of her friends, and only capable of being valuable in proportion to her docility and amiable conduct.
Mrs. Harewood had been accustomed to give her children the treat of a ball at Christmas; but on this year she put it off until midsummer, partly because she was afraid, in so large a party, and with such various dispositions, Matilda might not be able to conduct herself with perfect propriety during a whole evening, and partly because she wished her to learn to dance; for although this was, in her eyes, a very secondary accomplishment, when compared to solid knowledge, yet, as a healthful and innocent amusement, and called for in order to form the person in that station of life in which Matilda was likely to move, she desired to see her acquire at least as much of it as would preserve her from the appearance of awkwardness. It was an object of anxiety with this truly maternal friend to save her from all unnecessary mortification, at the same time she earnestly desired to see her tractable, humble, and gentle.
Time now passed away pleasantly, for all were occupied, and therefore happy: the idle are subject to many errors, and therefore many sorrows, from which the busy are exempt.
The good governess studied the temper and disposition of her pupils, and drew them forth in the happiest manner; not bymaking exhibitions of their attainments to others, but by showing them what was necessary to themselves for their improvement. She considered the work of education as sowing good seed, which shall spring up with vigour in advancing life, in proportion to the depth of the soil and its preparation for receiving it.
Whilst Miss Campbell inculcated those branches of polite learning which give a grace to virtue, she was still more desirous of inculcating virtue itself, by grafting it on religious principle, and that “fear of God, which is the beginning of wisdom.”
The children of Mrs. Harewood had been taught, from their earliest days, that prudence and charity must go hand in hand; but it remained for Miss Campbell to impress this salutary truth on the mind of Matilda, who was naturally very generous, but debased that feeling by ostentation, and ever sought to indulge it with a vain and hurtful profusion, until she became enlightened by her young preceptress, who likewise, in many other points, regulated those desires in her pupils which blend good and evil, and require a firm and delicate management. She was very solicitous to render them active, both personally and mentally, knowing that the health of bothbody and mind depends upon their due exercise, and that a taste for study is yet perfectly compatible with those various exertions to which the duties of a woman always call her, in whatever sphere she may have occasion to move.
Miss Campbell wished to save her pupils alike from that perpetual fidgetiness, which renders so many females unable to amuse themselves for a single hour, unless their hands, feet, and tongue are employed, and that pertinacious love of reading, which renders them utterly unable to enter into the common claims of society, while a new story is perused, or a new study developed; she considered these errors as diseases in the mental habit it was her duty to prevent or eradicate, since they must be ever inconsistent with general duty and individual happiness.
Time passed—the vacation arrived, and the young people had the pleasure of all meeting again. Matilda was nearly as glad as Ellen to see Edmund and Charles, who, on their own parts, were much improved, and delighted to find the girls so. Matilda was in every respect altered, and although she had not Ellen’s sweetness of temper, yet she had greatly conquered her propensity to passion, was very obliging in her generalmanners, and considerate to her inferiors, and attached to Ellen, her governess, and Mr. and Mrs. Harewood, with a tenderness and gratitude that was very amiable and even affecting.
ONE day, when Edmund and Charles had been at home about a week, the latter ran eagerly into the sitting-parlour, crying out—“Oh, mamma! there is Betty’s sister down stairs, with the poor little twins in her arms, which were born just when Matilda came; they have short frocks now, but I perceive they have no shoes: suppose we young ones subscribe, and buy them some, poor things! there is my eighteen-penny piece for shoes, mamma—shoes, and hats too, if we can raise money enough.”
Mrs. Harewood could not help smiling at Charles’s eagerness, as she remembered the useful mortification he had experienced the last time his charity was called upon; and as she took up the money, she observed to him—“I am glad to see this, Charles; it is a proof you are more provident than you used to be; and, with your propensity tospending, it requires no little effort to save, in a large school, where there are always many temptations. I think your proposal is a very good one; and whilst I am collecting the money, pray step down stairs, and tell Betty to bring up the little innocents—we shall all be glad to see them.”
Charles flew out of the room, and in less than a minute returned with the mother, carrying a babe in each arm. She was a very decent woman, the widow of a soldier, who died before his poor children were born; she now endeavoured to maintain herself and them by taking in washing, together with the pay of the parish, which, although small, she received very thankfully, and managed very carefully.
“Look, mamma! what pretty little feet they have,” cried Ellen; “I am sure Charles was a good boy to think about shoes for them—was it not very kind of him, Matilda? because you know little boys seldom love little babies so much as girls do.”
Matilda answered “yes,” mechanically, for her mind was abstracted, and affected by the remembrance this scene was calculated to inspire. Mrs. Harewood, feeling for her evident embarrassment, sent the poor woman down stairs to take some refreshment, and then laid a three-shilling piece, as her ownshare of the contribution, besides Charles’s subscription on the table.
Edmund laid a shilling on the table, saying—“If more is wanted, I will give you another with great pleasure: I hope, mamma, youknowthat I will?”
“Yes, Edmund, Idoknow that you will do any thing in your power, for you are regular and prudent, as well as a kind-hearted boy, and therefore have always got something to spare for the wants of others; I perceive, too, that you have the good sense to examine the nature of the claim made upon you, and that you give accordingly;youare aware, and I wish all the young ones to be so likewise, that this, although an act of charity, is not called for by any immediate distress; it is not one of those cases which wring the heart and drain the purse, for the poor woman is neither unprovided with lodgings nor food, and we ought always to keep something for the sake of sufferers of that description: I wish you, children, to be free and liberal, for we are told in the scriptures that ‘God loveth a cheerful giver;’ but, in order to render you also frequent givers, you must be prudent ones.”
“I have only one shilling in the world,” said Ellen, laying it on the table.
“Then sixpence is as much as you oughtto give,” said Mrs. Harewood, giving her a sixpence in change, when, observing that she took it with an air of reluctance, she said—“My dear Ellen, be satisfied; you are a little girl, and have not half your brother’s allowance, you know—it is sufficient.”
While this was passing, Matilda had been fumbling in her pocket, and blushing excessively; her mind was full of painful recollections, yet fraught with gleams of satisfaction; but she wished very much to do two very contrary things, and whilst she still hesitated, Miss Campbell said—“Here is another sixpence, ma’am, which I will take, and give you an eighteen-pence, as I wish to give you a shilling, with Edmund’s proviso.”
“But,” said Matilda, with a mixture of eagerness and hesitation, “then there will be no change for me, and I wish to give the same as Ellen; don’t I want change, ma’am? I—I believe I do.”
There was, in this confusion, and the blush which deepened in her cheek, a something which showed Mrs. Harewood a great deal of what was passing in the mind of this self-convicted, but compassionate and ingenuous girl. Mrs. Harewood took her shilling, and returned her sixpence, which she evidently received with pain, but an effort to smile,as Ellen had done, in return for the smile of her mamma.
After a short pause, Mrs. Harewood said—“Well, Matilda, your delicacy is now satisfied—you have not affected any display of humanity, or ostentatious exhibition of wealth, in order to humble your young friends; but I perceive your heart is not satisfied; that heart is really interested in these babes, and, conscious that it is in your power to do more, you are mortified at stopping short of your own wishes and their wants.”
“Oh dear, ma’am,” replied Matilda, “you have read all the thoughts of my heart, (at least all but one,) and if you think it right, and Ellen will not think me proud, I will indeed be very glad if you will accept a crown for my subscription.”
“I shall receive it with pleasure; and I can venture to assure you, that my children will neither feel envy, anger, nor any other emotion, except joy, at seeing the little objects of their care benefited, and you happy; for they have been taught only to value such actions, according to the motive in one party, and their usefulness to the other: but, Matilda, if it is not a very great secret, I should be glad to know what thatoneother thought in your heart was, which I did not guess, upon this occasion?”
Matilda did not find this question so easy of reply as Mrs. Harewood had expected it to be; she blushed and hung down her head; but, on perceiving that Mrs. Harewood was going to release her from all necessity of reply, she struggled to conquer what she deemed a weakness in herself, and answered thus—“Why, my dear madam, I was thinking what a little proud, stubborn, ill-behaved girl I was, at the time when these twins were born, and we first made a subscription for this poor woman; I remembered, too, how miserable I was, and altogether how much I had to lament, and I felt as if I could like to do something, to prove how thankful I am to God for bringing me into a family like yours, where every day of my life I may learn something good, and where I have been a great deal more happy than ever I was before, even in the house with my own parents.”
Matilda stopped a moment, as if she thought her confession had perhaps infringed on her duty; but recollecting that all her past sorrow had been laid to the proper account, which was her own bad temper and pride, she again proceeded in it.
“When I thought on these things, I came close up to you; but my heart beat so quick, I could not speak, or else I had a guinea inmy hand, the last my dear mamma gave me, and I wished very much to give youthat; but then the memory of my foolish pride, the last time, came again into my mind—I became ashamed, and determined in all things to be guided by Ellen, who is almost a year older than I, and a great deal better.”
“No, no—notbetter,” said Ellen, warmly; and even her brothers, who loved her very dearly, struck with the same admiration of Matilda’s frankness and generosity, exclaimed—“You are as good as Ellennow, Matilda—indeed you are!”
Mrs. Harewood, tenderly kissing her, assured her of her approbation, saying—“All you have said, my dear, tends decidedly to prove that your mind is indeed properly impressed with your duty both towards God and man, and that you have the most sincere desire to conquer those faults which you have already greatly amended; therefore I am determined to permit you to exercise your benevolence, in the most extensive manner that your heart could wish, knowing, as I do, that your fortune is fully equal to any act of charity, and that your good mamma will not fail to approve of it.”
“Thank you, thank you, dear Mrs. Harewood! oh, you are my English mother, and I love you much more than any otherperson in the world, except my Barbadoes mamma.”
The children eagerly crowded round their mother’s chair, to hear what the good news was, which promised to benefit Sally, and make Matilda happy.
“I know,” said Mrs. Harewood, “that the purchase of a mangle would set up the poor woman in her profession as a washerwoman, and enable her to earn at least ten shillings a-week more. It was my intention to purchase one for her myself at Christmas; but I could not do it before, as my charity-purse has been very much run upon lately. When Mr. Harewood comes in, I will ask for the money, and to-morrow we will all go in the coach, and see Matilda purchase it: but, my dear girl, suppose you just step and inform the poor woman of your intention, which I am certain you had rather do without witnesses; it will not only increase her pleasure, but enable her to prepare her apartment for such a noble and useful piece of furniture.”
Matilda left the room, but returned almost immediately.
“You have been very quick,” said Ellen, in rather a murmuring voice; “I wanted to know what she said and how she looked when you told her the good news.”
“I did not speak to her myself—Icommissioned Zebby to do it, for I knew it would give her quite as much pleasure as the poor woman herself could receive; and surely she has a right to receive every good I can bestow, as a slight atonement for the pain I have so very frequently given her.”
Scarcely had Matilda given this proof of consideration and amiable feeling, when Sally and Zebby rushed into the room together, followed by Betty, who was truly grateful for the kindness thus bestowed on her sister.
Sally, with tears of joy, thanked her young benefactress; her words were few, but they were those of respect and thankfulness, and showed she was deeply sensible of the benefit she experienced.
Poor Zebby, delighted with the goodness of her young mistress, audibly expressed her pleasure, with all the characteristic warmth of her country, and not a little proud of those virtues which she fancied she had assisted to nurture.—“Oh,” cried she, “dis be my own beautiful Missy own goodness; she makee joy in her mamma heart; she makee poor negro all happy—singee and dancee every body; no more whip, massa Buckraman—every body delight—every body glad—every body good Christian, when Missy go back!”
The spontaneous effusion of joy, utteredby this daughter of nature, affected all the party, and the joyful bustle had not subsided when Mr. Harewood entered. On being informed of the cause, he gave his full assent, and produced the money necessary for the purchase of the mangle.
The following day was pleasantly employed in arranging the poor woman’s new acquisition; and when Matilda saw her grateful, happy countenance, and learned the manner in which the machine would be worked, and its usefulness in smoothing linen, she felt the value of a useful life, and a sense of her own importance, distinct from the idle consequence which is the result of vanity and pride, but perfectly compatible with the self-distrust and true humility which was now happily taking a deep root in her young mind.
Mrs. Harewood was gratified in perceiving such results of her maternal care for Matilda: still she did not relax in her vigilance; for she well knew, that along with corn will spring up tares in every young mind, and that the virtue of one day does not exempt from the vice of another, during the years of early life; and there were still many points in which the errors of her Barbadoes education were but too visible, and which called for the pruning hand of a sensible and pious friend.
THE foolish indulgence of Mr. Hanson had in no respect been more injurious to his only daughter, than in the unrestrained permission to eat whatever she liked, and as much of it as she could swallow.
On arriving at Mr. Harewood’s, she found herself at a loss for many of the sweet and rich dishes she had been accustomed to eat of at her father’s luxurious table; for although theirs was very well served, it consisted generally of plain and wholesome viands. Under these circumstances, Matilda made what she considered very poor dinners, and she endeavoured to supply her loss by procuring sweet things and trash, through the medium of Zebby, who, in this particular, was more liable to mislead her than any other person, because she knew to what she had been used, having frequently waited upon her, when the little gormandizer had eaten the whole of any delicacy which happened to be provided for the company.
Mrs. Harewood took great pains to correct this evil, especially on Ellen’s account; for as Matilda was not covetous, she was ever ready to share with her only companion theraisins and almonds, figs, gingerbread, biscuits, or comfits, which she was continually munching; and this Mrs. Harewood had a particular objection to, not only because it is bad for the health, and lays the foundation for innumerable evils in the constitution, but because it renders young people hateful in their appearance, since nothing can be more unladylike or disagreeable, than the circumstance of being called to speak when the mouth is full, or displaying the greediness of their appetite, by cramming between meals, stealing out of a room to fill the mouth in the passage, or silently moving the jaws about, and being obliged to blush with shame when caught in such disgraceful tricks.
In order to guard against this habit, Mrs. Harewood positively forbade her servants from bringing any thing of the kind into the house; but poor Zebby, from habit, still obeyed her young Missy, and, besides, she had no idea that the enjoyments of fortune were good for any thing else than to pamper the appetite; so that it was a long time before she could be brought to desist from so pernicious a practice. As, however, the mind of Matilda strengthened, and she began to employ herself diligently in those new branches of education now imparted toher, she insensibly became weaned from this bad practice; and at length, inspired with a sincere desire to imitate her young friends, she broke herself entirely from this disgusting habit, and willingly adopted, in every thing, the simple wholesome fare partaken by her young friends.
It was undoubtedly owing to this temperance that she preserved her health, and even enjoyed it more than ever, notwithstanding the change of climate; but, alas! the good sense, resolution, and forbearance she thus acted with, was not followed by the humble companion of her voyage.
The change Zebby experienced in Mr. Harewood’s comfortable kitchen, from the simple food to which, as a slave, she had been accustomed in the West Indies, was still greater, though in an exactly contrary line, than that of her young lady. Zebby soon learned to eat of the good roast and boiled she sat down to, and exchanged the simple beverage of water for porter and beer, in consequence of which she became much disordered in her health; and when Mrs. Harewood prescribed a little necessary physic, as her mild persuasions were enforced by no threat, and the prescription appeared to the unenlightened negro a kind of punishment she had no inclination to endure, there was nogetting her to swallow the bitter but salutary potion.
Zebby had been a long time feverish and subject to headaches, when the circumstance mentioned in the last chapter took place, which so exhilarated her spirits, that she declared she would be the first person who should use the new mangle which “her pretty Missy givee poor Sally.”
It is well known that the negroes are naturally averse to bodily labour, and that, although their faithfulness and affection render them capable of enduring extreme hardship and many privations, yet they are rarely voluntarily industrious; and it was therefore a proof of Zebby’s real kindness, that she thus exerted herself.
Unhappily, a mode of labour entirely new to her, and, in her present sickly state, requiring more strength than she possessed, although, had she used it freely some time before, it would have done her good, was now too much for her, and she came home complaining, in doleful accents, that “poor Zebby have achies all over—is sometimes so hot as Barbadoes, sometimes so cold as London.”
Mrs. Harewood was well aware that the good-tempered negro was seized with fever, and she sent immediately for herapothecary, who confirmed her fears, and prescribed for her; but as there was no getting her to swallow medicine, he was obliged to bleed her, and put a blister on her head, which, however, did not prevent her from becoming delirious for several days.
Poor Zebby was, at this time, troubled with the most distressing desire to return to Barbadoes, and all her ravings were to this purpose; and they were naturally very affecting to Matilda, who never heard them without being a little desirous of uniting her own wishes to behold her native country, especially when she heard it coupled with the name of that only, and now fondly-beloved parent, from whom she was so far separated, and her tears flowed freely when she visited the bedside of the poor African. But her sorrow increased exceedingly when she learned the danger in which poor Zebby stood, and found that her death was daily expected by all around; bitter indeed were the tears she then shed, and she would have given the world to have recalled those hasty expressions, angry blows, and capricious actions, which had so often afflicted her humble attendant, whose fidelity, love, humility, and services, she now could fully estimate, and whose loss she would deeply deplore.
Mrs. Harewood endeavoured to comfort her under this affliction, by leading her to view the consolations which religion offers to the afflicted in general, and she explained the nature of that beneficent dispensation whereby the learned and the ignorant, the poor and the rich, the slave and his master, are alike brought to receive salvation as the free gift of God, through the mediation of our merciful Redeemer; and comforted her with the hope, that although poor Zebby’s mind was but little enlightened, and her faith comparatively uninformed, yet as, to the best of her knowledge, she had been devout and humble, resting her claims for future happiness on that corner-stone, “the goodness of God in Christ Jesus,” so there was no reason to fear that she would not leave this world for a far better, for “a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.”
Matilda’s mind was deeply impressed with this holy and happy consolation, but yet she could not help lamenting her own loss, in one whom she no longer considered her slave, and little better than a beast of burden, but as her countrywoman, her friend, the partaker of that precious faith by which alone the most wise, wealthy, and great, can hope to inherit the kingdom ofheaven; and she could not help praying for her restoration to health, with all the fervour of which her heart was capable; and many a promise mingled with her prayer, that, if it pleased God to restore her, she would never treat her ill again: and these promises she likewise repeated to Mrs. Harewood and her governess.
Neither of these ladies lost the opportunity thus offered, of impressing on her mind the duties which every woman, whatever may be her rank or situation in life, does indeed owe to those whom Providence hath placed under her. They explained, in particular, the necessity of forbearance in point of manners, and of consideration in her daily employments—“If,” said the good mistress, “I ring the bell twice or thrice, where once would answer every purpose, provided I gave myself the trouble of considering what I really wanted, I not only waste my servant’s time, which would supply my wants, and therefore injure myself in one sense, but I waste the strength which is her only means of subsistence, and I awaken that vexation of temper, which, although perhaps suppressed before me, will yet rankle in her bosom, and probably induce her to commit some injury on my property, which is an actual sin in her: thusmyfolly leads toherguilt, and the very least mischief that can accrue is her unhappiness; for who can be happy whose temper is perpetually ruffled by the cruel thoughtlessness of those who have the absolute disposal of their time, their talents, and, in a great measure, their dispositions?”
“Depend upon it,” added Miss Campbell, “that as we are assured in the Scriptures, that ‘for every idle word we shall be brought to account,’ so, in a particular manner, must we be judged for all those idle words and actions which have inflicted on any of our fellow-creatures pains we have no right to bestow, or tempted them to sins they had no inclination to follow; the petty tyrannies of our whims, changes, and fancies—of our scoldings, complainings, peremptory orders, and causeless contradictions, will all one day swell that awful list of sins, of which it may be truly said, ‘we cannot answer one in a thousand.’”
When Miss Campbell ceased speaking, Ellen, who, although not affected so violently as Matilda, had yet felt much for Zebby’s situation, and was seriously desirous of profiting by all she heard, said in a low voice—“I will do every thing for myself—I will never trouble Susan, or Betty, or any body.”
Mrs. Harewood knew the bent of her daughter’s mind, and that although, from the sweetness of her temper and the mildness of her manners, she was not likely to fall into Matilda’s errors, there were others of an opposite class, from which it was necessary to guard her; she therefore added—“Although consideration and kindness are certainly the first duties to be insisted upon in our conduct, yet there are others of not less importance. It is the place of every mistress to exact obedience to reasonable commands and the execution of all proper services. If she does not do this, she deserts her own station in society, defeats the intentions she was called to fulfil, and which made her the guide and guardian, not the companion and fellow-server, of her servants. In abandoning them to their own discretion, she lays upon them a burden which, either from ignorance or habit, they are probably unequal to endure, since it is certain that many truly respectable persons in this class have been only so while they were under the controlling eye or leading mind of their superiors. Besides, all uncommon levity of manners, like all unbecoming freedom in conversation, more frequently arises from weakness or idleness in the parties, and ought to be guarded against in ourconduct, as never failing to be degradatory to ourselves, and very far from beneficial to those they affect to serve: it is possible to be very friendly, yet very firm; to be gentle, yet resolute, and at once a fellow-Christian and a good master to those whom Providence hath rendered our dependants.”
Ellen listened to this with attention, and endeavoured to understand and apply it; but both she and Matilda continued to pay the most affectionate attentions to poor Zebby, whose disorder in a few days took a more favourable turn than could have been expected, although the delirium did not immediately subside, but rather affected her general temper, which, under its influence, appeared as remarkably unpleasant and tormenting to herself and all around, as it was formerly kind and obliging.
This period was indeed trying to Matilda, who was by no means sufficiently confirmed in her virtuous resolutions, or good habits, to endure reproaches where she merited thanks, even in a case where she was aware of deranged intellect and real affection, either of which ought to have led her to endure the wild sallies and troublesome pettishness of the suffering negro. It must however be allowed, that if she did not do all she ought, she yet did more than could have been onceexpected, and very greatly increased the esteem and approbation of her friends.
Matilda, when she was not influenced by the bodily indolence which was natural to her as a West-Indian, and which was rather a misfortune than her fault, was apt to be too active and bustling for the stillness required in a sick chamber; and whatever she did, was done with a rapidity and noisiness, more in unison with her own ardent desire of doing good, than the actual welfare of the person she sought to relieve; whereas Ellen never for a moment lost sight of that gentle care and considerate pity, which was natural to a mind attuned to tenderness from its very birth; and many a time would she say—“Hush, Matilda! don’t speak so loud; have a care how you shut the door,” &c.
One day they both happened to go in just as the nurse was going to give the patient a basin of broth—“Let me give it her,” said Matilda; “you know she always likes me to give her any thing.”
“Sometimes she does, when she knows you; but her head wanders to-day sadly.”
“Never mind,” replied Matilda, in her hurrying manner, and taking the broth from the woman in such a way that the basin shook upon the plate; on which Ellen said—“Have a care, the broth seems very hot; indeed,toohot for Zebby to take.”
Matilda fancied this caution an indirect attack upon her care, and she went to the bedside immediately, and bolting up to the patient, who was sitting, raised by pillows, she offered the broth to her, saying—“Come, Zebby, let me feed you with this nice food—it will do you good.”
The warm fume of the basin was offensive to the invalid—“Me no likee brothies,” said she; and as it was not instantly removed, she unhappily pushed away the plate, and turned the scalding contents of the basin completely into the bosom of poor Matilda, as she reclined towards her.
Shrieking with pain, and stamping with anger, Matilda instantly cried out that she was murdered, and the wretch should be flayed alive.
Ellen, shocked, terrified, and truly sorry, called out in an agony—“Mamma, dear mamma, come here this moment! poor Matilda is scalded to death!”
The nurse, the servants, and Mrs. Harewood herself, were in a few moments with the sufferer; and the latter, although she despatched the footman for a surgeon, did not for a moment neglect the assistance and relief in her own power to bestow; shescraped some white lead[1]into a little thick cream, and applied it with a feather all over the scalded parts; and in a very short time the excruciating pain was relieved, and the fire so well drawn out by it, that when the surgeon arrived he made no change in the application, but desired it might be persisted in, and said—“He had no doubt of a cure being speedily obtained, if the patient were calm.”
During the former part of this time, Matilda continued to scream incessantly, with the air of a person whose unmerited and intolerable sufferings gave a right to violence; and even when she became comparatively easy, she yet uttered bitter complaints against Zebby, as the cause of the mischief; never taking into consideration her own share of it, nor recollecting that she acted both thoughtlessly and stubbornly in neglecting the advice of Ellen; and that although her principal motive was the endeavour to benefit Zebby, yet there was a deficiency in actual kindness, when she offered her broth it was impossible for the poor creature to taste. Such, however, was the commiseration for her injury felt by all those around her, that no one would, in the moment of her punishment, say a word thatcould be deemed unkind; and soothings, rather than exhortations, were all that were uttered.
At length the storm was appeased; Matilda, declaring herself much easier, was laid upon the sofa, and a gentle anodyne being given to her, she closed her eyes, and if she did not sleep, she appeared in a state of stupor, which much resembled sleep. It so happened, that the hot liquid had, in falling, thrown many drops upon her face, which gave her so much pain at the moment, that she thought she was scalded much worse than she really was, as did those around her; but Ellen, as she watched her slumbers, now perceived that this was a very transient injury, and she observed to her mamma, that she hoped Matilda’s good looks would not be spoiled by the accident, at least that her beauty would be restored before her mother’s arrival from the West Indies.
“Before that time,” returned Mrs. Harewood, “I trust Matilda will have attained such a degree of mental beauty, as would render the total destruction of her personal beauty a trifling loss, in comparison, to the eye of a thinking and good mother, such as I apprehend Mrs. Hanson to be.”
“But surely, mamma, it is a good thing to be handsome? I mean, if people happen tobe handsome, it is a pity they should lose their beauty.”
“It is, my dear, to a certain degree a pity; for a pretty face, like a pleasant prospect, gives pleasure to the beholder, and leads the mind to contemplate the great Author of beauty in his works, and rejoice in the perfection every where visible in nature. The possessors of beauty may, however, so often spare it with advantage to themselves and their near connections, that the loss of it, provided there is neither sickness, nor any very disgusting appearance, left behind, does not appear to me a very great misfortune.”
“But surely, mamma, people may be both very pretty and very good?”
“Undoubtedly, my dear; but such are the temptations handsome people are subject to, that they are much more frequently to be pitied than envied; yet envy from the illiberal and malicious seldom fails to pursue them; and when they are neither vain nor arrogant, generally points them out as both.”
“I have often wished to be handsome, mamma, because I thought people would love me if I were; but if that is the case, I must have been mistaken, mamma.”
“Indeed you were, my child; personal charms, however attractive to the eye, do not blind, or even engage the heart, unlessthey are accompanied by good qualities, which would have their effect, you know, without beauty—nay, even in ugly persons, when we become thoroughly acquainted with them. Can you suppose, Ellen, that if you were as handsome as the picture over the chimney-piece, that you would be more dear to me on that account, or that you would, in any respect, contribute more to my happiness?”
“You would not love me better, dear mamma, but yet you would be more proud of me, I should think.”
“Then I must be a very weak woman to be proud of that which implied no merit, either in you or me, and which the merest accident might, as we perceive, destroy in a moment; but this I must add, that if, with extraordinary beauty, you possessed sufficient good sense to remain as simple in your manners, and as active in the pursuit of intellectual endowments, as I hope to see you,thenI might beproudof you, as the usual expression is; for I beg you to remember that, strictly speaking, it is wrong to be proud of any thing.”
“Zebby always said that Mr. Hanson was very proud of Matilda—I suppose it was of her beauty.”
“I suppose so too, and you could not havebrought forward a more decisive proof of the folly and sin of pride, and the inefficacy of beauty to procure love, than in the conduct and qualities of the persons in question. Mr. Hanson’s pride of his daughter’s beauty rendered him blind to her faults, or averse to correcting them; and from his indulgence, the effect of that very beauty for which he sacrificed every real excellence, was so completely impaired, that I am sure, with all your predilection for a pretty face, you will allow that Matilda, with all those red spots plastered with white ointment, is a thousand times more agreeable than Matilda with bright eyes and ruddy cheeks on her first landing.”
“Oh yes, yes!” cried Ellen, looking at her with the tenderest affection, and relapsing into tears, which had frequently visited her eyes since the time of the terrible accident.
The opiate had now spent itself, and Matilda, giving a slight shudder, awoke, and looked at Ellen with a kind of recollective gaze, that recalled the events of the morning, and which was succeeded by a sense of pain.
“What is the matter, Ellen? you are crying—have you been scalded?”
“No,” said the affectionate child, “butyouhave.”
A confused recollection of all the particulars of the affair now came to Matilda’s memory; and as by degrees they arose on her mind, she became ashamed of the extreme impatience she had exhibited, and surprised that Ellen could love and pity so much a girl whose conduct was so little likely to ensure affection and respect; and although the pain became every moment more troublesome, she forbore most magnanimously to complain, until the changes in her complexion induced Mrs. Harewood to say,—“I think, Matilda, we had better apply the ointment again to your wound—you are still suffering from the fire, I see.”
“If you please, ma’am.”
With a light and skilful hand, Mrs. Harewood again touched the wounds, and immediate ease followed; but ere she had finished her tender operation, Matilda caught that kind hand, and, pressing it fondly to her lips, bathed it with her tears; they were those of gratitude and contrition.
“I fear you are in much painstill,” said her kind friend, though she partly comprehended her feelings.
“Oh, no! you have given me ease; but if you had not, I would not have minded, I feared, indeed I am certain, that I behaved very ill, quite shamefully, thismorning; and you are so—so good to me, that—that——”
Matilda was choked by her sobs, and Mrs. Harewood took the opportunity of soothing her, not by praising her for virtues she had not exercised, but by calling upon her to show them in her future conduct; although she did so far conciliate as to say, that the suddenness of the injury, in some measure, excused the violence she had manifested.
Matilda gave a deep sigh and shook her head, in a manner which manifested how far this went in palliation, and was aware that much of error remained unatoned. She inquired how Zebby was, and if she was sensible.
“She has been so ever since your accident, which appeared to recall her wandering senses by fixing them to one point; and as her fever is really abated, I trust she will soon be better.”
Matilda hastily sprang from the sofa, and though in doing so she necessarily greatly increased the pain under which she laboured, yet she suppressed all complaint, and hurried forward to Zebby’s room, followed by Mrs. Harewood and Ellen; the former of whom was extremely desirous at once to permit her to ease her heart, and yet to prevent herfrom injuring herself, by adding to the inflammation of her wound.
It was a truly affecting spectacle to behold Matilda soothing and comforting the poor black woman, who had not for a moment ceased to reproach herself, since the screams of the young lady had brought her to her senses, and her invectives to the knowledge of her own share in the transaction. It was in vain that the nurse and the servants of Mrs. Harewood had endeavoured to reconcile her, by the repeated assurance, that let the young lady say what she pleased, yet no harm could reach her: that in old England, every servant had law and justice as much on their side as their master could have.
This was no consolation to the faithful negro, who appeared rather to desire even unmerited punishment than seek for excuse; she incessantly upbraided herself for having killed pretty Missy, and breaking the heart of her good mistress; and when she beheld the plastered face of Matilda, these self-reproaches increased to the most distressing degree, and threatened a complete relapse to the disorder she had yet hardly escaped from.
“You could not help it, Zebby; it was all an accident, and ought to be chiefly attributed to my own foolishness,” said Matilda.
“Oh, no! it was me bad and foolish.Missy, me naughty,sameyou used to be—pushee here and pushee there, in bad pets—it was all me—breaky heart of poor Missis—she comee over great seas; thinkee see you all good and pretty as Englis lady; and den you be shocking figure, all cover with spotee—oh deary! oh deary! perhaps come fever, then you go to the death, you will be bury in dark hole, and mamma never,neversee you again.”
The desponding tones of this speech went far beyond its words, and Matilda combining with it the caution she had heard the medical gentleman make respecting fever, and the first exclamation of Ellen, that—“Matilda was scalded to death,” induced her to suppose that there was really danger in her case; and after repeatedly assuring Zebby of her entire forgiveness and regard, she returned to the apartment she had quitted, with a slow step, and an air of awe and solemnity, such as her friends had never witnessed before.
After Matilda had lain down on the sofa some minutes, she desired Ellen to get her materials for writing, but soon found that the pain in her breast rendered it impossible for her to execute her design.
“I will write for you,” said Ellen.
“That won’t do—I wanted, with my ownhand, to assure dear mamma that poor Zebby was not to blame, nor any body else.”
“My dear,” said Mrs. Harewood, “we can do that by and by, when your mamma comes over.”
“But if, ma’am—if I shoulddie?”
Mrs. Harewood could scarcely forbear an inward smile, but she answered her with seriousness, and did not lose the opportunity of imprinting upon her mind many salutary truths connected with her present situation, not forgetting to impress strongly the necessity which every Christian has of being ever ready to obey that awful summons, which may be expected at any hour, and from which there is no appeal; but she concluded by an assurance that in a few days the present disorder would be completely removed, in case she guarded her own temper from impetuosity, and observed the regimen prescribed to her.
When Matilda’s fears on this most important point were subsided, she adverted to her face, but it was only to inquire whether it was likely to be well before her mother came, she being naturally and properly desirous of saving her dear parent from any pain which could arise from her appearance; and when her fears on this head were likewise relieved, she became more composed inher spirits, and more anxious than ever to prove, by future good conduct, her sense of contrition for the past, and resolution for the future; and although she was most thankful for the sympathy of her friends, she never sought it by useless complainings, or aggravated her sufferings in order to win their pity or elicit their praise; and by her perseverance and patience, a cure was obtained much sooner than could have been expected from the nature of the accident.
Zebby regularly amended, as she perceived the great object of her anxiety amend also; and the sense she entertained of her late danger, the gratitude she felt for the kindness she had been treated with, and, above all, the self-denial to which she perceived her young lady accustomed herself, in order to recover, induced her henceforward to become temperate in her use of food, and tractable as to the means necessary for preserving her health, and to perceive her duty with regard to the commands given by her young lady, to whom she was now more truly attached than ever: for the attachment of improved minds goes far beyond that of ignorance.