“How many blessed groups this hour are bendingThrough England’s primrose-meadow paths their way!Toward spire and tower, ’mid shadowy elms ascending,Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day!The halls, from old heroic ages grey,Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low,With whose thick orchard-blooms the soft winds play,Send out their inmates in a happy flow,Like a freed vernal stream.Imay not treadWith them these pathways; to the feverish bedOf sickness bound. Yet, oh my God! I blessThy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath filledMy chastened heart, and all its throbbings stilledTo one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness.”
“How many blessed groups this hour are bendingThrough England’s primrose-meadow paths their way!Toward spire and tower, ’mid shadowy elms ascending,Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day!The halls, from old heroic ages grey,Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low,With whose thick orchard-blooms the soft winds play,Send out their inmates in a happy flow,Like a freed vernal stream.Imay not treadWith them these pathways; to the feverish bedOf sickness bound. Yet, oh my God! I blessThy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath filledMy chastened heart, and all its throbbings stilledTo one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness.”
“How many blessed groups this hour are bendingThrough England’s primrose-meadow paths their way!Toward spire and tower, ’mid shadowy elms ascending,Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day!The halls, from old heroic ages grey,Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low,With whose thick orchard-blooms the soft winds play,Send out their inmates in a happy flow,Like a freed vernal stream.Imay not treadWith them these pathways; to the feverish bedOf sickness bound. Yet, oh my God! I blessThy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath filledMy chastened heart, and all its throbbings stilledTo one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness.”
“How many blessed groups this hour are bending
Through England’s primrose-meadow paths their way!
Toward spire and tower, ’mid shadowy elms ascending,
Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day!
The halls, from old heroic ages grey,
Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low,
With whose thick orchard-blooms the soft winds play,
Send out their inmates in a happy flow,
Like a freed vernal stream.Imay not tread
With them these pathways; to the feverish bed
Of sickness bound. Yet, oh my God! I bless
Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath filled
My chastened heart, and all its throbbings stilled
To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness.”
And, since I have been no longer bound to the sick-bed, but only to the house, my thankfulness has deepened under a cheerful sense of alleviated pains and added blessings; so that I may sincerely say my home-kept Sabbaths have generally been very calm and sweet.
I have made out a little routine for myself, which I adhere to pretty closely. Having early in life acquired the habit of rising betimes, I have no temptation to curtail the Sunday by lying in bed; nor is Phillis so overworked as to need, or even to wish for, an extra hour’s sleep. I therefore hear her stirring as soon as the clock strikes six; and, till she comes to afford me a little assistance at seven, I lie tranquilly cogitating on God’s mercies, lifting up my heart to Him, and almost invariably repeating that hymn of Hugh White’s, which so fitly opens the invalid’s Sunday.
“Let me put on my fair attire,My Sabbath robes of richest dress,And tune my consecrated lyre,Lord of the Sabbath! thee to bless.“Oh, may no spot of sin to-dayMy raiment, clean and white, defile!And while I tune my heartfelt lay,Bend down on me thy gracious smile.“Let holy feelings, heavenly themes,Raise, and refresh, and fill my mind;And earth’s low vanities and schemesNo place nor entertainment find!“The looks, the thoughts, the sweet employOf saints, whose treasure is above,Be mine to-day! their zeal, their joy,Their peace, and purity, and love.“My spirit may with theirs unite,My humble notes with theirs may blend,Although denied the pure delightThy sacred courts with them to attend.“The faith and patience of the saints,These I may exercise each hour—When, weak with pain, the body faints,I best may exercise their power.“O Saviour! with completion crownDesires thou wakenest not in vain;Stoop to thy lowly temple down,Bring all these graces in thy train!“This is thy day of bounty, Lord!I ask no small, no stinted boon,But showers, rich showers of blessing, pouredOn me, though worthless and alone.“If the weak tendril round thee twine,It ne’er is hidden from thine eye:I cling to thee, life-giving Vine,Strength, verdure, fruitfulness supply!”
“Let me put on my fair attire,My Sabbath robes of richest dress,And tune my consecrated lyre,Lord of the Sabbath! thee to bless.“Oh, may no spot of sin to-dayMy raiment, clean and white, defile!And while I tune my heartfelt lay,Bend down on me thy gracious smile.“Let holy feelings, heavenly themes,Raise, and refresh, and fill my mind;And earth’s low vanities and schemesNo place nor entertainment find!“The looks, the thoughts, the sweet employOf saints, whose treasure is above,Be mine to-day! their zeal, their joy,Their peace, and purity, and love.“My spirit may with theirs unite,My humble notes with theirs may blend,Although denied the pure delightThy sacred courts with them to attend.“The faith and patience of the saints,These I may exercise each hour—When, weak with pain, the body faints,I best may exercise their power.“O Saviour! with completion crownDesires thou wakenest not in vain;Stoop to thy lowly temple down,Bring all these graces in thy train!“This is thy day of bounty, Lord!I ask no small, no stinted boon,But showers, rich showers of blessing, pouredOn me, though worthless and alone.“If the weak tendril round thee twine,It ne’er is hidden from thine eye:I cling to thee, life-giving Vine,Strength, verdure, fruitfulness supply!”
“Let me put on my fair attire,My Sabbath robes of richest dress,And tune my consecrated lyre,Lord of the Sabbath! thee to bless.
“Let me put on my fair attire,
My Sabbath robes of richest dress,
And tune my consecrated lyre,
Lord of the Sabbath! thee to bless.
“Oh, may no spot of sin to-dayMy raiment, clean and white, defile!And while I tune my heartfelt lay,Bend down on me thy gracious smile.
“Oh, may no spot of sin to-day
My raiment, clean and white, defile!
And while I tune my heartfelt lay,
Bend down on me thy gracious smile.
“Let holy feelings, heavenly themes,Raise, and refresh, and fill my mind;And earth’s low vanities and schemesNo place nor entertainment find!
“Let holy feelings, heavenly themes,
Raise, and refresh, and fill my mind;
And earth’s low vanities and schemes
No place nor entertainment find!
“The looks, the thoughts, the sweet employOf saints, whose treasure is above,Be mine to-day! their zeal, their joy,Their peace, and purity, and love.
“The looks, the thoughts, the sweet employ
Of saints, whose treasure is above,
Be mine to-day! their zeal, their joy,
Their peace, and purity, and love.
“My spirit may with theirs unite,My humble notes with theirs may blend,Although denied the pure delightThy sacred courts with them to attend.
“My spirit may with theirs unite,
My humble notes with theirs may blend,
Although denied the pure delight
Thy sacred courts with them to attend.
“The faith and patience of the saints,These I may exercise each hour—When, weak with pain, the body faints,I best may exercise their power.
“The faith and patience of the saints,
These I may exercise each hour—
When, weak with pain, the body faints,
I best may exercise their power.
“O Saviour! with completion crownDesires thou wakenest not in vain;Stoop to thy lowly temple down,Bring all these graces in thy train!
“O Saviour! with completion crown
Desires thou wakenest not in vain;
Stoop to thy lowly temple down,
Bring all these graces in thy train!
“This is thy day of bounty, Lord!I ask no small, no stinted boon,But showers, rich showers of blessing, pouredOn me, though worthless and alone.
“This is thy day of bounty, Lord!
I ask no small, no stinted boon,
But showers, rich showers of blessing, poured
On me, though worthless and alone.
“If the weak tendril round thee twine,It ne’er is hidden from thine eye:I cling to thee, life-giving Vine,Strength, verdure, fruitfulness supply!”
“If the weak tendril round thee twine,
It ne’er is hidden from thine eye:
I cling to thee, life-giving Vine,
Strength, verdure, fruitfulness supply!”
Hugh White, himself on the bed of sickness, used to send Mrs. Hemans beautiful flowers in her last illness; and perhaps he may have sent her this pretty hymn too. I should like to know that he did, and that it comforted her with the comfort wherewith he himself was comforted: one Christian poet should fitly thus console another.
Having chewed the cud awhile on this sweet hymn, and possibly on one or two others, I begin my toilette with great deliberation. It is indeed always a lengthy process; not on account of any special self-decoration (of course, the “Sabbath robes of richest dress,” in the hymn, have a purely figurative meaning, though I think respect for the day may be shown in the outward garb too), not because I delight in braiding of the hair and costly array; but on account of downright bodily weakness, which necessitates frequent little rests and intermissions: and as I have no one to hurry for, why should I hurry?
However, by eight o’clock I find my way to my sofa in the adjoining room, with the little breakfast table set near the fire in winter, and near theopen window in summer. I read a psalm, collect, and the epistle and gospel of the day, to myself, while I recover myself a little. I have no voice for reading aloud before breakfast. My breakfast is no great matter; it does not take long, neither do I hurry it; but when one has nothing to do but to eat and drink, it cannot be a very tedious occupation. Phillis clears the table, brings in her Bible, we read a portion, verse and verse alternately, and then I offer a prayer, and she then goes to her breakfast. Then I lie and meditate a little.
I have put secular books, newspapers, work-baskets, &c., out of the way overnight; so that the room has an orderly, Sabbath-like appearance. The large Bible and little Prayer-book are on the small table beside me: some other book also at hand, in the course of Sunday reading. My canary-bird must be attended to, Sunday as well as week-day. I give him my attention as soon as I am a little rested; and perhaps remain at the window a little, looking at the flowers in the garden-borders, the little children from the hill trooping to the school with their cold dinnersin their bags, and the hill itself, girdling in the prospect, and ever calling to mind the verse, “I will look unto the hill from whence cometh my help.”
A widow woman, who nursed me during part of my illness, always comes to cook my dinner, and take care of me while Phillis goes to church. She gets her dinner for her pains, and sits placidly reading while the meat is roasting, now and then with an eye to the spit. Afterwards, she goes to afternoon service. She is too infirm, and too far from the church to be able to go more than once in the day.
Of course, I always have a few pleasant words with Mrs. Goodey; and sometimes she tells me of some case of distress among the cottagers, which I make it my business to relieve, or get some one to look into, the first opportunity. But punctually, as the clock strikes eleven, I commence my solitary prayer service, feeling it a special pleasure, as well as duty, to offer prayer and praise at the same time that my fellow Christians pray and praise.
Now, as I do not slavishly go through thoseportions (they are but few), which can only be appropriately used collectively (St. Chrysostom’s prayer, for instance), one would think I should arrive at the end of the morning service a good deal sooner than they do in church. Sooner, certainly, but not so much so as one might suppose. For, when thoughts wander, (and, alas! who is there among mortal men, who, in this respect, sometimes sinneth not?) I feel it incumbent on me to go over the ground again. Thus, if I repeat a clause in the litany mechanically, I feel that the least I can do is to repeat it with more attention, and something of contrition. Even the wicked king in “Hamlet” said:
“My words fly up—my thoughts remain below:Words, without thoughts, never to heaven go!”
“My words fly up—my thoughts remain below:Words, without thoughts, never to heaven go!”
“My words fly up—my thoughts remain below:Words, without thoughts, never to heaven go!”
“My words fly up—my thoughts remain below:
Words, without thoughts, never to heaven go!”
Thus, of course, the more I detect inattention, the more I lengthen the service. And then again, in the lessons, I frequently read the consecutive chapters, perhaps two or three. So that, sometimes, Mrs. Goodey comes in, to my surprise, to lay the cloth, before I have finished. But, more generally, I have done earlier, and lain back onmy sofa-cushion, and taken a good rest, gazing on my Sunday nosegay, and on my dear father’s portrait on the wall. I have no likeness of my mother—not even asilhouette; she never would have one taken: but her face is indelibly stamped on my memory and heart.
Then Phillis bustles in with the one hot dish; and generally has brought home some scrap of news, which she is in haste to impart.
“Master Frank preached to-day.” (The Rev. Francis Sidney is always, with her, Master Frank). “How well he do speak up, to be sure! The deafest in church might hear ’un. Well, I can’t justly mind what ’twas about, but ’twas charity, I think, or else hope. No, ’twas charity; because he brought in, ‘But the greatest of these is charity.’ Yes, I know he did. Yes, yes—’twas on charity.”
Then she adds that Mrs. Stowe’s twins are going to be christened in the afternoon, by the names of Esau and Jacob. And then I observe that Esau and Jacob indeed were twins, but that I hope the little Stowes will love one another more than they did; adding that, as if to show the universalsinfulness of the human heart, a remarkable instance was given us in them, that even the proverbial love of twins for one another was insufficient to prevent one from over-reaching the other. To which Phillis, with a grunt, rejoins, “The young Stowes ha’n’t got no birthright.”
In the afternoon Phillis generally comes in, and we read the prayers, psalms, and lessons together; but sometimes Miss Secker drops in, and then Phillis and I defer our reading till the evening, unless she goes to church. Miss Secker brings a sermon with her, and sometimes I speculate a little, beforehand, whether it will be by Barrow, or Bishop Wilson, or Jeremy Taylor, or by Douglas Forsyth, or Melville, or Henry Vaughan of Crickhowel. We generally talk it over afterwards, and though our remarks may not be very original or deep, they refresh and animate me, being my only intellectual intercourse during the day.
Often our remarks make us turn to our Bibles to verify and illustrate them; which sometimes unexpectedly opens up a new subject fertile in interest. Thus, last Sunday, we lighted on thatwonderful statistical account of the ancient glory and wealth of Tyre, as vivid and minute as if the details were of yesterday:—how that its famous merchant-ships, the instruments of its mighty commerce, were built of deal from Senir,i. e.Mount Hermon, and their masts were of cedar from Lebanon, their oars of oak from Bashan, their benches of ivory from Chittim, their sails manufactured in Egypt, their awnings from the isles of Elishah; how that the mariners of these ships were from Sidon, their pilots picked men of Tyre, their caulkers the men of Gebal; and then the details of their armies, their merchants, their great fairs and markets, and the endless variety of merchandize brought to them from all parts of the civilised world. It gave us a great deal to think of:—and very likely it seemed as incredible to the Tyrians, that their proud city should ever become a mere desolate rock, on which the lonely fisherman should dry his nets, as it would to us that London should be reduced to its condition before the days of Julius Cæsar, when old King Lud changed its name from Trinovant to Lud-town.
Another time, finding that Nathanael was bysome eminent scholars supposed to be the same with the apostle Bartholomew, we hunted up all we could on the question; and came to the conclusion that, as he was supposed to be the son of Tholomai, or Ptolemy, Bartholomew, or Bartholomai, might be the surname given him by our Lord to signify the son of Tholomai; in like manner as he called Peter, Bar-jona, or the son of Jona. Questions of this sort will continually arise to interested readers of the Scriptures; for the more we search them, the more do little twinkling lights disclose themselves to us, reflecting light on one another.
I happened, unguardedly, to drop something about these pleasant readings to Miss Burt, when she put me into a sad fright by exclaiming, “Oh,I’llcome and read to you some day!” for I did not like her reading, which is too much of the denunciatory sort. However, happily for me, she found it would not consist with her more important engagements; she therefore not only refrained, but took some pains to prevent Miss Secker from coming to me too, telling her that if she had any time to abstract fromher own devotional exercises between morning and evening services, she thought she might just as well devote it to some of the poor, who could neither read nor write, as on a friend who could do both, and had every comfort around her. However, Miss Secker did not see it exactly in the same light, and therefore has continued to drop in once every two or three weeks, to my great comfort and obligation. She rarely stays more than an hour; and when she does not come, Phillis and I have our little service together, and then I read or meditate in quiet till tea.
Mary Cole, a great favourite of Phillis’s, then drops in to have tea in the kitchen, and take charge of the house while Phillis goes to church. I can’t say Mary is quite as great a favourite of mine as she is of Phillis’s; but that is no great matter, as she comes to see Phillis, not me. Thus, Phillis has a companion at both her Sabbath meals: it makes a little change for her, and prevents her hankering for more holidays than I can grant. And the visitors, neither of whom are capable of walking a second time to the distant church, get their meal and a little variety inreturn for their charge. People of their rank are seldom much of readers, and it is well to give them a little sober intercourse in lieu of their falling asleep with their heads on the kitchen-table. To whom little is given, of them will less be required than of others more favoured.
Mary Cole, though a heavy girl, is gifted with a sweet voice and correct ear for music; and as she sits all alone, she beguiles the evening hours by singing hymns, often to my solace and delight. Sometimes it is my favourite “Wiltshire,” sometimes “St. David’s,” another time the plaintive penitential psalm,
“From lowest depths of woe,”
“From lowest depths of woe,”
“From lowest depths of woe,”
“From lowest depths of woe,”
to the rare old tune called Irish, which fills my eyes with quiet tears.
In that twilight hour known as “blind man’s holiday,” I lay this evening mentally colouring a picture of what I had just been reading, till it became distinct and real.
A desert place, all sand and stones, with scattered tombs hewn here and there in the rocks, or mere cairns heaped rudely over human remains, gleaming white and ghastly in the fitful moonlight. A single living figure, making night hideous by leaping among these tombs—wildly shrieking as the moon drifts through the clouds and casts strange shadows—yelling in ecstasy of fear, to the dismay of far-off travellers, who hasten on their journey in dread of they know not what. Can anything be more forlorn than the state of this poor wretch? His fellow men, at a loss how to treat him, bound him with strong chains, which he snapped in their faces, and then he fled. And now, unless indeed, some fellow-sufferer be glaring at him, silent and unseen, from among those tombs, he is alone—alone with his tormentors, for he feels possessed by myriads of evil spirits, whom he can no more cast out of his loathingself, than he can tear out his brain. If he can frame a connected thought, it is of despair.
But three little boats are crossing that surging lake, in the darkness of night. When they quitted the opposite shore, early in the evening, the watersof that lake were still. The chief of the little company lay down wearily to rest, and fell asleep, with his head on a pillow. The others toiled at their oars, and looked anxiously about, as clouds gathered, winds rose, and the waves became high and rough, and threatened to engulf their little barks. The night wore on, and became more and more tempestuous; they were, seemingly, in great jeopardy: and all this peril and distress were being incurred that the Son of God might, unsought, go and heal that one poor man.
He recognises the Lord at once. “Oh!” he says, in anguish, “have you come to torment me before the time?” Torment you, poor man! oh, how little you know! You are possessed, you say, by a legion. Well, that legion shall, if you will, take visible possession of those two thousand swine feeding on the mountains—swine, which, they who keep shall deservedly lose, seeing that their own law prohibits them as unclean. There!—the real Master of those swine has driven them all, impetuously, into the sea: andyou—feelyourself delivered. Ah, well you may fall at His feet, and look up toHim so meekly, gratefully, and lovingly; well you may suffer yourself to be clothed by His compassionate disciples; and, while they who have lost their swine roughly desire Him to depart out of their coasts, well may you, fearing the evil ones may return unto you in His absence, and make you seven-fold worse, beseech Him to let you ever abide with Him. No safety, no sweetness, like that of being ever with Jesus.
But he mildly forbids, and charges you rather to go and declare to others what great things He has done for you; and you cheerfully, implicitly obey. Strange things have you to relate to those wondering friends and kinsfolk, who lately thought the best thing they could do, was to bind you with chains!
I have often thought how capitally I invested five shillings a few years ago, in two apple-trees, which I gave to two poor women living under the hill. One of the trees produced twelve fine applesthe second year; the year following, its owner sold a couple of bushels of the fruit. In a cottage full of hungry children, where meat is only tasted on Sundays, a good apple-pudding is no despicable hot dish on the noon-day board. Blackberries, of the children’s gathering, sometimes make a savoury addition to it.
When my cook Hannah married and settled in a cottage of her own, I gave her a few roots of Myatt’s Victoria rhubarb, and some round, white, American early potatoes, with enough onion-seed for a nice little square bed; a quart of peas, a quart of beans, a few early horn carrots, and a little parsley-seed; also pennyworths of canariensis, nasturtium, escolzia Californica, sweet-pea, candytuft, and red and white malope. Her husband immediately dug, raked, and planted the ground, and at once took to gardening after his day’s work. I need not say they are a respectable couple. He cannot read; but she readsThe Leisure HourandSunday at Hometo him.
Though we had a February of almost unprecedented warmth, I am told the primrose is shyly and charily putting forth its blossoms. But soonthe warm banks will be gay with them, while the sweet wood-violet will betray itself by its fragrant breath at the roots of old trees. Among the earliest wayside productions is Jack-in-the-hedge, or sauce-alone; as ugly a Jack as one need wish to see, breathing odiously of garlic. Somewhat later, and rarer, is the perfoliate shepherd’s-purse, with its miniature pouches, that remind one of the scrip wherein a young shepherd, who lived to be a king, put five smooth pebbles from the brook. Its leaves, as I lately showed the little Prouts, are perfoliate, that is to say, they look as though the stem runsthroughthem—a very nice and singular distinction, never to be forgotten after being once seen. A fortnight hence I expect to hear the yellow celandine has made its appearance. Wordsworth, who has immortalized it, as much as a poet can immortalize a flower, says, at first his unaccustomed eye saw it nowhere; afterwards, he saw it everywhere.
If the month be genial, we shall, towards its close, see “God’s hand-writing on the wall” of our gardens, in the opening buds and blossoms of our cherry-trees. Sheep are already turned outon the fresh pasture-land: their bleatings and tinkling bells sound prettily. Here and there may be seen a bee, a small fly, a gnat: how soon shall we see the first butterfly?
Toads are curious creatures: there was one that used to sit watching Mr. Cheerlove at his gardening with its beautiful eyes, and sometimes climb a little way up the paling to have a better view. I suppose it varied the monotony of its life. ’Tis of no use to cart them away in a flower-pot; they will return from a considerable distance to their old quarters. If you hurt them, they will look at you very viciously—and why should they not? We have no call to molest the poor wretches; the world is wide enough for us all. Efts and newts are objectionable: they haunt old drains, dust-holes, and any damp, unaired corners. Moles loosen the soil, and make sad work sometimes with the roots of one’s flowers; but yet, on the whole, they are found to do more good than harm. They make themselves subterranean galleries, and are very methodical, taking their walks at stated times. Hence it is very easy to trap them; but if you take one, you may taketwo, for they are so affectionate that the mate is sure to follow the leader. Hence I always felt a sort of pang in having them destroyed, especially as they have such human-like little hands for paws; and I was glad to be told that the cruelty was unnecessary, and that their loosening the soil did it good, though it might injure particular plants. In moving a stack of firewood at Nutfield, we found underneath it a rat’s nest, containing fifteen partridges’ eggs. How did the rat convey them there? Did he roll them, or carry them on his fore-paws, walking on his hind legs?
The starry heavens are now very glorious. Jupiter, bright, untwinkling planet, is splendid to behold. There are many more stars to be seen to the east than to the north; no human being knows why. The naked eye beholds what are called stars of the sixth magnitude, whose light left their surfaces a hundred and forty years ago. It is very singular that numerous stars, beyond the range of any but a very powerful telescope, prove to be placed incouples: they are calledbinarystars. Before Sir WilliamHerschell’s death, he had completed a list of three thousand three hundred double stars. His sister Caroline shared his watchings, and took down the result of his observations in writing.
My dear father gave me a taste for astronomy very early in life; and in later years I have found star-gazing to have a strangely calming effect under the pressure of great trouble. I have looked out on the star-lit sky during Eugenia’s last illness, and after her death, till I felt every grief silenced, if not allayed, and every feeling steeped in submission. The stars make us feel so little! our lives so fleeting to a better world! our souls so near to God! O Cassiopeia, Andromeda, and Perseus, I owe to you many a consoling and elevating thought of your Maker!
My chimney does not smoke once in six months; but to-day, as ill-luck would have it, an unfortunate little puff came out in the presence of Miss Burt, who immediately declared that my chimneywanted sweeping shockingly; and that if I did not immediately put the chimney-sweeper’s services in requisition, I should not only be endangering my own life,—which I had no right to throw away,—but that of my servant, who would not particularly relish being burnt in her bed.
In vain I assured her that the chimney had not long been swept. Miss Burt talked me down, utterly deaf to the reminder that, being on the ground floor, we could easily walk out of the house in case of any disaster.
“As ifyoucould walk out of the house!” cried Miss Burt, indignantly; and just then, Phillis coming in with coals, “Phillis,” cried she, “have you any mind to be burnt in your bed?”
“I should think not, Miss Burt,” replies Phillis, brisking up, and looking secure of some very entertaining rejoinder.
“You hear,” says Miss Burt, nodding triumphantly at me.
“You may go, Phillis,” said I, softly, which she did with some reluctance.
I was in nervous expectation of a fresh puff, when Miss Burt luckily found herself a new subject.
“There goes Miss Sidney!” said she. “How she does poke to be sure. Any one can see she has never had dancing-lessons. I think Mr. Sidney much to blame. By the way, Frank gave us an excellent sermon on Sunday. I wish you could have heard him.”
“I wish I could,” said I.
“Oh, I don’t suppose you care much about it, as you had Miss Secker to read Jeremy Taylor. Doesn’t she read through her nose?”
“Dear me, no!”
“Well, I should have expected it. Young people waste hours on their music now-a-days, but—commend me to a good reader.”
“Then,” said I, laughing, “I really can commend you to Miss Secker, or at any rate, honestly commend her toyou; for her reading is neither too fast nor too slow, too loud nor too low; her voice is pleasant and her manner reverent.”
“Ah, I like somethingearnest.”
“She is earnest too. What a favourite word that is now.”
“Is it? Then I’ll drop it! I hate words that are used up:—suggestive, sensuous, subjective, objective. Bad as Shakspere, taste, and the musical glasses!”
She started up, and was going to take leave, when she stopped short and said—
“What do you think that absurd man, Mr. Hitchin, has done? Painted his cypher on his wheel-barrow!”
“Well,” said I, amused, “I cannot emulate him very closely, as I have no wheel-barrow, but I can put my crest on my watering-pot!”
She laughed rather grudgingly, and said, “I suppose you don’t remember the tax on armorial bearings.”
The chimney-sweeper has just called!—Miss Burt met him, and told him there would be no harm in his just looking in, to know if he were wanted!
Can April indeed be here? Yes, the blackbird wakes me at six o’clock, and the nightingale sings long after the sun has set.
The hedges are beginning to sprout, and the banks are decked with primroses and celandine.
“Scant along the ridgy land,The beans their new-born ranks expand;The fresh-turned soil, with tender bladesThinly the sprouting barley shades.”
“Scant along the ridgy land,The beans their new-born ranks expand;The fresh-turned soil, with tender bladesThinly the sprouting barley shades.”
“Scant along the ridgy land,The beans their new-born ranks expand;The fresh-turned soil, with tender bladesThinly the sprouting barley shades.”
“Scant along the ridgy land,
The beans their new-born ranks expand;
The fresh-turned soil, with tender blades
Thinly the sprouting barley shades.”
So sings the sweet rural poet, Thomas Warton; of whom I suspect Harry Prout knows as little as of Waller.
Poor Mr. Prout is dead! the father of eight children. Yesterday morning, while it was yet dark, the turnpike-man heard a horse galloping furiously down the hill. On going down, he found the horse stopping at the gate, with Mr. Prout’s foot dangling in the stirrup, and his bleeding body on the ground. His skull was fractured, and he was quite dead. He was praising his new, showy, chestnut horse to meonly a few days ago, and saying it was well worth a hundred guineas. It would have been worth a good many hundred guineas to his family had he not bought it. Poor Mr. Prout!
The turnpike-man’s wife, it seems, immediately got up, assisted her husband to carry him in and lay him on their bed, and then washed his wounds; while the man, leading the vicious creature he was afraid to mount, came into the town to tell the news and get assistance. Poor Mrs. Prout and Harry were soon on the spot; Mr. Cecil soon followed. He and Mr. Prout were rivals, and rather cool to one another; but he looked very sorry as he hastened up the hill.
I cannot help constantly thinking of them all. Last night, I dreamt I saw Mr. Prout galloping up the hill, all in the dark, along the edge of that frightful chalk-pit, to the poor woman for whom he had been sent; and then coming home, thinking of his snug house and warm bed, when—off dashed the horse!
I have lost a kind doctor and friend; rich and poor deplore him, for he was sociable,kind, and humane. Often in money difficulties, poor man; though I believe his good wife made every shilling go twice as far as most could. She always kept up appearances, too, so nicely! No finery, no waste; but everything (whatever poor Harry might think) suitable and appropriate.
Every one I have yet seen—not many, to be sure, but every one Ihaveseen—expresses regret, and is eager to show sympathy, and wonders what the widow and children will do. Something for themselves, that is certain—except the little ones, who cannot. Mrs. Prout is hardly capable, I am afraid, of undertaking a school; or that would keep them all nicely together. Therefore, Emily and Margaret must go out as governesses or teachers; Harry must get a place in some office; something must be found for James; Edward must be put to school; and Fanny must make herself her mamma’s little factotum, and look after the two youngest.
Easy tosay“must” to all this!
What a change a few hours have made!
Harry has spent more than an hour with me this evening. I never saw a poor lad so overwhelmed with grief. He, the rosy-cheeked fellow! who would have you believe—in his verses—that his tears were his meat day and night, is now positively ashamed of crying bitterly over an irreparable loss. I honour him for so deeply lamenting a good father; it raises him in the scale of human being—as genuine, well-placed affection always does. He will now have to exchange imaginary woes for stern realities.
He came quite at dusk. I did not think, at first, it was his voice, asking if he might come in, it was so subdued. I said, “Ah, Harry!” and held out my hand. He grasped it in his, and then sat down and sobbed. I waited a little while in silence; then, when his emotion had somewhat spent itself, I said—
“I thank you very much for coming—it is very kind of you, for I was longing to hear many things that no one else could so well tell.”
“Oh!” said he, drying his eyes, “the kindness is to myself—I could not stand it at home any longer!”
“How does your dear mother bear up?”
“Wonderfully!”—crying again. “But she quite broke down this evening: so my sisters persuaded her to go to bed; and as they are sitting with her, I was quite alone, and thought I would steal out to you for a little while. What a shocking thing it is!”
I knew to what he referred, and said, “It is indeed, my dear Harry. For your comfort, you must reflect that our heavenly Father ispeculiarlythe God of the widow and orphan. He makes them hisspecialcharge.”
“I can’t think what we shall do!”
“Do your best, my dear boy, and you will be sure to do well.”
“Uncle John will come to the funeral. And Uncle John will very likely provide for James, and take him into his business, which is that of a wholesale druggist; but what is to become ofme, I can’t think!”
“Should you be glad if your uncle took you instead of James?”
“Why no, not glad; because it is not a line of business that suits my taste. You know, Mrs.Cheerlove,” said the poor boy, faltering, “I always aspired to be something of a gentleman.”
“And is not your uncle one?”
“Hardly. But I would be anything just now, to be of service to mamma—mymother!”
“That’s right. Perhaps you would like to be in a surveyor’s office.”
“That would be better—only, who is to place me in one?”
“Or should you like to be a medical man, like your father?”
“Ah, Mrs. Cheerlove, his was a hard life! And those hospitals! But have you heard of Mr. Pevensey’s kindness?” cried he, suddenly brightening.
“No!—in what?”
“Directly he heard of what had happened, he sent my mother a note, to say how sorry he was; and that as he was sure she would be glad to part with the horse that had occasioned such a terrible calamity, and he heard my father valued it at a hundred guineas, he inclosed a cheque for that amount, and would take it off her hands.”
“Excellent!” said I. “So opportune! so kindly thought of! And this is the man whom so many think churlish!”
“Ah, he’s anything but that,” said Harry; “and quite the gentleman. Of course mamma—my mother, I mean—was glad to get rid of the brute, and would have been so for half the money. How strange it seems! Only three days ago, my father was patting and praising that animal, and calling him ‘Hotspur,’ little thinking he should so soon be laid low! What an awful thing sudden death is, Mrs. Cheerlove!—hereone minute, and the next in the presence of God!”
“Are we not in His presencenow, Harry? We cannot see Him, but He sees and hears us. If a person is well prepared, a sudden death is, in my opinion, a great mercy.”
“Oh, howcanyou think so!”
“Well, I do. The shock is very great, doubtless, to the survivors; but the sufferer is mercifully spared a great deal of painful discipline: and if he be but about his Master’s work, ‘Blessed is that servant whom his Lord, when He cometh, shall find so doing.’”
“My father was about his Master’s work, Mrs. Cheerlove.”
“Certainly he was. He was visiting the sick and needy, in the exercise of his profession. It could never have been without self-denial that he turned out of his bed into the dark, cold night, on such an errand, whether to rich or poor.”
Harry seemed to dwell on the reflection with comfort; and I rang for tea, and gave him a cup that was both hot and strong, which I knew to be good for his poor aching head. We had a long talk afterwards, and he left me in a composed and chastened frame of mind. Certainly, a sudden death, like Mr. Prout’s, may be called a leap in the dark; but the believerleaps into his Saviour’s arms.
This morning, to my great surprise and pleasure, Mrs. Pevensey came in, bright with smiles, and said, “The weather is most lovely! and you know you always promised that I should take you your first drive. It shall be as short as you like; but, if you feel equal to the effort, youcannot have a better opportunity. And as I am just going on to inquire after poor Mrs. Prout, I will take you up on my return, which will give you time to get ready without hurry.”
I felt quite bewildered, for I had not been out for more than two years! If I had had time, I believe I should have said “No,” but as I had not, I said “Yes,” and very thankfully too. All my nervous misgivings about over-exertion and painful consequences were lost sight of in the thought, how delightful it would be to breathe once more the sweet, sweet open air!
Phillisdidstare when she heard of the projected attempt. I think her surprise vented itself in the ejaculation—
“Well, I’m sure!——”
But there was no time to say more, for there was a grand hunt to make for carriage-boots, and warm shawls, and gloves, and a certain bonnet that would unquestionably require all Mrs. Pevensey’s self-command not to laugh at—it was so sadly out of date. Shedidgive it one amused look, but that was all; for she is kindness itself, and has too much real wit to dependfor it on personal ridicules. She knew she had taken me by surprise, and must make allowances. So, having triumphantly got me into her most easy of close carriages—
“Where shall we go?” said she.
“Oh,” said I, “the turnpike will bequitefar enough.”
“Very well. Then, to the turnpike, George,” said she, as the footman shut us in. But the roguish woman must have glanced, I am sure, to the left instead of to the right, as she spoke; for the coachman, doubtless taking his instructions from George, drove us to the farthest turnpike instead of the nearest.
Well, it was very pleasant! I had been so long pent up, that
“The common air, the earth, the skies,To me were opening Paradise.”
“The common air, the earth, the skies,To me were opening Paradise.”
“The common air, the earth, the skies,To me were opening Paradise.”
“The common air, the earth, the skies,
To me were opening Paradise.”
We are nearly through April; and the hedges are quite green, though the oaks, ashes, and beeches are still leafless, and the meadows are not yet sprinkled with buttercups. But the blackthorn is in full flower. Besides, a great many alterations had been effected since I waslast out, which I noticed with surprise and interest; for though hearing of alterations is one thing, seeing them is quite another. My old favourite promenade, the elm-tree walk (sometimes called the Queen’s Walk, though the queen’s name I never could ascertain), was as yet unharmed amid the rage for letting ground on building leases to freehold-land societies; but, beyond it, new houses had sprung up in various directions. When I first came to live in the neighbourhood of Elmsford, there were only four houses between me and the town; and having for some few years been accustomed to live in a street, I used occasionally, on dark nights, to feel rather unprotected. If a dog barked at the moon, I used to think of thieves, and remember that some suspicious-looking man had begged at the door; or I thought of fire, and ruefully considered the scarcity of water. Besides, where were we to get help?—Why, inheaven, where I may ask for it at once, thought I, and for freedom from all disquieting alarms. So I used to seek it, and then yield to the quiet, dreamless sleep that wassent.
Now, in place of four houses, I saw a dozen, with stone porticoes to the doors and heavy architraves to the windows, and very little green about them higher than three-foot laurels, which the cows had evidently nibbled, as they do mine, on their way to and from milking.
At one of these houses we stopped, while the footman carried a beautiful basket of hothouse flowers to the door, and delivered a message. While we waited, I heard the sound of a harp, and listened to it with pleasure.
“How pretty!” said I.
“Ah, you may well say so,” said Mrs. Pevensey, with a sigh. “The player is soothing a much afflicted father, who, in his day, was an accomplished musician, and a man of fine intellectual taste. I shall take her a drive to-morrow; it will make a little change for her, which is better than none. ‘He that contemneth small things shall fall by little and little.’”[1]
A door or two off, we left a little flat round basket, containing about two dozen large hothouse strawberries—scarlet, ripe, and tempting,as they peered out of their coverlet of dark green leaves. Several such little baskets had, during two or three springs, found their way tome.
“That is for poor Miss Peach, who is dying of consumption,” said Mrs. Pevensey. “Arbell set them out so nicely. My dear Mrs. Cheerlove, whatever you said to Arbell the other day, has had magic effect! She has been quite a different girl ever since!”
“That is more to her praise than mine,” said I. “What I said was very little.”
“All the better, perhaps, since it was to the purpose. She is now brisk, pleasant, and active—has found her way out of dreamland into the affairs of daily life. Mademoiselle is highly satisfied with her; and Mr. Pevensey, finding she was writing a little summary of Italian middle-age history for her own amusement, was so pleased at it, that he told her he would give her five sovereigns, if she did it well by Christmas. So she is carrying it on with double spirit, ransacking the library for materials about the Guelfs and Ghibelins, the Neri and Bianchi, instead of moping; and is glad to refresh herselfafterwards with a good wholesome game of play with Rosaline and Floretta.”
“Ah, a golden spur sometimes pricks the best,” said I. “Small premiums for small achievements are better than competitions for a prize, whichmustdisappoint one or many. A rivalry with one’s self is the only safe rivalry.”
“I think so too. And five pounds is nothing, you know, to Mr. Pevensey.”
“No, but a hundred pounds may be more so. Harry Prout gratefully told me of his buying the horse.”
“Mr. Prout had over-estimated it,” said she, quietly smiling.
“I guessed as much.”
“In fact, if it cannot be thoroughly broken, by Rarey’s means or others, Mr. Pevensey will have it shot; for he says it is better a showy horse should be killed, than another father of a family.”
“Surely.”
“And the money, you see, won’t be wasted, because it was useful where it was sent. There is some thought of quietly getting up a subscription, under the name of a testimonial. Mr.Secker, the suggestor, will acquaint Mrs. Prout with it, and ask whether she would like a silver cup or the money; and of course she will prefer the latter. Only half-sovereigns will be asked, but those who like to give more may do so unknown to all but Mr. Secker, as there will be no published subscription list.”
“All the better,” said I. “There are too few who—