“Lives of great men all remind us,We may make our lives sublime!”
“Lives of great men all remind us,We may make our lives sublime!”
“Lives of great men all remind us,We may make our lives sublime!”
“Lives of great men all remind us,
We may make our lives sublime!”
which he meant to do. And Miss Welsh was a delightful companion, and had promised (“to take him” scratched out) he should take her to the National Gallery, British Museum, and all the gratis sights, little by little, till he had seen them all. And he was always to go to church with them, morning and evening (“which you know will save the expense of tipping the pew opener, and be more sociable too.”) And Mr. and Mrs. Whitgrave,also, were very nice people. He had found an Italian patriot there, who spoke of unhappy Orsini; and had known that glorious Garibaldi, and related how Madame Garibaldi swam across a river, holding on by her horse’s tail. And he did not mind the office life at all; he had so many pleasant things to think of. James and Ned and he should see one another sometimes. James had a tail coat, and did not look bad.
Poor, good, brave boy! For therewasbravery in thus meeting insurmountable evils in a great, untried world. I loved him for dwelling so on the cheerful side; and a tear started into my eye, when Emily, in her affectionate way, kissed me, and said, “Allthis, dear Mrs. Cheerlove, is owing toyou.”
“Il se répand quelquefois de faux bruits.” And the corollary ought to be, “Do not help to spread them.” Small country towns are proverbially rife with false reports, often to the serious detriment of their subjects, even when the reports themselves are not ill-natured.
I have known so many groundless reports heedlessly spread, that my custom is to say, “Oh! indeed,” and let the matter drop, unless there should be anything of a noxious tendency in it; and then I not only forbear to pass it on, but endeavour to make the reporter admit at least the possibility that it may be untrue or exaggerated. This may sometimes lessen the rapidity and virulence with which it spreads; at any rate, I have been found a non-conductor, and my house “no thoroughfare.” When Mrs. Brett asked me mysteriously if I had heard the dreadful news that Mr. Hope was going out of his mind, I not only replied in the negative, but gave my reasons for supposing it untrue: and so it has proved. Again, when Miss Secker told me that the Holdsworths were such adepts in table-turning, that the tables flew about the room like mad,especially after unbelievers, I plainly told her I must hear it confirmed by more than one credible witness before I could believe it; and some weeks afterwards I had an opportunity of quietly inquiring about it of Mrs. Holdsworth’s aunt, who assured me it was all nonsense, and that a mere Christmas waggeryhad been distorted into a scandal, greatly to the annoyance of Mr. and Mrs. Holdsworth. That report, too, of old Mrs. Ball’s sudden death, and their holding a glass over her mouth to see if she breathed, actually had not a shadow of foundation, and would never have been traced, had not some one accidentally opened a letter that was intended for somebody else.
This morning, Miss Burt told me what I should be very sorry to hear, were I assured of its truth, although I have no personal acquaintance with the parties. But though Mr. and Mrs. Ringwood may have had some little differences, I cannot think that they will separate. His companionable qualities are such, that they lead him too much into society; and, as the editor of a somewhat influential local paper, he has a certain literary reputation. This may (though it need not) make him less domestic and more dissatisfied with cold mutton at home than one could wish, especially if the cold meat be accompanied with cold looks, and the only tart is a tart reply. Nor is it impossible that Mrs. Ringwood may be a bit of a worry, and revenge herself for lonelyevenings by morning confidences of how she is used, and what she has suffered. I think she looks a little querulous and self-conceited. But this report I believe to be idle.
Mrs. Pevensey has again taken me a drive. This time, it was through the town, along the north road, and all round Hutchley Heath, which looked lovely. As we passed Mrs. Prout’s, it was melancholy to see the sale going on:—old stair-carpets hanging out of the windows, shabby-looking chairs and glasses on the door-step and in the hall, with business-like brokers looking at them in a disparaging way. The surgeon, who has purchased the business, has been glad to take the house, but not the furniture; so Mrs. Prout is selling off all she does not want, and removing the rest into No. 2, Constantine Terrace, where everything is so fresh and clean, that Mrs. Pevensey thinks she will find herself far more comfortably situated than in her large, old house.
“Well,” said Mrs. Pevensey, smiling, “weare going to have a great loss in our family. We are going to lose Mademoiselle Foularde!”
“Indeed!” said I.
“Yes; she is going to leave us at Midsummer, and settle in Germany. She is engaged to be married to a Professor Bautte.”
“Professor of what?”
“Gymnastics.—I knew you would smile; but youwouldask.”
“Oh, I only smiled because I was surprised. I concluded he was a professor of metaphysics, at least; or something prodigiously learned, that I did not understand.”
“Gymnastics are safer than German metaphysics. The one can but break your neck, the other may turn your head.”
“So you will have to look out again.”
“Yes, but at my leisure. I think of taking all the children to the sea-side for the holidays; and as the younger ones are rather beyond the nurse, and require to be kept a little in order, I have been thinking of offering to take Emily Prout with us, if she would undertake their charge.”
“Dear me! what a very nice thing!”
“You do not think she would object to it, then?”
“Oh no! I am persuaded she would like it exceedingly. She is so very anxious not to be burthensome to her mother! And she is much more womanly than she was. Her manners are so quiet and pleasant, that I feel sure you will like her.”
“Well, it may be that if I found her enough of a governess for Rosaline and Flora, we may make a permanent engagement; but I shall prefer seeing what is in her first, which I can very well do during the holidays. She is very young, I believe.”
“Barely seventeen. Too young for Arbell.”
“Oh, I am not thinking of Arbell. Arbell is getting on very well at present; the chief danger is of her doing too much. She is growing fast, and I shall not be sorry to slacken her lessons a little for some months. If I find I can leave the children quite comfortably with Miss Prout, at Hardsand, Mr. Pevensey and I shall probably take Arbell with us on a tour of some extent. Itwill open her mind, and give her something to remember with pleasure, all the rest of her life.”
“It will, indeed, be a great treat to her; and it is such an advantage to young people to see new and interesting places with their parents. Is she sorry Mademoiselle is going away?”
“Not sorry; but she behaves to her very pleasantly, and is busy in my room, at every spare moment, working a present for her. Arbell is very clever at her needle.”
“That is a good thing, for every woman ought to be so, whatever her condition. How it beguiled the captivity of Mary Queen of Scots! Queen Caroline, the wife of George II., used to do great quantities of knotting. And think how Marie Antoinette, Madame Elizabeth, and Madame Royale, used to mend their own clothes and those of the poor king, in the tower of the Temple. No doubt it, in some measure, diverted their thoughts from their sad fate. The tranquillizing effect of needle-work is what our impulsive, excitable sex cannot be too grateful for.”
“My mother knew an old Scotch countess,”said Mrs. Pevensey, “who, in her latter days, used often to exclaim, piteously, ‘Oh, that I could sew!’”
After a pause she resumed:—“I have sometimes puzzled myself about the much-vexed question, ‘Should we try to do good in the world at large, before we have done all the good that needs to be done at home?’ There is a great cry got up against Mrs. Jellaby, and other pseudo-representatives of a class whose sympathies are widely engaged; and so much has been said about ‘charity beginning at home, and charity that ends there,’ that one gets rather perplexed. The Bishop of Oxford has, I think, lately settled the question. He said, ‘Our Saviour foresaw and provided against it, by dispersing His disciples far and wide, while yet much remained to be done in Jerusalem.’ Here is a guide, then, for us: we may do all the good we can, far and wide, even though we should be disappointed nearer home, or eveninour homes, of doing all the good wewish.”
After this, we fell into a very interesting conversation, which I only hope was as profitable toher as I felt it to be to me. I have been stupid and sluggish of late, but this interchange of thought, feeling, and experience quite roused me.
Christian and Hopeful were approaching the end of their journey when they came to the drowsy land called the Enchanted Ground; and the way they kept themselves awake was, by conversing freely on their past experiences of God’s mercies and providences.
This morning, I have had rather a painful little adventure.
Though the wind was southerly, and the clouds portended rain, yet Phillis was sure it would blow off. In fact, she had set her mind upon certain cleaning, which I believe she preferred doing in my absence; and as I took a hopeful view of the weather, I went to the week-day morning service at church.
On returning, as usual, in the rear of the little congregation, I was slowly drawling along ChurchRow, and thinking what a pity it was that such good houses should be so falling out of repair, when down came the rain very heavily. I had just passed Mrs. Ringwood’s, and noticed that the parlour-blind wanted mending, and that Mrs. Ringwood, with a baby in her arms, was idly looking over it. I began to spread my shawl more completely over me, and was putting up my umbrella, when some one from behind called, “Mrs. Cheerlove! Mrs. Cheerlove!”
The boy stopped the donkey, and said, “There’s Mrs. Ringwood a calling of you.”
I looked round, and saw her, without her baby, standing on her door-step, with her light curling hair blowing in the wind, while she eagerly looked after me.
“Do come in, ma’am,” cried she, with great good-nature, and colouring as she spoke. “It is raining quite fast! I am sure you ought not to be out in it.”
The boy, at the same moment, took the matter into his own hands, by turning the donkey round, so that I was before her door the next minute.
“I don’t think it will come to much,” said I,bowing and smiling. “I’m extremely obliged to you.Praydon’t come into the rain.”
“Oh, it won’t hurt me,” said she, now at my side, “and itwillhurt you. Do come in till it is over.”
It was very good-natured of her. I made no more resistance, but alighted as quickly as my infirmities would permit, and entered the house just as the rain became a violent shower.
I was turning round to speak to the boy, when I saw him drive off, at a good deal quicker pace than he droveme; and Mrs. Ringwood said, laughing, “I told him to come for you when the shower was over; otherwise, the chair would have been quite wet, and unfit for your use.”
So I followed her into the parlour, where she had put the baby down on a sofa, in order that she might run out to me.
“It was very lucky,” said she, “that I was looking over the blind.”
My heart smote me for having called her, even to myself, idle; and I thanked her very gratefully for her kindness. She answered with a smile, and then left me for a moment or two alone with thebaby. It was a long while since I had been alone with a baby; I looked at it with interest, and amused myself by making it smile.
A casual glance round the room disappointed my expectations of its comforts and capabilities. It was smaller than I should have supposed it, and inelegantly contrived. No fitting up could have concealed this; but the fitting up was not very good. The carpet was showy and shabby, and did not harmonize with the paper. The room wanted papering and painting; but the window-curtains were conspicuously new, and made the rest of the furniture look still more worn. On the table layPunchand theAthenæum, and a smart cap in the process of making.
Mrs. Ringwood came back, looking rather discomfited. “Dear me,” said she, “I can’t find my keys—Oh, here they are!” And carrying them off, and her cap at the same time, she presently returned with a glass of wine and a biscuit, saying, “You really must take this.”
In vain I assured her I was a water-drinker; I saw I should hurt her if I declined, and thereforetook the glass, and put it to my lips, though I knew it would do me no good.
“I don’t know what I should do without a glass of wine sometimes,” said she. “I hope baby has not been troublesome.”
“O no! What a nice little fellow he is! How old is he?”
So then ensued some baby-talk, which seemed to make us much better acquainted.
“He must be a great resource to you,” said I.
“Well, children are plagues as well as pleasures, sometimes,” said Mrs. Ringwood. “I often think people who have no families have no idea of what mothers go through.”
“That is true enough, I dare say,” said I. “But the maternal instinct is implanted to make us insensible to those troubles—or, at least, indifferent to them.”
“Oh, nobody can be indifferent to them, Mrs. Cheerlove! Duty is duty, and pleasure is pleasure; but they don’t amount to the same thing, for all that.”
This was said with an asperity which seemed to place us miles apart again. The next moment sheadded, “At least, time was—when I was very young, you know, and fresh married—when I believe I really did think them one and the same thing.” She gave a little laugh, to hide a tear.
“I don’t know how it may be with you,” said I, twining the baby’s little fingers round mine, “but I think in most people’s lives there are times when, all at once, they seem to break down under their burthens, and to need a friendly arm to set them up again.”
“Some have not that friendly arm,” said she, her mouth twitching. “I only wish I had. Oh my goodness, Mrs. Cheerlove!”—suddenly becoming familiar and voluble—“you’ve no idea what a life mine is! These four walls, if they had tongues, could tell strange stories!”
“Ah! what walls could not?” said I, hastening from particulars to generals. “We were not sent into this world to be happy——”
“Well,Ithink wewere,” interrupted she; “and yours must be a strange, gloomy religion if it makes you think otherwise.”
“At any rate, we cannot depend on beinghappy,” said I, “as long as our happiness is founded on anything in this world.”
“Ah! there I agree with you,” said she, sighing profoundly; “there’s no trusting to anything, or any one, whether servant, friend, or husband—you find them all out at last.”
She fixed her eyes on mine.
“My lot,” said I, “was, I know, a favoured one; but I never found out anything of Mr. Cheerlove, but that he was a great deal better and wiser than myself.”
She raised her eyebrows a little.
“Some think that all men are superior to all women,” said she, rocking the baby to and fro, “but I can’t subscribe to that opinion. I think we have our rights and our feelings as well as our duties; and our rights and our feelings have some little claim to attention. When a man makes invidious remarks—”
“Or a woman either,” said I, laughing a little.
“—Which are felt to be meant for personal application,” pursued she, “one’s spirit rises.”
“Certainly, it is best to speak out,” said I, “or else be silent.”
“Oh, let them speak out! If it’s in them, I’d rather it came out of them. I detest your innuendoes!”
“However,” said I, “we can never make the crooked tree straight. We must take people as we find them.”
“Orleavethem!” said she. Then, suddenly pausing, she pressed me, quite in an altered tone, to take a little more wine. “You have scarcely tasted it—perhaps you prefer some other sort.”
“Oh no, thank you. The fact is, I have so long been a water-drinker, that even a little sip makes my mouth feel all on fire.”
“Ah! then that can’t be pleasant, I’m sure,” said she, cordially. “I won’t press you to have any more. I only wish I knew what youwouldlike.”
“I like looking at you and your baby,” said I, smiling.
“Do you think him like me?”
“Yes.”
“Ah! you said that, I fear, to please me. Iown I laid myself out for it. But now, tell me, Mrs. Cheerlove, don’t you think that we have pleasing things said rather too often to us before marriage, and too seldom afterwards?”
“Yes, I think that is sometimes the case.”
“Oh, and how it depresses one, not to know if you please!—nay, to be pretty sure you don’t! I’m sure, I could do anything, almost, to give satisfaction—take down a bed, lift a box!—”
“You would be like the French crossing the Alps when the trumpet sounded.”
“Just so; I lose all sense of fatigue and crossness.”
“Can’t you hear amentaltrumpet?”
“What?”
“Somethingwithin, that shall cheer you along your path.”
“Ah! I fear I can’t.”
And the poor little woman, gushing into grief, told me, the acquaintance of an hour, such a tale of woe, that my tears flowed with hers. She was comforted by my sympathy, and said, clasping her hands—
“Oh that I could see my path clear!”
“I think you will,” said I, though my hope was not very sanguine.
“Sometimes I think I’ll write to mamma. I sit down and write her such long letters, and after all, don’t send them.”
“Excellent!” said I.
She looked surprised.
“Your plan is excellent,” I pursued. “By pouring out your griefs to your dearest and earliest friend, you relieve your own mind; and, by not sending your letter, you give no pain to hers.”
“But it is merely from irresolution,” said she.
“Never mind what it is from. The plan is excellent. Continue to write to her—write often—pour out your whole heart—and then put the letter carefully away till the next day; enjoy the comfort of finding what a strong case you made out—and, having done so, burn it!”
“Are you joking?” said she.
“No, as serious as possible. It is no joking matter.”
“Well, I thought you were too kind to do so.And, dear me! I feel a great deal better for this talk. Things don’t look so dark; and yet they have not in the least altered.”
“Only a different hue is thrown over them. That makes all the difference sometimes;—and answers as well as if the thingswerealtered; as long as we can make the hue last.”
“Only,” said she, beginning to chafe a little, again, “one cannot bear to be put upon.”
“Ah,” said I, gently putting my hand on her arm, “the Christian will even bear to be put upon, be it ever so much, and, for his Master’s sake, bear it patiently; and when hehasso far subdued his feelings as to be able so to do, how glorious the triumph, the happiness, and peace that will take possession of his heart!”[3]
“Oh!” said she, after a moment’s deep pause, “what a cordial! Howcouldyou say it? What a mind you must have!”
“Not at all,” stammered I, feeling dreadfully stupid and humiliated.
“Couldyou say it all over again? I have sucha poor head, and would so gladly retain it. You can’t, I suppose. Ah! well—‘the Christian can bear to be put upon,’—that was the text—that’s enough. It will bring all the rest to mind—the general effect, that is.”
“And you’ll try toactupon it?”
“Yes. I really will. I give you my word. Only it isn’t at all fair all the effort should be on one side. But I’ll try, though I’m sure I shall break down.”
“Oh no! I hope better things of you!”
“Ah, you don’t know me—I’m such a poor, weak creature. I don’t likehimto say so, though,” she added, laughing, with one of those sudden transitions which seemed natural to her.
“Here comes the donkey-chair. I thank youverymuch for your great kindness.”
“Mine? oh, don’t name it. It has been all on the other side! What is the line of poetry about ‘An angel unawares——’”
“In the Bible,” suggested I, provoked at being tempted to smile.
“Oh yes! (what a shame!) ‘thereby entertained,’ and so on. Which is just what I’vedone, you know. Oh, I’m so sorry you’ll go. Do look in again some day. I have very few friends; for some people look down on me, and I look down on some other people. And so I get no society at all. Baby wants you to kiss him. ‘Ta, ta, Mrs. Cheerlove.’ Pretty fellow!” (kissing him rapturously). “Mind you don’t get the hem of your dress draggled as you go down the steps. There now, the scraper has torn your braid! Mind your foot does not catch in it, and throw you on your face. I’ll have that scraper mended against you come next. Mr. Ringwood has spoken of it several times. You’ve done me so much good, you can’t think! more than a glass of wine!”
Poor little woman! I’m afraid her head is rather empty. But if her intellect has not been much cultivated, she has genuine affections—with a good deal ofétourderie, wilfulness, and self-appreciation. How they will get on together I cannot conjecture. A chance word of mine made a transient impression; but “the next cloud that veils the skies” will sweep it all away.
We must not, on that account, however, relax our humble endeavours, nor despise the day of small things. Line upon line, precept on precept, here a little and there a little, effect something at last. Grains of sand buried the Sphinx.
Directly I saw Phillis, I perceived a very queer expression on her face. “Ah,” thought I, “she remembers what she said about the weather, and is rather ashamed of my having been caught in the rain. I shall charge her with it, and hear what excuses she can make. She is a capital hand at self-defence.”
But, at that moment, my ears were struck by a loud, harsh, jarring sound, that absolutely petrified me—the piercing scream of a cockatoo!
“Where in the world is that bird!” cried I, in dismay.
“In our kitchen, ma’am,” said Phillis, demurely. “’Tis a present from Miss Burt. I guess she thought you was fond of birds.”
“Fond of them? Why, I’m so fond of them that I can’t bear to see them in cages.”
“But this here thing’s on a stand!”
“Or anywhere but in their native woods,” continued I, rapidly. “I have been offered canaries and bullfinches again and again, and always refused. The sweetest melody could not reconcile me to their captivity. And a cockatoo, of all birds in the world! Why, it will drive me distracted!”
“Well, there,Isays ’tis a nasty beast,” says Phillis, with a groan, “and has made a precious mess on my clean floor already, scattering and spirting its untidy messes of food all about, and screeching till one can’t hear one’s self speak. ‘Do be quiet, then!’ I’ve bawled to it a dozen times, and it answered me quite pert with, ‘cockatoo!’”
I could not help laughing. “Really,” said I, “it is too bad of Miss Burt—she might have given me warning.”
“Oh, I suppose she thought ’twould be an agreeable surprise,” said Phillis, with a grim smile. “There’s a note for you along with it.”
“Pray give it me.”
This was the note:—
“5, Chickweed Place, Elmsford, June 10.“My dear Mrs. Cheerlove,“I’m off this afternoon to Canterbury, to spend a month; and, meanwhile, have sent you my cockatoo to amuse you. Perhaps you did not know I had one. It only arrived yesterday, as a present from Lady Almeria Fitzhenry. So you see it is quite an aristocratic bird; and it will look extremely well on your lawn in fine weather, and, on wet days, afford you company. Mrs. Grove is dying to have one, so you may consider yourself favoured. If you get attached to it, you shall have it all the winter. I am sure it will be a pet with Phillis.“Your affectionate friend,“Cornelia Burt.”“P.S. Please send me back the directions for making the magic ruff.”
“5, Chickweed Place, Elmsford, June 10.
“My dear Mrs. Cheerlove,
“I’m off this afternoon to Canterbury, to spend a month; and, meanwhile, have sent you my cockatoo to amuse you. Perhaps you did not know I had one. It only arrived yesterday, as a present from Lady Almeria Fitzhenry. So you see it is quite an aristocratic bird; and it will look extremely well on your lawn in fine weather, and, on wet days, afford you company. Mrs. Grove is dying to have one, so you may consider yourself favoured. If you get attached to it, you shall have it all the winter. I am sure it will be a pet with Phillis.
“Your affectionate friend,
“Cornelia Burt.”
“P.S. Please send me back the directions for making the magic ruff.”
“Phillis,” said I, “Miss Burt thinks you will make the cockatoo quite a pet.”
“It’s a great deal more likely to put me into a pet,” said she. (Screech, screech, went the cockatoo.)
“He knows you are talking of him,” said I, “and does not like to be spoken ill of behind his back.”
“Then he’ll hear no good of himself from me,” says Phillis.
“The donkey-boy is waiting to be paid,” said I, “and Miss Burt wants something sent back. I will send it by him, and write her a line about the bird.”
“Suppose he takes it back,” cried Phillis.
“No, that would hardly do.”
“Well, ’twould look queer-like, that big stand in the donkey-chair!” and she went off laughing.
I hastily wrote:—
“Whiterose Cottage, Wednesday morning.“My dear friend,“On returning from church, I found your kind note and your bird awaiting me, and I am sorry your maid was obliged to return without the directions for knitting the ruff, which I inclose.You are very good to provide an amusement for me in your absence; but if Mrs. Grove really wishes for the cockatoo, I hope you will let me transfer it to her, for its loud voice is too much for me, and I understand nothing of the management of birds. Wishing you a pleasant visit to your friends, I remain,“Affectionately yours,“Helen Cheerlove.”
“Whiterose Cottage, Wednesday morning.
“My dear friend,
“On returning from church, I found your kind note and your bird awaiting me, and I am sorry your maid was obliged to return without the directions for knitting the ruff, which I inclose.You are very good to provide an amusement for me in your absence; but if Mrs. Grove really wishes for the cockatoo, I hope you will let me transfer it to her, for its loud voice is too much for me, and I understand nothing of the management of birds. Wishing you a pleasant visit to your friends, I remain,
“Affectionately yours,
“Helen Cheerlove.”
Having dispatched this missive, I felt greatly relieved; but my morning’s work had so tired me that I was fit for nothing but a long rest on the sofa, and would gladly have taken a little nap; but, every time my eyes were ready to close, I was roused by the angry cry of “cockatoo.”
“That bird is a most disagreeable animal,” thought I. “How can any one endure him? Even the wearisome cry of a gallina would less offend my ears. It would be long before I should wish for a parrot: but a parrot is a clever, entertaining bird, and affords some variety—this bird has only one word. A rook can only say ‘caw,’ yet contrives to make its one harsh note tolerablypleasant; butthistiresome thing—Oh dear, there it goes again! Phillis must be tormenting it.”
In fact, the cockatoo set up such a noise that I became quite irritable, and rang the bell. “Phillis, don’t worry that bird.”
“Iworrit the bird?” cries she, in high dudgeon, “why, I wasn’t even in the kitchen. I declare it worritsme!”
And, hastening off, she soon returned with the cockatoo on its stand, flapping its wings, and violently pecking her bare arms, and set it down before me with a jerk, saying, “There, you’ll see now, mum, whether it’s worrited by me or not. And it was a present, not to me, but to yourself.”
“Poor Phillis! howcouldyou let it peck your arms so?”
“Oh!” said she, mollified, and smearing them with her apron, “I’m not made of gingerbread!”
“But I really cannot have this birdhere.”
“Why, you see, he’s quiet withyou.”
“But, if he is, I cannot be. I was trying to go to sleep; and I shall expect him to scream every moment.”
“Oh well, then, I must carry him off.”
“Don’t let him peck your arms more than you can help.”
“Of course I shan’t,” said she.
“He’s really a handsome bird.”
“Handsome is that handsome does,” said Phillis, pitying her arms.
“Perhaps if I go along with you, offering him something to eat, he may not fly at you.”
“Well, you can but try, mum,” said Phillis.
So I did try; and directly he felt his perch in motion he flew, not at her, but at me.
“Oh, that’ll never do!” says Phillis. “Tell ye what, you radical, I’ll wring your neck for you as soon as think, if you don’t keep quiet. Please, mum, leave ’un alone—you only makes him wus.”
And off she went with her screeching enemy, leaving me deeply impressed with her own valour, and my incapability.
A man has just called for Mr. Cockatoo, bringing rather adrynote from Miss Burt, saying she was sorry I could not take a kindness as it was meant.
Early as the sun now rises, the nightingale is awake while yet dark, uttering the sweetest melody. Then a profound pause ensues; which, in half-an-hour or less, is broken by some infinitely inferior songsters; and soon, when the glorious sun uprears himself in the east, a full chorus of larks, linnets, thrushes, blackbirds, redbreasts, titmice, redstarts, and other warblers, pour forth their morning hymn of praise; while the rooks caw on the tall tree-tops, and the wood-pigeon and cuckoo are heard in the distant wood.
Yes, I am fond of birds in their own green shades. I am fond, too, of entomology, though not very knowing in it. The change of grubs into butterflies is so striking, that, as Swammerdam says, “We see therein the resurrection painted before our eyes.” Spence and Kirby, in their delightful book, have elicited wondrous facts. How many people see rooks following the plough without knowing why they do so. It is in order to eat the cockchafer grubs which the plough turns up. The cockchafer grub, which remains in its larva statefour years, preys not only on the roots of grass, but of corn; and willso loosen turf, that it will roll up as if cut with a turfing-spade; so that the rooks do good service in destroying these mischievous little grubs. But insects are not universally mischievous. A fly was once discovered making a lodgment in the principal stem of the early wheat, just above the root, thereby destroying the stem; but the root threw out fresh shoots on every side, and yielded a more abundant crop than in other fields where the insect had not been busy.
This reminds me, while I write, of another instance of compensation, which occurred to my own knowledge. A great many years ago, a good old market-gardener, whom I well knew, and who used to go by the name of “Contented Sam,” lost a fine crop of early green peas he was raising for the spring market, by a violent storm, which literally shelled the pods when they were just ready to gather, and beat them into the earth. He was looking at the devastation somewhat seriously, when some one passing cried out, “Well, master, can you see anything good inthatnow?” “Yes,” said he, rousing up, “I dare say God has some goodpurpose in it, somehow or other.” And so it remarkably proved; for the peas,self-sown, came up late in the season, when there were none in the market, and sold at a much higher price.
To return to Messrs. Kirby and Spence. The friendship of these two good and eminent men lasted nearly half a century. During the course of that time, the letters that passed between them on entomology were between four and five hundred. These letters were mostly written on sheets of large folio paper, so closely, that each would equal a printed sheet of sixteen pages of ordinary type. These they called their “first-rates,” or “seventy-fours;” the few of ordinary size being “frigates.” But once, Mr. Kirby having even more than usual to say, wrote what he called “The Royal Harry,” alluding to the great ship “Harry,” built in the reign of Henry VIII., of which I have seen a curious print. Thisnoteworthy notewas written on a sheet nearly the size of aTimesSupplement, and closely filled on three pages! Talk of ladies’ long letters after this!
The correspondence sprang up, and was continued, some months before they ever saw each other.They then spent “ten delightful days together,” at Mr. Kirby’s parsonage, and devoted part of the time to an entomological excursion in the parson’s gig.
At length, the idea occurred to them both of writing a book on entomology together, and in a popular form, which should allure readers by its entertainment, rather than deter them by its dryness. All the world knows how happily they accomplished it; and I have heard one of them say, the partnership was so complete, that in subsequent years neither of them could positively say, “This paragraph was written by myself, and this by my friend.”
This morning, as I was at work, enjoying the soft air through the open window, and listening to the blackbird and cuckoo, I heard a carriage stop at the gate, and soon afterwards, Arbell, carrying a parcel almost half as large as herself, came in, looking very merry, and said—
“Good morning, Mrs. Cheerlove! Mammathought you would like to see what I have been doing for Mademoiselle; so she set me down here, and will call for me presently.”
And with busy fingers she began to take out sundry pins, and remove divers coverings, till out came a splendid scarlet cushion, elegantly braided in gold.
“How do you like it?” said she, wistfully.
“I think it superb! Will it not be rather too magnificent for Mademoiselle’sménage?”
“Mademoiselle is very fond of bright colours, and means to have everything very gay about her, though she will not have a house to herself, only a flat; so that I feel sure she will like it.”
“Well, then, everybody must, for it is a splendid cushion, indeed! Why, the materials must have quite emptied your purse!”
“Mamma was kind enough to say, that if I did it well, she would not mind paying for the materials; and I am glad to say she is quite satisfied with it. But I particularly want to know what you think of the pattern.”
“It is intricate, and very rich. Where did you get it?”
“In a way you would never guess,” said Arbell, laughing. “One day, mamma took me with her to call on Mrs. Chillingworth; and as they talked of things that did not at all interest me, I sat looking at a great cushion on the opposite sofa, and thinking how bad the yellow braid looked, and how much better the effect would be in gold. The pattern pleased me; so I looked at it till I was sure I could remember it, and when I got home, I drew it on a sheet of paper. Mamma was amused, and said it was very ingenious of me; but I did not think of turning it to account, till it occurred to me that I might work it for Mademoiselle. So I asked mamma, and she approved of it, and said I might.”
“Well, I think it does you great credit in more ways than one.”
“How strange it was, Mrs. Cheerlove, that I should take such interest in doing something for Mademoiselle! I had such pleasant thoughts while working it. Oh, what do you think? I am going to have such a treat! Papa wishes to investigate the iron mines in Piedmont, and is going to take mamma and me with him; and onour return, we are to see everything worth seeing. Will not that be delightful?”
“It will, indeed. Of course you will, meantime, learn to speak French, German, and Italian, as fluently as you can.”
“Oh, yes; I am fagging very hard now; I have such amotive, not only for acquiring languages, but for improving in drawing, that I may sketch, and for obtaining information about all the objects in our way. I am making a list of ‘things to be particularly observed.’”
“An excellent plan.”
“You seem to have a good many books, Mrs. Cheerlove. Have you any likely to be of service to me, that you could lend me?”
“I am afraid they are hardly modern enough,” said I, doubtfully. “You are perfectly welcome to any of them.”
She scanned their titles at the back:—“‘Alpine Sketches.’ That’s promising. ‘1814!’ Oh, what years and tens of years ago! ‘With all my heart, said I, as H. carelessly mentioned the idea.’ What an abrupt beginning!” She laughed, and replaced the volume on the shelf. “Mamma,”said she, “has been reading the Rev. Mr. King’s ‘Italian Valleys of the Alps,’ and is very desirous to see the great St. Bernard and Monte Rosa, and the Breithorn, and Petit Cervin. I am chiefly desirous to see Mont Blanc. There’s such a charming account of it, and of Jacques Balmat, in ‘Fragments du Voyage.’ But Jacques Balmat is dead, though some of his family are guides. Papa has bought us two of Whippy’s portable side-saddles, which fold up into waterproof cases, with spare straps, tethers, whips, and everything one can want; and he has bought guide-books, maps, saddle-bags, telescope and microscope, and air-tight japanned cases to strap on our mules, so that our equipment will be complete.”
“You must take a sketch-book.”
“Oh, yes, mamma has given me one already; and a journal, and a vasculum for dried flowers and ferns.”
“You will see beautiful butterflies, as well as wild flowers, in the valleys.”
“Are butterflies worth studying, Mrs. Cheerlove?”
“Certainly they are.”
“I will recommend papa, then, to take a butterfly-net. Do you think it a good plan to keep a journal?”
“Very, if you put down things worth knowing, while they are fresh in your head; and refrain from such entries as—‘Had very hard beds last night’—‘breakfast poor, and badly set on table’—‘feel languid and dispirited this morning, without exactly knowing why.’”
“Surely nobody could put down such silly things as those,” said Arbell, laughing; “at any rate, I shall not. Ah, the carriage is at the gate. Mamma desired me to give you her love, and say she could not come in to-day. Good-by! Here is a little book-marker, on which I have painted the head of Savonarola, for you, if you will be so kind as to accept it. Oh, and I was particularly desired to tell you that the cocoa-nut biscuits you liked so much, were made of nothing in the world but chopped and pounded cocoa-nut, loaf sugar, and white of egg, baked on wafer-paper. Good-by! good-by!”
The longest day has passed! There is always something sorrowful in the reflection, although the days do not really seem shorter, on account of the moon. It is the same kind of feeling which we experience more strongly, when we feel that we have passed the prime of life, though we are still healthy and vigorous, and our looking-glasses may tell us that our looks are not much impaired. But the early summer, and summer-time of life, are gone!
I went to church to-day; but the heat is now so over-coming, that I must discontinue my out-door exercise, while it lasts, till the cool of the evening. As I passed Mrs. Ringwood’s, there was she at the open window with her baby, and she nodded and smiled, and cried, “How d’ye do, how d’ye do! You did me so much good! More than a glass of wine!”
She was not in low spirits just then, at any rate. And really I don’t believe I could bear her peculiar trials as well as she does—even with a glass of wine!
Cooler weather again. I went to-day, in the donkey-chair, to call on Mrs. Prout in her new house. It is small but cheerful, with everything clean and fresh. A good deal of her old, heavy furniture has been supplied by less expensive but more modern articles, which are more suitable to the papering and fitting-up of the house; and yet I looked with partiality at a few things that had been rescued from the sale—the old bureau, easy-chair, work-table, &c.
When I entered, little Arthur and Alice were the only occupants of the drawing-room, playing, in a corner of it, at “Doctor and Patient.” What imitators children are!—“Well, mum, what is the matter with you, to-day?”—“Oh,” says little, lisping Alice, coughing affectedly, “I have the guitar! (catarrh!)” After shyly exchanging a few words with me, they ran off, just as their mother entered.
She is an excellent little woman; there was no display of grief, but deep affliction beneath the surface; and now and then a tear strayed down her cheek, while yet she thankfully spoke of “many alleviations—many mercies.” “But,”as she truly said—“her loss was irreparable.”
All the while, there was Mr. Prout’s good-tempered countenance looking down on us from the picture-frame, as if he approved of all she said. It almost startled me when I first went in; and I sedulously avoided looking at it, or even towards it, when his widow was in the room; yet she evidently had gazed on it so continually, that she could now do so without shrinking; and I often observed her eyes turning in that direction, as if the portrait afforded her a sad consolation.
She told me, it was quite arranged that Emily should spend the holidays with the Pevenseys; and asked me somewhat anxiously, whether I thought there could be any hopes of its leading to a permanent engagement. As I was not authorized to communicate what Mrs. Pevensey had mentioned in confidence, I only spoke hopefully, and said, I could see no reason why it should not.
“Emily is rather afraid of undertaking Miss Pevensey,” said Mrs. Prout. “She thinks shelooks too womanly, and probably knows already more than she does herself. But I, who know what isinEmily, have no fears on that score; only, to be sure, she does look—andis—very young.”
“I don’t think looks much signify,” said I, “if there be self-possession, and a temperate manner.”
“And Emily has both,” said Mrs. Prout.
While she was speaking, little Arthur came in, and laid a bunch of radishes, wet with recent washing, and placed in a toy basket, in her lap. I had heard a boy calling radishes along the row. Mrs. Prout smiled, kissed him, and said, “Good boy; we will have them by and by for tea;” and he ran off with them, quite elated.
“He has spent the last half-penny of his allowance on them, I know,” said she, with a motherly smile; “and all for me. That is the way with the generous little fellow—he continually spends his pocket-money on me; whether on a few violets, or radishes, or perhaps a little measure of shrimps—something he trusts in my liking, because he likes it himself.”
“Such a little fellow is lucky to have any pocket-money at all,” said I.
“Oh, they all have their little allowances,” said Mrs. Prout. “Perhaps you think me wrong, in my reduced circumstances, to continue them, and itwasa matter of consideration; but their father and I had felt alike on that subject, and I therefore resolved only to diminish them to half the amount, and save in something else, rather than reduce them to absolute penury. I don’t like pinching on a large scale; I cannot, therefore, expect them to do so on a small one. Besides, it teaches children the value of money; gives them habits of calculation, fore-thought, and economy. How can they practise self-denial, charity, or generosity, without something, however trifling, they can call their own? But I never permit them to exceed their allowances, or borrow, or run in debt. If they spend too freely at the beginning of the week, they must suffer for it till the week after. Arthur and Alice had twopence a week each, but now they have only a penny; thus, they too, know something, practically, of ‘reduced circumstances;’ and thestipends of the elder ones have been lowered in proportion. So you see, I am not, after all, very extravagant.”
I thought, afterwards, how much sense there was in what she had said; and regretted her rule was not oftener acted on in families. Mrs. Pevensey, for instance, not unfrequently makes Arbell handsome presents, but gives her no regular allowance; consequently, not knowing what she has to expect, Arbell is sometimes improvident—sometimes pinched. Consequently, also, she knows little of the shop-prices of articles in common request, and does not regularly keep private accounts. I know it is not my province to interfere on the subject; but, should an opening unexpectedly occur, I will just direct Mrs. Pevensey’s thoughts to it, by alluding to the plan pursued by Mrs. Prout.
Every one of these young Prouts has left off drinking sugar in their tea, to lighten their mother’s bills; and at their own instance. How well it speaks for them!
Priamond, Diamond, and Triamond, says Spenser, were three brothers in Fairy-land:—