“These three did love each other dearly well;And with so firm affection were allied,As if but one soul in them all did dwell,Which did her power into three parts divide.”
“These three did love each other dearly well;And with so firm affection were allied,As if but one soul in them all did dwell,Which did her power into three parts divide.”
“These three did love each other dearly well;And with so firm affection were allied,As if but one soul in them all did dwell,Which did her power into three parts divide.”
“These three did love each other dearly well;
And with so firm affection were allied,
As if but one soul in them all did dwell,
Which did her power into three parts divide.”
In the course of their story, a deadly quarrel ensued between the youngest of these three brothers and Camball, brother of the Princess Canace, which was assuaged by the goddess Concord, who gave them Nepenthe to drink. And what is Nepenthe?—
“Nepenthe is a drink of sovereign graceDevised by the gods, for to assuageHeart’s grief, and bitter gall away to chase,Which stirs up anger and contentious rage.Instead thereof, sweet peace and quietageIt doth establish in the troubled mind;Few men, but such as sober are and sage,Are by the gods to drink of it assigned—But such as drink, eternal happiness do find.”
“Nepenthe is a drink of sovereign graceDevised by the gods, for to assuageHeart’s grief, and bitter gall away to chase,Which stirs up anger and contentious rage.Instead thereof, sweet peace and quietageIt doth establish in the troubled mind;Few men, but such as sober are and sage,Are by the gods to drink of it assigned—But such as drink, eternal happiness do find.”
“Nepenthe is a drink of sovereign graceDevised by the gods, for to assuageHeart’s grief, and bitter gall away to chase,Which stirs up anger and contentious rage.Instead thereof, sweet peace and quietageIt doth establish in the troubled mind;Few men, but such as sober are and sage,Are by the gods to drink of it assigned—But such as drink, eternal happiness do find.”
“Nepenthe is a drink of sovereign grace
Devised by the gods, for to assuage
Heart’s grief, and bitter gall away to chase,
Which stirs up anger and contentious rage.
Instead thereof, sweet peace and quietage
It doth establish in the troubled mind;
Few men, but such as sober are and sage,
Are by the gods to drink of it assigned—
But such as drink, eternal happiness do find.”
I can well believe it, good Mr. Spenser. Where can it be found? Did you ever drink of it yourself? or did you write thus feelingly because you sought and found it not? Oh! by what name shall we pray for it? “The grace of God?”
Here we are in the dog-days! and every one is complaining of the heat. Last night we had a thunder-storm, and Phillis was afraid to go to bed, till I told her that feathers were non-conductors. So then she thought, the sooner she was on her feather-bed, the better.
Mr. Cheerlove used to be very fond of watching the lightning—of enjoying what Sir Humphrey Davy called “the sublime pleasure ofunderstandingwhat othersfear, and of making friends even of inanimate objects.” I own I can never help starting at a very vivid flash. But I admire those who are superior to vain alarms.
My garden is all-glorious with roses, from the China, Japan, Macartney, and Alice Grey, that embower the house and cluster the green palings with their crimson, pink, cream-coloured, and white blossoms, to the rarer yellow rose, and far more beautiful moss-rose, “queen of flowers!” I literally tread on roses as I walk from room to room, for every breath of air wafts the loose leaves through the windows, and scatters them about the carpets, making them, as Phillis says, “dreadful untidy.”
The hay is pretty well carried, and I am glad to say that the hay-turning machine has not yet superseded hand-labour in this neighbourhood. The poor woman who, with her husband and baby, found nightly shelter in Cut-throat Barn, brought me some fine water-cresses at breakfast-time this morning:—a grateful return for some old linen and broken victuals.
The young Prouts came in just now, bringing in yellow bed-straw, harebells, three different sorts of heath, and a bunch of flowering grasses that will make a graceful winter nosegay.
While Arthur turned over the contents of my curiosity drawer, and Alice examined my collection of “pieces,” with permission to select three of the prettiest for pincushions, Margaret read me Emily’s first letter from Hardsand. All goes on satisfactorily. She finds herself quite equal to the charge of the children, and Mrs. Pevensey tells her she more than equals her expectations, and that she shall leave her at the head of the school-room department with perfect confidence. Emily says, that so many things, common to the Pevenseys, are new and delightful to her—theirpolished manners and delightful conversation, the numerous little elegances about them, the well-conducted servants, luxuriously-furnished rooms, abundance of nice books, &c., all add something to her enjoyment. As for her position among them, she does not mind it at all; in fact, she is flattered by the confidence Mrs. Pevensey places in her, the obedience of the children, and the respect of the servants. She admires the sea, and the fine rough coast, and enjoys the daily walks on the sands. Arbell seems to like her, and she likes Arbell. “When the children are gone to bed,” she writes, “and Arbell is in the drawing-room, you cannot imagine how I enjoy lying on the sofa and reading ‘Tremaine.’ But sometimes Mrs. Pevensey looks in, and says, ‘Miss Prout, do come and join us—unless you are tired.’ Then I spring up immediately, for I think it would neither show good manners nor good feeling to hang back; and the result is that I get a cheerful evening, and am made to feel completely one of themselves.”
The Pevenseys were to cross the Channel the next morning: they were all in excellent spirits.
August is the month when the fields are ripe to harvest, and when, to use David’s joyous imagery, “The little valleys stand so thick with corn that they laugh and sing.” That is a beautiful line in a Scotch song, which, describing a graceful, pretty young girl, says—
“Like waving corn her mien.”
“Like waving corn her mien.”
“Like waving corn her mien.”
“Like waving corn her mien.”
Nothing can be more graceful than the motion of corn, stirred by the light summer air—not even the dancing, in his boyish days, of one of our greatest civil engineers—now, alas! dead. Light as feather-down, and as if it were the pleasure of his existence to float on his native element—the air—the next moment you might see him deep in some abstruse question with his father, grave as if he had never known a smile. (“Ut in vitâ, sic in studiis, pulcherrimum et humanissimum existimo, severitatem comitatemque misure, ne illa in tristitiam, hæc in petulantiam procedat.” Be that his epitaph, from his old and early friend.)
Sir Isambard Brunel once showed us a stone perforated by an insect, which had suggested to him the horse-shoe form of the Thames Tunnel.On how many of us would such a hint have been utterly wasted! Southey tells us that when Sir Humphrey Davy first ascended Skiddaw with him, he cast his eyes on the fragments of slate with which the ground was strewn, and, stooping to pick one up as he spoke, observed, “I dare say I shall find something here.” The next moment he exclaimed with delight, “Ihavefound something indeed! Here is a substance which has been lately discovered in Saxony, and has not been recognised elsewhere till now!” It was thechiastolite.
I can scarcely form a pleasanter mental picture, than of a young girl, healthy, talented, energetic, sweet-tempered, and with no burthen of self-consciousness or morbid feeling, tired, but not too tired, after her day’s toil as governess to a tolerably docile set of young pupils (and all children may betrainedto docility), and resting body and mind on a comfortable sofa in a cheerful room, with an entertaining book which interests her; or now and then drawn off from it bypleasing thoughts of home, and of the appreciation which there overpays her labours. And such a picture do I form of Emily Prout.
Before Mrs. Pevensey sailed, she engaged Emily permanently, at a salary of eighty guineas, to be raised to a hundred if she prove equal to her situation.
This morning, on my way to church, I saw Mrs. Ringwood looking over her blind with rather a long face, and she bowed to me somewhat piteously. Now, I cannot say that I had forgotten her request that I would look in on her again, for it had occurred to me almost every time I passed her door; but, somehow, something had said within me, “No, I will not.” There was no need, I told myself; and there certainly was no inclination; therefore my conscience was not at all uneasy—especially when I did not see her looking over the blind.
But now, it struck me, she might be specially looking out after me, and thinking it very crossand unneighbourly of me not to call; she might even seriously wish to have a little talk with me; and it might do her more good than a glass of wine.
So I resolved to call as I returned: and I did as I resolved. A rather slatternly maid, for whom I would on no account have exchanged Phillis, said “Missis was at home;” and showed me straightway into the parlour, where was—not Mrs., but Mr. Ringwood.
I suppose some people think him good-looking, but he is too much be-ringed and be-whiskered for my taste. Mr. Cheerlove wore no whiskers; nor any rings. My taste, therefore, is plain. Mr. Ringwood is not plain—but rather showily good-looking.
He said—“Bless my soul, Mrs. Cheerlove! This is a great compliment, ma’am—I—(Jemima, tell your mistress)—I know how little you visit, and how greatly your visits are prized. You could not have paid me a more flattering compliment, ma’am, than in calling on my little wife.”
Dear me, thought I, I shall not like this man at all—how oppressive he is! I am sure I neverthought of paying him a compliment, and wish he would not pay me any.
“I hope Mrs. Ringwood is well,” said I.
“Well,” said he, running his fingers through his hair, in the Italian way, or in imitation of it, “Emma is well enough, if she would but think herself so;—she wants to go to the sea-side.”
“A nice time of year,” said I.
“Ah, ha,” said he; “but perhaps you are enough of a classical scholar, Mrs. Cheerlove, to have heard something of ‘res augusta domi.’”
“I have heard the expression,” said I.
“Ah,—you don’t deceive me in that way,” said he; “I’ve heard of Mrs. Cheerlove’s acquirements. You read by stealth, and blush to find it fame.”
“I thought fame was acquired by writing rather than by reading,” said I.
The absurd man bowed, as if I had meant to compliment him; for editing theCounty Advertiser, I suppose! Oh dear!
Luckily for me, Mrs. Ringwood came in, wearing the very smart cap I had seen her manufacturing on a previous occasion.
“Oh, I’m so glad to see you!” said she, hastening towards me, all smiles. “I take it so kind of you!”
Then I asked how the baby was, and she told me he was cutting his teeth, and went into long details, naturally interesting to her, and very well to tell to me; but that might as well have been spared, I thought, in the presence of Mr. Ringwood. I wondered he did not walk off to his office. Instead of which, he stood, shifting from one foot to the other, running over the paper, and making it crackle prodigiously as he unfolded and refolded it; and at length he said, somewhat abruptly—
“My love, all this cannot be very entertaining to Mrs. Cheerlove.”
“That is true, Alfred,” said she, with a little flutter which I could not account for. “I was to blame for forgetting Mrs. Cheerlove had no family. How have you been, ma’am, lately? Don’t you think a little sea-air would do you a great deal of good?”
I smiled, and said I did not feel any need of it.
“Oh, but it braces one so,” said she. “It would strengthenme, I know, more than all the wine and porter in the world!”
“Why should not you try to let your house?” said I. “Many people do.”
“’Pon my honour, Mrs. Cheerlove, that’s a capital thought of yours!” burst in Mr. Ringwood. “I wonder it never occurred to me. I’ll tell you what, Emma, if you can let the house for the autumn, you may go to Hardsand the very next day! Put up a ticket to-morrow.”
“Oh, thank you, Alfred!” cried she. “I’m sure I’d no idea you would have consented to such a thing, or I would have proposed it before.”
(“Don’t believe such a thought ever entered your head,” muttered he).
“I wonder, though,” she continued doubtfully, looking round the room as she spoke, “who would take such a house as this?”
“Did you never hear Cowper’s line,” said he, quickly—
“‘We never shall know, if we never do try?’”
“‘We never shall know, if we never do try?’”
“‘We never shall know, if we never do try?’”
“‘We never shall know, if we never do try?’”
“I’m sure I’ve not the least objection totrying—nay, I’m much obliged to you for letting me—”
“Not with the house,” put in he, quite smartly.
“Of course not—how funny you are! But I haven’t the least idea about these things.”
“Your kind friend, Mrs. Cheerlove, can doubtless supply you with an idea or two—she has plenty of her own.”
“Oh, yes. Well then, Mrs. Cheerlove, what steps should you recommend?”
“Oh, it is a very simple affair. Tell Mr. Norris, the house-agent, that you want to let your house, furnished, for the autumn, at such a price; and that it can be seen at such and such hours. Or, if you prefer it, you can put up a bill.”
“Dear me, yes! I think I’ll do both! How clever you are! So practical!”
“Ah, Mrs. Cheerlove,” said Mr. Ringwood, with a shrug and a smile, “it’s we literary people who are the practical ones after all!”
Then she began to consider how many beds she could make up, and what she should leave,what she should take, and what she should lock up; whether she should allow the use of the piano, and whether the pictures should be covered; till her husband impatiently cried—
“Oh, hang the pictures!” and then laughed at his ridiculous exclamation.
“But really, Emma,” continued he, “you need not give Mrs. Cheerlove a list of all the cracked wine-glasses.”
“I haven’t a list to give,” said she with simplicity. “Perhaps it would be well if I kept one.”
“You must make an inventory now, at any rate. Set about it this morning—it will keep you amused for a week.”
“My dear Alfred, you are always finding things formeto do, instead of yourself. You forget the baby.”
“You take good care, my dear, I shall not do that. Mrs. Cheerlove, how I do wish we could enlist you amongst us!”
“As what?” said I, amazed.
“As a contributor. Oh, you need not look so conscious!—murderwill out. I know youwrite. Now, do give me—poor, toil-worn editor as I am—some little assistance. On public and local affairs, of course, I want no aid; what I desire is historical anecdote, biographical sketches, traits of character and experience—all that sort ofmaterielfor thought which may or may not be used, according to the will of the reader—pleased with the thing as it stands, but not always disposed to carry it on.”
He spoke earnestly and well.
“You do me great honour,” said I, “but, I assure you, you are quite mistaken in me. I could not afford you the help you need.”
“Why—they said you wrote throughout your long illness!”
“Whoevertheymay he, I can assure you, I only used my pen in hours of solitude, as a companion; nothing more.”
“But its results!——”
“Will never appear before the public. Oh no, I am no authoress. And I must confess to a prejudice againstfemaleassistants in our leading periodicals. I think it a province out of our sphere.”
“Well, you compliment us,” said he, bowing; “but I own you have not satisfied me. I am convinced youcould, if youwould. Dear me! how time runs away, to be sure! I must run off this moment; but one takes no count of time inyourpresence, Mrs. Cheerlove.”
And, presenting his hand to me in a very affable manner, and bowing over mine, he flourished off.
“Delightful!” cried Mrs. Ringwood, taking a deep breath; “how you’ve drawn him out! Oh, I do so enjoy good conversation! But I’m no converser—never was. Always such a simple little thing!”
I knew not what to say; and she almost immediately went on in a dreamy sort of way—
“He used to tell me before marriage, he loved simplicity; so I wasn’t afraid, you know. But now he likes intellect better.”
“But why should you despair of pleasing him, even then?”
“Oh, he knocks me down so! I don’t mean literally,” cried she, seeing my look of dismay; “but he has a way ofsettingpeople down, as thesaying is, whenever they talk in a way that does not please him; and if I am chatting a little, and he wants to cut it short, he says, ‘My dear, I beg your pardon,’ quite politely; and takes the lead, and keeps it—‘Mydear,’ not ‘My love.’ It was so pleasant to hear him say, ‘My love!’ to-day.”
“Well,” said I, “you will be busy now, and I hope soon to hear of your having let your house.” And so I talked a little about various watering-places, as if she might pick and choose where she liked; though, after all, very probably, she will have no choice but Hardsand. And I told her what a cheerful, bracing place Hardsand was considered.
But, as I rode home, I thought that, perhaps I had done the little woman no kindness, after all; for her efforts to let her house might only end in disappointment. And the more I thought of blinds, scrapers, &c., wanting repair, crumb-cloths wanting washing, and wine-glasses wanting replacing, the less chance there appeared to me of anybody’s being attracted by the house.
“A pennyworth of putty and a pennyworth of paint,” said a nobleman, in the last century, “would make my countess as handsome as any at court.” Certes, a pennyworth of putty and a pennyworth of paint, or something equivalent, will often go far towards making a house look tidy and respectable. But, in Mrs. Ringwood’s domain,il poco piúis sadly wanting. A man may laugh at an Irish waiter who confidentially whispers to him, as he hands him his venison, that “there is no currant jelly on the sideboard, but plenty of lobster-sauce,” but he will not endure it from his wife.
——What luck some people have! The Ringwoods have let their house the very first day! Just now, I was very much surprised by a call from Mr. Ringwood, who looked much more gentlemanlike than he did yesterday, and said, with a very pleased look, “Mrs. Cheerlove, I am sure you will be glad to hear the good news,and therefore intrude to tell you of it myself. I called on Norris just now, and found the Hawkers are wanting a ready-furnished house, while their own is painting—that is to say, for six weeks; so I’ve seen Mr. Hawker, and we came to terms immediately; supposing, of course, that the ladies make it out together. But I am sure Emma will be glad to make every concession to Mrs. Hawker, so I look on it as a done thing. Don’t you wish me joy?”
I told him I did, very sincerely.
“So you see,” said he, laughing triumphantly, “we literary peoplearethe practical ones, after all!”
“Mrs. Ringwood must be much obliged to you,” said I, “for so promptly carrying out her wishes.”
“Yes,” said he, drumming on his hat; “but I own I don’t see that I ought to be expected to do everything in my office and out of it too. A man, or even a woman, who fills the housekeeping purse, ought not to be liable to every other branch of bother.”
I thought with him, but only observed, that where there was one clever head in the family, the others might accustom themselves, unconsciously, to depend too much on it.
“I believe you are right,” said he, stroking the important member in question with a thoughtful air as he spoke. “I spoilt Emma myself in the first instance—instead of remonstrating when I should have done so, about one little matter and another. The consequence is—— No matter; but we shallneverget straight now—never, never! I utterly despair of it.”
“Ah, you are too sensible to do that! To make the best of untoward circumstances, even if they result from our own fault, is not only more prudent, but more noble, than to sit down in Ugolino-like despair.”
“‘Ugolino-like’ is the light in that sentence!” said he. “Excuse me, but you know I make a business of these things, and often have to insert them in heavy articles. That phrase will fix your saying in my memory, and I will endeavour to act upon it too—without which I know youwon’t care a half-penny for my remembering, or even quoting it. Ah, Mrs. Cheerlove, you owe the world something from your pen. Why not try?” in a tone intended to be very insinuating.
“There are plenty in the field already,” said I.
“Plenty, such as theyare,” responded he. “Plenty—and too many! Oh, if you knew the curiosities of literature that I hand over to my subeditor! Now, I’ll read you amorçeauI received this morning. I think I mightdefyyou to make anything like it. The subject is the fancy bazaar our ladies are going to hold at Willington:—
“‘Come to Willington bazaar!Enter, neighbours, near and far.Pure delightsome harmonyWelcomes all friends cheerily;Crops of pretty useful things,Philanthropy to market brings;Sympathy with ardour buys,What industrial zeal supplies!’
“‘Come to Willington bazaar!Enter, neighbours, near and far.Pure delightsome harmonyWelcomes all friends cheerily;Crops of pretty useful things,Philanthropy to market brings;Sympathy with ardour buys,What industrial zeal supplies!’
“‘Come to Willington bazaar!Enter, neighbours, near and far.Pure delightsome harmonyWelcomes all friends cheerily;Crops of pretty useful things,Philanthropy to market brings;Sympathy with ardour buys,What industrial zeal supplies!’
“‘Come to Willington bazaar!
Enter, neighbours, near and far.
Pure delightsome harmony
Welcomes all friends cheerily;
Crops of pretty useful things,
Philanthropy to market brings;
Sympathy with ardour buys,
What industrial zeal supplies!’
Do you think you could have done that? No, I’m sure you couldn’t!”
And, in excellent humour with himself and withme, he took leave, waving his hand towards the book-case as he went, and saying:—
“An elegant sufficiency! content,Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books,Progressive virtue, and approving heaven!”
“An elegant sufficiency! content,Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books,Progressive virtue, and approving heaven!”
“An elegant sufficiency! content,Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books,Progressive virtue, and approving heaven!”
“An elegant sufficiency! content,
Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books,
Progressive virtue, and approving heaven!”
Guido Sorelli beautifully says, “I learn the depth to which I have sunk, from the length of chain let down to updraw me.” Without inquiring into his wisdom in publishing his “Confessions,” (written for the public, apparently, andnotfor Silvio Pellico), they certainly have, as he says, a tendency to bring the reader to “a saddening contemplation of his own heart.” This sensitive Italian was converted by the Bible, which he, in the first instance, read for an hour daily, and completely perused in three months; never opening it without first praying for humility. Nor did he ever commence his daily seven hours’ task of translating “Paradise Lost,” without imploring divine assistance; and the last four years of histen years’ labour of love, “bore the impress,” he tells us, “of a happiness almost beatific.” Such are the silent, satisfying rewards which high and virtuous art bestows on her children, wholly independent of fame or emulation. Like the exquisitefanatico per la musica, in La Motte Fouquè’s “Violina,” they “carry on their labour as a sweet secret, hardly knowing at the time whether they shall ever feel inclined to make it known.” The “last infirmity of noble minds,” is their seeking the confirmatory sentence of some master-spirit, whom the voice of the world, and their own cordial acknowledgment, place far above themselves. All beyond this opens the door to rivalry and uneasiness. Once know that you do a thing well, and the calm pleasure needs not to be augmented by everybody’s owning it.
If a botanist ranges over an entire meadow, and find one or two new specimens, he thinks his labour not in vain. And if I find one ortwo noteworthy passages in a book, I am glad I have read it. Here, now, is the life of Pollok. What true soul of art has not experienced, at some period of its existence, the depression and despondency, the suspicion of its own self-delusion, thus expressed by the young Scottish poet?—
“The ideas,” he says, “which I had collected at pleasure, and which I reckoned peculiarly my own, were dropping away one after another. Fancy was returning from her flight—memory giving up her trust; what was vigorous becoming weak, and what was cheerful and active, dull and indolent.” And yet he was at this time on the brink of writing an immortal poem! One December night, sitting alone in his lodgings in great desolation of mind, he, to turn his thoughts from himself, took up the first book within reach, which happened to be Hartley’s “Oratory.” He opened on Lord Byron’s “Darkness,” and had not read far when he thought he could write something to the purpose on the subject of the general resurrection. After revolving his ideas a little, hestruck off about a thousand lines—the now well-known passage, beginning,—
“In ’customed glory bright!”
“In ’customed glory bright!”
“In ’customed glory bright!”
“In ’customed glory bright!”
Soon afterwards he wrote to his brother, that “he had lately been soaring in the pure ether of eternity, and linking his thoughts to the Everlasting Throne!” “And I knew,” says his brother, “that he had now found a subject to write on.” “May the eternal and infinite Spirit,” wrote this sympathizing brother in return, “inform your soul with an immortal argument, and enable you to conduct it to your own happiness in time, and blessedness in eternity; and to His praise, honour, and glory for ever!”
Soon after this, Robert returned to his father’s humble dwelling, at Moorhouse, where he continued his poem, but without any definite plan. “One night, sitting alone in an old room, and letting his mind wander backward and forward over things at large, in a moment, as if by an immediate inspiration, the idea of the poem struck him; and the plan of it, as it now stands,stretched out before him, so that at one glance he saw through it from end to end like an avenue. He never felt, he said, as he did then; and he shook from head to foot.”
How soon September has come! The roses are now nearly all over; but the ram’s-head border I had cut in the grass-plat last spring is gay with fuchsias, verbenas, geraniums, and balsams. Miss Burt, who has no garden of her own, comes now and then to expend, as she says, some of her superfluous energies, in raking and hoeing my garden, while I sit near her in a light wicker chair, and watch her proceedings. She became tired of her cockatoo about a month after her return, and made a present of it to Mrs. Grove. The cockatoo thus shared the fate of a certain fine cucumber, which I remember being passed from house to house one autumn, till at length somebody was found who liked it.
Mrs. Pevensey’s gardener’s boy brought me adelicate little griskin this morning, to show me that, though out of sight, I am not out of mind. I am reading a curious little tale Mrs. Pevensey lent me, called “Agathonia,” about the Colossus of Rhodes. The style is inflated rather than grand, which makes the incidents appear less grand than inflated; but yet, I am struck with the story, which, picturesquely enough, opens thus:—
Three weather-worn brigantines, belonging to Ben Shedad the Jew, are anchored in the harbour of Rhodes, to carry off a hundred brazen statues, the masterpieces of Lysippus and Chares, as well as the renowned Colossus, whose remains have for nine centuries encumbered the arsenal. The bastions are crowded with victorious Saracens—not a Rhodian is to be seen among them; the island has been conquered and humiliated, its temples razed, its churches defiled, its vineyards rooted up, its population maltreated, and, to conclude, its works of art sold to the Jews.
As Ben-Shedad and his crew are proceeding to the spot where the prostrate Colossus lies embeddedin sand and rushes, one of the Jews attempts to propitiate Velid, son of the emir of Rhodes, by kissing the hem of his garment. The young man shrinks from him in disgust, and, turning to his friend Al Maimoun, asks whether artizans might not have been found on the island who might have removed the statue without its being polluted by the touch of an accursed race. Al Maimoun replies, that certainly the camp of the faithful might have supplied workmen; and Velid rejoins, that were he not compelled to respect the contract, his soldiers should pitch the Hebrews into the harbour.
Meantime, the attention of the Saracen bystanders, who have been deriding and cursing the Jews, is diverted towards another party slowly approaching the Colossus, consisting of an Ascalonian soldier of the emir’s, three Rhodians, and a tall, grizzled Numidian, who bear a closely-curtained litter, which is accompanied by two veiled females. One of the women stoops with age, but the other is slender and graceful as a young roe. The crowd divides before them; and,when they reach the fallen Colossus, the Rhodians pause, and, the litter-curtains being drawn back, disclose the venerable grey head of an old man, spiritual as an apostle, mild as a sage, who gazes long on the Colossus, lit up by the setting sun, and then sinks back and weeps.
All this is very vivid and touching.
A vague, but terrible report has reached me,—I fervently hope it may not be true,—that a dreadful accident has happened to the Pevenseys somewhere abroad. Phillis heard it of the baker. I am on thorns, while waiting for more particulars. This October has set in wet; the rain has fallen fast all the morning, and I cannot send out for the donkey-chair, nor spare Phillis to go out and make inquiries; nor is a creature likely to call.
Miss Secker has just been here. She says the report came from the Stone House. Mr. Pevensey had written some hurried orders to the steward, saying Mrs. Pevensey, in crossing theMer de Glace, had fallen through acrevasse, and, with difficulty, had been drawn up with ropes, alive, but nearly dashed to pieces. Oh, melancholy news! the mother of so large a family! so kind a neighbour! so admirable a wife! so charitable and exemplary in the various relations of life! What a loss she will be, should she not recover! Meanwhile, what responsibility devolves upon poor Arbell, her sole nurse! It is enough to put a grey head on her young shoulders.
This morning, I could not rest till I was off in the donkey-chair to call on Mrs. Prout, and inquire whether she had heard anything from Emily. The post had just come in; I found them in tears over Arbell’s letter, inclosed to them by Emily. It was written at her mother’s bedside, in the little parsonage of a Swisspasteur.
Poor mamma, she wrote, was taken out more dead than alive. The guides, who were all goodness, made a kind of litter for her with theirpoles and ropes, and threw their jackets over it. But when papa lifted her on it, she thrilled all over, like a little bird that had fallen out of its nest; and Arbell turned her head away, for it made her feel quite sick. So then, as the litter shook her so much, they only took her at first to the nearestchâlet, where there was a very kindbergere, and where they laid her on the heaps of hay for the cows; and a guide ran off to the inn for an English doctor, whose name they happened to have seen on the travellers’ book.
Meanwhile, poor mamma lay quite still; but her face was very cold. And once, when Arbell softly wiped the damp off it, and kissed her white lips, she whispered, “Good girl—dear Arbell!” so that she was ready to burst into tears, but knew she must not. And when the guide came back, he said the English doctor had gone up Mont Blanc; and Arbell could not help thinking, how stupid and wicked it was of him, to be running after such nonsense when he had better have been minding his own business. However, he brought back mamma’s maid, Kent, and a famousmountain doctor, who ordered a sheep to be killed, and mamma to be immediately wrapped in its skin, which they did. And, directly afterwards, a most benevolent-lookingpasteur(such another as Oberlin must have been!) came in, with a face of kind concern; and, after a few words with papa, it was arranged that the guides should carry mamma, who seemed in a stupor, to thepasteur’shouse, which was close at hand, and much quieter than the inn. So they did so; Arbell holding her vinaigrette to mamma’s nose all the way, though she could not be quite sure it was of any use. When they got there, such a neat old housekeeper came out, quite a Louise Schepler; for thepasteur, like Oberlin, was a widower. But he had no children, which was all the better, because the house was all the quieter. So they took dear mamma into the best bed-room, where everything was very poor and scanty, but very clean; and just then, the English doctor arrived, who had only gone a little way up the mountain after all, and, strange to say! had turned back under an unaccountable impressionthat he was wanted. And he said, as mamma was in the skin, she might as well remain in it, though it was queer practice; and then he gave her a very strong restorative from thepasteur’smedicine-chest, which made her open her eyes and look slowly round, without turning her head; and then he said “You’ll do, my dear madam, now;” and nodded and smiled, and went off talking to papa quite cheerfully. But, oh! he was quite mistaken; for, as soon as the effect of the restorative subsided, mamma felt herself rapidly sinking, and told papa she knew she was going to die. Then poor papa, who had returned quite hopeful, lost all his courage again, and cried bitterly; and called thepasteur, who came in, and knelt down, and offered, oh! such a heavenly prayer! Even Kent, who understood not one word of it, said the verytonewas prayer. He began “Seigneur!”—and then made a great stop—and then began again, “Seigneur! Holy and just are all thy ways! Who shall not magnify thee, O God most holy?” And then went on. Arbell’s head was too confused for her to retain itin her memory, but it sank into her heart, and seemed to carry her up to heaven, quite away from all earthly, vexing cares. And when they rose from their knees, dear mamma was asleep, and slept for hours! Meanwhile, papa got some very strong jelly from the inn, and when she woke, he or Kent gave her a spoonful of it from time to time, which she seemed to like; for, when she wanted more, she opened her lips without speaking; and Arbell or Kent watched her lips all night long, taking it by turns to sleep a little on the ground. Poor papa got a little rest in the easy-chair in the parlour. The doctor—Dr. Thorpe—had come very early in the morning, and twice more in the course of the day, and was excessively kind, though at first he had seemed ratherbrusque. He said all the travellers, inn-people, and guides were deeply interested in mamma, and prayers were being offered up. (Poor Arbell’s writing was here smeared with tears). An English lady had sent Arbell a little text-book, which was a great comfort to her, and so were many hymns she remembered; but shehad her little diamond Bible in her pocket already; there were parts in it that she thought she should never be able to read hereafter without their bringing to mind that little whitewashed room, with table, chairs, and drawers painted sea-green, and cold, uncarpeted floor. She was going to bed that night—papa insisted on it; but at four o’clock Kent would change places with her; thepasteurwas going to sleep in the easy-chair. She would soon write to dear Miss Prout again.
Thus ended poor Arbell’s letter. What depths of new experience had she sounded in a few hours! I could not help thinking of those beautiful words of the prophet Hosea, “Come, let us return unto the Lord; for He hath torn, and He will heal us; He hath smitten, and He will bind us up.” I felt an impression that it would be so in this instance.
The Pevenseys had been what people might call amoderatelyreligious family; but without much devotional feeling apparent among them. Mrs. Pevensey was a churchwoman; her husband hadbeen brought up among dissenters; Mademoiselle Foularde was a Roman Catholic; and each had such a well-bred respect for what they deemed the prejudices of one another, that I had sometimes feared it tended to a little indifferentism in practice. But what right had I to judge of others? To their own Master they would stand or fall.
“Motives are all, in Heaven’s impartial eye,But ’tis not ours to doubt and give the lie;Let each give credit to his neighbour’s share,But analyse his own with utmost care.”[4]
“Motives are all, in Heaven’s impartial eye,But ’tis not ours to doubt and give the lie;Let each give credit to his neighbour’s share,But analyse his own with utmost care.”[4]
“Motives are all, in Heaven’s impartial eye,But ’tis not ours to doubt and give the lie;Let each give credit to his neighbour’s share,But analyse his own with utmost care.”[4]
“Motives are all, in Heaven’s impartial eye,
But ’tis not ours to doubt and give the lie;
Let each give credit to his neighbour’s share,
But analyse his own with utmost care.”[4]
How many afflicting thoughts must have passed through poor Mrs. Pevensey’s mind, as she silently lay, hour after hour, sewn up in her sheep-skin! I thought she must have neededmorethan the fortitude of a Roman matron;nothingcould have given her composure commensurate with her need of it, under such circumstances, but the submission and faith of a Christian. This trial, so afflictive at the time, might yet hereafter be reverted to as the crowning mercy of her life,by having led her to more complete subjection to the will of her heavenly Father.
Margaret Prout came in this morning, looking so pleased that I concluded she had fresh and better news of Mrs. Pevensey. But no—she had only a letter from Harry, and a note from Emily. I begged she would read me Emily’s first, which she did. Emily said that immediately on hearing of what had happened, Mrs. Pevensey’s maiden sister,—who goes among the young people by the name of Aunt Catherine,—packed up bag and baggage, got a passport and bills of exchange, and started off with a courier for the scene of affliction. What a comfort she will be to them all! Many would have shilly-shallied, and written to ask whether they were wanted, and looked about for an escort, and awaited a quiet sea for crossing, and nobody knows what, till the real day of need had passed. That is not Aunt Catherine’s way. “What thou doest, do quickly,”has, throughout her life, been to her a precept of Divine obligation. She does not do things hurriedly—all in a scramble, so as to be twitted with “most haste, worse speed,” by people less energetic than herself; but she does themat once; consequently, she does them efficiently; while her ardour, uncooled, supports her through the undertaking, and makes her insensible of half the difficulty. I always regard this as a very fine element in her character. Aunt Kate does not look twice at a pill before she takes it; nor lose the post for want of finishing a letter in good time; nor send a cheque to be cashed at the county-bank after office-hours. She is never likely to be short of postage-stamps, or of money for current expenses, or to leave small debts unpaid, or small obligations uncancelled, and then to content herself with saying, “Oh, I forgot that!” There is no one on whom I should more surely rely for knowing, in a common-sense, unprofessional way, not only what remedy to take for any illness, or what measures to resort to in case of a burn, scald, or fractured limb, but what antidote toadminister for any poison accidentally taken—whether hot brandy-and-water for prussic acid, milk for vitriol, or an emetic for opium, followed by draughts of vinegar and water—thus preparing the way for the doctor she had lost no time in summoning, but who might not be able instantly to answer her summons.
Such a maiden sister as this in a large family household is invaluable. Nor does Miss Pevensey deteriorate the price set on her sterling qualities by acerbity, or bluff or snappish manners. On the contrary, she is cordial and easily contented—always ready to take, without saying anything to anybody, the least-envied seat in a carriage, or at table, or in church, willing to sleep in the room with the chimney that smokes, and to have the windows open or the doors shut, to suit her companions; though, of course, she has her preferences. And all this without the least servility—which, indeed, would be strangely purposeless, for she is in independent circumstances.
She is a small, thin woman, not in the least pretty; but excessively neat in her apparel,and quite the gentlewoman; with a cheerful, sprightly manner, so that most people like her. She is not single because no one ever asked her to marry. She has grey eyes, an aquiline nose, thin lips, and wavy brown hair, banded under an airy little cap. You would seldom wish to have a dress off the same piece with her cheap, thin silks; but they are always fresh, and well made, and you see directly that they suit her exactly, and that what you are wearing would not suit her at all. I have not seen much of her, but what I have seen, I have liked.
Harry’s letter was capital. He had been with the Whitgraves to Hampton Court, and after seeing the pictures, the maze, &c., they had dined on the grass in Bushy Park. It had freshened him up for a week. And Mr. Whitgrave had gone with him to the National Gallery, and told him what to admire,and why. And Mrs. and Miss Welsh had accompanied him to the British Museum, where they had spent a whole afternoon over the Assyrian Marbles.
“Only think,” he wrote, “of our looking at the very Bel and Nebo mentioned in the prophecies of Isaiah! ‘Bel boweth down, Nebo stoopeth,’ &c.,[5]—which theydid, when they were taken from their pedestals by the victorious enemy. Do you know, that when Babylon was taken by the Persians, these two images were carried before the conquerors? Only think of their finding their way to the British Museum! There is old Nebo, with folded hands, and with an inscription on the hem of his garment, telling us (now we can read the cuneiform letters) that he was carved and erected by a sculptor of Nimroud, in the days of Semiramis, Queen of Assyria. As I gazed on it, I could not help thinking, ‘Truly,thisis poetry, and history too!’ It now turns out that the famous Semiramis was not the wife of Ninus, but of King Pul, mentioned in the Old Testament; and that she did not live, as has been commonly supposed, two thousand years before the Christian era, but only eight hundred:which brings the date within a hundred years of that given by Herodotus, so long called ‘the father of lies,’ by people who would not, or could not, examine for themselves, but whose veracity is being more and more established every day by the researches of the learned. Of course, as a good deal of his information was picked up from hearsay, he was liable to occasional errors, like other people; but he seems to have been a careful, painstaking man, who went from place to place to collect information on the spot wherever he could; which was certainly a good deal more creditable way of gathering materials for a history, than that of many modern writers, who merely collect a few books around them in their study, and write out, day by day, what has been written in pretty nearly the same words many times before.”
I thought this passage of Harry’s letter to Emily (who had inclosed it to Margaret) so interesting, that I asked and obtained permission to copy it. How good a thing it is when brothers and sisters write in this free, communicativeway to one another! not merely pouring out their feelings, but taking the trouble to express thoughts, and thereby brightening and polishing the best properties of their minds by collision. The present Dean of Carlisle says, that he has known young men at college wholly restrained from vice, simply by the hallowed and blessed influence of their sisters.[6]
Arbell has again been heard from. Aunt Catherine had safely arrived, and they were all so glad to see her! Also an eminent English surgeon, who had been telegraphed for, and who accidentally, or rather providentially, crossed in the same steamer, and, seeing the name of “Miss Pevensey” on her carpet-bag, immediately introduced himself to her, and took care of her all the rest of the way. This was an immense advantage to Miss Pevensey, who speaks very indifferent French, and who, without a courier,could not have got on at all: besides, he prevented her thoughts from dwelling on one painful subject all the way, and told her several instances of remarkable recoveries, which greatly cheered her. He, on his part, was glad to get some idea of what sort of people they were who had sent for him, and became interested in Miss Pevensey’s account of her sister-in-law’s character and responsibilities. When they arrived at thepasteur’s, Arbell said she was so glad to see her aunt, that she could not help the tears running down her face. Sir Benjamin pronounced dear mamma to be going on quite favourably; indeed, he thought her progress, as far as it went, almost miraculous; and said it showed that mountain-practice was not altogether to be despised. They were going to begin their homeward journey by very easy stages, as soon as an invalid litter could be constructed according to Sir Benjamin’s directions, which would shake dear mamma as little as possible. They could not think how they could ever be sufficiently grateful for M. Peyranet’s goodness—the only way in whichpapa thought he could show a sense of it was, by giving largely to his poor.
The harriers and stag-hounds are out this fine November morning; and I see hunters in green coats and red winding down the steep chalky sides of the hill; while men, boys, dogs, and cattle all seem animated by the spirit of the chase—the cows and horses galloping round the meadows in search of some outlet from their confinement. Certainly, the distant horn does sound enlivening. For the poor hare there is no hope of mercy; but the stag has been so often turned out, that I hardly think he can believe himself in much danger. There he goes! I was cockney enough to mistake him at first for a donkey! How gracefully he cleared the gate! Off he goes, at a rocking-horse sort of pace. He will give them a good run yet.
The trees are now as many-hued as Joseph’s coat of divers colours—orange, golden, lemoncolour, every shade of green, brown, and mulberry, some cherry red; but few trees, except the walnuts, are quite leafless. The pigs, with eager snouts, are grubbing for acorns around the oaks,—off they trot, except one, to a new locality; he is too busy to note them, till suddenly looking up, it seems to strike him, “Canthey be doing better than I am?” and off he posts for his share of the spoils.
How much one may see from a window! I can descry long wavy sheets of gossamer, glittering with dew, shimmering in the air—the most exquisite texture conceivable, fit for the wedding-veil of the fairy-queen! The walnut-trees have been threshed; the wild-geese have flown home; the swallows flew off on the 21st of September. Many garden-flowers yet linger; but wild-flowers are reduced to a pitiful array, chiefly comprising daisies, yarrow, ragwort, and furze. Bright days are becoming fewer and fewer; but we had a fine Fifth of November, and I saw a rustic Guy Fawkes set down in the middle of the road by a party of merry lads, that they might scrambleover a gate and race after a squirrel. The skylark and thrush have not yet quite forsaken us, but our principal songster is the robin, who pipes away most merrily.
In one of Mary Russell Mitford’s fairy-like notes to me, written within three weeks of her death, she says, “I am sometimes wheeled from my fire-side to the window; and, about a month ago, a red-breast came to that window and tapped. Of course, we answered the appeal by fixing a little tray outside the window-sill, and keeping it well supplied with bread crumbs; and now he not only comes himself, but has introduced his kinsfolk and friends. Think how great a pleasure!”
No news of the Pevenseys’ return; but they must be slowly nearing home, unless any fresh causes of delay have occurred. Winter is stealing imperceptibly upon us; November has slipped away, and December has arrived, almost without the change being felt.
We speak of the merry month of May, and why not of the merry month of December? Well, there is an answer to that question; but, before I give it, I will consider what may be said on the bright side. True it is, that many of nature’s processes are now veiled from human sight; but not less true is it that they are secretly progressing. The seed-corn is garnered in the earth; the earth itself in many spots is sweetening; the leafless trees are preparing to burst into verdure next spring; and, had we power to observe what is going on in their secret vessels, how much should we find to delight and surprise us! what multitudes of contrivances of which we have no knowledge, and even too delicate and complex to be comprehended! Meanwhile, many of the trees, when unlopped, have forms so beautiful as to present a delicate tracery, reminding one of black lace (though that is a miserable comparison), when seen in the distance against the clear, grey sky. There is little to do in the field; but the flail resounds noisily within the barn; and the horses and cattle enjoy the comfortable warmthof the straw-yard. Then, within-doors, how snug and sociable is the fire-side! How the solitary enjoy the book, and the domestic party the long talks they had no leisure for in the summer! Christmas is coming; and is not that season proverbially merry, save where there is some sad domestic bereavement or affliction? How gay the shops are! with winter fabrics, and warm furs, and brilliant ribbons; with jolly sirloins, plump poultry, heaps of golden oranges, rosy apples, and all kinds of winter fruit! How gladly we think that the young folks will soon come home for the holidays! “I call to mind,” says the genial Southey,