Chapter IV: Part 4

“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 a _dry_ note 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 state _four years_, preys not only on the roots of grass, but of corn; and will so 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 in _that_ now?” “Yes,” said he, rousing up, “I dare say God has some good purpose 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. This _noteworthy note_ was written on a sheet nearly the size of a _Times_ Supplement, 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! Mamma thought 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’s _ménage_?”

“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 on our 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 a _motive_, 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 she looks too womanly, and probably knows already more than she does herself. But I, who know what is _in_ Emily, have no fears on that score; only, to be sure, she does look—and _is_—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 it _was_ a 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 the stipends 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:—

“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 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 of _understanding_ what others _fear_, 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—their polished 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.”

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, “I _have_ found something indeed! Here is a substance which has been lately discovered in Saxony, and has not been recognised elsewhere till now!” It was the _chiastolite_.

* * * * *

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 be _trained_ to 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 by pleasing 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 cross and 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 never thought 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 the _County 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 strengthen ME, 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?’”

“I’m sure I’ve not the least objection to trying—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 for _me_ to 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!—murder _will out_. I know you write. 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 of _materiel_ for 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!”

“Whoever _they_ may 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 against _female_ assistants 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 you _could_, if you _would_. Dear me! how time runs away, to be sure! I must run off this moment; but one takes no count of time in _your_ presence, 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 of _setting_ people down, as the saying 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—‘My _dear_,’ 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 piú_ is 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 people _are_ the 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 shall _never_ get 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 you won’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 they _are_,” 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 a _morçeau_ I received this morning. I think I might _defy_ you 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 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 with me, 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!”

* * * * *

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, and _not_ for 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 his ten 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 exquisite _fanatico 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 or two 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, he struck off about a thousand lines—the now well-known passage, beginning,—

“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 a delicate 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 embedded in 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 the _Mer de Glace_, had fallen through a _crevasse_, 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 Swiss _pasteur_.

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 their poles 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 nearest _châlet_, where there was a very kind _bergere_, 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 famous mountain 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-looking _pasteur_ (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 the _pasteur’s_ house, 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 the _pasteur_, 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 impression that 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 the _pasteur’s_ medicine-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 the _pasteur_, who came in, and knelt down, and offered, oh! such a heavenly prayer! Even Kent, who understood not one word of it, said the very _tone_ was 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 it in 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 rather _brusque_. 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 she had 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; the _pasteur_ was 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 a _moderately_ religious family; but without much devotional feeling apparent among them. Mrs. Pevensey was a churchwoman; her husband had been 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]