Front matter (continued 2)

“As well be out of the world as out of the fashion,” said our amusing friend Captain Pinkney; and, accordingly, I sent this morning for little Miss Campanelle, to hold counsel with her about a new bonnet. Mrs. Pevensey took me by surprise, and therefore made allowances; but she will not take me by surprise next time, and therefore I must not expect her to make allowances again. We owe it to our richer friends not to neglect appearances consistent with our means; on the other hand, the rich do us more harm than they perhaps are aware of, when they avow a contempt for such moderate efforts to keep pace with the times as we ought not to exceed.

My bonnet was decidedly behind the times.

“Dear me, ma’am,” said Miss Campanelle, primming up her little rosebud mouth, which showed a strong inclination to expand into a laugh, “there is enough in this bonnet for two. Only, the shape is so completely out of date, that it won’t bear altering: otherwise the materials are quite fresh.”

“They may well be,” said I, “for they were nearly new when I put them away two years ago. However, I mean to have a new bonnet; and I dare say I shall find some one who will be glad to have this.”

“Dear me, yes, ma’am; it will be quite a nice present,” said Miss Campanelle, hastily. “There are many people who would be glad to modernize it for themselves.”

Then, thought I to myself, why could not you modernize it for me? Perhaps she read my thought in my face, for she added—

“There are some people who do not at all mind style, if they are but respectable. Now, respectability depends upon the material; but style on the making it up. And it’s style that shows the lady.”

“Yes,” said I; “one style shows the old lady, and one the young lady; one the fashionable lady, and one the lady who does not care for the fashion. It does not seem to me so very many years ago since bonnets were worn so large that it was considered a very severe, but not extravagant, remark, when some one said of another,

“Ah,” said Miss Campanelle, “that must have been before my time.” And, as she still seemed inclined to ruminate on the future of my bonnet, I nearly committed the unpardonable folly of asking her whether she could make any use of it herself. Instead of which, I very fortunately began by asking her whether she knew of any one who would be glad of it.

“Why, since you are kind enough to ask me, ma’am,” said she, quickly, “I do happen to know of some one for whom it would be the very thing. Some one very respectable, and very poorly off,—a widow, but no longer wearing widow’s mourning; only black, ma’am, like you,—who seems quite overlooked, because she’s below the genteel, and yet no one can class her among the poor—her manners are above that; but yet I do assure you, she often dines on bread-and-butter.”

It appeared she was the widow of a pianoforte-tuner, who lodged with Miss Campanelle; and as I feared it might hurt her to receive the bonnet from myself, I gave it to Miss Campanelle to give it in her own person to her, which she was quite pleased to do. And she went away with the Illustrated News and some black-currant jam for herself.

The funeral is over. The house is re-opened, and the little mourners go about the streets; while their widowed mother must do many things besides sit at home and weep, for she has to provide for their future and her own. Mr. John Prout is going to take James, and get Edward into Christ’s Hospital. How strange the little flaxen-headed fellow will look in his blue gown and yellow stockings! I hope his round cheeks will not lose their fresh, rosy colour in London. The subscription will enable Mrs. Prout to article Harry, and leave her something over. How much better than spending it on a silver cup or vase, for which she would have no use! She hopes some one will buy the good-will of her husband’s business, and take the house, and perhaps furniture, off her hands; otherwise there must be a sale. At any rate, she must find cheaper quarters. Mr. John Prout proposed her going to live cheaply in Yorkshire, with little Arthur and Alice, while the two elder girls went into situations; but she naturally shrank from going so far from them. Mr. Prout insured his life for a small sum, so that she is not utterly destitute. I understand there is a pretty little row of houses called Constantine Place, newly built at the other end of the town, and that one is still vacant, and thought to be just the size that will now suit Mrs. Prout.

Well—I have been to church once more!—on a week-day, not on a Sunday; but I am deeply thankful for it. I went slowly crawling along in the donkey-chair, the wheels of which would have creaked less had they received a not very expensive greasing with a little dripping. The ride shook me a good deal, and the boy kept worrying the donkey with a little stick that did no good, and only made it obstinate. They who would quicken a donkey’s paces must observe the law of judicious kindness. I felt rather bewildered and scant of breath when I was in church: there were not a dozen persons in it, and the few voices sounded faint and hollow. I was hardly capable of more than a general emotion of thankfulness; but the service was very short; and by waiting till every one else had left the church, I escaped salutations.

——Miss Burt has just looked in.

“I saw you!” said she. “You need not think to creep into any corner where I shall not spy you out! Well, I congratulate you with all my heart; and I hope that now you have once begun, you will keep it up. Nothing worth doing, is to be done without a little effort; and if I were never to go out but when I felt inclined, I might stay at home all my life. Of course you saw the memorial window?”

“No, I did not look about—”

“Not see the window! Why, it was immediately in front of you! You could not have helped seeing it!”

“Then of course I did see it; but I did not observe it.”

“My mother taught me at a very early age,” said Miss Burt dryly, “to observe everything. So that now I never go into a church, or room, or pantry, without seeing everything in it at a glance—and remembering it too. It is a faculty that may be acquired: and therefore should be. This was the way in which Robert Houdin taught his son to exhibit what passed for second-sight. He used to take the child up to a shop-window—the next minute take him away. ‘Now, Robert, what did you see?’—‘Two work-baskets, ten penwipers, six whizzgigs.’—‘No, you didn’t.’—‘Yes, I did.’—They go back again. The child proves right. The boy, by cultivating the faculty, had become quicker than his father. He took in at a glance the whole contents of a shop. And applied this habit so dextrously before a crowded audience, that things which they did not believe he saw, or had seen, he described accurately. The consequence was, that his father realized immense profits.”

She paused to take breath.

“I think, however,” said I, “that there are times when such a faculty may be supposed to lie dormant.”

“No, never. It becomes intuition.”

“I think there are times when feeling takes the place of observation.”

“Oh, if you’re getting metaphysical, I’ve done with you! Never would dabble in metaphysics! When people begin to talk of their feelings—”

“I was not going to talk of my feelings,” said I, with a tear in my eye.

“Fine feeling and I shook hands long ago,” said Miss Burt, rapidly. “Deep feeling is quite another thing; and does not betray itself in words. Deep feeling leads to action—fine feeling to inaction; deep feeling is excited for others—fine feeling thinks of itself; deep feeling says,

fine feeling is ready to lie down and die; deep feeling is a fine, manly fellow—fine feeling is a poor, puling creature.”

“Very good,” said I, hardly knowing whether to laugh or cry; for it really was clever, only I knew it was all meant for a hit at myself.

“Very good, only you won’t let it do you good, hey?” said Miss Burt. “‘Excellent soup for the poor.’ You think the cap would fit Mrs. A. or Mrs. B. very well.”

“No, I was not thinking of Mrs. A., B., or C.”

“You were not, were you, Mrs. C.?” laughing. “No; that’s just what I thought.

does little good that I know of. My plan always is to take a thing home.”

“But, my dear Miss Burt, I laid no claim to deep feeling, that I can remember; and surely you have hardly cause to charge me so very plainly with fine feeling.”

“Now don’t get warm! There’s nothing that hurts me so much as to see anything I have meant kindly, taken quite amiss. Do keep your temper. I assure you I came into this house prepared for nothing but kind words.”

“And I am sure I have spoken no unkind ones,” said I, the tears rolling down my cheeks.

“Now you’ve upset yourself. This church-going has been too much for you. Why didn’t you lie down the minute you came in?”

“I was going to do so, but——”

“Why didn’t you lie down? You should have lain down directly. Phillis should have made you do so, and then have brought you a glass of jelly, or a little good broth. Phillis was to blame for not having it all ready for you against your return, without your knowing anything about it. I shall speak to her.”

“Oh, pray don’t! Phillis’s place is to obey orders, and not to prepare surprises. Surely I can direct her what I shall like her to prepare, myself.”

“You are now making a matter of temper of it. I shall say not a word. I am quite calm, but I feel I’d better go. If anything does make me feel irritable, it is to see.... Well, well, I will look in another time, when I hope we shall be in better tune. I’m sure I had not an idea!—Good-by; good-by!”

As soon as I heard the little gate slam, I had a hearty cry. Mr. Cheerlove used to speak of people making a storm in a saucer, and surely this had been one, if ever there was such a thing.

On first coming in, my intention had been to lie down and rest quietly till Phillis brought me a little arrow-root; but I had scarcely untied my bonnet-strings when Miss Burt came in. Had I had time to recover myself, I should not have been so weak as to let her upset me; but, as the matter stood, she had done so completely, and I felt utterly unable to resist shedding tears.

“Don’t come in, Phillis,” said I, hastily, as she opened the door; for I thought I should have some observations, silent ones at any rate, on my red eyes.

“Here’s Mr. Sidney,” said Phillis.

I looked up, quite ashamed. Kind Mr. Sidney it was, who had, like Miss Burt, seen me in church, but who had come to congratulate me in a very different manner.

“I am afraid you have done rather too much this morning,” said he, very kindly. “I am not at all surprised to see you rather overcome. It is a good way from this house to the church; and I dare say the donkey-chair shook you a good deal. I wish there were an easier one to be had. My aunt uses it sometimes, and says it shakes her to pieces. Well, but my dear Mrs. Cheerlove, this is a great step gained. I am sure we all have great reason to be thankful that it has pleased the Lord to restore you to us. You have a great deal of ground yet to gain, I can readily believe, before you are quite one of us; but still, every step in advance is a mercy.”

He appeared not to notice my tears, and, though they still forced their way, they had lost their bitterness.

“I went home,” continued he, “and said to my wife, ‘Mrs. Cheerlove was in church this morning; I shall step down and wish her joy:’ and I put this little book in my pocket to read you a few lines, which I thought you would enter into. What I like myself, I can’t help expecting others to like;—others, I mean, in whom exists some similarity of taste and feeling. You know I have known what it is to be brought very close to an unseen world, and to have been raised up again quite contrary to all expectation; and, therefore, I can sympathise very truly with you.”

“You had so many things to make life dear,” said I, dejectedly, “and so many depending on you in your family and parish, that your death would have been a very heavy misfortune; but I have not one near tie left! My work, which was never very important, seems done; and I am, in fact, little more now than a cumberer of the ground. I therefore cannot feel quite as thankful perhaps, for recovery as I ought.”

“That proceeds,” replied he, quietly, “from rather a morbid state of feeling, which is not at all natural to you, and which will in a great measure pass off with your present exhaustion. But nevertheless, I can quite understand that a Christian believer, brought very close to the threshold of God’s kingdom,—so as almost to hear the voices on the other side the door, and very sincerely desirous to enter His awful presence, under the assured protection of the Redeemer,—may feel a kind of disappointment at being sent back again into this wilderness-world—just as the Israelites were when they were on the very confines of the promised land. But all we have to do in such case is to submit, and to trust; and I think this little hymn very experimentally teaches us our duty.” Then, in a very feeling, calming voice, he read:—

Do you like it?”

“Oh yes! very much.”

“Carry shall copy it for you then. This little volume is my vade mecum. You may always find my Bible in my right pocket, and this in my left. It is rather too dear for the poor, which I regret; but its circulation is already very extensive.”

I found that it was the “Invalid’s Hymn-book,” and that my favourite Sabbath hymn, which I had erroneously attributed to Hugh White, was, as well as this, by Miss Elliott.

“Will you let me offer you a glass of wine?” said I.

“Thank you, I shall like a glass of wine-and-water and a biscuit very much, if you will have the same.”

“I will, then.”

I believe it was partly on my account he had it. As we partook of our refreshment, he spoke so pleasantly and interestingly, that I was completely lured away from all my sad thoughts; and, after offering up a short, fervent prayer, which was full of tempered thanksgiving for life, and faith in the life to come, he left me quite composed and cheerful. And here have I been living the happy half-hour over again.

I must just note down something else that he said to me.

“I sometimes hear people,” said he, “deplore their living in vain. No one lives in vain who does or bears the will of God. Where there is little or nothing to perform, there may be something to endure. A baby can do nothing, and is only the object of solicitude to others, but I suppose no one with any sense or feeling will say that babies live in vain. Even if they answer no other purpose, they are highly useful in creating sympathy, watchfulness, and unselfishness in others. A paralyzed person, a person shut up in a dark cell, may, by patient endurance, eminently glorify God. And, as long as He thinks it worth while we should live, we may always find it worth while to fulfil the purposes of living in things however small. Only the bad, the slothful, the selfish, live in vain. We may have our good and evil tempers without speaking a word. We may nourish holy or unholy wishes, contented or discontented dispositions, without stirring from our place. ‘Since trifles make the sum of human things,’ even a bit of liquorice given to a servant-girl with an irritable throat, going out in a cutting wind, shall not be in vain.

“No one can say, my dear Mrs. Cheerlove, that that good and great man, Sir Isambard Brunel, lived in vain. Towards the close of his life, however, days of weakness and helplessness supervened, when he was drawn about his son’s garden in a Bath chair, on sunshiny mornings. Well, Lady Brunel told me that on those occasions he would often bid them bring him one of his favourite blue and white minor convolvuluses, and he would then examine it with his magnifying glass, till he espied the minute black insect which he was sure to find in it, soon or late. ‘See here,’ he would exclaim, ‘this little creature is so small as scarcely to be discernible, and yet the Almighty has thought it worth while to give it every function requisite for life and happiness.’ He did not think it lived in vain.”

Harry has had tea with me for the last time, though he does not go to London till the day after to-morrow. We have promised to correspond, which, I saw, pleased him; for, poor boy, he feels very homesick, now that he is actually going, and will be glad of any little glimpse of his family that I can give. I said, “How is it that you, who thought anything better than your monotonous life, are now sorry to leave home?”

“Ah! what can be more monotonous than a solitary lodging will be!” cried Harry.

“But the romping of noisy children—the crying baby—”

“Don’t name them, please! I see now, they are not worthy to be named.”

—“Are destructive of the repose needful for literary composition,” said I, rather mischievously. “Then, Margaret’s daily practising—the surgery bell—”

“Will be sounds by distance made more sweet,” interrupted he. “Pray, Mrs. Cheerlove, have you ever taken the trouble to—ever found leisure to—dip into the little manuscript volume of poems I placed in your hands before our unhappy loss?”

Instead of giving him a straightforward answer, I opened a small book beside me, and read:—

“Oh horrible, horrible!” cried Harry. “So then you think my verses poor and unreal? Not fire enough? or what—what is it?”

“Pause, and hear me,” continued I, reading on:—

“Did it?—did it?” cried he.

“Well, in some degree it did. I read them by daylight, when I confess I thought your time might have been better spent in almost any harmless thing than in writing them. After tea I remembered how many of my own young attempts, of one sort and another, had demanded far more indulgence. So then I read them again, and not only liked them better, but liked some of them very well—very much. I do not think, however, that your verses will sell. Here, now, is a stanza you must explain to me:—

Now, what did you mean by that?”

“That I shall never divulge,” said Harry, folding his arms.

“Oh, very well, then. If you only half confide to me and to the public a secret that is never to be divulged, we may as well know nothing about it.”

“There is a very solemn meaning underneath,” said he, gravely.

“There may be,” said I, after pondering over it a little. And a vision floated before me of poor orphaned Harry crying himself almost to sleep, and then suddenly becoming aware that his mother was bending over him with looks of love. “The next verse,” said I, “I tell you frankly, Harry, I like very much:—

Yes, Harry, that is very sweet—very nicely thought and worded. Go on amusing yourself, my dear boy, at leisure moments, only don’t let it interfere with the real business of life. Sir Walter Scott said, ‘Literature was a good stick, but a bad staff.’ Remember that our four greatest poets, Chaucer, Shakspere, Spenser, and Milton, were all practical men; and would never have written in their masterly way if they had been otherwise. And don’t get into the way, Harry, of writing far into the night; it robs the morrow—nay, it robs many morrows. There are young men who like the reputation of being great readers, writers, and thinkers, who boast of keeping themselves awake to study by drinking strong coffee, tying wet towels round their heads, and other silly things. In the first place, I do not quite believe them; in the second, I always feel a little contempt for boasters: and even supposing they neither boast nor exaggerate, they burn the candle at both ends, and it wastes all the faster. Rise as early as you will, it does no harm to the health nor the head; but remember Sir Walter Scott. As long as he rose at five, lighted his own fire, and wrote before breakfast, he could devote the chief part of the day to his other affairs, and the whole evening to relaxation in his family. As long as he did that, all went well with him. But when, with a laudable desire to pay off debts,—which, after all, he could not pay,—he wrote, hour after hour, all day long, and by gas-light, nearly all night too, human nature could not stand it; his mind, already overwrought by heavy afflictions and perplexing difficulties, gave way under the too great pressure he put upon it in its state of extreme tension. The consequence was, his powers of usefulness ceased—his magician’s wand was broken!”

“Poor man!” said Harry, after a little pause. “No, I’ll never overdo myself like that; and yet, Mrs. Cheerlove, there’s something grand, too, in dying at one’s post.”

“Very grand and very glorious in many cases; only, if you exhaust yourself at the beginning of the race, you won’t reach the goal, or win the prize, which otherwise you might have reasonable hopes of. And, to be useful, you must not despise commonly prudent precautions. By the way, would you like an admission to the reading-room in the British Museum?”

“Oh, very much! You know I shall be quite near it.”

“Well, I think I can get you one. Perhaps you would like to know a nice old lady and her daughter, who live in a quiet street hard by?”

“Dear me, yes—exceedingly! You know, I don’t know a soul.”

“Their name is Welsh. They are not smart people, but the mother is very kind, and the daughter, who is some years older than yourself, intelligent and intellectual. If you like one another (which I see no reason to doubt), I think your dropping in on them now and then, just as you drop in here, to tea, would be taken kindly.”

“I am sure it would be a kindness to myself,” said Harry, brightening. And he took down their address in a little pocket-book, that his sister Emily had given him as a keep-sake; and I promised to write to Mrs. Welsh, and prepare her to expect him.

“I know a clever artist, too,” said I; “a sensible, friendly man, with a nice little wife. They, also, are quiet people; but yet they sometimes receive, beneath their unassuming roof, noteworthy persons, whom one would like to have a glimpse of.”

“Why, Mrs. Cheerlove, that promises still better than the other! Will you write to them too?”

“I will, Harry. And now I believe you know the extent of what little I can do for you.”

“I call it much, not little,” said he, gratefully; and the rest of our conversation was very cheerful.

I have had a small tea-party, of very small people—their ages ranging from five to twelve. Two Hopes, two Bretts, and three Honeys. I took Mary Brett into my confidence, and gave her half-a-crown to lay out to the best advantage for the tea-table; and it was astonishing to see the variety of little paper bags she brought back. This having been her treat, Louisa Hope’s was that of being tea-maker, in which she acquitted herself admirably. All talked at once; and, as I had expected as much, I was very glad no grown-up person was present to compel a check to it, for it was not of the smallest annoyance to myself.

After tea, I proposed that Mary Brett should be blindfolded, and put in the corner, while Phillis cleared the table, and then, still blindfolded, come forth and tell us a fable of her own making. The idea was applauded; and the fable was a very fair one, to this effect:—

“A cuckoo, observing a thrush busy making her nest, contemptuously remarked—‘It is easy enough to stick a few bits of wool and straw together in that way.’—‘It may be very easy for you to say so,’ replied the thrush, after dropping a dead leaf from her beak, ‘but if you were industrious enough to try yourself, instead of using other people’s nests, you would find the difference.’

“‘Moral.—People who have never made a book, a fable, or shirt, or anything, don’t know how hard it is till they have tried.’”

Helen Brett, fired with the desire of emulation, immediately declared she would make the next; but I made them all file in silence round Mary, who, touched by each in turn, said—“Not you,”—“Not you,”—“Not you;” and at length—“You shall be the next,” catching little Gertrude by the wrist.

Gertrude’s effusion was about as witless as might have been expected. “A bear—no, a tiger,—no, a bear met a lion one day, and said—‘What are you going to have for dinner?’ The lion said—the lion said—O dear, I don’t know what he said!”

This produced shouts of derisive laughter, and Gertrude was doomed to forfeit. Then the others took their turns, with various success; after which, the forfeits were cried. Then we had “The Knight of the Whistle.” I produced a penny whistle, and, blowing a pretty shrill blast, put Willy Hope in the middle of the room, and told him he was to find out who blew the whistle. The children ran round him, blowing the whistle, he running sometimes after one, sometimes after another, never able to find it;—for a very good reason, because very early in the game, it had been pinned by a long string to the back of his own little tunic.

Then I reclaimed the whistle, and again blowing a loud blast, said to Willy, “See if you can do like that;” but dropped it on the carpet, and affecting to pick it up, produced another, which, the moment he blew it with all his might, sprinkled his face all over with flour.

Of course, these tricks did not bear being repeated. Moreover, I could perceive Louisa Hope was thinking—“All this may not be too childish for you, but it is for me.” So I said—“Now then, Louisa, write something on a piece of paper, and take care I do not see what you write.” She looked surprised, but immediately complied. “Fold it up very small,” said I. “Hold it to the right,—what are you afraid of? Stretch your arm straight out, it won’t hurt you! Now to the left. Now towards the ceiling. Now towards the floor. Now put it on the floor, and place on it a candlestick, a box, or anything that will completely cover it.” All this took up some time; and she became a little excited, while the younger ones were intensely interested.

“Nay,” said I, “stand upon it, so as completely to cover it. I will tell you what is on the paper all the same.”

“What?” said she, with her eyes very wide open. After a moment’s silence, I coolly said, “You are upon it.” On which ensued shouts of laughter from the little ones; while she, springing away from the paper, cried—“Is that all?” but could not help laughing too.

I had one more trick for her in store. I took six pieces of paper, placed three of them on the back of my hand, and then, as a preliminary, blew them away with an air of great mystery—informing my audience, at the same time, that they were going to see something they did not expect. Then, placing the other three pieces in my hand, I said—

“Which of these three pieces do you desire shall remain on my hand, when I blow on them?” The children drew round. Louisa looked keenly at me, and then, with decision, selected her piece. I immediately placed my forefinger on it, and blew the others away; while the children laughed and clapped their hands; and Louisa exclaimed, with anger at herself for having been deceived into expecting anything better—“Oh, Mrs. Cheerlove, anybody could do that!”

Sponge-cakes and roast apples concluded the evening.

Two dozen rosy little country children and more came to my door this morning, with their little nosegays of cowslips, primroses, blue-bells, and cuckoo-flowers, tied at the top of small peeled wands, chanting their artless rhyme of

which Mr. Sidney thinks a variation from

However that may be, who can refrain from giving halfpence and biscuits to the pretty little rogues? The white-headed milkman is carrying quite a beau-pot of garden and hothouse flowers, on the inverted lid of his milk-pail, from house to house, this afternoon, hoping for a sixpence or shilling here and there, which may meetly be granted to his grey hairs and laborious life. For, in hot afternoons, along the shadeless road, and long before dawn, on inhospitable winter mornings, in face of hail, snow, rain, or ice, this old man punctually fulfils his vocation, which none should heedlessly call light. He is one of our country worthies. Another is the postman, who brings our letters at six in the morning, and calls for those we wish to post at seven in the evening; a stalwart, Robinson Crusoe-like looking man, with cheery voice and intrepid mien, who wears a brigand-like high-crowned hat, enormously thick boots, and a leathern belt, and padlocked bag. I know his swift, steady tramp from afar, and like to hear his blithe “good-night” to Phillis.

This man’s name is Love. Phillis did not know him or his name when she first came here, and finding such a formidable-looking personage at the door about dusk, asked him somewhat bluntly—“Who are you?”—“Love,” said he, with equal curtness. “Nonsense!” said Phillis. On which he burst out laughing, and assured her it was his true-born surname, and that he had no other, except that which was given him by his godfathers and godmothers. Whereupon Phillis, as she averred afterwards, was ready to bite her tongue off for speaking such a foolish word, and for a long time she hated to answer the door to him; but gradually they have become cronies (I believe he is equally civil to all the servants along the road), and she even sometimes asks after his wife.

Emily Prout came to me this morning, all smiles, to show me Harry’s first letter. I could not help observing how much older she looked in mourning; sorrow and fore-thought have laid their fingers on her young brow; while her manners are remarkably lady-like and self-possessed. Harry, after warm-hearted inquiries for all at home, went on to say that his first lodging was horrid—its evils were beyond description. However, in the course of a few days, he had called on Mrs. and Miss Welsh, who, to his surprise, had received him as kindly as if he had been the son of an old friend. It was very encouraging. And they had invited him to tea that very evening, and everything was as snug and cosy as at dear Mrs. Cheerlove’s; and Mrs. Welsh quite pitied him about his lodging, and said she knew a very much better one, and cheaper, in her own street; and he had already moved into it, and was as comfortable as possible. The few inconveniences that might be named, he would not; they would do him good:

which he meant to do. And Miss Welsh was a delightful companion, and had promised (“to take him” scratched out) he should take her to the National Gallery, British Museum, and all the gratis sights, little by little, till he had seen them all. And he was always to go to church with them, morning and evening (“which you know will save the expense of tipping the pew opener, and be more sociable too.”) And Mr. and Mrs. Whitgrave, also, were very nice people. He had found an Italian patriot there, who spoke of unhappy Orsini; and had known that glorious Garibaldi, and related how Madame Garibaldi swam across a river, holding on by her horse’s tail. And he did not mind the office life at all; he had so many pleasant things to think of. James and Ned and he should see one another sometimes. James had a tail coat, and did not look bad.

Poor, good, brave boy! For there was bravery in thus meeting insurmountable evils in a great, untried world. I loved him for dwelling so on the cheerful side; and a tear started into my eye, when Emily, in her affectionate way, kissed me, and said, “All this, dear Mrs. Cheerlove, is owing to you.”

“Il se répand quelquefois de faux bruits.” And the corollary ought to be, “Do not help to spread them.” Small country towns are proverbially rife with false reports, often to the serious detriment of their subjects, even when the reports themselves are not ill-natured.

I have known so many groundless reports heedlessly spread, that my custom is to say, “Oh! indeed,” and let the matter drop, unless there should be anything of a noxious tendency in it; and then I not only forbear to pass it on, but endeavour to make the reporter admit at least the possibility that it may be untrue or exaggerated. This may sometimes lessen the rapidity and virulence with which it spreads; at any rate, I have been found a non-conductor, and my house “no thoroughfare.” When Mrs. Brett asked me mysteriously if I had heard the dreadful news that Mr. Hope was going out of his mind, I not only replied in the negative, but gave my reasons for supposing it untrue: and so it has proved. Again, when Miss Secker told me that the Holdsworths were such adepts in table-turning, that the tables flew about the room like mad, especially after unbelievers, I plainly told her I must hear it confirmed by more than one credible witness before I could believe it; and some weeks afterwards I had an opportunity of quietly inquiring about it of Mrs. Holdsworth’s aunt, who assured me it was all nonsense, and that a mere Christmas waggery had been distorted into a scandal, greatly to the annoyance of Mr. and Mrs. Holdsworth. That report, too, of old Mrs. Ball’s sudden death, and their holding a glass over her mouth to see if she breathed, actually had not a shadow of foundation, and would never have been traced, had not some one accidentally opened a letter that was intended for somebody else.

This morning, Miss Burt told me what I should be very sorry to hear, were I assured of its truth, although I have no personal acquaintance with the parties. But though Mr. and Mrs. Ringwood may have had some little differences, I cannot think that they will separate. His companionable qualities are such, that they lead him too much into society; and, as the editor of a somewhat influential local paper, he has a certain literary reputation. This may (though it need not) make him less domestic and more dissatisfied with cold mutton at home than one could wish, especially if the cold meat be accompanied with cold looks, and the only tart is a tart reply. Nor is it impossible that Mrs. Ringwood may be a bit of a worry, and revenge herself for lonely evenings by morning confidences of how she is used, and what she has suffered. I think she looks a little querulous and self-conceited. But this report I believe to be idle.

Mrs. Pevensey has again taken me a drive. This time, it was through the town, along the north road, and all round Hutchley Heath, which looked lovely. As we passed Mrs. Prout’s, it was melancholy to see the sale going on:—old stair-carpets hanging out of the windows, shabby-looking chairs and glasses on the door-step and in the hall, with business-like brokers looking at them in a disparaging way. The surgeon, who has purchased the business, has been glad to take the house, but not the furniture; so Mrs. Prout is selling off all she does not want, and removing the rest into No. 2, Constantine Terrace, where everything is so fresh and clean, that Mrs. Pevensey thinks she will find herself far more comfortably situated than in her large, old house.

“Well,” said Mrs. Pevensey, smiling, “we are going to have a great loss in our family. We are going to lose Mademoiselle Foularde!”

“Indeed!” said I.

“Yes; she is going to leave us at Midsummer, and settle in Germany. She is engaged to be married to a Professor Bautte.”

“Professor of what?”

“Gymnastics.—I knew you would smile; but you would ask.”

“Oh, I only smiled because I was surprised. I concluded he was a professor of metaphysics, at least; or something prodigiously learned, that I did not understand.”

“Gymnastics are safer than German metaphysics. The one can but break your neck, the other may turn your head.”

“So you will have to look out again.”

“Yes, but at my leisure. I think of taking all the children to the sea-side for the holidays; and as the younger ones are rather beyond the nurse, and require to be kept a little in order, I have been thinking of offering to take Emily Prout with us, if she would undertake their charge.”

“Dear me! what a very nice thing!”

“You do not think she would object to it, then?”

“Oh no! I am persuaded she would like it exceedingly. She is so very anxious not to be burthensome to her mother! And she is much more womanly than she was. Her manners are so quiet and pleasant, that I feel sure you will like her.”

“Well, it may be that if I found her enough of a governess for Rosaline and Flora, we may make a permanent engagement; but I shall prefer seeing what is in her first, which I can very well do during the holidays. She is very young, I believe.”

“Barely seventeen. Too young for Arbell.”

“Oh, I am not thinking of Arbell. Arbell is getting on very well at present; the chief danger is of her doing too much. She is growing fast, and I shall not be sorry to slacken her lessons a little for some months. If I find I can leave the children quite comfortably with Miss Prout, at Hardsand, Mr. Pevensey and I shall probably take Arbell with us on a tour of some extent. It will open her mind, and give her something to remember with pleasure, all the rest of her life.”

“It will, indeed, be a great treat to her; and it is such an advantage to young people to see new and interesting places with their parents. Is she sorry Mademoiselle is going away?”

“Not sorry; but she behaves to her very pleasantly, and is busy in my room, at every spare moment, working a present for her. Arbell is very clever at her needle.”

“That is a good thing, for every woman ought to be so, whatever her condition. How it beguiled the captivity of Mary Queen of Scots! Queen Caroline, the wife of George II., used to do great quantities of knotting. And think how Marie Antoinette, Madame Elizabeth, and Madame Royale, used to mend their own clothes and those of the poor king, in the tower of the Temple. No doubt it, in some measure, diverted their thoughts from their sad fate. The tranquillizing effect of needle-work is what our impulsive, excitable sex cannot be too grateful for.”

“My mother knew an old Scotch countess,” said Mrs. Pevensey, “who, in her latter days, used often to exclaim, piteously, ‘Oh, that I could sew!’”

After a pause she resumed:—“I have sometimes puzzled myself about the much-vexed question, ‘Should we try to do good in the world at large, before we have done all the good that needs to be done at home?’ There is a great cry got up against Mrs. Jellaby, and other pseudo-representatives of a class whose sympathies are widely engaged; and so much has been said about ‘charity beginning at home, and charity that ends there,’ that one gets rather perplexed. The Bishop of Oxford has, I think, lately settled the question. He said, ‘Our Saviour foresaw and provided against it, by dispersing His disciples far and wide, while yet much remained to be done in Jerusalem.’ Here is a guide, then, for us: we may do all the good we can, far and wide, even though we should be disappointed nearer home, or even in our homes, of doing all the good we wish.”

After this, we fell into a very interesting conversation, which I only hope was as profitable to her as I felt it to be to me. I have been stupid and sluggish of late, but this interchange of thought, feeling, and experience quite roused me.

Christian and Hopeful were approaching the end of their journey when they came to the drowsy land called the Enchanted Ground; and the way they kept themselves awake was, by conversing freely on their past experiences of God’s mercies and providences.

This morning, I have had rather a painful little adventure.

Though the wind was southerly, and the clouds portended rain, yet Phillis was sure it would blow off. In fact, she had set her mind upon certain cleaning, which I believe she preferred doing in my absence; and as I took a hopeful view of the weather, I went to the week-day morning service at church.

On returning, as usual, in the rear of the little congregation, I was slowly drawling along Church Row, and thinking what a pity it was that such good houses should be so falling out of repair, when down came the rain very heavily. I had just passed Mrs. Ringwood’s, and noticed that the parlour-blind wanted mending, and that Mrs. Ringwood, with a baby in her arms, was idly looking over it. I began to spread my shawl more completely over me, and was putting up my umbrella, when some one from behind called, “Mrs. Cheerlove! Mrs. Cheerlove!”

The boy stopped the donkey, and said, “There’s Mrs. Ringwood a calling of you.”

I looked round, and saw her, without her baby, standing on her door-step, with her light curling hair blowing in the wind, while she eagerly looked after me.

“Do come in, ma’am,” cried she, with great good-nature, and colouring as she spoke. “It is raining quite fast! I am sure you ought not to be out in it.”

The boy, at the same moment, took the matter into his own hands, by turning the donkey round, so that I was before her door the next minute.

“I don’t think it will come to much,” said I, bowing and smiling. “I’m extremely obliged to you. Pray don’t come into the rain.”

“Oh, it won’t hurt me,” said she, now at my side, “and it will hurt you. Do come in till it is over.”

It was very good-natured of her. I made no more resistance, but alighted as quickly as my infirmities would permit, and entered the house just as the rain became a violent shower.

I was turning round to speak to the boy, when I saw him drive off, at a good deal quicker pace than he drove me; and Mrs. Ringwood said, laughing, “I told him to come for you when the shower was over; otherwise, the chair would have been quite wet, and unfit for your use.”

So I followed her into the parlour, where she had put the baby down on a sofa, in order that she might run out to me.

“It was very lucky,” said she, “that I was looking over the blind.”

My heart smote me for having called her, even to myself, idle; and I thanked her very gratefully for her kindness. She answered with a smile, and then left me for a moment or two alone with the baby. It was a long while since I had been alone with a baby; I looked at it with interest, and amused myself by making it smile.

A casual glance round the room disappointed my expectations of its comforts and capabilities. It was smaller than I should have supposed it, and inelegantly contrived. No fitting up could have concealed this; but the fitting up was not very good. The carpet was showy and shabby, and did not harmonize with the paper. The room wanted papering and painting; but the window-curtains were conspicuously new, and made the rest of the furniture look still more worn. On the table lay Punch and the Athenæum, and a smart cap in the process of making.

Mrs. Ringwood came back, looking rather discomfited. “Dear me,” said she, “I can’t find my keys—Oh, here they are!” And carrying them off, and her cap at the same time, she presently returned with a glass of wine and a biscuit, saying, “You really must take this.”

In vain I assured her I was a water-drinker; I saw I should hurt her if I declined, and therefore took the glass, and put it to my lips, though I knew it would do me no good.

“I don’t know what I should do without a glass of wine sometimes,” said she. “I hope baby has not been troublesome.”

“O no! What a nice little fellow he is! How old is he?”

So then ensued some baby-talk, which seemed to make us much better acquainted.

“He must be a great resource to you,” said I.

“Well, children are plagues as well as pleasures, sometimes,” said Mrs. Ringwood. “I often think people who have no families have no idea of what mothers go through.”

“That is true enough, I dare say,” said I. “But the maternal instinct is implanted to make us insensible to those troubles—or, at least, indifferent to them.”

“Oh, nobody can be indifferent to them, Mrs. Cheerlove! Duty is duty, and pleasure is pleasure; but they don’t amount to the same thing, for all that.”

This was said with an asperity which seemed to place us miles apart again. The next moment she added, “At least, time was—when I was very young, you know, and fresh married—when I believe I really did think them one and the same thing.” She gave a little laugh, to hide a tear.

“I don’t know how it may be with you,” said I, twining the baby’s little fingers round mine, “but I think in most people’s lives there are times when, all at once, they seem to break down under their burthens, and to need a friendly arm to set them up again.”

“Some have not that friendly arm,” said she, her mouth twitching. “I only wish I had. Oh my goodness, Mrs. Cheerlove!”—suddenly becoming familiar and voluble—“you’ve no idea what a life mine is! These four walls, if they had tongues, could tell strange stories!”

“Ah! what walls could not?” said I, hastening from particulars to generals. “We were not sent into this world to be happy——”

“Well, I think we were,” interrupted she; “and yours must be a strange, gloomy religion if it makes you think otherwise.”

“At any rate, we cannot depend on being happy,” said I, “as long as our happiness is founded on anything in this world.”

“Ah! there I agree with you,” said she, sighing profoundly; “there’s no trusting to anything, or any one, whether servant, friend, or husband—you find them all out at last.”

She fixed her eyes on mine.

“My lot,” said I, “was, I know, a favoured one; but I never found out anything of Mr. Cheerlove, but that he was a great deal better and wiser than myself.”

She raised her eyebrows a little.

“Some think that all men are superior to all women,” said she, rocking the baby to and fro, “but I can’t subscribe to that opinion. I think we have our rights and our feelings as well as our duties; and our rights and our feelings have some little claim to attention. When a man makes invidious remarks—”

“Or a woman either,” said I, laughing a little.

“—Which are felt to be meant for personal application,” pursued she, “one’s spirit rises.”

“Certainly, it is best to speak out,” said I, “or else be silent.”

“Oh, let them speak out! If it’s in them, I’d rather it came out of them. I detest your innuendoes!”

“However,” said I, “we can never make the crooked tree straight. We must take people as we find them.”

“Or leave them!” said she. Then, suddenly pausing, she pressed me, quite in an altered tone, to take a little more wine. “You have scarcely tasted it—perhaps you prefer some other sort.”

“Oh no, thank you. The fact is, I have so long been a water-drinker, that even a little sip makes my mouth feel all on fire.”

“Ah! then that can’t be pleasant, I’m sure,” said she, cordially. “I won’t press you to have any more. I only wish I knew what you would like.”

“I like looking at you and your baby,” said I, smiling.

“Do you think him like me?”

“Yes.”

“Ah! you said that, I fear, to please me. I own I laid myself out for it. But now, tell me, Mrs. Cheerlove, don’t you think that we have pleasing things said rather too often to us before marriage, and too seldom afterwards?”

“Yes, I think that is sometimes the case.”

“Oh, and how it depresses one, not to know if you please!—nay, to be pretty sure you don’t! I’m sure, I could do anything, almost, to give satisfaction—take down a bed, lift a box!—”

“You would be like the French crossing the Alps when the trumpet sounded.”

“Just so; I lose all sense of fatigue and crossness.”

“Can’t you hear a mental trumpet?”

“What?”

“Something within, that shall cheer you along your path.”

“Ah! I fear I can’t.”

And the poor little woman, gushing into grief, told me, the acquaintance of an hour, such a tale of woe, that my tears flowed with hers. She was comforted by my sympathy, and said, clasping her hands—

“Oh that I could see my path clear!”

“I think you will,” said I, though my hope was not very sanguine.

“Sometimes I think I’ll write to mamma. I sit down and write her such long letters, and after all, don’t send them.”

“Excellent!” said I.

She looked surprised.

“Your plan is excellent,” I pursued. “By pouring out your griefs to your dearest and earliest friend, you relieve your own mind; and, by not sending your letter, you give no pain to hers.”

“But it is merely from irresolution,” said she.

“Never mind what it is from. The plan is excellent. Continue to write to her—write often—pour out your whole heart—and then put the letter carefully away till the next day; enjoy the comfort of finding what a strong case you made out—and, having done so, burn it!”

“Are you joking?” said she.

“No, as serious as possible. It is no joking matter.”

“Well, I thought you were too kind to do so. And, dear me! I feel a great deal better for this talk. Things don’t look so dark; and yet they have not in the least altered.”

“Only a different hue is thrown over them. That makes all the difference sometimes;—and answers as well as if the things were altered; as long as we can make the hue last.”

“Only,” said she, beginning to chafe a little, again, “one cannot bear to be put upon.”

“Ah,” said I, gently putting my hand on her arm, “the Christian will even bear to be put upon, be it ever so much, and, for his Master’s sake, bear it patiently; and when he has so far subdued his feelings as to be able so to do, how glorious the triumph, the happiness, and peace that will take possession of his heart!”[3]

“Oh!” said she, after a moment’s deep pause, “what a cordial! How could you say it? What a mind you must have!”

“Not at all,” stammered I, feeling dreadfully stupid and humiliated.

“Could you say it all over again? I have such a poor head, and would so gladly retain it. You can’t, I suppose. Ah! well—‘the Christian can bear to be put upon,’—that was the text—that’s enough. It will bring all the rest to mind—the general effect, that is.”

“And you’ll try to act upon it?”

“Yes. I really will. I give you my word. Only it isn’t at all fair all the effort should be on one side. But I’ll try, though I’m sure I shall break down.”

“Oh no! I hope better things of you!”

“Ah, you don’t know me—I’m such a poor, weak creature. I don’t like him to say so, though,” she added, laughing, with one of those sudden transitions which seemed natural to her.

“Here comes the donkey-chair. I thank you very much for your great kindness.”

“Mine? oh, don’t name it. It has been all on the other side! What is the line of poetry about ‘An angel unawares——’”

“In the Bible,” suggested I, provoked at being tempted to smile.

“Oh yes! (what a shame!) ‘thereby entertained,’ and so on. Which is just what I’ve done, you know. Oh, I’m so sorry you’ll go. Do look in again some day. I have very few friends; for some people look down on me, and I look down on some other people. And so I get no society at all. Baby wants you to kiss him. ‘Ta, ta, Mrs. Cheerlove.’ Pretty fellow!” (kissing him rapturously). “Mind you don’t get the hem of your dress draggled as you go down the steps. There now, the scraper has torn your braid! Mind your foot does not catch in it, and throw you on your face. I’ll have that scraper mended against you come next. Mr. Ringwood has spoken of it several times. You’ve done me so much good, you can’t think! more than a glass of wine!”

Poor little woman! I’m afraid her head is rather empty. But if her intellect has not been much cultivated, she has genuine affections—with a good deal of étourderie, wilfulness, and self-appreciation. How they will get on together I cannot conjecture. A chance word of mine made a transient impression; but “the next cloud that veils the skies” will sweep it all away.

We must not, on that account, however, relax our humble endeavours, nor despise the day of small things. Line upon line, precept on precept, here a little and there a little, effect something at last. Grains of sand buried the Sphinx.

Directly I saw Phillis, I perceived a very queer expression on her face. “Ah,” thought I, “she remembers what she said about the weather, and is rather ashamed of my having been caught in the rain. I shall charge her with it, and hear what excuses she can make. She is a capital hand at self-defence.”

But, at that moment, my ears were struck by a loud, harsh, jarring sound, that absolutely petrified me—the piercing scream of a cockatoo!

“Where in the world is that bird!” cried I, in dismay.

“In our kitchen, ma’am,” said Phillis, demurely. “’Tis a present from Miss Burt. I guess she thought you was fond of birds.”

“Fond of them? Why, I’m so fond of them that I can’t bear to see them in cages.”

“But this here thing’s on a stand!”

“Or anywhere but in their native woods,” continued I, rapidly. “I have been offered canaries and bullfinches again and again, and always refused. The sweetest melody could not reconcile me to their captivity. And a cockatoo, of all birds in the world! Why, it will drive me distracted!”

“Well, there, I says ’tis a nasty beast,” says Phillis, with a groan, “and has made a precious mess on my clean floor already, scattering and spirting its untidy messes of food all about, and screeching till one can’t hear one’s self speak. ‘Do be quiet, then!’ I’ve bawled to it a dozen times, and it answered me quite pert with, ‘cockatoo!’”

I could not help laughing. “Really,” said I, “it is too bad of Miss Burt—she might have given me warning.”

“Oh, I suppose she thought ’twould be an agreeable surprise,” said Phillis, with a grim smile. “There’s a note for you along with it.”

“Pray give it me.”

This was the note:—

“5, Chickweed Place, Elmsford, June 10.

“My dear Mrs. Cheerlove,

“I’m off this afternoon to Canterbury, to spend a month; and, meanwhile, have sent you my cockatoo to amuse you. Perhaps you did not know I had one. It only arrived yesterday, as a present from Lady Almeria Fitzhenry. So you see it is quite an aristocratic bird; and it will look extremely well on your lawn in fine weather, and, on wet days, afford you company. Mrs. Grove is dying to have one, so you may consider yourself favoured. If you get attached to it, you shall have it all the winter. I am sure it will be a pet with Phillis.

“Your affectionate friend,

“Cornelia Burt.”

“P.S. Please send me back the directions for making the magic ruff.”

“Phillis,” said I, “Miss Burt thinks you will make the cockatoo quite a pet.”

“It’s a great deal more likely to put me into a pet,” said she. (Screech, screech, went the cockatoo.)

“He knows you are talking of him,” said I, “and does not like to be spoken ill of behind his back.”

“Then he’ll hear no good of himself from me,” says Phillis.

“The donkey-boy is waiting to be paid,” said I, “and Miss Burt wants something sent back. I will send it by him, and write her a line about the bird.”

“Suppose he takes it back,” cried Phillis.

“No, that would hardly do.”

“Well, ’twould look queer-like, that big stand in the donkey-chair!” and she went off laughing.

I hastily wrote:—

“Whiterose Cottage, Wednesday morning.

“My dear friend,

“On returning from church, I found your kind note and your bird awaiting me, and I am sorry your maid was obliged to return without the directions for knitting the ruff, which I inclose. You are very good to provide an amusement for me in your absence; but if Mrs. Grove really wishes for the cockatoo, I hope you will let me transfer it to her, for its loud voice is too much for me, and I understand nothing of the management of birds. Wishing you a pleasant visit to your friends, I remain,

“Affectionately yours,

“Helen Cheerlove.”

Having dispatched this missive, I felt greatly relieved; but my morning’s work had so tired me that I was fit for nothing but a long rest on the sofa, and would gladly have taken a little nap; but, every time my eyes were ready to close, I was roused by the angry cry of “cockatoo.”

“That bird is a most disagreeable animal,” thought I. “How can any one endure him? Even the wearisome cry of a gallina would less offend my ears. It would be long before I should wish for a parrot: but a parrot is a clever, entertaining bird, and affords some variety—this bird has only one word. A rook can only say ‘caw,’ yet contrives to make its one harsh note tolerably pleasant; but this tiresome thing—Oh dear, there it goes again! Phillis must be tormenting it.”

In fact, the cockatoo set up such a noise that I became quite irritable, and rang the bell. “Phillis, don’t worry that bird.”

“I worrit the bird?” cries she, in high dudgeon, “why, I wasn’t even in the kitchen. I declare it worrits me!”

And, hastening off, she soon returned with the cockatoo on its stand, flapping its wings, and violently pecking her bare arms, and set it down before me with a jerk, saying, “There, you’ll see now, mum, whether it’s worrited by me or not. And it was a present, not to me, but to yourself.”

“Poor Phillis! how could you let it peck your arms so?”

“Oh!” said she, mollified, and smearing them with her apron, “I’m not made of gingerbread!”

“But I really cannot have this bird here.”

“Why, you see, he’s quiet with you.”

“But, if he is, I cannot be. I was trying to go to sleep; and I shall expect him to scream every moment.”

“Oh well, then, I must carry him off.”

“Don’t let him peck your arms more than you can help.”

“Of course I shan’t,” said she.

“He’s really a handsome bird.”

“Handsome is that handsome does,” said Phillis, pitying her arms.

“Perhaps if I go along with you, offering him something to eat, he may not fly at you.”

“Well, you can but try, mum,” said Phillis.

So I did try; and directly he felt his perch in motion he flew, not at her, but at me.

“Oh, that’ll never do!” says Phillis. “Tell ye what, you radical, I’ll wring your neck for you as soon as think, if you don’t keep quiet. Please, mum, leave ’un alone—you only makes him wus.”

And off she went with her screeching enemy, leaving me deeply impressed with her own valour, and my incapability.

A man has just called for Mr. Cockatoo, bringing rather 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:—

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?—

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—

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—

“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!”