Front matter (continued 3)

“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:—

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:—

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,—

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.

How many afflicting thoughts must have passed through poor Mrs. Pevensey’s mind, as she silently lay, hour after hour, sewn up in her sheep-skin! I thought she must have needed more than the fortitude of a Roman matron; nothing could have given her composure commensurate with her need of it, under such circumstances, but the submission and faith of a Christian. This trial, so afflictive at the time, might yet hereafter be reverted to as the crowning mercy of her life, by having led her to more complete subjection to the will of her heavenly Father.

Margaret Prout came in this morning, looking so pleased that I concluded she had fresh and better news of Mrs. Pevensey. But no—she had only a letter from Harry, and a note from Emily. I begged she would read me Emily’s first, which she did. Emily said that immediately on hearing of what had happened, Mrs. Pevensey’s maiden sister,—who goes among the young people by the name of Aunt Catherine,—packed up bag and baggage, got a passport and bills of exchange, and started off with a courier for the scene of affliction. What a comfort she will be to them all! Many would have shilly-shallied, and written to ask whether they were wanted, and looked about for an escort, and awaited a quiet sea for crossing, and nobody knows what, till the real day of need had passed. That is not Aunt Catherine’s way. “What thou doest, do quickly,” has, throughout her life, been to her a precept of Divine obligation. She does not do things hurriedly—all in a scramble, so as to be twitted with “most haste, worse speed,” by people less energetic than herself; but she does them at once; consequently, she does them efficiently; while her ardour, uncooled, supports her through the undertaking, and makes her insensible of half the difficulty. I always regard this as a very fine element in her character. Aunt Kate does not look twice at a pill before she takes it; nor lose the post for want of finishing a letter in good time; nor send a cheque to be cashed at the county-bank after office-hours. She is never likely to be short of postage-stamps, or of money for current expenses, or to leave small debts unpaid, or small obligations uncancelled, and then to content herself with saying, “Oh, I forgot that!” There is no one on whom I should more surely rely for knowing, in a common-sense, unprofessional way, not only what remedy to take for any illness, or what measures to resort to in case of a burn, scald, or fractured limb, but what antidote to administer for any poison accidentally taken—whether hot brandy-and-water for prussic acid, milk for vitriol, or an emetic for opium, followed by draughts of vinegar and water—thus preparing the way for the doctor she had lost no time in summoning, but who might not be able instantly to answer her summons.

Such a maiden sister as this in a large family household is invaluable. Nor does Miss Pevensey deteriorate the price set on her sterling qualities by acerbity, or bluff or snappish manners. On the contrary, she is cordial and easily contented—always ready to take, without saying anything to anybody, the least-envied seat in a carriage, or at table, or in church, willing to sleep in the room with the chimney that smokes, and to have the windows open or the doors shut, to suit her companions; though, of course, she has her preferences. And all this without the least servility—which, indeed, would be strangely purposeless, for she is in independent circumstances.

She is a small, thin woman, not in the least pretty; but excessively neat in her apparel, and quite the gentlewoman; with a cheerful, sprightly manner, so that most people like her. She is not single because no one ever asked her to marry. She has grey eyes, an aquiline nose, thin lips, and wavy brown hair, banded under an airy little cap. You would seldom wish to have a dress off the same piece with her cheap, thin silks; but they are always fresh, and well made, and you see directly that they suit her exactly, and that what you are wearing would not suit her at all. I have not seen much of her, but what I have seen, I have liked.

Harry’s letter was capital. He had been with the Whitgraves to Hampton Court, and after seeing the pictures, the maze, &c., they had dined on the grass in Bushy Park. It had freshened him up for a week. And Mr. Whitgrave had gone with him to the National Gallery, and told him what to admire, and why. And Mrs. and Miss Welsh had accompanied him to the British Museum, where they had spent a whole afternoon over the Assyrian Marbles.

“Only think,” he wrote, “of our looking at the very Bel and Nebo mentioned in the prophecies of Isaiah! ‘Bel boweth down, Nebo stoopeth,’ &c.,[5]—which they did, when they were taken from their pedestals by the victorious enemy. Do you know, that when Babylon was taken by the Persians, these two images were carried before the conquerors? Only think of their finding their way to the British Museum! There is old Nebo, with folded hands, and with an inscription on the hem of his garment, telling us (now we can read the cuneiform letters) that he was carved and erected by a sculptor of Nimroud, in the days of Semiramis, Queen of Assyria. As I gazed on it, I could not help thinking, ‘Truly, this is poetry, and history too!’ It now turns out that the famous Semiramis was not the wife of Ninus, but of King Pul, mentioned in the Old Testament; and that she did not live, as has been commonly supposed, two thousand years before the Christian era, but only eight hundred: which brings the date within a hundred years of that given by Herodotus, so long called ‘the father of lies,’ by people who would not, or could not, examine for themselves, but whose veracity is being more and more established every day by the researches of the learned. Of course, as a good deal of his information was picked up from hearsay, he was liable to occasional errors, like other people; but he seems to have been a careful, painstaking man, who went from place to place to collect information on the spot wherever he could; which was certainly a good deal more creditable way of gathering materials for a history, than that of many modern writers, who merely collect a few books around them in their study, and write out, day by day, what has been written in pretty nearly the same words many times before.”

I thought this passage of Harry’s letter to Emily (who had inclosed it to Margaret) so interesting, that I asked and obtained permission to copy it. How good a thing it is when brothers and sisters write in this free, communicative way to one another! not merely pouring out their feelings, but taking the trouble to express thoughts, and thereby brightening and polishing the best properties of their minds by collision. The present Dean of Carlisle says, that he has known young men at college wholly restrained from vice, simply by the hallowed and blessed influence of their sisters.[6]

Arbell has again been heard from. Aunt Catherine had safely arrived, and they were all so glad to see her! Also an eminent English surgeon, who had been telegraphed for, and who accidentally, or rather providentially, crossed in the same steamer, and, seeing the name of “Miss Pevensey” on her carpet-bag, immediately introduced himself to her, and took care of her all the rest of the way. This was an immense advantage to Miss Pevensey, who speaks very indifferent French, and who, without a courier, could not have got on at all: besides, he prevented her thoughts from dwelling on one painful subject all the way, and told her several instances of remarkable recoveries, which greatly cheered her. He, on his part, was glad to get some idea of what sort of people they were who had sent for him, and became interested in Miss Pevensey’s account of her sister-in-law’s character and responsibilities. When they arrived at the pasteur’s, Arbell said she was so glad to see her aunt, that she could not help the tears running down her face. Sir Benjamin pronounced dear mamma to be going on quite favourably; indeed, he thought her progress, as far as it went, almost miraculous; and said it showed that mountain-practice was not altogether to be despised. They were going to begin their homeward journey by very easy stages, as soon as an invalid litter could be constructed according to Sir Benjamin’s directions, which would shake dear mamma as little as possible. They could not think how they could ever be sufficiently grateful for M. Peyranet’s goodness—the only way in which papa thought he could show a sense of it was, by giving largely to his poor.

The harriers and stag-hounds are out this fine November morning; and I see hunters in green coats and red winding down the steep chalky sides of the hill; while men, boys, dogs, and cattle all seem animated by the spirit of the chase—the cows and horses galloping round the meadows in search of some outlet from their confinement. Certainly, the distant horn does sound enlivening. For the poor hare there is no hope of mercy; but the stag has been so often turned out, that I hardly think he can believe himself in much danger. There he goes! I was cockney enough to mistake him at first for a donkey! How gracefully he cleared the gate! Off he goes, at a rocking-horse sort of pace. He will give them a good run yet.

The trees are now as many-hued as Joseph’s coat of divers colours—orange, golden, lemon colour, every shade of green, brown, and mulberry, some cherry red; but few trees, except the walnuts, are quite leafless. The pigs, with eager snouts, are grubbing for acorns around the oaks,—off they trot, except one, to a new locality; he is too busy to note them, till suddenly looking up, it seems to strike him, “Can they be doing better than I am?” and off he posts for his share of the spoils.

How much one may see from a window! I can descry long wavy sheets of gossamer, glittering with dew, shimmering in the air—the most exquisite texture conceivable, fit for the wedding-veil of the fairy-queen! The walnut-trees have been threshed; the wild-geese have flown home; the swallows flew off on the 21st of September. Many garden-flowers yet linger; but wild-flowers are reduced to a pitiful array, chiefly comprising daisies, yarrow, ragwort, and furze. Bright days are becoming fewer and fewer; but we had a fine Fifth of November, and I saw a rustic Guy Fawkes set down in the middle of the road by a party of merry lads, that they might scramble over a gate and race after a squirrel. The skylark and thrush have not yet quite forsaken us, but our principal songster is the robin, who pipes away most merrily.

In one of Mary Russell Mitford’s fairy-like notes to me, written within three weeks of her death, she says, “I am sometimes wheeled from my fire-side to the window; and, about a month ago, a red-breast came to that window and tapped. Of course, we answered the appeal by fixing a little tray outside the window-sill, and keeping it well supplied with bread crumbs; and now he not only comes himself, but has introduced his kinsfolk and friends. Think how great a pleasure!”

No news of the Pevenseys’ return; but they must be slowly nearing home, unless any fresh causes of delay have occurred. Winter is stealing imperceptibly upon us; November has slipped away, and December has arrived, almost without the change being felt.

We speak of the merry month of May, and why not of the merry month of December? Well, there is an answer to that question; but, before I give it, I will consider what may be said on the bright side. True it is, that many of nature’s processes are now veiled from human sight; but not less true is it that they are secretly progressing. The seed-corn is garnered in the earth; the earth itself in many spots is sweetening; the leafless trees are preparing to burst into verdure next spring; and, had we power to observe what is going on in their secret vessels, how much should we find to delight and surprise us! what multitudes of contrivances of which we have no knowledge, and even too delicate and complex to be comprehended! Meanwhile, many of the trees, when unlopped, have forms so beautiful as to present a delicate tracery, reminding one of black lace (though that is a miserable comparison), when seen in the distance against the clear, grey sky. There is little to do in the field; but the flail resounds noisily within the barn; and the horses and cattle enjoy the comfortable warmth of the straw-yard. Then, within-doors, how snug and sociable is the fire-side! How the solitary enjoy the book, and the domestic party the long talks they had no leisure for in the summer! Christmas is coming; and is not that season proverbially merry, save where there is some sad domestic bereavement or affliction? How gay the shops are! with winter fabrics, and warm furs, and brilliant ribbons; with jolly sirloins, plump poultry, heaps of golden oranges, rosy apples, and all kinds of winter fruit! How gladly we think that the young folks will soon come home for the holidays! “I call to mind,” says the genial Southey,

Dearly do schoolboys love a hard winter, because it brings sliding, and skating, and snowballing in its train. Is not December, then, a merry month? Well, there is a reverse to the picture. In the first place, we poor, creaky invalids feel his cold touch in every joint, and at every shortening breath drawn from our wheezing chests, and very early in the month get shut up by the peremptory doctor; unless, indeed, we are too poor to be laid aside from the active toil that wins daily bread. Let the invalid with every comfort around her, think of those who have neither warm fires, nor warm clothing, nor warm bedding, nor warm food. See their sad, pinched faces, shrinking forms, chilblained hands, and ill-protected feet; think of their desolate dwellings, where the rain drips through the roof, where the broken pane is stuffed with rags, and where, for many hours daily, no fire burns on the hearth; and then refuse them sympathy and aid if you are not of the same flesh and blood, children of the same Creator! Oh, the time is drawing near when we may indeed warm our own hearts by warming the bodies of others! by putting shoes with warm stockings on bare feet, thick tweed on shoulders, and flannel on chests, coals in the grate, and wholesome, nourishing food on the table! Here is our encouragement—“And thou shalt be blessed; for they cannot recompense thee, but thou shalt be recompensed at the resurrection of the just.”

As I look up from my writing on this 4th of December, I see a blue, cloudless sky shining above steep, chalky hills that are clothed with the short, sweet turf loved by sheep, below which are green meadows, cut with dykes, to drain them during the winter; leafless hedges and scattered clumps of trees, principally oaks, still clad in a good many yellow leaves. The tiled roofs of many scattered cottages in the lanes are now visible, that cannot be seen in the summer: all looks bright and cheerful. Such is hardly a scene to remind one of the real severity of winter:—

For my part, I like hearing the owl; perhaps because Shakspere has linked it with immortal verse. Dismal it is, I suppose—something like the forlorn cry of a belated traveller for assistance: its association with darkness and horror makes more vivid the contrast of the light twinkling through the casement, the crab-apples roasting and sputtering as they are popped, scalding hot, into the wassail-bowl, and Mrs. Joan’s assurance to the hospitable host that she has had “quite enough,” and has quite emptied her mug, to verity which, she turns it topsy-turvy—top-side t’other way.

Down comes the rain!—and enters Miss Burt with dripping umbrella, and dress hooked in festoons above her ancles, to tell me the Pevenseys reach home to-day. She is full of the news, and has carried it on to the Seckers.

What a cheerless, wretched afternoon! Rain, rain, go to Spain! What matter? Home is home, be it ever so homely,—and the Stone House is anything but that, I am told—for I have never been within it. Mrs. Pevensey’s first call was during my illness. How fresh and blooming she looked! I had heard of her numerous family, but not of her personal appearance—she did not visit any one I then knew, and I was unprepared for her sweet face and charming manners. She seemed to enter like a stream of sunshine, or like Una into the dark cottage of Abbessa. How kind, how good she was!—she thought she could never do enough for me.

And now she is ill herself—crippled, shattered perhaps for life, though comparatively restored; as motionless, I am told, as a figure on an altar-tomb. Sad, sad!

But she is not in pain, and her mind is as cheerful and alert as ever; and the little girls will hang over her with warm kisses; and the baby, whom she cannot take in her arms, will leap and crow, and be held to her; and the faithful family servants will receive her in a flutter of sympathy, and hover about her with tender concern.

——I feel very lonely to-night. How quickly the day closed in! and how cheerless the rain sounds against the window-panes! The fire lights up with fitful gleams the picture on the opposite wall, and the footstool worked by Eugenia.

I remember, when we first went to Nutfield, Eugenia and I sallied out, one bright morning, with a basket, trowel, and old kitchen knife, to take up some of the pretty purple heath on the common for our flower-borders. We had not counted the cost. Snap went the thin old knife! Then we tugged and tugged at the tough stems with our hands, to the great injury of our gloves, and plunged at the roots with the trowel. But there seemed no end to those fibres and their ramifications underground—they spread interlaced and interwove in every direction:—and so, I think, must Mrs. Pevensey’s social affections:—while I am like a flower in a pot.

Here is Christmas close at hand, and Emily Prout is looking forward to the speedy arrival of the holidays. Harry is expected to-morrow. He will return to a humble, but happy home,—all the better able to value it for having been away from his family for some months.

I have no prospect of any other than a lonely, and perhaps a dull Christmas; and I am shut up, I fear me, for the winter. I cannot walk; the donkey-chair is unsafe for me, now that the weather is so cold; and I cannot afford a close carriage. But I will endeavour to raise my thoughts from things terrestrial to things celestial—from Christmas feasting to Him whose birthday feast it is:—

Phillis has been very contrary lately. She is completely out of humour; does everything badly, and resents the least word of reproof. Instead of her waiting at table, it is I who wait, while she does not answer the bell. If coals are wanted, it is so long before she brings them, that the fire is nearly out; then she comes in, throws on half a scuttle-full, which, of course, extinguishes it completely; and, to finish all, upsets the remainder on the carpet. Then she goes off in a towering rage, comes back with dust-pan and brush, repairs the damage to the carpet in a very slovenly way, and then fetches an armful of chips and paper, which make a great blaze for a few minutes, and soon burn completely out. Is it not singular that persons will sometimes appear to forget how to do a thing that they have done, and done properly, for years?

This morning, though I was suffering from neuralgia, and a drizzling rain was falling, she scoured my bed-room all over, and set the windows wide open, whereby everything in the room is as damp and limp as possible. On my telling her that I would rather have had the cleaning deferred till a drier day, especially when I was suffering from a cold, she replied that Friday was the day for doing it, and she would do it on a Friday, or not at all. On my rejoining—“Nay, is that a question for mistress or maid to settle?” she replied, she never knew such a mistress; nothing she could do gave satisfaction; and, as she saw it was no use trying to please me, she hoped I should suit myself with another servant by that day month; and then went off, banging the door after her, yet leaving it ajar.

I felt resentment. I knew I had been a kind mistress to her; had studied her comforts, allowed her many indulgences, and overlooked many faults; and this was the way I was repaid! I felt it very hard. True, I had given her much trouble during my long and painful illness; but she had been engaged on purpose to assist in nursing me through it, and undertake the whole general work of the little house; had said, again and again, the work was nothing, and, in fact, was always sitting down to needle-work at five o’clock in the afternoon.

I was aggrieved: I thought, if she would go, she might: if there were no attachment on one side, why need there be any on the other? And as to getting another servant, why I could but have a tiresome one, and Phillis was that already.

In writing all this down I perceive some bad logic, but I felt very forlorn and depressed. When she came in to lay the cloth for dinner, she said not a word, nor did I; but her face declared war. The dinner could hardly have been worse cooked.

After dinner Mrs. Prout called. She seemed sorry to see me not looking well, and made such kind inquiries that a tear rolled down my cheek, and I told her all my trouble. She was very indignant at Phillis’s conduct, which she called abominable; and she said she would look out for a better servant for me—a woman who could behave like that was not worth her wages. I softened a little, and said she was not always so bad, of course; and when I had been so very ill, was really very attentive to me.

Mrs. Prout said yes, she remembered poor Mr. Prout saying I had a rough sort of creature to wait up me, but that she seemed kind-hearted.

“And, after all,” said she, “when we consider how little training such women get before they go into service, and what indistinct notions they have of their relative duties, we must make great excuses for them.”

“O yes,” said I, “we must; and, perhaps, I have been too exacting.”

“Well, it is possible you may have been a little so without intending it,” said she. “We are all so apt to see things only from our own point of view, and not to make sufficient allowances for others. Still, I don’t see how you can go on comfortably together, since she makes no allowances for you.”

“Not unless she would make allowances,” said I, doubtfully.

“Do you wish her to stay?”

“Why, yes, if she would go on comfortably; for I can’t bear strange faces, and we shall never find any one who is perfect.”

“Then, shall I say a few words to her, when she lets me out?”

“My dear friend,” said I, “I shall be very much obliged to you!”

So the kind little woman arose, after telling me that Mrs. Pevensey had reached home, and had borne the journey better than had been expected; and that Emily was to come home on Saturday. And after she had taken leave of me, I could hear her quiet voice for some time in the passage. I could also hear an indistinct grumble, grumble, grumble, from Phillis, and wondered what bad case she was making out against me. Then I heard Mrs. Prout’s quiet voice again; but the only words that reached me were, “You really should not;” and, “You really should.”

Then the door closed after her, and I heard a tremendous cleaning of fire-irons going on in the kitchen, and quantities of coals shovelled up, and quantities of water pumped up; after which ensued a lull. I lay back on the sofa, and stayed my troubled mind with; “O Lord! undertake for me!”

Just as it was getting quite dusk, I was startled from a little nap by a smart ring at the back-door. A distant grumbling of voices ensued; and as some suspicious-looking tramps had lately been hanging about the neighbourhood, I became nervous, and rang the bell, to desire Phillis not to parley with any people of the kind, but to shut and bolt the door. She answered the bell, looking very glum.

“Who is that, Phillis?”

“Some one as has come after my situation. I should’t ha’ thought there’d been such a hurry!”

“Why, you yourself gave warning; and you have never said a word since of being sorry for it, and wishing to stay.”

“You’ve never given me time!”

“To settle the matter at once—do you wish to say so now?”

“Why, dear me, how can one settle a question like that in a minute?”

“Send the person in.”

“Then you do want me to go?”

“Phillis, have you ever said you wanted to stay?”

“Why, you knows as well as I do, that I can’t abear change.”

“There are other things, though, you must bear, Phillis, if you can’t bear that. Let a family be large or little, it can never be a happy one where the great law of obedience is broken, and where the mistress is obliged to follow the lead of the servant. I do not mean to follow that course; and, therefore, if you wish to remain here, you must obey me.”

“Why, don’t I?”

“Certainly you don’t.”

“Then you want to see this gal?”

“Of course, it is the least I can do, since Mrs. Prout, no doubt, has been kind enough to send her down.”

Phillis put the corner of her apron to her eye.

“Then ’tis you wants to change, not I,” said she, in a stifled voice; “for I’m very well content to rub on as I am.”

I took no notice. The next minute, she showed a tall young person into the room, who stood close to the door.

“You may go, Phillis.”

Phillis shut the door, and went.

“Good evening; will you come a little nearer?” said I.

The stranger obeyed, and I suddenly became frightened; for the stride and awkward gait convinced me it was a man in woman’s clothes. Thoughts of robbery and murder rushed through my head as the figure advanced towards me; but just then, the fire, which had been burning dimly, sent up a bright tongue of flame, which lighted up the room, and shone on a face that I thought was not altogether unknown to me.

“Where do you come from?” said I.

“Little Coram Street, London, ma’am,” in a voice of studied softness.

“Hum! then I fear a country place won’t suit you.”

“O yes, it will, ma’am! I likes the country best.”

“I am afraid you are not used to hard work. Did you ever scour a room?”

“I can work harder than people think, ma’am.”

“Well, but, did you ever?”

“O ma’am, there’s nothing I mind setting my hand to.”

“Or clean a saucepan?”

“Surely, ma’am, every servant can do that!”

“Who will recommend you?”

“Mrs. Prout knows me very well, ma’am.”

“And so does Mrs. Cheerlove!” said I, laughing. “Oh, Harry! you impostor! I found you out directly!”

“Did you though?” said he, bursting into a fit of laughter, and throwing his disguises right and left, till he stood before me in his original dress. “Phillis didn’t; and a good fright I’ve given her. Served her right, too! Listeners never hear any good of themselves, Mrs. Phillis,” added he, as she put her head a little way into the room.

“Why, I thought I heard a man’s voice, and it gave me quite a turn,” said she, advancing in a hesitating way towards us; “and so I did,—for, whoever would have thought of its being you, Master Prout!”

“You didn’t, it’s certain,” said he, rolling his things up into a bundle, “or you wouldn’t have tried to set me against the place!—so there I have you! Recollect, I’m a lawyer, and can take advantage of you at any time.”

She was, for once, without one word to say.

“Yes, yes,” added he, “I’ve had a grudge against you this long while for calling me Master Prout, when all the world knows I’ve been Mr. Prout ever so long. One would think I took my meals in the nursery. So, mind you, Phillis, if ever you are uncivil to your mistress again, or ever more call me master, I’ll show you I am your master, in one way or another. And, as for your not having answered the bell when Mrs. Cheerlove wanted you, because you were making a cap, why, sooner than keep her waiting for that, I’d have worn a brown-paper cap like a carpenter. So now go and make the kettle boil—very boiling, indeed, for I’m come to drink tea with Mrs. Cheerlove; and we Londoners don’t admire tea made with lukewarm water, I assure you.”

Off she went, with “Well, I’m sure!” on her lips, but with by no means a displeased look on her face; and I could not help thinking, “Some people may steal a horse, while others dare not look over a hedge. She has taken a good deal more from ‘Master Prout’ than she would from Mrs. Cheerlove.”

The Stone House, December 27.

When will wonders cease! I can hardly believe I am awake and in my senses,—yet so it is:—yes, here I am, spending the Christmas holidays with the Pevenseys:—

They had only been at home a few days when Arbell came in, all smiles, to ask how I was, and to say that her mamma had thought a great deal about me; and that it had occurred to her that as I was an invalid, and she was an invalid, we should suit one another much better than if our positions were more dissimilar; and that though we were not equal to a merry Christmas, she did not see why we might not have a pleasant one. So she had resolved on my occupying a certain bow-windowed blue room, with dressing-room attached, during the holidays, and I should keep my own hours, and choose my own companions, and dine early, and see as much or as little of the family as I liked. She would not take no for an answer, and she would send the close carriage for me the very next day.

Well, as she would not take “No,” for an answer, what could I say but “Yes?” and “very much obliged,” too. It put me quite in a flutter, but a flutter of pleasurable excitement; for I have come to think the Pevenseys one of the most interesting families in the whole world. It was very satisfactory to think that my wardrobe was in fine order; that my best caps, handkerchiefs, &c., were all beautifully got up, and ready for immediate packing; that my new black silk dress had not even been worn; and that I had got rid of the neuralgia just long enough not to be afraid even of changing my bed.

I am sure the real danger will be in returning to my own house! I have always considered it sufficiently snug; but the walls are so thin, compared with these; and there are many chinks and fissures we are obliged to stop up by ingenious contrivances, similar to what sailors effect by means of shakings. Whereas here, if you want to open a window, you may, indeed, do so with ease; but if you want it shut, it really will shut, without admitting a current of air strong enough to blow out a candle! or making a noise like the roaring of a lion, through some undetected orifice, as mine occasionally does at home, when least expected or wished. I determined Phillis should enjoy herself in my absence, and therefore permitted her to invite her widowed sister with her small baby, to stay with her till my return, which she took very pleasantly.

And here I am, in the snuggest of dressing-rooms, on the first floor of the Stone House, overlooking a charming Italian garden, something in the Haddon Hall style, that is beautiful even in winter, with bright masses of evergreens forming backgrounds to its “storied urns and animated busts.” And this dressing-room opens into a delightful bed-room, and also into a warm, thickly carpeted gallery, into which, also, open three other spare bed-rooms, one of which is at present occupied by Miss Pevensey, another by Arbell; chiefly, I believe, that I may not fancy myself lonely, as a door at the end of the gallery shuts off this wing from the rest of the house.

Lonely!—in a house with eight children and sixteen servants! A likely thing! Here, however, I may be as solitary, if I like, as a nun in her cell; but as it is now ascertained that I enjoy the family ways, I am continually having little visits from one and another. Firstly, Mrs. Kent peeps in before I am up, to see whether the under-housemaid has lighted my fire, and to inquire how I have slept; and to ask whether I will have tea, coffee, or chocolate, in bed or out of it. Then, the aforesaid housemaid (Mary, her name is) helps me to dress, as nicely as Mrs. Kent could do. Then I step into the dressing-room, where I find a clear fire, and breakfast for one awaiting me; chocolate and rusks, may-be, or milk-coffee and French roll; or tea, toast, and a new-laid egg. After this I commence my little prayer-service and Bible-reading, as at home, while a prayer-bell, in some far-off quarter, which they tell me is much too cold for me, summons the household to prayers.

Immediately after this, the three little ones steal in from the nursery, saying,—“Will oo like to—to—hear our texts?” Of course I say “Yes;” and then one little creature says, “God is love;” and another reverently repeats, “Little children, love one another;” and another, “Live peaceably with all men.” They learn something fresh every day. Then Arbell comes in, and we have long, delightful talks, till Mrs. Pevensey, who sleeps late, is ready to hear her read a portion of Scripture: I think they talk it over a good deal together afterwards. Meanwhile, cheerful “Aunt Kate” looks in on me; brings me The Times, or “Pinelli’s Etchings,” or something by the Etching Club, or Dickens’ last number, or anything she thinks I shall like; makes up the fire, and has a cheerful chat; but she does not stay long.

After this, I see no one till the one o’clock dinner, except Rosaline and Flora, who are happy to give me as much of their company as they may, till called off for their walk. At one, we all assemble to a very bountiful meal, presided over by Miss Pevensey and Arbell, who, I am happy to see, already carves neatly and quickly. Then they generally carry me off to the conservatory, music-room, or library, the weather not inviting the delicate to indulge even in carriage exercise. Towards dusk, comes the grand treat of all: Miss Pevensey, Arbell, and I, repair to Mrs. Pevensey’s dressing-room, where we find her lying like a statue, perfectly still and colourless, but with her active mind ready to enter on any subject, gay, or grave, that may be started. These conversations are truly enjoyable. They insist on my occupying a couch opposite Mrs. Pevensey’s; Miss Pevensey establishes herself between us, in her brother’s easy-chair, and Arbell sits on a cushion at her mother’s feet. By the uncertain light of the fire, we harmoniously discuss all sorts of subjects, in a style not quite equal to that of “Friends in Council,” but that suits our requirements equally well.

The Swiss tour affords inexhaustible subjects of interest and entertainment. Sometimes Arbell tells what profound astonishment her tooth-brush excited among the country girls; at other times, they speak of the wonders of Mont Blanc, and Monte Rosa; and describe their arrival at the hospice of the Great St. Bernard—the hospitable reception of the good monks—their cheerful chat round the fire after supper—their attendance at morning prayers, before dawn, in the chapel—and afterwards witnessing the substantial breakfast given to the peasants who had received a night’s shelter, before they descended the pass.

Sometimes Mr. Pevensey comes in while they are thus talking, and exclaims—

“What! still among the mountains? Mrs. Cheerlove must be quite bored!”

“Oh no!” they boldly reply, “she is such a good sympathizer!”

Then he, his sister, and Arbell, go down to their two hours’ dinner, which I privately think it a privilege to escape. Mrs. Pevensey and I have ice, fruit, cakes, and coffee. And then I see her no more, for Mr. Pevensey spends the rest of the evening with her; and I say good-night, and retreat to my own room, though not always to bed, if I have an interesting book.

Though Mrs. Pevensey is not well enough to receive visitors (except such a quiet one as myself), it has been very interesting to witness the benefactions to the poor, the Christmas-tree loaded with presents for the children and servants, the school-children’s treat, the servants’ feast, &c., which ushered in Christmas in this hospitable house. In connection with these, something very mysterious was to take place on Christmas Eve, in the largest drawing-room, which was known only to Mr. Pevensey, Arbell, and a few assistants. Great expectations were raised, and most absurd guesses made, as to what could be going on,—much peeping, prying, and tittering outside the carefully-locked door, and many conjectures hazarded on the occupations of those who passed in and out. A good deal of hammering added excitement to the scene; and Mrs. Pevensey said, with some anxiety, she hoped they were not hurting the new white and gold paper; a tinkling bell was also heard.

At length, the longed-for hour arrived; the school-children had had their prizes and buns, the servants’ friends had had tea and plum-cake, the Christmas-tree had displayed its glories, when, at the eventful hour of eight, the public were admitted, and Mrs. Pevensey was carried into the drawing-room. All were surprised, and rather disappointed, to find it so dark; and when Arbell had marshalled every one to their places, it became darkness itself, for every light was extinguished. A laugh, a whispered remark, alone broke the silence, though all the household were present, and the general feeling was of awe.

At length, on the ringing of a small bell, the solemn, distant sounds of an organ were heard (a very good barrel-organ in the nursery, that played hymn-tunes), and a curtain, slowly rising, revealed the hospice of St. Bernard!—or, at any rate, so good a transparency of it as to give a very vivid impression of the place itself. There was the old monastic pile, shut in among craggy, snow-clad rocks—the adjacent church, the morgue—the gloomy little lake—the tiny patches of garden, in which the monks grow a few cabbages and lettuces. To add to the illusion, a twinkling light was seen in one of the distant windows; a dog’s short, sharp bark was heard afar off, and the tones of the organ conveyed the impression of a midnight mass.

It was very impressively, capitally got up; and at small amount, as we afterwards learnt, of trouble and cost. Ingenuity had been the prime artificer; and Mr. Pevensey was much pleased at the cleverness with which Arbell had seconded him. Altogether, the entertainment was well thought of, and gave unmingled satisfaction.

——I have come to the last page of my little note-book. Oh that the last page of my life’s story may end as happily!

THE END.