LETTER IV.

MRS. DOUGLAS TO MRS. E. SANDFORD.

My dearly loved Friend,

And are you really once more in your own Derbyshire, enjoying the blessing of rest after all your wanderings? My heart flies to bid you welcome at Checkley, where your presence, I doubt not, was long desired and affectionately greeted, though not perhaps with such energy as is conveyed in our Irish "Cead Millagh farthagh." But how doubly blessed is your return, and how largely has a merciful Providence repaid your labours, and compensated for every privation that you have endured, by restoring the sweet Agnes to perfect health! You are a mother, in almost every sense of that comprehensive title, to three dear and doubly orphaned girls, who now employ your whole attention; and though you have been spared those anxieties, incident to the relation of parent, which belong exclusively to the tender years of infancy, you can sympathize in all the solicitude to which the unfoldings of youth give birth; and thus a new bond has arisen to link our souls together.

Now that the peril is past, that which was toil while actually present, becomes pleasure when viewed in the distance; and thus it is that the great Dispenser of Good rewards the patient performance of duty.

You longed to be at home, and you are safely lodged within its delightful retreat; while your girls like bees have been collecting honey from every flower to enrich their hive, and no longer indebted to "books and swains alone," for their knowledge of the world, can talk of Switzerland, and Italy, and France with all the many who have visited their shores. _My_ holidays are yet to come; but do not be frightened; I am not thinking of the Continent--I am only running forward with my mind's eye to the happy accomplishment of our mutual wishes in the meeting at this dear spot of which your promise holds out the exhilarating prospect. My children seem to feel that months are years, till August comes and brings the Sandfords to Glenalta.

But dearest Elizabeth, I am not answering your question: "Will you help me with your experience in this weighty task which I have undertaken, and give me your advice upon the important subject of female education, as I proceed in an endeavour to fulfil the part which I have engaged to act?" Yes surely, my friend, I will gladly afford you every aid in my power to bestow, but you will not expect more than I can give. You must not look to me for that which I have never found myself, namely a plan or system by which I could work under the guidance of another mind without exercising at every moment whatever penetration the Almighty had conferred upon my own. This, whatever be its measure, has been employed night and day in scrutinizing the individual varieties that presented themselves in the several dispositions of my children.

You know the little history of their infant years, and that they were ever with me. You know also of the frightful chasm in my life, which succeeded. I dare not even now look back upon that period, nor is it necessary; for you have nothing to do with the first years of childhood: but till this moment I never told you of the _heart-sting_ by which I was roused from that torpor which had diffused a species of Upas shade over my character for some years.

While I was buried in my cottage near Linton, in Devonshire, I was attacked by low fever which threatened my life. It was not contagious, and therefore I was not debarred from seeing my children. Frederick, the eldest, was then twelve years old, and one day when he and his little sisters came to kiss and say farewell before they took their walk, I perceived my dear boy's cheek wet as it touched mine, and almost in the same instant that the tiny group hurried from my room I found a scrap of paper lying on the pillow upon which my head was reclined. I opened and read the following artless effusion addressed

"_To my beloved Mamma._

And wilt _thou also_ fall asleep? And must we never cease to weep? And can'st thou breathe a long farewell To those whose little bosoms swell With love, that would thy sorrows cheer, With grief, that finds no solace here? Oh take us to the realms of light, Or stay awhile thy spirit's flight Tho' angels beckon: hear our prayer, Nor leave thy children to despair!"

This first lisping of an almost infant muse produced an electric effect, and seemed the proximate instrument to inspire a degree of resolution which till then had been denied to my prayers; for God does his work in our hearts by secondary means and not by miracles. From that hour my mind appeared gradually to receive strength. I began to feel that solitude was too selfish an enjoyment; that I had _active_ duties which claimed a share of my thoughts. I prayed earnestly, I exerted myself unceasingly, recovered health, and then determined on the great sacrifice of re-visiting Glenalta. The anguish, which that effort cost me, it would be as impossible for me to express, as it would be painful to you to conceive. Enough of this! Your request for assistance in your new character has led me back through a labyrinth of past time, and my pen has almost unconsciously pursued the train.

The excellent tutor who was procured for me by my invaluable friend Edward Otway, seemed as if formed expressly for my purpose. I could not have borne the society of any mortal who expected to be made a companion, nor could I have allowed my children to associate with a person who did not deserve to be made a friend. Mr. Oliphant, old enough to be my father, yet cheerful enough to be the play-fellow of my children when he was not their teacher, religious, benevolent, learned, simple in his manners, enthusiastic both in acquiring and imparting knowledge, and never desiring other company than that of his pupils and his books, was the man whom I found at Lisfarne under the roof of my friend, and waiting the arrival of my family at Glenalta. A few dreadful struggles over, we commenced upon the "noiseless tenor of our way." I read every volume of which I had ever heard upon education, and found instruction in a short paper upon the subject, written by the late Mrs. Barbauld, whose pen was called upon to direct the conduct of a father and mother who found themselves the parents of a darling only son, and possessed of such affluence as to induce them to give a _carte blanche_ for whatever might be suggested as most likely to succeed in making this object of their common affection all that they fondly desired to see him.

Her letter in reply to their solicitations for advice, was published many years ago in a periodical work entitled "The Inquirer," and contains more strong good sense in a few pages than I have ever met with in the many ponderous quartos which maternal anxiety induced me to wade through. Mrs. Barbauld tells her friends _to be_ themselves in daily life, in all their habits of speaking and acting, _that_ which they desire to impress upon their son. The quantity of Greek and Latin, logic, and mathematics, which he might attain in the progress of his studies, or the place in which such knowledge should be acquired, she wisely leaves in a great measure to other advisers; and resting on what is surely of far higher consequence in the human compound, namely the principles, the sentiments, the opinions which it is desirable should actuate the conduct of the future man, she admirably remarks that the _moral atmosphere_ by which youth is surrounded, is the real teacher--not the tutor or governess who lays down precepts in the closet.

We are told in holy writ, that "the children of this world are wiser in their generation than the children of light," and we may fairly draw a similar comparison between the young and the more advanced of our fellow creatures upon earth. The whole _strength_ of a child lies in his sagacity, which accounts for all the acuteness employed by young people in observing looks and actions, and in developing the secret motives of those in whose conduct they are interested. In low minds this acuteness degenerates into cunning, but in all children there is a quickness of intellect, a readiness in deducing effects from causes, and marking inconsistencies between theory and practice, which ought to operate as a powerful incentive with those who undertake the care of youth, to make singleness of heart and a broad bold integrity the rule of every act in life. It is in vain that we talk of the beauty of truth, while we employ dissimulation in our intercourse with society; or descant on the advantages of occupation, while our own days are passed in idleness and sloth. _Words_ go for very little, whilst it is what we are _doing_ that secretly determines the bias of our children either to imitate or avoid. Powerfully impressed with this leading truth, I endeavoured to act upon my conviction. My rules were simple, few, and determined. I avoided as much as possible the multiplication of _decrees_, and, where it was practicable, rather sought to shew my little flock the path in which I wished them to walk by accompanying their steps, than to point out by prohibition that which was to be avoided. The success with which a merciful Providence has blessed my humble efforts is not granted to all in the same _degree_; but all must try for the goal, though it may not be given to reach it in every case. The original structure of the human mind is after all the great thing, and our best endeavours can but improve or restrain; but will never _create_. That belongs to higher influence. You know my feelings, and how much I prize one unselfish movement of the heart above all the intellect that ever adorned the greatest philosopher; and therefore it is that I have tried with such incessant care to cultivate the affections of my children. Here again nature must co-operate; for there are characters so phlegmatic, so cold, so inclined to contradiction, that no kindness will warm them into confidence and love. But though we do not make sufficient allowance for the vast variety of constitutional temperament, and too frequently expect equal results from different soils, which will always disappoint our hopes; a careful study of the materials upon which we are to act, and a judicious application of culture according to the _grain_ and _character_ of those materials, will seldom fail of repaying our labours by such harvest as it is reasonable to anticipate.

I have, you see, only attempted here to give you a loose sketch of my ground plan. You must ask specific questions, to which you shall have the best replies in my power to give: but if I go on tacking my thoughts together _generally_ upon the subject of education, I may be giving you what you do not want. Tell me, then, all your difficulties as they arise, and as far as my experience can remove them you may rely upon my inclination to assist your virtuous resolution of supplying a parent's place to your poor brother's orphans.

The many volumes devoted to the subject of education are frequently written by people who have, like the spider, spun out the web of their theories from within, and then applied those tissues to creatures of their own imagination, fitting and conforming the one to the other as nicely as Cinderella's slipper was found to suit the princess for whose foot it had been made. Such books remind me of a fine contrivance which should be devised with mathematical precision by one wholly unacquainted with practical operations. The machine is set going, and the influence of friction alone, upon which our philosopher had never calculated in his closet, is sufficient to overset the entire speculation.

I must now employ the remainder of my paper in mentioning the arrival of my nephew Arthur Howard. His health is far from being robust: but I flatter myself _already_ that our balmy breezes from the sea, and fragrant gales from the heath-covered mountains, which nearly surround this little glen, have been of use to him. Nothing could be more delightful to my heart than his perfect recovery, if I might hope that, with renewed health, he were to inhale amongst us some better notions (for I cannot dignify his nonsense with the title of _opinions_) than the silly society of his poor mother, and those vapid votaries of fashion with whom her hours are passed, have infused into his youthful mind. Arthur is not more than twenty, and has so good an understanding, combined with a remarkably open, candid nature, that I cannot bear to think of his being misled by vanity and folly. He is very engaging, though in the high road to be spoiled, if we cannot, by some necromancy, contrive to make him love our peaceful pleasures at Glenalta.

It is to me a source of great amusement as well as delight to be a silent observer of the group by which I am encircled. I had prepared my dear Frederick and his sisters to find their cousin frank and amiable, but sadly led astray by the tyranny of fashion; and it is really more interesting than I can express, to behold the sweet assiduities of these beloved children in administering to his wants, endeavouring to promote his amusement, and softening his prejudices by the most endearing kindness, and gentle, judicious opposition. So nice is the tact which singleness of heart, and affection inspire, that I have not had once to animadvert upon any part of their manners towards our young guest since he came amongst us, and as all their innocent projects for his reformation, and delicate remarks upon the progress or failure of their little schemes are imparted with the glow of confiding sympathy to me, I am charmed with the discoveries which I am thus enabled to make in the dispositions of my children, through circumstances calculated to place them in new lights to my view.

My mind undergoes variety of emotion in considering Arthur, whose conflicts of spirit I can clearly penetrate. Sometimes diverted beyond measure by his rising indignation, I can scarcely preserve my gravity when I see his choler ready to burst into furious invective against the many pursuits in which my girls are occupied _so new_ to him; then checked ere it has exploded by some sprightly sally on their part, or by his own evidently growing attachment to their pleasant society. Emily reasons with him, Charlotte expostulates, and Fanny banters so playfully with her cousin, that her merriment seems always with a magic touch to restore his temper to its equipoise. Arthur you know has been bred up in the school of _the world_, and holds all its doctrines with tenacity. Accomplishments make up all his idea of female education. To sing, play on the harp and piano-forte, speak French, and know enough of Italian to quote a line from Metastasio, are the utmost extent to which he would permit a woman's lore to extend. Any thing more than this, every degree of literary information beyond the poems of Lord Byron or an Album, is voted _blue_, and Arthur's eloquence is in continual exercise upon the absurdity, inutility, and vulgarity of _learning in a lady_. His tirades are met with such perfect good humour, and he is so frequently indebted to those resources in his cousins which he affects to despise for varying the pleasures of his day, that I prophesy a change in his opinions, but it will not be wrought all at once. We must patiently endure some more reproach, ere our young man of fashion will declare himself a convert, but such is the charm of _mind over matter_, that I think we shall conquer in the end.

My dears all unite in most affectionate loves to you and yours with my Elizabeth's

Attached friend, CAROLINE DOUGLAS.

Mr. Oliphant returns from his northern trip next week.