Part 1

NEW WORKS.

Second and Cheaper Edition, price 7s. 6d., post 8vo., cloth,

POPLAR HOUSE ACADEMY.

By the Author of “Mary Powell.”

“A tale as touching and alluring as it is simple,—a tale sure to interest, whether by its sweet scenes of pathos, its continuous interest, its exquisite traits of nature, or its unaffected, unobtrusive tone of true piety.”—_Literary Gazette._

* * * * *

In preparation,

THE HOUSEHOLD OF SIR THOMAS MORE.

Cheap Edition.

To be followed by

EDWARD OSBORNE.

DEBORAH’S DIARY.

Uniform.

* * * * *

This day, price 2s. boards; 2s. 6d. cloth,

SEVEN TALES BY SEVEN AUTHORS.

Edited by F. E. SMEDLEY, Esq., Author of “Frank Fairlegh,” &c.

* * * * *

Price 3s. cloth; or 3s. 6d. gilt edges,

THE MANUAL OF HERALDRY;

Being a concise Description of the several Terms used, and containing a Dictionary of every Designation in the Science.

New Edition. Illustrated by 400 Engravings on Wood.

* * * * *

THE ULSTER AWAKENING:

An Account of the Rise, Progress, and Fruits of the Irish Revival. With Notes of a Tour of Personal Observation and Inquiry in 1859.

By JOHN WEIR, D.D., Minister of the English Presbyterian Church, Islington; and Author of “Romanism: Lectures on the Times.”

* * * * *

Fifth Thousand, price 2s.,

THE BACKWOODS PREACHER: AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF PETER CARTWRIGHT.

Edited by W. P. STRICKLAND. Reprinted from the last American Edition.

“For the rugged earnestness of the man it is impossible not to have a high admiration. His life is full of strange incident, and, setting aside its oddities, must command, and more than command, interest.”—_Athenæum._

“Full of the richest Americanisms and quaintest anecdotes. It gives the details of a religious phase of society almost unknown in England.”—_Dickens’s Household Words._

* * * * *

MOST ELEGANT CHRISTMAS PRESENT.

THE BOOK OF THE THAMES, FROM ITS RISE TO ITS FALL.

By Mr. and Mrs. S. C. HALL. With numerous Illustrations.

THE AUTHORS TO THE PUBLIC.

We have the honour to submit to the public a “Book of the Thames, from its Rise to its Fall,” hopeful that our readers may share with us the enjoyment we have so long, and so often, derived from the “King of Island Rivers!”

We have traced the bountiful river from the bubbling well out of which it issues, in the meadow by Trewsbury Mead—its lonely birthplace—through its whole course, gathering tributaries, and passing with them through tranquil villages, populous towns, and crowded cities; ever fertilizing, ever beautifying, ever enriching, until it reaches the most populous city of the modern or the ancient world, forming thence the GREAT HIGHWAY by which a hundred Nations traverse the globe.

NOTICES OF THE PRESS.

“It is a book to endear to us our native England; and, produced with all the elegance of the printer’s and binder’s art, will richly adorn the drawing-room table.”—_Daily News._

“It is by far the pleasantest book, certainly the most complete in design and execution, that has been published about the Thames for many years, and we can easily understand that in writing it the authors performed ‘a labour of love.’”—_Morning Post._

“This is one of the best in appearance of the ornamental works of the season which is just passed; the binding and the typography are excellent, and the style lively, superficial, and showy.”—_John Bull._

“A faithful as well as an agreeable guide to whatever of interest occurs along the entire course of the river. In short, it is a pleasant, well-written, and very handsome book on the pleasantest river an author could have to write about.”—_Literary Gazette._

IN THREE BINDINGS:

Cloth 18s. Superbly gilt 21s. Morocco 26s.

ARTHUR HALL, VIRTUE, & CO., 25, PATERNOSTER ROW.

THE DAY OF SMALL THINGS.

THE DAY OF SMALL THINGS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “MARY POWELL.”

Young and old all brought their troubles, Small and great, for me to hear: I have often bless’d my sorrow, That drew others’ grief so near. ADELAIDE PROCTER.

LONDON: ARTHUR HALL, VIRTUE & CO., 25, PATERNOSTER ROW. 1860.

LONDON: PRINTED BY JAMES S. VIRTUE, CITY ROAD.

DEDICATED TO MY TWO DEAR NIECES, FLORENCE AND ELLEN.

THE DAY OF SMALL THINGS.

“I think I have been laid up nearly two years on this sofa, Phillis?” said I.

“Two years, come the 6th of October,” said Phillis.

“And, during that time, what mercies I have received! what alleviations, what blessings!”

“What sea-kale and early spare-o’-grass! what baskets of grapes and pottles of strawberries!” said Phillis.

“What songs in the night, what in-pourings of strength!” said I.

“So many pheasants, too, and partridges!” said Phillis. “Teal, woodcocks, and wild ducks!”

“David might well say, the Lord maketh our bed in our sickness, Phillis,” said I.

“Such a pretty bed as it is, too!” said Phillis. “So white, sweet, and clean! Russia sheets and Marseilles quilt, bleached on a heath common, close by a sweetbriar hedge!”

“Not only that—” said I.

“Not only that,” said Phillis, “but such pretty daisy-fringe to the curtains, and a clean tarletan blind to the window.”

“Such a lovely view from the window!” said I.

“‘Ever charming, ever new.’”

“You see everything that goes by,” said Phillis.

“Yes, Phillis. And then the hill! I scarcely ever look at it without saying to myself, ‘I will look unto the hill from whence cometh my help.’”

“The doctor lives the other way, though,” said Phillis.

“I am never weary of watching the continually varying effects of light and shade on it. And yet, how loath I was to settle in this place! But, directly I saw that hill, with its steep, chalky sides, its patches of short turf, its fringe of beeches at the top, and its kilns and lime-burners’ cottages at the base, with the steep bridle-roads and sheep-tracks winding up it, I felt, ‘That hill is my fate: there must be a fresh air blowing over it, a fine view from it; and, with God’s blessing, it may make me wiser, healthier, and happier than I am now.’”

“It hasn’t made you healthier, though,” said Phillis.

“O yes, Phillis, it did. For a long while after I came here, I used to walk to it, and at length up it, every day. At first, I was surprised to find how steep and long the road was, even to its foot.”

“Oh, it’s a goodish step,” said Phillis.

“But I thought nothing of it afterwards,” said I. “At first I used to call it (to myself), the Hill Difficulty. After that, the Hill of Conquered Wishes.”

“Because you couldn’t get to the top,” suggested Phillis.

“Not only that. There were a good many things I wished altered—things that I could not alter for myself, and that I did not feel quite sure it would be right to pray to God to alter.”

“Such as puddles and miry bits of road,” said Phillis.

“No, not things of that sort. And so I used to think them over, as I walked up that hill, and struggle with myself to take them kindly, humbly, and submissively, as they were, such seeming to be God’s will; and at length I succeeded.”

“That was a good job,” said Phillis.

“At the top of the hill, there was a steep patch of turf, on which, as it seemed to me, grew every wild-flower that I knew. I used to call it (to myself), the Garden of the Lord.”

“Wasn’t that rather wicked?” said Phillis.

“Why, whose else was it, Phillis? Man had nothing to do with it.”

“A woman had, you mean,” said Phillis.

“No, I don’t.”

“Why, wasn’t you a woman?—leastways, a lady?”

“But I had not had the planting of it.”

“Oh, I didn’t know it was planted,” said Phillis. “You said the things growed wild.”

“Well, so they did—the Lord planted them. I used to stand there, looking at them, and smelling them, and inhaling the sweet, fresh air, till He seemed nearer to me there than anywhere else.”

“La!” said Phillis.

“Then, if I felt very strong, I used to go on yet further, and climb quite up to the trees at the top. I used to call that (to myself), the Wood of the Holy Spirit.”

“I wonder you wasn’t afraid,” said Phillis.

“No, ‘the voice of the Lord’ seemed walking in the garden, and took away all fear. Of what should I be afraid?”

“Tramps,” said Phillis.

“I never met any.”

“That was a wonder, then,” said Phillis, “for they mostly come right away over that hill, to and from the Fox’s Hole.”

“Stay a minute, Phillis, and I will explain to you why I never was afraid.”

“Dear me! and I’ve been awaiting and awaiting all this time,” cried Phillis, “to baste the chicken! I only stepped away from it for a moment, to give you your medicine!”

“Go, baste the chicken, then, Phillis. I beg your pardon for detaining you. I forgot how many things you have to do, and to think of. Go, Phillis, and baste the chicken.”

This is just the way she goes on from day to day. It is certainly very discouraging. An invalid finds it particularly hard to be without a sympathizer; or, at any rate, a companion that can understand one. As to calling me “ma’am,” she does not—and will not—once a week. But a Norway deal won’t take the polish of mahogany; and a rough, stout, country servant, will not convert into a Mrs. Flounce or a Mrs. Mincing. It is surprising what work she can get through—what weights she can lift. I am sure she could lift _me_.

* * * * *

The way I came to have Phillis was this. My nice maid, Hannah, married; and Jane, her successor, did not suit me at all. My energetic neighbour, Miss Burt, who is almost too bustling and busy for her friends, came in one day when I was very ill, and told me she had found me a “sterling creature,” who would suit me exactly. I had never empowered her to look out. And when I heard that this sterling creature had only lived in a farm, and afterwards with an old single gentleman, I did not feel very desirous to enter into treaty with her. Miss Burt, however, told me she had told her “there could be no harm in calling,” in which I did not quite coincide; and she enlarged so much on her fidelity, sobriety, honesty, cleanliness, and general proficiency, that I was somewhat overpowered, and agreed to see the young person when she called, if I were well enough. “Young! oh, she won’t see thirty again!” cried Miss Burt, as she swung out of the room; and indeed I believe several more years had been numbered by this “daughter of the plough.” But Phillis is exceeding sensitive on the subject. “My age is my own,” says she, shortly; “my age, and my name.” The latter, however, she told me one day, in an uncommon fit of good humour, had been given her by her father because it was in a favourite old song of his. “And when parson,” pursued Phillis, “objected that it wasn’t a _Christian_ name, father said he should like to know whose business it was to choose the name, his or the parson’s. So there,” added Phillis, triumphantly, “I fancy father had the best on’t!”

I thought of Crabbe:

“‘Why Lonicera wilt thou name thy child?’ I asked the gardener’s wife, in accents mild. ‘We have a right,’ replied the sturdy dame: And Lonicera was the infant’s name.”

Rather against the grain, I engaged Phillis. I was too ill to lose time, and too ill to superintend her first start, consequently she fell into her own way of doing things, and will not now adopt any improvement on them without more exertion of authority on my part than I often feel inclined for. I put up with her—and, perhaps, she puts up with me.

* * * * *

After living many of my earlier years neither in town nor country, but in one of the western suburbs of London, I cannot express the pleasure with which I hailed the novelty of a real country life. To exchange a house in a row for a detached dwelling, in the midst of hills, copses, and cow-pastures, was so delightful as to afford some compensation for removing far away from many whom I dearly loved. Seven years my good husband and I shared in tranquil married happiness; and, as he had previously been a busy man in the city, the country was as new to him as to me.

It is a good thing for leisurely people, of whatever age, to acquire the habit of noting down what they observe of interest, in a new position. To such a habit, we owe the rich storehouse of John Evelyn’s “Journal,” and White’s “Natural History of Selborne;” two books which, perhaps, no country but England could have produced. On going to Nutfield, I resolved to observe everything, try many an experiment, keep a note-book, and ask many questions.

We obtained possession of our house at Christmas; but did not go down to it till the middle of February. In that month (as I failed not to enter in my journal) the white wagtail re-appears, the woodlark, thrush, and chaffinch begin to sing, rooks and partridges to pair, and geese to lay. Mr. Cheerlove told me that the clamorous rook, the cheerful cuckoo, the swift-darting marten, and the lively, sociable little red-breast, had been called the birds of the four seasons. We arrived at Nutfield in the rooks’ honeymoon.

The first thing that struck us was the air. How cold, but how fresh it was! How clear and free from smoke the atmosphere! A thin blue mist rose from the ground, but it was but the ghost of a London fog. Then again, as Mr. Cheerlove remarked, the dirt, plentiful as it was, merely consisted of earth and water mixed together, without any abominable additions, and, compared with London mire, might even be called _clean_ dirt. The leafless condition of the trees gave us the opportunity of admiring the forms of their branches—the gradual and beautiful decrease of size and increase of delicacy between the sturdy trunks and the smallest twigs. The landscape was not destitute of green: the grass, though scanty and coarse, still retained its colour, and much of the growing wood was coated with fine moss; while the glossy laurel and cheerful holly contrasted with the sober laurustinus. Here and there, in the garden, we found a snowdrop, a hepatica, a yellow aconite, a Christmas rose, and a few sweet-scented blossoms of the alpine coltsfoot.

When we began to explore the neighbourhood, we found scarcely any wild-flowers, save now and then a daisy or sprig of gorse, or that common-looking nettle that bears the splendid name of white archangel. But we could say “a good time is coming!” and cheerfully await it. Meanwhile the horse-chestnut, hazel, and honeysuckle were budding, and the chickweed was putting forth its small white flowers; while the robin, sparrow, wren, and thrush sang blithely among the bushes, and the lark poured forth a short but lively song over our heads.

Mr. Cheerlove had accumulated a great many books, which, on wet days, it was his delight to arrange. We had two country maids and a boy, who found enough to do, but were not overworked. The first year we made scarcely any acquaintances; but my sister Eugenia, many years younger than myself (now, alas! no more), was frequently with us; and, after our loved mother’s death, lived with us entirely. Before she did so, Mr. Cheerlove and I used frequently to take little journeys in our one-horse carriage, jogging on from one place to another, putting-up, when it suited us, at some neat inn, and there spending a day, half-day, or two or three days, according to the attractions of the neighbourhood. In this way we strayed through many counties, and made acquaintance with many rivers, towns, villages, churches, cathedrals, old castles, and abbeys.

At the end of seven years, my good husband died. He was several years my senior, but I loved him—oh so dearly! and respected him so deeply! He was not what is called a shining man, but with the kindest heart, an equable temper, well-stored mind, a deliberate manner that gave great impression to what he said or read, without being in the least tedious, and a habit of employing himself beyond all praise.

He was gone; and the sunshine of my life was gone too! It seemed to me as though I had never valued him enough while he was alive—might have expressed more demonstrative affection. We never had an unkind word.

Dear man! how I love to think of him! The memory of his dear, placid face, his harmonious voice, his gentle touch, and tread, and tone, makes my heart swell!

Eugenia and I were then left together. She had nothing; I was not rich; and we quitted Nutfield, and went into a country town. We had once been members of a large, cheerful family, but death had mown them all down, and reserved his keenest, most relentless edge for the last. After a few uneventful years, Eugenia became fatally ill. She died; and I was left alone! And then I came here.

People were very kind to me. Miss Burt was my first acquaintance, and I must say she did me good service; never resting till she had fixed me under this roof. Indeed, she is seldom happier than when doing something for somebody; her only faults, that I know of, being a love of vexatious, petty domination, and a great impatience of check. Having nailed me here, as she called it, she next took me round to a few poor people under the hill, whom she put, as it were, under my charge; saying her own hands were full enough, and too full already, and the superintendence would rouse me, and do me good. I shall never forget her tone and attitude when, on entering one of these cottages, and espying a small grease-spot on the floor, she stood transfixed, and tragically exclaimed—

“What’s _that_ I see?”

The poor woman looked cowed; and I am sure I felt so.

When we came out, Miss Burt said to me, complacently and with a little authority, “That’s the way you must do things.” She had looked into every corner, turned up the basins and tea-cups, detected a black-beetle, which scudded away with a very reasonable instinct of self-preservation, and removed the match-box, which she said was too near the fire.

It might be her way, but I could never make it mine. I could not defy the _Lares_ and _Lemures_ of a rustic hearth in that fashion; and never could make myself more at home in a poor person’s dwelling than its owner. But perhaps Miss Burt did most good.

Time had its healing effect. I had practically learnt that here we have no “continuing city,” and the impression of the lesson was perhaps weakening, when I was laid low by a prostrating and painful illness, that at first threatened my life, and then left me in a state of weakness and incapacity that has confined me two years to this sofa.

Thus, the story of my life is comprised in few words. And yet I retain the habit of jotting down its nothings. As a favourite writer of mine in _Fraser’s Magazine_ has said, “There is a richness about the life of a person who keeps a diary, unknown to others. A million more little links and ties must bind him to the members of his family circle, and to all among whom he lives. Life, to him, is surrounded, intertwined, entangled with thousands of slight incidents, which give it beauty, kindliness, reality.”

* * * * *

I wish Harry Prout would leave off writing poetry. He might do something good in prose, but he has a taste, which he mistakes for a talent, for verse. There are many books of the day which he might translate well, if he would but seize the passing moments as they fly.

Harry looked in this evening, and gladly remained to drink tea with me. There was a small iced plum-cake on the tea-table, a present from Mrs. Secker; and I was pleased to see the lad pay his respects to it pretty handsomely. We got quite cozy and confidential over our little meal. He looked about him with satisfaction, and said, “Everything is so trig and tidy here! I wish we were in your easy circumstances, Mrs. Cheerlove.”

I laughed, and said, “My circumstances are very narrow, however easy I may make them—or take them.”

“They may be comparatively easy, though, if not absolutely, I think, ma’am.”

“Yes, there are comparative and absolute values.”

“Compared, for instance, with those of a straitened family like ours.”

“Ah, Harry, there are so many of you! Your father has a larger income than mine, but there is not so much to spend per head. But soon, my dear boy, some of you will be able to increase it; and, meanwhile, comfort yourself with the reflection that the real or imagined necessary expenses of those who have large means, are greater than those of persons who have only small ones.”

“I can’t make the reflection, ma’am, because I don’t believe it.”

“It is so, though, I assure you. Take the case of a number of persons (I quote Archbishop Whately) of each amount of income, from a hundred a year to a hundred thousand, and you will find the preponderance of those who are in pecuniary difficulties constantly augmenting as you proceed upwards.”

“If the _fact_ be so, ma’am, of course I cannot controvert it; but I cannot see how it should be so.”

“And when you come to sovereign states, whose revenues are reckoned by millions, you will scarcely find one of them that is not involved in debt.”

“Ah, they have so many public expenses.”

“And private people have so many private expenses. The temptation to spend increases faster than the wealth.”

“Well, it seems to me, that if I had but competence, I could keep within my income.”

“At first you would; but your ideas of competence would alter. At least, it is the common tendency of people to go beyond their means. I feel it in myself.”

“_You?_” incredulously.

“Yes, indeed, Harry. Perhaps I think how shabby and faded the crimson window-curtain begins to look, and I find I can afford to buy a new one. Then I consider that the new window-curtain will make the old carpet look very bad, and I find I cannot have that without pinching. Besides, the new carpet would entail the expense of a new rug; and then the fluted silk of the cabinet piano must be renewed; and, after all, how little it would add to the expense to have new chintz for the sofa and chairs! Thus, expenses mount up—expenses I cannot afford.”

“I see.”

“So it ends in my not incurring any of them.”

“Your curtain looks very nice, though, Mrs. Cheerlove.”

“Ah, I had it dipped and embossed.”

“Your chintz, too.”

“That was washed and callendered.”

“Well, I thought only such persons as mamma did those things.”

“There is no need they should be obtruded, Harry.”

“No, that’s what I’m always so afraid of.”

“Nor, if they happen to become known, is there any need to be ashamed.”

“Ah, I can’t help that.”

“Not always, I dare say, being young and thin-skinned; but the less you annoy yourself that way, the better. So you think I am better off than _you_?”

“O yes, with this nice quiet room. You may smile, Mrs. Cheerlove, but really it’s no joke, when a fellow wants to do a bit of writing, to have a parcel of children swarming about him, making all sorts of noises. It has such an effect sometimes on _me_, I know, that I am ready to declare the supreme good to be, a quiet room and leisure to use it.”

“To write poetry in it—hey, Harry?”

“Well—perhaps—yes.”

“Meanwhile, the high stool in the office—”

“May better be filled by some one else, ma’am.”

“While you—

“‘Invoke the Muses, and improve your vein.’

Do you admire Coleridge?”

“Oh immensely! Did he make that line?”

“Ah, Harry, you betray your ignorance of your favourite craft! No; the line is Waller’s.”

Harry blushed, and said, “You laid a trap for me.”

“Not intentionally, I assure you. But my transition was rather abrupt. I was going to direct your attention to a favourite passage of mine in Coleridge’s works.”

“Pray do,” said Harry, rising alertly and going to the book-case.