Part 5

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

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

——Miss Burt has just looked in.

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

“No, I did not look about—”

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

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

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

She paused to take breath.

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

“No, never. It becomes intuition.”

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

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

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

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

“‘Life is real, life is earnest’—

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

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

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

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

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

“‘General observation, Without self-application,’

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

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

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

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

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

“I was going to do so, but——”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here’s Mr. Sidney,” said Phillis.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘It is thy will, my Lord, my God!— And I, whose feet so lately trod The margin of the tomb, Must now retrace my weary way, And in this land of exile stay, Far from my heavenly home.

“‘It is thy will!—And this, to me, A check to every thought shall be, Which each might dare rebel. Those sacred words contain a balm, Each sad regret to soothe and calm, Each murmuring thought to quell.

“‘It is thy will!—And now anew, Let me my earthly path pursue, With one determined aim; To thee to consecrate each power, To thee to dedicate each hour, And glorify thy name.

“‘It is thy will!—I ask no more; Yet, if I cast toward that bright shore A longing, tearful eye, It is because, when landed there, Sin will no more my heart ensnare, Nor Satan e’er draw nigh.’[2]

Do you like it?”

“Oh yes! very much.”

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

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

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

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

“I will, then.”

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘In broad daylight and at noon, Yesterday I saw the moon Sailing high, but faint and white As a schoolboy’s paper kite.

“‘In broad daylight yesterday I read a poet’s mystic lay; And it seemed to me, at most, As a phantom or a ghost.’”

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

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

“‘But, at length, the feverish day Like a passion passed away; And the night, serene and pale, Fell on village, hill, and vale.

“‘Then the moon, in all her pride, Like a spirit glorified, Filled and overflowed the night With revelations of her light.

“‘And the poet’s song again Passed like music through my brain: Night interpreted to me All its grace and mystery.’”

“Did it?—did it?” cried he.

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

“‘Overcome with trouble deep, Rest, too restless to be sleep, While these sorrows did combine, An angel’s face looked into mine.’

Now, what did you mean by that?”

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

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

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

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

“‘Oh! if my griefs their hold forsook, But at an angel’s passing look, Saviour, how great the joy must be, Always of beholding thee!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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