Part 8

I thought, afterwards, how much sense there was in what she had said; and regretted her rule was not oftener acted on in families. Mrs. Pevensey, for instance, not unfrequently makes Arbell handsome presents, but gives her no regular allowance; consequently, not knowing what she has to expect, Arbell is sometimes improvident—sometimes pinched. Consequently, also, she knows little of the shop-prices of articles in common request, and does not regularly keep private accounts. I know it is not my province to interfere on the subject; but, should an opening unexpectedly occur, I will just direct Mrs. Pevensey’s thoughts to it, by alluding to the plan pursued by Mrs. Prout.

Every one of these young Prouts has left off drinking sugar in their tea, to lighten their mother’s bills; and at their own instance. How well it speaks for them!

* * * * *

Priamond, Diamond, and Triamond, says Spenser, were three brothers in Fairy-land:—

“These three did love each other dearly well; And with so firm affection were allied, As if but one soul in them all did dwell, Which did her power into three parts divide.”

In the course of their story, a deadly quarrel ensued between the youngest of these three brothers and Camball, brother of the Princess Canace, which was assuaged by the goddess Concord, who gave them Nepenthe to drink. And what is Nepenthe?—

“Nepenthe is a drink of sovereign grace Devised by the gods, for to assuage Heart’s grief, and bitter gall away to chase, Which stirs up anger and contentious rage. Instead thereof, sweet peace and quietage It doth establish in the troubled mind; Few men, but such as sober are and sage, Are by the gods to drink of it assigned— _But such as drink, eternal happiness do find_.”

I can well believe it, good Mr. Spenser. Where can it be found? Did you ever drink of it yourself? or did you write thus feelingly because you sought and found it not? Oh! by what name shall we pray for it? “_The grace of God?_”

* * * * *

Here we are in the dog-days! and every one is complaining of the heat. Last night we had a thunder-storm, and Phillis was afraid to go to bed, till I told her that feathers were non-conductors. So then she thought, the sooner she was on her feather-bed, the better.

Mr. Cheerlove used to be very fond of watching the lightning—of enjoying what Sir Humphrey Davy called “the sublime pleasure of _understanding_ what others _fear_, and of making friends even of inanimate objects.” I own I can never help starting at a very vivid flash. But I admire those who are superior to vain alarms.

My garden is all-glorious with roses, from the China, Japan, Macartney, and Alice Grey, that embower the house and cluster the green palings with their crimson, pink, cream-coloured, and white blossoms, to the rarer yellow rose, and far more beautiful moss-rose, “queen of flowers!” I literally tread on roses as I walk from room to room, for every breath of air wafts the loose leaves through the windows, and scatters them about the carpets, making them, as Phillis says, “dreadful untidy.”

The hay is pretty well carried, and I am glad to say that the hay-turning machine has not yet superseded hand-labour in this neighbourhood. The poor woman who, with her husband and baby, found nightly shelter in Cut-throat Barn, brought me some fine water-cresses at breakfast-time this morning:—a grateful return for some old linen and broken victuals.

The young Prouts came in just now, bringing in yellow bed-straw, harebells, three different sorts of heath, and a bunch of flowering grasses that will make a graceful winter nosegay.

While Arthur turned over the contents of my curiosity drawer, and Alice examined my collection of “pieces,” with permission to select three of the prettiest for pincushions, Margaret read me Emily’s first letter from Hardsand. All goes on satisfactorily. She finds herself quite equal to the charge of the children, and Mrs. Pevensey tells her she more than equals her expectations, and that she shall leave her at the head of the school-room department with perfect confidence. Emily says, that so many things, common to the Pevenseys, are new and delightful to her—their polished manners and delightful conversation, the numerous little elegances about them, the well-conducted servants, luxuriously-furnished rooms, abundance of nice books, &c., all add something to her enjoyment. As for her position among them, she does not mind it at all; in fact, she is flattered by the confidence Mrs. Pevensey places in her, the obedience of the children, and the respect of the servants. She admires the sea, and the fine rough coast, and enjoys the daily walks on the sands. Arbell seems to like her, and she likes Arbell. “When the children are gone to bed,” she writes, “and Arbell is in the drawing-room, you cannot imagine how I enjoy lying on the sofa and reading ‘Tremaine.’ But sometimes Mrs. Pevensey looks in, and says, ‘Miss Prout, do come and join us—unless you are tired.’ Then I spring up immediately, for I think it would neither show good manners nor good feeling to hang back; and the result is that I get a cheerful evening, and am made to feel completely one of themselves.”

The Pevenseys were to cross the Channel the next morning: they were all in excellent spirits.

* * * * *

August is the month when the fields are ripe to harvest, and when, to use David’s joyous imagery, “The little valleys stand so thick with corn that they laugh and sing.” That is a beautiful line in a Scotch song, which, describing a graceful, pretty young girl, says—

“Like waving corn her mien.”

Nothing can be more graceful than the motion of corn, stirred by the light summer air—not even the dancing, in his boyish days, of one of our greatest civil engineers—now, alas! dead. Light as feather-down, and as if it were the pleasure of his existence to float on his native element—the air—the next moment you might see him deep in some abstruse question with his father, grave as if he had never known a smile. (“_Ut in vitâ, sic in studiis, pulcherrimum et humanissimum existimo, severitatem comitatemque misure, ne illa in tristitiam, hæc in petulantiam procedat._” Be that his epitaph, from his old and early friend.)

Sir Isambard Brunel once showed us a stone perforated by an insect, which had suggested to him the horse-shoe form of the Thames Tunnel. On how many of us would such a hint have been utterly wasted! Southey tells us that when Sir Humphrey Davy first ascended Skiddaw with him, he cast his eyes on the fragments of slate with which the ground was strewn, and, stooping to pick one up as he spoke, observed, “I dare say I shall find something here.” The next moment he exclaimed with delight, “I _have_ found something indeed! Here is a substance which has been lately discovered in Saxony, and has not been recognised elsewhere till now!” It was the _chiastolite_.

* * * * *

I can scarcely form a pleasanter mental picture, than of a young girl, healthy, talented, energetic, sweet-tempered, and with no burthen of self-consciousness or morbid feeling, tired, but not too tired, after her day’s toil as governess to a tolerably docile set of young pupils (and all children may be _trained_ to docility), and resting body and mind on a comfortable sofa in a cheerful room, with an entertaining book which interests her; or now and then drawn off from it by pleasing thoughts of home, and of the appreciation which there overpays her labours. And such a picture do I form of Emily Prout.

Before Mrs. Pevensey sailed, she engaged Emily permanently, at a salary of eighty guineas, to be raised to a hundred if she prove equal to her situation.

* * * * *

This morning, on my way to church, I saw Mrs. Ringwood looking over her blind with rather a long face, and she bowed to me somewhat piteously. Now, I cannot say that I had forgotten her request that I would look in on her again, for it had occurred to me almost every time I passed her door; but, somehow, something had said within me, “No, I will not.” There was no need, I told myself; and there certainly was no inclination; therefore my conscience was not at all uneasy—especially when I did not see her looking over the blind.

But now, it struck me, she might be specially looking out after me, and thinking it very cross and unneighbourly of me not to call; she might even seriously wish to have a little talk with me; and it might do her more good than a glass of wine.

So I resolved to call as I returned: and I did as I resolved. A rather slatternly maid, for whom I would on no account have exchanged Phillis, said “Missis was at home;” and showed me straightway into the parlour, where was—not Mrs., but Mr. Ringwood.

I suppose some people think him good-looking, but he is too much be-ringed and be-whiskered for my taste. Mr. Cheerlove wore no whiskers; nor any rings. My taste, therefore, is plain. Mr. Ringwood is not plain—but rather showily good-looking.

He said—“Bless my soul, Mrs. Cheerlove! This is a great compliment, ma’am—I—(Jemima, tell your mistress)—I know how little you visit, and how greatly your visits are prized. You could not have paid me a more flattering compliment, ma’am, than in calling on my little wife.”

Dear me, thought I, I shall not like this man at all—how oppressive he is! I am sure I never thought of paying him a compliment, and wish he would not pay me any.

“I hope Mrs. Ringwood is well,” said I.

“Well,” said he, running his fingers through his hair, in the Italian way, or in imitation of it, “Emma is well enough, if she would but think herself so;—she wants to go to the sea-side.”

“A nice time of year,” said I.

“Ah, ha,” said he; “but perhaps you are enough of a classical scholar, Mrs. Cheerlove, to have heard something of ‘_res augusta domi_.’”

“I have heard the expression,” said I.

“Ah,—you don’t deceive me in that way,” said he; “I’ve heard of Mrs. Cheerlove’s acquirements. You read by stealth, and blush to find it fame.”

“I thought fame was acquired by writing rather than by reading,” said I.

The absurd man bowed, as if I had meant to compliment him; for editing the _County Advertiser_, I suppose! Oh dear!

Luckily for me, Mrs. Ringwood came in, wearing the very smart cap I had seen her manufacturing on a previous occasion.

“Oh, I’m so glad to see you!” said she, hastening towards me, all smiles. “I take it so kind of you!”

Then I asked how the baby was, and she told me he was cutting his teeth, and went into long details, naturally interesting to her, and very well to tell to me; but that might as well have been spared, I thought, in the presence of Mr. Ringwood. I wondered he did not walk off to his office. Instead of which, he stood, shifting from one foot to the other, running over the paper, and making it crackle prodigiously as he unfolded and refolded it; and at length he said, somewhat abruptly—

“My love, all this cannot be very entertaining to Mrs. Cheerlove.”

“That is true, Alfred,” said she, with a little flutter which I could not account for. “I was to blame for forgetting Mrs. Cheerlove had no family. How have you been, ma’am, lately? Don’t you think a little sea-air would do you a great deal of good?”

I smiled, and said I did not feel any need of it.

“Oh, but it braces one so,” said she. “It would strengthen ME, I know, more than all the wine and porter in the world!”

“Why should not you try to let your house?” said I. “Many people do.”

“’Pon my honour, Mrs. Cheerlove, that’s a capital thought of yours!” burst in Mr. Ringwood. “I wonder it never occurred to me. I’ll tell you what, Emma, if you can let the house for the autumn, you may go to Hardsand the very next day! Put up a ticket to-morrow.”

“Oh, thank you, Alfred!” cried she. “I’m sure I’d no idea you would have consented to such a thing, or I would have proposed it before.”

(“Don’t believe such a thought ever entered your head,” muttered he).

“I wonder, though,” she continued doubtfully, looking round the room as she spoke, “who would take such a house as this?”

“Did you never hear Cowper’s line,” said he, quickly—

“‘We never shall know, if we never do try?’”

“I’m sure I’ve not the least objection to trying—nay, I’m much obliged to you for letting me—”

“Not with the house,” put in he, quite smartly.

“Of course not—how funny you are! But I haven’t the least idea about these things.”

“Your kind friend, Mrs. Cheerlove, can doubtless supply you with an idea or two—she has plenty of her own.”

“Oh, yes. Well then, Mrs. Cheerlove, what steps should you recommend?”

“Oh, it is a very simple affair. Tell Mr. Norris, the house-agent, that you want to let your house, furnished, for the autumn, at such a price; and that it can be seen at such and such hours. Or, if you prefer it, you can put up a bill.”

“Dear me, yes! I think I’ll do both! How clever you are! So practical!”

“Ah, Mrs. Cheerlove,” said Mr. Ringwood, with a shrug and a smile, “it’s we literary people who are the practical ones after all!”

Then she began to consider how many beds she could make up, and what she should leave, what she should take, and what she should lock up; whether she should allow the use of the piano, and whether the pictures should be covered; till her husband impatiently cried—

“Oh, hang the pictures!” and then laughed at his ridiculous exclamation.

“But really, Emma,” continued he, “you need not give Mrs. Cheerlove a list of all the cracked wine-glasses.”

“I haven’t a list to give,” said she with simplicity. “Perhaps it would be well if I kept one.”

“You must make an inventory now, at any rate. Set about it this morning—it will keep you amused for a week.”

“My dear Alfred, you are always finding things for _me_ to do, instead of yourself. You forget the baby.”

“You take good care, my dear, I shall not do that. Mrs. Cheerlove, how I do wish we could enlist you amongst us!”

“As what?” said I, amazed.

“As a contributor. Oh, you need not look so conscious!—murder _will out_. I know you write. Now, do give me—poor, toil-worn editor as I am—some little assistance. On public and local affairs, of course, I want no aid; what I desire is historical anecdote, biographical sketches, traits of character and experience—all that sort of _materiel_ for thought which may or may not be used, according to the will of the reader—pleased with the thing as it stands, but not always disposed to carry it on.”

He spoke earnestly and well.

“You do me great honour,” said I, “but, I assure you, you are quite mistaken in me. I could not afford you the help you need.”

“Why—they said you wrote throughout your long illness!”

“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:—

“‘Come to Willington bazaar! Enter, neighbours, near and far. Pure delightsome harmony Welcomes all friends cheerily; Crops of pretty useful things, Philanthropy to market brings; Sympathy with ardour buys, What industrial zeal supplies!’

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:—

“An elegant sufficiency! content, Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books, Progressive virtue, and approving heaven!”

* * * * *

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,—

“In ’customed glory bright!”