"Between these pernicious extremes, what course is the sober Christian to pursue? Must he discard from his heart all pious affections because the fanatic abuses them, and the fastidious denies their existence! This would be like insisting, that because one man happens to be sick of a dead palsy, and another of a frenzy fever, there is therefore in the human const.i.tution no such temperate medium as sound health."

CHAPTER XL.

Since the conversation which had accidentally led to the discovery of Miss Stanley's acquirements, I could not forbear surveying the perfect arrangements of the family, and the completely elegant but not luxurious table, with more than ordinary interest. I felt no small delight in reflecting that all this order and propriety were produced without the smallest deduction from mental cultivation.

I could not refrain from mentioning this to Mrs. Stanley. She was not displeased with my observation, though she cautiously avoided saying any thing which might be construed into a wish to set off her daughter. As she seemed surprised at my knowledge of the large share her Lucilla had in the direction of the family concerns, I could not, in the imprudence of my satisfaction, conceal the conversation I had had with my old friend Mrs. Comfit.

After this avowal she felt that any reserve on this point would look like affectation, a littleness which would have been unworthy of her character. "I am frequently blamed by my friends," said she, "for taking some of the load from my own shoulders, and laying it on hers. 'Poor thing, she is too young!' is the constant cry of the fashionable mothers. My general answer is, you do not think your daughters of the same age too young to be married, though you know marriage must bring with it these, and still heavier cares. Surely then Lucilla is not too young to be initiated into that useful knowledge which will hereafter become no inconsiderable part of her duty. The acquisition would be really burdensome then, if it were not lightened by preparatory practice now. I have, I trust, convinced my daughters, that though there is no great merit in possessing this sort of knowledge, yet to be dest.i.tute of it is highly discreditable."

In several houses where I had visited, I had observed the forwardness of the parents, the mother especially, to make a display of the daughter's merits: "so dutiful! so notable! such an excellent nurse!" The girl was then called out to sing or to play, and was thus, by that _inconsistency_ which my good mother deprecated, kept in the full exhibition of those very talents which are most likely to interfere with nursing and notableness. But since I had been on my present visit, I had never once heard my friends extol their Lucilla, or bring forward any of her excellences. I had however observed their eyes fill with a delight, which they could not suppress, when her merits were the subject of the praise of others.

I took notice of this difference of conduct to Mrs. Stanley. "I have often," said she, "been so much hurt at the indelicacy to which you allude, that I very early resolved to avoid it. If the girl in question does not deserve the commendation, it is not only disingenuous but dishonest. If she does, it is a coa.r.s.e and not very honorable stratagem for getting her off. But if the daughter be indeed all that a mother's partial fondness believes," added she, her eyes filling with tears of tenderness, "how can she be in such haste to deprive herself of the solace of her life? How can she by gross acts wound that delicacy in her daughter, which, to a man of refinement, would be one of her chief attractions, and which will be lowered in his esteem, by the suspicion that she may concur in the indiscretion of the mother.

"As to Lucilla," added she, "Mr. Stanley and I sometimes say to each other, 'Little children, keep yourselves from idols!' O my dear young friend! it is in vain to dissemble her unaffected worth and sweetness.

She is not only our delightful companion, but our confidential friend.

We encourage her to give us her opinion on matters of business, as well as of taste; and having reflected as well as read a good deal, she is not dest.i.tute of materials on which to exercise her reasoning powers. We have never repressed her natural vivacity, because we never saw it, like Ph[oe]be's, in danger of carrying her off from the straight line."

I thanked Mrs. Stanley for her affectionate frankness, with a warmth which showed the cordial interest I took in her, who was the object of it: company coming in, interrupted our interesting tete-a-tete.

After tea, I observed the party in the saloon to be thinner than usual.

Sir John and Lady Belfield having withdrawn to write letters; and that individual having quitted the room, whose presence would have reconciled me to the absence of all the rest, I stole out to take a solitary walk.

At the distance of a quarter of a mile from the park-gate, on a little common, I observed, for the first time, the smallest and neatest cottage I ever beheld. There was a flourishing young orchard behind it, and a little court full of flowers in front. But I was particularly attracted by a beautiful rose-tree, in full blossom, which grew against the house, and almost covered the clean white walls. As I knew this sort of rose was a particular favorite of Lucilla's I opened the low wicket which led into the little court, and I looked about for some living creature, of whom I might have begged the flowers. But seeing no one, I ventured to gather a bunch of the roses, and the door being open, walked into the house, in order to acknowledge my theft, and make my compensation. In vain I looked round the little neat kitchen: no one appeared.

I was just going out, when the sound of a soft female voice over head arrested my attention. Impelled by a curiosity which, considering the rank of the inhabitants, I did not feel it necessary to resist, I softly stole up the narrow stairs, cautiously stooping as I ascended, the lowness of the ceiling not allowing me to walk upright. I stood still at the door of a little chamber, which was left half open to admit the air.

I gently put my head through. What were my emotions when I saw Lucilla Stanley kneeling by the side of a little clean bed, a large old Bible spread open on the bed before her, out of which she was reading one of the penitential Psalms to a pale emaciated female figure, who lifted up her failing eyes, and clasped her feeble hands in solemn attention!

Before two little bars, which served for a grate, knelt Ph[oe]be, with one hand stirring some broth which she had brought from home, and with the other fanning with her straw bonnet the dying embers, in order to make the broth boil; yet seemingly attentive to her sister's reading.

Her disheveled hair, the deep flush which the fire, and her labor of love gave her naturally animated countenance, formed a fine contrast to the angelic tranquillity and calm devotion which sat on the face of Lucilla. Her voice was inexpressibly sweet and penetrating, while faith, hope, and charity seemed to beam from her fine uplifted eyes. On account of the closeness of the room, she had thrown off her hat, cloak, and gloves, and laid them on the bed; and her fine hair, which had escaped from its confinement, shaded that side of her face which was next the door, and prevented her seeing me.

I scarcely dared to breathe, lest I should interrupt such a scene. It was a subject not unworthy of Raphael. She next began to read the forty-first Psalm, with the meek, yet solemn emphasis of devout feeling: "Blessed is he that considereth the poor and needy, the Lord shall deliver him in the time of trouble." Neither the poor woman nor myself could hold out any longer. She was overcome by her grat.i.tude and I by my admiration, and we both at the same moment involuntarily exclaimed, Amen! I sprang forward with a motion which I could no longer control.

Lucilla saw me, started up in confusion,

And blushed Celestial rosy red,

then eagerly endeavoring to conceal the Bible, by drawing her hat over it, "Ph[oe]be," said she, with all the composure she could a.s.sume, "is the broth ready?" Ph[oe]be, with her usual gayety, called out to me to come and a.s.sist, which I did, but so unskillfully, that she chid me for my awkwardness.

It was an interesting sight to see one of the blooming sisters lift the dying woman in her bed, and support her with her arm, while the other fed her, her own weak hand being unequal to the task. At that moment, how little did the splendors and vanities of life appear in my eyes! and how ready was I to exclaim with Wolsey,

Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate you.

When they had finished their pious office, I inquired if the poor woman had no attendant. Ph[oe]be, who was generally the chief speaker, said, "she has a good daughter, who is out at work by day, but takes care of her mother at night; but she is never left alone, for she has a little grand-daughter who attends her in the mean time; but as she is obliged to go once a day to the Grove to fetch provisions, we generally contrive to send her while we are here, that Dame Alice may never be left alone."

While we were talking, I heard a little weary step, painfully climbing up the stairs, and looked round, expecting to see the grand-daughter; but it was little Kate Stanley, with a lap full of dried sticks, which she had been collecting for the poor woman's fire. The sharp points of the sticks had forced their way in many places through the white muslin frock, part of which, together with her bonnet, she had left in the hedge, which she had been robbing. At this loss she expressed not much concern, but lamented not a little that sticks were so scarce; that she feared the broth had been spoiled, from her being so long in picking them, but _indeed_ she could not help it. I was pleased with these under allotments, these low degrees in the scale of charity.

I had gently laid my roses on the hat of Miss Stanley, as it lay on the Bible, and before we left the room, as I drew near the good old dame to slip a couple of guineas into her hand, I had the pleasure of seeing Lucilla, who thought herself un.o.bserved, retire to the little window, and fasten the roses into the crown of her hat like a garland. When the grand-daughter returned loaded with the daily bounty from the Grove, we took our leave, followed by the prayers and blessings of the good woman.

As we pa.s.sed by the rose-tree, the orchard, and the court, Ph[oe]be said to me, "A'n't you glad that poor people can have such pleasures?" I told her it doubled my gratification to witness the enjoyment, and to trace the hand which conferred it; for she had owned it was _their_ work. "We have always," replied Ph[oe]be, "a particular satisfaction in observing a neat little flower-garden about a cottage, because it holds out a comfortable indication that the inhabitants are free from absolute want, before they think of these little embellishments."

"It looks, also," said Miss Stanley, "as if the woman, instead of spending her few leisure moments in gadding abroad, employed them in adorning her little habitation, in order to make it more attractive to her husband. And we know more than one instance in this village in which the man has been led to give up the public-house, by the innocent ambition of improving on her labors."

I asked her what first inspired her with such fondness for gardening, and how she had acquired so much skill and taste in this elegant art?

She blushed and said she was afraid I should think her romantic, if she were to confess that she had caught both the taste and the pa.s.sion, as far as she possessed either, from an early and intimate acquaintance with the Paradise Lost, of which she considered the beautiful descriptions of scenery and plantations as the best precepts for landscape gardening. "Milton," she said, "both excited the taste and supplied the rules. He taught the art and inspired the love of it." From the gardens of Paradise the transition was easy and natural. On my asking her opinion of this portrait, as drawn by Milton, she replied, "That she considered Eve, in her state of innocence, as the most beautiful model of the delicacy, propriety, grace, and elegance of the female character which any poet ever exhibited. Even after her fall,"

added she, "there is something wonderfully touching in her remorse, and affecting in her contrition."

"We are probably," replied I, "more deeply affected with the beautifully contrite expressions of repentance in our first parents, from being so deeply involved in the consequences of the offense which occasioned it."

"And yet," replied she, "I am a little affronted with the poet, that while, with a n.o.ble justness, he represents Adam's grief at his expulsion, as chiefly arising from his being banished from the presence of his Maker, the sorrows of Eve seem too much to arise from being banished from her flowers. The grief, though never grief was so beautifully eloquent, is rather too exquisite, her substantial ground for lamentation considered."

Seeing me going to speak, she stopped me with a smile, saying, "I see by your looks that you are going, with Mr. Addison, to vindicate the poet, and to call this a just appropriation of the sentiment to the s.e.x; but surely the disproportion in the feeling here is rather too violent, though I own the loss of her flowers _might_ have aggravated any common privation. There is, however, no female character in the whole compa.s.s of poetry in which I have ever taken so lively an interest, and no poem that ever took such powerful possession of my mind."

If any thing had been wanting to my full a.s.surance of the sympathy of our tastes and feelings, this would have completed my conviction. It struck me as the Virgilian lots formerly struck the superst.i.tious. Our mutual admiration of the Paradise Lost, and of its heroine, seemed to bring us nearer together than we had yet been. Her remarks, which I gradually drew from her in the course of our walk, on the construction of the fable, the richness of the imagery, the elevation of the language, the sublimity and just appropriation of the sentiments, the artful structure of the verse, and the variety of the characters, convinced me that she had imbibed her taste from the purest sources. It was easy to trace her knowledge of the best authors, though she quoted none.

"This," said I exultingly to myself, "is the true learning for a lady; a knowledge that is rather detected than displayed, that is felt in its effects on her mind and conversation; that is seen, not by her citing learned names, or adducing long quotations, but in the general result, by the delicacy of her taste, and the correctness of her sentiments."

In our way home I made a merit with little Kate, not only by rescuing her hat from the hedge, but by making a little provision of wood under it, of larger sticks than she could gather, which she joyfully promised to a.s.sist the grand-daughter in carrying to the cottage.

I ventured, with as much diffidence as if I had been soliciting a pension for myself, to entreat that I might be permitted to undertake the putting forward Dame Alice's little girl in the world, as soon as she should be released from her attendance on her grandmother. My proposal was graciously accepted, on condition that it met with Mr. and Mrs. Stanley's approbation.

When we joined the party at supper, it was delightful to observe that the habits of religious charity were so interwoven with the texture of these girl's minds; that the evening which had been so interesting to me, was to them only a common evening, marked with nothing particular.

It never occurred to them to allude to it; and once or twice when I was tempted to mention it, my imprudence was repressed by a look of the most significant gravity from Lucilla.

I was comforted, however, by observing that my roses were transferred from the hat to the hair. This did not escape the penetrating eye of Ph[oe]be, who archly said, "I wonder, Lucilla, what particular charm there is in Dame Alice's faded roses. I offered you some fresh ones since we came home. I never knew you prefer withered flowers before."

Lucilla made no answer, but cast down her timid eyes, and out-blushed the roses on her head.

CHAPTER XLI.

After breakfast next morning the company dropped off one after another, except Lady Belfield, Miss Stanley, and myself. We had been so busily engaged in looking over the plan of a conservatory, which Sir John proposed to build at Beechwood, his estate in Surrey, that we hardly missed them.

Little Celia, whom I call the rosebud, had climbed up my knees, a favorite station with her, and was begging me to tell her another pretty story. I had before told her so many, that I had exhausted both my memory and my imagination. Lucilla was smiling at my impoverished invention, when Lady Belfield was called out of the room. Her fair friend rose mechanically to follow her. Her ladyship begged her not to stir, but to employ the five minutes of her absence in carefully criticising the plan she held in her hand, saying she would bring back another which Sir John had by him; and that Lucilla, who is considered as the last appeal in all matters of this nature, should decide to which the preference should be given, before the architect went to work. In a moment I forgot my tale and my rosebud, and the conservatory, and every thing but Lucilla, whom I was beginning to address, when little Celia, pulling my coat, said--"Oh, Charles" (for so I teach all the little ones to call me), "Mrs. Comfit tells me very bad news. She says that your new curricle is come down, and that you are going to run away. Oh! don't go; I can't part with you," said the little charmer, throwing her arms round my neck.

"Will you go with me, Celia?" said I, kissing her rosy cheek. "There will be room enough in the curricle."

"Oh, I should like to go," said she, "if Lucilla may go with us. Do, dear Charles, do let Lucilla go to the Priory. She will be very good: won't you, Lucilla?"

I ventured to look at Miss Stanley, who tried to laugh without succeeding, and blushed without trying at it. On my making no reply, for fear of adding to her confusion, Celia looked up piteously in my face and cried:

"And so you won't let Lucilla go home with you? I am sure the curricle will hold us all nicely; for I am very little, and Lucilla is not very big."

"Will _you_ persuade her, Celia?" said I.